Sinbad
patreon
Chapter 286: Legacy Awaits
🕑 Added 2025-10-18 22:04:25 +0000 UTCMay 31, 2016 | Leicester – 10:18 A.M.The morning sun filtered softly through the tall windows of the living room, casting gentle stripes of gold across the hardwood floors. Biscuit was sprawled out on the rug, one paw twitching in a half-dream as her little chest rose and fell.
Barbara sat curled on the armrest of the sofa, her legs stretched along the cushion, bare toes nudging at Tristan’s thigh as he untied the black satin ribbon wrapped around a navy-blue shoebox. His name was embossed in metallic gold across the lid — HALE, crowned with his signature logo. Just beneath it, smaller in lettering:
Nine Regnants: Mirabilis 16.
Barbara tilted her head, intrigued. “They really went all out with this name. What does Mirabilis even mean?”
Tristan smiled faintly. “Latin. It means wondrous or extraordinary.” He glanced up at her with a quiet grin. “Sofia said it can also mean something that defies logic.”
Barbara smirked. “Fitting. You literally just finished a perfect season. No losses, four trophies — I still don’t know how you managed to do all of that.”
Tristan chuckled softly and lifted the lid.
The tissue paper peeled back with a crisp whisper.
And there they were.
The boots gleamed under the morning light — pure white with deep navy etchings that wrapped around the entire upper like an artist’s sketch. The Leicester skyline stretched across both sides in immaculate detail — from the cathedral spire to the King Power arches — all the way to the London Eye near the heel, symbolizing the connection between his club’s triumph and the nation he now led.
Gold laces crossed over the navy design, threading like sunlight through twilight. The soleplate gleamed faintly, trimmed in royal blue with subtle gold studs.
[Nine Regnants: Mirabilis 16 > Image Here]
Barbara leaned closer, her breath catching softly. “Oh my god… these might be my favorites.”
It was her first time seeing them, the finished pair. She’d been part of Tristan’s process before, helping design touches on his first two releases, Lion’s Pride and Storm Pulse, but after that, she’d made herself stop asking.
No more peeking at prototypes. No more hints or early sketches. She wanted the surprise, the same way the world saw him: finished, revealed, complete.
It became a quiet rule between them. Whatever Tristan was building whether it was a contract, a new boot, or some secret project he refused to talk about, she’d wait. Because she trusted him completely.
And that made moments like this even better.
Tristan smiled as he turned one of the boots in his hands, angling it slightly so the white leather could catch the slant of sunlight spilling through the windows. The gold-tipped studs gleamed like polished teeth, but it was the blue ink the skyline of Leicester stretched in elegant silhouette that held his attention.
His fingers paused along the arch. Every street, every spire… it really was home. It even had his neighborhood.
“They’re beautiful, yeah?” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.
Barbara leaned in closer, her eyes tracing the artwork with fascination. “I love the city design,” she whispered. “It’s like they built Leicester right onto them.” She reached out slowly, her touch featherlight as she ran her fingers along the etched skyline. “Clock tower… cathedral… is that the London Eye too?” She smiled, then looked up at him. “It suits you. All of it. A boy from Leicester now the king of it. It really does show how far you’ve come.”
Tristan’s gaze shifted to her face — the awe in her expression, the way her lips curled slightly in pride — and something soft and warm tugged at his chest.
She turned the right boot gently in her hands, squinting at the tongue until she found the blue-embossed crown. Then on the left — four miniature trophies, lined in perfect order beneath his logo.
Premier League. Europa League. FA Cup. League Cup. And above them, the Hale crown.
Barbara shook her head slowly, half-laughing. “I’m honestly shocked Nike made another one this soon. Didn’t they already give you, like… three?”
Tristan leaned back against the cushions, running a hand through his curls as a sheepish smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah. This makes it four now.”
She raised an eyebrow, impressed. “That’s insane.”
“I know,” he said, glancing down at the boots resting in his lap. “Most players sign a deal and that’s it — they get some commercials, maybe custom colorways. But full signature lines?”
He shook his head, still a little amazed by it all. “I’m lucky. They let me do whatever I want — designs, names, rollout dates. I mean, they even greenlit two limited editions in one year.”
Barbara’s brows lifted. “They’d be stupid not to. Your shoes sell out in hours.”
He laughed under his breath. “Yeah, they do. It’s crazy. But this one…” He touched the leather again, tracing the edge of the skyline. “This one’s the last. For the Nine Regnants line, anyway.”
Barbara blinked. “Last? Like… ever?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I told them I wanted to close it out after this. It was always meant to be a Leicester thing.” He looked over at her, voice softer. “This one’s the goodbye.”
Barbara’s gaze softened. “That’s actually kind of poetic.”
Tristan smiled faintly, eyes drifting back to the boots. “It is. Ending it here just… makes sense.And after the Euros, I’ll start something new. Something bigger.”
Tristan picked up the left boot one last time, turning it carefully in his hands before setting it gently back into the box. Then he reached for Barbara’s foot and eased it into his lap.
Barbara raised an eyebrow, caught between suspicion and amusement. “What exactly are you doing?”
“They’ll look better on you,” he said, eyes flicking up with a smirk.
She let out a soft laugh. “They’re your boots, genius.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t see how they look on my favorite pair of legs,” he murmured.
He slid the cleat onto her foot. The smooth white leather hugged her foot perfectly, the gold-tipped studs gleaming as he tilted her ankle slightly to admire the fit.
Then he dipped his head.
One kiss, featherlight, just above her ankle.
Then another, higher.
And another — slow and warm against the curve of her calf.
Barbara’s breath caught, her spine subtly arching as her hand slipped into his curls. “Tristan…”
He didn’t look up. Just pressed another kiss above the boot’s collar, then kept going — his lips trailing slowly, reverently along her bare skin.
“You really should stop,” she murmured, trying to sound stern. But her voice had gone soft, breathy.
He finally glanced up, grinning lazily. “No. Make me.”
Barbara rolled her eyes, but the flush in her cheeks betrayed her. Her thumb traced the side of his face, lingering just beneath his jaw.
Tristan held her gaze for a beat longer, then sat up straighter, his hand still wrapped around her calf.
“Are you still mad at me?” he asked, quieter now. “About my birthday. About Roy calling me in early.”
Her expression shifted. Her fingers pulled away from his hair, falling gently to her lap.
“What do you think?” she said.
He exhaled through his nose. “I think,” he said, standing in one smooth motion and reaching for her, “I know exactly what to do about it.”
Barbara barely had time to react before he scooped her up into his arms like she weighed nothing.
“Tristan—” she began, but his mouth was already brushing her temple, then her cheek, his voice warm against her ear.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You had everything planned.”
She rested her head against his shoulder, her arms looping loosely around his neck. “I didn’t want to make it a big deal. I just wanted to celebrate with you.”
“You being here is already enough for me,” he whispered, turning down the hallway. “Thank you.”
Barbara stayed quiet for a moment. Then she sighed, the tension slipping out of her slowly. “I wasn’t just mad at you,” she murmured. “I was mad at Roy. And the timing. And… the world, maybe.”
He nodded, tightening his hold on her just slightly.
As they reached the bedroom door, she lifted her head and looked at him, her lips brushing his jaw.
“You better make it up to me,” she whispered.
He nudged the door open with his foot, already smiling. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I plan to.”
And then they disappeared into the soft light of the room.
Three Hours Later
The bedroom was quiet.
Tristan lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting loosely across the bare slope of Barbara’s hip. Her head was on his chest, her hair spilled across him like a dark silk curtain, her breathing slow and deep asleep.
She was completely out.
He tilted his head slightly, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders, the quiet curve of her lips as she slept — peaceful, spent, glowing in that post-storm hush that followed all the noise. His hand moved slowly across her back in a lazy rhythm, fingertips tracing patterns she wouldn’t remember.
They wouldn’t have much time to be together. Only six more days.
June 6.
That was the report date.
England camp.
St. George’s Park.
No exceptions.
His birthday was on the 8th. He’d turn twenty-one wearing a national team kit and rooming with someone else, probably taking media questions about group-stage fixtures and his armband and how he planned to “lead by example.” He’d smile through it.
But yeah — it stung. Just a little.
He wasn’t mad at anyone. Not his mum, not Barbara, not even Roy Hodgson.
He understood his respobitlies and duties.
And Barbara and his family.?
They just wanted to celebrate him.
She wasn’t asking for much. And when she got the call about his early report date, she’d tried to keep calm. She really had.
But he’d heard it in her voice — the disappointment, the frustration.
He didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t want to start a fight with Roy right before the second-biggest tournament of his life. Not after everything just fixing their relationshipt. Not when the whole country was watching him.
So instead…
He gave her this.
He’d been holding her closer lately. More kisses. More late mornings. More moments like this. Because once he stepped into that England training facility…
There’d be no more shared beds. No late-night talks or anything.
The team had rules. Strict ones. And they were there for a reason considering England’s history.
He understood that too.
But God, he was going to miss this.
He looked down again. Barbara shifted slightly in her sleep, her hand sliding over his stomach, fingers curling there like they were made to fit. Her lips parted as she exhaled a soft sigh, her face still flushed from hours earlier.
Tristan bent his head and pressed a quiet kiss to her hairline, his thumb brushing along the ridge of her spine.
His eyes drifted to the clock.
1:43 P.M.
Tristan gently eased out from under her arm and reached across to the bedside table, grabbing his phone. The screen lit up instantly — 67 unread messages, 3 missed calls from Sofia, and hundreds of notifications blinking red across his muted apps.
And that was with almost everyone filtered out.
He exhaled and leaned back against the headboard, thumb swiping up to unlock.
Instagram.
First thing he saw was that photo, one from two days ago. Him seated beside the Queen, both of them mid-laugh, eyes bright like they were old friends.
It was a surreal feeling even now.
The caption from @EnglandOfficial read: “The Crown meets the Crown.”
#EURO2016 #HaleEra #EnglandStrong
20.4 million likes.
Nearly 700,000 comments.
And climbing to reach at least top five most liked post.
He scrolled further.
@RoyalFamily: “Her Majesty The Queen was delighted to receive England midfielder Tristan Hale at Windsor Castle. A meeting was held to recognize his extraordinary contributions to English football and national pride ahead of UEFA Euro 2016.”
📸 [photo attached]
#RoyalVisit #EnglandPride #EURO2016
His face. Next to the Royal Coat of Arms.
The replies were absolutely unhinged.
@Odis: “Wait wait wait… THE QUEEN gave Tristan Hale a sit-down interview?? 💀💀 What the hell did I miss?? I go off the internet for ONE week and the kid’s having tea with royalty?? Nah I gotta watch this interview right now.”
↩️@Fredrik Dahlmanl: Bro GO WATCH IT 😭 it’s actually fire. The Queen’s asking about his passing like she’s on Sky Sports.
↩️@ZuesTheProphet: Nah fr, Tristan was so calm too. Man’s talking to Her Majesty like it’s a pre-match with Lineker 💀. Man has no nervous veins in his system
↩️ @RoyalTeaPod: “How are you feeling, Mr. Hale?” “Just trying to make the country proud, ma’am.” Bro. I teared up. 🫡🇬🇧
↩️@OpacusMalusNavis:The symbolism goes CRAZY. “The Crown meets the Crown.” Football royalty confirmed 👑⚽
↩️@Kartik Dogra: You can feel the pressure though. 20 years old, meeting the Queen, whole country expecting him to win the Euros 😭
↩️ @FuckGarp: Bro’s PR arc is wild. Ronaldo gotta drop 60 goals just to compete 💀
↩️@DeskMan: Lowkey… if he wins the Euros, he’s getting knighted. Mark my words. “Sir Tristan Hale” sounds way too perfect.
↩️@Mihawk_ThePainter: Watching it right now. Man’s representing the whole city like a king. From Belvoir Drive to Buckingham Palace. Unreal. 🦊👑
Tristan lingered on the Royal Family post for a moment longer before flicking his thumb upward.
The headlines came fast.
BBC Sport: “Tristan Hale: Crowned by the Queen. Can He Crown England at the Euros?”
The Times: “From King Power to Windsor Castle — Tristan’s Rise Is Unlike Anything Football Has Ever Seen.”
Sky Sports News: Is Tristan ceiling GOAT status?”
Daily Mail: “'Sir Tristan?”
The Athletic: “Tristan Hale’s Perfect Season! Is the ballon dor his already?”
He kept scrolling.
Photos of him smiling beside the Queen.
Split-screen debates showing him and Ronaldo side by side — one in the England jersey and Porgual Jersey.
Ballon d'Or Central (@BdoOrHub): “Messi? Ronaldo? No — the 2016 Ballon d’Or frontrunner is 20-year-old Tristan Hale.”
🔥🔥🔥
Iwantsomepopeyes: “Can Tristan become the youngest Ballon d’Or winner since Messi in 2009?”
Another headline popped up from TalkSport:
“Is Tristan the Most Marketable English Athlete Ever?”
He blinked.
It was hard to process sometimes everything that changed since his rebirth. Now the Queen was quoting his assist record on national TV.
Tristan shook his head slightly and switched apps.
YouTube.
The homepage was flooded with videos of him and him meeting the Queen.
“THE CROWN MEETS THE CROWN | FULL Interview — The Queen sits down with Tristan Hale”
He scrolled a little further…
Then paused.
There it was.
A thumbnail in Football Iconic’s style — clean black background, yellow text overlay, and a Euro 2016 ball.
“Everything You Need to Know About the 2016 Euros”
Football Iconic · 1M views · Posted 5 days ago
Tristan raised an eyebrow. He did like the channel, Barbara would every once in a while share videos from the channel to him.
He tapped the video.
He lowered the volume slightly just as the video began.
“Hey guys, welcome back to Football Iconic,” said Tinashe, seated in his usual spot, dark hoodie, glasses on, the wall behind him framed with iconic shirts and black-and-white portraits of sporting legends. “My name is Tinashe, and before we even touch Euro 2016, can we just take a second to admit how absolutely insane the last twelve months have been for sports?”
The screen shifted into a slow, cinematic montage.
Blue confetti at the King Power.
Tristan lifting all four trophies.
Stephen Curry collapsing on the hardwood, jersey soaked in sweat.
LeBron, eyes wet, clutching the trophy.
A freeze-frame of Messi walking past the Copa América trophy, eyes downcast.
Then — Ronaldo. Shirtless. Arms raised. Surrounded by silver and smoke.
“I mean, this wasn’t just a wild season for football,” Tinashe continued, voice calm but threaded with awe. “This was a year where legends cracked, dynasties fell, and new kings got crowned.”
A photo of Leicester’s starting eleven appeared, then faded into Tristan holding the Europa League trophy aloft in Basel.
“Leicester City — a club that was promoted from the Championship 2 years ago — just went unbeaten and won four major trophies. Premier League. Europa League. FA Cup. League Cup. Four. And they didn’t lose a single game.”
Tinashe leaned slightly closer to the camera.
“And at the heart of that? A 20-year-old midfielder from Leicester who just got a sit-down interview with the actual Queen of England.”
The screen split — Queen Elizabeth and Tristan laughing on the palace lawn. Then a clip of Ronaldo raising the Champions League trophy with Madrid. Then Messi, his eyes hollow, walking away after another Copa América heartbreak.
“This is the world we’re in right now,” Tinashe said, hands spread slightly. “Cristiano Ronaldo just added another Champions League. Lionel Messi might retire from Argentina after back-to-back final losses. And between those two titans…”
He paused and Tristan’s face appeared on screen.
“...this kid. Tristan Hale. Just had the greatest season football has ever seen. Yes even greater than when Messi scored 91 years which Tristan is mostly like to surpass.”
The words landed like a slow punch.
“63 games, 73 goals and 52 assists.. Four trophies. No losses. And now, he’s captaining England into a major tournament before his 21st birthday.”
Tinashe exhaled, almost in disbelief.
“I don’t know if we’re watching history or what but either way — this is everything you need to know before Euro 2016.”
A new graphic appeared — bold white lettering over a dark map of Europe.
FIFA World Rankings – May 2016
Tinashe’s voice came in again, calm but focused.
“Alright — before we even break down the groups, let’s talk rankings. Because for once, England are at the top of this conversation.”
FIFA Top 10
Argentina 🇦🇷
2. England 🏴
3. Belgium 🇧🇪
4. Germany 🇩🇪
5. Chile 🇨🇱
6. Spain 🇪🇸
7. Portugal 🇵🇹
8. Brazil 🇧🇷
9. France 🇫🇷
10. Italy 🇮🇹
“Argentina are number one, and yeah, that makes sense. Back-to-back Copa América finals, Messi in god-mode, and a team stacked with attackers.”
A still image of Messi flashed across the screen, alone, staring down at the Copa trophy.
“But right behind them? England. Second in the world. Undefeated for a while now. They’ve got depth, momentum, and led by the best player on the planet right now Tristan Hale.”
Clips began rolling behind him.
Tristan flicking a volley assist to Harry Kane And Jamie Vardy.
Tristan jogging off the pitch, draped in England’s white kit, armband on, crowd chanting his name. Then — the Queen smiling beside him.
“And before anyone screams recency bias… it’s not just hype. England haven’t lost in over twenty matches. They tore through qualifiers. And Hale’s been involved in almost every goal they’ve scored since the World Cup.”
“Now Belgium at three? Pure firepower. Hazard. De Bruyne. Lukaku. Courtois. On paper, they’re monsters but we’ve said that for years. And they’ve still got to prove they’re more than just FIFA stats and golden boots.”
“Germany’s fourth — because of course they are. Experience. Mentality monsters. They know how to win.”
Photos of Kroos, Özil, and Neuer flicked across.
“Chile at five — reigning Copa América champions. Spain at six — rebuilding with Busquets and a younger core. Portugal at seven — it’s Cristiano’s last real shot at a major title. Then Brazil, France, and Italy round out the ten.”
Tinashe paused for a breath, then leaned in a little closer.
“But only one teams came into this summer with real unbeaten momentum.”
The red-and-white of St. George’s Cross.
“England.”
Tinashe’s voice softened slightly, the faintest trace of something more personal threading through.
“Look, I don’t say this lightly… but England are the favourites this year.”
Clips rolled behind him — England walking out onto the pitch at Wembley, Tristan leading the team out, fans waving St. George flags, that new kit glinting under stadium lights.
“They’re not just the dark horses. Not the underdogs. They’re the team to beat.”
A still frame of England’s Euro group flashed on screen — Group B.
England | Wales | Russia | Slovakia
“It’s a manageable group. But what matters more is the form. The momentum. The belief. And Tristan Hale — the youngest England captain ever — is at the centre of it all. We never had this much hype coming to a tournament where everyone believes its finally time to win something for once. Not just pure media hype.”
“Tristan is the most complete player in the world right now. And when you pair that with the form of the Leciester players like Vardy combined that with the rising talents of England, we finally have built a winning team.”
A short pause.
“And I know — we’ve been here before. Golden Generations. Hype. Headlines. Then heartbreak.”
Quick flashes of past failures — Beckham’s red card, Rooney’s injuries, missed penalties, Hodgson’s blank stare at Euro 2012.
“But maybe… just maybe, this time, it’s different.”
He sat back slightly, letting the montage breathe — the Queen and Tristan laughing. Young fans holding signs that read “The Miracle of Leciester.” The new banner unfurled at Wembley: “Let It Come Home.”
“As an English man. I grew up hoping. And if you’ve followed this team for any length of time, you know how much that hope hurts.”
“But with Tristan? It feels like more than hope..”
Cut to a screen of England winning the World Cup in 1966.
“Could it finally come home?”
Then the music kicked back in — something urgent, tense, cinematic.
“But England aren’t alone. And this tournament? It’s stacked.”
A new graphic slid across the screen: Contenders to Watch
Images flared to life.
Germany
“The defending World Cup champs. They’ve got experience, structure, and a midfield that’ll choke you to death if you’re careless.”
France
“Home soil. Young stars. Pogba’s rising. Griezmann’s dangerous. And Deschamps is hungry. Combined that with the leadership of Kante, yeah this team is the one to watch out for.”
Spain
“Still technical. Still sharp. But this is the first tournament of a new generation. No more Xavi. No more Casillas. It’s Busquets, Koke, and a handful of kids.”
Belgium
“Every tournament is their breakout tournament — but this time, they’re older. Sharper. And if De Bruyne shows up? They’ll be a nightmare.”
Italy
Don’t sleep. Italy love a low block and a bloodbath. They’ll drag anyone into extra time and win on one shot.”
Then the screen went dark again — save for one image:
Cristiano Ronaldo. Shirt off. Arms wide. Muscles tight. Gold confetti raining down.
“And then… there’s Portugal.”
“Cristiano Ronaldo. 31 years old. Still carrying the weight of a nation on his back. Still chasing the one thing he hasn’t won.”
Clips rolled — Ronaldo tearing his armband off after the 2004 final loss. Ronaldo scoring against Sweden in the playoff. Ronaldo celebrating in the Champions League.
“This is probably his last real shot at a major international trophy. The hunger is still there. The power. The clutch gene. But the team?”
A shot of Portugal’s squad — young, talented, but lacking the cohesion.
“It’s not perfect. It’s not polished. But they’ve got warriors — Pepe, Nani, Moutinho. And one immortal.”
Tinashe leaned forward, locking eyes with the camera.
“If it comes down to a final — Ronaldo vs. Hale — I don’t even know how I’d handle that. It’s god vs. godchild. Legacy vs. miracle.”
Then he smiled faintly.
“Either way, this summer’s gonna be legendary.”
He clapped his hands once.
“Now let’s talk about legacy.”
The screen cut to a slow pan of Tristan winning all the trophies.
“If Tristan Hale wins Euro 2016…” He paused. “At twenty-one…”
“On his actual 21st birthday — June 8, during the tournament…”
He blinked. Smiled faintly.
“Bro. When I turned 21, I was probably arguing about FIFA ratings on Twitter and failing my uni exams. This man’s out here trying to win a continental championship for England.”
“Happy birthday, Tristan.”
The music returned. Clips of Tristan from each of his last three seasons played like flashbacks — goals, assists, trophy lifts, the Miracle season montage.
“If he pulls this off? If he leads England to their first ever European title, after a season like this — four trophies, no losses, record-breaking stats?”
“There’s no debate anymore.”
“No ‘potential.’ No ‘next up.’ No ‘wait until he’s older.’”
“He becomes — officially, unequivocally — England’s greatest player of all time. Not Beckham. Not Rooney. Not Shearer. Not Charlton. Tristan Hale. The king of English football. And honestly? With what he’s already done in just three professional seasons — he might already be there.”
A bar graph slid on screen.
Tristan Hale – 3 Seasons
🔹 Games: 149
🔹 Goals: 137
🔹 Assists: 121
🔹 Trophies: 6
🔹 Individual Awards: 20
Tinashe exhaled.
“You can’t compare him to other English players. Not anymore. The only comparisons left — are Messi and Ronaldo.”
Cut to a split-screen: Ronaldo kissing the Champions League, Messi in the Barça kit mid-dribble, and Tristan holding the Europa League trophy under fireworks.
“And if Tristan wins the Euros?”
“The Ballon d’Or is his. No questions asked. No panel votes needed. Just give it to him in July.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Real talk? There are people saying even if he drops off in form — even if England only reach the quarters or semis — he’s still the favorite. That’s how far ahead he is right now.”
A tweet flashed onscreen: @BallonDorCentral: Tristan could score zero goals at the Euros and still be the Ballon d’Or front-runner.
Tinashe nodded slowly.
“But if he wins it?”
“That’s the coronation. That’s the moment he crowns himself as the best player in the world with not even Ronaldo and Messi fans being able to argue whose better.”
“But he’s not the only one chasing legacy.”
A slow-motion cut of Cristiano Ronaldo. Shirtless. Muscles flexed. Champions League trophy above his head.
“Cristiano Ronaldo — 31 years old. The last lion roaring.”
“He’s won everything at club level. But no major international title. And this? This might be his final chance.”
Clips played — Ronaldo’s free kick against Hungary. Ronaldo consoling teammates in 2004. Ronaldo barking orders from the sideline.
“If he wins the Euros, he completes his resume. He silences the only argument Messi fans have left. He becomes the greatest goalscorer in history and an international champion.”
“And honestly? If he does it… the Ballon d’Or conversation gets spicy.”
Tinashe leaned in.
“It becomes a real two-horse race — Tristan vs. Cristiano. Past vs. future. And if it’s Portugal vs. England in the final?”
“You already know that’s gonna be the greatest match in history.”
“And it’s not just them. There are plenty of young players and teams looking to prove themselves.”
“This tournament… matters. More than most.”
He looked into the camera.
“This isn’t just a Euro. It’s a battleground for legacy.”
“A defining moment in modern football.”
“No matter who you support… history’s about to be written.”
He clasped his hands.
“So get comfortable.”
“Because Euro 2016?”
“It might be the most important tournament of the modern era.”
“Because this summer — someone’s story becomes immortal.”
.
Chapter is 5.1. I wanted to keep writing but an emergency came up.
Comments
Fallon
Final gonna be fiiiiiire i can't wait for cr7 vs tristan man 🤣 they gonna be barking orders for 90+ minutes of stress please don't skip that and make it worth it
noname
https://discord.gg/XSRgbmWMTB
AlexisGoated11
Can you please dop the link of the discord so I can see the images
sam
Awesome Chapter!
