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Chapter 214: Marked Men
🕑 Added 2025-05-28 00:39:45 +0000 UTCOctober 24, 2015 — King Power Stadium
.
Rain clung to the air the way it always did in October — not falling so much as hovering, like it couldn’t quite commit.
Crystal Palace had brought a decent crowd, their red and blue flags flapping stubbornly in the wind. But whatever noise they made got swallowed the moment Leicester’s end opened its throat.
Typical English football evening, really. Cold enough to see your breath, wet enough to ruin your socks, and loud enough to rattle your ribs.
Up in the gantry, Rob Hawthorne’s voice came through Sky’s feed. “Evening from the East Midlands. It’s wet, it’s cold, and it’s loud. Leicester versus Crystal Palace — and while most eyes are locked on one player, don’t let the weather fool you. This one could get feisty.”
Alan Smith’s voice followed.
“I’ve played on nights like this, Rob. Everything moves faster. The touches are heavier. And with the way both these sides press and counter — it won’t take much for this to turn into a real scrap.”
The camera panned over the teams emerging from the tunnel.
“Alan Pardew’s gone with five across midfield tonight,” Smith said. “Same triangle press we saw from Partizan in Europe. Cabaye, McArthur, and Jedinak will rotate tight. Zaha and Bolasie narrowing in off the flanks. The idea’s simple: clog the middle. Deny 22 that space to operate.”
Rob added, “And Leicester stick with their usual. Mahrez wide right. Albrighton opposite. Vardy up top with Tristan in that free central role. But the real duel tonight might be out wide. If Zaha and Bolasie get going — that’s a lot of speed coming at Danny Simpson and Ben Chilwell. And that youngster has been given a lot of time lately in the last few games. He played in that Europa match as well. And he seems to be thriving in that role he’s been given.”
Down on the pitch, Tristan glanced at the sky, blinking rain off his lashes.
“Gonna be a slick one,” he muttered.
Vardy laughed beside him, already bouncing in place. “This reminds me of Sunday league. Grass half-dead. Freezing wind. And one bloke turning up still pissed from the night before.”
Tristan cracked a smile. “And that bloke was you, yeah?”
“Oi. I still scored three.”
The whistle blew.
Kickoff.
Crystal Palace took the opening touch.
Crystal Palace took the first touch.
Delaney rolled it to Souaré, who took a touch and launched it long — high and hopeful. A diagonal toward the right corner flag.
Simpson tracked it easily, rose up, and nodded it calmly back to Schmeichel.
Tristan dropped short.
And felt it.
Cabaye stepped early.
Of course he did.
McArthur hovered the inside lane. Jedinak wasn’t far — a watchdog behind the gate.
The ball was coming. But Tristan didn’t touch it. He let it roll.
His eyes darted — scan, scan, scan.
Bolasie was narrowing. Zaha too. Not wide. Not wingers.
No. This isn’t a 4-5-1. This is a clamp.
He called back toward Drinkwater. “Be patient, hold it.”
“Look how tight Palace’s lines are already. Zaha and Bolasie tucking in — they’re not trying to beat Leicester out wide. They’re trying to compress the ten space. That’s a net forming, Rob.” Alan said laughing a little.
Kanté swung it wide instead — safer. Mahrez caught it on the bounce and tapped it backward to Simpson.
Tristan scanned the lines.
Cabaye on his left shoulder. McArthur crowding the passing lane. Jedinak floating deep, waiting.
He tracked everything.
Drinkwater pinged it in hard.
Tristan let it roll across his body — baiting the step.
Here came Cabaye — aggressive.
No touch. Shift left.
McArthur hesitated.
He pivoted sharply, rolled the ball under his boot to freeze them both — a La Croqueta, smooth and tight — and sprayed it wide to Mahrez.
The crowd responded. But so did Jedinak.
As Tristan backpedaled into the pocket to take the return — Jedinak raked him down from behind.
A sharp boot to the back of the ankle. Not clumsy. Not subtle.
He went down instantly.
The sound hit the pitch like a slap.
Whistle. Immediate.
And then — just as fast — the yellow card.
“That’s a yellow! Straight into the book! Jedinak knew exactly what he was doing there — and he’s lucky it’s not worse.”
Tristan stayed down for a second, chest pressed to wet turf. He was still processing what happened, he felt fine as none of that injury cards activated.
Alan spoke just as the replay flashed on screen.
“Look at that, Rob. From behind, nowhere near the ball. It’s a message. That’s not a challenge — it’s a statement.”
Rob leaned in. “And the referee’s answered it loud and clear.”
Jedinak raised his arms in a lazy protest. It fooled no one.
Alan let out a dry breath.
“They’re trying to rattle him. That’s what this is. Palace know they’re not winning the midfield battle, so they’re making it ugly.”
Rob shook his head in disbelief. “Making it ugly won’t help when Tristan’s been dragging teams into beauty contests all year and still winning.”
Tristan pushed himself upright. Didn’t ask for treatment. Just brushed mud from his sleeve and took the ball under one arm.
Alan’s voice dropped slightly.
“And here’s the thing, Rob — look where it happened. That’s thirty-one yards out, just left of center. Not impossible. Especially for someone like him.”
Rob added quickly, as the wall began to form. “He’s hit these before. And this crowd knows it.”
Vardy stepped over, jogging sideways with that lopsided grin. “You want me to fake it?”
Tristan adjusted his footing, gaze locked on the wall.
“Nah. Pull their keeper an inch left. That’s all I need.”
The camera cut to Pardew — arms crossed, frustration visible on his face.
Then to Claudio Ranieri — hands still in his pockets smiling.
Four Palace players in the wall. Keeper bouncing on his heels. The stadium hushed just enough to feel the tension.
Rob lowered his voice with reverence. “Three goals from set pieces this season. One from farther than this. He’s more than capable.”
Alan followed quickly, voice tight.
“Palace better pray this one curls wrong. Because if it doesn’t — this place is going to explode.”
Tristan exhaled.
One step. Two. Three. Four.
His left arm raised for balance. Right leg came through with full weight.
Clean strike.
The ball jumped the wall — dipping, swerving, slicing air with that low hum of danger.
It was close.
Too close.
But not perfect.
It glanced the top netting on its way down — a flicker high. Just enough.
The stadium let out a collective ooohhh — the kind that split somewhere between admiration and relief.
Alan released his breath.
“Just over! Keeper was frozen — beaten cold. He had no clue where that was headed.”
Rob raised his voice just a touch. “You don’t get lucky twice. That’s a bullet dodged. Barely.”
Tristan watched the ball drop behind the net. He couldn’t help but make a face at that miss.
He turned, jogged back into midfield, fingers brushing his damp curls away from his forehead.
“That’s what makes him scary, Rob. Not just the goals. The way he resets. The way he learns from the miss, as if he’s just warming up.”
Rob’s tone stayed cool. “Palace survived the first warning. But they won’t survive the second.”
The game resumed with a goal kick. Palace looked to slow things down — cycle it. Keep Leicester from building rhythm.
But they couldn’t hold it.
By the 11th minute, it was back at Drinkwater’s feet in midfield.
“Palace trying to control tempo now,” Rob noted. “But Leicester don’t need long to strike.”
Albrighton pulled wide left, boots nearly on the chalk. Mahrez mirrored him, dragging Souaré almost to the touchline.
That opened the lane. Right down the middle.
Drinkwater didn’t hesitate.
He zipped one — flat and fast.
Tristan stepped in.
Alan leaned forward. “That’s the ball they’ve been waiting for.”
Tristan’s boots slapped wet turf.
He cushioned it — dead still — then snapped into motion.
Cabaye lunged.
First move — a feint. Drop shoulder. Let the ball roll across.
McArthur stepped late — too late.
La Croqueta.
Then a drag behind his standing leg — a quick half-Rabona touch to disguise the angle.
Alan’s voice cracked with excitement.
“Skills! That’s two moves in one stride. That’s unreal balance.”
Vardy saw it. He was already moving.
Tristan slipped it.
Not a hard pass. Not flashy.
Just perfectly timed.
Rob nearly shouted. “Vardy through! He’s in!”
The striker didn’t even need to check his run.
One bounce. Then he struck it low — left foot — across goal.
Net.
Goal.
1–0 Leicester.
The King Power went up in volume. Shirts twirled. Scarves flew. Mahrez jumped on Vardy’s back.
“Didn’t even see the pass,” Vardy laughed, breath fogging in the cold. “Felt it.”
Tristan, still jogging, pointed back at him with a small smile. “I’m your sixth sense.”
Rob’s voice was pure adrenaline.
“You try to shut down Tristan — and he still plays the killer ball.”
“He’s being man-marked by three internationals — and he’s dictating the game like it’s five-a-side in a car park.”
Palace looked rattled.
But they had a set-piece chance minutes later. And they took it.
Free kick from deep. Zaha won the foul.
Cabaye swung it in — and Scott Dann rose highest, beating Morgan to the jump.
Header. Goal.
1–1.
“Palace punch back!” Rob said. “It’s a game again!”
Alan, sharp, “That’s their route. Not open play. Dead balls. If they want to stay in this, it’s got to be like that.”
The half wore on. Rain kept falling.
Tristan kept moving.
He wasn’t jogging anymore. He was drifting. Left side. Then right. Then deep.
Each time, two Palace players followed.
Alan whispered, “It’s obsessive.”
Then, with four minutes to go before the half, it happened.
Kanté intercepted — poked it away from McArthur.
Ball rolled toward Tristan.
He let it run across again. Turned.
One touch to push forward. Another to step around Cabaye.
A third — outside cut to lose McArthur.
Jedinak stepped up late — just to block the angle.
Tristan saw the opening.
Left foot. Edge of the box. He didn’t hesitate.
Strike.
Low. Clean. Through legs.
Keeper dove late.
Too late.
2–1 Leicester.
The place erupted again.
“Goal! Tristan’s done it!” Rob shouted.
Alan: “He’s been swarmed all half — and still walks away with a goal and an assist before the break.”
On the pitch, Mahrez jogged over, slapped the back of his head lightly. “That’s why they send three,” he said, laughing.
Vardy pointed at the Palace bench. “You lot better draw up a new plan.”
Tristan celebrated in front of the fans thinking about the second half.
This was the new normal now.
Three markers. Four, maybe.
Didn’t matter.
He had space in his head, even when there wasn’t any on the pitch.
And if they chased him?
He’d just make them regret it.
Halftime: Leicester City 2 – 1 Crystal Palace
Second Half
No subs.
No surprises.
Just more rain — and more bodies orbiting Tristan.
As the teams returned, Rob Hawthorne picked up the call.
“Back underway at the King Power. Leicester 2–1 up, but this is far from over. Palace have thrown everything at Hale — and still trail.”
Alan Smith sounded cautious.
“They’ve forced him wide, blocked central channels, doubled — tripled — him in the pocket. But that opens other lanes. And Leicester… they’ve got runners everywhere.”
Palace didn’t change shape.
Still five across midfield. Still Jedinak, McArthur, and Cabaye funneling centrally. Still Zaha and Bolasie pinching in, looking to pounce on second balls.
But now — Leicester were settled.
Tristan let them have the middle.
Let them chase.
He drifted deeper, almost behind Drinkwater now, collecting under less pressure.
Kanté was everywhere. A blur of limbs and timing.
“Look at him go!” Rob called as Kanté snapped a pass out from a slide challenge. “Intercepts — then plays on. It’s like having a clone.”
Tristan took the pass, turned with ease — but the wall returned.
Cabaye. McArthur. Jedinak.
Three again.
He played it safe — back to Chilwell — who swept it right to Mahrez.
Kanté darted again. A loop. Then a check-run off the shoulder.
Mahrez held it. Waited.
Then suddenly — flicked it back central.
Kanté kept running. Into the final third.
Nobody followed.
They were all still on Tristan.
Alan: “And there’s the trap springing open. Four men chase 22 — and Kanté slips in untouched.”
Kanté didn’t look nervous.
Didn’t even slow down.
He took a touch inside. The box was tight — but he saw Mahrez curling wide again on the right.
Pass.
Perfect weight. Slipped just past Delaney’s reach.
Mahrez caught it first time.
Left foot.
Driven low, near post.
3–1 Leicester.
King Power exploded.
“That’s it!” Rob shouted. “And what a finish — Mahrez, inch-perfect!”
Alan added, “But it’s Kanté, Rob. My god. He wins the ball, runs fifty yards, and delivers that calmly? That’s world-class.”
Tristan watched from the edge of the box — calm. Silent.
He didn’t need to score again.
Didn’t need to pass again.
He’d pulled four men out of position — and that was the assist before the assist.
The tactical gravity.
Mahrez jogged back pointing at Kanté. “That’s you, brother. All day.”
Vardy shouted across, “One day, they’ll learn — don’t forget the others!”
But they wouldn’t learn.
Because no matter how much pressure teams applied to Tristan, Leicester just evolved.
Albrighton tracked back tirelessly.
Chilwell stayed solid under Zaha’s speed.
Huth and Morgan cleared every cross that came near.
Ranieri made late changes — Ulloa on for Vardy, King for Drinkwater — but the shape stayed firm.
Palace threw numbers forward late.
Desperate headers. Scrappy shots.
But nothing clean.
Nothing dangerous.
Full-time.
Leicester City 3 – 1 Crystal Palace
“Well, Alan — another night. Another win. Another reminder that stopping Tristan Hale doesn’t mean stopping Leicester.”
Alan gave a low chuckle. “You can handcuff the magician, but he’s still pulling strings behind the curtain.”
Post-Match Press Conference
The room was packed. Journalists still shook droplets from their jackets, notepads already spotted from the walk in.
Claudio Ranieri settled into the seat with a smile so relaxed, you’d think the match had ended 6–0 instead of 3–1.
First question came from Sky.
“Claudio, Palace went with a five-man midfield to crowd Tristan Hale — it worked for about ten minutes. Then the dam broke. Is there even a way to stop him?”
Ranieri lifted a brow. “You want my advice for stopping Tristan Hale?” He waited a beat. “Play chess instead.”
Laughter from the room.
He leaned forward slightly, more serious now. “But let me say this. Yes, teams put five bodies on Tristan. Maybe six. Doesn’t matter. Because this is not Tristan FC. This is Leicester City. It’s a team. You understand? A team.”
Another hand shot up.
“But would you say he’s still your most decisive player?”
“Decisive? Sure. But decisive because he shares. You see that third goal?” Ranieri nodded. “Everyone watching is screaming ‘stop Tristan!’ So Mahrez is free. Kanté is free. That is football. Not video game.”
The media chuckled.
He continued, hands gesturing now. “Last season, maybe we depended too much on Tristan. He made us believe in miracles. But now, everyone believes in our team, not in one player. Look at Chilwell. Look at Kanté. Mahrez, Vardy — even the boys on the bench. We are eleven, not one.”
A final question from a foreign outlet.
“Claudio — does that mean you think the tactics used against Tristan are short-sighted?”
Ranieri tilted his head.
“No. I think they are desperate,” he said. “And I understand. But desperate plans do not beat good teams. And this season? Leicester is a good team.”
He stood, gave a polite wave, and left the room still smiling.
.
October 27, 2015 — King Power Stadium
EFL Cup Fourth Round: Leicester vs Southampton
The evening felt colder than it should’ve. Damp air, grey skies, and a crowd bundled in scarves despite the lack of rain. The EFL Cup didn’t always draw headlines, but for the fans, it was still a chance to see their clubs play against the big dogs.
Inside the dugout, Claudio Ranieri cupped a steaming paper cup in both hands, collar turned up against the chill. His eyes scanned the squad warming up.
No Schmeichel. No Simpson. No Morgan.
No Kanté. No Mahrez. No Vardy.
But Tristan Hale?
Tristan was there. Tired. Quiet. Loosening his shoulders like he’d slept in his boots. Ranieri had noticed it the moment he walked in — the stillness, the stiffness. Not an injury. Just tired.
But he played him anyway.
Because even when he walked, the pitch bent toward him.
From the commentary box, Clive Tyldesley welcomed the evening broadcast.
“Good evening from the King Power. Leicester City versus Southampton — EFL Cup action under the lights. And a rotated XI tonight for Claudio Ranieri’s side.”
Beside him, Michael Owen added, “Yeah, just look at that bench. Schmeichel, Kanté, Drinkwater, Simpson, Mahrez, Vardy — all rested. But I’m more surprised that Tristan is on the field.”
Leicester XI (4–4–2)
🧤 Mark Schwarzer (GK)
🚀 Ritchie De Laet (RB)
🏰 Harry Maguire (RCB)
🏰 Marcin Wasilewski (LCB)
🚀 Ben Chilwell (LB)
🏃♂️ Marc Albrighton (RM)
🎯 Tristan Hale (CM)
🛡️ Andy King (CM)
🏃♂️ Nathan Dyer (LM)
⚽ Shinji Okazaki (ST)
⚽ Leonardo Ulloa (ST)
Bench:
🧤 Kasper Schmeichel
🛡️ N’Golo Kanté
🛡️ Danny Drinkwater
🚀 Danny Simpson
🏰 Wes Morgan
🏃♂️ Riyad Mahrez
⚽ Jamie Vardy
From the first whistle, it was clear Leicester weren’t playing at full tilt. The shape was compact. 4–4–2. Straight lines, short passes.
Southampton came sharper. More fluid. Romeu and Ward-Prowse moved well between the lines. Long chased every lost cause. Bertrand pushed forward from the back.
Clive leaned in.
“Ranieri’s rotated heavily — and it shows. Leicester look… steady, but toothless.”
By the 19th minute, Southampton punished it.
Ward-Prowse swung in a vicious corner. Fonte rose between Wasilewski and De Laet — header, clean, past Schwarzer.
0–1.
Michael muttered, “That’s too easy. Too soft. Set pieces matter, especially when you’re missing your spine.”
On the touchline, Ranieri didn’t panic. He just called for width — and raised a hand toward Tristan.
Tristan lifted his head but didn’t sprint. He just… moved. Slowly. Methodically.
By the 31st, it finally clicked.
Chilwell stepped up on the left and recycled the ball inside. King pinged it diagonally to Albrighton, who squared across the edge of the box.
Ulloa fought for it. Won the deflection. Smashed it home.
1–1.
“That’s grit. That’s Ulloa at his best. Doesn’t need much — just a scrap and a bit of space.”
The rest of the half was uneventful.
Halftime: 1–1.
In the tunnel, Ranieri spoke low and in rhythm.
“No need to play like heroes. Win the second ball. Stay calm. Tristan — keep standing. That’s enough.”
Tristan gave a nod.
Second Half.
Southampton pushed first. Long hit the side netting. Ward-Prowse tested Schwarzer.
But then — the break.
64th minute.
A simple pass. Tristan took it near halfway, played it forward early to Dyer, then stood still — watching.
Dyer danced wide, fed Albrighton, who cut it across…
And again — Ulloa.
Run. Tap. Net.
2–1 Leicester.
“That’s classic cup football. One or two moments, two opportunities — and Leicester have taken them both.”
Michael added, “And Tristan — look, he’s not sprinting, simply standing there, yet he holds defenders. You have to account for him. But even if you do — someone else scores.”
Minutes later, Ranieri subbed off Tristan.
The final fifteen saw pressure from Southampton, but nothing got through. Maguire handled himself well. Wasilewski cleared three crucial balls. Chilwell held his nerve.
Full-time: Leicester 2 – 1 Southampton.
Through to the next round.
The changing room was warm, noisy, and smelled faintly of muscle spray and worn-out boots.
Kanté peeled off his training bib. Schmeichel tossed a rolled sock at Chilwell’s head. The usual.
Vardy kicked open his locker and pointed straight at Tristan, who was sitting on the bench with his legs stretched out and taped ankles resting on a foam roller.
“Tristan? You're gonna take a long break against West Brom, I can feel my magic in the air after today.” Vardy said similing.
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “That so?”
“I feel it,” Vardy said, tapping his chest twice. “A hat-trick. All mine. Might even knee one in for style.”
Mahrez chimed in, towel slung around his neck. “If you’re lucky, I’ll gift you one. Just once.”
Drinkwater snorted. “He’ll need two gifts and a divine miracle.”
Tristan leaned back, arms behind his head. “Alright then, Jamie Vardy. Three goals. If you pull it off, I’ll let you choose my next celebration.”
“Oh ho,” Vardy said, pointing both fingers like a TV game show host. “Now we’re talking.”
.
October 31, 2015 — The Hawthorns
The sky over the Hawthorns was iron-grey. Not raining — just that stubborn Midlands mist that stuck to your jacket and made your boots squeak louder. Halloween decorations fluttered weakly behind the home stands, but the real threat on the pitch wasn’t ghosts.
It was Jamie Vardy.
Leicester’s second top scorer was all bounce and buzz during warmups. Tristan meanwhile, sat bundled in his jacket on the bench, arms folded, face unreadable. He hadn’t even taken out his shin pads. He wasn’t playing tonight.
Darren Fletcher’s voice came in low over the Premier League broadcast.
“Good evening from the Black Country. Jamie Vardy’s been talking. Said he’s scoring three tonight. Said it to the staff, the squad, probably the tea lady too. But can he deliver without Tristan providing the bullets for him?”
Kickoff.
Leicester lined up in their trusted shape — a 4–2–3–1 on paper, but fluid as ever. Mahrez hugging the touchline. Drinkwater dictating tempo. And Vardy? Already buzzing off the shoulders.
It started with a simple ball recovery from Danny Drinkwater — quick toe-poke from a loose challenge near halfway.
He looked up.
Saw Vardy spinning off the last man.
Lofted it — one touch, backspun just right. The kind of ball that hung for a second like it didn’t believe it should be falling.
Vardy darted.
Chest. Drop. Strike.
Left foot. Across goal.
Net.
“Bang! Jamie Vardy! Leicester’s arrow slices through! One touch to bring it down — one to bury it!”
Tristan blinked once. Quiet. Then raised one finger off the bench, as if keeping count.
.
Mahrez was dancing again. A step over. A drag back. Then he slipped into that sweet little channel near the edge of the box — too narrow to defend, too dangerous to ignore.
He fizzed it in first-time.
Vardy lunged in front of McAuley like a jackrabbit.
Toes it home.
“Two for Vardy! Two for Leicester! The Foxes are running wild!”
On the bench, Tristan exhaled slowly.
“That’s two,” he muttered.
Vardy, as he jogged back, glanced his way. No words. Just a smirk.
Tristan shook his head. “Should’ve made it four.”
79th minute — 1–2 West Brom
Corner. Chaos.
Rondon went up. The ball pinballed.
Fell kindly.
Shot — deflection. In.
A flicker of hope for the hosts.
“They’ve been second best all game, but one set piece — and they’re back in it.”
83rd minute
West Brom pushed.
Everyone forward.
Even the keeper.
But Schmeichel punched clear.
Kanté swept it up like a magnet.
Then it was on.
Kanté to Mahrez.
Mahrez — no-look pass, outside of the foot.
Vardy was already sprinting.
One touch to carry.
Two to steady.
Three to fire.
Right foot. Top bins.
Hat-trick.
“YES, JAMIE VARDY! HAT-TRICK HERO AT THE HAWTHORNS! OH, HE PROMISED — AND HE DELIVERS!”
The away end detonated.
Scarves in the air. Fans losing their minds. Mahrez on his back. Drinkwater roaring into the sky.
And then — Vardy ran to the camera.
Arms wide.
Camera cut to the bench.
Tristan had both hands over his face.
Full-Time: West Brom 1 – 3 Leicester City
Hat-trick: Jamie Vardy
Assists: Mahrez (x2), Drinkwater (x1)
In the tunnel, Vardy jogged over and clapped a hand to Tristan’s shoulder, still buzzing with adrenaline.
“Wembley next, yeah? I already have that celebration in my head.”
Tristan didn’t respond.
Just stared into the middle distance, looking like a man who’d lost a war he never meant to start.
Mahrez walked past, grinning.
“You should’ve bet one goal, brother.”
Tristan muttered, “I’m never trusting that idiot again.”
.
Sorry it took so long to post that chapter. Just been tired all day
