If you guys have time and are interested in my other stories please do check them out.
One is a Naruto one, called Naruto: The Greatest Uchiha , had to change the title, lol.
Link: https://www.webnovel.com/book/34559048308213005
And Basketball's Greatest.
Link: https://www.webnovel.com/book/34373284400173805
Basically if you see a title with the Greatest, it's probably mine. A reader suggested that, lol.
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June 20, 2016 | Stade Geoffroy-Guichard
It was the 33rd minute, and Slovakia were still clinging on. England had them boxed in from kickoff, wave after wave of pressure, the midfield dictating, the wings stretching, Tristan pulling every string like a conductor on a warpath. The Slovaks defended like madmen, booting it long, diving into blocks, praying for halftime.
Up in the gantry, Clive Tyldesley leaned forward as the space cracked open just for a second.
"Could this be the moment? England have been knocking all night, can they finally kick the door down?"
Lee Dixon's voice followed, low and tense. "It's opened up here. Midfield's stretched. They've got numbers. This might be it."
The dam was groaning. And Tristan had just spotted the crack.
Lallana slid the ball inward. Dele glanced once and nudged it into space.
Tristan didn't need the invitation.
One touch to settle, another to shift his weight. His head barely tilted, he already knew where Vardy would be by instinct. He sent out a disguised reverse pass, soft and precise as possible.
The crowd held its breath.
Vardy slipped behind Škrtel—ghostlike, effortless—took it clean in stride.
"Could this be it? They've carved them open again—CAN JAMIE VARDY FINALLY GET HIS GOAL? THE PREMIER LEAGUE GOLDEN BOOT WINNER—" Clive's voice cracked with tension.
He didn't even get to finish.
One bounce. Then Vardy pulled the trigger.
Left foot. Top corner. No hesitation. No mercy.
The net snapped like a whip—bang—and the stadium detonated.
Lee's chair scraped back as he shot to his feet. "And Vardy buries it! A ROCKET! ABSOLUTE CHAOS IN SAINT-ÉTIENNE!"
A wall of noise crashed down from the stands, drowning the pitch in thunder.
VARDY'S HAVING A PARTY!
VARDY'S GONNA ROCK YOU!
It rolled like a wave, thousands of voices chanting his name, arms raised, shirts whipped in the air. England fans lost their minds as one of their favorites had finally scored.
Vardy peeled away to the corner flag, pounding his chest, the veins in his neck bulging, face twisted into a grin so wide it looked painful. He didn't know where to go so he just ran. Arms stretched like wings.
Tristan came roaring in after, screaming louder than the man who'd scored. He looked more excited than the man who scored. He knew it was good the second it left his boot.
Vardy turned mid-sprint, grabbed him by the collar and headbutted him lightly. "You've been saving that one, huh?" he shouted, breathless.
Tristan just smirked. "Told you it'd come."
Behind them, the bench erupted. Kane sprinted from midfield and nearly tackled Vardy from behind. Dier lifted Tristan briefly off the ground in a bear hug. Henderson grabbed Vardy's head with both hands and shouted something right into his face before slapping the back of his skull.
The rest of the squad piled in. A mess of arms, backs, cheers, and stomps.
Clive was still breathless as he spoke. "That goal's been coming. You could feel it. He's missed chances, hit posts, had a few blocked but you don't keep Vardy quiet forever. And what a time to break his duck!"
Lee added, "And what a ball it was from Tristan again. He just makes the impossible look routine. One second of space, and it's over. That's three assists in the tournament now, and he's not even playing at full tilt yet."
Clive nodded. "England lead. Vardy's off the mark. And you'd better believe this stadium feels it."
On Slovakia's side, hands were already going up in protests, confusion, regret. It didn't matter. It was clean. It was brutal. It was inevitable.
And just like that—Tristan had his third assist of the tournament.
Vardy was finally off the mark.
And in that moment, across every Slovakian face, you could see it:
This was not a team you wanted to chase.
Slovakia kicked off with urgency, as if Vardy's goal had splashed cold water across their faces. For the first time all match, they didn't just boot it long and hope. They tried to play. Passed short. Pulled numbers forward. They pressed England's back line like they had something to prove.
The Slovak fans roared into life, desperate to believe. And for about ninety seconds, it looked like they might actually string something together.
Mak found a pocket on the left and slipped past Walker. Weiss peeled away from Bertrand and chipped it inside. Hamsík ghosted in.
But Stones read it early. Cut across and intercepted the pass with a calm sweep of his right boot.
Lee barely moved in his seat. "That's the problem. You take risks, you get punished. But against this England team—"
Clive picked it up. "You get nothing. No space. No air."
The ball was already at Henderson's feet, spraying it right. Dele popped up in space and rolled it toward Tristan, who barely looked up before curling it first-time to Lallana on the opposite flank.
Slovakia chased shadows.
Lallana slowed it down, drew a foul, then stood over the ball with a grin as if to say, Try that again.
The tempo dipped. England's midfield reasserted their grip like a hand squeezing the match back into control. One-touch triangles. Drop-offs. Roll-overs. They weren't trying to kill Slovakia with speed anymore.
They were suffocating them with possession.
Clive murmured over the hum of possession. "Every time Slovakia tries to go forward, they're met with a wall. The backline is impressive. They haven't led anything through yet. Tristan... he's running the game without breaking a sweat."
Lee's voice followed. "This is what maturity looks like. This isn't the England of old that panicked easily. This team gets stronger after they take the lead. They welcome the pressure"
Slovakia tried again in the 39th. Long throw. Second ball. Edge of the box. Shot.
Blocked by Dier's thigh.
And by the time the ball rolled out for a throw, the England fans were already back to chanting.
We're England, we're barmy, we're off our fcking heads...*
Even the Slovak players felt it. They weren't just behind on the scoreboard.
They were behind in quality. Behind in control. Behind in momentum.
And England knew it and played liked it.
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Half-time Break
The hum of air vents barely carried over the thuds of boots being kicked off, bottles cracked open, tape ripped from shins.
Henderson was laughing about something Sterling said. Dier flopped down on a bench like a man twice his age. Kane leaned back against the locker with his arms crossed, sweat glistening on his face, quietly sipping water.
Tristan sat on the lower bench, bootlaces undone, staring straight ahead, chest rising and falling slow.
Roy Hodgson stepped in with a soft clap of the hands, voice raised just enough to cut through the noise.
"Alright, lads. That's more like it."
Everyone turned.
"Ball movement was sharp. Midfield was aggressive. Press was coordinated. I haven't got much to say because you're saying it all out there."
A few nods. Tristan sipped.
Roy stepped closer into the middle of the room, eyes moving between them.
"Now… we've played three group games. Three strong performances. But you've also all played three full group games. That adds up."
He glanced toward Kane, Tristan, Henderson, Stones.
"Some of you are coming off in the second half. I want legs saved. We've got bigger nights ahead."
Vardy raised his eyebrows, smirking toward Tristan. "Look at that. They're protecting the money-makers now."
Tristan didn't even turn. "He's just scared of me padding my stats."
That got a few laughs.
Roy smiled but didn't lose tempo. "Tammy. Grealish. Rashford. Ruben. Be ready. Same shape. Same tempo. Don't drop a level."
The young subs nodded, stretching out, energy already building.
Roy clapped his hands again. "One more half, then recovery. Let's kill this game off and keep our powder dry."
Kill it they did.
Wayne Rooney brought on as the steady hand among the younger legs led from the front like it was 2010 all over again. Rashford hounded fullbacks. Grealish twisted past his man like he had elastic in his boots. Ruben Loftus-Cheek bullied midfielders twice his size.
They didn't just hold the tempo. They pushed it.
Every touch from the fresh legs had bite. Slovakia couldn't even breathe. The press kept swarming. And every time the ball looked like it might roll into danger, Rooney was already barking orders, sliding into challenges, setting the pace.
By the 70th minute, the game looked iced.
On the bench, Tristan and Kane sat side by side boots off, sweat still drying under their England jackets. A bottle of water balanced on Kane's thigh. Tristan had a protein bar halfway eaten.
"Two-nil's coming," Kane said, eyes tracking the run Grealish was making across the far wing. "Easy." The young lad who was chosen pretty young alongside Rashford was doing pretty good for himself. He didn't get much playing time until now as the team was pretty stacked so he didn't have much presence in the team.
( A/N: This was my fault as I thought I included him in the team and wrote about it. I had it in my notes but turns out I didn't.)
Tristan exhaled. "Rashford's due. Watch. He's been timing those back-post cuts all half."
Kane glanced over. "You want to put something on it?"
Tristan finally peeled the wrapper the rest of the way. "Loser buys dinner after the tournament."
"Done." Kane leaned forward, grinning. "You're buying steak. Just so you know."
Tristan smirked. "Hope you like watching highlights of Rashford celebrating while you're cutting into it."
Rooney nearly split two defenders just then and sent a through ball that screamed for someone to finish. Grealish latched onto it and cracked one low—saved. But it was coming.
The whole bench shifted forward. Dier was up on his feet. Stones leaned toward the sideline, already loosening his legs again in case he had to jog out.
On the touchline, Roy stood watching everything, clapping but not giving out much instructions as it wans't need.
In the gantry above, Clive had gone from excited to impressed.
"This second half performance—it's calm, it's clinical, and it's ruthless in a quiet way. The kids have come on and made sure Slovakia can't get a sniff. That's how you manage a tournament."
Lee followed. "And look at that bench. They don't seem to be worried at all."
The moment finally snapped open in the 76th minute.
Rooney drifted into the right half-space, body angled like he'd done this a thousand times because he had. Slovak defenders backed off instinctively, terrified of the shot. Rooney didn't even look at goal.
He looked at Rashford.
The youngest player in the entire tournament. Barely eighteen. Fresh legs, hungry eyes, running at full tilt.
Rooney slipped the pass between two defenders, weight perfect, angle perfect, timing perfect. Pure veteran class.
Rashford rushed foward at his chance.One touch forward. One touch to set. Then he snapped his foot through it — low, hard, skipping off the turf like a stone.
Bottom corner.
Hart didn't even celebrate. He just pointed both fists toward the kid as the net rippled.
The stadium erupted again — fresh, wild, twice as loud as before.
Clive's voice cracked instantly. "Rashford! The teenager! The youngest player at the tournament! WHAT A MOMENT FOR THE MANCHESTER UNITED STARLET!"
Lee shot out of his chair, almost knocking over his headset. "And look who put him through! Wayne Rooney! The past feeding the future! United fans everywhere will be losing their minds!"
Clive continued, breathless. "That's the present of England… and the future of Manchester United combining right there! The legend and the kid shows no stage fright at all. What a moment for the young lad."
Down on the pitch, Rashford sprinted toward Rooney, pure joy, arms spread, grin blinding. Rooney met him halfway, grabbed the back of his head, pulled him close, shouting something into his ear.
Probably "Told you. Told you you'd score."
Tristan and Kane were both on their feet at the bench.
Kane nudged Tristan's arm, defeated. "Yeah… you're buying the steak."
Tristan nodded, smiling. "Worth it."
Even Roy clapped harder than usual for the young kid, it almost reminded him of Tristan scoring his first goal in the last world cup.
The entire England bench was up, cheering the kid on, shouting his name like they'd all raised him since he was ten.
Clive gave one more line — soft, emotional. "If you want to talk about eras… if you want to talk about clubs rebuilding… if you want to talk about legacy… you look at those two right there. Rooney and Rashford. Past and future."
Lee finished it. "England two. Slovakia nil. And if this is what the bench looks like… who on earth wants to face them next?"
The final whistle wasn't far behind.
Another dominant England win. And the night ended with Rashford walking off the pitch beside Rooney, the veteran's hand on the kid's shoulder, guiding him, laughing with him.
The old United. The new United. Both wrapped inside England's unstoppable rise.
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Someone better be happy, I glazed United for once, lmao.
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