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Chapter 249: One Goal Away
🕑 Added 2025-08-05 20:40:09 +0000 UTCJanuary 3, 2016 — Sky Sports Studios
The panel sat in stunned silence for a beat after the final replay.
The finish.
The noise.
The chaos.
And then just his name.
“Jamie Vardy.”
David Jones finally broke the stillness, his voice a touch hoarse.
“He’s done it. Ten consecutive games. Twelve goals. Tied with Ruud van Nistelrooy. I mean… where do you even begin?”
He glanced toward the others.
Thierry started off the conversation.
“He has done something… only one other man has ever done. And for Jamie Vardy, with that story? It means something different.”
Jamie Redknapp let out a low breath, like he’d been holding it in.
“That goal the way he hit it, far post, with the defender closing, the keeper rushing — I’ve got goosebumps. And it’s the 84th minute,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s unreal. I couldn’t believe what I saw.”
Souness raised an eyebrow. “That’s the thing. It’s not luck. It’s not form anymore. You watch that run he knew exactly when to go. How to angle the touch. How to strike. That's the elite striker mentality.”
He paused, then added flatly:
“And he’s terrifying.”
David glanced toward the big screen again, which now showed the freeze-frame, Vardy mid-sprint, face lit with adrenaline, teammates chasing behind him like a pack of wolves.
“Let’s talk legacy,” David said. “Van Nistelrooy… played for Ferguson. United at their peak. Service from Beckham, Giggs, Scholes. Ruud lived in the box. It was built for him.”
He gestured back at the screen. “And now… it’s Jamie Vardy. Who, a few years ago, was working part-time and playing in the Conference North. £30-a-week player. Sacked from Sheffield Wednesday at 16.”
Alan Smith chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You couldn’t script it. You couldn’t. Ruud was flying first class with Man United. Jamie was riding a minibus to away games in Halifax.”
Jamie Redknapp leaned in again, excited. “Exactly! This wasn’t just ten tap-ins. It’s left foot, right foot, volleys, headers, counters, solo runs. And he’s doing it without 70% possession. Without 15 chances a match.”
Thierry nodded slowly, still watching the screen.
“And he’s not doing it alone. That ball from Albrighton yesterday? Perfect. The pressure? Immense, it’s a level of pressure very few players will understand. ”
Souness pointed at the screen again — this time, at the touchline replay showing Tristan on the bench, coat half-zipped, screaming like a lunatic when the ball hit the net.
“He looked like he was ready to jump into the pitch. They all did. And you see what it means to them — to him, to Tristan, to that whole club.”
David added quietly, “Vardy’s not just carrying himself anymore. He’s carrying a team. A city. A dream no one saw coming.”
Jamie Redknapp gave a small laugh. “And the lad still plays like he’s got something to prove. Like every goal might be his last. That hunger — that chip on his shoulder — it hasn’t gone.”
Alan Smith added: “You go from factory work and ankle monitors to this — Premier League history — it hits different. He’s got the weight of that journey in every run. He knows what it means to not be seen.”
Thierry finally leaned back and looked across the desk.
“Next week,” he said simply. “Tottenham. On their pitch. High line. Fast transitions.”
David raised an eyebrow. “You think he’ll do it?”
Thierry’s lips curled, just a little.
“If Tristan’s playing behind him? If he gets one chance? Yes.”
Souness nodded once, firm.
“He breaks it.”
Redknapp grinned, nearly laughing again. “Imagine telling someone in 2012 — yeah, this bloke who just got released from Fleetwood? He’s about to break a Premier League record. Level with Van Nistelrooy. Front page of every paper.”
Alan smiled.
“Football’s magic, mate.”
.
Belvoir Drive – Afternoon
The locker room still smelled like wet grass, sweat, and cheap muscle rub. Steam hissed from the back, mingling with the sharp slap of boots on tile and the distant thud of a medicine ball hitting the wall.
Mahrez was halfway through peeling off his socks when he looked around and said, “You lot see The Guardian this morning?”
Tristan, toweling sweat from the back of his neck, glanced over from his locker. “Which one? From Factory to Fame or The Meteoric Rise of Jamie Vardy?”
“Nah,” Mahrez said, holding back a grin. “This one was serious journalism: Jamie Vardy Finally Sponsored by Red Bull.”
The room erupted.
Schmeichel almost choked on a protein bar. Albrighton slapped the bench like he was applauding theatre. Even Kanté cracked a quiet smile, shaking his head from where he sat unlacing his boots.
“Oi, where is he?” Ben asked, scanning the doorway. “Getting fitted for his wings?”
Right on cue, Vardy swaggered in — damp hair slicked back, shirt off,a Redbull towel slung around his shoulders like he’d just won a title fight in Vegas.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, grinning like he’d invented joy.
“You need your own Netflix show at this point,” Tristan called out. “Fleetwood to Fire: The Jamie Vardy Chronicles.”
Vardy pointed at him without breaking stride. “You got the right idea.”
Drinkwater tossed a water bottle into the ice bin. “Did Red Bull give you that towel or just pump it straight into your bloodstream this morning?”
“Got a bunch of free stuff from them finally.” Vardy said, dropping onto the bench. “After the free marketing I’ve given them? I want stock options besides the deal I just got.”
“Lads,” Mahrez said dramatically, waving his phone, “he’s got four interviews, two magazine shoots, and Puma’s already circling for a signature boot.”
“Is it gonna say Chat Shit, Get Banged on the heel?” Hamer asked.
Vardy shrugged. “Still with Nike for now. But next year? I want my own line. Golden boy over there—” he jerked his chin toward Tristan, “—can’t be the only one with custom boots.”
Tristan laughed, flicking a towel at his shin. “Mine came with no caffeine and zero arrests. Yours will need a warning label.”
Kanté, quiet but lethal, added, “And a clause that bans him from WhatsApp after midnight.”
The room howled.
But Tristan, beneath the smile, felt something deeper settle in his chest, a strange kind of pride. He watched Vardy laugh, throw his head back, lap up every bit of the moment like he’d never known fame could taste like this.
To Tristan, Vardy wasn’t just a teammate. He was proof of the indomitable human spirit.
A man who dragged himself up from the bottom by sheer stubbornness and speed. Where Tristan had needed death and a second life to claw his way out of nothing with a system, Vardy had done it the long way — with broken knuckles, factory hours, and goals in the muddiest pitches England could offer.
He was what Tristan might’ve been if things had gone right the first time.
But now? He was family. Brother. Mentor. He deserved it all.
And Tristan — despite his own fame, own records, own legend in the making felt nothing but pure joy watching Vardy take the crown for a while.
“Oi, Tristan,” Vardy called from the other bench, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Wake up. Don’t go soft on me now.”
Tristan smirked. “Save your energy. You’ve got history to break next week.”
“History?” Vardy grinned. “Mate, I am history.”
And no one in that room, not even Tristan could argue with that.
.
Next Morning
Tristan’s House
The living room looked like it had been hijacked by a tabloid tornado.
Newspapers were everywhere — fanned out across the coffee table like some holy altar to Jamie Vardy. Some were neatly folded. Others had clearly been torn from their spines in excitement, scattered like fallen leaves. Biscuit was pawing at one near the fireplace — The Mirror, its headline splashed in block red:
“VARDY = TEN. SPURS NEXT.”
On the couch, Barbara sat cross-legged, a slice of buttered toast in one hand, remote in the other. The telly was tuned to Sky Sports, which was replaying the goal again slow motion, dramatic angles, the works. Pass. Burst. Finish. Explosion.
Tristan had seen it a dozen times. This had to be the eighth this morning.
Julia sat beside Barbara with a cup of tea and a knowing, tired smile. “They’ve shown that goal more times than the Queen’s speech.”
Anita stood barefoot by the fireplace, wrapped in one of Barbara’s oversized Leicester hoodies eyes wide.
“Ez hihetetlen,” she whispered. “This is… wow.”
Just then, Tristan stepped in from the hallway, fresh shirt clinging to damp skin, towel still draped over his curls. He slowed when he took in the scene the shrine of newspapers, the looping broadcast, Biscuit now lying on top of The Times like she was absorbing football lore through osmosis.
“…Did I miss the second coming?” he asked dryly.
Barbara pointed the remote toward the screen without taking her eyes off it. “They’ve been running it since six. This is number nine.”
Tristan rounded the couch, scooping up a paper mid-stride.
“JAMIE VARDY: FROM FACTORY FLOORS TO FOOTBALL IMMORTALITY.”
“TIED WITH RUUD. ONE AWAY FROM HISTORY.”
“LEICESTER’S LIGHTNING MAN: VARDY’S UNREAL RUN CONTINUES.”
He raised an eyebrow and glanced at Barbara. “Think he’s awake yet, or still doing laps around his ego?”
Barbara smirked. “Felix texted. He tried to go for milk this morning and a postman chased him for an autograph.”
Tristan let out a laugh, half-proud, half-in-disbelief.
He knew how much this meant to Vardy. The man had clawed his way to the top like a stray dog with a dream and a bottle of Red Bull.
And now? Now they were writing his name in the same sentence as Van Nistelrooy.
Barbara reached over and handed Tristan a mug of still-steaming coffee. “Your boy’s the face of football right now.”
“He deserves it,” Tristan said smiling.
Anita, without looking away from the screen, added in Hungarian,”He’s hot.”
Barbara turned slowly. “Was that about Tristan or Vardy?”
Anita didn’t miss a beat. She just shrugged, mischievous smile playing at her lips. “I said what I said.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow, sipping his smoothie saying nothing, but thinking everything.
If Anita was into Vardy? Now that would be something. A true plot twist. Honestly? He wouldn’t even be mad about it. The idea was weirdly fitting — Anita was loud enough to match Jamie's chaos, and smart enough to cut him down when needed. She could handle him. Probably better than Rebekah ever did. Or would.
He knew what was coming in a few months. The headlines. The dress. The name change. Rebekah Nicholson becoming Rebekah Vardy. It was already sealed.
But if he had to be brutally honest with himself and Tristan was, most of the time he’d always thought Jamie could do better. He just never said it. Wasn’t his place.
Even if it was Vardy.
He glanced at Anita, who had flopped down beside Biscuit now, barefoot and grinning like she owned the world.
Yeah. That would’ve been a story.
Still Tristan didn’t meddle. In life or in love. Let people crash into their own disasters, he’d learned. Some lessons weren’t yours to stop.
Biscuit barked once a short “roof” and then rolled over dramatically onto The Telegraph.
It was barely ten in the morning, and already, the whole country was vibrating. Jamie Vardy was all anyone could talk about. After all, everyone loved an underdog story.
On Twitter, it was just as loud.
Barbara scrolled lazily, thumb swiping past memes, match edits, and endless replays of that goal. Her feed was pure Vardy chaos fire emojis, goat edits, quote-tweets arguing about legacy and bottle jobs. But one tweet made her pause.
@ThefootballGuy:
📊 Jamie Vardy, 2015-16 so far:
17 PL matches: 22 goals, 1 assist (lol)6 England caps: 4 goals, 1 assist4 Europa League matches: 2 goalsHasn’t even touched the FA Cup or League Cup yet 😭Tied the Premier League record for most consecutive scoring games (10)Spurs up next 😳👀
Barbara snorted softly, flicking the heart icon out of habit.
@ImReal: The streets will never forget this run. Vardy’s writing poetry in chaos. I don’t even care who wins the league anymore — this is the story well besides Tristan of course. But I’m so happy Vardy is finally getting some spotlight lol after Tristan took all of it
@ArsenalBottling: At the start of the season we were talking about Tristan and Kane for the Golden Boot. Vardy just slipped in the side door and turned the whole damn house upside down. Whose cutting onions in here
@Teh_Storm: If you told me in August that Jamie Vardy would be 1 game away from breaking a Van Nistelrooy record, I would’ve blocked you on sight.
Barbara showed that one to Julia, who actually laughed a quiet little breath through her nose, eyes soft behind her glasses.
“It’s all about him now,” Julia said, turning to Tristan.
“As it should be,” he said. “He’s earned it.”
Anita leaned against the couch, eyes flicking between him and the TV.
“Tristan,” she said, her English careful, slow. “Can we… stay? A little more. We want to see… Tottenham.”
Barbara glanced up, surprised. “You mean the Spurs game?”
Anita nodded. “To see… Jamie break record. Please.”
Tristan didn’t hesitate to answer that. “Of course you can stay,” he said. “As long as you want.”
Barbara’s parents already left with Anita staying so they had plenty of room and space.
Anita beamed.
Barbara just rolled her eyes playfully. “I see how it is. First my sister, now my boyfriend. Vardy has more fans in this house than I do.”
Tristan raised both palms. “Hey, when you score ten in a row, you can kick us all out.”
She laughed and launched a pillow at his head. He let it hit.
The telly switched segments. New headline. New pundit clip.
“ALL EYES ON WHITE HART LANE.”
“Vardy One Goal from History.”
“The Most Unlikely Record Chase in Premier League History.”
Down below, a Sky Sports ticker ran across the screen:
Jan 5 – EFL Cup Semi-Final (1st Leg) vs Manchester United (King Power Stadium)
Jan 9 – FA Cup 3rd Round vs Wolves (King Power Stadium)
Jan 10 – Premier League vs Tottenham (White Hart Lane)
But nobody was talking about United. Not the EFL Cup. Not even the FA Cup tie against Wolves.
Fans already knew what to expect from those two matches.
Every post, every headline, every fan voice came back to one question:
“Will Jamie Vardy do it?”
And sitting in that sunlit living room Tristan smiled to himself.
Because he already knew the answer.
.
I try to have a second chapter out tonight as well
Comments
Oscar
Anita and Vardy would be sick
Cryo
Okay got to admit I need to see Vardy meet Anita. Tristan may not interfere but surely our dear author can right? 😉😉🫣
