England's Greatest

August 15, 2014

Location: Belvoir Drive Training Ground, Leicester

....

As the players wrapped up their training session under the bright afternoon sun, Tristan tugged off his training bib, letting out a long breath running a hand through his damp curls, pushing them back from his forehead.

Mahrez glanced at him, a sly smile forming on his face. "You planning on showing up to your Premier League debut looking like that?"

Tristan blinked, confused. "What's wrong with it?"

Before Mahrez could respond, Vardy cut in from nearby, grinning ear to ear. "Mate, it's like your hair's trying to escape your head." He mimicked ruffling through Tristan's curls. "You can't rock up like this tomorrow. The cameras'll have a field day."

Tristan smirked, unfazed. "I'm here to play football, not win a beauty pageant."

"Yeah, but first impressions matter," Mahrez said, grabbing his bag from the bench. "You don't want people calling you 'the scruffy kid from Leicester.'"

"I think they'll call me the kid who scores," Tristan shot back, raising an eyebrow.

Vardy clapped him on the shoulder. "Confidence is great, mate, but trust me on this—fresh season, fresh cut. Gotta start right. Come on, we'll all get trims."

Tristan sighed, laughing. "Alright, there's a spot I know. Been going there since I was a kid."

"Good. Let's sort it out." Vardy grinned at Mahrez. "And Riyad's covering the bill."

Mahrez turned to him with mock disbelief. "Why me?"

"Because you've got more hair products at home than the rest of us combined," Vardy quipped, already heading toward the showers.

Lingard, trailing behind the group, caught the tail end of the conversation. "Haircuts? What's this about?"

"Tristan's hair is in dire need of saving," Mahrez said, motioning toward the younger player. "National TV can't see that mess."

Lingard smirked. "Sounds like fun. I'm in."

"Good," Vardy said, nodding approvingly. "But just so we're clear, Riyad's not paying for you either."

Lingard laughed, holding his hands up. "Fine by me. I'm just tagging along for the entertainment."

When they reached the parking lot, they stopped in front of Tristan's sleek blue Range Rover Autobiography.

Vardy let out a low whistle. "Look at this beauty. Nineteen years old and already driving this beast. What's it worth—200 grand?"

Tristan unlocked the door and shot him a knowing look. "You all know I didn't buy it."

"Yeah, yeah," Vardy said, waving him off. "Sponsorship perks. Free car for two years, right? Still, big moves."

Mahrez leaned against the hood, grinning. "So, what happens after two years? You keep it, or do they send you a new one?"

Tristan shrugged as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Guess we'll find out. Now, get in before I leave you all here."

Vardy slid into the passenger seat, leaning back with a smirk. "Careful, mate, keep driving us around like this, and we'll start calling you 'Chauffeur Tristan.'"

"Say that again, and you're walking home," Tristan shot back, turning the key to start the engine.

Mahrez and Lingard climbed into the back, laughing. As the car pulled out of the lot, Vardy leaned over, giving Tristan's curls one last glance.

"Seriously, though," he said. "We're not letting you on the pitch looking like this tomorrow."

Tristan shook his head, grinning. "You better hope I don't score tomorrow—because if I do, I'm keeping the curls just to annoy you."

Vardy laughed. "Fair enough. But if you don't score, I'm bringing clippers to training."

"Deal," Tristan said with a grin as the group drove off toward the barbershop.

As the Range Rover glided through the quiet streets of Leicester, the group settled into an easy rhythm. Vardy, self-appointed DJ, cranked up some Robbie Williams, nodding along with exaggerated enthusiasm. Mahrez leaned back in his seat, scrolling through his phone, while Lingard leaned forward between the front seats.

[Don't even know who Robbie Williams is but apparently he's a big deal in England.] 

Lingard broke the comfortable silence first. "So, Tristan," he began, glancing at him. "Big day tomorrow. Nervous?"

Tristan kept his eyes on the road, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "A little. But not as much as I thought I'd be. I feel... ready. After the World Cup, nerves don't really hit the same. I'm more excited, to be honest. Playing in the Premier League—finally."

Mahrez chuckled from the back. "Can't blame you. I was a wreck during the World Cup, and I wasn't even playing in the big games like you two," he said, nodding toward Tristan and Vardy. "I still don't know how you handled all that pressure."

"Stop feeding his ego,Mahrez," Vardy chimed in, smirking. "Last thing this kid needs is to start thinking he's untouchable. Premier League defenders will sort him out soon enough."

"I'm not underestimating them," Tristan replied, calm and assured. "But we've already faced Chelsea and Arsenal—and beat them. I know what I'm up against."

Lingard whistled softly. "Fair point. Can't argue with that FA Cup win. Still buzzing about it. So, what's the goal for this season? How many are you aiming for?"

Tristan's hands tightened slightly on the wheel as he thought. "I'd be happy with 15 goals, but I'll aim for 20. Assists? Maybe 15 or 20, especially with this Red Bull addict here," he added, nodding toward Vardy with a grin.

"Red Bull addict?" Vardy laughed, shaking his head. "Don't make me reach over there. And 20 assists? You better think bigger, mate. I'm planning on bagging the Golden Boot this year."

Tristan couldn't help but laugh. "Golden Boot? Sure, Jamie. Maybe if I let you take all the penalties."

The car erupted in laughter, even Vardy grinning despite himself. "Cheeky little—alright, alright. But if you miss an open goal, I'm never letting you hear the end of it."

Mahrez leaned forward now, smirking. "Forget goals. What about assists? You've got me, Vardy, and Lingard to set up. How many are you dishing out?"

Tristan shrugged, his tone teasing. "Depends. Are you guys actually finishing your chances, or do I need to score all of them myself?"

Lingard clapped Tristan on the shoulder, grinning. "Don't worry about me, mate. Put it on a plate, and I'll finish it. Easy."

"Yeah, sure," Vardy interjected. "Last time I saw you in front of goal, you sent it straight into orbit."

"Oi, that was one time!" Lingard shot back, laughing as he leaned back into his seat.

The banter carried on until they pulled up in front of the barbershop, the Range Rover coming to a smooth stop.

The barbershop was a small, unassuming spot on a quiet corner, its large windows showcasing photos of classic cuts. A handwritten sign on the door read, "Walk-ins Welcome." Faint chatter spilled out onto the street as Tristan parked the Range Rover.

Lingard leaned forward, peering out the window. "This is it? Doesn't look like much."

Tristan smirked, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Don't let the size fool you. This place has history."

As the group stepped inside, the door jingled, and the familiar scent of shaving cream and aftershave filled the air.

A man behind the counter, short and broad-shouldered, broke into a wide grin. "Well, I'll be damned. Leicester's golden boys. What brings you lot in here today?"

"Fixing this mess," Vardy said, pointing at Tristan's hair.

Tristan rolled his eyes but smiled. "Good to see you too, Miguel. Don't listen to him—I'm here to get my usual."

Miguel, the shop's owner, came around the counter with arms wide open. His graying hair was neatly combed, and his warm expression made the place feel even cozier. "Tristan, look at you! Big-time Premier League star now, huh? You've grown so much since your last visit. What's it been—half a year?"

"Yeah, about six months," Tristan admitted sheepishly. "Been caught up with... everything."

Miguel shook his head, laughing. "Too busy to visit your old barber, I see. You've been coming here since you were a kid. Now, half the city's talking about you."

By now, whispers had broken out across the shop. A boy in his early teens nudged his friend. "That's Vardy, right? And Mahrez? No way..." Another customer, a middle-aged man with a Leicester scarf around his neck, quickly pulled out his phone.

Miguel waved Tristan toward an empty chair. "Sit down, sit down. Let's get you looking sharp for tomorrow."

Miguel waved Tristan toward an empty chair. "Sit down, sit down. Let's get you sorted."

Tristan sat as Miguel wrapped the cape around his shoulders. "Same as always?"

"Yeah," Tristan said, running a hand through his curly blond hair. "A fade, but keep all the curls on top."

Miguel nodded, already picking up his clippers. "Figured,those curls are your signature look now. Can't mess with that."

As Tristan sat, the excitement in the room built. A young boy hesitated before approaching, holding a Leicester City scarf in trembling hands. "C-can I get an autograph?" he asked shyly.

Tristan smiled warmly, taking the scarf. "Of course, mate. What's your name?"

"Jacob," the boy whispered, his face lighting up as Tristan handed the scarf back, now signed.

Before long, the rest of the players were swarmed with similar requests. Lingard posed for a selfie, while Vardy signed a jersey, grinning as he joked, "Don't sell this on eBay, yeah?"

The chatter resumed as Miguel began trimming Tristan's hair, his skilled hands working with precision. An older customer seated nearby leaned forward. "You boys ready for tomorrow? Big match against Everton."

"More than ready," Mahrez replied confidently. "Tristan here's probably already planning his celebration."

Tristan chuckled. "Let's focus on the win first. Celebrations come after."

"Make sure this one scores," Miguel said, pointing his scissors toward Vardy. "We need a win, lads. The city's counting on you."

"Don't worry, Miguel," Vardy said with a grin. "Tristan will set me up perfectly. Right, kid?"

"If you're not offside," Tristan shot back, earning laughs from everyone nearby.

As the trims continued, customers occasionally chimed in with well-wishes, asking for photos and debating lineups for tomorrow's game. Miguel glanced at Tristan through the mirror. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "I've watched you grow from a scrawny kid into the young man sitting here. No matter how far you go, remember where you came from. Stay grounded. Play with heart."

Tristan nodded, his expression softening. "Thanks, Miguel. I won't forget."

By the time they were done, the players stood to a round of applause and cheers. Miguel handed Tristan a Leicester-blue comb as a parting gift. "For luck," he said with a wink.

As they walked back to the car, Vardy clapped Tristan on the back. "Alright, I'll admit it—this place is alright."

Tristan laughed, twirling the comb in his hand getting into the driver's seat. 

The Range Rover glided through the quiet streets of Leicester, the low hum of the engine underscoring the laughter and banter inside. Tristan's hands rested easily on the wheel as the group enjoyed the rare moments of downtime.

Their first stop was Lingard's place, a modest apartment building tucked away on a quiet street.

"Here we are, Lingard," Tristan said, pulling up to the curb.

Lingard leaned forward from the backseat, flashing his usual grin. "Cheers, mate. Appreciate the lift—and the banter. Good luck tomorrow, yeah?"

Tristan smirked. "You too. Make sure to remind them why you're there."

Lingard climbed out, throwing a casual wave over his shoulder. "Oh, I will. See you lads on the pitch!"

As he disappeared into the building, the car felt a little quieter—at least until Vardy spoke up, breaking the silence in classic fashion.

"Right, next stop: my castle," Vardy announced with mock seriousness, his grin visible in the rearview mirror.

Mahrez snorted. "Castle? You mean that mansion with the trampoline in the garden?"

Tristan raised an eyebrow, playing along. "Didn't realize Buckingham Palace was in Leicester."

"Laugh it up," Vardy said, pointing ahead. "But don't forget, when I bag one tomorrow, I'll expect you to shine my boots after the match."

Tristan pulled up to Vardy's home—a large, modern house with a well-lit driveway. He turned to him, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "Deal. But only if you actually score."

Vardy stepped out, wagging a finger as he walked backward toward his front door. "Don't worry about me, mate. Just make sure you put it on a plate."

"Goodnight, Your Majesty," Mahrez called, earning a laugh from everyone.

"Night, lads. Don't be late tomorrow!" Vardy yelled before disappearing inside.

Now it was just Mahrez and Tristan. The streetlights cast long shadows over the quiet roads as they drove.

"Where to?" Tristan asked, glancing at Mahrez.

Mahrez leaned back in the seat, looking more relaxed now. "Just drop me at mine. It's close. Left at the next light."

A few minutes later, Tristan pulled up outside Mahrez's flat. The Algerian turned to him with a small smile. "See you tomorrow? And don't forget—twenty goals this season. No excuses."

Tristan laughed softly. "I'll try to keep up with you."

Mahrez chuckled, opening the door. "Goodday, mate. Don't be late."

With that, Mahrez stepped out, leaving Tristan alone in the car. For a moment, he simply sat there, the hum of the engine filling the silence. He glanced at the empty seats, a faint smile playing on his lips.

The streets felt quieter now as he started the car again, heading toward his house. 

One Hour Later….

After a quick shower to wash away the remnants of training and his fresh haircut, Tristan felt rejuvenated. He slipped into a clean white T-shirt and a pair of perfectly-fitted jeans, giving himself a quick glance in the mirror. 

His curls, now neatly trimmed on the sides with a fade, sat effortlessly on top. Grabbing his wallet, keys, and phone, he headed downstairs.

As he stepped into the living room, he called out, "Hey, Mom! Dad! I'm heading out for a bit."

His mom appeared from the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour. "Back so soon? You're heading out again?"

Tristan gave her a sheepish smile. "Yeah, just heading to Highcross for a bit. I've been meaning to grab some things before the season starts."

"Ah, I see," his dad said, lowering the newspaper he was reading. "Just don't go crazy out there, son. You've got a long season ahead."

"Don't worry, Dad. Just treating myself—nothing wild," Tristan replied with a grin, stepping closer to give his mom a quick hug.

"Alright," she said, smiling warmly. "Dinner's in the fridge if you're late."

"Thanks! Love you guys!" Tristan waved as he headed out the door, the evening air cool against his skin as he made his way to his Range Rover.

....

The streets of Leicester were alive with energy as Tristan pulled into the parking lot of Highcross Shopping Centre. Summer evenings had a way of filling the city with vibrancy, and tonight was no exception. He stepped into the bustling shopping hub, feeling the familiar hum of the lively atmosphere.

His first stop was the Nike store.

Tristan walked through the aisles, admiring the latest designs. He didn't need to buy shoes—he had a sponsorship with Nike, after all. But today, he wanted to experience it for himself, to feel what it was like to pick out exactly what he wanted without worrying about the price tag.

"Let's see," he muttered to himself, scanning the rows. "Ah, these."

His eyes landed on a pair of Air Jordan 11 "Legend Blue", the classic colorway calling to him. A sales assistant, recognizing him instantly, gave a knowing grin and hurried off to grab his size.

While he waited, Tristan continued browsing, picking out a matching tracksuit and a couple of breathable workout shirts. When the assistant returned with the shoes, Tristan paid, satisfied with his choice. He could have walked out right there, but the thrill of hunting down his favorite pairs wasn't over.

"I think I'll grab these, too," Tristan said, pointing to the Fragment Design x Air Jordan 1. The employee's eyes lit up—he was clearly a fan, and a bit starstruck.

"No problem, I'll grab those right away," the assistant replied, practically bouncing to the back room.

As he waited, another pair caught his attention—Air Jordan 3 "Infrared 23". 

"You know what?" he thought, "I'm getting these too."

When the assistant returned with the final pair, Tristan noticed a few other employees at the counter whispering to each other, trying to figure out the best way to approach him.

Tristan grinned, making his way to the checkout counter with his arms full of bags. One of the employees hesitated before speaking up.

"Sorry to interrupt," she began, shyly glancing at him. "Would it be okay to get a picture with you?"

Tristan smiled warmly. "Of course."

The employee beamed, pulling out her phone as the others gathered around. Tristan posed for a few shots, appreciating the respect and excitement of the staff. They all thanked him, each one gushing over his recent performances and how he'd inspired them.

"You're a legend," one of the employees said, offering him a Leicester City cap. "Could you sign this too?"

"Sure," Tristan replied, signing it and handing it back. "Thanks for all the support."

After leaving the Nike store with his new kicks, he wandered through the mall, taking in the energy of the night. The air was filled with the laughter of children and the hum of the crowd. 

Tristan stopped by a few more shops before finding himself in a collectibles store. The sight of a massive Star Wars LEGO display immediately pulled him in.

"Damn, always wanted one of these," Tristan muttered to himself, smiling as he gazed at the Millennium Falcon box. It brought him back to his childhood, when his parents would buy him the more affordable sets. But now, he had the money to buy whatever he wanted—and it felt like the best feeling in the world.

He chuckled to himself as he added the set to his basket. Nearby, a shelf of One Piece figures caught his attention. Luffy, with his signature grin, and Zoro, holding his swords with pride, seemed to call out to him.

"All right, you two are coming home with me," he said with a grin, grabbing the figures and heading to the checkout counter.

As he exited the store, a few more fans approached, including a father with his young son. The dad held out a Leicester City football, hoping for a signature.

"Tristan, would you mind signing this for my boy?" the father asked.

"Of course," Tristan said, kneeling down to the boy's level. He signed the ball and posed for a quick picture. "Keep practicing, yeah? Maybe I'll see you on the pitch someday."

The boy's face lit up. "Thank you, Tristan!"

With his shopping spree complete, Tristan walked back to his car, bags full of new shoes and collectibles. The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden glow over Leicester.

When he walked through the door, his mom raised an eyebrow at the bags. "Looks like someone had a successful trip," she teased.

Tristan laughed. "Just a few things. Got some new boots, clothes, and... okay, maybe a little bit of Star Wars LEGO and anime figures."

His dad chuckled. "I knew it. You can't resist, can you?"

"Nope," Tristan replied, holding up the Millennium Falcon box proudly. "Finally get one."

....

Inkstone is a bitch, all the latest chapters I wrote are like 10k+ but on Inkstone, it says they are above 20,000 word so I can't post them in one chapter, shit is annoying me. And I don't want to seperate the chapters into two. Anyone know how to get past the word limit?