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Chapter 226: United Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-07-06 01:24:25 +0000 UTCNovember 28, 2015 King Power Stadium – 4:18 PM | Manchester United Dressing Room
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Shirts hung on metal hooks. Boots were aligned beneath benches like obedient soldiers. The clock ticked softly overhead.
The locker room wasn’t comfortable by any means, only having the bare necessities but the players were already accustomed to this. A tactic everyone in the league uses.
Louis van Gaal stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed. He hadn’t spoken in five minutes, calming himself down.
Michael Carrick sat on the bench with his elbows on his knees, reading the match sheet for the fourth time. He rubbed his chin, eyes flicking to the familiar name at the top right corner.
Hale, Tristan – 22.
“Of course he’s starting,” Carrick muttered. “Can’t believe anyone thought otherwise. You have to be stupid to think he wouldn’t start in such an important game.”
Phil Jones, taping his ankles across the bench, gave a dry snort. “They never intended to rest him. All that ‘late decision’ talk? Classic bluff. He was always going to play.”
Bastian Schweinsteiger, always calm before battle, looked up. “Still. Something about the way they delayed it… it messes with you. Makes you prepare for two scenarios. That’s the game.”
Memphis Depay tugged on his boots, expression flat. “Doesn’t matter. He’s in the eleven. And he’s probably already got two celebrations picked out.”
Ashley Young chuckled, but it didn’t land. “You all talk like we’re playing against Messi.”
Carrick didn’t smile. “We playing someone better, get that through your head.”
Van Gaal turned then, arms unfolding as he stepped toward the center of the room.
“He is playing,” the Dutchman said coldly. “But do not make the mistake of playing against his name. You play the system. You play the ball. You play your assignment.”
He tapped the lineup sheet pinned to the whiteboard.
“If you chase Tristan, he punishes you. If you hesitate, he humiliates you.”
He turned to Herrera. “Stay on your feet. No reckless fouls. Don’t rise to his bait.”
To Darmian: “If Vardy finds space behind you even once, you will come off at half.”
And to Carrick, his voice quieter: “You anchor. If Tristan drops deep, you stay disciplined. Let him have the ball where he can’t hurt us.”
The room stayed silent as the steward cracked the door.
“Five minutes.”
Carrick rose slowly. Boots heavy. Breath steady. He passed the mirror by the door — and paused, just for a second.
7–1.
It was still there. Still hanging. Not the score. The humiliation.
Outside the tunnel, the Leicester players were already lining up. And down at the far end — Tristan.
The steward waved them forward.
“Line up.”
And so they did.
Boots scraped against the concrete as the two squads filtered into the tunnel, red and blue separated by stewards and sideline officials. The stadium thunder was muted but ever-present, a storm waiting just beyond the curtain.
Jamie Vardy nudged Marc Albrighton and pointed toward the United lineup filtering in.
“Oi, there’s Wazza. Still rocking the angry dad haircut, I see.”
“Looks like he could ground the ref for giving a foul,” Albrighton muttered back, grinning.
Wayne Rooney caught it and fired back. “Careful, Vardy. You lot got one miracle in you — don’t start acting like prophets.”
“I dunno, mate,” Danny Drinkwater chimed in. “I’ve seen your midfield. Might need a few prayers yourself.”
Rooney smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t you lot used to be underdogs?”
“We still are,” Vardy said. “Just faster ones.”
Further down the tunnel, Tristan jogged into position near the front of the Leicester line,
Lingard stepped over from United’s side, already grinning. “Oi, Hale.”
Tristan turned, his voice quiet but amused. “Didn’t think I’d see you in red again.”
“Loan’s over, fam. Big boy club called.”
“Shame,” said Mahrez behind him. “Leicester misses having a DJ in the locker room.”
Lingard laughed. “Still got that playlist, by the way. Vardy still only listens to garage remixes?”
“Always,” Lingard said, pulling off a little shoulder roll. “But today, I’m here to ruin your unbeaten record.”
“Then you better sub in at halftime,” Tristan said calmly, “because by full-time, it might be over.”
Rooney wandered over, rolling his shoulders. His gaze swept the Leicester line — stopping on Tristan.
“You alright, lad?” he asked, quieter.
Tristan gave a small nod. “You think I came all this way to be nervous?”
Rooney nodded once. “Didn’t think so.”
He hesitated, then added, “My kids asked for your shirt again. Told ’em I’d get it if we win.”
“You’ll have to earn it, then.”
Rooney chuckled. “I’m older than you. That should count for something.”
“Not in my world.”
“Fair enough.”
Near the front, the mascots stepped into line — all wide-eyed and vibrating. Oversized shirts. Scuffed boots. Some still clutching hands to steady their nerves.
One kid, barely ten, kept staring at Tristan’s number. He turned slightly and gave him a quiet nod. The kid almost passed out from joy.
“Is he nervous?” Mahrez whispered, watching.
“More than we are,” Tristan murmured.
Vardy bent down to his mascot — a girl with half her face painted in blue and white fox stripes. “Alright, superstar,” he said, “you’re in charge of the noise out there. If the fans stop singing, you start yelling.”
She gave him a thumbs up, tooth gap shining. “Aye aye, captain!”
On the United side, Michael Carrick stood still, eyes straight ahead. Memphis Depay bounced slightly, headphones still in. Herrera… was already vibrating like a kettle about to whistle.
“Walk out in ten,” said a steward, hand to his earpiece. “Camera left. Mascots between you.”
A producer on headset raised five fingers. Then four.
And then—
The curtain peeled open.
And the King Power exploded — not in smoke or pyro, but in pure sound.
More than 34,000 voices, unified like a war drum. Flags rippled. Scarves spun in high arcs. The crowd surged forward in waves, turning noise into weaponry.
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE, YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE, YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
The pitchside microphones buzzed with distortion.
The camera lifted — rising into the Leicester sky, catching a panorama of limbs, color, movement, and meaning. Every seat full. Every voice loaded. And above it all — the VIP box, shining under winter sun.
That’s where the stars were.
Ed Sheeran, hoodie up, a custom Tristan 22 shirt over it — blacked out with gold trim — was already halfway through singing along. He nudged the man beside him: Clive Owen, Leicester native and longtime Foxes fan, sipping tea with a grin like he owned the club.
“I told him last night he better score twice,” Ed said, grinning. “And he said ‘Don’t be greedy. You’ll get three.’”
Clive laughed. “Sounds about right.”
Two rows behind them, Gary Lineker, club legend, leaned forward with both elbows on his knees, eyes locked in. Next to him sat Ranvir Singh from ITV, phone already out recording the madness.
At the far end of the box, Jamie Dornan — Northern Irish actor and Leicester supporter through family — wore a classic 1997 LCFC retro kit under his coat. And then there was Barbara.
Barbara Palvin, trench coat sharp, her lips curled in a half-grin as the entire East Stand roared her boyfriend’s name like gospel. She elbowed Soma who was here as she was free.
“Did they rehearse this?” she asked. “Or is it just Leicester on adrenaline and sugar?”
Soma shook her head. “I need noise-cancelling prayer.”
Behind them, John stood like a statue. Biscuit, however, was unbothered.
The dog of the hour — cream-colored, regal, tail flicking lazily — had a silk Leicester scarf tied around her neck and two tiny blue paw prints painted onto her fur. When the chant surged again, she gave a perfectly timed bark.
Barbara burst out laughing. Soma rolled her eyes. “And to think we used to go to Milan Fashion Week.”
Biscuit simply crossed her paws and blinked slowly, as if bored by the attention.
The camera dropped again — to pitch level now. To the thunder.
“A sell-out crowd at the King Power,” said Martin Tyler, voice smooth, “and a memory that hasn’t left this stadium since last year’s destruction.”
“Seven–one,” Alan Smith echoed. “That’s not a scoreline. That’s humiliation, a scoreline that fans will never forget. For a club of United’s calibur, it’s a match that fans will never be able to forget. And now, United — with all their might — come walking straight into it.”
The crowd surged again:
🎵 “OH WHEN THE FOXES… GO MARCHING IN!” 🎵
🎵 “OH WHEN THE FOXES… GO MARCHING IN!” 🎵
“The banners are out,” Tyler continued, “the roar is real, and the icons are all here — from Lineker to Ed Sheeran to half the Premier League watching from home. This isn’t just a match anymore. It’s a moment. And I’m sure the numbers for live viewers will only go up once the match starts.
The screen split as both teams formed up — and now, formations filled the broadcast like tactical blueprints made for war:
🦊 Leicester City – 4-3-3
🧤 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)
🔴 Manchester United – 4-2-3-1
🧤 David De Gea (GK)
🚀 Matteo Darmian (RB)
🏰 Chris Smalling (CB)
🏰 Phil Jones (CB)
🚀 Daley Blind (LB)
🛡️ Michael Carrick (CDM)
🛡️ Ander Herrera (CDM)
🎨 Juan Mata (CAM)
🔥 Memphis Depay (LW)
🎯 Wayne Rooney (RW)
⚡ Anthony Martial (ST)
“No surprises from Leicester,” Tyler said. “The same eleven that destroyed Newcastle last week. The only change? Expect Tristan to play higher. Much higher. Although the formation is much different compared to their normal 4-2-3-1.
“He’s listed as a 🎯 CAM,” Smith agreed, “but don’t bother marking him like one. He’ll float. Drop between lines. Drift wide. Sometimes he’s shadowing Vardy, sometimes he’s pulling De Gea’s gloves off.”
“United trying to counter that with a double pivot Carrick and Herrera shielding the back four. But that comes at a price: less bite, less risk. More reaction, less control.”
“And if you press 22,” Tyler added, “you leave space for Mahrez. You drop back? You let Vardy sprint through you like a bullet through fog.”
The crowd hit another gear.
Across the stadium, handmade signs lit up like street posters on judgment day:
🦊 "WE BELIEVE IN MIRACLES"
👑 "THE KING PLAYS AT KING POWER"
In the players' huddles, final words were spoken. Knees bounced. Shirts tugged. Breaths held.
Back in the booth, Tyler’s voice dropped a pitch.
“So here we go.”
“The miracle makers… against the fallen empire.”
“Leicester City… versus Manchester United.”
Jamie Vardy stood over the ball. Tristan Hale hovered nearby, eyes locked down the pitch. Maguire bellowed something from the backline. The officials gave the signal.
The whistle rose.
And the King Power Stadium rose with it.
Kickoff… in three… two… one.
The whistle blew.
The war began.
The whistle cracked like a gunshot.
David De Gea flexed his fingers once, twice. Behind him, the South Stand rose like a wave.
Not a song. Not yet. Just vibration. A crowd pulsing like a living creature. He knew what came next.
🎵 “Tristan’s on fire… your defense is terrified!” 🎵
He tuned it out. He had to.
Leicester kicked off — Jamie Vardy rolling the ball back to Danny Drinkwater, who clipped it square to N’Golo Kanté. From the very first touch, it was clear: they weren’t waiting to feel things out. They were here to hunt.
Martin’s voice dropped in through the roar. "Underway at the King Power, where ghosts still live in the walls. Leicester City hosting Manchester United… and perhaps something more than that."
Smith followed.
"It’s not a rematch. It’s a reckoning. Last time here, it was seven–one. Today? United will settle for dignity before revenge."
De Gea narrowed his eyes. He could already see Tristan Hale dropping from the front line, floating between Carrick and Jones like a phantom.
Marc Albrighton hit the byline. Ritchie De Laet overlapped like a missile. A quick give-and-go. Cross incoming.
Phil Jones scrambled, blocked it half-clean, the ball skimming off his shin and into the crowd. Corner given. De Gea didn’t flinch, but inside, he counted heartbeats.
Behind the goal, a group of fans held up a banner: "SEVEN WASN’T ENOUGH."
De Gea barked orders as the corner came in — Schmeichel’s opposite number rising in place, arms stiff.
Mahrez to swing it in. A curling delivery. Dangerous.
Chris Smalling won it. Just. But only as far as Tristan Hale at the edge of the area.
Tristan didn’t shoot. Not yet.
He feinted once, then rolled it to Drinkwater, who fizzed it back out. Mahrez again. Another low cross — blocked by Blind.
De Gea exhaled as the danger passed. But then he heard it again:
🎵 “Tristan’s on fire…” 🎵
He gritted his teeth. Not again.
Kanté pounced. Stole it from Herrera like a pickpocket. Passed in one motion to Mahrez, who skipped past Blind. The pitch slanted suddenly.
Then — Tristan.
Not on the ball, but near it. Stalking. Waiting. Between the lines again. Carrick turned, saw him, stepped. Too late.
Mahrez fed Tristan a sharp ground pass. He spun onto it with one touch.
BOOM.
Ander Herrera lunged. Just enough. Blocked. Deflected.
▔▔▔
04:14
Riyad Mahrez floated inside again. The touchlines didn’t exist for him. He cut left, flicked a ball toward the center.
Drinkwater shielded it well. A toe-poke to Tristan.
Tristan Hale now. Alone. 35 yards out. United’s shape flat. Carrick sagged too deep. Smalling stepped too soon.
De Gea’s stomach tightened.
It was the same angle. The same range. The same setup as last year.
That goal.
The goal.
Tristan turned. Set his feet. And hit it.
A rocket.
The ball screamed through the air. De Gea’s breath caught. He launched himself — right hand first, fingers straining.
A fingertip. Just enough.
The ball nicked the underside of the crossbar and zipped over. A gasp tore through the stadium.
Noise. Deafening.
Martins voice surged with the moment. "And that… was nearly a haunting. Tristan from 35 yards. Shades of last season, but this time—David De Gea says no."
Smith added, “De Gea won’t admit it, but he saw ghosts there. Tristan had it — same angle, same strike. But brilliant hands. Saved United early.”
🎵 “WE LOVE YOU LEICESTER, WE DO!” 🎵
🎵 “OOHH LEICESTER, WE LOVE YOU!” 🎵
David De Gea stood upright. Still breathing hard. The crowd wouldn’t know what he was thinking.
But he did.
He had survived the first five minutes.
He could survive the rest.
In the technical area, Louis van Gaal stood still — but inside, he was ticking. Exactly how he wanted it.
United had started sharper. Tighter. Aggressive off the ball. And even though Tristan had just forced David into a world-class save, the general shape, the control, the pressure — it was theirs.
There was no hope of stopping Tristan only containing him to limited degrees and so far his players were doing a damn excellent job at it.
Van Gaal narrowed his eyes. "We force them deep. Press the second ball. We keep them uncomfortable. This is football by discipline."
He watched Martial sprint to chase down Huth. Forced long. Kanté recovered it, but only just. The space Tristan had a minute ago was now closed. Carrick and Herrera boxed in.
Van Gaal turned to Ryan Giggs beside him. "If they score first, I bring on Fellaini. Long channel balls. Make them suffer. But for now..."
He pointed toward the pitch. "Keep the pressure."
On the opposite touchline, Claudio Ranieri adjusted the cuff of his coat. United had learned their lesson. That much was obvious.
"Good," he muttered to himself. "Let them press. Let them chase. We will let them run their legs down."
Ranieri motioned subtly to Schmeichel. Play short if safe. Long if needed. Then to Fuchs. Shift inside earlier. Let Albrighton roam. Space will come.
He wasn’t worried. But he was planning.
If they score first, Ulloa comes in. Two up top. Drop Tristan behind them. Flood the box. We don’t fear them.
He glanced across the field. Tristan Hale was tracking back. Ranieri smiled faintly. This is what he loved about the team’s golden boy.
Martin shouted, his voice pulsing with tension, "We’re into the seventh minute now at the King Power. United the sharper of the two sides, pressing every pass like it owes them rent."
Smith followed up: "You can see the tactical shape from Van Gaal working early on. Carrick and Herrera aren’t man-marking Hale exactly, but they’re shadowing him like ghosts."
Martin continued: "Still, that one chance from Tristan — a warning shot. If Leicester find rhythm, they’ll sting."
Minute 7:31
Tristan felt it. The game wasn’t flowing. It was pulsing. Stop-start. Surge and reset.
United were pressing high.
Not just Herrera, but Rooney too. Mata stepped into channels, forcing Drinkwater wide. Martial dropped in when needed. And whenever he touched the ball, Carrick's shadow followed.
So he adjusted. He dropped deeper. Not to find time, but to create misdirection.
Mahrez received wide. Twisted Daley Blind one way, then another. Crowd roared. He slipped a ball inside. Hale let it run. Fuchs overlapping. Cross came in — tight angle, curling away. De Gea punched.
Martin shouted, "That’s better from Leicester. Mahrez finally given space to dance."
Smith added, "And that was Hale again — didn’t touch the ball, but shaped the run. Forced Jones to freeze."
United responded. Quick. Purposeful.
Herrera to Rooney. One-touch to Mata. Mata threaded Martial between Maguire and Huth. Shot low. Saved by Schmeichel.
But Leicester couldn’t clear.
Ball rebounded to Rooney, top of the box. He took one touch. Opened up. Shot rising.
CRACK!
Harry Maguire slid in.
Blocked.
Corner.
The crowd erupted.
Martin shouted, "Big block! And it had to be! Harry Maguire, getting in the way of a bullet from Rooney."
Smith followed, "That’s the danger of United pressing high. If Leicester lose the second ball, they get punished."
🎵 "Foxes never quit!" 🎵
🎵 "Foxes never quit!" 🎵
🎵 "Foxes never quit!" 🎵
Corner swung in. Smalling rose. Headed wide. Goal kick.
But again — pressure. Immediate. Herrera pressed Schmeichel’s short pass. Forced a clearance.
Ranieri clapped once. Loud. Tactical signal. Hold. Settle.
Minute 10:12
Kanté won it off Rooney. Passed instantly to Drinkwater. One-two with Albrighton. Switched to Mahrez.
Mahrez cut in, rolled it central. Tristan checked his run, then darted forward. Herrera hesitated. That was enough.
Tristan touched it to his left, space opening. Shot coming — deflected by Carrick! Ball spilled left. Vardy nearly there, but De Gea smothered.
Martin shouted, "Tristan again, pulling defenders out of shape. Nearly crafted the opener!"
Smith added, "Carrick got just enough, but you can feel it — Leicester are starting to crack that press."
Kanté again. Clean off Herrera. Drinkwater found Mahrez. Mahrez to Tristan. He didn’t look. He chipped it.
Over Carrick. Over Jones.
To Vardy.
De Gea came flying.
Vardy volleyed first time. Side netting.
The entire South Stand rose thinking it was in.
Gasps.
Hands on heads.
Martin shouted, "OH! So, so close! What a pass from Tristan Hale! That’s outrageous vision!"
Smith added, "No look. Reverse chip. That’s ridiculous. Vardy caught it sweet but just wide."
De Gea’s heart was still pounding. Van Gaal yelled for the line to compress. Ranieri stayed calm.
In the East Stand, KSI had both arms in the air.
"This is MAD. This is actually mad!"
Simon shook his head. "That block from Maguire? Ridiculous. I thought it was 1-0."
The camera panned briefly to their section. JJ saw it and mugged for the lens. The fans around them were still screaming.
🎵 "WE ALL DREAM OF A TEAM OF TRISTAN!" 🎵
🎵 "A TEAM OF HALES! A TEAM OF HALES!" 🎵
Simon cupped his hands. "Is this the best game we’ve been to?"
"It’s already better than most finals," Tobi said.
And below them, the chaos continued.
Albrighton nearly broke through on the left. Blind blocked the cross, but it bounced to Drinkwater, who tried his luck — low and swerving.
De Gea dropped fast. Saved.
Martin exclaimed, "This game has NO brakes! Drinkwater having a go, and De Gea called into action again!"
Smith added, "Every shot, every run — they’re taking chunks out of each other already."
The match was just twelve minutes in. And it already felt like extra time in a final. And no one — not a single soul in that stadium — was sitting down.
The volume inside the stadium refused to drop.
Schmeichel kicked long after Drinkwater’s swerver was gathered by De Gea. United reset quickly. Van Gaal clapped sharply twice. Carrick gestured for the line to push forward.
🎵 “COME ON YOU FOXES!” 🎵
🎵 “COME ON YOU FOXES!” 🎵
🎵 “COME ON YOU FOXES!” 🎵
Martial picked up the ball off a throw-in. One quick shimmy — past De Laet. A burst. Space.
“Anthony Martial now, direct as ever — he’s past one!”
Smith chimed in, urgency sharpening his tone. “De Laet’s trailing! He’s got a shot here—”
Martial cut inside. Left foot. Quick snap.
BANG!
The ball whistled inches wide of the near post. The away end gasped, their cheers caught halfway in their throats.
“Clean strike,” said Smith, breathless. “Half a yard the other way and Schmeichel’s picking it out the net.”
Ranieri didn’t move. He simply turned toward Mahrez, gestured to breathe — slow it, then strike.
Leicester broke. Kanté snatched the ball off Memphis clean. One touch to Tristan. Tristan pivoted, then flicked it with the outside of his boot to Mahrez.
Mahrez danced. Left. Right. Left again. Daley Blind looked dizzy.
One, two, three touches. The crowd howled in approval.
A whipped cross — chaos. De Gea lunged to punch. Jones hacked wildly.
Ball dropped to Tristan. Volley.
SMASH!
Carrick threw himself in the way. Blocked. Bodies clattered to the turf.
🎵 “Foxes never quit!” 🎵
🎵 “Foxes never quit!” 🎵
🎵 “Foxes never quit!” 🎵
Back the other way now.
Herrera launched it. Mata picked it clean. Fed Rooney, who spread it wide to Depay.
Memphis cut inside. Rolled his foot over the ball. Dummied. Curled it — top corner bound.
No.
Schmeichel stretched — fingertips grazing the ball.
CLINK.
Bar.
Martin nearly lost his voice. “WHAT A SAVE! KASPER SCHMEICHEL REACHING TO THE STARS!”
“Inches away from a worldie,” said Smith. “Memphis caught that so sweet — but Kasper had wings.”
Maguire spun, face furious. “WAKE UP!” he roared at his line.
The atmosphere didn’t waver. Flags swung like blades. Scarves whipped in arcs overhead.
🎵 “COME ON YOU FOXES!” 🎵 rolled like thunder.
Tristan began operating deeper, just behind Drinkwater. The change didn’t seem big on paper. But on the pitch — it bent the game’s gravity.
A pass from Mahrez. Hale turned, pretended left.
Then he exploded.
Through Mata. Past Carrick. Herrera lunged in — late.
The whistle followed after.
The yellow card came quickly.
Leicester erupted. Vardy led the protest. Mahrez got in the ref’s face. Huth shielded Hale.
Martin’s voice dropped in again. “It’s heating up now. Tristan just left midfield in the dust, and Herrera knew only one way to stop him.”
Smith offered, “They’re on the edge now. That’s a warning shot from Hale and a warning card for United.”
Ranieri clapped twice. Calm. His mind was already five passes ahead.
Thirty yards out. Free kick. Mahrez and Tristan stood over it.
Vardy peeled to the right. A wall of red stared back.
Tristan glanced once. Then again.
And chipped it.
Feather-soft.
Albrighton sprinted through. Square ball in. Vardy lunged — header!
Saved.
De Gea had lightning in his gloves.
Tyler sounded nearly reverent. “That’s from the training ground. Leicester with the misdirection. And De Gea’s having none of it.”
“They fooled the whole stadium,” Smith murmured. “Everyone but David.”
Barbara looked over at Soma. “This is ridiculous.”
Soma didn’t blink. “This is why I keep heart pills in my clutch.”
United responded instantly. Carrick went long. Martial flicked it into Rooney’s stride. He cut back inside Fuchs — ready to unleash.
But Maguire thundered across. Thudded into the shot.
The crowd exploded like fireworks.
🎵 “HARRY! HARRY! HARRY!” 🎵
🎵 “MAGUIRE! MAGUIRE!” 🎵
“Heroic,” said Martin. “Maguire throwing himself in front of everything in red.”
Smith said it plainly. “That was a goal without that block. Rooney knows it.”
Van Gaal’s voice rang out: “PRESS! KEEP THE TEMPO!”
Ranieri whispered to his bench. Ulloa started stretching.
Tristan dropped again. No touch. But his run dragged Herrera with him. The space opened.
Drinkwater to Mahrez. One-two. Vardy laid it off. Mahrez danced past Blind again.
Crossing chance—
Tristan arrived. Diving header.
Side netting.
Half the stadium rose. The other half groaned.
“My word,” Martin said, stunned. “This is breathtaking. Tristan pulling strings and daggers all at once.”
Smith found his voice. “The danger isn’t just in the ball. It’s in the run. The timing. The sense.”
Rooney tried a chip toward the far post. Maguire intercepted, cushioned the ball like a midfielder.
🎵 “WE ALL DREAM OF A TEAM OF HALES!” 🎵
🎵 “A TEAM OF HALES! A TEAM OF HALES!” 🎵
JJ led the next chant himself.
🎵 “HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN! TRISTAN!” 🎵
Even the United fans could only clap. You couldn’t not respect it.
Herrera took advantage of a loose pass. Quick release. Mata slid it to Rooney.
One touch. Martial. Through on goal.
“This could be it,” Martin said, voice rising. “Martial—”
Fuchs dove in like a sabre.
The tackle was perfect.
“Unreal,” Smith whispered. “You will not see better.”
Martin added, “Schmeichel’s sprinting out to thank him. And rightly so.”
The ball refused to rest. Every pass was a blade.
Mahrez to Tristan. A darting move. Right into stride.
Smalling shoved. Tristan held. Fired—
Blocked by Jones. The crowd roared in frustration. Another corner.
“They’re sacrificing bodies,” Martin said. “Jones, Carrick, Smalling — all throwing themselves at Tristan like he’s a grenade.”
Smith replied, “They have to. It’s the only way they’re staying level.”
🎵 “OH LEICESTER, WE LOVE YOU!” 🎵
🎵 “COME ON YOU FOXES!” 🎵
Rooney’s switch — intercepted. Kanté. Instantly to Tristan.
He juggled once. Then twice.
A gasp.
Then — a volleyed cross-field switch. On a rope. Straight to Albrighton.
Touch. Cross. Vardy!
Header.
CLANG.
Off the post.
Mahrez. Volley.
Saved again.
Schmeichel stared at the far end.
Martin’s voice cracked, “DE GEA AGAIN! ARE YOU KIDDING?”
“Leicester’s playing like gods,” Smith managed. “But De Gea’s the wall of Rome.”
Barbara was frozen. Biscuit barked once, perfectly on beat. Ed Sheeran looked like he’d seen a ghost.
Thirty minutes played. No goals. But football, at its rawest, purest, and most divine.
And still, the war refused to let up.
The game wouldn’t breathe.
By now, the tempo was less like a match and more like a wildfire. Every second carried weight. Every blade of grass felt stretched, tested, scorched by sprint after sprint.
And then came the ignition.
Drinkwater wrestled Herrera off the ball just past the halfway line, earning a small roar from the West Stand. He poked it toward Kanté, who didn’t stop to think—just played the ball forward to Tristan Hale.
The crowd knew.
You could feel it before it happened.
Tristan spun on the ball, his back to goal, Smalling and Carrick swarming. But instead of taking a touch forward, he pirouetted, dipped a shoulder — and flicked a pass with the outside of his boot.
The stadium inhaled.
The pass curved. No backlift. Just pure vision. Like he’d bent gravity.
It split United like silk. Right between Jones and Darmian, behind Carrick, who shouted too late.
Jamie Vardy was gone.
“HE’S IN!” Martin Tyler erupted, standing in the booth.
Vardy had a full second’s lead. That’s all he ever needed. De Gea bolted from his line, gloves high, narrowing the angle. His eyes locked on the ball, then flicked to Vardy’s feet. He tried to read it. But Vardy wasn’t readable.
The striker let it bounce once. Then twice. Then swung his right foot with venom.
De Gea dove low — desperate, sprawling — but it wasn’t enough.
The ball skidded under his arm.
And into the far corner.
GOAL.
The King Power detonated.
🎵 "JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY!" 🎵 🎵 "BRING YOUR VODKA AND YOUR CHARLIE!" 🎵
The sound hit like an avalanche. Scarves flew like missiles. Beer cups rocketed skyward. Seats rocked. Security guards hugged each other. Fans leapt over rows. Elders and children and strangers screamed in unison.
De Gea stayed down for a beat longer, staring at the net. He slapped the turf once, hard. Then rose slowly, jaw clenched. He'd done everything right. And still — the ball was in.
The scoreboard blinked to life: LEI 1 - 0 MUN
Vardy sprinted to the corner flag like a man possessed, arms out, mouth open in a primal yell. He slid on his knees into the turf, fists slamming the air. Mahrez jumped on his back. Albrighton wrapped him from the side. Drinkwater crashed into the pile.
And then — Tristan screaming letting out all his frustration before rushing towards Vardy.
The broadcast froze on that moment that two hugged.
Martin’s voice trembled with wonder. “Jamie Vardy again! That’s five in five Premier League games — SEVEN goals total! But Tristan Hale… my word… that pass wasn’t football. That was poetry in motion.”
Smith leaned forward, stunned. “Outside of the boot. Between three defenders. On a full sprint. That’s not vision. That’s prophecy. You don’t teach that — you witness it.”
In the stands, chaos.
KSI screamed with no sound left, face red, grabbing Tobi and Simon in a bouncing hug. His hat flew off somewhere behind him.
Ed Sheeran was on his feet, arms raised high. The custom Tristan 22 jersey clung to his beer-soaked hoodie. “He said he’d get three!” Ed shouted. “AND THAT’S JUST ONE!”
Barbara Palvin stood frozen — wide-eyed — before throwing both arms around Soma. They laughed. They screamed. Soma knocked over a glass of water onto the media notes.
“Did you see that pass!?” Barbara shrieked. “THAT’S MY BOYFRIEND.”
Down on the pitch, the Leicester bench went wild. Ranieri didn’t. He clapped. Once.
Then said calmly, “Again before the half, and we bury them.”
On the United side, Van Gaal’s mouth was tight. He turned to Giggs. “That… was not normal. That was genius. And genius breaks all structure.”
The stadium was still shaking.
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE, YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE, YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
At midfield, Rooney clapped once, trying to rouse his team. Carrick shouted something urgent to Jones. De Gea pointed to the gaps, voice clipped. But it felt like trying to contain an earthquake with duct tape.
Martin reclaimed the airwaves. “That’s Tristan’s thirteen assist of the season. And dare I say — maybe his most spectacular yet.”
Smith added, “He’s not just playing this match. He’s orchestrating it.”
🎵 “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY!” 🎵
🎵 “WE LOVE YOU LEICESTER, WE DO!” 🎵
Back in the South Stand, a father lifted his young son high into the air. The boy waved a sign made from cardboard and blue paint: TRISTAN IS OUR KING.
The chants rolled on. The players reset.
But the war had already been set ablaze.
Martin’s voice dropped, almost reverent. “They came for revenge…”
Smith picked up the line, quiet and firm. “…but Leicester came to write scripture.”
And right now — every flick, every breath, every ball from number 22 — was gospel.
The goal had barely settled in the net, and already United were kicking off again.
The King Power still shook with the echoes of celebration. Fans hadn’t returned to their seats. Children still stood on chairs, arms in the air. The chant was still lingering:
🎵 “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY!” 🎵
But on the pitch, the ball was moving.
Rooney barked at Depay to tuck in. Mata drifted left. Carrick pointed for Darmian to push. They weren’t folding — not yet.
And Leicester knew it.
Martin spoke with gravity. “If United want to prove they’ve moved on from last year’s embarrassment… this is the moment.”
Smith added, “They’ve got to respond. Leicester just delivered a thunderbolt — but there’s still sixty minutes left in this fight.”
Carrick, ever the metronome, slid the ball wide to Blind. Quick one-two with Depay. Then a surge from Herrera down the middle. He played it out to Rooney, who was already shaping up.
Cut inside. Step over. Right foot.
Blocked by Maguire — again.
The roar grew louder.
🎵 “HARRY! HARRY!” 🎵
But United had numbers forward. Leicester couldn’t break yet.
Mata floated toward the edge of the box. He spotted Martial. Dinked pass. The Frenchman brought it down.
Fuchs closed. Tight.
Still, Martial wriggled free — low drive, bottom corner.
Schmeichel dropped.
PALM.
Saved.
Martin’s voice rose: “That’s brilliant from Martial, but Kasper Schmeichel is just unshakable today.”
Smith responded, “It’s relentless. That goal has lit a fire under United, and they’re finally playing with teeth.”
Tristan was jogging back, eyes scanning. Hands pointed left. He signaled for the line to shift.
Van Gaal paced the technical area, barking instructions in Dutch and English.
“Compact! Compact! Then press on turnover!”
Ranieri remained still. Just one whisper to Kanté: “Let them run. Then finish them.”
Herrera recycled it again. To Mata. Out to Blind. Across to Darmian.
But Leicester didn’t panic. They stayed compact. Deep, yes — but with purpose.
Until it changed.
Blind’s pass was heavy.
Kanté pounced.
And the crowd sensed it — that sudden, breathless shift from pressure to promise.
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE—” 🎵
Kanté broke left. One touch. Then found Tristan.
He didn’t rush. He turned.
And he saw it.
Mahrez already sprinting up the right channel. Albrighton angling wide. Vardy curling into the space behind Jones again.
Smith spoke with awe, “This is where Hale is most dangerous — in broken play. No formation. No system. Just instinct.”
Tristan took one touch. Then lofted a ball forty yards into Mahrez’s path.
The crowd gasped.
It was perfect. Mahrez didn’t even break stride. He lifted his head — Vardy screamed for it. Inside the box.
Mahrez cut it low.
But this time — Phil Jones slid in. Blocked.
De Gea collected. The danger ended.
But the message?
Still roaring.
Martin summed it up. “United are pressing with everything — but Leicester? They only need one second to break you.”
Smith agreed. “And that’s what Tristan gives you. Every pass he plays comes with a heartbeat attached.”
The camera swung to Ed Sheeran, who still hadn’t sat down.
“IT’S GONNA BE TWO!” he shouted.
Soma turned to Barbara and said dryly, “Why does this feel like the Hunger Games?”
Barbara smiled faintly. “Because the Capitol’s already burning.” She made a cringe face just as she said that.
Back on the pitch —
Carrick had the ball again.
United passed.
Rooney moved deeper to collect and spread it wide.
But now the Leicester midfield wasn’t chasing recklessly. Drinkwater and Kanté held firm in a zonal press, using body shape to block angles.
Darmian attempted to switch play to Blind. But Mahrez cut the route off. Tristan drifted close, not pressing — but shepherding. Shadowing.
United still held the ball, but it looked forced. Laboured. As if every touch had gained weight.
Smith leaned into his mic. “This is where Leicester have grown. Last year, they’d chase the ball. Now? They shape the game with discipline.”
The Leicester fans picked up another chant, voices loud and united.
Schmeichel waved his backline up. He knew the pressure was coming again soon.
Back in the technical area, Ranieri turned to his assistant and pointed to the far corner.
“If we get a corner before the break, I want Huth forward no matter what. Let Tristan hang on the edge.”
“Thinking second ball?”
“Yeah, it’s better to,” Ranieri said simply.
Jones played it back to De Gea. A rare breath.
De Gea looked upfield, no short pass obvious. Leicester were positioned like chess pieces.
So he kicked long.
Maguire rose highest. Won the header.
Drinkwater cushioned it down.
Tristan already checked his shoulder — ready to receive.
And as he did, with two defenders closing — he let it roll past his leg like a decoy. Mahrez picked it up instead.
Quick combination. Mahrez to Vardy. One-touch to Tristan.
He turned.
He was 35 yards out again.
The fans surged to their feet.
But he didn’t shoot.
He played it out wide — De Laet overlapping on the right. Low ball in. Cleared by Smalling. Out for a throw.
Barbara leaned forward in her seat, hands over her heart.
“Why’s it always like this?” she whispered.
Soma answered like it was obvious. “Because you picked a man that thrives off attention.”
The camera swept the crowd again. Faces flushed with emotion. Shirts stuck to bodies. Arms windmilling. Noise unending.
Tristan Hale stood on the touchline, waiting for the throw.
And the clock ticked to 39:00.
De Laet took the ball in hand, towel over his shoulder, scanning the pitch. Mahrez dragged a marker wide. Vardy dropped. Tristan moved like mist, drifting in from the wing toward the center.
The throw came short — into Tristan’s feet.
But Carrick read it.
He poked a toe through, nicking the ball just enough. It skidded away — straight to Herrera, who launched it upfield with one sweeping swing.
Rooney, calm under pressure, stepped into space and cushioned it with a velvet touch. One glance. One turn.
Then — Mata. He saw it early.
Slide-rule pass. Threaded with surgical precision between Huth and De Laet.
Anthony Martial.
"He's in!" Martin Tyler exploded. "Martial — one chance!"
The Frenchman surged forward like a thunderbolt, speed and silence in one. One-on-one with Huth. He didn’t flinch. Not once.
Cut inside. Dropped the shoulder. Huth bit.
Maguire shifted to close the angle. But too late.
Martial opened his body and curled it low — a clean, venomous strike.
The ball snaked across the turf. Schmeichel dove. Stretching. Reaching.
But it slipped past his fingers.
Into the far corner.
GOAL.
The away end detonated.
A wall of red surged to its feet. Fists flew skyward. Scarves tossed. A roar carved from catharsis.
🎵 “UNITED! UNITED!” 🎵
Martial didn’t even smile.
He sprinted toward the East Stand — then slowed.
Stopped.
And lifted his arms.
Arms wide smiling.
Head tilted.
Tristan Hale’s celebration.
Presented.
In Tristan’s house.
Martin’ voice cracked. “Oh… he’s done it. He’s only gone and done it. Martial with the goal… and the mockery.”
Smith’s words came slow. “That’s not just an equalizer. That’s a dagger. That’s rubbing salt in every Leicester wound.”
The King Power fell into a stunned hush.
No anger. Not yet.
Just disbelief.
Martial turned slowly in the pose, soaking in the venom. Booing began to rise like smoke.
KSI in the stands looked like he’d been slapped. “HE DIDN’T!”
Simon blinked. “He did.”
Tobi shook his head. “He’s playing with fire.”
Down on the sidelines —
Tristan didn’t move.
The camera found him. Framed him perfectly. Backdrop of chaos, but he was still. Statuesque.
Expression unreadable.
But in his eyes — fury like never before.
Martin, whispering now. “Oh Anthony Martial. What have you done? You never angered the King like this.”
Halftime loomed.
But the war had only just begun.
.
Just started moving to my new apartment. That just sounds wonderful to say, lol.
Anyway, I hope you guys liked this chapter.
Comments
mud104
Now we wait for 2 days grrrrr I want to go back in time and stop myself from choosing 2 days for updates.
