March 17, 2016 – Old Trafford, Manchester
Europa League Round of 16 | 2nd Leg
Aggregate: Leicester 3 – 0 Manchester United
.
The camera swept across Old Trafford like a searchlight over a coliseum, catching flickers of red scarves, anxious faces, and silver streamers twisting in the floodlights.
The air bristled with noise, not just from the home support, but from a far corner where the Leicester faithful stood jammed together, outnumbered but undaunted. Their section pulsed with blue and white, defiant in both colour and voice, singing as though they'd already won.
The broadcast cut to the commentary box. Rob Hawthorne's voice came through steady, rich with gravitas.
"Well, if ever there was a night when Manchester United needed magic under the lights… it's tonight. Three-nil down from the first leg at the King Power, their mountain has become Everest. And the air's getting thinner."
Beside him, Alan Smith didn't sugar-coat the situation.
"Let's be honest, Rob. This isn't just about trying to claw back into the tie — this is damage control. Pride's on the line now. That first leg? Leicester tore them apart. One goal, one assist for the lad Tristan Hale, Vardy on the scoresheet, Mahrez too… It was a footballing lesson."
"And let's not forget, United haven't managed a single win against Leicester all season. This might be their last real chance to restore a shred of dignity to a campaign that's slipping away fast."
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," Smith added, almost under his breath.
On the pitch, the players emerged. United in their classic red, black, and white, a kit heavy with legacy. Leicester, slick in their white away strip with blue trim, looked loose, focused, dangerous.
Both teams lined up in a 4-2-3-1 on paper, but in motion Leicester flexed, shifting into a more aggressive 4-3-3 whenever they won the ball back. Tristan played behind Vardy but roamed freely, almost like a magnet drawing defenders out of shape.
Old Trafford hadn't even fully settled when the first jolt arrived.
Inside four minutes, Tristan peeled out wide to the left, took a deft first touch that sent Schneiderlin the wrong way, and clipped in a wicked ball toward the far post.
Mahrez ghosted in unnoticed behind Rojo and volleyed just over the bar.
Rob already raising his voice: "It's déjà vu all over again. Leicester slicing through them with their very first attack."
United tried to respond. Martial and Mata attempted delicate one twos down the left, probing, searching for cracks. But Leicester were alert, Drinkwater and Kanté sat deep, snarling at any attempt to play through them. Smalling stepped into midfield repeatedly just to carry the ball forward, desperate to create something.
But whenever Leicester broke, they broke like glass.
12 minutes gone, and Mahrez danced past two men down the right, one swivel of the hips, a sudden burst of acceleration then played it inside to Tristan. A glance, then a no-look reverse ball that split the defence.
Vardy latched on, one touch, one strike.
GOAL.
Bottom corner, cold and clean. 1–0 Leicester.
Old Trafford fell silent, a stunned, breathless hush except for one corner of the stadium that erupted like a powder keg. The Leicester fans went feral, limbs flailing, beer flying, strangers hugging strangers.
And Vardy?
Vardy tore away toward the corner flag, veins bulging, fists pumping. He slid on his knees, arms stretched wide like a conquering king, then popped up, cupped his ears, and turned a full circle toward the home stands.
Grinning. Mocking. Loving every second of it.
He pointed straight at the United fans and shouted something lost beneath the roar, something definitely not safe for broadcast, then thumped the Leicester badge on his chest and blew a kiss to the travelling support.
Tristan jogged over to join him, cool and grinning, and Vardy wrapped an arm around him, pulling him into a half-headlock of celebration. Mahrez arrived with a chest bump. The rest of the team came flying in seconds later.
Rob's voice cut through the roar, rising with the moment.
"Jamie Vardy at Old Trafford and just listen to the Leicester fans. That's not just a goal… that's a hammer blow."
Alan let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"You can feel it in the air, Rob. The tension's snapped. Whatever hope United had, it's gone. Four-nil on aggregate now. Leicester aren't just winning… they're dismantling them."
Rob's tone tightened, as if even he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
"Look at the faces. Stunned. Hollow. That wasn't a goal, that was Jamie Vardy grinning while twisting the knife."
The broadcast cut to the crowd. The atmosphere hung heavy, not with anger, but with disbelief.
Scarves drooped in lifeless hands. Mouths were half open, stunned. Some fans sat motionless with their heads buried in their palms; others simply stared at the pitch, glassy-eyed, as if waiting for someone, anyone to make it make sense.
What is happening to us?
It was written in every furrowed brow, every sunken face.
They were Manchester United born into greatness. But greatness isn't inherited. It doesn't live in the crest or the colour of the shirt.
Greatness has to be built. And for the last two years, all they had was the echo of a legacy too old to answer back.
United finally showed signs of life around the 20th minute. Jesse Lingard darted between lines, took a shove near the edge of the area. The whistle blew.
Wayne Rooney stood over it. Deep breath. Whistle. Strike but Kasper Schmeichel guessed right. Down to his left. Saved.
Yet the pressure was building.
In the 32nd minute, Daley Blind pinged a long diagonal from deep. Martial brought it down perfectly, cut inside Simpson with a flick of the boot, and squared to Mata just inside the box.
Mata shaped his body, curled it with his left off the inside of the post and in.
GOAL.
1–1 on the night. Old Trafford erupted.
Not belief, not yet. But noise. Relief. Something to hold on to.
Rob, tone shifting:
"You can feel it, can't you? Not hope, not really. The crowd's not celebrating a comeback. They're celebrating a moment. Dignity. That's how far United have fallen, and how far Leicester have come."
The second half opened like a trap snapping shut.
Barely two minutes after the restart, Tristan received the ball just beyond the halfway line. One touch to steady. Then a sudden shoulder drop and he was past Schneiderlin, gliding into space.
He looked up. Then shot from 30 yards, swerving, dipping strike. De Gea stretched, just got fingertips.
Corner.
Leicester were relentless. Precise. Ruthless.
In the 58th, Blind hesitated at the back. Vardy didn't. He pounced, nicked the ball, squared it to Mahrez who skipped past Darmian like he wasn't there, drew the keeper and instead of shooting, squared it again.
Tap-in.
GOAL.
Tristan Hale.
2–1 Leicester.
The cameras caught him jogging to the away end, blowing a kiss.
Alan, his voice tinged with awe:
"That's fifteen goal involvements in the Europa League for Tristan Hale — and it's only March. Honestly, Rob, there might be two players on the planet you could argue are better… but I'd still take Tristan over both of them."
United made changes. Fellaini thundered on. Memphis replaced Lingard. Van Gaal gambled.
Leicester rotated too, Fuchs off, Chilwell on. Okazaki for Vardy. Just enough to keep the engine humming.
Then came a spark.
79th minute. A corner turned into chaos. The ball pinged around, bodies flying. Fellaini, all elbows and knees, bulldozed into the six-yard box. The ball ricocheted, dropped awkwardly for Memphis.
Hit. Deflection.
GOAL.
2–2. United still trailed 5–2 on aggregate, but Old Trafford roared as if they'd taken the lead.
But Leicester didn't blink nor care United scored.
Three minutes later, Mahrez found space on the right again. He jinked past Rojo, clipped a cross into the danger zone.
Tristan Hale slid in — missed by inches —
—but the loose ball dropped to Kanté at the top of the box.
He didn't think. He didn't have time.
He just hit it.
GOAL.
3–2 Leicester.
The players swarmed him. Even Schmeichel sprinted to halfway, arms in the air, laughing.
Rob couldn't help it but laugh.
"And would you believe it? The smallest man on the pitch has just delivered the biggest smile of the night."
The final ten minutes passed like a slow funeral march for United. Possession was meaningless. The away fans were singing louder now. Old Trafford had started to empty.
The camera cut to Van Gaal on the touchline, arms folded, jaw tight, face like carved stone.
Final whistle.
Manchester United out of Europe.
Again.
The camera returned to the gantry. The noise had faded. Rob's voice came quietly, almost like a sigh.
"And that's it. Manchester United out of Europe."
He let the silence breathe for a moment, the weight of it doing more than words could.
Alan shook his head, voice tinged with sadness more than shock.
"It's been a grim season, Rob. But this… this might be the lowest point yet."
He glanced down at the pitch, where United players slowly trudged off.
"Since Sir Alex walked away, it's been a carousel of confusion. Moyes was never given the time. Van Gaal never found the spark that was expected of him."
He exhaled again, quietly.
"This club used to own nights like these. Now they just survive them or don't. Leicester came here tonight and dominated them once again. United just… looked lost."
Rob nodded, quietly.
"And the question is the same as it's been for three now where do Manchester United go from here?"
Alan didn't answer right away. Then:
"They'll talk about transfers. Tactics. Who's next in the dugout. But until someone gives this club a vision again, a real one none of it's going to matter."
He leaned back in his seat as the camera showed United fans filing out, hollow-eyed, silent.
"It's not just about losing, Rob. It's about no longer knowing what you're supposed to be."
.
Post-Match
Leicester Dressing Room
The locker room door slammed open.
"YYYYYYYESSSSSS!" Vardy bellowed, tearing his jersey off and whipping it like a towel over his head. "What'd I tell you? THREE. TWO. IN. YOUR. HOUSE!"
Laughter erupted. Mahrez jogged in behind him, still slick with sweat, raising both fists in mock celebration as Kanté walked past him with his usual half-smile.
"Oi, Kanté!" Vardy turned, grinning. "You need to shoot more. You might score more than Tristan!
Kanté shrugged modestly. "I shoot when needed."
"Mate," Ben said from the corner, "that strike nearly knocked me off my seat. I thought you were gonna float into the sky like a balloon after."
"Genuinely thought it was Mahrez's ghost taking over him," Albrighton added, tossing a towel.
Tristan dropped onto the bench, chest still rising and falling. The euphoria hadn't faded yet the adrenaline still hummed in his blood. He pulled off his tape and boots as voices overlapped around him.
"You see Van Gaal's face at full-time?" Drinkwater laughed. "Looked like he'd swallowed a shoe."
"Looked like he wanted to jump in the Thames," Fuchs muttered.
Morgan stood near the showers, shaking his head in disbelief. "You lot are taking the piss, but that gotta say I feel bad for the man,"
The door opened and silence swept in as Ranieri entered.
"Bravi," he said smiling. "Amazing job well done."
The silence broke with scattered applause and nods.
Ranieri folded his arms. "I know it's been a long run. And now we go to break, internationals. So please, I beg you… no more injuries. No more dancing in hotel lobbies. No broken metatarsals. Nothing especially you Vardy, no more Redbulls."
That got a few chuckles.
"Rest when you can," Ranieri added. "And Tristan…"
Tristan looked up.
"Get back outside. Stop running from your man of the match interviews."
Laughter roared.
"He's right, bro," Vardy nudged him. "Go soak up your camera time. The world wants to see your curls."
Tristan stood up sighing before smirking looking at the guys. "You're all just jealous."
.
Sky Sports Studio, London
"Welcome back," Gary Lineker said as the screen lit up with the scoreline:
Manchester United 2 – 3 Leicester City
(Aggregate: 2–6)
The camera cut to the panel, Thierry Henry, Roy Keane, Jamie Carragher, and Paul Scholes.
Lineker gave a wry smile.
"Gentlemen… I don't even know where to begin."
Carragher leaned back in his chair, smirking.
"Where to begin? Easy. They were humiliated, Gary. Absolutely humiliated. Again. That wasn't Manchester United out there, that was a side who couldn't cope with pressure, couldn't live with Hale or Mahrez, and Vardy was running circles round them. Honestly, did anyone expect anything else?"
He gestured at the scoreboard.
"Why would anyone think United were suddenly going to pull off a miracle when they've been losing all season?"
Scholes rubbed his temples, exasperated.
"Yeah, yeah, go on, rub it in. You're right, the result wasn't a shock. But what bothers me is the lack of fight. Where was the belief? Where was the confidence? United sides of old, even when we weren't the best, we never went out like that."
Thierry Henry leaned forward, eyes wide.
"Let's not bury the lead here. Leicester have just won six-two on aggregate. Six. Over Manchester United. That's history. And Tristan Hale? Fifteen goal involvements in Europe already. Fifteen. Every single match, he's proving why he belongs in the same conversation as Messi and Ronaldo."
Roy Keane cut across him, blunt as ever.
"I said it months ago, Tristan's not some kid anymore. He's dictating games now. Goals, assists, pressing, even tracking back. And he's not being bullied off the ball either, he's stronger, he's sharper. He's a proper footballer."
Lineker chuckled, shaking his head.
"So… where does this Leicester team go from here?"
Scholes gave a grim little smile.
"Champions. Call it bold, but they're on for a quadruple unless someone finds a way to stop them. And honestly? Nobody looks close."
Thierry nodded firmly.
"Undefeated in all competitions. They've already won a cup, they're top of the league, and they're tearing through Europe. And Hale's the heartbeat of it all."
The screen shifted to Old Trafford. Tristan Hale appeared, walking toward the post-match interviewer, sweat still glistening under the floodlights, shirt clinging, eyes burning with confidence.
Lineker turned back to the camera, his smile half-proud, half-bewildered.
"There he is. The most talked-about English footballer on the planet."
.
Pitchside – Old Trafford
Tristan stood just off the pitch, hair damp with sweat, chest still rising and falling. The Europa League backdrop loomed behind him, lit up harshly by floodlights. The sideline reporter angled the mic toward him.
"Tristan, man of the match once again. A goal, an assist, and another win over Manchester United. What's going through your head right now?"
Tristan let out a half-laugh, eyes flicking to the emptying stands where red seats were starting to outnumber fans.
"Honestly? Just trying to catch my breath. Felt like a war out there."
The reporter grinned.
"Fifteen goal involvements in Europe at just twenty years old. Do you realize the kind of company you're in?"
Tristan shook his head, steady.
"I'm not here to chase names. I came here to win. That's the only company I care about this team. Records and stats… they're nice, but they're not the goal. Winning comes first. Always."
The reporter leaned in.
"And when Kanté scored? What was going through your mind?"
Tristan cracked a grin.
"About time, right? We've been telling him to shoot for weeks. I might buy him a new pair of boots after that. I think he's got, what, four or five goals in his whole career? Gotta double-check. But yeah, we were buzzing for him."
The reporter laughed.
"Leicester still unbeaten in all competitions. The dream's still alive?"
Tristan's answer was calm, assured.
"The dream started the moment we believed we could win every game. It's not a fairytale. We're doing it — one match at a time."
"And finally, any message to the fans watching tonight?"
Tristan's expression softened.
"Yeah. I know a lot of people out there are going through tough times. Not just in football in life. Just… keep fighting. We see you. We play for you."
The reporter blinked, then gave a small nod.
"Tristan Hale. Another masterclass."
Before Tristan could leave, he had another interview with Skysports.
Gary Lineker looked up from the desk as the big screen lit up with Tristan's live feed. His hair was still damp, cheeks flushed, that familiar half-smirk tugging at his lips.
"And now, joining us from Old Trafford, man of the match, the legend in the making, Tristan Hale."
Tristan leaned into the camera slightly.
"Evening, lads."
Carragher pounced first, grinning.
"Alright, Tristan be honest. When you flicked that pass through to Vardy for the opener, were you trying to humiliate Rojo, or did it just happen?"
Tristan raised a brow, straight-faced.
"If it humiliated him, that's not my fault."
The whole studio erupted in laughter. Carragher slapped the desk, Henry leaned back shaking his head, and even Scholes cracked a reluctant grin.
Thierry leaned forward, still chuckling.
"Alright, serious one. With all the media attention, all the noise around you every single day… what's your secret? No scandals, no nonsense. I gotta know your secrets for my own sake!"
The studio laughed again.
Tristan shrugged, smiling.
"I've got good people around me. Teammates that keep me sharp. And my parents. And Barbara. They don't let me get carried away."
Roy Keane leaned in, cutting the fun with his trademark edge.
"What do you think United were missing tonight?"
Tristan didn't rush his words.
"Direction. Confidence. It's hard to play when you don't believe in the plan."
Carragher muttered "Ouch" under his breath, earning another round of laughter.
Gary quickly steered it back.
"And Leicester's plan? Undefeated in all competitions. You've already won a cup. Just how far can this team go?"
Tristan's faint smile held.
"As far as we want."
The panel exchanged glances.
Thierry, eyes narrowing playfully, leaned closer to the mic.
"Last one. Do you think you're the best player in the world right now?"
Tristan's smirk widened just slightly.
"I think I'm playing my best football. And I think I've got more to show."
The panel laughed, some shaking their heads, some clapping.
Gary Lineker wrapped it up.
"And there you have it, Tristan Hale. Twenty years old. Fifteen goal involvements in Europe. And apparently… not even at his peak yet."
The studio broke into chuckles again as the camera faded to commercial.
.
The hallway lights were dim when Tristan unlocked the front door. Biscuit's claws were the first thing he heard, click clicking across the wood, too fast, too frantic.
Then came the bark. One. Two. Then a third, full of celebration.
Tristan dropped his duffel bag just in time for Biscuit to crash into his shins.
"Oi, relax," he laughed, crouching to catch her mid-wiggle. "You act like I've been gone a week."
Biscuit yapped in response and immediately shoved her nose into his armpit like she'd been personally betrayed by the delay.
He scratched her behind the ears, muttering a tired "Alright, alright," before looking up.
Barbara stood at the end of the hall, barefoot, hair tied into a messy bun. She was wrapped in a thick cream blanket, one shoulder slipping free, and wore a black long-sleeve shirt tucked into drawstring sweatpants.
"You're late," she said.
"You're beautiful," he replied chuckling. She really was something he looked forward to seeing at the end of his days.
Barbara rolled her eyes but didn't argue.
He dropped his coat on the rack and walked over, arms wide. She let the blanket fall and stepped into him. He kissed the side of her head.
"Did you watch the interviews?" he murmured.
"Mm hmm."
He felt her smirk before he heard it.
"'It's not my fault if it humiliated him'?" she quoted, pulling back slightly to look up at him. "You couldn't resist, could you?"
Tristan grinned. "Carragher asked. I answered even though I didn't want to. I just don't like the guy."
Barbara poked his chest. "Don't make enemies because of me."
"Enemies? Babe, we aren't in a TV show. It's just differences in our personality and what he said about us."
They moved into the living room. A half finished cup sat on the table. The TV screen was paused on the post-match Sky Sports panel.
Tristan collapsed onto the couch. Biscuit jumped up beside him and curled into a ball like she was trying to forgive him for leaving. Barbara draped herself next to him, leaning against his shoulder.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then Barbara spoke softly.
"I had a good call today."
He turned his head slightly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. The labs sent over the first test batch for the base formula. We'll get the samples by Monday. And our paperwork's moving faster than we expected. We just need the import licenses sorted, but Sofia's already started that process."
Tristan blinked.
"Wait. You're getting product samples already?"
Barbara nodded. "Moisturizer, primer, and lip tint. Small batch, but it's happening. Faster than I thought."
He sat up a bit. "Babe, that's insane. That's amazing."
She tucked her toes under the blanket and smiled, a little dazed still.
"We just… need a name."
Tristan leaned back, arms over the back of the couch, looking up at the ceiling like it held answers.
After a pause, he said, "Stella."
Barbara blinked. "Stella?"
"Means star. It sounds good. Feels clean. You could build a whole brand around it. Makeup, skincare… even perfume later if you wanted."
Barbara mouthed the word once. Then again.
"Stella…"
Tristan turned his head to her, one brow raised. "Too soft?"
"No," she said, quietly. "It's… really good."
He tilted his head. "You like it?"
She didn't answer right away. Just stared into space for a beat, then whispered, "Yeah. I think I do."
He smiled. "Good. Because I already started designing the 'St' in my head."
Barbara let out a tired laugh and nestled into his side again.
They sat like that for a while. Just breathing. Biscuit shifted but didn't move.
Eventually, Barbara murmured, "So what's next for you? When do you leave for the England camp?"
"Reporting on the 20th," Tristan said. "Saint George's Park again. Then Germany on the 26th away. Netherlands at home on the 29th. Just two friendlies, nothing too serious."
Barbara made a face. "Ugh. International breaks."
"Tell me about it."
"Don't get injured."
"I won't."
"Don't let some Dutch defender elbow you in the jaw."
He laughed. "Why the jaw?"
"Because it's where your pretty face lives. I've invested in it."
Tristan reached over and tugged gently at her bun. "And what about you? Busy week?"
"Mostly contracts. Finalizing packaging design. Testing shades on actual models, I might have to fly to France mid-week to meet a few of them, but I'll try to be back before your Germany match."
"Take Sophia?"
"Obviously."
"Take Biscuit?"
Barbara looked at the sleeping dog curled up on the blanket and whispered, "She's already used to traveling with me and you won't be able to take care of her if you are away.."
"Yeah, makes sense."
Eventually, Barbara stood and offered a hand.
"Come on, wonderboy. We need sleep."
Tristan took it.
They turned off the lights together. Biscuit followed them up the stairs with a tiny snort.
By the time they reached the bedroom, the weight of the day was catching up. Tristan peeled off his shirt. Barbara climbed into bed first, flipping the pillow over to the cool side. The sheets smelled like her lavender mist spray.
As he slid in beside her, she murmured, "Hey."
"Yeah?"
She curled into his chest.
"Thanks for being the kind of person you are."
He didn't know what to say to that, so he just kissed her forehead while getting his rest. He fall asleep instantly.
.
March 20, 2016 – St. George's Park, Burton-upon-Trent
The morning sun filtered weakly through the blinds of the meeting room, pale streaks cutting across the cluttered table. Whiteboards crowded the walls, covered in tactical diagrams from the last qualifying campaign. Photographs of past England squads hung in neat frames, generations of stern faces staring down, silently judging the present.
On the table lay papers, scouting reports, a half empty pot of coffee that had long gone lukewarm, and one battered leather folder, its corners scuffed with years of use. That folder belonged to Roy Hodgson, who sat at the head of the table, glasses perched low on his nose as he quietly leafed through his notes.
Gary Neville leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, as though bracing himself for an argument that hadn't even started yet. To his left, Ray Lewington scribbled something on a notepad with brisk, nervous strokes. At the far end, goalkeeping coach Dave Watson nursed a mug of coffee in silence, eyes heavy, waiting.
Roy broke the stillness first. His voice was calm, but firm enough to draw all attention toward him.
"We need to talk about Wayne."
The room tightened at once. Neville sat forward, as expected, the words already spilling.
"He's the captain, Roy. He's the senior man. He's still—"
Roy didn't let him finish. He raised his head and cut him off with a steady tone. "He's still Wayne Rooney, yes. But he's not the same Wayne Rooney. Not the one who dragged us through qualifiers on sheer force of will. He can't play ninety minutes every three days anymore. Not at this level."
"And I been watching his games, he's been losing confidence in himself, shots he would have taken in the pass, he passes now, he's not the same player anymore."
Lewington cleared his throat, unwilling to let the verdict pass without softening it. "He's… thirty, but his legs are thirty-five. Still, he can change a game. Not from the start maybe, but bring him on against tired defenders and he could be lethal."
Roy tapped his finger against the table, slow and deliberate. "Exactly. He's a super-sub now. A leader in the dressing room, yes. But not the spearhead on the pitch. Which leaves us with the question…" He paused, eyes drifting from one man to the next. "…who wears the armband?"
Neville answered without hesitation, as if the matter was settled before the question had even been asked. "Gary Cahill. He's vice-captain. Reliable. Experienced. A good professional."
He stopped there. He wanted to say Tristan's name, of course he did, everyone in the room had thought it. The kid was the best player on the planet right now, maybe the best England had seen in history. But at the end of the day, he was still only twenty.
Neville's jaw tightened as he thought it through. Being the most gifted footballer on the pitch and being the captain of England were two very different things. Talent carried you through ninety minutes. The armband carried you through a nation's scrutiny. The moment Tristan was made captain, every single decision he made a comment to the press, a bad touch, even how he celebrated a goal would be magnified under a spotlight that never switched off.
Yes, Tristan was already living with that attention. But captaincy wasn't just pressure. It was expectation. It meant carrying not just a team, but a history, a myth, a burden that had broken stronger men before him. Neville couldn't shake the thought of how much worse it could get for a player barely old enough to rent a car.
In his mind, the sensible path was clear: let Tristan grow into it. Let him be the star, the leader-by-performance, the lightning rod, but not the official captain. Not yet. Not until he had a little more scar tissue, a little more time, maybe twenty-four, twenty-five. Then, when the crown was his, he'd be ready to wear it with everything it came with.
For now? Neville told himself Gary Cahill would do.
Roy adjusted his glasses, studying Neville for a long moment. His voice dropped. "Reliable, yes. But does anyone actually follow him? Does the room change when he speaks? Or do they nod politely, wait for the whistle, and carry on?"
Silence followed. Neville didn't argue. He couldn't. The locker room leaders were Rooney and Tristan.
Lewington leaned forward, pen tapping lightly against the table. "So you're thinking Tristan."
The name lingered in the air, heavier than expected.
Roy's lips curved into the faintest suggestion of a smile. "He's twenty. But it's already his team, whether we admit it or not. On form, on confidence, on the way the lads look for him with the ball, he's the one. The question isn't if he'll be captain. It's when."
Did his and Tristan's relationship go back to normal, of course not but it didn't matter as his job was to make the best choices for England.
Neville frowned, shaking his head. "Roy, giving him the armband now, before a major tournament? That's enormous pressure. You risk crushing him under it."
Roy's response came sharp, decisive. "Or we risk holding him back when he's ready to lead. Pelé was seventeen when he carried Brazil. Rooney himself was eighteen when he carried us in Portugal. You don't wait for greatness to get older, Gary. You trust it. I already made the mistake once, I don't plan on doing it for the second time."
From the far end, Dave Watson finally spoke, his voice gravelly. "Cahill wears it if Wayne doesn't. That's the natural order. But if you want to test the boy, give him the armband in a friendly. See how he reacts. See how the others react."
Roy nodded slowly, as though Watson had given voice to his own unspoken thought. "Exactly. He captains one of the two friendlies. If he thrives, he's our vice-captain. If he thrives even more…" Roy let the thought hang in the air before finishing. "…he could be our captain at the Euros."
The staff shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the gamble pressing down on them. Neville shook his head again, almost muttering to himself. "England's captain. At twenty."
Roy closed his battered folder and leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable but steady. "This is Tristan's England now. His limits will decide how far we go. His achievements will decide how long we last. He's not just the future, he's the present. And if this is my last tournament in charge, then I'll make damn sure he's ready to carry it after I'm gone."
The room fell into silence. No one disagreed.
Outside, the faint sound of boots clattering on the tarmac signaled the arrival of players. Their laughter and shouts drifted through the open corridor. The new guard was coming in.
The charter vans rolled in slowly, one after the other, wheels crunching the tarmac. Sunlight hit the windows just right to reveal blurry silhouettes inside big coats, massive headphones, a blur of Nike and Adidas duffels.
The parking lot buzzed as doors flung open and players stepped out, laughing, stretching, clapping hands together.
"Look who it is!"
Luke Shaw bounded toward the entrance, arms wide.
"Tristan! Boy Wonder! The nation's hope!"
Tristan didn't even flinch.
"Didn't you miss the net last time we played Germany?" he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"Selective memory," Luke shot back. "Must be all that gel messing with your brain."
They hugged all the same.
Vardy arrived next, then Alli, Sterling, Stones, and Kane. The senior lads rolled in too, Henderson, Cahill, Milner, and finally Rooney, moving slower than usual but smiling at the younger guys with that big brother energy.
By the time the squad filtered inside, the training staff were already handing out schedules, boots were being unboxed, and the scent of muscle rub floated faintly in the hallways.
.
Later That Morning — Meeting Room A4
Roy Hodgson called in three names only: Rooney. Gary. Tristan.
Tristan followed Wayne into the small room.
"I won't waste your time," Roy began. "Wayne… this is about succession."
Rooney shifted in his seat, nodding like he'd expected this.
"I'm still here for the camp," Wayne said quietly. "Still want to play. But truth is… after this summer, I think I'm done. My heart's not in it the same. My body's not either."
He glanced sideways at Tristan.
"And he's already running the show anyway."
Tristan blinked. "Wait, what?"
Roy cleared his throat. "We're not handing you the permanent armband. Not yet. But against Germany… I want you to wear it. Let's see how it fits."
A strange silence followed — not awkward, not heavy. Just quiet, like everyone was letting the words land.
Gary spoke next, carefully.
"We've talked about this before me and Rooney. And look, I think you're ready. But you need to know this isn't just praise. It's pressure. The media's going to go mental. Every pass, every comment, they'll turn it into a headline."
Tristan nodded slowly. "I know."
"And you still want it?"
Tristan looked up. His voice didn't waver.
"I'm not asking for it. But if you're giving it to me… I won't run from it."
Roy gave a rare smile. "Good. Press release goes out later today. You'll speak to the team this evening."
.
2:47 PM – @England Twitter Post
𝗖𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗔𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗗: Against Germany this Friday, our captain will be: ⭐ Tristan Hale
The 20-year-old earns his first armband in what will be his 17th England cap.
#ThreeLions #England #TristanHale
Within minutes, Twitter was a storm.
@Lenny: Wow, I didn't expect this for sure, lmao. Roy Hodgson hands the armband to the youngest England captain since Bobby Moore. What a moment.
@VardyISTHEGOAT: If you're German and you see Hale walking out as captain, just unplug your TV now 💀
@Carragher93: Say what you want, but the kid's got everything. This is deserved. Let's see how he handles the fire.
Safe to say the internet was going crazy.
.
"Wait. Say it again?" Julia was holding the phone too close. "They gave you what?!"
Tristan laughed. "The captain's armband. Just for the Germany match. Not permanent. But still."
"Still! That's everything!"
Julia looked ready to explode.
"Wait till your dad hears— LING! GET IN HERE!"
His dad appeared seconds later, still drying his hands.
"What's going on—"
"He's the England captain for Friday!"
Ling blinked. Then blinked again. Then gave a low, impressed whistle.
"Damn. Look at you. Tristan Hale. Captain of England." He smiled wide, that rare one that crinkled both eyes. "Proud doesn't even cut it, son."
After he finished talking with his parents, he decided to Facetime his girl.
She answered in sweats, sitting on the floor of her studio, Biscuit curled next to her.
"Took you long enough," she said.
Tristan lifted the camera a bit. "Guess who's wearing the England armband?"
Barbara stared. Then blinked. Then said nothing for three seconds.
"Wait. You're serious."
Tristan smiled.
"I knew they'd do it!" she shouted, leaping to her feet. Biscuit barked, confused but committed.
Barbara sat back down and grabbed the phone close.
"You're going to kill it. And I want a picture of that armband. Like high quality. I'm framing it."
.
"Hey, champ!" Steven's voice came through. "Jack saw the post. He's yelling. Hang on."
There was some fumbling, then Jack's tiny voice came through.
"TRISTAN?! YOU'RE ENGLAND CAPTAIN?! I TOLD MY NURSE YOU'RE LIKE BATMAN!"
Tristan laughed. "Only if Batman had curls."
"I wanna see you score! And wave! Like this!"
Jack demonstrated something wild with his arms.
"You got it, bud," Tristan said. "And hey… I'm visiting again soon. Got something else for you."
Vardy swaggered into Tristan's room like a sitcom character entering his scene.
"There he is! Our national treasure! King Hale!"
Tristan didn't even blink. "Coming from a man who still doesn't know how to use Netflix."
"Oi! My niece fixed that."
"Exactly."
"Wait you get to give the speech before kickoff now, yeah?" Vardy said.
"Technically."
"Oh God. Please just don't say 'we go again'. Everyone says that. Be creative."
"Noted."
"And no 'play for the badge' crap either."
Tristan threw a sock at him.
That night, Tristan made an Instagram post: @Tristan_22
Honored. Humbled. Ready.
Let's go, England. 🏴
📸: @england
.
St. George's Park was buzzing from the moment the players checked in. Trainers barked instructions. Balls clattered off mannequins. The scent of grass and muscle rub hung thick in the air. For the first time in over a decade, England had a new captain walking out first onto the pitch.
Tristan Hale.
He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The moment he stepped out, boots laced, armband snug just beneath the sleeve of his training kit, the shift in energy was obvious.
"Captain," Henderson muttered as they lined up for rondos. A half-smile.
"Let's see if the armband gives you better first touches," Cahill added dryly.
The younger lads weren't as subtle.
"Mate, you see the announcement?" Dele Alli said later to Stones. "It was all over my feed. Everyone from LeBron to Liam Gallagher reposting it."
"Yeah, and it looked good on him too. Like it was meant to be there."
Late At Night
Tristan sat cross legged on Harry Kane's room carpet, controller in hand, staring dead at the screen.
"You always pick Madrid. Grow up."
"You always pick Leicester," Kane shot back. "You're basically cheating."
They paused the game at halftime. Kane turned serious.
"Listen... with Wayne taking a step back now, you think I finally start?"
Tristan blinked. "You should."
"I mean, I've scored over a hundred goals in the league already," Kane said, voice low. "But I've never really started for England. It was always Rooney. Or Vardy. Like I was Plan B."
Tristan leaned back against the bed.
"This is your time, Harry. We need a 9 now. Wayne's stepping aside so basically we will be playing a 4-4-2. So your time has finally come."
Kane looked down at the floor. Then back up.
"You think we go far this summer?"
Tristan thought of his first life.
Iceland.
The embarrassment. The fury. The way the country turned.
He pushed the memory away.
"Yeah," Tristan said. "This time, we go far."
.
Next Morning
Rooney jogged the perimeter of the training pitch, the early spring air crisp on his breath. His strides weren't as sharp as they once were, but there was still purpose in every step. Tristan joined him, falling into rhythm at his side, the silence between them broken only by the steady thud of boots against grass.
After a lap, Rooney spoke, his voice low and thoughtful. "You know what I miss most?"
Tristan shook his head, glancing over.
"Silence," Rooney said. "Not in the changing room, not on the coach… I mean right before kickoff. When you're walking out. Thousands of eyes on you, the anthem blaring, cameras in your face and yet, for a seconds, it's quiet. Just you. And you know, in that moment, everything rides on what you say, what you do."
He glanced sideways, studying Tristan. "You ready for that?"
Tristan hesitated, his breath catching for half a second before he answered. "I think so."
Rooney gave a small nod. "Everyone wants to be the hero. Trust me, I did too. But England doesn't need another hero. What it needs is someone who listens. Someone who doesn't crack when the headlines turn vicious. And they will turn, Tristan. They always do. One missed chance, one wrong word, and suddenly it's not just about football anymore. England's a different beast. The shirt weighs heavier here than anywhere else."
They slowed their pace slightly, and Rooney's expression softened. "Don't waste energy trying to be perfect. Nobody is. Just keep being the lad you've always been. That's the reason they trust you. That's the reason they'll follow you."
Tristan nodded, jaw set, voice low but steady. "Got it."
Rooney didn't smile, but his eyes flickered with approval as they carried on around the pitch.
March 24 – Team Dinner
The main course was done. Plates pushed aside. Glasses of water and energy drinks half-full. The room buzzed with low chatter and clinks of cutlery.
Roy Hodgson stood.
"Tristan. Say a few words, will you?"
Tristan stood slowly. Forks paused. Conversations stopped.
He cleared his throat.
"Uh… First off, I just want to say thank you. To the staff. To the seniors. To all of you." He looked around. "This isn't about me. This is about us. This summer's not just a tournament. It's a chance to prove we're not just hype. We play together. We fight together. We win together."
He paused. The room held its breath.
"And, uh, Vardy still owes me dinner if I score a free kick."
"OI!" Vardy shouted. "Don't lie in front of the nation, you little fraud."
Laughter erupted.
"You said it! Prague, November. I remember."
"I was drunk!"
More laughter. The tension broke. Just like that.
Tristan smiled and sat.
.
Next Day – St. George's Park
Breakfast ended early, but nobody left the room. Phones buzzed across the tables, screens lit up. The usual chatter about music and boots and last night's Champions League highlights was gone. Something heavier hung in the air.
"Oi, check The Times," Raheem Sterling said, holding up his phone.
The screen showed a front-page photo: Tristan walking out of training with the armband strapped across his sleeve, the England badge gleaming under the floodlights. Beneath it, in bold letters:
THE BOY WHO WOULD BE KING.
John Stones leaned over Sterling's shoulder, letting out a low whistle. "That's subtle. No pressure at all, mate. It's like the entire country's watching you."
"Not weird at all," Tristan muttered, sipping his water like nothing had happened. But his eyes lingered on the screen for a beat too long before he set his glass down.
Danny Rose smirked. "Better get used to it, man. Soon as you wear that armband, everything's magnified. How you walk, how you talk, what cereal you eat."
"Yeah," Eric Dier added with a grin. "Better not get caught eating Coco Pops. That's not captain material."
The table chuckled, but the laughter was thin. Everyone knew it was true, the attention wasn't going anywhere.
Later That Day – Media Zone
The cameras were already set up by the time Tristan walked in, the press pack buzzing like a swarm. He sat at the table, the armband visible on his sleeve, the microphones clustered close enough to touch.
The first question came quickly, sharp and rehearsed. "Tristan, some say you're too young to wear the armband. That it should've gone to someone older, more experienced. What do you say to that?"
Tristan met the reporter's gaze without blinking.
"Leadership isn't about age. It's about responsibility. And I know exactly what this responsibility means."
Cameras clicked. Pens scratched. The room stirred.
Another hand shot up.
"Do you feel you've earned this, or is it too soon?"
"I feel I've earned the trust of my teammates," Tristan said firmly. "That's all that matters. If they believe in me, I'll give everything back to them and to the country."
A different voice cut in, more pointed.
"Wayne Rooney's still in the squad. Some say he should remain captain, at least for this tournament. Do you think you've taken his place?"
Tristan leaned slightly toward the mic. "Nobody takes Wayne Rooney's place. He's a legend, and he's still a leader in this team. I'm just here to do my job to help us win in any way I can."
A ripple of murmurs moved through the press row.
Another question came, quick-fire.
"With the spotlight on you now, do you worry one mistake on or off the pitch will define you?"
Tristan didn't flinch. "Pressure's part of the job. Mistakes happen in football, but I'll always own mine. That's what a captain should do."
And then, from the back, a quieter but sharper question: "Do you believe this is your England now?"
The room hushed. All eyes turned to him.
Tristan's face tightened, but his voice was steady.
"I believe this is our England. It belongs to every player in that dressing room. My job is to give everything so the team can go as far as possible. That's it."
The cameras fired like gunshots. Reporters scribbled furiously. Headlines were already forming.
The pressure was suffocating. But Tristan sat straight, shoulders square, eyes clear.
He had never felt more ready.
March 26, 2016 – Olympiastadion, Berlin
International Friendly: Germany vs England
The floodlights carved cold silver bars across the pitch, slicing the spring night into hard, metallic lines. Forty-five minutes before kickoff, the Olympiastadion was already rumbling. The Südtribüne pounded with drums, chants rolled like waves through the stands, and every warm-up sprint from either side was met with whistles or cheers.
Technically, this was only a friendly. Nobody inside the stadium believed that. This was a dress rehearsal for the Euros, a test of nerve, of identity.
The cameras swept the tunnel. Joachim Löw stood calm and expressionless at the far end, wrapped in his black coat, hands folded neatly behind his back. Opposite him, Roy Hodgson tugged at his scarf against the chill and gave a brief nod toward the white-clad line of England players stretching into the corridor.
Front and center stood Tristan Hale.
England's new captain.
His gaze dropped once more to the armband on his bicep, white cloth, navy trim, the Three Lions picked out in gold. It didn't feel like cloth at all. It felt heavier. A promise sewn into fabric. A burden disguised as a symbol.
A clap jolted him from his thoughts. Jamie Vardy, grinning ear to ear, smacked his back. "Don't let the nerves eat you, Cap."
Tristan turned his head, deadpan. "Only thing I'm eating tonight is Neuer's clean sheet."
The quip broke the tension. Henderson chuckled softly. Rose barked a laugh. Kane smirked, shaking his head. Even Stones, usually all business, let a faint grin crack across his face. The message was clear, the kid might be carrying history, but he wasn't carrying it alone.
Behind them, Dier leaned toward Dele Alli and muttered, "Imagine that youngest captain since Bobby Moore and he's still winding people up in the tunnel."
Alli smirked. "Better than shaking in his boots, innit?"
The referees appeared then, signalling. Tunnel lights dimmed. The iron doors creaked open, spilling cold air into the corridor.
Out they walked.
The anthem moment came fast. Germany formed their line first, shoulder to shoulder, arms locked, their end of the stadium roaring them into being. England lined opposite, arms looped over one another, backs straight as if carved from stone.
The cameras moved like rifles, hunting for faces. When they found Tristan twenty years old, standing front and center, the commentator's voice dipped to reverence.
"There he is… England's youngest captain since Bobby Moore. Tristan Hale."
Even the German end quieted for a beat. Not from respect, but curiosity. They wanted to see if the boy would crack under all the pressure.
The anthem played. Tristan didn't sing every word. He stood still, lips parted, eyes set forward, jaw locked. Unflinching. In the away end, someone waved a Leicester flag, blue and white bright against the black, red, and gold. Another banner unfurled: CAPTAIN HALE.
When the final notes faded, Tristan stepped forward for the ritual. He extended his hand. Toni Kroos, Germany's captain for the night, took it firmly.
"Congratulations," Kroos said in clipped English, his tone even but respectful. "Big responsibility."
Tristan held his gaze, voice level. "Biggest one I'll ever have."
Kroos studied him for a moment, as if measuring the weight behind the words, then gave a small, approving nod. "You look ready. Don't waste it."
For the first time, Tristan allowed the faintest smile. "I won't."
The referee produced the coin, flashing under the floodlights. A flick, a spin, a slap.
Heads. England to kick off.
Kroos and Tristan exchanged one last nod before jogging back to their squads. Veteran to newcomer. Torchbearer to torchbearer.
And the game waited.
Formations stretched across the pitch as the camera panned overhead. Germany set up in their familiar 4-2-3-1: Neuer in goal, Hummels and Boateng anchoring the back line, Hector and Can pushing the flanks. Kroos and Khedira sat in midfield like sentries, freeing Özil, Draxler, and Müller to roam behind Mario Gómez at the tip.
England mirrored the shape. Hart between the posts, Stones and Cahill holding the line, Rose left, Clyne right. Henderson, Dier, and Dele Alli formed a compact midfield trio, tasked with squeezing Germany's rhythm. Up front, the triangle of Kane through the middle, Vardy sprinting channels, and Tristan drifting in the half-spaces, just behind the striker free to dictate.
The whistle cut the air. Berlin exhaled.
England knocked it around cautiously, looking to settle. Within a minute, the ball found Tristan. Alli fizzed it down the left channel. The weight was good, the angle simple — but Hale's touch betrayed him. He stuck out his right boot, too heavy, and the ball skipped away. Kroos darted in, snapping it up, and in two passes Müller was ghosting into the box.
Only Cahill's desperate lunge saved England from an early disaster, the ball ricocheting clear to cheers from the travelling support.
Rob Hawthorne's voice came immediately, smooth but edged with warning.
"First touch from the captain… not quite right. Maybe a little adrenaline in the system."
Alan Smith added quickly.
"He won't like that, Rob. But the crowd, the occasion, it does funny things to your legs. That'll settle him.
The camera caught Tristan jogging back into shape, face unreadable, expression carved from stone. He clapped once, calling to Alli and Vardy, demanding another chance.
And three minutes later, he got it.
Germany tried to build through Özil, floating between Henderson and Dier. A loose touch gave Hale his opening. He lunged, shoulder-checked Özil off balance, and spun sharply, the ball glued to his boot. One stride, then another, and suddenly he was surging through midfield.
The crowd rumbled. Kroos closed in, but number 22 didn't hesitate. He lifted his head and clipped a diagonal, clean and precise, arcing over Hummels into the space behind. Vardy tore after it, bursting between the centre-backs.
The chance fizzled, Neuer swept it up outside his box but the message was clear.
Rob again.
"Much better. That's what he does. Wins it back, drives, and in two touches he's put Vardy in behind. That'll ease him."
Alan chuckled softly.
"You could almost see the shoulders drop, Rob. First mistake gone. That's the captain settling in."
And on the touchline, Hodgson folded his arms, eyes fixed on the number 22.
The armband wasn't weighing him down anymore. All it did instead was motivate the young man.
For five straight minutes, England were drowning. Draxler probed down the left, Kroos dictated tempo with surgical passes, and Özil twisted into pockets of space between Henderson and Stones. Hart barked himself hoarse, parrying shot after shot with his voice as much as his gloves. Every clearance came straight back. The German crowd roared with each wave of pressure, smelling blood.
Then came the break.
Eric Dier snapped into a tackle, toe-poking the ball free just beyond the centre circle. It skittered loose and Tristan was there.
One touch to settle. One to turn.
Suddenly, the pitch opened before him.
Kroos darted across to close him down. Hale dipped his shoulder left. Kroos bought it, weight shifting, half a second gone. Hale chopped back inside, boot slicing clean, and Kroos was gone.
Boateng stepped up, bracing. Tristan surged forward, stride eating ground, dragging the ball into his shooting lane. He swung through it from thirty yards — sweet, violent, pure.
The ball rose, dipped, swerved like a bullet from the gods. Neuer stretched, fingertips clawing at air.
Top corner. Net bulged.
GOAL.
Germany 0 – 1 England.
The away end erupted. Three thousand English fans detonated in blue smoke and flailing limbs. Flags shook, shirts came off, voices cracked into chaos.
On the pitch, pandemonium. Danny Rose sprinted half the length of the field, arms spread, laughter bursting out of him. Kane wrapped both arms around Tristan from behind, roaring into his ear. Vardy just froze, arms wide, eyes wide, like he'd seen a ghost.
And Tristan?
He broke free, sprinted toward the away end, and stopped dead in front of them. Arms lifted high, chest out, face fierce, not smiling, not laughing, but demanding their roar.
The travelling fans answered, a wall of sound hammering into him as he stood there, arms raised like a conductor, soaking in the chaos.
Rob Hawthorne's voice thundered over the broadcast.
"Ohhh my word! Tristan Hale! That is outrageous! A rocket into the top corner, and England's youngest captain has just lit up Berlin!"
Alan Smith's voice cracked, almost disbelieving.
"There it is. The captain. The moment. You wanted to know if he was ready? Look at that replay. He's twenty years old, and he's just buried Germany in their own backyard."
The camera cut to Roy Hodgson on the touchline. He wasn't celebrating wildly. He just stood clapping but he couldn't hide his smile.
Harry Kane had been a ghost for most of the half. Drifting between centre-backs, jogging the channels, waiting for something that never came. He looked frustrated, tugging at his shirt, shaking his head after every hopeful ball lumped forward. The German defence had him pocketed, and the murmurs in the stands were growing louder.
Then came the shift.
Tristan dropped deep into midfield, almost level with Henderson, demanding the ball off Stones. He took it on the half-turn, scanning once, just a flick of his eyes over his shoulder. Kroos closed in, tracking him tight.
But Tristan didn't care. With one fluid motion, he let the ball roll across his body and hit it first time with the outside of his right boot.
The pass bent through the air like a blade, curling behind Boateng, swerving just enough to take Hummels out of the equation. For a heartbeat, it looked speculative. Then Kane read it.
He broke the line, timing his run to perfection, slipping between the centre-backs. The ball bounced once, perfectly in stride. Kane's stride lengthened, boot drew back, and he lashed it low across Neuer.
The net rippled.
GOAL.
Germany 0 – 2 England.
The Olympiastadion groaned in shock. Gasps rippled around the home stands, disbelief written on thousands of faces. In the far corner, the England away end erupted again, a chaos of flags, flares, and limbs.
On the pitch, Kane tore away toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees, arms spread wide. He screamed into the night sky, the weight of a quiet half evaporating in a single strike. Dele Alli sprinted over to dive on him. Rose and Henderson piled in seconds later.
Tristan jogged up slowly, calmer than the rest, and clapped Kane on the back. The two exchanged a quick hug.
Rob's commentary cut through the roar.
"Oh, that is sensational! The vision from Tristan Hale, the finish from Harry Kane — England two up, in Berlin! Unbelievable!"
Alan jumped in, almost laughing in disbelief.
"He's twenty years old, Rob. Twenty! First the goal, now that pass. He's dictating this game against Germany. And Kane, that's what strikers live for. One chance. One finish. Redemption in front of sixty thousand."
The camera panned to the German bench, Joachim Löw grim-faced, arms crossed, shaking his head slowly. He turned to his assistants, muttering furiously.
Before halftime, England's captain had a goal and an assist. And suddenly, the impossible — a victory in Berlin felt very real.
Second Half
Germany came out swinging. Löw wasted no time, sending on Mario Götze and pushing his side ten yards higher. The rhythm shifted instantly. England, who had looked sharp and brave in the first half, were now under siege.
In the 52nd minute, Müller ghosted into space and lashed a volley from fifteen yards. Joe Hart flung himself across goal, fingertips brushing it wide. The home end roared, stamping their feet like thunder rolling through the Olympiastadion.
By the 65th, the pressure was suffocating. Kroos, prowling just outside the box, struck a curling effort that seemed destined for the top corner. It clipped the crossbar, rattling the frame, and the German crowd gasped as one, a collective intake of breath so loud it felt like the air had been sucked out of the stadium.
Finally, in the 74th minute, the dam cracked. A corner swung in, chaos erupted, and the ball spilled loose inside the six-yard box. Götze reacted first, stabbing it under Hart's dive.
2–1.
The Olympiastadion erupted. German voices surged into a wall of sound, a relentless chant that shook the stands. Momentum had shifted, and everyone could feel it.
But England's captain wasn't folding.
Tristan, legs heavy now, refused to let the team sag. He sprinted back into his own box, shouting, waving, clapping his hands after every clearance. He barked at Dier to tuck in tighter, gestured at Rose to push higher on the counter. When Stones hesitated on the ball, Tristan's voice cut through the chaos, audible even on broadcast mics:
"Calm! Calm! Play it simple!"
Alan couldn't hide the admiration.
"He's not just playing well. He's leading. You can feel it, Rob. Twenty years old, in Berlin, and he's running this England side."
Then came the scare.
80th minute.
Harry Kane went down awkwardly after a challenge from Hummels, clutching his ankle. The referee blew his whistle immediately. The stadium hushed for a moment, anxious, as trainers rushed on.
Tristan jogged over, crouched beside him, hand on Kane's shoulder. "You alright?" he asked, breathless.
Kane winced, testing his foot. "I'm fine. Just a knock." He grimaced again, then looked Tristan dead in the eye. "But I'd rather not risk it. No point pushing when I've got a goal already. Better to be smart."
Tristan searched his face. "You sure?"
Kane gave a tight grin. "Yeah. Let Wazza finish it off. You keep the armband, skip."
Tristan nodded once, firm. "Alright. We've got this."
The referee motioned for the change. On the sideline, Hodgson and Neville had already conferred. The fourth official lifted the board: #9 OFF — ROONEY ON.
Wayne Rooney jogged onto the pitch, greeted by a roar from the away end. The cameras caught the moment as he approached Tristan. For a split second, there was tension Rooney, the old captain, returning, and Tristan, the new one, standing there with the armband.
Rooney simply patted Tristan's chest, right over the badge. "Lead 'em home," he said, voice low but steady.
Tristan gave him a nod of gratitude, then turned and clapped his hands, rallying the team. The armband stayed firmly in place.
Rob over the feed:
"Well, there's your answer. Rooney's on, but the armband stays with Hale. The baton has well and truly passed."
"From the old guard to the new. Rooney knows it. Hodgson knows it. And after tonight… I think everyone in England knows it too."
The game resumed. Germany came again, hunting the equaliser. But England, led by their youngest captain in history, refused to break.
87th minute.
Germany pressed, desperate for an equaliser. Kroos sprayed passes left and right, Müller drifted central, and Götze buzzed between the lines. The crowd were baying, each German touch lifting the volume higher. England sat deep, tense, ready to break.
Then it happened.
Rose cleared long from the edge of his box. The ball spun high, dropping awkwardly near the halfway line. Tristan read it first, chesting it down under pressure from Khedira. He pivoted, one touch to settle, another to push forward. Suddenly, there was grass in front of him.
He drove into it, each stride longer than the last. Kroos closed, Boateng stepped out, but Tristan shifted the ball onto his right, twenty-five yards from goal. He barely looked. He didn't need to.
He let fly.
The strike was pure violence, a rocket arcing through the Berlin night, dipping savagely at the last second. Neuer flung himself sideways, full stretch, but the ball ripped past his hand and slammed into the top corner.
GOAL.
Germany 1 – 3 England.
The stadium collapsed into stunned silence. For a moment, it was as if sixty thousand people had forgotten how to breathe. Then the away end exploded.
Flags whipped, voices cracked, flares smoked red and white. England's fans surged forward in a riot of limbs, chanting Hale's name over and over, drowning the silence of the home support.
On the pitch, Tristan wheeled away, sprinting straight to the travelling support. He stopped dead in front of them, lifted both arms high above his head, chest out, eyes burning. The gesture was simple, defiant, commanding: Sing for me.
And they did.
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!" echoed across Berlin, louder than the drums, louder than the whistles.
His teammates mobbed him seconds later. Vardy ruffled his hair until it stuck in every direction. Dier smacked his back with both hands. Henderson grabbed him around the shoulders, grinning ear to ear. Even Stones came jogging up, laughing, shaking his head in disbelief.
Rob's voice cracked over the broadcast.
"Tristan Hale again! That is outrageous! His second of the night, England's third, and Germany have been flattened in their own fortress!"
Alan was breathless, almost laughing with disbelief.
"He's twenty years old, Rob. Twenty! Two goals, an assist, and the captain's armband in Berlin. What are we watching here? This is history in the making."
Full-time.
Germany 1 – 3 England.
The whistle blew, and for a heartbeat, the Olympiastadion hung in stunned silence, broken only by the roar of three thousand English voices who sang as though they were thirty thousand.
Tristan was swallowed by his teammates. Kane, limping but smiling, was the first to grab him in a hug. Rooney came next, clapping him hard on the back, murmuring something proud and private.
Henderson leaned in with a grin. "Proper skipper, that."
Even Stones, ever the stoic, was laughing, shaking his head, muttering, "Bloody hell, mate."
The cameras swung to the touchline. Roy Hodgson stood with a soft smile, pride carved into every line of his face. Beside him, Gary Neville just shook his head slowly, half smiling, as if he'd known this moment was inevitable all along.
England's youngest captain had arrived.
And he had done more than survive.
He had led.
He had conquered.
The whistle still echoed faintly when the players began to separate. Some trudged, some jogged, some stood bent double with hands on knees. The German players were bitter but respectful; the England lads buzzing but exhausted.
Tristan, still breathing hard, moved down the line shaking hands. First Hummels, who muttered "Well played" with a rueful grin. Then Neuer, patting him on the shoulder. Then Kroos.
The German captain held his hand a little longer than the others, eyes steady. He leaned in, voice low, almost casual:
"Come to Madrid."
Tristan froze for half a second. The cameras were everywhere, red lights glowing, lenses aimed, microphones hanging above. He masked it with a small, polite smile.
"Thank you for the offer," he said softly, before letting go.
Kroos gave him a half-smile in return, as though he already knew the answer, then moved on down the line.
Tristan turned away, expression unreadable, but the brief flicker of amusement in his eyes didn't escape the cameras. Twitter would already be melting down about what the two were talking about.
.
Under the glare of the broadcast lights, Tristan stood in front of the branded backdrop. Sweat still gleamed on his temples, his hair sticking slightly to his forehead. The captain's armband was still strapped tight around his arm.
The reporter angled the mic. "Tristan Hale, man of the match here in Berlin. Two goals, an assist, and the armband. Tell us how does it feel?"
Tristan exhaled once, steadying himself. "Feels good. But more important, it feels deserved. We worked as a team, defended together, attacked together. This wasn't about me. It was about England showing we can beat anyone."
The reporter pressed, smiling. "Still for you personally, youngest England captain since Bobby Moore, and you put in a performance like that. Did you feel extra pressure tonight?"
Tristan's answer came firm. "Pressure's part of the job. If you wear the armband, you carry it. Doesn't matter if you're twenty or thirty. My teammates trusted me, and I trust them. That's what matters."
The cameras clicked. Flashes popped.
"Talk us through your second goal," the reporter said. "That rocket from distance was that instinct, or did you see Neuer off his line?"
Tristan chuckled lightly. "Bit of both. Sometimes you just know. Ball sat up, space opened, and I hit it clean. The moment it left my boot, I knew it was in."
A pause, then a sharper question: "And what about Toni Kroos? We saw you talking at full-time. He said something to you, can you share what that was?"
Tristan smiled faintly, gaze slipping just beyond the camera. "He congratulated me. That's all."
The reporter's grin widened, sensing the dodge but letting it slide. "Last one unbeaten under your captaincy, beating Germany 3–1 in Berlin. What's next for this England team?"
Tristan's jaw tightened, voice calm and confident. "Next is the Euros. We're not here to take part. We're here to win."
The reporter turned back to the camera. "Tristan Hale, man of the match in Berlin. England's captain. Remember the name."
Behind them, the away end roared his name again, carrying into the night.
.
Post-Match Press Conference – Joachim Löw (Germany Manager)
The German manager adjusted his jacket as he sat down, the flashbulbs firing immediately. He leaned into the mic, calm despite the defeat, his expression unreadable.
The first question came from a German reporter."Joachim, Germany dominated large parts of the game. How do you explain a 3–1 loss at home?"
Löw nodded slowly. "We created chances, but England punished us. They were efficient, ruthless when it mattered. In international football, small details decide matches. Tonight, they were sharper in the key moments."
Another journalist raised a hand. "What did you make of England's new captain, Tristan?"
Löw's lips pressed into a faint smile. "Outstanding. Truly outstanding. He is not just talented, he has a presence. You feel him on the pitch. Two goals, one assist… but more than that, he organized, he encouraged, he demanded. For someone so young, that is very rare. England has found a leader."
The room buzzed. One German journalist followed quickly: "Do you see him as a future Ballon d'Or player?"
Löw shrugged lightly, but his words carried weight. "I mean he might win it next year, Leicester is about to win everything undefeated combine that with Tristan's crazy stats, of course he would be the front runner for the award. He's the first or second best player in the world and not many would disagree with the claim."
The German press scribbled furiously. Cameras clicked. Löw's praise would lead tomorrow's headlines.
Meanwhile, the mood was different on the English side. Hodgson entered with a soft smile, his eyes bright despite the fatigue of the night. He adjusted the mic as English journalists fired their questions.
"Roy, was this England's best performance in years?"
Hodgson took a moment. "It was a very good performance. But let's not get carried away, it was still a friendly. Germany pushed us hard. They tested us. But yes, to win 3–1 here, in Berlin, that's a special night for these players. A special night for England."
The inevitable question came next. "Will Tristan Hale captain again?"
Roy didn't hesitate. "Yes. He'll wear it again. He led us tonight, not just with his feet, but with his voice. With his presence. With his courage. He set the example."
A journalist near the front asked, "Is he now your first-choice captain for the Euros?"
Hodgson smiled faintly. "Let's not write headlines too quickly. Wayne Rooney is still our captain, Gary Cahill our vice. But Tristan has shown he can handle the armband. He will have more opportunities, I can promise you that."
Another question: "What impressed you most about his performance tonight?"
Roy leaned forward. "His maturity. When we conceded, he didn't hide. He demanded calm. He organized players older than him. He played as if he's been doing it for years. That tells me he's not just gifted, he's ready."
The press room buzzed with murmurs. Hodgson sat back, folding his arms. His smile hadn't left since he walked in.
.
Fans across the world and especially in England went into overdrive after the final whistle. The English media, true to form, did what it always does: overreacted, glorified, and declared a new era off the back of one night. And this time, the storm had a name, Tristan Hale.
The Guardian: CAPTAIN HALE. ENGLAND'S FUTURE WEARS THE ARMBAND — AND CONQUERS BERLIN.
Match Summary
Germany 1 – 3 England
Tristan Hale (20): 2 Goals, 1 Assist, Captain's Armband
Harry Kane (43'): 1 Goal
Mario Götze (74'): Germany consolation
Report:
On a cold night in Berlin, England unveiled their future. Tristan Hale at just twenty years old, wearing the armband for the very first time delivered a performance that will live long in English memory. Two goals, one assist, and a captain's display of maturity that silenced sixty thousand Germans and lifted three thousand travelling fans into delirium.
Tristan opened the scoring with a thunderous strike from distance, the ball swerving past Neuer into the top corner. He later created Kane's goal with a deft flick through the German defence before sealing the game in the 87th minute with another rocket that rippled the net and left Berlin stunned.
As the final whistle sounded, Tristan lifted his arms to the England supporters and was mobbed by teammates. "Proper skipper," Henderson was caught saying on camera. Hodgson called it "a special night for England." Germany's Joachim Löw went further: "Outstanding. He has presence. England has found a leader."
The internet detonated.
BBC Sport tweet: "Tristan Hale (20 years old) captains England in Berlin. Scores twice. Assists once. Captain's performance."
75k retweets in under 3 hours.
@GaryLineker: Tristan will lead England to greater heights not thought possible just like he did with Leicester
@rioferdy5: Captain Hale has a nice ring to it. We are in a new era and I couldn't be happier it's Tristan that was chosen as the Captain. He's the right choice for it.
Memes flooded Twitter: Tristan standing arms out before the away end was immediately compared to statues, generals, even a young Bobby Moore. "The Boy Who Would Be King" trended worldwide, echoing The Times's headline from the day before.
By midnight, Tristan Hale was trending #1 across the UK and #3 globally. Even Spanish media picked it up, with Marca cheekily posting: "Kroos said: come to Madrid. Hale replied on the pitch."
.
Mar 29 – Friendly: vs Netherlands (Home)
Wembley trembled in the 93rd minute. The Dutch pressed half heartedly, searching for a consolation, but England were unshakable. Stones launched one last clearance into the night sky. The referee checked his watch, raised the whistle to his lips —
Full-time.
The roar was deafening. Ninety thousand voices poured into the floodlit air, shaking the rafters of the stadium. England 2 – 0 Netherlands.
And both goals had the same signature.
Tristan Hale.
The first had been pure violence, a 25-yard rocket that clattered the underside of the bar before nestling in. The second, ice-cold composure slipping past his marker in the box and stroking it beyond the keeper in the 78th minute, arms raised to the South Stand as Wembley erupted.
Now, as the whistle faded, the captain's armband gleamed on his arm while teammates swarmed him. Kane wrapped him in a bear hug. Henderson slapped his back. Dele Alli shouted into his ear, half laughing, half disbelieving. All around them, the chants thundered down:
"TRISTAN!"
"TRISTAN!"
"TRISTAN!"
The cameras cut to the gantry. Rob Hawthorne's voice rose above the roar.
"And there's the whistle! England 2, Netherlands 0 at Wembley! And once again it's the captain Tristan Hale with both goals!"
Alan Smith was almost laughing as he answered.
"Four goals in two games wearing the armband, Rob. Two against Germany, now two against the Dutch. He's twenty years old! We keep asking if he's ready, and every time he answers louder."
The camera lingered on Tristan, standing in the middle of Wembley, arms lifted high toward the crowd as they sang his name.
Two friendlies. Two wins. Four goals. One assist.
At twenty years old, Tristan Hale had just led England to back-to-back statement victories. And the country was already asking the question the rest of Europe didn't want to hear:
Is this England's time?
.
Can we hit 650 power stones tonight?