England's Greatest-Chapter 161: Liverpool

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December 2, 2014 – King Power Stadium

The King Power Stadium trembled with anticipation.

A sea of blue scarves waved beneath the bright floodlights, voices merging into one powerful roar. A brisk December chill filled the air, but no one in the stands cared about the cold.

This was a statement game.

The referee raised the whistle to his lips.

A deep breath—

A final glance between teammates—

Kickoff.

🎶 "LEICESTER TIL I DIE! LEICESTER TIL I DIE! I KNOW I AM, I'M SURE I AM, LEICESTER TIL I DIE!" 🎶

Leicester immediately shifted into possession, Cambiasso receiving the first touch, but Liverpool pounced instantly.

"Just look at that press already!" Martin noted as Gerrard, Henderson, and Allen surged forward, swarming Leicester's midfield. "They don't want Leicester to settle for even a second!"

"Rodgers has done his homework," Jamie cut in, his voice sharp. "Leicester need time to let Tristan get on the ball, dictate play—Liverpool aren't giving him a moment. It's smart."

The pressure was suffocating.

Cambiasso tried to buy time, knocking a one-two with Drinkwater, but the moment King took possession—

Henderson lunged in.

The tackle was clean. The ball spilled loose.

And just like that—Liverpool were away.

Allen shifted it out wide. Sterling.

The entire King Power sucked in a breath.

De Laet rushed across—too late.

Sterling took his first touch in full stride, the ball glued to his feet. One sharp feint to the left—De Laet bit—then a devastating burst of acceleration inside.

The gap opened.

"The pace of Sterling!" Martin exclaimed. "He's left De Laet behind!"

The Leicester backline scrambled.

Cambiasso read it, tracked back, and stepped in.

Sterling dropped his shoulder, looking to slip past—

Cambiasso slid in.

His boot met the ball cleanly, knocking it away with surgical precision.

The King Power exploded.

"Brilliantly timed challenge!" Martin praised. "And now, Leicester can break!"

Cambiasso barely had time to regain his footing before rolling the ball forward.

Tristan was already moving into space.

Liverpool's midfielders lunged—

Too late.

One touch—Skrtel flinched.

Second touch—a quick shift, and suddenly, the entire field opened.

Then—the pass.

A perfectly weighted, slicing diagonal ball, splitting Liverpool's backline in half.

"That's world-class!" Jamie exclaimed. "He sees the run before Vardy even makes it!"

Vardy tore through.

One touch. Then another.

Lovren was trailing, desperate.

Mignolet rushed off his line.

Vardy took aim—

A blur of red lunged in.

Skrtel—last-ditch block!

The ball ricocheted wide, inches past the far post!

A collective gasp from the crowd.

Vardy slammed the ground, already bouncing back up.

"That's an incredible block!" Martin shouted. "If Skrtel mistimes that by even half a second, that's a penalty!"

"Lovren's caught out again," Jamie grumbled. "That's poor positioning, but Skrtel bails him out. Liverpool are playing with fire here!"

The King Power stood, scarves high, as Mahrez jogged over.

Tristan hovered just outside the penalty area, eyes locked on the chaos inside. The big men were forward—Morgan, Wasilewski, Ulloa—all jostling, shoving, trying to shake free. Liverpool's defense packed tight, arms wrapped around blue shirts, boots scraping against the slick grass.

Mahrez placed the ball down, took two steps back, and lifted his hand—a signal.

Jamie was already analyzing the setup. "Look at this, Martin. Leicester have packed the six-yard box. They're not just going for a flick-on; they want a direct header here."

Martin nodded, watching the pushing and shoving inside the box. "Liverpool are under real pressure here. If they don't deal with this properly, Leicester could punish them."

Mahrez took a deep breath, then whipped his foot through the ball.

The cross curved beautifully through the air, spinning away from Mignolet, curling toward the far post.

Morgan made his move.

The Leicester captain broke free of Skrtel's grip, muscling his way to the perfect spot. His eyes locked on the ball, legs planted, chest rising as he launched himself into the air.

A second of complete silence.

Then—contact.

Morgan's forehead hammered through the ball, sending it screaming toward goal.

The crowd held their breath—

Just over the bar.

The entire stadium groaned.

Morgan landed hard, letting out a frustrated shout as he ran both hands through his short hair.

Martin exhaled, shaking his head. "That was inches away! Leicester knocking on the door now!"

Jamie let out a low breath. "Liverpool need to wake up fast. That's two big chances inside the opening 15 minutes. They're getting carved apart too easily!"

Liverpool needed to settle.

They slowed the game down, passing between Henderson and Gerrard, drawing Leicester forward, making them chase.

Then—Coutinho got involved.

The Brazilian picked up the ball in midfield, dropped his shoulder, and slipped past Drinkwater like he wasn't even there.

Martin knew what was coming. "Coutinho. We've seen what he can do from this range."

Drinkwater lunged in from behind—

Too late.

Coutinho skipped past, flicking the ball forward with his toe, dodging King's desperate challenge.

He saw the gap.

A quick touch with his left foot—then a shift to the right.

The window opened.

Coutinho pulled his foot back—swung through the ball—

It curled, low and fast, swerving toward the far post.

Schmeichel exploded to his right, his body stretching, arms outstretched, fingers reaching—

A touch.

Just enough.

The ball glanced off his fingertips, changing direction ever so slightly, skimming past the post and rolling behind for a corner.

The King Power erupted in applause.

🎶 "SCHMEICHEL! SCHMEICHEL! OUR DANISH WALL!" 🎶

Tristan jogged over, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Good stop."

Schmeichel, still catching his breath, grinned. "Gotta keep you lot in it, don't I?"

Leicester began to grow into the game again.

Tristan dropped deeper, demanding the ball, weaving through challenges.

One feint left, a drag back to the right—Henderson wrong-footed.

Allen stepped in, lunging—

Too slow.

Tristan flicked the ball through his legs, a smooth nutmeg that sent the crowd into a frenzy.

Jamie burst out laughing. "Oh, that is outrageous! He just sent Allen for a hot dog!"

The King Power buzzed, the energy rising with every touch.

Tristan lifted his head, scanning the pitch.

Mahrez was already making a run down the right.

The pass was pinpoint.

Mahrez took it in stride, barely breaking pace as he surged forward.

He drove into the box, cutting inside onto his stronger left foot.

He glanced up—saw the opening—

His strike was clean, a bullet toward the near post—

Foster reacted, diving low, stretching—

A palm pushed it away.

The ball looped up, spinning—

Ulloa reacted first.

He swung his right foot through the air, connecting on the volley—

It sliced just wide of the post.

A frustrated groan rippled through the stadium.

Martin exhaled, shaking his head. "Leicester are asking ALL the questions now!"

Jamie leaned forward. "They need to make one count, Martin! Liverpool are barely hanging on!"

The intensity built.

The stadium buzzed.

The game was alive.

Tristan was feeling it, feeling himself.

And then—the space opened.

It happened in a blink.

A loose pass from Allen—Cambiasso pounced, cutting it out cleanly.

Martin caught the shift immediately. "Leicester have it back—Cambiasso reads it well!"

Cambiasso looked up.

Tristan was already moving.

The ball rolled toward Tristan, the King Power on its feet before he even set himself.

One touch.

Two.

Gerrard lunged. Henderson closed in. The window was closing—

Tristan didn't care.

He planted his left foot.

His right swung back—the entire stadium held its breath.

Jamie's voice rose with it— "If this goes in—"

Tristan struck.

The ball exploded off his foot.

Screaming through the air, dipping, bending, swerving like it had a mind of its own.

Mignolet saw it late.

His eyes widened in horror—feet scrambling, body twisting, arms stretching—

Too late.

The net bulged.

GOAL.

A cannon of sound erupted from the King Power—a noise so deafening, so visceral, that it felt like the stadium itself was shaking.

Martin's voice cracked with disbelief. "OH MY WORD! That is OUTRAGEOUS! Tristan Hale—take a bow!"

Jamie? Gone. His voice nearly broke. "He's done it to Arsenal! He humiliated United! And now—Liverpool feel his wrath!"

Despite everything he said about Tristan, he could never deny what level of talent Tristan is and will be in the future.

The camera zoomed in.

Tristan stood still. Arms wide. Chest heaving.

The King Power was chanting his name.

Then—he turned.

The camera followed his gaze, up to the VIP stands.

Barbara.

She was on her feet, hands over her mouth, her blue eyes wide with pure disbelief.

Tristan grinned, chest still rising and falling from the strike.

His hands lifted to his lips.

Flying kisses. One. Two. Three.

The stadium exploded again.

Barbara's face broke into the softest, most radiant smile.

She caught them.

Then—she blew one back.

The camera caught it all.

Jamie groaned, half laughing. "Oh, COME ON! The lad just scored the goal of the season, and he's turning it into a rom-com!"

Martin chuckled. "Say what you want, Jamie—but look at this stadium. They love it. And if I recall correctly, certain pundits said he was 'too distracted' by his relationship."

Jamie didn't answer that.

The Leicester fans?

They were eating it up. Some were mimicking the flying kisses, others were simply losing their minds at what they'd just witnessed.

Tristan jogged back to position, still smiling.

Liverpool had been warned.

Up in the executive box, high above the roaring King Power Stadium, a group of Liverpool's most powerful figures sat watching. This wasn't a scouting trip. They had come simply to see how their team would fare against an in-form Leicester.

But after that goal?

There was no way Tristan wasn't on their minds.

Seated together were Mike Gordon, the president of Fenway Sports Group, and Tom Werner, chairman of Liverpool Football Club. A few seats over, Liverpool CEO Ian Ayre leaned slightly toward sporting director Michael Edwards, whispering something under the noise.

Sitting just in front of them, arms folded, was Brendan Rodgers. He wasn't engaging in the conversation. He was locked in, eyes flicking between the pitch and the monitors replaying Tristan's goal.

The energy in the room had shifted.

Two of their owners were thinking of something else entirely.

"How much?"

The words came from Tom Werner, his gaze never leaving the pitch. He wasn't asking as a joke.

He was asking because he wanted to know.

Across the room, Michael Edwards nearly choked on his drink.

Ian Ayre let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "For Tristan?"

Werner tilted his head slightly, as if the question should be obvious. "There's always a number."

Next to him, Mike Gordon smirked but didn't take his eyes off the game. "Not for this one."

Edwards, Liverpool's transfer guru, exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. "Madrid want him."

Werner nodded, still watching. "PSG too?"

"Them. Bayern. Barcelona. City. United. Every club at the top of world football is circling him."

That got a reaction.

Gordon finally turned away from the match, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "And where are we in that conversation?"

Silence.

Ayre shook his head.

"Not even close."

A brief pause.

Then—a quiet laugh from Gordon.

"Didn't think so."

Rodgers Speaks

For the first time, Brendan Rodgers spoke.

His voice was quiet, firm.

"You'd have to move heaven and earth just to get him in a meeting."

He shifted slightly in his seat, still watching Tristan as the midfielder picked the ball up near the halfway line, shook off pressure, and sent a 40-yard diagonal switch to Mahrez—effortless, precise, perfect.

Rodgers didn't blink.

"And even if you did?" He exhaled through his nose. "His agent isn't making a move until at least the end of the 2016 season."

Another beat of silence.

Then—Tom Werner leaned forward.

"So, what you're saying is... we try anyway?"

Gordon smirked. "You don't just 'try' for Tristan Hale, Tom. You make the biggest move this club has ever made and breaking our transfer record in the process.

They weren't out of the race yet.

But if they wanted him?

They'd have to go to war for him.

The King Power buzzed as the halftime whistle echoed through the cold December air. Leicester had the lead. The fans roared in appreciation, chanting Tristan's name, his long-range wonder strike still fresh in their minds.

.

The second half was coming.

The players emerged from the tunnel, their breath visible in the cold night air, the energy inside the King Power still electric. Leicester had the lead, but Liverpool weren't beaten yet.

Nigel Pearson stood on the touchline, arms crossed, watching the game restart. Liverpool now would just throw bodies if they couldn't score.

The game tightened.

Liverpool pushed higher.

Sterling and Coutinho floated between the lines, probing, trying to unlock the deep blue wall in front of them.

Then—danger.

Liverpool worked the ball wide to Moreno.

The left-back surged forward, cutting inside, threading a pass to Gerrard.

A single touch—then a disguised ball through the defense.

Lambert let it roll.

Raheem Sterling burst into the box.

Vardy tracked back, desperate—too late.

Sterling fired.

Schmeichel dived—

Goal.

The net rippled.

The King Power fell into stunned silence.

Jamie leaned forward. "And there it is! You could feel it coming! Leicester sat too deep, and Liverpool have punished them!"

Martin exhaled. "Perfectly timed run from Sterling. Leicester just lost their shape for one moment, and that's all Liverpool needed."

On the sideline, Pearson cursed under his breath. He had gone for control—but now? Now, Leicester needed a goal.

Another change.

Pearson turned to his bench.

"Jesse. You're on."

Jesse Lingard pulled off his warm-up top, sprinting to the sideline.

Martin recognized the shift immediately. "Pearson isn't settling for a draw—he wants all three points!"

Jamie, skeptical. "That's a brave call. But this is risky, Martin. Leicester's about to open up, and Liverpool will have space to counter."

Lingard slotted into the attack, Leicester reshaping into a more aggressive setup.

The King Power roared.

🎶 "COME ON, LEICESTER! COME ON, LEICESTER!" 🎶

Leicester pushed forward.

Mahrez danced past two defenders, whipping in a cross—cleared.

Vardy latched onto a loose ball, turned, struck—deflected.

Tristan went for long shots but none of them landed.

The pressure mounted.

Liverpool dropped deeper, their defense packed inside the box.

Then—one moment.

Lingard, fresh legs, found space.

Drinkwater spotted him, threading a perfect pass through the gap.

Lingard surged into the area.

One touch—he steadied himself.

He had to score.

He fired—

Mignolet saved it.

Pushed it wide.

And in that instant—Liverpool pounced.

A rapid counter.

Henderson released Coutinho.

The Brazilian sprinted forward, Leicester scrambling to get back.

Cambiasso lunged in—missed.

Coutinho slipped the ball through—

Lambert.

One-on-one with Schmeichel.

The shot—low, precise.

Goal.

Liverpool 2-1 Leicester.

The away end erupted.

Jamie exhaled. "And that's game over! Leicester gambled, and Liverpool have punished them again!"

Martin, shaking his head. "Pearson went for the win, but in the end, it cost them everything."

Leicester players stood frozen, hands on hips.

Lingard kicked the ground in frustration.

Pearson just stood there, arms crossed. He had rolled the dice. It didn't work.

The final whistle blew.

Liverpool win.

Leicester fall short.

The dream of another statement win? Gone.

Tristan, standing near the dugout, watched as Liverpool celebrated.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, he was beyond pissed; they should have won the game, but none of his shots went in, fucking hell. He wanted to rub it in Jamie's face; now he had to see the smug bastard's face.

Jamie summed up the mood. "That's a tough one to swallow, Martin. Leicester controlled the game for so long, but the second they opened up—it was over."

Martin sighed. "It was a gamble from Pearson, and it backfired. Leicester looked like they were on their way to a massive win, but Liverpool found a way."

Tristan exhaled through his nose, watching as Liverpool players made their way toward the Leicester squad.

....

Inside the tunnel, as players filed toward their respective dressing rooms, the media presence grew. Cameras, microphones, journalists positioning themselves for quick interviews.

And right in the middle of it?

Jamie Carragher, already standing with a Sky Sports crew waiting. He ran down as quickly as possible the moment the game was finished from the commentary box.

He spotted Tristan immediately, stepping forward with a microphone in hand. "Tristan, got a moment?"

Tristan didn't even slow down.

Didn't break stride.

Didn't acknowledge him.

He just walked past.

Carragher blinked, caught off guard, turning slightly as Tristan disappeared down the corridor.

The Sky Sports reporter beside him let out a quiet chuckle. "That's a no, then?"

Carragher exhaled, shaking his head. "Guess, that won got to him."

The cameras captured it all. The refusal, the cold shoulder, the way Tristan didn't even glance back.

It was going viral within minutes.

The press room at the King Power was packed. Cameras flashed, journalists leaned in, and Nigel Pearson, seated at the front, looked as composed as ever.

A Sky Sports reporter spoke first. "Nigel, obviously a tough result tonight. You led for most of the game—where do you think it got away from you?"

Pearson didn't even blink. "We lost control in key moments. It's as simple as that. Liverpool are a top team, and they punished us when we got stretched late on. We should have done better but our shots just were't going in."

Another question came from the back. "Jesse Lingard was subbed in late when Leicester were still drawing 1-1, rather than going more defensive. Some might say that opened the game up for Liverpool—do you think that was the wrong call?"

Pearson's gaze sharpened. "If we had scored, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Football is about decisions, and I don't believe in playing for a draw when there's a chance to win."

A murmur spread through the room.

Then—the big question.

A reporter from The Times raised his hand. "Leicester have shown they can compete with the best teams in the league, but today was another late collapse. Do you feel your squad has the depth to sustain this level of performance across an entire season?"

Pearson leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped together. "I'll tell you this—we're not here to make up the numbers. The fact that we're having this discussion, that people are asking whether we should be winning these games, tells you everything about how far we've come."

He let the words settle.

Then, calmly, he added—

"We're not done yet."

The press conference ended shortly after.

.....

The cold December air was biting, the kind that nipped at exposed skin and left warm breath lingering in the air. Outside the King Power Stadium, the last few Leicester players trickled out, some heading straight for their cars, others stopping for a few lingering fans, signing autographs under the dim stadium floodlights.

Tristan adjusted the strap of his duffle bag, his boots slung over his shoulder, and made his way toward the familiar black SUV parked near the exit. His breath fogged in front of him as he walked, muscles still tense from the game, the frustration of the loss lingering despite his goal.

Barbara stood beside the car, bundled in a thick coat, her hands buried deep in her pockets. Her blue eyes found him immediately, sharp and searching, as if reading every inch of his body language.

Sophia was next to her, casually scrolling through her phone, oblivious to the cold, while John stood just behind them, arms crossed, ever-watchful as his gaze swept the parking lot.

Tristan barely had time to stop before Barbara's voice, soft yet firm, cut through the cold air.

"You're not coming with us?"

Tristan exhaled, adjusting the duffle bag on his shoulder. "Nah, got something to talk about with Steven. Won't be long, though. I'll be back for dinner."

Barbara arched an eyebrow, shifting her weight onto one foot. "Dinner? That assumes I'll wait."

Tristan let out a quiet breath of amusement, stepping in closer. His fingers brushed over the fabric of her coat before settling at her waist, a natural touch, as if drawn to her without thinking.

"You will." His voice was steady, sure, leaving no room for argument.

Barbara held his gaze for a long moment, the corners of her lips twitching slightly before she rolled her eyes, though there was no real annoyance behind it.

Sophia, who had been absorbed in her phone until now, finally looked up, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Honestly, if I had to listen to you two flirt every day, I'd start charging a fee."

Tristan didn't react, his focus still locked on Barbara, but the playful look in her eyes made it clear she was enjoying herself.

"It's cute," Barbara murmured, tilting her head slightly. "You thinking you always get what you want."

Tristan grinned—just a flicker of confidence in his eyes. "Not always."

Barbara hummed in thought, then, without warning, she reached up and tugged lightly at the front of his coat, pulling him down toward her. The movement was smooth as if they had done it a hundred times before.

Then—her lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, lingering in the cold night air, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

Tristan felt his entire body loosen, the tension from the match fading as he pressed back, deepening it slightly, his hands tightening around her waist.

Barbara pulled away first, though only barely, her forehead brushing against his. "Be nice," she murmured.

Tristan let out a quiet chuckle, his breath warm against her skin. "I'm always nice."

Barbara leaned back, giving him a pointed look. "No, you're not."

Sophia snorted from beside them, arms crossed over her chest. "She's right."

John, who had been silent the entire time, let out a low sigh, his expression unreadable. "For once, I agree with Sophia."

Tristan groaned, finally pulling back completely, hands slipping into the pockets of his coat. "Alright, alright. I get it."

Barbara was still smiling, her cheeks tinged slightly pink from the cold—or maybe from something else. She stepped back toward the car, but before getting in, she glanced over her shoulder at him, her voice light.

"Don't keep us waiting too long."

Tristan let out a slow breath, watching her. "Wouldn't dream of it."

With that, she slid into the car, Sophia following with a knowing grin.

The door shut, and the car pulled away, disappearing into the Leicester night.

Tristan stood there for a few seconds longer, exhaling through his nose as he turned back toward the stadium.

Time to meet Steven Gerrard.

.....

The stadium lights still burned bright, casting long shadows over the pavement as Tristan walked toward the entrance. The distant hum of departing fans had faded, replaced by the occasional sound of car doors slamming shut and the cold winter breeze whistling through the empty streets.

A few steps ahead, Steven Gerrard stood waiting, hands stuffed into the pockets of his tracksuit, posture relaxed but gaze steady. The quiet between them wasn't tense—it was something else.

Tristan rolled his shoulders, shaking off the lingering frustration of the loss, before stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

"Thought you'd be halfway back to Merseyside by now, old man."

Gerrard let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Old man? Kid, I was winning FA Cups while you were still figuring out how to tie your boots."

Tristan huffed a laugh. "That supposed to intimidate me? Did you forget what I did my first season?"

Gerrard raised an eyebrow, his mouth twitching slightly. "Nah. But it should remind you that I've been exactly where you are."

They started walking, their pace unhurried, footsteps echoing softly against the pavement.

"Hell of a goal tonight," Gerrard admitted after a beat.

Tristan exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable. "Would've been better if we won."

Gerrard nodded. "Yeah. But you already know that. And that's why I wanted to talk."

Tristan flicked a glance toward him, intrigued but not showing it. "Go on then."

Gerrard rubbed his hands together against the cold. "Had a few conversations this week. Some of the old lads—Neville, Rio, Kean—"

At that last name, Tristan just felt annoyed.

Gerrard smiled knowingly. "Half of them still think you're an arrogant little shit."

Tristan let out a low chuckle. "Sounds about right."

Gerrard hummed. "But they see it just like the rest of this country."

That made Tristan pause ever so slightly. "See what?"

Gerrard stopped walking, turning toward him fully, eyes sharp. "They see a generational player. They see a kid who, if he stays on the right path, could bring football home one day."

Tristan didn't respond right away.

That wasn't just praise. That was him. Steven Gerrard—a legend, a leader—telling him exactly where he stood.

Tristan ran his tongue over his teeth, considering. "And the other half?"

Gerrard exhaled, glancing up at the night sky for a moment before answering. "The other half are waiting for you to fall."

The words hung in the cold air, heavier than the ones before.

Gerrard continued, voice steady but firm. "That's the thing about this country, Tristan. We love a rising star. We love to hype them up, put 'em on a pedestal. But do you know what the English press loves even more?"

Tristan didn't need to answer.

He already knew.

"A downfall," Gerrard said simply.

A gust of wind cut through the empty street, sending a few stray leaves skittering across the pavement.

"They're waiting, lad," Gerrard continued, his gaze unwavering. "Waiting for you to get complacent. Waiting for you to believe your own hype. The moment you give them something—a scandal, a bad run of form, a single mistake—they'll tear you apart. Just ask Rooney for that, I'm sure he told you, he's a great Captain when he wants to be."

Tristan flexed his fingers inside his pockets, his jaw tightening.

"And you have it worse than every single young player in the world, other than maybe Neymar," Gerrard went on. "Both of you have the world at your feet. But there's one difference."

Tristan turned to him, waiting.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

Gerrard's gaze sharpened. "Neymar's in Brazil. He's got a whole country behind him. You? You're in England. And this country builds you up just to break you down."

Tristan exhaled slowly, nodding. "You think I don't know that?"

Gerrard tilted his head slightly. "I know you do. But knowing it and preparing for it are two different things."

Tristan let out a long breath, shifting his weight onto his back foot. "So what do you want me to do?"

Gerrard stepped beside him, his voice quiet but deliberate. "Keep doing what you're doing. But be mindful of who you are. You're not just another young player. You are the jewel of English football. The way you carry yourself? It sets the tone for everything."

Of course, Steven didn't need to spell it out for Tristan. He knew it. He felt it every time he stepped on the pitch. But hearing it from someone he admired and respected made it different in a way he hadn't quite processed before.

Gerrard let the words sit for a moment before speaking again. "And let me tell you something, lad."

Tristan flicked his eyes toward him.

"When you step onto that pitch at the Euros—there will be no debate. No Kean, no Carragher, no Scholes. Just you."

Tristan inhaled, his chest rising and falling a little slower now.

Gerrard saw it.

He patted him on the back, stepping toward his car. "This time, the expectations will be different. No one was expecting anything from you at the World Cup in Brazil. But the Euros? They'll be looking at you to carry and guide the team. No one else compares to your talents and hype."

Gerrard pulled open the car door, pausing just before getting in. "And I think you can do it."

Tristan finally turned to him fully, his expression unreadable. "Yeah?"

Gerrard nodded, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Just don't prove me wrong. With all us oldies gone, that locker room should calm down, that's where you come."

....

4690

So some background information on this Chapter. I was talking to the Patreon readers, and I was like, should I write Tristan getting a hat trick just to fuck with Jamie Carragher?

They brought up a few good points. First, Leicester IRL lost 3-1. Second, Tristan should experience some failures where, even if he's pissed, if that team isn't good enough, it really doesn't matter how angry you are.

Third I didn't make this game long or into a 3-part Chapter because, well, everyone wanted me to just skip it and save all the important matches for the next season.

Anyway, peace. Again, if you have any questions, just ask me on Discord.