England's Greatest-Chapter 118: Stoke City

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Match Day: September 13,2014...

The tunnel at Britannia Stadium hummed with tension as the two teams stood shoulder to shoulder, ready to step onto the pitch. The young matchday mascots clung to their assigned players, some nervously shifting on their feet, while others gazed around in awe at the towering figures beside them.

The murmur of the crowd outside grew louder, a restless anticipation filling the air.

Then, as the players emerged onto the field, the roar of the Stoke City faithful erupted, a deafening wave of noise rolling through the stadium.

Up in the commentary box, Rob Hawthorne's voice rose above the chaos, welcoming viewers back to Sky Sports' live coverage.

"And here come the teams! A cracking atmosphere here at the Britannia as Stoke City and Leicester City step out onto the field for this crucial Premier League clash."

Beside him, Andy Hinchcliffe chuckled knowingly.

"Rob, if there's one place you don't want to come as an away side, it's here," he remarked. "These Stoke fans make life miserable for opponents, and their side will be buzzing after that 1-0 win at Manchester City."

The broadcast feed zoomed in on Ryan Shawcross, the Stoke captain leading his side out.

"No question about it," Hawthorne agreed. "Mark Hughes' side have started strong, and they've strengthened well this summer. Bojan Krkić, Victor Moses, and Mame Biram Diouf—real attacking quality added to a side that already had the physical presence of players like Shawcross, Crouch, and Arnautović."

As Wes Morgan led Leicester onto the field, the camera cut to Tristan.

"And Andy, what a moment this must be for this man—Tristan Hale," Hawthorne continued. "It was here, on this very pitch, that he made his first-team debut in the FA Cup just eight months ago. And look at him now!"

Hinchcliffe laughed slightly.

"Yeah, back then he was just another academy kid trying to make his mark. Now? He's Leicester's main man. He's been outstanding to start the season, already an England international."

The players lined up for the pre-match handshakes, but Tristan barely registered it. His mind was already mapping the field, identifying pockets of space, reading Stoke's defensive shape before a single ball had been played.

"And deservedly so," Hawthorne added, watching as Tristan exchanged words with Jamie Vardy, who was bouncing on his toes, shaking out his arms, full of restless energy. "Two goals and four assists in three games—that's elite-level playmaking, Andy, especially for a newly promoted side."

The camera panned to Bojan, rolling his shoulders as he jogged in place, then to Diouf, stretching his legs, casting a glance toward Leicester's goal.

"And he'll have his hands full today," Hinchcliffe said. "Because Stoke aren't just a physical side anymore. They've added real technical quality with Bojan and Moses, and they'll be looking to test Leicester's backline early."

As Leicester's players took their positions, Ben Hamer lingered in his penalty area, shaking out his gloves, his eyes scanning the field, taking deep breaths.

"One player who will be feeling the pressure today is Ben Hamer," Hawthorne noted. "With Kasper Schmeichel ruled out due to muscle fatigue, the 26-year-old steps in. A big moment for him, Andy."

Pearson's selection had forced changes.

Mahrez was replaced by Konakat on the right.Albrighton started on the left in place of Lingard.Vardy, needing a rest, was rotated out—giving Leonardo Ulloa his first league start of the season.In midfield, Andy King and Matty James were introduced.

The defensive line remained unchanged, sticking with the reliable back four that had started the season strong.

As the camera zoomed in on Michael Oliver, the referee checked his watch, glanced at both goalkeepers, then raised his whistle to his lips.

Hawthorne leaned forward slightly, his voice filled with anticipation.

"It's all set here at the Britannia. Can Stoke build on that shock win at Manchester City? Or will Leicester continue their impressive start to life back in the top flight?"

The whistle blew—

And the game was underway.

From the moment Oliver's whistle blew, Leicester played like a team possessed. Despite rotating several key players, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty—just pure, relentless attacking intent.

The ball zipped between blue shirts, each pass crisp and purposeful, forcing Stoke's midfield to chase shadows. Every time Stoke's defenders tried to push forward, Leicester's press pounced, suffocating them, cutting off their options, winning the ball back with ruthless efficiency.

Hawthorne's voice carried the astonishment of the moment.

"Well, this isn't quite what we expected, is it?" he chuckled from the Sky Sports commentary booth. "Leicester, aggressive from the start, moving the ball with confidence."

Hinchcliffe, watching from high above, was just as surprised.

"Absolutely, Rob. We know Leicester like to counterattack, but they're dictating the game here at the Britannia. Tristan has been given freedom to roam, and you can already see the impact it's having."

Down on the pitch, Tristan was everywhere.

He drifted into spaces Stoke's midfielders struggled to track, constantly turning his head, scanning the field, always a step ahead of the game. If a gap appeared between the lines, he was already there. If a Stoke player hesitated, Tristan exploited it.

As he ghosted toward the right flank, a sharp burst of movement separated him from Erik Pieters and Ryan Shawcross. Spotting the opportunity, Konakat weighted a perfect pass into the gap.

Tristan's instincts took over.

Without breaking stride, he controlled the ball and whipped a curling cross into the box, his right foot sending it arching past Shawcross' outstretched boot, bending toward the heart of the penalty area.

"Oh, that's a lovely ball from Konakat!" Hawthorne exclaimed. "And what a delivery from Tristan—"

Before he could finish his sentence, Leonardo Ulloa reacted first.

The Argentine striker, sandwiched between two defenders, adjusted his position in mid-air and stretched out a leg. His boot met the ball perfectly, guiding it low past Asmir Begović.

The net rippled.

The stadium exploded into noise.

"ULLOA!! IT'S IN!!" Hawthorne roared.

On the pitch, Ulloa sprinted toward the Leicester fans, arms spread wide, his face alight with emotion. Behind him, Tristan jogged forward calmly, his expression one of quiet satisfaction, absorbing the moment.

The camera cut to Nigel Pearson, who clapped his hands together with approval, nodding toward his staff. On the Stoke bench, Mark Hughes shook his head, exhaling in frustration.

Andy Hinchcliffe's admiration was evident in his tone.

"Tristan's vision there is absolutely top-class," he said. "He didn't even look up before crossing—he just knew where Ulloa would be. That's a pass you expect from a player years ahead of his age."

...

Instead of retreating into a defensive shell, Leicester pressed even harder after scoring.

Each time Stoke attempted a clearance, a Leicester player was there to recover possession. Each time a red-and-white shirt tried to carry the ball forward, they were harassed by two, sometimes three opponents.

The home side couldn't breathe.

Stoke's players glanced at one another, confused and frustrated. They had come into this game expecting a battle, a physical war of attrition—but instead, they were being outplayed, outmaneuvered, and outclassed.

"What's happening here?" Hawthorne mused. "Last week, Stoke's defense held off Manchester City, but they look completely rattled today!"

At the center of it all, Tristan orchestrated the chaos.

Every pass went through him. Every attacking movement was dictated by his tempo. He pointed, he shouted, he guided his teammates into position like a veteran playmaker in control of the entire match.

And then, in the 36th minute, Leicester broke them open again.

Andy King pounced on a loose pass in midfield, stepping in front of a sluggish Steven Nzonzi and winning back possession. Without hesitation, he shifted the ball out wide to Albrighton, who was already on the move down the left flank.

Albrighton didn't hesitate.

His first touch was perfect, setting the ball into his stride. He charged down the wing, ignoring the desperate lunges of Erik Pieters, who was struggling to keep up.

The Leicester winger lifted his head once—then whipped a wicked cross into the box.

"Another delivery from Albrighton—Ulloa's in there!" Rob Hawthorne called as the ball soared toward the penalty area.

In the center, Leonardo Ulloa battled with Ryan Shawcross, the Stoke captain grabbing at his shirt, trying to throw him off balance.

But Ulloa was too strong, too smart.

Instead of forcing a shot, he adjusted his body at the last second, flicking the ball backward with a clever header.

Right into the path of Tristan.

By the time the ball reached him, Tristan had already lost his marker, ghosting into space at the edge of the penalty area.

He didn't need to think.

His body moved instinctively.

His technique was flawless.

The ball dropped from the sky—

And Tristan met it first time, his right foot striking through the ball cleanly.

The shot rocketed toward goal like a missile, a perfect combination of power and precision.

It curved beautifully, swerving through the air, its flight path undeniable.

Asmir Begović launched himself at full stretch—

But he was never getting there.

The ball crashed into the top right corner, slamming against the net with a violent ripple.

For a split second, Britannia fell completely silent.

Then—

The Leicester fans erupted.

"WOW!! What a goal!!" Hawthorne bellowed, his voice nearly cracking from excitement. "Tristan Hale with an absolute stunner!"

Hinchcliffe sounded almost disbelieving.

"That is just world-class. The technique, the power, the precision—Begović had no chance!"

On the pitch, Tristan remained composed.

He took two calm steps forward, then raised his arms slightly, his face betraying only the faintest smirk.

His teammates weren't so reserved.

Andy reached him first, grabbing his shirt and shaking him playfully, yelling something that was drowned out by the crowd's roar.

Ulloa arrived next, ruffling his hair, laughing in disbelief.

"That was fucking ridiculous!"* he shouted, grinning.

The camera cut to the Leicester bench—that players up were celebrating whilst up right above them, Pearson got up and just clapped in amazement.

On the Stoke bench, Mark Hughes looked furious, gesturing toward his defense, his voice rising as he barked orders.

But the damage was already done.

Hawthorne was still reeling from the sheer quality of the strike.

"Well, if anyone had doubts about Tristan Hale's quality, they've been answered right there. That is a goal-of-the-season contender!"

Hinchcliffe let out a small laugh, shaking his head.

"I mean, what else can you say? The kid is a special talent. He made that look effortless."

The camera zoomed in on Ryan Shawcross, who stood near the edge of the box, hands on his hips, staring toward the goal in utter frustration.

He turned, shouting something toward Nzonzi and Whelan, his face red with anger.

The Stoke midfielders looked away, knowing there wasn't much else they could have done.

Hinchcliffe took a moment to analyze the bigger picture.

"And this is the difference between last season's Leicester and this Leicester," he said, his tone thoughtful. "They're not just sitting back and countering. They're taking the game to Stoke, they're dominating midfield, and Hale is running the show."

Hawthorne nodded in agreement.

"And Andy, let's not forget—this is the same pitch where Tristan made his first-team debut eight months ago. What a way to show how far he's come!"

Hinchcliffe laughed again.

"Oh, he's not that nervous teenager anymore, that's for sure!"

The big screen inside the Britannia played a replay of the goal, capturing every angle of the strike—

In the away end, Leicester's fans sang Tristan's name, their voices echoing through the stadium.

...

As the second half kicked off, Mark Hughes had seen enough. His team had been dominated in the first half, outplayed in every area of the pitch. Something had to change.

The solution? Route one football.

Stoke's new approach was as direct as it was brutal—launch long balls toward Peter Crouch, win the aerial duels, and hope the knockdowns created chances for the onrushing attackers.

The shift was immediate. The moment Ryan Shawcross won possession, he wasted no time, launching a high, looping ball upfield toward Crouch.

From the Sky Sports commentary booth, Hawthorne immediately picked up on the change.

"We expected a reaction from Stoke in this second half, and here it is," he noted as another lofted pass soared through the night sky. "It's route one football now, and Leicester are going to have to stand up to the physical challenge."

Up in the air, Crouch rose like a skyscraper, towering over Leicester's defenders. His head connected with the ball, directing it down toward Marko Arnautović, who sprinted forward in anticipation.

Hinchcliffe watched as the ball fell into Arnautović's path.

"And that's exactly what you expect when you've got a target man like Crouch," Hinchcliffe said. "He's so difficult to deal with in the air, but Leicester's defenders have handled him well so far."

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Despite Stoke's newfound aggression, Leicester's backline stood firm.

Morgan and Moore refused to be bullied, battling Crouch at every turn, matching his jumps, disrupting his headers, and closing the space before Stoke's attackers could react.

Even when Crouch did manage to win a header, Leicester's midfielders suffocated the second ball, preventing Stoke from getting any meaningful shots on goal.

But when Stoke did break through—

Ben Hamer was there.

Making his first league appearance of the season, Leicester's second-choice goalkeeper was playing like a veteran.

A low-driven shot from Steven Nzonzi forced him into a full-stretch diving save, his fingertips barely pushing the ball around the post.

Minutes later, a looping header from Crouch looked destined for the net—until Hamer sprang to his right, palming it over the bar with his fingertips.

Even on set pieces, when Stoke threw everything forward, Hamer remained calm, commanding his area, punching clear under pressure.

"Ben Hamer is having a fantastic game!" Hawthorne exclaimed as the keeper plucked another ball out of the air with authority. "A lot of pressure on him today, stepping in for Kasper Schmeichel, but he's looking like he's been Leicester's number one for years!"

Hinchcliffe nodded in agreement.

"Absolutely. A second-choice keeper needs to be ready when called upon, and Hamer has been rock solid. Stoke are getting their chances, but Leicester just won't break."

The more Stoke attacked, the more desperate they became.

Passes became rushed.

Challenges became reckless.

The home crowd grew restless, groaning with frustration at every misplaced ball.

And at the center of their frustration?

Tristan.

Every time he received the ball, a Stoke player was on him instantly.

Shoves in the back.

Ankles clipped.

Late nudges after the ball was gone.

The referee let it all go, encouraging Stoke's aggression with his leniency.

But Tristan adapted.

Instead of dwelling on possession, he moved the ball faster, making himself a difficult target.

He used one-touch passing, linking up seamlessly with Mahrez and Drinkwater, keeping Leicester's attack flowing.

When space opened, he punished Stoke with precise through balls, cutting through their midfield like a scalpel.

"Tristan is handling this pressure brilliantly," Hinchcliffe observed. "A lot of young players would let these tackles get to them, but he's adjusting his game instead."

"That's what separates good players from great ones," Hawthorne replied. "He's not trying to fight fire with fire. He's using his brain, keeping Leicester's attack moving."

But Stoke weren't finished.

And in the 70th minute, frustration boiled over.

Tristan received the ball near midfield, his body already turning to escape the press.

He feinted left, then spun right—leaving his marker completely wrong-footed.

But before he could accelerate into space, Ryan Shawcross lunged in from behind.

A brutal, scything challenge.

His legs were completely taken out, and he crashed to the turf.

The entire stadium gasped—

Then an eruption of noise.

Nigel Pearson exploded in fury shouting towards the refs.

"Did you see that?! That's dangerous play!" he roared, arms raised, his face twisted in anger.

Hawthorne's voice rose in disbelief.

"Oh, that is a poor challenge from Shawcross!"

"That's reckless," Hinchcliffe added, shaking his head. "He's come straight through the back of Tristan—no chance of getting the ball. That's the kind of challenge that could seriously injure a player."

The Leicester bench erupted, players and staff surrounding the fourth official, demanding a red card.

Danny threw his arms up.

"How is that not a red?!" he shouted.

Andy King shook his head, muttering angrily, before stepping in to calm down his teammates.

The referee finally reached into his pocket—

And showed a yellow card.

The home crowd booed, but Leicester's players were furious.

"If that's only a yellow, what's a red then?" Drinkwater muttered, shaking his head.

"Shawcross is lucky there," Hawthorne said. "We've seen players sent off for far less than that."

Tristan lay on the ground, clutching his calf, his face twisted in discomfort as the medical staff rushed onto the pitch.

The Champion Codex's [Counter Injury Card] didn't trigger, meaning the tackle wasn't severe enough for lasting damage. But he still felt the sting.

On the sideline, assistant coach Craig Shakespeare leaned toward Pearson.

Pearson frowned etching Tristan get up, considering the situation.

They were leading 2-0.

The match had turned into a physical battle. Keeping Tristan on wasn't worth the risk.

The fourth official raised the substitution board.

#22 – Tristan Hale OFF.

#39 – Chris Wood ON.

Instantly, the Leicester fans rose to their feet, clapping in appreciation.

The clapping turned into a standing ovation.

"And listen to this!" Hawthorne exclaimed. "Tristan's been kicked around all game, but he walks off to a standing ovation from the Leicester fans!"

As Tristan reached the touchline, he raised his hand, clapping toward the away end.

The chanting didn't stop.

"Tristan! Tristan! Tristan!"

He clapped once more, then took his seat on the bench, ice pack pressed to his calf, watching as the game descended into a long-ball battle between both teams.

With Tristan subbed off, Leicester City shifted gears. The intricate passing and midfield control that had dictated the first 70 minutes gave way to a more direct, physical approach.

Pearson had instructed his team to lock down the result, and that meant switching to a 4-4-2 formation—a shape designed for holding firm at the back and punishing Stoke on the counter.

At the heart of this new setup stood Leonardo Ulloa and Chris Wood—Leicester's twin towers in attack.

Despite his large frame, Ulloa was surprisingly nimble, his quick feet and instinctive movement making him a constant threat.

Wood, on the other hand, was a traditional target man. He thrived in physical duels, using his strength to hold up play, shield the ball, and drag Stoke's center-backs out of position.

As the game resumed, Hawthorne quickly took notice of Leicester's tactical switch.

"Leicester are playing to their strengths now," he remarked as Wood won yet another aerial duel, nodding the ball into Ulloa's path. "Two big men up top, winning headers, causing problems—it's simple football, but it's working."

Hinchcliffe, watching from above, could see the growing anxiety in Stoke's backline.

"And Stoke just can't deal with it," he added. "Every clearance, every loose ball—Leicester's forwards are getting there first. It's relentless pressure."

Down on the pitch, Shawcross and Wilson exchanged frustrated glances, barking instructions at their fullbacks, trying to restore order to their crumbling defense.

But Leicester weren't letting up.

As the minutes ticked toward the 80th, Leicester came agonizingly close to adding a third goal.

Danny danced past a tired Stoke fullback and swung in a teasing cross toward the penalty spot.

Wood, a towering presence in the air, rose above two defenders, meeting the cross with a perfectly timed header—knocking it down right into Ulloa's path.

Ulloa, instinct taking over, turned and fired toward goal in one motion.

The ball rocketed toward the bottom corner—

Only for Asmir Begović to produce a stunning reflex save, stretching low to his right to push the ball away.

"That's brilliant from Begović!" Hawthorne exclaimed. "Ulloa must have thought that was in!"

The home side's frustration was becoming painfully clear.

Passes became forced, lacking precision.

Tackles became reckless, leading to multiple free kicks for Leicester.

The crowd, once boisterous and confident, now groaned with every misplaced ball.

Down on the field, Stoke's players looked lost.

They hurried their clearances, only for Leicester to win the second ball and push forward again.

They tried quick passes through midfield, but Leicester's pressing forced mistakes.

They launched more long balls toward Crouch, but with Hamer commanding his area, nothing came of them.

Hinchcliffe, watching Stoke's struggles, sighed.

"They're out of ideas," he observed as Hamer comfortably claimed yet another wayward cross. "Leicester have been solid defensively all afternoon, and Stoke just don't have the sharpness to break them down."

Shawcross, clearly exasperated, gestured wildly at his teammates, demanding more urgency—but it was too late.

Leicester had broken them.

And moments later—

The final whistle blew.

2-0

The Leicester bench erupted, players and staff leaping to their feet, celebrating a dominant away victory.

A few yards away, Mark Hughes stood motionless, arms crossed, staring at the ground. Another home defeat, another reminder of how far his team was from consistency.

For Stoke, this game highlighted everything wrong—

Peter Crouch, out of form.

New signings, struggling to make an impact.

A defense, overwhelmed and exposed.

The Britannia crowd filtered out quietly, their frustration hanging in the cold September air.

...

With one goal, one assist, and a midfield masterclass, Tristan was rightfully named Player of the Match.

One goal.One assist.A midfield masterclass.

Tristan had dictated play, handled Stoke's physicality, and delivered moments of brilliance that won the game.

His performance was rated 8.5—the highest of any player on the pitch.

Even after he had been substituted, his presence was still being felt.

As Stoke's defenders trudged off the field, they were still talking about him, shaking their heads in frustration.

"That kid ran the game," Shawcross muttered to Wilson.

"Never let us settle," Wilson replied, exhaling heavily.

....

Despite Leicester's dominant victory, the post-match discussion wasn't just about the three points.

It was about Tristan.

The moment news broke that he had skipped the post-match interview due to muscle discomfort, the media seized on it instantly.

At the Sky Sports press conference, the questions came fast and direct.

A reporter raised his hand first. "Nigel, is there an injury concern with Tristan? He looked to be in some discomfort after that late tackle."

Nigel Pearson, who had heard the murmurs all evening, offered immediate reassurance.

"He's fine," the Leicester manager said in his usual no-nonsense tone. "Just a bit of muscle discomfort. We'll have it checked out when we return, but nothing serious."

But his words did little to fully ease the speculation.

The discussions in the Sky Sports studio quickly turned from his fitness to something bigger.

"Let's not forget," one pundit argued, "Tristan is playing at an unbelievably high level for an 19-year-old. If Leicester aren't careful, the physical toll could catch up to him."

His co-host, shaking his head, dismissed the concern.

"Forget his fitness—just look at his performance," the BBC analyst countered. "He's already Leicester's most important player. And if you ask me, he's already the key figure for England too. He's ahead of everyone in his generation."

The host leaned forward, intrigued. "And that includes Wayne Rooney?"

The pundit didn't hesitate. "I think so. Hale is England's future—arguably even England's present. If he stays fit, he's going to be leading this team into the next decade."

The debate raged on, with some arguing that Tristan still had a long way to go, while others insisted he was already among England's elite.

Meanwhile, back in the Leicester dressing room, the mood couldn't have been further from the media's speculation.

Inside the dressing room, laughter and celebration filled the air.

Players sat around in their half-unzipped jerseys, some still cooling down, others checking their phones as messages poured in from friends and family.

Tristan sat next to Leonardo Ulloa, still buzzing from their performances.

The Argentine striker, his face still flushed from the game, turned to Tristan with a grin. "That assist you gave me? Perfect."

Tristan chuckled, leaning back against his locker. "Your goal wasn't too bad either."

"We make a good team, eh?" Ulloa added, flashing a thumbs-up.

Tristan nodded, grabbing his phone.

Instead of a selfie or celebration photo, he kept it simple.

He posted two pictures:

A snapshot of the Britannia scoreboard, frozen at full-time—Leicester 2-0 Stoke.A candid shot of Ulloa scoring his goal.

Within minutes, his notifications were flooded.

The likes, retweets, and comments poured in in seconds.

Since the team's promotion to the Premier League, his social media following had exploded.

Every time he stepped onto the pitch, his numbers skyrocketed.

At this point, it wasn't just Leicester City fans tuning in anymore.

His performances were turning rivals into admirers.

And as of September 14, his total social media following had surpassed eight million.

Twitter: 5 million+ followersInstagram: 6 million+ followersFacebook: 1 million+ followers

Of all his platforms, Instagram was the fastest-growing.

It had become his hub, a space for younger fans to engage directly, especially the under-30 demographic that followed football.

His match-day posts, behind-the-scenes glimpses, and training clips only accelerated his rise in popularity.

Of course, he was still a long way from global icons like Messi and Ronaldo, who had over 100 million followers each.

He wasn't even on the level of Bale, Neymar, or James Rodríguez.

But among English footballers, his numbers were staggering.

At just 19 years old, he was already ranked fifth overall in England—only behind:

David BeckhamSteven GerrardFrank LampardThe FA's official account

And if his growth continued at this explosive rate, he would soon be one of the most-followed English footballers in the world.

A social media analyst on Sky Sports News couldn't help but marvel.

"He's closing in on 10 million fast. At this pace, he'll be one of the biggest names in English football before the season is even halfway through."

But for Tristan, this wasn't just about fame.

His Champion Codex had already shown him that social media milestones were tied to system rewards.

And now, with his followers edging closer to 10 million, his curiosity burned.

"What will the next reward be?"

Despite the hype and celebrations, Nigel Pearson had one immediate priority—

Making sure Tristan was fit.

When the team bus returned to Belvoir Drive, the Leicester medical staff wasted no time.

A thorough examination was conducted—checking his calves, joints, and overall muscle condition.

The results?

All clear.

No serious damage.No lingering pain.Fully fit for selection in the upcoming Europa League match.

Pearson, relieved, clapped Tristan on the shoulder.

"Good news. You'll be available for the next match."

Tristan nodded, exhaling in relief.

Missing a Europa League game was the last thing he wanted.

....

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