England's Greatest
Chapter 217: Revenge Part 2

Chapter 217: Revenge Part 2

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Halftime Broadcast — Sky Sports Studio

London — 4:51 PM (UK Time)

The camera came back before anyone in the studio even realized they were live.

The score was still glowing in the corner of the screen:

Newcastle 0 – 3 Leicester City

Alan Shearer sat stone-still. Arms folded. Like he was trying to hold the entire North East together through sheer willpower. His leg bounced once, then stopped when he realized it was visible.

David Jones cleared his throat, just loud enough to cut the tension.

"Welcome back to Sky Sports. Half-time at St. James’ Park — and Leicester City are not just leading. They’re dismantling. They’re humiliating. And they’re doing it without even getting out of second gear."

He turned slightly in his seat, looking at Shearer.

"Alan?"

Shearer didn’t speak right away. Then came a long, visible exhale.

"This is a disaster," he said, with the exact energy of a man who’d just walked into his house and found his wife cheating. "At home. In front of the fans. On national TV. And it’s three-nil." He paused. "I expected Leicester to control things. But this?" He shook his head. "It’s a mess."

Jamie Carragher leaned forward like he’d been dying to jump in. "I don’t care if they’ve got ten injuries, ten excuses, ten astrologers saying it’s not their week — if you come into this game after last year, and you still show up swinging like that? With no discipline? No plan?" He glanced at the screen. "Then you deserve to be three-nil down."

Roy Keane jumped in. "They didn’t want to play football. Not really." He scratched his beard once, then leaned in. "They wanted a fight. But Leicester were ready. And when you come looking for a brawl and the other guy’s already got gloves on, you’re finished before the bell."

The screen cut to a slow-motion replay of the 2nd-minute foul — Paul Dummett flying in on Marc Albrighton. Studs up. Late. Awful. The thud of impact replayed with just a touch too much bass.

Then the yellow card.

Jones didn’t even blink. "That’s where it started. Alan, your take?"

Shearer’s eyebrows pulled together. Not angry. Just... disappointed.

"Everyone knew what kind of game this was gonna be. Tense. Heated. Emotional. You don’t walk into that kind of match and throw a two-footed tackle on a guy who wasn’t even doing anything. That’s not passion — that’s stupidity. That’s throwing petrol on a match you’re already losing."

He turned slightly toward Carragher. "That’s not even what McClaren wanted."

Carragher, snorting. "You sure? Because I’ve seen Sunday league teams better prepared than this."

The screen flipped to a heat map. Deep red flooded the central-right channel — and then a blotch of even hotter color appeared further upfield, tight inside Newcastle’s box.

"Here’s Tristan Hale’s first half," Jones said. "Or should I say — Tristan Hale’s stadium."

Carragher whistled low.

"That’s not a ten. That’s three positions in one. Here — he’s dropping to collect. There — he’s drifting left. Here, up top — he’s dragging three defenders into the same phone booth and sending Vardy sprinting past ’em."

Keane spoke next, no inflection.

"He’s everywhere. And none of it’s wasted."

He pointed at the freeze-frame.

"Every touch means something. Draws a foul. Switches play. Beats a man. Newcastle don’t know where he is — or worse, where he’s going."

Jones nodded. "Let’s go to the free kick."

The clip rolled — slow-motion again. Tristan Hale, a few paces back. Calm. No theatrics. A whisper to Mahrez, then the run-up. Left foot. Top corner. Clean. Off the bar. In.

Carragher muttered under his breath, "Jesus."

Shearer barely blinked. "Perfect strike. You don’t save that. Doesn’t matter who you’ve got in goal."

Keane: "You don’t let him take that. Newcastle gave away a free kick in a Tristan danger zone. Then they set up the wall like it was Sunday training. That’s a double failure."

The next clip began. Leicester’s second goal — a classic counter.

Mitrović tried something. It didn’t work. Kanté scooped it. Mahrez flicked it. Tristan dragged two markers wide. Vardy ghosted in.

Carragher pointed hard.

"Look at Vardy. He’s already running before Mahrez passes. That’s instinct. That’s timing."

Keane, dry: "It’s thirty yards in six seconds. No one on Newcastle even moves."

Jones glanced down at his notes.

"That’s Vardy’s sixteenth of the season. And Tristan with another assist — that’s twenty-five goal contributions already."

He raised his eyebrows at Shearer.

"In November, Alan."

Shearer’s arms folded tighter. "I don’t want to talk about him."

Keane didn’t miss a beat. "You will. He’s winning the league."

The next replay ran: Mahrez’s goal — a textbook counter with a slick team move. Vardy to Tristan. Tristan drawing the press. Mahrez wide open. Curling it top right like he had all the time in the world.

Carragher, tapping his pen against the desk:

"That’s what I mean. You think Tristan’s the threat — and he is — but then Mahrez floats free, and it’s another dagger."

Jones: "Can we talk about Newcastle’s defense?"

Keane: "What defense?"

They all laughed — except Shearer, who just stared at the table like it had insulted his childhood.

"Come on, Alan," Carragher pressed, still laughing. "You’re the club legend here. Be honest — how bad is this?"

Shearer didn’t crack a smile.

"It’s a humiliation. That’s what it is. And the worst part is, this isn’t even peak Leicester. They’re cruising. They’re toying with us."

Carragher leaned closer, voice lower.

"You think they’re holding back?"

Shearer nodded once. "Absolutely. They’re saving legs. Tristan hasn’t even broken a sweat."

Jones stepped in. "Let’s take a quick look at the halftime xG."

The numbers flashed:

Newcastle: 0.22

Leicester: 2.87

Carragher groaned. "That’s bullying."

Keane shrugged. "That’s the truth."

They cut next to the touch map — Leicester compact, tight lines. Newcastle scattered like marbles.

Jones flipped to another graphic.

Touches in the Final Third:

Leicester: 67

Newcastle: 9

Keane gave a short nod. "Nine. In forty-five minutes. At home. That’s a beating."

Carragher didn’t even look at the numbers. "That’s not a stat. That’s an obituary."

Jones glanced sideways. "Alright. If you’re McClaren right now... what do you even say?"

Shearer gave a humorless laugh. "I’d say sorry. To the fans. To the badge. Because this—this isn’t a team falling short. It’s a team collapsing."

He shook his head. "You don’t walk into a match like this — after everything that happened last season — and play like you’ve never met each other before. It’s a failure of character."

Keane didn’t miss the beat. "Losing’s one thing. But they quit the second that free kick hit the net."

He tapped the desk lightly.

"You could see it. Shoulders dropped. Eyes gone. Nobody barking. Nobody fighting. First half’s not even over and they’re already looking for the exit."

Carragher pointed to the split cam now on screen.

"Look at this. Coloccini — rubbing his face like someone just told him his boots were made of concrete. Janmaat and Wijnaldum — no eye contact. It’s not just bad. It’s broken."

They cut again — this time to the tunnel.

Newcastle: heads down, silence, one or two muttering, but no leadership.

Leicester: high-fives. Mahrez laughing. Tristan laughing talking Ranieri.

Carragher watched closely. "He’s not even tired. That’s what scares you. He’s walking like it’s nil-nil and he’s still hunting for his first goal."

Keane leaned forward slightly, arms folded tighter.

"He’s not done. That look on his face? That’s a man who knows he owes you another thirty minutes of damage. It’s a look United fans won’t forget."

Jones turned toward the touchline cam again.

"There’s Ranieri. Cool as ever. Like he’s watching a dress rehearsal."

Carragher: "That’s a man who knew exactly what this game was going to look like."

Keane’s eyebrow twitched. "It’s scary when a manager’s that confident and he’s right."

Jones kept it moving. "And what a story it’s been so far. Leicester dominant. Newcastle shaken. Tristan Hale..."

Keane finished the thought. "Dominant."

The studio held for a second.

Then Carragher smirked.

"You better not let him get a fourth. He’s already walking like he’s planning the Puskás entry."

The crowd noise crept in behind them. Fans returning to their seats. The Leicester end already in full voice.

🎵 "TOP OF THE LEAGUE!"

🎵 "TOP OF THE LEAGUE!"

🎵 "WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE!" 🎵

Carragher laughed under his breath. "They don’t sing that unless it’s real."

Keane added quietly, "They don’t sing that unless they believe it."

Jones leaned in for the close.

"Three goals down. Forty-five minutes left. Can Newcastle respond... or will Leicester run up the score?"

He didn’t wait for an answer.

"Second half coming up. Don’t go anywhere."

And the screen faded to black.

As the screen faded to black, the Sky Sports studio went silent.

But the internet didn’t.

Twitter exploded. Fan cams. Freeze-frames. Grainy clips of Tristan’s free kick already looping with edits and memes.

Online, the game looked different.

@Kope: Can’t believe what I’m seeing. Newcastle getting destroyed, lmao

↪️ @streiz: Bro it’s not even fair anymore 💀

↪️ @Naruto Uzumaki: Delete this.

@ItsKevin: Tristan Hale is on drugs, I swear to god. That guy knows how to old grudges lol.

@Sin_12: I turned on the TV and it was 3–0. I blinked. Still 3–0.

↪️ @Lenny: I blinked and my dad unplugged the router.

↪️ @Lucas: I blinked and Dummett two-footed someone 💀

@Thomas: That Tristan free kick made my dad stand up in silence

↪️ @Mark_69: Mine just said "Jesus" and walked to the kitchen

@CFC_Connor: McClaren got outcoached by a man wearing knitwear

↪️ @Aee: Ranieri hasn’t even shouted once. That’s what hurts.

↪️ @Shearer34: Delete this before Alan sees it

@United_Dan: Leicester making a Puskás reel in real time

@GaryLineker: One of the best first halves I’ve ever seen. Hale is outrageous.

@_RioFerdy5: That FK? That’s evil. Pure filth. Ballon d’Or stuff.

@Carra23: (quote-tweeting the FK clip) He’s TWENTY. Twenty. Someone check his passport.

@GNev2: Newcastle can’t press. Can’t sit. Can’t run. Leicester have every answer.

@IanWright0: Tristan Hale’s cooking a three-course meal. He’s feeding the whole league.

@franklampard8: Leicester’s midfield is the best in England. Yes. I said it.

@JackWilshere: Still trying to figure out how he bent that FK with his left. That’s witchcraft.

St. James’ Park — Halftime

The tunnel light flickered like a bad omen. Cold air carried the sound of jeers and chants all the way down into the bowels of the stadium.

The Leicester locker room felt...calm compared to the massacre they just committed.

Boots clunked against the tiled floor. Water bottles cracked open. Vardy’s cap landed with a dull thunk near the bin and missed. Nobody moved to pick it up.

Tristan leaned against the wall by the kit shelf. Laces loose. Shirt untucked. His pulse felt low, but his head wasn’t quiet. It never was.

Marc Albrighton had one sock rolled down, an ice pack balanced like a paperweight on his ankle. "It’s fine," he said before anyone asked. "Just bark. Nothing twisted."

Kanté crouched beside his locker with his hands together.

Then Ranieri stepped in. Shut the door behind him.

He clapped once. Short. Sharp.

"Three-nil."

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The silence in the room respected him louder than any shouting ever could.

"At St. James’ Park."

Another beat.

"No mistakes. No cards. No waste. And three goals."

He turned toward the tactics board, but only glanced at it.

"I told you before the match — this game was about revenge so well done."

He looked around the room. "They’re going to throw something new. Push their fullbacks. Maybe switch to a back three. Try to win the midfield by numbers."

Ranieri tapped the magnets.

"You stay compact. Trust Kanté. If they press, Mahrez—" he pointed, "you drop five yards. Drag their line down. Jamie—" he didn’t have to finish. Vardy was already nodding.

"But—" Ranieri looked around the room now, smile just tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Do you want more?"

Vardy didn’t blink. "I want five."

Drinkwater: "Clean sheet."

Mahrez raised one finger, then four. "Five-one. Maybe two for me."

Chilwell muttered under his breath, "You lot are insane."

Ranieri folded his arms. "Alright. But no drama. No hero ball. You get a chance? You take it. You don’t chase it."

He looked to Tristan last.

"And you?"

Tristan’s voice came soft. "I’ve got more."

"Then let them suffer."

—

Across the corridor — different world.

The Newcastle locker room didn’t feel still. It felt cracked.

Boots scraped across the floor like arguments. Tape wrappers scattered like broken plans. And McClaren’s whiteboard looked like it had been wiped down with pure desperation.

"Alright," he said, pacing with the cap still in his hand, hair fraying at the sides. "They’re killing us wide. So we push Janmaat up. Coloccini stays central. Switch to a 4-1-4-1, bring Sissoko tighter."

No one nodded.

He turned to Mitrović.

"Drop into midfield when you can. Don’t chase Tristan. Let him come to you. We bait him wide, then close him down with numbers."

Mitrović didn’t look convinced.

"You want me tracking Tristan?"

"You want to be on the pitch after 60?" McClaren snapped.

Coloccini muttered something in Spanish under his breath and sat back down.

Wijnaldum, voice low: "We hold shape. Stay disciplined. No fouls near the box."

Taylor: "We can’t even find him, mate."

Nobody laughed.

McClaren turned back to the board, wiped a smudge with his sleeve.

"If we can frustrate them, they’ll pull back. Just one goal. A set piece, a corner. That’s all it takes to change the game."

Janmaat piped up.

"Or it makes them angry."

McClaren looked at him.

Janmaat shrugged. "Have you seen his face?"

No one answered.

—

Back in the Leicester room, Vardy pulled his shin pads back on with a snap.

"You think they’ll actually press?"

"Doesn’t matter," Mahrez said, still lounging. "They press, we fly. They sit, we carve."

Kanté checked his boots one last time.

"Mitrović will foul," he said, quiet.

Chilwell blinked. "You sure?"

"He knows he’s losing. That’s when they foul."

Ranieri gave a short whistle. "Alright. Listen up. This half isn’t for us to survive. That’s for them, we need to control the ball more."

He pointed once more to the board.

"If we make it five, we don’t cheer."

Vardy: "We don’t?"

Ranieri smiled faintly. "We don’t gloat. We don’t taunt. We finish."

He stepped aside as the match kitman opened the door.

"Let’s go. Clean. Quick. Cruel."

—

Newcastle stepped into the tunnel like men walking into wind.

Coloccini didn’t speak. Janmaat cracked his neck side to side. Wijnaldum rolled his shoulders once and muttered, "One goal."

From the stands above, the fans hadn’t left. If anything — they were louder now. Searching for something to believe in.

Back in blue, Leicester emerged second.

Tristan pulled his sleeves down to his wrists.

Then they moved.

Drury’s voice met the noise. "They return to the pitch they’ve just conquered... and they come not as underdogs, but as architects of chaos. Leicester City — a club reborn under stormlight — lead by three."

Darren joined in.

"It’s not just the scoreline. It’s how they’ve done it. They haven’t run themselves ragged. They haven’t needed to. They’ve picked Newcastle apart like a jigsaw puzzle that never fit together in the first place."

Drury continued as the camera swept across Tristan, Mahrez, and Vardy walking in loose formation — calm, like kings returning to unfinished business.

"And right there are the players that caused so much pain not just for Newcastle tonight but the rest of the league and Europe. That Three Musketeers."

Fletcher added with a breath:

"If you’re Steve McClaren right now, you’re praying for a mistake. Any mistake. Because nothing else is working."

The whistle sounded.

And the second half began.

Leicester — Hale Family Living Room

The living room was quiet in the way only nervous rooms ever are.

The TV bathed the space in flickering color — crowd shots, stadium noise, the occasional replay running in the corner of the screen. Biscuit dozed at the foot of the couch, her soft breathing the only calm presence in the room.

Barbara sat tucked beneath a thick wool blanket, curled against one armrest. Her hair was up, but loose strands clung to her cheeks, and her eyes hadn’t left the screen once.

Julia sipped from a mug, lips pressed tight. Ling leaned forward in the armchair, hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees.

Nobody was speaking.

Until Julia exhaled." Newcastle haven’t changed a thing."

Barbara didn’t look away. "They will. They’ll go for his ankles soon."

"That’s what I’m worried about," Ling said. "Someone like Mitrović—he’ll go through him if he gets frustrated enough."

Barbara reached down and brushed Biscuit’s head gently. The dog gave a sleepy grunt and shifted.

"I just don’t want it to get ugly," Julia murmured. "It’s already 3–0. They’ve made their point."

Barbara whispered something in Hungarian, quiet but clear.

"Ne sérülj meg, kicsim." (Don’t get hurt, baby.)

Julia turned. "Was that—?"

Barbara said softly. "A wish."

The TV cut to a split shot — Ranieri calm on the sideline, Tristan adjusting his shin pads mid-stride.

Julia set her mug down. "He doesn’t even look tired."

Barbara tilted her head. "He’s not. But he is calculating."

Ling looked over. "You think he’s gonna push it?"

Barbara didn’t answer right away.

Then, without looking away:

"He’s going to finish it."

The room held still.

And on the screen, the game continued.

The whistle cut through the air like a cold slap.

Coloccini sucked in a breath. The air felt thinner now. He tugged the captain’s armband higher up his sleeve and glanced across the field. Leicester hadn’t huddled. Hadn’t gestured. Just... stood. A line of calm killers, waiting.

Wijnaldum tapped the ball backward with a quick jab of his boot.

"Here we go," Coloccini muttered under his breath.

The ball moved. Slowly at first. Passed back. Then sideways. Janmaat took it up the line, shoulders squared. Sissoko drifted wide. Thauvin checked in to offer a short option.

Mitrović turned and shouted, "More speed!"

Coloccini pushed forward two steps, enough to be heard.

"Build first. Don’t rush the bullet."

And yet — he could feel it. That spark. That surge that hadn’t existed in the first half.

"And so begins the second movement — one where Newcastle hope for more than pain. One where a single spark could become fire."

Darren: "It’s brave, Peter. They’re pushing Janmaat higher already, and Mitrović is sitting on Drinkwater. You can feel it — this is a team trying to punch its way back."

The ball circled again. Wijnaldum took it on the left. A soft first touch. A second to push. Simpson backed off, giving him the cushion.

Why?

"Don’t back off!" Coloccini shouted, even though he knew Simpson couldn’t hear. "He’s got space!"

The crowd stirred.

Wijnaldum feinted inside. Turned outside. Then lifted a curling ball toward the back post.

Coloccini’s head turned instantly. Janmaat was flying.

"JANMAAT’S THERE!"

Drury’s voice crackled.

"Whipped across first-time—"

The cross snapped low. Deflected.

It bounced once.

Simpson swung his leg — missed. Morgan leapt. The ball bounced off Mitrović’s back.

Chaos.

Coloccini surged forward, just in time to see it fall.

Wijnaldum again.

Off-balance. Half-set. But ready.

The strike came.

Low. Skimming. Left-footed.

It bounced on the edge of the six-yard box and skidded hard past Schmeichel’s dive.

GOAL.

Drury, rising now:

"Oh, that changes things! Pulled from the wreckage by Georginio Wijnaldum — and maybe, just maybe, this story isn’t over yet!"

Darren shouted: "Newcastle have a pulse! That’s what it took — pressure, persistence, and now pride!"

Coloccini didn’t scream. He didn’t run.

He just stood there, chest rising. Sweat sticking to his brow like glue. But inside — inside something moved.

Hope.

Wijnaldum wheeled away, fist clenched, and roared toward the bench. Mitrović followed him, mouth open, voice swallowed by the noise. Janmaat dropped to his knees, pounded the turf once, then sprang back up like it shocked him. Sissoko waved both arms at the crowd.

The stands answered.

"WE LOVE NEWCASTLE!"

It rumbled through the stadium. A chant reborn.

Coloccini turned to his team. "Lines high! Keep it up!" He pointed to the sideline. "Daryl, again! Same run!" Then to Thauvin. "Look for the second ball!"

On the sideline, McClaren pumped his fists like a man shaking ghosts off his back.

"NOW!" he barked. "PRESS THEM!"

Across the pitch, Ranieri didn’t complain. Didn’t shout.

But he turned.

"Shinji. Leo."

Coloccini caught the movement. He knew what that meant.

Fresh legs.

He jogged backward into shape. Felt the drumbeat of the crowd behind him.

It’s just one goal, he told himself. But it’s the right one.

And in his chest — still racing, still burning — something whispered:

It’s not over yet. They can make a comeback.

The ball was placed at center again, but this time, it didn’t feel like control.

It felt like provocation.

Newcastle surged like a mob with a plan. Red and black kits pacing the center circle like wolves who’d sniffed blood.

Coloccini jogged into position behind the halfway line. His legs still felt like tree trunks, but the heat was there now. Wijnaldum’s goal had lit a fuse in everyone — including him.

The crowd rumbled above them.

🎵 "TOON! TOON! BLACK AND WHITE ARMY!"

🎵 CLAP, CLAP, CLAP

🎵 "TOON! TOON! BLACK AND WHITE ARMY!"

It was relentless.

Across from them, Leicester didn’t look nervous.

Tristan stood with his foot on the ball. Mahrez adjusted his socks. Vardy spat once to the side and bounced on his toes.

"Well, that got ’em singing," Vardy muttered.

Tristan didn’t even look up. "Good. Let’s make them scream."

Mahrez gave a faint nod.

The whistle blew.

Ball rolled short. Tristan clipped it to Kanté, who had barely two touches before—

WHACK.

Mitrović barreled in with a shoulder and a trailing boot.

Kanté stayed up, but only just.

The ref came running. Straight yellow.

The home crowd didn’t care.

🎵 "HOOOOOOWAY THE LADS!"

🎵 "HOOOOOOWAY THE LADS!"

"Press him again!" McClaren barked. "Every touch!"

Next phase.

Mahrez dragged it central. Colback lunged late. Got the leg, not the ball.

Whistle again.

No delay. Another yellow.

Coloccini gritted his teeth. "We’re throwing cards away."

But he didn’t stop them. Not yet.

Because Leicester hadn’t hit back.

Ball to Tristan. One shoulder fake.

He spun Thauvin — clean.

Then came Sissoko. Full sprint. Arm up. Shove to the ribs.

Tristan stumbled, but didn’t fall. Looked back.

The ref gave it again.

Three yellows now.

The fans turned:

🎵 "WHO’S THE BASTARD IN THE BLACK?!"

🎵 "WHO’S THE BASTARD IN THE BLACK?!"

But the fourth foul didn’t come from Newcastle.

It came from Leicester.

And it came hard.

The next challenge? Maguire stepped into Mitrović — shoulder to shoulder, but with full weight.

The Serb went sprawling. No whistle.

Morgan shouted, "Let them know!"

Then Kanté. Again.

Thauvin got past one — but not him.

Boot through ball. Boot through shin. The ball won, the man down. Ref let it go.

Now Tristan.

Tristan snapped into Colback the moment he touched it. Boot to boot. Shin to shin. They both bounced back — but only one kept the ball.

Tristan didn’t even look at him.

He just passed it wide. Reset.

Coloccini clenched his fist. "Back off," he shouted to Sissoko. "Don’t foul unless it’s worth it!"

But they weren’t listening.

Next ball to Mahrez.

Janmaat dragged him down by the shoulder.

Whistle.

Another yellow.

Four in eight minutes.

Now the ref had had enough.

He pointed at Coloccini next.

"You’re the captain. Control it. Or someone’s going early."

Coloccini raised both palms, took a deep breath.

But in his chest, his heart was hammering.

Kanté won another 50/50.

Drinkwater skipped past one and fed Mahrez. Mahrez baited in three, then slipped it to Tristan — who went one, two, and danced through a gap.

Back to Vardy.

Off to the races.

The crowd screamed.

Taylor met him shoulder-on — no foul — but the ball spilled loose. Thauvin tried to recover — Mahrez stole it off him and fed it back central.

Tristan, again.

He turned. Didn’t shoot. Just looked.

Then passed it sideways. Back to Kanté.

Coloccini stared at him from thirty yards out, chest rising, legs shaking.

He didn’t look tired.

He looked bored, like waiting for something to happen.

And somehow, that scared Coloccini more than anything else.

56:44

The ball spun loose off Sissoko’s boot — ugly, awkward — just enough to unbalance the entire shape.

Coloccini saw it too late.

It pinballed through legs and space, and suddenly Tristan was moving — not sprinting, not chasing — gliding.

Like he’d been waiting for this very mistake. Like this was always going to happen.

Mahrez gathered. A single touch. A gentle layoff.

"Fuck" Coloccini whispered.

"Here comes Tristan!" Fletcher cried.

Drury stayed silent.

Tristan took the pass on the half-turn. Outside of the left. Perfect balance. The entire stadium roared — but it was background noise. Like static.

Colback lunged.

He never stood a chance.

Tristan’s heel-toe flick left him facing shadows.

"Don’t shoot," Coloccini muttered, heart climbing into his throat.

Tristan didn’t hear it — but maybe he felt it.

He drifted centrally. Just outside the arc. No one in front. No pressure behind. Just thirty yards of open grass and a crowd beginning to realize what was about to happen.

Coloccini backpedaled, screaming now.

"STEP! STEP TO HIM!"

No one did.

Tristan stopped.

Shifted the ball once.

Coloccini saw the boot come up — right leg pulled back like a hammer about to drop.

"No—"

CRACK.

The sound was like a gunshot in a cathedral.

The strike was pure murder. Bent with whip and heat. It didn’t rise — it hunted. Low. Arcing just enough to escape fingertips. Kissing the inside of the far post with a clink that echoed like a tolling bell.

GOAL.

St. James’ Park froze.

Coloccini didn’t move. He couldn’t. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He’d watched it all unfold. He saw the run. He saw the strike. He knew it was going in the moment boot met leather.

That helpless second.

That sinking dread.

The sound of thousands around him deflating in unison.

Fletcher’s voice cracked.

"TRISTAN HALE... FROM ANOTHER DIMENSION!"

Drury was on his feet now.

"A goal of violence, of vengeance — and of absolute bloody genius! You won’t see better this decade!"

Tristan stood just outside the box. Still. Boot lowered. Breath calm.

Then he turned.

Faced the Gallowgate End.

Lifted his right index finger to his lips.

Shhh.

The whole stadium exploded in rage.

BOOOOOOO!

Plastic seats rattled. Bottles hit railings. Insults were screamed from every angle.

But Tristan just stood there.

One finger to his lips.

Then pointed to his chest. Then to the pitch.

This is mine.

Vardy sprinted into him, nearly tackled him down. "That’s filth!" he shouted, laughing like a man on fire.

Mahrez wrapped an arm around his shoulder, yelling in French too fast to catch. Even Kanté jogged over, eyes wide with disbelief.

But Tristan didn’t smile.

He just stood there, letting the hatred pour down like acid rain — and loving every second of it.

Coloccini dropped to a crouch.

Head bowed.

Chest heaving.

He’d seen a lot in his career.

But never this.

Not from someone this young.

Not in this stadium.

Not like that.

Fletcher’s voice returned like thunder rolling back in.

"And St. James’ Park becomes a haunted house, a stadium cursed by the name Tristan Hale. Four-one. And every drop of noise you hear now? It’s fury — because they know he’s killed them again."

🎵 "WHO ARE YA? WHO ARE YA?"

Drury laughed bitterly.

"They’re chanting now. But they won’t forget it. They’ll replay this one in their nightmares."

And back on the pitch, as the boos rained louder than ever...

Tristan walked calmly to the center circle.

Head up.

Face calm.

Like he hadn’t just committed a footballing war crime.

Like it was just Tuesday which to him it really was.

58:00

The noise was changing now. The roar of the Gallowgate End had turned jagged — not proud, not hopeful, but angry. Desperate.

Coloccini stood in the backline, arms out, barking instructions. His pulse still hadn’t come down from Tristan’s thunderbolt. The kid had ended them. Again. And yet somehow... this match still had blood left to draw.

"Hold the line!" Coloccini shouted. "No more risks!"

But one of them wasn’t listening.

Jack Colback’s jaw was clenched like he was grinding steel between his teeth. Red in the face. Legs tense. The kind of look you got when humiliation met too much adrenaline and not enough discipline.

He didn’t care about tactics anymore.

He just wanted to hurt someone.

And he only had one name in mind.

The ball turned over again. A loose touch from Thauvin, scooped up by Kanté, fed through Mahrez — and suddenly it was back at Tristan’s feet in the middle of the pitch.

He turned into space. Calm. Quick shoulder check. Right foot preparing to drag the ball into stride.

58:17

Colback launched.

Studs up. Full sprint. Every ounce of frustration behind it. The kind of tackle that wasn’t meant to win the ball. The kind that wanted to leave a mark — or a limp.

The kind that ended seasons.

"Jack—!" Coloccini screamed, but it was too late.

The tackle came flying in. Studs flashed. Screaming boots. Gasps from the crowd.

Tristan caught the movement too late to sidestep.

The contact came—hard.

Full impact, right on the ankle.

Tristan’s leg buckled beneath him, and he went down with a thud.

Colback collapsed in the same motion—but didn’t get up.

Instead, he let out a sickening scream, rolling sideways, clutching his right ankle like it had shattered.

And Tristan?

He winced. Let out a sharp breath. But he didn’t scream. Didn’t clutch anything. Just lay on his side, blinking at the grass, stunned.

Then—

[SYSTEM NOTICE: Anti-Injury Card (x1) Activated — Impact Absorbed]

The pain faded as quickly as it came. Not completely — his ankle ached, sure — but it was dull. Blunted. Manageable. Like the force had been deflected somewhere else.

Back on the ground, Colback was still writhing.

The ref’s whistle split the air — shrill, furious.

And now came the chaos.

Mahrez was first to the scene. Arms up, shouting.

Then Vardy. Then Simpson. Drinkwater shoved Sissoko out of the way trying to reach Tristan.

Morgan stormed in from the backline, jaw clenched. "You trying to break his f—!"

"HEY!" the ref screamed, blowing the whistle again, stepping in between shoving bodies and flailing hands.

Coloccini grabbed Vardy by the shirt. Vardy shoved him off.

Sissoko grabbed Mahrez. Mahrez threw his arm away.

It was seconds away from a full brawl.

And then—Tristan sat up.

"I’M OKAY!" he shouted, loud enough that it cut through everything.

The others stopped.

He rose slowly. One hand brushing grass from his arm. No limp. No help. Just steady feet and a face that looked more irritated than hurt.

"I’m fine," he said again, firmer. "Let it go."

The ref turned back, hand already in the back pocket.

Colback was still down. Medics were sprinting over.

Red card. Straight up.

Fletcher’s voice came quietly through the broadcast.

"That... that might’ve been a career ender. And somehow, Tristan got up like it was nothing."

Drury added, "It was a horror challenge. Reckless. Malicious. And Tristan... just absorbed it. I’ve never seen anything like it."

On the touchline, Ranieri was already striding up, wild-eyed.

"Tristan!" he yelled, eyes darting to the physio behind him. "You need treatment? Ice? You want off?"

"I’m okay," Tristan said, rotating his ankle once, then again. "It stings, but I can play."

Ranieri stared at him like he’d gone mad. "You shouldn’t be standing."

"I’m standing," Tristan said, more calmly now. "Trust me. Something kicked in. I don’t know how to explain it."

"Are you sure?"

"I’ve got more to do."

Ranieri hesitated. Then nodded once. "Then finish it."

Mahrez stepped beside him. "You sure you’re alright?"

Tristan gave a nod. "He’s the one on the stretcher."

And he was.

Colback was being lifted now, pale, barely speaking, his ankle already swelling through the sock. The crowd didn’t cheer. Not even Newcastle’s fans. It was the kind of silence that came with seeing something ugly and knowing it wasn’t over.

Back in formation, Coloccini stood near midfield. He didn’t speak. Didn’t shout.

He just looked at Tristan, then looked away.

The game restarted.

Newcastle were down to ten. And he didn’t know what to do.

The restart wasn’t quiet.

It was limp. Pathetic. Fabric torn from the spine.

Coloccini stood at center-back, sweat stinging his eyes, hands trembling near his hips. Ten black-and-white shirts scattered like rags in a gale — out of sync, out of breath, out of fight. His legs felt twice their weight, his thoughts slower than they should’ve been.

This wasn’t defending anymore. This was delaying the inevitable.

🎵 "YOU’RE GETTING SACKED IN THE MORNING!"

🎵 "YOU’RE GETTING SACKED IN THE MORNING!"

🎵 "YOU’RE GETTING SACKED IN THE MORNING!"

The chant punched through the air from the Leicester end — cruel and perfectly timed. It wasn’t just aimed at McClaren.

It was aimed at them all.

Mahrez slowed it down near the sideline, skipping past Dummett with a flick that felt more insult than skill. The kind of dribble you only tried when you knew no one could stop you.

"Riyad," Vardy called, somewhere ahead. "Go wide!"

"I want them to suffer," Mahrez said — audibly enough for Coloccini to hear, and that was the worst part. He wasn’t even hiding it.

Tristan stayed central. Still fresh. Still cruel.

Every time he touched the ball, it felt like the stadium tilted toward him. Like the match belonged to him alone. The crowd noise warped around his movements. The ball kissed his boots like it loved him. And Newcastle’s midfield... they didn’t know whether to press him or pray.

Coloccini shouted, "STEP UP!" but his voice didn’t carry anymore.

It wasn’t fear. It was futility.

Sissoko jogged half-heartedly toward Tristan — just enough to make it look like pressure. But even that looked like surrender.

Tristan didn’t hesitate. He rolled the ball under his boot and stepped around him like he was stepping over a puddle.

"Oh no," Fletcher said, not as commentary — as lament.

"They’ve quit," Drury followed. "You can see it now. The line’s broken. The will’s broken."

Mahrez called for it again. He didn’t even need to yell. Leicester’s entire right side was theirs now. The crowd on that touchline leaned forward like they knew something was coming.

On the touchline, Ranieri stood still — unreadable. But his eyes weren’t just watching Mahrez.

They were watching McClaren.

The Newcastle manager was waving on two new subs.

Sammy Ameobi.

Siem de Jong.

Coloccini felt something die a little deeper in his chest.

"Siem?" he muttered aloud. "Now?"

From the Sky Sports studio, Roy Keane said what everyone else was thinking:

"Now? You’re bringing on Siem de Jong in the 70th minute of a 4–1 massacre?"

🎵 "YOU’RE NOT FIT TO WEAR THE SHIRT!"

🎵 "YOU’RE NOT FIT TO WEAR THE SHIRT!"

The Gallowgate End turned on itself. Their jeers no longer aimed at the enemy — but at their own.

Coloccini swallowed hard.

He wasn’t tired. He was broken.

And when he looked across the pitch, he saw Tristan again.

Not running. Just standing.

Ball at his feet.

Sunlight catching in his hair like a spotlight.

Like a painting.

He didn’t even shout anymore.

He just waited.

Waited for the ball to come again.

Waited for Tristan to end it properly.

Waited for the whistle that wouldn’t sound soon enough.

And still... There were twenty minutes left.

"You alright, Fab?" Janmaat muttered beside him, winded.

"Ask me after the whistle," Coloccini replied without turning.

Another pass.

Another chant.

Another minute ticked by.

And Leicester?

They were still playing.

Still hungry.

Still alive.

And Newcastle?

They were already gone.

90:00

No added time.

No protests.

No delay.

The referee raised his whistle to his lips — and blew.

Three short blasts.

Final.

St. James’ Park didn’t erupt. It didn’t groan. It just exhaled — one long breath that felt like resignation. There were no chants. No calls for the board. Just silence and exit steps.

Newcastle United: 2.

Leicester City: 6.

And in that scoreboard hung every bruise, every pass, every insult and answer.

The Leicester bench stood. Not with euphoria — but quiet satisfaction.

Kanté hugged Vardy near the sideline. Mahrez pointed skyward.

And

Tristan?

He walked slowly toward the away end. Arms loose at his sides. Breathing steady.

The fans reached for him — blue and white scarves stretching from the front rows. And when he got close, he raised his arms with fans reaching out for him, cameras and photographers all capturing that moment.

🎵 "WE KNOW WHAT WE ARE!"

🎵 "WE KNOW WHAT WE ARE!"

🎵 "CHAMPIONS IN WAITING — WE KNOW WHAT WE ARE!"

Fletcher’s voice cracked softly above the noise.

"They called it revenge. It became a reckoning."

Drury followed, grave but lyrical.

"And Leicester — who watched their teammate stretchered off here last season... who watched one of their own brutalized, mocked, written off... returned today not with fury, but with finality."

He let it hang for a beat.

"Six goals.

Three points.

And one crown jewel — nearly shattered — now standing taller than ever."

On screen, the replay package began to roll:

🔵 Leicester City Goals:

Goal 1: Mahrez, assisted by Tristan — a glancing header that opened the floodgates.

Goal 2: Tristan, fed by Albrighton — curled finish that doubled the pain.

Goal 3: Morgan, from Tristan’s corner — thunderous header, pure dominance.

Goal 4: Tristan, solo run and finish — the dagger from thirty yards.

Goal 5: Vardy, played in after a Mahrez–Tristan dummy — a thief in broad daylight.

Goal 6: Tristan’s chip — delicate, arrogant, final.

⚫️ Newcastle United Goals:

Goal 1: Wijnaldum, after chaos in the box — a defiant pulse amid the storm.

Goal 2: Sissoko, assisted by Thauvin — hope’s last flicker before the collapse.

"Three goals, two assists, countless bruises avoided by inches," Fletcher said. "But none more dangerous than that Colback horror tackle. Let’s be clear — England nearly lost its future today. Its brightest flame."

"And Marc Albrighton too," Drury added. "That opening hit — that wasn’t just late. That was a message. But it didn’t land."

He paused. Then, more softly:

"This time... Leicester answered back."

As the players walked toward the tunnel, the camera followed Tristan.

Ranieri placed a hand on his back. Said something only he could hear. Tristan nodded once, looked over his shoulder — back at the emptying stands.

He wasn’t smiling.

He didn’t need to.

He’d said everything already.

Leicester City 6. Newcastle United 2.

.

Felt like it was good to end here.

6.5k in total. A bit shorter than 10k but I had to delete around 3k of extra words since I just messed up that whole game so not happy with that.

I was a bit disappointed, we didn’t hit 400 power stones last Chapter smh. So hopefully this Chapter does better, lol.

Anyway I hope you guys like the Chapter.