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Chapter 194: Arsenal Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-05-04 19:14:19 +0000 UTCSeptember 26, 2015 — King Power Stadium
11:41 AM
.
The Arsenal team bus crawled along Filbert Way.
Outside, Leicester’s faithful were already swarming. Hundreds. No—thousands. Pressed against the barriers.
Scarves high. Phones out. Pints in hand.
Blue smoke drifted from the first flares.
The second the bus came into view, the abuse poured down.
"Fucking bottle jobs!"
"Every year, the same old shit!"
"North London’s finest chokers!"
"Tristan’s ending you lot today!"
Laughter followed. Pints raised. Someone banged the bus as it slowed.
Then came the chant. Hundreds joining in:
"Champions of Europe — you’ll never sing that!"
"Champions of Europe — you’ll never sing that!"
Blue smoke. Shouts. A wall of noise.
And above it all:
"LEICESTER! LEICESTER! LEICESTER!"
The bus kept driving without stopping as cops and security guards cleared up space for the bus.
"Bottle jobs! Bottle jobs! Bottle jobs!"
A chorus started now — not a clever chant. Just pure, loud abuse.
"You’re fucking shit! You’re fucking shit! You’re fucking shit!"
One sign waved above the mob: "FOURTH PLACE FC."
Another: "TRISTAN’S GONNA BREAK YA."
The players inside the bus kept their eyes forward. Most of them.
Walcott stared out the window, shoulders set. He’d played with Tristan. England camps. He was once looked at the same way people look at England, that next Wayne Rooney, that one who would carry England on his back and yet here feeling like there’s a gap he will never be able to close no matter how much he trains. What a joke.
Coquelin leaned closer to Cazorla. “They think this is already won,” he muttered in French. Cazorla didn’t answer.
Further down the aisle, Mertesacker tapped his fingers against his knee. “It’s louder than last year.”
Bellerín shifted in his seat. “It’s not noise. It’s something else. They expect to win now compared to before. This isn’t a normal promoted side, it never has been.’
Alexis glanced toward the front. For once, he wasn’t hiding his nerves.
But it was Wenger who felt it most. Arms crossed. Eyes on the blue smoke curling through the crowd. The same boy he’d once dreamed of signing before anyone else noticed.
Arsenal’s scouts had begged him to act. Make the call. Make the bid. Leicester and Tristan had refused. So Wenger waited. Patient. Respectful. Certain there would be a day when the deal could be made.
And each day, it felt like that would be nothing more than a dream.
And now, the boy he’d once hoped to mold was standing between him and trophies again.
The bus slowed to a stop. Security moved to part the crowd. The noise swelled even more.
"TRISTAN’S COMING FOR YOU!
TRISTAN’S COMING FOR YOU!"
The chant rolled like thunder. Over and over. Relentless.
The brakes hissed. The doors opened.
No one moved at first.
Then Mertesacker stood. Wordless. Adjusted his jacket. Grabbed his bag.
The others followed in quiet succession.
Walcott. Coquelin. Cazorla. Bellerín. Alexis.
Even the younger ones—Chambers, Gibbs, Iwobi—kept their heads down. There was no bravado here. No false swagger. Not today.
They filed down the narrow bus steps into the roar. Security shields up. Staffers flanking them.
The abuse didn’t stop.
They moved briskly toward the away entrance. Boots thudding against the pavement. The weight of expectation—and dread—settling on their shoulders.
Walcott heard someone shout his name. It wasn’t praise. He just ignored it as he knew it was going to be way worse during the game.
As they crossed the threshold into the stadium, the noise dulled. Just slightly. Replaced by the hum of matchday staff, distant warm-up music, and the occasional crackle of a radio.
But the tension followed them inside. Clung to them like the blue smoke outside.
Wenger lingered at the rear, letting his players go first.
He glanced once toward the main stand.
The crowd hadn’t even reached full volume yet.
That would come later. He just hoped all the preparations would pay off, he would be more than satisfied with a draw here.
.
King Power Stadium - Players’ Parking Lot
Barbara’s Rover eased into the private lot behind the East Stand. Tristan’s Aston Martins were still at the factory — custom work taking longer than expected. He hadn’t told Barbara which ones he’d chosen. She’d find out soon enough.
John guided the Rover into Tristan’s reserved space and killed the engine.
The car barely settled before Biscuit let out a soft roooorrrr, tail thumping against Barbara’s lap.
Tristan reached back for his kit bag. “She’s getting louder.”
Barbara smiled. “She knows it’s matchday.”
As he leaned forward, Barbara rested a hand on his knee. “You alright?”
“Yep. Feeling good.” His voice was calm. Steady. The same tone before every big game. From here, he could faintly hear the crowd still laying into Arsenal. He almost felt bad for them. Almost.
Biscuit pawed at his arm. Little huffs escaping her snout. Ruff. Ruff.
Tristan leaned in, kissed Barbara’s temple, then scratched behind Biscuit’s ear. “Daddy will see you soon, alright?”
Rooof! Biscuit answered, tail smacking the seat.
Barbara chuckled. “She understands more than you think.”
“I know.” Tristan smiled and grabbed his bag.
Barbara shifted Biscuit against her hip. “Your parents are already in the box. I’ll head up with them.”
“Perfect.”
Tristan cracked the door open and stepped out.
John lowered the window slightly. “Good luck.”
“Won’t need it.”
John’s eyes flicked toward the stadium. “They’ve been chanting since ten.”
“I know.”
Tristan turned toward the players’ entrance. The doors parted. Security waved him through.
He walked the familiar path through the player’s corridor. Kit staff were wheeling crates past. Stadium security tipped their heads in greeting.
One of the younger club media staff raised a phone.
“Tristan—quick photo for the socials?”
“Of course it is,” Tristan said dryly. He paused just long enough for the kid to snap a picture.
“Make sure my hair’s good.”
The staffer laughed. “It always is.”
Moments later he arrived at the locker room, he could already hear everyone from the outside.
He pushed the doors open.
All the players were already in.
“Morning.” Tristan dropped his kit bag beneath his usual spot.
Vardy leaned back against the opposite bench, foot propped up, yanking his laces tight. “Took your time.”
“I was getting papped,” Tristan said. “And that traffic today man sucked. Had to pick up my parents so that added extra time.”
That cracked the room.
Even Kante laughed from the far end, rolling a ball nervously beneath his boot. His tracksuit top was half-zipped, sleeves bunched at the elbows. First big game against a proper top six side this season.
The mood wasn’t heavy. But it wasn’t light either. Not like last year. When every match felt like a free hit. When every win was a miracle.This wasn’t miracle chasing anymore.
Across the room, Maguire was finishing his stretches. Already in his navy warm up kit, collar tugged high. Drinkwater stood nearby, talking quietly with Schlupp about positioning.
Morgan and Huth were at their lockers, slipping into training tops.
Fuchs passed by, tossing a rolled-up pair of socks into his space. “Place is loud today.”
“Arsenal fans?” Tristan asked jokingly.
“No. What do you think?” Fuchs replied, “Ours. Been singing since ten. Can’t even hear Arsenal’s lot.”
.
Tristan didn’t reply to that as he unzipped his bag. Pulled out his boots — freshly cleaned, the custom gold detailing catching the locker room light.
As he bent to lace them up, his eyes swept the room.
Vardy. Mahrez. Schlupp. King. Ben. Maguire. Kanté. Half the room was already tying the exact same pair. “Didn’t realise I was sponsoring the entire starting eleven.”
That set them off. Vardy nearly fell off the bench laughing.
“Mate,” Vardy wheezed, “you’ll be richer than Abramovich at this rate.”
“I thought you’d give us a discount!” Albrighton grinned, lifting his foot. “But no. Full price. Robbery.”
“I gave them to you for free,” Tristan protested.
“Exactly.” Mahrez shrugged. “Robbery. You robbed yourself.”
The whole room cracked up. Even Huth let out a rare bark of laughter.
“You lot are unbelievable,” Tristan muttered, but he was smiling now.
“I still can’t believe you gave us all free pairs,” Ben said, tapping the side of his boot. “Could’ve rinsed us.”
“Don’t remind me,” Tristan replied. “Barbara keeps saying I’m a terrible businessman.”
“That’s ‘cause you are,” Vardy shot back.
More laughter.
The door to the coaches’ office swung open.
Ranieri stepped out, clipboard in hand with the rest of the coaching staff.
Conversation dropped off fast.
“Alright,” Ranieri began, voice steady. “Same warm-up. Stretch. Short passing drills. Positioning. And no injuries today, please.”
His eyes flicked briefly to Vardy — who threw up his hands innocently.
“Big game,” Ranieri continued. “But you’ve all been here before. Stay compact. Use the wings. Watch their fullbacks when they push high.” His gaze swept the room. “Our football. Our ground.”
A few nods. Morgan murmured, “That’s right.”
Ranieri lowered the clipboard. “Let’s go.”
Boots scraped the floor. Training tops zipped up. Balls scooped under arms.
Tristan grabbed his water bottle and followed the others toward the tunnel.
The tunnel opened to a wall of sound.
Leicester’s starting eleven stepped out in full training kits. Bibs already on. Balls cradled under their arms. And the abuse aimed at Arsenal had shifted into full-throated support now.
"Leicester! Leicester! Leicester!"
"Champions of Europe — you'll never sing that!"
Mahrez and Vardy broke into a jog, leading the squad toward the corner where the Leicester fans had already crowded against the railings.
Tristan followed in the center smiling. The crowd nearest the dugout spotted him immediately.
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"
He gave them a small wave.
The camera swept wide. Sky Sports’ broadcast had begun with the players on the field.
"Welcome to the King Power." Martin Tyler’s voice carried the moment. "And here comes Leicester City... not a fairytale anymore. Not a fluke. Just a team that wins. And by the noise here today—you’d think it was a European night."
On the touchline, Ranieri watched quietly as his players began their passing drills.
Gary Neville was the other commentator SkySports had chosen for the match, "They’ve earned this, Martin. Just look at the crowd. Look at the confidence. This isn’t a promoted side punching above their weight. That’s what people still want to believe... but Leicester have built something here for four years now. And this season, they expect more than miracles. They expect to win."
The cameras caught banners swaying in the North Stand.
"BELIEVE IN MIRACLES."
Martin sounded almost impressed. "Since Leicester won the FA final back in 2014... they haven’t lost to them. Three matches. Two draws. That’s not luck anymore."
"No," Neville agreed, "that’s consistency. Season after season they’ve strengthened. Ranieri’s made them solid at the back. Tristan ’s gone from wonderkid to one of the best players in the world. They kept their core. Added depth. And somehow, someway, they found one of the best defensive midfielders in Europe behind Tristan now. N’Golo Kanté. This isn’t a flash in the pan."
"And for Arsenal," Martin continued, "the questions just keep building. Once the great entertainers... now struggling to impose themselves in the biggest fixtures."
Neville’s tone sharpened. "Their form’s been inconsistent. And every time they’ve come here—to this ground, to this crowd—they’ve buckled under the pressure. This isn’t just another away day anymore. Leicester have made sure of that."
Tristan, Mahrez, and Vardy began sharp one-twos across the top of the box. Every clean pass drew cheers from the crowd.
"The focus, as always, will be on the stars," Martin said. "Tristan Hale. Alexis Sánchez. Riyad Mahrez. Jamie Vardy."
"But it’s not just about individuals anymore. The real question today..."
"Has Leicester City officially joined the Premier League elite?"
"For me," Neville replied without pause, "they already have. And it’s Arsenal who have to prove they still belong among the elites.
"The atmosphere is electric," Martin added as the camera panned wide across the King Power stands. "Every seat taken. Every banner raised."
The feed swept across the East Stand. Scarves up. Blue and white flags rippling. Fans singing over the tannoy music now.
"And plenty of famous faces here today," Neville noted. "This is what Leicester have become. Not just a football club. An event."
The broadcast cut to the VIP section. Gary Lineker sat forward in his seat, scarf half-wrapped around his neck.
As soon as his face hit the big screen, the home crowd erupted.
"LINEKER! LINEKER! LINEKER!"
He gave a sheepish wave, mouthing “Come on, lads.”
"A Leicester legend," Martin smiled. "And still the heart of this club."
The camera moved on. Tom Meighan and Sergio Pizzorno from Kasabian, both in retro Leicester kits, pints raised.
Then the screen cut to a row further back. Benedict Cumberbatch, wearing a dark pea coat. Ed Sheeran, hoodie up in the same section as Cumberbatch as well.
"Star power here, not just from football," Neville pointed out.
The camera cut again.
Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively. Lively with a Leicester-blue scarf draped casually over her shoulders.
"That’s a pairing I didn’t expect to see at the King Power," Martin chuckled.
"Global interest now, Gary," Martin said. "Leicester’s is a story that’s crossed sports, crossed borders."
Finally, the broadcast focused on the executive box.
Barbara. Biscuit perched on her lap. Julia and Ling on her sides with John standing behind them. Sofia nearby, already filming clips for Leicester’s social channels.
The moment Biscuit’s face hit the big screen.
Rooooorrrr! She let out a loud huff, pawing at the glass as if she could get down to the pitch.
The entire East Stand cracked up.
Even the players noticed.
Vardy turned from his stretching, grinning. "There she goes."
Mahrez shook his head. "That dog thinks she’s starting today."
Tristan glanced up, gave a small wave toward the box. Biscuit barked again. Tail hammering against Barbara’s leg.
"I think she understands matchday better than some of the pundits," Neville joked.
"She’s undefeated," Martin replied. "Like her owner."
The crowd noise swelled again as the players continued their sharp passing drills.
"Warm-ups nearly complete now," Martin added. "Arsenal need points to prove they still belong. Leicester..."
"Leicester want more than just a win," Neville said. "They want dominance. They wanna continue their momentum.”
The cameras lingered on Biscuit a moment longer before cutting back to the celebrity section.
Ryan Reynolds leaned closer to Blake Lively, lowering his voice over the crowd noise.
“Alright, I get it now. This isn’t just a football game.”
Blake smiled, tucking the blue scarf higher around her neck. “Told you. This city treats Tristan like royalty. And the dog too.” She nodded toward Biscuit. “Honestly, I think she’s the real celebrity here.”
Reynolds shook his head, laughing. “You know I kinda like this atmosphere, it feels different compared to everything else we have in the US.”
A few rows up, Benedict Cumberbatch leaned toward Ed Sheeran.
“You follow football properly now?” he asked.
Ed pulled his hoodie back slightly, flashing a grin. “I do, just a huge fan of Tristan. Didn’t have free time to come to the stadium here. But I didn’t want to miss this game so here I am. I’m surprised to see you to be honest. Thought you would stay away from watching Arsenal get battered.”
Cumberbatch made a face at that last comment, “Come on man, Arsenal’s still a big club. You never know what could happen. Who knows Tristan might have a bad game, you see how much pressure that kid is under.”
Ed snorted. “Yeah right, as if Tristan would fold here.”
Back in the executive box, Sofia held up her phone.
“Barbara. You’re trending again.”
Barbara raised an eyebrow. “Me?”
“No.” Sofia turned the screen slightly. “Biscuit. #QueenOfTheKingPower.”
Barbara looked down at Biscuit — who was still staring at the pitch. “You’re stealing all the fame, huh?” Barbara whispered, scratching behind her ear.
Biscuit let out a soft, smug ruff.
The moment was caught by Sky’s roaming cameraman. The feed flashed back to Tyler and Neville for final warm-up analysis.
Martin’s voice steadied over the roar of the crowd. "Warm-ups nearly wrapped here at the King Power."
The camera swept across the pitch. Leicester’s rondos finishing now.
The feed zoomed in. Tristan chipped a soft ball over Kanté’s shoulder. Mahrez volleyed it straight into the roof of the net.
"And if Arsenal needed a reminder of the danger," Martin added, "well... there it is."
The camera moved to the stands. Security wove through the lower rows. Club photographers circled the celebrity section.
Paparazzi lenses aimed directly at the Reynolds-Lively row. Further up, Benedict Cumberbatch leaned toward Ed Sheeran, fans snapping photos behind them.
"This isn’t just football anymore, Martin," Neville said, glancing down at his monitor. "Leicester have turned it into an event. Celebrities. Fans flying in from all over Europe. And the man on your screen now—Tristan.He’s the reason."
The broadcast cut to Tristan jogging toward the dugout. Bib off. His gold-detailed boots flashed under the floodlights. He didn’t glance at the cameras. He didn’t have to. He already knew they would always be at him no matter what happens on the field.
"They’ve all come to see if he can do it again," Martin said quietly. "Big player. Big stage."
As Leicester wrapped their final drills, the feed switched to the tunnel entrance.
"And here come Arsenal," Neville noted, a hint of something sharper in his tone. "Late out. Could be by design. Could be nerves."
The away end tried to lift their voices. They barely made it a few seconds before the home crowd drowned them out.
"Champions of Europe — you’ll never sing that!"
"Champions of Europe — you’ll never sing that!"
Arsenal emerged cautiously.
Mertesacker at the front. Walcott. Alexis. Coquelin
No smiles. No looseness. Just light stretches and jogging.
"No false bravado from the visitors," said Martin. "They know what’s at stake."
The camera caught Wenger on the touchline. Arms crossed. Speaking quietly with his staff.
"Arsène Wenger’s faced many challenges in his career," Neville said. "But this Leicester side, this ground, this crowd... I’d argue it’s one of the toughest tests he’s had in recent years."
Tristan’s gaze shifted briefly toward the tunnel as Arsenal’s players spread across the pitch. Honestly he felt a little bad for them but Arsenal fans rallied up with the entire city with their actions not to mention him.
"And if you’re just joining us," Martin continued, "welcome to the King Power. This isn’t going to be a match you want to miss.”
The match clock flashed.
12:26 PM — 19 minutes to kickoff.
"This is going to be something special, Martin," Neville added.
"Stay with us," Martin said, as the feed slowly faded toward the final pre-match break.
.
12:33 PM — King Power Stadium Tunnel
12:33 PM — King Power Stadium Tunnel
The tunnel buzzed with the low hum of camera crews and staff moving in and out. Boots tapped against the concrete floor. Bibs off. Kits on.
Leicester players gathered first.
"Not nervous, are we?" Vardy teased, nudging Ben with his elbow.
"He’s not nervous," Tristan said, pulling his armband into place. "He just looks like that."
That drew some laughter. Even Maguire cracked a grin.
The mascots lined up. Little kids in full Leicester kits, all wide eyes and barely-contained excitement.
Tristan crouched beside one of the youngest—a boy no older than six.
"You ready?" he asked softly.
The boy nodded so hard his scarf nearly slipped off. "I’m not scared!"
"Didn’t think you were," Tristan smiled, tapping the kid’s badge. "Just remember—big chest, chin up."
The boy puffed out his chest immediately.
The Arsenal players arrived at the opposite end. Red shirts. Serious faces.
Mertesacker. Walcott. Alexis. Cazorla.
Theo Walcott caught Tristan’s eye. He stepped forward slightly. "Didn’t fancy a quiet afternoon today, huh?"
"Didn’t you hear the crowd?" Tristan replied. "They’d never allow it."
Walcott smiled thinly. "Thought so."
"You alright though?”
"Yeah. All good." Walcott nodded. "Just hoping this isn’t another long day."
"We’ll see," Tristan said with a shrug.
Behind them, Vardy whispered to Mahrez, "I wonder how the reaction is going to be when we visit their home stadium."
Mahrez didn’t answer. He was too busy watching the crowd banners through the tunnel gaps.
A Sky cameraman swept past, catching final shots. The roar outside was building again.
"LEICESTER! LEICESTER! LEICESTER!"
At the front, Ranieri moved to the side as Wenger approached.
Both managers extended hands.
"Good luck, Claudio."
"And to you.."
.
Referee Craig Pawson gathered the captains—Morgan and Mertesacker. His assistants flanked him, adjusting earpieces.
"Alright, lads," Pawson said, glancing up at both teams. "We’ve got three thousand, two hundred and fifty-nine fans out there..."
A pause. He grinned. "...and about thirty thousand referees in the stands. So let’s keep this clean, yeah?"
That earned a chuckle from a few players. Even Mertesacker cracked a smile.
"Good?" Pawson asked. "No nonsense today."
Morgan nodded. "No nonsense."
The mascots readied. The stewards gave the signal.
The tunnel doors burst open.
And the roar hit like a wave.
"LEICESTER! LEICESTER! LEICESTER!"
Tyler’s voice came through the broadcast again. "And here they come. Leicester City. Arsenal. The next chapter of a rivalry that’s become one of the Premier League’s most unpredictable."
Neville added, "This is going be a good one, folks. Don’t go anywhere."
.
The teams spread across the halfway line. The mascots peeled away toward the sidelines, guided by staff. Camera crews circled. Flashbulbs already popping.
Martin's voice steadied over the noise. "And now... the starting elevens."
The Sky Sports graphic swept in. Blue and white borders for Leicester.
🦊 Leicester City (4-4-1-1):
🧤 Kasper Schmeichel (GK)
🚀 Ritchie De Laet (RB)
🏰 Wes Morgan (CB) (c)
🏰 Robert Huth (CB)
🚀 Christian Fuchs (LB)
🎨 Riyad Mahrez (RM)
🛡️ Danny Drinkwater (CM)
🛡️ N’Golo Kanté (CM)
🎨 Marc Albrighton (LM)
🎯 Tristan Hale (SS)
⚽ Jamie Vardy (ST)
Neville’s tone sharpened. "No surprises from Ranieri. That wide midfield—Mahrez and Albrighton—gives balance. Tristan just behind Vardy. And Kanté, Drinkwater... they’ll do the heavy lifting. Especially against Arsenal’s midfield."
The graphic shifted. Arsenal’s red.
🔴 Arsenal (4-2-3-1):
🧤 Petr Čech (GK)
🚀 Héctor Bellerín (RB)
🏰 Per Mertesacker (CB) (c)
🏰 Laurent Koscielny (CB)
🚀 Nacho Monreal (LB)
🛡️ Francis Coquelin (CDM)
🛡️ Santi Cazorla (CDM)
🎨 Theo Walcott (RW)
🎯 Mesut Özil (CAM)
🎨 Alexis Sánchez (LW)
⚽ Olivier Giroud (ST)
Martin added, "Arsenal sticking to their familiar shape. Coquelin and Cazorla will need to keep that midfield tight. Otherwise... Leicester’s front four could pull them apart."
Neville didn’t sugarcoat it. "They’ll need to be perfect. Or this could get ugly early."
As the lineups faded, the crowd surged again.
Scarves raised. Flags rippling across the stands.
Tristan bounced lightly on his toes. Quick jumps. Loosening the legs. Breath calm.
The crowd was deafening now. But he’d learned to tune it.
He scanned the stands. The banners. The faces. The flags. This is what he promised them, he promised them a miracle, they could never see happening even in their wildest imagination.
He remembered this game vividly from his first life, Arsenal beating Leicester 5-1, he wasn’t going to let that happen here.
His gaze flicked to the away section. Arsenal’s travelling support. Loud, but scattered. Walcott was right earlier. For them, it could be another long day.
He rolled his shoulders, eyes finding Barbara’s box, with his parents.
"Let’s give them a show."
The mascots were clearing the pitch. Craig Pawson gathered the captains—Morgan and Mertesacker—for the coin toss.
"Alright," Pawson said, flipping the coin high into the air. "Heads is yours, Wes."
The coin landed. Pawson caught it. Looked down.
"Heads. Arsenal ball."
Mertesacker nodded. "We’ll kick off."
Pawson grinned slightly, leaning in. "Thirty-two thousand out there. And I reckon thirty-one thousand of ‘em are Leicester fans. So let’s keep it clean, yeah?" He was under a lot of pressure to make this game go perfect, there could be no mistakes for such a high profile match.
Morgan chuckled. "Yes, sir."
The handshake line formed. Tristan moved down it smoothly. Koscielny. Monreal. Özil. Alexis. Walcott.
As he reached Theo, the Arsenal winger gave him a look. "See you soon."
"You will," Tristan replied.
Back to his spot now. Final adjustments. Tightened the laces. Checked the armband. The King Power crowd swelled louder.
The whistle shrieked.
Kickoff.
Olivier Giroud rolled the ball back.
Arsenal in red surged forward. Coquelin played it straight to Cazorla.
"And we are underway!" Martin’s voice rode the wave of crowd noise. "Leicester City. Arsenal. First versus fifth. And the King Power... it’s a fortress today."
"Arsenal with the early possession, Martin," Neville added. "But just listen to that noise."
LEICESTER! LEICESTER! LEICESTER!
TRISTAN’S ON FIRE! YOUR DEFENCE IS SHIT!
TRISTAN’S ON FIRE! YOUR DEFENCE IS SHIT!
The chants battered down before a single tackle had even landed.
The King Power was rocking, blue and white flags rippling across every stand. Arsenal hadn’t strung two passes together and they already knew—this wasn’t just an away day.
This was a storm.
Cazorla skipped past Vardy’s early press. Quick feet, head up, calm under pressure. He rolled a pass toward Alexis Sánchez wide left.
“Alexis starting wide. Trying to isolate De Laet early,” Martin observed.
Alexis dropped a shoulder. Right boot caressing the ball. Step-over. Shift. Another. The Chilean danced inside, testing the defender.
De Laet stayed composed. No lunge. No panic. He shadowed Alexis stride for stride.
“Good defending,” Neville noted. “You can’t dive in on Alexis. Not here. Not today.”
With no space to exploit, Alexis laid it back to Monreal. The Spaniard curled a looping ball toward Giroud at the edge of the box.
Huth stepped in. No nonsense. Body planted. Muscled the Frenchman aside and powered a clearance downfield.
“That’s what Leicester do, Martin. Physical. Disciplined. No-nonsense,” Neville nodded.
The crowd roared their approval, voices bouncing like thunder between the stands.
COME ON YOU FOXES! COME ON YOU FOXES!
Kanté snapped onto the loose ball, darting forward with that signature low centre of gravity, arms pumping, eyes scanning.
He slipped a pass inside. Tristan had already dropped between the lines, checking back toward the halfway circle. Koscielny followed close, trying to suffocate the space.
“Here comes Tristan’s first touch,” Martin said, almost reverently.
As the ball reached him, the sound inside the King Power swelled into a wall of noise.
TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!
A deft flick behind his standing leg. Koscielny lunged—but too late.
“Oh, lovely from 22!” Neville exclaimed. “And he’s away!”
Tristan accelerated. His first proper surge. Mahrez peeled right. Vardy split the centre-backs with a diagonal run.
“Leicester breaking early here—Arsenal exposed!” Martin’s voice sharpened.
A glance. Timing perfect. Tristan fed Mahrez with the outside of his boot, the ball sliding into space like it was on rails.
Mahrez took it in stride, surging into the box. The crowd lifted as one.
Bellerín scrambled. A desperate recovery. Stretching. Lunging.
Mahrez chopped back inside. Too sharp for the young full-back. He glanced up.
“Mahrez!” Martin shouted. “Can he deliver?”
Mahrez lifted a cross toward the far post. Vardy was there—leaping high, arms tucked, eyes locked.
Čech leapt too. Fists punched the ball clear.
“Commanding from the veteran keeper,” Neville nodded. “But that’s a warning.”
The home crowd roared their approval once again. Scarves raised. Flags rippling. Leicester had struck first blood—not on the scoreboard, but in momentum
"That’s a statement," Martin said, voice steady beneath the din. "Leicester is here to dominate."
The East Stand thundered:
COME ON YOU FOXES! COME ON YOU FOXES!
BELIEVE IN MIRACLES! BELIEVE IN MIRACLES!
The South Stand answered with another chant rolling across the terraces:
TRISTAN HALE—HE RUNS THE GAME!
TRISTAN HALE—HE RUNS THE GAME!
But the visitors regrouped fast. Arsenal’s leaders barked at one another—Mertesacker waving his arm for calm. Coquelin clapped his hands trying to pull his midfield back into shape.
"This is what they have to do now," Neville observed. "Reset the tempo. Slow Leicester down. The danger is letting this crowd pull the game away from them."
Yet even as Cazorla gathered the ball for Arsenal’s restart, the chants only grew louder. Not just singing now—full belief radiating from every corner of the ground.
"They believe," Martin added. "Every single fan here believes. And Leicester’s play is matching that belief."
Arsenal tried again. Slowly. Methodically.
Cazorla and Coquelin worked a triangle with Özil.
But everywhere they turned, blue shirts waited. Kanté. Drinkwater. Mahrez tucking in. Even Vardy dropped deep to help.
Özil dropped deeper. Slipped a sharp pass toward Walcott.
The Arsenal winger finally found space. A burst of pace. Beat Fuchs for a moment.
"This could be dangerous," Martin warned.
Walcott surged into the right channel.
Morgan stepped up. A battering ram.
Body slammed into Walcott’s run—legally. Ball knocked loose.
Drinkwater swept the ball off the grass and passed it quickly to Tristan, who had dropped into space just beyond Coquelin.
"And now Leicester turn again," Neville narrated. "Here comes Tristan."
As soon as he touched it, the chant swept the entire ground:
🎵 “TRISTAN IS GONNA HAVE A PARTY!” 🎵
🎵 “BRING YOUR VODKA AND YOUR GIRL!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN’S HAVING A PARTY!” 🎵
Koscielny closed fast.
Tristan let the ball roll across his body. Shifted it onto his left foot. Then snapped a feint—dropping Koscielny onto his heels.
"Oh, that’s clever!" Neville gasped. Tristan glided into the centre circle. "Arsenal are stretched now. Mahrez wide right. Vardy peeling into the channel."
Tristan drew in Coquelin. Waited.
Then flicked a disguised ball to Mahrez.
Mahrez took off. Inside step past Monreal. A blur of boots.
The crowd surged again. Voices sharpening.
COME ON YOU FOXES! COME ON YOU FOXES!
Mahrez drove to the edge of the box. Bellerín scrambled to recover.
Mahrez feinted left. Cut inside. Crossed low and hard toward Vardy near the post.
Vardy lunged—so did Mertesacker.
Both missed.
The ball whipped across the six-yard box.
Albrighton arriving late. Dived for it—just inches out of reach.
Out for a goal kick.
"That was inches away!" Martin exclaimed. "What a sweeping move!"
"That’s what Leicester can do," Neville said. "From defensive block to full attack in under ten seconds."
The home crowd clapped in unison.
“LETS GO LEICESTER!”
“LETS GO LEICESTER!”
“LETS GO LEICESTER!”
Čech’s goal kick was long. Giroud contested—but Morgan rose above him, powering the header forward.
Drinkwater met the second ball. Kanté was already sprinting into the gap, catching Coquelin flat-footed.
"And Leicester are straight back at them!" Neville’s voice cut sharp.
Kanté clipped the ball into Tristan’s feet.
Koscielny stepped in, body tight. Coquelin joined him. Arsenal doubling the pressure early now.
Tristan let the ball roll. Shifted his hips. Turned them both in one silky touch.
"Too quick!" Martin roared. "Look at that footwork!"
"That’s why he’s world-class," Neville added. "It’s not just speed — it’s timing, disguise, balance."
Tristan burst into the open space between the lines.
The King Power lifted.
Mahrez sprinted right. Vardy was already splitting the centre-backs. Albrighton ghosted wide left.
Tristan weighed his options—
—then slid a disguised reverse ball to Vardy.
The crowd screamed approval as Vardy angled his run into the penalty area.
Monreal lunged across, arm tugging at Vardy’s shoulder.
The striker stumbled. Stayed up. Fired low.
Čech parried with his legs.
"Big save!" Martin shouted. "But Arsenal are creaking again!"
The rebound looped high.
Drinkwater climbed—but Coquelin beat him to it, barely heading clear.
But it was only a partial clearance.
The ball dropped to Kanté thirty yards out.
"Oh, he’s thinking about it—" Neville started.
Kanté let fly. A dipping strike.
WHOOOOSH.
Just over the bar.
"It had Čech scrambling!" Martin barked.
The home crowd roared. Not disappointment—encouragement.
BELIEVE IN MIRACLES! BELIEVE IN MIRACLES!
TRISTAN’S GONNA BREAK YA!
Čech’s next goal kick was rushed. His hands shaking slightly as he placed the ball.
He went long again.
Giroud won the flick this time. Walcott chased into the channel.
Fuchs tracked back. Walcott got there first, cutting a low cross toward the penalty spot.
Özil darted in.
Morgan blocked him off, shoulder to shoulder. Knocked the German clean off the ball.
"No foul!" Neville confirmed. "Brilliant defending."
The crowd lifted the noise again.
"OUR DEFENCE IS UNBREAKABLE!"
"OUR DEFENCE IS UNBREAKABLE!"
Schmeichel rolled the ball out to Huth.
Huth to Fuchs. Leicester built patiently now.
Fuchs squared to Kanté.
Arsenal’s press was timid. Energy draining. They’d already chased shadows for ten minutes.
"They look scared to fully commit," Neville observed. "They know one bad press and Leicester will carve them open."
Kanté turned. No pressure. Slid a pass forward to Tristan.
As soon as the ball touched his foot— Koscielny flew in.
Tristan dipped his shoulder. Spun away.
The move was fluid. Effortless.
Coquelin tried to close down.
Tristan stopped dead. Let Coquelin overrun.
Then burst forward again, into the final third.
"That’s class!" Martin roared. "World-class!"
Arsenal’s back line backpedalled furiously.
Mahrez wide right. Vardy making a diagonal run.
Monreal edged out. Bellerín tucked in.
Tristan slowed. Drew Koscielny toward him again.
Then—with a feint—he surged between Koscielny and Monreal.
"He’s through!" Neville shouted.
Coquelin scrambled across in desperation.
Too late.
Koscielny lunged wildly—
THUMP.
Tristan’s ankle clipped. Legs taken out.
The ball rolled loose.
The whistle shrieked.
"That’s a free kick!" Martin yelled. "Dangerous position!"
Tristan picked himself up quickly.
No rolling. No theatrics.
Koscielny stayed down for a second longer. Not injured. Just rattled.
"That’s brilliant play," Neville said. "He forced the mistake. Drew the foul. And he’s earned a chance here."
"But surely not a shot?" Martin said doubtfully. "It’s far out... almost thirty-three yards."
The Sky cameras zoomed in.
Tristan already had the ball in his hands.
The chants still roared, but the noise had shifted. Not confidence. Not now.
It was hope. Distant. Fragile. The kind of belief that surged only because it had to.
But even as the crowd screamed his name, a ripple of unease swept the King Power. Thirty-three yards. An awkward angle. Even Tristan’s most faithful didn’t expect a shot.
Morgan jogged over first. "What are you thinking?"
Tristan adjusted the ball carefully. "Let me take it."
Mahrez was next, wiping sweat from his brow. "We could whip it far post. I can float it—"
"No." Tristan’s voice was calm. Certain. "I can score from here."
Mahrez blinked. "From thirty-three?"
Kanté approached quietly. Even he, usually silent in these moments, leaned in. "Sure?"
"Trust me."
Mahrez hesitated. Then nodded once. "Your call."
Morgan slapped a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. "Alright. If you believe, we believe."
As the Leicester wall of players peeled back, Arsenal’s defenders started whispering too.
Mertesacker barked orders. Koscielny—still rubbing his shin—shook his head. "He’s not shooting."
"Of course not," Coquelin agreed. "They’re setting for a header. Watch Morgan. Watch Huth. Vardy too."
Čech pointed furiously at Morgan and Huth, not at Tristan.
They were planning for the wrong threat.
On the sidelines, Wenger pulled his assistants closer.
"Do you think he’ll try it?" Bould asked, frowning.
"No." Wenger’s voice was confident. "It’s too far. Even for him."
At Leicester’s bench, Ranieri folded his arms. Murmured to his Paolo Benetti.
"He’s going for it."
"From there?"
Ranieri shrugged. "It’s Tristan. Let him do it. We are still in control.”
The commentators were buzzing now.
"Surely not," Martin said, disbelief laced through every word. "Two free-kick goals this season already, but neither from this distance."
"He’s scored from thirty and twenty-six yards so far," Neville added. "But thirty-three? That’s... ambitious."
"If this goes in..." Martin trailed off. "If this goes in, it’ll be one for the ages."
The crowd noise dipped into nervous rumble.
No chants now. Just a low, anxious murmur.
Even the most faithful fans didn’t truly believe he’d shoot.
But they still cheered for him anyway.
"COME ON TRISTAN!"
"SHOW THEM!"
"BELIEVE IN MIRACLES!"
In the box, Barbara had both hands covering her mouth.
Julia leaned forward, wide-eyed. "That son of mine," she muttered. "What’s he thinking?"
Ling swore under his breath. "He’s thinking he’s bloody Superman, that’s what."
Barbara lowered her hands just enough to whisper, half in awe, half in panic, "He’s serious. He’s actually going for it."
Biscuit let out a sharp roooorrr, pawing at the glass.
In the VIP section, Ed Sheeran had already stood.
"Come on," he muttered. "He can do it.."
Next to him, Benedict shook his head. "He’s not trying this. No one tries this."
"He is," Ed said. "Trust me."
Sky’s broadcast showed the King Power crowd rippling with tension.
Then cut to a split-screen:
Tristan standing over the ball.
Ranieri watching without blinking.
Wenger pacing furiously.
The Arabic feed picked up now.
One commentator,’s voice low. Reverent.
"Hale ya-rabbi… Tristan... what are you thinking?"
Back at pitch level, the referee blew the whistle.
Tristan didn’t move.
The wall tensed. Arsenal’s back line planted deep, eyes flicking between Leicester’s big men.
They were braced for a header.
Čech kept yelling:
"Watch Huth! Watch Morgan! Stay tight!"
No one was watching Tristan.
Not properly.
Above it all, Martin’s voice steadied.
"As the world watches…
As thirty-three thousand at the King Power hold their breath…
Tristan Hale stands over a free kick from a distance that seems impossible."
"And yet," Neville said softly, "it feels like destiny."
The Arabic commentator’s voice lifted now. Urgent. Emotional.
"A world watches. An impossible shot. One boy. One ball."
"The King of Leicester," his partner declared. "Let him strike."
Tristan exhaled.
The chants rose again, almost trembling.
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"
He stepped forward.
The left foot planted.
The right curled around the ball—
WHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHH.
.
6325
I really hope you guys like this chapter, a ton of effort has been put into it, lol.
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Comments
Radagon BDM
You are pure evil for that cliff hanger
noname
Huh yeah that fuck I don’t know how I missed that I fix it thank you, I use chatgpt to edit the chapters so it probably changed it thank u
Britanna
Didn't Leicester beat Arsenal in the finals of the FA Cup? And wouldn't they have only faced each other twice in the league since then?
