May 23 , 2016 | Leicester - 10:47 A.M.
Tristan cracked one eye open, instantly regretting it. The sunlight hit him like a free kick to the face.
He groaned and rolled onto his side, burying half his face in the pillow before dragging a hand down over his eyes.
"Never again," he croaked, voice barely a whisper. "No more drinks… for a year."
He sat up halfway, squinting against the light. Big mistake. The room tilted slightly, and he immediately dropped his head into his hands, rubbing at his temples with slow, circular motions. His fingers pressed hard into his forehead, trying to push the pain out through sheer will.
He'd promised himself he wouldn't drink again after his rebirth — years sober, disciplined, focused. But after a season like that? After the parade? After seeing the lads lose their minds and the city turn into one big party? He gave in knowing he wouldn't get a second chance to celebrate with the team.
And now he was paying for it.
His head was pounding. He let out a low laugh — half-miserable, half-amused.
"Yeah," he muttered, rubbing his forehead again. "Definitely not worth it."
He pushed himself upright, every muscle protesting like it had filed a complaint.
On the dresser, a folded note sat beside a glass of water and two painkillers. He squinted until the words came into focus:
Breakfast. Painkillers. Don't die before lunch. I'll be back later tonight – London, Stella meeting. Biscuit's with me. Love you. – Barbara
Tristan huffed out a weak laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Don't die before lunch," he muttered. "I'll do my best."
He'd forgotten about the meeting. Of course. Stella — Barbara's makeup brandl — was on the verge of launching. She'd been everywhere lately: phone calls, samples, interviews, late nights.
They'd decided to time the launch perfectly, right in the afterglow of his season.
It made sense. Four crowns. One season. No defeats.
The world was calling it The Perfect Year — and he was the face of it. The Premier League. The Europa League. The FA Cup. The League Cup. Every trophy that mattered, all in their cabinet.
The smell of toast and eggs pulled Tristan downstairs like a lifeline.
The kitchen was spotless — too spotless — except for a plate left waiting on the counter, still warm beneath a glass cover. Scrambled eggs, two slices of toast, and a small bowl of fruit. Next to it sat a folded note in Felix's neat handwriting:
Congratulations, Captain. You've earned the hangover. Hydrate. – Felix.
Tristan chuckled under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck."The man even cooks with sarcasm."
He slid onto the stool, fork in hand, and managed to get halfway through the eggs before his phone started buzzing across the counter. The name flashing on the screen made him blink.
Roy Hodgson.
He swallowed quickly, wiped his hands on a napkin, and answered. "Morning, coach."
"Morning, Tristan," Roy's voice came through, calm and warm. "I hope I'm not waking you."
Tristan laughed hoarsely. "Bit late for that, sir. The hangover did that hours ago."
Roy chuckled. "I figured as much. You lads have earned it, though — four trophies, unbeaten. It's an incredible thing you've done, son. You've made the whole country proud."
Tristan's smile softened. "Thank you. Still feels… surreal, honestly."
"I can't believe it myself," Roy admitted. "Enjoy it while you can. You've just finished what might be the greatest club season in football history. And as England manager, I couldn't be prouder. But—"
Tristan smirked faintly. "There's always a 'but.'"
That earned another quiet laugh. "You know me too well. The Euros are around the corner, and we've decided to give all the Leicester lads a few days' rest. You've played more football in one season than some manage in two. You need to breathe before leading the country again."
Tristan leaned back, rubbing at his forehead. "That's fair. The lads are dead on their feet." He smiled faintly. "I'm not far behind."
"I can imagine," Roy said. "Still, when you do report, I'll need my captain sharp. You, Vardy, Drinkwater, Albrighton, Chilwell — all of you have earned a rest. But once June comes, it's back to business. The world's watching now. Everyone expects England to play like Leicester — fearless, fast, ruthless. Everyone expects us to win."
Tristan nodded slowly, even though Roy couldn't see him. "You can count on us, coach. We'll be ready."
"I know you will," Roy replied. "Now, here's the plan. We've got two warm-ups before France — May twenty-seventh against Australia, and the twenty-ninth against Portugal. You're all excused from both."
Tristan blinked, surprised. "Seriously?"
"Seriously," Roy said. "You've earned it. But come June sixth, when camp opens at St. George's Park — I expect my captain back at one hundred percent. No rust. No hangover. First group match is June eleventh."
Tristan chuckled softly. "Who've we drawn?"
He honestly wasn't paying attention with all his attention on Leciester. But he did remember Iceland from his first life knocking out England. He couldn't let the happen for both country and himself. He would lose the Ballon Dor if that happened.
A rustle of paper. Then: "Group B. Russia first, then Slovakia, and we finish with Wales."
"Tough group," Tristan murmured.
"Manageable," Roy corrected. "If we play like Leicester, we'll top it. You just remember — you're not done leading yet."
Tristan smiled faintly. "Wouldn't dream of it."
"Good man," Roy said, his voice softening. "Now, one last thing."
"Yeah?"
"I've been managing for forty years," Roy said quietly, almost reflective. "And I don't think I've ever seen a season like yours. Don't let anyone call it luck. What you did was leadership. That's why you're my captain."
Tristan felt something tighten in his chest. "Thank you, coach."
"Now," Roy added, his tone lightening again, "eat something that isn't champagne, drink some water, and stay alive till June."
The line went dead with a soft click.
Tristan stared at the phone for a moment, then set it down beside his empty plate. Despite the rough start to their relationship early in the year, they'd found mutual respect. Roy had confided weeks ago that this tournament might be his last.
That made it simple.
He'd win the Euros — for himself, for his country… and for Roy Hodgson too.
The day dragged by in slow motion. By mid-afternoon, the hangover had dulled into a faint ache behind his eyes.
Tristan sat slouched on the couch, barefoot, a mug of black coffee cooling untouched beside him. The TV murmured quietly in the background, some talk show replaying the parade highlights, but he wasn't listening.
Instead, his thumb scrolled aimlessly through his phone.
Every headline was about either him or Leciester.
TRISTAN HALE COMPLETES FOOTBALL.
ENGLAND'S GOAT — AT TWENTY?
BALLON D'OR ALREADY DECIDED?
LIVERPOOL PREPARE £210M BID FOR WHO!
He stared at that last one for a few seconds before scrolling again. His release clause was 120 so the rest of it was for Kante and a few other players.
He rubbed a hand over his face, eyes half-closed, trying to find some peace in the silence and then the doorbell rang.
Once. Then again, impatiently.
Tristan sighed. "Can't even have one day off," he muttered.
He pushed himself up, padded barefoot through the hallway, and opened the door.
Standing there on the porch was Jorge Mendes, immaculate in a navy suit, tie perfectly knotted.
Beside him stood Sofia, dressed in a soft blue wrap dress that matched the sky, holding a folder pressed against her chest.
"Tristan!" Mendes spread his arms wide as soon as he stepped through the door, grin already plastered across his face. "Congratulations, meu rapaz! You're still alive! Honestly, I was less surprised by Leicester winning four trophies than I was hearing you actually drank!"
Tristan groaned, dragging a hand through his hair as he shut the door behind them. "Barely alive," he muttered.
Sofia smiled softly as she followed Mendes in, her heels clicking against the hardwood. "Felix texted me this morning," she said, setting her bag down. "Said you looked like you'd gone twelve rounds with a bottle of champagne."
Tristan dropped back onto the couch with a sigh. "He wasn't wrong. The bottle won."
Mendes laughed, that rich, booming sound filling the quiet house. He set a thick folder on the coffee table with a soft thump and straightened his cufflinks. "Well," he said, eyes glinting, "the fun's over now, capitão. You've conquered football. Time to conquer the rest of the world — and make some money while we're at it."
Tristan tilted his head, half-smiling through his exhaustion. "Of course it is. Who doesn't like money."
Mendes leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers drumming lightly on the folder. His eyes gleamed with that unmistakable spark — the look of a man who smelled fortune.
"You know, Tristan," he began, voice smooth, confident, almost reverent, "the Ballon d'Or is already ninety percent yours. You've just had the greatest season I've ever witnessed — four trophies, unbeaten, record-breaking numbers. The world isn't watching anymore; it's orbiting around you. You're on pace to smash Messi's ninety-one-goal calendar year, and once that falls, the rest will follow."
"That's… a lot of weight for one man, you know," Tristan said quietly.
Mendes' smile didn't falter. "It's real weight," he replied. "You don't have to dream about greatness anymore, mi amigo. You just have to keep doing what you're already doing. Lead England deep into the Euros — quarterfinals, semifinals — and it's sealed. Win the whole thing?" His grin widened. "Then the Ballon d'Or isn't a debate. It's a coronation."
Tristan rubbed at his temple, half amused, half exhausted. "You make it sound so easy."
Mendes spread his hands. "It's not easy, it's inevitable. You've changed the landscape." He paused, his tone lowering slightly. "And I'll be honest like I told you before — I don't see Portugal having a deep run this year. Ronaldo knows this could be his last real shot. He'll fight like a man possessed to stop you from taking that trophy. But England…" Mendes pointed at him. "England has the depth. The momentum. You have the momentum. If you lead them like you led Leicester, there's no stopping it."
Tristan nodded, though something flickered behind his eyes, memory, resolve. "Portugal's still dangerous," he said softly. "Never count them out. But yeah… you're right about momentum."
He remembered his first life, the heartbreak losing to Iceland, the way Portugal lifted the cup. Not this time.
Mendes sat back, the edge of his grin returning. "As for Liverpool," he said, tapping the folder again, "everything's aligned. They'll announce the package after the Euros, just as we discussed. Your move, your terms, your wages. From what I've heard, they're finalizing the structure now."
Tristan's brows lifted. "And Kanté?"
Mendes nodded approvingly. "It's moving well. Very well. They want him. The meetings have gone smoothly. He hasn't signed yet, but it's close. Could be before the Euros, could be after. Either way, it's happening."
Tristan let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Good. I didn't want to pressure him. He deserves to decide for himself."
"Of course," Mendes said, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. "But trust me — his value's only going up. Let the tournament add a few zeroes. How much you two end up costing Liverpool…" He grinned, eyes glinting with amusement. "Let's just say those American owners will finally find out what 'breaking the bank' actually means."
Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. "You really don't stop, do you?"
Mendes smiled like a man who'd already planned the next ten years. "Not when I'm sitting across from history, meu rapaz. Not when I'm sitting across from you."
"Speaking of history…" Mendes leaned back with a glint in his eye. "Sofia, go ahead. Let's give our superstar a proper shock."
Sofia stepped forward, her tone brisk but almost playful as she handed Tristan a set of neatly printed pages. "Alright, Tristan. Let's start with the headline."
She let the moment breathe.
"Your current net worth is just under £230 million."
Tristan blinked. "Sorry—what?"
His eyes scanned the top of the document, but the number didn't change.
"You heard her," Mendes said, grinning. "And that's the conservative figure."
Sofia nodded. "That includes all current contracts, equity stakes, and active investments. But by December depending on performance and endorsements, that number could easily climb past £300 million."
Tristan's mouth opened, then shut again. He looked from Sofia to Mendes like they were playing a prank.
"We told you," Mendes said, tapping the folder. "You're not just a player anymore. You represent an entire empire now."
Sofia smiled faintly as she turned the page. "Let's break it down."
She tapped the first header in the packet.
"Nike, we're finalizing the biggest deal of your career. Five years, £75 million guaranteed. Highest base salary for any footballer under their roster, with royalties tied to your cleat line, including a lifetime clause for retro editions and limited re-releases."
She glanced up.
"And yes, they've already greenlit the limited-edition Perfect Year boot. It drops the week before your first Euros match. Collector pricing, exclusive release channels, resale projected to be insane."
Mendes leaned in. "You're joining Jordan status. They want you to be their modern football icon. Even more than Ronaldo. Your value is even greater than of both Ronaldo and Messi with you having fans in all parts of the globe from China to South Africa."
Sofia turned the page.
"Burberry: three years, £20 million, a bump from the original 15. You're headlining the Autumn/Winter campaign and tied to their 'Icons of London' global ad."
"Oakley," Mendes added, "is launching a limited Hale-branded chronograph line. £8 million per years, with a 5% cut on every unit sold."
Sofia continued. "Aston Martin remains the same, but they're already discussing a performance bonus structure for media appearances."
"Now we get to the stacked tier," Mendes said, tapping the next column. "Dior, Armani, Richard Mille, Polo Ralph Lauren, combined total of $50 million over five years. Mostly appearance-based and digital campaigns. Soft image licensing."
Sofia flipped to the next page.
"And then there's the LVMH group.You're in for £18 million over three years, split across Louis Vuitton, Hublot, and Berluti. High fashion crossover. Paris Fashion Week presence is already booked."
Tristan shook his head slowly, barely believing any of it.
"And," Sofia said with a softer tone, "we've factored in your 30% equity in Stella. At soft valuation, that's already worth £30 million, and we haven't even launched yet."
"Could hit fifty if Barbara goes global," Mendes added. "And she will."
Tristan sat back on the couch, hand running over his curls. "Jesus…"
"And that," Mendes said, "is just what's on paper."
Sofia turned the next page. "Let's talk investments."
She tapped the chart. "You've currently got £60 million across your portfolio."
"Here's the setup," Mendes said, grinning like a man unveiling a masterpiece. "Seventy-five percent — £45 million — is in S&P 500 index funds. Steady, reliable compounding. Ten percent — £6 million — is sitting in UK and U.S. short-term government bonds. Safe, liquid, predictable."
Sofia glanced at him, then turned the final page. "The rest? That's where you shine."
"Your high-growth equity pool sits at £9 million. You're holding early positions in Tesla, Apple, Amazon, Netflix — all bought when they dipped — and a smaller stake in Bitcoin, which has already grown past £2 million."
Mendes drummed his fingers. "And we're not even counting physical property, private equity in Barbara's side ventures, or your image rights in Asia and North America."
Sofia added, "Projected growth in foreign licensing alone could net you £20–30 million per year, especially once the U.S. and Chinese markets open fully after the World Cup."
Tristan let out a long breath.
"So what you're telling me is…"
"You're already one of the highest-paid athletes on the planet," Mendes said flatly. "And it's not even the end of May."
Sofia smiled. "At this rate, you'll be Forbes' youngest-ever top 3 entry — athlete or otherwise."
"Wow," Tristan exhaled, eyes scanning the numbers again. "That's… a lot to take in."
He leaned back slowly, the weight of it settling in. His mind whirred beneath the surface.
And this is him playing it safe…
No sudden stock spikes, no overreaching. Just enough to look smart — smart investments, Nothing crazy. Let the world think he was just lucky with timing. That's all he needed.
Sofia and Mendes kept talking, but for a brief moment, all Tristan could do was sit there silent, still realizing how much bigger everything was becoming.
Mendes leaned back in his seat, but his eyes stayed fixed on Tristan. The humor faded slightly from his face.
"You know this won't stay under the radar for much longer."
Tristan looked up.
"All of this?" Mendes gestured broadly toward the thick folder. "It's going to come out. The net worth, the investments, the contracts. Maybe not every detail but the headlines will be loud. There's only so long we can hide how powerful you've become."
Sofia nodded, more gently. "Once the new Nike deal is signed and the Stella valuation goes public, journalists will dig deeper. Financial analysts, too. You're not a breakout footballer anymore, you're the youngest economic force in sport. A brand, a portfolio, a cultural figure. And that means attention."
"I'll be ready," Tristan said quietly. "Just let me play the Euros first. Let me win it. Then they can all come knocking."
Sofia closed the folder with a soft click. "We're doing our best to minimize and hide everything we can."
Mendes gave a satisfied nod. "Good. Because this is where everything accelerates. You've entered a level where every single thing you do will get attention."
Tristan stood up, stretching slightly, the dull ache of the hangover still in his bones. He walked to the window, pulling the curtain back.
The streets outside were quiet now. No parades, no confetti, no chants. He rested his hand against the glass and whispered to himself, almost without thinking—
"No more comfort. Not now."
Behind him, Mendes rose, fixing his cuffs. "We'll be in touch before the Euro boot launches. Nike wants a promotional video. Sofia will handle the details."
Sofia stood too. "We'll leave you to rest."
Tristan nodded, still watching the street.
They moved toward the door. Mendes turned one last time, smiling.
"You've already changed Leicester. Now… change the world."
The door clicked shut behind them.
Tristan stayed there, just for a moment, breathing in the silence. Then he turned toward the stairs, toward the shower, toward the gym tucked in the basement.
He had a country to lead.
A legacy to build.
A future to protect.
And absolutely no time to waste.