July 23, 2016 - Leicester
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Tristan’s house was bursting at the seams.
Not just a few teammates. Not the usual five or six Tristan considered as close friends.
Everyone had shown up.
The living room bled into the kitchen in a mess of noise and bodies — players sprawled across couches, perched on armrests, leaning against counters like it was a post-final locker room transplanted into suburbia.
Shinji was on the rug, legs folded under him, laughing so hard he nearly tipped over after something Vardy had shouted from the sofa. Vardy himself was half sideways, one arm slung across the backrest like he paid the mortgage.
Drinkwater had already claimed the biggest chair in the room and refused to budge. Albrighton hovered near the drinks like an unofficial event coordinator, topping up glasses without being asked.
Fuchs leaned against the wall, trading sarcastic one-liners with Schmeichel, who sat stretched out beside him, shaking his head but smiling anyway. Mahrez lounged nearby, chiming in just enough to keep the jokes sharp.
Across the room, Kanté sat neatly at the edge of a seat, shoulders relaxed, laughing softly with Ben and Maguire like this was just another afternoon.
Near the kitchen island, Huth, Wes, King, Ulloa and Simpson were deep into a heated argument, hand gestures flying, volume rising.
It was loud and chaotic but it represented what this team was all about.
It was Leicester City in its truest form.
.
A mic squealed.
“Ah for f—” Schmeichel clamped both hands over his ears, face scrunching like he’d just been flash-banged.
Groans rippled through the room.
Tristan stood near the coffee table like a man about to host a mid-tier wedding reception, one hand gripping the karaoke mic, the other raised dramatically for silence.
“Alright. Alright,” he said, trying not to smile. “Can everyone shut up for like thirty seconds?”
“Make it fifteen!” Vardy shouted from the sofa, legs spread, beer balanced on his stomach.
Mahrez flicked a cushion at him without even looking. “If he starts crying, I’m leaving.”
Some laughed, others tried not to get emotional.
From the kitchen, Felix didn’t bother turning around as he carved into the roast. “If this speech goes longer than the cooking time, I’m confiscating the mic. I had to listen to this man rehearse three different versions already.”
Tristan pointed at him, grin widening despite himself. “First of all, thank you, Felix, for cooking. And for suffering through the rehearsal.”
Felix lifted the carving knife in salute. “You’re welcome.”
A few whistles. Someone clapped sarcastically.
Tristan’s smile softened just a touch. God, he was going to miss this, being able to joke around with everyone and not worry about any locker room issues.
He scanned the room again trying to memorize everyone as he didn’t think there would be that many chances for everyone to get together like this again.
Tristan swallowed before he continued.
“And secondly,” he said, clearing his throat, “yes — to everyone asking — we can be loud.”
That caught attention.
“Barbara’s not home,” he added.
“Ooooh,” King leaned forward instantly. “You been kicked out already?”
Tristan rolled his eyes, but his smile tugged softer at the edges. “Relax. She’s in Liverpool.”
A small pause.
“House shopping with Anita.”
The room shifted.
It wasn’t silence. But the energy dipped a level.
He forced his shoulders to stay loose. “But that’s not why I grabbed this,” he added quickly.
He lowered the mic an inch.
The jokes were easy.
This part wasn’t.
He looked at them properly now.
Wes.Vardy.Riyad..Ben.Huth.Albrighton.
Everyone.
And for a split second, he felt the weight of his decision again.
He was the one leaving.
Not them besides Kante of course.
They were the ones staying behind.
He hated that. He hated being the one who walked away. He hated that this was necessary for his own sake. He hated that it wasn’t. He hated that part of him was excited.
He forced a crooked smile.
“I just wanted to say… thank you. For the last almost three years.”
He glanced around the room.
“For trusting an eighteen-year-old to help lead this club back to the Premier League… and then beyond it. I know that couldn’t have been easy for some of you.”
Vardy snorted. “Still isn’t.”
A ripple of laughter broke the tension. Tristan pointed the mic at him.
“Behave.”
More chuckles, then the room settled again.
Tristan inhaled slowly.
“We did something ridiculous together. Four trophies. An unbeaten run. Records that’ll sit here for a long time.”
He shook his head once, almost disbelieving.
“From my first sub appearance at Stoke… to lifting the Euros and the league not long ago… those have been some of the best moments of my life.”
Silence followed. No one rushed to fill it.
“Yeah, I’m twenty-one,” he added, a faint edge of humor in his voice. “So maybe that sounds dramatic.”
A few knowing smiles.
“But I mean it. I won’t forget this. Not wherever I go next. Not ever.”
A couple of players exchanged glances, but Tristan didn’t explain further.
“I just wanted to say it while we’re all here.”
He paused, eyes moving from face to face.
“You lot made this the best run I could’ve imagined.”
A breath.
“And whatever happens next… you’re still my brothers.”
The room stayed quiet.
Then, across the room, Kanté shifted.
He’d been still the whole time, listening. Now he cleared his throat.
“Tristan…” he said softly. “I… want to say something.”
A few heads turned.
Vardy leaned forward. “Oh, this is serious.”
Mahrez straightened in his seat.
Tristan blinked, surprised then smiled.
Of course.
He stepped forward and held the mic out.
“No rehearsals?” he asked lightly.
Kanté gave a small smile. “No rehearsals.”
Tristan placed the mic in his hands.
And the room leaned in.
.
Kanté held the microphone with both hands.
Like it might disappear if he didn’t.
The room, still noisy seconds ago, settled into something softer. Even the kitchen sounds dulled.
He cleared his throat gently.
“I… I love you guys.”
A few heads lifted.
Vardy blinked.
Mahrez stopped smiling.
Kanté swallowed once and tried again.
“When I came here… last year… I did not know what to expect.”
His English was still careful. Every word spoken with care.
“I was… League Two player. From France. Nobody knew my name.”
He gave a tiny, almost embarrassed smile.
“I did not know if you would accept me.”
Kanté looked toward Tristan.
“I remember first training. First time I speak with Tristan.”
A few amused glances flickered around.
“I did not speak English. He did not speak French.”
Soft laughter.
“But somehow… we understood each other.”
Tristan felt something tighten in his chest.
Kanté continued, voice still calm.
“He try to teach me English. I try to teach him French.”
Mahrez raised a hand. “And I was translator, eh?”
Kanté smiled toward him. “Yes. Riyad helped me. A lot.”
Mahrez’s grin softened, pride flickering in his eyes.
Kanté looked back down at the mic.
“You welcomed me like I was already family.”
He paused.
“I was scared when I came.”
That landed heavier than anything else he’d said.
“I did not know this league. Did not know this country. But after one week… it felt easy. Because of you.”
No one interrupted now.
Kanté inhaled quietly.
“And some of you know this… but I have also kept a secret.”
A few brows lifted.
Tristan stiffened slightly.
Kanté looked at him, then back at the room.
“I am… also moving.”
“To Liverpool.”
For half a second—
Silence.
Then—
“NO.”
King sat up straight.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS?”
Drinkwater stared. “You’re joking.”
Ben pointed at Tristan. “You absolute thief.”
Mahrez leaned back, eyes wide. “Bro…”
Schmeichel dragged a hand down his face. “You’re taking our lungs and our legs.”
“BOOOOO!” someone shouted dramatically toward Tristan.
Fuchs clapped sarcastically. “Well done. Just dismantle us entirely, why don’t you?”
Laughter broke through the shock. They weren’t bitter about it, just in disbelief as very few in the locker room knew about this move since everyone’s attention was on the golden boy.
Ulloa dropped to his knees again. “WE LOST GOD AND THE ENGINE.”
Even Kanté laughed at that, shoulders shaking softly.
Tristan lifted both hands defensively. “I did not kidnap him!”
“You absolutely did,” Vardy shot back. “You’ve been recruiting behind our backs!”
More noise. More booing — playful, exaggerated.
But underneath it—
Understanding.
Wes finally stood.
He didn’t raise his voice.
“N’Golo,” he said firmly.
The room quieted.
“You do what’s best for you.”
A murmur of agreement followed.
Mahrez nodded slowly. “Always.”
Schmeichel leaned forward. “You earned that move.”
Ben looked between them, something complicated in his eyes, then forced a small smile.“Yeah… you deserve it.”
Kanté looked overwhelmed now.
“I did not want to say without everyone here,” he admitted softly. “I did not want you to think I leave without saying thank you.”
“You could never leave wrong,” Wes said.
Vardy pointed at him. “But if you tackle me in a game next season, I’m two-footing you.”
That broke the tension.
Kanté smiled wider than he had all night.
Tristan stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“You didn’t have to announce it like that,” he murmured quietly.
Kanté gave a small shrug.
“You gave speech. I also give speech.”
Tristan laughed under his breath.
Felix’s voice cut through from the kitchen.
“Alright, enough emotion. If anyone cries on the roast, you’re not eating.”
That snapped everything back to life.
Vardy stood immediately. “Right. Food first. Emotional damage later.”
Music started up again.
Voices rose.
Someone grabbed the mic and started the party.
Tristan stepped back from the circle.
Vardy was already arguing with Fuchs over song choice. Kanté was smiling in the middle of it all, quieter now, but lighter. Wes had one arm around Ben’s shoulders. Mahrez was laughing again, properly this time.
This.
This was what he was leaving.
He didn’t feel regret.
He felt… gratitude for everything.
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The original chapter is around 5.7k but I decided to break the chapter into two for tomorrow as I get back into shape for daily writing. Peak tax season is slowly coming to an end so there will be more chapters.
Thank you for your continued support.