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Chapter 186: Twenty-Two
🕑 Added 2025-04-24 22:17:20 +0000 UTCSeptember 5, 2015 – 7:44 PM, Wembley Stadium
EURO 2016 Qualifiers – Matchday 7
England vs. San Marino
.
The broadcast opened on a wide drone shot of Wembley — the arch lit, flags waving, crowd rising in waves. No rain, but the air had that London chill to it. Humid. Electric.
"Evening from Wembley," Rob Hawthorne said, just as the camera swept toward the pitch. "It’s the Three Lions and San Marino tonight — matchday seven in the Euro qualifiers. And yeah, the scoreline might be predictable, but there’s still plenty to watch."
Andy Hinchcliffe cut in over the noise. "Three debuts on the bench tonight. Kane, Drinkwater, Albrighton — all getting their first senior call-ups. It’s a new look waiting in the wings. And a deserved one."
Cut to the tunnel.
Rooney led the line. Then came Tristan, calm as ever, leading his mascot.
"Kane’s been knocking on this door for months," Rob added. "Drinkwater and Albrighton — out of that Leicester engine room that’s been feeding Tristan and Vardy every week. And now they’re all here."
"A good mix tonight," Andy said. "Experienced leadership up top, and a midfield that’s not afraid to play.”
The camera held on Tristan. His Lion’s Pride boots shimmered a little under the floodlights. Head low. Focused.
"He was the story last season," Rob said. "He might still be the story of this one."
The anthem rose. Wembley stood. Arms locked. Silence heavy enough to feel.
.
The anthem faded. Flags lowered. The players broke from the line.
“Let’s take a look at the lineups,” Rob said, as the Sky graphic faded onto the screen.
“England lining up in that familiar 4-4-2. Structured. Safe. And no surprise — Hodgson sticking with the regulars for now. The new boys are on the bench.”
“Smart,” Andy added. “Last time these two met? 10–0. San Marino’s going five at the back tonight. You’d park a plane if you could.”
England Starting XI (4-4-2)
GK: Joe Hart
RB: Nathaniel Clyne
CB: Gary Cahill
CB: Chris Smalling
LB: Leighton Baines
RM: Raheem Sterling
CM: Jordan Henderson
CM: Tristan Hale
LM: James Milner
ST: Wayne Rooney (c)
ST: Jamie Vardy
“Still a lot of creativity in that midfield,” Rob said. “Tristan pulling strings next to Henderson. Milner tucking in tight. Sterling stretching it.”
“And up front,” Andy added, “Rooney and Vardy — one’s the captain, the other’s chaos. Vardy’s been electric in the league. I’ll be curious to see if Hodgson lets Tristan push up behind them, almost like a false nine. That fluid pocket’s where he’s most dangerous in Leciester this new season.”
The teams were almost in place. Fans still settling. Wembley still buzzing.
Tristan rolled his shoulders once. Breathed in. Let it out slow.
He told himself he wanted the Golden Boot this season. Maybe even the European one if things went right. But that was weeks ago — back when the season was shiny and fresh. Since then?
Anxiety. Shame. A hesitation that clung to him like a fog. Every time he saw Vardy charging forward, he held back. Every time Mahrez drifted wide, he fed him. Every time Kanté broke up a play, he reset, played safe.
He’d let them shine.
He'd told himself it was unselfishness. Team play. Balance. But deep down?
It was anxiety at taking away everyone’s spotlights. This was their peak as well.
He didn’t want to take the accomplishment from them.
Not anymore.
This was Wembley. This was his stage too. He’d let everyone else have their turn.
But this was his story.
Now it was his turn to take it.
He stood just behind Rooney and Vardy. Eyes forward. The weight on his chest slowly fading away.
.
The whistle blew.
And for a moment — it was San Marino’s ball.
They played it short. Then sideways. Then backwards. No urgency. Just eleven men trying to settle into a shape.
“You can already see it,” Rob Hawthorne said, voice easing in. “Five at the back, and no one crossing the halfway line. San Marino aren’t here to compete. They’re here to endure.”
“Ten behind the ball,” Andy Hinchcliffe added. “You’d need a crowbar to get through this.”
England pressed higher. Vardy started cutting angles. Sterling crept tighter on the left. And Tristan? Tristan didn’t sit back with Henderson.
Not even close.
Ball came fizzing in — tight angle, mid-height. Tristan dropped back to collect it, defender tight on him. He didn’t chest it. He didn’t control it.
He caressed it. Collarbone touch. Rolled off his shoulder like velvet.
One step. Then a flick — lifted it over the defender’s head like it was nothing. Crowd noise kicked up.
“First touch is illegal,” Andy said. “You can’t just do that in qualifiers.”
He spun, played it wide to Sterling on the run. Back inside. Henderson to Vardy. Vardy flicked it, no-look, back into the path of Tristan.
Tristan let it run across his body. Dragged it with his left. Then an elastico.
Defender bit. Slid. Missed.
Now thirty yards out. Crowd already rising.
Tristan stepped once — didn’t pass. Took another.
Then—
Bang.
Outside of the right boot. A trivela. The ball swerved, kissed the air — spinning low, curling wickedly away toward the bottom corner.
The keeper flew.
Didn’t matter.
GOAL!
“Oh my word—he’s done it!” Rob practically shouted, voice cracking as Wembley exploded around him. “Tristan Hale! Seven minutes in, and he’s already set this place on fire!”
“That’s outrageous!” Andy yelled. “That’s a trivela from thirty yards! Who even thinks to try that?!”
Replay rolled. Slowed down to catch every impossible inch — the touch, the shift, the strike.
“You don’t coach that,” Rob said, breathless. “You just sit back and thank the stars he’s on your team. And what a better way to start than Tristan scoring?”
“And it’s early,” Andy said. “Really early.”
Tristan sprinted toward the corner flag, arm raised .
The moment after that — Vardy was already on him. Jumped on his back like a kid.
“Fucking trivela?! You greedy little bastard!”
Tristan just laughed and celebrated as the other players rushed in.
.
Even minutes in — and Wembley exploded.
Some fans were still settling into their seats. Others had already jumped out of them. Flags waved harder. Phone lights flashed. The sound came in waves, shaking down from the upper tiers.
“Would you believe it,” Rob Hawthorne said, almost over the noise. “That’s his first shot of the game.”
Andy Hinchcliffe didn’t even try to contain it. “And it’s a goal. Not just a goal — a trivela, from outside the box. That's the kind of thing you pay to see.”
On the San Marino bench, their manager had both hands up — like he was explaining something only he could see. One of their defenders turned to the sideline, confused. Maybe stunned. Maybe just wondering how they were going to survive the next eighty minutes.
“He doesn’t play like a midfielder anymore,” Andy added. “That’s a forward’s run. A forward’s finish.”
Rob nodded. “Ten minutes in. England already up. And you just get the sense — if 22 is in this kind of mood — it’s going to be a long night for San Marino.”
The replays rolled again. That first touch. That spin. The body feint. The trivela.
Then came the reset.
England pressed again.
San Marino tried to slow it down — short passes in the backline, looking for a breather. But England didn’t let them have it.
Milner pressed up tight. Clyne read the next pass early, jumped it. Interception.
Tristan was already moving. Not into midfield. Into space — that no-man’s land behind the strikers. He didn’t even glance back at Hodgson.
“He’s not where Hodgson wants him,” Rob said. “That’s not midfield anymore. That’s a ten-yard pocket behind Vardy and Rooney.”
“And he’s living there,” Andy added. “San Marino haven’t tracked him once.”
Fourteenth minute.
Milner again — sharp interception near the halfway line. Quick touch to Henderson. One bounce pass into Tristan’s feet.
Two defenders rushed him.
He didn’t slow.
Step-over. Shift. Boom — la croqueta! Right foot to left, slicing through the gap like a knife through silk.
Now inside the box.
No look up. No hesitation.
Snap! Inside of the right boot. Clean. Precise. Bottom corner.
GOAL!
“He’s done it again!” Rob erupted. “Tristan Hale — seventeen minutes, two goals! You can’t take your eyes off him!”
“That’s filth!” Andy shouted over the crowd. “He split two defenders like they weren’t even there! That’s street ball in a European qualifier!”
Replay flashed across the screen — the body feint, the croqueta, the finish.
“Look at this,” Rob said, nearly laughing. “Frozen defenders. No backlift. It’s like he’s scripting the match himself.”
“Two goals,” Andy echoed. “Two different styles. And he’s making it look easy.”
Goal. Seventeenth minute. Two–nil. Tristan Hale.
“He’s playing like it’s a futsal court,” Rob added. “Tight control. Street instincts. Everything’s instinctive right now.”
Wembley went up again. Louder this time. The roar had layers — awe, disbelief, celebration.
Tristan threw up the heart again. Same celebration. Arms around him this time — Henderson, Sterling, Milner.
.
San Marino were rattled. They tried pushing a bit higher. Not much. Just a line step to win second balls.
It didn’t matter.
Rooney dropped deeper — pulling one of their midfielders with him. The gap opened. Tristan floated into it. Again.
Ball came to him just outside the D — back to goal. Defender clung to him. Another came from the side.
Tristan rolled his boot over the ball.
Tried to spin.
Clip.
Down he went.
The whistle blew.
Rob leaned into it. “Free kick. Dangerous range. About twenty-two yards. Right of centre.”
Andy took a breath. “If he takes this… this could be special.”
Tristan picked himself up off the turf. Shook out his leg.
Sterling handed him the ball. He walked it forward.
Placed it down.
Slow.
Three steps back.
Eyes on the wall. Then on the top right corner.
“He’s already scored one like this in the league,” Rob said, voice rising with the tension. “But from 30 yards away.”
“If he goes for it again…” Andy trailed off, already holding his breath. “You know he’s got that whip in his locker.”
The crowd stood. All around Wembley, phones rose like lighters at a concert.
Tristan inhaled.
The wall jumped.
He struck it.
Curl. Whip. Drop.
Up. Down. Tight. Top bins.
The keeper didn’t even dive.
“OH MY WORD!” Rob screamed. “It’s a hat-trick! Tristan Hale — take a bow!”
“That’s not normal!” Andy shouted, almost laughing. “That’s video game stuff! That’s a perfect ten performance — and it’s still the first half!”
The replays rolled. Again. And again. Every angle catching the same thing: a football curled into the corner like it had eyes.
Tristan jogged to the touchline.
One fist to the chest. Three fingers to his lips. Heart to the camera.
And all Wembley could do was scream.
Before the camera switched to the England bench celebrating.
Hodgson?
Hands in his coat. Arms crossed with a not so happy look on his face.
The camera held on him a moment longer.
“Roy doesn’t like it,” Rob said. “He’s drifting too far forward. It’s not part of the system.”
Andy replied, “Yeah? Then maybe the system needs to keep up.”
The crowd roared again.
Thirty minutes in.
Three goals.
.
The board went up on the touchline minutes after the game restarted.
🟢 #10 Rooney OFF
🔴 #18 Kane ON
Wembley gave polite applause. Rooney jogged off with a clap to the fans, a quick hand to Tristan. Kane stepped on, sleeves rolled, chin tucked. The number nine jog — smooth, confident, but a touch too casual for the game England were playing.
Rob Hawthorne noted it first.
“Well, here we go. Kane on. And you can already see the shift. He likes to drop deep. Wants to play through the middle third.”
Andy Hinchcliffe agreed. “Which is where Tristan’s been operating. This could cause a bit of… traffic.”
And it did.
By minute thirty-six, it was obvious.
Kane came short. Tristan came short. And the ball hesitated. Twice.
“Ball’s slowing down,” Andy murmured.
Tristan noticed. He stepped back once, gestured for Kane to stay up. Kane didn’t catch it. Came again for the next pass. Bumped into Tristan’s lane.
Misread. Turnover.
San Marino didn’t do anything with it, but still — eyes narrowed on the England bench. Ray Lewington scribbled something. Gary Neville whispered to Hodgson. Hodgson just crossed his arms tighter.
Tristan turned and jogged over to Kane.
Quiet.
“Go up,” he said under his breath. “Stay between the lines. Let me feed you.”
Kane looked at him — puzzled, for a beat. But nodded. Jogged off a few steps.
Tristan turned back, mouth tight.
If he wants to play midfield, he should’ve started there as a kid.
Ball came back into play. England reset.
Thirty-ninth minute.
Baines recycled it wide to Milner. Inside to Henderson. Quick bounce to Tristan. He checked his shoulder — Kane had drifted again. Too low. Too central.
Tristan chopped the ball forward himself. Beat one man. Drove into the space Kane left behind. Threaded a diagonal pass through two bodies to Sterling. Sterling cut inside, got a shot off — deflected.
Corner.
Applause all around. Kane clapped too. But on the bench?
Roy Hodgson didn’t move. Just tapped a knuckle once against his clipboard.
“You seeing that?” Gary whispered.
Ray nodded. “They’re stepping on each other’s toes.”
“We’ll discuss it after,” Hodgson said.
Back on the pitch — Tristan was still talking. Pulling Kane aside again. A subtle gesture. Thumb behind, motioning toward the defensive line.
“Stay up,” he mouthed.
This time, Kane gave a tighter nod.
But the rhythm was still off.
Forty-third minute.
Another moment. Tristan won the ball in midfield — poked it past a closing marker — but Kane was in the way. Literally. Ran into the same space.
“Tristan’s not happy,” Rob said. “You can see it. He’s trying to run the show — but there’s congestion in the engine.”
“Too many cooks,” Andy muttered. “And Tristan’s been cooking all night.”
Forty-fifth minute.
England pushed again. Tristan broke free between two midfielders — snapped a one-two with Milner — and lofted a delicate chip through the line. Kane was there this time. Controlled it.
Shot it.
Saved.
Rebound spilled back out.
Tristan smashed it.
Blocked. Cleared.
And then the whistle blew.
Halftime.
Wembley roared anyway. Three–nil. Hat-trick from Tristan. But as the players walked toward the tunnel.
Tristan walked slowly.
Thinking.
He’s too deep.
That was the first thought. Not frustration. Not even judgment. Just fact.
Kane’s too slow. Too deliberate. Wants to feel the ball. Wants to dictate things from midfield. But that’s my job. It breaks the shape. The flow.
Tristan exhaled through his nose. Glanced over. Kane was walking a few feet ahead, nodding at something Sterling said.
You can’t play both conductor and soloist.
Not at this level. Not at this tempo.
Vardy didn’t need instruction. He didn’t need the ball. He just ran — into spaces, into danger, into chaos. That’s what made him perfect for Tristan. You gave him oxygen, he set it on fire.
But Kane?
He needed a map.
And if I’m the map, you can’t be holding the compass too.
They reached the tunnel entrance. Hodgson was already halfway inside, coat zipped, head low.
The door shut behind the last player.
For a second, the dressing room was silent. Just the rustle of shirts being pulled over heads, the hiss of water bottles, boots thudding lightly against the floor.
Hodgson stood still near the board. Arms folded. Face unreadable.
Then he spoke — low, clear.
“Good first half,” he said. “Clean. Sharp. We’re three up. That’s the result we wanted.”
A pause. Then:
“But I’m not happy.”
No one moved.
“I saw good football. I saw energy. But I also saw players not playing in the shape.”
His eyes flicked. Not accusatory. But searching.
“We’re playing a 4-4-2. That means two banks. Stability. Roles. Discipline.”
He didn’t look at Tristan. Didn’t have to.
“I don’t care what the scoreline says. If we lose our structure now, we’ll pay for it against real opposition. This isn’t San Marino every week.”
Ray Lewington stepped forward, flipping open the tactics folder.
“Second half,” he said. “We’re making two changes. Baines is coming off — Gibbs in. Milner’s off as well — Albrighton on the left.”
He tapped the formation.
“Kane stays up top. Vardy on his right shoulder. Sterling drops a little deeper to balance the line.”
Tristan leaned forward slightly. He really was disappointed with Hodgson, to be honest. This is exactly what he did in the World Cup; he was the best player, and yet he wasn’t given the chance to start despite proving himself multiple times.
But he held his tongue for now, but he truly didn’t believe a 4-4-2 could win anything not with this team and manager.
He was better than last season and he still wanted to fucking play in the midfield, give him the freedom to let him roam like Messi. But he held his tongue, that locker room was finally going to norm and there was no reason to cause problems looking like a problem child with too much ego.
“We’re not changing the system,” Hodgson added. “We’re testing depth. Chemistry.” He said before looking at Tristan.
“You’ve done your part. Now stay in the lines.”
Tristan didn’t blink. Just gave the faintest nod.
As the coaches turned back to the board, Tristan leaned over to untie his laces — then sat back again, elbows on knees.
Vardy muttered under his breath. “Not letting you off even with a hat trick, huh?”
“What do you expect? It’s the same thing all over again,” Tristan whispered back, making sure no one heard him.
.
By the time the final whistle blew, Wembley was still electric. Not frantic — but satisfied. England hadn’t just won. They had dictated every second.
🔵 Match Stats:
Tristan Hale: ⚽ 3 goals, 👟 2 assists, 🔥 Rating: 10.0 (Sky Sports MOTM)
Jamie Vardy: ⚽ 1 goal, 👟 1 assist, 8.2 rating
Raheem Sterling: ⚽ 1 goal, 👟 1 assist, 8.5 rating
Marc Albrighton (off the bench): ⚽ 1 goal, 7.6 rating
Jordan Henderson: 2 key passes, 7.5 rating
Joe Hart: clean sheet, 8.8 rating
Kane got into a better rhythm near the end — but the tempo clearly belonged to someone else.
.
Flashes clicked. Reporters shifted forward as Hodgson took his seat for the post match conference.
First question landed instantly.
“Roy — big win. But what did you make of Tristan Hale’s performance?”
Hodgson nodded once.
“Outstanding on the night. Three goals. Created two more. Everything we ask of him.”
A pause. He added, “Though I still believe we need to shape the team properly around a system. Not around any one player. Even someone like Tristan.”
Second question.
“Was the freedom he had tonight part of the plan?”
Hodgson didn’t flinch.
“No. But it worked. That doesn’t mean it always will.”
Another hand raised.
“Any thoughts on the dynamic between Tristan and Kane?”
Hodgson leaned forward slightly. Fingers laced.
“They’re both top players. But their instincts overlap. We’ll need to address spacing. Not every game allows for trial-and-error. Especially not in tournament play.”
“Is Vardy your first-choice forward now? He has been starting for a lot of games.”
Hodgson gave a slow nod, eyes flicking briefly to his notes.
“Yes.”
Last question.
“Can you win the Euros with this team?”
He exhaled. Looked up.
“If we stay healthy… and keep building the right way?”
A pause.
“Why not?”
.
With business taken care of back home — a dominant six-nil win, a perfect ten performance from Tristan, and a manager’s poker-faced post-match presser — the Three Lions flew east.
Basel was cool that night. The team’s hotel sat just a few blocks from the Rhine, windows lit but curtains drawn. One floor was closed off entirely. England’s camp.
In Room 509, though, the quiet didn’t stick.
It was the Leicester room.
Vardy, Drinkwater, Albrighton, and Tristan — all sprawled across the two double beds, the little couch, and a chair stolen from the hallway. The TV was on mute, showing highlights from Spain’s game earlier.
“Six-nil,” Vardy muttered, flipping the cap off a water bottle. “And we didn’t even look like we tried.”
Tristan half-laughed. “We didn’t.”
Marc leaned back against the headboard. “You looked like you were playing street ball out there. Elastico. Croqueta. Trivela. Should’ve brought out a sombrero flick just to be rude.”
“Next time,” Tristan said.
Danny tossed a pillow toward the other bed. “You saw the draw, right? Group G. We got Lazio, Rosenborg, and Partizan.”
“Group of death,” Vardy said sarcastically.
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Nah. Group of revenge.”
They all looked at him.
“We got bounced by Napoli last season. Italian side again? I’m not letting that happen twice.”
Albrighton nodded. “Lazio won’t be easy. But the others?”
“Handleable,” Danny said. “Rosenborg are top of their league, but they’re soft at the back. And Partizan—”
“Partizan will try to kick us,” Vardy cut in. “They’ll come for ankles.”
Tristan leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“Let them,” he said. “We’re not kids anymore. We’ve been through that war once. This time, we win the whole thing.”
Then Vardy grinned. “So… do we get new boots if we make the semis or something?”
Tristan chucked a slipper at him.
The TV rolled on in the background. The laughter came easy after that.
And with that, the screen faded back to the pitch.
.
September 8, 2015
"That’s full-time in Basel," Rob Hawthorne said, voice steady over the replay of the final whistle. "Another dominant performance from England — four goals, three points, and one name once again standing above the rest."
Full-time. England 4, Switzerland 1.
Back on the pitch, England’s players were still huddled near the center circle, arms thrown around each other. Some laughed. Some clapped toward the traveling fans.
Vardy found Tristan first, slapping his shoulder with a grin.
“Two more? You’re allergic to normal now, aren’t you?”
Tristan just laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “Tell me that after we win a trophy.”
The team slowly drifted toward the tunnel, waving at the fans. And as they walked, the Sky cameras caught a shot of Hodgson shaking hands on the touchline.
The graphic came up on-screen:
🔵 Final Stats — England vs Switzerland
Tristan Hale: ⚽⚽, 👟1 assist, 9.7 rating
Wayne Rooney: ⚽, 👟1 assist, 8.4 rating
Jamie Vardy: ⚽, 8.1 rating
Sterling: 2 key passes, 7.8 rating
Hart: 1 big save, 7.5 rating
The coverage cut back to the mixed zone shortly after —
Tristan already seated at the podium.
A few water bottles. Sponsor logos behind him. His jacket zipped halfway. He leaned into the mic, calm but focused.
“Tristan, congrats on another incredible performance — two goals, an assist, and a win. What’s going through your mind right now?”
Tristan looked out over the room, paused, then said simply,
“Pretty good, had a slow start in the league so I hope to continue this form after we get back to the league.”
A reporter leaned forward. “You’ve now got five goals and three assists in two games. Do you feel like this is your team now?”
He shook his head once. “This is England’s team. I’m just doing my job. We’ve all got a role to play. Mine just happens to involve a little more firepower lately.”
Another hand went up.
“Your link-up with Vardy looked sharp again as usual. But with Kane, there seemed to be some congestion — how do you feel that dynamic’s developing?”
“We’re figuring it out. Different profiles, different strengths. With time, I think we’ll get it right.” Tristan replied, giving nothing that could give the English media that chance to start a fire in the locker room. And lucily for everyone he and Kane got along pretty well and they had time to figure things out on the field as well.
The final question came from the back. A reporter from The Sun, much to Tristan’s disgust.
He already knew the voice before he even looked up.
“Tristan — a bit off-topic, but there’s been speculation. You and Barbara haven’t been seen together in weeks. She’s in LA, you’re here. People are wondering… is the fairytale over?”
A pause.
Tristan blinked once. Looked down at the mic.
Then he smiled. Just a little. “Well,” he said, “she’s probably asleep right now — time zones and all — but if she sees this, she’s going to laugh her ass off.”
Light chuckles from a few reporters.
He leaned forward, tone still calm but now with a glint in his eye.
“No, we haven’t broken up. She’s working. I’m working. That’s life sometimes. She’s the love of my life. I’m going to marry that woman one day.”
A few pens stopped moving. A couple of heads actually turned.
Tristan didn’t blink. Just gave a quick shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“And if the wedding invite gets lost in the mail for The Sun, I promise — it’s not an accident.”
The room laughed. Even the FA media handler cracked a grin.
“All right, that’s it,” someone said from the side. “No more questions.”
.
4220 word count
Next chapter should be an interesting one. I have an interesting idea: we haven’t done a different POV in a long time.
Peace
