England's Greatest-Chapter 185: Pressure Points

September 8, 2015 – Late Night, Villa La Cumbre, Madrid

Somewhere in the hills above the capital — no press, no cameras, no club colours. Just the low murmur of conversation, a few half-drunk glasses of wine, and the soft rustle of wind over an open terrace.

Florentino Pérez sat with one leg crossed over the other. With him were José Ángel Sánchez and Emilio Butragueño. Real Madrid's core decision-making group.

Mendes had his jacket draped over the back of the chair. Tie off. Glass in hand.

(Just pretend this is in Spanish)

"We're not rushing Cristiano," he said. "You'll get another top season out of him — maybe two or three."

Pérez nodded. "That's the hope."

"And James?" Mendes asked, glancing toward Sánchez.

"Better," Sánchez said. "We've been pleased so far."

Butragueño finally spoke, quiet but clear. "He's good, yes. But not good enough like the others."

Mendes sipped again, then rested the glass down. "So what is this? A scouting conversation? You've got the spine. Cristiano, James, Kroos, Modrić—"

Pérez leaned forward slightly. "We're not here to replace the spine."

He glanced at Sánchez, then back to Mendes.

"We're here because we want to know if Tristan has changed his mind."

Mendes didn't respond right away. He looked between the three of them.

"I told you already," he said. "He doesn't want to leave England. If that ever changes... I'll let you know."

Pérez didn't push. He just gave a small, measured nod. "Let us know," he said. "Because if he does change his mind, we're ready. We want him."

Now he did say Real Madrid doesn't ask twice to Tristan, but that was more of a pressure tactic than anything else. Tristan was far too good of a package to allow him to slip through their hands to any other team in the world.

Barcelona was out of that, as it was clear Tristan didn't want to be below anyone's shadows, and with Ronaldo aging, it would be perfect to let Tristan take over, as there would be no need for a rebuild.

.

The terrace was quiet now. Just the faint rustle of wind through olive trees and the slow, smoky curl of a cigar resting in the ashtray beside José Ángel Sánchez.

He flicked the ash off the edge, eyes still on Mendes.

"You said he doesn't want to leave England. Fine," Sánchez said. "But what if we gave him something England can't?"

Mendes didn't respond.

"Legacy," Sánchez continued. "Statues. Banners in the Bernabéu. A number seven jersey. And the Ballon d'Or—multiple, not maybe. If he wants to be on the same level as Ronaldo and Messi, there's only one club where that happens."

Florentino didn't interrupt. He just sat with one leg crossed, hands folded like he was already imagining it. The white. The lights. The roar of 80,000 fans.

"We know he wants to be the main man," Sánchez added. "He wouldn't be shadowing anyone here. Cristiano's era is ending soon — we all see it. And Tristan's already playing like he's next."

Mendes exhaled through his nose. Slow.

"I'm not saying no," he said finally. "But I'm not saying yes either. You know his position."

"But you're his agent," Pérez said evenly. "You can shape his position."

Mendes gave a small, unreadable smile. "You've never dealt with Tristan Hale, have you?"

Sánchez shrugged. "Maybe not. But we know players. And every player wants to walk through that tunnel wearing white. Don't let him be the exception."

Pérez leaned back again, the conversation hanging on the edge of silence.

"Just... don't wait too long to turn the handle. Tristan may be our first option but we have other players in mind as well."

.

The room was quiet. Fifth floor. Corner suite. Too nice for how little time he'd spend in it.

Mendes stood by the window in a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled halfway. A glass of water in one hand. Cigar still smoldering in the other. The lights of Madrid shimmered beneath him — golden, soft, blurred by the faint steam on the windowpane.

He took a slow pull from the cigar, exhaled. Let the silence wrap around him.

"I'd love to see him at Real," he muttered to no one. "God, I would."

It wasn't just the money. Or the prestige. It was the perfect fit. The legacy. The machinery of Madrid was built to make legends. Everything Mendes had ever promised to so many players — glory, image, immortality — all sitting there at the Bernabéu waiting.

Mendes shook his head. A faint smile on his lips. The type that comes with admiration and frustration all wrapped into one.

He could still vividly remember that FA Cup match against Chelsea. Against José. Tristan was 18 at that point. And now he was 20, already one of the best in the world, number three in his eyes. They were very few people you could compare Tristan to and not get laughed at it for.

Most players needed guidance. A push. A roadmap. Hell, even Ronaldo had needed nudging — early on. But Tristan?

He made up his own directions.

He'd tried. The idea of Manchester United partnering with Jose. Slipped Real Madrid into a few conversations. But nothing stuck. No matter how careful he was, Tristan always saw the strings. And he didn't like being tugged.

Sofia had called last week — not to gossip, but to keep him in the loop. Barbara made her own assistant her sole agent. Full creative control. Total freedom. No middlemen. No PR blockers.

And with how much Tristan loved Barbara, he might just do that same thing.

Mendes rubbed his temple with one hand, the other still holding the glass.

Normally, this was the part where he would start planning. Pulling strings. Arranging a path, a narrative, a setup.

But with Tristan?

If he tried that — if he pushed too hard — he'd lose him.

Not the way he lost some young players to bad form or worse agents. No. This would be the clean cut. One phone call. One sentence. You're not needed anymore.

So instead, Mendes stayed still. Watching Madrid below. The city he knew better than anyone.

He took one last drag from the cigar, letting it burn out in the tray. "Goddamn it, Tristan." What he would do for Tristan just to listen to him. He would have been making more money than Neymar by now if Tristan had said yes to all the deals he was getting.

.

September 9, 2015—Late Afternoon, London

Claridge's Hotel, Mayfair

Jorge Mendes adjusted his cufflinks in the elevator mirror.

This week was going to be a busy one.

Jorge Mendes walked in, jacket draped over his arm.

Waiting inside the private office were three men:

Ian Ayre, Liverpool's CEO, Michael Gordon, Fenway Sports Group's representative;

And Michael Edwards, Liverpool's Technical Director.

They all stood as Mendes entered.

"Mr. Mendes," Ayre said warmly, extending a hand. "Thank you for making time."

Mendes nodded once, polite but not eager. "Of course."

They sat.

For a few seconds, there was only the quiet clink of coffee being poured.

Ayre leaned forward first, elbows on knees.

"We'll be honest," he said. "This isn't a hard pitch. We know where Tristan is. We know who's watching him. We just wanted to open the door."

Mendes gave a small smile. "Opening doors is always smart."

Gordon spoke next, his voice steady, almost Americanized in its calmness.

"Liverpool's changing," he said. "It's already changing. New investments. New leadership. You know how these things go — sometimes it's public after, not before."

"We're looking for players who aren't just good," Gordon continued. "We're looking for players who shift the culture. Tristan could be that for us."

Mendes didn't answer yet. Just listened.

Michael Edwards, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke up.

"He's a system breaker," Edwards said. "He'd have the keys to Anfield, no question. But more than that — the team would be built around him. Not the other way around."

There it was — the real card.

Mendes tapped his fingers lightly against the armrest.

"I appreciate it," Mendes said finally. "But you know how this works. Interest goes two ways."

Ayre nodded. "Of course. We just wanted to let you know — the door's open and will be open as long as Tristan is."

Mendes tapped his fingers lightly against the armrest, expression calm, even as the Liverpool directors leaned forward, sensing the moment.

Michael Gordon spoke first, his voice steady.

"Look — we know what's happening across Europe. We know what clubs are watching him. We're not naïve."

Mendes didn't blink. Just waited. Let them talk.

"We're not Real Madrid," Gordon continued. "We're not offering white jerseys and Ballon d'Ors on history alone. We're offering him a legacy he can build — brick by brick. His name will be bigger than Gerrard's. His number hung at Anfield for generations."

Ayre leaned in now too. "With our next manager, we're starting a new era. New squad. New culture. And Tristan Hale would be the cornerstone."

There it was.

Liverpool was showing every card they had — heritage, ambition, complete creative control. They were prepared to build an empire around Tristan.

And Mendes knew...

Legacy would always matter more to Tristan than money ever could.

He might not say it out loud — that's what he was chasing.That's why Barcelona was never serious. No matter what Tristan achieved there, it would always be Messi's club.

Same with Madrid. He wasn't looking to live in someone else's shadow.

But if he could revive a giant like Liverpool to glory, it would be everything Tristan wanted for his next move. Arsenal and Spurs couldn't provide that, that's why they were never brought up in the first place.

He allowed himself a small, diplomatic smile.

"You're building something impressive," Mendes said. "No question." Though he didn't know what they were building, he was just being nice for the sake of it.

Ayre smiled faintly. "And we're willing to do whatever it takes. For his football. For his image. For his Ballon d'Ors."

He said it openly — plural. Not one. Not maybe.

Mendes nodded once. He kept his posture relaxed, one ankle loosely crossed over his knee. Let them think the conversation was in their hands.

He picked up his glass, turned it lightly between two fingers, and said, "As you know, timing is everything in these situations. Tristan's value will only grow. He's not making any decisions mid-season."

Michael Gordon nodded immediately. "We understand. We just wanted to plant the seed. When the new manager is announced — when the full project is official —we'll reach out again."

Mendes placed the glass down with a faint clink.

"I'll be here. We will be here. freewebnøvel.com

.

Mendes stepped out of the meeting room, the door clicking shut behind him.

The sun dipping behind the Mayfair rooftops. Taxis blurred past on the street below. A waiter carried trays of champagne toward some private event.

Mendes didn't rush. He slid his phone from his jacket pocket with the same care he gave to every negotiation.

His assistant picked up immediately.

"Tell Chelsea I'm in London," Mendes said simply. "If they want to talk, now's the time."

He ended the call and stepped toward the exit, shoulders square, coat folded over his arm.

Across the street, a car engine idled.

A flicker of movement. A shutter click. Then another.

Mendes paused, just for a second

The Mayfair press were supposed to be discreet — but someone had clearly gotten curious.

He turned his head slightly.

Just enough for the flash to catch the side of his face.

Let them guess.

Let them wonder why Liverpool's three-man team had walked in just twenty minutes earlier.

He pulled the car door open and stepped in without a word.

Let the world read into it. That was the game. It only adds more pressure to other clubs wanting Tristan. It would give more leverage to them.

.

September 10, 2015 – Saint George's Park, Burton-upon-Trent

The England media room wasn't usually this full for a midweek presser.

But today?

Every outlet had sent someone. Some because they had to. Most because they didn't want to miss a headline.

Cameras clicked in the low hum of chatter. Not hostile — not yet — but poised. Waiting.

Tristan adjusted the mic in front of him with two fingers, rolling it slightly before giving a small nod toward the press officer standing off to the side.

The man pointed toward the first hand up.

"Tom Doyle, Evening Standard. Go ahead."

Tom leaned into his mic, a casual look hiding sharper intent. "Tristan — just quickly — are you aware of the meeting yesterday between your agent and Liverpool's directors?"

Tristan's jaw ticked once — so slight you'd miss it if you blinked — but his face stayed relaxed.

A faint smile flickered at the corner of his mouth as he leaned forward, speaking with practiced calm.

"I'm aware of a lot of meetings," he said lightly. "But my focus is England. Nothing's changing right now."

He paused, just enough to make it seem like an afterthought. "As for Mendes — no, I wasn't aware of any meeting. He's got a lot of players under him, so... probably for one of them."

His voice was smooth, but his foot tapped once lightly under the table.

He lied through his teeth, and he knew it. Mendes had told him everything. Hell, he had suggested Liverpool go first. His mum wouldn't be proud of the lying part. But it was what it was. If he admitted anything now, the Leicester locker room would blow up before Christmas.

Momentum first. Truth later.

The reporters scribbled harder now. Some looked up, exchanging quick glances. They knew when someone was dodging — but they also knew when someone was too smart to get pinned.

The press officer pointed again.

Charlotte Duncker, The Times."

Charlotte didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Mendes has also been spotted in Madrid this week. And reports say Leicester's been waiting on your contract extension — with no progress. Any comments?"

Tristan's lips quirked again — a flash of teeth that could've been a grin or a warning.

He tilted his head slightly, like he was thinking hard about how polite he wanted to be.

"Yeah. Mendes travels a lot," he said. "He didn't tell me he was in Madrid, but knowing him — probably there for Ronaldo. Or James. You'd have to ask them."

A soft ripple of laughter stirred — not everyone, but enough to ease the air for half a second.

Tristan leaned back slightly in his seat, voice a little cooler now.

"As for my contract — I like the one I have. I'm not in a rush. I'm focused on the season."

Another wave of scribbles.

Across the room, another hand popped up — a little higher, a little more eager.

The press officer glanced at Tristan, who gave a small nod.

"Adam Crafton, Daily Mail," the man said. "Tristan — quick one — FIFA 16's coming out soon.

You're on the UK cover this year — after just two and a half seasons. How does it feel?And how are your Leicester teammates and the England lads handling it?"

The room chuckled lightly — the tension finally breaking a little.

Tristan leaned back in his chair, shaking his head once like he still couldn't believe it himself.

"Yeah, it's mad, to be honest," he said, smiling properly for the first time. "I played FIFA growing up — career mode, Ultimate Team, all of it. Now I'm on the box? Feels fake. But when i was getting my picture taken, man, I was nervous, to be honest. But it's an honor being on the cover."

He paused, laughter rumbling quietly around the room.

"As for Leicester... they've been very supportive," Tristan said, deadpan. "By supportive, I mean my locker's been filled with empty FIFA card packs and someone — still don't know who — changed my nameplate to 'Mr. Cover Star. Probably Vardy but they stopped with the jokes for now. I know they're gonna do something stupid once it's released."

A louder laugh broke out.

.

The press officer called out again.

"Henry Winter, The Telegraph."

Henry's tone was calm, but his question carried an edge.

"Tristan — there's been some talk that Roy Hodgson wasn't pleased with your positioning against San Marino. You played much higher than expected — almost as a false nine at times. Did you go against instruction?"

The room seemed to pull tighter around the question.

Tristan didn't blink. He leaned forward again, elbows braced lightly on the table.

"I play where I can impact the game most," he said, his voice steady. "We discussed some adjustments before kickoff. Tactical flexibility."

Now that wasn't true either; what was discussed in the locker room stays in the locker room—no reason to turn it into a bigger deal.

His hand curled loosely around the mic stand, knuckles tapping it once — a soft, controlled beat.

"Three goals. Two assists. Proud of the performance. Always trying to help England win. That's the job."

Across the room, a few more hands twitched into the air, trying to get one last question in, but the press officer stepped forward, clapping lightly for attention.

"That's all for now. Thank you, everyone."

.

Later that day - Stourbridge, England

In a modest red-brick house on the outskirts of Birmingham, the television flickered in the living room.

A BBC highlight reel played — cuttings from the England presser, flashes of Tristan Hale's hat-trick against San Marino, and a few slow-motion clips of his goals.

On the couch, twelve-year-old Jude Bellingham leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes wide.

Jude picked up the ball at his feet, tossing it lightly in his hands.

When the TV showed the last goal again — Tristan cutting inside, arms lifted high toward the England crowd — Jude sprang up.

He mimicked the celebration instinctively.

Arms out. Chest up.

It was his most favorite celebration in the entire world from his favorite player.

From the hallway, his younger brother Jobe came running in, still clutching half a biscuit in one hand. "Oi! I was gonna do it first!"

Jude turned, grinning.

"Tough. You're Jobe Bellingham. I'm Tristan."

"No way!" Jobe yelled, dropping the biscuit and lunging for the ball. "You always get to be him when we play!"

Their mum peeked in from the kitchen, shaking her head at the scene.

"You're going to break the floorboards — and the TV — acting like hooligans," she called.

Neither of them listened.

Jude pulled the ball away just in time, laughing as Jobe tried to wrestle it back.

"Fine," Jude said, holding it high above his head where Jobe couldn't reach. "You can be Vardy. But I'm Tristan."

Jobe huffed, kicking the carpet in protest. "But Vardy's old!"

Jude laughed, spinning the ball on one finger before letting it fall and trapping it clean with his foot — exactly like he imagined Tristan would.

One day.

One day, he'd wear that England shirt too.

And maybe — just maybe — he'd stand next to Tristan himself.

.

3188 word count

Damn, my ass fall off lmao, 200 power stones?

Alright today if we somehow reach 530 power stones, I drop a bonus Chapter.

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