April 10th, 2016 | Sunderland vs Leicester City
The sun was out, warm on the King Power pitch. The title was already wrapped, Sevilla loomed midweek, and Ranieri knew exactly what kind of afternoon this was going to be. A free one. A rare one.
And Tristan? He was in no mood to sprint.
"Oi!" Vardy shouted across the grass, hands flapping like a schoolteacher telling a kid off. "You gonna jog, or what?"
Tristan didn't even pretend to quicken his pace. He strolled into midfield with the lazy gait of a man walking to the corner shop. "Relax," he called back. "This is your day."
And in many ways, it was.
By the 27th minute, Vardy had scored twice, the first a poacher's rebound, the second a mischievous little dink over the keeper after Mahrez slid him through.
The Sunderland crowd hardly bothered to boo. Their voices had dropped into a quiet resignation, a kind of muttered disbelief. Not at the goals themselves, but at how little effort it seemed to require. Leicester moved with a casual arrogance, the kind earned only after proving the world wrong again and again.
Ranieri stood in his usual spot on the touchline, arms folded, shoulders relaxed. No barking orders today. No frantic pointing. Just a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watched his players glide through another ninety minutes.
His eyes, though, lingered on Tristan.
The boy was coasting. His legs carried none of the urgency that usually made him look like a god on the field.
And Ranieri understood. He didn't need to shout or demand. Tristan had carried them all season through storms, through miracles, through moments no bookmaker or pundit had dared to dream. And given what he knew, he figured it was better to let Tristan enjoy his last few games with the season.
Besides, the game was already won before it began.
So he stood there, arms folded, looking out over the sunlit pitch with a coach's eyes but a father's pride. He saw Vardy roaring, Mahrez weaving, Kanté snapping at ankles like a terrier. And in the middle of it all, Tristan calm, unhurried, directing everything.
Ranieri exhaled slowly through his nose, a small smile never leaving his face. Let them enjoy it. Let them play with joy. They had earned the right he thought watching the game pride as one can be.
In the 64th minute, the ball found Mahrez near the touchline. A quick shimmy, a faint drop of the shoulder, and he nudged a square pass into the open channel.
Tristan jogged onto it, shoulders loose, head already up. For a heartbeat, he slowed down, scanning, weighing. Then with a little murmur under his breath, half to himself, half to the game:
"Go on, then."
The pass came like silk. Threaded between two defenders, bending just enough to kiss the grass and open the door.
Vardy didn't break stride. One touch to steady, the second lashed low into the bottom corner.
3–0
Hat-trick.
The stadium groaned, the Sunderland keeper pounded the turf, and the Leicester bench erupted. Vardy tore away toward the corner flag, grinning like a man unshackled, sliding on his knees with three fingers held high to the sky.
The cameras panned to Ranieri. He clapped calmly, but there was a glint in his eye as he watched Tristan jog over, the first to bump shoulders with Vardy before the rest of the team mobbed him.
It wasn't just the pass. It was the pattern. Ranieri had noticed it by now, the little unspoken pact. The way Mahrez kept looking early for Jamie. The way Tristan, who could've taken on the shot himself, chose instead to carve out chances for his striker.
He knew why. Tristan had confessed it once in passing, voice low, almost embarrassed. "I don't want it this year. The Golden Boot. Let Jamie take it. He's earned it."
Ranieri hadn't argued or said anything. But inside he couldn't be prouder of Tristan's growth as a person. The chances of Vardy ever getting another chance to win the Golden Boot was low compared to Tristan who would win numerous awards in the future.
If Vardy ever found out, he'd go on an absolute rampage, refusing charity, shouting about how goals should come natural, not gifted. But Tristan wasn't gifting anything. His passes weren't mercy. They were weapons.
And if that tilted the race toward Vardy instead of himself? Well… Ranieri thought, that was just Tristan.
On the pitch, Vardy was still thumping his chest, roaring at the away end. Tristan trailed behind, a grin tugging at his lips, but his eyes already scanning for the restart.
One chasing the boot.
The other, chasing history.
And Ranieri, arms folded on the touchline, couldn't help but think: Together, they might just have both.
As the match wore on, the Foxes passed sideways, backward, lazily.
Sevilla was three days away.
The Premier League was already theirs.
Now it was about staying healthy and having a laugh whilst making sure they remained undefeated.
"Want me to score one?" Tristan asked as they lined up for a free kick in the 83rd.
Vardy shook his head, panting but still smiling. "Nah. I'm eating today."
Tristan stepped away from the ball.
"Just making sure," he said.
.
Full Time: Sunderland 0 – 3 Leicester City
(Vardy 12', 27', 64')
.
Next Day
The house was quiet.Tristan lay half-buried on the living room couch, legs kicked over one armrest, face tilted toward the ceiling like he'd been dropped from a height and decided never to get up. Biscuit was curled on his chest like a smug queen, tail thumping lazily every few seconds.
On the TV, Sky Sports cycled through highlights of Leicester's 3–0 win over Sunderland. Vardy's hat-trick played on loop, each goal punctuated by commentary.
"...and Hale again with the assist. He's coasting now, but still pulling strings."
Barbara's voice floated from the kitchen.
"Want toast?"
"Only if it's buttered like you love me," Tristan replied without opening his eyes.
"So just a thin scrape, then."
He chuckled, lifting his phone. Notifications. A wall of them. Instagram edits. Twitter memes. Reddit threads arguing whether he was "coasting like Messi in March" or "saving his legs for the remaining finals left."
He didn't reply to any of it. Just watched the videos autoplay. One had Vardy yelling, "He's feeding me like I'm on life support!" with Tristan edited as a chef in the background.
He smiled, then tapped over to messages where Sheeran was sending pics of the studio he rented out.
Barbara appeared with two mugs of tea and a plate of toast. She handed him his, plopped down beside him in a hoodie and shorts, her hair tied up with zero effort and still somehow looking runway-ready.
"Ed again?"
"Yeah. Studio day tomorrow. Just the two of us and Biscuit."
"He better not steal you away permanently," she teased.
"Never," Tristan said. "Unless he offers me a verse on 'Thinking Out Loud 2.' Then we'll renegotiate."
Barbara laughed and leaned her head on his shoulder.
They sat like that, toast disappearing bite by bite, the match replay fading into some Premier League recap show.
Tristan and Barbara were still curled together on the couch when the broadcast cut from highlight reels to a red-and-white graphic across the screen.
UEFA Europa League — Pre-Match Press Conference: Liverpool vs Borussia Dortmund
Barbara squinted, toast halfway to her mouth, the butter glistening under the living room light.
"Wait… that's live?" she asked.
Tristan tilted his head, eyes narrowing as his body tensed beneath Biscuit, who was snoring softly on his chest. "Yeah," he murmured. "It's live." His voice had changedless casual, more focused.
The name on the banner carried weight conasdering that was his future team and manager.
The feed cut to Anfield's press room, packed to the brim. The sharp pop of camera flashes. The restless shuffle of chairs. A wall of red behind the table where Jürgen Klopp sat, flanked by two Liverpool staffers.
Klopp adjusted his cap with that familiar grin pulling at his beard.
The first journalist leaned into the mic. "Jürgen, before we talk Dortmund, let me ask about the other quarter-finals. If Liverpool progresses, you'll face Villarreal, and possibly Leicester in the final. Are you already thinking ahead?"
Klopp's grin widened. He pushed his glasses up, leaned forward, and gave a little shrug.
"Look, I am German, yes. But I am not a machine." The room chuckled softly. "We cannot skip steps. First we must beat Dortmund, which.." he paused, hand slicing through the air "is not easy. Especially for me. My old club. My family, in many ways. Ask anyone in Europe, Dortmund are always a nightmare."
He let the moment hang, then leaned back with a chuckle. "But of course… yes, we are aware of the bracket. Villarreal? A problem. A big one. But Leicester…" Klopp's smile turned into something almost mischievous.
"Leicester, let me say this: Nobody is surprised anymore. Maybe nine months ago, yes. But not now. They deserve to be exactly where they are. Sevilla is not just a big team, Sevilla is the Europa League team. And Leicester went to Spain, to that stadium, and made it look.." he gestured with both hands, like flicking crumbs off the table.. "easy. Who else in Europe has done that? Nobody."
Barbara turned to Tristan, her lips quirking into a proud grin. Tristan didn't smile back, he just kept his eyes locked on the screen, the faintest flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Another journalist jumped in, voice cutting through the noise.
"Assuming Leicester goes through and most expect they will would you want to face them in the final? And… would that result affect any summer recruitment plans? Especially with the rumours swirling around Tristan Hale?"
At the mention of his name, Barbara's toast froze midair. Tristan's brow twitched, though his expression stayed unreadable.
Klopp leaned back so quickly his chair creaked. His eyebrows shot up, his grin sharpened. "Ah! Okay, okay, that is two questions disguised as one. Clever." He wagged a finger toward the reporter, eyes crinkling. "I see what you did there." The room laughed with him.
"First question: yes. Of course I want to face the best teams. And right now, Leicester is one of them. If we meet in the final…" he clapped his hands together, loud enough to echo. "Boom. Fireworks."
The same journalist pressed, "Even if they beat you as they have done in the league?"
Klopp threw his head back and laughed, loud and guttural, slapping the table once with his palm."Then we clap! We clap, we learn, we try again. That's football. Sometimes you eat the lion, sometimes the lion eats you. But at least you had dinner!"
The room burst out laughing, and even Barbara covered her mouth, giggling into Tristan's shoulder. Tristan, though, only shook his head slightly, lips twitching, eyes fixed on the screen.
Klopp let the noise settle before leaning in, lowering his tone. "Now, second question… transfers. Look, transfers are complicated, okay? More complicated than people think. But Tristan Hale…" His smile softened into something more serious. "Tristan Hale is… unique. He does things others cannot. Sometimes"...he mimed a soaring plane with his hand, "he plays like he is flying. Sometimes he plays like he is half asleep, like against Sunderland yesterday, yes?"
The room chuckled again.
Tristan's eyes narrowed. Barbara elbowed him playfully.
Klopp grinned wider, holding up a finger. "But even when he looks like he is cruising, he is controlling everything. Yesterday, yes, his rating was 7.5 instead of 9.5 - oh my god, scandal! but then what happens? One pass. No-look. Perfect weight. Jamie Vardy runs, boom, hat-trick. This is the difference. Even at seventy percent, Tristan makes things happen that others only dream of."
He spread his hands, looking around the room. "So, final or no final, win or lose, any manager would be lucky to coach him. But today? Today I am not his fan club. Today I am Dortmund's nightmare. One step at a time. Then we see."
The press room erupted with murmurs, pens scratching furiously. Klopp leaned back again, grinning like he'd just stolen the last joke.
On the couch, Barbara let out a low whistle. "You hear that? Dortmund's nightmare, but also your biggest fan."
Tristan stroked Biscuit absently, his jaw tightening. His eyes never left the screen. "He's clever," Tristan said finally. "Always keeps it light. Makes people laugh, so they don't notice how serious he really is."
Barbara tilted her head. "I think he's the perfect manager for you in terms of personality. I just don't see you getting along with Jose like that.
Tristan smirked faintly, gaze still locked on Klopp's grinning face on the screen. "Me too babe."
.
Next Morning
The smell of fresh coffee mingled with the faint tang of wood polish. Sunlight slanted through half-closed blinds, turning the dust motes in the studio into little drifting stars.
Biscuit had curled herself into a perfect circle on top of Tristan's hoodie in the corner, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, one paw twitching every so often as if chasing something in a dream. The hoodie was clearly claimed property now, throne and blanket in one.
Ed was hunched over in his chair, messing with the loop pedal, deliberately humming off key just to make himself laugh. He hit a button, layered it, then added a silly falsetto harmony on top until the room sounded like a choir of drunken ghosts.
Tristan, sprawled sideways on the studio couch, held a guitar like it might turn on him at any second. His fingers fumbled over unfamiliar chords, pressing here, sliding there, grimacing at the dull buzz of a muted string. He strummed anyway, half noise, half curiosity.
"China, huh?" Ed asked suddenly, glancing up from the pedal.
"Yeah. After the Euros." Tristan didn't look up, just adjusted his grip on the guitar. "Bit of a reset. Taking the family. Some of the lads too. You in?"
Ed leaned back, chair creaking under his weight. "Depends where. If it's Beijing, I'll melt in about ten minutes. But if there's good food and a piano, I'm down."
Tristan's lips curved into a grin. "Good food's guaranteed. Piano… might be more of a side quest."
They both laughed, the sound bouncing warmly off the studio's wooden walls.
Ed reached for the battered notebook sitting by his laptop, flipping through pages crammed with scribbled lyrics and half-finished lines. His pen was tucked behind his ear, hair sticking out in all directions from hours of messing with ideas.
"You touring again soon?" Tristan asked, setting the guitar on his lap like he was finally admitting defeat.
"Maybe September," Ed replied. "U.S. leg this time. But I'm thinking of keeping it stripped back just me, a guitar, smaller venues. Old school."
Tristan nodded slowly, thoughtful. "Sounds nice. Less pressure and easier on you."
There was a beat of silence. Ed's eyes flicked up, studying him. "You leaving?"
The room shifted instantly. Not a casual question. Not banter.
Tristan stilled, fingers tracing absent patterns on the guitar neck. His eyes went to Biscuit in the corner, as though her sleeping form might somehow shield him from the weight of it. Then, finally, he looked back at Ed.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "After this season. No one knows, though. Just my family, Mendes, Barbara… and Leicester's top brass."
Ed whistled low, leaning back in his chair. "So the rumours are true then. Liverpool?"
"Yep."
"You getting a farewell ceremony or something?"
Tristan smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "After we win everything, yeah."
Ed chuckled, tapping his pen against the notebook. "Confident. I like it."
Tristan pointed the guitar neck at him like an accusation. "You better be there. Sing something embarrassing for me."
Ed leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice softer now. "Mate, I'll write something new for you. Not embarrassing. Proper send-off. Something no one forgets."
The words landed heavy. Tristan didn't say anything for a moment, just looked down at the strings. His throat tightened with something he couldn't quite name. "Thanks," he managed eventually.
Ed, sensing the shift, switched gears, reaching for his laptop. "So your stats've dipped a bit," he teased, half smile tugging at his lips. "What's up with that?"
"Tired," Tristan admitted, stretching his legs out across the couch. "But I'm still close to a hundred combined goals and assists this season. Just pacing myself now."
(I don't have the exact stats right now would take way too long to count everything but he's close to this number.)
"Helping Vardy get the Golden Boot, yeah?"
"Yeah." Tristan smirked. "Kane's going mental. Gotta keep Jamie ahead."
Ed barked a laugh, then strummed the guitar Tristan had abandoned. He plucked a few strings, slow and warm, before looping them. The sound filled the room, low and nostalgic, carrying a weight that words couldn't.
"Alright then," Ed said, smiling faintly. "Let's write that goodbye song."
Tristan leaned back against the couch, eyes closing briefly as the music washed over him. His mind flicked through songs he remembered from the future. His lips parted slightly, as if about to hum something, then closed again.
When he opened his eyes, Ed was watching him carefully, waiting.
Tristan gave a small nod, determination in his gaze now. "Yeah," he said. "Let's make a song"
And just like that, they got to work.