Quick update: I can no longer promise daily Chapters. If I don't post a Chapter on Webnovel it ans I haven't posted the daily Chapter for Patreon. This is just to ensure Patreon is ahead by 25 Chapters and I don't burn myself out.
And now enjoy this long Chapter.
..
October 1st, 2015
The plane humd quietly above the clouds. No one was talking. Seats leaned back, legs stretched out, faces dimly lit by phone screens. So players had headphones on. So stared out the windows. Most were just scrolling—ssages from family, group chats, friends.
Tristan sat beside Kanté. Neither had said much since boarding. Kanté had his arms crossed, hood up. Tristan had kept an eye on him the entire ti. Every so often, he typed sothing on his phone, looked over, then locked it again.
He'd ssaged his parents and Barbara first: We're safe. Heading ho now.
He got a reply instantly from all three.
Love: Is everyone okay? Are you okay? Is Kante okay? What about everyone else? How is Mahrez? What's going to happen? It's going to be okay, I love you.
He took a breath before replying to the barrage of questions.
TRISTAN: We are okay, mood is down though. Physically everyone is fine, ntally I'm not sure. I'm next to Kante, he's not talking much. I'll talk to you when we land. Pick up please.
Normally John would pick him up—but not tonight. He just wanted to see soone he loved the mont they landed.
He scrolled to the family chat.
Mum: Omg, what happened? Are you okay? Your dad is freaking out, I just saw highlights of the ga, those poor players. Are they all okay?
He blinked a few tis. Looked back at Kanté.
"You good?"
Kanté nodded. "I'm fine."
Tristan didn't believe him. But he didn't push it either.
A few rows back, Schichel was quietly watching clips of the match. Mahrez was on a call in French, voice low and drained. Vardy just stared at the ceiling. Simpson scrolled slowly, face dark. Ben had his hood up.
Tristan flicked open Twitter just to see the reaction to the ga.
That's when he saw it.
A grainy video, posted only minutes ago. The Leicester away section in Ro.
Red smoke. Screams. Fists.
Another clip. A man in a Leicester jacket trying to shield soone smaller—maybe a teen. A flare exploded near their feet.
Tristan's stomach twisted.
He turned the screen toward Kanté.
Kanté leaned in—then recoiled.
"What the hell..."
Simpson muttered across the aisle, "What is that...?"
Schlupp looked up from his phone. "Wait—run that back."
Tristan did.
More angles were flooding in now. One showed two masked n dragging a Leicester fan by the scarf and beating him near the stairwell. Another showed a woman trying to crawl over the barrier before being kicked back down.
Maguire stood in the aisle, face hard. "Jesus Christ..."
Marc Albrighton sat forward, elbows on knees. "That's not a brawl. That's an ambush."
More voices followed. Fast. Rattled.
"Is that blood?"
"Fuckin' hell..."
"Look, look—he's not even moving."
"They're stomping him."
"Where the hell are the cops?"
Tristan scrolled. Each new upload was worse. One showed an older man being hit with what looked like a pipe. Another—taken from higher up—captured the flare that landed in the middle of the crowd and lit soone's coat on fire.
Schichel leaned over the seat. "Those are our people, our fans."
Mahrez had stopped talking. He sat, silent now, eyes fixed on a still fra.
At the front of the cabin, Benetti appeared—face pale, voice low.
"Quiet," he said. "Listen up."
The noise died quickly. Even the ones with headphones tugged them down.
Benetti looked over the rows. "Authorities just confird: Lazio ultras attacked the Leicester away end after the match. Coordinated. Multiple exits blocked. Pipes. Flares. At least thirty injured, so hospitalized. Ambulances were delayed leaving the grounds."
Nobody said a word.
Ranieri stood just behind Benetti, jaw tight. "Police presence was thin. They planned this. Targeted the exits. There were delays because groups were circling outside."
For a mont, no one breathed.
Then Tristan said it quietly: "It wasn't a fight. It was a setup."
Schlupp exhaled. "They hunted them."
Simpson closed his phone. "So what now? What happens to them?"
"No statents," Ranieri said. His voice wasn't raised, but it cut clean. "Nobody posts. Nobody calls press. Not until we land."
He turned to Benetti. "Tell the pilots we're diverting to East Midlands. I don't want one cara crew waiting for us. No press. No fanfare. And tell the club—no statent. Not yet. We don't say anything until we've seen everything."
Benetti nodded and disappeared toward the front.
Tristan leaned back in his seat, rubbing his forehead looking like he was about to have a heart attack.
Out the window, there was nothing but dark sky.
But behind his eyes—red smoke, glass, screams.
And the sickening realization: They'd won the ga. It would have fine sowhat if it was just the players taking the verbal abuse, they could handle that. They were stronger than that. But no one gave a damn about that now.
.
October 2, 2015 – 12:41 AM, East Midlands Airport
The plane touched down in silence.
No applause. No celebration. Just the groan of the landing gear and the sudden flood of phone vibrations. Tristan's screen lit up instantly — dozens of notifications, group chats, missed calls. He didn't check a single one.
Outside his window, the tarmac was dimly lit. No press. No fans. Just cones, wind, and a few buses waiting at a distance.
The seatbelt sign pinged off.
Wes Morgan stood up slowly. "Alright," he said, quiet but steady. "Let's get ho."
The players rose in silence, grabbing jackets and backpacks without the usual banter. No ribbing, no shoulder slaps. Just the quiet shuffle of boots and tired eyes. They filed off the plane like n coming down from sothing they hadn't fully processed.
Tristan stepped out with Kanté. The cold hit instantly.
Then he saw them.
Across the barrier, a loose half-circle of people waited — not fans, not dia, but family. Wives, girlfriends, kids in coats, parents with arms crossed against the chill.
Barbara was at the front, arms tucked into her coat, eyes locked on him. She looked exhausted, like she hadn't slept. Her hair was slightly wind-blown. Next to her — his mum and dad.
Tristan blinked.
He hadn't told them to co.
He didn't want to worry them. But of course they ca.
"Is that your family?" Kanté asked softly, slowing beside him. They were speaking in French.
Tristan nodded. "Yeah. Yours didn't co?"
"They're in Paris." He hesitated. "I haven't moved them yet."
Tristan didn't push. He just clapped a hand gently on Kanté's shoulder as they kept walking.
Barbara stepped forward first. She didn't say anything. Just wrapped her arms around him — tight — and held on like she needed it more than he did.
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"I'm so sorry."
He pressed his cheek to the top of her head. "Not your fault."
His mum joined them a heartbeat later, pulling them both into a ssy, lopsided hug.
"Oh, sweetheart," she said, already teary. "We saw the footage... Are you okay?"
His dad was quieter. But he rested a firm hand on Tristan's back. "You're ho now. That's all that matters."
Off to the side, Kanté lingered, unsure whether to stay or step back. But Julia turned to him.
"You alright, love?"
Kanté nodded once, politely. "Yes. Thank you."
She opened her arms. "Co here."
He didn't hesitate this ti. Just stepped into the hug. It didn't look like he really had a choice in that matter.
"I'm glad you're safe too," she said, hand on his shoulder. "We're all glad."
A few feet away, Schichel crouched down to embrace his son — a sleepy-looking boy in a puffy coat who ran straight into his arms. Kasper lifted him and kissed the top of his head, murmuring sothing in Danish.
Mahrez stood in a tight circle with his girlfriend and sister. He wasn't speaking much, just nodding as they hugged him one by one.
Across the line, Fuchs sat on a tal luggage cart, rubbing his face as his wife handed him a coffee. She didn't ask anything. She just sat next to him.
Morgan was talking to two older won. One of them pressed a handkerchief into his hand. The other kissed his cheek.
Tristan looked back at Kanté. "You want to co stay with us tonight? We've got space."
Kanté hesitated, then nodded once. "If it's really okay."
"It is."
A few steps later, Tristan spotted Chilwell again.
"You good?"
Ben sniffed once, eyes a little glassy. "Yeah. My parents are booked into a hotel. They're staying the night. I'll be fine."
"Alright," Tristan said, squeezing his shoulder. "Call if you change your mind."
Ranieri stood near the base of the stairs with Paolo Benetti, arms folded against the cold.
When the team had cleared the plane, Ranieri raised his voice.
"No training tomorrow," he said clearly. "No dia. No etings. You go ho. You sleep. You see your families. That's it."
No one objected. No one nodded. It was just understood.
As the squad slowly broke apart — pulled away by hugs and car doors and tired footsteps — Ranieri stayed behind, watching each of them go.
Back at the barrier, Tristan gave his dad's arm a quick squeeze.
"Let's go ho."
Barbara reached for his hand.
He didn't let go.
.
1:00 AM - On the A46, headed back to Belvoir Drive
The roads were empty. Just damp tarmac, passing cones, and the hum of tires slicing through late-night wind.
Benetti gripped the steering wheel loosely, knuckles resting, headlights flickering off the road signs. His eyes stayed fixed ahead — steady, exhausted.
In the passenger seat, Ranieri stared out the window. One hand to his temple. The other holding his phone to his ear.
"...No, I won't be ho soon," he said, voice low. Italian softening at the edges. "They're all okay. But I need to go back in."
Silence on the other end.
"I know, cara. I know."
He didn't say much else.
Benetti glanced sideways for a second. The blue cast of the dashboard lit up Ranieri's face — tight around the jaw, shadows under his eyes. He didn't look like a manager right now. He looked like soone who'd seen too much too fast.
Ranieri finally spoke again.
"Just tell the girls I'll call them tomorrow. Kiss them for . Okay. Ti amo."
He hung up and let the phone drop gently to his lap.
Benetti exhaled. "Did she see the videos?"
"She saw enough."
Another pause. The silence stretched.
Then, quietly, Benetti added, "You're not sleeping tonight."
Ranieri didn't answer right away. Just looked out into the dark.
"No," he said. "And neither are you."
The car went quiet again — nothing but the engine and wind.
Until Benetti's phone buzzed in the cupholder.
He picked it up, scanned the caller ID, and muttered, "Rudkin." Then handed it to Ranieri.
Claudio answered.
"Claudio."
Jon Rudkin's voice ca through fast and direct. "Everyone's awake. UEFA, the FA, Ho Office — they're already coordinating. I've got Andrea and the board on standby. Governnt official's na is As. They want you in the call within the hour."
Ranieri rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. "What's their tone?"
"Concerned. Tense. No one's saying it yet, but they're treating this like a state-level incident. One of the victims was a UK diplomat's nephew."
Benetti swore under his breath. "Madonna."
"I'm heading to Belvoir," Ranieri said. "We'll take the call from the office."
Rudkin didn't argue. "I'll text you the secure line. You'll be on with the Ho Office rep, FA, UEFA, and the club board."
Ranieri hung up.
Benetti didn't say anything. Just adjusted his grip and pushed the accelerator slightly harder.
A few seconds passed.
Ranieri looked over. "Turn off at Anstey. Go straight to the training ground. No detours."
"You're sure?" Benetti asked, already flicking the indicator.
"I'm sure."
He stared ahead again.
"This isn't just a Europa League match," Ranieri said quietly. "Not when Tristan's on the pitch. He's a black hole. Caras don't just follow him — they orbit."
Benetti nodded grimly. "And tonight... they caught everything."
They didn't speak again until the car rolled through the gates of Belvoir Drive. Floodlights still on. The grounds empty. The badge on the wall looking heavier than usual.
As Benetti parked and cut the engine, Ranieri opened the door.
He paused.
Looked up at the office windows.
"Everyone wants answers," he murmured. "Then let's give them so."
.
1:36 AM - Tristan's House
The front door creaked open to low light and warmth. No noise. Just the faint scent of sothing stewed and forgotten.
Felix had left a note on the counter, folded neatly beside the stove.
Welco back. Don't worry about anything tonight. Eat if you're hungry. Sleep if you can.
A pot of soup still sat on the back burner, lid cracked slightly, steam long gone.
Biscuit scrambled toward the door — nails clicking against the wood floor, tail wagging in a blur — but stopped cold when she saw the faces. Her ears lowered. Head tilted.
Then, quietly, she padded past Tristan and Barbara... and made her way straight to Kanté.
She rested her head gently against his shin.
He didn't say anything. Just sat down slowly on the entryway bench and ran a hand over her fur. Slow, like he was thinking about sothing else entirely. His shoulders dropped — barely — but it was the first ti all night he looked like he could breathe.
Julia stepped into the kitchen, cardigan pulled tight, eyes scanning them all. "Let's get so tea in us," she said softly. "Just sit. I'll take care of it."
Tristan followed her in with Barbara close behind. Ling was already there, sleeves rolled, drying a second mug he hadn't even used.
Julia pulled a small tin from the cupboard — the old one with the faded lettering. Chinese tea leaves, hand-packed. She didn't even ask what kind they wanted.
"We're going calm tonight," she murmured. "No caffeine."
Barbara leaned against the kitchen island, arms folded.
"He's still shaking," she said, nodding toward Kanté.
"I know," Tristan whispered. "He hasn't really said anything since we left the airport."
Julia poured water over the leaves, then pressed down gently on the lid. "Drink," she said, handing out the cups one by one. "It helps."
They moved into the living room — low lights, no TV, just the distant patter of rain tapping the windows.
Barbara curled up on one end of the sofa, Tristan sat beside Kanté, and Julia lowered herself into the armchair.
Nobody filled the silence.
Tristan sipped once, then leaned forward. "You can stay here as long as you want. Seriously."
Kanté nodded. "rci. Just tonight... for now." He said it in French, softly.
Tristan answered the sa way: "Take your ti."
After a while, Julia and Ling excused themselves with a quiet "goodnight." Biscuit followed them up the stairs, her tail wagging slow like she knew not to be loud.
Barbara stretched and stood. "I'm going to change. Don't be long," she murmured to Tristan before brushing her hand across his shoulder on her way upstairs.
Tristan stayed behind.
He glanced sideways at Kanté, who hadn't moved much. Just sat with his tea in his lap, watching nothing in particular.
"I know it's not the sa," Tristan said eventually. "But I've felt it. That thing. When people look at you and you know what they're thinking before they say it."
Kanté didn't respond.
Then: "Not comparison," he said, quiet. "It's not about that."
He paused. Let the silence sit.
"I've dealt with racism since I was a kid. Words. Looks. Sotis worse. But tonight..." He shook his head slowly. "Tonight was sothing else. This... this was planned."
Tristan swallowed. "I know."
They didn't speak for a bit. Just sat with it.
Eventually, Kanté stood, still holding his tea. "Which room?"
"Second door on the right. The one with the bookshelf," Tristan said.
Kanté nodded and started up the stairs.
Tristan watched him go, then stood up and headed to his own room.
Barbara was already curled up in bed, the lamp still on, the duvet pulled up to her chest. Her air set loose. She looked at him as he walked in.
He slipped in beside her. She pulled him close without asking.
"You're okay," she whispered, arms wrapping around his chest.
He didn't answer at first.
Then: "Thank you."
Barbara kissed his shoulder, lips soft against the cotton of his shirt. "Of course."
He stared at the ceiling for a long mont, arms resting over hers.
"My dad took my mum's last na," he said. "Gave an English na. I used to think it was just convenience. That it made things easier."
Barbara listened, silent.
"But now... I get it. He knew. They both knew. That one day soone would try to remind I'm not white enough. Or too white to belong anywhere else."
He turned slightly, just enough to see her eyes in the dark.
"And the thing is... today it wasn't even about . I got the squinted-eye thing on the way in. That's it. Mahrez had to walk through a gauntlet. Kanté... man, you saw him. Wes—Wes never says anything. Just leads. Just carries it."
Barbara ran her hand up across his chest.
"He's a good Captain," she said softly. "There was nothing any of the players could have done to change or prevent what happened tonight."
Tristan exhaled through his nose. "Yeah?" What she said helped ease his mind off a little from the fans getting attacked. He set up a visit with the players once all the fans were back ho safe.
Barbara paused. Then kissed his shoulder again.
"I saw videos of the attackers getting arrested," she said. "That's a start."
And for now, it was enough.
They held each other under the low hum of rain until sleep finally ca.
.
Still the sa night. Leicester City Boardroom, Belvoir Drive
The fluorescent lights felt like interrogation bulbs.
Half-empty mugs littered the table. A packet of biscuits sat unopened beside a drained thermos. No one touched them. No one had touched anything since midnight.
Claudio Ranieri sat at the head of the table, eyes sunken, jaw tight. Yesterday's dress shirt clung to him like a reminder — he hadn't changed. Hadn't slept. Paolo Benetti stood at his side, shifting occasionally to stretch his back. He hadn't sat down since the call connected.
A laptop sat open in front of them. The speaker buzzed with a faint hum. The conference had been live for seven minutes.
Jon Rudkin's voice finally cut through the silence.
"Alright. Everyone's on. Let's begin."
"Robert As, Ho Office," ca the first voice — clipped, even, too calm.
"Jonathan Leatham, Football Association."
A short beat.
"Henrik Volz, UEFA Disciplinary Committee."
No one greeted anyone.
Benetti leaned forward and pressed the mic. "Claudio's here."
Ranieri didn't speak.
As opened.
"We're confirming thirty-one British citizens injured. Several in critical condition. Italian authorities failed to guarantee crowd safety. This is no longer a football issue. It is now a national one."
Ranieri finally raised his head.
"We asked for reinforcents weeks ago. Specific ones. We flagged Lazio's record, we cited past attacks, and we offered additional private security support. It wasn't accepted."
He looked up now — not angry, but hollowed out.
"This has happened before. Lazio fans. In Ro. You all know it. You call it 'tension.' But what happened last night wasn't tension."
He paused.
"It was targeted. It was racial. It was planned."
Benetti stepped in, rubbing a hand down his face.
"We were told flanking officers would be at both ends of the away section. We were told fan separation was secure. Instead, the exits were bottlenecked. The riot line didn't arrive until after the damage was done. That wasn't bad planning. That was no planning."
Henrik Volz's voice ca smooth. Too smooth.
"We are currently reviewing the footage. The scenes are deeply troubling, yes — but this incident is highly atypical—"
"It's not," Ranieri snapped. "I'm Italian. I know exactly what happened. You don't get n with pipes and masks organizing themselves at both exits in five minutes. That's not spontaneous. That's systemic."
He exhaled.
"I'm ashad. My players and fans were guests in my country. And they were hunted."
Silence.
Then Rudkin's voice cut back in, harder now.
"And now we're supposed to welco Lazio here? After this? Let them bring supporters into King Power, like we're playing a normal second leg?"
Another voice chid in — deeper, weary, from Leicester's board side.
"And if we refuse? What then? Do we forfeit? Do we get fined for not wanting more blood on English ground?"
Volz hesitated. "There is precedent for limiting away attendance—"
"There's also precedent," Benetti said sharply, "for voiding legs entirely. Matches played over one leg when conditions are unsafe. Gas moved. Gas cancelled. Don't act like this hasn't happened before."
As cleared his throat.
"The Pri Minister is being briefed as we speak. Italy's ambassador has already been summoned. We're preparing to repatriate the injured once dically viable. If UEFA cannot handle this internally, the matter will escalate to a broader European platform. And fast."
Ranieri stayed quiet for a beat.
Then: "We shouldn't play the second leg at all."
That landed like a hamr.
Rudkin didn't disagree.
Benetti glanced toward the screen. "You think English fans won't be looking for payback? You think this just stays contained? You've got photos of children bloodied in the papers. This match doesn't exist in a vacuum."
Leatham tried to soften it. "We're in uncharted territory. There's no consensus. And we have legal pressure from multiple angles already forming."
As spoke flatly. "Which is why we're calling a summit. Today. London. All parties — UEFA, FA, Ho Office, Leicester City. This cannot be dragged out. This ends today."
Volz finally relented. "We'll send delegates."
Rudkin nodded. "So will we."
As closed.
"Details within the hour. Until then — no club acts alone. One wrong statent, one flare on social dia, and we lose control."
The call cut.
Silence returned to the boardroom.
Benetti slumped into the nearest chair and rubbed his eyes with both hands.
"Not even seven," he muttered. "And we're already talking about embassy fallout and forfeits."
Ranieri stared ahead.
"Our country failed them," he said. "And I don't think they even realize it yet."
He glanced toward the frosted window. Morning was just beginning to break.
"They'll all be waking up soon," he murmured. "The players. The press. The fans. We have until noon to figure out how to please everyone."
He leaned back.
"Because if we don't — this becos more than just a match."
.
Tristan woke early. Not fully rested — not even close — but conscious.
Barbara was still asleep beside him, curled in, one arm across his chest. Her breathing was slow, even, like she was still holding the weight of yesterday in her dreams.
He didn't move at first. Just stared at the ceiling, letting the silence press into his skin. Then he leaned over, kissed her forehead, and slowly slid out from under the duvet.
Her arm slipped off his chest. She didn't stir.
Downstairs, the faint clink of ceramic and running water echoed from the kitchen. Soone was up.
Tristan moved quietly, bare feet against the cold hardwood. The scent of mint and sothing herbal drifted down the hallway — his mum was already up.
In the kitchen, Julia stood by the kettle, cardigan sleeves bunched to her elbows, hair clipped back in that lazy half-up way she defaulted to when she hadn't really slept. The lights were low, and the window above the sink still held the dull grey of a sky that hadn't made up its mind.
She didn't turn when he entered.
"Morning," she said gently.
"Morning," he echoed, voice rougher than he expected.
She reached up into the cupboard and pulled down two more cups. "Didn't sleep?"
He leaned against the island, arms crossed, eyes still adjusting. "Didn't really try."
She didn't press. Just poured water over the tea leaves. The room filled with the quiet hiss of steeping heat.
As she set the cups down, she added, "Barbara's birthday's in a few days."
"I know."
"She won't be thinking about it."
"I know," he said again, softer now.
Julia took a seat across from him and slid one of the cups forward. Her eyes didn't leave his face.
"I think the way you gave her that ring — before everything happened — I think that ant more than you realize."
He traced the rim of the cup with his finger.
"I didn't want to give it on her birthday," he said. "Felt like I'd be making her day about . About us. This month... it doesn't feel right."
Julia nodded. "Well... life clearly had its own ideas."
He gave a faint laugh — dry, humorless. "Yeah."
There was a pause. Then:
"You know Jack asked to co, right?"
Julia's expression stiffened. "I know. I was furious when I found out. You were paying for the tickets, the travel — and his parents said no?"
Tristan shrugged, tired. "Still... I'm glad they did."
"Glad?" She raised an eyebrow. "Tristan, I'm thanking every saint I know that boy stayed ho."
He cracked the smallest smile, lips barely moving. "Sa."
Before she could say more, footsteps sounded from the hallway.
Kanté appeared, wearing a grey t-shirt and soft sweatpants.
"Good morning," he said, voice quiet.
Julia looked up and gave him the sa gentle warmth she always did. "Morning, love. Tea? Toast?"
He nodded. "Yes, please. Thank you."
He walked like the floor might give out. Biscuit trotted in from the living room, ears perked, tail swaying — and made a straight line to him.
She nuzzled his shin.
Kanté blinked, then crouched down and began stroking behind her ears. His face didn't change much. But his shoulders dipped just slightly — like breathing was easier with her around.
"She's usually picky," Tristan said, watching. "That ans she likes you."
"She's calm," Kanté murmured, petting slowly. "Like a little heater with eyes."
Julia passed him a cup and a small plate. "Sit. I hope you feel at ho here, sweetheart."
He looked up, and for a mont, his face relaxed. Just a little. "I do. rci."
They gathered around the table. Not saying much. Just moving through it together.
Julia asked if he wanted butter or jam. Kanté paused like it was the hardest question he'd had all week.
"Butter," he decided.
Tristan translated casually when needed. Kanté talked a bit about his sister's old cat back in Paris. Biscuit reminded him of it. Julia laughed. Tristan did too. It wasn't big. But it was sothing.
In the back of Tristan's mind, the headlines hadn't hit yet. But he felt them coming — like a pressure drop behind his ears. Like storm air.
He studied Kanté for a mont while the others talked — the way his fingers occasionally gripped the edge of his mug too tight, the way his eyes never really settled.
He wasn't just quiet. He was haunted. They all were. But for soone like N'Golo — soone who always held himself small — last night had made him even smaller.
Tristan wanted to say sothing. But he didn't know what would help.
Then the front door opened, and cold air followed.
John stepped in, zipped up to the neck in all black, gloves in hand.
He nodded toward them — his usual quiet scan of the room. "Everyone alright?"
Julia smiled faintly. "We're coping."
John sniffed once. "Alright then. I'll get breakfast started."
He moved toward the counter.
"John," Julia called, lifting her teacup, "put the kettle back on first. I just made tea."
He paused. Looked at her.
"That's a cri," he said flatly.
Kanté actually laughed.
Tristan stood up, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I'm gonna head upstairs. Just check on her."
John gave him a look — just checking. "We'll shout when it's ready."
.
Tristan eased the bedroom door open, moving quietly.
Barbara was awake.
She sat up in bed, legs curled under the duvet, hair loose and slightly tangled. She wore his hoodie — oversized, sleeves bunched at her wrists. Her eyes found his the mont he stepped in.
"Hey," she said softly.
"Hey," he murmured back.
He crossed the room and sat beside her. The mattress dipped, and her hand instinctively reached for his.
"You okay?" she asked, studying his face.
He nodded once — automatically.
Barbara didn't let that slide. "I an actually. Not just... polite-trainer-room 'I'm fine' okay."
Tristan looked down at their hands. "I don't know."
Barbara shifted, turning toward him fully. "Did you sleep at all?"
"A few hours. Maybe."
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "I kept waking up thinking about them."
He didn't have to ask who.
"The fans," she continued. "The ones in hospital. That girl in the red coat — the one trying to climb the barrier."
Barbara's voice wavered. "How many were hurt?"
"Thirty-one confird." His voice was low. Flat. "So critical. We still don't know nas. No one's released a full list."
She inhaled shakily. "God. And Wes? Kasper?"
"Wes is okay. Kasper's kid didn't go in the end, thank God."
Barbara sat back a little, hand still in his. "You think it's going to get worse?"
He didn't answer imdiately.
"I think it already is."
Barbara nodded, slowly. "Do you know what UEFA's doing?"
"Ranieri got pulled into a call this morning. Ho Office, FA, all of them. No one agrees on anything yet. They're eting in London today."
She tilted her head. "Are you going?"
"No. Club board's handling it. They want to stay out of it. For now."
Barbara frowned. "But the players were the ones who played through it."
"Exactly," he said. "That's why they don't want or anyone else anywhere near a mic."
Her thumb brushed his. "And if they ask you to speak?"
He t her eyes. "Then I'll tell the truth. Nothing cleaned up. Nothing rehearsed."
Barbara rested her head against his shoulder. They sat in the stillness for a while — just breathing.
Then she whispered, "I hate that this is what football is now. I hate that you're even in this position."
"I don't," Tristan said, surprising even himself. "I hate what happened. But if I can make sothing shift — even a little — then maybe all this matters."
She pulled the sleeve of his hoodie over his hand. "You're twenty."
He smiled faintly. "Don't remind ."
Barbara looked up at him.
"I'm proud of you."
He leaned forward, kissed her forehead before heading downstairs.
.
The sll of breakfast filled the house — toast, sausage, eggs, sothing sweet with cinnamon. Julia moved between the stove and the island, fussing lightly with jam jars and napkins. John worked the skillet, sleeves rolled, silent but focused.
Barbara leaned against the counter in Tristan's hoodie. Her eyes were clearer now, but tired. Tristan stood beside her, fingers resting around a warm mug, barely drinking from it.
Kanté was already in the living room, curled up in the armchair with Biscuit at his feet, tea cupped in both hands. He hadn't said much all morning.
Ling sat at the edge of the dining table, reading from his tablet with his reading glasses on, but not really scrolling. His cup of tea sat untouched. He was listening more than watching.
John set the final plates down on the kitchen island.
"Alright," he said. "This is it. Eat while it's hot."
"No argunts," Julia added, smoothing the side of Tristan's hair without thinking. "And no sulking."
Tristan managed the tiniest of smiles. Barbara nudged his side.
They sat — slowly. Toast was passed. Eggs cut into. The table filled with soft clinks and the occasional exhale.
Kanté finally joined them from the armchair, plate in hand. Biscuit followed dutifully and curled under the table near his feet.
Ling looked over at him.
"Sleep alright, son?"
Kanté nodded politely. "Yes. Thank you, Mr. Hale."
"Ling," he corrected, smiling faintly. "You're in our house, you call Ling."
Kanté gave a soft nod of acknowledgnt. "rci... Ling."
Tristan buttered a slice of toast. "She doesn't do that for everyone, you know," he said, nodding toward Biscuit under the table.
"She's smart," Barbara added. "She knows who needs her."
Kanté smiled — tired, but real. "She's very good at it."
Julia poured more tea. "Did you check your phone yet?"
"No," Tristan said. "Not yet."
Barbara looked toward the hallway, then back at him. "You're going to have to soon."
"I know."
Ling set his tablet down. "Don't rush. There's ti. Once the noise starts, it won't stop."
John wiped his hands on a towel. "It already started."
.
Tristan sat back on the armrest of the couch, tea in hand, barely touched. The steam had already faded.
Kanté was in the armchair across from him, hunched forward, fingers loosely wrapped around his own mug. Biscuit slept quietly on the rug between them, her soft breathing the only sound in the room.
They sat in the silence. The TV was still off. The house was still too quiet. Ling and John had stepped away, and Barbara was in the kitchen with Julia.
Tristan stared at his phone on the table.
Still on airplane mode.
He picked it up, stared at the black screen for a second.
"You think it's worse online?" he asked.
Kanté finally looked at him. "Always is."
Tristan nodded.
Then, with a long breath, he switched airplane mode off.
The phone lit up instantly — buzzing, blinking, catching up with the world.
109 text ssages
3 missed calls from ndes
1 missed call from Hodgson
5 missed calls from Sofia
46 WhatsApp notifications
Twitter (X): 600 ntions
England NT Group Chat – 60 unread
"Jesus," he muttered.
Kanté gave a soft, almost humorless breath through his nose. "That's your price. For being you."
Tristan opened the England NT group chat.
Rooney: We saw the videos. You alright, mate? How's everyone?
Henderson: I don't even know what to say. Disgusting.
Stones: That away end looked like a warzone.
Kane: They better cancel the second leg. No chance Lazio fans should co here.
Sterling: I think the whole country's waiting for so kind of statent now.
Tristan stared at the screen. He didn't reply.
He switched to Twitter.
And it hit like a wall.
Twitter – Trending in the UK
#NoToLazio
#31Injured
#UEFAOut
#CancelTheSecondLeg
#Leicester
#Hale
@BBCSport: "UK governnt has summoned the Italian ambassador over the events in Ro. UEFA under pressure to act."
@NOVA: This is beyond football. Our fans were ambushed. So are still in hospital. How do you even play a second leg after that?
@Teh_Storm: Imagine walking off a pitch to hear your fans were beaten at the exits. Not even rival fans — just monsters waiting with pipes. UEFA better do sothing.
@acidburn123451: The worst part? Lazio ultras have done this before. And no one ever listened. Now this.
@GodzofAxe: Not a Leicester fan but England needs to protect its people. That's it. Fuck them Ultras, it's on sight if they are in England.
@DrDragon360: Players getting racially abused. Are we just gonna pretend this is "normal crowd behavior"? What the fuck is wrong with Italy? This is why no one plays in that league anymore.
@Lucas: UEFA needs to hit Lazio with a full competition ban. Nothing less. Fines won't heal broken bones.
@T1rant: Watching those clips made sick. I know a few of the Leicester lads. They didn't deserve that. No one did.
@Sin_12: This is going to set off a UEFA crisis. And make no mistake — England's governnt will act first if UEFA doesn't.
Tristan blinked down at the screen.
The scrolling felt endless. Opinions. Rage. Bla. Panic. Solidarity. s. Racism. Anti-racism. All of it bleeding together.
"I feel like I'm watching the house burn down from inside," he muttered.
Kanté nodded once. "Except they already lit the fire. This is just the smoke."
Tristan locked the phone. Sat back rubbing his head before turning on the TV, he just had to see what the mainstream dia was thinking.
The screen filled with BBC News. Morning headlines.
The Ro match.
Clips rolled — grainy, raw, brutal.
The chants.
The bananas.
The flares.
The chaos.
The silence at East Midlands.
Tristan turned the volu up.
BBC One: Morning Edition
A headline flashed across the bottom in stark white:
RO IN DISGRACE – LEICESTER MATCH HALTED AFTER RACIST CHAOS
The cara panned to the BBC Breakfast studio. Hosts Charlie Stayt and Naga Munchetty sat on the familiar red sofas — expressions serious, tones lower than usual, papers stacked in front of them.
"Good morning," Naga began. "It's just past nine o'clock here in Salford, and this morning's headlines are being called a turning point for European football."
Charlie continued, "Last night's Europa League match between Lazio and Leicester City was abandoned in the second half, following what UEFA is calling unprecedented scenes of coordinated violence and racial abuse."
Clips followed:
Bottles crashing near the touchline.
A banana skin skidding along the corner flag.
Wes Morgan stepping in front of Mahrez.
The referee blowing for abandonnt.
Leicester players walking silently through a private terminal — no fans, just family waiting.
"Thirty-one Leicester fans were injured," Naga said. "At least six remain hospitalized this morning in Ro. Reports of broken bones, head trauma, and one man still in critical condition with internal bleeding. The British consulate has dispatched support staff."
Charlie added, "And this morning, the UK has summoned Italy's ambassador to London, demanding answers. This is no longer just a sporting incident. It's diplomatic."
The screen cut live to Katya Adler in Ro, standing outside the Stadio Olimpico in a navy coat, mic steady in the cold breeze.
"The stadium is quiet today," she said. "But the streets around it are anything but. Lazio have not issued a formal statent, but police confirm what many feared — that the attacks were coordinated at multiple exits. Bats, pipes, flares. Most of the injuries occurred after the final whistle — when groups of ultras targeted the away section."
Naga asked, "Are Italian dia reporting this with the gravity it deserves?"
Katya nodded. "Yes. Most front pages call it Una Notte di Vergogna — A Night of Sha. But this isn't new. Lazio's ultras have been photographed giving fascist salutes as recently as last season. They plastered Anne Frank stickers across the curva wearing Roma shirts — and they were only fined."
Tristan flinched slightly. Barbara's hand touched his arm.
Back in studio, Dan Roan sat opposite the hosts. His face was grim.
"This can't just be another fine, can it?" Charlie asked.
Dan shook his head. "It can't. Lazio's record is one of the worst in Europe. Racial abuse. Antisemitic banners. Bans that were lifted early. They've had partial stadium closures five tis in the past seven years. But UEFA keeps treating it like a paperwork problem. Last night... was an explosion of every warning we've ignored."
He looked directly into the cara.
"When you have a 20-year-old being hailed as the next global icon — Tristan Hale — walking off a pitch because his teammates are being dehumanized, that's not just a football issue. That's a European one."
Barbara whispered, "They keep putting you at the center of everything."
"I didn't ask for it," Tristan said.
The studio brought in Chris Mason, BBC's political editor.
"Chris," Naga said, "what are you hearing from Westminster?"
Chris spoke quickly, notes in hand. "The Foreign Office called Italy's ambassador just after midnight. One senior source told — quote — 'This was a failure of planning, policing, and responsibility. We will not let this slide into a shrug from UEFA.' The Pri Minister is being briefed throughout the day. Several MPs are demanding Lazio's expulsion."
The feed then cut to a pre-recorded video.
On the left: Lord Herman Ouseley, founder of Kick It Out.
On the right: Fiona May, forr Olympian and racial justice advocate in Italy.
"This isn't isolated," Ouseley said. "It's generational negligence. And the consequences are now global. You can't protect Black players by asking them to rise above it anymore. You punish the clubs. Or you beco the problem."
Fiona May added, from Milan, "This is a cultural rot. Italy cannot export football and keep importing hate. What we saw last night is what Black Italians have faced for decades."
The BBC began listing players and public figures speaking out:
Ian Wright (@IanWright0): "Sa club. Sa patterns. No excuses left. If UEFA does nothing, they're complicit."
Gary LIneker: "If Italy can't protect players or fans, UEFA has a duty to protect the competition. This is beyond fines. This is about credibility."
The segnt wound down.
Louise Minchin ca back into fra.
"UEFA has called an ergency eting in London this afternoon. The FA, Leicester's board, and UK governnt officials will attend. We expect sanctions. Possibly disqualification. Possibly more."
Barbara leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"So what happens if UEFA does nothing?"
Kanté answered before Tristan could. "Then we do."
Julia looked toward him. "What do you an?"
Tristan answered. "Players walk. Fans protest. Sponsors pull out."
"They're scared of the backlash," Kante said. "Not the racism. Just the PR."
Barbara turned to Tristan. "And what would you say, if they gave you a microphone right now?"
Tristan didn't hesitate.
"I'd ask what it takes. How many injuries? How many bananas? How many kids have to cry in an away end before soone says: 'enough.'"
They all sat in silence.
On screen, the BBC shifted back to softer programming. The crawl along the bottom still ran with live updates. The words felt heavier now.
RO.
DISGRACE.
SANCTIONS IMMINENT.
Tristan's phone buzzed.
Ranieri: eting confird. UEFA, FA, UK governnt, Leicester board. Will update. No press contact until further notice.
He locked it. Looked toward the others.
"They've called it. Everyone's in the room now."
Barbara whispered, "Good."
.
11:33 – London
The room was silent except for the occasional scrape of a chair. High windows let in cold daylight, but the atmosphere inside was anything but calm.
At the head of the long table sat Robert As, Ho Office. To his left, Jonathan Leatham of the FA. Across from them, Henrik Volz, representing UEFA, flanked by two legal advisors. Jon Rudkin represented Leicester City. Claudio Ranieri sat beside him, hands folded, expression carved from stone.
There were no greetings. No smiles.
As opened.
"We'll keep this short. As of 11:15 AM, we've confird thirty-one British citizens injured. Six remain in hospital. One is still critical. Italian police admit the attacks were preditated. Lazio ultras were identified blocking exits, targeting Leicester fans. Improvised weapons. Racial abuse. Total failure of crowd control."
Volz tried to speak — but As raised a hand.
"Don't waste breath with 'ongoing reviews.' We've reviewed enough. England is watching. Europe is watching. The question now is: what are you going to do about it?"
Volz composed himself. "UEFA deeply regrets—"
"Stop," Rudkin cut in. "We sent footage three weeks ago. We flagged Lazio's history. We asked for barriers. For police reinforcents. For separation protocols. You ignored every one."
"We cannot retroactively—"
"This isn't retroactive," Rudkin snapped. "This is cause and effect."
Ranieri hadn't spoken. Until now.
His voice was low. Italian-accented. asured. But there was steel underneath.
"I grew up in Ro. I know what lives in those stands. You all pretend it's just noise. But last night—"
He looked up. Eyes bloodshot, but unwavering.
"—last night, you let my players be hunted in my own country."
Silence.
Ranieri continued.
"You knew who they were. You knew their record. Fascist salutes, Anne Frank stickers, monkey chants, banana peels. And still, you let them host. No consequences. No accountability."
He leaned back.
Volz's legal advisor leaned in to whisper, but Volz didn't respond.
Leatham cleared his throat. "The FA is aligned with the Ho Office on this. We do not believe the second leg can be played safely — not here, not behind closed doors, not at all."
As nodded. "Which ans Lazio forfeits. Leicester advance."
Volz grimaced. "That is... acceptable."
"Good," As said. "It should be."
Rudkin added, "We're not done. If there's no further consequence, this happens again. Maybe to Liverpool. Maybe to Arsenal. Or the next Black player who scores a goal in the wrong stadium."
Volz glanced at his aides.
Ranieri broke the silence.
"Ban them from any European competitions for 3 years."
"Excuse ?" Volz said.
Ranieri looked at him. Not angry. Just... resolved.
"You heard . This wasn't an isolated chant. This was coordinated violence. You want to show Europe you still govern this sport? Then act like it. Ban Lazio. The full competition."
As added, without hesitation, "And we recomnd a twenty-point deduction in Serie A. To be applied at season's end."
Volz leaned back, folding his arms. "That would end their season."
"They ended it themselves," Rudkin said.
There was a long silence.
Volz sighed. Defeated. "I'll need to formalize this with the executive committee."
"Then formalize it by 3 PM," As said flatly. "Because the Pri Minister is giving a statent at four. And if UEFA hasn't announced sanctions by then, you'll be defending your inaction on live television."
Volz's jaw clenched. Then he nodded.
Leatham spoke last.
"For the record — we all know what this really is. This is a reckoning. Not just for Lazio. For you. For everyone who said nothing every ti it happened."
Ranieri didn't say anything more.
He didn't need to.
Punishnt Confird (to be announced):
Lazio forfeits second leg. Leicester City advances.
Lazio banned from remainder of 2015–16 UEFA Europa League and for three more years from any European Competitions
Lazio receives 20-point deduction in Serie A (end of season).
Formal apology from Italian ambassador to be issued before 6 PM.
.
The TV was already on when the BBC logo faded into breaking coverage. The red banner across the bottom of the screen read:
LIVE: UEFA SANCTIONS TO BE ANNOUNCED – RO AFTERMATH CONTINUES TO UNFOLD
Tristan sat on the couch, Biscuit at his feet. Barbara was beside him, one leg folded beneath her. Julia stood near the island, tea untouched in her hands. Kanté leaned against the wall. Even Ling had set his tablet down.
The studio cut to Louise Minchin, her voice solemn but firm.
"Good afternoon. In the wake of last night's Europa League fixture between Lazio and Leicester City, UEFA has just concluded an ergency summit in London involving the FA, the UK governnt, and senior officials from Leicester City Football Club."
She looked directly at the cara.
"The following sanctions have now been confird by UEFA's disciplinary committee."
The screen shifted to a graphic, each bullet appearing in stark white text:
Lazio has officially forfeited the second leg. Leicester City advances.
Lazio is banned from the remainder of the 2015–16 UEFA Europa League.
Ban from any European competitions for three years
Lazio will receive a 20-point deduction in Serie A, to be enforced at the end of the current season.The Italian ambassador will issue a formal apology by 6 PM today, addressing the British public and Leicester City fans.
Louise's voice continued over the images.
"This decision follows mounting pressure from the UK governnt and docuntation from Leicester City showing prior requests for heightened matchday security that were ignored."
A video feed cut in: Robert As, from the Ho Office, speaking at a short podium.
"The United Kingdom is not in the business of tolerating inaction. What occurred in Ro was a failure of responsibility at every level. We stand with Leicester City, its fans, and every individual who was hard."
Cut again — the Italian ambassador in a dark suit, somber, reading a statent outside Parliant.
"On behalf of the Republic of Italy, we extend our deepest apologies to the citizens, players, and families affected by the events in Ro. We condemn the violence and racism witnessed."
Another jump. Lazio's own statent, read by a club representative in a pre-recorded segnt:
"Lazio condemns all acts of violence and racism. While we disagree with the scope of the sanctions, we acknowledge our failure to guarantee safety. This is a mont of reflection, accountability, and restructuring."
Finally, a surprise feed appeared — the Pri Minister, live.
"Football is more than a ga. It is community, identity, and belonging. When those ideals are threatened by hatred and ignorance, we must respond with strength. I comnd UEFA for acting swiftly."
Then ca a closing slide. A statent from Buckingham Palace:
"Her Majesty The Queen extends her deepest sympathies to those injured in Ro. The Crown stands with all victims of discrimination and violence. Football should be a unifier — not a battleground."
Silence.
Barbara exhaled first. "They actually did it."
Tristan crossed his arms, watching the screen. "They had to. There was no choice left."
Julia sat down gently beside Ling. "Still... it's sothing. It's not everything. But it's sothing."
Kante didn't say anything right away. He watched the crawl at the bottom of the screen repeat the sanctions over and over.
LAZIO FORFEITS.
20 POINT DEDUCTION.
EUROPA BAN.
Finally, he said: "Should visit injured in hospital."
Tristan's phone buzzed again. Then again. Hundreds of new ssages.
But he didn't reach for it.
The world was talking.
And for a mont, he just wanted to listen.
.
Next Chapter will be a mix of a match as well as the reaction and ending of this little episode. I didn't an to drag it out for 3 Chapters but I felt that situations required it, I can't just skip over it and pretend like I didn't write about fans and players getting attacked.
Now as for all this drama, I looked at events similar to this where away fans got attacked, it was a similar reaction to this Chapter as well. So I'm not just pulling things out of my ass.
.
8355 word count
Discord Link: sdiscord.gg/s2DVMbqSf4
spatreon/c/Sinbad_
Reviews
All reviews (0)