July 14, 2016 - London
7:42 AM BST
BBC - Live Broadcast
“And in case you’re just waking up, Liverpool’s cryptic tweet last night at exactly 22:00 has set the entire football world ablaze. The profile picture change, the crown emoji, and the phrase ‘A new era is upon us’: all but confirm what’s been rumored for a year: that England’s crown jewel, Euro 2016 hero Tristan Hale, widely regarded as the best player on the planet is on the brink of a record‑breaking move to Liverpool.”
“The transfer saga that has followed Hale since the day he turned professional three years ago now appears to be reaching its conclusion, with Liverpool emerging as the winners of the most fiercely contested pursuits in modern football.”
“We’ll have more on that later, but right now we go live to Trafalgar Square, where preparations are underway for what’s being called the largest football parade in English history—”
The feed cut to sweeping aerial shots.
Steel barricades lined both sides of the Mall, stretching from Buckingham Palace to Trafalgar Square. Roads had been closed since midnight. Massive speaker towers and LED screens were being rigged on rooftops. Stages were half-constructed, banners still being unfurled. On the front of the main platform: a towering graphic of the Euro 2016 trophy flanked by every England player’s face with Tristan centered in gold.
“Hundreds of thousands are expected to line the route, with the parade scheduled to start just after noon,” the reporter continued. “It will wind through the heart of the capital, Buckingham Palace, the Mall, Parliament Street culminating in a historic stage ceremony at Trafalgar Square this evening.”
The camera panned down to street-level interviews: children with their faces painted red and white; teens in Tristan replica kits; elderly couples camped in lawn chairs, wrapped in Union Jack blankets.
“Transport for London has confirmed that 11 Underground lines will run increased service throughout the day. Hotels near central London are fully booked. Heathrow and Gatwick report a surge in international arrivals, with fans flying in from across Europe and even further afield just to catch a glimpse of the parade.”
A cut to the studio. The anchor smiled.
“It’s not just a celebration. It’s a national event. The Department for Culture, Media and Sport says England’s Euro 2016 victory could generate upwards of £400 million in tourism, hospitality, and merchandising this weekend alone.”
“Both Prince William and Prince Harry are set to attend today’s stage celebration, along with Prime Minister David Cameron and Mayor Sadiq Khan. The Queen, unfortunately, will not be present in person due to ongoing health concerns, but Buckingham Palace released a statement this morning confirming Her Majesty ‘deeply wished to attend’ and has sent her personal congratulations to Roy Hodgson and the entire squad.”
The screen flashed a montage of the Euros most of them being Tristan’s goals and assists to Rooney, Vardy, and Kane ending it with the historic haul in the finals.The broadcast returned to the desk.
“All eyes on London, then. Stay with us throughout the day for rolling coverage of England’s homecoming parade.”
.
London - 10:21 AM BST > Corinthia Hotel
The curtains were already open. London stretched wide beneath the skyline, humming with energy. From nine floors up, the view from the suite’s window was pure noise made visible, roads blocked off, crowds packed behind barricades, Union Jacks waving from balconies, kids on shoulders, flares puffing red and white.
Tristan stood by the window, just taking it all in.
They were all here for him.
Well… not just him. But still, it gave his ego a massive boost. Jokes aside, just seeing the city like this, alive, buzzing, getting ready to celebrate was surreal.
Behind him, the TV played a Chinese drama he’d left on without thinking. It was one of the shows his mum and dad used to watch together. And with a trip to the country coming soon, he felt like he watch something from China before going to the country.
He turned slightly to glance at the screen, then looked back down at the street.
The parade hadn’t even started yet.
But London was already celebrating like it had.
And in a few hours, he’d be out there too.
Even from nine floors up, he could just feel the energy with the chants, occasional bursts of singing. The whole street was jammed, people waving flags, shoulders pressed together, phones held high trying to catch a glimpse of anything.
It was all for them.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, not moving from the window.
In less than two hours, he’d be on top of that bus. Parading through London with the squad. But he himself didn’t really feel the excitement with Barbara’s situation and Liverpool on his mind.
The Euros were over.
The trophy was won.
And now? Everything was about to change.
This was the last quiet moment he’d have for a while.
He heard movement from the next room, probably one of the FA staff checking on him, maybe bringing another updated itinerary.
His suit was already hanging in the bedroom. Crisp. Tailored. All black with a satin-trimmed lapel. His number etched subtly into the cuff: 22.
He closed his eyes for a second.
Outside, the chants were swelling—louder now, deeper. A rhythm in the streets, voices rising like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to one person but a nation.
“ENGLAND, ENGLAND, ENGLAND!”
It rumbled through the glass.
He hadn’t moved from the window.
Didn’t really want to.
His phone buzzed once.
He didn’t hear it.
Another buzz.
Still drowned out by the noise from below—honking horns, clapping, someone shouting his name in rhythm with the chants.
He finally stepped away from the glass, slow, blinking like he’d come out of a trance. He glanced toward the table by the couch, where the screen lit up again.
He already talked to his mum and dad this morning. FaceTimed Barbara maybe thirty minutes ago, she looked tired, but she tried to joke around, told him not to fall off the bus.
He picked up the phone, Mendes’ name glowing on the screen, and brought it to his ear.
“Mendes,” Tristan said, voice calm but edged with amusement. “You calling to congratulate me or cry about the final?”
They hadn’t spoken in a few days—Mendes had been running around with Liverpool meetings, juggling contracts, and managing his other clients.
But the few times they did talk, Mendes was still bitter about the finals lose.
A faint chuckle came through the line.
“Only when I look at my passport,” Mendes said. “Congratulations again, kid. I mean that.”
“Appreciate it.”
“You know what’s worse than losing the Euro final?”
“What?”
“Losing the Euro final to your own damn client. I had to sit through dinner with ten people last night talking about how England dominated us like they were Germany and we were San Marino. I told them, ‘That boy is my problem now, don’t make it yours.’”
Tristan let out a short laugh, rubbing his jaw.
“Tell them I said thanks for letting me cook.”
“Oh, they know. Portugal’s media is calling you the diabo de ouro. The Golden Devil.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Mendes chuckled again. Then the tone shifted to a more serious one.
“Listen. I just came out of another meeting with Liverpool. Most of the structure’s locked in. Salary’s done, record-breaking, as promised. You’re going to be the highest-paid player in the Premier League by some distance. Easily clears Rooney. We don’t have the exact numbers yet but Sofia will give you the information once everything is done”
Tristan nodded slightly.
“Bonuses?”
“That’s where it’s a little sticky. They’re fine with goal and appearance bonuses, even team honors. But we pushed for a few legacy clauses and Liverpool’s commercial team is getting nervous.”
“They should be,” Tristan muttered.
Mendes didn’t disagree. “This isn’t just a transfer. It’s an ecosystem move. The club understands that. But their lawyers are still caught up on the image rights split.”
Tristan’s tone flattened. “We’re not giving those up.”
He meant it. His image rights were the most valuable in all of sport. If an item had his name on it, it sold. It’s why the brands he signs with were carefully selected to build his brand and image.
He wasn’t about to split that with anyone.
It was another reason he said no to Real Madrid as well.
“We’re not,” Mendes said firmly. “Zero percent of ownership. That’s non-negotiable. You keep full control. The only thing we’re still working on is the revenue share from specific activations — kits, co-branded stuff, limited releases.”
Tristan stayed silent.
“We’re finalizing the shared-use model now,” Mendes said. “The team’s been working through the language all morning. You already know why we went this route, it benefits everyone. We keep full control of the rights. Liverpool just gets limited use in select campaigns we approve.”
Tristan exhaled through his nose. “So they’re not touching anything directly?”
“No,” Mendes said. “No full rights. No ownership. Just access to co-branded stuff, ads we greenlight, launch events we plan. You still sign off on all likeness usage. Nothing runs without us seeing it first.”
“Good.”
“They’re pushing for clean limits in the contract, how many campaigns per year, which departments can use your image, that sort of thing. But nothing we didn’t already map out.”
Then Mendes added: “Also, Klopp wants to see you before the official signing. Get your take on the squad, who you want. Obviously, Kanté’s happening, I don’t think he’s even back in the UK yet.They’ll announce him after you.”
Tristan raised his eyebrows.
“So I’m the soft launch?”
“You’re the earthquake,” Mendes said. “He’s the aftershock.”
Tristan cracked a smile. “When’s the meeting?”
“Soon as the parade noise dies down. I’ll set it up. Maybea few days after today.Just enjoy the day first.”
“Got it.”
“Proud of you,” Mendes said quietly. “You’ve done what no one thought was possible. Next step is the Ballon D’or..”
Tristan didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then: “One step at a time.”
“I’ll call after the parade. Go soak it in. You’re the king of England right now.”
The call ended.
King of England.
He liked the sound of it.
.
One Hour Later
The knock on the door came hard and fast, followed by it swinging open like it wasn’t even locked.
“Get your arse ready, golden boy!”
Jamie Vardy barreled in, already dressed in the parade suit, black on black, sharp lapels, skinny tie loose around his neck. The buzzcut was fresh. The smile even fresher. He looked like he’d just scored in a cup final.
“I’ve been pacing since seven,” he said, practically bouncing as he clapped his hands. “You feel that outside? London’s a fuckin’ volcano right now. Mate, I just saw a grown man cry because the Pret was closed and he needed a sausage roll to calm down.”
Tristan didn’t laugh.
He was seated on the edge of the bed, one shoe on, one in his hand. The blazer hung untouched across the chair. He looked up.
“Yo,” he said.
Vardy’s grin eased. “You alright?”
Tristan nodded. But only halfway. “Yeah. I just…”
He trailed off, eyes flicking to the window again. The street noise below hadn’t let up. Neither had the knot in his chest.
“…I don’t know, man. My mood’s just not in this.”
Vardy stepped in fully now, voice quieting as he moved to sit across from him.
“Barbara?”
Tristan nodded slowly.
“Liverpool too.”
Jamie leaned forward, elbows on knees, not pushing. Just letting the silence hang.
“I thought I was ready for this,” Tristan said finally. “Had a whole year to prep. Knew the moment was coming. I planned it down to the detail—who to call, what to say, what boots to wear, how to say goodbye.”
His voice thinned. “But now it’s actually here… and it’s like—damn. I’m about to leave Leicester.”
He set the shoe down beside his foot, stared at the carpet. “I can’t erase it, you know?” He built two lifetimes here, how was he supposed to be just comfortable leaving the team and city.
Vardy let that sit. “You don’t have to erase it.”
Tristan glanced up.
“You’re allowed to feel like shit about this,” Jamie said. “You’re not some brand or robot. You’re a lad who broke records at 19, carried us when no one thought we would win anything. You built something amazingl here. That doesn’t vanish just ‘cause you’re movin’ on.”
He leaned back, tapping the cufflink on his wrist with his knuckle.
“You’ll always be one of us. Leicester’s kid, whether you wear red, blue, or fuckin’ gold.”
Tristan exhaled, something easing in his chest. “I just didn’t expect it to hit this hard.”
“Course it hit hard,” Vardy said. “You’re not just switching clubs. You’re closing a chapter that made you. Doesn’t matter how much prep you had, feelings don’t run on a calendar.”
The words sat between them, heavier than the suit Tristan hadn’t put on yet.
Then Jamie cracked a half-smile.
“But you know what will make you feel better?”
Tristan raised an eyebrow.
“My fuckin’ wedding.”
That actually got a small laugh out of Tristan. “No way. You’re finally doin’ it?”
“Yep,” Jamie grinned. “End of August. You’ll be back from China by then, right?”
“Should be. They’ve got all the Nike rollout stuff over there.”
“Good,” Vardy said. “Because you’re my best man.”
Tristan blinked.
“Wait—really?”
“No one else deserves it. You were there when no one else believed in me. Time to return the favor.” Vardy stood, reaching out his hand.
“I need you out there today. Not just for the fans. For the boys. For me. Because whatever happens next, wherever you go, no one can erase from Leciester..”
Tristan took the hand.
Vardy hauled him up.
“Now put that overpriced funeral tux on and let’s go show London what a miracle looks like.”
.
Bus Garage, Central London
The doors slammed open like a goal celebration.
“Let’s fuckin’ gooooo!” Jamie Vardy bellowed, arms wide as he stepped into the garage like he owned the place. “Oi, who's ready to shut London down?!”
It was like throwing gasoline on a fire.
The squad scattered around folding tables, sipping espresso shots, re-tying laces, adjusting cufflinks exploded. Rashford threw his arms in the air like a fan in the crowd.
“Blud looks like a nightclub bouncer from 2040,” Sterling cracked, dapping Vardy up anyway.
“Tristan!” Dele shouted, eyes lighting up as soon as he saw him trailing behind. “Captain Hale finally graces us with his presence!”
A mock cheer went up. Kyle Walker cupped his hands around his mouth. “Someone tell the press! He’s alive!”
“Man’s been dodging us like the Ballon d’Or voters,” Danny Drinkwater added.
Vardy didn’t slow down. He was soaking it all up, throwing fake punches, spinning Rashford around by the shoulders, tugging on Kane’s lapel like he was checking the stitching.
But Tristan, he came in slower.
Still sharp in his suit, still taller than most of them, still the center of gravity in the room… but quieter. Less spark.
Rooney noticed first. He was leaning against the bus steps with his jacket off, sleeves rolled up like he was heading to a barbecue. His eyes tracked Tristan, and when the jokes died down for a second, he pushed off the railing and walked over.
“Hey. How’s she doin’?”
Tristan blinked like he hadn’t realized he’d be asked. “Better now that we found what was causing her the pain.”
Rooney nodded. “Tell her we’re thinkin’ of her. Wish her the best..”
Henderson came next, fiddling with a wristwatch he clearly hated. “And proud of you too, mate. Takes a lot to play the final the way you did with that on your mind.”
Sterling stepped into the circle, clapping Tristan on the back with a grin. “Tell Barbara we missed her. Said no to a hundred models on that float just in case she saw pictures and thought we moved on.”
“She won’t believe you,” Tristan said laughing.
Ben Chilwell popped in, faux-serious. “Yeah, but if she asks, we all wore sunglasses and looked the other way.”
“Alright, alright,” Kane called from across the garage. “Let’s not get sentimental before we even leave the garage. Man’s about to break transfer records and y’all treating him like he’s retiring.”
Laughter. A few whoops.
Across the garage, Roy Hodgson finally clapped his hands.
“Gentlemen,” he called, “London awaits.”
.
The open-top bus crawled into the light, and the noise hit like a wave.
Not just noise. A roar. A rolling, living wall of sound that bounced from rooftop to rooftop, swelled through every alley, and wrapped itself around every body in the crowd like a shared heartbeat.
From the Corinthia to Buckingham Palace, The Mall was packed. A river of people in white and red—flags painted on faces, shirts soaked through, scarves swinging above heads like lassos. Smoke billowed from flares. The sky glittered with confetti someone must’ve launched from a nearby rooftop. There were no barriers anymore, not really. Just suggestions of space, as if London itself had bent at the knee.
The squad leaned into it.
Henderson banged his hands on the rail in rhythm with the chants. Chilwell had his phone out, filming everything. Rashford was half-dancing, half-vlogging. Sterling kept pointing at fans, mouthing "I see you!" like he was on tour. Kane stood near the middle, waving one hand like a royal, the other clutching a drink someone definitely wasn’t supposed to bring.
And at the very front—
Tristan hoisted the Henri Delaunay Trophy above his head.
The trophy caught the morning sun and refracted it like a lighthouse, sending a shimmer down the sea of people in front of him.
They screamed his name.
He screamed back.
“COME ONNNNN!”
He leaned forward, extending the trophy just over the side of the rail, letting fans reach up.
It belonged to all of them.
He turned back to the bus, face lit like a kid on Christmas, and pumped the trophy in the air again. “WHO’S GOT THE BUBBLY?”
Rooney already had a bottle open. Vardy tossed another across the floor of the bus, both hands up like a quarterback. Dele fumbled it mid-air but managed not to drop it. Someone—no one would ever know who—popped a cork too early and sent a stream of champagne arcing into the crowd below.
Then the floodgates opened.
Walker shook a bottle like it owed him money and sprayed it all over Kane. Drinkwater turned and hosed down Rashford. Rashford retaliated by dumping an entire water bottle over Sterling’s head. Vardy grabbed two bottles, bit the cork off one, and dual-wielded champagne like a man possessed, soaking both fans and teammates.
Tristan got hit in the chest with a blast of cold fizz and laughed. He spun, ducked, popped his own bottle, and retaliated—spraying it upward in a huge golden arc that caught the sun and drenched the front line of the crowd. Phones be damned. Suits be damned with the FA wanting to make this a “formal event”.
The open-top bus rolled down The Mall like a warship in a sea of worshippers.
Behind it, the sound never stopped — it only evolved. From rhythmic clapping to wave chants, from “It’s coming home!” to “Hale for Ballon d’Or!”, each turn of the wheels drew new roars from the endless crush of people. The crowd density wasn’t just thick — it was biblical. Police estimated over 1.5 million people had gathered across the capital. That didn’t count the ones hanging from lampposts, sitting on phone boxes, climbing statues, scaffolding, clinging to windowsills. London had turned itself into a stadium.
A dozen camera drones buzzed overhead, catching the chaos in full 4K. The footage would go viral before the bus even reached Trafalgar.
Tristan was at the front rail the whole time, trophy in one hand, bottle in the other. His hair was soaked. His suit was wrecked.
He didn’t care. No one did.
This was delirium.
This was payback for decades of heartbreak, for all the ‘nearlys’, for 1996, for 2004, for every time England had fallen short.
And now they had him.
At one point near Parliament Street, Tristan leaned over the side again — more fans reaching up, desperate just to touch the trophy. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let the base rest against the fingertips of a little girl in a red Hale 22 kit standing on her father’s shoulders.
Behind him, Vardy bellowed over the noise, “THIS CITY’S OURS!”
The bus took a slow left into Whitehall. Up ahead, the final stretch opened like a runway.
Trafalgar Square.
You couldn’t even see the pavement anymore. Just color. Red and white, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder from the fountains to the edge of the National Gallery. The tall stage glinted in the sun, backed by massive LED screens replaying the goals from the tournament.
At the center of the stage, a curved podium waited. Rows of chairs stretched across the platform, most of them already filled. Prince William and Prince Harry in matching suits and sunglasses. The Prime Minister with a Union Jack pin on his lapel. FA executives. The Mayor of London.
The most popular celebrities from the country.
And all of them were standing.
Waiting.
For the champions.
.