England's Greatest

Chapter 149 - Sidelines & Headlines

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..

The morning fog clung to Belvoir Drive, a damp chill settling over the training ground. Players filtered in, boots crunching against the frost-laced grass, but inside the manager's office, the mood was far from routine.

Pearson sat behind his desk, fingers tapping against the edge of a freshly printed newspaper.

The headline on The Guardian's front page stared back at him, bold and damning:

"The Curse Strikes Again!"

Pearson exhaled sharply, tossing the paper aside.

Predictable.

Days after being named Premier League Manager of the Month, his team had been kicked off the park at St. James' Park.

They should have walked away with three points.

Instead, they limped away with nothing—and two key players injured.

The so-called "Manager of the Month Curse" was already being thrown around.

Pearson didn't believe in curses.

But he did believe in momentum.

And Newcastle had shattered it.

Pearson's eyes flicked to the medical report on his desk.

Danny Drinkwater – Ankle Sprain (Recovery: 3-5 Weeks).

Tristan Hale – Out Until October 26th.

And now, his two most important players were sidelined for the next two games.

Danny was the engine, the tireless workhorse who shielded the defense and kept the midfield ticking.

Tristan?

Tristan was the spark.

The player who changed games in an instant. The one teams built entire defensive game plans around. The one who scored even after being kicked all over the pitch.

And now, he'd miss Trabzonspor in the Europa League and Swansea in the Premier League.

Pearson rubbed his temple. This wasn't just a problem—this was a disaster.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath.

Across the room, Steve Walsh sat on the sofa, arms crossed. His expression mirrored Pearson's thoughts.

"Well, at least we know this won't happen again with the refs. Thank the gods, the FA are actually dooing something."

Pearson nodded once. "That's not the issue right now. We need to figure out who replaces them."

Walsh rubbed his chin. "King's the safest bet for Danny."

Pearson leaned back, considering it.

Andy King—loyal, experienced, dependable.

But he wasn't Danny.

And no one in the squad could replace Tristan.

"King's been sharp in training," Pearson admitted.

Walsh nodded. "He won't cover as much ground, but he's solid. Makes good late runs, doesn't take risks."

Pearson let out a breath.

It wasn't a perfect solution.

But there wasn't a perfect solution.

"Alright," he said. "King it is."

Walsh hesitated, then spoke carefully. "By the way did the club tell you that FA is going to fine Tristan for his comments?"

Pearson sighed heavily.

Here we go.

"Them looking into Tristan's press conference?" Pearson muttered. "Yeah, I saw. Tristan's smart. He knew exactly what he was saying."

"Yeah, but does he care?"

Pearson let out a low, dry chuckle. "Not in the slightest."

Walsh exhaled. "It's a warning shot."

Pearson's expression darkened. "Let them fine him."

Walsh raised an eyebrow. "You're not going to tell him to hold back?"

Pearson leaned forward.

"You ever tried telling Tristan to shut up?"

Walsh snorted. "Fair point. Where is the kid, by the way?"

Pearson's gaze drifted to the training pitch outside his window.

"He's in the medical room; he came early; we had to shut him down from training. Newcastle woke something up in him."

The team was out there, preparing for Trabzonspor.

They'd have to do it without Tristan; good thing they've been playing with Tristan under time management.

Pearson's fingers tapped against his desk, mind already working.

Newcastle might've thought they broke them.

But Leicester weren't done yet.

..

Inside Leicester's medical room, the air was thick with routine. Tristan sat on the cushioned treatment table, foot propped up, ice pressed firmly against the bruising. Across from him, Carl flipped through a clipboard, the pages rustling as he skimmed the latest scan reports.

Finally, the physio tapped the papers with his pen.

"Alright," Carl muttered. "Nothing broken, no ligament tears. Just bruising and general soreness. Which means..."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "I'm good to train?"

Carl barely looked up before shooting him a sharp glare. "No. It means you're benched until the 26th. No Trabzonspor, no Swansea. Non-negotiable."

Tristan exhaled, resisting the urge to argue. He already knew that, but hearing it out loud still stung.

Carl leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "Your body needs time to reset. If you push too soon, you'll make it worse."

Tristan shifted, rolling his ankle slightly. There was a dull, annoying throb, but nothing unbearable. "So what am I allowed to do?"

Carl flipped a page. "For the next three days—low-impact only. Ice, compression, stretching, and light mobility work. No running, no ball work, no strength training on the legs. After that, if there's no swelling, we'll introduce low-intensity cycling and controlled gym work—upper body only."

Tristan tilted his head slightly. "So, basically, nothing fun."

Carl smirked. "Basically."

Tristan sighed. "And after Swansea?"

Carl ran a hand down his face. "If all goes well, full training on the 26th. That gives you three full days before Everton."

It wasn't ideal. Missing two games wasn't something he could stomach easily. But at least he wasn't out for weeks like Danny.

Carl narrowed his eyes. "And before you ask—no, you can't play through it. No matter how 'fine' you think you feel."

Tristan smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Carl snorted. "Yeah, right." He checked his watch. "Alright, come on. We'll start with mobility drills in the gym."

Tristan pushed himself off the table, testing his foot against the floor. There was a brief moment of hesitation—a flicker of pain—but nothing unbearable.

Carl caught it. "You can walk on it. You just can't be stupid."

"Got it," Tristan muttered.

They made their way down the hall, pushing through the doors into the training facility's gym. The space was nearly empty—most of the squad was outside training. Only a few injured players were scattered around, focused on rehab work.

Carl motioned toward the mats. "Alright, start with banded ankle mobility. Then we'll move to activation work."

Tristan nodded, dropping onto the mat and wrapping a resistance band around his foot. He flexed, then extended it, feeling the tension through his ankle. It wasn't the same as being on the pitch, but at least it was something.

Carl hovered nearby, watching his movements closely. "Slow. No rushing through it."

"Yeah, yeah," Tristan muttered.

They worked through a series of drills—slow range-of-motion stretches, light single-leg stability holds, and low-impact resistance movements. It was frustrating. His body wanted to move, to run, to play.

But he couldn't rush it.

Carl checked his watch. "Alright, that's enough mobility for now. Let's move to some upper-body work."

Tristan exhaled, shifting to a nearby bench to start some dumbbell presses. He picked up the weights, pressing them upward in a steady rhythm. The repetition gave him a brief moment of clarity, the familiar burn in his arms a distraction from the frustration in his chest.

Carl leaned against a nearby machine, arms crossed. "By the way, Pearson wants to see you later. Probably about the FA thing."

Tristan didn't even pause his reps. "Let me guess—he's gonna tell me to keep my mouth shut?"

Carl chuckled. "Wouldn't be the worst idea."

Tristan set the weights down, wiping his face with a towel. "Yeah, well, I doubt that's happening."

Carl snorted. "Figured."

Just then, the doors to the gym swung open, and a familiar voice cut through the space.

"Oi, Tristan. You lifting or just pretending?"

Tristan looked up to see Danny leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, still in his training gear.

Danny shook his head. "Come on. We're already injured, don't need you damaging your arms too."

Tristan rolled his eyes but grabbed his towel, draping it over his shoulder as he followed Danny out toward the sidelines.

The moment they stepped onto the training pitch, the first thing they heard was Pearson barking instructions from the far side. The session was in full swing, the squad split into two sides for a high-intensity possession drill.

🔹 Blue bibs: Vardy, Mahrez, Albrighton, Jesse, Liam Moore, Matty James.

🔸 Orange bibs: King, Konchesky, Ulloa, Cambiasso, De Laet, Simpson.

Danny shook his head. "Bet Mahrez is loving this."

Right on cue, Riyad danced past King, flicking the ball behind his standing leg before cutting inside with a smooth touch.

Jesse jogged past, laughing. "Oi, save it for Thursday!"

Vardy, already out of patience, closed Mahrez down aggressively, nipping at his heels, forcing a rushed pass.

Tristan leaned against the fence, arms crossed, watching with a sinking feeling.

This was his team.

And they were preparing without him.

Danny exhaled. "What did Pearson say?"

Tristan rolled his shoulders. "Wants me back after Swansea."

Danny let out a low whistle. "So you're missing Trabzonspor and Swansea?"

"Yeah. Just to be safe."

Danny scoffed, shaking his head. "Well, at least we'll be injured together Thursday."

..

The air inside Pearson's office was heavy—not with anger, but something quieter. More calculated.

Tristan sat across from the manager, his arms resting on the chair's sides, his foot still sore but manageable. He wasn't exactly tense, but he wasn't relaxed either.

On the desk between them lay a single sheet of paper. Tristan didn't need to read it. He already knew what it was.

FA Disciplinary Action – Tristan Hale: Fine Issued for Post-Match Comments

Pearson exhaled through his nose, his fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the desk. His gaze flicked between the document and Tristan, studying him carefully, as if measuring his reaction.

"It's official," Pearson said at last, voice level. "The FA's fined you."

Tristan didn't so much as blink. "How much?"

Pearson's jaw tightened slightly. "Twenty grand."

A sharp whistle came from the doorway.

"Damn," Jesse muttered, leaning against the frame, arms crossed. "That's an expensive mic drop."

Pearson's gaze flickered toward Jesse, unimpressed. "You're supposed to be somewhere, Lingard?"

Jesse shrugged, lips pressed together in mock thought. "Nowhere important."

Pearson exhaled sharply but didn't push him away.

Tristan, meanwhile, barely shifted at the number. Twenty grand? Sure, it wasn't small, but it wasn't exactly life-changing either. Well compared to his first life.

It wasn't the money that mattered.

It was the message behind it.

"They're making an example out of you," Pearson continued, voice quiet but firm. "They want to send a warning."

Tristan already knew this. "Are we appealing?"

Pearson let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "And get an even bigger fine for wasting their time? No. Actually appealing doesn't matter, we got what we wanted from the FA, that club will pay for the fine."

Jesse's eyebrows lifted as he leaned against the doorframe. "So what's the lesson here? Never tell the truth in a post-match interview?"

Pearson ignored him, his focus still locked onto Tristan. "I'm not telling you to shut up." He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the desk. "That's not my job. And quite frankly, it wouldn't work."

Tristan lifted his chin slightly. "Good. Because I wouldn't."

Pearson's lips pressed into a thin line, something close to amusement flashing in his eyes for just a second before it was gone. "That said, you need to be smart about it. This fine isn't about money—it's a warning. They're telling you, 'Watch yourself.'" He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. "Next time, they'll go harder. Suspensions. Media pressure. They want control over the narrative."

Tristan exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. He understood exactly what Pearson was saying.

The FA wasn't just reacting to one post-match interview.

This was a shot across the bow.

A reminder. A way to keep players in line.

They didn't like outspoken players. They didn't like ones who called them out—even subtly. They definitely didn't like a 19-year-old speaking his mind, because if he did it now, what would stop him from doing it when he became a bigger name?

The answer was simple: Nothing.

"I'm not backing down, I could have made this into a bigger deal but I didn't. I could have made other statements, say I won't play for the national team anymore." Tristan said quietly.

Pearson studied him for a long moment, then exhaled, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair.

"I know, and that entire country from bottom to top is thankful for that, honestly, even the FA is," he admitted. "Thank you."

A pause.

Jesse clapped his hands together. "Alright, serious talk's over. You coming to the lounge? We're watching the Champions League."

Tristan glanced at Pearson, who gave a slight nod.

"Go," Pearson said, waving a hand dismissively. "And for the love of God, don't start any more wars in the media."

Tristan pushed himself up from the chair, stretching his arms slightly.

Jesse slung an arm around his shoulder as they walked out. "Can't make any promises."

As they stepped into the players' lounge, the hum of the TV filled the space—pre-match analysis, pundits dissecting lineups, debating tactics. A few teammates were already sprawled across the couches, some focused on the screen, others only half-listening.

"Lingard," Vardy called from the other side of the room, lifting his chin. "You betting on tonight's match or what?"

Jesse barely hesitated before reaching into his pocket. "What do you think?"

Tristan huffed a quiet laugh, shifting his weight. The conversation drifted into talk about the games, the group settling back into their usual rhythm.

As the game started on the TV, Twitter notifications blew up on players' phones. The official FA announcement of Tristan's fine had gone public.

Vardy glanced at his phone. "You're trending again."

Tristan, not even reaching for his phone, just sighed. "What's it this time?"

Jesse, already scrolling, started reading off tweets.

🟦 @PremierLeague: "Official: Tristan Hale fined £20,000 by the FA for post-match comments after Leicester's game vs. Newcastle."

Four Hours Later....

He was back home in the comfort of his safe space.

The house was quiet.

After everything—the training, the media noise, the FA fine—Tristan was finally home. He sank into the couch, stretching out his sore foot, the dull ache still lingering. John was somewhere, probably sorting through schedules or taking a well-earned break. Felix had already left after making dinner.

For the first time all day, there was nothing but silence.

Just him, his couch, and the lingering ache in his foot.

Then his phone buzzed.

Babe.

He swiped to answer, and just like that, the silence was gone.

Barbara's face filled the screen, soft curls framing her features, eyes a little tired but still full of warmth. She shifted slightly, getting comfortable.

"Hey," she murmured, voice softer at this hour. "Figured I'd check in before bed."

Tristan let out a breath, his body sinking deeper into the cushions. "You busy?"

Barbara sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Yeah. Just finished the shoot. Got the Grisogono event on the 23rd, then finally—finally—I'm flying back."

His brows lifted slightly. "Straight home?"

She nodded, no hesitation. "No stops, no detours. The second I land in London, I'm coming straight to you."

Tristan didn't respond at first, but something about those words made the tightness in his chest ease. He didn't realize he'd been holding on to that feeling until now.

"Good," he murmured.

Barbara smiled, then her expression shifted, her eyes flickering slightly. "...How's the foot?"

Tristan glanced down at it—still propped up, still sore, but manageable.

"Still attached."

Barbara narrowed her eyes. "Tristan Hale."

He sighed. "It's fine. Just annoying."

She frowned, biting the inside of her cheek. "And the fine?"

"Expected it."

Her frustration showed immediately. "It's ridiculous. They let you get kicked around like that, ignore every foul, and you're the one getting punished for telling the truth?"

Tristan leaned his head back against the couch. "Yeah, well. Nothing I can do now."

Barbara scoffed. "If it were a top-six player, the media would be calling it a disgrace."

He didn't say anything—because she wasn't wrong.

She sighed, rubbing her temple before suddenly pausing.

"...You wanna hear something funny?"

Tristan's gaze narrowed slightly. "Depends."

Barbara smirked, shifting against the pillows. "It's about the Madame Figaro shoot."

Tristan dragged a hand down his face. "Should I be worried?"

She laughed lightly. "No. Not anymore."

That made him pause.

His expression didn't change immediately, but she saw it—the way his face tensed just slightly, the way his shoulders stiffened.

Barbara sighed. "At first, the concept was... different."

Tristan raised an eyebrow.

Barbara hesitated for a second, then continued. "Some near-naked shots, a few 'artistic' ones where my hair was the only thing covering me."

Tristan's fingers stopped tapping against his knee.

Barbara watched him carefully through the screen, knowing exactly what was going through his head.

She leaned in slightly. "Relax, city boy. I told them no."

Tristan exhaled slowly, the tension in his body loosening but not disappearing completely.

Barbara tilted her head. "You were about to say something, weren't you?"

Tristan rubbed his temple, his lips pressing together. "You already know what I was thinking."

Barbara hummed, feigning deep thought. "Let me guess. 'Do whatever you're comfortable with?'"

Tristan huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head. "Maybe."

She grinned, leaning back against the pillows. "That's why I didn't do it."

His gaze softened, his fingers resuming their slow, absentminded tapping against his knee. "You didn't have to do that for me."

Barbara's smile faded into something gentler. "I know. But I wanted to."

Tristan ran a hand through his curls, letting that sink in.

Barbara tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't mind sexy shoots," she admitted. "Some of them, I actually like. But there's a line. And after we talked about insecurities and boundaries... if you weren't comfortable with it, then neither was I."

Tristan's gaze flickered.

She wasn't saying this because he asked her to. He never would. He never told her what she could or couldn't do.

But hearing that?

"...Thanks," he murmured.

Barbara smiled, her voice quieter now. "Don't mention it."

There was a pause, just the quiet hum of their connection across the distance.

Then, after a beat, Barbara whispered, "I can't wait to come home."

Tristan exhaled. His voice was steady, certain.

"Me neither."

Barbara shifted slightly, resting her chin in her palm as she studied him through the screen. "I hate that I'm not there."

Tristan let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his brow. "It's not that bad."

Her eyes narrowed immediately. "Not that bad? You got kicked all over the pitch, fined twenty grand for telling the truth, and now you're stuck at home while your team trains without you. But sure, Tristan, tell me again how it's not that bad."

Tristan huffed out a quiet laugh, tilting his head. "Well, when you put it like that..."

Barbara sighed, rolling onto her side, her free hand absently playing with the edge of the pillow.

She bit her lower lip—her tell whenever she was deep in thought.

"You know," she murmured, "the old me wouldn't have cared."

Tristan's brow furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

Barbara let out a small breath, her gaze flicking away for a second before returning to him. "Before we met, before this... I was used to just going with it. Fashion, modeling, the industry—it's all so controlled. You do what they say, you play the game, you keep people happy, or they'll find someone else who will. It's survival."

Tristan stayed quiet, watching her closely, letting her talk.

"But after we got together... I don't know." She smiled, small but real. "It's different now. I care about what you think. About what makes you comfortable, too."

Tristan tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he processed her words. "You've never had that before?"

Barbara shook her head. "No. Not really. And now? It's weird... but nice."

He studied her for a long moment, then sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Babe, you don't have to change for me. You should do what makes you happy."

Barbara let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "See, that's the problem. What makes me happy is you not overthinking about what's happening on my shoots."

Tristan dragged a hand through his curls, muttering, "Still don't like it."

Barbara's lips curled into something playful. "I know." She let the silence settle between them for a moment before tilting her head, voice lighter now. "But hey, if I ever decide to retire, at least I know my boyfriend is filthy rich."

Tristan rolled his eyes. "So now you want to mooch off me?"

Barbara gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Excuse me? I'll have you know I'm an independent woman. I'd only mooch off you a little bit."

Tristan let out a quiet chuckle hearing that.

"Wow, I can't believe I'm dating a gold digger right now."

Barbara grinned. "Admit it, you'd spoil me."

He sighed, shaking his head. "Obviously. Who else would I spoil with my money, not liking I'm using it."

She giggled. "Good. Because the second I'm back, you're taking me out on a proper date."

Tristan arched an eyebrow. "Oh, I am?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "And none of this 'let's just stay in and eat Felix's food' nonsense. I want to go somewhere."

Tristan exhaled in amusement. "Demanding, aren't you?"

Barbara grinned. "Of course. You love that about me."

He sighed, stretching out on the couch. "Alright. I'll think of something."

"You better."

They fell into a comfortable silence, just watching each other for a few moments before Barbara murmured, "I wish I could fall asleep next to you."

Tristan exhaled, voice quieter now. "Me too."

Barbara's expression softened. "Soon."

Tristan nodded. "Yeah. Soon."

The call lingered, neither of them wanting to hang up. But eventually, Barbara yawned, stretching her arms above her head.

"Go to sleep," Tristan murmured.

Barbara pouted. "Only if you do too."

"I will," he promised, even though they both knew he wouldn't.

She gave him a tired smile. "Goodnight, babe."

Tristan let out a slow breath. "Night."

And just like that that house went silent once more.

Tristan exhaled deeply, staring at the ceiling for a moment before finally dragging himself off the couch. His body ached, his foot throbbed, and tomorrow was going to be a long day.

But at least some things in his life made sense.

For now, that was enough.

..

The Next Morning...

Sophia walked in first, looking like she'd been awake for hours. A leather binder was tucked under her arm, her heels clicking lightly against the tile floor. Right behind her, Mendes followed, dressed sharp as ever in a dark blazer, his phone in hand, thumb still mid-text.

"Morning," Sophia greeted, setting her binder down on the counter. Her sharp eyes flicked over him, assessing. "You look like you got four hours of sleep."

Tristan blinked at her. "That's generous."

Mendes pocketed his phone and studied him for a beat, his usual business-first demeanor softening just slightly. "How's the foot?"

Tristan shrugged, rolling his ankle absently. "Better."

Mendes wasn't buying it. His gaze sharpened, reading between the lines. "First injury since going pro—minor or not. How are you really feeling?"

Tristan exhaled, crossing his arms. "Frustrated."

Sophia leaned against the counter, arching an eyebrow. "Because you're missing games or because of how it happened?"

Tristan scoffed, his jaw tightening. "Both." He placed his phone down with a little more force than necessary. "I knew the Premier League was physical, but Newcastle took it too far. And then the FA turns around and fines me for calling it out?" He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "It's bullshit."

Mendes nodded knowingly and reached into his bag, pulling out a stack of papers. "Speaking of which... Tristan, please, please don't become another José. One is enough, and I do not have the patience for two of you. I don't wanna die from a heart attack from what one of you said in front of the world."

Tristan snorted. "So what, you want me to just nod and smile after I get kicked around?"

Mendes gave him a dry look. "No, I want you to let me handle it. If you've got a problem with officiating, you tell me. We go through the proper channels. You rant in private, not in post-match interviews where every headline-hungry journalist is just dying to paint you as some out-of-control kid."

Tristan dragged a hand through his hair, considering. He wasn't the type to hold back, but he also knew Mendes wasn't wrong.

"Fine," he muttered. "I'll leave it to you two."

Sophia flashed a satisfied smile. "Smart choice."

Mendes exhaled, a rare flicker of approval flashing across his face. "Good." He straightened, already shifting gears. "Alright, now that we've covered the FA nonsense, let's talk business."

Sophia flipped open her binder, her expression sharpening. "Hope you're ready, because there's a lot on the table."

Tristan rolled his neck, stretching out his shoulders. "Let's hear it."

Mendes pulled out another set of papers, adjusting his blazer as he skimmed through them. "Nike wants you in Oregon."

Tristan, mid-sip, lowered the mug. "For what?"

Sophia tapped the stack of documents, sliding them toward him.

"Your own signature boot. They're ready to move forward, but they want you there to approve the prototypes in person."

Tristan blinked. That was... fast.

Mendes caught his reaction and nodded. "It is, but Nike's not playing around. They see your marketability and are ready to push you as their next global star."

Tristan flipped through the design sketches—sleek, bold colorways, lightweight build, high-performance features. One of them even had a limited-edition Champions League version, the details shimmering under the light.

His fingers traced over the page. "Damn."

Sophia leaned in, pointing to one of the colorways.

"They want you involved. This isn't just slapping your name on a boot—they want your say in everything. Fit, materials, branding, marketing."

Tristan exhaled, setting the papers down.

"I'm in. But not while I'm still recovering."

Mendes nodded, flipping a page in his folder. "That's fair. We'll schedule it once you're back to full fitness."

Mendes flipped open another folder, adjusting his blazer as he scanned through the documents. "Alright, next—Land Rover."

Tristan, still nursing his coffee, barely lifted his gaze. "Here we go."

Sophia, who had been scrolling through her tablet, suddenly looked up, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh, you're going to love this one."

That tone immediately put Tristan on edge. He set his mug down and folded his arms. "Why do I feel like I won't?"

Sophia ignored him, casually flipping through a set of glossy promotional materials before sliding them across the counter.

"They're setting up a scenic coastal drive—just you, a ridiculously expensive car, and a camera crew," she announced, voice almost too enthusiastic.

Tristan stared at her, unimpressed. "And let me guess, I have to say some incredibly cheesy lines while looking serious?"

Mendes slid a script toward him without a hint of hesitation. "Something like that."

Tristan sighed as he picked up the paper, already bracing himself for whatever corporate nonsense was about to hit him. His eyes flicked over the text, scanning the lines—until he landed on one that actually made him pause.

He blinked. Read it again. Then slowly lowered the script onto the counter as if it had personally offended him.

Sophia, barely holding back her amusement, tapped a finger against her tablet. "Well?"

Tristan exhaled through his nose. "'Power. Elegance. Precision. The new Land Rover embodies the spirit of champions.'" His voice was flat, completely devoid of enthusiasm.

Sophia burst into laughter, gripping the edge of the counter for support.

Tristan dragged a hand down his face. "Who writes this shit?"

Mendes barely reacted, flipping through his notes. "Marketing."

Sophia, still recovering, wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "Oh, this is going to be so good. I need to see you deliver that with a straight face."

Tristan shot her a dry look. "I hate you."

She grinned. "I know."

Mendes, having waited for the theatrics to settle, finally clapped a hand on Tristan's shoulder, his tone matter-of-fact. "Welcome to the world of being a global star."

Tristan muttered something under his breath and took another long sip of coffee.

This was going to be painful.

The sound of paper shuffling filled the kitchen as Mendes pulled out another set of documents, neatly stacking them on the counter. Tristan, still half-focused on his coffee, exhaled through his nose. He already knew what was coming.

"Alright," Mendes began, smoothing a hand down his blazer, "one last thing before we go—your investments."

Tristan sighed, rubbing his temple. "Already? Didn't we just talk about this?"

Sophia, tapping rapidly on her tablet, didn't even glance up. "Markets don't take a break just because you played a match." She swiped across the screen, adjusting a few numbers. "Your portfolio's growing, and we're sticking to the 70/10/20 plan—majority in S&P 500 index funds, ten percent in bonds, and the rest in companies that are about to explode."

Mendes, flipping through his documents, gave a small nod. "Right now, you've got close to a million sitting in Tesla, Apple, Amazon, Netflix, and Bitcoin." He glanced up. "All smart plays."

Tristan leaned back against the counter, tapping a finger absently against his coffee mug. "And Bitcoin? We're holding long-term, right?"

Sophia finally looked up, giving him a small smirk. "You say that like you don't already know the answer."

He shrugged. "Just making sure."

Mendes chuckled under his breath, then slid another sheet toward Tristan. "We're managing risk, but if there's anything else you want to adjust, now's the time."

Tristan's eyes flicked down to the numbers before him, mind already shifting gears. This was where his advantage came in. He took a slow sip of coffee, then set the mug down, his decision made.

"Start shifting more into Nvidia."

That made Mendes pause. He adjusted his glasses slightly, looking up. "Nvidia?"

Tristan nodded. "Yeah. AI, gaming, cloud computing—they're gonna blow up over the next decade. They'll dominate the GPU market, and soon, every tech company is gonna rely on them."

Sophia's fingers hovered over the screen as she processed his words. "How much are we talking?"

Tristan tilted his head, considering. "Put in another five hundred thousand for now. Once it starts climbing, we'll adjust."

Mendes scribbled something in his notes, nodding. "Alright, done. Anything else?"

Tristan's fingers drummed against the counter before he glanced back at the figures. "Found some companies in the businesses of AI."

Sophia arched an eyebrow. "AI?"

"Yeah, AI. Think of Jarvis from Iron Man." Tristan crossed his arms. "

Sophia made a final note on her tablet, then leaned against the counter. "Alright, that covers investments. But there's one more thing we need to lock in."

Tristan arched an eyebrow. "What now?"

Mendes and Sophia exchanged a glance before Mendes finally spoke.

"The Graham Norton Show."

Tristan blinked. "What about it?"

Sophia grinned. "They want you on the episode airing October 31st."

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Wait. Halloween?"

Mendes nodded. "Yep. But here's the catch—you've got a game the next day."

Tristan didn't even hesitate. "I can handle it."

Mendes studied him for a moment before giving a slow nod. "Alright. We'll confirm it."

Sophia's grin widened. "This is gonna be fun."

Tristan sighed, standing up and grabbing his jacket. "That's what I'm afraid of."

.....

5333 word count not counting this last part

I was watching the Minecraft movie with my little brother, and just seeing the Technoblade tribute just shattered my heart. I haven't watched his videos in a while, so I decided to spend the whole day watching his videos, and now I want to write a story about potato farming, lol.

Might write a lil original story where some guy gets reborn into the past as some king or some other shit and he raises his kingdom through farming.