The ball sat alone on the center spot.
White shirts on one half.
Blue on the other.
A line between the two nations.
Ninety minutes between heaven and hell.
The crowd, moments ago a wall of noise, had quieted just enough to let the weight settle.
Peter Drury filled the hush.
"You can almost feel it pressing down. It's not just a football match. It's something else now."
Martin Tyler responded beside him, voice low, steady.
"That's what it becomes when pride's on the line. When it's your flag, your people, your anthem still ringing in your ears."
The camera panned. Kane and Tristan over the ball. Lloris shouting from the opposite box. Griezmann crouched in a half-sprint already.
Peter took a breath.
"France. England. For a place in the final four of Europe's sacred competition."
Tyler added, "It's nights like these where legacies crack open. The question's always the same who's ready for it?"
The referee raised the whistle to his lips.
One sharp breath.
Then the shrill blast.
The quarterfinal began.
Kane tapped it to Henderson, and England set off, slow, measured, feeling the game with their first touches.
Across the white line, Kante didn't even wait a full second.
He was already there. Shadowing Tristan from the whistle.
Tyler didn't need a second look. "Well, there it is. Kante's on him already. Before the ball's even crossed the halfway line."
Peter nodded through the feed. "This is exactly what we expected. France would rather give space to every other English shirt than let Tristan breathe. That's the assignment and it's the right one."
"Kante tracking him like a shadow," Tyler added. "I'd do the same. You give Tristan room, he shoots from forty and ruins your night."
France pressed high on the sides, but stayed compact through the middle. England kept it with the back four, Stones to Smalling, back to Joe Hart.
Tristan barely moved.
He wasn't calling for it.
Wasn't drifting.
Wasn't forcing.
Instead, he raised a hand.
Four fingers. Then a slow box drawn midair, tempo control. Let the team settle. Let Kante chase him. The team can create chances without him right from the start.
Peter noticed. "Oh, Interesting. That's a signal we rarely see from the young lad. I think this might be the first time Tristan isn't trying to dictate the game from the opening whistle. And that answers the big pre-match question, can Kanté limit him? Looks like, at least for now, he can. But we've still got eighty-six minutes to go."
Tyler chimed in, nodding. "It's smart from Tristan. No reason to wrestle for space when Kanté's glued to him like that. Let the others set the early tempo. He'll find the pockets once the patterns settle."
Kante followed every pivot, every breath.
Tristan jogged wide, then central. Kante stayed glued.
And still, England probed. Passed. Shifted.
Then came the first forward break—Sterling flaring left, Vardy darting down the channel. Henderson spotted it, punched the ball through midfield.
But no one looked at them.
All eyes were still on the pair in white and blue.
The duel between Tristan and Kante would decide the outcome of the match.
The ball pinged across the back again. Stones. Then Smalling. Then Hart. A slow circle, baiting pressure.
Then a gap.
Henderson received between the lines, turned and found Tristan Hale.
Peter's voice lifted, pulled forward like the breath of seventy thousand hearts.
"And here it comes… the pass every soul in this stadium has waited for…"
The ball zipped to Tristan's feet near the left channel, just inside France's half.
Tyler followed, breath quickening. "Now we see. Tristan in space. Forty yards out. Left side. The angle is tight—"
"But the moment is wide open," Peter finished. "The ball at the feet of England's chosen one. The man they believe will bring football home."
The sound was instant. Like thunder cracking open inside a concrete bowl.
From the east stand, the English roared.
"EN-GER-LAND! EN-GER-LAND!"
"TRIS-TAN'S GONNA TAKE YA HOME!"
"HE'S GONNA FUCK YOU!
Flags whipped through the air. Some fans nearly spilled over the railing, fists punching skyward, faces twisted in hope and frenzy.
From the opposite side, the French contingent rose as one.
"BOOOOOOOOOOOO—!"
"ALLEZ LES BLEUS!"
"HALE VA TOMBER !" (Hale will fall!)
"KANTÉ ! KANTÉ ! KANTÉ !"
The noise didn't mix, it collided.
Cheers and jeers folding into each other like battling waves.
Every camera lens and eyes snapped toward one player.
Right there on the left channel, near the halfway line.
Tristan with the ball at his foot.
Kanté was already there. Step for step. Low stance. Eyes locked. The French plan, as always, in motion.
Tyler's voice cut through the crowd. "Right on cue. Kanté's there before the ball even finds Tristan. France aren't taking chances."
Peter continued.
"And you can't blame them. This is where games are won or lost. This duel right here is the heartbeat of the night."
Then it changed.
Tristan didn't wait. Didn't dance. Didn't bait.
He ran.
A single touch forward and then acceleration. Pure, blistering, ruthless speed.
The best way to get past a defender who knows all your tricks and secrets.
Tyler nearly shouted.
"Oh he's off, no flair, no feints he's gone straight through!"
Drury rose to match him.
"Power over poetry! Past Kanté for the first time tonight! Just legs and fury!"
The stadium detonated.
English voices broke into deafening chants.
"TRISTAN!"
"TRISTAN!"
"TRISTAN!"
French supporters booed louder, desperate to drown it out.
Every fan was on their feet, every camera locked on that number 22.
Tristan burned down the right channel, just ahead of Kanté's lunge and then whipped in a curling, low pass behind the French line.
Right into Kane's stride.
First touch was clean.
Second coiled to strike…
Tyler jumped in.
"Kane! This is the one!"
Drury's voice surged.
"Goal written all over it!"
The entire English end screamed. So did Roy on the touchline.
But Koscielny flew in, full stretch, legs extended and blocked it.
And up in the VIP suite, Prime Minister Holloway was already on his feet, half-shouting, half-laughing, "YES, wait, NO!"
The shot never left the ground.
Gasps from the English end. Groans from the French.
Peter's voice came soft and sharp.
"They were that close. Tristan's pace. Kane's chance. Inches from glory."
Tyler, still locked in.
"And more than anything it sends a message. France know now: he only needs one look. One gap. And he's gone."
.
Kane adjusted his shinpad, exhaled, then looked up.
"I should've buried it," he muttered, jogging back into shape.
Tristan caught up beside him, light jog, one hand on Kane's back.
"You will," he said. "Next one goes in."
Sterling clapped Kane's shoulder as well. "He's right. That was class movement."
Even Vardy, grinning behind clenched teeth, nodded. "Keep that run, mate. We'll get another."
From the touchline, Roy Hodgson clapped twice. "GET BACK TO WORK!"
France had already restarted.
Back near the center circle, Tristan watched the blue shirts organize, felt the ever-present tug of Kanté shadowing him like smoke.
"It's an odd thing to say this early, but that miss might've helped England more than hurt. That surge—it rattled France. And for a moment… we all saw how quickly Hale can tip the board."
Tyler added, "But look at him now, he's not chasing the game. He's watching it. Letting it unfold. England are keeping him quiet by design. And Kanté? He's still biting every feint."
France shifted through the gears, Pogba fizzed a pass to Payet, who chipped it forward toward Griezmann. Stones stepped in. A tackle. Then a clearance.
Tristan tracked back with the midfield line. Didn't demand the ball. Just floated between pockets, keeping his distance from the heart of the play. Yet his eyes were locked, reading angles, tempo, shape.
Kanté stayed glued to him, but even he started glancing at the ball more than the man.
That was the plan.
Let the French forget about him for five seconds. That was enough.
10th Minute
Henderson received deep. Turned. Looked.
Tristan gave a simple motion, one touch.
The ball zipped to him. First time, he sprayed it long across the pitch, right into Sterling's path down the wing.
Tyler, impressed, called it: "Doesn't need to dribble. Doesn't need to dance. That's just intelligence. Tristan sees the whole field, even when he's boxed in."
Drury followed: "And it's not just about seeing. It's about making others believe. Sterling believes. Kane believes. England believes."
France snuffed the chance, Sagna intercepted the final ball but it forced them to regroup.
Still no goal. But they'd been pushed.
The match grew more even. France tested England's shape, Griezmann drifting central, Payet dipping between lines, Pogba beginning to surge.
Hart had to collect a low cross at one point. Stones blocked a shot on the edge.
But England held.
And through it all, Tristan stayed… steady.
A disguised backheel at the halfway line. A flick that turned pressure into release. A lofted switch from left to right that let Chilwell push forward.
He didn't try to be the hero. He tried to keep the storm from building.
20th Minute
Kanté pressed a bit too close, ball on the far side, and Tristan leaned in just a bit.
"Still enjoying it?" he asked softly, in French.
Kanté didn't look at him. "Shut up."
Tristan chuckled, then glanced toward the far sideline where Payet was winding up.
"Tell your left back to stay awake. We're going to find him soon."
Kanté gave a small blink. A shift in his stance. Then they were moving again.
The chess game continued.
.
France pushed with a little more heart and grit trying to get back.
Pogba began demanding the ball, sweeping his arm for width. Payet drifted centrally, linking short passes. Griezmann kept floating into half-spaces, forcing Stones to keep glancing over his shoulder.
England held firm.
Henderson shifted the block left. Drinkwater tucked in. Chilwell stayed alert to Sagna's overlap.
Tristan defended as well and continued to control the game best as he could.
Every time England won the ball, he offered an outlet, but Kanté closed the door before Tristan even tried the handle.
"France aren't just marking him… they're surrounding the idea of him."
Tyler added, "And the amazing thing is England are still playing. Still creating. If anything, Tristan's gravity is helping them more than hurting them."
Still, France grew bolder.
A one-two between Griezmann and Matuidi forced Smalling into a sliding challenge. The crowd roared. Then whistled. Then roared again.
The atmosphere tightened.
Somewhere in England's half, Tristan and Kanté brushed shoulders again, Kanté pressing, Tristan letting him.
A test of patience more than skill.
.
In the 31st minute, France nearly made the breakthrough.
Payet curled a wicked ball toward Giroud, who muscled Stones aside just enough to flick it goalward.
Hart lunged, full stretch fingertips brushing it wide.
Tyler reacted instantly.
"That is a warning. That's a proper warning."
Peter followed.
"And that will thrill this Marseille crowd. France inching closer, sensing the blood in this match."
The French fans surged to their feet.
Blue flags whipped.
Tristan glanced at the big screen, then down at his boots.
He knew momentum when he felt it shift.
.
France built an attack again.
Slow. Methodical. A vise closing.
Matuidi to Pogba. Pogba to Payet. Payet out wide to Evra. A low pass. A high switch. A rhythm forming.
England retreated deeper, waiting for the moment to pounce.
Roy yelled from the touchline, "HOLD! HOLD!"
But France weren't holding anything.
They were winding up.
Peter felt it.
"You can hear it. You can almost hear the tension tightening like a drumskin."
Tyler agreed.
"It feels like something's coming. France have the ball. The tempo. The territory."
Tristan kept scanning the field.
Angles. Distances. Traps.
But the ball moved faster than legs could cover.
France pushed into the final third again.
Pogba received on the half-turn with space, too much space and he drove forward. Drinkwater stepped, got shrugged off. Smalling held position, unsure whether to commit.
Pogba slipped it wide to Payet.
Payet danced over the ball once.
Twice.
Cut inside.
Tristan sprinted from midfield to cover the lane. Kanté sprinted with him, neither willing to give the other an inch.
But Payet wasn't looking at them.
He was looking at the far post.
Giroud peeled off Stones, angling his body perfectly.
Payet crossed.
A wicked, bending, devil's ball.
Stones mistimed his jump. Smalling reached—but from behind.
Giroud rose higher. Stronger. His forehead met the ball clean.
A cannon blast.
Hart dove, full extension but he was never getting there.
The net rippled violently.
Stade Vélodrome ERUPTED.
People jumped on seats. Scarves twirled in circles. Roars churned through concrete.
"OOOOOOOOLIVIER GIROUUUUUUUUD!"
French players sprinted toward the corner flag, swarming Giroud as he slid to his knees.
The stadium shook.
Peter surged with it.
"MARSEILLE FINDS ITS VOICE! FRANCE FIND THEIR BREAKTHROUGH! AND THE QUARTERFINAL TAKES FLAME!"
Tyler matched the fury.
"It's been coming! You could feel it in the build-up! England held and held and finally France break the wall!"
French fans pounded on barricades, chanting, screaming, crying.
Giroud flexed his fists toward the sky. Payet pointed at the badge. Pogba roared at the cameras.
Tristan jogged back toward the center circle, gathering the guys. He brought them together at the circle. They'd had their chances. Now they just had to take the next one.
Drury lowered his tone as the replay rolled.
"And now… England must answer one way or another.
Tyler echoed, "Thirty-eight minutes gone. France lead. And this night… just woke up."
.
Blue shirts engulfed Giroud near the corner flag. The bench emptied. Cameras flashed like artillery. Pogba was pounding his chest. Payet roared to the heavens. Blue and red scarves blurred in circles above the crowd.
But back at the center circle…
Tristan Hale was screaming.
And the entire England squad went still.
"Jamie!" he roared, spit flying, chest heaving, sweat streaking down his face.
"MAKE. THE. FUCKING. RUN."
Vardy turned, stunned. Kane froze mid step.
Tristan spun to face them both, hands clenched, voice hoarse and rising.
"I'm carving up their backline. I'm giving you space. I'm feeding you chances that should've been in the back of the net."
His eyes flared toward Kane. "You stop after the first touch again, I'll stop passing."
Kane's face tightened. "I—"
"No." Tristan stabbed a finger at his chest. "No more 'I'. This is us. Now. We don't get these moments back."
Vardy nodded once, fast, forcing the tension out of his face.
Inside, though, he was furious with himself. He shouldn't need Tristan shouting at him to wake him up.
He'd faced pressure before, worse pressure, bigger moments, heavier expectations and he'd handled them. This was nothing compared to that.
He had to get it together. Not just for him. For Tristan. For the lads. For the whole damn country.
Behind them, Dele approached, breathing hard, eyes wide. "What do we do?"
"You run, Dele," Tristan snapped. "You play like your life's hanging off every pass. You see me drop, you fill the gap. Don't hesitate. Don't think."
He turned, pointed straight at Jordan Henderson and Danny Drinkwater.
"Hendo. Danny. Stop holding space. Own it. They're baiting you forward and slicing behind you. Shift tighter, talk louder."
Then he whipped around to the back line, Smalling, Stones, and Chilwell all within earshot.
"Chris. John. Ben."
They looked up like kids caught skipping class.
"You're too fucking passive. If Giroud's muscling you, you break him. Get in his shirt. Shove him. Elbow him if you have to, I don't care."
Chilwell blinked. "He's—he's strong."
"I don't care if he's King fucking Kong! This is the quarterfinal. You grow up. Right now."
Even Kyle Walker, a few yards back, gave a silent nod.
And then he breathed. Just once. And said the words they all felt crawling into their throats.
"I don't yell. You know I don't. But I am not leaving this pitch a loser because we were scared to step up."
The silence that followed was iron.
Then Kane nodded.
"Alright. Next one's mine."
Vardy cracked his neck. "No hesitation."
Dele pounded his chest once. "Let's go."
Tristan extended his hand into the middle.
"On three," he repeated. "One…"
The players' hands piled in over his—Kane's, Vardy's, Dele's, Hendo's, Drinkwater's, Walker's, Stones', Smalling's, Chilwell's.
"Two…"
The French crowd was still roaring for Giroud.
But England's heart was hitting a different rhythm now.
"THREE."
Their hands slammed down.
"LET'S FUCKING GO!"
.
The whistle blew, and England didn't wait.
Kane tapped it short. Tristan took the return, one touch to settle, another to spin, clean, sharp half-turn that peeled open space as he dragged two French midfielders with him.
Dele burst forward.
Drinkwater followed, darting diagonally into the right channel. Walker pushed high along the flank. Even Stones stepped forward a few yards, pressing the line higher.
There was a charge now, a current in every pass.
They weren't rattled anymore.
They were running hot.
Tyler's voice followed the rhythm of play.
"Much sharper here. England pressing higher, playing quicker. It's a different energy already."
Peter added. "And it's coming from the captain. Tristan's roar lit the fuse, now they're playing like they've heard him."
The ball pinged right to Henderson, who floated it down the line for Walker. One-touch inside to Drinkwater. Back to Kane.
Kane dropped into space, spun, took a quick touch forward and let fly.
A low, driven strike from just outside the box. The ball skidded across the wet grass, curling inches wide of Lloris' right post.
Gasps erupted from the English end. Hands flew to heads. A few groans, but they were hopeful ones.
Peter let the moment hang, then breathed it in.
"Not far. But close enough to remind France that England aren't dead. They've come back swinging."
Tyler followed. "And just like that, France can't relax. They can't coast into halftime. There's fire in those white shirts now."
In the dugout, Roy stayed seated for the first few seconds… then rose adjusting his collar. To say he wasn't nervous would be a lie.
Steve Holland leaned in. "They've calmed down a bit, but a few aren't at the level. Chilwell's jumpy. Dele's only playing in flashes."
Ray Lewington added, flipping through the clipboard. "And Tristan's boxed in. Kanté plus help. They've given up two players just to limit him."
Roy exhaled, low. "That's the gamble. France is the only side with the tools for it. Kanté knows him better than anyone and he's disciplined enough to stick with him all game."
Steve muttered, "Tristan still got through multiple times."
"Yeah. Should've been two goals now. But we didn't finish unfortunately."
Lewington didn't argue.
Roy's gaze didn't leave the field. "Second half, we change it. Let the others carry build-up. Shift the ball early. Pull the double team wide. Give him space."
"We get to halftime. Then we bring control. Rooney, Milner. Maybe even Clyne."
"Clyne?"
"If Walker fades. He's pushing high, but he's leaving space."
Steve folded his arms. "You think we can turn it?"
"We've got Tristan. And we've got time." Roy fully believed that. Tristan just needed a few chances, that's all they needed. "But we can't keep wasting both."
44:12
The whistle hadn't come yet.
And England weren't waiting.
Drinkwater twisted out of a tight press on the right and slipped it central to Henderson. One touch, then a quick pass to Kane who didn't hesitate this time. He flicked it backwards blindly.
Straight into Tristan's stride.
Peter rose from his chair as he had multiple times each time he was on commentary for a Tristan game watching him do the unthinkable.
"And now Tristan edge of the final third. This could be the one before the break."
Tristan didn't look tired. He looked sharper. Focused. As if the previous forty-four minutes were just data collection.
One touch to steady.
Another to glide past Matuidi's reach.
Kanté surged in—tight, perfect, suffocating—
But Tristan didn't slow.
He accelerated.
A burst—violent and sudden—blew past Kanté's hip. The French crowd gasped as if someone had punched the air out of them. White shirts surged forward. Blue scrambled.
Tyler snapped in, sharp and alive.
"Look at him go—Tristan's carved right through the middle! France can't get near him!"
Tristan reached the D of the box. Varane closing. Koscielny angling. Pogba lunging back.
He didn't pick a pass.
He picked the moment.
He shifted the ball to his left—just half a yard—and struck.
A whip. A scream off the boot.
A shot that bent like physics owed him a favor.
The ball curled around Varane's thigh, bent away from Koscielny's block, and dipped viciously toward the far post.
Lloris dove—
Too late.
The net EXPLODED backward.
The stadium DETONATED.
White shirts sprinted. Blue shirts froze. Fans screamed themselves hoarse. England's bench leapt like a detonated spring.
And Peter Drury—God bless him—rose into immortality.
"OF COURSE IT'S HIM!
WHO ELSE?
TRISTAN HALE—THE MAN OF MIRACLES—
THE YOUNG KING WHO MAKES THE IMPOSSIBLE OBEY!"
His voice climbed higher, breaking into the roar:
"When England needed salvation…
When the night was slipping away
HE DELIVERED!
HE ALWAYS DELIVERS!"
Tyler came right behind him, breathless.
"That is what he does! That is generational! That is the best footballer on the planet doing exactly what the moment demanded!"
"You can never question that young man's greatness."
The cameras found Tristan, arms spread, chest heaving as he slid on his knees toward the English end.
Fans were collapsing into each other, climbing railings, punching the sky.
.
Back in the VIP suite, Prime Minister Holloway leapt out of his chair, fists raised, tie flying over his shoulder as he screamed:
"YES! TRISTAN MY GOD, THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!"
He spun toward the French Minister two seats down, eyes wild.
"Tell your lads to try defending with three men next time! Or four! Maybe borrow one from the stands, mate!"
The French official didn't respond. Just stared at the screen in front of him like it had personally betrayed his country.
Holloway cackled louder.
"C'mon! You lot thought this was over? That he was quiet for good?" He pointed toward the screen. "That's the best player on the planet."
A few boxes away, joy burst into motion.
Julia had both hands over her mouth, tears welling behind wide eyes.
Then she let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh and grabbed Barbara without thinking.
They hugged, hard.
Barbara wrapped her arms around Julia, nodding into her shoulder.
Their boy had done it again.
Peter kept going, riding the wave.
"He promised a miracle once… and Leciester believed!
And here, under the Marseille lights, he conjures another!
HE IS GREATNESS IN REAL TIME.
A legend in the making!"
The replay rolled.
Tristan bursting past Kanté.
Tristan carving through France's core.
Tristan striking with the precision of a surgeon and the arrogance of a god.
.
Halftime
ENGLAND LOCKER ROOM
The door burst open with a hiss of steam. Boots scraped against tile. Water bottles cracked open. Everyone was drenched in sweat.
Some sat. Some leaned. Others still hadn't stopped moving.
Kane slumped onto the bench, a towel over his shoulders. Vardy shook out his legs, muttering something to Dele. Henderson was kneeling near the whiteboard already.
Tristan just stood in the middle, shirt off, chest heaving. The fire hadn't left him yet.
Then Roy Hodgson walked in.
"Alright," he said firmly. "Everyone sit."
They obeyed.
"I'm proud of that first half."
He looked around the room, meeting every pair of eyes.
"I am. Not because we were perfect because we weren't but because we responded. We didn't collapse. We stepped the hell up. That's what this shirt demands."
He turned toward the whiteboard and drew a clean line down the middle.
"Now. Score's level. One-one. But we are not going to penalties. I don't want extra time. I don't want a shootout. This needs to end in 90."
A few nods. Some deep exhales. Everyone agreed as they all knew England was shit at penalities and no one wanted to risk it.
"We finish this. Two-one. Three-one. Whatever it takes."
He circled a space between France's midfield and backline.
"They've caged Tristan all game, two players on him, sometimes three. But that left gaps. Now we use that. Dele, Danny you two start dragging the second man off him. Don't crowd. Pull them out. Force decisions."
He jabbed a marker down.
"Let Tristan play.."
There were a few low laughs, the tension breaking just a little.
"Kyle go when you see the chance, but don't abandon your post. Stones, Smalling, you stay alert. France are looking to counter, and Giroud will keep crashing the box."
Then he faced Tristan.
"You're seeing it, right?"
Tristan nodded once. "Yeah."
"Good. Take control when the time comes. But make them pay for doubling you. If they cheat wide, play it through the gut. If they collapse central, we go wide. We move. We finish."
He stepped back, eyes scanning the whole room again.
"Don't play safe. Don't play scared. You want the semifinal? Go earn it."
.
On the opposite side, the locker room was a mess.
(A/N: This is in French.)
Deschamps hadn't even made it in yet and already the walls were shaking.
Pogba slammed his water bottle. Payet was shouting, at no one, at everyone. Koscielny had both hands on his knees, muttering to himself. Even Kanté looked shaken.
"How?!" someone barked. "We had him boxed! Two men!"
"Three! Half the damn half, it was three!"
"It was working! He was quiet! What the fuck happened?!"
The door opened. Deschamps walked in slowly.
And just by stepping in, the room began to quiet.
"Enough," he said calmly.
They kept pacing. Muttering. Fuming.
Deschamps didn't raise his voice.
"That was Tristan Hale. You knew what he was capable of. We all knew what he was capable of."
He glanced at Kanté.
"And you kept him caged for 44 minutes. That alone is a miracle."
Kanté said nothing. Just stared at the floor, furious with himself.
"But now he's awake. So we adjust."
He pointed at the whiteboard.
"We don't chase him. We bait him. Pogba, don't overcommit forward. Sit deeper. Matuidi if he drops wide, force him into traffic."
He turned to Varane and Koscielny.
"No lunging. No guessing. He wants that. Force him to pass."
He paused.
"You played well. One moment flipped it. But this match is still ours. If we want to kill it, we do it early in the second half. If not we will win the shootout. Trust me, England knows best how to lose a penalty shootout."
Then he pointed at the score.
"One-one. Reset your heads. Lock in. Be the better team again."
.
Cleats echoed on concrete. England and France stood side by side, backs straight, the weight of a Ffinal pressing against their spines.
No talking. Just breath and blood.
Tristan stood near the front of England's line, just ahead of Kane, eyes fixed on the tunnel mouth.
Then, as they began to walk—
He shouted.
""J'ai compris votre plan"" ("I figured you all out.")
The confusion behind him was instant.
Koscielny whispered, "What is he talking about?"
Payet murmured, "He sounds sure…"
Pogba muttered, "Nah… that's insane. He's bluffing."
Kanté didn't say a word.
And that silence made the others more nervous.
.
Tyler's voice returned, crisp over the feed as the camera panned across the Stade Vélodrome.
"Welcome back to Marseille. Second half coming up. If you're just joining us… well, you missed a half that felt like it spanned a decade."
Peter picked it up from there.
"France struck first. Controlled the tempo. Giroud with the finish. But they couldn't keep Tristan quiet forever."
Tyler filled the pause. "He waited. He watched. And then—on the brink of halftime—he ripped through them. A solo goal. One-one at the break."
"They built a cage for him. He burned it down."
The referee checked both goalkeepers, then gave one long, sharp whistle.
Second half. France to kick off.
Giroud rolled it back to Pogba. The ball spread left to Matuidi, wide to Evra. France shifted their shape open like a book, trying to start fresh.
But England didn't wait.
Walker pressed high immediately. Drinkwater followed suit, biting into the first touch. France were forced back into their half inside thirty seconds.
Tyler jumped on the moment as play kicked off.
"Whatever Roy told them in that dressing room, it's hit home. England have come out flying here."
Peter added, composed but firm. "They're pushing for a decision now. And Tristan Hale looks like someone who wants this wrapped up long before extra time."
Kanté was still on him. That hadn't changed. But something had.
Tristan wasn't drifting anymore. He wasn't waiting for the game to come to him.
Now—he was taking it.
He dropped deeper, pulled wide, cut inside again. Demanded the ball. Demanded space. Bullied his way into the match.
Even with Kanté glued to his back, Tristan spun out of pressure with a sharp touch and pushed forward—hard. Every movement had purpose. Every pass had heat.
51:12
He turned on Matuidi near midfield—tight spin, one touch through the legs—and Pogba lunged in late.
The whistle blew.
Free kick. England.
Tyler called it out, voice climbing over the roar.
"Foul on Tristan. And England have a set piece here, about 25 yards out…"
Tristan stood over the ball, hands on hips.
Henderson hovered nearby.
But everyone in the stadium knew who was taking it.
He took ten steps back. Eyes locked on the top-left corner. Lloris setting the wall. Six French shirts. Arms linked. Nervous.
The ref's whistle chirped.
Tristan exhaled.
Then ran and struck.
Up. Over the wall.
Dipping.
But not enough.
The ball clipped the top of the net—just over.
Groans from the English end.
Lloris raised a fist to his chest. Exhaled.
Tyler filled the silence.
"Not far off. You expect the net to bulge when it's him. But not this time."
Tristan walked back slowly. Lips pressed tight but he didn't give up.
He slipped between the lines, dragged Koscielny out, fed Kane, just wide again.
Tyler's voice followed him.
"He's playing like a man possessed now. First half he was measured now he's making the game bend around him."
Peter added, "And France… they can feel it. They know the leash is slipping."
The crowd buzzed louder. English fans swelling with every surge forward. French supporters clenching tighter with every skipped heartbeat.
54:01
Substitution – France
Payet off. Coman on.
Deschamps signaled the shift. More width. More pace. Push England back.
58:29
England answered.
Roy stood by the touchline. Turned to Steve Holland.
"Now."
Rooney stripped off the bib. Milner, too.
Walker and Dele off.
"That's a message. Hodgson's gone for experience. Rooney and Milner on to bring control. And Tristan stays up top. They're trusting him to break this open."
Peter added, "He's already shattered their shape once tonight. Now he's being armed properly."
Rooney took pressure off midfield. Hendo dropped deeper. Tristan floated freely. Kanté couldn't follow every run now. The gaps were opening.
France panicked. Brought on Sissoko. Fresh legs. Bulk in midfield. Matuidi off. Pogba slid wider.
England were still on the front foot. Pressing and biting at every loose touch.
France couldn't breathe.
Tristan drifted central again, dragging Kanté with him, pulling Varane half a step out of line. Just enough. Just barely enough.
Henderson saw it.
Drinkwater saw it.
Vardy felt it.
Tyler sensed the tension sharpening.
"England finding little pockets now… it's dangerous for France every single time Hale gets on the ball."
Peter's voice followed like a slow fuse burning toward an explosion. "They caged him for forty‑four minutes. They haven't managed it once since."
England had France boxed in.Rooney and Henderson rotated the ball patiently along the edge of the final third.
Matuidi's absence was showing. Pogba looked stretched. Sissoko lumbered into passing lanes half a second late.
Milner stepped up, feinted inside, and sprayed a ball wide to Walker.Back to Henderson.
Then back to Milner.Then—A square ball inside for Rooney.He turned—tight pocket—
—and flicked it first-time toward the middle.The ball rolled across halfway.
Pogba stepped forward. Tried to control. Heavy touch. Off the shin.A stumble.
"Pogba's miscontrolled it and Tristan's on it!"
Tristan pounced.One touch to glide past Pogba.
A second just enough to ride Sissoko's lazy step.
Then the third inside cutting hard toward the channel as Kanté snapped forward and lunged.
Tristan didn't avoid him. He used him.A feint. A shrug. The turn of a key.
Then came the pass.
A slicing, inside of the foot through ball threaded between Koscielny and Varane like a dagger between ribs. Weighted perfectly.
Not a milligram more.
Peter Drury's voice spiked."He's played him through! It's on. This is the moment!"
Tyler barked, electric. "VARDY'S IN!STRAIGHT THROUGH FRANCE!"
Vardy was gone. Just pace and instinct and anger sharpened into steel.Varane scrambled. Koscielny twisted his hips.
Too late.
One touch to steady. Another to strike low and hard near the post.
Lloris read it and dived but the ball screamed past his gloves into the bottom corner.
2–1. ENGLAND.
Tyler's voice cracked as the crowd exploded."JAMIE VARDY! REDEEMED IN MARSEILLE! ENGLAND LEAD!"
White shirts flew into the corner.Vardy slid on both knees, fists punching the air screaming.
The stadium was still vibrating.
But France wasn't moving.
Varane stayed on one knee. Koscielny stared straight ahead. Pogba walked in a slow circle, muttering to himself. Sissoko turned and slammed a fist into the turf. Evra shouted at no one. Lloris just looked down at the grass, hands on his hips.
Kanté said nothing. He just adjusted his socks, stood, and waited for the restart.
Deschamps stood frozen for two seconds on the touchline, blinking like someone had whispered bad news in his ear. Then he clapped three times—loud and sharp.
"Let's go! Heads up! Allez! We go again!"
He turned to his bench.
"Martial. Now. Griezmann off."
The change stunned even the fourth official.
Griezmann jogged off slowly, head low. Martial burst on, full of adrenaline, full of confidence despite what Tristan did to him in United.
.
Kick-off again. France trying to shake the shock.
Tristan stood just past halfway, watching, breathing, hands on his hips. Sweat poured down his jawline. His legs felt heavy, but his eyes were clear.
England dropped into shape.
Kane the first line. Then Vardy and Milner wider. Tristan floated between midfield and the frontline. A loose ten. A trap waiting to be sprung.
82:42
France moved the ball wide to Evra to Coman, inside to Pogba.
Back to Evra.
Forward to Martial.
One step. Another.
Cross whipped in—
Smalling rose.
Cleared.
Right to Henderson, who hooked it clear.
Sissoko kept it alive. France pinned England deep again.
Another cross.
Walker blocked it.
Corner, France.
The pressure was turning. But the momentum… wasn't there anymore.
Corner delivered.
Giroud rose. Met it clean.
Wide.
A collective gasp and then groans from the French end.
Tyler kept it tight. "That could've been it."
"Moments. Football is built on them. France missed theirs. England took theirs. That's the story… so far."
.
Deschamps waved them forward. High press. Three up top. Four midfielders flat across the line. Squeezing England inch by inch.
Roy responded without a word.
Just pointed.
Eric Dier to check in.
Vardy came off.
A pat from Roy. A hug from Milner.
Tristan jogged over to Dier. Grabbed his arm.
"Don't just sit. Talk. Shift. If they throw everyone forward, we counter."
Dier nodded. "Got it."
.
87:17
France were getting desperate at the end.
Long balls.
Cutbacks.
Martial flicked one over Stones' head but Smalling recovered and blocked.
Another corner. Cleared.
Back in. Cleared again.
Every loose touch—England pounced.
Every hopeful cross—met by white shirts.
88:39
Pogba tried one from distance.
Way over.
Tyler didn't even raise his voice. "They're running out of ideas."
Peter filled the gap.
"That second goal… it wasn't just a strike. It was a dagger. And France are bleeding out."
90:00
Stoppage time: Four minutes.
The board went up.
The crowd howled.
England locked in.
Tristan dropped deeper now. Not because he was scared. Because he knew. One more interception. One more switch. That was all it would take.
90:33
Kanté tried to spring Coman wide. Overhit. Goal kick.
Joe Hart took his time.
Tristan jogged over. Whispered something.
Hart nodded, then hammered it long.
Milner won the second ball.
Henderson kicked it into touch.
More seconds stolen.
91:58
France broke forward again.
Martial on the left.
One-two with Pogba.
Into the box.
Cut inside.
Tristan was tracking.
He slid in clean.
Ball out for a throw.
Tyler was almost laughing. "He's everywhere."
93:00
Final minute of stoppage time.
Tristan stood just outside the box now. Hands on his knees. Breathing heavy.
The ball came back toward Pogba one last time.
He tried to flick it over Milner.
Didn't make it.
Milner nodded it forward.
Henderson booted it long.
Kane chased.
And then—
94:03
The whistle blew.
Full-time.
ENGLAND 2 — FRANCE 1
.
Hopefully you guys like this chapter.
If you guys have time and are interested in my other stories please do check them out.
One is a Naruto one, called Naruto: The Greatest Uchiha.
Link: https://www.webnovel.com/book/34559048308213005
And Basketball's Greatest.
Link: https://www.webnovel.com/book/34373284400173805
And join discord or Patron if you want to.
Patreon Link: patreon.com/Sinbad_
Discord Link: https://discord.gg/s2DVMbqSf4
Besides that, peace.