Chapter 3: The First Step
After the brief incident on the road, Tristan finally arrived back home, a small suburban house.
As he stepped inside, he barely had time to shut the door before he heard the familiar sound of his mother, Julia, hurrying toward him.
"Tristan!" she called, appearing from the living room with a bright smile. Before he could say a word, she wrapped him in a tight hug.
"I'm back," he chuckled, letting her fuss over him.
She pulled back just enough to cup his face, her expression somewhere between affectionate and exasperated. "You get tanner every time I see you! Is training that tough, or are you just refusing to wear sunscreen?"
Tristan grinned. "A bit of both, probably."
Julia shook her head playfully. "Honestly. You work so hard, and now you're too grown to let your mum take care of you properly." She took his backpack off his shoulder before he could protest. "Come on, you must be starving. I just finished making breakfast."
That was music to his ears. "Perfect timing," he said, following her toward the dining room.
Sitting at the head of the table was his father, Ling Hale, dressed in a crisp white shirt, black-framed glasses resting on his nose. A financial newspaper was in his hands, but as soon as Tristan walked in, he glanced up, setting it down with a warm smile.
"Welcome home, son," he said, his voice full of quiet pride.
"Good to be back," Tristan replied, taking a seat beside him.
The spread on the table was enough to make his mouth water—bacon, sausages, and eggs sat alongside steaming bowls of millet porridge, fried dough sticks, steamed dumplings, and salted duck eggs. A mix of Western and Chinese dishes, just like always.
Tristan paused for a moment, just taking it in. It had been a while since he'd had a meal like this—his strict diet at the club meant that breakfast usually involved protein shakes and carefully portioned meals. But today? He could allow himself to indulge just a little.
As he reached for a dumpling, Julia sat across from him, watching him with a proud smile.
"I still can't believe it," she said, shaking her head in awe. "Seeing you play in the FA Cup—your name on the back of the shirt, the whole crowd cheering. It feels unreal."
Tristan smiled, recalling the moment. "Yeah, it was incredible."
"But you're not officially in the first team yet, right?" Julia asked, a hint of concern in her voice.
Tristan shook his head. "Not yet. It was just a one-time call-up for the FA Cup game. But who knows? Maybe after that performance, they'll consider keeping me around."
His father reached for his coffee, taking a slow sip before speaking. "And if not, you'll make them. That's the thing about football—talent gets you noticed, but hard work keeps you there."
Tristan nodded. "I know, Dad. I'm ready for whatever comes next."
Julia reached over and squeezed his hand. "You've worked so hard, love. If they don't see it now, they will soon."
Tristan felt warmth settle in his chest. His parents had always believed in him, even when he had doubted himself.
With a grin, he picked up his chopsticks. "Alright, enough football talk—I'm starving."
His mother laughed, placing another dumpling onto his plate. "Then eat up. I made plenty."
Tristan was halfway through his second helping of dumplings and eggs when his phone vibrated in his pocket.
The unexpected ring made him pause mid-bite. He set his chopsticks down, wiped his hands on a napkin, and pulled out his phone. An unfamiliar number.
His mother, Julia, glanced over. "Who's calling you this early?"
"No idea," Tristan muttered, answering the call. "Hello?"
A familiar, slightly hoarse voice greeted him on the other end.
"Tristan, it's me, Walsh."
Tristan straightened in his chair. "Coach?"
Steve Walsh—Leicester City's assistant manager and chief scout. He was the man responsible for identifying talent, the one who had always kept an eye on Tristan's progress in the youth setup.
"Listen up," Walsh continued, his tone professional but tinged with amusement. "Nigel asked me to call you. You're reporting to the first team tomorrow."
Tristan felt his stomach flip. First team?
He had been hoping for this moment, but hearing it out loud was something else entirely.
Julia and Ling, sensing something important was happening, watched him closely.
"You serious?" Tristan asked, gripping the phone tighter.
Walsh let out a small chuckle. "Wouldn't be calling if I wasn't, kid. You've earned it. But don't get too comfortable—we'll be watching every move you make. See you tomorrow."
The line went dead.
For a moment, Tristan just sat there, phone still in hand, staring at the screen as if he needed a second to process the words.
His mother was the first to break the silence. "Tristan?"
He blinked, looking up. A grin spread across his face. "I'm in, Mum. The first team. I'm training with them starting tomorrow."
Julia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Oh my God!"
His father, Ling, let out a deep chuckle, setting his coffee down. "Took them long enough," he said, pride evident in his voice.
Julia rushed around the table, pulling Tristan into another hug. "Oh, sweetheart, I knew it! I knew they'd see how good you are!"
Tristan laughed, hugging her back. "Mum, I still have to prove myself."
"You will," she said firmly, pulling back to cup his face like he was still her little boy. "And when you do, they'll never let you go."
Tristan took a deep breath, letting the reality of it sink in.
....
The next morning, Tristan was driven back to Belvoir Drive hy his dad, his mind racing with thoughts about what lay ahead.
Today was the day. His first official training session with the Leicester City first team.
Walking into the facility, he felt a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling under the surface. He had worked his whole life for this moment, but now that it was real,
As Tristan stepped into the first-team locker room for the first time, he immediately noticed the difference from the youth setup. The air was thick with energy, banter bouncing between players, the smell of fresh kits, grass, and boot polish mixing together in the way only a football dressing room could.
Standing in the center of the room was Steve Walsh, Leicester's assistant coach and chief scout—the man who had pushed for his promotion.
Walsh clapped his hands, getting the squad's attention. "Alright, lads, listen up. We've got a new addition to the first team today."
Head coach Nigel Pearson stepped forward, nodding toward Tristan. "From today, Tristan is officially part of the first team. Let's give him a warm welcome."
A round of applause broke out, led by captain Wes Morgan, who gave Tristan an approving nod. Some players clapped enthusiastically, while a few of the midfielders—particularly those who saw him as competition—offered only polite, measured claps.
It didn't bother Tristan. He expected it.
His performance in the FA Cup had already convinced most of them that he had what it took. The real test, however, would come in training, where words and reputations meant nothing.
As the clapping faded, Morgan's deep voice cut through the room.
"Tristan, how about a proper introduction?"
Tristan stood up without hesitation, walking to the center of the locker room. He wasn't nervous.
He looked around at the faces of his new teammates—some familiar, some watching him with curiosity. Instead of feeling intimidated, he smiled, arms open in a relaxed but confident posture.
"Morning, lads. I'm Tristan. You can call me Hale if that's easier. I'm here to work hard, learn from you all, and do whatever I can to help the team."
There was a beat of silence before a few approving nods.
His introduction had been straightforward, no arrogance, no unnecessary modesty—just honest and professional.
From the side, Mahrez smirked before standing up and offering a handshake. "Welcome to the first team, mate."
Tristan shook his hand. "Thanks, Riyad."
"Hope you're ready to get kicked around in training," Jamie Vardy piped up from his seat, grinning.
A few chuckles rippled through the locker room, and Tristan laughed. "As long as you don't mind me kicking back."
Vardy's grin widened. "Oh, I like this kid already."
After the brief introduction, Steve Walsh led Tristan to his assigned locker.
"That's your spot," he said, pointing to the far-right corner of the room.
Hanging neatly in the locker was his freshly printed No. 22 Leicester City jersey. Above it, a nameplate read:
TRISTAN HALE
Tristan reached out, running his fingers over the name. It felt surreal—his own space in the first-team locker room.
A professional footballer's reality.
He sat down and began lacing up his Adidas blue Predator Absolute boots when a voice came from beside him.
"Nice boots," Mahrez commented, stretching his legs.
"Cheers," Tristan replied. "You getting used to England yet?"
Mahrez laughed. "Slowly. Bit colder than France, though."
"You'll survive," Tristan smirked. "At least you don't have to fight for a midfield spot."
Mahrez grinned. "Yeah, good luck with that. Drinkwater and James don't like giving up their places."
Tristan knew it already. Danny Drinkwater and Matty James were the established midfield pairing. Both had been key to Leicester's dominance in the Championship last season. With Andy King and Dean Hammond also competing for spots, breaking into the starting XI would be anything but easy.
He finished tying his boots, his focus sharpening. Fine. Let it be a challenge. He had never wanted anything easy.
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