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Chapter 193: The Calm Before the Fire
🕑 Added 2025-05-02 20:48:22 +0000 UTCSeptember 23, 2015 — Leicester, 8:14 AM
.
(Pretend this is in French.)
The morning light pushed through the thin curtains of N’Golo Kanté’s apartment.Just the faint hum of the city outside. Cars. A distant dog bark. Nothing urgent. Nothing loud.
His phone buzzed once. Then again. Then it wouldn’t stop.
N’Golo blinked awake. Still in his training hoodie. He’d fallen asleep on the couch.
The TV screen showed the final frame of the Leicester vs Leeds broadcast — frozen on the scoreline.
Leicester 2 — Leeds 0.
Man of the Match: N’Golo Kanté.
The phone buzzed again. He rubbed his eyes and reached for it.
64 new notifications.
Twitter. WhatsApp. Facebook. News alerts.
He unlocked it. The first thing he saw was a tweet.
.
@BBCSport: Leicester’s rotated XI dominate Leeds. Kanté MOTM. League leaders continue their dream run.
@Torrent: Most tackles won in the EFL Cup Round 3? N’Golo Kanté (8).
@Jerome:
N’Golo Kanté completed more recoveries than Leeds’ entire midfield. Man of the Match.
@Adam_M: Leeds got outplayed by Leicester’s B team. At least we’re not Stoke, lmao. Imagine playing that dirty and still losing 6-0.
He scrolled. Fast.
Fans were roasting Leeds. But it wasn’t cruel. Not like the Stoke massacre. Stoke got mocked for folding. Leeds had tried. They just weren’t good enough.
@Lenny: Leeds fought. Stoke folded. Simple as.
@Mark_M: Kanté gave them hell and barely smiled doing it. Man’s a silent assassin.
@ExpertatSomething: Holy fuck, you guys don’t know understand how nervous I was seeing our starting eleven against Leeds. But damn were we good, good job to the whole team.
@Mandel D Laboon: Leicester’s midfield depth is terrifying. Kanté’s ball recoveries last night were ridiculous. No Tristan, no problem.
Then the neutral fans chimed in.
@ImFromHawaii: Leeds were solid. But that Leicester squad… even their B team’s too much.
@Sicario_1011: Not a Leicester fan but respect where it’s due. That midfield without their stars could beat most Prem sides.
But the thread started shifting quickly with Arsenal and United fans joining in.
@Aee: Bench team? Lol. Leeds was trash. Tristan and his hype train will crash soon. It always does. Look what happened last season: hot start, burnt out at the end.
@Thomas: Anyone watched Tristan in the academy? I just watched a lot of games, lol. Tristan used to lose to Arsenal all the time. History repeats.
@Kang_Han12: One clip even had him crying after an U12 match. Little Tristan was getting cooked before he had his overhyped girlfriend clapping in the stands.
@Gerry Marvin: Different era. Same small club. Leicester’s run will end Saturday.
The replies blew up as expected.
@TommyB79: Bro… y’all scoured the internet for U12 games? Obsessed behaviour. Get some help please
@TristanEra: Academy tapes? You lot finishing 4th every year and calling it a trophy but flexing youth games from a decade ago 💀.
@UnitedFaithful: He still cries. Only now it’s when he gets subbed early so they can cut to his overrated girlfriend.
@MUTDSouth: Also—can y’all stop cutting to Barbara every time Leicester score? It’s annoying as hell. Yeah, she’s fine. We get it. Half the United fanbase knows why Tristan dropped a hat-trick on us last season anyway.
@Radagon BDM: Rumour says that 7–0 was because Barbara told him to get one after Milan. We don’t even banter anymore. Just pain.
@aaron Gonzalez: You mean Barbara, the queen who has more trophies in the stands than Arsenal does in the cabinet this decade?
@BiscuitFanClub: United fans hating because their WAGs can’t even get a camera pan 😭.
Then someone posted the clip. An old Leicester City community video.
@LCFCMediaVault: "Throwback. Leicester academy players asked what they wanted to achieve."
The clip loaded. A younger Tristan — maybe 12 or 13 — hair messy, kit too big, sitting cross-legged with the other boys.
"One day… I want to bring a trophy to Leicester."
Fast forward caption: FA Cup Winner — 2013-14
The comments exploded.
@Vlastelin_vremeni: And he did. Cry harder. Arsenal fans, lmao.
@Jordan D'souza: He said it. He did it. Some players walk the talk. Others watch from 4th place.
@RedDevilsDaily: Arsenal fans digging up youth clips but forgot they finished behind United when we were 8th. Embarrassing.
@AFTV: This is all lucky form. Tristan’s time will come. Arsenal ending it Saturday.
@Yusuf Mohammed: "Arsenal ending it Saturday" Arsenal fans say this every season. Every. Single. Season. I can’t wait for the 26th, all I know is Tristan is going to go crazy.
By the time Kanté stopped scrolling, it had spiraled into a full-on war. And now? Now he didn’t like what he was seeing at all.
He’d learned something important since joining this team. Something everyone inside the dressing room understood. You don’t bad-mouth Tristan’s family. And you never bad-mouth his girl.
Kanté had met Barbara a few times now. She was polite, nice, and just a good person. He genuinely couldn’t understand why people kept attacking her.
And knowing Tristan — knowing how much he lived online, how much he saw — yeah. That Arsenal game wasn’t going to be a normal one. It wasn’t going to be pretty.
Somewhere in the chaos, a new tweet popped up:
@FootballFactsDaily: N’Golo Kanté — first Man of the Match award in England. 8 tackles. 11 recoveries. 2 key passes. 1 assist. The rise continues.
Kanté smiled at the tweet. Shaking off the thought of a pissed-off Tristan.
He scrolled a bit further. Someone had posted a still photo from last night.
Him. Holding the Man of the Match trophy. Soaked, dripping wet from the ice water the lads dumped over him. Tristan laughing in the background. Mahrez ducking behind Vardy. The crowd blurry behind them, chanting his name.
The phone buzzed again.
Incoming call.
Maman.
He answered immediately.
“Bonjour, Maman.”
Her voice was soft, warm. “Mon garçon… I saw the match. They sang your name. I heard them on the TV!”
Kante’s face warmed. “Yes, Maman. It went… well.”
“You looked so strong.” She paused. “But you were wet in the interview. Why did they throw water at you?”
He chuckled under his breath. “It’s tradition here. When you win Man of the Match.”
“Hm. Tradition,” she repeated. “Make sure you don’t catch a cold.”
“Yes, Maman.”
A pause. “Your brothers saw it too. And your sister. We are all so proud of you.” her voice dropped to a serious tone, “Please stay safe.”
“I know.”
“I love you, baby.”
“I love you too, Maman.”
The call ended.
Before he could even put the phone down, it rang again.
Abdelkarim Douis. His agent.
He swiped to answer. “Hello.”
“Kante!” Abdelkarim’s voice was bright. “Mon frère, you’re everywhere today. Sky Sports, BBC, Twitter… even some Spanish papers.”
Kante rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes. I saw.”
“You are playing so good here. Clubs are taking notice.”
“I’m happy here.”
“I know. And Leicester’s perfect for you right now. But trust me — when the time comes, big clubs will ask.”
Kante didn’t respond to that. He didn’t want to think about transfers.
Abdelkarim continued. “Enjoy this. The praise. The love. You’ve earned it. I’ll call again later. But for now… sleep in a little, if you can. You deserve it.”
Kante smiled softly. “Merci.”
The call ended.
Kante leaned back against the couch. Closed his eyes for a second. Then checked the time.
8:42 AM.
Still early. Still so much to do.
But for now, just for a moment, he let himself enjoy it.
He wasn’t the starving boy from Rueil-Malmaison anymore.
He was N’Golo Kanté.
.
11:49 AM - Tristan’s house
The kitchen smelled like caramelized onions and eggs.
Felix had gone all out. Scrambled eggs, avocado toast, grilled tomatoes. Even a stack of pancakes with honey for Barbara.
Tristan sat at the counter, scrolling through his phone, face unreadable. Biscuit was curled up at his feet, tail twitching every so often.
Barbara was still in one of his training tops — sleeves rolled up — picking at her toast. She watched him carefully.
(Pretend this is in Hungarian, lol.)
"You’re still looking at the tweets," she said softly.
"I’m fine," Tristan muttered. But his expression said otherwise.
Barbara reached for her phone. "Then watch this."
She tapped a video and turned the screen toward him.
It was the clip. The one going viral. Young Tristan. Maybe 12. Kit too big. Sitting cross-legged on the academy floor.
"One day… I want to bring a trophy to Leicester."
Underneath: Fast forward — FA Cup winner, 2013-14.
Tristan exhaled through his nose. Shook his head. "That feels like a lifetime ago."
No — two lifetimes, really.
Honestly, he didn’t even know where people kept digging up those old videos. Leicester must’ve had them archived somewhere. Maybe someone at the club thought now was the right time to let the wider world see them.
It reminded him of that old clip of a kid Messi doing the interview. Back then, nobody knew they were watching history being born.
Now it was him.
Barbara smiled gently. "And you did it. You said it, and you did it in your first year.”
His eyes softened — but just for a moment. "I don’t know how you do it," he said. "Ignore what they say about you. About us.”
Honestly, he really didn’t. Maybe he was too emotional, took things too personally.
She leaned across the counter and took his hand. "Because I know it’s not real. They don’t know me. They don’t know you."
She squeezed his fingers once.” And because I love you.”
Tristan’s lips twitched. He answered in Hungarian, “I love you too.”
He looked down at their joined hands. Then back at her. His eyes were bright, like he just had the greatest idea in the world.
“And I’ll make them pay for it. Just wait.
Maybe if he humiliated the clubs enough, they would know not to attack his family and just piss him off even more. He had nothing against the clubs, but it would teach their fans words and actions have consequences.
Barbara didn’t argue. She didn’t try to calm him. She just nodded; just because she ignored it doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like some revenge. And knowing Tristan, it was going to be good, and once he set his mind to something, good luck trying to change it.
But she did have one advice for that thickhead of his, "Just don’t get sent off."
He chuckled, low. "Don’t worry. I’ll keep it clean. For you."
Then, as if remembering something, he added softly, "And after Arsenal…" He paused, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "Dinner. Just us. Same place as our first date."
Barbara’s eyes lit up. "September 26th."
"The best day."
She squeezed his hand tighter. "It will be this year too."
.
"Tristan?"
Sofia’s voice came from the hallway. She stepped into the kitchen, tablet in one hand, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. "Are you done eating? John’s already outside."
Tristan stood, grabbing his jacket. "Yeah. Coming."
Sofia glanced between them, noticing the serious looks still lingering. "Everything okay?"
Barbara smiled faintly. "Yep. Don’t worry."
Sofia didn’t push. She tapped her tablet screen. "We’ll take the Rover. The meeting’s in three hours, and you didn’t want to deal with trains or flights, remember?"
Tristan nodded, relieved for the change of subject.
"And by the way," Sofia added with a grin, "it’s officially yours now. Range Rover gave it to us. Said the PR alone’s already paid for it ten times over."
Barbara let out a soft laugh. "Of course they did."
Tristan just smiled. "Let’s go."
As they headed out, Barbara lingered in the kitchen doorway.
Something didn’t add up.
Tristan tagging along for a London meeting? That never happened. Mendes and Sofia handled those. Tristan usually stayed far away unless it was serious.
A small suspicion flickered. Well, not of him cheating; she couldn’t see that happening in any reality.
Then it clicked. Her birthday.
Oh.
Oh.
She remembered now — the other morning, when her phone had died and she was too lazy to get up. She’d grabbed Tristan’s to play a game while lying in bed.
And she’d seen the search history.
Gift ideas for someone who already has everything.
Barbara bit her lip, trying not to smile.
Of course he was up to something.
Of course he thought he was being clever.
She shook her head, heart warm. "Idiot," she said out loud to no one.
.
Two Hours Later
John drove with his usual quiet focus, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. Traffic hummed around them, but he was always a step ahead. Changing lanes before a jam. Timing lights before they turned red.
Sofia sat across from Tristan in the backseat, tablet balanced on her knees, sunglasses pushed into her hair. She was looking through her emails.
Tristan sat back, one leg bouncing lightly. His mind wasn’t on the traffic.
Barbara’s birthday. Their anniversary. The Arsenal match. It all swirled in his head.
"Have you actually picked what car yet?" John asked, breaking the quiet. His tone was casual. Just a question between friends.
Tristan shook his head. "Not exactly."
John smirked. "You’re driving halfway across London and don’t even know what you’re buying?"
Sofia didn’t look up. "That sounds like Tristan."
Tristan gave a low chuckle. "I know the type. I just need to see it first."
John nodded, eyes back on the road. "Does she even like driving that much?"
"She does," Tristan said. "She just doesn’t get the time with me and you driving her around. And now with the Rover... well, it’s not something just for her. This Rover holds a ton of memories for us. But it’s not her favorite car.”
Sofia smiled faintly, still typing. "Let’s be honest. She’s going to drive this one everywhere once she has it. Fancy photoshoots? She’ll take it. Grocery runs? She’ll take it."
Tristan didn’t argue. She was right.
John took a slow turn past Hyde Park. "Birthday present, then?"
"Birthday and anniversary." Tristan leaned his head back against the seat. "Three days apart. September 26th. Same day as the Arsenal game."
Sofia finally set the tablet aside. "You planning something for that too?"
Tristan nodded. "After the match. Quiet dinner. Just us."
John raised a brow in the rearview. "Assuming Arsenal still have working knees by then."
Tristan’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "That’s the plan."
Sofia gave a dry laugh. "Arsenal fans are going to regret bringing up old academy clips, huh?"
"They already should," Tristan muttered. "They made it personal. Again."
John just chuckled under his breath. "Every time they poke the bear. Never learn."
The Rover moved past a row of luxury hotels. Berkeley Street now. They were close.
"You throwing her a proper birthday too?" John asked. "Besides the dinner."
"Yeah. Home. Barbara’s handling most of it, honestly. She’s inviting her model friends. My family. Her family of course, Anita’s flying in."
John smiled. "She’s grown on you."
Tristan shrugged. "Just took time."
John glanced at him in the rearview. "So after the car... heading straight back or you got other plans?"
Tristan leaned back, resting his arm along the door. "We’ll stop somewhere after. I need to pick up a few things."
Sofia glanced over from the passenger seat. "For...?"
"Our anniversary," Tristan said simply. "I’ve got ideas but I want to see what’s new at Harrods or Selfridges. Might check Browns, too."
John whistled low under his breath. "Man came prepared."
Tristan shrugged. "I’m not showing up with something lazy. Not for her."
"And you’ll be back in Leicester for the 8th, right?" Sofia asked. "Her birthday before the Estonia match."
"Yeah." Tristan nodded as the Rover slowed. The dealership was just ahead. Not your average showroom. HR Owen Special Projects, Park Royal. Where athletes, celebrities, and billionaires came for the kind of cars you didn’t see twice on the same street.
John eased into the lot. "Alright. Ready?"
Tristan cracked his knuckles once. "Let’s find her something stupidly expensive."
Sofia grinned. "That’s the spirit."
The Rover glided to a stop out front. No security gates. No check-in desk. When you came here, they already knew who you were.
John stepped out first opening the door for Tristan as he and Sophia stepped out.
The showroom doors swept open before they even reached them.
“Mr. Hale. Ms. Sofia.”
A tall man in a tailored grey suit stepped forward. “Welcome back.”
Sofia smiled. “Good to see you again, Oliver.”
Oliver — the general manager. Sofia had dealt with him before when helping negotiate a few cars for other Mendes clients. He knew the drill.Tristan shook his hand. “Thank you for clearing your schedule.”
“For you?” Oliver smiled. “It’s a pleasure. Shall we?”
The doors opened into a showroom that felt more like a private museum than a dealership. Bright floors. Minimalist walls. And parked in perfect symmetry — some of the most expensive cars on earth.
Ferrari 458 Speciale.
Lamborghini Aventador LP 700-4.
McLaren 650S Spider.
Bentley Continental GT Speed.
Even a Rolls-Royce Wraith sitting like a throne at the far end.
“Full range,” Oliver said. “Every top brand. Latest models. Though I believe Sofia mentioned you wanted something... more personal.”
Tristan nodded.
Oliver smiled like he already knew. “Then I think we can skip the Aventadors.”
They moved past the louder, flashier options.
Tristan paused briefly at a Ferrari 458 Italia. He shook his head. She wouldn’t like it too, it was too much.
Oliver gestured to the next bay. “In that case... our lineups of Porsche.”
A lineup of 911s.
“This,” Oliver stopped in front of a silver model, “is the 911 Turbo S Coupe. 991 generation. Our most exclusive for 2015. Top speed over 200 mph. Zero to sixty in three seconds flat.”
Tristan circled it, he was imagining Barbara in it.
She didn’t drive often. Too busy. Too public. But when she did? She liked feeling connected to the road.
Oliver tapped his tablet. “Standard color options — silver, black, white. Or... Sapphire Blue Metallic. Very rare. Custom order.”
Tristan stopped walking.“Show me the blue.”
Oliver swiped.
The car on the tablet shifted. The silver melted into a deep, shimmering blue. Almost royal. Almost— Barbara’s eyes.
Tristan’s mind was made up before Oliver even spoke again.
“That color.”
Oliver nodded, already typing. “Interior?”
“Black leather. Blue stitching. Keep it subtle.”
“And... personalization? We offer embroidery, badging, door sills—”
“Yes. On the sills.”
Oliver raised a brow. “Driver’s side?”
“Barbara Palvin.”
“Passenger?”
“Tristan Hale.”
Oliver tapped the final details into the tablet. “Excellent choice. We’ll handle the custom work immediately.”
“One more thing,” Tristan added. “I want it delivered October 8th. Late evening. Not a minute earlier.”
Oliver looked up. Understood immediately. “For the birthday.”
Tristan smiled. “For the surprise.”
Oliver returned it. “We’ll have it arrive thirty minutes after the party starts. Parked right in front.”
Tristan shook his hand firmly. “Thank you.”
Oliver gestured toward the office. “Let’s finalize the paperwork.”
The paperwork moved quickly. Sofia handled most of it, double-checking details. Tristan signed the last page.
Total: £156,946
Paid in full.
Oliver smiled as he gathered the papers. “We’ll send photos of the final spec as soon as the custom work is finished.”
“Appreciate it.” Tristan nodded.
As they headed back toward the Rover, Sofia leaned in.
“And here I thought you’d spend hours deciding.”
Tristan shrugged. “I already knew what I was looking for.”
Well, not really; he was prepared to spend a million pounds if he had to, but he was pretty sure Barbara would be satisfied with her gift.
The Rover pulled up along Duke Street, sliding into a reserved parking space behind the building. One of the assistants from Selfridges was already waiting, with a discreet security escort.
Sofia adjusted her sunglasses, tablet tucked into her bag.
Tristan pulled his cap low. Neutral black. No Leicester branding. Not that it would matter once people saw his face.
John stepped out first. Checked the street. Then opened the door for them both.
“Let’s make this quick,” Sofia said, glancing at her watch. “We still need to be back in Leicester before dinner.”
Tristan nodded. “I just want to find something special. Won’t take long.”
.
London — Selfridges Fine Jewellery Hall
It didn’t take long for the first few heads to turn.
The quiet hum of the store shifted the second they walked in. The personal shopper assigned to them — a woman named Elise — already had a few options lined up. Tristan’s instructions had been simple: something rare, something timeless. Anniversary-level. Not over-the-top, but meaningful.
While Sofia and Elise chatted quietly over the first few pieces, Tristan stood back, hands in his pockets. His eyes moved slowly over the cases.
He wasn’t looking for something flashy. Not even expensive — not that the price mattered.
His gaze paused on a platinum necklace. Clean chain. A minimalist pendant. Small sapphire at the centre. That same deep, shimmering blue. The same color he always noticed first when he looked at her.
Barbara’s eyes. Again. Like the Porsche. He couldn’t help himself.
"This one," Tristan said quietly to Elise. "Can you prepare it?"
"Of course," she smiled. "Would you like to confirm the price—?"
"No." His answer was instant. "Just box it."
As Elise nodded and slipped into the back room, Tristan’s eyes shifted toward the rings. Not the bridal section. Something smaller. Lighter. A promise ring.
One caught his eye. Platinum band. Sapphire detail matching the necklace. He pointed. "And that ring. Box it too."
Sofia raised an eyebrow nearby. "Getting sentimental now?"
"Maybe," Tristan muttered. "She’s earned it."
John, standing a few paces behind, just shook his head fondly. "Spoiling everyone today."
By now, a few other shoppers had noticed Tristan. This was Mayfair-London, though. No one swarmed him. A couple of younger fans asked quietly if they could take a photo. Tristan obliged.
One older man, mid-thirties, gave a grin. "Big match Saturday, yeah?"
Another — suit jacket open, Arsenal scarf tucked under — chuckled. "Hope you go easy on us. Or at least don’t break too many ankles."
Tristan just smiled. "No promises."
A younger voice from near the escalators: "Bit cheeky buying gifts before the win, mate."
Even Sofia smiled at that. "He’s always confident."
"No chanting today?" John asked dryly.
The Arsenal fan shrugged. "Not here. Besides… fair play. We’ll save the banter for Saturday."
Tristan nodded. "I’ll be ready."
Elise returned carrying the boxes. "All ready, Mr. Hale."
Tristan handled the payment without blinking.
Sofia slid her sunglasses back down. "London fans behaved today. Let’s hope Saturday stays the same."
Tristan smiled faintly. "It won’t."
But that was fine.
He’d let his football do the talking.
.
September 24, 2015 — Belvoir Drive
The morning fog clung to the grass like a blanket.
Tristan tightened the laces on his boots.
Across the pitch, Ranieri’s voice cut through the cool air. "All right, boys! We work today like it’s Saturday!"
The squad gathered quickly.
James Robson — the fitness coach — stepped forward first. "We’ve studied Arsenal. Their pace comes from the left. Alexis. Bellerín overlapping. That’s where they’ll look to overload."
A few nods rippled through the group.
"We keep our defensive block narrow in the final third. Force them wide. Do not let Alexis or Ramsey cut inside to combine with Giroud."
Ranieri took over, eyes sharp. "And when we win the ball?"
"All triangles," Tristan murmured under his breath.
"Correct," Ranieri smiled faintly. "Ball progression in triangles. Quick vertical passes into space. Exploit the half-spaces — especially behind Coquelin when he presses and Cazorla when he drifts."
"We use their pivot against them," Robson added. "If Coquelin jumps, Cazorla can’t cover both the pivot and the half-space. That’s where we break lines."
"That’s where you break lines," Ranieri corrected gently, eyes locking on Tristan.
"Our pressing triggers?" Mahrez asked, arms crossed.
"On their second pass out of the back. Not the first," Ranieri replied. "First pass will bait. Second pass is when their structure loosens. That’s when N’Golo and Danny step in."
"We counter at speed," Robson reinforced. "Vardy, Riyad, Tristan — you three lead the transitional play. N’Golo and Danny sweep. The fullbacks hold. No overcommitting."
Tristan nodded to himself. He’d watched Arsenal’s film twice last night. Their backline stepped high when in possession — both fullbacks pushing up simultaneously. It left acres of space behind them when play broke down.
It was there to be exploited
The starting XI donned bibs. First team structure.
Mahrez on the right. Vardy up top. Tristan drifting between striker and midfield — the "free eight" zone. Shadowing how he’d play Saturday.
The drill began slow. Patterned play. Rehearsal.
Kanté retrieved a loose ball, pivoted, shifted wide to Fuchs.
The shape was a 4-2-3-1 morphing into a 4-3-3 in transition.
"Full press!" Ranieri barked.
The defenders compressed space. Huth and Morgan stepped into the midfield line when possible — a hybrid press.
Tristan dropped into the right half-space, receiving a pass on the half-turn. Mahrez darted past him, dragging Gibbs with him.
Tristan slipped the ball inside to Drinkwater, then immediately ran beyond the pivot.
"That’s it!" Robson called. "Third-man runs. Keep the verticality!"
Mahrez recycled the ball. Kanté broke up a simulated Arsenal attack.
Tristan drifted between the lines — always between Coquelin and Cazorla’s shadows.
Another sequence.
The ball pinged between Mahrez and Kanté.
Tristan ghosted into the pocket behind Arsenal’s virtual pivot, took the pass on the half-turn, and whipped a cross toward Vardy at the near post.
Back of the net.
.
Ranieri gathered them again. "Arsenal defend zonal on corners. First post is vulnerable. Huth, Morgan — that’s yours."
They ran near-post flick routines. Mahrez and Tristan alternating delivery.
On the fourth attempt, Huth powered home a header.
"That’s how we punish them when they sit back," Ranieri said to the players after set drills.
.
"Last drill," Robson said. "Our pressing triggers on goal kicks."
They simulated Cech’s distribution.
First pass out — no press. Second pass wide — Kanté and Drinkwater closed like a trap.
Tristan read the cue, stepped into the passing lane.
"Ball!" he snapped. A turnover. Mahrez sprinted. Vardy peeled off the centre-backs.
Another goal.
Ranieri clapped once. Loud. "That’s what I want Saturday!"
.
One Hour Later
As the players gathered water bottles and towels, the vibe was pretty good. No one was feeling nervous about the Arsenal game.
In the corner of the locker room, Maguire, Ben, and Mahrez gathered around a phone.
"Seen this?" Maguire asked, scrolling.
A clip of the London jewellery shop. Tristan with Sofia and John. The Arsenal fans teasing. The banter.
"It’s not bad," Ben said quickly. "Just some harmless back-and-forth."
Mahrez frowned. "They’ll change their tune once you score."
Tristan shrugged. "They always do."
"We saw the clips of them calling out Barbara too," Maguire muttered. "That’s not football banter. That’s crossing the line."
"They’ll pay for it Saturday," Tristan said calmly. Just certainty.
Ranieri stepped into the locker room then, cutting the conversation short.
"Tomorrow’s light. Recovery and tactics. Then matchday."
"We’re ready," Vardy grinned.
"They’re not," Tristan added.
And everyone knew it.
However the same couldn’t be said oftheir opponents in London.
London Colney, Arsenal Training Centre
The mood was different here.
Arsène Wenger stood at the edge of the main pitch, arms folded, scarf tucked into his jacket despite the morning sun. Behind him, Steve Bould and Boro Primorac reviewed notes on a clipboard.
The players had gathered without much chatter.
Özil tied his boots in silence. Alexis bounced a ball impatiently between his feet. Walcott sat on a cooler, head down.
The headlines hadn’t helped this week.
“Tristan ready to destroy Arsenal again.”
“Leicester’s plan to break Wenger’s backline exposed.”
“Arsenal fans embarrass themselves with youth clip digs.”
Banter had turned to pressure.
And the players felt it.
“Okay,” Wenger finally called out, pulling the team in. “We know what Saturday means. We’ve let Leicester hurt us twice now. It cannot happen again.”
Steve Bould took over. “Tactically, they’ll play as they always do. Fast counters. Half-space runners. We know this.”
On the whiteboard nearby, Leicester’s shape was drawn out — the same 4-2-3-1 morphing into a 4-3-3.
Tristan’s name was circled heavily.
“They want to break between our midfield and centre-backs,” Primorac said. “Coquelin, Ramsey — you must track their transitional runners. Don’t leave the pivot exposed.”
Coquelin nodded stiffly. Ramsey glanced toward the forwards.
“Fullbacks,” Bould continued. “Bellerín, Monreal — you cannot both push forward at the same time. Gibbs will rotate in. Stay disciplined.”
That earned a groan from Walcott. “So we play passive?”
“No.” Wenger’s voice was calm but firm. “We play smart.”
“Alexis, Walcott — I want you pressing Drinkwater and Kanté early. Don’t give them time to pick out Tristan or Vardy.”
Across the group, eyes flickered.
That name again.
Tristan. It was like hearing Messi all over again.
Özil spoke out. “What about when he drops deep? Last season, that’s where he killed us.”
“Gabriel and Koscielny stay tighter. Close the gaps. Force him wide when he comes between the lines.”
“Easier said than done,” Mertesacker muttered under his breath.
Wenger heard it. Ignored it.
“We are Arsenal. We play our game. But with intelligence. No overcommitting. No emotional fouls. Especially no hard fouls, Tristan will punish us for it.”
Privately, Wenger knew he had another problem.
Morale.The dressing room had been tense all week.
The social media circus. The fan criticism. Even in training, the younger players were distracted. Walcott had snapped at a coach. Chambers was making sloppy passes. And the senior players? Özil had barely spoken. Alexis was frustrated every time a drill slowed down.
They could feel the backlash already coming if they lost.
“Remember,” Wenger said, softer now. “We win together. And when we are doubted — we respond with football.”
Some nods. Not all.
The session began.
Arsenal ran shadow pressing drills. Walcott and Alexis leading the press. Özil cutting passing lanes. Coquelin dropping to cover pivot spaces.
But it wasn’t that good. It wasn’t Leicester good.
Even Wenger could see it. They’d worked the patterns. They understood the plan. But whether they believed in it? That was a different question.
It would be revealed during the game.
.
Next Morning
Tristan stirred awake to the familiar ping ping ping of notifications.
Not one or two. Hundreds.
He blinked, reached for his phone. Barbara was still asleep beside him, hair sprawled over the pillow.
FIFA 16 Release Day was the top trending tag.
His own name was second.
#Tristan90
#FIFAUKCover
He rubbed his eyes and scrolled.
Sky Sports Football: "The UK FIFA 16 cover star Tristan Hale — 90 overall at just 20 years old. Third highest rating in the world, tied with Luis Suárez, Manuel Neuer, and Arjen Robben.
Match of the Day: "Leicester’s Tristan Hale gets the GOAT treatment by EA Sports this year. Only Ronaldo (93) and Messi (93) are rated higher."
@AFTVOfficial: "90 for a twenty year old?? 😂 Clear Arsenal bias from EA, yeah? Disgrace."
@RedDevilsNewsDaily: "We won’t even mention he’s higher than Rooney, Mata, Schweinsteiger and Carrick combined. What a joke."
Of course people came to his defense immediately, one being Gary Lineker.
Gary Lineker (Tweet): "Only one response to this: 75 G/A, ten individual trophies won. Argue with a wall. He should be rated 92 if I’m being honest.
Tristan smiled at the tweet.
It wasn’t just random fans debating it. Pundits. Former players. The lot.
Paul Merson on Sky: "Don’t get me wrong, brilliant player. But ninety? Higher than seasoned internationals? I’m not sure."
Rio Ferdinand: "If he was at United or Chelsea nobody would be questioning it."
Tristan set the phone down after going through all of his notifications.
The higher he climbed, the more people wanted him to fall.
Barbara stirred beside him. "Mmm. Why are you up so early, you don’t have training in the morning today." Her voice was still heavy with sleep
"It’s just FIFA day," Tristan murmured. "Fans arguing.”
He kissed her temple. "Nothing new." He said before bringing her to his chest and going back to sleep.
However as always, players weren’t exactly satisfied with their ratings and they let it be known to the rest of the world.
.
@theo_walcott: Man... if you're pretty, you can just have everything in life." 😅
@mesutozil1088: Guess assists don’t count anymore 🤔
@neymarjr (in Spanish): "88? Treble winner. Liga, Copa, Champions. EA... ¿qué estás haciendo?" 😡 - (What are you doing?)
Even legends got involved.
@rioferdy5: "Honestly. The kid’s proving me wrong every week. I can’t lie. Ninety is deserved."
@thierryhenry: "People forget. Numbers follow performances. Hale’s earned them."
.
Belvoir Drive — Evening
Media Room
.
The air was warm under the lights. Dozens of cameras and microphones were set up. Reporters shuffled in their seats, phones and notepads ready.
National press. Local reporters. International correspondents.
All of them waiting. Not just because it was Leicester vs Arsenal.
It was everything surrounding it. Tristan vs Arsenal.
FIFA 16. The social media circus. The youth clip drama.
Claudio Ranieri stepped up first. He adjusted his tie. Calm. Collected.His eyes scanned the room as the media officer stepped forward.
“We’ll begin with Claudio. Then Tristan will join us.”
A few reporters immediately leaned forward, hands half-raised.
The first hand shot up near the front.
A man in a dark suit leaned forward. "Rob Draper, Mail on Sunday. Claudio—Leicester are unbeaten. Arsenal have had a tough start. What’s the mentality in your dressing room right now?"
Ranieri’s mouth twitched. "Respect. As always. We respect every team. But we don’t change for them. We play our football. We’ve studied Arsenal’s strengths — and their weaknesses."
Another hand went up near the center. "There’s been a lot of noise this week. Social media. FIFA ratings. Fans debating Tristan. Has it been a distraction?"
Ranieri smiled faintly. "We don’t play Twitter. We don’t play FIFA. We play football. The players know that. Tristan knows that. Everything outside the pitch is none of our business."
Another reporter raised his hand next, notebook already open. He waited for a nod from the press officer. "There’s been criticism this week that’s gone beyond football. Arsenal fans bringing up old academy videos. Personal attacks. Even Barbara and other player’s families have been targeted. Has this crossed a line for you?"
Ranieri’s expression changed at the question from happy to giving a stern look.
"Let me be very clear. When people discuss football — tactics, form, performances — that’s normal. That’s football. But digging into a player’s childhood? Mocking them for youth matches? Going after their partners and families?"
He shook his head. Slow. "It’s disgusting. There’s no place for it in football. No place at all. I believe most true fans — not just Leicester’s, but everywhere — agree."
For a moment, nobody moved. Even the more aggressive reporters stayed silent. A few nods rippled around the room.
From the right side, someone lifted a hand and waited. The press officer pointed to him. "Claudio, tactically — what’s the key to tomorrow’s match?"
Ranieri folded his arms lightly. "Control transitions. Win second balls. When we have the ball, attack quickly — but with intelligence. Arsenal will want possession. We’ll choose when to allow that, and when to punish them."
Another reporter raised his hand, a pen tucked between his fingers. "What are you expecting from Arsenal?"
Ranieri gave a dry smile. "I expect them to adjust. But adjustments leave new spaces. We are ready for that."
Before the press officer could move on, someone shouted out their question from the second row. "Claudio, do you believe Arsenal’s defenders can handle Tristan? Or has he already proven too much for them?"
"That’s for them to answer. Not me." Ranieri answered.
The press officer stepped forward again. "Thank you, Claudio. We’ll now have Tristan Hale."
Tristan stepped in wearing a black Nike shirt trying his best to even look like he wanted to be here.
The cameras clicked rapidly. Dozens of flashes in quick bursts.
He sat. Adjusted the mic. A small glance toward the press officer. Ready.
"Hands, please," she reminded.
Rob Dorsett (Sky Sports) was fastest. He raised a hand high. "Tristan, you’ve played Arsenal four times now. You’ve scored or assisted in every game. Is this personal for you?"
Tristan leaned forward slightly. "Every game’s personal. But no, this isn’t about past results. This is about three points. Nothing else."
A female reporter from ESPN raised her hand quickly before anyone else could. "The youth videos. The social media comments. Even criticism toward Barbara. Has it affected you?"
Tristan paused before saying "No." Then he added, voice low but clear, "That’s not football. That’s not banter. We’ll answer it the right way. On the pitch."
"Tristan, the FIFA 16 debate has gone global. Some say ninety is too high. Others say it’s deserved. Has it been a distraction?"
A faint smile — barely there. "No. Opinions don’t score goals.And for the record—" he added, looking around the room, "—if people think it’s too high, they’ll have a chance to watch me prove them wrong tomorrow."
A murmur rippled across the room. A few reporters scribbled notes quickly as whenever Tristan said something before a game like against United, it manifested itself to reality.
"There’s been talk that Arsenal will play deeper. Defend the half-spaces. If that happens, how do you adapt?" Another reporter asked.
Tristan didn’t hesitate at answering that one, "It won’t change anything. If they give us space, we’ll take it. If they press, we’ll break it. We’ve prepared."
Darren Lewis (Mirror) cut in before the press officer could move on. "Tristan, if you score tomorrow, what would that mean? Given everything that’s been said this week."
Tristan sat back slightly. Thought for half a beat. “There’s nothing to say, I have been winning for my debut. People always attack me for what I say or what I do, but never my football abilities because you can’t question what level of player I am.
The press officer smiled at that before ending the interview. "Thank you, Tristan. That’s all for tonight."
The cameras kept clicking even as he stood and left the table.
Meanwhile in London Colney — Arsenal Media Room
The Arsenal media suite was quieter. Less buzzing. More tense.
Arsène Wenger took his seat at the podium, arms folded, a slight frown on his face as he noticed there were fewer cameras and reporters than usual.
"Questions." The press officer gestured.
David Ornstein (BBC Sport) was first. "Arsène, given Leicester’s form and Tristan Hale’s record, how do you plan to stop him?"
Wenger’s eyes narrowed slightly. "By playing our football. We respect his talent — but no player is unstoppable. If we work together as a unit, we can control the game."
"There’s been criticism toward Tristan from fans this week. Including old youth videos and personal comments toward his family. What’s your stance?"
Wenger’s face at the question wasn’t a happy one. "I will say this once. Criticising football is fair. Criticising families, partners, or childhood moments — that is disgusting. It does not belong in football. I condemn it fully. And I believe most Arsenal fans feel the same. And even for those fans who don’t, you're not a supporter.”
A few nods from the media. Even some applause from the back.
A reporter from the first row spoke next. "Arsène, tactically — Leicester have hurt you with counterattacks before. What changes tomorrow?"
"We will not overcommit. We will be disciplined. But we will also attack. Our fullbacks will not both push up. Our midfield will stay compact. Tristan thrives on space. We cannot allow it."
"Do you believe Arsenal’s defenders can handle him?"
Wenger’s reply came fast. "Yes. I believe in my players."
"And the FIFA debate? Ninety overall for Tristan at twenty years old. Thoughts? There were a few tweets from some of your players.”
Wenger almost smiled. Almost.
"It is a video game. We have bigger things to focus on."
A few light chuckles. The tension eased — but only for a moment.
The press officer stood. "That’s all. Thank you."
.
With all the press conferences done.
With all the noise.
With all the hype.
Sky Sports rolled out their final promo for the match.
.
Leicester City vs Arsenal.
First vs Fifth..
The screen flashed:
Tristan breaking away from Coquelin last season. Mahrez cutting inside Monreal. Vardy celebrating in front of the Arsenal away end.
Ranieri smiling calmly on the touchline.
Wenger scowling, arms folded.
.
Then:
A softer cut. Twelve-year-old Tristan. Kit too big. Cross-legged on the academy floor.
"One day… I want to bring a trophy to Leicester."
The music swelled.
Cut to the FA Cup Final.
Leicester vs Arsenal. Wembley.
Tristan’s winner. The ball hitting the net.
Peter Drury’s voice, urgent and cracking with emotion:
"Leicester City have done it! The FA Cup is theirs!"
"At just 18 years old, Tristan Hale has just done what every young boy dreams of—he's written himself into the history books!”
“From the youth fields to Wembley, from Leicester's academy to the pinnacle of English football, he's just defeated the Premier League giants, Arsenal, and won the FA Cup for his boyhood team!”
“It's a dream come true—a triumph that's been 140 years in the making for Leicester City!”
“Remember this name—Tristan Hale, remember his face."
The final image of the promo being Tristan lifting up the FA Cup with the crowd behind him.
..
6920
I don’t know why it took me so long to write this damn chapter but it’s finally done, lol. It was a pain in the ass but I hope you guys liked this chapter.
Peace
Comments
Sicario_1011
Love the chapter can’t wait for the game.
