Chapter 312 - 2016 Euro-Final (1/1)

The two captains stepped forward.

Tristan in white. Ronaldo in red. One twenty-one. The other thirty-one. But at this moment—equals.

They stopped side by side at the center circle, the world blurring behind them.

Cristiano glanced sideways.

"You nervous?" he asked in a low voice. Just curious. If he was 21 and had to play this game, he would have maybe shitting his pants. 

Tristan's eyes didn't leave the referee.

"No."

A pause. Then—

"You?"

Ronaldo let a small laugh. "Never."

The referee raised the coin between them, breaking the moment.

"Captain Hale, you call."

"Heads."

The coin spun skyward. One flip. Two. Three.

It landed.

Heads.

Ronaldo exhaled, a little disappointed but he still showed a smile on his face.

The referee turned.

"England to kick off."

Tristan gave a slight nod. 

He turned and walked away—already scanning the pitch, already planning the first move.

Behind him, Ronaldo stood still, watching the kid.

.

The players took their positions.

White shirts spread across the pitch. Red ones waited in shadow.

At the halfway line, Tristan stood over the ball, boots planted, shoulders squared, crowd noise pouring down like a storm. Every sound layered over the next—cheers, boos, songs, screams. Thousands singing his name. Thousands more shouting for it to burn.

Beside him, Harry Kane let out a slow breath through his nose.

"Listen to that," he muttered. "It's like war."

Tristan's eyes didn't leave the ball.

"Wouldn't be the first time France saw a British invasion."

Kane gave him a sideways glance. "You're making dad jokes now?"

"Got to train for something after the Ballon d'Or."

"Bro, you're not old enough to drink in half these countries."

Tristan rolled his neck once.

"Don't fumble now. We've got this."

Kane shook his head, almost smiling.

"God help us. Or I guess the Queen in this situation."

The ref jogged backward, whistle between his lips. Arm raised.

Then—

Peeeeeeep.

Kickoff.

The final began.

.

Kane nudged the ball back with a short tap to Tristan.

A roar went up like a wave crashing into the pitch.

Tristan took one touch, shifted left, and zipped it diagonally toward Dele Alli, already moving into space. England were wasting no time.

Chilwell surged forward on the overlap. Drinkwater shuffled across to cover the left. Walker tucked in slightly on the opposite side, a subtle back-three forming as Henderson dropped deeper.

High in the broadcast booth, Peter Drury's voice cut through.

"And so, at last… it begins."

"Sixty years of hurt behind them. Ninety minutes ahead. The weight of history balanced on the edge of a boot."

Dele spun past Moutinho, but William Carvalho stepped in—sharp. A toe poke sent the ball ricocheting back toward the halfway line, where João Mario collected and looked up.

Steve McManaman leaned into his mic.

"Portugal want to press early here, Peter. You can see it in the shape. Carvalho stepping out, Guerreiro high on the left. They're not sitting off."

João Mario sent a quick pass out wide to Ronaldo, who had peeled off onto Walker's shoulder.

The crowd swelled.

Ronaldo took it on the chest, let it bounce once, and feinted a burst of pace down the touchline—before slicing inside.

Tristan was already tracking back. He saw it coming.

As Ronaldo cut between Drinkwater and Henderson, Tristan darted across and stabbed the ball clear with a sharp tackle just outside the arc.

Peter Drury again:

"And there he is. Tristan Hale. England's captain, their creator, and now their destroyer."

Portugal's bench screamed for a foul. The referee waved it off.

The ball spilled to Kane.

He turned and sprayed it wide for Vardy, who was already off like a bullet.

McManaman reacted instantly.

"Here comes Jamie Vardy! And look at Tristan—he's still running. He's bombing forward."

Vardy cut inside onto his right boot just before the final third and laid it off. Tristan was there—somehow—already on the edge of the box.

He shaped to shoot.

One touch.

Two.

But Pepe lunged in with a crunching block, the ball skimming away toward the corner flag.

Groans, gasps, applause.

Drury again.

"That's the warning shot. Less than three minutes in, and England already look dangerous."

Vardy jogged over for the corner, raising a hand toward the England section behind the goal.

Tristan stayed high, breathing steady, hands on hips.

McManaman's voice followed.

"They're not playing with fear. No nerves. Just tempo. Just movement. And Tristan Hale—he's dropped deep, broken up play, and nearly scored within three minutes. This is a man possessed."

"A final played at fever pitch already. Portugal tried to pounce—Tristan took the ball off their king, and then nearly crowned himself."

The corner was taken short—Kane to Vardy to Tristan again—but this time Portugal read it. Guerreiro stuck out a boot, and the ball popped loose. João Moutinho collected, slowed it down, and Portugal took a breath, keeping it tight at the back.

Peter Drury kept pace with the moment.

"Portugal holding firm there—early pressure soaked up, but England showing intent from the first whistle."

He let the crowd noise swell again before shifting.

"And while the game takes a breath… let's talk about the eleven Roy Hodgson has trusted with England's greatest night in half a century."

Steve McManaman added to that.

"Well first, Peter, I think everyone thought we'd see a change or two. A few headlines even had Rooney coming back into the lineup for his experience. But no. Hodgson's stuck with the exact same eleven that got him here."

Drury nodded.

"A bold decision especially for a final of this magnitude. But it speaks volumes about the trust he's placed in England's youth. This is, after all, one of the youngest starting elevens in European Championship final history."

"Average age just over 24," McManaman added. "Only Joe Hart, Vardy, and Henderson are over 28. The rest? Twenty-one, twenty-two. Including their captain."

The camera followed Tristan as he tracked João Mário near the touchline, timing his step.

"Tristan, of course, is the heartbeat," Drury said. "Captain at just twenty-one. The youngest in tournament history. It's staggering."

"And look around him, Peter," Steve continued. "You've got Vardy up top—he's the wildcard, the chaos. Kane's more of the finisher in England. Dele and Drinkwater keeping things ticking. Chilwell on his first major tournament, Walker with license to bomb forward. It's fast. It's hungry. And it's risky."

Drury glanced down at his notes.

"Smalling and Stones have played every minute together in this tournament. Solid, though untested on a stage quite like this. Joe Hart behind them, the senior figure. Henderson, vice-captain, shielding in front. It's been a formula that's worked."

On the pitch, Portugal shifted the ball across their back line. Pepe to Fonte. Fonte to Guerreiro. Then forward into midfield.

Drury adjusted smoothly.

"And Fernando Santos—he's gone with familiar faces as well."

"No shocks really," McManaman said. "But a few big calls."

The camera cut to Ronaldo receiving the ball near the halfway line, Walker close.

"Ronaldo out wide," Drury narrated. "Flanked by Nani on the right. João Mário through the center. Moutinho and Carvalho deeper, anchoring."

"Portugal's back line is all experience," Steve added. "Pepe and José Fonte—well into their thirties. Guerreiro pushing high on one side, Cédric holding a bit more. Rui Patrício in goal. Same spine as Euro 2012, really."

"And still built around their talisman."

Ronaldo shifted again, peeling off Walker's shoulder—always hunting the smallest gap.

Tristan followed, not closing, just mirroring.

"Cristiano Ronaldo," Drury said. "In his fourth European Championship. In his second final. And perhaps his final chance."

McManaman's voice dipped.

"He doesn't need reminding what happened in Lisbon in 2004. Tonight's not just a final for him—it's a reckoning."

Drury let the moment stretch.

"Two teams. One young and surging. The other seasoned and unyielding."

"And between them—ninety minutes and a trophy waiting."

Portugal were just starting to settle—passing between the lines, João Mário and Nani rotating, drawing England's shape tighter.

But one pass ran too loose.

Tristan pounced.

He snapped forward—one step, two—cutting in front of Moutinho and nicking the ball clean. In the same motion, he turned. And ran.

The roar began to rise.

Peter Drury's voice went taut.

"Oh my word—he's away! Tristan's stolen it clean!"

Tristan stormed through midfield—Carvalho diving in, missing—then João Mário on his shoulder, fading fast.

Steve McManaman's voice pitched up.

"Look at the ground he's eating! He's flying!"

England fans were on their feet. Flags lifted. A white blur tearing through red.

Dele was screaming for it wide. Kane pointed to space. But Tristan kept going.

Closer. Closer.

Then—

A blur of red.

PEPE.

Pepe stepped up late—shoulder in, studs down, just enough contact to make it sting.

He clipped Tristan's trailing leg and sent him down just outside the arc. Not brutal. Not clean. Just enough to stop the run—and leave a mark.

"Oh no… Pepe, what have you done?"

Tristan stayed down for a second, face pressed to the turf, then pushed himself upright with a slow exhale. Not hurt. Just annoyed.

The referee pulled out the yellow card.

McManaman leaned in fast.

"You don't foul Tristan there. You don't give him this angle. Not from 30 yards. Not from 40."

Drury nodded.

"He is the finest free-kick taker in world football. A master of the long-range rocket. Of the impossible volley. Of the unsaveable."

Pepe turned and walked away without protest. The damage was already done.

.

Walker and Kane were the first to get to him.

"Fucking hell," Walker muttered, offering a hand.

"You alright?" Kane asked, already looking past him at Pepe. "You want us to return the favor?"

Tristan took the hand, stood, and dusted his arms off.

"That was normal for Pepe," he said flatly. "Seen him do worse."

Vardy arrived next, pissed as hell. "He didn't even try for the ball."

Tristan's voice didn't rise. He just looked at all of them.

"It was a smart foul. He knows how close I was. That's all it was. Nothing dirty, nothing worth losing your heads over."

He glanced toward the ref, then the ball.

"Now shut up and get ready. If he does something worse, I will break his legs then."

Henderson nodded, already backing off. Walker clapped Tristan's shoulder. Vardy still looked annoyed, but fell in line.

Tristan stepped forward, eyes fixed on the ball as Portgual got ready.

.

Ronaldo jogged back into frame, hand raised, voice sharp.

"Wall! Get in line! Now!"

He waved João Moutinho into place. Pointed at Guerreiro. Shouted again.

"Pepe—back left! Fonte, middle! Tight! Tight!"

Pepe stayed where he was, still watching Tristan line up the ball.

Ronaldo stormed over, lowering his voice as he grabbed his arm.

"What did I say?" he snapped. "You don't foul him there."

Pepe shrugged, breath still heavy. "I had to. He was in."

"I know," Ronaldo hissed. "But next time, don't miss. We can't let him take this."

Pepe turned away without answering. The wall was forming now—four men thick, all bouncing on their toes, arms behind backs.

Tristan stood over the ball, twenty-nine yards out. Just left of center. His shadow spilled forward like a blade.

Drury's voice floated back in, soft and electric.

""And this… this is the thunder no keeper wants summoned. A storm bent into a boot. And the storm wears 22."

"Because this man—this twenty-one-year-old—is the best dead-ball striker in world football. Bar none."

McManaman followed up. 

"There's no good angle. No good wall. He can go left, right, through you. If you're Rui Patrício, you're praying."

Rui Patrício was on his toes now, shouting over the wall. His gloves up. Eyes locked. Twitching.

Tristan bent slightly, adjusting his stance. Left boot planted. Right boot hovering. 

The stadium held its breath.

High above, in the VIP suite of Stade de France—

Queen Elizabeth II leaned forward, eyes fixed on the pitch, lips drawn into a thin line. Her gloved hands were clasped tightly over her lap, knuckles pale beneath the silk. A royal aide murmured something behind her.

"I can't remember the last time I was this nervous for a match," she said quietly. "Let alone a free kick."

Next to her, Prince William sat elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of his mouth like he was praying. "Come on, lad," he muttered. "Come on."

Prime Minister David Cameron was barely more composed. He rubbed his palms on his trouser legs, then gripped the armrest as if it could anchor him.

"This is it," he said. "This is really it."

.

In another box, the giants of football sat side by side

Florentino Pérez leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked. Not a word.

Nasser Al-Khelaifi stood at the glass, arms crossed.

 John W. Henry shifted in his seat, one hand gripping a tumbler of untouched scotch, the other balled into a fist on his knee.

Below them, Tristan stood over the ball.

.

In the stands, a few rows above the dugouts—

KSI stood frozen, both hands locked on his head. His mouth hung open. He hadn't blinked in twenty seconds.

Next to him, Simon leaned forward, eyes wide. "Yo, if he scores this, I'm gonna scream."

"You're already screaming," Ethan muttered without looking away.

"No, I mean like—break my vocal cords."

Tobi, Vikk, Harry, and the rest of the Sidemen huddled around, phones out, not recording each other, just the pitch, the silence, the moment.

A full stadium holding its breath.

A hundred thousand voices gone still.

All eyes on Number 22.

Back on the pitch—

Twenty-nine yards. Just left of center.

Tristan lifted his head.

And finally… the whistle blew.

Tristan took ten slow steps back.

One last breath.

Twenty-nine yards.

Just left of center.

The stadium was frozen.

In the Portuguese wall:

Pepe stood tense, knees bent, face hard—knowing he'd started this.

José Fonte squinted through the gaps, shifting nervously.

João Moutinho's lips moved in prayer.

And just behind them, slightly off to the side—

Cristiano Ronaldo watched. Eyes locked. Arms rigid at his sides. Every inch of him screaming what his mouth didn't:

Don't let it happen.

Then—

Tristan ran.

Left foot anchored. Right leg whipped.

Clean.

Sharp.

Perfect.

The ball rose—brushed over João Moutinho's hair—

Pepe's eyes widened.

Fonte flinched.

Moutinho turned his shoulder in pure reflex.

Ronaldo didn't move.

His head tilted a fraction as the ball bent mid-air, curling away from all of them—

And he knew.

Before anyone else.

He knew.

The ball tucked into the top corner like it had been summoned. Net rippled. Bar shivered. The Stade de France exploded.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!

Peter Drury's voice was already cracking with awe.

"OH… STRIKE THAT IN STONE! STRIKE THAT IN GOLD! TRISTAN HALE—WITH A GOAL FOR THE AGES!"

McManaman was half-shouting, half-laughing.

"That's un–REAL! Are you kidding me?! What is that?! What even is that?!"

Drury surged again, not missing a beat.

"From the edge of imagination! From the right boot of a boy turned king! He is not of this world!"

The replay hit the screen.

The curve. The dip. The angle.

Rui Patrício flying like a man chasing shadows.

Nothing could've saved it.

The crowd was chaos—flags twirling, arms flung skyward, shirts ripped off, fans collapsing over barriers.

White shirts mobbed the corner flag—Tristan swallowed under a mountain of bodies.

Walker first. Kane next. Then Vardy—screaming.

"YOU'RE FUCKING MAGIC!"

Joe Hart sprinted the full length of the pitch, fists raised.

Henderson tackled Tristan to the grass. Dele jumped over them both. Even Stones and Smalling came charging.

On the touchline, Roy Hodgson staggered a half step forward, both hands rising to clutch his head. His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He looked like a man who'd just seen the laws of physics rewritten.

The din of the stadium drowned beneath the ringing in his ears.

He mouthed one word—slow, disbelieving.

"Wow."

Then again, softer.

"Wow."

Not a tactical thought in his head. Not a single adjustment. Just wonder.

Like every other soul in the Stade de France.

Back in the booth, Drury's voice came through again.

"What do you say? What can you possibly say? A twenty-one-year-old… in a European final… has just drawn poetry in the air."

"And look at them," McManaman said. "Look at Portugal. Heads down. They knew not to give him that. Everyone in the stadium knew."

"And yet—"

Drury exhaled.

"Even knowing… changes nothing."

"He makes the impossible routine. He makes pressure irrelevant. He makes history… look easy."

Across the world, people would remember exactly where they were the moment that ball went in.

And inside Stade de France—reality shattered.

Queen Elizabeth II was grinning.

Her gloved hands, once perfectly composed in her lap, had jolted halfway into the air. For the first time in decades—she stood. Slowly. Like rising for an anthem she didn't know the words to.

She turned toward William, lips parting, but no sound came out.

William was already out of his seat, hands on his head, eyes wide. "Did that actually—"

David Cameron couldn't believe it.

Meanwhile in the stands,

KSI was gone.

He was on his knees, hands still wrapped on his head, screaming without sound. His jaw hung open like his soul was trying to eject itself.

Ethan was spinning in circles, filming himself. "NO. NO. HE DIDN'T."

Simon had jumped onto the chair in front of him and was hopping in place, voice cracking.

"YOU CAN'T EVEN DO THAT IN FIFA. YOU CAN'T EVEN DO THAT IN A FUCKING DREAM."

Phones were up. Cameras shaking. Fans were collapsing against barriers, falling over one another.

The noise didn't stay in Paris.

It roared through London pubs. Rattled TV screens in Lagos. Lit flares in Birmingham and breathless screams in Budapest.

Because that goal didn't belong to a team. It belonged to the game.

And it belonged to him.

Tristan Hale.

The kid. The captain. The crown.

Minute 9

Fernando Santos stood frozen for half a second.

Then his hand snapped up, fingers stabbing into the air like a general rallying troops.

"VAMOS!" he bellowed. "Get your heads up! You hear me?! GET THEM UP!"

His voice cut through the chaos.

Pepe turned, nodding. Moutinho raised a hand. Guerreiro was already jogging into place. Nani clapped his hands twice and shouted to João Mário.

And near the center circle, Cristiano Ronaldo pulled everyone in.

"All of you—listen," he barked, voice tight, low, controlled. "One goal. That's all it is."

He looked around—his eyes sharp, locked in—not blinking.

"They want us to panic," he said. "They want to rattle us. But we're Portugal."

He stepped into the middle of the huddle.

"I've been down in a final before. I know how this story goes. But only if you let it."

His arm shot up.

"So fucking don't."

Fonte slapped his back. Carvalho shouted, "Vamos!"

The ref blew his whistle again.

.

Back in the booth, Drury's voice steadied.

"Portugal are wounded… but not broken."

McManaman followed quickly.

"They've got veterans everywhere. Experience in every position. And Ronaldo, he's not just a scorer anymore, he's a leader. He's not letting them fall apart."

On the pitch, João Mário restarted play.

Pass to Moutinho. Then to Nani. Portugal still looked organized—tight, neat, deliberate.

England dropped deeper. Stones and Smalling stayed close. Henderson hovered like a shadow in front.

Portugal passed. Passed again.

But the pressure was different now. Every touch came heavier. Every yard felt longer.

.

Back on the England bench, Roy Hodgson finally sat.

Hands still on his head.

Muttering under his breath.

He looked up again as Ronaldo peeled off toward the left.

And suddenly—

Portugal were in motion again.

Ronaldo flicked it to João Mário, then spun off and darted down the left flank.

João Mário looked up—spotted the run—and clipped it perfectly into space.

Drury's voice rose.

 "Here comes Cristiano! Down the left—like a knife through linen!"

The crowd surged to its feet.

Ronaldo took it in stride, one touch to control, another to shape his body as Walker scrambled to close the gap. But he was already gone. Past him. Like the wind.

Now just Joe Hart to beat.

McManaman's voice cracked in his throat.

 "Oh my God, it's on! It's really on!"

Cristiano opened his body.

Near post calling. Far post whispering. Fans behind the goal bracing, cameras flashing—

And he struck.

Laces. Clean. With all the venom in his soul.

The ball screamed toward the bottom corner.

Hart flung himself—arms out, legs split, every inch of muscle stretched like wire.

The stadium held its breath.

Then—

THUD.

It clipped the outside of the post.

Wide.

Agonizingly wide.

Portugal's fans screamed. England's fans gasped. Everyone else just froze.

McManaman exploded.

"He's missed it! Cristiano Ronaldo has missed it!"

Peter Drury's voice returned, shaking with disbelief.

"It was there… a golden chance… the equaliser in his boots… and it veers past the post like a ghost fleeing the light."

Ronaldo dropped to his knees, both hands gripping the grass, staring at the spot where the ball had left him.

Behind him, Walker exhaled so hard he almost collapsed.

Joe Hart sat on the turf for a second, blinking. Then pounded the ground with both fists.

Back on the touchline, Roy Hodgson had risen again—now pacing—hand over his mouth, nearly having a heart attack.

In the crowd, the noise was fractured—shock, celebration, dread.

One side had seen their god miss.

The other had seen a miracle.

Peter Drury steadied his voice again.

"Cristiano Ronaldo does not miss those. Not in finals. Not with the world watching. But tonight… the margins are thinner than air."

McManaman cut in, breathless.

"That was it. That was the moment. You don't get those twice."

Drury agreed softly.

"And now… you wonder. Was that the moment Portugal needed—and lost?"

On the pitch, Ronaldo stood slowly.

His face was blank.

He looked up into the sky.

Not in prayer.

But like a man searching for answers.

But Portugal didn't crumble despite the miss.

They tightened.

Even after the free-kick, even with the stadium still pulsing from Tristan's wondergoal, the red shirts held their line. They pressed. They passed. They kept moving. Their captain kept talking.

"Portugal are not done. Not by a mile. They've been here before—faced this kind of fire. And they've still got fire of their own."

And they did.

Ronaldo nearly broke the net in the 28th minute—a diagonal run, a dipping volley that Joe Hart had to claw wide with both hands. The entire Portuguese bench was on their feet. Even England's back four turned and barked at each other.

Steve McManaman leaned in, breath short. "That's a warning. You fall asleep against him for one second…"

Then came the corner. Fonte rose. Stones beat him to it. The ball flew out—Tristan was already spinning away with it.

England broke again.

But this time, Portugal scrambled. They didn't let it turn into another disaster. Guerreiro recovered. Moutinho tracked. They slowed the rhythm.

Still—England didn't stop coming.

Thirty-first minute.

Tristan again dropped between the lines. Pulled João Mário with him. He played a quick one-two with Henderson. Then a touch wide to Drinkwater.

Portugal's shape shifted, but for one breath—one heartbeat—it was almost too slow.

And that's when it happened.

Drinkwater snapped it forward.

Tristan ghosted across the line—unmarked—dragging Pepe with him. But he let it run.

And behind him, suddenly, Kane was there.

One touch. Drive. Smash.

Bottom corner.

GOOOOOAL!

Drury didn't hesitate.

"AND IT'S KANE! ENGLAND DOUBLE THEIR LEAD! OH, WHAT A MOVE THAT WAS!"

McManaman was already shouting.

"That's training ground stuff! That's cold! That's ruthless!"

The white shirts swarmed Kane again. Kane pointed straight at Tristan, shaking his head in disbelief.

"YOU DIDN'T EVEN LOOK."

Tristan smiled, chest rising and falling. 

Peter Drury exhaled into the mic.

"They said this final would be cagey. They said it would be tight. But England… are writing their own rules."

He paused.

"But do not count Portugal out."

And on the pitch, Ronaldo was already clapping. Already shouting. Already pointing.

Not sulking. Not sulking for one second.

"Up!" he barked. "Get up! Let's go!"

Moutinho jogged to him. Guerreiro nodded. Fonte jogged to retrieve the ball from the net himself.

Even two goals down, they weren't rattled. Not like a young team would be. Not like a side that didn't know how to lose.

Because they did. They'd lost before. They'd risen before. And they trusted each other like soldiers trust shields.

Moutinho kept running. Guerreiro never stopped overlapping. Pepe barked until his voice cracked. Ronaldo dropped deeper now—sweeping in from the wing, touching the ball more, dragging defenders.

At minute 38, he nearly pulled one back. A give-and-go with Nani, a sliver of space, and then—

BANG—a low drive toward the near post.

Joe Hart got down with a fingertip save that sent the ball spinning just wide of the post. The Portuguese fans groaned—but they believed.

Because they were still in it.

They had been here before.

But what they hadn't faced—what no one had truly prepared for—

Was what came next.

Minute 40.

Henderson won a duel just inside England's half and poked it to Tristan, who was deep. Still in his own half. Surrounded by three red shirts.

Tristan turned.

One glance up.

The space was there—but it wasn't.

Not for normal men.

Not for anyone else.

He didn't hesitate.

He let it fly.

Thirty-six yards out.

The ball exploded off his right boot. A missile. A lightning bolt. A cannon blast that didn't rise—it dipped and screamed through the air, swerving mid-flight like it had a mind of its own.

Rui Patrício didn't even dive.

He just flinched.

The net detonated.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!

Peter Drury's voice shattered.

"OH, HOLY MOTHER OF ALL THINGS STRUCK BY GOD! HE'S DONE IT AGAIN! FROM THE NEXT GALAXY OVER!"

McManaman was gasping for breath. "That's—no. No. No one does that. From there?! That's madness!"

Drury kept going, voice surging.

"That is not a strike. That is violence! That is artillery! That is a message to every nation on Earth!"

The Stade de France erupted.

There was no chant. No coordinated roar.

Just chaos.

People screaming. People falling over each other. Fans grabbing strangers. Some collapsing forward like they couldn't believe their bodies were real.

England's bench emptied again. Roy Hodgson didn't move—he just stared, hands covering his mouth, eyes wide behind his glasses.

Tristan didn't even celebrate.

He just stood there.

Breathing.

Looking up at the scoreboard.

Like he was checking off a list.

His teammates tackled him anyway.

Vardy screaming in his ear.

Kane grabbed his shirt. "Bro. Bro. Bro—WHAT ARE YOU?!"

And Peter Drury, after a long silence, let it all out.

"They say Portugal are built on trust. On experience. On battle scars and years forged in war."

"But experience… doesn't stop a storm."

"Chemistry doesn't stop a force of nature."

"Tristan Hale… is not part of the game. He's above it."

"This is not football as we know it. This is domination. This is cruelty. This is a boy playing among men and making them look like boys."

McManaman put it plainly.

"You can be a team of legends. A squad of warriors. But right now… all of them are standing in the path of something bigger."

"Something we've never seen before."

Minute 40.

England 3 — Portugal 0.

And for the first time all night—

Portugal stood still in disbelief.

Moutinho's hands rested on his hips, his chest heaving. His eyes locked on the spot where the ball had struck net.

Fonte stood frozen, legs apart, staring at Rui Patrício like the keeper might explain it away.

But Patrício just turned, eyes following the ball as it rolled out of the net. He didn't look angry.

He looked… hollow.

And Ronaldo—

Cristiano Ronaldo, the veteran, the champion, the face of Portuguese football—

Stared at the scoreboard.

Then at the boy across from him.

He couldn't understand what was happening.

The crowd didn't roar anymore. It screamed.

Every camera shook. Every flag flew.

Because no one in the stadium could remember a final starting like this.

And no one could imagine how it might end.

Peter summarized it quite well.

"They hoped for a moment to remember…

But it did not come from Portugal.

 It came from England.

And perhaps—

Perhaps this game is over…

Even before halftime."

.

The whistle had barely echoed before the ITV Sport broadcast snapped away to its half-time show.

No graphics. No lead-in. Just a sweeping shot of the touchline platform, raised above pitch level, framed by floodlights and pandemonium. Behind them, the stadium had clamed down with fans leaving for bathroom breaks and snacks.

But you could still feel the aftershock in the air.

The camera hovered capturing the stadium before in a single fluid pan swept across the platform. 

Where the half-time show ITV Sport was being held.

Four men stood on the platform.

Thierry Henry at the center, flanked by Roy Keane on his right, Jamie Carragher to his left, and Paul Scholes beside him.

Thierry Henry stepped forward first, mic in hand, his voice steady over the background hum of a stadium still catching its breath.

"Good evening, everyone. Welcome to the half-time show of the UEFA Euro 2016 Final—live on ITV Sport, if you're watching from England."

He gave a brief glance to either side.

"I'm Thierry Henry, joined tonight by Roy Keane, Jamie Carragher, and Paul Scholes."

A pause.

"And I think it's safe to say… we've just witnessed something no one could've predicted when this final kicked off."

He looked out at the pitch behind them, then back toward the camera.

"England three, Portugal nil."

The disbelief cracked through his voice. His hands spread slightly, almost reflexively, like he needed to feel the air respond.

"I—honestly. I don't know what to say."

Roy Keane didn't wait long.

"I do," he said, sharp and low, arms crossed. "It's a battering."

He turned, eyes flicking to Henry. "I don't care how experienced you are—Portugal got blown off the pitch. Outran. Outworked. Out-thought. That midfield's been a disaster, and the back line's in bits."

Jamie Carragher leaned forward, eyes still fixed on the pitch.

"It's been a disaster," he said plainly. "Let's not sugarcoat it. Tactically, they've gotten everything wrong. Sitting in a mid-block against this England side? Against Tristan? It's suicidal."

He shook his head. "I don't know what Fernando Santos thought was going to happen. You give Tristan room to turn and operate, and giving Kane and Vardy the space to run and hit the ball, it's over. It's egotistical of them to think they could stop England like that. Only one team has managed to somewhat restrained Tristan and that was France and that was because they built a whole scheme around Kante and extra heping being able to somewhat contain Tristan to a limited role and that worked only for 40 minutes. I just dont know what Santo was thinking."

Scholes glanced toward Carragher, nodding slowly.

"Jamie's absolutely right," he said. "You look at this setup—how high the fullbacks were, how much space they gave Tristan between the lines… it's not brave, it's naïve."

He shifted his weight slightly, eyes narrowing.

"And let's be honest—they were lucky to even get to this stage. Poland should've had them. Croatia had chances. They scraped through with penalties and narrow margins. So where did this confidence come from? What made them think they could go toe-to-toe with the best team in the tournament?"

Henry didn't answer. Neither did the others.

Scholes continued, heat rising now. "They didn't respect the opponent. That's what it comes down to. They looked at England and saw kids and inexperienced at playing at a final.But those kids are three-nil up in a Euro final because experience doesn't matter when the talent gap is so big between the two teams."

Roy Keane scoffed, shaking his head slowly.

 "Confidence?" he said. "That's not confidence. That's arrogance."

He jabbed a thumb toward the pitch behind them.

"You don't come into a final against a team like this and hope it works out. Hope isn't a plan. Portugal hoped their experience would save them. Hoped Ronaldo would bail them out. Hoped England would blink."

He leaned forward now, voice hardening.

"They didn't. And that's the problem."

Keane's eyes flicked briefly toward Henry, then back to the camera.

"After the first goal goes in, if I'm the manager, I shut it down immediately. Low block. Everyone behind the ball. I don't care how ugly it looks. You survive to halftime at one-nil and regroup."

He shook his head again. "But they didn't. They kept leaving space. Kept giving Tristan the ball. Kept letting Kane and Vardy run at them.".

"That's not tactics. That's stubbornness."

Keane folded his arms.

"And at this level? Stubbornness gets you embarrassed."

Thierry Henry let the silence breathe for a moment than continued.

"You know… I keep thinking about the little things."

"The missed chances. Ronaldo had two in the first twenty minutes — both just wide. Guerreiro losing Tristan on that third goal. Moutinho switching off before the counter. It wasn't just tactics. It's the details. The details have gone against Portugal all night."

He turned slightly toward the others.

"And England? They've punished every one of them."

Carragher let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah, the England lads watching this back are going to be smiling. Every mistake? Clinical."

Scholes nodded. "It's been precise. That second goal from Kane—that's off a broken play. Thirty seconds of chaos, and they still find a way through."

Keane lifted an eyebrow.

"And the third?" he said. "The third's not tactics. That's just a world-class player doing world-class things."

Henry laughed softly.

"I was going to say," he said, "I don't think anyone wants to be in that Portugal wall again anytime soon."

He shifted his weight, facing the camera again.

"And look, I know we've spent most of this first half talking about what went wrong for Portugal… but we have to talk about what's gone right for England."

A pause.

"I mean, look at them. They're fearless. They're ruthless."

Carragher couldn't help himself.

"And they've got Tristan Hale."

That was all it took.

Scholes groaned instantly. "Here we go…"

Keane rolled his eyes. "Oh give it a rest, Jamie."

Henry grinned. "He's been waiting to say that all night."

Carragher shrugged like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "I'm just saying what we're all thinking."

"You're thinking it because he's going to Liverpool," Scholes shot back. "You've been winking like it's already done."

Carragher chuckled, hands up. "I didn't say that. I didn't say that."

Keane cut in dry. "You said it last week. Twice. Once on air."

"Details," Jamie said, waving it off.

Henry leaned on the desk now, smiling.

"Liverpool haven't even confirmed anything and you're already designing him a mural outside Anfield."

Jamie smirked. "Look, if he plays like this in red—he'll have twenty."

Scholes tilted his head. "And if he goes to Madrid instead?"

a"Then I never rated him," Carragher deadpanned.

Keane actually let out a short laugh. "You're shameless."

Henry glanced toward the camera, still smiling.

"Alright, enough transfer talk. Let's get back to the football. Because wherever he ends up—tonight, he's leading England to something historic."

The camera panned wide again—floodlights beaming, flags waving, a stadium still buzzing beneath the surface.

And across the world… the internet exploded long before even halftime.

.

@BlackPaint_Trump: Holy shit, what are watching, lmao. I can't believe Tristan scored the free kick and England is dominating this match. Like yes I expected England to win but like it would be a close like 2-1, or there was even a chance of going to pens. What the fuck is going on, lmao.

↳@Lucas: Tristan happened bro.

↳@BlackPaint_Trump: Nah but like three goals? By halftime?? Like I couldn't believe it watching alive. I was expecting a lot more from Ronaldo as this was his best shot to outperfom Tristan and have any hopes of winning the Ballon D'or but he decided to be shit, lmao.

↳@Lucas: If Ronaldo buried either of those early chances it's probably 3–2 right now and we'd be calling this a classic.

↳ @BlackPaint_Trump: Instead we're calling it child abuse 💀💀💀

↳ @Lucas: "Experience will help Portugal" Oh that experience gonna help when you have to guard Tristan? Good luck with that.

↳ @BlackPaint_Trump: Only thing Ronaldo experienced was watching his Ballon d'Or dreams shatter in real time 😭😭😭

↳ @Lucas: Bro turned 31 and Tristan decided it was time to send him to pundit duty.

@Aee: This is worse than Germany 7–1 imo. I just knew Ronaldo is pissed as hell in the locker room, lmao. What I would do to watch the show.

@:Teh_storm: Tristan Hale just took three Ballon d'Or nominations away from Ronaldo in 45 minutes 😭😭😭

@Ethan_Brown: Tristan Hale first half vs Portugal:

• 2 goals

• 1 assist

• 92% pass accuracy

• 5/5 long balls

• 1 spiritual awakening for the Portuguese back line

God damn Tristan is out here abusing Ronaldo. I personally think Tristan finally decided to end the best in the world conservation like this is my era type of thing lol. 

@KSI: That free kick lives in my head now. Might name my kid after it.

#TristanHale #England's Greatest

@Lenny: No jokes, no memes. I feel privileged to be alive to witness Tristan Hale.

@HalePropaganda: Man's not even old enough to rent a car in the U.S. and he's torching Ronaldo's final final.

@FuckThatBitch-Garp: Just imagining Tristan in Liverpool is enough to make a grown man bust.

@Thomas: I waited ten years for this golden generation to show up… and this is what I get.

↳@LordShiva: [image of Ronaldo on one knee watching Tristan celebrate]

Caption: The apprentice becomes the master.

@Tita: Should've parked the bus. Should've parked three buses.

.

And just like that, Tristan Hale had the world in his palm.

England walked off at halftime with one hand on the trophy, and the rest of Europe—silent.

The noise wasn't coming from the stadium anymore.

It was coming from phones.

From group chats.

From living rooms and pubs and phones being thrown at walls.

It was the sound of a final already slipping into history.

This wasn't Portugal collapsing.

This was England arriving.

And Tristan Hale announcing to the world, his time was now!

.

Halftime

Portugal Locker Room

The door slammed open.

Boots hit tile like thunder. Shoulders slumped. Heads down.

Bruno Alves kicked a water bottle across the room without looking. It clanged off a locker and rolled beneath the bench.

Pepe ripped the tape from his wrists and flung it into the corner. Moutinho walked in last, staring at the floor like he'd lost something.

Raphaël Guerreiro didn't even make it to the bench. He stopped halfway through the room, hands on his hips, mouthing the same word over and over: "Foda-se… foda-se…"

Ricardo Carvalho collapsed onto the bench and immediately buried his face in a towel. Rui Patrício leaned against the wall, still in his gloves, sweat pouring down his neck.

They were broken.

Ashamed.

No one made eye contact.

No one spoke.

Then—

The door slammed again.

Cristiano Ronaldo stormed in, face hard with fury, eyes sharp and unforgiving. He looked like he was ready to tear into someone.

"What are you doing?" 

He shouted.

Ronaldo took another step forward, his rage somehow getting worse.

"What the hell are you doing out there?"

He tore the captain's armband from his arm in one rough motion and flung it onto the bench. It landed with a soft thud that somehow echoed louder than any scream.

His chest rose and fell as he started shouting again.

"Three-nil! THREE. NIL. In a final! Is that what you want to be remembered for?"

"Do you want to be like Brazil? Do you want to be another fucking 5-1?"

 Ronaldo wasn't done.

"You're not kids! You're not tourists! This is a final! You let one nineteen-year-old tear you to shreds like we're amateurs!"

He stepped into the middle of the room now, breathing hard.

"Get your heads up out of your ass. This isn't over unless we decide it's over."

Silence.

 Then a voice from the door.

Fernando Santos.

He hadn't said a word until now. But he stepped forward, eyes steady.

"He's right."

He raised his voice.

"We've made mistakes. We've played soft. But this second half is ours if we fight. No more mid-block. No more waiting."

"WE HAVE TO WIN!"

He grabbed the whiteboard and wheeled it to the center of the room, markers already uncapped. His voice rang clear.

"We're switching. Immediate press in their half. No more passive shape."

He drew two lines quickly, dragging red magnets across England's midfield.

"They're killing us in the space between the lines. So we close that space. Tight. Compact."

He slammed a palm over the board.

"William, Moutinho—you don't go past the halfway line unless we're in full control. Sit. Shield the back four. Force them wide."

He looked up at Guerreiro.

"You don't take another step forward unless you've got coverage. Stay. In. Position."

Guerreiro nodded.

Santos turned to the rest.

"When they build, we press in a 4-1-4-1. Nani and João go narrow when they don't have the ball. Bruno, you drop next to Moutinho."

He jabbed a finger toward Ronaldo now.

"And when we win it—he gets the ball."

The room was still. Listening now. Focused.

"None of this trying to walk it in. None of this four-touch nonsense. One pass. Two max. Then go. It didn't work out like we thought it would."

He paused at the edge of the whiteboard, marker still in hand.

"We score the next goal… and they panic. We score the next goal… and they start thinking about losing."

He looked at Pepe.

"You've got 45 minutes left. Leave it all there."

Pepe nodded grimly.

"Let's go ruin their miracle."

.

On the other hand, the atmosphere of the England locker room was completely different to Portugal.

It didn't feel like a final anymore.

Not to the players.

Three-nil.

They were forty-five minutes away from immortality.

Boots were off. Shirts half-peeled. Ice towels pressed to backs and necks. The adrenaline hadn't worn off yet, but the fear had. Nerves had left with the third goal.

Jamie Vardy stood in the middle of the room, tossing a protein bar into the air and catching it behind his back.

"Straight to the pub after this, yeah?" he said, grinning. "I'm not even showering. Kit on. Medal around my neck. Beer in my hand."

Sterling snorted from the massage table. "You think the gaffer's letting us out like that?"

"He won't have a choice," Vardy shot back. "We win this, I'm running straight into town."

Lallana leaned forward, chuckling. "Might have to carry you out of Paris by your ankles."

"Parade me through it first," Vardy said. "One hand on the trophy, other on a pint."

"Which hand for the medal?" Kane chimed in from the corner.

"All three," Vardy grinned.

Laughter rolled through the room.

Dele Alli kicked his boots off and leaned over to Tristan. "What about you? You going to one of them posh rooftop things with your girl? Champagne and fireworks?"

Tristan smiled for the first time all half.

"I might," he said. "Or I'll just fly the family in, rent a suite somewhere quiet. And just to go sleep for a week straight. I just wanna be done with this season."

Henderson grinned. "Can't blame you for the thought with how much discipline and work you put in for the last year.."

"Still going to be some kind of madness though, yeah?" Ben added. "I mean—if we actually do this…"

"When," Rooney corrected. "Not if."

That was the mood.

No one spoke about losing.

No one considered it.

Three-nil at halftime? The Euros were theirs. It was already written.

Roy Hodgson stood at the front, arms crossed. He let the buzz go for another ten seconds. Then cleared his throat.

"Alright," he said.

The room settled. 

"Keep going. Same pressure. Same shape."

He picked up a dry marker and tapped it against the edge of the whiteboard.

"We defend well? We win the Euros."

That was all he said. That was all he needed to say.

 Just forty-five minutes between them and history.

Tristan looked around the room. Saw it in their eyes.

They already believed it was over. 

And he agreed. What could Ronaldo even do at this point.

.

The two teams emerged from opposite sides — Portugal first, then England — boots thudding against the concrete floor, studs clicking like warning shots.

Ronaldo led his side out with his expression carved from granite. Behind him, Pepe slapped his chest once, nodded at no one, and mouthed something only he could hear. Guerreiro walked slower, more composed, more dangerous.

On the other side: England looked calm, confident looking like the match was over.

The referee gave the signal. The teams peeled off into formation. And in the commentary box, the cameras came back to life.

.

Drury's voice cut through the roar of the crowd, gentle and composed.

"Welcome back to the Stade de France." He paused a moment, letting the scene fill the screen.

"Three goals. Forty-five minutes. And an England team on the cusp of rewriting history."

McManaman came in next. "It's been dominant, Peter. Not just in scoreline—mentality, shape, tempo. Everything. They've looked like champions."

"But," Drury added, voice tightening slightly, "finals have a funny way of twisting when you least expect it. And you don't need to look further than that man, Cristiano Ronaldo, to know how quickly a match can turn."

McManaman nodded. "You can see it in Portugal's eyes. Whatever Fernando Santos said in that dressing room—it landed. They look different. There's belief again compared to when they walked off the field looking defeated."

Drury continued. "And belief… is a dangerous thing."

.

Cristiano stood over the ball.

João Mário beside him.

The whistle blew—

And with one quick tap, the second half began.

"Let's go," Ronaldo muttered under his breath. "You remember the plan."

João Mário nodded.

Ronaldo glanced up, then took off.

He didn't jog. He sprinted. Like he had to outrun the stadium, the headlines, the scoreboard.

.

High above, the noise hadn't settled. Not even close.

The England fans were still drunk on it all—on the moment, on the lead, on the disbelief.

And now they sang.

Loud.

Ruthless.

🎵 "CRYYYYY-RONALDO, YOU ALWAYS BOTTLE IT!" 🎵

🎵 "THREE-NIL DOWN AND YOU'RE ON YOUR KNEES!" 🎵

🎵 "OHHHHH, CRISTIANO, WHERE'S YOUR GOALS?" 🎵

🎵 "TRISTAN'S TAKEN ALL YOUR DREAMS!" 🎵

A fat guy in a wig waved a Union Jack like it was a weapon. Someone in the front row took their shirt off and swung it above their head.

It was cruel.

And it was England.

.

But on the pitch?

Portugal had changed.

Shape.

Tempo.

Fire.

.

First minute.

Ronaldo came central—dragging Stones with him. João Mário tucked in from the left, flicked a pass behind, and suddenly Guerreiro was flying forward, overlap timed perfectly.

Walker lunged. Missed.

Cross whipped in. Nani rising.

Just over.

England tried to settle it down—Henderson recycling to Drinkwater, Smalling and Stones holding the line—but Portugal pressed like wolves now.

Four. Five red shirts swarming.

Vardy couldn't even breathe. A wild pass out to Chilwell went long.

Throw-in Portugal.

Roy Hodgson stood on the touchline with his hands on his hips. Not yelling. Not yet. But watching. Watching very carefully.

.

João Moutinho picked it up deep, poked it forward—

Bruno Fernandes was on now.

Fresh legs. Fresh aggression.

He turned into space, looked up, spotted Ronaldo wide right—

Laser ball.

Ronaldo didn't slow down. Took it on the run.

Chilwell backing off. Then stepping. Too late.

Ronaldo cut inside—again—and this time, he hit it.

Left foot. Low. Dipping.

Hart saw it late—

Dove.

Punched it wide.

Corner.

.

Drury's voice locked in.

"And now the volume rises for a different reason."

McManaman, sharper now. "That's the cleanest look he's had since the post. You give him five more of those? One's going in."

.

Portugal took it short—quick one-two between Bruno and Guerreiro—driven ball across the face of goal—

Kane cleared it. Barely.

Vardy chased the rebound, but Bruno tracked him the full 30 yards and bodied him off it.

No whistle.

Portugal again.

.

Five minutes gone in the half.

England hadn't touched the ball in three.

The crowd noticed.

The chanting slowed. Some looked around. Some whispered.

On the bench, Roy Hodgson turned to his assistants.

Drury's voice grew more urgent.

"They need to get a foot on it. England cannot afford to drift now."

And McManaman followed fast. "They look like they think it's already over. But Portugal are playing like it's just begun."

.

The ball came back out to Guerreiro.

Another cross.

Too far.

But Ronaldo still jumped—still fought—still demanded.

And England?

Started looking over their shoulder.

Because that wasn't just Cristiano Ronaldo.

That was a storm.

And it hadn't passed yet.

.

Eight minutes into the second half.

And Portugal were still breathing fire.

Their press wasn't just high.

It was personal.

It was venomous.

Ronaldo wasn't leading it. He was igniting it.

He surged at Stones like a heat-seeking missile, yelling before he even reached him—"PLAY IT THEN!"—forcing a panicked pass back to Joe Hart, who barely got it out of his feet before Nani came flying in from the opposite side.

João Mário didn't bother waiting for the ball to reach Walker. He was already there—one arm across his chest, the other flicking at his heels, snarling something in Portuguese as Walker tried to swivel out.

And behind them, deeper in midfield, it was worse.

Moutinho and William Carvalho moved like they were chained together—press, trap, lunge. Any English midfielder who turned his back found one of them in his shirt.

Every England touch came with a shout.

Every pass came with teeth.

The ball zipped to Lallana—and he miscontrolled it.

It went to Kane—and he lost it in the shuffle.

Vardy came short—bumped off by Pepe like a schoolboy.

And suddenly…

England looked rattled.

.

In the dugout, Roy Hodgson rose to his feet.

He didn't yell. But he didn't sit back down either.

.

The camera swept to the lower stands.

The England section—raucous minutes ago—wasn't singing now.

No "God Save the Queen."

No "It's Coming Home."

"This is turning, Peter," said Steve McManaman, sharp and fast. "This is proper pressure. It's not even tactical anymore—this is blood and thunder. It's pure will."

Drury let the moment breathe before speaking again.

"Portugal are not behaving like a beaten side. They're behaving like a wounded one."

His voice dipped.

"And wounded teams don't fade quietly. If you're thinking this story has reached its ending… stay. This chapter may yet twist."

Walker finally got a toe on it. Booted it down the line.

But João Mário got there first.

Portugal again.

Moutinho to Ronaldo. Ronaldo to Nani. Back to Guerreiro.

The tempo didn't drop.

The press didn't relent.

.

And now the England players were barking.

It was frustration.

They couldn't breathe.

.

"They need Tristan."

 That was McManaman again, almost under his breath.

 "They need someone to put a foot on it. Slow it all down. Settle this match back into their rhythm."

But Tristan wasn't near the ball yet.

Portugal weren't letting it near him.

And the crowd knew it.

That early confidence?

That drunken certainty?

All gone.

Then came another heavy touch from Kane.

Another turnover.

Another roar from the Portugal bench.

Another punch of adrenaline for Ronaldo—

Who turned.

Who screamed.

Who ran again.

.

The game hadn't flipped yet.

But the pressure was building.

And England?

Were creaking.

And then—

"Tristan Hale," Peter Drury said, voice tightening, "takes a step back… and takes the game with him."

It started simple.

A soft check-in from midfield.

Henderson saw it.

Rolled it into his feet.

Touch.

Turn.

But Portugal swarmed again.

William closed fast.

Nani came crashing in from the blindside.

Even Pepe had stepped ten yards higher than normal—reckless, desperate.

"They're swarming!" Steve McManaman snapped. "You'd think England were the ones chasing the game the way Portugal are throwing bodies forward!"

But Tristan—

He didn't rush.

One drag-back.

One shoulder feint.

William lunged—and missed.

Nani bit on air.

"Ohhh, that is silk," Drury breathed. "That is control under chaos!"

.

Now Adrien Silva came flying at him—fast, wild, all momentum and urgency.

Tristan slowed.

On purpose.

He carried the ball straight into Adrien's path.

Dared him.

A hip shift.

A half-step pause.

Adrien overcommitted.

Layoff—clean and simple—to Stones.

Then he spun.

And the ball came right back to him.

Like it had no interest in leaving.

"Portugal can't press the man of miracles," McManaman said. "No—worse. They're chasing a conductor who's already written the next five notes!"

.

Then came the switch.

From the center circle, Tristan rolled his shoulders and pinged a laser across the pitch—

Out to Chilwell.

Perfect weight.

Perfect spin.

Perfect timing.

"You don't teach that!" Drury erupted. "That's twenty-one—years old! That's Tristan Hale reminding everyone: this match doesn't swing because Portugal believe. It ends when he decides."

.

And England breathed.

A slow suffocation through passes.

And Portugal could feel it.

Sprints became jogs.

Jogging became stretching.

Hands on hips.

Glances exchanged.

They were still chasing—

But now they were chasing ghosts.

.

Back to Tristan.

Center circle.

One boot on the ball.

Just standing there.

Surveying.

Like a general on a hill.

And in the stands—England found their voice again.

.

The ball ticked side to side.

Then forward.

Then back.

Never rushed.

Never panicked.

Never without him.

He wasn't just playing now.

He was putting the final under anesthesia.

And Portugal?

They were starting to suffocate.

The 63rd minute.

Drury's voice was steady but cautious, like a man sensing tremors underfoot.

"They've weathered so much… and yet, Portugal still press forward."

McManaman cut in, sharp. "They're not breaking the door down, Peter. They're picking the lock. Guerreiro again, he's been everywhere—this is dangerous."

Moutinho to Bruno.

Bruno to Guerreiro.

Inside. Back out. Touch after touch, the passes came like waves. Portugal weren't just pushing England—they were daring them to slip.

And then—

Cristiano moved.

Drury's tone dipped, low and coiled.

"There he goes…"

A diagonal dart, behind Chilwell, ghosting between the blind spots.

Walker hesitated.

Smalling froze.

Hart screamed, "MARK HIM!"

But it was too late.

Guerreiro spotted it. Lofted it.

One touch—no shot.

Cristiano didn't go for glory.

He bent his run, turned away from goal, and whipped it back across the six-yard box. It came low. Fast. Malicious.

Vardy ducked.

Kane couldn't reach.

But John Stones—

Too deep. Too square. Too unlucky.

He stretched.

Wrong body shape.

Wrong direction.

The ball hit shin.

Hart dove for a ghost.

And the net rippled.

Own goal.

Drury erupted.

"Ohhhh my WORD—he's put it into his own net!"

The Stade de France exploded.

"John Stones, in horror! In heartbreak! In disbelief! And Portugal… are alive again!"

McManaman shouted over the din. "It's the pressure! It's all Ronaldo! That's not a chance! That's chaos made real—he bent that whole backline with one run!"

England froze.

Hart sat slumped, fists to the grass.

Stones turned slowly, like he couldn't believe it happened.

Vardy held his head.

Walker swore.

Drury's voice steadied, but the tone had changed.

"Three-one. Still a lead. But now a crack. And from that crack… Portugal surge through. You can feel it, Steve."

McManaman didn't hesitate.

"This final is back on."

Cristiano didn't celebrate.

He jogged to the net, scooped the ball up, and turned.

His finger raised—not to the crowd. To his teammates.

"TWO MORE!"

And the noise?

It didn't come from England now.

It was red.

Roaring.

Rising.

Singing.

And across Europe, millions sat forward again.

Because England were still ahead.

But they weren't safe anymore.

.

Stones didn't move. He just stood there in the box, blinking, like he'd glitched. Like the noise had muted around him.

Hart kicked the post.

Walker shouted something nobody understood.

Henderson clapped, trying to rally—half-hearted.

And Vardy just stared at Kane.

"What the fuck just happened?" he mouthed.

But it was Tristan who broke the spell.

He jogged back. 

Hand on Stones' shoulder—light, but firm.

"Hey."

No answer.

Tristan stepped in front of him. Lowered his voice.

"It's fine."

Stones finally looked up. "I didn't see him. I didn't—"

"I know."

Tristan tapped his chest once.

"I'll fix it. Just believe in me."

.

At midfield, Kane was pacing.

"Fucking hell. Don't let them get another—"

"We won't," said Henderson.

.

The ball rolled again.

Restart.

Henderson to Smalling. Back to Stones. Out wide to Chilwell.

But the rhythm had changed.

Portugal came flying—Carvalho snapping at ankles, João Mário surging forward.

Every pass from England now carried a cost.

Every touch echoed with the weight of Portugal's goal.

And Roy Hodgson saw it.

He stepped out from the technical box, arms crossed. The team looked like it needed some experience.

Then he turned.

Two words to the assistant.

Two shirts came off.

Peter Drury caught it as the camera tracked the sideline.

"And now… the signal from the England bench. Rooney. Milner. Two veterans. Two anchors. Two men who've worn the badge through storm and calm. Called upon… to steady the ship."

"That tells you everything. Roy doesn't want youth and energy anymore. The young guys did exactly what they had to do in the first half. Now it's up to the veterans to close up the game. To dig deep and close shop.

The fourth official lifted the board.

🔁 Drinkwater off

🔁 Milner on

🔁 Dele Alli off

🔁 Rooney on

A few scattered boos. Some confusion.

 But it wasn't panic.

Because England were still winning. 3–1.

And this?

This was just reinforcement.

Rooney clapped Kane's shoulder, gave a quick word to Vardy, then met Tristan at the center circle.

"You good?" he asked.

Tristan gave a small nod.

"They're coming hard," he said. "If it gets tight, just look up. I'll be there."

Rooney cracked a grin. "Always are."

They tapped knuckles.

And the game reformed.

.

England now in a 4-2-3-1:

Henderson and Milner forming the spine.

Rooney tucking just behind Kane.

Tristan dropping between lines, free to roam.

Vardy stretching the pitch down the right channel.

.

McManaman, now analyzing over a slow-motion replay:

"You look at the shape now, Peter—it's disciplined. Two pivots to shield. Tristan floating where he wants. Vardy's still there if they need a ball in behind. This isn't a retreat. This is England tightening the noose."

Drury, quieter, but firm:

"3–1. Still a cushion. But no more room for luxury. This final has changed hue. And the response… is veteran."

.

From the stands, new chants battled for dominance.

🎵 "WE'RE GONNA WIN THE EUROS!" 🎵

🎵 "TRISTAN, TRISTAN, HE'S OUR KING!" 🎵

But from the other end—rising louder now:

🎵 "FORÇA PORTUGAL!" 🎵

🎵 "RONALDO! RONALDO!" 🎵

🎵 "ONE MORE! ONE MORE!" 🎵

.

And on the pitch, the mood was shifting again.

Not to fear.

Not to panic.

But to focus.

Because now Portugal had hope.

And England?

Had to crush it.

.

67th minute.

The ball spun forward from Milner—simple. Clean.

 Tristan didn't even take a second touch.

Outside of the boot. Blind pass.

It wasn't normal.

It was silk. It was instinct. It was everything this final had been building toward.

And Vardy was through.

The flag stayed down.

The England fans exploded.

He didn't look. Didn't hesitate.

Just drilled it. Low. Hard. Ruthless.

Back of the net.

"JAMIE VARDY!" came Peter Drury's roar.

"They've done it again! They've KILLED IT OFF!"

Vardy tore away to the corner, sliding on his knees, both fists punching the air with the rest trying to catch up to him.

The crowd thundered around them. Flags in the air. Shirts in the air. People on shoulders.

🎵 "FOUR-NIL TO THE EN-GER-LAND!" 🎵

🎵 "FOUR-NIL TO THE EN-GER-LAND!" 🎵

Except—

The assistant's flag went up.

And suddenly—

Silence.

Drury caught his breath.

"…wait."

McManaman leaned in sharp. "Oh no."

Vardy stopped mid-sprint, turned, hands raised.

Tristan stopped too.

"It's not going to count," Drury said, voice cracking at the edge. "The flag is up. Jamie Vardy's goal… won't stand."

The stadium groaned. It wasn't boos—it was heartbreak.

Hands on heads. Heads in hands.

McManaman hissed. "He's half a step early. A heartbeat. That's all. And the dream slips again…"

.

And while England deflated—

Portugal ignited.

The goal kick came fast. Guerreiro to Moutinho. Moutinho to Adrien Silva.

One bounce.

One flick.

Cristiano Ronaldo.

He took it thirty yards from goal. He spun on the first touch. Opened up. No one closed.And then he hit it.

From distance.

It wasn't a chance. It wasn't a look. It was a declaration. The ball moved like it had no friction.

It dipped, knuckled, bent all at once—

And Hart didn't even dive.

The net bulged.

"OH MY WORD—RONALDO!" Drury screamed. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

"That's not football. That's fury. That's vengeance in the shape of a man!"

And suddenly it was 3–2.

The Portugal fans erupted. Scarves in the sky. Red shirts bouncing in rhythm.

🎵 "RONA-LDO! RONA-LDO!" 🎵

🎵 "WE'RE NOT DONE!" 🎵

🎵 "ONE MORE GOAL—ONE MORE GOAL!" 🎵

McManaman was laughing now. Not out of joy—out of disbelief.

 "We just saw one of the greatest minutes in final history, Peter. One goal ruled out, another one invented out of thin air."

Drury's voice cut through, heavy with awe. "This is madness. This is theatre.This… is the best Euro final I have ever seen."

And on the pitch—Cristiano didn't celebrate with his teammates. He sprinted to the corner, jumping in the air.

"SIIIIIIIIIIIUUUUU!"

The whole stadium followed.

"SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIUUUUUUUUUU!"

Cameras caught it. The pose. The noise. The eruption.

And then cut—

To Tristan. The camera captured the calm expression on his face, watching Ronaldo celebrate as if the score wasn't 3-2.

Like the goal hadn't gone in. Like Ronaldo's celebration hadn't rattled half the stadium.

"Cristiano Ronaldo. Tristan Hale. This is no longer a final. It's a duel beneath the floodlights."

The crowd roared. Drury kept going.

"The old king… the new king… exchanging blows in the theatre of the gods!"

His voice surged with the moment.

"For those who thought it ended at halftime—

No.

It's only now becoming what it was meant to be."

"Fifteen minutes. One trophy. And a game that belongs to time itself."

The volume surged again. The walls of the Stade de France rattled with chants and tension and a sense that anything could happen next.

Drury finished the thought. His voice was loud, coiled, spine-tingling.

"Can Cristiano Ronaldo complete the impossible? Or will Tristan Hale write the final line in a story already dripping in gold?"

"Whatever happens… this is one for the ages."

.

75th Minute

England Bench

Dele Alli sat with his head buried in his hands, drowning in shame, frustration, and every emotion he didn't have words for.

"Three–nil, what the fuck happened" he said just trying to process everything. "We took our foot off. That's all it was."

Danny Drinkwater nodded slowly beside him. "Yeah. We thought the job was done."

Neither of them looked away from the pitch.

"I don't know about you, mate, but I didn't feel arrogant thinking it was over," Dele said, still staring at the pitch. "It just… felt done. Press was working. Lines were sharp. We were winning every second ball. Tristan was cruising. Everyone was."

He rubbed his face, voice low. "We thought they had nothing left. We underestimated how bad Ronaldo and Portugal wanted it. Thought they were lucky to even be here. If they were really dangerous, I don't think Tristan would've stayed quiet at halftime. Not even Rooney said anything. That says it all, right?"

Sterling leaned back against the bench, arms folded.

"That's the danger, innit? Finals don't forgive you for thinking."

He glanced over at Dele, who still hadn't lifted his head.

"Oi," Sterling said, voice lower now. "You're not alone. I'm pretty sure every one of us thought the same thing."

In his head, the boys were young. Talented, fearless, but young. Most of them had never played a cup final, never been hit in the face by someone like Ronaldo coming back from the dead in a game like this. 

But he trusted Tristan and the guys on the field to lock in.

Rashford swallowed. "For a bit, you guys looked like the game was already over once the second half started. Tristan looked relax on the field which is a first for me. Against United, he's always serious even when leading by like 3 goals."

Danny snorted. "Tristan against United and Newcastle is different. For Tristan scoring against United makes Barbara smile and happy because thats how they started dating. And we just hate Newcastle, everything about it. In a final like this, we don't want to embarrass the losing team like Germany did against Brazil but unfortunately we got punished for it.""

They watched Portugal again—still aggressive, still loud—but not as sharp now. The lunges were half a step late. The recovery runs slower.

"But that first ten minutes," Sterling said carefully. "That's what they'll kill him for."

No one asked who him was.

"Twitter's gonna be vicious," Danny muttered. "Pundits too. 'Where was he?' 'Did he disappear?' All that shit."

Dele shook his head. "As if anyone else on that pitch could've slowed it down."

"They won't care," Sterling replied. "They never do."

Rashford finally spoke again, eyes glued to the screen above the pitch. "They'll say he thought it was over."

Silence.

Danny exhaled. "We all did."

They watched Tristan now—no close-ups, no hero shots. Just movement. Subtle adjustments. Dropping five yards deeper. Taking contact instead of avoiding it. Holding the ball an extra beat longer.

"You can tell he felt it. The switch. The need to bring out his 100% percent again. The game is pretty much over for Ronaldo."

"The own goal didn't help," Danny added. "That rattles any back line. And then Ronaldo hits that."

Rashford grimaced. "That wasn't even a mistake"

"But look at Portugal now," Dele said, pointing. "They're breathing through their mouths."

"They blew everything early," Sterling agreed. "That press cost them."

"And that's where he hurts you," Danny said quietly. "When legs go."

"People forget," Dele said, "he's been running this team for two years straight. League. Europe. Country. No rest."

Sterling scoffed. "But yeah—some bloke on a couch is gonna say he bottled ten minutes."

Rashford clenched his fists. "They don't know what it's like down there."

Danny leaned back, eyes narrowing. "They're about to."

Portugal were slowing now. Small signs. Missed presses. Hands on hips. A centre-back delaying a throw-in.

"They can't keep this tempo," Dele said. "They're too old."

Rashford nodded. "I just feel like it, he's gonna end it."

.

78th Minute

The tempo had slowed but only on the surface.

England knocked it around the back, taking their time, taking Portgual seriously even more than against France.

Smalling to Stones.

Stones to Walker.

Walker took a touch too many, waited, then rolled it back inside again.

Portugal pressed—or at least tried to.

But it wasn't the same press from earlier. It had lost its teeth. The sprints were shorter. The turns heavier. It was pressure performed from pure will without the stamina to maintain it.

"Look at the gaps, Peter. They're still stepping up, but the recovery isn't there anymore."

The midfield began to stretch. Just a yard at first. Then another.

And into that space drifted Tristan.

Across the center circle. Jogging at first. Then slowing. Tracking the ball without chasing it. Letting it come to him.

Portugal's midfield followed by instinct. One shadow. Then two. And with every step Tristan took away from the ball, he pulled someone with him.

Next to him—never more than half a step away—was Bruno Alves.

Thirty-four years old. The oldest outfield player still standing in this final.

His chest rose and fell too quickly. Sweat clung dark to his collar. His boots looked heavier than they had five minutes ago.

But he stayed tight.

Because he had to.

Because if he didn't—he knew exactly what would happen.

Tristan glanced sideways ignoring the crowd.

🎵 "TRISTAN WHO? RONALDO'S KING!" 🎵

🎵 "YOU'RE SHIT AND YOU KNOW YOU ARE!" 🎵

🎵 "ENGLAND BOTTLED IT! ENGLAND BOTTLED IT!" 🎵

🎵 "YOU'RE GONNA LOSE! YOU'RE GONNA LOSE!" 🎵

🎵 "PORTUGAL! PORTUGAL!" 🎵

Naturally England fans countered it.

On the pitch, Stones stepped forward again.

One glance.

One breath.

Then he threaded it.

A line-breaking pass, zipped hard and fast through the gap—no backlift, no tell.

Straight toward Tristan .

Bruno Alves flinched—half a step, then another. Too slow.

Tristan exploded off his mark.

No hesitation. Just instinct.

"Look at the reaction!" said McManaman, already rising. "He knew it was coming!"

Bruno lunged to recover, but Tristan was already there—first to the ball, first to the future.

The touch was clean. Wide. Into stride.

And then Tristan glanced back—just once—and said in clear, biting Portuguese:

"Should've fouled me."

The crowd gasped as he accelerated.

Drury's voice followed him like prophecy.

"Oh… oh, look at this now."

Portugal's midfield collapsed like wet paper.

João Mário reached. Missed.

Moutinho stepped. Beaten by the second touch.

Carvalho dived in—Hale skipped past him like wind dodging stone.

"HE'S DANCING!" McManaman barked. "THE BALL'S A THREAD—AND HE'S WEAVING TAPESTRY!"

Tristan surged again—cut left, sliced right.

Guerriero twisted the wrong way. Rui Patrício crouched low, bracing.

Drury's voice cracked—soared.

"THIS—this is the answer to Ronaldo!"

The boot swung.

Left foot. Outside curve. A strike from the gods.

"THIS is the reply England needed!"

The ball flew.

Spinning. Curling. Dipping.

Rui dove—

Too late.

GOAL.

The Stade de France detonated.

Drury roared, voice rattling every microphone.

"THAT—IS—THE ANSWER!"

"When England needed him most… when doubt crept in… he answered like a prayer!"

McManaman could only laugh. "You won't see better, Peter. That's it. That's the goal of the tournament. Maybe the goal of his life!"

"And with it, he has scored a hat-trick in the finals of the Euros at age twenty one. It doesn't get any better than this."

Drury didn't stop—he rose with the stadium.

"Cristiano Ronaldo summoned the past—"

"But Tristan Hale has summoned the future!"

"A final in freefall—caught not with panic, but with poetry!"

"And here, in Paris…" he finished, almost reverent, "a new name is being sung into football's forever."

The Noise Never Stopped.

England's section had become a living, breathing hurricane. Flags whirled like sabers. Shirts were torn off. Seats abandoned. It wasn't a celebration. It was a worship.

And at the center of it—

Tristan Hale.

He stood near the touchline. Arms raised. Back arched. His chest heaving like he'd just climbed Olympus. His eyes closed.

He didn't scream. He didn't beat his chest. He just stood there, calm and cruel and godlike.

Behind him, the rest of England rushed to catch up. Rooney tackled him in a bearhug. Kane crashed into them next. Then Henderson. Then Milner. But Tristan barely reacted. Just kept staring into the crowd—like he was somewhere else entirely.

And somewhere further back, arms on hips, sweat dripping down his temples, Cristiano Ronaldo watched.

Arms on hips. Chest rising. Sweat dripping into his eyes.

He just… stared.

At the boy. At the crowd losing its mind.

At the scoreboard that now read: England 4 – Portugal 2.

He'd done everything.

He'd shouted. Rallied. Screamed himself hoarse after 3–1. He'd pushed his teammates higher. Demanded the ball. Scored the rocket that reignited belief. And for a moment—a single, fleeting moment—it looked like it would be enough.

But now?

Now he stood in the ruins of it.

He watched Tristan Hale lift his arms in front of 70,000 people as if he were built for this.

Ronaldo couldn't look away.

What else could he do?

He'd carried his country since 2004. He'd dragged them through fire. Through ridicule. Through doubt. He'd watched golden generations crumble beside him. He was supposed to be the constant. The hero. 

WHY WAS THIS KID FIGHTING SO HARD?

For what?

Steve McManaman couldn't stop shaking his head.

"Peter, how many did he beat? Five? Six? I lost count. It was like trying to catch mist in your hands. They couldn't touch him."

Peter rose higher, words like thunder on marble:

"This is the boy who treats the impossible as play. Who scores goals that others dream of once in a lifetime—and then does it again the next week.

You give him twenty-one yards and he turns it into a canvas.

A brushstroke here, a shimmy there, and suddenly we're witnessing scripture."

"This game isn't difficult for him," McManaman muttered, breathless. "It's a toy."

"He makes football look like a game crafted for him alone.

 As though he were built not of bone and sinew—but stitched by the gods.."

A slow-motion replay played across the monitors.

Each defender beaten.

Every angle conquered.

"A final," Peter said softly. "A final. And that's the goal we'll remember. Not just for the scoreline.But for what it meant. For the silence it answered. For the throne it shook."

.

Portugal Technical Area

Fernando Santos didn't move at first.

The ball had hit the net, the net had rippled, the stadium had erupted but he just stood there. 

Behind him, the assistant coach hovered with the tactics board. Another one had a sub card in hand.

"Boss?"

Nothing.

"Boss?"

He blinked.

Slowly, finally, he turned. "Warm someone," he said. But his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

"Who?"

That was the problem.

Who?

João Mário was cooked. Moutinho was running on fumes. Carvalho had just been twisted into a knot. Ronaldo's hands were on his knees. Nani was still arguing with someone. And Bruno Alves…

Bruno was gone.

Mentally. Physically. Spiritually.

Santos looked down the line. The subs were stretching, but they didn't look confident. They looked… apologetic. As if stepping onto the pitch would just mean getting turned into another highlight.

He muttered under his breath. Something bitter. Something hopeless.

It wasn't that the game was over.

It was that he'd seen the momentum swing so violently, so catastrophically, that no sub, no shape, no prayer was going to fix it.

Not after that goal.

Not after that kid.

.

The ball restarted. The whistle blew. And still—Ronaldo ran.

Tired legs be damned. Rage was fuel now.

He dropped deep to collect. Barked at his teammates. Pointed where he wanted them. The press was gone, so he stopped calling for it. What he needed was chaos. A crack. One more moment.

And maybe, just maybe, he could drag them back again.

So he tried.

He charged down the left, cut inside, fired off a curling shot—

Blocked.

But Ronaldo wasn't finished. He waved for it again. This time Moutinho sent it long—Ronaldo darted behind Stones, chesting it down, winding up to strike—

Only to be chopped down mid-motion by Tristan.

The ball ricocheted back off Ronaldo's knee and spun out of bounds.

The ref waved play on.

The crowd lost its mind.

Ronaldo crashed onto the grass.

Silence for a second.

Then jeers.

Tristan hovered above him, chest rising and falling, hand outstretched.

"You okay?" he asked, genuine, not performative.

Ronaldo stared up at him.

Eyes glassy with sweat. Jaw clenched. The weight of a nation on his spine.

Then—slap—he knocked the hand away.

And stood. He shoved past Tristan's shoulder, muttering something low in Portuguese.

Tristan didn't react. He just watched him walk away before shaking his head and smiling.

Cameras snapped like gunfire.

.

90+2nd Minute

Portugal had made all three subs.

Fresh legs, old problems.

None of it worked. Not the tactical reshuffles, not the double-pivot switch, not the late wide overloads. England weren't parking the bus. They weren't even retreating. They were circling.

Waiting.

Tristan drifted into space again, untouched. Portugal's midfield no longer followed. What was the point? The gas tank was empty. The will had cracked. Their defenders were chasing shadows they couldn't see anymore.

And that's when he knew.

"Fuck it."

The words left his lips like an exhale. 

From thirty yards out.

He hit it with no conscience.

Clean. Violent. True.

"OH—" Peter Drury's voice pitched as the shot took flight. "NO WAY."

The ball screamed.

It cut through the air like it didn't belong to gravity anymore—an arrowhead forged in heaven, dipped in venom. Rui Patrício leapt. Full stretch. Arms flailing.

Nowhere near it.

The ball detonated in the top corner.

GOAL.

England 5 – Portugal 2.

Four goals.

 The final dagger.

The net bulged. The stadium exploded.

And Tristan?

He turned.

He jogged to the edge of the box, then slowly lowered himself to the turf—knees first, then elbow—before curling two fingers beneath his cheek, head tilted.

Night. Night.

The Stade de France lost control.

Fans were crying. Screaming. Phones flying into the air. Shirts whipped overhead. The "WE BELIEVE IN MIRACLES" banner stretched wide behind the goal like prophecy realized.

Drury rose again, like a priest in a storm.

"He's tucked the game to bed—LITERALLY."

McManaman cackled. "What do you even say, Peter? I'm not sure we've ever seen a final like this."

"We've never seen a player like this," Drury said simply. "A twenty one year old, three years into his career, just carved his name into the very stone of footballing history."

The replay ran back—the strike from distance, the nonchalance, the madness of it.

"Left foot, right foot, long range, close range, assist, tackle, tempo, there is nothing this boy hasn't done tonight."

And up in the stands, people weren't just cheering—they were worshipping.

Some kissed their foreheads. Others threw arms around strangers. The noise wasn't joy anymore.

It was disbelief.

The fourth official raised the board.

+3

But no one cared.

"We may never see another like him."

McManaman barely breathed. "No chance."

Drury rose with the moment.

"Forget age. Forget legacy. Forget potential. Tonight, Tristan Hale didn't just win a final. He didn't just score a hat-trick. He scored four. He transcended."

The replay ran—his final goal, struck with a shrug and a snarl, as if football bored him now.

"He is the youngest player in history to score four goals in a major international final."

Another clip—his solo run through five red shirts.

 "And the first captain under twenty-two to lead his country to a European title. We'll need time to catalogue the records he's shattered but make no mistake, history has already been rewritten tonight."

The Stade de France was still quaking.

"He has more goal contributions at this stage of his career than Messi. Than Ronaldo. Than Rooney. Than Henry. Than Pele. Than Maradona.

Than all of them."

"He plays this game as if it bends to his will. As if the pitch were drawn to fit his stride. As if the ball had known its whole life it would end up at his feet."

McManaman gave a breathless chuckle. "He might be a myth."

"No," Drury said. "He's worse. He's a god of the game."

And then Peter finished—not with a shout, but with a sentence that echoed through time itself:

"You are not watching a star.

You are not watching a prodigy.

You are witnessing the making of the greatest of all time.

His name… is Tristan Hale."

.

15k chapter. No chapter for the ten days. 

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