England's Greatest-Chapter 177: Rising Spurs 1

August 22, 2015 – King Power Stadium

Tunnel – 12:27 PM

Boots echoed against the concrete. Studs scraped and clacked — some light, some heavy — all following a rhythm that only footballers knew. Bibs were tossed. Shirts pulled tight. Armbands fixed in place. You could smell it now: the deep heat, the stitched leather, the freshly watered pitch just beyond the tunnel.

Thirty-five thousand waited.

Tristan stood near the front of the Leicester line, bouncing once on his toes. His curls were tied back, his breath steady. The crown on his boots caught a flash of light every time he shifted. Every limb felt warm. Not jittery — just humming with the kind of anticipation that only came before the best kind of storm.

Across from him, Harry Kane knelt slightly, stretching out one calf, then the other. Shin pads tight. Expression tighter. Spurs' white kit looked like it had just been ironed onto him. Kane didn't move like a man with nerves. He moved like a man on deadline.

He looked up.

"Nice interview," he said casually. "You going for Vogue Player of the Season now?"

Tristan blinked once, then cracked a soft smile. "I'll settle for Player of the Month. Beating you today would help."

Kane's mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but didn't want to make it obvious. "You and Barbara... my girlfriend cried watching it. Said you officially ruined men for the rest of the year."

Tristan huffed a short breath. "Tell her I'm sorry."

"I won't. She's using it to negotiate furniture."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "You losing?"

"I'm already outnumbered."

Kane looked away, shook out his arms once, and exhaled hard. Truthfully, he admired Tristan. He had exploded into the league with the force of a comet and hasn't stopped since. But he wanted to be better; he wanted to see if he could stop the comet today.

"You better not score today," Tristan said lightly.

"You either," Kane muttered. "But good luck, mate."

"Yeah," Tristan replied. "You too."

Tristan really liked Harry Kane, he was one of the few English players with no scandals, dude just loved his wife. And he respected a man like that. Not to mention Kane would be his future partner in England once Vardy quits the national team. So since last season, he made sure they were on decent terms. He did not want to deal with another locker room like in the World Cup.

Behind them, the rhythm broke.

"Oi, look at these two," Vardy said, voice just loud enough to travel. "Should we give 'em a minute or bring flowers?"

Tristan turned slightly, one eyebrow raised.

Mahrez was standing with his arms crossed, giving Vardy a side-eye. "They've been like this since last season we played them. I wouldn't be surprised if they wore matching boots under the socks."

"We're calling it now," Vardy added. "Tunnel wedding by Christmas."

"You'd miss the ceremony," Tristan said over his shoulder. "Same way you miss open goals."

Vardy put a hand to his chest. "Wow. He's come back with spice."

"Soft spice," Mahrez muttered. "But then again, he's British."

Near the back of the line, Kante stood stiff as a coat rack, eyes bouncing between the tunnel cameras and the massive Spurs lineup. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, pulling and re-pulling it like it had wronged him.

Mahrez glanced back. "You okay, N'Golo?"

Kante nodded too quickly. "Just... this is a lot of people."

"It's football," Mahrez said flatly. "Not jury duty. Relax."

Kante swallowed, exhaled, then gave a tiny, nervous nod.

In the middle of the Spurs line, Eric Dier leaned toward Kane. "You know Hale's dog is trending, right?"

"What?"

"The dog. Biscuit. She's got merch now. There's a t-shirt."

Kane blinked slowly. "I'm playing against a lad whose dog is more famous than half our squad."

Beside him, Hugo Lloris muttered under his breath, "Only in England."

Camera crews passed again, the boom mic dipping overhead. The Premier League anthem now rang louder, echoing off the walls.

At the front, the fourth official gave the signal.

Wes Morgan cracked his neck once, looked down the line, and said, "Alright, lads. Let's walk."

The tunnel shifted — bodies leaning forward. One collective exhale. Mascots looked up like someone had hit "go" on their dream.

The players stepped out — boots hitting turf.

And King Power roared.

..

The King Power exploded in rhythm, 35,000 strong. Banners whipped above the tunnel. The ground beneath their feet almost shook with the weight of it. Leicester were on a run. And they smelled blood.

Just behind the mascots, Tristan stepped onto the turf and looked up.

Wall of blue. Flags. Then the chants began.

"WHAT DO WE THINK OF SPURS?"

"SHIT!"

"WHAT DO WE THINK OF SHIT?"

"SPURS!"

"THANK YOU!"

"THAT'S ALRIGHT!"

Vardy grinned beside him. "God, I love this place."

Across the pitch, the Tottenham players kept their heads down. Most of them had heard it before. But it never felt warm.

"YOU'RE JUST A SOFT LONDON CLUB!"

"HARRY KANE, HE'S ONE OF OUR OWN—OH WAIT!"

"CUP WINNERS! YOU'LL NEVER SING THAT!"

The cameras caught everything — chants, flags, faces painted with foxes, kids screaming at their heroes. One Leicester fan had a cardboard sign that read:

"VARDY > KANE." freēnovelkiss.com

Above the pitch, the voices of Peter Drury and Jim Beglin came through, not over the noise — with it. Like part of the weather.

"From the heart of the East Midlands," Drury began, his tone rich and reverent, "to the screens of millions... this is the King Power Stadium. Where once there were dreams, now there are expectations."

He paused just long enough for the roar of the crowd to carry. "Leicester City against Tottenham Hotspur — a fixture everyone skipped... now center stage."

Next to him, Beglin added, "And Spurs aren't just walking into a stadium, Peter — they're walking into a verdict. This place has made up its mind before the ball's even touches the grass."

Two of England's best — one already a brand, the other still chasing shadows.

Drury's voice picked up again. "It's Kane's silence versus Tristan's storm.."

As the teams lined up across the halfway line, the crowd let it fly:

"WHAT DO WE THINK OF SPURS?"

"SHIT!"

Drury chuckled softly on the feed, like someone narrating a riot with a glass of red wine in hand. "The old chant still rings — crude, yes, but it carries truth... at least in the eyes of the Foxes faithful."

Beglin jumped in, "It's not just noise anymore. It's identity. Leicester used to be the club that hoped. Now they expect. And they expect to win — even against the best."

Mascots fidgeted at the players' sides. One little lad holding Vardy's hand was mouthing the chant with wide eyes.

Across the pitch, a massive banner unfurled behind the goal. Biscuit's face. Tongue out. Crown perched. Beneath it:

"BELIEVE IN BISCUIT. BELIEVE IN MIRACLES."

Drury caught it right away. "And even the club dog's a symbol now. When a Maltipoo's leading your charge, you either laugh... or you lose."

Beglin let out a small laugh. "Spurs better hope she's not barking orders."

The camera panned back catching a slow zoom on Kane and Tristan side by side.

"They respect each other," Drury said. "You can see it. But make no mistake — they'd both love nothing more than to ruin the other's day."

The whistle was coming.

You could feel it in the stands, in the stretch of every leg, in the way Vardy tapped his own chest twice and muttered something under his breath.

"From fairytale to firestorm," Drury murmured. "This is not the Leicester of yesterday. This is a club with its teeth out."

The chants still echoed as the camera panned out toward the center circle. Blue smoke curled behind the goal. Mascots were starting to drift off the pitch, guided by match officials.

Drury's voice returned, just above the sound of stamping feet.

"Let's take a look at how the two teams are lining up today..."

The screen shifted to a sleek graphic — the Leicester City crest gleaming on the left. Names clicked into place like chess pieces. A familiar shape. Familiar names. But nothing about this felt ordinary.

"Leicester, as expected, in a 4-4-2," Drury said, his tone crisp with reverence. "But make no mistake — this isn't your grandfather's 4-4-2. It's fluid. Clever. It bends without breaking."

The formation locked in:

Leicester City (4-4-2)

GK: Schmeichel

RB: Simpson

CB: Morgan (C)

CB: Huth

LB: Fuchs

RM: Mahrez

CM: Drinkwater

CM: Kanté

LM: Albrighton

CF: Vardy

CF: Tristan Hale

Beglin chimed in, "And just look at where Tristan's sitting. That's no standard strike partnership. He's playing high — but not too high. Drifting into those half-spaces, just behind Vardy. It's closer to a 4-4-1-1 or even a 4-2-3-1 at times."

Drury added, "He's the ghost between the lines. The pass before the pass. The runner who isn't marked until it's too late. And in this stadium, on this form — he feels inevitable."

Then the screen pivoted.

Spurs' crest clicked into view on the right. A white glow outlining the players' names.

Tottenham Hotspur (4-2-3-1)

GK: Lloris (C)

RB: Walker

CB: Alderweireld

CB: Vertonghen

LB: Rose

CDM: Dembélé

CDM: Bentaleb

RM: Lamela

CAM: Eriksen

LM: Chadli

ST: Kane

Beglin whistled quietly. "It's brave from Pochettino. Two midfielders tasked with holding shape against Leicester's running chaos? That's a test. And Chadli's going to have to do more defending than he's used to if Mahrez gets going."

Drury's voice slowed, drawing focus again.

"This is football in a mirror. One team disrupts — the other dictates. One trusts the press, the other trusts the space behind it. One plays with a sword. The other plays with a scalpel."

The screen faded back to the pitch. The referee raised his whistle.

The crowd swelled once more — that wall of sound surging from every corner of King Power.

Drury's voice dropped into a hush.

"And so we begin...."

The screen returned to the pitch. The formations faded from the broadcast, replaced now by wide-angle shots of the center circle — Vardy and Tristan standing over the ball, waiting. Kane and Eriksen lingered nearby, eyes narrowed.

The referee walked over, coin in hand.

It flipped once. Then again. Landed flat in his palm.

He showed the face to Wes Morgan — who nodded once.

Leicester to kick off. Toward the South Stand.

Mahrez jogged back into position. Simpson clapped once toward the bench. Schmeichel adjusted his gloves in the distance, then beat his chest twice.

Vardy looked to Tristan. "Ready?"

Tristan just nodded, rolling his shoulders once. "Let's start fast."

Across the line, Vertonghen and Alderweireld shifted their weight like men bracing for wind. They knew what Leicester were like in the first five minutes. They'd seen it last season. They'd lived it.

Referee Martin Atkinson raised his arm.

The crowd inhaled.

Then came the shriek of the whistle.

And it began.

Vardy nudged the ball sideways.

Tristan took the first touch.

And Leicester exploded.

Tristan's first touch was clean. Not flashy. Just calm. Left foot. A single heartbeat's pause — then bang.

He fired it diagonally, hard and low, right into the path of Mahrez on the right. The crowd erupted like someone had flipped a switch.

"COME ON YOU FOXES!"

Rose stumbled a step, caught off guard by the speed. Mahrez didn't stop. Took it in stride, first time, cut back, cut again — then whipped in a low cross. Vardy came flying.

Slide. Studs. Inches away.

Blocked by Alderweireld, but it rattled him.

Beglin's voice snapped in. "They're not easing in today, Peter. Leicester has come to hunt. And when we know what happens when Leicester starts off a game gunning for violence."

The rebound came out to Drinkwater, who let fly from thirty yards — a rising ball that stung gloves.

Lloris caught it clean, but barely. Drury's voice soared. "The storm has teeth. And it's already biting."

.

The tenth minute had come and gone.

The storm had settled — but only just.

Spurs had held firm. Barely. Now Leicester were recycling, recalibrating, looking for the next break in the wall.

The ball was deep in their own half now — at Kanté's feet.

He stood near the edge of the center circle, body low, eyes darting left, then right. Dembélé was shadowing him, but not close enough to bite.

Kanté didn't hold it long.

One touch to steady.

Another to drag Dembélé a step the wrong way.

Then he rolled it gently toward Drinkwater — the kind of pass that wasn't meant to break a line, just ask a question. Control it? Or reset?

Drinkwater answered on the half-turn. His left shoulder dipped as he spun, receiving it with his instep like it had a heartbeat. He didn't rush — just took a breath, let the ball roll across his body, and scanned the field.

Drury wove into the moment, smooth as velvet.

"Leicester slowing for the first time this afternoon. A beat of calm. And there's Danny Drinkwater — the metronome. Boots scuffed, lungs steady, orchestrating in the shadow of war drums."

Drinkwater took two casual steps forward — Spurs didn't bite. Bentaleb held his ground. So did Eriksen.

So Drinkwater went lateral.

A clipped diagonal floated toward Albrighton on the left touchline — not meant to pierce Spurs apart, but to stretch them. To pull the back four just a few inches wider than they wanted.

Beglin called it instantly. "That's not a killer pass, Peter — that's a lever. And it's working. Tottenham are shifting again."

Albrighton brought it down on his right thigh, let it drop to his laces, then cushioned it gently forward with the outside of his boot. He didn't race. Didn't cross. Just looked up once — nothing on.

So he rolled it back.

Fuchs stepped up. Took over without needing a call.

On the far side, Mahrez was already waving — arm up, eyes alive. There was room now. Walker had tucked in, maybe too far. The right wing was starting to breathe.

Beglin again. "Spurs are in shell mode now. Not parking the bus... but it's got its engine running. Everyone behind the ball. Letting Leicester play."

The ball worked its way back into midfield.

And that's where it happened.

Tristan dropped.

He glanced once over his shoulder. Saw Eriksen two steps behind. Dembélé hovering wide. Kane too high to track. The line between midfield and defense? Empty. Wide as the Thames.

So he moved into it.

Kanté spotted it first.

Two touches. Not rushed — but sharp. He turned with that same quiet grace that always looked too calm to matter.

Then bang.

A crisp pass, right between the lines. Perfect weight. Perfect angle. No spin.

Straight to Tristan's boots.

The crowd leaned forward — like someone had pressed play.

Tristan received it on the spin — one touch with the sole, second touch with the inside of his boot. His body opened. The pitch tilted.

Vertonghen stepped forward. Too late.

Tristan darted left — then cut right. A little juke. Space opened.

He slid the ball between Bentaleb's legs, just enough to turn the stadium on again.

"OOHHHHH!" roared the crowd.

Tristan didn't smile. He didn't need to. He was already scanning. Mahrez wide. Vardy making the run. Albrighton hanging back for the second wave.

One look. Then the release.

Ping.

A through ball with curve and venom, curling into Vardy's path down the right channel.

Vardy sprinted. Sprinting like he was chasing rent money.

He got there.

Touched once — just enough to steady.

Then he let it fly.

A low, near-post hammer — and it whistled past the upright.

So close. Too close.

Fans were already half-celebrating.

The net didn't move. But the stadium did.

Beglin exhaled through the feed. "That's Leicester. That's what they do. One pass, one run, and suddenly it's panic."

The camera caught Pochettino stepping forward in his box, arms crossed tight, lips pressed thin. He turned to his assistant. "He's everywhere," he muttered. "Hale. We have to pin him. Double him."

The assistant nodded. "Want to warm up Dier?"

"No," said Pochettino. "Not yet. Let's see how they deal with a counter first."

Back on the pitch, Spurs restarted with a goal kick.

Lloris restarted the game quickly — a sharp, flat goal kick driven toward Kyle Walker on the right. He barely let it bounce before sending it down the line, and just like that, Spurs had space.

Too much space.

Chadli sprinted into it — chased by Simpson — but the damage had already begun.

One throw-in. One flick. Then Eriksen had it.

Left foot. Inside. Into feet.

Drury's voice shifted with the tempo. "Spurs, for the first time today, carving infield with purpose. And it's Eriksen... calm in chaos."

He barely glanced.

Just swept a low ball into Kane's feet, twenty-eight yards out, dead center, with Morgan half a step too deep and Drinkwater slow to collapse.

Kane didn't wait.

He didn't shift it left. Didn't roll it right. He just stepped onto it and hit it.

One touch.

Then thunder.

The strike was clean. Brutal. A whip of his right boot that sent the ball screaming into the top corner before anyone even yelled shoot.

It didn't curl. It didn't wobble.

It just went.

Top bins.

Off the angle.

In.

Silence.

Then sound.

The away end detonated behind the goal — white shirts exploding to life, fists in the air, limbs colliding in celebration.

"YEEEEEESSSSSSSS!" they bellowed, over and over, louder than they had all game. Flares lit. Flags flew. And for the first time in fifteen minutes, King Power sounded like it had competition.

Drury barely caught his breath. "Oh, my word. Harry Kane... out of nowhere... with a finish forged in fire!"

Kane didn't even smile.

He jogged toward the corner flag, face blank, arms slightly raised — like he expected it. Like he had to prove something.

Behind him, Eriksen caught up, slapping the back of his head. "You mad bastard," he muttered under his breath.

Leicester players stood frozen.

Morgan turned, yelling at Simpson. "Step up sooner!"

Simpson threw both hands out. "He shot from Mars, mate!"

Kanté looked stunned. Huth looked angry. Even Vardy was standing still, just breathing hard through his nose.

On the touchline, Mauricio Pochettino threw both fists into the air, a rare crack in his usual icy composure. He turned sharply toward his bench, high-fived his assistant

His staff echoed the call — "Reset! Reset!" — while the Spurs subs jogged out for a quick warm-up, grinning like schoolboys watching their older brother score a screamer at recess.

Behind him, the fourth official was guiding the Leicester players back to the center circle.

The away fans were still roaring.

"ONE SHOT, ONE GOAL!"

"THAT'S WHY HE'S ENGLAND'S BEST!"

"KANE! KANE! KANE!"

The white section of the stadium pulsed like it had been waiting fifteen minutes just to breathe.

The rest of King Power?

Stunned.

Peter Drury, still in awe, let the silence breathe before cutting back in. "A thunderbolt from Kane... and now we wait to see what Leicester is really made of. Down a goal, but not down belief."

That's when Claudio Ranieri made his move.

He stepped past the white line, hand already up.

"Tristan!"

Tristan turned. He wasn't supposed to see Kane score, but they should have made it harder. But he wasn't too worried. None of the players were. And if they were, he was here.

He jogged over to Ranieri.

"They're watching your back now. Kane scored, yes — but you're still dictating. So draw them in." Ranieri said, pointing to the players.

Tristan blinked. "Deeper?"

"Sometimes. Lure Dembélé out. Pull Eriksen with you. Give Vardy space."

Tristan nodded once before he jogged back into the middle as the whistle blew again. The ball was already rolling.

Back in the commentary box, Beglin leaned in. "It's early, Peter. But now the response matters more than the score."

Drury was watching Tristan as he passed Drinkwater, nodding once, then adjusting his wrist tape like a boxer retying his gloves between rounds.

"Indeed, Jim. Because Leicester don't sulk. They strike. And that young man at the heart of it — he's not done."

And beneath the roar, beneath the singing and jeering and stomping feet, the game ticked forward once more.

1–0.

But no one was blinking yet.

The match rolled into the 30th minute with no substitutions made — not yet — but on the touchline, Claudio Ranieri barked two sharp words toward the pitch.

"Swap wings!"

Mahrez didn't even glance over. He knew.

Albrighton was already cutting inside, drifting across midfield, tugging his shirt at the collar to cool himself down. Mahrez peeled wide on the left — a subtle change, but Tottenham noticed. You could see it in Walker's body language, in how Rose suddenly glanced twice instead of once.

Beglin picked it up first. "Mahrez switching flanks now — just to ask a different question of Spurs. And I'm not sure they've got the answer."

The tempo quickened again.

Than in the 35th.

It started with Kanté. Of course it did.

He pounced on a loose touch from Chadli like a fox in a henhouse — didn't even slow. Just nicked the ball and played it blind to Drinkwater in one breath.

"Turn! Turn!" shouted Ranieri from the sideline, his hand slicing the air.

Drinkwater turned.

He didn't hesitate.

One pass — zipping across the halfway line — straight into Tristan's feet.

Tristan didn't control it.

He caressed it.

Body turned, foot out, just a whisper of contact and the ball was already moving — dragging Vertonghen with him like a lure on a fishing line. But it was bait.

Vardy saw it.

Started sprinting.

Tristan waited half a beat.

Then punched it — a no-look reverse ball with the outside of his left boot. One of those passes that looked like it shouldn't exist. That bent space. Bent time.

It curved between Alderweireld and Walker, skipping along the turf like it had somewhere to be. A pass that shouldn't have existed. And yet — there it was, curling into Vardy's stride like it had been waiting for him since kickoff.

Drury's voice kicked in, rising like thunder behind the moment.

"Oh, what a ball! What a ball that is! Tristan Hale — he's just split the Premier League in half!"

Vardy arrived.

No adjustment. No second thought.

He let the ball run across his body — left to right — touched it once to steady, and then—

Bang.

He smacked it with his laces. Clean. Full throttle. A shot that didn't dip or swerve — just tore forward, arrowed toward the far post like a message sent by rocket mail.

Beglin shouted over the crowd noise, "It's hit like hate! Lloris didn't even flinch!"

The net rippled — full stretch — like it had been punched by the gods.

Top of the boot. Bottom of the net.

1–1.

King Power erupted like it had been waiting to breathe for twenty minutes.

"AND THAT'S WHAT LEICESTER DO!" Drury roared. "From the magician to the marksman! From Tristan's velvet dagger... to Vardy's iron hammer!"

Vardy didn't celebrate.

He detonated.

He sprinted to the corner, drop-kicked the flagpole into the air, and turned to the stands, arms outstretched, chest heaving. Screaming.

"COME ONNNNN!"

The crowd mirrored him — a wall of limbs and thunder. Fuchs crashed into him. Mahrez was laughing through clenched fists. Albrighton had both arms in the air, sprinting in from halfway like a man who'd just been released from gravity.

And Tristan?

He was the last to arrive, chest pumping with a hyped Vardy.

Beglin found his breath. "It's always him. Always that final pass. The weight, the timing... you can't coach that. You either have it — or you don't."

Drury added, his voice still humming with adrenaline, "And he has it in gold. In floodlights. In front of thirty-five thousand believers. That's the Crown Jewel of England — that's Tristan Hale."

The scoreline read 1–1.

The tone had changed once more.

On the touchline, Claudio Ranieri didn't smile.

He clenched both fists and punched the air — once, sharply — then turned immediately to his bench.

"Benetti! Tell them — no more switching off. We go again, immediately!"

He pointed toward Fuchs and Simpson, then down to his feet. "Reset the line. They'll try to answer."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the pitch, Mauricio Pochettino stood completely still.

His arms were folded. He didn't shout. Didn't argue. He just stared at the pitch like it had personally insulted him.

Then he turned to his bench.

"Get Dier ready."

His assistant blinked. "Now?"

"Yes. Forty. Let him see the game before the half. We need a body on Tristan."

Eric Dier stood up, already peeling off his training top, and began jogging down the touchline. Spurs' system wasn't broken — but Hale was bending it. And Pochettino could feel it.

Back in the commentary box, Beglin caught it. "Change coming, Peter. That's Dier warming up already. It's a reaction to Hale — and that tells you everything you need to know about the game plan now."

Drury responded, "This isn't just tactical. It's damage control. And you don't make subs before the half unless you've seen a warning shot too close to the heart."

..

The substitution board went up.

#42 OFF – Nabil Bentaleb

#15 ON – Eric Dier

A few boos rumbled across King Power — not out of disrespect, just instinct. The kind of sound a home crowd made when the other manager blinked first.

On the pitch, Dier jogged in, eyes scanning, already barking directions. He took up the right-sided pivot slot — deeper than Bentaleb had played — shadowing Tristan immediately.

And Spurs responded.

The tempo lifted. Walker overlapped down the right, Mahrez now chasing. Lamela started drifting inward. And suddenly — just like that — Leicester looked a little stretched.

It started with a quick one-two between Chadli and Rose on the left. A flick. A dash. Then Rose burst forward into space.

Rose didn't pause. He fired a low pass into Kane's feet — Kane dropped deep, pulled Huth out of shape, and turned on a dime.

Then he sent it wide.

Lamela was already gone.

Flying.

He took the ball in stride on the right, one-on-one with Fuchs. Then he chopped inside — quick — too quick.

Eriksen overlapped.

Mahrez couldn't keep up.

Fuchs tracked Lamela. Simpson tracked Kane.

And Eriksen?

He was free.

The ball came. A low pass rolled into Eriksen's path near the edge of the box — twenty yards out, just inside the left channel.

It opened like a wound.

King Power held its breath.

Drury's voice fell to a hush.

"This is it. Spurs, on the break. The one crack in the Leicester armor..."

Eriksen didn't even take a touch.

He shaped to shoot.

Left foot. Body weight perfect. A clean strike coming.

But then —

A blue blur.

Came from nowhere — not sprinting, gliding.

In one motion, across the grass, arms tucked, foot out — and scooped the ball away cleanly before Eriksen could blink.

The tackle was perfect.

Textbook. Poetic.

The stadium roared like it was a goal.

Peter Drury snapped in.

"N'Golo Kanté! When others run, he reads. When others chase, he's already there!"

Eriksen was left stumbling forward, off balance, arms flailing. Fuchs cleared the ball out wide. Kanté was already back on his feet.

And just like that, the danger passed.

Ranieri cupped his hands and called from the technical area.

"Slow it! Bring it down!"

Drinkwater heard it. Passed back to Morgan. Leicester took the sting out. Two passes. Then three.

The crowd applauded — not loud, but proud.

Drury let it breathe.

"One final play...."

The whistle came seconds later.

HALF-TIME: LEICESTER CITY 1 — 1 TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR

Players moved slowly toward the tunnel, boots crunching on grass and studs clipping concrete as the energy uncoiled.

Kane walked off with a face like thunder. He didn't speak. Just pulled at his armband slightly, jaw set, eyes on the ground. His goal had been thunderous — but Leicester's equalizer? It stung. Too easy. Too quick.

Behind him, Lamela was muttering something to Rose, gesturing about coverage on the flank. Eriksen shook his head, already rewinding the last ten minutes in his mind.

Leicester's side looked... different.

Not overjoyed. But alive.

Mahrez had a hand on Albrighton's shoulder, still smiling from Vardy's celebration. Fuchs and Simpson were trading shoves. Kanté looked like he hadn't even broken a sweat. And Tristan?

He walked near the middle. Vardy clapped him on the back. "One more of those, and we win this."

"Tell me about it, but come on, let me score; give me an assist to end the game." Tristan replied, cracking a joke.

Further down the tunnel, the managers peeled off toward their respective dressing rooms.

Ranieri spoke first, low and quick to Paolo Benetti. "We let them switch too easily. Dier is cutting off the inside. So we go wide. Let's give Mahrez more freedom."

Benetti nodded. "What about Albrighton?"

"He's fine. But Tristan needs two options when he drops. Not one."

Meanwhile, Pochettino was silent for several steps — then stopped just before the changing room door.

He turned to his assistant. "Dier will hold. But we need more from Lamela. He's not pressing Tristan early enough. We'll see the first ten. Then maybe switch Chadli."

"Okay. And Kane?"

Pochettino didn't even look up. "He's pissed. That's good. He'll score again if we don't mess this up."

Meanwhile social media or rather Twitter was on fire.

..

@Thomas21: "HALF-TIME: Leicester 1–1 Spurs. Tristan-Vardy linkup still unfair. That assist was illegal."

@Loverboy22: Tristan Hale in the first half:

🪄 1 assist

🎯 2 key passes

📉 Forced Spurs to sub Bentaleb for Dier.

@N17Faithful: Kane's goal should be bottled and taught in schools. That's our striker. He should start for England.

@Lenny: "From Tristan's velvet dagger to Vardy's iron hammer" — Peter Drury, take a bow 🫡

@Mandel D Laboon: Vardy dropkicked the flag and still had time to scream at the crowd. Fucking love that bastard. 

@BiscuitTheGOAT: When will teams learn you can't let Tristan cook?

..

No Chapter tomorrow

Join the patreon if you want to.

Besides that comment or don't.

Peace