England's Greatest

And we are back, baby! This shit genuinely means something to me, man. I've missed posting chapters and reading everyone's comments. the good, the bad, and everything in between.

Thank you all for waiting, and thank you for the endless love and support. It truly means the world to me.

Before you jump into the chapter, there are a few things I want to bring up.

I know I said the plan was to release four chapters every week, and that is still the goal. However, there won't be a fixed upload schedule like every Monday or Friday. About a week ago, I spoke with another author who told me that he uploads a NovelPhoenix chapter on the same day he releases a new chapter on Patreon. I've decided to follow that same system. So whenever I upload a chapter on Patreon, I'll also release a chapter here. I'm currently aiming for four Patreon chapters every week, and I think I've been doing a pretty decent job so far. Patreon is finally thirty chapters ahead again.

Basically, there won't be specific upload days. Chapters will be posted here whenever I upload on Patreon.

Now for the second point. I hate bringing my personal life into this, but I started my second round of chemotherapy around the same time I began writing chapters again.

Because of that, the next fifteen to twenty chapters, I honestly don't remember the exact number, might not be masterpieces or especially long. I was still trying to find my rhythm and ease myself back into writing, so please be patient with them.

The newer chapters are much stronger, though, and I'm dropping a 10,000-word chapter today, so there is plenty to look forward to.

As for the third point, some chapters may be shorter than usual. Whenever that happens, I'll combine multiple chapters into one NovelPhoenix release, similar to what I did with the Euro final.

I think that covers everything.

Enjoy the chapter, and I love you guys.

...

July 12, 2016 - Cheshire, England

Rooney Residence - Late Morning

Wayne Rooney stood barefoot in front of the television, arms crossed tight over his chest, the coffee behind him going cold on the counter. Sky Sports was on showing Tristan's goals, the lift, the homecoming. Outside, a few reporters still loitered beyond the front gate, lenses slung over shoulders like rifles waiting for a shot.

It had been years since he drew this kind of attention. He could feel himself starting to resent it.

He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking past the curtains toward the silent swarm on the street.

"Still giving me fucking goosebumps," he muttered, voice half amusement, half wonder now being able to watch Tristan score 4 goals and appreciate all of the glory. .

His gaze drifted to the kitchen table.

The Henri Delaunay Trophy sat there. They'd said he'd earned an extra day with it as tribute to the old captain, the man with one foot out the door.

He hadn't disagreed when Tristan shoved it to him.

.

The TV switched to live coverage—clips of Trafalgar Square, the parade routes being prepped, fans camping out with flags and face paint.

"Turn it down just a bit, babe?" Coleen's voice came from the hallway. She padded in wearing a robe, her hair tied up, phone in hand.

Wayne reached for the remote. "Sorry."

She looked at the trophy on the island, smiled faintly, then glanced at him. "Any word from Tristan?"

He nodded. "Texted him this morning. Said he and Barbara went to the hospital early."

Coleen's brow furrowed. "Still not feeling well?"

Wayne rubbed the back of his neck. "Think it's just precaution, really. He didn't say much—just that they want to run some tests, get proper scans done. You know what he's like. If it weren't for Barbara, I'd swear football's the only thing he gives a toss about. He won't switch off till he knows everything's alright."

Coleen's brow creased. "God… I hope it's nothing serious." She crossed her arms, eyes flicking to the trophy. "Hard to enjoy any of this while that's hanging over us."

Then, quieter, almost guilty: "Still—mad, innit? Feels like it hasn't even sunk in. We actually did it."

"We didn't do it," he said after a moment. "He did."

Then he picked up his phone again, thumb hovering for a second before he tapped out another message.

Let me know how she's doing when you get a chance. No rush. We're all wishing her the best.

.

Private Medical Pavilion – Early Afternoon

Tristan sat hunched in the corner of the waiting room, on his phone as he awaited replying to messages to a select who he didn't block as he was getting too many notifications from everyone and their mother.

[Group Chat: Mum, Dad]

Tristan: Just keeping you updated, we're still here. A few more scans. I'll call once we know anything. Don't worry.

[Message to Anita]

Tristan: IShe's been calm all morning. The doctors are running extra tests. She's in good hands here. Please tell your mom and dad not to worry.

They'd arrived at the hospital before sunrise. Barbara was tired, brushing her hair in the passenger seat, cracking jokes she barely meant. She hadn't even wanted to come but better to be safe than sorry.

"Bring a book or something," she'd told him, already resigned. "Might take a while."

She wasn't wrong.

Even in this sleek, high-ceilinged private facility, where nurses greeted him by name and doctors moved quicker, it was now past noon.

Three hours. Three long hours of pacing, waiting, pacing again.

Every time a staff member passed, they smiled, calm and practiced, assuring him everything was going smoothly.

First came the usual tests: blood work, hormone panels, pelvic ultrasound. Then the MRI.

It was Barbara who first mentioned endometriosis. He hadn't even heard of it before.

The doctors hadn't suspected it, not at first. Her symptoms were scattered, easy to overlook if you weren't paying close attention.

The pain that flared and faded. The exhaustion. The little ways she masked how much it hurt.

And if there was even the slightest chance that something had been missed, he wasn't going to sit back and hope for the best.

So they added a full pelvic MRI.Then the transvaginal ultrasound.

Laparoscopy was on standby depending on what they found.

.

A nurse approached quietly.

"Mr. Hale?" she said, gently. "If it's not too much, some of the children in the pediatric wing heard you were here."

Tristan looked up.

"They've been watching every match. Would you mind visiting for a few minutes? You'd be making their week."

He blinked once, then stood, already pocketing his phone.

"No, not at all," he said smiling.

The nurse smiled. "You're very kind."

He followed her out, the soft shuffle of her sneakers leading the way. The hallway smelled like citrus cleaner and fresh linen. For a second, he remembered walking these halls before when Jack was sick.

That thought made him pause.

He pulled out his phone again and thumbed a quick message.

[To: Jack]

Tristan: Let me know if you are interested in coming to the Parade. I talk to your parents if you are.

Then, as he walked, another idea took root, something he should've done sooner.

He opened a new tab, searched for the Make-A-Wish Foundation's contact page, and tapped the number.

If he had time to kill, he might as well use it to make someone's day.

Sure, his charity was doing good work, in England, China, Hungary, parts of South America and Africa but he wasn't meeting the people whose lives it touched. Not face to face.

And really, what was the point of coming this far if he couldn't help someone else feel like they'd won too?

The nurse slowed as they reached the double doors of the pediatric wing. On the other side, faint sounds—squeaky laughter, cartoons, soft chatter—filtered through.

Then the moment the door opened—

"TRISTAN!"

It was an explosion.

A dozen voices all shrieked his name at once like a pop star had just walked into a birthday party. Kids jumped up in their beds, some nearly tripping over IV lines. Little fists pumped the air. Plastic England flags waved like mad.

Tristan blinked, startled and then broke into a wide smile.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" he called out, lifting his hands.

.

Barbara's Exam Room

Barbara stared at the ceiling, then at the clock, then finally gave up and reached for her phone.

She scrolled through a clip, Tristan holding the trophy aloft, face lit by flashbulbs and fireworks. The caption read: The man who brought football home.

Her chest swelled with something she couldn't quite name.

Since the finale, watching people talk about Tristan had become her favorite thing. Youtube, pundit panels, Reddit threads, memes, slow-mo edits with dramatic music—she devoured them all.

There was something deeply satisfying about seeing the world celebrate her man. Not just how brilliant he was on the pitch, but how kind he was. The way he pulled Rashford up after a miss. How he hugged Rooney's kids. How he stayed behind and cleaned up the locker room.

She swiped to another video. This one had music, Heroes by David Bowie playing over highlights of the final.

She blinked hard, suddenly emotional. "God, I'm not even on my period," she muttered.

And then winced.

Right. That was the problem, wasn't it?

The knock on the door was gentle.

"Miss Palvin? We're ready to speak with you now. Tristan's in the consultation room."

She tucked her phone away, and followed the nurse.

Tristan stood when she entered, worry written all over his face. He looked like he hadn't sat still all morning.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

She gave a small nod. "I'm fine. Just tired."

The doctors came in moments later—two of them. A general specialist and a surgeon. Both wore soft expressions that didn't quite hide the seriousness beneath.

"Barbara," the lead physician began, settling into his chair, "we've reviewed the MRI, ultrasound, and hormone panels."

A pause.

"There are clear signs of endometriosis."

Barbara felt Tristan's hand tighten gently around hers.

The doctor continued. "It's not uncommon for women your age, but it's rarely diagnosed this early unless someone is looking for it. So we're actually very lucky to have caught it now."

She swallowed. "What does that mean… for me?"

"Short term," the surgeon said, "we'd recommend laparoscopic surgery. It's minimally invasive, and we can remove the affected tissue directly. That would reduce your symptoms—pain, fatigue, everything you've been feeling."

"And long term?" She asked.

"Well," the doctor said, "left untreated, endometriosis can lead to complications with fertility. Nothing dramatic in your case, but enough to cause difficulties down the line—delayed conception, increased risk during pregnancy. That sort of thing."

Barbara exhaled slowly, trying to stay ahead of the wave rising in her chest.

"But we're not there yet," the doctor added gently. "This was caught early. If you're open to surgery, we can get ahead of it now. No reason this should interfere with future plans."

"Okay," she said softly. "Yes. I want to do it."

"We can schedule a pre-op assessment and pick a date within the next couple weeks."

Tristan cleared his throat. "She's got recovery time, right?"

"Two to three weeks, depending. Some people bounce back quicker."

He nodded slowly, thumb brushing over her knuckles.

Barbara gave him a sideways glance. "Guess I'll be on the couch while you're off at trophy parades and photo shoots."

He didn't laugh. Just leaned closer, pressing a kiss to her temple before they walked out.

The sun was high now, warming the tops of the cars and casting long shadows across the concrete as Tristan and Barbara stepped out of the hospital doors, side by side.

Tristan unlocked the car with a chirp but didn't get in just yet. He just stood for a second, letting the warm air hit him, looking at her profile.

"At least it wasn't anything major," he said gently, his voice low enough that it felt like it belonged just to the two of them. "We caught it early. That's all that matters."

Barbara nodded, eyes trained on the pavement. "Still a lot, though."

"Yeah," he agreed. "But it's manageable. You'll get the surgery, rest up, and I'll be here every step. You don't need to worry about the parade or any of that. I'll go, wave to the crowd, come right back."

She raised an eyebrow. "You're really gonna leave all those screaming fans for me in sweatpants on the couch?"

"I'd leave them for you in hospital socks and greasy hair," he said dryly, then added, "Besides… we've still got everything we planned. Just shifted the timeline a bit."

Barbara opened the car door, sliding into the passenger seat slowly.

Tristan rounded the front and got in, starting the engine but not pulling away yet.

"China," he reminded her. "Once you're healed, we go. Launch the Stella flagship store, drink tea in fancy glass buildings, and take selfies with pandas. See my family."

A soft smile tugged at her lips. "You really remembered all that?"

"Of course I did. And we'll still do it all. Makeup store, parade, beach holiday, lazy days watching Friends reruns with Biscuit between us. Nothing's cancelled."

Barbara leaned her head against the headrest, eyes closing for a moment.

"You know what I'm most grateful for?" she said quietly.

Tristan looked over at her.

"That you listened. That you made the doctors look harder. If you hadn't... I would've kept ignoring it. Just pushed through."

His hand reached across the console, linking with hers. "That's not happening anymore."

They sat there a beat longer, parked beneath the sky, the future quietly rearranging itself—same plans, just with detours. They were okay with that.

Barbara exhaled, then turned her head slightly toward him. "Can we just stay like this for a minute?"

Tristan squeezed her hand. "As long as you want."

They didn't have all the answers. But they had time. They had each other. And that, for now, was more than enough.

.

Holy fuck I apolgize if this chapter feels like filler. That was not my intention writing this one. But I can't write long chapters for a while. As I stated in the last chapter I'm dealing with a few stuff.

But hopefully you guys stay like this chapter. And guys I also started posting chapters about Basketball's Greatest again, check it, please, lol.