England's Greatest

Chapter 150 - Off the Pitch

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Belvoir Drive....

The rhythmic hum of machines echoed through Leicester's training facility, blending with the clatter of weights being racked and the occasional buzz of a treadmill. The gym was nearly empty—most of the squad, along with the coaching staff, had already flown out to Turkey for the Europa League fixture against Trabzonspor.

Tristan, left behind, sat on a mat near the corner of the gym, a resistance band looped around his foot. Each stretch sent a dull, lingering ache through his ankle—not sharp, not unbearable, but enough to remind him he wasn't there yet.

Across from him, Carl stood with arms crossed, watching him like a hawk.

"Alright," Carl muttered, glancing at his watch. "Two more sets, then we'll move to balance work."

Tristan exhaled sharply, pushing against the band, frustration simmering beneath his skin.

"I feel fine," he muttered, pressing harder.

Carl didn't even look up from his clipboard. "That's adorable."

Tristan shot him a dry look. "I'm serious."

"So am I." Carl flipped a page. "Just because the pain isn't screaming at you doesn't mean you're match-ready. If you push too soon, you'll set yourself back."

Tristan clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay quiet. Carl was right. He knew that. But knowing didn't make it easier.

Carl walked over, nudging the resistance band with his foot. "You're progressing well, but I'm not clearing you for ball work until after Swansea. Stick to mobility and upper-body training for now."

Tristan leaned back on his hands, exhaling sharply.

Carl gave him a pointed look.

Tristan didn't answer. He just pressed the band again, pushing through the last few reps.

As he was finishing up, his phone buzzed on the nearby bench.

Pearson: I want you watching tonight's match carefully. Trabzonspor press hard. Watch how they handle Mahrez.

Tristan wiped sweat from his forehead and grabbed the phone, typing out a quick reply.

Tristan: Already planned on it.

Pearson wasn't in England, but even from a thousand miles away, he was making sure Tristan wasn't wasting his time.

Carl pulled his attention back. "Alright, that's enough chat. Let's move to balance drills before you start thinking you're fit to sprint."

Tristan exhaled, rolling his shoulders before grabbing the stability pad.

Two Hours Later....

Tristan wiped his face with a towel and exhaled sharply, his body still humming from the workout. His foot was still sore, but manageable—Carl had made sure not to push him too far.

Just as he was about to leave, his eyes landed on the digital scale in the corner of the gym.

For a moment, he hesitated. Then, curiosity won.

He stepped onto it, watching as the numbers blinked, then settled at 77 kg (170 lbs).

A slow exhale left his lips. Eleven kilograms heavier than when the season started.

Carl, who had been jotting notes on his clipboard, looked up. "Checking in?"

Tristan nodded slightly, stepping off the scale. "Didn't realize I'd put on that much."

Carl smirked, arms crossing. "That's what happens when you eat properly and actually listen to your strength program."

Tristan ran a hand through his curls, glancing at his reflection in the gym's mirrored wall. He looked different. Fuller shoulders, broader frame, legs packed with more power.

Back in August, he was 66 kg (145 lbs)—a twig compared to the Premier League's physical monsters. He remembered getting shoved off the ball too easily, the way defenders bullied him in shoulder-to-shoulder duels.

Now? That wasn't happening as much.

Carl walked over, giving him a once-over. "You're filling out properly. Doesn't feel any different?"

Tristan rolled his shoulders. "Stronger. Holding my own more."

Carl nodded approvingly. "You're in a good range now. Ideally, you'll be around 80-82 kg by midseason—strong enough to hold your own, but not so heavy that you lose your agility."

Tristan hummed, taking in the number again. "Didn't think I'd gain that much this fast."

Carl chuckled. "Well, that's what happens when you start with a malnourished frame."

Tristan shot him a dry look. "Appreciate that."

Carl snorted, then patted his shoulder.

"Seriously, though. This was needed. You won't be pushed around as easily anymore. But make sure the weight you're gaining is functional."

Tristan nodded. He'd already felt the difference in matches. His balance had improved. Defenders who once knocked him over with a simple nudge had to work harder to dispossess him now.

But he still had work to do; that Newcastle game showed that much.

By the time Tristan stepped out of the facility, the sky was already dark, gym bag slung over his shoulder, feeling the exhaustion settle into his limbs.

John was already waiting beside his car, his stance relaxed but alert, eyes scanning the surroundings out of habit.

As Tristan approached, John pulled open the door without a word.

"Anything I need to know?" he asked, voice calm, businesslike.

Tristan tossed his bag into the backseat before climbing in. "No. Just training."

John shut the door behind him and walked around to the driver's side. Once inside, he started the engine, pulling out of the lot in one smooth motion.

A moment of silence settled between them, the hum of the tires against the road the only sound.

John finally spoke. "You eating when we get back?"

Tristan exhaled, leaning his head back against the seat. "Felix made something, yeah?"

"Waiting for you."

Tristan nodded, gaze unfocused as he looked out the window. His body was exhausted.

John kept his eyes on the road but glanced at him briefly. "Anything on your mind?"

Tristan let out a slow breath. "Just thinking about the match tomorrow."

John didn't respond immediately, giving him space. Then he simply said, "Watch it. Study it. Use it."

Tristan's lips twitched slightly.

"Yeah," he murmured. "That's the plan."

The car rolled through the quiet streets, the faint glow of streetlights flickering past. The team would be in Turkey by now, preparing for the game. Tristan wouldn't be there.

But he'd be watching.

And when he came back, he'd make sure everyone knew it.

October 23rd.....

The faint hum of the city outside barely made it through the thick glass windows. Inside, the warm glow of the fireplace flickered across the living room, casting soft shadows over the furniture.

Tristan sat stretched out on the couch, his foot propped up on the coffee table, idly rolling his ankle. The soreness was still there—annoying, but manageable. His phone rested in his lap, screen lighting up with European football scores as he scrolled through.

Across from him, Danny sprawled lazily in an armchair, one leg draped over the side. He flicked through channels, the remote clicking with increasing impatience.

"Man, there's nothing on," he muttered, jabbing the button again. His face scrunched in mild annoyance. "You'd think for a million-pound house, you'd have better TV."

Tristan didn't look up. "TV's the same no matter where you live."

Danny scoffed, finally settling on a sports channel. "Yeah, but at least the rich ones have those fancy in-home cinemas. You could've had one of those."

That made Tristan glance up, unimpressed. "For what? So I can watch the same matches, just on a bigger screen?"

Danny grinned, stretching his arms behind his head. "You say that now, but wait till you've got ten kids running around."

Tristan arched an eyebrow. "Ten?"

"Maybe five, if you pace yourself," Danny corrected, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Tristan huffed, shaking his head. "I'm nineteen."

Danny took a slow sip of his drink before shrugging. "Yeah, yeah. But you and Barbara are solid. I don't see you two breaking up anytime soon."

Tristan exhaled through his nose, adjusting his position on the couch. "And now you're planning my future?"

Danny leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Just saying. You're not like the rest of us. No wild nights out, no Ferrari collection, no club-hopping. You're already acting like a settled man."

Tristan shot him a dry look. "And you're acting like a dad with the way you chat shit."

Danny barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Nah, I'd be a terrible dad. Can barely take care of myself. But you?" He gestured lazily toward Tristan. "You're the responsible one."

Tristan snorted, picking up his water bottle. "Not happening anytime soon."

"We'll see," Danny muttered, smirking as he turned up the volume.

The screen flickered to life with pre-match coverage—Trabzonspor vs. Leicester. The commentary team was already dissecting the lineups, pointing out Leicester's adjustments without their injured players.

Danny nudged the remote toward Tristan. "Right, let's see what the lads are made of."

Tristan leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on the screen.

The floodlights of Hüseyin Avni Aker Stadium cast a bright glow over the pitch, the atmosphere thick with noise. Turkish fans, relentless and passionate, had been singing since the teams emerged for warm-ups. Even through the television screen, they could feel the atmosphere.

"Look at that crowd," Danny murmured, shaking his head. "We better not crumble under this."

Tristan exhaled, studying the pre-match coverage. The BT Sport team—Darren Fletcher and Jermaine Jenas—were running through the lineups.

The Hüseyin Avni Aker Stadium was electric. A sea of maroon and blue filled the stands, the Trabzonspor faithful creating an intimidating atmosphere under the floodlights. Chants echoed around the stadium.

As the referee's whistle pierced through the night air, Trabzonspor wasted no time imposing themselves. Straight from kickoff, they launched a long diagonal ball toward their striker, trying to stretch Leicester's defense early.

"Trabzonspor are not here to sit back," Darren noted. "Straight on the front foot, looking for an early opening."

Leicester's defense held firm. Wes Morgan, a brick wall at the back, read the danger perfectly and met the aerial ball with a towering header, clearing it out of harm's way.

Danny gave a small nod. "Steady start. Just keep it tight."

The first ten minutes were intense. Trabzonspor pressed aggressively, squeezing Leicester's midfield, forcing quick passes in tight spaces. Their midfielders weren't giving Cambiasso a moment's peace, doubling up whenever he received the ball.

Tristan's fingers tapped faster. "Trabzon's midfield is aggressive. They're doubling up on Cambiasso."

Danny glanced at him. "Yeah, but that leaves space for Mahrez."

Sure enough, a quick switch of play saw the ball worked out to Mahrez on the right flank. With a sharp flick of his boot, he created half a yard of space before surging forward. His marker hesitated—bad mistake. Mahrez shifted inside, onto his left foot.

"Mahrez with his trademark move!" Jermaine called. "He loves these positions—cuts in on his left—"

A venomous curling effort arced toward the top corner. The Trabzonspor keeper reacted instantly, diving full stretch, fingertips pushing the ball just past the post.

Danny exhaled sharply. "That was close."

Tristan nodded, watching the slow-motion replay. "It's coming."

Trabzonspor responded in kind. A neat exchange in midfield unlocked space down the right, and within moments, a wicked cross was whipped into the box. Their towering striker outmuscled Morgan and powered a header toward the top corner.

But Kasper Schmeichel was equal to it. The Leicester keeper sprang to his right, palming the effort wide with a strong right hand.

"Brilliant save from Schmeichel!" Fletcher called. "That's a bullet header, and somehow, he gets a strong hand to it!"

Danny let out a low whistle. "Jeeeesus. Kasper saving us again."

Leicester finally found a breakthrough in the 24th minute. Trabzonspor, committing numbers forward, were caught in transition. Matty James pounced on a loose pass and immediately switched play to Mahrez.

The Algerian lifted his head, spotted Lingard's bursting run, and threaded an inch-perfect pass into the box. Lingard took a silky first touch, shifted onto his right foot, and drilled the ball into the bottom corner.

"And there it is! Jesse Lingard with his second European goal, and Leicester City lead in Turkey!" Fletcher's voice carried through the broadcast.

Danny grinned, shaking his head.

"Lingardinho, mate. Showing up in the big moments."

Tristan laughed, watching the slow-motion replay. "Confidence. When he's got it, he's dangerous."

Trabzonspor were rattled but not beaten. They responded with relentless energy, their midfield buzzing with intent, pressing Leicester higher up the pitch. The hosts forced corners, free kicks, and half-chances, testing Leicester's defensive resilience.

Eventually, the pressure told. A slick one-two opened space on the right, and a driven cross fizzed across the six-yard box. Leicester's defense hesitated for half a second too long, and their striker slid in at the back post, tapping the ball past Schmeichel.

"Leicester switched off there!" Jenas criticized. "Nobody tracked the late run, and Trabzonspor are level."

Danny groaned, rubbing his face.

"Switched off. Can't do that here."

Tristan exhaled through his nose, watching as Morgan immediately gathered the team, trying to restore order. "Gotta reset. Stay composed."

Halftime arrived, score level at 1-1.

As the teams walked off, the cameras zoomed in on Pearson, arms folded, deep in discussion with his staff.

Danny stretched his arms with a groan. "Not bad, but we need to be sharper second half."

Tristan grabbed his water bottle. "Trabzon's pressing is intense, but they leave gaps. We'll get another."

Leicester came out stronger in the second half, adjusting their approach. They moved the ball quicker, finding gaps in Trabzonspor's aggressive setup.

And then, a moment of brilliance.

Mahrez, once again causing havoc, twisted past two defenders with elegant footwork before cutting the ball back toward the edge of the box. Lingard timed his arrival perfectly, meeting it first-time and side-footing a crisp finish into the bottom corner.

"Jesse Lingard again!" Fletcher roared. "A superb finish, and Leicester reclaim the lead!"

Tristan, arms crossed, gave a small nod of approval at the goal.

Trabzonspor pushed forward desperately, throwing bodies into the attack, but Leicester were organized and ruthless.

Then came the third goal.

A corner kick caused chaos in the Trabzonspor box. Defenders flailed, unable to clear the ball properly, and it fell kindly to Ulloa. The Argentine didn't hesitate, stabbing it home from close range.

"Ulloa does what he does best!" Jenas called. "Leicester's pressing has completely taken control of this game!"

Danny leaned back, stretching his legs. "Trabzon's done. They've got nothing left."

Tristan watched the replay, noting how Leicester's high press and quick transitions had drained Trabzonspor's legs. "They're gassed."

Leicester almost made it four when Vardy broke free, racing through on goal. With only the keeper to beat, he dinked a delicate chip over him—a trademark finish.

But the offside flag went up.

"Brilliant finish... but the flag is up! Vardy was just a step too early!" Fletcher explained.

Danny shook his head. "That was cold. Even if it doesn't count."

Then, the final whistle blew.

"A fantastic result for Leicester City," Fletcher summarized. "And what's impressive? No Drinkwater. No Hale. And they still delivered."

"Exactly," Jenas agreed. "It shows the depth of this squad. But let's be honest—Tristan Hale changes games. They'll want him back as soon as possible."

Danny pushed himself up from the couch, stretching. "Solid win. And without you, too. Maybe they don't need you after all."

Tristan rolled his eyes, grabbing his water bottle. "Relax. They're good. But I make them better."

Danny let out a laugh. "Arrogant prick."

"Honest prick," Tristan corrected.

As post-match interviews played, Tristan sat back, still watching. He hated sitting out.

Danny leaned back against the couch, arms stretched out, a satisfied look on his face. "Well, that's that. Solid win. No complaints."

Tristan took a sip of water, stretching his leg out. "Yeah. Wish I was there, though."

Danny scoffed. "Mate, you can't even sit still for ninety minutes. You'd be driving Carl insane if he was here."

Tristan rolled his eyes, drumming his fingers against his knee. "I just hate watching when I could be playing."

Danny picked up the TV remote, flipping through channels aimlessly. "Yeah, well, you'll be back soon enough. And in the meantime, at least you got me for company."

Tristan gave him a flat look. "That supposed to be a good thing?"

Danny grinned. "Depends on who you ask."

The two fell into a comfortable silence. The house was quiet, the only noise coming from the TV and the faint hum of the city outside.

Danny eventually landed on some random documentary about ancient civilizations, letting it play in the background. He grabbed a bag of crisps from the table, tossing it toward Tristan.

Four Hours Later...

Danny stretched out further on the couch, one arm lazily draped over the backrest as his thumb flicked across his phone screen. The muted hum of the TV filled the space, but his attention had clearly shifted.

"Oi," he muttered, amusement creeping into his tone. "Your girl's making headlines again."

Tristan barely looked up, exhaling through his nose. "What now?"

Danny turned his phone toward him, the screen glowing with a short video. "Some event in Paris. Reporters trying to stir shit, as usual."

Tristan took the phone, the video already playing. The backdrop was sleek, polished—a high-profile gathering at the Grisogono Watch Crazy Skull Launch Party. Flashing cameras, glimmering jewelry, and Barbara at the center of it all, dressed in an elegant black number that made her look every bit the model she was. She stood poised, her expression unreadable as a reporter lobbed a loaded question her way.

"You used to be seen around with a lot of male friends, but now... not so much. Is that because of Tristan Hale? Is he... protective? Maybe a little demanding or controlling?"

Danny let out a low whistle. "They really went for it."

Tristan's grip on the water bottle in his lap tightened slightly, but he kept his expression neutral. The media always did this—twisting narratives, baiting headlines.

Barbara, though, didn't even flinch. She arched a single brow, taking a moment as if weighing her answer before responding smoothly.

"I think people forget that I'm 21 now, not 18 anymore. I'm growing, evolving. But I'm always going to be a tomboy, I'm always going to love football, I'm always going to be competitive. That's just me. But at the same time, I don't feel the need to be out at every event with a huge group of people. It's not about someone telling me what to do—it's about what I choose to do. I don't need to prove anything to anyone."

The reporter, clearly expecting something more sensational, hesitated before moving on. Barbara just gave a small, knowing smile and turned to the next question.

Danny snorted as he leaned back, tossing his phone onto the table. "Handled that well."

Tristan set the phone down, rubbing his chin with his thumb. "Yeah."

Danny shifted, giving him a sideways glance. "You weren't worried, were you?"

Tristan didn't answer right away, just reached for his water bottle and took a slow sip. "No."

Danny didn't even try to hold back his grin. "Liar."

Tristan finally looked at him, unimpressed, but Danny just laughed, stretching his arms behind his head. "Come on, she basically just said 'I do what I want.' That's a win for you."

"Yeah, I know," Tristan muttered, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

Danny smirked. "Shame, though. Would've been fun if she said you were controlling. Imagine the headlines."

Tristan groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. "Yeah, because that's what I need—every tabloid twisting shit for clicks."

Danny kicked his foot lightly. "Football's already got it out for you. Might as well give the gossip lot something to chew on too."

Tristan nudged him back, shaking his head. "Shut up."

Unbothered, Danny grinned. "Anyway, looks like she's got your back, loverboy."

Tristan exhaled, a faint smile ghosting over his lips despite himself.

The conversation drifted after that, shifting back to football, weekend plans, anything but the media circus.

But as Danny turned back to the TV, Tristan's gaze lingered on the now-locked phone screen.

Barbara never needed him to defend her.

She handled things just fine on her own.

Next Morning.....

The sky was a muted blend of blue and grey as Tristan pulled up to the private terminal. The roads were still empty, the city half-asleep, the hum of his car engine the only sound in the still morning air.

He had told John to take the morning off. Not because he needed to—John never asked for breaks—but because this moment belonged to just him and Barbara. No bodyguards. No assistants. No distractions.

Instead of waiting outside, Tristan stepped out, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as he made his way toward the terminal doors.

Inside, the terminal was quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly. And then—heels against the polished floor, rhythmic and steady.

His gaze snapped up.

Barbara.

Her hair was darker.

That was the first thing he noticed. The usual honey-brown had deepened into a richer shade of brunette, slicked back from her face, emphasizing her sharp cheekbones and striking blue eyes.

Tristan tilted his head slightly, taking it in.

Barbara spotted him almost instantly. A slow, tired smile curved her lips, but her pace didn't slow.

She barely had time to speak before he reached her.

"Miss me?" she murmured, voice laced with exhaustion.

Tristan didn't bother with an answer. He just reached out, pulling her in without hesitation, arms wrapping around her waist as he kissed her.

Barbara melted into it instantly, her fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. The scent of him—clean, familiar, unmistakably him—washed over her, grounding her after weeks of travel and flashing cameras.

A few flashes flickered in her peripheral vision. People had noticed. A couple of photographers, maybe staff, discreetly snapping pictures of the moment.

Barbara barely reacted. Neither did Tristan.

He pulled back just slightly, his forehead brushing against hers. "You changed your hair."

Barbara blinked, a soft huff escaping her. "Took you long enough to say something."

His gaze flickered over her, lingering for a beat longer than necessary. "Looks good."

Barbara smirked, tilting her head. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

Tristan shrugged, but the way his thumb absently brushed against her hip betrayed him. "Take it or leave it."

She laughed under her breath, shifting slightly as he pulled back, reaching for her suitcase without a word. He lifted it effortlessly, wheeling it beside him as they started toward the exit.

Outside, the early morning breeze hit, cool against their skin. Tristan's hand found hers without thought, his thumb grazing against her knuckles before pausing.

His gaze flicked down.

The glossy emerald polish caught the light, deep and rich, just as he'd seen over FaceTime.

Tristan let out a quiet hum of approval, flipping her hand slightly to get a better look. "Better in person," he murmured.

Barbara arched an eyebrow. "You already said you liked them."

His lips twitched. "Still do."

Barbara squeezed his fingers lightly before lacing their hands together, letting him lead her toward the car.

"I just wanna go home," she murmured, leaning against his arm.

Tristan pressed a brief kiss to her temple, opening the door for her. "Then let's go."

Barbara had barely buckled her seatbelt before Tristan reached over, intertwining their fingers. His grip was firm, grounding—like he wanted to remind himself she was really here.

Barbara smiled, running her thumb over the back of his hand. "Missed me that much?"

Tristan didn't even glance at her, eyes on the road. "Maybe."

Barbara squeezed his hand. "Liar."

His lips twitched slightly, but he didn't argue. Instead, he lifted their joined hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

Barbara exhaled softly, her chest warming. "You're being sweet," she murmured, tilting her head. "Should I be suspicious?"

Tristan let out a quiet chuckle. "Can't a guy just be happy his girl's back?"

She hummed, unconvinced, but didn't push. Instead, she leaned her head back against the seat, watching him as the city lights flickered past them.

The drive was slow, unhurried. Tristan could've gotten them home faster, but he didn't. He kept her hand in his, thumb brushing idly against her skin, as if afraid to let go too soon.

At a red light, he finally turned to look at her, eyes flicking over her face like he was memorizing every detail. Then, without a word, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, lingering kiss.

Barbara sighed into it, fingers curling around the fabric of his hoodie. He tasted like mint if that was possible.

When he pulled back, the light had turned green, but neither of them moved for a second.

Barbara licked her lips, smirking. "Thought you didn't do PDA."

Tristan smirked right back. "Car doesn't count."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help the warmth bubbling in her chest.

As Tristan turned onto one of the quieter streets, the hum of the city still lingering in the background, something caught his eye.

An white Audi R8.

His grip on the wheel tightened slightly as his gaze flicked toward it.

Barbara noticed immediately.

Her lips curled as she followed his gaze, watching the way his usual composed expression shifted—just for a second—into something almost boyish.

"That's the first time I've seen you get excited over a car," she mused, eyes flicking between him and the Audi.

Tristan exhaled through his nose, dragging his attention back to the road. "It's an R8," he muttered, like that explained everything.

Barbara smirked, tilting her head. "You do realize you could buy, like, twenty of those, right?"

Tristan let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah, well, that's the problem." He tapped the steering wheel. "I can't buy one."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "Because...?"

He sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Contract with Range Rover."

Barbara blinked before a quiet laugh slipped out. "Right, I foget about that."

Tristan huffed. "This one's lent to me. Technically, I don't own it."

Barbara shook her head, still amused. "So what do you want, then? Since you clearly have thoughts about this."

Tristan's jaw tensed slightly as he considered it. "An R8," he said, as if it was obvious. "And... if I ever get other cars, just supercars I can actually drive every day. Nothing too flashy."

Barbara hummed, tapping her nails against her thigh. She didn't say anything, but a small idea was already forming in the back of her mind.

Tristan didn't notice. He was too busy stealing one last glance at the Audi before shifting gears and pulling into their neighborhood.

By the time they reached the house, the morning sky had fully brightened, casting a soft golden hue over the driveway. Tristan parked, turned off the engine, and stepped out first, moving around the car to open the door for Barbara.

She eyed him playfully as she took his offered hand. "Look at you, so polite."

Tristan just shook his head. "Shut up."

Barbara grinned, letting him lead her inside.

The second they stepped through the door, a familiar scent wrapped around her, warm and rich, stopping her mid-step.

Barbara's nose twitched, her eyes widening slightly as she turned toward the kitchen. That smell—she knew it instantly.

Hungarian Goulash.

Her favorite.

She turned to Tristan, who was already shrugging off his jacket like this was just any other night. "You... made this?"

Tristan tossed his keys onto the counter, glancing at her. "Yeah." He ran a hand through his curls, almost like he was bracing for judgment. "Did most of it. Felix helped before I kicked him out."

Barbara didn't move at first. She just... stared at him.

Something settled in her chest, warm and sure.

This was the moment she knew.

Tristan Hale was the one.

[ Mark made me write this part ]

She followed him into the kitchen, the smell stronger now as she stepped closer to the steaming bowl on the counter. The deep red broth, chunks of beef, the swirl of spices—it looked right. She grabbed a spoon, dipping it into the goulash before taking a cautious sip.

The taste bloomed over her tongue—warm, comforting, familiar... but not quite perfect. The broth was a little thinner than it should be, the seasoning slightly uneven—Felix definitely had something to do with that.

Tristan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her like a hawk. "Not bad?"

Barbara paused, letting the flavors settle before humming in response.

His eyes narrowed. "You hesitated."

A small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "Did I?"

Groaning, Tristan rubbed his temple. "That means it's just decent, doesn't it?"

She twirled the spoon between her fingers, tilting her head as if considering. "It is good."

His gaze flicked to her bowl—still mostly full. "You've barely eaten."

Barbara sighed, setting the spoon down before reaching across the counter to squeeze his hand. "Tristan. I'm eating it. Happily."

Tristan still wasn't convinced. Scooping up a bite for himself, he chewed slowly, as if trying to taste what she wasn't saying. Silence stretched for a moment before he let out a long, resigned sigh.

"...It's just decent, isn't it?"

Barbara finally let out a soft laugh. "Maybe a little more paprika next time."

Tristan groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

Barbara just shook her head, lifting another spoonful to her lips. The taste wasn't the point.

The fact that he had done this—that he had wanted to surprise her—that was everything.

And she wasn't going to tell him that.

She was just going to eat happily.

The remnants of breakfast still lingered in the air as they curled up on the couch, Barbara stretching her legs lazily over Tristan's lap. The warmth of the meal, the quiet hum of the house—it felt easy. Comfortable.

Tristan's fingers traced slow, absentminded circles on her knee, but Barbara could feel the tension in him. He wasn't relaxed.

She already knew why.

For a while, he didn't say anything. Just kept trailing patterns against her skin, his thumb pressing a little too firmly every now and then. Then, finally, his voice cut through the silence—soft, but weighted.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Barbara didn't look up from her phone. "Tell you what?"

Tristan exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. "You know what. You didn't think I'd see the comments online?"

That made her pause.

Slowly, she set her phone aside and met his gaze. His eyes were sharp, frustration simmering beneath the surface, but more than that—concern.

He wasn't just angry. He was upset for her.

Barbara shifted slightly, exhaling. "Tristan. I've dealt with worse."

His frown deepened. "That doesn't mean you should have to."

She gave a small shrug. "It's just noise."

His grip on her leg tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to make her feel the weight of his frustration. "It's not just noise. They're going after you because of me."

Barbara studied him carefully, searching his expression before speaking, her voice softer now. "You think this is the first time I've gotten hate?"

Tristan didn't say anything.

Barbara let out a slow breath, running a hand through her hair. "When I hung out with Bieber for, what, two weeks? I got death threats. Full-on, detailed death threats. People calling me things you wouldn't believe." Her lips pressed together, the memories sharp even after all this time. "This? This is nothing compared to that."

Tristan's expression darkened instantly. His fingers twitched against her skin, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Barbara—"

She didn't let him finish.

Reaching for his hand, she laced their fingers together, squeezing gently. "Listen to me," she murmured. "Do not respond. Do not give them anything. It'll just make it worse."

Tristan inhaled sharply through his nose, his grip on her hand firm. She could tell he hated this—hated feeling powerless, hated knowing people were tearing into her just because of him.

But he didn't argue.

Barbara squeezed again, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. "I can handle it," she said quietly.

Tristan held her gaze, his jaw still tight, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.

He didn't like it. He didn't want to let it go.

But he trusted her.

And that meant he had to let her fight her own battles.

Barbara barely realized she had shifted onto Tristan's lap until she felt his arms instinctively settle around her waist. His warmth, the familiar weight of his hands resting against her back—it was effortless, natural.

She kissed him, slow at first, letting their lips linger, her fingers curling into the soft fabric of his hoodie. Tristan hummed against her mouth, his grip tightening slightly, as if grounding himself in the moment.

Then she shifted again, her knee knocking against his leg.

His bruised leg.

"Shit—" Tristan exhaled sharply, his hand flexing against her back.

Barbara immediately pulled away, her entire body going still. "Wait—did I just—"

She glanced down, her gaze darting to his ankle. A sharp wave of guilt crashed over her.

"Oh my God, Tristan—" she shot up from his lap, hands hovering over him like she wanted to check him over but didn't know where to start. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Tristan sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Because I'm fine."

Barbara wasn't fine.

Her mind snapped back to the Newcastle game—the way they kicked him, targeted him, stamped on him. The way the referee ignored it. The way he brushed it off. And now, after everything, she had been so wrapped up in the moment that she forgot her biggest concern.

Her chest tightened. "I didn't even ask how you were doing."

Tristan reached for her wrist, fingers curling gently around it. "Babe—"

"No, seriously—" she ran a hand through her hair, shaking her head. "I was so happy to see you again, I completely—Tristan, they treated you like a punching bag. I saw the bruises—"

"Barbara."

She stopped, looking at him.

Tristan tugged at her wrist, pulling her closer until she was back between his legs, standing right in front of him. His hands skimmed up her sides, settling at her waist, steadying her.

His voice was softer this time. "I'm here. I'm okay."

Barbara exhaled, trying to let go of the tension clawing at her. But she could still see it—feel it—the helplessness she felt watching the game.

She still felt the weight of guilt pressing against her chest. Her fingers hovered over Tristan's knee as if touching it would somehow erase the damage already done.

But then, she caught the look in his eyes.

Steady. Warm.

He wasn't upset. He wasn't annoyed.

If anything, he was looking at her like he was more worried about her spiraling over his injury than the actual pain itself.

That realization made something inside her snap.

She took a slow breath, grounding herself, then shifted forward—onto his lap again.

Tristan's brow lifted slightly, but he didn't stop her as she straddled him, settling her weight onto him carefully. She could feel his hands hover at her waist, a silent question in his touch.

Barbara answered by leaning in, brushing her lips softly against his jaw.

A light kiss. Then another, trailing toward his lips.

Tristan exhaled, his fingers finally gripping her waist, his breath warm against her skin. "Babe—"

"It's okay," she murmured between kisses. "I just..." Her voice softened. "I missed you."

She didn't need to explain the rest.

Barbara kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, savoring it. Tristan responded in kind, his hands sliding up her back, pressing her closer, needing more.

She shifted slightly in his lap, and Tristan let out a low breath, his forehead resting against hers for a fleeting second, as if he was trying to keep control.

Barbara's lips curled slightly, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw before tilting his face up to hers. "Don't hold back."

Tristan's breath faltered. She was sure.

That was all he needed.

In a swift motion, he stood, lifting her with him.

Barbara let out a small, surprised laugh, arms looping around his neck as her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. "You're not supposed to be carrying me around."

Tristan smirked against her skin as he started toward the stairs. "Then stop distracting me."

Barbara hummed in amusement, her fingers playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. "Never."

His grip on her tightened as he carried her toward their bedroom, the familiar space now charged with something different.

The moment they reached the door, Tristan pushed it open with his shoulder, stepping inside before gently pressing her back against the wall.

Barbara's breath hitched as she felt the cool surface against her spine, contrasting the warmth of his body against hers.

Tristan leaned in, his lips hovering over hers, his voice lower now. "Last chance."

Barbara smiled, fingers tracing his jaw, her own voice barely above a whisper. "Tristan. I'm yours."

That was all it took.

Tristan kissed her again, this time without restraint, without hesitation. It was slow and deep, like he was memorizing her, savoring every touch, every sound she made.

His hands slid down her thighs, gripping just enough to make her breath hitch. Barbara sighed into his mouth, letting herself melt into the warmth of him, into the way his hands knew exactly where to touch, how to pull her closer without a single inch of space between them.

When Tristan finally pulled away, just enough to meet her gaze.

Barbara's fingers trailed down the front of his hoodie before gripping the fabric. "Bed," she whispered.

Tristan's jaw clenched slightly before he nodded, slowly stepping back, taking her with him as they moved toward the bed.

He laid her down gently, as if she was something precious, something meant to be handled with care.

Barbara tilted her head, watching him for a long moment before reaching up, her fingers hooking into the hem of his shirt.

And then, without another word, she pulled him down to her.

The rest of the world faded away.

...

6330 word count, not counting this end section