I have bad news, I'm dropping this story...
Just joking don't the story please, lol. The story is back. T
Thank you for your patience.
.
Full Time
ENGLAND 5 – PORTUGAL 2
The whistle blew.
And for a moment, just a moment, the entire stadium forgot how to breathe.
Then came the roar.
It was a detonation.
A primal, guttural scream from 30,000 throats—too loud to be music, too raw to be language.
The sound shattered the air.
It hit like a wave of artillery. Like thunder cracking bone.
YEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Flags flew. Seats cracked. Beer rained. Voices cracked in half.
Some screamed until their faces turned red. A woman sobbed. A man kissed the sky. Two strangers embraced.
This wasn't a celebration.
This was shock—ecstasy—collapse—all collapsing at once. The roar of a nation realizing it had finally reached its dream.
England had done it.
.
Tristan dropped the moment he heard the whistle.
He didn't wait for the bench to clear. Didn't even look at the scoreboard. He just let his knees give out, collapsing onto the grass like a man who had nothing left to give.
He didn't even want to celebrate, he just wanted to sleep for a few days.
All around Tristan, the eleven broke apart.
All around Tristan, the eleven broke apart.
Joe Hart sank to his knees in the box, eyes closed, gloves to the grass.
Walker just squatted and laughed, stunned.
Stones lay flat on his back, staring up.
Smalling and Chilwell clung to each other, breathless.
Henderson roared at the sky.
Jamie Vardy sprinted toward the corner flag like a madman, screaming, "COME ONNNN!" until his voice cracked. Fans near the boards lost their minds.
Rooney dropped beside Tristan, shoulder to shoulder, knees cracking on impact.
"You did it, man," he said, voice tight. "You fucking did it. We won."
Tristan didn't move. "I just wanna go home," he muttered. He was so done. So beyond done with this entire season.
Kane arrived seconds later, breathless. He knelt beside them, reached out, and gently touched the back of Tristan's head.
"I know," Kane said softly. "I know. You can rest now. Thank you."
Rooney exhaled, glanced at Kane, then leaned forward.
"Oi," he muttered, slipping an arm under Tristan's shoulders. "Don't you dare lie there."
Tristan groaned. "I'm dead."
"Yeah," Rooney shot back, already pulling him up, "but you're a European champion. You can be dead later."
Kane grinned and backed off as Rooney shifted Tristan's weight, half-dragging, half-carrying him upright.
"Come on," Rooney said again, louder now, laughing through the exhaustion. "Let's go celebrate. You've done enough sleeping for one night."
Tristan didn't resist. He barely opened his eyes, forehead resting against Rooney's shoulder.
"I hate you."
Rooney laughed, arm still locked tight around him. "Love you too."
The moment they stepped forward—
The flood began.
The bench erupted.
Raheem Sterling was first, vaulting over the barrier like a man on fire, screaming toward the pitch with both arms raised. His feet barely touched the grass. He launched himself at Kane and Rooney, knocking all three into a tangled heap, shouting something no one could hear over the chaos.
Dele followed, faster than he'd moved all night, grabbing Tristan by the shoulders once Rooney let go. He didn't say anything. Just hugged him tight, eyes wet, breath shaky, then patted his cheek and stepped aside.
Marcus Rashford tackled Stones on the ground. Danny Drinkwater spun in circles until he crashed into Ben Chilwell, who was already crying from the moment the whistle blew.
And behind them more came.
The staff. The coaches. Analysts. Trainers. All of them sprinting, laughing, shouting, grabbing anyone they could find. Suits flying open. Lanyards swinging. Faces bright red with disbelief.
The entire pitch became a canvas of movement—bodies crashing into one another, players sobbing into shirts, coaches hugging players like sons. Flags wrapped around shoulders. Flares lit in the stands. The air itself felt like it was vibrating.
.
The cameras pulled back.
Wide.
From bodies on the grass… to the pitch… to the stands… to the roof of the Stade de France itself.
And over it all, Peter Drury found his voice again.
"For fifty years," he said, almost to himself, "this country waited."
Steve McManaman didn't jump in letting Peter continue.
"Fifty years of hurt," Drury continued. "Of near-misses. Of false dawns. Of summers that promised everything… and delivered nothing."
The broadcast rolled through images without cutting away.
Bobby Moore's ghost.
Italia '90.
Euro '96.
Golden Generation headlines fading into grey.
"We spoke of captains," Drury went on. "From Moore to Keegan, from Adams to Beckham… from Gerrard to Rooney. Men who carried the shirt with pride—and still came up short."
McManaman finally spoke, voice thick.
"They were good teams. Great players. World-class names. But something was always missing."
Drury nodded, words slowing, settling into history.
"Generations that tried. Generations that failed. A nation that learned to brace itself for disappointment before hope had time to grow."
The camera cut back to the pitch.
To Tristan Hale, barely standing now, wrapped in arms, lost inside the noise.
"And then," Drury said, "this one arrived."
McManaman let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and a sob combined.
"The youngest England side ever to win a major tournament."
Drury's voice got louder.
"A team that didn't carry the weight of history… but rewrote it."
He paused.
"A captain at twenty-one."
McManaman shook his head.
"That's not normal, Peter."
"No," Drury agreed. "It's destiny."
The crowd noise surged again, as if answering him.
"For the first time since 1966," Drury said, "England are champions of Europe."
"No penalties. No miracles needed. No asterisks. Just football—played without fear."
Drury watched the celebration swirl, eyes never leaving the field.
"This is not the end of a drought," he said softly. "This is the beginning of a reign."
And then, finally, the line that closed it.
"England waited half a century for this night."
"But they may not have to wait long… to feel it again."
"A new era in world football has arrived."
.
Ronaldo stood still, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling. His body couldn't even move.
His last European final.
Lost.
The scoreboard behind him burned like a scar.
ENGLAND 5 – PORTUGAL 2.
He had given everything. Pulled the game back to 3–2. Threatened the impossible.
And then that boy… that goddamn boy.
A hand gripped his shoulder.
Ronaldo blinked. He hadn't realized he was crying until Pepe's thumb brushed under his eye.
"Ronaldo" Pepe said softly. "Come on."
Ronaldo didn't move.
His throat burned. His legs ached. His heart had collapsed somewhere around the 78th minute and hadn't come back since.
"I tried," he muttered, barely audible.
"I know," Pepe said, his arm still firm. "We all saw."
More Portuguese players stood frozen across the pitch.
Bruno Alves on his knees, mouth hanging open.
João Moutinho covering his face with both hands, shaking his head over and over.
Rui Patrício kicked the post in frustration and then slumped against it, forehead pressed to the pole like a prayer that would never be answered.
The camera cut back to Ronaldo—eyes rimmed red, lips parted, unable to process what had just happened.
He had faced Messi. Faced peak Barcelona. Bayern. United. City. Juventus.
But nothing had prepared him for this.
Nothing had prepared him for Tristan Hale.
He looked over his shoulder.
There was the boy—being carried on Rooney's back, laughing through tears, surrounded by teammates and joy.
Pepe leaned in, forehead to his.
"You're still the greatest," he whispered.
Ronaldo's breath hitched.
But even he didn't know anymore.
.
Up in the central VIP suite beyond the thunder of the crowd, behind reinforced glass the world's most powerful eyes were locked on the pitch.
The Queen of the United Kingdom had stood the moment England's fifth went in. She hadn't sat since she could witness her country lifting a trophy after 50 years. Tears flowing down her eyes.
Prince William stood beside her, hands gripping the railing, breath held in his chest.
David Cameron was barely holding it together.
Then the whistle blew.
The Queen pulled her grandson into a hug.
The room erupted.
William wrapped his arms around her, laughing in disbelief. The Prime Minister joined a second later, dragging them both into a three-way embrace.
"We actually did it," Cameron said, voice thick. "We bloody did it."
The Queen smiled, holding on tightly. "They did."
Behind them, aides embraced. Staff clapped and cheered like fans, not officials. Even the French President stood and approached, arms wide.
"Congratulations," he said. "Tonight, history was made."
And then Aleksander Čeferin entered. The UEFA president bowed his head.
"Your Majesty," he asked softly, "would you do us the honour of presenting the trophy?"
"Yes," she said, smiling, wiping away her tears. "I would like that very much."
And as the world cheered below—
A crown waited above.
.
In another private VIP suite insulated by money, power, and a view to everything—
John W. Henry couldn't stop pacing.
He had one hand in his pocket, the other running through his hair, a grin barely contained on his face as he looked down at the pitch.
Tristan Hale, draped in an England flag, had just been lifted onto someone's shoulders.
The entire stadium was shaking.
"God," Henry muttered, eyes wide. "He did it. He really did it."
Behind him, Nasser Al-Khelaifi finally exhaled and walked to the glass. His voice, when it came, was low, he couldn't hide the disappointment in his voice.
"Congratulations," he said quietly. "Enjoy him. However long it lasts."
Florentino Pérez didn't move from his seat. He watched the scene in silence, lips pressed into a line, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The cheers from the stands felt like thunder through the glass.
They didn't need to.
Pérez finally stood.
He adjusted his cufflinks then gave a respectful nod toward Henry.
"I mean it," he said. "Well done. You have the best player in the world."
Henry turned, mouth twitching. "Thank you, Liverpool can finally rise again."
"Imagine what he'll do under Klopp. He's ours now." He chuckled, walking slowly to the glass.
"Yours to watch. Ours to enjoy."
Pérez said nothing.
But his fingers curled tighter around the edge of the chair.
Nasser's jaw shifted. "You're gloating."
"No," Henry said. "I'm savoring it."
He looked back to the field—at the boy who just ripped apart the hopes and dreams of a entire country.
"You two have your legacies," Henry said. "I just bought mine."
Pérez turned to go.
Nasser stayed a moment longer watching Tristan lift the England flag over his shoulder.
"He broke Ronaldo," he murmured. "On this stage. At twenty-one."
Henry just smiled wider.
"I know."
.
And then, finally, the public address system crackled on.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice echoed through the stadium.
"Please remain in your seats. Do not enter the field of play."
The noise didn't quiet, but the pitch began to clear.
"Preparations are now underway for the official UEFA Euro 2016 award ceremony…"
The crowd stirred.
"…and the presentation of the Henri Delaunay Trophy by Her Majesty, the Queen of the United Kingdom."
The pitch began to clear.
But the crowd didn't.
They only got louder.
"ENGLAND! ENGLAND! ENGLAND!"
The chant rolled through the Stade de France like an avalanche.
Thirty thousand voices.
One word. One flag. One nation.
And at the center of it all—
A boy wrapped in white and red, waiting to be crowned.
.
Join the Discord and P@tron if you are interested.
Stay safe and have a blessed day.