July 26, 2016 - Liverpool - 12:40 p.m.
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As the day Liverpool would finally welcome its new king arrived, the man who many believed would inherit Steven Gerrard’s throne found himself asking a life changing question.
What exactly was he supposed to do now?
Philippe Coutinho sat forward on the couch, remote hanging loosely in his hand, eyes fixed on the television.
The channel was replaying clips and videos from the farewell ceremony still shaking world football.
A stadium drowning in blue.
Forty thousand voices singing in happiness and tears.
The broadcast cut to the crowd singing along as Ed Sheeran stood on stage with an acoustic guitar.
"So Sally can wait…"
Even with the volume low, the sound of the stadium still pushed through the speakers like distant thunder.
A headline crawled across the bottom of the screen.
HALE ARRIVES AT ANFIELD TODAY
LIVERPOOL’S NEW ERA BEGINS
Coutinho leaned forward and switched the television off, the screen going dark mid–broadcast.A second later he tossed the remote across the room, where it thudded against the arm of the couch.
He sank back into his seat, dragging a hand through his hair. He breathed out slowly through his nose, frustration written plainly across his face now. Whatever calm he'd been holding onto all morning was gone.
All morning it had been the same thing.
Tristan that.
Tristan this.
He’d been dealing with it all season, that name following the club around like a curse.
Tristan.
It was everywhere.
Coutinho had grown to hate the British media for it. Every headline, every debate, every segment somehow circling back to the same question.
Would Tristan Hale join Liverpool?
And Klopp hadn’t exactly helped.
If anything, the manager had only fed the fire.
Every press conference. Every interview.
"A generational talent."
"The future and present of football."
"The greatest talent the game has seen in history."
Coutinho stared at the dark television again, his reflection staring back at him.
For a moment he forced himself to breathe, the anger settling just enough for his expression to calm.
He had told himself he would be ready for this day.
He wasn’t.
Because apparently one player really could change everything.
And today, Liverpool was about to find out exactly how much.
His phone buzzed on the table.
Coutinho glanced down at the screen.
Kia Joorabchian.
Of course.
He picked it up and answered.
“Yeah.”
His agent’s voice came through immediately, calm but curious.
“How are you feeling right now.”
Coutinho leaned back into the couch, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Best as I can feel anyone would be in my position,” he muttered.
A brief pause followed.
Kia knew him well enough to hear the irritation in his voice. “You knew this was coming.”
Coutinho’s eyes drifted toward the dark television.
“Knowing,” he said quietly, “and watching it happen are two different things.”
Kia was quiet for a moment on the other end of the call. Then he sighed softly.“Listen to me carefully,” he said.
Coutinho didn’t respond, but his posture straightened slightly.
“I’ve already started making a few calls.”
Coutinho’s brow creased.
“What kind of calls?”
“The kind that let certain clubs know you might be… open to listening.”
Coutinho sat up a little straighter now.
“You’re leaking things?”
“Not leaking,” Kia corrected calmly. “Positioning. I figured this was the outcome since Tristan decided to join. ”
Coutinho rubbed his jaw slowly, thinking.
“Barcelona?” he asked after a moment just thinking about his dream club for a
Kia hesitated.
“There’s interest,” he said carefully. “Nothing formal yet. But I’ve heard some things.”
“Like what?”
“Like the situation there might change soon.”
Coutinho frowned.
“What situation?”
Kia lowered his voice slightly, even though no one else was in the room.
“I’m hearing that Neymar isn’t entirely happy.”
The name hung in the air for a second.
Neymar leaving Barcelona would shake the entire football world.
“If something happens there,” Kia continued, “Barcelona will need another attacking midfielder. Someone creative. Someone who can carry a team.”
“But right now, none of that matters.”
Coutinho frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re going to Anfield today.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to smile.”
Coutinho gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Smile?”
“Yes,” Kia said firmly. “You’re a professional. Cameras will be everywhere. The club, the fans, the media.”
He paused.
“So you go there. You shake hands. You welcome the new superstar.”
“And after that?”
Kia’s voice returned to its calm, calculated tone.
“After that,” he said, “we figure out your future.”
Coutinho looked toward the window now, where the afternoon light had started to brighten the street outside.
Across the city, Anfield was already filling with supporters waiting for their new hero.
And in a few hours, Philippe Coutinho would be standing on that same pitch.
Welcoming the man who might have just taken his place.
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Manchester - 2:15 p.m.
The private suite sat high above the city skyline, the afternoon sun reflecting off the glass towers that had begun to redefine Manchester over the last decade.
Inside, the room was quiet.
Too quiet for the conversation that was about to happen.
A television mounted on the wall played muted coverage from Liverpool, the screen filled with images of red banners and crowds gathering outside Anfield.
The words WELCOME HALE rolled across the bottom of the broadcast.
Across the table, Txiki Begiristain leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him as he watched the screen.
He didn’t speak for a moment.
Then he picked up the remote and lowered the volume further.
The room returned to near silence.
Across from him sat Wagner Ribeiro, relaxed in posture but attentive, the current agent representing Neymar.
Begiristain nodded toward the television.
“Liverpool just changed the balance of the league.”
Ribeiro glanced at the screen again.
Crowds outside the stadium, celebrating like they won a treble undefeated.
He gave a small shrug. “They believe they have.”
Begiristain’s mouth twitched slightly.
“They might be right.”
Ribeiro leaned forward a little.
“And that’s why you asked for this meeting.”
Begiristain didn’t deny it.
He stood slowly and walked toward the window, the Manchester skyline stretching out beneath him.
“In football,” he said calmly, “power moves quickly.”
He glanced back at the television. Begiristain watched it for a second longer.
Then he looked back at Ribeiro.
“Liverpool now have their star.”
A short pause followed.
“And we need ours.”
Ribeiro smiled faintly.
“I thought you already had one.”
Begiristain shook his head once.
“Not like this.”
He gestured lightly toward the television.
“That is not just a footballer.”
On the screen, the name appeared again.
TRISTAN HALE
Begiristain’s tone stayed calm, but there was weight behind it now.
“That is a symbol.”
Ribeiro nodded slowly.
He understood exactly what Begiristain meant.
A player like that didn’t just win matches. He brought his club, league and country new heights like Pele, Messi, Ronaldo and Maradona have done.
“So,” Ribeiro said quietly, “you’re looking for an answer.”
Begiristain returned to the table.
“I’m looking for ambition.”
Ribeiro leaned back slightly in his chair.
“And you think Neymar has that.”
The name hung between them.
“He wants to be the best player in the world.”
Ribeiro nodded. “That’s true.”
“But right now,” Begiristain continued, “he plays next to two men who already sit on that throne.”
Lionel Messi.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
Ribeiro’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“And now Tristan Hale.”
Begiristain allowed himself a small smile.
“Yes, it’s hard to beat those three monsters.”
For a moment neither man spoke.
Then Ribeiro asked the real question.
“And why Manchester City?”
Begiristain gestured lightly around the room.
“Because we are building something new.”
His voice stayed calm, controlled.
“At Barcelona, Neymar is Messi’s heir.”
He paused.
“At Manchester City…”
Begiristain met Ribeiro’s gaze.
“…he would be the king.”
Ribeiro tapped a finger lightly against the armrest of his chair.
“You realize what you’re proposing.”
“Yes.”
“A rivalry.”
Begiristain nodded once.
“That’s the point.”
He gestured again toward the television.
The coverage had returned to Liverpool.
Crowds outside Anfield.
Red flares.
Thousands of fans chanting.
“Tristan! Tristan!”
Begiristain watched it for a moment.
Then he turned the television off.
“If Liverpool has their star,” he said quietly, “then the Premier League needs its own El Clásico. United can’t be saved by the Special One. And I would rather not hand the league over to Liverpool without at least trying to beat them first.”
Ribeiro smiled.
Across England, Anfield was preparing to welcome Tristan Hale.
And in Manchester, another club was already preparing its answer.
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There are so many things I wanna say and why I have been gone but I rather not and keep it to myself. There were multiple situations happening and the moment I got back to the US, I thought things would be back to normal but no something else has to happen. But we are finally back with this short chapter.
There are so many things I have planned out so please stay tuned.