July 23, 2016 - Later That Day
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Music thumped through the floorboards.
Vardy’s voice cracked somewhere in the living room, massacring a 90s anthem to roaring applause. Glasses clinked. Felix shouted something about gravy and expensive rugs. Someone booed dramatically. Someone else howled.
But down the hallway, the noise softened into a steady vibration.
Tristan pushed open the spare room door.
The room was half-furnished, a couple of mismatched chairs, a desk shoved against the wall, boxes still stacked in one corner from when they moved in. It had always been the “we’ll figure it out later” room.
Guess this was later.
He stepped aside.
Mahrez walked in first, hands in his pockets, looking a little stressed. Ben followed, looking unsure if he even wanted this talk. Maguire ducked slightly out of habit, broad shoulders filling the doorway. Shinji slipped in last, closing the door gently behind him.
The latch clicked.
The bass from the speakers pulsed faintly through the walls.
Tristan stayed standing, leaning back against the desk. He folded his arms loosely, trying to keep it casual.
“Alright,” he said, quieter now. “What’s up?”
No one answered immediately.
Mahrez avoided his eyes for a second. Ben stared at the carpet. Maguire shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Shinji looked between them, waiting for someone braver to start.
Tristan knew what the conversation was about.
He’d been texting Ben. He’d messaged Riyad. He knew the questions were coming.
He just hadn’t expected them all at once.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“You lot dragged me in here like it’s a tribunal,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “So go on. Say it.”
The smile slipped from Tristan’s face.
Because underneath the noise of the party, underneath the jokes and the banter and the roast and the music —
This was what mattered to them the most.
He pushed off the desk and straightened.
“I’m not going to sugarcoat anything,” he said, voice steady. “But come on guys, say something.”
He glanced at Maguire for a second and something flickered in his chest.
Harry.
He’d pushed for that signing. He’d told the club they needed him. He’d believed in him.
Four trophies later, Maguire still hadn’t played as much as he deserved.
Was that growth?
Or wasted time?
Tristan’s gaze softened, just slightly but his cleared his mind as he believed Harry was better than the one in his first life during this same time period as the one didn’t even play in the Premier League if his memories weren’t screwing him over.
“Talk to me,” he said again, more direct this time. “What are you actually worried about?”
Silence.
Then—
Ben spoke first.
“What are we supposed to do now?”
Tristan didn’t answer immediately as the question was pretty much saying what are we supposed to do without you?
Tristan didn’t answer immediately. His jaw tightened slightly. His green eyes shifted from one face to another from Mahrez to Maguire to Shinji.
He took a breath.
“I don’t know.”
That made all four of them blink.
“But that shouldn’t scare you,” he added quietly. “Me leaving?” He shrugged once. “That gives you space to be yourself.”
Mahrez frowned.
“Space?” he repeated.
“Yeah,” Tristan said. “If I stay, this is always my team. That’s all anyone talks about. Every headline. Every breakdown. Every interview. It becomes ‘Tristan’s Leicester.’ And every single play or tactic has to be built around me.”
“Even when Vardy scores. Even when Riyad cooks three defenders. Even when Kante locks down a winger. Or one of you guys do something amazing, half of the credit goes to me.”
He looked back at Ben.
“If I stayed? You’d always be playing next to me.”
His voice softened.
“Now you get to be the guy. You would be your own player, you wouldn’t be simply known as Tristan’s childhood best friend.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Ben shot back. His voice wasn’t loud. Just tight. “You are Leicester.”
That landed.
The room shifted.
Ben swallowed, eyes glossy but steady.
“You gave us confidence. When things got rough, we looked at you and thought, we’re fine. He’ll fix it.”
His voice dipped lower.
“What am I supposed to do without my best friend?”
That felt like a hammer striking his heart. Ben’s eyes didn’t leave his.
“Should I leave too?” Ben asked. “My agent’s already asking. I don’t feel confident in the team without you. And now N’Golo too?”
Silence.
Mahrez finally stepped in, voice calm but serious.
“It’s not just him thinking it,” he admitted. His eyes met Tristan’s. “Before you even made the announcement, my agent been on my ass about me leaving the team. I got clubs calling me left and right.”
Maguire exhaled through his nose.
“I came here because of you,” he said bluntly. “And now that your leaving..”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Shinji spoke last, softer than the rest.
“Club is still here,” he said carefully. “But feeling… is different.”
Tristan listened. He ran a hand slowly through his hair, eyes lowering for a moment before lifting again.
He couldn’t tell them what to do.
Not when he’d already made his own choice.
“I can’t tell you what club to go to,” he said quietly. “And I can’t tell you what to do from here.”
His voice didn’t waver.
“You’ve got to decide what’s best for you. Not what’s best for me. Not what feels safe.”
His eyes moved across the room again.
Ben.Riyad.Harry.Shinji.
He didn’t keep track of everyone from Leciester but he did have some knowledge on everyone’s careers.
Ben Chilwell in blue, sprinting down the flank at Stamford Bridge. Champions League nights. England caps. Big-money move, big expectations. Injuries that stole his future but he still carved out a career most players would dream of.
Riyad Mahrez under the floodlights at the Etihad. League titles. Cups. He’d left Leicester chasing trophies… and he’d found them.
Harry Maguire in red at Old Trafford, the price tag hanging around his neck like armor and a target at the same time. England runs to semifinals and finals. Captain’s armband. Criticism louder than the cheers. Some nights heroic, others brutal. Nothing about it easy.
Shinji Okazaki… was a diaster. Spain. Second divisions. But a fighter to the end.
Some of them climbed higher.
Some of them got heavier burdens.
Some of them just kept running because stopping wasn’t in their nature.
None of their paths had been simple.
None of them had stayed the same player they were in that Leicester dressing room.
And none of them had known, in that moment, which decision would shape the rest of their lives.
Tristan exhaled slowly.
And here they were again — at the crossroads.
Tristan swallowed.
“I won’t lie to you,” he continued. “It’s going to feel different without me. And without N’Golo.”
That earned a faint exhale from Mahrez.
“But different doesn’t mean worse.”
He straightened slightly.
“You want the truth? I think you should stay.”
That made them all look up sharply.
Ben blinked. “What?”
“I think you should stay,” Tristan repeated, calm.
He stepped forward now, eyes sharper.
“Not because of loyalty. Not because of pride.”
He tapped his chest lightly.
“Because everyone thinks Leicester’s done.”
“Everyone thinks we were lightning in a bottle. A miracle. And now that the miracle’s leaving, the magic’s gone.”
His gaze hardened just a fraction.
“You going to let that be the story?”
Mahrez straightened subtly.
Tristan continued.
“You’ve got Champions League football.”
His voice deepened.
“Go prove you don’t need me.”
Silence.
“Win something without me,” he said. “Make people say this team was never just Tristan.”
He looked at Ben directly.
“You want confidence? Earn it without leaning on me.”
Ben’s throat moved as he swallowed.
Tristan shifted his focus to Mahrez.
“Riyad. You’ve been playing in my shadow for two seasons. Go dominate as the main threat.”
Then Maguire.
“Harry. You want minutes? This is your chance. With N’Golo gone, with me gone — the spotlight spreads. You fight for your place now, not behind someone.”
Then Shinji.
“You’ve always played for the badge. That doesn’t change.”
The room was quieter now. Not tense.
Thinking.
Tristan exhaled softly.
“Reinforcements are coming.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to as obviously that club was gonna spend money to rebuild.
“They’ll rebuild smart. They have to.”
His lips curved faintly.
“You remember last season?”
Mahrez smirked slightly. “You told us we were winning everything,” he said.
“And you laughed at me,” Tristan replied.
Ben actually huffed a small laugh.
“You sounded insane.”
“I was right.”
That earned a faint grin from Maguire.
Tristan’s expression softened.
“I believe in this team. Even without me. Even without N’Golo.”
He paused.
“And if you all stay? You’ll give Liverpool a run for their money.”
Ben looked at him for a long moment.
“You really believe that?” he asked quietly.
Tristan didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Ben looked down at his hands, thinking.
Then back up.
“…I believe you.”
That wasn’t blind loyalty.
It was trust.
Mahrez rubbed the back of his neck slowly.
“One more season won’t kill me,” he muttered. “Champions League nights at the King Power…”
His eyes sharpened.
“…that’s not nothing.”
Maguire nodded. “With you and N’Golo gone, I’m not sitting anymore on the bench.”
Shinji smiled softly.
“More minutes,” he said simply.
Ben exhaled.
“I’ll stay,” he said finally. “See where it goes. I’ve got time.”
Tristan felt something unclench in his chest.
He hadn’t recruited them.
He’d challenged them.
There’s a difference.
He stepped forward and clapped Ben lightly on the shoulder.
“That’s all I wanted.”
Mahrez looked at him.
“If we knock you out of the Champions League next season…”
Tristan’s green eyes flashed slightly.
“Then I’ll deserve it.”
That earned a real laugh.
The bass thudded again through the walls.
Life was still happening outside this room.
Maguire reached for the handle.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Before Vardy sings another verse.”
As they opened the door, the noise rushed back in.
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Hours Later
The music had long since died.
Plates were stacked near the sink. The smell of roast and spilled beer lingered faintly in the air. The sun had shifted low, casting a warm orange through the windows.
What had been loud hours ago now felt… smaller.
Jackets were being grabbed. Phones checked. Car keys jingled.
Vardy stood near the door, shaking his head. “Right. I’m leaving before someone convinces me to sing again.”
“Thank God,” Schmeichel muttered, pulling on his coat.
A few tired laughs.
It felt normal.
Too normal.
Tristan stood near the hallway, hands in his pockets, watching them one by one.
For a second, he just let himself take it in. It wouldn’t sound like this again. He didn’t know if he could form similar bonds at Liverpool.
Vardy stepped toward him first. He just pulled him into a hug.
Hard.
“Don’t go soft on us next season,” Vardy muttered into his shoulder.
Tristan’s grip tightened for half a second. “You’ll be begging for mercy.”
Vardy pulled back, eyes suspiciously bright. “Yeah. Alright.”
He walked out before anyone could say anything else.
One by one, they followed.
Schmeichel clasped his hand instead of hugging him. “Don’t make me regret wishing you luck,” he said.
“I won’t,” Tristan replied.
Mahrez didn’t say anything at first.
He stepped forward slowly, then wrapped an arm around Tristan’s shoulder, pressing his forehead briefly against his.
“Don’t forget where you learned how to cook defenders,” he murmured.
Tristan smirked faintly. “Please. I carried you.”
Mahrez rolled his eyes, but he didn’t let go immediately.
Then he stepped back.
Maguire’s hug was heavy. Almost awkward.
“You meant what you said?” Harry asked quietly.
“Every word.”
Maguire nodded.
Shinji bowed slightly before Tristan pulled him into a quick embrace.
“Score many goals,” Shinji said earnestly.
“I’ll try.”
“Against other teams,” Shinji clarified quickly.
That got a real laugh out of him.
Ben was last.
He lingered near the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.
Tristan walked to him instead.
They stood there for a second.
“You better answer your phone.”
“I will.”
“And don’t act different.”
“I won’t.”
Ben swallowed, then pulled him into a hug that lasted longer than the others.
“Go be stupidly great,” Ben muttered.
“You too.”
“I see you in the stadium.”
When Ben stepped away, he didn’t look back.
The door closed.
Silence.
Tristan stood in the hallway alone for a moment, staring at the door.
The echo of laughter still felt like it was in the walls.
He exhaled slowly.
It wouldn’t ever be quite like this again. But he made peace with it
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In the kitchen, Felix was already at work, sleeves folded.
“You don’t have to do all that tonight,” Tristan said, grabbing a stack of plates anyway.
Felix didn’t look up. “If I leave it, I’ll think about it. If I think about it, I won’t sleep. And I don’t want Barbara on my ass for it either.”
Fair.
Tristan moved beside him, running water over a glass. The sound filled the quiet.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
After a minute, Tristan glanced sideways.
“You find a place in Liverpool yet?”
Felix dried his hands slowly before answering.
“Yeah.”
Tristan nodded once. “Close to us?”
“Close enough to the list of houses you sent me” Felix replied. Then, finally, he looked at him. “And thank you. For the offer.”
Tristan tilted his head slightly.
“You’re sure?”
Felix smirked faintly. “Living in whatever absurd mansion you and Barbara end up buying? Tempting.”
“But I like my own space.”
Tristan huffed a quiet laugh.
“Fair enough. Can’t blame you for that.”
He stacked another plate.
“Soma and John said the same thing,” he added. “Guess I’m not as charming as I thought.”
Felix raised an eyebrow. “You’re not.”
“At least I don’t have to find a new chef,” Tristan said smiling “Imagine trying to replace you.”
Felix resumed drying a plate.
“You wouldn’t survive the trial period.”
“I’d fire them in a week.”
“You’d starve in three days.”
They worked in sync for a moment.
Then Tristan leaned back against the counter slightly.
“Oh before I forget.”
Felix glanced over.
“We’re adding extra bodyguards.”
“Liverpool’s… different,” Tristan continued. “More eyes. Bigger spotlight. So be prepared.”
Felix nodded. “How many?”
“Couple more at least.”
Felix shrugged lightly.
“Fine.”
Tristan blinked. “That’s it?”
Felix returned the plate to the cabinet.
“If I can cook for twenty-one footballers after a trophy parade, I can cook for two more security men.”
A pause.
Then he added quietly,
“Just don’t let it turn into a circus.”
That line landed heavier than he meant it to.
Tristan’s smile faded slightly.
“It won’t,” he said.
He hoped.
Felix studied him for a second, not as an employee. But as a close friend.
“You ready?” Felix asked.
Tristan looked around the half-cleaned kitchen. The empty hallway. The door that had closed hours ago.
He inhaled slowly.
“Yeah.”
Felix nodded once, accepting the half-truth.
They returned to cleaning hoping for a greater future.
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Good luck to everyone that's gonna be fasting for Ramdan.
I hope you guys liked this chapter, it’s around 3.4k. I have another chapter out tomorrow as I believe it’s gonna be a slow day for me at work.