Chapter 197: After The Match

Leicester 4. Arsenal 3.

Full-time.

Morgan pumped his fist and dropped to his knees. Boots digging into the grass. Shoulders shaking—not from exhaustion but relief.

Kanté crouched, head bowed. Breathless. As if he couldn’t quite believe they’d done it again.

Mahrez collapsed backward into the grass, arms stretched out wide. Laughing into the sky. Pure, wild disbelief.

"Scenes of absolute joy," Martin breathed into the roar. "Leicester have done it again."

"They just refuse to be beaten," Neville added. "Every time they’re tested—they answer."

Across the pitch, Schmeichel sprinted forward. Not graceful. Not measured. Just a desperate, furious run like he couldn’t reach them fast enough.

Fuchs sank to his haunches, fists clenched. Albrighton dropped onto one knee, head tilted back. Simpson fell onto his side, arms covering his face, overwhelmed.

On the bench, the substitutes were already flooding the touchline.

Ben Chilwell was the first over the line—arms raised, shouting. Okazaki not far behind, both hands to his head. Schlupp turned and grabbed Ulloa, both of them just laughing in disbelief.

Tristan?

He didn’t even celebrate at first.

He just let his legs give out.

The grass welcomed him like an old friend. Flat on his back, staring at the floodlights. Breath heaving. Arms wide.

He was exhausted. Tired. Hell, he’d even thought about using one of the stamina cards during the second half.

The thought crossed his mind in the blur between heartbeats. The system’s interface flickered faintly in his mind’s eye. +4 stamina recovery card available.

No.

Save it for finals.

His chest rose. Fell. Vision steadying.

The noise above wasn’t just a crowd anymore. It was something heavier. Something alive.

"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"

He closed his eyes for a moment. Just listening.

"And there it is," Martin’s voice carried through the thunder of the crowd, not cutting it but becoming part of it. "Thirty thousand voices. One name."

When he opened them, the flags were already waving. Scarves raised to the floodlights. The King Power was shaking beneath him.

The chant swelled, led by the South Stand’s drumline. Then the East Stand picked it up. Then everywhere.

"Tristan! Tristan!
From Leicester, he's our shining star!"

The words rolled through the night like a tide, steady and proud.

Tristan pushed up onto his elbows. Sat upright. Breath still short, arms resting on his knees.

He hadn’t heard his songs in a while. So it felt good hearing it again—if he was being honest with himself.

He looked around. The sea of blue. The faces. Thousands singing his name.

"What a picture this is," Martin said, his tone soft but clear. "A 20-year-old leading a club that wasn’t supposed to be anything special... but does. Week after week."

"And he’s ruined Arsenal’s day in the process once more" Neville added, no sympathy in his voice. "Broke their hopes. Broke their plan. That’s what great players do."

Yeah, today was good so far.

Ruined Arsenal’s day. Killed their hopes. Scored the winner.

And later tonight... dinner with Barbara. Their anniversary.

What a perfect day.

He couldn’t wait for it.

.

"Yo."

Mahrez’s voice.

Tristan blinked as Mahrez crouched beside him, breathless. "You planning to lie there all night?"

Before Tristan could answer, another figure dropped down on his other side.

"You took your time, mate." Vardy grinned, still panting. "We’ve got celebrating to do."

Tristan let out a small breath. "Had to enjoy the moment."

Mahrez shook his head, laughing softly. "You’d think he just rolled out of bed. Scored two. Assisted the winner. Won the match. And still can’t be bothered to stand up."

Before either teammate could say more, Morgan arrived.

He didn’t crouch. He grabbed both of Tristan’s arms and hauled him up in one powerful motion.

"You," Morgan said firmly, pulling Tristan into a bear hug, "are an absolute maniac."

Tristan barely got his arms around Wes’s back before Vardy and Mahrez piled in from the sides.

Around them, the rest of the blue shirts started closing in. Drinkwater. Fuchs. Kanté. Simpson. Schmeichel—who’d finally made it downfield.

Ben  was first from the bench, arms raised with the others behind. 

On the far side of the pitch, Arsenal’s players stood frozen.

Koscielny had both hands on his hips. Head down.

Coquelin crouched low, palms pressed to the grass.

Ramsey just stared at the Leicester huddle. He didn’t say a word.

Özil’s arms were at his sides. He just shook his head slowly, he didn’t know what to say to the ending of this match.

"They know they gave everything today," Martin observed. "But it wasn’t enough."

"That’s what happens when you face Tristan Hale," Neville said quietly. "You can play your best. And still walk away beaten."

Morgan gave Tristan one last pat on the back. "Go lead the lap. You earned it."

Vardy nodded. "East Stand first."

As the players parted, the camera zoomed in again.

Tristan turned toward the East Stand, where the sea of blue and white waited. Scarves raised. Flags rippling. The chant still growing louder.

Martin’s voice almost reverent. "A 20-year-old. A city’s hero. A leader not just in name—but in every moment that matters."

"We are witnessing an all-time great in the making," Neville added. "What Tristan represents to this country is hope. A dream that football can come home."

By the touchline, two figures stepped forward.

Ranieri and Wenger.

Ranieri extended his hand.

Wenger took it firmly. "Congratulations. Again."

Ranieri nodded once. "Your side gave us everything."

"They did," Wenger sighed, glancing toward the scoreboard. "But sometimes... greatness beats preparation."

The handshake ended without another word.

The handshake line followed.

Arsenal players moving slowly, quietly. Professional. Some heads down. Some eyes hard with frustration.

Ramsey offered a quick grip, fingers cool, already pulling back before Tristan could return it.

Koscielny came next. “You were lucky today.”

Tristan met his eyes. “No. You just weren’t good enough.”

Koscielny’s mouth stayed shut. He gave a slight turn of the head—as if he’d considered a reply, then left it—and moved on.

Coquelin didn’t stop. “That penalty was arrogant,” he said, just loud enough.

Tristan tilted his head, voice even. “Yeah. Still went in.” He leaned slightly closer, speaking like it was an afterthought. “Go cry to your mum.”

From behind, Mahrez gave a short, sharp cough that twisted at the end. When Tristan glanced back, he was rubbing his nose.

Čech was last. The keeper stood still for a moment before stepping forward.
“You really went for the middle.”

Tristan shrugged. “Who gambles wide in a game like this?”

Čech gave a sound that might’ve been a laugh or just air through his teeth. He walked away without another word.

As the Arsenal players drifted away, the Leicester squad gathered near the Stand.

Tristan's eyes went to the executive box finding his family.

He lifted his right hand. Simple wave. Two fingers. Just enough so they’d know he saw them.

In the VIP section, the reaction was just as loud as the rest of the commoners. 

Lineker leaned on the railing, still shaking his head. “Jesus wept. I’ve been doing this thirty years—I’ve got nothing for that.”

Sheeran was already up, clapping like he’d just backed a winner at Cheltenham. “I told you! Buried it like he’s got ice in his veins.” He jabbed an elbow toward Cumberbatch. “Oi, Sherlock, you alive over there?”

Cumberbatch didn’t look up. Just dragged a hand down his face. “Do not speak to me. I am grieving the decade this match just took off my life.” He straightened slightly, blinking like he'd come out of surgery. “Being an Arsenal fan is a spiritual test. We are not well.”

Reynolds let out a breath that bordered on a whistle.

“Ninety-six bloody minutes and that’s the ending? I thought he’d fold. Kid didn’t even blink. Sociopathic levels of chill.”

Barbara finally turned from the glass as some of the group stepped into the aisle.

Lineker was first, pulling her into a brisk hug. “You lot are going to give this league a coronary. What’s he on? Goat blood and espresso?”

Barbara laughed. “Just training. And maybe a few small miracles.”

Sheeran was beside her now, beaming. “Glastonbury next summer—non-negotiable. And I want a shirt. No, wait—photo. Something I can frame when he breaks everything.”

Barbara grinned. “He’d love that. Big fan of yours, actually.”

Blake joined the group, her heels clicking softly on the floor. "That was insane. I don’t know how you stay calm during these matches." 

Barbara gave her a look. "Calm? You should’ve seen me the last ten minutes." Blake smiled knowingly. 

"Same here. Ryan nearly crushed my hand during that penalty." "Hey, that was life or death!" Ryan protested, throwing his arms up.

The group laughed, the tension finally easing now that the result was sealed. .

The crowd’s chants still echoed behind the makeshift interview stage as Tristan stepped up for the Man of the Match interview with a game rating of 9.3. His match-worn shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat. His curls were pushed back off his forehead. 

The interviewer was David Craig.

"Tristan, congratulations. Another incredible performance. Another last-minute winner. Just... where do we start?"

Tristan smiled slightly, adjusting the Man of the Match award in his hand. "Start with the team. That’s where the credit always goes. We fought until the very last second. We always do."

David nodded. "Talk us through that penalty. Ninety-sixth minute. Pressure at its highest. What’s going through your mind at that moment?"

Tristan didn’t rush his answer. "Honestly? Nothing complicated. Pick my spot. Trust the technique. And stay calm." A pause. "I knew I was going down the middle. Čech’s a world-class keeper. You can’t give him any clues. If he guesses a corner, I lose. So... middle."

David chuckled. "Cold as ice. And I think a few Arsenal players had some words for you about that after full-time?"

Tristan shrugged lightly. "Yeah. But you only get criticised for being confident when it works."

A small smile. The crowd behind the interview zone roared his name again. "TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"

David continued, "Two goals today. Another assist. You’ve just broken the record for most goal involvements in the opening seven matches of a Premier League season. Did you expect this kind of start?"

Tristan’s eyes flicked toward the East Stand for a moment before answering. "Records are great. But we’re focused on wins. And if the goals and assists help us get those, I’ll keep pushing. We’ve set high standards in this team."

David smiled, glancing at his notes. "Final question. We’ve heard from the Leicester media team it’s a special day off the pitch for you as well?"

Tristan nodded, a small smile forming. "Yeah. It’s my anniversary with Barbara today. One year."

David laughed. "Well, you’ve certainly delivered a memorable gift."

Tristan smiled again. "That was the plan."

"Congratulations, Tristan. Man of the Match once again. And best wishes to you and Barbara for tonight."

"Thank you."

As the interview wrapped, Tristan handed the Man of the Match award to the Sky staff and stepped away from the cameras.

The noise of the crowd still rolled behind him but was slowly softening as the fans started filtering out. The floodlights glared down.

A few staff members offered quick congratulations as he passed.

"Brilliant again, lad."

"That penalty... bloody hell."

Mahrez caught up to him near the tunnel entrance, already changed into his training jacket.

"You good?" Mahrez asked, tapping Tristan’s shoulder. "Because my heart’s still recovering."

Tristan smiled. "Fine. You?"

Mahrez grinned. "I’ll let you know tomorrow."

.

The flashes of cameras calmed as Claudio Ranieri sat at the podium, adjusting the mic with a quiet steadiness. His face was composed. Warm. But beneath it—he could still feel the thrum of adrenaline.

The press officer nodded. "We’ll begin. First question."

A reporter near the front, tall, with a sharp navy suit, spoke up first. "Claudio, congratulations. Another dramatic fightback. What does it say about your squad’s mentality?"

Ranieri smiled gently, hands folded. "It says what I always tell them. Never give up. Never stop believing. My boys—they have courage. They do not fear the moment. Even at three-three, when others might panic, they stayed calm. They trusted the chance would come."

Several nods rippled through the room.

Another voice followed quickly. A woman from the front row, tablet resting in her lap. "Arsenal were relentless today. Their press, their midfield control. Did you expect that?"

"Yes. Of course." Ranieri nodded. His brow furrowed just slightly. "Arsène Wenger is very intelligent. His team tried to suffocate us—to disrupt our tempo. For long stretches, it worked. But we remained patient. And when you have players like Tristan, Riyad, Jamie... you only need one moment to punish."

A murmur of agreement passed between some of the older football writers. They’d seen Leicester punish too many giants over the last two seasons.

An older reporter leaned forward, the kind who still used a notepad and pen. "On that note... Tristan Hale. He’s just broken the Premier League record for most goal involvements in the first seven matches of a season. Can you describe his impact?"

Ranieri paused.

He didn’t rush the answer.

"Important?" His smile touched the corner of his mouth. "No. It is more than that. He is everything to this project. He scores. He assists. He leads. And most of all—he stays humble. For a manager, that is rare. And it is a dream."

There was a small stir. Even the Arsenal journalists couldn’t deny that.

A younger reporter from the middle row spoke next, quick and sharp. "We saw you and Wenger speaking after full-time. Any insight into what was said?"

Ranieri shook his head, amused. "Private. But respectful. As always. Our clubs have faced four times now. Every match... a battle."

That prompted a follow-up immediately. "Four meetings. Leicester unbeaten. Two wins, two draws. Including the FA Cup final. Would you say Leicester have now overtaken Arsenal?"

Ranieri’s eyes narrowed just a touch. His hands stayed steady.

"I respect Arsenal greatly. But football is not about the past. It is not about reputation. It is about today. And today..." His voice firmed. "We deserved to win."

That answer earned a few murmured "wows" from the back of the room. 

Another question came quickly. "Your team has now scored 27 goals in seven matches—a new Premier League record. You’ve only conceded seven. That’s dominance at both ends. What’s the ceiling for this group?"

Ranieri’s face softened. 

"This is a strong group. A confident group. But we are still building. Nigel Pearson did fantastic work last season—sixth place. My goal is to take the next step. To reach the top four. That would be historic for this club."

"Could you win the league?" someone asked bluntly.

Ranieri chuckled softly, palms spreading.

"No. No, no. We must not dream so far. This club was in the Championship two years ago. We have spent years in the lower leagues. We must be humble."

But inside? Of course we can.

One final question came from the side. "The crowd—once again, they were relentless. How much did that impact the result?"

Ranieri leaned forward, resting both hands on the table.

"They are our heart. At three-three, they did not go silent. They sang louder. They pushed us. And the boys felt it. I felt it. This club and its people—they believe in miracles."

The press officer stood. "Grazie. That’s all for today."

Ranieri nodded his thanks. As he stood, he let his gaze drift for a brief second toward the player interview area.

Tristan would be stepping up soon after Wenger. He knew that kid wanted to go home, celebrate with his girlfriend but there were some things he just couldn’t skip. Not after today what he did to Arsenal again.

.

The cameras flashed as Wenger adjusted his jacket and sat forward. His face was calm, but there was tightness around his eyes. Frustration masked by professionalism.

"Let’s begin," the press officer nodded.

The first reporter leaned in. "Arsène, another defeat to Leicester. That’s four meetings now without a win. Two losses, two draws. What’s the gap between the two sides?"

Wenger inhaled slowly. "There isn’t a gap in effort. My players gave everything today. But Leicester have momentum. Confidence. And they have 22 just like Barcelona have Leo Messi.”

The room stirred. Pens scratched. Cameras clicked faster.

A second reporter jumped in. "You mentioned Tristan. Can you expand on that? He scored twice today. Broke the assist record last season. Has this become his league?"

Wenger didn’t hesitate. "Since the moment he debuted, we all knew what kind of talent he was. Generational. Players like that... they come once every hundred years. Messi’s vision and control—but taller. Stronger. More direct." His gaze hardened slightly. "You cannot teach that. You can only hope to contain it. And we tried."

Another question flew. "Do you think he’s outgrown Leicester?"

For the first time, Wenger allowed a faint, almost knowing smile. "A historic talent like his... should not waste these years fighting just for Europa places. Great players belong on great stages. Not because of money. Because of history. Pressure. Legacy."

The room buzzed louder. Some reporters exchanged glances.

"Are you suggesting he should move?"

"I’m saying the football world knows his worth. And in time... he will too."

Wenger shifted in his seat, adjusting his tie. "But that is for the future. Today, he punished us. Again. We accept it. And we learn."

One final question. "Arsène, after today, do you see Leicester as true title contenders?"

He paused.

Then, carefully: "Results say yes. But it’s only September. The race is long."

The press officer stepped in. "Thank you."

Wenger rose, offered a short nod, and left the stage for his Captain to take the stage.

The cameras refocused as Per Mertesacker emerged from the tunnel, shoulders squared despite the sting of defeat. Reporters gathered quickly.

"Per, another difficult result against Leicester. You equalised twice. How does it feel knowing after Tristan Hale scored that free kick, Özil responded and it looked like Arsenal were back in it... only for it to slip away again at the very end?"

Mertesacker nodded slowly, running a hand through his damp hair. "That’s football at this level. Margins. Moments. After Mesut’s free kick, we believed momentum was ours. We pressed, we controlled spells, but... they have players who can change everything in seconds."

A reporter leaned forward. "Meaning Tristan?"

"Yes," Mertesacker said simply. "We know his quality. Everyone does. Since he debuted, every top defender in this league has studied him. And he still finds ways to create, to score, to win."

Another voice: "Leicester remain unbeaten against Arsenal in four meetings since his debut. Is there a mental hurdle now when facing them?"

The big defender shook his head firmly. "No mental hurdle. But there is respect. And Tristan—" he paused, eyes narrowing slightly in thought, "—he’s not just another talented player. He’s generational. Like Wenger said. The kind of talent you only see once every few decades."

The final question came from a younger voice in the back. "Be honest, Per. Does it feel like Arsenal keep writing the same story against Leicester? Close. Competitive. But falling short?"

Mertesacker exhaled, a rare flicker of frustration tightening his features. "Today, yes. But seasons are long. Stories can change."

He gave a quick nod and turned toward the dressing room. No more questions. He really wasn’t in the mood for it.

Unlike the Leicester players.

The camera was almost blinding as Tristan stepped up to the top table. His curls were still damp, pushed back off his forehead. Shirt changed now, but his sleeves were still rolled to the elbows.

The media officer nodded. "We’ll start now."

The first question came fast. "Tristan, congratulations. Two goals. One assist. Another comeback win. Just... how do you even begin to describe today?"

Tristan sat forward slightly, hands clasped. "You don’t, really. Football’s emotional. Unpredictable. We just keep playing. That’s all you can do when you’re behind. Believe. Trust each other. Trust the work."

Another voice followed without pause.

 "That penalty in stoppage time—ninety-sixth minute. Some would call it reckless to attempt a Panenka there. What was going through your head?"

A small smile touched the corner of Tristan’s mouth. "Calm. That’s the only word for it. I picked my spot. Trusted the technique. Čech can read corners too well. If he guesses low, I lose. So... middle."

A few light chuckles passed through the room.

Another reporter leaned in,  "The Arsenal players didn’t have much praise for the decision."

Tristan shrugged lightly. "If you’re confident and it works, it’s brave. If it doesn’t, it’s arrogance. That’s football. But how can I be arrogant... if I’m winning?"

The chuckles grew slightly louder. Even some of the stricter journalists couldn’t hide a smile.

Another hand went up. 

"Seven matches unbeaten now. Twenty-seven goals scored. Just seven conceded. A Premier League record start. Are Leicester title challengers?"

Tristan’s face didn’t change. His heartbeat hadn’t slowed since full-time, but he kept the words even. "We’re not thinking titles. Not in September. We’re building. One game at a time. We want to be competitive. That’s all." He wanted to say yes but he controlled himself for now.

A follow-up came quickly. "But Claudio said you’re aiming to improve on last season’s sixth place. That would mean top four. Is that the quiet goal in the dressing room?"

Tristan paused. Let the question hang a second. His eyes swept the room.

"We’ve set our standards high, yeah. But we know how tough this league is. Top four’s a dream for now. We just focus on the next ninety minutes."

A reporter near the left raised his hand.

 "Arsène Wenger had high praise for you. Said you’re a generational talent. Compared you to Messi—but taller, stronger. He also hinted a player like you shouldn’t waste your prime at a smaller club. Your reaction?"

The room quieted. Cameras clicked in the hush.

Tristan by now was used to this question. And he would be leaving after this season so everyone was getting their wishes. "I respect Mr. Wenger. He’s a legend. And I appreciate the kind words. But I’m not thinking about any club other than Leicester at the moment. This club means everything to me since I was six as I’m sure everyone knows by now."

He really didn’t want to leave but at the same time he didn’t want to be Totti, his legacy when it’s all done had to be the greatest of all time. Anything below that would be a failure.

One of the younger journalists, from the middle rows, smiled slightly,  "Final question. A bit lighter. You mentioned post-match it’s your anniversary today?"

Tristan nodded, breaking a huge smile at the question. "Yeah. One year with Barbara."

The journalist chuckled. "Well, two goals, an assist, and three points... that’s quite a gift."

Tristan smiled softly. "That was the plan. I think she’ll like it with what some Arsenal fans were calling her.” 

.

A few hours later, they were back home Tristan and Barbara..

The house was quiet. The kind of quiet Barbara had grown to love. Not empty. Just peaceful.

Julia had taken Biscuit for the evening. “You two enjoy your anniversary. I’ll spoil her tonight.” She’d winked as she left with Biscuit’s leash in hand.

Barbara sat cross-legged at the vanity, hair loosely pinned back. She wasn’t wearing anything fancy—just a soft white blouse and light jeans. Comfortable. Simple. The kind of look Tristan always said he liked best. 

She dabbed concealer beneath one eye, catching her own reflection. One year. Already? The thought made her chest feel warm. Honestly time just went by so fast she didn’t even realize it’s been one year since she started dating Tristan.

"You sure you don’t want to dress up more?" she asked, not looking away from the mirror.

From behind, Tristan’s voice answered—low, steady. "We said no fancy tonight. Just us. It’s a small family restaurant. You’ll look perfect."

She smiled softly. "Right. Back to the beginning."

Their first date. The little Italian place off the high street. Later tonight, they’d walk to the park where she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder. She could still remember how safe she’d felt then. How safe she still felt now.

As she reached for her blush, Tristan’s reflection appeared behind her.

He wasn’t dressed up either. Black fitted jeans, white trainers, and a charcoal Henley shirt that clung to his shoulders just right.

"Plus," he added, stepping closer, "if you dress up too much, I’ll look underdressed."

"You always look good," Barbara teased.

Before she could finish her makeup, Tristan leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips. Gentle. Familiar. But a little deeper than she expected.

When he pulled back, she caught the smudge of lipstick now painted across his mouth.

Barbara blinked. Then laughed. "Well. You’ve ruined my makeup."

Tristan looked almost proud. "Worth it."

She shook her head, amused. "Now I have to redo everything."

"Let me."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"I’ve done it before."

"Because I taught you."

"And I was a good student." His smile was that same boyish, dangerous smile that had caught her off guard since day one.

He reached for the makeup brush, brushing her hand aside gently. She didn’t stop him. She never really could.

As he worked, Barbara studied him through the mirror. His brows furrowed in concentration, lower lip caught slightly between his teeth. He always took things seriously—even this. Like every moment with her deserved the same focus he gave his football.

"You might’ve missed your calling," she whispered.

"I’ll add it to my résumé," he said lightly. "Footballer. Playmaker. Model. Occasional makeup artist."

She chuckled. "That’s a long business card."

He finished with a soft stroke across her cheek, then leaned down and kissed just below her left ear—the spot with her tiny 4 tattoo. She wanted to add another number on her right but that had to wait a while. His lips warm. Careful not to smudge his handiwork this time.

"Perfect," he murmured.

"You always say that."

"Because it’s always true."

Barbara caught his wrist and held it for a moment, grounding them both. "You don’t have to be charming tonight. You already won."

"I’m still trying."

Their eyes met in the mirror.

Then Tristan whispered, "Szeretlek."

Barbara felt the warmth bloom instantly in her chest. "You’re getting better at that."

"I’ve been practicing."

She leaned up, brushing her lips along his jaw. "我也爱你."

Tristan paused. His green eyes blinked once, surprised. "Was that...?"

"Mandarin," she confirmed. "Picked it up from Auntie. Figured it was my turn."

For a heartbeat, he just stared at her. Then his mouth curled into the softest smile. "You never stop surprising me."

"Good. Otherwise, you might get bored."

"That’s not possible, love.”

Barbara let her hands rest against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat under her palm. Steady. Reassuring.

"Oh—before I forget," she said, tone shifting as she remembered. "You know what Gary Lineker told me in the box?"

Tristan tilted his head slightly. "What?"

"Your boyfriend’s going to give the Premier League a heart attack."

He chuckled. "Sounds about right."

"Ed wants a signed shirt. And a picture with you. He said he needs proof he backed you before you break every record."

Tristan nodded, amused. "I’ll text him tomorrow. I think he follows me on Twitter."

Barbara tucked a curl behind his ear. "Everyone was in awe. Even Cumberbatch just shook his head the whole time. You ruined their day—in the best way."

"That was the goal."

She leaned in and kissed him again. Longer this time. 

Outside, the evening sky had shifted to that dusky blue she loved—the color just before the stars came out.

"Come on," she said, fingers threading through his. "I’m hungry. Let’s go to the restaurant.”

"And the park."

"And the park," she echoed with a smile.

A year ago, it had started with a simple date.

.

The streets were quiet as they left their house behind. Just the low hum of the engine and the soft flicker of streetlights sweeping across the windshield.

Barbara leaned back in her seat, one leg crossed loosely over the other. Her eyes drifted between the road and the man beside her.

Tristan’s left hand rested on the wheel. Steady. Relaxed. His right sat between them, fingers open—until she reached over and laced hers through.

She loved the way he drove. It was silly maybe. Especially after watching him perform in front of tens of thousands. After watching him win in front of tens of thousands. But this—just him, just them—was still her favourite version of him.

She let her thumb brush over his knuckles. "You know," she said, voice light, "I think my heart stopped during that penalty."

Tristan glanced over, mouth curving slightly. "Yeah?"

"I couldn’t even breathe," Barbara admitted. "I thought my legs were going to give out."

Tristan’s fingers tightened gently around hers. His eyes stayed on the road, but that smile never left his lips. "I could feel the pressure too. But once I stepped up... it went quiet."

Barbara gave him a look. "Quiet for you. Not for the rest of us. I had my head down until the whistle blew."

Tristan lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to the back of hers. "But you looked up just in time to see it go in."

Her pulse fluttered at the memory. "Of course I did."

His thumb traced small, slow circles against her skin. "I love that you still get nervous."

"Why?"

"It means you care."

Barbara smiled softly. "I’ll always care." She leaned over, resting her free hand lightly on his thigh. "Even when you make my heart stop once a week."

"Only once?"

She gave his leg a gentle squeeze. "Sometimes twice."

Tristan chuckled, eyes shining as his right hand fell back to her thigh. The city lights faded behind them. Smaller roads now. Familiar neighbourhoods.

Ahead, the little Italian restaurant came into view. 

Tristan eased the car into the spot just outside the restaurant. The same side street as last year. The engine went quiet.

Barbara unbuckled her seatbelt but paused, fingers still curled around the strap. "It really hasn’t changed at all."

Tristan looked out at the warm, familiar lights spilling from the windows. "That’s the point."

She smiled to herself and reached over, adjusting the collar of his Henley shirt. The fabric was soft beneath her fingers, stretched perfectly across his shoulders. "You can’t meet fans with a crooked collar.."

He leaned in and kissed her—quick but warm. When he pulled back, he noticed a faint shimmer of her lip gloss now smudged on his mouth.

Barbara stifled a laugh. "You’re wearing my lipstick again."

"I’m making a habit of it."

She shook her head, reaching into her bag for a tissue, but Tristan caught her hand. "Don’t bother. It just get ruin it again."

She arched her brow. "Confident, aren’t we?"

"Yep."

He stepped out first and came around to open her door. Barbara took his hand as she slid out. As they approached the entrance, Barbara slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

"One year later," she whispered, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. "And you still give me butterflies."

Tristan smiled, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Good. I plan to keep it that way."

The little bell above the restaurant door chimed softly as they stepped inside with no customers.

Barbara noticed the empty tables. Not a single other guest in sight. Just warm light, the quiet hum of the kitchen, and them.

Her brows lifted slightly. "Did you...?"

Tristan squeezed her hand gently. "I rented it out. Figured after the game, the last thing we needed was someone live-tweeting our anniversary."

Barbara’s chest softened. It was so him. Thoughtful. Protective without making a show of it.

"Also," Tristan added, leaning in with a quiet grin, "I didn’t want to share the tiramisu."

Barbara laughed under her breath, shaking her head. 

"Tristan!" A voice came from the back. It was Antonio, the owner’s son, already waving them toward the center table.”

Tristan smiled. "Appreciate it."

They walked over and Tristan slid out a chair for her. Than sat across from her.

Antonio placed the menus down but waved them off. "You probably want the same as last time?"

Barbara nodded. "If the chef still makes the rigatoni with basil cream—"

"He does. And for you, sir? The wood-fired pizza with ricotta and prosciutto?"

Tristan gave a thumbs-up. "Perfect."

As Antonio left, Barbara rested her chin lightly on her hand. "One year. And you’re even more famous than before."

"I try to keep it under control."

"That’s not working," she teased.

Tristan reached across the table, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. "You make it easier. Being here—places like this—it feels normal."

Barbara smiled. 

The quiet settled comfortably between them. Low background chatter. Soft Italian music from a radio near the kitchen.

"So," Barbara said after a moment. "Can I indulge myself in cheese today?"

Tristan leaned back, feigning seriousness. "It’s our anniversary. I’ll allow it."

She raised an eyebrow. "Allow it?"

"You heard me."

Barbara shook her head, laughing softly. "You’re lucky I love you."

His green eyes warmed. "I know."

The plates arrived with a soft clatter. The scent of basil, cream, and prosciutto floated between them.

Barbara gave a small, pleased sigh as she picked up her fork. "Smells like heaven. Don’t tell Felix I said that.”

Tristan watched her dig in with an easy smile. He tore a piece of pizza, but before he could lift it to his mouth, Barbara’s fork darted across the table—snagging a piece right off his plate.

"You’ll allow that too, right?" she said innocently, twirling it once before taking a triumphant bite.

Tristan leaned back, feigning deep betrayal. "I rent out the whole restaurant, and you still rob me."

Barbara chewed happily, raising an eyebrow. "Love is sacrifice."

"Love is theft, apparently," he muttered, nudging her foot under the table.

She giggled, then settled back into her chair, nudging him right back with a playful kick. Tristan's hand drifted down under the table, resting lightly on her thigh. His thumb traced lazy circles against the denim of her jeans without even thinking.

Barbara grinned into her wine glass. "You know..." she said, voice light but teasing, "you really scored two goals today. And then pulled a panenka right on my heart."

Tristan almost choked on his pizza. "Panenka on your heart?"

"You heard me," she teased. "I was this close to cardiac arrest."

He laughed, squeezing her thigh gently. "Good thing you survived. I have big plans for you."

"Plans like letting me steal your dessert too?"

"Absolutely not."

Barbara laughed, her heart full in a way she didn’t know how to explain. She twisted her fork absentmindedly through her pasta. "Crazy, isn’t it?" she said, quieter now. "Everything that’s happened since... since that first dinner here."

Tristan looked at her—really looked at her. The soft lighting caught the gold in her hair, the slight flush on her cheeks from the wine.

"Best year of my life," he said simply. And he truly meant it. He could only thank god for all the opportunities he was given. 

Barbara reached across the table, curling her fingers through his. "Mine too."

.

They finished their meals slowly, savoring every bite like they had all the time in the world.

Antonio returned with a small cake—a surprise gift from the kitchen—before thanking them again for coming.

"You’re always welcome here, Mr. and Mrs. Hale," Antonio joked warmly as he cleared the plates.

Barbara’s cheeks flushed a little, but she grinned. "Not yet," she said, shooting a glance at Tristan.

"Give it time," Tristan said under his breath, squeezing her hand under the table.

Outside, the cool evening air wrapped around them. Barbara instantly tucked herself against his side.

"You’re freezing," Tristan said, tugging her closer.

"You’re warm," she answered simply, grinning against his shoulder.

He noticed right then she always wore light clothes whenever they went out together.  "You do this on purpose," he muttered, smiling against her temple.

"Is it wrong for a girl to want to wear her man’s clothes?" she teased, her fingers curling deeper into his.

Tristan laughed softly, wrapping an arm fully around her now. "No, it’s not a problem at all."

.

The streetlights stretched their shadows long across the pavement as they walked through the park. The very few who were here let them have their peace as all of Leciester pretty much knew what day today was for them.

Barbara let herself relax into his side, their steps naturally falling into sync.

"You know," she said after a while, voice lighter, "we’ve got two big days close together now."

Tristan hummed. "Yeah?"

"Anniversary today," she counted off on one hand, "and then my birthday in a few weeks." She bumped her hip against his playfully. "You’re going to spoil me."

"Maybe."

Barbara gave him a mock scandalized look. "Maybe? Tristan."

He grinned, not giving anything away. "Classified information."

"You’re such a pain," she muttered, grinning despite herself. "You better have a plan. October 8th is serious business."

"Pressure’s nothing new for me," he said lightly. "I survived Arsenal today, didn’t I?"

Barbara laughed, looping her arm tighter around his waist. "Barely."

"Confidence, babe. Confidence."

They found the same bench from a year ago. Barbara curled against Tristan, resting her head on his shoulder the way she had back then.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. They just watched the sky darken. Felt the world slow down around them.

Then Tristan shifted slightly. She felt him reach into his pocket.

"Got you something," he said quietly.

Barbara lifted her head, curious.

He pulled out a small velvet box and placed it in her hand.

Her fingers shook a little as she opened it.

Inside: a platinum necklace. Clean chain. Minimalist sapphire pendant. Deep, shimmering blue—just like her eyes.

Barbara’s breath caught. "Tristan..." she whispered, voice thick.

He brushed a thumb along her cheekbone. "Happy anniversary, love."

She swallowed hard, blinking fast. "It’s beautiful."

He kissed her forehead. "You’re beautiful."

But he wasn’t finished.

Tristan reached into his other pocket and pulled out a second box.

Barbara’s eyes widened slightly. "Love—?"

He opened it himself this time. Inside: a thin platinum ring. A small sapphire set into the band, matching the necklace.

She stared at it, stunned.

"It’s not an engagement ring," Tristan said softly. "Not yet. It’s a promise."

She looked up at him, heart full, throat too tight to speak.

"One year down," he said. "A lifetime to go."

Barbara threw her arms around his neck, laughing and crying all at once. “You’re going to make me ruin my makeup again.”

He kissed her hair, holding her tightly, his breath catching in her curls. “Then I’ll just have to ruin it properly,” he murmured, laughing low against her temple.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were glassy with joy. She held up the necklace and the ring to the fading light, letting the sapphire catch the fire-orange edge of the sunset.

“You always pick the most beautiful jewelry,” she whispered, brushing her fingers across the stone like it might hum beneath her touch.

Tristan reached out tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering at her cheekbone. "Because they remind me of one of the things I love most about you"

She didn’t smile. Not exactly. Her lips parted just slightly, eyes searching his, something unsaid crackling between them.

Then he kissed her. He kissed her like a vow. Her hands tightened behind his neck, drawing him in.

When they broke apart, neither spoke for a long time. 

They sat there together, tangled up in each other, watching the last light of the sunset bleed into the horizon.

.

I do a proper reaction to the game next chapter.