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Chapter 228: United Part 3 (End)
🕑 Added 2025-07-11 03:18:50 +0000 UTCKing Power Stadium – 67:00
The camera cut to the stands where the Sidemen were.
KSI had lost his mind.
“Bro. BRO. Nah. This is murder!”
JJ stood up for the fifth time in two minutes, arms flailing, scarf half-falling off his neck, pointing at the pitch like he was watching someone steal candy from a baby. And loving every second of it.
“Martial’s cooked. United are done out here. I’m crying, man!”
Tobi didn’t answer.
He sat forward in his seat, elbows on knees, hands steepled in front of his face.
He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t even want to come to the game. He had a feeling it wasn’t gonna turn out and he was right.
Of course he had to come for the video and just because Tristan invited all of them to enjoy the game. And it wasn’t every day the world’s biggest athlete invites you and your friends over with VIP-level tickets.
KSI noticed.
“Aw, come on, Tobi. Don’t give me that. You lot poked the prince, and now you’re shocked he burned the castle down?”
Tobi just shook his head before answering and calming himself down. “It’s not over.”
“Bro, it’s very over,” JJ said, waving toward the South Stand, where chants were roaring like a war drum. “You think Rooney pulling one back matters? This is a funeral with fireworks. Man’s doing SIUUUs in front of your players!”
The South Stand was bouncing. Fans practically leaning over the barriers, chanting with fire in their lungs.
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER BE HIM!” 🎵
🎵 “ANTHONY, YOU’LL NEVER BE HIM!” 🎵
🎵 “ANTHONY, YOU’LL NEVER BE HIM!” 🎵
JJ turned to the crowd around him and cupped his hands.
“YOU’RE GETTING SACKED IN THE MORNING!”
Laughter followed. Chants echoed louder.
🎵 “YOU’RE GETTING SACKED IN THE MORNING!” 🎵
🎵 “LOUIS, YOU’RE GETTING SACKED IN THE MORNING!” 🎵
Simon was filming it all. “This one’s going in the vlog. No way I’m missing this.”
JJ looked like he was conducting an orchestra made of chaos.
Tobi finally spoke. “This ref’s letting them play too much. They’re roughing us up off the ball.”
“Because your midfield’s on life support, Tobi,” JJ said, already turning back to the pitch.
“Carrick looks like he’d rather disappear from the face of the map. Can’t even blame him.”
The noise swelled again.
Tristan received the ball and skipped past Phil — again. Mahrez danced on the opposite side. Kanté swept through midfield like a cleaning service on turbo mode.
JJ leaned into Simon. “How many croquetas from Tristan is that now?”
The crowd rose as Mahrez skinned Memphis. JJ raised both arms.
“THAT’S MY WINGER NOW!” he shouted.
Tobi rolled his eyes. “You’re an Arsenal fan.”
“I’m a football fan today.”
Another pass. Another flick. Another gasp.
🎵 “LEICESTER! LEICESTER!” 🎵
JJ shouted along with the chant.
Tobi groaned. “You guys are unbearable.”
Simon leaned in. “He’s doing it again.”
The camera panned down.
Tristan had dropped between the lines again, ghosting into space.
Mahrez saw it. Flicked it.
Tristan let the ball run across his body, nudged it behind him, and spun through Carrick and Smalling like they weren’t even there.
“NAHHHHHHH!” JJ was out of his seat again.
He pointed to the pitch like he was in church.
“THIS MAN’S MOVEMENT IS ILLEGAL!”
The crowd surged again. Fans screamed. It felt like gravity itself was bending toward #22.
Tristan didn’t shoot. He cut inside. Then outside. Then a backheel flick toward Vardy — who missed it by an inch.
The whole stadium groaned like a punchline went unfinished.
KSI fell back in his seat, both hands over his mouth.
“I can’t breathe,” he muttered. “Bro. BRO. If that had gone in...”
Simon nodded. “It’s coming. I can just feel another goal.”
Down on the bench, Chilwell and Huth were yelling instructions. Ranieri still hadn’t moved. Just stood there, arms folded, watching the game like a general who already knew the outcome.
Tobi sighed. “One counter. Just one. I swear, we get one—”
JJ cut him off.
“Bro, if Tristan scores again, I’m running onto the pitch myself.”
The stadium burst again as Mahrez launched another dribble down the right.
The Leicester crowd sang like they were possessed.
🎵 “OLE, OLE, OLE, OLE — TRISTAN! TRISTAN!” 🎵
And in the middle of it all, KSI threw his head back, laughing like a madman.
“Welcome to the future, Tobi!”
Simon just kept filming.
Then it happened — again.
Minute 70.
Kanté stole the ball — again — and burst forward, skipping through Herrera like a breeze through paper. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t check. Just slid the ball forward to Tristan, who was already moving like he’d seen the future.
JJ leaned over the rail. “Oh no. No no no.”
Tristan took it in stride, glancing once over his shoulder. Memphis was crashing in from the side. Blind was stepping up. Smalling held the line, nervously checking both flanks.
Tristan cut inside. Quick shuffle. Then an outside-of-the-boot flick.
Straight into Mahrez’s path.
Perfect weight. Perfect spin.
Mahrez didn’t break stride. He collected it like it was magnetized to him, dipped his shoulder once, and threw Memphis into the wrong postcode with a single feint.
“SEND HIM TO MILTON KEYNES!” JJ bellowed.
The crowd laughed and gasped at once. But Mahrez wasn’t done.
Blind stepped in — too late. Nutmeg. Gone.
Now it was Smalling.
Another shimmy. Another shift.
Ball rolled through the defender’s legs like Mahrez had it on a string.
JJ stood. “NO WAY—”
Mahrez was in.
One touch.
De Gea rushed.
And Mahrez clipped it past him.
Right-footed. Bottom corner.
Net.
3–2.
The King Power exploded like a cannon.
JJ threw both arms up, screaming so hard his voice cracked. Simon caught him as he nearly slipped again. “Bro—BRO!”
Tobi didn’t say a word. He sat frozen. Face pale.
Replays rolled. Tristan’s flick. Mahrez’s feint. The nutmegs. The finish.
JJ was breathless. “Assist of the year. I don’t care. That’s filth. That’s illegal.”
The fans were in meltdown. Scarves in the air. Phones flashing. Pints flying skyward like confetti.
And in the middle of it all — Tristan Hale.
Mahrez turned to the South Stand, arms out, smiling like a man who’d just played a symphony with his feet.
🎵 “RIYAD MAHREZ! RIYAD MAHREZ!” 🎵
🎵 “RUNNING DOWN THE WING!” 🎵
🎵 “MAKING UNITED CRY AGAIN!” 🎵
JJ wheezed. “This team’s a mixtape, bruv. Straight bangers.”
Simon kept filming. “That assist. That assist, man.”
And back in the commentary box, Martin's voice returned, nearly breathless.
"Tristan Hale with the vision. Mahrez with the magic. Leicester City — with the dagger."
Smith added, “You give Tristan that space, that second of time — and he unzips your entire defense like it’s a training bib. And Mahrez? Clinical. Ruthless.”
3–2.
The camera cut to the corner flag.
Mahrez was buried beneath a pile of blue shirts.
Vardy was shouting something that couldn’t be picked up over the crowd noise—probably profane. Drinkwater tackled Mahrez from behind, shouting into his ear. Fuchs arrived clapping like a lunatic. Kanté jogged in late, patting heads.
And then there was Tristan.
Grinning.
For once during this entire game, genuinely grinning.
He wrapped both arms around Mahrez’s shoulders and leaned into the chaos, forehead pressed to the side of Riyad’s head.
“Okay,” he panted. “That one’s going on the Christmas highlights.”
Mahrez burst out laughing. “Nah, bruv. That’s going on my tombstone.”
🎵 “RIYAD MAHREZ! RIYAD MAHREZ!” 🎵
🎵 “RUNNING DOWN THE WING!” 🎵
🎵 “MAKING UNITED CRY AGAIN!” 🎵
The crowd sang so loud it rattled the railings.
In the commentary booth, Martin was riding the wave.
“Leicester City — three. Manchester United — two.What a game it has been, folks. Emotions all over the place for fans of both clubs and fans of the sport in general.”
Smith leaned forward. “I’m still surprised at the chemistry of Tristan and Mahrez. It’s the entire team. Just the way they play football makes you think they grew up playing together like in Barcelona."
The Leicester players started jogging back to their positions. Vardy gave Mahrez a light punch in the ribs. “That finish was a hate crime.”
Mahrez pointed at Tristan. “Blame the flick.”
Tristan laughed again.
Barbara was standing now, hands cupped around her mouth, eyes shining.
Sheeran clapped with genuine awe. Lineker wore a grin of pure disbelief. Jamie Dornan shook his head and muttered, "Unreal.”
It was a full-blown Premier League party.
And below it all, in the middle of the pitch, the players reset.
...
Across the halfway line, Manchester United looked like a team trying not to collapse.
Rooney gathered the players in a huddle near midfield. His voice was sharp, almost desperate.
“We’re not losing to them again. Not like this.”
Carrick nodded. “Then we need to change something.”
Van Gaal stepped forward from the touchline, waving at Fellaini to warm up.
Martin picked it up right away. “And now a change is coming. Marouane Fellaini. You know what that means.”
Smith was already groaning. “It’s going route one. Van Gaal wants height. Chaos. A street fight.”
On the sideline, the fourth official held up the board.
#16 ON
#31 OFF
Herrera jogged off. Head down. Fellaini bounded on, elbowing the air already.
Van Gaal shouted from the sideline. “Long balls! Push the line up! No more passing sideways — get it into the box!”
Smalling turned to De Gea. “Big diagonals. Go early.”
De Gea nodded. Rooney jogged into the striker lane, glancing once at Lingard and gesturing — tuck inside.
And just like that, the mood shifted.
The away end rallied behind it.
🎵 “WAYNE ROO-NEY!” 🎵
🎵 “WAYNE ROO-NEY!” 🎵
The King Power responded instantly.
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER BE CHAMPIONS AGAIN!” 🎵
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER BE CHAMPIONS AGAIN!” 🎵
Smith shook his head in the booth. “This is going to get ugly.”
Martin exhaled. “They’re going for it. All or nothing. A late siege.”
74:59
The referee pointed to the center circle.
Rooney stood over the ball. Hands on hips. Eyes narrow.
Tristan took one last breath, brushing the sweat from his brow, then stepped back into his position.
The whistle blew.
And Manchester United kicked off again.
There was no ceremony. No signal.
Just war.
Rooney tapped the ball sideways to Carrick.
No delay. No back-passing. Just a glance forward—
And then they charged.
Manchester United were no longer playing football.
They were throwing punches.
Leicester didn’t retreat.
Kanté stepped higher. Drinkwater stalked the lanes. Mahrez danced into the half-space.
And Tristan?
Tristan was smiling.
Vardy jogged over beside him as they lined up.
“You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am,” Tristan said. “He nutmegged Smalling.”
Vardy cackled.
“Let’s go finish this.”
And the crowd — sensing it — roared louder.
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE!” 🎵
🎵 “YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
Fellaini won his first aerial duel — knocked it down to Rooney — who was instantly crunched by Maguire.
Loose ball.
Kanté again.
Touch. Turn. Pass.
Leicester away.
Commentary pulsed like heartbeats.
Martin: “They can’t get through! Every time they try to swing, Leicester parry!”
Smith: “And now look — they’re coming again. It’s like fighting a mirror with faster reflexes.”
Mahrez carried down the wing. Found Vardy.
Vardy backheeled to Albrighton.
Albrighton crossed.
Too long.
But the fans clapped anyway.
Because Leicester weren’t done.
The prince was still smiling.
And the royalty in the stands — Ed, Clive, Jamie, Gary — they were standing now too.
Just like the rest of the crowd.
Just like Barbara.
Caught up in the madness.
In the dream.
3–2.
Seventy-five minutes gone.
One more blow waiting.
But from who?
.
Carrick had the ball before he launched it long, sweeping left. Memphis took off. Chest down. A perfect spin. For a second, the away end rose—
CRUNCH.
De Laet clattered through him. No whistle.
The stadium bellowed.
“And here come United again,” Martin said, voice sharpened to a blade. “No buildup. No patience. Just blood in their eyes.”
“They’ve ditched the blueprint,” Smith echoed. “This isn’t football — this is a siege.”
The ball broke loose. Memphis scrambled up and chopped it inside. Blind rushed in. Quick switch right — Darmian.
One touch. Whipped in low.
Too fast. Too flat. But dangerous.
Huth stretched—just barely got a boot.
Straight to Rooney.
Volley.
BLOCKED — MAGUIRE.
A wall of English muscle.
The crowd gasped. Roared. Died down. Then rose again.
Rooney didn’t feel the sting in his thigh. Didn’t feel anything. Only heat.
Only the thunder inside his chest.
We’re not losing again. Not like this.
Schmeichel clapped hard, yelling at his backline.
The ball came back down.
Leicester tried to breathe — Tristan flicked it cleverly to Mahrez near the touchline.
But Drinkwater didn’t get the return.
SMASH.
Fellaini shoulder-checked him off the ball. Just about legal.
“Fellaini’s turned into a weapon,” Smith said. “No finesse. Just force.”
He shoved it to Lingard.
Jesse twisted once, twice — spun Albrighton.
Cut inside. Stepover. Cross.
Back post.
Fellaini rising—
Header!
Over.
Rooney turned away, arms spread. He wanted calm. Discipline.
Fellaini didn’t even look back.
“United aren’t probing — they’re pounding,” Smith said. “Like it’s 119th minute of a cup final.”
Barbara was on her feet again, fingers threaded in her scarf.
Ed Sheeran leaned forward in his seat.
Gary Lineker didn’t blink.
Jamie Dornan turned to Clive Owen and muttered, “What the f*** is this game?”
“Every time Leicester breathe,” Martin said, “United suffocate them again. This is fury.”
Tristan dropped back. All the way to his own third.
Right beside Fuchs.
He wasn’t just tracking Blind. He was shouting at Mahrez, pointing to Vardy, guiding De Laet.
His heart was hammering in his ribs — and not from fear.
From duty. He wasn’t the type to lazy around when he didn’t have the ball at his feet. Looking at a certain turtle.
Rooney picked it up again. Carrick pinged another high, lofted ball toward Fellaini.
Schmeichel punched.
Blind retrieved. Back to Memphis. Over to Rooney again.
Rooney struck it —
Wide.
Groans from the away end. A few heads in hands.
The Leicester crowd exhaled like it had been underwater.
Vardy sprinted all the way back to midfield. Pressed Blind. Got a toe in.
Won a throw.
Tristan bent over, hands on knees, dragging breath in through his teeth.
His shirt stuck to him like it was painted on. Mud on his thigh. Scratch down his arm. But his eyes were blazing.
“Shape!” he shouted. “Talk to each other! TALK!”
Smith’s voice dropped into reverence.
“That’s the difference,” he said. “Some stars rest when they don’t have the ball. Tristan isn’t one of them.”
Back again. Fellaini won the second ball.
Again.
Knockdown. Rooney on it.
SHOT.
BLOCKED — KANTÉ.
The explosion from the King Power nearly knocked the mics out.
🎵 “KAN-TÉ! KAN-TÉ!” 🎵
Still. Still they came.
Memphis danced past De Laet this time. The fullback slipped.
Memphis reached the byline.
Low cut-back.
Tristan Hale — inside his own box — headed it away.
No time to think. No time to admire the clearance.
He turned, yelled, “OUT! OUT! GO!”
Drinkwater tried to carry it.
BAM.
Phil Jones.
Scythed him down.
Free kick.
“Finally,” Martin muttered. “A heartbeat.”
Schmeichel walked up to take it himself.
“This is a Champions League squad playing like their careers are on the line,” Martin added. “And Leicester? They're answering with fire of their own.”
Schmeichel launched the free kick long. It soared like a flare across the frozen sky, dragging every eye in the stadium with it. Vardy chased, boots chewing grass, legs pumping like pistons.
But Smalling was there — just. He climbed above him, neck craned, and nodded it forward with every ounce of force he could summon.
And just like that—
Back it came.
Carrick was waiting. Cool, composed, surgical. He let the ball run across his body, then fed it into Lingard, who ghosted into space between the lines.
Lingard didn’t hesitate. One touch forward, then a sharp cut in toward the D. Mahrez tracked, but the younger Englishman was quicker this time.
Low drive.
Schmeichel dropped, hands strong — caught it clean.
“Safe hands,” Martin breathed. “That’s what they need right now. Calm in the storm.”
“Schmeichel’s not just saving shots,” Smith added. “He’s saving Leicester’s soul.”
But there was no time to admire. Kasper was up again, already throwing it out left.
Mahrez sprinted onto it. He dipped his shoulder, cut inside — but Darmian closed the gap with a crunch. No whistle.
Gasps. Boos. The referee waved play on.
United surged again. They weren’t even thinking. They were acting on instinct, on rage, on the ghosts of that 7–1 humiliation months earlier.
Minute 78. Still 3–2.
And Leicester?
They were standing despite the onslaught and pressure of a team pushed to the walls.
Carrick again.
To Blind.
To Memphis.
Back to Blind.
He didn’t wait. He saw Fellaini drifting to the back post and hit it long — diagonal — swirling like a question mark in the air.
Fellaini charged in.
But Huth got there first. A warhorse of a header. Out.
The crowd erupted like it was a goal. The King Power wasn’t just watching anymore. It was living every tackle, every duel, every gasp.
“Every clearance feels like a goal,” Martin said, voice rising. “Leicester are defending like their lives depend on it.”
The ball rolled wide. Mahrez gave chase. A flick of the boot — got enough to toe it forward.
Vardy broke.
The stadium lifted in hope—
But then—
THUMP.
Phil Jones. Sprinting full throttle like a man possessed. Slid in, legs fully extended, clipped the ball and stopped the counter dead.
“He’s playing like he’s got a point to prove,” Smith said. “Like this game insulted his family.”
Jones didn’t wait for applause. He scooped the ball and took the throw-in himself.
Missile.
Straight to Fellaini’s chest. The big man cushioned it like a feather.
Laid it off to Lingard, who didn’t even pause. One step. Cross whipped in.
Rooney — diving full-stretch —
JUST wide.
The ball rolled past the far post by no more than the width of a bootlace.
Rooney slammed both palms into the pitch. He stayed there, forehead to grass, breathing like a boxer between rounds.
The away end groaned like they'd seen a loved one fall.
“Agonisingly close,” Martin said. “He’s done everything but score tonight.”
Smith added, “That was it. That was the one. And it just—slipped.”
The camera caught Rooney’s face as he sat up, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle in his cheek twitching. Sweat streamed down his temples. He mouthed something under his breath.
It wasn’t frustration. It was obsession.
Because he remembered 7–1.
Because he wasn’t letting Leicester write another fairytale.
Not without a fight.
Back on the touchline, Van Gaal barked something in Dutch to the assistant. He was pacing now. Arms flying. Barking like a man watching a fire he couldn’t put out.
And still—
Still—
The red tide pressed forward.
Leicester’s defenders re-formed like a wall. Huth and Maguire yelling over the noise. Fuchs throwing an arm out, pointing to Memphis.
Tristan with his lungs burning, was back inside his own box again.
And he wasn’t watching the ball. He was watching his teammates. Watching the runners. Reading the chaos.
The King Power rose again. A guttural chant roared from the South Stand.
🎵 “LEI-CESTER! LEI-CESTER!” 🎵
🎵 “LEI-CESTER! LEI-CESTER!” 🎵
JJ was screaming, somewhere in the chaos. “HOW ARE WE SURVIVING THIS?!”
Tobi shook his head slowly. “We’re not playing football anymore,” he muttered. “This is something else.”
And he was right.
It wasn’t a match.
It was a last stand.
And United were swinging with everything they had left.
And still—
The net didn’t ripple.
Not yet.
On the touchline, Ranieri didn’t move. Arms folded. Eyes locked. Not barking, not pacing — just watching.
If anyone was looking for subs, they were looking in the wrong place. This wasn’t about fresh legs. This was about the eleven he trusted. His eleven. His warhorses. The players he trusted most above in his long career as a manager.
Fuchs shuffled the line. Both arms raised, shouting. Kanté grabbed Drinkwater by the collar and barked directly into his ear — his entire face burning with urgency.
And then Tristan. Bent double. Hands on knees. Spit dripping from his lip. Chest heaving like a furnace. But still—he wasn’t silent.
“Compact!” he barked. “Second balls! PRESS!”
And before the words were even finished, he took off again.
Carrick zipped it wide to Memphis.
De Laet tried to step up — too late.
Memphis cut inside with a cruel elegance. De Laet stumbled. Space opened.
Pass to Rooney.
Rooney didn’t hesitate. Hit it first time.
Curling. Dipping. Perfect.
But Kasper Schmeichel launched himself like a man with wings.
Full stretch — fingertip save. Parried wide.
The King Power howled. A wall of sound crashing back into the pitch.
“WHAT A SAVE!” Martin shouted. “How?! How does he get there?!”
Smith exhaled. “That’s the kind of save you frame. That’s a mural save. That’s the save you name your firstborn after.”
Corner. Rooney grabbed the ball himself. No time to waste.
Lifted high. Back post.
Fellaini, towering—
Header — OFF THE BAR!
Screams. Panic. Chaos. The rebound dropped into the danger zone.
Lingard pounced.
But Tristan — out of nowhere.
He didn’t think. Didn’t react. He launched himself.
BLOCKED.
From three yards out. A full-body sacrifice. Knees burning on turf. But the ball was cleared.
JJ stood in the crowd, arms in the air. “HE’S DOING EVERYTHING!”
Tobi’s hands were on his face. “That’s not even fair. That’s not human.”
Back to the corner flag. Another delivery.
Tristan shoved Maguire back into the zone. “MARK SPACE! WATCH THE RUNNERS!”
“HE’S CAPTAINING THIS TEAM WITH HIS VOICE ALONE!” Martin roared.
Corner swung in — Schmeichel again. Punch!
But it didn’t go far.
Mahrez collected. Turned. Accelerated—
Darmian hauled him down by the shoulder.
The entire stadium roared for a card. The ref gave the fans what they wanted. A yellow.
Schmeichel launched it long again.
It came down near the halfway line.
Smalling won the header — again.
Carrick. Blind. Lingard. Click. Click. Click.
And suddenly Rooney had space.
Threw a body feint. Opened his hips. Let it fly—
SAVE! SCHMEICHEL AGAIN!
A fingertip, again. Another lifeline.
Rooney was losing it now. He slapped the ground hard. Let out a roar that could’ve broken glass.
What else? he thought. What more can I do?
Blocked, parried, denied. Again and again.
He could feel it slipping.
“Three chances. Three denials. And not one mistake,” Martin said, breathless. “This is myth-making from Leicester.”
Minute 82.
Back down the wing. Another cross.
Fellaini launched in again — elbow first.
Foul.
Fuchs dropped like a sack of bricks, clutching his side.
Maguire ran in, shoved Fellaini with both hands.
The ref sprinted across, another yellow.
Tristan stepped up to take the free kick.
Booted it long — too long. Collected by De Gea.
And United — still — came again.
Minute 83.
Tristan tracked back, hard. Lingard tried to sneak blind-side.
Slide tackle. Out for a throw.
Even the away end clapped that one.
Throw-in taken quickly. Launched into the box again.
Fellaini. Huth. Both leapt.
Clash. Ball dropped — BOUNCED FREE —
TRISTAN AGAIN! CLEARED!
84:00.
Still 3–2.
Still breathing.
But barely.
“Tristan Hale is playing like a man chasing ghosts,” Martin said. “He’s everywhere.”
Smith added, “If Leicester survive this, if they pull this off, this spell right here — this ten minutes — is going to live forever.”
The crowd wasn’t singing anymore.
They were growling. Gritting. Gripping onto one another like a final prayer.
Plastic seats creaked. The stadium was boiling over. Security guards stood ready but rattled. Barbara didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Even JJ had gone quiet. One hand gripping Tobi’s sleeve like a lifeline.
And on the pitch?
No one blinked.
No one stopped.
Not Tristan. Not Rooney.
Not a single one of them.
Rooney stood at the edge of the box, fists clenched, chest pumping, staring at the goal like it had betrayed him.
I’m doing everything. I’m doing everything I can, he told himself.
But still—
The ball stayed out.
.
King Power Stadium – 90:00
The fourth official raised the board.
+4 MINUTES.
A thunderous reaction broke out across the stadium. Groans from the away end. Roars from the home. Four more minutes to survive. Four more minutes to write it in stone.
Martin’s voice sharpened. “Four added minutes. Four minutes between glory and heartbreak.”
Smith added, “And if you think Manchester United are done swinging, you’ve not been watching this second half.”
But Leicester weren’t hiding.
They pushed once more.
Tristan dropped deep to collect from Kanté, ghosting into space like he always did. The touch was velvet. The shift of pace, sudden. And just like that—he was gone.
“He’s doing it again!” Martin shouted. “Tristan has no right—NO RIGHT—to be this fresh this late!”
Four red shirts swarmed. Blind. Carrick. Phil Jones. Even Darmian stepped in.
Tristan saw them all—and didn’t care.
First step: past Blind. The Dutchman lunged and missed.
Second: Carrick tried to step in. Tristan dragged it behind his heel and rolled his body, like a matador. Carrick spun. Missed.
“OH MY DAYS,” Smith choked out. “He’s dancing through them!”
The crowd rose like a wave behind him.
🎵 “TRIS-TAN HALE! TRIS-TAN HALE!” 🎵
Phil Jones charged in like a wrecking ball.
Tristan paused — then scooped the ball over him with a flick so arrogant it bordered on criminal.
The pitch screamed.
Martin nearly lost it. “He’s gone through THREE! He’s—HE’S NOT HUMAN!”
Now it was just Darmian. Last man.
Tristan stepped, feinted, and dragged the ball to the left.
Darmian bit.
Too hard.
His hip clipped Tristan’s thigh — just enough. Just a graze. But enough.
Tristan tumbled in the box.
WHISTLE.
PENALTY.
THE KING POWER DETONATED.
Smith screamed, “PENALTY! HE’S DONE IT! TRISTAN HALE’S JUST WON A PENALTY IN ADDED TIME!”
Martin shouted over the chaos. “He’s taken on the entire backline! Four men! And they still couldn’t stop him!”
KSI had thrown his drink. JJ was standing on his seat, arms raised to the sky like he’d witnessed a resurrection. “HE DID IT! BRO! HE’S A GLITCH! HE’S A GLITCH!”
Tobi was silent. Pale. Staring at the replay with no expression. Like he couldn’t believe it — or didn’t want to.
Down on the pitch, the referee pointed straight to the spot. No hesitation.
United players swarmed. Jones screamed. Smalling gestured furiously. De Gea threw his arms up. Rooney yelled at the assistant.
But there was no VAR. No doubt.
Darmian stood there, hands on his head, mouthing: I didn’t touch him.
But he had.
And now…
Now it was Tristan Hale standing at the penalty spot.
The ball under his arm.
Breath calm. Eyes locked on the keeper.
Barbara couldn’t sit. She just stood, one hand over her mouth, eyes wide and glistening.
Ed Sheeran had gone quiet. Dornan muttered a prayer. Even Lineker looked nervous.
Tristan placed the ball down. Took six steps back. Eyes never leaving the net.
The crowd chanted louder. Louder.
🎵 “TRIS-TAN HALE!” 🎵
🎵 “TRIS-TAN HALE!” 🎵
🎵 “TRIS-TAN HALE!” 🎵
Martin whispered into the mic like it was sacred.
“This. For four-two. For legend.”
The whistle blew.
Tristan took the run-up.
Four steps. Measured. Silent.
The stadium wasn’t breathing.
And then—
He chipped it.
A panenka.
Dead center.
De Gea dove full stretch to his right — committed, helpless.
The ball floated past the empty middle of the net and kissed the back of the mesh like it was silk on skin.
4–2.
The King Power exploded.
Smith let out a stunned shout. “PANENKA! IN ADDED TIME?! HE’S INSANE!”
Martin's voice cracked as he rose with the crowd. “ICE IN HIS VEINS! TRISTAN HALE! FOUR–TWO! GAME. SET. HISTORY!”
De Gea lay there. Still. Face turned into the grass.
He didn’t move.
Not for five full seconds.
Rooney knelt down, head in hands.
Phil Jones collapsed backwards, arms spread like a man struck by lightning.
Carrick just sat on the pitch, legs stretched out, staring blankly toward the sky.
The camera caught the United bench — silent, pale, statues in red.
The King Power was a riot of blue.
Scarves spinning. Flares lighting the air behind the South Stand.
🎵 “WE LOVE YOU TRISTAN, WE DO!” 🎵
🎵 “OH TRISTAN WE LOVE YOU!” 🎵
And Tristan?
He ran straight to the South Stand. Didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down.
He reached the byline. Turned.
Lifted his jersey.
Held it up to the crowd.
Name and number. Facing them.
The fans lost their minds.
JJ was up on the rails screaming, “HE DID IT! HE ACTUALLY DID IT!”
Simon nearly dropped his camera trying to catch it.
Tobi whispered under his breath, “No way. He really went and did that again to them.”
And in the booth—
Martin shouted over the noise. “That’s his first yellow card of the season — and he’ll frame it like it’s gold!”
“Give him the Ballon d’Or,” Smith added. “No. Just retire the damn award.”
The referee marched over, smiling despite himself.
Held up the yellow.
Tristan nodded, still holding his shirt aloft, still facing the South Stand like a king standing before his army.
Flashbulbs lit up the sky.
The crowd chanted his name louder than ever.
🎵 “TRIS-TAN HALE! TRIS-TAN HALE!” 🎵
🎵 “RUNNING DOWN THE WING!” 🎵
🎵 “MAKING UNITED CRY AGAIN!” 🎵
The ref blew his whistle again — not for the yellow.
For full-time.
Game over.
Leicester 4. Manchester United 2.
The stadium quaked.
Fans spilled over the barriers. Stewards had to hold people back.
The South Stand looked like a festival. Smoke bombs, shirts flying, beer in the air. Pure chaos.
Martin exhaled, exhausted. “What a night. What a match. What a player.”
Smith recapped through the roar. “Two assists. Two goalsl from the spot. And one assist-of-the-season contender with that flick to Mahrez. Tristan Hale’s numbers tonight — unreal.”
Tristan Hale vs Manchester United:
2 Goal (90+3’ Penalty)
2 Assists
5 Key Passes
5 Successful Dribbles
4 Ball Recoveries
2 Defensive Clearances
1 Yellow Card — for being iconic
On the pitch, the Leicester players mobbed him.
Kanté bear-hugged him from behind. Mahrez tousled his hair. Vardy leaned in, shouting something about the panenka being “criminal.”
Ranieri didn’t even move. Just stood at the edge of the technical area, smiling to himself like a proud father watching his son break the world.
And across the pitch…
The red shirts didn’t move.
Rooney crouched near the center circle, arms on knees, chest rising and falling.
He’d given everything.
He’d fought for every blade of grass.
And still — it wasn’t enough.
The camera cut to him as he stared at Tristan, still holding up his shirt, arms wide to the crowd.
Rooney watched as Tristan do the same celebration once more. The story felt so similar despite being so close to winning.
The commentary booth fell quiet for a beat.
Then Martin spoke, solemn and proud.
“Football, ladies and gentlemen… football has a new face. And his name is Tristan Hale.”
Smith said nothing.
Because there was nothing else to say.
The scoreboard glowed in the Leicester night:
LEICESTER CITY 4 – 2 MANCHESTER UNITED
The Prince had finished the war.
And the crown?
It never looked heavier.
Comments
Josue Tass
En cuanto al salto de tiempo, no se si haz leído Starting whit Real Madrid, es un buen libro pero sobre todo puedes checar que tiene varios capítulos tipo resumen que a lo mejor te sirvan como ejemplo para la historia, un saludo bro.
Josue Tass
Buen capítulo, creo que se está subestimando demasiado al Manchester United jajaja, si bien es cierto que es un equipo en decadencia no creo que fuese un equipo tan sencillo de vencer, en fin buen capítulo.
Josh Muggs
Timeskip
