England's Greatest-Chapter 140: Best Fan in the World Part 2 (End)

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October 1, 2014.....

King Power Stadium shone under the bright floodlights as the crowd roared in anticipation. The atmosphere was buzzing, excitement palpable. The broadcast opened with Darren Fletcher's familiar voice ringing over the noisy crowd, setting the stage for the night's action.

"Good evening, and welcome to BT Sport's live coverage of the UEFA Europa League! We're here at the King Power Stadium, where Leicester City look to continue their strong European campaign against the Ukrainian side, Metalist Kharkiv."

Seated beside him, Owen Hargreaves, former Manchester United and England midfielder, nodded along, already analyzing the matchup.

"And, Owen, plenty of talking points tonight, but let's start with one big return—Tristan is back in the lineup."

Hargreaves leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying the weight of experience.

"Yeah, and that's huge for Leicester. He's been one of the league's best midfielders this season—his ability to control the game, his passing range, and his intelligence on the ball make him a real asset. The fans will be delighted to see him back in the heart of the midfield."

Fletcher picked up seamlessly, his tone shifting with the hint of a smirk.

"And speaking of people watching Tristan tonight, all eyes will also be on someone in the stands—Barbara Palvin. This is the first time she's seeing him play live. Last time she watched Leicester, it was from the stands at Selhurst Park... with Tristan sitting right next to her."

Hargreaves let out a light chuckle.

"Yeah, and that's got to be a strange feeling for her—going from watching the game with him to now watching him in action. But I imagine Tristan will be focused on the job tonight. Leicester will want to get a strong result here."

The camera cut to the stands, zooming in briefly on Barbara, her gaze locked onto the pitch, watching intently.

The scene was set. The game was moments away.

King Power Stadium pulsed with energy, the roar of the home crowd building as Leicester prepared to take on the away team. Blue scarves were being waved about as anticipation swelled.

As the referee blew the opening whistle, the game burst into life. Leicester wasted no time asserting their dominance, moving the ball quickly, pressing high, and setting the tempo.

At the heart of it all? Tristan.

Positioned in his familiar midfield role, he dictated play with precision, ensuring Leicester maintained control. His touch was sharp, his movement fluid, constantly scanning, constantly orchestrating.

Everything seemed calculated, it was like watching a master conductor leading his team's symphony.

It didn't take long for the first real opportunity to emerge.

Just ten minutes in, Tristan received the ball near the halfway line. His head was up even before the ball was at his feet, and with a single glance, he spotted Mahrez making a blistering run down the right flank, peeling away from his marker.

The pass came instantly.

A perfect through ball, slicing through Metalist's defensive line like a blade.

Darren Fletcher's voice rose above the crowd noise.

"Tristan's vision is immaculate! That ball has split Metalist wide open—Mahrez is in! Can he finish?"

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Mahrez sprinted onto the pass, taking one touch to steady himself before firing a powerful shot toward goal.

The entire stadium waited with bated breath.

The keeper reacted brilliantly, his outstretched arm barely able to parry the ball away. A collective groan rippled through the crowd, followed by applause for the build-up play.

From the commentary booth, Owen Hargreaves shook his head in appreciation.

"That's exactly why Tristan is so important to this Leicester side. That pass was inch-perfect, and Mahrez was through on goal. He'll be frustrated not to score, but that was a warning for Metalist—Leicester mean business tonight."

The pressure didn't stop. Leicester pressed on, unrelenting.

The midfield revolved around Tristan; every attack began at his feet, and when Leicester needed an opportunity, he was there to supply.

Metalist struggled to break out of their own half; their midfielders suffocated by Leicester's aggressive press.

And just five minutes later, their efforts paid off.

Under pressure, a Metalist defender attempted to clear the ball upfield, but Tristan read the pass in an instant, stepping up to intercept. He needed but a touch to steady himself, and he was already looking forward.

Vardy lost his man and immediately signaled for the ball. Tristan didn't hesitate.

He chipped the ball, and it fell right in front of Vardy. Vardy took it in stride, his pace carrying him through on goal.

The crowd rose from their seats, screaming as he bore down on the keeper, but a last-second tackle sent the ball spinning away, silencing the home fans.

"Leicester is thoroughly in control!" Fletcher exclaimed.

Hargreaves nodded. "Now, it's really just a question of when they will convert their advantage."

Fletcher leaned forward into his microphone. "And much of that advantage is thanks to Tristan. He's been at the center of everything tonight."

Hargreaves agreed instantly. "Absolutely. His ability to control the tempo of the match is world-class. He seems to be one step ahead of the opposing side, and it shows."

"And it's not just his ability on-ball, either. I mean, just look at his positioning—Vardy's last run began with a crucial interception from Tristan."

Before Hargreaves got the chance to respond, Fletcher cut in. "And here we go again—Leicester is on the break!"

Vardy, true to his trademark pace, quickly got a touch on the ball as it arrived from Tristan and darted forward. His legs churned, but he had no intention of stopping his attack.

Villagra, caught off guard by the sudden burst, scrambled desperately to stop him, but it was too late. Vardy blew by him with ease, the defender's outstretched leg grazing nothing but air, his tackle helpless in front of Vardy's pace.

But just as Vardy neared the box, Torsiglieri​ was already closing in. The left-back's timing was perfect.

Vardy, knowing of the danger, made a split-second decision, and with a light flick of his foot, the ball slipped past Torsiglieri​ and into the waiting feet of Mahrez.

Just as Leicester's attack seemed to materialize into a real opportunity, Sergiy Pshenychnykh​ brought Mahrez down with a reckless tackle.

The crowd gasped as they watched Mahrez hit the ground hard, but a collective sigh of relief followed as he slowly stood up again with a grimace.

The referee's whistle cut through the tension. The Metalist players all huddled around the referee, trying to change his mind, but he remained firm in his decision.

Pshenychnykh​ was booked with a yellow card, and a free kick was awarded to Mahrez.

"That was a brutal challenge from Pshenychnykh​," Fletcher said. "He caught Mahrez late and hard—a clear yellow card if you ask me."

Hargreaves nodded. "Yeah, it was reckless. There was no attempt to try and play the ball. The referee had no choice but to give the yellow, and now Leicester is primed with a free kick."

"Mahrez is back on his feet now, and I'm sure he wishes to make something of this free-kick," Fletcher concluded.

The set-piece specialist took a steadying breath, scanning the box. A couple of yards in front of him stood the wall. He continued eyeing the opposing team for a second longer before taking his run up and curling the ball perfectly into the penalty area.

The opposing players hurriedly tried to get to the ball as it sailed right over the wall. Torsiglieri sprang up, but it was already too late. Wes Morgan was there.

"Mahrez floats it in... Morgan's there—AND IT'S IN!" Fletcher called. "Leicester City strikes first! The captain is leading by example with a wonderful header to put Leicester up!"

King Power erupted in applause.

Wes Morgan's header in the 20th minute gave Leicester the deserved 1-0 lead. Metalist, rattled, struggled to gain a foothold. Their efforts to get back in the game were ineffective: Leicester's defense gave no chance for a breakthrough, and their offense gave no chance for a counterattack.

Tristan remained everywhere, finding pockets of space for teammates who kept building on Leicester's momentum.

Then, in the 38th minute, he was back with the ball and with a little more time to survey the field.

His eyes darted from player to player, trying to find the perfect pass, and then he spotted him.

Mahrez, making another run down Metalist's right flank.

Instead of driving forward himself, Tristan curled the ball excellently, and it landed true to his mark—right in front of Mahrez.

Just before Mahrez could get a touch on it, a Metlist player drove forward, challenging Mahrez and getting a foot to the ball.

Mahrez was quick to react, however, and he adjusted his run, taking control of the loose ball with a sharp touch.

Owen Hargreaves let out an impressed hum.

"A fantastic ball from Tristan, followed by a perfect recovery by Mahrez. Leicester has shown time and time again today that despite being up one-nil, they have no intention of letting up!"

Mahrez cut inside, his jersey a blur as he worked past the muddled defense with ease. He was calm when he entered the box no sense of unease as he curled the ball beautifully toward the far corner.

The ball seemed to hang in the air forever as managers, players, and fans alike stared at the airborne ball.

This time?

The net rippled.

"Mahrez! That's brilliant!" Fletcher's voice rang out. "Sensational work from Leicester, who now lead two-nil, and Metalist seem to be falling apart at the seams!"

"A goal in the thirty-ninth minute, even nearing the half, they still aren't letting up," Hargreaves added, as Leicester's players all rushed Mahrez.

Tristan exhaled, watching as Mahrez peeled away in celebration. He knew the pass wouldn't go down as an assist, but the buildup, the vision, they had started with him—and that was enough.

The stadium shook with celebration, a sea of blue and white celebrating along with the players. But up in the stands, Barbara barely reacted.

She remained still, eyes locked on Tristan, watching him command the pitch.

Hargreaves, having noticed the camera cut to her, let out a small chuckle.

"I wonder what's going through her head right now as all of England watches their relationship."

Tristan continued to pull the strings, silently controlling the game. Every interception, every switch of play, and every sharp touch kept Leicester in control.

But for all his dominance, he hadn't found the final touch yet. No goal. No assist.

Not yet.

But the night was still young.

..

Leicester remained in control as the second half kicked off, though Metalist adjusted their shape, cutting down space in midfield and forcing Leicester to be more patient.

The game had slowed, but Leicester remained firmly in front.

By the 60th minute, Nigel Pearson made his move. With key fixtures still ahead, the Leicester manager opted for a change in the squad, lest he risk possible injuries. It was a tactical change now that Leicester was so far in front.

As the fourth official raised the board, Tristan's number appeared.

"And here comes a substitution...Tristan, making way," Darren Fletcher announced, his voice steady. "No goals, no assists—not tonight, but he did all the dirty work. He's been a key point in the Foxes' dominance.

Owen Hargreaves nodded, watching as Tristan jogged toward the touchline.

"Yeah, he's been heavily involved, dictating play as usual. Even without scoring, his impact is undeniable—Leicester has been in total control from the first whistle. And with a 2-0 lead, Pearson's looking to keep his squad fresh."

The stadium applauded, acknowledging his role in the performance.

Tristan high-fived his replacement, gave a nod to Pearson, grabbed a bottle of water, and took a seat on the bench. His gaze instinctively drifted to the stands.

Barbara was still watching.

Leicester held firm, managing the game well.

Even with Metalist managing to snatch a late goal, there was no threat—it felt like nothing more than a consolation.

"A late goal for Metalist," Fletcher called, "but surely nothing more than that at this stage."

And Fletcher was on the mark. The final whistle soon blew, sealing a 2-1 victory and three crucial points in Leicester's Europa League campaign.

Tristan ran a hand through his curls, exhaling.

No goals. No assists. But a win.

And the team had proven they were more than just him.

Up in the stands, Barbara lingered in her seat, her eyes fixed on the pitch. A smile tugged at her lips as she joined the fans in celebrating the result.

The moment the whistle faded, post-match discussions kicked off.

Leicester's Europa League journey remained on course, and though Tristan hadn't found the scoresheet, his performance had left its mark.

As the BT Sport studio panel broke down Leicester's victory, Jake Humphrey steered the discussion toward one of the game's standout figures.

"A solid win for Leicester," he began, leaning slightly forward. "But, Owen, let's talk about Tristan. He didn't get on the scoresheet tonight, yet some are arguing that he deserves the Man of the Match. Is that a fair call? Or do you think Mahrez was deserving of it tonight?"

Seated beside him, Owen Hargreaves leaned back into his chair. The question was valid, and debating over which standout figure deserved it more wasn't something he minded.

"It's a tough one," Hargreaves began, tapping the desk lightly. "Mahrez definitely deserves to be brought up—he had two fantastic contributions. An assist to open the score, and a goal of his own. But it's a very close debate—Tristan was like the unsung hero tonight."

"Tristan was an animal in the midfield, orchestrating play, creating chances, and all around controlling the tempo of the match. He didn't get on the scoresheet himself, but his influence is undeniable."

Jake nodded. "So, who exactly do you think deserved to walk away with the award then?" he asked.

"Mahrez had those crucial moments that can't be overlooked. But if we're talking about overall impact, Tristan was the one pulling the strings. It's a debate that's going to be tough to settle, but I think Mahrez just about deserves the nod this time."

He glanced at the stat sheet in front of him.

"Tristan's rating tonight? 7.9—just shy of 8.0, and Mahrez? 8.3. Both numbers well deserved."

Darren Fletcher chimed in, nodding along.

"I think Mahrez edging out Tristan for the award proves that although Leicester relies on Tristan, they're still a team to watch out for even without him on the field."

"Exactly," Hargreaves replied. "In the 60th minute—when Tristan was off the field—the intensity dropped slightly, however, the players still fought well, only conceding a late goal. That came from a lapse in defense as the game entered its dying moments rather than a lapse in their quality."

"Still, it was a wonder to watch Tristan in those 60 minutes—it's clear that a player like him brings so much more than just the ability to create, but rather the ability to dictate the entire tempo of a match."

Meanwhile, Twitter buzzed with discussions, fans weighing in on Tristan's performance.

@IrelandSucks: Tristan is unreal. No goals, no assists, but still deserving of MOTM. That tells you everything. 🦊🔥

@MarkSucks: Leicester's midfield control was the difference tonight. Tristan with an absolute clinic—7.9 rating, 92% pass accuracy, 6 ball recoveries. The engine of this team.

@HesaGooner: Mahrez stole the show with that goal. MOTM deserved. But Tristan was the foundation of Leicester's performance.

Seated in the mixed zone, Tristan scrolled through his phone, eyes flicking over the notifications.

A moment later, he sighed, flipping the device face down on the table.

His name was called for the post-match interview.

With a deep breath, he pushed himself up from his seat.

Another part of the job.

Under the bright stadium lights, Tristan was beside Mahrez, who stood with the Man of the Match trophy in hand, the weight of the game still lingering in his muscles. The interviewer, a familiar face from BT Sport, offered him a warm smile as the cameras rolled.

"Mahrez, congratulations on the win and on being named Man of the Match. How do you feel about tonight's performance?"

Mahrez chuckled before answering."Tristan's been keeping a monopoly on all the trophies, so it feels nice to finally snatch one back."

The interviewer laughed lightly before turning to Tristan with a smile.

"You didn't get a goal or an assist tonight, but your influence was undeniable. Were you frustrated not to have that final touch, or are you satisfied with your performance?"

Tristan exhaled lightly, shaking his head.

"Look, goals and assists are great, but my job is to keep the team ticking. Control the game and make sure we're in the right positions. Mahrez and Morgan did the business in front of the goal, and we got the result. That's what matters."

The interviewer nodded thoughtfully, appreciating Tristan's humble response, before leaning in slightly with a more pointed question.

"Well, Tristan, you've been the driving force in midfield, but I've got to ask—you've watched Mahrez steal the show tonight with that goal and assist. Do you think you deserved the Man of the Match over him?"

Tristan paused, glancing over at Mahrez who still looked relaxed, a smile on his face.

"Look," he said, "Mahrez was brilliant tonight. He set up a goal, and he scored—he had the big moments. So, no, I don't think I was the best player on the field today. And besides, I'm running out of space in my house to fit all the trophies I've been winning, so until I get a bigger shelf, I'll let him win."

Mahrez chimed in with a laugh. "See, that's why I love playing with him. He's not chasing the limelight. But I will say, he made my job a lot easier tonight. Without him controlling the middle, I wouldn't have had the freedom to get in those positions."

The interviewer smiled. "With that said, I have to ask—there was a special guest in the stand tonight. We saw Barbara watching you play live for the first time. Did you know she was there? How was that feeling?"

Tristan's expression didn't change.

"Yeah, I knew."

He paused for half a second before adding. "I'll have to ask her if I passed the test."

The interviewer chuckled, clearly entertained.

"Well, whatever she thinks, you've certainly impressed us tonight. Congratulations again, Tristan—fantastic performance. Thanks for your time, both of you."

Mahrez and Tristan nodded once, offering a small wave to the camera before turning and walking off.

Another job done.

..

The night air outside the stadium was crisp, carrying the lingering energy of the match. Fans still milled around, some stopping for photos, others chanting as they disappeared into the Leicester streets.

Tristan walked past the media zone, through the players' exit, and toward the spot where Barbara was waiting for him.

John stood just behind her—arms crossed.

Barbara, wrapped in her coat, had her hands tucked into her pockets.

Tristan adjusted his bag on his shoulder as he reached her.

"So?" he asked, a slight tilt to his head. "What's the verdict?"

Barbara took a second before answering. "I liked it."

Tristan let out a short laugh. That was about as much praise as he was going to get upfront.

Then—the eyebrow raise.

"You didn't score," she pointed out.

Tristan shrugged, unbothered. "Didn't need to."

Barbara let out a small hum, amused but unconvinced.

"Hmm. Convenient excuse."

Behind her, John cleared his throat. Tristan glanced at him, then back at Barbara.

"Did John let you breathe," he asked, grinning, "or did he block every fan within five meters?"

Barbara's expression didn't change. "He almost tackled a guy who just wanted a selfie with me."

John, unfazed, simply said, "My job is to minimize risks."

Most of the fans had cleared out, the streets of Leicester quieter now, but Barbara and Tristan remained by the car, neither in a rush to leave.

Barbara pulled her coat tighter around herself, the cool breeze brushing against her skin. "You're stalling," she noted, watching as Tristan scrolled through his phone.

Tristan, hoodie half-pulled over his curls, glanced up with an easy smile. "Nah. Just documenting the moment."

Before she could question it, he shifted closer, tilting his phone toward her.

"C'mon," he murmured. "One picture."

Barbara arched an eyebrow. "Since when do you ask for pictures?"

Tristan nudged her lightly. "Since I have the best fan in the world here with me."

Her lips twitched at that, but she didn't argue.

With a small sigh—one she definitely didn't mean—she leaned in, resting her head against his shoulder. Tristan lifted his phone, snapping the photo.

It wasn't perfect—her hair was slightly windblown, his hoodie was lopsided, and the glow from the stadium lights gave the image a hazy warmth.

But it didn't need to be.

Tristan tapped a few buttons, adding the caption before posting it to Instagram.

Best fan in the world.

Barbara opened the car door, sliding into the backseat as Tristan followed, getting in beside her.

John shut the door, got into the driver's seat, and started the engine.

A second later, her phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen, then at him. "Tristan—"

Tristan, already looking pleased with himself, leaned back against the seat. "Too late. It's live."

Barbara shook her head, exhaling softly as she tucked her phone away.

Tristan rested an arm along the back of the seat, glancing over at her.

"You like it, though."

Barbara didn't say anything, but the small smile on her lips gave her away as she rested her head on his shoulder.

The car rolled through the quiet Leicester streets, the hum of the engine filling the silence.

.......

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