England's Greatest-Chapter 189: Cold as Ice

September 18, 2015

Leicester — Tristan's Living Room

.

The TV flickered quietly across the room, casting a warm glow over the low-lit walls.

Tristan lay stretched out across the couch, the remote resting lazily on his chest, one hand idly scrolling through YouTube on the big screen. He wasn't really looking for anything — just flicking through clips out of habit.

Barbara was curled up at the opposite end of the couch, legs stretched across his lap, reading a book.

Her toes were busy — gently nudging his side, tapping against his ribs like she was trying to get a reaction.

Tristan didn't say a word.

She prodded a little higher.

Then — deliberately now — she dragged her foot up, brushing her toes against his cheek.

He laughed, finally glancing her way.

"You done?"

"Nope," she said, shifting slightly. Her heel rested near his collarbone now, toes lightly poking the edge of his jaw.

Tristan sighed theatrically. Then, without looking away from the screen, he tilted his head and pressed a soft kiss to the ball of her foot.

Barbara blinked — then smiled like she'd just won.

He kissed it again. A little slower this time.

"You're so weird," she murmured, eyes warm.

"Says the girl attacking me with her feet while I'm trying to watch videos."

She giggled. "You were just scrolling; what are you even looking for?"

"I don't know, anything interesting," he muttered, shifting slightly to get comfortable. He kissed her foot once more, then rested his chin against her ankle.

That was the thing about coming from the future: a lot of his favorite movies, shows, and YouTubers weren't even a thing yet. And those that were, he had watched them all already.

Barbara let her foot fall back across his chest, toes curling lightly against his shirt.

Tristan said nothing, flipping to another suggested video.

And then he saw it.

He blinked. He clicked it.

A thumbnail blinked back at him: TROPHY HAUL 2014-2015 — Messi, Ronaldo, Tristan, Neymar."

Big, bold letters. Dramatic title. Just under five minutes long.

He blinked, eyebrows lifting slightly.

"Found something?" Barbara asked, nudging his shoulder with her toes.

He didn't answer. Just clicked play.

The video opened with a slow fade — cinematic music, montage-style.

First came Messi, lifting trophies in Barcelona red and blue... The music swelled, orchestral and dramatic.

Quick cuts flashed across the screen: Messi hoisting the La Liga title, draped in a Spanish flag. Another jump — Copa del Rey final, confetti falling like snow. Then the UEFA Super Cup, gold medal caught the light as he smiled.

Next: Neymar.

The same trophies — La Liga, Copa del Rey, UEFA Super Cup — but the energy flipped. Louder. Livelier.He was yelling in one frame, dancing with Dani Alves in the next. A slow-motion cut of his goal in the Champions League final, arms spread wide. He was vibrant. Neymar in full color.

Then came Cristiano —clips of goals, celebration after hat trick after hat trick.

A brief moment — clapping for Messi at the Ballon d'Or ceremony. Then a blink —the Copa del Rey runner-up medal being placed around his neck.

Statlines, not silverware.

He had the La Liga Golden Boot. He had the FIFPro World XI. But not the year. Not this time.

And then—Tristan the new kid on the block.

The music didn't change. But the tone shifted.

First frame: PFA Young Player of the Year

He stood between Hazard and Agüero in a black tux holding the trophy.

Next was the PFA Player of the Year. After that, FWA Footballer of the Year and Premier League Player of the Season. And the video switched to his UEFA Europa League Squad of the Season — his name sitting beside Higuaín, Banega, and Mertens.

Than him holding the IFFHS World's Best Playmaker than his FIFPro World XI selection — his headshot beside Messi, Ronaldo, Neuer, Ramos. Which continued to his Puskás Award And last—UEFA Team of the Year—Nominee Stage.

His name floated alongside the giants.

Final results: Pending.

Tristan blinked slowly, eyes still fixed on the screen.

"...Huh."

Barbara looked over from her end of the couch. "What?"

He didn't answer right away. Just let the silence sit there for a second. His voice was soft when it finally came out.

"I didn't realize I'd won that many."

Barbara's book was already forgotten.

"You did," she said. "And you deserved every single one."

She shifted and climbed into his lap, knees on either side of his hips. Her book slid off the cushion and landed on the floor with a soft thud. Tristan leaned back, arms circling her waist.

Her eyes were on him. Bright. Steady. Proud.

Barbara leaned in, kissed the side of his neck. Then his jaw. Then right below his ear.

"And this is just the start," she whispered. "Isn't it?"

She kissed him again, slower this time — her hands curling into his hoodie, his breath catching just slightly.

And just as things were beginning to tilt—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell.

They both froze.

Tristan didn't move. He just stared at her, lips still almost touching hers.

Barbara blinked.

"...Seriously?" she muttered.

Tristan exhaled through his nose.

Then, flatly, "God damn it."

Barbara laughed — forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

Tristan closed his eyes.

Right when it was about to get good.

Barbara, still curled in his lap, gave him one last lingering kiss to the cheek — exaggerated, just to make him pout — then slipped off him with a sigh.

"Our life," she said, stretching her arms overhead, "just had to be so dramatic."

He groaned into the couch.

Barbara padded barefoot to the front door, smoothing her shirt as she went. She cracked it open—

And blinked.

"Oh—hi," she said, surprised. Then smiled. "Sofia?"

Sofia stepped in briskly, a scarf looped twice around her neck and a folder tucked under her arm.

"Sorry for the drop-in," she said quickly. "I was nearby. And we just finished some deals Tristan has to sign."

Tristan sat up on the couch.

"Hey," he called flatly. "Good timing, as always."

Sofia gave him a look. "You're welcome."

He dropped his head back against the cushions with a muttered, "Fuck me."

.

Tristan lay sprawled across the couch, Barbara half-curled into his side under a blanket.

At the other end of the coffee table, Sofia sat cross-legged on the floor, a thick folder cracked open across her lap, flipping briskly through the pages.

She tapped her pen lightly against the first document. "Alright. Business time. We finalized two major deals this morning. Just need your approval."

Tristan groaned dramatically, sinking deeper into the couch. "Of course we do." He really wasn't complaining but damn it, they just had to be interrupted.

Sofia rolled her eyes and shoved a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "First up — car sponsorship. Full brand partnership. Two options: Range Rover or Aston Martin."

She slid two glossy packets across the coffee table toward him.

"You can either stay with Rover," she said, tapping the first, "or jump to Aston. Both brands fought for you hard, but these are the ones Mendes said actually match your image now. We turned down a lot of others."

She didn't say it, but everyone in the room knew what she meant. No cheap logos that would ruin Tristan's image. He wasn't like Ronaldo or Beckham, who signed every deal under the sun; each of his sponsors was carefully chosen because they fit Tristan's image of royalty.

Tristan rubbed his thumb against his jaw, already skimming the top page lazily.

"Range Rover's offering a five-year deal," Sofia continued, her voice sliding back into business mode. "£1.5 million a year. Bonuses for appearances and campaigns. Full vehicle access — Evoque, Sport SVR, Autobiography, whatever you want, whenever you want. Only condition: Rover has to be your main car when you're seen. You can be seen in other cars, but you just can't drive them."

Tristan huffed, rubbing his jaw. "Big upgrade from £700k a year."

Barbara shifted, twisting sideways under the blanket until her chin was resting on her hand, eyes soft. "We do love that car, though," she said quietly.

Tristan glanced toward the front window, where the Range Rover sat just out of sight. "Yeah," he murmured. "It's a good car."

Sofia flipped to the next sheet, "Aston Martin's counteroffer: £2.2 million a year, four years. Plus — full ownership of any three models you pick, outright. Vantage, DB11, Rapide — your choice. No loans, no leasebacks. They're yours."

She hesitated for half a second, then added, "But—they're banking on you heavy. Events, ads, brand ambassador stuff. Way more appearances than Rover wants."

"Also, just like Rover, you can't be seen driving other brand cars, but there are some loops we built into the deal: you can drive other brands if it's clearly known that car belongs to someone else. Martin allowed it since no one around you has any luxury cars."

Aston Martin just figured Tristan would drive whatever cars he currently has based on the past years.

Tristan leaned his head back against the couch and let out a long, deep, world-weary sigh into the cushions.

Barbara giggled under her breath, "You'd look so good pulling up in an Aston," she teased, her grin bright. "Plus it's more money."

Tristan cracked one eye open at her. "I look good pulling up in anything."

Barbara rolled her eyes, laughing. "Come on, you know it fits. Fancy car. Fancy watch. Fancy..." she trailed off, winking dramatically.

Sofia didn't even look up from her notes. "Get a room," she muttered, deadpan.

Tristan snorted and grabbed the papers off his chest, "Alright. Aston it is," he said finally. "But—" he turned to Sofia, expression serious now, "ask Range Rover if we can still keep the loan car. If not, I'll just buy it outright."

Barbara's smile shifted, going softer — almost shy.

"I mean..." Tristan shrugged, his voice a little quieter now. "First date was in that car. First kiss too."

Barbara laughed softly, "And all those late-night drives when we couldn't sleep."

"That car," Tristan said, glancing down, "is basically family at this point. And we do still need a family car. And since Ms. Palvin here won't let me buy a car for her, that Rover can be hers."

Barbara gave him a look — playful, teasing — but didn't argue.

What she didn't say out loud: she didn't need a car. Not really. The Range Rover worked fine for both of them. Spacious. Comfortable enough for family and friend visits, safe enough for when Anita came to stay, and perfect for driving Tristan's parents around. The same when Tristan wanted to hang out with his boys.

But she had her eye on something else.

Something shiny. Fast. Loud.

And she had to hurry.

Barbara bit the inside of her cheek, hiding her smile as she leaned her head back into the cushions. Tristan didn't know yet — but she'd already spoken to Sophia about it once. The R8. His dream car. The one he'd pointed out a year ago. Now it was almost right.

Between the magazine covers, the Dior campaign, and the commercial shoots — the money had started to grow like crazy. She wasn't the girl from their first date anymore, with three hundred grand in her account and anxiety about every large purchase. She could spend big now.

And she wanted to.

If he won the league this season — or even if he didn't— she was buying it. For his birthday. She's been wanting to buy that damn car, but she didn't have enough money before, and she wanted it for a special moment.

And she'd make sure she got it before he could.

Because once this season ended and he wasn't the focus of an entire nation, with the loophole built into the deal, she knew he was going to buy cars for everyone he loved—his parents and her. Even though she knew all of them said no to Tristan buying cars for them.

Sofia scribbled a note briskly, her tone lighter now. "Got it. I'll negotiate it. No promises — but if we have to buy it, I'll make sure we get a good deal."

She turned a fresh page.

"Next — watches. Your Hublot contract ran out this summer. Mendes hated how they handled your image. Cheapened it. So — two better options."

She pushed two more documents toward him.

"First: Richard Mille. Four years. £1 million a year. Minimal appearances. Just photoshoots and select events — awards shows. No crazy demands. Plus depending on the sales and your impact, we might have a limited edition watch as well based on you."

Barbara's eyebrows arched up. "That's...actually pretty cool."

Tristan shrugged his shoulders. "Not bad."

Sofia tapped the second packet. "Second: Audemars Piguet. Four years, £950k a year. Less money — but bigger prestige. They want a partnership, not just photos. You wear their watches, attend one gala a year, and —"

She smiled a little, almost teasing, They'll" create a limited edition Tristan Hale collection. Your signature engraved on the caseback. Small, exclusive run. Only a few hundred pieces worldwide."

Barbara let out a low whistle.

Tristan tilted his head slightly, a flicker of amusement passing over his face. "Limited edition, huh?"

"Yeah," Sofia said, grinning. "Imagine it: the Tristan Hale Royal Oak Offshore. Probably a stupid price tag too. Instant sellout."

"You already have Dior and Armani locked in for three years each. No changes there. And we've got a few other offers Mendes is still finalizing. But...this is your brand now. Luxury. Understated. Big money. Real prestige."

Tristan didn't say anything to that knowing she was right. His image was formed he just didn't want to deal with too many sponsors, quality over quantity.

He just set the folder down carefully, his hands lacing together behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling for a beat.

"Alright," he said. "Let's make it official."

Barbara leaned back with a mock sigh and fluttered her eyelashes dramatically. "So... what do we call you now? Sir Tristan? His Royal Highness? Maybe Mister Aston Martin's face?"

Tristan didn't move from where he was sprawled. He just reached out blindly and dragged her back toward him under the blanket.

"You're lucky I still talk to peasants," he mumbled against her shoulder.

Barbara giggled, nuzzling in closer. "Mmhmm. Don't forget that when I'm stealing your fancy watches and leaving you with plastic Casios."

Sofia snorted as she packed up her folder. "If I ever see you in a Casio, I'm quitting."

Tristan smirked. "Bold of you to assume I'd even answer the door."

Barbara flicked the side of his neck with her thumb. "He'd answer it in a robe. A velvet one. With slippers that cost more than my rent."

"I like comfort," he said defensively, eyes still half-lidded. "Also, those slippers are incredible. Don't disrespect them."

Sofia stood up and dusted off her jeans. "Alright, I'll let Mendes know you're happy with the deals and signed them. We'll set up launch campaigns soon; I'll text them to you once the campaigns are finalized as well. There are plans for them but we were just waiting for you to sign the deals. Until then... enjoy the fame, Sir Tristan of the Limited Edition."

He saluted her from the couch with two fingers, not even bothering to move. Barbara, curled beside him now with her head tucked into his chest, just smiled sleepily.

"Bye, Sofia," she called softly.

"Bye, peasants," Sofia said cheerfully, slipping out the door.

The moment it shut, Tristan shifted his head sideways and mumbled, "Finally."

Barbara kissed his collarbone lightly. "Back to my lap, luxury boy?"

"Please," he muttered. "Don't make me beg. I'm fragile."

She laughed and climbed right back into place.

Life was good.

.

The door clicked shut behind Sofia.

Silence fell again.

Barbara didn't move. Just curled deeper into Tristan's chest, her breath soft against his collarbone. He ran his fingers lazily up and down her back, eyes half-closed. novelbuddy.cσ๓

Then — buzz.

A soft vibration under the blanket.

Tristan groaned.

"Now what," he muttered, fishing his phone out from under Barbara's leg.

A video notification. From Jack.

Barbara peeked over his shoulder. "Is that Jack?"

He nodded, thumb hovering over the screen.

"Play it," she whispered.

He did.

The screen lit up with Jack's face — pale but smiling wide, his Leicester beanie crooked over his ears. He was sitting up in bed, cheeks a little flushed, eyes too big for his face.

The screen lit up with Jack's face — Leicester beanie crooked on his head, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, eyes practically vibrating with excitement.

"MATE!!" he shouted, voice echoing through the hospital room. "WHAT DID I JUST SEE?! Bro, the feint — the feint! You sent that guy back to his youth team!"

Barbara was already smiling, tucked under Tristan's arm.

"And then the shot?" Jack gasped dramatically. "Top bins. LEFT FOOT. You're not normal. You're not human. You're a glitch, bro. A proper glitch."

Tristan laughed under his breath, tilting the phone slightly so Barbara could see better.

Jack leaned closer into the camera, whispering like he was sharing state secrets. "But listen. For the next one..."

He held up a hand dramatically.

"Use your left foot. Score one with your weak foot — the one mortals use."

Tristan rolled his eyes, smiling.

Jack threw his arms up. "C'mon, bruv, keep it interesting! Don't be selfish — let both feet eat!"

The screen froze for a second on Jack's exaggerated expression — mouth open, hands flailing — before the video cut off.

Tristan stared at the phone for a long moment, quiet now. His expression softened.

Barbara leaned into his side, hand sliding over his ribs again.

"Left foot," she whispered, teasing. "Your weak one."

Tristan snorted. "Joke's on him. I don't have one anymore."

No, really, he didn't have a weak foot anymore. Before, his weak foot was the left, but after getting all the templates, he had none. He just uses his right more since that's the one he's most comfortable with.

.

September 19, 2015 — Britannia Stadium

The skies were gray. The wind, unforgiving. Flags flapped like warning signs across the upper tiers of the Britannia.

The camera panned down slowly, sweeping over a packed crowd — tight coats all shouting for Leicester's head.

Steve Wilson's voice carried over the opening drone shot. "Afternoon from Stoke-on-Trent. We're at the Britannia, where the rain hits sideways and tackles hit harder. The kind of place where reputations get tested — and today, it's the league leaders walking into the storm."

Danny Murphy followed. "Leicester haven't lost here since Hale made his debut, and that was in a side barely dreaming of mid-table. This one? This team believes. And you'd believe too if you had their front four."

The broadcast cut to team sheets:

🟥 Stoke City (4-2-3-1):

🧤 Jack Butland (GK)

🚀 Glen Johnson (RB)

🏰 Ryan Shawcross (CB) (c)

🏰 Philipp Wollscheid (CB)

🚀 Erik Pieters (LB)

🛡️ Marco van Ginkel (CDM)

🛡️ Glenn Whelan (CDM)

🎨 Xherdan Shaqiri (RM)

🎯 Ibrahim Afellay (CAM)

🎨 Marko Arnautović (LM)

⚽ Mame Biram Diouf (ST)

🦊 Leicester City (4-2-3-1):

🧤 Kasper Schmeichel (GK)

🚀 Ritchie De Laet (RB)

🏰 Robert Huth (CB)

🏰 Wes Morgan (CB) (c)

🚀 Christian Fuchs (LB)

🛡️ N'Golo Kanté (CDM)

🛡️ Danny Drinkwater (CDM)

🎨 Riyad Mahrez (RW)

🎯 Tristan Hale (CAM)

🎨 Marc Albrighton (LW)

⚽ Jamie Vardy (ST)

Wilson noted, "No rotation again — Tristan Hale and Jamie Vardy have started every league game so far. Fourteen combined goals, and that's just in the Premier League. If you add in Europe and England, they're breaking calculators."

Danny said with a grin, "Let's see if Vardy keeps the streak alive — five games running. And if Tristan wants to steal the show early, don't blink. As this Leicester side hasn't lost in any of their last five matches.

The whistle blew.

Kickoff.

Stoke tried to bite first.

Within the opening thirty seconds, Afellay whipped a ball out wide to Arnautović, who tested De Laet with a shoulder-to-shoulder duel that sent the crowd into roars. But Leicester held their line — nothing clean came from it. Huth stepped in, calmly clearing upfield.

Steve watched the aggression from the start and was surprised to say the least but he hid it pretty well. "Stoke wasting no time reminding Leicester where they are. That's what this ground does — it comes at you."

The ball found Drinkwater in midfield. One touch. Then another.

He turned away from Whelan and sent it low to Tristan, dropping deep from the No.10 space.

Tristan took the ball with a swivel — just a touch to his left, baiting Van Ginkel forward, then slicing inside.

Danny leaned in as Tristan surged forward.

"There's that glide again — like he's skating across the pitch."

Mahrez peeled off wide right, arms raised. But Tristan ignored him.

He ghosted past Afellay, cutting straight through Stoke's midfield line. Fuchs overlapped hard on the left, dragging Johnson wide. Shawcross stepped up — too late.

Tristan shifted the ball to his right foot — the right — but everyone watching knew what came next.

"He's gonna hit it—" Danny couldn't even get his words out as Tristan pulled the trigger.

Twenty-three yards out.

Low. Hard. Curling away from Butland's reach before he even fully stretched.

The net rippled.

GOAL.

Steve's voice shot up over the eruption from the away fans. "Tristan Hale! With a thunderbolt into the bottom corner! It took six minutes — just six — for the league leaders to strike!"

Danny laughing under his breath said, "They never learn, do they? You give this kid half a yard... it's already too late."

Tristan turned toward the away end with arms outstretched, a flash of a smile cutting across his face. Mahrez caught up first, grabbing him around the shoulders, followed by Vardy slapping the back of his head.

In the technical area, Ranieri pumped both fists toward the away support.

In the stands, it was bedlam.

Steve analyzed the goal as the replays played.

"Watch it again. It's the balance, the way he shifts the ball past two bodies without even breaking rhythm. Shawcross steps — and it's gone. This kid's writing new rules for the No.10 role."

1–0. Leicester.

The crowd hadn't even recovered from the first.

A few fans in the Boothen End were still muttering about it — that shot from Tristan, the way it bent low and vicious into the corner like it had a personal vendetta.

One-nil. In six minutes. And Leicester looked like they were just stretching.

Stoke kicked off again, but their rhythm was off now. The touches weren't clean. The passes lacked conviction. Whelan pointed and barked for movement, but it was all just noise.

The home support tried to rally.

One chant rose — loud, defiant:

"Come on Stoke! Come on Stoke!"

Another followed. A rhythmic clap built up behind the goal. Then whistles and groans as Van Ginkel hesitated and nearly lost the ball near the halfway line.

Steve's voice dipped low.

"Stoke fans trying to will their team back into this. But you can feel the nerves creeping in."

And Leicester? They were circling.

Kanté intercepted a loose pass and quickly found Drinkwater, who took one touch before feeding it wide to Albrighton.

Albrighton slowed the tempo. Waited.

Let the crowd breathe.

Then zipped it inside to Tristan again.

Danny leaned forward. "Watch this. Look how early he checks his shoulder. He already knows where Vardy is."

Tristan took the ball with a bounce, spun, and dragged Shawcross out of position just a step.

Just a step.

That was all it took.

Tristan looked up, saw Vardy slicing between Wollscheid and Johnson.

And delivered.

One touch, perfectly weighted.

Vardy didn't even break stride.

One-on-one with Butland.

He didn't go for power.

He just opened his body... and passed it in.

Far corner.

2–0.

The away end exploded.

Blue shirts jumped in a tangled mob behind the goal.

Vardy peeled away, hand to his ear, grinning like he lived for this.

Steve, a little breathless, couldn't even believe it. "They're pulling them apart. That's Tristan with the assist — and that's Jamie Vardy with nine in six. This Leicester front line is relentless."

Danny Murphy chuckled softly. "They're not just winning matches. They're dismantling them."

The cameras caught a young Stoke fan in a red hoodie shaking his head, lips tight. But behind him, an older fan stood and clapped anyway — the kind that had seen enough football to know the difference between a bad day and being outclassed.

The chant came again, quieter this time:

"We are Stoke. We are Stoke."

But the wind howled across the Britannia. And Leicester kicked off again — eyes forward.

They weren't done yet.

The tempo never really dipped after Vardy's goal.

By the twelfth minute, Leicester weren't just in control — they were setting the weather.

Stoke chased. They pressed. But everything came half a second late. Mahrez dropped deeper to create pockets. Drinkwater dictated with the same ease you'd expect from someone brewing coffee.

By the time the clock hit sixteen, you could already hear the murmurs in the crowd — murmurs that sounded more like confessions. Stoke had expected a brawl. What they got was a clinic.

In the 19th, Arnautović tried to make it messy — left a shoulder in on De Laet and got a warning. Shawcross stepped forward more aggressively, barking instructions like noise would change the angles. But it didn't matter. Leicester just played through it.

Steve sounded almost amused from the booth. "It's surgical, isn't it? They're not just moving the ball — they're carving lines into this pitch."

Then came a near-moment in the 24th, when Mahrez wriggled out of two red shirts and lifted a diagonal over the back line. Vardy darted between Wollscheid and Pieters like a knife slipping through fabric — one touch to kill the bounce, one to shoot. Butland saved it. Barely. Off the fingertips and around the post.

Danny let out a low whistle. "You give them another ten yards of space, and this'll get embarrassing."

Stoke didn't listen.

They tried going long — early crosses from Johnson, hopeful diagonals from van Ginkel — but Huth and Morgan ate it all up. Leicester's shape didn't just hold — it swarmed. Kanté didn't stop moving. If one pass broke the line, he'd be there the second after. If one duel looked lost, he'd win the second ball.

By the 28th, Leicester weren't playing a match. They were dictating a pattern — one press, two touches, triangle, outlet, break. It was mechanical and wild at the same time.

A chance came in the 31st — again through Tristan.

He dropped deep to receive from Fuchs, then peeled inside with a lazy shoulder feint that sent Whelan chasing shadows. He glanced up once — saw Mahrez start his run — and chipped a no-look scoop into the channel. Mahrez got there first, killed it with his thigh, and rifled it low across goal. Vardy slid in at the back post, just inches late.

The groan from the away end sounded like it came from a stadium twice this size.

Steve was grinning now. "It's not if — it's when."

And when came soon.

Because by the time the match moved into its thirty-fifth minute, Stoke had made their decision — they wanted to press higher.

You could see it in how Pieters and Johnson crept up the flanks. You could hear it in the shouts from Shawcross and Whelan. They were pressing now — desperate to bite, to bleed Leicester's rhythm out.

But it was sloppy.

A heavy touch from Afellay. A mistimed pass from van Ginkel.

And Kanté didn't wait.

The ball popped loose near the halfway line — no time to think, only move. He swept in, toe-first, chest low, body coiled like a spring.

One touch. Then another.

The third was a hammer.

Thirty-two yards out, and Kanté hit it like the goal had insulted him personally.

The ball rocketed forward. No curl. No dip. Just a violent, screaming line that cut through air like a razor through silk.

Butland barely saw it.

Bar slapped. Net cracked.

Silence.

A full beat of stunned silence.

Then—

"N'GOLO KANTÉ!!!" Steve Wilson's voice shattered the moment. "Would you believe it?! That's a missile! A missile from the man who never shoots!"

Danny Murphy let out a breath. "What in the hell was that?"

The away end detonated.

Even Ranieri lost composure — both hands in the air, jaw slack, like he'd just seen a ghost rip the net open.

On the pitch, Kanté didn't celebrate. Not at first. He just stood there, blinking, like he wasn't sure he'd actually done that.

Tristan sprinted toward him, wide-eyed, mouth open. "Bro—what was that?!" he shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him like he was trying to wake a sleeper.

Kanté blinked again.

Tristan didn't let up. "You just shot from space! You don't get to walk away like it's nothing—come on!"

He grabbed Kanté's wrist, spun him around, and threw a hand in the air like he was calling for a dance circle.

"Let's go! Hit something! Anything! Shimmy, jump, I don't care — you just murdered the ball!"

Kanté looked genuinely panicked for a second. "I—I don't dance," he said flatly.

"Too bad," Tristan grinned. "You score bangers, you celebrate like a king."

And before Kanté could escape, Tristan locked an arm around his shoulder and dropped into a low crouch — one of those cocky, slow-motion FIFA-style swag poses — then pulled Kanté down with him like they were about to drop the hottest mixtape in Stoke.

The cameras caught it — Tristan holding a frozen, overwhelmed Kanté mid-squat, both of them facing the away end. Mahrez was bent double behind them, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. Vardy dropped to his knees, arms stretched out like he was worshipping a higher power.

"He's BEEN LYING TO US!" Vardy bellowed.

Kanté just covered his face with one hand, trying not to laugh. But the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Tristan pointed at the away fans, then at Kanté. "Sing for the man!" he shouted. "This guy just sent Butland into therapy!"

And the away end obliged — voices rising like a storm.

"N'GO-LO! N'GO-LO! SHOOTS LIKE RONALDO!"

Ranieri, still near the touchline, had both hands on his head. His glasses were crooked. His mouth was open. "He doesn't even shoot in training..." he muttered.

The scoreboard flashed.

3–0. Leicester.

Stoke didn't collapse right away — not yet.

But you could feel it shifting.

By the fortieth, the wind had turned cruel again. The fans behind Butland's goal looked cold now — not from the weather, but from the scoreboard. From the inevitability building in blue shirts.

Leicester didn't stop pressing.

And Tristan? He was drifting deeper, wider, quieter — which somehow made him more dangerous.

In the forty-second minute, he peeled into the half-space between Shawcross and Pieters, pulling defenders like gravity. Mahrez slipped a short ball toward him, and Tristan let it run — a subtle feint, letting Pieters think he could win it.

He couldn't.

Tristan cut inside.

And that's when the mistake came.

Whelan stepped in late. Shawcross followed — clumsy, overcommitted, wrong-footed.

Tristan didn't go down easy. He tried to ride it — one leg swept back, the other catching studs — but the angle, the pressure, the bodies closing...

He hit the turf. Hard.

The stadium held its breath.

The whistle blew.

Penalty.

But Tristan wasn't moving.

Face down. Legs tangled. Still.

Barbara would've been on her feet. Mendes frozen mid-call. Back home, his mum would've stopped breathing.

Then—

⚠️ Minor Injury Prevented

Your Injury Prevention Card [3/4] has been automatically used.

Impact absorbed. Status: Fit.

The system notification was calm. Cold. Reassuring in a way only he understood.

Tristan blinked against the grass. Felt the rush of adrenaline start to fade.

No pain. No damage. Well there would have been some damage if a card was activated.

He slammed his hand once into the turf and pushed himself upright.

Vardy was already sprinting toward him. "Oi! What the fuck was that?!" he barked at Shawcross, chest puffed like he was ready to swing.

Drinkwater was right behind him.

Kanté had his hands on Tristan's shoulder, trying to keep him steady.

But Tristan wasn't wobbly.

He was boiling.

And Shawcross?

The man had already backed off, palms up, shaking his head like it was all a misunderstanding.

"Reckless bastard," Vardy muttered under his breath. "You trying to end his season?!"

Tristan turned to his teammates slowly — like he was reeling in the storm by hand.

"I'm fine," he said, low and tight. "Back off."

Vardy didn't move. "He's done that before. Fucking always does this when he's frustrated."

Tristan locked eyes with Shawcross. Just one slow step forward.

That stare was cold. Last season he was trying to be a perfect player, let a bunch of players get away with fouling but not this season. "You wanted a highlight?" he said, voice low enough only Shawcross could hear. "Here. Watch this."

He turned.

Walked back toward the penalty spot, calm now — calm in the way a predator is when the prey is already limping.

Steve's voice came through the commentary, low and unsettled. "He's moving... Thank God. You never like to see your stars down that long."

Danny followed quickly. "Took a knock — a nasty one — but he's up. And that's a clear pen, no debate. That was reckless from Shawcross. Dangerous."

Tristan set the ball down gently.

Took three steps back.

The crowd behind the goal was still booing. Still seething. But he didn't hear it.

He looked up once — just enough to make eye contact with Shawcross across the box.

Then he breathed in.

And out.

Stutter. Slow step. Hesitation. Left foot forward. Pause.

Bang.

No-look penalty.

Bottom right.

Butland dove left.

Tristan turned on the spot, dead silent, and pointed once — not to the crowd, not to the sky.

To Shawcross.

Then he tapped his own chest with two fingers and jogged back toward the halfway line.

Behind him, the net still rippled.

And Shawcross just stood there — frozen, like he'd seen a ghost.

Danny's voice carried over replays. "That's ice. That's cold. I don't care what system you run — that's a killer with the ball at his feet."

The others caught up to him — Vardy slapping the back of his head.

In the dugout, Ranieri just shook his head.

Halftime was seconds away now.

And the scoreboard at the Britannia had stopped updating.

It was stuck on 4–0.

Because even the system didn't believe it yet.

The whistle blew.

And the boos came loud from the Stoke fans — not just out of frustration, but disbelief.

Leicester walked off 4–0 up. Not because Stoke were poor, but because Leicester were something else entirely.

On the touchline, Ranieri didn't smile. He just nodded once — then turned to Paolo and lifted two fingers.

"Tristan. Vardy. Off."

Sweat dripped. Boots clattered on tiles. The air in the away dressing room buzzed like static — players riding that adrenaline line between focus and laughter.

Vardy dropped onto the bench, still catching his breath, then glanced over at Tristan.

"You're a proper psychopath, you know that?"

Tristan was leaning back against the wall, shirt off, towel around his neck. "Just had to make a point."

"Mate—no-look, left foot? After getting chopped?" Vardy shook his head. "That was some Bond villain energy."

Mahrez dropped next to them, half-grinning. "The stare after? I needed subtitles."

"Bro," Drinkwater added, "you didn't even blink."

"Didn't need to," Tristan said quietly. "He knew."

A knock on the door. Ranieri stepped in, clipboard under one arm.

"No subs — except the obvious," he said, looking straight at Tristan and Vardy. "You're both sitting the second half."

Groans all around.

"Come on, coach," Vardy said, arms flailing. "Let me get a hat trick—"

"Save your legs for Arsenal. And you," Ranieri pointed at Tristan, "I saw the way you landed. Don't lie. We need your hate for Arsenal even more than Vardy."

Tristan opened his mouth.

"Don't." Ranieri shook his head. "Shut up. Sit down. Breathe."

Tristan lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Alright. Alright."

"Shinji. Ulloa. You're on. Don't coast. They're angry now."

.

The skies hadn't cleared. If anything, they'd darkened.

Shinji Okazaki and Leonardo Ulloa jogged onto the pitch like they'd been waiting their whole lives for this exact moment.

Tristan sat bundled in a thick coat on the bench, still catching his breath, a water bottle resting against his knee. Beside him, Vardy grumbled under his breath like a dog denied its bone.

"Could've had three," he muttered. "Easy three."

Tristan didn't look over. Just sipped his water and said, "Next match. We have our first League Cup match in two days, and after that, Arsenal. We can't have your old body break down six matches in."

Truthfully, compared to last season, he felt like he could play the entire season, maybe not the entire 90 minutes every match, but more than half of the matches. Now he wouldn't be saying that if he didn't have a system that prevented injuries.

There was a reason Messi played for so long; the dude barely played any matches when he was a kid. And he's playing in England where he's getting tackled every match since his debut. If he wasn't quite literally built different, he would be like Neymar getting injured everyday.

Out on the pitch, Stoke made changes. Fresh legs. Harder tackles.

But it didn't matter.

Because by the fifty-sixth minute, Leicester were dancing again.

Mahrez twisted past Arnautović on the right — one feint, one roll — then dragged it back between two defenders like he was painting strokes on a canvas.

Steve's voice sharpened. "Mahrez has found another gear..."

Danny cut in, "Don't blink."

Mahrez popped a flick past Shawcross.

Shinji pounced.

He darted between the centre-backs with that low, twitchy run — one touch to kill it, second touch to toe-poke it under Butland.

GOAL.

5–0.

The away end exploded again.

Shinji turned with the grin of a man who knew he wasn't the starter — but still wanted his name sung.

Tristan stood up from the bench, clapping hard, grinning like a proud older brother.

Mahrez jogged over and pointed at the bench. "That's your assist, Tristan. I saw you clap before I passed."

Ranieri just chuckled, arms folded. "We rest the king, and the army marches anyway."

Stoke looked lost.

Even the fight started to drain from them. You could see it in their spacing — the gaps widening, the press softening. They didn't believe anymore.

But Leicester weren't done.

In the 82nd minute, Albrighton — still tireless, still sharp — zipped a cross low across the box.

Wollscheid missed it by inches.

And Ulloa?

He didn't.

A calm side-foot finish, back post. The kind that makes defenders scream into their sleeves.

6–0.

Danny didn't even try to disguise his tone. "This is a message. To the league. To Europe. This isn't a fluke. This is a machine."

Steve nodded quietly. "Tristan Hale might be the engine, but what you're seeing is a team that can still destroy you without him."

The final whistle couldn't come soon enough for Stoke.

.

David Jones stood just outside the tunnel entrance, mic in hand, earbud tucked in. Behind him, the scoreboard still glowed faintly — 6–0. Fans had long filtered out.

"Full-time at the Britannia, and it's Leicester City who leave with all the noise. Six goals, no reply. A statement win," he said into the camera. "Joining me now, Stoke City manager Mark Hughes."

Mark Hughes stepped in, jaw tight, coat zipped high, trying not to look as stunned as he felt.

David didn't waste time. "Mark, tough afternoon. What went wrong?"

Hughes didn't blink. "They were better. Simple as that. More aggressive, more structured. We had a plan — it lasted six minutes."

David nodded. "Tristan — goal and an assist, then that penalty just before halftime. How do you even begin to stop a player like that?"

Hughes exhaled. "You don't. You try to contain him. We failed at that. He's clever with space. Doesn't force things. And the rest of the team plays off him with belief."

"You made changes at halftime," David prompted, "but Leicester brought on Shinji and Ulloa and still looked just as good."

"They've got legs everywhere," Hughes said bluntly. "It's not just Tristan. Mahrez was untouchable. Kante's goal — I still don't believe it happened."

A small pause.

"You think they're real title contenders now?" David asked.

Hughes gave a tight smile. "Ask me again in April. But if they keep playing like this? I'll say it now — nobody wants to see them coming."

David gave a courteous nod. "Mark, appreciate your time."

Hughes disappeared down the tunnel.

A few seconds later, Claudio Ranieri stepped in — coat unbuttoned, tie loosened, hair windblown.

He looked like a man pretending not to be giddy.

David smiled. "Claudio. Congratulations. That was... comprehensive."

Ranieri chuckled. "Yes. Too much, maybe. But I like it."

David grinned. "What impressed you most today?"

Ranieri lifted one finger. "Discipline. No rushing. No panic. We did not chase. We waited — and then we exploded."

David leaned slightly forward. "You subbed off both Vardy and Tristan at halftime. Was that always the plan?"

Ranieri raised an eyebrow. "No. I wanted them to finish. But I like them healthy. We have Leeds United and Arsenal coming up in a few days. We still have to remember Tristan is 20. There's a reason he was subbed off so much last season, it was to protect him. And I think that paid off quite well."

"What did you say to Tristan after the penalty?"

Ranieri smirked. "I told him he's stupid. Why would you do that with your left foot? No look? He said — 'He deserved it.'" Ranieri shrugged. "Maybe he's right."

Laughter from off-camera.

"And the second half," David continued, "Shinji scores. Ulloa scores. Are we starting to see Leicester's squad evolve?"

Ranieri nodded slowly. "Yes. Last year, we had fire. Now we have depth. Still young. Still learning. But... they are dangerous."

David finished cleanly. "Claudio Ranieri. Six-nil winners today. Arsenal next. We'll be watching."

Ranieri bowed slightly with a small smile, then vanished back toward the locker room.

David turned to the camera. "Up next — we'll hear from the man of the match himself, Tristan Hale. Don't go anywhere."

.

Tristan stepped into frame, hair damp, cheeks still a little flushed.

"Tristan," David started, "two goals, one assist, six-nil away from home. What do you even say after a performance like that?"

Tristan blinked once, then shrugged like it was nothing. "I don't know. We played well. That's the job."

David cracked a small smile. "Let's talk about the first goal. That shot — twenty-something yards out, no backlift, bottom corner. That looked... personal."

Tristan exhaled, almost like he hadn't thought about it since.

"He stepped late. I saw it coming. Just needed one touch to get the angle." A pause. "Didn't even hit it that hard. Just placed it right."

David tilted his head. "And the penalty — we have to ask. No look. Left foot. Bottom corner. That was... ice cold."

Tristan didn't smile. "He hit me high. Could've done some damage. So yeah. That one was personal."

David let that sit for a second."Was it always going to be left foot?"

Tristan glanced away, then back. "I wanted him to see it. That's all."

David nodded slowly, then glanced at his notes. "You've now got eight goals and seven assists in six games. You won August's Player of the Month. It looks like you're walking into September too."

Tristan didn't react. "Cool if it happens. But we see if I get it again, though." There wasn't much of a point reacting to that; he won so many player of the month awards, he stopped caring about them. Hell, he only had two in his trophy cabinet, that first one he won in the Championship and his first one in the Premier League.

"One more — you and Vardy both subbed off at halftime, and the team didn't miss a beat. Is that what makes this version of Leicester different?" David asked, curious at this one.

Tristan nodded. "Yeah. Last year, if I went off, we slowed down. This year? Doesn't matter who's on. We all play the same way."

David looked like he had one more question but stopped. Instead, "Tristan Hale. Man of the Match. Again."

Tristan nodded once, said "Cheers," and walked off.

.

Night

A tall window let in the orange-glow from the London skyline, flickering softly across the polished bookshelves lining the walls. The room smelled of old leather, dust, and something faintly smoky.

Arsène Wenger sat in a dark leather chair, elbow resting on the armrest, fingers steepled loosely near his lips. A small ashtray sat on the desk beside him, a half-burned Cohiba still smoldering.

The muted glow of the TV screen illuminated his face from across the room.

6–0.

He didn't blink.

On screen, Tristan jogged calmly back to the halfway line. Replays of the no-look penalty were looping again, slower this time. Shawcross frozen. Butland diving the wrong way. The crowd losing its mind.

Wenger took one long drag from the cigar.

Held it. Exhaled slowly.

Then, without looking away from the screen, he muttered under his breath:

"Putain de destin."

A pause. The game cut to the locker room. Vardy laughing. Kanté shellshocked. Ranieri smug.

Another drag.

Another murmur, this time in English.

"We play them in six days."

A longer silence.

He leaned forward slightly. Ash tapped gently into the tray.

Then came the softest of sighs — not fear. Not frustration.

Resignation.

"What am I going to do?"

.

7620 word count.

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