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Chapter 227: United Part 2
🕑 Added 2025-07-09 20:11:33 +0000 UTCKing Power Stadium – Halftime
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The whistle blew.
But the noise didn’t stop. It shifted.
It mutated.
Rooney’s breath came out like smoke. He dragged his sleeve across his brow, lungs tight, boots feeling like anchors. The crowd—still roaring. Not with joy. Not even with anger. Just... noise. Like static trapped in a speaker. Wild. Relentless.
Above the East Stand, the replay ran again.
Martial. That cut inside. That curled finish. A beautiful goal—no question.
But it wasn’t the strike that had the stadium rattling.
It was what came next.
Arms out. Chin raised.
Tristan Hale’s celebration.
Right in front of the South Stand.
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE! YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE! YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
It hadn’t stopped. It had only multiplied. Fans weren’t heading to concessions. They were screaming like they were still in injury time.
Rooney didn’t need to see the screen. He’d seen enough.
Behind him, Herrera gave Martial a light shove as they jogged. “Nice finish, mate. But… what the hell was that?”
Martial shrugged, not slowing down. “It was a message.”
Smalling scoffed. “To who? God? ’Cause you just poked him.”
Phil Jones shook his head, sweat dripping. “It’s one–one. We were crawling our way back into the match. Then you go and light the fuse?”
Martial’s voice was sharper now. “You lot don’t get it. Every time we play them, it’s like Tristan’s the only player on the pitch. Every article. Every chant. Every camera.”
Carrick joined them, voice low but tight. “You think doing his celebration changes that?”
“I’m showing I’m just as good as him,” Martial muttered. “Same age. Same pitch. I scored. So why not?”
“You’re not showing confidence,” Schweinsteiger said from behind. “You’re showing jealousy.”
Martial stopped walking for half a second.
Then turned his head. “I’m not jealous.”
No one answered.
Because everyone knew.
🎵 “WE ALL DREAM OF A TEAM OF TRISTAN!” 🎵
🎵 “A TEAM OF TRISTAN! A TEAM OF TRISTAN!” 🎵
They reached the tunnel. The sound warped as they stepped in. From thunder to echo. From sky to concrete. But it still pulsed behind them. Like the stadium itself had decided not to let them breathe.
Rooney didn’t speak. He kept thinking about the way Tristan had stood there after the goal. Arms by his side. No blinking. No shouting. Just calm.
Too calm.
Rooney had played with legends. Fought with Gerrard. Sprinted alongside Ronaldo. Taken elbows from Keane in training. But Tristan?
Tristan was different.
Not angry.
Worse.
He was calm.
Rooney had seen rage before. In Gerrard — fists clenched, chest heaving. In Keane — red-faced, snarling like a storm about to break. In Ronaldo — eyes lit with fury when something dared to stand in his way.
But Tristan?
Tristan didn’t rage.
He didn’t scream at teammates or kick bottles. He didn’t blame or explode. He just went quiet. Cold. Focused. Like anger was a tool he kept in his pocket — and only pulled out when it would do damage.
Rooney had only seen him lose composure once — with Hodgson, and even then, it was clean. Controlled. Professional.
And he’d seen what happened to teams who made the mistake of waking that version of Tristan up.
It never ended well.
Not for England’s opponents.
Not for Premier League defenses.
Not for anyone who thought the crown on his head was just for show.
Rooney sat there in the silence, watching Martial fidget and the others avoid eye contact. There was no point shouting now. No point piling on. The damage was done.
But after this game?
Yeah. He was going to pull the kid aside.
Because if you’re going to throw shade at the golden boy, you better pray he doesn’t walk you into it.
And right now?
Anthony Martial had stepped into the lion’s cage... and locked the door behind him.
The dressing room was cold. Not temperature-wise. Just airless. Still.
No claps. No smiles. Not even a sigh.
Van Gaal stood by the whiteboard, arms crossed. His jaw locked shut.
Shirts came off. Boots loosened. Martial sat, muttering to himself. Herrera beside him, trying not to look.
The monitor in the corner flicked back on. Crowd feed still live.
🎵 “OH WHEN THE FOXES—GO MARCHING IN!” 🎵
🎵 “OH WHEN THE FOXES—GO MARCHING IN!” 🎵
Carrick sat down hard on the bench, rubbing his temples. “You poked the wrong thing,” he said.
No one disagreed.
Martial looked around, voice brittle. “Why is everyone acting like I insulted the Queen?”
Rooney leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Then up at the monitor.
Tristan’s face appeared in slow motion. Eyes narrowed. No flinch. No blink. No emotion.
“You didn’t insult the Queen,” Rooney said. “You insulted England’s prince.”
Martial didn’t respond.
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE!” 🎵
🎵 “YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE!” 🎵
Even the United fans had gone quiet. As if they knew. As if they felt the shift. Nobody mocks the boy wearing the country’s future. Not in his home. Not when the whole nation’s watching.
Rooney kept watching the screen. All that work to lose just because one player couldn’t keep their ego in control.
Outside, the chants turned cruel.
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER BE HIM!” 🎵
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER BE HIM!” 🎵
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER BE HIM, ANTHONY!” 🎵
Martial looked down.
For the first time since he scored—he looked unsure.
And Rooney knew then.
This wasn’t halftime.
This was the calm before execution.
Van Gaal finally decided to take charge. God why the management didn’t fire him last season was beyond him.
“Fifty-five percent possession,” he said flatly. “But nothing between the lines.”
He picked up the marker, drew a triangle.
“Tristan drops into this pocket. Carrick and Bastian are too flat. Martial’s tracking back too slow. Mahrez is ghosting behind Shaw. That must stop.”
He looked at Schweinsteiger.
“Push five yards higher.”
Then to Carrick. “Screen the gap. Don’t chase Hale. Force him outside.”
Carrick nodded once.
Van Gaal turned to the backline.
“Chris. Phil. If Tristan goes wide, you do not follow. You hold your line. If he cuts in, Rooney drops.”
Rooney just nodded, he already knew that.
“Shaw—Mahrez wants your blind side. Watch the overlap.”
Then, finally, he looked at Martial.
The room felt it shift.
“Anthony.”
Martial looked up.
“You scored a good goal.”
A pause. He waited for the but.
“But now they want blood.”
Van Gaal placed the cap back on the marker. His voice lowered.
“We don’t provoke Tristan. We contain him. You understand the difference?”
Martial nodded slowly. “Yes.”
But it didn’t sound convincing. And no one in the room looked convinced.
Van Gaal exhaled. “We stick to 4-2-3-1. But tighter. No gaps between lines.”
He glanced at the clock.
“If it’s still level at sixty, Fellaini comes on. We go long. Pin their fullbacks. Make it ugly if we have to.”
Then, sharper: “We do not lose this game in the next ten minutes.”
The message was clear: Tristan was going to come out flying.
And if they weren’t ready, it’d be over before they could blink.
🎵 “HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN! HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN HALE! HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
Rooney looked up at the ceiling.
One half left.
One mistake made.
And the worst version of Tristan just been activated.
Meanwhile — just one hallway over — the mood wasn’t much better either.
The door shut behind them.
The noise didn’t.
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE!” 🎵
🎵 “YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
It kept bleeding through the walls. Like the fans had no intention of taking a breath.
Schmeichel didn’t sit. He peeled his gloves off and leaned against the wall, eyes locked on the floor. Mahrez stretched in silence. Drinkwater rolled his socks down with slow, methodical care.
Everyone was quiet resting until Vardy broke it.
“So, are we allowed to kill Martial now or what?”
A few heads turned. Mahrez snorted.
Tristan said nothing at first. He was still taping his wrists.
Then he finally spoke.
“Kanté.”
The midfielder looked up.
“Wes. Ritchie.” Tristan’s eyes flicked toward the two center-backs. “Would you mind if I push a bit higher? Just for the next ten, fifteen? I’ll track back if needed—”
“Oi, listen to him,” Vardy laughed. “‘Track back if needed.’ Man wants to commit a murder and call it cardio.”
“You’re a year older than him, bruv,” King added, deadpan. “Gonna feel big flexing on the 19-year-old?”
“Come on,one year difference,” Tristan muttered. “Let me bully the kid a little. It lower his ego.”
“Exactly,” Vardy grinned. “So it’s older brother revenge arc now?”
Tristan didn’t smile. Just said, “He copied my celebration and than did it in front of our fans and stands.
The room quieted again.
Ranieri stepped forward then.
“He wants to show the world he is like you,” the manager said. “You want to show the world the difference.”
Tristan nodded.
“Okay then,” Ranieri continued, stepping to the tactics board. “We go tighter. Danny—stay central. N’Golo—clean up. Riyad, look for early runs. If Tristan pulls wide, drag them out with him.”
He looked back at his number 22.
“If they follow you, punish them. If they don’t…”
He smiled. “Punish them anyway.”
Mahrez laced his boots. “So basically... give the ball to our prince and get out the way.”
“No,” Ranieri said. “We give the ball to Tristan so they get out the way.”
Laughter. Just for a second. Then silence again.
Vardy stood up, cracked his knuckles, and smirked at Tristan. “Alright then, big brother. Time to teach the kid some manners.”
The plan was set. The laughs were gone. And as the final chant rumbled through the walls like war drums, the players stood. One by one. Leicester was ready.
Out the dressing room. Down the hallway. Into the tunnel.
Leicester lined up outside the tunnel, their shadows stretched long against the concrete. Floodlights above. Crowd behind. Every heartbeat synced with the noise outside.
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE!” 🎵
🎵 “YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
Mahrez bounced on his toes. Fuchs rolled his neck side to side. Drinkwater popped his jaw once.
Kanté? Still. Barely breathing.
Schmeichel clapped his gloves twice. Nothing more.
Vardy rubbed his palms together, muttering something under his breath.
And then, the last to step out — Tristan Hale.
Boots silent. Eyes half-lidded. Tape wrapped clean around both wrists now, like he was walking into a boxing ring instead of a football pitch.
He didn’t look at the cameras. He didn’t speak. He just stood in line — behind Vardy, ahead of the fire.
United filed out across from them.
Martial was near the front. His gaze drifted across the tunnel — scanning — until it stopped.
Tristan.
Martial didn’t mean to stare. But he did. Just for a second. Waiting for eye contact. Waiting for something.
Nothing came.
Not a glance.
Not a nod.
Not even a blink.
Rooney stepped up beside Martial. He leaned in to Martial, voice low.
“Don’t speak. Don’t look. And don’t give him a reason.”
Martial said nothing.
Because the air already felt wrong.
The steward stepped forward.
“One minute.”
The crowd swelled again, chants like thunder outside the tunnel.
🎵 “HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
🎵 “HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN HALE — HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
Vardy tilted his head back and laughed.
“They’re calling for you again, big brother.”
That got a smile from Tristan. “Yeah.”
The referee checked both sides.
“Let’s go.”
And as the whistle prepared to call them back into war—
Tristan Hale stepped forward.
Martin Tyler’s voice came in, steady beneath the roaring crowd.
“Welcome back to the King Power, where half-time didn’t feel like a break — it felt like a fuse.”
The camera swept across the stands. Flags waved. Scarves spun. Nobody had sat down.
Smith spoke clearly. “Martial lit the fire with that goal. But it wasn’t the strike that’s got 34,000 people foaming. It was the celebration. Tristan’s celebration. In front of his stand.”
A slow-motion replay flickered across the screen. Martial, arms wide. Chin tilted. The South Stand erupting behind him in fury.
Martin didn’t blink. “He didn’t just poke the bear. He mocked the crown.”
Back to live feed. Players walking toward the pitch. Hale, stone-faced. Martial, half-glancing. Rooney locked in conversation with Carrick. Schmeichel pounding his gloves.
Smith didn’t hold back. “There’s a difference between confidence and carelessness. That celebration didn’t put Martial in Tristan’s league — it put a target on his back.”
The camera cut to the dugouts. Ranieri stood still, arms folded. Van Gaal muttered something to Giggs. The fourth official raised the board. No changes. Not yet.
Martin’s voice dipped lower. “Tactically, it’s still 4-2-3-1 for United. Leicester with a fluid 4-3-3. But mentally? Everything’s shifted.”
Smith nodded once. “Tristan Hale’s playing angry. That’s never good for the opposition. He doesn’t lash out often but whenever he does, it’s a massacre for the other side.”
The referee called both sides forward. The whistle hovered.
Martin took one last breath.
“Leicester City. Manchester United. Second half. One goal each. Everything else on the line.”
The whistle blew.
The war resumed.
The whistle cracked.
And Leicester exploded forward like a pack of wolves scenting blood.
No hesitation. No settling. This wasn’t a restart—it was an execution order.
Straight from kickoff, Vardy rocketed forward. A blur. He pounced on Phil Jones like a terrier, forcing a panicked pass back to Darmian. But Mahrez was already there, snapping at heels. The King Power crowd surged with them—roaring like they were pulling the pitch forward with sheer noise.
🎵 “LEICESTER! LEICESTER!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE!” 🎵
🎵 “YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
Ander Herrera dropped back to collect.
Too slow.
Kanté appeared out of nowhere—an interception that didn’t even look human. One feather-light touch, and the ball belonged to Leicester.
Straight to Tristan.
He didn’t pass.
Not yet.
Mata stepped in.
Body feint. Double step-over.
Gone. Mata lunged—air.
Rooney charged.
Drag back. Sole roll. Burst.
Gone again.
Carrick reached with a desperate leg—missed.
The ball? Still glued to Hale’s laces.
The stadium held its breath.
“Have mercy,” Martin muttered. “He’s dancing with ghosts.”
Tristan weaved left to right, cutting diagonally across midfield like a scalpel, slicing through red shirts.
Mahrez shouted on the wing. Vardy screamed for it.
Still no pass.
Then—elastico.
He flicked the ball out and in with a whip of his foot, snapping Carrick’s ankles the wrong way. The crowd screamed.
Then, finally—a flick. A disguised no-look pass.
Albrighton burst onto it, first-time shot!
Blocked. Chris Smalling, last-ditch leg.
The ball flew out for a corner.
The stadium didn’t just rise. It erupted.
🎵 “WE ALL DREAM OF A TEAM OF TRISTAN!” 🎵
🎵 “A TEAM OF TRISTAN! A TEAM OF TRISTAN!” 🎵
Up in the stands, Barbara stood with her hands pressed to her mouth, heart thumping. She wasn’t cheering. She was watching. Locked in. Knowing that this wasn’t just Tristan playing—it was Tristan responding.
KSI stood wide-eyed, elbowing Tobi beside him who had his eyes closed. “He’s actually gonna end this kid.”
Simon raised his phone. “Already trending.”
Chunks of the VIP section leaned forward, all eyes on #22.
Van Gaal was screaming on the touchline. Arms flailing. “TRACK THE RUNNER! COMPACT! GET BACK!”
But there was no shape or player on the planet that could contain it.
Mahrez trotted over. Corner kick.
Huth. Maguire. Vardy. All in the box.
Tristan? Hovering at the edge, hands loose, shoulders still. Like a sniper waiting for his shot.
Mahrez whipped it in.
De Gea punched.
Out to Drinkwater.
Volleyed!
Blocked—Darmian, full body.
Loose ball flew wide.
Martial chased.
First touch of the half.
But De Laet was on his shoulder. Maguire cut across him.
Then—bang.
Kanté.
He didn’t slide. He didn’t tackle.
He took the ball like a surgeon pulling a bullet from bone.
Martial stumbled. Stayed up. But barely.
The King Power howled.
🎵 “THAT’S OUR KANTÉ! THAT’S OUR KANTÉ!” 🎵
Kanté poked the ball back to Drinkwater.
Martinr: “Leicester aren’t pressing. They’re hunting. This isn’t defense—it’s a mauling.”
Smith: “And the cub they’ve targeted is Martial.”
Tristan came deep.
Took the ball in stride. One look.
Then he ran again.
Cruyff turn. Burst. Shoulder drop. Roulette spin.
Rooney lunged—missed.
Carrick guessed left.
Tristan flew right.
Now it was Jones.
Phones lifted in the crowd. Flashlights blinking. Like the whole stadium knew what came next.
Tristan slowed.
He didn’t rush.
He sized him up.
“Watch this,” Smith said, voice low.
Step-over. Step-over. Stop. Hesitate. Flick behind the standing leg—
La Croqueta.
Jones froze. Flat-footed. Wrong angle.
Tristan ghosted past.
Box open.
De Gea sprinted off his line.
But Tristan didn’t shoot.
He slipped it wide.
Mahrez.
One touch. Curling shot.
Tipped—just—by De Gea. Fingertips again.
Corner.
But the stadium was shaking.
🎵 “ONE OF OUR OWN! HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN HALE! HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN HALE! HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
Martin’s voice cracked. “You can feel the ground trembling. Five minutes gone. Three attacks. One warning after another.”
Smith: “And the message is clear. This isn’t a second half. It’s an execution. Martial made it personal. Tristan made it tactical.”
Even in the dugout, the Leicester subs were on their feet.
Barbara hadn’t moved. Her eyes were on the pitch. Her hands were clenched.
And Tristan?
Still not smiling.
Mahrez clapped once. Albrighton pointed. Vardy just laughed.
But Tristan didn’t react.
Didn’t blink.
He turned.
And jogged back into place.
Five minutes gone.
And he still hadn’t started the real damage yet.
🎵 “OLE, OLE, OLE!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN, TRISTAN!” 🎵
Up above, fans began waving shirts. Pints splashed skyward. A sea of blue banners trembled.
One fan pointed at Martial and screamed toward the pitch: “YOU MESSED UP, LAD! NOW YOU’RE DEAD MEAT!”
And on the field, it was only minute fifty.
The executioner hadn’t even drawn blood—yet.
Manchester United tried to breathe. Tried to hold the ball. To think. To survive.
It didn’t work.
Herrera played it short to Shaw. Shaw rolled it back to Smalling. Carrick tried to drop in and offer himself—but he was shadowed.
Shadowed by #22.
Tristan didn’t press. He lurked.
Martin Tyler’s voice sliced through the tension.
"This is what Tristan Hale does. He doesn’t chase. He waits. He stalks. Like a lion in tall grass."
Smalling played it forward—finally—to Martial.
Wrong move.
Martial took one touch. Then another.
Then—Kanté.
The interception wasn’t a tackle. It wasn’t even physical. It was... surgical. A foot slid in. A shift of weight. Ball stolen. Gone.
Mahrez flicked it first-time to Drinkwater. He passed it straight to Tristan.
And the stadium knew.
The volume wasn’t a rise. It was a detonation.
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE!” 🎵
🎵 “YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
"Here we go again!" Smith shouted, practically climbing the commentary booth.
Martial turned—furious—and sprinted after him.
Tristan didn’t care.
Step-over. Shoulder dip. La Croqueta. Martial lunged—gone. Then came the McGeady Spin. A full 180. Left boot. Right flick. Martial spun completely. Beaten. Humiliated.
Smith gasped. “He’s turning the Premier League into futsal.”
Tristan darted forward. Shaw tried to close him. Too slow.
One-two with Mahrez—outside of the boot. Return ball cut through the box.
Hale met it in stride.
De Gea rushed out.
Tristan looked up once. Then dinked it.
Calm. Effortless. A chipped finish, rolling over the keeper’s shoulder.
Net.
Explosion.
🎵 “HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
🎵 “HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN HALE—HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
Tyler’s voice cracked. “OH, MY WORD! Tristan Hale has destroyed United’s midfield, sent Martial to the shops, and chipped De Gea like he was playing in the garden!”
Smith, breathless. “That’s not a goal. That’s a statement. That’s a highlight reel for the next decade.”
Replays rolled immediately. Every angle. The Croqueta. The spin. The chip. The stare.
In the stands, Barbara stood frozen—hand covering her lips. She exhaled something between a gasp and a laugh.
Commentators couldn’t keep up.
Smith shook his head. “I’ve run out of adjectives. What are we even watching?”
Martin laughed under his breath. “Tristan crowning himself once more on the dead body of Manchester United.”
Rooney didn’t move. Just stared. Like he’d just seen a prophecy fulfilled.
Van Gaal sat down slowly.
Tristan didn’t run to the corner flag or celebrate.
He just stared down De Gea with pity.
“Sorry, mate,” he said quietly. “Had to.”
De Gea looked up. Didn’t speak. Just nodded once.
Then he sprinted toward the corner.
South Stand erupted like a volcano.
Vardy was chasing him, shouting nonsense.
Mahrez pointed. “Oh fuck he’s gonna do something stupid.”
“Do what—?”
And then—
Tristan leapt.
Spun in midair.
And landed with power.
“SIIIIUUUUUUUUU!”
The Ronaldo celebration.
In front of Martial.
Against United.
Wearing England’s crown.
The stadium went feral.
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER BE HIM!” 🎵
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER BE HIM!” 🎵
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER BE HIM, ANTHONY!” 🎵
Martin Tyler’s voice cracked mid-laugh. “OH, HE’S DONE IT! TRISTAN HALE WITH THE SIUU! HE’S JUST SET FIRE TO THE SCRIPT!”
Smith choked on his words. “That’s... that’s not just a goal anymore. That’s warfare. That’s showmanship. That’s football theatre.”
KSI nearly fell over the barrier. “He hit him with the SIUUU! Nah man, pack it up. Pack. It. Up.”
Tobi looked like he’d seen a ghost.
Simon had his phone up. “Instagram? Bro—this is going everywhere.”
In the United technical area, Van Gaal just sat.
Frozen.
Martial still hadn’t moved.
Barbara was covering her face with both hands. Laughing. Shaking her head.
The Leicester bench was on their feet.
Subs waving towels. Coaches pumping fists.
And the South Stand?
Unhinged.
🎵 “A TEAM OF TRISTANS!” 🎵
🎵 “WE ALL DREAM OF A TEAM OF TRISTANS!” 🎵
Tristan turned back.
Vardy slammed into him from behind.
Mahrez grabbed his face like he couldn’t believe what just happened.
Drinkwater shouted something incoherent.
Even Kanté cracked the faintest grin.
Vardy wheezed. “Alright, big brother. You done yet?”
Tristan breathed hard. “Not even close.”
Martial stood at midfield.
Ball in hand. Head down.
Rooney didn’t look at him. The game’s momentum completely shifted to Leicester and that was dangerous. He had to do something here.
Van Gaal pointed without looking.
“Jesse. Warm up.”
Minute 57.
Leicester 2. United 1.
Leicester didn’t slow. They swarmed.
After Tristan’s goal, it was like every player in blue had been shot out of a cannon. There wasn’t a single moment to breathe. Every touch, every tackle, every loose ball—it belonged to them. United were still in the match on paper, but in spirit? They were sinking.
Smalling tried to go long. Fuchs climbed above everyone—header won. Mahrez brought it down on the sideline, flipped it over Shaw’s head, and dragged it forward like a street trickster.
Martin’s voice carried the disbelief. “This is getting silly.”
“And it’s becoming a training montage now,” Smith echoed. “Leicester look possessed.”
Albrighton overlapped from the left, received the ball from Drinkwater, and whipped in a dangerous cross. De Gea flew and punched it clear—but not far.
Vardy collected on the edge. Took one bounce. One look. Bang— off the side netting.
The crowd groaned like it was a missed penalty. Vardy turned, gave a thumbs up, and laughed.
🎵 “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVIN’ A PARTY!” 🎵
🎵 “BRING YOUR VODKA AND YOUR CHARLIE!” 🎵
De Gea was already yelling at his backline. Arms flailing. Panic setting in.
Next phase. Drinkwater dropped deep, spun off Herrera, and pinged a switch ball wide to Mahrez. The crowd’s pitch rose again. Mahrez took it in stride—heel to toe. Slowed. Then cut inside.
Nutmeg. Shaw. Again.
The stadium let out a scream.
“RIDICULOUS!” Smith barked. “He’s putting Shaw in the spin cycle!”
Mahrez didn’t stop. Glided toward the arc. Curled one from 22 yards. It flew. But too high.
Fans still clapped. Still whistled. Still shouted his name. Mahrez raised both hands like—almost.
Then it was Kanté’s turn. Interception number four. He didn’t hesitate. Drove forward. Carrick backpedaling. No one closing. Split pass—angled perfectly through the lines. Albrighton took it. Saw De Gea drifting. Tried the lob.
It dipped. Just not enough. Landed on the roof of the net.
Tyler shook his head. “They’re queueing up now. It’s Tristan, Mahrez, Vardy, Albrighton… Everyone wants in on this.”
“And you can smell it,” Smith added. “That third goal’s close. United can’t stop the bleeding.”
Minute 61. United tried to reset. Tried to slow it down.
But there was no slowing this.
Tristan came deep again. Received a pass under pressure. One-touch flick behind him to Kanté. Crowd gasped. Kanté popped it straight back. Triangle with Mahrez. Back to Tristan. Turn. Burst.
Rooney stepped in. Too late. Hale shrugged past him. Didn’t even break stride.
He reached the edge of the box. Looked up. Feinted a shot. Cut back. Slipped a ball through to Vardy.
One touch. Snap shot. Saved—De Gea, again.
Tyler almost sounded offended. “He’s keeping them in this. Without De Gea, it’s four-one.”
Minute 62. Martial tried to make it personal. Got the ball on the left. Took on Maguire.
Bad decision.
Maguire didn’t flinch. Just planted his feet and shoulder-checked Martial clean off the ball. The ball rolled out for a throw.
The King Power exploded like it was a goal.
Even the Leicester bench jumped to their feet. Chilwell grabbed Huth and pointed at the replay.
Ranieri stayed composed. Arms folded. A small nod. Approval.
“They’re winning every duel. Every bounce,” Smith said, voice rising. “Leicester don’t just want the lead—they want the humiliation once more.”
The ball finally rolled out near the dugout. Van Gaal turned. Didn’t speak. Didn’t curse. Just nodded once.
“Jesse,” he said. “Strip. You’re on.”
Lingard stood up. Martial looked over. Saw the number.
The board went up. The substitution signal.
Tyler didn’t flinch. “Oh my... That’s the final blow.”
Smith, quieter now. “Martial lit the fuse. But he couldn’t handle the fire.”
Tristan glanced over once. Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just turned away. Back to the hunt.
Lingard jogged to the touchline. Shirt tucked. Eyes fixed. Martial dragged his boots across the turf. No words. No eye contact.
The South Stand serenaded him.
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER BE HIM!” 🎵
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER BE HIM!” 🎵
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER BE HIM, ANTHONY!” 🎵
Lingard stepped onto the pitch, adjusting his sleeves. The board still glowed red behind him — #9 off, #35 on.
The crowd greeted him, not with malice, but a thunderous, cheeky chant. A reminder.
🎵 “BACK-UP TO THE PRINCE!” 🎵
🎵 “JESSE LINGARD, BACK-UP TO THE PRINCE!” 🎵
But it wasn’t cruel. Not for Jesse. Leicester fans remembered what he gave them last season — flair, graft, and that goal against United itself. He’d earned respect, even if it came dressed in banter.
Martin chuckled under his breath. “They’re ribbing him — but it’s love, really. Jesse Lingard was adored here during his loan. This crowd hasn’t forgotten.”
Tristan clocked him right away. He just jogged past, nodded once. “Alright, Jess.”
Lingard grinned, bounced on his toes. “Yo, my man. Take it easy on your mates, yeah?”
Tristan smirked, eyes still forward. “Too late.”
The ball rolled into play again.
For a few minutes, United tried to use Lingard’s fresh legs. He zipped in and out of space, tracked Albrighton better, gave Shaw an option. Energy — sharp, clever movement. Enough to stall Leicester’s momentum.
But Leicester’s pressure didn’t drop. Not an inch.
Vardy harassed Phil Jones like a wasp at a picnic. Mahrez twisted Shaw inside out, leaving stud marks on the grass like brush strokes. Kanté? Still stealing every second ball like a ghost with a stopwatch.
And Tristan kept doing Tristan things. Dropping deeper. Floating wide. Gliding forward. No pattern. No rhythm. Just threat.
Minute 65.
Martin’s voice dropped. “United are hanging on by their fingernails now. It’s relentless.”
Smith added, “It’s survival mode. Every pass feels like borrowed time.”
But then — A breath. A ripple.
It started innocently. Shaw intercepted a lazy pass from Albrighton. Fed it forward to Herrera. One touch, then a smart ball to Lingard.
Lingard turned. Spotted Rooney between the lines. Bent the pass like a violinist drawing out the perfect note — slicing it through the gap between Huth and Fuchs.
Rooney ran onto it like he was still 24. First touch — clean. Second — bang.
Shot low. Across his body. Fast.
Schmeichel dived. Stretched full.
Too late.
Net.
The away end detonated.
🎵 “WAYNE ROO-NEY!” 🎵
🎵 “WAYNE ROO-NEY!” 🎵
Rooney didn’t celebrate like a kid. No slides. No roars. No badge-thumping.
Just turned. Jogged back. Finger pointed at Lingard. One sharp nod.
2–2.
United players flooded Lingard, smacking his back, shouting over the crowd. Jones even ruffled his hair. Herrera lifted his arms to the fans.
Martial stood near the sideline. Barely clapped.
Tristan stood alone at midfield. Watching. His hands rested on his hips. Eyes didn’t blink.
Vardy jogged over, chewing gum like he wanted to spit fire.
“Thought that goal of yours was the dagger,” he muttered, voice tight.
Tristan didn’t look away from the celebration. “So did I.”
He exhaled. Slow. Sharp. Thoughtful.
“But then again — this team’s full of survivors. Rooney’s still got fire left.”
Vardy cracked his knuckles, his mouth twitching. “Yeah?”
He glanced at the ball sitting at the center spot. Waiting. Tempting. Then back at Tristan.
“Well, big brother... better put that fire out before it spreads.”
Tristan nodded once. Then jogged slowly toward the center circle.
The King Power buzzed — not in fear. In fury.
🎵 “COME ON, LEICESTER!” 🎵
🎵 “COME ON, LEICESTER!” 🎵
The match? Back level. The tension? Nuclear.
But the stadium? The stadium was a powder keg — and Tristan Hale still had the matches in his hand.
Back in the commentary box, Martin Tyler’s voice quivered with excitement.
“And now we’ve got a classic. One of the greats, perhaps. Two apiece. Both sides throwing haymakers. It’s no longer chess — it’s a street brawl in blue and red.”
Smith leaned forward. “Lingard’s impact — instant. A perfect pass. And Rooney... say what you want, but he’s still got that killer’s touch.”
Martin continued, voice lowering, like narrating a prophecy.
“But if you’re Leicester, you don’t panic. You reload. Because the last time Tristan Hale had a response to make — it broke the game in half.”
And somewhere deep in the crowd, a fan raised a hand-painted banner:
🎵 “LONG LIVE THE CROWN.” 🎵
.
I was going to end this chapter on a cliffhanger where Tristan takes a pen but since we are back to daily chapters, I save that for tomorrow.
Anyway I hope you guys like this chapter and are ready for chapters to be dropped late at night again, lol.
Comments
Kezman
Still waiting on Tristan scoring a Nagi Seishiro (Blue Lock) goal.
Adam M
Pleeease make the reporters ask why he did the SIUUU. And he’ll say I wouldve done Martials but I don’t know it.
