England's Greatest

Chapter 152 - A Night of Reflection Part 1

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October 25th, 2014 – Early Morning...

The bathroom was warm, the mirror fogged up from the shower, and the faint scent of Tristan's body wash still lingered in the air. A towel hung low on his hips as he leaned over the sink, staring at his reflection with a contemplative frown.

A light stubble had started to form along his jawline—not thick, but just enough to be noticeable. His features had lost some of their boyish softness over the last year, sharpening into something more defined. He had stopped growing too, settling at 187 cm, which, thank God, was tall enough.

Tristan dragged a hand across his chin, debating. Shave it? Or leave it?

Before he could decide, the bathroom door creaked open.

Barbara strolled in, still looking half-asleep, drowning in one of his hoodies as she rubbed at her eyes. Her hair was slightly tousled, her movements lazy as she padded into the room. She blinked at him, then at his reflection—before suddenly inhaling sharply.

A loud, dramatic gasp.

Tristan barely had time to react before she pointed at him like he had committed a crime.

"No. Nope. Absolutely not."

His brows lifted slightly. "What?"

Barbara stepped closer, squinting at his face like she needed to confirm the horror in front of her. "You are not growing that out."

Tristan tilted his head slightly, amused. "Relax, I haven't even decided yet."

"There's nothing to decide," she said immediately, shaking her head as she rolled up her sleeves. "Your face is too pretty to be hidden under scruff. I refuse to let you do this."

Before he could protest, she snatched the razor from his hand, ran it under warm water, and turned back to him with complete authority.

"So now you're shaving me?"

Barbara met his gaze in the mirror, raising an eyebrow. "Do you trust me?"

Tristan exhaled through his nose, tilting his chin slightly. "Unfortunately."

A satisfied look crossed her face as she stepped closer, cradling his jaw with one hand while smoothing the warm lather of shaving cream across his skin with the other. Her fingers were soft but firm, moving with practiced ease.

Tristan held still, watching her work. The way she focused, her lips slightly parted in concentration, the gentle way she angled his face—it was oddly soothing.

"I can't believe I never thought of doing this before," she murmured, carefully dragging the razor down the side of his jaw in slow, precise strokes.

Tristan's lips twitched. "You're only realizing now that you want full control over my face?"

Barbara's eyes flicked up to his in the mirror. "No, I'm realizing I've been slacking. I should've made sure you were taking care of your skin ages ago."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "So this is your way of making up for it?"

She gave a small, approving nod. "Yep. And I've decided—this is your new morning routine."

Tristan let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly as she wiped away the last traces of shaving cream with a damp towel. Her gaze flickered over his now smooth jaw, eyes glinting with satisfaction.

"There," she said, clearly pleased with herself. "Much better."

Tristan ran a hand over his skin. "Could've left some of it..."

Barbara barely hesitated before pinching his cheek. "Nope. Too pretty."

Tristan caught her wrist before she could do it again, shaking his head. "Are you done hijacking my routine?"

She simply smiled. "Oh, babe. We're just getting started."

Tristan frowned slightly as she turned toward the sink, opening a small pouch she had brought with her.

"...What now?"

Barbara pulled out a bottle of toner. "Step two."

Tristan groaned. "Oh, hell no—"

Too late.

Barbara patted the toner onto his skin before he could escape, moving fast enough that he didn't have time to react. The cool sensation spread across his face, making him twitch slightly.

"Barbara." His voice was somewhere between exasperation and resignation.

"Shh," she hushed him, completely unbothered as she reached for another product.

Tristan watched with growing suspicion as she uncapped a serum, then another, then another. His eyes widened slightly.

"...Do I seriously need that much?"

Barbara's gaze flicked toward him, unimpressed. "Yes. And you're gonna thank me later."

Tristan sighed, knowing he had already lost this battle. He sat there as she rubbed the serums into his skin with careful precision, her fingertips tracing over his cheekbones and jawline like she was sculpting something important.

Then she grabbed moisturizer.

Tristan raised a hand in surrender. "Alright, pause. How many steps is this?"

Barbara hummed, as if considering. "Depends. Morning routine? About seven steps. Night routine? Twelve."

Tristan nearly choked. "TWELVE?!"

Barbara ignored his outburst, massaging the moisturizer into his skin like a professional. "This is non-negotiable, Hale."

Tristan sighed deeply. "I should've never let you into my bathroom."

Barbara grinned, running her fingers along his cheek. "Too late now. Every morning. Every night. Even when I'm not here."

Tristan exhaled through his nose. "You're gonna check up on me?"

Barbara deadpanned. "Oh, I will. If I check your skin next week and it's dry, I'm personally flying back just to yell at you."

Tristan stared at her. "You'd fly back just for that?"

Barbara leaned in slightly, her expression completely serious. "Babe, I'd fly back just to fix your face if you let it get all crusty."

Tristan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. There was no way out of this. "Fine."

For the next twenty minutes, he sat on the bathroom counter, arms crossed, begrudgingly waiting for his mask to dry.

Barbara, scrolling through her phone, looked as relaxed as ever.

"This is the worst part," Tristan muttered.

Barbara barely looked up. "No, the worst part is you realizing I was right."

Tristan leaned back, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She was definitely right.

A few minutes later, Barbara peeled off her mask effortlessly, patting her skin with satisfaction. Tristan, however, hesitated.

"...This feels weird."

Barbara shot him a look. "Tristan. It's a face mask, not a death sentence."

Still, he took way too long peeling his off, his scowl deepening with every second.

Barbara clapped her hands together, her eyes gleaming as she examined his face. "See? Look at that glow!"

Tristan gave her a flat stare. "You're so dramatic."

Barbara simply reached for his hand, tugging him toward the door. "Come on, time for breakfast. Felix probably finished cooking ages ago."

Tristan sighed but followed her. "I can't believe I let you do this to me."

Barbara glanced back at him, her lips curving upward. "You're gonna thank me when your skin is flawless."

Tristan exhaled through his nose as they made their way downstairs.

The worst part?

She was probably right.

[ I miss having a girlfriend ]

October 25th, 2014 – Morning

The scent of freshly cooked food filled the flat as Tristan and Barbara made their way downstairs, both wrapped in hoodies—his slightly oversized, but on Barbara, it practically swallowed her whole. The sleeves bunched around her hands, covering half her fingers as she tugged at them absently.

The living room was already alive with quiet morning activity.

Felix moved with annoying efficiency in the kitchen, plating the last of breakfast while humming to himself. Sophia stood nearby, leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around her tea, the other scrolling through what was probably an ungodly number of emails.

Soma, sitting cross-legged on the floor, stretched lazily, flipping through a sports magazine. John had claimed his usual spot on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, half-listening to the Sky Sports pre-match analysis playing in the background.

Felix glanced up as the two of them entered, eyes locking onto Tristan. His brows pulled together.

"...Why does your face look suspiciously good this morning?"

Tristan exhaled. Headache incoming.

Barbara, on the other hand, lit up. Tugging Tristan toward the couch, she plopped down next to him, radiating smug satisfaction.

"Because I'm taking care of him now."

Felix blinked, then slowly turned back to Tristan. "You let her do your routine?"

Tristan groaned, sinking into the cushions. "I didn't let her. She staged a coup."

Barbara, completely unbothered, curled up beside him, tucking her legs underneath her. "Coup is a strong word. I'd say... intervention."

From the floor, Soma flipped a page, glancing up with mild curiosity. "How many steps?"

Tristan dragged a hand down his face. "I stopped counting after six."

Barbara patted his cheek, beaming. "And he's doing it every day. Morning and night."

Felix let out a low whistle. "Damn. She's got you under contract."

Sophia, who had been quietly listening, finally looked up from her tablet with a knowing expression. "Honestly? This is a great development. The prettier he is, the more money he makes."

Tristan groaned into his hands. "Sophia, please."

Sophia took a slow sip of her tea. "Your face is literally an asset. If Barbara wants to protect her investment, I support her entirely."

Barbara perked up. "See? Smart woman."

Tristan huffed, grabbing a pillow and shoving it behind his head like he was preparing for battle. "You're all enjoying this way too much."

From across the room, John, who had been largely silent until now, finally snorted. "Mate, I'm just waiting for the lads at Leicester to find out. That's when the real fun begins."

Tristan closed his eyes. "You're all terrible people."

Barbara, fully content, rested her head against his shoulder. "No, we're just people who love you."

Tristan rolled his eyes but didn't move her off.

Felix, finishing up in the kitchen, walked over and placed two plates on the coffee table. "Alright, food's ready. Eat before I take it back."

Barbara immediately perked up, reaching for her plate like a child on Christmas morning. Tristan, moving slower, sat up and grabbed his as well.

Felix had, as always, been weirdly precise with the portions—Tristan's plate was packed with protein: scrambled eggs, avocado toast, smoked salmon, and greens. Barbara's was lighter but still balanced.

Sophia moved to the armchair, crossing her legs with her tea still in hand. "So, are we just ignoring the fact that none of us have done any actual work today?"

Soma yawned, flipping another page. "It's Saturday."

John, still reclined with the remote in hand, nodded. "We're waiting for the match anyway."

Sophia rolled her eyes but didn't argue.

From the TV, Sky Sports' morning panel discussion hummed in the background, voices filling the flat.

Tristan tuned in as he took his first bite, already knowing that sooner or later, his name was going to come up.

And knowing his luck, probably sooner.

Barbara, curled up next to Tristan, absently speared a piece of salmon from her plate, glancing at the TV as Stelling's voice carried through the room.

"Alright, let's move on to Leicester City."

Tristan barely needed the cue. His posture shifted ever so slightly, attention locking onto the screen.

Barbara, catching the change, swallowed her bite and nudged him, amused.

"Ooo, they're talking about you again."

Tristan leaned back against the couch, casual, but with that quiet confidence he carried so well.

"I mean... they're not wrong."

Across the room, Sophia sighed into her tea.

"Oh no. It's happening. His ego is expanding."

Felix, still finishing up in the kitchen, smirked as he set down a plate.

"Let him enjoy it. It won't last."

Barbara's smile grew, eyes flicking back to Tristan.

"Don't worry, babe. If your ego does get too big, I'll handle it."

Tristan glanced at her, half-smirking. "Oh yeah? How?"

Barbara leaned in slightly, dropping her voice just enough for only him to hear.

"No sex for a month."

Tristan froze.

Fork hovering mid-air. A single, slow blink.

Barbara, completely unbothered, went back to her food.

A beat.

Felix, flipping eggs, paused.

Soma, flipping through her magazine, glanced up.

Sophia sipped her tea. "What's wrong with him?"

John, eyes still on the screen, let out a low chuckle. "Not sure, but whatever she just said ruined his whole morning."

Felix finally looked over, really looked, and raised a brow. "Barbara?"

Barbara didn't even glance up. "Hm?"

Tristan finally blinked, exhaling through his nose.

"...That's just cruel."

Barbara took another bite of salmon, completely indifferent.

"Actions have consequences, Hale."

Felix let out a low laugh, shaking his head. Soma muttered something under her breath, amused. Even John cracked a small grin.

Tristan exhaled, rubbing his temple before grabbing his toast and taking an aggressive bite.

The conversation on TV had already moved on.

Barbara, curled up next to Tristan, stole another bite of salmon from his plate, watching as Paul Merson's voice carried through the room.

The scent of coffee and toast lingered in the air, mixing with the low hum of Sky Sports from the television. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the living room where everyone was slowly waking up, sprawled across the couches, chairs, or the floor.

Felix moved around the kitchen, stacking plates as he finished up breakfast, while Tristan sat comfortably on the couch, coffee in hand, half-listening to the TV.

Barbara, curled up beside him, lazily stabbed a piece of salmon from his plate.

Tristan didn't even blink. He just lifted his coffee, unimpressed.

Barbara shot him a playful grin as she chewed. "I don't know why you even bother fighting it anymore."

Tristan exhaled. "I'm not. I'm just accepting my fate."

From across the room, Sophia, stretched out in an armchair, murmured into her tea. "Smart man."

"Alright," Jeff Stelling's voice carried through the flat. "Let's take a look at today's matches. Some exciting fixtures lined up."

Paul Merson nodded. "Biggest game? United hosting Chelsea at Old Trafford. Chelsea's flying, while United—well, they're struggling under Van Gaal."

Felix, still wiping down the counter, glanced up. "United's been struggling for years, though. Isn't this just their new normal?"

John, lazily reclined in the chair near the window, chuckled. "Painfully, yeah. It's just funnier now that they spent a fortune on it."

Tristan smirked, taking another sip of coffee. "150 million for what, exactly?"

Barbara, still stealing from his plate, tilted her head. "So money doesn't buy success?"

Tristan glanced at her. "Tell that to United."

Soma, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her magazine, flipped a page. "Oh, so that's why my entire feed was dragging them last week?"

Felix snorted. "Yeah, and because they got smashed by Leicester."

Soma paused, looking up now. "Oh. Right. That's your club."

Tristan narrowed his eyes. "How do you say that like you just remembered?"

Barbara choked on her coffee, laughing.

Soma shrugged. "Look, I only pay attention when you score—or when people are mad at you."

John smirked. "That's all you really need, honestly."

Tristan sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Unbelievable."

On-screen, Merson kept going. "And Leicester—what a season they're having. Tristan Hale's been massive for them."

Barbara, elbowing him, grinned. "Ooo, they're gassing you up again."

Tristan didn't even pretend to be humble. "I mean... they're not wrong."

Sophia groaned. "Oh my God, I felt his ego grow in real-time."

Felix, still at the kitchen counter, shook his head. "Let him enjoy it. It won't last."

Barbara nudged Tristan's thigh with her knee. "So... Vardy still pissed at you?" She swirled her coffee lazily, pretending not to be entertained.

Tristan sighed, not looking away from the screen. "Yep." He reached for his toast, taking a slow bite like he had nothing else to say.

Felix, mid-bite, barely glanced up. "Why?" His voice was casual, but he was already suspicious.

Tristan kept chewing. Didn't answer.

Barbara, grinning, stretched her legs out across Tristan's lap and set her mug down. "Oh, I'll tell you why."

Tristan's chewing slowed. He shot her a warning look, already regretting telling her last night. "Don't."

Barbara ignored him completely. "He forgot to pick him up yesterday."

Across the room, Felix froze, his fork hanging mid-air. "Wait." He put it down, eyes narrowing. "You stranded Vardy?"

Sophia, finally looking up from her emails, frowned. "Hold on. Like, completely abandoned him?"

Tristan exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Not on purpose." He reached for his coffee, looking very, very done.

John, still scrolling through his phone, chuckled. "Please tell me he called you screaming."

Barbara leaned further into Tristan, clearly enjoying herself. "Oh no, it's even better." She glanced at him, eyes full of mischief. "Tell them how he got to training, babe."

Tristan ran a hand down his face, muttering into his mug. "No."

Felix perked up, interest fully piqued. "Oh, I need to know now." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking way too entertained.

Tristan sighed heavily, staring down at his plate like it could somehow save him. "...He hitchhiked."

Silence.

Then, absolute chaos.

Felix choked on his coffee, coughing as he tried to keep it together. Soma, mid-page flip, smacked her magazine closed and covered her mouth to muffle her laugh. Even John, who rarely reacted to anything, let out a full-bodied chuckle.

Sophia's stare was blank, her mug halfway to her lips. "You left him stranded, and he hitchhiked?"

Tristan pushed his eggs around his plate, sighing again. "Some Leicester fans saw him waiting and gave him a lift."

Barbara let out a dreamy sigh, pressing a hand to her heart. "It's the greatest thing I've ever heard."

Felix wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "Mate, you know he's never letting this go."

Soma shook her head, leaning back into the couch. "You're done for."

John stretched his arms behind his head, smirking. "If I were you, I'd start checking your car before you get in."

Tristan let his head drop back against the couch, eyes shut. "If he hides in my boot, I swear to God—"

Barbara, still grinning, patted his knee. "Honestly? I'd respect it."

Tristan tilted his head toward her, unamused. "Why are you like this?"

Barbara simply took a sip of her coffee. "Because it's fun."

Felix, shaking his head, grabbed the coffee pot and walked toward the kitchen. "I give it two days before he gets revenge."

Tristan groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah. I know."

From the TV, Jeff Stelling's voice filtered back in. "And the big question today—how do Leicester cope without their two key men?"

Tristan's grip on his mug tightened slightly as he watched the screen.

Barbara, stretching her arms over her head, let out a yawn. "Watching instead of playing. Fun, huh?" She rested her chin on his shoulder, eyes flicking toward him.

Tristan didn't respond right away. He exhaled through his nose, setting his mug down with a little more force than necessary.

"...Not really."

Barbara smiled, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. "Well, at least your replacement won't forget to pick up Vardy."

John let out a low laugh as the Sky Sports panel carried on in the background.

The scent of coffee and breakfast lingered in the air, warm and familiar.

Tristan stared at the screen, jaw tight, knowing there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

But at least mornings like this made it easier.

As the discussion shifted, Jeff Stelling leaned forward, his tone carrying weight. "Right, lads, let's talk about the Golden Boy Award. The shortlist is out, and one name stands above the rest—Tristan Hale."

Paul Merson let out a chuckle, shaking his head. "It's mad, isn't it? A year ago, no one knew who this kid was. Now he's not just the favorite—he's putting up world-class numbers."

Charlie Nicholas pulled up the on-screen stats, his voice edged with something close to disbelief. "Thirteen matches, twenty-six goal contributions. That's not just impressive for a youngster—that's elite." He tapped the screen. "Six goals, nine assists in the Premier League. A goal and three assists in the Europa League. A goal and four assists for England. And the scary part? He's only playing around sixty minutes a game because Pearson's managing his minutes."

From the couch, Soma let out a low whistle, flipping a page in her notebook. "That's actually insane."

Barbara, curled up next to Tristan, nudged his thigh with her knee. "You know, babe, if you played the full ninety every game, you might actually break football."

Tristan exhaled, reaching for his cup. "I'd rather stay fresh for the knockout rounds when it really matters."

Felix, still finishing up in the kitchen, let out a short laugh. "Man's thinking months ahead while the rest of us are just trying to wake up."

Merson pointed at the screen. "That's the thing. When The Guardian released their list of the best youngsters, they didn't call him 'promising.' They called him world-class. No 'potential' nonsense—world-class right now."

Stelling nodded. "And compared to the other Golden Boy nominees, it's almost unfair. Most of these lads are still finding their footing, but Tristan? He walked into the Premier League and instantly became one of the league's best."

Charlie Nicholas chuckled, shaking his head. "No disrespect to Sterling—brilliant player—but the comparison's almost laughable. Tristan is on a completely different level."

The room erupted in laughter.

Barbara, grinning, nudged Tristan again. "Oof. That's disrespectful. You just gonna let them talk like that?"

Tristan set his cup down, stretching his legs out. "I mean... I can't exactly argue with them, can I?" He smirked slightly, but his mind was elsewhere. " I send him a text later, god knows we don't need any more fighting in the locker room. There's some peace now Gerrad and Lampard retired."

He drummed his fingers on the armrest, something nagging at him. Then his eyes flicked toward Sophia.

"Wait a second." His voice carried a knowing edge. "When was the shortlist even released?"

Sophia barely looked up from her phone. "Couple of days ago."

Tristan's brows lifted slightly. "And neither you nor Mendes thought to tell me?"

Sophia let out a small, amused hum, still scrolling. "Didn't think it mattered."

Tristan scoffed. "Didn't think it mattered?"

Sophia finally looked up, giving him a deadpan stare. "Tristan, you were going to win this thing from the moment the season started. You're so far ahead of the rest that there's no competition. The plan was to just wait until you got the trophy and tell you then."

Tristan blinked. "You were going to wait until I actually won?"

Sophia shrugged. "Why stress over something that's already decided?"

Barbara covered her mouth, stifling a laugh. "Damn. They didn't even bother telling you."

Felix, walking in from the kitchen, shook his head with an exaggerated sigh. "Man's out here breaking records, and his own team is treating the Golden Boy like it's an Amazon package on backorder."

Tristan huffed a laugh through his nose, but a small part of him still found it surreal.

A year ago, he wasn't even in this world.

Now, people weren't just saying he'd win the Golden Boy—they were treating it like a formality.

Jeff Stelling's voice filled the room again. "And let's not forget—Tristan's impact hasn't been limited to club football. In the World Cup, he helped England reach the quarterfinals and was named Best New Player of the tournament. He's already dominating internationally. So I ask again—how can any young talent compare?"

Merson shook his head. "They can't. Simple as that. We're at the point where people are asking if he's on the same tier as Messi and Ronaldo. That's the conversation now."

Charlie Nicholas leaned back, folding his arms. "And you know what? You can actually make a case. We're only eight games in, but Tristan's already putting up Messi-like numbers. He's got the stats, the consistency, the big-game performances. He doesn't play like a nineteen-year-old—he plays like a seasoned pro."

The broadcast cut to highlights—outrageous assists, elegant dribbles, humiliating world-class defenders.

Merson sighed. "I'll say this—there's no stopping this kid. He's already a superstar. The only question is how far he's gonna go."

Tristan leaned back into the couch, his expression unreadable.

Barbara, studying his face, could tell—he wasn't satisfied.

Not yet.

Because he wasn't thinking about the Golden Boy.

That was already won. That wasn't the goal.

Ballon d'Or. Champions League. World Cup. That's where his mind was.

Jeff Stelling switched topics smoothly, his tone shifting as he gestured toward the screen. "Right, back to the league now. We've talked about Leicester's incredible start, but let's take a look at the full table."

The updated standings appeared on-screen:

Premier League Table (Week 8, 2014-2015 Season)

Chelsea – 22 points

Manchester City – 17 points

Southampton – 16 points

Arsenal – 14 points

Leicester City – 13 points

West Ham – 13 pointsLiverpool – 13 points

Swansea – 11 points

Manchester United – 11 points

Tottenham – 11 points

Paul Merson whistled. "Chelsea leading the way, City right behind them—it's exactly what we expected. But Leicester sitting fifth? That's a shock to everyone."

Charlie Nicholas grinned. "Not to them, though. Listen to Pearson, listen to the players—they believe they belong here."

Jeff Stelling nodded. "Alright, we've talked Leicester—what about United? Ninth place? Struggling under Van Gaal. What's going wrong there?"

Merson sighed, shaking his head. "Honestly? They're still figuring things out. Van Gaal's come in, changed the system, and it's not clicking yet. They'll improve, but right now? This isn't the United we know."

Charlie Nicholas added, "And that's why Leicester's rise is even more shocking—because some of these traditional top teams are dropping points. United, Spurs, Liverpool—none of them are where they want to be."

Jeff gestured to the screen again. "Speaking of that, Arsenal in fourth. A solid position, but they've been inconsistent. That draw against Hull last week wasn't a good look. Merson, what's your take?"

Paul Merson, a former Arsenal man, shook his head. "Same old Arsenal, Jeff. Brilliant when they click, but soft when things get tough. They've got Alexis Sánchez playing out of his skin, but injuries are already piling up. If they don't sort that midfield out, they'll struggle again."

Charlie Nicholas nodded in agreement. "Yeah, and they're missing Giroud up top. Welbeck's been decent, but is he the long-term answer? I'm not sure."

Jeff moved on. "Now, West Ham in sixth—that's another surprise."

Merson smirked. "Big Sam's got them playing! Diafra Sakho's been on fire, scoring in six straight games. Stewart Downing's rolling back the years. They've been solid at home, and if they keep this up, they might even push for Europe."

Charlie chuckled. "Imagine saying that two years ago. Back then, they were lumping balls forward to Andy Carroll and hoping for the best. Now, they've got a system, they press well, they move the ball quicker."

Jeff then turned the discussion to Liverpool. "What about Brendan Rodgers' Liverpool? Seventh place, 13 points—two losses already. Is the magic from last season fading?"

Merson shrugged. "Losing Suarez was always going to hurt. Sturridge is injured, and Balotelli... well, he's not exactly Suarez, is he? Defensively, they're shaky. They're still dangerous going forward, but the fear factor is gone."

Charlie nodded. "They can still make the top four, but they need Sturridge back, and they need to stop conceding soft goals."

Jeff glanced further down the table. "Now, looking at the lower end, Tottenham are tenth—another team struggling to get going. They've got talent, but they're not clicking under Pochettino yet."

Merson agreed. "It's early days for Poch. He needs time. But their defense has been all over the place, and they're not scoring enough. Eriksen's been their best player, but the rest? Hit and miss."

Jeff turned back to the top. "And finally, Chelsea—22 points from 8 games. Unbeaten. Are they walking away with the title?"

Charlie Nicholas nodded. "It's looking that way. Diego Costa has taken the league by storm. Eight goals already. Fabregas pulling the strings. Mourinho's built a machine."

Merson added, "City's the only team that can stop them. But Chelsea look stronger—more balanced, more ruthless. Right now, they're the team to beat."

Jeff leaned back. "So, we've got a fascinating season ahead. Chelsea leading, but the battle for Europe is wide open. And Leicester—still shocking the world."

The discussion moved on, touching on upcoming fixtures and predictions.

While the analysis continued downstairs, Tristan and Barbara had retreated to their room to get ready for the game.

Barbara stood in front of Tristan's open wardrobe, hands on her hips, surveying his collection of clothes with the scrutiny of a high-fashion stylist. Her expression was all business, as if she were curating outfits for a Milan runway rather than dressing the Premier League's most marketable footballer for a matchday appearance.

Meanwhile, Tristan lounged at the edge of the bed, arms crossed behind his head, watching her with quiet amusement dancing in his green eyes.

"You're taking this very seriously," he mused.

Barbara didn't even glance back as she flipped through the hangers. "Of course. You're not just showing up to a game—you're the main event, my love. We can't have you looking anything less than perfect."

Tristan smirked. "I thought I always looked perfect?"

Barbara turned slowly, narrowing her blue eyes as if genuinely contemplating his words. Then, she stepped toward him, placing her hands on either side of his face, tilting his chin up slightly.

"You do," she admitted, her voice softer now as her thumb traced the sharp edge of his jawline. "But that doesn't mean you get to slack off. Now, stand up and let me work."

Tristan chuckled but obeyed, standing as Barbara took a step back, arms crossed, eyes flickering over him as she sized him up like he was her latest project. Tapping a finger against her lips in deep thought, she finally reached into the wardrobe, pulling out a black turtleneck and a tailored camel overcoat.

"Oh, this. Definitely this."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "You like the turtleneck look?"

Barbara gave him a slow, appreciative once-over, her lips curving into a mischievous smirk. "Oh, I love it. Puts all the attention on your face. And since I just spent my morning making sure your skin is flawless, we're showing that off."

Tristan chuckled, taking the clothes from her hands. "So I get no say in this?"

Barbara stepped in closer, wrapping her arms around his neck, her breath warm against his skin. "Do you really want to argue with a supermodel about fashion?" she murmured, pressing the lightest kiss just below his ear.

Tristan exhaled, his hands naturally finding her waist. "Not even a little bit."

Barbara hummed approvingly before kissing him properly this time—slow, teasing, like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

Tristan deepened it instinctively, his fingers tightening against her waist as he backed her up until she bumped lightly against the dresser.

"We're supposed to be getting ready," she whispered, though she made no effort to move.

"We are," Tristan muttered against her lips, pressing another kiss—this one slower, just to test her patience.

Barbara shivered slightly. "Tristan—"

"Mmm?" He kissed his way down the side of her neck, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist over the fabric of her hoodie, his touch featherlight but deliberate.

Barbara exhaled, finally pushing at his chest—just enough to regain her breath. "We actually have to leave in, like, an hour. If you keep this up, we won't be going anywhere."

Tristan huffed a quiet laugh before pressing one last kiss to the corner of her lips, pulling back with a smirk. "Fine," he said, amused. "Get me dressed then, oh mighty fashion queen."

Barbara grinned. "Now you're getting it."

She turned back to the wardrobe, pulling out a pair of slim-fitted dark jeans to go with the turtleneck and camel coat. Then, she crouched down, grabbing a pair of black Chelsea boots from the bottom shelf.

"This," she declared, handing the clothes to Tristan. "And don't even think about messing up the fit. Everything needs to be crisp."

Tristan shook his head with a smirk. "What if I just threw on a hoodie and joggers instead?"

Barbara shot him a deadpan look. "I would actually fight you."

Tristan burst out laughing before finally peeling off his hoodie to change. As he pulled the turtleneck over his head, Barbara stepped back, arms crossed, eyes flickering over him like she was mentally taking notes.

And—yeah. She had to give herself credit.

The turtleneck hugged his frame perfectly, emphasizing the strong lines of his shoulders, while the tailored overcoat added a sharp, effortless polish. Paired with the dark jeans and boots? He looked unfairly good.

Barbara bit her lip, tilting her head slightly. "Okay. Yeah. I did good."

Tristan smirked, catching the way her gaze lingered. "You enjoying the view?"

Barbara pretended to consider. "Hmm. Maybe. Spin around for me?"

Tristan rolled his eyes but turned slightly, indulging her as she hummed in approval.

"Perfect. You look ridiculously expensive, babe."

Tristan chuckled. "All thanks to you?"

Barbara stepped closer again, looping her arms around his neck. "Obviously. Now, let's add the finishing touch."

She moved toward the dresser and picked up a sleek Oakley watch, one of the luxury models from the brand he signed with. She turned back to him and held it up expectantly.

"Put this on."

Tristan arched an eyebrow. "What, now you're my stylist and my brand manager?"

Barbara smirked. "I'm just making sure you look right. You're sponsored by Oakley—wear the damn watch."

Tristan shook his head but took the watch from her and slipped it on. "Happy now?"

Barbara admired him for a second before nodding in satisfaction. "Very."

And as she looked at him—dressed in an outfit that screamed luxury, the sharp lines of his coat making him look like he had just stepped out of a fashion editorial—it hit her again.

With all the money in the world, Tristan was still so humble.

She had seen plenty of men in this industry who flaunted their wealth—who wore expensive brands just because they could, who dripped in designer everything without a second thought.

But Tristan?

Tristan was the kind of guy who would wear the same hoodie until she made him change. Who didn't care about having the latest trends unless someone literally put them on him. Who signed sponsorship deals but didn't think twice about actually using the things they sent him unless she reminded him.

Barbara shook her head, amused. She fell in love with the right guy.

"We need to go shopping soon."

Tristan frowned slightly. "For what?"

Barbara crossed her arms. "For you. Because with the amount of money you have, you shouldn't have a wardrobe that makes me want to personally revamp it."

Tristan smirked. "I think you just want an excuse to dress me up like a life-sized mannequin."

Barbara didn't even deny it. "Obviously."

Tristan laughed, grabbing his wallet and keys. "Fine. But if we're going shopping, I'm picking out something for you too."

Barbara grinned. "Deal."

With that, they headed downstairs, ready to leave for the match.

And Barbara, glancing at Tristan one more time, couldn't help but smile to herself.

She had made the Golden Boy look even better.

.......

The drive to Liberty Stadium was smooth, the streets buzzing with the electric energy of matchday. Fans decked out in blue and white walked the sidewalks, Leicester supporters who had traveled from the East Midlands, their scarves wrapped tight against the autumn chill. Swansea's fans were just as loud, their chants echoing through the streets as they filled the entrances.

Inside the car, Tristan sat comfortably in the backseat, Barbara next to him, their fingers intertwined on the seat between them. John drove with his usual professionalism, unfazed by the growing crowd outside.

Barbara glanced out the tinted window as they neared the stadium. "Feels like every match gets bigger, doesn't it?"

Tristan hummed in agreement, his gaze flicking over the sea of fans, some already spotting their cars, "It's different now. Every game to the fans means something, we're given the club hope and a dream that we could do something special."

Barbara turned her attention back to him. "Does that ever get overwhelming?"

Tristan exhaled, leaning his head back against the seat. "No. It just makes me want to win more."

John smirked slightly from the driver's seat. "That's what makes you different."

As the car slowed near the VIP entrance, the atmosphere shifted. Security teams were already stationed outside, their presence ensuring a smooth arrival. But the second Tristan stepped out of the car, the buzz intensified.

Phones flashed.

Some fans cheered when they spotted him.

Others nudged each other, whispering as their cameras zoomed in on him and Barbara walking side by side.

Not all the attention was welcoming. Swansea's fans were never going to make things easy.

"Oi, Tristan! Enjoy the bench, yeah?" one called out.

Before Tristan could even react, a Leicester fan fired back, "Man's worth more than your entire team."

Barbara laughed softly, shaking her head as Tristan grinned, shoving his hands into the pockets of his camel coat. "You love the drama."

"It's entertaining," she admitted.

As they made their way toward the entrance, security guided them past the press, who were all poised, hoping for a comment. Tristan barely glanced in their direction. He wasn't interested in giving them a story today.

Inside, the stadium hallways were alive with movement. Staff, media crews, and pundits walked through, preparing for the pre-match coverage. Former players stood in small groups, chatting as they reviewed notes for the broadcast. The familiar hum of Sky Sports played over nearby monitors.

They were led through the corridors to the VIP lounge, a private space with a clear glass window overlooking the pitch. Below, players were already warming up, the early tension of matchday settling over the stadium.

Tristan's gaze immediately found his teammates.

Vardy was stretching near the halfway line, while Mahrez and Ulloa shared a laugh, probably about something stupid. Even from up here, he could see Nigel Pearson standing near the dugout, arms crossed, already deep in thought.

Barbara nudged him lightly. "Thinking about sneaking down there?"

Tristan smirked. "Not unless you want me benched longer."

John crossed his arms as he stood near the back of the lounge. "You'd rather be on that pitch than in here, wouldn't you?"

Tristan sighed. "It's weird. Sitting up here, watching instead of playing."

Barbara studied him for a moment, then looped her arm through his, resting her head against his shoulder. "Well, if it helps—you look ridiculously good while suffering."

Tristan chuckled. "Thanks, babe. Really makes up for missing the game."

Barbara grinned, then turned her gaze back to the field. "You'll be back soon. And when you are, they're going to wish they kept you benched."

Just then, the Sky Sports pre-match show transitioned into live analysis, featuring Thierry Henry, Graeme Souness, and Glenn Hoddle in the studio.

Henry leaned forward, his arms crossed as he spoke. "Leicester without Tristan Hale—it's a different team, no doubt about it. He's their most dangerous player, and you can see it in the way they set up when he's on the pitch. Without him, they'll have to find another way to break teams down."

Souness shook his head. "He's the one who makes things tick. His ability to turn defense into attack in one pass—that's what Leicester will miss today. He's a rare talent. You don't see many 19-year-olds controlling games the way he does."

Hoddle brought up a graphic of Tristan's 26 goal contributions in 13 matches. "Look at this—six goals, nine assists in the Premier League, a goal and three assists in Europe, and then his impact with England. These aren't just 'young talent' numbers. These are elite numbers."

Barbara smirked, glancing at Tristan. "They're talking about you again."

Tristan exhaled, arms crossed, watching as Souness continued.

"Leicester's strength is their direct play. When they win the ball, they're lethal in transition—but Hale is usually the one making that first pass to unlock the defense. Without him, they'll have to rely on Mahrez and Vardy to create something out of nothing."

Henry nodded. "And that's the challenge. When you play a team like Swansea, who love to keep the ball, you need players who can press, intercept, and start counters immediately. That's what Tristan brings—he's quick in the mind. Without him, Leicester will have to find a different way to control the game."

Hoddle tapped the screen, showing Swansea's lineup. "Sigurðsson will be a threat in those spaces where Tristan usually covers. If Leicester don't track his movement, Swansea could really take control of this game."

The Leicester away section—a small but passionate group—were chanting in full voice, their blue scarves waving proudly as they tried to will their team to another unexpected win.

On the other side, the Swansea faithful were buzzing. They could feel it in the air—this was their chance. Leicester were weakened, missing their midfield general in Tristan Hale, and they had just played a grueling Europa League match 48 hours ago.

Tristan leaned forward in his seat in the VIP lounge, his elbows on his knees as he watched his teammates take their positions. Beside him, Barbara rested her head on his right shoulder, one hand wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee.

She glanced at him, noticing the sharp focus in his eyes. "You're already analyzing everything, aren't you?"

Tristan exhaled through his nose. "I don't know how to turn it off."

The whistle blew, and the match was underway.

"And we are underway here at the Liberty Stadium! Leicester City, missing their midfield talisman Tristan Hale and their anchor Danny Drinkwater, are looking to keep pace in the Premier League. But they've just come off a grueling midweek Europa League game—so can they handle Swansea's energy tonight?"

The broadcast panned to Tristan in the VIP lounge, sitting forward with an intense gaze, Barbara on his shoulder. The camera caught her whispering something to him, but he barely reacted—his focus was locked on the pitch.

Barbara smirked slightly before taking a sip of her coffee.

The atmosphere was deafening inside Liberty Stadium. Floodlights beamed down onto the pitch, illuminating a sea of black and white scarves waving proudly.

The Swansea fans were already in full voice, their chants rolling across the stands like waves crashing against the South Wales coast.

"Swansea, oh Swansea, oh city said I,

I'll stand here on the North Bank until the day I die,

Take me to the Vetch Field, way down by the sea,

Where I will follow Swansea, Swansea City!"

The Leicester away section, though significantly smaller, clapped and waved their blue and white flags in defiance. Their voices weren't as loud, but their passion was undeniable.

Barbara felt Tristan's grip tighten around her hand as he sat beside her. His green eyes were locked on the pitch, scanning the movement of every player. He wasn't just watching—he was analyzing.

From the Sky Sports broadcast, Glenn Hoddle's voice cut through the noise.

"Leicester are a pressing team," he analyzed. "But that kind of system needs fresh legs, and tonight, they look a step slow already. I think Swansea will try to take advantage of that early."

Tristan exhaled sharply. "We look sluggish already."

Barbara glanced at him, arching an eyebrow. "It's just the first few minutes."

Tristan's lips pressed into a thin line. "Let's hope so."

From the first whistle, Swansea dictated the tempo. Their passes were crisp, their movement fluid.

Leicester, meanwhile, looked tired from the start, their usual pressing game missing its sharpness.

In the 6th minute, Swansea found their first real opening.

Gylfi Sigurðsson received the ball in space outside the box, taking a moment before deciding to let fly.

"Sigurðsson with time—he shoots!"

The shot curled toward the bottom corner, but Schmeichel reacted brilliantly, diving low to push it wide for a corner.

"That's a warning sign," Thierry Henry noted. "Where's the pressure? Leicester usually close that down instantly."

The camera cut to Tristan, his jaw tight, fingers tapping against his knee.

Barbara leaned in. "You're already coaching from up here, aren't you?"

Tristan shook his head, running a frustrated hand through his curls. "We're getting killed in midfield."

And he was right.

Leicester were one step behind in every duel, losing second balls, and unable to break Swansea's control.

And the Swansea fans could smell blood.

Every misplaced Leicester pass brought a fresh wave of mocking jeers.

"Oooooooole! Oooooooole!"

Then, in the 18th minute, Sigurðsson lofted a perfect pass over the top for Wilfried Bony.

"BONYYYY—GOES FOR POWER!"

The shot cannoned off the crossbar, rattling the goal frame as Liberty Stadium ERUPTED.

Schmeichel, still on the ground from his diving attempt, slammed his fist into the pitch.

Tristan leaned forward, his hands clenched together.

Barbara squeezed his arm gently. "They'll settle in."

But Tristan's frown only deepened.

Despite Leicester's struggles, their counterattack was still dangerous.

In the 27th minute, Riyad Mahrez finally found space.

"Mahrez cuts inside—beautiful footwork—he slides it through for Vardy!"

The away section ROSE TO THEIR FEET.

"VARDY'S IN—CAN HE FINISH?"

Vardy took a perfect touch and fired—

But Fabiański made a stunning save!

The rebound spilled into the box, and Ulloa lunged—

But Ashley Williams threw his body in front, blocking the shot!

Barbara groaned, leaning her head back. "How did that not go in?"

Tristan let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. "I don't even know. Goddamn it."

Leicester kept pushing, winning a corner in the 34th minute.

Mahrez delivered a dangerous in-swinger, and Wes Morgan rose highest—

"MORGAN! HEADER—"

But the ball sailed over the bar!

The Swansea fans roared with laughter, breaking into a chant.

"He skies when he wants! He skies when he wants!

Wes Morgan, he skies when he wants!"

Barbara smirked. "Brutal."

Tristan just shook his head, arms crossed tightly.

Halftime arrived.

"And that's the halftime whistle! It's still 0-0, but Swansea have been the better side. Leicester are hanging on, but they look exhausted."

Leicester came out with more structure, but their legs were fading fast.

In the 51st minute, a misplaced pass from Matty James led to a Swansea counterattack.

Dyer sprinted down the right wing, cutting inside—

"Dyer's through! He squares it for Bony!"

Schmeichel to the rescue!

The Leicester keeper threw himself at the ball, blocking it with his chest before Morgan cleared.

The Leicester away fans rallied.

"Everywhere we go! Everywhere we go!

It's the Leicester boys making all the noise,

Everywhere we go!"

But the players were running on fumes.

In the 62nd minute, Leicester had a rare opening.

Fuchs launched a long ball for Vardy, who chased it down, then squared it for Ulloa—

"ULLOA! THIS HAS TO BE IT!"

But he mishit it!

The ball skidded wide.

Tristan stood up, hands on his hips, shaking his head.

Barbara sighed. "You're really suffering, huh?"

Tristan smirked slightly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That should've been the winner."

Leicester's legs were gone.

A lazy pass from Matty James was intercepted.

Sigurðsson immediately lifted a perfect ball over the top for Nathan Dyer.

Leicester scrambled—but they were too slow.

"Dyer's through! Low cross—BONY!"

Bony lunged ahead of Morgan—TAP IN!

Liberty Stadium EXPLODED.

"OH WILFRIED BONY, SCORE SOME GOALS FOR SWANSEA!

WE GO WILD, WILD, WILD!

WILD, WILD, WILD!"

The camera cut straight to Tristan, who ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply.

Barbara bit her lip. "Damn."

John, arms crossed, let out a low sigh. "They had nothing left in the tank."

Leicester threw everything forward in stoppage time.

Mahrez had a final chance, curling a shot from the edge of the box—

But Fabiański tipped it over!

The final whistle blew.

Full-Time: Swansea 1-0 Leicester

Swansea fans celebrated. Leicester players stood exhausted and frustrated.

Tristan sat motionless, eyes still fixed on the pitch as Leicester's players trudged toward the tunnel, heads down, their bodies sagging with exhaustion.

Barbara watched him carefully, studying the way his jaw was set, the way his fingers tapped subtly against his knee—a barely noticeable sign of frustration.

She nudged him lightly. "Shouldn't you go down there?"

Tristan blinked, finally shifting his gaze toward her.

"No."

Barbara tilted her head. "Why not?"

Tristan exhaled through his nose, stretching out his legs. "If I go down, it makes the loss worse. Pearson's already pissed, the lads are exhausted, and the last thing they need is me standing there, looking fresh while they've run themselves into the ground."

Barbara nodded slowly. "You don't want to rub it in."

"Exactly."

John, who had been standing quietly nearby, checked his watch before glancing at Tristan. "Ready to head out?"

Tristan nodded. He stood, adjusting his camel overcoat, his mind already shutting down the loss—not ignoring it, but compartmentalizing it.

Barbara, still watching him closely, looped her arm through his. "Come on. Let's get some fresh air."

Instead of heading straight back to the house, Barbara convinced Tristan to go to a park just outside the city center. The place was mostly empty, save for a few distant dog walkers and a couple sitting on a bench, lost in their own conversation.

It was cold but not unbearable, and the scent of rain-soaked earth filled the air.

Barbara linked her fingers with Tristan's, guiding him down a winding path. "I figured you needed this."

Tristan hummed in agreement, shoving his free hand into his pocket. "I hate losing."

Barbara smirked. "I got that impression."

John was just behind them but not in their presence to ruin their time.

They walked for a while in companionable silence, the only sounds coming from the distant rustling of leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird hidden somewhere in the branches above.

Barbara glanced up at him. "You're not as mad as I expected."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "What did you expect?"

Barbara shrugged. "You fuming, brooding, planning your revenge like a villain in a football anime."

Tristan huffed a quiet laugh. "I'm doing that internally."

Barbara grinned, leaning her head against his shoulder for a brief moment. "I figured."

They kept walking, their pace slow, unhurried.

After a few minutes, Barbara pulled back slightly, reaching into his coat pocket and fishing out his phone.

Tristan frowned. "What are you doing?"

Barbara unlocked it with ease and checked his notifications.

"No texts from Pearson?" she asked.

Tristan shook his head. "Not yet. He'll probably call tomorrow."

Barbara smirked. "Scared?"

"Nah." He stretched his arms lazily. "I already know what he's gonna say. 'We weren't good enough today, need to be more clinical, need to tighten up defensively, need to stop being tired after European games.'"

Barbara snorted. "Harsh, but fair."

As they continued walking, Tristan noticed a young boy in a wheelchair, surrounded by his parents. He was hooked up to portable oxygen equipment, his small hands resting on his lap, eyes distant—until he noticed Tristan.

His entire face lit up.

"M-Mum! It's him! It's Tristan."

Barbara felt Tristan tense slightly, but she barely had time to react before the kid's parents turned as well, their eyes widening in recognition.

Tristan let out a slow breath before his expression softened. "You wanna go say hi?"

The boy was already staring in awe, as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

Barbara smiled. "You don't have to ask me."

They approached, and the boy tried to sit up straighter, his excitement evident despite the weakness in his limbs.

"H-Hello! Oh my God, you're real!"

Tristan crouched down so he was at eye level, offering a small grin. "Last time I checked."

The boy beamed, his breathing slightly labored but his joy unmistakable. "I—You—You're my favorite player! You and Mahrez! And Vardy!"

Tristan chuckled. "Good choices."

The kid's mother smiled warmly. "He's from the Leicester Children's Hospital. They all adore you there."

Tristan's expression shifted just slightly, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Barbara noticed immediately.

But he recovered quickly, keeping his smile in place. "That means a lot."

The boy fidgeted excitedly, looking down at his bag. "C-Can you sign something? Please? And—And maybe a picture?"

Tristan took the kid's Leicester City scarf, signing his name with a short message before handing it back. "You got it."

Barbara took his phone, leaning down to snap a picture of them together, the boy grinning so hard it looked like his face might split in two.

"This is the best day ever!" he blurted out, his breathing a little heavier from all the excitement.

His mother gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "Easy, sweetheart."

Tristan ruffled the boy's hair. "Tell everyone at the hospital I said hi, yeah?"

The boy nodded enthusiastically, clutching his scarf like it was the most valuable thing in the world. "I will! Thank you! I—" He paused, his lips pressing together. "...Will you come visit sometime?"

Tristan hesitated for half a second.

Then, he smiled. "Yeah. I will."

Barbara's heart clenched slightly at the way he said it—like he'd just made a silent promise to himself.

Tristan gave Jack one last small smile before standing up. The boy was still beaming, clutching his signed jersey like it was the most valuable thing in the world. His parents stood beside him, full of warmth and gratitude, thanking Tristan for his time.

And yet, as Tristan turned away, something heavy settled deep in his chest, pressing down like an invisible weight.

His life had been so consumed by goals, victories, trophies, ambition—he rarely stopped to ask himself why any of it mattered. Every day was about pushing forward, being better, proving himself. But now...

Now, he wasn't thinking about football.

He was thinking about fate.

About the cruel, indifferent hand that dictated who got to live and chase dreams and who got trapped in a fight they never asked for.

What had he done to deserve this second chance at life?

What made him so special?

Nothing.

There were millions of kids like Jack—dreamers, fighters, people with hearts full of ambition—but no matter how much they wanted it, their bodies wouldn't let them chase their dreams.

And yet he, Tristan Hale, had been given another chance.

For what?

To play football? To win trophies? To become famous?

It felt... selfish.

His chest tightened. He exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the feeling, but it clung to him.

If fate had played out differently...

If he hadn't been reborn into this life, if he hadn't been granted this impossible, miraculous second chance—

He could have been Jack.

Trapped in a failing body. Tethered to machines after his accident if he lived. Watching life happen around him rather than living it.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut.

It wasn't fair.

Why had he gotten lucky? Why had he been saved when so many others weren't?

He had spent so much time trying to be the best. Chasing greatness. Pushing himself beyond limits.

But had he ever truly stopped to appreciate that he was here? That he could run without pain? That he could breathe without struggle? That he had been given the chance to dream, to fight, to win?

Would he still be as determined, as focused, if he had never gotten this second life?

Would he still be fighting?

Or would he be like Jack?

Watching others live out the dreams he could never reach?

His throat felt tight, and for a brief moment, he couldn't breathe.

Barbara must have noticed, because her fingers gently laced through his, squeezing his hand.

She didn't ask him anything right away.

She just let him exist in his thoughts, let him feel without pressuring him to explain.

After a few moments, she finally spoke, her voice soft. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Tristan swallowed, shaking his head. "No."

Barbara nodded, accepting his answer without hesitation.

Instead, she just moved closer, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her forehead against his chest.

Tristan let out a slow breath, his arms instinctively pulling her in.

Barbara didn't know what he was thinking.

She didn't need to.

She just stayed.

She let him process, let him breathe. And for the first time in a long while, Tristan realized how much that mattered.

As they reached a small wooden bench near the lake, Tristan sat down, staring out at the water.

Barbara sat beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"...I had a second chance," Tristan murmured suddenly.

Barbara blinked, tilting her head. "What?"

Tristan's gaze didn't leave the lake. "That kid... He didn't. He was born into it. I got lucky. I got another chance."

Barbara didn't pretend to understand exactly what he was thinking.

She just wrapped her arms around his, resting against him. "You're making the most of it."

Tristan finally looked at her, his green eyes a little softer now.

He kissed her forehead. "...Yeah."

Barbara smirked, nudging him. "So. When are you going to visit them?"

Tristan exhaled through his nose. "Soon. Before Halloween. They can't go trick-or-treating. Might as well bring the fun to them."

Barbara's smile widened. "I love that."

Tristan's smirk returned—just slightly. "Yeah. Me too."

And just like that, the loss didn't feel as heavy anymore.

The night air had turned crisp by the time Barbara and Tristan left the park. The walk back to the waiting car had been slow, unhurried, their hands still intertwined. No words were exchanged.

Tristan had been lost in thought, his expression unreadable, and Barbara hadn't tried to break the silence.

Not yet.

The inside of the car was warm, the soft hum of the engine filling the air as they pulled onto the road.

Barbara leaned into Tristan's side, pressing herself against him as he stared out the window, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns against her thigh.

She hesitated for a moment, then asked softly, "Do you want to talk about it?"

She knew the answer before she even asked.

Tristan blinked, finally glancing at her. "...No."

Barbara just nodded.

She hadn't expected anything different.

She had no idea what he was thinking about—what second chance he had mentioned back in the park. But she didn't need to know.

If it was something he wanted to share, he would.

If it wasn't, she was fine with it.

Because as long as he was okay, that was all that mattered.

So instead of pushing, she simply lifted his arm and curled herself under it, letting his warmth wrap around her.

Tristan exhaled through his nose, relaxing slightly, pressing a small kiss against the top of her head. "Thanks."

Barbara smirked, closing her eyes. "For what?"

Tristan was quiet for a moment.

Then, his voice came out softer than before. "For being here."

Barbara's smile lingered as she nestled closer.

"Always."

And with that, the rest of the ride home passed in comfortable silence—no words needed, just the quiet reassurance that, whatever weight was on Tristan's mind, he didn't have to carry it alone.

The car rolled to a stop in the driveway, its headlights cutting through the dimly lit street before shutting off.

John, ever professional, glanced at Tristan through the rearview mirror. "You want me to stick around?"

Tristan shook his head, pushing open the door. "Nah, go get some sleep."

John gave a curt nod. "Call if you need anything."

Barbara stepped out next, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders as she exhaled into the cold air. The warmth from inside the house spilled out when they pushed open the door, carrying the scent of garlic, herbs, and something slow-cooked to perfection.

Felix, stationed at the stove, barely looked up. "Took you two long enough."

Barbara smirked, slipping off her coat. "Would you rather we starve?"

Felix motioned toward the plates already set on the counter. "I don't care what you do, as long as you eat before it gets cold."

Tristan sat down, but instead of reaching for his fork, he grabbed his phone, scrolling through his contacts with a tight expression.

Barbara noticed instantly. She set her hands on the counter, studying him. "What are you doing?"

Tristan exhaled, tapping his phone screen. "Handling something."

Felix, plating up his own food, raised an eyebrow. "If this is about football, eat first. Your brain works better when it's fed."

Tristan ignored him, holding the phone to his ear as the line rang.

After two rings, Sophia answered, "It's late, Hale. This better be good."

Tristan leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the countertop. "I need you to talk to Mendes first thing in the morning."

Barbara, curiosity piqued, rested her chin on her hand. "What are you planning now?"

Sophia sighed through the speaker. "About what?"

Tristan didn't hesitate. "I want to set up a visit to Leicester Children's Hospital before Halloween. Just me and Barbara. No cameras, no press, no PR nonsense."

Felix paused mid-bite, glancing at Tristan briefly before returning to his plate.

Sophia was quiet for a moment, then the faint clicking of her keyboard filled the silence. "You're serious about this?"

Tristan's jaw tightened slightly. "Completely."

Barbara's heart swelled at how firm his voice was.

"Just a visit?" Sophia asked.

"Not just a visit." Tristan rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, thinking. "They can't go trick-or-treating. They don't get to run around in costumes, knock on doors, get sweets like every other kid. So we bring Halloween to them."

Barbara's lips parted slightly as he spoke.

"Costumes, decorations, whatever they need," Tristan continued. "And I want to donate. Quietly."

Felix, still eating, muttered, "If you're doing this, do it properly. No cutting corners."

Tristan smirked slightly. "Obviously."

Sophia sighed through the phone, her voice tinged with amusement. "This is the kind of stuff PR would kill to get a hold of."

Tristan's expression hardened. "That's exactly why I don't want them involved."

Barbara, watching him closely, bit her lip lightly. There was something deeper behind his words—something unspoken.

Sophia seemed to catch on too because she didn't push. "Alright. I'll coordinate with Mendes and reach out to the hospital. Any specifics on the donation?"

"Whatever they're short on—medical supplies, books, toys, tech. Anything that actually helps."

Sophia hummed. "Alright. I'll pull everything together and update you after I talk to Mendes."

Tristan exhaled through his nose. "Thanks."

A short pause, then Sophia added, "I should be charging extra for this. Goodnight, Hale."

Tristan rolled his eyes, ending the call without responding.

Barbara smirked, shaking her head. "She's got a point."

Tristan stretched his arms lazily, finally picking up his fork. "Yeah, yeah."

Barbara tilted her head. "You sure about keeping it private? No press, no public posts?"

Tristan met her gaze, his green eyes unwavering. "It's not about PR. It's about them."

Something about the way he said it made Barbara's heart swell again.

Without thinking, she reached under the table, squeezing his hand gently. "I love that about you."

Tristan smirked slightly, his eyes glinting. "Tell me something I don't know."

Barbara laughed, shaking her head.

Felix, who had been eating quietly, finally spoke again. "Your food's getting cold."

Tristan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head before finally focusing on his plate.

As the house settled into comfortable silence, Barbara leaned against Tristan's shoulder, her mind lingering on something he had said earlier.

A second chance.

She still didn't know exactly what he meant.

But as long as he was okay, she wouldn't press.

Because even if he didn't say it out loud, his actions told her everything she needed to know.

The house had gone quiet, the only sounds left were the faint ticking of the clock and the distant hum of the wind outside. The night felt peaceful, wrapping around them like a thick, comforting blanket.

Tristan lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts still refused to settle.

Barbara, curled up beside him, propped herself up on her elbow, watching him carefully.

"You're still thinking about it, aren't you?"

Tristan turned his head slightly toward her, raising an eyebrow. "Thinking about what?"

Barbara hummed knowingly. "Everything."

He exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair. "I just want the hospital visit to go right. The kids deserve a proper Halloween, not some half-assed event."

Barbara smiled softly, reaching up to brush a stray curl from his forehead. "It will. You'll make sure of it."

Tristan caught her wrist, pressing a brief kiss against the inside of it before lacing their fingers together. "Yeah... but what about us? What are we doing for Halloween?"

Barbara perked up slightly, resting her chin against his shoulder. "Funny you mention that."

Tristan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Go on."

Barbara shifted closer, resting her head against his chest. "Well, I know you've got Graham Norton on the 30th. That's locked in, right?"

"Yeah," Tristan muttered, his fingers absently tracing circles on her lower back. "Mendes confirmed it earlier."

Barbara nodded. "And I'll be in Malibu later in November for the magazine cover shoot—Sophia's still working out the exact dates."

Tristan smirked. "Of course you will. Always got to be somewhere looking good."

Barbara grinned at the compliment, poking his side. "Damn right. But that means we're both free after the hospital visit on Halloween night."

Tristan tilted his head slightly, curious. "And?"

Barbara shifted up slightly, her blue eyes glinting with something mischievous. "What if we throw something light here at the house? A small Halloween party—costumes, food, non-alcoholic drinks. Nothing crazy, just enough for your teammates to come by."

Tristan arched an eyebrow, thinking about it. "A party? The day before a game?"

Barbara rolled her eyes, nudging him lightly. "Not a party-party. No alcohol, no wild celebrations. Just something casual. You've got teammates I haven't even met yet."

Tristan smirked slightly, reading between the lines. "You just want to meet the lads, don't you?"

Barbara grinned, draping an arm over his waist. "I mean... I've heard their names, but I want to actually talk to them. You spend all your time with them, and I've barely met half of them properly besides the team dinner. And that one I barely talked to anyone."

Tristan chuckled, his fingers still lazily stroking her back. "Alright. No drinks, no chaos. Just food, music, and some costumes. That should keep the dressing room happy."

Barbara grinned, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. "Exactly. Besides, I want to see you in a costume."

Tristan sighed dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. "You're going to make me dress up, aren't you?"

Barbara's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Oh, absolutely."

Tristan groaned, shaking his head. "Brilliant."

Barbara laughed, stretching out beside him. "Come on, it'll be fun. You need to do something for yourself too."

Tristan let out a quiet breath, his chin resting lightly on her head.

"Fine. But if I have to dress up, so do you."

Barbara grinned against his skin. "Oh, don't worry. I already have ideas for us."

Tristan narrowed his eyes. "That sounds like a trap."

Barbara giggled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"It's only a trap if you resist."

Tristan sighed, pulling the covers up over them. "This is how I know I've lost already."

Barbara smirked, curling up against him. "Good. Acceptance is the first step."

Tristan huffed a quiet laugh, closing his eyes as the warmth of her body and the weight of the day finally started pulling him under.

Barbara listened to his breathing slow, but her own thoughts kept her awake a little longer.

She had only just realized her feelings for him a few days ago.

And he didn't know.

She wasn't sure when or how she'd tell him, but for now... she was content just being here.

And as Tristan's fingers instinctively curled around hers in his sleep, she smiled.

Tomorrow could wait.

For now, this was enough.

..

11675 word count

This is only the first half of a 22k word Chapter, had to divde it in half otherwise Inkstone wouldn't let me post it. I'm debating where to post the second half today or on Sunday.

So lets do a bonus Chapter thing, 2100 power stones and I drop it today.