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Chapter 192: No Stars? No Problem
🕑 Added 2025-05-01 14:26:42 +0000 UTCThe cigar hadn’t even finished burning in Wenger’s tray before the madness began.
Clips of Tristan’s no-look penalty hit Twitter within minutes. The full replay had 620,000 views before Match of the Day even aired. By midnight, Tristan Hale was trending No. 1 worldwide — not just on Twitter and YouTube, but Weibo, Naver, and even the front page of Douyin in China.
Reddit blew up too, with r/football going crazy before the game even ended.
The top post being about Leicester vs. Stoke.
[Post Match Thread] Leicester City dismantle Stoke 6–0 away — Tristan with 2G/1A and that penalty. My god.
Posted by @Lilitha_Siko 3 hours ago
⬆️ 60.4k upvotes 💬 3.9k Comments 🏆 Reddit Gold ×7
.
Title: We just watched a Bond villain drop a masterclass at Stoke.
That wasn’t football. That was theater.
Tristan Hale just walked into the ugliest ground in the country, took a crunching tackle from Ryan Red Mist Shawcross, got up, stared him down, and buried a no-look penalty. With his left foot.
And that was after he curled in a long-range screamer and dropped a no-look assist like it was warm-up drills.
But man — that penalty?
That was cold. That was spite. The crowd was booing. The cameras were on him.
And he just… did it.
That was only his second penalty in the league. Second. And he steps up like that? Cold as fuck. He didn’t even look at the keeper. Didn’t even look at the ball after. He just pointed at Shawcross — the same guy who tried to send him into next week.
Do you guys think he even thought about the consequences if he missed that pen?
The memes? The headlines? The “Tristan’s arrogant” nonsense? He had everything to lose with that no-look. Dude might actually be crazy. Anyway, back to my point.
Look — I know, no one considers Tristan a “youngster” anymore. He’s top 5 in the world, and I’ll go further: He’s the best in the world right now.
Yeah, I said it. Sue me.
Last season the man had 35 goals and 40 assists at nineteen. In the Premier League. Getting cluttered every week. And none of those were padded with pens.
And this season?
He somehow got even better.
Across 9 games in all comps:
15 goals. 10 assists.
What the actual fuck?
If he stays fit, I genuinely believe he can break Messi’s 91-goal calendar year record. Fight me on that.
I don’t even have Messi’s or Ronaldo’s current stats in front of me. It’s midnight. I’m yelling. I have to get this off my chest. But I know Tristan’s outscoring both of them.
And don’t even try comparing him to Neymar or Hazard. They’re not in the same galaxy. You don’t compare princes to kings.
And the rest of Leicester?
They’ve all gone up a level.
Vardy, I don’t even know how he got so much better. I think he has like nine goals in the league, right? Gotta double-check that. But dude is popping off. Leicester’s best investment: buying him for like 2 million pounds. I know whoever signed him goes to sleep laughing.
Same for Mahrez too; the dude is just different with the way he dribbles this season. And then you got motherfucking Kanté; I don’t even know what to say other than he’s different. They brought him for like 6 million pounds when he’s worth 60 million pounds.
Don’t even get me started on the rest of the Leicester players.
Somehow, someway, Leicester built an amazing team. Pearson laid the groundwork for this team, and Ranieri just finished the build.
Props to everyone on the scouting team discovering all of those gems buried in dirt.
Here’s the madness so far:
Leicester City vs Sunderland: 5–1
Leicester City vs West Ham United: 3–0
Leicester City vs Spurs: 2–2
Leicester City vs Bournemouth: 3–0
Leicester City vs Aston Villa: 4–1
Leicester City vs Stoke City: 6–0
They’re top of the league right now. 16 points. Undefeated. +17 GD. In case you couldn’t tell somehow.
They also beat their first Europa League opponent 5–0. I felt so bad for Rosenborg — they just looked defeated after Tristan scored. He’s just f***ing with teams now. Because he can.
Reminds me of a young Messi just trying to embarrass everyone — with Henry pointing to defenders like, “Go embarrass that one for me, would you.” I feel like Vardy would do the same shit.
I don’t know what those Leicester players were doing over the break — but I heard the core group was training together at Belvoir Drive. Kudos to them.
And for Ranieri?
Man... I know people doubted him when he got hired, but bro is doing literal witchcraft with this team.
I can’t wait for Leicester to face
Newcastle
United
Arsenal
By now, we all know Tristan is different against those three. I think the dude has a hate boner against Arsenal and United, lmao, with the way he just beats them up. And of course Newcastle decided they had to be part of the list as well.
Yeah. Those three games are going to feed generations.
I can’t wait.
I’m literally shaking as I’m writing this. I know Arsenal has to be scared facing these teams in like five days, lmao.
Good luck to them and everyone else.
.
The comments and replies to the post were crazy to say the least.
🔝 Top Comment – u/LXLV: I’m sorry, but I hate this Bond villain analogy. Tristan wasn’t the villain in Stoke. Shawcross was. He chopped a kid with two working knees and no backup plan. Tristan just got up. Scored. And stared him down. That wasn’t evil. That was justice. Cold-blooded, yes. But deserved.
↳ u/Lucas: Real ones remember last season when Tristan got kicked every match and barely reacted. Dude never dives. Never throws tantrums. Never cries to refs. So when he gets mad? You feel it too. You want him to punish them.
↳ u/tita: He’s literally one of the kindest players off the pitch too. Dude has a whole charity foundation helping kids in England, Hungary, and China. It doesn’t get media attention, but he funds school meals, gear, and training camps. And somehow still posts Biscuit pics like that dog pays rent. He’s just different.
↳ u/Colbat: That penalty was his second ever in the Prem btw. Second. And he went no-look.
Ice in his veins. Or maybe a whole glacier. I just know he got a lot more fangirls now. Dude’s fanbase is already like 70% all girls too, lmao.
↳ u/Engebu: I flinched when he hit it. But the way he turned and pointed at Shawcross after? Straight-up anime shit. Peak shonen moment.
Some supported that post, whilst others viewed it as heresy.
u/ChrisMasterSky: Let’s pump the brakes. Better than Messi and Ronaldo? It’s September. They’ve both been doing this for over a decade. Tristan’s unreal — but he’s still 20. Respect the longevity and what those two have achieved so far.
↳ TehStorm: He’s probably the best form player right now, but prime Messi? Prime Ronaldo? Those guys are still scoring 50+ every year. Tristan has a long way to go before we even say their names in the same sentence.
u/JosueTass: I get saying Tristan is better than Hazard and Neymar but he’s not that ahead. Let’s calm ourselves down. Tristan has never played in the Champions League. Tristan is amazing, but come on — Neymar just scored in a Champions League final.
↳ Lord Shiva: YES! Thank you. This fanbase is wild. Neymar put up 39 G/A last season, dancing through defenses with ease. Hazard carried Chelsea to the title. Let’s stop pretending Tristan’s already eclipsed them after two hot months.
↳ u/DreamMessi: He’s not better than Messi. But I’ll say this. He’s the first English player I’ve seen where the ceiling even makes you ask the question.
By the time the sun rose over the Midlands, it was everywhere.
Newspapers. Radios. Morning shows.
Back pages screamed Leicester STORM.
TalkSport ran full segments.
In Leeds, it wasn’t hype. It was a warning.
.
September 20 – Leeds United, Film Room
The room was quiet.
On the projector, Leicester City’s first six games of the season cycled through on mute. Just raw broadcast footage. No commentary. No music. Just the sound of cleats on grass. Shouts. Whistles. The occasional gasp from a crowd that couldn’t believe what it was watching.
Tristan slicing through Spurs in game three.
Mahrez dragging defenders out of frame like a magician pulling scarves from his sleeve.
Vardy stretching Villa’s back line like he was chasing a debt.
Then Stoke. Full screen. Full horror.
One of the assistants leaned forward, scribbling timestamps on a notepad. Another just stared blankly, arms folded, watching like it was a documentary about a war that hadn’t happened yet.
“Six games,” the analyst finally muttered. “And it’s getting worse each week.”
No one replied.
“That Stoke game…” he added, quieter now. “That wasn’t football. That was bullying.”
Steve Evans sat at the front of the room, one leg crossed over the other, chewing his lip. The reflection of the no-look penalty flickered in his glasses.
Tristan, taking the hit. Getting up. Walking coldly to the spot.
The stutter. The strike. The stare.
Over and over again.
A coach in the back finally broke the silence. “What are the odds Tristan doesn’t play Tuesday?”
“Fifty-fifty,” someone said. “Maybe less.”
Another chimed in. “They rotate in the League Cup. Tristan’s played every game so far — league, Europa, even England. But… it’s Tristan. He doesn’t look tired. If he wants to play, he’s playing.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then you still have Mahrez. Vardy. Okazaki. Kante. The backups aren’t really backups.”
Evans didn’t say a word. Just tapped his pen twice on the armrest and stared at the replay as Tristan pointed at Shawcross like he was passing a sentence.
Someone whispered, “He’s twenty.”
Another added under their breath, “He doesn’t play like it. Well he never played like a kid from his debut.”
A silence settled again. No one moved to pause the footage. No one blinked when the penalty played for the seventh time.
It was like watching prophecy.
Evans finally leaned forward. “Keep pulling footage. Every minute. Every match. I want to see how many times he drops into the half-space, how early he checks shoulders, and where Kante shifts when he does.”
No one argued.
No one rolled their eyes.
Because the truth was this — it didn’t matter what they watched. What mattered was whether they’d be lucky enough for Tristan to stay on the bench.
And no one in that room believed in luck anymore.
The cones were set out.
Steve Evans stood near midfield with his arms folded, barely speaking. His staff ran the drills. Fast transitions. Positional resets. Midfield tracking.
But everyone knew what this session was really about.
Tristan Hale.
Gaetano Berardi chased a loose ball and clipped it wide with his first touch.
“You mark Tristan like that,” one of the assistants barked, “and it’s already in the net.”
Across the pitch, Mowatt intercepted a loose pass but hesitated half a beat.
“Too slow!” came another shout. “Vardy’s already gone!”
Even the goalkeepers were training differently — deeper, more reactive. Anticipating the shot before the pass even arrived. Because that’s when it came against Leicester. Out of nothing.
The drills moved fast.
Too fast for some.
Not fast enough for others.
Berardi shoved Wootton after a blown rotation, shouting something in Italian that no one fully caught — but everyone understood.
Frustration. Tension. Fear, maybe.
From the sideline, Evans watched the shape of his team bend and stretch and stutter under the pressure of preparing for a match they might not survive.
“Pick it up,” he said quietly.
No one heard him. Or maybe they just didn’t respond.
He said it again, louder.
“Pick it up.”
And this time, they did.
Because they knew — if Tuesday came and they weren’t prepared for the match. There’d be no time to breathe.
.
The showers hissed in the background, sending steam curling along the ceiling.
No one was talking much.
Charlie Taylor sat hunched forward, towel around his neck, thumb frozen mid-scroll. His brow was furrowed, phone screen lit like a warning flare.
“Mate,” he said suddenly. “You seen what people are saying?”
Berardi looked over from his locker, half-dressed and scowling. “What now?”
Taylor held up his phone like it was radioactive. “Twitter’s predicting six-nil. Against us.”
That got heads to turn.
“Six again?” Cook said, voice rising. “Like Stoke?”
“No, worse.” Taylor turned the screen. “Top comment says, ‘If Tristan plays, it’s a war crime waiting to happen.’ Another says we’ll be ‘lucky to make it out with working knees.’”
There was a short silence.
Then one of the players let out a low whistle. “Man hasn’t even played in the Champions League and they’re calling him Prime Zidane crossed with Messi.”
Berardi muttered something in Italian under his breath.
“What was that?” Mowatt asked.
Berardi didn’t look up. “I said I’m not breaking my nose for some lad’s highlight reel.”
A few chuckled, but it didn’t last long.
Silvestri sat quietly in the far corner with headphones around his neck. He was watching the Match of the Day clip on his phone. Again.
He didn’t say anything at first.
He just let it play — the no-look penalty.
Then finally, still watching the replay, he spoke — low, almost to himself.
“If he plays… I don’t think I can stop that.”
Nobody argued.
But Alex Mowatt sat up straighter.
“We’re not Stoke,” he said, rubbing a towel through his hair. “I’m not letting us be turned into a meme.”
“Yeah?” Cook shot back. “Then what? Press them? Let Tristan carve through the middle and curl one into the top bin?”
Mowatt shrugged. “Then foul him. Rattle him. Play dirty if we have to.”
Berardi raised a brow. “Like everyone did last season?”
“Exactly. Knock him down early.I don’t care how much stronger he got. Let him know this isn’t some highlight reel.”
A pause.
Then Bellusci chimed in from the showers. “If we’re gonna lose, fine. But not like Stoke. We hit back. We leave bruises.”
Even the younger players nodded.
Pride was a dangerous motivator. And right now, it was all they had.
Cook wiped sweat from his brow. “He might be a genius. Fine. But he’s not God.”
.
Meanwhile in Leicester, on Belvoir Drive, that atmosphere was completely different.
A soft breeze moved through the training cones. Laughter drifted in from the small-sided pitch, where Okazaki and Ulloa were finishing a rondo drill with Kante and Danny.
Inside the coach’s office, Ranieri stood with his hands behind his back, watching Leeds’ last match on a loop — full 90, tactical cam. The footage wasn’t pretty.
Benetti, seated nearby with a tablet, didn’t look impressed either.
“They press hard,” Paolo said. “But it breaks down fast. Midfield gets stretched. Centre-backs overcommit.”
Ranieri nodded slowly. “Too eager. No composure.”
He reached for the clicker. The footage jumped back ten seconds. A Leeds midfielder lunged at the ball — and missed. A second later, they were chasing shadows again.
“They’ll want to make it ugly,” Benetti muttered. “You saw what people were saying online. Six-nil talk will get in their heads. They’ll come in angry.”
Ranieri said nothing at first.
Then: “Perfect.”
He stepped aside and tapped the whiteboard. A clean 4-4-2 shape, already sketched out.
“Rest the stars,” he said. “Let the others show what they can do.”
Ranieri smiled, faint but certain. “We don’t need Tristan to win this game. Shinji and Ulloa up front. King and Inler hold midfield. Chilwell gets his start. De Laet at right back. And Harry next to Huth.”
Benetti raised a brow. “Playing Maguire?”
“He’s ready,” Ranieri said. “Give him the full ninety. Let him lead.”
Benetti nodded slowly. “No Vardy. No Tristan. No Mahrez.”
Ranieri’s tone didn’t change. “We don’t need them. We need them in performing condition for Saturday. Arsenal will be our first big test. There’s a reason they are in fifth place at the table.”
Ranieri nodded. “Give it to King. He’s earned it.”
Tristan checked every box for a captain — homegrown, the team’s biggest star, respected by everyone. After Pearson left, there were even talks of handing him the armband full-time. But Tristan had turned it down. He didn’t want to become captain in such a shitty way. Morgan still led the room. There was no need to create waves.
And honestly? Tristan never seemed to care much about titles like that — not as long as the dressing room was tight and the football was right.
Film Room – Afternoon
The blinds were drawn. The projector hummed quietly. Arsenal’s last four matches played on a loop at the front of the room.
Ranieri stood near the back, arms folded. Benetti sat near the front, flipping through timestamps.
“They’re starting to click,” Paolo said without looking up. “Özil’s drifting more centrally now. It’s unlocking Walcott’s movement. And Ramsey’s playing higher.”
The screen froze on a wide shot of Arsenal’s shape: a staggered 4-2-3-1 that looked more like a 2-3-5 in possession.
“Fullbacks overload the flanks. Bellerín especially,” Benetti continued. “But look how high Coquelin pushes without cover. That’s our zone. If we break on the right and drag Koscielny out...”
“...Vardy’s in,” Tristan finished from the third row.
The room turned. He was leaned back in his chair, water bottle resting on his knee.
Benetti nodded once. “Exactly.”
Another clip rolled. Walcott darting in behind Norwich’s back line. Özil threading the pass. Goal.
“Özil’s timing is the threat,” Benetti said. “But Ramsey and Alexis are the ones who stretch you. Ramsey crashes the box from deep. And Alexis will press you alone if he smells panic.”
Mahrez leaned forward slightly. “So… what’s the weak point?”
Ranieri pointed at the frozen screen. “Mertesacker.”
Everyone chuckled, but Ranieri stayed serious.
“No, really. He’s smart — but he’s slow. If we turn quickly and go direct, we isolate him. Bellerín and Monreal bomb forward. Coquelin can’t cover both sides. They don’t like being countered. They especially don’t like being countered by pace.”
Vardy cracked a smile.
“So,” Ranieri said, glancing around the room, “if you see green grass ahead of you — take it.”
Paolo clicked again. One more Arsenal clip. This time: a turnover in midfield, Alexis dropping back to win it. Then Özil — quick feet, left foot chip. Giroud arriving late to bury it.
“They punish laziness,” Benetti added. “If we switch off for a second, we’re chasing the game.”
The screen faded to black.
Ranieri looked around the room.
“No shortcuts this week. We rotate Tuesday — but not Saturday. Saturday is our first real test.”
He locked eyes with Tristan. “Get your rest. Get some sleep. Arsenal think they’re contenders. Let’s remind them why we’re the problem.”
The room stayed quiet.
Then Vardy, arms behind his head, grinned.
“Let’s ruin some North London weekends.”
Laughter broke out.
The projector clicked off.
But the mood stayed sharp.
Leicester knew what was coming.
And they were ready to meet it.
.
September 22, 2015 — King Power Stadium EFL Cup: Leicester City vs Leeds United
The camera swept across the pitch under the King Power lights — a packed crowd humming with anticipation.
The broadcast cut in.
“Leicester City host Leeds United in the third round of the League Cup,” Steve said, voice steady over the crowd noise. “No Tristan Hale. No Jamie Vardy. No Riyad Mahrez. No Marc Albrighton. And no Wes Morgan, either — the captain rests tonight. But make no mistake, Ranieri’s not taking this one lightly.”
Danny followed. “Not even close. It's a smart rotation. You’ve got Inler and Andy King in midfield, flanked by Drinkwater and Kanté — four players who all know how to fight. Up front it’s Shinji Okazaki and Leonardo Ulloa. This might be the ‘B team’ on paper, but every one of these guys has something to prove. Especially Kanté. With Tristan out? All eyes go to him.”
The tunnel was tight and quiet — just the thud of studs, the occasional cough, the low hiss of air vents overhead.
Kanté stood near the front of the Leicester line, shirt tucked, shoulders loose, but his pulse already tapping out a rhythm in his ears. Ahead, the floodlights spilled into the mouth of the tunnel like a stage light waiting on a cue.
He glanced down at his boots.
Same pair he got from Tristan. The Storm Pulse, he really liked them. Tristan got the soles custom-fitted down to the toes, costing around 2000 pounds for even that out of Tristan’s pockets. And Tristan practically forced him to accept it even when he felt like it was more than enough. So since then he wore them for every match.
Two months ago, he was praying for opportunities. Praying he could help his family without getting loaned out again. Two months ago, he was still translating contract terms with his brother on a flip phone with a cracked screen.
Now?
He was starting under the King Power lights. In England. In front of a packed crowd. In a squad fighting for silverware.
It still felt like a dream, a wish coming true.
His agent told him what happened. One of the Leicester scouts said the same thing, quiet and off the record.
That it was Tristan who begged them to take a second look. That he was forcing the club to buy him. Tristan who watched the Ligue 2 tape and told them, “That one — that’s the guy.”
Kanté hadn’t asked. Tristan never brought it up.
But that’s who Tristan was.
A friend. A teammate. Someone who knew a little French and never made it weird. Someone who helped him with his English after training, who wrote new words down on water bottle labels.They were opposites — but best friends, in a way. Different backgrounds. Same engine.
And now the spotlight was on him.
Just a chance.
Kanté closed his eyes for half a second. Breathed in.
Then the whistle came from the tunnel marshal, and the players began to walk.
His cleats hit the grass first.
And if the world was watching?
Good.
Let them see.
He wanted to stand on his own two feet and be a star too.
.
The camera swept across the pitch under the King Power lights — a packed crowd humming with anticipation, flags waving, scarves raised.
“Third round of the League Cup tonight,” Steve Wilson said as the players took their positions. “Leicester City versus Leeds United. And here’s how the Foxes line up. Plenty of big names rested, but still a strong side.”
Leicester City (4-4-2):
🧤 Kasper Schmeichel (GK)
🚀 De Laet (RB)
🏰 Maguire (CB)
🏰 Huth (CB)
🚀 Chilwell (LB)
🛡️ Drinkwater (RM)
🛡️ King (CM) (c)
🛡️ Inler (CM)
🛡️ Kanté (LM)
⚽ Okazaki (ST)
⚽ Ulloa (ST)
“A proper cup team,” Danny Murphy added. “There’s leadership in that spine. King gets the armband tonight. Inler’s got Champions League experience. And then you’ve got Kanté. If there was ever a match for him to show what he’s made of without Tristan on the pitch, it’s this one.”
“Meanwhile,” Steve continued, as the camera panned to the opposition huddle, “Leeds set up in a compact 4-2-3-1. They'll try to frustrate, break things up in midfield, and hit on the counter. But Leicester have scored 23 goals already this season. If Leeds wants to survive, they’ll have to be perfect.”
Leeds United (4-2-3-1):
🧤 Silvestri (GK)
🚀 Berardi (RB)
🏰 Bellusci (CB)
🏰 Cooper (CB)
🚀 Taylor (LB)
🛡️ Mowatt (CDM)
🛡️ Cook (CDM)
🏃♂️ Dallas (RW)
🎯 Murphy (CAM)
🏃♂️ Botaka (LW)
⚽ Wood (ST)
The camera caught King giving Maguire a clap on the back, Schwarzer adjusting his gloves, Kanté tapping both boots on the turf.
.
Back in Leicester, Barbara curled on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket. Biscuit lay stretched across her feet, occasionally shifting when the crowd roared through the TV speakers.
Sophia sat beside her, one arm over the backrest, a glass of rosé in hand.
"Still weird seeing a lineup without him," Barbara said quietly, eyes flicking across the screen. "Feels like we left our cheat code on the bench."
Sophia smiled. "They’ll be fine. I actually like this. Let the others shine for once."
She reached for her phone absently, thumb tapping through her inbox. Then she paused. “Oh—right,” she said, sitting up slightly. “I forgot to tell you. GQ emailed. They’re doing a special feature—dual covers, winter edition. They want you on one.”
Barbara blinked. “Me?”
Sophia gave her a look. “Yes, you.”
“…with Jordan Barrett.”
Barbara’s nose scrunched instantly. “God, no.”
Sophia laughed. “That fast?”
“That’s a terrible idea.”
She didn’t even need to think about it. Sure, she and Tristan were in a good place. A beautiful place. He always told her she could model whatever she wanted. That he trusted her. That he’d never try to control what she wore or did.
But Barbara knew better. She knew what it felt like to watch someone you love walk out in lingerie for a room of cameras. She knew what it would look like—half-naked, posing with Jordan Barrett, hands all over each other, probably some faux-intimate “candids” on a beach set.
Even if Tristan said he was okay with it… she knew him. He’d never say it. But that would still make him uncomfortable. And eventually, maybe after a few years, something would crack and crumble. And that’s exactly why she’d stopped doing certain shoots.
Why she started requesting changes. Why she pulled out of that swimwear campaign last month. Because it wasn’t just about being respectful. It was about being honest—with herself and with the life they were building. She was happy with her life now; she was making money, and she had the love of her life. She can afford to lose a few contracts because of what she wanted now.
Barbara shook her head. “I’m not doing that to him. Can you imagine what the press would say?”
Sophia raised an eyebrow. “Tabloids would combust.”
Barbara’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “They already hate us together. I’ve had two boyfriends and that’s apparently two too many. Now imagine GQ drops a steamy cover with me clinging to Jordan Barrett while Tristan’s in the middle of a title race? The British media would have a coronary.”
“Fans would, too,” Sophia muttered.
“And for what?” Barbara said. “For a cover I don’t even want? No. Not worth it.”
She reached down and scratched Biscuit behind the ear.
Sophia swirled her glass and glanced sideways. “I was going to say something snappy, but since I’m your agent... I still have to tell you. Legally.”
Barbara sighed. “Go on.”
Sophia grinned. “You’re supposed to at least acknowledge the offer. And tell me what to do.”
“Sure,” Barbara said dryly. “Tell them no.”
Sophia gave her a look.
Barbara picked up the remote, muted the TV. “Actually. Email them back. Tell GQ I’d only consider a solo cover… or one with Tristan. Nothing else.”
Sophia let out a low whistle. “That’s gonna raise some eyebrows.”
“Good. That’s fine.” Barbara replied as Biscuit rolled over between them, her tiny paws flopping over the blanket. Barbara looked down and smiled faintly, rubbing the top of her head.
Before Sophia could respond, the crowd noise surged through the muted screen — a low, rising chant.
LEI-CES-TER! LEI-CES-TER!
The camera cut to the bench:
Tristan leaned forward, elbows on knees. Mahrez beside him. Vardy chewing gum. Even Albrighton was watching like a hawk.
“All-star bench,” Sophia muttered.
Barbara just smiled.
The feed cut back to the pitch. Players taking their positions. The whistle ready to blow.
And down there, standing in the heart of midfield, was N’Golo Kanté — shoulders loose, jaw set, eyes scanning the field.
The whistle cut through the night.
First touch was Ulloa, flicking it backwards. Straight into the midfield fire.
Kanté adjusted instantly. Chest open, weight forward, he caught the first bounce and shifted it left — but Cook flew in with a late shoulder. Kanté stumbled, caught himself, didn’t even look for the whistle.
"And we’re off," Steve said, voice tightening. "Physical start here from Leeds. No surprises."
"They’re setting the tone early," Danny added. "Trying to disrupt Leicester’s rhythm before it begins. They know this is a rotated XI — they’re trying to bully them."
Okazaki fought for a second ball near the sideline. Another Leeds body crashed into him. The ref pointed for a throw-in.
Boos rained from the home crowd.
Kanté trotted back into place. He didn’t mind the chaos. He had grown up in it.
The game was a tug-of-war until the eighth minute.
A loose touch from Berardi. The ball spilled into space.
Kanté broke.
Not a sprint — a glide. He touched it once, twice, danced past an incoming challenge, and released it to De Laet on the overlap.
De Laet swept it down the line with a single touch. Okazaki chased. The cross deflected. Corner.
The crowd came alive.
"That’s better," Steve said. "First proper attack of the night — and it starts with N’Golo Kanté."
"Leeds are scrapping, but Leicester are growing into this now," Danny added. "You can feel it."
The next ten minutes turned into a tug-of-war. Leeds pressed. Leicester passed. Then it flipped. Leeds dropped deep. Leicester knocked it around with control.
Kanté was the pulse.
Every time Leeds thought they broke free, he reappeared.
Seventeenth minute. Mowatt tried to step into space — and Kanté ghosted in from the blindside. A clean nick. Pivot. A smooth diagonal floated into Ulloa’s chest.
Control. Drop. Layoff.
Drinkwater pulled the trigger from 25 yards — just wide.
"OHHHH!" the crowd roared.
The Leicester bench jumped.
Ranieri stood, arms crossed, nodding.
Ulloa clapped both hands together.
And Kanté? He jogged back into formation like nothing had happened.
From the touchline, Steve Evans folded his arms, chewing the inside of his cheek. He turned to his assistant and muttered just loud enough to be heard.
“They didn’t even start their best eleven.”
His assistant glanced up from the tablet. “Still getting the calls, though.”
Because they were. Not blatant. But enough to feel it.
Cook caught Drinkwater late — whistle, free kick, warning. Next minute, Bellusci got sandwiched by Ulloa and King — play on.
Mowatt waved for a foul after getting clipped by Chilwell. Ref stared straight through him.
"Little inconsistency creeping in," Steve Wilson noted on commentary. "You can feel the Leeds bench getting agitated."
Danny Murphy was quieter for a beat. Then: “Leicester are top of the league. That kind of momentum… it seeps into things. The ref’s not doing anything outrageous, but you can sense which way the wind’s blowing.”
The camera panned to Leicester’s bench. Tristan leaned forward, elbows on knees. Mahrez beside him, eyes narrowed. Vardy had his chin tucked into his collar, hiding a smirk.
On the pitch, Leeds were feeling it.
Berardi shouted after a no-call. Mowatt tossed the ball away harder than needed. Bellusci had stopped pretending not to be annoyed.
Evans finally stepped out of the technical area.
“Just one!” he shouted. “One whistle our way!”
The ref turned — but didn’t reach for a card. Just a look. Just enough to let everyone know who was in charge.
And back on the field, Kanté jogged past it all. Calm. Composed. Locked in.
The match had teeth now.
And they were starting to show.
30th minute. Leeds had just started to settle — just started to believe they could go blow for blow.
Then Mowatt tried to take Kanté one-on-one.
A heavy touch.
Kanté didn’t hesitate.
He snapped into the tackle, low and clean, shoulder dipped, body turned — ball gone before Mowatt could blink. It spun free, loose at first, but Kanté was already on it, sliding a touch across his body and pushing forward.
“Uh-oh,” Steve said from commentary. “Here they come.”
Three Leeds midfielders scrambled to reset. Too late.
Kanté glanced up once — saw Okazaki pull wide — then clipped it straight through the lines.
It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be.
One pass. Perfect weight. Dead space behind the back line.
Okazaki reached it with room to turn. Cut back.
Ulloa had already peeled off his man.
“Trouble here—” Danny said.
Cross, low and early.
Ulloa met it first time. Left foot. Roof of the net.
"GOAL! LEONARDO ULLOA! Leicester lead!" Steve shouted, his voice rising over the crowd.
The stadium erupted — a roar like thunder as fans surged to their feet, scarves tossed into the air, strangers hugging strangers.
On the bench, Tristan was already up, arms out, spinning in place like he just scored it himself.
Vardy shoved Mahrez and yelled, “TOLD YOU! ULLOA WAS GOING TO GO CRAZY!”
Mahrez stood grinning with his hands on his head. “What a ball, man… what a ball.”
Ranieri clapped slowly, nodding once, then turned to Benetti and said calmly, "And they said we needed the stars tonight."
Barbara, back on the couch, nearly fell off it.
"YES! YESSS!" she screamed, Biscuit startled awake from her nap.
Sophia yelped, “Jesus—!” as Barbara grabbed a throw pillow and started smacking it against her leg like she was waving a flag.
"Did you see that pass?! That was Kante! That was—KANTE!"
Back on the pitch, Ulloa wheeled away to the corner flag, sliding to his knees with both fists raised. Chilwell came flying in, full-speed, tackled him with a hug. Drinkwater and De Laet weren't far behind.
Kanté turned to jog back to the circle — already focused, already composed.
But Chilwell wasn’t having it.
“NOPE,” he shouted, grabbing Kanté’s wrist mid-stride. “Get in here. That’s your goal too!”
Ulloa reached out and clapped him on the back. “Come on, brother. You can celebrate once!”
Kanté smiled, just a little as he joined them.
.
Halftime — King Power Stadium
The whistle blew sharp, cutting through the hum of the stadium.
Leicester 1. Leeds 0.
The crowd buzzed — not quite relaxed, but satisfied. A single-goal lead felt deserved. But not safe.
The camera swept over the players heading into the tunnel..
On the broadcast, the halftime theme played soft underneath.
Steve broke the silence. "Well. Forty-five minutes gone, and Leicester lead by just the one. Leonardo Ulloa’s strike the difference — but really, the story’s been N’Golo Kanté."
Danny nodded in the booth. "He’s been everywhere. Won the tackle. Started the counter. Perfect pass to open up the goal. This was a big opportunity for him tonight, without the main stars and he’s grabbed it."
Steve added, "Leeds have made this difficult, though. Physical. Tight. They’ve absorbed pressure. But they haven’t had an answer for Leicester’s midfield. Kanté and King have controlled the pace."
"They’re still in it," Danny pointed out. "But they need something more up front. Chris Wood’s barely had a sniff."
The screen flashed the match stats:
Possession: Leicester 62% — Leeds 38
Shots: Leicester 8 — Leeds 3
Pass Accuracy: Leicester 86% — Leeds 74%
Steve wrapped it up. "So far, Ranieri’s rotation looks a smart bet. Leicester have the lead, the momentum, and the bench strength. Let’s see if they can close this out."
The camera faded to shots of the King Power crowd — fans waving flags, kids holding up homemade signs for Tristan.
And just before the break ended, it caught the Leicester bench one more time with all the main stars.
Leicester kicked off the second half.
No slow build. No easing in.
Leeds pressed higher. Leicester answered with sharper passing. The patterns returned — but now every pass carried weight.
"They haven’t folded," Steve said. "Leeds are coming out with real urgency. They want that equalizer."
"And that’s dangerous," Danny added. "Because Leicester are built to punish teams that overcommit. Especially with Kanté running the show."
Cook tried to burst through midfield. Kanté was already there. Smooth as ever. Another clean tackle. The crowd’s applause rippled through the cool night air.
Leeds kept trying to stretch the game. Dallas whipped in a cross from the right, but Maguire timed his jump perfectly and cleared with authority. Chilwell chased down the second ball and recycled it calmly.
Okazaki peeled wide soon after, dragging defenders out of position. Drinkwater spotted the opening and zipped a pass into Ulloa. The Argentine chested it down and lashed a half-volley toward goal. Silvestri parried it wide.
The crowd roared — frustration and excitement blending together.
"So close," Steve muttered. "That was inches."
Moments later, Leeds hit back. Murphy slipped a ball through the lines to Chris Wood. Huth reacted late — Wood burst clear, driving toward the box. He struck it hard across goal—
Schmeichel saved it.
Full stretch. Strong hand. Kept it out.
The King Power exhaled all at once.
On the Leicester bench, Tristan clapped hard. Vardy jumped to his feet. Even Ranieri nodded, arms folded, expression sharp but satisfied.
"Leicester’s veterans coming up big," Danny said. "Schmeichel—what a stop."
Evans rolled the dice then, sending on another attacker. Leeds were going for it now. Desperation pushing them higher and higher.
The game stretched. Space began to open everywhere.
"They need to be careful," Steve warned. "One mistake and it’s level."
Leeds probed. But when they tried to build, King read the pass early and stepped in. He laid it off to Kanté, who glided left, let the play breathe, then threaded a perfect ball between two defenders to Okazaki.
The Japanese forward turned in one motion and fired toward the near post. Blocked.
Groans echoed across the stadium — but the energy remained. The crowd believed.
"Leicester’s number twenty is causing problems again," Danny noted. "But Leeds are hanging on by threads now."
The pace turned frantic. The crowd leaned into every pass, every loose ball. Evans was practically on the pitch now, barking orders, living every second.
Chilwell bombed down the left, cut it back for Ulloa, who struck it first time. Wide.
The crowd groaned, then roared in support.
Leeds pushed everyone forward. Every run was desperate now. But it left gaps. Big gaps.
And Leicester could smell it in the 80th minute.
Leeds were pushing now. Full backs high. Midfielders flooding the final third. They could feel it slipping, but they weren’t done yet.
And that was the mistake.
Bellusci stepped too far up. One bad pass. A bounce.
And Kanté was there.
"Uh-oh," Steve said, sharp as a pin. "This could open up."
It wasn’t a tackle. It wasn’t a clearance. It was a read. One glance, one adjustment, and Kanté flicked it out of midair like it was made of paper. He touched it past a lunging Mowatt and was gone.
One touch. Two. Burst of pace. A skip past Murphy.
The crowd roared.
"Look at him go!" Danny yelled. "This is vintage counter-attacking football from Leicester!"
Kanté never looked panicked. He scanned, saw Okazaki making the run, and slipped it forward with the calm of a surgeon.
Okazaki didn’t break stride. He let it roll across his body, waited for the keeper to commit, then toe-poked it inside the near post.
The net bulged.
"GOAAAAAAL! SHINJI OKAZAKI! AND THAT MIGHT JUST DO IT!" Steve’s voice cracked with the noise behind him.
The stadium went absolutely nuclear.
Flags waving. Fans jumping. Pints flying. Kids lifted into the air.
Mahrez screamed, "LET'S GOOOOOOO!" so loud the mic barely caught it. As Tristan and the rest of the bench started shouting.
Barbara on the couch? Gone. On her feet. Arms flailing. Biscuit barking at the screen like she understood the assignment.
Back on the pitch, the team mobbed Okazaki.
De Laet tackled him from behind.
Chilwell jumped on top.
Drinkwater was pointing back at Kanté, already dragging him into the hug pile.
"Nope! Nope! He gets in here!"
Kanté, smiling wide now, let himself be pulled into the mix.
The camera zoomed out as the chant rolled across the King Power.
LEI-CES-TER! LEI-CES-TER!
The final whistle blew after 95 minutes with extra time added in.
The crowd surged as one. Arms up. Voices high.
Leicester 2. Leeds 0.
No Tristan.
And still... dominant.
"Job done," Steve said. "A rotated side. A statement win."
Danny added, "Ranieri will be thrilled with that. Professional. Clinical. And N’Golo Kanté? What a performance."
The players embraced on the pitch. Maguire hugged Chilwell. Drinkwater threw both arms around Kanté. Even Schmeichel jogged up from his goal to pull Kanté into a hug.
On the bench, Ranieri finally smiled wide and clapped his hands twice. "Bravissimo."
Tristan leaned over to Mahrez. "Told you. He was going to be our biggest difference maker this season.
Mahrez didn’t answer. He just smiled and nodded in full agreement. Everyone did get better; there was no question about that; they had a better manager, but Kante was the one who allowed Tristan and everyone in the front to be free. He gave them a shield they can trust that won’t break.
.
Kanté stood awkwardly near the advertising boards. His blue Leicester jacket zipped up to his neck. A small Man of the Match trophy tucked under one arm.
The interviewer smiled. "N’Golo. Your first Man of the Match award in England. One assist, countless tackles, countless recoveries. Describe this feeling."
Kanté cleared his throat, adjusting the earpiece. "Uh... very happy. Team... very good. We work... together. Is... is nice."
The interviewer chuckled gently. "You controlled the midfield tonight. Won the ball. Created the second goal. What was your mindset?"
"I just... try my best. Every game. We... fight. We believe. Leicester strong."
Just as the reporter leaned in for the final question, a shadow fell over them.
"Uh-oh..." the cameraman muttered.
SPLASH.
A whole bucket of ice water poured down over Kanté’s head.
He gasped, eyes wide, spinning just in time to see Tristan, Vardy, and Mahrez retreating like guilty kids.
The crowd roared with laughter. Even the interviewer was wiping water off her mic.
Kanté just smiled sheepishly, water dripping down his collar. "Uh... thank you?"
The stadium announcer chimed in over the speakers:
"Man of the Match — N’Golo Kanté!"
The crowd took over the chant.
"N’GO-LO! N’GO-LO! N’GO-LO!"
Back on the pitch, the reporter wrapped up, still laughing. "Well... that’s Leicester for you."
The camera faded out on Kanté, shaking his head but smiling wide.
.
7150 word count
Holy fuck, this took way longer than expected.
For Discord and Patreon members, if you are uncomfortable with me using your usernames in the story, please do let me know, and I will remove them. I’ve been using everyone who joined the Patreon from day one as a way to say thank you for the support.
Anyway peace, good day
Comments
Sicario_1011
Thanks for the chapter and feel free to use my username as many times as you want. Love how you’re evolving as story progresses bro
Engebu
Very true Sinbad, i did flinch. Very anime shit
