If you guys have time and are interested in my other stories please do check them out.
One is a Naruto one, called Naruto: The Greatest Uchiha , had to change the title, lol.
Link: https://www.webnovel.com/book/34559048308213005
And Basketball's Greatest.
Link: https://www.webnovel.com/book/34373284400173805
Basically if you see a title with the Greatest, it's probably mine. A reader suggested that, lol.
...
June 25, 2016 | Parc des Princes, Paris
"Welcome to Paris, welcome to the knockouts, welcome to the real deal!" Guy Mowbray's voice thundered as the camera swept across a sun-splashed Parc des Princes, every seat filled, every flag already waving.
The stadium was electric before even the game started.
Jermaine Jenas leaned toward his mic, eyes locked on the pitch. "Twelve nations gone. Sixteen remain. This is where legends are made… and pretenders get kicked out. This is the stage where the all-time greats carve their names."
Mowbray continued, the energy practically vibrating through the broadcast. "And speaking of legends in the making, Jermaine, England have one of their own tonight in the making. Tristan. Three games, three goals, three assists, three man-of-the-match performances. He's been the standout player of this tournament so far. The best in the world right now, leading his country at twenty-one, wearing the armband, carrying expectations the size of Russia on his shoulders… and not once has he looked like buckling."
Jenas hummed in agreement. "He's been frightening. Absolutely frightening."
Mowbray continued, riding the surge of anticipation flooding the stadium. "What more could one say about Tristan. But England are the top of Group B. Nine points. Zero losses. As dominant as you could ask for. Every expectation, every ounce of pressure… they've carried it so far. And tonight, they meet the team that shocked everyone in Group C…"
"Northern Ireland. Third place but that doesn't tell the story. They were gritty, they were stubborn, they beat Ukraine, and they gave Germany a scare nobody expected. Don't let that third-place tag fool you. They're swinging tonight. And if England underestimates them… they're in for a world of pain."
The roar of the crowd rose behind them, a perfect soundtrack to the storm about to start.
The screen flashed with the Round of 16 bracket. The group stage had already passed. Each team played 3 games in total.
Switzerland vs. Poland
Wales vs. Albania
Croatia vs. Portugal
France vs. Republic of Ireland
Germany vs. Slovakia
Italy vs. Spain
England vs. Northern Ireland
Hungary vs. Belgium
"It's a British battle in the capital," Mowbray said. "Familiar faces. Familiar rivalries. And a packed stadium ready to erupt."
Down below, the tunnel filled with movement.
The two sides emerged side by side, England in all white, Northern Ireland in deep green. Each player had a mascot gripping their hand, wide-eyed and beaming. Flashbulbs popped. The anthem buzz swelled.
.
Tristan let out a sigh as he looked around. The players around looked confident, that was good.
He glanced down at the girl beside him, no older than nine, hair braided into pigtails, face painted with a little red-and-white England flag on one cheek. She was staring straight ahead, frozen with awe.
He gave her hand a light squeeze back.
Then lifted his eyes to the wall of sound in front of them.
Parc des Princes roared.
And all he could think about was Iceland.
In his first life, England had made it to the knockouts. Confidence was high. Then Iceland of all fucking countries, Iceland had flipped the script and sent them crashing out in disgrace.
But that was his first life. That was the version of England that stumbled, that fumbled under the weight of expectation.
But not this time.
This time, they weren't facing Iceland. This time, he was here.
He'd changed the trajectory. Every result, every moment, every training session everything was different because of him.
But part of him couldn't shake the nerves. Maybe he was a bit too paranoid.
He'd spent nearly forty minutes the day before sitting in Roy Hodgson's office, pleading, arguing not to rest the starters.
Roy had wanted rotation. Protect the legs. Trust the depth. He believed they could win against Ireland with ease even if Tristan wasn't playing.
Tristan had said no.
"We're in rhythm," he told him. "This isn't just about rest. This is about how the players feel, right now we feel confident, the pressure isn't getting to us. You rest half the team, and suddenly we're flat, the crowd gets edgy, and they get momentum and start believe they could win."
Roy had sighed, fingers steepled. "You really think they could take us?"
"I think if we give them a sniff, they might convince themselves they can. And if they do that, we're in trouble."
It wasn't the stat sheets or tactics board that changed Roy's mind.
It was Tristan's eyes filled with paranoia.
Eventually, Roy relented. "Alright. We go strong. But if we're up by two, I'm pulling half of you."
"Deal."
So here they were. Lights flashing. Cameras rolling. Full XI ready.
He stepped out into the light, the girl still at his side, and the wave of noise nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.
He never folded under pressure and he won't fall here either.
Mowbray's voice picked up the moment the anthems faded. "Alright, the stage is set. The captains have walked. The coin's been flipped. England will kick off. And now, let's talk tactics."
Jenas leaned forward. "It's a bold choice from Roy Hodgson tonight—no rotation. He's gone full strength again. I'm surprised as many believe Englands bench will be enough for tonights match"
On screen, England's formation flashed.
England Starting XI – 4-4-2 Diamond
GK – 🧤 Joe Hart
RB – 🛡️ Kyle Walker
CB – 🧱 John Stones
CB – 🧱 Chris Smalling
LB – 🚀 Ben Chilwell
CDM – 🧭 Jordan Henderson (Vice Captain)
CM – 🔄 Danny Drinkwater
CM – 💫 Dele Alli
CAM – 👑 Tristan Hale (Captain, #22)
RF – ⚡ Jamie Vardy
LF – 🎯 Harry Kane
Mowbray whistled softly. "That midfield diamond's been devastating. Henderson at the base, Tristan at the tip, it's got control and the ability to score in equal measure."
"And the front two," Jenas added. "Vardy with his pace. Kane with his link-up. It's clinical. It's fluid. And with Tristan pulling strings just behind? Good luck handling that. So far England have scored in all 3 matches. I don't see anyone being to stop them from scoring.
The camera cut to the England bench—Sterling, Rashford, Grealish, Rooney, Rashford again.
Mowbray nodded. "No rotation now, but firepower waiting in case."
The camera swept to the opposite end.
Northern Ireland stood huddled just inside their half, arms linked, looking serious, they knew what they were up against.
Northern Ireland Starting XI – 4-5-1
GK – 🧤 Michael McGovern
RB – 🛡️ Conor McLaughlin
CB – 💪 Gareth McAuley
CB – 💪 Jonny Evans
LB – 🔒 Shane Ferguson
RM – 🌀 Stuart Dallas
CM – 🔁 Oliver Norwood
CM – 🧱 Steven Davis (Captain)
CM – 🎯 Corry Evans
LM – 🐝 Paddy McNair
ST – 🎯 Kyle Lafferty
Jenas exhaled looking at the list, he almost felt bad for the team. "Look at that block. Five across midfield, two holding close to Davis, Dallas and McNair just wide enough to offer an out-ball."
Mowbray nodded. "That's not a lineup trying to win a shootout. That's eleven men ready to scrap. They have to play against a team like England."
"Lafferty's the lone striker, but he's more than a target man. He'll chase, harass, look for scraps. And Steven Davis, what a warrior he is. If Northern Ireland have a hope, he'll be the one pulling the strings."
The camera zoomed out again. Both teams in position. The noise built like a swell.
Mowbray let it breathe, then dropped the final line before kickoff.
"England. Northern Ireland. Knockouts. No second chances."
.
The shrill blast of the whistle sliced through the roar.
Kane nudged it forward. Vardy tapped it back. And just like that, England vs. Northern Ireland was underway.
Tristan stood on the edge of the diamond, eyes locked forward, lips pressed into a flat line. No media-friendly focus-face. No smiling Tristan.He looked like a man playing in a final. Because in his head, he was.
His shoulders rose with one deep breath. Then fell. And in that still second, his mind flicked.
[ SYSTEM ]
Active Inventory:
🟥 1x Anti-Injury (Major)
🟨 2x Anti-Injury (Minor)
♻️ 3x Stamina Recovery
He planned to go all out, and if anything happened, he had the cards in the reserve.He wanted to bury them.
.
Sixth minute. Not even a full round on the clock. And already, Northern Ireland were far behind.
The ball ticked along the grass like a metronome with bloodlust. Walker to Henderson.
Henderson to Drinkwater. Out wide to Chilwell. Back again.
One-touch.
Reset. Cycle. Repeat.
"England are playing in suits," Jenas said, eyes wide. "Northern Ireland look like they've just clocked in to the wrong job."
"This isn't just control," Mowbray added, voice low. "It's a kind of psychological warfare. A hundred passes… and not one step wasted."
Northern Ireland tried to press. McNair flew forward. Norwood bit at heels. Even Lafferty dropped deep, barking at his midfield to close space.
Didn't matter.
Every time a green shirt lunged, the ball was already gone, pinged diagonally to the opposite flank or tapped coolly into a pocket behind them.
"It's England's version of tiki-taka," Jenas said, grinning now. "Except instead of waiting for an opening… they manufacture it."
Drinkwater and Dele interchanged seamlessly, pulling defenders just a step too far. Henderson sat deep, a lighthouse at the base. And at the tip, just waiting, orbiting…
Tristan.
The ball came to Kane, who nudged it back first-time. Dele ducked in, feinted a run.Chilwell overlapped. It all looked harmless until Drinkwater stabbed a low pass straight into Tristan's path.
Thirty yards out in the centra area, with plenty of space to operate.
"It's opened up!" Mowbray barked. "They've carved them again! AND IT'S TRISTAN HALE!"
He didn't take a touch. Didn't think what he was about to do.
One step. One swing.
The shot exploded off his boot like a cannonball. It knuckled. It dipped. It swerved.
McGovern launched himself—too late. The kick came out of nowhere.
The ball clipped the underside of the bar and violated the top corner.
"OH. MY. GOD!" Jenas was on his feet. "THAT IS UNREAL!"
"TRISTAN HALE! FROM ANOTHER PLANET!" Mowbray howled. "THIRTY YARDS OUTAND HE'S JUST OPENED A PORTAL TO HELL!"
The stadium detonated. Flags whipped. Scarves twirled. Voices fractured into a thousand shards of disbelief and joy.
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"
The chant rose like a tidal wave crashing through the Parc des Princes. From the back rows to pitchside, from children on shoulders to pensioners clutching flags to their hearts—it was his name echoing.
"Folks—" Mowbray's voice cracked, genuinely breathless. "Folks, can you believe this? Are we watching real life or some kind of divine simulation?"
"It's every time!" Jenas said, almost laughing now. "Every bloody time! Give him thirty yards and he'll rip a hole in the net like it owes him rent!"
On the replay, the camera zoomed in—Tristan's face as calm as the sea before a storm, body balanced perfectly, eyes fixed on one thing: the target.
"Look at the technique," Mowbray added. "No hesitation. No doubt. He has scored far too many goals from such distances. At this point, that's a signature goal. His signature."
"This is the kind of player you lie to your grandchildren about," Jenas said, shaking his head. "Tristan Hale… scoring goals from places nobody's even supposed to shoot from."
And through it all, the chant continued, louder now, thunder layered over thunder.
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"
.
Still reeling from the first, Northern Ireland barely got through two passes off the restart before England pounced again.
It started with Dele, winning a loose ball in midfield and immediately flicking it forward to Kane. Kane turned, dragged McAuley with him, then slipped it wide to Vardy in stride.
"Oh they're in again…" Mowbray shouted. "This is brutal!"
Vardy took one look and whipped in a cross, low and vicious.
Tristan had made the run. He was sprinting between the two center-backs before the defenders even realized the ball had left Vardy's foot.
One touch. Right instep.
Slotted beneath McGovern like it was a passing drill.
Goal.
2–0.
"TRISTAN AGAIN!" Jenas yelled, voice cracking. "Are you kidding me? It's the tenth minute and he's already got two!"
"Two goals. One from thirty. One from six. He's got the range of a sniper and the instincts of a poacher," Mowbray added, eyes wide.
On the sideline, Roy turned to his staff smiling like he couldn't believe what he just watched.. He ran a palm down his face like he was trying to check if he was dreaming.
The England bench was standing now. Rooney had his hands on his head. Rashford was shouting something at Grealish, jaw open in disbelief.
Meanwhile, Northern Ireland were falling apart.
Jonny Evans stared at the ground. Gareth McAuley yelled at McLaughlin, then waved it off as hopeless. Their manager just stared straight ahead, arms crossed but the fight already gone from his eyes.
They didn't want to play this game anymore.
Not with him on the pitch.
Not with Tristan. But the man didn't want to stop.
.
Twenty-eighth minute.
England pushed forward again. This time it was slower, more deliberate—Walker overlapping, Chilwell tucking in. Henderson patrolled the edge of the final third like a general with a map.
Then it happened.
A lazy clearance. Evans panicked and hoofed it. Drinkwater brought it down clean and played a one-touch square ball to Tristan, top of the box, dead center.
Still thirty yards from goal.
The crowd buzzed.
He rolled it forward. Just once.
Then struck.
Left foot.
No swerve. No curve. Just power. Flat and ruthless.
It rocketed low and hard past three defenders. McGovern barely moved.
The net rippled.
3–0.
A hat-trick in under 30 minutes.
"HE'S DONE IT! THAT'S THREE! THREE!" Mowbray was howling now. "IS THIS THE FASTEST HAT-TRICK IN EURO HISTORY?! SOMEBODY CHECK! CALL UEFA RIGHT NOW!"
"TRISTAN HALE HAS BROKEN FOOTBALL!" Jenas shouted.
Tristan sprinted to the corner flag, stopped just shy of the line, and lifted both arms into the air.
The Parc des Princes lost its mind.
TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!
The players mobbed him. Kane grabbed his shoulders and laughed into his ear. Vardy slapped him on the back like he was checking if he was real.
And somewhere, above the chaos, the cameras found again.
The man was just standing there.
Hand to forehead.
Mouth half-open.
He couldn't believe what he'd just watched.
No one could.
The stadium was still shaking from the third goal when Roy finally snapped out of his trance. He dragged a hand down his face, blinked twice, then turned to his assistants.
"That's enough," he muttered, still sounding half‑bewildered. "We're not risking him. Or Jamie. That's three goals. Get the board ready."
The fourth official lifted the electronic numbers.
22 → OFF.
9 → OFF.
10 → ON.
7 → ON.
Rooney. Sterling.
The moment the crowd saw the numbers, a wave of noise swelled like a tidal shift.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Mowbray breathed as the cameras followed Tristan. "Listen to this. This is respect. This is what a superstar sounds like when he leaves a pitch."
The fourth official's board beeped. Tristan jogged toward the touchline.
The entire stadium rose.
All of it. White. Red. Green, it didn't matter. They had just witnessed greatness.
"STAND UP FOR THE CAPTAIN!" someone screamed from the front rows.
Others followed.
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"
He slowed near the sideline, exhaling, sweat glistening across his forehead, chest rising steady.
Sterling was first to reach him. He wrapped both arms around him, forehead pressed to Tristan's shoulder.
"You're unreal, man," Sterling muttered. "You're making the rest of us look stupid."
Rooney followed, gripping the back of Tristan's neck, pulling him close for a quick, firm hug.
"Damn man, how are we supposed to be that" Rooney said joking. "You keep doing that… and we're winning this thing."
Tristan kept walking, clapping toward the fans.
Vardy jogged toward him too, breathless, red‑cheeked. He grabbed Tristan's wrist and shook it.
"Bro, you're not human," Vardy laughed. "What was that!"
Tristan laughed as he hugged Vardy before he reached Roy.
The old manager didn't even pretend to be composed.
Roy grabbed Tristan by the shoulders and pulled him into a full hug.
"Well done," Roy said, he didn't know what else to say. "Off you go. That's enough for today."
Tristan nodded. Everywhere he turned, teammates were just staring at him like they didn't know how to describe what they'd just watched.
Northern Ireland looked the opposite.
Exhausted. Defeated. Heads down. A team that wanted the final whistle more than anything else.
"Three goals," Jenas muttered. "And I don't think he even hit top gear."
"Roy Hodgson may have just made the smartest decision of the night," Mowbray added. "Protect the superstar. The game is done."
England didn't slow. Not with fresh legs.
Rooney orchestrated from deep. Sterling ran at defenders like he wanted to tear the grass open.
By the 70th minute, Northern Ireland weren't pressing, they were just surviving.
Then the fourth came.
It started with Rooney drifting wide and cutting inside, drawing two defenders. He clipped a pass through the lines, and Sterling was on it in a flash. One touch to settle. One touch to shift.
Then he buried it bottom corner.
4–0.
"STERLING MAKES IT FOUR!" Mowbray roared, losing composure completely. "AND THIS… THIS IS A STATEMENT. ENGLAND HAVE ARRIVED AT THESE KNOCKOUTS WITH FIRE IN THEIR LUNGS."
Jenas was laughing into his mic. "What a match it has been for England."
On the bench, Tristan smiled for clapping.
The final whistle blew, mercifully for the men in green.
4–0.
Three from Tristan.
One from Sterling.
A demolition.
Players shook hands. Northern Ireland's captain shook Tristan's hand with a look that said thank God you were subbed off.
England walked off happy as they could be.
And as Tristan stepped down the tunnel, the cameras caught him one last time.
.
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