Chapter 128: Day Off

The smell of freshly brewed coffee and toast filled the kitchen as Tristan sat at the counter, lazily picking at his plate of eggs and bacon.

His body still felt sore from the game—the deep, satisfying ache of having given everything on the pitch.

Physically, he had felt worse before.

But mentally?

This was probably the most drained he had ever been.

Not from the match itself, but from everything that came after it.

For the last 24 hours, his name had been everywhere.

Pundits. Commentators. Fans. Social media.

All talking about one thing.

Him.

Across from him, his dad leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee as his eyes flicked across his phone screen. A small, amused smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"You broke football, kid."

Tristan snorted, popping a piece of bacon into his mouth. "Didn’t mean to. It just kinda happened."

His dad arched an eyebrow, setting his mug down. "Right. You 'accidentally' scored a double hat trick."

Tristan shrugged, swallowing his food. "Could’ve had a fourth if Danny didn’t take that one shot himself in the last minutes."

His dad chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, and they’d probably be building a statue for you in Leicester by morning."

Tristan grinned, imagining the sight. "Not the worst idea."

Before his dad could fire back, his mom’s excited voice carried from the living room.

"Tristan, come look at this!"

Still chewing, he turned his head toward the TV, the sound of football pundits echoing through the house.

His mom, Julia, sat on the couch, her phone in one hand and the remote in the other, her eyes moving from screen to screen, reading an article and watching a broadcast from the same news station simultaneously. 

BBC Sport.

His name plastered across the broadcast. 

"TRISTAN HALE – THE PREMIER LEAGUE’S NEW BEST PLAYER?"

Tristan swallowed his food and shook his head in exasperation. "They’re being dramatic. But about damn time—I’m still salty I didn’t get Player of the Month."

His mom raised a brow and turned to face him. "They’re calling it the greatest individual performance in the history of the league, Tristan."

His dad, still at the counter, crossed his arms, nodding toward the TV. "She’s right; you know how hard it is to get these English pundits to agree on anything? And here they are, talking like you’ve already won the Ballon d’Or."

On-screen, the broadcast shifted—

Match of the Day.

The camera focused on Gary Lineker, Alan Shearer, Ian Wright… and Rio Ferdinand.

Lineker leaned forward, fingers clasped together, his expression buzzing with barely contained excitement.

"We’ve had the privilege to cover some of the greatest nights in Premier League history—"

He took a deep breath—then suddenly shot up from his chair, arms raised.

"—AND TONIGHT IS NO DIFFERENT—LEICESTER CITY HAVE DESTROYED MANCHESTER UNITED SEVEN BLOODY ONE!"

He fist-pumped the air.

"SEVEN ONE! AGAINST MANCHESTER UNITED! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! THIS IS THE GREATEST NIGHT IN LEICESTER CITY HISTORY!"

Alan Shearer and Ian Wright burst out laughing, shaking their heads in amusement.

Rio Ferdinand?

Stone-faced. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched.

He hadn’t said a word.

Lineker was still celebrating, bouncing around the room in exhilaration.

"I never thought I’d see this in my lifetime! Leicester City, my club, my team, have just put SEVEN past one of the biggest clubs in world football! I don’t care if this isn’t a cup final—THIS IS OUR CHAMPIONS LEAGUE!"

Shearer tried to calm his own laughter. "Gary, mate, sit down—"

"I CAN’T, ALAN! I CAN’T!"

The camera cut back to Rio Ferdinand, who still hadn’t moved.

Tense jaw. Unblinking stare.

Shearer cleared his throat, attempting—and failing—to keep a straight face. "Rio, mate, I know this is painful, but we have to talk about it. What went wrong?"

Ferdinand exhaled sharply, shaking his head once.

"Everything."

That was all he said.

Shearer nodded, moving on quickly. "Alright, Ian, let’s talk about the man of the night. Tristan Hale—where does this rank in terms of individual performances?"

Ian Wright rubbed his face, letting out a long breath.

"I’ll be real with you. I’ve seen some incredible players in this league. But I have NEVER seen a performance like that. Not at nineteen years old. Not against Manchester United."

A highlight package played—

✅ First goal – A ruthless first-time finish.
✅ Second goal – A solo run past three United defenders before a 35-yard rocket into the top corner.
✅ Third goal – A bicycle kick that stunned the stadium.
✅ Three assists – Pinpoint passes, dazzling footwork, United’s defense pulled apart like amateurs.

The camera returned to Rio Ferdinand.

Still stone-faced.

Still silent.

Shearer hesitated, then asked, "Rio… mate, what do you even say after something like this?"

Ferdinand let out a long, slow exhale.

He opened his mouth—then stopped.

Shook his head.

Then, finally—

"I’ve got nothing."

Tristan snorted.

"That bad, huh?"

His dad chuckled, shaking his head. "You single-handedly ruined their weekend."

Tristan smirked, sipping his juice. "United fans are gonna hate me forever, huh?"

His dad shrugged. "Well, considering the last time they lost 7-1, most of them weren’t even born yet… yeah."

His mom, still scrolling through her phone, suddenly perked up.

"Did Barbara text you yet?"

Tristan froze mid-bite.

His dad chuckled, shaking his head. "Thought so."

Tristan sighed, setting his fork down before finally reaching for his phone.

He hadn’t checked it all morning, and sure enough—

Missed call.

Text notifications.

Barbara.

Barbara: "Morning, Mr. Hale. Call me when you’re up."

Julia grinned, watching her son hesitate.

"Go on. Don’t keep her waiting."

Tristan rolled his eyes but relented, tapping the FaceTime button.

They rarely ever just called. It was always FaceTime.

Neither of them had talked about it, but since the first time they met, it had just stuck.

The call rang twice before the screen flickered, and there she was—lying on her bed, wrapped in a loose hoodie, her light brown hair slightly tousled from sleep.

Her blue eyes flickered with amusement as she stretched lazily.

"I figured you’d be up already."

Tristan leaned back in his chair, setting his phone against his juice glass.

"What gave it away? The whole country screaming my name?"

Barbara let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.

"Pretty much."

"Yeah, well, now you know how it feels."

She rolled onto her side, resting her cheek on her hand, watching him through the screen.

"Difference is, I’m used to it. You, on the other hand, just caused a meltdown."

Tristan smirked, rubbing his jaw. "Not my fault people overreact."

Barbara gave him a look. "Tristan. You scored a double hat-trick against Manchester United. No one’s overreacting."

Tristan sighed, shaking his head.

"Fair point. But you should take some of the heat—you’re the one who told me to get a hat-trick."

Barbara hesitated, her smirk fading slightly.

There was a shift.

Something small, but Tristan noticed it immediately.

"Look, there’s something I wanted to talk about."

His smirk disappeared.

"What’s up?"

Barbara pressed her lips together, like she was debating how to word it.

Then she exhaled, deciding to just be honest.

"I think we should take this slow, Tristan. I just… I need space to figure things out."

Tristan was quiet for a moment.

Not because he was shocked.

If anything, he had kind of figured she’d say something like this. Considering how fast everything was going—and looking at her history—it made sense.

She needed time.

And he could wait.

Tristan held her gaze through the screen, his voice steady. Not defensive. Not hurt. Just understanding.

"Barbara, I get it."

She didn’t say anything, just watched him.

"I know how the media twists things. I’ve seen what they put you through. I know how messy some of your past relationships got—not because of you, but because of everything that came with it."

Barbara exhaled softly, her fingers lightly tracing the fabric of her hoodie.

Because he didn’t say it like someone who was just aware of her past.

He said it like someone who actually understood.

Someone who had taken the time to understand.

"I don’t want this to turn into another spectacle," she admitted.

Tristan nodded.

"Then it won’t."

Simple. Certain.

Barbara let out a slow breath, some of the tension in her shoulders easing.

"You’re really okay with this?"

Tristan tilted his head slightly like the question didn’t even need to be asked.

"Barbara, take whatever time you need. I’m not going anywhere."

She blinked, her lips parting slightly—like she wasn’t expecting that answer.

Then, after a beat, she smiled—small, but real.

She cleared her throat, shifting the mood.

"Well… I did figure out your reward."

Tristan arched an eyebrow.

"Oh? And you’re actually gonna follow through this time?"

Barbara smirked, her blue eyes glinting with amusement.

"Mhm. But it’s a surprise."

Tristan chuckled, shaking his head.

"Figures."

Barbara stretched, yawning slightly.

"I should go, Tristan. Got a full day ahead."

"Yeah, Barbara."

Neither of them hung up.

Not yet.

A few more seconds passed in easy silence.

Then—

"Bye, Barbara."

"Bye, Tristan."

The call ended.

Tristan stared at his screen for a moment, before finally setting his phone down.

Across the kitchen, his mom—who had definitely been watching—let out a small laugh.

"You, my son, are finished."

Tristan rolled his eyes, grabbing his juice.

But he didn’t deny it.

After that talk, Tristan needed something to disconnect from the world, he couldn't even use his phone without muting everything. 

As such he just decided to spend the whole day on the couch.

The rhythmic click-click of button mashing filled the quiet living room as Tristan sank into the couch, eyes locked on the screen.

His 6’6” shooting guard was torching the Mavs in NBA 2K14.

Step-back three. Green. Another bucket.

This was exactly what he needed.

No media. No agents. No expectations.

Just 2K, a protein shake, and some well-earned quiet.

Then—

His phone rang.

Tristan sighed, already knowing who it was before even glancing at the screen.

Jorge Mendes.

Of course.

He grabbed his phone, answering with a lazy, "Mendes."

"Good morning, superstar," Mendes greeted, smooth as always. "How’s the world’s most wanted man doing today?"

Tristan smirked, rubbing his forehead. "Trying to enjoy my free time, but I’m guessing you’re about to ruin that?"

Mendes chuckled. "Come on, kid. You scored a double hat-trick against Manchester United. You didn’t just break records—you broke my sleep schedule. The calls started before the game even ended."

Tristan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Who?"

A brief pause. Then—

"Everyone," Mendes said simply. "Big, small, doesn’t matter. Clubs, brands, sponsors—hell, I think even my neighbor wants to talk to you. Sophia was getting bombarded with emails and calls—I had to step in and help. Do you know how rare that is?"

Tristan let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. Mendes never touched the small stuff. Only big moves.

"Didn’t think even you would be dragged into the chaos."

Mendes scoffed. "Chaos? Tristan, this is beyond chaos. I had to charge my phone twice yesterday. Do you know how many times my phone dies in a day? Zero."

Tristan smirked. "Yeah, well, now you know what it’s like to be me."

Mendes ignored the jab. "Alright, let’s get into it. Nike, Adidas, Puma—they all want to either extend or steal you. New Balance is sniffing around too, but we both know that’s not happening."

"No shot," Tristan said immediately.

"Didn’t think so," Mendes replied. "Then we’ve got the lifestyle brands—Gucci, Dior, Louis Vuitton. They see your potential beyond football. They see the image, the presence. And then, of course, the magazines—GQ, Vogue, Esquire. Even TIME wants a feature on you."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "TIME?"

Mendes exhaled. "You’re the biggest name in England right now. This isn’t just football anymore."

Tristan let that sink in. He expected sponsorships, maybe commercials. But TIME? That was another level.

Still, there was something else on his mind.

"Hold off on those interviews for now."

Mendes paused. "What? Why?"

Tristan stretched his legs out on the coffee table. "I’ve got an idea, but I need to talk to someone first."

A long silence.

Then—

"Ahhhh." Mendes dragged out the sound, clearly entertained. "And let me guess—this 'someone' has blue eyes, a Hungarian accent, and was watching your game last night?"

Tristan rolled his eyes. "You are unbearable."

"I’ll take that as a yes," Mendes said, amusement lacing his voice.

"Look, Jorge, I don’t even know if she’d be interested. I just want to talk to her first before we do anything."

"Fine, fine," Mendes chuckled. "I’ll hold off. But let me know when the wedding is—I’ll be sure to clear my schedule."

Tristan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We’re not even together."

"Uh-huh."

"I’m serious, Jorge."

"Right. And I’m the Queen of England."

Tristan ignored him. "Just hold off for now. If she’s interested, I’ll let you know."

"Got it," Mendes said before flipping through more papers. "Before I forget—your investments are done. 25% of your income, just under a million, is now sitting in Tesla, Apple, Amazon, Netflix, and Bitcoin."

He gave a nod of thanks. “Appreciate it.” Then Tristan exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling. "Now, I need you to set up something else."

Mendes hummed, intrigued. "Go on."

"I want a team."

"A team?"

"Yeah. I need people managing my assets, my stocks, my investments—professionals who can handle all of it while I focus on football."

Mendes was silent for a moment.

Then, a slow chuckle. "You really aren’t like the others, are you?"

Tristan grinned. "Nah. Never have been."

Mendes sighed, flipping through some notes. "Alright. I’ll put together a financial team—real professionals, the best in the business. Portfolio managers, analysts, and legal advisors. We’ll make sure your money keeps growing while you’re out there breaking records."

"Exactly."

Another pause. Then Mendes sighed.

"Tristan… Sophia hasn’t even finalized your other team yet."

Tristan frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Your personal chef. Your dietitians. Your security detail. Half of them haven’t even signed the paperwork yet, and now you want another team?" Mendes sounded equal parts exasperated and impressed.

Tristan smirked. "What can I say? I like things handled properly."

Mendes groaned. "You really like making me work for my commission, huh?"

Tristan chuckled. "Come on, Jorge, just think about the cheque.”

"...Unfortunately, you’re right," Mendes admitted. "Fine. I’ll sort it out. But do me a favor, yeah?"

"What?"

"Try not to make me build another team next week?"

Tristan snickered. "No promises."

Mendes sighed dramatically. "Of course. I should’ve known better."

Tristan leaned back into the couch. "Appreciate it, Jorge. Let me know when everything’s in place."

"You’ll be the first to know," Mendes replied. "Now, go enjoy your free time—assuming England isn’t outside your house right now."

Tristan glanced toward the window.

Sure enough, a few reporters were loitering nearby, cameras ready.

"...Might be tricky."

Mendes chuckled. "Try not to break the internet again."

"Don’t get your hopes."

The call ended.

Tristan tossed his phone onto the couch and grabbed his controller, unpausing the game as he leaned back contentedly. 

His football career? Set.
His investments? Secured.
His future? Only getting brighter.

Now?

He just had to keep winning.

…..

2 Hours Later 

"Tristan!"

His mom’s voice rang through the house.

He barely flinched, eyes locked on the screen, now playing COD.

"Yeah?"

"I’m heading to the supermarket! Do you want to come?"

Tristan hesitated, still dialed into the game. "What do you need?"

"Groceries, cleaning supplies, maybe a few extra things. Why? You busy?"

He glanced at the score. The game was already over.

"Nah, I’ll come."

"Alright! Be ready soon!"

Tristan sighed, logging out.

His mom wasn’t asking—she was telling him. Besides, it had been a while since he’d done something normal.

The morning sunlight streamed through his window as he grabbed a simple Nike hoodie, a pair of black joggers, and fresh white Air Forces.

Nothing flashy. Just comfortable.

Before stepping out, he reached for a black face mask from his nightstand and slipped it on.

Not that it would make much of a difference.

He was quite literally called the Crown Jewel of the country, he couldn't go anywhere in England without being recognized. 

Much less in his city.

"You ready?"

Tristan sighed. "Yeah, not like I had much choice.”

Julia stood near the counter, a Cheshire grin plastered on her face.

"Smart boy. Let’s go."

Tristan slid into the passenger seat of his blue Range Rover as his mom pulled out of the driveway.

Leicester was already awake—people walking the streets, grabbing coffee, and hurrying off to work.

And he felt it instantly.

The attention.

He let out a low groan—he should’ve gotten darker tints.

The mask offered no anonymity, even with his face covered heads turned as his car passed.

Some pointed, others nudged their friends in awe. A few even pulled out their phones, trying to snap a quick photo of the passing.

And it wasn’t just because of him.

His mom also had striking features—blonde hair, and the same unmistakable green eyes.

If people weren’t sure it was Tristan? All they had to do was look at her.

She caught his glance and smirked.

"Face mask’s not helping much, huh?" she laughed.

"Not even a little,” he muttered, glancing at his rear-view, where a gathering crowd tried to catch his car. Not that they had much luck. “And I don’t think the car is helping either, maybe I’ll switch it with Dad’s Lexus for a day or two."

By the time they parked, Tristan had already yanked his hood up a little more, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he followed his mom inside.

It didn’t help.

Some whispered, while others stared.

And then—

“Wait… is that—?”

A group of teenage girls near the produce section suddenly stopped mid-conversation, eyes widening as they registered who had just walked in.

“Oh my God, it is him.”

One of them clutched her friend’s arm like she needed physical support. Another had already whipped her phone out and began recording, no doubt to prove that the Tristan Hale was in their supermarket.

Tristan fought down his annoyance and kept his expression relaxed. He had been through this enough times to know how to keep a straight face—he had become used to it, although not quite comfortable with the stares.

“Tristan, can we get a picture?” One of them asked, barely containing her excitement.

“Yeah, of course,” he nodded.

He posed for a few selfies, keeping it casual: hands in his pockets and a slight smile.

One girl, probably around eighteen or nineteen, looked at him through her phone screen before blurting out, “Barbara is so lucky.”

Tristan paused for half a second, before letting out a laugh.

“She’s got good taste, I guess,” he replied, shaking his head in amusement. 

The girls lost their minds.

Julia, standing a few steps ahead with the shopping cart let out a dramatic sigh. “Are we actually going to shop, or should I just start charging people for your time?”

The girls laughed, quickly thanking him before letting him go.

Julia shook her head as they walked down the aisle. “You love the attention.”

Tristan stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Nah.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I just love Leicester.”

Shopping with his mom quickly turned into half grocery run, half public appearance.

People stopped him at almost every turn.

Some just wanted to shake his hand and congratulate him.

Some asked for quick photos.

Some just gave him a respectful nod.

And the kids?

They rushed him like he was Santa Claus.

“Tristan! Can you sign my ball?!”

“Mate, you ruined United! It was amazing!”

“My dad says you’re already better than Rooney!”

Tristan crouched down, signing shirts, footballs, and even someone’s sketchbook. He took quick pictures, and chatted with them, making sure they all got a little moment to themselves.

Then, one little boy, maybe six or seven, hesitated before stepping forward, holding out a worn Leicester City scarf.

“I don’t have a jersey yet… but can you sign this?”

Tristan took the scarf, flipping it over before carefully writing his name. 

The kid stared at the signature in awe, eyes wide like he had just been handed the Holy Grail.

“You play football?” Tristan asked.

The boy nodded quickly. “Midfielder! Just like you!”

Tristan smiled, ruffling his hair. “Then keep working, alright? Maybe one day, I’ll be watching you instead.”

The kid beamed up at him, then ran back to his parents practically vibrating with excitement.

Julia watched it all unfold, shaking her head fondly.

“You done playing superstar?”

Tristan grinned. “Almost.”

As they reached the checkout, something outside the entrance caught Tristan’s eye.

A BBC Sports crew, cameras rolling, mics up, stopping locals for interviews.

A female reporter—mid-30s, sharp suit, confident stance—was speaking with an older man, her microphone steady as she leaned in.

"Sir, what do you make of Tristan Hale’s performance against Manchester United?"

The man let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head like he still couldn’t believe it.

"What do I make of it? That boy’s a bloody genius! Best player in the league, no question!"

The reporter nodded, clearly intrigued.

"And do you think this is the best individual performance in Premier League history?"

The woman beside him, probably in her 50s, answered before he could.

"Absolutely! Leicester’s got a legend in the making!"

Tristan smirked slightly, shifting the grocery bags in his hands.

And then—

The reporter turned, scanning the crowd for her next interview.

Her gaze landed on him.

Her eyes widened.

She blinked, doing a double take. Her brain needed a moment to process that the very topic of her interviews was casually standing in the checkout line.

"Well… I wasn’t expecting this."

Julia, beside him, chuckled.

"Should’ve worn a better disguise, kid."

Tristan let out a slow sigh, shaking his head.

The reporter smiled, stepping forward, microphone in hand.

"Tristan Hale, ladies and gentlemen! Didn’t think we’d run into you today."

Tristan slipped his hands into his pockets, raising an eyebrow.

"Didn’t think I’d be giving an interview at a supermarket, but here we are."

She laughed, before glancing at Julia.

"And you must be Julia Hale?"

"That’s me," Julia confirmed, her amusement evident.

"Well, since we have you both here—mind answering a few quick questions? My name’s Anna by the way."

Tristan glanced at his mom, who only offered a shrug, leaving the choice in his hands.

He exhaled. "Go on, then," he said, adjusting the grocery bags in his hands. "Just don’t keep me too long—I still have to carry all this home," he added wryly.

Anna grinned as the camera crew adjusted their angles, the mic operator lifting the boom. She straightened up, still smiling as she extended the microphone.

"Alright, Tristan, let’s get straight to it—Sunday night, 7-1 against Manchester United, a double hat-trick, a perfect 10.0 rating… Have you had time to process just how historic that performance was?"

Tristan leaned into his knee, humming in thought.

"Honestly? Not really. I know what happened, but I haven’t exactly sat down and thought about it like that."

The reporter raised an eyebrow.

"You’re being a bit humble, aren’t you? You broke records that were supposed to last decades."

Tristan smirked, shaking his head.

"Look, I just played my game. The rest is for you lot to talk about."

Beside him, his mom crossed her arms, watching with amusement.

"He’s always like this. Never stops to take in what he’s done," she remarked.

Anna turned to her, intrigued.

"Mrs. Hale, you’ve watched your son grow from a Leicester academy kid to, well, quite possibly the best player in the Premier League. How does it feel seeing the whole country—maybe the whole world—talking about him?"

Julia glanced at her son, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"Proud, obviously. But also not surprised."

The reporter tilted her head. "Not surprised?"

Julia shrugged.

"I’ve seen how hard he’s worked since he was a little boy. This? This is just the result of years of dedication. He didn’t just wake up one day and become great—he earned every bit of it."

Tristan shifted slightly and rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t used to his mom talking him up like that—especially not in front of cameras.

"Mum…" he muttered, a little embarrassed.

Julia smirked, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

"Oh, hush. Let me be proud for a minute."

The camera crew chuckled, and Anna offered a smile before turning back to Tristan.

"Speaking of Leicester—this city adores you. You grew up here, came through the academy, and now, you’re the face of the club. Can you even go anywhere without getting recognized?"

Tristan huffed out a laugh, glancing around at the curious onlookers who were still watching.

"Clearly not."

Anna gave an amused hum.

"I see that. But really, what does it mean to you, knowing Leicester sees you as their golden boy?"

Tristan’s expression softened.

"I owe Leicester so much—my debut, my name, my dream. So when I get a chance to deliver, like I did on Sunday, I take it personally. That’s for them.”

A few passersby, who overheard his answer, gave warm applause.

Julia smiled, squeezing his arm lightly.

The reporter nodded, clearly impressed.

"Speaking of making Leicester proud—your performance has sparked some pretty big debates. Some pundits are saying you’re already the best player in the Premier League. Others are even saying—"

She paused, building a bit of suspense.

"—that you’re playing at a world-class level, maybe even Ballon d’Or worthy. Do you think that’s fair?"

"It’s flattering…and yeah, I say so. If I don’t think I’m the best and believe in myself, then who will?"

The reporter smirked.

"So you’re saying the Ballon d’Or isn’t something you’re thinking about?"

Tristan’s lips twitched, leave it to a reporter to twist words. "Not right now. I’m thinking about my next game. That’s about it."

Julia gave a small nod of approval, clearly satisfied with his answer.

But Anna wasn’t done yet.

Her grin widened slightly.

"Alright, serious football talk aside—let’s get to what the fans really want to know."

Tristan tensed, knowing exactly where this was going to go.

Julia chortled, hurriedly trying to cover it with a cough.

"After your third goal, the cameras caught you shouting something at the Manchester United bench—‘Talk now! Talk!’ A lot of people are wondering… was that directed at Robin van Persie?"

He stroked his chin, feigning thought. "Mmm… You know what, I think I’ll let people decide on that."

Anna let out a long laugh. "So…no confirmation?"

Tristan waved her off. "If, and I’m saying if, it was targeted at someone in specific, they’ll know."

His mother shot him a knowing look but didn’t add anything.

The reporter turned to her, amused.

"Mrs. Hale, what do you think of all this?"

Julia slumped dramatically. "I think I’ve raised a child who enjoys stirring things up."

Everyone laughed.

But then—

Anna’s expression turned playful.

"One last question, Tristan."

Tristan motioned for her to go on, sensing what she was going to say.

She grinned.

"There’s been a lot of speculation after your post-match interview. You said you wanted your ‘reward’ for the hat trick. And, well… let’s just say fans have some theories. Many of them involving a certain Barbara Palvin."

Tristan didn’t react immediately.

Instead, he glanced at his mom, who was watching him with keen interest.

"You lot really don’t let anything slide, huh?" he said with a dry laugh. 

Anna grinned.

"Not when it comes to you, no—we’re talking about the best player in the Prem. We have to do our homework."

"Look, I said I wanted a reward, and let’s just… let’s leave it at that."

The crowd around them chuckled, a few fans reacting playfully in the background.

Julia patted his shoulder, shaking her head.

"Smart answer."

The reporter smiled.

"Alright, I’ll let you off the hook—for now. Tristan, Mrs.Hale, thank you for your time!"

The camera crew lowered their equipment as a few bystanders clapped.

Tristan dropped his face into his hands and let out a groan. "This was supposed to be a quick trip to the store, wasn’t it?"

His mom laughed at his plight, pushing the cart toward the exit. "It was fun though,” she paused for a moment, “At least for me.”