Sinbad
patreon
Chapter 210: Letters to the Future
🕑 Added 2025-05-22 21:05:57 +0000 UTCOctober 18, 2015 — Morning
New York City, USA
.
The blinds were cracked just enough to let in a slice of early morning light. Barbara lay curled on the couch, one foot poking out from under the throw blanket, hair a hopeless mess. Biscuit was nestled at her hip, tiny snores puffing into the pillow like secret steam.
Her phone, facedown on the coffee table, buzzed once.
Then again.
She groaned, rolled over, and grabbed it without opening her eyes. Her thumb hovered, then tapped FaceTime.
It rang twice.
Tristan answered from a dim, barely-awake room—hoodie half-on, one arm slung behind him on the couch. His blond curls were flattened on one side, the rest a soft tangle. Green eyes blinked slowly at the screen, heavy-lidded and a little unfocused.
“Good morning,” Barbara rasped, voice thick with sleep. “You look like a raccoon.”
“Thanks.” He scratched at his neck. “You look like someone who lost a fight with her eyeliner.”
She blinked, slow and unimpressed. “I did.”
“Still winning somehow.”
Barbara yawned, pressing her knuckles against her eyes. “Is it raining there?”
Tristan glanced sideways. “Love, it’s the UK. What do you think?”
She smiled faintly. “Right. I don’t know why I keep asking.”
Barbara tilted the phone, letting him see Biscuit sprawled across her hip, paws twitching in a dream. “She says hi.”
Tristan’s mouth curved just a little. “Tell her I’m not doing interviews today.”
“She also says your mouth needs a zipper. Every time you talk, it ends up in a headline.”
He gave a dry exhale. “Could be worse. Could be the obits.”
Barbara narrowed one eye at the screen. “That’s going on a mug. Right under ‘World’s Most Melodramatic Man.’”
“Only if you drink from it every morning.”
She caught a flicker of something on his face—soft, almost shy—but looked past it. “Wait. Did you shave?”
Tristan ran a hand down his jaw. His skin looked clean and smooth. Lighter somehow without the usual stubble.
“I remember my girlfriend telling me my face is too pretty to hide,” he said quietly. “And I really miss her. Her kisses. Her smell. Her laugh. Her everything. And especially... the sex.”
Barbara raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything right away. Her lips parted slightly, then pressed together. Her eyes gradually softened.
He looked straight at her through the screen, voice lower. “I miss you so much it’s getting stupid.”
The silence that followed didn’t stretch. It settled—heavy and full.
Barbara exhaled, light and slow, then shifted. “I saw that collab thing with the Lionesses. You looked very snuggly.”
He tilted his head. “Jealous?”
“Maybe a little. She had excellent cheekbones.”
“She also elbowed me in the ribs mid-shot. That was not flirting. That was traumatic.”
Barbara smiled. “Still. Looked cozy.”
“Like when you posed with that guy in the trench coat who looks like he quotes Kafka at parties.”
“Shh,” she whispered. “That’s my type.”
He gave a small tilt of his head. “Tall, moody, vaguely haunted?”
“Exactly. Like a Victorian ghost who won’t shut up.”
Her lips curved faintly. Tristan just watched her.
Barbara sat up, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. “Alright. Gonna make breakfast and maybe do yoga.”
He raised both brows. “Pics or it didn’t happen.”
“Not a chance.”
“Just one blurry one. For morale.”
She shook her head. “Bye, Tristan.”
He didn’t smile. He just looked at her like he was trying to memorize everything. “I’ll call you later?”
Barbara held his gaze. “Yeah. Please do.”
She ended the call mid-eye-roll, but it didn’t stop her from mouthing love you as that call ended.
Her studio smelled faintly of fresh cotton and vanilla from the candle she’d left burning too long the night before. It was a one-room rental on the third floor of a brownstone, technically classed as a “studio with charm.”
And to be fair, it had charm.
High ceilings. Exposed brick. A tall window that framed the skyline just right, especially when it rained.
It wasn’t massive. But it was hers—for now.
Sure, she could’ve dropped forty grand on some five-star penthouse in SoHo without blinking. She had it—campaign money, contract money, runway money. But that wasn’t the point. She didn’t feel comfortable spending 30K on somewhere she’d sleep and order overpriced room service for a month.
Now, spending 300K on Tristan’s dream car? That she’d done with a smile and a bow.
As for spending Tristan’s money, oh he’d gladly give it to her with a smile and a kiss, but she didn’t feel like spending his money. Not after surprising her with a Porsche of her own.
Still, she wasn’t about to spend more of his money while living across the ocean. This place was enough.
And for the next twenty-three days, this was home.
Twenty-three days until she flew back. Twenty-three days until she could touch his stupid, handsome face again. Kiss him until he ran out of air and then kiss him again until her lipstick made a mural out of his jaw like that one time at the airport.
She’d framed the photo.
She smiled to herself as she pulled on one of his oversized hoodies and unrolled her yoga mat. The sun slanted across the room. Biscuit yawned dramatically from the edge of the bed and flopped over, unimpressed with all things fitness.
Barbara dropped into a stretch, reached for her phone, and angled it just so.
Click.
Click.
One more, lip-bite and all.
“Still stretching. Want to help me warm up next time?” 😘
Send.
Then she went back to her pose, smug as hell and grinning already.
Because she knew exactly how fast that was going to ruin Tristan’s morning.
.
Back in England Tristan sat at the kitchen counter, barefoot, hoodie still half-zipped, a spoon dangling loosely in one hand as he stared at his phone.
The pictures had come in five minutes ago. Barbara. Yoga mat. Sunlight. Hoodie too big for her — his hoodie — hanging off one shoulder like she did it on purpose. Her legs stretched clean and long across the hardwood floor. Her lip curled in the last shot.
He blinked. Then blinked again. He scrolled back up, just to suffer a little more.
Then he typed:
Tristan: That’s not fair.
Tristan: Wait until you’re back home.
Tristan: I’m going to fold you like laundry.
Then added:
Tristan: love you
Sent.
He leaned back and dragged a hand down his face.
Across the kitchen table, a neat stack of envelopes waited. Fan mail. He really didn’t have free time before with everything else. But now with him being home alone, he figured it was time.
Of course he responded to fans as quickly as he can, but sometimes he was just too busy and it built up a collection like now. Barbara had a similar problem as well.
But they still made sure to respond to everyone to the best of their abilities.
He pulled the first one off the pile. He had plenty of time today before Mendes and Sofia came over since Mendes was done talking to all the clubs that he was interested in. Of course, the first initial contract, nothing too serious, just to gauge different clubs' interest in him.
A kid from Brighton. Age ten. Drew a picture of Tristan scoring a bicycle kick against United.
Tristan smiled. He grabbed a pen.
"Hey Oliver. That drawing's better than anything I've done with a pencil. I hope you're still playing. If you ever score a bicycle kick of your own, send me the video, yeah? And keep dreaming big. We need more number 22s out there. —Tristan"
He signed it, then carefully folded it and placed it in the reply envelope.
He pulled another envelope from the pile. Handwriting was neater. Address from Stourbridge.
Jude Bellingham. It was short, typed, but earnest:
"Hi Tristan. You’re my favorite player. I play midfield like you. My little brother and I watch all your highlights before training. I want to play for England one day. My coach says I need to be braver on the ball. You always look so cool. Just ignore Hodgson. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about — Jude."
Tristan stared at the name for a long second.
He blinked, then laughed to himself. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
He grabbed a pen.
"Hey Jude. If your coach says be braver, then be braver. Trust your feet. Trust your mind. You already sound like a leader — keep working like one. I’ll be watching. P.S. Take care of your brother. I think he might be just as good. —Tristan"
He folded the reply before grabbing his phone and sending a text to one of the club members that's directly responsible for whatever he needs. Hell, he even has the owner’s phone number.
"Can you bring me a bunch of my jerseys for kids please for both Leicester and England as well. Thank you, mate."
Then another letter. This one from a kid in Stockport. Scribbly handwriting. Big signature at the bottom: Phil Foden
"I play winger and I’m really fast. But my dad says I don’t pass enough. I’m trying to learn though. You're my favorite player in the world!"
Tristan chuckled, shaking his head.
"Phil — never stop running, but don’t forget: the best wingers make their teammates faster too. I hope to see you in the England team one day. —Tristan"
He kept going.
Letter by letter, the pile shrank.
He grabbed the next letter — this one folded on blue stationery, handwriting a little neater. A return address from Wythenshawe.
Cole Palmer
“Hi Tristan. My dad says I try too many tricks, but I want to play with flair like you. I practice free kicks every day now. You’re sick. —Cole”
Tristan smiled. “Yeah, you will be.”
He picked up his pen.
"Cole —
Never stop practicing. Flair’s not a flaw. But the real magic? That’s knowing when not to use them. Keep mastering your free kicks. And one day? I’ll be screaming when you bend one top corner. —Tristan"
He signed it and set it aside.
Another envelope. Shorter. Plain white. The name made him pause.
Bukayo Saka
“Hi Tristan. I play left wing. I’m currently learning right too. Sometimes I get scared before games. My coach says that’s normal, but it feels like my head goes a thousand miles a minute. Do you get anxious? Part of me hopes you do. It makes me feel like I'm not alone feeling that way. —Bukayo”
Tristan blinked once. Then again.
He exhaled slowly and put the pen to paper.
"I get nervous every game. Still do. Even when I know I’m ready. That feeling? It means you care. Keep practicing. I hope to see you in the England team one day —Tristan"
He folded it gently before picking up another one. He kept writing the same line — hope to see you in the England team — because what else could he say? It was true. And maybe one day, he’d laugh about it with them in the locker room.
The return address said Manchester. The name? Kobbie. Ten years old. A bit of ink smudged from what looked like rain.
“Hi Tristan. I play midfield and sometimes my coach puts me in defense. I like passing and watching your through balls. One day I want to play at Wembley. —Kobbie”
Tristan let out a quiet laugh through his nose. He grabbed the last sheet from the pad.
"Kobbie —
Midfielders who learn defense grow twice as fast. You already sound like someone who sees the whole pitch. Keep practicing and listen to your coaches. One day, when you’re on that Wembley grass, I’ll be the one standing and clapping. —Tristan"
He finished the last signature, set down the pen, and leaned back.
His phone buzzed again.
Mendes: “15 minutes out. Sofia too.”
Tristan cracked his neck and stared at the stack of replies.
Still a few more to go. But not bad for a morning’s work.
Tristan leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely. His eyes lingered on the letters in the stack.
Kobbie Mainoo.
Bukayo Saka.
Cole Palmer.
Phil Foden.
Jude Bellingham.
He’d written back to all of them — not just the names he recognized from the future, but every single kid in that pile. Forty replies. Forty hand-signed notes. Eighty jerseys requested — home and away.
And yet, those five names sat differently.
He knew who they’d become. And all of them were watching him right now.
He exhaled through a laugh, the kind that sat somewhere between pride and disbelief.
“No pressure,” he muttered, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.
He reached for Jude’s letter again, thumb brushing the paper like it might still be warm.
“Just ignore Hodgson. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Tristan smiled. “Kid’s got taste.”
It hadn’t hit him before — not like this. He’d always played to change his future. To rewrite his story. But now?
He was part of someone else’s origin story.
Little folded letters. Crayon sketches. Scrappy handwriting and ten-year-old dreams. Each one signed with a name he’d one day see etched onto the backs of England shirts.
He picked up his phone, opened the notes app, and typed:
Memo: Send extra boots. Add personal tags. England’s future is already watching. Time to be worth following.
He tapped the screen off and leaned back letting out a sigh. Lot of pressure on him not to fall.
.
Ten Minutes Later
The bell rang.
Tristan didn’t move at first. He just sat there, thumb grazing the edge of Jude Bellingham’s letter, his mind still drifting somewhere between the past and future.
Then came Sofia’s voice, crystal clear through the door.
“Tristan. Open the damn door.”
Another ring. Louder.
He stood with a low sigh, padded barefoot to the front entrance, and pulled it open.
Sofia stepped in first — trench coat slung over one arm, coffee in the other. Heels clicking like punctuation. Her gaze skimmed him from head to toe.
“Still in pajamas. On a Sunday. You’re practically unemployed.”
Mendes followed, slower, bundled in a wool coat and scarf with half a pain au chocolat in one hand and a fat black folder under his arm.
“We brought gifts,” he said, brushing past Tristan. “And very expensive problems.”
Tristan closed the door behind them. “Let me guess. Roman sent flowers?”
Sofia tossed her coat onto a chair. “Roman sent numbers. And a plane.”
Mendes sat down, flipping open the folder. “Chelsea. Liverpool. City. Real Madrid. All serious. All aggressive.”
He held up a page — some typed sheet with red notes scrawled across the top.
“Madrid says you’ll take over for Cristiano within two years. They’ll ease you in. Give you the number ten first, then the seven. Full legacy track.”
Sofia leaned forward. “City’s offering a blank check. Wants to build everything around you from year one.”
“Liverpool’s board called me this morning,” Mendes added. “Apparently Klopp wants to talk to you directly.”
“And Chelsea?” Tristan asked.
Sofia smiled tightly. “Roman Abramovich is ready to pay whatever it takes.”
Tristan sat down slowly. “And they’re all offering the same thing,” he said after a pause. “Cornerstone status. Top contract. Control. Immediate role.”
Mendes nodded. “Exactly that.”
Sofia looked at him. “So. What do you want?”
He didn’t answer right away.
He glanced toward the fan mail on the table. The little folded letters.
“I don’t want to wait behind Ronaldo,” Tristan said finally. “Real Madrid will always be Real Madrid — with or without me. But the others… Chelsea, City, Liverpool — that’s legacy. I can change those clubs forever.”
Sofia raised an eyebrow. “So which one?”
He shook his head.
“Set up the meeting with Klopp. And hold the others until the season ends.Not making this decision until it’s done.”
Mendes leaned back, lips twitching. “You’re sure?”
Tristan’s voice was soft but final.
“Let them wait.”
.
2730
Very short, kind of feels like a filler chapter but I have been wanting to do this for a while like to show the influence Tristan has around him.
And after all the chapters with the drama from Lazio to England, I just wanted to write something very light.
Anyway peace
