Chapter 202: 10/1/2015 Part 2

October 2, 2015 — 6:15 AM

.

Still the same night. Leicester City Boardroom, Belvoir Drive

The fluorescent lights felt like interrogation bulbs.

Half-empty mugs littered the table. A packet of biscuits sat unopened beside a drained thermos. No one touched them. No one had touched anything since midnight.

Claudio Ranieri sat at the head of the table, eyes sunken, jaw tight. Yesterday’s dress shirt clung to him like a reminder — he hadn’t changed. Hadn’t slept. Paolo Benetti stood at his side, shifting occasionally to stretch his back. He hadn’t sat down since the call connected.

A laptop sat open in front of them. The speaker buzzed with a faint hum. The conference had been live for seven minutes.

Jon Rudkin’s voice finally cut through the silence.

“Alright. Everyone’s on. Let’s begin.”

“Robert Ames, Home Office,” came the first voice — clipped, even, too calm.

“Jonathan Leatham, Football Association.”

A short beat.

“Henrik Volz, UEFA Disciplinary Committee.”

No one greeted anyone.

Benetti leaned forward and pressed the mic. “Claudio’s here.”

Ranieri didn’t speak.

Ames opened.

“We’re confirming thirty-one British citizens injured. Several in critical condition. Italian authorities failed to guarantee crowd safety. This is no longer a football issue. It is now a national one.”

Ranieri finally raised his head.

“We asked for reinforcements weeks ago. Specific ones. We flagged Lazio’s record, we cited past attacks, and we offered additional private security support. It wasn’t accepted.”

He looked up now — not angry, but hollowed out.

“This has happened before. Lazio fans. In Rome. You all know it. You call it ‘tension.’ But what happened last night wasn’t tension.”

He paused.

“It was targeted. It was racial. It was planned.”

Benetti stepped in, rubbing a hand down his face.

“We were told flanking officers would be at both ends of the away section. We were told fan separation was secure. Instead, the exits were bottlenecked. The riot line didn’t arrive until after the damage was done. That wasn’t bad planning. That was no planning.”

Henrik Volz’s voice came smooth. Too smooth.

“We are currently reviewing the footage. The scenes are deeply troubling, yes — but this incident is highly atypical—”

“It’s not,” Ranieri snapped. “I’m Italian. I know exactly what happened. You don’t get men with pipes and masks organizing themselves at both exits in five minutes. That’s not spontaneous. That’s systemic.”

He exhaled.

“I’m ashamed. My players and fans were guests in my country. And they were hunted.”

Silence.

Then Rudkin’s voice cut back in, harder now.

“And now we’re supposed to welcome Lazio here? After this? Let them bring supporters into King Power, like we’re playing a normal second leg?”

Another voice chimed in — deeper, weary, from Leicester’s board side.

“And if we refuse? What then? Do we forfeit? Do we get fined for not wanting more blood on English ground?”

Volz hesitated. “There is precedent for limiting away attendance—”

“There’s also precedent,” Benetti said sharply, “for voiding legs entirely. Matches played over one leg when conditions are unsafe. Games moved. Games cancelled. Don’t act like this hasn’t happened before.”

Ames cleared his throat.

“The Prime Minister is being briefed as we speak. Italy’s ambassador has already been summoned. We’re preparing to repatriate the injured once medically viable. If UEFA cannot handle this internally, the matter will escalate to a broader European platform. And fast.”

Ranieri stayed quiet for a beat.

Then: “We shouldn’t play the second leg at all.”

That landed like a hammer.

Rudkin didn’t disagree.

Benetti glanced toward the screen. “You think English fans won’t be looking for payback? You think this just stays contained? You’ve got photos of children bloodied in the papers. This match doesn’t exist in a vacuum.”

Leatham tried to soften it. “We’re in uncharted territory. There’s no consensus. And we have legal pressure from multiple angles already forming.”

Ames spoke flatly. “Which is why we’re calling a summit. Today. London. All parties — UEFA, FA, Home Office, Leicester City. This cannot be dragged out. This ends today.”

Volz finally relented. “We’ll send delegates.”

Rudkin nodded. “So will we.”

Ames closed.

“Details within the hour. Until then — no club acts alone. One wrong statement, one flare on social media, and we lose control.”

The call cut.

Silence returned to the boardroom.

Benetti slumped into the nearest chair and rubbed his eyes with both hands.

“Not even seven,” he muttered. “And we’re already talking about embassy fallout and forfeits.”

Ranieri stared ahead.

“Our country failed them,” he said. “And I don’t think they even realize it yet.”

He glanced toward the frosted window. Morning was just beginning to break.

“They’ll all be waking up soon,” he murmured. “The players. The press. The fans. We have until noon to figure out how to please everyone.”

He leaned back.

“Because if we don’t — this becomes more than just a match.”

.

Tristan woke early. Not fully rested — not even close — but conscious.

Barbara was still asleep beside him, curled in, one arm across his chest. Her breathing was slow, even, like she was still holding the weight of yesterday in her dreams.

He didn’t move at first. Just stared at the ceiling, letting the silence press into his skin. Then he leaned over, kissed her forehead, and slowly slid out from under the duvet.

Her arm slipped off his chest. She didn’t stir.

Downstairs, the faint clink of ceramic and running water echoed from the kitchen. Someone was up.

Tristan moved quietly, bare feet against the cold hardwood. The scent of mint and something herbal drifted down the hallway — his mum was already up.

In the kitchen, Julia stood by the kettle, cardigan sleeves bunched to her elbows, hair clipped back in that lazy half-up way she defaulted to when she hadn't really slept. The lights were low, and the window above the sink still held the dull grey of a sky that hadn’t made up its mind.

She didn’t turn when he entered.

“Morning,” she said gently.

“Morning,” he echoed, voice rougher than he expected.

She reached up into the cupboard and pulled down two more cups. “Didn’t sleep?”

He leaned against the island, arms crossed, eyes still adjusting. “Didn’t really try.”

She didn’t press. Just poured water over the tea leaves. The room filled with the quiet hiss of steeping heat.

As she set the cups down, she added, “Barbara’s birthday’s in a few days.”

“I know.”

“She won’t be thinking about it.”

“I know,” he said again, softer now.

Julia took a seat across from him and slid one of the cups forward. Her eyes didn’t leave his face.

“I think the way you gave her that ring — before everything happened — I think that meant more than you realize.”

He traced the rim of the cup with his finger.

“I didn’t want to give it on her birthday,” he said. “Felt like I’d be making her day about me. About us. This month... it doesn’t feel right.”

Julia nodded. “Well... life clearly had its own ideas.”

He gave a faint laugh — dry, humorless. “Yeah.”

There was a pause. Then:

“You know Jack asked to come, right?”

Julia’s expression stiffened. “I know. I was furious when I found out. You were paying for the tickets, the travel — and his parents said no?”

Tristan shrugged, tired. “Still... I’m glad they did.”

“Glad?” She raised an eyebrow. “Tristan, I’m thanking every saint I know that boy stayed home.”

He cracked the smallest smile, lips barely moving. “Same.”

Before she could say more, footsteps sounded from the hallway.

Kanté appeared, wearing a grey t-shirt and soft sweatpants.

“Good morning,” he said, voice quiet.

Julia looked up and gave him the same gentle warmth she always did. “Morning, love. Tea? Toast?”

He nodded. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

He walked like the floor might give out. Biscuit trotted in from the living room, ears perked, tail swaying — and made a straight line to him.

She nuzzled his shin.

Kanté blinked, then crouched down and began stroking behind her ears. His face didn’t change much. But his shoulders dipped just slightly — like breathing was easier with her around.

“She’s usually picky,” Tristan said, watching. “That means she likes you.”

“She’s calm,” Kanté murmured, petting slowly. “Like a little heater with eyes.”

Julia passed him a cup and a small plate. “Sit. I hope you feel at home here, sweetheart.”

He looked up, and for a moment, his face relaxed. Just a little. “I do. Merci.”

They gathered around the table. Not saying much. Just moving through it together.

Julia asked if he wanted butter or jam. Kanté paused like it was the hardest question he’d had all week.

“Butter,” he decided.

Tristan translated casually when needed. Kanté talked a bit about his sister’s old cat back in Paris. Biscuit reminded him of it. Julia laughed. Tristan did too. It wasn’t big. But it was something.

In the back of Tristan’s mind, the headlines hadn’t hit yet. But he felt them coming — like a pressure drop behind his ears. Like storm air.

He studied Kanté for a moment while the others talked — the way his fingers occasionally gripped the edge of his mug too tight, the way his eyes never really settled.

He wasn’t just quiet. He was haunted. They all were. But for someone like N’Golo — someone who always held himself small — last night had made him even smaller.

Tristan wanted to say something. But he didn’t know what would help.

Then the front door opened, and cold air followed.

John stepped in, zipped up to the neck in all black, gloves in hand.

He nodded toward them — his usual quiet scan of the room. “Everyone alright?”

Julia smiled faintly. “We’re coping.”

John sniffed once. “Alright then. I’ll get breakfast started.”

He moved toward the counter.

“John,” Julia called, lifting her teacup, “put the kettle back on first. I just made tea.”

He paused. Looked at her.

“That’s a crime,” he said flatly.

Kanté actually laughed.

Tristan stood up, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m gonna head upstairs. Just check on her.”

John gave him a look — just checking. “We’ll shout when it’s ready.”

.

Tristan eased the bedroom door open, moving quietly.

Barbara was awake.

She sat up in bed, legs curled under the duvet, hair loose and slightly tangled. She wore his hoodie — oversized, sleeves bunched at her wrists. Her eyes found his the moment he stepped in.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey,” he murmured back.

He crossed the room and sat beside her. The mattress dipped, and her hand instinctively reached for his.

“You okay?” she asked, studying his face.

He nodded once — automatically.

Barbara didn’t let that slide. “I mean actually. Not just... polite-trainer-room ‘I’m fine’ okay.”

Tristan looked down at their hands. “I don’t know.”

Barbara shifted, turning toward him fully. “Did you sleep at all?”

“A few hours. Maybe.”

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I kept waking up thinking about them.”

He didn’t have to ask who.

“The fans,” she continued. “The ones in hospital. That girl in the red coat — the one trying to climb the barrier.”

Barbara’s voice wavered. “How many were hurt?”

“Thirty-one confirmed.” His voice was low. Flat. “Some critical. We still don’t know names. No one’s released a full list.”

She inhaled shakily. “God. And Wes? Kasper?”

“Wes is okay. Kasper’s kid didn’t go in the end, thank God.”

Barbara sat back a little, hand still in his. “You think it’s going to get worse?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“I think it already is.”

Barbara nodded, slowly. “Do you know what UEFA’s doing?”

“Ranieri got pulled into a call this morning. Home Office, FA, all of them. No one agrees on anything yet. They’re meeting in London today.”

She tilted her head. “Are you going?”

“No. Club board’s handling it. They want me to stay out of it. For now.”

Barbara frowned. “But the players were the ones who played through it.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s why they don’t want me or anyone else anywhere near a mic.”

Her thumb brushed his. “And if they ask you to speak?”

He met her eyes. “Then I’ll tell the truth. Nothing cleaned up. Nothing rehearsed.”

Barbara rested her head against his shoulder. They sat in the stillness for a while — just breathing.

Then she whispered, “I hate that this is what football is now. I hate that you’re even in this position.”

“I don’t,” Tristan said, surprising even himself. “I hate what happened. But if I can make something shift — even a little — then maybe all this matters.”

She pulled the sleeve of his hoodie over his hand. “You’re twenty.”

He smiled faintly. “Don’t remind me.”

Barbara looked up at him.

“I’m proud of you.”

He leaned forward, kissed her forehead before heading downstairs.

. 

The smell of breakfast filled the house — toast, sausage, eggs, something sweet with cinnamon. Julia moved between the stove and the island, fussing lightly with jam jars and napkins. John worked the skillet, sleeves rolled, silent but focused.

Barbara leaned against the counter in Tristan’s hoodie. Her eyes were clearer now, but tired. Tristan stood beside her, fingers resting around a warm mug, barely drinking from it.

Kanté was already in the living room, curled up in the armchair with Biscuit at his feet, tea cupped in both hands. He hadn't said much all morning. 

Ling sat at the edge of the dining table, reading from his tablet with his reading glasses on, but not really scrolling. His cup of tea sat untouched. He was listening more than watching.

John set the final plates down on the kitchen island.

“Alright,” he said. “This is it. Eat while it’s hot.”

“No arguments,” Julia added, smoothing the side of Tristan’s hair without thinking. “And no sulking.”

Tristan managed the tiniest of smiles. Barbara nudged his side.

They sat — slowly. Toast was passed. Eggs cut into. The table filled with soft clinks and the occasional exhale.

Kanté finally joined them from the armchair, plate in hand. Biscuit followed dutifully and curled under the table near his feet.

Ling looked over at him.

“Sleep alright, son?”

Kanté nodded politely. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Hale.”

“Ling,” he corrected, smiling faintly. “You’re in our house, you call me Ling.”

Kanté gave a soft nod of acknowledgment. “Merci… Ling.”

Tristan buttered a slice of toast. “She doesn’t do that for everyone, you know,” he said, nodding toward Biscuit under the table.

“She’s smart,” Barbara added. “She knows who needs her.”

Kanté smiled — tired, but real. “She’s very good at it.”

Julia poured more tea. “Did you check your phone yet?”

“No,” Tristan said. “Not yet.”

Barbara looked toward the hallway, then back at him. “You’re going to have to soon.”

“I know.”

Ling set his tablet down. “Don’t rush. There’s time. Once the noise starts, it won’t stop.”

John wiped his hands on a towel. “It already started.”

.

Tristan sat back on the armrest of the couch, tea in hand, barely touched. The steam had already faded.

Kanté was in the armchair across from him, hunched forward, fingers loosely wrapped around his own mug. Biscuit slept quietly on the rug between them, her soft breathing the only sound in the room.

They sat in the silence. The TV was still off. The house was still too quiet. Ling and John had stepped away, and Barbara was in the kitchen with Julia.

Tristan stared at his phone on the table.

Still on airplane mode.

He picked it up, stared at the black screen for a second.

“You think it’s worse online?” he asked.

Kanté finally looked at him. “Always is.”

Tristan nodded.

Then, with a long breath, he switched airplane mode off.

The phone lit up instantly — buzzing, blinking, catching up with the world.

109 text messages
3 missed calls from Mendes
1 missed call from Hodgson
5 missed calls from Sofia
46 WhatsApp notifications
Twitter (X): +600 Mentions
England NT Group Chat – 60 unread

“Jesus,” he muttered.

Kanté gave a soft, almost humorless breath through his nose. “That’s your price. For being you.”

Tristan opened the England NT group chat.

Rooney: We saw the videos. You alright, mate? How’s everyone?

Henderson: I don’t even know what to say. Disgusting.

Stones: That away end looked like a warzone.

Kane: They better cancel the second leg. No chance Lazio fans should come here.

Sterling: I think the whole country’s waiting for some kind of statement now.

Tristan stared at the screen. He didn’t reply.

He switched to Twitter.

And it hit like a wall.

Twitter – Trending in the UK

#NoToLazio
#31Injured
#UEFAOut
#CancelTheSecondLeg
#Leicester
#Hale

@BBCSport: “UK government has summoned the Italian ambassador over the events in Rome. UEFA under pressure to act.”

@NOVA: This is beyond football. Our fans were ambushed. Some are still in hospital. How do you even play a second leg after that?

@Teh_Storm: Imagine walking off a pitch to hear your fans were beaten at the exits. Not even rival fans — just monsters waiting with pipes. UEFA better do something.

@acidburn123451: The worst part? Lazio ultras have done this before. And no one ever listened. Now this.

@GodzofAxe: Not a Leicester fan but England needs to protect its people. That’s it. Fuck them Ultras, it’s on sight if they are in England.

@DrDragon360: Players getting racially abused. Are we just gonna pretend this is “normal crowd behavior”? What the fuck is wrong with Italy? This is why no one plays in that league anymore.

@Lucas: UEFA needs to hit Lazio with a full competition ban. Nothing less. Fines won’t heal broken bones.

@T1rant: Watching those clips made me sick. I know a few of the Leicester lads. They didn’t deserve that. No one did.

@Sin_12: This is going to set off a UEFA crisis. And make no mistake — England’s government will act first if UEFA doesn’t.

Tristan blinked down at the screen.

The scrolling felt endless. Opinions. Rage. Blame. Panic. Solidarity. Memes. Racism. Anti-racism. All of it bleeding together.

“I feel like I’m watching the house burn down from inside,” he muttered.

Kanté nodded once. “Except they already lit the fire. This is just the smoke.”

Tristan locked the phone. Sat back rubbing his head before turning on the TV, he just had to see what the mainstream media was thinking.

The screen filled with BBC News. Morning headlines.

The Rome match.

Clips rolled — grainy, raw, brutal.

The chants.

The bananas.

The flares.

The chaos.

 The silence at East Midlands.

Tristan turned the volume up.

BBC One: Morning Edition
A headline flashed across the bottom in stark white:

ROME IN DISGRACE – LEICESTER MATCH HALTED AFTER RACIST CHAOS

The camera panned to the BBC Breakfast studio. Hosts Charlie Stayt and Naga Munchetty sat on the familiar red sofas — expressions serious, tones lower than usual, papers stacked in front of them.

“Good morning,” Naga began. “It’s just past nine o’clock here in Salford, and this morning’s headlines are being called a turning point for European football.”

Charlie continued, “Last night’s Europa League match between Lazio and Leicester City was abandoned in the second half, following what UEFA is calling unprecedented scenes of coordinated violence and racial abuse.”

Clips followed:

Bottles crashing near the touchline.

A banana skin skidding along the corner flag.

Wes Morgan stepping in front of Mahrez.

The referee blowing for abandonment.

Leicester players walking silently through a private terminal — no fans, just family waiting.

“Thirty-one Leicester fans were injured,” Naga said. “At least six remain hospitalized this morning in Rome. Reports of broken bones, head trauma, and one man still in critical condition with internal bleeding. The British consulate has dispatched support staff.”

Charlie added, “And this morning, the UK has summoned Italy’s ambassador to London, demanding answers. This is no longer just a sporting incident. It’s diplomatic.”

The screen cut live to Katya Adler in Rome, standing outside the Stadio Olimpico in a navy coat, mic steady in the cold breeze.

“The stadium is quiet today,” she said. “But the streets around it are anything but. Lazio have not issued a formal statement, but police confirm what many feared — that the attacks were coordinated at multiple exits. Bats, pipes, flares. Most of the injuries occurred after the final whistle — when groups of ultras targeted the away section.”

Naga asked, “Are Italian media reporting this with the gravity it deserves?”

Katya nodded. “Yes. Most front pages call it Una Notte di Vergogna — A Night of Shame. But this isn’t new. Lazio’s ultras have been photographed giving fascist salutes as recently as last season. They plastered Anne Frank stickers across the curva wearing Roma shirts — and they were only fined.”

Tristan flinched slightly. Barbara’s hand touched his arm.

Back in studio, Dan Roan sat opposite the hosts. His face was grim.

“This can’t just be another fine, can it?” Charlie asked.

Dan shook his head. “It can’t. Lazio’s record is one of the worst in Europe. Racial abuse. Antisemitic banners. Bans that were lifted early. They’ve had partial stadium closures five times in the past seven years. But UEFA keeps treating it like a paperwork problem. Last night… was an explosion of every warning we’ve ignored.”

He looked directly into the camera.

“When you have a 20-year-old being hailed as the next global icon — Tristan Hale — walking off a pitch because his teammates are being dehumanized, that’s not just a football issue. That’s a European one.”

Barbara whispered, “They keep putting you at the center of everything.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” Tristan said. 

The studio brought in Chris Mason, BBC’s political editor.

“Chris,” Naga said, “what are you hearing from Westminster?”

Chris spoke quickly, notes in hand. “The Foreign Office called Italy’s ambassador just after midnight. One senior source told me — quote — ‘This was a failure of planning, policing, and responsibility. We will not let this slide into a shrug from UEFA.’ The Prime Minister is being briefed throughout the day. Several MPs are demanding Lazio’s expulsion.”

The feed then cut to a pre-recorded video.

On the left: Lord Herman Ouseley, founder of Kick It Out.
On the right: Fiona May, former Olympian and racial justice advocate in Italy.

“This isn’t isolated,” Ouseley said. “It’s generational negligence. And the consequences are now global. You can’t protect Black players by asking them to rise above it anymore. You punish the clubs. Or you become the problem.”

Fiona May added, from Milan, “This is a cultural rot. Italy cannot export football and keep importing hate. What we saw last night is what Black Italians have faced for decades.”

The BBC began listing players and public figures speaking out:

Ian Wright (@IanWright0): “Same club. Same patterns. No excuses left. If UEFA does nothing, they’re complicit.”

Gary LIneker: “If Italy can’t protect players or fans, UEFA has a duty to protect the competition. This is beyond fines. This is about credibility.”

The segment wound down.

Louise Minchin came back into frame.

“UEFA has called an emergency meeting in London this afternoon. The FA, Leicester’s board, and UK government officials will attend. We expect sanctions. Possibly disqualification. Possibly more.”

Barbara leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“So what happens if UEFA does nothing?”

Kanté answered before Tristan could. “Then we do.”

Julia looked toward him. “What do you mean?”

Tristan answered. “Players walk. Fans protest. Sponsors pull out.”

“They’re scared of the backlash,” Kante said. “Not the racism. Just the PR.”

Barbara turned to Tristan. “And what would you say, if they gave you a microphone right now?”

Tristan didn’t hesitate.

“I’d ask what it takes. How many injuries? How many bananas? How many kids have to cry in an away end before someone says: ‘enough.’”

They all sat in silence.

On screen, the BBC shifted back to softer programming. The crawl along the bottom still ran with live updates. The words felt heavier now.

ROME.
DISGRACE.
SANCTIONS IMMINENT.

Tristan’s phone buzzed.

Ranieri: Meeting confirmed. UEFA, FA, UK government, Leicester board. Will update. No press contact until further notice.

He locked it. Looked toward the others.

“They’ve called it. Everyone’s in the room now.”

Barbara whispered, “Good.”

.

11:33  – London

The room was silent except for the occasional scrape of a chair. High windows let in cold daylight, but the atmosphere inside was anything but calm.

At the head of the long table sat Robert Ames, Home Office. To his left, Jonathan Leatham of the FA. Across from them, Henrik Volz, representing UEFA, flanked by two legal advisors. Jon Rudkin represented Leicester City. Claudio Ranieri sat beside him, hands folded, expression carved from stone.

There were no greetings. No smiles.

Ames opened.

"We’ll keep this short. As of 11:15 AM, we’ve confirmed thirty-one British citizens injured. Six remain in hospital. One is still critical. Italian police admit the attacks were premeditated. Lazio ultras were identified blocking exits, targeting Leicester fans. Improvised weapons. Racial abuse. Total failure of crowd control."

Volz tried to speak — but Ames raised a hand.

"Don’t waste breath with ‘ongoing reviews.’ We’ve reviewed enough. England is watching. Europe is watching. The question now is: what are you going to do about it?"

Volz composed himself. "UEFA deeply regrets—"

"Stop," Rudkin cut in. "We sent footage three weeks ago. We flagged Lazio's history. We asked for barriers. For police reinforcements. For separation protocols. You ignored every one."

"We cannot retroactively—"

"This isn’t retroactive," Rudkin snapped. "This is cause and effect."

Ranieri hadn’t spoken. Until now.

His voice was low. Italian-accented. Measured. But there was steel underneath.

"I grew up in Rome. I know what lives in those stands. You all pretend it’s just noise. But last night—"

He looked up. Eyes bloodshot, but unwavering.

"—last night, you let my players be hunted in my own country."

Silence.

Ranieri continued.

"You knew who they were. You knew their record. Fascist salutes, Anne Frank stickers, monkey chants, banana peels. And still, you let them host. No consequences. No accountability."

He leaned back.

Volz’s legal advisor leaned in to whisper, but Volz didn’t respond.

Leatham cleared his throat. "The FA is aligned with the Home Office on this. We do not believe the second leg can be played safely — not here, not behind closed doors, not at all."

Ames nodded. "Which means Lazio forfeits. Leicester advance."

Volz grimaced. "That is... acceptable."

"Good," Ames said. "It should be."

Rudkin added, "We’re not done. If there’s no further consequence, this happens again. Maybe to Liverpool. Maybe to Arsenal. Or the next Black player who scores a goal in the wrong stadium."

Volz glanced at his aides.

Ranieri broke the silence.

"Ban them from any European competitions for 3 years."

"Excuse me?" Volz said.

Ranieri looked at him. Not angry. Just... resolved.

"You heard me. This wasn’t an isolated chant. This was coordinated violence. You want to show Europe you still govern this sport? Then act like it. Ban Lazio. The full competition."

Ames added, without hesitation, "And we recommend a twenty-point deduction in Serie A. To be applied at season’s end."

Volz leaned back, folding his arms. "That would end their season."

"They ended it themselves," Rudkin said.

There was a long silence.

Volz sighed. Defeated. "I’ll need to formalize this with the executive committee."

"Then formalize it by 3 PM," Ames said flatly. "Because the Prime Minister is giving a statement at four. And if UEFA hasn’t announced sanctions by then, you’ll be defending your inaction on live television."

Volz’s jaw clenched. Then he nodded.

Leatham spoke last.

"For the record — we all know what this really is. This is a reckoning. Not just for Lazio. For you. For everyone who said nothing every time it happened."

Ranieri didn’t say anything more.

He didn’t need to.

Punishment Confirmed (to be announced):

Lazio forfeits second leg. Leicester City advances.

Lazio banned from remainder of 2015–16 UEFA Europa League and for three more years from any European Competitions 

Lazio receives 20-point deduction in Serie A (end of season).

Formal apology from Italian ambassador to be issued before 6 PM.

.

The TV was already on when the BBC logo faded into breaking coverage. The red banner across the bottom of the screen read:

LIVE: UEFA SANCTIONS TO BE ANNOUNCED – ROME AFTERMATH CONTINUES TO UNFOLD

Tristan sat on the couch, Biscuit at his feet. Barbara was beside him, one leg folded beneath her. Julia stood near the island, tea untouched in her hands. Kanté leaned against the wall. Even Ling had set his tablet down.

The studio cut to Louise Minchin, her voice solemn but firm.

"Good afternoon. In the wake of last night’s Europa League fixture between Lazio and Leicester City, UEFA has just concluded an emergency summit in London involving the FA, the UK government, and senior officials from Leicester City Football Club."

She looked directly at the camera.

"The following sanctions have now been confirmed by UEFA's disciplinary committee."

The screen shifted to a graphic, each bullet appearing in stark white text:

Lazio has officially forfeited the second leg. Leicester City advances.

Lazio is banned from the remainder of the 2015–16 UEFA Europa League.

Ban from any European competitions for three years

Lazio will receive a 20-point deduction in Serie A, to be enforced at the end of the current season.The Italian ambassador will issue a formal apology by 6 PM today, addressing the British public and Leicester City fans.

Louise's voice continued over the images.

"This decision follows mounting pressure from the UK government and documentation from Leicester City showing prior requests for heightened matchday security that were ignored."

A video feed cut in: Robert Ames, from the Home Office, speaking at a short podium.

"The United Kingdom is not in the business of tolerating inaction. What occurred in Rome was a failure of responsibility at every level. We stand with Leicester City, its fans, and every individual who was harmed."

Cut again — the Italian ambassador in a dark suit, somber, reading a statement outside Parliament.

"On behalf of the Republic of Italy, we extend our deepest apologies to the citizens, players, and families affected by the events in Rome. We condemn the violence and racism witnessed."

Another jump. Lazio's own statement, read by a club representative in a pre-recorded segment:

"Lazio condemns all acts of violence and racism. While we disagree with the scope of the sanctions, we acknowledge our failure to guarantee safety. This is a moment of reflection, accountability, and restructuring."

Finally, a surprise feed appeared — the Prime Minister, live.

"Football is more than a game. It is community, identity, and belonging. When those ideals are threatened by hatred and ignorance, we must respond with strength. I commend UEFA for acting swiftly."

Then came a closing slide. A statement from Buckingham Palace:

"Her Majesty The Queen extends her deepest sympathies to those injured in Rome. The Crown stands with all victims of discrimination and violence. Football should be a unifier — not a battleground."

Silence.

Barbara exhaled first. "They actually did it."

Tristan crossed his arms, watching the screen. "They had to. There was no choice left."

Julia sat down gently beside Ling. "Still... it’s something. It’s not everything. But it’s something."

Kante didn’t say anything right away. He watched the crawl at the bottom of the screen repeat the sanctions over and over.

LAZIO FORFEITS.
20 POINT DEDUCTION.
EUROPA BAN.

Finally, he said: "Should visit injured in hospital."

Tristan’s phone buzzed again. Then again. Hundreds of new messages.

But he didn’t reach for it.

The world was talking.

And for a moment, he just wanted to listen.

.

Next chapter will be a mix of a match as well as the reaction and ending of this little episode. I didn’t mean to drag it out for 3 chapters but I felt that situations required it, I can’t just skip over it and pretend like I didn’t write about fans and players getting attacked. 

Now as for all this drama, I looked at events similar to this where away fans got attacked, it was a similar reaction to this chapter as well. So I’m not just pulling things out of my ass.