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Chapter 172: Start of The Miracle
🕑 Added 2025-04-10 16:00:14 +0000 UTCAugust 8, 2015 - King Power Stadium
..
The locker room buzzed like a speaker left on after a show — low chatter, bursts of laughter, the occasional thud of boots dropped against metal benches. It wasn’t chaos. Not yet. Just the kind of hum that settled in right before a storm.
Tristan sat half-laced, his training top halfway on, a fresh pair of Storm Pulse cleats at his feet. Mahrez was leaning back two lockers down, balancing an energy bar on his forehead while Vardy tried to peg it with sock balls from across the room.
“Oi!” Mahrez yelped as one finally hit its mark. “You’re dead when the season starts, I swear.”
Vardy tossed another sock in the air. “That’s assuming you start.”
The room groaned in unison. Mahrez rolled his eyes but didn’t bite. Chilwell clapped once, slow and sarcastic. “Early contender for banter of the year.”
Tristan just chuckled, tying the final knot on his boot.
Then his phone buzzed.
Not in the group chat way — not the flood of memes, gifs, or Mahrez’s weird obsession with baby goat stickers.
This one buzzed twice. Paused. Buzzed again.
Private line.
He glanced down at the screen.
Jack
His stomach dropped, just for a second. He didn’t say anything — just stood, phone pressed to his ear as he stepped out into the hallway.
The noise faded behind him.
“Jack?” he said, voice low.
“Hey, Tristan.”
The voice on the other end was quieter than usual. A little scratchy. Like it was pushing through something thick.
“You alright?” Tristan asked, eyes scanning the corridor outside the physio’s room.
“I’m alright. Don’t worry. Just got a bit bored. They got me all wired up again,” Jack said, laughing, though it sounded tired.
Tristan smiled faintly, leaning against the wall. “You calling to complain or...?”
“I’m calling to cash in.”
Tristan tilted his head. “Cash in?”
Jack cleared his throat. “You remember what you said last season? Before that Villa game?”
Tristan thought for a second. Then it hit him.
“If you ever land in the hospital again, I owe you a goal?”
Jack grinned on the other end. “Yeah. But I’m not greedy. Just want a free kick this time. Left foot. Top bins. No pressure.”
Tristan closed his eyes for a second. “You picked the hardest way possible.”
“Alright. One free kick. For you.”
Jack didn’t respond immediately. Then—
“Thank you, you're the best.”
They hung up.
He stood there for a moment longer, phone still in hand. Since he met Jack, he kept in contact with the kid to the point Jack and his parents had his number.
Tristan stepped back into the locker room, the door clicking shut behind him.
The buzz picked up again — someone had put music on low from the Bluetooth speaker, some old Oasis track that sounded like it had been playing in English locker rooms for a hundred years.
Mahrez glanced over. “You good?”
Tristan nodded. “Yeah. Just… had a call.” He sat back down, picked up his jersey, and pulled it over his head.
Vardy stopped mid-sock throw. “Wait — was that the Jack?”
Tristan paused, then nodded.
“He alright?” Maguire asked. He heard about the kid from Tristan, Pretty much everyone from last met the kid,
“Same room,” Tristan said quietly. “Wired up again. But he sounded good.”
Mahrez leaned forward now, expression shifting just slightly. “What did he ask?”
Tristan tied the last strap of his shin pad and stood, grabbing his boots.
“He wants a free kick.”
Silence for half a beat.
“Top bins,” Tristan added. “Left foot.”
Vardy winced. “Bloody hell. Kid wants a movie script.”
“Then we give him one,” Tristan said simply.
The door swings open, and in walks Claudio Ranieri, exuding calm authority. The players quickly settle, giving their full attention to the manager.
Ranieri cleared his throat, signaling the start of the briefing.
"Alright, gentlemen," he begins, his Italian accent measured and deliberate. "Today, we face Sunderland. They will line up in a 4-3-3 attacking formation. This means they will have three forwards pressing high and three midfielders supporting them.
"Their central striker, Jermain Defoe, is experienced and quick. He thrives on through balls and quick passes. Our center-backs must stay tight on him, deny him space, and anticipate his runs.
"On the wings, they have pacey players who will try to stretch our defense. Our full-backs need to be vigilant and avoid being caught out of position.
"In midfield, they have players capable of dictating the tempo. We must press them aggressively, win the ball back quickly, and transition into attack."
Ranieri then turns his attention to the offensive strategy.
"When we have possession, we exploit the spaces they leave behind. Their attacking mindset means they can be vulnerable to counter-attacks. Mahrez, use your pace and skill to take on their full-backs. Vardy, make those runs behind their defense. Tristan, find the pockets of space between their midfield and defense, and be ready to strike."
He pauses, making eye contact with each player.
"Remember, discipline is key. Stay compact, communicate, and support each other. Let's start this season with a statement".
With that, he claps his hands, signaling the end of the briefing. The players nod in unison, the game plan clear in their minds.
With that, they waited for the referee, Lee Mason, to call up the two teams. Whilst they were doing that, SkySports already started their segment on the match.
..
The studio lights were cool and focused, casting a soft blue glow across the set. The Leicester City crest hovered faintly in the digital backdrop, rotating slowly beside the Premier League logo.
Gary Lineker leaned forward in his chair, cards resting on his lap, voice calm but threaded with anticipation.
“Leicester City versus Sunderland, King Power Stadium — but all eyes, once again, are on Tristan Hale. Thierry, you’ve seen players light up the league, but how many nineteen-year-olds have shifted the global spotlight this way?”
Thierry Henry didn’t even need a second to think. “Very few. He didn’t just have a breakout year, he changed how people see Leicester. The way he plays, the confidence, the numbers—thirty-five goals, forty assists—it’s not just brilliance, it’s consistency. And now? He’s made the club a global name. They weren’t just a team anymore. They were his team.”
Across the desk, Jamie Carragher gave a short exhale, folding his arms. “I’ll give credit where it’s due. He’s a phenom. But we’ve said it before—when someone breaks through like this, the challenge isn’t the rise. It’s what comes after. This season, teams will plan for him. Kick him. Crowd him. Test him. My question is, has the club done enough to support him? And can he sustain such peak form.”
Paul Scholes didn’t hesitate. “No. They haven’t. Let’s be honest. After the season he had, breaking nearly every record in the league, I thought Leicester would be pulling in major names. But instead… they’re buying five, six, seven million pound players. That’s not the support cast you expect for someone on the verge of a Ballon d’Or run.”
At the end of the row, Roy Keane nodded slowly, eyes steady. “And that’s where I’m worried. He’s world-class, no doubt about that. But he’s also young. Emotional. He’s had spats with us before—me, Jamie, Paul—we’ve all criticized parts of his game, his attitude at times. He hears all of it. You just hope he knows how to filter what matters and block out the rest.”
Gary’s brow lifted slightly. “You say that, but if anything, the pressure seems to fuel him. The Nike ads, the global attention… this is someone who wants it all. And come on, Roy, by now we should know what kind of player and person Tristan is by now.”
“Yeah,” Carragher said, shifting in his seat, “but wanting it and being supported properly are two different things. Look at the signings—Kanté? Who the hell is he? Okazaki’s hard-working, sure. Fuchs, Inler, Huth... it’s depth, not star power. You’d think after Tristan carried them to sixth and a Europa League quarter-final, they’d build something bigger around him. It’s just Mahrez and Vardy around him.
Scholes agreed. “You’ve got a generational player on your hands. You invest in him. You give him weapons. They didn’t. They reinforced, but they didn’t elevate.”
“But,” Henry added, cutting in gently, “sometimes it’s not about price tags. Sometimes it’s about chemistry. Tristan didn’t do this alone last season—Vardy, Mahrez, Drinkwater, they stepped up. And now you add more depth. It could click again.”
Gary glanced at the clock on the desk, then turned slightly in his chair. “Let’s talk about the manager now. Claudio Ranieri. Plenty of experience, sure, but also plenty of questions. Thoughts?”
Roy Keane didn’t even blink. “Let’s be honest. It’s a gamble. This is a man who got sacked after losing to the Faroe Islands. That doesn’t happen by accident.”
Carragher leaned forward, arms resting on the desk. “It’s not just that. You look at the past ten years — Inter, Monaco, Greece — nothing to write home about. And now you’re asking him to take a young, hungry team that just finished sixth and push them higher? That’s a big ask.”
Henry tried to temper the heat. “He’s managed at the top. Juventus, Chelsea, Roma… there’s pedigree there. Maybe what he needs isn’t a squad of superstars. Maybe he needs a group like this — gritty, overlooked, with something to prove.”
But Roy wasn’t convinced. “Pedigree doesn’t win you points. Trophies do. And with Ranieri, that’s the issue. He’s the nearly man. He’s come close. Copa del Rey. Champions League semi with Chelsea. But that was what? Fifteen years ago?”
Carragher nodded. “The press had a field day when he signed. ‘Too old. Too outdated. The game’s passed him by.’ I don’t think many fans were thrilled either. I mean, it felt like a step backward after what Pearson built.”
Gary interjected, “But he kept most of that squad intact. He’s not changing everything.”
“No,” Roy said, “but the moment Leicester go on a losing streak, the spotlight’s on him. Because fair or not, people still see him as the Tinkerman. The guy who doesn’t know his best XI.”
Henry raised a brow. “Or the guy who finally finds it.”
There was a brief pause, the studio lights buzzing faintly overhead.
Carragher glanced at Gary. “You want to know how good this Leicester side really is? You’ll know by how long Ranieri sticks with them. If Hale, Mahrez, Vardy and Kanté keep dragging them forward — fine. But if Ranieri starts tinkering… then it gets messy.”
Gary smiled faintly. “Then let’s see if the Tinkerman can stay out of his own way.”
The camera zoomed out slowly, studio lights bright against the blue, as the panel continued, voices fading into ambient music.
Inside the King Power Stadium, the lights were warming. The players were getting ready.
And the miracle season?
It was about to begin.
..
The players stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the narrow tunnel. Boots tapped against concrete. Bibs were off. Shirts stretched across tense shoulders. On either side, mascots fidgeted with wide eyes and tighter grips on the players’ hands. A few of the younger ones craned their necks toward the pitch entrance — the roar of the crowd leaking in with every shift in the wind.
Tristan exhaled slowly and gave the boy beside him a small nod. The kid was maybe nine, hair spiked with gel, face flushed with excitement. He looked up at Tristan like he was walking beside a knight.
“You nervous?” Tristan asked softly.
The kid blinked. “I think my heart’s going to explode.”
Tristan offered the smallest smile. “That’s alright. I still get nervous too.”
Ahead, the fourth official gave the signal.
The tunnel erupted into light.
A roar swallowed them as both teams stepped into the King Power. Flags rippled across the stands. Fans rose like a wave. The home end, wrapped in blue, held up a banner across three sections:
“WE BELIEVE IN MIRACLES.”
The camera cut to the gantry.
Rob Hawthorne’s voice slipped into focus, calm but buzzing with energy.
“It’s opening day at the King Power. Leicester City vs. Sunderland. A sold-out crowd, blue skies, and a club still riding the wave of something remarkable. They finished sixth last season. Surprised the league. And now? Expectations have shifted. Everything feels bigger.”
Andy Hinchcliffe cut in with a touch of reverence. “And at the heart of it all, one man — Tristan Hale. Just 20 years old. And yet, if you believe the numbers — 35 goals, 40 assists in 56 games — he wasn’t just Leicester’s talisman. He was England’s. He swept nearly every individual award last year. PFA Player of the Year. FWA Footballer. Premier League Playmaker. And oh yeah—he took a team most tipped for relegation to a Europa League quarter final.”
Rob’s tone sharpened as the camera panned to Tristan, standing tall during the anthem, eyes steady on the far end of the pitch.
“And now, the world’s watching. The cleats. The ads. The crown. But today, it’s not a photoshoot. It’s Sunderland. It’s Lee Mason with the whistle. And it’s 90 minutes that will tell us what kind of season this really is.”
Andy added, “And let’s not forget — this is the debut of Tristan’s brand new shoes, quite beautiful if I might add; quite a few players are wearing them. Oh, look at that—Vardy’s wearing them.”
Down on the pitch, Ranieri stood with his arms folded near the technical area. Calm. Calculating. The cameras caught him murmuring a few last words to Vardy before turning toward the bench.
The stadium announcer’s voice cut through.
“And now… presenting your Leicester City starting XI!”
The names boomed through the stadium as fans clapped each one in turn.
“In goal, Kasper Schmeichel…”
“Wes Morgan, captain…”
“Danny Drinkwater…”
“Riyad Mahrez…”
“Jamie Vardy…”
“And number twenty-two… Tristan Hale!”
The crowd roared as Tristan jogged forward and raised a hand toward the East Stand before waving towards Barbara and Anita who were in the box along with his parents.
Back in the gantry, Rob Hawthorne’s voice picked up again as the teams huddled up.
“Last season, he gave Leicester fans dreams. This season, he wants something more. He said it himself in the pre-match interview — Golden Boot. Titles. Ballon d’Or. Big goals from a player who’s never shied away from them.”
Andy Hinchcliffe leaned in.
“But it starts with moments like today. Sunderland are lining up in a 4-3-3 — attacking intent, pressing high. This won’t be a walkover. They’ve got Defoe up top. They’ll test Leicester’s back line early. If Mahrez gets isolated one-on-one… we could be in for fireworks.”
“Here’s a quick look at the two teams. Leicester in a surprising 4-4-2; you don’t see that often from them. I wonder how Tristan will play; he’s quite high compared to last season.”
🟦 Leicester City (Flexible 4-3-3)
GK: Kasper Schmeichel
RB: Danny Simpson
CB: Wes Morgan (C)
CB: Robert Huth
LB: Christian Fuchs
CM: Danny Drinkwater
CM: Gökhan Inler
CAM: Tristan Hale
RW: Riyad Mahrez
LW: Marc Albrighton
ST: Jamie Vardy
..
🟥 Sunderland (4-3-3 Attacking)
GK: Costel Pantilimon
RB: Billy Jones
CB: Younès Kaboul
CB: Sebastian Coates
LB: Patrick van Aanholt
CM: Lee Cattermole
CM: Yann M’Vila
CM: Jack Rodwell
RW: Jermain Lens
ST: Jermain Defoe
LW: Steven Fletcher
..
Lee Mason raised the whistle to his lips.
The cameras caught one final shot of Tristan, whispering something to himself, before he crouched into his ready stance near the center circle.
“This,” Rob said, as the whistle blew, “is the start of something.”
The King Power roared.
The whistle blew.
And the King Power erupted.
It wasn’t noise. It was a detonation.
Vardy nudged the ball to Drinkwater—and in that instant, the season didn’t start.
It launched.
Flags snapped in the wind like sails catching storm gusts. Blue and white blurred together as the East Stand rose in unison, voices already soaring above the roof.
🎵 “COME ON LEICESTER, WE BELIEVE!” 🎵
It wasn’t just excitement. It was belief weaponized.
Mahrez peeled wide. Albrighton tucked in. Inler took one steadying touch before sliding it left, then back across. Like the ball was part of a machine they’d spent all summer building.
Then—
It came to him.
Tristan.
His first touch of the new campaign.
A sudden, pulsing roar swept the stadium. The kind of cheer that anticipated something before it even happened. Phones stayed down. Every eye locked on the kid in the crown cleats.
He took it on the half-turn, hips already open, the sun catching the copper of his curls as Rodwell came flying in.
0:52.
One shift of the shoulders. A slow feint left.
Rodwell stepped.
Another shift. Quick. Surgical.
And just like that—
Gone.
Gasps rippled through the stadium like a shiver across skin.
Then the noise hit.
“OOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHH!”
“Look at that!” Rob Hawthorne shouted above the swell. “That’s not just a turn—that’s a statement!”
Tristan was gliding now. His strides smooth, almost arrogant. The ball never more than a foot from his boots.
But Yann M’Vila was waiting.
The Frenchman didn’t bother with subtlety. He slammed into Tristan—shoulder, hip, full weight behind it. Last season, that would’ve sent him into the advertising boards.
This time?
He didn’t move.
Tristan’s heel dug into the turf. His core tensed. He rode the impact like it was nothing more than wind.
Then—One step.
And he exploded forward again.
The King Power lost it.
Andy Hinchcliffe’s voice cut in through the chaos. “He’s filled out. That challenge knocks him over last season. Not anymore. That’s strength. That’s evolution.”
The pitch opened like a curtain. Tristan didn’t hesitate.
Left foot. Outside of the boot.
A perfect thread between two defenders.
Mahrez.
Full stride. Perfect weight. First touch like silk.
“AND THEY’RE OFF!” Rob howled. “THIS ISN’T A TEAM THAT NEEDED TO WARM UP—LEICESTER ARE ALREADY COOKING!”
The crowd rose as one—thousands on their feet, scarves twirling, voices thundering.
🎵 “HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN! HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
Mahrez danced past Billy Jones—step-over, inside touch, balance like a gymnast on glass. Jones twisted, stumbled.
A sharp cut-back.
Low. Fast. Deadly.
The cross whistled across the six-yard box.
Vardy lunged.
The fans held their breath—but Coates just managed to stab it clear.
A wall of noise still followed.
Because it wasn’t about the goal.
It was about the warning shot.
The season had started.
And Leicester?
They hadn’t missed a beat.
By the time the clock hit 2:03, the stadium hadn’t taken a breath.
The crowd stayed on their feet, still riding the high from Tristan’s first drive. They weren’t waiting for goals. They were hunting them.
32,000 believers—leaning forward with every touch. Eyes wide. Voices raw.
Sunderland tried to slow things down with a spell of possession. Kaboul angled a long ball toward the left channel, hoping to catch Defoe on the run.
But Wes Morgan didn’t hesitate.
He stepped across, shoulder braced—BAM.
Defoe hit the turf. Clean. Hard.
Morgan didn’t even look back. “Get out,” he muttered, already scanning for the second ball.
“Wes Morgan, no nonsense!” Andy Hinchcliffe laughed from the gantry. “That’s leadership. That’s muscle.”
Cheers rumbled through the stands. Not wild ones. Just that low, proud applause defenders rarely get but always earn.
Schmeichel spotted the chance and played fast—sidewinder punt, spinning perfectly into Simpson's path.
Simpson barely needed a touch. Just popped it inside to Inler, who took one beat, looked up—
And there he was.
Tristan, dropping deep. Floating in that half-space between the lines. Right on the halfway stripe.
Rodwell to his left. Cattermole behind.
Inler zipped it into him.
Cattermole didn’t wait. He lunged—full-body shove to the back.
The East Stand erupted.
“Oi, REF!” someone bellowed, echoed by half the stadium.
Lee Mason blew... nothing.
The boos rang out, thick and sharp—
"LEE MASON, WHAT’S THE POINT!"
"OPEN YOUR EYES, YOU BOTTLE JOB!"
But Tristan?
He didn’t stop. He didn’t need the whistle.
He dragged the ball under his boot, spun out of Cattermole’s pressure like he’d been waiting for it.
Smooth. Elegant.
Then—he stiff-armed the midfielder like it was rugby, shoved him off his back, and surged forward.
“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Rob Hawthorne nearly laughed. “He just threw off Cattermole! Are you seeing this?!”
Mahrez came alive on the right, darting into space. Vardy pointed in behind, already accelerating.
But Tristan wasn’t done surveying.
He clipped it early. Left foot. Over the top. The arc was perfect—just enough to tease, just enough to tempt.
It dropped like a gift, one bounce into Vardy’s path.
The crowd held its breath.
Kaboul turned. Coates panicked.
Pantilimon raced out.
Vardy chased it with everything—but the keeper got there half a second sooner. He smothered the ball and curled around it like a bodyguard shielding gold.
Groans echoed around the King Power.
A few fans even stomped the metal beneath their seats.
But then—applause. Huge. Thunderous.
“Applauding the vision!” Andy said. “Applauding the idea!”
Tristan had already jogged back into position. Calm. Composed. His chest rising slow. Eyes cutting across the field like radar.
“Different this year,” Rob murmured. “He’s not reacting to the game—he’s reading it.”
Albrighton, fired up, pressed high on the left. Cut off the passing lane. Won it.
The crowd roared again. He didn’t wait—quick throw-in to Drinkwater, who laid it off without looking.
Tristan.
And now the sound rose again.
No noise. Anticipation.
He took two touches—quick. Measured.
Then he went.
Scissor step. Left-right. Ball rolling, defenders closing.
Cattermole again. M’Vila crashing in from behind.
Rodwell—fresh legs, coming square on.
Didn’t matter.
Tristan dropped into a double scissor. Slowed time.
Pulled the ball back with his left foot—
Slid it right between Rodwell’s legs.
“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
The King Power erupted like someone had hit a switch.
“Oh, my word!” Andy shouted, laughing into his mic. “That’s filth! That’s disrespect!”
Now Tristan was through—bursting into the final third. Kaboul sliding across in desperation.
6:01.
Kaboul lunged. Reckless. Off-balance.
Tristan didn’t flinch. He dropped his shoulder. Braced. Took the hit like it was nothing—and kept moving.
He shifted wide, saw the angle. Whipped in a low cross across the box—
Too early for Vardy. Too wide for Mahrez. It rolled just in front of goal.
But nobody cared.
Because now, the crowd was on its feet. Not just pockets—everyone.
Whistles. Chants.
"He’s got magic in his boots!"
“There’s only one Tristan Hale!”
“OLE, OLE, OLE-OH-LEE! TRISTAN HALE IS ALL WE NEED!”
In the gantry, Rob exhaled.
“Six minutes in. Three take-ons. Two chances created. One evolution unfolding before our eyes.”
And somewhere across Leicester, in a hospital bed flooded with screen light, a boy’s smile spread wide.
“Come on, Tristan,” Jack whispered.
By the sixth minute and change, the crowd didn’t sit. Not even for a second.
Because Leicester weren’t just pressing—they were swarming.
🎵 “CHAMPIONS OF THE MIDLANDS, WE KNOW WHAT WE ARE!” 🎵
Every tackle. Every pass. Every flick from Tristan sent the stadium into a rhythm.
And Sunderland? They looked like they’d stepped into a thunderstorm.
At around the seventh minute, Pantilimon tried to slow the game—roll it to Kaboul, walk it out.
Boooooo.
Low and rising from the Kop behind Schmeichel.
“Go on then!” someone yelled as Vardy charged in.
Kaboul rushed a pass to Coates, who booted it wide under pressure.
Andy Hinchcliffe didn’t miss it.
“That’s not control. That’s survival. They’re rattled, and it’s only been seven minutes.”
By the time the clock edged toward the eighth, Fuchs had already stepped in twice—winning loose balls, linking with Inler, and springing the left side like a trap.
And this time, it clicked.
Albrighton darted down the channel, arms pumping. Coates tracked late. Far too late.
From the gantry, Rob Hawthorne’s voice sharpened.
“Albrighton’s in here. He’s got space—he’s got runners!”
The ball came from Inler—a chipped diagonal that dropped perfectly over the left-back’s shoulder.
Albrighton took one touch to steady it. Then a second.
And just as the defenders squared up—
He cut back. Laid it to Drinkwater.
Back to Inler.
Tristan floated near the edge of the D, marked tightly now, two red shirts shadowing him. But he didn’t demand it. He directed. He pointed once. Then again.
“Watch Tristan,” Andy said. “He’s quarterbacking now. He’s dragging them without touching the ball.”
And it worked.
Inler dropped it wide again to Albrighton. Alone. Free.
Ten minutes gone now. The whole East Stand stood as one.
🎵 “WE’RE BY FAR THE GREATEST TEAM THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN!” 🎵
Albrighton checked once. Looked up.
Vardy peeled off Coates.
One touch. Then the cross.
It bent early. Floated, not whipped—an invitation, not a bullet. Hung in the air just long enough for the crowd to hold their breath.
And then Vardy arrived.
Timing perfect. Leap measured.
Forehead. Bang.
Pantilimon went full stretch. But the ball smashed into the top corner like it had been magnetized.
Rob’s voice went up with the net.
“Jamie Vardy! LEICESTER LEAD!”
The King Power detonated.
🎵 “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY!” 🎵
🎵 “BRING YOUR VODKA AND YOUR CHARLIE!” 🎵
🎵 “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY!” 🎵
Vardy darted to the corner flag, sliding knees-first, fist pumping toward the crowd.
Behind him, Albrighton jogged up.
Then Tristan.
Andy’s voice dropped low as the replays began to roll.
“Look at that. Albrighton sees the run. It’s a brilliant delivery. And Vardy? That’s a striker who knows exactly where he’s going. But don’t overlook Tristan. He didn’t touch the ball in that phase—but he manipulated the space. He told them where to go.”
Rob added, “You said it earlier, Andy—this isn’t a team of passengers. This is Leicester as a unit. And that goal proves it.”
The camera zoomed in on the bench. Ranieri clapped twice smiling; that bench celebrating before the camera switched to Barbara and the co.
“Now we find out,” Rob Hawthorne said, just as Lee Mason pointed to resume play. “Leicester strike first. But how do Sunderland respond?”
The ball spun back into motion.
By the twelfth minute, it was moving quicker—M’Vila collecting deep, pivoting sharply under pressure from Drinkwater and fizzing it into Lens on the right.
Lens didn’t hold it long.
He knocked it past Fuchs and went full sprint after it.
“Oof, that’s quick!” Andy noted, sitting forward.
Fuchs kept pace, but the winger snapped in a low cross before he could get there.
Inside the box, Fletcher got a toe on it—redirecting it toward the near post.
Schmeichel dropped low.
Thump.
Palmed away, hard and clean.
“First test for Leicester’s keeper,” Rob said calmly. “And Kasper’s up to it.”
Applause rang out from the Kop end. Not loud, but loyal.
Leicester reset quickly.
But Sunderland kept coming.
Thirteenth minute. Throw-in deep in Leicester’s half. Van Aanholt took it quickly to M’Vila, who flicked it central. Cattermole touched it once, then twice—then went down.
Booing echoed. Ref didn’t buy it.
But it let Sunderland stay high, pinning Leicester back for the first time.
Andy’s voice came sharp. “This is smart. They’re crowding the middle now. Trying to draw Tristan deeper—force him to receive it with his back to goal.”
And sure enough, at fourteen minutes, that’s what happened.
Tristan came short, almost to the edge of his own box, to collect a pass from Huth.
Rodwell shadowed him. Tight. Hands all over him.
Tristan touched. Shielded. Rolled it back to Drinkwater. Quick one-two. Turned.
But before he could escape the space—Cattermole came barreling in.
The crack of shinpad on ankle rang out like wood on wood.
“OI!” the crowd erupted.
Tristan stumbled. Didn’t fall.
But the whistle blew.
Free kick. Just inside the Leicester half.
“Cattermole living up to his reputation,” Rob muttered.
Andy was already shaking his head. “That’s twice now he’s clattered Tristan. He’s not interested in the ball—he’s trying to rattle him.”
The fans weren’t having it.
🎵 “YOU’RE NOT HARD, YOU’RE JUST A PRICK!” 🎵
🎵 “OFF! OFF! OFF!” 🎵
Mason didn’t reach for his card but did give a warning. The refs had to protect Tristan, but that foul wasn’t that bad to warrant a yellow.
“Let him have another,” someone bellowed from the East Stand. “He’ll go second yellow before the hour!”
Tristan rolled his ankle once, then reset it into the turf with a stamp.
But as he walked toward the free kick spot, he glanced up at the goal. Then toward the stands.
Somewhere out there, he knew Jack was watching.
He took a deep breath.
No one else even tried to ask for the free-kick, everyone knew who it belonged to.
“Bit far, isn’t it?” Drinkwater’s voice came low, just over Tristan’s shoulder.
Tristan didn’t look at him.
He just narrowed his eyes on the goal, thirty yards out, maybe more. Slight angle. Ball resting dead center. Sunderland’s wall forming. Pantilimon pacing the six-yard line like a nightclub bouncer.
“I can hit it,” Tristan said.
His voice wasn’t cocky. Just honest. Firm. Like he’d already visualized it.
Danny gave a small nod, then backed off. He didn’t need to say more.
Rob Hawthorne’s voice picked up over the replays still being shown.
“Well, this is ambitious. Thirty yards, maybe thirty-two. You don’t usually see players lining up from here unless they’ve got something special in mind.”
Andy leaned in.
“Tristan Hale’s never scored a direct free kick in the Premier League. All assists. This… would be something.”
The stadium settled.
No chants. Just hush.
Then—clapping. A beat. Then a chant rising softly from the South Stand.
🎵 “TRIS-TAN HALE, TRIS-TAN HALE!” 🎵
He stood behind the ball, arms loose at his side. His breathing was steady. Two steps back. A quarter turn.
His eyes flicked to the top left corner.
He thought of Jack.
Top bins. Left foot.
The whistle blew.
Tristan stepped forward.
One stride. Two. Then a clean strike—
The ball curled early, rose late. A whip of power and spin.
Pantilimon didn’t move.
The crowd rose with it—every head tilted, every jaw clenched—
The ball dipped—
CLANG.
Off the crossbar.
It rattled the woodwork like a gunshot.
The stadium gasped—so loud it drowned the moment of silence after. Mahrez chased the rebound, but it bounced just too high.
Sunderland cleared.
Groans. Heads in hands.
Andy’s voice broke the tension.
“Ohhh, that is so close. Inches. Inches away.”
Rob echoed it. “You could feel the breath leave the stadium when that hit the bar. That was almost the moment.”
Tristan stood still near the edge of the box.
He’d struck it clean. Almost perfect.
But almost wasn’t enough.
Up in the gantry, Andy murmured, “That one’s going to stay with him.”
Down by the touchline, Claudio Ranieri stepped closer to the edge of his box. His arms were folded. Calm on the outside.
Then, without turning, he spoke.
“Paolo.”
Paolo Benetti leaned in. “Sì?”
Ranieri kept his eyes on the pitch. On Tristan. On the way he was still drifting back to pick up play. On the way Sunderland were starting to overload the middle again.
“We change. Now.”
Benetti blinked once. “Kanté?”
Ranieri nodded.
“And the shape?”
A pause.
“Four-two-three-one,” Ranieri said. “Let the front four go mad.”
Benetti grinned.
Behind them, the fourth official raised the board.
33 in.
8 out.
Gökhan Inler glanced over, gave a small nod, and began his jog off the pitch.
No complaints. He understood.
From the stands, a ripple of curiosity rolled through.
Then the name lit up the PA system.
“Substitution for Leicester City... entering the pitch, number thirty-three—N’Golo Kanté!”
Rob Hawthorne caught it immediately from the gantry.
“Well, that’s a change with intent. Inler off. Kanté on. And Ranieri’s wasting no time. Looks like Leicester are going to a 4-2-3-1.”
Andy Hinchcliffe leaned in, eyes following Tristan.
“You know what that means, Rob. It’s Tristan behind Vardy now. No more dropping deep. No more split focus. He’s been unshackled.”
Tristan glanced once toward the sideline, already reading the shape change.
Drinkwater stepped slightly left. Kanté slotted in beside him. Mahrez wide right. Albrighton left. Vardy pushed high. And there it was.
A square of space between Sunderland’s lines.
Tristan jogged right into it.
Benetti cupped his hands and called out to the midfield.
“Compact! N’Golo drops—Tristan flies!”
Ranieri just stood still, eyes on number 22.
He whispered something, almost under his breath.
“Vai, ragazzo. Adesso dipingi.”
Go, boy. Now paint.
And high up in a hospital room on the edge of the city, Jack saw the shape settle.
He saw Tristan hover like a hawk behind Vardy. Saw the space. The freedom.
His smile returned.
“Oh, they’re in trouble now.”
With Leicester now unleashed in a 4-2-3-1 and Kanté patrolling midfield like a one-man army, the difference was immediate. Sunderland barely had time to breathe.
Cattermole tried to break through twice and lost the ball both times. Rodwell was bypassed like a cone. And Tristan? He stopped looking over his shoulder. He stopped checking back. He just… played.
At 34:42, Vardy was shoved to the ground thirty yards out after a diagonal sprint. Free kick. Slightly right of centre. A better angle than the last one. The crowd surged to their feet before the whistle even blew.
“Another chance here,” Rob Hawthorne said. “And it looks like it’s Tristan again.”
Andy Hinchcliffe’s voice lowered with interest. “He hit the bar earlier. This one’s closer. And with Kanté behind him now? He’s not worried about the second ball. He’s thinking of one thing—goal.”
As Tristan set the ball down, the camera panned across Sunderland’s wall. Kaboul barking orders. Coates shifting nervously. Pantilimon squinting into the sun, twitchy, fidgeting on his line.
Cattermole, watching from the side of the wall, muttered to Rodwell, “If this goes in, we’re screwed.”
Tristan took three steps back. No theatrics. Just focus. He raised his left hand briefly—his signal.
The stadium began to hum. A chant. Soft, then louder.
Then silence.
Then the whistle.
He struck it pure. Left foot. A whip of power that cut across the air like a blade. It bent around the wall at the last second, kissed the underside of the bar—and went in.
Top bins.
This time, no clang.
Just the net.
And then—detonation.
Rob was shouting. “HE’S DONE IT! TRISTAN HALE! FINALLY! A DIRECT FREE KICK IN THE PREMIER LEAGUE!”
🎵 “HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN! HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
Tristan sprinted toward the corner flag, arms wide. Then he stopped.
He dropped to one knee.
Fist to chest. Then fingers to lips. Then he formed a heart with both hands and looked straight into the pitchside camera.
“Jack,” he shouted.
Loud. Clear.
“This is for you!”
..
Inside the executive suite, the glass walls barely muffled the roar.
The room shook.
Barbara shot to her feet, both hands flying to her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief. The moment the ball smashed into the top corner, her breath caught—and then came loose as a whisper.
“He did it,” she said, barely audible. “He actually did it.”
Anita, sitting beside her, stood slower. She didn’t understand the English commentary, didn’t need to. She had seen the strike. She’d felt it. One hand covered her mouth, the other gripped Barbara’s arm. Her voice came soft, in Hungarian.
“Ez varázslat volt...”
That was magic...
Behind them, Julia Hale let out a proud, sharp exhale. “That’s our boy.”
..
90:00
Rob Hawthorne’s voice rode the edge of elation. “There will be no added time. And why would there be? That’s the final act in a performance that’s dazzled from the first whistle to the last.”
Lee Mason raised his hand and blew.
Full-time.
Leicester City 5, Sunderland 1.
And the King Power erupted—again.
🎵 “WE’RE TOP OF THE LEAGUE, SAY WE’RE TOP OF THE LEAGUE!” 🎵
🎵 “OLE, OLE, OLE—WE’RE LEICESTER CITY!” 🎵
On the pitch, Tristan stood just past the center circle, chest heaving. Sweat ran down the sides of his face, but his smile—soft and satisfied—was fresh.
Vardy jogged over first, slapped him on the back. “Come on, I thought you were going to let me win the golden boot this season..”
Mahrez joined with a light grin, already lifting two fingers. “Two goals, one assist. Just the warm-up?”
Tristan just nodded, still catching his breath.
Fuchs gave him a mock bow. “The crown’s not slipping anytime soon.”
They all turned as the crowd’s roar swelled again. A camera zoomed in on Tristan’s face as the stadium announcer's voice rang over the system.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your man of the match… with two goals and one assist… Number 22 — Tristan Hale!”
The volume doubled.
Rob Hawthorne began as the graphic appeared on-screen:
FULL TIME: Leicester City 5 – 1 Sunderland
“Let’s run it back, shall we? It started with a bang—Vardy’s opener, assisted by Albrighton. Then came the Tristan Show.”
Andy grinned beside him. “That free kick will live in King Power folklore. And the second goal—Mahrez feeding him on the break? Ice cold.”
“Add in Mahrez’s own goal and a thumper from Albrighton late on… and it’s five-star football.”
“And Kanté?” Andy said, shaking his head. “Came on, locked everything down. That shape change—4-2-3-1—let Tristan fly. It wasn’t just a win. It was a message.”
“A message to the league,” Rob added, “that last year was just the beginning.”
..
6235 word count
Comments
Sicario_1011
Thank you can’t wait for more
Godzofaxe
🫡
