Chapter 170: Only You

August 2, 2015 – Porto, Portugal

São João Baptista Church, Foz District

..

The stained glass windows caught the late afternoon sun, scattering soft amber light across the high-arched ceilings. Flower petals lined the aisle in a quiet trail of cream and blush, and gentle violin music floated through the still air, weaving between marble columns and whispers of breath held.

Jorge Mendes stood at the altar in a sharp black tuxedo, eyes on Sandra Barbosa as she approached — elegant, glowing, her veil trailing behind like silk caught in a breeze. Cristiano Ronaldo, poised beside Mendes, watched with pride as he stood tall, best man and best friend.

Tristan sat a few rows back on the groom’s side, hands clasped loosely in his lap, dressed in a fitted navy suit with a dark tie. Barbara sat beside him, a soft floral dress hugging her figure, one leg crossed neatly over the other, her hand resting lightly on his thigh.

She kept looking at him.

Not constantly. Just these small, silent turns.Her gaze would drift from the altar, linger on Tristan’s profile for a few seconds longer than necessary, then flick away just as he noticed.

Another quiet look.

This time, she didn’t turn away.

Tristan gave her a small smile and slid his fingers between hers, palm warm against hers.

“One day,” he murmured under his breath, eyes never leaving the ceremony, “that’ll be us.”

Barbara’s breath caught. “Yeah, I can already see it.”

The priest’s voice continued at the front of the church, solemn and grounded in Portuguese as he spoke of commitment, of love and faith and the strength that binds lives together. 

Barbara leaned in a little, shoulder brushing his.

“I like weddings,” she whispered. “But I like you more.”

Tristan turned to her, lips brushing the edge of her temple,”I love you.” he said in hungarian,  just as Ronaldo stepped forward to hand over the rings.

They watched as Mendes slid the ring onto Sandra’s finger, the gold catching the sun just right — a flash of permanence.

..

The gardens outside the museum glowed gold in the evening light. Inside, chandeliers shimmered above polished marble, and glasses clinked softly against a backdrop of laughter and music. Waiters moved like shadows through the crowd, silver trays balancing canapés and champagne flutes. Every detail — from the monogrammed menus to the cascading floral centerpieces — was just pure taste and wealth.

Tristan stepped through the arched doorway beside Barbara, his arm resting lightly around her waist. She wore a new dress now — emerald green silk, fitted at the waist with a low back — and she looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine spread.She leaned in close, nudging her cheek into his shoulder with a quiet, amused hum as they walked.

“Did you see the cake?” she whispered. “It’s taller than me.”

Tristan grinned. “I was hoping they’d bring in Ronaldo to cut it with a free kick.”

They passed a few familiar faces — agents, managers, players, wives — all dressed to the nines. Mendes’ wedding had become the unofficial football summit of the summer.

Then a voice behind them called out.

“Tristan!”

They turned.

Jorge Mendes, drink in hand, his jacket unbuttoned now, stood beside Sandra near the base of the grand staircase. His eyes crinkled with warmth.

“You made it,” he said, stepping forward and pulling Tristan into a firm hug.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Tristan replied. “Congratulations.”

Sandra leaned in to kiss both Tristan and Barbara on the cheek. “You both look wonderful,” she said, her voice soft, her makeup barely touched after a full day of ceremony.

“And you look radiant,” Barbara replied sincerely. “Really — you were stunning walking down the aisle.”

Sandra smiled with a hand to her chest. “Thank you. And thank you for coming all this way.”

Mendes turned to Tristan. “You behaving yourself in England?”

“As much as they let me,” Tristan replied, smiling.

Before they could say more, another guest leaned in for a quick word with Mendes and Sandra. The couple gave parting kisses again, and Sandra squeezed Barbara’s arm as they moved away. “We’ll catch up later, okay?”

Barbara nodded. “Of course”

Just then, someone else cut through the crowd. Hair perfectly styled. Suit immaculate. A familiar smile.

“Thought I saw you sneaking around,” Cristiano Ronaldo said, hand outstretched.

Tristan shook it with a nod. “Congrats on the best man duties.”

Cristiano glanced toward Mendes. “He nearly cried. Not from the vows — from having to leave his phone alone for thirty minutes. But it’s good to see you again.”

Barbara laughed.

Just then, another voice joined them — deeper, smoother, unmistakably Spanish.

“Cristiano.”

Florentino Pérez.

The Real Madrid president walked up with his usual calm poise, wearing a tailored navy suit.

“Señor Tristan,” he said, turning toward Tristan. “You were very impressive last season.”

Tristan straightened slightly. “Thank you, Mr. President.” Now this man you had to show respect to no matter who you were.

Florentino tilted his head just a fraction. “Do you mind if we can have a private talk?”

“Of course”. Tristan replied back immediately in Spanish as he grabbed Barbara’s right hand and started walking towards a more secluded area.

All while Ronaldo watched the entire interaction with an intense look on his face.

They stepped past a row of stone pillars and onto the garden terrace, away from the hum of champagne flutes and whispered football gossip. A breeze rolled in from the Atlantic, soft and salt-tinged. The music indoors dulled to a murmur behind them.

Barbara gave the two space as she walked behind them.

Florentino Pérez adjusted the cuff of his suit and turned, his gaze sharp but calm.

[A/N: Just think all of this is in Spanish.]

“You rejected us after the World Cup,” he said without ceremony in. 

Tristan didn’t respond. He let the words hang.

Florentino continued, voice even. “Normally, Real Madrid doesn’t ask twice. If a player says no once, we move on. It’s the club’s way. Bigger than any one name.”

A pause.

“But,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly, “there are exceptions. Talent like yours… doesn’t come around twice. Seventy-five goal contributions. Nineteen years old. Breaking records in England like you were born for it.”

He let the silence stretch, then added, “So I’m asking again. Come to Real Madrid.”

Tristan’s hands slid into his pockets. He didn’t look away.

“Mendes told me,” Pérez said, “that this season is your farewell. That after it’s done, you’re ready for the next step. And what step is bigger than Madrid?”

Tristan nodded slowly. “Of course it’s a dream. For every player. Real Madrid is…” He glanced at the skyline for a beat. “It’s Real Madrid.”

Florentino waited.

“But I’m not here to be the prince behind Cristiano,” Tristan said evenly. “And I’m not Neymar, coming in to shadow someone else. I want to build my own legacy. Not walk in someone else’s.”

Florentino’s expression didn’t change, but there was something behind his eyes now. Respect, maybe. Or intrigue.

“I haven’t set anything in stone,” Tristan continued. “That’s still the plan — one more season. But plans change. I’ll decide when the time’s right.”

Florentino gave a slow nod, then offered a faint smile.

“Just remember,” he said, “we won’t wait forever. But if this is the season… then make it impossible for us not to come back.”

He turned to leave, pausing just once.

“And Tristan… the throne doesn’t stay empty long. If you want it, don’t hesitate.”

Then he disappeared into the reception, swallowed by chandeliers and laughter.

Tristan stepped back through the stone archway, the soft pulse of music rising again. The golden lights inside made everything look slightly unreal — polished, glowing, weightless.

Barbara stood near the edge of the reception floor, a flute of champagne in one hand, watching the garden entrance like she’d been waiting the entire time.

She raised an eyebrow as he approached.

“Well?” she asked softly. “Do I get to know what that was about?”

Tristan slipped his hand into hers, lacing their fingers together as he gently pulled her aside, away from the main crowd. His voice stayed low.

“He asked again.”

Barbara blinked. “Madrid?”

Tristan nodded once.

“What’d you say?”

He exhaled, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I told him what I told Mendes. That nothing’s set in stone. This season’s the plan… but if things change, I’ll decide when and how.”

Barbara studied his face. “And… do you want it?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Tristan said, a faint tilt of his mouth. “It’s Madrid. “But I’m not walking in anyone’s shadow.”

Barbara didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she set her champagne glass down on the nearest table, stepped in close, and reached up — one hand behind his neck, the other against his chest.

“I know,” she whispered.

Then she kissed him.

“I don’t care if you end up in Madrid, Paris, or Mars,” she said softly. “As long as you’re still mine.”

A beat passed.

Tristan’s voice was quiet. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Barbara smiled, her thumb brushing his collarbone. “Good.”

Then, as if the air between them had shifted, she took his hand and tugged it gently.

“Come on,” she said. “They’re starting the dancing. And I want to show off.”

With a playful bow, Tristan extended his hand toward her, voice low and warm.

“May I have the honor of this dance, beautiful lady?”

Barbara raised an eyebrow, but her smile gave her away. “You’ve been rehearsing that line, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, grinning. “But only because I really want to impress you.”

Her fingers slid into his with easy grace. “Good. Because I plan to show you off.”

They stepped onto the dance floor, slipping between couples as the quartet shifted into a slow, romantic waltz. The candlelight danced across the polished marble, and the chandeliers overhead glowed like stars caught in crystal.

Barbara turned to face him, sliding his hand to her waist and lifting her chin just slightly.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Just like we practiced.”

Tristan gave a mock-serious nod. “Right. Try not to step on the goddess in heels. Got it.”

She laughed, light and genuine, and began to lead him gently into the first few steps. Her movements were fluid, natural — years of ballet and stage presence wrapped in one elegant frame. Tristan followed, clumsy for a beat, but catching on quickly under her guidance.

He found her rhythm.

Her breath.

Her smile.

“You’re doing better than expected,” Barbara said, teasing as she turned beneath his arm and came back to him, chest to chest.

“I have an excellent coach,” he replied. “Strict, terrifying… beautiful.”

“Flattery,” she said, “will keep you from getting your toes crushed.”

They continued dancing, their bodies moving as one — not perfect, not polished, but full of something better: chemistry.

Every step drew them closer. Every laugh softened the space between.

Around them, the party shimmered with movement and music, but inside their little bubble, there was only this — the feel of her fingers in his, the brush of her dress, the steady rhythm of hearts syncing beat by beat.

After a few more turns, Tristan leaned in, voice brushing her ear.

“Still glad you came with me?”

Barbara looked up at him, eyes soft. “Are you kidding? You brought me to Portugal, fed me cake, and danced without stepping on me. You’re doing amazing.”

He laughed, low and quiet. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

She didn’t answer with words. Just a hand rising to his jaw, a kiss pressed to his cheek, and a smile so full it made the chandelier light feel dim.

As the hours passed and the party began to wind down, Tristan and Barbara said goodbye to Mendes and Sandra before heading back to their hotel.

..

The next morning, the hum of the private jet was steady, almost soothing — a low, constant presence beneath the silence that hung between them. The view from the cabin window stretched endlessly: clouds rolling like waves, the sky pale and open.

Barbara sat curled in her seat, legs tucked beneath her, a light sweater draped over her shoulders. She glanced sideways at Tristan.

He’d barely looked up from his phone since takeoff.

His thumb moved slowly, scrolling through something. Not typing. Not smiling. Just reading. Focused.

Barbara tilted her head slightly.

He wasn’t texting anyone. She knew that.

The odds of Tristan cheating on her? Honestly, laughable. He wasn’t that guy. But still — it was fun to poke the bear.

She let the silence hang a little longer, then leaned toward him with a quiet breath, her voice teasing.

“Is there some special girl keeping you company on that phone of yours?”

Tristan blinked, looking up from the screen like he'd just been pulled out of a dream. His eyes searched hers, confused for half a second — until he caught the curve at the corner of her mouth.

“Wait… what?” he said, eyebrows lifting. “Are you being serious right now?”

Barbara shrugged, all innocence, though her eyes were anything but. “I don’t know. You’ve been awfully quiet this morning. Kinda glued to that thing.”

He exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile twitching at his mouth. He set the phone down slowly beside him.

“I’m not texting anyone,” he said, voice calm. “You’d know if I was.”

Barbara leaned back a little, crossing her arms loosely over her stomach. “Mm-hmm. Football excuses again?”

Tristan reached out, brushing her wrist with his fingers — a small touch, slow and deliberate.

“If I was looking at someone,” he said, eyes never leaving hers, “it’d be you.”

Her expression softened, just barely. The joke was still hanging in the air, but now her voice lowered, less playful. “Well. Good answer.”

He leaned forward and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering there for a second.

Barbara rolled her eyes — not annoyed, just amused. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Tristan smiled faintly, then leaned back in his seat. “I’m waiting for something.”

She raised an eyebrow, curious again. “Someone or something?”

He hesitated for just a moment. Then slid the phone across the seat toward her.

Barbara took it, glancing down.

The screen showed a photo of a footballer. Short. Intense look in his eyes. A bit baby-faced.

“N’Golo… Kanté?” she read the name softly. “Okay… he looks nice? But kind of—tiny?”

Tristan nodded once, the seriousness returning to his voice. “He’s the one. If we sign him, we win the title.”

Barbara blinked, looking at the photo again. She didn’t doubt Tristan’s instinct — he’d predicted everything else right so far — but the guy looked like he belonged in a youth academy.

“He looks like he gets carded at R-rated movies,” she said under her breath.

Tristan chuckled quietly, not denying it.

“But you believe in him,” she added.

He turned to her, his face open, voice quiet. “I believe he’ll change everything.”

Barbara studied him for a moment, her hand reaching out to rest on his arm.

“I believe in you,” she said. “Even if this guy turns out to be five-foot-nothing.”

He let out a soft breath, like something in him had unclenched.

“I’ll show you,” Tristan said, leaning his head back against the seat. “This year’s going to be different.”

Barbara smiled gently, eyes on him, thumb tracing slow circles on his arm.

“I know.”

..

One more chapter until the league starts; probably going to make the chapter 15 to 20k just to get it over with. I know everyone is waiting for the league to start, but I want to make the start of it like perfect. To me this arc or season either breaks or makes my story great, so everything for me has to fit my vision.