Chapter 177: Rising Spurs 1

August 22, 2015 - King Power Stadium

Tunnel – 12:27 PM

Boots echoed against the concrete. Studs scraped and clacked — some light, some heavy — all following a rhythm that only footballers knew. Bibs were tossed. Shirts pulled tight. Armbands fixed in place. You could smell it now: the deep heat, the stitched leather, the freshly watered pitch just beyond the tunnel.

Thirty-five thousand waited.

Tristan stood near the front of the Leicester line, bouncing once on his toes. His curls were tied back, his breath steady. The crown on his boots caught a flash of light every time he shifted. Every limb felt warm. Not jittery — just humming with the kind of anticipation that only came before the best kind of storm.

Across from him, Harry Kane knelt slightly, stretching out one calf, then the other. Shin pads tight. Expression tighter. Spurs’ white kit looked like it had just been ironed onto him. Kane didn’t move like a man with nerves. He moved like a man on deadline.

He looked up.

“Nice interview,” he said casually. “You going for Vogue Player of the Season now?”

Tristan blinked once, then cracked a soft smile. “I’ll settle for Player of the Month. Beating you today would help.”

Kane’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but didn’t want to make it obvious. “You and Barbara… my girlfriend cried watching it. Said you officially ruined men for the rest of the year.”

Tristan huffed a short breath. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

“I won’t. She’s using it to negotiate furniture.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “You losing?”

“I’m already outnumbered.”

Kane looked away, shook out his arms once, and exhaled hard. Truthfully, he admired Tristan. He had exploded into the league with the force of a comet and hasn’t stopped since. But he wanted to be better; he wanted to see if he could stop the comet today.

“You better not score today,” Tristan said lightly.

“You either,” Kane muttered. “But good luck, mate.”

“Yeah,” Tristan replied. “You too.” 

Tristan really liked Harry Kane, he was one of the few English players with no scandals, dude just loved his wife. And he respected a man like that. Not to mention Kane would be his future partner in England once Vardy quits the national team. So since last season, he made sure they were on decent terms. He did not want to deal with another locker room like in the World Cup.

Behind them, the rhythm broke.

“Oi, look at these two,” Vardy said, voice just loud enough to travel. “Should we give ‘em a minute or bring flowers?”

Tristan turned slightly, one eyebrow raised.

Mahrez was standing with his arms crossed, giving Vardy a side-eye. “They’ve been like this since last season we played them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they wore matching boots under the socks.”

“We’re calling it now,” Vardy added. “Tunnel wedding by Christmas.”

“You’d miss the ceremony,” Tristan said over his shoulder. “Same way you miss open goals.”

Vardy put a hand to his chest. “Wow. He’s come back with spice.”

“Soft spice,” Mahrez muttered. “But then again, he’s British.”

Near the back of the line, Kante stood stiff as a coat rack, eyes bouncing between the tunnel cameras and the massive Spurs lineup. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, pulling and re-pulling it like it had wronged him.

Mahrez glanced back. “You okay, N’Golo?”

Kante nodded too quickly. “Just… this is a lot of people.”

“It’s football,” Mahrez said flatly. “Not jury duty. Relax.”

Kante swallowed, exhaled, then gave a tiny, nervous nod.

In the middle of the Spurs line, Eric Dier leaned toward Kane. “You know Hale’s dog is trending, right?”

“What?”

“The dog. Biscuit. She’s got merch now. There’s a t-shirt.”

Kane blinked slowly. “I’m playing against a lad whose dog is more famous than half our squad.”

Beside him, Hugo Lloris muttered under his breath, “Only in England.”

Camera crews passed again, the boom mic dipping overhead. The Premier League anthem now rang louder, echoing off the walls.

At the front, the fourth official gave the signal.

Wes Morgan cracked his neck once, looked down the line, and said, “Alright, lads. Let’s walk.”

The tunnel shifted — bodies leaning forward. One collective exhale. Mascots looked up like someone had hit “go” on their dream.

The players stepped out — boots hitting turf.

And King Power roared.

..

The King Power exploded in rhythm, 35,000 strong. Banners whipped above the tunnel. The ground beneath their feet almost shook with the weight of it. Leicester were on a run. And they smelled blood.

Just behind the mascots, Tristan stepped onto the turf and looked up.

Wall of blue. Flags. Then the chants began.

“WHAT DO WE THINK OF SPURS?”

“SHIT!”

“WHAT DO WE THINK OF SHIT?”

“SPURS!”

“THANK YOU!”

“THAT’S ALRIGHT!”

Vardy grinned beside him. “God, I love this place.”

Across the pitch, the Tottenham players kept their heads down. Most of them had heard it before. But it never felt warm.

“YOU’RE JUST A SOFT LONDON CLUB!”

“HARRY KANE, HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN—OH WAIT!”

“CUP WINNERS! YOU’LL NEVER SING THAT!”

The cameras caught everything — chants, flags, faces painted with foxes, kids screaming at their heroes. One Leicester fan had a cardboard sign that read:
“VARDY > KANE.”

Above the pitch, the voices of Peter Drury and Jim Beglin came through, not over the noise — with it. Like part of the weather.

"From the heart of the East Midlands," Drury began, his tone rich and reverent, "to the screens of millions… this is the King Power Stadium. Where once there were dreams, now there are expectations."

He paused just long enough for the roar of the crowd to carry. "Leicester City against Tottenham Hotspur — a fixture everyone skipped… now center stage."

Next to him, Beglin added, “And Spurs aren’t just walking into a stadium, Peter — they’re walking into a verdict. This place has made up its mind before the ball’s even touches the grass.”

Two of England’s best — one already a brand, the other still chasing shadows.

Drury’s voice picked up again. “It’s Kane’s silence versus Tristan’s storm..”

As the teams lined up across the halfway line, the crowd let it fly:

“WHAT DO WE THINK OF SPURS?”

“SHIT!”

Drury chuckled softly on the feed, like someone narrating a riot with a glass of red wine in hand. “The old chant still rings — crude, yes, but it carries truth… at least in the eyes of the Foxes faithful.”

Beglin jumped in, “It’s not just noise anymore. It’s identity. Leicester used to be the club that hoped. Now they expect. And they expect to win — even against the best.”

Mascots fidgeted at the players’ sides. One little lad holding Vardy’s hand was mouthing the chant with wide eyes.

Across the pitch, a massive banner unfurled behind the goal. Biscuit’s face. Tongue out. Crown perched. Beneath it:
"BELIEVE IN BISCUIT. BELIEVE IN MIRACLES."

Drury caught it right away. “And even the club dog’s a symbol now. When a Maltipoo’s leading your charge, you either laugh… or you lose.”

Beglin let out a small laugh. “Spurs better hope she’s not barking orders.”

The camera panned back catching a slow zoom on Kane and Tristan side by side.

“They respect each other,” Drury said. “You can see it. But make no mistake — they’d both love nothing more than to ruin the other’s day.”

The whistle was coming.

You could feel it in the stands, in the stretch of every leg, in the way Vardy tapped his own chest twice and muttered something under his breath.

“From fairytale to firestorm,” Drury murmured. “This is not the Leicester of yesterday. This is a club with its teeth out.”

The chants still echoed as the camera panned out toward the center circle. Blue smoke curled behind the goal. Mascots were starting to drift off the pitch, guided by match officials.

Drury’s voice returned, just above the sound of stamping feet.

“Let’s take a look at how the two teams are lining up today…”

The screen shifted to a sleek graphic — the Leicester City crest gleaming on the left. Names clicked into place like chess pieces. A familiar shape. Familiar names. But nothing about this felt ordinary.

“Leicester, as expected, in a 4-4-2,” Drury said, his tone crisp with reverence. “But make no mistake — this isn’t your grandfather’s 4-4-2. It’s fluid. Clever. It bends without breaking.”

The formation locked in:

Leicester City (4-4-2)
GK: Schmeichel
RB: Simpson
CB: Morgan (C)
CB: Huth
LB: Fuchs
RM: Mahrez
CM: Drinkwater
CM: Kanté
LM: Albrighton
CF: Vardy
CF: Tristan Hale

Beglin chimed in, “And just look at where Tristan’s sitting. That’s no standard strike partnership. He’s playing high — but not too high. Drifting into those half-spaces, just behind Vardy. It’s closer to a 4-4-1-1 or even a 4-2-3-1 at times.”

Drury added, “He’s the ghost between the lines. The pass before the pass. The runner who isn’t marked until it’s too late. And in this stadium, on this form — he feels inevitable.”

Then the screen pivoted.

Spurs’ crest clicked into view on the right. A white glow outlining the players’ names. 

Tottenham Hotspur (4-2-3-1)
GK: Lloris (C)
RB: Walker
CB: Alderweireld
CB: Vertonghen
LB: Rose
CDM: Dembélé
CDM: Bentaleb
RM: Lamela
CAM: Eriksen
LM: Chadli
ST: Kane

Beglin whistled quietly. “It’s brave from Pochettino. Two midfielders tasked with holding shape against Leicester’s running chaos? That’s a test. And Chadli’s going to have to do more defending than he’s used to if Mahrez gets going.”

Drury’s voice slowed, drawing focus again.

“This is football in a mirror. One team disrupts — the other dictates. One trusts the press, the other trusts the space behind it. One plays with a sword. The other plays with a scalpel.”

The screen faded back to the pitch. The referee raised his whistle.

The crowd swelled once more — that wall of sound surging from every corner of King Power.

Drury’s voice dropped into a hush.

“And so we begin....”

The screen returned to the pitch. The formations faded from the broadcast, replaced now by wide-angle shots of the center circle — Vardy and Tristan standing over the ball, waiting. Kane and Eriksen lingered nearby, eyes narrowed.

The referee walked over, coin in hand.

It flipped once. Then again. Landed flat in his palm.

He showed the face to Wes Morgan — who nodded once.

Leicester to kick off. Toward the South Stand.

Mahrez jogged back into position. Simpson clapped once toward the bench. Schmeichel adjusted his gloves in the distance, then beat his chest twice.

Vardy looked to Tristan. “Ready?”

Tristan just nodded, rolling his shoulders once. “Let’s start fast.”

Across the line, Vertonghen and Alderweireld shifted their weight like men bracing for wind. They knew what Leicester were like in the first five minutes. They’d seen it last season. They’d lived it.

Referee Martin Atkinson raised his arm.

The crowd inhaled.

Then came the shriek of the whistle.

And it began.

Vardy nudged the ball sideways.

Tristan took the first touch.

And Leicester exploded.

Tristan’s first touch was clean. Not flashy. Just calm. Left foot. A single heartbeat’s pause — then bang.

He fired it diagonally, hard and low, right into the path of Mahrez on the right. The crowd erupted like someone had flipped a switch.

“COME ON YOU FOXES!”

Rose stumbled a step, caught off guard by the speed. Mahrez didn’t stop. Took it in stride, first time, cut back, cut again — then whipped in a low cross. Vardy came flying.

Slide. Studs. Inches away.

Blocked by Alderweireld, but it rattled him.

Beglin’s voice snapped in. “They’re not easing in today, Peter. Leicester has come to hunt. And when we know what happens when Leicester starts off a game gunning for violence.”

The rebound came out to Drinkwater, who let fly from thirty yards — a rising ball that stung gloves.

Lloris caught it clean, but barely. Drury’s voice soared. “The storm has teeth. And it’s already biting.”

.. 

2000 word count 

Way shorter than normal, I know, but I have to go an airport to pick up one of my cousins, so that's going to be 5 hours of my life wasted.

Apologize for it but I still think the chapter is good 

I think I end this match next chapter but we shall see,