The bus came to a gradual stop at the edge of Trafalgar Square, and the crowd surged again.
From the top deck, it looked like the surface of the earth had cracked open and spilled nothing but red and white. Flags blurred into each other. Smoke cannons shot bursts of color skyward.
One by one, the players made their way down the steps and onto the red carpet-lined path that led to the stage. Cheers followed each name.
HART. WALKER. STONES. SMALLING. CHILWELL. HENDERSON. DRINKWATER. ALLI. VARDY. KANE.
Then the wave peaked.
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"
He stepped down last, carrying the Henri Delaunay Trophy. The moment his foot hit the ground, every camera in the square snapped at once. A rolling strobe of flashbulbs lit his path like a king returning from war.
The squad walked together, shoulder to shoulder, up toward the makeshift stage.
The stage was packed.
Prince William and Prince Harry were already on their feet, suits crisp, Union Jack pins gleaming. The Prime Minister stood beside them, hands clasped. Rows of FA officials, celebrities, and athletes lined the platform. Some clapped. Others just watched in awe.
Tristan was the first to climb.
He moved easily, despite the weight of the trophy, despite the cameras, despite the noise. The suit was ruined—soaked, rumpled, champagne-stained—but no one cared. He looked like exactly what he was: the face of the nation.
He shook hands with Prince William first after giving up the trophy to Rooney.
“Good to see you again, Tristan,” William said, squeezing his shoulder. “Granny was gutted she couldn’t make it. Kept asking the Palace staff if we could delay the parade.”
Tristan smiled. “It’s all good. Just tell her we missed her.”
William looked him over, then gave a teasing nod at the suit. “You clean up alright. Though I think the FA were aiming for posh, not ‘drenched in bubbly.’”
“Blame Vardy,” Tristan said. “And maybe myself a little.”
Then came Prince Harry, who skipped the handshake entirely and pulled Tristan in for a quick bro hug.
“You remember what she said, yeah?”
Tristan raised an eyebrow.
“After the final. At the trophy ceremony. ‘Sir Tristan.’”
Tristan chuckled. “Didn’t think she meant it literally.”
He’d completely forgotten about that moment with everything else going on but if the Queen had mentioned it to both princes, maybe it was serious.
“She’s been saying it all week. Wouldn’t shut up your four goals.”
“I’ll take it.”
Harry clapped him on the back. “Send us a message when you’re free.”
Tristan nodded as he moved to shake the hands of Prime Minister David Cameron.
“Well done, Tristan,” David Cameron said, extending his hand. “Tremendous win. Tremendous leadership.”
Tristan shook it with a nod. “Appreciate it,” he replied—polite, but brief.
Then his eyes landed on Lewis Hamilton.
A grin broke out across his face, wide and genuine. Unlike the politicians and royals, this was someone he actually admired.
“Lewis,” Tristan said, already reaching for the handshake. “Now this is surreal.”
Lewis pulled him in for a quick hug anyway, clapping him on the back. “Surreal? Mate, I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
“Sorry about the suit,” Tristan laughed, stepping back. “It’s... kind of a mess.”
“Champagne, right?” Lewis grinned. “Can smell it from here. I’ve ruined worse in Monaco.”
Tristan cracked up. “Guess I’m doing it right then.”
Lewis gave him a once-over. “You’ve had one hell of a month. Euro winner, breaking every stat chart they’ve got... and now what Liverpool?”
“Yeah, it’s a lot.”
“Enjoy it man,” Lewis said simply. You’ve earned every second.”
Before Tristan could reply, someone shouted his name from the cluster of seats behind the podium.
“Tristan! Oi, we waiting on you!”
It was Ben , waving both arms like he was guiding a plane in for landing. The players were already seated.
Tristan turned back to Lewis.
“We should hang out sometime,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to hit an F1 race one day.”
Lewis raised an eyebrow. “You serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“Say less.” He patted his chest pocket. “I’ll send you something. Paddock access, front row, whatever you want. You just let me know where and when.”
“Bet.”
They dapped up again, a quick pull-in and shoulder bump, then Tristan jogged off toward the stage.
The square slowly quieted as Prime Minister David Cameron stepped forward to the podium, a clear windbreaker thrown over his suit to guard against the flurry of confetti still drifting down from above.
He adjusted the mic.
“Good afternoon, London.”
Cheers burst again, more out of instinct than anything else. He let them ride for a few seconds, then raised a hand.
“Today, we celebrate not just a football team but a nation. And I want to say what every fan, every child, every coach, every person who lost their voice in front of the telly these past few weeks is thinking: thank you.”
He turned slightly, gesturing to the row of suited, champagne-drenched players behind him.
“Thank you to this remarkable group of young men. Thank you for restoring pride. For playing with heart. For reminding the world what it means when England takes the pitch.”
The applause that followed was a loud one.
Cameron’s voice softened.
“And before I step away, let me say one more thing, to a man who’s given everything to this game, thank you.”
He turned.
“Roy Hodgson, ladies and gentlemen.”
A standing ovation met the name.
Roy rose slowly from his chair, gave Tristan a light squeeze on the shoulder as he passed, then made his way to the microphone.
He waited for the clapping to die down, then began.
“I took my first job in management in 1976.”
A few gasps. Some surprised laughter.
“That was forty years ago. Seven countries, sixteen teams, God knows how many press conferences…”
He paused as the laughter swelled again.
“…and a lot of heartbreak. A lot of almosts.”
He looked out at the crowd, his voice tightening just slightly.
“But not today.”
The cheers returned.
“I’ve been proud of every team I’ve worked with. But this group — this one — was different. The youngest squad in the tournament. The boldest. And the hungriest.”
He turned to face the players, his voice warming.
“Joe. Kyle. John. Chris. Ben. Jordan. Danny. Dele. Jamie. Harry.”
Each name earned its own cheer.
Then Roy exhaled slowly.
“And Tristan.”
The roar that followed drowned everything else out.
Roy waited for it to settle. When he spoke again, his voice carried a different warmth.
“Most days, when this kid is on the pitch,” Roy said, shaking his head, “I’m not shouting instructions. I’m shouting in disbelief.”
Laughter rippled through the square.
“Every goal. Every pass. Every moment where you think, surely he can’t do that again and then he does.”
He paused, then allowed himself a small smile.
“I did come close to shouting at him once.”
The crowd erupted immediately. Everyone knew exactly what he meant. Phones went up. Cameras flashed.
“I’m sure you all remember it,” Roy continued dryly. “One argument. One moment. And the media had it on every screen in the world before I’d even finished my sentence.”
More laughter.
“But since the very first day I welcomed Tristan Hale into this team before the squad, before Brazil, two years ago, he has been nothing but a gentleman. A professional. A leader.”
Roy’s tone steadied.
“No matter the pressure. No matter the noise. No matter the headlines. He has never once disrespected this shirt, this badge, or his teammates.”
He turned slightly toward Tristan.
“He gives everything. Every time. And that is why he wears the armband. He made mistakes. And then he made history.”
“I couldn’t be prouder,” Roy finished simply. “Of my captain. Of my team. Of this moment. It’s been the honor of my life.”
The square had gone still.
Even the flags seemed to pause in midair.
Roy let the silence hold.
Then he cleared his throat, voice steady but lower now.
“And that’s why…” he said, pausing to glance across the stage, “I can stand here today, in front of you all — in front of this generation — and say, not with sadness, but with pride… it’s time.”
A murmur spread.
Roy smiled gently.
“This was my last tournament. My last match. My last time in the dugout as a manager.”
The crowd didn’t gasp, they already knew with rumours spreading but the moment still landed like a wave.
“I’m seventy now,” Roy continued. “I’ve coached in stadiums from Milan to Malmö, Istanbul to Inter. I’ve seen heartbreak. Glory. I’ve watched the game change across continents, across decades. But nothing—nothing—has meant more to me than this.”
He turned to gesture behind him again, at the boys still seated, damp suits and champagne-stained collars and all.
“I leave knowing that the future of English football is in the best possible hands.”
Another swell of applause. Louder this time. Sustained.
Roy blinked once, as if brushing something from his eye.
He took a breath.
“And now…” he said, stepping to the side of the podium, “it’s only right I hand this mic to a legend who has been part of this team for the longest.”
He turned fully.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Wayne Rooney.”
The crowd erupted.
Rooney stood slowly, straightened his cuffs, and walked toward Roy.
They hugged. A full embrace. Manager to player. Mentor to legend.
And as Roy stepped back, the applause followed him.
A proper goodbye.
An old man. A finished chapter.
A standing ovation for England’s manager going out on top.
Rooney stepped to the podium, gave the crowd a wave, then leaned into the mic with a mock sigh.
"How am I supposed to follow that?" he said, jerking his thumb toward Roy, who was just settling back into his seat.
Laughter rippled through the square.
"I’ve known Roy for a long time. Longer than most of the lads behind me. And let me tell you, the stories I could share—" he paused, flashing a grin, "—would probably get me fined by the FA."
More laughter.
He adjusted the mic slightly. "But jokes aside, this isn’t about stories or scandals or the gaffer's taste in music—"
Roy chuckled behind him.
"—this is about legacy. About time. About the honor of playing for England."
His voice dipped lower, a touch rough around the edges now.
"I made my England debut in 2003. I've played with some of the greatest names this country has ever produced. Becks. Gerrard. Lampard. Terry. Scholes. Ashley. And I’ve watched those names fade off the team sheet one by one… until I was the one left."
A hush settled.
"I became captain during a time when winning wasn’t easy to come by. The press had a field day every time we dropped points. The fans were tired. And to be honest… so were we."
He looked back toward the seated squad, his eyes landing on Tristan.
"When this tournament came around, I wasn’t fully confident, if I’m honest. The country’s got a habit of talking big and falling short. We’ve all felt it."
A pause.
"But then… then we played Russia. First group match. Game’s tight. Crowd’s tense. Then Tristan steps up for a free kick and curls it top bins as he always does."
The crowd erupted in applause, a ripple of cheers echoing back down the Mall.
Rooney waited for it to settle, then smiled.
"And I thought, right then and there… ‘Yeah. We’re gonna be okay.’"
He looked back at Tristan again, his voice soft but sure.
"We didn’t need another captain. We needed a new one. Someone for this era. This team. This country. And that’s what we got."
Rooney cleared his throat, then glanced out over the crowd.
"So with that, I want to say thank you. To all of you. The fans. The families. The staff. Every person who stayed up late, who wore a shirt to work, who believed in this team."
Another round of cheers.
"And now… with pride, with joy, and yeah, a little sadness… I’m announcing my retirement from international football."
"It’s been the greatest honor of my life to represent this country. But the time has come. This team is in good hands."
He glanced again at the squad. At Tristan.
"Very good hands."
Rooney exhaled slowly. "And, while we’re at it… next season with Manchester United? That’ll be my last too."
The square went still.
Then exploded.
Every camera turned. Every fan stood. Some shouted in disbelief. Others clapped, hands above heads.
Rooney just nodded.
"I’ve had my time. And it’s been one hell of a ride. Now it’s time to pass the torch."
He turned slightly, eyes locking on Tristan.
"And I know just the guy to take it."
He stepped back from the mic.
And motioned for Tristan to come forward.
Tristan stepped forward, hands sliding into his pockets as he reached the mic.
The crowd—still reeling from Rooney’s announcement—quieted again. Anticipation buzzed through the square.
He glanced around, let the silence stretch a second longer.
“Don’t worry,” Tristan said finally, voice calm but carrying, “I’m not here to announce my retirement.”
Laughter burst from the players behind him. Even Rooney was shaking his head.
Tristan smiled faintly. “Not yet, anyway.”
He let his gaze sweep over the sea of flags, flares, faces.
“I know this feels like an ending. Roy stepping down. Wayne, too. Two legends. Two men who carried England when the weight of it crushed most.”
He looked over his shoulder toward both men.
“But I don’t see an ending. I see a beginning.”
The crowd stirred. Phones lifted. Tristan squared his shoulders.
“This won’t be our only Euro or the only trophy.”
A pause.
“That’s a promise. From me, to all of you.”
.
It’s currently 3:59 am for me as I just finish this chapter. Sorry for the await, started working on this chapter and took a nap by accident. Woke up and got stuck writing this chapter so I switched to Naruto, finished a chapter for it and finally felt right to come back to this chapter and finish it.
Hopefully you guys like it.