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December 27, 2015
Belvoir Drive – After Hours
The slap of leather against leather echoed through the stillness, clean strike, left foot, slicing across the narrow training pitch. No wobble. No drag. Just a low blur skimming the frost-dusted grass.
Kanté let it roll. One glance over his shoulder, then a disguised back-heel between two cones that caught even Tristan flat-footed.
They'd been out there nearly forty minutes after everyone else had gone.
Short sprints. Two-touch rondos. 1v1 recovery drills in the bitter cold.
Each time Tristan broke free, Kanté found a way to recover.
Again. Again. Always just in time.
Tristan rolled his shoulders back, breath misting. "Okay," he said in French, breathless but grinning. "You've been cloned. Admit it."
Kanté barely looked up. "You're improving."
"Pff. Don't lie to me. My French is sexy now. You're just jealous."
"I said 'better.' Not 'good.'"
He intercepted Tristan's cheeky flick before the ball even left the ground. Stone-faced.
They moved into pattern drills. First-time switches. Half-turns. Tristan's touches — sharp. Crisp. Flicks off the outside of the boot, reverse passes, step-over drives, clipped curls with either foot.
Nothing wasted. Nothing off.
Except for Kanté always there. Always reading. One step earlier than physics allowed.
Tristan smiled through it. This was what he needed. Very few defenders slowed him down anymore. Kanté was one of them.
He peeled off after a curled shot that kissed the far post and bounced wide. Jogged toward the ball, dragging in the cold air, jaw tight from the wind.
"You know," he said, casual but careful, "I've been thinking about summer."
Kanté didn't stop moving, just a slight tilt of the head.
"A little," he said.
Tristan nodded, eyes on the far fence. "I haven't told anyone yet. Not even Vardy. Or Mahrez. But... with how loud the rumors are, I think the tea lady knows."
He placed the ball down again, toe on top.
"After the Euros, I'm leaving."
That did it.
Kanté stopped. Looked up.
"You're leaving Leicester?"
"Yeah." He said it softly. No edge. "It's not official. But it's decided."
A silence settled between them. The hum of floodlights above. The faraway thud of someone closing a boot room door.
"You're the first person I've said it to out loud. Besides family."
Kanté gave a small nod. Not shocked. Just... honored.
Tristan half-smiled. "Didn't want it to be an escape. Wanted it to mean something. That we finished something here. Properly."
He passed again. Kanté took one touch, clean as always, then flowed back into the drill like nothing had changed — but something had.
The rhythm now was quieter. Introspective. No banter.
Then, after a beat:
"And you?" Tristan asked. "You planning to stay?"
Kanté paused mid-turn, then resumed.
"I told Mahrez I'd wait for your decision. But I have to speak to my family. My agent. I have... options too."
Tristan nodded. Then grinned.
"You're saying that like I'm not gonna beg you to come with me."
Kanté gave the faintest smirk. "To Liverpool?"
Tristan winked. "You and me. Scousers by summer. You'll be eating Greggs and calling people 'lad' before August."
He dropped into a cartoon growl. "Fancy a chip butty, mate? Dead boss, that is."
Kanté actually laughed.
"Please don't do that again."
"I will," Tristan said. "At your contract signing."
They picked up pace. Kanté pressing higher now. Tristan gliding through cones with low hips and sharp feints. Stepovers. Cuts. Shoulders rolling like water. Every movement designed to mislead.
But still — Kanté stayed close.
Always.
.
Hours Later
The Aston Martin One-77 cut through the empty streets, engine humming.
Tristan's left hand rested on the wheel, gloved. The other hovered near the gearshift, fingers tapping to no rhythm. Streetlights flickered across the bonnet, stretching gold across the curved glass.
Kanté wouldn't say anything. He trusted that.
Not just because Kanté was private, but because they got each other. And tonight… saying it out loud, even just once, made him feel better. Now he just had to say it Vardy, he didn't wanna think about that. Yeah after the season is over seems good.
He exhaled and watched the faint puff of breath rise toward the windshield.
"I'm leaving."
It still sounded strange. But it hadn't felt final until he told Kanté. Until the words left his mouth and weren't followed by denial.
Kanté was the only one he wanted to keep playing with. Not because of stats. Not even chemistry or friendship.
But because Kanté let him be what he was. When Kanté was behind him, he didn't have to worry about the gaps. Didn't have to slow down to defend the counter. Didn't have to half-play, half-cover.
He just played as he wished with no worries. Free.
And the idea of going forward without him?
That sat wrong.
But still, he couldn't force it.
He didn't want to build a team just to rob Leicester blind. One was enough.
The others? That was on them. Mahrez. Vardy. Schmeichel. If they wanted to leave, they would. If they wanted to stay, legends would be carved from it.
He wasn't going to be the one that pulled the thread and unraveled the club that raised him.
Not after everything.
The car rolled to a quiet red light near the edge of Knighton.
Tristan sat back, thumb against his chin.
He was planning to give Leicester a list, though. A short one. A few names. Players he remembered. Players who wouldn't cost much now but would turn into stars by at least 2020.
Just enough to give them a head start.
No guarantees. No handholding. Just direction.
What they did with it…
That was their story to write.
The last thing he wanted was to be in a Liverpool shirt, being accused of sabotaging his old club because they didn't prepare.
His reputation was clean. Perfect, even.
But that kind of backlash?
That was the type that lasted.
And he didn't need that noise. Not when he still had so much to do.
The light turned green.
There was still a match to play. Still a miracle to finish.
And after that?
Well… the next chapter would write itself.
December 29, 2015
King Power Stadium – 7:31 PM – 30 Minutes to Kickoff
The noise was already deafening.
Fans were packed shoulder to shoulder, coats zipped high, flags flicking through the cold air like war banners. The lights above King Power burned white-hot against the dark — but it was the sound that mattered.
Real sound. From real fans. Sung from the lungs, not speakers.
🎵 "Money can't buy what we've got!"🎵
🎵 "Leicester top — and staying there!"🎵
🎵 "We built this team, you bought yours!"🎵
A large banner in the North Stand read:
"ODDS: 2500/1 — BELIEF: 100%"
The away end, filled with sky blue jackets and zipped-up hoods, tried to answer back — but they were drowned out.
🎵 "Daddy's oil, still no soul!"
"This is our miracle — go buy your own!"🎵
A camera panned pitchside.
Tristan stood near the home dugout, gloved hands in pockets, curls damp from warm-ups. His cleats tapped the turf absently. Behind him, chants bounced around the stands like heat from a bonfire. Every eye tracked him. Every cheer felt louder when he moved.
He adjusted the mic clipped to his collar.
BBC's Mark Chapman, grinning like a man who'd just been given the fun assignment, stepped in beside him.
"I'm here with Leicester's own Tristan Hale," he said, already half-laughing. "Thirty minutes to kickoff. Final game of 2015. You're top of the league, unbeaten, and it's Manchester City across from you. Feeling it yet?"
Tristan raised a single brow, voice flat: "Only pressure I'm feeling is trying not to swear on live television. Mum wouldn't be happy with that."
Chapman barked a laugh. "That's fair. You're doing great so far."
Tristan gave the faintest grin, then tilted his head toward the main stand. "And Happy New Year, by the way. Just in case the next ninety minutes get biblical."
Chapman chuckled, glancing at his notes. "Let's set the scene. This time last season, Leicester were hovering around… what, sixth? Seventh? Odds of winning the league were…"
"Twenty-five hundred to one," Tristan said dryly. "We checked. I think someone's granddad bet a fiver and already bought a hot tub."
Laughter from the sideline crew.
Chapman continued, "City were the favorites at the start of this season. Names like Silva. Aguero. De Bruyne. Massive squad. But here you are — top of the table,seven points clear. What changed?"
Tristan glanced toward the tunnel, then back to the pitch.
"We did," he said. "The club did. The dressing room did. People thought when Pearson left we'd collapse, but the lads? They grind. We brought in new amazing players that were perfect for us. We run more than anyone, we press like maniacs, and we don't carry egos that could ruin chemistry from within. We run purely on spite and just for Vardy Redbull."
Chapman nodded. Then he shifted gears.
"Now, let's talk about the match-up. You've got Manchester City in front of you. Some of the best players in the world. Silva, Aguero. And of course… De Bruyne. The press is calling it Tristan vs. Kevin. Thoughts?"
Tristan blew out through his nose.
"Kevin's a machine," he said. "Technically, mentally — there's levels to him. He sees passes two scenes ahead. Like chess, but faster and more Belgian."
Chapman smiled. "You seem to respect him a lot. We don't hear you praising players often."
"Massive respect," Tristan echoed. "He be one of the world's best players, just give him some time." He paused.
"But tonight's not me versus him. It's eleven against eleven. And our eleven doesn't stop running."
Chapman raised an eyebrow.
Tristan shrugged.
Chapman laughed, then leaned closer.
"Same as always," Tristan said. "Smother them. Run 'til our lungs collapse. And if we get tired—pray Mahrez does something freaky."
"And the transfer rumors?" Chapman asked. "Madrid? Liverpool? City? The headlines are wild right now."
Tristan's voice dipped. "I've got one badge on my chest," he said. "That's all that matters tonight."
Another chant erupted from the South Stand, louder now:
🎵 "WHO NEEDS OIL WHEN YOU'VE GOT HEART?"
"WHO NEEDS CASH WHEN YOU'VE GOT TRISTAN?" 🎵
Chapman glanced at the crowd, then at Tristan. "They're calling for you."
Tristan smiled again, dry and a little crooked. "Yeah. Either that or they're starting a cult. Either way, I better not keep them waiting."
He unclipped the mic, nodded politely, then jogged off toward the dugout as the fans roared louder behind him —
Not for what he'd done.
But for what he might do next.
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Locker Room
The heaters buzzed low not loud, but constant, like a nervous audience trying not to cough.
Kit bags rustled. Cleats clicked against tile. Laces were tied and retied. A few players paced slow, looping circles. Others sat hunched on benches, headphones in, headphones out, each lost in their own ritual.
Tristan stood by his locker, tugging his long-sleeve jersey down his arms. He usually didn't wear long sleeves but it was just too cold today. He adjusted the snug black gloves — not thick, just the thin, grip-padded kind. Mahrez's usual look.
Across the room, Vardy caught it instantly.
"Oy," he called out, already grinning. "Since when did you and Mahrez start holding hands before kickoff?"
Tristan glanced over, one eyebrow raised. "You're just upset your knuckles go purple when it drops below ten degrees."
Vardy pointed across the room like a barrister. "That's Ray's look! You're stealing his identity. It's glove fraud."
Danny Drinkwater chimed in, holding his own hands up like claws. "It's minus two, mate. At this point, the gloves are medical."
Mahrez raised both hands like he was blessing the room. "This is not vanity," he said, solemn. "This is survival."
Andy King leaned back with a smirk. "Survival? You wear gloves in August, man."
"Style," Mahrez replied without missing a beat, "has no season."
That cracked the room. Even Wes Morgan, sitting quietly near the captain's armband, gave a deep-chested laugh.
Tristan finished tying his boots, double-knotted them, then lowered onto the bench with elbows on knees, fingers laced. He scanned the room.
Full squad. Full focus. Noise in pockets, silence in others. Some lads ribbing each other, others locked in, breathing steady through the noise.
He spotted Kanté dead quiet. Two lockers down, Schmeichel bounced a ball rhythmically off the wall — thud-thud-pause, thud-thud-pause — eyes locked forward like he could already see the match unfolding.
Mahrez and Vardy, meanwhile, were now deep in a mock-argument about who'd have more assists "if offside wasn't invented by haters."
"Half your goals don't count," Mahrez said, arms folded.
"Half your dribbles go nowhere!" Vardy snapped.
"You're just mad I pass more than I shoot."
"You pass to me! You're welcome!"
Tristan smiled to himself.
This was his team.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the gloves and the banter and the bounce of the ball, he knew — win or lose, this was the last year it would look exactly like this.
That thought had barely formed when the door creaked.
Claudio Ranieri stepped in. Black jacket zipped to the neck. He walked slowly to the center of the room, cleats crunching faintly on the tile.
The laughter died in an instant. No shout needed.
Ranieri waited a beat. Then another.
"Okay," he said finally, his voice low, soft — like a teacher calling the class to attention. "Tonight is... a beautiful problem."
The players watched. Nobody moved.
"They say we don't belong here," he continued, sweeping the room with his eyes. "That we are temporary. Lucky. A nice story — not a real one."
He stepped forward.
"They say Manchester City has the bench, the stars, the depth, the millions."
Another step.
"What they don't have is this room."
Now his voice had steel in it.
"They don't have your lungs. They don't have your pain. They don't have what you gave up to get here."
He paused.
"They don't have your heart."
Silence. A few players shifted slightly — not nervously. Just ready.
Ranieri looked around, slower now.
"This is not a Hollywood film. This is not a fairytale."
His voice softened again — but the words cut sharper.
"This is football. This is you."
Then — simply:
"Let's go."
He turned, and the room exploded into motion.
Benches creaked. Boots stamped. Shouts echoed. Gloves were tugged tighter. Mahrez called "last one out's a Man City fan!" and Vardy sprinted out like he'd been shot from a cannon.
Tristan stood, shook out his arms once, and followed them into the tunnel — into the cold, into the lights, into the next ninety minutes.
.
The line of mascots fidgeted nervously near the tunnel entrance, boots squeaking on the rubber flooring like mice in football socks. Twenty-two kids — eleven in royal blue, eleven in dark navy with glowing green trim — stood in two neat rows, shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite directions but sharing the same wide-eyed awe.
Some bounced on their toes, jittery from too much energy and the electric idea of walking next to Premier League stars. Others stood frozen stiff, scarf ends flapping against their knees, expressions somewhere between starstruck and don't cry on TV.
The Leicester lads were already deep into their warm-up — the pre-match nonsense, that is.
Tristan crouched low among them, gloves tucked under his arm, eye-level with a string of kids in royal blue.
"Alright," he said, mock-serious, sweeping his gaze like a drill sergeant. "Let's make a deal. If any of you nutmeg me on the way out, I'm retiring."
A ripple of giggles rolled through the line. One boy with gelled-up hair and alarming confidence raised a hand.
"What if we score a hat-trick?"
Tristan squinted. "Hat-trick? Okay. You do that, I'll carry your backpack to school, buy your lunch for a week, and let you do my taxes."
Danny leaned in. "Hope he knows how to expense a hamstring injury. My guy's got quick feet."
"I just want him to declare my left foot as a business asset," Tristan muttered.
Laughter cracked across the line before Tristan noticed his mascot.
No older than seven. Buried in a borrowed coat, gripping the end of her mum's scarf like it was a lifeline. She hadn't said a word — just stared up at him like he was something out of a video game she wasn't old enough to play.
He crouched again, softer now.
"Hey," he said. "You okay?"
She nodded, too fast.
"You cold?"
She shook her head — but her gloves told the truth. They drooped at the wrists like floppy socks.
Tristan pulled off his own and held them out. "Wanna borrow mine? Just for the walkout?"
She looked at them like he'd just offered her a pair of wings.
"They're magic," he whispered. "Scored three goals wearing those. That's at least two more than Vardy."
Vardy spun around. "Oi! I gave you both assists!"
"You have zero assists, mate."
The girl giggled and slid on the gloves. They swallowed her hands completely. She held them up like she'd just been knighted.
"Now you've got superpowers," Tristan whispered. "But shh don't tell Vardy. He'll want a pair."
From behind, the crowd's growl began to rise — first low, then louder, crawling down the concrete like thunder in a bottle. Chants echoed through the tunnel, whipped by drums and floodlight hum.
🎵 "WHO NEEDS STARS WHEN YOU'VE GOT HEART?"
"WHO NEEDS CASH WHEN YOU'VE GOT CLASS?"🎵
Cameras wheeled into position. Stewards paced with clipboards. Players stood taller. Gloves were tugged tighter.
"Alright, mascots!" one steward called brightly. "Final checks! Thirty seconds!"
One final glance from Tristan — across the lineup of bright jerseys, brighter faces, and nerves hidden behind giggles. He adjusted his collar, then looked at the girl beside him once more.
"Ready?"
This time, she nodded for real — chin up, gloves on, grinning.
Boots clacked into place. Lights buzzed to full. Tunnel shadows stretched long.
And then… they waited for City to walk out.
. -> [Kevin De Bruyne POV]
The first thing he felt was the air.
Not the cold that was expected.
No, it was the weight of it.
The way it pressed in.
The noise from the stadium wasn't loud yet — not fully. It was still mostly pressure. A low thrum bleeding through concrete, rattling up from the floor like distant thunder. But it was there. Waiting as always. But this game kicked everything else out of the park.
The City squad stood lined up, shoulders squared, silent in their away kits — dark navy soaked in neon trim, glowing faintly under the tunnel lights.
Aguero stood to Kevin's left, bouncing slightly on his heels, eyes closed, jaw set. Silva was to his right, head bowed, muttering something under his breath in Spanish, hands clasped behind his back like a monk before war.
Kompany further ahead, unmoving. The captain. Back straight. Already inside the game.
Nobody spoke. Not yet.
Gloves were adjusted. Sleeves tugged. Breaths slowed.
But Kevin's eyes weren't on them.
They were locked forward — toward the tunnel mouth.
Toward him.
Tristan Hale. The world's best. The Crown Jewel of this country.
Loose. Easy. Laughing with the Leicester kids like it wasn't even a matchday that could determine who wins it all. A glove on a child's hand. A joke. A grin.
He looked like a kid in the schoolyard, not a player about to face the biggest fixture of the season. The league had already crowned him its miracle. Pundits, managers, fans — they'd all given him the title. The "new prototype." The game's inevitable next step.
Kevin had once played against him — back at Wolfsburg, in the Europa League. Twice. Lost both.
Not just the games — he'd lost himself in them.
The kid had played like he was a cheat code. A future version of Kevin. A copy with the flaws ironed out and the volume turned up. Vision, control, timing — all of it cranked beyond anything Kevin thought possible with strength and pace he could only dream of.
That match changed him.
He'd watched tape. Studied it. Not out of obsession — out of necessity for his own growth. Tristam didn't just bend the rules of the game. He danced around them. He took Kevin's own style and upgraded it with pace, muscle, and something harder to name.
Freedom.
That was what gnawed at Kevin most.
Tristan played like there was no cost. No fear. Like gravity didn't pull on him the same way.
Kevin exhaled. Shifted his weight. Pulled once at the sleeve of his shirt. He didn't feel envy — not exactly.
But something close.
Not hate. Not bitterness. Just… a strong desire of a need. He wanted to beat him.
Not Leicester. Him.
Not because he hated what Tristan was. But because somewhere deep inside, watching Tristan had made Kevin better. He'd changed his game.
Now it was time to prove it all his efforts were for nothing.
"City," came the steward's voice, sharp and clear. "Let's move."
The players straightened. Cleats clicked into position. Kompany took the first step forward.
Kevin followed. Slow. Focused.
As they entered the tunnel proper, the lights flared hotter, whiter. Chants sharpened into actual words now — "Leicester! Leicester!" — booming above drums and stomped concrete.
And then, through the corridor of children in blue and navy, came the moment.
Tristan turned. Saw him. Just stepped forward and offered a hand.
Kevin paused only half a second then took it.
"Hey," Tristan said. "Good luck tonight."
Kevin nodded. "You too."
The grip between them broke.
And just like that, they kept walking.
Side by side for one brief moment. Rivals. Mirrors of each other.
The pitch waited.
The world watched.
Kickoff was coming.
.
Writing this entire match shattered my heart into a million pieces, Kevin De Bruyne is my favorite player and one of the reasons I even picked up this story so doing him dirty to this level is a different type of feeling.