England's Greatest
Chapter 218: Receipts Collected

Chapter 218: Receipts Collected

No Chapters on Tuesday and Saturday.

Join that Discord or Patreon if you want to.

Discord Link: .gg/s2DVMbqSf4

/c/Sinbad_

Now please do enjoy this 9k Chapter.

.

POST-MATCH INTERVIEW

Camera set. Mic clipped. Floodlights still bleeding into the tunnel. The crowd noise hadn’t died—just dipped into that low post-match hum.

Tristan stood just off-center. Boots unlaced. Shirt soaked and clinging to his shoulders. Hair curled wet against his forehead. A fresh cut ran down his left shin, red against white tape.

Match rating: 9.8.

Three goals.

Two assists.

Almost a second double-double.

The only player in the league to ever do that against Manchester United F.C.

The reporter didn’t bother warming up. He looked like he’d been bracing for this interview all night—brow furrowed, voice taut, card in hand.

"Tristan—first Premier League hat-trick of the season, two assists, a 6–2 win in what might’ve been the most hostile game we’ve seen all season. Put it into words."

Tristan didn’t smile.

"It’s justice," he said. "That’s what it was. Football remembers. And so do I."

He glanced toward the camera, then back toward the reporter.

"Last season, they kicked me. Took Danny out for a month. Elbows, stamps, and late tackles like it was part of the game plan. So we remembered. And tonight, they got the receipt."

The reporter nodded slowly.

"Let’s go straight to that first goal—you danced through Janmaat and Coloccini like they weren’t even there. Did you mean to embarrass them?"

Tristan tilted his head. Shrugged.

"If they wanted respect," he said, "they should’ve played with it."

A deep breath.

"They didn’t. So we had to do what we did tonight."

🎥 [ON SCREEN: REPLAY – 9th MINUTE]

Tristan cuts inside. Janmaat lunges. Misses. Coloccini steps up too late. Tristan drifts past both, low shot across Krul. 1–0.

"The second goal came right after Colback’s tackle. Looked bad. You stayed down. Then got up and scored again. Walk us through that."

Tristan glanced at his leg. Tapped it once.

[SYSTEM CARD USED — 1 REMAINING]

"I got lucky," he said. "One inch the wrong way and we’re not having this interview."

The reporter let out a quiet breath. Real, not rehearsed.

"Were you angry after that?"

"Yes, pretty mad. I know I didn’t show it during that match, but that’s because of who I am. I don’t like showing my anger or unhappiness. That’s not who I am. But after that, I didn’t want just revenge. I wanted complete humiliation."

🎥 [REPLAY – 41st MINUTE]

Loose ball. Mahrez’s shot was blocked. It falls to Tristan—limping but balanced. He buries it off the post. 4–1. No fist pump. Just silence.

"That third goal — 35 yards out, no wind-up. You walked to the away fans and shushed them. Was that planned?"

"They were loud all match."

A pause. "I figured I’d return the favor."

🎥 [REPLAY – 72nd MINUTE]

Strike from distance. Net snaps like a whip. Tristan walks slowly to the sideline, finger to lips, face blank.

"Newcastle seemed desperate to provoke you — Sissoko, Janmaat, Mitrović. Did that fuel you?"

"They talked. We scored six. You tell me who that worked for."

The reporter looked down at his card but didn’t use it.

"You’ve called Newcastle ’the most forgettable club with the loudest mouths’ before. Does today settle anything?"

"No." Tristan answered in a flat voice.

"If anything, it reminded me why I don’t respect them. This isn’t a rivalry. It’s a punching bag."

He hesitated. Then asked:

"Some will say this felt personal. That it went beyond football—"

"It was personal."

"Not because of tonight. What they did to Danny. What they did to me. What they keep doing. They play like it’s still the 80s—elbows first, brains last."

The reporter glanced sideways. Then locked back in.

"Let’s talk about that tackle. Colback goes in two-footed. You stay up. He’s the one who gets stretchered off. Some are calling that karma. What do you call it?"

Tristan didn’t answer right away, taking some time to collect his thoughts. He never liked to badmouth players or anyone, for that matter. He was raised better than that, but that tackle—if he didn’t have an injury card, he would have been out for a year or two, maybe longer.

So he couldn’t fault himself for not exactly feeling devastated about it.

"I call it justice."

A pause. "He tried to end my night. Instead, he ended his."

He looked directly at the reporter now.

"I didn’t touch him. Didn’t even foul him. He broke himself trying to break me."

Another pause.

"I don’t celebrate injuries. But I’m not going to pretend I feel bad either. He chose violence. He got consequences."

The reporter shifted his stance. Still holding the mic, but quieter now.

"You’re now on 16 goals and 12 assists in 13 league games. Leicester remain top. Still unbeaten. What’s next?"

"Rest. Recovery. Then United." Tristan answered, smiling. He liked playing against United for reasons.

"There’s a lot of focus on my numbers, but this match wasn’t just about me. Mahrez’s been unreal—again. Kante covered every blade. Ben’s growing every week. I couldn’t be prouder of him. You know growing up, we dream of moments like those together, playing against the best of the best. It’s our dreams coming true. Anyway our backline held when they needed to. Laet, Maguire to Huth. They all did an incredible job when we were getting attacked. At that start Newcastle were coming at us left and right. But thanks to everyone, we held them back to 2 goals, something that the entire team is proud of. And I can’t forget Kasper Schmeichel. It would have been one tough game without him. And right I almost forgot Vardy..."

He exhaled. The smallest flicker of a smile."If I didn’t mention him, he would probably kill me. "He scored in what, four in a row now? He’s got... sixteen goals already? That’s more than me."

Then—deadpan:

"Not that I said that. He’s still a very bad footballer."

The reporter laughed — genuinely this time.

Tristan stayed cold-faced.

"He’ll text me for that later once he sees this."

"Last one — anything to say to the Newcastle fans who chanted your name all match?"

"You started it."

Then he walked off towards that tunnel.

The door creaked open. Tristan stepped inside.

.

The noise hit him like a wave — not chants or stadium roars, but the low, chaotic thrum of celebration: laughter, slaps of tape, groans of bruised men half-stripping out of sweat-soaked kits.

Steam curled from a nearby shower. Someone yelled for ice. Another cursed as they peeled a sock off too fast.

All heads turned.

"Folks, he’s alive!"

Vardy was the first one over — shirt half-on, blood crusted on one knee, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

"Thought they chopped your leg clean off, mate."

Tristan raised an eyebrow.

"Only one way to find out."

Marc rubbed his ribs again, groaning theatrically.

"Honestly, when that fourth goal went in, I thought we’d get ten."

"We should’ve," said Danny, gesturing with his hands. "Remember when I slid that pass through to Vardy and he bottled it?"

"I slipped!" Vardy yelled. "The grass was wet!"

"You were five yards out!"

"And my laces were untied!"

"I untied them before kickoff, mate," Tristan added with a shrug before laughing.

"Betrayal," Vardy muttered. "This whole team’s snakes."

Kasper leaned back against the lockers, arms crossed.

"Tristan’s first goal, though — that shimmy past Janmaat and Coloccini? I nearly celebrated from the goal line."

"They both fell over like bowling pins," Ben said. "Replay’s going to live rent-free in my head."

"You should’ve seen Coloccini’s face after the second," Mahrez said, laughing. "He looked like he needed a minute to pray."

"Or retire," Huth added.

Tristan looked up from his boot.

"Which goal was your favorite?"

"The third," said Kasper instantly. "No one even saw you wind up. Ball was still rising when it hit the net."

"Keeper didn’t move," Marc said. "I did though."

Tristan shook his head, a laugh escaping.

"You lot talk more rubbish after a win than during the game."

"Course we do," Danny said. "We’re too tired to run now."

"I’ll be honest," said Mahrez, stretching his arms out like a corpse. "I don’t think I’ve got anything left in me for Rosenborg. Just play my statue."

"We’ll wheel you on with a Segway," Vardy offered. "Better than Newcastle’s midfield."

"I’ll take it," Mahrez said. "Just give me the armband too."

"You? You can barely lift your own arm," Tristan said.

"You all say that now," Mahrez muttered. "But wait till I score a screamer on Thursday."

"If your hamstring doesn’t fall off," Danny added.

Tristan leaned back against the bench, finally exhaling.

"I swear, I blinked and it was four-nil."

"That’s because you skipped the build-up," Kasper said. "Just teleported into the final third."

"Newcastle couldn’t even foul him properly," Huth muttered. "He danced through tackles like they weren’t even there."

"Oi," Vardy said, tossing a roll of tape toward Tristan. "Next time you score from thirty-five yards, at least act surprised. You looked bored."

"I was tired," Tristan said. "Carried you lot all match."

More laughter.

Then the physios moved fast.

"Sit," one of them said, pointing to the bench. "Boot off. Shin exposed. Let me see that now."

"I’m fine," Tristan started, but the other medic was already kneeling.

"You’re not fine. You took a two-footed challenge at speed. If that tape’s red and not the cut, I swear—"

"It’s a cut," Tristan said. "I’m fine."

Nobody heard that last part. Not with Danny shouting across the room.

"That was the worst kick-to-the-ankle I’ve had since Sunday League."

Marc groaned from the other end of the bench, an ice pack on his shoulder.

"Mate, I landed on my ribs. Heard something pop."

"You hear a lot of things, Marc," Mahrez called out, limping past with one boot still on. "Most of them in your own head."

Laughter. Then a grimace.

"Christ," Mahrez muttered, rubbing the back of his thigh. "They really wanted us dead."

"They got close," Huth added dryly, showing a bruise the size of a grapefruit on his hip.

"Yeah," Drinkwater said. "But we gave it back just as hard."

He raised his forearm — a scrape ran from elbow to wrist.

"Tit for tat," Chilwell muttered, his lip slightly swollen. "Except we left with the scoreboard."

Laet, slumped in the corner with a pack on his ankle, pointed toward Tristan.

"He left with more than that. Hat-trick, two assists. Legend."

"I’m right here," Tristan muttered.

"Yeah," Vardy said. "And you’re still ugly."

That got another round of laughter. Someone lobbed a sock at him. It missed.

"But seriously," Vardy added, pointing a thumb at Tristan, "that third goal — thirty-five yards? Not even a run-up? What d’you eat before the match, batteries? I need a Felix in my life. You think you can lend him to me for a few days."

"Just had some toast," Tristan said. "And no you can’t have Felix, get your own."

"Liar," said Kasper. "You’ve got rockets in those boots."

"Oi, don’t tell Nike," Vardy said. "They’ll charge us for breathing near him."

Behind the noise, quiet glances still trailed down to Tristan’s shin. The cut wasn’t deep, but it ran raw through white tape. The medic pressed gently near the bone.

Tristan didn’t flinch. Although it did hurt like a bitch.

"Bruised, not fractured," the physio finally said. "You’re lucky."

Tristan nodded once.

"I know."

Kasper padded by, towel over his shoulder.

"That save in the 63rd?"

"Reflexes," Tristan said.

"Nah." Kasper smiled. "Luck."

"You’re just bitter you didn’t get the clean sheet," Vardy cut in.

"I am bitter," Kasper said flatly. "Six-nil sounds like domination. Six-two sounds like we got bored."

"Revenge at the King Power," Chilwell said, raising a hand. "Make it seven-nil next time."

Marc scoffed.

"Let’s just make it through next week without bruising our entire left side again."

"Yeah," said Danny, nodding toward Mahrez’s leg. "Riyad’s gonna need a new hamstring."

"Don’t worry," Mahrez said. "I’ve got a spare."

Ben looked over at Tristan, who was finally unlacing his other boot.

"You good, mate?" Chilwell asked quietly.

Tristan gave a slow nod.

"Yeah."

"Didn’t look like it when that guy came flying in."

Tristan cracked a smile.

"That’s why we’ve got the system."

Ben blinked.

"What?"

"Nothing," Tristan said. "Just a joke."

Ben nodded as he took his shirt. He didn’t get that joke but that’s fine with him. He’s just happy no one got hurt from their side.

Vardy wandered back over, dragging his kit bag behind him like it weighed fifty kilos.

"Mate, be honest — did Barbara text you yet?"

"Not yet," Tristan said. "She’s probably still screaming at the TV."

"She’s expecting a United hat-trick too, isn’t she?"

Tristan glanced sideways.

"Don’t even say that."

Vardy smirked.

"Well, I’m not assisting this one. My legs have unionized."

"You say that every week," Tristan said. "Then you sprint for ninety."

"I said unionized," Vardy replied. "Didn’t say they were smart."

The door creaked open.

A gust of cooler hallway air swept in. Trainers stepped aside.

Claudio Ranieri walked in with Bentti just behind, both still in full tracksuits, rain darkening their sleeves.

The room quieted.

Ranieri’s eyes swept the chaos — the bags, the towels, the ice packs, the half-naked players sprawled like they’d just survived a war. Then, to the medical staff.

"Everyone okay?" he asked quietly.

One of the physios looked up from wrapping Mahrez’s thigh.

"No fractures. No major pulls. Just bruises, cuts, cramps."

Ranieri exhaled. "Grazie a Dio."

Bentti nodded. "Could’ve been worse."

The gaffer stepped farther into the room, hands behind his back.

"I want you to listen to me," he said. "Every one of you."

Boots scraped as a few sat up straighter. Even Vardy took the chewing gum out of his mouth.

"That team did not play football tonight. They came to fight. To hurt. To make you afraid."

He let that settle.

"And you did not back down. You stayed together. You didn’t lose your heads. You gave them football. You gave them six goals. You gave them a lesson."

A pause.

"But more than that — you came back without injury." He looked to Kasper. Then to Huth. Then Marc, then Danny. Then finally, Tristan.

"You have made me very proud."

The room didn’t cheer. It didn’t need to.

Ranieri glanced toward Tristan’s leg.

"Just bruising?" he asked the physio again.

The medic nodded. "Clean. No deep tear."

Ranieri let out a breath. Then leaned forward, one hand on Tristan’s shoulder.

"Good," he said softly. "You’ve done more than enough tonight."

Tristan gave a quiet nod.

"Same for all of you," Ranieri added, raising his voice again. "Get dressed. Recover. The bus leaves in ten."

He stepped back. Checked his watch.

"I have to speak to the press," he muttered, almost to himself. Then louder — "Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone."

That got a chuckle from the corner.

"Even if we do," Vardy said, waving weakly, "we’ll score six doing it."

Ranieri didn’t look back. But his hand lifted behind him — a small thumbs up as he disappeared into the hallway.

Bentti stayed a moment longer. He crouched to double-check Mahrez’s wrap, gave Laet a squeeze on the arm, and looked around once more.

"Wrap it up, lads," he said. "Let’s get home."

And just like that, the room stirred back to life.

Bags zipped. Cleats clacked. Showers hissed in the far corner.

And outside, the team bus waited beneath the cold northern rain.

.

The media room was too quiet at first. A few late camera crews were still setting up. A cough echoed. Then the door opened.

Claudio Ranieri stepped in.

He gave a polite nod to the front row, adjusted his coat, and took his seat at the table. The Leicester badge gleamed faintly in the mic light.

"We’re ready," said the club rep beside him.

Ranieri leaned forward.

"Good evening."

The cameras clicked. A Sky Sports journalist raised his hand.

"Claudio, congratulations on the result. Six-two away from home — one of the most dominant performances of the season. How proud are you of the team tonight?"

Ranieri smiled softly.

"Very proud. Very proud," he said. "Not just because of the score, but because of their attitude. It was a difficult match in many ways. We played brave football. We pressed. We passed. We scored six. But more than that, we stayed together."

Another hand shot up.

"It looked like a very physical game out there. Do you think Newcastle crossed the line tonight?"

Ranieri’s smile faded.

He leaned in.

"I don’t think. I know. They crossed it."

Murmurs stirred across the room.

"This is not how football should be played," he continued. "One or two challenges, yes, that happens. But this? This was not one or two. This was a plan. And it was ugly."

He tapped the table lightly.

"Marc Albrighton could not breathe properly after landing on his ribs. Riyad’s thigh was nearly torn. Chilwell — a young boy — had bruises across his back. And Tristan..."

Ranieri paused.

"Tristan could have lost half his season from that tackle. Two feet. High speed. On the shin. Do you know what saved him? Tape and luck. That’s not football. That’s hunting."

The room went still.

"I am very glad," he said, quieter now, "that none of my boys were seriously injured. Because it could have been much worse. And if it had been, I would be speaking to you with a different tone."

A beat passed. Then another reporter spoke up.

"Was there anything said between you and Steve McClaren afterward?"

Ranieri shook his head. "No. I needed to speak to my players first. I don’t know what he told his. But I hope he watches the tape. Carefully."

He straightened.

"Now — if we speak of football..."

The mood lightened a bit.

"Tristan Hale — hat-trick, two assists, a match rating of 9.8. He was everywhere. He took damage and kept playing. A real leader. Vardy — relentless as always. Riyad — magic when it counted. And N’Golo Kanté..."

He smiled again.

"Magnificent. I don’t know how many blades of grass he missed, but I think it’s less than ten."

Laughter rippled.

"We’ve played a lot of games this year. But this one? Maybe my proudest. Not because we humiliated the other team — but because we walked off the pitch."

He stood up slowly.

"That’s all for now. Thank you."

And with that, Ranieri stepped down — calm, composed, and angry in only the way a father figure could be.

.

The flash bulbs fired as the Newcastle United manager stepped up to the microphone, jaw set, tie loose, and his shoulders squared like a man walking into an ambush.

And he was.

The room was full — the back wall lined with journalists, most already thumbing through Ranieri’s explosive quotes and rewatching clips of Tristan Hale’s cutting post-match interview.

The tension wasn’t just thick. It was hungry.

He adjusted the mic. "All right. Let’s get on with it."

The first question came hard and fast.

"You’ve seen Ranieri’s comments — he said your players played dangerously, almost recklessly. Any response?"

He didn’t blink. "We played hard. This is the Premier League. Tackles happen. Some were late, sure. But intent? No. I back my lads. They fought. Didn’t hide. That’s what I ask of them."

Another voice cut across the pause.

"Do you think the two-footed challenge on Tristan Hale was acceptable?"

He exhaled slowly. "It’s a contact sport. The lad who went in misjudged it. It’s fast out there. Hale’s quick — maybe the best in the league. If you’re half a second late, it looks worse than it is. But no one’s going out to break legs."

"Except he stayed on, scored a hat-trick, and walked away with a 9.7 rating."

A few snorts from the front row. He frowned.

"Yeah. He’s that good. Even when you think you’ve got him, he slips past. We tried to contain him. We didn’t. He punished us."

A third reporter leaned in. "But it wasn’t just one tackle. Marc Albrighton left with suspected rib bruising. Mahrez limped off. Chilwell was down twice. Kasper Schmeichel took a boot to the shin. This didn’t look like a football match — it looked like a gauntlet."

The manager leaned closer to the mic.

"You think I told my players to go out there and cripple Leicester? Really? That’s what you’re implying?"

"I’m asking if it looked deliberate. Because to a lot of us — and to Ranieri, and Tristan himself — it did."

The manager’s jaw ticked.

"I’ve managed in this league for a long time. I’ve never — never — told a player to cross that line. I don’t coach cowards. I don’t coach thugs. I coach footballers. And they got it wrong tonight. But don’t talk to me about intent unless you’re in the dressing room."

A voice from the side chimed in.

"Tristan said in his interview that ’football remembers — and so do I.’ He called tonight justice for last season, when your side injured him and Danny Drinkwater. Is this personal history playing out?"

Silence. Then: "Look, I get it. He’s emotional. He’s passionate. He played a hell of a game. But it’s easy to throw around lines like that after you’ve just scored three. You want to talk about last season? Fine. Talk about it. But tonight — tonight was a game we lost. End of."

"But you didn’t just lose. You collapsed. Four goals in thirty minutes. No subs made until after the damage. Tactically — wasn’t this a disaster?"

"We got it wrong," he said, nodding. "Absolutely. We’ll own that. But don’t mistake a tactical failure for some kind of moral one."

"Then why were the tackles still flying in when the game was already gone? Was that frustration? Or instruction?"

"They were chasing the game. Emotions run hot. Doesn’t mean it’s calculated. I’m not proud of every moment, no. But these are young men fighting for pride."

"Leicester had four players rated over 9.0. Kante had 8.9. Vardy scored again. Did your players show any fight in the second half?"

He scowled.

"You think they’re not hurting right now? Think they’re laughing in the locker room? They’re gutted. We got outclassed. We got outrun. But don’t you dare say they didn’t care."

One reporter raised a phone mid-question.

"There’s already a fan video going viral — Tristan brushing off the tackle, then nutmegging one of your midfielders two minutes later. Some are saying it’s symbolic of where Newcastle is right now. That you’ve lost your edge."

The manager gave a tight, tired shake of his head.

"Let them post what they want. Our edge isn’t gone. It’s dulled. And that’s on me to sharpen it."

"Newcastle’s now 19th. Just six points from 13 games. What changes?"

He looked down briefly. Then back up.

"We regroup. We train. We recover. And we take responsibility. I’m not hiding from this. Neither are the players. We’ve got to stop the bleeding, and fast."

A reporter near the front took the moment to strike. "Do you expect to still have a job by the weekend?"

The room went still.

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat there. Then: "That’s not my call. I’ll keep working until someone tells me to stop. But I’ll say this — I still believe in this squad."

Another voice followed — cold, blunt.

"Your fans don’t. There were chants for your sacking before the fourth goal. Do you think you’ve lost the dressing room?"

He stared at that reporter for a long second.

"No. Not yet. But if I do — I’ll be the first to walk."

A younger journalist raised her hand, softer tone.

"Do you regret the way your team played? Not the scoreline — the approach."

He paused again.

"I regret the mistakes. I regret the result. But I won’t regret effort. Some of it was misdirected. Some of it crossed a line. But that’s on me to fix. I’ll own that."

One last voice, tired and skeptical. "Is this still your dressing room?"

He stood."It is until someone locks me out."

Flashbulbs popped as he walked off.

The door slammed as he walked into the locker room.

Hard.

No one looked up.

Boots sat half-peeled on the floor. Ice bags wrapped in towels. Kit clung to skin. The overhead light buzzed like a broken wasp. It was quiet — not the kind of quiet that comes after a loss. This was silence like something had cracked.

The air stank of liniment, blood, and embarrassment.

The manager stormed in, coat still on, rain on his shoulders. He looked like a man who had aged ten years in ninety minutes. His jaw clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone. His voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Where’s the update?"

No one answered. Not right away.

Then one of the staff spoke up from the corner, phone still in hand.

"Colback’s at RVI. They’re doing a scan now."

"On what?" the manager snapped.

"Knee. Tibia might be fractured. They think the ligament tore when he hit the ground. Said it bent wrong."

The manager froze. Like someone had unplugged him.

"And?"

"They’re keeping him overnight."

Silence.

He didn’t move. Just stared at the floor. At the mud and blood and laces, like they were evidence of some crime he hadn’t meant to commit.

Then came the explosion.

"I told you. I fucking told you!"

Players flinched like they’d been slapped.

"You think I wanted this? You think I asked for this? I said pressure. I said stay close. I didn’t say break bones!"

Sissoko sat back, eyes down. Mitrović leaned on the bench, jaw locked. Janmaat stared at the floor like it had answers.

"You made Tristan a goddamn martyr!" he yelled. "You didn’t take him out of the game — you made him headline the fucking news. You turned him into a victim and a hero. He scored three. Walked off like a king. And now look where we are."

Nobody responded. A water bottle rolled slowly across the floor.

"And for what?" he barked. "So you could foul yourselves out of the match? So you could prove what — that we’re harder? That we can kick our way to respect?"

Someone tried to mutter something.

He didn’t let them.

"No. Don’t speak. Don’t even try. We didn’t just lose. We embarrassed ourselves. And now Jack’s in a hospital bed because you couldn’t control yourselves."

He pointed at the physio.

"When you hear more, tell me. I don’t care if it’s 3 a.m."

The physio nodded once. Quietly.

The manager turned back to his players. Eyes burning.

"If any of you think that was a performance worth defending — don’t show up on Monday. I swear to God."

His chest heaved once. Then again.

"I built this team to survive. Not to disgrace the badge."

Then he walked out.

No one moved.

The door didn’t slam this time.

It clicked shut.

And left behind eleven men, too ashamed to speak.

Even Mitrović, who always had something to say, just ran a hand over his face. His knuckles were scraped raw. His laces still untied.

Janmaat rubbed the back of his neck. "What the fuck are we doing?" he muttered, to no one in particular.

No one answered.

Somewhere down the corridor, a medical cart rolled past. A muffled voice called for towels. The world kept going.

But inside that locker room — it felt like the season had just cracked in half even more than before.

.

Leicester City Team Bus

Rain speckled the tinted windows. Headlights cut long ribbons of light down the dark motorway.

Tristan sat near the back of the bus, headphones around his neck, one boot still off, bandage wrapped clean across his shin. Kante sat beside him, quiet as ever — eyes fixed on the road, hands clasped over his lap.

Neither of them had spoken for a while.

Kante finally broke the silence.

"You alright?" Kante asked in French.

Tristan looked down at his leg.

"Mostly. You?"

Kante gave a small shrug.

"They hit everyone. Didn’t matter who had the ball."

Tristan nodded. His hand drifted to the bandage again, pressing lightly. He could still feel the sting of that impact — not the pain, but the weight of what almost happened. It had been that close.

"I think they really wanted someone off the pitch," Kante added. "Anyone."

Tristan didn’t reply right away.

Then he said, "They didn’t get it."

Kante smiled faintly. "No. They didn’t."

The bus rolled on. A few rows up, Marc shifted in his seat with a muffled groan. Mahrez had one leg draped over his own kitbag, headphones on, mouth moving to something no one else could hear. Vardy was asleep, arms crossed and snoring like a broken lawnmower.

Tristan leaned his head against the cold glass.

Then his phone buzzed.

He checked it since he had almost everyone on muted other than very few important people to him.

Love: Are you okay? We’re all watching. Your parents are terrified. I didn’t message during the game. I didn’t want to distract you. But we’re all freaking out.

He stared at the screen for a second.

Another text came through.

Please just say you’re okay. Please.

Tristan thumbed a reply.

I’m okay. We’re all okay. Just bruises. Nothing worse. I promise.

A second buzz.

You didn’t look okay.

He smiled faintly.

I didn’t feel okay either. But I’m here. And I’m coming home.

Barbara didn’t respond right away.

But the typing bubble appeared. Then disappeared. Then returned again.

Finally: Good. Because I’m not letting you out of bed for a week.

Tristan chuckled under his breath.

Kante glanced sideways.

"Barbara?"

"Yeah."

"She mad?"

"She’s Hungarian," Tristan said. "So... yes. But also worried. And loving. And absolutely going to lecture me when I get back."

Kante tilted his head. "That sounds... scary."

"It is."

They sat quietly again. The rain tapping harder now. Somewhere near the front, Kasper and Huth were talking softly with Bentti. The rest of the team dozed or rested in silence.

Tristan looked out the window again — dark fields, the occasional farmhouse, headlights like ghosts passing in the opposite direction.

He thought of the tackle. Of the blood. Of the system notification blinking behind his eyes.

[CARD USED — 1 REMAINING]

He hadn’t told anyone that part. He wasn’t sure he ever would. Who could even understand him? In that single moment he thought it was over until that system notification came in.

The bus kept rolling home as he tried to think what he’s gonna say to his parents and Barbara when he does make it home.

.

Belvoir Drive – 12:34 AM

The team bus rolled to a quiet stop outside the training ground. The rain had thinned into a mist, fogging the windows. The engine clicked as it cooled. Inside, the players stirred — groggy, bruised, half-asleep.

Ranieri stood slowly from the front seat, clearing his throat.

"All right, my friends," he said gently. "You’ve done more than enough tonight. Go home. Rest. Be with your families."

He paused, hand on the seat back.

"You made me proud. And more importantly — you made Leicester proud."

A few tired claps followed. Bentti gave a nod. Vardy mumbled something about protein bars. Huth just grunted.

Ranieri smiled faintly and tapped the roof of the bus.

"Go. Before I start crying."

One by one, the players filtered off — boots thumping against the metal steps, shoulders hunched against the cold. Kit bags dragged. Someone cursed softly when they bumped a knee on the handrail.

Tristan waited near the back, letting the others go first. His shin still ached, but he didn’t limp. Not in front of them. Kante gave him a pat on the shoulder. Marc nodded. Mahrez offered a quiet, "See you Thursday."

Finally, Tristan stepped off into the cold.

A green Aston Martin One-77 purred at the curb. Headlights low. The driver’s window rolled down.

"Legs still working?"

John.

Tristan exhaled. "Just barely."

Tristan eased into the passenger seat, shutting it with a muted thunk. The leather smelled brand new. Of course it did.

John shifted into gear.

"Home or your folks’?"

Tristan glanced out the tinted window. Fog clung to the glass. In the mirror, he could still see Vardy waving dramatically at someone behind him. Kasper pulling his hood up. Chilwell laughing, still limping.

"My parents’," he said. "They’re all waiting."

John nodded. "Figured."

He pulled out smoothly, the Aston gliding onto the main road.The city lights streaked past in amber lines. Rain tapped lightly against the windshield.

Tristan leaned his head back.

"You got here quickly."

"Left halfway through the second half. Barbara called me," John said. "Told me to bring the nice car."

Tristan chuckled. "She didn’t."

"She did. Said you’d need cheering up."

They didn’t talk for a minute. Just the quiet hum of the road, the soft click of the indicator.

Then John muttered, "How are you?."

Tristan glanced over.

"Fine but man does my body hurt, they didn’t go easy on my shins."

John nodded slowly.

"At least you didn’t get injured. I was praying once I saw that tackle on Marc."

"Thank you."

They pulled into the residential street five minutes later. Warm yellow light glowed from the Hale family front window.

Before he could reach for the door, his phone buzzed again.

Love: We’re waiting. Don’t make me come outside.

He smiled as he looked outside and found that Range Rover parked outside.

John parked gently.

"Go on," he said. "Have a good night. I’ll park that car in your house."

And with that, Tristan stepped out into the cold. Limping slightly. But walking tall.

The moment Tristan stepped through the door, she was there.

Barbara didn’t say a word. She just wrapped her arms around him like she needed to make sure he was solid. That he was okay. Her forehead pressed into the curve of his neck, breath warm, fingers clutching the back of his jacket.

"You scared the hell out of me," she whispered in Hungarian.

Tristan buried his face in her hair for a moment, then kissed the side of her head. Not wildly — not here, not with his parents just a few feet away — but enough.

"I’m okay," he murmured. "I promise."

"You better be," she said, voice still soft but firmer now. "Because I was ready to call the ambulance myself."

Julia stepped in next. She didn’t wait. She just pulled her son into her arms like she used to when he was ten and got knocked over in Sunday League. Her hands touched his shoulders, then his face, then his hair, as if checking every inch.

"You’re not limping too much," she said, inspecting. "But that’s still a limp. Do you need ice? Tea? Food?"

Tristan smiled. "I’d start with a hug, maybe."

She hugged him again, tighter this time. "You’ll get all three."

Ling hovered nearby, quieter as always, but when Tristan turned toward him, his dad pulled him in with one arm, the other hand clapping lightly against the back of his son’s head.

"You handled yourself," he said, voice low. "Proud of you."

"Thanks, Dad."

Then—

"Yip!"

Biscuit came flying out from the living room, skidding across the hardwood like a fluffy missile. Her tiny paws scrambled for grip, tail a blur.

"Hey—hey—Biscuit—" Tristan knelt just in time to catch her as she leapt into his chest, yapping excitedly, licking his chin like she’d been personally responsible for keeping him alive.

Barbara crouched down beside them, rubbing the pup’s ears. "She didn’t stop pacing during the second half," she whispered. "Just like me."

Julia appeared again, hand on her hip. "Alright — enough excitement. He hasn’t eaten. Let the boy breathe."

She turned toward the kitchen. "I made your favourite. Felix dropped off those sourdough rolls you love. Come eat before I make you lie down."

Tristan stood with a wince. "Food sounds good."

"I told her you’d be starving," Barbara said, linking her fingers with his. "Now hurry before she tries to feed you from all four burners."

They all moved toward the kitchen — Biscuit still orbiting like a satellite — and a few minutes later, Tristan was at the dining table, legs sore, heart full, and a hot plate of food steaming in front of him.

Julia poured him tea. Barbara sat beside him, knees touching. His dad switched on the small TV above the counter.

Static flickered once, then loaded into Sky Sports News.

Tristan didn’t even need to ask.

The screen showed a looping reel of the match — that third goal already trending worldwide.

A red ticker scrolled across the bottom:

TRISTAN HALE HAT-TRICK HUMILIATES NEWCASTLE – LEICESTER STAY TOP

And above that, in studio:

Alan Shearer. Jamie Redknapp. Glenn Hoddle. Graeme Souness.

Tristan took a bite of bread and leaned back, watching them begin their breakdown of the game.

Barbara leaned in close, eyes on the screen.

"Think they’ll behave tonight?" she asked.

Tristan gave a tired smile.

"Not a chance."

On-screen, the Sky Sports banner read:

LEICESTER 6 – 2 NEWCASTLE | HALE HAT-TRICK, CHAOS IN THE NORTHEAST

Jamie jumped in first, voice already loaded with disbelief.

"That was... something else. I mean, we expected physical. We expected hostile. But that wasn’t just a battle — that was borderline warfare. And Leicester didn’t just survive it — they outclassed them."

Graeme nodded, arms folded.

"What I respect most?" he said. "They didn’t roll around. Didn’t foul-bait. Didn’t try to get anyone sent off. They took the hits, dusted themselves off, and put six past them. That’s as professional as it gets."

Glenn added more softly, shaking his head.

"You look at the way Leicester responded — not once did they let the emotion boil over. Mahrez got kicked to pieces. Albrighton landed hard. Tristan Hale had a two-footed lunge go straight into his shin, and he got up, scored again, and walked away. That’s the mentality of champions."

Barbara smiled faintly at that.

Alan meanwhile, looked like he was chewing nails.

"I’m embarrassed," he said flatly. "As a former Newcastle man — that was shameful. No shape. No discipline. No dignity. And that manager? He’s lost the dressing room. You don’t send a team out like that unless you’ve got nothing left."

Jamie raised an eyebrow. "You think McClaren’s done?"

"He should be," Alan snapped. "You’ve got a club hovering in 19th, and this is the response? To go out and try to kick their way to a result? It backfired. Massively."

Glenn nodded in agreement.

"And the officiating? Look, it’s easy to hammer the ref after a game like that. But I actually think he handled it about as well as he could. Yellow cards were flying. He let things play where it made sense. That match was always going to boil — he just kept the lid on as long as he could."

Graeme grunted.

"Could’ve been worse. No red cards. No broken legs. That alone’s a miracle."

Jamie leaned forward slightly. "And through all of it — Tristan Hale. Hat-trick. Two assists. Didn’t retaliate once. Didn’t complain. Just played football. That’s frightening maturity for a 20-year-old."

Alan sighed. "And United better be watching that with mixed emotions."

Jamie glanced sideways.

"You think it helps United?"

"They’ll be thinking, Leicester must be drained. All those tackles, all that effort — surely they can’t go again in four days. But that’s the thing, isn’t it?"

Glenn smiled faintly. "It’s Leicester. And this version of Leicester... they don’t follow common sense."

The screen cut to a clip of Tristan’s 72nd-minute goal — that thunderbolt from range.

Graeme spoke last, voice low.

"That’s not a tired player. That’s a lad who knows he’s got more left."

Another highlight rolled: Coloccini’s stunned expression after Tristan danced past him. Then another — Kante intercepting three passes in the span of 12 seconds. Then Vardy’s curled finish for Leicester’s fifth.

"I’ll say it again," Jamie said, tapping the desk. "This isn’t a fluke. This isn’t just Tristan Hale magic. This is a team. Mahrez, Vardy, Kante — they’re all clicking. And defensively? Harry Maguire was a rock. Schmeichel made five key saves. That’s title-challenger behavior."

Glenn added:"And the discipline! That’s the part that’s getting overlooked. Newcastle were begging for a brawl. And Leicester didn’t give them one. They gave them football."

Barbara’s lips quirked again. She glanced sideways — Tristan was chewing slowly, eyes fixed on the screen.

Back on screen, the panel shifted tone again.

Alan spoke sharply. "I’ve seen bad games. I’ve been part of them. But that... that’s a statement. Not just to Newcastle, but to the league. They got hit. And they hit back with goals. That’s terrifying."

Jamie pointed at the statline behind them.

"Tristan Hale — 16 goals, 12 assists. In 13 league games. Add in the Europa League, international fixtures... that kid’s pushing numbers we have never seen before. I don’t say that lightly."

Graeme added with a grim nod.

"And he’s doing it with ice in his veins. Not flashy for the sake of it. Not chasing headlines. He just dismantled an entire team and barely celebrated."

"Because he meant it," Glenn said quietly. "He said it himself — justice. This was personal. And he delivered it like a surgeon."

Alan didn’t look away from the screen. "And now he’s got Manchester United next. Saturday. Old Trafford."

That brought a hush over the panel.

Jamie finally said it.

"Revenge against Newcastle. Undefeated in the league. Still top. And next — the biggest test so far. You couldn’t script it better."

Glenn folded his hands. "If I’m Louis van Gaal, I’m not sleeping easy tonight."

Souness grunted.

Barbara nudged Tristan’s knee under the table.

He looked over.

"You ready for United?"

Tristan didn’t answer right away. He just looked at the screen as the next headline came up:

"Is Leicester Unstoppable?"

Then he said, "Yeah." His voice was quiet. "I’m ready but babe please don’t ask for a hat-trick."

The segment transitioned to new visuals — heat maps, duels won, pass networks.

Tristan’s name sat in the center of it all. Not just in bold — glowing. A neon web of movement and influence, like a general’s campaign trail drawn across enemy lines.

Glenn pointed at the screen.

"Look at that. That’s not just attacking midfield play. That’s a player dictating space. Look where he’s popping up — edge of the box, left wing, even tracking into his own half to carry the ball. You don’t teach that at twenty."

Barbara watched Tristan’s eyes flick toward the tactical chart, quiet and thoughtful.

Redknapp jumped in.

"He’s two passes ahead. That’s the difference. It’s why you can’t foul him properly — by the time you reach him, he’s already gone. And the way he drags defenders out of shape? That’s what gave Vardy those lanes."

"Six dribbles completed," Souness said. "Three chances created. Three goals. That’s a striker’s statline. From a midfielder."

"He’s not even a midfielder," Glenn added. "Not really. He’s... a hybrid. A controller and a killer. A playmaker with a forward’s heart."

Barbara snorted softly at that. "They’re gonna run out of positions soon."

Tristan leaned back, arms folded now across his chest. The blanket tugged slightly as Barbara scooted closer, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Tell me again how you were tired in the second half," she murmured.

"I was," Tristan said. "Tired of being kicked."

Barbara smiled into his shirt.

On screen, the broadcast played a slowed-down replay of the third goal — the one that silenced St. James’ Park.

The camera caught it all: his faint lean, the way Janmaat and Coloccini bit too hard, then the rifle-shot that crashed off the crossbar and in. The way the net barely moved — but the stadium did.

"Goal of the Month contender," Jamie said.

"Goal of the season contender," Alan corrected.

The panel didn’t disagree.

Alan Shearer pulled up Leicester’s upcoming fixtures.

"Now the real question — can they keep this up? United on Saturday. Then Rosenborg in the Europa League."

Jamie whistled.

"That’s a gauntlet. And they’ve played nearly every minute with the same starting core."

Graeme crossed his arms.

"This next match will show us everything. United won’t play like Newcastle. They’ll keep their shape. They’ll try to choke the tempo, force Leicester into wide zones. They won’t make that same mistakes like last season. There’s a reason they are third in the league."

"And they’ll be desperate," Glenn added. "United have to win. And they’ll want to make a statement."

Tristan looked toward the TV, where another stat flashed:

Leicester: Undefeated in 13 Games | Most Goals Scored in Europe’s Top 5 Leagues

Then the screen faded to commercials.

But the message was already written.

Leicester was that team to fear this season.

.

The bedroom was dark, save for the soft blue glow of his phone screen. Rain tapped faintly at the windows — a slow, steady rhythm like the world was exhaling after everything that came before.

Barbara lay curled half over him, one hand tucked near his ribs, her breath rising and falling with the calm regularity of sleep. A blanket was draped across them both. Her hair spilled onto his chest, warm against his skin.

Tristan’s thumb flicked slowly upward.

He wasn’t tired. Not really. His shin ached. His ribs too. But his mind? Still racing. Still processing. Still wired like he hadn’t stepped off that pitch at all.

A notification slid in. Twitter. Then another.

He tapped.

Trending:

• Leicester 6-2 Newcastle

• Tristan Hale

• "Justice"

• Colback

• #NUFCOut

The screen refreshed. New posts popped in real-time — retweets, slow-motion clips, side-by-sides of him shushing the away fans and Coloccini’s frozen expression.

He blinked. Then smiled.

@LennyIsBroke: This is poetry. Hale gets tackled like it’s a UFC match, then drops this a minute later. [Clip] #Justice

@DonateToLenny: Tristan Hale’s game IQ is off the charts. Never overreacts. Never gets baited. Just finishes the game with a body count. Compare that to someone like Neymar and Ronaldo. Man, it’s a world of difference.

@Don’tDrinkAlcholo: No red cards. No diving. No whining. Just six goals and a thousand bruises. This team is steel-wrapped class.

@UnitedWeStand: Still can’t believe Newcastle woke up and chose death. You don’t kick Leicester. You don’t kick 22. You just get cooked.

Tristan shifted slightly. Barbara stirred but didn’t wake. Her hand tightened briefly on his side. He kissed the top of her head once, then kept scrolling.

@Kevin: Let’s be real — Newcastle were begging for a fight. What they got instead was a footballing execution. Every goal made it worse.

@Ethan_Brown: I feel like we got mugged by a ballet troupe. That was elegant violence.

@LennyIsIrish: We are respectfully reconsidering Thursday’s match. Maybe we all just go home. #EuropaLeague

@Bretano: Everyone saying Leicester will be tired by Saturday — but Tristan looked like he could’ve played 120 minutes. That’s not fatigue. That’s terror.

He stopped scrolling for a second and let his hand rest on Barbara’s back. Her skin was warm under his palm. Her breathing still slow. Still steady.

She didn’t ask questions tonight. Not after the TV. She just pulled him into bed, held him longer than usual, and whispered "You’re okay now."

He believed her.

@PremierPowerRankings:

Updated:

Tristan Hale

Kante

Mahrez

Vardy

Fear of Tristan Hale

@BoomBoyz⸱: Newcastle tried to break Tristan. Now they’re broken. United fans acting confident like they’re not next in line.

He laughed once. Quietly. Not enough to wake her. Then dropped the phone to the mattress beside him.

The storm outside kept tapping at the windows.

And somewhere in the distance, in stadiums not yet filled, teams were watching. Preparing.

United included.

Because Leicester were still undefeated.

And Tristan Hale was still roaring.

.