England's Greatest-Chapter 121: Milan Fashion Week 1

The next day, Tristan boarded an early flight to Milan, Italy.The flight had been smooth, and as Tristan stepped into Milan's crisp autumn air, he took a deep breath, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag.

At the airport exit, a familiar sight made him chuckle.

Sophia stood holding a piece of cardboard with bold, uneven English lettering scrawled across it:

"Tristan, I'm here!"

She waved when she spotted him. "Welcome to Milan!"

Tristan smirked as he approached. "Sophia, you do realize I know what you look like, right? The sign wasn't necessary."

Sophia grinned, adjusting the strap of her black handbag. "Maybe, but I wanted to make sure you didn't miss me in all this chaos."

Tristan glanced around at the busy airport terminal. Businessmen in tailored suits rushed past, models effortlessly pulling designer luggage, paparazzi snapping photos of glamorous arrivals. It was Fashion Week, after all.

"Yeah, chaos is the right word."

Sophia led the way, easily navigating through the crowd as they exited the airport. She flagged down a taxi, chatting effortlessly with the driver in Italian before turning back to Tristan.

"Hotel Pierre, right?" Tristan asked as he didn't really that much into as Sophia was in charge of it.

Sophia nodded. "Yeah. That's the one."

As the taxi wove through the stylish streets of Milan, Tristan found himself staring out the window at the spectacle outside.

Models draped in high-fashion ensembles strutted past luxury boutiques, their every movement captured by eager photographers. Sleek sports cars zipped along the roads, and towering billboards featured icons of the fashion world.

Fashion had never been something Tristan cared for. As long as his clothes were comfortable, clean, and functional, that was all that mattered. He never understood the obsession with brands, labels, or designer wear.

But as he sat in the back of the taxi, watching Milan's blend of old-world elegance and modern luxury, he couldn't deny that image mattered.

A memory surfaced—a conversation with Beckham in LA.

"Tristan, listen to me—your talent will take you far, but your image? That's what makes you last."

Tristan leaned back in his seat, exhaling.

If he wanted to secure his future beyond football, he needed more than just goals and assists.

It was about who you were off it cringe as it sounded.

.....

Sophia led Tristan into his room at the Pierre Hotel wheeling her suitcase inside before dropping it onto the bed.

Without missing a beat, she unzipped it, pulling out two sets of neatly folded clothes and laying them out with precision.

"These are for the event," she said, straightening out the fabric.

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "You really planned this out, huh?"

Sophia didn't even look up as she smoothed out a shirt. "I know you. If I left it up to you, you'd show up in a tracksuit and call it a day."

Tristan smirked. "Can you blame me? Tracksuits are comfortable."

Ignoring him, she gestured toward the first outfit.

Option one was a navy blue wool coat, tailored to fit snugly around the shoulders, paired with a light gray turtleneck sweater and slim-fitting black trousers. To complete the look, she'd chosen a pair of polished black Chelsea boots—clean, minimal, but still nice.

The second option was more relaxed but still stylish: a black bomber jacket over a white crew-neck sweater, paired with dark blue jeans and white sneakers. It had a more laid-back edge but was still put together.

"Try them on," Sophia ordered, arms crossed.

Tristan chuckled but complied, swapping outfits in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom. He slipped into the navy wool coat first, adjusting the turtleneck as he looked at himself in the reflection.

"Damn," he muttered, turning slightly to check the fit before having Sophia look at it.

"I actually look responsible in this."

Sophia glanced up from her phone. "Let's not go that far."

Tristan rolled his eyes before switching into the bomber jacket fit, tossing his Leicester City cap with the number 22 on to complete the look. This one felt more natural—not as formal.

He turned to Sophia with an expectant look. "Well?"

She taking a moment to assess him. "The first one makes you look like a businessman. The second one makes you look like an athlete who actually knows how to dress."

Tristan smirked. "So, the second one then?"

Sophia gave a short nod. "Obviously."

Satisfied, Tristan turned back to the mirror, tilting the brim of his cap slightly. "Not bad. You might actually have some fashion sense after all."

Sophia didn't miss a beat. "I don't. I just have a stylist friend who does."

Tristan narrowed his eyes. "Wait... don't tell me—"

"Already paid for. Along with the clothes. Charged to your account."

Tristan exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a laugh. "I should've seen that coming."

After checking the time, Tristan turned back to Sophia. "Since you've handled everything, take the rest of the day off. Go enjoy Milan, get a coffee, whatever you want."

Sophia arched an eyebrow. "All expenses covered?"

Tristan narrowed his eyes, instantly suspicious. "Depends. What are we talking about here?"

Sophia remained stone-faced. "Define 'depends.'"

Tristan sighed. "Fine. I'll reimburse you up to £10,000. But if you come back with a shopping bag heavier than my luggage, we're going to have a problem."

Sophia simply nodded. "Understood. Thanks, boss."

Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. "Just don't fall for any Italian guys while you're out. I don't have time to deal with a whirlwind romance situation."

For the first time, Sophia almost looked amused. "Don't worry. Italian men aren't my type."

She turned and left the room without another word.

Tristan blinked, watching the door swing shut behind her. "Huh. That's interesting to know."

He shrugged it off and grabbed his phone. He made his way to the bathroom. A quick shower washed away the fatigue of travel, and after drying off, he slipped into his outfit bomber jacket outfit with that hat.

After one last glance in the mirror, he grabbed his phone and wallet, then stepped out of his hotel room.

He raised a hand, hailing a taxi.

The yellow cab rolled to a stop, and Tristan climbed in, settling into the backseat.

"XX Hotel, please," he said in English.

The driver, a middle-aged man with neatly combed hair, gave him a friendly nod through the rearview mirror. "No problem!" His English was fluent, marked by a slight Italian accent.

As the taxi pulled into traffic, Tristan let his gaze drift to the passing scenery. The city's blend of classic architecture and modern elegance was something to admire, but if he was honest, Milan only meant one thing to him: football.

Two clubs. One city. One legendary rivalry.

AC Milan and Inter Milan.

Few cities in the world could claim two footballing giants, let alone two that had won multiple Champions League titles and dominated European football for decades. Their rivalry ran so deep that even their shared stadium had two names—San Siro when AC Milan played, and Giuseppe Meazza when Inter Milan took the field.

If someone were to list all the legends who had graced Milanese football, they could fill an entire book. AC Milan boasted icons like Paolo Maldini, Andriy Shevchenko, Kaka, and the Dutch trio of Gullit, Rijkaard, and Van Basten. Inter Milan had their own royalty—Ronaldo Nazário, Javier Zanetti, Diego Milito, and Zlatan Ibrahimović among them.

Tristan had always dreamed of visiting the Meazza Stadium.

But with his packed schedule, sightseeing would have to wait.

"One day," he muttered under his breath, staring out at the Milan skyline.

For now, his focus was elsewhere.

...

The taxi rolled to a smooth stop at the front of a coffe shop across from the street where Kendall was staying.

Checking his phone, he tapped out a quick message to Kendall:

"I'm at the coffee shop across from your hotel."

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A few moments later, his phone vibrated.

Kendall: "Okay, wait a moment. I'll send my assistant with the ticket."

Tristan smirked. Of course, Kendall had people to handle things for her. As one of the biggest names in the fashion industry, she was constantly surrounded by managers, stylists, and assistants who made sure everything ran smoothly.

He typed another message:

"No problem. Want me to grab you a drink?"

Kendall: "No, I already had coffee this morning."

"Got it."

Sliding his phone into his pocket, Tristan glanced up at the café's entrance.

As soon as he entered, the rich aroma of espresso mixed with the faint scent of pastries and expensive cologne. The café was polished, modern, and clearly a popular Fashion Week hotspot. Muted jazz played in the background, barely audible over the quiet hum of conversation in Italian, French, and English.

Tristan took a spot in line, scanning the menu board overhead. The drinks all had fancy Italian names, but at the end of the day, coffee was coffee.

"Nothing special," he thought. "Just overpriced caffeine in a fancier cup."

The line wasn't long—only a few people ahead of him. But his attention was quickly drawn to the woman directly in front of him.

She was tall and slender,somewhat close to his height and he was around 187 cm. If he had to guess she was around 175 cm.

Dressed in a khaki windbreaker and a black baseball cap on top of her brown hair, she looked cool—until Tristan's gaze dropped to her feet.

Bright yellow SpongeBob slippers.

Tristan nearly did a double take. He wasn't sure if it was a bold fashion statement or just sheer comfort, but the contrast between her outerwear and cartoon-themed footwear threw him off.

"Windbreaker and slippers? Guess fashion really does work in strange ways," he muttered in Mandarin, assuming no one would understand.

But then, to his surprise, the woman suddenly turned around, her head tilting slightly in curiosity.

"Sorry, were you talking to me?"

Tristan froze. His heart might have skipped a beat—no, it definitely did.

Blue eyes.

Not just any blue. A piercing, icy shade that seemed to see right through him.

For a second, he almost forgot what she had said. Hell even her voice was nice, really soft with a sligh accent maybe Polish or Hungarian from what he could tell.

She was stunning. The kind of stunning that made time slow down for a moment. People always told him he was good-looking—too pretty for a footballer, they'd joke—but this woman? She was on another level.

Quickly recovering, he forced an easy smile. "Oh, no. Just talking to myself."

She didn't look entirely convinced, amusement flickering in her gaze. "Are you Chinese? What you said sounded like Mandarin."

Tristan nodded. "Yeah. My dad is Chinese."

"Ah, that makes sense." She gave a small nod just as the cashier called out, "Next customer!"

Stepping forward, she placed her order. "One espresso, please."

"Ten euros."

Reaching into her pocket, she suddenly froze, her expression shifting. She patted her coat, checked her other pocket, and let out a quiet sigh.

She had forgotten her wallet.

Tristan caught the hesitation—the way her fingers hovered near her coat, the quick flicker of frustration in her eyes. Without a word, he stepped forward and handed a €20 bill to the cashier.

"I got it," he said casually. "And one for me too."

The barista nodded, ringing up the order.

The woman turned to him, blinking. "Oh, you don't have to—"

"It's just coffee," Tristan interrupted with a small shrug, already brushing it off.

She hesitated for a second before exhaling softly. "Still, thank you."

Tristan offered a nod but didn't say anything more, grabbing his cup from the counter as it was placed down. The woman did the same, lingering for a moment before finally turning away.

Tristan found a seat near the window, setting his drink down as he glanced outside, watching the quiet movement of people strolling down the Milanese streets.

A few moments later, movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention.

The same woman was standing in front of his table.

"Mind if I sit?" she asked, gesturing toward the seat across from him.

Tristan raised an eyebrow slightly but gestured toward the chair. "Go ahead."

She slid into the chair, adjusting the cup between her hands as she settled in.

A brief silence lingered before she offered a small, almost amused smile. "I figured since we're both here alone, might as well not be."

Tristan let out a quiet chuckle, stirring his coffee. "Interesting way of putting it.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him. Then, her eyes flickered up to his blue Leicester City cap and back to his face a few times making Tristan think he had something on face.

A beat of silence.

Then, she suddenly let out a soft gasp and leaned back slightly, as if something had just clicked in her mind.

"Oh my God, I'm so stupid," she muttered. "I just realized who you are."

Tristan raised an amused brow. "Really? I don't think I'm that famous?"

You're Tristan," she said, shaking her head at herself. "Leicester City's number 22. I've been hearing about you everywhere for the past few months in England."

Tristan let out a chuckle. "The entire time you were looking at me and my hat, I thought there was something in my face, good to know it was just my hat."

"I love football," she corrected, pointing at him with a playful smile. "Which is why I feel so dumb right now. I spent the last few months in England, and it was impossible to avoid your name. Every time I turned on the TV or opened Twitter—Tristan Hale this, Tristan Hale that."

Tristan leaned back in his chair, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. "All good things, I hope?"

She feigned a thoughtful expression. "Hmm... I remember something about 'England's rising star', 'the new wonderkid', and 'the assist king'." She lifted her cup to her lips before adding, "But I also remember something about you being too handsome for football, and how that's just unfair."

Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. "I swear, I didn't bribe the media to say that."

She grinned. "Well, if you did, it worked. The hype around you is real."

Tristan was about to reply when he realized he still didn't know her name.

"And you are...?" he prompted.

She extended a hand across the table. "Barbara. Barbara Palvin."

Tristan shook her hand, her grip firm but warm. "Nice to meet you, Barbara. You live in England, then?"

"Not really, I was there for work for a while," she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm a model, so I travel a lot."

"That explains the Fashion Week appearance," Tristan said.

Barbara smirked. "And what about you? What's a Premier League player doing in Milan during the season?"

"Day off," Tristan replied. "And I got invited to the Fendi show by a friend of mine."

Barbara's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Oh, really? That friend is Kendall? I mean her assistant was just here giving you a ticket."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "And like I said she's a friend who just happened to have invited me since I had some free time." He didn't even know why he was explaining that in the first place to her.

Barbara took a sip of her coffee, looking like she was enjoying this moment a little too much. "I'm walking in that show."

Tristan blinked. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," she confirmed.

He let out a small laugh. "Well, guess that means I'll be seeing you there."

"Guess so," she said, tapping her fingers against her cup.

For the next twenty-five minutes, their conversation flowed effortlessly, like two old friends catching up rather than strangers who had just met.

Barbara had met a lot of people in her career—celebrities, athletes, designers, and actors. But something about Tristan felt... different.

Maybe it was the way he carried himself—confident but not arrogant. Or maybe it was the way he actually listened when she spoke, rather than just waiting for his turn to talk. She wasn't sure. All she knew was that she liked talking to him.

They touched on a bit of everything—football, travel, fashion, and the absolute absurdity of Milan's taxi prices.

"So, let me get this straight," Barbara said, sipping her coffee. "You went from playing in the Championship last season to being one of the most talked-about midfielders in the Premier League this season? That's insane."

Tristan shrugged, a small smirk playing at his lips. "What can I say? Football moves fast. One minute, you're just another academy kid, the next second your playing for England in Brazil. It's crazy thinking about it now."

She laughed again, shaking her head. "And you survived?"

"Barely."

Barbara leaned back in her chair, studying him. "You really love it, don't you?"

"Football?" Tristan raised a brow. "It's my life. I mean, don't get me wrong—I know there's more to life than just kicking a ball, but... it's all I've ever wanted to do."

Barbara nodded slowly, understanding the sentiment all too well. "Yeah. I get that."

"Modeling's the same for you?" Tristan asked, genuinely curious.

Barbara hesitated for a second, then gave him a small, knowing smile. "Yes and no."

Tristan tilted his head. "How so?"

"I love it," she admitted, swirling the last bit of her coffee in her cup. "I love traveling, meeting new people, being part of something creative. But... sometimes, it's exhausting. The constant pressure to look perfect, the endless flights, the scrutiny. It's not always as glamorous as people think."

Tristan leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. "I get that. Football's the same in a way. The game itself? Amazing. Everything that comes with it? Not always."

Barbara gave him a wry smile. "Paparazzi, media nonsense, pressure to be 'perfect'?"

"Exactly," Tristan said. "Like, I just wanna play football, you know? But then there's social media, interviews, sponsorships—stuff that has nothing to do with the game itself."

Barbara let out a small laugh. "And yet, here you are. In Milan. At Fashion Week."

Tristan grinned. "Touché."

Barbara couldn't remember the last time she'd had such an easy, genuine conversation with someone outside of her usual circle.

Eventually, Barbara glanced at her phone. "I should probably head to the venue soon."

Tristan checked the time as well. "Yeah, me too. Wouldn't want to be late to my first fashion show."

Barbara smirked. "Well, lucky for you, you have an insider now."

Tristan stood up, grabbing his coffee. "Lead the way, then, Miss Palvin."

Barbara rolled her eyes but stood up as well, adjusting her windbreaker. As they stepped out onto the street, she shook her head. "I still can't believe I didn't recognize you sooner," she muttered.

Tristan smirked. "To be fair, I didn't recognize you either."

"Well, I wasn't exactly dressed like a model and I'm not that famous compared to some people," she shot back, wiggling her SpongeBob slippers in front of him.

Tristan let out a laugh. "Those are iconic, though. You might start a new trend."

Barbara grinned. "Don't tempt me."

As they walked toward the venue together, the conversation never stalled.

....

I tried my best here so thoughts here would be appreciated. Depending on the feedback, I might rewrite this and see how it goes.

Also before meeting Tristan here, Barbara did some spend time in England with Niall Horan as they did date for like a month or two, they weren't in a relationship from what I could find. They were dating before Niall was seen with another girl and they stopped. And also she would know of Tristan since she is a big fan of football and well she was in England. Everything I write about Barbara in my story is based on what I could find.

You guys have no idea the amount of fucking articles and videos, I had to watch of her for this story. I'm pretty sure I'm under some type of list, lmao.