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Chapter 125: Man United—The Crumpling Giant 2
🕑 Added 2025-02-09 15:38:17 +0000 UTCThe game had barely started—just seven minutes in—yet Leicester City had already shattered expectations.
One goal up.
The King Power Stadium was bouncing, a sea of blue roaring in celebration, while the away section sat in stunned silence.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
Manchester United, one of the biggest clubs in world football, had come into this match believing that their pedigree, their talent, their history would be enough.
But history didn't win football matches.
Tristan Hale did.
The players who had mocked him before kickoff, who had dismissed him as cocky and arrogant, were now watching him sprint back to his position, completely locked in, unfazed by their reputation.
Van Gaal, arms crossed, remained still. His expression gave nothing away, but inside?
He was frustrated.
Not because his team had conceded early—he had dealt with worse. But because he had spent the past week preparing for Tristan Hale, watching hours of footage, setting up defensive structures—yet none of it seemed to matter.
Leicester's attack was ripping through United like they were nothing.
He clapped his hands together, calling out over the noise of the stadium. "Stay calm! Stick to the plan!"
His players nodded, trying to shake off the shock. But some couldn't hide their frustration.
Falcao glanced at Van Persie, shaking his head. How had they let a kid, barely 20 years old, walk through them like that?
Herrera clenched his fists. He had been tasked with stopping Tristan—yet he couldn't even get close to him.
Evans and Blackett exchanged glances. That had been their defensive line broken apart.
And Di María?
He didn't speak much English, but the look on his face said it all. Annoyed. Frustrated. Pissed off.
The players who had mocked Tristan before kickoff, who had called him arrogant, who had scoffed at the idea that he was England's best?
Now?
They weren't laughing anymore.
The roar of the King Power Stadium had barely died down before Manchester United placed the ball back on the center spot.
Rooney, standing over it, took a deep breath. His jaw was clenched, his frustration barely hidden. Across from him, Robin van Persie muttered something under his breath, his eyes darting toward Leicester's midfield.
Tristan was already in position, hands on his hips, completely unfazed.
Tyler's voice carried over the broadcast.
"Well, if you weren't taking Leicester seriously before, you are now. Just seven minutes in, and Tristan has already stamped his name all over this match."
Smith let out a low chuckle.
"It's not just the goal, Martin—it's the way he's playing. He's everywhere. His movement, his intelligence, his confidence on the ball… he looks like a player in complete control."
Tyler nodded as a slow-motion replay of the goal flashed across the screen.
"And let's not forget, this is a Manchester United team that's spent heavily in the summer. Di María, Falcao, Blind… this is supposed to be their resurgence. But right now, they're being pulled apart by a newly promoted side."
Smith added, "And by a 19 year playing in his first Premier League season who just a few days ago, told the world he was the best in the league. You think those United players would take him a bit more seriously.”
Tyler let out a small laugh. "Well, Tristan is certainly playing like the best.”
The referee blew his whistle.
United restarted play, Blind rolling it short to Herrera, who barely had time to lift his head before Tristan was on him.
No space. No time.
The Leicester midfielder pressed hard, forcing Herrera to turn back toward his own goal. Desperate for an option, the Spaniard quickly laid it off to Evans.
United were trying to settle, to build a tempo, gain some sort of momentum but Leicester weren't letting them.
Morgan stepped up aggressively, forcing Van Persie to drop deeper just to receive the ball. Falcao, isolated and unable to find any space behind Leicester's backline, was visibly frustrated, throwing his hands up as if asking where's the service?
But then—United found a gap.
Rooney, sensing an opportunity, peeled off his marker and called for the ball. Evans found him with a short pass, and for the first time since conceding, United had a bit of breathing room.
Rooney turned, lifted his head, and pinged a long diagonal ball over the top toward Di María.
The Argentine exploded down the left flank.
Tyler's voice rose.
"Di María, flying forward! This could be dangerous!"
Mahrez and De Laet scrambled to keep up, but Di María was already in full stride. His first touch was perfect, killing the ball dead, before he immediately cut inside, shifting onto his stronger left foot.
Smith leaned forward in his seat. "We know what he can do from here. This is where he's at his most dangerous."
And then—
Di María went for it.
A curling shot, bent with power toward the far post.
Schmeichel dived.
The stadium held its breath.
Fingertips.
Just enough.
The Danish keeper somehow got a touch, deflecting the shot wide.
"WHAT A SAVE!" Tyler shouted. "Kasper Schmeichel denies Di María with a stunning stop!"
The home fans erupted, celebrating the save like a goal.
Schmeichel, back on his feet, pointed at his defenders. "Stay switched on!"
But there was no time to breathe—United had a corner.
Di María jogged to the flag, placing the ball down with precision. He looked up, scanning the chaos inside the box.
Morgan and Moore were wrestling with Falcao and Evans.
Blind lurked just outside the penalty area, waiting for a loose ball.
And then there was Van Persie.
The Dutch striker positioned himself near the penalty spot, his sharp eyes locked onto the ball, muscles coiled like a predator waiting to pounce.
Tristan, standing just a few feet away, noticed it immediately. Van Persie wasn't just waiting—he was hunting.
‘Fuck that’, Tristan thought marking Perise.
Smith's voice carried through the broadcast. "This is a big moment for United. A set-piece like this could be their way back into the game."
Di María whipped the corner in—fast and dipping.
The ball curled toward the near post, and in a flash, Van Persie broke free from his marker, darting forward with perfect timing.
He met the ball with a thunderous volley, striking it clean with his left foot.
It was a bullet, rocketing toward the top corner—unstoppable.
Or at least, it should have been.
Because at the last second—
Tristan threw himself in the way.
His body twisted mid-air, his right leg extending just enough to get a crucial block.
The ball ricocheted away from goal, deflecting high and wide.
The stadium erupted.
"WHAT A BLOCK FROM TRISTAN HALE!" Tyler's voice cracked with excitement.
"Van Persie was certain that was going in!" Alan Smith added. "But Tristan out of nowhere, denies him!"
Tristan landed on his feet, chest heaving, his eyes snapping toward Van Persie.
The Dutchman's expression was a mix of frustration and disbelief.
Tristan?
He just smirked.
He pointed at Van Persie, shaking his head.
"Not today."
Van Persie's jaw tightened. His competitive fire flared instantly.
He stepped toward Tristan, closing the distance.
"You got lucky," Van Persie muttered, his voice low, challenging.
Tristan barely blinked. His smirk widened. "If that helps you sleep tonight, sure."
Van Persie narrowed his eyes, his frustration growing. "One block doesn't mean you've stopped me."
Tristan tilted his head, confidence radiating off him. "And one chance doesn't mean you've scored."
The tension was thick.
Morgan stepped in between them, placing a firm hand on Tristan's shoulder, while Rooney did the same with Van Persie.
"Alright, alright," Morgan smirked. "Let's save it for the scoreboard."
Van Persie exhaled sharply, stepping back, but his glare remained locked on Tristan.
Tristan?
He just laughed in his face.
The battle was only getting started.
Under relentless pressure from the Foxes, Manchester United's defenders had no choice but to clear the ball quickly, launching it long toward Van Persie and Falcao. But Leicester's backline—Morgan and Moore, strong as ever—refused to be bullied. Every aerial duel, every second ball, Leicester won it.
Van Gaal's frustration was visible now. This wasn't how United played. His team was suffocating, unable to get into their rhythm.
At the 20th minute, he had seen enough. He stormed to the edge of his technical area, shouting instructions.
"Angel! Drop deeper to get the ball!" he barked, waving at Di María. "Wayne, come back and receive it more!"
It was clear now—despite United's midfield being packed with bodies, only Di María and Rooney had the ability to break through Leicester's defensive wall.
Leicester pressed relentlessly, their energy forcing United into rushed decisions. Every time United tried to string passes together, Tristan was there—hounding Herrera, intercepting Blind's passes, cutting off Rooney's options.
Then, in the 22nd minute, United finally found their moment.
Di María, United's record signing, picked up the ball in midfield, dancing through Leicester's press with effortless grace.
Drinkwater lunged in—missed.
Cambiasso tried to shadow him—but Di María was too quick.
With one final flick, he slipped the ball to Rooney on the right.
Leicester's defense scrambled, sensing the danger.
Rooney took one touch, then another, before glancing up and threading a perfect one-two pass back into Di María's path.
And suddenly, the Argentine was completely free inside the box.
Schmeichel rushed out, trying to close the angle.
But Di María?
One delicate touch.
A lob.
Time seemed to freeze.
The ball floated effortlessly over Schmeichel's outstretched arms, soaring toward the net.
The King Power fell silent.
Then—
It dropped perfectly into the goal.
The United away section exploded, roaring as Di María wheeled away in celebration, forming a heart with his hands toward the traveling fans.
Tyler's voice crackled over the broadcast.
"Ohhh, what a goal! That is world-class from Ángel Di María!"
Smith shook his head in admiration. "That is absolutely sublime, Martin. A chip of that quality, under that pressure? That's why United paid £75 million for him."
Tyler continued, his voice rich with excitement.
"And just like that, Manchester United are level! It's the kind of goal that can change the momentum of a match!"
The cameras zoomed in on Di María, his teammates surrounding him, clapping him on the back.
But then—
The camera panned to Tristan.
And he was smiling.
Not a smile of frustration. Not a smile of disappointment.
It was something far more dangerous.
It was the smile of a man who had just been given a reason to ruin someone's comeback.
Tyler spotted it immediately. "Now, that's an interesting reaction from Tristan."
Smith let out a small chuckle. "I don't know about you, Martin, but that is not the smile of someone who's worried. That's the smile of someone who wants to ruin Manchester United's afternoon."
Tyler laughed slightly. "And why wouldn't he?He's got something to prove today."
Smith agreed. "And let's be honest, he's started this match like a man possessed. That goal won't shake him—it'll only fuel him."
On the pitch, Lingard nudged Tristan's shoulder.
"You good?"
Tristan exhaled through his nose, still smiling. "Better than good."
Mahrez, watching him closely, smirked. "They woke you up, didn't they?"
Tristan's gaze snapped toward the ball in Schmeichel's hands, already thinking about the restart.
"They made a mistake," he muttered, rolling his shoulders.
Vardy, jogging back to position, grinned. "Oh, this is gonna be fun."
Leicester weren't rattled. If anything, they were hungrier.
Schmeichel placed the ball down for the kick-off.
Tristan turned toward his teammates.
"Let's go again."
The match had turned into a battlefield. Every pass, every touch, every moment was charged with intensity.
Leicester had started the half like a team possessed, immediately taking control after the restart. Tristan was the first to react, signaling for the ball from Schmeichel. There was an intensity in his eyes, a fire that had only grown since Di María's equalizer.
And Leicester fed off of it.
Schmeichel rolled the ball out to Moore, who quickly found Drinkwater in midfield. United's press was stronger now, fueled by their goal, but Leicester remained calm, shifting the ball side to side, luring United out of position.
Tristan, always moving, popped into space between Blind and Herrera, demanding the ball with a sharp gesture.
Drinkwater saw him and didn't hesitate.
A quick pass. A quick turn. Tristan was already in motion.
Blind lunged in, but Tristan flicked the ball past him with a smooth outside touch, darting forward before the Dutchman could recover.
The crowd roared.
"Tristan, once again dictating the tempo," Tyler called out. "You can see how comfortable he is taking charge in midfield."
Smith nodded. "And United still haven't figured out how to stop him."
Tristan surged forward, scanning his options.
United's defensive block tightened, shifting to suffocate his passing lanes.
He lifted his head, then threaded a piercing pass to Mahrez, cutting through United's midfield with laser precision.
Mahrez immediately darted down the right flank, Rojo scrambling to keep up.
The Algerian, with his effortless footwork, cut inside sharply, shaking off Rojo with a quick body feint.
He drove toward the penalty area.
"Mahrez is away!" Tyler shouted.
Vardy made a near-post run, dragging Evans with him.
Mahrez spotted it and instead cut the ball back toward Tristan, who had surged forward into the box.
The pass was perfect. Tristan met it first-time—
A thunderous strike toward goal!
But—
De Gea reacted like lightning.
A world-class save. Diving low to his left, his fingertips barely pushed the ball wide!
Gasps rippled through the King Power Stadium.
"WHAT A SAVE!" Smith exclaimed. "Tristan struck that beautifully, but De Gea is showing why he's one of the best keepers in the world!"
Tristan clenched his fists, frustration flickering in his eyes. But before the frustration could settle, Vardy clapped him on the back, grinning.
"Next one," Vardy said.
Tristan exhaled sharply. Then nodded. Yeah. Next one.
United, desperate to seize control, started pushing forward again. Di María continued to be their biggest threat, weaving through the midfield like a ghost.
In the 32nd minute, he picked up a pass from Herrera, immediately cutting inside past Cambiasso.
Rooney darted into space. Falcao peeled off to the right.
Di María slipped a through ball toward Van Persie, who found himself in a pocket of space just outside the box.
Morgan and Moore scrambled to close him down.
But Van Persie didn't need much space.
One touch. One shot.
The ball rocketed toward the bottom corner!
Schmeichel fully stretched, getting a glove to it!
But—
The ball bounced loose inside the box!
Falcao pounced.
He had an open shot—
But before he could pull the trigger—
Tristan came flying in with a last-ditch tackle, poking the ball away!
The King Power erupted as Tristan scrambled to his feet, already chasing the ball down.
"WHAT A BLOCK FROM TRISTAN HALE!" Tyler's voice cracked with excitement. "Falcao was certain he was scoring there, but Hale denies him!"
Smith was just as stunned. "This kid is everywhere today! One minute he's nearly scoring, the next he's making goal-saving tackles in his own box!"
Tristan didn't even celebrate the block. He was already moving.
Morgan picked up the loose ball and immediately played it forward—Leicester were countering.
And leading the charge?
Tristan.
United had just survived a scare.
But now?
They were about to be put right back under siege.
The ball landed at Drinkwater's feet, and Tristan didn't hesitate—he sprinted into space, waving his hand, demanding the ball.
Drinkwater, recognizing the moment, played it to him.
Instantly—the trap was set.
Three United players collapsed in on him—Blind, Herrera, and Evans, their bodies forming a tight triangle, cutting off his escape routes.
A perfect defensive setup.
Or so they thought.
The crowd held its breath.
Then—magic.
Tristan dragged the ball backward with his right foot, feinted left, then spun to his right, sending Blind stumbling, his feet tangling beneath him.
Blind was gone.
Herrera lunged, his leg outstretched—too slow.
With a flick of his boot, Tristan sent the ball straight through Herrera's legs, gliding past him without breaking stride.
The stadium exploded at the audacity.
"OH MY WORD!" Tyler's voice cracked with excitement. "Tristan Hale has just HUMILIATED THREE Manchester United players!"
But Evans was still there.
Still waiting.
Still believing he could stop him.
Tristan saw him plant his feet, preparing for a challenge—he was already beaten.
One last touch—a nutmeg.
Evans barely registered what had happened before Tristan was gone, racing toward goal.
Three defenders. Vanished.
The entire stadium was on its feet.
Smith was laughing in disbelief. "That is OUTRAGEOUS! That is world-class dribbling!"
Tristan charged forward, the United defense still scrambling, still trying to process what had just happened.
Then, he saw it.
The gap.
The opportunity.
From 35 yards out.
A heartbeat later—he let it fly.
His right foot connected perfectly, sending the ball screaming through the air like a missile.
The stadium watched, frozen.
The ball knuckled, swerved, and dipped—all in the span of a second.
De Gea reacted late.
Too late.
The ball ripped into the top corner.
A thunderbolt.
A worldie.
A goal for the ages.
King Power erupted like never before.
Tyler's voice nearly gave out. "OH. MY. WORD! TRISTAN HALE HAS JUST SCORED AN ABSOLUTE ROCKET!"
Smith was on his feet. "THAT IS A GOAL OF THE SEASON CONTENDER! THAT IS UNSTOPPABLE!"
Tristan stood there, arms outstretched, soaking in the deafening roars of the crowd.
His teammates mobbed him, shaking him, screaming in his face.
Two down.
One more to go.
The realization hit everyone in the stadium.
This wasn't luck.
This wasn't a fluke.
This was greatness unfolding.
The camera panned across the pitch, capturing the shell-shocked expressions of Manchester United's players.
Robin van Persie, the once-feared Dutchman, stood motionless, hands resting on his hips, eyes locked onto the ball still wedged in the top corner of the net.
Daley Blind looked like he had seen a ghost.
Ander Herrera wiped his face with both hands, as if trying to process how a single player had just embarrassed their entire midfield.
Jonny Evans?
He had already turned away, rubbing his face.
The only thing worse than being embarrassed?
Knowing there were millions watching.
David de Gea hadn't moved.
Still on the turf, gloves resting on his knees, staring blankly at the net.
Because he knew.
No goalkeeper in the world was saving that.
The United fans in the away end?
Silent.
They had mocked him before kickoff.
They had laughed at his confidence.
Now?
Now, they were watching their team get ripped apart by a 19-year-old who had told the world he was the best—and was playing like it.
His teammates sprinted toward him, their celebrations wild, uncontrollable.
Mahrez grabbed his shoulders, shaking him like he had lost his mind. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"
Lingard, laughing in disbelief, jumped onto his back.
Vardy smacked the back of his head, grinning ear to ear. "YOU'RE TAKING THE PISS, MATE!"
But Tristan wasn't looking at them.
He was already moving.
A full sprint.
Not toward the bench.
Not toward the halfway line.
Toward the fans.
Straight to the front of the stands, where the die-hard Leicester supporters were going ballistic.
"THIS IS MY HOUSE!"
His voice ripped through the air, carried by the stadium's acoustics, and the fans fed off it.
They screamed back at him, matching his energy, his passion, his fury.
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"
And then—
He turned to the pitch-side camera.
He stepped close.
Closer.
Staring straight into the lens.
"TALK NOW! TALK NOW!"
He tilted his head, his eyes locked onto the camera.
The whole world saw it.
But more importantly?
Robin van Persie saw it.
The Dutch striker, still standing at the center of the pitch, locked eyes with Tristan.
And Tristan held his stare.
This wasn't just a celebration.
It was a challenge.
Van Persie's jaw clenched. His posture stiffened. His fingers curled into fists.
The Leicester fans were completely unhinged, roaring his name, shaking the stadium foundations with their chants.
The United players?
They exchanged glances, shifting uncomfortably.
Because they knew.
They had poked the bear.
They had mocked him before the match.
They had laughed at his confidence.
And now?
Now, they were watching him tear them apart.
This wasn't just a game anymore.
It was personal.
The King Power Stadium was shaking.
Leicester weren't just leading—they were dominating.
Manchester United—*a club built on history, on European nights, on dominance—*were being suffocated by a newly promoted side.
Despite trailing 2-1, United weren't dead.
There was too much firepower in their squad, too much pride to let this game slip away without a fight.
Van Gaal paced his technical area, his mind racing for solutions. His team couldn't keep the ball, their midfield was getting outworked, and their front three—Van Persie, Falcao, and Rooney—weren't tracking back.
United had no control.
They needed something. Anything.
But Leicester weren't letting up.
The Foxes could smell blood, and they wanted a third goal before halftime. They wanted to embarrassed this historic giant of a club.
Tristan, Mahrez, Vardy, and Lingard were suffocating United's midfield, pressing relentlessly, forcing mistake after mistake.
Herrera and Blind, trying to build from the back, could barely complete a pass before a blue shirt swarmed them.
Tristan was everywhere.
Intercepting. Tackling. Orchestrating.
And when he got the ball?
United panicked.
Rooney, desperate to regain control, dropped deeper, trying to pick up possession and dictate play like he had done so many times before.
Finally, United found a moment.
A lofted pass toward Falcao.
It was the right idea.
But Moore read it perfectly, stepping up and intercepting before the Colombian could even react.
Instantly, the ball was at Tristan's feet.
And that meant danger.
Herrera was on him immediately, pressing aggressively, trying to stop him from turning.
But Tristan was already a step ahead.
A drop of the shoulder. A subtle pull-back with his left foot.
Herrera lunged.
Too late.
Tristan spun away effortlessly, leaving the Spaniard off balance, scrambling to recover.
He barely glanced up before slicing a pass out wide to Lingard, who was already making a run down the left flank.
Lingard controlled it well, but Rafael closed the space quickly.
The Brazilian was aggressive, stepping up, giving him no time to think.
Lingard had to decide—now.
He feinted forward, then slammed on the brakes, cutting inside before laying the ball back toward Tristan.
The entire United defense scrambled.
Tristan was at the edge of the box.
Tyler's voice sharpened.
"Tristan, just outside the penalty area… this is danger!"
Blackett and Evans rushed forward to close him down.
But Tristan was already in motion.
A small feint—a subtle shift of weight—froze both defenders.
Blackett hesitated.
Evans stepped the wrong way.
And that was all he needed.
A perfectly weighted through ball between them.
Into space.
Waiting for it?
Jamie. Vardy.
"VARDY! HE'S IN ON GOAL!" Alan Smith shouted, voice rising.
The striker took one touch.
Then another.
Then—he buried it.
Low. Ruthless. Past De Gea.
The net bulged.
The stadium detonated.
"GOOOAAAALLL!!!" Tyler roared over the chaos. "LEICESTER CITY DOUBLE THEIR LEAD! IT'S 3-1!"
Vardy took off toward the corner flag, arms outstretched, screaming in triumph.
His teammates swarmed him, Mahrez grabbing his jersey, Lingard shaking him by the shoulders.
The Foxes were in dreamland.
Tristan pumped his fist, Mahrez clapping him on the back.
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
But Tristan?
He didn't even react.
His mind was locked in.
Because this game?
It wasn't over.
Not even close.
With just a minute left before halftime, United launched a desperate attack.
Di María.
The only player in red who looked dangerous.
He picked up the ball on the left flank, cut inside, skipped past Drinkwater before threading a pinpoint pass to Rooney at the edge of the box.
Rooney controlled it.
Lifted his head.
Saw Van Persie making his move.
"That's a great ball from Rooney!" Tyler called.
A looping cross.
Bending away from the defenders.
Curling right into Van Persie's path.
The Dutchman, a master in the air, timed his run to perfection.
He rose between Morgan and Moore.
Twisted mid-air.
Eyes locked onto the ball.
The Leicester defenders couldn't stop him.
He powered the header down—
Straight toward the bottom corner.
The away fans shot to their feet.
This was it.
Schmeichel dove—
But he wasn't going to get there.
The ball was flying toward the net—
And then—
A blur of blue.
A foot swung across the goal line.
Contact.
The ball deflected wide.
Gasps filled the stadium.
Van Persie landed, spinning around to see what had happened.
Tristan stood there.
Boot planted.
Eyes sharp.
Chest rising and falling.
He had cleared it.
"INCREDIBLE BLOCK FROM TRISTAN!" Tyler shouted. "THAT WAS A CERTAIN GOAL!"
Smith was just as stunned.
"Van Persie had beaten the keeper! That was going in! But Tristan—he gets everything behind it!"
The crowd erupted.
Tristan turned toward Van Persie, an almost amused look on his face.
Then, he spoke.
"Not today."
The Dutchman's jaw tensed.
For years, he had dominated the Premier League.
Scored whenever he wanted.
But this kid!
Van Persie took a step forward, eyes locked with Tristan's.
Tristan?
Didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't back down.
The referee stepped in quickly, placing a hand between them, breaking the tension.
But the message had been sent.
This wasn't going to be an easy game for Manchester United.
And as Leicester won the resulting corner and cleared the danger, the first half finally neared its end.
United were trailing.
3-1.
The referee's whistle rang through the King Power Stadium, marking the end of a breathless first half. As the players made their way toward the tunnel, the noise from the crowd remained deafening. Leicester fans stood on their feet, chanting, clapping, still buzzing from what they had just witnessed.
And what they had witnessed was history in the making.
The cameras followed Tristan as he jogged off, sweat dripping from his brow, chest rising and falling with every deep breath. He was having the game of his life. Two stunning goals, a assist, an unbelievable defensive clearance, and a midfield performance that had Manchester United—one of the biggest clubs in the world—scrambling for answers.
....
Social media was already on fire. Every major football account, every pundit, every analyst—everyone was talking about him.
— @Brandon Aguayo: TRISTAN HALE. Take a bow, son. Two goals, One assist, two goal-line clearances, his defending tonight is perfect. He’srunning the show. What a performance from the 19-year-old!
— @Jerôme: Tristan said he was the best in the league… and now he's proving it. 😳👏 #LEIMUN
— @l K: Dominating Manchester United. Playing like he owns the pitch. Tristan is different. I have never seen a 19 year old this good before in my lifetime. Just wow, pure magic.
The halftime whistle had blown, but the energy inside the King Power Stadium hadn't faded. If anything, it had intensified.
Fans inside the stadium weren't sitting down. They were still buzzing, still chanting his name.
Tristan Hale.
Two goals. One assist. Two goal-line clearances, his defending.The complete performance.
But the madness wasn't just inside the stadium.
Across the world, football media had erupted.
The halftime whistle had barely blown, but inside the Sky Sports studio, the energy was electric. David Jones, seated at the center of the panel, leaned forward, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Gentlemen, I think it's safe to say nobody saw this coming. Leicester City three, Manchester United one at halftime—and Tristan Hale is putting on a masterclass."
He turned toward Gary Neville, who had his arms crossed, shaking his head. The former Manchester United right-back exhaled sharply before gesturing toward the screen.
TRISTAN HALE – FIRST HALF VS. MANCHESTER UNITED
✅ Goals – 2
✅ Assists – 1
✅ Goal-Line Clearances – 2
✅ Chances Created – 4
✅ Dribbles Completed – 6 (most on the pitch)
✅ Touches in the Final Third – 23 (most on the pitch)
✅ Pass Completion – 91%
Neville let out a low whistle, still staring at the numbers. "I've seen a lot of young talents come through the Premier League, but this?" He pointed at a frozen frame of Tristan dribbling past Blind, nutmegging Herrera, and sending Evans the wrong way before launching his second goal from 35 yards. "This is world-class. I don’t even know what to say to this."
The slow-motion replay played across the studio monitors.
Flick past Blind.
Nutmeg on Herrera.
Evans completely turned inside out.
Then—a 35-yard rocket into the top corner.
Jamie Carragher, seated to Neville's left, leaned back and shook his head, letting out a laugh. "He's not just playing well—he's embarrassing them. Look at him!"
The screen zoomed in on Tristan's celebration, where he turned directly to the camera and shouted:
"Talk now."
Carragher smirked. "That's personal. That's not just a goal celebration—that's a statement."
Roy Keane finally spoke. His voice was low but firm.
"He's running the show. Simple as that. And what stands out to me is his mentality."
Keane pointed at the freeze-frame of Tristan's reaction after Di María's goal—a smirk, not of frustration, but of something more dangerous.
"This lad is usually calm, composed, mature beyond his years. But today? He's angry. He's on a mission. He's playing like he has to score. Like he's proving something. Is he trying to back his claim of being the best, possibly or it could be something else."
Graeme Souness, sitting beside him, nodded in agreement. "And let's be honest—he's backing up every word."
David Jones turned toward Paul Scholes, the quietest voice on the panel but one of the most respected minds in the game.
"Scholesy, you played as an attacking midfielder at the highest level. How do you even stop a player in this kind of form?"
Scholes rubbed his chin, choosing his words carefully. "You have to deny him space—but that's the thing. He creates space himself. His movement is brilliant. He's not just sitting in one position; he's drifting, finding the gaps, and the United midfield just can't keep up."
He gestured toward another screen showing Tristan's heatmap—a sea of glowing red spots all over the pitch.
"That's not normal for a No. 10."
Beyond his goals, one moment was dominating the halftime discussion.
After his worldie, Tristan had turned directly to Robin van Persie and shouted into the camera:
"Talk now."
But what did it mean?
Jamie Carragher chuckled. "He could be talking about his hat-trick, but let's be honest—it felt personal."
Gary Neville nodded. "That stare-down with Van Persie… that wasn't just a celebration. That was a message."
Rio Ferdinand, speaking from the BT Sport panel, weighed in.
"There's a grudge here, and I don't know what it is. But Tristan is playing like a man with something to prove. And the fact that it's against United? That says a lot."
Even in Milan, where Barbara Palvin was watching from her hotel suite, the excitement was contagious.
Sophia, sitting beside her, let out a low whistle. "O wow, Barbara, I think you just created a monster. You know your man is usually known for his smiles and maturity when hes playing."
Barbara laughed hearing that, sipping her drink. "Please, stop it, that pundits are just exaggerating everything. He's just trying to score a hat-trick.”
Sophia stared at Barbara hearing that, "I guess a man in love will do anything to get the approval of his girl."
Barbara throw a pillow at her for the last comment but it didn't stop the smile on her face as replays of Tristan kept being shown.
The Leicester dressing room was buzzing—but not with arrogance, not with premature celebrations.
It was controlled energy.
Pearson stood at the front, clapping his hands sharply, snapping every player into focus.
"Boys, that was a half of football to be proud of." He let the words sink in for a moment. "But we're not done."
Silence. Locked in. Every player listening, absorbing, waiting.
"They're going to come at us," Pearson continued. "They have to. They've got too much pride, too much talent, to just let this game go. But that doesn't change anything for us. Stay compact. Stay aggressive. And keep playing our football."
The players nodded, their bodies still humming with adrenaline, but their minds focused.
Vardy, still bouncing on his feet like a fighter waiting for the bell, nudged Tristan.
"One more and you're taking the match ball home, mate."
Mahrez, smirking, stretched his arms behind his head. "You going for it?"
Tristan, sitting on the bench, tightening the laces of his boots, just grinned.
"You already know."
In the United dressing room, there was no shouting, the complete opposite.
No shouting.
No slamming of fists against lockers.
No finger-pointing.
Just a thick, suffocating silence.
The kind of silence that came when world-class players realized they were being outplayed by a newly promoted side team led by a 19 year kid.
Louis van Gaal stood at the center of it, his presence alone making the tension heavier. His piercing eyes scanned the room, his arms crossed, his face unreadable.
But he wasn't unreadable.
He was furious.
He didn't yell. He didn't need to.
The players could feel it.
Finally, he exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple, before speaking—his voice low, controlled, but sharp enough to cut through the air.
"We are playing like amateurs."
The words landed like a slap.
"Leicester is outworking us. Outthinking us. Outplaying us." His eyes darted from player to player, watching their reactions.
"Where is the response?"
No one spoke.
He turned his gaze toward his front three—Van Persie, Falcao, Rooney.
"I do not care about your reputation. I care about what I see on the pitch."
He let the words hang in the air before delivering the final blow.
"And right now? I see nothing."
Falcao avoided eye contact, stretching his legs with a grimace. He was still adjusting to English football, still struggling to find his place in the chaos of the Premier League.
Rooney the captain, ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't playing badly—but he wasn't playing like a leader, either. He didn’t even know what was happening throughout the game, everything felt out of control.
And then there was Van Persie.
Sitting with his arms crossed, his jaw locked, his expression unreadable.
But inside?
Inside, he was seething.
Across from him, Ángel Di María was breathing heavily, still recovering from the relentless running he had done all half. The team doctor was massaging his legs, trying to keep him fresh.
He muttered something under his breath.
Van Gaal's eyes snapped toward him. "What?"
Di María exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"Why do these guys never track back?"
The words carried weight.
Frustration. Exhaustion. Annoyance.
He had been doing everything.
Driving the attack. Tracking back to defend. Covering for a midfield that was too passive.
Van Gaal studied him for a moment, then nodded.
"You are right."
He looked around at the squad. "But I do not need complaints—I need solutions."
He stepped toward the tactics board, grabbing the marker, and wiped away the entire first-half formation.
He had enough.
Van Gaal turned toward Ander Herrera, who sat up straighter.
"Push higher up. You are too deep. Support the attack. Link play."
Herrera nodded, relieved that he wasn't being hooked at halftime.
He turned next to Rooney. The captain lifted his head.
"Drop into midfield more often. You are not a striker today. You are a creator. Give us control."
Rooney hesitated. This wasn't his game. But he do whatever was needed at this point.
Van Gaal didn't care.
"And everyone—" his voice sharpened, cutting through the tension like a blade.
"Stop waiting for someone else to do the work."
His gaze swept across the entire dressing room.
"You are Manchester United. Play like it."
The players absorbed their manager's words.
But there was one unspoken truth hanging in the air.
Tristan Hale was ruining them.
Not just with his goals—though those alone were highlight-reel moments.
✅ His first goal? A clinical first-time finish.
✅ His second goal? A solo worldie—dribbling through three United players before launching a 35-yard rocket that would be replayed for years.
✅ His defense? Tracking back. Pressing. Making goal-line clearances.
✅ His intensity? Unmatched.
But more than that—it was his attitude.
He wasn't just playing well.
He was playing like a man on a mission.
And worse?
He was enjoying it.
And as they stepped back into the tunnel, Van Persie stole a glance at Tristan.
The kid was smiling.
Not arrogance.
Not relief.
Hunger. A hunger for more, he wasn’t looking just to win, he wanted to humiliated the entire team.
He wanted the hat-trick, he wanted to cement his place as the league’s best and United were the stepping stone for that.
……………
6133, exact word count for the chapter not counting this end section.
This is another original chapter.
Your boi is tired but I’m having fun so can’t complain about it.
If you guys can just do me a favor and drop some power stones on Webnovel that be appreciated, I’m tryna reach 1k power stones this week, thank you.
Comments
noname_marco
thank u man made my day
O'shane Allman
Man i just hopped onto patreon after finishing webnovel. And this specific match has me screaming in glee @2:51 am🙂↔️🙂↔️. Absolute cinema
noname_marco
I would love to but it’s tough finding good Chinese fics if you have any let me know
Dude Boring
And if you going to do that can we make suggestions?
Dude Boring
Also are you going to translate another fanfic’s or not?🤔
Dude Boring
Author-San you are the mutherfuckinggooooaaaattt🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🫡
BrandonA
🔥 🔥 I ain't gonna lie I held off on the chapter until I had more parts to read but I just couldn't hold back. Has me envisioning that I'm watching the MC live. I wish I had a time machine for the next update. 🔥 🔥
l K
need thT N4XT CHAPPTER MATE
Ro
🔥
Alexis Chamorro
Thank you for the chapter 🔥 I like how you give the mc personality not like some others fanfics were they are too humble
Courage Ekhator
Again a very enjoyable chapter, can't wait for the next!!
