March 15, 2016 – Early Morning
Hospitals always carried a certain gravity the second you walked in. One room could hold relief, another despair. Lives could change forever in the space of a single breath. At this hour, the lobby was hushed, the quiet broken only by the shuffle of slippers on tile and the clipped footsteps of doctors and patients moving toward scheduled surgeries.
Tristan slipped in through the sliding doors. He was here by himself as he didn't want any type of attention on Jack right now. A duffle bag hung from one shoulder, heavy and stuffed to the brim.
At the far end of the lobby, he spotted them.
Jack's parents, Emma and Steven.
(Don't think I named them before.)
Emma's face was pale from sleepless nights, but when she saw him her smile came quick. Steven lingered just behind her looking just as distressed as his wife.
Tristan wrapped them both into a firm hug, one arm around each, pulling them in as if they were his own.
"How's he doing?" Tristan asked quietly as he let go, his voice low but steady.
Emma's smile faltered, her eyes shining. "He's scared… but he's fighting."
Steven gave a short nod. "He's nervous but he's doing good."
Tristan managed a small smile. "Good. That's what I wanted to hear."
The three of them rode the elevator in silence. Emma's eyes kept drifting to the duffle bag on Tristan's shoulder, curiosity written on her face, but she didn't ask.
Jack's room was painted in soft greens and blues, cartoon murals fading on the walls. A small Leicester flag hung by the window.
Jack sat propped up in bed, hair messy, cheeks pale, drowning in a hospital gown that was three sizes too big.
His eyes lit up the second Tristan walked in.
"Tristan" Jack breathed, voice cracking with disbelief.
Tristan grinned, stepping forward. "You didn't think I'd let you go in without seeing me first, did you?"
He set the bag down on a chair and unzipped it. "I brought some backup. You've got a lot of recovering to do."
First out: a neat stack of unopened Pokémon booster packs. Jack's eyes went wide.
"Are you serious?"
"All legit. And rare too. Mahrez swears he picked the lucky ones."
Jack let out a weak laugh.
Tristan chuckled, then pulled out the next item: a Leicester home kit, the back covered in signatures in thick black marker.
Jack's jaw dropped. "No way."
"And this," Tristan said, carefully lifting out a crisp white England shirt. Signed by the whole squad. Rooney's scrawl was clear on the sleeve.
Jack's hands trembled as he touched it. "You got me Rooney's signature?"
Tristan sat on the edge of the bed, smirking faintly. "He insisted. Told me to tell you: 'From one fighter to another.'"
Jack's eyes glistened, his lips pressing together as though he was holding back both tears and a grin.
"You're gonna beat this," Tristan said softly. "And when you're out, we'll kick a ball again. You'll smoke me. Faster, sharper, everything."
Jack swallowed hard. "Promise?"
"Promise."
A soft knock. A nurse stepped in, clipboard tucked under her arm. "It's time."
Emma's breath caught. Steven shifted closer to the bed, shoulders tightening.
Jack's bravado slipped. His eyes flicked nervously between them all. Tristan reached for his hand, squeezing it tight.
"You're the strongest lad I know," Tristan said firmly. "You're not alone. We're all with you, me, the squad, everyone. And when you wake up, I'll be right here."
The nurse adjusted the bed and began rolling it out. Emma clutched her son's hand until the very last moment. Steven walked beside her, lips pressed into a thin, silent line.
Tristan lingered behind them, following slowly as the wheels squeaked down the corridor. When they reached the operating floor, the double doors swung open, spilling harsh light across the hall.
He stopped. Pressed his hands together. Bowed his head.
"Please," he whispered into the sterile air. "Let him be alright."
It would break him into a million pieces if something went wrong.
The house was quiet by the time he came back home. Barbara was out for some promo and for her new company as well.
Tristan sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, phone clutched in both hands. The TV was on, the newest episode of One Piece.
He'd tried everything to keep busy from cleaning to cooking. He was tempted to drive to London so he could get Biscuit back from Barbara.
Now he just sat there waiting. He glanced at the clock again.
Six hours.
They'd said it would take around six hours.
He swallowed, dragging a hand down his face. If god could give him this chance, he could give one to a kid as well.
Six Hours Later
When the call came, he snatched up the phone before the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi—Tristan?" Emma's voice, breathless, but steady.
He stood up without realizing. "How is he?"
A pause. Then:
"He's out. He's stable. It went well. The surgeon said it was textbook."
Relief slammed into him like a wave. He felt more joy than winning the League Cup.
"Thank God," he whispered. "Thank you for calling."
"He asked for you the second he woke up," Emma said. "Said something about Pokémon packs and you owing him a game of FIFA."
Tristan laughed, full and genuine, then wiped his eyes quickly with his sleeve.
"Tell him I'll bring the PlayStation next time," he said.
"We will," she promised. "Thank you, Tristan. For everything."
When the call ended, Tristan slumped onto the couch, phone still in his hand. The weight in his chest had shifted, no longer fear, but gratitude.
He closed his eyes and exhaled.
Jack was okay.
That was all that mattered.
.
March 16, 2016 – Afternoon
Belvoir Drive
The final whistle of training echoed sharp against the crisp spring air.
Boots dragged over turf. Laughter drifted up into the late afternoon light as the Leicester squad jogged their final cooldown lap in bunches of two or three. Behind them, a few staff gathered cones and bibs while the sprinklers clicked on, misting the sideline.
Tristan wiped sweat from his brow, pulling at the collar of his top. His lungs were still burning from the final sprint,.
Vardy fell in beside him, sucking in deep breaths. "Tell you what, I'm surprised no one's coasting?"
Tristan grinned, winded. "No one wants to be the guy who messes up the streak."
"Especially not with United next," Drinkwater added from behind, half laughing, half gasping. "That lot'll throw the kitchen sink just to avoid being swept."
Mahrez joined them, eyes scanning the pitch. "Coach says we rest tomorrow, yeah?"
"Yeah, Ranieri confirmed it," Tristan said. "Light tactical brief, then off. He doesn't want anyone pulling anything before Sunday."
"Perfect," Albrighton chimed in. "I'll use the whole day to do absolutely nothing. Like, nothing in the most elite, professional way possible."
"Oi," Fuchs called over, "don't forget we've got the England call ups now. Roy wants to link early."
That sparked a round of voices at once.
"Bloody two week media boot camp," Vardy groaned.
"German team wants us Sunday night," Huth muttered. "They want blood tests and personality tests."
"Algeria called you too, Riyad?" Ben asked.
"Of course." Mahrez raised an eyebrow. "Did you think I would be left out?"
Kanté, quiet as ever, lifted a hand.
"Oh no," Vardy said, mock panic on his face. "They're calling up everyone. Morgan, mate, did Jamaica call you again?"
Morgan shrugged. "They tried. I pretended I changed numbers."
That earned a wave of laughter.
Then Chilwell nudged Tristan. "And you? Whole country basically waiting to crown you their messiah again. Bet the papers are already calling it 'Hale & Redemption.'"
Drinkwater cracked up. "'Tristan Hale and the Philosopher's Armband.'"
"'Hale and Highwater,'" Mahrez added with a straight face.
Even Tristan laughed. "You lot are ridiculous."
"No seriously," Vardy said, walking backward with a grin. "Watch. England gets to a semi, they'll make you knighted by halftime."
"Sir Tristan of Hale," Fuchs intoned, bowing.
Tristan chuckled, wiping his face with a towel. "Alright, alright. Joke's over."
He let the smile linger for a moment longer before glancing toward the exit.
Then his tone shifted.
"Actually… before everyone shoots off," he said, slowing to let the others group around. "I wanted to ask something."
The mood quieted, curiosity kicking in, the amount of times Tristan asked for anything could he counted in one hand.
"You all know about Jack, right?" Tristan continued. "The kid I visited, his surgery was yesterday. It went well."
A few players nodded. Some murmured soft acknowledgments as Tristan had them sign the jersey.
"He's stable now," Tristan said. "But he's been stuck in that hospital for weeks. And he's a really big fan of Leicester and us."
He let that hang for a second.
"So I was thinking… we just got off training, no meetings, no PR until tomorrow. Why not head over there? All of us. Even just for a few minutes."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Morgan clapped a hand on Tristan's shoulder. "Let's go."
"Yeah," said Vardy. "Let the kid see what a miracle team looks like in person."
Mahrez nodded. "Count me in."
"Me too," Drinkwater added.
Kanté nodded as well.
"Alright then," Fuchs said, heading for the building. "Let's shower and head out. Nobody takes longer than ten minutes."
"Tell that to Mahrez and his six-product skincare routine," Vardy shouted.
"I am glowing, thank you very much ," Mahrez replied as the squad filed toward the changing rooms.
.
An Hour Later
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Out stepped a dozen figures in matching Leicester tracksuits, boots squeaking slightly against the polished hospital floor. Heads turned immediately. A nurse at the front desk blinked twice, her pen frozen mid-air.
"Is that... Mahrez?"
"And Vardy?"
One of the nurses began to rise, uncertain, before another gently touched her arm. "It's for Jack. Let them through."
Tristan led the way down the hall, his hood low, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Behind him, the rest of the squad fanned out like a mismatched army.
Outside Jack's room, Emma looked up from her seat beside her son, startled by the sound of approaching footsteps. Steven rose as well, eyes narrowing curiously.
Then Vardy stuck his head in.
"Heard there's a baller in here better than Tristan Hale?" he called, voice light.
Jack's head turned. Then froze.
He blinked once. Then again.
Then his mouth dropped open.
Tristan stepped inside just behind Vardy, flashing a grin. "Told you I'd bring the team."
Jack's eyes went wide as Mahrez, Drinkwater, Chilwell, Morgan, and the rest began filing in. The small hospital room suddenly felt like a dressing room on match day. Emma let out a shocked laugh. Steven blinked rapidly and stepped aside to make room.
"No way," Jack whispered.
Mahrez gave him a fist bump. "I heard you pulled through like a champ. Respect."
Chilwell plopped a small Leicester ball onto Jack's lap. "Think you can juggle with this once you're out?"
Jack stared at the signatures across it. Then back at the players. Then back down again.
Fuchs leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Mate, you get better soon. We need someone to replace Vardy."
"Oi!" Vardy shouted. "He just survived heart surgery. Don't curse him with that fate."
Laughter echoed around the room.
Kanté stepped forward quietly, handing Jack the paper bag. Jack reached inside and pulled out a small stuffed lion, its mane fluffy and crooked.
"His name's Claude," Kanté said simply. "He's lucky."
Jack looked at the lion, then back at Kanté. "Thank you," he whispered.
Morgan ruffled Jack's hair. "You did good, kid. Really good."
Emma stood to the side, her hand over her mouth. Her eyes shimmered. Steven rested a hand on her shoulder.
Fifteen minutes passed in a blur of jokes, photos, and quiet encouragements. At one point, Vardy convinced the nurse to take a picture of the entire squad crowded around Jack's bed, the Leicester scarf held up behind them like a banner.
Jack didn't stop smiling.
As the group began to file out, Mahrez pointed at Jack. "Rest up. We'll need a new playmaker next season."
..
Tomorrow's chapter is 14k.
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