June 13, 2016 | Marseille – 8:41 PM
The curtains were drawn, muting the last streaks of a fading Mediterranean sunset. The room was dim, the air thick with the low hum of the hotel's ventilation and the occasional car horn from the boulevard below.
Barbara lay half-asleep against his chest, her legs tangled loosely with his, her thumb tracing slow, absent circles through the fabric of his training shirt. Her breathing had settled into that soft rhythm somewhere between waking and dreaming.
A feeling Tristan hadn't felt in weeks. A feeling he so dearly missed.
Since joining the England camp, life had been simple: train, play, repeat, do a few ADS and interviews for the team and now the mess after the Russia match.
They'd barely had a moment like this. And even now, he couldn't really switch off.
Normally players alongside their girlfriends or wifes weren't supposed to be together but because of the last match, Roy felt like it was better if the players were their families for a few days until England had their next match.
His mind kept circling back to the violence. To what could've happened if Barbara or his parents had been there in the crowd. To the images of flares, fists, and sirens that kept replaying behind his eyelids every time he tried to sleep.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying not to wake her.
He needed to call John in the morning, more security, maybe double the detail. Six guards this time, minimum.
He got too comfortable with life.
He lay there on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone above them. The light from the screen flickered across his face as he scrolled through the group stages, the glow catching in Barbara's hair where it spilled over his chest.
"Huh Germany smashed Ukraine," he muttered under his breath, thumb flicking down the screen. "Three-nil. Not bad."
He didn't remember much of this tournament from memory so seeing each score was brand new to him but he did remember how it ended for England.
Iceland. The sheer disbelief around the country. The headlines, the whole of the UK going mad trying to find the escape goats from the manager to the players.
Barbara shifted slightly, her hair brushing his jaw. "Good?" she mumbled, half-asleep.
"For them," he said softly.
His eyes flicked down the feed again. "Wales beat Slovakia, two-one. Spain scraped by the Czechs. Belgium drew with Italy."
She cracked one eye open, the faintest smile curving her lips. "That bad?"
"For Belgium? Yeah." His tone dropped a little, thoughtful now. "They were supposed to walk that group. Something's off, maybe in the dressing room. KDB had a shocker."
There was no other reason why Beglum struggled besides internal matters. The team was just too talented.
He refreshed the page again to who was at the top of their tables.
June 10 – France 2–1 Romania
June 11 – Wales 2–1 Slovakia
June 11 – England 3–1 Russia
June 12 – Germany 3–0 Ukraine
June 13 – Spain 1–0 Czech Republic
June 13 – Belgium 1–1 Italy
.
Group A
France – 3 pts
Switzerland – 3 pts
Romania – 0 pts
Albania – 0 pts
Group B
England – 3 pts
Wales – 3 pts
Russia – 0 pts
Slovakia – 0 pts
Group C
Germany – 3 pts
Poland – 3 pts
Northern Ireland – 0 pts
Ukraine – 0 pts
Group D
Spain – 3 pts
Croatia – 3 pts
Czech Republic – 0 pts
Turkey – 0 pts
Group E
Italy – 1 pt
Belgium – 1 pt
Republic of Ireland – 0 pts
Sweden – 0 pts
Group F
Austria – 0 pts
Hungary – 0 pts
Iceland – 0 pts
Portugal – 0 pts
.
He tilted the phone away, letting it rest on his stomach. His free hand drifted into her hair, combing through it slowly, fingertips tracing small circles against her scalp. He liked doing that. "Things are gonna change after this tournament," he said quietly.
Barbara blinked her eyes open, still half-drowsy. "What do you mean?"
Her tone was soft, curious. She assumed he meant Liverpool, the move, the chaos, the press but there was something in his voice that didn't sound like football.
He hesitated, eyes fixed on the ceiling for a moment before he spoke remembering the last time they had a talk about this topic.
"I want more security."
She didn't show much surprise, not much as Tristan was expecting. She'd been expecting this conversation, even if she'd hoped he'd let it go. Since the Lazio incident, he'd been restless every time a stranger got too close in airports, hotels, restaurants. And now, after Russia… after the fights… something in him had shifted again.
Barbara pushed herself up slightly, resting on one elbow, the sheet slipping from her shoulder. "Love," she said softly, "tell me what's on your mind. And don't tell me nothing's wrong, I know when my boyfriend isn't himself."
He tried to smirk, a flicker of the old playfulness. "Lucky me," he said but the smile faded almost immediately.
His thumb kept moving through her hair, slower now. "That was before Lazio," he murmured. "I let that one go because you and my parents weren't there. But this time was different. Russia…" His voice trailed for a moment before tightening again. "I didn't even have to think about it. The images just came what if you'd been in that crowd? What if something happened to my parents?"
Barbara's eyes softened. "But we weren't," she whispered.
He looked at her then directly at her eyes trying to convey his feelings. "But what if you had been?"
The words came out heavier than he meant them to. "You're running Stella now. I'm worth more than most clubs. My face is everywhere. We can't pretend we're just… normal people anymore."
Barbara didn't answer right away. Her gaze dropped to her hand, resting lightly on his chest. She traced the edge of his shirt, feeling his heartbeat through the fabric.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but threaded with something like acceptance.
"Okay," she said.
Tristan blinked. "Okay?" He hadn't expected it to be that simple since she was quite stubborn on this.
She nodded once, still not looking at him. "I didn't want to feel like I needed protection," she admitted. "I wanted us to keep things simple. Normal. But if it helps you sleep better at night… then yeah." Her hand stilled on his chest. "You're right. We're not the kids we were two years ago. We can't keep thinking like we are."
He exhaled a deep breathe. The tension that had been sitting under his ribs for days finally eased just a little. He pulled her closer and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"I'll talk to John in the morning," he murmured. "Thank you."
She smiled faintly against his chest. "Don't thank me," she said. "Thank you for caring so much. I love you."
Next Morning
Tristan walked between his parents along the shaded boulevard, a pair of sunglasses pushed up into his curls. His cap was pulled low, his hands tucked into the side pockets of his joggers. A coffee sat half-finished in his right hand. Julia had insisted on a walk, and Ling wanted to get a proper croissant, not one of the "hotel buffet disappointments."
So here they were. A quiet stretch of time, just the three of them.
"I'm serious," Tristan said, voice low but firm. "You both need your own security."
Julia lifted an eyebrow without looking at him. "We've got John."
"No, I've got John," Tristan replied. "You two and Barbara just borrow him when I'm not using him."
She gave him a flat look. "Tristan—"
"Mum. Please. After Rome I should've said it. After Russia I have to. What if you'd been there? What if someone grabbed your arm or pushed you down in the middle of that mess?"
She opened her mouth, but this time it was Ling who answered first.
"He's right."
Julia turned, surprised. Ling rarely took sides in these talks.
Tristan took the chance. "Look," he said, slowing his steps, "you don't need six bodyguards in sunglasses at your hip. I'm not asking for that. But even one guy? One trained guy? That's not overkill anymore."
Julia's fingers tightened around her paper bag. For a long second, she didn't say anything.
Then, finally—
"Fine," she murmured. "You win."
Tristan blinked. "Really?"
"Yes. Don't rub it in."
A laugh escaped him. "Wouldn't dream of it."
"You already are," she muttered, elbowing him lightly.
They walked a few more steps in silence. Then Ling nudged Tristan with a nod ahead.
"Is that who I think it is?"
Down the curve of the path, just by the park entrance, a familiar figure was jogging at a casual pace, earbuds in, sweat on his brow.
Tristan smiled. "Yep."
He raised a hand.
"Kanté!"
The French midfielder slowed, popped one earbud out, and blinked in surprise before jogging over with a wide grin.
(The dialogue between Tristan and Kanté is spoken in French, but written here in English.)
"Brother," Kanté said softly as he approached, his voice gentle but warm. "You good?"
Tristan turned, and the tension in his shoulders eased the moment he saw him."Yeah," he said, pulling him into a quick hug. "You?"
Kanté nodded, the small honest kind of nod he always gave when he was tired but didn't want to complain. "As good as someone can be when Deschamps wakes us up at six and runs us like dogs."
Tristan let out a small laugh. "Sounds like him."
Kanté's eyes flicked toward Julia and Ling. Julia greeted him with a warm smile, Ling with a polite bow. Kanté returned both.
Once Tristan's parents stepped away to give them room, Kanté's voice softened again.
"I saw your speech," he said. "I called you after. You probably didn't notice."
"I did," Tristan said. "Just late. It meant a lot."
Kanté nodded. "People listen when you speak now. So I don't think England fans will get that crazy again.
"They better." Tristan exhaled through his nose. "If we get kicked out of the tournament, I'm blaming every bottle-throwing idiot one by one."
Both men laughed.
When the laughter faded, Tristan shifted slightly, glancing at his parents pretending not to listen.
"You've been keeping up with the group results?" he asked.
Kanté shrugged lightly. "If we win our next match, we qualify. But that's not what I'm thinking about now."
"Liverpool?" Tristan guessed.
Kanté didn't answer with words, just gave a tiny smile."After the Euros," he said. "Same timing as you. I'll announce it then."
Tristan raised a brow. "So it's official?"
"Close to it, just gotta announce it and sign the contract. Both clubs agreed to the deal." Kanté replied. "Jürgen called my mother and father himself."
Tristan laughed under his breath. "Yeah, that sounds like him. Bet they loved him."
Kanté shrugged again, but there was a bit of pride in his eyes. "Too much energy. But yes. They liked him."
Tristan nudged him with his elbow. "Hey… I saw videos. Back home. You've been working in your village?"
Kanté looked down briefly, rubbing the strap of his bag, one of his tiny tells when he felt embarrassed being praised. "Yes," he said quietly. "A school. Clean water. And farming equipment for the co-op. It's slow… but it's moving."
"Let me help."
Kanté blinked, caught off guard. "I didn't ask you to."
"You don't need to," Tristan said. "Champions Foundation is growing next year. Africa, Eastern Europe. I'll get my director to reach out to your people."
A long moment passed. Kanté's face softened — touched, almost emotional.
"Thank you, man."
Tristan bumped his shoulder lightly. "Don't thank me. We're best friends. I would've done it even if we never spoke."
Kanté laughed quietly, a warm, shy sound.
Then Tristan's phone buzzed.
Roy: Training meeting moved earlier.
He groaned. "I have to go. But we'll talk soon?"
Kanté nodded once, confidence returning.
"We'll see each other in the final."