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2.97% England's Greatest / Chapter 3: The First Step

章 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.


next chapter

章 4: First-Team Training

Despite the January transfer window being in full swing, Leicester City remained relatively quiet. While clubs across Europe scrambled for reinforcements, Nigel Pearson and the Leicester board were content with their squad.

They had made only one significant move—selling a fringe midfielder who had barely featured all season.

In his place?

They promoted Tristan Hale to the first team.

Dressed in a black GPS monitoring vest beneath his long-sleeved training gear, Tristan followed his teammates onto the training pitch.

The crisp winter air filled his lungs as he stepped onto the lush green grass, freshly cut and still damp with morning dew.

Laughter and chatter filled the atmosphere, blending with the rhythmic thud of footballs being passed around.

Tristan took a deep breath and calmed himself down.

As the squad began their warm-up drills, Pearson and his assistant Steve Walsh stood on the sideline, watching closely.

"Keep it moving, lads! Let's warm up those legs!" Pearson's voice carried across the pitch, commanding attention.

But his real focus? Tristan Hale.

He and Walsh observed every movement—the way Tristan sprinted, the way he carried himself, and the intensity he brought to training.

Pearson murmured, eyes locked on Tristan.

"His burst and speed are impressive. He moves with real purpose."

Walsh, nodding in agreement, added, "And look at his stamina—he's keeping pace with the fittest guys out there. If we play him in midfield, he'll contribute defensively as well. His reading of the game is natural."

Their eyes followed Tristan as he executed the next set of drills:

Tight ball control exercises? Sharp and precise.

Quick dribbling drills? Smooth, confident.

Short-passing sequences? Flawless.

Shooting drills? Decent, but room to improve.

Of course, his passing was the standout.

His ability to switch play effortlessly, his vision, and his weight of pass were something no one else in the squad could replicate.

And after what he did against Stoke-City, it was no surprise to see him shining in training.

As the session progressed, Pearson and Walsh continued their quiet evaluation.

"His performance in the game wasn't a fluke," Pearson muttered.

Walsh smirked. "No. And if he keeps this up, he won't just be part of the squad—he'll be running our midfield soon enough."

Pearson simply nodded, a satisfied glint in his eye.

As the warm-up wrapped up, the team transitioned into technical and tactical drills. The crisp morning air buzzed with anticipation as small groups formed across the pitch, focusing on passing, dribbling, and shooting exercises.

"Alright, Tristan! Show us what you've got!" Vardy called out, juggling a ball casually before volleying it high into the air.

"Yeah, mate! No hiding now!" Mahrez grinned, offering a quick thumbs-up as he breezed past in a dribbling drill.

Their encouragement steadied Tristan's nerves.

A few drills later, Matty James received a perfectly weighted pass from Tristan and maneuvered past a defender effortlessly.

"That's the stuff, Tristan!" James called back.

"Look at that vision!" Vardy chimed in. "Kid's got a radar in his head."

Tristan exhaled, his confidence growing.

He sharpened his focus, delivering a series of pinpoint passes—driven balls, lofted switches, delicate through balls—each one executed with precision. The ball zipped between teammates as if Tristan had measured each pass with a ruler.

"Alright, now you're showing off," Mahrez chuckled, collecting a slick diagonal pass from Tristan.

"Was waiting for you to actually make a run," Tristan shot back, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Laughter rippled through the group.

As the drills continued, one thing became clear to the coaching staff:

That FA Cup assist? It wasn't a fluke.

Tristan wasn't just playing safe passes—he was seeing moves unfold before they happened.

From the sideline, Pearson turned to Walsh.

"He's got it, doesn't he?" Pearson mused.

Walsh nodded. "You can't teach that level of awareness."

As the players regrouped for an intra-squad competition, Pearson divided them into two teams. The first-choice starters donned bright orange vests as Team A, while Team B—a mix of substitutes and younger players—stood opposite them.

Tristan found himself among Team B, lining up alongside Andy King, Matty James, and Liam Moore.

Andy clapped a hand on Tristan's back, grinning. "Don't think you're getting an easy ride, rookie! Let's see if you can keep up with us old-timers."

Tristan smirked. "I don't plan on just keeping up—I plan on winning."

Matty let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, I like the confidence. No pressure, mate—just don't bottle it in front of the gaffer."

From the other side, Vardy, leading Team A, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted toward Tristan.

"Oi! Don't be too fancy with those passes, Tristan—we actually want to play football, not tic-tac-toe!"

Mahrez, standing beside him, nudged Vardy playfully. "You're just worried he's gonna embarrass you."

The banter eased some of Tristan's nerves, but as the whistle blew, his focus sharpened. 

The game started at an intense pace, with Team A quickly asserting dominance. Danny Drinkwater and Matty James controlled the midfield, their experience showing as they dictated possession.

Tristan quickly realized he had no time to settle. Every touch was pressured, every pass contested.

"Watch Drinkwater!" Andy called out, shifting his position beside Tristan. "He's always looking for that quick ball behind."

"Got it," Tristan responded, already tracking Drinkwater's movement.

The midfield battle was fierce, with Tristan working tirelessly to close passing lanes and regain possession. But Team A was relentless, shifting the ball quickly to stretch Team B's defensive line.

Drinkwater spotted Knockaert making a darting run and sent a quick through ball toward him.

Tristan read the pass instinctively, stepping in at the perfect moment to intercept it.

"Nice read, Tristan!" Matty called out as Tristan immediately transitioned into attack, spraying a quick diagonal pass out wide to Mahrez.

"Keep it up, lad!" Andy encouraged, clapping his hands as the momentum shifted.

Despite Tristan's strong defensive work, Team A's veteran players weren't going down easily. Lloyd Dyer used his experience to pull Tristan out of position, while Knockaert's agility kept him on edge.

Pearson, watching from the sideline, shouted, "Don't let him get past you, Tristan! Stay strong!"

The pressure was relentless, but Tristan fed off it.

Team B began finding their rhythm, with Tristan at the heart of it.

He linked up smoothly with Mahrez and Albrighton, dictating play with precise, well-timed passes.

His vision was on full display. Short, quick exchanges. A lofted switch to the right. A driven through ball splitting defenders.

Vardy, watching from Team A, called over to Pearson with a mock complaint.

"Boss! Hale's making us look bad—take him off!"

Pearson chuckled. "Then maybe stop giving him the ball."

The players laughed, but the intensity remained.

With Team A pressing high, Tristan spotted an opportunity. As soon as he received the ball, he took a quick touch forward and drove into space.

Pearson's voice boomed across the pitch: "Push forward!"

Tristan didn't hesitate. He accelerated past an onrushing midfielder, dodged a half-hearted challenge, then threaded a perfectly weighted ball between two defenders toward Mahrez.

"Go on, Riyad!" Tristan urged, eyes locked on the play.

Mahrez took it in stride, cutting inside with his signature move, but just as he shaped to shoot, his footing slipped slightly, and the defender recovered.

"Unlucky!" Vardy called, jogging over to pat Mahrez on the back. "Next time, mate!"

Tristan clenched his jaw, disappointed it hadn't led to a goal—but Mahrez clapped him on the shoulder as they jogged back.

"That pass was perfect, man," Mahrez reassured him. "We'll get the next one."

As the game progressed, Tristan felt his confidence growing.

He was no longer just keeping up—he was setting the tempo, making an impact in every phase of play.

Every pass, every movement, every decision was sharper.

As the whistle blew for a break, players gathered around, panting but grinning.

"God damn, what's inside that head of yours!" Vardy said, clapping a sweaty hand on his back. "Not just a pretty face, then."

Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. 

Mahrez nodded approvingly. "If you keep playing like this, you'll be in the starting lineup sooner than you think."

Tristan let the words sink in. He wasn't just another academy kid anymore—he was a player the first team could trust.

"Alright, lads! We build on this! Keep working hard, and we'll see where it takes us!" Pearson shouted at the team once training was over.

As training wrapped up, Tristan lingered on the pitch, watching the sun dip below the training ground.


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