England's Greatest

Chapter 165 - What Is Love

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December 20, 2014 — 76th Minute, Boleyn Ground...

"Back to Tristan now—he's drifting central..."

The commentary sharpened as the camera tracked Tristan, his boots slicing through the damp pitch. One tight touch, then another—he turned into space just outside the edge of the box, eyes scanning.

"You can see him looking... waiting... oh, that's clever!"

A subtle drop of the shoulder. A quick chop. Then a disguised reverse pass—threaded right between two claret shirts like he'd planned it hours ago.

And storming into the box—

"Morgan!?"

A booming strike.

Top corner.

The net rippled.

"WES MORGAN!!! HIS SECOND OF THE NIGHT! AND IT'S TRISTAN HALE WITH THE ASSIST—HIS FIRST OF THE MATCH!"

The roar at the Boleyn Ground built like thunder.

"And that—right there—is why he's this year's Golden Boy."

The camera panned to Tristan jogging back toward the halfway line. No fist pump. No grand celebration. Just a nod. Composed. Clinical. A flash of a smile as Morgan was swallowed by his teammates near the corner flag.

"And the score is 2–0 to Leicester City here in East London!"

..

Inside the private box, Mendes was already halfway out of his seat. He was here to congrats Tristan on the Golden Boy since he couldn't make it.

"He's gotten even better," he muttered, half to himself. "That's his 17th assist in the league now, right?"

Sofia nodded once, her tone matter-of-fact as she adjusted her glasses."Correct. That brings him to 43 goal contributions in 28 matches across all competitions."

She tapped something quickly into her phone, numbers flickering on the screen.

"He's on pace with Messi and Ronaldo."

Mendes exhaled slowly, as if trying to wrap his head around it.

"A nineteen-year-old..." he said, voice low. "It's crazy."

He leaned back slightly, gaze still fixed on the pitch.

"I remember when I signed him. You could see the talent—everyone could. But this? This level, this fast?"

He shook his head, a small, almost reverent smile tugging at his mouth.

"They always said there were two kings—Messi and Ronaldo. Now there are two princes chasing their crowns. Neymar... and him."

There was a beat of silence. Maybe in a few years he has to choose between Tristan and Ronaldo when it comes to the Ballon d'Or and whose the best player on the planet. Then Mendes leaned forward again, glancing down the row of seats toward Barbara.

"Barbara," he called, just loud enough for her to hear. "Tell Tristan not to do anything dramatic when he donates that money. Keep it clean."

Barbara glanced over from her seat beside Anita, brows raised.

"Dramatic?"

Mendes raised his hands like it was obvious.

"You and I both know what he's like. He means well, but he's got a mouth."

Sofia chimed in dryly.

"He's still a better PR case than ninety percent of football. No tabloid girlfriends. No scandals. No court cases. Just talking back to the media."

Mendes didn't argue. Just folded his arms and smiled faintly.

"Thank God for that." Mendes replied as he could barely handle a young Ronaldo, he didn't want to deal with that all over again.

The final whistle pierced the air.

Leicester City 2, West Ham 0.

Three points. A clean sheet.

Wes Morgan had barely made it down the tunnel before a club staffer flagged him down for a flash interview. His shirt clung to him, soaked through, grin stretching wide.

"Two goals, clean sheet, and man of the match," the reporter said, holding the mic steady.

Morgan laughed, still catching his breath. "That second one? All Tristan. I just smacked it."

..

A few paces back, Tristan tugged at his damp shirt, chest still rising fast from the final sprint.

He didn't make it far.

"You've got ten minutes," Sofia said, stepping in front of him. She tapped her watch without looking up. "Mendes wants to say goodbye before he heads to Heathrow."

Tristan nodded once, still breathing hard.

They walked in silence down the corridor just outside the dressing room, where Mendes was waiting—coat over one arm, scarf tossed neatly around his neck, phone in his free hand.

His gaze lifted when he saw Tristan.

"Good win," Mendes said. "Solid game. That assist? Cold."

Tristan exhaled through his nose, a quiet laugh slipping out. "Morgan made it easy."

Mendes didn't blink. "Don't do that. Own it."

Sofia leaned against the nearby wall, arms folded. "One assist. Seven chances created. Ninety-three percent pass accuracy," she added, eyes still on her phone. "Nothing new."

"You keeping track or showing off?" Tristan asked one eyebrow raised.

Sofia deadpanned. "Both."

Mendes checked his phone again, then looked back at Tristan. "I'll call you tomorrow. We'll talk more then."

Tristan nodded. "I figured."

Mendes stepped in, rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. "Keep your head down. Eyes up. And enjoy your Christmas, yeah?"

Then he turned to Sofia. "You're staying?"

"Until the 24th," she replied.

Mendes gave a faint nod. "Good. He needs someone to keep him under control besides just Barbara."

And with that, he was gone—out the side door, phone already back to his ear.

..

Tristan watched him disappear, then glanced at Sofia.

She didn't say anything for a beat. Then—

"Congrats on the assist," she said softly.

He shrugged. "Could've had a goal."

"Save it for next week," she replied, then added, "Barbara and Anita are waiting for you in the car. They want to go Christmas shopping before heading back to Hungary."

She stepped away, already checking something on her phone. "I've got stuff to take care of. I'll see you later."

Tristan nodded.

Then turned for the locker room.

Tristan stepped out of the players' exit, tugging his coat tighter against the December chill.

Just past the barrier, his car waited at the curb.

John sat behind the wheel, sunglasses still on despite the grey London sky. He gave a subtle nod and popped the door open without a word.

"Evening, boss," he said, voice low and casual.

"Hey," Tristan replied, sliding into the front seat and exhaling as the warmth hit him.

In the back, Anita glanced up from her phone. Barbara sat beside her, bundled in her coat, one arm loosely draped over her sister's lap.

"There he is," Barbara said, her tone soft with a familiar spark.

Tristan turned slightly in his seat, elbow resting on the center console.

"Christmas shopping, yeah?"

Barbara raised a brow. "Still up for it?"

He gave a small, tired smile. "Yeah. We didn't exactly get time to shop for our parents. And I've got to sort something for the lads too."

He leaned back with a short breath.

"Vardy's already plotting what to buy everyone. If the richest guy in the room does nothing, I won't hear the end of it."

Barbara huffed a quiet laugh.

Anita didn't understand the words, but she caught the tone—light, warm—and smiled.

..

Christmas lights hung between the storefronts, glowing softly like something out of a snow globe.

Barbara slipped her hand into Tristan's without looking. Their fingers laced together easily—like muscle memory. Her thumb brushed gently across his knuckles as they walked, the chill in the air making the warmth between them feel even sweeter.

Anita trailed just behind, hands buried in the sleeves of her coat. Her eyes bounced from window to window—first a pastel coat under soft lighting, then a chocolate shop dressed in gold foil and red ribbons.

Barbara leaned her head briefly against Tristan's shoulder.

"Alright," she murmured, lifting her gaze. "First stop—Auntie Julia."

"My mum doesn't need anything fancy," Tristan said, frowning slightly. "She's got access to my account and hasn't spent a single dime. No matter how many times I tell her to."

Barbara laughed softly. "That's exactly why she needs something fancy."

She gave his hand a small squeeze.

"I think I know your mum well enough by now. And Uncle Ling, too."

They turned the corner onto a quieter street—one of those tucked-away lanes where the boutiques had doormen and gold script signs on the glass. The kind of place Barbara knew by heart.

"This one," she said, tugging gently on Tristan's hand.

He blinked at the storefront. The windows glowed with soft downlighting, highlighting sleek leather bags perched like trophies behind glass. A security guard nodded as they stepped inside.

Tristan muttered, "This feels like the kind of place where touching things costs money."

Barbara leaned in close, voice low. "Only if you're not charming enough."

Anita stayed near the entrance, wide-eyed, her breath fogging up the window as she looked out at the street.

Barbara moved through the shelves looking for anything that caught her eye. She paused in front of a deep navy leather handbag, her eyes scanning the stitching.

"This one," she said quietly.

Tristan looked over her shoulder. "You sure?"

"She's going to open it, roll her eyes, then spend the next year using it every single day," Barbara said. "That's a win."

Tristan smiled at that, but didn't say anything.

While Barbara chatted with the clerk, arranging the wrapping and discreetly paying, Tristan stepped away—just for a moment.

He wandered to a smaller counter near the back. Silk scarves, delicate perfume sets, and a row of understated jewelry pieces.

He pointed to a slim velvet box, something simple and elegant.

"For her," he told the shopgirl quietly, nodding toward Anita.

Back outside, Barbara took the black shopping bag from the clerk with a satisfied little nod. She turned to see Tristan tucking something small into his coat pocket.

She narrowed her eyes.

"What was that?"

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Nothing."

Barbara stepped closer. "That didn't look like nothing."

"Wasn't for you," he said, deadpan. "So don't ruin it."

She leaned in. "For who, then?"

Tristan glanced over at Anita, who was now peeking into the window of a bakery next door.

Barbara's expression softened. "That's really sweet."

He shrugged, trying not to look affected. "She's your big sister."

Barbara smiled slowly. "You're getting very good at this whole 'boyfriend' thing."

"I try," he said, smiling.

She bumped her shoulder against his. "Well, don't get too cocky. I've still got a surprise up my sleeve."

He gave her a sideways glance kissing her on the head. "Funny. So do I."

They kept walking.

The next stop was a quiet little tea house with wooden floors and a brass bell above the door. The owner was old-school, but polite when Barbara explained what they were after.

Tristan pointed toward a display in the back—imported Chinese tea leaves in dark-lacquered boxes.

"My dad's not the sentimental type," he said. "But he's obsessed with this stuff."

Barbara nodded in approval. "It's perfect."

They paid. Tristan carried the box himself.

After that, they found a watch shop—sleek, minimalist. Barbara picked out something sharp and understated for her dad, knowing exactly what kind of leather strap he'd prefer. Something he'd wear to market but also tuck away in a drawer like a family heirloom.

For her mum, they stopped at a home design shop and picked out a luxury set of candles, a high-end tea kettle, and a knit shawl woven with cashmere.

"Your parents are farmers," Tristan said as he paid. "But they're still royalty to me."

Barbara didn't say anything at first. Then she leaned up and kissed his cheek.

Anita didn't understand the words—she hadn't for most of the trip. But she understood the mood. The feeling.

And when Tristan handed her a small box later that night the ribbon already tied, she looked at him wide-eyed.

„Ez nekem van?" she whispered. (This is for me?)

Tristan just smiled and answered softly—in Hungarian, because he knew she'd appreciate it. He made sure Barbara couldn't hear him.

"Boldog karácsonyt, Anita." (Merry Christmas, Anita.)

She laughed quietly, then hugged him taking the gift—quick but sincere.

Barbara glanced over. "What was that about?"

Anita just smiled, shrugged, and said nothing.

..

December 24, 2014 — Christmas Eve..

The living room smelled like pine, cinnamon, and the faint remnants of Felix's morning batch of gingerbread. The tree stood proud in the corner, lights blinking softly, ornaments unevenly spread—Tristan had never been good at the "decorating" part.

He sat cross-legged on the rug, wrapping the last of the gifts with tape that stuck more to his fingers than the paper.

Across from him, his mum was on the couch, knitting half a scarf and watching The Holiday. Tristan's dad was in the kitchen, humming tunelessly and nursing a cup of mulled wine.

"Remind me again," Julia said, tugging at a stubborn thread, "why your wrapping always looks like you used your feet?"

"I'm an artist," Tristan muttered. "The chaos is intentional."

His mum laughed softly. "Mm-hmm."

They exchanged presents after dinner—Tristan handing over the deep navy handbag to his mom, who looked like she might swat him with it for spending so much, even as she clutched it close. His dad, upon unboxing the lacquered tea leaves, gave a low whistle and muttered something about "bloody hell" in the best way possible.

Tristan didn't need much. Just being home was enough. But he'd gotten a new pair of headphones, a fresh leather-bound journal, and a tin of his favorite tea that Julia claimed was "too expensive, but you're annoying when you're tired, so it's worth it."

And when he went to bed that night—alone, for that first time in a while—the pillow felt too cold, and the bed too quiet.

He knew exactly why.

Later that night...

The lights were off. The only glow came from his phone, resting face up on the nightstand. Tristan lay on his side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the house completely still.

Ping.

His screen lit up with Barbara's name.

1 New Message:

Love: Merry Christmas, babe 🎅❤️

Attached was a photo.

She was standing in front of a mirror, wearing a red velvet corset trimmed with white fur, long black thigh-high boots, and the signature Santa hat tilted playfully to one side. The wings were gone—thank God—but everything else?

Yeah. That stayed in his head a second too long.

A second message followed right after.

Love: Try not to pass out. I wore this for a shoot. Not for you. Mostly.

Tristan stared at the screen for a beat, lips twitching.

Then typed back.

Tristan: Yeah, and I score tap-ins on purpose. Liar. You wear that in 2012

Another beat. Then she replied:

Love: Get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be fun.

He didn't respond. Just smiled to himself, set the phone down, and finally—finally—fell asleep.

..

December 25, 2014 — Christmas Day

East Midlands Airport was quieter than usual. Just past noon, the arrivals lounge hummed softly under holiday lights and the occasional overhead announcement.

Tristan finished with the charity activities for the club and rushed to the airport.

Tristan stood near the barrier, hands tucked into the pockets of his wool coat.

Barbara came into view rolling her small red suitcase behind her, scarf loosely draped over her shoulder, the wind catching a few strands of her hair as the automatic doors slid shut behind her. She spotted him, smiled, and walked faster.

Neither of them said anything at first.

They just collided in the middle of the terminal—Tristan's arms looping around her waist, Barbara burying her face into his chest.

"I missed you," she murmured.

Tristan's hand slipped into her hair, holding her there gently. "You're here now."

He pulled her suitcase with one hand and held hers with the other all the way to the car.

..

The house smelled incredible.

Candles flickered softly in every corner, white wax glowing warmly within delicate glass holders lining the table. Felix had truly outdone himself tonight: rosemary lamb, roasted vegetables glazed to perfection, a vibrant salad adorned with pomegranate seeds and crunchy walnuts, and elegant trays of desserts arranged like miniature towers. Gentle piano music floated softly in the background, blending harmoniously with Barbara's delighted laughter as she stepped into the room.

Her eyes widened, and she took in the cozy, candlelit scene.

"You guys didn't have to do all this," she whispered, voice filled with wonder.

Felix waved dismissively, eyes twinkling with pride. "I'm French. Simple isn't my style. Now sit and enjoy, lovebirds."

Dinner was warm and intimate, a world of their own, shielded from the outside by the gentle glow of candlelight. By the time dessert was finished, Barbara sat comfortably sideways in her chair, one sock-covered foot playfully nudging Tristan's knee beneath the table.

"So," she teased softly, eyes bright with excitement, "are we exchanging presents now?"

Tristan smiled warmly, standing up to retrieve a small white box tied elegantly with a red ribbon from the hallway. He placed it gently in front of her, watching her face closely, anticipation brightening his eyes.

Barbara tilted her head curiously, fingertips brushing the ribbon. "This isn't from the shopping trip."

"No," he admitted, sliding his chair closer, voice gentle, "this one's special."

Barbara slowly untied the ribbon, opening the box to reveal a delicate silver necklace with a slim, polished charm engraved with the Hungarian word "Örökké"—Forever.

Her breath caught softly, eyes widening with deep emotion. "Tristan... it's beautiful. Forever?"

He nodded softly, gently taking the necklace and leaning in close to clasp it around her neck. He lingered there for a heartbeat, breath soft against her skin before pulling back with a tender smile.

Barbara quickly wiped her eyes, overwhelmed. She reached beneath the table, retrieving a gold-wrapped gift, lovingly yet imperfectly packaged.

"Here," she whispered, voice quivering slightly. "Mine isn't wrapped as perfectly as yours."

He smiled fondly, carefully unwrapping it to find a dark braided leather bracelet. A silver clasp gleamed warmly in the candlelight, engraved with two simple yet powerful words in Hungarian: "Mindörökké együtt"—Forever together.

"Seems like we had the same idea," Barbara said softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Tristan gently placed the bracelet on his wrist, admiring it for a moment before standing up, extending a hand toward her. "Dance with me?"

Barbara smiled, her eyes still glistening. She rose gracefully, letting Tristan pull her close as they swayed softly in the candlelit room. Her cheek rested gently against his chest, breathing in the warmth of the moment.

They moved slowly together, the soft piano notes wrapping around them.

After a gentle turn, Tristan leaned down, brushing his lips softly against her hair, and whispered tenderly in Hungarian:

"Szeretlek, Barbara."

Barbara stopped breathing for a moment, eyes wide in disbelief and wonder as she looked up at him, tears immediately filling her eyes.

"What did you—?" she began, voice shaking slightly, surprise and warmth spilling into her expression. "Tristan... you just spoke Hungarian. Did you just—?"

Tristan nodded softly, his smile gentle and loving.

"When?" Barbara asked softly, her voice trembling with emotion. "Since when have you been learning Hungarian?"

Tristan took her hand in his, tracing slow circles on her knuckles, eyes never leaving hers.

"Since our first date," he admitted gently. "I wanted to surprise you. We're always speaking in English, and your family doesn't speak English... I wanted to show you how much I care, in your own language."

Barbara's eyes filled with tears, her hand tightening around his fingers, emotion flooding through her.

"You learned Hungarian... for me?" she whispered, tears starting to spill down her cheeks, sparkling softly in the candlelight. "I've waited so long to hear you say that.

"Tristan..."Én is szeretlek téged." (I love you too.), she murmured, overwhelmed. Her voice trembled as she gently cupped his face in both hands, pulling him closer, whispering back softly, deeply, in her native tongue:

She kissed him then, passionately and tenderly, pouring every feeling she'd held back into the gentle warmth of their embrace. Tristan held her tight, deepening the kiss as the world around them faded away, leaving only the soft piano melody, the candlelight, and the beautiful truth they'd finally shared aloud.

As they parted slightly, foreheads pressed together, Barbara smiled softly through her tears, fingertips gently tracing his jaw.

"Say it again," she murmured sweetly in Hungarian.

"Szeretlek, ( I love you)," Tristan whispered tenderly, voice filled with quiet conviction, heart beating steady against her chest.

"Mindörökké?, ( Forever?)", she asked softly, hopeful and smiling through happy tears.

"Mindörökké," he promised quietly, voice sincere, pulling her closer again.

And they danced slowly, gently, holding tightly to each other, softly whispering words of love in Hungarian as their hearts beat perfectly in rhythm, forever connected in this perfect, quiet moment.

..

3450 word count