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Chapter 270: April Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-09-18 21:47:10 +0000 UTCA/N: 7k chapter, I have another chapter posted soon as well to make up for not posting a chapter yesterday.
April 6th, 2016 | Seville, Spain
Europa League Quarter-Final, 1st Leg – Pre-Match Press Conference
.
The room was full and noisy with reporters and journalists cramped into a press room.
Camera bulbs cracked like fireworks each time the door swung open, bursts of white light bouncing off the polished desk. The Sevilla crest loomed massive across the backdrop, its crimson cloth glowing under the spotlights like a flag of war.
Rows of Spanish journalists leaned forward, notebooks already half-filled, pens clicking nervously against the wood. Digital recorders blinked red from every angle.
Claudio Ranieri entered first, jacket pressed, scarf neatly tucked, his smile as calm as ever. He might have been walking into a café, not a European quarter-final cauldron. He lowered himself into the middle.
On his right, Tristan dropped into place. The cameras found him instantly, flashes going off. On Ranieri’s left, Jamie Vardy slouched into his chair.
The room shifted, every lens narrowing on the trio. Leicester City’s miracle makers. Champions of England. Now sitting beneath the Sevilla crest, ready to face their next challenge.
Ranieri cleared his throat, that gentle Italian lilt carrying across the room. “Good evening.”
The first hand shot up immediately, a Spanish journalist with sharp glasses and sharper words.
“Tristan, you’ve already won the Premier League. How do you stay motivated for Europe?”
Tristan leaned into the mic, his fingers tapping once against the table before he spoke. His voice wasn’t just calm, it carried that sharp edge of conviction that silenced even the restless cameras.
“Winning the league was historic, yes. But stopping there? That’s not us. Imagine winning everything unbeaten. League, League Cup, FA Cup, Europa League. A quidtriple. The first in English history. That’s not just motivation. That’s legacy.”
He paused, eyes sweeping across the room, as if daring the question to rise again.
“For us players, it’s more than medals. It’s desire. Ambition. Call it ego if you want maybe it is. But when you’re this close to immortality, when you’ve already come further than anyone thought possible… you don’t settle. You push. You keep going. Because one day, people will look back at this season and either say, ‘They stopped,’ or ‘They finished the job.’ And we know which one we want.”
Murmurs rippled around the room. Pens scratched faster. A few reporters exchanged looks like they hadn’t expected such weight from someone barely twenty.
Vardy leaned into his mic with a grin, shaking his head. “See what I mean? That’s him every day. Lads like me just say, ‘Give us the ball and we’ll score.’ He comes out sounding like he’s writing a book.”
The room chuckled, cameras flashing. Vardy gave Tristan a playful nudge with his elbow.
“But he’s right, you know. We’ve come this far why stop? Might as well go and make history while we’re at it.”
He turned toward the journalist who’d asked the question, the grin never leaving his face.“Am I worried about Sevilla’s defence? Nah. They’re good, fair play. But my job’s simple: run faster than their back line, stick it in the net usually after Tristan slips me in. Been working all season, hasn’t it?”
Laughter rippled again, but this time mixed with scribbling pens.
Even Ranieri chuckled, raising a hand for calm. “Please ask the next questions.”
This time an English reporter: “Tristan, you’ve been linked with Liverpool, Madrid, Barcelona… does it distract you?”
Tristan’s expression tightened, a flicker of irritation breaking through. He was tired of these questions, every journalist in the world knew where this story was going, but until it was official, he wasn’t giving them the headline.
“No,” he said flatly, voice sharp but controlled. “The only shirt I’m thinking about right now is Leicester’s. Whatever comes after will come after. Until I say otherwise, it’s all blue.”
The shutters snapped like machine guns, freezing the steel in his eyes.
Then came the inevitable lighter jab. “Jamie, how many Red Bulls before kickoff tomorrow?”
Vardy grinned like a schoolboy, holding up his hand. “Two on the bus, two in the changing room, and one just before kickoff.”
The room chuckled, but Tristan leaned into the mic, deadpan as ever. “You forgot the vodka in one of them.”
The press room erupted. Journalists doubled over, translators laughed mid-sentence, even Ranieri dropped his face into both hands. “Mamma mia…” he groaned.
Vardy winked at the crowd. “What can I say? It’s the fuel of champions.”
Tristan shook his head, fighting back a smile. “Don’t listen to him. This man runs on Red Bull and chaos. Me? I only drink water.”
Vardy pounced instantly. “That’s true, actually. No Red Bull, no Coke, no beer. This lad’s the most boring twenty year-old in England. He celebrates titles with tap water.”
The laughter got louder. Tristan raised his brows, pretending to look offended. “Biscuit’s got more of a social life than I do, apparently.”
Vardy slapped the table, howling. “She probably does with Barbara taking her everywhere. But hey works for him, doesn’t it? He drinks water, I drink rocket fuel, and somehow we both keep scoring.”
The room buzzed, journalists scribbling furiously, loving every word.
A Spanish journalist leaned forward, voice sly. “Tristan, you’re England’s new captain. Spain and England could meet at the Euros. Thought about that yet?”
Tristan shook his head firmly, almost before the translator finished which he didn’t even need. “No. All I’m thinking about is Sevilla. One game at a time. If you start thinking about June in April, you lose focus. Right now it’s Leicester. It’s this match.”
Ranieri gave the smallest approving nod, but the message landed.
Then a French reporter cut in quickly. “Tristan, rumours say you’ve spoken to Kanté about Liverpool. Care to comment?”
Tristan let a faint smile curl his lips.
“The only thing I’ve said to N’Golo this week is ‘pass me the ball.’ He’ll make his own choices. Right now, he’s my teammate. That’s all that matters.”
Vardy leaned toward his mic, smirking.
“And let me tell you, he doesn’t miss, does he? N’Golo passes like he’s got GPS in his boots.”
The press room chuckled. Tristan shook his head, amused.
The next hand shot up.
“Reports say Riyad Mahrez could move to Manchester City this summer. Does that affect the mood in the dressing room?”
Before Tristan could even breathe, Vardy jumped in.
“Nah, mood’s fine. We just won the bloody league. Only mood in that dressing room right now is dancing badly to Sweet Caroline.”
The laughter rolled through the room. Even Tristan cracked a smile, muttering, “He’s not lying either.”
“Oi,” Vardy shot back, jabbing a finger at him, “you were the worst one!”
Another Spanish voice rose, this one heavier.
“Claudio, Leicester are unbeaten in every competition. Do you feel extra pressure to protect that record?”
Ranieri leaned into his mic, smiling warmly.
“No pressure. Just joy. Records are for newspapers. Our job is to play. If we are unbeaten, bravo. If not, we still have the miracle.”
A younger English journalist raised his hand next. “Tristan, you’ve carried a lot this season, captain of England, leading Leicester, all at twenty. How do you handle that pressure?”
Tristan took a second, eyes flicking to the ceiling, before speaking softly but firmly. “I don’t see it as pressure. I see it as trust. When people give you the armband, when they give you responsibility, it means they believe in you. So I try to believe in myself the same way.”
The shutters exploded like thunder, camera flashes bathing the table in white.
Ranieri clapped his hands once, rising with a smile. “Grazie. Enough trouble from these two.”
The press conference dissolved into chaos, reporters shouting, cameras flashing, translators rushing to catch up.
When the doors swung open, the Andalusian night hit them like a wall. Beyond the barriers, Sevilla ultras thundered with chants, red flares turning the street into fire.
Vardy smirked, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Blimey. Proper welcome party, eh?”
Tristan tugged his hood up, eyes narrowing at the smoke. H
“Let ’em do whatever they want,” he murmured, chuckling. “Doesn’t matter what they do, we win either way.”
.
As Tristan stepped back into his room, the door clicked shut behind him. Outside, the Sevilla ultras were still screaming into the Andalusian night, flares painting the street in red smoke. He tossed his hoodie onto the chair, plugged in his phone, and let it drop onto the nightstand.
A buzz. Then another.
He picked it up. One new message.
Mendes: Prez wants to meet. After the game. Keep your head clear tonight. Meeting is secret.
Tristan stared at the screen for a moment. Then he turned the phone over, face down, and exhaled.
Of course. Florentino Pérez. The old vampire. The man who’d been haunting football for decades, swooping down from his Madrid tower with promises of white shirts and endless money.
He’d been circling for two years, desperate for Tristan to step into the Bernabéu spotlight. Normally Tristan let Mendes handle the chatter, polite rejections, “not now, maybe later” texts, the usual. But now, here in Spain, with everything set up in total secrecy? There was no wriggling out of it.
Besides, he thought with a smirk, if Pérez could wait for Mbappé — the “French Turtle” — for a hundred years, then he’d wait a million years for him.
At least this way, he could get it over with quickly.
Tristan chuckled to himself, shaking his head. But deep down, he felt the weight of it. This weren't just memes anymore. This was Real Madrid. The stage. The history. The temptation every player in the world felt when they heard the name but alas for he was happy with Liverpool.
.
The red glow from the flares outside still crept through the curtains like distant firelight.
Tristan lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes staring at the ceiling. The room was quiet now. He exhaled through his nose.
Then he reached for his phone.
Unlocked it. Swiped past Mendes' message without a second glance. He wasn’t thinking about Pérez. Not tonight.
He scrolled to her name: :Love❤️
He hit FaceTime.
It rang once. Then again. Then—
“Hi,” came her voice, warm, sleepy, real.
Barbara appeared on screen, face framed by the soft yellow glow of their bedroom lamp. Her hair was tied up messily. She had her big fluffy bathrobe on, one hand brushing her teeth, the other holding the phone. Biscuit popped up in the background, yawning on their bed.
Tristan smiled instantly. “You always answer on the second ring.”
Barbara spat into the sink and wiped her mouth. “That’s because the first one I use to check the mirror.”
He chuckled. “You don’t need to.”
“I always need to. What if I have toothpaste on my nose? I’m a model. I have standards.”
Tristan let out a small laugh, shoulders relaxing. “You’re my standard.”
Barbara smiled, eyes softening looking at Tristan. “Are you okay?”
He hesitated. Then nodded slowly.
“Yeah. Just… needed to hear your voice.”
“I figured,” she said. “I was about to text you, but I didn’t want to interrupt the press madness.”
“It was a mess.”
“I saw. Vardy’s Red Bull comments are already trending.” She laughed lightly. “You know some Spanish site translated it as ‘vodka-infused bull blood?’”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “That call someone.” Should made be illegal in all countries.”
Barbara grinned. “Only in twenty-three countries.”
“You nervous?”
“A little,” Tristan admitted. “Sevilla does get a extra boost whenever they play in the Europa Leagu. Their fans are… loud too.”
“You’re louder when you want to be.”
He tilted his head. “What does that mean?”
Barbara raised a brow, teasing. “You know exactly what that means.”
Tristan smiled, eyes flicking to the ceiling. “I got a meeting with Prez after the game.”
Barbara reached for the camera, as if trying to pull him through the screen. “Ah, guess you can’t run anymore from him. Just let Mendes and Sofia handle it. You will be fine, babe..”
He laughed. “You have a point, I’m just tired of meeting old folks like Prez, last week we had the meeting with Sir Alex..”
Biscuit barked once behind her, jumping off the bed and pawing at the phone.
Tristan smiled. “Hey, baby.”
Barbara turned the phone down and Biscuit licked the screen, tail wagging like a metronome.
“She’s been carrying your scarf around the house,” Barbara said. “Growling at the door every time a squirrel walks past.”
“She’s protecting the title.”
“She’s mad you’re not home.”
“I’ll be home soon.”
Tristan yawned despite himself. “Yeah…”
She looked at him, eyes narrowing. “Don’t dream about Madrid.”
“I won’t.”
“Dream about me.”
“I always do.”
Barbara smiled.
“Night, love.”
“Sleep well..”
.
Next Day
Sevilla Locker Room
The whiteboard was cluttered with arrows, names, warnings in bold red marker. “TRISTAN” was circled three times. Underneath: no space — no room — no fouls near box.
Jorge Sampaoli stood in front of it, shoulders squared, voice sharp.
“I don’t care how many awards he’s won. I don’t care how many shirts he’s sold. That’s just noise.”
He pointed toward the back wall, not at anyone in particular, but through them all.
“This is our tournament. Not his. Not theirs.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. Banega adjusted his tape. Gameiro tightened his laces.
“Forget the headlines. Forget the English fairytale. They think they’re coming here to dance around with their perfect little record and collect another storybook chapter.”
His eyes narrowed. “Remind them this isn’t the Premier League. This is Seville. This is Europe.”
The room stayed silent. Focused. Coiled.
“Press. Hit. Intimidate. Remind them what it means to play here.”
“And do not—do not—let that golden boy breathe.”
.
Above the pitch, the night air was cooler behind the reinforced glass of the VIP suite. Soft lighting. Plush seats. Silver trays of untouched catering.
Mendes crossed one leg over the other. “Prez has booked out the rooftop suite at the Gran Meliá. Triple-encrypted staff, sealed elevator access, no leaks. Meeting’s set for midnight. Just the three of them.”
Sofia raised a brow. “You, Prez, and Tristan?”
“No.” He exhaled. “Me, you, and Prez. Tristan doesn’t go in alone. The man knows how to talk and get in the minds of players. Tristan doesn’t need that.”
Sofia allowed herself a small nod.
Mendes checked his watch, then glanced toward the pitch. “This game shouldn’t take that long.”
The concrete walls pulsed with bass and drums as the stadium roared above. Down in the tunnel, it was pure electricity, boots scuffing on concrete, zippered jackets rustling, studs clacking like countdowns.
Leicester stood in a line, blue kits stretched tight, eyes straight ahead. Champions of England, now seconds away from a European war.
Vardy leaned toward Tristan, bouncing slightly on his toes.
“Tell you what, mate… this is proper weather.”
Tristan smirked, hands on hips. “Bit different from Belvoir Drive, yeah?”
“No rain. No frozen wind punching you in the face. No Schmeichel moaning about his gloves not being dry.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
“I’m serious,” Vardy said. “Sun’s out. Pitch looks fast. Feels like a big night.”
Tristan looked up the tunnel. The red and white of Sevilla waited at the far end. Their captain, Coke, stood still as a statue, jaw tight. Banega chewed gum slowly, arms folded. Gameiro bounced in place, eyes already scanning the invisible passing lanes ahead.
Between the two sides, the mascots shuffled into formation, tiny steps, wide eyes. A few reached up to grasp gloved hands. One of them, holding Mahrez’s hand, looked up and whispered something. Mahrez gave him a quiet nod and the faintest smile.
Behind Leicester’s front line, Kanté bounced on his heels. Morgan cracked his knuckles. Fuchs tugged once on his collar. No one looked afraid.
Tristan rolled his shoulders back, stretching his neck.
“It is a big night,” he said softly.
“You ready?” Vardy asked.
Tristan nodded.
The official’s whistle cut through the tunnel.
Doors swung open.
The mascots led the way.
Then came Sevilla in their home whites, walking with purpose, with swagger. They had history behind them, this was their tournament.
Then came Leicester.
The stadium erupted as both teams emerged from the tunnel into a furnace of flares, flags, and noise.
And beneath it all, Tristan Hale walked out into the Andalusian night with one thought in his chest:
Finish the job.
.
The air was thick with smoke and song. Red flares burned in the upper tiers, crackling like fireworks, while the chants of Sevilla ultras rattled the stadium walls. It wasn’t just a football crowd; it was a cauldron, a furnace built to swallow opponents alive.
“Good evening from Seville!” Rob Hawthorne’s voice fought against the roar. “Rob Hawthorne here, joined by Andy Townsend for what promises to be a cracking night of European football. The Andalusian sky is burning orange, the flares are already lit, and the crowd here at the Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán is absolutely deafening.”
“And why wouldn’t they be?” Townsend cut in, almost shouting to be heard. “This is Sevilla. This is their fortress. They’ve made the Europa League their home. But Leicester? They’re tearing up the script. Champions of England. Undefeated. And tonight another chance to shock the world.”
The cameras swept across the stands: thousands of red-and-white scarves waving in unison, banners screaming SEVILLA NUNCA SE RINDE. The smoke from pre-match pyrotechnics hung above like storm clouds.
The shot cut to the tunnel. Leicester in blue, Sevilla in white. Shoulder to shoulder. Then, Tristan Hale emerged following behind the Captain, Wes Morgan.
“There he is,” Rob said, his voice dropping almost reverently. “Tristan Hale. Twenty years old. Captain of England. The conductor of this Leicester orchestra. If he plays well tonight… Leicester might just do the impossible again.”
“The scary thing is,” Townsend added, “this kid hasn’t even peaked yet.”
The referee’s whistle shrieked, sharp as a blade through the humid Andalusian night.
It was Sevilla who kicked off, Banega tapping the ball back to Krychowiak, and instantly the white shirts surged forward. The Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán roared with them, a wall of red and white scarves waving like storm surf. The air vibrated with drums, claps, and the endless chant of ¡Sevilla! ¡Sevilla!
Leicester dropped into their shape immediately — Morgan pointing, Huth barking, Drinkwater tucking close to Kanté — but Sevilla wasted no time testing them.
Within the first thirty seconds, Vitolo darted down the left flank, exchanging a sharp one-two with Tremoulinas. His cross skidded low, fizzing across the six-yard box. Morgan lunged, boot stretching, just enough to hack clear. The home fans roared as if it had gone in.
“They come flying out the traps here,” Rob Hawthorne said, voice tight. “Sevilla know how to set the tone in this stadium.”
But they weren’t done.
Carriço stepped up from defence, pressing high into Leicester’s half, snapping into Vardy with a crunch that sent both tumbling. The referee waved play on, and already Banega had the ball at his feet — head up, scanning, as sparks seemed to fly off his boots with every touch.
He sprayed wide to Vitolo again. One shimmy past Simpson. Another quick dart, this time inside. A clipped pass slipped between Huth and Morgan. Gameiro pounced.
“Ohhh, Gameiro’s in here!” Rob cried.
The Frenchman sprinted clear, angled his body, and whipped a low shot across goal. Schmeichel read it, flinging himself full stretch, fingertips just strong enough to palm it wide.
The stadium erupted — a guttural, gutted roar, half celebration, half agony. The net didn’t bulge, but the fear it carried through the stands was real.
“That’s Sevilla,” Rob snapped, breathless. “Quick. Clinical. They don’t wait.”
Andy Townsend’s reply was quieter, almost grudging. “That’s a warning, Rob. A big one. Leicester can’t give these lads space like that — not here, not tonight.”
Schmeichel was already back on his feet, waving his arms, bellowing at his defenders to tighten up. Morgan clapped twice, hard, and pulled the back four into line.
It was only the third minute.
By the tenth minute, Leicester had found their foothold.
Tristan Hale, Drinkwater, and Kanté started stitching the midfield together with short, sharp passes. Tick. Tack. Turn. Kanté snapping into interceptions, Drinkwater recycling quickly, Tristan dropping deep, showing for every ball.
Each pass took a little more sting out of Sevilla. Each touch smoothed the edges of the chaos. The roar of the Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán was still deafening, but it wasn’t crushing Leicester anymore. It was background noise — fuel rather than fear.
And then came minute thirteen.
Tristan dropped into the left half-space, almost level with his centre-backs. He dragged Éver Banega with him, forcing Sevilla’s metronome out of position.
Kanté spotted him and zipped the ball in.
Tristan let it roll across his body. One turn. Banega bit. Another half-shimmy. Banega spun the wrong way. Then, before Rami could close, Tristan snapped a first-time flick with the outside of his boot.
It wasn’t a pass so much as a blade, a scalpel slicing between the seams of Sevilla’s defence.
“Oh, what a ball!” Rob shouted, his voice cracking. “Jamie Vardy’s in!”
And suddenly, the stadium sucked in air.
Vardy burst past Rami like he’d been shot out of a cannon. One touch to steady himself, second to hammer low across Sergio Rico. The keeper stretched. Too late.
The ball skidded into the far corner. Net bulged.
GOAL.
Sevilla 0 – 1 Leicester City.
“That is surgical!” Andy bellowed. “From Tristan’s vision to Vardy’s ruthlessness, absolutely brilliant! That’s why Leicester are where they are. One touch. One pass. One finish. And Sevilla are stunned!”
For a second, the noise died. A wall of red fell into shocked silence. Then came the sound, not from the home end, but from the far corner.
A sliver of blue. A tiny pocket of Leicester fans, drowned in a sea of red and white, exploded. Flags whipped. Fists pumped. Bodies tumbled down rows, hugging strangers, voices hoarse from disbelief.
🎵 “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY!” 🎵
It rang out, faint but defiant, across the Andalusian cauldron.
Tristan didn’t sprint or slide. He just jogged, cool as ever, toward Vardy. The striker was grinning like a kid at Christmas, arms spread wide. Tristan bumped shoulders with him, laughing under his breath.
The two of them looked, in that moment, less like professionals and more like schoolboys who’d just scored in the park.
But this wasn’t a park.
This was Sevilla. Europe’s fortress.
And Leicester had just kicked the door down.
For the next ten minutes, it was survival.
Sevilla smelled blood after conceding. They came in snarling, relentless, urged on by a crowd that refused to sit down.
First, Vitolo. He cut inside from the left, unleashed a thunderbolt — it rattled the crossbar so hard the whole stadium seemed to shake.
Then Gameiro. A whipped delivery from Banega, glanced header — inches wide. The home end groaned, hands clutching hair.
Moments later, chaos. A scramble in the box, Rami swinging a wild boot from six yards. He scuffed it horribly, but it was enough to have Schmeichel roaring, arms flailing at his back line.
“Leicester under siege here,” Rob Hawthorne shouted, almost breathless. “Bodies on the line! Blocks, tackles, anything to survive!”
Kanté slid through Vitolo. Huth smashed clear. Morgan headed away like a man possessed. Ranieri paced furiously on the touchline, clapping his hands, shouting in every language he knew.
And then, minute thirty-four.
Christian Fuchs, pressed deep into his own third, put his boot through a clearance. It sailed long and high, a looping ball that seemed destined to drift harmlessly.
But Mahrez was already moving.
He tracked it. One bounce. Two. On the third, with Tremoulinas breathing down his neck, he flicked it delicately with the outside of his boot. A little touch of magic. Tremoulinas was gone.
“Oh, he’s away here!” Rob’s voice surged with the urgency. “Mahrez!”
The Algerian didn’t sprint — he glided. He cut inside, Krychowiak lunging. One shimmy and the Pole was left clutching at thin air. Rami stepped forward, desperate — another feint, another glide past.
And then it opened.
From just outside the box, Mahrez wrapped his left foot around it. Not power. Pure shape. Curling, rising, dipping — arcing toward the far top corner.
Sergio Rico leapt. Full stretch. Fingertips brushing at nothing.
GOAL.
Sevilla 0 – 2 Leicester City.
The Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán was stunned. You could hear the gasp ripple across the stands before the away end burst into ecstasy.
The Leicester bench exploded — substitutes spilled into the technical area. Ranieri, usually the picture of calm, clenched both fists and punched the Andalusian night sky.
On the pitch, Jamie Vardy launched into a knee-slide toward the corner flag, screaming into the roar. Mahrez followed, arms stretched wide, face lit with joy.
And Tristan? He arrived late, grinning so hard it looked like his face might split. He grabbed Mahrez around the shoulders and lifted him clean off the turf, shaking him like a brother.
“You can’t cage Riyad Mahrez!” Andy bellowed over the replay. “One chance, and he punishes you!”
“And look at Tristan again,” Rob added as the slow-motion rolled. Tristan’s sharp one-touch in midfield, simple but decisive, had sprung the move. “The awareness. The timing. He makes everything flow.”
Half-time came with whistles raining from the Sevilla stands. Their fortress was crumbling.
.
Sevilla came out of the tunnel like men insulted. Their pride demanded fire, and they poured it out in waves.
Banega was first, rattling two efforts from distance — one skimming just over, the other forcing Schmeichel to dive and claw wide. Gameiro thought he had one back in the 51st, bundling in from close range, but the whistle had already gone — a shove on Wes Morgan, the Leicester captain roaring as he held the free kick aloft like a trophy.
The Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán didn’t flinch. It roared louder. Tremoulinas delivered cross after cross, left boot whipping balls into dangerous areas, but every single one met Robert Huth’s forehead, thumped clear with the authority of a sledgehammer.
And Leicester?
Calm as ice.
N’Golo Kanté became three men at once. He was on Banega’s toes one second, sliding through Vitolo the next, and then bursting thirty yards forward to start a counter. Every interception drew louder gasps from the away fans, who were beginning to believe.
Then, in the 64th minute, Leicester nearly killed it off.
Tristan dropping into the half-space, spotted Mahrez drifting behind Carriço. One look. One touch. A threaded pass, weighted like silk. Mahrez sprinted through, set himself, struck straight into Sergio Rico’s face.
The Sevilla keeper crumpled, clutching his jaw. The home crowd groaned. The away fans howled like wolves.
“Sevilla are rattled,” Andy said, leaning into the microphone. “They’re pushing and pushing, but Leicester, they look like they’ve been here before. Like this is just another night.”
The noise shifted. The chants in red turned shriller, edged with frustration. Every Leicester clearance drew whistles, every delay a chorus of jeers.
By the seventy-fifth, Sevilla’s ferocity dulled. Their passing slowed. Their sprints shortened. A once relentless press had turned into impatient jogs. The fire dimmed.
Ranieri struck.
Okazaki for Vardy, endless energy replacing ruthless pace. King for Drinkwater, fresh lungs, steady legs.
Leicester bent the game to their will.
Mahrez became a magnet for fouls, rolling over theatrically, smirking as seconds bled away. Okazaki sprinted after hopeless long balls, defenders sighing as they jogged back to goal. And in the middle of it all, Tristan Hale. Shielding possession with his frame, dictating the rhythm with every touch. One hand raised for calm, like a conductor steadying his orchestra.
And then — the board went up. Four minutes.
The longest four minutes in Andalusia.
Sevilla tried. They threw everything they had left. Long balls. Corners. Shots from distance. But Leicester never wavered. Schmeichel punched. Morgan cleared. Kanté nipped. Hale passed.
And finally — the whistle.
Short. Sharp. Final.
Full-time.
Sevilla 0 – 2 Leicester City.
The away section exploded, a shard of blue in a sea of stunned red. Flags waved like flames. Scarves whirled like helicopter blades. The song thundered out, shaking the Andalusian night:
🎵 “We’re all going on a European tour!” 🎵
On the pitch, Tristan raised both arms to the sky, sweat streaking down his temples. For once, the usual composure cracked into a wide smile.
“They’ve done it again,” Rob Hawthorne said, his voice reverent now. “Leicester City — they’ve just marched into one of the most feared stadiums in Europe and left with a two-goal lead.”
The final image before the cameras cut: Tristan walking alone toward the tunnel. His head bowed slightly, but his shoulders broad, the armband gleaming under the floodlights. He raised one hand to salute the away fans, then turned, disappearing into the shadows of the tunnel.
For Sevilla, it was humiliation.
For Leicester, it was immortality in motion.
.
Gran Meliá Colón – Rooftop Presidential Suite – 12:32 AM
The elevator chimed softly. Tristan stepped out.
No music. No champagne glasses clinking. No staged photographs. Just the hum of the Andalusian night and the distant echo of car horns far below. The rooftop smelled faintly of marble polish and cigar smoke. Seville’s skyline stretched around him, blurred by smoke from flares still smoldering near the Sánchez Pizjuán.
Florentino Pérez was already waiting.
The Real Madrid president stood tall beside a long table of polished stone and glass, every inch of his tailored charcoal suit immaculate, as though he were untouched by the noise of the world below. Mendes was seated, unreadable as ever, and Sofia leaned back in her chair, watching everything with careful eyes.
Pérez spread his arms as Tristan approached. “Tristan. Congratulations. On your performance tonight… and on the Premier League. Magnificent.”
“Thank you,” Tristan replied simply, easing into a seat.
Pérez rested both palms flat on the table. “You silenced Sevilla. Last year it was Manchester United. The entire world knows your name. But do you know what you are?”
Tristan tilted his head confused. “What am I?”
“A Galáctico,” Pérez said, his voice rolling like a sermon.
Mendes had a sense of dejavu watching Prez try to butter up Tristan like Ronaldo playing too his ego. Sofia’s gaze flicked to Tristan. The word carried weight. James Rodríguez had fallen for it. Beckham before him. Figo. Zidane. It was the crown jewel word of Madrid’s empire.
Pérez leaned forward, lowering his tone. “You are the next in a line stretching from Zidane to Ronaldo. From Figo to Beckham. From Raúl to Cristiano. You… are Real Madrid.”
He let the words hang, like scripture.
“We don’t chase names. We chase legends. And you, Tristan, can be spoken of for decades. Pele. Maradona. Messi. Cristiano. And then you. That is what I see.”
Tristan exhaled through his nose, arms folding loosely across his chest. “And?”
“I want to bring you home,” Pérez said, voice smoothing into a smile. “To the Bernabéu. This summer. We make the offer, we take care of the noise. You step onto that pitch in white, and the world will understand what I already know.”
The rooftop fell quiet. The hum of the city felt louder in the silence.
Finally, Tristan leaned back, eyes narrowing, voice calm but steel beneath. “I respect the club. I respect the history. But I can’t come.”
Pérez’s jaw twitched. “Why?”
Tristan didn’t hesitate. “Because one mountain can’t hold two tigers.”
The words hit like glass breaking.
For the first time, Pérez’s composure wavered. A twitch in the corner of his eye. A fraction of a frown. Mendes glanced at him sidelong. Sofia’s head tilted, curious.
“You’re referring to…?” Pérez said, though he already knew.
“Cristiano,” Tristan replied. “This is still his mountain. His kingdom. His era. I won’t walk in and turn it into a war. He deserves that respect.”
Pérez sat back, fingers drumming once against the table. “You don’t believe the two of you could play together?”
“I believe we could,” Tristan said evenly. “But the world wouldn’t let us. Every pass, every miss, every goal, it would be twisted into headlines. Who passed to who. Who shot instead of passing. Who overshadowed who. That’s not football. That’s politics. And I’m not here to wrestle Cristiano for a crown he earned.”
Pérez studied him, not angry, but calculating, as though this young man had just spoken a language few dared speak to him.
“And if Cristiano were to leave?” Pérez asked softly.
“Then we talk,” Tristan said. “But now? My next step is Liverpool.”
A silence. He had expected it, but hearing it aloud made Pérez blink.
“You’re turning down Real Madrid… for Liverpool?” The question wasn’t arrogant. It was incredulous.
He knew the answer before coming here. But hearing it from Tristan himself, in this quiet rooftop, still stung.
Tristan’s voice was softer now, but no less firm. “I’m choosing the story that’s mine. Liverpool is where I grow. Madrid is where I finish. You can wait for me.”
For a long moment, Pérez said nothing. Then slowly he chuckled. Low. Almost admiring.
“Had it been anyone else, I would laugh in their face. But you? For you, Tristan, we can wait ten years.”
He stood, smoothing his jacket flat, eyes still fixed on the boy across from him. “You are wise. Too wise. And when the day comes that the armband is vacant and the Bernabéu calls, I expect you to answer.”
“I will,” Tristan said, standing as well. “When it’s time.”
They shook hands. A handshake heavy with future promises.
As Pérez stepped away, Sofia leaned toward Tristan, her voice light but curious. “Nice line, by the way. About the mountain and the tigers.”
Tristan smirked faintly. “Would you believe me if I said I read it in a Chinese cultivation novel?”
Sofia rolled her eyes. “I’m not even going to ask what that is.”
And as the elevator doors closed again, leaving the city lights shrinking behind him, Tristan didn’t look back.
.
Pérez exhaled softly through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. Something balanced between pride and irritation. “He reminds me of Cristiano,” he said at last. “That same unshakable belief that the world bends to them, never the other way around.”
He turned slowly, lowering himself back into his chair. The flicker of vulnerability in his eyes vanished as his expression reset, calm, measured. His words rolled out with the patience of a man moving pawns and rooks in his mind. “He is right, of course. Two tigers cannot share one mountain. Not while Cristiano still breathes fire. But mountains erode. And when they do, only one tiger will remain.”
Across the table, Mendes tilted his head, studying him. “So… you’ll wait. As I told you before, once Tristan decides something, no one can change his mind.”
“Yes,” Pérez agreed evenly, “but this meeting was no waste. A message through agents is paper. A meeting, face to face…” He tapped a finger lightly against the table. “…that reveals the man. His posture. His tone. His fire. Now I know what kind of player and what kind of leader we are waiting for.”
He slipped a hand inside his jacket and drew out a phone, polished silver catching the dim rooftop light. His thumb scrolled with the ease of habit until it landed on a number he knew by heart.
A click. Then a voice, low and steady:“Sí, presidente?”
“Ángel,” Pérez said, his tone sharpening into command. “I want a dossier opened. Tristan Hale. Every detail. Training habits, recovery times, sleep schedules, family, endorsements, mental profile, injury history, commercial reach. I want it updated monthly. No gaps. No excuses.”
A pause hummed across the line. “We already have a file, but—”
“Then make it thicker,” Pérez cut in. “He is not for this summer. Perhaps not even the next. But he will come. He must. When Cristiano’s time passes, the mountain must not be left empty. Do you understand?”
“Yes, presidente,” Sánchez said without hesitation.
Pérez’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. He leaned back in his chair, staring past the glass at the glow of Seville below. “Good. And another task. Prepare projections. Five years. Calculate his commercial value not just in Spain, not just in Europe, but globally. Jersey sales in Asia. Sponsorship leverage in America. Broadcast reach in Africa. When the time comes, Real Madrid will not simply sign him. We will own him. His image, his story, his legacy—folded into ours.”
“Yes, presidente,” Sánchez repeated, his tone clipped but respectful.
“And Ángel?”
“Sí?”
“Start looking around for young players we can surround Tristan with. In five years we will go all in. And by then I want the project done.”
Pérez slid the phone back into his jacket, rose smoothly, and adjusted the cuffs of his suit. His reflection in the glass showed a man already envisioning the future, the Bernabéu bathed in white, the crowd roaring, and Tristan standing where legends were crowned.
“When the mountain clears,” he murmured to himself, the words curling like smoke into the night, “the tiger will return home.”
And with that, he turned toward the elevator, his mind already five years ahead.
.
Comments
Adam M
CR7 is probably the most competitive person football has ever seen, that rubs some people the wrong way. Combine that with the ego (that he's earned), a "villain".
AlexisGoated11
I would like to see this move because every novel I have read they have madrid and Cristiano as villains
Gaiseric Persian
Lol, seeing that proverb outside of a chinese novel is weird but it is fitting, great chapter.
