England's Greatest

Chapter 141 - How to Break Records

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..

October 4, 2014: King Power Stadium...

Just days ago, Leicester had eased past their Europa League opponents—now they looked to solidify their place near the top of the Premier League table.

King Power was alive with energy, and the home crowd was eager to watch another brilliant showing from their team.

As the teams lined up, Rob Hawthorne's voice carried through the Sky Sports broadcast.

"A big night for Leicester City, and they come into this one in fantastic form. A comfortable win in the Europa League just a few days ago, and now they're sat third in the Premier League table—Nigel Pearson's side is proving they belong with the best this season."

Beside him, Andy Hinchcliffe nodded.

"Absolutely, Rob. Leicester has been one of the stories of the season so far. They've found consistency, they're scoring goals, and winning."

As the camera panned across the packed stands, Leicester fans waved their scarves, singing at full voice.

The referee glanced at his watch, raised his whistle to his lips, and blew.

The first few minutes set the tone.

Pressing high, Leicester suffocated Burnley's attempts to build out from the back, forcing them into rushed clearances. Cambiasso and Drinkwater, forming the double pivot in midfield, kept the team's shape intact, winning second balls and feeding possession into Leicester's attacking third.

Tristan, who was the central playmaker, saw plenty of the ball early. He took passes under pressure and turned out of tight spaces with ease.

Burnley struggled to keep up. By the 33rd minute, the breakthrough arrived.

Burnley had dropped deeper, trying to avoid Leicester's pressure, but it only invited more danger. Cambiasso intercepted a loose pass just inside Leicester's half and immediately laid the ball off to Tristan, who was already scanning upfield.

Mahrez had stayed wide on the right all game, keeping Burnley's left-back pinned, but now, with a sudden burst of speed, he darted inside, slipping between the two center-backs. Tristan saw it before anyone else.

The pass came instantly.

A perfect ball that threaded the gap between defenders, landing right in Mahrez's path.

"Oh, that's brilliant from Tristan!" Hawthorne's voice rose with excitement. "Mahrez is in—can he finish?"

The Algerian winger took it in stride, one touch to control the ball, another to set up the shot.

Tom Heaton rushed out, arms spread wide, but Mahrez was a step ahead.

With a flick of his left foot, the ball glided past the onrushing keeper.

It rolled into the net beautifully. 1-0, Leicester.

King Power Stadium erupted, fans bouncing in the stands. Mahrez pointed back toward Tristan, who gave a nod of acknowledgement before jogging back into position.

"That's exactly why he's so important," Hinchcliffe said, shaking his head in admiration. "The vision, the execution—it's effortless. Mahrez doesn't even have to adjust his run."

Leicester's celebrations had barely died down when Burnley struck back. A long throw into the box in the 39th minute caused chaos. Wes Morgan rose to clear, but the ball skimmed off his head and fell awkwardly.

Burnley scrambled to get a shot away, and after a brief scuffle, Michael Kightly was there, poking the ball past Kasper Schmeichel from six yards out.

1-1.

Hawthorne's voice rose as the net rippled. "And just like that, Burnley is back in it! Leicester switched off for a moment, and they've been punished." Hinchcliffe added, "That's a cheap one to concede. They had the lead, they were in control, but they let Burnley back into the game with some slack defending."

Schmeichel clapped his hands, yelling at the defense to refocus.

And refocus they did. Drinkwater and Cambiasso took control, keeping possession as Leicester patiently worked Burnley's defense.

The ball cycled between Albrighton and Mahrez on the wings, stretching the visitors, searching for an opening.

Then, in the 40th minute, it came.

Tristan, stationed just outside the box, spotted Mahrez peeling away to the right. He flicked a pass to the Algerian.

Mahrez shifted his body, glanced up, and whipped in a curling cross. Jeffrey Schlupp timed his run perfectly. Darting in from the left, he lost his marker and met the ball at full speed, striking a first-time shot into the bottom corner.

Just like that, 2-1, Leicester.

"And Leicester restores their lead!" Hawthorne called. "They've been relentless, and it's that man Mahrez again, this time turning provider!"

Schlupp roared in celebration, arms spread wide as his teammates mobbed him. Leicester carried their lead into halftime, but Burnley regrouped during the break. The second half was tighter, Burnley pressing higher, making it harder for Leicester to settle into their rhythm.

Tristan dropped deeper, helping Cambiasso and Drinkwater retain control, but clear chances became harder to find.

By the hour mark, Pearson made a change. The fourth official raised the board. Tristan's number appeared. "And here comes a substitution," Hawthorne noted. "Tristan Hale making way—no goals, but another strong performance." Hinchcliffe nodded. "He's been excellent. Leicester looks so composed when he's on the ball, but at 19, the club has to be smart with his minutes."

Jogging to the sideline, Tristan took in the applause, exchanged a quick high-five with his replacement, and grabbed a water bottle before taking a seat on the bench.

Tristan scanned the executive box, searching for them. It took him a second, but then—there they were.

Barbara sat beside his mum, Julia, both deep in conversation. His dad was sitting next to them. while John stood behind.

Tristan leaned forward slightly, squinting.

It was still strange, in a way, seeing Barbara and his mum together. They had only met a few days before, and they were already getting along just fine. His mum was never the judgmental type, as long as the girl he brought home didn't bring in any drama and cared for him.

Tristan could only imagine what they were talking about.

..

As the game unfolded in front of them, Julia turned slightly toward Barbara. "So, you're flying to Hungary tomorrow?"

Barbara adjusted the sleeve of her coat before nodding. "Yeah, my birthday's on the eight, so I wanted to celebrate with my family."

Julia's expression warmed. "Oh! 21, right?" She shifted in her seat, leaning in slightly.

Barbara let out a small grin. "Yeah. Feels weird."

Julia chuckled, shaking her head. "Trust me, after 25, they all start blending together."

Barbara let out a soft laugh and crossed her legs as she leaned back in her chair. "Great. Something to look forward to."

Julia laughed before glancing toward the pitch. The game was moving at a steady pace, but her attention flickered back to Barbara. "Did Tristan plan anything?"

Barbara hesitated for a second, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, something... but he won't tell me what. Just that he's got it all sorted."

Julia smiled knowingly. "That sounds like him."

Barbara exhaled, her fingers idly tracing the seam of her coat. "Yeah, he's good at that."

For a moment, the only sound between them was the crowd's hum, a wave of cheers rising as Leicester pressed forward. Barbara watched as the fans around them reacted, then tilted her head slightly. "You and Ling didn't even ask why I'm not celebrating with him."

Julia shrugged lightly, adjusting the scarf around her neck. "Because you don't have to."

Barbara blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the simple response.

Julia glanced at the field again, but her voice remained casual. "You're young. You've been together, what, two weeks? It makes sense you'd want to spend your birthday with your family after not seeing them for so long." She turned back, her eyes twinkling slightly. "And let's be honest, you spent the entire week with my son. He's had more than enough of your time."

Barbara let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Fair enough."

But the thought lingered.

Most parents—especially those with a son in a serious relationship—would have at least mentioned it. Maybe asked if Tristan was okay with it. If he was disappointed.

But Julia and Ling hadn't even hinted at it.

Tristan's family, it seemed, wasn't the possessive type.

..

The King Power Stadium buzzed with tension as the clock ticked into stoppage time. Leicester, desperate to hold onto their lead, had spent the final minutes digging in, clearing their lines, and trying to absorb Burnley's pressure.

But Burnley kept coming.

Every clearance seemed to fall to a claret shirt. Every second stretched longer than it should. The energy in the stadium had shifted—from excitement to anxiety.

90+6 minutes.

A late Burnley free kick.

Ross Wallace stood over the ball, placing it carefully on the grass as the referee marked the line for Leicester's defensive wall.

In the commentary box, Andy Hinchcliffe's tone grew sharp. "This is dangerous."

Tristan watched Wallace step back, eyeing the goal. His heartbeat thudded in his chest, but he kept his breathing steady.

One last moment. The last chance for Burnley to take the lead.

The whistle blew.

Wallace took a deep breath, then struck it.

A clean, curling left-footed shot.

Tristan's eyes followed the ball as it arched beautifully through the air, spinning with precision.

For a brief second, time seemed to pause.

Then—the net rippled.

The Burnley away end erupted.

"Oh, what a goal! Wallace rescues a point for Burnley!" Hawthorne shouted over the deafening noise.

Tristan stood frozen for a moment as he stared at the scoreboard.

2-2.

All around him, Leicester players looked stunned. Wes Morgan had his hands on his hips. Schmeichel shook his head, frustrated but helpless.

A game they had controlled for long spells—slipping away in the dying moments.

The final whistle blew.

Tristan ran a hand through his curls, exhaling sharply.

It wasn't anger. Just frustration.

They had done everything right. But sometimes, in football, that wasn't enough.

The post-match press conference room was filled with the usual hum of voices, the occasional camera flash, and the shuffling of reporters getting their notes ready. Despite the frustrating draw, there were plenty of talking points to cover—from Leicester's continued strong form to Tristan's early substitution and his outrageous stats to start the season.

Nigel Pearson took the seat first, adjusting the microphone in front of him. His expression remained calm and composed, even after Leicester's late heartbreak.

One of the first questions was expected.

"Nigel, another strong performance from Tristanbut he was taken off at the 60-minute mark. Can you explain that decision?"

Pearson leaned back slightly, nodding. "Tristan's under strict time control for fixtures we feel confident in," he explained. "He's still young, and as much as we all know his talent, we have to think long-term. His workload is being carefully managed—tonight was part of that."

Another reporter jumped in.

"But with the game still in the balance, was there any hesitation in taking him off?"

Pearson shook his head. "No, the decision was made before kickoff. We trust the rest of the squad to see games out, and we have to look after Tristan. He's played a lot of minutes already this season, and we don't want to push him beyond what's necessary."

A few more questions were aimed at Leicester's overall performance, the late equalizer, and the team's positioning in the league. But then—the attention shifted.

The media officer signaled the next player to step in.

Tristan walked in, still wearing his training top, his damp curls slightly tousled from the showers. He took a seat, adjusting the mic as he faced the journalists.

"Tristan, another strong game from you tonight, and though you didn't score, your assist for Mahrez was crucial. How do you feel about your overall performance?"

Tristan exhaled, leaning back slightly. "Yeah, I thought I played well. We controlled most of the game, created chances, and my passing felt good. Obviously, it's frustrating to concede so late and drop points. But it is what it is; all we can do is make sure it doesn't happen again."

A second journalist quickly followed up.

"You now have 6 goals and 9 assists in just six Premier League games—7 goals, 14 assists across all competitions. That's an insane return for a midfielder. Do you think you can keep up this level across the entire season?"

Tristan didn't hesitate. "Yeah, I do."

There was a slight pause before the reporters leaned in, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I've started the season strong, and I don't see any reason why I can't keep this up. I know what I'm capable of."

Then came the biggest question of the night.

"Only one player in Premier League history has ever recorded more than 20 goals and 20 assists in a single season—Thierry Henry in 2002-03. Right now, you're on pace to rival those numbers. Do you believe you can reach that milestone?"

Tristan let out a small breath, but this time, there was no hesitation.

"Yeah. I think I can."

A murmur spread across the press room.

"You do?" another journalist pressed.

Tristan nodded confidently. "I'm not saying it's easy. Henry is the greatest to ever play in this league, but if you look at my numbers, I'm on pace. I back myself to get there."

The confidence in his voice was undeniable.

"You don't think it's too ambitious?"

Tristan leaned forward slightly, gripping the edge of the table. "If you don't set high expectations for yourself, you'll never reach them. I want to be one of the best. That's my goal. If I stay fit, if I keep playing at this level, then yeah—I think I can do it."

The final question of the night focused on the team's success.

"Leicester is sitting third in the table right now, exceeding expectations. Do you think you can keep this up?"

Tristan didn't even blink.

"That's the goal. We're not here just to survive—we're here to compete."

There was no doubt in his voice. The press conference ended shortly after, but as Tristan stood up, the drama already started.

..

Tristan stepped out of the King Power Stadium tunnel, exhaustion hitting him as he walked toward the parking lot. The adrenaline from the game had worn off.

As he approached his car, he spotted them—his parents and Barbara, waiting nearby.

His mum was the first to notice him, nudging his dad lightly. Barbara turned next tilting her head slightly, the same way she always did when she was studying him.

"Took you long enough," His mum teased, stepping forward to give him a quick hug. "Good game, by the way. Shame about the ending."

Tristan returned the hug before looking at his dad, who gave him a small nod

Barbara stayed where she was, eyes flickering over him, as if checking to see if he was frustrated about the draw. She didn't have to ask. She already knew.

Tristan reached past her, grabbing her hand, unlocking the car. "Let's get in."

The car ride to his parents' house wasn't long, just a short detour before he and Barbara would head home.

As they pulled up outside, Julia turned back to Barbara. "Enjoy your flight tomorrow. Tell your family we say hello."

Barbara smiled. "I will. And I'll make sure to get something embarrassing out of Tristan while I'm gone."

Julia laughed, stepping out of the car. "Please do."

Ling gave his son a small pat on the back before following her inside. Tristan watched them disappear into the house before sighing, shaking his head.

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Tristan just shook his head, pulling her closer, "They like you too much."

Barbara just grinned, pulling her knees up slightly as she got comfortable. "I know."

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm glow over the city as John pulled the car into the driveway. The hum of the engine faded as he shifted into park.

Tristan pushed open the door first, stepping out and rolling his shoulders after the long ride. Barbara followed, her arms crossed, eyeing him as they made their way toward the house.

"So, you really won't tell me what you have planned?" she asked, her tone half-playful, half-exasperated.

Tristan, walking ahead, stretched his arms behind his head, looking entirely too relaxed. "Nope."

"Come on, please?" Barbara said, tilting her head and looking up at him with the softest eyes she could make.

Tristan didn't even look, knowing he would fold as he opened the door.

The aroma of fresh herbs and something sizzling on the stove greeted them immediately. In the kitchen, Felix stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, expertly chopping ingredients while a pot simmered on the stove.

Across from him, Soma leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed as she studied a document—probably Tristan's nutritional plan.

The team didn't live in the house, as there was no need to; Felix was the only one with a key to the house, as he had to come early in the morning.

..

The dining table was cleared, empty plates stacked in the sink as Felix moved around the kitchen, finishing up his prep for the next meal. The lingering smell of garlic, butter, and herbs still filled the air, a reminder of the meal they'd just devoured.

Tristan leaned back in his chair, arms stretched behind his head. "That was solid. Your good Felix."

Barbara, seated across from him, sighed in satisfaction, tapping her fingers lightly on the table. "Felix, I take back everything I said about you earlier."

Felix, who was drying his hands with a towel, didn't even look up. "What did you say earlier?"

Barbara paused, then quickly shook her head. "Nothing important."

Tristan let out a chuckle, pushing his chair back. "I'm going to hit the gym."

Barbara's brows lifted slightly. "Already?"

He nodded, standing up and stretching. "Yeah. Gotta train. Do you want to join? I know you haven't worked out for a few days."

"Yeah, I'm coming; I'm going to go change." Barbara replied headin upstairs.

..

[A/N: I did not want to write this scene, a few Patreons forced me to include this since I lost a bet, fuck me.]

The basement gym was one of the best parts of the house—spacious, well-equipped, and private. It had everything Tristan needed : a full squat rack, free weights, resistance bands, a treadmill, and they planned on buying even more equipments.

The TV mounted on the wall played SpongeBob SquarePants, Barbara loved it.

Barbara was fully focused on her Pilates routine, her body moving fluidly through each stretch. Meanwhile, Tristan—who was supposed to be in the middle of his own workout—was doing absolutely nothing productive.

Instead, he was watching her.

She wore a fitted sports bra and seamless leggings, her high ponytail swaying slightly as she moved. Every controlled motion kept his attention locked in place, the sheen of sweat on her skin only making it worse.

Tristan, leaning against the bench press, let out a slow exhale. He had lifted exactly nothing in the past five minutes.

Barbara, still holding a pose, glanced over without missing a beat. "You're staring."

Tristan, blinking like he'd been caught, straightened up.

Barbara arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You haven't lifted anything since we came down here."

Tristan, instead of looking guilty, sat forward on the bench, resting his elbows on his knees.

"You're distracting."

Barbara rolled her eyes, shifting into another stretch with ease. "Or maybe you just have no focus."

Tristan, dragging a hand through his curls, didn't even pretend to deny it.

"Or maybe you shouldn't wear that in my gym."

Barbara let out a mock gasp, pressing a hand to her chest.

"Your gym?" she repeated, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Excuse me, we share this house."

Tristan chuckled, finally gripping the bar and pushing through a few slow reps—though his mind was still nowhere near the workout.

In the background, SpongeBob's voice blasted through the speakers.

"I don't need it... I don't need it... I definitely don't need it."

Barbara, oblivious to the effect she was having on him, shifted into another deep stretch, her back arching slightly.

Tristan, gripping the weights, muttered under his breath.

"I need it."

Barbara caught that instantly and turned her head, eyes narrowing slightly.

"What was that?"

Tristan didn't answer. Instead, he smirked, walked over, and without warning—landed a firm slap on her butt.

The sharp sound echoed in the gym.

Barbara gasped, whipping around so fast she nearly lost balance.

"Tristan!"

Tristan, grinning, took a step back, hands up in fake innocence. "What? Just helping with form."

Barbara stared at him, lips pressing together as if she was fighting off a laugh. She let out an exaggerated sigh, pretending to ignore him as she returned to her routine.

For a second, it seemed like she was letting it go.

Then, midway through Tristan's next set, she struck.

With zero warning, Barbara snapped a sharp slap across his lower back.

Tristan jerked forward slightly, nearly losing grip on the barbell. "The fuck—"

Barbara grinned, stretching her arms overhead like nothing had happened. "What? Just helping with form."

Tristan let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Alright. That was cute."

Barbara tilted her head, smiling. "I thought so."

Tristan, watching her closely now, leaned against the bar again. "I'm getting you back for that."

Barbara only shrugged. "You can try."

SpongeBob continued playing in the background, but at this point, neither of them was paying attention.

Barbara exhaled, dropping onto the mat and stretching her arms above her head. "Finally."

Tristan, grinning, flopped down beside her, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt. "Come on, that wasn't so bad."

Barbara turned her head to look at him, unimpressed. "You say that because you spent half the session distracting me."

Tristan let out a dramatic sigh, flinging an arm over his forehead. "Guilty. But in my defense, I was also very productive."

Barbara snorted. "Lifting weights while staring at me doesn't count as productive."

Tristan grinned, rolling onto his side to face her. "I did more than you think."

Barbara rolled her eyes, sitting up and grabbing the remote. "Whatever. I need this break."

Barbara sat cross-legged on the mat, still catching her breath, as Tristan sprawled out beside her, towel draped over his shoulder.

She flipped through the channels, stopping when she landed on a familiar set—a football pundit show.

Tristan peeked up lazily, raising an eyebrow. "Really? You wanna watch pundits argue again?"

"I'm tired of watching Spongebob, gives you bad ideas in the head of yours." Barbara said , reaching for her water bottle.

Tristan sighed, sitting up and wiping his face. "Fine. But if they start talking nonsense, I'm turning it off."

The segment had already begun, and the moment Leicester City's logo popped up, Tristan knew he was about to be the center of attention.

Alan Shearer leaned forward, shaking his head in amusement. "I don't know what Leicester City are feeding their players, but whatever it is, it's working. A newly promoted team sitting third in the table? They're playing like title contenders."

Jamie Carragher let out a small scoff. "Title contenders? Let's slow down. They've been brilliant, no doubt, but let's see where they are after 20 games. That's when we'll know if they're the real deal."

Shearer nodded. "That's fair, but look at the contrast between them and Burnley. Both promoted, but Burnley is struggling while Leicester is playing some of the best football in the league."

Carragher crossed his arms. "Yeah, and a big reason for that is Tristan which just isn't sustainable, a 19 year old can't maintain this type of form. Six goals, nine assists in seven league games—it's amazing but come on in a few more games, he's gonna hit a wall.."

Shearer gestured toward the on-screen stats. "Only one player in Premier League history has ever recorded 20 goals and 20 assists in a single season—Thierry Henry in 2002-03. Right now, Tristan is on pace to rival those numbers. Do you lot think he can actually do it?"

Carragher exhaled. "It's early, but if you're asking if he has the talent? Absolutely. He's got the vision, the passing range, and he's scoring more than expected. The question is—can he stay fit and maintain this form? No I don't think so but in a few more season? 100%. Leicester's squad depth isn't great, and if he plays too many minutes, fatigue or injury could slow him down."

Shearer grinned. "Alright, before the start of the show, we posted a poll on Twitter."

🚨 Can Tristan break Thierry Henry's assist record this season? Or achieve a double-double with 20 goals and 20 assists?

🔹 YES – 70%

🔹 NO – 30%

Alan Shearer's voice filled the room. "Seventy percent believe he'll do it."

Barbara's eyes flicked toward Tristan, who had already unlocked his phone. His thumb moved fast across the screen.

"Tristan, what are you doin?" she asked, tilting her head as she leaned closer.

Tristan barely glanced up. "What does it look like?"

Barbara huffed. "I don't know, maybe wait five seconds before jumping in?"

Tristan ignored her, hitting send.

@Tristan_22

"Why not both?"

Barbara sighed, dropping back onto the mat. "Confidence and just vibes, that's your whole brand."

Tristan's lips twitched in amusement as he started typing again.

@Tristan_22

"If I break Henry's assist record or hit 20 goals and 20 assists this season, I'll donate £100,000 to a charity chosen by the fans. If I don't, I'll still donate £50,000. Either way, we'll do some good together."

Barbara sat up instantly hearing Tristan mutter 100,000. "You just threw in a hundred grand like it was pocket change."

Tristan tossed his phone aside like he hadn't just made a public commitment to six figures. "Why not? If I make history, might as well do something good with it."

"You didn't even think about it," Barbara pointed out, crossing her arms.

He turned his head, eyes meeting hers. "You just don't believe I can hit 20/20."

Barbara scoffed. "Of course, I do. I wanted a hat trick before, and you got it for me. Now, I want you to break the record."

Tristan let that sink in, his amusement fading slightly as his expression softened. "So I'm basically playing for you at this point?"

Barbara didn't hesitate. "Yes." She leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against his lips, fingers grazing along his jaw.

Tristan hummed against her mouth, his hands sliding to her waist. "I could get used to that."

Barbara pulled back, resting her forehead lightly against his. " If you hit those numbers, I'll donate too."

Tristan blinked. "Wait, what?"

Before he could stop her, she reached for her phone. "Let me—"

He was faster. His hand shot out, snatching it before she could type a single word. "No chance."

Barbara frowned. "What? Why not?"

Tristan exhaled, brushing his knuckles against her cheek before shaking his head. "Babe, you don't even have more than 350k in your account right now. You'll join in later, when you're making money."

Barbara opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. He wasn't wrong. Most of her money was tied up, and while she was doing well, six-figure donations weren't exactly part of her budget yet.

Her arms crossed, eyes narrowing slightly. "Fine. But when I start making more, I'm in."

Tristan grinned, pulling her back onto his chest as he leaned against the wall. "Deal."

Before Barbara could say anything else, his phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

She grabbed it, holding up the screen. "Well, congratulations. You're going viral."

@InsideFootball

"Tristan Hale just casually pledged 100k to charity. Unreal."

@FoxesNews

"Our playmaker, our star. We are witnessing greatness. 🦊🔥"

@EPLStats

"Tristan Hale is on pace for 30+ assists and 25 goals this season. Henry's record might actually be in danger. Now, he's throwing money at charity if he does it? Absolute class."

Tristan ran a hand through his curls, a low chuckle escaping. "Well, that escalated quickly."

Barbara nudged his shoulder. "No backing out now."

Grinning, Tristan grabbed the remote. "Alright. That's enough football talk. Back to SpongeBob."

Barbara shook her head, letting herself sink into his warmth. "You really have the attention span of a child."

Barbara rolled her eyes, but she didn't pull away. The match analysis could wait. Right now, with him holding her close, the world felt a little lighter.

Barbara was curled up against Tristan, her head resting on his shoulder as they lounged on the padded floor. The post-workout exhaustion had settled in, and neither of them had the energy to move.

Then—his phone buzzed against the floor.

Barbara groaned, barely pulling back as she exhaled against his lips. "You have got to be kidding me."

Tristan dropped his head against her shoulder with an exaggerated sigh. "I swear, I'm throwing that thing out the window one of these days."

His fingers reached blindly for the device, his gaze still on her. The second he saw the name on the screen, he let out another groan. "Mendes."

Barbara didn't even try to hide her dismay. "Of course it's Mendes. The man has an internal radar for ruining moments."

Tristan barely got out a huff of laughter before answering. "Mendes, what now?"

His agent wasted no time. "Do you ever think before you tweet?"

Tristan glanced at Barbara, who had leaned back slightly, arms crossed as she watched the call unfold like a spectator at a tennis match. He shrugged. "I like to think so."

Mendes let out a sharp breath, already irritated. "You just painted the biggest target on your back. You think teams weren't already planning around you? Now you've handed them extra motivation. No one wants to be the team that lets you hit those numbers."

Tristan shifted, leaning back against the wall. His tone remained cool. "Mendes, teams have been targeting me from day one. You think this changes anything? If anything, it pushes me harder."

"You're saying you want the pressure?" Mendes sounded skeptical, but there was a hint of reluctant curiosity in his voice.

"I thrive off it," Tristan answered without hesitation. His hand idly moved against Barbara's thigh, fingers brushing the fabric of her leggings. "I'm not just aiming for the assist record—I'm going for the double-double. 20 goals, 20 assists. And believe me I can do it."

Mendes was silent for a beat before letting out a chuckle, low and impressed. "Alright, kid. Just make sure you back it up."

Tristan's mouth quirked into a slow smile. "I will."

........

5291 word count

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