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Chapter 259: League Cup Final Part 2 (End)
🕑 Added 2025-08-20 00:17:52 +0000 UTCFebruary 28, 2016 — Wembley Stadium
12:12 PM
.
The air was thick with blue smoke, the pavement trembling under boots and chants.
“QUAD-RU-PLE! QUAD-RU-PLE!”
“TREBLE’S TOO SMALL - WE WANT IT ALL!”
“TRISTAN FOR PRIME MINISTER!”
Security held the lines, but fans surged forward just enough to slap the coach one last time.
Tristan raised a hand and naturally the crowd roared louder.
“Guys!” Vardy shouted behind him, elbowing Mahrez. “Smile for the cameras, you celebrities!”
Tristan chuckled. “Save it for after we lift it, it will be awkward if we lose.”
Schmeichel muttered, “Never thought we would be back at Wembley so quick.”
“It’s a nice feeling, now I just gotta score like Tristan” Ben said, almost to himself.
Ahead of them, the press line was already crowding the route, a narrow stretch just past the police barriers. Cameramen adjusted rigs behind rows of metal railings, flashes already popping.
Sky Sports. BBC. Canal+. Something with Chinese characters on the mic. A Hungarian reporter waving a flag just to get noticed.
Tristan kept pace with the others, but his gaze locked on a familiar face.
Geoff Shreeves stepped forward, mic in hand, expression too friendly to be anything but a trap.
“Tristan,” he called over. “Just one. Promise.”
Tristan hesitated then peeled off with a small wave to the squad. “This is how you get me fined.”
Geoff grinned. “You lot look like you’re about to rob a bank. All-black suits? Coordinated or just good taste?”
Tristan adjusted his cuffs, tilting his head. “We figured, if we’re winning trophies, might as well look like we own the place.”
Laughter rippled behind the cameras.
Another voice jumped in from the side.
“Tristan quadruple talk has been going crazy for the last month or so. League, Europa, FA Cup, this one today. Feel different from 2014?”
Tristan’s smile flattened a bit, but he didn’t lose it. He shifted his weight slightly, thumb dragging along the hem of his sleeve.
“Yeah. Different.” He exhaled through his nose. “Back then,we were underdogs, I’m pretty sure 99% of fans at the time thought we would lose to Arsenal. But it’s different now with all the expectations to win.”
Geoff cut in, “You’re older now. Top 3 player in the world.”
Tristan raised a brow. “Still 20. My mum says until I turn 21, I’m not a grown-up.”
That earned some laughs from the crowd.
“Seriously though,” Geoff said, stepping in. “Does the pressure get to you?”
Tristan glanced toward the stadium, toward the arch curling into the smoke-hazed sky.
Then he looked back. “No, I don’t feel much pressure to be honest, we did everything we could to prepare for this match and all we can do is play our best and hope it works out.”
A couple of claps broke out from the fans near the rope. Someone shouted, “C’MON TRISTAN!” and a kid next to them held up a Sharpie and a Nike boot.
Tristan leaned over and signed it quick, winked at the kid, and then glanced back at Geoff.
“That’s your one,” he said. “You’ll owe me if we lose now.”
Geoff grinned. “Then I’m rooting for you harder than anyone.”
Tristan turned back toward the group, who were halfway toward the doors. He jogged to catch up, tie flipping slightly in the wind.
Simpson raised a brow. “What was that? A press conference?”
Tristan shrugged. “Was trying to leave but I saw a reporter I liked.”
“That’s rare coming from you,” Mahrez murmured.
.Inside, the halls of Wembley swallowed the noise. Tile floors gleamed. Security flanked both sides of the corridor as they were directed toward the dressing rooms. Along the way, posters hung like banners — past winners, past goals, past glories. One of them being Leciester lifting the FA Cup.
Ben leaned in toward Tristan as they walked. “Can I just say we look like the cast of a Bond film.”
“You’re the intern,” Mahrez deadpanned.
“I’ll take that.”
Morgan murmured, “Let’s make sure we end today with something to wear the suits for.”
Vardy grinned. “Like champagne stains?”
“Like medals,” Ranieri said from behind, his voice soft but cutting through.
The team rounded the corner.
Ahead, the Wembley dressing room door gleamed under a single strip of lighting.
On the wall, the sign read:
LEICESTER CITY — FINALISTS
Tristan reached for the handle.
And the noise — even through the walls — never stopped.
LEI-CESTER. LEI-CESTER.
A thousand voices waiting to be written into the next chapter.
.
Inside the dressing room, the buzz of the crowd dimmed to a low thrum, muffled by thick walls and history soaked silence. The space was pristine, wood-paneled lockers, high-backed benches, a long table stacked with water bottles, fruit, and protein bars in the center. Kits were already laid out on each seat, socks folded, boots polished.
Tristan shrugged off his jacket and hung it neatly in his locker. The black suit gave way to crisp training gear, navy tracksuit top with the Leicester crest, shorts, base layer already clinging to his frame. He pulled his new cleats from the bag last.
Mahrez was already halfway changed, earbuds in, eyes closed. Vardy bounced a ball lightly between his knees, humming to himself. Kante sat at his locker, tying his laces methodically like he was wrapping a gift, his expression unreadable as always.
"Anyone know who goes out first?" Schmeichel asked, zipping up his top.
"Think it’s us," Morgan replied. "City came late. We got the early window."
"Of course we do," Vardy muttered. "Let them watch us take the pitch first. Might as well show ‘em what’s coming."
Ranieri walked in then, flanked by Paolo Benetti and two other assistants. He said nothing at first, just looked around the room, nodding.
"Warm-up starts in five," Benetti announced.
The room shifted. Zip-ups closed. Tape pulled tight. Boots laced.
Tristan stood, rolled his shoulders, then stepped into his new cleats. They fit snug, perfect. No pressure points. He took a few slow steps, feeling the grip, the balance, the weight. Lighter than his last pair.
"Oi," Vardy called from the door, spinning the ball on one finger. "You ready to break the pitch in, golden boy?"
Tristan gave a small smile. "You first. Just don’t trip."
One by one, the squad filed out. The hallway echoed with every step, cleats tapping against tile. Security cleared the corridor, and a steward gestured them toward the tunnel.
As they reached the mouth of it, the noise hit again. A thunderclap of Leicester chants, echoing through the open roof. The air tasted of smoke and grass.
Leicester stepped out first.
The noise hit like a tidal wave. Blue smoke still hung in the air, thick and restless. The stadium 60% Leicester fans, easy, with even neutrals leaning their way shook with a fury that hadn’t let up since morning.
“LEI-CESTER! LEI-CESTER!”
“YOU BOUGHT THE LEAGUE — WE BUILT OURS!”
“YOU’VE GOT OIL, WE’VE GOT TRISTAN!”
“QUAD-RU-PLE! QUAD-RU-PLE!”
From the Leicester end, drums pounded like war calls. Flags whipped the air, one massive one stretching across an entire section read: FROM BELVOIR TO GLORY
Every time Tristan touched the ball in warm-ups, a fresh wave of screams came crashing down. Phones shot up. Kids bounced on their toes. Adults sang like they were on their tenth pint.
The City end tried to fight back.
“WHERE WERE YOU IN ’03?”
“ONE TROPHY. CALM DOWN.”
“YOU’LL SELL HIM TO US!”
“WE’VE GOT THE TROPHIES!”
But it was eaten alive by Leicester’s return fire:
“YOU’VE GOT THE CASH — WE’VE GOT THE CLASS!”
Up in the gantry, Martin Tyler’s voice cut clean through the roar.
"Good afternoon from Wembley Stadium. The lights are bright, the smoke’s still hanging, and history may be just ninety minutes away. I’m Martin Tyler, alongside Alan Smith — and what an occasion we have."
He paused as the camera swept over the sea of waving flags and bouncing limbs.
"Just over forty minutes to kick-off, and already it’s become a spectacle. Leicester City chasing a quadruple, top of the league by some distance.”
Alan chuckled beside him.
"Tough crowd down there. But this is what it’s all about, Martin. A final isn’t just about form or tactics. It’s about emotion. Identity. Look at the signs, the scarves, this Leicester support isn’t just loud. It’s devoted."
Martin nodded, his voice steady.
"Sixty percent Leicester fans, maybe more. And that’s not just a statistic — it’s pressure. It’s expectation. You can feel it in the air. The flags, the drums, the way they chant Tristan’s name like it already belongs on the trophy."
"And remember, he’s still only twenty, only turning 21 in June. We as a country couldn’t be happier or prouder of this young man." Alan added, adjusting his headset as the camera panned across a section holding up a giant hand-painted banner:
“TREBLE’S TOO SMALL - WE WANT IT ALL!”
"He’s changed the very ceiling of this football club. Two years ago, this place cheered Leicester as loveable underdogs. Now? They’re here to win everything."
Martin leaned forward slightly.
"And the fans believe it. That’s the difference. This isn’t hope anymore. This is confidence. This is… Leicester walking in like champions."
Down on the pitch, the players broke into warm ups.
Tristan jogged out beside Mahrez and Ben Chilwell, a ball at his feet, his new cleats. Fans roared again just for that. He flicked the ball up, juggled it between both feet, shoulder, backheel, then flicked it behind his back for Ben to volley.
Ben scuffed it slightly.
“Again,” Tristan said, deadpan. “You’re not getting out of this.”
Mahrez joined in, and the three of them fell into a rhythm one-touch, two-touch, volleys, flicks, and feints. The crowd gasped when Tristan rolled a rabona volley onto the crossbar and back to Mahrez’s chest.
"Oh that’s just rude," Alan laughed in commentary. "They’re putting on a show before the whistle’s even blown."
"And it’s that confidence, Alan," Martin added. "That calm arrogance that Tristan Hale has brought to this team. You feel like Leicester are walking in with the belief that they should win. Not might — but should."
"And City will hear all of this," Alan said. "You can’t help but feel the pressure if you’re in that tunnel right now."
Just then, the far end tunnel door opened.
The first City players emerged, Aguero, Silva, Fernandinho, Kompany. The City fans erupted, blue flares lighting up their corner.
But it was quieter.
Almost swallowed.
The contrast was clear. Leicester were playing with the stadium. City had just entered it.
"They’re used to finals, this Manchester City team," Martin said. "But I’m not sure they’re used to this kind of noise this kind of narrative. Because right now, it feels like the whole country is behind Leicester."
"Well, except for Manchester," Alan quipped.
The camera zoomed in on Tristan again juggling a ball midstride, calm as ever.
"That young man right there," Martin said, his voice dipping low, thoughtful, "could be lifting his fourth trophy in nine months if Leicester win today. And more than the trophies he’s made the world believe in miracles again."
Fade to a sweeping wide shot of Wembley. Banners. Flares. Flags.
The stage was set.
As warm ups wound down, an assistant’s whistle pierced the noise. The Leicester players began jogging toward the touchline, peeling off in twos and threes, collecting cones, towels, and water bottles.
Tristan slowed near the halfway line not quite ready to head in and spotted Kevin De Bruyne standing alone, arms crossed, watching.
He jogged over. “You alright? How’s the leg?”
Kevin glanced over, eyebrow lifted.
“Fine,” he said. Then added, dryly, “Though with you in the squad, I’ve started forgetting what starting feels like.”
Tristan snorted.
“Don’t be dramatic. You’ll start the next thirty games.”
Kevin’s eyes dropped to the boots. “Are those the new ones?”
Tristan turned his foot outward, letting the floodlights catch the frost-toned detailing. “They are called Midnight Frost.”
Kevin tilted his head. “They look nice, I like the extra details on them.”
“After the Euros… let’s train together. Seriously.”
Kevin’s smile came. “Yeah… Maybe.” He paused. “We’ll see how things look by then.”
They stood there a second longer before saying their goodbyes.
Before he could head back, a hand waved him down near the camera pit.
Laura Woods, mic in hand, already had the cameraman set.
“Tristan, if you’ve got thirty seconds..”
He jogged over, towel around his neck.
“Go on,” he said, catching his breath. “Make it a good one.”
Laura smiled. “It’s loud out there. You’re playing in your second Wembley final in three seasons… but this time you’re not the underdog. Quadruple talk. Best player on the planet debates. Does this feel different now?”
Tristan glanced behind her toward the stands. His eyes found the executive box.
Barbara was there, sunglasses on, a navy coat draped over her shoulders. She raised her hand when he looked up. His mum and dad were next to her with a tiny Leicester flag in his mum’s hand.
Tristan smiled softly, then looked back to the camera.
“Yeah, it feels different,” he said. “There’s pressure now. But it’s the kind of pressure you earn. That you want.”
Laura nodded. “Fans say this team plays like they expect to win, not hope. Is that fair?”
Tristan tilted his head. “I’d say we prepare like we expect to win. Everything else… happens out there.”
He pointed his thumb toward the pitch behind them.
“And these shoes?” Laura asked, turning the camera down for a moment. “New drop?”
Tristan flexed his foot slightly. “Midnight Frost edition. Might be magic. We’ll see.”
“Alright,” Laura said, stepping back. “We’ll let you go. Thanks, Tristan. Good luck.”
He gave a small nod, turned, and jogged toward the tunnel.
The air inside was cool and still, a complete contrast from the thunder outside.
Each locker had been reset. The black Leicester kits hungagainst the wood paneling, gold trim curling around the sleeves and collar.
This wasn’t the home strip. This one was made for nights like this.
Beneath the club crest, stitched in gold thread, a line read:
Wembley 2016 — League Cup Final
On Tristan’s bench, his shirt, Tristan 22 was folded next to his shin pads and a single wrist wrap.
Vardy sat with one leg crossed, slapping his thighs. “We look too good. Gotta make sure we play better than we look.”
Morgan stood in the center of the room, already full kit, tying his armband. “Keep it tight in the first ten. Make them panic first.”
A knock echoed from the tunnel door.
An FA official leaned in. “Walkout in three.”
Ranieri stepped forward, calm and certain. “Trust your work. Trust each other. Have some fun and win.”
They filed out in one line, Wes Morgan at the front, boots echoing against the tunnel floor.
Outside, the mascots were waiting.
Tristan’s was a boy around ten, kitted out head-to-toe in the away strip, ‘Tristan 22’ stretched proudly across the back. He looked like he couldn’t breathe.
“You alright?” Tristan asked, crouching slightly.
The boy nodded, mouth open, eyes round, like he was staring at a dream.
Tristan smiled, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Good. That’s what I like to see.”
A sudden movement, City’s players began lining up on the opposite side.
Kompany at the front. Aguero. Silva. Fernandinho. De Bruyne. All calm. All business.
Their kits were sky blue contrasting sharply against Leicester’s black and gold.
Between the teams, photographers huddled low, flashes already going.
The mascots fidgeted. One City kid kept peeking at Tristan. Another at Vardy.
There was a pause, that final breath Wembley always took before an eruption.
Then the anthem swelled.
From the tunnel, all they could see was light.
And then they walked.
Out of the tunnel.
Into the light.
The stadium erupted.
Flags waved. The split of Wembley was clear, two-thirds black and gold, the rest blue. One side shook the foundations.
Leicester’s chants pierced through:
“YOU’VE GOT OIL, WE’VE GOT TRISTAN!”
“QUAD-RU-PLE! QUAD-RU-PLE!”
A banner stretched the width of a section:
BUILT NOT BOUGHT. FOXES NEVER FEAR.
(Bit bringe, but I really liked it, lol, my lil bro came up with it.)
Up in the gantry —
Martin leaned slightly forward, hands flat on the desk.
“Good afternoon from Wembley Stadium. The lights are bright, the smoke’s still hanging in the air, and history may be just ninety minutes away.”
He turned slightly.
“Alongside me is Alan Smith.”
Alan gave a quiet exhale. “And what a sight, Martin. The noise. The colours. You’d think this was Leicester’s home ground. These fans — they believe something special’s happening here.”
Camera swept the stadium — flags waving, shirts off, fists raised.
Martin leaned forward slightly.
“Let’s take a look at the lineups.”
🦊 Leicester City – 4-2-3-1
🧤 Kasper Schmeichel (GK)
🚀 Danny Simpson (RB)
🏰 Wes Morgan (CB)
🏰 Robert Huth (CB)
🚀 Christian Fuchs (LB)
🛡️ N’Golo Kanté (CDM)
🛡️ Danny Drinkwater (CDM)
🎯 Tristan Hale (CAM)
🏃♂️ Riyad Mahrez (RW)
🏃♂️ Marc Albrighton (LW)
⚽ Jamie Vardy (ST)
🔵 Manchester City – 4-3-3
🧤 Joe Hart (GK)
🚀 Bacary Sagna (RB)
🏰 Nicolás Otamendi (CB)
🏰 Eliaquim Mangala (CB)
🚀 Aleksandar Kolarov (LB)
🛡️ Fernandinho (CM)
🎯 Yaya Touré (CM)
🎨 David Silva (CAM)
⚡ Raheem Sterling (RW)
🎨 Jesús Navas (LW)
🎯 Sergio Agüero (ST)
.
Alan let out a quiet breath. “De Bruyne left on the bench, that’s a story already. But look at the spine: Fernandinho, Yaya Touré, David Silva, Sergio Agüero. Still one of the best attacking cores in the world.”
Martin nodded.
“Agüero’s scored in every round so far. Give him a chance and he’ll punish you.”
“And Yaya.” Alan added, “He’s not what he was three years ago, but still capable of bossing a match. Big game player. You give him space, he’ll make you pay.”
“City’s midfield will have to work,” Martin said. “Because on the other side… it’s the triangle.”
The camera found Tristan between Kanté and Drinkwater as they lined up.
“Kanté’s covered more ground than any player in Europe this season. Drinkwater’s been underrated for years. And Tristan Hale..”
Alan stepped in. “What more could be said about the kid that hasn’t been said a million times nowl.”
“And then Jamie Vardy,” Martin said, as the camera found him tightening his boots. “Fifteen straight league matches with a goal. Fastest man in the country. Relentless.”
“Mahrez too,” Alan said. “You can’t double Tristan when Mahrez is flying. And Albrighton’s the kind of player every manager wants. Honest, hard-working, and clever.”
Across the line, captains met.
Morgan. Kompany.
Coin toss.
Morgan called heads.
It landed.
He pointed forward.
Leicester to start.
Wembley roared.
Kickoff was next.
.
Martin’s voice lifted just above the storm.
“And we are underway in the 2016 League Cup Final. Leicester City, in their black and gold, kicking us off under the arch. Vardy and Tristan Hale standing over the ball.”
A short tap from Tristan. Vardy returned it. They didn’t wait to settle in. A sudden switch right and Leicester began ticking — passes snapping into place with ease.
“Sharp from the start,” Martin said, leaning into his mic. “There’s no delay in this side. They’re not here to admire the occasion, they’ve come to take it.”
From the stands, the Foxes end roared to life, drowning the concrete in song.
🎶“Everywhere we go-o-o!
People wanna kno-o-ow!
Who we aaare — so we tell them!
WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS,
THE CHAMPIONS OF ENGLAND!” 🎶
🎶 “You’re just a bus stop in Salford!” 🎶
🎶 “From Belvoir to Wembley
Tristan made it real!” 🎶
The City end tried to fight back with loud whistles and a rolling chant of their own:
🎶 “Champions League — you’ll never sing that!” 🎶
But it was Leicester who held the early rhythm.
Out on the left, Albrighton pulled Kolarov wide and let the ball run through his legs. Drinkwater met it late, slicing a pass through midfield. The ball zipped to Kanté, who shifted his weight and went.
Alan let out a soft exhale. “They’re in the mood already, Martin. Kanté’s dancing through midfield like he’s got magnets in his boots.”
Kanté turned away from Touré with ease, drawing a gasp from the fans, and slipped a quick diagonal ball toward the right flank.
Tristan was already peeling into the half-space.
“Look at the movement,” Martin said, voice rising. “They’re stretching City out. Tristan finds Mahrez and Mahrez is one-on-one here.”
Mahrez waited. Let Kolarov overcommit. Then: one touch to the left. A second — sharper. He cut in and fired low and hard, aiming inside the post.
Hart dove. Punched it out.
Alan whistled quietly. “That’s two warning shots now. City need to settle or they’ll get caught early.”
Leicester kept pushing. Simpson won a throw high up the pitch, launching it toward Vardy. Mangala misread the bounce. Vardy chased it down, muscled in, and won a corner.
The chants came again louder.
🎶 “Jamie Vardy’s havin’ a party!
Bring your vodka and your Charlie!” 🎶
🎶 “You bought the league — we built ours!” 🎶
Martin grinned audibly. “The fans are absolutely bouncing behind that goal. This already feels like a home match for Leicester.”
“City look rattled,” Alan added. “Touré’s not getting time on the ball. David Silva can’t find the gaps. And Tristan? He’s everywhere. It’s like the game flows around him.”
The camera caught Tristan and Vardy smiling.
“Don’t stop,” Tristan murmured, just loud enough for Vardy to hear. “We keep swinging.”
The throw came again this time short, into Mahrez, who spun and burst forward. He slipped it central to Tristan, who let the ball run across his body.
He didn’t shoot.
He paused drew Fernandinho then chipped it over the backline.
Vardy darted through like a knife.
One bounce. One shot.
Saved by Hart. Just barely.
“OH what a save!” Martin shouted, body lifting from his seat. “But they are under siege, City!”
“Relentless from Leicester,” Alan said. “That front four’s causing havoc, Vardy, Mahrez, Tristan, Albrighton. Every time they touch the ball it feels like something’s about to happen.”
City tried to respond. Silva dropped deep. Yaya pushed higher. But every time they strung two passes together, Kanté was there — poking, jabbing, pressing like a shadow with lungs made of steel.
The City end tried again.
🎶 “Where were you when you were sht?!”* 🎶
But it was swallowed whole by Leicester’s return fire:
🎶 “Built not bought — Foxes never fear!”
“We’ve got the crown — you’ve got the cash!” 🎶
“Martin,” Alan said, voice more serious now. “You can feel it. Leicester haven’t just turned up to play today. They’ve turned up to dominate. And City… look stunned.”
As the camera panned out — revealing every seat shaking, every flag waving, and every player locked in, the noise thundered louder still.
The match had only just begun.
And Wembley was shaking.
It was Mahrez again, teasing the right touchline like it owed him rent.
He slowed just enough for Simpson to overlap — took a step infield — then pinged a no-look backheel straight into the right-back’s stride. Simpson didn’t hesitate. He took one touch and fired it right back into Mahrez’s path.
Kolarov bit too early.
Mahrez dipped a shoulder, stepped inside — then outside — then burned him.
“Oh he’s absolutely roasted him!” Alan said, already halfway out of his seat.
Mahrez darted to the byline, head up, waited just a second longer as Otamendi shifted near post — and then, clipped it low and hard between the defenders.
Vardy was already there.
The angle was tight. The ball skipped fast. But Vardy lunged in front of Mangala with a snap-flick of his boot.
Off the bar. Down. Over the line.
The net rippled.
Wembley exploded.
“GOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAL!” Martin Tyler's voice broke like thunder. “JAMIE VARDY! OF COURSE IT’S HIM! WHO ELSE!?”
The Leicester end detonated in sound. Beer cups flew. Limbs everywhere. Grown men on shoulders. Scarves swinging above heads like lassos.
🎶 “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVIN’ A PARTY!
BRING YOUR VODKA AND YOUR CHARLIE!” 🎶
🎶 “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVIN’ A PARTY!
Vardy ripped away, sprinting to the corner flag, mouth open, screaming like a man possessed.
He dropped to his knees, arms wide, skimming along the turf with the black and gold kit flapping behind him. Mahrez caught up seconds later and leapt onto his back. Albrighton followed, screaming into the sky.
Tristan ran in with a huge grin. “YES!”
The camera zoomed in on Vardy's face, red, smiling, roaring something unintelligible as he slapped the club badge over his heart.
Alan laughed, stunned. “And it’s Mahrez again, delivering the chaos! He’s made Kolarov dizzy, and Vardy’s turned one chance into another highlight reel!”
City players were frozen. Hart stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. Kompany turned to his midfield and clapped twice, demanding focus.
But the noise? The noise didn’t let up.
The camera panned across the lower tier not to the usual sea of twenty-somethings, but to a row of elder fans, all clad in navy and black.
A grey-haired man in a vintage Walkers Crisps jersey held both hands to his mouth, eyes glistening. Beside him, a couple in their sixties, arms around each other, stared at the pitch with open disbelief, the woman mouthing the words “He actually scored.”
Another man, his hair thinning and face lined by years, just rocked gently in his seat, fists clenched at his knees, tears tracking slowly down both cheeks.
Alan’s voice dipped for a moment. “You know Martin, there are fans here today who’ve seen Leicester in the old Division Three. Who remember Filbert Street before the rebuild. Who’ve waited decades for nights like this. I’m sure many missed Leciester’s first run in this stadium in 140 years.”
The stadium quaked. Black and gold flags blurred in the air like fire.
From the City end came whistles but they were drowned again by the Foxes' chants:
🎶 “OLE, OLE, OLE — LEICESTER! LEICESTER!” 🎶
🎶 “YOU’VE GOT AGÜERO — WE’VE GOT VARDY!” 🎶
Back at the center circle, Vardy stood breathing hard, eyes on the halfway line.
Tristan stepped up beside him, placed a hand on the back of his neck.
“You got one,” Tristan said, barely able to contain his excitement. “Let’s get three.”
Vardy nodded, cracking a small smile. “Then let’s f*cking run ‘em down.”
City kicked off.
And the noise started all over again.
City had been building — slowly, purposefully.
David Silva drifted central, gliding between Drinkwater and Fuchs with the grace of a man still painting masterpieces. He slid a disguised reverse pass into the channel for Sterling, whose first touch was perfect.
Sterling didn’t pause. He dragged defenders wide and, just before Simpson could close, cut it back into the arc.
Aguero was already there.
One touch. Bang.
Top corner. Schmeichel could only flinch.
The net rippled violently.
“GOAL! SERGIO AGUERO!” Martin’s voice cracked slightly over the roar.
“AND THE SKY BLUES RESPOND WITH STYLE!”
From the City end, the fans responded. The chant followed, booming and unified:
🎵 “AGUERRRRROOOOO!” 🎵
Alan exhaled hard. “You give a striker like that even half a second and he’ll ruin your plans.”
The camera caught Aguero darting toward the corner flag, fist pumping once, then again. Sterling chased him, followed by Yaya, Fernandinho, and Silva. Leicester players jogged back toward the halfway line heads down, breathing heavy.
Tristan didn’t.
He turned immediately, arms spread wide, shouting over the noise.
“HEY! EYES UP!” He clapped hard, once, loud enough to cut through the din.
“WE KNEW THEY’D SCORE — SO WHAT! STICK TO THE PLAN!”
Mahrez looked up. So did Drinkwater. Simpson gave a small nod. Kante didn’t even blink, just jogged straight to position.
Tristan moved quickly across to Vardy, tapped his chest once. “They scored. That’s all it is. Now we score. We are not going to pens!”
Martin’s voice followed them as they reset.
“And just like that,” he said, “Leicester’s dream start takes a hit. But look at 22, he’s not sulking, he’s not rattled. He’s rallying them. That’s a twenty-year-old pulling his team back into focus.”
“There’s a reason he’s the main star in this team, Martin. That belief in him, it’s not just talent. It’s trust.”
Vardy placed the ball on the center circle. Tristan joined him, sleeves pushed up.
Tristan glanced around the pitch, then back toward the dugout. He took one deep breath.
“Alright,” he muttered under it. “Let’s make ‘em regret it.”
And the ball rolled again.
Leicester didn’t panic.
They kicked off with calm touches between Tristan and Vardy, slowing the rhythm, refusing to get pulled into City’s tempo.
"Back underway, and you can sense it… Leicester aren’t rushing this. They’re regrouping, resetting." Martin said as the game slowed down somewhat.
"Exactly what they need to do. Let the heartbeat come back. Trust the build-up. They’ve been here before."
Mahrez dropped deep to receive from Simpson. One touch back to Kanté, who ghosted past Silva with a shoulder feint and tapped it wide again.
Leicester passed patiently across the back: Huth to Morgan, to Fuchs. The crowd swelled again, sensing the rhythm returning.
Fuchs advanced. Sharp one-two with Albrighton.
"That’s clever," Alan said as the Austrian fullback surged ahead. "Fuchs has time here!"
He didn’t break stride.
One touch.
Then he whipped a curling ball in with his left — flat, deadly.
It curled behind Otamendi, just beyond Mangala’s leap.
And there was Mahrez.
No hesitation. No extra touch.
VOLLEY.
Left foot. Back of the net.
Martin voice breaking slightly with the moment: “MAHREZZZZZZZZZ!!! RIYAD MAHREZ WITH A STRIKE FROM THE HEAVENS!”
The Leicester end shook — flags thrown into the air, limbs everywhere.
Alan nearly laughing in disbelief: “The technique, the composure! That is world-class.”
Mahrez ran straight to the corner flag, slid on both knees, kissed the badge, and pointed up to the crowd. Albrighton crashed into him seconds later, dragging him into a suffocating hug.
Behind them, Tristan was already clapping, calling the midfield together. Kanté and Drinkwater jogged over with grins that said they knew it was coming.
Martin again. “That’s what this Leicester team does. They absorb the pressure then hit you with something sublime.”
“And look at Tristan there,” Alan added. “Orchestrating even when he’s not the one on the scoresheet.”
As they jogged back, the chants rolled like thunder again.
City tried to answer before the whistle. Aguero dropped between the lines. Silva floated wide. Kolarov sent in a sharp low cross but Morgan met it with a slide, pounding the turf as he got up.
Tristan drifted deep, received the clearance, and zipped a diagonal switch across the pitch to Mahrez again who cheekily nutmegged Kolarov.
“Oh that’s filthy!” Alan shouted. “He’s playing with him now!”
Seconds later, the whistle blew.
Martin’s voice softened but stayed electric: “And breathe. What a half of football we’ve witnessed here at Wembley. Two brilliant sides, two stunning goals but right now, Leicester lead. Again.”
The cameras cut to the Leicester bench. Ranieri stood clapping his hands but if one looked closer he was shaking from happiness. The first trophy of the season was so close he could taste it.
The Foxes jogged off Mahrez laughing with Kanté, Vardy pointing to the stands.
Tristan paused at the halfway line.
He looked back once at the scoreboard.
2-1.
Then he turned, adjusting his wrist tape, and disappeared into the tunnel with the crowd still chanting behind him.
The second half started like a siege.
City pushed with the weight of a club that had been here before. That expected to be here.
Jesús Navas beat Fuchs down the right and cracked a low shot across the face of goal — blocked by Huth’s thigh. Touré followed up with a snap shot from the edge of the box that kissed the side netting.
“It’s coming in waves now,” Alan warned. “Leicester can’t drop too deep.”
“But they’re holding,” Martin said. “They’re still holding.”
Kanté swept up everything. Feet never stopped. Shirt clung to his back like it feared falling behind.
Drinkwater clattered Silva with a clean shoulder and roared something unintelligible as the ball spun free.
Then came the counter.
Mahrez burst forward, gliding past two like they weren’t there, slipped it to Albrighton, who won a corner off Otamendi’s sliding challenge.
The Leicester end rose again.
“And now… a set piece. Leicester don’t need many chances. They just need the right moment.”
Albrighton jogged over. Placed the ball. Glanced back.
The box was crowded. City packed the six-yard line.
Morgan barked orders. Huth pointed. Tristan stood just beyond the arc, scanning. He didn’t take the free kick this time as he felt like he could score if he got the ball from the chaos.
The delivery came in.
Whipped. Dipping. Heartbeat-speed.
Otamendi rose — missed.
Mangala jumped late — missed.
Morgan rose — thumped it back in.
Chaos.
The ball struck someone’s back. Deflected high.
Hung.
Fell.
And landed at the feet of Tristan Hale.
One bounce.
He didn’t take a touch.
He swung.
Left foot.
Across his body.
The connection clean.
The net bulged far post.
Joe Hart didn’t move.
Martin Tyler lost his breath.
“OH MY WORD… TRISTAN HALE!”
The stadium exploded.
Flags launched. Seats emptied. A thousand voices turned into a single scream of disbelief.
“TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!”
He didn’t sprint.
He stood.
Turned slowly toward the Leicester end.
Then unstrapped his left boot.
Lifted it like a chalice.
Kissed it once then held it to the sky.
“AND HE KISSES THE BOOT THAT MIGHT HAVE JUST WON THEM THE FINAL!”
Alan, laughing now. “Ice. Cold. The Miracle Man writes another chapter!”
The camera cut to the stands.
Barbara stood in the VIP box, both hands over her mouth. Tears welled, but didn’t fall. Julia clutched her husband’s arm like she was about to faint.
Back on the pitch, Vardy tackled Tristan in celebration.
Mahrez joined. Then Kanté. Then the entire bench.
Ranieri didn’t stay calm.
Not this time.
As the whistle blew and the stadium detonated in noise, the usually composed manager turned with wide eyes and charged down the touchline.
“YEEEEEES!” he roared, fists punching the air like a man twenty years younger.
Benetti was already sprinting toward him and the two collided in a chaotic hug near the halfway line. Ranieri grabbed him by both shoulders, laughing, shaking him.
“Abbiamo fatto! Abbiamo fatto, Paolo!” (We did it! We did it, Paolo!)
Benetti yelled something back in Italian, but it didn’t matter. Their voices were drowned by the crowd anyway. Ranieri was shouting, pointing at the players, at the fans, at the sky.
Then he looked to the stands, both arms raised to the Leicester end.
He tapped the badge on his chest. Bowed. Thumped his heart.
He turned back to the pitch just in time to see Mahrez leaping on Vardy’s back, and Kanté and Huth trying to lift Schmeichel.
“These boys…” Ranieri said, eyes wet, voice cracking. “These boys have changed the world.”
This was joy.
This was Leicester.
And Claudio Ranieri — calm, classy Claudio — was losing his mind with happiness.
Martin, still finding his breath. “You could write books about him. You will. But that… that’s what makes him different. That calm. That confidence. That clarity under pressure.”
“It’s 3–1 at Wembley. And Leicester — are twenty minutes away from lifting another trophy.”
City pushed back, of course.
Aguero wriggled free and forced a diving save from Schmeichel. Silva curled one just wide. Touré tried to break the lines with a driven pass — cut out by Kanté again.
Leicester stayed tight.
Drinkwater cleared one off the line.
Morgan won everything in the air.
Huth took a shot to the chest and didn’t blink.
Every chant from the crowd was louder now. Drunker with hope. Louder with belief.
🎵 “WE WANT IT ALL!” 🎵\
🎵 “WE WANT IT ALL!” 🎵
🎵 “WE WANT IT ALL!” 🎵
The fourth official raised the board.
+4 MINUTES
Martin’s voice cracked slightly.
“Four more minutes until another miracle becomes memory.”
Time bled slow.
A foul. A throw-in. A last hopeful ball from Kolarov — straight to Schmeichel.
He dropped to the turf, clutched it to his chest, and just waited.
Then launched it long.
The whistle blew.
Full time.
Martin Tyler, breathless let it all out. “Leicester City — League Cup champions. Again. The miracle lives on.”
Tristan looked up toward the arch of Wembley and then closed his eyes.
He breathed in.
This was theirs.
This was his.
Wembley belonged to Leicester.
.
Mark buddy, this 6k chapter is just for you, lol.
Now did I rush the second of the game, yeah I did, ngl, my excitement for witing matches that I already did like 6 chapters just made my mood go down and I have a headache thats not exactly helping and this is a League Cup so who even cares.
