Chapter 229: Panenka in Prime Time

Full-Time – King Power Stadium

🎵 “OLE, OLE, OLE, OLE — LEI-CES-TER!” 🎵

🎵 “YOU’RE GETTING SACKED IN THE MORNING!” 🎵

🎵 “LOUIS, YOU’RE GETTING SACKED IN THE MORNING!” 🎵

The whistle cracked like thunder. Then the wave hit

The crowd erupted. Fans screamed, hugged, cried. Shirts were off. Beer was in the air. It was pure, electric mayhem.

But on the pitch?

Stillness.

Manchester United’s players dropped.

Fellaini collapsed backward onto the grass, chest heaving like a man who’d just run up a mountain in a thunderstorm. Smalling slumped to his knees. Lingard laid flat, one arm thrown over his eyes. De Gea stayed seated, legs folded under him, just staring, no one kew what he was thinking.

Rooney stood still, arms locked at his sides, chest heaving like a furnace.

The camera panned to him — sweat glistening, the face of disappointment after coming so close. 

Then: footsteps.

Tristan.

He walked toward Rooney, ignoring the chaos around him. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Rooney muttered, giving Tristan a light punch on his right shoulder, breathing hard. “Do you know that?”

Tristan smiled. “You say that every time.”

“Yeah, and every time you somehow top it.”

Rooney shook his head. “Nutmegs. Panenka. That assist? Jesus, Tristan.”

The younger man shrugged. “Anthony started this whole fire, you know. We were planning to take it easy and after scoring the goal, we would have been fine with a draw too.”

“Mate, you should’ve warned me before kickoff.” Rooney exhaled, already making a mental note to have words with Anthony — the kind of words you say when someone pokes the wrong animal.

He clapped Tristan’s back, pulled him in close. “Don’t lose this form.”

“I won’t.”

They separated, and Tristan made a line for De Gea, who still hadn’t stood.

“Hey.” He crouched beside him. “You were unreal today.”

De Gea looked up. Blinking. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“That one-on-one save in the 54th? And the one off Vardy’s volley? Man, you kept this from being six.”

The keeper sighed. “Not enough.”

Tristan held out a hand. “You were class. Don’t let this one bury your head. You were amazing.”

They shook. De Gea nodded once. “Thanks.”

Elsewhere, Fuchs was getting mobbed by fans near the corner flag. Mahrez was exchanging shirts with Memphis. Maguire was still yelling instructions out of sheer adrenaline. And Kanté — soaked, muddy, radiant — jogged over to embrace Ranieri.

On the touchline, the two managers met.

Ranieri — arms behind his back, tie half-loosened, face unreadable.

Van Gaal — pale, tense, eyes flickering with a thousand thoughts.

They shook hands. 

Not a single word exchanged between them.

Smith caught it from the booth. “Say what you will about Van Gaal — but tonight he brought his side to fight. They just came up against something bigger.”

The camera caught a slow pan of the pitch.

Schmeichel applauding the fans. Drinkwater kneeling near the center circle. JJ and Simon screaming into a camera phone in the stands.

Barbara? She had her scarf pressed to her mouth smiling. She just watched her boyfriend tear down one of the biggest clubs in England. Again.

🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE!” 🎵

The chant rang louder than ever.

Tristan jogged back to the center circle where Vardy and Mahrez waited. Huth appeared from nowhere and slapped him on the back.

“Three lungs, you have,” he muttered.

Tristan grinned. “I wish, I got no stamina no left, mate.”

Mahrez threw an arm around his shoulder. “Next time just shoot, yeah? Don’t panenka. My heart nearly stopped.”

Vardy laughed. “No chance. That’s going viral tonight.”

Tristan turned, finally taking it in. The noise. The lights. The feeling.

He lifted both arms to the South Stand.

A wall of noise hit him back.

Then: the scoreboard.

Leicester City 4 – 2 Manchester United

Smith’s voice wrapped it up.

“Two goals. One assist. One penalty won. A hundred defensive meters tracked. And a panenka to cap it off. That’s the Tristan Hale statline tonight. But the truth is — his impact doesn’t fit in numbers.”

Martin added, “No. It fits in moments. And this one — this game — this second half — will live in Leicester hearts forever.”

The players began making their way toward the tunnel. Some swapped shirts. Some just limped. The battle was over at last.

Near the dugout, JJ had both arms in the air like he’d won the Champions League himself. Simon was still filming, narrating every second for the vlog with wild disbelief in his voice.

“This is mental. Actually mental. Tristan Hale’s a glitch. There’s no other explanation.”

Beside them, Tobi stayed seated. He finally muttered, “I can’t even be mad.”

JJ turned, still breathless. “You better not be. You just got front-row seats to the Tristan show.”\

…

Tristan trudged toward the tunnel, every step heavier than the last. Mud on his socks. Scratch down his shin. Drenched in sweat. All he wanted was a cold shower, ten minutes of silence, and kissing Barbara before falling into a coma.

And then—

“Tristan! You’ve got the interview!”

He blinked.

“Interview?”

A staff member appeared out of nowhere, headset on, clipboard in hand, eyes already rolling.

“Man of the Match. Go back right now.”

Tristan nearly groaned. “Do I have to?”

“You won the game,” he said flatly. “Yes. You have to.”

Before he could protest, two staff members were already guiding him toward the stadium again.

Behind him, laughter echoed.

Tristan kept walking, muttering, “I hate all of you.”

He trudged back toward the pitch, footsteps heavy, eyes low. The cheers were still echoing, but to him, they’d already started fading. The adrenaline was gone now. All that was left was a soreness in his legs and the pounding reminder in his skull that he needed some damn food.

A Sky Sports producer waved him toward the interview board — one of those branded walls plastered with logos, propped up near the touchline. It looked like it had been assembled in two minutes.

Tristan stood just shy of the touchline — one boot sunk into the turf, the other barely holding its place. His kit was drenched, clinging to him in patches. Wet curls stuck to his forehead. The mic wire clipped to his collar twitched with every breath, one awkward shrug away from tearing clean off.

Beside him, David Jones kept that smooth, studio smile — the kind that never cracked, no matter the weather.

“Tristan,” he began, “Man of the Match again. Two goals, two assists, drew the penalty — that’s a monster shift. How do you even begin to sum that up?”

Tristan exhaled, slow. His voice came out soft, half-lost in the noise still rolling from the stands.

“I’m tired,” he said, shaking his head. “Honestly? Exhausted.”

David laughed lightly. “Well, it looked like you covered every blade of grass out there.”

Tristan gave a nod, eyes still on the pitch. “Think I borrowed a few from the United half, too.”

That pulled a chuckle from the crew just off-camera.

David kept things moving. “Take us back to the start — Martial puts United ahead early. What’s going through your head right then?”

Tristan glanced toward the crowd, where the chants still echoed. He took a beat before answering.

“He celebrated,” Tristan said, like that explained everything. “And look, I’ve got no problem with that. He’s a baller. Nice finish. But I saw the celebration and just thought… alright. That’s how we’re doing this.”

David raised an eyebrow. “You mean the—?”

“My celebration,” Tristan said, smirking now. “At my own ground, yeah. Look, I usually love it when someone hits my celly — it’s flattering. But the way Anthony did it tonight? All the flexing? Felt like he thought he’d just wrapped the whole season.”

David chuckled, tilting his head. “And your response was… Cristiano Ronaldo’s celebration?”

Tristan gave a half-smile.  “Yeah. That one felt right.”

David leaned in slightly.  “You planned that?”

Tristan laughed.

 “I mean—kinda. At first, I thought about doing Anthony’s celebration. Thought I’d throw his own one back at him.”

“Anthony has a celebration?” David asked, raising a eyebrow.

Tristan looked at the camera with mock confusion.

 “Exactly. I stood there like… wait a sec. I don’t think the kid even has one.”

Laughter rippled from the crew behind the camera.

“Didn’t want to do some shrug or knee slide,” Tristan continued. “Went with something cheeky. Ronaldo’s iconic. Big moment. Big game. Bit of fun. And hey—maybe Cristiano’s watching. Maybe he smiled.”

David grinned. “Well, you certainly caught everyone’s attention.”

He flipped his notepad. “Let’s talk about that assist to Mahrez. The flick. Some are already calling it a Goal of the Season contender. Did you mean it?”

Tristan nodded.

 “Yeah. Saw Mahrez ghosting in. Smalling was over-committed, Blind got dragged up—so I had that window. It looked risky, but I saw it in my head before I played it.”

David’s eyebrows rose. “You visualised it?”

Tristan shrugged, smiling.

 “It’s weird. Some passes—you don’t think. You just play. But that one? I knew where it had to go. And Mahrez, man… he did the rest. Sent two people to the wrong postcode.”

David laughed. “Were you sure he’d finish it?”

Tristan’s eyes lit up. “I was hoping. Then he pulled off the nutmeg, and I thought—he’s gonna walk this into the net.”

“And the penalty,” David added. “Eighty-something minutes, match still alive… and you go for a Panenka. What were you thinking?”

Tristan chuckled again. “Honestly? I knew I had him. I’ve watched a lot of De Gea footage, he commits early. Soon as I saw the lean, I waited that extra second… then dink.”

David shook his head, laughing. “Cold.”

“You say cold,” Tristan said. “But in my head I was praying he didn’t just stand there.”

“No nerves at all?” David asked.

“Oh, there were nerves,” Tristan admitted.  “You just don’t let them see it. Besides, most pens I’ve taken—I go middle. It’s fun. It’s cruel. But when it works? You feel untouchable for like ten seconds.”

David paused a beat, then leaned in slightly, shifting his tone.

“You had a word with De Gea after full-time. Mind sharing what you said?”

Tristan gave a short nod. “Told him he was brilliant. Because he was. A couple saves — one from Vardy, one from me — I was already peeling away. Thought they were in. But he got there. Any other keeper? That’s five or six goals, easy.”

David tilted his head, studying him. “And Rooney?”

Tristan’s expression softened — something closer to fondness now.

“He’s my guy. We’ve got that bond. Since I first got called into England camp, he’s looked out for me. Mentored me. Always been the guy, you know? And he still has it — that edge. The way he drove them in the second half? People don’t realise how rare that is at his age, that kind of presence. And Lingard too — he gave us problems. Slipping into the half-spaces, dragging people around. Fair play to both of them. They made us earn every inch.”

David let that sit for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully.

“This is the third time you’ve done this to Manchester United… does it feel different now?”

Tristan glanced toward the South Stand, still throbbing with chants, flags still waving like it was stoppage time.

“A bit,” he said. “The first time? That was all adrenaline. I just wanted to impress a girl I liked. And thank God it worked.” A quick grin. “Tonight… this felt like work. Big opponent, sure, but it was just a job. We stayed focused. Played our football.”

David flipped a page on his clipboard, smiling. “Let’s run the numbers: two goals, two assists, one penalty won. Nine recoveries. Six dribbles. Eight chances created. What goes through your head hearing that?”

Tristan laughed, full-bodied this time. “Mostly? I want a nap.”

Laughter broke from the crew just off-camera.

“No but seriously — that statline’s not just me. I don’t pull that off without Mahrez being Mahrez. Without Vardy making his runs. And N’Golo — mate, I swear he’s cloned. I blink and he’s covering two zones at once. Never seen anything like him.”

David nodded, visibly impressed. “Do you get a moment to enjoy it? Or is it straight into prep for the next one?”

Tristan rubbed the back of his neck, his voice quieter now.

“I’ll probably rewatch a few clips with Barbara,” he said. “She’ll make me. She loves that stuff. And yeah — it’s always special seeing the fans buzzing. But I don’t celebrate off one match. We’ve got a long season ahead. We haven’t won anything yet.”

David extended a hand, warm and sure. “Well said. Congratulations, Tristan. Another masterclass.”

Tristan shook it firmly. “Cheers. Now please let me go shower.”

The camera pulled back just as the South Stand found its voice again.

🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE!” 🎵

🎵 “YOU SHOULD BE TERRIFIED!” 🎵

Behind the hoardings, fans pushed forward — phones out, scarves flying. One sailed over the railing. Tristan caught it without even looking.

Then he turned.

Down the tunnel.

Into the dressing room.

One more night.

One more masterpiece.

.

Later That Day 

The house was quiet when Barbara unlocked the door.

No cheers. No clatter. No muddy boots in the hallway. Just the sleepy shuffle of paws as Biscuit trotted over, tail wagging in lazy little arcs, blinking up at her like she’d been gone for ten years instead of two hours.

“Hi, little one,” she whispered, crouching to scoop her up.

The Maltipoo melted against her chest with a contented sigh, tail thumping gently against her ribs.

Barbara set her down and dropped her bag by the door. Her toes curled against the cool floorboards. The lights were already low — soft, amber, just the way Tristan liked them when he got back late. She could picture him already: sore, half-dead, starving, pretending not to be proud of himself.

He’d be home soon. After the interviews. After the handshakes and highlight reels.

So she got everything ready.

Blanket. Tea. A clean sock, folded into a makeshift ice pack, just in case. Biscuit climbed onto the sofa and curled at one end like a tiny lion guarding a kingdom. On the screen, she queued up their latest episode. Naruto. Episode 48 — the Rock Lee fight. Tristan’s favorite fight of the entire show.

Twenty minutes later, the door clicked open.

Barbara didn’t turn. Just said, without looking, “Shoes off.”

A groan followed. “I can’t feel my legs,” Tristan mumbled. “You’re asking a lot.”

“You’ve got two goals, two assists, and a panenka in your pocket,” she said, still facing the screen. “You can manage a pair of sneakers.”

Behind her, something thudded — one boot off. A muffled curse. Then the second.

He shuffled into the room, hair damp, hoodie half-on like a defeated towel, socks squishing faintly with each step. He moved like someone who’d been tackled by gravity itself.

Barbara lifted the edge of the blanket. “Get in.”

He didn’t need a second invitation. He collapsed onto the couch, landing in her lap like a felled tree, face mashed against her thigh.

“I’m never running again,” he mumbled kissing her thigh.

“That’s what you said last week.”

“I meant it last week too.”

She laughed, tucking the blanket over him. Biscuit wriggled closer and plopped herself on his chest like it was her designated throne.

On-screen, Rock Lee dropped the weights.

Tristan cracked one eye. “Oh… this one.”

Barbara nodded. “It’s your fight.”

He smiled sleepily. “That’s me. Pure ankle weights. All heart.”

“You also cried at the end.”

“Because he should’ve won.”

His voice trailed off. A beat later, his eyes slipped shut. Gone.

Out cold.

She looked down at him.

“Where’d they get you?” she whispered, brushing a curl from his forehead.

He raised a limp hand, pointed vaguely toward his shin, and let it fall again.

Barbara gently lifted the blanket. The scrape wasn’t bad — maybe a graze from a late Fellaini challenge. She picked up the sock from the table, folded it small, and pressed it lightly to the spot.

Tristan flinched, then relaxed.

“You’re a saint,” he murmured.

“I know.”

She leaned down and kissed his temple. He didn’t stir.

“…don’t let me fall asleep.”

“You’re already asleep.”

“I mean don’t let me pass out.”

“That is sleep.”

“…shut up.”

Barbara giggled under her breath. The moment swelled in her chest — this soft, strange peace. 

Then Rock Lee fell.

Barbara paused the show on a still frame: Lee, battered and bloodied, unconscious but upright on pure muscle memory.

She glanced at Tristan.

Yeah. Too on the nose.

With a crooked smile, she picked up the remote and changed the channel.

She loved watching people lose their minds over him.

Her boyfriend. Her love.

So naturally she switched the channel to…

Sky Sports. 

A digital banner scrolled across the bottom

LEICESTER CITY 4–2 MANCHESTER UNITED: ANOTHER TRISTAN HALE MASTERCLASS

The camera panned across the Sky Sports panel.

Thierry Henry was already shaking his head — not out of disapproval, but like a man seconds from bursting out laughing at a funeral.

 Next to him, Jamie Carragher had his lips pressed together so tightly it looked like he might chew through them. His shoulders kept twitching — the kind of twitch you get when you’re trying really hard not to laugh on live TV.

On the opposite end of the desk, the mood couldn’t have been colder.

Paul Scholes sat like someone had just told him his childhood dog had been sold to Leicester's midfield. 

And Roy Keane?

 He looked like the kind of man who’d been forced at gunpoint to watch Tristan’s highlight reel in 4K, twice.

At the center, Kelly Cates offered a smile so tight you could’ve bottled the tension and sold it as an energy drink.

“Well,” she said calmly, “where do we even start?”

Carragher leaned in first, that grin already stretching across his face like it had been waiting since kickoff.

“We start with Tristan Hale. That kid’s a menace. An actual problem. United got sautéed, braised, pan-fried — whatever you want. Cooked again. That’s three times now: 7–1, 5–3, and 4–2. At this point, I’d stop calling it a rivalry and start calling it a tradition.”

He threw a quick glance toward Scholes. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

Scholes just exhaled sharply through his nose, like someone had just handed him the match ball as a prank. “We made it easy for him.”

Henry gave a soft chuckle, raising a brow. “Easy? That?” He pointed toward the replay looping behind them. “Two goals. Two assists. A Panenka. And that flick to Mahrez?” He clapped once, slow. “That wasn’t football. That was theatre. That was… cruel.”

Carragher burst out laughing. “He sent Smalling to the car park for a sausage roll.”

Henry nodded, deadpan. “Blind’s still gone missing. I checked Google Maps. He’s currently in rural Belgium.”

Even Kelly cracked a smile.

Keane hadn’t moved. Still staring dead ahead, arms folded, looking like the Sky Sports logo had personally offended him.

Kelly turned to him with visible hesitation. “Roy?”

Keane didn’t blink. “You don’t let a kid do that to you. I don’t care if he’s the second coming of Cruyff or Gandalf in boots. Someone’s got to do something. Press him. Kick him. Close him down. Anything.”

Carragher raised an eyebrow, grinning. “So… you do want someone to take him out.”

Keane turned his head slightly. “I want someone to defend, Jamie. Not stand around like they’re waiting for a miracle.”

Henry leaned back, arms folded, enjoying every second. “He’s twenty, Roy. He’s barely old enough to rent a car. What were you doing at twenty?”

Keane shrugged. “Winning titles.”

Carragher leaned over the desk, both hands up like a ref breaking up a fight. “There it is.”

Henry nodded. “Mic drop.”

Barbara smiled faintly from the couch, knees pulled up to her chest. Biscuit stirred in her lap, let out a sleepy sigh, then flopped over dramatically like she, too, had played 90 minutes. On screen, the studio cut to highlights.

First: Vardy’s goal — a flash of white boots, a darting run behind the line, and Tristan’s pass dissecting the defense like a surgeon on a caffeine rush.

Then Tristan’s goal — a drop of the shoulder, Smalling on ice skates, and a thunderous finish near post. And the celebration… oh, the celebration.

Next came the flick. The assist. The one they’d be talking about in pubs for years — that filthy little backheel to Mahrez that sent two defenders into retirement.

And finally — the Panenka. The dagger.

Carragher threw both hands in the air. “It’s a crime scene, that’s what it is. This wasn’t a football match, it was a live televised dissection.”

Henry leaned forward, eyes on the screen. “Vardy’s goal — classic. Direct, ruthless. But it’s the second one that kills you. Tristan turns, dribbles past two, and smashes it in like he’s playing FIFA with sliders on.”

“Then he hits the Ronaldo celly,” Carragher said, pointing. “In front of the South Stand! Arms wide, chin up. It’s like he knew Martial was watching from halfway. That’s theatre. That’s drama.”

“And that flick,” Henry said, almost breathless. “Look at it. Just… look at it. He doesn’t even glance. One touch. Mahrez runs onto it like they’re sharing a brain. It’s just amazing to watch. He’s doing things I thought were impossible.” 

Scholes groaned. “Smalling looked like he was on rollerblades.”

“And Blind?” Keane muttered. “Blind was doing his taxes.”

Carragher laughed. “And then, just when you think he’s done, he steps up for the pen. Game’s still alive. And what does he do?”

He jabbed a finger at the replay.

“This. This absolute lunatic chips De Gea. A Panenka. In front of the home end. That’s not football. That’s bullying.”

Thierry was already laughing. “And De Gea guessed right!”

Scholes looked up. “Still couldn’t stop it.”

Carragher wheezed. “That’s the kind of penalty you only take if you’ve got ice in your veins… or absolutely nothing in your brain. But I’m not surprised. By now we know — Tristan doesn’t fear pressure. Any kind.”

Roy Keane leaned back, jaw tight. “I’d have clattered him the next time he touched the ball.”

“Oh come off it,” Carragher grinned. “He’d already won by then. We were all just witnesses.”

Barbara, curled under the blanket, took a sip of her lukewarm tea and smiled. On the couch, Biscuit’s tiny head rose, twitched once at the sound of Carragher yelling, then dropped back to sleep. Tristan’s sock still hung off the armrest like a war medal.

The studio cut back to the desk.

Kelly gave the camera a look. “This wasn’t just a good match. According to early reports, this is now the most-watched Premier League game this seasonr. And sixth  in UK history, and the numbers are still climbing.”

Carragher let out a long whistle. “And this wasn’t a final! This was December. Mid-season! What does that tell you?”

Henry leaned in. “It tells you Tristan’s a draw. The world stops when that boy’s on the pitch.”

“More than that,” Kelly added. “He’s the headline. He’s what people tune in for. He’s box office.”

Roy Keane crossed his arms tighter than a winter scarf. “Someone’s got to stop him. It’s not magic. It’s football. You can’t just let him run the show. Press him. Double him. Foul him if you have to.”

Carragher smirked. “You can put three, five bodies on him — doesn’t matter. By now we know that doesn’t work either.”

Keane’s eyes narrowed into slits.

Scholes finally sighed. “He’s not just playing well. He’s dictating everything. That second goal? He made the decision two touches before he even got the ball.”

Henry nodded. “And he never rushes. That’s the scary part. It all looks so easy. But it’s not.”

Carragher chuckled. “And you saw the interview after the match. Calm. Poised. Praised De Gea. Praised Rooney. Didn’t even try to act humble about the celebration. Said he thought about copying Martial but ‘realised the kid doesn’t have one.’”

Thierry laughed hard. “That was cold.”

“Colder than the Panenka,” Carragher added.

Barbara turned the volume down slightly, just to let the voices drift. The clip of Tristan’s SIU was replaying again in slow motion.

Kelly leaned forward, serious now. “What do you think it means — for United?”

Carragher snorted. “It means the rebuild isn’t done. You can’t go toe to toe with Leicester’s midfield and expect a free ride. Kante was everywhere. Drinkwater was biting ankles. And Tristan? Hale just made them look silly.”

Henry looked thoughtful. “But I’ll say this — Rooney tried. Lingard too. They had fire. But they came up against something bigger.”

Keane grunted. “They came up against someone bigger.”

Kelly nodded slowly. “Final thoughts, then?”

Carragher leaned back. “Tristan Hale. Most entertaining player on the planet right now. No debate.”

Thierry folded his arms, nodding. “And he’s twenty. Still learning. Still growing.”

Scholes muttered, “He’s already too good.”

Roy Keane tapped the desk once. “If I was still playing, I’d break his legs.”

Silence.

“…Kidding,” he added, flat as toast.

Carragher snorted. “Are you, though?”

Barbara turned the volume all the way down.

On-screen, they kept going — clips rolling, opinions flying. Still dissecting every pass, every run, every shrug and flick and shoulder drop. The stadium buzz still echoed faintly through the TV. She watched them lose their minds, watched professionals trip over themselves trying to put into words what Tristan had done.

But she didn’t need to.

She already knew.

.

The TV was still running.

Muted now. Just images and looping replays. Tristan’s Panenka. The Ronaldo celebration. The flick to Mahrez — played for the twentieth time. Sky Sports was running out of adjectives.

Barbara didn’t mind. She sipped what was left of her tea, now ice cold, and watched Tristan’s expression on the slow-motion zoom. That same face. Steady. Calm. Focused.

He looked like he was jogging through a dream. The pundits were still flailing with their takes, but Barbara had stopped listening fifteen minutes ago.

Her eyes drifted to the side table.

Tristan’s sock was still hanging off the armrest like a flag after battle. Biscuit was curled against her thigh, snoring softly. And her phone—

She picked it up. Muted. Obviously.

176 unread messages

42 missed calls

Twitter: +99 notifications (for the fifth time in a row)

Barbara blinked.  Then sighed.

“If this is the professional reaction,” she murmured, setting the phone back down without even unlocking it, “I don’t even want to know what Twitter looks like right now.”

She looked over at Tristan. Dead asleep. Mouth slightly open.

Of course, he passed out before the clips even hit the timeline.

She gave a small shake of her head.

Then, almost on cue—

Meanwhile on Twitter…

@TehStorm: I’m not joking. I just broke up with my girlfriend because of this STUPID ASS GAME. FUCK TRISTAN HALE AND FUCK LEICESTER CITY. WHO EVEN LIVES THERE?!

↪ ️@Bretano: I live in Canada but if Tristan asked me to move to Leciester and marry him right now I would do it, lol. . i’d change my name to jadey hale. i’d convert to whatever.

↪ @Ethan Brown: nah coz tristan hale just ended a relationship he wasn’t even in

@Jellyfish Roger: tristan hale isn’t a footballer he’s a glitch. man just activated FIFA street mode mid-match. It’s crazy watching him play. One second he’s all calm, just cruising around next second he’s out dribbling past seven players.

↪ @Uriel Cantu: someone press L2 + triangle. smalling’s still buffering.

@Hediy: tristan hale didn’t panenka de gea. he spiritually humbled him. I honestly feel so bad for the United players.

↪ @Tita: my nan turned off the telly when he did it. said “that’s rude” and left the room.

↪ ️@GodzofAxe:  de gea dived for that panenka like he was trying to escape his contract. Honestly though feel bad for him, without him the score would have been 10-2. Saved so many goals, no one should blame the loss on him.

↪@Sin_12: Imagine getting cooked, dinked, and disrespected on prime time TV then you still gotta line up and shake hands. couldn’t be me.

@BleacherReport (Pinned Tweet):
📊 Tristan Hale vs Manchester United (again):
– 2 Goals
– 2 Assists
– 1 Panenka
– 1 Ronaldo celly
– 9 Recoveries
– 6 Dribbles
– 3 Souls Collected
– 0 Apologies

🔥 “We are witnessing the next GOAT .” 🔥

More tweets flooded in.

 – Someone made a fake petition to rename Old Trafford to “Hale’s House of Pain.”
– A United fan filmed himself throwing his TV into a bin.
– Another posted a photo of a burned shirt with the caption: “This is what you wanted, Anthony.”

Back on the couch, Barbara scrolled slowly, her thumb tracing lazy circles.

The hashtags were trending globally now:

#TristanHale

#Panenka

#Tristan’s SIU

She exhaled. Put the phone down.

The TV showed him again — that frozen frame of him, arms out, South Stand exploding behind him.

It looked staged. Like cinema.

But it wasn’t.

It was just Tristan.

. 

Another 5k chapter, I do hope you guys liked this one. 

Now a vast majority of you guys wanted a reaction chapter so here it is, lol. 

I will do the timeskip next chapter.