And we are back people.
Thank you for the patience chapters will be back to daily.
.
September 29, 2015 – La Finca, Madrid
(Just pretend this is In portuguese)
The evening air drifted through the terrace doors, cool against the back of Cristiano's neck. The pool water beside him had gone warm. He hadn't touched it.
His thumb hovered over his phone screen, scrolling past the usual headlines.
Tristan. Messi. Tristan. Ronaldo.
He locked the screen and set it down, face-down on the glass table.
Across from him, Mendes sat in a lounge chair—crisp shirt, sleeves rolled, watch gleaming under the patio light. Always looked like he was in the middle of a meeting, even when he wasn't.
Cristiano didn't look over.
"Married life treating you well?"
Mendes gave a faint smile. "Sandra's patient. You'd have walked."
Cristiano snorted. "You married late. I trained through my twenties. You built your empire."
"Still building."
Cristiano nodded once. "And now your empire has another crown jewel."
Mendes didn't reply.
Cristiano turned to him. "Tristan. You got lucky. Same way you did with me."
Mendes stayed quiet.
"You signed a kid no one knew. Eighteen. Leicester. No Champions League. No Ballon d'Or talk. And now?"
He leaned back in his chair.
"Now it's us and him. Tristan and records. Tristan and Ballon d'Or predictions."
Still no reply.
Cristiano glanced sideways. "You see the numbers?"
Mendes gave a small nod.
"Ten goals. Eight assists. Seven matches," Cristiano said flatly. "And not in Portugal. Not in Ligue 1. In England. In the hardest league in the world."
He picked his phone back up and waved it once in the air.
"'Better than Ronaldo.' 'Could be greater than Messi in his prime.' Funny how my name barely comes up."
Mendes looked at him calmly. "Because you're the one they're all chasing."
Cristiano gave a quiet laugh. "Then say it. Say he's chasing me. Not Messi. Me."
"He is," Mendes said simply.
Cristiano stared at him, jaw tight.
"Feels like people are ready for it. Like they want it to happen. Like they're waiting for me to fall."
He stood and paced toward the edge of the terrace.
"They already tried this with Bale. That didn't work."
Mendes kept his eyes on him. "This is different."
Cristiano turned. "Yeah. Because this kid's actually producing. He already smashed my Premier League numbers in one season."
A pause.
"I saw him talking to Florentino at your wedding."
"He congratulated him," Mendes replied.
Cristiano didn't move. "You think I didn't see what that was?"
Mendes didn't respond.
Cristiano stepped back toward the table. "Real Madrid has been watching him since Brazil. Back when it was just marketing. Now it's more. You said that to me back then."
"They want someone who can carry the next ten years," Mendes said quietly, even regretting telling Ronaldo that piece of news. He didn't think Tristan would blow up this quick, this fast and this good."
Cristiano scoffed. "And you think that's Tristan?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you didn't stop them either."
Mendes adjusted the cuff of his shirt. "I don't decide who Real Madrid wants."
Cristiano leaned forward. "Are you still representing me… or managing my replacement?"
Mendes didn't blink. "You've won three Ballon d'Ors. Three Golden Boots. You just came off a 61-goal season. You don't need defending."
Cristiano's voice was cold. "That's not what I asked."
Mendes didn't respond.
Cristiano sat back again. "You've been quiet about the Ballon d'Or."
"It's September."
"You've seen the shortlists."
"I'm not voting."
"But you're influencing."
A pause.
"You don't need PR to win," Mendes said. "You need trophies."
Cristiano let it hang. Then:
"And if he wins the league? Or the Euros?"
Mendes didn't answer.
Cristiano narrowed his eyes. "You think he wins it over me?"
"No one's won anything yet."
"Is he your new priority?"
Mendes shook his head. "You'll always be my first. But Tristan isn't just potential anymore. He's a global name. He's twenty."
Cristiano looked away. "And already everyone wants him."
Then a pause.
"Has he said it?" Cristiano asked. "Does he want Madrid?"
Mendes didn't move.
"He keeps saying Leicester is his focus. That he's not looking past this season. But you're his agent."
Silence.
"Does he want to come?"
Mendes exhaled through his nose.
"I can't speak for my clients."
Cristiano leaned back. "But you know."
Another long silence. Mendes stared at the pool.
"He respects you," Mendes said finally. "He admires Madrid. But he's not chasing anyone. He wants to win. And build a legacy by himself."
Cristiano nodded slowly. "Then make sure they don't forget who built this place first."
Mendes didn't argue. He just looked at him and said:
"Of course I'll talk to the President."
Cristiano glanced down at his phone again. The screen had gone dark.
He spoke, this time quieter.
"You always said I was the best."
Mendes nodded once. "And you still are."
Cristiano let that sit. He knew Mendes meant it. But he also knew what came next.
He looked up. "You said you don't decide who Real Madrid wants. But if Tristan says yes... are you pushing it?"
Mendes hesitated for the first time.
"If he says yes," he said slowly, "then I owe it to him to explore the move. Just like I would for you."
Cristiano's jaw clenched. He understood the game better than anyone.
"Then make sure if he walks through that door, it's not to replace me."
Mendes nodded. "That part? That's up to you."
"Tell that kid, if he wants to come to Madrid then fine but he's getting nothing handed to him. This is still my team." Cristiano replied, looking straight at Mendes' eyes.
Mendes held his gaze for a moment, then said quietly, "I know."
Then he stood, adjusted his sleeves and added:
"Just don't give him a reason to think otherwise."
He turned and walked toward the door.
The sliding glass clicked shut behind him.
Cristiano sat alone.
The headlines were still there. Tristan. Messi. Tristan. Ronaldo.
He didn't scroll this time. Just stared at the reflection of his own face on the black screen.
He's good. No denying that. More than good. The first one in years to make the world look past him and Leo.
But he wasn't going to hand him anything. Not the throne. Not the crown. Not Madrid.
Cristiano leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
Let him come.
Let him try.
Because he wasn't done. Not even close to being done.
He grabbed the remote from the table, not really thinking, and turned on the TV—just to fill the silence.
The screen lit up.
Camp Nou. Press Conference Room. Live.
Of course it was Barcelona.
Messi sat in the middle. Neymar beside him. Suárez to his right.
He almost changed the channel.
Almost.
But he didn't.
The moderator pointed to a journalist from ESPN Brasil.
(This is in Spanish)
"Leo, Neymar, Luis — the headlines this week are all about Tristan Hale. Ten goals, eight assists in seven Premier League matches. Twenty-eight goal contributions in all competitions across ten games. He's only twenty. Some say he's already better than Neymar, maybe even Ronaldo, and you, Leo. Thoughts on that view?"
Messi blinked slowly, then leaned forward to the mic.
"He's had a strong start," Messi said evenly. "Twenty-eight in ten? That's incredible. But it's September." He paused briefly, letting the silence settle.
"He's talented. No doubt. But people forget how long a season is. He's in better form than me right now. I won't deny that. But that doesn't make him better."
He sat back, letting the buzz ripple through the room.
A second journalist leaned in. "Neymar — last season, Tristan was seen as your rival. Your reflection. Now many say he's surpassed you. Do you agree with that?"
Neymar's jaw tightened slightly, though the corners of his mouth held their curve. He shifted forward, the edge in his voice buried beneath the showman tone.
"They compared him to me last year. Now to Leo. Next month? Maybe it's someone else."
He glanced toward the back of the room, then continued.
"The media gets bored fast. I'm used to it. If I listened to every headline like that, I'd never have made it out of Santos."
Another hand went up.
"Luis, FIFA 16 came out two weeks ago. Tristan's rated 90. Same as you. Neymar's 88. He's never played a Champions League game. Does that rating make sense to you?"
Suárez raised his eyebrows and gave a short laugh. "FIFA ratings?" he echoed. "Come on."
A wave of laughter moved through the press.
But Suárez leaned in again. His expression was more serious now.
"But honestly? I watch his games. You can't ignore what he's doing. Last season he had what — seventy-five goal contributions across all comps? And now he's starting this one like a rocket. The numbers speak."
He looked down for a second. "So yeah. Ninety makes sense. Doesn't matter what league you're in. If you're breaking the game, you're breaking it."
A Spanish reporter stood.
"Leo — to follow up. Tristan Hale has more goal contributions this season than all three of you combined. Leicester City are unbeaten in all competitions. A Premier League team that was promoted last year. Are you surprised?"
Messi's lips pressed briefly into a line. He nodded once.
"A little," he said. "I watched them against Spurs. Against Arsenal. They're not playing like underdogs. They're organized. Confident. He's their engine."
He paused.
"I'd say they're top two in form right now.. Shame they're not in the Champions League."
Neymar nodded slightly, though his mouth was tight. He didn't like what he was hearing from Messi.
A Catalan journalist raised his voice.
"Would you want to face Leicester in Europe? Do you think they could handle a team like Barcelona?"
Neymar shrugged. "They'd need to qualify first. Let's not skip the steps."
Suárez raised the mic again.
"If they make it, I'd love it," he said.
Another question came quickly:
"Leo, final one. People say this season, Tristan will lead the Ballon d'Or race. Not you. Not Ronaldo. Does that motivate you?"
Messi didn't answer at first. He gave the tiniest tilt of his head.
Then: "Well a kid is outplaying you, of course it motivates me." He wondered if this is how all the legends of the came felt when he burst onto the scene. Watching someone ten years younger accomplish things you could never imagine.
He stood a moment later, nodding toward the press moderator. Neymar and Suárez followed.
...
Back in Madrid, Cristiano hadn't moved.
Hearing Messi admit Tristan was playing better than him lit a fire inside of him he didn't even know existed. The boy might be outplaying them now, but Cristiano had no intention of letting it stay that way.
.
September 29, 2015 – Belvoir Drive, Leicester
The blinds were drawn halfway, streaks of amber sun spilling over the old trophies and framed shirts that lined Claudio Ranieri's office wall.
Tristan sat opposite the desk, Morgan beside him.
Ranieri leaned forward, fingers interlocked looking almost sad and disappointed if Tristan was being honest with himself.
"Lazio away is different," he said, his voice low but firm. "Not just football. Atmosphere. Culture. Politics."
He looked between them. His gaze lingered on Morgan.
"You don't just play against eleven players in Rome. You play against fifty thousand who think they can break you."
He paused, then turned his eyes to Tristan.
Ranieri continued.
"I played there. I've managed there. I've seen those stands up close. The banners. The smoke. The chants."
He tapped the badge on his sweater.
"Before this," he said quietly. "I wore shirts in cities like Naples and Catania. I know what Lazio fans are capable of. Their ultras are some of the worst in Europe. Not just loud. Not just hostile. We're talking about organized far-right groups."
He looked at both men.
"They've waved fascist flags in those stands. They've honored Mussolini on tifos. They've done Nazi salutes on live television. That club's tried to clean things up in recent years, but those ultras? They're still there. Still a massive part of the club."
Morgan spoke next. "They'll come hard. Especially if you're Black. Or if you're winning. Or if you're both. And this team? We've got a lot of color. A lot of flair. That pisses them off."
He glanced at Tristan. "And a Chinese-English kid pulling numbers they can't believe? You're a headline and a target. But you should be fine, all things considered."
He still had a hard time believing that kid was Chinese somehow.
Then he added, more serious now: "I've played in Poland. Russia. Serbia. This kind of hate doesn't need a reason. You give them one the second you step on the pitch and don't look like them."
Ranieri nodded. "With the form we're in, they'll want to rattle us early. Make it about noise. Make it about fear."
He leaned back.
"Security briefings are set. Tunnel staff have instructions. Matchday control will be tighter than usual. If anything happens — objects thrown, slurs, gestures — we will act. Call it off if we have to."
He raised a hand. "But I don't want this team responding. No gestures. No back and forth. Play your football. Shut them up that way."
Morgan nodded. "This ain't new to me," he said again. "But some of the lads… they might freeze up. I'll make sure they're ready."
Tristan finally spoke. His voice was quieter than usual.
"You really think it'll be like that? That heavy?" He really didn't know much about the club. Sure he knew how racist Italy was but there had to be a limit on games that are broadcast to the rest of the world.
Ranieri looked at him for a long moment.
"I think," he said carefully, "they will try anything. And I want the team ready for anything."
A beat passed.
Then he stood.
"Go rest. We fly tomorrow. Light session. Heads up. After training, I will talk to the rest of the team as well. For now just prep the team for that match if they aren't aware already."
The two players rose. Morgan gave Ranieri a respectful nod.
As they walked toward the door, Ranieri added, "One more thing. The referee is Spanish. Likes control. Don't argue. Let me do the talking."
Tristan nodded. "Got it."
They stepped out into the hallway.
Morgan glanced over.
"Oh, and uh… congrats."
Tristan blinked. "For what?"
Morgan grinned. "Didn't know we had the best player in the world on the payroll."
Tristan frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Morgan chuckled. "You haven't seen Messi's interview, have you?"
Tristan shook his head.
Morgan clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Check it tonight. And get some sleep."
He walked off, leaving Tristan standing alone in the corridor, brow furrowed.
"Best in the world?"
.
Hope you guys like this chapter
Join that Discord and Patreon if you interested.
Discord Link: https://discord.gg/s2DVMbqSf4
https://www.patreon.com/c/Sinbad_