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May 26, 2016 | Buckingham Palace – 2:11 P.M.
The green Audi R8 idled at the gates of Buckingham Palace, its engine purring politely beneath the chaos outside. The air was alive with the click-click-click of camera shutters, the hum of live broadcasts, the rise and fall of reporters shouting over one another.
John, in a suit pressed to within an inch of its life, stepped out first from his own car. He circled the car briskly and opened the passenger door. "Last chance to run," he said dryly.
Tristan emerged to a roar of sound, sunlight catching on the silver Leicester pin glinting on his lapel. He squinted through the flashes, one hand shielding his eyes, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "I'll save the sprinting for France," he murmured.
Barbara stepped out beside him, graceful and composed in a royal-blue wrap dress that shimmered softly in the light. Her hair was swept into an elegant twist, every detail meticulous yet effortless. As she looped her arm through his, the cameras surged again, their rhythm frantic and fevered.
For a moment, the pair stood there — football's golden couple framed by the palace gates as the crowd went insane.
"Tristan! Tristan, this way!"
"Is it true you've signed for Liverpool?"
"Tristan, can we get a smile for Sky?"
"Do you think you'll win the Ballon d'Or?"
"Tristan, what's your expectations for England in the Euros!"
The questions piled into each other, breathless, hungry. Reporters leaned against the rails, microphones outstretched like spears. Cameramen jostled for position, the red glow of record lights bouncing off the car's flawless paint.
Behind them, the crowd surged — hundreds of fans crushed against the black-and-gold gates, waving Leicester scarves and Union Jacks, blue smoke curling into the clear London sky. The chant rose from deep within the mass of voices, raw, thunderous, unstoppable.
🎵 "TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN!" 🎵
It rolled through the forecourt like a living thing — a wave of sound that rattled camera lenses and sent the pigeons scattering from the palace roof.
The reporters tried to shout over it, but it was useless. The name drowned everything else.
🎵 "TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN!" 🎵
The rhythm was tribal, affectionate, electric — the sound of a city saying goodbye to its hero. Some fans held up banners through the bars, scrawled with blue paint and shaky hands:
"LEICESTER LOVES YOU, CAPTAIN."
"THANK YOU, #22."
"OUR KING OF ENGLAND."
Even through the noise, Tristan couldn't help but smile — small, almost shy — as he raised a hand in quiet acknowledgment.
And for a moment, the world outside Buckingham Palace didn't sound like London at all.
It sounded like Leicester.
.
The palace doors opened with a soft click, and a royal staff member in a black suit bowed low."Mr. Hale. Miss Palvin. If you'll follow me, please."
The noise outside — the chants, the flashes, the roar of thousands — vanished the moment they stepped inside.
It was like crossing through glass into another world.
Tristan glanced back as the heavy doors shut behind them. Through the glass, he could just make out the sea of blue beyond the gates — fans waving scarves, singing until their voices broke.
🎵 "TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN!" 🎵
It was muffled now, like a heartbeat fading into distance.
He gave one last wave. The roar answered faintly, swallowed by the walls.
Barbara squeezed his arm gently, her voice soft in the hush."You know," she said, smiling, "I still can't believe this. Buckingham Palace. You, me… an invitation from the Queen herself." She laughed under her breath, almost shy. "My parents would lose their minds if they could see this. Never in a million years did I think I'd be walking inside one day."
Tristan smiled faintly, eyes warm. "You earned being here too. You've been with me through everything. Besides," he added, grinning slightly, "if I'm going to meet the Queen, I might as well bring actual royalty with me."
Barbara rolled her eyes but laughed, brushing his arm. "Thank you."
As they followed the staff member deeper into the corridor, Barbara glanced up at the portraits again. "You know," she murmured, "Auntie Julia and Ling must be proud. They'd love this. Why didn't they come?"
Tristan's smile got even bigger. "They are," he said quietly. "They just… didn't want to come even after I called them a hundred times. They just didn't want to deal with the extra attention."
Barbara nodded knowingly. "I get it. I'd probably be the same if it wasn't… well, you." She smiled, eyes glinting. "But still I'm taking pictures when we're done. My mum will frame every one of them."
Tristan chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Go ahead. Just don't make me pose too much — I already feel like I'm trespassing in a museum."
Barbara laughed softly, the sound echoing faintly through the marble corridor. "Relax, Captain England. You be fine, I'm pretty sure the Queen invited because she wanted to see England win something after like a hundred years."
He gave her a sideways look. "Can you blame her, the last time we won anything was in 1966 on our home soil with her presenting the award."
The staff member ahead turned slightly, gesturing toward the gilded doors at the end of the hall."This way, sir. Her Majesty will receive you shortly."
The great doors eased open with a soft groan of brass and wood.
Tristan's breath caught.
The room beyond looked like something out of a dream — gold-trimmed walls, chandeliers glinting like captured stars, the faint scent of polished wood and lavender. And at the far end, beneath the vaulted ceiling and the weight of centuries, stood Queen Elizabeth II.
Looking at money could buy, he was thinking about spending some of his 300 million.
She was smaller than he remembered from television. Her lilac coat dress gleamed softly beneath the light, a brooch at her chest catching the sun like a tiny crown.
She turned as they entered. "Mr. Hale. Miss Palvin."
Tristan bowed. "Your Majesty."
Barbara dipped into a graceful curtsy beside him, her voice low and steady. "It's an honour, ma'am."
The Queen smiled, "You must forgive the delay," she said, her tone clipped yet kind. "My grandson has been trying to explain Snapchat to me again. I'm afraid I'm a hopeless case."
Barbara laughed softly, the sound easing the tension in the air. "I think we all are, Your Majesty."
The Queen's eyes twinkled. "Ah, good. That makes me feel far less obsolete."
Her attention shifted back to Tristan. "It's very good to see you again, Mr. Hale," she said warmly. "After that extraordinary evening at Wembley, I thought it only fitting that we meet properly before you leave for France."
Tristan blinked, caught slightly off guard. "Oh — of course, ma'am. I wasn't expecting it, but… I'm honoured."
Her smile deepened, faintly amused. "I imagine it's difficult to surprise you these days. You've rather spoiled us all with your consistency."
He chuckled under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "I try, ma'am. Though I'll admit, this—" he glanced around at the room's grandeur "—isn't the kind of pitch I'm used to."
The Queen's laughter came softly, sincere. "No, I suppose not. But you've handled larger crowds with far more noise, I think."
He allowed himself a small grin. "Sometimes, ma'am, silence is louder."
Queen Elizabeth began walking with them down the gilded corridor, sunlight spilling across portraits of monarchs and marble busts that seemed to watch their every step. The carpet beneath their shoes was so thick it felt like walking on clouds, each footfall swallowed by centuries of history.
"You know," the Queen said suddenly, her tone light but mischievous, "you've caused quite a bit of division in my family."
Tristan blinked, caught between confusion and curiosity. "Division, ma'am?"
She glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes glimmering with quiet amusement. "Loyalties, I should say. My son adores you, speaks of you every time football is mentioned. And one of my grandsons… well, he's rather taken with your team. He's even had your Leicester shirt framed in his room."
Barbara smiled, clearly charmed. "That's adorable."
The Queen's mouth curved in a dry, regal sort of smile. "Yes, though not everyone in the family shares the sentiment. I'm afraid there are still a few very devoted Manchester United supporters among us."
Tristan chuckled softly. "Ah. That must make for some awkward family discussions, ma'am."
Elizabeth's eyes sparkled. "You have no idea. When you play United, you become—how do they put it?—'the devil in boots.'"
Barbara laughed, the sound bright and unguarded in the long, quiet corridor. "That sounds familiar. He has a few relatives who are United fans, too. His dad's side, actually."
The Queen raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Is that so?"
"Mm-hmm," Barbara said with a teasing grin. "I haven't met them yet, but his mother told me stories. Apparently, half of them still think David Beckham's playing days never ended."
Tristan groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's not even an exaggeration. I get phone calls after every United match, and if we've beaten them, I just know what's coming. Someone always brings up '99 like it just happened last week."
The Queen laughed genuinely. "Ah, football. The great unifier… and divider. It seems no family is safe from it, not even mine."
Tristan smiled at that, glancing up at the ornate ceiling as they walked. "Guess that means I'm in good company, ma'am."
"Indeed you are," the Queen said with that soft, knowing warmth. "I remember watching you in the FA Cup final two years ago… Arsenal, wasn't it?"
Tristan smiled, a little sheepish. "Yes, ma'am. My first at Wembley. Still the most nervous I've ever been."
Her eyes twinkled. "You certainly didn't show it. That was the match that caught my attention, you know. I don't usually watch club finals anymore — too much noise, too much drama — but that one…" She let out a fond sigh. "That one felt different. Watching an eighteen-year-old homegrown lad drag his team to victory… well, it was rather hard to look away."
Barbara smiled softly. "I think that match made everyone believe he was something special."
The Queen glanced at her, amused. "Oh, I daresay that was the understatement of the century." Then back to Tristan, her tone gently teasing. "You do realize, Mr. Hale, you've given quite a few royal households a new obsession. It's become terribly difficult to host tea without hearing your name at least once."
Tristan laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll take that as a compliment, ma'am. Though I promise I never meant to interrupt royal tea time."
"Oh, nonsense," she said, waving a gloved hand dismissively. "You made it far more interesting. I haven't shouted at a television like that since 1966."
That made him grin. "You shouted?"
"Of course I did," she replied, feigning indignation. "Do you think one simply watches England win the World Cup without emotion? I nearly frightened one of the corgis."
Barbara laughed, covering her mouth. "I would pay to see that footage."
"Alas," the Queen said, with a wistful smile, "I don't believe the palace cameras were rolling at the time. A great shame. I might've gone viral, as you young people say."
Tristan chuckled. "Would've broken the internet, ma'am."
"Hmm," she said, pretending to ponder. "Perhaps it's for the best. The palace doesn't need another scandal involving raised voices and football."
The three of them laughed, the sound echoing faintly through the corridor.
Then the Queen's tone softened again, the humor giving way to sincerity. "That Arsenal match was the first time I truly saw what you were. You weren't just playing football, Mr. Hale — you were carrying something. A city, a story, a belief. I daresay that might have been your finest performance."
Tristan hesitated, humbled. "Thank you, ma'am. I… I didn't know you'd watched it."
She smiled kindly. "Sadly not in person. One of my few regrets. I haven't been that emotionally invested in a match since the World Cup final in '66. It's rare, you see, to feel the whole nation stop — even for a few moments — because one boy made them see greatness.."
Barbara looked over at Tristan, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think he's creating a few of those moments now."
The Queen's gaze softened, her eyes glinting like glass in the light. "That's precisely why I asked to meet you. Not just because of the trophies — those are wonderful, of course — but because of what you represent. You've become something larger than the game itself. A symbol of this country."
She paused, then her lips twitched in amusement. "What was it they call you now? Ah yes — the Crown Jewel of England."
Tristan's ears went red, and he laughed, shaking his head. "That wasn't my idea, ma'am. I promise."
"Oh, I'm sure it wasn't," she said lightly, her smile sly. "But I imagine you're not in a position to give it back."
Barbara nudged him playfully. "You might as well get used to it, Crown Jewel."
Tristan groaned softly. "Please don't start."
The Queen chuckled, clearly delighted by their easy affection. "Oh, let her. Every crown needs someone to keep it humble."
Tristan laughed, glancing at Barbara. "She's been doing that since day one."
"Then she's very good at her job," the Queen said with a wink.
Ahead, the double doors to the East Room stood open now, and camera equipment gleamed softly in the ornate space — lights arranged at perfect angles, microphones hanging from invisible rigs. A small crew waited patiently at a respectful distance, one of them tapping a final adjustment into a sleek recording panel.
"We're ready for you, Your Majesty," the director said.
Elizabeth turned toward Barbara now, her voice as warm as her smile. "Would you like to join us?"
Barbara offered a gentle shake of her head. "Thank you, ma'am. But no. This is his moment. I'd rather not take anything away. I think the country wants to hear from its captain."
The Queen chuckled. "That's a pity. I imagine you'd say far more interesting things."
Barbara leaned in slightly, whispering with a wink, "He's already nervous enough."
Tristan groaned softly. "She's not wrong."
Elizabeth turned to one of her staff. "Please, show Miss Palvin the royal wing. Not the tourist path. Let her see the real halls."
Barbara looked surprised, touched. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Elizabeth said with a twinkle. "Some of those corridors haven't changed since Victoria's reign."
As Barbara disappeared down a separate hall with a guide at her side, Tristan and the Queen turned back toward the cameras.
The lights warmed to life. The microphones settled into place.
Elizabeth gestured lightly toward the chair beside her.
"Shall we?"
He stepped forward.
The director gave a silent nod. A red light blinked to life. The camera was rolling.
Tristan adjusted slightly in his chair beside Queen Elizabeth II.
Elizabeth turned her head toward him, her eyes bright with both warmth and mischief.
"Well," she began, the faintest lilt in her voice, "before we dive into the difficult questions, I must apologize. I never even asked — how are you feeling, Tristan? Seventy matches this season, was it? I've seen the photographs. You and Leicester didn't exactly celebrate quietly."
Tristan laughed softly, lowering his gaze for a moment. "That's true, ma'am. The lads went all out after the parade. I might've joined in a bit more than I planned."
The Queen's smile deepened, amused. "As you should. It isn't every year one completes football, as I've been told."
He grinned at that — shy but proud. "It's been long, but I'm feeling good, ma'am. We've all switched back into focus now. Everyone's rested. We know how important the Euros are. Especially for England."
"Good," she said, her tone soft but firm. "You've earned your celebrations, but the country needs its captain steady." She paused, folding her hands neatly on her lap. "You must know, Mr. Hale… you're carrying more than just a football. You carry the hope of a nation."
Tristan nodded slowly, meeting her gaze. "I do, ma'am. And I promise — I don't take that lightly."
She regarded him for a long moment — thoughtful, measuring, perhaps even proud.
"I still remember 1966," she said quietly, her voice drifting into memory. "The roar of Wembley… the sound was like thunder under the stands. Geoff Hurst's third goal, the way people sang in the streets for hours afterward. I was still young then, still learning what it meant to feel the heartbeat of this country. And that day — that match — I felt it. For once, everyone moved together."
Tristan listened, almost reverently. "That's what football does when it's at its best, ma'am. It makes people get together. Even for just one night."
The Queen smiled at him, a hint of wistfulness flickering behind her composure. "Yes. It does. It's a special thing."
"That's why I wanted to meet you properly, Tristan. Not because of the trophies, or the numbers, or even the headlines — but because you've done something very rare."
He tilted his head slightly. "What's that, ma'am?"
"You've made people feel proud to be English again," she said simply. "You've made them believe that greatness can still come from humility. That dreams don't just belong to the giants, but to the ones brave enough to chase them."
"I… I don't even know what to say, ma'am," he managed quietly. "Except thank you. For believing in me."
The Queen smiled, faint and genuine. "Oh, I don't believe in you, Tristan. The country already does that. I simply wanted to tell you, face to face."
Tristan nodded, his voice steady. "I'll do everything I can, ma'am. Not just for the tournament — but for the people who believe in us. For England."
She regarded him for a heartbeat longer, her eyes soft with something that might've been pride."I rather thought you might say that."
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One Hour Later
The final question faded, the soft murmur of the director's voice filling the air as the camera zoomed out to a wide shot. Most of the conversation had been light, childhood memories, pre-tournament hopes, leadership, what fans could expect from England's young captain.
Tristan had enjoyed it more than he'd expected. The Queen had been funny, sharp, and surprisingly disarming. Not once did it feel like an interview, more like a conversation across generations.
The red recording light blinked once… twice… then dimmed to black.
"That's a wrap, Your Majesty," the director said gently, lowering his headset.
Elizabeth inclined her head. "Thank you." Then, after a beat, she turned toward the crew. Her tone remained perfectly polite, but there was quiet command in it. "Would you be so kind as to give us a few minutes, please? And if it's not too much trouble… please omit what follows from the final footage."
The head technician blinked, a little startled, then nodded quickly. "Of course, ma'am. We'll roll the tape, but it won't leave this room unless cleared."
"Very good," she said.
Elizabeth turned back to Tristan. Her smile stayed, but her eyes shifted — still warm, but now sharper, more deliberate.
"Now," she said lightly, "I hope you'll forgive me a rather personal question."
Tristan straightened a little, sensing the change. "Of course, ma'am."
Her gaze didn't waver. "Are you," she began delicately, "leaving England?"
Tristan blinked, caught for a moment. "Leaving…?"
She gave a small nod. "There are… discussions, shall we say. Real Madrid. Barcelona. And of course Liverpool — that one feels the most plausible, doesn't it?" Her tone carried the faintest hint of humor, but it was anchored by something heavier beneath it. "The Prime Minister called this morning, actually. The FA President as well. They all asked the same thing."
She paused, her expression softening. "They want to know if Tristan Hale is staying."
Tristan exhaled through his nose, leaning back slightly. Then, with a faint smile:
"That's… quite a bit of pressure, ma'am."
Elizabeth chuckled softly. "It seems you've made a habit of it."
He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "I suppose so." His voice steadied, becoming thoughtful. "Truthfully, I'm not leaving England anytime soon. I'll be leaving Leicester after the tournament but only to Liverpool, not abroad."
For the first time, the Queen let out an audible sigh, small, graceful, but unmistakably relieved.
"I won't lie," Tristan continued, his tone sincere. "Someday, maybe five, ten, twelve years from now, I might want a new challenge. Maybe Spain, maybe somewhere else. But not now. Not when England's just getting started again. I'm not ready to walk away…not from the fans, not from my family, not from what I'm trying to build here."
Elizabeth listened quietly, her gaze thoughtful.
"Good," she said at last. "I must admit, it would've been quite a blow to lose you so soon. You've done more for this country's spirit than most politicians could dream of."
She leaned forward slightly, her voice softening, each word deliberate.
"You do understand, Tristan, you are… more than a footballer. You've made Leicester a global name. You've filled stadiums that were once half-empty. You've turned television rights into gold. Even tourism has risen, did you know that? People come to see the city you made famous."
Tristan's expression stayed composed, but inwardly, his thoughts stirred. This was Mbappé in Paris all over again, he thought. Presidents. Promises. Patriotism. Different language, same pressure.
"England's my home, ma'am," he said quietly. "For now. For the near future. Maybe even forever. I'm not running toward anything else. I just want to keep becoming the player this country deserves."
Elizabeth regarded him for a long moment then smiled. It wasn't ceremonial or distant; it was proud, almost maternal.
"That's all I needed to hear," she said softly.
She reached out, a small, graceful gesture and touched the back of his hand once, a symbolic blessing more powerful than any speech.
"Carry the crown well, Mr. Hale."
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Sorry if the chapter has some errors or mistakes, I'm still not feeling that good yet.
Also Barbara is not Ayesha Curry.Fucks wrong with her. Like shit if you don't wanna marry Curry, I marry him. She's not out here defending Curry like I have been 12 at night. Like fuck outta here.