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Chapter 182: Written on the Wall
🕑 Added 2025-04-20 18:54:27 +0000 UTCAugust 24, 2015 – Belvoir Drive, Leicester
The sun broke through patchy grey clouds, casting thin, warm streaks across the training pitch. Boots tapped through dew-damp grass. Bibs were swapped. Balls rolled between cones like lazy planets in orbit.
Tristan stood near the halfway line, arms crossed over his chest, watching as Ben Chilwell tried to ping a long diagonal toward Fuchs. It bounced twice before falling short.
“Closer,” Tristan called. “You’re aiming for Austria, not Austria-Hungary.”
Ben groaned and jogged back. “That’s not even a real—never mind.”
Shinji was up next. His first touch was tight, his second too soft.
“Shinji,” Tristan said, clapping once, “You score a thousand goals in Japan, but can’t pass ten yards?”
Shinji glanced back, smiling faintly. “I… I score… when matter come.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a haiku?”
Shinji gave a thumbs up. “Bench not forever. You watch.”
Ben cracked up. “That’s terrifying.”
Tristan grinned. “Well, if Ranieri gives you lot a chance this weekend, don’t embarrass me. Ulloa hasn’t played a minute yet, and even he’s ahead in the queue.”
Harry Maguire jogged by, quiet as usual, stretching out his shoulders. He paused just enough to speak.
“I’m not in a rush,” he said evenly. “But I’ll be ready.”
Tristan gave him a look. “That sounds ominous.”
Maguire shrugged. “Just means I’m listening.”
“You were listening when you got booked in training last week?”
“I slipped,” Maguire said, barely smiling.
“You two weren’t even near the ball,” Ben added.
Shinji nodded, helpful as ever. “He tackle me… near water. No ball.”
Maguire glanced at Shinji, half a breath from apologizing. “Timing was off.”
“It was lunch break,” Tristan muttered.
Vardy jogged past then, catching just enough to join in. “Oi, Harry, if you start this weekend, we’re switching to rugby.”
Maguire didn’t bite. Just looked at him, stone-faced. “You wouldn’t last five minutes.”
“Don’t worry,” Tristan added. “He’ll bring his boots. Just needs to remember they’re not cement blocks.”
Maguire gave a slow nod, like he was mentally adding names to a future tackle list.
“Keep talking,” he said quietly. “I’ll deal with it later.”
Behind them, Kanté zipped a clean five-yard pass through two cones without even looking up. Schmeichel stood in goal, catching one-footed volleys from Mahrez like it was just hand-eye warm-up.
And just past the edge of the pitch, Ranieri blew the whistle twice.
“Alright,” he called. “Cool down. Film room in twenty.”
Vardy looked up. “Can we skip the part where they show me not tracking back?”
“You didn’t track forward,” Drinkwater said.
.
Twenty-five minutes later – Film Room
The blinds were half-drawn, casting the room into a low tactical glow. The projector hummed. The screen up front showed a paused frame — Dele Alli mid-stumble, the ball pinballing off his shin.
Ben Chilwell dropped into the seat next to Tristan with a protein bar in one hand. Vardy stretched across two chairs behind them, slouched low like a man awaiting sentencing.
“Do we get popcorn for this?” he muttered.
“No,” Mahrez replied flatly. “You get shame.”
“Same thing,” Vardy said.
The door opened. Ranieri entered without a word. Benetti followed, remote in hand. Shakespeare stood near the whiteboard, tablet under one arm.
Ranieri gave a slow glance across the room. Then nodded.
Benetti clicked the first clip.
63:52 — Dier Substitution Sequence
Bentaleb off. Dier on. Spurs reshaped instantly. Hale marked tighter. Walker pushed higher. Lamela drifted in.
“This is where they change it,” Benetti began. “Everything tilted here.”
He drew a line on the screen with the laser pointer.
“Dier sits here. Just inside Mahrez’s lane. That forced him to drop deeper. Look—” he clicked the next frame.
“Now Mahrez is twenty-five yards from goal instead of fifteen. That kills the counter.”
Mahrez frowned. “I was told to stay tucked.”
Ranieri answered simply. “You were. But not pinned.”
Benetti didn’t wait. Next clip.
64:22 — Quick Switch Left
Rose and Chadli execute a fast one-two. Simpson hesitates. Rose slices between Kanté and Drinkwater and sends it to Kane.
Tristan leaned forward. “That’s where Huth stepped. Wrong call.”
Benetti nodded. “Right idea, wrong timing. Kane dropped deep—Huth followed. But no cover behind.”
Ranieri added, “That’s shape awareness. Simpson’s stuck between Lamela and Kane. Mahrez is still recovering. Kanté’s late because of the switch.”
66:40 — Lamela vs Fuchs
Lamela chops inside. Fuchs holds ground. But no pressure on the pass lane. Eriksen runs off Drinkwater’s shoulder. Clean pass. One touch, and it’s nearly a shot from twenty yards before Kanté intervenes.
“Now look here,” Ranieri said, pausing it mid-motion. “This is recovery brilliance — but preventable brilliance.”
The cursor circled Mahrez again. “Too slow reacting to the overload. Riyad, this isn’t about pressing. It’s about closing off space early.”
Mahrez gave a nod. “Understood.”
Benetti flicked ahead.
80:18 — Dele Alli’s Goal
Everyone in the room stiffened. That goal was more than preventable but that team got lazy at that moment.
Rose’s ball was hopeful. Not aimed. Just dumped. Huth stepped. Morgan hesitated. Drinkwater deflected it. Then Vertonghen. Then it dropped.
Alli, half-rising, fell again. The ball caught his shin. Then his knee. Then it rolled in slow motion past a stunned Schmeichel.
Benetti let the clip run again. Slower.
“Right here,” he said, rewinding. “Simpson is square. Drinkwater backtracks too late. Huth is forward but doesn’t check his line. This wasn’t just unlucky. It was slow. Disorganized.”
Vardy finally spoke. “He didn’t even kick it.”
“No,” Ranieri replied. “But we let the ball bounce three times inside the box. That’s on us.”
He let it hang for a moment before gesturing to Benetti.
88:03 — Tristan’s Goal
Dier tight. Vertonghen shadowing. No angle. No time.
One flick. One shift. Then a shot. No backlift. No hesitation. Top bins.
The room didn’t cheer — but even the veterans leaned back in their seats.
“That’s brilliance,” Shakespeare said. “But we shouldn’t have needed brilliance to claw back a point.”
Benetti nodded. “Last season on the last day, you guys promised a miracle to the fans. And for any type of miracle to happen we need to stay focus at all times during the games, we can’t get lazy just because we are ahead.”
Ranieri capped the marker, stepped forward slowly.
“We were out-thought. Outrun in moments. That second goal? It’s the kind that kills belief if we let it.”
He looked around the room. Mahrez. Drinkwater. Kanté. Tristan last.
“You want trophies?” he said quietly. “Then you close games. You don’t let two ricochets and a stumble cost you three points.”
Schmeichel from the back: “We start faster against Bournemouth. No more drift starts.”
Vardy raised a hand. “Do we have to watch the cross I skied in the 72nd?”
“You do,” Tristan said. “Frame by frame.”
Vardy groaned. “They slow it down, I’m suing.”
A few snorts of laughter cut through the tension.
Ranieri offered the faintest smile. “Alright. Pool and recovery. Tomorrow we reset.”
.
The projector had gone dark, but the tactical board was still covered in arrows. Outside the film room, players filtered off toward the recovery pools and gym—voices low, footsteps light. The
Ranieri stood by the whiteboard, one hand on his hip, the other slowly recapping a marker. His face unreadable.
“Bournemouth,” he said quietly.
Paolo Benetti nodded. He was already pulling up clips on the office screen. The Bournemouth crest hovered beside a still frame of their overlapping fullbacks pushing high.
“They press in bursts. Lots of running. But they’re open in transition—especially second phase after they lose shape.”
Craig Shakespeare leaned in, arms crossed. “Midfield gets dragged when they go forward. You beat the press clean, you’re at their back four in three touches.”
Ranieri didn’t look up yet. “And they play like they’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Because they don’t,” Benetti said. “Promoted teams always start that way. Momentum instead of fear. But it breaks fast if you hit early.”
A pause.
Then Shakespeare added, “If we go two up by halftime, we can rotate.”
Ranieri finally looked up. He didn’t blink.
“I want to.”
He turned to the whiteboard, erased a corner, and drew four names:
Maguire. Chilwell. Okazaki. Ulloa.
“They’ve trained well,” he said simply. “But they need minutes. Real ones. Not just injury-time handshakes.”
Shakespeare stepped forward. “Okazaki’s still adjusting. But he’s clever. He’ll press like hell if we give him a lead to protect.”
“Maguire’s calm,” Benetti said. “Not perfect, but… not nervous. He’s good for the bench.
“Chilwell needs confidence; he’s good, and he’s from the academy as well,” Ranieri murmured. “And Ulloa—he won’t complain, but he hasn’t played a second. He deserves a target.”
They all stood in silence for a moment.
Then Ranieri tapped the names again.
“But not as gifts. Only if the job is done early. I won’t hand them pity minutes.”
Benetti clicked to a Bournemouth stat sheet. “If we start fast, we can control it.”
Shakespeare nodded. “Then we start fast.”
“Two goals,” he said quietly. “Then we reward the ones still waiting.”
.
The players’ lounge still smelled faintly of chlorine and protein shakes. Flip-flops slapped tile. Water bottles clunked against gym bags. One of the TVs played muted Sky Sports footage on loop — endless punditry about Tottenham’s draw, about Kane’s goal, about Tristan’s.
Tristan sat near the corner sofa, towel slung around his neck, one leg folded under him. He was half-listening as Vardy loudly accused Mahrez of dodging squats during the morning session.
“I didn’t skip anything,” Mahrez said. “I did ten reps while you were flirting with your reflection.”
“It winked first,” Vardy replied.
Drinkwater chuckled nearby. “Let’s get you two a room.”
On the far side, Ben Chilwell leaned against the vending machine, still toweling off his hair.
“They finished the mural last night, didn’t they?” he asked, more to himself than anyone else.
Mahrez looked up. “Which mural?”
“The new one. North side wall. Staff car park. I think it’s two panels now.”
Albrighton perked up. “Really? What is it this time—Shinji scoring a screamer?”
Shinji, seated quietly near Inler, tilted his head and offered a grin. “Maybe... next week.”
“I heard it’s the FA Cup team on one side,” Ben added, “and Tristan on the other.”
That got everyone’s attention.
Vardy whistled low. “Oi. Poster boy gets his own wall now?”
“Hey, I’m important to this country,” Tristan said, trying to sound arrogant, which ended up making everyone laugh. He just couldn’t pull that role off.
“Relax,” Schmeichel called from near the window. “It’s about the club. You just happen to be the crown.”
“That why the mural’s taller than the building?” Mahrez asked.
A few laughs. But the jokes softened as curiosity settled in.
Someone — probably Fuchs — said, “Come on then. We’re already sweaty. Let’s go see.”
.
One Hour Later
They walked as a group. No rush. Shinji and Inler near the back, Maguire and Ulloa side by side, talking quietly. The air was warm, the sun just beginning to slope.
They turned the corner.
And then they saw it.
The new paint still gleamed under sunlight. Massive. Seamless. The wall had been completely transformed.
🔵 Left Panel – Wembley 2014
Leicester in blue, hoisting the FA Cup. The whole squad rendered in bold brushwork. Vardy mid-shout, Wes Morgan lifting the trophy with both hands. Schmeichel crouched beside it, hair slick with rain. In the bottom corner, Ulloa’s arms raised in disbelief. And just off-center—
A young Tristan Hale.
Beneath it:
“Against All Odds – Wembley, 2014”
[Wembley > Image Here]
Silence settled. Even Vardy didn’t joke.
Kanté stopped walking.
Shinji stepped forward, lips parted slightly.
“Was good day,” he murmured.
Schmeichel let out a slow breath. “We were babies.”
Drinkwater leaned in. “And still they didn’t believe in us.”
🟡 Right Panel – 2014/15 Season, Tristan’s Year
Tristan, dressed in Leicester blue, arms spread wide in his signature celebration — the same pose that had become iconic across highlight reels and magazine covers.
Below him, arranged in polished detail, sat the ten individual trophies he’d won last season: the Golden Boy, the Puskás, the PFA double, England’s Best — and the rest.
Bold lettering stood like scripture against the paint:
“Seventy-Five Goal Contributions. Ten Awards.”
“The Miracle of Leicester.”
[Tristan’s Mural > Image here]
Mahrez said nothing. But he stepped closer.
Ben Chilwell stared longer than anyone. “One day,” he said quietly, “I want to be on that wall. Even just the edge.”
Schmeichel nodded slowly. “You will be. If we get it right.”
No one said what "it" was. But they all knew.
Tristan didn’t move. He just stood there — this was his first time seeing it. He made sure he didn’t see it on the internet. Seeing it for the first time almost brought him to tears. This was how the city saw him.
And that forget he would after this season just felt like the final stab to his heart. But thats why he had to bring them more trophies than just one Premier League, it had to be a historic one somehow.
“Oi,” Vardy finally said. “So when do we paint me in gold?”
“Win another cup,” Albrighton muttered.
Tristan cracked a faint smile. Then turned to the group.
“Next time,” he said, voice low but clear, “we all go up there. So let’s make this season count.”
He looked at the right mural again — at the version of himself holding trophies that still felt warm in memory.
Then, under his breath, just for him:
“Not done yet.”
He turned. And walked back into the light.
..
2255 word count
This is part 1 of 182 I wanted to continue, but I felt like that last line was such a good way to end it.
And I gotta study as well.
Part 2 shall be a long one, around 8k, I promise. I add in the Bournemouth game with the event for Tristan. I was thinking of adding Kobe; let me know if you guys would like any other players.
Images are in Discord if you can’t see them.
