If you guys have ti and are interested in a basketball story, do check this new story of mine.
Basketball's Greatest.
Link: swebnovel/book/34373284400173805
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June 12, 2016 | Marseille Press Conference Room – 11:46 AM
The air was dry, filled with heat, nerves, and the constant hum of cara lenses adjusting focus.
Three chairs sat beneath the raised UEFA banner at the front of the room, the English crest pinned beside it slightly crooked, as if soone had slapped it on seconds before the lights ca up. Which, to be fair, they probably had. The whole thing felt hurried, improvised, pulled together in the last breath.
Microphones were clipped. Caras rolled. Dozens of phones floated above the crowd, their red recording lights blinking like watchful eyes.
In the front row, reporters murmured in half-whispers, trading theories before the storm began.
At the table, Roy Hodgson sat in the center with his back straight, hands clasped tight, expression steady but strained. The dark shadows below his eyes betrayed how long this morning had already felt.
To his left, Wayne Rooney, the old captain arms folded, eyes narrowed slightly beneath furrowed brows. His posture was relaxed, but his stare wasn't. He was already dreading the next few days with the entire world on England's ass.
And on Hodgson's right sat Tristan Hale. The new captain looking calm and composed but with a stare so focused it could've cut glass.
If Kobe Bryant were watching, he'd have given it a perfect ten.
A UEFA official stepped forward to open.
"This morning's press conference will address the incidents that occurred following the match between England and Russia. We ask that all questions remain within the scope of those events. Statents will begin now from England's national team coach, Roy Hodgson."
Roy leaned forward.
"First and foremost, on behalf of the England national team, I want to thank the local authorities and stadium security staff for acting swiftly last night," he began, voice steady but weighty. "I also want to send our support to those who were injured."
He paused — just briefly.
"As of this morning, we have been inford that twenty English fans and over a dozen Russian supporters were hospitalized following the events inside and around the Stade Vélodro. So remain in serious condition."
There were murmurs across the press room. Caras clicked. Soone at the back lowered their phone.
"This isn't the first ti we've seen violence attached to international football," Roy continued. "But it needs to be the last. We were told early this morning — very clearly — that England was one eting away from being expelled from the tournant. Our players would've flown ho. Our fans would've been banned. This is not a scare tactic. It was a real possibility."
He sat back slightly. Rooney leaned forward.
"I've played for England a long ti," Rooney said, voice gruff. "This is my fourth Euro tournant. And I've seen fans make mories they'll never forget. I've also seen them get hurt for reasons that don't make any sense."
He looked straight at the caras.
"To every fan back ho. To the ones here in France. We need you to support us — not make it harder. We're not asking. We're begging. No more fights. No more flares. No more throwing bottles or starting shit in the streets because you had five pints before kickoff."
Another pause. He tapped his finger once against the table.
"Because if this happens again… we're gone."
Tristan leaned forward after thinking about what to say in this situation with Roy and Rooney taking the lead.
Tristan leaned into the mic, elbows on the table, posture relaxed but eyes steady on the front row of caras.
"Do we forget that England was banned from European competition before?"
The question landed with quiet weight. A few english reporters shifted in their seats.
"I think we like to forget about it," he went on. "But it happened. Because of fan violence. Because of riots. Because people couldn't control themselves after the final whistle."
He waited for a few seconds making sure the point was heard. "I was a kid when I first read about it," he said. "I didn't understand why football, sothing so beautiful, was always dragged into sothing so ugly."
He took a breath, fingers tapping once against the edge of the desk before settling again.
"A few months ago I played in Ro. Lazio. So of our fans were attacked outside the stadium. No warning. No reason. Ultras waited and jumped them." He looked down for a second, voice quieter now. "I still rember sitting in the hotel room, hearing about it while we were reviewing the match. For the first ti, I hated the ga."
He could never forget the day, the expressions on everyone from the players to the families of those who were attacked. The hospital visit, Jack's parents praying that they didn't let him go to the ga. No parent should have to worry about their child's safety whilst watching a football ga.
He lifted his head again, scanning the room. "And now it's here again," he said. "I thought we were past that. I thought England as a nation was better than that. But it's clear we're not. Not yet."
He paused to collect his words.
"This isn't how it's supposed to be. The Euros are ant to bring people together to celebrate football, culture, pride. It's ant to be loud and joyful. Not drunk and violent."
"There's nothing wrong with drinking," he said, a hint of a smile flickering for just a second. "Nothing wrong with chanting, singing, painting your face, jumping on tables when we score. We love that. We live off that energy."
His tone steadied again. "But don't be the reason we get sent ho. Don't be the reason families are scared to bring their kids to matches. Don't be the reason another player's mum has to call to make sure she's safe."
He drew a slow breath before finishing, voice firm but low.
"We can't play for you if you don't show up for us the right way."
And then, softer:
"I'm begging you. Don't ruin this."
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[Cut To: BBC One – 12:09 PM | "Matchday Report – Special Coverage"]
The broadcast faded from the final image of Tristan at the microphone, head bowed slightly, hands folded, voice echoing one last ti in the silence.
"I'm begging you. Don't ruin this."
The shot cut.
BBC One's studio with the Union Jack faded subtly behind the desk. The anchor sat forward, suit sharp, expression sober, voice carrying that practiced steadiness that only ever showed up when sothing had gone seriously wrong.
"Good afternoon," he began. "If you're just joining us, a press conference in Marseille has just concluded, where England manager Roy Hodgson, forr captain Wayne Rooney, and current captain Tristan Hale issued a public appeal following last night's violent scenes outside the Stade Vélodro."
Behind him, clips began to roll with blurred footage of running crowds, red flares, scattered bottles, riot police moving in formation. Fans being pulled apart. A flare lighting up the Marseille night like it was war.
"UEFA confird this morning that England were one disciplinary hearing away from being expelled from Euro 2016. According to sources close to the French governnt, the conversation was 'intense, emotional, and near irreversible.'"
The cara cut to a side-by-side: Roy's speech on the left, a headline on the right.
"ENGLAND WARNED: ONE MORE INCIDENT = EXPULSION"
"In the words of one UEFA official, quote: 'There will be no second warning.'"
The anchor's tone shifted slightly as a new graphic appeared.
"The Football Association released a written statent shortly after the conference, calling the events 'unacceptable' and promising stricter travel coordination for England supporters. Downing Street also issued a brief statent promising cooperation with French authorities and condemning what they called 'the disgraceful behavior of a small group tarnishing the nation's na abroad.'"
A short clip rolled: a man in a pub, England shirt still on, arms crossed. He looked into the cara.
"They've got a point," the fan said. "This is supposed to be about the football. You want a drink, have a drink. But fighting? Co on. That's not support, that's just dumb."
Then another, a woman near King's Cross Station. "I've got nephews out there. All of this, it's scary. You just want them to be safe and cheer, not end up in the bloody hospital."
The broadcast cut back to the studio.
"But perhaps the most impactful ssage ca from Tristan Hale, England's twenty one year old captain, whose warning echoed through the football world this morning."
Another clip, his face on screen again.
"We can't play for you if you don't show up for us the right way."
Back in the studio, the anchor leaned forward.
"It's a chilling reminder that for all the tactics and talent, for all the goals and glory — one mont off the pitch can take it all away."
"Up next: Can England refocus before their next match? And what does UEFA's crackdown an for the rest of the tournant?"
The cara faded to the Euro 2016 graphic spinning into view, the music low and somber.
.
The marble floors of Clairefontaine glead under the midday light, but the usual hum of banter and cleats on tile was missing.
On the wall, the flat-screen played back the final clip from the press conference in Marseille.
Tristan's voice carried into the silence.
"We can't play for you if you don't show up for us the right way."
Paul Pogba leaned forward on the velvet couch, elbows digging into his knees, his jaw clenched tighter than usual.
"Damn," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "They almost got kicked."
Griezmann stood near the corner, arms crossed, brow furrowed, his foot bouncing quietly against the tile. "Almost." He didn't blink. "And they'd be the only team I wouldn't want to face right now."
Varane checked his phone again, scrolling L'Équipe. Every headline was red.
England. Expulsion warning. Riot fallout. Hale's plea.
He exhaled slowly. "They're everywhere. Every outlet. Every language. The whole world's seen it now. Kinda feel bad for them now."
Deschamps entered just then. "They've been warned," he said plainly. "But make no mistake that won't break them."
No one asked who them was. Or who he was. It was obvious.
Across the room, N'Golo Kanté stood by the window, half-shadowed in the fra, phone clutched loosely in one hand. He'd called Tristan earlier. No answer, but a ssage had co through:
I'm good. The guys are fine. Don't worry, mon frère. Still, he kept checking. Just in case.
For Kanté, this wasn't just about national pride or tournant favorites. Half of that England squad were his forr teammates. And Tristan? That wasn't just England's captain. That was his best friend.
He looked over his shoulder as Pogba spoke again, this ti quieter. "I thought maybe we'd get lucky. Maybe they'd get sent ho. Would've opened the whole thing up."
Griezmann didn't reply. He just rubbed a hand over his face.
Pogba sat back, running a palm down his thigh. "But no… they've still got him."
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Évian-les-Bains – Germany Training Camp – 12:37 PM
Manuel Neuer scrolled through Twitter while Müller sat cross-legged on the table.
"Everyone's talking about England like they're so fairy tale again," Müller muttered.
Toni Kroos looked up from his protein shake. "Because they are. Young squad. New captain. Playing like a club team. And now they've got the world's best player in form."
Neuer sighed. "This whole violence thing… it might shake them."
Mats Humls stepped in. "Or it might make them better. Tristan and Vardy perform the best under pressure,"
Müller glanced around. "So… what? We want them out or in?"
Kroos stared at the screen. Tristan's face was still on it.
"I want to beat them. Not watch them leave."
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Cristiano Ronaldo watched from the edge of the room, arms crossed, muscles taut beneath a sleeveless Nike top. The Portuguese camp's rec room was crowded now — João Moutinho and Pepe sitting on the couch, Nani leaning against the wall.
Tristan's BBC clip ended.
Pepe gave a low whistle. "If UEFA banned them… this whole tournant shifts."
But Ronaldo didn't care about that. "They won't get banned."
Nani looked over. "You sure?"
Ronaldo nodded once. "Because England and Tristan bring in far too much money to ban them. And the amount of outrage they would have to deal with isn't worth it."
Moutinho cracked a grin. "You're actually worried about him."
Cristiano didn't answer right away. He stared at the black TV screen, Tristan's face still burned into mory.
"I don't worry," Ronaldo said. "But If we want to lift the trophy… we'll have to go through him."
He finally turned to the group.
"If I let him take this from … if I roll over now… the Ballon d'Or is done. No one will question it anymore. Not ssi. Not . It'll be him. Alone."
He picked up a towel and slung it over his shoulder.
"That's not happening."
On the TV, the show continued.
"With England's next match just days away, the world watches not only how they play — but how they hold together. The ssage from every camp in France is clear: England are the giants now."
He straightened his notes.
"But if they fall… the tournant breaks open."
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