England's Greatest-Chapter 188: Europa Awakening

September 17, 2015 — 8:00 PM

Unknown Hotel, Manchester — Private Executive Suite

.

The lights inside the suite were dim, the only real glow coming from the widescreen TV mounted to the far wall.

Muted commentary filled the room — just enough to make out the names, what was happening, but not enough to distract from the real conversation brewing.

On the screen, King Power Stadium was roaring — Leicester City walking out first for pre-match training against Rosenborg for their first Europa League match of the season.

Mendes sat back on the leather sofa, one ankle resting casually on his knee, a glass of untouched scotch in his hand.

Across from him, two men in suits leaned forward slightly, their elbows resting on their knees.

One was Ferran Soriano, Manchester City's CEO — tie loosened at the collar, forehead creased slightly in thought. The other, seated beside him, was Txiki Begiristain, City's Director of Football — no tie at all, jacket shrugged off onto the armrest.

They weren't here for show. They were here for answers.

On the TV, Tristan's face flickered into focus, jogging toward the touchline, his boots glinting under the stadium lights.

"Still can't believe he slipped through," Soriano muttered, voice low.

Mendes let the corner of his mouth curve slightly — not quite a smile.

"You didn't know him yet," Mendes said simply, swirling the scotch in his glass without drinking it. "Nobody did."

Well, that wasn't quite true; Arsenal did, but sadly they were just Arsenal at the end of the day.

Begiristain shifted, drumming his fingers lightly on his knee. "We know now."

A beat passed — the TV showing Leicester players warming up in lines, Vardy and Mahrez joking around near midfield.

"You're sure he'll move?" Soriano asked, his voice low but pointed.

Mendes tilted his head slightly, the faintest suggestion of a smile on his face.

"When the time is right," he said. "Right now, he's focused on Leicester, but after this season, believe me..." Mendes nodded toward the TV, where Tristan was juggling a pass before slipping it to a teammate. "He has outgrown that team since his first season. Since that World Cup, his loyalty to the team has held him back. He won't move until he accomplishes something amazing."

The room fell into a moment of quiet — just the soft background hum of the stadium speakers filling the space.

Begiristain drummed his fingers lightly against his knee, studying the screen.

"Still young," he said. "Still raw. But already one of the best in the world."

Mendes shrugged, calm. "Talent like this isn't supposed to be polished yet. That's what makes him dangerous."

On the TV, the camera panned to Tristan again — warming up near the sideline, light on his feet.

Soriano leaned forward, picking up the remote and bumping the volume a notch as the lineups flashed across the screen.

"Kickoff's close," Soriano said, settling back.

Mendes set his untouched glass down gently on the table.

"So why don't we watch the game?" he said, voice quiet but certain, "As a reminder of the level of someone who's called the Crown Jewel of England when he just turned nineteen a season ago.

.

The broadcast crackled to life.

"Under the lights here at the King Power," said Martin Tyler, his familiar, warm voice filling the stadium and living rooms alike. "It's European nights like this that remind you — no matter how big or small the club — football's magic is alive and well."

Beside him, Alan Smith chuckled softly. "Absolutely, Martin. Leicester City, back in Europe again after their fairytale season last year — remember, quarterfinalists in the Europa League. Knocked out by Napoli, but my word, they made some noise."

The camera panned over the crowd — a wall of blue and white, scarves twirling, flags waving, voices rising in a thunderous roar.

"And tonight," Martin continued, "they start a brand-new Chapter against Rosenborg, one of Norway's proudest clubs. A tricky side, very technical — they'll fancy themselves a banana skin for Leicester if they're not careful."

Down in the tunnel, the Leicester players were lining up — boots bouncing lightly on the rubber flooring, nerves masked by wide grins and playful shoves.

Vardy stood at the front behind Morgan rocking back and forth on his heels, his face lit up with a crooked, ready-for-trouble smile.

Behind him, Mahrez tapped a ball lightly between his feet, while Tristan stood with his arms folded, listening to a joke from Danny Drinkwater and laughing under his breath.

The atmosphere around them was electric — loose, confident, but still focused. They were ready.

Meanwhile, a little further back down the opposite side of the tunnel, the Rosenborg players stood more tightly grouped — shoulders squared, expressions focused looking a little nervous.

Their manager, Kåre Ingebrigtsen, stood at the head of their pack, arms folded, face carved from stone.

Ingebrigtsen had spent all week preparing for this. He'd watched the tape — countless hours of Leicester breaking on the counter like wolves. He knew what type of player Tristan is, about Vardy's pace, and about Mahrez's craft. He studied just how good this Leicester team has been since the start of this new season.

He also knew his team couldn't match them man-for-man.

No — tonight was about control. About discipline.

Slow the game down. Frustrate them. Punish mistakes.

If Leicester got space to run, they were dead.

The camera zoomed closer on Ingebrigtsen's face — no outward emotion, but inside, a quiet fire burned.

They had a plan. Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.

Whether it would survive the first twenty minutes was another story.

Back in the Leicester line, Kasper Schmeichel clapped his gloves once, loud enough to echo down the tunnel.

"Alright, boys!" he barked. "Fast start, yeah? Smother 'em early!"

The players nodded, bumping shoulders lightly, that familiar buzz of adrenaline threading through the group.

Tristan shifted his weight onto his back foot, rolling his shoulders loose. The floor of the tunnel trembled faintly under the roar from the stands, like the whole stadium was breathing in and out.

He glanced sideways.

Kanté stood next to him, fiddling absentmindedly with the hem of his sleeve — a nervous habit he hadn't fully kicked yet. His face was calm, though. Focused.

"You ready?" Tristan asked under his breath, bumping his shoulder lightly into Kanté's.

Kanté smiled faintly, nodding. "Yes, feeling good ," he said quietly. His English was getting better every day.

Tristan smiled back, turning his eyes forward again.

He wasn't nervous. Not tonight. Not anymore. Maybe for a World Cup final but tonight he was hungry. Somewhere in the back of his mind — past the noise, the lights, the sheer buzz of it all — he was setting himself a quiet little challenge.

Three goals.

He wanted a hat-trick.

Another nudge came at his side — this time from Mahrez, flashing him a quick smile.

"Save me an assist or two, yeah?" Mahrez said lowly.

Tristan chuckled under his breath. "Only if you run faster than me."

Vardy caught part of it and leaned back, throwing a hand over his mouth dramatically.

"Oi, cover star getting cocky again!" he barked, making a few players near the front laugh harder.

The tunnel buzzed with restless energy now — a pack of wolves pacing the cage, waiting for the doors to be thrown open.

The fourth official gave the nod.

Morgan clapped loud getting everyone's attention. "LET'S GO!"

The team surged forward, jogging up the ramp into the lights, into the night.

Martin's voice rose on the broadcast, barely audible over the eruption of the crowd: "And here come Leicester City — their dreams bigger, their ambition sharper. A new season. A new hunt."

Down on the pitch, the two captains stood side by side at the center circle.

Wes Morgan, Leicester's mountain of a captain, rolled his shoulders back, towering over the much slimmer Rosenborg skipper, Mikael Dorsin.

Neither man spoke much — no real need. The tension and noise said enough.

The referee, dressed in a black UEFA kit, held out the coin between two fingers. "Call it," he said, nodding toward Dorsin first.

"Heads," Dorsin said, voice sharp.

The ref flipped the coin high into the air spinning under the floodlights — then caught it and slapped it onto the back of his hand.

"Tails," the referee announced.

Morgan cracked a tight smile, stepping forward immediately. "We'll take kick-off," he said, voice booming enough to carry over the growing crowd noise.

The referee nodded, gesturing the teams to their sides.

Morgan jogged back toward the Leicester half, clapping once above his head to get the boys' attention.

A ripple of movement followed — Leicester players peeling off into position, Rosenborg moving into their tighter, lower block setup.

.

Up in the commentary booth, Martin's voice picked back up, warm and steady as the broadcast shifted to show the starting lineups.

"Leicester to get us underway here," Martin said. "Let's take a look at how the Foxes will line up tonight."

The camera slid to the Leicester graphic on the screen:

Leicester City (4-2-3-1):

🧤 Schmeichel (GK)

🚀 De Laet (RB)

🏰 Morgan (CB) (c)

🏰 Huth (CB)

🚀 Fuchs (LB)

🛡️ Kanté (CDM)

🛡️ Drinkwater (CDM)

🏃‍♂️ Mahrez (RW)

🎯 Tristan (CAM)

🏃‍♂️ Albrighton (LW)

⚽ Vardy (ST)

"Plenty of pace and technical ability in that midfield three," Alan chimed in. "Tristan pulling the strings, of course, with Mahrez and Albrighton providing width. And Vardy leading the line with that lethal speed."

"And N'Golo Kanté there," Martin added, "one of Leicester's new arrivals this season — starting to really find his feet. This will be his first time playing in any European competitions. He has been amazing for Leicester in the last five games. Let's see how he does tonight."

The camera cut quickly to the Rosenborg graphic:

Rosenborg (4-5-1):

🧤 André Hansen (GK)

🚀 Svensson (RB)

🏰 Reginiussen (CB)

🏰 Bjørdal (CB)

🚀 Skjelvik (LB)

🛡️ Jensen (CM)

🛡️ Midtsjø (CM)

🛡️ Konradsen (CM)

🏃‍♂️ Helland (RW)

🏃‍♂️ de Lanlay (LW)

⚽ Søderlund (ST)

"Expect Rosenborg to stay compact," Alan said. "Five across the midfield. Gonna try and squeeze Leicester, slow them down. But if they give space to Tristan or Mahrez... it's going to be a very long night."

The broadcast switched to a sweeping shot of the stadium, the camera soaring over a sea of flags, scarves, and chanting fans.

"And here we go," Martin said, his voice rising slightly. "Europa League nights — there's just something about them."

Down on the pitch, Tristan adjusted his socks once, then bounced on the balls of his feet, scanning the field.

Mahrez gave him a quick nudge with his elbow.

"Start quick," Mahrez muttered, grinning. "Get your hat-trick and buy me dinner after."

Tristan huffed a laugh under his breath, focusing back on the ball.

Vardy stood over the center circle, his foot hovering just above the ball, his head tilted forward like a sprinter waiting for the gun.

The referee blew his whistle — sharp and loud.

.

Vardy tapped the ball backward to Drinkwater.

And just like that — Leicester's Europa League campaign was underway.

"And here we go!" Martin's voice soared over the roar of the stadium. "A fresh European night under the lights at the King Power — and Leicester are looking hungry already!"

The ball zipped backward into Kanté's feet.

Vardy hovered just beyond the center circle, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, feeling the vibrations in the turf under him.

He watched the play unfold — eyes flicking between Drinkwater, Kanté, Tristan, Mahrez — like he was reading the notes of a song only he could hear.

He wasn't sprinting yet.

"Early signs are good," Alan said warmly. "Leicester moving around the ball a lot — De Laet high on the right, Fuchs hugging the left touchline. They're stretching Rosenborg early."

The back four kept possession: Morgan to Huth, Huth to De Laet — De Laet back to Schmeichel under a bit of pressure. But nothing Rosenborg sent felt threatening.

Schmeichel calmly rolled it to Fuchs, and Leicester recycled again.

At the edge of Vardy's vision, he spotted Tristan dropping deep — just slipping into the pocket between Rosenborg's midfield and defense.

Vardy shifted automatically to his right.

Mahrez hugged the touchline now, forcing Rosenborg's left-back Skjelvik wide — creating a gap just waiting to be exploited.

Eight minutes in.

Vardy cut across Reginiussen's shoulder sharply, timing it — but Mahrez's low cross whistled a hair too far in front of him.

The King Power groaned collectively, the sound rising and falling like a wave.

"So close!" Martin barked. "Already, Leicester's pace and movement asking serious questions!"

Vardy jogged back, slapping his hands together once, a wolfish grin flashing across his face.

He could feel it.Like a pot starting to boil.

Mahrez, Tristan, Albrighton — weaving, spinning, dragging defenders in tiny circles. Drinkwater and Kanté snapping into second balls. De Laet overlapping dangerously down the right.

Fuchs, patient on the left, ready to swing in crosses if needed.

Every Leicester player played a part.

Every pass tightened the noose.

"You can see Rosenborg's plan," Alan said. "Banks of four, sitting deep. But you can also see how hard it is to stay compact against this movement."

Vardy watched Rosenborg's midfield — Jensen, Konradsen, Midtsjø — starting to panic.

.

Kåre stood rigid at the edge of his technical area, arms crossed.

Fifteen minutes gone.

He had told them: Stay disciplined. Stay narrow. Frustrate them.

But it was like holding a beachball underwater.

Every time Rosenborg closed one space, Tristan slipped into another.

The worst part?

Leicester weren't even going full speed yet.

They were waiting for the cracks to show.

And already he saw them forming— Søderlund, their striker, isolated.

Helland and de Lanlay pinned back. His midfielders retreating deeper and deeper. This wasn't holding the line.

This was retreat.

Vardy slid sideways, pulling his center-back with him — just a few steps, but enough to create chaos.

Kanté seized the pocket left open, stepping into it and feeding Drinkwater. Drinkwater didn't even need a touch. Straight to Tristan.

Vardy felt the shift instantly — like static building in the air.

Tristan turned on the half-space, lifting his head.

De Laet exploded forward on the right wing, a blur of blue and white.

Albrighton tucked into a narrower channel on the left.

Mahrez drifted inside — dragging Skjelvik hopelessly with him.

Rosenborg's midfield scrambled, waving their arms, trying to track Leicester's rotations.

"They can't live with this!" Martin shouted. "Everywhere you look, it's another Leicester runner!"

Vardy didn't call for it.

He didn't have to.

Tristan knew.

He always knew.

"Look at the patience! Leicester not forcing it — just probing. Waiting. Tristan — cool as you like, orchestrating like a number 10 at the peak of his powers!" Martin said calmly.

"And Rosenborg," Alan added grimly, "they're hanging by a thread already."

The ball squirted loose from a half-tackle on Kanté — bouncing high, awkward, dangerous.

A Rosenborg midfielder panicked — trying to volley it clear — but sliced it into no man's land at the top of the box.

Vardy watched, breath held — and saw Tristan adjust instantly.

He leapt — chesting the ball into his stride like it was stitched to him.

Gasps from the crowd.

"WHAT A TOUCH!" Martin roared.

One Rosenborg defender lunged — too early, too desperate.

Tristan shifted his weight, body feinting left, dragging the poor soul halfway across the pitch — then snapped back onto his left foot.

Vardy knew.

He knew before Tristan even swung through.

Time seemed to stretch — fans rising to their feet before the shot even left his boot.

A vicious, rising strike.

Left foot.Perfect technique.

Twenty-two yards out.

The ball screamed through the night — a silver bullet into the top right corner.

Goalkeeper Hansen didn't move.

The net rippled, the stadium detonated.

GOAL.

The noise was a living thing — shaking the rafters, rattling the glass in the press box.

"TRISTAN HALE!" Martin screamed. "A PIECE OF ABSOLUTE GENIUS! TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES IN — LEICESTER LEAD THROUGH THEIR PRINCE!"

Reginiussen stood frozen near the edge of the box.

He didn't move.

He couldn't move.

He had seen good players before — fast players, technical players — but this?

This was something different.

There was a precision to Tristan's movement, to the way he manipulated time and space, that made you feel small. Like a kid standing in the wrong playground.

Reginiussen swallowed hard. There were sixty-five minutes left.

And they were in deep trouble. He looked towards Mikael Dorsin for hope, but he looked just as defeated as everyone else.

.

Mendes didn't even pretend to stay calm. He slammed a hand onto the coffee table, sending his untouched scotch sloshing violently.

Soriano and Begiristain shot up out of their seats like they'd been shocked.

"Jesus Christ," Soriano muttered, running both hands through his hair.

Begiristain just stood there, mouth open slightly, watching the replay on loop.

One touch. One feint. One strike.

And the whole game changed.

"He's..." Begiristain started — then just shook his head helplessly.

Mendes leaned back, his voice smooth and almost lazy.

"I told you," he said. "Besides Ronaldo and Messi, no one else can compare to Tristan."

On the TV, Tristan sprinted to the corner flag, his teammates chasing him, his face lit up.

The net was still rippling when Vardy exploded into a full sprint.

He didn't think — instincts took over. One second he was watching Tristan's shot scream into the top corner; the next, he was tearing across the grass, boots digging hard, a manic grin splitting his face.

Vardy's heart thudded against his ribs, not from the run, but from pure adrenaline. He had seen goals. He had scored plenty himself. But this—this was something else. The chest control, the feint, the venom off the boot.

And he knew.

He knew from the second the ball bounced toward Tristan that something filthy was about to happen.

Ahead of him, Tristan peeled away toward the corner flag, arms stretched wide, grinning so hard it looked like it hurt. Mahrez was right behind, laughing, and Albrighton and Drinkwater weren't far either.

Vardy caught up first, wrapping an arm around Tristan's shoulders and jostling him roughly, the two of them half-laughing, half-shouting over the roar.

"Bloody hell!" Vardy barked, panting. "You tryin' to kill 'em already?! It's only been twenty-five!" Honestly he didn't even know what to say, each game, he just founds another way to score, each one better than the previous ones.

Tristan just laughed, breathless and bright-eyed.

More teammates piled in — a mob of blue shirts swarming him, slapping his back, messing his hair, shouting over one another. Schmeichel came running all the way from his goal, fists pumping, screaming into the noise.

On the sideline, Ranieri had both fists in the air, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like he was thirty years younger.

The Leicester bench exploded — Ben nearly knocked over a water cooler jumping up, while Shinji and Maguire crashed into each other like kids at a playground.

The King Power Stadium wasn't roaring — it was shaking.

Tens of thousands of voices slammed together into one heaving, breathless chant:

"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!"

Scarves spun madly overhead. Flares burst blue and white along the railings. Flags whipped violently in the upper tiers.

. . .

Across the pitch, Rosenborg's players barely moved.

Mikael couldn't even muster the hope to rally his team. He just felt crushed.

Helland bent down, hands on knees, staring blankly at the turf.

Kåre Ingebrigtsen, their manager, turned away sharply, hands locked behind his back, hiding the grimace tightening his face.

His plan — the careful, meticulous plan — hadn't survived even twenty-five minutes.

He wasn't even angry. There was no rage.

Just a heavy, sinking realization:

"We're playing against something we can't stop."

On the pitch, Søderlund, their isolated striker, turned and jogged back to the center circle without a word. What was there to say?

Some storms you couldn't survive.

.

Mendes leaned forward on the leather sofa, elbows resting on his knees, watching the replay flicker across the widescreen TV.

He didn't speak.

Neither did Soriano. Or Begiristain.

The suite was dead silent — except for the muted boom of the crowd coming through the speakers, and Martin's voice crackling like electricity:

"TRISTAN HALE!!"

The screen showed the slow-motion replay again — the chest control, the feint, the devastating strike. Over and over.

Soriano exhaled slowly, his cheeks puffing out.

Begiristain just ran a hand through his hair, still standing stiffly in front of the sofa like he couldn't sit down.

Mendes broke the silence first, voice quiet but loaded.

"This..." he said, nodding toward the screen, "...is why you came tonight."

Neither of the Manchester City men replied.

.

The ball zipped back and forth across Rosenborg's half again — Leicester relentless now, like sharks circling blood once the game restarted.

In the suite, Mendes watched silently, the ice in his glass melting untouched.

Suddenly, Tristan picked the ball up in the half-space — two defenders converging too late.

With a silky shift of weight, he breezed through a pocket of space and stabbed a pass into Mahrez's path.

Mahrez didn't break stride — one touch to settle, the next to bury it bottom corner.

GOAL.

The King Power erupted again — white noise and fists pumping in the stands — as Mahrez sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees.

Mendes just watched, expression unreadable, as Tristan jogged over to hug Mahrez, laughing as they got mobbed by teammates.

Two goals.

And it wasn't even halftime yet.

He leaned back into the sofa, his voice low and satisfied.

"It's going to be a long season," Mendes said. "Especially for everyone else."

He clinked the edge of his glass against the table once, like sealing a promise. Who knows? Tristan might really achieve some kind of miracle after all although he still didn't believe Leicester could win anything too major—maybe another FA cup and the EFL Cup? That would be more than enough to satisfy the Leicester fans, allowing Tristan to leave with no guilt, at least in his opinion.

And the screen cut to the celebrations — Leicester City, the rising storm — as the first half thundered toward its inevitable conclusion.

.

The second half began the same way the first ended — Leicester pinning Rosenborg inside their own half, probing, pulling, suffocating.

The crowd was still riding the high of the first two goals. Every touch, every sprint forward, was met with a wave of noise.

"And Leicester," Martin said, his voice almost reverent, "they still aren't satisfied. They want more than just two goals. They want to reintroduce themselves to the rest of Europe in proper fashion."

In the 55th minute, it came again.

Mahrez — dancing along the right touchline — skipped past one defender, then another. He didn't even look up. He already knew.

He whipped a low, wicked cross to the top of the box — Tristan ghosted in between Rosenborg's crumbling defensive line, timing it perfectly.

One touch to control.

Second touch — side-footed into the far corner, clean, clinical, inevitable.

"TRISTAN AGAIN!!" Martin shouted over the din. "Mahrez the architect — Tristan the executioner!"

The stadium shook.

Ingebrigtsen on the sidelines dropped his hands helplessly. There was no more plan to fix this.

It was a mauling.

On the next attack, Leicester struck again.

Tristan — now playing like he had magnets in his boots — picked off a Rosenborg clearance near midfield, spun into space, and threaded a through ball between two defenders like threading a needle.

Vardy saw it first.

He burst through the gap, arms pumping like pistons, outpacing both center-backs by miles. One touch to steady, then lashed a ruthless finish across the keeper and into the bottom corner.

"FOUR!" Alan crowed. "Vardy gets in on the act — it's now 4-0."

The King Power Stadium was bouncing now — literally bouncing. Fans leapt and roared and slammed their feet against the concrete.

The chants came back, louder this time:

"LEICESTER! LEICESTER! LEICESTER!"

There was no let-up.

Late into stoppage time — 90+2 minutes — Leicester completed the rout.

Albrighton — tireless all game — burst down the left flank and curled a dangerous ball across the face of goal.

Mahrez arrived late at the back post, ghosting past a tired fullback, and stabbed it home with his weaker foot.

5–0.

Total annihilation.

The referee's whistle blew not long after — mercifully for Rosenborg — and the Leicester players flooded the pitch, hugging, laughing, dragging each other toward the fans.

Martin's voice rose one last time over the noise:

"And there it is! Full-time at the King Power Stadium! Leicester City 5 — Rosenborg 0! A European statement if we've ever seen one!"

Alan chuckled. "Absolute dominance, Martin. Tristan Hale — two goals and two assists. Riyad Mahrez — two goals and one assist. Jamie Vardy with a goal to cap it off. And Marc Albrighton chipping in with an assist too.

It's early, but this Leicester team... they're dangerous. If teams in the Europa League thought they already knew about Leicester, boy, are they going to have to reevaluate after tonight.

The broadcast camera panned over the pitch — blue shirts celebrating, arms around each other's shoulders — and the King Power shining like a beacon against the night.

. . .

Back in the suite in Manchester, Mendes didn't say a word.

He leaned forward — slow, almost ceremonious — and pressed the power button on the remote.

The TV flickered off.

Silence filled the room.

Soriano leaned back into the sofa, exhaling lowly.

Begiristain rubbed his forehead like he was trying to process what he'd just seen.

Mendes stood up, straightening his jacket calmly.

"That," Mendes said quietly, "was just the first night."

He tucked his hands casually into his pockets and walked to the door without another glance.

The two City men sat frozen — still picturing the chaos Leicester had unleashed. Still picturing Tristan, lifting the King Power into madness with every touch.

In the darkness of the suite, with the TV screen now black, one thing was certain:

Anyone who gets Tristan gets the next decade of football dominance.

.

4375 word count

I can't lie; halfway through the game, I just lost all motivation to write about the game. It's fucking Rosenberg; I don't even know where that is.

Anyway, I hope you guys like this.

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