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Chapter 148: West Bromwich Albion
🕑 Added 2025-03-12 02:00:06 +0000 UTCNovember 1st, 2014 – King Power Stadium
Leicester City vs. West Bromwich Albion…
The King Power Stadium hummed with anticipation. Fans packed into their seats, the sea of blue and white scarves creating a wall of color, voices already rising into chants. The cool November air carried the scent of hot pies, beer, and fresh-cut grass, while the players moved through their final warm-ups on the pitch.
Up in the Sky Sports commentary booth, the broadcast picked up as the stadium’s energy buzzed through the speakers, setting the stage for an important clash.
“A nice afternoon here at the King Power,” Martin began, his voice smooth as the camera panned across the stadium, “and Leicester City prepare to take on West Brom in a match that feels bigger than just three points.”
Alan, watching as the players moved through their drills, nodded. “Yeah, it’s been a tough stretch for Leicester—three games without a win. And let’s be honest, Martin, when the season started, people were talking about survival. Now? They’re being talked about like they should be pushing for Europe.”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Martin replied, leaning slightly toward the pitch. “At the start of the season, staying up was the goal. Now, because of how they’ve played, expectations have completely changed.”
Alan sighed. “That’s the price of success. If a team like Liverpool, Spurs, or Arsenal go three or four games without a win, there’s frustration, but it’s not seen as a crisis. But Leicester? Because they’ve raised the bar, people are judging them differently. They don’t have the squad depth of the big clubs, but people are expecting them to maintain that same level.”
“Yeah, and the media hasn’t exactly helped, have they?” Martin added, his tone carrying a touch of amusement. “Leicester have been all over the headlines, and a certain number 22 has been at the center of it all.”
The shot cut to Tristan jogging past the halfway line, collecting a pass before spinning and firing a beautifully weighted ball across the field to Mahrez.
Martin didn’t hesitate. “And speaking of him—one of the most exciting players in the league. How important will he be today?”
Alan watched as Tristan took a soft first touch, flicked the ball up, then sent a sharp, one-touch pass to Ulloa.
“Huge,” came the response. “We’ve already seen what he’s capable of.He’s the best player in the league. There’s very few players you can claim to be on his level. Leicester need him at his best today if they want to control this match.”
The camera lingered on Tristan far longer than any other players.
“And if there’s one thing we’ve learned about him since his debut,” Alan continued, “it’s that he thrives under pressure.”
“But he’s had a lot to deal with off the pitch, too,” Martin said, shifting the discussion. “The tabloids have had a field day—rumors, scandals, whispers about his new relationship with Barbara Palvin, the Halloween party he threw for his teammates. Some have suggested it’s a distraction.”
Alan let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “Come on, Martin. If a 19-year-old footballer can’t have a girlfriend or host a team gathering without it becoming national news, then I don’t know what we’re doing anymore.”
Martin chuckled. “The kid is literally playing football, training, and spending time with his teammates, yet the headlines would have you believe he’s out running nightclubs in London every weekend.”
Alan smirked. “Exactly. He’s 19, he’s not doing anything out of the ordinary. And let’s be clear—he’s not just some promising kid anymore. Right now, he’s the best player in the league. And, in my opinion, a top-five player in the world.”
Martin let that statement sit for a second as the crowd noise swelled, the Leicester faithful breaking into song.
🎶 “HE PLAYS FOR CITY, HE’S OUR STAR!
TRISTAN HALE, HE’LL GO SO FAR!
PASSING, SCORING, SKILLS SO FINE!
HE’S ONE OF A KIND!” 🎶
“And Alan,” Martin said, picking up the next talking point, “we have to mention it—Leicester aren’t just surprising people, they’re dismantling some of the so-called bigger clubs. That 7-1 win over Manchester United a few weeks ago—one of the most shocking results of the season.”
Alan chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “Oh, Martin, that wasn’t just a win—it was a statement. People thought Leicester’s strong start was a fluke, and then they put seven past United. I look back, and I still think that was the best performance I saw out of any players in history and it wasn’t just Tristan, either—Vardy, Mahrez, Ulloa… the entire Leicester side was relentless. That wasn’t a ‘one-off’ performance. That was a team showing what level they were playing at.”
Martin watching as Tristan trapped a pass effortlessly, flicking it up before pinging a long-range ball to Mahrez, exhaled.
"He might need a few minutes to settle in, Martin. A week off doesn’t sound like much, but in football, especially for a player as sharp as Tristan, it can take a moment to get back into full rhythm. But let’s not forget, even when he’s not at his absolute best, he’s still capable of deciding a match in a single moment."
Martin chuckled. "We’ve seen that plenty of times this season already, haven’t we? The goals, the assists, the performances that have put him at the center of everything good Leicester do."
Alan agreed. "And I expect nothing different today. The fans certainly do too. Just listen to that atmosphere—King Power is ready for a show."
The camera switched, cutting to the stands where Barbara Palvin sat beside Julia Hale, both wrapped in warm coats, their eyes locked onto the players below.
A wave of cheers erupted from a few sections of the stadium as their faces flashed on the big screen, playful whistles and applause breaking out as some fans clapped enthusiastically.
Tristan, still stretching, caught sight of them immediately. Without hesitation, he lifted his hand, waving toward them before sending two playful flying kisses—one to Julia, one to Barbara.
The crowd roared with laughter and cheers, and Barbara shook her head, laughing, nudging Julia playfully as the older woman beamed, pressing a hand to her chest.
Alan let out a small chuckle. "Well, if there were any doubts about whether Tristan is feeling the pressure today, that moment tells you everything you need to know."
Martin grinned. "Ice-cold as ever. Baby-Faced Assassin indeed."
Barbara adjusted her coat, the November air settling around her as the stadium buzzed with anticipation. The chants, the murmurs of excited fans, the steady rhythm of the pre-match drums—it should have made her feel at ease, but there was a weight pressing on her chest.
Julia, ever perceptive, had been watching her carefully.
She leaned in slightly, nudging Barbara with her elbow.
“So,” she said, a knowing look on her face. “How was the Halloween party?”
Barbara let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “It was… chaotic. But fun.”
Julia raised an eyebrow. “And living with my son? Be honest.”
Barbara smiled, thinking about the last few weeks—the early mornings, the late-night conversations, the way Tristan always made sure she was comfortable, checking in on her before he left for training, teasing her when she stole his hoodies.
“Honestly?” she said, her voice softer now. “It’s been really nice. He’s mature, responsible…he’s everything, perfect.But at times he still feels like a kid figuring everything out.”
Julia hummed, leaning back slightly. “That’s what I worry about.”
Barbara glanced at her, eyebrows knitting together. “Worry?”
Julia nodded. “He’s a good boy, but he’s also young, and success like his? It can get to people. I don’t want him to get a big ego. I don’t want him to think he’s untouchable.”
Barbara exhaled, understanding the concern. “I don’t think he ever will, Julia. He knows how hard he has to work for everything. He’s confident, sure, but not arrogant. And he respects the people around him. That’s why his teammates love him. And his heart is too nice to develop an ego like that.”
Julia studied her for a moment, then smiled. “I’m glad he has you, then.”
Barbara smiled back, but it faltered slightly, her fingers absently tracing the fabric of her coat, her gaze flickering downward.
Julia caught it immediately.
She tilted her head slightly, her voice gentle but firm. “Alright, sweetheart. Tell me what’s really on your mind.”
Barbara hesitated, inhaling deeply before finally speaking.
"I just…" She trailed off, then finally looked at Julia, deciding to be honest. "I feel like I’m not doing enough for him."
Julia blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. "What do you mean?"
Barbara let out a quiet sigh, running a hand through her hair.
"He’s always looking after me," she admitted. "Making sure I have Sophia and Soma to keep me company when he’s training, checking in even when he’s exhausted, making me feel like I’m the only person in the world when we’re together. And I just… I feel like I haven’t done enough for him."
Julia stayed silent, letting Barbara get everything out.
"And now I have to leave again soon," Barbara continued, her voice quieter. "We’re going to Malibu together, but then—like always—we go our separate ways for another two, maybe three weeks. He won’t say it, but I know it gets to him, and it’s getting to me too."
She let out a frustrated laugh, her gaze flickering toward the grey clouds above the stadium.
"He deserves everything, and I just…" she swallowed. "I don’t know if I’m enough."
Julia let out a small sigh, then reached into her purse.
Barbara looked over, confused, as Julia tapped her phone screen, before turning it toward her.
"You see this?"
Barbara tilted her head, leaning in.
It was a video—one she immediately recognized. The clips of her and Tristan at the hospital, the ones taken by the nurses who had posted them online with the faces of all the kids blurred out. And that entire visit not being mentioned.
The video had gone viral again as videos of her and Tristan always did.
The caption?
Find someone who looks at you the way Barbara looks at Tristan.
Barbara’s heart skipped a beat.
Julia smiled, nudging her gently.
"You think you’re not doing enough?" she said softly. "Sweetheart, you make my son happy. That’s enough."
Barbara swallowed, glancing back at the video, watching the way she had unknowingly looked at Tristan.
Julia continued, her voice gentle but firm.
"I’ve never seen my boy smile like this. Never seen him laugh like this. And look at the way he looks at you, Barbara. Besides football, you are his world. It’s written all over him."
Barbara exhaled slowly, but the knot in her chest didn’t fully ease.
She hesitated for a long moment before saying the one thing that had been nagging at her the most.
"Julia, I don’t even know what we are."
Julia’s eyebrows lifted slightly, curiosity flickering in her gaze. "What do you mean?"
Barbara sighed, shaking her head.
"We just… started dating. There wasn’t a conversation, no defining moment where he asked me to be his girlfriend. I feel like, in his head, we just are. And maybe that’s fine, but it’s—" she hesitated, searching for the words. "I don’t know if that means he loves me. I know he cares, I know he likes me, but love?"
She swallowed, the vulnerability clear in her voice.
"I fell for him so easily. I don’t know if he feels the same way."
Julia let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head.
"Oh, sweetheart."
Barbara glanced at her, confused.
"Maybe Tristan hasn’t said it," Julia said gently. "But you really think he doesn’t love you?"
Barbara opened her mouth, but Julia kept going.
"The boy bought a house because you liked it. Have you noticed he does everything you say? If you mention wanting something, he gets it. If you even look slightly cold, he’s wrapping his jacket around you before you can shiver. If you frown, he’s asking what’s wrong before you even realize something is. Tristan might not be good at saying things, but he shows them. And my son, sweetheart?" Julia squeezed Barbara’s hand. "He loves you. He just doesn’t know how to say it yet."
Barbara felt her chest tighten.
Julia let out a sigh, but then her expression turned serious.
"And if he ever cheats on you—" she said flatly, "I brought him into this world. I can take him out."
Barbara let out a startled laugh, shaking her head.
"You raised him better."
Julia nodded firmly. "Exactly."
Barbara hesitated before speaking again. "He’s afraid of that too, you know?"
Julia’s brow furrowed. "Afraid of what?"
"Me cheating." Barbara’s voice was quiet. "The media, the pressure, my work. He doesn’t say it, but I can see it. I even changed a magazine cover because he didn’t like the way it was shot. It was too revealing, and I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable."
Julia sighed, squeezing Barbara’s hand once more.
"Talk to him, sweetheart. These fears? They won’t go away on their own. And love like this—this pure, this real—it shouldn’t be ruined by doubt or hesitation."
Barbara looked down, taking it all in.
Julia let out a soft chuckle, then grinned mischievously.
"And I can’t wait for the wedding."
Barbara choked. "What?!"
Julia laughed. "And the kids. Oh, they’re going to be so beautiful."
Barbara groaned, covering her face. "We haven’t even talked about kids!"
Julia patted her knee. "You will. One day."
Barbara finally smiled. She felt lighter letting go of her fears, she really liked Juila, Tristan really took everything after her in terms of personality and looks.
[Fuck you, chinese author with your bullshits.]
As the players wrapped up their warm-ups, Tristan let his gaze drift toward the stands one last time.
His eyes immediately found Barbara, and she was already looking at him, eyes bright smiling down at him.
Then, she lifted her hand and blew a kiss toward him.
Tristan stumbled back dramatically, clutching his chest as if he’d been struck by an arrow, his exaggerated expression earning a few laughs from the crowd nearby.
Barbara shook her head, chuckling, while Julia, sitting beside her, simply smiled knowingly, nudging her lightly.
"See?" Julia murmured. "You’re enough."
Barbara didn’t say anything at first, but the warmth in her chest spread.
She just smiled.
The buzz of the stadium was muffled inside the Leicester City dressing room, replaced by the low hum of focus and preparation.
Players sat in various states of readiness—some lacing their boots tighter, others rolling their ankles, adjusting their shin guards. A few were stretching, loosening up their legs, while others sat still, eyes closed, mentally locked in.
Pearson stood at the front, arms crossed, his sharp gaze sweeping the squad.
The room fell into a quiet anticipation.
"Right," he began, his voice carrying the weight of command, firm yet controlled. "I don’t care what the media’s been saying. I don’t care about the outside noise. And I definitely don’t care about whatever bloody Halloween party some of you enjoyed."
A few muffled snickers echoed through the room.
Pearson’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
"If I see any of you sloppin’ about on that pitch because you were too busy playing dress-up instead of preparing for this match, I will personally make sure your next training session is hell on earth."
Silence.
Vardy, for once, managed to suppress a grin, though his shoulders shook slightly. Tristan shot him a knowing glance but said nothing.
Pearson exhaled, pacing slightly. His tone lowered, but somehow, that made it even more commanding.
"We’ve gone three games without a win. That stops today. We’ve got the quality. We’ve got the fight. And we’re at home. No excuses. You go out there and play like you know you can."
He let the words settle, then his gaze locked onto Tristan.
"Tristan, you’re back today. You had a nice vacation—now we need you back."
Tristan, rolling his shoulders, nodded once. "Got it, boss."
Pearson turned, his eyes sweeping the squad once more.
"Play fast. Play smart. Work for each other. We win this, and we get back on track. We don’t, and we’ll be working twice as hard come Monday."
A few groans murmured through the group, but no one dared to argue.
Pearson clapped his hands together, his tone rising.
"Now, get out there and remind these lot who we are."
The squad stood together, final checks made—jerseys straightened, captain’s armbands adjusted, last-minute fist bumps exchanged.
The air was thick with anticipation as they headed for the tunnel.
Outside, the King Power Stadium was waiting.
The deep bass of the stadium speakers vibrated through the concrete floor, a steady pulse that matched the growing energy in the tunnel. The noise outside was deafening—tens of thousands of fans chanting, singing, creating a wall of sound that buzzed through the air.
Both teams lined up, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the signal to walk onto the pitch.
That was when Tristan felt the tug on his sleeve.
He glanced down and was immediately surrounded—a small group of Leicester’s biggest young fans, their excitement barely contained, wide-eyed and jittery as they clutched at their oversized jerseys and fidgeted with nervous hands.
One of them, a freckle-faced boy, barely seven years old, held onto his sleeve like it was a lifeline, eyes practically sparkling.
"Tristan!" he whispered, like saying his name too loud would make him disappear. "You’re my favorite player ever!"
Tristan crouched slightly, bringing himself down to eye level, a grin tugging at his lips.
"Yeah? Who’s second?"
The kid hesitated, glancing at the other mascots for support before sheepishly muttering—
"Ronaldo."
The group erupted into giggles, and one of them—a little girl drowning in a Leicester jersey three sizes too big—grabbed Tristan’s arm, her expression deadly serious.
"Can you score today? For us?"
Tristan pretended to think, tapping his chin dramatically.
"Hmm. I dunno, I might be a bit rusty—"
"NOOO!" they wailed in unison, shaking their heads aggressively.
Tristan chuckled, reaching out to ruffle the closest boy’s hair.
"Alright, alright. Just for you lot, I’ll do my best."
The West Brom players nearby couldn’t help but glance over—some smiling, others shaking their heads at the sight of Leicester’s star player being mobbed like a big kid himself.
One of them, Ben Foster, the England international and West Brom’s goalkeeper, laughed.
"Welcome back, Tristan."
Tristan glanced up, nodding in return. "Appreciate it, mate."
Craig Dawson, another England international, offered a handshake. "Looking forward to this one?"
Tristan gripped his hand firmly, flashing a small grin. "Yeah. Let’s see what you’ve got."
Before he could say more, Vardy elbowed him in the ribs, grinning.
"What’s this then, Tristan? New career in children’s entertainment after football?"
Tristan snorted, nudging him back. "Probably pay better than your goal bonuses."
Vardy cackled, shaking his head. "Cheeky little—"
The referee signaled.
The moment had arrived.
Tristan gave the mascots a final pat on the head, the little girl clutching his sleeve beaming up at him.
"We’re counting on you!" she said, voice barely above the noise.
Tristan exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
"I won’t let you down."
Then, the players walked out onto the pitch, the roar of the stadium hitting them like a tidal wave.
🎶 “HE PLAYS FOR CITY, HE’S OUR STAR!
TRISTAN HALE, HE’LL GO SO FAR!
PASSING, SCORING, SKILLS SO FINE!
HE’S ONE OF A KIND!” 🎶
Tristan felt the adrenaline surge, the familiar buzz of matchday wrapping around him like a second skin.
As the teams walked onto the pitch, the Sky Sports cameras panned across the players, capturing the electric atmosphere inside the King Power Stadium. The roar of the crowd swelled, scarves waving, blue filling the stands as Leicester fans belted out chants, their voices carrying through the crisp autumn air.
The live broadcast picked up the energy instantly.
"Well, here we are at the King Power Stadium, where Leicester City are desperate to end their recent winless run. They face a well-organized West Bromwich Albion side that will be looking to make life difficult for them. Alan, what are we expecting tactically today?"
Alan studied the formations on the graphics overlay, his tone thoughtful.
"It’s an interesting one, Martin. Leicester are setting up in a 4-3-1-2, which has worked well for them in previous matches. Tristan Hale is playing in that No. 10 role, just behind Vardy and Ulloa, which gives them a lot of attacking flexibility."
Martin nodded, watching as Leicester’s players jogged to their positions, rolling their shoulders, getting in their final stretches.
"And with Danny Drinkwater still out injured, Andy King steps in to fill that midfield void."
Alan agreed.
"King’s a hard worker, a smart player, but he doesn’t quite have the passing range of Drinkwater. That means Leicester might have to rely more on Tristan to dictate play and be the creative force in the middle than before with Danny.”
The camera zoomed in on Tristan, standing just beyond the center circle, bouncing lightly on his toes, eyes locked on the opposition, his usual focused expression in place.
"He’ll be key today," Martin continued. "Everything Leicester does in attack will likely go through him. We know what he’s capable of—he’s got that vision, that quick footwork, and the ability to turn a game on its head in an instant."
Alan added, "And they’ll need him at his best, because look at how West Brom are setting up—4-4-1-1. Very compact, very disciplined. They’ll try to clog up the midfield and hit on the counter."
Starting Lineups
The graphic displayed the formations on screen as Alan continued breaking it down.
Leicester City (4-3-1-2)
🧤 GK: Kasper Schmeichel
🛡 RB: Ritchie De Laet
🛡 CB: Wes Morgan (C)
🛡 CB: Marcin Wasilewski
🛡 LB: Paul Konchesky
🔵 CM: Esteban Cambiasso
🔵 CM: Andy King
🔵 CM: Matty James
🎩 CAM: Tristan Hale
⚡ ST: Jamie Vardy
🦊 ST: Leonardo Ulloa
Alan nodded as the camera switched to the opposing lineup.
West Bromwich Albion (4-4-1-1)
🧤 GK: Ben Foster
🛡 RB: Andre Wisdom
🛡 CB: Joleon Lescott
🛡 CB: Craig Dawson
🛡 LB: Sébastien Pocognoli
⚫ RM: Chris Brunt
⚫ CM: Craig Gardner
⚫ CM: James Morrison
⚫ LM: Graham Dorrans
🎩 CF: Stéphane Sessègnon
⚡ ST: Saido Berahino
Alan studied the opposing setup.
"West Brom’s plan is obvious. They’ll sit deep, stay compact, and make it tough for Leicester to play through the middle. Sessègnon will drop back when they don’t have the ball, making it almost a five-man midfield."
Martin continued the thought, watching as West Brom’s defense practiced their compact lines during warm-ups.
"And that means the key battles today will be in that central area. Can Leicester break them down? Can they move the ball quickly enough? Because West Brom won’t make it easy for them."
The referee blew the final whistle for pre-match formalities, signaling the teams to gather for their final huddles.
The stadium roared, chants echoing through the air.
As Leicester broke their huddle, Tristan exhaled sharply, shaking off the last traces of nerves.
Martin’s voice carried one last thought before the whistle.
"Well, Leicester have struggled, but today is a new opportunity. Can their crown jewel, Tristan Hale, inspire them to victory? We’re about to find out."
The players took their positions.
The referee raised his whistle.
Kickoff was next.
The whistle blew, and the game was underway.
Leicester, clad in their royal blue kits, immediately took control, moving the ball around with confidence. West Brom, as expected, sat deep, their disciplined 4-4-1-1 shape keeping things compact.
Tristan felt the rush as the match kicked into gear, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. It had only been a week since he last played, but even that short break was enough for his body to need a few moments to fully adjust back to the rhythm of the game.
He rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply.
Alright. Ease into it.
Leicester cycled possession, working the ball between Cambiasso, King, and James, while Tristan floated between the lines, looking for an opening. But West Brom weren’t giving him an inch, their midfield dropping deep, closing spaces before he could get into his usual flow.
The commentary picked up the narrative, Martin’s voice carrying through the broadcast.
"Leicester seeing most of the ball early on, but no real openings just yet."
Beside him, Alan studied the early patterns of play.
"Yeah, they’re being patient, feeling their way into the game. And it’s important, Martin, because you don’t want to go all-out too early against a team like West Brom, only to get caught on the counter."
The opening five minutes were all about control—Leicester moving the ball side to side, probing, testing West Brom’s defensive shape.
Seventh minute.
Cambiasso found Tristan in space just past the center circle, finally giving him his first real touch of the game.
As soon as the ball arrived, pressure followed—Craig Gardner and James Morrison immediately closing in, bodies tight, not allowing him to turn.
Tristan tried to spin away, but his first touch wasn’t sharp enough, the ball rolling too far forward, allowing Morrison to stick a foot in and poke it away.
The crowd groaned, a few frustrated shouts ringing out.
West Brom sprang into action, launching a counter.
A long ball over the top targeted Saido Berahino, but Wasilewski reacted quickly, cutting it out before it could develop into anything serious.
Tristan exhaled, rubbing his fingers together.
Sloppy. Shake it off. Next one.
Vardy, standing nearby, clapped his hands, his voice cutting through the noise.
"You’re good, mate. Keep moving."
Tristan nodded, shaking out his arms. He wasn’t worried—just annoyed.
Alan noticed it too.
"You can see Tristan there, just adjusting back to the tempo. It’s normal, after missing a week. He’ll settle in soon."
Martin agreed.
"Yeah, and that’s what makes him so special—he doesn’t dwell on mistakes. He’ll already be thinking about how to adjust."
By the 10th minute, Leicester started to find a bit more flow.
Cambiasso dictated play, directing traffic from deep, while Andy King worked tirelessly off the ball, making himself available in pockets of space.
Tristan, still shaking off the rust, started dropping slightly deeper, linking up with King and James to help progress the ball forward.
12th minute.
Tristan picked up possession near the center circle.
This time, his first touch was sharp.
With a quick feint, he left Morrison behind, rolling the ball onto his stronger foot before switching play out wide to Ritchie De Laet.
The crowd clapped in approval, sensing a shift in momentum.
Tristan felt himself relax.Getting back into form.
"There we go. That’s what he does so well—just that little movement, the quick switch of play. It doesn’t always have to be spectacular, but it gets Leicester into a better attacking position instantly."
By the 15th minute, Leicester had started to push higher up the pitch, looking more comfortable.
Then, West Brom nearly punished them.
A misplaced pass from Matty James was intercepted by Gardner, who immediately launched a ball over the top for Berahino.
The West Brom striker took off, sprinting past Wasilewski, racing toward Schmeichel’s goal.
The Leicester fans gasped, a nervous tension gripping the stadium.
"This could be dangerous!" Martin warned as Berahino charged into the box.
Schmeichel rushed off his line, making himself as big as possible.
Berahino took the shot—low and hard toward the bottom corner.
Schmeichel dived.
Fingertips. Just enough. The ball deflected wide!
The King Power ERUPTED, fans chanting Schmeichel’s name, relief washing through the stands.
Tristan jogged back toward the box, patting Schmeichel on the back.
"Good stuff
The goalkeeper, still catching his breath, flashed a grin.
"Gotta keep you lot in it, don’t I?"
The fans raised their voices at the moment.
"SCHMEICHEL! SCHMEICHEL! OUR DANISH WALL!"
The noise was deafening.
Tristan, feeling the game’s rhythm settle, clenched his fists briefly.
Alright. Now, time to take control.
The King Power Stadium was alive, a buzz of anticipation coursing through the stands. The chants had grown louder, Leicester pressing harder, probing, testing West Brom’s resolve.
West Brom had held firm so far, but the pressure was mounting.
Then, in the 18th minute, the breakthrough came.
It started with Andy King, who collected a pass just past the halfway line.
Seeing Tristan drop into space, he played a simple pass into his feet.
And then, it all happened in an instant.
Tristan’s first touch was immaculate, letting the ball roll across his body, shifting his weight just enough to pull Gardner off balance before cutting sharply the other way.
With a burst of acceleration, he skipped past another West Brom midfielder, driving forward with purpose.
"Is this it?" Martin’s voice sharpened.
Tristan lifted his head, spotting Mahrez making a run down the right flank.
With a delicate, curling pass, he dropped the ball perfectly into Mahrez’s path, splitting the West Brom defense wide open.
Mahrez controlled it smoothly, darting toward the box—
The crowd rose in unison, sensing the moment.
But West Brom’s defenders scrambled back, closing him down before he could get a shot off.
Mahrez cut inside, recycling possession, laying it off to Cambiasso, who played it straight to Andy King at the edge of the penalty area.
King turned—saw Tristan just outside the D—and played it into his feet.
A heartbeat of silence fell over the stadium.
Tristan felt the defender closing in.
One touch. Shift left. A feint.
With the outside of his boot, he slipped a perfectly weighted ball between Lescott and Dawson, curling past their outstretched legs—
And into the path of Leonardo Ulloa.
"He’s through!" Alan’s voice rose with excitement.
One touch. A second to set himself. Then—
BANG!
Ulloa struck it first time, smashing the ball past Ben Foster, low and hard, into the bottom corner.
The net rippled.
The King Power Stadium ERUPTED.
A deafening roar shook the stands, thousands of voices exploding into cheers, fists pumping in the air, scarves whipping wildly.
"LEICESTER! LEICESTER! LEICESTER!"
Martin, barely able to contain himself—
"LEICESTER TAKE THE LEAD! AND WHAT AN ASSIST FROM TRISTAN HALE!"
Alan, still in disbelief, let out a laugh of admiration.
"That’s just magical! He waits, waits, and then threads the perfect pass! That’s what makes him special—he sees the game differently!"
The camera cut to the stands, where Barbara and Julia had sprung to their feet, cheering, clapping, Barbara beaming, Julia grinning proudly.
Tristan, grinning himself, jogged toward Ulloa, who spread his arms wide, screaming in celebration before being mobbed by teammates.
Vardy leaped onto Ulloa’s back, Mahrez grabbing Tristan by the shoulders, laughing.
"That pass, mate! Filthy!"
Cambiasso and Konchesky joined in, ruffling Tristan’s hair before shoving him toward Ulloa to celebrate properly.
The stadium still rocked, Leicester players resetting, the momentum fully in their favor now.
The Foxes were ahead.
The roar of celebration still echoed through the King Power Stadium as Leicester reset for the kickoff.
West Brom, now trailing 1-0, took a deep breath, knowing they had a long road ahead.
The momentum had fully shifted, and you could see it in the players’ body language. Leicester stood tall, energized by the goal, while West Brom looked tense, their formation slightly disjointed as they prepared to restart.
From the dugouts, both coaches reacted differently.
Nigel Pearson, arms crossed, gave a short nod, his face unreadable—but there was a flicker of satisfaction. He knew his team had control, but he also knew they couldn’t afford to relax.
On the opposite side, Alan Irvine was already barking instructions at his players, urging them to stay compact and not let Leicester pull them apart.
From the broadcast booth, the commentators picked up on it immediately.
"Leicester lead 1-0," Martin announced, his voice steady but charged with excitement. "And Alan, you can just see how much that goal has lifted them."
Alan nodded, watching the players reset on the pitch. "Absolutely, Martin. West Brom were holding strong, but that was a moment of real quality. Tristan Hale, take a bow—what a pass that was for Ulloa’s goal. And now, West Brom have a real problem."
Martin continued, "And what do you do now if you’re Alan Irvine? Because sitting back isn’t an option anymore, is it?"
Alan sighed. "No, it’s not. They came in with a clear game plan—stay compact, frustrate Leicester, hit them on the counter. But now they have to take more risks. Sessègnon and Berahino have barely seen the ball. They might need to push their midfield line higher to try and get back into this."
As West Brom kicked off, their urgency was clear. Instead of passing backward, they immediately sent the ball long, trying to get Berahino into space.
But Wasilewski was first to it, his towering header sending the ball back toward the midfield.
Leicester were locked in now.
With the momentum in their favor, Leicester settled in, dictating play.
Tristan, now fully in rhythm, moved everywhere—tracking back defensively, linking up with Vardy, and taking players on with growing confidence.
In the 25th minute, he picked up the ball in his own half, turned past Morrison with ease, and carried it forward with purpose.
West Brom collapsed on him, three players closing in, but he didn’t panic.
A quick drop of the shoulder, a feint—and he was gone.
He skipped past Gardner, drove into space, and threaded a pass out wide to Mahrez, whose first touch killed the ball dead.
The crowd responded immediately.
Leicester were finding gaps now.
Martin’s voice rose slightly. "Leicester are in full control now. West Brom just need to get to halftime without conceding again."
Alan agreed. "Yeah, but Leicester smell blood. And when Tristan Hale is in this mood, anything can happen."
In the 28th minute, Leicester almost doubled their lead.
Tristan, now playing with complete confidence, danced past two West Brom midfielders before unleashing a shot from distance—
But Ben Foster reacted quickly, diving low to push it around the post.
The crowd was on their feet again, roaring their approval.
For the remainder of the half, West Brom were clinging on.
They had barely managed to cross the halfway line, their players dropping deeper and deeper, trying to withstand the waves of Leicester pressure.
Irvine, clearly unhappy, motioned for his players to push up, but they were too pinned back, Leicester’s intensity refusing to let up.
As the final minute of the half approached, West Brom finally managed a rare foray forward.
A hopeful long ball toward Berahino forced Wasilewski into action, the Polish defender stepping in with a strong challenge.
The ball bounced loose, but before Sessègnon could react, Cambiasso pounced, shielding it before winning a foul just outside the box.
The referee blew his whistle.
HALFTIME.
The stadium erupted in applause, the Leicester players walking off with confidence, while West Brom looked relieved to get a breather.
Tristan, still catching his breath, wiped the sweat from his forehead, exchanging a quick high-five with Ulloa.
As he walked toward the tunnel, he glanced toward the stands, his eyes immediately finding Barbara.
She was still standing, her gaze locked on him, her expression intense—raw, unfiltered emotion written all over her face.
For a split second, the noise faded.
The match disappeared.
It was just her.
Tristan lifted his fingers, sending a small, playful salute her way before disappearing down the tunnel.
Barbara exhaled slowly, pressing a hand over her chest, her heartbeat loud in her ears.
Beside her, Julia simply smiled, watching her son disappear into the tunnel with quiet pride.
She leaned in, whispering—
"Yeah… that boy loves you."
….
The Leicester players filed into the dressing room, their breaths still heavy from the intensity of the first half. Some went straight for the water bottles, gulping down fluids, while others slumped onto the benches, stretching out their legs, rolling their shoulders, preparing for another 45 minutes of battle.
The atmosphere was focused, not celebratory—they had the lead, but they all knew 1-0 wasn’t enough.
Tristan dropped onto the bench, dragging a towel over his face, letting out a slow exhale. Across from him, Vardy was still buzzing, bouncing his knee, restless energy coursing through him.
"We’ve got them rattled, boys," Vardy said, flashing a grin. "They don’t know how to handle us when we go at them."
"Yeah, but we need the second goal," Cambiasso countered, ever the experienced leader, his voice calm but carrying weight. "1-0 is never safe."
Nigel Pearson strode in, clapping his hands twice, signaling for full attention. The room instantly fell silent.
"Right. Good half." His sharp gaze swept across the squad, pausing on a few players before settling on Tristan.
"Tristan, great pass for the goal. You’re finding space well—keep making them work."
Tristan gave a small nod, rolling his shoulders.
Pearson continued, his eyes shifting toward Vardy and Ulloa.
"Your movement is causing them problems. Keep stretching their backline, don’t let them settle."
Vardy, still bouncing on his toes, grinned. "They can’t handle us, gaffer."
Pearson raised a brow, giving a small shake of his head. "Then put the game to bed and prove it."
He turned toward Andy King and Matty James, pointing a firm finger at them.
"Midfield, tighten it up. Don’t let them dictate the pace. We control this game, not them."
Then, his voice sharpened, his tone dropping slightly, making it clear he wasn’t going to accept any lapses in focus.
"1-0 is nothing. I don’t want anyone thinking we’ve done the job. No sloppiness, no switching off. We keep the tempo high, we press them, and we kill this off."
His gaze locked onto Tristan once again, a challenge in his eyes.
"And you—" Pearson’s voice was quieter now, but just as intense. "I want you on the ball even more. Pull them apart. Find the gaps. You’re the one who’s going to open this game up."
Tristan held his gaze, "Got it, boss."
Pearson clapped his hands once more.
"Alright, second half—we go again. Let’s finish this."
In the opposite dressing room, the energy was different—not shattered, but tense, frustrated.
Alan Irvine stood at the tactics board, marker in hand, wiping off his previous notes as he scribbled fresh adjustments.
Ben Foster, still breathing heavily from Leicester’s first-half onslaught, dropped onto the bench, shaking his head.
"They’re quicker than we thought," he muttered. "Every time we step up, they move it faster."
Joleon Lescott, hands on his hips, let out a long breath.
"It’s that bloody Tristan," he grumbled, rubbing his temple. "Every time we lose track of him, he creates something. We can’t keep giving him space."
Craig Gardner, sitting beside James Morrison, nodded.
"Yeah, but we’ve been compact. We’ve stopped them getting in behind for the most part. That assist was class, but otherwise, they haven’t cut us open yet."
Irvine finally turned around, his voice steady but firm.
"Alright, listen up."
The room fell silent, players leaning forward, waiting for the tactical changes.
"First of all, we’re still in this," Irvine said, his tone carrying authority. "One goal. That’s nothing. We stay disciplined, we keep our shape, and we wait for our moment."
He pointed at Sessègnon, who had been too isolated in the first half.
"We need to get you more involved. We’re sitting too deep, and when we win the ball, we’re not supporting you quickly enough. When we counter, we go as a unit."
Sessègnon nodded, tapping his boots together.
Irvine then turned to Berahino, who had spent most of the half chasing shadows up front.
"Stay high. Keep pressing their center-backs. But when we break, don’t drift too wide. Get into the box and make yourself a problem."
Then, his focus shifted to the midfielders.
"Gardner, Morrison—you’ve done well breaking up their play, but we can’t let Tristan dictate everything. We need to be aggressive. Get tight to him. Make him uncomfortable."
Morrison nodded, glancing at Gardner.
"You mean foul him?"
Irvine sighed, rubbing his temple.
"No, but… don’t make life easy for him either."
There was a brief silence before Irvine clapped his hands together.
"One chance. That’s all we need. Stay patient, and take it when it comes."
The players stood, shaking out their legs, rolling their shoulders.
Lescott turned to Foster.
"We survive the first fifteen, we frustrate them, and they’ll start forcing it. That’s when we hit them."
Foster nodded. "Yeah. We’re not out of this yet."
As they headed toward the tunnel, Irvine called after them.
"Stay sharp, and don’t let them get comfortable!"
The West Brom players walked back out, determined to turn the game around.
The tunnel was buzzing as both teams lined up, waiting for the referee’s signal to return to the pitch.
Tristan stood near the front, rolling his shoulders, feeling the weight of the second half settling onto him.
Beside him, Jesse Lingard stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall.
Tristan glanced at him.
"You alright?"
Lingard sighed, shaking his head. "Just a bit gutted I’m not playing, man."
Tristan nodded, understanding the feeling.
"You’re resting. You’ll get your chance soon."
Lingard gave him a half-smile but still looked frustrated.
"Yeah, I know. Just wanna be out there, you know?"
Tristan clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"We win this, you’ll get your chance in the next one."
Lingard exhaled, then nodded. "Alright, alright. Just make sure you finish them off, yeah?"
Tristan grinned. "That’s the plan."
The referee blew his whistle, signaling for the teams to return to the field.
The King Power Stadium erupted once more, the fans on their feet, ready for another 45 minutes of battle.
The second half was about to begin.
The referee’s whistle signaled the start of the second half, and from the moment the ball was rolling, Leicester wasted no time asserting their dominance.
The King Power crowd responded, their voices swelling as Leicester’s front line surged forward, eager to put the game beyond doubt.
In the broadcast booth, Martin’s voice carried the tension.
"Leicester City start the second half with real intent, Alan. You get the feeling they want this game finished sooner rather than later."
Alan nodded as the camera zoomed in on Tristan, eyes locked on the ball, already positioning himself between the lines, scanning for space.
"Absolutely, Martin. The longer this stays 1-0, the more West Brom will believe they can nick something. Leicester need to keep pushing."
West Brom, however, weren’t going to make it easy.
Their midfield line tightened, their back four sinking deeper, making sure there were no easy passing lanes through the center.
Tristan felt it instantly.
They weren’t going to give Leicester the same gaps as in the first half.
Alright. Time to adjust.
Instead of forcing play through the middle, he started drifting deeper, picking up the ball closer to midfield, pulling defenders just enough out of position to create gaps for Mahrez and Vardy.
In the 52nd minute, he picked up possession just past the halfway line, two West Brom midfielders immediately pressing him.
A quick feint, a turn, and he left them behind.
He played a sharp one-two with Cambiasso, then spotted Mahrez making a run down the right flank.
The pass was perfect—a beautifully weighted through ball over the top, landing just as Mahrez reached full stride.
The King Power erupted in anticipation.
Mahrez cut inside, skipping past one defender, then another, before curling a left-footed effort toward the top corner—
Foster dived!
A fingertip save, pushing the ball just over the bar!
A collective groan filled the stadium, hands thrown into the air in frustration.
Martin reacted instantly.
"What a save!"
Alan let out a breath, shaking his head.
"That was nearly it, Martin! Hale finds Mahrez beautifully, the Algerian does everything right, and Foster—well, that’s just fantastic goalkeeping."
Tristan exhaled sharply, jogging to the edge of the box, rolling his shoulders as Leicester prepared for the corner.
They were getting closer.
Now, it was just a matter of time.
Despite Leicester’s dominance, West Brom refused to go down without a fight.
As the clock hit 61 minutes, the visitors won a free kick just inside Leicester’s half—a rare opportunity for them to threaten.
The King Power crowd tensed, a murmur of unease rippling through the stands.
Sessègnon stood over the ball, eyeing the cluster of players in the box before delivering a dangerous, dipping cross into the heart of Leicester’s penalty area.
For a split second, chaos ensued.
Bodies clashed, boots swung, the ball pinged around, bouncing off legs—no one able to get a clean touch.
Then—danger.
The ball fell to Berahino, and before anyone could react, he spun and fired—
Low, powerful, arrowing toward the bottom corner.
Schmeichel sprang into action.
A full-stretch dive to his left—fingertips pushing the ball away!
The rebound was there for the taking, but Leicester’s defenders reacted first—Wasilewski launching it clear before anyone in white could pounce.
The collective gasp of the crowd turned into thunderous applause, relieved cheers ringing around the stadium.
Tristan, who had tracked back into the box, exhaled sharply, straightening up before clapping his hands to refocus the team.
"Stay switched on!" he called, his voice firm over the noise.
West Brom had struggled all game to create real chances, but they only needed one.
And Leicester still hadn’t put this match to bed.
Tristan turned, jogging back into position.
The game continued at a high tempo, but as the 78th minute approached, Leicester were still searching for the goal that would kill it off.
Leicester needed to finish this.
And then it happened.
A Leicester attack broke down. Mahrez whipped a teasing cross into the box, but Lescott got his head to it, clearing the danger—
Or so he thought.
Because the clearance was weak.
The ball looped into the sky, spinning awkwardly, dropping just outside the box.
Right into Tristan’s path.
The stadium held its breath.
The Sky Sports commentary booth felt it before it even happened.
Martin’s voice rose with anticipation.
"And it’s fallen to Tristan—OH, THIS COULD BE SOMETHING!"
Alan knew. He could see it lining up.
"He’s got the time! He’s got the space!"
The crowd felt it.
The King Power stood still as Tristan adjusted his body, watching the ball drop—
One bounce.
Two bounces.
He struck it.
A strike from the heavens.
A shot hit with PURE, UNRELENTING FURY.
The ball soared through the air, slicing through the late autumn chill like a missile, bending, rising, swerving—
"OH, WHAT A HIT! WHAT A HIT!"
Ben Foster dived—
NO CHANCE.
CROSSBAR. IN.
THE KING POWER ERUPTED.
The crowd lost themselves in the moment—fans falling over seats, spilling drinks, screaming at the top of their lungs.
The West Brom defense stood in silence.
N Pearson clenched his fists, turning toward the fans—"THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT!"
On the sideline, West Brom manager Alan Irvine’s face was pale. He knew it was over.
The camera cut to Tristan—standing still, arms wide, head tilted back, soaking in the chaos.
Then—he ROARED.
Vardy was the first to reach him, leaping onto his back, slapping his head.
Mahrez grabbed Tristan’s face, laughing, shaking him.
Cambiasso just stood there, hands on his hips, grinning like a proud father.
And in the commentary booth—
Martin lost it.
"OOOOOOHHHHH TRISTAN! TRISTAN! STOP IT! STOP IT!"
Alan was barely breathing.
"OH MY WORD! PICK. THAT. OUT! TRISTAN HALE HAS JUST SCORED A GOAL FOR THE AGES!"
"HE’S COME BACK LIKE HE NEVER LEFT!"
THE STADIUM SHOOK.
Barbara stood frozen in the stands, hands covering her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.
She didn’t even realize she had jumped to her feet.
Her hands were over her mouth, her heart racing, eyes locked on Tristan as he roared in celebration.
Julia was laughing beside her, shaking her head.
"That boy! That’s my son!"
Barbara could barely process it.
Then, as if he could feel her stare, Tristan turned toward the stands, eyes locking onto Barbara.
He lifted both hands, forming a heart shape with his fingers, then pointed directly at her.
Barbara felt her chest tighten, her face flushing warm as Julia nudged her playfully.
"Oh, sweetheart, you’re in trouble."
Barbara just smiled, her heart pounding.
The final whistle blew, and the King Power Stadium exploded once more, fans rising to their feet, scarves waving in triumph.
Relief. Joy. Vindication.
Leicester had done it. The winless run was over.
The players embraced, a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration washing over them. Vardy fist-pumped toward the fans. Mahrez pointed to the sky. Cambiasso clapped his hands together, nodding toward Pearson.
And Tristan? He simply stood still for a moment, letting the roar of the crowd wash over him, his breath heavy, his heart pounding.
He was back.
The Sky Sports commentary team wrapped up the match coverage, still reeling from what they had witnessed.
"Leicester City 2, West Bromwich Albion 0! What a performance from the Foxes, Alan. They needed a result, and my word, did they deliver."
Alan Smith, still shaking his head in disbelief, let out a small laugh.
"Oh, absolutely, Martin. And at the heart of it? Tristan Hale. He ran the show today—set up the first, scored the second, dictated everything Leicester did in attack. You talk about players who change games? That was a statement performance."
The camera cut to Nigel Pearson, standing by the dugout, arms crossed, a rare smile tugging at his lips.
"And the gaffer will be pleased, won’t he?" Tyler added. "His side controlled this match from start to finish. West Brom had their moments, but Leicester always looked like the better team."
Smith nodded.
"They did, and that second goal just sealed it. That was special, Martin. We’re going to be seeing that strike for weeks—months even. That’s the kind of goal that kids will be trying to replicate in their back gardens tomorrow."
As the crowd continued celebrating, Leicester’s players walked toward the home stands, clapping, acknowledging the support.
Tristan turned toward the directors’ box, his eyes scanning the stands before he found them—
Barbara and Julia, both still grinning, still soaking in the moment.
He lifted his fingers to his lips, sending one last flying kiss their way before jogging toward the tunnel.
The stadium announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, the fans still chanting his name as he disappeared down the tunnel.
The press area was packed. Reporters buzzed, analysts debated the goal, and Sky Sports had one man they were waiting for.
Tristan Hale.
Fresh from the dressing room, hair still damp, jersey swapped for a club tracksuit, he stepped in front of the Sky Sports interview backdrop, the Man of the Match trophy tucked under his arm.
His performance? Unreal.
Tristan Hale vs. West Bromwich Albion 1 Goal (78’ Rocket from Distance) 1 Assist (28’ Through Ball to Ulloa) 87% Pass Accuracy 5 Key Passes 3 Dribbles Completed 3 Shots on Target 8.9 Match Rating (Highest on the Pitch)
Leicester’s crown jewel had delivered.
The Sky Sports interviewer grinned as Tristan adjusted his mic.
"Tristan, first of all—congratulations. A goal, an assist, and a Man of the Match performance on your return. That couldn’t have gone much better, could it?"
Tristan, still slightly breathless, ran a hand through his curls, shaking his head with a small smile.
"Yeah, not bad, eh?" he said, his tone light, though there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "We knew this was a big game for us, and I just wanted to come back and help the team."
"Let’s talk about that goal. One bounce, two bounces, and then—boom. Was that always the plan?"
Tristan let out a small chuckle.
"Nah, honestly, I just saw the ball sit up nicely, and I thought, why not? Thankfully, it went where I wanted it to."
The interviewer laughed.
"‘Thankfully,’ he says—like you don’t practice those in training!"
Tristan shrugged, the hint of a grin playing on his lips.
"Maybe a little."
The interviewer flipped to another topic, adjusting his earpiece.
"Tristan, you’ve been in the headlines for a lot of reasons lately—not just football. There’s been talk about your relationship, your recent team gathering, and some questioning whether your focus might be slipping. Do performances like today put those doubts to rest?"
Tristan’s expression shifted slightly, calm but firm.
"I think people forget I’m 19. I have a life outside of football. I train hard, I play hard, and when I step on the pitch, my only focus is on winning. Nothing changes that."
"And let’s be honest," the interviewer added, "If this is you ‘distracted,’ the rest of the league is in trouble."
Tristan chuckled, shaking his head.
"Look, people will always talk. I can’t control that. What I can control is what happens on the pitch. And as long as we’re winning, that’s all that matters."
The interviewer nodded, sensing the conversation had run its course.
"Final question—big result today. How important is this win for Leicester moving forward?"
Tristan exhaled, glancing back toward the tunnel where some of his teammates were still celebrating.
"Massive. We needed this. Now, we build on it."
The interviewer smiled.
"Tristan Hale, Man of the Match—enjoy the win."
Tristan nodded, flashing a quick thumbs-up before turning away.
……
9012 word chapter not counting this section
I’m tired. Goddamn, it's been a while since we had a pure football. We are coming to it. Slice of Life chapters are nice and all, but you guys have been wanting this for a while, so I hope its good.
Also if you guys, some powerstones on Webnovel would be nice, lol.
Besides that, as always, thank you for your support and peace, my people.
Comments
Sicario_1011
Thanks for the chapter
roysola
I say Arsenal. Make new history with Wenger.
roysola
Exactly. But we staying in Premier League or some other destination?
noname_marco
Nah we not doing United it really wouldn’t work out not to mention why go to a club u know is a disaster you know what I mean
roysola
oooooo don't know about any meltdowns. you're not going that route too?
l K
Sinbad your story makes me miss that 15-16 season. PURE CLASS
noname_marco
Yeah he goes to United it’s so fucking stupid like pairing a offensive prodigy with Jose Mourinho not to mention his fucking melt downs after a single season
roysola
I thought I saw him moving to United in the chinese story when I skimmed over some chapters. ?
noname_marco
o i added that because i finally caught up to the chinese story and its ending, didn't really like any part of the story tbh, it just annoyed me
Dario Adam
I'm almost scared to ask, but what did the chinese author do?
