Good news for everyone asking for more football: this season ends in 10 chapters, so we are finally done with it. Not exactly happy with how it turned out. There are a few regrets looking back on it. If I could go back, I'd probably redo how I did the relationship and how I wrote those matches, but it is what it is. I can only learn from my mistakes and make improvements in the new season.
The new season will be a lot more focused on football, and it will probably be the most matches I write for any season. As for me, it either breaks this story or makes it great. This season, not so much. There really isn't much for me to write about; you guys have to remember Leicester was in 12th place IRL. There's not much I can write about; that's why theres a lot more slice-of-life chapters. And Patreon members love those types of chapters. And as that one is providing the bread for me to buy eggs, their opinion matters a lot.
..
November 16, 2014 – En Route to the U.S.
The icy night air bit at their skin as they crossed the tarmac, Barbara pulling her coat tighter around herself as the private jet loomed ahead of them, its sleek body illuminated by the floodlights.
She glanced at Tristan, who walked beside her, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, completely at ease. He didn't seem remotely fazed by the sheer extravagance of it all, like renting an entire jet was as casual as ordering takeout.
Barbara, however, was not unfazed.
"You rented an entire jet?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, her tone hovering between disbelief and exhaustion.
Tristan glanced at her, his expression calm, but the amusement in his eyes was impossible to miss. "You're acting surprised, babe."
"I am surprised," she huffed. "We could've flown business class like normal people."
Tristan let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. "Normal? Barbara, love… I don't think we've been normal for a while."
"That's not the flex you think it is," she muttered, following him up the steps.
Inside, Sophia was already seated with her laptop open, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Without looking up, she called out, "Don't bother, Barbara. I tried reasoning with him."
Barbara turned to her, exasperated. "And?"
Sophia finally lifted her gaze, unimpressed, then slowly gestured around the cabin—the plush leather seats, the polished mahogany finishes, the absurd amount of space for just a few people.
Barbara groaned, throwing her hands up. "You're all enabling him."
Tristan, already sprawled in one of the oversized seats, rested his elbow on the armrest, watching her with quiet amusement. "I see no problem."
Barbara narrowed her eyes, dropping her bag onto the seat across from him before sliding in beside it. "You are so dramatic."
Tristan tilted his head slightly, like he was genuinely considering the accusation. "Maybe. Or maybe I just don't like dealing with airports, security lines, and fans taking pictures of us while we're trying to sleep."
Barbara opened her mouth, ready to argue—but then hesitated.
Because, okay, fine—he had a point.
Still.
"That doesn't mean we need an entire plane," she muttered, crossing her arms.
Tristan lifted a brow, his lips twitching. "Do you want legroom?"
Barbara shot him a glare.
"Do you want peace and quiet?"
She groaned. "Stop—"
"Do you want to sleep in an actual bed instead of being squished next to some guy who takes his shoes off and spreads his legs across both armrests?"
Barbara exhaled sharply, sinking back into her seat. "Fine."
Tristan's expression was impossible to read, but the look in his eyes gave away his satisfaction. "You can call me stupid all you want. Just know that you're comfortable."
She nudged his leg under the table. "You're so annoying."
Across the cabin, John took his usual seat near the entrance, silent as always. He checked his watch, barely sparing a glance at the two of them.
The flight attendant approached, confirming their flight details before retreating to the front of the cabin. Within moments, the engines roared to life, and the jet began its smooth ascent into the night sky.
Barbara sighed, leaning her head against the window. "Okay… this is nice," she admitted begrudgingly.
Tristan, already reclining, turned his head toward her, his lips curving slightly. "Told you."
Barbara nudged him again under the table. "Shut up."
A few hours into the flight, the jet had settled into a peaceful quiet. The dimmed cabin lights left everything in a warm, muted glow, the steady hum of the engines the only real sound aside from the occasional tap of Sophia's keyboard from a few rows away.
In the private cabin, Barbara had curled up under a thick blanket, leaning against Tristan in the oversized bed. The space was enclosed enough to feel separate from the rest of the jet, a quiet little world of their own.
Tristan lay comfortably against the pillows, his phone resting in one hand as he scrolled through Instagram. The dim glow of the screen illuminated his face, his expression neutral—until something made his lips twitch.
A video had popped up in his feed. Barbara Palvin for Etam Spring 2011.
Curious, he tapped on it, and the second it started playing, his eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. The video showed Barbara, strutting down the runway in soft pastel lingerie and heels, carrying a tiny baby goat in her arms.
Tristan blinked, then let out a soft, amused exhale.
The baby goat, seemingly unbothered by the flashing lights and loud music, nestled itself deeper into Barbara's hold as she confidently walked down the runway, her face completely composed—until it wriggled slightly, making her let out a tiny giggle mid-stride.
The comment section was a disaster.
"I don't even know what Etam was selling, but I wanted a goat after this."
"Imagine being a baby goat and just casually getting carried by Barbara Palvin."
"That baby goat won at life and didn't even know it."
Tristan smothered a laugh before nudging Barbara's arm, tilting his phone toward her.
"You never told me you were a professional goat handler," he teased, the corners of his mouth lifting as he watched her reaction.
Barbara, already curled up against him under the blanket, glanced at the screen. The moment recognition hit, she groaned dramatically, burying her face against his shoulder.
"Oh my God, not that video again," she muttered.
Tristan grinned, tapping the screen to replay it. "Nah, I need answers. Why were you walking a runway like you were modeling for a farm supply catalog?"
Barbara reached for his phone, but he held it just out of reach, eyes gleaming with amusement.
"I was carrying him," she corrected, sitting up slightly, arms folded. "And I wasn't supposed to! They literally handed me the goat seconds before I walked out."
Tristan's laughter came quiet but deep, his chest shaking slightly. "So you just—took it and went?"
Barbara groaned again. "What was I supposed to do, drop him?!"
Tristan bit his lip, trying to contain the laughter bubbling up.
Barbara sighed, but there was a hint of a smile threatening at the edges of her lips. "I grew up on a farm. Holding a baby goat isn't exactly a new experience for me."
Tristan shook his head, watching the clip one more time, eyes squinting in amusement. "I can't believe I'm dating someone whose runway debut involved livestock."
Barbara, finally giving up on stealing his phone, huffed as she tucked herself back under the blanket, poking his ribs. "Laugh it up. Meanwhile, that goat behaves better than you.."
Tristan turned his head toward her, his eyebrows raised slightly. "You did not just compare me to a baby goat."
Barbara tucked her chin down, her shoulders shaking as she tried not to laugh.
Tristan let out an exaggerated sigh, locking his phone and tossing it onto the nightstand before pulling her closer under the blanket.
"You know what?" he murmured, resting his chin against the top of her head. "If I had known you had farm experience before we started dating, I'd have let you take care of Vardy."
Barbara snorted, muffling her laugh into his hoodie. "Jamie Vardy is not the same as a baby goat."
Tristan hummed. "You're right. The goat was cuter."
Barbara gasped, lifting her head to gasp at him dramatically.
Tristan met her stare with a straight face—before breaking into a quiet chuckle as she playfully shoved him.
….
The faint clatter of dishes and silverware filled the cozy space as Tristan and Barbara sat across from each other at the small dining table inside the private cabin. The food had been brought in minutes ago—steaming plates of something far better than regular airline meals—but Tristan had barely touched his. His phone was still in one hand, absently held as he lazily picked at his food with the other.
Barbara, bundled comfortably in her blanket, took a bite of her pasta before glancing at him. "Are you going to eat, or are you too busy admiring yourself on Instagram?"
Tristan, eyes still locked on his phone, let out a quiet breath through his nose. "I'm eating," he said, even though he clearly wasn't.
Barbara rolled her eyes. "Right. Scrolling counts as eating now."
She took another bite before shifting slightly in her seat, stretching out her legs. Her phone buzzed next to her plate, and she absentmindedly picked it up, expecting a text from Sophia or some random notification. Instead, her thumb froze over the screen.
Twitter.
Tristan Hale is trending.
Her stomach twisted slightly. That wasn't unusual—Tristan was always in the news for something, whether it was his performances, his style, or fans debating where he ranked in the world.But the moment she tapped on the topic, her eyes scanned over the flood of posts, and her chest tightened.
The backlash had started.
"England needs leaders, and Tristan Hale just abandoned the team for a vacation. What a joke.""Spoiled, selfish, entitled. Not even 20 years old and already thinks he's bigger than the badge.""Lampard, Gerrard, Scholes—none of them would've skipped a friendly. Different mentality.""Imagine running away from a Scotland game because you think you're too important to play."
Barbara's grip on her phone tightened.
She scrolled down, her eyes catching some big names weighing in—former players, pundits, even a few English legends making pointed comments about commitment, responsibility, and not letting down your country.
Her stomach churned.
She flicked her gaze up at Tristan. He hadn't noticed yet. He was still distracted by whatever was on his phone, his jaw slack with something that looked like mild amusement.
Barbara hesitated before setting her phone down. She debated whether to say anything at all, but the longer she stayed quiet, the more the words built in her throat.
"Love," she started carefully, voice quieter than before.
His head lifted at the sound of her tone. "Yeah?"
Barbara swallowed, choosing her words. "You're trending."
His brows pulled together slightly as he finally locked his phone and reached for his own. "Again?" he muttered, more curious than concerned.
Barbara bit her lip, watching as he scrolled through the feed. The moment he saw the comments, his expression shifted—not shock, not anger, just… a quiet pause. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face before he exhaled sharply through his nose and tossed his phone down on the table.
"That didn't take long," he muttered.
Barbara frowned. "You knew this was going to happen?"
Tristan picked up his fork, finally taking a bite of food as if nothing had happened. "Of course. The England squad could win a match 5-0, and someone would still find a way to drag me."
Barbara wasn't convinced. His reaction was too calm—too nonchalant for the kind of backlash he was getting. "Tristan, they're not just dragging you. They're calling you selfish, spoiled—"
Tristan waved a hand, cutting her off. "It's a friendly. I told the FA weeks ago I wasn't going to play. The squad knew, the manager knew, and nobody had an issue. But suddenly, Twitter acts like I'm abandoning my country in the middle of a World Cup final."
His voice wasn't bitter. If anything, there was almost an amused disbelief behind it, like he genuinely couldn't understand how people had this much energy to be upset over something so minor.
He knew missing the friendly against Scotland would stir up the media, but end of the day it was just a friendly; he already led the team to win all the qualifiers. Plus, he wanted to give the rest of the team time to shine; he was taking away all the spotlight.
Barbara exhaled slowly, pushing her food around on her plate. "Still… it's a lot."
Tristan leaned back slightly in his seat, his fingers tapping against the table in thought. "I get it," he said finally, glancing at her. "I do. People want their players to show up. But this?" He gestured toward the phone. "This isn't about football. It's just people who want something to complain about."
Barbara wasn't so sure. She knew Tristan had always been good at ignoring outside noise, but this wasn't just noise. This was English football media—a beast of its own.
And if there was one thing they loved, it was taking down young player who they praised to the heavens.
She sighed, resting her chin in her hand as she watched him. "I just don't want this to get worse."
Tristan met her eyes across the table, studying her expression for a second before shaking his head slightly. "It won't."
Barbara frowned. "You don't know that."
A small, lopsided grin tugged at the corner of Tristan's mouth as he picked his phone back up and locked it without even looking at the screen. "You know what I do know?"
Barbara raised a brow. "What?"
Tristan speared another bite of food, giving her a look. "That I'm starving, and you're wasting all your energy worrying about people I don't even know."
Barbara huffed out a soft laugh, but it was mostly frustration. "Tristan."
"Barbara."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm being serious."
"And I'm being completely serious about this pasta." He gestured to her plate. "Eat."
Barbara hesitated for a second longer, then sighed. She picked up her fork, though she still didn't look completely convinced.
Tristan leaned back again, finally looking a little more amused. "If it makes you feel better, I'll let Sophia yell about it when we land. You know how she loves tearing into pundits."
Barbara smirked slightly at that. "That does make me feel better."
Tristan shook his head, still chewing. "Thought so."
The tension between them loosened slightly as they both settled into their meal, but Barbara wasn't fully at ease. Tristan might not care now, but she knew this wouldn't just disappear overnight.
Still, for now, she let it go.
She'd worry about the rest later once they landed.
The soft chime of the seatbelt sign turned on, followed by the captain's voice coming over the intercom.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be landing in Los Angeles shortly. The local time is 9:14 AM, and the weather is clear with a temperature of 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Please ensure your seatbelts are fastened as we prepare for landing."
Barbara stretched under the blanket, letting out a quiet groan as she blinked against the light spilling through the cabin window. "I swear that was the fastest ten hours of my life."
Tristan, sitting beside her with one arm resting lazily over his stomach, turned his head slightly. "That's because you slept through half of it."
Barbara rubbed her eyes, yawning. "And you didn't sleep at all, did you?"
Tristan just shrugged, adjusting his hoodie as he grabbed his phone from the nightstand.
A few seats away, John had already straightened up, his watchful gaze flicking toward the window before glancing back at Tristan. "Once we land, we'll go straight through the private terminal. No delays, no crowds."
Barbara sighed in relief, sinking back into her seat. "Thank God. The last thing I need is a camera in my face before I've had coffee."
Sophia, seated across from them, finally closed her laptop with a quiet snap. "That doesn't mean people won't already be waiting outside. You know how it is here."
Barbara exhaled, tucking her legs under the blanket. "Great. Nothing like stepping off a plane looking like a zombie while paparazzi scream your name."
Tristan was scrolling through his phone, seemingly unbothered. "If it makes you feel better, they'll probably be more interested in me skipping the Scotland game than how you look."
Barbara rolled her eyes. "Oh, fantastic. You're getting roasted online, and I have to be photogenic. Truly a win for both of us."
The jet dipped lower, and through the window, the sprawling city of Los Angeles came into view—the endless grid of streets, clusters of towering buildings, and palm trees swaying under the soft golden morning light.
Barbara leaned against Tristan slightly to get a better view. "Feels weird landing here and not immediately going to work."
The plane touched down smoothly, the faint rumble of the wheels against the tarmac barely noticeable in the private jet's insulated cabin. A soft thud, a deceleration, then stillness.
They had arrived.
As the plane taxied toward the private terminal, John unbuckled his seatbelt and stood, already speaking into his phone. "ETA two minutes. Make sure the car's ready."
Barbara stretched her arms above her head as she sat up. "What hotel are we staying at again?"
Sophia glanced at her own phone. "A fancy resort, has everything you would need.."
Barbara nodded approvingly. "Good. I need a shower and a nap in that exact order."
Tristan leaned forward slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I need food. Real food."
Barbara grinned, nudging his knee under the table. "Didn't like your gourmet in-flight meal?"
Tristan let out an unimpressed breath. "It wasn't bad, but it wasn't real."
Barbara just shook her head, amused.
The moment the aircraft came to a complete stop, the flight attendant stepped forward. "Welcome to Los Angeles, Mr. Hale, Miss Palvin. We'll begin deplaning shortly. Customs clearance has been arranged, and you'll be escorted through the private exit."
John gave a firm nod, double-checking his watch before looking at Tristan. "You ready?"
Tristan pushed himself up, grabbing his hoodie from the seat beside him. "Let's go."
Barbara reached for her sunglasses. "Here we go again."
John exited first, stepping onto the jet stairs to scan the area. Once he gave the all-clear, Tristan followed, with Barbara right behind him. The California sun was already bright, and the warm air wrapped around them as they descended onto the tarmac.
Just beyond the fence line, in the distance, camera flashes flickered.
Barbara let out a dramatic sigh. "I was really hoping to go at least five minutes without seeing a camera."
Tristan barely looked. "Welcome to LA."
At the curb, a black SUV was waiting, the driver already holding the door open. And standing beside it, scrolling through her phone, was Barbara's assistant, Sophia.
As soon as Barbara spotted her, she grinned. "Sophia!"
Sophia looked up from her phone, her expression immediately brightening. "Finally! I swear I thought you got lost mid-air."
Barbara pulled her into a quick hug, sighing dramatically. "It felt like it. Please tell me you have coffee."
Sophia smirked. "Do you even have to ask?" She gestured toward a waiting coffee cup on the SUV's hood.
Barbara sighed in relief, grabbing it immediately. "You're a lifesaver."
Meanwhile, Sophia's gaze shifted to Tristan, who had stepped up beside Barbara, adjusting the hood of his sweatshirt.
She offered a small, professional smile. "Tristan, good to see you again."
Tristan gave a slight nod, his hands still tucked in his pockets. "Likewise."
Then, Sophia's eyes flickered past him, landing on the other woman stepping forward—Tristan's assistant, Sophia.
This was their first time meeting in person, though they'd exchanged countless calls and emails over the last month or so, coordinating schedules, handling media, and making sure Barbara and Tristan's lives ran smoothly.
Barbara tilted her head toward the other Sophia, her tone casual. "And you already know her."
Sophia extended a hand, her expression professional but easy. "Good to finally meet you in person."
Barbara's Sophia shook it firmly, giving a small, knowing smile. "Same here. Feels overdue."
She nodded, then added smoothly, "And to keep things simple, just call me Sofia. It'll make life easier for everyone."
Barbara's Sophia raised an eyebrow slightly before nodding. "Sofia it is."
Tristan, watching the exchange unfold with quiet amusement, finally exhaled sharply. "Great. Now that we've got that sorted—can we get out of here before the paps start climbing fences?"
John, who had been standing nearby, checked his watch before giving a subtle nod. "Car's ready. Let's move."
Barbara sighed, looping her arm through Tristan's as she led him toward the SUV. "Come on, superstar, before your fan club gets any closer."
Tristan slid into the SUV beside her, glancing toward the security gates, where camera flashes were already flickering.
"They already know."
The car doors shut, blocking out the noise of the outside world.
Next stop: Malibu.
The black SUV rolled smoothly through the gates of the exclusive Malibu resort, tucked away along the cliffs overlooking the Pacific. The driveway was lined with lush greenery, the sound of the waves crashing in the distance adding to the secluded, peaceful atmosphere.
Barbara let out a slow exhale as she leaned back against the seat. "I forgot how nice it is here."
Tristan glanced out the window, the sun reflecting off the ocean, the kind of sight that would've seemed surreal if he hadn't spent time here before. "Not bad."
Barbara shot him a look. "Not bad?"
Tristan smirked slightly, adjusting his hoodie. "Fine. It's nice."
Sophia, seated in the front, was already handling the check-in process over the phone. "Everything is set. Your villa is private, no media, no staff unless requested."
Barbara hummed in appreciation. "Perfect."
John, ever the professional, stepped out first as the car came to a stop, giving a quick scan of the area before opening the door.
Barbara slid out, stretching slightly, Tristan following behind her. A staff member greeted them politely before leading them through the resort's open-air lobby, the ocean breeze rolling in as they were guided toward their villa.
The space was everything they could've asked for—modern but warm, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the water, a private infinity pool, and direct access to the beach.
Barbara immediately kicked off her shoes, stepping onto the cool hardwood floors with a content sigh. "I love it."
Tristan dropped his bag near the couch, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, yeah, very nice. Where's the bed?"
Barbara rolled her eyes. "Really? Not even five minutes in?"
Tristan gave her a pointed look, tugging his hoodie over his head. "I haven't slept. I was awake for the entire flight while you were drooling on my hoodie."
Barbara gasped, placing a hand on her chest. "Excuse me, I do not drool."
Tristan didn't even argue—he just walked off toward the bedroom.
Barbara, after briefly considering a trip to the beach, let out a sigh. As much as she wanted to, she knew Tristan had already been dealing with enough media attention for missing the Scotland game. Even though he played it off like he didn't care, she knew better.
So, instead, she followed him inside, collapsing onto the bed beside him.
Tristan barely had time to pull the covers over himself before Barbara curled up beside him, stealing half the blanket.
He sighed, too tired to argue. "You were just about to go outside."
Barbara burrowed closer. "Changed my mind."
Tristan blinked, already half-asleep. "Why?"
Barbara paused for a second, then shrugged. "Because you're more important."
Tristan let out a quiet breath, too tired to tease her for being soft. Instead, he just tugged her closer, pressing a tired kiss to the top of her head.
"Go to sleep, farm girl."
Barbara smiled against his shoulder.
…
The waves crashed softly in the distance, a steady rhythm that blended into the warmth of the late morning sun. A gentle breeze filtered through the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of salt and the faintest hint of sunscreen.
Barbara stretched beneath the sheets, letting out a quiet sigh as she blinked against the sunlight. The bed was ridiculously comfortable, but what really made it impossible to leave was the fact that Tristan was still fast asleep beside her.
He lay on his back, his hoodie slightly pulled up, exposing the sharp lines of his stomach. The blankets were kicked off haphazardly, one arm resting lazily above his head while the other was tucked under the pillow.
For once, he looked completely unbothered, like nothing—not the media, not football, not the weight of expectations—could reach him.
Barbara's lips parted slightly as she watched him sleep, warmth blooming in her chest.
Too bad she wasn't about to let him stay like that.
Slipping out of bed carefully, she padded toward her suitcase, flipping it open. A few bikinis sat neatly folded inside. That plan was to spend some time in the beach but with the attention Tristan was getting, no way she was going to make it worse for him. She ran her fingers over the fabric before picking out a black one and tossing it onto the bed.
Her gaze flickered back to Tristan's sleeping form.
Yeah, this was about to be fun.
She grabbed the bikini and disappeared into the bathroom.
A few minutes later, Tristan stirred, his brow furrowing as he shifted slightly under the sheets. His body was still heavy with sleep, but something had pulled him from it.
His eyes cracked open, barely focused, his mind still in that hazy space between dreaming and waking.
Then, he saw her.
Barbara stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands on her hips, wearing a tiny black bikini.
His breath hitched slightly. His body froze for a second, his brain needing an extra few moments to fully process what he was looking at.
Barbara turned slightly, checking her reflection in the glass, adjusting one of the straps. She barely glanced over her shoulder before speaking.
"What do you think?"
Tristan blinked slowly, still trying to wake up.
His voice was rough with sleep. "Huh."
Barbara's eyebrows lifted. "Huh?"
Tristan swallowed, dragging a hand down his face, still trying to calibrate his brain to reality.
"I just woke up," he muttered, shifting onto his side, resting on one elbow. His green eyes dragged over her slowly, deliberately.
Barbara turned fully, crossing her arms. "And?"
Tristan exhaled, tilting his head slightly, his voice still quiet from sleep. "Give me a second to recalibrate."
Barbara let out a small laugh. "Fine. You've got one second."
Tristan finally sat up properly, running a hand through his curls before resting his forearms on his knees.
"Turn around."
Barbara narrowed her eyes. "You just want to stall."
Tristan raised a lazy hand, gesturing for her to do it. "Just humor me."
She rolled her eyes but obliged, spinning slowly before facing him again.
Tristan leaned back against the headboard, taking his time before finally nodding.
"Yeah," he said, his voice even. "Looks great."
Barbara gave him a pointed look. "That's all?"
Tristan let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping lightly against his thigh. "I could just say nothing and keep staring instead."
Barbara shook her head before turning toward the bed. She grabbed a bright red bikini from the pile, holding it up like she was evaluating a game show prize.
"I have more," she mused, spinning the fabric between her fingers.
Tristan's eyes flickered between her and the bikini. He raised an eyebrow. "More?"
Barbara nodded, heading toward the bathroom again. "Trying options. Might as well get your input."
Tristan ran a hand down his face, fully awake now, and let out a quiet chuckle. "This might be the best morning of my life."
A couple of minutes later, Barbara emerged again—this time in the red bikini.
Tristan's eyes trailed over her, his lips parting slightly as he rested his arms over his knees.
Barbara lifted her chin slightly. "Better than the black?"
Tristan took a slow breath, his gaze dragging up from her legs to her face.
"You should do another turn before I decide."
Barbara shot him a look, but she turned anyway, moving slowly, deliberately.
When she faced him again, Tristan exhaled, leaning back against the pillows, one hand resting on his stomach.
"Yeah," he murmured, voice lower now. "That one's… yeah."
Barbara let out a small laugh. "That's not a full sentence."
Before she could say anything else, Tristan grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward him in one swift motion.
She let out a soft squeak as she landed on his chest, her hands pressing against him for balance.
Tristan's fingers curled around her waist, his green eyes darker now, amusement flickering behind them.
"I think we're past the point of judging bikinis," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Barbara's breath caught slightly, his warmth pressing into her, his grip firm but unhurried.
His head dipped slightly, lips brushing just below her jaw, a slow, teasing press that sent a shiver down her spine.
Barbara inhaled sharply before pressing her hand against his chest, stopping him gently.
"Tristan," she whispered.
He hummed, his lips barely moving from her skin. "Yeah?"
Barbara swallowed, her fingers curling slightly against his hoodie. "I have a photoshoot today, remember?"
Tristan let out a long groan, flopping onto his back in frustration.
Barbara laughed, rolling onto her side beside him, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Poor baby."
Tristan dragged a hand over his face. "Yeah, yeah."
After a second, he turned his head toward her, his gaze softer now, filled with something lazy and warm.
"You're lucky I have self-control," he muttered.
Barbara tilted her head, her smile teasing but fond. "I know you have self-control."
Her voice dropped slightly, playful, as she leaned in just a fraction.
"Doesn't mean I don't like testing it."
Tristan let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head before wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her against him.
Barbara let him, sighing into his warmth, the tension melting away.
She closed her eyes, her fingers tracing lazy shapes against his hoodie.
"I was supposed to try on more bikinis," she murmured.
Tristan closed his eyes as well, his fingers drawing slow circles on her back.
"Nope," he mumbled, his voice softer now. "You've done enough."
Barbara let out a quiet chuckle, but she didn't argue.
Instead, she just settled into him, the sound of the waves filling the room, the day stretching ahead of them.
….
Barbara adjusted the oversized sunglasses on her face, pushing them up onto her head as she stepped out of the SUV.
The private Malibu estate where the shoot was taking place stretched out before them—a mid-century modern home overlooking the ocean, all retro furniture, soft golden light, and an open-air design that screamed 70s glamour.
A few steps ahead, members of the glam team were already setting up, unpacking cases of makeup, hair tools, and racks of vintage-inspired outfits. A large styling mirror had been placed near the edge of the patio, angled just right so Barbara would have a view of the ocean while getting ready.
Tristan followed a step behind, his hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, his curly hair still slightly messy from sleep. His sunglasses were low on his nose, and he took in the scene with his usual unreadable expression.
Sophia was already in work mode, scanning over the schedule on her phone as they walked.
"You're in hair and makeup first," she told Barbara, not even looking up from the screen. "Then wardrobe, first look is in an hour."
Barbara sighed dramatically. "And here I was thinking I'd have time to enjoy the view first."
Sophia finally lifted her gaze, giving her a pointed look. "You are the view. Now get in the chair before they hunt me down."
Barbara rolled her eyes but let one of the stylists guide her over to the prep area.
Tristan, meanwhile, stayed standing near the entrance, watching the team move around with quiet amusement.
Barbara sat in a makeup chair, her newly blonde hair cascading over her shoulders in loose waves as Dennis Lanni, her hairstylist, gave it one last fluff. The color was a soft, sun-kissed gold, warmer than her usual brunette but still striking against her skin.
Tobi Henney, her trusted makeup artist, leaned in to sweep the final touches of bronzed, glowy tones across her cheekbones, adding just the right amount of 70s glamour.
Across the room, Tristan sat in a lounge chair, one arm resting lazily over the back, the other holding his phone—but his attention was nowhere near the screen.
He wasn't used to seeing Barbara blonde.
Even though he knew it was just for the shoot, the change threw him off for a second. She looked different—unreal, almost. Like a dream, like she had just stepped out of a 70s magazine cover.
His fingers tapped idly against the side of his phone as he watched Dennis work through the curls, adjusting the volume, his hands constantly in her hair.
Tristan remained silent, his posture still casual, but Barbara caught the shift in his expression through the mirror.
His jaw was set just slightly tighter. His green eyes flickered, following every movement.
She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the urge to smirk.
Oh.
He's jealous.
Not in a possessive way, not in a way that would make a scene—but she knew him too well. She almost never got to see Tristan be jealous.
And she loved it.
She tilted her head slightly, forcing herself to focus on her reflection instead of laughing outright.
Dennis took a step back, hands on his hips as he admired his work. "There we go. That's the look—classic, effortless, disco-era perfection."
Barbara turned her head from side to side, letting the soft, voluminous curls bounce gently.
She loved it.
"Wow," she murmured, genuinely impressed. "Dennis, Tobi—you guys just gave me an identity crisis."
Tobi chuckled as she capped her lip gloss. "That's what we do best, babe."
Dennis gave her hair a playful shake, then patted her shoulder before walking off to check another model.
Barbara immediately glanced at Tristan.
"Well?" she asked, brushing a few curls over her shoulder, waiting for his reaction.
Tristan took his time.
His gaze moved slowly over her, taking in every detail—the soft waves, the golden shade, the way her freckles stood out more under the Malibu light.
Finally, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
His voice was even, casual. "You look different."
Barbara arched an eyebrow. "Different good or different bad?"
Tristan let out a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly.
"Just different," he muttered.
Barbara grinned.
Oh, he was so full of shit.
She stood up, walking over to where he was seated. When she stopped in front of him, she bent down just enough to level their faces.
Her blue eyes sparkled with amusement. "You don't like it, do you?"
Tristan didn't blink.
"I didn't say that," he murmured.
Barbara tilted her head. "You didn't have to say it."
Tristan exhaled, his fingers brushing absently over his phone. "It's temporary, right?"
Barbara let out a soft laugh, nudging his knee lightly with hers. "Of course, love. I'm still me under here."
Tristan nodded once. "Good."
Barbara grinned wider, absolutely delighted.
Before she could tease him again, Sophia's voice cut through the space. "Barbara, wardrobe's ready for the first set."
Barbara turned toward her stylist, giving Tristan one last playful glance before walking off.
Tristan watched her disappear into the dressing area, rubbing his jaw absently.
Yeah.
He wasn't used to this version of her.
But damn, she was beautiful.
The first look was set against a patterned 70s backdrop, the kind of bold, vintage design that screamed old Hollywood nostalgia.
Barbara stepped onto the set in a beige crochet halter dress, her blonde curls framing her face like she had walked straight out of a time capsule.
The moment the cameras started clicking, she transformed.
She wasn't just posing—she was living in the era. The way she tilted her chin, the slow blinks, the slightly parted lips, the effortless control over her expressions.
Tristan watched in silence, his arms folded over his chest.
Every so often, the photographer would mutter something about how insane the lighting was, how she was hitting every frame perfectly.
Tristan already knew that.
The break came after the first set of shots, and the photographer walked up to Tristan, flipping through the images on the display.
"We got some insane shots. You wanna see?"
Tristan leaned in, eyes scanning over the screen.
Then, he saw it.
A close-up shot.
Barbara's face in perfect clarity, every detail sharp yet impossibly soft at the same time. Her blue eyes were piercing, her freckles barely dusted over her nose, her lips parted just slightly, her blonde curls falling around her like something out of a 70s film.
It was stunning.
Tristan's fingers hovered near the screen for a second.
"Can I get a copy of this one?" he asked, his voice quieter now.
The photographer grinned. "Absolutely. I'll send you a high-res file."
Tristan nodded, still staring at the image for a beat longer before finally leaning back.
Barbara, who had been nearby sipping on water, noticed.
She wandered over, tilting her head slightly. "What's that?"
Tristan locked his phone. "Nothing."
Barbara arched an eyebrow. "Tristan."
He sighed through his nose, finally turning the screen toward her.
Her eyes widened slightly as she saw the image—the close-up of her, frozen in time, looking like something straight out of a dream.
Tristan had already set it as his lock screen.
Barbara's lips parted in surprise, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of his phone.
"Oh," she whispered, blinking at him.
Tristan leaned back in his seat, expression unreadable, but the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable.
"You like it?" he asked.
Barbara didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she smiled—soft something that made her heart feel way too full.
She shook her head in quiet disbelief, then leaned down, pressing a light kiss to his cheek.
"Did I ever tell you, your the best boyfriend in the world," she murmured.
Tristan just tilted his head slightly toward her, lowering his voice.
"And you're beautiful."
Barbara's chest tightened slightly, her fingers curling against his arm.
God, she loved him.
And for the rest of the shoot, she couldn't stop smiling.
By the time they left the shoot, the sun had begun its slow descent over the Pacific, spilling warm hues of orange, pink, and gold across the Malibu coastline.
Barbara pressed closer into Tristan's side, her bare shoulder brushing against his hoodie as they walked toward their waiting car. The ocean breeze tangled in her hair, mixing with the faint traces of hairspray and perfume still clinging to her skin.
The temporary blonde color in her hair had begun to fade slightly, the light mist they'd used during styling already losing its hold. A quick shower, and she'd be back to her natural brunette.
Barbara sighed contentedly, leaning into him. "You were staring a lot."
Tristan arched an eyebrow, barely sparing her a glance as they slid into the backseat. "Was not."
Barbara grinned, nudging his ribs. "You absolutely were. Don't think I didn't catch you side-eyeing Dennis."
Tristan scoffed, looking out the window as the car pulled away. "Your hair guy was a bit too enthusiastic, that's all."
Barbara laughed, her fingers absentmindedly twirling a strand of the fading blonde in her hair. "Cute when you get jealous."
Tristan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Not jealous. Just... aware."
Barbara bit her lip, fighting back another laugh.
She knew Tristan wasn't the possessive type. He trusted her. He didn't care about other people orbiting around her world—except for moments like this, small flickers of instinct where his protectiveness kicked in, and he didn't even realize it.
And honestly? She loved it.
By the time they pulled up to their private room, exhaustion had fully settled in.
The idea of going out for dinner had seemed nice earlier, but now?
Barbara groaned, kicking off her shoes the second they walked inside. "I just wanna shower, put on comfy clothes, and order room service."
Tristan dropped his hoodie onto a chair, already stretching out his arms as he walked further inside. "Now that is the best idea you've had all day."
Barbara shot him a look, pausing in the doorway of the bedroom. "Excuse me? I looked stunning today. That was the best idea."
Tristan smirked, running a hand through his hair before flopping onto the couch. "Yeah, yeah. You were alright."
A pillow flew across the room, smacking him square in the face.
Tristan caught it just before it fell to the floor, shaking his head with a small laugh.
Barbara, standing in the doorway, crossed her arms, grinning. "You really like pushing your luck, don't you?"
Tristan tilted his head against the couch cushion, his green eyes flickering with amusement. "Keeps things interesting."
Barbara rolled her eyes but couldn't fight the warmth spreading through her chest.
"Go shower," Tristan muttered, already grabbing the remote. "I'm ordering food."
Barbara lingered for half a second, just watching him, before finally shaking her head and disappearing into the bathroom.
Yeah.
This was definitely her favorite version of him.
Twenty minutes later, they were curled up on the couch, the sound of the ocean filtering in through the open balcony doors. The warm glow of the villa's lamps cast a soft, golden hue over the room, wrapping them in a kind of peace that felt rare.
Barbara was draped over Tristan, wearing one of his oversized shirts, her bare legs tucked beneath her as she leaned into his chest.
Tristan sat comfortably against the cushions, one arm around her, the other resting over his stomach. He had changed into sweatpants and a hoodie, his sleeves pushed up slightly, his fingers tracing small circles against her back.
The remains of room service were scattered on the coffee table—half-eaten desserts, an empty plate where fries used to be, a couple of untouched drinks still sweating against the glass.
Some random movie played in the background, but neither of them was really paying attention.
Barbara stretched slightly, her head nuzzling into the soft fabric of his hoodie as she traced lazy patterns against his knee. "Today was fun."
Tristan let out a low hum, his grip around her tightening just slightly. "Yeah, it was. You were incredible out there."
Barbara smiled into his hoodie, closing her eyes for a second. "You liked watching me work?"
Tristan tilted his head down toward her, his chin brushing against her hair. "Yeah," he admitted. "Felt different, being on the other side for once. I get why you're always watching my games now."
Barbara lifted her head, her blue eyes searching his. "Did it make you nervous?"
Tristan thought about it for a second, his fingers dragging lazily along her arm.
"Nah," he finally said. "I was just proud. But also, I may have saved a few of those pictures."
Barbara raised an eyebrow, shifting so she could properly face him. "Which ones besides the one you saved as your wallpaper?"
Tristan didn't hesitate. "All of them."
Barbara laughed, rolling onto her side, resting her cheek against the pillow as she watched him. "So you do pay attention."
Tristan brushed his knuckles lightly against her cheek, his touch warm. "Of course I do. I always do."
Barbara felt something flutter in her chest.
She didn't say anything right away. Instead, she leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, slow and lingering.
Tristan exhaled through his nose, his fingers curling gently around her waist.
Barbara pulled away just enough to whisper, "That's sweet."
Tristan pressed his forehead against hers for a moment, his voice quieter now. "You make it easy."
Barbara absently traced slow patterns against Tristan's arm, her voice softer now. "We should do this more often."
Tristan's lips pressed gently to the top of her head, his fingers brushing over the exposed skin of her back. "Yeah," he murmured. "We should."
….
Next Day
The Los Angeles morning sun hung high, casting sharp reflections against the towering glass walls of Nike's West Coast headquarters.
A few select employees were already gathered outside, waiting in anticipation as a sleek black SUV rolled up to the entrance.
The moment the doors opened, Tristan stepped out first.
He was dressed casually—a fitted Nike hoodie, black joggers, and a fresh pair of white sneakers. His golden curls slightly tousled, sunglasses hanging from the neckline of his hoodie.
Beside him, Sophia followed, her tablet in one hand, phone in the other, already scanning through emails.
The lead Nike rep, a sharply dressed man in his mid-forties, stepped forward with a practiced smile, extending a hand.
"Tristan, welcome to LA."
Tristan shook his hand firmly, nodding in acknowledgment.
"Good to be here," he replied.
Sophia did a quick glance around, noting the branding team nearby, a few Nike executives standing further back, watching. It wasn't every day that one of the biggest athletes in the world walked through their doors.
Tristan signed with Nike a few months ago and now he was already looking to his own signature line.
And if his name was going on a boot, he wanted to be involved in every step.
"Everything's set up in the design lab," the rep informed them. "We've got prototype samples ready, plus the latest digital mock-ups. You'll be able to make real-time adjustments."
Tristan nodded, already focused. "Good. Let's get to it."
The moment they entered, Tristan was met with a full setup of his upcoming line.
A long table in the center of the room was lined with prototypes, color swatches, outsole molds, and digital screens displaying various designs.
Several Nike designers and product managers stood nearby, waiting for his feedback.
Sophia took a seat near the head of the table, placing her tablet down as she opened up the day's agenda.
Tristan didn't sit.
Instead, he walked toward the table. A dozen variations. Some matte, some glossy, each pair designed to be light, lethal, built for a player like him. The swoosh on the side gleamed under the bright showroom lights. He had seen boots like these his whole life—on posters, on TV, worn by the legends he had grown up idolizing.
In his first life, that's all he ever did. Watch. Dream. Wish.
He remembered being a teenager, scraping together enough money just to buy the same boots his favorite players wore, convincing himself that wearing them would make him play better. But he was never good enough. Not for deals, not for sponsors. His career had crumbled before it had even properly started.
And now?
Now, Nike wasn't just giving him boots. They were giving him his own.
The weight of it hit him all at once.
This was his. His signature, his design, his legacy
Picking up the first prototype. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight, running his fingers along the textured upper.
It was light—almost too light.
He passed it from hand to hand, rolling his foot over the floor slightly, feeling the structure.
"It's responsive," he muttered, half to himself. "But how's it holding up in testing?"
One of the designers, a young guy with a sharp eye for detail, pulled up a digital chart on the screen.
"Structurally, it's performing great in terms of speed and acceleration, but we've been testing variations with different grip patterns for quick turns. We need to dial in the balance between traction and flexibility."
Tristan nodded slowly, absorbing every word. "The grip is important," he said. "I don't want something that drags when I shift—needs to be smooth, but not slippery."
The lead designer stepped forward, gesturing toward the colorway concepts on display.
"Speaking of balance, we also started mocking up potential visuals," he said, swiping through the designs.
Tristan's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied them.
The colors were… safe. Too safe.
Mostly variations of black and white with a few predictable gold accents.
It wasn't bad, but it wasn't him.
Tristan leaned forward, resting his palms on the table.
"These don't feel right," he said simply.
The room went silent for a moment.
Sophia glanced up from her notes, not surprised.
The lead designer nodded. "Tell us what you're thinking."
Tristan tapped his fingers against the table once before speaking.
"It needs to be bold—but not tacky. Something that stands out on the pitch but still feels refined."
One of the designers clicked onto another page, pulling up a different version—a sleek matte black base with gold streaks subtly woven into the fabric.
Tristan's eyes locked onto it.
Now that was closer.
"I like this," he murmured, stepping forward. His fingers traced the gold detailing on the digital display. "But the crown detail needs to be sharper—not embroidered, but almost engraved into the material."
Sophia nodded, typing as he spoke.
"Subtle details," she muttered under her breath.
Tristan glanced at her. "The right ones."
The lead designer pulled up the logo mock-ups next.
"We've played around with a few ideas," he said, swiping through geometric crown designs, stylized 'T' monograms, and variations of England's three lions.
Tristan crossed his arms, eyes scanning the screen carefully.
Then he pointed at one.
It was a geometric crown—angular, sharp, modern. The lines almost looked like a cut diamond, but fast, dynamic, like movement frozen in time.
"This one," Tristan said. "It's clean."
The designer clicked on the file, expanding it.
"We can integrate this into the heel design," he offered. "Make it subtle enough that it's not in your face, but noticeable up close."
Tristan nodded once. "Yeah. That's what I want."
Sophia tapped her pen against her notebook.
"So we're locking in this **logo, a refined version of the black and gold colorway, and finalizing grip adjustments?"
Tristan glanced at the table full of samples one last time.
"Yeah," he confirmed. "But I want to be involved at every step." He met the designer's eyes. "Every material choice, every small tweak—if my name's on this, it needs to be perfect."
The designer nodded, understanding. "We wouldn't expect anything less."
Tristan leaned back, exhaling slightly.
Now it was starting to feel something; he didn't want a generic design; if the shoe had his name, it had to be great.
...…..
8385 word count not counting this end section
It's 1:54 AM as I finish this chapter. I had no energy writing this chapter; I can't even tell if it's good or bad.