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July 26, 2015 - Belvoir Drive, Film Room
The blinds were drawn shut, casting the room into that dim tactical glow — light bouncing off paused footage, whiteboard scribbles, and a growing pile of performance data.
Ranieri sat at the head of the room, arms folded, glasses low on his nose. Paolo Benetti was already flipping through clips on the projector screen, the cursor paused on a wide shot from the Sevilla match.
"Let's start with the obvious," Ranieri said quietly. "Two losses. PAOK and Sevilla. Better than expected, to be honest, with all the formations and different tactics going on."
The video rolled. Slowed midfield transitions. Late tracking runs. A long-range goal conceded on the break.
"Too stretched in the middle," Benetti noted. "Every time the line advanced, we had gaps behind Drinkwater and Inler."
The staff murmured in agreement. James Robson tapped his tablet screen. "Average distance between backline and midfield during transitions was nearly 18 meters. That's five more than last season's average. The press is working, but there's no mop-up behind it."
Ranieri sighed through his nose.
"Fuchs and Simpson are solid. Maguire's a tank. Huth's reading is excellent. But there's no one breaking up play early," said Benetti. "Inler's timing is late. And Andy King... he's not the guy for pressure recovery."
Ranieri motioned for the next clip. A moment from the PAOK match where Tristan had dropped deep to recover the ball himself, leaving a hole in the final third.
"This," he said flatly. "Is why we need balance."
They all nodded.
Robson pulled up another screen. "Fitness levels are strong. Tristan's covering more ground than anyone. 11.7 km against Sevilla. Top sprints too. But it's inefficient — he's running to cover other people's zones."
"What about the formations?" Ranieri asked.
Benetti switched to a graphic. "4-2-3-1 worked against Burton. But against PAOK and Sevilla? Too open. The 4-3-3 gave us width but not bite. 4-4-2 looked okay in the first half versus Derby. But we're still missing that one piece."
"Kanté," Ranieri muttered. "Still not cleared."
"He's close," Benetti said. "Club sorted personal terms. It's just his agent being a dick. Should be done this week or early August before the season starts."
Ranieri nodded slowly, eyes on the frozen frame — Sevilla countering, Inler jogging in the background, space wide open.
"Once he's in and he's good as we think he is," he said, "everything changes. The different systems work. Tristan pushes higher. We can drop deeper. We recover faster."
He glanced around at the group.
"Until then, we stay compact. Less press, more structure. Don't burn out the front six trying to do everything."
"And Derby?" Robson asked.
"Good test. They pressured well. But they didn't have Tristan," Ranieri said with a faint smile. "No one does."
The screen flickered off. The film room was quiet.
"As soon as Kanté arrives," Ranieri said. "We move from patchwork to full blueprint. And settle on the formation. I talked to Tristan as well; he's fine playing in the midfield, whatever that team needs. That team will still focus on counterattacks; we can play possession ball, but that's not what this team is about."
..
Next Day
The session had ended half an hour ago, but none of them were ready to leave.
The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, casting golden streaks across the pitch. Sweat clung to skin..
A loose circle had formed near the edge of the box—half the first team, still buzzing, still bouncing insults back and forth.
"Alright, alright," Vardy called out, walking toward a ball like he owned it. He placed it down with both hands and stood back.
"One shot each. Crossbar and in. Clean bounce, no lucky bounces out. Loser pays for dinner."
Mahrez raised an eyebrow. "Loser?"
"Yeah," Vardy said. "You've been wearing £200 boots all week and haven't hit anything but seagulls."
A few players barked out laughter. Fuchs gave a slow clap. "That's personal."
Schmeichel, now standing in goal with his gloves off and leaning on the bar, nodded. "Let's see who's actually got it today."
Vardy stepped up first. He backed off five steps, shook out his legs, then took a run at it. His foot smacked the ball clean—low drive, perfect contact—but the bar rang out like a bell as the ball ricocheted off and flew backward.
A mix of groans and applause followed.
"Oof. Close," Albrighton said.
"Fuck me," Vardy replied, walking back with a sad face. "Next!"
Fuchs took a long breath and walked to the spot. He adjusted his stance before he kicked it, ball curled off his foot with a smooth arc, bending slightly before clipping the outside of the post and bouncing wide.
"Unlucky," King muttered.
"You Austrian fraud," Vardy said. "Technique for nothing."
"Fix your hairline," Fuchs replied, already turning away.
Albrighton stepped up next. His run-up looked fine—until he leaned back too far and blasted the ball into the clouds.
"Jesus," King said, raising a hand over his eyes. "You trying to hit a drone?"
"I slipped."
"No you didn't," Mahrez said flatly.
King stepped forward next. His strike was clean, maybe too clean—driven just under the bar, into the back of the net.
"Nope," Vardy called out. "That's a goal, not a winner."
King shrugged. "Still better than Marc."
Everyone turned toward Okazaki.
He jogged forward quickly and took his shot without hesitation—absolutely launched it.
The ball thumped off Schmeichel's thighs.
The keeper flinched and stepped back, grabbing at his leg.
"Oi!" he barked. "You trying to send me to physio?!"
"Sorry! Sorry!" Okazaki said, bowing quickly. "No mean!"
Laughter broke out again. Okazaki stood frozen for a second, eyes wide, then gave a sheepish nod. "Strong legs…"
"You think?" Schmeichel muttered, still shaking out his thigh.
"Alright, someone else before I lose a knee," he added.
Inler stepped forward. He took his time—adjusting the ball, stepping back. His strike was clean, slicing through the air. It hit the underside of the bar with a loud smack but bounced out instead of in.
"Close," Mahrez said. "Real close."
Everyone turned to Schwarzer.
"You having a go?" Fuchs asked.
The veteran keeper didn't move. He unscrewed the cap on his water bottle and took a drink.
"Goalkeepers don't entertain," he said. "We watch. We judge." Trying hard to look cool.
Vardy shook his head. "Must be nice being old."
King looked around. "Who's left?"
No one answered.
Then all eyes turned to Tristan.
He hadn't moved the whole time. Just stood quietly at the back, arms hanging by his sides, watching.
Mahrez let out a breath. "Here we go…"
"Let my boy cook," Ben said. He had his phone out, camera rolling.
Tristan walked up, rolled the ball forward with his foot, and took two steps back.He struck it clean—no extra power, just crisp and smooth.
The ball clipped the bar, dropped down, and settled in the net.
Tristan didn't say anything but smiled at Ben recording, trying to be nonchalant.
"Seriously?" Vardy said. "Again? Who the fuck trained him again? I need his number."
"Every bloody time," Mahrez added, walking over to collect the ball.
Fuchs shook his head. "This kid's got some cheat code, I swear. Haven't seen him miss free kicks yet."
"Tristan, I'm posting the video online." Ben shouted to Tristan before posting it on his IG. Anything with Tristan's name does good.
Schmeichel stretched his arms wide. "That's that. We've got our winner."
"I hit the bar too," Vardy said. "That should count for something."
"Yeah," King said. "Just not dinner."
More laughter. The sun was nearly gone now, the light fading slowly off the pitch.
Wes Morgan was sitting on the sideline, towel over his neck, tying his laces. He looked up and called out.
"Alright, boys. We're still standing. No pulled hamstrings, no broken Schmeichels. What do you say we take this energy somewhere else?"
A few players turned.
Morgan nodded once. "First team dinner. Players only. We've got four new faces. Feels like the right time."
"I'm in," said Fuchs. He was new to the team and felt like this dinner was another way to get to know his teammates.
Inler gave a simple nod.
Schwarzer leaned forward slightly. "I'll come. Not paying."
Okazaki raised his hand. "I come. I come!"
The accent was heavy, the words choppy, but the smile was honest.
Vardy leaned toward Tristan. "Does he even know what we're saying?"
Tristan shook his head. "Not all of it."
He walked over to Okazaki, dropped a hand on his shoulder.
"You hungry?"
Okazaki nodded quickly. "Yes!"
"Good," Tristan said. "You sit near me. I'll help you out."
Okazaki nodded again, grateful. "Okay. Thank you."
"Where are we going?" Albrighton asked.
Vardy was already scrolling through his phone. "Don't worry. I've got a place."
The place Vardy chose wasn't fancy, but it didn't need to be. It was a local pizzeria.
Vardy was the first through the door, calling out something to the waiter like he owned the place. Behind him, Fuchs ducked in, followed by Mahrez, King, Albrighton, Inler, and the rest. Tristan stayed near the back, walking alongside Okazaki.
They got along, and Okazaki learning English, Tristan took him under his wing. And with Tristan being a huge weeb, they become friends pretty quickly."
"Smells good," Ben said as he looked around. "Better than the canteen."
"Anything's better than the canteen," Schmeichel muttered.
The squad filled two long tables near the back, pushing chairs and menus around. Tristan slid into a seat next to Okazaki without needing to be asked. Okazaki sat quietly, shoulders tight, flipping through the menu slowly like he didn't understand most of it.
"Just point at what looks good," Tristan told him, leaning in. "You like chicken or beef?"
"Chicken," Okazaki nodded. "And… noodle?"
Tristan pointed at one of the pasta dishes. "That's spaghetti. Close enough."
Okazaki gave a small thumbs-up, clearly relieved.
At the other table, the noise picked up quick.
"I'm telling you," Vardy said, mouth already half full. "Tristan's gonna end up starting as our striker. You saw the numbers—guy's everywhere. Goals, assists, set pieces. It's happening."
"He's playing deeper right now," Mahrez said, tossing a piece of crust onto Fuchs' plate. "Coach had him in midfield all week."
"Yeah, and the week before that he was right up top," said King. "Ranieri's testing stuff. False nine, maybe."
Someone shouted across the room. "Tristan, you a striker now or what?"
Everyone turned his way.
Tristan leaned back slightly, wiping his hands with a napkin.
"I don't know," he said. "That's up to the coach."
Fuchs raised a brow. "C'mon. You've got to have a preference."
Tristan looked around the table, then nodded slowly.
"I just want to score more goals. It doesn't matter where I start — as long as I finish in the box."
A few of the lads tapped the table or let out quiet laughs.
"Fair enough," said Albrighton.
Vardy pointed his fork. "I still reckon you should play midfielder. I feel like I'm entering my prime; imagine the numbers I could get with your assists."
"I'm not your babysitter," Tristan said, laughing.
"Come on now, please," Vardy replied, grinning. "I won't send any more pics of you looking like a lovestruck dog with Barbara in the group chat."
"Huh, that's not a bad option; I think about it." Tristan replied dead serious, Vardy got pics of him and Barbara from god knows where; the dude probably pays paparazzi for pictures.
That got a few actual laughs.
Plates started arriving, and the room filled with the sound of cutlery and overlapping voices. Schwarzer asked the waiter for tea, which got him roasted immediately by half the table. Okazaki tried to use a fork and spoon at the same time before Tristan gently took the spoon away and handed him a knife. They both said nothing — but the quiet exchange didn't need words.
Toward the end of the meal, Inler leaned across to Tristan.
"You think the coach sticks with the 4-2-3-1?"
Tristan shook his head. "No idea. He's been trying everything. We just need balance. That's what he keeps saying. We are just waiting for two more players, Maguire and Kante; don't ask how I know."
..
After an hour, Tristan finally made it back home.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Tristan let out a long, tired breath.
It had been a full day — hours in the film room, another grinding training session, then dinner with the squad, all while his mind refused to shut off. Still, as the faint scent of rosemary drifted through the air — warm, earthy, and unmistakably Felix — something inside him eased. The guy used it in everything, to the point where it clung to the walls now like part of the house.
He kicked off his shoes by the entryway, rolling one foot at the arch. His legs were still heavy. Biscuit was most likely asleep otherwise she would have came running to him.
The lights in the living room were low, but the kitchen was lit up like a work zone. Paperwork covered the island — folders, contracts, pens scattered like someone had lost a battle with a filing cabinet.
He stepped closer and saw them.
Barbara, elbows on the table, wearing one of his oversized training shirts. Her hair was up, a few loose strands falling near her cheeks. Sophia had her sleeves rolled and a pen tucked behind her ear, her eyes flicking between a highlighted contract and her laptop screen.
Neither of them noticed him at first.
He walked up without a word and leaned down, one hand settling lightly on Barbara's waist as he kissed her.
Her lips parted softly, and she tilted her chin up like she'd been waiting for that exact moment all evening. Her fingers slid across his jaw as she kissed him back, slow and warm, like the rest of the world could wait.
"You're home late," she whispered when they broke apart.
"Sorry, love," he murmured, brushing his nose against hers. "Team dinner. Vardy picked the place. Might need a detox after."
She smiled, her eyes searching his face like she could see every inch of his day written there.
He kissed her again, slower this time. His thumb brushed gently against her cheek as her hand curled into the front of his shirt.
Sophia cleared her throat without looking up. "Can you not make out on top of my contract review?"
Barbara laughed into the kiss and pulled back. "We're being quiet."
"You were not being quiet," Sophia replied.
Tristan dropped into the chair beside Barbara, arms resting on the edge of the table. "Alright, what's all this?"
Barbara leaned back slightly, exhaling. "My contracts. The U.S. agency and the Paris one. Both are expiring next month."
He glanced at the mess on the table and frowned. "That sounds… serious."
"It is," Sophia said, eyes still on her notes. "They want her back. But she's got leverage now — more than ever."
Barbara reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. "I'm thinking about walking away from both."
Tristan blinked. "Really?"
She nodded once. "They take a big cut, and I barely have a say in anything. Which campaigns, what to post, even when I can speak publicly. I don't want to be someone's product anymore."
Her voice was calm, but her eyes flicked to him with something deeper — something searching.
"You've helped me get here," she said. "It's not just you, but... you've made me feel like I could say no."
Sophia slid a folder across the table. "She wants me to take over as her full-time agent. No more middlemen. Just us. Everything in-house."
Tristan looked between them, his eyes lingering on Barbara.
"You're sure?"
Barbara gave a soft nod and leaned in to kiss him again. It wasn't dramatic — just firm and honest.
"I want control. And I trust her more than anyone."
Tristan took her hand in both of his, lacing their fingers.
"Then do it," he said. "If that's what you feel like now. Not like you need full-on agencies now with how popular you are, plus more money for you."
Her shoulders dropped slightly, like someone had finally lifted a weight off them. She smiled, and the tension in her jaw eased.
Sophia leaned back and stretched. "Alright. I'll draft the exit notices tomorrow and talk to legal. We'll make it clean."
Barbara rested her head against Tristan's shoulder, pulling his arm around her waist. He wrapped it around her without thinking.
"Thanks for not trying to talk me out of it," she murmured.
Tristan kissed the side of her head, his lips brushing the soft spot near her temple.
"I'd never talk you out of being your own boss," he said.
She smiled quietly, nestling closer into his side.
Across the table, Sophia made a face. "God, you two are the worst."
Barbara looked up just long enough to stick her tongue out before curling back into Tristan's chest.
Tristan's fingers traced absentminded circles on her hip. His mind wandered briefly — to Mendes.
"I love you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He leaned down and kissed her again — forehead, cheek, lips.
"I love you too."
..
Next Day - King Power Stadium
Ben Ben stood just off to the side of the tunnel, fidgeting with his collar. His kit looked perfect, but he kept adjusting it anyway — shoulders tense, mouth pressed into a line.
Tristan spotted him while walking past the makeup table and slowed down.
"You alright?" he asked.
Ben glanced up quickly, like he hadn't noticed anyone was watching. "Yeah… yeah. Just—these things feel weird, you know?"
Tristan gave a small nod. "Nervous?"
Ben nodded. "Sky Sports. Two cameras. Smoke machine. I mean, seriously?"
Tristan cracked a smile. "Yeah, they love the drama."
Ben let out a shaky laugh but didn't quite relax. "I'm not good at this stuff, though. What if I mess it up?"
"You won't," Tristan said. "And even if you do—they'll cut it. That's the best part about media shoots. They only keep the parts where you look good. "
Ben looked skeptical.
Tristan nudged him with his elbow. "Trust me. Just smile. They'll do the rest in editing. You won't even recognize yourself in the final cut. Last year we didn't get this promotional stuff you know. Shows how much attention is on the club now so take pride in it."
Ben finally grinned. "That sounds terrifying, actually."
"You'll be fine," Tristan said, slinging an arm lightly over his shoulder. "Just don't let Vardy distract you. He'll be in your ear trying to make you laugh the whole time."
Ben exhaled and nodded. "Thanks."
Tristan gave him a gentle pat on the back before stepping forward.
Up ahead, the makeshift studio was already in full swing — softbox lights on stands, cables taped down, two cameras rolling from different angles. A green screen covered half the wall behind a small turf mat. And someone, of course, had brought in a smoke machine.
For "atmosphere."
Tristan stood in full kit, arms crossed, while a production assistant adjusted a rogue hair sticking out near his temple.
"Alright," the director said, clapping his hands. "One at a time. Smile, point to the badge, hold for two seconds. Then we'll move into the dynamic shots. Same routine."
Behind the cameras, Vardy was already goofing around, pretending to model with the ball like it was a fashion shoot.
"You're not GQ material, mate," Mahrez called out.
"Says you, the only one who can say that is our Beckham," Vardy shot back, then pointed at Tristan. "Let the golden child go next."
Tristan stepped forward, keeping his face calm. By now he was already used to doing promotional stuff and looking pretty for the cameras. Plus Barbara helped a lot teaching him how to do poses and certain model "faces."
The jersey clung under the studio lights. He could already feel a light sweat at the back of his neck.
"Tristan, just look into Camera A and give us the usual badge-point. Confident, calm, but not stiff."
He nodded. Took a breath. Stepped into position.
Smile. Point to the badge. Hold.
Then the second take — cross arms, stare down the lens. One shot with a ball at his feet. One without.
Easy stuff.
Behind the camera, someone muttered, "God, he's a natural."
"Alright," the director shouted. "Fuchs, you're next. And then we do the group lineup. Let's go, let's go!"
Vardy clapped his hands together. "Team pose incoming. Everyone look scary."
"Except Tristan," Ben said. "He already is scary. Stats merchant."
"You're just mad he's prettier than you," Schmeichel added.
..
The smoke machine hissed again, way too dramatic for a Tuesday morning.
"Alright, group pose, let's go!" someone from Sky Sports shouted. "Line up behind the ball rack — arms folded, one look mean, one look smiling."
Players shuffled into place. Vardy popped his collar just to annoy Mahrez. Schmeichel grabbed a bib and threw it at him. Laughter echoed in the tunnel.
Tristan stood near the middle, arms folded across his chest again, smiling.
Ben ended up beside him, still fidgeting a little. He leaned closer.
"So," Ben said under his breath, "how are you feeling about Ajax?"
Tristan turned his head slightly. "What about them?"
"Last pre-season match," Ben said. "And it's Ajax. I mean… we beat them in the Europa League last year, yeah, but it still feels bigger now."
"They're still Ajax," Mahrez chimed in from the end of the row. "We'll be fine."
Another round of camera clicks.
"Alright," the director called. "One last shot — walking slowly toward the camera. Swagger. Pretend it's a Champions League promo."
Vardy groaned. "Bit early for that, innit?"
Ben shook his head, but the nervousness had eased. They all lined up again, this time walking forward together, boots clacking on the concrete floor as the lens followed them.
Ajax loomed. But no one looked worried.
Not yet.
..
July 29, 2015 – King Power Stadium
..
The hum of cameras echoed softly from the stands. Tripods lined the touchline. Every inch of the pitch, every pass, every press — all of it was being tracked. This wasn't just another friendly. It was the final preseason test.
There wasn't any crowd today as that team felt it was better this way with the scandal. They didn't need the extra attention.
Leicester's entire coaching staff stood behind the bench, tablets in hand, cameras rolling. Claudio Ranieri had made it clear: they'd record everything. No more experiments after today — just data, execution, and answers.
Across the field, Ajax were already going through their final warm-ups.
They hadn't forgotten.
Last season, Leicester had shocked them in the Europa League. Knocked them out. A bitter night in Amsterdam that was still fresh in their memory. Now, with a new manager at Leicester and fresh signings, Ajax wanted to see what this rebuilt squad could really do.
"4-4-2," one of the Ajax assistants muttered in Dutch in shock seeing where Tristan is positioned at. "What the hell are they doing with Tristan?"
But it wasn't a 4-4-2.
Leicester lined up in a flexible 4-3-3:
Starting XI – Leicester City:
GK: Kasper Schmeichel
RB: Danny Simpson
CB: Wes Morgan (C)
CB: Robert Huth
LB: Christian Fuchs
CM: Danny Drinkwater
CM: Gökhan Inler
CM (AM): Tristan Hale
RW: Riyad Mahrez
LW: Marc Albrighton
ST: Jamie Vardy
Tristan floated higher up the pitch than a traditional midfielder, operating just behind Vardy — the role they'd been quietly shaping all summer.
Ajax, meanwhile, went with a classic Dutch 4-2-3-1:
Starting XI – Ajax:
GK: Jasper Cillessen
RB: Kenny Tete
CB: Joël Veltman
CB: Nick Viergever
LB: Mitchell Dijks
CM: Nemanja Gudelj
CM: Riechedly Bazoer
CAM: Davy Klaassen (C)
RW: Anwar El Ghazi
LW: Amin Younes
ST: Arkadiusz Milik
From the sidelines, the Ajax coaches traded observations as the teams took their places.
The referee gave a final glance toward the benches.
Whistles blew.
Kickoff.
And the test began.
..
The first touch of the ball came from Milik, who laid it back with a soft tap. Klaassen looked up immediately, trying to set the tempo — Ajax weren't here to play slow.
But Leicester pressed instantly. Not just high — coordinated, snapping like a trap. Drinkwater pushed up. Inler slid sideways. And Tristan?
Tristan ghosted behind Vardy like a shadow.
"Watch the kid," Veltman shouted, already pointing to Tristan.
Tristan had drifted up between Ajax's lines like smoke. One second he was midfield, the next he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Vardy, pressing the centre-backs, reading passing lanes.
Leicester recovered quickly in the 2nd minute. Fuchs to Inler, Inler to Mahrez, a flash down the wing — but the cross sailed over.
Tristan raised a hand in apology. He was a step late arriving into the box. But his eyes were already scanning.
Ajax tried to settle.
Bazoer and Gudelj rotated possession, pulling Leicester from side to side, but the Foxes didn't bite. Then Klaassen found a gap and sent a sharp ball into Milik — until Huth stepped in hard.
The ball spilled loose. Inler got there first. Touch. Turn. Then he saw Tristan.
One pass.
Tristan received the ball with his back to goal near the right edge of the box — Kenny Tete was already breathing down his neck.
But Tristan didn't hesitate.
He hooked his right foot behind his standing leg, spun sharply — a textbook Cruyff turn — and left Tete chasing shadows.
Tete stumbled a step, caught wrong-footed, as Tristan exploded forward into the open lane.
One touch to steady.
Another to glide past Gudelj, who lunged and missed.
Now, just outside the box, space to the left — but Tristan ignored it. His eyes locked on the corner.
He pulled back and struck.
A right-footed rocket — low, swerving, hissing off the grass like a bullet.
Cillessen saw it late, but got down just in time to palm it wide.
From the touchline, Ranieri just scratched his head in awe. Every time he sees Tristan play, there's just a sense of wonder.
Behind him, Paolo Benetti didn't even look up.
"There's the long shot again," he said under his breath. "Pretty sure last season he had the highest rates for that, and now it even improved; I pity all the goalkeepers with how hard he hits it.
Ajax responded in the ninth minute.
Amin Younes twisted Albrighton inside out on the left wing, throwing in a sharp stepover and dragging the ball through with a feint that left Albrighton flat-footed. With a burst of acceleration, Younes hit the byline and whipped in a dangerous low cross.
Wes Morgan was alert.
He stepped in, chested it down calmly, then smashed a clearance upfield without hesitation.
Vardy was already on the move — a blur in blue — with Joël Veltman scrambling to match his stride.
Vardy got there first but had been pushed wide. The angle was tight, too tight. He slowed, cut back inside, and picked his head up.
Tristan arrived just then — late run, perfect timing.
"Mahrez!" he called, signaling the switch.
But Mahrez didn't need the cue. He was already setting his left foot, swinging through on instinct.
The shot was clean — slicing through air — but it slammed straight into Nick Viergever's thigh. Blocked.
No crowd. Just the echo of the strike and the thud of ball against body, followed by clipped shouts from both dugouts.
Ajax tried to reset. Leicester were still pressing.
In the twelfth minute, Tristan dropped deep — far deeper than Ajax expected — dragging Davy Klaassen with him like a shadow that didn't belong. He collected the ball just inside Leicester's half, back to goal, with the weight of midfield traffic converging.
He didn't panic.
He paused — just a second — to feel the press.
Klaassen stepped in.
Too slow.
With a deft roll of his foot, Tristan shifted the ball across his body, spun out, and burst forward — a blur in motion. Bazoer tried to close the space, eyes locked on the ball.
Too late.
A rapid step-over, then a subtle drop of the shoulder. Bazoer bit.
Tristan didn't even touch the ball again — he just let momentum do the work, gliding past the Ajax midfielder with a push-and-go that looked more like instinct than technique.
"Go on!" Fuchs barked from the back, watching the blue blur accelerate through midfield like a firework on grass.
Mahrez darted infield from the right. Albrighton hugged the left sideline. Vardy floated between Veltman and Viergever, pulling them apart just enough.
El Ghazi tracked back, sprinting with urgency. Gudelj closed from the side.
Tristan didn't care.
He was moving too fast — not just in pace, but in thought. Every touch was tighter now. Sharper. His body language didn't just sell feints — it demanded belief. He drew both Ajax midfielders toward him, slaloming with the ball glued to his boot, angles shrinking with every stride.
Then, at the edge of the final third, he disguised it — the move that no one saw coming.
A reverse pass, not with the inside of the boot but with the outside — a slicing flick between the defenders, like threading a needle at full sprint.
It landed in Vardy's path.
Touch. Shift. Bang.
One-touch finish. Low. Ruthless.
The net rippled hard, side to side.
No crowd — only the thud of the strike and the sharp ripple of netting filled the air, followed by a sharp "Yes!" from the Leicester bench.
On the pitch, Vardy turned and jogged back toward Tristan with a huge smile on his face. "You keep feeding me like that," he muttered, "I'll win the Golden Boot."
Tristan looked at him like he was crazy, one eyebrow raised, "Nah, next season, the Golden Boot is mine this time."
With Leicester up 1–0, Ajax finally slowed things down after the restart.
Younes wriggled past Simpson on the left flank in the 17th minute and curled in a tempting early ball. Milik rose — towering between Huth and Morgan — and snapped a header toward the far post.
But Schmeichel was ready. One leap, a strong hand, and the ball deflected over the bar.
"Wake up!" Morgan bellowed, turning to the back line. "Too easy!"
From the goal kick, Leicester began again — patient, measured.
Huth to Fuchs. Fuchs to Drinkwater.
Then Tristan dropped into the pivot, hand up, already pointing where he wanted it.
Drinkwater obliged.
He turned with the ball, scanned. No pressure.
So he pulled out the wand.
A diagonal switch — 40 yards, skipping through the air with that perfect, arcing whip — and it landed on Mahrez's laces.
Velvet touch.
Mahrez dropped a shoulder and drove toward the box, but Dijks recovered, muscling him off just before the final move. Ajax cleared.
But their sideline was shouting now.
"STOP TRISTAN!" Gudelj barked, half in panic. "He's everywhere!"
And they weren't wrong.
19th minute.
Tristan ghosted into the right channel this time, drifting behind Drinkwater, then suddenly bursting forward.
He took a pass from Mahrez — bounced it back — and spun off his man like he had eyes in the back of his head. The return ball came instantly.
One-two. And he was away.
Vardy darted left, dragging Veltman and Viergever out of the lane.
A gap opened.
Tristan saw it and pounced — slicing through it with those long, rapid strides. Klaassen lunged — clipped his heel — but Tristan kept his balance.
Another step, just outside the arc.
And then—
Crack!
Viergever slid across with a perfectly timed challenge. Clean. But just before the contact, another Ajax body — Gudelj — crashed into Tristan from behind, too far out to argue it wasn't reckless.
Whistle.
Free kick. Dangerous position — 23 yards out, dead center.
Tristan lay there for a second, exhaling. He wasn't hurt.
He'd drawn the foul on purpose.
From the sideline, Ranieri clapped twice. "That's better!"
The coaching staff logged the sequence. Another note. Another action worth studying.
Tristan stood, dusted grass off his shorts, and exchanged a look with Mahrez.
"You want it?" Mahrez asked.
Tristan nodded. "Yeah, I think I can make it. Let me show off."
Tristan stepped back from the ball, took a breath, and blocked out everything.
There was no crowd today. No roar. No chants. Just silence — the kind that made every boot scrape and breath sound louder than it should.
The wall stood five men tall. Cillessen squinted over it, bouncing slightly on his toes, arms raised and barking instructions.
"Don't bite," Veltman muttered from the edge of the wall.
Tristan took four slow steps back.
Then one more.
And then—
Strike.
Not curled.
Smashed.
A knuckling laser off his right foot — dipped viciously, swerved twice, and cut through the air like a missile.
Cillessen dove full stretch.
Too late.
The ball rocketed into the top corner — no spin, no mercy. It didn't just beat the wall. It humiliated it.
2–0.
Even the Ajax bench reacted — their assistant coach let out a soft "Jezus Christus…" under his breath. Their manager, Frank de Boer, just blinked twice and muttered something under his breath in Dutch, barely audible: "Fuck am I looking at?"
Vardy couldn't help but laugh, "Oi, someone check the ball — might be on fire."
..
The match resumed with a subtle shift in tempo — not from Leicester, but from Ajax.
They were rattled.
Gudelj barked orders across the pitch. Klaassen was waving arms, trying to get El Ghazi and Younes to drop deeper. But their body language told the story. This wasn't the Ajax team from kickoff. This was a team that just got punched in the jaw twice and weren't sure how to respond.
And Leicester? They smelled blood.
Inler won the ball back just outside his own box — snapped a pass to Drinkwater, who barely looked before nudging it forward into space.
Tristan didn't chase it.
Mahrez did.
He exploded into the right half-space, leaving Dijks in the dust.
Mahrez didn't look back. His first touch was clean. His second touch nutmegged Viergever — a flash of silk and daring that left the Ajax defender frozen mid-stride.
Cillessen rushed out.
Mahrez opened his body like he was going far post.
And then he dragged it back the other way. Left foot, near post, tight angle — the ball kissed the inside of the post and bounced in.
3–0.
Ranieri didn't celebrate. He just turned to Paolo Benetti.
"Well?" he asked quietly.
Benetti didn't blink. "Told you. He's in midseason form already."
On the pitch, Mahrez celebrated with the rest of the players as Ajax just stared in shock. Last season, they were stil able to somewhat contend with Leciester. And now it felt like they were playing a totally different team.
Frank de Boer stood with arms crossed, face tight. His assistants were whispering behind him, pointing toward diagrams on a tablet. But none of them had answers right now.
Still, Ajax were Ajax.
They didn't lie down.
In the 32nd minute, they hit back.
It started with Gudelj this time — finally finding space after pinning Inler deeper. He shifted the ball to Klaassen, who clipped a diagonal toward Younes.
Albrighton tried to intercept — mistimed it.
Younes darted down the line, cut inside Simpson, and slid a pass into Milik's feet.
Milik turned Huth with one sharp touch. Then he fired low, first time, into the corner.
3–1.
Schmeichel got a hand on it — but not enough. He slapped the ground once, then pointed toward Huth, shouting instructions. Huth didn't respond. He just exhale and nodded, head lowered as the game continued until it reached half-time.
..
The door swung open with a dull thud. Boots scraped tile. Shirts were tugged loose. Schmeichel was the first to speak.
"Should've got there faster," he muttered, shaking his head, toweling sweat from his neck. "Could've done better on the Milik goal."
Huth sat down heavily, elbows on knees, breathing deep.
Across from him, Wes Morgan was pacing slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Too much space down the left," he said, voice low but firm. "We're giving Younes too many looks."
Simpson leaned back, chest heaving. "He's quick. And tricky."
"Then stay tighter," Morgan snapped. "I don't care how tricky he is."
Inler and Drinkwater sat side by side, both still catching their breath. Inler spoke first.
"They've shifted shape a little — Bazoer's holding now, letting Gudelj go. That's what caught us on the goal."
Drinkwater nodded. "We saw it. Didn't talk quick enough."
Ranieri entered a moment later, calm as ever, with Paolo Benetti right behind him. A few players sat straighter. Others took the moment to finally drop onto benches.
Ranieri didn't speak right away.
He looked around the room, eyes drifting over each face. Then he pointed toward the board.
"Good first half," he said softly. "But not finished."
He turned toward the magnets — clicked a few into new positions.
"We're switching to a 4-3-2-1."
"Tristan, Riyad — tighter inside. Just behind Jamie," Ranieri explained. "Albrighton drops deeper. Be ready to double wide if we lose shape. But for now? I want more control in the middle."
Benetti added, "They're pushing Klaassen higher now. That means there's space if we draw them out. Use your movement. Drag them. Then cut."
Ranieri turned to Mahrez. "You're playing well. Stay aggressive. Don't let them crowd you out. If you see the shot, take it."
Then to Tristan. "And you. You're doing everything right — but don't force the game. Let it come. When it does, it opens for everyone else."
Tristan nodded once.
Ranieri clapped his hands together. "Good. Now breathe. Reset. We finish this match our way."
..
The whistle for the second half pierced through the still air like a starter's gun. Leicester had switched to a 4-3-2-1 just before the break, and it was clear Ranieri's tweaks were meant to tighten control — not slow the tempo.
In the 49th minute, Tristan showed off all his new tricks, smiling like a kid in a candy store.
It started with a loose Ajax pass — Gudelj trying to force a switch under pressure. Inler stepped in, read it early, and snapped the ball forward before Bazoer could react.
Tristan pounced.
One touch to control.
Two Ajax midfielders closing.
He dropped a shoulder and spun between them — not a simple dribble, but a slashing, double-cut shuffle that turned Bazoer's hips the wrong way and sent Gudelj stumbling.
"Oh my…" one of the Ajax assistants muttered from the bench.
Tristan didn't stop.
He burst into the open field — the turf under his boots screaming in protest with each sprinting touch. El Ghazi tried to intercept from the side. Too slow.
Then came Tete. Tristan didn't just beat him — he humiliated him. A no-look drag back into a Marseille turn, then an outside-of-the-boot flick through the defender's legs. Tete spun in place, arms briefly flailing as if he'd just been yanked from the pitch by invisible strings.
Ranieri blinked. He turned to Paolo Benetti and the rest of his staff in just pure joy, "You know, I said yes to coaching this team, a major part of it being Tristan, I didn't think he would get this much better."
"No one did." Benetti replied with a huge smile, he truly felt like they could create a miracle season like Tristan promised but he kept the to himself.
In the field, Tristan entered the box. But he didn't shoot.
He stopped.
Just like that — complete stillness. The kind that made defenders freeze, second-guess, hesitate. Viergever and Veltman skidded into the six-yard box like trucks hitting the brakes on ice.
Then Tristan slid the ball sideways, slow and deliberate.
Albrighton arrived. Left-foot. Open net.
4–1.
Cillessen didn't move. Neither did the Ajax bench. It was the kind of move that sapped belief from the lungs.
Tristan jogged back slowly, his face blank, almost tired. But Vardy slapped his back as they passed.
"Show-off."
..
A moment later, the board went up. Substitutions.
Leicester City Substitutions (56')
➤ Tristan Hale ⬅️
➤ Jamie Vardy ⬅️
➤ Christian Fuchs ⬅️
⬇️ Matty James
⬇️ Shinji Okazaki
⬇️ Ben Chilwell
As Tristan walked off, there was no crowd to cheer him. No standing ovation. Just the quiet tap of boots on turf, the low rumble of camera rigs adjusting angles, and Ranieri's hand on his shoulder.
"Well done," the coach said simply.
Tristan gave a quick nod, breathing deep, chest rising and falling like a piston. He sat on the bench, wiping sweat from his jaw with a towel, eyes already tracking the play again.
With the changes, Leicester played more compact — but still dangerous.
In the 64th minute, Kramarić made it five.
James fed Mahrez, who spun neatly away from Dijks and clipped a clever inside pass to Shinji. The striker turned on a dime — his first touch set him, the second curled it around Cillessen into the far corner.
5–1.
Ajax pulled another one back in the 75th — Klaassen pounced on a loose ball outside the box after a failed clearance, hitting a dipping strike that Schmeichel got fingertips to, but not enough.
5–2.
But by then, the result wasn't in doubt.
The final 15 minutes were about fitness and composure — players digging into tired legs, coaches watching closely, analysts jotting notes.
The cameras never stopped rolling.
..
Leicester City 5 – 2 Ajax
The final whistle cut through the evening like a curtain drop.
No roar. No crowd rising to their feet. Just the soft echo of the referee's signal, bouncing off the empty rows of blue seats. The game was over.
Players paused for a breath — not just physically, but mentally. Ajax's shoulders sagged first. Klaassen bent at the waist, hands on knees. Milik rested his palms on his hips, staring down at his boots. Gudelj muttered something in Serbian under his breath, a flash of frustration in his eyes.
Mahrez was the first Leicester player to walk forward, wiping his brow with his forearm.
The players shook hands as despite the bad loss, end of the day, it was just a pre-season match with no real beef between the two teams.
Then came the managers.
Ranieri walked calmly across the pitch. Frank de Boer met him halfway.
"You've built something here," de Boer said, his voice low. "It's not the same team we faced last year."
Ranieri gave a small nod. "They've grown. We've worked hard."
De Boer's mouth tightened slightly. "So I see. Especially Tristan, told me is that kid taking drugs." He glanced toward the bench where Tristan sat, sipping water and half-listening to Mahrez.
Ranieri exhaled through his nose. "No, lot of training and just pure talent. You don't think we don't drug test our players"
De Boer didn't answer at first. Then he muttered, "Of course, I was just surprised at what I saw today, I meant no disrespect."
Ranieri chuckled at the response.
They separated with another nod, turning back toward their own camps.
As the players filed off the pitch, the cameras were still rolling. Data being logged. Faces being captured. Every drop of sweat archived like it mattered — because it did.
..
The locker room smelled of sweat, tape, and liniment.
Boots had been kicked off. Shin pads tossed. Ice packs hissed against knees and ankles. A few chuckles echoed from the back where Mahrez was reenacting his nutmeg on Viergever for the third time. Chilwell watched wide-eyed, towel around his neck, still buzzing from his second-half minutes.
Ranieri stood at the front, arms crossed, waiting. Not impatiently — just calmly. Like a teacher waiting for his students to settle.
Eventually, they did.
"Okay," Ranieri said, clearing his throat.
The noise died.
"I'll keep it short. Today…" He looked around. "That was us."
A few nods. Some raised brows.
"That wasn't perfect. But it was progress. Effort. Intelligence. And most of all — hunger. You wanted it. Even in a match without a crowd. Even in preseason. That means something."
He paused, letting it hang in the steam-heavy air.
"From the back line to the front, I saw fight. And from the bench? I saw focus. No complaining, no sulking. We are not eleven players. We are twenty-five. And if we want to make something of this season…" He tapped his chest lightly. "We need everyone sharp. Everyone honest."
He clapped once.
"You've earned it today. Go rest. No second session. I'll see you all tomorrow at ten."
That got more of a reaction. A ripple of laughter, nods, some mock cheers. A few players exchanged fist bumps.
Ranieri pointed toward Tristan as he began walking out. "And you — great game. But don't relax too much."
Tristan raised a thumb. "Never do."
As the players began filtering out, still buzzing from the win, Tristan grabbed his gym bag and slung it over his shoulder.
The summer light was low now, stretched and soft over the empty stadium lot. Tristan unlocked his car.
The back door opened first.
"You sure you don't mind?" Ben asked still high from the game
"Not at all," Tristan said, sliding into the driver's seat. "Besides, I'd rather not hear your mum complain to my mum about me being a terrible childhood friend.
"What me complain about you? Never?" Ben replied right back, laughing. Honestly, it was nice having someone you grew up with and climbed through the academy with together. Not to mention that friend being the Messi of the team.
Shinji Okazaki climbed in next to him, holding a protein shake and a phone with a Japanese keyboard glowing on-screen. He offered a small bow of thanks.
"Arigatou," Shinji said. "Nice of you."
"No problem, mate," Tristan said, starting the engine. "You earned a ride. Besides I know you don't have a car right now."
"Also earned ice bath," Shinji muttered, rubbing his calf. "My legs feel like old man."
Ben leaned forward from the back seat. "You think we'll get another day off if we win our next match like that?"
"No chance," Tristan said, pulling out of the lot. "This was a gift."
..
The roads were quiet.
Tristan's car glided through the familiar turns like muscle memory.
Ben was humming something in the back — some old song Vardy played in the dressing room earlier. Shinji, meanwhile, was scrolling through his messages, occasionally chuckling at something in Japanese that neither of the other two understood.
Tristan tapped the wheel. "Shinji, you settled in yet? Place okay?"
Shinji looked up. "Yes. Small, but clean. Owner gave me bread and eggs. That's how I know it's good."
Ben laughed. "That's how you know you've moved to England — someone hands you carbs and expects eternal loyalty."
Shinji grinned and leaned back. "Still learning English. Hard. But… football language? Easy."
Tristan smirked. "Don't worry, mate. Just keep making runs. I'll find you."
Ben chimed in. "Or nutmeg the entire back line, do five stepovers and somehow end up assisting the left-back."
Tristan gave a half-shrug. "Style points count."
They continued joking around before Tristan decided to blast some One Piece openings.
..
By the time Tristan made it home, the sky was dark and the house lights glowed soft and warm behind the windows.
The front door clicked open.
Before he could take a full step inside—
"Ruff! Rrruff-ruff!"
A high-pitched yapping explosion echoed down the hallway as Biscuit launched herself from the living room like a furry cannonball.
"Biscuit—"
"YIYIYIYIYI!"
Her little paws skidded across the hardwood floor as she zigzagged toward him, tail spinning like a helicopter rotor, ears flopping wildly with every bound. Her nails clicked furiously like rapid-fire tapping.
She leapt into his legs with a delighted yowl — "Raaah!" — and barked three times in succession, full of pent-up energy and overdramatic joy.
Tristan stumbled back, laughing. "Okay! Okay! I get it, I missed you too!"
He bent down to scoop her up, but she wasn't done.
"Arf! Rrrrrrrrr… yip!"
A growl-turned-whimper as she half-play-bit his sleeve, then immediately licked the same spot. Her tail thumped against his arm like a drum roll. Then came the "Woo-woo!" — a strange half-howl, half-demand, muffled as she buried her face into his neck.
"You little gremlin," Tristan said, holding her close as she melted into him like a warm marshmallow.
She whimpered again — "Mmmrrrrf…" — her body shivering with excitement, tiny yaps escaping every time he moved.
"Alright, diva. Let's go see Barbara."
The scent of lemon-scented candles drifted in from the living room. From the TV, the unmistakable menu music of FIFA 15 played low. Button mashing echoed through the room.
Tristan rounded the corner.
Barbara was curled up on the sofa in one of his oversized hoodies — legs tucked under a blanket, PS4 controller in hand. Her brunette hair was loosely tied up. A half-eaten bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table. On screen, she was mid-match — playing COD.
"Don't even think about distracting me," she said without looking up.
Tristan smiled, walking in and setting Biscuit down
He walked behind the couch, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"I missed you too," he murmured.
She glanced back, smiling. "You smell like sweat and grass."
"Compliment or insult?"
"Depends. Did you win?"
"5–2."
Barbara exited the game.
Then she stood and turned, arms slipping around his waist, fingers brushing the hem of his training shirt. "So… MVP again?"
Tristan leaned in and kissed her, soft and unhurried, forehead tilting gently against hers when they parted.
"You're supposed to ask how my day was first."
Barbara gave a small laugh and rested her chin on his chest, eyes flicking up to meet his.
"Alright, alright," she said. "How was your day, Mister Five-Two?"
Tristan tilted his head slightly. "You really wanna know?"
"Only if it involves drama, long-range goals, or someone getting nutmegged."
"Check, check, and triple check. Mahrez sent one between Viergever's legs that I think broke time itself. And I may have ended Tete's confidence with a Marseille turn."
Barbara grinned, then let out a quiet, pleased hum as she buried her face into his neck.
"Well… sounds like you earned the popcorn," she mumbled.
Tristan wrapped his arms around her, letting the scent of her shampoo cut through the dried sweat and grass on him.
"And your day?" he asked.
"Pretty good, actually." She pulled back just enough to look at him again. "I went out with Sofia and Sophia for a bit. We grabbed coffee and wandered around the market."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Sofia made me try on this horrendous sun hat. I looked like a lost cruise ship tourist."
Tristan chuckled. "Sounds accurate."
"And," she continued, stretching the word out teasingly, "a big box came for you. From Nike. It's in the storage room."
His brows lifted. "Wait—really? That early?"
Barbara nodded and stepped away, brushing past him toward the hallway. "It had your name, your logo, and a fancy customs seal. I didn't peek inside, but it felt like it weighed a ton."
Tristan rubbed the back of his neck, eyes lighting up as he followed her.
"That's my signature pair. Remember it was done last season; I just told them to hold on until now. "
Barbara turned at the doorway. "All for you?"
He shook his head. "Twenty-four pairs. One for everyone in the locker room. First game of the season, we all wear them. That was the deal."
She blinked. "Like a team uniform, but with… designer cleats?"
He shrugged like it was no big deal. "Something like that. Everyone gets one. Personalized box. Engraved studs. The works."
Barbara narrowed her eyes. "And I didn't get a pair?"
Tristan stepped forward, sliding his hands onto her waist again. "You want a pair of football boots?"
"No," she said flatly. "But I want the exclusive version. You know, the one with diamonds and 'For Barbara Palvin Only' stitched into the side."
Tristan gave a playful scoff. "Alright, I'll call Nike. Tell them we need the 'Queen of the House' edition."
Biscuit, who had been circling their legs, let out a demanding "Rrrowf!" and pawed at Tristan's calf.
Barbara looked down. "She agrees."
Tristan bent down, scratching behind Biscuit's ears. "You think so too, huh?"
"Fine," he said. "Two special editions. One for the queen, one for the dog."
Barbara laughed and walked back to the couch, flopping onto it again with a content sigh. "As long as mine doesn't squeak."
Tristan grabbed the edge of the blanket and slid in next to her. "No promises."
Biscuit jumped up too, circling twice before curling up in the corner with a soft, happy groan — her tiny head resting on Tristan's thigh.
The room was warm, the mood light.
"I'll go open the box later," Tristan murmured, arm resting behind Barbara.
"You better," she whispered. "I wanna see what the world's most overachieving 20-year-old is wearing this season."
He leaned closer again, lips brushing her temple.
"Just wait 'til you see it."
..
8785
One more chapter until the season starts