Sinbad
patreon
Chapter 196: Arsenal 3 (End)
🕑 Added 2025-05-06 18:05:00 +0000 UTCThe door slammed shut behind the Leicester players. The roar of the King Power faded into a low, distant hum.
Ranieri stood at the whiteboard. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled. Sweat darkened his cuffs.
"Good," he began. Calm but firm. "Very good."
The players leaned forward. Every head up.
"You pressed. You fought. You punished them. Twice."
He gestured to the magnets. The 4-4-1-1. Their shifting lines.
"But now—Wenger will adapt. They cannot allow Tristan to keep finding pockets between their midfield and defensive lines."
Ranieri’s gaze swept the room.
"They’ll overload the central channels. Double, maybe triple-mark Tristan when he receives between the lines. Expect Ramsey, Coquelin, and one of the centre-backs stepping up aggressively."
Tristan gave a short nod. He’d felt the pressure rising toward the end of the half. Ramsey blocking his pivots. Coquelin shadowing close.
Ranieri continued.
"That’s the price of being the focal point. You’ll attract bodies. Which means..."
He moved the Mahrez and Vardy magnets.
"Mahrez—stay wide. Pin Monreal. We’ll stretch their horizontal compactness. Force them to cover more ground. If they shift too much, we attack the weak side."
Mahrez nodded.
"Vardy—keep making those diagonal runs across the centre-backs. Don’t just go vertical. Bend your runs into the blind spots between Koscielny and Mertesacker. They struggle with rotations."
Vardy grinned. "Every chance I get."
Ranieri tapped Tristan’s marker again.
"You—don’t force the final ball. They’ll bait you into overplaying. Be patient. Let the double-mark come. Draw their midfield out of shape. Then punish the vacated lanes."
Tristan wiped the sweat from his brow. "Understood."
Ranieri’s tone hardened.
"They have to beat you to take what’s yours. You are the team they fear—not the other way around."
The room lifted. Shoulders straightened.
Benetti leaned in, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"They’ve already adjusted their midfield rotations. Sánchez is rotating deeper into the left half-space. Cazorla’s drifting toward the left pivot channel to create overloads. That’s how they’re progressing possession."
Kanté’s brow furrowed. Listening carefully.
"They’ll attempt third-man combinations through the half-spaces. Ramsey running off the shoulder. Özil drifting between your midfield and back line. Do not collapse centrally."
Benetti pointed to the defensive line magnets.
"Keep the vertical lanes blocked. Force them wide. If they progress, it must be into the channels—not through the middle."
He turned to Mahrez. "When we lose the ball, you must recover inside the line before tracking back. Maintain our compactness first—then defend the wide spaces."
Mahrez raised a hand. "Got it."
Ranieri clapped once. The sharp sound echoed in the tiled room.
"We fight together. We stay intelligent. And we finish this."
The response came as one. A full-throated shout.
"YES, BOSS!"
.
While Leicester gathered their resolve, down the tunnel in the away dressing room, Arsenal were having a very different conversation.
The energy was tense. Focused. Not defeated—but definitely rattled.
Wenger stood at the tactics board. Arms folded. His assistant Boro Primorac at his side. Steve Bould pacing quietly behind them.
The players sat around. Jerseys clinging to their backs. Sweat cooling fast. Some heads down. Others—like Sánchez and Özil—eyes sharp. Thinking. Processing.
Wenger didn’t raise his voice. He rarely needed to.
"They’ve found their triggers," he began, voice level. Calm. "Leicester are pressing on our pivots. They are forcing us wide. Forcing rushed progression."
He pointed to the magnets. Arsenal’s 4-2-3-1 shifting under Leicester’s press.
"The transitions are hurting us. Kanté and Drinkwater are reading every passing lane centrally. They’ve denied Ramsey the third-man runs. Coquelin is isolated when Tristan and Mahrez counterpress."
Ramsey’s head lifted, frustrated. "Every time I drop in to support the buildup, I get swarmed."
"I know," Wenger nodded. "Because they are baiting you."
He moved the Leicester magnets slightly—showing how their midfield narrowed then burst out to close the ball.
"It’s intelligent pressing. They let you feel open for one pass, then collapse."
Bould leaned forward. "Their block’s triggering on your second touch. We have to shift the ball quicker. Two-touch maximum."
Wenger turned to Özil. "Your movement has been excellent. But we need you pulling the defensive midfielders wider. Don’t keep drifting centrally—you are drawing pressure into the heart of our progression."
Özil nodded slowly. He already sensed it by the 35th minute. His touches were crowded. Mahrez and Tristan both collapsing on him. Even Kanté was reading his feints.
"Santi and Ramsey," Wenger continued, "rotate your positions. Force Kanté to choose—press or sit. If we can disrupt his decision-making, they will lose vertical compactness."
Ramsey: "Pull him wide?"
"Exactly."
Wenger turned to Sánchez next. The Chilean was still breathing heavily from his long first-half runs.
"You will draw bodies. Three, at times. Don’t be predictable. Drop into the left pivot channel, then vacate quickly. Take your marker with you. Force Simpson to choose—press or hold."
Sánchez wiped his face with his jersey. "If they follow, the channel’s open for Giroud or Ramsey."
"Good."
Wenger moved the magnets again.
"And now—Tristan Hale."
Every player’s head lifted.
"They will expect us to mark him tighter, yes. We will. Coquelin will screen his vertical passing lanes. Koscielny or Mertesacker steps up when he drops into midfield."
Coquelin nodded, jaw clenched.
"But that is not enough. We are going to overload him. The same way teams do against Messi."
Özil’s eyebrows rose. Ramsey glanced at Sánchez.
"You will shadow his pivot receptions. Not just block the pass. You deny him the turn. If he cannot turn, he cannot create. And when he dribbles wide to escape, Monreal and Bellerín double him in the wide channels."
Sánchez muttered under his breath. "Just like the 2011 Champions League final."
Wenger smiled faintly. "Exactly."
Bould added, "Win the ball off him early. Don’t wait until the final third."
Wenger’s gaze swept the room. Calm but commanding.
"They are dangerous because they are structured. Force them to become emotional. If they start chasing the game—Mahrez, Vardy, even Tristan will try to overplay. That’s when we punish them."
Özil nodded. Ramsey rolled his shoulders. Coquelin tightened his wrist tape.
Finally, Wenger looked to Mertesacker.
"Organise the back four. Vertical compactness first. If they find those spaces between our lines again, we suffer."
"We keep the block tight. Force wide progressions. Win the second ball."
Wenger paused, scanning the room one last time.
"And if you need to get physical... do it. They’ve had too much freedom first half. Stay smart. No reckless fouls. But don’t let them bully you. Not today."
Wenger pointed to the door.
"Now finish it. Let’s leave today with our heads high.”
.
The hallway between dressing rooms was narrow. The distant rumble of the crowd vibrated through the walls.
Leicester were first out. Morgan led the line, boots tapping steady against the floor. Huth behind him. Vardy bouncing on his toes. Tristan walked in the centre. Calm. Breathing slow. Not forcing it. His right wrist lightly taped now.
Behind them, Ranieri and Benetti followed. Neither speaking. Nothing more needed to be said.
From the opposite door, Arsenal emerged.
The two streams merged as they reached the mouth of the tunnel.
Red and blue. Champions and challengers.
The roar outside swelled now—a low, rolling surge. King Power finding its full voice again.
"COME ON LEICESTER! COME ON LEICESTER!"
Tristan’s eyes locked ahead. He felt a presence beside him.
Özil.
"That free kick..." Özil said quietly, almost conversational. "Top right. Did you plan it?."
Tristan smirked. "Yep, I’m thinking of doing that again."
The referee stepped between them. "Let’s go. Keep it clean."
But everyone knew—it wasn’t going to stay clean.
Not in a game like this. It couldn’t stay clean with 2-2.
The assistant referee radio crackled. "Clear for entrance."
Morgan turned back once. "Heads on. They’re going to bring the fight now."
Tristan rolled his shoulders. "Yep."
The doors parted.
Floodlights exploded into view. The crowd’s roar surged—no longer distant. A living wave.
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"
Neville’s voice came through the tannoy speakers. "And here they come. Leicester City and Arsenal. Locked at 2–2. A battle not just of skill—but of will."
Martin added, "Two brilliant halves behind them. One legendary half ahead."
The players stepped onto the grass.
Boots struck turf. Studs bit in.
The floodlights burned brighter now. Not just lighting the pitch—but the stage.
The crowd’s roar wasn’t just noise. It was weight. Building. Rolling down from the stands like a living wave.
"COME ON LEICESTER! COME ON LEICESTER!"
Banners lifted. Scarves raised. The Foxes faithful were all on their feet. Not a single supporter sitting.
Above the east stand, flags rippled in the breeze. Leicester’s crest. And one simple phrase: We Believe in Miracles.
Tristan adjusted the tape on his wrist. His eyes swept the pitch. Arsenal’s shape was already forming. Coquelin and Ramsey drifting into the central lanes. Speaking low. Özil glancing back toward Leicester’s line. Koscielny pulling at his armband.
They’ve made their changes. We’ve made ours.
Beyond the touchline, Ranieri and Benetti stood still. No more instructions. Nothing left to say. Only trust now.
Julia and Ling sat shoulder to shoulder. Ling’s arm stretched across the seatbacks. Silent. Watching his son.
Julia clutched her scarf tight. Whispered under her breath. "Come on, love."
Barbara stood at the glass with Biscuit in John’s hands.
She didn’t sit. Couldn’t sit. Hands pressed against the railing.
"Please don’t get injured", Barbara whispered. As if Tristan could hear her. In each high stake game, Tristan would always get fouled, tackled to the ground. Sometimes she just wondered how Tristan could just get up and walk through them. She could still remember that last two Newcastle games, it still gave her nightmares. She didn’t think she had the heart to watch it again this season.
Behind them, the guests had gone quiet.
No one spoke now.
All waiting.
"Leicester 2. Arsenal 2."
Martin’s voice broke through the hum. "Forty-five minutes to decide it. A Premier League classic already—but now it’s about legacy."
Neville added. “The rest of the game will be determined in the midfield. Best believe both Ranieri and Wenger have made big adjustments during the break.”
.
Tristan stepped forward into position. Beside Vardy. Mahrez out wide right. Albrighton wide left.
The pitch felt smaller now. Tristan’s eyes lifted. Across from him, Ramsey and Coquelin were already narrowing the gap. Shadowing him. Before the ball had even rolled.
"Come on," he whispered. "Let’s see who really wants this."
He was trying to get into the zone like against United. He's been trying to force it but it just never happened again no matter how angry or pissed off he was.
In that single game, he felt like he was that best in history. Since than he never got into a zone like that again.
Was he pissed and playing like it yes but this Arsenal team was also better than most teams in the world. And end of that this was a team sport.
The whistle shrieked.
"AND WE’RE BACK UNDERWAY!" Martin roared. "Leicester kicking off. Forty-five minutes. Season defining."
Neville: "The tactical battle starts now. Both sides ready to show their second-half plan."
Tristan took the first touch. Simple. Rolled it back to Drinkwater.
The war had resumed.
Drinkwater shifted the ball left. Fuchs played long down the touchline. Mahrez chased—but Monreal closed it down.
Arsenal immediately pressed higher. Lines compressed.
Ramsey and Coquelin didn’t wait. The moment Tristan moved into the pocket—they followed.
"They’re closing him down already," Neville observed. "No surprise. Coquelin and Ramsey hunting in tandem."
.
Tristan dropped deep. Kanté slipped the ball into his feet.
Ramsey came tight to his back. Coquelin angled the turn. Shadowing him.
They want to trap the pivot early.
Tristan didn’t force it. Shielded. Rolled his shoulder. Simple return pass to Drinkwater.
Seconds later.
Mahrez drifted inside. Carried the ball. Waited for the gap. Slipped it between the lines.
Tristan met it.
Coquelin arrived immediately. Sharp nudge in the back. Low arms. Subtle. Not enough for a foul.
Tristan’s jaw flexed. So that’s how it is.
He spun. Forced through the contact. Coquelin bounced off his hip. Ramsey tried to poke a foot in—
Tristan stiff-armed him aside. Held firm.
The ball escaped before he could release it. Mertesacker swept it clear.
"They’re trying to bully him," Martin said. "But Tristan’s strength—compared to last season, you can just see how much stronger he has gotten."
"And he’s not backing down," Neville added. "Answering every challenge."
.
Arsenal built again.
Özil drifted into the left half-space. Cazorla advanced between the lines.
Sánchez dropped deep. Pulled Simpson narrow.
Ramsey sprinted into the vacated gap.
"Third-man runs. Wenger’s adjustment is already showing," Neville pointed out.
But Kanté was watching.
Reading it.
He slid across. Intercepted Cazorla’s disguised pass.
The King Power erupted again.
On the sideline, Ranieri leaned into Benetti. Voice low.
"They’re crowding Tristan every reception. If they keep committing that many—we go direct."
Benetti nodded.
Mahrez and Albrighton started drifting even wider. Almost brushing the touchlines.
Drinkwater dropped between the centre-backs. Arsenal’s press surged—but the passing lane opened.
Mahrez peeled wide. Monreal followed. Arsenal’s shape stretched.
"First tactical shift from Leicester," Martin noted. "Trying to create space between Arsenal’s defensive lines."
.
Tristan dropped alongside Drinkwater. Received again.
Coquelin and Ramsey both stepped. Too aggressive.
Wait for it.
Tristan rolled the ball past Coquelin. Faked the turn. Let Ramsey bite. Pivoted inside.
"Brilliant footwork!" Neville shouted.
Space opened.
Tristan glanced up. Bent a lofted ball over Koscielny’s line.
"He’s spotted Vardy!" Martin roared.
Vardy burst forward. Diagonal run between Koscielny and Monreal.
Čech rushed out.
Vardy went for the lob—
The ball skidded wide. Just inches.
"Ohhh... so close!" Neville exclaimed. "Perfect move. Almost the perfect finish."
.
Ranieri nodded to Benetti. "That’s the one. They can’t triple-mark Tristan and survive those runs."
Benetti frowned. "But Wenger will adjust. If they collapse the wide lanes, we lose that outlet."
Ranieri’s jaw tightened. "Then we may need pace off the bench."
Benetti hesitated. "They’ve got the stronger bench. Walcott. Oxlade-Chamberlain. We’ve got Schlupp.Ulloa. Okazaki. We’ll have to be clever."
Ranieri nodded. "Then we finish it with what we’ve got."
.
Arsenal regained possession.
Ramsey and Cazorla rotated out of the pivot lanes. Özil drifted toward the left again.
"They’re trying to pull Kanté wide. Open vertical lanes," Neville explained.
Leicester’s back four held firm.
Morgan and Huth stayed disciplined. No stepping out. No gaps.
"Leicester’s defense isn’t cracking," Martin said.
“They’re baiting Leicester’s midfield,” Neville noted. “Trying to pull Kanté wide. Make Drinkwater step.”
But Kanté didn’t bite. He held central. Shadowing the lanes.
Cazorla shaped a disguised pass into Giroud’s feet.
Morgan read it. Bodyed Giroud off balance. Huth cleared—but not far.
Bellerín recovered the loose ball. Switched play across the back line. Koscielny stepped into midfield.
Coquelin opened his hips, received, and threaded a line-breaking pass toward Özil.
Özil’s first touch was velvet. He turned inside. Dragged Drinkwater and Kanté with him.
Then came the flick.
Ramsey surged beyond. Third-man run.
But the ball ran just a step too far—
Tristan swept in.
Late tracking back. He caught Ramsey. Shoulder checked him off balance. Kept possession alive.
“Brilliant defensive work!” Martin’s voice rose. “The star man tracking back. That’s what leadership looks like.”
The King Power roared. TRISTAN! TRISTAN!
Tristan steadied himself. Rolled the ball to Kanté. Took the return pass immediately.
But Coquelin closed. Fast. Hard.
Tristan’s first touch killed the ball under his studs. He feinted a turn—shoulder drop.
Coquelin guessed. Bit early.
Wrong.
Tristan let the ball roll across his body. Pivoted out with a La Croqueta. Left foot to right. Slipped into the half-space.
The crowd rose. The surge in the stands was tidal.
“Space now!” Neville barked. “Hale’s through the press!”
Ramsey scrambled across. Late. Desperate.
Coquelin recovered his balance. Gave chase.
Too late.
Tristan burst clear. Thirty yards from goal. Options left and right. Mahrez peeling wide. Vardy darting across the centre-backs.
Tristan raised his head.
That’s when Coquelin lunged.
Not a tackle. A clip. Subtle. Just enough.
Boot to ankle.
Contact.
Tristan’s stride broke. He staggered forward—but the ref’s whistle came sharp and shrill.
FREE KICK.
The King Power howled.
“Foul!” Martin Tyler cried. “And it had to be, what was Coquelin thinking.”
Tristan stood tall. Shook out his right leg.
The ball sat just inside Arsenal’s half. Slightly left of centre. Perfect distance.
The crowd didn’t quiet. It compressed.
Tension like a drawn bow.
Coquelin strolled up behind Tristan. “Not hitting top bins this time.”
Tristan didn’t flinch. “You sure?”
Coquelin smirked. “You’re slowing down.”
Tristan stayed calm. “I’m just getting started.”
Players started closing in. Mahrez and Vardy arriving. Kanté too. Giroud and Koscielny pulled Coquelin back.
Morgan stepped in. “Enough.” His arm went across Tristan’s chest. “Save it for the scoreboard.”
The referee moved quickly. Hands raised. “Separate. Now.”
The crowd loved it.
“Bit of fire there,” Martin noted. “Arsenal trying to rattle Tristan. But he’s answering back.”
“And he’s smart. Not reacting. Not giving the ref a decision to make.” Neville added.
.
Tristan waved his teammates off. “Let me have it.”
Vardy nodded. “It’s yours.”
Mahrez clapped his back. “Same spot?”
“Same spot.”
Drinkwater jogged over. “Take your time. They’re nervous now.”
“They should be.”
Tristan placed the ball down. Checked the seam. One spin. Set.
Three steps back. Hands on hips taking deep breaths.
Arsenal assembled their barrier.
Four men. Koscielny barking orders. Mertesacker steadying the line.
Bellerín and Monreal shifted nervously. They’d seen this before.
Özil hovered on the edge.
Coquelin stayed back but mouthed, “Tired legs.”
Tristan ignored him. Eyes only on the goal.
Čech crouched. Knew what was coming.
“Arsenal know. The crowd knows. Everyone in this stadium knows. It’s whether number 22 can deliver again.” Neville said just as excited as everyone else to see if Tristan can deliver again.
The referee blew the whistle.
Tristan inhaled.
Stepped into the strike.
Right instep. Pure connection.
The ball bent. Curling. Rising.
Over the wall.
Čech launched sideways—
But he wasn’t getting there.
The ball dipped late—
But kissed the top netting. Wide.
Groans rippled. A wave of frustration.
.
Martin’s voice steadied. “That close again. It’s almost as if the net itself is moving just out of Tristan Hale’s reach.”
Neville exhaled. “But what worries Arsenal—that’s two now. You give Hale another free kick from that range, he will punish you. You can’t keep conceding these.”
In the Leicester dugout, Ranieri turned to Benetti with a quiet nod. “It’s time.”
Benetti was already holding the substitution board. “Albrighton’s legs are going.”
Ranieri’s decision came firm. “Schlupp on. Width and recovery pace.”
The fourth official raised the board. Albrighton jogged off to applause. Schlupp charged on, energy in every stride.
Neville noted the change immediately. “Ranieri’s not just thinking about attacking width. Schlupp’s fresh legs will help defensively when Arsenal try to overload the flanks again.”
Martin added, “And notice—Tristan stays central. Ranieri’s keeping his spine intact. Tristan, Mahrez, Vardy, Kanté. The pillars of Leicesters.
Arsenal responded. Possession flowing left to right. Monreal to Cazorla. Cazorla to Özil.
Özil paused. Faked right. Slipped the ball into the channel. Sánchez turned sharply, riding De Laet’s challenge, then cut it back across the top of the box.
Giroud shaped for the volley—
But Robert Huth got a boot in. Deflected wide.
The commentators caught their breath.
Martin said, “That’s what experience gives you. Huth didn’t dive in. He waited, read the trigger, and intervened.”
Neville agreed. “But Arsenal are growing. You can feel it. Leicester’s midfield can’t retreat too deep. If they let Özil and Sánchez operate between the lines, they’ll suffer.”
On cue, Wenger moved.
Ramsey was summoned. His number went up. So did Cazorla’s.
Theo Walcott and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain sprinted on.
Martin voiced the tactical shift. “Here comes the injection of pace. Arsenal will now look to stretch Leicester’s full-backs. Force the centre-halves to shift wider.”
Gary Neville leaned forward. “This changes the game. Walcott’s direct running will challenge both Morgan and Huth. Leicester’s defence can’t stay narrow anymore.”
On the touchline, Ranieri spoke quietly to Benetti. “Tell Mahrez and Schlupp—no lazy tracking. They must recover fully inside the line. No gaps.”
Benetti relayed the message with gestures.
The battle tilted into chaos.
Leicester’s counters came fast and dangerous.
Schmeichel’s long kick found Mahrez wide. Mahrez shimmied past Monreal with a feint and a reverse Elastico. The crowd gasped.
Neville chuckled into his mic. “That’s Riyad Mahrez. He makes defenders guess—and then punishes the choice.”
Mahrez squared to Tristan. First touch perfect. He spotted Vardy’s angled run.
A threaded ball. Vardy burst between Mertesacker and Koscielny.
Čech rushed out.
Vardy lifted the chip—
It sailed just over the bar.
Martin groaned along with the crowd. “Oh, what a goal that would’ve been! The vision from Tristan. The pace from Vardy. Inches away.”
Neville didn’t hide his admiration. “It’s textbook counter-attacking. Ranieri’s men have absorbed pressure and are striking like lightning.”
But Arsenal weren’t passive.
Walcott’s first involvement saw him sprint beyond Fuchs. Özil found him with a cutting ball.
Walcott surged into the box—
Schmeichel narrowed the angle.
Save.
The rebound spun dangerously. Oxlade-Chamberlain pounced—
But Kanté intervened. Tackle. Clearance.
“Everywhere,” Neville said in disbelief. “That’s N’Golo Kanté. It’s like there’s two of him.”
Schlupp earned it. Beat Bellerín on the outside. His cross was blocked out of play.
The King Power surged.
“LEICESTER! LEICESTER!”
Schlupp earned it. Beat Bellerín on the outside. His cross was blocked out of play.
Tristan jogged over. Grabbed the ball. His pulse steady.
Benetti’s voice carried on the sideline. “Fast delivery. Don’t let them reset.”
Tristan nodded. Arsenal’s back line scrambled.
Mertesacker barking. Koscielny motioning.
But Morgan was already on the move.
Tristan set the ball down.
“Watch this. Tristan’s crosses are on another level.” Nevile said as Tristan struck.
Low. Fast. Curling toward the near post.
Morgan attacked.
Like a freight train.
He crashed through Giroud’s block. Met the ball with brutal power.
Header. Net. Goal.
3–2.
The King Power detonated.
Martin roared. “MORGAN! THE CAPTAIN! LEICESTER LEAD AGAIN!”
Gary Neville’s voice rose above the crowd. “That’s why he wears the armband! Under pressure. Under siege. That’s leadership. That’s belief.”
Tristan sprinted to the corner flag. Morgan engulfed him. Huth and Fuchs followed. Vardy tackled them all to the ground in a pile.
.
But Arsenal weren’t done.
Wenger’s final push came.
Özil and Walcott overloaded Leicester’s right. Fuchs and Huth struggled to shift fast enough.
Özil found space. Picked his moment. Slid a perfect ball between Huth and De Laet.
The noise inside the King Power was constant now. Not just a roar—but a plea. Nervous energy wrapped in every chant.
Mahrez waved Schlupp back. "Tuck in! Tuck in!"
But Arsenal were surging.
Özil drifted again into the right half-space. Walcott hugged the touchline wide.
Martin’s voice grew sharp. “Leicester sitting deeper. Too deep, perhaps. Arsenal smelling blood.”
Neville agreed instantly. “It’s a dangerous game. You invite Arsenal into those pockets, you invite trouble.”
Özil paused on the ball. Drew Kanté toward him. Rolled a delicate pass into Sánchez’s feet. Sánchez turned sharply, riding De Laet’s challenge.
Özil didn’t stop moving. He drifted—unmarked—into the channel between Huth and De Laet.
Sánchez saw it. Clipped the ball through with perfect weight.
Martin’s breath caught. “This is trouble! Özil’s found the gap!”
Özil, calm as ice, slipped the ball further on.
Walcott raced in behind.
First touch—immaculate.
Schmeichel rushed out.
Second touch—side-footed finish, low and ruthless.
The net rippled.
3–3.
For a split second—silence.
Then a crescendo erupted. The red end of the stadium exploded in noise. Arsenal’s substitutes burst off the bench. Wenger punched the air. Steve Bould hugged Giroud on the sidelines.
Walcott wheeled away to the corner flag, arms outstretched, roaring toward the away fans.
Özil chased after him, pumping his fists, face alight with triumph. Sánchez followed, leaping onto Walcott’s back.
Martins voice surged. “They’ve done it! Arsenal have levelled! From nowhere! A dagger to Leicester’s heart!”
Neville’s voice was urgent. “It was coming! The deeper Leicester dropped, the more dangerous it became. Özil and Sánchez with the vision. Walcott with the clinical touch.”
The King Power fell into stunned disbelief.
Hands to heads. Mouths agape. Thousands standing frozen, scarves limp in the air.
Barbara’s hands covered her mouth.
In the dugout, Wenger barked from the other side. “Push! Push!”
Benetti’s face was set like stone. “There’s still time.”
The fourth official’s board rose.
+6.
Martin announced it through the tension. “Six minutes. Six minutes of stoppage time. Leicester—must find strength now.”
Neville muttered, “This is when leaders stand up.”
90+1. Kick-off.
Tristan gathered the ball himself. Walked it to the centre circle. His shoulders straight. Chin high.
Ramsey smirked as he jogged past. “Game’s changed now.”
Tristan didn’t answer. He placed the ball down. Spoke low. Only Vardy and Mahrez heard.
“We’re not done.”
The referee blew the whistle.
Tristan played the ball back. And Leicester surged again.
Arsenal pressed with renewed hunger. Walcott and Oxlade pressed high. Monreal and Bellerín pushed forward aggressively.
But Leicester weren’t breaking.
Kanté intercepted a rushed pass from Bellerín.
Martin’s voice rose. “And still Leicester resist! Kanté, tireless as ever.”
Kanté fed Mahrez, who turned sharply and drove forward.
Neville leaned in. “Look at that from Mahrez. He wants it. He’s not playing for the draw.”
Mahrez waited. Slipped a clever pass through midfield traffic.
Tristan received. Turned. Coquelin stepped in hard. Shoulder to shoulder—legal.
But Tristan didn’t go down. He rolled his shoulder. Shielded the ball. Pivoted sharply.
Neville barked, “Still going!”
Ramsey tried to poke the ball away. Tristan shrugged him off.
He accelerated. Vardy peeled wide, dragging Mertesacker.
Tristan surged toward the box.
Crowd rising— Noise swelling—
Coquelin tracked desperately.
First contact—shoulder. Legal.
Second contact—an arm across the chest. Not legal.
Tristan chopped inside.
Coquelin lunged. Late. Reckless.
Clatter.
Tristan went down.
The whistle shrieked.
PENALTY.
The King Power exploded into a roar so loud it shook the advertising boards.
Martin’s voice soared over the chaos. “PENALTY! PENALTY FOR LEICESTER IN THE FINAL MINUTE!”
Neville’s words were breathless. “Coquelin’s cracked! After chasing Hale all match—he’s finally lost control. A penalty that could define the season!”
Arsenal’s players swarmed the referee.
Mertesacker barked, “No! No penalty!”
Koscielny threw up his arms. “That’s soft!”
Ramsey shouted at Coquelin, “What are you doing?!”
Sánchez threw his hands to his head.
On the Leicester side—Mahrez raised both fists. Vardy punched the air. Kanté pumped his arms.
Tristan lay still for a moment before getting up.
The commentators hushed as he walked to the spot.
Martin lowered his voice to a near-whisper. “And who else… who else but Tristan Hale to take it.”
Neville added softly, “He’s carried them for two years now. He’s carried them all night. One more moment now.”
As Tristan placed the ball on the spot, the Arsenal players surrounded the referee again.
Coquelin pointed desperately. “That’s not a pen!”
But the referee stood firm.
Tristan stood even firmer.
He placed the ball. Adjusted the seam with care. Stepped back. Three paces.
The entire King Power seemed to hold its breath.
The Arsenal players gathered on the box edge. Coquelin stood pale, staring at the spot like he could will the ball away. Koscielny shouted instructions. Mertesacker pointed to Čech’s left—mind games—but his own hands trembled slightly.
Čech bounced on his line. Left foot. Right foot. Gloves flexing. But even his eyes betrayed the nerves.
Tristan stood alone.
Not just at the penalty spot.
Martin’s voice cut through the heavy silence. No more excitement. Just reverence. "The weight of a miracle... rests now on Tristan Hale once more.”
Behind the glass of the East Stand, Barbara couldn’t sit. Her hand pressed flat against the barrier. Julia gripped Ling’s arm so tightly his fingers were white.
Up in the VIP boxes, the celebrities weren’t speaking anymore. No selfies. No quiet laughter. No movement. Everyone just watched.
The Leicester end stood like a single living being. Scarves held high. Thousands of voices silent.
The only sound—the wind shifting the flags above. We Believe In Miracles.
On the edge of the box, Mahrez crouched forward, hands on his knees. Vardy stood hands on hips, eyes locked. Kanté didn’t blink. Morgan had both fists clenched at his sides.
"They’re behind him," Martin said softly. "All of them. His teammates. His family. His city."
The referee glanced at Čech. Then at Tristan.
Whistle to lips.
The shriek cut the silence like glass.
Tristan stepped forward.
One stride.
Two.
Three—
And struck the ball.
Čech dove. Hard. Left. Arms stretched. Full extension.
But the ball didn’t follow.
Tristan’s strike was straight down the middle.
The net bulged.
For a split second—silence.
Then the King Power exploded.
A roar so loud it didn’t sound like voices anymore. Just thunder. Pure, unstoppable thunder.
"HE’S DONE IT!" Martin’s voice cracked with emotion. "TRISTAN HALE! IN THE DYING SECONDS! LEICESTER LEAD AGAIN!"
Neville nearly shouted over him. "Down the middle! The coldest finish! The bravest finish! What a moment for the 20 year old!"
Tristan didn’t stop to watch. The second his foot met the ball—he was running. Straight to the corner flag. Arms out. Breath ragged. He slid to his knees—grass tearing beneath him—as the flood poured in behind.
Mahrez tackled him first. Then Vardy. Then Morgan and Kanté. Fuchs. Drinkwater. The entire squad swallowed him in a pile.
"Leicester City’s miracle man!" Martin roared. "This stadium may never hear a louder sound!"
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN!" the chant rose, deeper than any drumbeat. "TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"
In the box, Barbara screamed, shouting with everyone else.
The celebrities? Forgotten. Even they were roaring now.
The camera swept to Ranieri on the sideline as he just clapped in awe.
"That’s the finish of a champion," Neville declared, voice hoarse. "That’s what leaders do. When everything is on the line."
Arsenal players stood rooted. Coquelin’s head dropped into his hands. Mertesacker pulled at his armband, face blank. Čech sat back on his heels, staring into the net as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
"Moments define legacies," Martin said softly as replays rolled. "This was one."
.
The replays cycled again.
Tristan’s calm run. The strike. Čech’s desperate dive.
The ball slamming into the net.
And the eruption.
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN!" The crowd refused to stop.
Arsenal restarted. No time for strategy. Just desperation.
But Leicester pressed as one. Every player. Every breath. Every heartbeat behind the lead.
Mahrez chased Bellerín. Kanté shadowed Özil. Morgan and Huth cleared everything that dared cross their line.
The board still read 3–3 for a moment longer than it should have. Then the number flicked over.
Leicester 4 – 3 Arsenal.
Six minutes were nearly gone.
"Blow it..." Neville urged under his breath.
The ball came back to Arsenal’s half. One last hoof forward. But it was too late.
The whistle shrieked.
Full-time.
The stadium detonated again.
The cameras tried to catch everything.
They couldn’t.
"Moments define legacies," Martin repeated, voice low but full of awe. "And Tristan Hale... will always be Leicester’s miracle."
.
Comments
Sicario_1011
Thanks for the chapter and for ending it on 3
