Sinbad
patreon
Chapter 209: Pocket Change
🕑 Added 2025-05-21 23:23:15 +0000 UTCOctober 16, 2015 — Morning
Belvoir Drive Training Ground
.
Boots struck wet turf in a steady rhythm as the Leicester squad jogged laps beneath a flat grey sky. The air was damp enough that voices felt quieter. Cones lay scattered across the grass like someone had given up halfway through setting them out.
Robert Huth called out, annoyed about a missing training bib.
Schmeichel raised his hands like a schoolkid swearing innocence. “Wasn’t me,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Tristan jogged behind them, focused on his steps. He didn’t say much.
Danny came up alongside him and nudged him with an elbow. “You alright, superstar?”
“Yeah,” Tristan said. “Some journalists were outside my parents’ house this morning. Trying to get pictures of me. I left John there with them just in case.” He paused a beat. “Might hire private security.”
Danny blinked. “Wait, what?”
“They’re camped outside the house. They were at the driveway before sunrise.”
He kept his eyes forward as they jogged, arms loose, stride even. Nothing in his voice gave much away, but there wasn’t anything casual about it either.
Danny looked over, trying to read him. “Mate, I didn’t think it was that serious. Like—I knew there’d be headlines, sure. But what more could they want. They already have all the facts they need.”
“They’re not interested in facts,” Tristan said. “They want a story. Doesn’t matter what it is.”
Danny shook his head once. He didn’t know what to say to that, not right away.
After a few strides, he spoke again. “Guess it was always gonna happen. You’ve been boring too long. Makes people nervous.”
Tristan gave a short breath of a laugh. Just air, really. “Yeah. God forbid I go a season without giving them a reason.”
That was the problem with Tristan, at least in the eyes of the media. He was too clean. No scandals, no headlines, nothing that pulled clicks like Neymar or Ronaldo — guys who managed to stir something up every other week.
And they couldn’t knock his game either. Even his worst performance — 7.7 against City last season — didn’t give them much to work with.
So when something finally showed up, they clung to it like sharks to blood.
They rounded the far end of the pitch in silence, the sound of boots and clipped grass filling the space between them.
By the time drills wrapped, most of the squad had bunched near the touchline, stretching and pulling boots loose. The chatter came easy — the way it always did after internationals.
“How’d Italy go?” Mahrez asked Inler.
“Three minutes off the bench,” Inler grunted. “Coach said I brought stability. I think that means ‘don’t touch the ball.’”
Laughter broke out. Even Kante cracked a half-smile.
Vardy jogged up, towel already around his shoulders. “Oi, Kante — don’t think we forgot. Called up for France and didn’t even text the group chat. What happened?”
Everyone turned.
Kante looked mildly horrified.
“He’s quiet, not rude,” Mahrez defended.
“Yeah,” said Vardy, “but still. Man dips for international duty and ghosts us all?”
“He started, right?” Ben Chilwell chimed in.
“He did,” Mahrez said. “Played the full 90. Won man of the match.”
That got a few nods. A pat on the back. More jokes.
“Man’s about to take your job, Drinky,” Vardy said.
“I hope he does. I’m tired.”
More laughter.
Someone brought up Belgium’s game. Someone else joked about Schlupp missing an open goal in training. And still — no one asked Tristan about England.
They all glanced his way. A few longer than others. But no one said it. No one wanted drama. Not today.
He appreciated that.
The conversation eventually drifted toward the weekend. Southampton away. Pelle. Mane. Wanyama. Big midfield.
“We’ll need legs,” Vardy said.
“We’ve got Kante,” Mahrez replied.
“True,” said Vardy. “And our cheat code.”
He didn’t say the name.
He didn’t have to.
.
Shower Room — 11:03 AM
The steam rose in clouds. The room echoed with half-laughs and hot water hissing off the tiles.
Tristan stood alone at the far end, eyes closed under the spray. His shoulders rolled once. Then again.
System, he called out in his head.
He didn’t really check it day to day. The System had no place in his routine anymore, and he'd rather not think too hard about the fact that, apparently, his life was some kind of game.
[Name] – Tristan Hale
[Age] – 20
[Team] – Leicester City
[SHO] – A
[PAS] – A
[DRI] – B+++
[PAC] – B++
[DEF] – C++++
[PHY] – B+++
Nothing had changed. Not even his defense.
Well — that made sense. He barely defended, even in England. He tracked back when he had to, but rarely went in for tackles. He didn’t train for it either. Why waste time improving something you’d never do? And with the templates he had when he did have to defend was more than enough.
He sighed.
“Any progress?” he asked, not expecting much.
No stat gains recorded
Progression efficiency: low.
Looked like he needed a new template. Something from an all-time great. He’d been training constantly, but progress felt slower than a snail.
He'd already maxed out the XP boosters. Burned through all of them — and even then, the gains were barely noticeable.
He’d hit the ceiling. Or at least the one for normal footballers.
Three Hours Later
After training and a long film session, Tristan finally made it back home.
The house was quiet — curtains half-drawn, kitchen light still on from earlier. His boots were dumped by the front door, socks peeled off and tossed into a corner like they'd crawled there on their own.
He dropped his bag in the hallway and wandered into the living room, rubbing a thumb under his eye.
Now barefoot, he settled onto the couch, one leg folded underneath the other. A bowl waited on the coffee table — roasted chickpeas and sweet potato chips, still warm. A folded note sat beside it.
Made some snacks. I will be back to cook dinner. — Felix.
Tristan smiled, popping chickpea into his mouth. Crunchy. Just the right kick of spice. Not bad.
He leaned back, head against the cushions, and was about to take a drift until his phone buzzed.
The phone buzzed again. Once, then twice — a message, not a call.
Tristan picked it up from his chest and blinked at the screen.
Ed Sheeran: Yo, i’m in leicester for a few days.let me know if you’re free today and stuff
They’d met after the Arsenal match.
Since then, they’d kept in touch. Nothing heavy. Just the occasional message, a voice note, jokes sent back and forth. They were close enough to be friends.
One of the rare celebrity friends Tristan had.
Tristan thumbed back:
Tristan: Yeah I'm around, got nothing on.
The typing bubble showed up almost instantly.
Ed Sheeran: thinking food
Tristan: Yeah, I’m down
Ed sent the name a second later.
Ed Sheeran: There’s this pub called The Silver Hare. Hidden, proper chill. You’ll like it. I’ll grab a table.
Tristan sat up, checked the time, stretching out his back. He took a quick rinse and changed. A clean navy quarter-zip, charcoal jeans, and a fancy watch from one of his sponsors. No way he was going to spend some 200k on a watch. Lastly he grabbed his keys and headed out.
The One-77’s doors opened and he stepped into the driveway. Besides the Vulcan which wasn’t even street legal, this was his new favorite car.
By the time he pulled into the narrow lane beside The Silver Hare, heads had already turned, cameras out and everything.
The pub was tucked in behind an old butcher shop — brick-walled and all.
Inside, the lighting was warm and low. Oak beams across the ceiling. Music played — some mellow acoustic track that sounded suspiciously like Ed’s third album but wasn’t. The place smelled like rosemary and wood polish.
Ed was already at a corner booth, hoodie pulled over a cap, pint in hand. He raised it slightly when he spotted Tristan.
“Mate,” he said, smiling, “you really rolled up like Bond.”
Tristan slid into the seat across from him. “Didn’t feel like swapping cars.”
“Was half the city behind you, or just the ladies?”
“Hard to tell. I didn’t check the mirrors.”
Ed laughed and took a sip. “Thanks for coming out. I’ve had about four hours of interviews today, and I think the label’s trying to see if I’ll break.”
“You still make music for fun, or is it all strategy now?”
“Oh, it’s all pain,” Ed deadpanned. “But the food here helps.”
A server approached — menus and water. Ed waved them off gently. “We’ll have the trout flatbread and lamb sliders,” he said. Then to Tristan: “Trust me.”
Tristan leaned back, trusting that man had some good food taste.
“Three,” Ed said. “I googled best pub food in Leicester and picked the one that didn’t have wallpaper.”
They both laughed as people tried to take photos of them together. A few didn’t even try to be subtle — just angled their phones up mid-walk, pretending to scroll.
“Mate,” Ed said under his breath, “you know this is gonna be all over social media. I give it a day before the Sun picks it up.”
“Yeah,” Tristan said, picking up a slider.
They ate, not rushed, not long either. Every so often someone stopped by — a couple in their thirties asked for a picture, a teenage boy handed over a napkin for an autograph, and one drunk uni student shouted, “LEICESTER BY SIX TOMORROW!” from the bar before being escorted out by a friend.
“Six,” Ed repeated, grinning. “Is that how many you’re putting past Southampton?”
Tristan wiped his hands on a napkin. “Why not?”
“Reckon you’ll actually try, or just let Vardy do all the running?”
“I’ll jog. Dramatically. Maybe cry into the badge a bit.”
“Sell it,” Ed said, raising his pint. “Sell it like the label sells my acoustic tracks.”
They clinked glasses.
.
October 17, 2015
Matchday – Southampton (Away)
St. Mary’s Stadium – 12:31 PM
.
The team bus hissed as it eased into the tunnel. Rain tapped the roof in steady bursts — not heavy, just enough to fog the windows and dull the light.
Inside, the mood was half-focus, half-fatigue.
Tristan leaned his head against the glass. One earbud in. The other open. The bass pulsed, but the outside world still crept in — distant chants, camera clicks, muffled thuds from poncho-covered fans banging on the glass.
“Bloody early kickoffs,” Vardy muttered, teeth holding the end of the tape roll. “Messes with the rhythm. I haven’t even digested breakfast.”
“You had three sausages,” Drinkwater said, from two rows back. “That’s not rhythm. That’s self-sabotage.”
Someone laughed. Someone else passed a pack of gum down the aisle.
Kanté sat near the front, legs bouncing.
“Oi,” Chilwell said, nodding toward the window. “Look at that.”
Outside, under the narrow overhang, a kid no older than ten stood wrapped in a blue poncho. Cardboard sign held over his head.
“#22” scribbled in thick red marker. And above it — a crooked gold crown.
“Sign’s for you,” Vardy said, nudging Tristan with his elbow. “Better be worth it.”
Morgan stood up near the exit. “Five minutes,” he said. Just loud enough to cut through the noise.
Mahrez exhaled, slow and sharp. “Let’s go ruin someone’s Saturday.”
The doors hissed open.
A cold gust swept in.
The team filed off the bus, bags slung over shoulders, boots in hand. Staff already waiting with umbrellas.
Inside the changing room, the lighting was colder. Harsh fluorescents buzzing. Paint peeling near the vents. That away locker room as always in the league for every club sucked.
Someone dropped their kit bag too hard. A zipper snagged. Fuchs grumbled something about the showers already being out of hot water.
“Classic Saints hospitality,” Schmeichel muttered as everyone got ready. There was no need to discuss tactics or what to do. They already prepared for this.
.
Narrow walls, low ceiling. Too many players packed into a corridor that felt more like a storage hallway than the entrance to a Premier League match.
Tristan stood near the front of the Leicester line, tightening the tape on his wrist. Mahrez beside him, quiet. Focused. Vardy bounced on his toes like he couldn’t wait to sprint.
“Oi,” he muttered, twisting back. “Fuchs, you bring the vaseline?”
“I brought a mirror,” Fuchs replied. “Figured you’d want to kiss yourself before kickoff.”
That earned a few laughs — low, quick, nervous.
Behind them, the mascots shuffled in, wide-eyed and tiny. One boy, maybe nine, reached out and brushed Tristan’s hand.
“Are you gonna score today?”
Tristan looked down. The kid’s hair was still wet with rain. Cheeks flushed. Eyes wide.
Tristan smiled, soft and small. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I have to.”
Across the tunnel, Southampton stood still — arms folded, shoulders squared. Van Dijk stared straight ahead. José Fonte cracked his neck from side to side, slow and tight.
The fourth official gave the nod.
The anthem queued.
And they stepped forward.
The camera swept up to the gantry as the players emerged into the cold. Flags shook in the wind. The roar from the home end met a solid wall of blue from the traveling Leicester supporters.
The country was putting behind what happened in Lazio and moving on from it.
Martin leaned slightly forward. “Welcome to the south coast — St. Mary’s Stadium. And what a sight. Rain in the air, tension on the pitch… and Leicester City, still unbeaten.”
Alan glanced down at his notes, then over the edge.
“Eight games without a loss, Martin. But the headlines this week? They’ve had nothing to do with form. All eyes on number 22 — Tristan Hale.”
Martin nodded.
“37 goal contributions across all competitions this season. And we’re only in mid-October.”
Alan added, “You’d struggle to find a better player on the planet at the moment. But today? It’s not about headlines. It’s about how he answers them.”
The teams spread across the halfway line.
Mascots were guided off.
Flashbulbs burst like fireflies.
Martin steadied his voice.
“And now... the starting elevens.”
The Sky Sports graphic swept in. Blue and white for Leicester.
🦊 Leicester City (4-2-3-1)
Martin tilted his head slightly. “No surprises there. Ranieri sticks with the same system — Tristan in that central role just behind Vardy.”
Alan chimed in, “And it works, doesn’t it? That midfield triangle — Drinkwater, Kanté, Tristan — it gives them control, legs, and creativity. And when Mahrez or Albrighton tuck inside, it becomes a nightmare to track.”
Martin cracked a faint smile.
“And after a week like this, you get the feeling Tristan wouldn’t mind reminding everyone what this formation lets him do.”
The graphic shifted. Red and white for Southampton.
Martin exhaled lightly.
“That’s not a soft spine. Wanyama and Clasie will be all over Tristan today — rough, physical, aggressive.”
Alan added, “And if Leicester push too high, they’ll have to be careful. Tadić and Mané — especially Mané — they’ve got the pace to punish you in transition.”
Martin nodded. “I’d expect Southampton to stay compact. Sit in, frustrate, and look to counter.”
Alan leaned back slightly.
“But Leicester aren’t a team that waits anymore. They press, they gamble — and they’ve got players who only need half a second to make it count.”
The camera caught Tristan — jaw tight, curls damp, gaze locked on the far touchline.
Martin watched with him. “After a week of noise… this is where the answer comes. Not in interviews. Not in headlines. On the pitch.”
The whistle was coming.
And St. Mary’s held its breath.
.
The whistle blew.
The ball moved.
And St. Mary’s came to life.
Leicester started sharp — no delay, no drift. Kanté took the first touch, turning on a dime and feeding it straight into Drinkwater.
Clasie stepped early. Mistake.
Tristan dropped low and peeled into space, letting the ball come to him like he’d been waiting all week.
Martin spoke low over the hum of the crowd.
“And we’re off. Leicester, as expected, lining up narrow. Tristan is already drifting into that in-between pocket.”
Alan added, “Southampton’s going to try and sit. But that’s a dangerous game with Tristan floating. Clasie’s too deep — and Fonte’s not the one you want chasing him.”
By the second minute, Leicester had settled.
Mahrez buzzed around the right. Albrighton held width on the left. Vardy hovered just high enough to keep Van Dijk from stepping up too early.
Wanyama came through the back of Drinkwater on one sequence — legal, but just.
The ball skidded away.
“Physical already,” Martin said. “And that’s what they’ll try — disrupt, slow Leicester down.”
Sixth minute.
Mahrez nutmegged Bertrand on the far side and spun back to retrieve it just because he could. The away end roared.
“Still not sure if that was necessary,” Alan muttered. “But it was nice.”
By the tenth, Southampton had their first chance.
Tadić drove inside from the left, dragging Simpson too narrow.
Davis floated in late.
One quick slip pass.
Schmeichel had to stretch low and hard to his left — fingertips only.
“Good warning sign there,” Martin said. “Leicester got caught sleeping.”
Alan responded, “And that’s the trade-off. When you play aggressive, you leave gaps. Southampton nearly made them pay.”
.
Twelfth minute.
Tristan started to warm up.
First, a swivel past Wanyama near the center circle — too quick, too clean. Then a threaded ball through Fonte’s feet that Vardy nearly turned into a shot.
Van Dijk slid across just in time to close the angle.
“He’s a wall, Van Dijk,” Martin said. “But even he’s checking his shoulder more than usual.”
“Because he knows who’s coming,” Alan replied. “Tristan’s not just drifting now — he’s driving.”
Tristan received it at speed just beyond the halfway line. Fonte too slow. Clasie too light.
He shifted left — then cut inside. One touch. Two. Body opened.
Van Dijk stepped.
Tristan went right.
And slipped past him like he wasn’t even there.
Martin's voice pitched up. “Oh my word — he sent Van Dijk the wrong way!”
Alan groaned. “That’s not supposed to happen. Not that easy.”
The crowd buzzed. Even the home fans couldn’t quite pretend they didn’t see it.
Tristan didn’t shoot — he squared it to Mahrez, who hesitated, then skied it.
Didn’t matter. Message sent.
Southampton were starting to sag — not in shape, but in energy. Leicester smelled it. Drinkwater pinched higher. Albrighton dropped back, then launched it long into the right channel.
Vardy sprinted after it like he’d heard a starter pistol.
Fonte followed — clumsy. His foot caught it, but only just. The clearance bobbled sideways and out.
Throw-in. Leicester.
Simpson took it short. Back to Kanté. One touch. Then to Tristan.
Tristan waited.
He let Van Dijk step. Let Wanyama drift closer.
Then he cut right — again — and clipped a low ball through a crowd of legs.
It pinged off Clasie’s knee. Skimmed off Huth.
Corner. Leicester. The away end rose like they knew. Because they did.
Martin leaned forward.
“Corner for Leicester — and if you’ve seen them this season, you know what is coming.”
Alan didn’t even look at his notes. “They run this play like clockwork. Tristan delivers. Vardy causes chaos. And someone — usually Morgan — gets a free header while the rest of the defense wonders what just happened.”
Tristan walked over to the flag. He placed the ball down taking a deep breath.
Inside the box, it was noise and elbows.
Van Dijk was barking. Fonte was shoving. Wanyama had arms wrapped around Huth like they were dancing.
Vardy darted near-post, then flared out wide. Took two defenders with him. Mahrez hovered at the edge of the box like he was waiting to pounce.
And Morgan?
Morgan did what he always did.
He waited.
Tristan took two steps back. Then three.
Martin’s voice tightened. “Watch this.”
Tristan whipped it in. Fast. Diagonal. Flat.
The ball curled in like it knew where it was going.
Morgan exploded off the line. Unmarked. Unchallenged.
BOOM.
Header. Pure power. Straight through Stekelenburg.
GOAL.
The net rippled. The away end erupted.
“WES MORGAN!” Martin shouted. “Straight from the training ground! And Leicester take the lead!”
Alan was already laughing.
“They choreograph that like a West End show. Every step matters. Tristan puts it on a platter, and Morgan? He’s still going up when the keeper hits the floor.”
Southampton 0 – 1 Leicester
(16’ — Morgan. Assist: Tristan)
.
Leicester didn’t drop off even after scoring.
They pushed higher. Pressed harder. Southampton barely touched the ball.
Wanyama looked rattled. Clasie wasn’t getting near anyone. And Van Dijk? He was busy scanning for Tristan every five seconds like a man trying to find a phone signal.
Then came the moment.
Mahrez slipped inside from the right, drifting past Bertrand with that same lazy elegance — like he was painting, not playing.
The ball rolled to him from Kanté, quick and short. Mahrez didn’t even take a touch to settle. He just chipped it.
Casual. Cruel.
It floated over Fonte’s head and dropped perfectly at the edge of the box.
Tristan was already moving.
He didn’t let it bounce. Didn’t hesitate.
One step.
Then bang — right foot, waist height.
A sidewinder of a volley that screamed through the air and tore into the top corner.
GOAL.
The stadium gasped. Then groaned.
The away end lost its mind.
Martin sounded like he stood up without meaning to.
“Oh my goodness! That is outrageous! Tristan Hale — a volley that belongs in a museum!”
Alan laughed in disbelief.
“That’s not even a shot — that’s a signature. Mahrez clips it, Tristan meets it like he was born for that moment. Top bins, side netting, no backlift. You just don’t stop that.”
Tristan ran screaming as the rest of the players tried to catch up to him.
2–0.
Ranieri turned away from the celebration and tapped Benetti on the arm.
“Too easy,” he muttered. “Start prepping the changes.”
Benetti nodded. “Si. Europa in four days. Let’s protect the legs.”
Ranieri looked back at the field as Southampton trudged to the center circle.
“We’ll take Tristan off around seventy. Maybe Vardy, too.”
Benetti raised a brow. “Think they’ll let you?”
Ranieri gave a small shrug. “They won’t like it. But we’re winning this one with or without them. I’m more worried about Tristan’s mental health than anything else. You can’t help but worry for that kid with how much pressure is on him.”
Play had just resumed, but the energy on the pitch had shifted. Southampton looked cautious. Not wounded — not yet — but aware now.
Tristan jogged back toward midfield, brushing grass off his shorts. Van Dijk came with him.
“You mind going easy for the rest of the half?” Virgil asked under his breath.
Tristan smiled. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
Virgil glanced at him sideways. “You always this annoying?”
“Nah, only with my girl,” Tristan said. “When I know I’m playing a future Ballon d'Or finalist.”
That made Virgil pause. His brows pulled together, confused. “What?”
Tristan just patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll get it later.”
Van Dijk stared after him for a second, then shook his head. “Man’s talking in riddles. You Dutch?”
“Nope,” Tristan said over his shoulder. “You're a good defender.”
Moment Van Dijk heard that, he broke into a smile. “He says that whilst he gets past me every time.”
.
Leicester slowed things down. Passes got shorter. Sharper. They weren’t hunting anymore — they were stretching Southampton out.
Drinkwater dropped deeper to collect. Kanté shadowed Mané’s every move like it was personal. Mahrez danced every time he touched the ball, and Fuchs had stopped asking before overlapping — he just went.
Tristan drifted between the lines. Sometimes left. Sometimes central. He didn’t even have to be involved — just being there pulled players out of shape.
Martin noted it. “It’s like he’s playing three positions at once. Southampton don’t know whether to press him or follow the ball — and by the time they choose, it’s already gone.”
Alan added, “And he hasn’t even hit full gear yet. He’s dictating the match without needing the ball. That’s rare..”
A half-chance fell to Tadić after a bobble in the box. He turned and hit it early — but Huth got there. Blocked with his thigh.
Southampton looked to the referee. Nothing given. Schmeichel shouted at everyone to push up.
Tristan walked past Van Dijk again.
“You’ve got a good line,” he said, meaning it.
Virgil looked at him. “You’ve got a good everything.”
Tristan grinned. “You’ll get there.”
Virgil stared. “Man, what is your deal?”
Tristan didn’t reply as that game restarted.
Leicester weren’t chasing a third. They were protecting the lead — and themselves. Ranieri’s instructions had already gone out. No unnecessary runs. No dumb fouls.
Just control.
Tristan took a pass from Mahrez near the sideline and turned smoothly, drawing a frustrated foul from Clasie. He hit the grass lightly and looked up, unfazed.
The whistle blew before the free kick could be taken.
Halftime.
The scoreboard read Southampton 0 – 2 Leicester.
The rain had stopped. The noise hadn’t from the away fans.
.
The door shut behind them. Boots off, shirts were tossed. The room was full of steam and the faint hiss of electric heaters was heard trying to fight the cold.
Ranieri stood at the front.
“We start the second half with balance,” he said. “Same shape. Same control. No more chasing. Let them make the mistakes.”
He clipped up the board.
🦊 Second Half – 4-2-3-1 (Balanced):
🧤 Schmeichel
🚀 Simpson – 🏰 Huth – 🏰 Morgan – 🚀 Fuchs
🛡️ Drinkwater – 🛡️ Kanté
🏃♂️Albrighton – 🎯 Tristan – 🏃♂️ Mahrez
⚽ Vardy
“But after sixty,” Ranieri continued, tapping the names, “we rotate. Mahrez off. Vardy off. Shape becomes flat midfield. Wide control. Two up top.”
Benetti stepped in and slapped magnets onto the board for clarity.
🔁 Planned Substitutions:
🎨 Mahrez → 🎨 Dyer (60’)
⚽ Vardy → ⚽ Ulloa (60’)
🎯 Tristan → 🎯 King (70’)
🦊 Projected Shape – 4-4-2 (From 70’):
🧤 Schmeichel
🚀 Simpson – 🏰 Huth – 🏰 Morgan – 🚀 Fuchs
🏃♂️Dyer – 🛡️ Drinkwater – 🛡️ Kanté – 🏃♂️ Albrighton
⚽ Ulloa – 🎯 King
“No pressing. No fouls in stupid areas. Keep the middle tight. Let them run into walls.”
He looked around the room. “Fifteen more from the starters. Then we kill the game.”
Benetti added, “Bertrand is going to push now. Watch the wide ball.”
Ranieri nodded. “We do this clean. No panic. And Tristan—” He looked directly at him. “No more volleys like that. You’ll break the net.”
Laughter broke the tension.
.
Mahrez nudged Tristan, grinning. “You okay, Hale?”
Tristan looked sideways. “Why?”
“You talkin’ to defenders now?” Mahrez said, flicking water at him. “I’ve seen you embarrass them. Not... compliment them.”
“Yeah,” Albrighton chimed in. “Next thing we know, he’s swapping numbers with Van Dijk.”
Kanté looked up. “He better than me?”
Tristan didn’t hesitate. “No.”
Kanté gave him a solemn nod, then burst out laughing. “Good.”
Tristan shook his head. “He’s just... solid. Smart. Not many like him.”
“Yeah,” said Mahrez, “and you keep telling him that. We heard you.”
More laughs. More tape being pulled. Boots retightened. The second half was coming.
On the opposite side as usual for those teams facing Leicester City this season, that mood was different.
The door slammed shut behind them.
No one spoke at first. Just heavy breathing. Clenched jaws. The soft thump of boots tossed to the floor.
Van Dijk sat near the end, elbows on his knees. His shirt stuck to his chest like it had been ironed on. Fonte was pacing. Tadić had his head back against the wall, eyes closed, lips moving — no one could hear what he was saying.
Claude Puel stood at the center. Calm, but his foot tapped once. Then again. Then it stopped.
He grabbed the marker and wiped the board clean.
“Forget the wide pressure. Forget the 4-2-3-1. We’re not catching them out wide. We pack the middle. Control the ball. Win second balls.”
He turned.
🔴 Second Half – 4-3-1-2 (Narrow Diamond):
🧤 Stekelenburg
🚀 Cédric – 🏰 Fonte – 🏰 Van Dijk – 🚀 Bertrand
🛡️ Wanyama
🏃♂️Davis – 🛡️ Clasie
🎯 Tadić
⚽ Pellè – ⚽ Long
🔁 Substitutions:
🏃♂️ Mané → ⚽ Shane Long (45’)
🏃♂️ Davis → 🔁 Ward-Prowse (planned ~60’)
“They want to cruise,” Puel said. “So don’t let them. Every tackle — make them think twice. You want points?” He looked at Fonte. At Van Dijk. “Then go earn them.”
He pointed to Tadić.
“You find the gaps. Long will stretch the line. Pellè fights. Midfield follows.”
They weren’t confident. But they were angry now. Pride was on the line.
And for Southampton — that was enough to try and claw something back.
.
The whistle blew. Again.
And the second half began.
Southampton pressed early. You could see it — tighter line, faster steps, less hesitation. Shane Long buzzed beside Pellè, while Tadić lurked between Drinkwater and Kanté like a shadow waiting for sunlight.
Leicester didn’t rise to the bait. They kept their shape.
Tristan drifted in and out of midfield, offering angles, drawing markers. Mahrez did less — but that was by design. They weren’t rushing to score now.
Martin’s voice cut through the noise. “Leicester starting the second half with control. No rush, no risk.”
Alan added, “You can feel it — they’ve taken the sting out of the game. Southampton need something early, or this gets away from them completely.”
Tadić won a free kick just outside the box. Ward-Prowse came on for Davis. The fans perked up.
He took it short — a clever one-two with Clasie — but the eventual shot was blocked by Morgan’s thigh and cleared by Simpson.
Shouts from the crowd. But still no breakthrough.
Ranieri signaled.
🔁 Substitutions:
🏃♂️ Mahrez → 🏃♂️ Dyer
⚽ Vardy → ⚽ Ulloa
Tristan gave Vardy a quick handshake as he passed. “Rest your legs.”
Vardy grinned. “You too in ten.”
They swapped. Dyer wide right. Albrighton moved to the left.
🦊 Shape shifted — 4-4-2:
🧤 Schmeichel
🚀 Simpson – 🏰 Huth – 🏰 Morgan – 🚀 Fuchs
🏃♂️ Dyer – 🛡️ Drinkwater – 🛡️ Kanté – 🏃♂️ Albrighton
⚽ Ulloa – 🎯 Tristan
.
Southampton threw more bodies forward. Bertrand overlapped. Clasie pushed high.
But that played right into Leicester’s trap.
Kanté started gobbling up loose balls like breadcrumbs. Drinkwater barked at Ulloa to stay central. Tristan? He barely touched it — but every time he did, three players turned their heads.
Martin said it best. “He hasn’t had a touch in minutes... and they’re still terrified of him.”
Ranieri looked to Benetti. Nodded.
🔁 Tristan → 🎯 King
The crowd clapped — some in appreciation, others in relief. He took a seat next to Vardy on the bench, wrapped in a coat. Done for the day.
Final 20 minutes
Leicester parked nothing. They just strangled the game slowly.
Dyer kept running. King played smart. Ulloa took every foul he could. Fuchs even had a cheeky long-range effort that skimmed the crossbar.
Southampton couldn’t find a way through. Long looked gassed. Clasie gave the ball away one too many times.
Van Dijk played well — better than most — but it didn’t matter.
Because the match had been won by then. Controlled. Smothered. Sealed.
Full-time.
Southampton 0 – 2 Leicester
.
Undisclosed Location, Central London
The TV clicked off with a quiet snap.
Jorge Mendes set the remote down on the glass table. No words. Just the low hum of the city outside.
Across from him, Roman Abramovich leaned back in his seat — still, unreadable. A man who didn’t blink at oil markets or prime ministers, but now sat in total silence after watching Tristan Hale score one goal and create another like it was nothing.
Abramovich finally spoke. “I want him.”
Mendes folded his hands calmly. “You’re not the only one.”
“His clause?”
“Sixty million,” Mendes replied. “For now.”
Abramovich scoffed. “That’s pocket change.”
Mendes smiled thinly. “That’s why I told him not to sign the new contract. No bump, no extension. That clause stays. It lets the right clubs move fast… and it guarantees him a massive signing bonus.”
“I’ll pay three times that,” Abramovich said flatly. “You tell me what it takes — I’ll beat it.”
He stood. Walked to the edge of the room, hands in his coat pockets.
“Make him the highest paid player in England. In Europe. The world. Whatever it takes.”
He turned. “You get me that boy, Jorge.”
.
