Match Day: September 21, 2014 - King Power Stadium

  ……

  The buzz outside the stadium was electric. Fans were already gathered near the entrance, waving scarves and jerseys, some holding up phones in hopes of catching glimpses of their pyers. The air crackled with anticipation—Leicester vs. Manchester United. A statement game.

  Tristan pulled into the pyers’ parking lot, easing his car into his usual spot. As he cut the engine, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

  A message.

  Barbara.

  His lips twitched into a grin as he unlocked his screen.

  Attached was a picture of her TV, tuned into the pre-match buildup.

  Barbara: You already know what I want. Don’t disappoint me.

  Tristan huffed out a small ugh and didn’t hesitate—he hit Call.

  The phone barely rang twice before she picked up.

  "Didn’t we already have this conversation?" Barbara’s voice came through the line, teasing, like she’d been expecting this.

  Tristan grabbed his bag and stepped out of the car, shutting the door behind him. "Yeah, and you’re still asking for a hat-trick."

  "Because I still want one."

  Shaking his head, Tristan slung his bag over his shoulder, making his way toward the entrance. "You do realize I’m a midfielder, right?"

  Barbara hummed, feigning innocence. "You do realize you’ve already scored three goals in four games, right? A hat-trick isn’t that far off."

  Tristan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "So if I do manage this miracle, what do I get?"

  "The satisfaction of knowing you made me happy."

  Tristan let out a ugh, shaking his head. "That’s it? No real incentive?"

  Barbara paused dramatically. "Fine. If you score, I’ll think about getting you something."

  His brows raised slightly as he approached the security checkpoint. "Like what?"

  Her voice was smug. "Surprise. First, do your job."

  Tristan chuckled, but before he could respond, a familiar voice called out.

  "Tristan!"

  Dave, one of the older security guards, grinned as he held the door open. "Looking sharp today. Ready to take down United?"

  Tristan fist-bumped him on the way in. "Always, Dave. You put money on us again?"

  Dave ughed. "Wouldn’t be a matchday if I didn’t. Make me proud, kid."

  Tristan smirked as he stepped through, hearing Barbara’s amused voice still on the line.

  "So you take bets now?"

  "Nah, Dave just believes in me. Unlike some people who are still doubting I can score three goals in one match."

  Barbara scoffed. "I never said you couldn’t. I’m just making sure you stay motivated."

  He rolled his eyes pyfully, but before he could answer, a group of young fans waiting behind the barricade spotted him.

  "Tristan! Tristan!"

  A little girl, no older than eight, was holding up a Leicester jersey—his jersey—clutching a marker in her tiny hands.

  Tristan gnced toward the locker room entrance, then back at the girl.

  "Hold on."

  He ignored Barbara’s amused exhale and stepped over to the barricade. The little girl’s face lit up as he knelt down to her level.

  "What’s your name?" he asked, taking the marker from her.

  "Lily," she said, practically bouncing on her feet.

  Tristan smiled, uncapping the marker. "Lily, you coming to the game today?"

  She nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! My dad got tickets!"

  Tristan signed the jersey, handing it back to her. "Good. That means you’ll get to see me score."

  Lily gasped. "You promise?"

  He grinned. "I’ll try my best."

  As he waved at the other fans and turned back toward the tunnel, Barbara’s voice rang out through the phone.

  "I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that you just made a scoring promise to a child, or the fact that I know you’re gonna stress about it for the rest of the game."

  Tristan sighed, walking into the hallway. "Yeah, yeah. Now the pressure’s on."

  Barbara ughed softly, but then her voice dropped just slightly. "Go be a star, Tristan. And remember—"

  She paused just long enough for him to listen.

  "I’m watching."

  Something stirred in his chest.

  Excitement. Pressure. Something in between.

  He smirked, voice lower now. "Then I guess I better put on a show."

  Barbara chuckled, the sound smooth and effortless. "You better."

  Just as he reached the locker room, he heard familiar voices shouting from inside.

  Tristan sighed. "I gotta go."

  Barbara’s voice was still ced with amusement. "Enjoy your fan club. Talk ter?"

  He exhaled, then smiled. "Yeah. Talk ter."

  The call ended just as he pushed open the door to the locker room.

  Tristan walked in, tossing his bag near his locker before rolling his shoulders. He exchanged nods with a few staff members before dropping onto the bench beside Mahrez, who was scrolling through his phone like they weren’t about to face Manchester United.

  "Took you long enough," Vardy called out from across the room, a smirk already forming. "What, needed some st-minute motivation from your girl?"

  A few of the ds chuckled. Tristan just shook his head, unbothered, as he pulled on a long-sleeved compression shirt before slipping into his jersey.

  The game pn had been drilled into their heads all week—press high, be aggressive, don’t give United an inch of space. Pearson had them ready. They all knew their roles.

  But today, Tristan had something else on his mind.

  He stood up, cpping his hands once. "Can I get everyone’s attention for a sec?"

  The chatter died down, the squad turning toward him. Tristan wasn’t usually the one speaking up before a match—that was more Morgan or Vardy’s job. But today felt different.

  He exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Alright, I’ve never said this before a game, but I just wanna put it out there—today, I’m taking more shots. If you lot can find me in the right spaces, I’m going for a hat-trick."

  For a second, there was silence. Then—

  "Ohhh, someone’s feeling bold today!" Lingard grinned, crossing his arms.

  Mahrez arched an eyebrow. "Man goes to Min for two days and suddenly thinks he’s Ballon d’Or material."

  Drinkwater leaned back against his locker, shaking his head. "Nah, this isn’t about Min. This is about the supermodel watching him."

  Vardy cpped a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, grinning. "You wanna put on a show for Barbara, huh?"

  Laughter erupted around the locker room.

  Tristan sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Alright, alright. Get it out of your system."

  Morgan chuckled. "You know we got you, mate. If you want a hat-trick, we’ll do our best to make it happen."

  "As long as you actually finish your chances," Mahrez added, smirking.

  Tristan shot him a look. "Just get me the ball."

  Vardy leaned in. "And if you do score three, you sending her a little goal celebration? Maybe a heart to the camera?"

  Tristan exhaled through his nose, pulling up his socks. "You lot are actually unbearable."

  Lingard ughed. "Nah, mate, we just respect the game. And this? This is a game we love to watch."

  Tristan shook his head, but he couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips.

  Jokes aside, he meant what he said.

  On the opposite side, United’s locker room mood was completely different.

  Tension simmered beneath the surface as the United pyers went through their final preparations. Shin pads were strapped on, boots ced up, jerseys adjusted, but the main topic of conversation wasn’t tactics.

  It was Tristan Hale.

  The self-procimed best pyer in the Premier League.

  Van Persie scoffed, shaking his head as he flexed his fingers. “That kid actually said that? Four games at this level, and he thinks he’s him?”

  Falcao smirked as he rolled his neck. “He’s got talent, sure. But the best? Please. We’ve been pying at the highest level for years. He’s just getting started.”

  Ander Herrera, who had been stretching nearby, let out a short ugh. “Four good games and he’s already talking like he runs the league?” He shook his head. “These English youngsters, man. They get one good month and start believing their own hype.”

  Blind, stretching against the wall, nodded in agreement. “I watched his games. He’s impressive, but saying he’s the best? That’s arrogance.”

  Van Persie leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know what I think? He’s young, got some hype, and now he believes it. This league humbles pyers fast.” He exhaled sharply. “We should be the ones to remind him who really runs it.”

  The conversation picked up, murmurs of agreement filling the locker room. Annoyance flickered through the squad. Who did this kid think he was?

  But in the middle of it all, Rooney sat quietly, taping his fingers, his expression unreadable.

  The Engnd ds—Smalling, Shaw, Fletcher—took the hint immediately. None of them joined in.

  They knew better.

  Because Tristan wasn’t just another rival.

  He was Engnd’s golden boy.

  The best young talent the country had produced in years. The entire nation had its eyes on him, the media obsessed over his every move, and if any of them said the wrong thing about him now? If word got out that his own national teammates were taking shots at him?

  It would be their heads on the block.

  The FA, the press, the fans—none of them would let it slide.

  So Rooney simply exhaled through his nose, shaking his head subtly—a silent warning.

  Not a word.

  Let the others talk. Let Van Persie, Herrera, and Falcao run their mouths.

  …..

  The atmosphere inside the tunnel was thick with tension. The distant roar of the Leicester fans vibrated through the walls.

  Tristan stood at the front of the Leicester lineup, shoulders squared, gaze forward, jaw set. His focus was unshakable, his heartbeat steady.

  Not a single word left his lips.

  No nods, no casual greetings, no acknowledgment of his Engnd teammates on the opposing side.

  Wayne Rooney. Danny Welbeck. Phil Jones.

  Pyers he’d trained with, pyed alongside for the national team.

  Usually, there’d be quick handshakes, a muttered alright, mate? Maybe even a joke to ease the nerves.

  Not today.

  Tristan didn’t even gnce their way.

  The Leicester pyers noticed first.

  “Damn,” Drinkwater muttered under his breath, standing beside Vardy and Mahrez. “Man looks like he’s about to go to war.”

  Mahrez adjusted his armband slightly. “Last time he looked like this?”

  Vardy exhaled, rubbing his chin. “FA Cup final.”

  That was all they needed to hear.

  That match against Arsenal st season—Tristan had pyed like a man possessed. Unstoppable. Unshakable. Dragging Leicester, refusing to let them lose.

  Now? He looked the same.

  No—worse.

  He looked ready to kill.

  Morgan, standing behind them, shifted his stance. “Shit.” He rolled his shoulders. “Guess we’re all locked in now.”

  Leicester wasn’t just going to py today.

  They were going to tear United apart.

  A few feet away, United’s pyers were watching.

  They had all heard the headlines. The interviews. Tristan Hale thinks he’s the best pyer in the league.

  The arrogance. The disrespect.

  And now, here he was, standing there like he owned the pce.

  Van Persie scoffed. “He’s really got that look in his eye, huh?”

  Falcao folded his arms, eyeing Tristan like a predator sizing up another. “Tch. Cocky kid.”

  Herrera shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Four games, and he thinks he’s him.”

  Tyler Bckett exhaled sharply. “I don’t care what he thinks he is. He’s in for a long ninety minutes.”

  United’s squad had pyed against the world’s best.

  But something about him—the way he carried himself, the way he didn’t acknowledge a single one of them—got under their skin.

  Yet among them, Rooney said nothing.

  He was watching too.

  He knew Tristan. He knew the weight he carried, the way Engnd had already pced him on a pedestal.

  But today Tristan felt different, usually he was a lot more rexed, he just wonder what the hell happened for Tristan to be this serious against them, it’s not like he had a grudge against United as far as he knew.

  As serious as Tristan was, there was only one thing that pulled him out of his focus.

  The small hand gripping his.

  Tristan gnced down at his mascot—a young girl, maybe eight years old, bundled up in an oversized Leicester jersey, her tiny fingers curled around a blue Foxes scarf.

  She looked up at him, wide-eyed, nervous.

  Tristan’s expression softened.

  He crouched slightly, lowering his voice. “You good?”

  The girl hesitated before nodding. “A little nervous.”

  Tristan smiled, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Me too.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “But nerves are good. Means something big is about to happen.”

  She thought about that for a moment, then nodded again, this time with a little more confidence.

  Tristan stood back up just as the official signaled for them to walk out.

  Time to put on a show.

  The two teams finished lining up for the pre-match formalities, the roar of the Leicester fans creating an electric atmosphere inside the stadium. The Foxes faithful were in full voice, banners waving, chants booming, all of them ready to witness their team take on one of the giants of English football.

  The camera zoomed in on Tristan, standing tall in Leicester’s lineup, his expression cold, unreadable. He barely blinked, his stare fixed ahead—not on the crowd, not on the cameras, but straight at the United pyers standing opposite him.

  He could feel their eyes on him, too.

  Wayne Rooney. Robin van Persie. Radamel Falcao. Angel Di Maria.

  Legends of the game. Champions League winners. Pyers who had dominated at the highest level.

  Yet, it was him who was dominating the headlines this week.

  "I'm the best pyer in the league."

  A statement that still echoed in the minds of the United pyers.

  The two teams finished lining up for the pre-match formalities, the roar of the Leicester fans creating an electric atmosphere inside the stadium. The Foxes faithful were in full voice, banners waving, chants booming, all of them ready to witness their team take on one of the giants of English football.

  The camera zoomed in on Tristan, standing tall in Leicester’s lineup, his expression cold, unreadable. He barely blinked, his stare fixed ahead—not on the crowd, not on the cameras, but straight at the United pyers standing opposite him.

  He could feel their eyes on him, too.

  Wayne Rooney. Robin van Persie. Radamel Falcao. Angel Di Maria.

  Legends of the game. Champions League winners. Pyers who had dominated at the highest level.

  Yet, it was him who was dominating the headlines this week.

  "I'm the best pyer in the league."

  A statement that still echoed in the minds of the United pyers.

  Up in the broadcast booth, Martin Tyler set the scene.

  "Welcome to the King Power Stadium, where Leicester City look to continue their strong start to the season against one of the Premier League’s biggest clubs—Manchester United. Nigel Pearson’s side has already shown they’re not here to just survive; they’re here to compete."

  The camera lingered on Tristan, his jaw set, his shoulders squared.

  "And all eyes will be on this man, Tristan Hale," Tyler continued. "The young midfielder has been nothing short of sensational this season, and of course, he made headlines earlier this week with his bold cim that he's the best pyer in Engnd."

  An Smith chuckled beside him.

  "Well, Martin, looking at his form, it’s hard to argue. Three goals, four assists in four games—he’s been Leicester’s heartbeat, their leader despite only being 18."

  On the broadcast, a graphic appeared:

  Premier League 2014-15 – Tristan Hale? Appearances – 4? Goals – 3?? Assists – 5?? Man of the Match Awards – 3

  "For a midfielder, those are world-css numbers," Tyler remarked. "And it’s not just the stats, An. It’s his presence on the pitch. The way he dictates the tempo, takes risks, leads the press. He’s pying like a seasoned veteran."

  Smith nodded.

  "And let’s not forget his confidence. Just this week, when asked if he was the best pyer in the league, he didn’t hesitate. His exact words? ‘Yeah. Name me one better than me right now.’"

  "A bold statement, but he’s backing it up," Tyler agreed. "And these Leicester fans love him for it."

  The camera cut to the stands—thousands of Leicester supporters on their feet, scarves raised, singing his name.

  The moment the pre-match handshakes began, Tristan felt it.

  The energy shifted.

  As he moved down the line, shaking hands, some of the United pyers made a point to squeeze harder than necessary, to hold eye contact just a little too long.

  Van Persie smirked as he took Tristan’s hand. “Best pyer in the league? Kid, you haven’t even pyed a full season yet.”

  Tristan didn’t flinch. His grip didn’t waver. He simply stared back, unbothered. “Good luck winning anything with United, and talk smack after this game, aight?”

  Van Persie’s smirk twitched, but before he could fire back, Tristan had already moved on.

  On the Leicester side, his teammates saw what was happening.

  Vardy smirked, whispering to Drinkwater, “Look at them. They’re rattled already.”

  Mahrez scoffed. “They’re acting like he’s not about to tear them apart.”

  Morgan, standing at the end of the line, didn’t bother whispering. His voice was calm, composed, yet firm.

  "They don’t like you, Tristan."

  Tristan shrugged, adjusting his sleeve. “Good. That means I’m doing something right.”

  Mahrez chuckled. “So? They getting your hat-trick today or what?”

  Tristan exhaled, rolling his neck, shaking out his limbs.

  Then, finally, a smirk.

  "They’ll see."

  The referee blew his whistle.

  Kickoff was next.

  As soon as the referee blew his whistle, the game exploded into life.

  United, pying away, wasted no time asserting themselves. Their world-css talent was on full dispy within seconds, quick one-touch passing slicing through midfield with effortless precision.

  ángel Di María, wearing United’s iconic number seven, was the first to set the tone. Picking up a pass from Blind, he surged down the left fnk with terrifying speed, forcing Cambiasso and Drinkwater to close him down immediately.

  But the Argentine had already spotted the run of Robin van Persie.

  A perfectly weighted through ball zipped between Leicester’s defensive lines, finding the Dutch striker in the box.

  Van Persie took it first-time.

  The shot was lethal—struck with power and precision, curling toward the far post.

  The stadium held its breath—

  But Schmeichel was ready.

  Leicester’s No.1 threw himself at the ball, reacting in a split second, getting just enough of a touch to push it wide.

  The collective exhale from the crowd was audible.

  Martin Tyler’s voice rang out across the broadcast.

  "And Schmeichel with a brilliant save to keep Leicester level early on!"

  An Smith exhaled sharply.

  "That could’ve been disastrous, Martin. United aren’t messing around—they want control of this game from the start."

  Tyler nodded.

  "It’s a frightening attack when they get going—Van Persie, Falcao, Di María all linking up already. Leicester need to be sharp here."

  But while United had nded the first punch, Leicester were about to hit back harder.

  The Foxes pyed the ball out from the back, moving it quickly, trying to reset after United’s early pressure.

  Tristan dropped deep, demanding the ball from Cambiasso.

  As soon as it reached his feet—

  Ander Herrera was on him.

  United’s game pn was clear—shut Tristan down. Don’t let him breathe.

  Tristan barely acknowledged him.

  One quick turn—A feint with his right—A flick out wide to Lingard—

  And he was gone.

  Before Herrera could even reach for him, Tristan had already taken off, darting between Blind and Rooney, sprinting into space.

  An Smith chuckled.

  "And this is what makes him so dangerous, Martin. He doesn’t even need to be on the ball to be a threat—his movement alone is enough to break down a defense!"

  Tyler agreed.

  "And just look at him go! United are struggling to keep up!"

  Lingard, already knowing what Tristan was pnning, immediately sent the ball back into his path.

  Blind stepped up, trying to block him—too slow.

  Tristan flicked the ball past him with the outside of his boot, leaving the Dutchman lunging at thin air.

  Now there was space.

  Now there was danger.

  The crowd sensed it.

  The noise swelled, a collective roar of anticipation rippling through the King Power.

  Tristan stormed forward, Mahrez making a diagonal run to his right.

  The United defense scrambled—Evans and Bckett closing in—Rojo trailing behind—

  Tristan saw the gap before anyone else did.

  A perfectly weighted pass, a single touch slicing through United’s backline—

  Mahrez was in.

  "Mahrez is in! This is a huge chance!" Tyler shouted.

  The Algerian didn’t hesitate.

  One touch to control—One touch to shoot—

  The ball curled toward the far post—De Gea dived desperately to his right—

  For a split second, the stadium went silent.

  And then—

  BANG.

  The ball smashed against the post.

  Gasps rippled through the King Power.

  An Smith groaned.

  "Oh, so unlucky! That was inches away from the perfect start!"

  Tristan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

  Close. Too close.

  But Leicester weren’t here to take part.

  They were here to destroy.

  On the touchline, Louis van Gaal frowned.

  He had spent the entire week preparing for this.

  Hours of match footage. Breaking down Leicester’s movements. Studying Tristan Hale’s patterns.

  But seeing him in real-time?

  That was different.

  His assistant coach leaned in. “They’re targeting our left side.”

  Van Gaal crossed his arms. “No. They’re targeting our gaps.”

  He turned to his assistant, shaking his head. “Herrera’s getting dragged all over the pitch. Do we push Rafael forward to help close him down?”

  The assistant hesitated, eyes scanning the field.

  “…It’s still early. If we tweak too soon, we’ll show weakness. Let’s tighten up the midfield first—make sure Blind gives more support.”

  Van Gaal exhaled through his nose, watching as Tristan barked instructions to his teammates, calling for higher pressure.

  He hated reactive football.

  But that kid—

  That arrogant kid—

  The one who had decred himself the best pyer in Engnd—

  He was forcing United to react.

  And that was a problem.

  From the stands above the home dugout, Nigel Pearson watched the game unfold with a quiet sense of satisfaction. His team was pying without fear, pressing United high, refusing to sit back and absorb pressure.

  Beside Pearson, Craig Walsh let out an appreciative whistle, arms folded as he leaned forward. "That was a hell of a sequence."

  Pearson nodded, never taking his eyes off the pitch. "And it won’t be the st."

  Mahrez, still frustrated from hitting the post moments ago, exhaled sharply, running a gloved hand over his face. He knew that shot was inches away from being perfect.

  But as he looked up, he caught Tristan staring at him.

  Not in frustration. Not in disappointment.

  Just… calm confidence.

  Tristan raised a hand, giving him a thumbs-up.

  "That was perfect. Next one goes in."

  Mahrez smirked, offering a small nod in return.

  Tristan, he wasn’t satisfied yet.

  Cpping his hands together, he signaled to keep pressing.

  The moment David De Gea pced the ball down for the goal kick, he sensed the problem.

  Leicester weren’t backing off.

  They weren’t giving United a second to breathe.

  Every single Leicester pyer was pushing up, suffocating the Red Devils in their own half.

  De Gea scanned the pitch, looking for an outlet. His center-backs, Evans and Bckett, had barely any space. Out wide, Rojo and Rafael were being stalked by Lingard and Mahrez.

  Vardy and Ulloa stood right on the edge of the box, ready to charge the moment the ball was pyed short.

  The press was relentless.

  United’s defenders could feel it.

  And in the gantry, Martin Tyler’s voice matched the intensity on the field.

  "Leicester City are suffocating Manchester United in these opening minutes! They are absolutely relentless in their pressing, and you can see how much they want this."

  Beside him, An Smith let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "It’s been a fantastic start from Leicester. Tristan Hale has been at the heart of everything so far—his movement, his passing, his vision—it’s all been top-css."

  The broadcast repyed Tristan’s break past Blind, the sheer burst of acceleration, the perfect weight of his pass into Mahrez’s feet.

  Tyler’s voice rose again. "And look at this—Hale just glides past Daley Blind like he isn’t even there! His acceleration, his awareness—it’s something special."

  Smith nodded in agreement. "He’s pying like a man on a mission today, Martin. And let’s not forget what he said before this match—he called himself the best pyer in the league. You can tell he’s out to prove it."

  Tyler chuckled. "Well, at this rate, who’s arguing? He’s been electric."

  De Gea had no choice.

  With Leicester pressing high and no easy outlet avaible, the United keeper unched the ball long, sending it soaring past the halfway line, hoping to relieve the pressure.

  But Leicester’s backline was more than ready.

  Moore tracked Falcao’s movement, using his body to disrupt the striker’s positioning, making sure he couldn’t get a clean jump. Meanwhile, Morgan—a rock at the heart of the Foxes' defense—used his sheer physicality to muscle Van Persie aside, ensuring the Dutchman had no chance of winning the duel.

  The ball hung in the air for a moment before Morgan rose above everyone, his powerful frame giving him the advantage. With a commanding header, he directed it straight to Cambiasso in midfield.

  The Argentine, ever composed, cushioned the ball with a deft touch, his movements smooth and deliberate. As Van Persie jogged past him, still throwing his hands up at the referee over the st challenge, Cambiasso simply smirked—unbothered.

  Without missing a beat, he picked out Lingard on the left wing with a sharp, precise pass.

  Lingard’s chest tightened as he took his first touch.

  Right in front of him—Rafael.

  For a brief second, hesitation crept in. Dribble? Cross? Hold up py?

  Then—

  "Jesse, pass him!"

  Tristan’s voice cut through the noise. Sharp. Commanding. Unwavering.

  Something snapped into pce inside Lingard.

  No more overthinking. No more hesitation.

  A quick feint inside. A flick of the right boot. Then—boom—he was past Rafael in an instant.

  "Brilliant skill from Lingard!" Tyler’s voice crackled with excitement.

  Rafael, stunned for just a second, quickly turned and sprinted after him, but Lingard was already scanning the box.

  Vardy made a diagonal run, dragging defenders with him, opening just the space he needed.

  And just outside the penalty area—

  There.

  Tristan.

  Charging into the perfect spot, his speed unmatched, his run calcuted.

  Lingard didn’t think twice.

  A sharp strike with his left foot. Low. Hard. Driven.

  "A dangerous ball across the box!" Smith shouted.

  The pass zipped past Evans, too fast for him to intercept.

  And right on cue—Tristan appeared, gliding into position like it had been rehearsed a thousand times.

  "This is it!" Tyler’s voice reached fever pitch.

  Tristan didn’t hesitate.

  With perfect technique, he met the ball first-time with his left foot.

  For a split second, everyone froze.

  The ball shot off his boot like a bullet, cutting through the air at an impossible speed.

  De Gea shifted his weight, anticipating a curling shot toward the far post.

  But Tristan had other pns.

  Instead of bending it, he drilled it toward the near post—low, fast, and completely unexpected.

  Bckett barely had time to react. The ball whizzed past his outstretched leg, slipping through the narrowest of gaps.

  De Gea’s eyes widened—he was moving the wrong way!

  A desperate lunge—too te.

  The net bulged.

  King Power Stadium detonated.

  "GOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAL!!!"

  Tyler’s voice roared through the broadcast, barely audible over the earthquake of sound inside the stadium.

  "TRISTAN HALE OPENS THE SCORING! AND THE KING POWER ERUPTS!"

  The stands shook as fans screamed, fists pumping, scarves flying.

  In the gantry, Martin Tyler’s excitement hadn’t died down.

  "And that is what he does! The young star, Tristan Hale, with a stunning finish to give Leicester the lead!"

  Smith, shaking his head in disbelief, chuckled. "We talked about his confidence, Martin. We talked about how he said he was the best in the league. Well—he’s proving it. Look at the way he times his run, the way he strikes the ball with such conviction. That’s not luck. That’s pure css."

  A repy of the goal fshed on the screen—the deadly timing of the run, the crispness of the shot, the sheer disbelief in De Gea’s eyes as the ball hit the back of the net.

  Tyler exhaled, still caught in the moment. "And it’s only the beginning, An. If the first ten minutes have shown us anything—it’s that Tristan Hale is on a mission today."

  On the touchline, Louis van Gaal’s frown deepened.

  He had studied Leicester.

  He had studied Tristan.

  He knew he was dangerous.

  But seeing it happen in real time was different.

  Van Gaal turned to his assistant, jaw tightening. "Herrera can’t handle him alone. We need to adjust."

  The assistant nodded. "We could push Blind forward for extra cover, but that’ll leave gaps behind."

  Van Gaal exhaled sharply.

  This wasn’t part of the pn.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

  Tristan?

  He didn’t stop running after scoring.

  His teammates swarmed him—Mahrez grabbing his shoulders, shaking him with pure excitement.

  "What a bloody finish, mate!" he shouted, voice almost lost in the chaos.

  Vardy wasn’t far behind, grinning ear to ear as he smacked the back of Tristan’s head. "Didn’t waste time, did ya?"

  Lingard shoved him pyfully before pulling him in, his ughter mixing with the roar of the crowd. "That’s one!" he yelled. "You serious about the other two?"

  Tristan, breath still heavy, grinned through the mayhem. But he wasn’t done yet.

  His gaze locked onto one of the pitch-side cameras. Without breaking stride, he ran toward it, stopping just inches away.

  He leaned in, his eyes sharp, his voice steady—calm, confident, lethal.

  “One down.”

  He lifted a single finger.

  Then, he raised two more.

  “Two more to go.”

  Meanwhile in Min, Barbara didn’t blink as she watched Trista.

  She sat on the couch, fingers curled around a steaming cup of coffee, her full attention locked onto the screen as Tristan’s face filled the broadcast.

  Sophia had been half-watching, scrolling through her phone—until she heard him.

  “One down. Two more to go.”

  Sophia snorted. "Cocky, isn’t he?"

  Barbara, still staring at the TV, took a slow sip of her coffee.

  "Confident," she corrected, her lips curling slightly.

  Sophia raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You really think he’s scoring two more?"

  Barbara exhaled softly, watching as Tristan jogged back into position, completely unfazed, completely locked in.

  She smiled. "Guess we’ll see."

  ……

  5.1k words

  I’m tired, you can considered this a original chapter since everything was written by me, didn’t even use the chinese chapter for this. I’m tired, god damn the st 3 chapters have been long as fuck.

  Anyway hope you guys like this chapter.