England's Greatest
Chapter 220: Prep Part 1

Chapter 220: Prep Part 1

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November 26, 2015

Manchester — 1:42 AM

David De Gea sat alone on his couch in the flat. The television’s glow flickered across his face, soft and bluish, the only light in the room aside from a single lamp humming weakly in the corner. A half-empty glass of water rested untouched on the coffee table. His legs were tense. His spine ached. But he hadn’t moved in over an hour.

The match had ended long ago. But he kept watching.

Rosenborg 0 – 1 Leicester City.

He’d already seen it live. Now he was watching it again. And again. But not for the goal.

He watched how Leicester moved. How the midfield pressed. How even without Tristan Hale on the pitch, they played with intention. Quiet menace. Like wolves in formation, waiting for a crack in the ice.

And when the winner came — a late Ulloa header from a corner — it wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t memorable.

But it was enough.

And that was the part that twisted something in his gut.

They didn’t even need Tristan to win in Europe anymore. They could rest him. Hold him in reserve like a blade behind glass.

After that game against Newcastle and Leicester rotating that main squad, he thought finally they would be defeated but no, they just to claw a goal back and continue with their undefeated record.

How the Spurs managed to tie them at the start of the season was good of a guess as anyone. Only thing he could think of Leciester were still getting used to their new manager and new formation and playing style.

Add in players like Kante with the squad improving over the summer, you get a nightmare of a team.

De Gea leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Hands clenched. He rewound the clip again — not to see the goal, but to catch the glimpse of 22 standing near the dugout.

He wasn’t warming up. Wasn’t jumping or shouting. Just... watching. Calm. Still. Like a lion behind a fence.

David exhaled, slow. His chest felt tight. The apartment suddenly felt smaller.

He rubbed his hands down his face. His thumbs dug into his eyes.

This was what it had come to. Tristan had become the fear. Not City. Not Chelsea. Not even Bayern, or Messi, or Ronaldo.

Tristan Hale.

Age twenty.

Golden Boy.

Top scorer in Europe.

The player who had humiliated United at King Power Stadium in that game.

7–1.

He could still hear the crowd. Still see the scoreboard burning red in his memory. Still hear the whistle every time the ball hit the net.

Every single pundit had crucified him. Even the polite ones called it "a breakdown in goalkeeping standards."

The harsh ones?

"An embarrassment to the badge."

"Reputation in shreds."

No one was on his side. He was blamed for Leciester scoring 7 goals as if he didn’t save twenty others. How was he supposed to save anything when that defense was getting ripped to shreds by a barely 19 year old.

He’d gone home that night and turned his phone off for two days. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t speak.

He swore it would never happen again.

But now? Now he wasn’t sure.

Leicester hadn’t lost since forever. Tristan hadn’t stopped. By now he thought the kid would calm down but no he just has to keep scoring. Wasn’t being declared by Messi as the world’s best already enough?

And in 48 hours, they’d be at Old Trafford.

His phone buzzed.

Rojo: "Training tomorrow 9 sharp. Boss wants back line tighter."

David didn’t reply. He just stared at the screen, the buzz fading into the silence of the apartment.

In the bedroom, Edurne stirred. The creak of the bed frame reached his ears. She was still awake. She always waited for him on nights like this. But she never asked anymore.

She knew.

He never slept well before big games. But tonight wasn’t nerves. It was dread with emotions he couldn’t even explain to anyone.

He leaned back, finally closing his eyes. Letting the sound of the muted TV lull him toward unconsciousness.

He didn’t notice himself drift off.

.

.

.

Whistle.

Sharp. Piercing.

He opened his eyes — but it wasn’t his flat anymore.

He was back at King Power Stadium.

The pitch was soaked. The lights above glared down like interrogation lamps. The sky was blood-colored.

And he was alone.

No teammates. No defenders. Just him.

And Tristan.

Jogging up the sideline. Ball under arm.

The scoreboard blinked into life:

1–0.

Then 2–0.

Then it skipped:

5–0.

10–1.

The crowd noise warped. Became layered. A cacophony of headlines shouted over each other.

"De Gea’s lowest moment."

"Not world class."

"United in crisis."

"Tristan Hale’s coming-of-age story."

He tried to move, to raise his gloves. But his arms were dead weight. His legs frozen.

Tristan placed the ball on the penalty spot. Again. And again. And again.

No referee. No whistle. Just inevitability.

The net rippled. Once. Twice. A third time. The scoreboard cracked.

11

12

13

Now the crowd wasn’t chanting words anymore.

They were laughing. Faces in the stands twisted into grotesque grins. He looked up and saw them:

Roy Keane, disgusted.

Ferguson, silent covering his face.

Louis van Gaal, arms folded, staring down like De Gea had betrayed him personally.

His own father, seated front row, expression unreadable.

And Tristan kept scoring.

Until the goalposts bent and collapsed.

Until the pitch started cracking beneath his feet.

Until everything around him turned into ash — and all that remained was Tristan.

Standing.

Ball under arm.

Smiling.

"You were supposed to be the wall."

David screamed.

.

.

.

He jerked awake.

His heart jackhammered against his chest. His shirt was soaked in sweat. The remote had fallen to the floor. The match still played quietly in the background.

He stood up, stumbled to the sink, and splashed water on his face. The cold struck him hard — a slap to reality. He gripped the edge of the counter.

He looked at his reflection in the dark kitchen window.

Washed out. Hollow-eyed.

"You were supposed to be the wall."

The echo rang in his skull again.

He stayed there a long while.

Then he straightened, walked back to the couch, and reached for his tablet. No more replays. No more dreams.

Only study.

He tapped open Leicester’s last four matches. He hit play. He watched.

If he was going to stop Tristan Hale — it would be with blood, sweat, and obsession.

But he would not let it be 7–1 again.

No matter what.

He couldn’t let it happen for his own sanity or future at United.

.

8:04 AM

The sound of the alarm cracked through the silence like a gunshot.

De Gea sat up too fast. Chest tight. Shirt soaked through. Eyes bloodshot.

The nightmare hadn’t faded yet. It clung to his ribs. The red scoreboard. The empty net. Tristan Hale’s face.

He ran a hand through his hair, then another down his face. The digital clock on the bedside table blinked in cold blue: 08:04.

Training at Carrington. 9 AM sharp.

He moved through the flat like a ghost. Edurne was still sleeping, curled beneath the duvet. She stirred as he grabbed his track pants.

"You’re okay?" she mumbled, voice muffled by the pillow.

"Yeah," he lied. "Fine."

He didn’t eat. Didn’t even bother with coffee.

He just drove.

Carrington Training Complex — 8:49 AM

The players shuffled into the tactical meeting room one by one, still yawning, nursing coffee cups and protein shakes. Carrington was quiet except for the sound of cleats on tile and the distant buzz of groundskeepers mowing the back pitches.

Wayne Rooney sat near the front, hoodie up, head tilted back. Chris Smalling and Phil Jones filled in just behind him, flipping through scouting reports.

Lingard bounced into the room, headphones around his neck, chewing gum.

"Morning, lads. You see Twitter? Tristan’s face all over it again. That Sidemen clip went viral."

Rooney grunted. "Ignore it."

"I’m just saying," Lingard went on, plopping into a chair next to Michael Carrick. "Even their fans are on edge. Tristan’s got the whole country waiting to see if he drops another banger."

Lingard was one of the few players who weren’t on the edge as he didn’t have to deal with the fallout of a 7-1. Granted he was on the opposing team so he did receive some hate but what could he do about it.

"Let him try," muttered Smalling.

De Gea entered last. Quietly. Sat down near the back. His face unreadable.

The door clicked shut. Then came the heavy sound of boots.

Louis van Gaal walked in. Clipboard in one hand. Silence followed him.

"Gentlemen," he began, voice flat. "You already know what Saturday is. Leicester City. Top of the table. Two points above us. We win, we leap. We lose, get ready for the fans to turn against us."

He tapped the board. A still image of Tristan Hale mid-pass appeared.

"This boy is the most dangerous player in the world."

There were murmurs. Martial raised a brow from the side of the room. He really didn’t see the hype behind Tristan.

"Coach," he said, arms folded, "he’s good, yes. But we’re talking like he’s a god or something. It’s Leicester. One player doesn’t make a title run."

Rooney turned slowly toward him. So did Lingard. And everyone else.

"That one player scored a hat-trick against us last season," Rooney said, voice low. "And assisted three more."

"Seven-one," Lingard added, like a curse.

"That was a different squad," Martial argued. "Different shape, different system. I’m not afraid of Hale."

Van Gaal’s gaze didn’t waver. He looked at Anthony Martial for a long moment.

"Confidence is admirable," he said. "But arrogance blinds."

He clicked the remote. Video began to roll.

Leicester pressing. Kanté winning the ball. Mahrez sliding it into Hale. No hesitation. Just fluid movement.

Tristan didn’t even look at the net. He knew.

Top corner.

Freeze-frame.

De Gea shifted uncomfortably.

"This is what we face," Van Gaal said. "That world’s best player. Surrounded by world class players unlike last season."

Phil Jones raised a hand. "So do we man-mark him?"

"No," said Van Gaal firmly. "You try to isolate him, he drops deep. You close the middle, he drifts wide. There is no blueprint to stop him one-on-one."

"So what then?" Carrick asked.

Van Gaal turned to the board again.

"We hunt the ball. We crowd the pass. Tristan needs touches. He thrives on time. You take that away. You rattle his midfield. Inler, Mahrez, Drinkwater—they feed him. Starve him."

"And if he starts drifting?" Rooney asked.

"Follow. Shadow. Do not dive. He wants fouls. He wants the free kicks from 40 or 30 yards. It doesn’t matter to him. He’s going try to score either way."

Martial scoffed. "So we play scared?"

"No," said De Gea finally, voice calm and hollow. "We play smart. Or it’s 7–1 again."

The room went quiet.

"David," Van Gaal said. "You’ve seen enough tape. Your thoughts?"

De Gea looked at the screen. At the freeze-frame of Hale celebrating quietly in Rosenborg. Arms down. Face calm.

"If we give him ten yards of space, we’re done. Doesn’t matter the angle. Doesn’t matter the keeper."

Martial frowned.

"Then we play him like Henry. Like peak Henry."

"No," Lingard said. "We play him like he’s the final boss. Because right now, no one’s beaten him."

Lingard was one of the few players who personally knew Tristan and wasn’t hoping that the Newcastle game would tire him out or he wouldn’t even play by some miracle.

Van Gaal clicked to another slide. Statistical heat maps. Hale’s involvement in every goal since the international break.

"He has been involved in 35 goal contributions in 22 games. He is not just scoring. He is dictating."

Carrick nodded. "We double when he cuts in. We stagger the line when he drifts."

"And no fouls near the box," De Gea added. "He scored four free kicks this season already."

Van Gaal looked around.

"You are not playing Leicester. You are playing a machine."

They all stared.

"That machine is wearing number 22."

There was no laughter now.

Even Martial had gone quiet.

"Training pitch. Ten minutes. Tactical drills only. No full contact. Save it for Saturday."

The players stood slowly.

Rooney clapped a hand on Martial’s shoulder. "Lose the attitude."

Martial didn’t reply.

De Gea walked behind them, silent. His gloves were already on.

.

The chill in the Manchester air didn’t stop the intensity.

Whistles blared across the Carrington training pitches, cones scattered like landmines, and red bibs swarmed every ball. The breath of each player rose in short clouds, muscles taut under layers of thermal gear, the pitch a war zone of boots and barked orders.

Louis van Gaal stood like a statue of stone at the sideline, arms folded.

"Again! Cut the lane, not the man!" he barked.

Rooney slid across the damp grass to intercept a pass between two dummy midfielders. Lingard snapped into the next transition, exchanging quick passes with Carrick before losing it under pressure. Phil and Smalling clashed mid-air for a simulated cross, while Martial hovered further back, arms loose at his side, restless and simmering.

"Closer!" Van Gaal shouted. "You give Vardy this much room"—he spread his arms a foot wide—"he scores. Every time. Not negotiable."

On the far end, David De Gea was locked in a private session with Frans Hoek, the goalkeeping coach. He pointed to an iPad screen replaying Leicester’s last free-kick goal—Tristan curling one into the top corner from thirty yards.

"Again," De Gea said. "Slow motion. I want to see the body shape. He didn’t score any free kicks against me last time."

Hoek nodded and played it back. The motion was subtle—Tristan’s stride didn’t change. But the shift of his hips told the real story.

"See this?" De Gea murmured. "Right before contact—his shoulder dips. You think it’s going low."

"It’s misdirection," Hoek agreed. "They choreograph this stuff. Every piece is a trigger."

"Mahrez sells the decoy run. But the ball never lies," De Gea added. "You move too early, he chips you. Wait too long, he drills it."

Meanwhile, Rooney jogged beside Lingard after a shuttle run.

"You good?"

"Yeah," Lingard panted. "It’s just... Tristan’s not like anyone else. He’s turned into something else."

"You keep your head. We know him and his habits now. That helps."

"He doesn’t have any weakness anymore," Lingard muttered. "He’s never where you expect."

Rooney didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound fake to any of his teammates. He could only lead by example. At times like this, the presence of Sir Alex Fergson was missed.

At the midfield circle, Michael Carrick intercepted a simulated transition and immediately passed wide to Martial. Martial cut inside — only to be boxed in by Darmian and Daley Blind. The ball was stripped cleanly and rolled out of bounds.

Martial hissed and slammed the next ball into the net behind the setup.

Van Gaal just looked disappointed. "It’s better to fail here than Saturday. Learn now. Be ready then."

Martial jogged back into position, jaw clenched. Smalling clapped his hands.

"Heads up. Think like them. Fast. Ruthless. It’s not about possession. It’s about transition."

By the benches, Ashley Young and Juan Mata reviewed Leicester’s crossing patterns on a small tablet.

"You seen Albrighton’s numbers?" Mata asked. "Pinpoint delivery. Doesn’t even need a full sprint."

"Force him wide," Young said. "Make him switch it onto his left. Give Dave a few more milliseconds."

Farther down the pitch, Blind, Valencia, and Schneiderlin were running reactive coverage drills, mimicking Kanté’s pressure zones.

"He doesn’t tackle much. Just pressure and a lot of running." Schneiderlin said, shaking his head.

"He anticipates your second touch," added Blind.

"No wasted movement or he just has too much stamina." Valencia said. "It’s like he knows where you’ll turn before you do."

On a different quadrant, the squad drilled Leicester’s preferred 4-2-3-1. Reserves mimicked their press. Vardy was a dartboard target, Mahrez a slithering thread, Albrighton the wide whip. Then came Tristan.

He wasn’t even on the ball. But in every scenario, he was dangerous.

Van Gaal clapped twice.

"Now simulate 4-4-2 diamond. Tristan behind Vardy. More vertical. Less width. You must adjust on instinct."

Immediately, Jones and Darmian moved narrower. Carrick dropped deeper. Rooney tracked back to the ten space. The whole line adjusted like muscle memory.

"Now switch. 4-3-3. Tristan false nine. Mahrez and Albrighton push high. What happens?"

The squad staggered — slower.

"Faster! Leicester change shape mid-phase. You don’t adjust, you’re chasing ghosts!"

Phil Jones raised a hand, gasping for air.

"Do we press Tristan or drop into shape?"

Van Gaal shook his head.

"Depends on the zone. High press in midfield. Trap him against the line. If central, delay. Don’t dive."

"He invites contact," Smalling added. "Dances around it."

"Exactly. He thrives on mistakes. Yours."

At the far side, Van Gaal brought the full squad into a circle.

"You are not just playing football on Saturday," Van Gaal said. "You are restoring pride. Reclaiming respect. Make no mistake—this is war."

Carrick exhaled. "And this time, we’re not walking into an ambush."

"Be wary of mind games," Van Gaal added. "Keep your discipline. Keep your emotions in check. We are not Newcastle."

On the sideline, De Gea replayed a set piece again, narrowing his eyes.

In the background, Martial remained behind the pack, juggling the ball with tighter touches now, measured. Lingard passed him a bottle without a word.

Rooney dropped onto the grass, chest heaving. "They’re not unbeatable," he muttered. "But we have to play perfect."

"Or near enough," Carrick said. "No mistakes."

On the digital screen nearby, another analyst was showing a heatmap — Tristan touched the ball more than anyone inside the final third, but more than that, he created off-ball space. Invisible pressure.

This wasn’t just Hale. It was a system. A monster wearing a small-club badge.

The players dispersed toward the gym and recovery stations, minds spinning.

But Van Gaal remained on the sideline, coat zipped to the throat, clipboard against his chest.

He didn’t blink.

Not once.

Because Saturday was coming.

And he could still hear the ghosts of 7–1 breathing down his neck.

.

The hum of ice machines buzzed low in the background. De Gea sat with his calves submerged in a metal tub, arms folded, eyes unfocused as steam from a nearby heat pad drifted lazily across the tiled floor. Around him, the room held quiet intensity — players whispering, physios padding between treatment stations, low pulses of muscle-gun vibrations thrumming in intervals.

Lingard eased into the cold pool beside him with a hiss.

"Shit. Feels like I’m freezing my soul."

De Gea didn’t look at him.

"Better than freezing under the lights again."

Lingard blinked. He leaned back, letting his shoulders drop into the water. "You still thinking about last time?"

"Every day. You wouldn’t understand it, you were literally on the opposite side scoring a goal."

Lingard didn’t joke. Not this time.

Across the room, Rooney sat on a bench, legs outstretched, a physio kneading his quads with practiced elbows. His eyes stared at nothing but there was a million thoughts going across his head. The whole atmosphere felt like they were going against Liverpool or a finals match.

Meanwhile, Martial leaned against the window, ice wrapped around his hamstrings. He scrolled silently through highlight reels on his phone — most of them being about Tristan.

He hated it.

Hated how effortless it looked. Hated the praise.

He turned the phone off and whispered to himself,

"I’m better. I will be."

Phil Jones limped past, towel slung over his shoulder. "If we can keep the midfield from folding, they don’t get those passes off. We get first contact, we’re fine."

"No one gets first contact on Kanté," Carrick muttered from the massage table, face buried in folded arms. "He’s a bloodhound. He knows where it’s going before you do."

Ashley Young, who had been silent with both calves wrapped in ice, added without lifting his head, "You know what scares me? It’s not just Tristan. It’s the calm. The way Leicester play like they expect to win. Like nothing rattles them anymore."

"Because nothing has," De Gea muttered. "Not yet."

The room went quiet again. Only the hum of machines remained. The weight of what was coming pressed down on them all like gravity.

Carrington – Van Gaal’s Office

1:12 PM

Louis van Gaal stood at the far end of the room, eyes locked on the large tactical whiteboard behind his desk. Markers were scattered across the ledge. Most of them were worn down. Smudged lines crisscrossed the board, red and blue counters marking each Leicester player.

He tapped one finger against Tristan Hale’s counter.

Then Mahrez.

Then Kanté.

Then Vardy.

"Sir?" One of his assistant managers stepped in, holding a fresh printout. "Updated heatmaps from the Rosenborg match. And training performance data. Carrick’s readings are solid."

Van Gaal didn’t answer. He turned toward the whiteboard again, muttering to himself in Dutch. Then, clearer:

"This is where it unravels."

The assistant frowned. "Where?"

He pointed to a stretch of overlapping arrows through central midfield.

"This transition. 22 drops in. Inler overlaps. Mahrez inverts. Vardy pulls the high line. That’s four vertical threats in seven seconds. You press here..." — he jabbed toward the left flank — "and they expose here." Another jab.

He stepped back. "And you see this one?"

A red line from Kanté through the midfield triangle. "This one’s invisible. Because we always ignore the player without the ball."

"We’ve accounted for their shape switches."

"Accounted?" Van Gaal turned. His voice was quiet, but tense. "They don’t switch. They flow. Like water. This is not a ’tactical shape.’ This is movement art. And we’re trying to plug it with drills and drills and drills."

He walked behind the desk and sat down hard.

His assistant didn’t say anything. He’d seen this version of Van Gaal before — the obsessive. The perfectionist. The man who’d once diagrammed five ways to stop peak Arjen Robben... and still conceded three.

Van Gaal leaned forward, hands steepled. "That day... the 7–1..." His voice cracked.

"I lost control. Not of the players. Of the plan. Everything I taught, everything I drilled — it crumbled. I thought I was the general. But I was a ghost on the touchline."

"We’ve come a long way since then."

"They’ve come farther." Van Gaal grabbed a remote and clicked to a freeze-frame on the wall monitor. Tristan with the ball against with three between him and the goal. Still scored.

"Raw ability doesn’t scare me," Van Gaal murmured. "What scares me is how much that kid thrives under pressure. He doesn’t need a hundred touches. Just one."

"What’s the worst-case scenario?"

"He scores two. Draws a foul. Creates one assist. Vardy adds another. We’re 3–1 down by the 60th. Crowd turns. Collapse follows." Van Gaal answered rubbing his forehead.

"And the best-case?"

cing his own goal. It becomes a battle of attrition. We squeeze out a 1–0."

He looked up.

"But if one thing breaks... if one player loses his nerve... if one step is slow—"

He didn’t finish the sentence.

"Then what do we do?"

Van Gaal’s voice dropped to a whisper. "We don’t lose our heads. Not again. Because if we do, it won’t be 7–1 this time. It’ll be the end of this entire season."

He tapped Tristan’s red counter again.

"Everything starts and ends with twenty-two."

Van Gaal stared at the board for a second longer, then finally turned away. He stepped over to the desk, reached for the thermos, and poured the last of his now-cold tea into a white porcelain cup. He took a sip, grimaced, and left it.

He rubbed his temples. He hadn’t slept more than four hours in the last two nights. Even when he closed his eyes, formations swam behind his lids. Ghosts of triangles, late runs, missed triggers. Seven-one.

That number still burned behind his eyes.

Van Gaal moved around the desk and reached for the remote resting beside his notebook.

He didn’t even know why.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe masochism.

He turned on the TV.

The screen blinked to life.

SKY SPORTS FOOTBALL LIVE

Premier League Debate: Can United Stop Leicester?

The camera panned across the sleek, floodlit studio set. Screens flickered with match footage and graphic overlays. At the center, David Jones sat behind the glass table, flanked by Jamie Carragher to his left and Roy Keane and Thierry Henry opposite. The mood was electric, serious — the air before a storm.

A bright red ticker glided across the bottom:

"Tristan, Vardy & Mahrez: Best Front Three in England?"

Up in Manchester, Louis van Gaal leaned back in his office chair. The room was dim, the only light coming from the television and the quiet blue lamp on his side desk. His tea had long gone cold.

On screen, footage of Tristan Hale arriving in Norway played again — long coat, headphones, no expression.

David Jones opened with practiced tone:

"Leicester City remain unbeaten. A narrow win over Rosenborg. No Tristan Hale, no Mahrez, no Vardy. And yet... they still found a way. Roy — is that the scariest part?"

Keane sat forward, elbows on the desk.

"No. The scariest part was last season. Seven-one. At Old Trafford. That was the day Manchester United forgot who they were. The players froze. The manager froze. That was humiliation — and it still stinks."

Van Gaal flinched, his fingers curling slightly.

Carragher followed up:"Let’s not pretend that was a fluke. Tristan controlled the tempo, scored, assisted — like he was playing against schoolboys. Since then, he’s just gotten better."

Henry nodded slowly, his voice calm. "There are players who play fast, and then there are players who think fast. Tristan? He does both. And he wants the moment. He wants the pressure. That’s what makes him different from everyone else. He doesn’t shy away from the big moments. He wants them. He wants the pressure."

Back in Van Gaal’s office, the manager’s eyes narrowed slightly. He picked up his cup, then put it back down without sipping.

The panel kept going.

Carragher laughed. "Remember when Martial was supposed to be the next Henry? Now he can’t give an interview without being asked about Tristan."

Henry smirked. "Be careful, Jamie."

Keane, blunt as always, cut in."Doesn’t matter what Martial says in interviews. If they let Tristan turn with the ball, it’s over. We’ll be watching a horror show. Again."

The screen transitioned into a new segment: "The Stats Behind the Streak."

A bright 3D graph lit up the studio floor, displaying Leicester’s 13-game unbeaten run

David Jones narrated: "Leicester are the only team in Europe’s top five leagues who’ve yet to lose a match this season. Goals per game? 2.1. Goals conceded? Under 0.8. Clean sheets? Eight. And this is without even playing Tristan Hale every single match."

Carragher leaned back in his chair. "This isn’t luck. This is a system. And the scary part is, they’re getting stronger. You can rest your best player — the best player — and still win in Europe? That’s title-winning form."

Henry nodded. "And that midfield — Kanté and Inler? They’re the heartbeat. Mahrez floats. Vardy runs. But it’s that middle that wins them games."

Keane folded his arms. "It’s hunger. Every player looks like they’ve been starved for three years and someone dangled a steak in front of them. That’s not tactical. That’s mental."

A highlight reel played behind them. Leicester’s build-up play. Counter-attacks. Tristan tracking back. Vardy poaching goals. Albrighton whipping crosses with laser precision.

David Jones pointed to another graphic: "United vs Leicester (last 5 matches)"

United Wins: 2Leicester Wins: 2Draws: 1Aggregate Score: 12–5 Leicester

Carragher chuckled. "That 7–1 skews it, doesn’t it?"

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Seven goals against United in one game. Let that sink in. I played in North London derbies where we didn’t even dream of that."

They all laughed.

David Jones steered them back. "Looking ahead — what does United have to do to stop this train?"

Carragher answered first. "Perfect game plan. Discipline. You press too high, Mahrez runs riot. Sit too deep, Tristan just walks into your final third and pulls the strings. There’s no margin for error."

Keane added: "Rooney has to lead. Not with shouting. With actions. He needs to remind that team who they are. Because if they don’t believe they belong on that pitch with Leicester, they’ve already lost."

Henry looked into the camera. "This is what Tristan does. He changes the room. He changes expectations. Leicester shouldn’t be here. But with him? It feels normal. But this is where luck and scheduling comes in. With that way Leciester played against Newcastle and looking at past season, Leicester is very protective of Tristan. They may not even play Tristan and simply rest him although I personally don’t see that happening, it’s something that could happen. You simply never know."

The others nodded.

Another segment: "Will Leicester Finally Lose?"

A split poll appeared:

Yes: 38%No: 62%

Carragher whistled. "Sixty-two percent think United won’t win at home. We’ve entered a different universe."

Keane growled. "It’s embarrassing. That poll should be reversed."

David Jones raised a final question. "Prediction time. Does the streak end? Or does it continue?"

Carragher sighed. "Head says United. Heart says Leicester. But gut? I think it’s a draw. Something chaotic. 2–2."

Henry nodded. "If Tristan’s on it, Leicester win. If he leaves the game early after scoring and leading the game, maybe. Just maybe."

Keane? "Doesn’t matter. If they lose, the heat is on Van Gaal. Simple."

The camera cut back to the live feed.

Van Gaal clicked the remote. The screen went black. His reflection stared back. His tea had gone stone cold. He didn’t move. Because Saturday was coming. And number 22 wasn’t just a player anymore. He was a storm.

Looking outside the rain had started again.

Thin needles of drizzle tapped against the tall windows of Van Gaal’s office as he stood there unmoving, the remote still in his hand. The TV was off now, but the screen’s black sheen reflected his face — tight-jawed, shadowed, hollow-eyed.

Behind him, the lights of the training pitch flickered on as the grounds crew reset cones for the youth team.

The press conference was in two hours.

The media would ask about tactics. About pressure. About revenge. And all Van Gaal would want to say was one number.

Seven.

He finally placed the remote down and rubbed the edge of his temple, then walked across the room and lifted his long overcoat from the rack. As he slipped it on, his phone buzzed quietly on the desk.

He just sighed, slipped the phone into his pocket, and walked out into the corridor.

Outside, the Manchester sky had collapsed into its usual bleakness — gunmetal clouds hanging low, casting everything in a wet grey haze.

The United staff parking lot glistened with puddles. Van Gaal walked across it slowly, his steps echoing off the concrete, his coat tugged by the wind like a tired flag.

Across the lot, Wayne Rooney stepped out of the gym annex, hoodie pulled up, duffel bag slung low. He stopped when he saw Van Gaal walking alone through the rain.

Rooney thought about calling out. But didn’t.

Rooney unlocked his car, tossed the bag in, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

The engine hummed to life. The radio cut in — local news. Weather. Then a voice:

"Tristan Hale expected to start against Manchester United. Leicester unbeaten. Can anyone stop the miracle season?"

Rooney reached over and shut it off.

The rain pattered harder now, misting the windshield.

He didn’t drive just yet.

He just sat there. Watching the ripples form across the glass.

And then finally...

He pulled away from Carrington. Heading home. He was tired.

.

Hours Later

The house smelled of lamb and rosemary. Soft golden light spilled from the kitchen, wrapping the wooden floorboards in warmth. In another home, it might’ve felt peaceful. Comforting.

But not tonight.

Rooney sat at the dining table, elbows on the wood, not eating. His plate was full. Fork untouched. The television was off, but the silence buzzed louder than any pundit.

Opposite him, Coleen raised an eyebrow.

"You’re not hungry?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Rooney looked up, bleary-eyed. "I’m fine. Just tired."

Before she could respond, a thundering of feet broke through from the hallway.

"Dad! Dad!"

Two of his boys came sprinting in — Kai and Klay, wearing oversized England training tops. Kai skidded to a stop beside the table, already clutching a folded piece of paper and a Sharpie.

"Can you get Tristan to sign this?"

Rooney blinked. "What?"

Kai beamed. "You’re playing him this weekend, right? Everyone at school says he’s the best in the worldl!"

Wayne glanced at Coleen. She stifled a smile behind her glass.

He leaned back in his chair. "You little traitors. You live in Manchester, and you’re out here begging for Leicester autographs?"

Kai shrugged. "We already got your shirt. It’s boring now."

Rooney snorted. "Boring? I literally gave you signed boots last month. Lions Pride. You made me beg Nike for a size they don’t even sell."

Klay giggled. "But not a Tristan shirt. If you win... can we have one?"

Rooney leaned in, eyes narrowing like a cartoon villain. "Oh, I see how it is. A deal."

Kai nodded fast.

Rooney jabbed a thumb toward the hallway. "Go upstairs. Bed in ten. And no more Tristan videos on the iPad."

Kai made a face. "But we were just—"

"Ten."

They groaned and shuffled off. Their footsteps thudded upstairs. One of them whispered something about "the free-kick compilation," and Rooney rolled his eyes.

Coleen walked past and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "They don’t mean it like that."

"I know."

She leaned down and kissed the top of his head. "But it bothers you."

He shook his head."I love the kid but I just don’t want another repeat of him scoring a hat-trick against us. Everyone in the team is on the edge. This game is gonna either make us or break us."

Coleen nodded before kissing Rooney on the forehead.

She left the room, and he sat there alone again. The silence returned.

Rooney stared at the picture frame sitting on the sideboard — an old one. Him, Cristiano, Rio, and Giggs holding the Premier League trophy at Old Trafford. His face had that younger, sharper edge.

Now?

Now he couldn’t even convince his sons he was the best player on the pitch.

His phone buzzed.

He frowned. Picked it up without looking at the call.

"...Hello?"

The voice was unmistakable. Raspy. Scottish.

"Wayne."

He sat straighter. "Boss?"

Sir Alex Ferguson exhaled once, slow.

"You’re not sleeping well."

It wasn’t a question.

Rooney swallowed. "Not really."

There was a pause on the line.

"Big game Saturday."

Another pause.

"You’re the captain. I don’t care what happened last year, and I don’t care what anyone says on telly. You’re still the heartbeat of that team."

Rooney leaned forward, staring at the grain in the table.

"I feel like... they don’t see me like that anymore."

Ferguson’s voice sharpened.

"Then make them see. Not with noise. Not with goals. With presence. You walk out onto that pitch, and you remind them. Remind yourself."

Wayne didn’t answer for a moment.

Then softly: "You think we can stop him?"

Sir Alex didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to.

"I think the moment you start fearing a twenty-year-old is the moment this club becomes something I don’t recognize."

Wayne let out a breath.

"Win or lose," Ferguson continued, "you make sure they remember Manchester United stood for something that day."

The line clicked.

Gone.

Rooney lowered the phone slowly.

The photo on the sideboard caught the lamplight now — the gold trophy gleaming beneath his younger self’s grin.

He didn’t grin now.

But the fire was back in his eyes.

Saturday was coming.

And maybe, just maybe...

...it was time to remind them what it meant to be United.

.