July 9, 2016
Paris, France
Portugal Team Hotel - Morning
.
Light was already leaking through the curtains when Cristiano Ronaldo's eyes opened. His hand reached for his phone before the blankets.
329 unread messages and notifications, all from apps and people he hadn't muted.
Two were from his mum.
Four from Elma and Liliana, his sisters.
Three from Hugo, his older brother.
Family were among the few who were never silenced. Everyone else had been muted long before England faced Belgium. He had known what was coming next, it was so obvious England were going to win.
He didn't need the extra noise, the opinions, the predictions.
He needed peace and quiet.
One message sat at the top.
From his only son: You're going to win, Dad.
Cristiano stared at it for a long moment
He didn't reply. He locked the screen and set the phone face-down on the nightstand.
He rolled out of bed, bare feet meeting the cool tile, and walked to the window. Paris stretched out beneath him in soft blue and gold. Normally, he would have noticed the beauty.
This morning, he didn't.
He lowered himself to the carpet and began to stretch.
Right hamstring. Then left. Hips. Groin. Core.
The stiffness wasn't new. But today his body felt heavier. Not from fatigue but from awareness. From knowing what waited on the other side of tomorrow.
Not France.
Tristan Hale.
He stood and caught his reflection in the mirror. Every line, every muscle told the same story — years of discipline, sacrifice, and obsession carved into flesh.
Proof of everything it had taken to reach this moment.
He grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV. RTP was already on. The panel. The debates.The countdown clock.
They were dissecting him like a political candidate.
"Ronaldo must carry Portugal again, can he do it at thirty-one?"
"Hale is younger, faster, sharper. Cristiano's greatness is being challenged by someone who hasn't failed yet."
"If he wins this… he goes above Messi. Above everyone."
Cristiano turned the volume down. Sat at the edge of the bed.
Opened Twitter.
The top trending topic was the EURO FINAL.
Headline after headline.
THE UNTOUCHABLE
ENGLAND'S MESSIAH
RONALDO VS THE PRODIGY
IS THIS THE GREATEST SEASON IN FOOTBALL HISTORY?
Cristiano opened one of the articles, scrolled down. Stats flashed like punches. Stats he once believed only he and Messi could reach.
No he wasn't giving Tristan enough credit, what he did this season, no one else had done it before him.
He closed the tab. Leaned forward. And for a moment, he just sat there.
What reason did that boy have to win?
Tristan Hale hadn't suffered.
He hadn't broken down in tears after losing a final. He hadn't watched golden generations crumble. Hadn't seen his country mocked. Hadn't been told for a decade that he wasn't enough.
The kid was born brilliant. Walked into the first team and won the FA Cup in his first season. Broke records in his second. Went undefeated in his third.
And now he was chasing ninety-one goals.
And a European Championship.
And the Ballon d'Or.
All in the same year.
Cristiano looked down at his hands.
"No. No. Not yet."
If he didn't stop this kid, he'd be replaced.
No.
He didn't believe in losing. Not now. Not when everything demanded he win.
He would win no matter what.
For himself. For Junior. For his family.
One match.
One more time.
Cristiano turned back to the phone. Reopened the message.
You're going to win, Dad.
He typed one word back.
We will.
He would won no matter what anyone thought or said about him.
.
Stade de France – Closed Training Session
The stadium was empty.
No fans. No cameras. No noise except boots scuffing grass and the dull thud of balls being passed back and forth.
Portugal trained in silence.
Not tension. Not nerves. Just... off.
Passes were a little late. Touches a little heavy.
Renato Sanches miscontrolled one near the sideline and let it roll out. João Moutinho turned straight into pressure during a drill, something he never did. André Gomes misread a switch and sent the ball five yards behind his target.
Pepe barked something sharp in Portuguese. Carvalho didn't respond.
The rhythm wasn't there. It was small things. But everyone noticed.
A rondo broke down after three passes. The ball trickled away. No one moved to get it.
Then Ronaldo walked in.
He didn't announce himself.
But the energy shifted anyway.
Renato straightened. Nani stopped mid-joke. Even Pepe flicked a glance over his shoulder.
Cristiano jogged once around the centre circle, loosened his shoulders, then joined the passing drill. One touch. Two. Crisp. Hard. Precise. Every pass demanded focus.
A misplaced ball came toward him.
He stopped it dead with his instep.
Looked up.
Played it back harder.
The message landed.
Fernando Santos let them run another five minutes. Then blew his whistle.
"Bring it in."
The players formed a loose circle. Cristiano stood at the edge at first watching the guy's faces, body language. He saw it. The doubt. The same look he'd seen before finals. Before penalties.
Before heartbreaks.
Someone cleared their throat.
Cristiano stepped forward.
"I'll keep this short."
The room stilled.
"They're saying we don't belong here," he continued. "That we were lucky. That we scraped through."
A few heads nodded. No one argued.
"They're saying England already won. That Tristan Hale already has the trophy. That this final is just a ceremony."
His gaze swept the circle slowly.
"That's fine."
Renato frowned. Nani shifted his weight.
Cristiano took a breath.
"Because tomorrow isn't about Hale. It's not about England. It's not about Ballon d'Ors or headlines or what the internet thinks."
He stepped fully into the circle now.
"It's about whether we believe we're allowed to win."
That landed.
"Some of you are nervous," he said, calm, honest. "I can see it. And that's okay."
Renato swallowed.
"But don't confuse nerves with weakness."
Cristiano turned to Pepe.
"We didn't come this far to be respectful."
To Nani.
"We didn't survive this tournament to admire anyone."
Then to all of them.
"They have one thing we don't."
A pause.
"They haven't suffered yet. They're young. They're brilliant. They're prodigies."
Cristiano's voice hardened.
"But they haven't failed. They haven't lost everything and crawled back. They haven't bled for this."
He straightened.
"We have."
Silence gripped the room.
Cristiano's voice dropped, steadier now.
"I will run until I can't. I will press until my legs give out. I will fight for every ball."
He tapped his chest once.
"But I need you with me."
He met Renato's eyes.
"Not scared."
Moutinho's.
"Not hesitant."
Then the whole room.
"Together."
"We win tomorrow."
For half a second, no one moved.
Then a fist slammed into a palm.
Someone shouted—
"YEAH!"
Another voice joined. Then another.
"LET'S GO!"
"WE'VE GOT THIS!"
"PORTUGAL!"
The circle tightened. Hands came together. Voices rose.
Confidence flooded in.
Tomorrow, they were going to win.
.
Next Day
Stade de France | 7:30 PM Local Time
The gates were shut. The songs were deafening.
Stade de France shimmered under layers of flags and noise. Tens of thousands packed the stands. England's section bled white and red. Portugal's corner throbbed in deep crimson. Overhead, spotlights circled the sky like a halo. Helicopters hovered. Cameras tracked every inch of the pitch.
Outside, near the players' tunnel, the England team coach rolled to a smooth stop.
Instantly, the crowd behind the barriers surged forward, phone screens shooting into the air like a swarm of fireflies.
"ENGLAND! ENGLAND! ENGLAND!"
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"
"FUCK PORTUGAL!"
"FUCK BUMNALDO!"
The English voices cracked the night. Flags waved. Kids on shoulders of parents trying to closer looks on their heroes.
But they weren't alone.
To the left, a wave of red shirts—Portugal supporters—began to chant louder, matching volume with venom.
"YOU'LL NEVER WIN!"
"IT'S NOT COMING HOME!"
"VA TE FAIRE FOUTRE, L'ANGLETERRE!"
From above the tunnel entrance, French fans unleashed their own chorus of jeers. The local crowd had made their choice.
A homemade sign read: "ANYONE BUT ENGLAND."
Bottles clinked. Horns blared. A group of teenagers in Ronaldo jerseys led a chant of "OLE, OLE, OLE—HAAAAALE IS OVERRATED!" with grins on their faces.
It didn't matter. The doors opened anyway.
Tristan stepped off first, navy blue England suit crisp against the chaos around him. White shirt unbuttoned at the collar, slim black tie tucked neat behind the lapel.
"TRISTAN!"
"I LOVE YOU!"
"KILL 'EM TONIGHT, LAD!"
He moved slowly through the noise, smiling faintly, raising a hand to the ones who mattered ignoring the boos, the middle fingers, the ones calling for his head.
He took a few slow steps forward smiling and weaving at the fans ignoring the ones calling for his head.One fan leaned so far over the railing he nearly fell. Tristan walked over and took the phone from his shaking hand. Quick photo. A quiet "Cheers, mate." Then another snap with a kid in a Rooney shirt holding a WE BELIEVE banner. The boy just stared at him, speechless.
"Bring it home, lad," someone yelled.
"Kick Ronaldo's fuckin' teeth in!" another screamed.
Tristan only smiled, took a few more pictures, and turned for the tunnel.
Behind him came Harry Kane, Jamie Vardy, John Stones, Chris Smalling, Kyle Walker and the rest of the squad.
One by one, the starters disappeared into the tunnel.
The night was waiting.
.
The stadium noise was muffled behind concrete. Boots echoed faintly against the floor. Kit bags thumped against benches. No one was talking much.
Tristan sat with his back against the wall, suit jacket folded beside him, earbuds still in. His shirt was already half unbuttoned, sweat clinging to his collarbone.
Vardy dropped onto the bench beside him, chewing gum like it was the only thing keeping him from biting his tongue off.
"Fuckin' hell," he muttered. "I'm nervous, mate."
Tristan glanced at him.
"You?"
"Yeah. Look around." Vardy nodded toward the others who were just as nervous. No matter how confident everyone was, this was still the finals of the Euros, there was bound to be some nervousness.
Tristan exhaled slowly, wiped his hands on his thighs.
"Yeah."
There wasn't much else to say.
Suddenly, the stadium PA crackled to life, loud, formal, echoing off the walls.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the arrival of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, accompanied by His Royal Highness Prince William, Duke of Cambridge."
Inside the tunnel, heads lifted.
"Also joining us tonight: the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Mr. David Cameron..."
"...and the President of the French Republic, Monsieur François Hollande."
A soft murmur moved through the England players. Vardy leaned back with a whistle.
"Well, no pressure then."
Tristan stood, rolling his neck out.
"All that just to watch us kick a ball."
Vardy laughed under his breath.
"Kick a ball… or end a fifty-year drought."
Farther down the tunnel, the stewards were lining up. UEFA officials started signaling the players to get ready for warm ups.
The final was coming.
.
England's players stepped onto the pitch for warm-ups to a thunderous mix of cheers, boos, and fire. Spotlights danced across the grass. Cameras tracked their every move, zooming in on faces, feet, sweat.
Tristan jogged to the far end, let the ball roll under his boot, and stopped. He didn't move for a while.
Instead, he sat right there in the middle third, one leg folded up, one foot on the ball. Elbows resting on his knee.
He was exhausted — drained to the bone — yet relief never came. Every ounce of pressure he'd carried for so long had been for this moment. He'd already changed England's fate.
Now, he had to change his own. He had to take the throne by force.
Behind him, the rest of the squad moved through their drills. Kane and Vardy traded passes. Stones was stretching. Henderson was already shouting. Tristan barely noticed.
His eyes swept slowly across the stands.
He couldn't see them clearly, too much distance, too much glass but he knew exactly where they were.
Box level, front row.
Barbara. Anita. István and Ágnes. All three had made it.
Julia. Ling. His mum and dad. Biscuit curled in Barbara's lap. Soma. Felix. John. Sophia. Sofia.
All of them in one box. All of them watching.
Only one not there was Mendes who was in his hotel room as he didn't who to support between Tristan and Ronaldo. And as such decided not to show up to the game.
Something both players respected.
He raised a hand, knowing they would see it.
He tapped the ball gently under his heel, eyes drifting upward as another camera panned across the VIP tier.
.
The broadcast feed cut to a luxury suite high.
LeBron James, Kobe Bryant, and Kyrie Irving sat side by side, watching.
Kyrie Irving leaned forward, eyes scanning the stands in disbelief. He had never seen anything like this before.
"This is wild," he muttered. "Seventy thousand packed in here. And what thousands outside watching on the big screen?"
He shook his head slowly.
"All this… for one football match."
He pulled his phone halfway out of his jacket, checked a headline, then looked up again, almost laughing. "Bro… almost a billion people are expected to watch this. One billion. You've got prime ministers, presidents, the Queen in the building."
Kobe Bryant stayed still, eyes locked on the pitch. He couldn't imagine what kind of pressure the 21 year old is under. Having this level of expectations where people expect you to win no matter what.
"Yeah," he said. "This isn't just sport. It's a global event. Like the whole planet stops for it."
LeBron James nodded, watching Tristan.
"That's the difference," he said. "We think Game 7 is the end of the world."
"But this? This is something else like a billion people watching you."
Kyrie leaned back, eyes wide.
"No wonder Tristan's already got eighty million followers. He's like twenty one years old. What the fuck.."
"Yeah, in terms of fame, we don't even compare," LeBron added. "This is what global reach actually looks like." This is also why he invested in Liverpool. An investment turning out to be gold if Tristan did join.
.
30 minutes after the ceremony.
The final choreographed dancer had left the pitch. The colored smoke from the pre-match display still lingered faintly in the corners of the stadium, but now all eyes were fixed on the tunnel.
The stadium lights dimmed, then surged.
Drums thundered. Flags lifted. And the tunnel came alive.
The two teams began to walk out, side by side, led by mascots, slow and synchronized under the weight of the moment.
Up in the stands, KSI had his phone out already, recording everything.
"This is actually insane," he said to the camera, laughing under his breath. "Look at this. Look at this!"
Behzinga, Miniminter, and Tobi were right beside him, all filming from different angles — phones out, mouths half-open as the players emerged.
KSI turned the camera on himself mid-roar.
"Yo, you lot watching this at home? You're not just watching a match. You're watching history."
He spun the camera back toward the pitch just as Tristan and Ronaldo stepped out, mascots at their sides, flags behind them, thunder above them.
"And now… here we are."
Peter Drury's voice rose above the noise — clear, excited, steady — the sound of a man who knew he was witnessing history.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the final of the 2016 UEFA European Championship, hosted by France… England versus Portugal. A dream final — for the fans, for the sport, for the world."
He let the moment breathe, then continued.
"Seventy thousand inside Stade de France. Millions more watching around the globe. England. Portugal. Tristan Hale. Cristiano Ronaldo. The Queen is here. Prime Ministers. Presidents. Owners of clubs from every corner of Europe. Stars and legends of the beautiful game gathered in one place… all for ninety minutes, and one trophy."
Peter Drury listened as the noise rolled around the stadium, then felt his co‑commentator lean forward beside him.
"What a moment for the game, Peter," Steve McManaman said. "The match hasn't even kicked off and broadcasters are already projecting close to a billion viewers worldwide. A billion. Seventy thousand inside Stade de France, tens of thousands more outside, and the eyes of the world locked on Paris."
Drury nodded, eyes never leaving the pitch.
"And the ball still rests," he replied. "Untouched."
The camera settled at the mouth of the tunnel.
Two men stood at the front.
Tristan Hale.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
White and red.
Drury's voice lifted—not louder, but fuller.
"When was the last time England stood this close to continental glory? Nineteen sixty‑six echoes in the distance. When was the last time Portugal stood here, on the edge of everything? Two thousand and four still burns."
"Tonight, both nations are led by their chosen ones. Their two Captains."
The camera framed Tristan first—calm, still, eyes forward.
"Tristan Hale. England's prodigal son. The crown jewel. The man of miracles."
"Undefeated in every final he has ever played."
"This season alone—four trophies with Leicester City. The FA Cup. The EFL Cup. The Premier League. The Europa League. All conquered without defeat."
"Favored already for the Ballon d'Or at just twenty‑one years of age."
"A talent never quite seen before. Not this complete. Not this early. Perhaps the greatest talent this game has ever seen."
Drury paused as the camera shifted.
Ronaldo.
A career etched into muscle memory.
"And standing opposite him—Cristiano Ronaldo."
"Three‑time Ballon d'Or winner. Champion of England, Spain, and Europe. Over six hundred goals for club. Over fifty for Portugal."
"A man who has won nearly everything football can offer… except this."
"The old guard. The one who defined an era with his rival."
Drury's voice steadied, deliberate now.
"Can Cristiano Ronaldo stop the rise of the new king?"
"Or will he stand witness—as Tristan Hale takes hold of the future, and football changes hands?"
The teams stepped forward.
The anthems waited.
History waited.
.
The stadium PA crackled to life, formal and steady beneath the noise.
"Ladies and gentlemen… may we now ask you to rise for the national anthems, beginning with the United Kingdom's God Save the Queen."
The stadium rose.
The first note echoed, solemn and sharp.
England's starting eleven stood tall.
High in the stands, the England section sang louder than they had all tournament. Flags waved. Faces tilted toward the sky. The red-and-white banner of St George flew from every corner of the stadium.
The final note rang, met by thunder.
Then silence.
"A Portuguesa," the announcer called next.
The Portuguese anthem burst from the speakers like a battle cry.
Ronaldo stood front and center. Chin raised. Voice strong. His fist clenched against his chest. João Moutinho stood beside him, silent. Pepe's eyes were closed.
Portugal's section pulsed in red. The jeers had stopped. Only belief remained.
The anthems ended. The applause rolled. The tension snapped back.
The two captains stepped forward for the handshake line.
Tristan.
Ronaldo.
Past and future.
Peter Drury's voice came in again, smooth, deliberate, heavy.
"Two nations stand still. Two captains lead them. And in these two men — England and Portugal are not just represented… they are defined."
Steve McManaman followed.
"Tristan is having the greatest European Championship we have ever seen."
"If Portugal want to stop him, they'll need more than just structure. They'll need something else entirely."
"They'll need everything."
Peter added,
"They'll need Champions League Ronaldo."
"They'll need the version who silenced Munich, who shattered Turin, who torched Atleti. Because the Ronaldo we've seen so far? That won't be enough."
He paused.
"They're not just playing England tonight. They're playing Tristan Hale."
"And to beat him — you need more than ego and confidence. You need to bring 120% of your capability."
"In the next ninety minutes… we will find out if Tristan Hale can be stopped."
.
Tomorrow the final will be posted, after that, gonna take a short break on Webnovel as I need to stockpile more chapters since I just combined like 5 of them into one lol.
Besides that check out my other stories, join the Discord and P@tron if you are interested.
Stay safe and have a blessed day.