If you guys have time and are interested in my other stories please do check them out.
One is a Naruto one, called Naruto: The Greatest Uchiha , had to change the title, lol.
Link: https://www.webnovel.com/book/34559048308213005
And Basketball's Greatest.
Link: https://www.webnovel.com/book/34373284400173805
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June 27, 2016 | Marseille, France – 8:41 PM
Soft clinks of cutlery and low conversation drifted through the golden-lit interior of La Petite Table, a tucked-away bistro overlooking the Old Port. The scents of grilled sea bass, lemon zest, and warm olive oil floated lazily between the tables. A few diners stole brief glances toward the booth by the window, where Tristan and Barbara sat half hidden but no one approached the duo as John stood just outside, a silhouette through the front glass, arms folded, scanning the street like a hawk in a tracksuit.
Tristan sat back for a moment, shoulders finally unknotted after training and watching all the films needed.
In front of him, a plate of sea bass and roasted vegetables steamed gently. Barbara's risotto sat across from him, half-eaten, her fork resting on the edge of the dish as she took another slow sip of water.
Tristan cut off a tender piece of his sea bass and slid it onto the edge of Barbara's plate. Then a slice of roasted zucchini. Then another piece of fish. He did it casually, almost absentmindedly, as if it were simply second nature by now.
Barbara paused mid-bite, a soft smile forming. The small gesture pulled her back to their very first dinner together, the day they met in Milan. Even now, she silently thanked God she'd overslept and skipped her usual early-morning coffee.
If she hadn't, she never would've ended up in that coffee shop at the exact moment Tristan walked in.
They still had playful arguments about it sometimes whether they would've fallen for each other at first sight if they'd crossed paths later during her run way. Tristan insisted they would've. Barbara wasn't so sure.
It wasn't his looks that won her over. It was the way he talked to her in that coffee shop — how easily he made her laugh. That was what made her want to keep talking to him.
But for Tristan, it was simple. He fell in love with her at first sight.
Not that she was complaining.
Still, the way he kept sliding pieces of his dinner onto her plate… she knew exactly why. He only did this when he was worried.
Hell, their very first dinner together, he kept feeding her because he'd seen articles criticizing her for being Victoria's first "fat model," and he was worried she wasn't eating enough when he looked at her plate and how much she was eating.
When he told her that later, after they started dating, it melted her heart.
Just… not at this exact moment.
"Babe…" Tristan's voice dipped just enough for Barbara to look up.
His face typically bright and sunny had a worried looked to it, just not worrying about Barbara but from just the entire tournament itself.
"You should've told me sooner," he said quietly. "My mum shouldn't be the one convincing you to let me know something's wrong."
Barbara's gaze fell to her risotto. Her fork hung in her fingers, unmoving.
A tiny breath left her nose — half sigh, half acceptance that it was better to let Tristan know about her being sick, etc and she just had to believe her man wouldn't let it show on the field.
"It wasn't a big deal," she said, barely above a murmur.
Tristan shook his head making a nope face. "It's not about how big it is. It's about you keeping it from me. God forbade what if it was something serious and I found about it too late."
He leaned in, elbows resting near the plates, voice lowering but steady.
"You really think I wouldn't want to know? You've been nauseous, cramping, exhausted… and I only hear about it because my mum calls?"
Barbara's shoulders tensed. She didn't lift her eyes. "I didn't want you worrying," she said, soft but firm. "You're in the middle of a tournament. You're captaining England. I didn't want to throw you off."
"That's not how this works," Tristan said, tone gentler but no less sure. "You don't deal with that alone because you think it'll help me. You're more important than a match. Than the whole tournament. Bloody hell."
Barbara swallowed. Her fingers traced the edge of her napkin, slow and distracted, like she needed something to hold on to.
"It only started a few days ago," she finally said. "Not weeks. I thought it was just my period being weird again. Auntie Julia thought the same."
She lifted her head then, just enough for Tristan to see the flicker of embarrassment and her apology.
"And the pregnancy test?" Tristan asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because I nearly died when you told me you had symptoms. I thought I was about to be a father in the middle of Euro 2016."
Barbara pressed her lips together, guilty and amused at the same time. "False alarm. We panicked. Took one the other night. Negative. Obviously. Julia laughed for ten minutes straight. I think she still might be laughing back in her hotel room."
Tristan blinked. "You weren't panicking."
Barbara shrugged. "I was kinda disappointed, honestly."
His head snapped up. "Disappointed?"
She lifted one shoulder, a small grin appearing. "You looked adorable in my imagination as a dad."
Tristan let out a breathy laugh. "Adorable? Babe, I was ready. Fully prepared to be the most overqualified twenty-one-year-old parent in Europe."
"And you would've been the hottest twenty-three-year-old mom in Marseille."
Barbara groaned. "Please. I'm trying to breathe."
He smirked. "I'm just saying if it had been positive, our kid would've come out of the womb doing stepovers."
"Oh my God." Barbara covered her face for a second. "That is exactly why we're not parents yet."
Tristan laughed, then softened. "Anyway. I'm glad it was a false alarm. But for my peace of mind, let's go to the hospital tomorrow. Just to check. Rule things out."
Her smile froze. Hesitation flickered across her eyes.
"You know we really shouldn't," she said. "You're playing France. If I walk into a hospital tomorrow, it'll be everywhere. 'Is Tristan Hale mentally collapsing hours before kickoff?'"
He winced. "Yeah… they would absolutely write that."
Barbara leaned back. "And besides, I feel better. Most of it's already passing."
Tristan looked at her for a moment, then exhaled, shoulders dropping.
"Fine. After the tournament."
She perked up instantly, giving him the brightest smile she could manage. "After the tournament."
They sat in silence for a few seconds, her thumb brushing the side of his hand. The sea glinted outside the window. John stood unmoving by the door, still on guard.
"You really were ready to be a dad?" Barbara asked, looking at him sideways.
Tristan gave a shrug. "Yeah. Why not? I figured worst case, we raise a little winger. Or a moody goalkeeper."
Barbara laughed quietly. "With your curls and my cheekbones? That kid's getting scouted by age six."
He leaned closer. "I already had names."
"Oh God," Barbara groaned.
"Zidane if it's a boy. Palvina if it's a girl."
Barbara buried her face in her hands. "Please stop. Let's just talk about your next opponent."
"Fine." He leaned back, dragging a hand through his hair. "Let's talk about France."
Barbara reached for her glass, watching him over the rim.
"They're next, huh?"
"Yeah." A flicker of concern crossed his face. "Probably the only team in the world that can say they've got talent from front to back… maybe even enough to rival us."
With the sole exception of Tristan Hale, of course.
"They're stacked," he said. "And they've got Kanté. He knows all our patterns. All our habits."
Barbara tilted her head. "Scared?"
Tristan glanced up at her and smiled. "Nah. They'll make it hard. But we'll win."
She raised a brow. "That's your version of scared."
"Babe."
Barbara raised both hands, smirking. "I'm just saying, that midfield isn't soft."
"It's good," Tristan admitted. "Pogba. Matuidi. Kanté. They've got bite, brains, balance. But we've got legs. We've got momentum."
He paused, a small grin forming.
"And we've got me."
Barbara burst out laughing. "And humility. Don't forget the humility."
He pointed his fork at her like a warning. "I'll be humble after we win."
She leaned back, "So, how did the rest of the Round of 16 go? I saw Germany smacked Slovakia, but I missed most of the other games."
She did really wanted to watch England vs Ireland and Hungary as well but she was busy with meetings and a few photoshoots as well. They were at the fashion capital.
Tristan rested his elbow on the table, eyes flicking up like he was pulling up results from memory.
"Germany have a pretty good. If France wasn't here, I would have considered them our biggest rival in the tournament."
Barbara nodded.
"Belgium destroyed Hungary. Four–nil."
She winced. "Yeah… at least I didn't watch the game. My dad was not happy at all.."
Tristan gave a half-smile. "At least now I don't have to worry about scoring against them."
Barbara's fork paused mid-air. "Would you have?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Against Hungary? In a knockout match? If the goal was there to take…"
Her eyes narrowed. "And you would've celebrated?"
Tristan grinned, full of mischief. "Maybe a little fist pump."
"No kisses for two days."
His face dropped. "Two days?!"
Barbara tilted her head, dead serious. "Minimum. If you hit a knee-slide, I'm extending it to a week."
He sighed dramatically. "So what you're saying is... I should've celebrated discreetly, respectfully, maybe with a polite nod."
"Exactly," she said, smirking. "Like a man with a Hungarian girlfriend."
He laughed, reaching across to steal a bite of her risotto. "Noted. International diplomacy through muted goal celebrations."
"Good," Barbara said, watching him chew. "You keep that same energy if you ever face Hungary again."
Tristan swallowed. "Deal. But if I score a hat-trick , all bets are off."
She rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. "You're lucky I love you."
"Extremely," he said, already reaching for another bite.
.
Clairefontaine National Football Centre – 9:06 PM
The projector hummed low in the dimmed tactics room. On screen, England's midfield shape shifted again, 4-3-3 on paper, but in practice something looser, meaner, giving more control and possession to Tristan.
A still frame paused mid-transition, just before Tristan ghosted in behind Slovakia's backline.
Didier Deschamps stood beside the screen with his arms crossed, face not exactly. The room was packed with assistants with clipboards, analysts with laptops, players hunched forward in their seats. The last hour had been nothing but England. Clips. Heat maps. Movement trails. Match footage from every angle.
Deschamps broke the silence first.
"Without him, we win this," he said, voice calm, but bitter with certainty. "No doubt in my mind. No disrespect to Kane, Alli, Rooney. But without the kid, they're dangerous. With him... they're terrifying."
The analysts didn't disagree.
One of them — a younger guy in glasses — cleared his throat.
"He's averaging a goal or assist every twenty-one minutes."
That was followed by a long beat of silence.
On screen, Tristam darted across the box, pulled two defenders, and fed Sterling a tap-in.
Laurent Koscielny let out a slow breath. "He doesn't even look like he's sprinting. That's the problem."
"His touch map makes no sense," another analyst said, flipping to a scatter chart. "He pops up everywhere. Right wing, center circle, even left-back. It's not a pattern. He just does whatever he wants to."
Blaise Matuidi leaned forward. "So we mark him zonally?"
The assistant coach shook his head. "They want you to do that. He drags you wide, then runs the blindside. If you go tight, he spins. If you stand off, he shoots."
"Or worse," one of the defenders muttered. "He crosses."
Deschamps turned.
"Kanté."
The room shifted slightly toward the quiet man seated near the back. N'Golo looked up.
"You trained with him every day," the coach said. "Tell us."
Kanté gave a small nod and got up awkwardly.
"He wants space more than the ball," Kanté began. "Give him ten square meters of space and he'll find the ball himself. He'll time his run to the exact second your line breathes."
He started drawing England's average shape.
"He plays off instincts and the tactics and plays we draw up. It's a combination, its one of the reason why he's so hard to defend. You'll think he's drifting, lazy, even. But he's watching your positioning. Your shoulders. Whether your hips are turned. If your eyes flick toward the sideline."
Lines crossed the board. Movement arrows. Names like "Hale," "Kane," "Rooney," scribbled in red.
"He talks during matches," Kanté added, glancing toward Matuidi and Koscielny. "Trash talk, sometimes but thats rare. Jokes. Compliments. But it's all to make you relax. The moment you do, he's already gone."
The staff was scribbling down every word.
Kanté turned to Deschamps.
"You can't mark him out of the game," he said plainly. "But I can slow him. Maybe even frustrate him."
Deschamps nodded. "That's all we ask."
A different assistant, voice lower now, asked what the rest of them were thinking.
"If it comes down to a footrace, you think you've got him?"
Kanté just shook his head. "It won't come down to a footrace."
He was one of the few players who knew all of Tristan's habits and his tricks but even he wasn't confident on being able to do anything.
Deschamps turned off the projector. Lights hummed back on.
Originally, this was supposed to be a final. Or a semifinal, at worst.
But fate — and the goddamn draw — had shoved England into France's path early. The quarterfinals. No more margin for error. No more scouting from a safe distance.
Now it was real.
Now it was Tristan
The devil with curls.
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Apologies but the whole section with Barbara and Tristan took up all my time writing it. And I don't even feel that comfortable about it. I wrote this entire section like 5 different ways and deleted each one of them until this one lol.
Like Barbara has endometriosis and some readers wanted to me write about that or include it. I tried with this instance but I dont know how to feel about it.
Let me know your thoughts like if you guys say I should remove the top, please do say so.I will completely rewrite this chapter from the start.
And join discord or Patron if you want to.
Besides that, peace.
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