Chapter 336: End of a Era

I wonder how Rihad does, hi guys, this is Sinbad’s sister. I got bad news and good news. My brother is currently in the hospital, he got into a bad accident like yesterday night picking me up from work and someone ran a red light and hit his side of the car.

He's mostly fine, broke a leg and a few bones, but he's aight. He's been sleeping through medications. But he woke up two hours ago and told me to finish this, lmao. So I did finish this on his laptop in the hospital.  I'm gonna make fun of him for writing fanfics when he wakes up but I did finish this chapter like the last section. Rihad will make an announcement or something, whatever he does when he's awake and feeling better.

Thank you guys for supporting him. 

July 24, 2016 - Liverpool - 11:12 a.m.

.

A black Range Rover eased through iron gates and onto a long, private driveway lined with trimmed hedges and clean stonework.

This was the third and final property Barbara and Anita had shortlisted from nearly fifty houses and mansions across Liverpool. Tristan and Barbara had already toured another place barely an hour ago, but this was the one Anita had pushed hardest for. The favorite between the two sisters.

The car rolled forward slowly before coming to a smooth stop just outside the entrance.

John stepped out first, walking around to open the rear door.

Tristan stepped out first, the gravel crunching lightly beneath his trainers. He turned immediately, reaching a hand back toward her without thinking.

Barbara took it.

​​She stepped down smoothly, steady on her feet, her movements stronger now, more natural. The stiffness from the surgery had faded day by day, and she felt close to herself again.

Still, she didn’t let go of his hand right away.

“Thank you,” she said softly, a small smile curving at her lips. She didn’t need the help anymore. She just liked that he offered no matter the situation. 

From the driver’s seat, the agent stepped out and adjusted his blazer as he walked around the front of the car. Daniel Whitmore usually carried himself with effortless confidence. Today, there was a hint of nerves beneath it. A full-cash buyer at Tristan’s level wasn’t just another viewing. If this closed, his name would get exposure to some high clientele. 

The first two houses hadn’t landed. Tristan hadn’t been convinced. But Barbara had made it clear this was her favorite, and Daniel was quietly hoping she was right.

He stopped a few steps ahead of them and gestured toward the house.

“Welcome to Woolton,” Daniel said smoothly.

Tristan stood still for a moment, taking the house in properly. It wasn’t a palace. Not one of those overblown mansions some stars lived in. But it was undeniably bigger than their place in Leicester with a  wider frontage, deeper plot, more breathing room around it.

Cream stone exterior. Dark window framing. Two full floors with a subtle loft level tucked into the roofline. Modern, but not cold. Expensive, but not loud about it.

What he liked most wasn’t the size.

It was the layout.

The driveway opened into a broad paved forecourt before leading to a detached four-car garage finished in matte black. High ceilings. Reinforced doors. Enough space to actually move around the vehicles without squeezing mirrors or juggling keys.

Proper room for the cars.

Well, most of his cars.

Barbara had two.

[Image of House > Here] 

Tristan let out a slow breath, hands settling on his hips as he looked up at the windows again. “I can see why you and Anita picked this one,” he said, glancing sideways at Barbara. “It fits you. Both of you.”

He liked this one. More than the others.

And if Barbara and Anita were this sold on it, that usually meant something.

“I get it,” he said, still looking at the house. “Yeah… I get why you two went for this.”

Barbara’s smile shifted looking relieved.

“Good,” she said quietly. “Because she would’ve fought you over it.”

Anita had already toured this place twice the day before. By the time they got home, she’d declared she was done and refused to step into another showing. She was tired, and this was the one she’d liked most anyway.

Not that Barbara blamed her. She didn’t have it in her to tour another dozen houses. Was it a privilege? Absolutely. Was it exhausting anyway? Also yes.

She exhaled quietly, watching Tristan take the house in.

And when she saw the way his shoulders had relaxed just slightly, something in her chest eased too.

She glanced up at him, her expression softening.

“Thanks… for letting her be part of this,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “She really liked it. Feeling included.”

There was more behind that than the words.

Growing up, this kind of thing wasn’t normal for them. Looking for houses to buy. Even when she and Tristan bought the Leicester house together two years ago, it had felt exciting and sweet, almost like kids playing at adulthood.

This was different compared to back then.

Tristan looked at her like she’d just said something obvious.

“She is included,” he said simply. “She’s your sister.”

He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Which means she’s stuck with me too.”

Barbara’s brows lifted, lips curving.

“Oh? Stuck?”

“You know what I mean,” he said, trying to stay serious  and failing.

Barbara blinked, then laughed, the sound light and surprised. “Oh? Is that so?”

John, standing a few steps back, cleared his throat in mock formality. “Should I start addressing her as family already, sir?”

Tristan shot him a look. “Relax.”

Barbara bumped her elbow lightly into his side, laughing under her breath. “Just give me a heads up when you’re planning the wedding so I can warn my parents.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Warn them?”

“You’re the one adopting my entire family.”

He laughed but the sound faded quicker than expected as something else slipped into his mind.

“Huh… I’m kind of disappointed she hasn’t met Kanté properly yet,” Tristan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “With all the dinners and get-togethers, you’d think it would’ve happened by now. I was actually planning it.”

Barbara slowly turned her head toward him. “Planning what exactly?”

“You know. Just… introduce them. See if it clicks.”

She blinked at him. Then laughed.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“What?” he said, half-defensive, half-amused. “He’s a good guy.”

She couldn’t stop laughing.  After her surgery, when Tristan had casually mentioned he might try to get Kanté and Anita talking more, she’d thought he was joking.

He wasn’t.

And the worst part? Anita didn’t exactly have a thriving love life. She was picky. But she figured if her sister was looking for a man similar to Tristan, Kante was probably the best option. Not there was anyone like Tristan in the open market. 

Barbara shook her head, still laughing. “You really want to play matchmaker that badly?”

He shrugged. “I just think it’d work.”

“Don’t worry,” she said gently. “You’ll get your chance.”

Tristan nodded. He hoped so.

John folded his hands in front of him. “Maybe at the farewell,” he offered casually. “Seems like the right kind of setting for introductions.”

Tristan glanced at him. “Huh, not a bad idea.” He could see that working out well or ending in disaster. 

Barbara suddenly glanced toward Daniel and winced slightly.

“Sorry,” she said with a small apologetic smile. “We’re probably not your most professional clients.”

Daniel waved it off immediately, a polite grin settling on his face. “Trust me, this is far more entertaining than most viewings.”

He adjusted his blazer slightly, lowering his voice just a touch. “And don’t worry. My mouth is sealed. I didn’t hear a thing.”

Tristan gave him a side look. “Good.”

Daniel made a small zipping motion across his lips.

Only then did Tristan turn back toward him fully.

“Alright,” he said. “You’ve sold us on the outside.”

He glanced at Barbara, narrowing his eyes slightly. “And she’s told me absolutely nothing about the rooms. Not the square footage. Not even how many bathrooms.”

Barbara lifted her chin, expression innocent. “It’s called suspense.”

He shook his head. Then he gestured toward the front door.

“Alright, Daniel,” he said. “Go on. Let’s see what she’s hiding.”

Barbara squeezed his hand once before pulling it free, clearly pleased with herself.

The front door opened into a wide foyer washed in natural light. Polished stone flooring with a high ceiling. 

Daniel shifted smoothly into professional mode as they stepped inside.

“The house is just over 6,800 square feet,” he began as they moved forward. “Five bedrooms. Six bathrooms. Open-plan kitchen and living area. Separate formal dining room. Private study. Gym space is already fitted in the basement.”

They walked through it as he spoke and gave details about each room, anything of importance. 

Glass sliding doors overlooking the garden. A terrace large enough for summer nights. Underfloor heating throughout. Smart security system already installed.

“Four-car detached garage,” Daniel added. “With room to extend if needed.”

Barbara glanced sideways at Tristan. “You’ll need that.”

He didn’t argue.

Upstairs, the master suite stretched nearly the width of the house. Walk-in wardrobe. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A bathroom that looked more like a spa than something meant for daily use.

Daniel kept talking — square footage, architectural detailing, long-term property value in Woolton — but Tristan’s attention drifted when they stepped into one of the larger secondary rooms.

Barbara paused in the doorway.

“This one’s perfect,” she said casually. “Big enough to store all your trophies.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“And the ones you’re going to win.”

He looked at her chuckling.  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’ll do.”

They finished the loop downstairs. 

Daniel stopped near the kitchen island, folding his hands politely.

“The asking price is £4.7 million,” he said carefully. “The owners are firm.”

Tristan didn’t even look at Barbara this time.

“That’s fine,” he replied.

Daniel straightened, already mentally rewriting his year.

“I’ll have the paperwork prepared immediately.”

And just like that —

They had a home in Liverpool.

.

A few hours later 

Tristan and Barbara stood outside the Leicester house just after noon.

The sun sat high. The street and the house looked the same. And yet it felt different.

Barbara rested her hand on the door handle but didn’t turn it.

“This feels weird,” she said quietly.

This was the house where they stopped pretending they were just young and in love.

Where he’d told her he loved her for the first time that Christmas night. Where they’d hosted dinners for both families. Where they’d fought over stupid things and made up ten minutes later because neither of them knew how to stay angry for long.

Three years wasn’t long.

But it was everything.

They’d moved in almost immediately when they got together with no safety net. Just them figuring it out in real time.

Moving to Liverpool wasn’t just a new address.

It meant stepping away from the place that saw them grow up together.

She swallowed lightly.

No wonder he had struggled with the idea of leaving Leicester. If this was how she felt standing at the door, she couldn’t imagine the weight he’d been carrying for months — the club, the fans, the expectations.

She tightened her grip on the handle for a second.

She hadn’t expected it to hit like this.

Tristan stepped closer behind her, his chest brushing lightly against her back.

“We still haven’t decided,” she said softly. “Are we selling it? Or keeping it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His arms slid around her waist instead, pulling her gently against him. His chin rested near her temple, and for a moment he just stared at the door like it might answer for him.

“I was thinking we keep it.”

She turned in his hold, angling her body so she could look at him properly.

“Yeah?”

He nodded.

Up close like this, his green eyes looked lighter in the midday sun — almost clear. 

He didn’t look that conflicted compared to before.

“Too much happened here.”

That was all.

Her blue eyes searched his face for a second longer, like she wanted to make sure he wasn’t saying it just for her. But there was no performance in him right now. 

“It’s not like we need the money,” she said quietly, lifting her chin slightly — pretending practicality was the reason her chest felt tight.

A faint smile pulled at his mouth.

“No.”

She let out a breath and leaned into him fully this time, one hand flattening against his chest. He bent down and kissed her. When he pulled back, she was smiling at him, and it reached her eyes.

He smiled back, softer than before, something warm flickering in that green.

A second kiss followed — lighter, almost playful.

“Okay,” she murmured, her forehead brushing his. “Then we keep it.”

He rested his forehead against hers for a second, both of them smiling.

“Yeah.”

Then, because he couldn’t help himself—

“So… babe,” he murmured, brushing his nose lightly against hers, “when do you think we can do it?”

She blinked.

“…Do what?”

His expression turned deliberately innocent.

“You know.”

Her eyes widened slightly before she let out a laugh, shaking her head.

“Of course,” she said, pushing lightly at his shoulder. “Of course you had to ruin the moment.”

“I’m asking a medical question,” he defended, lips twitching.

She rolled her eyes, still smiling. “Another two weeks.”

He studied her like he was calculating something.

“A month.”

Her brows lifted. “A month?”

“I want to be safe,” he said, shrugging lightly. “Doctor Hale’s orders.”

She laughed again, softer this time, shaking her head at him.

“You’re unbelievable. What a way to ruin this moment.”

He leaned down and kissed her again, quicker this time.

“Worth asking.”

She shaked her smiling as she turned the handle.

.

She pushed the door open.

Before either of them could say anything—

A blur of cream fur shot down the hallway.

“Biscuit!” Barbara laughed as the Maltipoo launched herself at her legs.

Tristan barely had time to step aside before Anita appeared behind the dog, socked feet sliding slightly on the floor.

“So?” Anita demanded immediately. “Which one?”

Tristan looked at her. “Hello to you too.”

She ignored him, eyes locked on Barbara. “Did you buy it?”

Barbara and Tristan exchanged a look.

Tristan lifted one shoulder. “Woolton.”

Anita’s eyes widened. “The Woolton one?”

Barbara nodded.

Anita let out a small victorious sound and threw her arms in the air. “I knew it.”

Biscuit barked as if she’d won something too.

Tristan shook his head, smiling despite himself. 

Anita crossed her arms smugly. “You’re welcome.”

Barbara bent down to scoop Biscuit up, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head before looking around the living room again.

It still felt like home.

And now they were about to dismantle it.

“Alright,” Anita said, clapping once. “Logistics. Before one of you changes your mind.”

That shifted the energy.

Within minutes, the dining table had been abandoned in favor of the living room floor. Papers. Notebooks. Phones. A half-finished coffee slowly going cold near the sofa.

Tristan dropped down cross-legged beside them, remote in one hand, a list in the other.

Sports. News. Ad break. Back to sports.

“Okay,” Anita said, scrolling. “Trophies need proper cases. Not bubble wrap. Actual display cases.”

Barbara nodded. “And label them. League separate from personal awards.”

Tristan didn’t look up. “You’re overthinking it.”

The room settled into an easy rhythm as they looked through moving companies, things that needed to be moved with care and love.

Tristan leaned back slightly, stretching one leg out as he absentmindedly tapped the remote again.

Sports panel arguing about transfers. Commercial. Weather forecast.

He wasn’t really interested in any of that.

He clicked again.

The screen flickered—

Blue studio lighting.

Sky News.

He meant to flip past it.

Instead—

Red banner.

BREAKING NEWS

The sound in the room shifted before the words did.

Kay Burley sat at the desk, posture straight, expression professionally neutral,  though there was the faintest hint in her eyes that she couldn’t quite believe this was what she was leading with today.

“We’re returning to developing news this afternoon,” she began, voice even. “And yes,  it concerns football once again.”

A brief pause.

“It has been confirmed that England international and superstar Tristan Hale has purchased a £4.7 million property in Woolton earlier today.”

The remote stilled in Tristan’s hand.

Barbara slowly looked up.

“We understand the transaction was completed in full,” Kay continued, tone steady but edged with the kind of restraint that suggested she was well aware of how invested the public had become in a twenty-one-year-old’s postcode. “Sources close to the deal indicate the purchase was finalized just hours ago.”

Kay folded her hands lightly on the desk.

“Any update regarding Hale — on or off the pitch — continues to generate significant attention both nationally and internationally.”

Barbara stared at the screen.

“…We were there this morning.”

Tristan didn’t answer just as shocked as Barbara.

Kay maintained her composed expression, though there was the faintest suggestion of disbelief behind her professionalism.

“This development will only further increase the enthusiasm among Liverpool supporters,” she continued. “The purchase strongly suggests that Hale intends to establish long-term roots in Merseyside, rather than viewing this move as a short-term chapter as some have previously stated when this move was announced.”

A graphic flashed briefly on screen:

HALE’S LIVERPOOL ERA BEGINS

“While the property has been valued at approximately £4.7 million,” she added, “we will not be disclosing further details regarding its exact location or features, in the interest of privacy.”

Kay allowed herself the faintest, almost weary smile.

“It is remarkable, however, how significant this entire transition has become.”

A second panel appeared beside her,  financial figures rolling in clean graphics.

“Tomorrow’s farewell event at King Power Stadium is expected to reach full capacity within minutes of public ticket release,” Kay continued. “While the stadium itself holds just over 32,000 supporters, demand has reportedly exceeded 100,000 domestic ticket requests alone.”

Images of Leicester city centre appeared on screen, banners already hanging from lampposts, merchandise stands being assembled.

“City officials have confirmed that large public viewing areas will be installed across Leicester to accommodate additional crowds. Based on independent polling data conducted over the past week, projections suggest that if capacity were unlimited, attendance within the city could have surpassed 200,000.”

A slight shift in tone.

“And that figure reflects domestic demand only.”

A global graphic appeared beside her.

“Broadcast partners now project that tomorrow’s farewell livestream could draw between 30 and 50 million viewers worldwide, potentially making it one of the most-watched non-competitive club events in modern football history.”

The graphic beneath her updated in bold lettering:

Projected Global Viewership: 30–50 Million

Breakdown estimates appeared below:

United Kingdom — 8 to 10 million viewersHungary — 3 to 5 million viewersChina — 10 to 15 million viewersRest of World — 9 to 20 million viewers

Kay allowed the numbers to settle before continuing.

“If those projections hold, the farewell would surpass viewership figures recorded for several historic unveiling ceremonies including Cristiano Ronaldo’s 2009 presentation in Madrid.”

A smaller comparison graphic appeared:

Ronaldo 2009 Madrid Unveiling — Est. 25–30M Global Broadcast Reach

Hale 2016 Farewell — Projected 30–50M

“Analysts attribute the surge in global engagement to Hale’s cross-market commercial appeal,” she added. “His digital footprint in Asia, particularly China, has grown by over 400 percent in the past twelve months alone, while his presence in Central Europe especially Hungary continues to drive record engagement metrics.”

“Hale’s popularity in Hungary and China in particular has driven exceptional international engagement figures,” Kay added. “Analysts cite commercial growth in both regions following his Euro performance and recent endorsement expansions.”

Another stat flashed briefly:

Fastest-Growing Global Athlete Brand (Last 24 Months)

The screen shifted again to economic figures.

“Local hospitality associations estimate the farewell event alone could generate between £15 and £40 million in short-term economic activity for Leicester through hotels, restaurants, merchandise sales, tourism, and related services.”

She folded her hands lightly.

“But the long-term economic impact of Hale’s departure is a different matter entirely.”

…The camera cut away from the studio.

Wind noise first. Then the wide shot.

King Power Stadium sat behind a line of temporary fencing and metal barriers, the outside already busy like it was matchday except it wasn’t even tomorrow yet.

A reporter stood in a Sky News coat with the stadium looming over his shoulder, earpiece tucked in, microphone held steady as workers moved in the background with stacked railings and rolls of cable.

“Kay, thank you,” he said, voice raised slightly over the sound of a forklift reversing. “You can probably hear it behind me,  this place is already being turned inside out.”

On Tristan’s rug, Anita made a small sound under her breath.

“Thirty to fifty million,” Anita repeated under her breath, the number feeling foreign, oversized — like it didn’t belong in an ordinary living room.

She stared at the screen, trying to attach that figure to the man sitting cross-legged on the rug in socks.

Thirty to fifty million people.

That wasn’t a fanbase. That was a country. A few countries.

The realization settled in slowlym  not as pride first, but as weight. This wasn’t just her sister’s boyfriend anymore. This was someone entire cities reorganized themselves around. Someone governments mentioned. Someone markets reacted to.

And somehow, if things kept moving the way they were moving…

He would be family.

The thought should have intimidated her.

It did, a little.

But beneath that flicker of nerves was something warmer. Fiercer. A quiet, almost ridiculous swell of happiness for Barbara.

Her little sister who she used to argue with over clothes and boys and stupid teenage things — was building a life with someone the world stopped to watch.

Anita didn’t squeal out loud. She just pressed her lips together, blinking at the screen. She was terrified, proud and absurdly happy all at once.

Barbara’s hands were still on her notebook, but her pen had stopped moving. She stared at the TV with a tight little smile that didn’t know whether to be proud or just shocked.

Tristan didn’t say anything for a second.

He just looked at the screen like it was talking about someone else.

“That’s… stupid,” he muttered finally, half to himself.

Barbara turned her head slowly. “Stupid?”

“It’s a house,” he said, eyebrows knitting. “And a farewell. Why are they acting like I’m—”

“A stock market,” Anita finished for him, and even she sounded unsettled.

Barbara’s laugh came out quietly. Not amused. Just disbelieving.

“You are Tristan Hale, babe,” she said, like that explained everything.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “That doesn’t—”

“It does,” she cut in gently. “To them, it does.”

Anita leaned forward and pointed at the screen with her pen. “Look at that. They’re building it like a concert.”

Tristan didn’t respond because the live shot behind the reporter proved her right.

The reporter lifted his arm to gesture.

“Behind me, they’ve begun assembling a full stage setup on the pitch level, lighting rigs, sound towers, additional camera platforms and perhaps most notably, Kay, they’re installing massive external screens in multiple areas around the stadium. Not just for those inside, but for the crowds expected to gather outside.”

The live feed shifted briefly to show staff setting up a row of large LED panels in a cordoned-off area.

“And it’s not just the stadium itself,” he continued. “The city centre is already being prepared. Public viewing zones, additional security, road closures, transport adjustments — Leicester Council and local services are treating this like a national event.”

Barbara’s mouth parted slightly.

“…They’re turning my boyfriend into the Olympics,” she whispered.

Tristan shot her a look.

She lifted both hands in surrender, a smile tugging at her lips. “That came out wrong. But you know what I mean.”

He exhaled through his nose, trying and failing not to smile back.

On the TV, the reporter’s tone shifted, more human for a second.

“And Kay, there’s an emotional weight to it as well. People here know what this means. They’re not just losing a player,  they’re losing a chapter that, for many, they still can’t believe happened.”

The camera widened again, catching early-arriving fans pressed up against barriers, scarves already out even in daylight. A group of kids in Leicester shirts held a homemade banner that read THANK YOU, TRISTAN.

The reporter nodded toward them.

“Some supporters have been coming down already, taking photos, leaving messages. And there’s a feeling,  I think you’d call it… sad happiness. Pride mixed with grief.”

In the living room, Anita’s expression softened.

Barbara’s throat bobbed as she swallowed.

Tristan’s eyes stayed on the screen.

He didn’t blink for a while.

Back in the studio, Kay’s voice came in through the earpiece delay.

“And of course, this is only half the story,” she said. “Because as Leicester prepares to say goodbye, Liverpool is preparing to say hello.”

The reporter nodded once, as if he’d been expecting that line.

“Exactly,” he said. “And that’s what makes this back-to-back so extraordinary. We’ve rarely seen anything like it,  a farewell of this scale, immediately followed by a welcome in another major city.”

The feed cut again.

This time: Anfield.

The camera rose over the red seats and the stadium’s roofline, then dropped to street-level footage outside the gates.

Another reporter stood near the Shankly Gates, microphone in hand, red scarf wrapped around his neck despite the mild weather. Behind him, Liverpool staff were already setting up barriers, crowd-control lanes, portable fences, and branded stands with Liverpool crests.

“Kay,” the second reporter said, voice bright with the kind of restrained excitement broadcasters tried to pretend they didn’t feel, “the energy here is completely different but it’s just as intense.”

Anita leaned back on her hands, eyebrows raised. “They look like they’re setting up for New Year’s.”

Barbara tilted her head. “Or a royal visit.”

Tristan’s mouth twitched. He didn’t look pleased.

The Liverpool reporter gestured toward the activity.

“We’re hearing tomorrow’s welcome ceremony is being treated as an event in its own right. Security has been ramped up, additional stewarding, crowd channels, fan zones, merchandise booths. And you can see it,  it’s already being built.”

A quick cut showed construction crews placing temporary barriers, a small stage platform being assembled near an entrance point, and scaffolding for camera positions.

“And what’s striking,” the reporter continued, “is that Liverpool supporters aren’t just excited. They’re… relieved. Like this is a statement. Like it confirms something they’ve wanted to believe since the announcement.”

Then he turned slightly, bringing a group of fans into frame.

A middle-aged man in a Liverpool shirt spoke first, voice rough from shouting even though the ceremony wasn’t until tomorrow.

“It’s mad,” he said, shaking his head with a grin. “I’ve supported this club my whole life and I’ve never seen anything like this. Not even close. It just feels… massive. Proper massive. And I reckon most of us are feeling the same right now.”

“It's a feeling I can’t even put into words.” 

A teenager beside him jumped in before the camera could cut away.

“We’re gonna win everything,” he blurted. 

The reporter laughed lightly, then held up a hand.

“And there is something else happening too, Kay, an awareness. Even here. Even in the celebration.”

He turned to another fan, a woman with a Liverpool scarf around her shoulders.

She spoke with a softer tone than the others.

“I’m happy,” she said, “but I feel for Leicester. I do. He gave them the world. You don’t… you don’t replace that that kind of bond Tristan had with the fans and city.

The camera cut back to the reporter’s face.

“That’s the mood,” he said. “Joy but with a kind of respect. Because everyone watched what he did there. Everyone watched that story happen.”

Back in Leicester, on Tristan’s floor, the room had gone quieter.

Barbara’s smile was there, but it had turned small.

Anita was staring at the screen like she was trying to understand how quickly a life could change.

Tristan finally spoke, voice low.

“I didn’t think it was like this.”

Barbara glanced at him. “Like what?”

He gestured vaguely at the screen, at the crowds, the barriers, the scaffolding.

“All of it,” he said. “The… hysteria.”

Anita snorted softly. “You led Leciester to a undefeated season, won England the Euros as the captain whilst tolding everyone you were going to perform miracles for them. And you did.”

She shrugged. “I’m just saying. You kind of did this.”

Tristan threw a cushion at her this time.

It actually reached.

On the TV, Kay’s voice returned as the split-screen showed both stadiums — King Power on one side, Anfield on the other.

“So to be clear,” Kay said, tone crisp again, “two cities, two events, two very different emotions — but the same centre of gravity.”

The reporter at King Power nodded in agreement.

“And Kay,” he said, “for Leicester fans, tomorrow is grief with gratitude. For Liverpool fans, tomorrow is celebration with expectation. And for Tristan Hale…”

He paused, as if even he felt the weight of saying the name.

“…it is one day to say goodbye to the place that made him, and the next day to walk into a club that expects him to make history all over again.”

Tristan’s thumb hovered over the remote. This was a lot more than he expected when he signed up for Liverpool. 

On the screen, Kay began to move on.

“After the break,” she said, “we’ll have further updates on tomorrow’s farewell itinerary, expected crowd routes, and security arrangements,  as well as confirmation from Liverpool regarding their welcome schedule at Anfield.”

The red banner faded.

Commercials started.

.

Tristan set the remote down slowly on the rug between them and leaned back against the sofa, eyes drifting toward the ceiling for a second as if he could still hear the numbers echoing.

Thirty to fifty million.

Barbara closed her notebook without saying anything. Anita rested her elbows on her knees, fingers laced together.

It was strange how quickly a room could feel smaller.

The doorbell rang.

All three of them blinked.

Anita frowned. “Were we expecting anyone?”

Tristan pushed himself up. “No.”

He walked toward the hallway, Biscuit trotting after him like a small security detail.

When he opened the door—

Julia stood there holding a large plastic storage box with both hands. Ling stood behind her with another one.

For a second, Tristan just stared.

“…Mum?”

Julia’s smile was soft, almost apologetic. “We thought we’d beat the news cycle.”

Ling lifted the box slightly. “And we had something the club asked for.”

Tristan’s eyes dropped to the contents. They looked like his old jerseys from what he could see. 

He stepped aside immediately. “Come in.”

They set the boxes down on the dining table.

Barbara and Anita hovered nearby, curious to see what was going on. 

Julia lifted the lid slowly.

Inside were stacks of Leicester City academy shirts, folded neatly, years layered on top of each other like quiet milestones.

Tristan’s eyes found the first one instantly.

His first.

It looked impossibly small. The sleeves barely wider than his forearm now. It was hard to believe he’d once run around in something that size, dreaming about a stadium that must’ve seemed enormous back then.

The fabric had thinned over time, softened from countless washes and muddy training sessions. On the back, the number 14 was printed slightly cracked along the edges, nothing like the number 22 that had become synonymous with him.

Fourteen wasn’t iconic.

Twenty-two was.

When people thought of 22 now, they thought of Tristan Hale.

But this—

This was where it started.

Tristan stared. For a second, he genuinely couldn’t move.

He couldn’t breathe for a few seconds, memories rushing back to him. Since he’d come home buzzing, dragging mud across the hallway, insisting he was going to play for Leicester one day like it was a promise instead of a kid’s dream.

But reality shattered his dreams in his first life.  “You kept this?” His voice came out rougher than he meant.

Julia’s smile was gentle. “Of course we did.”

Tristan blinked hard, eyes fixed on the small shirt like it might vanish if he looked away too long.

“I didn’t even know you had… any of them,” he admitted, quieter now. “Not then. Not—” He caught himself. Not in either life. “Not ever.”

Ling, standing beside Julia, shifted the box slightly as if to steady it. “We weren’t throwing them away. You grew out of one and then immediately needed the next. We just… kept stacking them.”

“Stacking them,” Tristan repeated, almost disbelieving.

Barbara leaned in, both hands coming up to her mouth for a second like she was trying not to squeal.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, eyes wide. “Tristan, it’s tiny.”

Anita looked like she’d been hit with emotional shrapnel. “Stop. That’s actually adorable.”

Barbara glanced up at Julia, still half in awe. “He was six in this?”

Julia nodded. “Six. And he refused to wear anything else for a week.”

Tristan finally reached out, careful as if it mattered, and lifted the shirt from the box.

The fabric weighed almost nothing.

But in his hands, it felt heavy. He let out a shaky breath, trying to laugh it off and failing.

“I can’t believe you kept all of these,” he muttered, voice softer now, almost embarrassed by how much it hit.

Barbara slid closer into his side, her shoulder brushing his arm. “Of course they did,” she said quietly, like it was obvious. Like he should’ve known.

Anita crossed her arms, but her expression had gone warm. “Yeah. Congratulations,” she said, nodding toward the shirt. “Your parents are emotional terrorists.”

Julia laughed.

Tristan didn’t.  He just held the small jersey and stared at it, shock slowly turning into something else.

Loved.

Properly, stupidly, undeniably loved.

Ling cleared his throat, but this time there was a grin fighting its way onto his face.

“A club member called yesterday,” he said. “Asked if we still had your academy kits.”

He let out a short laugh and shook his head.

“We didn’t even know where half of it was.”

Julia shot him a look. “You didn’t know.”

Ling ignored that.

“We spent the entire day digging through the basement and the attic,” he continued, gesturing vaguely like he could still see the dust floating in the air. “Boxes inside boxes. Old boots. Old shin pads. I found about twelve broken trophies from school competitions you insisted on keeping.”

Anita snorted.

Ling’s smile widened. “And toys. So many toys. I thought we were done with those years ago.”

Tristan blinked. “You still have my toys?”

“Apparently,” Ling said dryly. “Buried under three winters’ worth of forgotten coats.”

Julia laughed under her breath. “He kept everything football-related in one corner. Like a shrine.”

Ling nodded. “If we hadn’t gone looking yesterday, we might’ve thrown some of it out by accident during the next clean-up.”

He glanced at the tiny shirt in Tristan’s hands.

“I’m glad we didn’t.”

The joke lingered for a second — light, almost teasing — but the emotion underneath it didn’t hide.

Ling stepped closer to the table, voice softer now.

“You never know what ends up mattering later.”

Julia nodded. “They want to create a display for tomorrow to show your journey from the academy to all the way now.” 

Julia carefully lifted the smallest shirt.

“This was his first season,” she said quietly. “He was six, I think. It was two sizes too big but he refused to roll the sleeves.”

Tristan let out a faint huff of laughter.

Ling’s mouth curved slightly. “You cried when we told you you couldn’t sleep in it.”

“I was a kid.” Tristan muttered.

“You were a dramatic kid,” Julia corrected gently.

Barbara smiled, watching him.

Ling opened the second box.

Inside were boots.

Old Nike and Adidas  academy boots. 

“You wouldn’t let me throw these away either,” Ling said. “Even after you grew out of them.”

Tristan reached out this time, fingers brushing over the leather.

He could almost feel the cold training pitches again. 

Julia watched him carefully.

“They want these too,” she said softly. “For the display. To place beside the shirt.”

Barbara’s throat tightened slightly.

From eight years old… to tomorrow.

An hour later, the mood had shifted again.

They stood in the new Woolton house, sunlight spilling across the polished floors as Tristan led them through the foyer.

Ling moved slower, observant. He noticed the reinforced gates. The camera placement above the garage. The height of the fencing.

Julia ran her fingers lightly along the kitchen island, taking it all in.

“It’s beautiful,” she said honestly.

Barbara smiled. “It feels… calmer somehow compared to the one in Leciester. I like a lot.”

Tristan watched his father instead.

Ling stepped toward the large front window and glanced out at the driveway.

“Good visibility,” he murmured. “Hard to approach without being seen.”

Julia turned slowly. “And the Leicester house?”

“We’re keeping it,” Barbara answered before Tristan could.

Julia’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.

“We’re keeping it,” Barbara answered before Tristan could.

Julia’s shoulders eased almost imperceptibly.

“Good,” she said.

That house wasn’t just bricks and paint to her. It was where she’d watched her son turn from a teenager into a man. Where he’d brought Barbara home properly. She didn’t want that chapter erased from their lives.

Ling glanced at Tristan.

“You don’t have to rush letting go of everything,” he said evenly. “Success doesn’t mean you abandon where you started.”

Tristan held his father’s gaze for a second longer than usual.

“I’m not,” he replied.

Julia smiled faintly at that.

Even now,  after the league titles, after the Euros, after the world started treating him like something larger than life,  he was still the boy who’d run through their hallway in a size-six academy shirt.

And watching him build something stable, something protected, something thoughtful… it didn’t make her feel distant from him.

It made her proud.

Ling folded his arms loosely and looked around once more.

“It’s a good house,” he said. “Big. Secure.”

Then, after a beat, the faintest hint of humor crept into his voice.

“Just don’t forget to invite us over.”

Tristan blinked at him.

“Invite you?” he repeated. “It’s your house too if you want it to be.”

“One step at a time,” Julia replied.

Barbara’s eyes met Tristan’s.

Tristan gave the smallest nod.

He turned back to his parents, trying to sound casual and failing.

“Actually… there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Ling’s brows lifted a fraction. “Go on.”

Tristan rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flicking away to the floor for a beat. It was ridiculous — he could walk into Wembley and captain England, but asking his own parents something this personal made him nervous like he was a kid again.

“The Leicester house,” he said.

“We’re keeping it,” Tristan added, just to be clear. “That’s not changing.”

Ling nodded slowly. “Right.”

Tristan exhaled once, then looked at them properly.

“I don’t really like the idea of it sitting empty,” he admitted. “Not with… everything going on now. And I don’t love you two staying in the old place either.”

Barbara stayed quiet, but her hand slid into his at his side, fingers squeezing once.

Tristan continued, “It’s a good house. It raised me. I’m not pretending it wasn’t enough.”

He glanced at Ling, like he needed his dad to hear that part.

“But it hasn’t got the security. And it’s not as comfortable as it could be. Not anymore with all them damn reporters coming after you guys.”

A pause.

Then, because he was Tristan, he tried to dress it up as practicality.

“The Leicester place is already secure. Gates. Cameras. The layout’s better. And—” he hesitated, then said it anyway, “—I’d feel a lot better knowing you’re safe. Both of you.”

Julia’s lips parted slightly. “You’re asking us to move into your house.”

Tristan gave a small shrug. “I’m asking if you’d want to.”

Anita, leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed, couldn’t help herself.

“It’s a nice offer,” she said, then glanced at Julia and added, “Also, if you say no, I’m going to judge you.”

“Anita,” Barbara warned, half-laughing.

“What?” Anita lifted a shoulder. “It’s true. Their son is trying to upgrade them. Let him.”

Ling let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh.

Julia, though, kept her eyes on Tristan.

“You’ve thought about this,” she said.

Tristan nodded. “A while,” he admitted. “Since the Liverpool thing became official. Me and Barbara talked about it as well.”

Julia glanced around the Woolton kitchen, then back at him.

“It’s… a big decision,” she said carefully.

“I know.”

Ling’s gaze turned toward the front window, as if he could see the old house in Leicester through the glass if he tried hard enough.

“That house,” he said slowly, “is your life with her.”

He nodded toward Barbara without needing to say her name.

“And we’re not trying to step into that.”

Barbara’s voice was gentle. “You wouldn’t be stepping into anything. You’d be keeping it warm.”

Anita nodded like she’d been waiting for that line. “Exactly. Houses get sad when they’re empty.”

Ling gave her a look.

“What?” Anita said. “They do.”

Tristan watched his parents, the way they were both quiet now, thinking in parallel.

Julia’s eyes lowered for a moment, then she reached out and touched his forearm again, the way she had when he was a kid and needed grounding.

“I don’t want you doing this out of guilt,” she said.

Tristan frowned. “It’s not guilt.”

“It’s not guilt,” Barbara echoed immediately, firm enough that it surprised even Julia.

Tristan glanced at her, grateful, then looked back at his mum.

“It’s… responsibility,” he said, voice low. “And love. That’s it.”

Ling’s expression shifted at that. He scratched his chin, eyes still on the driveway.

“I’ll be honest,” he said. “Your mum’s going to have opinions.”

Julia shot him a look. “I am standing right here.”

“Exactly,” Ling replied, deadpan, then looked at Tristan again. “And I’m not pretending I haven’t thought about the security side of things. I have.”

Tristan’s shoulders loosened a fraction.

Julia inhaled, then let it out slowly.

“We’ll think about it,” she said. “Properly. Not just say yes because you’re asking with those eyes.”

Tristan blinked. “With what eyes?”

“The ones you used when you wanted a dog at eight,” Ling said, and for once the humour made it all the way into his voice.

Barbara laughed under her breath.

Tristan stared at his dad like he’d been betrayed. “That worked once.”

“It didn’t,” Julia corrected. “We said no.”

“And then you got Biscuit,” Anita added, pointing toward the hallway like she’d just proved a mathematical theorem.

From somewhere inside the house, Biscuit barked as if she’d been summoned by her name.

Tristan exhaled, half-laughing now despite himself.

“Just… think about it,” he said again, quieter. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Julia nodded.

Ling’s gaze stayed on him a moment longer.

Then he gave a slow, thoughtful nod too.

“We will,” he said. “And we’ll talk about it like adults.”

.

Later that night 

The house had gone quiet in stages.

First Anita disappeared upstairs with a tired “Don’t stay up overthinking, superstar.”

Then Ling and Julia left after one last round of “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

By ten, even the city outside had gone quite.

Tristan stood in the bedroom doorway for a moment, just looking at it like it was unfamiliar.

Boxes half-unpacked along one wall. A suitcase open on the bench at the foot of the bed. His farewell suit hanging neatly from the wardrobe door.

Barbara was already sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair slowly. The lamplight made everything warmer.

He didn’t move, just staring at his girl. 

She tilted her head slightly, watching him in the mirror instead of turning around.

“You know I can feel you staring, right?”

“I’m not staring.”

“You absolutely are.”

He pushed off the doorframe and walked further into the room.

“I’m just observing.”

“Observing what?”

He let his eyes travel deliberately this time.

“You.”

She laughed under her breath, finally turning on the bed to face him fully.

“Oh, so now you admit it.”

“I never denied it.”

“You did. Ten seconds ago.”

He shrugged. “I reconsidered.”

“You’re enjoying this,” she  accused.

“Very much.”

His eyes dropped briefly to her lips, then back up.

“You know tomorrow’s a big day.”

“I know.”

She reached up and straightened the collar of his t-shirt even though it didn’t need fixing.

“You get very intense when you’re thinking,” she said softly now. “I have to distract you before you spiral.”

“I don’t spiral.”

“You absolutely spiral.”

Okay, maybe he did.  But in his position, what could he do but spiral in his thoughts after coming back go life in the past. Luckily for him, her kiss was all the distraction he needed.

When he pulled back, she was still smiling.

“You were definitely staring, by the way,” she added.

“I was appreciating.”

“Same thing.”

“Not even close.”

She lay back against the pillows and tugged him down with her.

“Come here, Mr. Appreciation.”

He followed without argument.

.

Next Day 

King Power Stadium -  5:07 p.m.

The corridor outside the home dressing room wasn’t silent, but it wasn’t loud either.

It was that strange in-between.

Doors closing softly. Footsteps on concrete. Staff voices kept low like they were in a hospital. Every few seconds, a distant thump of bass from the stadium speakers bled through the walls — testing, checking, testing again — then faded.

And beneath it all —

A pulse rolled through the structure in waves, low at first, then rising, then rising again until the concrete itself seemed to hum with it. The light fixtures overhead gave the faintest tremor when the chant peaked. Dust shifted along the beams. A loose cable somewhere down the corridor rattled against metal.

The next wave hit harder.

“TRIS-TAN!”

The syllables came through fractured, blurred by brick and steel but unified. 

A staff member paused mid-sentence as the roar crested, hand hovering over a clipboard like she’d forgotten what she’d been about to say. Somewhere near the tunnel entrance, a steward swore under his breath and pressed a hand to his earpiece.

“Outside’s backed up again,” someone muttered. “They’re spilling past Filbert Way.”

Another voice, tight with disbelief: “They’ve filled the overflow zones.”

The bass thumped again — louder this time — and the roar answered it immediately.

Not just the stadium.

Outside the gates too.

Beyond the gates.

If you stood still long enough, you could tell there were layers to it. The forty thousand already inside testing their lungs.

And then the deeper sound — the city.

A chant started slow.

“ONE… OF… OUR… OWN…”

It rolled, staggered at first, then locked into rhythm.

“ONE… OF… OUR… OWN…”

The corridor felt narrower.

On a mounted monitor near the tunnel entrance, someone had left the live feed running with no sound. 

Tristan was sitting down in front of it wearing a navy blue suit, watching everything in awe. 

The camera angle was high, panning across the stands.

Blue everywhere.

Not just shirts.

Boards.

A block of seats behind the goal had been prepped, row by row. Thick card. Matte finish. Handed out by stewards in high-vis like they were passing out programmes, only more careful. Fans tucked them under their legs, held them on their knees, fidgeted with the corners like they were trying not to crease them. Kids waved theirs like flags until someone older tapped their shoulder and pointed down.

From a distance it looked like nothing.

Just scattered colour in one corner of blue.

Then a message flashed across the big screen.

HOLD UP YOUR CARD FOR PRACTICE PLEASE.

Even without sound, Tristan could see the moment it landed.

A ripple moved through that section only—shoulders squaring, heads turning, the kind of silent coordination you only get from people who’d rehearsed this in group chats for weeks.

Arms rose.

A few thousand pieces of cardboard lifted together.

And that one end of the ground didn’t turn into a banner.

It turned into a picture.

The mosaic clicked into place fast—too fast—like a lock snapping shut.

A boy.

Leicester academy kit hanging off him with the number 22 on his back. 

Up close it was imperfect—one row half a beat late, a corner where the shade didn’t quite match, a few hands trembling as they tried to hold the boards high.

But from the camera’s height?

It was perfect.

Above the boy, stretched across that section in bold white lettering:

FROM 22 TO FOREVER.

[Image Here] 

The camera cut to the East Stand.

At first it just looked… bright. 

But than  thousands of small square cards held chest-high, some trembling slightly in the cold air. From pitch level it was chaotic,  light catching at different angles, breaking apart like scattered coins.

Then the angle shifted.

Higher.

And the chaos became shape.

A second mosaic.

Gold foil boards across the lower tier. Deep royal blue across the upper rows to frame it. Black shadowing built from darker cards to give depth.

In the centre —

Tristan.

Not the academy boy this time.

The man.

Arms raised. Four trophies lifted in different moments frozen into one image — the Premier League, the Europa League, the FA Cup, the League Cup. The unbeaten season stitched into the posture alone.

The gold shimmered violently when the light hit it.

And beneath it, stretching across two tiers in bold block letters:

THE MIRACLE OF LEICESTER.

[Image Here] 

.

The feed flickered again.

Scarves held high.

Blue smoke drifting upward from somewhere near the lower tier. Stewards already moving toward it, arms raised, trying to control something that didn’t want to be controlled.

The camera dipped to street level.

Outside the gates, it was worse.

People pressed against temporary barriers three rows deep. Kids on shoulders. A Hungarian flag draped across someone’s back. Another banner painted in red and white — THANK YOU, CAPTAIN.

Vendors had run out of shirts; someone was holding up an old 22 jersey like it was a relic.

Police lights flashed lazily at the end of the road.

A chant erupted again, louder this time.

Grief wrapped in pride.

“We’ll never forget you…”

It moved like a tide, thousands of voices slightly out of sync but close enough to feel like one body breathing.

Tristan pushed a hand through his hair, exhaled, and stood. He didn’t want to watch the surprise anymore. Instead, he crossed the room and stopped in front of the narrow mirror bolted into the brick wall.

He was wearing a blue suit where everyone else would be wearing a black suit to show importance. He didn’t really like the idea but it is what it is at this point. 

Behind him, a couple of club staff walked past with lanyards and clipboards, barely looking up, moving with the same rehearsed urgency that usually belonged to matchday.

It didn’t feel like a matchday or even a final. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this nervous, not even the Euro final made him this nervous.

A door opened somewhere down the hall. The sound spilled out, laughter, a burst of voices then shut again like someone had remembered what day it was.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

Something in his pocket vibrated.

He didn’t take his phone out.

He didn’t want to see more messages. More clips. More screenshots of barricades and crowds and banners like they were building a festival around his name.

He watched his own eyes in the mirror for a second longer.

Then the door behind him swung open and the corridor instantly changed temperature.

“Look at you.”

Vardy’s voice hit the hallway with no warning at all. Loud, cheerful, like this was a wedding.

Tristan didn’t turn straight away. He kept his gaze on the mirror, like the reflection might offer a way out.

“Mate, what’s that face for?” Vardy said, stepping closer, squinting at him. “You just won and you look like someone nicked your dog.”

He nudged Tristan’s shoulder with the back of his hand.

“Go on. Smile a bit, yeah? You can’t cry it in.”

Tristan tried to hold it,  tried to keep the composure stitched tight. It cracked anyway.

Vardy caught it immediately. “There he is,” he said, satisfied.

Behind him, Wes Morgan appeared in the doorway, tall and broad and calm. Riyad Mahrez leaned on the frame like he’d been born there, black suit, hands in pockets, face relaxed. Ben Chilwell was half a step behind them, tugging at his own tie like it was trying to kill him.

“You lot look like you’re going to court,” Tristan said.

Vardy stepped into Tristan’s space and looked him up and down.

“No,” Vardy replied, nodding at the blue suit. “You look like you’re going to court. We look like your lawyers.”

Ben made a face. “I look like a kid who stole a suit.”

Mahrez’s mouth curved slightly. “You do.”

Ben shot him a look. “Thanks.”

Wes walked closer, eyes taking in Tristan’s collar, his shoulders, the way he was standing too still.

“You alright?” Wes asked.

Tristan held his gaze.

“Yeah,” he said, but it came out too quick.

Vardy didn’t buy it for a second.

“You’re sweating,” Vardy said.

“I’m not sweating.”

“You’re sweating in places you shouldn’t be able to sweat.”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “How would you even know that?”

Vardy pointed at the mirror. “Your face is doing that thing.”

Tristan looked back at his reflection.

His face was doing nothing.

“Which thing?” he asked.

“The thing where you look like you’re about to go and score a winner,” Vardy said, then his tone dipped slightly, just enough to cut through the jokes. “Except you can’t. Because it’s not a match.”

Tristan nodded. “Feels like one,” he admitted.

Ben shifted, trying to make it lighter again.

“It’s worse,” Ben said. “At least in a match you can two-foot someone and feel better.”

Wes gave him a look. “Don’t say that in the building.”

Ben lifted both hands. “It’s emotional, old man.”

Mahrez let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh.

“It’s mad outside,” Mahrez said, and for the first time his voice didn’t sound amused.

Tristan’s eyes flicked to him. “How mad?”

Vardy answered before anyone else could, like he’d been waiting to unload it.

“Proper mad,” Vardy said. “Mate—there’s people camping. Camping.”

Tristan blinked. “Camping?”

Wes nodded. “Since last night.”

Ben leaned forward, voice dropping as if even saying it out loud made it bigger. “There’s a queue around the corner. Like… around the corner around the corner.”

Tristan stared at them.

He didn’t speak for a second.

“You’re joking,” he said. He was rushed into the stadium unlike everyone else so he didn’t get the chance to see everything and interact with the fans.

Vardy shook his head. “I wish I was.”

Mahrez pushed off the doorway and stepped fully into the corridor.

“It’s ridiculous out there,” he said quietly. “That mosaic… it’s mad.”

Tristan didn’t look up. “Yeah. I saw.”

Ben shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it. “The academy one’s the worst.”

“The worst?” Tristan echoed.

“In a good way,” Ben rushed. “You look about four years old. Proper baby face. Curls everywhere.”

Vardy snorted. “You still look about four.”

Mahrez ignored him. “The detail on it’s unreal. From up top it looks like a photo. From pitch level it’s just chaos. Cards everywhere.”

Wes nodded once. “They’ve covered half the East Stand with the trophy one. Gold boards and everything. When the light hits it…” He exhaled softly. “It’s something else.”

Vardy folded his arms. “And there’s about twelve other banners we haven’t even seen properly yet. Whole place looks like a final.”

Tristan dragged a hand down his face. “It’s supposed to be a farewell.”

“Yeah,” Vardy said. “That’s what makes it feels so special though.”

Ben glanced down the corridor. “Where is everyone else anyway? Thought the whole squad was already here.”

“They are,” Mahrez replied. “Still getting ready. A few of them are upstairs doing media bits.”

“Danny’s arguing about his tie,” Vardy added. “Morgan had to go drag him out.”

Wes gave him a look. “He’s fine.”

A staff member hurried past them then, whispering into a headset, eyes moving like she was checking boxes in her head.

The corridor shifted again, more movement, more urgency.

From farther down, a new voice cut through.

“Tristan!”

Tristan turned.

Ed came striding down the corridor. Two media guys trailed him—one with a camera rig, the other with a tablet and a headset—plus a runner carrying a garment bag.

Ed didn’t slow down until he was right in front of Tristan.

“There you are,” Ed said, breathy with relief, a quick laugh slipping out as his eyes flicked over Tristan’s face like he was checking for damage. “I’ve been hunting you for ten minutes.”

Tristan let out a slow exhale, the corner of his mouth lifting without really meaning to. “How you feeling?”

Ed’s eyebrows rose like Tristan had asked something ridiculous. He pulled Tristan into a tight hug anyway, one hand pressing firm between his shoulder blades.

“I should be asking you that,” Ed murmured near his ear.

Tristan tried to shrug it off. He didn’t quite manage it. “I’m alright,” he said, voice low. “Just… a lot.”

Ed’s expression softened, a small nod of understanding, like he’d expected that answer. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s the correct reaction.”

Ed’s eyes flicked over his shoulders, clocking Vardy, Mahrez, Wes, Ben—then the corridor beyond, where the noise throbbed through the concrete like a second heartbeat.

He let out a low whistle.

“Jesus,” Ed muttered. “It sounds like the roof wants to leave.”

Vardy snorted. “It’s because of him.”

“Right,” Ed said, clapping his hands once, business mode clicking in but softer than usual. “Listen—before I’m dragged away by my lot…”

He turned slightly to address the group, lifting his voice just enough to carry.

“Boys, just so you know,” Ed said, gesturing down the corridor, “we’ve got a run-through in about… what, eight minutes?”

The guy with the tablet nodded without looking up. “Seven.”

“Seven minutes,” Ed corrected smoothly. “We’ve got cameras, cue cards, stage timing, all that boring stuff.”

He looked back at Tristan again, tone shifting.

“I wanted to see you before it starts,” Ed said. “Because once it starts, it’s going to move fast. Proper fast.”

“Whatever happens out there,” he said, eyes steady, “ Just try to enjoy it. Everyone is here for you. You hear me?”

“Yeah, that's some good advice.” Tristan replied. 

Ed turned to leave, then glanced over his shoulder one last time.

“See you on the other side,” he said.

Then he was gone, his crew flowing after him.

Then the door at the far end opened and the hallway filled properly this time.

Danny Drinkwater came through first, already tugging at his collar like it had personally offended him.

“I hate this,” he muttered, loosening his tie again.

Vardy pointed at him immediately. “Told you he’d complain.”

“Shut up,” Drinkwater shot back, but there was no bite in it.

Behind him came Kasper Schmeichel, Marc Albrighton followed, behind him was Shinji Okazaki. 

Danny Simpson came next. Robert Huth lumbered in behind him, next to him was Leonardo Ulloa, behind him was Christian Fuchs.

Then—

N’Golo Kanté.

Who looked like an elementary kid, his eyes widening at the noise bleeding through the walls.

He stepped in carefully, like the volume alone might knock him back out the door.

Ben Chilwell followed, looking younger than ever in a full suit, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. Harry Maguire came in just behind him, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, taking it all in with wide, almost disbelieving eyes.

Andy King slipped in last.

The corridor finally looked like a squad again.

“Everyone here?” Wes asked.

A chorus of nods and muttered “yeahs” followed.

King lifted a hand. “I’m here. Calm down.” He said as everyone started hugging Tristan.

Drinkwater reached him first, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into a quick, tight hug.

“Proud of you, mate,” he muttered, stepping back before it got too emotional.

Vardy came last out of the older core, of course.

He didn’t hug straight away. He just stood there, looking at Tristan for a second like he was memorising him.

Then he stepped in and pulled him tight.

“Don’t make this weird,” Vardy muttered into his shoulder.

Tristan laughed under his breath. “You’re the one making it weird.”

“Exactly.”

Kanté was still standing a step back, watching all of it with wide eyes.

Tristan caught him staring.

He stepped toward him.

Kanté immediately shook his head before Tristan even said anything.

“No, no,” N’Golo said softly, hands coming up like he was fending something off. “Too much.”

Tristan laughed, shaking his head.

“This is going to be you soon,” Tristan said, nodding toward the tunnel. “They’ll be doing this for you.”

Kanté’s eyes widened even more. He waved both hands firmly.

“No. Never. Impossible.”

“It is not impossible,” Fuchs said dryly from the side.

Kanté shook his head harder, almost embarrassed. “No, no. I run. I defend. That is enough.”

The lads chuckled.

Tristan stepped closer and hugged him anyway.

Kanté stiffened for half a second then relaxed, returning it with a small pat on Tristan’s back.

“You deserve this,” Kanté said quietly.

Tristan pulled back, smiling properly now.

“So do you,” he replied.

Kanté shook his head again, but he was smiling too.

“Too much,” he repeated, and that set them both off laughing under the roar of the stadium.

.

Five Minutes Later 

The corridor felt fuller now.

Barbara appeared at the end of the hallway first, one arm wrapped around Biscuit, who had absolutely no understanding of emotional gravity and was happily licking at the sleeve of her coat.

Anita walked beside her, checking something on her phone before slipping it into her bag. Julia and Ling followed just behind, moving slower, taking everything in without saying much.

Biscuit spotted Tristan instantly.

Her tail began wagging violently.

“Oh no,” Ben muttered under his breath. “We’ve been replaced.”

Barbara smiled when she reached him.

“She insisted,” she said, lifting the dog slightly as Biscuit tried to wriggle toward Tristan’s suit. “Apparently this is her event.”

Tristan exhaled a small laugh and scratched behind Biscuit’s ears.

“Don’t get paw prints on the suit,” Anita warned immediately.

“Too late,” Vardy said, inspecting Tristan’s sleeve. 

Ling shook his head faintly, though there was a smile trying to form.

Julia adjusted Tristan’s collar without asking, smoothing it down like she had done when he was twelve and late for school.

“Stand up straight,” she murmured.

“I am standing up straight,” Tristan replied smiling at his mum,

The lads hovered nearby in small clusters now.

Drinkwater and Albrighton were arguing about whether the microphones on stage would pick up swearing.

Schmeichel stood with Huth and Simpson, talking quietly about where they were supposed to stand once the players lined up.

Chilwell leaned toward Maguire.

“Is it weird that I’m nervous?” Ben whispered.

Maguire shrugged slightly. 

King stepped over to Kanté, gesturing toward the stands.

“Mate, have you seen how many people are here?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Too many.”

They both laughed.

Tristan stood in the middle of it all, the noise rising and falling beyond the walls like a tide.

It didn’t feel like a farewell yet.

It felt like a wedding reception before the bride walked in.

A staff member appeared again, headset slightly crooked, clipboard hugged to her chest.

“Alright,” she said firmly but not harshly. “We’re starting.”

The corridor straightened instantly.

“Players first,” she continued. “You’ll line up inside the tunnel. When your name is called, you walk out and take your position on the stage.”

She glanced at Tristan.

“You’ll be last.”

Of course.

Vardy leaned in slightly.

“Main event,” he muttered.

Tristan didn’t respond. 

The squad began moving toward the tunnel in a loose line.

Barbara shifted Biscuit into Anita’s arms.

“Hold her,” she said quietly.

Anita blinked. “What if she barks?”

“Then she barks.”

Julia reached for Tristan’s hand briefly.

“We’ll be just off to the side,” she said.

Ling gave him one firm nod.

The tunnel door opened.

And the sound hit differently this time.

Blue light spilled down the concrete as the first notes of the club anthem echoed through the stadium speakers.

Out on the pitch, the stage stood at the centre circle, steel rigging and LED panels glowing softly under the early evening light. Massive screens hovered above it, replaying goals in slow motion — volleys, free kicks, assists split open like surgical cuts. Each replay slowed just enough to make the roar swell all over again.

The mosaics shimmered in the late afternoon sun.

But it wasn’t the stage that pulled the eye first.

It was the tunnel.

On both sides of the entrance, stretching out like a guard of honour, stood mannequins.

A row on both sides.

Number 14 first.

Then 17.

Then 22.

Season after season.

Each kit perfectly pressed. Boots placed beneath each one — from the early scuffed academy pairs to Lion’s Pride, Storm Pulse, Midnight Frost, and the Mirabilis 16. The colours shifted as the years did. Sponsors changed. Badges evolved.

But the number stayed.

22.

Near the middle of the line, the Premier League season shirt — the one from the unbeaten year — stood slightly elevated on a darker platform. Beside it, the Europa League kit. Then the FA Cup. Then the League Cup.

Toward the very end, the shirt from his final match this past season.

Grass stains still faintly visible along the hip.

Boots placed beneath it, angled outward like he had just stepped out of them.

Above the display, a simple banner ran along the tunnel arch in clean white lettering:

FROM 14TO 22FOREVER

[Image Here] 

Stewards had roped off the area, but cameras were already circling it like it was an art installation.

Because it was.

This wasn’t decoration.

It was proof.

From a six-year-old academy kid to a man who helped lift the club 5 trophies in three seasons. One undefeated. 

All before walking out one final time.

.

The lights dipped a shade darker, not enough to plunge the stadium into black, just enough to turn the focus toward the tunnel.

“Shinji Okazaki.”

The roar came warm and immediate.  Okazaki jogged out out of habit, even in a suit, bowing his head slightly as he reached the stage.

“Marc Albrighton.”

“Kasper Schmeichel.”

One by one names were called.

“Robert Huth.”

“Danny Simpson.”

“Leonardo Ulloa.”

Each name triggered a different pitch of memory. Some cheers were thunderous, some nostalgic, some playful. Vardy’s introduction nearly blew the speakers — the chant snapping into rhythm instantly, thousands of voices bouncing his name back at him as he walked out grinning, shaking his head like he hadn’t expected it.

When Wes Morgan’s name was called, the applause got louder. A captain’s ovation. 

“Riyad Mahrez.”

“N’Golo Kanté.”

The players formed a wide half-circle at the centre of the pitch, framing the silver.

Five trophies stood on a raised platform over the centre spot.

Two FA Cups.

The League Cup.

The Europa League trophy.

And at the heart of it all — elevated slightly above the rest — the Premier League trophy, its gold taking away the shine from the four others. 

At the front of the platform stood the leadership of Leicester City Football Club.

Chairman and owner Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha at the centre.

To his right stood Nigel Pearson, the manager who had pulled a fearless academy teenager into the first team and laid the first stones of what would become the Miracle of Leicester.

To his left stood Claudio Ranieri, the manager who turned that belief into dominance — four trophies, one unbeaten season, and a squad that redefined what the world thought possible.

Just behind them stood Chief Executive Susan Whelan, alongside senior members of the club’s football operations and academy structure.

And behind all of them —

The players who made all this possible. 

.

The announcer’s voice returned rolling out across the King Power like a bell.

“Ladies and gentlemen… supporters of Leicester City… please welcome the Chairman of Leicester City Football Club—”

“—Mr Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha.”

And as Vichai stepped forward in a black suit and bowed toward the stands, the stadium erupted into applause.

He paused at the front of the platform, the five trophies gleaming at his back, and looked out across the stands like he was trying to take every single face home with him. When he finally spoke, his accent softened the edges of the English, but the feeling underneath it landed clean.

“Thank you,” Vichai said, voice carrying through the speakers. “Thank you… from my heart.”

Another surge of noise, and cheers. 

“When my family came to Leicester… when we chose this club… we did not come because it was easy,” he said. “We came because we believed in something here. In the people. In the spirit.”

He let that hang, then turned his head slightly, acknowledging the men beside him.

“Three years ago,” Vichai continued, “we were still fighting in the Championship. Still chasing the Premier League. Still trying to prove that Leicester City belonged where we believed it belonged.”

A low rumble of agreement rolled through the stands from the supporters who had endured the lean years and the long winters, and from the newer voices who had arrived during the surge of silver and spotlight.

“And in those days,” he said, nodding toward Nigel Pearson, “this man gave us strength. He believed in the club when it was not fashionable to believe in us.”

Pearson didn’t usually smile as it wasn’t in his nature but in this moment, he couldn’t help himself. He let the cheers wash over him for a moment. He dipped his head in a brief bow toward the stands, almost awkwardly, and lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

The roar grew warmer.

It had never been easy watching from the outside. Watching the club rise higher and higher after his departure, winning trophies and breaking records. Especially when the circumstances that ended his time here had never really been in his control and spending hours wondering if he could have done the same had he stayed as the manager. But standing here now hearing the cheers, it was worth it coming knowing he wasn’t forgotten. 

Vichai’s gaze moved again, to Ranieri.

Vichai’s gaze moved again, to Ranieri.

“And then,” he said, voice lifting slightly, “this man came — Claudio Ranieri — and he gave us something even bigger than hope.”

The name barely left his mouth before the stadium detonated.

“CLAU-DIO! CLAU-DIO!”

Ranieri’s face broke into a wide, almost bashful smile.  He dipped into a small, respectful bow toward the stands, one hand pressed briefly to his chest before lifting both palms in a gentle wave, half greeting, half surrender to the noise.

The cheers only grew louder.

He shook his head lightly, laughing under his breath, eyes shining as he looked around the ground. Whatever had been said about him elsewhere, whatever doubts once followed him in this stadium, in this city,  he was remembered exactly the way he wanted to be.

Vichai turned back to the platform, and for a second the trophies did the talking. The floodlights caught the gold crown of the Premier League trophy and it flashed like a signal.

“We did not just win,” Vichai said quietly. “We wrote history.”

He looked up again.

“Records. Nights we will tell our children about. Moments that the world told us could not happen until Leicester did it.”

The crowd answered with a chant. 

“LEI-CES-TER! LEI-CES-TER!”

Vichai waited it out, then his tone changed to a more personal one.

“But none of this belongs to an owner,” he said. “None of this belongs to a chairman. It belongs to the people who wear the shirt. The people who bleed for the badge. The people who run until they cannot breathe.”

His eyes went to the players behind the trophies.

“And it belongs to you,” he added, looking back out at the stands. “Because you stayed. You believed. You carried us when we were still learning how to fly.”

“And of course,” he said, voice steady, “there is one name… we must speak today.”

The stadium shifted. 

Vichai turned his head toward the tunnel, not even looking at Tristan yet, as if he wanted the whole ground to face that direction together.

“From the moment he stepped into professional football,” Vichai said, “he did not play like a boy learning. He played like someone who was meant to change things.”

A few laughs broke through—sharp, proud—because it was true and everyone knew it.

“He broke records,” Vichai continued. “He carried expectation. He carried pressure. And still he gave us more than we could have ever dreamed of. He gave us magic, he gave us a miracle..”

“And in the FA Cup final,” Vichai said, voice tightening with memory, “when we faced Arsenal… when the moment demanded courage…”

“—he gave us the goal,” Vichai finished. “He gave us the moment. He gave Leicester City a memory that will never die.”

The eruption was instant.

A full-body roar that shook the stage rigging. Chants started on different rhythms and collided into one violent chorus.

“TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN!”

Vichai didn’t fight it. He let the noise happen. Let the name fill the stadium until it stopped being sound and turned into something closer to a promise.

When it finally dipped enough for him to speak again, his voice was softer.

“So today,” Vichai said, “we honour everyone.”

He gestured back toward the squad.

“Every player. Every staff member. Every coach. Every person who made this story real.”

Vichai let the noise settle once more, then turned slightly toward the men beside him.

“There are two managers here tonight,” he said, voice steady again. “Two leaders who shaped this club in different ways… but with the same heart.”

He gestured gently to his left.

“Please welcome… Claudio Ranieri.”

The reaction was immediate.

Not just applause but pure  joy.

“CLAU-DIO! CLAU-DIO!”

“Ah,” he began, shaking his head slightly. “You are too kind. Always too kind.”

Laughter rippled across the stadium.

He glanced back at the trophies and let out a soft breath.

“When I arrived here,” he said, “many people said Leicester could not compete at the highest level. That we were a good story… but only a small story.”

He paused.

“And I told them — we will see.”

The crowd roared at that.

Ranieri’s voice grew firmer.

“I did not build this alone. Nigel built the base. The players built the belief. The supporters built the noise. And together… we built something the world still talks about.”

He looked toward the squad behind him.

“You did not just win matches,” he said. “You changed how people see football.”

Then his gaze found Tristan in the tunnel.

“And you,” Ranieri said, a faint smile returning, “you were never afraid of the big moment.”

The crowd stirred instantly.

“You played with courage. With imagination. With joy. And when people said it was impossible… you made it look easy.”

He stepped slightly back from the mic, emotion flickering through his expression.

“I am proud of all of you,” he finished. “But tonight… we say thank you.”

He turned and embraced Vichai briefly before stepping aside.

The announcer’s voice returned.

“And now… the man who laid the first stone of this era. The manager who gave a fearless academy player his first real stage…”

A deeper, more grounded roar began.

“Nigel Pearson.”

“Right,” he began, voice blunt, unmistakable.

“Three years ago, we weren’t talking about trophies. We were talking about standards.”

The applause turned thoughtful.

“We were in the Championship,” he continued. “Scrapping. Fighting. Breaking records just to get out of it.”

A chant of “Champions!” broke out from somewhere in the lower tier.

Pearson nodded once.

“And in the middle of that season,” he said, “there was a young lad who thought he was ready.”

Soft laughter.

“He wasn’t,” Pearson said plainly.

The crowd loved that.

“But he trained like he was. Demanded the ball like he was. Took responsibility like he was.”

He paused.

“And I remember thinking,  if he’s going to fail, he’ll fail properly and learn from his failures.”

Pearson’s gaze shifted toward the tunnel.

“But to my and the rest of the team’s shock, he didn’t fail.”

The stadium quieted instinctively.

“He stepped into men’s football and didn’t blink. Broke records from the moment he touched the pitch. And in the FA Cup final against Arsenal…”

The crowd rose before he finished the sentence.

“…he didn’t wait for someone else to take it.”

The roar that followed wasn’t joyful.

It was proud.

Pearson nodded once, almost to himself.

“That’s what separates talent from legacy,” he said. “When the moment comes… you don’t pass it on.”

He stepped back slightly.

“And tonight,” Pearson added, voice firm, “you get to say thank you to a player who never passed the moment on.”

He turned fully toward the tunnel.

“And it’s my privilege… to welcome him out.”

.

The camera feed on the big screens cut away from Pearson’s face to the tunnel. And in that corridor, where the concrete sweated cold and the lights buzzed faintly overhead, Tristan felt his pulse climb into his throat.

He didn’t move yet. He literally felt like his body was frozen. 

But Barbara was already stepping in front of him, her eyes locking onto his. Her fingers found the lapels of his blue suit. Smoothed them down even though they were already perfect.

“You’re shaking,” Barbara said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He tried to brush it off, but she stepped closer and lightly smacked his cheek with her palm. Not hard. Just enough to snap him back.

“Hey,” she said, steady. “You get this. Everyone out there is here for you.”

The roar outside swelled again, rolling down the corridor.

Tristan looked at her for a second.

Then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

He just needed a second. That was all.

Anita shifted Biscuit higher on her hip. “Don’t overthink it,” she said. “You’ve done harder things.”

“Yeah,” Tristan replied, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Like dealing with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Go.”

Julia stepped forward next. No big speech. She fixed his collar like she’d done a hundred times before.

“You’ve got this,” she said softly.

He nodded. “I know.”

Ling met his eyes and gave him a firm squeeze on the shoulder.

“Stand tall,” he said. “Finish it properly.”

Tristan swallowed once and nodded again.

Barbara reached for him one last time, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

“Go,” she whispered. “We’re right here.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Wish me luck.”

She smiled. “You don’t need it.”

He gave her one last look, then stepped back.

The noise outside deepened, closer now, heavier.

A staff member with a headset raised her hand and counted down with her fingers.

Three.

Two.

One.

The tunnel door opened.

And the stadium exploded.

Pearson’s voice boomed again through the stadium speakers, finishing the introduction with steel in it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our captain. Our miracle. Our boy.”

The tunnel flooded with blue light.

Outside, the pitch looked unreal, stage at the centre circle, trophies gleaming, cameras tracking like predators. The LED boards flickered with highlights of his goals like the club was refusing to let time move forward.

And the stands…

The stands were no longer stands.

They were a wall.

A living thing.

A sea of blue, gold, and white.

The chant started before his foot even crossed the line.

“TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN!”

He stepped out.

And King Power Stadium detonated.

For a second, his body forgot how to work. Forgot how to walk. Forgot how to breathe.

Then he heard it, outside too.

Beyond the stadium.

A second roar, deeper and muffled, bleeding in through the open structure like the city itself was screaming his name.

Blue flares ignited in the lower tier near the corner.

One.

Two.

Then more.

Smoke climbed in thick ribbons, curling upward into the night air. Stewards moved quickly, but nobody cared. The crowd wasn’t even looking at the smoke.

They were looking at him.

Tristan lifted his hand towards the different sections as he kept walking. 

The South Stand reacted first,  bodies bouncing, scarves swinging overhead. The noise rolled across the pitch in a wave that hit the East Stand a second later, gold cards still shimmering behind them.

He turned slightly, acknowledging each side of the ground one by one.

The reaction grew louder with each turn.

Then the chant shifted.

It started low, almost organized. A pocket near the front rows.

“Tris-tan! Tris-tan!”

Clap. Clap. Clap-clap-clap.

The rhythm caught instantly.

“From Leicester, he's our shining star!

 With every pass, he takes us far!”

More voices joined.

“His vision's sharp, his touch is gold,

A football tale that's yet to be told!”

By the second verse, the whole stadium had it.

“Tristan! Tristan!

With skill and heart, he'll lead the way!

A hero on the pitch, watch him play!”

Scarves rose again, thousands of them.

“Tristan! Tristan!

 We cheer for you, our pride today!”

It wasn’t polished.

It wasn’t perfectly in sync.

But it was loud.

It was theirs.

Tristan slowed for half a step, swallowing once as the sound hit him full in the chest. He bowed his head briefly before he reached the center stage. 

Vichai stood at the front in a black suit, calm in the eye of the storm, but his eyes looked glassy when he met Tristan’s.

Tristan reached the front of the platform.

Vichai stepped forward first, offering a handshake that turned into a brief one-arm embrace.

“Thank you,” Vichai said, simple and clear.

Tristan nodded. “For everything.”

They separated. Susan Whelan stepped in next with a hug as well. 

Pearson was next.

For a split second, everything else faded for Tristan.

The noise. The cameras. The flares.

It was just him and the man who had trusted a teenager in the Championship.

Pearson looked exactly the same. Same posture. Same guarded expression.

He didn’t open his arms.

He just looked at Tristan and said, blunt as ever, “You’ve caused a right mess.”

Tristan broke into a real smile. Not polite. Not staged.

“Sorry,” he said, laughing lightly.

Pearson’s mouth twitched.

“Good,” he replied. “Now come here.”

The hug was firm and quick — no theatrics, no lingering — but it meant something. When they pulled back, Tristan didn’t step away immediately.

“Thank you,” he said, steady. “For everything. For giving me the chance.”

Pearson held his gaze for a second.

“You took it,” he said. “That’s on you.”

But there was pride in it. Clear.

Tristan nodded once, smiling properly now.

Then Ranieri.

Ranieri was already grinning, eyes bright, shaking his head like he still couldn’t quite believe it had all happened.

“Ah, Tristan,” he said, stepping in.

The hug was warmer, lighter. Ranieri laughed softly as he pulled him in.

“You make my job easy,” he said.

Tristan smiled. “You made it possible.”

Ranieri squeezed his shoulder once before stepping aside, still smiling.

Behind them, the players stood in a loose line.

Tristan moved through them without overthinking it — quick hugs, a few quiet words, hands on shoulders.

Schmeichel pulled him in tight for a second.

Mahrez nodded and embraced him briefly.

Kanté smiled shyly and hugged him softly.

Drinkwater muttered something about “don’t mess it up” before clapping him on the back.

When he reached Vardy, Vardy didn’t joke straight away. He just hugged him.

Then, low enough that the mics wouldn’t catch it, “Don’t cry.”

Tristan let out a short breath. “Shut up.”

Wes stepped forward last from the line.

They hugged — captain to captain, leader to leader.

“Go on,” Wes said quietly. “It’s yours.”

Tristan nodded.

He turned toward the centre.

The five trophies gleamed under the lights.

The crowd swelled again — chants rising, scarves lifting.

He raised his hand one more time, giving each side of the stadium a final wave before stepping forward.

Blue smoke drifted behind him.

The King Power vibrated with noise.

And as he reached the centre circle, the second stadium — the one online — erupted too.

Phones lit up across Leicester. Across England. Across Europe.

The livestream comment feed started racing faster than anyone could read.

Tristan Hale was about to speak.

.

[LCFC Farewell Livestream — Live Chat]

Emiya: HE’S OUTTTTTTTTT. Holy shit. I wonder what’s going on through Tristan’s mind right now. I would be freaking out seeing all this for a farewell tour. God damn, I’m about to cry.

Saber: I’m starting to cry, lmao. Fuck me. I never got this emotional about any footballer or club. But I guess Tristan is the exception to everything.

Fuck_Garp: As a Real Madrid fan, this might be the craziest thing I seen a club do for a player. Holy fuck, I can’t remember if there’s any player who got this type of treatment from their clubs.

Shanks_Goated: This is the greatest club farewell I’ve ever seen. No exaggeration. What a moment for Leciester and Tristan.

Tom: You know as an Arsenal fan, I hate Leciester but I can’t help myself from gettional emotional with all those jersys as tribute and everything else the club has brought out. 

Storm_: imagine doing this for a player… fair play tho

Tristan_FanPage67: BRO THEY MADE A MUSEUM IN THE TUNNEL 😭

Lucas: Damn, I’m suprised to see Pearson here, that man hasn’t been seen in ages. But he looks like he's about to cry. 

Lenny: Whoever said Tristan is more important and famous than Messi and Ronaldo right now might have a point, lmao. I can’t see them getting this type of treatment from either Madrid or Barca. This guy got a whole city on pause.

↳Thomas: Woah, relaxe buddy. Tristan is getting this type of treatment because of how small Leciester is. They barely have any proper club legends. And Tristan put them on the map. 

↳ Aee: Tristan right now is more popular than Messi and Ronaldo, lmao. 😭

Sin_Bad: Anfield better not embarrass itself tomorrow after THIS.

Ethan_Brown: 30–50 million watching a farewell is crazy work

BiscuitStanAccount: WHERE IS THE DOG?? SHOW THE DOG

VAR_DYNASTY: VARDY LOOKING LIKE A PROUD DAD 😭😭

Jake: I’m gonna miss Tristan in blue. 

..

Back on the pitch, Tristan was handed the microphone.

The stadium fell silent in stages.

The chant faded.

The wind carried only the faint hum of cameras and breathing.

He raised the mic. Opened his mouth.

His voice cracked immediately.

He stopped.

Looked down.

Laughed once through his nose.

“I really thought I’d be better at this.”

The crowd chuckled softly, protective.

He wiped his face quickly.

“Three years ago,” he began, steadier now, “we were in the Championship.”

A murmur of agreement rolled through the older supporters.

“Second tier. No one really believed in us even when we made it to the Premier league smashing every record that existed. Even when we won the FA cup, people thought we got lucky beating Arsenal.”

He glanced at Pearson.

“This man believed in a kid from the academy. Gave him a shirt before the world knew his name. I can’t thank him enough for that.” 

And he really couldn’t as he didn’t know how long it would have taken him to succeed if he wasn’t given the chance to shine even with the system.

Applause swelled for Nigel.

Tristan turned slightly.

“And this man,” he nodded toward Ranieri, “took that belief and momentum and turned it into something none of us will ever forget.”

The crowd roared Claudio’s name.

“Four trophies in one season undefeated across all competitions for the first time in history.”

The stadium thundered again.

“But the trophies…” he paused, looking out over the stands, “they don’t matter if you don’t have this.”

He gestured to the crowd.

“You made a boy feel like he belonged here.”

Silence fell heavy.

“You made every training session worth it. Every injury worth it. Every doubt worth it.”

He swallowed.

“I will always be a child of Leicester.”

The explosion of noise was overwhelming.

He lowered the mic slowly bowing. 

Vichai stepped forward again.

“Tristan,” the owner said gently, “for 110 goals. 103 assists. In only 130 matches. For changing the story of this club forever…”

A covered frame was wheeled out.

The cloth shimmered under the lights.

Vichai removed it.

A framed Leicester City shirt.

Number 22.

Gold-trimmed.

Below it:

TRISTAN HALE

FOREVER 22

“No player,” Vichai continued, voice thick now, “will ever wear this number again.”

The stadium detonated.

Tristan stared at the shirt.

Then turned.

And bowed.

Deep.

To every stand.

.

The first chords rang out, soft and familiar.

A ripple moved through the stadium before anyone even sang.

People recognized it immediately.

Ed didn’t rush.

Slip inside the eye of your mind…

His voice carried clean across the pitch, and for a few seconds the stadium simply listened.

Then the murmuring started.

Sections picking it up under their breath.

By the time he reached the pre-chorus, more voices were joining.

Not perfectly in time.

Not perfectly in tune.

But together.

Tristan walked slowly along the touchline as the sound grew behind him.

And then—

Ed stepped back from the microphone.

The crowd didn’t hesitate.

“So Sally can wait,

She knows it’s too late as we’re walking on by…”

Forty thousand voices. 

Tristan stopped near the centre circle.

The second line hit harder.

“Her soul slides away,

But don’t look back in anger…”

Scarves rose.

Arms wrapped around strangers.

“—I heard you say.”

The last line wasn’t sung.

It was shouted.

Tristan swallowed and bowed one last time before walking back to the tunnel.

Behind him, the chorus kept going.

Louder now.

More certain.

And as he reached the entrance, the entire stadium was still singing—

Not to hold him back.

But to send him forward.

Spain

The glow of the television lit Neymar’s living room.

Messi sat back, arms folded loosely, watching quietly.

On screen,  the retirement of 22.

The crowd still singing.

Neymar leaned forward slightly.

“They retired it.”

Messi nodded. He honestly didn’t think Leciester would go this far for just a farewell, he just wondered how much everything cost for this entire event, all for a single player. .

Neymar watched the faces in the stands, grown men crying, kids screaming, old supporters applauding through tears.

Neymar couldn’t help but wondered, if he left right now, would he get the same type of love and reaction from the Barca fans.

“Love like that,” Messi said softly, “you don’t plan it.”

Neymar leaned back thinking. PSG and him already had a plan going but now he was wondering what he could accomplish in France. 

No, if he left right now it had to be a club that could help him rival and beat Tristan’s Liverpool. For that to happen, he needed to go to England…

In Leicester, a number was gone forever.

In Liverpool, a red shirt waited.

And in Spain, a decision began to tilt.

The world kept moving.

But something had closed.

And something else was about to begin.