readytorunbook Chapter 169: New Roads, Same Fire
Chapter 169: New Roads, Same Fire
Chapter 169 - New Roads, Same Fire[Check out the Patreon, I think there's like 51 advance Chapters there with daily Chapters, and drop some power stones, comment and review if you guys want to, trying to hit 2500 power stones this week.]
.
June 25, 2015
"Are you okay, babe?" Tristan asked, one hand on the wheel, the other lazily draped over the center armrest. It was early morning as they headed for the DVSA testing centre.
"Yeah," Barbara replied, adjusting her seatbelt even though it didn't need adjusting. "I'm fine, maybe a little nervous, but I think I'll be okay..."
"Don't be nervous," Tristan said, keeping his eyes on the road. "Just remember what John and I taught you - you'll pass the test easily. If you start to feel nervous, just think about what one of us would do."
Barbara laughed at that; honestly, the way John and Tristan taught how to drive was completely different; John had the patience of a saint while Tristan was Tristan.
Barbara smiled and looked out the window. The city blurred past in streaks of grey and green. Her heart was beginning to thump a little harder now — not panic yet, but close.
Tristan noticed her bounce her leg once.
"You've been nailing everything in practice," he said. "Three-point turns, reverse parking, parallel parking under pressure. You even handled that nightmare roundabout near the university."
"That roundabout's a portal to hell," she muttered.
"But you beat it," Tristan grinned. "You've got this. John says you're ready. I say you're ready."
Barbara glanced at him, then looked down at her hands.
"I cancelled Zurich," she said quietly.
Tristan blinked. "What?"
"The shoot next week," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Told them I needed to stay here. Needed to be with you."
He frowned. "Love...You already cancelled your trip to the US."
"You don't need to say anything. I didn't do it because you asked. I did it because I know what you're carrying right now."
She turned toward him fully, voice steady despite the nerves bubbling under the surface.
"I know how much pressure you're under—you've been trying to be strong for everyone. But I wanted to be here. For you."
Tristan stayed quiet for a moment, watching the road, then pulled her hand gently into his lap.
"You didn't have to—"
"I know," she cut in. "But I wanted to."
He squeezed her fingers. "I love you."
Barbara smirked. "I know."
"Did you just Han Solo me?" Tristan asked, laughing.
She tilted her head. "Too soon?"
"Lady, I bare my soul, and you drop a Star Wars quote on me."
"Look," she said, raising an eyebrow. "You started the day by making me parallel park uphill on a slope with pedestrians. That was your romantic gesture."
"That was training."
Barbara grinned, finally letting herself relax.
..
The car slowed as they approached the DVSA building. It wasn't glamorous — plain brick, a small sign, a handful of learners standing around nervously — but to Barbara, it looked like a boss battle.
Tristan pulled into a spot, shifted the gear into park, and looked over at her.
"Last chance to bail," he teased.
Barbara exhaled through her nose, smiling faintly. "Not happening. I need this stupid license; I can't have you and John drive me everywhere."
Tristan leaned over, cupped her cheek, and kissed her.
Not a rushed peck — something slower. Calming. His way of saying I've got you.
When he pulled back, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out two black masks. He handed one to her and tugged the other over his own face.
Barbara raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Unless you want to get mobbed by the postman and two teenage boys on scooters," he muttered, adjusting it over his nose. "It's like that lately."
She smiled as she slipped hers on, tucking her hair behind her ears.
Tristan glanced at her. "I always hate it when you cover your face. Even if I get it."
Barbara blinked, touched. "Why?"
"Because I still want to see you. At least with this," he nodded at the mask, "I can see your eyes."
Her fingers brushed his hand briefly before she unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door.
..
Inside the DVSA building, the air was chilly and neutral, walls lined with posters about safe driving and test criteria. Tristan stayed close but let Barbara take the lead as they stepped up to the desk.
She filled out the check-in form quickly, her handwriting sharp, focused.
The receptionist barely looked up. "Barbara Palvin?"
"Yes."
"Great. Take a seat, we'll call you when your examiner's ready."
Barbara nodded and turned back to Tristan, who found a quiet corner near the vending machine. He gave her a small thumbs up, mask still on.
"Okay?" he asked softly as she sat beside him.
She nodded. "Yeah. I think I'm ready."
"You are ready," he replied. "You've got this. Just drive like you're with me."
"Meaning I don't stop for yellow lights and I blast the radio?"
"I said drive like me, not be me," he said, elbowing her gently.
Before she could answer, a DVSA examiner stepped out from the hallway. Middle-aged, polite smile, clipboard in hand.
"Barbara Palvin?"
She stood up quickly. "Yes, that's me."
"Hi there, I'm Keith. I'll be your examiner today," he said, glancing at his notes. "We'll be using your own vehicle, yes?"
"Yes — the blue Range Rover outside."
"Perfect. Let's go."
Tristan stood too, instinctively walking a few paces behind.
"Sorry," Keith said, offering a quick shake of the head. "Only the driver's allowed on the test. DVSA policy."
Tristan stopped, held his hands up. "No worries. Just wanted to make sure she didn't leave me behind."
Barbara turned and gave him one last glance, her brows rising playfully above the mask.
He gave her a short salute.
"Show him how it's done."
And with that, she followed Keith out.
Tristan watched her go, then sat back down slowly, pulling out his phone and refreshing Twitter.
Still no announcement from Leicester.
But he knew it was coming.
Leicester was going to announce they were departing with Nigel Pearson and signed Ranieri all in one go as a way to distract people from the scandal.
..
Tristan scrolled through his phone, flicking past article headlines, football rumors. None of it was sticking. His thumb hovered over Twitter's refresh button again. Still nothing from the club.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Then he heard it — the quiet creak of the entrance opening.
Barbara stepped back in, mask still on, her steps light but composed. Her eyes flicked toward him, and even from across the room, he could tell.
She was holding it in.
Tristan stood. "Well?"
Barbara slowly tugged off the mask, revealing a tight-lipped, unreadable expression.
He blinked. "Don't mess with me."
She said nothing... for two more seconds... then pulled the test certificate from her back pocket and waved it like a flag.
"Passed," she grinned.
Tristan let out a full laugh, stepping forward and pulling her into a quick hug before remembering where they were. He settled for brushing a kiss against her temple instead.
"I knew you would," he murmured. "But I was still ready to bribe the instructor."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile didn't fade. "So... I'm officially legal on the road now."
..
Back outside, the sky had cleared into a soft stretch of morning blue. Tristan handed her the keys. Barbara slid into the driver's seat. Tristan buckled in beside her, watching her quietly for a moment before resting his hand on hers.
Once they were on the road, Barbara glanced over at him at a red light.
"So... anything from the club?"
Tristan shook his head, leaning his elbow on the window ledge. "Still nothing. Press is sniffing, but no official word yet."
Barbara nodded slowly, drumming her fingers along the steering wheel. "It's coming, though."
"Yeah," he exhaled. "It is."
Then Tristan sat up slightly. "You know what? Let's go car shopping."
Barbara blinked. "What?"
"I want to spoil you," he said, flashing a grin. "You passed. You deserve something nice, something fast—"
"No."
Tristan raised a brow. "No?"
"I'm buying my own car," she said firmly. "It's mine, my license, my purchase. You can't rob me of that joy."
He slumped back against the seat, dramatically. "You really know how to ruin a man's fun. I barely get to buy you anything."
Barbara laughed. "You'll live."
Tristan folded his arms, pretending to pout. "Fine. No car shopping. But I'm still getting you something."
"Tristan..."
"Not negotiable," he said, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Actually..."
He turned to her slowly.
"...Let's go adopt a dog."
Barbara's mouth parted slightly. "What?"
"You've been saying you wanted one for a while. And when I'm gone for away games, I don't want you stuck home alone. Plus, you'd be a great dog mum."
Barbara blinked again, this time slower, the idea settling in.
"You're serious?"
"As a red card," Tristan nodded. "Come on. We'll go look today. Or at least start the
Ranieri laughed at that.
He reached across the desk and flipped over a few sheets on the whiteboard. Scribbles, player names, shifting arrows.
"I want to talk football," he said. "Just us. Before practice starts, hear your thought."
Tristan sat forward slightly.
Ranieri tapped a formation with his knuckle. "4-2-3-1 to start. This is what the team played with Pearson as well. I'm not here to make massive changes, just to build on from last season."
Tristan nodded.
"You'd have freedom," Ranieri said. "Not just position. Decisions. You are the tempo. But—" he held up a finger, "—freedom without structure is chaos. We will give you the framework, unlike Pearson, where he gave you total freedom."
Tristan glanced at the names listed in midfield.
"Cambiasso's gone," he said quietly.
"Yes," Ranieri said. "We will find others to balance. Perhaps Drinkwater. Or someone new. You need intelligence around you. We'll build that."
A pause.
"You will not do everything alone this season," Ranieri added. "Even if you could."
Tristan let that sit for a beat. Then: "And pressing?"
Ranieri's eyes gleamed. "Aggressive. Line high. Recover fast. But smart. Not just running."
Tristan smiled faintly. "I like that."
"I know you do," Ranieri said. "I've studied your tapes. You play with hunger. You see what others don't. But sometimes you try to save the world in one touch."
"Anyway, tell me about your suggestions. That club told me you were working on a bunch of new stuff during the off-season. And at the end of last season you were playing closer to the goal. So tell me your thoughts."
..
Tristan rested his arms on the table, fingers laced together.
"I want to play higher this season," he said plainly. "Closer to goal."
Ranieri's brow arched slightly. "False nine?"
"Something like that," Tristan nodded. "Still the link, still pulling strings — but I want to be in the box more. Score more. I don't just want to create the chances anymore. I want to finish them."
After getting the Torres template, if he wasn't playing closer to the goal, then he would be doing the template a disservice and himself as well. And with Kante coming in the midfield, he doesn't have to be there at all times.
Ranieri didn't interrupt, letting Tristan talk. He was surprised Tristan, one of the world's best midfielders, if not the best, didn't want to play the position anymore.
"I've been working on all of my weaknesses," Tristan continued. "I gained more weight and strength as I worked on my free kicks, my dribbling, positioning, and shots. I tracked every goal I missed last season. I know where I rushed. I know where I hesitated. That won't happen again. I'm a better player now; I don't want to be just in the midfield anymore."
The manager leaned back, arms crossing slowly.
"And why?" he asked. "Why this shift?"
Tristan looked him dead in the eye.
"Because I want to be the best in the world," he said. "I can't be the best in the world in the midfield position; I can't be the one assisting; I would be only known as a passer."
Ranieri didn't blink. He just nodded slowly, like he respected the clarity of it.
"I believe you," the Italian said. "And I believe it's possible."
A beat passed before he added:
"You've earned the right to speak about this. I watched your season — all of it. You played like you were from the future. 75 goals contribution, an all-time great season. The fact that you think you can have even a better season shows just how dictated you are."
Ranieri studied him for another second, then turned the tactics board slightly.
"If this is what you want, then we will adapt," he said. "We shift your role depending on the opponent. Some matches, false nine. Others, you drop deeper. But always near danger."
"I want you arriving in the box, not just watching it," he added. "We'll build the shape around that."
"This is your team," Ranieri said softly. "No one from top to bottom will deny that. And if you want to score, then that's what we will do. After training, I look at different formations and tactics to support. But as I said before, I'm not going to shatter the foundation Pearson built here; I'm going to build on it. So if we are doing this, I need you ready."
"I am," Tristan said.
"We'll start light today," Ranieri said. "Fitness, rondos, then shape work. I want to see how the team breathes again and who's in shape."
As Tristan walked to the door, the manager called out one more time.
"Tristan."
He paused, turning.
"Let me know how the locker room is," Ranieri said. "I know everyone looked up to Pearson, but we have to move on, and I hope that team knows that as well."
Tristan nodded once more before heading to the locker room.
..
The familiar clack of boots on tile echoed as Tristan pushed open the door to the locker room.
For a second, he stood in the entrance.
Everyone looked up.
Vardy was the first to whistle. "Well, well. Look who finally rolled in."
Andy King grinned from the other side of the room. "Did Biscuit let you leave the house, or did you have to bribe her with bacon?"
Tristan shook his head with a smile and stepped in.
The room felt... lighter than expected
Wes Morgan stood in the center — captain's armband not on, but it didn't matter. He didn't need it to command the room.
"Alright," Wes said, clearing his throat. His voice cut through the noise like it always did. Everyone quieted.
Tristan took a seat on the bench beside Mahrez and leaned forward, elbows on knees.
Wes glanced around the room. "Pearson's gone. And yeah, it's weird. We all know that. Lot of us owe him more than a little."
A few heads dipped in agreement.
"But it's done," Wes said simply. "Ain't no going back. We've got a new manager now, and we show him the same respect. He's come in to build, not tear us down. So we move. Together."
The words settled over them, solid and grounding.
Then Wes pointed at the group. "Also — and I'm only saying this once — no one here is allowed to visit any bloody brothels or record themselves doing anything remotely stupid. Please. For the love of the gods."
That broke the room.
Laughter ricocheted off the walls; some guys doubled over, and Vardy nearly choked on his water bottle.
"Vardy, I'm looking at you," Wes added without missing a beat.
"Oi!" Vardy barked. "I'm a reformed man now. Bible in one hand, protein shake in the other."
"Right," King muttered.
Wes cracked a smile but sobered quickly. "One more thing. If you're wondering where the rest of the squad is, Cambiasso's gone. Konate's out. Upson and Moore too. They haven't left the club yet, but it's pretty much the same. They've all moved on. Club's working on new signings, and we'll meet them soon enough."
Tristan glanced around. The lockers felt... emptier. Lingard's was cleared out too — back to United. His absence was felt, even if no one said it out loud.
Wes finished, "It doesn't matter who's here or not. We're Leicester City. We fight with what we've got."
A murmur of agreement followed.
Ranieri might've been new — but this group wasn't. The cores of the team were still here with everyone still hungry for success.
...
The sun hung higher now, baking down on the training pitches as the players trickled out in navy gear, boots laced, smiles flashing, and shouts echoing across the grass. It was pre-season, but it wasn't a holiday. Not today.
Ranieri watched from the sideline, arms crossed, sunglasses perched just low enough that he could see every detail. Beside him, Paolo Benetti jotted notes into a leather-bound folder. On the table nearby, tablets blinked to life as performance analysts began tracking biometric data — heart rates, movement patterns, and anaerobic bursts. One staff member checked players' recent weights, while another adjusted GPS trackers clipped to their training tops.
"Most of them look fit," Benetti said, scanning the early readings. "Tristan last season was 80 kg now he's 83.5 kg with a body fat of 7.5%. He's faster than last season. Stronger too. We can do a few different tests to measure his exact speed."
Ranieri didn't say anything — just kept his eyes on the pitch as warmups began.
Down on the field, no one was dragging their feet.
"Start with the rondos," shouted Paolo, clapping his hands. "Three groups. Five minutes each."
The players broke into circles. The ball started flying fast. One-touch, two-touch, nutmegs.
The fitness coaches ran checks between drills — sprint times, short-lap endurance, even body-fat readings. Some of the older players grimaced at the machines. Vardy joked about hiding in the bush during the beep test. But no one protested. Everyone knew what was at stake this year.
And Ranieri? He watched everything.
He watched how Drinkwater adjusted when paired with a younger midfielder. How Albrighton changed tempo based on Tristan's movements. How Schmeichel roared louder when the defenders looked unsure. He watched chemistry, not just cardio.
After the rondos, they moved into 4v4 small-sided games — intensity ratcheted up. Tristan didn't score every time, but it was scary watching a midfielder score more than Vardy, one of the best strikers last season.
The session wound down with a final sprint circuit — ten short bursts across the pitch and back. Vardy predictably finished first, then collapsed in the grass, wheezing dramatically. Most of the others followed close behind, hands on hips.
..
The training pitch had long emptied out. Boots were off, GPS vests handed in, and the players were either stretching in the physio room or in the showers, swapping preseason banter. But inside the coaches' office, the air was heavier — not tense, but loaded with thought.
Ranieri stood at the front of the whiteboard, arms crossed. His sleeves were still rolled, and a bit of sweat lingered at his collar. Around him, Paolo Benetti and two other assistants were seated, going through printouts, tablet screens, and notes scribbled during the session.
"Alright," Ranieri said, breaking the silence. "Let's start with the obvious."
He pointed to the large magnet in the center of the whiteboard — a blue dot marked HALE.
"Tristan wants to play higher this year. False nine, not just a ten."
A quiet beat passed. Then one of the assistants — James Robson, the fitness coach — spoke up first.
"He looked sharp. Quicker than last season. More powerful in his sprints. But I won't lie — I'm nervous pulling him too far from midfield. That's where he's been the engine."
Benetti nodded. "We lose that rhythm if we drop him from the middle entirely. The team leans on him to carry possession. To dictate."
Ranieri didn't disagree. He understood every word of it. Tristan was a metronome and a flamethrower rolled into one.
"But," Ranieri said calmly, "he scored more than our striker last season."
The room went quiet again.
He tapped his knuckles gently on the board. "He doesn't want to just create anymore, he wants more trophies, last season he almost won the golden boot. He wants to finish more. And with what I saw today? He can. He's stronger. His runs and dribbles are timed better. And his shooting — you saw the small-sided games."
Another coach murmured, "Six goals in 4v4s. He's already operating like a forward."
"Exactly," Ranieri said. "And we need to see it in match conditions. Pre-season is the time to test. Let him start higher. If it works, we commit. If it doesn't, we adapt. But we owe him that trial."
Benetti scratched his chin. "He mentioned Kante during warmups," he said. "He's... optimistic."
Ranieri snorted lightly. "That boy is more than optimistic. He's already talking like Kante's signed. From what I understand, he told the club to sign Kante before the scandal."
A chuckle went around the table, brief but real.
Ranieri added, "And he might not be wrong. The deal's close. Just the agent now — he's playing hardball on bonuses."
"Should we be worried?" someone asked.
Ranieri shook his head. "No. Not unless the agent grows another head overnight. Jon is confident it'll be done soon. Maybe after the pre-season ends we also have to account for that as well."
Benetti leaned forward. "If Kante joins and he's everything that Tristan and Jon say he is, it gives us balance. Then we can afford to let Tristan float higher. We'll have a destroyer behind him."
"And if not?" Robson asked.
"Then we adjust. We bring in someone else who can sit."
Ranieri looked around the room again, making sure he was understood.
"We can't exactly say no to Tristan Hale," he said simply. "Not after what he gave this club. Not after last season."
He pointed at the whiteboard one last time.
"Next match, he plays false nine. Let's see how the team bends around him. I want data. Movement maps. Interplay heat zones. I want it all."
There were nods.
"Alright," Ranieri said, finally easing into his chair. "Let's see how far this goes for all of our sakes."
..
6555 word count
Images are also in the Discord server as well
Link: invite/TQPqqzU4TM
Link is in the synopsis as well.