July 1, 2016 | England Team Hotel, Marseille – 10:14 AM
The overhead lights hummed in the meeting room, quiet except for the low scrape of a chair and the occasional cough. The smell of black coffee and fresh paper lingered.
Roy Hodgson sat at the head of the table, arms folded, brows knit in a way that said he hadn't slept well. Around him sat his core staff: Steve Holland, Ray Lewington, and goalkeeping coach Dave Watson. A whiteboard behind them showed the team shape, magnetic discs already in place.
Steve tapped the board with the butt of a marker. "So this is the XI we rolled with last game. Same shape. Same tempo. The question is can we trust them again against France?"
Roy exhaled slowly.
"Trust isn't the issue." He rubbed at his temple. "Experience is. France aren't Russia, Wales or Northern Ireland. This is different. Bigger. Louder. Faster. This game is pretty much seen as the finals, I'm worried for some of the young lads."
Dave nodded. "Ben's been good. But Payet and Sissoko will pull him wide all game. They'll try to overload him. And Dele I love the kid, but this is a bear pit."
Ray added quietly, "They'll target him. Try to provoke him. He's got a temper."
Steve scratched his chin. "So who do we trust instead? Bertrand at left-back?"
Roy shook his head immediately. "Too slow in transition. He'll sit too deep and pin our shape. Ben gives us width."
Ray shrugged. "So we gamble on youth again?"
"If it's a gamble," Roy said, "we're lucky it's one we can hedge. If either of them struggles, Ben or Dele we pull them early. We've got cover. Lallana, Barkley, Bertrand."
Steve leaned forward. "And we've got Tristan. That buys you margin."
There was a pause. Then a few chuckles.
Dave muttered, "Tristan makes everyone look like they planned it."
Even Roy smiled. "That he does."
He stood, tightening his jacket as he looked again at the board."Alright. Let the boys play. We will trust our starters won't fail us. But be ready to adjust. France will be a problem but they won't win, not this time."
He tapped his finger on the board, right where #22 sat just behind Kane and Vardy.
"We just have to believe in the Miracle Man."
.
Just down the coastline, behind shuttered windows and a line of gendarmes, France's own war room was alive with tension. The walls were lined with heat maps and cut-up England footage. Deschamps stood by a screen frozen on a wide-angle shot of Tristan receiving the ball 40 yards from goal. No sound played. Just silence and the glowing pause of danger.
"No fouls," he said flatly. "Not here. Not on him." His voice was quiet, but the room heard the threat underneath.
An assistant flicked through clips, curlers, knuckleballs, outside-the-foot strikes from absurd range. 40 yards. 35. 31. Nets rippling. Goalkeepers stranded.
Deschamps turned to his midfield unit.
"If he shoots, we've already lost the moment."
"Kanté starts on him," said one assistant. "But he needs help."
"Always," Deschamps confirmed. "Two on twenty-two at all times. Shadow him. Funnel him. Let him pass. Let Kane or Vardy shoot. Let Sterling dribble. Let Drinkwater try from twenty. But Tristan?" He shook his head. "No shots. No free kicks. I rather give the England players 100 chances to score than give Tristan just one."
Another coach added, "He's most dangerous when he slows down. When he looks like he's walking or in transition with no one in front of him."
Deschamps nodded.
"I'd rather he controls the game than ends it."
They didn't speak of stopping Tristan. Only limiting damage.
That was the best they could do or anyone could do.
.
Marseille - 7:48 PM
The hotel suite was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the soft click of cufflinks being fastened.
Tristan stood by th e window, dressed in a tailored black suit with a sharp white shirt and the England crest embroidered just above his heart. His tie rested loose around his neck for now, undone as he took a breath and raised his phone.
Barbara answered immediately.
"Hey, love," she said softly.
Tristan smiled, turning slightly to glance at the clock. "One hour to go."
"You look good?" she teased.
"Always," he muttered. "Black suit. White shirt. Crest shining."
"Hair?"
He ran a hand through it. "Tamed. For now."
She exhaled like she was grounding herself. "Biscuit's here. Passed out on Sofia's lap. Soma and Sophia came with us. Mendes too. Your parents just got to the VIP box. "
Tristan walked toward the mirror. "Everyone's really here, huh?"
"I don't any one of them wanted to miss this?" Barbara's voice lowered. "No matter what happens… we're all proud of you."
He didn't say anything at first, just looked at his own reflection, getting ready. He would be a lier if he said he wasn't feeling any pressure or nervousness. He could only imagine how some of the guys are feeling.
Then came another voice.
"Tristan?" Julia Hale.
Barbara had handed the phone over.
"Mum," he said.
"We're already crying, love," she said gently. "Your dad's pacing and pretending he's not nervous."
A muffled voice in the background grumbled something about French referees.
Tristan smiled. "Tell him we'll handle it."
"We know you will," she whispered. "Just be you."
Then came his father's voice—calmer than expected.
"You got this, son. You gonna be fine and you score a game winner."
A short silence.
Tristan nodded once. "I will."
.
Downstairs, the lobby was already a scene.
Players stood in small huddles. Coaches paced. Assistants clipped radios to their belts. Behind the velvet ropes, flashes popped every few seconds as reporters, photographers, and broadcasters hovered like flies around a carcass except no one here was dead.
Not yet. They probably would be a few once the match ended.
"Why haven't they left?" a French journalist muttered to his colleague.
"Waiting for Tristan," came the reply.
The answer needed no follow up.
Across the floor, the players inched through their pre-match jitters with half-hearted jokes and deep breaths. They were suited sharp, black ties, crisp jackets, white shirts clean as scripture. The England crest caught the light like a badge of weight.
"Man, look at this drip," Sterling grinned, tugging at his cuffs. "We look like a boyband about to ruin the Brit Awards."
"More like the Sopranos: Wembley Edition," muttered John Stones.
"I'm just trying not to sweat through this shirt," Kane mumbled under his breath, adjusting his collar for the tenth time.
"You look like a tax accountant, mate," Vardy said, bumping shoulders with him. "One with hella penalties owed."
The tension cracked around them in bits.
Small laughter. Nervous pacing. Hushed coaching whispers behind them.
Ben Chilwell leaned on the edge of a chair. "I heard they had a drone outside trying to catch footage of us leaving."
"Good," said Dele Alli, flexing his shoulders, "Let 'em catch this angle. Been practicing my walk all week."
"Nah, mate," Drinkwater smirked. "You walk like you just came from detention."
Even Henderson cracked a grin. "Keep it up and I'll bench you myself."
Then the elevator chimed.
A hush moved through the room like someone pressed mute.
Tristan stepped out.
The elevator doors hadn't even fully opened before every camera in the lobby swung toward him. Flashes burst in quick succession, the white glare reflecting off the black suit, the England crest, the calm look on his face.
He moved straight through the lobby at a brisk pace, Roy's scolding about being late still ringing in his ears but he didn't need to say a thing. The room seemed to part for him on instinct.
By the time he reached the squad, the change was immediate.
Vardy and Kane stepped in beside him. Henderson tightened his cufflinks and took position just behind. Sterling folded into the line, shoulders set.
Chilwell. Stones. Smalling. Alli. Drinkwater.
One after another, the laughter died, the posture straightened, the mood shifted.
A wall of black suits and fixed stares.
Just the rhythm of shoes and the relentless strobe of media flashes.
And then, together, England pushed through the hotel doors into the Marseille dusk behind Tristan.
.
I was on Tiktok and I was watching all of the Argentina players always waiting for Messi, lol so this scene came from that.
BTW guys, the semi-finals won't be treated this much as it is the most important match besides the Finals. No other team in the tournament deserves this amount of writing besides whoever plays Englad in the finals.