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Chapter 200: Rome
🕑 Added 2025-05-12 05:10:24 +0000 UTCOctober 1, 2015 – Rome, Italy
.
The Leicester City team bus rolled through the outskirts of Rome under police escort. Sirens up front. Squad cars to the side. The players inside were loud—music low, banter high.
"Yo, if those Lazio ultras wanna act up," said Schlupp from the back row, "then we act up too. Ten-nil. Smash 'em."
Simpson turned halfway around in his seat. "Ten-nil? Are you mad? Nah, we make it twelve."
The whole back third of the bus roared.
Morgan chuckled. "Just make sure you lot keep it on the pitch. Don’t get distracted by them."
Mahrez grinned, earbuds halfway out. "If they start, we finish."
Tristan nodded. "I’ll take a ten-nil though." And he really did mean that shit.
The bus turned off the main road. The Stadio Olimpico came into view—wide, looming, iconic.
But what stood out wasn’t the stadium. It was the mob.
A dense group of Lazio fans had gathered just outside the security gates. Some held scarves. Others waved banners. Most screamed slurs.
“Scimmia!” they roared — monkey!
“Vai a casa, negro!” — Go home, black boy!
One man stood tall above the rest and extended his arm in a full Nazi salute. His friends laughed and clapped like it was sport.
Tristan watched them as the bus crawled past. He didn’t think they have to deal with Italy’s racism before that match even started.
Schlupp had gone quiet. Mahrez looked away. Kanté didn’t flinch — he just stared at them.
Then a cup hit the side of the window. Plastic. Empty. But loud.
“Scimmione!” someone shrieked — Big ape!
Vardy sat forward. “Oi—what the fuck?”
Another man pressed against the barricade, dragging a hand across his eyes to mimic slanted lids.
On instinct, Vardy shot up from his seat.
Morgan reached out, steady but firm. “Don’t. We knew what this was.”
Schmeichel looked at the driver. “How far out?”
“Two minutes,” came the reply.
Tristan’s chest was tight, but he didn’t look away. He wasn’t going to. Not now.
The bus pulled into the underground lot.
No one said anything else until the engine stopped.
And even then, it was quiet, that mood already ruined.
As the bus doors hissed open, no one rushed to stand.
One by one, the Leicester players stepped out in silence. No handshakes. No jokes. Just lowered heads and the soft crunch of studs against concrete. Mahrez pulled his jacket tighter. Kanté walked with his hands tucked into his sleeves. Schlupp didn’t say a word. Vardy clenched his jaw so tight it made his neck twitch.
Tristan came out last, lingering near the edge of the group. He could still hear the echo of slurs outside the gates. Still see that arm raised in salute. He ignored the cameras taking pictures of him.
They walked as a unit through the tunnel — past security, past Italian staff, past unfamiliar signage — and down toward the visitor’s locker room. No one spoke. Even the buzz of walkie-talkies and stadium announcements felt far away. The match hadn’t started.
Just down the corridor, Claudio Ranieri stood surrounded by a ring of cameras and local journalists. His hands were tucked behind his back, shoulders squared.
"This is a young team," he said, voice clipped, precise. "But we are experienced in Europe. We reached the quarter finals last season. And with our form, I see no reason why we couldn’t win. As for Serie A’s defense being able to stop Tristan and this team, that’s nonsense.”
A few murmurs passed between reporters.
Ranieri didn’t stop.
"And before you ask — yes. We saw it. All of it. We saw the chants. We saw the salute. My players walked through that.”
He turned slightly toward the cameras.
“But they also walked through it with their heads high. They know who they are. And I know what kind of men they are.”
Flashbulbs popped.
“In football, there are results. There is pressure. There is rivalry. But there are also lines. Tonight, some of those lines were crossed before the first whistle.”
He paused, calm.
“But we will answer with football. That’s how we do things. Not out of weakness but because it is below us.”
A hush followed.
Just across the mixed zone, Lazio manager Stefano Pioli fielded his own questions. He adjusted his cufflinks and offered a practiced smile.
“Leicester are dangerous. That boy Tristan is everywhere. But this is Rome. And we don’t lose in Rome.”
The stadium lights flickered into full strength overhead.
Kickoff was still hours away.
But the tension?
It was already here.
.
Inside the Leicester Locker Room – Stadio Olimpico
The dressing room was quiet.
No laughter. No warm-ups. No banter.
Just the sound of boots being unpacked. The occasional hiss of tape being torn. The soft thud of someone setting down their water bottle too hard.
Kanté sat cross-legged on the floor, tightening his laces with small, precise movements. Mahrez leaned against the far wall, one leg raised behind him in a stretch, head tilted back against the concrete. Vardy bounced his knee, fast and restless. Schlupp hadn’t taken off his coat yet. Tristan sat forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.
Ranieri stood near the door, hands still in his coat pockets. He looked around the room slowly, face unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice low, steady.
"You already know the plan," he said. “We trained it all week. You trust each other. You trust my tactics.”
No one moved.
He continued. "But what we saw outside? That wasn’t football. That was poison. And if you carry it with you onto the pitch… they win. We don’t let them win.”
A few heads lifted. Not many.
Ranieri stepped forward. "I played here. I know this stadium. I know this crowd. When they think they’re winning, they sing. They throw smoke. They bang drums. But when they’re losing?”
He let the pause sit.
“They get uglier.”
Mahrez looked down. Vardy exhaled hard through his nose.
Ranieri turned toward the chalkboard on the wall and tapped it once.
“Paolo?”
Benetti stepped up, flipping a page on his clipboard. “As we discussed during film — the ultras sit behind the Curva Nord. We know what happened here three years ago. And five years ago. If we’re winning by halftime, they will escalate. That’s not a guess. That’s data.”
“Gestures. Objects. Chants,” Ranieri added. “And if it happens — we don’t talk to the crowd. We talk to each other. Morgan, you speak to the ref. Kasper too. Tristan, you keep the midfield calm. No pointing. No shouting. No waving arms.”
Vardy muttered, “Even if they throw more shit at us?”
Ranieri nodded once. “Yes. Especially then.”
Benetti looked around the room. “UEFA is watching this one. You’re not alone.”
Schlupp shifted. “Still feels like it.”
“Then let it feel like rage,” Ranieri said. “Use it. Every pass. Every tackle. Make them choke on their own noise.”
A beat.
Then he softened.
“This is our match. Not theirs. Play your football. That’s how you answer.”
He pointed at the Leicester crest on his jacket.
“That’s how we win.”
Silence held for another few seconds.
Then Morgan stood and clapped once — just once.
“All right,” he said. “We know what we’re walking into. So let’s give them hell.
.
Elsewhere – Lazio Locker Room
The locker room was tense.
It wasn’t focused tension — it was uneasy. Rigid. Defensive. Players moved slower than usual. Tape wrapped tighter. Shin pads tugged harder.
Stefano Pioli stood near the center, arms folded behind his back. The Lazio crest on his jacket caught the flicker of overhead light. He’d seen his players like this before — not just amped up. Embarrassed.
The news had spread quickly — what the ultras did outside. The chants. The gestures. The headlines were already rolling in, even before the match started. And now, sitting in front of him, were twenty professionals who weren’t quite sure where to put that shame.
Felipe Anderson sat on the bench, lacing up in silence. Candreva bounced one leg fast, but didn’t speak. Radu wiped sweat from his brow — he hadn’t even warmed up yet.
Pioli let it breathe, just for a second longer.
Then he spoke.
“They’re fast,” he said flatly. “They press. They run. But they’re not gods.”
He looked up. Met eyes.
“They’re in form. Everyone’s watching them. The golden boy’s been called the best player in the world by Messi himself. But he’s still twenty. And he’s in our city.”
He walked to the center of the room.
“They pulled up with police. You heard what the curva did. If any of you feel ashamed by that—good. I do too.”
A few players shifted. Biglia didn’t move.
“But this match doesn’t belong to the curva. It doesn’t belong to the press. It belongs to the eleven who walk out there.”
He pointed toward the hallway.
“They think it’s just another stadium. Another team. Another match to conquer.”
He turned to Biglia. “Let them know it’s not.”
Biglia nodded once, eyes still lowered. He was calm, but his fingers were tight around his armband.
“Anderson,” Pioli said. “You don’t need to foul. You need to win your space.”
Anderson didn’t respond, but he did stand.
“Klose — give me sixty. Maybe more.”
The veteran looked up briefly, then resumed his quiet prep. No words. Just a nod.
“Candreva,” Pioli added. “You want to talk about legacy? This is it. Everyone’s watching him. So make sure they leave remembering you.”
Candreva cracked his neck and grabbed his boots.
Pioli let his tone drop low.
“Let him run once. Let him dazzle once. But the second time — close the door. Make him feel Rome. Make him feel this club. No one walks through the Olimpico untouched.”
He stepped back and looked around the room one last time.
“This is our night. Don’t let them write it for us.”
No one responded.
They didn’t need to.
The tunnel was waiting.
.
Broadcast Booth – Sky Sports Italia
"So here we are," said commentator Marco Bellini, as the camera panned across the packed Stadio Olimpico. "Sold-out crowd in Rome. Over 70,000 in attendance tonight. And by our count, roughly 2,000 Leicester fans tucked into the far corner."
Luca Moretti added, his voice rising above the stadium's electric hum, "You have to say — Leicester come into this in insane form. First in the Premier League, unbeaten in all competitions. And Tristan Hale — twenty years old, twenty-eight goal contributions already. Jamie Vardy in top form as well with 13 goals so far."
Marco continued with a touch of awe, "Tristan has been called the best player in the world this week by no less than Lionel Messi. That’s not hype — that’s a statement."
Luca leaned closer to his mic, tone sharpening. "And on the other side? Lazio — seventh in Serie A, patchy domestically, but at home in Rome? They’re a different animal. Emotional. Aggressive. This place can turn into a cauldron."
"And the Olimpico," Marco said, nodding, "is already boiling over. You can feel it. The flares, the drums, the rhythm of it all. The ultras want this to become a war zone — they don’t want Leicester to settle."
Luca’s voice dropped slightly. "But let’s not sugarcoat this. For those just tuning in — there were disturbing scenes outside the stadium earlier. Racist chants, fascist gestures. Disgraceful stuff."
Marco’s jaw tightened. "We won’t replay it, but we saw it. And so did Leicester. They heard it. They walked past it. And they didn’t flinch."
Luca added, "The game will go on. But some of these Leicester players have already shown more strength before kickoff than most teams show in ninety minutes."
The camera shifted to the tunnel.
.
The players were lining up.
Leicester formed a tight line, shoulder to shoulder, each man with a matchday mascot beside him. The tunnel felt tighter than what the Leicester players were used to.
The chants bled in from the stadium — roars layered with drums and that same acidic edge Tristan had felt from the moment the bus turned in. It was louder here. More claustrophobic.
Tristan stood near the front, his hand resting gently on the boy’s shoulder next to him. The kid looked up at him, wide-eyed, nervous. Tristan just gave the kid a smile, he really wasn’t in the mood to play around like he would with the mascots like normal.
Across from them, the Lazio squad was lined up.
Antonio Candreva leaned in toward Mahrez. "What they did out there," he said under his breath, "it’s not us. That curva… they don’t speak for the team."
Mahrez didn’t reply at first. Then a quiet nod. “Make sure it’s not.”
Lucas Biglia looked across at Wes Morgan and offered a handshake to Morgan. “Sorry about what you had to experience, those fans don’t represent us players.
Morgan nodded, taking up the hand. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.” There were very few things players could do in their situation, that club and league had to take action as for why they didn’t who knows. But he knew for sure after this match, after what happened, it would get global attention. You don’t attack Tristan and think England and his fans would let you get away with it.
Klose, calm and composed, turned to Tristan. "None of us wanted this to be your welcome to Rome."
Tristan didn’t speak — just held his stare a second too long, then looked forward.
From the booth above, Marco Bellini’s voice came through as the cameras panned down into the tunnel.
“And here they are. The two teams. Leicester in blue, Lazio in white. But it’s not just a football match tonight — not after what’s already happened.”
Luca Moretti leaned in, voice low. “We heard it outside. We’ve seen the footage already circulating. Slurs. Salutes. And yet… here these players are. Standing. Lined up. Focused. You have to admire that.”
Bellini added, “This Leicester team — mostly young, incredibly diverse — they didn’t have to walk out here tonight. And yet they’re here. No fear.”
Back in the tunnel, referee Martínez pulled his team aside. The Spaniard’s brow was tight, voice clipped.
“We keep this match in our hands. First ten minutes — control the tempo. Leicester made themselves clear.”
“Tristan’s going to get targeted,” one assistant said.
Martínez nodded. “Then we protect him. Fair match. No excuses tonight.”
He stepped forward. Raised his voice.
“Fair match. Fair play. Keep it clean.”
Ranieri turned to his team. “Everything we discussed still stands. But if it escalates, if you feel it—come to me. We walk when I say walk.”
Morgan nodded. “We’ll handle it.”
Vardy cracked his knuckles. “Let’s give ‘em something to boo.”
The cue came. The lights shifted. The floor camera moved into place. The fourth official blew his whistle.
The tunnel opened.
And the players walked into the noise.
.
The roar that met them was thunder.
All 70,000 surged forward in one voice. Flags waved like war banners. Smoke rolled off the flares in waves. Red and blue lit up the Curva Nord. The drums didn’t pound — they pounded back. The air was thick with noise, hate, and heat.
Tristan squinted through the haze as they stepped out. He scanned the sea of bodies. The ultras were impossible to miss — bare-chested, faces painted, arms raised.
He turned his head, just enough to find Leicester’s fans in the far corner — two thousand brave dots of blue and white, standing tall amid the chaos. He gave them a way as they responded.
Vardy jogged up beside him, jaw set. “They’re foaming already.”
Tristan nodded. “Yeah. This ain’t noise. It’s venom.”
Behind them, Schlupp, Mahrez, and Kanté moved in formation — heads down, shoulders squared.
“They said we wouldn’t be welcome,” Schlupp muttered. “Understatement of the fucking year.”
“Tell me about it,” Mahrez was just as unhappy as he could. “Fuck this.”
“The Olimpico is on fire tonight,” Marco said, voice crackling with adrenaline. “Red smoke, full flares, deafening sound. You can’t hear your own thoughts in here — imagine trying to play through it.”
Luca exhaled. “But on the other side of it — this is also football’s biggest stage tonight. Tristan Hale, just twenty years old, called the best in the world by Lionel Messi himself. He’s not just in the spotlight. He is the spotlight.”
The camera cut to the team sheets.
Lazio – 5-3-2 Formation 🧤 Federico Marchetti (GK) 🚀 Dusan Basta (RWB) 🏰 Santiago Gentiletti (CB) 🏰 Wesley Hoedt (CB) 🏰 Mauricio (CB) 🚀 Stefan Radu (LWB) 🛡️ Lucas Biglia (CM) (c) 🛡️ Marco Parolo (CM) 🎯 Felipe Anderson (CM) ⚽ Miroslav Klose (ST) ⚽ Balde Keita (ST)
“And look at that,” Luca noted, “Lazio have changed shape. A 5-3-2 tonight. That’s not about scoring. That’s about survival.”
Marco nodded. “They know what form Leicester are in. Just how much firepower this team possesses. How they could punish teams at will.”
Leicester City – 4-2-3-1 Formation 🧤 Kasper Schmeichel (GK) 🚀 Danny Simpson (RB) 🏰 Wes Morgan (CB) (c) 🏰 Robert Huth (CB) 🚀 Jeffrey Schlupp (LB) 🛡️ N’Golo Kanté (CDM) 🛡️ Danny Drinkwater (CDM) 🏃♂️ Riyad Mahrez (RW) 🎯 Tristan Hale (CAM) 🏃♂️ Marc Albrighton (LW) ⚽ Jamie Vardy (ST)
“And there’s the name everyone’s here to see,” Marco said. “Tristan Hale. He’s made every pitch he steps on feel like home.”
“Let’s see if he can do it in hell,” Luca replied.
.
Tristan and Vardy stood over the ball at the center circle. The whistle hadn’t even blown yet and the Olimpico was already rumbling — not from foot traffic, but from rage. A stadium in full boil.
The referee raised his arm.
Kickoff.
Vardy tapped it backward. Tristan cushioned it one step, then rolled it toward Drinkwater. Drinkwater opened his hips and sent it sideways to Kanté.
That’s when the Olimpico exploded.
Marco was already on edge. "And we are underway in Rome! Tristan and Vardy starting us off — Leicester moving left to right, and listen to that response. This crowd isn’t just loud — it’s hostile."
"And look at Lazio. Pressing immediately. Parolo flying into Drinkwater — that’s not a tactical press, that’s a message. They want fists flying, not passes made."
Kanté barely had time to release it before Biglia came crashing in. The pass made it, but only just — a slick feed to Mahrez on the right.
Mahrez’s first touch was clean. His second drew contact. Biglia clipped his heel. Not hard. But enough.
Mahrez didn’t fall. He played on.
Tristan tracked the ball centrally, eyes constantly darting — bodies, lanes, traps.
Then it came back to him.
A crisp pass from Simpson, right into his stride. He turned.
And that’s when it hit.
Candreva swung a leg through him — late, cynical — just after Tristan released the ball to Mahrez.
Not studs. Not high. But deliberate.
Tristan staggered from the contact.
Schlupp was on the scene first, stepping in between. “Watch yourself,” he barked.
Simpson jogged over. So did Morgan.
“Ref, do something!,” Morgan shouted.
The Olimpico whistled and jeered, but the ref didn’t hesitate.
Martínez blew sharp and pulled out a yellow.
He pointed directly at Candreva, then at Biglia. “That’s your warning.”
Biglia didn’t argue. He just turned away, lips tight.
Tristan didn’t say anything. He rolled his ankle once. Then again. Walked it off. He would have fought back but he just wasn’t in the mood to do so. He was just pissed at this whole situation.
Marco leaned toward the mic. “There it is. Candreva — late, on purpose — and he’s in the book.”
Luca replied, “That’s not just a foul. That’s frustration. That’s them trying to set the tone the wrong way.”
Marco added, “And look how Leicester react. Calm, together.
Luca finished, “And Tristan — just dusts himself off and keeps going. That’s what people love about him.”
The ball was set.
The Olimpico kept screaming.
But Leicester were already back in shape — and Tristan was already watching.
Waiting.
.
From the technical area, Ranieri stepped forward. He just turned to Paolo Benetti beside him and muttered under his breath. “It starts like this. Always does.”
Benetti nodded. “They’re testing the limits.”
Across the pitch, Stefano Pioli looked furious — but not at the ref. At Candreva.
He barked across the grass. “Basta con queste stronzate! Gioca!” (Cut that shit out. Just play!)
Candreva didn’t turn.
Ranieri shifted, one hand still tucked into his coat pocket, the other pointing sharply toward the midfield.
“Stay compact,” he called out. “Let them come. Then punish them.”
Back on the pitch, Mahrez touched Tristan’s back lightly as he took the ball short.
Behind them, the Curva Nord thundered louder — stoking the fire.
Leicester weren’t rushing.
They were calculating.
Tristan drifted deeper this time, hovering just off Parolo’s shoulder. He didn’t call for it — he waited for the space to tilt. Then he moved.
Drinkwater saw the angle.
A diagonal pass. Tristan turned into it.
First touch sharp. Second touch smoother.
He let the pressure come.
Marco called it quickly. “That’s the difference. He doesn’t just play in space — he creates it. That touch pulls three Lazio players out of shape.”
Luca nodded. “And watch Kanté now. Sliding into the half-space — it’s a trap. They want Lazio to press.”
They did.
Biglia stepped too high.
Tristan pivoted on a dime and rolled it wide to Simpson. Mahrez was already moving.
A triangle formed — tight, fast, fluid.
Simpson to Mahrez. Mahrez to Tristan. Tristan backheel flick to Drinkwater — who cut it square to Albrighton with a burst of space ahead.
The Olimpico growled as one.
“It’s a lesson now,” Marco said. “One, two, three — and Lazio are chasing shadows.”
On the touchline, Pioli slapped the air, furious. “Hold your lines! Hold the damn lines!”
But it was too late.
Albrighton clipped it back to Kanté, who reset it with Tristan.
One touch. Deep breath. Survey.
He didn’t force it.
He waited for the next break.
Lazio couldn’t press. Couldn’t sit. Couldn’t breathe.
And for a moment — just a flicker — the Curva Nord hesitated.
The drums didn’t stop, but the rhythm faltered.
Tristan noticed. He smiled.
The ball worked back through Schlupp.
One touch. Then a dart inside.
Mahrez peeled wide to the right — dragging Radu with him. Vardy sat on the shoulder of Hoedt, just waiting.
But Tristan? He drifted.
Between the lines. Between the noise.
Nobody picked him up.
Drinkwater glanced. So did Kanté.
And then it came — a quick slip pass, low and smart. Straight into Tristan’s stride.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t think.
Just flicked the ball with his instep — first-time, curling, soft weight — straight into Mahrez’s path.
Mahrez took it clean on the run. One touch to settle. One more to shape.
Then he bent it.
Left foot. Far corner.
Just wide.
The net rippled, but on the wrong side.
The Leicester bench stood. So did two thousand voices in the far corner of the stadium.
The Olimpico groaned.
Marco’s voice jumped with it. “It’s just wide! Mahrez, with the first flash of fire from Leicester — and it all started with Tristan’s disguise ball. No windup. No look. Just instinct.”
Luca exhaled. “It’s football jazz. That pass had no business arriving. And Mahrez? Inches.”
Tristan walked backward into position, already scanning again.
On the far side, Pioli shoved his hands in his coat pockets, eyes narrowed.
The game hadn’t exploded yet.
But the fuse had been lit.
.
Leicester smelled it now. The tempo had tilted.
It started with Drinkwater winning a crunching 50/50 just outside Leicester’s own third. He poked it forward, where Kanté pounced, ducking under Anderson’s arm and skipping past Parolo with a shimmy.
Marco leaned in. “Watch Kanté here. Eyes up. Always up.”
Luca added, “He sees the angles before they open. That’s the engine.”
Kanté laid it wide to Mahrez, who had space on the right. He slowed. Waited.
Then glided.
Mahrez drifted past one. Then two. Both beaten clean, hips twisting.
He carried it inside, drew a third, then rolled it across to Tristan.
Tristan didn’t take a second touch — he didn’t need one.
He lofted it over the top, soft as a whisper.
Marco raised his voice. “It’s on! It’s on for Vardy!”
Vardy timed it. Let it fall.
Right boot. First-time volley.
Just over.
The stadium gasped like it had taken a punch to the gut. Even from the far corner, the Leicester fans could be heard — rising, clapping, thumping the rails.
Rome fell quiet. But only for a moment.
Corner.
Tristan jogged to take it.
As he approached, a red flare lit up behind the Curva Nord. The smoke crept over the pitch, thick and bitter. Chants followed — ugly ones. In Italian.
Tristan reached the flag, placed the ball, and took one breath.
In front of him: Morgan at the back post. Huth near the penalty spot. Vardy bouncing between defenders. Mahrez hovering at the edge of the box. Drinkwater calling for a late run.
Behind him, a wall of hate. But to his left — the Leicester fans. Small. Loud. Alive.
He let the stadium swirl. Then exhaled. Then struck it.
Perfect.
Marco was shouting before the ball dropped. “It’s curling—Morgan’s there—”
Wes Morgan rose highest.
Unmarked.
Full power.
Header.
Back of the net.
Leicester led.
The net rippled, and with it, the away section exploded. Fans jumped, arms up, scarves flying. Someone threw a water bottle in the air. Fists pounded the plexi-glass barrier.
Marco erupted. “Wes Morgan! The captain with the hammer! And Leicester City take the lead in Rome!”
Luca shouted, “They’ve silenced the Olimpico! Look at the Lazio players — stunned!”
On the bench, the Leicester players were on their feet. Okazaki spun around, pumping his fists. Chilwell slapped the railing. Even the staff were shouting.
On the pitch, Vardy grabbed Morgan and yelled something nobody could hear. Mahrez jumped on their backs. Albrighton followed, fists raised. Schlupp turned to the Leicester fans and beat his chest with both hands.
Kanté and Simpson jogged over slower, smiling wide. Drinkwater clapped behind them.
Tristan didn’t join the pile.
He stood back. Watched the Curva Nord.
He saw the disbelief. The anger. The hands waving, the scarves trembling, the faces contorting.
He smiled at that.
He liked that.
He liked hearing an entire opposing stadium go silent.
.
Leicester huddled for just a breath as they reset. The roar from their small away section still echoed behind them.
Vardy pulled Tristan in by the arm. Mahrez and Albrighton jogged over quickly, faces still flushed from the goal. Drinkwater kept his eyes on the bench. Even Kanté, usually silent in these moments, raised his voice.
“We stay focused,” Morgan said, sweeping a look across the circle. “That goal means nothing if we get sloppy.”
Mahrez nodded, voice sharp. “They’ll press harder now. Let them.”
Tristan gave a short nod, then looked to Vardy. “If it opens again, I’ll draw the heat. You get behind.”
Schlupp bumped fists with Simpson. Albrighton patted Drinkwater’s back, the rhythm of his palm steady, grounding. It wasn’t rehearsed. Just muscle memory. A team breathing together.
Across the pitch, Lazio players barely regrouped.
Gentiletti was shouting at Hoedt. Radu threw up his arms. Marchetti paced along his six-yard box, already barking for someone to mark tighter.
On the touchline, Pioli was red-faced, gesturing wildly at his midfield. “You cannot let him float free! Tristan cannot have time!” he shouted.
Felipe Anderson kicked the turf. Biglia was trying to rally them, pulling Parolo in and clapping his hands. But the tension had broken their shape.
The stadium still hadn’t recovered. Flares flickered in the distance, smoke drifting lazily into the sky. The Curva Nord was stunned. Still chanting, but not in rhythm. Not with power.
The referee glanced at his watch.
The huddle broke. No more words.
.
The whistle blew again.
Lazio kicked off in the 20th minute, clearly shaken. The crowd was loud, but not in celebration — in desperation. The Curva Nord roared, demanding a response. Chants rang out:
"Uccidili!" — Kill them! "Mandateli a casa!" — Send them home!
Marco leaned in over the mic. “Lazio restart here in Rome. But listen to that crowd, Luca — they’re not cheering, they’re pleading.”
Luca replied, “You can feel the fear wrapped in defiance. They know how fragile this is now. Leicester smell blood.”
Lazio pushed. Candreva and Lulić worked a tight give-and-go on the left flank. Parolo overlapped with a deep run. Felipe Anderson drifted inside to overload the center.
But Robert Huth read it all like a script. The big German stepped into the passing lane, intercepted Anderson’s touch, and launched the ball forward with a booming clearance.
Drinkwater met it mid-bounce and flicked it on.
Straight to Tristan.
And Leicester were gone.
Mahrez took off down the right like a shot. Vardy cut through the middle. One defender stepped toward Tristan, trying to guess. Tristan didn’t take a touch. He let the ball run right past him.
The defender froze.
Mahrez pounced.
Left foot. One strike.
Bottom corner.
2–0.
Marco exploded. “MAHREZ! Leicester are flying in Rome! And Tristan Hale—he lets the ball run, and it’s poetry in chaos!”
Luca’s voice jumped up in pitch. “That’s world-class IQ. Most players force that shot. He gave it to Mahrez like it was scripted.”
Mahrez sprinted to the corner flag, fist raised, and dropped to his knees in celebration. Schlupp and Albrighton crashed into him. Drinkwater pumped his fists. Even Kanté allowed himself a yell as he jogged to join.
But the moment turned.
The Curva Nord snapped —
“Scimmione!” — Big ape!
“Negro bastardo!” — Black bastard!
“Terrone arabo!” — Arab scum!
“Maometto terrorista!” — Mohammed terrorist!
The hate spat out in rhythm. Vile. Coordinated.
And then something flew from the stands.
A banana hit the pitch. Then another. One bounced near the penalty spot. Another rolled to the corner flag like a cruel joke.
Martínez blew the whistle. Hard. Long.
Everything froze.
Ranieri stepped out onto the pitch. Calm in posture, but his face was stone.
The referee stormed to the fourth official, gestures sharp, finger stabbing toward the Curva Nord. The UEFA delegate moved quickly to the touchline.
Leicester’s players were already grouped. They didn’t wait for protocol.
Mahrez stood still, eyes fixed on the banana.Tristan walked over, low voice cutting through the tension. “You good?”
Mahrez gave a shallow nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He paused. “Still makes me want to break someone’s teeth.”
Over the stadium PA system: “The match has been temporarily paused due to discriminatory behavior from the stands. Such actions have no place in football. Further incidents may result in suspension or abandonment of the match.”
Wes Morgan pulled everyone to the touchline. Ranieri was already waiting. Vardy spat into the grass, pacing. Schmeichel stood with his arms crossed, jaw twitching.
“You hear that?” Simpson snapped. “You hear what they think of us?”
Ranieri didn’t flinch. “We walk now, no one blames us.”
Kanté spoke before anyone else. Quiet, firm. “No.”
Heads turned.
“We’re winning,” he said. “We finish.”
Mahrez nodded. “We don’t run from trash.”
Morgan looked at them. Then the rest. “Right then. One more. We bury this.”
Ranieri gave a single nod. “So be it.”
Across the pitch, Lucas Biglia jogged over, eyes heavy. He didn’t say much — just offered his hand. First to Mahrez. Then to Schlupp. Then to Kanté.
“I’m sorry for this,” he muttered. “All of us.”
The referee returned from both benches. He walked to the center circle.
Marco’s voice had dropped to a hush. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this before. Not like this.”
Luca’s tone was quiet but cutting. “This isn’t just racism. It’s rot. And look at Leicester. Dignity in the dirt.”
The announcement echoed once more: “The match will resume. Further misconduct will result in immediate abandonment.”
The ball returned to center.
And Leicester were already walking toward it.
.
The crowd’s roar had dipped into a buzz — not quiet, not calm, but no longer electric. No longer shouting slurs as if it were normal. There was a tension now. A pressure. Like a volcano just beneath the surface.
Marco leaned forward in the booth. “They’ve got to get into halftime without further damage.”
Luca gave a slow nod, watching the field. “The problem is, Leicester don’t look done.”
Lazio tried to settle. Biglia and Felipe Anderson exchanged simple passes in midfield. Klose dropped deeper, searching. Lulić and Candreva floated wider. The shape looked safer. More structured.
But it was all surface.
Because in the 43rd minute, it cracked.
Kanté read a slow pass between the lines and stepped in front of it like he’d seen the future. One clean poke — and Leicester were off.
Drinkwater snapped the ball forward. Tristan dropped between the lines. Hoedt followed, but too slow. The ball came to his feet and everything paused for half a second.
His eyes scanned — Albrighton cutting inside. Simpson streaking wide. But Tristan ignored them both.
He rolled it left to Schlupp, then jogged forward.
Schlupp tapped it back to Drinkwater. Then to Mahrez. Then to Albrighton.
Tristan was 30 yards out now. Just hovering.
Hoedt hesitated.
Marco’s voice nearly broke shouting. “Don’t give him space there!”
Too late.
One touch. One look.
Tristan curled it.
Right foot. Far post. It bent with venom.
Marchetti stretched, but he was a silhouette. The ball snapped into the top corner.
The net danced.
The Olimpico didn’t explode. It ruptured.
The sound was guttural — not celebration, not despair. Something in between. Pure disbelief.
Luca stood up in the booth. “Oh my God.”
Marco’s voice cracked. “That’s not just a goal. That’s a statement.”
Tristan didn’t smile. He turned and jogged toward halfway like it was routine.
Mahrez caught up and threw an arm around him. Schlupp pointed at the scoreboard. Albrighton followed, shaking his head with a grin of disbelief.
On the Lazio bench, Pioli buried his face into both hands. Hoedt just stood there. Frozen. Marchetti punched the ground.
Marco’s voice rose again. “Three goals. Three daggers. And that one — from Tristan — it’s the exclamation mark.”
Luca added, “We might not even get a second half if this place boils over. But that… that’s the kind of goal people will talk about for years.”
The crowd fumed. Flares still lit. Voices still angry.
But the referee didn’t wait.
The whistle for halftime came early.
Leicester left the pitch with no celebration.
And a scoreboard that read: 3–0.
.
The locker room was tense. Steam rose from the players’ backs. Water bottles cracked. Tape unpeeled. No one spoke right away.
Ranieri stepped in. No clipboard. No drawn tactics. Just his voice.
“Everyone sit.”
They did. Slowly. Schmeichel was still pacing. Morgan sat on the bench, elbows on his knees. Mahrez leaned back with his head against the wall. Tristan sat cross-legged in front of his locker, laces loose. Kanté never moved.
Ranieri looked around the room.
“I want this very clear.” His voice didn’t rise, but the air shifted. “You do not answer hate with silence. And you do not answer it with fists. You answer it by embarrassing them.”
Simpson exhaled through his nose.
Ranieri pointed. “Three-nil is not enough. They want to drag this into the dirt? Fine. We drag them across the pitch first. With football.”
He looked to Mahrez. Then Schlupp. Then Kanté.
“You three are symbols to them. You score again — that’s power. That’s punishment. That’s the picture people will frame tomorrow.”
He turned to Tristan.
“You keep going. You take the crowd out. You don’t flinch.”
Tristan nodded once. He was barely blinking.
Ranieri faced the rest.
“We play angry. But smart. We don’t lose our shape. We don’t give them a way out. We put this on tape and make the whole world watch.”
Then he pointed to the badge on his chest.
“They think we don’t belong at the top.”
He paused.
“Prove them wrong. Again.”
.
The teams walked back out.
The crowd noise had changed. Still loud, still defiant — but fractured. The Curva Nord buzzed with tension. The red flares had gone out. In their place: anger. Shame. And silence between bursts of bitterness.
Tristan walked slower than usual. He glanced up once at the stands, then back down. He’d already decided: no celebration next goal. No shushing. No smiles.
Lazio players took their places for the restart. Lucas Biglia stood over the ball, hands on hips, his face drawn tight. Felipe Anderson muttered something low. Gentiletti and Hoedt barely spoke as they drifted back into position.
Marco’s voice dropped low. “And we begin again. Lazio to restart, trailing three-nil. But this match... this match feels heavier than the scoreline.”
Luca Moretti added, “Look at their faces. Look at Tristan Hale. This isn't just football anymore. It's personal. It's political. And the players feel it.”
The whistle blew.
Biglia rolled the ball to Parolo. Lazio kicked off the second half.
Leicester didn't jump forward. They let Lazio hold it. Let them step.
Then they squeezed.
Drinkwater pressed. Kanté waited for the slip. Mahrez shadowed the passing lane.
Lazio recycled it backward — Hoedt to Gentiletti to Marchetti.
The boos came again. From the Curva Nord. But they weren’t for Leicester this time. They were turning inward.
Schmeichel adjusted his gloves in the far net, calm as ever. On the bench, Okazaki sat forward slightly, elbows on his knees. No one spoke.
Lazio passed sideways again. Then forward. But Schlupp cut it out. One touch. Then to Drinkwater. Then to Tristan.
And something clicked.
Tristan drifted laterally. Drew two men. Slipped it wide to Albrighton.
Marco leaned forward. “Here they come again.”
Albrighton touched and fired in a low cross. Cleared, but only to the edge.
Mahrez darted in. Juggled once off his thigh. Flipped it back to Simpson. Back to Tristan.
The rhythm was back.
And Leicester were ready to punish them again.
.
Tristan took the ball in midfield. Parolo was a step slow.
Kanté drifted inside. Not his usual lane — but this wasn’t a usual match.
Marco leaned in. “Look at Kanté. That’s not where he normally goes.”
Luca answered, “That’s instinct. He wants it.”
Tristan shaped to shoot — and the whole back line bit. Marchetti set himself.
Instead, Tristan slipped it sideways.
First-time.
Kanté didn’t think. He just hit it.
Low. Driven. Off the far post and in.
4-0.
Marco roared. “N’Golo Kanté! And that might just be the final nail in Rome!”
Luca added, “It had to be him. Of all people. Of all players. Leicester’s heart and lungs just scored the goal that ends this match.”
Kanté turned. Didn’t celebrate. He pointed to Tristan.
Tristan walked toward him, arms open. The rest of the team rushed in — Albrighton, Drinkwater, Schlupp, Simpson. Mahrez was grinning. Even Schmeichel sprinted forward to join.
On the bench, Chilwell and Okazaki were already up. The coaches clapped. Ranieri only nodded once — but it was a heavy nod.
But then —
The Curva Nord snapped.
“Scimmione!” — Big ape!
“Negro bastardo!” — Black bastard!
A banana flew from the stands. Then another. One landed near the edge of the box. Another rolled near the touchline.
A flare popped.
Marco’s voice dropped. “No. No, not again.”
Martínez blew the whistle. Hard. Long. And waved.
Ranieri stepped onto the pitch immediately, storming toward the fourth official.His hands clenched. “We are done.”
Mahrez stood frozen, staring at the banana.
Schlupp muttered, “Same as always.”
Kanté looked to the bench. Then back at the stands. Then said nothing — just turned and walked toward the tunnel.
Tristan followed him. “You alright?”
Kanté nodded once. “Go.”
Marco didn’t speak.
Then: “That’s it. The game is done.”
Luca’s voice was quiet. “And it should be.”
Over the PA: “The match has been suspended due to repeated discriminatory behavior from the stands. All players and officials are to return to the tunnel.”
Ranieri waited at the tunnel, not speaking.
The Leicester players didn’t argue.
They walked.
No celebrations. No handshakes.
Just silence.
The coaching staff moved fast. No media. No press. Bags packed. No one asked why.
Their bus waited out back, engines on.
The players boarded in silence. Schmeichel sat next to Mahrez. Morgan and Kanté sat across from each other. Schlupp had his hood up.
Vardy muttered to Drinkwater. “They didn’t even care they were losing. Just wanted to spit on someone.”
Drinkwater didn’t answer.
Ranieri sat at the front with Benetti. He didn’t look furious. Just emptied.
“We don’t speak to media,” Ranieri said. “We get on the plane. We go home.”
No one disagreed.
At the airport, the team moved quickly. Security blocked cameras. The flight took off just past midnight.
Onboard, Mahrez leaned toward Schlupp. “You think UEFA will actually do something?”
Schlupp scoffed. “They’ll fine them. One match behind closed doors. That’s what they always do.”
But this time, it felt different.
Clips of the bananas. The chants. The players walking off. The flare smoking near the touchline. Freeze-frames all over the internet.
And at 12:06 AM, UEFA issued a brief statement:
UEFA strongly condemns the events that occurred during tonight’s UEFA Europa League fixture between SS Lazio and Leicester City FC. An immediate investigation has been launched into the discriminatory conduct from sections of the home support. We are in contact with both clubs and match officials. Further information will be shared pending disciplinary review.
It was only the beginning of the fallout.
.
Apologies for the delayed chapter. I just had a busy day today with work and life. Hopefully you guys like this chapter.
Now I don’t think I overdid the racism parts, matter of fact, I think I undersold just because I wasn’t comfortable writing it. But Lazio ultras and its fan truly suck ass. And everything I wrote here doing, they already did in irl and worst stuff as well. Just look them up if you are curious.
Comments
Bel'Ami Pandjo
yeah you undersold it that's just typical Lazio they would probably attack the leicester fans after the game
Cobalt
I new they were bad but I genuinely forgot about the salutes, I'm genuinely worried for the leicester fans that were at the stadium btw because of how they've been I doubt you want to write things like assaults and stabbings but could you address it later
