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May 24, 2015 – King Power Stadium
Leicester City vs. QPR – Final Day of the Premier League Season
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The fourth official raised the board.
Number 22 lit up in red.
Sixtieth minute.
Tristan jogged toward the sideline, sweat glistening on his neck. The crowd was already on its feet. The noise built slowly — not a cheer, not a chant — but a full, rolling ovation.
"Listen to that," Martin Tyler said over the rising roar. "That's for a nineteen-year-old who's taken this league by storm."
"And deservedly so," Alan Smith added. "What a season he's had. Twenty-four goals, twenty-six assists in the league alone. That's a title-winning stat line, and Leicester are finishing sixth."
Tristan slapped hands with Andy King as the midfielder ran onto the pitch.
Pearson was waiting at the touchline.
Tristan stepped into the hug, no hesitation.
"Well done," Pearson said, voice low but filled with pride. "All season. Not just today."
Tristan nodded. "Appreciate it, thank you."
He turned toward the bench, soaking in the crowd's roar.
"It's hard to even put into context," Martin continued, the weight of his words landing. "This time last year, Tristan Hale was just breaking into the Championship. Now he's Golden Boy, Puskás winner, World XI midfielder, and so many other personal awards this season I can't even name them all."
"Incredible," Alan added. "And that's just the start. At only nineteen, he's broken records all over the Premier League. Most assists in a single season. Most goal contributions. A debut season that rivals anyone's peak."
"He's only getting started," Martin said. "We are possibly looking at a player who can rival the likes of Pelé, Maradona, Messi, and Ronaldo. He's already shaping up to be one of the greatest this game has seen just by this year alone."
Lingard, standing on the sideline, gave Tristan a handshake as he passed.
"Done showing off yet?" He teased.
Tristan grabbed a bottle from the cooler, his voice quiet. "Not yet."
He sank onto the bench, towel draped around his neck, eyes still on the pitch. His breathing was steady. Focused.
"That's the moment every player dreams of, isn't it?" Alan said. "Sixty minutes in, two-nil up, the crowd on their feet, and you've got your entire career ahead of you. The whole stadium singing your name."
Martin added, "in the stands, Barbara Palvin watching on, along with Tristan's parents, Julia and Ling Hale. This is the moment they've all been waiting for."
The camera cut to the crowd to the three named.
Tristan glanced toward them.
Just for a second.
Then, back to the pitch.
"Leicester finished sixth. Out in the Europa League quarterfinals to Napoli. But what a season it's been for the club," Martin continued. "I remember the days when fans and pundits were begging Tristan to leave for a bigger club. But here we are, with Jamie Vardy, Riyad Mahrez, Danny Drinkwater, Ulloa, and now Lingard joining in — this squad is packed with talent."
"And the biggest talent in the world is sitting on the bench right now," Alan added. "Tristan Hale. A season that'll be talked about for years."
The crowd kept clapping, the noise still echoing in the stadium.
And Tristan just sat there — towel in hand, watching the game. There was a lot on his mind, but for now he enjoyed the season's end. Everyone in the club was tired.
..
The whistle blew.
Full-time.
Leicester 2 – QPR 0.
The noise inside the King Power hit a new gear — fans rising once more, scarves in the air, the last match of the season signed off with style.
Vardy had scored the opener, sprinting past his man and slotting it low into the corner. Mahrez curled in the second, left foot, just outside the box.
Tristan stood from the bench, unscrewed the cap off his bottle, and took a slow sip.
Then he stepped onto the pitch.
Vardy was the first to reach him, already grinning.
"Mate," he said, pulling Tristan into a hug. "Sixth place. You believe that?"
"Almost," Tristan said. "Still feels weird."
Vardy slapped his shoulder once before jogging over to clap the fans.
Mahrez came next, arm slung casually over Tristan's neck for a second. "You owe me one for that assist stat."
"I gave you five," Tristan said.
"Exactly," Mahrez laughed before jogging away.
Tristan turned, exchanging handshakes with Drinkwater, then Ulloa, then Lingard—who pulled him into a quick side hug before saying, "Now you're finally off my back for top training ground nutmegs."
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "For now."
The QPR players began walking over. Shirts damp, heads bowed slightly — but still respectful.
Joey Barton gave Tristan a firm handshake and a nod. "Hell of a season, kid."
"Appreciate it," Tristan said. "You too."
Bobby Zamora came next. "You made half of us look retired out there."
"Don't say that," Tristan chuckled. "You guys had your moments."
"Yeah," Zamora grinned. "Moments of chasing shadows."
They laughed. Then Clint Hill stepped up, gripping Tristan's shoulder with a fatherly weight.
"Don't lose that edge," he said. "You're already the best young midfielder I've seen in this league."
Tristan blinked. "Thank you. Seriously."
More handshakes followed as the QPR players went back to their locker rooms whilst the Leicester players stayed to thank the fans.
They moved as one toward the center circle, then out toward the stands — clapping in unison. Vardy pointed toward the South Stand, both arms raised. Mahrez flung his shirt into the crowd. Drinkwater led the line toward the East End, where the drum still pounded out a slow rhythm. Lingard jogged over to a group of kids waving homemade banners.
Tristan followed, towel still around his neck. He clapped slowly, deliberately — turning toward each side of the stadium.
Barbara was watching from the box seats, her hands over her heart. Julia and Ling stood beside her, clapping as proudly as any parent could.
A few minutes passed like that — just noise and warmth and appreciation.
Then Tristan turned back toward the bench.
He made a gesture. A quiet word to one of the staff.
They came running and handed him a microphone.
The noise dipped as soon as the stadium cameras zoomed in on him.
"Hi, everyone," Tristan said, his voice steady but low.
The stadium dipped into silence, waiting for Tristan to continue; that's the kind of respect Tristan had from the fans.
He took a slow breath before continuing.
"I know we don't usually do this," he said, scanning the packed stands. "And I didn't plan it. But…"
He shifted his weight. Blinked once. His green eyes glinted under the floodlights.
"I just wanted to say something in front of all the fans here instead of some media room."
Around him, the players gave him space. No one moved. They all talked about this. Letting him have his moment.
"I came up through this club," Tristan continued. "Since I was six."
He looked toward the East Stand — the section where he used to sit with his mum. His face softened.
"My family's been here for generations. My mum. Her mum. Her mum before that. All Foxes."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he stared at his parents.
"So when I got called up for my debut in the FA Cup… I can't even describe that feeling."
He looked down for half a second, swallowing. When he looked back up, his voice was warmer.
"I played. I scored. And…"
He let the moment hang.
"I haven't really stopped since."
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd .
"Then came the FA Cup final. Against Arsenal. We won."
A wave of applause rose, unprompted.
"Then the World Cup in Brazil. And now... here we are."
He exhaled slowly, his chest rising. The mic trembled ever so slightly in his hand — just for a second.
"I've broken records people thought would never be touched. Most assists. Most contributions. All in one season."
Somewhere behind him, Mahrez gave a slow clap. Lingard nudged Drinkwater with a smirk.
"But I didn't do any of it alone," Tristan said. "It was this team that players, our coaches, and staff members. And all of you."
He swept his gaze across the stadium. The cameras followed. Thousands of fans — wide-eyed, motionless.
"And yeah… I'm sure everyone here has since my debut been dealing with me in the headlines every week." Tristan said chuckling as the crowd broke into full-blown laughter.
"The headlines. The rumours. That I'd leave. That this club's too small. That I'm spoiled. That I'm arrogant."
He shrugged, a half smile on his face now — one that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Maybe I am. Maybe I've still got a lot to learn.But you all… you never stopped backing me."
Tristan's expression shifted — harde, serious as he could be.
"So here's my promise."
He raised the mic slightly, straightening his posture.
"I'm not leaving."
The stadium was dead silent again.
"Not until every player in this club — every one of us — accomplishes something historic. Something unforgettable."
He turned slightly, eyes flicking to each stand — like he wanted every section to hear him directly.
"I promise you that."
Then he lowered the mic.
The crowd held the silence for a heartbeat longer — just one beat — and then the King Power exploded.
Flags waved. Fans jumped to their feet. Chanting broke out in every direction.
The noise hadn't died down. If anything, it had gotten louder.
Tristan stood there, the mic still in hand, eyes sweeping the crowd. Then he turned before handing Morgan that mic.
Wes turned to the crowd, adjusting the mic in his hand.
"Alright," he said, his voice rough but clear. "I won't take long. Don't worry."
That earned a warm ripple of laughter.
"I just wanted to say… this group, this club, this year — it's been something special."
He paused, looking back at the players behind him.
"We've had our doubters. We've had our moments. But what we built this season? That came from heart. From grit. From every lad who gave everything, every week."
The crowd started clapping again, steady and slow.
Wes lifted a hand slightly, still speaking.
"We've got a young squad. We've got belief. And with number twenty-two here leading the charge…" — he looked toward Tristan — "you can bet we're not done."
The crowd roared again.
Wes smiled. Just for a second.
"So from all of us — thank you. For the support. For sticking with us. And for letting us dream a little bigger every year."
He lifted the mic toward the crowd like a toast.
"We'll see you next season."
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Tristan sat on the bench near his cubby, towel around his shoulders, hair still damp. A bottle of water dangled from his fingers.
"You trying to make us cry or what?" Drinkwater said, tossing his shin pads into his bag. "That mic drop? Full Hollywood."
Lingard leaned back against the lockers, arms crossed. "I was waiting for doves. Maybe a hologram. You bottled it, really."
Tristan chuckled. "Should've brought one of those confetti cannons."
"Nah, mate," Vardy cut in, slapping his back. "That was class. I swear the entire stadium was choking up. You even got Huth blinking weird."
Robert Huth raised a brow. "Dust in my eye."
"Right," Mahrez said dryly. "Dust shaped like emotions."
"Honestly," Drinkwater said, sitting forward, "we all thought you were gone after this season. That speech? It calmed a lot of us down."
Tristan nodded. "That was the point."
A pause. Lingard stepped forward, offered his hand.
"Back to United for me," he said. "But this season's been the best of my life. You made it that."
Tristan pulled him into a quick hug. "You better not let Van Gaal stick you on the bench again."
"Please," Lingard muttered. "How can he bench me after this season."
Nearby, Maguire stood with his boots slung over his shoulder. "Hull's waiting. But I'm gonna miss this place."
Tristan bumped fists with him. "We'll cross paths again. Just don't slide tackle me."
Huth dropped into the seat beside Tristan. "I'm staying."
Tristan blinked. "You are?"
"They offered me a deal this morning. Didn't even think about it."
Tristan smiled. "Good call."
By the massage tables, Vardy and Mahrez were huddled around Vardy's phone, laughing.
Tristan strolled over. "Alright, what's the plan for summer?"
"Morocco," Mahrez said. "And a personal trainer. Need to level up."
Vardy shrugged. "Bit of Marbella. Bit of beer."
Tristan laughed. "Standard."
"What about you?" Danny called from across the room.
"Couple weeks with Barbara," Tristan said. "Then it's straight back to work. Sponsors, shoots, some charity stuff. Than training for the rest of the break. I be here so if anyone wants to join me, just send me a text."
Vardy raised an eyebrow. "Didn't Nike want to drop your signature boots already?"
"They did," Tristan said, pulling his shirt over his head. "I told them next season."
Mahrez blinked. "You held them off?"
"I want the timing right. This season was just the start."
Danny leaned back on the bench. "You're not normal, you know that?"
Tristan tossed his towel into the laundry bin. "That's the idea."
As he passed Vardy again, the striker turned and called out.
"Hey. One thing."
Tristan looked back.
"That miracle you talked about. What did you mean?"
Tristan paused, fingers brushing the edge of his locker.
"You'll see."
Vardy snorted. "You're such a drama queen."
Tristan shrugged with a smile. "Better than being boring."
The locker room slowly emptied. Final goodbyes. Signed shirts. Claps on the back. Photos with the kit men. The kind of quiet closure that only came with the end of a season.
Tristan lingered for a beat longer, letting it all sink in.
Then he turned and headed toward the media room.
Time for one last interview.
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The media room was packed.
Reporters from Sky Sports, BBC, The Guardian, The Telegraph, ESPN — even international outlets — were all gathered. Cameras were already rolling. Microphones angled forward. Murmurs died down the second Tristan walked in.
A Leicester media officer leaned into the mic. "We've got time for a few questions with Tristan
Cameras rolled. Microphones aimed like arrows. And the second Tristan walked in, the murmurs vanished.
Hands flew up.
First up was a reporter from Sky Sports, "Tristan, sixth place finish — best in Leicester's Premier League era. Ahead of Leicester are, of course, the winners, Chelsea, then Man City, Arsenal, Tottenham, and Liverpool. You've broken records, won awards, and stunned the league. But how do you feel about the way this season ended?"
Tristan leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. His voice was steady.
"Proud. Of the team. Of the staff. Of the fans. Sixth isn't a title, no — but when everyone thought we'd be fighting relegation? We showed them something different. Quarterfinals in Europe, records broken… I think we've exceeded every expectation."
A pause. Another hand.
"You ended the season with twenty-four goals, twenty-six assists. Broke Henry's goal contribution record. Set the Premier League assist record. And so many other records. And you're only nineteen. What do those numbers mean to you?"
Tristan paused before answering, thinking on it. "They mean I've got more to prove. Records are nice. I'm grateful. But I'd trade a few of them for a team trophy. That's the next step."
Another reporter raised her voice.
"What made you give that speech? That moment on the pitch — doesn't happen often."
Tristan's lips curved, but just slightly.
"There's been a lot of noise this year. Rumors, headlines, debates about my future. I wanted the club, the players, and the fans to hear it from me — not from papers or pundits. I'm not going anywhere. We're building something here. I wanted to say that out loud."
A reporter from The Guardian jumped in next.
"You haven't addressed the pundits directly. Scholes, Keane, Carragher — they've gone after you hard this year. You once told them to 'shut up about Barbara.' Care to say more?"
Tristan's smile thinned than sighed before answering the question. "Not really. Haven't spoken to them. Don't see the point. I try to avoid pundits honestly. They can say what they want — it's their job. But there's a line between criticism and… whatever they're doing. And there's not much advice I need from people who never did what I'm doing. Let the football speak."
He paused. "We beat United 7–1. Then again 3–1. That's all I'll say. I promised United will pay for it and they will continue to pay for it next season."
A ripple of laughter swept through the room.
BT Sport fired next. "Speaking of United — they finished seventh. But there's always talk about you ending up there. Is there truth to that?"
Tristan tilted his head. "They're a big club. Everyone knows that."
Then, calmly— "But I'm not interested. I don't like them, so… no."
Another reporter piped up.
"What about Newcastle? Those games were physical — especially that first one."
Tristan sat up straighter. His expression sharpened.
"They tried to kick us off the pitch. Tried to bully us. That didn't work. We beat them 3–0 the second time. That's the only message that matters."
Next question.
"Tristan, you missed a few matches late in the season. Minor injuries, fatigue. What's your plan to manage that next year?"
Tristan leaned back. Tapped the water bottle with his fingertips.
"Yeah. My body's still growing. And the schedule was brutal. But we've already mapped out plans — build more strength, more durability. Less burnout. I'm training through the break. Every day."
The staffer stepped up. "Last question."
A reporter shouted over the noise—
"Tristan! What was the miracle you promised the fans?"
The room froze. All eyes on Tristan.
"That miracle?" Tristan leaned into the mic. "You'll see it next season."
The cameras flashed wildly as he stood up and left the room.
..
The Sky Sports studio bathed in deep blues and reds, its panel desk catching the light. The Premier League season was over, but tonight wasn't about winding down — it was about making sense of the results of the league.
Around the desk were David Jones, Roy Keane, Jamie Carragher, Paul Scholes, and Thierry Henry.
The screen behind them flashed one final replay — Tristan in the media room.
"That miracle? You'll see it next season."
The clip faded. The silence in the studio lingered.
David Jones turned to the camera.
"Tristan Hale. Nineteen years old about to turn 20. Fifty goal contributions in the Premier League. Twenty-four goals and twenty-six assists in the league. In the Europa League, six goals and seven assists. For England, five goals and seven assists. Fifty-six games played, thirty-five goals, and forty assists with a combined total of seventy-five goals contributed. Leicester City finish sixth. And a mic drop that sent shockwaves across world football."
He looked toward the panel.
"Roy — start us off. What do you make of that final statement?"
Roy Keane leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
"Look — confidence like that can rub people the wrong way. Which it certainly did for me as you know and I still think that kid has too much of a ego. But when you've done what he's done? You have to respect and say this kid is the best player in the premier league and maybe even the world right now, certainly top five."
Carragher added quickly, "I've said things about him this year. But let's be honest — twenty-four goals, twenty-six assists in the league alone? That's not just Player of the Year form. That's Premier League history."
Scholes nodded. "There are still things he can learn — every young player can. But what he's doing already… you can't teach that."
Behind them, a stat graphic appeared:
📊 Tristan Hale – 2014/15 Season
Premier League: 38 games – 24 goals, 26 assists
Europa League: 9 games – 6 goals, 7 assists
England: 9 games – 5 goals, 7 assists
Total: 56 games – 35 goals, 40 assists
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David glanced at the numbers, then to Henry.
"Thierry — he broke your Premier League goal contribution record. Thoughts?"
Henry smiled faintly.
"Honestly? I love it. Records are made to be broken — and if it's going to be someone, let it be someone like him. I met Tristan, talked to him, and took pictures with him, even got his number. He's very mature and very understanding. That bicycle kick against United? That's one of the best goals I've seen in years. But it's not just the goals. It's his movement. His touch. His awareness. He's nineteen. That's ridiculous."
Another graphic flashed across the screen, this one bold and gold:
🏆 Youngest Ever To Win (or Do in the Same Season)
Golden Boy – Youngest English winner
Only Golden Boy winner to sweep all major domestic player awards in same season
Puskás Award – Youngest winner ever
FIFPro World XI –Youngest English player selected
PFA Player of the Year – Youngest ever (broke Ronaldo's record)
PFA Young Player of the Year – First to win both Senior & Young award at 19
FWA Footballer of the Year – Youngest ever (Previous: Ronaldo at 23)
Premier League Player of the Season – Youngest ever
UEFA Europa League Squad of the Season – Youngest English player selected
UEFA Team of the Year (Nominee) – Youngest English player if selected
IFFHS World's Best Playmaker –Youngest in history
England Men's Player + Young Player of the Year – First player ever to win both in same season
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Roy let out a quiet breath. "That's a full career worth of awards — and he hasn't even turned twenty yet. Bloody hell."
"The scary part? It's not just stats. It's the aura. The way teams plan around him. Newcastle tried to kick him off the pitch. United were embarrassed. And through it all, he's barely flinched." Carragher added,
David nodded. "Speaking of United — he was very blunt in the post-match interview."
Keane cracked a tight smile. "He made it clear he doesn't like us."
Scholes shook his head. "He said we've got nothing to offer him. That one stings."
The panel chuckled.
"Add that all up? He's already done things no English player — no teenager — has ever done. If he stays fit, and if he stays hungry… he might redefine the standards completely." Keane said, shaking his head.
Carragher nodded. "He didn't do this with a super team. No disrespect, but Leicester aren't stacked like City or Chelsea. He made players around him better. Vardy. Mahrez. Even Drinkwater. They've all stepped up."
David looked around the table.
"Final thoughts. That miracle he promised — what do you think it is?"
A beat of silence.
Then Thierry Henry leaned forward.
"He thinks they can win the league."
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Now I did a poll for NewCastle game on Patreon, more than 80% which was around 170 people who voted for me to write the game next season as they wanted a prime Leciester to destory Newcastle.
Anyway we are finally done with this season, let's gooooooooooooooo.