England's Greatest

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Time: August 1, 2014, 8:30 AM

Location: Belvoir Drive Training Ground, Leicester

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The team had returned from their pre-season friendly in Thailand.

The tranquil morning air was disrupted by the deep growl of an engine, announcing the arrival of someone who hadn't been around for a while. A sleek Range Rover Autobiography, its Loire Blue paint glinting in the sunlight, rolled up to the gates.

John, the longtime security guard, peered at the unfamiliar license plate, his brows knitting in cautious suspicion. Who could this be? The tinted window slid down smoothly, revealing a familiar face framed by golden curls and a grin.

"Tristan?!" John blurted out, his stern demeanor giving way to surprise and genuine delight.

"Hey, John! Long time no see!" Tristan greeted warmly, leaning out to shake the guard's hand with a firm grip.

John's eyes flicked to the car, his curiosity piqued. "New car?" he asked, giving it an approving nod as he stepped closer.

"Yep. Gift from my sponsor," Tristan replied, gesturing toward the pristine vehicle. "What do you think?"

John chuckled, still eyeing the car. "Not bad at all! Didn't you used to bike here or get dropped off by your parents?" He smirked. "About time you upgraded—thought the fangirls were gonna start chasing you down the street!"

Tristan laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, those days are behind me. What do you think of this one, though? Pretty nice, right?"

The car wasn't just a ride—it was a badge of Tristan's rapid rise in fame. The "scandal" with Kendall had thrown him into the media spotlight, and soon after, he'd landed a lucrative sponsorship deal as the face of Land Rover UK.

The deal was worth £700,000 per year for two years, with the perk of two new vehicles annually, rotated every six months. For his first choice, Tristan had opted for the Range Rover Autobiography Blue, outfitted with every imaginable luxury: plush leather seats, state-of-the-art tech, and a ride so smooth it felt like gliding.

It wasn't the car brand he would've picked, not by a long shot, but Land Rover had offered the best deal, and the money was good. Sure, he could've done without the whole Range Rover reputation, but he wasn't exactly paying for it, so he wasn't about to complain.

Realistically, he wouldn't be switching it out for the next two years anyway. The Range Rover Autobiography was loaded with everything he could need.

In a perfect world, he would've been rolling around in an Audi, BMW, or Porsche. Hell, an Audi R8 was still the top of his list. But that wasn't how things had panned out.

Now, with the money rolling in and the world at his feet, his dream car had to wait. The problem? The sponsorship contract's exclusivity clause. He wouldn't be able to buy, let alone drive, anything but a Range Rover in the UK for the next two years. 

"Honestly, it's growing on me," Tristan admitted. "Not what I'd have chosen if it were up to me, but for now? It works."

John let out a low whistle. "Gift, huh? Well, I'll say this: it suits you. The color's spot on."

Tristan grinned. "Thanks. Anyway, make sure you're ready for a big season. No slacking off, alright?"

"Don't worry about me," John replied with a mock salute. "I'll hold the fort."

With a wave, John stepped back as the gates swung open, and the Range Rover purred its way onto the grounds. Tristan parked it in the players' exclusive lot, making sure to leave it at the edge. He knew some of his teammates weren't exactly the best at squeezing into tight spaces.

Dressed in a Leicester City tracksuit, Tristan stepped out, taking a moment to take it all in. The familiar hum of activity, the well-kept training pitches, and the smell of freshly cut grass—it all felt right.

He rolled his shoulders, ready to dive back into the grind. The season was here, and so was he.

Just as Tristan was about to make his way toward the building, the hum of a powerful engine caught his attention. A light gray Mercedes-Benz CLS55 AMG glided into the parking lot.

The driver stepped out, and Tristan froze in place, blinking in surprise when he saw who it was. It was none other than Jesse Lingard, the young Manchester United player who had just been announced as joining Leicester City on loan the day before.

Tristan had gotten wind of the news about Lingard's loan move earlier that day, and, to be honest, it had caught him off guard.

Tristan had received the news about Lingard's loan move earlier and had been a bit taken aback. However, given Lingard's talent, it wasn't hard to see why he'd been brought in. At the very least, he would provide competition for the team's rotation winger, Konakat.

Lingard had shown plenty of promise at Manchester United, but he hadn't yet cemented a starting role. At Leicester City, he could compete for a place in the rotation lineup and gain valuable playing time—a chance to prove himself.

What Tristan didn't know was that Lingard's arrival at Leicester had turned out to be a pivotal moment in his career. By joining Leicester City on loan, he had unknowingly sidestepped what could have been a devastating injury.

 Had he remained at Manchester United, Lingard would have suffered a serious knee injury in the opening match of the Premier League season, sidelining him for months. That injury could have completely halted his momentum and, even worse, potentially derailed his chance of ever competing for a starting spot at United.

But fate had intervened. By making the move to Leicester, Lingard had not only avoided that injury but also created a new path forward, one that could reshape his future in football.

As Lingard pulled into the parking lot and spotted Tristan , he was momentarily stunned. Today marked the first official day of his reporting to Leicester City, and while the team had been told to arrive at 9:00 AM, Lingard had shown up early, eager to make a good impression and demonstrate his commitment to his new team.

"Hey, Jesse! Long time no see!" Tristan greeted him with a grin, offering a friendly wave.

Lingard blinked in surprise. The two had only met once during a Championship League match, but since then, they had kept in touch here and there. Lingard even sent a few congratulatory messages when Tristan was selected for England and for his performances in the World Cup.

"Yeah, long time no see," Lingard replied, chuckling. "You're here early too?"

Tristan gave a mock-serious shrug. "Haha, I'm used to it. You know me. So, how've you been? Where'd you go for vacation?"

"Not bad, just relaxed a bit. What about you?" Lingard asked, feeling the easygoing vibe from Tristan.

"Same here," Tristan replied casually. "Alright, listen, we've got some time. Want me to show you around?" He grinned, his friendly attitude immediately putting Lingard at ease.

Lingard hesitated for a second but then nodded. "Yeah, sure. That would be great."

Tristan led him around the training base, showing him all the important spots: the locker room, the canteen, the infirmary, the massage room, and the gym. As they walked, Tristan made a point to introduce Lingard to everyone they passed. From staff to players, everyone was greeted with a warm smile, and Tristan's genuine generosity in introducing his new teammate made Lingard feel like he was already part of the team.

When they reached the head coach's office, Tristan paused.

"Alright, Jesse, coach probably wants to have a word with you," he said, a playful twinkle in his eye. "I'll leave you to it. You know where the locker room is, right?"

Lingard nodded. "Thanks, Tristan."

"No problem," Tristan replied, flashing him another grin. He patted Lingard's shoulder affectionately. "By the way, welcome to Leicester City!"

Lingard stood there for a moment, watching as Tristan walked away. The friendly gesture and easy conversation had already made him feel more at ease in this new environment. With a deep breath, he knocked on the head coach's door, mentally preparing for what came next.

…..

Once inside the locker room, Tristan greeted his teammates old and new. 

The air was filled with familiar sounds—laughter, shouts, and the thud of boots against the floor.

"Ulloa!" Tristan called out as he spotted the new striker. "You finding your way around, mate?"

Leonardo Ulloa nodded, a polite smile crossing his face. "Getting there, thanks."

"Good. Just wait until the lads start giving you a hard time—it's our way of saying you're one of us," Tristan said with a smirk. "No pressure, though."

Ulloa chuckled softly, clearly still warming up to the group.

Across the room, Tristan turned his attention to Marc Albrighton. "Oi, Marc, how's the crossing coming along? You aiming for the back row of the stands this season or what?"

Albrighton glanced up from tying his boots, his expression deadpan. "Better than your stepovers. Still recovering from the secondhand embarrassment."

The room erupted in laughter. Tristan shook his head, grinning. "Alright, alright. At least I keep it interesting."

"Interesting's one word for it," Albrighton fired back, earning more chuckles from the squad.

Not far off, Danny Drinkwater was in the middle of recounting something animatedly to a few of the lads. Tristan walked by and couldn't resist a dig. "Still telling that story about the 'worldie' you scored in training last season, are you?"

Drinkwater turned, grinning. "Funny. I was just about to mention your world-class dive last week. Got the Oscar speech ready yet?"

"Touché," Tristan admitted with a laugh, throwing his hands up.

As he moved around the room, Tristan exchanged quick nods and greetings with the rest of the squad. He made a point of giving the new faces a proper welcome. "Leonardo, Marc—good to have you both. You'll get used to the chaos soon enough."

Wes Morgan, the captain, gave him a subtle nod from across the room, a quiet sign of approval that carried weight.

The locker room hummed with energy, a mix of pre-season excitement and nervousness. The newer players still looked like they were settling in, but Tristan's presence—equal parts laid-back and sharp—helped set the tone.

"Let's get to it, lads," Wes said finally, his deep voice cutting through the chatter.

Tristan clapped his hands together, grinning. "Time to show Pearson we didn't spend the summer on a beach, yeah?"

"Speak for yourself," Vardy quipped from the corner, smirking. "I saw the tabloids, golden boy. You've been dining with supermodels. How's that for 'discipline'?"

Tristan rolled his eyes, his grin never fading. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Jamie. But sure, let's talk about your summer diet—red bulls and pies, right?"

The room burst into laughter as Vardy threw a towel at him.

As the team continued to prepare for the new season, Jesse Lingard eventually entered the locker room. He greeted his new teammates with polite nods and a reserved smile, his demeanor reflective of someone eager to make a good first impression. The lively chatter of the returning squad members provided a backdrop as Lingard found his place among them, ready to settle in.

Once everyone had changed into their training gear, the squad began heading out toward the training ground.

Tristan and Jamie Vardy made their way into the examination room together, both fresh from their offseason breaks. 

"Well, here we go again," Vardy said with a dramatic sigh, cracking his neck as they stepped in. "Another season, another set of people poking and prodding us like science experiments, god I hate this."

Tristan chuckled. "I thought you had gotten used to this, mate. Better this than hearing Pearson yell at us for being out of shape."

Vardy shot him a grin. "Speak for yourself, golden boy. You've been too busy dodging paparazzi and having candlelit dinners with Kendall Jenner to slack off, haven't you?"

Tristan groaned, shaking his head. "Here we go..."

"Oh, don't act like you didn't enjoy the attention," Vardy teased, leaning against the nearest table. "Come on, spill it. What's it like wining and dining a supermodel? Did she pick up the tab, or did you have to pull out the big bucks?"

Tristan shot him a look, smirking despite himself. "We're not dating, Jamie. We had dinner. That's it. The media just went wild with the story because it's... Kendall Jenner."

Vardy crossed his arms, feigning disappointment. "Dinner? That's all? No romantic walks on the beach? No swapping love letters under the moonlight?"

Tristan laughed, rolling his eyes. "You've got a vivid imagination, you know that?"

"Don't blame me; I'm just piecing together the headlines. 'England's rising star spotted with Kendall Jenner!' Sounds pretty serious to me," Vardy said, wagging his eyebrows.

"Yeah, well, next time I'll take you along as a chaperone," Tristan shot back. "That way you can clarify to the press that we're just friends."

"Ah, so you are friends," Vardy said, pouncing on the admission. "That's a step closer to something, innit?"

Tristan shook his head, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "You've got too much time on your hands, Jamie. Focus on your fitness, not my nonexistent love life."

Before Vardy could respond, the medical staff called Tristan over to start his tests. Vardy leaned back, watching with a lazy grin as Tristan stepped onto the scale.

It was fun teasing the young lady, he was a bit worried when he saw the headlines. But looking at Tristan, he was in perfect shape.

10 Minutes Later – Post-Tests

"Sixty-two kilos, eight kilos of muscle gained, and you're what? A solid 187 centimeters now?" Vardy said, shaking his head in mock disbelief as they walked out of the room together. "I don't know whether to be impressed or jealous. What're they feeding you? Steak covered in gold dust?"

Tristan laughed. "Discipline, mate. You know, eating clean, hitting the gym. Unlike you my diet doesn't just consist of redbulls and energy drinks." 

His offseason had been busy, filled with new endorsement deals and media appearances. Despite his hectic schedule, he hadn't let his fitness slide. His eating habits remained disciplined, and he had made time to stay active. The results spoke for themselves. 

[I'm not sure the numbers are correct for Tristan, the chinese author fucked it up along the way and I tried fixing it. Let me know if there's any mistakes.] 

He tried telling Vardy to control himself, but that was like asking the Royal Family not to be weirdos.

Vardy grinned. "Alright, alright. But seriously, you're looking sharp. Must be all that extra attention—motivating you to look good for the cameras, yeah?"

Vardy, as expected, showed equally promising results.

With the tests complete, the pair joined their teammates on the training ground for the first full session of pre-season. The initial focus was on endurance drills—a grueling but necessary foundation for the months ahead. Stamina, as Coach Pearson often emphasized, was non-negotiable; without it, skill and tactics would mean little over the course of a long campaign.

After a brief break, the team shifted gears to tactical training, working on the 4-2-3-1 formation that had served them well last season. As the team's attacking midfielder, Tristan was at the heart of it all. The system leaned heavily on his creativity, vision, and ability to control the game—qualities he seemed to possess in abundance.

This season, Leicester's style of play would remain largely the same, but the introduction of new players promised to add fresh dimensions to the squad. Marc Albrighton, who had joined from Aston Villa, was one such player. He was stepping into the left-wing role, a key position vacated by Eric Dier and Vardy's guest stint the previous season. 

While Albrighton had primarily played on the right during his time at Villa Park, his adaptability and tactical discipline made him a valuable asset. Though not the fastest winger, his pinpoint crossing and defensive awareness were traits that had quickly made him a favorite of Pearson. The coach was optimistic that Albrighton's deliveries from wide areas would create plenty of opportunities for Vardy and Tristan.

As the session moved into small-sided games, Tristan wasted no time asserting himself. From the moment the ball was at his feet, he exuded confidence, his every movement calculated and precise. Lingard, paired against him, quickly realized the challenge he faced.

Tristan breezed past him with a burst of speed, his balance and control seemingly effortless. Lingard, stunned, could only watch as the young playmaker orchestrated the game with a level of composure that belied his age.

"Has he gotten even better?" Lingard wondered, struggling to keep pace. He had seen Tristan's growth during the World Cup, but witnessing it up close was an entirely different experience. The power behind Tristan's movements, his ability to shield the ball under pressure, and the explosiveness in his attacks were all on another level.

The new players couldn't hide their amazement either. Watching Tristan dominate the field left them in awe. "So this is the guy who won Best Newcomer at the World Cup?" they thought. "No wonder he's the heart of England's midfield."

For Leicester's veterans—Morgan, Drinkwater, Schmeichel—Tristan's brilliance had become almost routine. They no longer marveled at his rapid improvement; instead, they embraced it, knowing he was a player who could elevate the entire squad. Having him on their side wasn't just an advantage—it was a privilege.

From the sidelines, Pearson observed the session with a sense of quiet satisfaction. It hadn't been easy managing a player of Tristan's talent. His meteoric rise—from domestic breakout star to international sensation in a matter of months—was the kind of story that could easily derail a young player.

Yet Tristan had proven to be different. Despite the accolades—a league and cup double, a stellar World Cup, and individual awards—he remained grounded. Fame hadn't dulled his hunger; if anything, it had sharpened it. Pearson had worried when Tristan spent part of the offseason in the United States, a place known for its distractions, but the young midfielder had returned more focused than ever.

This drive, Pearson knew, was rare. It was what separated the good from the truly great. And for Leicester City, it was nothing short of a blessing. 

As training wrapped up at two o'clock in the afternoon, Tristan was chatting with Mahrez about meeting up at his house that evening when he heard Pearson call his name from a distance.

"Tristan, come to my office later. I need to speak with you."

"Okay, Coach!"

After a quick shower and changing into fresh clothes, Tristan knocked on the door of Pearson's office.

"Come in."

"Coach, is something wrong?" Tristan asked, walking inside.

Pearson, seated at his desk, gestured for him to sit down before replying.

"Did you enjoy your time in the United States?"

"It was good," Tristan answered casually.

"That's good to hear."

Pearson hesitated for a moment, making Tristan curious.

"Coach, is this about the scandal?" he asked, half-jokingly.

Pearson shook his head.

"I don't have the right to delve into your private matters, but I trust you can handle your own affairs off the field. However, the new season is upon us, and the club is counting on you to lead us well in the Premier League."

Tristan could feel the weight of Pearson's words. There was pressure, but also an undeniable sense of motivation. He thrived on this sense of responsibility.

"I'm grateful for the club's trust, Coach. I'll prove myself on the pitch," Tristan responded with a determined look.

Pearson smiled, nodding approvingly.

"That's what I like to hear. Speaking of which, we've been considering something—do you want to change your jersey number?"

"Change my number?" Tristan blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in conversation.

"Yes," Pearson confirmed. "With Dean Hammond transferring out, the number seven is vacant. We've had internal discussions, and the club wants to offer it to you. What do you think?"

Tristan paused, his mind racing. The number seven had always carried weight—it was iconic. 

....