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Chapter 243: The Undeniables
🕑 Added 2025-07-29 22:03:18 +0000 UTCFULL-TIME – King Power Stadium
Final Score: Leicester City 3 – 1 Manchester City
The final whistle didn’t just blow — it cut.
Like a sword through butter.
And for a heartbeat, the stadium froze.
Then came the roar.
Raw. Pure. Limitless.
🎵 “LEICESTER! LEICESTER! LEICESTER!” 🎵
🎵 “WHO NEEDS BILLIONS WHEN YOU’VE GOT HEART?” 🎵
But Tristan didn’t hear any of it. He stood still. Shoulders heaving. Sweat soaked into his collar.
The scoreboard above the South Stand blinked with silent finality.
FT: LEI 3 – 1 MCI
Two goals. One assist. Game-winner. But Tristan’s chest felt… tight.
It wasn’t joy. Of course he felt happy, this game pretty much determined the next half of the season. And unless he got injured along with the entire starting eleven, than they had the league in the bag.
Across the pitch, Mahrez was already leaping onto Huth’s back, yelling something in French through a mouthguard grin.
Vardy had Schmeichel in a headlock. “You bastard! Whe did you get so good?!”
Albrighton had both arms in the air like he’d just won the lottery again.
Even Ranieri looked momentarily uncomposed — arms lifted, clapping furiously toward the fans, his glasses fogged at the edges.
But Tristan just stood there — until a massive hand thudded onto his back.
“Oi.”
Yaya Touré.
He grinned like an uncle watching a prodigy from the other side of the family tree.
“You ever get tired of making us look like we’re running in cement?”
Tristan let a breathy smile slip. “Not yet.”
Yaya chuckled, then leaned in. “Come to City. You won’t regret it.”
Tristan only tapped his chest lightly in thanks and moved on. He already made up his mind in regards to his future club.
Further down the touchline, Pellegrini walked toward the tunnel — slow, pensive.
Ranieri intercepted him halfway with a quiet word and a respectful handshake.
“You’ve built a beautiful side,” Ranieri said softly, genuinely.
Pellegrini didn’t smile. “They weren’t ugly today. Just outplayed.”
He looked past him, toward the number twenty-two, a number synonymous with the pride of England.”
“He’s… something else.”
Ranieri’s eyes didn’t leave the City manager’s. “Yes. He is.”
Behind them, cameras zoomed in on the handshake.
“How is Kevin?” Ranieri asked just so he knew what to say to the media…
On the pitch, Tristan spotted Kevin.
Standing alone — just off the sideline.
Tristan walked toward him, rehearsing lines in his head and hating all of them. He didn’t want to come across like a dickhead. That was the goal. Don’t be a dickhead to the guy who pretty much gave your whole career.
Kevin saw him coming and straightened slightly. He tried to look unfazed but the gloss in his eyes and the stiff jaw gave him away.
Tristan stopped in front of him.
“Good game,” he said — honest, but low.
Kevin let out a dry breath. “Yeah. For you.”
Tristan smirked slightly. “Hey, I said game. Didn’t say for who.”
That cracked a fraction of a smile out of Kevin — tired, but real.
Tristan gestured at the pitch. “I know it didn’t feel like it, but you made us sweat early on. That ball to Sterling in the first ten? Scared the shit out of us.”
Kevin didn’t reply, but his shoulders loosened. Just a touch.
“Look,” Tristan said, shifting his weight, “I know this probably felt like one of those nightmare games. The ones that just keep getting worse, no matter what you try.”
Kevin tilted his head. “You’ve had one?”
“Mate, trust me you don’t wanna see my youth games. I thought I was going to be kicked out of the program when I was 14.”
That actually got a laugh.
Tristan continued. “You think tonight was bad? I watched your Wolfsburg highlights before and after I made my debut. I used to load them up after training — trying to figure out how you weight your passes so clean. The outside-foot ones? Used to drive me mad.”
Kevin blinked. That… landed. “Wolfsburg?”
“Yeah,” Tristan said. “The goal vs Bayern? Still got that one saved. Left peg, bottom corner. Thought you were a magician.”
Kevin looked down. Then up again. “Didn’t think anyone watched that shit.”
“I did,” Tristan said. “A lot.”
Then Tristan held out a hand. “Give me your number.”
Kevin furrowed his brow. “Huh?”
“Your phone number. Chill,” Tristan added with a half-smile. “Not sliding into your DMs or anything. I just think we should train sometime. It’s not everyday you have the chance to train with someone who plays exactly like you. Come on, it be fun. Actually i just send you a request on IG.”
Kevin looked at him, unsure for a beat. “Alright,” he said smiling. Yeah he could still learn a lot more from Tristan despite being four years older. And didn’t that sting.
As they were about to walk away, Kevin said under his breath, “You meant what you said? About watching me?”
Tristan nodded. “Wouldn’t be out here like this if I hadn’t.”
And that — finally — seemed to settle something in Kevin like the line was all he neded to hear to continue pushing.
As Tristan moved, the crowd around the King Power rippled, and the chants returned:
🎵 “TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!” 🎵
🎵 “WE DON'T NEED A KING — WE’VE GOT TRISTAN!” 🎵
Back near the Leicester huddle, Mahrez saw him coming. “Oi, Tristan! Tell me you’re not crying!”
Vardy shouted over. “He’s emotional. Let him have it!”
Even Schmeichel laughed. “Lad just put the belts on City and still feels bad for ‘em!”
Tristan shook his head. “Just had to talk to Kevin.”
Ben dropped an arm over his shoulder. “You did what you had to. No shame in being the better player.”
The players jogged off the pitch as the camera followed them — jerseys swapped, cheeks red, boots dragging slightly through the cold grass.
In the tunnel, someone muttered: “What a night…”
And in the distance, Martin Tyler’s voice echoed faintly over the closing shot:
“Tonight… a match was played. A lesson was learned. And the miracle of Leicester City continues…
.
The crowd hadn’t even cleared yet. Fans still lingered behind the barricades, waving scarves and singing as if the final whistle had only just gone.
Floodlights hummed overhead, drenching the pitch in gold and frost. And in front of the camera still in full kit, boots scuffed, curls damp stood Tristan.
Shirt clinging to his frame. Breath still visible in the cold.
The interviewer — Steve Bower — stepped in beside him.
“Tristan, congratulations — another win, another goal, another assist… and Leicester City stay undefeated. Nineteen matches played. Fifteen wins. Four draws. That’s 48 points, nine clear of Manchester City heading into the New Year. You’ve opened up a serious lead at the top — how does it feel?”
Tristan looked out at the stands behind him — still buzzing.
Then back to the mic.
“It feels good, you know, to see the results of all of our hard work,” he said. “You don’t get to this point by accident. Every single player in that dressing room has pushed themselves to the limit on the pitch, off it, in training, in recovery. We’ve had setbacks. Injuries. Tough away days. But we don’t make excuses. We just play.”
Steve nodded. “And what about your own performance? Two goals and an assist today. You’ve now directly contributed to over 60 goals this season in all competitions and it’s still only December. Are you starting to surprise even yourself?”
That got a faint laugh out of him.
“I don’t look at numbers mid-match — I just try to do my job. But I’ll be honest… I’m proud. Not just for the goals. But for how we’re playing as a team. As for if I’m surprised by my numbers, no this is what I expect out of myself as the world’s best. This is the standard I set myself for every single game.”
“Vards deserves a shout tonight, by the way,” Tristan added, voice picking up. “That goal made it nine league matches in a row. One more and he ties the all-time Premier League record. Two more? He breaks it.”
Steve raised his eyebrows. “You think he can do it?”
Tristan didn’t even pause.
“I know he can. And honestly, I think he’ll go past eleven. The way he’s moving, the way he’s reading space — it’s like watching a man on fire. And I’ll keep giving him service every time he makes that run. It’s the least I can do.”
Steve smiled. “You’ve mentioned before that this season means more. That it’s not just about personal records. What’s driving that mentality?”
Tristan’s face shifted from joking to serious
“Look… we’ve had people doubt us. Every week, it’s someone new asking ‘when does the fairytale end?’ But I don’t think this is a fairytale anymore. It’s real. We’ve earned our spot here. And we’re not just trying to make noise. We’re trying to make history. We are trying to keep the promise we made last season. To bring a miracle that no one would be able to forget.”
“That’s what motivates us. To create and make history.”
The crowd behind the barriers erupted again.
🎵 “LEICESTER TILL I DIE!” 🎵
🎵 “HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
Steve glanced at his notes, then cleared his throat.
“One more thing before we let you go. Kevin De Bruyne subbed off in the first half. It’s been a talking point across social media already. Do you have anything to say on that, player to player?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a lot to say.”
Pause.
“Kevin will be one of the best midfielders the Premier League will ever see when he calls it a day. And I don’t say that lightly. Today wasn’t his day — that’s football. It happens to all of us. But don’t get it twisted. He’ll be back. Stronger. Smarter. That’s what Kevin does.”
He looked directly at the camera now.
“I wouldn’t be the player I am without learning from him. So for anyone writing him off based on one half of football — I’d rethink that. He’s not done. Not even close.”
Steve looked surprised — genuinely moved by the answer.
“Well said,” he replied softly. “Alright we’ll let you go celebrate with the team. Congratulations again. Man of the Match — Tristan Hale.”
Tristan nodded once. Then turned — boots crunching gently on the pitch — and jogged toward the tunnel.
Behind him, the crowd roared louder than ever.
.
Media Room
The doors opened quietly.
No fanfare. Just the soft shuffle of polished shoes and the clink of camera lenses adjusting focus.
Claudio Ranieri entered with a tired but sincere smile, nodding toward the press like greeting familiar neighbors.
“Buona sera,” he murmured. “Good evening.”
He sat down slowly like a man still soaking it all in — then folded his hands.
The first question came fast — BBC Sport.
“Claudio, that’s nineteen unbeaten in the league. Ten points clear at the top. City, United, Chelsea, Arsenal — all beaten. Can we finally say it? Are Leicester City the title favourites?”
Ranieri gave a slow smile. The kind of smile you reserve for a child asking a dangerous question.
“No,” he said softly. “We are not favourites. We are workers. That is all.”
A pause.
“We train. We suffer. We run. And we smile. But we are still Leicester City. Still the club everyone expected to finish twelfth.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“Maybe now they expect more. But we still expect… only the next game.”
Laughter followed. Muted but genuine.
A Sky Sports reporter cut in.
“But come on — that’s 49 points. You’re unbeaten in the league, the League Cup, and the Europa League. Nobody in Europe has a better record in all competitions. How far can this run go?”
Ranieri nodded, more serious now.
“Yes, it is true. We have not lost. But that is not a shield. It is a mirror.”
He tapped the desk lightly.
“When you win too much, sometimes you stop looking in the mirror. You forget what got you there. But this team — they don’t forget. Not Jamie. Not N’Golo. Not Riyad. Not Tristan. They still train like they are trying to survive relegation.”
A softer voice from The Guardian.
“You said ‘next game’ — the third round of the FA Cup is next week. With your form, surely silverware is a goal now?”
Ranieri smiled again — but this time, his eyes warmed.
“We respect the FA Cup. Deeply. It is a beautiful competition. Romantic. Old. It deserves our best. But it’s a trophy this club has already won.”
Then, more serious:
“If the boys keep their feet on the ground… we can go far. But football punishes pride. You get too high, and it brings you down. We are careful of that.”
A pause — and then a firmer tone:
“But if you ask me privately, yes. I believe this team can win something. We have come too far not to.”
A hand shot up at the back — from an Italian correspondent, La Gazzetta.
“Tristan Hale. Again. Two goals, one assist. He now has more goal contributions than Messi and Ronaldo this season — in fewer matches. What do you even say to him after a performance like that?”
Ranieri gave a long, long breath.
Then without ceremony — he placed both hands flat on the desk and said:
“I say: thank you.”
He let the words settle.
“Grazie. Because I know what I’m seeing. We all do. This boy… he is not from this world.”
A few chuckles. But Ranieri didn’t laugh.
“No, really. I have coached men who won the World Cup. I coached Del Piero. Totti. Lampard. Vieri. But Tristan… he is different.”
“But the best part,” he added, “is he doesn’t care about fame. He doesn’t care about headlines. He just cares about doing it right.”
A Sky Italia reporter called out gently:
“We saw him speak to Kevin De Bruyne after the final whistle. You saw it too?”
Ranieri nodded once.
“Yes. I saw. I was… very proud.”
He looked down for a moment. Then back up.
“Kevin is a great young player. But tonight… he suffered. And Tristan could have walked past him. Could have smiled, joked, said nothing.”
“But he didn’t. He went to him. The beautiful game isn’t all about hating each other. Kevin is a mirror of Tristan when he made his debut and in his first season in the Premier League. This is just one game. A failure doesn’t define him. I watched his other games, he’s amazing. I don’t know if he can become as good as Tristan but if he even gets to 50% he will become a top player. He just needs time.”
Another hand lifted — from TalkSPORT.
“Claudio — final one. The Ballon d’Or is on January 11th. Two weeks away. I don’t have Tristan’s exact numbers here but I do know he had more G/A than Messi and Ronaldo in 2015. If the award was based purely on football — not trophies or PR — where would you place him?”
Ranieri didn’t blink.
“I don’t care about the numbers. I care about what I see.”
Then he gave a small shrug — as if the answer had been obvious from the start.
“If it is about trophies, he will not win. If it is about legacy, maybe not. But if it is about football — just football — then yes.”
He gestured with his fingers.
“Top three. Minimum. And if you are brave? Top two.”
He smiled gently now.
“But the world is not always brave. So we will wait.”
He rose slowly. Gave a final nod to the room.
Then added, almost under his breath:
“And if he doesn’t win it this year… he will win it next.”
The lights dimmed. The cameras turned off.
And Claudio Ranieri the gentle grandfather of football stepped off stage.
And as Ranieri disappeared down the corridor, a different set of footsteps approached — heavier, slower — carrying the weight of a night that hadn’t gone to plan.
The room stayed quiet for a long beat before Manuel Pellegrini stepped in.
He moved like a man who’d carried weight for too long — one shoulder slightly lower. Still suited. Still composed. But you could feel all the tension buried underneath it. .
He sat. Adjusted the mic. Didn’t speak right away.
Then finally:
“Okay.”
First question — The Athletic.
“Manuel, this is now your fourth loss in the league. But more than that, it was a loss to the league leaders. How do you assess what this result means for City’s season?”
Pellegrini leaned back slightly. Interlaced his fingers.
“It means we are behind,” he said simply. “They punished us. We did not punish them. That is football. Simple. Brutal.”
He nodded to himself, eyes briefly closed.
“We had spells. Good ones. But we didn’t convert them to goals. We simply lost.”
ESPN next.
“What changed in the second half? You started strong after the break — almost equalized — then it unraveled.”
Pellegrini sighed through his nose.
“We chased. We pressed. Then we overplayed.”
A pause.
“And Tristan reminded us that football is not always about tactics. Sometimes, it’s about the star player, the world’s best doing what he does. He had three moments. That’s all he needed.”
Sky Sports followed.
“Kevin De Bruyne — subbed off before halftime. Can you talk us through that decision? Some fans are calling it a humiliation.”
His eyes sharpened — just slightly.
“Kevin is not a child,” he said, voice firmer. “He is a professional. One of the best. He had a difficult half. But that does not erase who he is or what he brings.”
A longer pause now.
“He will recover from this game. He will respond. I have no doubt.”
Another hand shot up — The Guardian.
“Leicester are now unbeaten in all competitions. Europa League, League Cup, the league — they’ve beaten all clubs that I can list and now you. Are they title favourites?”
Pellegrini tilted his head like he couldn’t believe he got asked the question.
Then: “If they are not favourites… what are we doing?”
He looked around the room.
“You can call it a dream. A purple patch. A storybook. But look at the numbers. Look at the results. No losses. No stumbles. They do not just win. They beat people. Big people, big clubs like they are toddlers.”
Then he added, with a wry chuckle:
“If anyone still thinks Leicester will collapse, then they have not been watching football. This is not a trick. This is their season. And we are lucky to witness it.”
BT Sport.
“Tristan, when you look at his stats, he has more goals than Ronaldo, more assists than Messi. His average rating I believe is a 9.1. He doesn’t have a single bad game you can call him out on. His stats for the 2015 calendar year is 84 G/A. That’s more than the number one favorite to win the Ballon d’Or. Where would you place him in the rankings?”
Pellegrini chuckled under his breath, leaned into the mic.
“If the Ballon d’Or was about trophies? Maybe not yet.”
A beat.
“But if it was about who is playing the best football in the world — right now, today — then top three, minimum. Top two, probably. And if I’m being honest…”
He gave a small shrug.
“I don’t see anyone playing better.”
The Sun.
“Any comments about Ranieri’s comments after the game? He called your side ‘brave’ — and Kevin, specifically, someone who earned his respect.”
That quieted the room a bit.
Pellegrini looked down for a long beat.
Then back up.
“I respect Claudio. I admire him. And he’s right. Kevin did not have a good night. But he faced it. He stayed out there. He watched the end. That takes something not everyone has.”
His voice lowered slightly. “And as for the match — I don’t believe in shame. Only growth.”
Final question — ITV.
“What do you tell your players after a night like this?”
A long pause.
Pellegrini folded his arms, then unfolded them.
“I told them to be angry. To carry that anger. But to respect what happened tonight.”
He stood slowly. Straightened his jacket.
“And to remember history isn’t in the past. It’s made in front of your very eyes…
Comments
noname
u might have read it before I edited it but u are correct
mud104
We said it was 7 clear on points prior to match so now it should be 10 points not 9, correct?
