March 2, 2016
.
The doorbell rang, and Tristan pulled it open to find Mendes and Sofia waiting on the step.
"Come in," he said, stepping aside. He was dressed in a plain red shirt and shorts, bare feet against the wood floor.
They followed him through to the living room. Tristan gestured toward the couch. "Sit, make yourselves comfortable."
Mendes settled into one end, legs crossing easily, while Sofia took the other, her tablet already balanced on her lap.
Tristan dropped into his own chair opposite them, leaning back. "You guys want anything to drink?"
"I'm good," Sofia said.
"Same here," Mendes added with a quick shake of his head.
Tristan nodded, folding his arms as he settled in.
It was time for their monthly meeting. Between endorsements, contracts, and investments, he was at the center of an empire worth hundreds of millions. Every month or so, Mendes and Sofia sat down with him to walk through the details, updates, opportunities, potential issues. Anything he needed to know, they made sure was laid out clearly.
"So." Mendes clasped his hands like a school principal. "Before anything else—let's talk about that West Brom draw. What the hell happened? West Brom, Tristan?"
Tristan groaned. "You actually watched that?"
"Of course I watched it," Mendes shot back. "The entire internet watched it. My neighbor's dog probably watched it. What happened? Team okay?"
Tristan rolled his eyes. "We're fine. Just a bad game after winning the Cup. No one's panicking. Training's sharp, everyone's focused, Ranieri's rotating more. A couple draws don't matter when you're nineteen points clear. Trust me we're sleeping like babies."
"Good," Mendes said, leaning back. "Because if you lot pull this off, FA Cup, Europa League, unbeaten in the league and with your stats?" He raised his brows. "Even if Ronaldo wins the Champions League, it'll be a debate. You'll be in every voter's head when they write down Ballon d'Or."
Tristan stretched an arm behind his head, smirking. "That'd be insane… but yeah, momentum's good. Just need to stay healthy."
"And England's got a decent Euro draw," Mendes added. "If you put in even a modest showing there, you're right in the running. Portugal's chances? Slim."
Sofia looked up from her tablet. "Wow. Have some national pride, Jorge. Don't let Ronaldo hear you say that, he'll strangle you with a Gucci belt."
Mendes shrugged. "I'm just being realistic. What chances do we really have?"
Tristan didn't answer, though a crooked smile tugged at his mouth. Outwardly silent, but in his head he was laughing.
If only they knew. In his first life, Portugal did win it and England, glorious England, had been dumped out by Iceland of all teams. Iceland. He still couldn't say it without grimacing.
But this life was different. He was here now, and there was no way he was letting England collapse to Iceland or anyone like them. Not on his watch.
Even so, he wasn't delusional. England's history was littered with letdowns. Even with him in the squad, he wasn't expecting miracles. Best case? If he and a handful of in form players could drag the team forward, maybe… maybe they'd make it as far as a semi final.
Sofia looked up from her tablet, frowning. "Alright, can we actually focus on this meeting? I'd rather not spiral about my country's Euro chances right now."
Mendes smirked. "Fine. Then let's talk about your little Bitcoin adventure first. Someone's portfolio nearly doubled last week."
Tristan leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Told you both years ago it was a good idea. You just laughed at me."
"Correction," Sofia said dryly, "I still think it's insane. I just happen to enjoy watching my balance go up."
Mendes chuckled. "Yeah, I learned to stop doubting you when it comes to your investments."
Tristan smirked. "Yeah, don't question me on my intellect anymore."
Sofia groaned, rubbing her forehead. "God help us, he's going to be insufferable when more of his investments blow up"
Mendes raised a brow. "He already is."
Sofia shifted the conversation. "Alright, investments are steady. Nothing we need to pick apart, you've got a whole team handling that. But… Liverpool reached out again."
Tristan gave her a flat look. "Tell them to wait until summer. Leicester needs me here. As long as they finish top four, they're still my number one."
Mendes nodded slowly. "Fair. But I still want you to sit with Florentino."
Tristan exhaled through his nose. He already felt the headache forming.
"And Sir Alex," Mendes added. "Face to face this time. You've been dodging them long enough. We don't need promises just respect. If you do move years down the line, those relationships matter."
Tristan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Fine. This time, for real. Set it up."
Sofia jotted something on her tablet. "Madrid and Manchester will lose their minds. They've been starving for even a crack at a meeting that doesn't run through us."
Tristan sat back, dragging a hand down his face. When he decided he wanted to be the best player in the world, he thought his biggest problems would be defenders kicking lumps out of him or missing sitters in front of goal. Not this. Not politics. Not lunches with old presidents and legends breathing down his neck.
"Brilliant," he muttered. "Florentino, Sir Alex. Can't wait. Leave me alone, the sequel."
Mendes smirked. "Part of the job, lad."
Tristan thought sourly: funny, no one mentioned this bit when they said number one player in the world.
"After the Euros, the world's going to descend on you," Mendes said, curious eyes on Tristan. "Paparazzi, tabloids, ESPN, Vogue. Best we disappear somewhere for a while. Thoughts?"
Tristan groaned at the list. "God, even hearing it makes me tired."
"Somewhere out of Europe," Sofia agreed. "Somewhere where the media can't the English media can't reach you."
Tristan tilted his head. "Maybe the US… or actually…" he paused, thinking of his dad. "Why not China?"
Mendes blinked. "China?"
Sofia leaned forward, intrigued. "Nike could set up events there. And the Chinese fans adore you. Barbara too."
"Speaking of," Mendes said, glancing around. "Where are Barbara and Biscuit?"
"In France," Tristan replied. "Barbara and Sophia plus some investors. They're finalizing a manufacturing company, they are almost ready to start production."
Sofia's brows rose. "Then China makes even more sense. Let her meet your family, scout factories, mix business with privacy. Perfect. And if Barbara blows up in China any more than she already has? That's massive."
Mendes nodded. "Alright. China it is. I'll get things moving."
Tristan stood, stretching the stiffness out of his shoulders. "That everything?"
"Until you win your next five games," Mendes said with a smile. "Yeah, that's everything."
The meeting wound down with a few final notes exchanged, and then Sofia and Mendes stepped out into the drizzle.
Tristan lingered at the door, staring out at the grey evening. For all the noise, all the plans, all the pressure…
Finally, he could go play FIFA in peace.
.
Two Hours Later
The FIFA menu music looped for the third time, drilling into his skull like water torture.
Tristan dropped the controller onto the couch and groaned at the ceiling. "Seventy goals in a season, four trophies, and you're still making me listen to this elevator music? Why am I still playing this shitty ass game."
He'd already taken Leicester to glory, averaging numbers Messi would've called "a bit much." Switching over hadn't helped.
In NBA 2K, his MyPlayer was a 98 overall point guard, dunking like Vince Carter, shooting like Steph. After five games, even the virtual commentators were sick of him.
"'No one in NBA history has ever done this,'" Tristan muttered, mimicking the announcer. "Yeah, mate, because it's not realistic." He quit mid-alley-oop.
Call of Duty was worse. Warzone dropped him in a quiet village, only for a twelve-year-old with the gamertag "Sin_bad" to put a bullet between his eyes from three rooftops away.
Tristan ripped off the headset. "Brilliant, just brilliant." He was close to losing it. He tossed the controller aside, exhaled through his nose, and stared at the ceiling again.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. He missed Barbara and Biscuit. Oh what would he do to just teleport to France right now.
He reached for his phone, thumb hovering before finally hitting FaceTime. "Well, might as well give Dad the good news," he muttered.
It rang twice before his mum's face appeared on screen.
"Hey, baby," Julia said warmly. "What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on," Tristan replied, shifting the phone. "Can't a man just call his mum?"
She scoffed. "Please. I know my son. You don't FaceTime me unless you're hungry, injured, or plotting something." She tilted her head. "Which is it?"
Tristan deadpanned. "Wow. Incredible lack of faith. For the record, I'm fine. And I ate already."
"Mm hm." She sipped something from a mug. "Your dad's downstairs watching some godawful action flick. Explosions every five seconds. He's thrilled."
"Sounds about right." Tristan hesitated. "Is he there?"
"Yeah. Want me to get him?"
"In a sec," he said. "I wanted to ask you something first."
Julia's eyebrow arched. "You didn't do something stupid, did you?"
"No," Tristan said flatly. Then, after a pause: "Though now that you mention it…"
"Tristan."
"Kidding." He scratched the back of his head. "I was just… thinking about summer. After the Euros."
Her expression softened, curious. "Alright. What about it?"
"I'm thinking of going to China. Not for football or anything just to get away. Mendes thinks it's smart. Media cooldown, see family, maybe let Nike run a couple events while I'm there."
Julia blinked. "China?"
"Yeah."
"…Wow." She looked down for a moment. "It's been years."
"Seven, right?" Tristan said. "Last time I was thirteen."
Julia nodded slowly. "Since then it's just been Christmas cards and awkward New Year calls."
"It's not like anything bad happened," Tristan said carefully. "We just… aren't that close."
"True," Julia admitted. "They were never cruel. Just… not warm."
He hesitated before asking, "Would you come with me? Both of you?"
Her smile softened. "Of course we'd come. I think it'd mean a lot to your dad. He hasn't been back since your grandpa passed. Not once."
"Want me to grab him?" Julia asked.
"Yeah."
She angled the phone down and called toward the stairs. "Ling! Come here, your son's planning a pilgrimage."
There was shuffling in the background before Ling appeared onscreen, hair mussed, wearing an old England training hoodie Tristan barely remembered giving him.
"Pilgrimage?" Ling repeated dryly. "You joining a monastery?"
Tristan cracked a small smile. "Not exactly. Thinking about going to China this summer. After the Euros. Cool off, travel a bit. Beijing, maybe Guangzhou. See some of your side of the family."
Ling's expression didn't shift much, but his eyes did. A flicker, surprise, maybe even hope. "Really?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah. If I'm going, I thought… you'd want to come too. It's been a while, hasn't it?"
Ling let out a soft chuckle. "A long while."
"I want you both there," Tristan said. "Feels like it's time."
Ling nodded, almost to himself. "We'll go. I'd like that."
Julia leaned back into the frame, smiling. "Well. Guess we're going to China, then."
Tristan sank deeper into the couch, smiling faintly.
They talked a little longer, Julia asking what he wanted to see, Ling mentioning a cousin who still ran a noodle shop in the old district. Soon enough, the call wound down and the screen went dark.
Silence filled the room.
Tristan's thoughts drifted to something he'd seen of videos online, NBA players landing in Shanghai or Beijing. Airports crammed with thousands of screaming fans. Flags, drums, chants, entire military lines holding back the crowds. Kobe once, mobbed like royalty, his name echoing across a sea of voices.
Would it be like that for him?
He wasn't sure. He wasn't born there. His Mandarin wasn't exactly the best. His tie to China was personal, not public.
Still.
He caught himself wondering if he should invite a few of the lads, maybe Kante, maybe Vardy and Mahrez. The thought of them stepping off a plane into a wall of noise, Kante grinning shyly and Vardy soaking it all in with a beer in hand, almost made him laugh.
Yeah, he thought. That would be something.
He wouldn't know until months later, when the wheels touched down and the cabin doors opened, just how seriously China, its government, and its people would take his visit.
He wasn't just a half-English kid anymore. He was the golden child of football. The rising face of the global game, spoken of alongside Ronaldo and Messi.
And China was ready to claim him.
Before he could enjoy himself and take a quick up, his phone started blowing up to the point he thought he was getting bombed by Israel.
He blinked at the screen.
Team Group Chat — "Miracle Team"
Ben: Yooooooo just saw the Norton episode 💀💀💀 Forgot about you having that haircut 💀💀
Vardy: Bro you looked like you walked straight off a Fragrance commercial
"New from Dior: Stale Haircut & Anxiety" 😂
Mahrez: The way you sat down like you'd never been on a couch before 😭😭
Ben:"Hi I'm Tristan Hale and I play football AND look like I cry in the rain" 🥹
Drinkwater: Boyega tried to dap you up and you hit him with the Queen's handshake 💀💀
Albrighton: The way Graham was hyping you up… I swear he was one "Golden Boy" away from proposing. Barbara has some competitions
Vardy: I know you practiced your be humble face in the mirror before that show.
Ben: Yo I'm crying at the "I haven't seen Elvis in the dressing room yet" line 😭😭
Tristan: Jealousy is loud.
Vardy: Not as loud as that awkward laugh you hit after the Beckham story 💀
Tristan: Better to laugh awkwardly than to look awkward for 90 minutes every weekend.
Ben: Damn.
Mahrez: He's fighting back now, everyone duck.
Tristan: @Kanté you're safe. You're the only one that looked me in the eye after training today and didn't call me "Hollywood."
Kanté: That's because I respect cinema.
Fuchs: Touché.
Later That Night
Tristan stretched out on the couch, blanket thrown over his legs, remote on his stomach. The house was too quiet.
Then his phone buzzed.
Barbara: Voice message (1:12)
He sat up and pressed play.
Her voice came through, a little out of breath, maybe walking Biscuit. There was faint chatter and the shuffle of footsteps in the background.
"Okay, so Sophia just argued in French, threatened someone in English, and negotiated a bulk order in what I think was German. I'm not even sure anymore. I just stood there smiling like a decorative lamp while she dismantled a grown man's business plan in sixty seconds. She's terrifying."
There was a laugh sounding tired.
"I miss you. Biscuit's being a traitor. She keeps trying to follow Sophia around instead of staying with me. And don't say it's because she smells like croissants."
A pause. Then quieter:
"Can't wait to be home. Love you."
The message ended.
Tristan stared at the screen for a long moment before typing back:
Love you.
Then he turned off the TV, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
.
March 5, 2016 – Vicarage Road, Watford (Premier League)
Rain splattered against the bus windows as Leicester pulled into Vicarage Road. The streets gleamed under the floodlights, puddles shimmering like broken glass. Supporters pressed against the barriers, some cheering, others jeering, their voices muffled by the drizzle.
Tristan sat near the middle of the bus, hood up, headphones on. His fingers tapped a rhythm against his knee, not quite in time with the music, more nerves than beat. Beside him, Vardy cracked his knuckles one by one, staring out the window with that predator's look he carried into every ground.
"We good, yeah?" Jamie muttered, not looking away from the glass.
Tristan slid one side of his headphones down. "We get our rhythm back tonight."
Jamie grinned. That was enough.
.
In the tunnel, the air was damp and sharp with the smell of liniment and wet grass. Boots clattered against concrete. Watford players stood opposite, arms folded, jaws set. Tense. They had everything to prove. Leicester's side? Quiet. Focused. No wasted words.
The referee's whistle. Thunder rolled overhead.
.
Eight minutes in, Mahrez ghosted down the right and cut inside, slipping the ball into Tristan's path at the edge of the box.
Tristan chopped left with one touch, bought half a yard, then snapped his boot through the ball. It skidded low across the slick grass, skimming inside the far post.
The away end erupted.
"Tristan Hale! Clinical! Ruthless! Leicester lead inside ten minutes!"
Tristan barely heard the commentary, barely heard the roar. Just the thud of his heartbeat in his ears. Mahrez slapped his back, Drinkwater grabbed his shoulders, and Vardy ruffled his hair—but Tristan jogged back into position, eyes fixed, pulse steady.
By the 39th minute, Mahrez cut back from the byline again. Vardy darted across the near post like lightning, flicking the ball past Gomes before the keeper even blinked. The net bulged.
"Jamie Vardy! It's two! Leicester City, ruthless again!"
Vardy clenched his fists tight, jaw set, eyes blazing. No knee slide, no arms wide. He just turned, pumping his teammates up with a hard nod. Behind him, Fuchs roared into the rain, Huth and Morgan collided chest to chest, while the bench leapt as one.
Still there was no wild joy. Just pure focus.
The rest of the night was a slog. Watford pushed higher, desperate. Schmeichel punched crosses away, Morgan and Huth threw their bodies in front of everything, and Tristan ran himself ragged, legs burning with every counter. Tackles slid across the wet grass, lungs burned in the cold mist, but Leicester never cracked.
When the final whistle blew, the stadium noise washed over them in a blur.
No wild celebrations. No arms raised to the sky. Just pats on the back, muttered "good lads," and players walking off with the calm of men clocking out after a long shift.
In the dressing room, steam hissed from the showers. Boots hit kit bags. Water dripped steadily from hair and jerseys into the floor. Nineteen points clear. The table was theirs to lose.
And yet, no one dared breathe like it was over. No speeches. No singing.
It wasn't joy anymore. It was making sure they finished the job.
Business.
Next Morning
Belvoir Drive – Morning
The gym smelled of eucalyptus oil, damp turf, and the low hum of machines grinding through recovery sessions.
Tristan moved through his stretches with a resistance band looped around his thighs, earbuds in, hamstrings still tight from slogging through the soaked Watford pitch.
Across the room, Kanté was already perched on a bike, pedaling lightly, towel tucked neatly over his shoulder. Mahrez slouched next to him on another bike, feet spinning lazily, eyes half shut like he might fall asleep mid-warmup.
"Vardy's late," Mahrez muttered, not bothering to open his eyes.
"Probably still icing his knees," Kanté offered.
Tristan smirked, pulling the band tighter.
Not ten seconds later, the doors banged open and Vardy strode in, hoodie over his head, Red Bull in hand.
"Morning, grannies! Ready for another week of sweating our bollocks off?"
Kanté lifted his water bottle. "Hydrate."
"Shut up," Vardy said cheerfully. "Red Bull's all I need." He chucked a ball across the room, narrowly missing Kanté. "You run like a gazelle with a grudge, you don't get to talk about fitness."
The room burst into laughter.
As the noise settled, Drinkwater strolled past with a protein shake, catching the tail end of the banter. "Save it, lads. We've got United next in Round 16."
That got a chorus of groans.
"Oh no, not United," Mahrez said flatly, finally waking up enough to grin. "The terror of mid table."
Tristan chuckled. "What are they now, sixth? Seventh? I lose track."
"Seventh," Kanté corrected calmly, like it was a fact of geography.
Vardy nearly spat out his drink laughing. "Seventh! Bloody hell. We've battered them every time. Remember Martial trying to dance past Wes?"
"Looked like he was stuck in mud," Drinkwater said.
"Or Rooney," Mahrez added with a wicked grin. "He tried to foul me and fell over instead."
Tristan shook his head, laughing. "They haven't beaten us once. At this point, it's charity work. We should let them have a goal."
"Absolutely not," Kanté said, dead serious.
That set everyone off again.
The sound of their laughter bounced off the gym walls, loud and unbothered. United was next on the fixture list but no one here was losing sleep over it.
Later That Evening – Home
The key clicked in the lock.
The front door creaked open, immediately followed by the rapid skitter of claws on tile. Biscuit rocketed down the hall like a cartoon character, barking once before launching herself into Tristan's legs.
"Okay, okay, okay—"
He barely had time to brace before she was on him, tail spinning like a helicopter, licking whatever part of his face she could reach.
Behind her, Barbara shuffled in, suitcase in one hand, nudging the door shut with her foot. Her hair was pulled into a loose knot, eyes rimmed with travel fatigue, a long beige coat hanging off her shoulders. She looked like someone who'd just survived three layovers and a boardroom war.
"Missed me?" she asked, voice wry.
"You or the dog?" Tristan grinned.
"Be careful what you say," she warned, already toeing off her boots.
He stepped over Biscuit, closed the distance, and pulled her into his arms.
Barbara melted instantly into the hug.
"I smell terrible," she muttered into his chest.
"You smell like home," he murmured back.
She couldn't help but laugh at the line. "That's so cheesy."
He kissed her temple anyway. "You should've called me. I'd have picked you up."
Barbara shook her head, smiling faintly. "It was fine. You've been training all day. I knew you'd be tired. Sophia dropped me off, no drama."
Tristan tightened his hold, half annoyed, half touched. "Still. Next time, I'm coming."
"Next time," she promised softly.
They stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, while Biscuit circled their legs like she was making sure the pack was back together again.
Dinner was quiet, simple pasta and some chicken cooked up by Felix. Biscuit snoring softly under the table.
"Sophia nearly killed a French guy yesterday," Barbara said, lazily swirling her pasta. "All I did was nod and smile while she negotiated our entire future."
Tristan smirked. "Sounds exactly like Sophia."
"She also made a guy cry. Like, actual tears."
Tristan set his fork down and nodded solemnly. "RIP to that man's confidence. May it rest where it fell."
Barbara burst out laughing, nearly choking on her sip of water
"The deal's almost finalized," she said after a moment, quieter now. "Next week we start developing the formula and recipes."
Tristan looked up. Her eyes weren't tired anymore. They gleamed, focused, alive.
"You did it," he said softly.
Barbara tilted her head. "We did it."
"No," he countered, leaning forward. "You." His voice carried weight. "I'm proud of you."
Something flickered across her face, pride, relief, love all tangled together. She stood, leaned across the table, and kissed him hard enough to make Biscuit snort awake beneath their feet.
Later, in bed, Barbara curled against his chest, her hair still damp from a quick shower. Biscuit was sprawled at their feet, snoring softly, paws twitching as if she were chasing something in her dreams. Rain tapped steady against the window, soft but insistent.
Tristan lay on his back, eyes on the ceiling, fingers absentmindedly moving through Barbara's hair.
"You're quiet," she murmured, her voice muffled against him. "Thinking about United?"
"No," he said. "Not United."
She tilted her head, meeting his gaze. "Then what?"
He hesitated, then spoke plainly. "China. I've decided I'm going after the Euros."
Her eyes flickered with surprise, though she didn't pull away. "Really?"
"Yeah." He shifted slightly, keeping his arm around her. "Mendes and Sofia both think it's smart. Get out of Europe for a bit, let the media cool off, see my dad's side of the family. Nike's already circling, and Sofia says it makes sense for your business too—factories, meetings, all of it. It's time."
Barbara was quiet, her cheek resting over his heartbeat. "And you want me to come?"
He glanced down at her, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "Course I do. You, me, Biscuit, the whole lot. I don't want to walk off that plane alone. Feels like… it's something I need to do, but I don't want to do it without you."
Barbara lifted her head slightly, studying him with soft eyes. "You're serious about this."
Tristan nodded. "Haven't been back since I was thirteen. Feels overdue." He paused, then added with a crooked grin, "Also, Sofia swears China would love you even more than me. Probably build you a statue."
Barbara laughed quietly. "You'd hate that."
"Depends. If Biscuit gets one too, I'll allow it."
At the foot of the bed, Biscuit snorted in her sleep as if in agreement.
Barbara leaned up and kissed him lightly. "Then it's settled. We'll go."
Tristan exhaled, tension leaving him.
March 9, 2016 – Belvoir Drive Press Room
Pre-Match Press Conference: Manchester United vs Leicester City (Europa League Round of 16, Leg 1)
Three chairs. Three microphones. Three wildly different personalities.
In the middle, Tristan Hale sat loose, posture calm, fingers laced like he'd been doing this all his life. To his right, N'Golo Kanté smiled politely, clearly wishing he was anywhere else. On the left, Jamie Vardy cracked open a bottle of Lucozade like it was lager at a barbecue.
First question went to Tristan. "Tristan, this is your first time facing United in Europe. What's the mood in the squad?"
Tristan leaned into the mic. "Business as usual. We respect every team, but we don't fear anyone. We're not here for the shirts, we're here for the win."
Before the words even had time to settle, Vardy leaned into his mic. "Speak for yourself, mate. I want Rooney's kit for the garage wall."
The room cracked up. Even the stoniest reporters grinned.
Next, a journalist turned to Vardy.
"Jamie, do you think Leicester's unbeaten record puts extra pressure on United?"
Vardy shrugged casually. "Dunno. If I were them, yeah, I'd be stressed. But hey we're just a small club, right? Not like we haven't smacked them around a dozen times this season."
Tristan snorted. "It's four, Jamie."
"Yeah," Vardy shot back, grinning, "but it felt like twelve."
More laughter. Pens scratched across notepads.
Then came Kanté's turn.
"N'Golo, what do you make of the midfield battle tomorrow? You'll likely face Schneiderlin and Herrera."
Kanté nodded once. "Good players. But I'll do my job."
That was it. Silence stretched. The reporters looked up expectantly. No elaboration came. Just Kanté's gentle smile.
Vardy leaned over his mic, stage whispering, "That's French for 'I'm going to ruin their week.'"
The room erupted. Even Kanté chuckled, shaking his head.
Questions circled back to Tristan. He spoke in that calm, clipped way he'd been learning, respectful, measured, no bulletin board material for the opposition. But one reporter couldn't resist pushing.
"You've never lost to United, have you?"
Tristan glanced sideways at Vardy, then at Kanté. "Not yet."
"Still time," Vardy whispered theatrically, earning himself a shove that nearly knocked over his Lucozade.
Another question landed, this time to Tristan again.
"If you beat United tomorrow, doesn't that make Leicester top favorites for the Europa League?"
Vardy jumped in before Tristan could open his mouth. "Mate, we're already favorites. Why are we pretending United's this scary monster? They can't even beat us. Haven't all season."
Tristan let the laughter ripple, then leaned in with a small smile. "What he means is, at this point I'm pretty sure more teams are nervous to face us than the other way around."
The cameras clicked furiously.
Finally, the personal question.
"Tristan, you're often described as the face of this team. Do you feel the pressure heading into the business end of the season?"
He paused just long enough to make the room lean in. Then: "Pressure's not new. And it's not mine alone. I've got a team full of leaders. Some louder than others," he nodded toward Vardy. "Some that just run 20 kilometers every match," he gestured at Kanté. "But we move as one."
Vardy leaned back, whistling low. "God, you're good at this now. Do you write these down ahead of time?"
Tristan didn't blink. "Nah. I just channel your confidence and pray it doesn't come with the hangover."
Even Kanté laughed out loud at that one.
The presser wound down, but the energy lingered.
The three of them rose and stepped off the platform. No nerves. No tension. Just the air of a group who had already made Manchester United look small, and were perfectly happy to do it again on a European stage.
The job wasn't finished. But everyone in the room felt it.
Leicester looked ready to bury United again.
March 10, 2016 – King Power Stadium
It felt like a final for Manchester United. For the players, for the fans who had made the trip down, for their reputation. Leicester had beaten them in the league. Humiliated them, even. Now, the Europa League was United's last chance at dignity.
For Leicester? It was just another hunt.
The King Power was shaking before kick-off. A wall of blue and white. Scarves raised, flags rippling in the cold March air. From the stands came a roar that refused to die down, every chant echoing like thunder:
"Champions of England, we know what we are!"
Cameras panned across the tunnel. On one side, United stood with stony faces — De Gea, Martial, Mata, Schneiderlin, Carrick, Rooney. On the other, Leicester's players shifted with quiet energy. Kanté bouncing on his toes. Morgan glaring straight ahead. Vardy chewing gum like it owed him money. And in the middle of them all, Tristan Hale, jaw set, eyes locked forward.
He tugged his shirt once over his chest. Then the referee led them out.
Kick-off.
From the whistle, Leicester pressed like a pack of wolves. United tried to settle, knocking it around the back four, but every touch was harassed. Okazaki chased like a man possessed, Mahrez pressed Blind into mistakes, and Kanté was already everywhere at once.
The first chance came in the 7th minute. Tristan skipped past Schneiderlin on the left touchline, drove to the edge of the box, and unleashed a strike that stung De Gea's palms. The rebound fell to Vardy, whose follow-up clipped the side netting. The King Power gasped, then roared its approval.
"Leicester looking dangerous already! Tristan with the strike, and United living on the edge here."
19th minute.
Tristan dropped deep, collecting a pass from Drinkwater. Carrick stepped forward to close him down. One feint inside, a sharp swivel out, and Carrick spun like a man chasing shadows. Tristan didn't even look before pinging an outside-of-the-boot pass that sliced open the back line.
"What a ball that is from Tristan! Vardy's through!"
Vardy burst into the channel, a single touch setting him free, and hammered a low shot beyond De Gea.
"JAMIE VARDY! OF COURSE IT'S HIM! LEICESTER STRIKE FIRST!"
The King Power exploded. Scarves spun, fans leapt on each other, the noise rattled through the night air. Vardy sprinted to the corner flag, sliding on his knees with his arms wide, teammates piling on top of him.
Tristan jogged after him, raising one arm to the crowd, laughing looking satisfied.
1–0 Leicester.
United tried to respond. Martial found space on the left in the 27th, twisting past Simpson and firing low — but Schmeichel saved with his legs. Mata curled a free kick just over in the 34th. For every flicker of danger, Leicester bit back harder.
Kanté crunched into Herrera in midfield, drawing a roar that sounded like a second goal. Morgan headed away cross after cross, while Huth physically bullied Martial off the ball, drawing jeers from the away section.
Halftime arrived with the score at 1–0, and the home fans sang the players down the tunnel.
Second Half.
Leicester came out hungrier.
54th minute.
Mahrez picked up the ball just inside his own half, gliding past Schneiderlin like he wasn't there. The Algerian slipped it to Tristan, who carried it forward, United defenders closing in.
Instead of forcing a shot, Tristan let the ball roll across his body before flicking a no-look backheel into space.
"That's outrageous! The vision! Tristan has unlocked them!"
Okazaki pounced, slamming it into the roof of the net from six yards.
"OKAZAKI! TWO–NIL LEICESTER! THE KING POWER IS IN DREAMLAND!"
The stadium erupted again. Okazaki sprinted away with pure joy, fists pumping, before being tackled to the ground by Vardy, Mahrez, and half the squad. Tristan jogged up, pointing to Mahrez first, then to Okazaki, before being dragged into the celebration pile himself.
2–0 Leicester.
United's heads dropped.
71st minute.
Mahrez again slipped down the wing, faked a cross, and rolled the ball to the edge of the box. Tristan arrived on cue. One step, one sweep of the right boot, and the ball rocketed into the top corner past a helpless De Gea.
"TRISTAN HALE! THE CROWN JEWEL DELIVERS AGAIN! THREE–NIL! IT'S A DEMOLITION!"
The King Power shook. Fans leapt over barriers. Scarves whirled. The noise was deafening, a tidal wave of belief and triumph.
Tristan sprinted toward the South Stand, arms lifted wide, palms open, chin tilted high, his signature.
The crowd answered in kind. A guttural roar, thousands chanting his name. "TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"
Vardy leapt on his back, Mahrez pulled at his shirt, Okazaki hugged him from behind, but Tristan just stood tall for a moment, arms spread, soaking in the storm.
3–0 Leicester. Game over.
The last twenty minutes were carnage control for United. Martial tried runs down the wing, but Morgan battered him off the ball. Mata tried probing passes, but Kanté cut every one out. Rooney looked lost, throwing his arms up at teammates.
Every Leicester interception was cheered like a fourth goal. Every Schmeichel punch clear sent the stands wild. By the 88th minute, the away end was half-empty.
When the whistle blew, the King Power roared like a jet engine.
Leicester 3–0 Manchester United.
The players embraced, clapping toward the stands. Vardy bounced like a madman, Okazaki waved both arms, and Mahrez raised a fist. Tristan lingered in front of the South Stand, arms wide once again, before applauding the crowd back.
United trudged off, heads down. Leicester marched off like kings.
Post-Match
The camera tracked Tristan as he jogged across the soaked pitch, boots squelching against the turf. The King Power was still a wall of sound behind him, fans singing long after the final whistle, but the noise faded as he neared the far touchline.
A small knot of United players lingered near the tunnel. Some swapped shirts quickly, heads low. Others just trudged on, staring at the ground like it had betrayed them.
Wayne Rooney stood a little apart from the group. Shirt untucked, socks sagging, hands planted on his hips. His jaw was clenched, his face flushed, but his eyes lifted when Tristan approached.
"Rooney," Tristan said, offering a hand. "Hell of a game, mate."
For a second, Rooney just studied him, unreadable. Then he gave a short nod, gripped Tristan's hand firmly, and clapped his shoulder.
"Keep going," Rooney said quietly, voice low enough that only Tristan could hear. "You're gonna win everything."
Tristan opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, an arm hooked him in a sudden side hug.
"Oi!" Jesse Lingard grinned, sweat still dripping, trying to mask the sting of the loss with bravado. "What happened to going easy on us, eh? Haven't you beaten us enough times already?"
Tristan snorted. "Not even close."
Lingard laughed, shaking his head. "Bullshit. You're killing it, man. Proud of you, honestly. Just… slow down a bit, yeah? Give the rest of us a chance."
"Not a chance," Tristan replied, smirking as he tapped his fist against Lingard's.
The camera zoomed in on the exchange, catching Lingard's grin and Tristan's easy smile before he turned, walking toward the waiting line of broadcasters. Behind him, United's players drifted off in silence while Leicester's fans kept roaring his name.
Man of the Match Interview — BT Sport
The floodlights still blazed down on the pitch as Tristan stepped into the interview zone, boots heavy with mud, blades of grass sticking stubbornly to his socks. His calves were streaked with dirt, his shirt clung to him with sweat, but his face? Composed. Calm. Like it had been just another Thursday night.
The interviewer, mic in hand, grinned wide. "Tristan, three-nil against Manchester United, a goal, an assist, and frankly, total domination. What does that feel like?"
Tristan didn't hesitate. His voice was steady. "Feels good. But nothing's special. Job's not finished yet. One more leg to play."
The interviewer chuckled. "You make it sound almost boring. But come on, the atmosphere here tonight… the King Power was shaking. Your assist for Okazaki, your finish for the third goal — that's not routine football."
Tristan gave a small shrug, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Look, we've worked for nights like this. The fans, the noise, that's for them. For us? It's about focus. You get carried away now, you slip up in the second leg. None of us want that."
From the BT Sport desk, Rio Ferdinand let out a laugh loud enough to carry into the broadcast. "Listen to him — twenty years old talking like a thirty-year-old captain. Scary, that."
Owen Hargreaves leaned in, nodding. "It's true though. He's ice cold but composure under pressure is what makes him so good."
Back on the pitch, the interviewer shifted. "You mentioned the fans. Your celebration after the third goal, arms up in front of the South Stand, soaking it in. That looked like a moment."
Tristan's smile widened just a little. "Yeah… that one was for them. They've been here since the start, since people thought we'd fade by Christmas. I wanted them to feel it too. That was their goal as much as mine."
The interviewer nodded, pressing. "United haven't beaten you all season. Tonight looked like men against boys at times. Do you feel like Leicester have surpassed them now? Are you the stronger side?"
Tristan's answer was measured, but sharp. "They're still Manchester United. Big club, big history. But history doesn't win matches. Right now? We back ourselves against anyone. We're not scared of anyone else."
"One last one — People are saying you're in the Ballon d'Or conversation. Do you think about that especially coming in third?"
Tristan shook his head firmly. "Nah. That's for other people. I think about winning with this team. Whatever comes after comes after." He paused, then smirked. "Besides, if I start talking Ballon d'Or now, Vardy'll take the piss out of me in training for the next two weeks."
The interviewer laughed, signing off. "Fair enough. Tristan Hale, Man of the Match once again. Congratulations."
As Tristan walked away, the camera cut back to the studio.
Rio Ferdinand leaned back, shaking his head. "I can't help but pity any United fans out here."
Hargreaves added, "Sir Alex isn't dead but he's already rolling in his grave."
.
Late Night
The house was quiet except for the flicker of the television, pale light washing over the living room walls. Barbara was sprawled across the couch in one of Tristan's hoodies and shorts, her bare legs comfortably draped across his lap.
Biscuit lay in the corner, snoring gently with her belly in the air, legs twitching like she was chasing something in her dreams.
On screen, the Sky Sports studio was chaos. The pundit panel looked like they'd been dragged into an intervention.
Guests: Paul Scholes, Roy Keane, Jamie Carragher, Thierry Henry.
Scholes looked hollow, like someone had siphoned the life out of him.
"That was a humiliation," he said, voice flat but cutting. "No intensity. No fight. No pride. You can't lose three-nil to Leicester, not like that. Not when the world is watching. Some of these players looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. We know United wasn't going to win but I think everyone here and around the world expected a better fight."
Carragher jabbed a finger at the giant screen behind them. Frozen on it: Tristan's third goal, the shot rippling into the top corner.
"You see this? That's what a world class player looks like. Vision, execution, composure. He's twenty. Twenty. And he made Manchester United look like a mid-table Championship side. It's embarrassing."
Keane leaned back, arms folded, jaw tight, looking like he wanted to strangle half the squad himself.
"Forget tactics. Forget formations. This is about mentality. I saw lads out there in red shirts who didn't want the ball. Leicester bullied them. Bullied Manchester United. That should never happen but since the start of this season, that's what we had to deal with. Some of those players need to take a long, hard look in the mirror tonight. And fire the god damn manager!"
Barbara winced, pulling a throw pillow half over her face. "Do they ever stop shouting?"
Tristan laughed, his thumb brushing along her shin as he kept watching. "No. But I'll admit, it's a lot funnier when it's not about me for once."
Carragher wasn't finished. "They keep talking about United's history, about what the badge means. The badge doesn't mean anything if you're getting run over by Kanté and Drinkwater every five minutes. Tristan's playing passes Carrick can't even see. Vardy's dragging their center backs around like cones. It's men versus boys."
Scholes exhaled hard through his nose. "I hate to say it, but Carragher's right. United looked second-best in every area. Every area. It's not just losing to Leicester, it's the manner of it. They looked ordinary. And when was the last time you could say that about United?"
Roy Keane slammed the table with his hand. "Ordinary? They looked soft! They were hiding. Martial? Isolated. Schneiderlin? Anonymous. Herrera? Couldn't get near Kanté. And don't get me started on the back four. If you don't have the bottle to play for this club, don't wear the shirt."
Barbara peeked out from behind her pillow, wide-eyed. "God, why is he angry all the time."
"Keane?" Tristan asked.
She nodded.
He chuckled. "Imagine marking him in midfield."
Then Thierry Henry leaned forward, his voice calmer but carrying more weight than any of the shouting.
"The scary thing for United? Leicester didn't even celebrate like it was a big deal. They scored three goals, brushed them aside, and walked off like it was a training match. That's not underdog behavior. That's title behavior. That's the mentality of a team that expects to win."
The studio went quiet for a second, each pundit nodding grimly.
Barbara turned her head toward Tristan, studying him in the soft TV glow. "You okay?"
He kept his eyes on the screen for a moment longer before nodding slowly. "Yeah. I just… remember being a kid, sitting on the sofa watching this exact show, dreaming about being good enough to be talked about like this. And now they're shouting about us like we're Real Madrid."
She smiled softly, running her toes playfully along his thigh. "Not like Real Madrid. Better. At least right now."
Before Tristan could answer Barbara, his phone buzzed against the armrest.
Jack.
His chest tightened.
It had been weeks. He'd been pulling back on purpose. The last time his name trended online, a few fans dug up Jack's old photos and tagged his family in viral posts. Jack's mum had politely asked for space, and Tristan respected it. The last thing he wanted was for his spotlight to become their burden.
But now…
He answered immediately.
"Jack?" Tristan said, sitting upright.
The voice on the other end exploded with joy.
"TRISTAN! I saw it! THREE–NIL?! Bro, you killed them! That pass to Okazaki? Filthy. Like, straight rude. And that goal!? Top bins! My dad yelled so loud the dog ran outside!"
Tristan laughed, relief flooding through him like warm water. "Mate, you're gonna make me blush. Where've you been hiding?"
Jack barreled on, his words tripping over each other. "Mum said we had to go stealth mode. Like ninjas. No socials, no posts, nothing. She didn't want weirdos sending stuff to the house again. But I've been watching every match.
He chuckled. "Glad you've been keeping busy."
Jack's tone shifted, a little more serious. "Also… I've got news."
Tristan leaned forward, pulse quickening. "Yeah?"
"I'm finally getting the surgery," Jack said, nervous excitement breaking through. "On the 15th, I'm getting a new heart. They said it's a match."
Tristan froze, breath catching. For a moment, he could only sit in stunned silence. "That's… Jack, that's incredible. That's the best thing I've heard all year."
"I'm kinda scared," Jack admitted, quieter now. "But also excited. The doctors said if it works, I could maybe come to a game next season. Like… actually be in the stadium."
Tristan swallowed, throat tight. "You will. I'll make sure of it."
"You promise?"
"Promise." He hesitated, then lowered his voice. "And don't tell anyone yet, but when you're recovering, I'm coming to the hospital. Got a few things saved just for you."
Jack gasped. "No way. Like what? A boot? A jersey? A puppy?!"
Tristan laughed. "No puppies. I don't trust you with that kind of power. But the rest? Maybe."
They talked a little longer, about FIFA, about teachers who didn't get football, about the ridiculous memes Jack had been stockpiling. When they finally hung up, Tristan sat there staring at his phone, the glow fading into black.
Barbara's voice was soft beside him. "You okay?"
He nodded slowly, brushing his thumb along the phone's edge. "I pulled away because I thought it was better for him. Less pressure. No cameras. But hearing him now…" He trailed off, exhaling.
Barbara leaned her head against his shoulder, her hair brushing his cheek."You're doing your best," she murmured. "And following what the parents wanted."
Tristan closed his eyes, letting her warmth sink in, silently hoping the world would give Jack the same chance it had given him.
(A/N: Honestly forget about the kid after my plans of killing him didn't work in the story. But I will bring him for now.)
March 11, 2016 — Belvoir Drive Training Ground
Afternoon – Day Before West Ham (FA Cup Quarterfinal)
Inside the changing room, boots were off, tape unwrapped, recovery socks halfway on. Players lounged on benches, some stretching, others scrolling aimlessly through their phones. A faint buzzing sound came from the whirlpool room down the hall. The energy was lighter today — the kind of buzz that follows a big win.
But when Claudio Ranieri stepped in, the room straightened without a word.
He didn't yell. He never did. But when he looked like this, sleeves rolled, glasses pushed slightly higher even Vardy put his Red Bull down.
Ranieri clapped his hands once. Sharp. Loud.
"Two more games," he said, voice calm but firm. "Then we can rest a little."
The room stilled. Even Kanté paused mid-band stretch.
"We are not rotating tomorrow," Ranieri continued.
He looked around.
"West Ham want blood. They lost in the league, and they know we're stretched. They will foul, they will press. So we do not kick ourselves in the legs, yes?"
A few chuckles.
"I mean it," Ranieri said, wagging a finger. "I have four midfielders with tight hamstrings and two wingers who play like they want to die heroes. I cannot use children in the quarterfinals."
Laughter again. Mahrez held up his hands innocently.
Ranieri raised an eyebrow. "I know you want to dribble through eleven men and the referee, Riyad. But if you come back limping, I bench you for a month. Understand?"
Mahrez smiled. "Oui, boss."
Ranieri paced a step forward, then another.
"After this game, we have a short window after bullying Newcastle of course we can't forget that, then the international break. Then we rotate. We can take it easy with all the lead we have."
Tristan, sitting beside Morgan, adjusted the ice pack on his knee.
Ranieri's eyes found him. "You play tomorrow."
"I figured," Tristan said quietly.
"You are… tired?"
"A little."
"Good. You play best that way. Less thinking."
Laughter rolled again. Even Schmeichel cracked a grin.
Ranieri turned toward the whiteboard at the far end of the room. The usual magnets were arranged in a rigid 4-2-3-1.
"Morgan, Huth — stay tight. West Ham like to go long, and their strikers chase scraps like hungry dogs."
He pointed at Kanté.
"N'Golo. I don't care where you are, as long as the ball finds you."
Kanté nodded wordlessly, already winding tape around his fingers.
Ranieri gave Vardy a look. "You. No fouls in the first ten minutes."
Vardy threw up his hands. "That was one time!"
"That was four times. In two matches."
Another ripple of laughter. Vardy grinned but didn't argue.
Ranieri took a breath, then stepped back from the board.
"We are nineteen points clear in the league. We have already lifted one trophy. We are in the final eight of the FA Cup and the Europa League. But no one here is tired, yes?"
A pause. Players glanced at one another.
"No," Morgan said, voice low and steady.
"No," Drinkwater echoed.
Kanté gave a thumbs-up. Fuchs nodded. Mahrez leaned back with a lazy smirk.
Ranieri clapped again.
"Good. No excuses. No fear. No pulling back. But no injuries either. You want to chase a miracle? Then don't limp into it."
The players laughed again, but this time it carried steel beneath it.
"Go rest. Tomorrow, we go again."
As Ranieri left, Mahrez leaned over to Tristan. "So… miracle season, eh?"
Tristan didn't answer right away. He reached for his jacket, slung it over his shoulder, then looked back at the team still gathering themselves.
He smiled.
"Not yet," he said. "But we're getting close."
.
The King Power was shaking before kick-off. Blue and white flags rippled across every stand, scarves stretched high, the chants rolling like waves through the crisp March air. It didn't feel like a quarter-final. It felt like a cup final.
Ranieri had rotated, but not weakened. Ben Chilwell got his chance at left-back, Inler anchored midfield, and Tristan Hale walked out last, captain's armband snug around his bicep. The crowd roared louder as his name was read, the Golden Boy stepping forward like a standard-bearer.
Barbara had kissed him before he left that morning and teased, "Don't get sent off. I'm wearing white."
He'd laughed, promised her he wouldn't.
West Ham came with fight. Andy Carroll was an elbow with legs. Kouyaté, a one-man wrecking ball. From the first whistle, they tried to drag Leicester into a scrap — aerial duels, hard tackles, long balls lumped forward.
But Leicester didn't care.
14th minute.
West Ham drew first blood. Payet, finding space on the left, whipped in a curling cross. Carroll rose above Huth with brute force, crashing a header past Schmeichel into the net.
"ANDY CARROLL! WEST HAM LEAD!"
The away end erupted, claret and blue flares going off in the corner. Carroll pounded his chest, roaring at the home crowd.
Leicester's players didn't flinch. They jogged back, reset. Eyes calm.
Tristan dropped deep into midfield, Drinkwater sliding him the ball. Noble closed in, but Tristan spun away with one effortless touch, leaving him flat-footed. A threaded ball out wide to Mahrez set the move in motion. Tristan didn't admire it — he sprinted forward into the box.
Mahrez whipped the cross in low.
Vardy arrived like a train. First-time, bottom corner.
"JAMIE VARDY! LEICESTER HIT BACK IMMEDIATELY!"
The King Power erupted. Scarves flew into the air, voices shook the stands. Vardy slid on his knees at the corner flag, fists clenched. Tristan caught him in a hug, then pointed across the pitch to Mahrez, giving credit where it was due.
1–1.
Momentum was Leicester's now. West Ham couldn't cope with the tempo. Tristan picked up the ball near halfway, Kouyaté lunged in — and bounced off him. Hale drove forward, slicing through midfield, then slipped a disguised pass through a tiny gap.
Okazaki darted onto it. Adrian came flying out, smothering the shot — but the rebound popped straight to Mahrez.
The Algerian took one touch and curled it into the top corner.
"RIYAD MAHREZ! PURE QUALITY! LEICESTER TURN IT AROUND!"
The stadium shook like an earthquake. Mahrez sprinted away, arms outstretched, and was mobbed by teammates. The camera cut to Slaven Bilić on the touchline — furious, kicking the turf.
2–1 Leicester.
Second Half.
West Ham came out swinging. Payet tested Schmeichel with a dipping free-kick. Carroll smashed a header just over. For a brief spell, the pressure was on.
Ranieri sent for Kanté.
The change was instant. Within minutes, West Ham couldn't breathe. Kanté hunted everything interceptions, tackles, loose balls — it didn't matter. He was everywhere, freeing Tristan to drift higher up. Inler held the deep line, Chilwell impressed with fearless defending on the left, and the counters sharpened.
67th minute.
Mahrez picked it up wide again. Reid and Cresswell closed him down, but he slipped it inside to Tristan.
Hale squared up Reid, feinted inside, shifted it onto his right foot — and unleashed. The ball curled viciously into the far corner, beyond Adrian's despairing dive.
"TRISTAN HALE STRIKES AGAIN! THREE–ONE! THE KING POWER ERUPTS!"
The roar was deafening.
The crowd answered in a tidal roar: "TRISTAN!"
Vardy jumped on his back, Mahrez tugged his shirt, Okazaki grabbed him around the waist — but the image lingered: Tristan, standing tall, owning the night.
3–1 Leicester.
From there, it was control. Carroll swung elbows, Kouyaté charged recklessly, but Leicester had the game by the throat. Morgan barked orders, Huth clattered into every aerial duel, Schmeichel commanded his box with fury. Chilwell capped off his performance with a crunching tackle that sent the ball into the stands — the crowd rising to applaud the youngster.
By the 88th minute, West Ham looked beaten, chasing shadows. Leicester kept the ball, triangle after triangle, the chants from the stands rolling into song:
"Que sera, sera, we're going to Wembley AGAIN!"
Full-time.
Leicester City 3 – 1 West Ham.
The whistle blew and the King Power erupted again. The players embraced, Vardy pumping his fists to the fans, Mahrez clapping above his head, Kanté raising both arms shyly.
Tristan lingered, clapping the stands, before turning toward the tunnel with his arm around Chilwell's shoulders, congratulating the youngster on his performance.
They hadn't just won. They had dominated. A semi-final place booked. The quadruple still alive.
.
Two Days Before the Newcastle Match – Morning
The mood at Belvoir Drive was different. Punchier.
You could feel it in everything, the rondos snapping with more bite, the chirping between players carrying an extra edge, even the kitmen clattering boots into lockers with more force than usual. Physios spoke in low, clipped tones. Nobody said it outright, but everyone knew why.
Because next up?
Newcastle.
And Leicester hated Newcastle more than anyone. It wasn't rivalry in the traditional sense, it was something meaner. Beating them wasn't just fun. It was necessary. They could never get tired of humiliating that club.
Tristan bent to tie his laces and overheard Fuchs muttering to Albrighton. "Can't wait to shut them up."
"Again," Albrighton added without missing a beat.
In the locker room, the tactics whiteboard had already been filled, arrows scrawled across the pitch diagram, instructions circled in red: high line, pressure trap, isolate their left back. But beneath all of that, written in fat black permanent marker, someone had left three words:
MAKE THEM SUFFER.
Vardy saw it first. He barked a laugh, pointing. "Finally. Some art I can respect."
The laughter was quick, but short-lived. Because then Ranieri walked in.
Normally, there was a clap, a grin, a joke in broken English to ease the mood. Not this time. His eyes were sharper, voice flatter, every trace of jovial Claudio gone.
"Let's kill them early."
Silence. Nobody smiled. Nobody cracked wise.
Mahrez leaned toward Drinkwater, muttering under his breath, "Haven't seen him like this since City."
Drinkwater didn't look up from taping his shins. He just nodded once.
"He's right."
The room settled into a new kind of focus, one that wasn't playful, or polite, or surprised anymore.
This was personal.
.
Next Day
The King Power wasn't buzzing. It was snarling.
Hours before kick-off, you could taste it. The flags weren't just waving, they were whipping in the March wind like battle standards. The drums weren't keeping rhythm, they were pounding out a death march. This wasn't anticipation. This was bloodlust.
Leicester were first in the league, unbeaten, marching toward immortality. Newcastle were 17th, dangling over the relegation pit. And the fans knew it. They smelled weakness.They wanted humiliation.
They hadn't forgotten the bruises, the fouls, the cheap shots. Newcastle came to break bones every time they played against Leciester. Tonight, Leicester were going to break spirits.
The away fans tried to make noise. Tried. Their chants dissolved into nothing, swallowed whole by a tidal wave of venom:
"Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya?"
"We can see you sneaking out!"
"You dirty Geordie bastards!"
"Down with the Mackems, you're going down with the Mackems!"
By the time the players emerged from the tunnel, the King Power wasn't a stadium. It was a cauldron. The sound hit like a fist.
Tristan walked out last, armband stretched tight over his sleeve. His jaw was set, his eyes unblinking. He didn't look at the crowd, he didn't need to. He could feel it, the hatred and the devotion burning together, all of it aimed at him.
The chants shifted. Louder now, savage now:
"He's gonna get ya, Hale's gonna get ya!"
The Newcastle players glanced around nervously. Shoulders hunched. Eyes darting.
Tristan didn't blink. Tonight wasn't about winning. Tonight was about punishment.
.
Commentators: Martin Tyler & Gary Neville (Sky Sports)
"And here they come, Leicester City," Martin Tyler began, voice calm but charged. "Top of the league, unbeaten, and facing a Newcastle side they dismantled earlier this season."
Gary Neville's voice cut in sharper. "I'll tell you what, Martin — this atmosphere is poisonous for Newcastle. Absolutely poisonous. You can feel the hostility through the screen. These Leicester fans haven't forgotten December."
3rd Minute.
Tristan Hale picked the ball up just inside Newcastle's half, back to goal, Coloccini snapping at his heels. He rolled his man with a sharp turn, driving forward into space.
Tioté lunged late, boot high, studs showing and clipped Tristan's trailing leg. Hale went down hard, palms slapping the turf. The whistle shrieked.
"Free kick! That's reckless from Tioté, Martin, absolutely reckless. Three minutes in, and he's gone flying in on Hale." Neville's voice was scathing.
The King Power erupted into jeers. Fans leaned over the advertising boards, veins bulging, arms waving as they screamed abuse at the Newcastle midfielder. "Off, off, off!" roared thousands in unison.
Tristan stood, dusted grass from his sleeve, and calmly took the ball from the referee's hand. No shouting. No waving. Just a glare at Tioté, who avoided his eyes.
Thirty yards out. Dead centre.
The stadium hushed, then rose together — scarves pointed like arrows toward the goal.
Tyler murmured, "Perfect range for Tristan. He's hit these before…"
Neville's tone was lower, tighter. "If he catches this right, forget it. The keeper's beaten."
The whistle blew.
The run up was smooth, deliberate. Strike clean. The ball arced high, dipped violently, kissed the underside of the bar and slammed down across the line.
For a half-second, silence and disbelief. Then the explosion.
"TRISTAN HALE! OUTRAGEOUS! THREE MINUTES IN, AND THE KING POWER ERUPTS!" Tyler roared.
Fans leapt onto each other, scarves snapping in the air like whips. Grown men hugged strangers. Children screamed his name.
Newcastle players just stood there, frozen, staring at one another as if waiting for someone to explain what had just happened.
Neville's voice was blunt. "You can't give him that. You just can't. He'll punish you. And Newcastle have been punished already. This could be a long night."
1–0 Leicester.
.
Newcastle tried to settle into possession, but Drinkwater pinched the ball in midfield and fired it into Vardy's feet. Quick lay-off, and suddenly Tristan was driving at Coloccini.
The Argentine defender braced himself, crouched low, arms out, desperate to stop him. He lunged.
Tristan rolled the ball clean through his legs. A nutmeg so smooth it might as well have been rehearsed in training.
"OH, THAT'S FILTHY!" Gary Neville nearly shouted over the roar of the crowd. "That's disrespectful, Martin. Absolutely disrespectful. Coloccini's been humiliated there!"
Tyler's voice was climbing. "And Tristan is through now…"
One look up. One touch to set.
With casual cruelty, Tristan scooped the ball over the onrushing keeper — a perfect chip, feather-light, curling into the net.
2–0.
The King Power exploded into pure savagery. The South Stand howled like a pack of wolves, thousands on their feet, hurling venom down at the black-and-white shirts:
"You're not fit to wear the shirt!"
"Going down, going down, going down!"
Coloccini stood frozen, shoulders sagging, staring at the turf. Tioté threw his arms up at him, furious, but the roar drowned everything out.
Tyler's voice was cracking now. "And listen to this! Leicester are pulling Newcastle apart! This is cruelty — pure cruelty!"
Neville's laugh was low, almost disbelieving. "They can't live with him, Martin. Tristan's not just beating them, he's embarrassing them. And the fans are loving every second of it."
On the touchline, Ranieri didn't even smile. He just pointed three fingers up at his players push, press, punish.
Newcastle weren't just two goals down. They looked broken.
Leicester smelled blood. Every time Newcastle touched the ball, it was hunted down and stolen. Schlupp tore down the left, beat Janmaat for pace, and whipped a looping cross high into the box.
It hung in the air. Newcastle's defenders froze hesitated, waiting for someone else to deal with it.
Mahrez didn't hesitate.
He sprinted in from the right, eyes locked, and swung his boot clean through the dropping ball. Perfect connection. The strike ripped into the net before Adrian could even flinch.
3–0.
"RIYAD MAHREZ! WHAT A FINISH! THREE–NIL! AND THIS IS TURNING INTO A SLAUGHTER AT THE KING POWER!" Martin Tyler bellowed over the chaos.
Gary Neville's voice was brutal. "Look at Newcastle, absolutely static! They're standing there like statues while Mahrez smashes it past them. This is embarrassing, Martin. Absolutely embarrassing."
The King Power was merciless now. The chants turned darker, nastier, thousands bellowing in unison:
"We want six! We want six! We want six!"
"You're going down with the Mackems!"
"3–0 and you still can't play!"
Coloccini was screaming at his back line, arms flailing. Tioté kicked at the turf in frustration. The camera caught Steve McClaren on the touchline, pale, shaking his head, muttering into his hand.
Tyler twisted the knife. "Leicester City, top of the league, making the team in 17th look like they don't even belong on the same pitch."
Neville didn't let up. "And Tristan again, Martin, he's at the heart of it. He drags defenders out, he creates the space, and then Mahrez punishes them. Newcastle are being humiliated here."
The South Stand answered with a wall of noise, the savage chant rolling like thunder:
"You're not fit to wear the shirt!"
3–0 Leicester. Newcastle were already broken.
Tristan struck again in the 40th minute. A slick one-two with Mahrez carved Newcastle wide open, the Algerian sliding the return ball perfectly into his path. One touch, then a thunderous strike rifled into the far corner.
Hat-trick.
4–0.
The King Power was in rapture. Fans spilling into the aisles, scarves whipped above heads, the noise like thunder rolling through steel.
But Tristan didn't wheel away with his arms in the air. Not this time.
Instead, he gripped his jersey, tugged it up over his head, and underneath a plain white shirt.
Across the chest, in thick black letters:
WE BELIEVE IN YOU, JACK.
For a split second, the stadium froze. The roar paused mid-air, thousands of voices caught in their throats.
Then the noise came back tenfold. A deafening eruption, louder than any celebration yet.
Martin Tyler's voice cracked through the chaos.
"Oh my word… Tristan Hale! A hat trick inside forty minutes and look at this! A message under the shirt… 'We believe in you, Jack.' Who is Jack? We don't know. But what a statement this is!"
"Yeah, there's something behind that. That's personal. That means something to him. He's not just scoring for himself tonight."
Barbara was on her feet in the stands, clapping, tears almost forming. From her lap, Biscuit barked sharply, tail thrashing like a metronome against her coat.
The cameras zoomed in on Tristan's face as he lowered his shirt again hoping Jack was watching the match.
Even after halftime, Newcastle never recovered their will. They came back out looking like men who'd already lost, heads down, shoulders slumped, jogging through the motions while Leicester's players snapped and surged around them. Every fifty-fifty ball was won in blue. Every tackle was harder. Every chant from the stands cut deeper. It wasn't a contest anymore. It was an execution.
Another Leicester move flowed like water. Drinkwater to Mahrez, Mahrez to Tristan, Tristan sliding it into space with the outside of his boot. Okazaki darted in behind, slipped past a static Coloccini, and met the ball with a first-time strike.
Low, precise, past the despairing dive of the keeper.
5–0.
"OKAZAKI! FIVE FOR LEICESTER! NEWCASTLE HAVE COLLAPSED COMPLETELY!" Martin Tyler bellowed over the chaos.
Gary Neville's laugh was harsh, almost cruel.
"They're gone, Martin. They've absolutely gone. You'd get more fight out of a Sunday League side than what we're seeing here from Newcastle. This is humiliation."
The crowd were merciless now. Every Leicester pass was greeted with sarcastic "ole!"s. Every Newcastle touch was drowned in boos. Then the chants turned savage again, rolling across the stadium like a storm:
"We can see you crying now!"
"You're just a sht Sunderland!"*
"You're going down, you're going down, you're going down!"
Newcastle's players looked broken. Coloccini dragged his feet like his boots were made of stone. Tioté threw his arms up in despair. Their travelling supporters were silent, buried under the tidal wave of blue noise.
Full-Time.
Leicester City 5 – 0 Newcastle United.
The final whistle wasn't just a signal. It was a detonation. The King Power erupted. Flags whipped, smoke bombs filled the air, the stands shook with unrelenting chants of "Tristan! Tristan! Tristan!" and "We're gonna win the league!"
The papers the next morning would call it An Execution in Boots.
But for the thousands in the stadium, for the millions watching at home and for Jack in his hospital bed — it was something else entirely.
Not just a win. Not just a demolition.
It was a promise: Leicester weren't slowing down for anyone.
Tristan stood just off the touchline, kit clinging damp against his chest, curls plastered to his forehead. His socks were streaked with mud. The stadium behind him was still roaring in scattered waves, fans singing long after the whistle.
A camera light blinked on. Microphones angled toward him. The reporter stepped forward, Sky badge pinned to his jacket, voice almost lost in the echo of the King Power still humming in triumph.
"Tristan," he began, "another win. Another hat-trick. Leicester five, Newcastle nil. Talk us through that performance."
Tristan adjusted his armband slightly, breathing steady despite the chaos behind him. His eyes stayed cold, fixed on the reporter.
"Most weeks," he said evenly, "ninety-nine percent of the time, we don't take games personally. We play, we focus, we move on. Game by game. That's the message from the boss." He paused, a faint edge creeping into his tone. "But Newcastle? That's different. For reasons everyone knows."
The reporter tilted his head. "How so?"
Tristan's half-smile was sharp, cutting. "This isn't a top club. Not anymore. They're bottom-feeders. They came at us dirty before, tried to kick us off the pitch instead of beating us. Tonight was about reminding them, you can't bully Leicester. Not now. Not ever."
The crew around the mic let out a low murmur. The quote was already gold.
"And the hat-trick itself," the reporter pressed, trying to shift it. "Talk us through those moments."
Tristan finally allowed himself the smallest grin. "The free kick? That's hours on the training ground. The second nutmeg, chip, done. The third? Just a one-two with Riyad. But honestly…" he glanced back at the stands, at the sea of blue still chanting his name, "the goals don't matter. What matters is the domination. From back to front, we controlled everything. They couldn't breathe. They didn't want the ball. That's Leicester football. Relentless."
The reporter nodded slowly. "You were spotted on the phone right after the whistle. Looked… important. Anything you want to share?"
Tristan hesitated, eyes dropping for the first time. His voice softened. "Just someone special. A kid named Jack. He's fighting something bigger than football. I won't say more, but… if you're watching this, keep him in your thoughts. Send a prayer his way. He's braver than I'll ever be."
The reporter gave a respectful nod. "Powerful words. Tristan, last one how do you keep your feet on the ground after thirty-three unbeaten?"
That crooked smile returned. "Easy. Claudio Ranieri shouts at us if we even think about getting cocky. And N'Golo Kanté takes the ball off us in training before we've even touched it. That'll keep anyone grounded."
Laughter rippled through the press pack, easing the weight of the moment.
"Alright, Tristan, thank you."
He nodded once, handed off the mic, and jogged back toward the tunnel. The rain had turned to drizzle, and his boots splashed lightly in the puddles. Behind him, the King Power still sang his name.
King Power Dressing Room
Steam clung to the ceiling, fogging mirrors, blurring the outlines of half-dressed players. Sweat-drenched kits stuck to skin, boots clattered against tile, and showers hissed somewhere in the back while bursts of laughter ricocheted off the walls.
The mood was electric.
Ranieri stood near the whiteboard, a damp towel draped around his shoulders like a scarf. His eyes moved across the room.
"One more," he said simply.
The noise dipped into murmurs, players leaning in without realizing.
"One more match before the break. Don't get comfortable. Don't dance and break your own legs." He picked up a marker and drew a line through the schedule. "After that, we rotate. We manage bodies. But this next one we finish strong."
Vardy, half-wrapped in a compression sleeve, lifted a hand. "Gaffer, does that mean I get a proper ice bath or just a bucket over the head?"
Ranieri cracked the faintest smile. "No rest until we beat United in the second leg. After that, Jamie, you can swim in Red Bull if you like."
The locker room howled.
Kanté leaned over to Tristan, voice low, deadpan. "Does that count as tactical instruction?"
Tristan grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "From Claudio? Definitely."
Across the room, Mahrez stretched with a groan. "Newcastle must hate us."
Ben Chilwell, still towel-drying his hair, smirked. "They better."
Laughter broke out again until Fuchs glanced at his phone. His smile froze.
"Uh… lads? You need to see this."
He held the screen up. A BBC Sport notification glared back in yellow and black:
BREAKING: Newcastle United sack Steve McClaren following 5–0 defeat to Leicester. Sources say the board acted before he even reached the tunnel.
"Wait what?" Drinkwater leaned in, eyes wide. "That's real?"
Tristan blinked, sitting up straighter. "They sacked him mid walk?"
Albrighton whistled low. "Jesus. We folded that club so bad they didn't let him hit the showers."
Vardy cackled, pounding his locker. "Get in! That's historic. Imagine losing your job before your boots are untied!"
Mahrez was already grinning, thumbs flying over his phone. "Look at Twitter. They're calling us the Reapers. 'The Leicester lads end careers.'"
Kanté, stone-faced, offered, "I don't like that name. Too violent."
"Yeah," Fuchs said seriously. "Something classier. Like… the Execution Committee."
Ben Chilwell raised a hand like a schoolboy. "What about the Unemployment XI?"
The room collapsed into chaos — laughter echoing off the walls, towels flung, boots kicked.
Even Ranieri couldn't help but shake his head, muttering in Italian as he scribbled notes. "Just beat Newcastle. That's enough. Let other people make jokes."
But it was too late. Phones were everywhere. Tweets flying. Screenshots spreading.
"Tristan Hale just got McClaren deported in real time."
"Vardy and Mahrez pressed that man out of a job."
"Leicester don't just win matches. They end tenures."
The laughter and noise carried on as players drifted toward the showers and ice baths. The mood stayed high, buzzing like static in the steam.
Tristan sat at his locker a little longer, scrolling. Memes, headlines, laughing emojis. He felt… nothing. No guilt. No pity.
McClaren's face, pale and beaten, flashed across his feed.
Tristan locked the phone, dropped it on the bench, and muttered to himself.
"Fuck him."
Then he leaned back, shut his eyes, and let the sound of his teammates' laughter roll over him.
Leicester weren't just killing clubs. They were burying them.
.
Chapter is around 15k.