Sinbad
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Interlude Chapter 262: Closure
🕑 Added 2025-08-26 03:29:32 +0000 UTCMarch 1, 2016 — King Power Stadium
Premier League: Leicester City Vs West Brom
The air was cold and heavy. Like the city itself had finally exhaled after a weekend of screaming.
Blue scarves were everywhere, but the energy wasn’t the same. Not tonight. The flares were gone. The fans still sang, still clapped but even the noise felt muted. No Wembley. No medals. Just another Premier League match against a team that came to spoil the fun.
Martin Tyler set the tone.
"Back home in Leicester, and back to work. Three days after lifting their first trophy of the season, the League Cup champions return to Premier League duty and Alan, there’s no hiding the fatigue, is there?"
Alan Smith nodded from the broadcast booth, his voice equally tempered.
"No, and you can feel it, in the stands, in the players’ legs. This was always going to be a comedown. Nights like Wembley don’t just take energy, they take your soul for a little while."
.
The game opened in second gear.
Leicester looked human for once.
Touches that had felt automatic a week ago now came half a beat late. Passes skimmed off the surface with just enough wobble to break the rhythm. Mahrez checked his run. Drinkwater checked his shoulder. Albrighton checked out entirely.
Kanté still ran. And ran. And ran. Because that’s what Kanté did. But even he, the heartbeat of their chaos, couldn't jolt life into the tempo. Not tonight.
Tristan tried. You could see it in the way he snapped into the first tackle — boots clattering, drawing a sharp inhale from the stands. A second later, he sprinted forty yards to press a centre-back.
He shouted once, twice, arms waving, trying to rouse something from the midfield.
And then, in the sixth minute a flicker of hope.
Mahrez ghosted into the half-space, drawing two men without trying. He glanced up, saw the line split for half a second, and slid a pass through with the casual cruelty of a pickpocket.
Vardy exploded onto it. One touch to glide past McAuley, another to set himself. King Power stood up as one not with excitement, but muscle memory.
Then the shot. Low, across the keeper. Classic Vardy.
Wide.
By inches.
The crowd let out a groan.
Martin let the silence linger before speaking as if even he hadn’t expected it to miss. “You’d bet your mortgage on Vardy there. That was the one. That’s usually the one.”
Alan shook his head, tone tight.
“Maybe tried to catch the ‘keeper early. Maybe felt the moment breathing down his neck. You score fifteen in a row… number sixteen starts to feel like it’s watching you.”
Back in midfield, Tristan jogged past Vardy on the jog back.
“Close, mate. Next one.”
The fans clapped anyway for their team.
By the 20th minute, West Brom had dropped into a solid block of nine behind the ball. Breaks came only on counters or set pieces. Craig Dawson looked like a man relishing every clearance.
Tristan dropped deeper to receive the ball, trying to influence the rhythm. He spread play left and right, but space was rare, touches heavy.
By the 34th minute, he slipped in behind just barely, only for the flag to go up again.
Alan sighed.
"Third offside. He’s walking that line, but his timing’s off. He knows it. The legs aren’t responding the way the brain wants tonight."
Martin added, "A rare off-night, perhaps. Can’t remember the last time he had a game rating below 8."
Halftime came with little drama. A few groans. A lot of shrugs. One fan held up a banner that read, “VARDY SCORE THE 16TH ONE!.”
The second half brought substitutions. Albrighton came on for extra width. Drinkwater tried looping balls over the top, but the runs weren’t sharp enough. Fuchs whipped in crosses from deep, but every header flew too high or found a West Brom body.
In the 64th minute, Tristan darted into the box, cut past one man, and fired from an angle over the bar.
The fans groaned, hands behind heads.
Martin leaned back in his seat.
"He’s tried everything. You can see the frustration now. But you can’t expect miracles every night."
Alan agreed.
"They’re still in four competitions. This was always coming. A flat night. One where your lungs burn and your feet don’t obey. You get through it, and move on."
The clock ticked down.
One last surge in the 87th minute, Mahrez to Vardy, Vardy squared it to Tristan, one on one but Ben Foster dove at his feet. Cleared.
Whistle.
0–0.
A collective sigh from the King Power crowd. Disappointed, yes. But not angry. They couldn’t ask for anything more from their team and players.
"A goalless draw. Vardy’s historic run ends at fifteen. But Leicester stay top.”
Alan closing his notes added.
"Exactly. They’ve still got their eyes on bigger things. And that’s what matters."
As the players trudged off, Tristan Hale looked up to the fans and gave a small wave, apologetic.
Today just wasn’t their day, no matter what he tried. But he took the draw rather than a loss.
What matter was how they rebounded.
Because champions weren’t built on nights like Wembley alone.
They were forged in matches like this.
.
The locker room was quiet. No one was yelling or shouting or putting the blame on someone else
It was a team loss. Simple as that.
Shin pads clattered into bags. Boots scraped against tile. Zippers buzzed.
Ben dropped into a seat, towel over his head. Schlupp leaned against the wall, sipping water like it was whiskey. Mahrez hadn’t moved in five minutes, staring at his boots like they’d betrayed him.
Tristan sat with his elbows on his knees, shirt still damp. He didn’t know what to say. Not at first.
Across from him, Vardy peeled tape off his ankles with the care of someone defusing a bomb.
The silence dragged.
Then Tristan sat up straighter, looked around the room.
“We looked tired,” he said, his voice low but clear. “Because we were tired. And that’s okay.”
A few heads lifted.
“We just weren’t good enough, we are tired. But come on next match, we gotta win.” He paused,
“And we’re still top so let’s keep it that way. Let’s not fumble one of the greatest seasons of all time.”
The players nodded.
Tristan looked at Vardy last.
“You gave us fifteen. That streak? It dragged us through some rough ones. Don’t hang your head about today.”
Vardy didn’t look up, but he muttered back, “Yeah, appreciate it.”
The door creaked. Ranieri walked in.
"Okay," he said after a pause. "Not our best night. But not a disaster."
A few heads lifted. Most stayed low.
"You gave what you had," Ranieri continued. "Even when your legs said no. Even when your brain said sleep. I’ve seen teams fall apart after a final. You didn’t. You stayed together."
He let that hang.
"And we move forward. That’s it."
A knock at the door. A staff member peeked in, headset still on.
"Uh, sorry, guys. Media room's ready. They want you both. Tristan and Vardy."
Tristan looked up. Then back down at his boots. "You go."
Vardy squinted. "Come again?"
"This was your night. Streak or not. I’m not going."
Vardy stared for a second. Then:
"Fuck you. Now I’ve gotta with them.”
Tristan laughed but he still didn’t go. Like he said tonight was about Vardy.
Media Room – Five Minutes Later
The lights were already blazing. Reporters filled the front rows like birds on a wire, murmuring to each other, lenses adjusting, pens poised. The buzz hadn't died from the League Cup win, but tonight's goalless draw left them hungry for soundbites.
The side door opened.
Jamie Vardy strolled in with his training top half-zipped and his hair still damp, swinging a bottle of Lucozade like it was champagne. He blinked against the lights, squinted at the crowd, and ambled to the seat.
Before he could sit, someone shouted from the middle row. "No Tristan tonight?"
Vardy flopped into the chair, leaned into the mic.
"Nah, he said the night was mine. Which is funny, since I missed the only sitter I had."
Laughter echoed across the room. Even one of the camera guys chuckled.
"Seriously," Vardy went on, twisting the cap off the bottle, "fifteen goals in a row, it’s been mad. But I’m glad it’s over. I’ve had defenders breathing down my neck like debt collectors. One lad asked me for my boots at halftime. Thought he was gonna wear ‘em to stop me scoring."
More laughter.
"So you don’t mind the run ending?" a reporter asked.
"Nah. Look, fifteen is cool. But every week someone’s like, 'Make it sixteen!' like it’s a meal deal or something. Maybe now they’ll go back to chanting for Tristan. He’s overdue a 50-yard screamer anyway."
"How do you think the draw affects momentum?" came the next question, more serious.
Vardy sipped. Then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"It doesn’t. Simple. We just won a trophy three days ago. Half the squad’s still recovering. I saw Mahrez fall asleep during warm-up. And our prince for the first time just had a off game, hmm, just reminded us he’s a human too. We’ll bounce back. No drama."
"You worried about the schedule ahead?"
Vardy tilted his head. "Why would I be? I’ve got Tristan in front of me, Kanté behind me, and about four lads who run more than me. I just jog around and get all the credit."
"So what’s the plan now?"
"Food and peace," Vardy said immediately. Then thought about it. "Might get a pint. Or three. I mean, no goal means no ice bath, right?"
Another hand shot up.
"Jamie, what did Tristan say after the match?"
Vardy stretched, feigning deep thought.
"He said: ‘Don’t worry, mate. I’ll carry the headlines again.’ And honestly, thank god. I don’t want it. I’m allergic to press. You lot keep asking about my hairline."
"Will you be backing him for the Golden Boot now?"
"Golden Boot? I’m backing him for Prime Minister. You seen the state of politics lately? Put Tristan in the House of Commons, he’ll two foot someone by Thursday and fix the budget by Friday."
The room burst out laughing.
Vardy stood, tugging the mic down like he was DJing.
"Alright, unless anyone wants to ask about my missed shot again—no?—brilliant. Cheers lads. See you after the next one. Or don’t. Hopefully it’s Tristan season again."
He walked off, muttering under his breath about “needing a Redbull,” leaving a room full of disappointed reporters looking for any type of news from Leicester.
.
A/N: Very short chapter, I know, I know but I been working on another chapter before this but I got stuck and didn’t know how to continue and I didn’t wanna wait another day to post it.
So I just cooked this chapter up real quick. I been planning and writing out how to end this season and what to do with the system which has been a struggle, I haven't’ forgotten the rewards or the draw to get something from the system, I been working on the chapter for like 2 days now.
