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Chapter 267: Winning the League Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-09-11 22:42:00 +0000 UTCMarch 30th, 2016 – Sky Sports Studio – Late Night
The theme music faded, the cameras swept the table, and the studio lights settled into a soft golden glow. Behind the panel, the giant screen carried two scorelines that had shaken England out of its gloom and into belief again:
GERMANY 1 – 3 ENGLAND
Tristan Hale (c): 2 Goals, 1 Assist
ENGLAND 2 – 0 NETHERLANDS
Tristan Hale (c): 2 Goals
David Jones adjusted his papers, glanced at the screen, then turned back to the panel. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his voice rang out, steady but tinged with excitement.
“Well, gentlemen… it’s official. Tristan Hale is England’s youngest captain since Bobby Moore. Just twenty years old. Nineteen caps. And in the space of four days, he’s scored four goals, added an assist… against Germany, the world champions, and the Netherlands at Wembley.
“So. Roy Hodgson’s made the call. The question is: has he got it right?”
Alan Shearer was the first to lean forward, his grin breaking wide across his face.
“It’s massive, Dave. Let’s not downplay it. Germany are world champions. You beat them 3–1 in Berlin, and this lad, twenty years old, wearing the armband, scored twice. That’s unheard of. Then two more at Wembley against the Dutch. He hasn’t just worn the armband, he's owned it.”
Rio Ferdinand let out a low whistle and shook his head, laughing almost in disbelief.
“Do you know what it is, Al? I didn’t think he’d take to it this fast. Not this level. We’ve seen hype before, haven’t we? Loads of it. But this is different. He’s bossing Kroos, Özil, Boateng. Making them look… ordinary. When was the last time we said that about an England player? Honestly I’ve never seen it.”
Graeme Souness shifted back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, lips pressed tight. He let the pause linger, then cut in flatly.
“Phenomenal talent, no doubt. But let’s not kid ourselves. Being the best player and being a captain are two very different things. It’s easy now, when he’s flying. But what happens when it goes wrong? England two–nil down in a quarterfinal, the press baying for blood? He’s never carried failure as the main man. Not yet. Until I see him do that, I’m not ready to crown him.”
Jamie Carragher immediately leaned in, smirking.“Oh come on, Graeme. You’d moan about him even if he scored ten goals in one game, wouldn’t you?”
The desk erupted. Shearer slapped the wood with his palm, laughing. Rio leaned back in his chair, head tilted, laughing even louder. David Jones tried not to grin as he shuffled his notes again.
Souness, stony-faced, didn’t even blink.
“It’s my job to moan.”
That set them all off again, even Shearer doubling over for a moment. Carragher sat back with a smug grin, soaking it in.
“See? Exactly what I mean. He’s the best player England’s ever produced. Look at the numbers, look at the talent. Four goals in two games as captain. And in the dressing room? Not shy, not hiding, not arrogant. He’s just… natural.”
Paul Scholes had been quiet, rubbing his chin, eyes distant as if lost in memory. Finally, he leaned toward his mic. His voice was softer, more thoughtful.
“You know what he’s got that we never did? Unity. Back in our time, the dressing room was a battlefield. United lads here. Liverpool lads there. Chelsea and Arsenal in their own corner. Toxic, absolutely toxic. You’d sit down at dinner and realise you hadn’t spoken to half the squad. That’s why we never won. But Tristan? I can’t see him letting that happen. The younger lads adore him. Ask any kid in an academy right now who their favourite player is nine out of ten say Tristan. That’s why he’s the right choice.”
Rio pointed across the table, nodding hard.
“Exactly. Spot on. And I’ll say it straight I couldn’t stand half the Liverpool lads when I was playing. Couldn’t even sit near ’em.”
Carragher’s eyebrows shot up. He sat forward, pretending to be offended. “Couldn’t stand us? You? That’s rich coming from you, Rio.”
Rio laughed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.
“I said it! But that’s why we failed. Too many egos. Too many agendas. That’s what killed us. Tristan doesn’t have any of that. No scandals. No tabloid rubbish. No 3am headlines. He’s just football. That’s what makes him different. That’s what England needs.”
Carragher shook his head, grinning. “You’ve still got some cheek, you.”
David Jones, smiling, raised a hand to calm the table.
“Alright, lads, let’s settle. Advice time. Tristan’s at home watching this right now, what are you telling him?”
Shearer spoke first, his grin fading to a serious, fatherly tone. He leaned forward, eyes straight into the camera.
“Keep it simple, son. Lead by example. Don’t change who you are just because you’ve got the armband.”
Carragher jabbed a finger at the lens, still smirking. “And don’t listen to us too much. We had our chance and we bottled it. Make your own path. And for God’s sake, don’t read the papers.”
The table cracked up again. Shearer chuckled, Rio slapped the desk, even Scholes managed a rare laugh.
When the laughter died down, Scholes leaned forward, his expression softening. “Listen more than you talk. Especially to the older lads. Rooney’s still around. Lean on him. He’ll be the first one to back you when it gets messy.”
All eyes turned to Souness. He hadn’t moved much the whole segment. Finally, he gave the smallest of nods. His voice was flat, but his words landed heavy. “And remember, it’s not about you. It’s about the team. Be the one they look to when it’s falling apart. That’s when we’ll know if you’re truly a captain.”
The studio fell quiet. Behind them, the screen froze on an image of Tristan in Berlin, arms raised before the away fans, the captain’s armband shining under the floodlights.
David Jones broke the silence, his voice carrying the weight of the moment.
“Tristan Hale. Nineteen caps. Twenty years old. Four goals, one assist in two games as England captain. The crown jewel of English football. For some, the second or third best player in the world. For others… already the best. Calm. Collected. Scandal-free. The symbol of a new era. And maybe, just maybe, the man who can take England where generations before could not.”
Alan Shearer exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head with a grin that said it all.
“If he can’t,” Shearer said, his voice firm but tinged with awe, “then nobody can.”
Next Morning
Before Tristan even opened his eyes, England had already crowned him king.
The radio stations buzzed. The back pages screamed. The phones lit up with push notifications from BBC, Sky, The Telegraph, The Guardian, The Sun, all with variations of the same headline:
“Tristan to the Crown.”
“A New Captain, A New Era.”
“Tristan Hale: England’s Answer to Messi and Ronaldo?”
On Twitter, one image had gone viral by sunrise. Tristan, arms outstretched in Berlin, backlit by the floodlights. No filters, no edits. Just raw, iconic brilliance.
.
The faint clink of a spoon stirred against ceramic. Toast popped in the background, the smell of butter and coffee mingling in the air. Morning light spilled through the kitchen windows, carving gold across the marble countertops and catching on the rim of a navy-and-white Leicester mug.
Barbara sat at the island, hair still damp from the shower, wrapped in one of Tristan’s oversized hoodies that swallowed her frame. Her legs were tucked beneath her, feet bare, a steaming mug cradled in her hands. Biscuit was curled beneath the stool, tail flicking lazily in her sleep.
Tristan shuffled in slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, his hair a tangled mess. He squinted at the TV mounted on the wall, then at Barbara.
“They’re still talking about it?” he muttered, voice rough with sleep.
Barbara raised an eyebrow, smirking.
“Babe, by now you should know the English media never shuts up when it comes to you.” She plucked a slice of toast from the rack and slid it across the counter toward him. “Toast? Or do you want eggs too, Mr. Captain?”
Tristan let out a low chuckle, leaned down to kiss the top of her head, then stole a bite of toast before she’d even let go.
“Toast’s fine,” he mumbled around a mouthful. “Captain’s gotta stay humble, right?”
Onscreen, a clip from last night’s Sky Sports segment replayed. Alan Shearer’s voice rang out, slightly too loud.
“Tristan Hale. Nineteen caps. Twenty years old. Four goals, one assist in two games as England captain…”
Barbara snatched up the remote and muted it. She sipped her tea, eyes flicking toward him.
“Not bad at all. Can’t lie, though—I didn’t see this coming. Not this soon.”
Tristan slid onto the stool beside her, running a hand through his hair. He looked more like a groggy uni student than England’s captain.
“Neither did I. When Roy told me, I was just as shocked as you were.” He shrugged, chewing thoughtfully. “But what do you do, eh? You don’t say no.”
Barbara tilted her head, studying him. “And how does it feel? Honestly.”
He paused. “Heavy. Not just the armband. Everything that comes with it. The press, the expectations. It’s like everyone’s waiting for me to slip up.”
She reached over and stole his toast, taking a bite herself. “Well, good thing you’re boring then.”
Tristan blinked. “Excuse me?”
She grinned. “You don’t drink. You don’t go out. You don’t get in trouble. No scandals, no drama. You’re basically a grandma trapped in a twenty-year-old body. There’s nothing for them to write about.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “So I’m boring now?”
“Adorably boring,” she corrected, nudging his arm. Then her tone softened. “Seriously though, babe—you’re made for this. You’ve always had that… calmness. Even when everything around you’s chaotic. People trust that. That’s why they gave it to you.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then cracked a small smile. “What would I do without you?”
“Crash and burn,” she said sweetly, before kissing his cheek.
Biscuit stretched beneath them, tail flicking as if in agreement.
Tristan leaned back, finishing off the last bite of toast she hadn’t stolen. His eyes flicked once more to the muted TV, where his own image filled the screen—arms raised in Berlin, armband gleaming. He let out a quiet breath. “Guess I’d better not mess it up then.”
Barbara smirked, sliding her empty mug across the counter. “Good thing you’ve got me to keep you in line, Captain.”
He flicked the remote, landing on BBC News.
The screen split: two anchors in the studio on one side, and a roving reporter standing outside King’s Cross on the other.
“Back to you, Tasha,” the anchor said cheerfully. “We’ve been talking all morning about England’s back to back victories but what do the fans think of the captaincy change? Let’s find out.”
The camera cut to Tasha, bright red scarf wrapped tight against the chill. Commuters streamed past behind her, some yawning over takeaway coffees.”
She turned to the first man she found, a balding middle-aged worker in a hi-vis jacket, tea steaming in his paper cup.
“Morning, sir! What’s your name, and what do you think of Tristan Hale as England captain?”
“Brian,” he said without hesitation. “And I’ll tell you what I’ve supported England since Lineker had hair. And I’ve never seen a lad like Tristan. Smart, humble, and he actually wins us games. About time we moved on from Rooney. He’s a legend, but he’s getting too old.”
The next was a teenager with pink hair poking out beneath a Leicester scarf. He grinned like he’d been waiting for this moment all week. “He’s already a hero for us Leicester fans. Honestly? Overdue. Man plays like he’s got cheat codes. Like FIFA but real life.”
Tasha chuckled and moved on. A young mum pushing a stroller leaned in with a laugh.
“I don’t even like football,” she admitted. “Couldn’t tell you the offside rule. But I love him. He’s so… polite. He’s a role model for the younger kids. I hope my son grows up like that.”
Then came a knot of schoolboys in uniform, bags slung over one shoulder. One had Tristan’s goals against Germany replaying on his phone.
“Thoughts on number 22 as captain?” Tasha asked.
The smallest of them jumped in before the others. “He’s cold! Did you see that goal against Germany? Cold! No one else is doing that at twenty. Man’s built different.”
The older lad behind him smirked. “Yeah, and he’s from Leicester. I’m from Leicester. So technically, I’m built different too.” His mates jeered, shoving him.
The camera cut back to the studio, where the anchor smiled warmly at the lens.
“Well, there you have it. The public has spoken. Tristan Hale. England’s youngest captain in fifty years might also be its most beloved.”
Barbara reached for the remote, turned the sound down, and raised an eyebrow. “You know,” she said, curling her legs under her on the stool, “I might need to relaunch my brand just so it doesn’t get buried under your whole national saviour arc.”
Tristan smirked, crunching into the last bite of toast. “I’ll endorse your mascara line if we win the Euros.”
She leaned an elbow on the counter, mock-serious. “Deal. Full photoshoot. Shirtless, captain’s armband, holding the wand mascara.”
He laughed, leaning back in his stool, arms folded. “You think this is really it? The turning point?”
Barbara studied him, her expression softening. “You really asking me that, Mr. ‘I just beat Germany and the Netherlands back to back’?”
“I mean…” he trailed off, running a hand through his messy hair. “Everyone’s acting like I’m the answer to everything. Like one kid’s going to fix fifty years of failure. Sometimes it feels like… too much.”
She reached over, took his wrist gently. “You don’t need to fix fifty years. You just need to play the way you always do. That’s enough.”
Tristan exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He squeezed her hand back, smiling faintly.“See, this is why you get a cut of my wages.” Which was just a joke, he never pays Barbara a wage or whatever Ronaldo does.
Barbara grinned. “Correction: I’m the reason you still have wages. Without me, you’d probably forget to show up half the time.”
.
The living room was dimmer than the kitchen, the curtains drawn halfway against the midday light. A half finished mug of tea sat forgotten on the coffee table beside a folded newspaper with Tristan’s face stretched across the front page. The sofa sagged under their combined weight, Tristan stretched out in sweats, hair still a mess, one arm behind his head, and Barbara curled against his chest, hoodie sleeves bunched over her hands. Biscuit had claimed the other cushion, her tail twitching now and again like she was part of the conversation.
On the TV, highlights from an NBA game flickered silently.
“You’re not even watching,” Barbara murmured without lifting her head.
“Neither are you.”
She smiled into his chest. “Fair.”
Tristan scrolled absentmindedly through his feed: clips of England’s wins, pundits barking about his captaincy, memes of Vardy dancing in training. But then a post stopped him cold.
[r/soccer] Leicester City Title Run Thread – Updated Table After 31 Games
LEI – 81 pts (W: 26, D: 5, L: 0)
GF: 78, GA: 29
TOT – 62 pts
ARS – 58 pts
MCI – 53 pts
WHU – 53 pts
LIV – 52 pts
MUN – 48 pts
Seven games left. Leicester are 19 points clear of Spurs. If they win just one more game, it’s over. Spurs can only reach 83. The title would be mathematically sealed.
Undefeated. 102 points possible. 78 goals scored, only 29 conceded. The earliest title win in PL history is on the table.
The top replies were a mix of awe and disbelief:
@Mark: Holy shit. Leicester are about to win the league. Still unbeaten. This is insane. How the fuck did this go unnotice
@Teh_Storm: “They’ve conceded less than 30 and scored almost 80 in just the league. What the fuck have we been watching. This might be the greatest Premier League team in history.
@Aee: Tristan Hale is about to be captain of England and lift the Premier League in the same month. What is this timeline? Tristan might have the greatest life out of anyone else on this planet right now, lmao.
@Whose_Sin@: 102 points… that’s video game stuff. Ban Leicester from career mode.”
@KIDD: Remember when people said “second season syndrome”? Leicester are literally inventing “second season immortality.”
↳@DragonISTHEGOAT: Bro, we’re not even dreaming anymore. We’re speedrunning history.
↳@GarpISABUm: Can’t lie, I hope they actually do it unbeaten. It’d break football in the funniest way.
@Fuck_Roger: As a United fan, I don’t know what hurts more that we’re 33 points behind Leicester, or that I’m actually happy watching them play.
↳@ROCKISGOATED: Nah mate, what hurts is watching Fellaini still starting games.
@SpursyAsEver: Spurs fan here. Can’t even be mad. At least we didn’t bottle it. We never had a chance.
↳@ArsenalMeltdown: You bottled existing. That’s a new level of Spursy.
↳@SpursyAsEver: Better than bottling 4th every year, mate.
@HistoryNerd69: Context Arsenal Invincibles scored 73 in the league. Leicester already have 81 with 7 games left. This is history.
↳@Webnove_Readers: Just casually rewriting the record books. Unreal.
↳@TAXTHERICH: I lived through Arsenal 2004. This Leicester feels bigger which is to be expected honestly like this is crazy, legit history unfolding before our very eyes.
@Kroniichiwa: Imagine explaining this table to someone like three years back. Leicester top with 81, Spurs chasing, West Ham ahead of United, and Liverpool lurking for 5th. They’d have you sectioned and sent to a hospital lmao
↳@John_Paul_Sumawang_198: “Yeah mate, and Tristan Hale’s the best player in the world.”
↳@Tobirama_uchiha777: Honestly sounds like Football Manager on acid.
.
Tristan blinked, stunned. With England, the media, and captaincy swirling around him, he’d almost forgotten how close Leicester were.
Barbara tilted her head to look at him, her cheek pressing higher into his chest. “What? Did I fall asleep on your lung?”
He turned the phone so she could see. “Look.”
She scanned the post, lips moving silently as she read. Then her eyes widened. “…Wait. Is this real?”
“Yeah. We’ve got 81 points. Seven matches left. If we win the next one…”
“…you win the Premier League?”
He leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, wide-eyed. “Earliest champions ever. Still undefeated.”
Barbara let out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “Jesus. You’re about to be England captain and Premier League champion in the same month. Forget a fourth trophy cabinet — you’ll need your own bloody museum.”
Tristan dropped the phone onto his chest, staring blankly upward. “One win,” he said softly. “Just one.”
Barbara propped herself on an elbow, studying him. Her finger traced slow circles across his chest. “You knew this was coming though, right?”
“Yeah, but…” he shook his head. “I honestly forgot how close we were. None of the lads are talking about it. The boss hasn’t mentioned it either. It’s like we’re all pretending it doesn’t exist. And with the captaincy thing, the media’s forgotten too.”
Barbara smirked. “They’ll remember. Trust me next game. Imagine the headlines: ‘Captain Hale delivers Leicester the title.’ They’ll lose their minds.”
He sat up slightly, already thumbing into his messages. “If we finish unbeaten, it’s 102 points. That’s the record. Liverpool only had 99.”
Barbara let out a low whistle. “One hundred and two… it doesn’t even sound real.”
He was already typing into the team chat, grinning faintly as the phone buzzed with emojis and expletives from his teammates.
Barbara leaned back into him, shaking her head with a smile. “You know, in ten years, people are going to ask what it felt like. This exact moment. You scrolling Reddit while making history. And you’ll say…”
He raised a brow. “That I nearly choked on toast when I realised?”
She laughed, smacking his arm lightly. “Exactly.”
Before he could say something his phone started buzzing.
.
Tristan: Just saw Reddit. 81 points. 7 matches left. If we win tomorrow… it’s done. Why was no one talking about this lol
Mahrez: Bro delete this rn that’s bad juju 😭😭😭😭 why do u think no one brought it up
Vardy: OI if we do it unbeaten I’m dyeing my hair gold and calling it Hale-blonde
Quote me
Schmeichel: Already told the kitman to start measuring my hand for the trophy.
Kanté: I knew this since January 😌
Chilwell: Are we allowed to start dreaming yet?
Tristan: One game at a time. But yes, Chilwell. Start dreaming.
Drinkwater: Let’s rename this chat. Feels right.
Wes Morgan renamed the group:
The 102 Dream 🏆🦊
Okazaki: I don’t care what you rename it, just make sure my medal doesn’t get lost on the plane home 😭
Fuchs: If Vards goes blonde, I’m getting the full mohawk again. Proper Viking vibes for the trophy lift.
King: Mate, imagine telling us in pre-season we’d be here. I thought top 8 would’ve been a miracle.
Vardy: Nah, Tristan showed up and turned on “Ballon d’Or career mode” 😭 lad’s not human.
Mahrez: For real. Man’s about to be England captain and win the Prem before turning 21. This is a Marvel script.
Kasper: I don’t want Marvel. I want medals. Focus, boys.
Tristan: Focus = tomorrow. But ngl… unbeaten does sound mad. 102 points. Would be stupid.
Kanté: Not stupid. Possible.
Chilwell: Lads if we do it, do we all get Hale’s face tattooed? Asking for a mate.
Vardy: YOUR mate better be you 😂
Drinkwater: Tattoos for you lot, statue for me in the garden.
Wes Morgan: Tattoos? Hair dye? Stop winding up the football gods. One game at a time.
Vardy: You sound like a dad.
Wes Morgan: I am the dad.
Mahrez: Facts. He’s gonna ground us if we lose.
Schmeichel: Fair. But tomorrow… if we win, I’m bringing champagne into the dressing room.
Okazaki: Tomorrow we win. Then Leicester is immortal.
Tristan: Chill, Shinji. But yes. Tomorrow we make history.
The chat went quiet for a few minutes after that, the weight of what was coming finally settling over the banter.
.
Belvoir Drive – April 2nd, Morning
A rare warm April breeze swept across the training ground, rolling through the neat hedges that fenced in Belvoir Drive. The grass sparkled with dew, cut razor-sharp by the groundsmen hours earlier. Boots squeaked as they crossed the car park, Range Rovers and Mercs glinting under the early sun. The quiet hum of voices followed the players inside — not nerves, not yet. Just the buzz of something huge hovering in the air.
Inside the meeting room, Claudio Ranieri stood at the front, glasses perched low on his nose, notebook open. The players filed into their usual spots, each with their little rituals:
Vardy plopped down with a can of Red Bull already half-finished.
Mahrez yawned loudly, stretching his arms as if the morning itself was beneath him.
Schmeichel clutched a steaming mug of coffee, dead-eyed but alert.
Kanté sat perfectly straight, hands folded neatly, already focused.
And last came Tristan fresh from England duty, captain’s armband still buzzing in the minds of everyone in the room. He nodded to each teammate as he passed, dropping into his seat beside Kante.
Ranieri closed his notebook softly, then looked up, his gentle Italian lilt filling the silence. “Before we talk football,” he began, “I want to congratulate our boy here.”
Every head turned.
Ranieri gestured at Tristan, smiling. “The youngest England captain since Bobby Moore. Congratulations, Tristan. Well deserved. Well done.”
The room erupted in applause. Whistles. Banter. Mahrez clapped overhead like a circus seal. Vardy stood up like he was at a black-tie gala, bowing toward Tristan with exaggerated grace.
“Do a speech!” Vardy shouted.
“Speech!” Mahrez echoed, drumming the table with both palms.
Tristan shook his head quickly, cheeks pink. “Nah, nah, not happening.”
“Speech!” Schmeichel bellowed, deep voice booming. Even Kanté cracked the smallest of smiles.
Ranieri chuckled, raising his hands. “Okay, okay. That’s enough. He can speak when he wins us the league, eh?”
Laughter rippled around the room.
Then Claudio’s tone softened, his voice lowering, steady.
“Tomorrow, we play Southampton. You all know the math. If we win…” He held up one finger. “…the title is ours.”
A stillness fell, heavy but electric. One win. Ninety minutes. History.
“But,” Ranieri continued quickly, his smile returning, “the club has spoken to the FA. No trophy presentation until the final home match. So, you can win it, yes. But you lift it later.”
A murmur of surprise went around the room. Vardy groaned loudly. “Eh? No trophy? What’s the point then?”
Mahrez smirked. “We can lift Vardy instead.”
“Oi, you wouldn’t be able to,” Vardy fired back. “I’m pure muscle, me.”
The laughter cut through the tension, but when it died down, all eyes returned to Claudio.
“We are close,” he said, scanning the room slowly. “Closer than anyone thought. But stay humble. Stay sharp. Nothing is won until we earn it. One more win. Make history. Then make even more.”
The meeting broke, boots lacing, bibs handed out. On the grass, the morning session kicked into rhythm. Passing drills first, sharp triangles. Then rondos.
“Oi, Cap,” Mahrez called across to Tristan mid-rondo, “does England feel like this, or do they just give you space out of respect?”
Tristan grinned, flicking the ball through Mahrez’s legs. “Feels slower, actually.”
Mahrez groaned. “Every day with you…”
Later, in finishing drills, Schmeichel couldn’t resist the digs either.“Captain England, eh? Don’t bottle it tomorrow then.”
Tristan buried one top corner and just smirked back. “Guess I won’t.”
From the sidelines, Ranieri watched quietly, hands in his pockets, his face unreadable. He let the banter roll, let the energy build, but his words from the meeting lingered like a shadow over every laugh.
One more win. That’s all it took to make history.
The press room at Belvoir Drive had never looked like this. Cables snaked across the floor, microphones sprouted from the desk like weeds, and the air buzzed with camera shutters and whispers. Journalists from Sky, BBC, The Guardian, L’Équipe, from different parts of the world, Chinese, Spanish, French, Hungarian reporters had crammed shoulder-to-shoulder into the room.
On the platform sat four men who, six months ago, nobody would’ve predicted to be here: Tristan Hale — fresh off captaining England, calm as ever; Jamie Vardy, Riyad Mahrez and N’Golo Kanté, posture perfect, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but too polite to show it.
The press officer cleared his throat, scanning the forest of raised hands.“Alright. Questions?”
A Sky reporter stood first, notebook clutched tight. “Tristan, tomorrow you could secure Leicester City’s first ever Premier League title. Has it sunk in?”
Tristan leaned toward the mic, voice even. “Not really. We’ve always said the same thing next game, next challenge. That’s been our mindset all season. But yeah… tomorrow will be special. For the club. For the fans. And for us as players. That’s all we’re thinking about.”
A ripple of nods, pens scratching furiously.
Next, BBC.
“Jamie, be honest, any nerves ahead of Southampton?”
Vardy smirked instantly. “Nah. Nerves are for the teams chasing us.”
The room laughed, the tension cracking. Vardy leaned in again, grinning.“But I’ll probably cry if we win. Proper ugly cry. Cameras better be ready.”
Even Tristan chuckled, shaking his head.
The Guardian had the next swing. “Riyad do you feel extra pressure, not just to win the title, but to stay unbeaten as well?”
Mahrez shrugged coolly, adjusting his sleeve before speaking.“There’s always pressure. But this team… we enjoy it. We enjoy proving people wrong. We enjoy playing together. Unbeaten or not, the goal’s the same: win. But if we can write history while we’re at it?” He let the pause hang, then smiled faintly. “We’ll take it.”
Flashes went off.
The Athletic.
“N’Golo, you’re the heartbeat of this team. Any message for the supporters?”
Kanté leaned forward, soft-spoken as ever.
“They believe in us. We believe in each other. That’s all that matters. Tomorrow, we will play with our heart. Always.”
Before the press officer could move on, another hand shot up from the back. A Spanish journalist from Marca.
“Tristan, Zidane said yesterday you’d walk into the Real Madrid midfield. How do you respond?”
The room stirred. Phones lifted, recorders closer.
Tristan cracked the faintest smile, calm as ever.“I’d rather walk out at the King Power. That’s home.”
The press room erupted, laughter, applause, the rapid-fire of shutters capturing his grin.
Ranieri, watching from the side of the room, could only shake his head, smiling at the circus his team had become.
Tomorrow, the talking would stop. But for now, Leicester City owned the spotlight.
.
Later that Night
.
The house was quiet. Barbara had long since fallen asleep, curled up with Biscuit at her feet.
Tristan lay beside her in the dark, phone raised above his face, scrolling.
Trending Topics:
#CaptainHale
#The102Dream
#OneWinAway
#LeicesterUnbeaten
#MakeHistory
He scrolled past videos of his England goals, fans chanting in Berlin, tactical threads breaking down his stats. Then tweets:
@Whitebeard_99: “I can’t lie… if Leicester win tomorrow, I’m calling my dad and crying. This is football, man.”
@HistoryRepeats: “Leicester: 81 pts, 0 losses, 78 goals. Arsenal 03/04 Invincibles: 90 pts, 73 goals. With 7 matches left, this might be the greatest Prem team ever.”
@WembleyBound: “Tristan lifts the league, leads England to the Euros, and maybe Ballon d’Or??? This kid is HIM.”
He locked the screen. Laid it on his chest. Stared at the ceiling.
One win.
And the world would change.
.
Next Day
The morning was too quiet for what it meant.
Tristan woke before the alarm, eyes flicking open to pale gold light bleeding through the blinds. For a moment, he didn’t move. Barbara’s breathing was soft beside him, her face half-buried in the pillow, one hand curled loosely against his arm. Biscuit was a little ball of fur at the foot of the bed, twitching her tail in her sleep.
The world outside felt normal. Too normal. Birds, faint traffic, the low hum of nothing. But inside Tristan’s chest, something buzzed sharp and restless.
He sat up slowly, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. His hair stuck in odd directions.
The kitchen smelled alive. Toast, eggs, and something herbal, mint or thyme. Felix stood at the stove in a plain black tee, spatula in one hand, humming under his breath like today was any other day.
“You slept?” Felix asked without turning.
“Kinda,” Tristan muttered, rubbing his face.
Felix finally glanced over, one eyebrow raised. “Dreaming of lifting the trophy already?”
Tristan shook his head, sat down at the island. “Didn’t dream at all.”
“Good,” Felix said, sliding eggs onto a plate. “Means you’re wide awake for when it actually happens.”
Tristan huffed a laugh, though it didn’t stick.
A minute later, Barbara padded in, drowning in one of his hoodies, hair messy, eyes still soft with sleep. She didn’t bother with words at first, just wrapped her arms around him from behind, chin against his shoulder
“Today’s the day, Captain,” she whispered, her voice half-mischief, half-pride.
He nodded faintly. “Feels like it.”
She squeezed tighter, her warmth cutting through his restlessness. “Play your game. The rest will follow.”
Felix slid the plate across. “And eat your breakfast before you try winning the league on an empty stomach.”
Barbara smirked, resting her chin on Tristan’s other shoulder now. “Listen to Chef. He’s right.”
Tristan glanced at both of them, then down at the eggs, then back at the floor for a moment. A slow exhale escaped him. He tried his best not to think of the game yet. He was confident, the team was confident, he had nothing to worry about.
Felix slid another piece of toast onto Tristan’s plate just as the front door creaked. Biscuit darted down the hall, tail high, a tiny patrol officer on duty.
“Speak of the devil,” Tristan murmured.
Barbara looked up, hair falling across her face. “Your parents?”
Tristan nodded, pushing his chair back. “They said they’d come early. That way you can all go together. I’ve gotta head to the training base, take the bus with the lads.”
A moment later, the voices came, muffled at first, then clearer. Julia’s laughter, warm and light. Ling’s deeper tone, laced with nerves he probably thought he was hiding.
“Morning, love!” Julia’s voice sang out before she even reached the kitchen.
Barbara peeled herself away from Tristan and straightened the hoodie, suddenly more awake. She greeted Julia with a quick hug as she came in, followed closely by Ling carrying a thermos.
“You’ve got butterflies too?” Ling asked Tristan with a grin, setting the thermos on the counter. “Because I couldn’t sleep a wink last night.”
Tristan laughed softly. “You’re not even playing, Dad.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ling shot back, eyes twinkling. “Feels like I am.”
Julia reached up to smooth Tristan’s hair like he was still twelve. “Just don’t forget to enjoy it. All of it. No matter what happens.”
Felix handed her a mug of coffee like it was rehearsed. Barbara slid onto the stool again, watching them with a small smile. For a moment, the kitchen felt fuller than it ever had, every space occupied by warmth.
Tristan leaned back against the counter, arms folded. “So you’ll all go together? Barbara, you, Dad sit together at the stadium?”
Barbara nodded firmly. “Yeah. We’ll be there. Don’t worry about us. Just focus on… well, everything else.”
Julia squeezed Barbara’s hand, approval in her eyes. “We’ll take good care of her, don’t you worry.”
Tristan smirked, though the nerves flickered underneath. He checked the time on the oven clock, then exhaled. “Alright. I should go. Lads’ll be at the training base by now.”
Barbara stepped closer, pressing her forehead to his chest for a moment. “We’ll see you there, Captain.”
He kissed the top of her head. “See you at the King Power,” he said softly, grabbing his bag.
The house seemed to exhale with him as he walked out the door.
.
Hours Later
The bus rolled through Leicester like a moving shrine. Windows tinted, paint gleaming, the Foxes crest emblazoned on the side. Inside, the air buzzed, half laughter, half silence, half something too heavy to name.
Vardy had planted himself halfway down, feet on the seat in front, Red Bull wedged between his knees.
“Lads, I swear if we bottle this, I’m moving to Spain. Marbella. You’ll see me in a sombrero by Tuesday.”
The bus erupted, groans, laughter, Mahrez shaking his head.
“You won’t last a week,” Mahrez fired back. “Sunburn first day.”
Even Schmeichel cracked a grin. “He’ll get homesick for Red Bull and kebabs.”
Vardy grinned wider. “Not if I pack enough cans.”
Toward the back, N’Golo Kanté sat with his legs crossed neatly, thermos of tea balanced on the table in front of him. He sipped slowly, completely unfazed by the chaos, drawing even more laughter when Vardy pointed.
“See? Man’s sipping tea while we’re about to win the league. Ice cold.”
Tristan sat near the front, earbuds dangling around his neck, not in his ears. He kept looking out the window and what he saw made his chest tighten.
The streets were lined. Not dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. Blue and white flags waving in the warm breeze, scarves twirling overhead. Hand-painted banners sprawled across railings:
“WIN THE LEAGUE.”
“FOXES FOREVER.”
“TRISTAN STAY!”
Chants carried through the glass, muffled but deafening all the same.
“WIN THE LEAGUE, WIN THE LEAGUE, WIN THE QUIDRUPLE!”
“TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!”
Kids sprinted alongside the bus waving flags. Grown men clapped it as it passed, tears in their eyes. Reporters swarmed with cameras raised high, shouting questions into the air that nobody inside could hear.
Several players pressed their phones against the glass, filming the madness. Mahrez zoomed in on a fan in a Hale shirt dancing on a car bonnet. Vardy pressed his face to the window, howling with laughter.
The bus pulled up outside the King Power.
If the streets were loud, the stadium was thunder. Waves of fans packed against barriers, flags whipped like storms, chants echoing down the concrete.
“LEICESTER! LEICESTER!”
“TRISTAN’S ON FIRE, YOUR DEFENCE IS TERRIFIED!”
The doors hissed open.
Security pushed a narrow path through the mob. Players filed out one by one, hoods up, headphones on, bags slung over shoulders. Fans surged forward with shirts and Sharpies, desperate for autographs. Reporters shoved microphones forward, shouting questions.
No one stopped. Not this time.
The players moved as one, ignoring everything, eyes forward, into the tunnel of noise and flashing cameras. They weren’t being rude. They just couldn’t let the outside world in now.
Inside – King Power Dressing Room
The noise dulled, replaced by the low thrum of fluorescent lights and the faint squeak of boots on tile. Shirts hung crisply at each station: blue, white numbers, the crest gleaming under the lights. Hale’s armband sat folded neatly on his kit.
Claudio Ranieri stood in the centre, hands clasped behind his back. His voice was soft, steady.
“Play with joy. Play with courage. Today, you write history.”
Then Vardy, sitting at his spot, taping his wrists, smirked across the room. “Captain’s speech now, eh?”
All eyes turned to Tristan. He sat forward, elbows on knees, fingers laced. For a second, he let the quiet stretch.
Then he stood.
“One game,” he said, voice low but cutting through the room. “That’s it. One game. Ninety minutes. We’ve come too far, done too much, to let it slip now. So let’s finish it.”
He tugged the armband over his bicep, slow, deliberate.
The room rose with him.
.
The pitch glowed under the early afternoon sun, freshly cut lines shining like chalk under glass. A wall of noise rolled from the stands — flags, scarves, and banners flooding every tier.
On the pitch, Leicester jogged their first laps, bibs bright against the blue shirts. Balls pinged between short passing drills, laughter bubbling through the tension. Vardy flicked one behind his leg, earning whistles from the fans. Mahrez nutmegged Fuchs and sprinted away cackling. Even Kanté cracked a smile as Schmeichel shouted at him to stop running circles around everyone.
Everywhere Tristan looked, there were banners:
“FOXES: WIN THE QUADRUPLE”
“WE’VE GOT THE LEAGUE CUP — NOW BRING US THE LEAGUE!”
“FA CUP FINALISTS. EUROPE NEXT. HISTORY NOW.”
“TRISTAN FOR BALLON D’OR.”
The away end was smaller, quieter, but even there the red-and-white shirts of Southampton waved defiantly.
A Sky Sports reporter caught Tristan as he jogged by the touchline. Microphone raised, cameraman already rolling.
“Tristan, ninety minutes from making history. How are you feeling right now?”
He stopped, hands on hips, sweat glistening under the sun. His answer was calm, measured. “Focused. We’ve worked too hard to think about anything but the game. Southampton are a good side, they’ll make it tough. We know that. But if we play our football, we’ll get it done.”
“You’ve seen the banners,” the reporter pressed. “Fans talking about the quadruple, about immortality. Does that add pressure?”
Tristan shook his head slightly, a small smile breaking through.
“No. It adds extra motivation. They believe in us. And that’s what drives us. But first things first ninety minutes. One match. That’s it.”
He jogged off to rejoin the rondo circle, the chants of “TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!” following him across the grass.
Down the other half, Southampton players stretched and passed, their focus sharper than usual.
Their captain clapped his hands, calling out: “Come on, lads! They want to win the league against us? Not today. Not on our watch.”
Another voice chimed in — one of their midfielders, sweat already pouring down his temples.
“Let’s make them earn every kick. I don’t wanan give them a easy win.”
One of the younger defenders glanced toward Leicester’s end of the stadium. The sight of thousands of waving flags, Tristan’s face on banners, and fans already half-singing like they’d won it shook him.
“Looks like a bloody coronation in here…” he muttered.
The veteran next to him smirked. “Good. Nothing sweeter than ruining a coronation.”
They broke into sharper sprints, balls fizzing with extra bite in the passing drills. A couple of them couldn’t resist glancing over as Vardy hammered a half-volley into the top corner, sending the Leicester fans into hysterics.
Back on Leicester’s Side
Ranieri stood on the touchline, hands in pockets, serene smile betraying nothing. He watched his players move, the rhythm of a team who had forgotten how to lose. Tristan pinged a 30-yard ball out to Mahrez, who brought it down as if he’d caught it with glue. The crowd roared every pass now, as if they were already counting them toward destiny.
From the stands, Julia and Ling clutched each other, Barbara wedged between them, scarf tied tight around her wrist. Phones everywhere. Flags everywhere. A tidal wave of hope pressing down onto the pitch.
Ninety minutes to history.
.
The tunnel was a river of nerves and ritual. Players lined up in their kits, boots tapping against concrete, armbands tight, mascots clutching their hands with wide-eyed awe. Leicester in deep blue. Southampton in red and white stripes. The smell of liniment and fresh grass mixed in the air, carried on the faint rumble of the crowd above.
Tristan stood front and centre, armband snug against his sleeve, his jaw set but calm. His mascot, a boy no older than ten looked up at him like he was walking beside a superhero.
“You nervous?” Tristan asked softly.
The boy shook his head fiercely. “No. You’re gonna win, I know it.”
Tristan smiled, ruffling his hair. “Let’s hope you’re right, eh?”
Behind him, Vardy bounced on his toes, cracking jokes at the Southampton mascot about swapping shirts after. Kanté stood serene, head bowed slightly as though in prayer. Schmeichel’s massive palms slapped his gloves together, the sound echoing like cannon fire in the tunnel.
The referee checked his watch. The steward nodded. And then the signal came.
“Alright, gentlemen. Out you go.”
The anthem of the Premier League burst from the speakers. The tunnel gave way to light. And the King Power erupted like a volcano.
Flags, scarves, roars that rattled ribcages. The Leicester XI emerged, hand-in-hand with their mascots, Tristan leading them into the sunlight as if walking into destiny.
Sky Sports Live
Peter Drury’s voice carried, lyrical and weighty, his tone tinged with reverence.
“Good afternoon… from the King Power Stadium. Where history hovers in the April air. Where Leicester City, improbable, impossible Leicester City stand ninety minutes away from the Premier League title.”
The roar grew louder as cameras panned across the players walking out. Tristan’s face flashed on the screen, stoic, focused.
“And at their helm,” Drury continued, “the boy who has become a man before our very eyes. Tristan Hale. Just twenty years old. Already England’s youngest captain since Bobby Moore. Already the name on every banner, every chant, every breath in this city. And now, on the cusp of immortality.”
His co-commentator, Martin Tyler, steadier, more measured, cut in.
“Peter, you were here two years ago. You called it when Leicester stunned Arsenal in the FA Cup Final. Tristan Hale then just a teenager leading his club to their first major trophy in modern memory in 140 years. Now he’s not just their leader. He’s the best player in the world, some say. And if Leicester win today, he will be making history for Leicester once again.”
Drury’s voice soared, painting the moment.
“Back then, it was a fairy tale. Now, it is a coronation. They have already won the League Cup. They have already reached the FA Cup Semi Finals. They have Europe to come. But this… this is the crown jewel. The Premier League title. And perhaps… the most extraordinary title in English football history.”
The camera cut to Southampton’s huddle, their faces grim but determined.
“Southampton stand ninth in the table,” Tyler said, grounding it. “Safe, respectable, organised. And make no mistake, they won’t want to be remembered only as Leicester’s final stepping stone. Their pride is at stake. And pride can make you dangerous.”
Back to Leicester, lining up. Tristan, lips pressed in concentration. Vardy grinning, bouncing. Kanté nodding once, eyes sharp.
Drury’s words fell like scripture. “On this field today not just football. Not just ninety minutes. But the writing of history. Leicester City, from ridicule to reverence. From survival to supremacy. And leading them, as ever, the boy who has grown into the beating heart of this miracle. Tristan Hale.”
The anthem faded. The mascots peeled away. Players shook hands. And the referee reached for the whistle.
.
The whistle cut through the air. The season’s biggest ninety minutes had begun.
Southampton came out snapping, pressing high, zipping passes across midfield. No ceremony, no surrender. Their captain’s shout carried above the din: “Tight on Hale! Don’t let him turn!”
But every Leicester touch was met with thunder. Thirty thousand voices surged as one, carrying the ball forward with their roar.
Drury’s voice, already taut with anticipation, rose over the noise. “And away we go. Leicester City. Ninety minutes from immortality.”
Tyler added, his tone both steady and alight with excitement: “They’ve been the story of the season. Tonight, they can finish it. Win here… and they are champions of England.”
The King Power rattled, chants rolling like waves across the stands.
🎵 “We love you Leicester, we do!”
🎵 “Win the league! Win the league!”
It felt less like a football match and more like a coronation yet the first tackles, sharp and urgent, reminded everyone: history had to be earned.
A long ball floated from deep, hanging in the blue sky before dropping toward the penalty area. Graziano Pellè rose high, meeting it with a firm header on target.
Kasper Schmeichel sprang, palms out, pushing the ball wide with a strong save.
Tyler, clipped but urgent. “Well, there’s the warning. Southampton are not here to play their part in the script.”
Drury leaned into his mic, voice full of edge. “They said it in the warm-up. They’re not here for the coronation. They’re here to spoil it. To stain the fairytale.”
The away end, small but defiant, found its voice immediately.
🎵 “Oh when the Saints… go marching in!”
“Oh when the Saints go marching in!”🎵
Their chant was swallowed quickly by a wave of blue.
N’Golo Kanté darted in, toe to ball, winning it back like he had a thousand times before. Instantly, Tristan took charge, collecting the pass and surging forward. One, two touches hips rolling, balance perfect. He cut inside, forty thousand hearts lifting with him.
He unleashed. A curling strike, bent around the defender’s leg, arcing for the far corner.
The stadium held its breath—
Just wide.
The ball brushed the netting on the outside. Gasps crashed through the King Power, followed by groans of disbelief.
Drury, voice breathless, almost shouting.
“Ohhh, that felt close! The captain, already carrying the weight, almost lifting the roof inside fifteen minutes!”
Tyler followed, steadier but charged with excitement.
“He didn’t miss by much. And listen to this crowd.”
The chant came instantly, urgent, rhythmic, unstoppable:
🎵 “Tristan! Tristan! Tristan!”
🎵 “Tristan! Tristan! Tristan!”
The King Power shook with his name. On the touchline, Ranieri clapped calmly, but even he couldn’t hide the glimmer in his smile.
Southampton’s defenders exchanged glances, already they knew what kind of afternoon they were in for.
22nd minute.
Leicester were patient, knocking the ball from side to side, searching for the gap. Southampton sat deep, white shirts compact, their captain barking: “Hold the line! Don’t let them through!”
Kanté slipped a pass into Mahrez on the right. The Algerian danced, feet moving faster than the eye could track. A feint left, a shimmy right, his marker leaning the wrong way. Mahrez was gone, gliding down the wing like silk in motion.
Drury, voice tightening with the rise of the crowd. “Mahrez… Mahrez, teasing, twisting, tormenting!”
He reached the byline, glanced up once, then pulled the ball back with precision. It rolled perfectly to the edge of the box — to the one man the stadium wanted it to fall to.
Tristan Hale.
One touch, to set.
Second touch — a thunderbolt.
It ripped through the air, arrowing into the top corner. A strike of sheer violence and beauty.
The King Power exploded, blue smoke rising from the stands, scarves whipped into the air.
Drury couldn’t contain himself, voice breaking into a shout: “TRISTAN! Of course it’s him! The boy who carries England, the boy who carries Leicester! Twenty years old, and carrying his team into the history books!”
Tyler followed, calmer but glowing with admiration.
“It had to be him. It had to be him. On this day, in this moment. Leicester lead.”
The noise became a wave, unstoppable, deafening. The whole stadium in unison, bouncing, shaking the stands.
🎵 “Tristan’s on fire, your defence is terrified!”
“Tristan’s on fire, your defence is terrified!”🎵
Drury again, almost laughing in disbelief.
“He was never going to miss. Not today. Not on this stage. Tristan Hale… and Leicester’s dream is alive!”
On the pitch, Tristan sprinted to the corner flag, arms spread wide, face blazing with emotion. His teammates swarmed him, Vardy leaping on his back, Mahrez pointing to the sky, Kanté simply smiling as if he’d known it all along.
Southampton players stood frozen, hands on hips. Their captain clapped furiously, shouting: “Reset! Reset!” But even they knew stopping him felt impossible.
Southampton weren’t going quietly. Graziano Pellè muscled his way into the box, chesting down a long ball, holding off Huth with all his strength. He laid it off, Sadio Mané snapped a shot on the turn.
Blocked. Huth flung his body across, the ball smashing into his shin and skidding away.
Drury, urgent now. “Southampton believe! They are not passengers in Leicester’s story!”
The loose ball ran to James Ward-Prowse. One touch, then upended by Drinkwater just outside the D. A free-kick in prime territory.
The King Power groaned, nervous. Blue scarves gripped tight.
Ward-Prowse stepped up. Struck low, hard.
Straight into the wall. Ricochet clear.
Tyler, calm but warning. “Southampton are alive here. Ninth place, nothing to play for? You wouldn’t know it from the way they’re pressing.”
The away end rose in voice, loud and defiant.
🎵 “Oh when the Saints… go marching in!”
Leicester tried to push out, but Southampton kept coming. A looping cross from Bertrand. Fonte rose above Morgan, met it clean.
Header!
Schmeichel tipped it, fingertips stretching, clawing it just over the bar.
Drury erupted. “Ohhh, my word! That was close! Fonte with the towering header — and Schmeichel with a touch that could yet touch history itself!”
The Leicester fans booed, jeered every Southampton touch now, trying to drown them out, to restore rhythm. But the tension was there, thick, almost visible.
“That’s a captain’s save at the other end. Kasper Schmeichel, calm hands, keeping Leicester ahead.”
The whistle blew. Halftime.
Leicester 1 – 0 Southampton.
Drury, his voice softer but heavy with weight. “Forty-five minutes from glory. It is Tristan Hale’s goal that separates them. But you feel it here, you feel it… there is more drama to come.”
Second Half
The whistle shrieked. Forty-five minutes to destiny.
Southampton, no respect for the script, came straight at them. Tadić wriggled free down the left, slipped in behind Clyne, dragged a shot low and hard.
Schmeichel spread himself wide — saved with his legs!
Gasps like a wave rolled around the King Power.
“Southampton still asking the questions. Leicester haven’t killed this off.”
“And until they do, every single fan in this ground will live on the edge of their seat!” Drury added.
The away end sang louder, mocking the nervousness.
🎵 “When the Saints… go marching in!”
52nd minute.
A Bertrand cross skidded dangerously through the six-yard box. Morgan hacked it clear. The tension was palpable — every clearance cheered like a goal, every Saints attack booed into the rafters.
Then — the release.
Kanté, prowling, nicked the ball off Davis in midfield with those telescopic legs. Quick look up. Simple pass to Tristan Hale.
One touch. A flick — effortless, instinctive — outside of the boot, behind the Southampton backline.
Jamie Vardy was off. Sprinting. Arms pumping. Every Saint chasing shadows.
The ball bounced once. Twice.
Vardy didn’t wait for a third. He smashed it. Low. Violent. Net bulging.
The King Power erupted. Flags flew. Beer sprayed. People were on chairs, hugging strangers.
Drury couldn’t help himself — his voice breaking with joy. “VARDY! CLASSIC JAMIE VARDY! Sprinting into space, hammering it home, and Leicester are flying to the title!”
Tyler followed, composed but glowing, the grin audible in his voice. “Who else? Who else but Jamie Vardy. Tristan again with the touch, Vardy again with the finish. It’s the partnership that built this miracle.”
The chants cascaded around the stadium, louder than ever:
🎵 “Jamie Vardy’s having a party! Bring your vodka and your charlie!”
The camera caught Vardy knee-sliding into the corner, fists punching the turf, Tristan sprinting to meet him, wrapping him in an embrace. Mahrez and Drinkwater piled in, and behind them the stands shook like thunder.
Drury, laughing now, swept it all together.“They are 2–0 up! They are half an hour away! Leicester City — this miracle, this madness — is almost complete!”
.
66th Minute.
Mahrez collected the ball on the right, teasing Targett with a little shuffle. He cut inside, left boot opening up, the crowd leaning forward in anticipation.
The curl was perfect, almost. The ball bent around Forster but kissed past the far post by inches. The stadium groaned as one, hands already half in the air.
Tyler, steady. “Close… so close for Mahrez. They were halfway to celebrating.”
Drury, tightening with energy. “They can almost taste it now. You can hear it — you can hear this ground singing ‘Champions of England’… with twenty minutes still to play!”
And then, the moment.
71st Minute.
Kanté did what Kanté always does. A dart. A tackle. A clean steal in midfield. He didn’t hesitate — straight to Tristan Hale.
Tristan looked once, slid left. A perfectly weighted pass, rolling into Mahrez’s stride.
One touch to set. One to finish. Side-foot, curling into the far corner. Calm. Cold. Clinical.
The King Power erupted like a volcano.
Drury, voice breaking, joy spilling out of him. “MAHREZ! That’s it! That seals it! Leicester — Leicester City — are champions of England!”
Tyler, almost laughing through the roar, voice warm with admiration.
“They’ve done it with style. Tristan again at the heart of it, slipping the pass. And Mahrez, the artist writing the final line.”
The stands were bouncing, literally shaking.
🎵 “We are the champions, we are the champions!”
Scarves twirled in the air like whirlwinds. Flags whipped above heads. Every pass was met with a chorus of “Ole!” Southampton barely chased anymore, players glancing at each other with resigned smiles.
Drury, his tone happy as he could be. “They’re already dancing in the aisles. They know. Everyone here knows.”
Full-Time.
The whistle blew, and the eruption was like nothing the King Power had ever heard. Players dropped to the turf, some in tears, others sprinting into each other’s arms. Vardy roared to the crowd. Mahrez pointed skyward. Tristan, Leicester’s heartbeat fell to his knees before being mobbed by his teammates.
Drury, shouting over the chaos, words tumbling with awe. “Leicester City. Champions of England. Undefeated! Unbelievable! This is not just history… this is immortality. From the shadows of relegation to the summit of the game. And at the centre of it all, a twenty-year-old, Tristan Hale, the brightest light in world football!”
Tyler, calmer but glowing, giving it its finality. “They’ve done it. Leicester City are Premier League champions. And with Tristan, with Vardy, with Mahrez, with Kanté… they’ve given us the greatest fairytale this league has ever seen. The Miracle that was once promised a year ago by Tristan has finally been done.
The roar from the crowd drowned everything:
🎵 “Leicester! Leicester! Leicester!”
And then Drury, lowering his voice, almost poetic as the cameras swept across the sea of blue and white.
“From Filbert Street to here. From the edge of the abyss to the pinnacle of the game. Leicester City — once the miracle, now the immortal. This is their story. This is their crown.”
.
10k
Comments
Mark_M1102
Congrats Sin for reaching this point.
Selassie Masoleng
GOOSEBUMPS!😭
Kylberg
good one
Morningstar
Biscuit being called cat is for fun right? Or have you forgotten he was a dog?
Gaiseric Persian
I knew they were winning but damn i kinda felt that tension leading to the match, great chapter.
Bretano
Thanks for the chap chief
