Sinbad
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Chapter 288: Russia Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-10-28 02:43:13 +0000 UTCChapter updates will be back to normal. I don't believe I'm getting another big project for a month or two.
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June 10, 2016 | Hotel d’Angleterre The whistle blew in the Stade de France.France 2, Romania 1.
The room let out a collective breath. Shoulders eased. The screen faded to post-match analysis as replays looped.
“Griezmann’s header was decent,” said Walker, rubbing his jaw. “But Payet… that goal was insane.”
“Left foot like a sledgehammer,” Kane muttered.
Dele leaned back against the wall, twirling a stray piece of popcorn between his fingers. “I could hit that.”
“Could you?” Tristan said, arching a brow from across the room.
Dele shrugged. “I’m just saying… if I was French, I’d start over Griezmann.”
That earned a scoff from Vardy. “If you were French, they’d deport you after your first nutmeg attempt.”
Laughter rolled through the suite.
But the tone shifted slightly as Tristan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes still fixed on the screen.
“No lie though… France looked sharp,” he said trying to remember the matches from 2016 Euros. He did forget most of them by now besides the finals.. “Not perfect, but dangerous. They'll be one of our biggest rivals in this tournament.”
Vardy cracked open a water bottle beside him. “You’re not wrong. That midfield’s stacked. Pogba, Payet, Matuidi… and Kante.”
At the mention of his former teammate, Tristan nodded once. “Kante’s gonna be a problem to face. He knows all of our habits and our tricks.”
“Feels weird seeing him in France’s jersey instead of royal blue,” Vardy said, shaking his head.
Tristan looked around the room. Good they were taking France seriously. He didn’t want the guys to get too cocky as they were the clear favorites.
“I want everyone watching the replay tomorrow morning — before training. I don’t care if it’s on your phone, iPad, or your nan’s telly. Get familiar with France. Watch how they shift when Pogba pushes forward. Watch how Kante drops to cover both halves. Look at Griezmann’s movement when he’s not on the ball.”
“You think we’ll face them?” Rashford asked.
“We will,” Tristan said. “If we make it far enough, it’s them or Ronaldo waiting. Probably both.”
Walker stretched his legs out. “And if Romania had finished that last header, we’d be talking about France bottling it.”
“They didn’t, though,” Tristan said. “And we’re not Romania.”
He stood up, pulled his hoodie off the chair, and gave the room a nod.
“Lights out, lads. We’ve got business to handle.”
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Next Day
Stade Vélodrome
The evening sun dipped low behind the curved ribs of the Vélodrome, setting the Marseille sky ablaze in streaks of gold and amber. Light spilled across the pitch reflecting off the blades of grass, the polished advertising boards, the glint of cameras.
The stadium hummed — no, roared — alive with noise. Eighty thousand voices. Flags snapping. Drums pounding somewhere high in the Russian end.
England songs rolling like thunder across the stands.
Out on the pitch, the players moved through their warm ups. But in the middle of it all, one figure drew the gravity of the entire stadium.
Tristan Hale. Number 22.
Everywhere he went, eyes followed, not just the cameras or the journalists swarming in the corners, but his own teammates too. The captain. The phenomenon. The promised one.
Tristan could feel it. The weight of their eyes. The expectation.He scanned the line of players ahead of him — Alli shaking out his legs too fast, Sterling biting at his lip, Stones glancing at the crowd instead of the ball. The air was thick with it: the first-match adrenaline, the quiet, gnawing doubt that always came before the game especially one as important as this one.
Tristan’s voice cut through the noise commending. “Oi. Eyes on the pitch, not the crowd.”
Heads snapped toward him immediately.
Tristan’s gaze swept across them, sharp as flint. “We’ve trained for this all week. Nothing new here. Same passes, same presses, same finishes. Don’t start acting different just because there’s eighty thousand people watching.”
A few uneasy smiles. A few glances downward. He took another step closer, lowering his tone just enough that only they could hear. “If you’re standing still, you’re helping them. Keep moving.”
It worked.
The tempo of the drills picked up instantly — quicker passes, cleaner touches, tighter lines.
Tristan nodded once, satisfied, and jogged alongside them. The turf hissed softly under his boots, white and red streaks catching the dying sunlight as he fell into rhythm. His breathing evened out. The noise dulled to a heartbeat.
By now he learnt to ignore all of the stadium noise.
Marc caught up beside him, still panting from sprints. His face was flushed, beads of sweat glinting along his hairline.
“Those new?” he asked between breaths, nodding toward Tristan’s boots. “Didn’t even notice till now.”
Tristan glanced down, then back up — the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. He was really proud of them.
They were pristine. Ivory white, streaked with a blaze of red, fire cascading down the sides, chasing the gold-stitched Three Lions badge. Near the heel, a single red rose unfurled, elegant and defiant. Across the instep, the St. George’s Cross cut boldly through the flame.
“Yeah”,Tristan said, his voice light but proud. “Lion’s Roar edition.”
[Image’s Here]
Marc whistled softly. “They suit you, captain. Regal as hell.”
Tristan’s smirk widened a little, just enough for the cameras to catch it. “Tournament exclusive,” he said simply.
Marc nodded, breath finally steadying. “You did good, mate.”
Across the pitch, the Russian squad wrapped up their rondo before jogging back toward the tunnel in formation. Their red kits caught the fading light like flashes of fire.
The fourth official lifted his arm toward the benches.
Fifteen minutes to kickoff.
The noise inside the Vélodrome swelled, rising like a storm waiting to break. The England players gathered near the halfway line — boots scuffing against the turf, adrenaline humming through every heartbeat.
Tristan crouched in the middle of the huddle, pulling the final loop tight on his Lion’s Roar boots, the red streaks catching the glow from the floodlights. When he stood, the talking stopped almost instinctively.
He looked around at them — faces taut with energy and nerves. Tristan’s voice came calm, level, but it carried through the noise like iron.
“Listen up.”
The circle tightened. The smell of grass and sweat filled the air.
“If we lose,” he said quietly, “it’s my name in every headline.” His gaze moved across them one by one. “If we choke, it’s me they’ll come for. You don’t carry that. I do. That’s my job.”
A few of the younger players shifted, glancing at the ground — the weight of his words hitting harder than any team talk.
Tristan nodded once, more gently now.
“So you—” he pointed toward the group, “—play free. No worries. No pressure. Just football. Trust what we’ve built.”
Then Vardy smirked, clapping his hands together. “You heard the man! Let’s go show ’em who we are!”
The tension cracked. Laughter, a few shouts, boots stamping into the turf.
Kane bumped Tristan’s shoulder. “That’s our captain right there.”
“Alright then,” Tristan said, voice steady but eyes blazing. “Let’s finish what we started.”
“ALRIGHT!” the team roared back, fists raised, the echo swallowed by the roar of eighty thousand voices above them.
The huddle broke. The anthem was coming. And England — led by a twenty one-year-old who carried a nation on his shoulders — walked toward the tunnel with fire in their veins.
Flags rippled in the warm breeze, the noise rising like static electricity around the stadium. Phones flashed, chants echoed, and somewhere above it all, the voice of Clive Tyldesley cut in, clear and composed.
“A warm Mediterranean evening in Marseille and a fresh chapter begins for England’s national team.”
Beside him, former England international Lee Dixon adjusted his earpiece, eyes scanning the pitch below as the teams disappeared down the tunnel.
“And what a chapter it could be, Clive. This is one of the youngest England squads we’ve ever seen at a major tournament but maybe one of the most exciting too.”
“No question,” Tyldesley replied. “The average age is just under 26. And at the heart of it all? A captain who just turned 21 years old a few days ago, Tristan Hale the man with the number 22. The Crown Jewel of English football. The greatest player on the planet right now.”
The camera panned across the stands, catching glimpses of English flags draped over shoulders and faces painted with red crosses.
“He’s already won it all at club level,” Dixon added. “Premier League, Europa League, FA Cup, League Cup. Now the question is whether he can lead England to their first European trophy... ever.”
“The last time England even reached a Euros final?” Clive said, pausing just long enough. “Never. Semis in ’96. Semis in ’68. But tonight, it begins again.”
The screen shifted to a highlight reel from the previous day.
“France kicked things off last night,” Dixon continued. “A 2–1 win over Romania in Paris — Payet scored a stunner to win it late. Griezmann got the opener with a brilliant header.”
“It’s been tight all around so far. No walkovers. And now it’s England’s turn.”
Back in the tunnel, the players formed two lines with the mascots. England in their all-white kits with navy trim. Russia in deep red.
The camera drifted toward Tristan — tall, composed, jaw set, leading the line in front of Kane, Vardy, Henderson, and Stones.
“Look at that,” said Dixon. “Doesn’t look nervous at all. And this is his first major tournament as captain.”
The tunnel echoed with sharp breaths and the scuff of boots. Flags waved in tight fists. Mascots clung to arms. And then, the anthem announcer’s voice rang out like a bell over the system.
The two teams emerged side by side.
White and red.
England first — led by their captain, number 22.
The crowd beyond erupted the second his boots touched the pitch.
The players walked into a storm of noise. Flashing cameras. Red and white flags whipping in the breeze. Thunderous chants rolled through the Marseille evening like a rising tide.
As the anthem began, the camera panned across the Vélodrome — sweeping the crowd, the banners before cutting to the royal box above midfield.
Barbara stood at the glass, one hand pressed to her chest, the other wrapped around Biscuit, who wore a tiny custom England jersey with “#22 Tristan” across the back. Barbara's sunglasses were pushed into her hair, her eyes glinting with pride and nerves.
Next to her, Sophia clapped and shouted over the chaos.
“COME ON TRISTAN!”
Then, on either side of them, stood Julia and Ling.
Julia wore a smart navy coat over a white England scarf, her hands clasped tightly in front of her mouth as the anthem swelled. Her eyes didn’t leave the tunnel.
Ling, in a black blazer and England pin, stood straight-backed beside her, barely blinking. But his hand rested gently on Julia’s shoulder — steadying her, steadying himself. You could see it in their faces: the tension, the pride, the years it took to get here.
Barbara cupped her hands and shouted through the noise.
“GO BABY!!”
Biscuit barked like she understood every word.
The camera caught it all — a perfect family shot.
Then cut away.
Down in the commentary box, Lee Dixon gave a small laugh. “I wonder what Barbara’ll do if England end up facing Hungary. That’s gonna be a tough one.”
Tyldesley grinned. “Split loyalties or not, I think she’s made her allegiances very clear.”
The teams were lining up now, handshakes complete. Flags being rolled up. Ball placed at the center spot.
Tyldesley’s voice steadied again.
“Let’s take a quick look at the starting elevens tonight, starting with England led by their record-breaking captain, the Ballon d’Or favorite, Premier League champion, and the soul of this team.”
The formation graphic appeared on the screen:
England Starting XI (4-4-2 Diamond)
GK – 🧤 Joe Hart
RB – 🛡️ Kyle Walker
CB – 🧱 John Stones
CB – 🧱 Chris Smalling
LB – 🚀 Ben Chilwell
CDM – 🧭 Jordan Henderson (Vice Captain)
CM – 🔄 Danny Drinkwater
CM – 💫 Dele Alli
CAM – 👑 Tristan Hale (Captain, #22)
RF – ⚡ Jamie Vardy
LF – 🎯 Harry Kane
(Used AI for this one.)
Dixon chimed in as each name appeared.
“Really interesting shape here. It’s a 4-4-2 on paper, but with Tristan in the hole, it behaves more like a 4-3-1-2. He’ll be drifting wide, linking deep, even dropping next to Henderson at times to dictate.”
“Exactly,” Clive added. “And no wingers, which means the fullbacks — Walker and Chilwell — will have to provide the width.”
“And this is a Leicester-heavy spine, Clive. Drinkwater, Vardy, Chilwell, Tristan — all unbeaten this season. Roy’s doubled down on familiarity and momentum especially on the bench filled with plenty of Leciester players. Roy can always rely on them.
Russia Starting XI (4-2-3-1)
GK – 🧤 Igor Akinfeev
RB – 🛡️ Igor Smolnikov
CB – 🧱 Vasili Berezutski (Captain)
CB – 🧱 Sergei Ignashevich
LB – 🚀 Dmitri Kombarov
CDM – 🧭 Roman Neustädter
CDM – 🧱 Igor Denisov
RM – 💨 Oleg Shatov
CAM – 🎨 Alan Dzagoev
LM – 🌀 Alexander Samedov
ST – 🎯 Artem Dzyuba
“Russia will look to keep it compact early,” Dixon said. “Big center-backs. Physical midfield. They’ll try to clog the space around Tristan.”
“But if he breaks that first line,” Clive replied, “it’s going to be a long night for that back four.”
A sweeping aerial shot of the Vélodrome lit up the screen.
Down on the pitch, under the burn of the floodlights, the captains met at center circle.
Tristan stood across from Vasili Berezutski. Russia’s towering veteran, thick-necked and weathered, armband tight around his bicep. The official held the coin between them.
“Heads or tails?”
“Heads,” Berezutski said staring at Tristan looking like he was trying to burn a hole through his head.
Tristan just ignored it.
The coin spun.
Landed.
Heads.
Russia chose to kick off.
Tristan gave a single nod, no expression on his face, just turned and jogged back toward the England half, gloves tugged once, jaw set.
The players took their positions. Final sips of water. Last shouts from the sideline. A few slaps to the chest, one or two crossed hearts. The ball was placed dead center on the pristine white arc.
“England. Russia. The city of Marseille watching, the world watching. A new generation. A new captain. And maybe… a new chapter in English football.”
Lee Dixon took a breath.
“You don’t want to miss this one. Not a second of it.”
The whistle floated to the referee’s lips.
A pause.
Then—
Peeeeep.
The match began.
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End of chapter. Let me cook with the next chapter.
