Sinbad
patreon
Chapter 260: Celebration
🕑 Added 2025-08-22 06:45:02 +0000 UTCKevin De Bruyne rose to his feet as the final whistle echoed out, swallowed almost instantly by the roar.
The Leicester bench had emptied in a flash. Black and gold shirts flooded the pitch, arms raised, voices breaking. Blue flares let off in the Leicester end. Flags whipped and clashed like waves.
“TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!”
“CHAMPIONS AGAIN!”
“QUAD-RU-PLE! QUAD-RU-PLE!”
Kevin stood there for a moment, hands at his sides, before he finally stepped out onto the grass.
The noise pounded through his ribs. Around him, City players moved slowly, jerseys tugged, heads bowed. Joe Hart crouched near the penalty spot, staring at nothing. Fernandinho tugged off his armband and handed it to Kompany without a word.
"Did the players know the odds were low? Sure. But did they still play to win? Of course they did. So when the final whistle blew, it stung, every single one of them felt it.
Kevin kept walking. One by one, he shook hands with every Leicester player that passed.
"Well played."
"Congratulations."
"You earned it."
He meant every word. They’d lost. He hadn’t played a single minute.
But he wasn’t the sulking type. He knew when to give the other side their flowers and Leicester had earned every petal.
Fuchs thanked him. Drinkwater clapped his back. Even Vardy still catching his breath, red faced grinned wide and bumped Kevin’s shoulder. "Next time, yeah?"
Then Tristan emerged from the tangle of bodies — shirt in hand, hair soaked, eyes still glassy from the moment. Mahrez was hanging on one arm, shouting something in French. Kanté had literally jumped on his back, fists in the air, face lit up like a kid in a dream.
Tristan was laughing. His mouth open, his voice lost in the chaos.
Kevin stepped into his path.
Tristan slowed. Mahrez peeled off. Kanté slipped down to his feet, still bouncing.
Kevin held out his hand. “You were brilliant.”
Tristan shook it. “Thank you, don’t worry you get your chances for revenge, who knows maybe in this Euro?.”
That made Kevin laugh. “Maybe, who knows at this point.”
They broke apart.
Tristan turned, grabbed Kanté by the arm, and practically hauled him back into the fray.
“Kanté! Come here!” He swung an arm around the midfielder’s shoulder then dropped low, threw him up onto his back.
Kanté yelped in surprise but held on tight, both of them howling like kids who’d just robbed a candy store.
Nearby, Vardy jumped into Fuchs’ arms. Chilwell sprinted down the sideline, arms flapping like a lunatic. Albrighton pointed to the crowd and roared something unintelligible. Mahrez kissed the sky and made a prayer motion.
And above it all, the announcement rang out:
“Supporters are reminded to remain in the stands. Please do not enter the field of play.I repeat: Supporters are reminded to remain in the stands.”
No one cared.
The Leicester fans were weeping, dancing, singing at full volume. Grown men had collapsed into hugs.
Kevin lingered near the center circle, watching it all. Watching them.
He turned once toward the tunnel.
Stopped.
Turned back to the pitch.
He wasn't done watching yet. Not today.
Not until they lifted it.
And when they did he promised himself next season, he’d be the one holding the damn thing.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Next season, he promised himself. I’ll train until my legs give out. I’ll study every pass, every angle. If there’s something I’m missing, I’ll find it whether that means training with Tristan or figuring it out on his own.
..
Back on the pitch, the Leicester players had formed a loose, bouncing huddle. Arms around shoulders, boots half untied, faces flushed and soaked.
Vardy shouted into the middle of it, voice already halfway gone. “Someone pour me a pint right now or I’m drinking the champagne straight from the bottle!”
Schmeichel sprinted in from the side and jumped onto Vardy’s back. “Hold still, you maniac, this is for the cameras!”
Vardy buckled and nearly dropped him.
“You’re heavy! Jesus, how much do you eat!?”
Albrighton collapsed onto the grass a few feet away, arms stretched out wide like he’d been struck by lightning.
“I can’t feel my legs…”He groaned dramatically. “Someone bring me my kids and a wheelbarrow.”
Fuchs stumbled over, dragging Chilwell by the collar like a mischievous kid who snuck onto the pitch. “He didn’t even play and he’s already asking for a medal!”
Ben was giggling, face red. “I’m just here for the vibes!”
Ranieri and Benetti were near the touchline, bear hugging so tight it looked like one of them might pass out. They spun once, twice, laughing like schoolboys.
“We did it!” Ranieri shouted, eyes watering. “We actually.. we did it!”
Tristan was laughing with Vardy before he few steps away from the crowd, then slowly, without thinking, just dropped.
Flat onto the Wembley grass.
Boots dug in. Arms behind his head.
For the first time all day, he let himself relax.
He hadn’t shown it. Not in the warm up. Not in the tunnel. Not when Aguero equalized. But inside, he’d been carrying it all. The pressure. The fear of injury. The noise. The weight of the quadruple. The worry that if something went wrong, it would be his fault.
Now?
Now it was done.
And won.
He exhaled, long and slow, eyes locked on the open roof above.
“Tristan” came from Kante's voice, slightly out of breath. “You dead or dreaming?”
Tristan didn’t move. “Little of both.”
Kante dropped down beside him, back against the turf. “We should play every final at Wembley.”
“You’d run 14k even if it was in a Tesco car park,” Tristan replied.
“True,” Kante said, nodding solemnly.
Vardy lay down on the other side of Tristan with a huff. “Lads… I can hear my hamstring crying.”
“Shut up,” Albrighton called. “That’s just your age.”
“Respect your elders!” Vardy shouted.
Tristan laughed. The sky above him shimmered. The stadium roof curved like a crown over it all.
They were champions again.
..
He tilted his head back, eyes searching for the executive box. It was too far to make out the details, just a blur of glass and silhouettes but he didn’t need to see to know.
He could picture it: Barbara with both hands cupped around her mouth, yelling something he couldn’t hear. His mum beside her, tears streaming, a little Leicester flag crumpled tight in both fists. And his dad smiling for once, loud and proud.
Martin’s voice broke through the roar of Wembley.
"There are moments in football where the clock stops. Not officially. But emotionally. This... is one of them.”
A pause. Then Alan picked it up. "There’s just something about it, these players, these lads we’ve watched rise from underdogs to world class players, the way they celebrate like a family. It’s rare. It’s not something you see often with a team this great, this historic.
Martin came back in.
"And for Leicester City, this isn’t just a trophy. It’s a statement. They’ve been the most dominant side in England, maybe in all of Europe but still, there were questions. Could they handle the pressure? Could they deliver in a final against a behemoth like Manchester City despite winning against them twice in the league. They were still doubts but no more. "
“They’ve answered that. Loudly."
Alan added. "There’ll always be doubters. That’s the curse of being the underdog, no matter how good you become."
Martin closed it.: "But tonight, Leicester reminded the world who they are. 2015–2016 League Cup winners and still rewriting the rules of English football."
Down below, the stadium PA crackled again.
"Please be advised: the trophy presentation will begin shortly. Players are asked to remain on the pitch."
Schmeichel whooped.
Vardy punched the air.
And Tristan’s eyes closed again just for a moment.
Waiting for the final moment to come.
The players began to gather near the center of the pitch after ten minutes. Wembley buzzed with anticipation again.
A low murmur spread across the stands as silver gates opened near the tunnel. Security moved into formation. Stewards unrolled the royal carpet. And with little ceremony but heavy expectation, Prince William stepped out, flanked by League Cup officials.
Up in the gantry, Martin's voice carried the weight of the moment.
"Here he is, His Royal Highness Prince William, here to present the 2016 League Cup to Leicester City."
"I don’t think anyone’s going to argue this time. They’ve been sensational. Three goals, one each from Vardy, Mahrez, and of course, Tristan Hale… and let’s not forget the defensive work too."
"No, not a soul," Martin agreed. "And what a final it’s been. You could write a book about it and with these players, someone probably will."
The players began to form a line, medals first.
They walked one by one toward the stage that had risen near the halfway line.
Fuchs was first, boots muddy, smile wide as a canyon. Vardy followed, chest heaving, cheeks flushed from effort and joy.
Then came Mahrez, looking like he wanted to sprint up the steps and grab the trophy himself.
Drinkwater gave Prince William a respectful nod and a joking wink. Kante offered a shy bow. Schmeichel, eyes misty, shook hands with everyone like a man holding the moment still.
And then Tristan.
He stepped up slow. The stadium rumbled again. Prince William smiled as he extended a hand.
"Mr. Hale," he said. "You’ve done your country proud."
Tristan shook his hand firmly. "Thank you, sir."
The medal settled heavy around his neck. Not just silver and ribbon but everything that came with it. Expectations. Sacrifice. Proof.
He turned toward the crowd.
The Leicester end had erupted into song.
"Tristan! Tristan!"
"From Leicester, he's our shining star!
Barbara could be seen in the executive box, cupping both hands around her mouth as she screamed along with the rest. Julia wiped at her eyes, emotional and beaming. Ling thumped a proud fist on the glass.
As the last medal was handed out, Prince William turned to Morgan.
"Wes," he said. "When you’re ready."
Morgan stepped forward. Hands gripped the handles.
Tristan, Vardy, Mahrez, and Schmeichel gathered around him.
The crowd began to count.
"THREE! TWO! ONE!"
The trophy lifted high into the Wembley sky.
Gold confetti exploded from the rafters.
Martin’s voice cracked as it rose above the crowd. "And there it is! Leicester City! 2016 League Cup Champions!"
Alan Smith could barely be heard. "I’ve seen finals. I’ve played in a few. But this… this might be one of the loudest ones yet. I can’t imagine the scene if they win the league and the Europa League.”
Down on the pitch, chaos took form again.
Vardy kissed the trophy and shouted, "That’s for the doubters!"
Mahrez tried to hold it one-handed and nearly dropped it, sending the rest of the team into hysterics.
Tristan stepped back for a moment clapping his hands towards the fans.
Then he turned back and shouted over the din, "Alright, lads! Picture time!"
As the team gathered near the trophy, photographers flooded the field. Flashes burst like fireworks.
"Tristan! Tristan!"
"From Leicester, he's our shining star!
Barbara could be seen in the executive box, cupping both hands around her mouth as she screamed along with the rest. Julia wiped at her eyes, emotional and beaming. Ling thumped a proud fist on the glass.
As the last medal was handed out, Prince William turned to Morgan.
"Wes," he said. "When you’re ready."
Morgan stepped forward. Hands gripped the handles.
Tristan, Vardy, Mahrez, and Schmeichel gathered around him.
The crowd began to count.
"THREE! TWO! ONE!"
The trophy lifted high into the Wembley sky.
Gold confetti exploded from the rafters.
Martin’s voice cracked as it rose above the crowd. "And there it is! Leicester City! 2016 League Cup Champions!"
Alan Smith could barely be heard. "I’ve seen finals. I’ve played in a few. But this… this might be one of the loudest ones yet. I can’t imagine the scene if they win the league and the Europa League.”
Down on the pitch, chaos took form again.
Vardy kissed the trophy and shouted, "That’s for the doubters!"
Mahrez tried to hold it one-handed and nearly dropped it, sending the rest of the team into hysterics.
Tristan stepped back for a moment clapping his hands towards the fans.
Then he turned back and shouted over the din, "Alright, lads! Picture time!"
As the team gathered near the trophy, photographers flooded the field. Flashes burst like fireworks.
.
Players were still yelling. Still hugging. Still kissing the trophy like it had blood in it.
But Tristan?
He was scanning the edge of the pitch now past the swarm of reporters, past the flares, the flags, the noise.
And there she was.
Barbara.
She was walking fast, hair loose from all the jumping and screaming. The second she saw him, she broke into a run.
Tristan met her halfway.
He didn’t say anything. Just wrapped both arms around her and picked her up like she weighed nothing. Barbara laughed and clung to him, burying her face in his neck.
“YOU DID IT, BABE!,” she shouted, laughing.
He didn’t answer with words. Just kissed her. Right there. On the Wembley grass, between photographers and security, with fans singing their names from the stands. A full kiss. A relieved, exhausted, emotional, damn I missed you kind of kiss.
Then he pulled back just a little.
Tugged the medal off his neck.
And looped it around hers.
Barbara blinked.
“Tristan..”
He leaned in close.
“One down,” he said softly, voice still breathless. “I’ll put four more around you soon.”
Barbara stared at him, lips parted. Then smiled and pulled him into another kiss.
A few feet away, Julia reached the edge of the sideline, flanked by Ling. She was already crying, flag clutched to her chest.
Tristan turned at the last second and caught her eyes.
“Mum!” he called, waving her over.
She came quickly, almost tripping in the grass and threw both arms around him. "You were incredible," she whispered, tearful. “Absolutely incredible.”
Then came Ling. For once, a hug from his dad, oh those were rare.
They all stood together for a moment. A family, shoulder to shoulder, gold confetti drifting down like lazy snow.
“Let’s get a picture,” Barbara said, brushing her hair back with one hand.
So they did.
One with the whole Hale family, arms wrapped tight. Another with Barbara kissing Tristan’s cheek. One with Kanté squishing into the frame. Then Vardy ran in, shouting something about “media coverage” and “I better not be cropped out!” and dragged half the squad in for a group photo, everyone packed around the trophy, smiling so wide their faces hurt.
Photographers snapped shot after shot, the flash never stopping, the songs never fading.
And somewhere far away in a cluttered newsroom full of flickering monitors and late night coffee one paper editor at the Daily Telegraph stared at the live feed.
He paused.
Then typed:
"MIRACLE MEN: LEICESTER CROWNED AGAIN"
Comments
Mojib Naseri
What happened to the second chapter?
noname
Yeah it is
Bless
Is this the carabao cup?
