England's Greatest

Chapter 144 - From Farm Boots to Football Boots

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..

October 8th,2014...

Tristan stretched out on his bed, muscles still loose from training, as he lazily reached for his phone with it buzzing. He knew he should probably head down for dinner soon, but when the screen lit up with an incoming FaceTime call, food could wait.

FaceTime – Babe

He accepted the call, expecting to see Barbara's face—maybe lounging in her childhood bedroom, or sneaking outside to talk privately.

Instead?

The entire Palvin family dinner table came into view.

A long wooden dining table, plates stacked with homemade dishes, glasses clinking, and the soft hum of Hungarian filling the space.

Barbara sat at the head of the table, her hair loosely curled, the sleeves of a white hoodie slightly covering her hands as she twirled her wine glass absently. Beside her, Anita leaned back in her chair, already looking like she had a few glasses in already.Across the table, her father, István, sat quietly. He had quite the stern face; dude looks like he doesn't smile at all. Her mother on the other hand, Ágnes, had a warm gaze managing conversations while passing dishes around.

Tristan blinked, taking in the entire scene.

"Am I... interrupting?"

Barbara raised an eyebrow, swirling the wine in her glass as she leaned back slightly. "Nope. Figured I'd bring you to dinner. Thoughtful, aren't I?"

Tristan huffed a quiet laugh, shifting against his pillows. "Yeah, so generous. Should have said something, I would have dressed up nicely."

Before he could say more, Ágnes turned toward the camera, saying something in Hungarian.

Barbara hesitated briefly before translating. "She says, 'So this is the Tristan I've heard so much about.'"

Tristan's lips curved slightly. "I hope it's all good things."

Barbara gave a small shrug, her expression unreadable. "Debatable."

Tristan let out a soft chuckle, but before he could respond, István finally looked at him properly.

The older man had been mostly quiet, but now his gaze settled on Tristan—looking at his daughter's boyfriend. Who she wouldn't shut up about.

After a pause, he muttered something low in Hungarian.

Barbara straightened slightly, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass.

Tristan raised a brow. "That sounded serious."

Barbara exhaled. "He said... 'You're younger than I expected.'"

Tristan groaned, running a hand over his face. "Okay, why does everyone think I should be forty?"

Anita, who had been silently enjoying her wine, suddenly set her glass down and said something in a teasing tone.

Barbara groaned immediately, tipping her head back toward the ceiling. "Oh my God, Anita, don't start."

Tristan's gaze darted between them, already suspicious. "What did she say?"

Barbara pursed her lips, clearly debating whether to even answer. Then, with a sigh, she leaned forward and rested an elbow on the table. "She said... since I usually like older men, they were expecting someone... well, older."

Tristan blinked before scoffing. "Babe, I didn't know you were a cougar."

Barbara choked on her wine.

She coughed into her sleeve, her entire face heating up. "Excuse me?!"

Anita, not understanding English, just lifted her glass toward the screen, as if mock-toasting Barbara's suffering.

Barbara, still recovering from nearly inhaling her drink, set her glass down with an exasperated huff. "Tristan... behave."

Tristan chuckled.

Ágnes spoke again, her tone casual but carrying a hint of curiosity.

Barbara sighed, rubbing her temple before translating. "She wants to know how you manage without a Hungarian woman taking care of you."

Tristan. "I... what?"

Barbara shot her mother an exasperated look. "Mom."

Ágnes simply shrugged, completely unbothered.

Anita, sipping her wine, added something in Hungarian, her tone dripping with amusement.

Barbara groaned immediately. "Anita, please don't encourage her."

Tristan set his fork down and leaned forward slightly. "Okay, I need a translation."

Barbara hesitated for a second, clearly reluctant. Then, with a sigh, she muttered, "She said you probably eat like an unsupervised child and need a proper woman to look after you."

Tristan blinked. Then he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Wow. I didn't realize this dinner came with a side of slander."

Anita, clearly enjoying herself, said something else, her expression smug.

Barbara dropped her head into her hands. "Oh my God, Anita, stop."

Tristan arched a brow. "Babe. What did she say now?"

Barbara groaned, shooting her sister a glare before reluctantly translating. "She said if I won't cook for you, she'll find someone who will."

Tristan leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. His lips twitched as he looked at Barbara. "Babe. Is this your family saying I require supervision?"

Barbara froze.

Her parents had returned to eating, uninterested in their daughters' antics. But Anita? Anita was watching Tristan closely, waiting to see how he reacted.

Barbara muttered something under her breath in Hungarian, not meeting Tristan's gaze.

Anita grinned.

Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. "That's a yes."

Barbara huffed, sitting back in her chair, her face just a little pink. "Whatever. Let's just eat."

And just when Barbara thought she was safe—István spoke again.

She froze mid-motion, her fingers still curled around her glass.

Tristan, always observant, immediately picked up on the shift. His gaze flickered to her, sharp but patient. "What?"

Barbara ran a hand through her hair, choosing her words carefully. "He said... 'You're a footballer. You travel a lot. You meet a lot of people.'"

Tristan exhaled slowly, "And?"

Barbara hesitated, her fingers now tracing slow circles along the rim of her glass.

"He's asking if you really have time for this. For me. For our relationship."

The table quieted slightly.

Anita, who had spent the night mercilessly teasing Tristan, was no longer laughing. Now, she was just watching—curious.

Tristan didn't answer right away. He thought about it.

Then, he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. His voice was steady. Certain.

"I make time. We both will make time."

Barbara's fingers stilled against the glass.

István held Tristan's gaze for a few moments, his expression unreadable, quiet, weighing the words.

Then—he gave a single, approving nod.

Barbara let out a slow breath, her shoulders losing some of their tension.

Tristan leaned back slightly, running a hand through his curls. "Alright. That was intense. Did I just pass the dad test?"

Barbara's lips parted, then she huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah. Pretty much."

Anita, still watching Tristan with an unreadable expression, muttered something under her breath in Hungarian.

Barbara groaned, tipping her head back. "Anita, please."

Tristan, already amused, leaned against his hand. "Babe. What now?"

Barbara shot her sister a look before reluctantly translating. "She said you're still too cute... and that it's embarrassingly obvious how much I like you."

Tristan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "She's got a point."

Barbara snapped her gaze back to him, eyebrows raising. "Excuse me?"

Tristan, completely unbothered, just flashed a slow, knowing grin.

Barbara narrowed her eyes but the slight flush on her cheeks gave her away. She reached for her wine glass instead of responding, choosing to sip rather than fuel his ego any further.

The moment passed, and soon the table eased back into its usual rhythm—plates being cleared, glasses refilled, warm conversations flowing between family members.

And now?

It was time for the cake.

Ágnes carefully placed the dobos torte in the center of the dining table, the glow of the candles flickering across the polished wood. The cake—delicate layers of sponge, rich chocolate buttercream, and crisp caramel—was a masterpiece of Hungarian tradition.

Barbara adjusted her phone against the napkin holder, angling it so Tristan could see everything.

She smirked at the screen. "Alright, superstar. You're about to witness the most important moment of the night—me making a wish."

Tristan, lying back on his bed at St. George's Park, let out a low chuckle. "Make it a good one, farm girl."

Anita, sipping her wine, leaned in, speaking in rapid Hungarian.

Barbara groaned. "Anita."

Tristan raised a brow. "What now?"

Barbara shot her sister a half-hearted glare before translating. "She said that if I wish for another horse, she's leaving."

Tristan smirked. "Honestly? Fair. You sent me 400 pictures of your horses."

Barbara gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Excuse me? That would be an amazing wish."

István, who had been quiet for most of dinner, muttered something under his breath as he reached for his drink.

Barbara sighed, rolling her eyes. "And now my dad says I already have too many animals."

Tristan grinned. "Smart man."

Barbara narrowed her eyes. "Traitor."

Before she could argue further, Ágnes clapped her hands, signaling the start of the song.

The room filled with voices as everyone began singing the Hungarian version of 'Happy Birthday,' the warm, familiar melody weaving through the air.

Tristan, despite being thousands of miles away, could almost feel the love in the moment—the way the voices blended, the way Barbara's family made even the simplest traditions feel like home.

Barbara closed her eyes, made her wish, then took a deep breath before blowing out the candles. The soft swirl of smoke curled into the air as cheers and applause echoed around the table.

..

Anita, waving the knife dramatically, said something else in Hungarian.

Barbara let out a sharp laugh, then turned back to Tristan. "She wants to know who gets the first slice."

Without hesitation, Barbara pointed at her phone screen. "Obviously, Tristan. Let's just mail it to England."

Tristan, grinning, tilted his head. "I wouldn't say no."

As the family dug into the cake, Barbara kept glancing at her phone, watching the way Tristan's lips twitched every time Anita teased her, the way his eyes softened slightly whenever he laughed.

After a while, she set her fork down and stood up.

"I'll be back," she announced, grabbing her phone before slipping away from the table.

Anita, raising an eyebrow, muttered something smug in Hungarian.

Barbara groaned. "Anita, don't start."

Tristan, who missed absolutely nothing, smirked. "What did she say?"

Barbara exhaled, pushing open the door to the porch. "Nothing."

Tristan, clearly not buying it, arched a brow. "Uh-huh."

Barbara sighed, leaning against the wooden railing. "She said, I couldn't wait to be alone with you."

Tristan, lounging back lazily against his pillows, grinned. "Well... I'm not complaining. Your dad is scary.'

Barbara rolled her eyes. "He's not scary, he's just protective."

..

Barbara stepped onto the porch, the wooden planks creaking softly beneath her boots. The cool evening air brushed against her skin, carrying the faint scent of fresh hay and damp earth. Above her, the sky stretched wide and endless—a deep navy blue with streaks of fading gold barely clinging to the horizon.

She adjusted her grip on her phone, tilting it slightly to show off the view.

"Alright, city boy. Get a good look. This is farm life at its finest."

On the other end, Tristan was sprawled out on his bed at St. George's Park, his phone propped against his knee. He watched the screen, eyes flicking across the rolling countryside, the rustic barn in the distance, the winding dirt road leading back to the house.

His voice was lower now, more thoughtful. "Looks... peaceful."

Barbara hummed, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. "It is."

Then—

Barbara suddenly lifted her foot onto the railing, adjusting her phone so Tristan had a full view.

"Oh, by the way—check these out."

Tristan squinted. "Wait—are those—"

Barbara grinned, wiggling her foot slightly. "Brand new farm boots."

Tristan stared for a second before running a hand down his face. "Babe."

Barbara propped her phone against the porch railing, shifting her weight as she stretched one leg toward the camera.

"Jealous?" she asked, wiggling her foot slightly.

Tristan tilted his head, unimpressed. "You look like you're about to start a cattle drive."

Barbara pressed a hand to her chest, eyes wide with mock offense. "Wow. The slander."

Tristan let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "I'm just saying... you're really committing to the farm girl aesthetic."

Barbara grinned, eyes narrowing. "Wait a minute."

"What?" Tristan asked, shifting his pillow.

Barbara angled her foot again, watching him closely. "Do you... have a thing for boots?"

Tristan stared, deadpan. "What?"

Barbara bit her lip, clearly holding back laughter. "I mean, is this doing something for you? Should I be concerned?"

Tristan let out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face.

"Barbara what are you doing?."

Barbara giggled, completely unfazed. "Safe space, Tristan. You can tell me."

Tristan gave her a flat look. "Right. Because you're the model of emotional safety."

Barbara shrugged, all innocence. "I just think it's funny how flustered you sound."

Tristan leaned up on one elbow, shaking his head. "Oh, so we're doing this now?"

Barbara nodded, biting back a smirk. "Just making sure I know what I signed up for."

Tristan exhaled sharply, watching her through the screen. "Right. Well, if we're asking questions—maybe I should be the one concerned here."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why is that?"

Tristan stretched lazily, his voice dripping with amusement. "Well, your family called you out for being into older guys and here we are..."

Barbara's grin faltered slightly. "Don't."

Tristan didn't stop. "You're here, dating a freshly nineteen-year-old."

Barbara groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "I don't know why I even started this conversation."

Tristan grinned, propping himself up further. "Should I be worried about you running off with some thirty-five-year-old hedge fund manager?"

Barbara shot him a glare. "You are so full of yourself."

Tristan laughed, deep and smug. "I'm just asking questions."

Barbara crossed her arms, shifting her weight against the railing. "It's different."

Tristan arched an eyebrow, playing dumb. "Mmm. How?"

Barbara opened her mouth, then closed it. She gestured vaguely at the screen. "Because you don't act like a nineteen-year-old!"

Tristan grinned, resting his chin in his hand. "That sounds a lot like justification."

Barbara groaned loudly, spinning away from the camera for a second. "I am regretting this conversation."

Tristan laughed. "No, you're not."

Barbara huffed, muttering something under her breath before mumbling. "You're lucky I like you."

Tristan's expression softened slightly. "I know."

Barbara quickly cleared her throat, changing the subject.

"Anyway, I still haven't told my family yet, but we're going to Paris tomorrow."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Wait—you just decided that?"

Barbara grinned, leaning into the porch railing. "No, genius. The Disneyland tickets you got me? That's why."

Tristan sat up slightly. "Wait, so they don't even know?"

Barbara bit her lip, barely containing a laugh. "Nope. I just told them I wanted to go to Paris, and they agreed. They think I'm dragging them on a spontaneous birthday trip."

Tristan let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Damn. You really just tricked your way into a free trip to Disneyland."

Barbara flipped her hair over her shoulder. "I prefer the term 'mastermind planning.'"

Tristan chuckled, watching her. "They're gonna find out tomorrow, you know."

Barbara sighed dramatically. "Yeah, but by the time they do, we'll already be there, and they won't be able to say anything."

Tristan laughed, shaking his head. "You're just being so extra. Let me know how it goes."

Then—

A loud crash erupted from inside the house.

Barbara whipped her head around. "Oh my God—what now?"

A flurry of dramatic Hungarian rang out from the dining room.

Barbara exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. "I swear, my family is a circus."

Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. "Go deal with that, farm girl."

Barbara lingered for just a second longer, her fingers tightening around her phone.

One last glance. One last small, private smile.

"Goodnight, Tristan."

Tristan exhaled, grinning at his screen. "Goodnight, birthday girl."

And as the call ended, he lay back against his bed, staring at the ceiling—grinning like an absolute idiot.

...

The Next Day England faced off San Marino for the 2016 Euro Qualifier.

October 9, 2014 – Wembley Stadium

The crisp London air hummed with anticipation as Wembley Stadium filled to capacity, a sea of white and red waving in the floodlights. The England faithful were in full voice, roaring in support of a team expected to deliver a statement win.

San Marino? They were here to survive.

Inside the tunnel, the mood among the England players was relaxed but focused. This was a game they were expected to dominate, but no one wanted to take their foot off the gas.

Tristan stood beside Vardy, rolling his shoulders as Rooney adjusted the captain's armband.

"Let's get this done early," Vardy muttered, bouncing lightly on his toes.

Rooney nodded. "No mercy tonight."

The whistle blew.

The commentary team was ready, voices brimming with energy as the game got underway.

"And we are underway at Wembley!" Clive Tyldesley's voice rang through the broadcast. "England in their traditional white kits, attacking from right to left. And San Marino? Well, Glenn, they're already parked deep inside their own half."

Glenn Hoddle observed the pitch carefully. "It's going to be attack versus defense all night, Clive. The real question isn't whether England wins, but how many they put past this side."

England's setup was fluid, the familiar 4-4-2 diamond allowing Tristan to roam freely in the No. 10 role. Jack Wilshere and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain provided dynamism in midfield, while Henderson sat deeper, controlling the tempo. Up top, Rooney and Vardy's movement stretched the San Marino backline.

And it didn't take long for the inevitable to happen.

San Marino's first attempt to push forward lasted ten seconds before Henderson snapped up a loose pass. Wilshere immediately played it forward into Tristan's feet.

One touch.

A quick turn past his marker.

Then, a perfectly weighted through ball.

Rooney, already anticipating it, took one touch to settle before rifling the ball into the bottom corner.

"And there's the breakthrough!" Tyldesley called. "Wayne Rooney, ice-cold as ever, and England strike first within two minutes!"

"But look at the pass from Tristan," Hoddle pointed out. "He doesn't even hesitate. That's the kind of quick thinking that makes him so special—he sees it before anyone else."

Rooney pointed toward Tristan in celebration, nodding as Wembley erupted.

England smothered San Marino, pressing high and suffocating their attempts to play out.

Tristan dropped deeper this time, collecting the ball near the center circle. He glanced up once, spotted Vardy's diagonal run, and lofted a perfectly weighted ball over the top.

Vardy brought it down in stride, barely needing a second touch before hammering it past the helpless goalkeeper.

"Brilliant from Tristan! And Vardy does what he does best—clinical, ruthless, 2-0 England!" Tyldesley's voice boomed.

"It's that link-up between them," Hoddle added. "Vardy knows exactly when to run, and Tristan knows exactly where to put it. That's instinctive football."

Vardy jogged over, bumping fists with Tristan.

"Easy game," Vardy grinned.

"Plenty more to come," Tristan shot back.

And more did come.

San Marino's low block was completely shattered now.

A quick one-two at the edge of the box between Tristan and Rooney ripped open the San Marino defense. Tristan ghosted past his marker, opened his body, and curled a left-footed effort into the far corner.

"Oh, that is magnificent! Tristan Hale, in full flow, and England are running riot!"

"That's a world-class finish, Clive," Hoddle said, shaking his head. "He makes it look effortless, but that's the kind of goal that only elite players can pull off."

Tristan barely celebrated, just a simple nod before jogging back. Business as usual.

This was individual brilliance.

Oxlade-Chamberlain cut inside and played it into Tristan's feet just outside the box.

A drop of the shoulder.

Two defenders sent the wrong way.

A powerful drive into the roof of the net.

"And it's four! Tristan Hale again! He's absolutely unplayable tonight!"

Wembley exploded.

San Marino had officially given up.

Tristan drew two defenders toward him before flicking a cheeky no-look pass into space.

Vardy, already anticipating it, took one touch before burying his second goal of the night.

"That's just unfair now! England are putting on a show!"

"Tristan is playing like he's in his backyard," Hoddle added. "Every single time he gets the ball, something happens."

By halftime, England added a sixth goal, Rooney tapping in a cutback from Luke Shaw.

HALF-TIME: ENGLAND 6-0 SAN MARINO

Jack Wilshere made it 7-0 in the 52nd minute, smashing home a squared pass from Henderson at the top of the box.

Rooney nodded in his second at the far post off a Luke Shaw cross in the 56th.

Then came the moment.

As the fourth official's board lit up, Wembley rose to its feet as Tristan came off for Lallana.

"Listen to that! Wembley knows they've just seen a masterclass from Tristan Hale!"

Hodgson clapped him on the back. "Good job."

Tristan, dripping sweat, grinned. "Felt good."

Gary Cahill powered in a header from a Lallana corner to make it 9-0 in the 72nd.

Then, Jordan Henderson wrapped things up with a clean strike from the edge of the box, sealing the 10-0 rout.

"A statement win! England absolutely dismantle San Marino!"

"This was pure dominance. Hale, Vardy, Rooney—they ran the show. England are building something special."

..

Wayne Rooney emerged from the Wembley tunnel and into the bustling mixed zone, where reporters lined up, eager for their post-match soundbites. His England shirt was slightly damp with sweat, but the smile on his face told the full story. A 10-0 victory. Job done.

Standing with BBC Sport's Gabriel Clarke, Rooney adjusted his captain's armband slightly before nodding in greeting. The camera light flashed on.

Clarke, microphone in hand, wasted no time.

"Wayne, a huge win tonight. Ten goals, a dominant display—how does it feel?"

Rooney let out a small chuckle, shaking his head in satisfaction.

"Yeah, brilliant. Nights like this, you enjoy playing football. Obviously, no disrespect to San Marino, but we knew coming in that it was about maintaining standards, being professional, and not switching off. I think the lads did that well tonight."

"You mentioned professionalism—San Marino sat deep early on, but England broke through quickly. What was the key to unlocking them?"

"Patience. We knew they'd set up with a low block, five at the back, and try to make it compact. The key was moving the ball quickly, keeping the width, and stretching them. Once we got that first goal, the spaces started opening up, and we took advantage."

Clarke nodded along before steering the conversation to one of the night's standout performers.

"Speaking of taking advantage—Tristan Hale. Two goals, two assists. He's just nineteen, but he looked like the most composed player on the pitch. What did you make of his performance?"

Rooney's grin widened as he exhaled, shaking his head in admiration.

"Yeah, Tristan was outstanding. But, you know, you expect that from him now. It's strange to say that about a nineteen-year-old, but he's got that composure, that vision—he sees things before anyone else. His passing, his movement, his finishing... he's the full package. And the scary part? He's only going to get better."

"You've played with some top talents throughout your career—does he remind you of anyone?"

Rooney tilted his head slightly, thinking.

"I don't think you can compare him to just one player, to be honest. He's got a bit of everything—playmaking, dribbling, goals in his locker. If I had to name someone... maybe a mix of Kaka and Scholes. He's got that balance of flair and intelligence. But yeah, Tristan's his own player, and that's what makes him so special."

"Final question, Wayne. Estonia up next. A tougher challenge away from home—what's the mindset heading into that one?"

Rooney's expression turned more serious.

"It's a different game, completely. We'll recover, prepare properly, and go again. The main thing is keeping up this momentum. We've set a standard tonight—we have to maintain it."

Clarke smiled.

"Well, congratulations on the win, Wayne, and on another strong performance."

"Cheers, mate." Rooney nodded before heading off to the dressing room.

A few minutes later, in another section of the mixed zone, Tristan Hale stood under the bright ITV cameras, the Man of the Match trophy tucked under his arm. His England kit clung slightly to his frame, a clear sign of the hard shift he'd put in. But despite the physical exertion, he looked relaxed—arms folded loosely, his trademark curls slightly damp from sweat.

ITV's Gabriel Clarke, the same reporter who had spoken to Rooney, now turned his attention to the young star.

"Tristan, two goals, two assists, and a standing ovation at Wembley. How does that one feel?"

Tristan let out a breath, his lips curling slightly into a grin.

"Yeah, it was a good night. We knew what we had to do, and I think we executed it well. The lads made it easy—Rooney, Vardy, Wilshere, Hendo—we all clicked from the start. It was just about breaking them down early, and once we did, the goals kept coming."

"It seems like whenever you're on the pitch, something happens. How do you feel about your role in this England team?"

Tristan tilted his head slightly, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

"I mean, that's the job, right? I try to make things happen—whether it's creating chances, scoring, linking up with the lads—it's about playing my game and making sure we're on the front foot. I just want to contribute however I can."

Clarke's tone turned more amused.

"Rooney just called you 'a top player already.' Pretty high praise from the captain. How does that feel?"

Tristan's eyebrows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise passing through his expression before a small chuckle escaped.

"Yeah? He said that?"

Clarke nodded.

"After the 7-1, I honestly thought he wouldn't say anything good about me. It's good to hear that from him, you know."

"You're still only nineteen, but people are already talking about you as England's most important player. Do you feel any pressure?"

Tristan's shoulders lifted in a slight shrug.

"Not really. I mean, pressure's always there in football, but I enjoy it. I love playing, I love winning, and as long as I keep focusing on the football, everything else just comes with it."

Clarke nodded approvingly.

"Well, congratulations on the win, Tristan, and on another outstanding performance."

Tristan grinned.

"Thank you; have a good one as well."

And with that, he walked off toward the dressing rooms; he honestly thought he would be asked about Barbara and her birthday. Probably helped Barbara was in Hungary on the countryside, farming so no mainstream media to brother her.

....

4550 word count, not counting this end section

I tried to get Barbara's family right. Finding anything on them was tough; I only managed to find a few videos of them. They don't know English; Barbara's dad is built like Jokic, lmao. Dude did not smile once in all of the videos I watched, even when he was talking to Barbara and Dylan.

Dude just had like a really stern voice, if that's the right way to describe it. Besides that, Barbara's mom seems pretty chill. And they have a bunch of different animals. They own a farm as well, so most of the things in this Chapter are true.

Also I apologize for that April Fools joke, lmao. I got the idea from this guy commentating to drop the story. And than discord members wanted me to write the joke to see the reaction.

I'm not gonna drop the story because of a few comments, come on now. As for criticisms, I weclome them all, have been from the start. I'm not going to announce one day suddenly this story is done because I'm not getting power stones, views, and no one is defending this story from "haters", lol. Than come back like a bitch looking stupid.

Anyway, I will start the 2015-2016 season tomorrow on Patreon, so how I write football matches will change somewhat. I was going through how I write it, some parts I liked, some parts I didn't so I'm taking some inspiration from other stories like GOAT and Luka Zoric. Really love how they write their matches. So just gonna take some ideas from them.