February 27, 2016 | Belvoir Drive
Leicester's locker room buzzed in little pockets of energy. Vardy still cracking jokes even after the double session, Mahrez slouched with his headphones in, Kanté quietly folding his training top like they'd just come back from a picnic instead of ninety minutes of pure intensity.
Tristan leaned back against his locker, phone in hand, thumb dragging down the screen. Training was over, but his head wasn't. Tomorrow wasn't just another match. Tomorrow was a final. Leicester's first.
ELF League final against City.
Another day to bully the two clubs from Manchester. At this point, he honestly felt bad for the city.
"Oi," Vardy called across the room, towel draped over his head. "So what's the plan, lads? Do we let City score first, then smash 'em? Or smash 'em straight away?"
"Straight away," Drinkwater said without looking up, unlacing his boots. "Save us the stress."
Mahrez slid one headphone down, deadpan: "Stress? You pass the ball, Tristan does something ridiculous, Jamie scores. That's the plan."
The room broke into laughter.
"Cheers, Mahrez," Tristan muttered, shaking his head. "Good to know I'm carrying you lot in your own imaginations."
"Carrying?" Morgan boomed from the other side, half laughing as he pulled on a training top. "The backline is carrying all of your asse, should be thanking us or Kante."
The roar of laughter doubled. Morgan pointed his boot at him like he might throw it.
"Keep talking, lad. Tomorrow you'll be begging me to save you when Agüero runs at you."
"Agüero's scared of me," Vardy said, stone-faced. "Saw me in the car park once, wouldn't make eye contact."
"You made that up," Tristan said laughing.
"Course I did," Vardy grinned. "But it's true if I say it enough."
Kanté spoke quietly from his corner. "I don't wanna bully them again or have to watch Tristan bully Kevin all over again, makes me feel guilty."
That set everyone off. Laughter bounced off the lockers, Vardy nearly doubled over.
"Guilty?!" Tristan threw his water bottle cap at him. "You stole the ball off De Bruyne like five times last game. He still hasn't recovered. The guy still texts me about it."
"He went home and had nightmares," Albrighton added, trying to sound serious but already grinning. "Dreamt about Kanté's little legs chasing him."
Kanté just shrugged, folding his socks with that same calm expression, like he hadn't just delivered the line of the day.
"Imagine telling your grandkids you lost the ball to a guy shorter than your fridge," Vardy wheezed. "Embarrassing."
Mahrez chuckled. "Jamie my man, you're not much taller."
"Yeah, but I score goals, mate," Vardy shot back instantly. "There's levels to this."
"Levels?" Schmeichel finally chimed in, leaning back in his chair. "The only level you know is offside."
Vardy threw a towel across the room, hitting Kasper right in the face.
Ranieri poked his head through the doorway just then, catching the chaos. "My champions," he said with that sly little grin, "you are very loud for men who haven't won anything this season.
Tristan lifted his head, smirk tugging at his mouth. "First time for everything, coach."
Ranieri's eyes twinkled. He gave a small nod, then ducked back out, leaving the noise to rise again.
Tristan clapped his hands. "Alright then. Tomorrow, Wembley, lads. Second final in the stadium. We go out there, we run 'til our lungs give out, and we lift that bloody trophy."
Morgan raised a fist. "Together."
"Together," the rest echoed, almost in unison.
The night air bit cold against Tristan's skin as he stepped out of Belvoir Drive. Training bags slung over one shoulder, he cut across the lot toward the familiar gleam of Barbara's Porsche 911.
He started driving it as most days it was just sitting in their parking lot.
The engine purred alive on the first turn, but he didn't shift into gear right away. Instead, he let it idle, vents sighing warm air into the cabin while the windshield cleared.
He leaned back into the leather, phone in hand, thumb flicking through the usual flood, news about Neymar and PSG, mentions, photos from training.
Then a title caught his eye as he scrolled through reddit.
Thread Title: "The Dominance of Leicester City"
Posted by: u/DontShareTheDoc – 4 hours ago
I'm still not over the Ballon d'Or.
First English player in the top 5 since 2005. Let that sink in. Eleven bloody years. And it's Tristan Hale. Our lad. Crown jewel of England.
He was 9th in 2014 at just nineteen. A year later? He's 3rd. At twenty. Do you know how insane that is? The amount of pressure he's under every single day is ridiculous. The comparisons. The expectations. He's already being talked about like he's passed half our so-called legends and he hasn't even lifted a major trophy yet (outside of the FA Cup and his personal cabinet full of awards).
And yet? No scandals. No partying stories. No wasted potential. He just shows up, delivers, and carries himself like he was born for this. If he wins even a couple trophies, we're talking about the greatest English player of all time and he only turns 21 this June. Bloody hell.
Do you guys understand how rare it is for an English player, much less of Tristan's level of fame not to have any scandals of any types? That's more rare than fucking Spurs winning anything.
BARBARA PALVIN! WE THANK YOU!
And it's not just Tristan. Vardy, Mahrez, even Kanté all made the Ballon d'Or top 30 list. Leicester City. Not Chelsea. Not Madrid. Not some oil-backed project. Leicester. If you're English, you should be proud. This club is carrying the flag right now.
…anyway, I've gone on a bit of a Tristan tangent there, lol. What I meant to do was actually show what's happened since the Ballon d'Or ceremony. Because when you write it all down, it looks like something out of Football Manager.
Since January 11 (Ballon d'Or ceremony):
Leicester 4–1 Stoke → Tristan (3 – 1 FK, 1 Pen), Vardy
Leicester 2–1 Liverpool → Vardy (2)
Man City 1–3 Leicester → Tristan (2), Kanté, Vardy
Leicester 2–1 Arsenal → Tristan (FK), Vardy
Leicester 2–1 Norwich → Mahrez (1G, 1A), Vardy
Leicester 2–1 Fenerbahçe → Drinkwater, Fuchs
Fenerbahçe 0–4 Leicester → Tristan (2G, 1A), Vardy, Mahrez (1G, 1A)
Leicester 3–2 Manchester United → Tristan (1G, 1A), Vardy, Mahrez
Leicester 3–0 Cardiff → Tristan (1G, 1A), Albrighton (1G, 1A), Vardy
Leicester 2–1 Spurs → Tristan (1G, 1A), Mahrez
29 goals scored, just 8 conceded.
And overall this season for Leciester?
Leicester City goals scored: 115
Goals conceded: 36 For more chapters visıt novel⁂fire.net
Tristan Hale: 38 goals, 38 assists
Jamie Vardy: 39 goals, 1 assists (lol)
Riyad Mahrez: 18 goals, 13 assists
That's a front three combining for 95 goals and 52 assists already. At the end of February.
TRISTAN HAS SCORED MORE THAN LEICESTER HAVE LET IN.
Let me repeat that he's scored 38, Leicester have only conceded 36. That's absurd. That's Ronaldo in 2014 levels. That's Messi 2012 territory.
Ronaldo, Bale, Benzema (BBC) never had this balance or type of numbers together.
Messi, Neymar, Suarez (MSN) are iconic and are the only trio you could compare the Leicester front to. Both led by home grown superstars and brought in the two supporting stars.
This is insane to talk about like IT'S LEICESTER CITY NOT MANCHESTER UNITED.
Everyone hypes the front three (and rightly so) but Leicester have only conceded 36 goals across all comps. The backline has been rock solid. Kasper commanding. Morgan and Huth absolute units. Fuchs & Simpson doing their jobs. And then there's Kanté. The human vacuum. He's the balance. Without him, none of this works.
Arsenal's Invincibles? 12 league draws. Leicester? Just 4 draws in 27 games.
Pep's Barça in 2011? 95 goals, 96 points. Leicester are tracking frighteningly close with a squad that cost less than half of what United spend on squad depth.
United's Treble winners? Didn't go unbeaten. Madrid's Galácticos? Didn't go unbeaten. This Leicester side haven't lost a single god damn game.
And the cultural weight of this? It's not some oil money project. It's not the usual United/Chelsea/City machine. It's Leicester City. A provincial club. An academy lad leading them. That's why everyone in this god damn country supports them cause this is what football is supposed to be about. The entire country feels different right now. Leicester are carrying the flag of English football.
This isn't a fluke. This is historic.
And oh yeah, almost forgot. Nike's dropping a new edition of Tristan's Nine Regnants boot line after the final tomorrow. Which means he'll be debuting them at Wembley.
Your boi gotta sacrifice an arm and a leg to get them.
Tristan scrolled further, thumb flicking through the replies.
"Spurs caught a stray lmaooo."
"Crown Jewel of England… man's 20, carrying the hopes of a nation. Mad."
"As a neutral, I can't even hate. Leicester are making football fun again."
"United fan here. This hurts but it's true the kid's generational. What I would to make the kid wear the Red shirt.
He exhaled through his nose, half a laugh. It was surreal seeing strangers debate his entire existence while he sat in Barbara's car with the seat heaters on. The "Crown Jewel" bit made him shake his head.
He liked the title. It sounded cool and represented what he was to his country. This nation crying out for a victory to finally bring football home
He locked the phone and rested it on the passenger seat. For a moment he just sat there, watching his own breath cloud faintly against the window, the hum of the Porsche low under him. Wembley tomorrow. The biggest night of this season so far. If they win, their momentum would be unstoppable.
Stats didn't matter if he didn't back them up.
They'd written him into history already.
Now he had to prove it wasn't premature.
He tightened his grip on the wheel, shifted into gear, and pulled out into the cold Leicester night.
The stats are all correct, I had to spend an hour on them, lol.