Chapter 201: 10/1/2015 Part 1

October 1st, 2015

 . 

The plane hummed quietly above the clouds. No one was talking. Seats leaned back, legs stretched out, faces dimly lit by phone screens. Some players had headphones on. Some stared out the windows. Most were just scrolling—messages from family, group chats, friends.

Tristan sat beside Kanté. Neither had said much since boarding. Kanté had his arms crossed, hood up. Tristan had kept an eye on him the entire time. Every so often, he typed something on his phone, looked over, then locked it again.

He'd messaged his parents and Barbara first: We’re safe. Heading home now.

He got a reply instantly from all three.

Love: Is everyone okay? Are you okay? Is Kante okay? What about everyone else? How is Mahrez? What’s going to happen? It’s going to be okay, I love you.

He took a breath before replying to the barrage of questions.

TRISTAN: We are okay, mood is down though. Physically everyone is fine, mentally I’m not sure. I’m next to Kante, he’s not talking much. I’ll talk to you when we land. Pick me up please.

Normally John would pick him up—but not tonight. He just wanted to see someone he loved the moment they landed.

He scrolled to the family chat.

Mum: Omg, what happened? Are you okay? Your dad is freaking out, I just saw highlights of the game, those poor players. Are they all okay?

He blinked a few times. Looked back at Kanté.

"You good?"

Kanté nodded. "I'm fine."

Tristan didn’t believe him. But he didn’t push it either.

A few rows back, Schmeichel was quietly watching clips of the match. Mahrez was on a call in French, voice low and drained. Vardy just stared at the ceiling. Simpson scrolled slowly, face dark. Ben had his hood up.

Tristan flicked open Twitter just to see the reaction to the game.

That’s when he saw it.

A grainy video, posted only minutes ago. The Leicester away section in Rome.

Red smoke. Screams. Fists.

Another clip. A man in a Leicester jacket trying to shield someone smaller—maybe a teen. A flare exploded near their feet.

Tristan’s stomach twisted.

He turned the screen toward Kanté.

Kanté leaned in—then recoiled.

“What the hell…”

Simpson muttered across the aisle, “What is that…?”

Schlupp looked up from his phone. “Wait—run that back.”

Tristan did.

More angles were flooding in now. One showed two masked men dragging a Leicester fan by the scarf and beating him near the stairwell. Another showed a woman trying to crawl over the barrier before being kicked back down.

Maguire stood in the aisle, face hard. “Jesus Christ…”

Marc Albrighton sat forward, elbows on knees. “That’s not a brawl. That’s an ambush.”

More voices followed. Fast. Rattled.

“Is that blood?”

“Fuckin’ hell…”

“Look, look—he's not even moving.”

“They’re stomping him.”

 “Where the hell are the cops?”

Tristan scrolled. Each new upload was worse. One showed an older man being hit with what looked like a pipe. Another—taken from higher up—captured the flare that landed in the middle of the crowd and lit someone’s coat on fire.

Schmeichel leaned over the seat. “Those are our people, our fans.”

Mahrez had stopped talking. He sat, silent now, eyes fixed on a still frame.

At the front of the cabin, Benetti appeared—face pale, voice low.

“Quiet,” he said. “Listen up.”

The noise died quickly. Even the ones with headphones tugged them down.

Benetti looked over the rows. “Authorities just confirmed: Lazio ultras attacked the Leicester away end after the match. Coordinated. Multiple exits blocked. Pipes. Flares. At least thirty injured, some hospitalized. Ambulances were delayed leaving the grounds.”

Nobody said a word.

Ranieri stood just behind Benetti, jaw tight. “Police presence was thin. They planned this. Targeted the exits. There were delays because groups were circling outside.”

For a moment, no one breathed.

Then Tristan said it quietly: “It wasn’t a fight. It was a setup.”

Schlupp exhaled. “They hunted them.”

Simpson closed his phone. “So what now? What happens to them?”

“No statements,” Ranieri said. His voice wasn’t raised, but it cut clean. “Nobody posts. Nobody calls press. Not until we land.”

He turned to Benetti. “Tell the pilots we’re diverting to East Midlands. I don’t want one camera crew waiting for us. No press. No fanfare. And tell the club—no statement. Not yet. We don’t say anything until we’ve seen everything.”

Benetti nodded and disappeared toward the front.

Tristan leaned back in his seat, rubbing his forehead looking like he was about to have a heart attack.

Out the window, there was nothing but dark sky.

But behind his eyes—red smoke, glass, screams.

And the sickening realization: They’d won the game. It would have fine somewhat if it was just the players taking the verbal abuse, they could handle that. They were stronger than that. But no one gave a damn about that now.

.

October 2, 2015 – 12:41 AM, East Midlands Airport

The plane touched down in silence.

No applause. No celebration. Just the groan of the landing gear and the sudden flood of phone vibrations. Tristan’s screen lit up instantly — dozens of notifications, group chats, missed calls. He didn’t check a single one.

Outside his window, the tarmac was dimly lit. No press. No fans. Just cones, wind, and a few buses waiting at a distance.

The seatbelt sign pinged off.

Wes Morgan stood up slowly. “Alright,” he said, quiet but steady. “Let’s get home.”

The players rose in silence, grabbing jackets and backpacks without the usual banter. No ribbing, no shoulder slaps. Just the quiet shuffle of boots and tired eyes. They filed off the plane like men coming down from something they hadn’t fully processed.

Tristan stepped out with Kanté. The cold hit instantly.

Then he saw them.

Across the barrier, a loose half-circle of people waited — not fans, not media, but family. Wives, girlfriends, kids in coats, parents with arms crossed against the chill. 

Barbara was at the front, arms tucked into her coat, eyes locked on him. She looked exhausted, like she hadn’t slept. Her hair was slightly wind-blown. Next to her — his mum and dad.

Tristan blinked.

He hadn’t told them to come.

He didn’t want to worry them. But of course they came.

“Is that your family?” Kanté asked softly, slowing beside him. They were speaking in French.

Tristan nodded. “Yeah. Yours didn’t come?”

“They’re in Paris.” He hesitated. “I haven’t moved them yet.”

Tristan didn’t push. He just clapped a hand gently on Kanté’s shoulder as they kept walking.

Barbara stepped forward first. She didn’t say anything. Just wrapped her arms around him — tight — and held on like she needed it more than he did.

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I’m so sorry.”

He pressed his cheek to the top of her head. “Not your fault.”

His mum joined them a heartbeat later, pulling them both into a messy, lopsided hug.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, already teary. “We saw the footage… Are you okay?”

His dad was quieter. But he rested a firm hand on Tristan’s back. “You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”

Off to the side, Kanté lingered, unsure whether to stay or step back. But Julia turned to him.

“You alright, love?”

Kanté nodded once, politely. “Yes. Thank you.”

She opened her arms. “Come here.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. Just stepped into the hug. It didn’t look like he really had a choice in that matter.

“I’m glad you’re safe too,” she said, hand on his shoulder. “We’re all glad.”

A few feet away, Schmeichel crouched down to embrace his son — a sleepy-looking boy in a puffy coat who ran straight into his arms. Kasper lifted him and kissed the top of his head, murmuring something in Danish.

Mahrez stood in a tight circle with his girlfriend and sister. He wasn’t speaking much, just nodding as they hugged him one by one.

Across the line, Fuchs sat on a metal luggage cart, rubbing his face as his wife handed him a coffee. She didn’t ask anything. She just sat next to him.

Morgan was talking to two older women. One of them pressed a handkerchief into his hand. The other kissed his cheek.

Tristan looked back at Kanté. “You want to come stay with us tonight? We’ve got space.”

Kanté hesitated, then nodded once. “If it’s really okay.”

“It is.”

A few steps later, Tristan spotted Chilwell again.

“You good?”

Ben sniffed once, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. My parents are booked into a hotel. They’re staying the night. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” Tristan said, squeezing his shoulder. “Call if you change your mind.”

Ranieri stood near the base of the stairs with Paolo Benetti, arms folded against the cold.

When the team had cleared the plane, Ranieri raised his voice.

“No training tomorrow,” he said clearly. “No media. No meetings. You go home. You sleep. You see your families. That’s it.”

No one objected. No one nodded. It was just understood.

As the squad slowly broke apart — pulled away by hugs and car doors and tired footsteps — Ranieri stayed behind, watching each of them go.

Back at the barrier, Tristan gave his dad’s arm a quick squeeze.

“Let’s go home.”

Barbara reached for his hand.

He didn’t let go.

.

1:00 AM - On the A46, headed back to Belvoir Drive

The roads were empty. Just damp tarmac, passing cones, and the hum of tires slicing through late-night wind.

 Benetti gripped the steering wheel loosely, knuckles resting, headlights flickering off the road signs. His eyes stayed fixed ahead — steady, exhausted.

In the passenger seat, Ranieri stared out the window. One hand to his temple. The other holding his phone to his ear.

“...No, I won’t be home soon,” he said, voice low. Italian softening at the edges. “They’re all okay. But I need to go back in.”

Silence on the other end.

“I know, cara. I know.”

He didn’t say much else.

Benetti glanced sideways for a second. The blue cast of the dashboard lit up Ranieri’s face — tight around the jaw, shadows under his eyes. He didn’t look like a manager right now. He looked like someone who’d seen too much too fast.

Ranieri finally spoke again.

“Just tell the girls I’ll call them tomorrow. Kiss them for me. Okay. Ti amo.”

He hung up and let the phone drop gently to his lap.

Benetti exhaled. “Did she see the videos?”

“She saw enough.”

Another pause. The silence stretched.

Then, quietly, Benetti added, “You’re not sleeping tonight.”

Ranieri didn’t answer right away. Just looked out into the dark.

“No,” he said. “And neither are you.”

The car went quiet again — nothing but the engine and wind.

Until Benetti’s phone buzzed in the cupholder.

He picked it up, scanned the caller ID, and muttered, “Rudkin.” Then handed it to Ranieri.

Claudio answered.

“Claudio.”

Jon Rudkin’s voice came through fast and direct. “Everyone’s awake. UEFA, the FA, Home Office — they’re already coordinating. I’ve got Andrea and the board on standby. Government official’s name is Ames. They want you in the call within the hour.”

Ranieri rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. “What’s their tone?”

“Concerned. Tense. No one's saying it yet, but they’re treating this like a state-level incident. One of the victims was a UK diplomat’s nephew.”

Benetti swore under his breath. “Madonna.”

“I’m heading to Belvoir,” Ranieri said. “We’ll take the call from the office.”

Rudkin didn’t argue. “I’ll text you the secure line. You’ll be on with the Home Office rep, FA, UEFA, and the club board.”

Ranieri hung up.

Benetti didn’t say anything. Just adjusted his grip and pushed the accelerator slightly harder.

A few seconds passed.

Ranieri looked over. “Turn off at Anstey. Go straight to the training ground. No detours.”

“You’re sure?” Benetti asked, already flicking the indicator.

“I’m sure.”

He stared ahead again.

“This isn’t just a Europa League match,” Ranieri said quietly. “Not when Tristan’s on the pitch. He’s a black hole. Cameras don’t just follow him — they orbit.”

Benetti nodded grimly. “And tonight… they caught everything.”

They didn’t speak again until the car rolled through the gates of Belvoir Drive. Floodlights still on. The grounds empty. The badge on the wall looking heavier than usual.

As Benetti parked and cut the engine, Ranieri opened the door.

He paused.

Looked up at the office windows.

“Everyone wants answers,” he murmured. “Then let’s give them some.”

. 

1:36 AM - Tristan’s House

The front door creaked open to low light and warmth. No noise. Just the faint scent of something stewed and forgotten.

Felix had left a note on the counter, folded neatly beside the stove.

Welcome back. Don’t worry about anything tonight. Eat if you’re hungry. Sleep if you can.

A pot of soup still sat on the back burner, lid cracked slightly, steam long gone.

Biscuit scrambled toward the door — nails clicking against the wood floor, tail wagging in a blur — but stopped cold when she saw the faces. Her ears lowered. Head tilted.

Then, quietly, she padded past Tristan and Barbara… and made her way straight to Kanté.

She rested her head gently against his shin.

He didn’t say anything. Just sat down slowly on the entryway bench and ran a hand over her fur. Slow, like he was thinking about something else entirely. His shoulders dropped — barely — but it was the first time all night he looked like he could breathe.

Julia stepped into the kitchen, cardigan pulled tight, eyes scanning them all. “Let’s get some tea in us,” she said softly. “Just sit. I’ll take care of it.”

Tristan followed her in with Barbara close behind. Ling was already there, sleeves rolled, drying a second mug he hadn’t even used.

Julia pulled a small tin from the cupboard — the old one with the faded lettering. Chinese tea leaves, hand-packed. She didn’t even ask what kind they wanted.

“We’re going calm tonight,” she murmured. “No caffeine.”

Barbara leaned against the kitchen island, arms folded.

“He’s still shaking,” she said, nodding toward Kanté.

“I know,” Tristan whispered. “He hasn’t really said anything since we left the airport.”

Julia poured water over the leaves, then pressed down gently on the lid. “Drink,” she said, handing out the cups one by one. “It helps.”

They moved into the living room — low lights, no TV, just the distant patter of rain tapping the windows.

Barbara curled up on one end of the sofa, Tristan sat beside Kanté, and Julia lowered herself into the armchair.

Nobody filled the silence.

Tristan sipped once, then leaned forward. “You can stay here as long as you want. Seriously.”

Kanté nodded. “Merci. Just tonight… for now.” He said it in French, softly.

Tristan answered the same way: “Take your time.”

After a while, Julia and Ling excused themselves with a quiet “goodnight.” Biscuit followed them up the stairs, her tail wagging slow like she knew not to be loud.

Barbara stretched and stood. “I’m going to change. Don’t be long,” she murmured to Tristan before brushing her hand across his shoulder on her way upstairs.

Tristan stayed behind.

He glanced sideways at Kanté, who hadn’t moved much. Just sat with his tea in his lap, watching nothing in particular.

“I know it’s not the same,” Tristan said eventually. “But I’ve felt it. That thing. When people look at you and you know what they’re thinking before they say it.”

Kanté didn’t respond.

Then: “Not comparison,” he said, quiet. “It’s not about that.”

He paused. Let the silence sit.

“I’ve dealt with racism since I was a kid. Words. Looks. Sometimes worse. But tonight...” He shook his head slowly. “Tonight was something else. This… this was planned.”

Tristan swallowed. “I know.”

They didn’t speak for a bit. Just sat with it.

Eventually, Kanté stood, still holding his tea. “Which room?”

“Second door on the right. The one with the bookshelf,” Tristan said.

Kanté nodded and started up the stairs.

Tristan watched him go, then stood up and headed to his own room.

Barbara was already curled up in bed, the lamp still on, the duvet pulled up to her chest. Her air set loose. She looked at him as he walked in.

He slipped in beside her. She pulled him close without asking.

“You’re okay,” she whispered, arms wrapping around his chest.

He didn’t answer at first.

Then: “Thank you.”

Barbara kissed his shoulder, lips soft against the cotton of his shirt. “Of course.”

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, arms resting over hers.

“My dad took my mum’s last name,” he said. “Gave me an English name. I used to think it was just convenience. That it made things easier.”

Barbara listened, silent.

“But now… I get it. He knew. They both knew. That one day someone would try to remind me I’m not white enough. Or too white to belong anywhere else.”

He turned slightly, just enough to see her eyes in the dark.

“And the thing is… today it wasn’t even about me. I got the squinted-eye thing on the way in. That’s it. Mahrez had to walk through a gauntlet. Kanté… man, you saw him. Wes—Wes never says anything. Just leads. Just carries it.”

Barbara ran her hand up across his chest.

“He’s a good Captain,” she said softly. “There was nothing any of the players could have done to change or prevent what happened tonight.”

Tristan exhaled through his nose. “Yeah?” What she said helped ease his mind off a little from the fans getting attacked. He set up a visit with the players once all the fans were back home safe.

Barbara paused. Then kissed his shoulder again.

“I saw videos of the attackers getting arrested,” she said. “That’s a start.”

And for now, it was enough.

They held each other under the low hum of rain until sleep finally came — not easy, not light, but real enough to make the darkness feel a little smaller.

. 

3k word count 

I know it’s smaller than what I post like 6k chapters, lol, but I really liked that ending and how this chapter just felt overall. I didn’t want to ruin the mood of the chapter. 

Now for anyone that’s going to say I’m writing drama by having Lazio fans attack the Leicester fans are dead wrong, this is something they are quite literally known for and have done often. It would be more weird for me not to add that Ultras doing something stupid.

Anyway I hope you guys like this chapter, I was really uncomfortable writing it, ngl. Might be why I made this one so short. I do another chapter tomorrow in relation to the game just in general.