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Chapter 291: Lazio 2.0 Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-11-05 07:07:52 +0000 UTCStade Vélodrome Mixed Zone
The cameras rolled. The lights flared again. Sweat clung to Vasili Berezutski’s skin, catching the glare like glass.
He stood before the Russian crest, jersey damp and clinging to his chest, shorts sagging halfway down his thighs, a towel draped over his shoulders like a flag of surrender. His calves hurt. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look sad.
Just spent, drained in body and in mind.
The lights were hot.
The camera red-light blinked. Microphones hovered like flies. Sweat beaded down Vasili Berezutski’s temple, trailing off his cheekbone and soaking into the collar of his jersey.
A reporter stepped forward. English accent. Calm, professional, but he couldn't hide the awe in his voice.
“We’re here with Russian captain Vasili Berezutski following their 3–1 loss to England. Vasili… a tough night. Your thoughts?”
Vasili didn’t answer immediately.
His jaw tensed. One breath. Then another. You could see the rage in his throat — swallowed whole.
Then, he spoke — voice cracked, hoarse, broken gravel.
“…We tried to survive.”
The translator echoed it beside him in English.
“We had a plan. A good one. We studied them. All of them. For two weeks. We knew England would press. We knew they’d run. We knew Tristan Hale would… do what Tristan Hale does.”
He laughed. Briefly. Bitterly.
“And still…” His hand clenched at nothing, as if grabbing the moment by the throat.
“…we fouled him. Twenty-two yards out.”
The translator kept up.
“Maybe it was nerves. Maybe fear. Maybe some idiot forgot the plan. But it gave him what he wanted.”
“And you don’t give him that.”
“Tristan of course, named UEFA Man of the Match with two goals, a rating of 9.3 from WhoScored. Vasili… what’s it like facing a player like that?”
Vasili looked straight into the lens.
“He’s a psychopath.”
The reporter blinked. The translator hesitated then repeated the words.
“There’s no other way to put it.”
He shifted, adjusting the towel on his neck like it had become a noose.
“Off the pitch? He’s polite. Calm. We spoke before the match. Asked if this was my last tournament. Said I’d had a great career.”
He chuckled again, but it turned into a half-scoff.
“I thought, ‘Good kid. Raised right.’ Then the whistle blows…”
He dropped his voice again.
“…and he turns into a snake. Calm. Unblinking. Always watching. Waiting. Never shouting. Never flailing. Just… there.”
He exhaled sharply, wiped his face with both hands, then stared down at his boots.
“After we equalised, I thought maybe. Just maybe. We could hold on. Park the bus. Kick and bite and scream for a draw. That was the dream. That was the plan.”
He looked up again. “But he didn’t panic.Didn’t show any kind of emotion. It’s annoying, you know? Like we did all the work for nothing.”
“And then Kane scores.”
A slow nod.
“Because of him.”
“And the last goal?”
For the first time, Vasili hesitated.
His mouth opened — then closed. His brow twitched like he didn’t want to remember it.
Then he nodded, softly.
“…You can’t even be angry.”
“You just watch it. Like a man watches lightning from a distance. You don’t feel fear. You feel small.”
He looked toward the far end of the stadium, where the English fans were still singing.
“He struck it from thirty yards. Like he’d done it a hundred times already. And then…”
Vasili pressed both hands together. Head tilted sideways. Closed his eyes briefly.
“He did that celebration. The sleep one. As if to say, ‘Goodnight.’”
He opened his eyes. Still red. Still tired.
“Goodnight to us. Goodnight to the match. Goodnight to the game.”
The reporter didn’t speak.
Vasili shook his head.
“He’s not normal.”
Then, just before stepping away, one last line — quieter, spoken half to himself, barely picked up by the mic:
“I don’t know if that kid was born for football… or if football was made for him.”
.
England Locker Room
The roar from the tunnel hadn’t even faded when the doors burst open.
Boots hit tile like thunder. Towels flew. Sweat-soaked shirts slapped against the floor. Laughter, shouts, bodies pouring into the dressing room as if the match hadn’t ended but spilled straight into celebration.
Someone shouted, “RUN IT BACK!” — and a second later, the speaker in the corner sparked to life.
🎵 “FREED FROM DESIRE — MY LOVE HAS GOT NO MONEY, HE’S GOT HIS STRONG BELIEFS!” 🎵
The room erupted.
Henderson pounded the locker with both fists like a drum. Walker climbed onto the bench, shirtless and screaming the lyrics off-key. Vardy twirled his jersey above his head like a helicopter, spinning in circles, his voice already cracking.
Rashford had his phone out, filming everything, turning in slow motion to capture the chaos. “This is fuckining history!” he shouted.
Kane leaned back on the bench, head tilted, eyes closed for just a second — drained, smiling. His socks were half off, boots still on, too tired to move but too happy to care. Dele sat beside him, mouth open in disbelief, towel over his head like a hood.
“Tell me that just happened, bro,” Dele said, nudging him.
Kane blinked, then laughed. “It happened.”
Near the far wall, a hand popped open the door quietly.
Tristan stepped into the locker room, already out of his kit, a white England tee clinging to his back, towel draped over his shoulders. His curls were still damp, sweat drying under the harsh lights.
Rooney was sitting off to the side, boots half-laced, arms resting on his knees. He looked up as Tristan passed.
“Good job out there,” Rooney said, voice low but clear. “That was proper.”
Tristan gave a small nod. “Appreciate it.”
Rooney exhaled through his nose, then glanced across the room at the others still celebrating. “Not gonna lie… after they equalised, I thought Roy was gonna make changes. I probably would’ve.”
He looked back at Tristan.
“But you didn’t panic. You kept it steady. Kept the starters on. Good choice with the decision.”
Tristan let the words sit for a second, then offered a quiet reply.
“They earned it. All of them. First game they needed the minutes. And they delivered.”
Rooney gave a slight nod, his tone turning more thoughtful.
“Yeah.They’ll run through walls for you now.”
Tristan gave a faint shrug, then cracked a smile as Vardy ran full-speed across the room and slid on his knees across the floor, crashing into the bench.
“We’re bringin’ it home, lads! We’re bringin’ it bloody home!”
Ben Chilwell dumped a water bottle over Kane’s head. “Top bins, bro!” he laughed.
“What? I didn’t even score that one!”
Chilwell grinned. “Still counts!”
Walker jumped off the bench, ran over, and pulled Tristan into a quick, tight hug, half headlock.
“Man of the Match himself!” he shouted.
Tristan pushed him off, chuckling. “Calm down everyone”
“NOO,” Vardy shouted. “SUCK IT!!”
🎵 “Strong beliefs… my love has got no power, he’s got his strong beliefs!” 🎵
The noise in the dressing room had settled now. The last water bottle hit the bin. A final round of high-fives. The speaker in the corner still echoing faint lyrics of Freed from Desire had dropped to background noise.
One by one, the players began slipping on hoodies, sliding into sneakers, grabbing their phones and toiletry kits. The match was over. The real world was waiting again, parents, girlfriends, wifes, brothers, kids, agents.
Tristan stood near the exit.
Kane passed him first being the first one to leave. “Going to see Katie. I will probably miss the bus and go back to the hotel on my own.”
“Thats fine, tell Katie I said hi.” Tristan said smiling. Everyone was finally being able to see their families again. It's been a rough few weeks since everyone joined the camp.
And now with them winning the first game and them having no game tomorrow, players could take it easy somewhat.”
“Yeah tell Biscuit I said hi too” Kane said, cracking a smile. “Barbara and your mum must be bouncing.”
Behind him, Dele grabbed his bag. “I’ve got cousins waiting at the marina,” he said. “Swear they’ve been drunk since kickoff.”
“What else is new?” Henderson muttered.
Tristan chuckled and finally spoke up, voice even, but loud enough for everyone still in earshot.
“Seriously though proud of all of you.”
A few heads turned.
“That was a statement tonight,” he went on. “First game. First win. And the best part? Everyone gets to see their people now — you’ve earned that. Go enjoy it.”
He turned, tugging on his hoodie.
“But just remember…” he added, smirking a little, “…back at the hotel by midnight. And yeah rules still apply. No family in the rooms. No overnight anything. Save it for July.”
Vardy’s laugh cut through the tunnel.
“Oi! Why’s he the one reminding us? We all know Tristans the biggest flight risk here!”
Walker jumped in. “Man talks about Barbara like she’s oxygen. If anyone’s breaking the ‘no guests’ rule tonight, it’s him.”
“He’ll be in bed by eleven,” Rashford joked. “But only because she tells him to.”
“Facts,” Dele said, dragging out the word.
Tristan gave a faint shrug, trying not to smile. “That’s why I’m leaving now.”
The guys laughed before the door burst open again.
Roy Hodgson stepped in — shirt half untucked, jacket unbuttoned, a crease of worry cutting across his face. Behind him trailed Steve Holland, and a couple of security staff. The energy in the room shifted instantly.
Kane was halfway to the exit before Roy’s voice cut through.
“Harry! Hold up!”
Kane turned, confused. “Whats up?”
Roy exhaled and raised a hand. “Everyone stay where you are. Nobody leaves yet.”
The players froze, glancing at each other.
“What’s going on?” Walker asked, towel around his neck.
Roy’s tone was calm but heavy. “There’s been… trouble. Outside the stadium. Some of it inside, too.”
That was all it took.
The room went silent.
“Drunk fans,” Roy went on, eyes scanning their faces. “Russian and English. It kicked off right after about 30 minutes from full-time. Flares. Chairs. Fights in the stands, and it’s spilled into the streets. Local police are locking the area down.”
Dele stood, wide-eyed. “You’re serious?”
“I wish I wasn’t.” Roy rubbed his temple. “We’ve been in contact with local authorities and our FA liaisons. Everyone’s families are safe. We’ve checked. But we’re not taking risks, we’ll head straight to the hotel from the south exit. Buses are waiting.”
The room buzzed. Murmurs. Uneasy glances. That high of victory gone in seconds.
“Bloody hell, not another fucking Lazio,” Vardy muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Tristan didn’t move. He just blinked — once — then reached for his phone.
“Wait, so no one got hurt?” Kane asked, stepping closer.
Roy shook his head. “No injuries reported from any of our families. Some of the fans got hurt. Marseille police have things under control for now from what I have been told.”
Tristan leaned against the cold wall, phone pressed to his ear. His fingers drummed against the back of it — once, twice — as it rang.
And then—
“Tristan?”
His mother’s voice came through, clipped with breath but strong. That voice that still made him feel ten years old and safe, even now.
“Mum,” Tristan said, exhaling. “You alright? You’re okay?”
“We’re fine, sweetheart,” Julia said quickly. “We’re back at the hotel already. John didn’t wait — as soon as the whistle went, he had us moving.”
He nodded, even though she couldn’t see it.
“No issues?”
“Nothing near us,” she reassured. “There were some loud groups outside, but John kept us around the back of the stands. He knew what he was doing. Got us straight into a side car and out before it got messy.”
A pause. Her voice softened. “Are you alright? We heard something happened.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed his eyes. “Roy said it started after the match. Fights near the north end. They’ve locked down part of the stadium.”
There was a moment of silence. Then her voice returned. “Barbara wants to talk to you.”
A shuffle. The tiniest bark in the background — Biscuit, probably confused by all the moving around.
Then—
“Tristan?” Barbara’s voice was quiet.
He straightened a little, smiling despite himself.
“I’m here,” he said.
“We’re okay,” she assured him. “Really. We got in the car the second John said move. He didn’t even let us stop for water. Biscuit was on my lap the whole time.”
He could hear her stroking the dog’s fur in the background.
“Thank God,” Tristan murmured.
“We watched the chaos on the hotel TV,” Barbara added. “John checked the lobby, spoke with the other staff — said security’s been doubled already.”
He nodded, still scanning the tunnel out of habit. “Where’s Dad?”
“Here.” Her voice tilted slightly. “Bit angry the bartender turned off the match before your second goal replay.”
Tristan let out a real breath of laughter, he was nervous. He wouldn’t know what to do if anything happened to his family. What the fuck were the fans even doing fighting.
He didn’t think he had to deal with another situation like Laizo in fucking France.
Barbara caught it. “You okay now?”
“I am now,” he said softly.
They didn’t need to say anything else.
A few meters behind him, the locker room door swung open. Security began ushering players out in groups.
“I’ll be back soon,” Tristan said. “Tell John thanks again.”
“I will,” Barbara said.
“And... kiss Biscuit for me.”
There was a chuckle on the other end. Then: “You’re such a sap.”
“Only for you.”
The call ended.
Tristan stood there a second longer then slid the phone into his pocket, tugged his hoodie up, and followed the rest of the team into the Marseille night.
The team will deal with the situation tomorrow.
