Chapter 165: Cleaning House

June 16, 2015

..

The scent of fresh tea and scrambled eggs drifted through the open kitchen as Felix plated the last of breakfast. Barbara sat at the table in one of Tristan’s black Nike shirts and white sweatpants, scrolling through article after article, each one louder and uglier than the last.

Thailand was outraged. The owner — who was Thai himself — was reportedly furious. Every outlet had something to say about the video showing three Leicester players caught in one of the most disgusting scandals she’d ever seen.

She’d thought about watching the clip, but Tristan warned her not to. “Just three racists doing something unforgivable to girls who didn’t deserve it,” he’d told her flatly.

That was enough. It wasn’t just vile. It was devastating. Especially to someone like Tristan, who’d fought so hard to build something good. To build something clean.

Barbara had seen her share of darkness — the modeling world wasn’t exactly clean. She still remembered that night in Cannes when a world-famous model tried to recruit her into the yacht girl circuit. She’d said no. Thank God. She had enough on her plate, and honestly? Tristan would never have dated her if she had gone down that road. He could be ridiculously possessive at times — which she secretly loved.

 He hadn’t said much since last night. He barely slept. She’d heard him get up twice in the middle of the night, pacing the living room barefoot, phone in hand, eyes red with thought.

She’d canceled her trip to the US for a sponsor before he even asked. No way was she leaving him to deal with this alone.

She looked over at him now. He stood at the counter, tall and still, staring at his phone like it might crack under the weight of what he was reading.

 Tristan leaned against the counter, eyes locked on his phone.

The scandal had exploded way bigger than it ever did in his first life. There were a few reasons for that — one being him. The attention he brought to the club made every headline burn brighter. Leicester weren’t just a surprise anymore. They were his club. And everything they did — good or bad — had his name all over it now.

God. How had he forgotten about this?

If he’d remembered, he would’ve gone on the trip — kept an eye on James Pearson, tried to control the damage before it started. But what could he have even done?

Tried to tell the coache’s son what to do?

He didn’t know what to think about Pearson now. The man had given him his shot in this second life. Believed in him. Protected him. Gave him a platform no one else would.

And now?

Tristan clenched his phone tighter.

He wasn’t sure if Nigel was still going to be his coach by the end of the week. In his first life, Leicester was 14th in the league and had multiple reasons to fire Pearson, but here they had no excuse until this bullshit. He wasn't even sure if the club fired Pearson, it would be Ranieri replacing Pearson. It could be somebody else for all he knows.

“Eat something,” Barbara said softly, her voice low but steady.

Barbara stood, walked over to him, and pressed the toast into his hand. “Please.”

Tristan blinked, then looked down at the toast like he didn’t remember what food was. But he took a bite. Mechanical. Chewed. Swallowed.

Good. That was something.

She took his hand and led him back to the table. Sat him down. Took a fork, scooped up some eggs, and offered it to him again.

He hesitated.

“Don’t make me do the airplane thing,” she murmured.

His lips twitched — barely. But it was enough.

He let her feed him a few bites in silence. She wasn’t trying to mother him. Tristan was too mature for that. She just didn’t want him to fall apart. 

Tristan set the fork down after a few bites. His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then pressed the screen off without looking.

Barbara watched him closely. He looked like he was carrying the weight of three clubs, not one. She wished she could take some of it off his shoulders. Even a little. But all she could do was stay — and keep him from drowning in it.

“You’re doing everything you can,” she said softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “And it’s not your fault.”

Tristan didn’t answer. He just stared down at the table like it was about to shatter.

She didn’t push him. Just kept her hand on his cheek. Stayed still. Let him breathe.

Felix placed the last plates down with a quiet clink. “Bon appétit,” he said gently, wiping his hands on a towel. His eyes lingered on Tristan for a moment.

“I’ll head out for now,” Felix added, offering Barbara a small nod and Tristan a knowing glance. “You’ve got more important things to sort than eggs and toast. Call me if you need anything.”

Tristan finally looked up. His eyes were a little red around the edges.

“Thanks, Felix,” he murmured.

As the front door clicked shut behind the chef, a thick silence took its place.

Barbara took a slow sip of her coffee, the cup warm between her fingers. “Sofia said she’ll be here soon, right?”

Tristan gave a faint nod, eyes distant. “She messaged. Ten minutes.”

Barbara glanced up at him, catching the slight twitch in his temple as he rubbed his thumb along the edge of his phone. “Did you talk to Mendes?”

“I texted,” he said, his voice low. “He wants to go over statements. Said he’s already speaking to the club’s higher ups… and the owner. There are some important things we need to address.”

She nodded slowly, chewing the inside of her cheek before asking, “And the team group chat?”

Tristan exhaled through his nose, setting his phone down on the table, his fingers lingering over the screen.

“Everyone’s confused,” he said. “No one knows what’s going on. No one was close to the reserves… especially not James Pearson. No one ever likes a coach’s son on the team.”

Barbara raised a brow, her gaze narrowing slightly. “Anything new on him? Any response?”

“Radio silence,” Tristan muttered, getting up. She felt him before she saw him, and then his arms came around her from behind. He bent down slightly, resting his chin gently on the crown of her head. The weight of his body pressed lightly into her back.

She stilled.

“He invited us to his home,” Tristan murmured, voice thick. “That owner brought the whole club to his country — special treatments, brought out all the tricks for the players. And we… embarrassed him. On a global stage. In his own backyard.”

Barbara set her coffee down, her fingers threading through his where they rested on her collarbone.

“You’ll be fine,” she whispered, turning her face just enough for their cheeks to brush. “But more importantly… you’ll make sure they’re fine.”

He closed his eyes for a beat. Just breathed her in. That scent — citrusy and his home.

Then the intercom buzzed from the hallway.

Barbara rose without breaking eye contact. “That’ll be Sofia,” she said, brushing her knuckles against his chest. “I’ll get the door.”

..

The front door clicked open.

Sofia stepped in, dressed in a blazer over a cropped beige top and jeans, her heels quiet against the hardwood floor. Her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, lips pressed in a neutral line — professional, but softer than usual.

“Good morning,” she said, tone clipped but not cold.

Tristan looked up. “Hey.”

Barbara nodded from her seat. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Sofia replied, setting her leather tote down. “I came straight from the office.”

Barbara stood, heading toward the kitchen, while Sofia walked over to Tristan as she called Mendes on FaceTime.

“Tristan,” Mendes greeted, his tone firm. “Man, there’s a lot to go over. When I woke up, I certainly wasn’t expecting to deal with this. I’m going to England as soon as I can to meet with the club. But life happens, so we have to deal with it. The media firestorm is growing — international outlets have picked it up. Thailand’s public response has been unforgiving. It’s gone from scandal to diplomatic embarrassment.”

Tristan nodded as Barbara sat down next to with a cup of tea.

“The good news,” Mendes added, “is you’re clean. All the main Leicester players are. You weren’t there. You’re untouchable right now — but that also means you’re the face they’ll turn to for leadership. The fans, the club, the sponsors, even the FA.”

“So I say something, I have to say now not after what I said last game” Tristan said, low.

“You say something,” Mendes confirmed. “But carefully. Not yet. Wait for the board to act. Pearson’s position is fragile. If they let him go, we pivot. If they don’t…” he paused, “we adjust.”

“And the players?” Sofia asked.

“They’re done,” Mendes said flatly. “Terminations pending legal review. That tape didn’t just sink them — it scorched the club’s image. The chairman’s office is livid. Silent, but furious.”

Tristan rubbed his forehead, nodding slowly. “Is there any way I can use my influence to save Pearson?” He really wanted to save Pearson, honestly he did. But he also didn’t want to influence that club too much as he was going to leave soon.

“Tristan,” Mendes continued, voice gentler now. “That is a bad idea. Focus on football, if things go that way they are right now and you try to interfere, it’s gonna turn into a bigger storm. So just continue what you are doing, talk to the team.

Tristan glanced down at Barbara’s hand still wrapped around his. Her thumb brushed the back of his knuckle — subtle, steady.

“Okay, I'll tweet out something,” he said quietly. “Just in case.”

“I’ll review it,” Sofia said. “We’ll release nothing without filtering it through legal and PR.”

“Good,” Mendes replied. “Now there’s another thing I wanted you to talk about. I know you wanted me not to talk to other clubs until the end of the season. But I got all of Europe calling me that moment that they got hints Pearson was gonna be fired. I haven’t initiated anything that you're still loyal. But there’s a club that reached out to me, a big club, one of the biggest in the world United, I know you hate the club but hear me out.

Before he could even continue, Tristan cut him off: “No, I have no interest in United no matter what they offer, forget about it Mendes. Jesus could come and run the club, and I still wouldn’t want to go. But if it's a club like Liverpool, Real Madrid, or City, hear them out, but remember what I want.” 

What he wanted was to be the top star which Barca couldn’t provide. As Real Madrid that was 50/50 leaving only Liverpool and City which would rise soon.

No way in hell was he going to United. He was literally from the future and seen it crumble. Not even a player from the future and with a system go save the club. Not to mention all the bullshit he has to deal with in the media, fuck no. And he already made an enemy of the club.

Mendes paused, his lips twitching as if debating whether to push further.

“Okay,” he said finally, “but just so you know… United’s interest is real. Very real. More real than any other club, more than even Arsenal.”

Tristan didn’t flinch.

Mendes continued, “They’re planning ahead. Word is, they want Mourinho next season. They haven’t contacted me yet but that signs are there; Van Gaal doesn’t have much control of the locker room. If there are no improvements, he’s out. If Jose joins, he would push for a rebuild. Wants world-class, young, players with bite and edge. He mentioned you specifically multiple times to me. You know I wanna see my top talents playing together.”  He was even thinking of getting Ronaldo back to United once he was done with Real Madrid.

Tristan scoffed — sharp and immediate. “Seriously?”

Mendes blinked.

Tristan leaned forward slightly, voice dry. “You’re telling me an offensive player — the most dangerous attacking player in the country — should go play under José Mourinho?”

Sofia looked up briefly from her phone. Even Barbara glanced over from her tea. She was surprised at Tristan getting mad at Mendes; they got along fine.

“I’m not some inverted full-back or a box-to-box runner,” Tristan said flatly. “I create. I run games. I attack. You want me to park the bus and hope I get one counterattack in a game?”

Mendes raised a brow. “He’s promised full freedom.”

“Yeah, full freedom.” Tristan snapped. “Look how that ended for others..”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes cold now. “Let’s get something straight, Mendes. You don’t decide where I go. You’re not building your little super-team with other players while I rot on the wing tracking back for ninety minutes.”

This was something Mendes did, having all his clients play on the same team. And he didn’t want to be part of that; he wasn’t going to let anyone control his life.

There was a pause. Mendes didn’t argue.

Barbara gently squeezed his hand under the table.

“You work for me,” Tristan said calmly. “Not the other way around.”

“Of course,” Mendes said, nodding slowly. “Message received.”

“Good,” Tristan muttered, settling back into his seat. “Now let’s focus on the clubs that actually make sense.”

..

The call ended with a soft chime. Mendes’ face disappeared from the screen, replaced by the muted gray of the lock screen.

Tristan set the phone down on the table. For a second, no one said anything.

Barbara watched him — his shoulders still stiff. Sofia broke the silence.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you snap at Mendes,” she said, carefully.

Tristan didn’t look at her.

Instead, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table, fingers laced loosely. His eyes stared ahead, unfocused, somewhere in the middle distance.

Barbara placed her hand gently on his back — not rubbing, not pushing — just there.

“He needed to hear it,” Tristan said, his voice low but steady. “He’s used to calling the shots with other players. I needed to remind him whose life this is.”

Sofia nodded slowly,  “He got the message. Loud and clear.”

Tristan exhaled, finally blinking like he’d come back to the room. He turned to Barbara,“I hate this,” he murmured. “All of it. The press, the silence from the club, the guessing game. We’re meant to be getting ready for a miracle season and instead... we’re walking through landmines.”

Barbara reached for his hand. “Then stop waiting. Do something.”

Tristan met her eyes for a beat longer than usual. 

He nodded once, grabbed his phone again, and opened the team group chat. His thumbs moved quickly.

Tristan Hale: I know everyone's confused right now. No one’s got answers, and the silence isn’t helping. Those who can, come over. My place. 3PM. We’ll talk. Clear the air.

..

The clock had just passed three when the doorbell rang again.

Tristan stood from the couch and headed to the front hallway, opening the door to a flood of familiar voices.

“Smells like someone’s living good,” Vardy grinned, stepping in with a paper bag under one arm. “That Felix magic still in the kitchen?”

“Bit of leftovers,” Tristan said, offering a quick half-smile. “And Barbara cooked a few things too.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Mahrez added, slipping off his sneakers behind him. “She’s the real MVP. That pasta she made last time? I still think about it.” Tristan invited a few of his close friends over during the season for dinner and hangouts so this was nothing new.

“Oi, wipe your feet,” came Danny, nudging Mahrez with his elbow. “This ain’t the training ground.”

One by one, the players trickled in — Cambiasso, Andy King, Matty James, and a couple others from the first team who were back in Leicester early. Not everyone could make it. But the ones who did… they mattered.

Barbara was already in the open kitchen, sliding a tray of roasted potatoes into the oven. Sofia, now barefoot and hair loosened, poured fresh lemonade into glass tumblers.

Tristan moved past the gathering noise to join them.

It was casual. Familiar. And for a moment, it almost felt like things were normal again.

“Alright, food’s ready!” Barbara called out as the last dish hit the table.

“Finally,” Vardy groaned, dropping into a chair. “I’m starving.”

“Since when aren’t you?” Tristan muttered, taking his seat near the head of the table.

“Since your girl made me wait,” Jamie quipped back.

Laughter spread through the room. For the first time all day, the air didn’t feel so heavy.

..

For a while, no one talked about football — just stories from their time off, who got the worst tan, who got caught in airport drama, and who brought what back for pre-season.

But eventually, the question came.

It was Drinkwater who asked — not blunt, just curious.

“So,” he said, eyes flicking across the table to Tristan. “Are you leaving?”

The chatter paused.

Tristan looked up calmly. “No.”

“Good,” Vardy said, exhaling like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. “Would’ve thrown my plate if you said otherwise, especially after what you said in the last game.”

A few heads nodded. Cambiasso, quiet until now, gave a slight smile.

But then Cambiasso set down his fork, wiped his hands, and leaned back.

“I am, though.”

The room quieted again.

Tristan studied him. “You sure?”

Cambiasso nodded. “I came here to help… and I did what I could. One last good season. Now it’s time for something slower. Time with family now that I’m 35 years old.” His voice held no regret. Only peace.

Tristan gave a respectful nod. “You’ve earned it.”

“Appreciate that,” Cambiasso said, lifting his glass.

Konaté cleared his throat next. “Same. Not sure where yet — but I think I need a new challenge. And this summer might be the cleanest exit.”

Then Upson chimed in, quietly: “Same here. I love everyone here, but I need playing time so I’m out as well...”

Tristan looked at each of them. “It’s your call,” he said. “You’ve all earned the right to make that decision.”

No one argued.

And then Vardy broke it.

“Okay, so we’re all jumping ship except for Tristan,” he said with mock outrage. “You lot are going to leave him with all the running and the press duties?”

Laughter rolled around the table again.

..

June 20, 2015 — Belvoir Drive, Executive Meeting Room

The room was quiet — the blinds drawn, the air stiff with the kind of tension that came before decisive change.

Jorge Mendes sat at the end of the polished oak table, his cuffs immaculate, his expression unreadable. Beside him, his phone rested face down, untouched since he'd entered.

Across the table sat Leicester’s key figures — owner Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha, his son Top, CEO Susan Whelan, and director of football Jon Rudkin. No one looked casual. Not today.

Whelan spoke first, her voice clipped but composed. “Public support for Nigel is eroding fast. The media made him the face of this scandal, fair or not. We need direction — urgently.”

“We’ve already begun talks with Ranieri,” Jon Rudkin added. “If we part ways with Nigel, we’ll do it quietly. Respectfully. But before that, we wanted to speak with you.”

Mendes nodded slightly, waiting. Oh thank god they were going for Ranieri; for some reason Tristan wanted him to manage the team and was just told by Tristan to make sure at least the team gets him.

Vichai leaned forward. “We want to offer Tristan a contract extension.”

That got Mendes’ attention.

“He’s under contract until the summer of 2017,” Top clarified, folding his arms. “But we don’t want to wait. We want him here for life. Make him the face of the club. The pillar we build around. We’re prepared to offer him a long-term deal — eight, ten years if that’s what it takes. Let him retire here.”

Silence settled for a beat too long.

Then Mendes exhaled softly — not a sigh, more like a release of restraint.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” he said. “Tristan will too. But we’re not interested in a lifetime contract.”

Top’s jaw tensed. “Why not?”

“Because he’s 20,” Mendes replied. “And the world is watching him. Let’s not pretend otherwise. He loves it here — right now. He’s loyal. But you don’t promise a young man the world by locking him into a gilded cage, no matter how polished the bars are.”

Whelan tilted her head slightly. “You want Tristan to leave the club.”

“I think,” Mendes said calmly, “he wants to win. At the highest level. If Leicester grows with him — truly grows — then maybe this is where he stays. But you don’t make a player like Tristan Hale commit to a lifetime unless you’re ready to match his ambition. Every year. Every trophy. Every target.”

Vichai nodded slowly, the weight of the words settling.

“We still want him to know how much he means to us,” Whelan added. “That he’s more than just a marketing icon or a miracle story.”

“Then give him influence,” Mendes said. “Let him feel heard. Support the players he believes in. Bring in who he sees as difference-makers. You don’t need to lock him down. Just walk with him.”

A pause.

Then Vichai glanced at Top, then at Rudkin. “We’ll part with Pearson on Monday. Quietly. Ranieri begins in July. And Tristan… we’ll give him everything he needs. As long as he gives us everything he has. We will sign Kante as well, I know Tristan wanted him on the team.”

Mendes stood up, “I’ll tell him,” he said with a faint smile. “And he’ll deliver.”

..

Tristan had just finished a workout in the basement gym when his phone buzzed. He wiped the sweat from his brow, checked the screen, and answered instantly.

“Tristan,” Mendes greeted, his voice smooth but with a slight lift — something lighter than usual.

“Jorge,” Tristan said, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. “How’d it go?”

A pause. Then Mendes replied with something Tristan expected but also didn’t want to hear at the same time.

“They’re letting Pearson go quietly,” he said. “Ranieri will take over in July. You got your wish.”

Tristan froze mid-sip, then let out a breath of relief. So history still was the same “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He smiled. “Thank fuck.”

Mendes chuckled softly. “And that’s not all.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow and leaned back against the counter. “What else?”

“They’re signing Kanté,” Mendes said. “You mentioned him before. So that club is doing everything they can to make you happy, and I think he was on their radar as well. Deal’s nearly done. He’ll be with you before pre-season ends.”

Tristan’s mouth dropped open slightly, then broke into a wide grin. “You’re kidding.”

“No. I told them what you wanted — what you needed. They listened.”

“Holy shit,” Tristan muttered, practically pacing now, adrenaline surging. “Jorge, that’s...  You’ve just made my month.”

On the other end, Mendes let out a low breath, the tension visibly gone even through the speaker.

“Good,” he said. “Because after that United conversation, I wasn’t sure if you were two seconds from firing me.”

Tristan laughed, still grinning. “You were two seconds from getting blocked, yeah.”

Mendes snorted. “I’d believe it.”

Then Mendes cleared his throat. “By the way… something personal. I’m getting married to Sandra. August 2nd, in Portugal. It’s a small ceremony. Family and close friends only.” A beat. “You’re invited.”

Tristan blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yes,” Mendes said. “Sandra insisted. She said anyone who nearly gave me a heart attack over United deserves a front-row seat.”

Tristan laughed again — softer this time. “I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Mendes said, voice warm now. “We’ll talk about the details soon. For now, just rest.”

As the call ended, Tristan leaned back, still holding the phone, a slow smile tugging at his lips. Kanté was coming. Ranieri was on the way. Everything was going well.

Everything that was needed for a miracle.

..

4040 word count 

We are back, baby. 

Hope you guys like this chapter 

Everything in this chapter is true with the scandal