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Chapter 242: Mirrors in the Tunnel Part 3 (End)
🕑 Added 2025-07-29 07:11:30 +0000 UTCHALFTIME – King Power Stadium
Leicester City Locker Room
Score: Leicester 1 – 0 Manchester City
The door thudded shut with a dull finality. Like a vault sealing.
Boots scraped against tile. Bottles hissed open. Someone coughed — dry from winter air and adrenaline. Players dropped onto benches like parachutes had just been cut, sweat clinging to skin, shirts peeled off like wet bandages.
No one said anything about the goal.
Not at first.
It was Vardy who finally broke the silence, voice lower than usual. “Man… I’ve never seen someone break down like that.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. Vardy knew what rock bottom looked like and Kevin had worn that look for forty-five straight minutes. Whatever was going through his head, it couldn’t have been good. Not after being dismantled, exposed, outplayed by the one guy in the league who mirrored his style… only better.
And it wasn’t like Tristan was the type to humiliate anyone, especially not someone he respected. But the truth was brutal: they played the same brand of football, and Tristan read Kevin like a script. Every move, every pass, every shift he saw it all coming. Because when the better version of yourself is standing across from you, there’s nowhere to hide.
Huth sat peeling tape from his wrist, unwinding it like he was defusing something. “Didn’t even argue when the board went up. Just… walked. Like someone unplugged him. Kinda feel bad for the guy.”
Albrighton leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hair still matted to his forehead. “He’s class, though. Like, top-class. Which makes it worse. You don’t expect someone like that to get swallowed.”
Ben was closest to Tristan. He glanced sideways. “You alright?”
Tristan didn’t answer right away. He sat on the edge of the bench, arms resting on his knees, staring at the floor where his boots had left a smear on the tile.
His voice dropped. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect him to get subbed.”
And he really hadn’t. Maybe he should’ve gone easier. He kept forgetting this wasn’t the seasoned, world-class De Bruyne he had the template for. This was the 24-year-old version — newly signed for €77 million, carrying the weight of that price tag and every expectation to become the next him… or at least get close.
He got too excited for this matchup.
And tonight, he had shattered all of that.
From across the room, Kanté looked up. His voice, like always, was quiet but weighty. "You dominated him.”
Tristan shifted. “I didn’t mean to. I just—” he made a small motion with his hand “—played like always. Giving it my 120%.”
Mahrez chuckled, breathless. “That’s the problem. You playing is enough now. You don’t even need to think about it. You’re doing this on instinct.”
“No, seriously,” Ben added, nodding toward the door. “Kevin was trying. That pass to Sterling? It was surgical. But the rhythm was off.”
“Because he kept checking over his shoulder,” Drinkwater said, rubbing his calf. “He wasn’t playing against City. He was playing against you.”
The room went still for a beat.
Tristan looked up.
“I’m gonna say something after the match.”
Everyone turned.
Tristan’s tone was steady, but there was weight behind it now. “He’s one of the best players in the world. We all know that. If I’ve wrecked his confidence — properly wrecked it — I’ll never forgive myself.”
Wes Morgan spoke next, from his seat by the armband box. “You didn’t humiliate him. You just won. He’s a pro. So are you.”
Tristan shook his head slowly. “He’s got years left. If today pushes him off-course — even a little — that’s not the kind of performance I want to be remembered for.”
“You’re not responsible for his season,” Fuchs said, dabbing sweat off his chest. “Football’s full of tough days. He’ll come back.”
Tristan gave a long exhale. Nodded. “I’ll write something. Or speak to him if he stays. He should know… this wasn’t disrespect. I wasn’t trying to beat him or embarrass him or something.”
He paused.
“We just had to win.”
There was more underneath it. Everyone could feel it. But no one knew what it was about so they kept their silence.
Tristan just had too much respect for Kevin. If this wrecked his confidence for the rest of the season — or cost him his place at City — he wouldn’t be able to live with that.
Truth was, if it weren’t for Kevin’s template, he wouldn’t even be here.
So he was hoping this match didn’t crush him. That it lit a fire instead. It wasn’t too much to ask not for someone who’d already been dumped by a girlfriend who cheated on him with his own teammate, or rejected by a foster family for being “too quiet.”
Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe he was projecting. But this was KDB.If anyone knew how to come back from something like this — it was him.
Before he could get lost in his thoughts,
Ranieri’s voice cut through the air like a cleaver.
“Then win again.”
Everyone looked up.
Ranieri stood at the board, arms folded, eyes like carved glass.
“Respect is good. Sympathy, too. But this game is not over. Win the second half.”
No one spoke back.
They didn’t need to.
The mood realigned like magnets snapping together. Bottles exchanged hands. Laces were retied. Mahrez started humming under his breath again. Kanté was already jogging in place.
Back to work vibes.
.
Outside, the King Power roared — not in joy, but vengeance. It wasn’t celebration. It was punishment. The kind of thunder designed to make a team remember where they were… and what just happened. The away tunnel door hissed open. Then closed again.
No music. No jokes. Just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the scuff of boots on cold concrete.
Joe Hart tossed his gloves at the bench. Not in anger. Just… finished. Fernandinho didn’t sit. He stood hunched, hands on hips, sweat pouring down his arms.
Yaya sat like a man who hadn’t sat all day — legs wide, elbows on thighs, boots scraping at the concrete.
David Silva exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes glassy, neck damp.
And in the corner, Kevin didn’t move. Still in full kit. Still soaked. Towel over his head like a curtain drawn shut. Like he didn’t want to see the world until it looked different.
No one spoke at first. Even Pellegrini held back. Let the air settle. Let the silence sting. Then, finally, the manager stepped forward. Voice calm. Gentle. But clear.
“We’re still in this.”
It sounded less like motivation… more like a reminder of physics. As if he were describing gravity. Or oxygen.
No one answered.
Pellegrini looked around. Pointed toward Delph. “You did well. Keep it simple. Draw runners. Create space.”
Delph nodded once. Tight-lipped. “Got it.”
Yaya muttered something in Ivorian French. Silva caught it, and repeated it louder:
“We can still find them. They press wild, but they’re not flawless. Stop feeding their transition, and they’ve got nothing.”
Hart chimed in, rubbing his scalp dry. “Cut Tristan’s angles early. Force him wide. You let him get middle again — it’s curtains.”
In the far corner…
Kevin moved.
Towel down.
He blinked like someone waking from a bad dream. His curls were plastered to his forehead. Skin pale. Lips dry. He didn’t speak.
Silva turned to him. Voice lowered. “Kevin… this doesn’t define you.”
Kevin stared blankly.
Then dropped his gaze. “It might.”
Silva shook his head, quiet but firm. “No. It won’t. Not unless you let it.”
Fernandinho leaned forward now. “He’s a genius. Tristan. You know that. Everyone does. Nobody’s immune to him. Not even Messi — probably.”
Kevin didn’t laugh. Didn’t scoff like he would have last week. Didn’t blink.
His voice was barely audible:
“I wasn’t good enough.”
A long pause.
Silva looked at the floor. “Not tonight. But that’s not the same thing as not being good. And you know it.”
No one else spoke. Not because they didn’t care.Because nothing they could say would undo the damage.
This wasn’t a bad game. It was a rupture.
This was Kevin’s mirror cracking — in public.
Then Silva’s voice got louder:
“We don’t play to avoid embarrassment. We play to win halves. That’s what we do now. Win the second half. Show control. Show pride. Remind them who we are.”
Heads began to nod.
Pellegrini’s voice followed them out like mist.
“Let’s make them earn it.”
Outside those walls, the fans had already made up their minds.
Kevin didn’t just get subbed. He got sentenced.
@Natacha N: Leicester 1–0 Man City (HT) Tristan Hale has just ended Kevin De Bruyne on live TV. Subbed off after 33 minutes. Not injured. Embrassed felt I was watching a dad teach his son how to play football 💀💀💀
@Bob_The_Indian: bro got subbed for his own mental health. tristan had him in therapy by minute 10 💀💀 I feel for that man
@Samuel_S: £77 million for what exactly? They told us he was “Tristan 2.0” and he got dropped before halftime 😭😭😭
@Gabriel: I would pay money right now to know what Tristan and the Leicester locker room are talking about cause god damn
↳@Gabbie Blair: They said he was Tristan’s heir… turns out he’s just the Tesco Meal Deal version
@xerxes33311: Never thought I’d say this, but I actually feel bad for KDB. That was hard to watch. He looked heartbroken
↳@iIbrahim: nah this reminded me of Messi vs Robinho around 2008. One was an alien. the other was just a bum with just flashy dribbles
@Mann3rs: First-Half Stats
– Tristan Hale: 1 goal, 4 take-ons, 5 recoveries, 1 bullet pass, 1 soul collected
– Kevin De Bruyne: 0 key passes, 1 completed trauma
@No_name_Marco: It’s not about KDB being bad. It’s about Tristan being inevitable. There are levels to this.
↳Sin_12: Yeah there are indeed levels to this, every game we are reminded why in just his third year at twenty Tristan is better than Messi and Ronaldo. I will die on the hill. Speaking of which, what do you think Tristan’s Ballon D’or ranking will be? It’s like the 11th of January. If I remember right, last year Tristan was ninth I think, my memories aren't that good. I got him going around 3-6th ngl, crazy jump.
@Bunnz: Can’t lie, we looked more composed the second Delph came on. Kevin just couldn’t live with Tristan’s pressure. No shame in it. Most can’t. Second half — pride on the line now.
@Pess: the wildest part is tristan looked genuinely sad when kevin walked off like bro broke his toy and felt bad about it 😭 What is wrong with this kid!?
↳@Monkey D. Murda: we all tuned in thinking City would finally test Leicester instead KDB got turned into an inspirational quote “it’s not about how many times you fall…” 💀
↳@David Sousa: KDB tried everything. Short. Long. Overlap. Through balls. Tristan was already there like:🔒🔒🔒🔒🔒 “This pass is unavailable in your region.”
@aaron Gonzalez: somebody ask Jorge Mendes if Tristan gets a “career destruction” bonus this year 😭
↳@Cobalt: Probably, lmao god knows how much Tristan is going to make just from all the bonus lol. I really can’t wait for the second half of this game
And as the tweets kept coming — some cruel, some sympathetic — the cameras cut away from the timeline and back to the studio.
Because at halftime, the whole world wanted to know the same thing: what just happened to Kevin De Bruyne?
HALFTIME – Sky Sports Studio Coverage
Live from the King Power Stadium
The shot cut to the Sky Sports studio perched above the pitch — all glass panels, cold lighting, and uncomfortable honesty.
David Jones leaned forward at the desk, fingers loosely laced. “Welcome back. Leicester lead one-nil at the break, but that is... honestly not the story, is it?”
Thierry Henry exhaled, eyes still on the monitor in front of him. “No. No, it’s not. The story is what we just witnessed between Tristan and De Bruyne.”
Graeme Souness jumped in, voice sharp. “He got embarrassed. I’m sorry. You don’t want to say it — I get it — but that’s what happened. Subbed off in the thirty-third minute. Not tactical. Not injured. He was... done.”
Rio Ferdinand nodded slowly, arms crossed. “You don’t see that often with players of Kevin’s level. But this wasn’t about effort. He tried. He just came up against something he didn’t have the tools to deal with.”
Jones tapped the screen behind them, where replay footage began rolling. Tristan spinning past Yaya and Fernandinho. The triple feint past Mangala. The strike. Net snapping.
“Let’s talk about this,” Jones said. “Thierry, you’ve played with the best in the world. What are we actually looking at here with Tristan?”
Henry didn’t answer right away.
When he did, his voice was quieter. “I’ll say it now. This boy is the closest thing I’ve seen to Zidane and Messi mixed together. But more could be said about Tristan I haven’t or anyone else hasn’t said before. At a certain point we all feel like a broken radio."
Souness looked unimpressed. “That’s great, Thierry. But I’m still thinking about Kevin. This was supposed to be his year. £77 million. Big statement. And he was bullied off the pitch.”
Ferdinand pushed back gently. “It’s one game. Yes, he got outplayed. But let’s not rewrite everything. Kevin De Bruyne is still world-class.”
“World-class players don’t walk off looking like that,” Souness muttered.
Jones interjected, “Well, what do you make of Tristan’s first-half numbers? One goal, four take-ons, five recoveries, and I think we counted nine total duels won — most on the pitch.”
Henry nodded. “Well it’s numbers we expect out of now. This is the norm for the kid.”
Rio gave a half-shrug. “Look — the worrying part for City is this: Tristan didn’t do anything new. He just did what he always does. They prepared for it… and they still couldn’t stop him.”
Thierry added, “And he looked sad when Kevin came off. That tells you everything. He didn’t want this to be personal.”
Souness grunted. “Well, it was. And now Pellegrini’s got a mess on his hands.”
David Jones looked down at his notes, then glanced up at the camera.
“Well — one half gone. And perhaps the most dominant individual performance we’ve seen all season. Leicester lead. City trail.”
The camera panned out.
The screen faded to black.
“Second half coming up — after the break.”
.
The players were already in position.
The camera glided low across the grass. Boots found their places. Somewhere in the crowd, a drumbeat thudded faintly under the chants — steady, relentless.
Martin’s voice returned. Hoarse. Raw. Like even he had to steady himself.
“Welcome back… to the King Power Stadium,” he said, just above the growing crowd noise. “If you’re just joining us — well… you’ve already missed a half of football we might be talking about for years.”
Darren exhaled before chiming in.
“Kevin De Bruyne — subbed off before the half. Not for tactics. Not for injury. Just… for mercy. I don’t know if I’ve seen that before at this level.”
“No changes for Leicester. And why would there be? That wasn’t a fluke. That was clinical. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Manchester City pinned back like that — not in this era.”
Martin cut in “It’s not just the goal. It’s the body language. Look at them. Look at City — they’re rattled. This isn’t just about the scoreboard anymore. It’s psychological.”
The broadcast flashed briefly to Pellegrini on the sideline. Arms folded tight across his chest. Lips moving, but to no one in particular.
Back on the pitch, the crowd surged — a chant rolling down from the stands:
🎵 “Champions League? You’re havin’ a laugh!”
“Where’s your oil money now?!”🎵
Restart: 45:00
Martin’s voice dipped low — that edge-of-your-seat kind of low. “And we’re underway once again here at the King Power… but don’t blink.”
Tweet.
The whistle cracked through the stadium like a starter’s pistol.
Vardy tapped it sideways to Drinkwater.
Immediate pressure. City weren’t waiting.
Darren’s tone sharpened. “They’ve come out like they’ve been promised a bonus in blood. Just look at ‘em.”
Fernandinho flew in on the first pass. Forced Drinkwater wide. Mahrez tried to check back — but Delph was already there, snapping at his heels. The ball scrambled loose — throw-in City.
Martin’s voice cracked. “That didn’t take long. City are hunting now.”
From the first second, it was like someone turned the tempo up to the max.
David Silva dropped in from the wing — eyes scanning like a general. He ghosted inside the pocket. One touch — then two. The ball zipped to Fernandinho, who fed it straight back into Silva’s path, this time cutting diagonally across Kanté’s line.
Silva turned — on a sixpence. “Gone!” Darren barked.
Kanté lunged. Missed.
Silva slipped it square to Delph — Delph pinged it first-time into Sterling’s stride. The entire East Stand inhaled.
Sterling took one touch to settle. Then came the flash — a stepover. Then another. Fuchs hesitated. Sterling darted inside.
Low shot across the face—
Huth slid across — deflected — and the ball cannoned into Drinkwater’s shins.
Back to Silva.
“No pause! He’s still going!” Martin shouted.
One touch to shift. Then a snap-shot low and skimming—
BLOCKED! Wes Morgan. Full-body, like a riot shield.
The King Power erupted.
🎵 “YOUR WALLET’S FAT — YOUR CABINET’S EMPTY!” 🎵
🎵 “NO TROPHIES FOR BALANCE SHEETS!” 🎵
On the pitch, Huth slapped Morgan’s back. “Come on!” he shouted, rallying the line.
Darren's voice surged. “This is different now. City have stopped probing. They’ve started pounding. And Leicester — they’re feeling it.”
City weren’t letting off.
Delph rotated wide. Quick give-and-go with Sterling — Mahrez tracking, but a half-step behind.Delph’s cross came in low — vicious — like it wanted to maim someone.
Aguero dummied.
Silva arrived like a ghost.
Touch. Shot.
Deflected again.
“Blocked!” Martin yelled. “That’s Drinkwater — again — throwing himself in like it’s life and death!”
Schmeichel dove anyway — scrambled — palmed it wide.
Corner.
From the East Stand came the chant:
🎵 “TRISTAN HALE’S GOT MORE CLASS THAN YOUR WHOLE BOARDROOM!” 🎵
The camera cut to Pellegrini on the touchline. Pacing now. Arms folded.Jesus Navas jogged to the corner flag, glancing up once — then whipped it in with venom.
Otamendi charged in — elbows up — rose like a missile—
HEADER!
Over. Barely.
The away end groaned. A machine failing to restart.
Back in play. Leicester’s clearance was weak. City again.
Delph. Yaya. Yaya to Silva.
Silva spun Drinkwater again — turned him like a carousel horse. Mahrez charged in from behind — but Silva slipped it backward to Fernandinho.
First-time diagonal.
It cut between Albrighton and Chilwell like a knife through fruit.
Sterling broke onto it — outside of the boot to settle — jinked inside.
Shot coming.
Kanté stepped in.
BLOCKED.
Didn’t even flinch. Like a man eating a bullet for breakfast.
Martin’s voice exploded. “Every time they get through — there’s a blue shirt willing to die for it!”
Still City.
Delph drove again. Passed Albrighton. Took a knock — didn’t care. Outside of the boot, fed Silva once more.
Silva didn’t break stride. Left-foot turn. Dropped his shoulder. Sent Huth the wrong way.
Back to Fernandinho.
And finally — space.
Fernandinho took it. Ten yards. Fifteen.
WOUND UP.
BANG.
From twenty-five out — a thunderbolt.
Schmeichel — full-stretch — fingertips—
JUST WIDE.
“OH MY WORD!” Darren gasped. “That’s the seventh shot this half — and we’re only ten minutes in! City are throwing the kitchen, the floor, the foundation!”
🎵 “OIL SPILLS — NO SKILLS!” 🎵
🎵 “KEVIN WHO?” 🎵
Darren chuckled breathlessly. “Listen to this crowd! Leicester fans are loving it. They smell pressure — but they’re not afraid. They’re mocking Goliath now.”
On the pitch, Vardy barked orders — pointing toward midfield. “Set! Get set!”
Tristan hadn’t had many touches so far. He was watching tho looking for any chance to score or create chances for Vardy.
Navas and Sterling doubled up again. One-two. Sterling broke free down the line — this time completely unmarked.
Cross whipped in — devilish — fast, curling, dangerous.
Aguero got there. Rose.
Glanced header—
WIDE.
Inches wide.
The away bench stood as one. Groans mixed with applause. Pellegrini’s lips moved fast. Furious, silent Spanish.
On the pitch, Schmeichel grabbed the ball like it had wronged him. “Focus!” he barked.
Chilwell looked rattled. Drinkwater wiped his mouth. Mahrez bent down to retie his boot — buying seconds.
But the message was clear.
City weren’t done.
They had finally remembered who they were.
City were smothering now.
Not reckless. Not impatient.
Just relentless.
Darren’s voice tightened. “You can feel it, can’t you? They’re right there. It’s not if. It’s when.”
Martin agreed. “This is the Manchester City that wins titles. Passing lanes open… then vanish. Every touch has purpose.”
Delph collected it just inside his own half and spun out of trouble with a ridiculous drop of the shoulder. He played it straight into Silva — the metronome of the match.
Silva drifted inside. Then outside. Then back — pulling Leicester’s midfield apart like Velcro.
Then it came — a darting one-two between Navas and Fernandinho.
Kanté read it — but couldn’t stop it.
The ball found its way to Sterling again, out wide left. He darted forward, cut once — twice — inside—
He spotted Aguero.
Slipped it through.
The angle was tight — Aguero took it first time.
CRACK.
Schmeichel dropped low— pushed it away.
Roars from the away end.
🎵 “CI-TY! CI-TY!” 🎵
Leicester scrambled. Huth cleared — but it barely reached halfway. Mahrez tried to break but Delph was already back — tackled clean.
City recycled immediately.
Fernandinho picked it up again. Shifted left. Back to Silva. Then across to Yaya.
Yaya squared up Drinkwater — muscled through him — and unleashed from range.
The ball dipped mid-air.
Schmeichel tipped it again.
Corner.
Martin growled. “How many more of these can Leicester survive?”
Darren added, “This is trench warfare now. Every man fighting. Every second bought.”
Navas trotted over. Raised a hand.
Whipped it near-post.
Otamendi lunged — missed it by a whisker. The ball skidded off a Leicester thigh and out for a throw-in.
Back into City hands.
Delph collected. Took a breath. Reset.
Fernandinho again. Short to Yaya.
Yaya waited.
The crowd began to rise.
🎵 “OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—” 🎵
Yaya’s pass: cutting, surgical.
Silva stepped into it like a ghost — touch, release—
Straight into Sterling.
And he was gone.
Cut across Chilwell — touch with the outside — inside the box now.
Schmeichel charged.
Sterling lifted—
Time slowed.
Martin shouted— “STERLING—!”
The chip arced.
The crowd leaned.
Net. Rippling.
GOAL.
60:02
Manchester City equalize.
The away section detonated. Shouts. Limbs everywhere.
Martin thundered: “THEY’VE DONE IT! STERLING EQUALIZES FOR MANCHESTER CITY!”
Darren let loose, voice cracking. “What a GOAL. What a move. That’s the City everyone feared. They earned that one.”
Sterling slid on his knees, fists clenched. Silva pointed skyward. Yaya just screamed at the crowd.
Leicester players gathered at the edge of the box. Schmeichel slapped his gloves together. “WAKE UP!”
Drinkwater wiped sweat from his jaw. “That was too easy…”
Leicester 1 – 1 Manchester City
Ranieri didn’t scream or shout. He figured this was gonna happen, that game was going way too easy. He turned slightly toward Benetti on the bench. The assistant was already leaning forward, about to flag for subs.
Ranieri’s voice was low but sharp. “Don’t. Not yet.” A pause. “Let them respond.”
Benetti nodded, lips pressed. He sat back down.
.
Out on the pitch, the celebration was still going — Sterling was mobbed by Silva, Delph, and Navas. Even Otamendi had sprinted from the backline, yelling into the sky like they’d just won something.
But the camera had already moved.
To the other side of the halfway line.
Leicester’s players stood in a loose circle. Faces flushed. Breathing ragged. Looking like they’d just been sucker-punched.
Vardy spat into the grass. “Fuckin’ told you they’d come back if we didn’t kill it.”
Mahrez shook his head. “Sterling’s dancing now. Ball’s stickin’ to his boots.”
Tristan didn’t speak. He stood with his hands on his hips, head tilted slightly back, blinking into the lights above like trying to clear his thoughts.
“Oi!”
Wes Morgan’s voice cut across the grass like a whip.
The Leicester captain stomped toward them, eyes blazing. Sweat poured off his temples. His armband was halfway down his bicep.
He pointed straight at the front three — Mahrez, Vardy, Tristan.
“What the fuck have you lot been doing the last ten minutes?! They’ve been knocking. Knocking! And none of you tracked back. Not once!”
Vardy stepped forward. “We’ve been trying to keep the shape—”
“Shape my arse,” Morgan snapped. “You were walking.”
He turned to Tristan now. The voice didn’t soften. “You especially. Get your head back in the game. Now.”
Tristan blinked.
Then nodded once. “Okay.”
Wes held his stare for a second longer.
Then turned and jogged back to the defensive line.
Marc clapped his hands twice. “Alright — let’s fookin’ wake up then.”
Schmeichel bellowed from the box. “WAKE UP!”
The crowd could feel it too — the hum of anxiety rising again.
The ref pointed toward the center circle.
And Leicester lined up to kick off.
Martin’s voice dipped. “That goal rattled them. And Wes Morgan knows it.”
Darren added, “He’s right though. That was too easy. City didn’t just score — they walked through the front door.”
As the whistle blew, Tristan stepped forward.
Tapped the ball to Vardy.
And the second half of the war began. Again.
Leicester didn’t panic.
They could’ve. The crowd was shaky. The momentum had shifted. And City were pressing like wolves with blood in their teeth.
They passed.
Not backwards. Not side to side.
Forward.
Drinkwater turned under pressure and slipped it to Albrighton on the right. Albrighton touched — lifted his chin — and pinged a diagonal toward Chilwell. Mahrez peeled wide to help, drawing a second marker, and suddenly there was space between the lines.
Tristan ghosted into it.
Darren snapped: “There he is. There’s the man of the hour!”
Chilwell clipped it through — Tristan let it run across his body. One touch. Then spun.
Gone.
He carved through Delph like paint off a rusted car.
“Too easy!” Martin barked.
Vardy darted inside. Mahrez flared wide. City’s backline shuffled nervously — just a half-step — and Tristan saw it.
The hesitation.
He opened his body like he was going left — then stabbed it right down the channel with the outside of his boot.
One pass.
Threaded. Measured. Lethal.
“OH MY GOD!” Darren shrieked. “HE’S DONE IT AGAIN!”
Vardy took it in stride. No second thought. Not with this much room.
He burst past Otamendi, one touch to settle, the next to load — and then:
BOOM.
Low.
Across Hart.
Net bulged.
GOAL.
77:08
Leicester 2 – 1 Manchester City.
THE KING POWER DETONATED.
The King Power erupted.
🎵 “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY!” 🎵
🎵 “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY!” 🎵
🎵 “BRING YOUR VODKA AND YOUR CHARLIE!” 🎵
Martin shouted over the chaos.
“IT’S HIM AGAIN! VARDY PUTS LEICESTER BACK IN FRONT!”
Darren lost it.
“NINE. NINE IN A ROW! That’s nine consecutive Premier League matches with a goal — ONE away from history!”
Vardy sprinted to the corner flag and kneed it flat.
Arms wide. Head back. Roaring.
Tristan jogged after him but Fuchs got to Vardy first and tackled him from behind. Mahrez jumped on top. Drinkwater and Morgan weren’t far behind.
Ranieri turned toward Benetti on the sideline, laughing in disbelief.
Martin couldn’t believe it. “It’s Tristan again with the assist — magic from the Golden Boy, surgical weight, perfect angle— and Jamie Vardy is one goal away from tying a record that’s stood for over a decade!”
“Van Nistelrooy did it in 2003. Ten straight. That’s the number. And if Vardy scores next match…”
Darren cut him off. “If? If?! On this form, Martin — it’s when.”
The stadium kept singing.
🎵 “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY!” 🎵
🎵 “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY!” 🎵
The restart came like a sigh of relief.
Leicester 2 – 1 Manchester City.
The scoreboard blinked — like even it couldn’t quite believe what was happening.
But City weren’t done.
Not by a long shot.
Martin’s voice returned like a rising tide. “Here they come again. This isn’t just urgency now. This is survival mode.”
Silva pressed high — ghosted past Mahrez like mist. Delph received. Fed it to Fernandinho. Sterling peeled wide — his feet a blur, like someone had cut the gravity off just for him.
“One-on-one with Fuchs again,” Darren called, leaning in. “This could turn into magic!”
One stepover. Then two.
Sterling dipped his shoulder — Fuchs bit — gone.
The cross whipped in low like a scythe across a wheat field.
Aguero slid. Just missed.
Mahrez hooked it away, desperate.
Martin barked: “And Leicester hold! But for how long?!”
The noise didn’t dip — it surged.
🎵 “YOU’RE JUST A RICH MAN’S QPR!” 🎵
🎵 “YOU’RE JUST A RICH MAN’S QPR!” 🎵
Minute 82.
City were swarming now.
No formations. No finesse. Just footballing fury.
Even Yaya Toure — the elder statesman — thundered into the box like a war horse out of retirement.
Delph clipped a back-post cross — Silva again!
Volley — CRASH — off Simpson’s thigh and back into traffic.
Otamendi swung a boot through the chaos — shot on target—
“SAVED! SCHMEICHEL AGAIN!” Darren yelled. “That’s unreal!”
Martin thundered: “What’s he got? Glue on his gloves? That’s number nine from City and they still can’t crack him!”
Leicester’s crowd fed off it.
Mocking. Taunting. Unshaken.
🎵 “YOU SPENT HOW MUCH?!”
“WE SPENT LESS — AND GOT THE BEST!” 🎵
Then — the break.
Danny to Albrighton.
Throw-in.
Flick-on by Kante.
Vardy read it like it was written just for him.
“GO JAMIE!” Martin shouted. “He’s gone! Otamendi can’t stay with him!”
The crowd leaned forward like a wave about to crest.
Otamendi chased. Mangala tried to close the angle. But Vardy… didn’t panic.
He slowed.
He checked.
Then…
He cut back.
And Tristan was already there.
He hadn’t arrived.
He’d known.
He ghosted in — full stride — boots silent —
And Vardy rolled it.
A perfect little ball.
An invitation.
Martin went into orbit.
“He’s SQUARE—TRISTAN —TAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPP INNNNNNNNNN!!!”
GOAL.
85:03.
LEICESTER 3 — 1 MANCHESTER CITY.
🎵 “TRISTAN HALE! TRISTAN HALE!” 🎵
🎵 “HE’LL BREAK YOUR HEART AND DANCE ON THE PIECES!” 🎵
Darren screamed. “IT’S BEDLAM IN THE KING POWER! HE’S DONE IT AGAIN! TRISTAN HALE, WITH ICE IN HIS VEINS!”
Martin roared: “WRITTEN IN THE STARS. ENGRAVED IN STONE. THE BOY WON’T STOP — AND CITY HAVE BEEN BURIED!”
Vardy sprinted toward the corner flag like a man set free. He kneed it into the earth — fists pumping — veins showing.
Mahrez leapt onto his back. Drinkwater and Chilwell weren’t far behind. Tristan followed roaring, not even doing his celebration. He had a bad start in the second half but he made up for it.
The King Power vibrated. Literally. Cameras shook.
🎵 “ONE JAMIE VARDY! THERE’S ONLY ONE JAMIE VARDY!” 🎵
🎵 “PASS TO TRISTAN — HE NEVER FAILS!” 🎵
Martin breathed, half laughing, half stunned. “Vardy’s second assist this season. And he picks that moment. That pass. That touch. And Tristan — clinical. Ruthless. It’s the perfect storm.”
Darren added, hoarse, “And what a way to end it. No solo screamer. No sixty-yard wonder strike. Just unselfishness, awareness, team football. That’s what makes them terrifying.”
The camera caught Ranieri clapping slowly. One. Two. Then folding his arms, smiling like a man watching a masterpiece unfold.
On the other bench?
Pellegrini was still. Dead quiet.
Behind him, Kevin De Bruyne watched. Expression unreadable. Before the cameras could get to him, he already covered his face.
Martin’s voice lowered again.
“They came. They fought. But this… might be the day Manchester City met something bigger.”
Darren said nothing.
Because the sound was too loud.
Too pure.
Too final.
🎵 “TRISTAN HALE! TRISTAN HALE!” 🎵
🎵 “KING OF ENGLAND!” 🎵
🎵 “HE’S TWENTY AND HE’S BETTER THAN YOUUUUU!” 🎵
There was still time on the clock.
But everyone knew.
This one was over.
.
Soon, maybe in a week or two, I took some days off from posting on Webnovel to make sure Patreon gets back to 30 chapters ahead and I start picking up my slick as well. I have been posting daily chapters btw but clearly its not enough for now as I did miss up along the way.
Comments
noname
they met before I believe during Barbara’s birthday and during the holidays as well
Cobalt
Kinda surprised you didn't write Tristan and Barbara parents meeting for the first time I'm just realising btw, add more to that slice of life tag
