England's Greatest

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Three days after clinching the championship early, Leicester City faced what could be the defining moment of their season—the FA Cup semi-final against Premier League side Hull City.

The stage: Wembley Stadium.

Wembley, the home of English football and Europe's largest professional stadium, seating up to 90,000 spectators. This iconic ground has hosted some of football's greatest moments—the World Cup final, European Championship final, Champions League final, and of course, the prestigious FA Cup final. For every footballer, stepping onto the sacred turf of Wembley is the stuff of dreams, a signal that they've reached the pinnacle of the sport.

For many Leicester City first-team players, including Tristan, this was their first time playing at Wembley. As their team bus approached the stadium, Tristan's eyes were immediately drawn to the towering Wembley Arch, gleaming in the sky like a colossal rainbow stretching across the stadium. In the distance, the London Eye added to the grand backdrop, but it was Wembley itself—built with hundreds of millions of pounds and four years of meticulous construction—that stole the show. Its modern design, spacious locker rooms twice the size of Leicester's own at King Power Stadium, and historic prestige all added to the electric atmosphere.

In the lead-up to this highly anticipated clash, media outlets buzzed with analysis. Leicester, though recently crowned champions, had played most of their key players in the previous match against Reading. Fatigue, many speculated, could be their undoing.

On the other hand, Hull City had the advantage of a ten-day break, coming off a home win against Swansea, and their fresher legs could pose a serious threat. Sitting just five points above the relegation zone, Hull's league position was precarious, but they wouldn't squander the rare chance to make an FA Cup final.

With the hype surrounding the semi-final, tickets sold out long before match day.

As the Leicester City players stepped onto the Wembley pitch for their pre-match warm-up, the atmosphere in the stadium was electric, a palpable buzz coursing through the crowd. The stands were packed to the brim, and while the blue jerseys of Leicester's fans dominated, it was the fervor from a specific group of supporters that stood out the most—female fans.

Ever since Tristan made his first-team debut, Leicester City's female fan attendance had skyrocketed. His combination of undeniable football talent and striking good looks had turned him into an overnight sensation. Now, more women were coming to matches than ever before, with the club boasting the highest female attendance in the entire Championship. Social media had dubbed him "Leicester's Prince," and his looks made him the heartthrob of the league. Today was no different.

As he jogged along the sidelines, preparing for the most important match of the season, the high-pitched cheers from his female supporters reached a fever pitch.

"Tristan! Over here!"

"Tristan! Sign my shirt!"

"Tristan, you're amazing! I love you!"

Some even waved banners with his name, holding up handmade signs in bold letters that read, "Tristan, Marry Me!" or "Tristan Hale – Our King!" Phones were raised in the air, hoping to catch a photo or a fleeting smile from the man of the moment. Others screamed his name, hoping to capture his attention with offers of phone numbers scribbled hastily on pieces of paper.

"Tristan! Call me, my number's 010XXX!" a brave voice shouted from the crowd, drawing laughter and cheers from those around her.

Tristan, unable to resist the infectious energy, flashed a charming smile and gave a casual wave to the crowd. His every move seemed to draw louder cheers, especially from the female sections. They swooned at his simple gestures, some jumping up and down excitedly, while others frantically waved to catch his attention.

A few fans, determined to get closer, crowded near the edge of the barriers, eagerly extending shirts and scarves for him to sign. Tristan, though focused on the task ahead, knew how much their support meant to the team—and to him. His presence had drawn a new kind of attention to Leicester City, and the overwhelming love from the fans only fueled his desire to make every moment count.

After the warm-up, the Leicester City players filed back into the locker room, their minds sharpened, their hearts pounding with anticipation. It was time for the final preparations before stepping out onto the grand stage of Wembley Stadium. Manager Nigel Pearson gathered his squad around the tactical board, ready to deliver his final words of strategy.

The starting lineup remained unchanged from the squad that had defeated Reading just days before. Pearson had faith in his main players, and now, with only five minutes left before the game, he stood tall, his voice steady but firm as he outlined the final instructions.

"Right, listen up," Pearson began, pointing to the tactical board. "Hull may not have had the best season, but don't underestimate them. Their two forwards aren't in great form, but they've got speed, and they'll be looking to get behind you whenever they can."

He locked eyes with his defenders, making sure his point was clear. Then, turning to Tristan, Pearson spoke with intent. "They play with three at the back—a 3-5-2 formation. Their center-backs are slow, and they'll leave space behind. Ling, I want you to exploit that space as much as you can. Pass it through to Jamie. His pace will cause them all kinds of trouble."

Tristan nodded, already visualizing the gaps he would target.

"Mahrez, Nugent," Pearson continued, addressing the wingers, "I want you two to focus on the flanks. Get into those half-spaces and stretch their defense. Don't let them settle, make them chase you. If we put them under pressure from the start, they'll crack."

The team nodded in unison, their attention fixed on Pearson as he continued to lay out their approach. Though Leicester had already secured promotion to the Premier League and even won the Championship title ahead of schedule, this FA Cup semi-final was on a different level. Wembley demanded the best.

For Pearson, this game was personal. Hull City wasn't just any opponent—they were his former club, a team he knew well. This season, Hull's defense had been solid, ranked among the best in the league. But their attack had been poor, averaging less than a goal per game. The contrast with their FA Cup form, however, was striking. Hull had breezed through the competition, with smooth wins over Middlesbrough, Southend United, and Brighton before finally facing Premier League competition in the quarterfinals.

Leicester's journey, on the other hand, had been a gauntlet of Premier League opposition from the very start. In the third round, they knocked out Stoke City, followed by a thrilling victory against Chelsea, José Mourinho's giants. For many, Leicester's road to the semi-finals was nothing short of miraculous.

Pearson paused for a moment, allowing the gravity of their journey to sink in.

"Remember, lads," he said, his voice taking on a more inspirational tone, "the whole country's watching us. We've shown we're more than just a small team from a small city. Whether it's our record in the Championship or the football we've played to get here, people are noticing. And Tristan, you've become a star, mate—fans love you, the media's behind you. Now it's time to show everyone what Leicester City is all about."

Tristan listened carefully, the weight of Pearson's words settling on his shoulders. He wasn't just representing himself—he was carrying the hopes of the entire city, the entire team. With every game, his reputation grew, and with it, the expectations. But he thrived under that pressure. It pushed him to be better, to rise to the occasion.

As the team began to gather their gear, getting ready for the walk out onto the hallowed Wembley turf, there was a sense of unity in the room. They were the underdogs in this competition, but they had come too far to turn back now.

With one final glance at his players, Pearson gave a nod. "Let's go make history."

As the two teams slowly emerged from the tunnel, the atmosphere inside Wembley Stadium was electric. The deafening roar of 90,000 fans reverberated through the air, hitting the players like a wave. For Tristan, the sheer volume of the crowd was both exhilarating and overwhelming. His heart raced, and his breath quickened as he stepped onto the hallowed pitch. This was his first time playing in front of so many people, and the magnitude of the moment wasn't lost on him.

The energy of the stadium made his mind race. If I score today, how should I celebrate? he mused. For a brief second, he imagined the crowd going wild, his teammates rushing to him in celebration. The thought alone made his pulse quicken even more.

Looking around, Tristan could see the same mixture of excitement and nerves etched on his teammates' faces. This was a monumental occasion for Leicester City. Many of the players had never experienced playing in such a massive arena or in front of such a large audience. Wembley was unlike anything they had encountered before.

As the teams lined up for the traditional handshake, Tristan got his first close look at Hull City's players. To him, a die-hard Premier League fan growing up, most of their lineup was unfamiliar. Aside from Jake Livermore, the former Tottenham Hotspur youth product, the rest of Hull's squad were largely unknown to him.

But familiarity, or lack thereof, meant nothing. Tristan reminded himself of one important truth: in football, underestimating your opponent was the gravest mistake you could make. Every player on the pitch, regardless of their fame or reputation, was a professional. To win, he needed to give everything, to respect both himself and his opponents.

After the handshake, Tristan adjusted his socks, mentally preparing himself for the kickoff. This was it—his moment. With a nod to his teammates, he made his way to the center circle, standing ready for the whistle.

When the referee's whistle finally blew, the noise from the crowd seemed to double. Vardy, standing in the center, gave a quick knockback to his teammate, and the match was underway. The FA Cup semi-final had officially begun!

The FA Cup semi-final broadcast began with the commentators setting the stage for what was expected to be a thrilling contest.

"Welcome, everyone, to this highly anticipated FA Cup semi-final, where Leicester City face off against Hull City for a coveted place in the final. Earlier today, Arsenal comfortably dispatched Wigan Athletic to book their spot at Wembley. Now, it's time to find out who will join them."

The analysts had debated back and forth in the buildup, with many predicting a cautious, tightly contested match. "Most experts," the commentator continued, "expect this to be a closely fought battle, possibly going into extra time, given how both teams have fared leading up to this point."

"But there's been one bold prediction," the co-commentator chimed in. "Leicester City legend Gary Lineker didn't hesitate to predict a 3-0 victory for his team. He's confident they'll rise to the occasion."

The cameras zoomed in on the players as they took their positions, the tension palpable. "Leicester are making their first FA Cup semi-final appearance in over 40 years. And look at them—already taking the initiative, pressing high up the pitch. They don't seem to be holding anything back."

Barely three minutes had passed when Tristan, receiving the ball in midfield, spotted Vardy's run and launched a perfectly placed overhead pass. "Brilliant ball from Tristan!" the commentator exclaimed. "Vardy's through! He's in the box—shoots! Oh, what a save from the Hull City goalkeeper! That was a top-class move from Leicester City right there."

"Well, if anyone thought Leicester would sit back and play cautiously, they've been proven wrong already," the co-commentator remarked. "They're here to take the game to Hull right from the off!"

The early chance set the tone for the match.

It was just bad luck—Vardy's shot, so close to brilliance, clipped the crossbar and soared into the stands.

"Wow!" the commentator exclaimed. "Vardy's shot had great quality. If it had been just an inch lower, we could've been looking at a world-class goal!"

"The Foxes are letting the Tigers know they're here for a fight from the start," the co-commentator added.

And that was just the beginning of Leicester City's relentless attack.

In the eighth minute, Mahrez delivered a well-timed 45-degree cross from the right, with Vardy rushing to the near post. He stretched to make contact but missed the ball by a whisker.

Just five minutes later, in the 13th minute, a quick one-two between Tristan and Mahrez dazzled Hull City's defenders on the right flank. Their clever combination play cut through the defense like butter, but as Mahrez sped past the last man, Hull's Jake Livermore brought him down, conceding a free kick in a dangerous area.

Tristan stepped up to take it. The ball curved beautifully through the air, dipping dangerously into the six-yard box. Wes Morgan leaped high above the defense, but his header sailed agonizingly wide of the post.

"Unlucky again for Leicester!" the commentator called. "They're looking so sharp right now, and Hull just can't keep up."

Fifteen minutes in, Leicester City had already carved out multiple clear chances, pinning Hull City deep in their own half. The Tigers, for all their efforts, could barely string together passes to make it out of their defensive third.

To the fans at Wembley and those watching from home, it was almost unbelievable to witness a Championship team dominating a Premier League side so decisively.

"No matter how strong Leicester City are in the Championship," the co-commentator reflected, "a Premier League team should have the upper hand, right?"

But that assumption was proving false. Hull City was the team on the back foot, struggling to contain Leicester's onslaught.

If Tristan could hear the chatter from those who had expected Hull City to dominate, he would've smirked knowingly. After all, while Leicester might not yet be the side that would make history with the 2015-2016 miracle, this was a squad brimming with talent.

Vardy and Mahrez—two future world-class stars—were already leading the charge. And there were other rising names too: Kasper Schmeichel in goal, Drinkwater, Morgan, Schlupp, Wood—all players who would soon make their mark. Not to mention, Leicester now had Tristan Hale, the 18 year prodigy leading the team.

With this lineup, Leicester had been nearly unstoppable in the Championship. They had even knocked out Chelsea.

So, how could a Hull City side with no marquee players hope to keep up?

Hull City manager Steve Bruce certainly wasn't expecting this. His face, already flushed, grew redder with frustration. He leapt from his seat on the sidelines, barking orders at his wing-backs to drop deeper and help with the defense.

Pearson, meanwhile, remained calm. Sitting in the dugout, he exchanged a knowing glance with his assistant, Craig Shakespeare. With a wry smile, he leaned over and whispered, "Bruce is feeling the pressure."

Indeed, the pressure was mounting. Hull City was caught off-guard, and it was only a matter of time before Leicester broke the deadlock.

Despite having thoroughly studied Leicester City's pre-match videos and knowing how dangerous their attack could be, Steve Bruce still found himself unprepared for the intensity of their offensive play.

This was why Hull City, as a Premier League team, decided to lower their stance and adopt a 3-5-2 formation—prioritizing defensive stability while also allowing quick transitions into attack when opportunities arose.

But even with that defensive structure, Bruce had underestimated the firepower of Leicester's front line.

"Get back! Stay back!" Bruce yelled from the touchline, trying to get his wingbacks to drop deeper, turning the formation into a five-man defense to squeeze the space Leicester had to work with.

However, while this adjustment limited Leicester's passing lanes and their ability to break through, it also created congestion in Hull's back line. And this congestion invited dangerous set-piece situations.

Just a few minutes later, Hull's left-back, Ahmed Elmohamady, while trying to track back, fouled Mahrez from behind with a clumsy challenge.

The referee's whistle pierced the air, awarding Leicester a free kick in a promising area on the right side, about 35 meters from goal.

Tristan stepped up to take it. He exhaled deeply, raised his left hand to signal to his teammates—this meant he was targeting the far post. His right hand would have indicated a delivery to the near post.

Once the signal was given, Tristan took three measured steps back, giving himself enough space for a proper run-up. His eyes scanned the penalty area, packed with players from both sides.

Taking another deep breath, he dug his right foot hard into the turf.

A quick run-up, a precise strike with the inside of his foot—Tristan wrapped his toes perfectly around the ball, applying just enough spin to send it curling through the air.

At the moment the ball left his foot, Leicester's central defenders, Wes Morgan and Liam Moore, made a sudden dash forward. Their purpose wasn't to reach the ball but to draw Hull City's defenders out of position, creating a gap at the far post.

"Watch the back post!" one commentator called out as Tristan's delivery sailed through the air, curving elegantly towards the far side of the box.

"Look at that ball!" the co-commentator added, his voice rising with excitement. "It's perfectly weighted, curling right into the danger zone."

The ball traced a graceful arc, flying over the crowd of players before dropping toward the far post.

Hull's defense, distracted by the decoy run from Morgan and Moore, missed the threat looming at the back post—David Nugent, Leicester's target man on the wing, had found space.

Nugent, with a fierce determination in his eyes, muscled past his marker. His timing was perfect. Leaping into the air, he met Tristan's cross with his forehead, a clean, powerful connection that sent the ball hurtling toward the far corner.

McGregor, Hull's goalkeeper, reacted instantly, diving across the goal, arms fully extended. But Nugent, with excellent awareness, had headed the ball in the opposite direction of the keeper's movement.

"He's going for the far post!" the commentator exclaimed.

The ball flew past McGregor's desperate dive, slicing through the air before smashing into the back of the net with a satisfying thud.

For a moment, Wembley Stadium fell into stunned silence—a split second where time seemed to freeze.

And then, like a wave crashing against the shore, the Leicester fans erupted in an explosion of noise. The stands trembled with the force of their cheers, flags waving furiously in the air as the blue-clad supporters celebrated the breakthrough.

"GOAL!" the commentator screamed. "It's in! Nugent finds the back of the net!"

"What a header!" his co-commentator chimed in. "David Nugent with his 22nd goal of the season! But credit where it's due—what an incredible delivery from Tristan Hale! That's his fourth assist in this FA Cup run!"

The cameras panned to the Leicester bench, where Nigel Pearson and the coaching staff were on their feet, clapping and cheering for their team. In the stands, fans were hugging, screaming, and waving scarves, their voices blending into one unified roar.

"The precision on that cross was just outstanding," one commentator remarked, as the replay showed Tristan's perfectly weighted delivery once again. "Tristan Hale—just 18 years old, and this is his fourth assist in the FA Cup! Since his debut, the starboy has never let his team down, that goal was just a art of work handcrafted by Tristan Hale's hand."

"And look at the way Nugent finds the space," the co-commentator added, as Nugent's header was replayed from multiple angles. "He knew exactly where that ball was going to land. Leicester City have their noses in front—and it's all down to that excellent piece of play from Hale and Nugent."

Nugent, overjoyed with his goal, sprinted toward the corner flag, arms spread wide in celebration. But after a couple of steps, he paused, realizing something.

Instead of celebrating alone, he turned back and ran toward Tristan, who was standing near the halfway line with a calm smile on his face.

Nugent embraced him tightly, lifting Tristan off the ground in a joyful bear hug, as the crowd continued to chant and roar in approval.

"Tristan, that pass was bloody brilliant!" Nugent shouted, his voice barely audible over the deafening crowd.

Tristan smiled, patting Nugent on the back. Inside, though, he couldn't help but think to himself, This guy is stronger than he looks.

Leicester City was in control, and thanks to Tristan's pinpoint cross, they were now in the lead. The fans continued to cheer, the sound echoing throughout Wembley as the FA Cup magic unfolded before their eyes.

After conceding the goal, Hull City felt as though they had been struck by a heavy club, jolting them awake from a dreamlike state. The atmosphere in the stadium shifted, and the tension on the pitch became palpable.

On the sidelines, Steve Bruce shouted instructions, urging his team to regroup and mount an offensive. With a renewed sense of urgency, the defensive midfielder retreated to receive the ball, quickly finding his left wingback, Ahmed Elmohamady, charging down the flank with impressive speed.

As Elmohamady crossed the center circle, he dribbled the ball skillfully, his eyes scanning for an opportunity. Without hesitation, he launched a low, driven cross into the center of the field. It wasn't a high, looping ball aimed at the far post; instead, it was a precise pass designed to find Hull's two quick strikers, Foyat and Quinn, who thrived on such deliveries.

"Here we go! Hull City looking to respond!" the commentator exclaimed, his voice filled with anticipation.

Foyat and Quinn, both short and nimble, relied heavily on these types of crosses, using their speed to exploit the gaps in the defense. But despite their agility, they lacked the raw power of Jamie Vardy, who often tormented defenses with his pace and strength. Their approach was simple: penetrate through the flanks and capitalize on any defensive mistakes.

Leicester City's central defenders were on high alert. Moore, despite lacking extensive defensive experience, compensated with his excellent speed, while Morgan, the captain, brought strong aerial prowess and better positional awareness to the back line.

As Hull's attack surged forward, Morgan positioned himself to block any incoming threats. Just as Foyat made a move toward the ball, Moore quickly turned to track back, sprinting to cover his teammate. With precise timing, he executed a flying tackle, intercepting the pass and clearing the ball out for a throw-in.

"Brilliant defensive work by Moore!" the commentator praised as the replay showcased the precision of the tackle. "He knew exactly when to step in!"

After completing this wave of defense, Moore stood up, breathing heavily, and exchanged a high five with Morgan. "Great job! That's it!" Morgan shouted, his voice brimming with encouragement.

The crowd responded with cheers, rallying behind their team as Hull City prepared for a corner kick. The ball was sent into the penalty area, where it was met by Nugent, who had been tracking back to help defend. With a powerful leap, he headed the ball clear, sending it soaring beyond the penalty area.

Watching the ball escape, Bruce let out a heavy sigh from the sidelines, a mixture of frustration and disbelief etched on his face. He turned to his assistant coach, his temper flaring.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "F**king shit! He couldn't even head the ball!"

The season had been a struggle for Hull City, their offense resembling a stagnant river. Bruce's 3-5-2 formation aimed to focus on defensive counterattacks, but the combination of his two speedsters up front had proven ineffective. Instead of capitalizing on quick breaks, the two forwards were left standing, looking lost and confused.

His frustration boiled over as he watched them fumble their chances. "What are those two doing up there? It's like having two mascots waiting for a ball!" he complained, slumping back in his coaching booth. "We might as well go back to traditional British football—put a tall striker alongside a fast one and let them work together!"

In that moment, a thought crossed Bruce's mind—a flash of inspiration. "It would be great if Nugent was our center forward!" he mused, imagining the possibilities if his team could harness Nugent's versatility to spearhead their attack. 

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I had to change so many things, add dialogue, and change how the game is written, ton of work in this chapter. I thought translating a story would be like light work but nah.I could just copy and paste it to english but then I feel I'm shit for even doing that with people actually paying for it now. I don't get how Chinese authors mind work, one point they have a brilliant story idea but than they gotta ruin it with some BS. 

Anyway that's enough about me ranting, let me know your thoughts and drop some powers, and reviews too if you want, thank you.