July 22, 2016: 10:11 a.m. – Leicester
The sun was out. Windows open. Somewhere outside, birds were chirping. A lawnmower buzzed in the distance like it had no idea the world just shifted.
Ben Chilwell sat shirtless at the edge of his bed, mid-routine, phone in hand, staring at the screen like it might blink and show something else.
@LFCOfficial: 📣 Welcome to Anfield, @TristanHale22. Liverpool Football Club is delighted to confirm the signing of England international Tristan Hale from Leicester City for a club‑record fee of £120 million. The official welcome ceremony will be held at Anfield on July 26, 2016.
He rubbed his face hard, then flung the phone onto the mattress. It bounced once, lit up again. Notifications. Headlines. Mentions. All of them saying the same thing.
He swore under his breath.“Shit.” A pause. “Fuck me.”
He snatched the phone back and opened the team group chat.
They all knew. Tristan had told them personally. But knowing it was coming and seeing it—seeing the world react to it—were two very different things.
He stared blankly, thoughts spiraling.
What was the club even supposed to do?
What the hell was he supposed to do?
He couldn’t picture Leicester without Tristan. Couldn’t picture it without Kante either, if he was honest. Those two had been the spine of everything—Tristan the lungs, the heart, the soul. Kante the legs.
And now they were gone.
He could already imagine the quiet agent calls starting across the squad. Exit plans. Maybe it was time. The miracle was over.
Maybe he needed to think about it too.
But he was Leicester. Born here. Bred here. Raised in blue.
Was that enough?
He didn’t have an answer.
He needed to talk to someone. His parents, maybe. Or Tristan himself.
[LEICESTER BOYS 🔵]
VARDY: Yo Tristan I KNOW you’re reading the chat right now. You could’ve warned us the announcement was dropping today. My mentions are on fire, lol. Fans asking if we got blindsided. Can’t believe we lost our crown prince to Steven bloody Gerrard
DRINKWATER: Liverpool though?? when Real Madrid was out here begging me to join them??
ALBRIGHTON: Madrid folded the moment he said Klopp’s the only manager he’d play for deadass we should’ve separated those two months ago. They were flirting during post-match interviews 💀
MAHREZ: Should’ve had the FA fine Klopp for tampering 😂
FUCHS: LFC about to win everything, innit
KING: nah we’re beating them first game and making Tristan cry, mark my words 😂😂
SCHMEICHEL: anyone know what the fee was? my bonus clause sweating rn
ULLOA: 🧎🏻♂️🧎🏻♂️🧎🏻♂️ WE LOST GOD 🧎🏻♂️🧎🏻♂️🧎🏻♂️
Ben let out a low breath, chest easing as the tension cracked.
He kept reading, thumb slowing.
Then, finally—
TRISTAN: hey guys, party at mine tomorrow. Just you guys, don’t bring anyone else, Barbara still isn’t feeling that good.
The typing bubble flickered instantly.
VARDY: THE MAN SPEAKS. JESUS HAS RISEN
FUCHS: omg he’s alive
KING: Who is this? I only know Leciester players now
MAHREZ: yo you still allowed in this chat?? 👀
DRINKWATER: Wait, where’s Kante? someone find our midfield
ALBRIGHTON: N’Golo logged out of life the second Tristan left 💀
A pause.
Then finally:
KANTE: i am here 😊
Ben barked a laugh.
He leaned back onto his pillow, grinning as his phone buzzed nonstop in his hands. Seeing everyone joking around made him feel a lot better compared to before.
Then a new message came in — direct, not from the group.
[TRISTAN HALE]
You good?
Ben stared at it.
For a second, he didn’t reply.
Then finally, thumbs moving slower than usual: Yeah. Just a bit down, ngl. Not sure what I’m gonna do without you.
The reply came back within ten seconds.
We can talk tomorrow and see what you wanna do. I gotta go calm down Vardy, lol.
Ben laughed, just once, short and tired.
He leaned back onto the bed, one arm over his eyes.
.
The espresso had gone cold, but Mahrez hadn’t noticed.
He sat at the back corner of his favorite cafe. Outside, life went on—couples walking dogs, kids kicking balls, a pensioner arguing with a parking officer.
He watched the announcement play again.
@LFCOfficial: 📣 Welcome to Anfield, @TristanHale22...
He sipped the bitter coffee and grimaced.
There it was. Finally official.
He’d known, of course. They all had. Tristan hadn’t kept it secret. He told them after the Euros, said it with that same steady voice, that same apologetic look, like he knew what it meant to leave them behind.
Still. Riyad hadn’t expected it to feel like this. It didn’t feel like betrayal as Tristan had the right to leave especially after he dragged them to a peak higher than anyone could have dreamed about.
But still...
Liverpool.
He couldn’t even imagine Tristan being another club’s name instead of Leciester. When you think of Leciester, you think of Tristan. He could only pray for the people of the city.
He glanced at his phone. The team group chat was a war zone.
He’d stayed loyal. Told his agent to shut it all down after they won the FA Cup as he knew Tristan would stay.
But now?
Now he wasn’t sure.
Not when the most dangerous player had just walked straight into Klopp’s arms. Not when the only man who made defenders focus on someone other than Mahrez was gone.
His screen lit up. A private message.
[TRISTAN HALE]
Hey u good?
Riyad stared at it for a second. Then typed back.
i’m good. proud of you. just don’t let that red shirt change you.
A pause. Then the reply came.
never. i’ll see you tomorrow?
Riyad stared out the window for a long moment.
Then typed: yeah. i’ll be there.
He turned off his phone, finished his coffee in one swallow, and waved for the check.
Time to start thinking.
Time to decide if he was staying or not.
.
Belvoir Drive Training Ground
The office smelled of paper, and yesterday’s coffee.
Claudio Ranieri stood alone by the window, his blazer draped over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, shirt creased from the morning's chaos. He didn’t move. Just stared out at the sun-washed training pitch below.
He was remembering. The first time he saw Tristan in training. The way the kid glided past defenders like they weren’t even there. Ranieri had been stunned. Then came the others, Kanté, Mahrez, Vardy, King. One by one, he saw it: a goldmine disguised as a underdog.
His job? Make them shine. And shine they did. Four trophies undefeated. A season etched into history.
Now, two of its brightest pieces were gone.
In his hand, he still held a sheet of paper, one of the training session outlines he’d been reviewing before the news dropped. His assistant had stuck his head through the door, eyes wide, phone raised.
“It’s out.”
As if Claudio hadn’t felt the world shift the moment it hit Twitter. As if he hadn’t already imagined the photo in his head—Tristan Hale, standing in that cursed Liverpool red, smiling politely.
Welcome to Anfield.
Ranieri didn’t sit. The fatigue wasn’t in his legs. It was deeper.
He had known this day would come. The boy had outgrown them. Outgrown the league, if he was honest. It had been a miracle they’d held on to him this long.
But knowing didn’t make it easier.
Claudio finally crossed the room to his desk. He didn’t sit, just stood there, staring at the clutter. Papers. Tactical outlines. A half-read scouting report. A weekly schedule pinned to the corkboard.
And a blank space in the top-right drawer. Where the list should have been.
Tristan’s list. A handwritten set of names. Players he’d quietly scouted. Possible successors.
No one had shown it to Claudio. It had gone straight to the board. That had been Tristan’s request, he didn’t want it known or be leaked to the public. Didn’t want anyone thinking he was still pulling the strings after he left.
Claudio hadn’t minded as he would be shown the list and decide on the players he thought could work.
Even before the announcement—even before he said it out loud: “My future is with Liverpool F.C.”—the boy had been thinking about Leicester. About who might replace him. About what would be left behind.
Claudio swallowed trying not to cry. That was what he admired most.
Not the goals. Not the trophies. Not even the audacity.
The care.
Tristan Hale had made sure the lights didn’t go out when he walked away.
Now it was Claudio’s job to keep the fire burning.
He reached for the abandoned training folder and tossed it onto the chair. Then he pulled out a clean notepad and clicked his pen.
Leicester City couldn’t go back. Not after what they’d become. Not after what Tristan made them.
They wouldn’t be the miracle team again.
No.
They’d have to become something new. Build something fresh.
The club had lost its crown prince. Soon, it would lose its midfield engine too. But there were still matches to play. Still fans who’d show up, scarf wrapped tight, hoping.
Still a city that believed because one boy made them believe in miracles.
Ranieri exhaled.
Somehow, the flames had to stay lit.