England's Greatest-Chapter 178: Rising Spurs 2 (End)

The Leicester dressing room was alive.

Boots scuffed tile. A few jerseys were peeled halfway off.

Mahrez sat beside Kanté, face taut now, not smiling anymore. He muttered something in French — likely about Dier's deeper positioning or the spacing out wide. Kanté, still pacing lightly in front of his bench spot, gave a short nod.

Across the room, Albrighton leaned forward, elbows on knees, wiping sweat off his forehead with the bottom of his kit. Simpson sat with a towel over his neck, breathing hard through his nose like he hadn't quite recovered from that last Lamela burst.

Tristan was near the center, sitting backward on a folding chair, shirt off, sweat glistening on his back as Vardy passed him a bottle of water.

"One more of those and we win this," Vardy said, his voice low.

Tristan didn't turn. "Then give me an assist for once. Let me end the game."

Fuchs chuckled from the side, shaking his head. "If you two pass to anyone else this half, I'll buy the whole team lunch."

"Deal," Vardy said, already nodding.

The door opened. Ranieri stepped in.

He just walked to the whiteboard — uncapped a marker — and circled two names with a sharp stroke:

#11 Lamela

#15 Dier

Then he drew two arrows. One wide. One inward.

"They've changed," he said simply, voice low, "Dier sits on Tristan. Lamela tucks in and lets Walker overlap."

He turned, looked at Mahrez. "They're baiting you. Forcing you to press deeper, so Walker gets space behind. Don't chase. Hold your line. Let Simpson deal with the overlap — and shout early if he gets doubled."

Mahrez nodded once.

Ranieri moved the marker again.

He circled Kanté, then drew a wide arc around the middle of the board. "You are the shield. Don't follow Kane when he drops. Huth or Morgan will step. You stay central."

Kanté, still standing, nodded as Mahrez translated for him.

Next, Ranieri looked at Albrighton.

"You're staying on. But be alert. If they pin Mahrez again, I'll bring on Schlupp to stretch the left. That's minute sixty."

"Got it," Albrighton said quickly.

"Vardy," Ranieri said, pointing the marker at him like a sword. "You keep running that channel. But if Dier steps high, you drift. Let Tristan pass wide and cut back in."

"Understood," Vardy said.

Then, the final name.

Tristan.

Ranieri circled it.

"You're bait. Make Dier follow. Drag him. Wear him. Pull him out of shape — and when he's tired, break him."

"I will." Tristan simply replied back. He was feeling pretty good, so there was no plan to waste any support cards.

Ranieri nodded once.

Then capped the marker. "No subs yet. But the moment they switch again — we strike first. Control tempo. Feed the wings. Kill them with pace."

Meanwhile, opposite of them, that Spurs locker room was quiet.

Mauricio Pochettino didn't speak right away. He didn't need to. The air inside the dressing room was already taut with frustration — like someone had coiled a wire too tight and dared it to snap.

Kane tossed his wrist tape onto the floor. He hadn't said a word since coming off the pitch. That assist from Tristan? That celebration from Vardy? It lit a fire in him.

Eric Dier dropped onto the bench, breathing heavily. "He's slippery," he muttered. "Tristan. Keeps drifting into that no-man's land."

Vertonghen nodded. "You go tight, he spins you. You stand off, he picks the pass. Feels like we're always late."

Walker was leaned back, eyes closed, sweat still trickling down his temple. "We're not compact enough. One gap, and he feeds Vardy again."

Across the room, Lamela ripped off his shirt and threw it into his kit bag. "Should've cut him down earlier," he snapped. "Letting him turn in midfield like that? Amateur."

Pochettino stepped forward then, finally speaking. "No. What Tristan and Vardy did was no one's fault. We couldn't have stopped that goal."

He walked to the board, quick strokes of the marker forming new lines. He drew Tristan's name first. Then two arrows: one from Dier, one from Lamela.

"Double. Always. Dier presses from behind. Lamela cuts the passing lane."

He turned. "But no diving in. You give him one touch? He makes two. You give him two? He's gone."

He looked at Kane now. "You want more of the ball? You come deeper. Make Morgan move. Pull Huth with you. And we hit that space they leave behind."

Kane nodded, finally breaking his silence. "Just give me one clean delivery. I'll bury it."

Pochettino's voice hardened. "You already have. Now bury the game."

Eriksen stood and cracked his neck, eyes flashing toward Lamela. "We time the overloads. Rose and Walker go together. We move as one. We don't get caught again."

Dier slammed his boots against the floor. "Let's make sure they don't walk off laughing again."

..

Leicester came out first.

Vardy was leading, bouncing on his toes, arms twitching like a boxer at the bell. Mahrez walked beside him. Behind them, Fuchs slapped his gloves once, and Kanté jogged in place, always moving. Albrighton tapped the back of Tristan's boot — just once — then peeled off down the tunnel curve.

Tristan?

He walked calmly. A little slower than the rest. Shirt tugged down. Crown logo catching the lights. Dier was waiting across the line.

And Tristan saw him. "Yo, go easy on me man," Tristan said as a joke, but he didn't get a response from Dier. Fine if you wanna play that, Tristan thought to himself already planning on embarrassing Dier.

Behind them, Spurs began to file out. Kane at the front, tapping his shin pads with both thumbs. Somewhere above it all, Drury's voice cut in "And so, they return.."

The two teams lined up again.

The whistle hadn't blown yet — but King Power already felt like it had.

The crowd rose again.

And then — Martin Atkinson raised the whistle to his lips.

And blew.

Second half just started.

..

Leicester kicked off.

And right away, Tristan dropped deep to collect.

Dier followed — tighter than before. Shoulder to shoulder. Breathing down his neck.

But Tristan didn't flinch. He pivoted left, shielded the ball with his hip, and rolled it to Drinkwater in one fluid motion.

Drury's voice returned as the second half found its rhythm.

"It's Leicester again on the front foot. And once more, Tristan — the conductor of chaos — is looking to test the limits."

By the 47th, he tried it.

Ball on the half-volley, twenty-five yards out.

No hesitation.

He let it fly.

A missile — knuckled, dipping late — but Lloris saw it all the way and parried wide.

Crowd roared anyway!

"TRISTAN" echoed around King Power. novelbuddy.cσ๓

Beglin muttered, "He's got that green light, Peter. No one's telling him not to pull the trigger."

By the 51st, he tried again — a curling effort from distance after Mahrez cut inside and squared it. Tristan struck it first time, outside of the boot, trying to bend it into the top right corner.

It flew over. Not by much.

Still — the stadium buzzed.

Even Ranieri applauded from the sideline.

Spurs weren't idle, though.

By the 53rd, they had one of their own. Eriksen slid a pass into Kane, who held it up just long enough for Chadli to overlap — and Chadli ripped a low shot across goal that forced Schmeichel into a sharp save.

Both ends were trading punches.

By 57', Fuchs overlapped and fired in a cross that Vardy nearly flicked goalward. At the other end, Lamela danced into the box and tried a cheeky chip — blocked by Huth's forehead.

It was football at full tilt.

The crowd was living every heartbeat.

From the Leicester end, the volume rose with rhythm:

"Leicester till I die!"

"Everywhere we go — it's the boys in blue and white!"

"Foxes! Foxes! Foxes!"

And when Tristan's shot cracked the crossbar, they surged again:

"Oh when the Foxes — go marching in..."

Drury was breathless.

"It is open now. Wild. You'd think we were chasing a late equalizer — not five minutes into the second half."

By 60', Tristan had another go.

This time, from a ridiculous angle near the left channel — maybe 30 yards out.

He struck it flush.

The dip was there.

The bend was there.

But the crossbar said no.

Clanged.

Lloris didn't move.

The whole stadium winced in unison.

Beglin snapped, "That's the kind of hit you dream about. A fraction lower, and they'd still be finding netting in the car park."

The camera caught Tristan exhaling, hands on hips.

Tristan smiled a little, shaking his head.

"Keep pressing, boys!" Ranieri shouted from the sideline. "Let them tire!"

But Pochettino was already moving.

At 63', he barked toward his bench. "Chadli, off. Alli, warm."

At the same time, Ranieri turned to Benetti. "Give Schlupp ten minutes to run at Walker. We need to stretch."

The fourth official was already at the board.

Drury caught it first.

"And now the chessboard changes again. Fresh legs. New danger. And still — no one's blinked."

64th Minute: Substitutions

Leicester City: 🔁 Albrighton OFF, Schlupp ON

Tottenham Hotspur: 🔁 Chadli OFF, Dele Alli ON

King Power roared as Schlupp sprinted onto the pitch — boots laced like he'd been waiting all game.

The noise was building again.

Momentum teetered.

Something was coming.

Something had to give.

It came out of nowhere.

The 80th minute had no rhythm. Just noise. Just a blur of second balls and tackles and shouted instructions from both benches. Neither side had settled. The match was hanging by a thread — not tactical, not clean — just chaos.

And in that chaos... Spurs swung.

Rose launched a hopeful ball toward the edge of the box — not a cross, not a shot, just something desperate and in between.

Huth stepped. So did Kane. The ball bounced.

It clipped Drinkwater's back?

Then pinged sideways off Vertonghen's thigh, ricocheted into the air, and dropped like a dying bird straight into the six-yard box.

And Dele Alli, who had tripped seconds earlier and was still trying to get up — the ball hit his shin.

Then his knee.

Then trickled... trickled... into the corner of the net.

Silence.

No one moved.

Not even Alli.

He blinked. Looked down. Then looked up.

The net was still rippling.

The referee pointed to the center circle.

And the away end detonated.

Drury was stunned.

"Oh, what is that? That is the ugliest goal of the season — and maybe the most important!"

Beglin broke in, half-laughing.

"That's not technique, that's a bar fight in a phone booth!"

Alli stood up, arms out — half-shrugging, half-celebrating.

Vardy yelled at the ref. "That came off his hand!"

The replay said no.

Tristan, hands on his knees, watched the replay on the big screen as boos rolled like thunder.

"Fucking hell, what is this bullshit." Tristan couldn't help but laugh watching the replay.

Kanté had both palms up. "That's not a goal, man!"

But it was.

Ranieri turned back to his bench.

"Get Ulloa ready," he said through gritted teeth.

The scoreboard read:

LEICESTER 1 — 2 SPURS

And now, King Power wasn't stunned — it was furious.

Fans launched chants instantly:

"HOW DID YOU SCORE THAT?!"

"DELE, DELE, FALLING OVER!"

"IT'S A FLUKE! IT'S A FLUKE!"

Drury brought the mood back down.

"And in the ugliest way possible... Tottenham have the lead."

"Now it's up to Leicester — again — to find the poetry in a game gone stupid."

Ranieri slapped the bench.

"God damn it, Schlupp, get ready now — now!"

The board went up.

🔁 Mahrez OFF

🔁 Ulloa ON

The King Power crowd roared its approval as the switch was made.

"Leicester are going for it now. Ulloa on. Tristan goes wider. Schlupp deeper. There's no subtlety left in this. They're throwing fists."

Drury nodded. "And sometimes, Jim... fists are all that remain."

..

By the 85th minute, Spurs were no longer pressing — they were holding on.

Spurs weren't pressing anymore — they were hanging on.

Kane stood alone up top, hands on his hips. Alli hovered between zones. Dier was barking instructions, and Vertonghen was gesturing wildly, trying to close holes faster than they were opening.

The ball?

The ball belonged to Leicester.

It began with Fuchs — again.

He stepped onto a half-cleared cross that trickled toward the left touchline. One touch to settle.

One pass into Drinkwater. The pattern began.

Fuchs. Drinkwater. Schlupp.

Spurs chased shadows but could never get the ball.

The crowd, sensing the moment began to clap — slow at first. Then faster.

Schlupp clipped a pass inside. Vardy jumped for it — contested by Alderweireld — and lost the header, but the second ball bounced loose near the edge of the box.

Kanté.

He exploded forward, snapped onto the ball like it owed him rent, then spun into space and laid it short into Tristan's path.

Drury's voice rose with the volume.

"And here's Kanté, ghosting between the wreckage... Tristan now... Tristan again... on the edge of everything."

Tristan didn't look rushed. He let the ball roll across his right foot — once, twice — then pinged it left to Schlupp, who was already galloping up the wing.

Schlupp surged.

A heavy touch.

A defender forced wide.

Then the cutback.

It came low and fast.

Vardy let it bounce off his chest, drawing Dier with him.

He cushioned it back, one touch.

And there, in a pocket of sudden silence—

The ball rolled.

To Tristan.

Just outside the box. Right at the top.

"Eighty-eighth minute... and Tristan Hale stands where miracles are made."

"He's done it before — from Britannia to Wembley, from Arsenal in the Cup to Europe's elite, to United undone by his brilliance."

"He is Leicester's miracle man — the boy who became a banner."

"And now, with his kingdom holding its breath... can he conjure magic again?" Drury said in one breath watching as Tristan took control of the ball in one smooth motion.

Tristan's foot met the ball like it had been waiting for him.

Right boot. Smooth. Calm.

His eyes scanned.

Dier. Vertonghen.

Walker sliding across. Rose dropping.

Lloris shifting left.

No time. No space.

But space wasn't real to him. Not this season.

Slow them down, Tristan told himself. Then take everything.

He dragged the ball left with the sole of his boot — slow, teasing, like a matador waiting for the charge.

Dier lunged in — too eager, too direct.

And Tristan?

He shifted his weight onto his back foot, dipped his right shoulder like he was going to cut back...

Then didn't.

Instead, he rolled his body around the ball in a half-moon arc — dragging it behind him with the outside of his boot as he pivoted on his plant leg.

Dier slid straight past, arms stretched, left chasing shadows.

"TRISTAN! THAT'S ONE!" Beglin shouted, already half-standing.

Drury followed instantly, his voice filled with wonder.

"A drop of the shoulder, a hint of misdirection — and Dier is gone. Gone! All that remains is Vertonghen!" Drury's voice cracked with awe.

Vertonghen stepped up — legs spread, arms slightly out, posture tense like a soldier guarding the final gate.

He wasn't diving in. He was waiting.

Reading.

But Tristan didn't hesitate.

He slowed for a half-second — then, with a feathered touch, rolled the ball forward with his instep. A lull. A tease.

Vertonghen took the bait. Shifted his weight to block the right.

That was the cue.

Tristan dropped his hip, chopped his ankle, and sliced the ball across his own body with the outside of his right foot — so sharply it spun like a thrown coin.

Gone.

Vertonghen's balance broke. His left leg stumbled. His arm reached out — too late.

"TWO! HE'S THROUGH!" Beglin roared, his voice almost disbelieving.

Now came the box.

And with it — the cavalry.

Walker charged in from the right. Boots stomping. Hands clenched. A slide incoming.

But Tristan saw it early.

He lifted the ball — not with a trick, not with flair — but with just enough angle to skip the tackle.

The studded lunge missed. Grass tore. Walker was gone too.

"MY GOD, HE'S DANCING THROUGH THEM!" Beglin cried.

Now the angle was collapsing.

Fast.

Near post.

Too tight.

"He can't..." Beglin murmured, almost breathless.

But Tristan could.

He opened his hips — not for show, not to draw the keeper.

To end it.

Left foot.

No backlift. No pause. Just a strike born from Tristan's own instinct and the template of Fernando Torres.

The ball left his foot like it had somewhere important to be.

It curled — not wide, not high, but just enough to arc around Lloris' glove.

And as it flew, Drury found his line — the one he'd been holding in his chest since Tristan touched the ball.

"And now — with his kingdom holding its breath — Tristan Hale delivers once again! When Leciester needs him, he answers! That's who he is!"

The shot kissed the inside of the post like a royal seal.

The net rippled — stretched — exploded.

GOAL.

2–2.

The King Power exploded.

The chant wasn't just noise — it was a war cry.

"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"

"HE'S OUR KING!"

"YOU'RE JUST A SOFT LONDON CLUB!"

"NO POINTS HERE, SPURS!"

"ENGLAND'S BEST! ENGLAND'S BEST!"

From the South Stand came the next volley:

"TELL ME MA, ME MA..."

"I WON'T BE HOME FOR TEA..."

"WE'VE JUST SEEN HALE SCORE AGAIN..."

"AND MADE SPURS LOOK SUNDAY LEAGUE!"

Flags waved. Seats rattled. Kids on shoulders screamed his name.

And from the corner closest to the away end:

"TRISTAN — TOO GOOD FOR YOU!"

"TRISTAN — TOO GOOD FOR YOU!"

Ranieri? He held both hands to his head, then started laughing. Laughing like a man who'd just seen the impossible — again.

On the opposite side?

Pochettino was crouched down, both hands resting on his forehead.

He didn't speak. What could he even say to that?

They made all the preparations but that wasn't enough for the good.

Vertonghen stood frozen near the spot where it all happened. Walker kicked the air. Kane dragged his hand down his face.

But Tristan?

He sprinted.

Straight to the corner flag.

Then stopped.

He turned back to the crowd, lifted both arms to the sky — then dropped into a slow, elegant bow.

When he rose, he stretched out his arms wide open, taking deep breaths as that crowd started shouting his name again.

Beglin was gasping. "He's written his name into another Chapter, Peter. You don't stop him. You just try not to be on the footage."

And with that, the scoreboard blinked:

LEICESTER CITY 2 — 2 TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR

88th minute. Miracle. Delivered.

The board went up: +3 added minutes.

Spurs tried once more — one last ball into the void.

But fate had already spoken.

The Crown Jewel had written the final word.

LEICESTER CITY 2 — 2 TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR

..

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