England's Greatest-Chapter 162: Bruised Ego

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December 13, 2014:

The cold pack rested against his ribs, but it did little to ease the sting beneath the surface.

Tristan sat slouched on the couch, shirtless, muscles sore and bruised from ninety minutes of frustration. One hand pressed the ice against his side. The other tapped absently against his knee, his fingers twitching like his body didn't know how to sit still.

His legs ached. His back was stiff. His lungs still felt heavy.

But nothing hurt more than his pride.

3–1.

Manchester City.

Not just a loss—a shutdown.

They hadn't beaten him. They had smothered him.

Every time he turned, Yaya Touré was there—strong, composed, immovable. Fernandinho never stopped moving, tracking him like a shadow, cutting off his space before he could even breathe.

Pellegrini's tactics had been brutal in their simplicity: press him high, double him deep, hack him if he spins.

Cut off the head—and the body can't move.

It worked.

And it burned.

Tristan clenched his fists, and his head fell back landing on the headrest as he stared up at the ceiling absentmindedly.

Every time he closed his eyes flashes of every mistake would replay in his head endlessly. Every lost duel, every misplaced pass, every time he looked over his shoulder and found nowhere to go.

No rhythm.

No freedom.

Most of all, no impact.

"Fuck," he muttered, his voice was hoarse bitter.

Three games in under two weeks. Brutal fixtures.

Sunderland (W) — 1 goal, 2 assists

QPR (W) — 1 assist

Liverpool (L) — 1 goal, a screamer at that, but still a loss

Aston Villa (W) — 1 goal, 1 assist,

Manchester City (L) — and today? Nothing.

[A/N: I forget to write about the Sunderland and QPR games, honestly. Sorry, lol.]

A 7.7 rating.

His worst of the season.

He dropped the ice pack into his lap, leaned forward with a wince, and rested his elbows on his knees.

"System," he said under his breath, jaw clenched. "Show me my current stats."

The digital interface flickered into place, the familiar blue-tinted screen appearing only in his line of sight.

.....

[Name] – Tristan Hale

[Age] – 19

[Team] – Leicester City

[SHO] – B

[PAS] – A

[DRI] – C+

[PAC] – B+

[DEF] – C

[PHY] – C+

[Auxiliary] – Anti-Injury Cards (2)

He stared at the numbers in silence, his eyes squinted, hoping that they might change.

Alas, no such luck.

'Dribbling. Pace. Physicality... going up,' he thought. 'At least all that training is starting to pay off.'

"System," he murmured, voice lower now. "Rules still the same? Only way to level up is training or trophies?"

....

[System Notification]:

Correct.

The upcoming Golden Boy Award will grant access to a single draw: attribute enhancement, auxiliary perk, or player template.

He leaned back against the couch, a sigh escaping his chest.

Player template...

The thought drifted.

Just a glimpse. Just a portion of someone like Zidane, Messi, Iniesta—even a piece could shift everything.

"Show me my season stats," he said.

The screen adjusted, shifting to a glowing seasonal tracker.

[Leicester City]

17 games — 12 goals / 16 assists

[England]

5 games — 3 goals / 4 assists

[Europa League]

5 games — 3 goals / 4 assists

[Total: 27 games — 18 goals / 24 assists]

It wasn't bad.

No—it was world-class, actually. Better than almost everyone in the world.

But it didn't feel like it today. Not when Yaya Touré and that entire Man City team had him wrapped around his finger.

A door creaked open somewhere down the hallway accompanied by soft footsteps.

Then—Barbara's voice, gentle, cutting through the silence.

"Love?"

She was close now. "Still icing?"

He didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

She stepped into the room, her expression shifting the second she saw him—shirtless and slumped forward. His body was slouched as if an invisible weight had settled onto his shoulders.

Without a word, she crossed the floor, crouched beside him on the carpet, and gently took the cold pack from his lap.

He finally looked at her.

Her fingers brushed over the red marks on his side, slow and careful, like she was afraid of hurting him more.

Barbara grabbed a fresh ice pack from the mini-fridge under the TV, wrapped it in a towel, and pressed it to his ribs with quiet care. Her palm rested lightly against his chest for a moment. The warmth of her hand made the cold sting a little less.

"You're not a robot," she said finally, eyes fixed on the fresh bruise forming near his ribs. "You can have bad games."

Tristan didn't say anything.

She leaned in slowly, her forehead resting against his. Their breaths mingled in the space between them.

Her voice was soft. Steady.

"But you're still the best player in the world to me."

He let out a quiet breath, kissing her.

....

The dull ache in his ribs was the first thing Tristan felt as he stirred awake. The second was warmth—the soft weight of Barbara nestled against him, her face tucked into the curve of his neck, her breath a gentle rhythm against his skin.

His arm, draped around her waist, tightened instinctively, pulling her closer. She responded with a soft murmur, her lips brushing against his collarbone in a sleepy kiss.​

Tristan's fingers traced idle patterns along the curve of her spine, each touch a silent affirmation of his affection. The memory of yesterday's defeat lingered at the edges of his mind, but here, in this moment, it seemed a distant concern.​

He tilted his head to press a tender kiss to her forehead, lingering as if to imprint the sensation into his memory.​

Barbara stirred, her eyelashes fluttering before her eyes slowly opened, meeting his with a drowsy smile.​

"Morning," she whispered, her voice thick with sleep.

"Morning," he replied, his voice equally soft. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek.​

She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing briefly. "How are you feeling?"​

"Better," he murmured, though they both knew he wasn't just referring to his physical state.

The light outside was still muted, pale grey bleeding through the curtains—morning had barely started, but Tristan was already stirring.

He shifted slightly, his arm flexing around Barbara's waist.

But before he could move any farther, her lips pressed against his collarbone.

"Don't," she whispered, barely above a breath.

Her fingers curled around his side, keeping him close as she kissed a slow line down his chest. Her lips moved softly across bruised skin, lingering over the spots still sore from the match. She kissed his rib—gently—then looked up at him, her hair a tousled halo around her face.

"Just stay here," she said, her voice low, her lips brushing against his skin again. "Just for a little longer."

Tristan sighed, his hand sliding into her hair, thumb stroking the back of her neck. His muscles still ached, but her touch made it all feel distant.

She kissed just beneath his collarbone again, then the center of his chest. "I hate when you leave this early," she murmured between each kiss. "Even more when you're hurting."

He didn't speak. Just watched her as she tucked herself tighter against him, her lips finding the side of his neck this time, soft and coaxing.

"Barbara..." he started, but his voice faltered when she pressed another kiss just above his heart.

"You deserve one morning," she said, lips still brushing against him. "One morning where no one yells at you, where no one tackles you, where no one expects you to be perfect."

She lifted her head, her eyes finding his—clear and quiet, a little sad, a little stubborn.

Tristan reached up and cupped her cheek. Her skin was warm. Soft.

"I can't skip training," he murmured.

Her expression didn't change, but her fingers tightened against his ribs. "I know."

Then, without another word, she kissed him again—this time on the lips. Longer. Deeper. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of him before he had to go.

...

The drive to Belvoir Drive was dead silent.

Tristan didn't bother with music. The city blurred past the window—gray, cold, forgettable. His hood was up, jaw clenched, ribs still sore.

But not as sore as his ego.

By the time he stepped out of the car, the wind cut straight through him. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, head down, walking fast.

His phone buzzed.

Sofia.

Of course.

He answered without changing pace. "Yeah?"

"You're awake," she said flatly.

"Apparently."

"Good. You've already been mentioned in five articles. None of them flattering."

His boots echoed in the empty hallway as he headed toward the locker room. "Let me guess—'Golden Boy bottles it'?"

"Close. 'Touré shuts down English hype job' is trending. Pundits are piling on."

"Which ones?"

"The usual. Some idiot called your season a fluke."

Tristan rolled his eyes. "Funny. Didn't hear that when I was embarrassing half the league."

"They were waiting," Sofia replied coolly. "Now they've got their soundbite. Don't give them more."

"No quotes. No tweets. No reactions. Got it," Tristan muttered as he reached the locker room.

Sofia didn't respond.

Tristan sighed. "Talk later," he added, ending the call.

The line went dead.

Tristan stepped into the locker room, the scent of fresh detergent mixing with damp boots and something vaguely medicinal. The atmosphere wasn't heavy—it was just flat.

The kind of quiet that comes after a match where everyone knew they were second-best.

Kasper Schmeichel was the first to speak, seated by the far wall with a towel around his neck. "If I see Touré in my nightmares tonight, I'm blaming you, Tristan."

Tristan raised an eyebrow as he walked in. "Why me?"

"'Cause you're the one who pissed him off," Kasper said, pointing a finger. "Every time you touched the ball, he turned into prime Maldini."

Jesse Lingard stretched out on the bench next to Matty James, let out a groan. "I still don't know where he came from half the time. One second I had space, the next he's eating my soul."

Vardy, shirt half-off, leaned against his locker with a shake of his head. "Can we talk about Fernandinho, though? The man was running around like he had three lungs."

"You lot are complaining," Andy King cut in from across the room. "I spent twenty minutes just chasing shadows. I don't think I touched the ball more than twice."

Wes Morgan, still in half his training kit, leaned back with a grunt. "I told you before kickoff—we had to be perfect. And we weren't."

"Understatement," Kasper muttered.

Tristan dropped his gym bag onto the bench and pulled off his coat. "They had our number. Tactically. Physically. Mentally."

Vardy clicked his tongue. "Don't beat yourself up, mate. That goal you scored last week against Villa? Still the best hit of the month."

"No one's doubting you," Andy added. "City's midfield would've shut down half the league yesterday."

Lingard gave a dramatic sigh. "Man... I just want one match where I'm not getting bodied by a Champions League finalist."

That got a few laughs, even from Morgan.

Tristan finally cracked a small smile and sat down. "Alright, alright. Enough sob stories. Let's just make sure we don't get played like that again."

Wes nodded. "Exactly. You learn. Then you get better. Simple."

Kasper stood, clapping his hands once. "Let's move, lads. Pearson's in one of those 'no-talking-until-you-sprint-yourself-into-the-grave' moods."

Vardy groaned but stood. "As long as we don't play another City for at least a month, I'll live."

Tristan chuckled softly, tying his laces. It still stung—but at least he wasn't alone in feeling it.

The boots hit the pitch with a dull thud, one after another, as the players jogged out onto the training ground at Belvoir Drive.

The cold was sharper now, the wind cutting across the grass like a blade. Breath hung in the air like smoke. But nobody complained.

Pearson wasn't in the mood for it.

"Let's go!" came the bark from across the field. His voice cut through the cold like a whip. "Jog, now!"

The squad broke into motion. Lactic acid still lingered in their legs, but there was no room for sulking. Not today.

Tristan stayed near the middle of the group, silent, and focused. He was stiff at first, but soon his body remembered the rhythm. Run. Breathe. Reset.

Behind him, Lingard was muttering between breaths. "I swear, Pearson's got a sixth sense. It's like he smelled the laziness before I even stepped out of the building."

Andy King chuckled beside him. "You? I'm just trying to remember what it feels like to have working calves."

"Oi," Vardy called from the front, spinning around mid-jog. "You lot keep whining, and Pearson's going to throw the cones away and bring out the chutes."

That got a collective groan.

Pearson stalked the sidelines like a general surveying his troops. "Today's not about punishment," he said as they slowed to a jog-in-place. "It's about response."

He paused, his gaze locking on a few players—Tristan included.

"City made us look ordinary. That's done. Next match, we make someone else feel that. Understood?"

A few quiet nods.

"Good. Rondo. Two touch. Make it sharp."

The drills began.

....

Training carried on like clockwork—passing drills, pressing patterns, quick sprints. Tristan said little, letting the ball do the work. He wasn't sharp. Not yet. But each touch, each clean pass, pulled him a little farther from the shadow of the Etihad.

Eventually, the first team session wrapped. Some guys peeled off to the physio rooms, others to the gym. Pearson gave his usual nod of approval, then retreated to the offices.

Tristan stayed behind.

He didn't know why, exactly. Maybe he just wasn't ready to go home.

As he wandered toward the far end of the facility, the sound of laughter and shouts caught his attention. Around one of the side pitches, a group of youth players—maybe under-12s—were finishing up their own training.

One of the kids spotted him.

"It's Tristan!"

Heads turned.

A wave of excitement rippled through the group. A few coaches looked up from the sidelines, surprised but not unwelcoming.

Tristan hesitated at the fence, then cracked a smile and stepped through the gate.

"Mind if I join in?"

One of the coaches—a wiry guy with a whistle and a thick Midlands accent—grinned. "You sure? They'll eat you alive."

Tristan shrugged. "They can try."

He jogged out into the middle of the pitch, hands tucked into his sleeves. The kids were already surrounding him, eyes wide, questions flying faster than he could keep up.

"Did it hurt getting tackled by Yaya?"

"What's Gerrad like?"

"Can you nutmeg our keeper?!"

"Do you actually know Ronaldo?"

"Can you do a rainbow flick?"

"Can you nutmeg Jamie?"

Tristan laughed, holding his hands up. "Easy, easy—one at a time! And yes, I can absolutely nutmeg Jamie."

From across the pitch, a freckled boy let out an exaggerated "Noooo!" and sprinted away, laughter following in his wake.

Minutes later, they were into a chaotic five-a-side. No structure. No tactics. Just football.

He let them take the ball off him, then stole it back. Pulled off a few tricks. Nutmegged a bold little winger, who let out a scream and began chasing him around the pitch, determined to get his revenge.

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

All of it was exactly what he needed. A break to enjoy football.

By the time Tristan stepped through the front door, the warmth hit him like a hug. The cold from Belvoir Drive still clung to his clothes, sharp against his skin, but the scent that filled the house—roasted garlic, buttery herbs, something faintly sweet—pulled him in deeper than heat ever could.

He let out a breath, dropped his gym bag by the shoe rack, kicked off his boots with a tired grunt, and hung his coat up.

Then he heard the soft shuffle of feet on the hardwood floor.

Barbara padded in from the kitchen, barefoot, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her oversized sweatshirt slipped slightly off one shoulder, and her messy bun had flour tangled in a few strands. She held a wooden spoon in one hand like she didn't even realize it was still there.

"There you are," she said, smiling like he hadn't just come back from a long day but from a week away. "I thought the youth team decided to adopt you."

Tristan rolled his shoulders, still sore. "Almost. I think one of them actually tried to nutmeg me. On camera."

She laughed—light, warm—and crossed the space between them.

When she leaned in to kiss his cheek, it was meant to be a quick hello, but she lingered. Her lips brushed just beneath his cheekbone, her breath warm, her free hand slipping around his waist like it belonged there. Which it did.

Tristan let his head drop gently until his forehead rested against hers.

"Smells like heaven in here," he murmured.

"It's dinner," Barbara whispered, brushing her nose against his. "And maybe I missed you. Just a little."

He smiled against her skin. "Liar."

She pulled back with a grin, holding up her spoon in mock defense. "Okay. A lot."

Her other hand trailed lazily down from his chest, slipping under the hem of his shirt to press against his side.

"You're freezing," she murmured, her fingers stroking lightly across his skin.

"Trained in the wind," Tristan said. "Still sore, but less than yesterday."

Barbara glanced up at him. "Did the kids help?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Forgot about the world for a bit."

She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. "You're cute when you're good with children."

"I'm always good with children."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "Really? I still remember someone's match against United..."

Tristan nudged her nose with his own. "That match was for you. And you weren't complaining when I was aggressive."

Her cheeks flushed slightly. "Still doesn't make you a saint."

He tilted his head, letting a smirk dance on his lips. "Didn't say I was."

Barbara stepped back just a touch—not far, just enough to toy with the space between them. Then she looked at him with that guilty-trying-to-be-casual expression he knew too well.

"...Small update."

Tristan narrowed his eyes. "What kind of update?"

She bit her lower lip, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist.

"Anita's coming. In a few days."

He blinked. "Your sister Anita?"

Barbara nodded slowly as if she was waiting for him to flinch. "She just wants to make sure I haven't been... I don't know... kidnapped. This is the first time I've lived with someone. She's nosy."

Tristan rubbed the back of his neck. "So she's coming to spy on us."

Barbara crossed her arms loosely, still holding the spoon. "She's coming to check on me. You just happen to be the guy I'm shacked up with."

"That sounds like spying," he muttered.

She rolled her eyes but stepped in again, standing on tiptoe to kiss him properly this time. Slow. Sweet. Sure. When she pulled away, her fingers stayed on his chest, lingering.

"Just promise you won't scare her off."

"I should be asking that of her," Tristan muttered. "I remember some of the things she said. And you didn't even translate half of it."

"She said you were flashy," Barbara said with a quiet laugh. "Which, to be fair... you are."

He leaned down, letting his lips trail gently along the side of her neck. "I behave only if you bribe me."

"Dinner's almost ready," she murmured, her voice soft. "Garlic butter chicken. Roasted potatoes."

"I take cash or kisses," he whispered back.

Barbara's gaze lifted to his, glowing. "Lucky for you," she said, brushing her lips against his jaw,

"I'm rich in both."

..

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