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Chapter 174: Three Strikes in East London
🕑 Added 2025-04-12 13:29:05 +0000 UTCAugust 15, 2015 – En Route to Boleyn Ground
The team coach hummed along the M1, cutting through stretches of green countryside under a dull gray sky. Rain tapped lightly against the windows—England, as reliable as ever.
Inside, the mood was laid back. A few players were half-asleep, headphones in. Others scrolled through their phones or tapped quietly on iPads. Somewhere near the back, Mahrez and Kanté were talking in French, no one knew what they were talking about besides Tristan.
Tristan sat near the middle, legs stretched out, boot bag under his seat, a pair of wireless earbuds draped around his neck. Vardy was beside him, chewing gum and bouncing his knee like he was already halfway to kickoff.
“You see that lad in the crowd with your name on his chest last week?” Vardy asked, nudging Tristan with his elbow. “I swear he painted it across his actual ribs.”
Tristan gave a lazy smile. “Yeah. Barbara saw it first. Thought it was Photoshopped.”
Vardy snorted. “It’s not normal. You’re a cult now. Next thing we know, someone’s naming their baby after you.”
“Pretty sure someone already did,” Tristan muttered, opening his phone. “I saw a tweet. Hale with a ‘y’ though. Hayle. Like I’m a shampoo brand.”
Vardy laughed so hard he nearly woke Danny Simpson behind them. “You sound disgusted.”
“I just feel like… there should be a licensing agreement involved.”
Jamie leaned back, stretching out his legs. “You’d charge a baby?”
“For branding rights? Nah, but then again, I don’t think I have the rights to my name; I was named after Sir Tristan after all.”
A moment passed. The bus curved slightly on the road. Silence settled for a beat.
Then Vardy added, more seriously, “Hey Tristan, do you think you can pass me the ball more in this game? I’m trying to see if I can see a hat-trick. I wanna get to 30 goals this season. Now god knows how many you can get.”
Tristan glanced sideways, raising a brow. “Thirty goals?”
Vardy shrugged, grinning. “Why not? Just need you to stop hogging all the headlines.”
Tristan let out a quiet laugh, resting his head against the window. “Yeah, sure. I don’t mind.”
His tone was light. But his mind spun beneath the surface.
Not like Vardy’s been sacrificing his touches for him since his debut.
Dropping deep. Dragging defenders wide. Letting Tristan slip into spaces that weren’t even meant for him.
This—this was Vardy entering his peak.
The pace. The goals. That wild, unstoppable run no one ever saw coming.
And if it took him scoring a few less to get even a better version of Vardy than so be it.
He could live with that.
But still...
“Thirty’s crazy,” Tristan said aloud, chuckling, as he tilted his head back. “But that Golden Boot? That’s mine.”
Vardy barked a laugh. “Oi, you just said you didn’t mind!”
“I don’t,” Tristan replied smoothly, closing his eyes like he could nap right through the season. “You can have your hat-trick. But I'm getting mine too.”
“Selfish.”
“Efficient.”
“Greedy.”
“Focused.”
Vardy chewed his gum harder, elbowing him again. “Alright, fine. But if you see me clean through, none of that fancy backheel assist crap. Just slide it across, yeah?”
Tristan cracked an eye open. “Only if you say please.”
Vardy gave him a look. “I’d rather score thirty goals with Mahrez.”
“You say that now,” Tristan muttered, settling back into his seat.
He watched the countryside blur past the window.
Thirty goals.
If he was remembering correctly, Vardy scored 26 in this season, adding 4 more goals with him is kids play. He would be more offended if he didn’t make Vardy better than in his first life.
Vardy leaned forward suddenly, phone in hand. “Oi, mate. Everything alright with Barbara?”
Tristan blinked. “What?”
Vardy turned the screen toward him.
A headline flashed in bold above a cropped red carpet photo:
“Barbara Palvin Splits from U.S. and Paris Agencies – New Direction Incoming?”
Below it: a speculative mess of buzzwords—“career shift,” “creative differences,” “burnout rumors.”
Tristan exhaled through his nose, taking the phone for a better look.
“She told me last week,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t a drama thing. Just... time for her to do things on her own terms. And I told her to do it, I'd rather she be her own boss than have people tell her what to do.
Vardy nodded slowly. “Oh, that’s not a bad idea; good for her.”
“Yeah.” Tristan scrolled down briefly, skimming through the speculation. “Sophia is going to be her agent.”
“Oh yeah. That one with the same name as your assistant, talk about fate.” Vardy couldn’t help but laugh at the similarities between the two lovebirds before a sudden idea came to him. “Hey, why don’t you make your agency together with Barbara? Think about it: you were having some issues with Mendes if I remember right.”
Tristan let out a short laugh. “An agency? You want us to go full Hollywood power couple now?”
Vardy grinned. “Why not? She’s the face. You’re the game. You’ve already got the name, the reach, the leverage. You two would print money.”
Tristan leaned his head back again, eyes tracing the ceiling of the coach. The idea sounded like a joke.
But it did get the gears in his head spinning.
“What, are you going to call it Hale-Palvin Sports & Style?” Tristan muttered, half amused.
Vardy nodded like he was pitching it to Dragon’s Den. “Or Palvin-Hale, if she insists. Which she will.”
“She always does.”
They both laughed before Tristan’s phone buzzed softly in his hand. He glanced down.
Babe ❤️:
Hey, just a heads-up — don’t forget I’ve got the British Vogue interview at the house today.
So if you come home to lights, camera, and a team rearranging furniture… don’t be surprised. I should be done before you get back, but just in case — be prepared.
Just reminding you. Love you.
Tristan smiled faintly, thumb hovering over the screen for a moment.
Vardy leaned over, squinting. “That her?”
“Yeah,” Tristan said. “Vogue shoot at the house.”
Vardy gave him a look. “And you’re the one getting the cult fans? She’s doing Vogue and still texting you reminders. You’re punching.”
Tristan didn’t even argue. “I know.”
He tapped out a quick reply.
Got it. If I walk in and find the kitchen turned into a runway, I’ll pretend it’s normal. Love you too.
He slid the phone into his pocket and looked back out the window.
Vardy nudged him with his elbow. “You’re soft now, aren’t you?”
“Soft with all the records in England” Tristan said. “And maybe a camera crew in my living room.”
“Live the dream, kid.”
The bus turned off the main road. The Boleyn Ground came into view—tucked into the tight East End streets like it had been waiting for them.
Game day had arrived.
Meanwhile – West Ham United Dressing Room, Boleyn Ground
The scent of liniment and damp cotton clung to the walls of the narrow home dressing room. Tape rolls unraveled. Shirts were tugged over heads. The usual low murmur of pre-match noise floated in the air—boots clacking, zippers sliding, nerves settling.
Slaven Bilić stood in front of the whiteboard, marker in hand, tapping it slowly. Not speaking yet. Just watching.
Finally, he turned to face his squad.
“No bullshit today.”
The room quieted.
Bilić flipped the marker cap off and underlined a name at the top of Leicester’s projected lineup.
Tristan.
“You want to foul this kid? Don’t. Not unless you want to see him curl another free kick top corner. You saw it last week.”
He looked toward Reid and Cresswell, who were lacing up.
“Shoving him around won’t work. Didn’t last season. He’ll ride it, or draw the foul. Either way, we lose.”
Mark Noble, sitting off to the side, frowned. “So what then? Man-mark him?”
“No,” Bilić said. “You press his passing lanes. Cut him off before he turns. Make him play backwards. But if he’s running at you? You’re already in trouble.”
He turned back to the board, tapping the next name.
Vardy.
“Another problem.”
Bilić looked to Winston Reid.
“If he gets a step on you, forget it. You’re not catching him. He’s not just quick anymore. He’s clever. He makes the first run to drag you, then the second run to kill you.”
A few heads nodded. The respect was clear—even if they wouldn’t say it out loud.
Then Bilić drew a bold circle around one name that didn’t start last time.
Kanté.
“I don’t know where Leicester found this midget, but he doesn’t stop running. I watched the Sunderland tape twice. He wins the ball. Tracks every second runner. Covers like he’s three men.”
He glanced at Kouyaté, who would likely go toe-to-toe with him.
“Don’t try to muscle him off. Don’t dribble into him. If you’ve got time, pass. If you don’t, don’t get caught. Simple as that.”
He stepped back from the board, folding his arms.
“They’ve switched to a 4-2-3-1. Kanté and Drinkwater sitting deep. 22 floating between the lines. Mahrez on the right. Albrighton left. Vardy leading the line.”
He let it sink in.
“That means all-out transition. One bad touch and they’re flying at you.”
Carl Jenkinson raised his hand from where he sat tying his laces. “You want us to sit off?”
“I want discipline,” Bilić replied. “I want lines. I want a compact shape. We press together or not at all. And if we lose it? First five seconds, win it back. If not—drop, regroup, track.”
He looked around the room.
“Most of all, I don’t want panic. We match their aggression, match their tempo, and don’t give Tristan bloody Hale the chance to do a post-match interview about how clever he is.”
That drew a few laughs.
“Stay tight. Stay angry. And remember—this is our ground. Our fans. Our noise.”
He pointed toward the tunnel door.
“They want a track meet. Let’s give ‘em a street fight instead.”
Boots hit the floor.
Noble stood up first. Then Reid. Then Payet, quiet as ever, rolling his shoulders. Jerseys pulled over chests. Armbands strapped. Tape re-wrapped. Gloves tightened.
..
The tunnel was narrow. Old brick. Damp air. A whisper of cigarette smoke still clung to the corners like the ground itself couldn’t let go of its history.
Tristan bounced on his heels, gaze forward, breathing calm.
To his left, Vardy spat into the concrete. No nerves. Just motion.
To his right, Mahrez.
Farther up, West Ham’s captain, Mark Noble, stood statue-straight. Reid beside him. Payet chewing his bottom lip like he was tasting adrenaline.
The murmur of the Boleyn crowd filtered in — low, tense, gritty. The sound of London waiting to erupt.
Then came the Sky cue.
The anthem.
The roar.
“This is the Boleyn Ground,” Rob Hawthorne’s voice crackled over the broadcast. “And the mood in East London today is wary, watchful, and very, very loud.”
“It’ll need to be,” Alan Smith replied. “Because Leicester City arrive today with their tails up. Five goals last week. A front four that looks electric…Looks like West Ham is lining up in a 4-2-3-1, same as Leciester, this should be a interesting match.
⚒️ West Ham United – 4-2-3-1
GK: Adrián
RB: Jenkinson
CB: Reid
CB: Ogbonna
LB: Cresswell
CM: Noble
CM: Kouyaté
RW: Payet
CAM: Lanzini
LW: Jarvis
ST: Sakho
🔵 Leicester City – 4-2-3-1
GK: Schmeichel
RB: Simpson
CB: Morgan (C)
CB: Huth
LB: Fuchs
CM: Drinkwater
CM: Kanté
RW: Mahrez
CAM: Tristan Hale
LW: Albrighton
ST: Jamie Vardy
They walked out, with their mascots in hand.
Light swallowed them. The noise surged instantly.
Banners waved from tight terraces. West Ham flags. Union Jacks. One hand-painted sign just behind the dugout, three words scrawled in red:
“STOP THE HALE.”
Vardy took the kickoff and immediately spun it back to Drinkwater. No fuss. Leicester settled quickly, rotating through the back four.
West Ham pressed high. Sakho snapped at Huth’s heels. Payet lingered near Fuchs, waiting for the cue to pounce.
Mahrez received a switch from Albrighton and twisted Jenkinson into knots with a quick double step-over. The crowd groaned — not in delight, but in dread.
He released it to Tristan.
Touch. Look. Lift.
A looping diagonal toward Vardy who darted between Reid and Ogbonna.
“He’s in,” Rob Hawthorne gasped. “Vardy!”
Chest down. One bounce. Left foot. Bottom corner.
GOAL.
West Ham 0 – 1 Leicester City
Jamie Vardy – 4’
(Assist: Tristan Hale)
Vardy peeled away to the corner, arms spread wide, body skimming the hoardings. Tristan jogged up behind him, jumping on his back.
“That’s just devastating,” Alan Smith said. “Perfectly weighted. Vardy barely had to think. Tristan’s already unlocked them once — and we’re barely four minutes in.”
The restart brought no pause in Leicester’s tempo and pressing.
By the 15th minute, West Ham were already second-guessing their press.
Tristan dropped into the half-space between Kouyaté and Noble, dragging both with him. That one move tore open a gap the size of a truck, and Kanté didn’t hesitate.
He picked up the loose ball near the halfway circle, ghosted past Lanzini, and kept going.
By the 15th minute, West Ham’s press had already lost its bite.
Noble tried to force the issue with a rushed pass across the middle — but Kanté read it like a headline. He pounced, cutting in front of Lanzini with a perfect interception, and never broke stride.
He didn’t look elegant. He never did.
But he covered ground like no one else.
“And here comes N’Golo Kanté,” Rob Hawthorne said, rising with the movement. “Wins it… drives through midfield… and he’s still going!”
Tristan peeled left, dragging Kouyaté with him. The space opened instantly.
Kanté saw it.
One split-second pass, slipped through the gap between Reid and Ogbonna, straight into Vardy’s path.
“It’s Vardy!”
“It’s in!”
First-time finish. Off the inside of the boot. Far corner. Clean as ever.
West Ham 0 – 2 Leicester City
Jamie Vardy – 15’
(Assist: N’Golo Kanté)
Tristan raised both arms before the ball even crossed the line.
“That’s just superb from Kanté. Won it, ran with it, picked his moment, and laid it on a plate. What vision. How did Leciester find such a gem.” Alan couldn’t help but say in awe.
By the 33rd minute, West Ham finally looked like they’d weathered the storm. A spell of possession. A blocked shot from Sakho. A corner that nearly found Payet’s volley.
But then Mahrez got loose.
One wrong step from Cresswell was all it took. Mahrez snatched the ball off a poor backpass and accelerated.
Tristan ran into the center channel, occupying Ogbonna. Vardy hovered near the shoulder of Reid again, eyes locked on Mahrez’s stride.
Mahrez ignored the crowd, the pressure, the flailing limbs closing in. He cut inside once more — then stabbed a reverse pass between two defenders.
“That is outrageous,” Rob breathed. “Riyad Mahrez... through to Vardy — hat-trick incoming?”
Vardy didn’t even look at the keeper.
Chip. Clean. Cold.
West Ham 0 – 3 Leicester City
Jamie Vardy – 33’
(Assist: Riyad Mahrez)
Vardy pointed straight at Mahrez, laughing as he jogged toward the away end, three fingers raised.
The match slowed in phases after that, Leicester choosing their moments, pressing only when it suited them. West Ham looked rattled. Sakho chased shadows. Payet drifted deep in search of the ball. Cresswell yelled more than he touched the ball.
By the time the clock crept into the 80th minute, Ranieri turned to the bench.
A nod.
Shinji Okazaki stood, zipped up, and jogged toward the fourth official.
“And that’ll be Vardy’s afternoon done,” Alan Smith said. “Three goals, three different providers, and about fifty West Ham nightmares created in the process.”
Vardy trotted off slowly, nodding toward the traveling fans. Tristan slapped his hand as he passed.
“Leave some goals for the rest of us,” he said under his breath.
Vardy winked. “Only if you ask nicely.”
The minutes ticked down.
Leicester didn’t chase more.
They didn’t have to.
They’d already done their talking.
And when the fourth official raised the board, no one protested. No need.
The game was over long before the whistle blew.
But still — when it did?
The away end rose in full voice.
Three goals. Three points.
Up in the gantry, Rob Hawthorne’s voice carried over the scene like punctuation.
“That’s full-time at the Boleyn Ground — and it’s another dominant display from Leicester. Three goals, three different providers. They don’t just win, they tear you open.”
“They don’t tiptoe into stadiums. They crash through them.”
..
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I've been waiting for the domination. HAHAHHAHAHA I'm excited SInbad
