Stade de France
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The confetti was still falling.
Tristan turned slightly, the anthem still ringing in his ears, the echo of the crowd still vibrating in his chest. Nearby, the Henri Delaunay Trophy had already been passed between teammates, kissed and lifted a dozen times over. But the weight of it still lingered on his hands, like muscle memory refusing to fade.
He spotted him just before he disappeared.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
The silver medal had just settled on his neck. He turned. Took one step, then another, heading for the tunnels with his head low.
Tristan called out.
"Cristiano."
Ronaldo slowed but didn't stop.
Tristan jogged a few steps, catching up.
"Hey," he said, breath tight in his chest. "No hard feelings, man. I looked up to you…"
Ronaldo stopped. "I don't need your pity."
Then he walked off.
Tristan stood there for a second, alone in the falling confetti, watching one of the greatest players of all time vanish into the tunnel.
He didn't know how to feel exactly at this moment. A part of him had expected more.
.
Luckily for Tristan, he wasn't given the time to dwell on it.
"Tristan! You've got your Man of the Match interview!" a voice called out behind him.
He turned as a UEFA staffer jogged over, headset crooked, clipboard in hand. Another followed close behind.
"We've also got a little surprise," the second one said, slightly breathless. "Couple of awards they're bringing out early."
Tristan exhaled through his nose, stealing one last glance at the tunnel.
Then he turned away from it. "Tell them I'll be five minutes," he said, already walking towards his family.
His family was already spilling onto the grass. The security had eased. Other players were hugging loved ones, posing for pictures. Wayne Rooney had his boys in his arms. Dele Alli was already being pulled into a group selfie by Rashford's mum.
And there they were.
Barbara. Her parents. Her sister Anita.
His mum, Julia. His dad, Ling.
He didn't even slow down.
"Babe," he breathed.
Barbara was already moving. She crashed into his chest, arms flung around his neck like she never wanted to let go.
"You did it," she whispered into his ear, kissing him.
He held her tighter than he'd held the trophy.
Then came his mum—tears already falling, mouth covered with one hand.
"Tristan…" she breathed, voice cracking. "Oh my God, you did it, baby. You really did it."
He stepped into her arms without a word. She wrapped him up like she was trying to keep him from floating away.
"I couldn't even scream when it went in," she sobbed into his shoulder. "I just started crying. You were brilliant. You were—" Her voice caught again.
Tristan kissed her forehead. "Love you, Mum."
Behind her, Ling followed, eyes glinting behind his glasses, jaw clenched like he was holding everything in.
But when Tristan turned and pulled him into a hug, his father broke.
"I don't have words for you," Ling said quietly, gripping the back of his son's neck. "I really don't. I don't think any father ever dreams this big."
Tristan pulled back slightly to look at him. "You didn't cry, did you?"
"I didn't stop," Ling said, blinking hard. "I think I started around the third goal and just never stopped."
Anita hung back for a second, one hand over her mouth, before Barbara reached out and tugged her in.
"Oh, come here," Tristan said, opening his arms again.
Anita crashed into him next, laughing through tears as she wrapped her arms around his waist.
"You're unreal," she said, voice shaking. "Absolutely unreal."
"Oi," Tristan muttered, squeezing her tight. "You're not allowed to cry harder than my mum."
That got a laugh.
Then he turned to Barbara's parents. He hugged them both then pulled Barbara closer again for one last breath in their arms.
"I've gotta go," he said, glancing toward the cameras. "They want the interview. Couple surprise awards too, apparently."
Barbara nodded, her hand still locked in his. "We'll be right here."
He leaned in and kissed her—soft, quick, steadying.
"Go on," he said to all of them, glancing back toward the trophy and the cluster of players. "Take some pictures. With the trophy. With the guys."
"Five minutes," he added. "I'll be right back."
.
Mixed Zone Tunnel
The backdrop was a wall of UEFA logos, sponsor brands, and tournament emblems
Tristan stepped into position, flanked by two UEFA staffers. One clipped a mic to his collar. Another pressed an earpiece gently into place. A small monitor showed his image going live in the background.
"Okay, we're ready in five… four…"
The reporter took a breath, but when the signal came through her ear, she still hesitated.
Even she didn't know how to start.
Then—
"Tristan Hale," she said, voice tight, eyes wide. "How do you even begin to put this into words?"
Tristan exhaled, slow and unsteady.
"Man… you don't," he said, almost laughing. "Like I'm still trying to process it. We just won the Euros. That's something you dream about as a kid, and you made it happen so right now everything feels like a dreaml."
He shook his head. "We knew we had a target on our back, and a lot of people questioned if we were ready. Too young, too new, not enough experience, whatever. But the guys were unreal. Every single one of them."
He glanced off-camera, toward the pitch. "This was everything."
The reporter smiled, shaky, overwhelmed, caught somewhere between professionalism and awe.
"Well… you answered those questions tonight," she said. "Loud and clear."
She checked her notes, then looked back up, eyes locking with his.
"You just scored four goals in a European Final. Final score: England five, Portugal two . You were involved in every single goal. You've helped deliver your country its first major title in fifty years… and you're twenty-one."
A breath.
"What on earth are you feeling right now?"
He ran a hand through his hair, breath finally catching after everything.
"Tired," he said with a dry laugh. "Relieved. Proud. I don't even know anymore."
A quick exhale. "This whole year… everything was building to this. The club season, the pressure, the awards, the expectations—it was all leading here. And now it's done. It's real. I've won it all. First for my club. Now for my country."
He paused, voice low.
"It's a weight off my back. Every session. Every sacrifice. It was all for this."
The reporter let the silence linger a second, then checked her card.
"Do you know your numbers?" she asked. "Across the tournament? Seven matches. Eleven goals. Five assists. An average rating of 9.3. And tonight? A perfect ten."
She looked up.
"That's never happened in the history of the Euros."
Tristan didn't answer right away, staring at the fans singing and celebrating. No one had left other than of course Portgual fans.
"You dream of nights like this your whole life," he said softly. "But it's never like the dream."
He turned back to her.
"It's louder. Messier. You don't hear the stats. You hear the anthem. You hear your mum crying. You hear your name being screamed by thousands of people and you wonder… how the hell did I become that guy?"
She blinked. Then gently:
"Have you had time to process it yet?"
Tristan shook his head.
"No," he said. "And honestly… I don't want to. Not yet."
The reporter smiled, still caught between disbelief and admiration.
"Can you walk us through the fourth goal?"
He half-laughed.
"Which one was that?"
"The rocket," she said. "The one that sealed it."
Tristan nodded, slowly.
"I just remember the space, I had" he said. "And then I was like why not? The game was already over at the point."
The reporter steadied herself, then spoke one last time.
"You've got millions watching right now. England. Leicester. The whole world. What do you say to them?"
Tristan looked straight into the lens.
"I hope I made you proud."
"Especially you, Leicester."
Then a new voice came in from off-camera.
"Tristan," someone called from the side. "Could you stay a minute longer?"
He turned.
A UEFA staffer approached, nodding toward the nearby stage.
"The UEFA President is about to announce three awards," the staffer said. "Golden Boot. Young Player of the Tournament. Player of the Tournament. Just stay close."
The reporter laughed under her breath. "I mean… we all know who's winning those."
Tristan just exhaled.
"I still want to hear it."
He stepped aside, toward the staging area as Aleksander Čeferin stepped forward as the podium was wheeled onto the pitch—three trophies already resting atop its velvet lining.
Golden Boot.
Player of the Tournament.
Young Player of the Tournament.
All with one name already etched in gold.
Because even if Portugal had won—none of these would've changed hands.
Tristan Hale had just delivered the greatest tournament performance in European Championship history.
.
Now, as Aleksander Čeferin stepped up to the podium, the chants swelled.
"TRISTAN!"
"TRISTAN!"
"TRISTAN!"
Behind him, three gleaming trophies rested on deep navy velvet—gold plaques catching the floodlights, cameras locked in.
Čeferin raised the mic. His voice rang out clear, steady, full of gravity.
"Normally, we present these awards in the days that follow.
But how do you delay history?"
The stadium held its breath.
"For the greatest finals performance I've ever witnessed…
With eleven goals and five assists across seven matches…
For the UEFA Euro 2016 Golden Boot, Young Player of the Tournament, and Player of the Tournament—
The man of miracles…
Tristan Hale."
The roar shook the rafters.
Tristan stepped forward, smiling. He climbed the short steps, shook Čeferin's hand, and nodded a quiet thank-you.
Then, one by one, he lifted the trophies.
Golden Boot.
Young Player.
Player of the Tournament.
Each time the noise grew louder. Each time the flashbulbs lit the pitch.
His teammates were already flooding toward the stage again cheering for their Captain.
Behind them, England flags waved like wildfire.
In the stands. In the dugouts. Across the world.
The name on everyone's lips was the same.
"Tristan Hale."
.
There are so many things I wanna say and why I have been gone but I rather not and keep it to myself. There were multiple situations happening and the moment I got back to the US, I thought things would be back to normal but no something else has to happen. But we are finally back with this short chapter.
There are so many things I have planned out so please stay tuned.