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Chapter 220: Revenge Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-06-15 05:01:04 +0000 UTCThe wind hit differently this morning.
Not colder, just... wetter. A wind that didn’t blow so much as it snuck in under your coat and stayed there.
Danny Drinkwater stepped through the main doors, boot bag in hand, shoulders hunched, and felt it straight away.
Not the cold.
The mood.
It was a far cry from the usual kind of atmosphere you expected after an international break—bit of jet lag, a bit of piss-taking here and there, and half the squad pretending they hadn’t been out last night. No. This was heavier.
And fair enough.
Newcastle in two days.
Just thinking about them made his teeth clench. Dirty, smug lot. One of them had done him bad—he couldn’t remember exactly how long he was out for, but it didn’t matter, it was a couple of weeks minimum.
Tristan had taken a knock too. Two-footer, clear as day. Should’ve been red. Wasn’t even a booking.
Play on.
They lost the game, lost rhythm, lost momentum. Lost confidence.
Tristan missed three subsequent games. They never really recovered from it.
And it wasn’t just the outcome of the game that stuck; rather, it was that hollow feeling in your gut, the kind you get when you know you should’ve been out there. That was what he felt.
Maybe he could have changed something. Maybe not. But not being able to try? That was the bit that hurt.
The second game against Newcastle, they scraped a win. Nobody really celebrated. Too many changes, most of the starters weren’t even playing. Too many lads out of sync. They got the points, but not the feeling of revenge they craved.
And now here they were again. Newcastle on the horizon. Same team, same tension.
Only difference? Tristan had been mouthing off all week, more than normal, about Newcastle. Pressers, socials, didn’t matter; it was constant. Slagging off Newcastle’s midfield, calling out their tackles, hinting at payback. The kid had gone full throttle.
Danny hadn’t seen it coming. Thought Tristan was more measured than that. But looking back... maybe not. The lad had a memory like a razor and a habit of picking fights when things got dangerous, or when things called for it.
Most of the time, he was mellow, but if you got him going? Man, oh man, you had it coming. And Danny felt no pity for the sods—no, he very much looked forward to the beating that was coming.
He stepped into the dressing room, dropped his bag with a thud, sat down, and rubbed his palms together, more out of habit than need.
No speaker was blaring loud music. No arguments over whose playlist was best suited for the occasion. Just boots on the floor and the low whizzing of the ceiling fan above.
Interactions were limited to a few nods. No jokes. No one was feeling the cheer.
He glanced up at Tristan. Then, to Mahrez, who was leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Vardy was fiddling with a roll of tape, face down, jaw working.
It was funny; the cold didn’t bother him anymore.
Newcastle did.
No matter what the table said, no matter where they sat or how many goals they’d put past Arsenal, this upcoming fixture didn’t care about that.
It had nothing to do with stats or form.
It was personal.
.
The cold was worse when the players made their way out. It was miserable. The wind didn’t blow in gusts; it scraped like sandpaper, low and constant. Cones were scattered in ragged lines, a few toppling and rolling gently across the turf before someone jogged over to reset them.
Vardy fell in step beside Tristan as they made their way toward the main drill area. Both of them were hunched against the wind and had their arms wrapped around themselves, seeking any bit of warmth possible.
Vardy exhaled, idly watching his breath cloud with a bit of interest.
“Thought you were gonna chin someone in the changing room,” he said under his breath, just loud enough for Tristan to hear.
Tristan didn’t look at him. “Still might,” he replied, rubbing his arms up and down.
Vardy laughed. “Oi, wait till Saturday. Let ‘em earn it, yeah?”
“They will.”
They slowed at the first cone. What was laid out ahead didn’t look like regular prep. No warm-up rondos. No lazy passing lanes. Instead: crash mats, weighted sleds, tackle shields, resistance bands anchored to metal pegs. It looked like someone had borrowed a training setup from rugby.
“Jesus Christ,” Vardy muttered. “Ranieri’s proper lost the plot.”
“Looks like preseason,” Tristan added, rubbing his hands.
“Looks like a military fitness test,” Vardy bit back.
Tristan just rolled his shoulder once and cracked his neck, eyes fixed on the far end of the pitch where Benetti was barking orders already.
“You know what they’re doing,” Tristan said.
Vardy nodded. “Making sure nobody pulls out of a fifty-fifty. Not this time.”
Benetti’s whistle split the air before anyone had a chance to dawdle. He was already halfway through a sentence in Italian, volume rising, tempo like gunfire.
Then, switching to English: “You get hit, you stay up! They pull your shirt, you break free! They clip your ankle, you push through! Newcastle won’t play clean—don’t you dare wait for the whistle!”
Ranieri followed behind him, a step slower but no less intense. Coat zipped to the neck, scarf tight. Hands behind his back, face unreadable, but his eyes were scanning everywhere.
“No soft touches today,” he said, voice low but firm. “You fall, you start again. No fouls called. No complaints. That’s the rule.”
Vardy glanced sideways at Tristan, bouncing lightly on his toes.
“Didn’t think we were playing rugby.”
Tristan looked back at him, deadpan. “They played rugby last year. We just didn’t hit back.”
Vardy blew air out through his nose and grinned. “This time we’ll be the ones hammering them, ain’t that right?”
Benetti clapped his hands sharply, cutting off Tristan’s reply. “Three groups! Ten-minute rotations! No fouls. No breaks. Move!”
Boots hurriedly scattered over the frozen turf.
First up: Mahrez and Maguire.
Mahrez eyed the crash mat with a fair bit of apprehension.
“Didn’t sign up for judo,” he muttered.
Maguire didn’t even blink. “You’ll be alright. It’s just controlled impact.”
“You hit like a fridge.”
Whistle.
Despite the unease Mahrez felt, he didn’t hesitate to make the first move—a quick sidestep, shifting his weight to the inside.
Maguire didn’t bite, just waiting calmly. He didn’t lunge, didn’t flinch. Just timed it, closed the gap with a shoulder, and sent Mahrez down onto the mat with a clean, unhurried nudge.
Grunt. Thud. A short silence.
Benetti’s whistle again. “Again!”
Mahrez lay there for a beat, staring at the clouds, then sat up, brushing mud from his sleeve.
“This better not be on camera,” he muttered.
Maguire reached down and offered a hand. “They’ll cut out the part where you lost the duel.”
Fuchs jogged past, dragging a tackle dummy by the neck.
“You alright?” he asked, passing Mahrez.
“I’m Algerian,” Mahrez said. “Takes more than that.”
“Good,” Fuchs said, “’cause we’ve got another half hour of this bollocks.”
A few yards off, Vardy and Kanté were locked up in a press drill, arms tense against vest resistance bands. Short, gritty movement. No space to breathe.
Chilwell was red-faced already, halfway through getting bulldozed backwards by Maguire in a sled push. No one was coasting. No one dared to.
And Tristan?
Still going. Quick feet. Straight lines. No noise, no small talk. His stare was steadily fixated on his target. It didn’t change once.
Then—Ranieri’s hand.
Whistle.
Everything stopped. One by one, the squad jogged in, breath rising off them in clouds. Boots thudded into position. Gloves were wrung out. Shoulders heaved.
Ranieri stepped forward, calm now.
“You know what this is,” he said, hands clasped behind his back. “I wasn’t your manager last year. But I’ve watched the tapes. Every minute. All three matches against Newcastle.”
He turned and started pacing slowly in front of the group, voice low enough to make the players lean in.
“They didn’t come to win at football. Not with you. They came to disrupt. To agitate. To injure. And you let them.”
He paused. Let the wind fill the silence.
“They saw the headlines. They saw the table. They saw the streak. They couldn’t match it, so they came to wreck it. And they did. They left bruises—and not just on the pitch.”
He looked at Danny.
“This time, we don’t let them get that close.”
He pointed, without theatrics, toward Mahrez. Then to Maguire. Then Kanté. Then to the younger lot—Gray, Chilwell, Benkovic.
Their faces were flushed from the cold, but it did nothing to temper the fire inside their eyes. They had all learned what a grudge match felt like.
“They’ll go for your ankles. They’ll go for your ribs. They’ll take you out in front of the ref, and then they’ll smile while you’re on the stretcher.”
No one spoke. Even Vardy was still.
Ranieri stopped pacing.
“So you hit first. You hit fair. But you do not—don’t even dare thinking about it—back off.”
He looked at Danny, then Vardy, then finally at Tristan.
“You don’t give them a reason to believe you’re afraid.”
A long beat. Then:
“You give them what they fear. A team that doesn’t buckle. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t stop.”
He gestured to the frozen pitch. To the drills. The crash mats.
“They’ll want chaos. Drama. Not a fight but a meltdown.”
He turned again. Voice sharp now.
“What they won’t expect is control and domination. This team, every single one of you, are winners. And all they know how to do is lose. When was the last time they won anything? I’ll tell you, decades ago. They don’t even know the feeling of victory. Beating us might as well be equal to winning the Champions League to them.”
Silence. Wind pushed at the edge of coats and sleeves.
“Saturday,” he said, “is not just another fixture.”
He let the words hang.
“It’s a receipt.”
And this time, no one said a word. Not even Vardy.
.
The wind hadn’t let up. Training was winding down, boots caked with mud, breath fogging heavy in the air. Most of the squad had peeled off toward the recovery tent. A few lingered near the cones, passing in lazy triangles.
Tristan jogged a slow arc back toward the sideline, chest heaving, shirt damp.
Danny caught up beside him, still moving, still wired. He nodded back toward the far pitch, where the crash mats were being dragged away.
“Wonder what Newcastle’s doing today,” he muttered, half to himself.
Tristan didn’t look over. Just exhaled through his nose.
“Regretting last year.”
.
Newcastle United Training Ground, Benton
The blinds were half-drawn in Steve McClaren’s office, casting long shadows across the carpet. Rain ticked lightly against the glass. Not heavy. But somehow, each patter managed to remind him how little time he had left.
Paul Simpson stood by the tactics board, arms crossed.
“You seen their press this week?” Simpson asked, not looking up. “Vardy. Mahrez. Tristan. Whole trio is treating this like it’s personal,” he shook his head. “Actually, it’s not just them, it’s the whole team.”
McClaren didn’t respond right away. He was staring at a scouting sheet. His hand rested flat on the table.
“They want revenge,” Simpson continued. “Last year was war. This year, they want blood.”
McClaren finally leaned back in his chair, exhaling hard through his nose.
He glanced up at the clock, a digital one that read the date and time—one that somehow made each passing minute feel like a countdown to doomsday.
“We’re not going to win,” he said finally.
For the first time, Simpson’s gaze landed on McClaren directly. “What?”
“We’re going to survive. Keep our shape. Keep our heads up. If we lose 3–1, 2–0, fine. But I refuse to give them what they want: a headline. A massacre.”
There was a beat of silence. Simpson looked positively dumbfounded.
“Steve,” he said carefully, using a great deal of willpower to refrain from yelling. “I don’t care what you tell me, but not a word of that to the players. That’s not what the dressing room wants.”
McClaren’s eyes narrowed.
“You think Coloccini’s going to take that lying down? You think Mitrović will sit still after everything Tristan’s said about him?” Simpson shook his head. “This squad’s pride’s been cut open, week after week. They’ve been called dirty, cowardly, even fucking irrelevant.”
McClaren sighed and rubbed his forehead. “The moment one of them goes flying in, we’re done. The ref isn’t letting them get away with it this time. England won’t let a single thing happen to their golden boy.”
“Then what?” Simpson snapped. “We let them push us around? Let that lad run another highlight reel past us?”
“No,” McClaren said, quietly now. “We play hard. But we play smart. Controlled aggression. Body them off the ball, fine. Fight for every inch, yes. But no lunges. No studs. Nothing the media can crucify us for.”
Simpson leaned on the edge of the desk.
The constant fall of rain outside broke the silence.
“You really think the lads are gonna be okay with just damage control?”
McClaren didn’t answer.
He knew they weren’t going to be okay with it. Hell, even he wasn’t okay with it either. But what did it matter what they were okay with?
Not much when you were staring down Leicester.
He stood instead and walked to the window.
McClaren’s voice came quiet again.
“They think beating Leicester last year was our moment. That it proved something. But now? They’re the league leaders, unbeaten too. That moment means nothing—it doesn’t exist anymore.”
Simpson watched him, unreadable.
“I’m telling you,” McClaren said, turning back, “losing with dignity is our best shot.”
“And I’m telling you,” Simpson replied, “that lot in the locker room, they want payback of their own in blood. You'd better have a speech ready.”
McClaren didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
His gaze followed a droplet of water that slid down the window.
They all thought they were bound to win, that he’d have some game plan.
But what could he do against this Leicester team?
They started off 6-0, followed by 3-0, then two matches later? 6-0 again.
It was like they dealt exclusively in high-scoring games. It was only the last few games that they had taken the foot off the gas slightly. And that was only because teams were putting 3-5 bodies on Tristan.
He couldn’t do it with Vardy, Mahrez, and Marc all gunning for their heads. Too many bodies on one player, and everyone else would be freed up.
.
Rain had turned the grass slick. Passes skipped too fast, boots clipped turf at awkward angles. But nobody was holding back.
Coloccini barked for a reset.
“Can’t wait to see Tristan’s face when he goes down—best player in the world my ass,” Jack Colback muttered as he trotted beside Wijnaldum.
Wijnaldum didn’t laugh. But he didn’t stop him either.
“Think he’s still afraid of a real tackle?” Colback asked again.
“I doubt it,” said Sissoko, driving his knee up into a dummy on the sideline. “But it won’t matter. Everyone’s afraid once they taste studs,” he laughed.
Mitrović, having heard what Sissoko had said, turned from the drill he was focused on. “You think they’ll let us near him?” he said, both annoyed and amused. “Watch. The ref will hand out a red just for sneezing near that kid.”
Coloccini joined in, voice flat. “Then don’t sneeze. Hit him like a man and walk away.”
“You saw what he said?” Haïdara chimed in, arms crossed by the cones. “Calling us ‘trophyless.’ That Leicester is a bigger club now.”
Mitrović spat into the mud. “He thinks he’s clever. That accent. That smug little voice. I want to see it crack when I step on his ankle.”
“Focus on the football,” Coloccini snapped.
But even as he said it, his own knuckles were tight.
Leicester just couldn’t get off its high horse.
.
Across the pitch, Simpson stepped out of the tunnel just in time to hear Colback mutter, “We tapped him and he dived last time—let’s see what he does when he gets hit for real. I’m tired of everyone calling him perfect.”
Simpson didn’t say anything.
But he shook his head.
They weren’t playing for control.
They were playing for pride.
And it was about to boil over.
.
The air inside the locker room was damp with sweat and cold with silence.
Aleksandar Mitrović sat hunched forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, taping his wrists tighter than necessary. His fingers flexed, slow and deliberate—he was already picturing what he’d do when he got near Tristan again.
Across the room, Fabricio Coloccini tied his laces, then tied them again. No one had spoken yet. Even Moussa Sissoko had stopped pacing.
Only Wijnaldum said something.
“You all seen it?” he asked. “What he said?”
Of course they’d seen it.
Mitrović spat onto the tile. “He thinks he’s clever. Thinks he’s some superstar now.”
Wijnaldum leaned against the wall. “He is.”
Mitrović looked up, glared. “Doesn’t mean he’s right.”
Coloccini finally broke his silence. “Doesn’t matter if he’s right. What matters is Saturday.”
“They think we’re soft now,” Coloccini said. “That we peaked last season. That beating us is a formality.”
“They think it was our World Cup,” Wijnaldum added. “Like we won a trophy just for kicking them hard enough.”
“We did more than that,” Mitrović snapped. “We beat them.”
“Yeah,” Wijnaldum said, “and they still talk about us like we’re the villains. Like we’ve done nothing since.”
Mitrović’s hands balled into fists. “We go again. We remind them.”
Heads nodded.
.
Shinji was on the mat stretching, grinning at something Vardy had said. Fuchs sat nearby, half-laced boots, eyes still trying to catch up with the rest of him.
Even N’Golo looked relaxed, which was rare. Usually, he soaked up tension like a sponge.
They hadn’t clocked it yet.
Shinji let out another chuckle, and Vardy nudged him gently with his foot.
“Careful,” Vardy said. “Keep smiling like that and they’ll knock your teeth out Saturday.”
Ben Chilwell came in next, hoodie up, one earbud hanging out. He stopped short, scanned the room before picking a locker. Something about the air had changed.
It was palpable.
Kanté was tucked away in the corner, lacing his boots tighter than normal. He looked up once and peered around.
“Did they ever show you the replays from the Newcastle games?” Albrighton asked Kante.
He received a head shake in response.
“Tristan was getting done. Right across the shin, ball wasn’t even close.”
Fuchs gave a dry exhale. “Caught it on Sky. Still winds me up.”
“Should’ve been a red,” Danny muttered.
“Should’ve been two,” Vardy said. “They went for me right after.”
The door opened again.
Tristan walked in afterward, giving brief greetings before proceeding to take his seat and getting ready.
Usually, he’d say hello to everyone.
Mahrez leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“Second leg was worse,” he said. “Physios told me to stay down, wait for a stretcher. Didn’t want to give them the pleasure.”
Fuchs scoffed. “Didn’t one of their lot call us cowards?”
“Yeah,” said Vardy. “Post-match. Said we were hiding behind the ref.”
Tristan finally spoke. “They said we faked it. Said we weren’t built for proper football.”
Kanté looked up. “And now?”
“Now,” Tristan said, “we’re unbeaten. Now we’ve got a full squad. And now we don’t just turn up. We put them away. Same as United. I want them to be embarrassed. I want them to feel it every time we play them, cup or league.”
No one said anything.
Danny watched as Tristan pulled his top over his head and stood. “We’re not walking off with just points,” he said. “We’re leaving them something to think about.”
Kanté looked around. Took it in—the silence, the way no one cracked a joke, the weight in the room.
He got it then.
.
November 20, 2015 — Belvoir Drive Media Room
The cameras were already rolling.
Behind them, the sponsor wall held firm—King Power, Nike, the usual Europa League graphics. Clean. Official. But no one in the room cared much about branding today.
All eyes were on the table.
Tristan sat closest to the mic. Back straight. Arms folded. Still. His eyes flicked between faces in the front row—reporters, most with tablets resting on their thighs, some already scribbling. He didn’t blink much. Barely even moved at all.
Beside him, Jamie Vardy sat like he always did. The posture of a man who’d just won a bet.
The media officer gave a quick nod. First question.
“Tristan,” came the voice from the second row. “This weekend’s match against Newcastle…is it personal?”
There was no pause.
“Yes.”
Low murmurs bubbled across the press bench. Not dramatic. Just surprised at how quickly the answer came.
The reporter adjusted his glasses. “Could you expand on that?”
Tristan leaned in slightly.
“Last year, we left that pitch injured,” he said evenly. “This year, we don’t intend to leave it apologizing.”
Another hand went up. “You’ve been active on social media lately. Some fans saw your post calling Newcastle ‘the most forgettable club with the loudest mouths.’ Do you stand by that wording?”
Tristan didn’t shift.
“The people didn’t seem to disagree. If anything, they’ve earned the reputation,” he said. “I just reminded people.”
A few reporters raised eyebrows. A couple glanced sideways at each other. Vardy chuckled, sat forward, elbow on the table.
“He’s not wrong,” he said, half-grinning. “They’ve been chirping for months. We’ve just been listening.”
“Jamie,” another voice from the side row, “do you feel pressure going into this one? Still unbeaten—that’s got to weigh on you?”
Vardy gave a casual shrug.
“There’s always pressure. But I’ll tell you what, pressure’s better than pity. I’d rather be hunted than forgotten.”
Like Newcastle went unsaid.
A reporter near the front clicked their pen and leaned in.
“Tristan, statistically, you’re the most fouled player in the league. Newcastle’s midfield is known for being physical. Are you expecting the same treatment?”
He exhaled lightly through his nose, and his jaw set.
“When someone tells you who they are, you listen. And Newcastle’s made it abundantly clear just who they are. Not to mention, they’ve already told the press they want to ‘remind us who they are.’ That alone tells me everything. This time we’re ready to take on a rugby team.”
A rustle of note pages. Someone shifted in their chair.
“So what’s the response?”
Tristan’s eyes finally locked on the nearest camera lens. His voice didn’t change volume, but the tone cut colder.
“Humiliate them. Not much more to say. I haven’t forgotten the players and fans celebrating Danny and I’s injuries. Any time we got knocked, there were cheers. Fine, keep that energy. “
There was a beat of silence. Then another question came from the back, one that carried a little extra edge.
“Some pundits have called this ‘a match with bad blood.’ Others are saying it’s turning into a grudge rivalry. Is that how you see it?”
Vardy leaned forward again, resting both forearms on the table this time. His smirk had faded, but the glint in his eye hadn’t.
“Not much of a rivalry when one side’s mid-table, and the other is undefeated.”
Tristan finally allowed a ghost of a smile to creep in. “Saturday isn’t about tension,” he said. “It’s about correction.”
One reporter raised his hand quickly. “And the score prediction?”
Vardy’s grin returned full tilt. “Pain.”
That one got a ripple of laughter.
Tristan glanced sideways, just briefly. “We’re not just aiming for three points,” he said. “If you’re looking for a specific count? Just ask United what the scorecard reads after the whistle blows.”
The media officer stepped forward then, clearing her throat softly. “That’ll be all for today. Thanks, lads.”
Vardy stood, stretching like he’d just got up from a long pint. “Cheers, boys,” he said as he stepped away.
Night: Tristan’s House
The living room was dim, lit mostly by the TV and the faint glow of Barbara’s phone screen.
She sat curled on the couch in one of Tristan’s hoodies, legs tucked under a blanket. Biscuit was asleep between them, little paws twitching.
Tristan lay across the rest of the couch, head resting on Barbara’s thigh. One of her hands was lazily in his hair, the other scrolling through Twitter.
He hadn’t said much since dinner. Just laid there, watching One Piece. He had missed Wano, but rewatching those earlier episodes was nice as well. He forgot just how good they were.
Barbara tilted her phone down so he could see.
“Look.”
He squinted.
The tweet read: “Can’t wait for Newcastle to try that WWE crap again. Hale’s not a rookie anymore. They try to body him now, he’ll body back.”
She laughed softly. “Your fans are scary.”
Tristan didn’t look away from the screen. “That one’s got a Ronaldo header as their profile pic, so I doubt he’s a fan of me. People are just excited to see that drama around that game.”
Another scroll.
“Leicester by murder. Tristan hat trick and a brawl at halftime.”
“Okay, that one’s excessive,” he muttered, rubbing his face. He wanted a hat-trick, but he doubted a massive brawl would ensue. A fight or two, yeah, but nothing too crazy.
“You gonna come with me tomorrow?”
“Of course,” she said. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t pick a fight before kickoff.”
He shut his eyes again. “I make no promises.”
Barbara smiled and kissed the top of his head. “Just don’t get injured, please, babe.”
Tristan didn’t answer right away.
Just kept his eyes closed, her hand still resting gently in his curls.
Then, soft:
“I won’t.”
Barbara tilted her head, not fully convinced.
“You said that last time.”
“I wasn’t me last time.”
She ran her fingers a little slower through his hair. “What does that mean?”
Tristan opened his eyes and looked up at her. “I’m stronger, faster, and better this time. Only Newcastle is in denial—everyone else, well, they know what’s coming.”
Barbara studied him: face, eyes, hands, all of it. He wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t pretending to be brave either.
After a beat, she sighed and reached for the blanket.
“Well… if you’re going to body someone, at least do it gracefully.”
“I’ll make sure to curtsy after,” he murmured, eyes closing again.
“God, you’re insufferable.”
He smiled without opening his eyes. “Don’t say that, babe, you love me.”
She rolled her eyes and leaned down, pressing a kiss just above his temple.
“…Sometimes I wonder,” she whispered before pressing another kiss. “I'm staying with your parents for that game, no point going to a way game where that entire fandom hates you.”
He nodded as he accidentally flipped the channel with his foot.
The familiar glow of Sky Sports lit up the room—panel table, bold graphics, and a banner already reading:
LEICESTER vs NEWCASTLE: GRUDGE MATCH
Alan Shearer sat front and center, Newcastle badge on his lapel, arms crossed tight. Next to him: Jamie Redknapp, in that usual slightly-too-tight suit. And across from them, David Jones, host as always.
Tristan blinked at the screen.
Barbara followed his line of sight and reached for the remote.
“You wanna—?”
“No,” he said. “Let’s see what they say.” He was rather curious.
David Jones leaned forward. “So, Alan, I’ll come straight to you. Your club—your city. There’s been a lot of talk this week, and none of it has been quiet. What do you expect tomorrow?”
Shearer didn’t smile. “I expect a scrap.”
Redknapp gave a short laugh.
“No, seriously,” Shearer said. “Leicester have a point to prove. Tristan Hale’s been poking the bear all week, and you can’t tell me that dressing room’s not burning to respond.”
Jones nodded. “But can they? Let’s be honest for a moment: Leicester is at the top of the league, unbeaten, and playing some of the best football in the world.”
“They’re ruthless,” Redknapp added. “Tristan, Mahrez, Vardy—it’s not just flair, it’s control. When they move forward, it’s like a wave. And with Kanté now cleaning everything behind them, it’s hard to find a weakness.”
Shearer shifted in his seat. “If Newcastle lose their heads, it’s over in twenty minutes. I’ve seen that stadium turn cold when it’s going wrong. They’ve got to be smart. No stupid tackles. No red cards. Keep it tight and ugly. That’s the only way.”
Jones raised an eyebrow. “And what about Tristan Hale?”
A silence—brief, but sharp.
Then Shearer said it, slowly:
“He’s not the same lad they bullied last season. He’s a problem. He was a problem last season as well. He had that best season in all of league history, and somehow, this season, he’s even better.”
Barbara looked down at Tristan, smiling. She always felt happy whenever someone praised Tristan.
Redknapp chimed in, lighter: “He’s more than a problem, he’s the best player in the world right now.”
“I’ll give him that,” Shearer said, reluctant but honest. “But that’s what makes tomorrow dangerous. He’s not coming to play. He’s coming for a statement.”
Jones gave a knowing nod. “If the buildup’s this tense, just imagine the first ten minutes.”
The camera cut to clips—Tristan shrugging off a tackle, Mahrez spinning past two defenders, Vardy roaring toward the crowd after a goal.
Barbara tilted her head.
“You good?”
Tristan just murmured:
“I wanna beat them so badly, love.”
.
November 21, 2015: St. James’ Park
3:58 PM, Local Time
Tunnel
The noise outside was deafening, but inside the tunnel it was dead quiet.
No jokes.
No pre-match chatter.
The players stood shoulder to shoulder in two lines—Leicester in royal blue, Newcastle in black and white—and no one said a word.
Not even Vardy or Mitrović.
Fabricio Coloccini stood at the front of the Newcastle line, chin tucked slightly down, eyes forward.
Behind him, Sissoko bounced on his toes. Mitrović flexed his taped wrists again and again.
On the other side, Kasper Schmeichel adjusted his gloves. Fuchs spat once onto the floor and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Mahrez stood still, eyes narrowed.
Tristan was next to last in the Leicester line, with the tiny matchday mascot beside him—a girl maybe eight years old, wearing oversized earmuffs and a winter coat beneath her Leicester shirt. She looked up at him once, wide-eyed.
He gave her a quiet nod. That was all.
Normally, he’d kneel. Say something funny. Ask if she was excited.
Not today.
They were all locked in.
The refereeing team stood up front, all in black. Not the usual crew. These were the Premier League’s senior-most officials—Michael Oliver with the whistle, Andre Marriner and Mike Dean on standby.
Nobody wanted another scandal today.
Not after last year against Newcastle.
The fourth official gave the nod. The assistants stepped out.
Boots moved forward. The tunnel spat out the players into the roar of St. James’ Park—tens of thousands braced in the cold.
The roar hit like a wall as the players stepped into the light.
Scarves raised. Flags everywhere. The Gallowgate End shook like it hadn’t in years.
Coloccini led Newcastle out with Mitrović behind him. Wijnaldum and Sissoko followed. The squad walked with a certain weight, not confidence. Pressure.
Leicester emerged in silence. Schmeichel first. Then Albrighton, Vardy, Mahrez. Fuchs muttered something under his breath. Kanté stayed laser-focused. And Tristan… walked out last, barely glancing at the crowd, boots crunching on frozen grass, his matchday mascot trotting beside him.
The commentators’ voices rolled in over the roar of the stands.
Peter Drury didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to.
“St. James’ Park has always had its noise. But tonight, tonight it has memory. Last year’s bruises still echo. And here come the men who delivered them… and the ones who took them.”
Darren Fletcher’s tone was drier, tighter.
“You’d expect nerves in the tunnel. Everyone knows what this is. This one's been simmering for months now.”
Drury continued, “Newcastle took that first match last season in more ways than one and a referee who seemed allergic to red cards.”
Fletcher picked it up. “And they paid for it with their reputation. Leicester’s win in the second leg didn’t rewrite the story—it just bookmarked it. Tonight’s the sequel. And maybe the reckoning.”
Drury’s eyes tracked the center circle. “Tristan Hale, top of the league, and still furious. The most fouled player in the Premier League. The most watched. And today, the most wanted.”
“Mitrović will be watching him too,” Fletcher added. “Newcastle’s not hiding the fact they’ve felt disrespected. They’ve heard the quotes that came straight from Tristan.”
“And he hasn’t taken a single step back since,” Drury said. “He leads the league in assists and goals. He leads all of Europe, including Ronaldo and Messi, and this afternoon he has Mahrez to his right, Albrighton to his left, and the entire Gallowgate End at his back.”
Fletcher shifted. “It’s not just Tristan you have to look out for compared to last season. Kanté’s become a wall in midfield. And Jamie Vardy… well, he lives for this kind of tension. He’s already been laughing about the boos. And you can’t forget that rest of that team. I’m sure Mahrez remembers what happened here last time.”
Drury chuckled faintly. “He might be the only one smiling. Ranieri’s side is unbeaten. But they know today isn’t about points. It’s about scars.”
“Michael Oliver in the middle today,” Fletcher said. “Premier League’s most senior crew here to stop this one boiling over. Which tells you everything.”
“And still,” Drury said, his voice dipping slightly, “you get the sense this game isn’t going to be calm. Not yet. Not with these stakes.”
The teams lined up for handshakes. It was cold, formal, and fast.
Sissoko and Mahrez barely touched palms. Tristan didn’t say a word. Neither did Mitrović. No one even looked at each other.
"Handshakes in name only," Fletcher murmured, watching as the lines broke apart. "The badge may be kissed later, right now it’s just teeth bared."
The referee team was the strongest the league had: Michael Oliver in the center. Andre Marriner and Mike Dean were on the touchlines. No risks.
The coin was tossed at midfield.
Coloccini called it. Won.
He pointed to the Gallowgate End.
He chose the side. Gave Leicester the kickoff.
Oliver nodded once. Walked away with the coin still spinning in his palm.
Vardy jogged to the ball. Tristan followed. Mahrez flared out right. Albrighton left.
"Leicester to kick us off," Drury said. “Look at that, quite an intense reaction, but no surprise there. This was never meant to be a normal game.”
🎵 “You’re not special anymore!” 🎵
🎵 “You’re not special anymore!” 🎵
Vardy adjusted his shin pads. Tristan rolled his shoulders once.
Fletcher picked up again as the teams spread out into their shapes.
“Let’s talk structure, then. Leicester, unchanged from their dominant run so far in the league. A 4-2-3-1 on paper, but it plays more like a 4-3-2-1 once the ball’s rolling.”
ENGLAND — 4-2-3-1 Formation
🧤 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)
Drury continued, “There’s a frightening harmony to how they play now. Tristan floats between the lines. Mahrez drifts into space. Vardy darts behind. But it all starts from Kanté and Drinkwater—they’re the lungs of this team. I’m surprised to see Harry Maguire starting, but the lad has been in excellent form every time he plays.”
“Makes sense he’s starting. They’re expecting physicality, and Leicester have made it all too clear they plan on dishing back just as much as they receive,” Fletcher added.
Drury nodded. “This team boasts the most goals in the league. More than twenty-five now. And defensively? They’ve let in the fewest. A scary team to have gunning for your head.”
Flectcher let the pause sit before switching tones.
“And then there’s Newcastle.”
NEWCASTLE — 5-4-1 Formation
🧤 Rob Elliot (GK)
🚀 Daryl Janmaat (RWB)
🏰 Chancel Mbemba (RCB)
🏰 Fabricio Coloccini (CB)
🏰 Mike Williamson (LCB)
🚀 Paul Dummett (LWB)
🛡️ Moussa Sissoko (RM)
🛡️ Jack Colback (RCM)
🛡️ Vurnon Anita (LCM)
🛡️ Georginio Wijnaldum (LM)
⚽ Aleksandar Mitrović (ST)
“Five at the back,” he said. “Two holding midfielders. They’re not hiding their intentions.”
“No,” Drury said. “They came to absorb, frustrate, and hope Mitrović gives them a moment. But the rest of that squad? They’re being told to dig trenches.”
Fletcher’s voice dropped slightly.
“They say last year’s win was their highlight. But if that was their World Cup, this... this might be their reckoning.”
Drury nodded. “Everything we’ve heard out of that Newcastle dressing room says pride. But everything out of McClaren’s press conference said fear.”
“And Leicester?” Fletcher asked.
“They want revenge.”
The camera panned back to the center circle. Tristan looked unbothered, his stare fixated right in front of him, ignoring the thousands of slandering jeers.
Vardy gave a small wave, smiling at the roar of boos.
Michael Oliver stepped toward the whistle.
The stadium rose again.
🎵 “You’re not special anymore!” 🎵
🎵 “You’re not special anymore!” 🎵
And then, the whistle blew.
And the war began.
Vardy tapped it back to Tristan, who took one touch and fired it out left to Albrighton, already sprinting.
And then—CRACK.
Paul Dummett came flying in.
The sound echoed like a plank of wood snapping in half.
Albrighton went down hard, skidding across the wet turf.
Michael Oliver’s whistle shrieked immediately, and he sprinted in with his hand already deep in his pocket.
Gasps all over St. James’ Park.
Fletcher didn’t even pause. “Oh, that’s a horror start. That’s not a challenge. That’s a message— not the smart kind, either.”
Drury followed. “And it’s a message Leicester will not accept.”
The yellow card flashed high—but that did nothing to stop the fury.
Vardy was in Dummett’s face instantly.
“What the fuck is that?! You think we forgot last year?!”
Dummett shoved back. “I went for the ball—”
“You went for his leg, you prick!” Vardy roared.
Tristan moved in—he didn’t bother shouting—separating Vardy, and ending the small scuffle before it could escalate.
His eyes locked on Dummett with dead silence.
Behind them, Mahrez stormed over to the linesman.
“You’re letting this happen again?! First minute?! First fuckin’ minute?!”
De Laet had to physically pull him away.
Michael Oliver raised his voice. “Enough! One more and someone’s walking. Is that clear?!”
But the sidelines were already losing it.
Ranieri was off the bench, yelling at the fourth official. “You said protection! You said this wouldn’t happen again!”
Even Claudio’s assistant, Benetti, had to be held back by some of the players.
Across the pitch, Steve McClaren’s arms were spread wide. “What the hell is he doing?!”
Simpson, beside him, didn’t even look away from the chaos. “That’s not what we said in the office.”
McClaren’s jaw tightened. “I said no lunges. No studs. I said—fucking hell.”
Coloccini turned toward the bench, waving his arms. “Calm it down!” But even he didn’t look convinced.
Albrighton was groaning; his form was crumpled for a long moment, but finally, he made his way up to his feet with no assistance.
Thankfully, it looked like he was fine.
His form stood tall, even surrounded by Newcastle players, and that alone had the Leicester fans roaring.
Drury exhaled. “He’s up. That’s resilience.”
Fletcher added, “And this Leicester team? They’ve come to settle a score. It’s clear to everyone, even having just gotten up, Albrighton is already in Newcastle’s face. Forget a win, they want Newcastle to raise a white flag instead.”
Oliver placed the ball for the free kick and pointed firmly to both captains.
“One more, and it’s straight red. That’s your warning.”
Back near the sideline, Mahrez was still pacing. Kanté walked over, pulled him back into position.
“Forget him,” Kanté said under his breath. “I'll tackle next.”
Tristan stood over the ball and took a breath.
Calm was back.
And then, quietly, to Albrighton: “You got this one.”
Just like that, play resumed. But the energy?
Unstable.
Personal.
Lethal.
A spark had gone off, and everyone on the pitch knew:
The fuse had been lit.
“Alright,” Marc muttered, flexing his ankle once. “Guess I’m taking it.”
Tristan stepped away without a word.
Dummett was still pacing a few yards back, huffing and muttering to himself. His name had barely faded from the ref’s book, but he hadn’t learned a thing.
Albrighton stood over the ball. Took a breath.
Then clipped it quick down the line—not a float, not a lob. Just a perfectly-weighted ball that kissed the pitch and skipped toward Mahrez.
Mahrez trapped it dead with one foot, spun, then shoved Sissoko’s arm away when he reached in again.
Fletcher’s voice picked up fast. “He’s not backing down. Not this time.”
Drury added, “And neither are Leicester. This is not the same squad Newcastle rattled last year.”
Mahrez threaded it inside.
Kanté burst through a gap, one touch was all he got before getting tripped.
Another whistle.
But this time… Leicester didn’t just walk away.
Drinkwater was up in Wijnaldum’s face before the ref could even blow again.
“Same again?” he barked. “You think that’s football?”
Vardy shoved Ritchie’s arm off his shoulder and turned, jaw set. “You lot really didn’t learn shit, did you?”
Michael stepped in between them quickly, palm raised, voice sharp. “Enough. Play the ball.”
But Leicester wasn’t backing off now.
Not like last year.
Albrighton walked up slowly to the free kick, still rubbing his shin. He passed the ball over to Mahrez instead and gave him a look. Not a nod. Not a smile. Just a look that said time to wake them up.
Mahrez tapped it back to Tristan.
Tristan didn’t wait. Switched the field—a blistering pass out wide to Fuchs. Newcastle shifted late, too slow. Fuchs launched it low into the edge of the box, where Vardy met it.
And then it happened.
Fabricio Coloccini slid in—to no one’s surprise, hard—again.
But Vardy didn’t go down this time.
He rode it, bounced off, and shouldered him right back hard. Coloccini landed flat on the turf.
Fans screamed for a foul.
Oliver waved play on.
And Fletcher snapped: “There it is! Leicester aren’t just turning the other cheek, talk about giving what you get!”
Tristan collected the second ball, spun away from two, and fed it back to Kanté.
Kanté took one touch and dropped Sissoko with a shoulder that had the whole crowd gasping.
Oliver’s whistle was halfway to his lips… then paused.
Clean.
Ball still with Leicester.
On the sidelines, Ranieri didn’t say a word.
Just folded his arms—and gave a satisfied smile.
And on the other bench…
McClaren exploded forward, arms wide.
“What the hell are they doing?! That wasn’t the plan!”
Simpson, beside him, had already seen it coming.
“They’re not listening, Steve. They’re playing for ego and pride.”
Back on the pitch, the tone had flipped.
Fists clenched. Elbows up. No more shoving without a response.
Drury’s voice was tight with energy now.
“Leicester came here with memory in their bones. But what they’ve brought today is fire in their teeth.”
And finally… finally… the ball came back to Tristan.
He took the touch on the turn, just past midfield. Glided forward. Let the space open.
Then came Colback.
High. Late. Lazy leg.
Down Tristan went again, this time it was right outside the box.
Whistle.
Tristan—much to the horror of all the foxes in the stadium—remained motionless for a few moments.
He wasn’t hurt; he was just taking time to collect himself. Newcastle had made a mistake, and now it was time for them to pay.
Oliver had sprinted to the spot before the ball even stopped rolling.
“Free kick, Leicester,” Fletcher said. “And this one… this one is dangerous.”
The crowd was foaming at the mouth now.
Booing. Cheering. Jeering. Applause. The whole lot.
However, the Newcastle crowd was deafening, quickly dwarfing any noise the Leicester fans could make.
But Tristan had already picked up the ball. Already stepped back.
The wall was forming.
But that was fine.
No one in blue dared to step up—they all knew this was his.
Tristan stood over the ball, twenty-four yards out, just to the right of center.
By now boos were all Tristan could hear.
Newcastle’s wall formed slowly, Coloccini barking orders, hands raised as he tried to push the line wider. Mitrović had dropped back, standing just behind the wall like he might try to jump the moment Tristan stepped up.
But the camera cut to the sidelines.
McClaren was seething.
He didn’t pace. He didn’t shout.
He just stood there, jaw locked, eyes burning holes through his own team.
Simpson turned toward him. “They didn’t listen,” he muttered. “Told them not to give him a dead ball.”
McClaren didn’t answer. He just folded his arms and stared.
On the Leicester bench, Ranieri leaned slightly forward in his seat—he wasn’t nervous. Calm. Almost pleased. Like a man who already knew what was coming.
Benetti stood with his arms crossed, nodding once.
“He thrives off pressure,” he said quietly.
The Newcastle bench was a portrait of dread. Wijnaldum sat with his hands over his mouth. Dummett had turned fully around on the bench. One of the keepers muttered a prayer under his breath.
Even Rob Elliot, in goal, was muttering to himself. Shifting. Resetting. His eyes never left Tristan.
The Leicester players were already backing off, giving him space. Vardy jogged away from the edge of the box. Mahrez pointed once at a rebound lane before moving wide.
Drury’s voice dipped lower now.
“Tristan Hale. Twenty yards. One step from the perfect range. Four in the wall. Elliot is on his toes. And the entire North East is holding its breath.”
Fletcher added, “He hasn’t taken a direct free kick in three matches. Saved this one.”
Drury, soft: “Saved it for them. He has always performed under high pressure. Will he do so again?”
The camera panned to the crowd.
Some Newcastle fans shouted, hands cupped. Others covered their eyes. One child behind the goal just stood there frozen, scarf clenched in both fists.
Back on the pitch, Tristan adjusted the ball once.
Took four steps back.
And waited.
The noise thickened. Not just boos now; rather, chants rising from the Gallowgate like a wall of sound.
🎵 “You’re not special!” 🎵
🎵 “You’re not special!” 🎵
🎵 “You’re not special anymore!” 🎵
And yet, Tristan didn’t flinch.
He stayed over the ball, head slightly down, letting the storm roll over him.
He closed his eyes momentarily, his breath coming steadily.
Drury’s voice threaded into the tension like a hymn.
“He’s twenty years old. But make no mistake, this boy has been here before. In World Cups. In derbies. In stadiums where every seat wanted his legs broken. And now…here he is. He’s waited for this moment—everyone knows he’s eager for his revenge.”
Fletcher leaned into the moment, his voice more clipped.
“They tried to take him out last season. Put him in the physio room for weeks. Now he’s back, stronger, faster, top of the league, and staring right into the net of the same club that left him limping.”
Across from him, McClaren’s arms dropped to his sides, as if he already saw the future and couldn’t change it. One of his assistants turned away.
The Newcastle bench sat frozen, unable to do anything but watch with a morbid sense of foreboding.
They were all witnesses to a crime en route.
Behind the net, Elliot bounced on his heels.
Four men in the wall. Wide stance. Hands clenched. None of them looked relaxed. None of them trusted Tristan not to try something audacious.
Fletcher again, now quieter:
“You can feel it. Every seat, every boot, every heartbeat holding still. Everyone knows who’s taking it. Everyone knows what his name means.”
Drury’s voice dipped almost to a whisper.
“Moments like this... they don’t belong to clubs. They belong to players. And this one—”
Drury paused as Tristan’s eyes snapped open and he took his first step.
“—belongs to him.”
His foot struck the ball clean, not full power, certainly not a knuckle, but with whipage instead. Shape. A bit of venom as well.
It curled like it had been programmed.
Over the wall.
Dipping late.
Spinning fast.
Elliot moved—
—but not enough.
The net rippled. The roar turned to chaos.
GOAL.
Drury’s voice snapped.
“Of course he did.”
Fletcher followed, stunned.
“Oh my word—”
“Tristan Hale silences St. James’ Park in seven minutes flat. They kicked him last year. He kicked back this year, straight into the top corner.”
The camera cut to the dugouts.
Ranieri didn’t shout or celebrate. He just smiled faintly, looked down, and adjusted his watch like he already knew the time the goal would come.
Behind him, the Leicester bench erupted—players jumped out of their seats, staff members hugged each other and clapped, and subs were yelling. Even the physio pumped a fist.
Newcastle’s bench?
Still.
McClaren stared at the turf like it betrayed him. His assistant had his head in his hands. One of the subs had his head tilted back, mouth open, like he just witnessed something from another planet.
The Gallowgate was stunned.
Muted.
A beat of silence. Then the away section broke.
🎵 “TRISTAN’S GONNA ROCK YOU!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN’S GONNA ROCK YOU!” 🎵
He didn’t celebrate. Not wildly.
He jogged toward the sideline, pointing once to his badge.
Then once more to the name on the back.
Vardy met him halfway with a laugh. “You’re sick. You’re actually sick.”
Mahrez shouted something in French that was probably inappropriate. Kanté hugged him like he always did.
Fletcher shook his head.
“They said it was personal. They said he hadn’t forgotten. Well… neither will they.”
Drury’s final line was soft.
“One touch. One strike. One reminder. You don’t get to write his story. He does.”
Fabricio Coloccini couldn’t even hear the crowd. Just the thump—that clean, cutting sound of Tristan Hale’s left boot meeting leather. Then the swerve. The curve. The helpless dive from Rob Elliot. And the snap of the ball into nothing but net.
Then came the noise.
It hit like a slap. Like being underwater and surfacing all at once. A sea of Leicester fans exploded in a far corner, small but violent in their joy. The rest of the stadium groaned, cursed, and rattled the air in fury.
Coloccini didn’t move.
Beside him, Dummett swore. Loud. Cracked his shinpad against the post.
Coloccini didn’t stop him.
He was watching Tristan again, watching how Mahrez rushed him, how Vardy wrapped an arm around his neck, how even Kanté broke his calm and fist-pumped once, quick and low.
“Fuck,” Coloccini muttered.
He turned, jogged slowly toward the center circle, but his legs felt heavy. Like he was dragging something behind him. Guilt maybe. Or regret. Or worse—recognition.
It took him seven minutes on the pitch to realize why McClaren had been telling them to survive.
He took a look around and saw that the same realization had dawned on the rest of his team.
They knew what was coming.
He knew it too.
But it was too late.
Newcastle was down 1–0, and they hadn’t even put together four passes in a row.
Sissoko passed him on the way back, fuming. “That’s on Dummett,” he hissed. “Why foul him there?”
“Wasn’t Dummett,” Coloccini replied. “Wasn’t anyone.”
Sissoko looked confused.
Coloccini didn’t clarify.
It wasn’t the foul. Wasn’t the yellow. Wasn’t the set-piece.
It was that Tristan knew. He wanted the foul. Had baited it. Walked toward the spot before Oliver even blew the whistle. Like it was his script.
And they were just playing their roles.
Coloccini glanced over his shoulder. The Newcastle bench was stone still. Even McClaren had sat down—elbows on knees, face in hands.
The cameras panned over.
Coloccini stood at the center circle now. Mitrović was breathing hard already. Wijnaldum bent at the waist, wiping sweat that shouldn’t be there this early.
Everything felt too fast.
Too hot.
Too much.
“Captain,” Mitrović said under his breath, “we push now?”
Coloccini didn’t answer right away.
He looked across the pitch.
Mahrez was talking to Kanté. Albrighton was wiping mud off his sock like he was bored. And Tristan?
Tristan was watching him.
Not the scoreboard. Not the fans.
Just him.
.
The whistle blew again.
They kicked off.
And Coloccini knew one thing for certain:
This wasn’t over.
But it was slipping.
Fast.
Coloccini wanted to bark something. Rally them. Get them back in line. But nothing came.
He turned to his back line.
“Shape! Get tight!” he snapped, but they were already jogging back in slow motion, heads still tilted toward their own net.
By the 22nd minute, Leicester had the ball again. And now they were purring.
Drinkwater nicked it off Wijnaldum, passed to Kanté.
One touch.
Mahrez.
Another touch.
Backheel to Tristan, who was already spinning between lines.
Coloccini shouted again, “Mark him! Get closer!”
But no one got close enough.
Tristan flipped it wide to Fuchs. Then cut inside.
By the time Dummett even turned, Vardy was already sprinting behind.
Fuchs launched it.
Perfect arc. No bounce. Vardy chested it down and shot in the same motion.
2–0.
The ball hit the side netting so hard it rippled like a flag.
Coloccini didn’t move. Just stood still, sweat prickling down his back.
Behind him, the Gallowgate End had fallen quiet. The only noise came from the away section.
🎵 “Feed the Vards and he will score!” 🎵
🎵 “Feed the Vards and he will score!” 🎵
Drury’s voice floated overhead again. “And score he does. Jamie Vardy—relentless, ruthless, remorseless. Leicester are positively flying!”
Coloccini jogged back again, slower this time.
Mitrović slammed his boot into the ground at kickoff.
“This is on the midfield!” he growled.
“No,” Coloccini snapped. “It’s on all of us. We’re statues.”
By the 29th, Newcastle had a rare spell of pressure. Wijnaldum managed a one-two, broke into space. Mahrez tracked but lost him.
The ball found Sissoko near the edge of the box—a moment of hope.
Until Kanté arrived like a bullet.
Slide tackle. Gone.
Hope dashed as quickly as the ball.
The ball itself was swept away to Tristan.
Coloccini turned just in time to see Hale pivot and drive upfield like it was nothing.
Everything collapsed from there.
Kanté overlapped.
Mahrez sprinted ahead.
Albrighton darted inside.
Too many runners. Too many options.
Tristan picked Mahrez with a disguised flick.
Mahrez didn’t hesitate.
One touch.
Right foot.
Top corner.
3–0.
Coloccini dropped his head.
He heard Mitrović curse behind him. Heard the groans from the dugout. A chair slammed. A bottle was kicked.
“Leicester City are surgical,” Fletcher said. “There’s no other word for it. Every mistake is punished. Every hesitation turned into a highlight.”
Drury added softly, “This isn’t a game anymore. This is a dismantling. And it’s only the first half.”
Coloccini looked up again, just in time to see Mahrez turn toward the stands, arms out like a conductor, and the away fans danced to his tune.
Pure dominance.
He looked at Tristan next.
The lad didn’t even smile.
Didn’t need to.
This was revenge.
This was his message.
And Coloccini, captain of a broken dressing room, knew it wasn’t over.
It wasn’t even close.
.
45th Minute: St. James’ Park
The board went up. One added minute.
Coloccini didn’t check it. He didn’t need to. He just wanted it over.
The boos had started—not from Leicester’s end. From their own.
Scattered at first. Then louder. Fans were yelling down at them like they were strangers. One man, three rows from the dugout, was shouting something in Spanish—Coloccini couldn’t catch it all, but he heard “sin alma”.
Without soul.
He clenched his jaw and turned back toward the pitch.
Tristan had just pulled the ball out of the air like it was nothing. A high, spinning pass from Schmeichel, he took it on the run with one foot, dragged it down, and immediately released it wide.
Even his teammates seemed surprised. Drinkwater clapped. Vardy pointed.
And Newcastle?
No one even tried to close him down.
Coloccini saw it all happening too slowly.
Mahrez out wide. Albrighton is cutting in. Kanté was jogging into the edge of the box like it was a Sunday morning stroll.
They weren’t even sprinting now.
They didn’t need to.
Newcastle’s midfield looked frozen.
Sissoko jogged in late. Wijnaldum waved his arm without pressure. Anita backed off completely.
And Tristan was orchestrating it all—arms moving like a conductor.
Except this symphony was Newcastle’s defeat.
It wasn’t just quality.
It was control. Terrifying, effortless control.
Leicester were moving like a unit possessed.
Drury’s voice cut in, low. Cold. “This isn’t just football. This is vengeance refined.”
Then came the final touch of the half.
Mahrez passed up a shot from 25 yards—rolled it inside instead.
Straight to 22.
Three defenders panicked, stepped at once.
Too late.
Tristan let the ball run.
Dummied it. Let it slip through to Vardy behind him.
Coloccini stepped, desperate.
But Vardy chipped it—delicate, perfect—toward the back post.
And Mahrez was there.
Header.
Off the bar.
Bounce—
Then cleared.
Not by a defender.
By Kanté.
He outran everyone to get there and clear his own teammate’s rebound to keep the ball alive.
Albrighton swept it back into the box.
Maguire rose.
Header down.
Tristan again.
Tried the volley.
Blocked.
Back to Mahrez.
Shot.
Saved.
The whistle blew.
Halftime.
Leicester 3—Newcastle 0
Coloccini dropped his hands to his knees, panting.
He didn’t feel like a captain.
He felt like a casualty.
Around him, his teammates dragged their boots toward the tunnel.
Mitrović kicked the air, snarling something in Serbian. Wijnaldum didn’t look up. Sissoko ripped off his armband tape and let it fall.
Coloccini turned one last time toward the scoreboard.
The numbers burned.
3–0.
And it could’ve been five.
As they walked off, he caught sight of Tristan pointing toward the scoreline.
The game wasn’t over.
But it already felt like a verdict.
.
10k word count
Sorry for that long and no chapter yesterday hopefully this chapter makes up for it.
