Sinbad
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Chapter 276: May Part 2
🕑 Added 2025-09-30 04:03:43 +0000 UTCMay 1, 2016 | Old Trafford – Post-Match Press Conference
The press room lights burned bright, but not brighter than the camera flashes that stung with every step Tristan and Jamie Vardy took to the table. They sat down side by side, water bottles untouched, shoulders tight. To the journalists, they looked like men who’d just lost a final not drawn away at Old Trafford, not stayed unbeaten, not just scored ninety six points.
The moderator gave a curt nod. “We’ll start with questions.”
The first hand shot up. “Tristan. Jamie. You’re still unbeaten. That free kick, the comeback… most teams would celebrate a result like that. But you both look… anything but happy.”
Vardy leaned into the mic first, exhaling sharply through his nose. His tone was blunt, almost dismissive. “That’s ‘cause we’re not.”
Tristan lifted his head, eyes narrowing. His voice was calmer, but edged with steel.
“We didn’t play our football. Not in that first half. We let United dictate, let them feel comfortable, and they nearly ran away with it. That’s not us. That’s not how champions play.”
The room shuffled, pens scratching, shutters snapping.
“So… no celebration tonight?” another reporter pressed.
Tristan stared directly at him, unblinking. “You think I’m gonna celebrate drawing with United? At Old Trafford? Come on, man. What’s there to celebrate?”
The bluntness drew a ripple of murmurs across the room. But then another reporter cut in. “But it was history tonight. With that draw, Leicester reach 96 points in the Premier League. That’s more than Mourinho’s Chelsea in 2005. You still have two matches left.”
For a moment, Tristan hesitated. He could feel Vardy glance at him from the corner of his eye, as if waiting for permission to let the pride slip through. One hundred points. A number that sounded unreal, even in his head. The kind of number kids would grow up reading about. And yet…
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Tristan said finally, voice steady, “if we don’t finish the job.” He glanced sideways at Vardy, then back to the room. “We’ve got five games left across all competitions. FA Cup. Europa League. We’ve already got two trophies. If we want all four, we can’t make another mistake like tonight.”
Vardy nodded, lips pressed tight. Then he leaned into the mic, his voice carrying a touch of defiance. “Our goal after winning the league was to win everything. All our remaining games. Not draw. Not slip. Tonight? We’re not happy. But yeah — we’re proud of the 96 points. That’s history. We’ll celebrate 102 at the end of the season, against Chelsea. And lifting the trophy at home against Everton.”
Tristan’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more of an acknowledgment. Inside, though, he felt it, the pride swelling under the frustration, the memory of what it had taken to get here. Every sprint, every bruise, every late-night recovery session. One hundred points. We really did that. He made Leciester that much better.
Vardy muttered into the mic, half under his breath, but loud enough for the journalists to catch.“Could’ve buried ‘em early if we were focused.”
The room stirred again. The mood had shifted. These weren’t two players satisfied with their golden record. These were wolves, unsated, still hunting.
A younger reporter raised his hand timidly. “So… is the team confident to win the remaining games?”
Tristan straightened in his seat, shoulders broad, eyes cutting through the noise.
“We go all out. Every game. Every minute. No excuses. We didn’t come this far to stumble now.”
The words landed heavy. A statement of intent. A warning.
And as the questions moved on, Tristan leaned back, arms folded again, his thoughts burning louder than the flashes around him. A hundred points wasn’t enough for him. He wanted the perfect season.
The perfect ending to his Leciester story.
.
Back in the locker room, the air was heavy.
Shirts clung with sweat. Boots scraped against the tile. No one spoke above a murmur — not even Vardy, who normally filled silence like oxygen.
Tristan stood in the middle of it, arms crossed tight against his chest. His curls were damp, his jaw tense, and the sting of the first half still buzzed through his veins.
“We got away with it today,” he said at last, his voice carrying enough steel to silence even the whispers. His gaze swept the room, sharp and deliberate. “Don’t let that fool you.”
Mahrez shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Kanté’s eyes dropped to the floor. Even Morgan, the captain in name, sat forward listening like a soldier being briefed.
“No more lapses. No more slow starts. You want four trophies? Then you play like it. From the first whistle to the last. We don’t ever look like that again.”
His words hung in the air. His pulse was still hammering, not from the draw, but from the thought of what could’ve been how close they’d come to being exposed. One bad half, and all of it could slip. The dream. The legacy.
He turned his head, locking eyes one by one.
“We’ve made history,” Tristan said, his tone softening, almost reverent now. “One hundred points. Still unbeaten. More than Mourinho’s Chelsea. More than anyone. But don’t you dare think for a second that’s the finish line. That’s just a number. Don’t let it make you comfortable.”
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Vardy slapped his palms together, breaking the silence.
“He’s right. This ain’t the time to pat ourselves on the back. We’ve got two more in the league, and finals coming. We lift everything, lads. That’s the only celebration worth it.”
Mahrez exhaled, a faint smile tugging his lips. “He’s got us sounding like we haven’t lost all year.”
“Because we haven’t,” Tristan shot back, eyes sparking.
And suddenly the weight lifted. Heads rose. Shoulders squared.
In the belly of Old Trafford, they weren’t a team licking their wounds anymore. They were a team reminding themselves what they were: the champions of England, still unbeaten, chasing something no one else had ever dared to.
While Leicester regrouped, hearts pounding from the scare, the rest of the footballing world wasn’t dissecting their mistakes.
They were staring at the record.
96 points. Still unbeaten. Two games to spare.
.
Trending Worldwide:
#TristanFreeKick
#96PointFoxes
#LeicesterInvincibles
#DevilOfOldTrafford
@Thomas: Bro how the fuck did Tristan score the free kick at the last minute. All the pressure to score having the entire stadium yell at you too. Don’t ever doubt who the best player in the world is. He’s the fucking goat of the Premier League for a reason.
👑#DevilOfOldTrafford
↳ @aSilva: Honestly I hate how good he is like what are other teams supposed to do against him, lmao. Second year in the league and he’s already the best in league history. Anyone who disagrees fight me
↳@Dion: He might really be the greatest, honestly I had Ronaldo head of him but at this point what more could you even ask of Tristan? I think if he has another season like this, there’s one who can refute Tristan being the greatest. The free kick was just crazy to watch live.
@BJMO: Just decided to look up the most points by a team. Just here’s the list.
Mourinho’s Chelsea – 95 pts (2004–05)
Invincibles Arsenal – 90 pts (2003–04)
Tristan’s Leicester – 96 pts with two games to go
This isn’t just a great team. This might be the greatest Premier League of all time. This is history. #96PointFoxes
↳@Demonic_Divine: And they’re still unbeaten 😭Shit is crazy. What a world we living in.
↳@Aaron_Hand_4795: Give us our golden PL trophy you frauds
@MtariYOUAGOATL: Bro we were 7 minutes away. SEVEN MINUTES. And then he does that free kick?? Why is he HIM every time 😭
↳@Hyuga_Tobirama: Van Gaal OUT.
↳@SirAlexLegacy: I miss the days we bullied teams. Now we get clowned by Leicester.
@Sinbad_12:
Tristan Hale is 20.
150+ goals for club and country
Golden Boy ✅
Puskás ✅
World XI ✅
League title ✅
England captain ✅
96-point season ✅
We’re witnessing the birth of a GOAT.
↳@Lenny: Even Messi wasn’t doing this at 20. Hell I don’t even think Messi can do what Tristan is doing with Leciester.
↳ @Mlungisi Mguni: Florentino better activate the Tristan plan ASAP
@TheFootballBible:
All-Time Premier League Teams (No Order):
✅ 04 Arsenal
✅ 05 Chelsea
✅ 99 United
⬆️ 16 Leicester?
If they go undefeated with 4 trophies… what are we even debating?
↳@Jack: Replace the question mark. The devil of Old Trafford said no one’s catching us.
.
May 5, 2016
UEFA Europa League – Semi-Final (2nd Leg)
Leicester City 2 – 1 Napoli
(Aggregate: 4 – 2)
Under the King Power lights, with the pressure of a European final on the line, Leicester delivered again.
Napoli struck first, an early counter finished neatly by Lorenzo Insigne in the 9th minute to silence the home crowd and level the tie 2–2 on aggregate.
But silence never lasts long here.
Tristan answered back. In the 27th minute, he skipped through midfield pressure, drew two defenders, then slid a pass to Riyad Mahrez, who slotted calmly into the far corner. 1–1. Aggregate back in Leicester’s favor.
Napoli pushed. They rattled the bar once. But it wasn’t enough.
In the 71st minute, Jamie Vardy latched onto a long diagonal from Albrighton, beat Koulibaly for pace, and smashed it near post.
2–1 Leicester.
4–2 on aggregate.
The final whistle blew. The King Power erupted.
Leicester City were through to the Europa League Final.
And now?
They were one win away from European silverware but the attention was on the match against Everton where the club will lift the second Golden Premier League trophy in league history.
.
Two Days Later
The sun dipped low, spilling molten gold across the King Power like a spotlight. Shadows stretched across the pitch, long and dramatic, as if even the evening sky was leaning in to watch.
Every seat inside the stadium was taken, blue scarves held aloft like banners of war. You could feel it, the vibration in the concrete, the restless hum in the air before the first whistle. Every throat was already raw before kickoff. Every heart was pounding in rhythm with the beating drums in the stands.
And it wasn’t just those lucky enough to have tickets. Beyond the walls, thousands more crowded the streets. An entire section of the city had been cleared, traffic rerouted, food trucks parked beside a towering screen erected just for this night. Fathers lifted children onto their shoulders. Grandmothers stood wrapped in flags, arms crossed tight. Strangers linked arms and sang together, voices echoing down Leicester’s narrow streets like a hymn.
When the camera panned, the banners caught the light, rippling in the breeze like waves of belief:
“Believe in Miracles.”
“One Hundred Points. Two More to Go.”
“Crown the Kings.”
“Champions of England.”
Some were homemade, scribbled in bold paint across bedsheets. Others were printed banners carried by fan groups. All of them swayed together, a wall of blue and white devotion.
From the players’ tunnel, the noise was thunder. A steady roar that rose and fell, rising again, never dropping to silence. Tristan could hear it before he even stepped out, the voices chanting names, chanting his name, rolling through the air like waves crashing against a cliff.
The city wasn’t waiting anymore.
The city was alive, on fire, and ready to crown its kings.
On commentary, Peter Drury’s voice rose above the thunder like a hymn carried on the wind.
“Good evening… and welcome,” he began, every syllable dipped in reverence. “Welcome to a night that will live forever. Tonight, in this modest cathedral of football, a coronation awaits. This is no ordinary game. This is a dream made flesh. A miracle turned dynasty.”
He let the roar of the crowd pour through the microphones, a wall of noise that seemed to shake the camera.
Beside him, Jon Champion leaned into the rhythm, his voice calm but glowing with admiration.
“And not just any dynasty,” Champion added. “This is one built not on billions, not on galácticos, not on promises made in boardrooms… but on grit. On sweat. On faith. From the edge of obscurity, Leicester City have written themselves into eternity. And at the heart of it all, a boy who became a king. Tristan Hale. The Golden Boy who dragged a club, a city, and maybe even an entire league into believing the impossible.”
The camera swept across the stadium, slow and deliberate, lingering on faces. Children perched on shoulders, eyes wide as if witnessing magic. Old men with tears streaking their cheeks, scarves clutched in fists like relics. Families holding each other tight, whole generations bound by the same anthem. Flags rippled in the fading light, waves of blue and white crashing in every stand.
A section of fans lifted a banner so large it took twenty arms to unfurl: “Tristan Hale. Our Golden Boy. Our Forever.”
Another, painted hastily on a bed sheet, fluttered in the wind: “91 YEARS IN THE MAKING!.”
The commentators went quiet for a moment, letting the sound of the King Power wash over the broadcast.
Peter Drury broke the silence again, voice soft but soaring.“This… is football at its most pure. A city that dared to dream. A team that refused to wake up. And tonight… we stand on the edge of immortality.”
Down in the tunnel, the air was thick not with nerves, but with awe. The muffled roar of the King Power rumbled through the concrete walls like the heartbeat of a giant. Floodlights cut through the narrow space, white and blinding every time the tunnel doors cracked open.
The players lined up shoulder to shoulder. Boots tapped restlessly against the rubber floor, laces clicking. Mascots, wide-eyed boys and girls no older than tenbclung to the players’ hands, cheeks flushed with excitement, their little kits nearly swallowing them whole.
Vardy blew out a breath, his grin sharp but nervous. “I’ve done this walk a thousand times,” he muttered, shaking his head, the sound of the anthem swelling overhead. “But this one… this one feels different.”
Schmeichel, towering at the back, leaned forward with a smirk. “That’s because it is different. We’re not just walking out. We’re walking into history.”
Wes Morgan tightened his captain’s band one last time, only this season, it wasn’t on his arm. He looked down at Tristan with a proud, almost fatherly smile. “You lead us out right, lad. You’ve earned it.”
This was a last minute choice at the very last second. He felt like tonight belonged to Tristan knowing the lad has 3 games left in a Leciester jersey.
On the opposite side, the Everton players shifted uneasily in their line. Leighton Baines leaned across to Tristan and clapped his shoulder with a small grin. “Congrats, mate. Whole league’s talking about you lot. You deserve it.”
Ross Barkley, standing next to him, added with a grin: “Just don’t embarrass us too much, yeah? At least let us keep the ball once or twice.”
Laughter rippled through both lines. Even the referee, standing tall with the whistle tucked between his fingers, couldn’t resist. He gave Tristan a small nod. “For what it’s worth, son… it’s been a privilege refereeing some of your games this season. Unreal stuff.”
Tristan’s lips curved into the faintest smile. His chest felt hot under the shirt, not from nerves, but from pride. He looked down at the mascot clinging to his hand, a little girl with a messy ponytail and freckles across her nose. She stared up at him like he wasn’t real.
“You excited?” Tristan asked softly.
She nodded so hard her ponytail bounced. “You’re my favorite player. I want to score goals like you.”
Tristan crouched slightly so they were eye level. “Than you gotta work hard. Hard work beats everything else.”
Her eyes shone, her little hand tightening around his.
On his other side, a young boy tugged at his sleeve. “Mister Hale, do you think you’ll score today?”
Tristan smiled at him, warm and sure. “Maybe.”
The boy grinned back, nodding furiously.
Jamie Vardy leaned across, muttering just loud enough for the mascots to hear. “Oi, don’t let him fool you. If anyone’s scoring, it’s me.”
The mascots giggled. Tristan rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed.
The tunnel marshal lifted his hand. “Alright, gentlemen. Let’s go.”
A deep breath passed through the lines like a wave. Boots shuffled forward. The anthem grew louder, now deafening.
Tristan straightened, the captain’s band snug around his arm, the weight of it heavy but right. He looked once at his teammates, then at the light spilling in from the pitch.
“Let’s make it perfect,” he shouted.
And together, they marched out into the stadium.
“Out they come, Leicester City. Thirty-six games gone… thirty wins, six draws… and not one defeat. Ninety-four points already gathered in the palm of their hand. Ninety-three goals sent rippling into nets, only twenty-nine allowed to slip past.”
Jon Champion picked it up, steadier, more factual. “More goals than Manchester United. A tighter defence than Arsenal. And the title, theirs weeks ago.”
Peter again, building.
“The last invincibles were Arsenal. And they finished on ninety. But this… this is different. This Leicester side are hunting a century and six. The numbers are staggering, but the feeling… it is something else entirely.”
The players strode onto the grass. Everton’s line formed quietly, respectfully. A ripple of applause carried across the tunnel mouth.
Ross Barkley leaned toward Wes Morgan. “Congratulations, captain. Every bit of it earned.”
Gareth Barry touched Jamie Vardy on the back. “Forty goals, mate. Golden Boot’s yours.”
Vardy only shook his head, grin sharp. “Still time for one more. Maybe one for him too.” He tilted his chin toward Tristan.
Peter seized the cue. His tone softened, reverent. “Tristan Hale. Twenty years young. Thirty-four goals, twenty-five assists in the league alone. He is not merely their heart… he is their lungs, their spine, their soul.”
Jon Champion added the grounding.
“Jamie Vardy, forty goals. Golden Boot certain. Kane on thirty-five. Hale sits just behind. But together? Together they’ve become something English football has never known.”
Peter closed the passage with that Drury finality.
“They have torn up records, they have rewritten belief, and tonight… they will lift only the second Golden Premier League trophy the game has ever seen.”
The noise hadn’t settled from kickoff when the first crack of thunder arrived.
The ball rolled to Tristan just inside midfield. A feint. Then another. He slipped between two blue shirts so smoothly that the entire East Stand lurched forward as if pulled by strings. His pass wasn’t hopeful. It was surgical. A split-second cut into space where Mahrez waited.
Pickford lunged to close him down, but Mahrez — sly as ever — dragged the ball across with a dummy that left the keeper sprawling. A simple square. A simple finish.
Jamie Vardy. Tap-in. 1–0.
The King Power detonated. Beer flew into the air like fountains. Scarves whipped above heads. In the dugout, Ranieri didn’t even flinch — just pressed his palms together and muttered a soft prayer.
In the 10th minute a lloose ball, half-cleared by Jagielka, spun high on the edge of the box. Tristan let it drop once, then struck it clean with his left. Not power — violence. The ball cracked into the net so hard the frame rattled.
He didn’t knee-slide. He didn’t sprint to the cameras. He simply pointed to the badge, eyes unblinking, chest heaving.
The crowd’s roar turned into song: “We are the Champions. We are the Champions.”
Another moment of artistry. Tristan floated into midfield, collected from Drinkwater, then lifted a chipped pass that seemed to hang forever in the evening sun. When it fell, it kissed Mahrez’s boot in full stride. One touch, one finish.
3–0.
On the sideline, the golden Premier League trophy gleamed on its stand. In that moment, it seemed almost embarrassed by how small it looked compared to what Leicester were becoming.
Peter Drury’s voice trembled with poetry. “He writes with his feet. Paints with his passes. Tristan Hale… the composer of Leicester’s symphony.”
Everton pushed too high. A mistake. Kanté — inevitable, tireless — snapped in to win it back. He slid to Mahrez, who swept wide to Vardy. The striker didn’t hesitate. One touch. One rocket. Net bulging.
4–0.
As they walked down the tunnel at half-time, they weren’t just players anymore. They were figures carved into folklore.
Second half.
Everton emerged with pride, but pride has limits.
Tristan had the ball in midfield. Barry lunged but was nutmegged. Stones came across — dragged wide. Two defenders followed him, trapped.
He smiled. Backheel.
Mahrez, alone, skipped around Pickford and rolled it in.
5–0.
The away end fell silent. But no one left their seats. Because everyone knew what was coming.
The chant began before the pass was even played.
“We want six! We want six! We want six!”
Mahrez obliged. A quick dart inside, then a feed wide to Vardy. Baines lunged, Vardy skipped past, and cut it low across the box.
Tristan arrived late. Calm. Silent. He didn’t lash it. He caressed it. A pass into the net, the gentlest goodbye.
6–0.
He froze. Then sank.
On his knees. Head bowed. Arms limp. Tears carving lines down his face.
The King Power roared as one. Not a stadium anymore, but a cathedral, chanting his name like a prayer.
“TRISTAN!”
“TRISTAN!”
“TRISTAN!”
The referee looked at his watch, then looked at Ranieri. He didn’t even bother with stoppage time.
FWEEEEEEET.
Full-time.
Tristan was swarmed — Mahrez first, then Vardy, then Drinkwater, then Chilwell, then even the ball boys who stormed the pitch with unfiltered joy.
On the touchline, Claudio Ranieri sat down hard on the bench, glasses fogging, hands trembling. He had been laughed at, mocked, dismissed as finished. And now? He had lifted Leicester to heaven. His shoulders shook. He cried freely.
Peter Drury’s voice fractured with emotion. “They called him a stop-gap. Too old. Too soft. Too quaint. But tonight… Claudio Ranieri lifts the second golden trophy in Premier League history. He has done the unthinkable twice.”
“And as for Tristan Hale…” Drury paused, breath caught. “He came to Leicester as a boy. And now, he walks off its pitch as a legend.”
The cameras found Ranieri being pulled to his feet by Mahrez, tears running down his cheeks. The squad formed a circle — arms slung around shoulders, words unnecessary. Just laughter, sobs, disbelief.
And at the very center Tristan Hale. Shirt drenched. Face streaked. Medal waiting. Crying into Jamie Vardy’s shoulder as the lights of the King Power shone like a crown.
Vardy’s arm clamped around him, firm, almost brotherly. “Oi,” he muttered, low enough for only Tristan to hear. “Not tonight, kid. You’ve done enough crying for us all. Tonight’s for celebrating.”
Tristan tried to laugh, but it broke in his throat. Vardy gave him a squeeze, rough and certain.
“Look around,” he said, nodding toward the stands, toward Morgan hoisting his fists, Mahrez dancing with the flag. “Every single one of us owes you. Nobody’s angry. Nobody’s doubting. We’re champions. You hear me? Champions.”
The words hung in Tristan’s chest, steadied him. His breathing slowed. He wiped at his eyes, looked up at the floodlights blazing down like a crown, and finally let the noise of the night carry him instead of crush him.
It felt as if the King Power itself was trembling, every beam and brick quivering beneath the noise. The air was thick with disbelief, with joy that bordered on delirium.
Leicester had already secured the championship, but logic had no place here. This was history breathing. Children bounced on shoulders, scarves whirling like banners in battle. The old guard the ones who had seen the mud of League One, who had trudged through winters in the second tier wept without shame. They had lived to see the unthinkable.
Peter’s voice carried above the din, hushed yet ringing.
“Leicester City. Premier League champions. Words once thought to belong only to fairytales. A club with no gilded past… tonight they write a golden present.”
Everton’s players slipped away quietly, applause offered, respect paid, leaving the grass to its rightful heirs.
The Foxes, though, were not done. They poured back toward the tunnel, shirts clinging, hands clasping, voices breaking into song.
“We are the champions!” The chant rolled along the walls, rattling the pipes, echoing as if the stadium itself were singing back.
Ten minutes later, the pitch stood reborn. A grand stage, lit like a crown. At its heart, the Premier League trophy gleamed on its plinth polished, waiting, almost alive in its anticipation.
Peter again, reverent.
“And soon it will be theirs. Leicester City, the miracle makers. A legacy in the lifting.”
The tunnel stirred first with blue and white. Out stepped Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha, the owner who had dared to dream, his son close at his side.
The King Power rose as one. Applause cascaded down like rain, rolling over them in waves.
Peter Drury’s voice trembled with reverence.
“Without him, there is no miracle. A man who gave Leicester not only his fortune but his faith. Tonight, they return it with immortality.”
Behind them came the staff. Claudio Ranieri, the tinkerman no more, head bowed slightly as if embarrassed by the acclaim. The ovation rolled louder.
Jon Champion steadied it with fact.
“A manager brought in with shrugs, with doubts, who has answered them all. Claudio Ranieri, the man who turned belief into silver.”
Steve Walsh followed. No fanfare, no grand gestures. Yet as supporters caught sight of him, they roared again.
“Steve Walsh,” Peter breathed, “the alchemist. The eye that found Mahrez, Vardy, Kanté… jewels scattered in dust, now shining at the summit.”
Then the volume broke its ceiling.
At the very front of the players’ line, Tristan Hale emerged. The floodlights seemed to tilt toward him. The anthem the fans had made for him, Song of Tristan, thundered through the speakers.
“Tristan! Tristan! Tristan!” The chant rattled the steel of the stadium.
He lifted his hand overwhelmed, his eyes red.. His eyes sought the stands. He blew a kiss to his parents, to Barbara, who was on her feet, hands clapped to her mouth, tears streaking her cheeks.
“Only twenty years of age. Already the Golden Boy of Europe. And now… a champion of England. His face tells you what words cannot.”
Tristan’s throat locked. He half-smiled, half-broke, but he kept walking.
One by one, the players streamed through the champions’ curtain. Schmeichel pounding his chest, Drinkwater thumping every shoulder he passed, Mahrez waving a flag above his head. The podium filled with blue.
“Leicester City! Leicester City!” The roar swelled, a single heartbeat shared by 30,000.
Then came the moment.
Wes Morgan stepped to the centre, Tristan at his side, Ranieri behind them. A hush fell just for a beat, just long enough to hear the shutters of cameras clicking like distant rainfall.
The ribbons glinted. Hands curled around handles. Together, Morgan and Tristan hauled it skyward.
The Premier League trophy erupted into the night.
Peter Drury’s voice broke free.
“Leicester City are champions! Kings of England! From nowhere, from nothing they have climbed to the very top of the world!”
Blue ribbons burst into the air, confetti spiralling. The stadium shook as if the earth itself were celebrating.
Morgan bellowed into the noise, voice cracking. “Yeah! We are the champions!”
He passed the silverware down the line. Schmeichel kissed it. Andy King held it high to the heavens. Vardy shook it like a man possessed, yelling, “This is ours! All of ours!”
When it reached Tristan, the noise redoubled. He gripped it, arms trembling, then raised it above his head. For a second he was lit not by floodlights but by flashes thousands of them, freezing him in time.
Peter softened again, almost a whisper.
“Three years into his career. Already with England at his feet. Tonight, Tristan Hale joins the legends and Leicester City write their name in gold.”
The music swelled. We Are the Champions rang out. The players bunched together in front of the banner, the trophy held high between them.
Tristan stood at Vardy’s side, Mahrez on the other, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Flashbulbs lit their faces, immortal, unrepeatable, unforgettable.
And the King Power roared back at them, a sound that would echo for generations.
The pitch flooded with families. Children darted between legs, wives and girlfriends found their champions, parents clutched sons they’d once carried to school.
Barbara was running before Tristan even saw her — coat half open, hair streaming, face alight. She flung herself into him, arms around his neck, holding tight as if he might vanish. “You’re incredible,” she whispered, breathless, kissing him quick and fierce.
Tristan laughed, shaky, the weight of the night pressing down and lifting him all at once. He turned, and there were his parents, Julia already crying, Ling steady but shining with pride. He hugged them both, barely able to find words.
A familiar shout cut through. “Oi, Tristan!” Jamie Vardy stood a few yards away, trophy propped on one hip, Riyad Mahrez beside him. “Photo of the three of us, c’mon!”
Tristan jogged over, grinning despite the tears that still clung to his lashes. The three of them pulled together, arms locked, silverware raised. The camera flash lit their faces, freezing Leicester’s holy trinity in time.
They lingered in front of the fans, waving, clapping, bowing almost. The chants kept rolling down. “Leicester City! Leicester City!” Scarves whirled, flags blurred in the floodlights.
Tristan felt it deeper than the noise. Connection. Belonging. And under it, a pang he couldn’t shake. This would be goodbye. His path was leading him away. He swallowed it, tucked it down, let the roar of the night smother it.
Julia’s tears betrayed her. Her eyes were red, but her smile was young again. Tristan pulled her close, one arm tight around her shoulders. “Hey, Mum,” he murmured, soft. “Don’t cry. This is for celebrating.”
“They are tears of joy,” she insisted, dabbing at her cheeks with Ling’s handkerchief. Her voice shook but her smile burned. “If your grandparents were here, they’d be so proud.”
Tristan kissed her cheek, whispering, “I’ll tell them myself next time we visit.”
“Yeah, that would be amazing,” Julia said, clutching him tighter.
The anthem rose again from the stands, thousands of voices singing through tears:
“When you smile, when you smile… the world smiles with you.”
Tristan joined in, his voice rough, arms looped around Barbara and Julia both. The camera flashed, catching him with the two women he loved most beside him, trophy glinting at their feet.
Barbara leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You did it.”
Tristan turned, kissed her slow this time. “We did it,” he whispered. “I love you.”
Her answering smile sparkled like the floodlights themselves.
The morning after, England woke to blue. Every newsstand, every corner shop, every doorstep carried the same image: Leicester City, together, immortal, the Premier League trophy raised above their heads as ribbons and confetti rained down.
The headlines that day were all about one single club from one city.
“From Nowhere to Never Forgotten.”
“The Miracle of Leciestiery City!.”
“The Greatest Story in Premier League History.”
Across the nation, across the world, there was only one story worth telling. Leicester City — champions of England.
Comments
Valkorion
Damn. I felt that. It was great, well done
