Ghosts in Red

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Full-Time – King Power Stadium

🎵 "OLE, OLE, OLE, OLE — LEI-CES-TER!" 🎵

🎵 "YOU'RE GETTING SACKED IN THE MORNING!" 🎵

🎵 "LOUIS, YOU'RE GETTING SACKED IN THE MORNING!" 🎵

The whistle cracked like thunder. Then the wave hit

The crowd erupted. Fans screamed, hugged, cried. Shirts were off. Beer was in the air. It was pure, electric mayhem.

But on the pitch?

Stillness.

Manchester United's players dropped.

Fellaini collapsed backward onto the grass, chest heaving like a man who'd just run up a mountain in a thunderstorm. Smalling slumped to his knees. Lingard laid flat, one arm thrown over his eyes. De Gea stayed seated, legs folded under him, just staring, no one kew what he was thinking.

Rooney stood still, arms locked at his sides, chest heaving like a furnace.

The camera panned to him — sweat glistening, the face of disappointment after coming so close. 

Then: footsteps.

Tristan.

He walked toward Rooney, ignoring the chaos around him. 

"You're ridiculous," Rooney muttered, giving Tristan a light punch on his right shoulder, breathing hard. "Do you know that?"

Tristan smiled. "You say that every time."

"Yeah, and every time you somehow top it."

Rooney shook his head. "Nutmegs. Panenka. That assist? Jesus, Tristan."

The younger man shrugged. "Anthony started this whole fire, you know. We were planning to take it easy and after scoring the goal, we would have been fine with a draw too."

"Mate, you should've warned me before kickoff." Rooney exhaled, already making a mental note to have words with Anthony — the kind of words you say when someone pokes the wrong animal.

He clapped Tristan's back, pulled him in close. "Don't lose this form."

"I won't."

They separated, and Tristan made a line for De Gea, who still hadn't stood.

"Hey." He crouched beside him. "You were unreal today."

De Gea looked up. Blinking. "Didn't feel like it."

"That one-on-one save in the 54th? And the one off Vardy's volley? Man, you kept this from being six."

The keeper sighed. "Not enough."

Tristan held out a hand. "You were class. Don't let this one bury your head. You were amazing."

They shook. De Gea nodded once. "Thanks."

Elsewhere, Fuchs was getting mobbed by fans near the corner flag. Mahrez was exchanging shirts with Memphis. Maguire was still yelling instructions out of sheer adrenaline. And Kanté — soaked, muddy, radiant — jogged over to embrace Ranieri.

On the touchline, the two managers met.

Ranieri — arms behind his back, tie half-loosened, face unreadable.

Van Gaal — pale, tense, eyes flickering with a thousand thoughts.

They shook hands. 

Not a single word exchanged between them.

Smith caught it from the booth. "Say what you will about Van Gaal — but tonight he brought his side to fight. They just came up against something bigger."

The camera caught a slow pan of the pitch.

Schmeichel applauding the fans. Drinkwater kneeling near the center circle. JJ and Simon screaming into a camera phone in the stands.

Barbara? She had her scarf pressed to her mouth smiling. She just watched her boyfriend tear down one of the biggest clubs in England. Again.

🎵 "TRISTAN'S ON FIRE!" 🎵

The chant rang louder than ever.

Tristan jogged back to the center circle where Vardy and Mahrez waited. Huth appeared from nowhere and slapped him on the back.

"Three lungs, you have," he muttered.

Tristan grinned. "I wish, I got no stamina no left, mate."

Mahrez threw an arm around his shoulder. "Next time just shoot, yeah? Don't panenka. My heart nearly stopped."

Vardy laughed. "No chance. That's going viral tonight."

Tristan turned, finally taking it in. The noise. The lights. The feeling.

He lifted both arms to the South Stand.

A wall of noise hit him back.

Then: the scoreboard.

Leicester City 4 – 2 Manchester United

Smith's voice wrapped it up.

"Two goals. One assist. One penalty won. A hundred defensive meters tracked. And a panenka to cap it off. That's the Tristan Hale statline tonight. But the truth is — his impact doesn't fit in numbers."

Martin added, "No. It fits in moments. And this one — this game — this second half — will live in Leicester hearts forever."

The players began making their way toward the tunnel. Some swapped shirts. Some just limped. The battle was over at last.

Near the dugout, JJ had both arms in the air like he'd won the Champions League himself. Simon was still filming, narrating every second for the vlog with wild disbelief in his voice.

"This is mental. Actually mental. Tristan Hale's a glitch. There's no other explanation."

Beside them, Tobi stayed seated. He finally muttered, "I can't even be mad."

JJ turned, still breathless. "You better not be. You just got front-row seats to the Tristan show."\

…

Tristan trudged toward the tunnel, every step heavier than the last. Mud on his socks. Scratch down his shin. Drenched in sweat. All he wanted was a cold shower, ten minutes of silence, and kissing Barbara before falling into a coma.

And then—

"Tristan! You've got the interview!"

He blinked.

"Interview?"

A staff member appeared out of nowhere, headset on, clipboard in hand, eyes already rolling.

"Man of the Match. Go back right now."

Tristan nearly groaned. "Do I have to?"

"You won the game," he said flatly. "Yes. You have to."

Before he could protest, two staff members were already guiding him toward the stadium again.

Behind him, laughter echoed.

Tristan kept walking, muttering, "I hate all of you."

He trudged back toward the pitch, footsteps heavy, eyes low. The cheers were still echoing, but to him, they'd already started fading. The adrenaline was gone now. All that was left was a soreness in his legs and the pounding reminder in his skull that he needed some damn food.

A Sky Sports producer waved him toward the interview board — one of those branded walls plastered with logos, propped up near the touchline. It looked like it had been assembled in two minutes.

Tristan stood just shy of the touchline — one boot sunk into the turf, the other barely holding its place. His kit was drenched, clinging to him in patches. Wet curls stuck to his forehead. The mic wire clipped to his collar twitched with every breath, one awkward shrug away from tearing clean off.

Beside him, David Jones kept that smooth, studio smile — the kind that never cracked, no matter the weather.

"Tristan," he began, "Man of the Match again. Two goals, two assists, drew the penalty — that's a monster shift. How do you even begin to sum that up?"

Tristan exhaled, slow. His voice came out soft, half-lost in the noise still rolling from the stands.

"I'm tired," he said, shaking his head. "Honestly? Exhausted."

David laughed lightly. "Well, it looked like you covered every blade of grass out there."

Tristan gave a nod, eyes still on the pitch. "Think I borrowed a few from the United half, too."

That pulled a chuckle from the crew just off-camera.

David kept things moving. "Take us back to the start — Martial puts United ahead early. What's going through your head right then?"

Tristan glanced toward the crowd, where the chants still echoed. He took a beat before answering.

"He celebrated," Tristan said, like that explained everything. "And look, I've got no problem with that. He's a baller. Nice finish. But I saw the celebration and just thought… alright. That's how we're doing this."

David raised an eyebrow. "You mean the—?"

"My celebration," Tristan said, smirking now. "At my own ground, yeah. Look, I usually love it when someone hits my celly — it's flattering. But the way Anthony did it tonight? All the flexing? Felt like he thought he'd just wrapped the whole season."

David chuckled, tilting his head. "And your response was… Cristiano Ronaldo's celebration?"

Tristan gave a half-smile. "Yeah. That one felt right."

David leaned in slightly. "You planned that?"

Tristan laughed.

 "I mean—kinda. At first, I thought about doing Anthony's celebration. Thought I'd throw his own one back at him."

"Anthony has a celebration?" David asked, raising a eyebrow.

Tristan looked at the camera with mock confusion.

 "Exactly. I stood there like… wait a sec. I don't think the kid even has one."

Laughter rippled from the crew behind the camera.

"Didn't want to do some shrug or knee slide," Tristan continued. "Went with something cheeky. Ronaldo's iconic. Big moment. Big game. Bit of fun. And hey—maybe Cristiano's watching. Maybe he smiled."

David grinned. "Well, you certainly caught everyone's attention."

He flipped his notepad. "Let's talk about that assist to Mahrez. The flick. Some are already calling it a Goal of the Season contender. Did you mean it?"

Tristan nodded.

 "Yeah. Saw Mahrez ghosting in. Smalling was over-committed, Blind got dragged up—so I had that window. It looked risky, but I saw it in my head before I played it."

David's eyebrows rose. "You visualised it?"

Tristan shrugged, smiling.

 "It's weird. Some passes—you don't think. You just play. But that one? I knew where it had to go. And Mahrez, man… he did the rest. Sent two people to the wrong postcode."

David laughed. "Were you sure he'd finish it?"

Tristan's eyes lit up. "I was hoping. Then he pulled off the nutmeg, and I thought—he's gonna walk this into the net."

"And the penalty," David added. "Eighty-something minutes, match still alive… and you go for a Panenka. What were you thinking?"

Tristan chuckled again. "Honestly? I knew I had him. I've watched a lot of De Gea footage, he commits early. Soon as I saw the lean, I waited that extra second… then dink."

David shook his head, laughing. "Cold."

"You say cold," Tristan said. "But in my head I was praying he didn't just stand there."

"No nerves at all?" David asked.

"Oh, there were nerves," Tristan admitted. "You just don't let them see it. Besides, most pens I've taken—I go middle. It's fun. It's cruel. But when it works? You feel untouchable for like ten seconds."

David paused a beat, then leaned in slightly, shifting his tone.

"You had a word with De Gea after full-time. Mind sharing what you said?"

Tristan gave a short nod. "Told him he was brilliant. Because he was. A couple saves — one from Vardy, one from me — I was already peeling away. Thought they were in. But he got there. Any other keeper? That's five or six goals, easy."

David tilted his head, studying him. "And Rooney?"

Tristan's expression softened — something closer to fondness now.

"He's my guy. We've got that bond. Since I first got called into England camp, he's looked out for me. Mentored me. Always been the guy, you know? And he still has it — that edge. The way he drove them in the second half? People don't realise how rare that is at his age, that kind of presence. And Lingard too — he gave us problems. Slipping into the half-spaces, dragging people around. Fair play to both of them. They made us earn every inch."

David let that sit for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully.

"This is the third time you've done this to Manchester United… does it feel different now?"

Tristan glanced toward the South Stand, still throbbing with chants, flags still waving like it was stoppage time.

"A bit," he said. "The first time? That was all adrenaline. I just wanted to impress a girl I liked. And thank God it worked." A quick grin. "Tonight… this felt like work. Big opponent, sure, but it was just a job. We stayed focused. Played our football."

David flipped a page on his clipboard, smiling. "Let's run the numbers: two goals, two assists, one penalty won. Nine recoveries. Six dribbles. Eight chances created. What goes through your head hearing that?"

Tristan laughed, full-bodied this time. "Mostly? I want a nap."

Laughter broke from the crew just off-camera.

"No but seriously — that statline's not just me. I don't pull that off without Mahrez being Mahrez. Without Vardy making his runs. And N'Golo — mate, I swear he's cloned. I blink and he's covering two zones at once. Never seen anything like him."

David nodded, visibly impressed. "Do you get a moment to enjoy it? Or is it straight into prep for the next one?"

Tristan rubbed the back of his neck, his voice quieter now.

"I'll probably rewatch a few clips with Barbara," he said. "She'll make me. She loves that stuff. And yeah — it's always special seeing the fans buzzing. But I don't celebrate off one match. We've got a long season ahead. We haven't won anything yet."

David extended a hand, warm and sure. "Well said. Congratulations, Tristan. Another masterclass."

Tristan shook it firmly. "Cheers. Now please let me go shower."

The camera pulled back just as the South Stand found its voice again.

🎵 "TRISTAN'S ON FIRE!" 🎵

🎵 "YOU SHOULD BE TERRIFIED!" 🎵

Behind the hoardings, fans pushed forward — phones out, scarves flying. One sailed over the railing. Tristan caught it without even looking.

Then he turned.

Down the tunnel.

Into the dressing room.

One more night.

One more masterpiece.

.

Later That Day 

The house was quiet when Barbara unlocked the door.

No cheers. No clatter. No muddy boots in the hallway. Just the sleepy shuffle of paws as Biscuit trotted over, tail wagging in lazy little arcs, blinking up at her like she'd been gone for ten years instead of two hours.

"Hi, little one," she whispered, crouching to scoop her up.

The Maltipoo melted against her chest with a contented sigh, tail thumping gently against her ribs.

Barbara set her down and dropped her bag by the door. Her toes curled against the cool floorboards. The lights were already low — soft, amber, just the way Tristan liked them when he got back late. She could picture him already: sore, half-dead, starving, pretending not to be proud of himself.

He'd be home soon. After the interviews. After the handshakes and highlight reels.

So she got everything ready.

Blanket. Tea. A clean sock, folded into a makeshift ice pack, just in case. Biscuit climbed onto the sofa and curled at one end like a tiny lion guarding a kingdom. On the screen, she queued up their latest episode. Naruto. Episode 48 — the Rock Lee fight. Tristan's favorite fight of the entire show.

Twenty minutes later, the door clicked open.

Barbara didn't turn. Just said, without looking, "Shoes off."

A groan followed. "I can't feel my legs," Tristan mumbled. "You're asking a lot."

"You've got two goals, two assists, and a panenka in your pocket," she said, still facing the screen. "You can manage a pair of sneakers."

Behind her, something thudded — one boot off. A muffled curse. Then the second.

He shuffled into the room, hair damp, hoodie half-on like a defeated towel, socks squishing faintly with each step. He moved like someone who'd been tackled by gravity itself.

Barbara lifted the edge of the blanket. "Get in."

He didn't need a second invitation. He collapsed onto the couch, landing in her lap like a felled tree, face mashed against her thigh.

"I'm never running again," he mumbled kissing her thigh.

"That's what you said last week."

"I meant it last week too."

She laughed, tucking the blanket over him. Biscuit wriggled closer and plopped herself on his chest like it was her designated throne.

On-screen, Rock Lee dropped the weights.

Tristan cracked one eye. "Oh… this one."

Barbara nodded. "It's your fight."

He smiled sleepily. "That's me. Pure ankle weights. All heart."

"You also cried at the end."

"Because he should've won."

His voice trailed off. A beat later, his eyes slipped shut. Gone.

Out cold.

She looked down at him.

"Where'd they get you?" she whispered, brushing a curl from his forehead.

He raised a limp hand, pointed vaguely toward his shin, and let it fall again.

Barbara gently lifted the blanket. The scrape wasn't bad — maybe a graze from a late Fellaini challenge. She picked up the sock from the table, folded it small, and pressed it lightly to the spot.

Tristan flinched, then relaxed.

"You're a saint," he murmured.

"I know."

She leaned down and kissed his temple. He didn't stir.

"…don't let me fall asleep."

"You're already asleep."

"I mean don't let me pass out."

"That is sleep."

"…shut up."

Barbara giggled under her breath. The moment swelled in her chest — this soft, strange peace. 

Then Rock Lee fell.

Barbara paused the show on a still frame: Lee, battered and bloodied, unconscious but upright on pure muscle memory.

She glanced at Tristan.

Yeah. Too on the nose.

With a crooked smile, she picked up the remote and changed the channel.

She loved watching people lose their minds over him.

Her boyfriend. Her love.

So naturally she switched the channel to…

Sky Sports. 

A digital banner scrolled across the bottom

LEICESTER CITY 4–2 MANCHESTER UNITED: ANOTHER TRISTAN HALE MASTERCLASS

The camera panned across the Sky Sports panel.

Thierry Henry was already shaking his head — not out of disapproval, but like a man seconds from bursting out laughing at a funeral.

 Next to him, Jamie Carragher had his lips pressed together so tightly it looked like he might chew through them. His shoulders kept twitching — the kind of twitch you get when you're trying really hard not to laugh on live TV.

On the opposite end of the desk, the mood couldn't have been colder.

Paul Scholes sat like someone had just told him his childhood dog had been sold to Leicester's midfield. 

And Roy Keane?

 He looked like the kind of man who'd been forced at gunpoint to watch Tristan's highlight reel in 4K, twice.

At the center, Kelly Cates offered a smile so tight you could've bottled the tension and sold it as an energy drink.

"Well," she said calmly, "where do we even start?"

Carragher leaned in first, that grin already stretching across his face like it had been waiting since kickoff.

"We start with Tristan Hale. That kid's a menace. An actual problem. United got sautéed, braised, pan-fried — whatever you want. Cooked again. That's three times now: 7–1, 5–3, and 4–2. At this point, I'd stop calling it a rivalry and start calling it a tradition."

He threw a quick glance toward Scholes. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

Scholes just exhaled sharply through his nose, like someone had just handed him the match ball as a prank. "We made it easy for him."

Henry gave a soft chuckle, raising a brow. "Easy? That?" He pointed toward the replay looping behind them. "Two goals. Two assists. A Panenka. And that flick to Mahrez?" He clapped once, slow. "That wasn't football. That was theatre. That was… cruel."

Carragher burst out laughing. "He sent Smalling to the car park for a sausage roll."

Henry nodded, deadpan. "Blind's still gone missing. I checked Google Maps. He's currently in rural Belgium."

Even Kelly cracked a smile.

Keane hadn't moved. Still staring dead ahead, arms folded, looking like the Sky Sports logo had personally offended him.

Kelly turned to him with visible hesitation. "Roy?"

Keane didn't blink. "You don't let a kid do that to you. I don't care if he's the second coming of Cruyff or Gandalf in boots. Someone's got to do something. Press him. Kick him. Close him down. Anything."

Carragher raised an eyebrow, grinning. "So… you do want someone to take him out."

Keane turned his head slightly. "I want someone to defend, Jamie. Not stand around like they're waiting for a miracle."

Henry leaned back, arms folded, enjoying every second. "He's twenty, Roy. He's barely old enough to rent a car. What were you doing at twenty?"

Keane shrugged. "Winning titles."

Carragher leaned over the desk, both hands up like a ref breaking up a fight. "There it is."

Henry nodded. "Mic drop."

Barbara smiled faintly from the couch, knees pulled up to her chest. Biscuit stirred in her lap, let out a sleepy sigh, then flopped over dramatically like she, too, had played 90 minutes. On screen, the studio cut to highlights.

First: Vardy's goal — a flash of white boots, a darting run behind the line, and Tristan's pass dissecting the defense like a surgeon on a caffeine rush.

Then Tristan's goal — a drop of the shoulder, Smalling on ice skates, and a thunderous finish near post. And the celebration… oh, the celebration.

Next came the flick. The assist. The one they'd be talking about in pubs for years — that filthy little backheel to Mahrez that sent two defenders into retirement.

And finally — the Panenka. The dagger.

Carragher threw both hands in the air. "It's a crime scene, that's what it is. This wasn't a football match, it was a live televised dissection."

Henry leaned forward, eyes on the screen. "Vardy's goal — classic. Direct, ruthless. But it's the second one that kills you. Tristan turns, dribbles past two, and smashes it in like he's playing FIFA with sliders on."

"Then he hits the Ronaldo celly," Carragher said, pointing. "In front of the South Stand! Arms wide, chin up. It's like he knew Martial was watching from halfway. That's theatre. That's drama."

"And that flick," Henry said, almost breathless. "Look at it. Just… look at it. He doesn't even glance. One touch. Mahrez runs onto it like they're sharing a brain. It's just amazing to watch. He's doing things I thought were impossible." 

Scholes groaned. "Smalling looked like he was on rollerblades."

"And Blind?" Keane muttered. "Blind was doing his taxes."

Carragher laughed. "And then, just when you think he's done, he steps up for the pen. Game's still alive. And what does he do?"

He jabbed a finger at the replay.

"This. This absolute lunatic chips De Gea. A Panenka. In front of the home end. That's not football. That's bullying."

Thierry was already laughing. "And De Gea guessed right!"

Scholes looked up. "Still couldn't stop it."

Carragher wheezed. "That's the kind of penalty you only take if you've got ice in your veins… or absolutely nothing in your brain. But I'm not surprised. By now we know — Tristan doesn't fear pressure. Any kind."

Roy Keane leaned back, jaw tight. "I'd have clattered him the next time he touched the ball."

"Oh come off it," Carragher grinned. "He'd already won by then. We were all just witnesses."

Barbara, curled under the blanket, took a sip of her lukewarm tea and smiled. On the couch, Biscuit's tiny head rose, twitched once at the sound of Carragher yelling, then dropped back to sleep. Tristan's sock still hung off the armrest like a war medal.

The studio cut back to the desk.

Kelly gave the camera a look. "This wasn't just a good match. According to early reports, this is now the most-watched Premier League game this seasonr. And sixth in UK history, and the numbers are still climbing."

Carragher let out a long whistle. "And this wasn't a final! This was December. Mid-season! What does that tell you?"

Henry leaned in. "It tells you Tristan's a draw. The world stops when that boy's on the pitch."

"More than that," Kelly added. "He's the headline. He's what people tune in for. He's box office."

Roy Keane crossed his arms tighter than a winter scarf. "Someone's got to stop him. It's not magic. It's football. You can't just let him run the show. Press him. Double him. Foul him if you have to."

Carragher smirked. "You can put three, five bodies on him — doesn't matter. By now we know that doesn't work either."

Keane's eyes narrowed into slits.

Scholes finally sighed. "He's not just playing well. He's dictating everything. That second goal? He made the decision two touches before he even got the ball."

Henry nodded. "And he never rushes. That's the scary part. It all looks so easy. But it's not."

Carragher chuckled. "And you saw the interview after the match. Calm. Poised. Praised De Gea. Praised Rooney. Didn't even try to act humble about the celebration. Said he thought about copying Martial but 'realised the kid doesn't have one.'"

Thierry laughed hard. "That was cold."

"Colder than the Panenka," Carragher added.

Barbara turned the volume down slightly, just to let the voices drift. The clip of Tristan's SIU was replaying again in slow motion.

Kelly leaned forward, serious now. "What do you think it means — for United?"

Carragher snorted. "It means the rebuild isn't done. You can't go toe to toe with Leicester's midfield and expect a free ride. Kante was everywhere. Drinkwater was biting ankles. And Tristan? Hale just made them look silly."

Henry looked thoughtful. "But I'll say this — Rooney tried. Lingard too. They had fire. But they came up against something bigger."

Keane grunted. "They came up against someone bigger."

Kelly nodded slowly. "Final thoughts, then?"

Carragher leaned back. "Tristan Hale. Most entertaining player on the planet right now. No debate."

Thierry folded his arms, nodding. "And he's twenty. Still learning. Still growing."

Scholes muttered, "He's already too good."

Roy Keane tapped the desk once. "If I was still playing, I'd break his legs."

Silence.

"…Kidding," he added, flat as toast.

Carragher snorted. "Are you, though?"

Barbara turned the volume all the way down.

On-screen, they kept going — clips rolling, opinions flying. Still dissecting every pass, every run, every shrug and flick and shoulder drop. The stadium buzz still echoed faintly through the TV. She watched them lose their minds, watched professionals trip over themselves trying to put into words what Tristan had done.

But she didn't need to.

She already knew.

.

The TV was still running.

Muted now. Just images and looping replays. Tristan's Panenka. The Ronaldo celebration. The flick to Mahrez — played for the twentieth time. Sky Sports was running out of adjectives.

Barbara didn't mind. She sipped what was left of her tea, now ice cold, and watched Tristan's expression on the slow-motion zoom. That same face. Steady. Calm. Focused.

He looked like he was jogging through a dream. The pundits were still flailing with their takes, but Barbara had stopped listening fifteen minutes ago.

Her eyes drifted to the side table.

Tristan's sock was still hanging off the armrest like a flag after battle. Biscuit was curled against her thigh, snoring softly. And her phone—

She picked it up. Muted. Obviously.

176 unread messages

42 missed calls

Twitter: +99 notifications (for the fifth time in a row)

Barbara blinked. Then sighed.

"If this is the professional reaction," she murmured, setting the phone back down without even unlocking it, "I don't even want to know what Twitter looks like right now."

She looked over at Tristan. Dead asleep. Mouth slightly open.

Of course, he passed out before the clips even hit the timeline.

She gave a small shake of her head.

Then, almost on cue—

Meanwhile on Twitter…

@TehStorm: I'm not joking. I just broke up with my girlfriend because of this STUPID ASS GAME. FUCK TRISTAN HALE AND FUCK LEICESTER CITY. WHO EVEN LIVES THERE?!

↪ ️@Bretano: I live in Canada but if Tristan asked me to move to Leciester and marry him right now I would do it, lol. . i'd change my name to jadey hale. i'd convert to whatever.

↪ @Ethan Brown: nah coz tristan hale just ended a relationship he wasn't even in

@Jellyfish Roger: tristan hale isn't a footballer he's a glitch. man just activated FIFA street mode mid-match. It's crazy watching him play. One second he's all calm, just cruising around next second he's out dribbling past seven players.

↪ @Uriel Cantu: someone press L2 + triangle. smalling's still buffering.

@Hediy: tristan hale didn't panenka de gea. he spiritually humbled him. I honestly feel so bad for the United players.

↪ @Tita: my nan turned off the telly when he did it. said "that's rude" and left the room.

↪ ️@GodzofAxe: de gea dived for that panenka like he was trying to escape his contract. Honestly though feel bad for him, without him the score would have been 10-2. Saved so many goals, no one should blame the loss on him.

↪@Sin_12: Imagine getting cooked, dinked, and disrespected on prime time TV then you still gotta line up and shake hands. couldn't be me.

@BleacherReport (Pinned Tweet):

📊 Tristan Hale vs Manchester United (again):

– 2 Goals

– 2 Assists

– 1 Panenka

– 1 Ronaldo celly

– 9 Recoveries

– 6 Dribbles

– 3 Souls Collected

– 0 Apologies

🔥 "We are witnessing the next GOAT ." 🔥

More tweets flooded in.

 – Someone made a fake petition to rename Old Trafford to "Hale's House of Pain."

– A United fan filmed himself throwing his TV into a bin.

– Another posted a photo of a burned shirt with the caption: "This is what you wanted, Anthony."

Back on the couch, Barbara scrolled slowly, her thumb tracing lazy circles.

The hashtags were trending globally now:

#TristanHale

#Panenka

#Tristan's SIU

She exhaled. Put the phone down.

The TV showed him again — that frozen frame of him, arms out, South Stand exploding behind him.

It looked staged. Like cinema.

But it wasn't.

It was just Tristan.

. 

Dressing Room – Post-Match

The door slammed so hard the wall shuddered.

No one moved.

The bang echoed like a gunshot, then died into silence — the kind that wrapped around your throat.

Only the low hum of the vents remained. And beyond the walls, faint but cutting, came the Leicester fans.

🎵 "You're getting sacked in the morning!" 🎵

🎵 "Tristan's on fire!" 🎵

The voices slipped through the concrete like smoke.

The door shut behind Rooney like a verdict.

No one looked up.

The room was heavy with the kind of silence you couldn't speak into. Not even if you wanted to. The air felt thick — like the walls themselves were embarrassed.

Rooney took two steps forward, slow and deliberate, as if noise might break whatever fragile spell was holding the dressing room together.

De Gea sat hunched over, elbows on knees, still wearing his gloves. Still in full kit. Still staring at the floor like it had betrayed him. He hadn't moved since full-time. He looked like he was trying to rewind the entire game with sheer concentration. Trying to make the Panenka go away.

Fellaini was slumped against the lockers, eyes closed, sweat soaking through his shirt like water through paper. His boot was still on. One shinpad lay beside him on the tiles like it had given up.

Smalling crouched in the far corner, shirt off, hands laced behind his head. His whole body sagged like the game had physically caved his spine in. Every time Rooney looked at him, he looked smaller.

Martial had his shirt pulled over his face, arms braced on his knees. Only his eyes showed. Wide. Distant. Haunted. He wasn't blinking much. Just sitting there, still trapped inside that moment — the celebration. His celebration. Used against him. In front of the South Stand. In front of the whole damn world.

Schneiderlin stood with his back to the room, hands pressed against the tile wall like he was bracing for an earthquake. His head hung between his arms. Praying? Apologizing? Rooney didn't ask. He didn't have the energy.

Lingard sat hunched on the floor, untying his boots one slow loop at a time. He kept forgetting which lace he'd already done. He'd get halfway through, then stop. Look down. Start again.

The air was so still it felt like time had stopped moving.

Rooney glanced around, counting bodies. Counting heads. Something itched in the back of his mind.

Then it hit.

Where the hell is Van Gaal?

The thought wasn't angry — not yet. Just cold. It felt like waking up and realizing the driver's left the wheel. This wasn't a dressing room. It was a wreckage site. And the man steering the ship had disappeared.

Walked off the pitch like it wasn't his problem.

Rooney looked down at his own hands. Still shaking a little. He hadn't even taken his boots off. His kit clung to him like punishment. 

Rooney closed his eyes for half a second.

He glanced around the room again — at the quiet, the devastation, the silence. Someone needed to say something.

And as always, it was going to be him. 

Rooney took one step forward, then another. The rubber soles of his boots screeched against the tile.

No one dared meet his eyes.

Then—

"YOU THINK THIS IS NORMAL?!"

The walls seemed to lurch.

Schneiderlin jumped like he'd been tasered. Lingard froze, mid-lace, fingers twitching. Smalling raised his head like he'd heard his name in a nightmare. Martial's shoulders jolted, and he yanked his shirt down like it might shield him.

Rooney marched forward like he was ready to throw hands with gravity itself.

"We just got EMBARRASSED. Again. 4–2. By LEICESTER. Leicester City! Bloody hell!"

He spun, eyes blazing.

"A club that didn't even EXIST to us five years ago! And now they've HUMILIATED us. Three times. On live TV. And you—"

He pointed a shaking finger. First target.

"You."

 Fellaini.

"You came on to do a job. Was the job 'stand still and take up air'? You clattered Mahrez twice, then let him drag you around like a dog on a string. You looked like a fucking training cone."**

Fellaini didn't move. He didn't blink. Just let it hit.

Rooney turned.

"Chris."

Smalling looked up. His shirt was soaked. His hands still locked behind his head like he'd been arrested by the result.

"That second goal. You let Tristan walk through you. Didn't foul. Didn't press. Didn't even breathe. You froze like someone hit pause on your controller. He dropped a shoulder and turned you into Ikea furniture."

Smalling's mouth opened — just a twitch.

Rooney cut him off.

"No. Don't. Just don't."

He turned again. Slower this time. Because this one — this one stung more.

"Anthony."

Martial blinked. Too many times. His eyes were red. 

"You score early. Nice finish. Great. But what the hell was that celebration?"

He jabbed a finger at the floor.

"You know exactly what you were mocking. You hit HIS celebration. In HIS stadium. And vanished for the rest of the match."

A pause. Just enough to sting.

"You didn't track him. You didn't foul him. You didn't even breathe in his direction."

Martial's voice cracked. "I thought we had them—"

Rooney barked a laugh.

"You thought?! What the hell were you thinking with that celly then? That we were gonna cruise 1–0? You poked the bear, Anthony. You fed him raw meat."

Martial didn't answer. He couldn't. The words sank straight into his spine.

Rooney looked at all of them now. His voice grew raw — less fire now, more ashes.

"We used to scare teams. Remember that? United meant something. The badge MEANT something. Teams walked into Old Trafford already down two goals."

His voice dropped — gutted, hollow.

"Now? Now we're a fucking sideshow."**

He gestured wide.

"We're jokes. We're a blooper reel. And he—"

Another jab to the floor. As if Tristan's ghost was dancing in the middle of the room.

"—he just turned us into content. Again."

🎵 "TRISTAN'S ON FIRE!" 🎵

The chant leaked through the walls. It felt personal now.

Rooney turned to De Gea, breathing hard.

"You."

De Gea looked up. Tired. Like he'd been aged by the game.

"You actually showed up. You saved us from a bloodbath. That volley from Vardy? The one-on-one with Tristan? Unreal. You deserve better."

De Gea gave a tired nod. One small mercy.

Rooney turned back to the room. His voice lifted again.

"Do any of you lot even care?! Or do you just want likes on Instagram and brand deals? Because right now Leicester are winning trophies AND all we've got is excuses."

Schneiderlin turned from the wall, voice low. "What do you want us to say?"

Rooney snapped, "NOTHING! I don't want words. I want fight. I want blood. I want ONE of you to act like this club still means something!"

Lingard finally mumbled, "We were trying. But he's just… he's too quick. You miss the tackle and he's gone."

Rooney stepped right into his face. "Then don't MISS. Pull his shirt. Take a yellow. Show him he's in a game. He's TWENTY. Not a god."

Silence again.

And then — quieter now, softer, more broken than furious:

"I'm twenty-nine."

The words hung.

"I've got one last mission: to make this club matter again. That's it. Not money. Not ego. Just legacy."

He looked at them all, like a disappointed father.

"I can't do that with passengers."

Another beat.

"So if you can't fight for this… if you're scared to tackle… or scared of looking stupid on Twitter..."

His eyes hardened again.

"Then get. Out. Of. My. Way."

He dropped onto the bench like his bones had finally caught up with the weight of it all.

His voice gone.

His anger used.

All that remained was the sound of the away fans.

And not a single player in that room had any answer for him.

The door opened again.

Not with a slam — not this time. Just a low creak, like the hinges themselves were reluctant to interrupt.

Soft footsteps followed. 

Louis van Gaal entered the dressing room with the stiffness of someone who no longer believed in ceremony. His coat hung open. One hand clutched a folder he never once looked at. His expression was carved from stone, but not the kind meant for battle — the kind meant for graves.

Behind him came Ryan Giggs, clipboard in hand but arms slack, his face pale and hollow. Marcel Bout followed last, quietly pulling the door shut behind him. The latch clicked like a coffin seal.

No one looked up.

Fellaini still hadn't moved. His back was pressed to the locker, gaze blank, one boot halfway unlaced but untouched. Lingard sat hunched over, fingers gripped around his shin as though he might snap the bone himself. Schneiderlin's arms dangled at his sides. He didn't even blink. Just stared at the tiled floor like he was waiting for it to swallow him.

Blind had taken to rubbing a spot on his knee, not because it hurt — but because it gave him something to do with his hands. Smalling rocked gently on the edge of the bench, eyes red, not from crying, but from trying not to.

And Martial…

Martial hadn't moved since Rooney's tirade. He sat with his forearms on his thighs, his head lowered, shirt pooled in his lap. Not hiding. Just heavy. The weight of it all — the goal, the celebration, the aftermath — had settled onto his shoulders like wet concrete. He could already see United fans ripping into him for what he did.

Van Gaal stopped halfway into the room.

He didn't speak. Not right away.

He looked around slowly, taking in each face. But it wasn't the stern, commanding gaze of a general surveying a broken battalion. There was something more hollow in it. Like a man trying to recognize a version of himself that might no longer exist.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Then finally, with the kind of weariness that could only be earned from decades of carrying too much:

"I will not yell."

It landed strangely in the air. Not soft. Just… surrendered.

Even Giggs seemed caught off-guard.

Van Gaal's arms folded behind his back. He looked like he needed to lean on something but refused to.

"I've yelled enough in my life. Enough for one career. But tonight…"

He paused, turning his head toward the lockers.

"…there's nothing I could say that would reach you more than what you already feel."

Still no response.

The silence had grown claws.

No one answered. Some weren't sure if they were allowed to breathe.

He took a single step forward.

"I have been beaten before. I've seen better sides lose to lesser ones. But this — this was not defeat."

He raised his voice a fraction. Not to shout — but to cut.

"This was surrender."

It landed in the stomachs of every man in red.

Giggs stepped forward. Tentative.

"We've done this to other teams," he said, eyes roaming. "We've been on the other end of it — handing out these scorelines like favours. So maybe we forgot. Forgot what it feels like."

He looked directly at Martial.

"But tonight… we got reminded. That when you give a player like him a reason — just one — he doesn't let it go. He builds a cathedral out of it."

His gaze swept wider.

"You gave him a celebration. He gave you a proper response."

Van Gaal let out a slow breath. His next words came quiet. Final.

"I will finish this season."

That turned heads.

"I will not quit. I will not disappear. I was brought here to steady a ship. And I will do it. Even if the sails are torn and the crew has forgotten how to row."

He looked around.

"But when it ends… I will be gone. Football has moved. And I do not want to chase it anymore."

He turned toward the door. One hand on the frame.

"You are professionals. Start behaving like it."

And then he left.

Bout followed without a word. Giggs lingered a second longer. His eyes locked with Rooney's — a flicker of shared understanding, grief without language — and then he too disappeared through the door.

Click.

Silence again.

Martial stood.

He moved like a man shedding invisible chains. He didn't look at anyone. He just picked up the shirt from his lap, folded it — slowly, deliberately — and set it back in his locker.

And for the first time that night, there was no anger in his eyes.

Just shame.

And the quiet, slow burn of someone who finally understood what he'd started.

.

The boos started before they even left the tunnel.

Low at first — like a sick breeze blowing in from some distant wound. Then louder. Sharper. A storm of knives, crashing down in cold, brutal rhythm.

"YOU'RE NOT UNITED!"

 "WHERE'S THE FUCKING PRIDE?!"

 "I WANT MY MONEY BACK, ROONEY!"

Rooney heard every word. Not just the volume, but the ache behind it. This wasn't outrage. This was betrayal. From fans who still remembered when Manchester United meant fear — not futility.

They'd emptied the away end quick. Most had seen enough by the 80th minute. But not all. A ragged pocket had stayed — just to spit the pain back.

Some held scarves aloft, not in support, but surrender. Others waved hand-painted signs:

"Sell the lot."

The tunnel lights flickered above them, buzzing the way old bulbs do when they're on their last breath. The walls were soaked in condensation — or maybe that was just the steam of shame boiling off them.

Rooney stepped out first. His boots slapped against the concrete with the finality of a verdict.

Behind him, the players filed out in a broken chain. Not a word. Not a glance. Just ghosts in red shirts clinging to their sweat-soaked skin.

Martial's head was down, hoodie already up, eyes locked to the floor like maybe the earth would crack open and swallow him whole.

Fellaini trudged like someone carrying extra weight — not in his legs, but in his chest. The echoes of boos seemed to follow his afro like a shadow.

Lingard didn't smile. Didn't even blink. Just walked, shoulders tight, every step like a question he didn't want the answer to.

A camera flash caught them from behind a railing. Then another. Reporters had gathered beyond the barriers, feeding on the carcass. Microphones hung in the air like vultures.

"Wayne, what happened?"

"Is Van Gaal finished?"

"Did Martial apologise to the team?"

No answers came. Just the hum of disappointment, and the heavy thud of boots against asphalt.

Security lined both sides. 

The team bus waited like a hearse. Engine running. Door open.

Rooney reached it first. He stopped at the base of the steps and turned back.

His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.

"On the bus."

It wasn't a command. It was a mercy killing.

One by one, they climbed aboard. No one jostled for seats. No headphones. No banter. They moved like prisoners returning from a failed escape — heads low, wounds unspoken.

Martial lingered at the foot of the steps for a second longer than the others. Just long enough to glance back toward the stadium. Toward the South Stand. Toward the memory of what he did — and what Tristan Hale did back.

Then he boarded.

And the door shut with a hiss that sounded far too much like a sigh.

.

Next chapter is a timeskip for like a month and I plan to do another one later. Anyway we just hit 3 million views, thank you.