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Chapter 235: Liverpool Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-07-19 18:54:05 +0000 UTCDecember 26, 2015
Anfield Tunnel, 5 Minutes to Kickoff
.
The fog still hadn’t moved. It hovered low over Liverpool like a warning, thick as milk and twice as stubborn. Even inside Anfield, the floodlights seemed to slice through it instead of clear it sharp beams casting long shadows down the tunnel.
Boots tapped against concrete. Breath fogged from players’ mouths trying to warm up.
Leicester lined up in royal blue, shoulders squared. Liverpool stood opposite in crimson, chests puffed slightly higher than usual.
Tristan adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and bounced gently on his heels. His boots Storm Pulse: a pair of new brand. Five of his teammates wore them too — Kante, Marc, Ben, and Maguire. Others wore them depending on their mood throughout the season.
Ben shifted nervously beside Tristan , pulling his collar up once, then again.
“You alright, mate?” Tristan asked.
Ben gave a stiff nod. “Yeah. Just… Anfield.”
Tristan looked over at the roaring stands, the endless sea of red scarves, the expectation crawling down the tunnel like smoke.
“It’s still a pitch,” he said, his voice calm. “Still grass. Still two nets. Don’t let the history talk louder than the football. We are the best team in the world right now.”
Ben gave a small nod, and behind him, Marc smiled faintly..
Liverpool.
Henderson. Milner. Lallana. Clyne. All in their zone. But not untouched by the moment. Not after what Klopp had said to them privately three days ago.
“He’s interested.”
“Top four, or he’s gone.”
“Make him believe in this club.”
Tristan took one step out of line, jogged a few feet up to Kante, and bumped fists.
“You good?”
Kante nodded. “Yes.”
Down the line, Klopp emerged like he’d been summoned — backwards cap, coat open, expression somewhere between a grin and a plan. He moved briskly, shaking hands with the Leicester side, peppering in jabs:
“Jamie, behave.”
“Danny, leave my midfield alone.”
“Marc, if you outrun Moreno again, I’ll cry.”
When he reached Tristan, he paused. Held the handshake a second longer.
“Tristan,” he said grinning.
Tristan smiled politely. “Merry Christmas.”
“You ruined mine,” Klopp replied with a grin. “But fair play. Just… don’t ruin New Year’s too.”
Tristan leaned in, voice just above a whisper. “We’ll see how your midfield holds up.”
Klopp clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s dance, then.”
And then the walk began.
They walked out into the light like gladiators.
The tunnel opened up, and sound poured in — not just noise, but a thunderous, pulsing wave that shook from the rafters to the blades of grass. Anfield didn’t whisper welcome. It screamed it.
Leicester emerged in royal blue. Liverpool in blood red.
Fog still curled above the stands like smoke after cannon fire, but under the floodlights, every player gleamed. The boots. The kits. The tension.
Tristan stepped onto the pitch last.
And hanging just above the tunnel, stretched taut between two rusting railings on the Kop end, was a banner that hadn’t been there in warmups. Fresh paint. Long letters.
“MAKE THIS YOUR STAGE, TRISTAN — THE KOP IS WAITING”
The cameras found it instantly. Cut to it like it was gospel.
Then back to Tristan, just in time to catch his reaction.
He looked up. Blinked. Let out the faintest breath of amusement through his nose.
And then he smiled. This was new for him but not a welcomed one.
In the commentary booth high above the pitch, Rob Hawthorne let out a chuckle through the mic. “Well, if there were any doubts about how Anfield feels about Tristan, I think we’ve just seen them cleared.”
Andy Hinchcliffe leaned in slightly, his voice dry. “You think Mendes had that banner printed himself?”
Rob laughed. “He wouldn’t need to. Klopp could’ve ordered it on club stationery at this point.”
Rob nodded. “The whole stadium’s playing their part now. You can feel it, not just a match, this. This is courtship.”
Down on the pitch, the players began lining up. Mascots peeled off toward the sidelines. Camera operators backed into their positions. The two captains shook hands — Jordan Henderson and Wes Morgan, shoulder to shoulder at midfield, arms tense beneath their armbands.
The coin was flipped. Henderson won it. He didn’t look smug, but he did steal a glance toward Tristan, who was still flexing his wrists like he was winding up the storm inside.
Henderson gave him a quick, familiar nod, not hostile one.
Just: Let’s go.
Tristan nodded back.
Same Time
In the warm living room of Tristan’s house,, the television glowed against the pale walls. Christmas lights blinked gently across the mantel. The house still smelled faintly of cinnamon and lamb fat — leftovers from the night before.
Barbara sat cross-legged on the couch, biscuit in hand, the edible kind with a blanket over her knees and her free arm tucked under her chin. At her feet, Biscuit the dog had claimed a full sofa cushion, snoring lightly, tail flicking each time Tristan’s face appeared onscreen.
Anita sat beside her, arms folded, eyes glued to the screen. Her English had come far, but she preferred to listen.
Their mum, dressed in a soft ivory sweater and slacks, sat neatly at the edge of a nearby armchair, hands clasped together over her lap.
Their dad was right next to their mom.
Julia sat on the opposite couch, knitting needles clicking, though the rhythm had slowed to match the tension in the room. Her eyes had barely left the screen since the kickoff graphics rolled.
Ling had claimed his favorite chair across from the TV.
Barbara narrowed her eyes. “They really made a banner.”
Julia didn’t look up. “Of course they did. Wouldn’t be surprised if they tattooed him on a baby next.”
Anita tilted her head. “They want him in red, don’t they?”
Barbara glanced sideways. “Yeah. But he’s still ours.”
Her dad nodded, voice low and accented. “Everyone wants best player. Is normal. But not everyone loves him like here.”
Barbara shook her head but couldn’t help the smile.
The screen split as both teams formed up — and now, formations filled the broadcast like tactical blueprints made for war:
🦊 Leicester City – 4-2-3-1
🧤 Kasper Schmeichel (GK)
🚀 Ritchie De Laet (RB)
🏰 Harry Maguire (CB)
🏰 Robert Huth (CB)
🚀 Christian Fuchs (LB)
🛡️ N’Golo Kanté (CDM)
🛡️ Danny Drinkwater (CDM)
🎯 Tristan Hale (CAM)
🏃♂️ Riyad Mahrez (RW)
🏃♂️ Marc Albrighton (LW)
⚽ Jamie Vardy (ST)
🔴 Liverpool – 4-2-3-1
🧤 Simon Mignolet (GK)
🚀 Nathaniel Clyne (RB)
🏰 Martin Škrtel (CB)
🏰 Mamadou Sakho (CB)
🚀 Alberto Moreno (LB)
🛡️ Jordan Henderson (CDM)
🛡️ Emre Can (CDM)
🎨 Philippe Coutinho (CAM)
🔥 Adam Lallana (RW)
⚡ Jordon Ibe (LW)
🎯 Roberto Firmino (ST)
"Same formation on paper," Rob said, as the screen hovered between tactical lines, "but two very different intentions. Leicester don’t want the ball — they want the moments after they win it."
"And Liverpool want control," Andy followed. "They want possession with purpose. Henderson and Can will try to anchor that midfield — and Coutinho’s the wildcard. He can tear triangles apart with one touch."
"Kanté’s been a wall all season. But tonight, he’s the gatekeeper. Stop Coutinho — or watch him pick the lock."
"And then there’s the wide play," Andy added. "Ibe and Lallana have the pace to stretch Leicester thin. But Mahrez? If he gets one-on-one with Moreno, that’s danger every time."
A brief silence as the camera cut to the pitch. Players jogging in place. Referee checking both benches.
"And Tristan Hale," Rob said. "What more can be said about the guy that hasn’t already been said a thousand times. The Kop is watching — but it’s also baiting."
"Feels like more than just football tonight," Andy muttered. "Feels like Klopp’s auditioning the guy right in front of us."
Down on the touchline, the fourth official raised the board.
And in the center circle, Tristan adjusted his sleeves.
The whistle spun once in the ref’s fingers.
Showtime.
The whistle blew — short, sharp, and swallowed instantly by the noise.
And Anfield came alive.
It wasn’t just sound. It was pressure. Breathless, chest-tightening pressure that rolled down from the Kop like weather. The kind of atmosphere that demanded mistakes, then fed on them.
Liverpool surged forward like a dam had burst.
Firmino sprinted first, straight at Schmeichel like he owed him money. Lallana followed. Then Henderson. Then Can. A red wave collapsing onto Leicester’s back line before they’d completed two passes.
"Straight into the press," Rob said, his voice cutting through the roar. "Liverpool not waiting for the moment — they’re trying to make it."
"And it’s smart," Andy added. "You don’t let Leicester settle. You suffocate them. You force the mistake."
Ranieri didn’t blink.
His arms stayed crossed, mouth flat, watching the press unfold like a man checking his watch — not out of boredom, but out of certainty. They’d planned for this. Trained for it.
Inside the technical area, Benetti murmured beside him, “They’re going full throttle early.”
“They have to,” Ranieri said without looking over. “But that engine cannot redline forever.”
Out on the pitch, Huth rolled it to Maguire. Maguire to De Laet. The ball stayed pinned to the back four like a hostage.
Firmino lunged.
Maguire twisted.
One touch. Then two.
And he played it back to Schmeichel — calm, lazy even. The Liverpool press just missed.
Klopp clenched both fists at his sides.
"Push them!" he shouted, coat flaring behind him like a cape. "Don’t let them think!"
Zeljko Buvac leaned in beside him. “If they play through us once—”
“They won’t,” Klopp snapped, already stepping toward the edge of his box. “Not yet.”
Schmeichel took his time. Then sent it long. Not a panicked hoof, but a guided missile.
Mahrez read it early. Got there just ahead of Moreno and flicked it over his shoulder — a half-volley touch that should’ve bounced out for a throw.
It didn’t.
It spun inside the line and landed at Tristan’s feet.
"And now Tristan gets his first proper touch — and listen to the crowd," Rob said. "That sound isn't all applause."
"Tristan’s been linked with Liverpool for weeks," Andy reminded. "But he’s not here to take pictures. He’s here to take points."
Tristan didn’t rush. He never did. One touch with his right. Pulled it under with his left. Lallana closed fast, Can faster.
But he didn’t pass.
He slid.
A three-yard slip between both men, weighted perfectly into Drinkwater’s path — and Leicester were out.
"Look at that," Rob murmured. "Split two pressing midfielders with a glide. He’s not even sweating yet."
"They call it the storm,” Andy said, “but Leicester look like the eye right now. Calm. Quiet. Focused."
Ball came back to him near the center circle — and again, he didn’t force it. He turned. Let the game breathe.
Five touches. All in control. Like Anfield wasn’t screaming. Like the Kop banner didn’t exist.
Then came the switch.
A 40-yard diagonal to Albrighton, floating just over Clyne’s reach. Albrighton brought it down clean, turned into space.
“Too easy,” Andy muttered. “Clyne’s isolated and no cover behind him.”
“Which means Vardy’s next,” Rob added. “Look at the angle he’s running — that’s danger.”
Leicester weren’t panicked. Weren’t flustered.
They were… waiting.
Liverpool won the ball back seconds later — but it had taken too much effort. Too many legs already stretching.
The fifth minute ticked in.
Klopp glanced at the stadium clock, then at his bench.
Still 0–0.
Still loud.
But it wasn’t Liverpool dictating.
It was Leicester breathing slower than the noise around them.
And Jamie Vardy hadn’t touched the ball yet.
Minute by minute, Liverpool kept swinging.
Firmino dropped deeper to link play. Coutinho drifted wider. Moreno pushed higher. Every pass felt like the start of something sharp.
But Leicester didn’t break. They bent. Shifted. Absorbed.
Clyne whipped in a low cross — cleared by Huth.
Can tried a volley from distance — blocked by Drinkwater.
Lallana danced into the box — and Kanté stole it like he’d read the script ten seconds earlier.
And every time they won it, Leicester struck.
Minute 9 — Mahrez nearly slipped Vardy in behind.
Minute 12 — a flick from Tristan sent Albrighton down the wing, his cutback inches behind the arriving blue shirts.
Minute 16 — Drinkwater pinged one from range, forcing Mignolet into a two-handed parry.
By 18 minutes, Klopp was pacing like a man in a phone booth.
"They’ve had more of the ball," Rob said, watching the numbers flash on the broadcast overlay, "but it’s Leicester with the clearer looks."
"And that’s what they do," Andy added. "You get caught watching Hale and Mahrez — and then Vardy disappears behind your back line."
Then came minute 20.
Tristan picked up the ball deep and turned — cleanly, too clean — and Milner clattered into him late.
The whistle blew before Tristan even hit the grass.
Free kick. Twenty yards out. Just left of center.
And Anfield went still.
“Here we go,” Rob said, voice already leaning into it. “Dangerous territory. Not just because of the angle — but because of who’s standing over it.”
Tristan pushed himself up off the grass without a word.
Ranieri was already clapping from the sideline.
“Yes! Yes, Tristan! You take! You take it!”
Kanté jogged over. Mahrez too.
“You want one of us to—?” Mahrez asked, half-offering.
Tristan shook his head once.
“I’ve got it.”
He walked slowly to the spot, hands down, eyes locked.
Vardy stood at the edge of the box, hands on hips.
“You feeling it?”
Tristan’s answer was a breath. Then: “Yeah.”
Maguire came trotting forward from the back, glanced at him, then up at the goal.
“Keeper’s leaning left. Just saying.”
Tristan looked once. Memorized everything.
And placed the ball.
Behind him, Liverpool were organizing.
Clyne and Sakho forming the wall. Mignolet shouting for a fifth man. Henderson barking orders. Firmino standing near the edge of the box in case of a rebound.
Klopp didn’t like any of it.
His arms were crossed. Then uncrossed. Then crossed again.
He looked at the set-up. Then back to the scoreboard.
A free kick from 20 yards. And Tristan standing over it.
“You’ve seen this before,” Rob said from the booth. “This is the man who scored from forty yards against Manchester United. He strikes free kicks like penalties. Like they’re owed to him.”
“Three already this season,” Andy said. “Tied for most in the world with Messi. And he’s only played twenty-four games.”
“Thirty goals in twenty-four games,” Rob echoed. “At twenty years old.”
The wall was set. The ref blew his whistle.
And every eye in Anfield locked onto one man.
The whistle blew.
Tristan took one step back.
Then another.
Arms loose. Head still. Eyes fixed.
He breathed in — once.
The wall stood frozen.
Mignolet twitched, crouched low. Loaded.
And Tristan hit it.
He didn’t smash. He sculpted.
The strike was all technique, no panic — curved with millimeter precision, spun like it had been threaded through air by hand.
It arced around the wall.
Bent impossibly late.
Mignolet flew.
Too slow. Too wide. Too human.
Top corner.
Twenty yards out.
The net didn’t ripple.
It snapped.
And for a moment — just a moment — Anfield forgot how to breathe.
Then came the eruption.
Not from the home crowd.
From the away end — a blue detonation of limbs, fists, scarves, and bodies colliding into joy.
“TRISTAN HALE!” Rob shouted, voice climbing over itself. “That is not real. That’s art!”
Andy didn’t wait. “That’s not a free kick. That’s a signature. Top corner. Top speed. Top pressure. And he still bent it like a postcard.”
On the sideline, Ranieri launched into the air like a spring let loose — coat flapping, fists raised.
“Bravo! Bravo, ragazzo!” he bellowed, eyes wide, arms open.
Even Benetti usually ice blurted a stunned, “Jesus Christ.”
And Klopp?
Klopp didn’t move.
He stood still, arms folded. He looked at the turf. Then the scoreboard. Then back at Hale.
And clapped. What else could he do?
Down on the pitch, Tristan didn’t sprint. He just did a simple bow towards the away stand.
Mahrez crashed into him. Vardy behind him. Kanté wrapped both arms around his shoulders, grinning like a child who’d just witnessed a magic trick.
Cameras cut to the replay — slow-motion, gliding, beautiful.
And as the ball curled past Mignolet again, the crowd noise dipped under Rob’s voice.
“Thirty-one goals this season. And that one… that one’s headed straight for history.”
The Kop stayed quiet. Not out of bitterness.
Out of awe.
A handful of whistles. A few groans. But mostly — stunned disbelief.
Klopp scratched his chin, slowly.
On the scoreboard, the numbers blinked once.
Liverpool 0 – 1 Leicester City
And somewhere in the stands, a fan gently lowered his banner.
MAKE THIS YOUR STAGE, TRISTAN — THE KOP IS WAITING
It already was.
23rd Minute — Wilmslow, Cheshire
A log cracked softly in the fireplace. The flames were low now — more embers than heat — casting long flickers across the polished oak walls of the study.
The television screen glowed alone in the corner, sound just audible above the ticking grandfather clock. Anfield roared faintly from the speakers, but the room remained still.
On screen: Leicester in blue. Liverpool in red. Tristan Hale walking back to the halfway line like he’d just tied his boots — not carved a masterpiece into the top corner of Anfield’s net.
Sir Alex Ferguson didn’t move.
He sat in the same high-backed leather chair where he used to draw tactics — scribbled names, arrows, margins turned to maps. A chair once steeped in triumph.
Now it watched erosion.
And he’d lived it in slow chapters.
7–1
5-3
4-2
To Leicester City.
Not Madrid. Not Milan. Not even Arsenal in full roar.
Fucking Leicester.
Sir Alex’s jaw flexed, then set.
It wasn’t luck.
It was him.
Tristan Hale.
The kind of player United used to grow in the garden. The kind they used to summon, shape, own. A player that would’ve once been scouted at sixteen, signed at seventeen, and starting by eighteen. Scholes. Giggs. Ronaldo. Rooney.
But Tristan?
He wore blue. And he wore it like a weapon.
Sir Alex reached slowly for the glass beside him — a neat pour of Glenfiddich 21. Untouched.
On the screen, Klopp was grinning again — teeth bared, hands clapping, eyes lit like he’d found fire in a bottle.
Klopp.
The bloody grinning bastard.
He was building something again.
And if he got Tristan…
If he wrapped his arms around that boy…
What would United become?
A hum of movement from the doorway. A figure entered — not intruding, just enough to speak. A younger man. His former scout. Now part-time advisor.\
He nodded toward the screen. “They’ve got City in three days.”
Sir Alex didn’t turn.
His voice was sandpaper. “Good.”
The younger man hesitated. “You think Pellegrini can stop him?”
No reply.
On the TV, Tristan dispossessed Emre Can with a shoulder, rode the tackle, drew a foul, and kept the ball spinning on the top of his boot as he jogged away.
Sir Alex narrowed his eyes. “If Pellegrini can’t…”
He finally reached for the glass. Took a slow sip.
“…then José better.”
A flicker passed across the scout’s face.
Sir Alex didn’t miss it. “You said he respects José, right?”
“He’s always admired Mourinho’s teams, yes.”
Sir Alex’s stare deepened. “And Mendes is still close to José?”
The scout nodded. “Very.”
Sir Alex leaned forward now, elbows on knees, the glass held loose between two fingers.
“If Klopp gets him, they’ll dominate five years. Maybe ten. They’ll give him keys to the castle.”
Another sip.
“And the lad’s not just brilliant,” Sir Alex continued, voice dropping. “He’s clever. He’ll go where the future’s being built.”
He set the glass down. Stared at the screen again.
Tristan walked past Henderson and didn’t even look at him.
He had everything he wanted — the ball, the attention, the weight of the game balanced on his bootlaces.
Sir Alex didn’t blink.
“Call Mendes,” he said softly. “See if he’ll take a meeting.”
The scout looked surprised. “With you?”
“With me. Quietly. Nothing formal.”
“And the lad?”
Sir Alex hesitated. Then:
“If he’s smart… he’ll listen.”
On screen, Klopp turned to his bench, shouting instructions.
Sir Alex leaned back, shoulders sinking into old leather.
He’d watched his empire crack once. He wouldn’t watch it rot.
Not quietly.
Not if he could still make one last move.
Etihad Campus. Same Time.
The room smelled like burnt coffee and warm wires — a typical matchday debrief. Projector humming, chairs pulled in close, winter fog pressed thick against the glass.
But the focus was internal.
Leicester were leading at Anfield. 1–0.
And it hadn’t been lucky.
It had been exact.
On screen, the free kick replayed one more time. Side angle. Wide angle. Overhead. The ball slicing past Mignolet like it was drawn there with a ruler.
Silence.
Then a quiet voice from the corner:
“That’s not just Hale. That wall’s set wrong. They don’t step.”
Another coach shook his head. “He knew they wouldn’t. Bent it around like he’s done it in training. Seen it four times now.”
Pellegrini stayed seated. Arms folded. Elbows balanced neatly on the table in front of him.
His eyes never left the screen — but he wasn’t watching just the ball. “They don’t waste energy,” he said suddenly.
A pause. Then a few heads nodded.
“Every press is timed,” he added. “No panic. No overcommitment. If they lose the ball, it’s five seconds to win it back — or they drop into two banks. Fast. Disciplined. Like Atletico — but with speed.”
The room had gone quiet again.
On the screen, Leicester cycled play from the back. Fuchs. Drinkwater. Mahrez dropping deeper than usual. Kanté ghosting between passing lanes like smoke.
“They don’t look like leaders,” one assistant muttered. “But they are.”
“They don’t need to dominate possession,” another said. “They dominate space.”
Pellegrini stood, slow. Walked to the front. The projector threw shadows across his face.
“Look at Vardy,” he said, pointing. “See how he pulls Skrtel toward the sideline? Creates the lane for Tristan. It’s not a solo act. It’s choreography.”
Another click. Another clip.
This time it was the Leicester press — De Laet pushing up hard, forcing Mignolet into a rushed clearance. Maguire winning the second ball. Kanté snapping in before Coutinho could turn.
“This isn’t momentum,” Pellegrini said quietly. “It’s a system. Built for transition. Built for moments.”
A long pause followed.
Then he turned back toward the analysts. Calm. Flat. Precise.
“Full team review tomorrow. Backline positioning. Press resistance. Wide overloads. I want everything.”
Someone asked gently, “You want us to isolate Hale too?”
Pellegrini shook his head once. “No. Not just him. All of them. If you only follow one, you miss the shape.”
He looked at the projected screen again — blue shirts flying forward now in rhythm, three touches and they were in behind again.
“They’re not a fairytale,” he said. “They’re a machine.”
Another pause.
Then, simply:
“We play them in three days.”
Eyes flicked to the fixture list.
Manchester City vs Leicester City – December 29. (Away)
“If we don’t break their momentum…they’ll break the league.”
.
Comments
Radagon BDM
Great chapter
BoomBoyz
First paragraph is a lil wonky 😅
