Chapter 162: Last Game of 2014-2015

May 24, 2015 – King Power Stadium

Leicester City vs. QPR – Final Day of the Premier League Season

 ..

The fourth official raised the board.

Number 22 lit up in red.

Sixtieth minute.

Tristan jogged toward the sideline, sweat glistening on his neck. The crowd was already on its feet. The noise built slowly — not a cheer, not a chant — but a full, rolling ovation.

“Listen to that,” Martin Tyler said over the rising roar. “That’s for a nineteen-year-old who’s taken this league by storm.”

“And deservedly so,” Alan Smith added. “What a season he’s had. Twenty-four goals, twenty-six assists in the league alone. That’s a title-winning stat line, and Leicester are finishing sixth.”

Tristan slapped hands with Andy King as the midfielder ran onto the pitch.

Pearson was waiting at the touchline.

Tristan stepped into the hug, no hesitation.

“Well done,” Pearson said, voice low but filled with pride. “All season. Not just today.”

Tristan nodded. “Appreciate it, thank you.”

He turned toward the bench, soaking in the crowd’s roar.

“It’s hard to even put into context,” Martin continued, the weight of his words landing. “This time last year, Tristan Hale was just breaking into the Championship. Now he’s Golden Boy, Puskás winner, World XI midfielder, and so many other personal awards this season I can’t even name them all.”

“Incredible,” Alan added. “And that’s just the start. At only nineteen, he’s broken records all over the Premier League. Most assists in a single season. Most goal contributions. A debut season that rivals anyone’s peak.”

“He’s only getting started,” Martin said. “We are possibly looking at a player who can rival the likes of Pelé, Maradona, Messi, and Ronaldo. He’s already shaping up to be one of the greatest this game has seen just by this year alone.”

Lingard, standing on the sideline, gave Tristan a handshake as he passed.

“Done showing off yet?” He teased.

Tristan grabbed a bottle from the cooler, his voice quiet. “Not yet.”

He sank onto the bench, towel draped around his neck, eyes still on the pitch. His breathing was steady. Focused.

“That’s the moment every player dreams of, isn’t it?” Alan said. “Sixty minutes in, two-nil up, the crowd on their feet, and you’ve got your entire career ahead of you. The whole stadium singing your name.”

Martin added, “in the stands, Barbara Palvin watching on, along with Tristan’s parents, Julia and Ling Hale. This is the moment they’ve all been waiting for.”

The camera cut to the crowd to the three named.

Tristan glanced toward them.

Just for a second.

Then, back to the pitch.

“Leicester finished sixth. Out in the Europa League quarterfinals to Napoli. But what a season it’s been for the club,” Martin continued. “I remember the days when fans and pundits were begging Tristan to leave for a bigger club. But here we are, with Jamie Vardy, Riyad Mahrez, Danny Drinkwater, Ulloa, and now Lingard joining in — this squad is packed with talent.”

“And the biggest talent in the world is sitting on the bench right now,” Alan added. “Tristan Hale. A season that’ll be talked about for years.”

The crowd kept clapping, the noise still echoing in the stadium.

And Tristan just sat there — towel in hand, watching the game. There was a lot on his mind, but for now he enjoyed the season’s end. Everyone in the club was tired.

..

The whistle blew.

Full-time.

Leicester 2 – QPR 0.

The noise inside the King Power hit a new gear — fans rising once more, scarves in the air, the last match of the season signed off with style.

Vardy had scored the opener, sprinting past his man and slotting it low into the corner. Mahrez curled in the second, left foot, just outside the box.

Tristan stood from the bench, unscrewed the cap off his bottle, and took a slow sip.

Then he stepped onto the pitch.

Vardy was the first to reach him, already grinning.

“Mate,” he said, pulling Tristan into a hug. “Sixth place. You believe that?”

“Almost,” Tristan said. “Still feels weird.”

Vardy slapped his shoulder once before jogging over to clap the fans.

Mahrez came next, arm slung casually over Tristan’s neck for a second. “You owe me one for that assist stat.”

“I gave you five,” Tristan said.

“Exactly,” Mahrez laughed before jogging away.

Tristan turned, exchanging handshakes with Drinkwater, then Ulloa, then Lingard—who pulled him into a quick side hug before saying, “Now you’re finally off my back for top training ground nutmegs.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “For now.”

The QPR players began walking over. Shirts damp, heads bowed slightly — but still respectful.

Joey Barton gave Tristan a firm handshake and a nod. “Hell of a season, kid.”

“Appreciate it,” Tristan said. “You too.”

Bobby Zamora came next. “You made half of us look retired out there.”

“Don’t say that,” Tristan chuckled. “You guys had your moments.”

“Yeah,” Zamora grinned. “Moments of chasing shadows.”

They laughed. Then Clint Hill stepped up, gripping Tristan’s shoulder with a fatherly weight.

“Don’t lose that edge,” he said. “You’re already the best young midfielder I’ve seen in this league.”

Tristan blinked. “Thank you. Seriously.”

More handshakes followed as the QPR players went back to their locker rooms whilst the Leicester players stayed to thank the fans.

They moved as one toward the center circle, then out toward the stands — clapping in unison. Vardy pointed toward the South Stand, both arms raised. Mahrez flung his shirt into the crowd. Drinkwater led the line toward the East End, where the drum still pounded out a slow rhythm. Lingard jogged over to a group of kids waving homemade banners.

Tristan followed, towel still around his neck. He clapped slowly, deliberately — turning toward each side of the stadium.

Barbara was watching from the box seats, her hands over her heart. Julia and Ling stood beside her, clapping as proudly as any parent could.

A few minutes passed like that — just noise and warmth and appreciation.

Then Tristan turned back toward the bench.

He made a gesture. A quiet word to one of the staff.

They came running and handed him a microphone.

The noise dipped as soon as the stadium cameras zoomed in on him.

“Hi, everyone,” Tristan said, his voice steady but low.

The stadium dipped into silence, waiting for Tristan to continue; that’s the kind of respect Tristan had from the fans.

He took a slow breath before continuing.

“I know we don’t usually do this,” he said, scanning the packed stands. “And I didn’t plan it. But…”

He shifted his weight. Blinked once. His green eyes glinted under the floodlights.

“I just wanted to say something in front of all the fans here instead of some media room.”

Around him, the players gave him space. No one moved. They all talked about this. Letting him have his moment.

“I came up through this club,” Tristan continued. “Since I was six.”

He looked toward the East Stand — the section where he used to sit with his mum. His face softened.

“My family’s been here for generations. My mum. Her mum. Her mum before that. All Foxes.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he stared at his parents.

“So when I got called up for my debut in the FA Cup… I can’t even describe that feeling.”

He looked down for half a second, swallowing. When he looked back up, his voice was warmer.

“I played. I scored. And…”

He let the moment hang.

“I haven’t really stopped since.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd .

“Then came the FA Cup final. Against Arsenal. We won.”

A wave of applause rose, unprompted.

“Then the World Cup in Brazil. And now... here we are.”

He exhaled slowly, his chest rising. The mic trembled ever so slightly in his hand — just for a second.

“I’ve broken records people thought would never be touched. Most assists. Most contributions. All in one season.”

Somewhere behind him, Mahrez gave a slow clap. Lingard nudged Drinkwater with a smirk.

“But I didn’t do any of it alone,” Tristan said. “It was this team that players, our coaches, and staff members. And all of you.”

He swept his gaze across the stadium. The cameras followed. Thousands of fans — wide-eyed, motionless.

“And yeah… I’m sure everyone here has since my debut been dealing with me in the headlines every week.” Tristan said chuckling as the crowd broke into full-blown laughter.

“The headlines. The rumours. That I’d leave. That this club’s too small. That I’m spoiled. That I’m arrogant.”

He shrugged, a half smile on his face now — one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’ve still got a lot to learn.But you all… you never stopped backing me.”

Tristan’s expression shifted — harde, serious as he could be.

“So here’s my promise.”

He raised the mic slightly, straightening his posture.

“I’m not leaving.”

The stadium was dead silent again.

“Not until every player in this club — every one of us — accomplishes something historic. Something unforgettable.”

He turned slightly, eyes flicking to each stand — like he wanted every section to hear him directly.

“I promise you that.”

Then he lowered the mic.

The crowd held the silence for a heartbeat longer — just one beat — and then the King Power exploded.

Flags waved. Fans jumped to their feet. Chanting broke out in every direction.

The noise hadn't died down. If anything, it had gotten louder.

Tristan stood there, the mic still in hand, eyes sweeping the crowd. Then he turned before handing Morgan that mic.

Wes turned to the crowd, adjusting the mic in his hand.

“Alright,” he said, his voice rough but clear. “I won’t take long. Don’t worry.”

That earned a warm ripple of laughter.

“I just wanted to say… this group, this club, this year — it’s been something special.”

He paused, looking back at the players behind him.

“We’ve had our doubters. We’ve had our moments. But what we built this season? That came from heart. From grit. From every lad who gave everything, every week.”

The crowd started clapping again, steady and slow.

Wes lifted a hand slightly, still speaking.

“We’ve got a young squad. We’ve got belief. And with number twenty-two here leading the charge…” — he looked toward Tristan — “you can bet we’re not done.”

The crowd roared again.

Wes smiled. Just for a second.

“So from all of us — thank you. For the support. For sticking with us. And for letting us dream a little bigger every year.”

He lifted the mic toward the crowd like a toast.

“We’ll see you next season.”

…

I felt like ending this chapter here was perfect even though it would be a short 2k chapter. 

Now everyone wanted me to do a timeskip, so here it is. So the next few chapters, maybe around 4 chapters, will be me ending everything for this season, all that stats, trophies, records, and the system as well. 

I will go into more depth next chapter about what happened during that season. I’m just going to wrap everything out nicely for this season and plan for next season, as I think it’s the most important season. So expect me to take a short break as well to give me some time to rest too.

Thank you