July 1, 2016 | Stade Vélodrome, Marseille – 8:09 PM
The England team bus turned onto Boulevard Michelet, flanked on both sides by police outriders. Sirens wailed ahead, clearing a path through the sea of bodies that had taken over the roads around the Stade Vélodrome.
The bus windows were tinted, but not enough to hide the red and white shirts pressed against the barricades. Flags waved like sails. Smoke flared red from canisters in the distance.
And the noise—
It hit them like a wall.
Cheers. Boos. Chants. Jeers.
Some English fans roared their names. Others in blue screamed curses. Bottles didn't fly but the tension said they could.
Inside the bus?
It was pretty good, each player doing their own thing.
As the bus rolled to a stop, the sound outside reached fever pitch.
"ENGLAND! ENGLAND!"
"ALLEZ LES BLEUS!"
A flare went off in the distance, lighting the sky orange.
Photographers swarmed the drop-off zone. Fans stood behind barricades, chanting, whistling, booing, begging for eye contact. One kid held a cardboard sign above his head: HALE = HELL FOR FRANCE.
The doors hissed open.
A still moment passed.
Then Roy gave a nod. "Let's go."
The players rose. Jackets straightened. Ties checked. Hands slapped backs. Tristan was the first to step off.
And as he did, the entire section of English fans behind the barricades exploded.
"TRISTAN!"
TRISTAN!"
"TRISTAN!"
A chorus of boos tried to drown them out from the other side.
Didn't matter.
Behind him, the rest followed.
And above them, on the massive stadium screens, the words burned in both French and English:
EURO 2016 – QUARTERFINAL ANGLETERRE VS FRANCE
Tonight, Europe would bleed.
.
Stade Vélodrome – VIP Entrance, 8:27 PM
Security parted like silk as the black sedans rolled in.
Inside the stadium's executive suite corridor lined with velvet ropes, UEFA banners, and high-ranking officials, two men stepped out of their cars within moments of each other.
The first was Pierre Giraud, Prime Minister of France. Impeccably dressed in a midnight navy suit, white pocket square angled just so. The second, James Holloway, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, all sharp smiles and Union Jack cufflinks.
Flanked by aides and handlers, the two leaders exchanged pleasantries and shook hands for the cameras. But before heading up to their VIP boxes, both men paused escorted by UEFA liaisons toward a quieter section just past the hospitality lounge.
There, seated together with an unobstructed view of the pitch, were Julia and Ling Hale, Barbara Palvin, Jorge Mendes, Soma, Sofia, and Sophia. Biscuit snoozed quietly on Sophia's lap in a special designer pet carrier.
Those two politicians were just here to say and for the Frenchman to see if he could lobby perhaps Tristan's parents and his girlfriend in coming to PSG.
As the entourage approached, Julia stood first, followed a beat later by Ling. Mendes rose last.
Julia kept her expression composed, though part of her bristled instinctively. She didn't have much love for politicians, never had, never would. But this was her son's night. So she stood and smiled.
Ling wasn't thrilled either. But he followed his wife's led.
"Mrs. Hale," said Prime Minister Holloway with a gracious tilt of the head. "It's a privilege to finally meet you. Your son's done the nation proud."
"Thank you," Julia said with polite warmth. "We just want him to enjoy it out there."
"Oh, he will," Holloway replied, smiling. "And if he plays like he has all tournament… well, I'd say England have one foot in the final already."
Pierre Giraud gave a slight chuckle, but he chose to ignore it and turned toward Barbara, extending his hand.
"Barbara, yes? I must say France has long been the fashion capital of the world. And your boyfriend… well, Paris would suit him quite well. Elegance, style, history… PSG would be a perfect match."
The tone was light. The message wasn't.
Barbara smiled coolly. "I'll be sure to pass that along."
Holloway coudn't believe what he was hearing. Trying to steal his country's Crown Jewel right in front of him.
"Oi, you're not taking our golden boy away," Holloway said, turning to Mendes with a knowing smirk. "In fact, I've heard very good news. He'll be staying in England a while longer."
Mendes offered a smile but didn't show anything on his face. "I'm just here to watch football," he said smoothly.
The two Prime Ministers exchanged another round of handshakes with the family and turned toward the lift to their box.
"Shame the French president couldn't be here," Holloway added lightly.
Giraud raised an eyebrow. "He'll be at the final."
"We'll see you then," Holloway said, stepping into the lift.
Seconds later, another figure arrived.
Nasser Al-Khelaifi.
The President of PSG.
He moved with practiced ease, stopping just short of the family section.
"Mrs. Hale," he said first, hand extended. "Mr. Hale. A pleasure. Your son is… remarkable."
He then nodded toward Barbara. "And Barbara, it's been a while. You're always welcome in Paris. As is he."
Barbara nodded. "Bonsoir, Nasser."
God, she hated this part. She and Tristan had met the PSG president at the Ballon d'Or ceremony, and even then he'd tried slipping transfer talk into small talk. Moments like this reminded her why she could never be an agent, she didn't have the patience for it.
Soma, Sofia, and Sophia all stood out of courtesy. Mendes stayed seated, but offered a nod.
"Nasser," Mendes said. "I take it you flew in just for this?"
Al-Khelaifi smiled faintly. "For this? Of course. A match like this… it's more than football."
And with that, he offered a polite nod and slipped away toward the suite-level doors.
.
Warm-up tracks blared through the stadium speakers as the stands continued to fill, wave by wave.
The echo of chants bouncing off concrete. High above the pitch, drone cameras floated lazily like vultures.
England jogged out to a surge of noise. Tristan led the line, boots sharp against the grass, head on a swivel. Kane and Vardy followed just behind, then Sterling, Henderson, Chilwell, and the rest. Some clapped toward the fans. Some kept their heads down.
On the opposite half, France was already going through dynamic stretches. Pogba in long sleeves. Payet snapping passes into Giroud's feet. Koscielny loosening his hamstrings.
.
Tristan jogged into England's half, eyes scanning the French side warming up on the other end.
He spotted Kanté facing him.
For a second, neither said a word.
Kanté's face didn't move. Then, barely noticeable, a shy smile broke through.
Tristan's expression softened in return. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
They didn't stop. Didn't speak.
Behind the cameras, the producers zoomed in.
Paused.
Captured it.
The internet would do the rest.
(A/N: Think Reus and Lewandowski.)
.
"I keep forgetting he's French," Vardy muttered nearby, juggling a ball between his feet.
"Yeah," said Drinkwater, cracking his neck. "Doesn't even feel real seeing him in blue."
"He's gonna be up your ass all night, Tristan," said Chilwell with a smirk.
"That's the plan," Tristan replied, calmly. "He just better bring help."
They passed in tight triangles, warming their touches. Every few seconds, the ball popped into the air, only to be volleyed back down and trapped in rhythm.
Thirty minutes to kickoff.
England Locker Room, 8:56 PM
The music had stopped. The sound of the crowd was a distant thrum behind concrete. Every now and then, a chant broke through. Boots scuffed tile. Velcro tore. A water bottle clattered to the floor and rolled. No one moved to stop it.
Jerseys were already on.
The final tape jobs done.
Roy Hodgson said his piece. Calm. Controlled. A few tactical reminders. A hand clap. Then he stepped aside.
Henderson looked around. "Captain's word?"
Tristan looked around, at each of the players he was tasked with leading. He took a deep breath, a lot of pressure was on him not to fail those guys. If they failed, the media wouldn't stop with just him.
Henderson. Kane. Vardy. Sterling. Stones. Drinkwater. Dele. Ben. The full spine of the team.
Then he spoke, loud and clear.
"They've got the fans. The stadium. The anthem. The press."
"We've got each other."
"Play for the ones who brought us here. For the badge. For the lads next to you."
"And when the whistle goes?"
"Don't play scared. Don't play safe."
"Play like we don't get a second chance because we don't so lets make it right the first time."
A silence hung for just a second.
Then Sterling muttered, "Fuckin' right."
Henderson slapped his thigh. "Let's go then."
One by one, they stood. Tristan turned and led the way.
The tunnel waited.
.
The tunnel was narrow. Hot with breath. Quiet in that strange, sacred way, the silence of athletes about to be swallowed by noise.
No one joked around with each other, it was just silent.
Tristan adjusted his armband once more. Then looked ahead.
Mascots stood lined up in front of each player, clutching hands nervously. England in white. France in deep blue. Flags clutched at the tunnel mouth.
Then the official gave the nod.
And the doors opened.
The teams walked.
Into light.
Into smoke.
Into the roar of seventy thousand.
.
BBC Broadcast – Live Coverage Begins
"Welcome to Marseille."
Peter Drury's voice, equal parts reverent and electric, rolled across the feed.
"Welcome to the Stade Vélodrome. Welcome to a night drenched in meaning. Quarterfinals of the European Championship. England and France. Two nations. Two histories. One storm coming."
Next to him, co-commentator Martin Tyler adjusted his headset, eyes wide over the pitch.
"And what an atmosphere, Peter. This is not just a match. This is a statement game. For pride. For legacy. For immortality."
"And leading them," Drury continued, "As the captain, Tristan Hale. 21 years old. A world name. A phenomenon. And tonight, on French soil, he leads England into the fire. I can't begin to understand what kind of pressure the young lad is under to perform. To lead Enland to the promised land."
"Certainly, as the captain, it's his duty to lead England to victories" Tyler said. "But I believe there's no one more suited to handle such a hostile environment than Tristan in the world. Sure France has Pogba. Griezmann. Kanté. The weight of a home crowd. But England has Tristan Hale. And that changes everything."
The camera cut to the players emerging onto the grass, shoulder to shoulder with their mascots.
Tristan stepped out first. Head high. Eyes forward. The stadium thundered.
French fans booed.
English fans drowned them out.
And somewhere far above, drone cameras spun in slow arcs as the players formed their lines on either side of the center circle. The national anthems were seconds away.
"We are moments from kickoff," Drury said, softer now. "Two giants stand beneath the floodlights. A nation behind each. And football… about to find another page for its scriptures."
The last echoes of God Save the Queen faded into the sky.
Then came La Marseillaise, a wall of thunder from 40,000 French voices.
Tristan stood at the front of the English line, hands behind his back.
Across from him, Hugo Lloris adjusted his captain's band.
The referee stepped forward, FIFA coin in hand. "Captains."
Tristan and Lloris jogged out to the center.
The cameras tracked every second.
The coin flipped. Caught. Palmed.
"England ball."
Tristan gave a small nod. Lloris just clapped once and turned.
The handshake was firm. Brief. Then they jogged back to their halves, boots biting into the pitch.
Behind them, teammates formed up.
Lines straight. Eyes locked.
Kanté was already stepping closer.
Tyler breathed in. "Drury I've been to World Cup finals. Champions League nights. But this… this feels different."
"Because it is, Martin. This game will change the legacies for certain players. We will talk about them even after decades because of a single game. Of course the players can feel it. The managers can feel it. Europe can feel it. And somewhere in the middle of it all… stands a boy from Leicester who might just tilt the continent."
The whistle was in the ref's mouth.
"Strap in," Tyler murmured. "Quarterfinals. England vs. France. Kickoff… is next."
.
Short chapter I know but next one is around 7k which will end this match.
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.
Link: https://www.webnovel.com/book/34559048308213005
And Basketball's Greatest.
Link: https://www.webnovel.com/book/34373284400173805
And join discord or Patron if you want to.
Patreon Link: patreon.com/Sinbad_
Discord Link: https://discord.gg/s2DVMbqSf4
Besides that, peace.