Anfield didn't flinch.
Not after the goal. Not after the replays. Not even as Tristan jogged back like he'd just returned a library book.
If anything — it bit back.
The Kop erupted, not in silence, not in grief but in defiance.
🎵 "We are the Kop! The mighty Kop!"
"And this is our home!" 🎵
Then louder — raw, unfiltered:
🎵 "Liiiiiiverpool, Liiiiiiverpool — Liiiiiiverpool!"🎵
The rhythm thundered from the terraces. It wasn't for show. It wasn't for the cameras.
It was tribal.
And then, above it all, the anthem:
🎵 "We've conquered all of Europe…" 🎵
A few started. Then dozens. Then thousands.
🎵 "We're never gonna stop…"🎵
The noise gathered like a tide behind Klopp, who clapped once, twice, then turned and waved his arms like a conductor summoning the full force of the orchestra.
🎵 "From Paris down to Turkey… We've won the fuckin' lot!"🎵
By the end of the verse, the whole stadium was shaking. Not because they had control. But because they refused to give it up.
This was Anfield.
And if Leicester wanted a victory here. They'd have to fight through fire to get it.
Klopp stood on the edge of his technical area, coat flaring like a cape in the wind, his hands cupped around his mouth.
"Jetzt! Jetzt! PRESS!"
His voice cracked through the storm. 'Come on. Don't let the goal sink you. This is your moment. This is our moment.'
He didn't care about the scoreboard yet. What mattered was the response.
And Liverpool responded like a hive kicked awake.
Firmino surged. Lallana followed. Ibe snapped wide. Coutinho floated between the lines like a ghost learning to dance again.
Klopp's eyes flicked from zone to zone — transitions, overloads, rotations forming and dissolving in real time.
His heart was pounding. But his voice was clear.
"Tempo! Tempo! Don't stop!"
Because this wasn't panic. It wasn't desperation.
It was belief — raw and stubborn.
They think they've silenced Anfield. Let's remind them where they are. This is what he needed to show to Tristan. The magic of Liverpool.
Firmino spun off Huth like he'd been greased, snapping a ball down the channel to Ibe. The winger stopped it dead, reversed it to Lallana, who slipped it first time into Coutinho.
And then the match... paused.
Because Coutinho didn't take the obvious touch.
He slowed.
Like vapor thickening in air.
He rolled his foot over the ball once. Then again. Not hurried. Not baiting.
Just calm.
Tristan, watching from the center circle, stood a little straighter.
Kanté stepped in on his toes and ready.
But Coutinho was already turning.
A flick. A pivot. A shift of hips so sudden it felt like a magic trick.
And Kanté missed it.
His foot dragged grass. His balance tilted. His body spun a half-step the wrong way.
He'd been turned.
"Oh... my word," Rob breathed. "Oi, did he just.. did he just roll N'Golo Kanté?"
"He did," Andy muttered, blinking once. "That's a first."
The crowd gasped, not cheering, not booing. Just a shared intake of disbelief.
Kanté the unspinnable, unshakable, the midfield wall of Leciester had just been rolled like a cone in a street match.
And Coutinho wasn't done.
He touched forward, weightless now, eyes darting toward the box.
"Coutinho's gliding," Rob said. "He's gliding. Space opening — this could be it—"
But he never saw it coming.
Because from the smoke behind him, from a place no one had been watching—
Maguire arrived with violence..
A thud. A clean sweep of boot through ball. No foul. No delay.
Just a collision of force and timing that sent Coutinho stumbling off balance, arms wide, momentum evaporated.
"Ohhhhhh!" the crowd howled in unison.
The sound turned from awe to adrenaline to a raw, roaring YES from the Leicester end.
"That's a tackle," Andy barked. "That's a statement."
"Aye," Rob said, still reeling. "One bit of magic and then Maguire levels the universe."
Ranieri clapped at the effort although he looked just as shocked as everyone at what happened to Kante of all people.
Klopp, hands on his head, cracked a smile through gritted teeth.
"Damn it" he muttered to Buvac. "So close."
Down on the pitch, Kanté jogged past Maguire and slapped his shoulder once, a wordless thank you in motion.
Coutinho stayed down for a beat.
As the camera caught him pushing up off one hand, the Kop applauded.
He had danced.
He'd made magic.
But the fortress stood.
And now Leicester had the ball again.
The ball rolled to Drinkwater.
Leicester didn't panic.
They reset like they'd done it a thousand times — two touches, drop, rotate, switch.
No glamour. No rush. Just rhythm.
Blue shirts moving like clock hands, perfectly timed.
Rob's voice cut through the noise. "Liverpool haven't dropped their heads, far from it. But they're chasing it now. Leicester are making them run."
On the sideline, Klopp never stopped pacing.
He barked instructions like they were life rafts.
"Philippe! Wider! Adam, between! Alberto — tuck inside!"
Zeljko Buvac relayed them down the line with sharp arms and louder shouts.
And Liverpool shifted, the whole team bending into Klopp's will.
Coutinho roamed. Moreno pushed. Henderson dropped deep.
Firmino popped up where no one expected.
"They're rotating now," Andy said. "It's not structured football. It's reactive. Creative. Klopp wants chaos to spark something."
And Anfield — it felt it.
A chant rose up like a fuse being lit:
🎵 "Allez, allez, allez…" 🎵
🎵 We've conquered all of Europe, we're never gonna stop… 🎵
The volume surged as if the goal hadn't even happened.
A long ball clipped to Coutinho, chest-high. He took it in stride — chipped over Maguire with one touch, volley incoming.
Firmino met it first time.
It skimmed the bar.
The crowd gasped — close enough to believe.
"That's alive!" Rob called. "Liverpool are swinging again."
And they were — no longer wounded, just woken.
But Leicester stayed calm.
Minute 27.
A bad pass from Drinkwater.
Coutinho pounced — three touches in a blur, slicing toward the centre circle. Until Kanté slid in like he'd timed it a week ago. Clean. Ruthless. Gone.
"And there he is," Andy said flatly. "N'Golo bloody Kanté."
Klopp clapped, not angrily — but as if to say: That's the level. We go again.
Ranieri didn't move. His breath misted out. Arms folded.
"Should we pull deeper?" Benetti asked, glancing toward the bench.
Ranieri's eyes never left the pitch. "No. Let them push. They'll open up."
Moreno pressed too far. Mahrez spun and was gone.
Tristan peeled off behind his marker and yelled once. The ball came early.
He didn't trap. Didn't slow.
One touch behind his heel.
And a sweeping forty-yard pass into Albrighton's stride.
"That's not a pass," Rob breathed. "That's theft. He's stolen the whole left side."
Albrighton drove inside. Cut across the box.A low curler aimed bottom corner but Mignolet leapt. Fist out. Tipped wide.
Corner.
The Leicester away end — boxed into the top corner — roared like they'd scored again.
"You'd swear this was the King Power," Andy said. "They're louder than the home end."
Liverpool surged again.
Coutinho dropped into midfield. Quick switch to Lallana. Wall-pass with Firmino.
He was through. Shot fired.
Blocked.
Loose ball fell to Can.
Low drive.
Spilled.
And again — Kanté.
One toe. One second. All it took.
The crowd groaned.
Klopp applauded again — louder now, teeth clenched.
"Yes! More! They feel us now! More!"
He turned to Buvac, eyes wild.
"Zeljko, they know we're here. They know it."
Ranieri saw it too — saw Klopp pacing like a man trying to outrun a clock.
But he didn't fear it. He admired it. And pitied it.
"They need the perfect moment," he murmured. "We only need a mistake."
Minute 30.
Mahrez to Tristan.
Tristan — flick over the shoulder, blind — found Vardy running.
Škrtel lunged late.
Flag up. Offside.
But the space was still there.
"They're a breath away," Andy said. "A single pass and they're in again."
The Kop tried to lift it:
🎵 "Fields of Anfield Road…" 🎵
🎵 Where once we watched the King Kenny play…" 🎵
It was fierce. Nostalgic. Almost sacred.
But Leicester didn't care about history and tradition.
31st minute.
Tristan dropped into midfield. Took the ball under pressure.
A shoulder drop. A pirouette. Two Liverpool shirts left chasing.
Then came the switch — sixty yards, left to right. A tracer beam to Mahrez.
Gasps. Then silence.
"And breathe," Rob finally said. "Thirty gone. Liverpool are still swinging. But it's Leicester dictating."
And in the middle of the pitch, surrounded by noise, pressure, and one of football's most iconic homes.
Tristan Hale didn't sprint. Didn't dive. Didn't even look rushed.
He walked into space with the ball at his feet.
Because right now — Anfield wasn't his opponent.
It was his audience.
And he was writing the script.
.
Minute 32
Anfield swelled with noise and nerve.
Klopp stood near the edge of his box, hands loosely joined behind his back. His coat hung open, his boots planted, unmoving — but everything inside him shifted with the rhythm of the game.
He scanned the pitch like a strategist, not a manager. Movement. Rotation. Pressure. Space.
A voice rose behind his breath.
"Alberto inside. Adam float. Phil—be Phil."
But his instructions were just habit now. His mind had already split away from the mechanics of this match and onto something deeper.
It wasn't the goal. It was the control.
Leicester weren't holding the ball — they were holding the reins.
And Tristan Hale... he wasn't just playing well. He was shaping the match with the confidence of someone who looked like this was his fifth year at the Bernabéu, not his second at the third at the King Power.
Klopp had studied players like this. He'd coached them.
But Tristan was different.
The touch was precise. The weight on every pass, deliberate. He didn't chase space — he invited it. Drew defenders toward him, only to leave them behind with a single drop of the shoulder.
And then there was Kanté.
Always arriving just before the danger materialized. He didn't celebrate tackles. Didn't gesture for praise. He just turned, recycled, reset.
Kanté and Hale weren't teammates.
They were in sync.
One dropped when the other surged. One shadowed while the other stepped. Klopp had seen rehearsed movements before but this wasn't rehearsal. This was instinct. Fluid. Wordless.
It felt, in moments, like watching a dance they'd invented together.
He watched them again: Tristan drifting deep to escape Can, while Kanté slid wide to absorb the overload.
Clean. Automatic. Impossible to trap.
And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
Because in the deepest part of his footballing brain, Klopp could already see it:
Kanté in red — a silent destroyer who never tired.
And Tristan… not just playing at Anfield, but conducting it. Owning it. Making the Kop stand without needing to speak a word.
He turned slightly to Buvac and said, voice low:
"We have to get them."
Buvac frowned. "Both?"
Klopp nodded. Once. Slowly. "Kanté wins you the ball. Tristan decides what you do with it."
He stepped forward. Arms loose now. Posture relaxed, but eyes locked on the pitch like a man watching the future assemble itself in real time.
He watched as Leicester passed through pressure again — Mahrez to Tristan, one-touch to Drinkwater, and suddenly the ball was fifty yards away from where Liverpool had tried to trap it.
No fuss. No flash. Just exit velocity.
He was witnessing a system. A pairing. A project already complete.
Klopp glanced once more at the bench.
"Let's see how far they take this before the break."
A pause. "And then we go to work."
Because deep down — behind the tactics, the press conferences, the banter — he already knew:
This wasn't just a match.
It was a recruitment tape.
And those two?
They were the future.
Minute 34 —
Henderson drove forward with grit, eyes scanning, and slipped a clean pass into the feet of Moreno. The left-back didn't hesitate — one touch to control, another to shuffle it inside to Lallana.
Lallana danced over it. Let it roll across his body. Then flicked it sideways to Coutinho.
The Brazilian took it on the turn, spun wide, dragging both Drinkwater and De Laet into his orbit like planets caught in gravity.
Then — a sharp reverse.
The weight, the timing — all perfect.
Firmino was there.
He took the ball in stride, cut past Maguire with one smooth shimmy, and snapped his foot through it — low and fast.
Anfield held its breath.
But Schmeichel didn't.
The Dane dropped like stone, hands firm, body set.
Thud.
Ball smothered. Danger gone.
The crowd roared anyway — not for the goal, but for the attempt.
🎵 "WE ARE LIVERPOOL!" 🎵 🎵 "Tra-la-la-la-la!" 🎵
The chant thundered from the Kop, bouncing off steel and mist. The whole stadium shook with it.
Firmino threw his hands up in frustration. Clyne clapped behind him. Coutinho pointed to his eyes — I saw you. Next time.
Maguire exhaled slowly, jogging back into position, glancing once at Schmeichel. The keeper gave him a curt nod, already barking instructions.
On the sidelines, Klopp punched the air.
"That's it! More! Again!"
Ranieri's face was unreadable, but his hand came up — palm out — telling his players to breathe.
Back in the booth, both commentators leaned into their mics.
"Brilliant football from Liverpool," Rob said, voice crackling with tension. "That little reverse from Coutinho? Filthy. Just filthy."
"And Firmino nearly buries it," Andy added. "Maguire got dusted — but look at Schmeichel. Calm. Focused. That's top-class goalkeeping."
"It's theatre down there now," Rob followed. "Pace, power, flair. One end to the other. You can feel it building."
"Liverpool fans can feel it too," Andy said. "They haven't stopped singing since the free kick. That belief is still alive."
The crowd rallied louder. Another chant caught fire:
🎵 "Liiiiiiverpool, Liiiiiiverpool!" 🎵
Tristan looked up from midfield, sweat shining across his brow taking in where everyone was at it. He liked the atmosphere, he thrived on this shit. He was having fun and with his family watching, he couldn't exactly lose, now could he.
He could already imagine Anita's reaction moment he got home.
Liverpool surged again.
Firmino pulled wide to the right, dragging Huth with him. Lallana laid it off to Moreno, who whipped in a cross on his first touch.
Skrtel timed his jump.
Header!
Just over the bar.
Anfield's collective gasp echoed like a heartbeat.
"So close!" Rob shouted. "Skrtel nearly leveled the sky with that one!"
Klopp clapped sharply, fingers stinging. "JA! More tempo! Keep them pinned!"
Leicester regrouped quickly — no panic, just precision. They shifted back into shape as if pulled by invisible strings.
Ranieri leaned over to Benetti.
"Let them burn the candle."
Benetti frowned. "We still push?"
Ranieri nodded. "Watch. They're stretching. Tired legs make wide gaps."
Minute 38
Leicester struck.
Kanté snatched the ball clean in midfield like it owed him money. He poked it left to Albrighton, who carried it into space before feeding Tristan.
One look.
Then a clipped pass over the top.
Vardy burst between Sakho and Skrtel, legs churning.
One touch. One bounce.
Shot
Wide.
The Leicester away end groaned in unison, a sea of hands rising to heads.
"Oh, Vardy! So close!" Rob called. "He's on a seven-game streak right now — that could've been eight. Still time tonight. Two more after this and he ties van Nistelrooy's record of ten."
"And with this form," Andy added, "you wouldn't bet against him. But that one, he'll want it back."
Back home, the living room tensed again.
Barbara sat forward now, elbows on knees, lips slightly parted. Biscuit the dog stirred beside her with a low huff. "That should've been it," she muttered.
Anita echoed with a whisper. "Come on, Vardy."
Their dad finally spoke. "Vardy needs just a little more calm. The chance will come again."
Minute 40
Liverpool responded in kind. The press never stopped.
Moreno darted infield again. To Can. To Ibe.
Then like smoke Coutinho appeared.
One juke. Then another. Drew two. Slipped it to Firmino.
Quick turn. Shot.
Blocked by Maguire again.
Loose ball, Lallana whipped it first time.
Tipped over!
Schmeichel full stretch!
"That's a save!" Andy shouted. "SCHMEICHEL! TAKE A BOW!"
The Kop roared.
🎵 "LIIIIIVERRRRPOOOOL! LIIIIIVERRRRPOOOOL!" 🎵
Red flags waved. Fists pounded on plastic seats. The whole end stood.
Sir Alex Ferguson watched with narrowed eyes.
The replay of Vardy's miss still looped on screen.
"That boy's close," he muttered. "How did Leciester discover gems?."
"Even without dominating, they always look dangerous." His assistant said as he didn't answer the question. No one knew how Leicester formed the team, it just happened over the last three years.
Sir Alex sipped slowly. "And that's how titles are won."
Minute 43 —
Liverpool pushed again.
Ibe charged forward, won a corner off Fuchs. The crowd behind the goal roared to their feet.
Rob's voice cut through the noise.
"Feels like a goal's coming. Leicester holding, but the red tide keeps rising."
Corner in.
Huth rose.
Cleared — but not far.
Henderson on the volley —
Deflected off Drinkwater. High. Hanging. Spinning.
Falling —
To Firmino.
He didn't think.
Turned. Fired.
It bounced. Clipped a boot. Wrong-footed Schmeichel.
And trickled in.
Goal.
Anfield erupted.
Klopp spun on the spot, fists raised, eyes wild.
"YES! YES!"
The Kop surged again.
🎵 "ALLEZ, ALLEZ, ALLEZ!" 🎵
"Forty-five on the clock," Rob called. "It's ugly. It's lucky. But it counts. Liverpool are level!"
"And Klopp's roaring like they just won it," Andy added. "Because that goal — that's oxygen."
Barbara sat back with a sigh. Anita swore in Hungarian. Even Julia let out a tight-lipped "Hmph."
Ling shook his head. "They're not done. Not with Tristan still out there."
On the sideline, Ranieri just adjusted his collar.
No panic. No rush.
He turned to his bench.
"They've had their moment. Ours will come."
And as the whistle blew for halftime —
1–1.
The story wasn't done.
It had barely started.
.
3.3k chapter again, sorry, had a busy day at work, took up all of my energy, you guys don't understand the amount of balance sheets I had to check today, I'm exhausted.