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When Tristan stepped into his Leicester ho, the silence felt almost overwhelming. His parents were still in Brazil, enjoying the vacation he had convinced them to take while they still could. In his first life, travel had always been a distant dream for his family—vacations had been out of the question, given their tight finances. But now, with Tristan earning more than he could have ever imagined, it felt only right to give them the experiences they had been denied.
He barely dropped his bag by the door, eager to relax with so 2K, when his phone buzzed. It was ndes.
"I'm at your door!" ndes said, his voice bright and lively through the phone.
Before Tristan could respond, a car horn blared from outside. He frowned and peered out the window. Sure enough, a sleek black rcedes van—ndes' signature vehicle—was parked right in front of his house.
Tristan sighed and trudged to the door. Before he even had a chance to open it, ndes was already walking in, his usual boundless energy filling the room.
"I thought you were still in Brazil," Tristan said, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
ndes grinned, unfazed. "Mate, business never stops. You finished with that suit you ordered?"
Tristan blinked, montarily caught off guard. Then the mory clicked. "Oh, right. The Savile Row suit. Yeah, I picked it up earlier. Haven't even worn it yet. Why?"
"We need to head to London, mate," ndes said casually. "Oakley's head office—signing ceremony, a quick photoshoot, then a party. After that, we've got Hublot tomorrow."
Tristan groaned inwardly. He hadn't even unpacked yet, and here ndes was, pulling him straight into another whirlwind event. "I just got back. Can't I get a couple of days to rest?"
ndes chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Welco to the star life, Tristan. This is just the beginning. After Oakley and Hublot, we've got Nike next. You'll be shooting a comrcial before you know it."
Tristan shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. ndes had an uncanny way of making everything sound effortless. But it was a lot to absorb—especially after the chaos of the World Cup.
"Co on, let's go," ndes said, already moving toward the van. "London's waiting."
A few months earlier, after the PFA awards in April, ndes had taken Tristan to Savile Row, London's legendary street known for its bespoke tailoring. There, under ndes' expert eye, Tristan had ordered his first fully tailored suit.
Savile Row was the epito of craftsmanship, its reputation honed over two centuries. Bespoke suits took weeks to make—anywhere from four to twelve, depending on the client's location—and the fitting process was ticulous. For international clients, it could even take a year. The price reflected the precision of each handmade stitch.
For Tristan, the suit had cost him a week's salary—a small fraction of what he earned now, but still a shocking leap from the off-the-rack suits he'd worn before. This one was more than twenty tis the cost of anything he'd owned in the past.
As they settled into the van, ndes resud his excited chatter. "Oakley's pumped. They're offering three hundred thousand pounds a year for a sunglasses deal. Then Hublot—two hundred grand for the watch brand. Not bad for a kid who was just playing academy football a year ago, huh?"
Tristan nodded absently, his thoughts still trying to catch up with the dizzying pace of everything. Oakley was a heavyweight in the sports fashion world, known for functional eyewear, skiing gear, cycling apparel, and casual wear. Hublot, still relatively new in the luxury watch industry, was gaining ground with its sleek, modern designs—an ideal match for Tristan's image.
"Not bad at all," he said, though his tone lacked the enthusiasm that ndes brought to the table.
ndes caught the shift in his tone and leaned forward, sensing the hesitation. "Listen, mate, I know it's a lot to take in. But we're playing the long ga here. You don't want to be that player who jumps into every deal that cos your way, right? That'll just water down your brand. Stick with the big nas, and you'll keep that star status. People will see you as soone with taste, soone with value—not just another player cashing in."
Tristan couldn't argue with that. It was exactly why he had chosen ndes as his agent. ndes wasn't about quick deals; he was about making the right ones. He understood how to balance comrcial success with preserving a player's image. From the beginning, ndes had made it clear: turning down smaller offers was often the smarter play, protecting a player's future and legacy.
Professional matters were ndes' domain, and he was the best at it. While Tristan focused on his ga, ndes handled everything else. It was a partnership that had already proven invaluable.
Still, there was a part of Tristan that longed for a mont of peace. "I just need a breather, man. It's been non-stop since the World Cup."
ndes chuckled, shaking his head. "Mate, this is exactly what you've worked for. Trust , it'll slow down after we get through these next few deals. But right now? You're hot—everyone wants a piece of you. This is what happens when you're at the top."
He paused for effect, then threw his arms wide in dramatic flair. "Welco to the world of stars, Tristan!"
Tristan sighed but couldn't suppress the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ndes had a point—this was the price of success. He just hadn't realized how much ca with it until now.
By the ti they reached London, he was seated in a sleek conference room at Oakley's headquarters, facing a table full of impeccably dressed executives. Their smiles were polished, their handshakes firm, and their enthusiasm almost overwhelming.
"Mr. Hale, we are absolutely thrilled to welco you to the Oakley family," one of the reps began, their tone dripping with practiced charm. "Your performance in the World Cup was nothing short of extraordinary, and we believe you perfectly represent what Oakley stands for—drive, resilience, and an unwavering commitnt to excellence."
Tristan returned their smiles and nodded politely, murmuring a few words of thanks. He knew this was part of the job now.
The signing ceremony went smoothly, with caras clicking as he signed the contract. Then ca the photoshoot. Tristan found himself in front of a white backdrop, wearing Oakley's latest gear while the photographer barked commands.
"Look to the left... Chin up slightly... That's it, perfect!"
Tristan tried his best to follow the directions, his movents stiff at first. ndes stood to the side, watching like a proud parent. "Rember, mate," he said with a wink, "this is the easy part."
Later that evening, they arrived at the Oakley afterparty, a glitzy event held at an upscale London venue. The room was packed with executives, athletes, and influencers, all dressed to impress. Tristan entered with ndes, feeling slightly out of place amid the buzzing conversations and clinking glasses.
A group of sponsors greeted him enthusiastically. One of them raised their glass. "To Tristan Hale—the man of the mont!"
Tristan smiled and nodded, mumbling a quick "Thanks." He appreciated the sentint but couldn't shake the awkwardness of being in the spotlight off the pitch.
As the night wore on, he found himself standing at the edge of the room, drinking coke and observing the crowd. ndes floated around, working the room like it was second nature, while Tristan stuck to polite small talk with anyone who approached.
At one point, a fellow athlete sidled up next to him, holding a glass of champagne. "Not much of a party guy, huh?" the man asked with a knowing smile.
Tristan chuckled softly. "I guess I'm more comfortable on the pitch."
The athlete nodded. "You'll get the hang of it. Just smile, nod, and let ndes do the talking."
Tristan grinned, relaxing a little.
ndes, ever the social butterfly, moved through the crowd like he owned the place. He introduced Tristan to sponsors, executives, and athletes with ease, shaking hands and trading laughs as if they were lifelong friends. Tristan, on the other hand, kept things polite—nodding, smiling when appropriate, and responding with brief, asured answers.
But as the evening wore on, the constant small talk began to wear on him.
Eventually, he found an excuse to slip away. He wandered to a quieter corner of the venue, where a large window offered a sweeping view of London's glittering skyline. For a mont, he just stood there, taking in the stillness outside, a stark contrast to the lively buzz of the party behind him.
He didn't notice ndes approach until he heard his voice.
"What's with the face? Still thinking about the loss?" ndes handed him a glass with a faint grin.
Tristan took the drink—a mocktail, judging by the lack of fizz or bite—and gave a small shrug. "Yeah, sothing like that."
ndes clinked his glass lightly against Tristan's. "Mate, you've earned this. And trust , there's more to co."
Tristan smiled faintly, but his thoughts were still elsewhere. The lights of London shimred in the glass, a reminder of how far he'd co—and how much further he wanted to go.
For the next few days, Tristan was busier and more exhausted than he had ever been—even more so than during the World Cup. He hadn't expected the whirlwind of obligations awaiting him back in England, where every hour seed consud by etings, endorsents, or appearances.
The experience was both fascinating and overwhelming. This kind of attention was entirely new to him; the spotlight shone brighter than ever, and it wasn't just about football anymore. Fortunately, ndes had assigned him a young assistant to handle the scheduling and details, which gave Tristan the breathing room to focus on what truly mattered to him.
Despite the chaos, Tristan kept one eye on the ongoing World Cup.
Brazil's semi-final clash against Germany, following their victory over England, had captured global attention.
The absence of Brazil's defensive cornerstone, Thiago Silva, left a glaring hole in their backline. Neymar, starting despite the bruises he'd accumulated from being targeted in previous matches, struggled to find his rhythm against Germany's resolute defense. The Germans, clinical and efficient, dismantled Brazil with ruthless precision.
While the final scoreline of 5-1 was more respectable than the infamous 7-1 thrashing Tristan rembered from his first life, it was still a devastating blow to the host nation. The broadcast showed heart-wrenching images of fans in tears, none more poignant than an elderly Brazilian supporter clutching a replica World Cup trophy, sobbing quietly as the cara lingered on him. The hopes of a nation had been crushed once again.
With Brazil out, the final was set: Germany versus Argentina.
The world buzzed with anticipation, and so did Tristan. The buildup to the match dominated the headlines, and he couldn't help but feel the weight of history in the making.
On July 14, 2014, the grand finale took place at the Maracanã Stadium. The match was an intense and tightly fought contest, with neither side willing to concede an inch. In extra ti, Mario Götze produced a mont of magic, scoring the goal that secured Germany their fourth World Cup title.
For Argentina and Lionel ssi, it was heartbreak. Tristan watched the agonizing mont unfold live from his ho in Leicester, as ssi walked past the World Cup trophy, his face etched with the pain of knowing how close he had co.
Even with Tristan's presence in this life, the butterfly effect hadn't rippled far enough to alter this historic outco. Germany still lifted the World Cup.
As the tournant wrapped up, FIFA announced the winners of its individual accolades.
ssi, despite Argentina's heartbreak in the final, was awarded the Golden Ball for the tournant's best player. His brilliance throughout the World Cup was undeniable, even if the ultimate prize had eluded him.
The Golden Boot, initially expected to go to Jas Rodríguez, ended up in the hands of Germany's Thomas Müller. Müller finished with five goals, edging out Jas, whose Colombian side had been eliminated by England earlier in the tournant.
The Golden Glove went to Manuel Neuer, whose revolutionary "sweeper-keeper" style had been crucial to Germany's success. His dominance between the posts was unmatched, and his fearless approach had redefined the role of a goalkeeper.
Then ca the award Tristan had secretly been hoping for: Best Young Player.
Despite stiff competition from rising stars like mphis Depay and Paul Pogba, Tristan's outstanding performances had made him the clear favorite. When his na was announced, it confird what many had suspected: the 19-year-old was the breakout star of the World Cup.
But that wasn't all. Tristan was also nad to the World Cup Best XI, a remarkable feat for a tournant debutant. His vision, creativity, and ability to dictate the tempo of gas had dazzled fans and pundits alike. England had unearthed their next midfield maestro, and the world was taking notice.
The dia frenzy was imdiate. Headlines celebrated his achievents, and rumors swirled about Europe's biggest clubs vying for his signature. AC Milan, Juventus, Bayern Munich, Real Madrid, Barcelona, and Manchester United were just a few of the giants reportedly monitoring Tristan's next move.
For many, it seed inevitable that Tristan would soon outgrow Leicester City. They believed it was only a matter of ti before he joined one of Europe's elite.
But for now, only Tristan knew what the future held.
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