A few days before the semifinal, and Belgium already looked like the underdogs.
Not on paper.
Not in the stats.
But in the way their players carried themselves.
The body language told the truth , shoulders tight, smiles strained, eyes darting whenever England's name came up. Reporters kept asking how confident they were, and every answer sounded like someone trying to talk themselves into a lie.
No matter what they said at the microphone, the nerves seeped through.
No one believed they could beat England.
Not the Belgian fans.
Not the players.
Not even their manager.
And it wasn't just because England were in form or how dominant they have been.
It was because of one name.
Tristan Hale.
For most of Belgium's Premier League stars, he wasn't just a name.
He was a recurring nightmare.
.
A few floors above the buzz of Marseille, the Belgian squad sat locked inside a conference room turned film hall.
Clips from England's last five matches played on loop.
No one spoke.
Pass after pass. Attack after attack. Every time they paused the tape, there it was again, England stretching teams like taffy, probing with tempo, switching angles like a swarm of surgeons.
Tristan was the engine, yes. But the machine around him?
Terrifying.
Even England's worst attacks still ended in half-chances. Even when Tristan had been locked down, like in that brutal first half vs France — England didn't collapse. They absorbed the attacks. Waited. Adapted and overcame it.
Finally, Meunier broke the silence.
"We press early. Take the risk. Box them in."
"Then Vardy or Kane kills us on the counter," Tielemans said. "We just saw it happen like twenty times."
"So we sit deep," Carrasco offered, "absorb the pressure like France did in the first half."
"They still lost," said Witsel. "What's your point?"
"France had Kanté," Mertens added. "We don't."
Nainggolan snorted. "So what, we're doomed?"
Kevin De Bruyne's voice cut across the room. "We can't out-run them. We can't out-pass them. We have to out-think them. That's the only chance."
"And what does that mean?" Chadli said, arms crossed. "Do what exactly? Watch another video of Tristan beating everyone and pretend we're different?"
Hazard shifted forward. "It's not just Tristan. It's the system. It's the trust. They all know their roles. You press Tristan? Henderson covers. You press Henderson? Dele floats wide. Then boom, one of their wingers are behind you."
"They all play together at club level or are rallied behind Tristan" Batshuayi muttered. "It's like a fucking cheat code."
Kevin's face shifted, worry edging into his voice. "Leicester. Half their team is Leicester. Vardy. Tristan. Chilwell. They've built chemistry, real chemistry. Something we haven't had in six years."
"Alright," Chadli snapped. "We get it. You Premier League guys have PTSD. Just because you got humiliated in the league doesn't mean we can't handle them."
Vertonghen stood up.
"What the fuck did you just say?"
"You heard me," Chadli said. "Some of us didn't spend the last two years getting dominated by Tristan and we're not gonna crawl into this match scared because you lot can't handle him."
Lukaku sat up. "You think this is about pride?"
De Bruyne pointed at the paused screen. "That's what he does. That's the trap. He makes you think it's about him. You get emotional. You get caught."
"Maybe you're caught already."
Chairs scraped back hard. The room erupted in movement, a dozen tempers snapping at once. Half the squad were shouting over each other. Some tried to calm things down, others hurled blame like it was ammunition. Fingers pointed. Shoulders squared. Old resentments surfaced fast.
A few of them had been holding grudges for years; this moment just cracked the surface. The pressure had been building for days, and now the players who couldn't handle it were spilling over.
The moment hung on a knife's edge.
Then the door swung open.
The manager stepped in, eyes blazing.
"ENOUGH."
Silence hit the room like a slap.
"You're tearing into each other," he said, voice low but cutting, "while the team you're about to face is preparing for a final. That's the difference."
No one answered. The shouting died, but the glares stayed, hot and unresolved.
Belgium had the talent, everyone knew that. But they resembled England's old Golden Generation far more than they wanted to admit: brilliant individuals trapped inside bitter divides.
Jealousy. Ego. Frustrations that never got cleared out.
And unlike Spain, they didn't have the overwhelming quality to survive the bomb ticking in their own locker room.
They weren't united.
They weren't ready.
.
June 30, 2016 | Lyon, France – 4:17 PM
UEFA Media Centre – England Pre-Match Press Conference
Flashes snapped as Tristan Hale took his seat beside Jordan Henderson. Both wore sharp navy FA polos, the England crest stitched neatly above the heart. A row of microphones blinked red.
Henderson leaned toward his mic, scanning the rows of reporters with an easy smile.
"Evening, everyone. How's everyone doing? Good day so far?"
Tristan followed, adjusting his mic, green eyes flicking playfully across the room.
"Hope you're all holding up. Long tournament, yeah?"
A few chuckles answered him.
The FA media officer, clipboard in hand, stepped up to the podium.
"We'll begin now. Standard format, please state your name and outlet before asking your question."
He nodded once. "First question?"
A hand shot up instantly.
"Tristan, did you get the kiss and hug from Barbara after the France game? The cameras didn't catch anything."
Tristan chuckled. "Oh man, thank you for the question. You know we always get the hardest ones right from the start so I appreciate it. But yes I did get my hug and kiss from Barbara. You guys didn't think I won a Euro quarterfinal and didn't get a hug? Come on. Of course I did."
Henderson raised a brow. "You sure? She looked more after Kanté after the match, not you."
That got more laughs.
"Next question," Tristan muttered, shaking his head.
He didn't add that Barbara had felt awful for Kanté or that the man looked like a kicked puppy. No need to twist the knife, not after a match like that.
A new voice cut in.
"Jordan, Tristan, this one's for both of you. How do you feel about facing Belgium? There's a lot of talk around De Bruyne, Hazard, Lukaku…"
Henderson lifted a shoulder. "They're world-class. Nobody denies that. But so are we. If we weren't locked in, we wouldn't be sitting here."
Tristan leaned toward his mic. "It's a semifinal. Teams don't stumble into this stage. Belgium can beat anyone on their day. So can we."
Another journalist jumped in.
"Do you think you'll make it to the final?"
Henderson allowed a small smile. "You'll know in ninety minutes."
Then a French reporter spoke up.
"Tristan, if England wins this tournament… do you think winning the Euros makes you the Ballon d'Or favorite?"
Tristan blinked at him, genuinely puzzled, like he'd just been asked if water was still wet.
"What do you mean 'makes me' the favorite?" he said. "I thought I already was. I'm having a historic tournament. I just won four trophies with Leicester undefeated. And by the end of the year I'll have… what? Seventy goals? Sixty assists? Somewhere around that. So yes, I'm the clear favorite."
There was no arrogance in his tone. It was what he believed. When asked who the best was, he didn't believe in playing humble. If he didn't believe it, why should anyone else?
And honestly, he was stunned anyone in the room would ask such a question.
Henderson jumped in before another reporter asked a question.
"He doesn't need to beat Ronaldo. Doesn't need a trophy, or a statue, or a vote. If you've got eyes and a brain, you know he's the best in the world. Ballon d'Or or not. That's it."
Tristan shot him a look. "That was dramatic."
Henderson smirked. "I've been working on it."
Next question came in from a German journalist.
"If you do reach the final and face Portugal… are you ready for that moment?"
Tristan sat up straight.
"Let's focus on Belgium first," he said, voice even. "But yeah we're ready for whatever comes next."
As the moderator began to close the session, Henderson leaned forward one last time.
"Write this down," he said, nodding toward the crowd. "You're looking at the world's best. And he's just getting started."
Flashes erupted.
The world knew what was coming.
.
A bit short but the longer chapters are coming.
Besides that check out my other stories as they are finally being updated again, lol.
And check Discord and P@ron if you are interested. The links are in the synopsis.