Chapter 163: Sixth Place-First Name

May 24, 2015 – King Power Stadium

..

Tristan sat on the bench near his cubby, towel around his shoulders, hair still damp. A bottle of water dangled from his fingers.

“You trying to make us cry or what?” Drinkwater said, tossing his shin pads into his bag. “That mic drop? Full Hollywood.”

Lingard leaned back against the lockers, arms crossed. “I was waiting for doves. Maybe a hologram. You bottled it, really.”

Tristan chuckled. “Should’ve brought one of those confetti cannons.”

“Nah, mate,” Vardy cut in, slapping his back. “That was class. I swear the entire stadium was choking up. You even got Huth blinking weird.”

Robert Huth raised a brow. “Dust in my eye.”

“Right,” Mahrez said dryly. “Dust shaped like emotions.”

“Honestly,” Drinkwater said, sitting forward, “we all thought you were gone after this season. That speech? It calmed a lot of us down.”

Tristan nodded. “That was the point.”

A pause. Lingard stepped forward, offered his hand.

“Back to United for me,” he said. “But this season’s been the best of my life. You made it that.”

Tristan pulled him into a quick hug. “You better not let Van Gaal stick you on the bench again.”

“Please,” Lingard muttered. “How can he bench me after this season.”

Nearby, Maguire stood with his boots slung over his shoulder. “Hull’s waiting. But I’m gonna miss this place.”

Tristan bumped fists with him. “We’ll cross paths again. Just don’t slide tackle me.”

Huth dropped into the seat beside Tristan. “I’m staying.”

Tristan blinked. “You are?”

“They offered me a deal this morning. Didn’t even think about it.”

Tristan smiled. “Good call.”

By the massage tables, Vardy and Mahrez were huddled around Vardy’s phone, laughing.

Tristan strolled over. “Alright, what’s the plan for summer?”

“Morocco,” Mahrez said. “And a personal trainer. Need to level up.”

Vardy shrugged. “Bit of Marbella. Bit of beer.”

Tristan laughed. “Standard.”

“What about you?” Danny called from across the room.

“Couple weeks with Barbara,” Tristan said. “Then it’s straight back to work. Sponsors, shoots, some charity stuff. Than training for the rest of the break. I be here so if anyone wants to join me, just send me a text.”

Vardy raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t Nike want to drop your signature boots already?”

“They did,” Tristan said, pulling his shirt over his head. “I told them next season.”

Mahrez blinked. “You held them off?”

“I want the timing right. This season was just the start.”

Danny leaned back on the bench. “You’re not normal, you know that?”

Tristan tossed his towel into the laundry bin. “That’s the idea.”

As he passed Vardy again, the striker turned and called out.

“Hey. One thing.”

Tristan looked back.

“That miracle you talked about. What did you mean?”

Tristan paused, fingers brushing the edge of his locker.

“You’ll see.”

Vardy snorted. “You’re such a drama queen.”

Tristan shrugged with a smile. “Better than being boring.”

The locker room slowly emptied. Final goodbyes. Signed shirts. Claps on the back. Photos with the kit men. The kind of quiet closure that only came with the end of a season.

Tristan lingered for a beat longer, letting it all sink in.

Then he turned and headed toward the media room.

Time for one last interview.

..

The media room was packed.

Reporters from Sky Sports, BBC, The Guardian, The Telegraph, ESPN — even international outlets — were all gathered. Cameras were already rolling. Microphones angled forward. Murmurs died down the second Tristan walked in.

A Leicester media officer leaned into the mic. “We’ve got time for a few questions with Tristan 

Cameras rolled. Microphones aimed like arrows. And the second Tristan walked in, the murmurs vanished.

Hands flew up.

First up was a reporter from Sky Sports,  “Tristan, sixth place finish — best in Leicester’s Premier League era. Ahead of Leicester are, of course, the winners, Chelsea, then Man City, Arsenal, Tottenham, and Liverpool. You’ve broken records, won awards, and stunned the league. But how do you feel about the way this season ended?”

Tristan leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. His voice was steady.

“Proud. Of the team. Of the staff. Of the fans. Sixth isn’t a title, no — but when everyone thought we’d be fighting relegation? We showed them something different. Quarterfinals in Europe, records broken… I think we’ve exceeded every expectation.”

A pause. Another hand.

“You ended the season with twenty-four goals, twenty-six assists. Broke Henry’s goal contribution record. Set the Premier League assist record. And so many other records. And you’re only nineteen. What do those numbers mean to you?”

Tristan paused before answering, thinking on it. “They mean I’ve got more to prove. Records are nice. I’m grateful. But I’d trade a few of them for a team trophy. That’s the next step.”

Another reporter raised her voice.

“What made you give that speech? That moment on the pitch — doesn’t happen often.”

Tristan’s lips curved, but just slightly.

“There’s been a lot of noise this year. Rumors, headlines, debates about my future. I wanted the club, the players, and the fans to hear it from me — not from papers or pundits. I’m not going anywhere. We’re building something here. I wanted to say that out loud.”

A reporter from The Guardian jumped in next.

“You haven’t addressed the pundits directly. Scholes, Keane, Carragher — they’ve gone after you hard this year. You once told them to ‘shut up about Barbara.’ Care to say more?”

Tristan’s smile thinned than sighed before answering the question. “Not really. Haven’t spoken to them. Don’t see the point. I try to avoid pundits honestly. They can say what they want — it’s their job. But there’s a line between criticism and… whatever they’re doing. And there’s not much advice I need from people who never did what I’m doing. Let the football speak.”

 He paused.  “We beat United 7–1. Then again 3–1. That’s all I’ll say. I promised United will pay for it and they will continue to pay for it next season.”

A ripple of laughter swept through the room.

BT Sport fired next.  “Speaking of United — they finished seventh. But there’s always talk about you ending up there. Is there truth to that?”

Tristan tilted his head. “They’re a big club. Everyone knows that.”
Then, calmly—  “But I’m not interested. I don’t like them, so… no.”

Another reporter piped up.

“What about Newcastle? Those games were physical — especially that first one.”

Tristan sat up straighter. His expression sharpened.

“They tried to kick us off the pitch. Tried to bully us. That didn’t work. We beat them 3–0 the second time. That’s the only message that matters.”

Next question.

“Tristan, you missed a few matches late in the season. Minor injuries, fatigue. What’s your plan to manage that next year?”

Tristan leaned back. Tapped the water bottle with his fingertips.

“Yeah. My body’s still growing. And the schedule was brutal. But we’ve already mapped out plans — build more strength, more durability. Less burnout. I’m training through the break. Every day.”

The staffer stepped up. “Last question.”

A reporter shouted over the noise—

“Tristan! What was the miracle you promised the fans?”

The room froze. All eyes on Tristan.

“That miracle?” Tristan leaned into the mic. “You’ll see it next season.”

The cameras flashed wildly as he stood up and left the room.

..

The Sky Sports studio bathed in deep blues and reds, its panel desk catching the light. The Premier League season was over, but tonight wasn’t about winding down — it was about making sense of the results of the league.

Around the desk were David Jones, Roy Keane, Jamie Carragher, Paul Scholes, and Thierry Henry.

The screen behind them flashed one final replay — Tristan in the media room.

“That miracle? You’ll see it next season.”

The clip faded. The silence in the studio lingered.

David Jones turned to the camera.

“Tristan Hale. Nineteen years old about to turn 20. Fifty goal contributions in the Premier League. Twenty-four goals and twenty-six assists in the league. In the Europa League, six goals and seven assists. For England, five goals and seven assists. Fifty-six games played, thirty-five goals, and forty assists with a combined total of seventy-five goals contributed. Leicester City finish sixth. And a mic drop that sent shockwaves across world football.”

He looked toward the panel.

“Roy — start us off. What do you make of that final statement?”

Roy Keane leaned back in his chair, arms folded.

“Look — confidence like that can rub people the wrong way. Which it certainly did for me as you know and I still think that kid has too much of a ego.  But when you’ve done what he’s done? You have to respect and say this kid is the best player in the premier league and maybe even the world right now, certainly top five.”

Carragher added quickly, “I’ve said things about him this year. But let’s be honest — twenty-four goals, twenty-six assists in the league alone? That’s not just Player of the Year form. That’s Premier League history.”

Scholes nodded. “There are still things he can learn — every young player can. But what he’s doing already… you can’t teach that. And he didn't even play in any Domestic cups as Leciester gave up on them right from the start."

Behind them, a stat graphic appeared:

📊 Tristan Hale – 2014/15 Season

Premier League: 38 games – 24 goals, 26 assists

Europa League: 9 games – 6 goals, 7 assists

England: 9 games – 5 goals, 7 assists

Total: 56 games – 35 goals, 40 assists

..

David glanced at the numbers, then to Henry.

“Thierry — he broke your Premier League goal contribution record. Thoughts?”

Henry smiled faintly.

“Honestly? I love it. Records are made to be broken — and if it’s going to be someone, let it be someone like him. I met Tristan, talked to him, and took pictures with him, even got his number.  He’s very mature and very understanding. That bicycle kick against United? That’s one of the best goals I’ve seen in years. But it’s not just the goals. It’s his movement. His touch. His awareness. He’s nineteen. That’s ridiculous.”

Another graphic flashed across the screen, this one bold and gold:

🏆 Youngest Ever To Win (or Do in the Same Season)

Golden Boy – Youngest English winner

Only Golden Boy winner to sweep all major domestic player awards in same season

Puskás Award – Youngest winner ever

FIFPro World XI –Youngest English player selected

PFA Player of the Year – Youngest ever (broke Ronaldo’s record)

PFA Young Player of the Year – First to win both Senior & Young award at 19

FWA Footballer of the Year – Youngest ever (Previous: Ronaldo at 23)

Premier League Player of the Season – Youngest ever

UEFA Europa League Squad of the Season – Youngest English player selected

UEFA Team of the Year (Nominee) – Youngest English player if selected

IFFHS World’s Best Playmaker –Youngest in history

England Men’s Player + Young Player of the Year – First player ever to win both in same season

.

Roy let out a quiet breath. “That’s a full career worth of awards — and he hasn’t even turned twenty yet. Bloody hell.”

 “The scary part? It’s not just stats. It’s the aura. The way teams plan around him. Newcastle tried to kick him off the pitch. United were embarrassed. And through it all, he’s barely flinched.” Carragher added,

David nodded. “Speaking of United — he was very blunt in the post-match interview.”

Keane cracked a tight smile. “He made it clear he doesn’t like us.”

Scholes shook his head. “He said we’ve got nothing to offer him. That one stings.”

The panel chuckled.

“Add that all up? He’s already done things no English player — no teenager — has ever done. If he stays fit, and if he stays hungry… he might redefine the standards completely.” Keane said, shaking his head.

Carragher nodded. “He didn’t do this with a super team. No disrespect, but Leicester aren’t stacked like City or Chelsea. He made players around him better. Vardy. Mahrez. Even Drinkwater. They’ve all stepped up.”

David looked around the table.

“Final thoughts. That miracle he promised — what do you think it is?”

A beat of silence.

Then Thierry Henry leaned forward.

“He thinks they can win the league.”

..

I wanted to make this chapter around 6k, but I just don’t have the energy to keep writing tonight, I was busy with a few stuff today; apologies. I will try to make tomorrow’s chapter longer and try to end this little arc quickly. 

Peace, hopefully you guys like this chapter