May 21, 2016 | Wembley Stadium
FA Cup Final – 90th Minute
Leicester City 1–0 Manchester United
Goal: Tristan Hale (38')
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The camera swept across Wembley like a trembling hand trying to capture eternity. The air shimmered.
Eighty-nine minutes gone.
The scoreboard burned its truth into the night:
LEI 1 – 0 MUN.
Every breath from the 90,000 inside felt like it could break the spell. Every heartbeat echoed with one question: Can they really do it again?
Rain began to fall, light, silver, angelic catching the floodlights as if the heavens themselves had come to watch. The pitch was slick, shining under the weight of destiny United pushed, desperate, their shirts clinging to skin. Rooney, Shaw, Rashford, Martial all chasing ghosts.
Kanté intercepted another pass, booted it high and far into the blue night.
And as the ball arced into the stands, Peter Drury's voice rose like a hymn.
"What are we watching… if not the impossible made real?"
Wembley listened.
"A club once buried in the dust of doubt… now stands alone at the summit of the sport.
From Carabao to continent, from title to this, the FA Cup, the final jewel in the crown."
FWEEEEEEEEET.
For half a second the world froze.
Then Wembley erupted.
It wasn't noise. It was detonation.
A sound that cracked through the London rain, shaking the rafters and rolling down every street in Leicester back home.
Flags flew. Fireworks exploded. The blue end of Wembley became a storm of color and tears.
On the touchline, Claudio Ranieri dropped to his knees, both hands over his face, his glasses sliding halfway off. He was laughing, crying, muttering in Italian prayers that no one could hear.
Kanté sprinted over, shouting incoherently, grabbing the manager by the waist and lifting him clean off the ground like a child.
"We did it! We did it!" he screamed, voice cracking with joy.
Vardy ripped his shirt off, spinning it like a flag before launching it into the stands.
"COME ONNNNNN!" he roared, his voice lost in the storm.
Morgan fell to his knees, head in his hands. Mahrez collapsed flat on his back, eyes to the sky, mouthing the same words over and over.
We did it. We actually did it.
They completed the greatest season England, no the entire world had witnessed.
Schmeichel sprinted the full length of the pitch, gloves still on, sliding across the wet turf before leaping onto Danny's shoulders, screaming and shouting.
Fans at the front rows pounded the barriers, some crying, others laughing, everyone alive.
And through it all, Peter Drury's voice cracked over the broadcast.
"They have done it! Leicester City — the Invincibles — the untouchables — have completed football!"
"A season for eternity. Four trophies. No defeats. No disbelief left to doubt."
Martin Keown couldn't contain himself beside him.
"Jon… this is beyond sport. This is a story we'll tell for a hundred years. Four trophies, unbeaten! They've done what no club, not United, not Arsenal, not Liverpool, not Real Madrid, or Barcelona have ever done!"
And at the heart of it all Tristan Hale. He stood still amid the chaos, chest heaving, eyes wide as if trying to take it all in. The boy who had joined the club at the age of six now stood at twenty. The Captain of England And Leciester.
The boy who had promised to bring trophies to the club at age seven fulfilled his promise of creating a miracle none would forget.
He had scored in every final.
He had lifted every trophy.
He had become the face of a miracle.
Drury's final words floated over the roar, soft but eternal.
"There are moments that belong to football… and there are moments that belong to forever.
Leicester City… belong to forever."
Fireworks lit the sky above Wembley.
Full-Time: Leicester City 1 – 0 Manchester United
Leicester City — Quadruple Champions. Undefeated. Eternal.
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On the touchline, blue confetti guns went off; it stuck to hair, to shirts, to wet faces. The Leicester end had turned into a rolling thunder of song:
🎵 "CHAMPIONS OF ENGLAND! CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE!"
"CHAMPIONS OF ENGLAND! CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE!" 🎵
Vardy came charging across the grass, shirt gone, hair soaked, arms out. "COME ONNNN!" he roared at the away end before turning and grabbing Tristan in a full‑body tackle of a hug. Both of them nearly fell over.
Tristan laughed through tears. "You madman," he said, voice shaking. "You actually did it. Golden Boot, FA Cup, everything."
Vardy's eyes were red but his grin was wide. "We did it. You led us, kid. You led us."
Tristan pulled back just enough to look at him, then tugged at the elastic on his arm. The captain's armband was soaked through, streaked with grass and rain. He peeled it off slowly and pressed it into Vardy's palm.
Vardy blinked. "What're you—"
Tristan slid it up Vardy's arm himself. "Your turn now," he said quietly, almost lost under the noise. "Lead them. Be the main man. They're yours."
For a heartbeat Vardy just stared at him. Then he swallowed hard, eyes shining. "Don't you dare make me cry on live TV, you little bastard," he said, voice cracking anyway.
Tristan laughed, wiping his own face. "Too late."
Around them the rest of the squad had formed a circle, singing, clapping, banging on each other's shoulders. Mahrez draped a flag across Morgan's back. Fuchs held up four fingers to the crowd. Kanté raised his fists skyward like a monk who'd just won a war.
The Leicester fans picked up another chant, louder now, echoing off the Wembley arch:
🎵 "THANK YOU, TRISTAN! THANK YOU, TRISTAN!" 🎵
It rolled across the pitch like a wave, over and over, thousands of voices turning his name into a hymn.
Tristan looked up at the stands, at the sea of blue, at the banners with his face on them. He pressed a hand to his heart and nodded, once, slow.
Vardy squeezed his shoulder. "They'll never forget you," he said.
Tristan's smile trembled. "Yeah."
And under the arch, amid confetti and rain and the noise of a miracle completed, the two men stood shoulder to shoulder — one handing the armband over, the other lifting it high — as Wembley sang for them both.
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[ Lucas Grant – Age 30 | Lifelong Leicester Fan POV ]
Lucas had never seen Wembley like this not even when they win the FA Cup against Arsenal two years ago. Smoke, flags, confetti, and faces, so many faces wet with rain and tears. His voice was gone, shredded to sandpaper from ninety minutes of screaming, but he didn't care. He'd have traded it for this view a thousand times over.
He stood in the middle tier, seat long forgotten, scarf hanging around his neck like an old battle flag. The rain mixed with the tears on his cheeks, and he laughed through both.
He'd been there when Leicester were relegated. He'd been there when they barely survived the Championship. He remembered standing in the King Power years ago with fifteen thousand others, watching the team crumble.
And now this.
The quadruple. The Invincibles. The miracle of miracles.
He wiped his face and looked down at the pitch and then froze.
Down there, among the confetti and chaos, Tristan was taking off his captain's armband.
He smiled at Jamie Vardy, said something only the cameras could half-catch, and slid the soaked elastic up Vardy's arm himself.
Then he stepped back and clapped for him.
Lucas's breath caught in his throat. He knew what it meant. Everyone did.
His wife beside him frowned. "What's he doing?" Lucas couldn't answer. His mouth moved before the words found him. "He's saying goodbye."
Around them, other fans started to realize too. The songs quieted, replaced by murmurs, then by something else something heavier. People who had been dancing were now still. Flags stopped waving. The air changed.
Tristan turned to the crowd then — head up, hand pressed to his heart, eyes glassy.
Lucas saw him mouth the words, thank you.
And that was it. That was the breaking point.
People knew what that meant. Their Crown Prince, Leicester's greatest player of all time, was leaving. Their pride and joy was gonna leave.
A man in the row behind Lucas started to sing shaky at first, the melody old, familiar, from another lifetime.
🎵 "We'll keep the blue flag flying high…" 🎵
It caught on. It spread.
Another voice. Then ten. Then hundreds.
Soon, the entire Leicester end was singing.
🎵 "From Filbert Street to Wembley sky, we'll keep the blue flag flying high…" 🎵
Lucas joined in, his voice cracking halfway through. He thought about his dad, who used to take him to matches when tickets cost a fiver. About freezing Tuesday nights watching them lose to Barnsley. About the years when Leicester felt small, forgotten, invisible.
And now here they were.
Champions of everything.
Led by a boy who had carried them to the heavens.
Lucas felt someone tap his shoulder. A kid, maybe twelve, holding a homemade sign:
"THANK YOU TRISTAN 💙 WE LOVE YOU FOREVER!"
The boy's dad lifted him onto his shoulders so he could hold it high.
That was when it really hit. Tristan was leaving. The rumours were true. The next time Lucas saw him, he'd be wearing red. Liverpool red.
And somehow, that hurt more than anything.
Down on the pitch, the players were still celebrating, but now it had changed. It wasn't just noise anymore. It was goodbye. Mahrez waved to the crowd. Ranieri kissed the FA Cup before handing it to Vardy. And Tristan — Tristan just stood at the edge of it all, watching his teammates lift the trophy.
Lucas could swear he saw him blinking fast, fighting tears.
Then the chant rose again — louder, stronger, unstoppable.
🎵 "THANK YOU, TRISTAN! THANK YOU, TRISTAN!" 🎵
Thousands of voices, trembling, sincere, like prayer.
Tristan lifted his head. He raised both hands — one to the crowd, one to his heart — and mouthed four words.
"I love you Leciester ."
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I decided to do two more chapters just ending this final season just to wrap up everything nicely. The stats and hype and everything will be the next two chapters.