England's Greatest-Chapter 157: Full Circle

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..

November 9, 2014 – Morning After Southampton

The early morning sun streamed through the windows, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor. The kitchen smelled of fresh coffee, the faint aroma of breakfast still lingering in the air.

Barbara stood at the counter, wrapped in one of Tristan's oversized hoodies, her bare legs peeking out as she scrolled through her phone with one hand and held a steaming mug in the other. Across from her, Tristan sat at the dining table, lazily pushing around the last bits of his meal, still feeling the weight of yesterday's match.

Felix, already in his jacket, gave them both a knowing look as he wiped his hands on a dish towel. "I'm heading out. You two good?"

Barbara glanced up, offering a small, appreciative smile. "Yep! Thanks, Felix."

Tristan lifted his mug in acknowledgment, still too sluggish to move much. "Yeah, we've got it from here."

Felix took a slow look around the kitchen, his gaze settling on the state of the living room—blankets draped over the couch, a hoodie abandoned on the armrest, and a laundry pile in the corner that looked one misstep away from collapsing.

"Try not to burn the house down," he said, amused, slipping his arms through his coat.

Barbara let out a small sigh. "That was one time."

Felix chuckled as he stepped toward the door. "Sure. See you two later."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the house in silence.

Barbara took another sip of her coffee before lowering her mug, her eyes sweeping over the absolute disaster zone that had somehow become their home.

"Oh... my God."

Tristan barely looked up from his plate, still half-asleep. "What?"

Barbara gestured at the mess. "We let this get bad."

Tristan finally took a proper look around, eyes trailing over the scattered clothes and the general chaos.

"...Yeah."

Barbara exhaled, resting a hand on her hip. "We should've bought a smaller house."

Tristan leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. "You were the one who wanted a big closet."

Barbara shot him a look. "And you were the one who bought the house."

"Because you liked it."

She opened her mouth to argue—then paused, realizing he had her there. Her eyes narrowed.

"...Damn it."

Tristan flashed a smile "Checkmate."

Barbara groaned, rubbing her temples. "Fine. But you're doing the laundry."

Tristan turned toward the ever-growing pile of clothes in the corner. He let out a deep sigh, rubbing his forehead as if he'd just been given the toughest challenge of his career.

"I've made a huge mistake."

Barbara laughed, walking past him toward the cleaning supplies. "Welcome to adulthood, Hale."

Tristan dragged himself up from his chair, still shooting longing glances at the couch. "I was better off in my academy dorm."

Barbara turned, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? You wanna go back to bunk beds and communal showers?"

Tristan froze, a visible shudder running through him.

"Alright," he said quickly. "I'll shut up now."

Barbara tugged the vacuum free, lips twitching. "One smart decision a day—that's your limit."

Tristan watched as she untangled the cord, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand."Still don't see why we don't just hire someone to do this."

Barbara paused mid-reach, then slowly turned to give him that look. The one that didn't need words.

He already knew the answer.

They'd talked about it before—about housekeepers and laundry services, about how easy it would be to outsource the little things.

But it never felt right.

Barbara came from a farming family—early mornings, muddy boots, chores before school. Even with years in the fashion world, that part of her never faded.

Tristan had grown up in a strict, modest home where no one got a free pass. His mum believed in spotless counters, his dad in pulling your weight.

They had a private chef. They had more money than they could ever need.But cleaning their home?

That was theirs.

Barbara tossed a shirt into the laundry basket, glancing at him, her expression softening."We don't need to be even more spoiled. We already have everything. If we stop doing the little things... what's left?"

Tristan didn't answer right away. He just stepped forward, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, his hands settling gently at her waist.

"I know."

Barbara opened her phone, fingers hovering over her playlist. "Alright," she said thoughtfully, "we need a proper cleaning soundtrack. Something to make this feel less like manual labor and more like an '80s montage."

Tristan glanced sideways at the mess of laundry behind them. "If you play Eye of the Tiger, I'm walking out."

Barbara snorted. "Oh, come on. You love a good training montage."

Tristan crossed his arms. "Not for laundry."

She scrolled until she found the song, then hit play. The opening beats of Uptown Funk blasted through the speakers.

Tristan groaned. "Of course."

Barbara ignored him, grabbing the vacuum and pointing it at him like a mic.

"Come on, superstar. Time to earn your keep."

Tristan rolled his eyes but couldn't help the laugh that slipped out. He grabbed a throw pillow and tossed it at her.

Barbara dodged it with a twirl, flipping her hair like.

Tristan shook his head, but his feet were already tapping to the beat.

And as the music carried through the house, they got to work.

Barbara vacuumed, throwing in a clearly unnecessary little hip wiggle with each pass.

Tristan laughed from the couch, wiping down the coffee table, his eyes glued to her. And she knew it.

At one point, she turned and struck a dramatic pose with the vacuum hose, like she was mid-music video.

"You having fun?" Tristan called out, stacking the last of the blankets.

Barbara glanced over her shoulder, grinning.

"More than you."

She bumped her hip into him as she passed. Tristan staggered back with a theatrical stumble.

"Babe," he warned, mock glaring. "You're gonna regret that."

Barbara gasped in mock fear, darting off to fluff the pillows. Tristan chased after her—long enough to land a sharp slap to her ass as she squealed and dove behind the armchair.

A few minutes later, she caught him singing under his breath, bobbing his head slightly while scrubbing down the dining table.

Leaning against the counter, arms folded, Barbara smirked. "Oh my God. Are you actually having fun?"

Tristan scoffed, tossing the rag onto the table. "Don't make this a thing."

Barbara plucked a cup from the counter and slid it into the dishwasher. "It's already a thing."

Tristan let out a dramatic sigh—but when she spun around, he was already there. His hands caught her waist, lifting her clean off the ground as he spun her in one playful circle before setting her down again.

Barbara squealed, swatting his chest. "Put me down, you brute!"

Tristan grinned down at her. "That's for making me do housework."

She shook her head, breathless from laughing.

"Yeah, yeah. Now come on—we still have laundry."

Tristan groaned as she grabbed his hand and tugged him down the hall, but there was no real protest.

..

The low hum of the washing machines filled the small laundry room, steady and constant, like background music to their domestic detour.

Tristan rummaged through the laundry basket, pulling out a clean T-shirt and a pair of plaid shorts. He gave them a quick shake before slipping the shirt over his head, swapping his pants without ceremony.

"Might as well get comfortable if we're doing this," he muttered, stepping into the shorts like he was settling in for a long shift.

Barbara leaned against the counter, sipping from her water bottle as she watched him with barely concealed amusement.

"Comfy now, grandpa?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at the checkered shorts.

Tristan hopped up onto the washing machine with casual ease, arms folded across his chest, one foot swinging lazily off the edge.

"I look incredible," he said flatly.

Barbara rolled her eyes and pushed off the counter. Then, without warning, she stopped in front of him and struck a pose—arms flexed, biceps tight, a dramatic curl of her lip like she'd just won Mr. Olympia.

"Yeah, yeah—but do you see these?" she said, switching to an exaggerated bodybuilder stance. "No supplements. Just raw, farm girl strength."

Tristan tilted his head like a judge at a strongman contest, pretending to study her arms.

"Huh," he said, thoughtfully. "How did I not realize I was dating a rural tank?"

Barbara kissed her biceps theatrically, then raised one arm like she might hoist him over her shoulder.

"I could carry you through this entire house if I wanted to."

Tristan laughed, shaking his head as his heels tapped softly against the washer. "You really think so?"

Barbara crossed her arms, chin lifted. "You're lucky I let you feel like the strong one. I'm just preserving your ego."

Tristan slid off the machine and stepped toward her, slow and deliberate, eyes narrowed with playful challenge.

"Alright, alright. You win, Popeye."

Barbara struck another flex just to make her point, then jabbed a finger into his side. "That's what I thought."

Tristan caught her hand before she could pull it back, tugging her closer until their noses nearly touched. His voice dropped.

"But if we're showing off muscles," he murmured, giving her waist a light squeeze, "should I be worried you'll start bench-pressing me in your sleep?"

Barbara barked out a laugh, giving his chest a light shove. "Don't tempt me."

Tristan stole a quick kiss before stepping back to the basket of unfolded laundry.

"Alright, show-off," he said, tossing a towel over his shoulder. "Let's finish this before you challenge me to an arm-wrestling match."

Barbara leaned back on her heel, arms folded, cool as ever. "Oh, I'd win that too."

..

The laundry was finally done—folded (ish) and stacked in their closet. The only thing left?

The bed.

It looked like a battlefield. Blankets twisted like debris, pillows tossed across the room, and the fitted sheet barely hanging on for dear life.

Barbara stood at the foot of it, arms crossed, expression unimpressed.

Tristan was already sprawled across the chaos, arms behind his head, eyes following her with unapologetic ease.

"You know," he said, voice lazy, "we could just leave it. Gives the place character."

Barbara didn't even blink. "Yeah. Like a crime scene."

Tristan lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Adds charm."

Barbara sighed and stepped forward, tugging at the corner of the sheet with practiced frustration.

That was her first mistake.

Before she could get a grip, Tristan lunged—grabbing her by the waist and yanking her down onto the mattress with him.

"Tristan!" she yelped, landing half on top of him, legs tangled in the blankets.

His arms locked around her, holding her in place. "You're not allowed to clean without supervision."

Barbara squirmed, half-laughing. "You're just trying to get out of helping."

Tristan shrugged beneath her. "Guilty."

She pressed a hand against his chest, trying to sit up. "Let me go, weirdo. I'm fixing the bed."

"Bed looks fine to me."

Barbara shot him a look. "Because you're lying in the middle of it like a king."

"Exactly." He tightened his grip. "My house. My rules."

Barbara narrowed her eyes. "Okay, now I'm definitely getting up."

Tristan didn't move. "You'll have to fight me for it."

She pushed again, trying to roll off him. "Fine. But when I win, I'm taking all the pillows."

He gave a low laugh. "You won't win."

"Wanna bet?"

He adjusted his grip slightly, pulling her in until their noses nearly touched.

"Careful," he murmured. "You're starting something you can't finish."

Barbara's breath caught, but her gaze didn't waver.

"Try me."

And just like that—he moved.

With zero hesitation, Tristan suddenly sat up, grabbed her by the waist, and lifted her clean off the bed.

"Wait—Tristan—!"

Before she could finish the sentence, he spun and powerbombed her onto the mattress—not with full force, obviously, but just enough to make her bounce and let out a breathless laugh.

She landed sprawled across the sheets, hair a mess, half-laughing, half-shocked.

"You're insane!"

"DOWN GOES PALVIN!" Tristan bellowed in his best wrestling announcer voice, throwing both hands in the air like a victorious champion.

Barbara wheezed, gripping her stomach. "What is wrong with you?!"

"Nothing," he said, dropping to his knees and striking a stupid victory pose.

With a burst of speed, Barbara tackled him around the waist, knocking him sideways. Tristan barely had time to react before she threw herself on top of him, trying to pin his arms.

For a few minutes, it was chaos.

Barbara twisted, attempting a submission hold with absolutely no technique. Tristan, stronger but laughing too hard to take it seriously, rolled them both over.

At one point, she broke free, leapt onto his back, and locked her arms around his neck in what could generously be called a sleeper hold.

"FUCK YOU!" she cackled.

Tristan, deadpan and unfazed, reached up, grabbed her by the waist, and flipped her over his shoulder—gentle but firm, sending them both tumbling.

Barbara landed flat on her back, blinking up at him.

"I can't believe you just did that."

Tristan hovered over her, hands planted on either side of her head, trying to catch his breath. "Never challenge a man who grew up watching WWE."

Barbara narrowed her eyes. "Fine. No more mercy."

Before he could react, she twisted, locked her legs around his waist, and flipped him clean over with a surprisingly decent leg sweep.

Tristan hit the mattress with a soft thud, stunned.

"...Okay," he said, staring up at the ceiling. "That was kind of impressive."

Barbara stood over him, chest rising and falling, flushed from laughing. "That's what I thought."

Before she could fully celebrate, Tristan retaliated—hooking an arm around her waist and pulling her down with him, flipping them again with a bit too much momentum.

And then—

His knee clipped her thigh.

Barbara let out a short, sharp breath. Not loud. But enough.

Tristan froze.

His arms dropped like he'd touched something hot.

"Shit," he said, eyes already scanning her face. "Did I—was that bad?"

Barbara winced as she rubbed the spot. "Bit of a hit. It's fine."

He sat up, bracing his hands behind him, still watching her like she might keel over.

"You sure?"

She gave him a look. "If I wasn't, do you think I'd still be sitting here talking?"

He didn't answer. His eyes flicked to her thigh, then back to her face.

"Still. That looked like it hurt."

Barbara rolled her eyes. "It's a bruise. Not a shattered femur."

"I don't know," Tristan muttered. "You made a noise."

"I always make noises."

"Not that one."

A pause.

"...You're not gonna tell Mum, right?"

Barbara's lips twitched. "Wow."

"I'm just saying. That feels like something that gets me a lecture and an ice pack schedule."

She shook her head, amused. "You're acting like you punched me in the face."

"You made the pain noise," he said flatly, "besides when we're doing it. There's no coming back from that."

Barbara leaned forward and poked his chest. "Then make it up to me."

Tristan exhaled, already bracing himself. "How bad's the bill?"

She shrugged. "A date. Good food. No complaining."

He nodded slowly, like it was part of a hostage negotiation. "Deal."

Barbara eased back onto the bed. "And maybe rub my leg later."

Tristan stretched out beside her, cautious. "Not right now though. I've been blacklisted."

"You're on thin ice," she mumbled, eyes closed.

A beat passed.

"...Sorry," he muttered. "No more wrestling."

She cracked one eye open.

"I'm fine. I like it when we fake fight."

..

The midday sun hung lazily in the sky, painting the streets of Leicester in soft golden hues. It was the perfect autumn day—not too cold, not too warm—just enough that a light jacket was all that was needed.

Tristan and Barbara strolled through the city center, hands lazily intertwined as they wandered past familiar storefronts, the light hum of traffic and distant chatter filling the air.

They had grabbed food at a cozy café, stopped by a bookstore where Barbara had gotten lost in the travel section, and now they were just walking without any real destination, simply enjoying each other's company with of course John not too far behind them.

Barbara swung their joined hands slightly, glancing up at him. "You seem relaxed today."

Tristan hummed, his gaze flickering across the familiar streets. "Yeah, it's nice. Been a while since I just... walked around here."

Barbara tilted her head slightly. "You recognize this area?"

Tristan exhaled through his nose, nodding. "Yeah. Grew up not too far from here. Used to run around these streets with my friend after school, kicking a ball against whatever wall we could find."

Barbara smiled softly. "Bet you thought you were already playing in the Premier League back then."

He let out a quiet chuckle. "You have no idea. I was convinced scouts were watching me dribble around lampposts."

Barbara laughed, nudging him playfully. "And look at you now. Leicester's golden boy."

Tristan shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "Wouldn't go that far."

As they rounded a corner, the surroundings became even more familiar. The quiet residential street gave way to a modest brick building with large blue gates, the faint sounds of children's laughter echoing from within.

Tristan's steps slowed.

Barbara immediately noticed the slight shift in his grip, the way his gaze lingered ahead. She followed his line of sight, her eyes landing on an older man in a tweed coat, chatting casually with a woman near the school entrance.

It didn't take long for her to put the pieces together.

"Is that—?" she started.

"Yeah," Tristan said, a little amused. "That's my old school."

Barbara glanced between him and the building, surprised. "You never mentioned it was around here."

Tristan shrugged. "Didn't really think about it until now."

As if sensing someone watching, the older man near the gate turned. His expression remained neutral for a split second—then, recognition dawned, and his features broke into a smile.

"Well, well," he said, adjusting his glasses as he stepped forward. "Tristan Hale."

Tristan smiled, stepping up to shake his hand. "Mr. Holloway, still holding down the fort?"

The headmaster laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "Trying my best, though it's a bit quieter without you running around causing trouble."

Barbara raised an eyebrow, looking between them. "Causing trouble, huh?"

Mr. Holloway chuckled, his eyes twinkling with nostalgia. "Oh, don't let this one fool you. Talented? Absolutely. But if there was a ball nearby, lessons might as well have not existed."

Tristan rubbed the back of his neck, feigning innocence. "It was all part of my education."

The headmaster shook his head with an amused sigh. "So what brings you here?"

"Honestly? Just passing by," Tristan admitted.

Mr. Holloway's eyes flickered toward the school building before settling back on him. "You know, the kids here never stop talking about you. You're probably our most famous former student—though I try to remind them that education is just as important as football."

Tristan chuckled. "Good luck with that."

Mr. Holloway smiled knowingly before gesturing toward the school. "Listen, I know you're busy, but since you're already here... how about coming inside? Say hello to some of your old teachers? Maybe even surprise the kids?"

"I don't want to—" he started, but the older man waved a hand dismissively.

"Oh, nonsense," Mr. Holloway interrupted. "It'll only take a few minutes. The kids would love it."

Barbara squeezed Tristan's arm gently. "What do you think?"

Tristan exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting toward the schoolyard. The sounds of laughter and chatter carried over the wind, the kind of carefree noise that belonged to kids who didn't yet know the weight of the world. His head instantly want to Jack.

Finally, he nodded. "Alright. Let's go."

Mr. Holloway beamed. "Excellent! Follow me."

Barbara leaned in, brushing her arm against his as they followed the headmaster inside.

"This," she murmured, "is going to be adorable."

She could still remember the hospital visit vividly in her head—Tristan playing with the kids.

The hum of chatter and laughter filled the school corridors as Tristan followed Mr. Holloway through the familiar hallways of St. Andrew's Primary. It had been years since he last walked these halls, but everything still felt the same—maybe a little smaller than he remembered, but the same nonetheless. The colorful posters on the walls, the faint smell of paper and whiteboard markers, the echoes of running footsteps from kids who were probably ignoring their teachers' warnings not to sprint indoors.

Barbara trailed beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, taking in the sight with quiet amusement.

"Surreal, isn't it?" she murmured.

Tristan huffed a small laugh. "Yeah. Feels like I should be carrying a backpack and worrying about my spelling test."

Mr. Holloway chuckled as they reached the staff room, where a small group of teachers had already gathered, some of them looking up in mild surprise before their eyes widened with recognition.

"Tristan," one of them beamed, stepping forward. "Well, look what the wind blew in!"

Tristan shook hands with his old teachers, the corners of his mouth lifting as they joked about how often he'd skipped class for the pitch.

"Best first touch I've ever seen from a six-year-old," his former PE teacher mused, shaking his head. "Couldn't get you to focus on anything else, though."

Barbara nudged him, her voice dry. "Some things never change."

After catching up with the teachers, Mr. Holloway led them outside to the schoolyard, where the children were still on their lunch break. The moment Tristan stepped onto the playground, it was like a ripple effect—one kid noticed him, then another, and suddenly, the entire yard was buzzing with excitement.

"IT'S TRISTAN!"

Within seconds, a swarm of kids rushed toward him, their faces alight with awe and excitement. Some clutched footballs, others wore Leicester City shirts with his name printed on the back. A few were too stunned to speak, their eyes just wide as they stared up at him like he had just stepped out of a dream.

Barbara watched the scene unfold, warmth blooming in her chest as Tristan crouched down to greet them, ruffling hair, signing jerseys, and laughing as the kids fired off a barrage of questions.

"How fast can you run?"

"Can you do skills like Ronaldo?"

"Are you better than Messi?"

Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. "Messi's the GOAT, lads. But I can hold my own."

The kids erupted into excited chatter, and before he knew it, a football had been kicked toward him.

"Can we play a match?" one of them asked eagerly.

Tristan looked down at the ball at his feet, then up at the hopeful faces surrounding him.

He shot a look her way. "Alright. But only if I get Barbara on my team."

Barbara, who had been enjoying the scene from the sidelines, blinked. "Wait, what?"

Too late. The kids cheered, already organizing themselves into teams as Tristan tossed the ball to the center of the makeshift pitch.

"Come on, cover girl," he teased, nudging her lightly. "Let's see what you've got."

Barbara groaned but couldn't fight her smile as she stepped onto the pitch.

The match had been a blur of laughter, dramatic goal celebrations, and kids running wildly in every direction. By the end of it, Tristan had let the kids score a few goals while Barbara... well, she tried her best.

Now, as the last of the kids were ushered back to class, Tristan leaned against the school building. God, he felt more tired playing against Southampton than against the kids; he had to be careful not to hurt them or go too hard. Mr. Holloway stood beside him, watching as the students disappeared inside.

"You haven't changed much," the headmaster mused. "Still happiest with a ball at your feet."

Tristan exhaled, nodding slightly. "Yeah. Some things just stick."

Mr. Holloway folded his arms, glancing at him. "It means a lot that you came today, Tristan. The kids will remember this for a long time."

Tristan nodded, his gaze drifting toward the field. "I know what it's like to be a kid and look up to someone. Feels good to give them that moment."

There was a brief pause before Tristan spoke again, more serious this time. "Actually... there's something I wanted to mention."

Mr. Holloway turned toward him, curiosity flickering across his face.

"I'm setting up a charity," Tristan continued. "Still in the early stages, but I want it to focus on a few things—education, youth programs, giving kids better opportunities." He gestured around the school. "Places like this... they matter. If the school ever needs anything, supplies, new equipment, whatever—just let me know."

Mr. Holloway looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression.

Then, he smiled.

"You were always a good kid, Tristan. A bit of a handful," he added with a chuckle, "but a good kid."

Tristan smiled, shaking his head. "I try."

Mr. Holloway extended his hand, and Tristan shook it firmly. "I'll hold you to that, son. And if there's ever anything we can do for you, you know where to find us."

Barbara, who had been watching, smiled as she caught her breath.

The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows over the pavement as Tristan and Barbara left the school gates behind. The lingering sounds of children laughing still echoed faintly in Tristan's ears.

Barbara looped her arm around his as they walked, her touch light and easy, as if she knew he needed the space to process everything.

"You're really good with them," she said after a moment, her voice softer than usual.

Tristan exhaled through his nose, kicking at a stray pebble on the sidewalk. "Yeah?"

Barbara hummed. "Mhm. You looked like you belonged there."

Tristan huffed out a quiet laugh. "You saying I missed my calling?"

She nudged his side playfully. "Maybe. But it was cute watching them look at you like you hung the stars."

Tristan shook his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Dunno about that. I think they just like football."

Barbara smiled, letting the silence stretch between them for a beat before speaking again. "Have you ever thought about kids?"

Tristan glanced at her, eyebrows raising slightly. "Yeah, of course." His voice was casual, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his expression. "Why're you asking?"

Barbara shrugged, tilting her head as she gazed ahead. "I don't know. Maybe because of the hospital visit, and now this. Also, seems like everyone around us keeps bringing it up."

Tristan let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. "Babe, you're twenty-one. I'm nineteen. Let's get married first before thinking about kids."

Barbara let out a laugh, squeezing his arm. "Obviously! I'm not saying now, I'm just... asking." Her voice turned a bit more thoughtful. "I guess I was just wondering. How many would you want?"

Tristan looked at her for a moment before his lips quirked slightly. "How many do you want? It's your body, love."

Barbara paused, clearly not expecting that answer. She glanced at him, love flickering in her eyes. "I don't know. Two? Three?" She hesitated. "I guess... enough to make a family without it feeling overwhelming."

Tristan nodded, considering. "Two or three sounds good. Siblings are nice to have. I liked being an only kid, but it did feel lonely at times."

Barbara let that sit for a moment before looking up at him. "You'd be a great dad, you know."

Tristan's lips twitched slightly, as if unsure how to take the compliment. "Yeah?"

Barbara smiled. "Mhm."

He exhaled, giving her hand a squeeze. "Well, not rushing it. We've got time."

Barbara laughed. "I know that, babe."

She prayed to God in that moment. They reached that far with their own family and kids.

The source of this c𝓸ntent is freewebnøvel.coɱ.

Tristan leaned in slightly, voice soft but teasing. "Alright then. We've still got a lot of life to live before we're chasing around little us."

Barbara chuckled, resting her head against his arm for a moment as they walked. "Yeah, but it's fun to think about."

Tristan didn't say anything; he just pressed a light kiss to the side of her head as they continued down the street, the weight of their future feeling a little lighter in the warmth of the setting sun.

...

5015 word count not counting this end section

I felt like writing something light after, like, 3 Chapters of straight football, around 20k words.

Hmm, I've seen a few comments saying Leicester and Tristan look ordinary. Well, uh, that's because they are kind of supposed to be, in a way. I'm using the same fixtures as in real life. Against United, they won 5-3 pretty easily, and that score could have been higher. That's why I was comfortable with a scoreline of 7-1.

Jamie Vardy this season only had 5 goals, and even with Tristan, it's not like he's suddenly become the best striker; dude is inconsistent for now.

The same goes for everyone else; no one is consistent or a world-class player on that team other than Tristan. As for Tristan looking ordinary, I think I, as the author, see it differently than some of you guys. Tristan can't get assists and goals every game; that's not how this works. He only has Kevin De Bruyne's template and his own training; he's not Messi. That team and manager are, at times, shit.

But he is still carrying a shitty team to the top of the Premier League; that's something no one else could do, even Ronaldo and Messi.

Dude is the best player in the league; how is he ordinary?

That result that you guys are looking for is next season, that miracle season where they get a new manager, Kanté, and all of a sudden, Vardy suddenly becomes England's best striker, everyone goes crazy, and they almost win the league undefeated.

No, seriously, they almost went undefeated; they lost 3 games to win the league.

As for that romance, that's something I just like writing about a lot, and there isnt much to write about this season, where I started the 2015-2016 season on Patreon, and it's focused heavily on football.