England's Greatest

[You guys are hating to hate me for this but starting this week, the story is back to 3 chapters per week, I'm almost out the chapters I stockpiled but once there's enough chapter, I may go back to dail chapters. Check out the Patreon, there's 51 advance chapters there with daily chapters, and drop some power stones, comment and review if you guys want to, trying to hit 250 power stones this week again.]

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May 17, 2014 - Wembley Stadium, London

The FA Cup final was set to take place in the iconic Wembley Stadium, the largest modern stadium in Europe, and the atmosphere was electric. The arena was split in two, one side dominated by the red of Arsenal and the other by the blue of Leicester City. Even among the neutral fans, you could see a few sporting Arsenal jerseys or Leicester scarves, but the majority proudly represented the London side.

Leicester City, a team with a far smaller fanbase, had somehow managed to make it to the final. It was a testament to their grit and talent, and for the people of Leicester, this was a rare occasion. With a city population of around 330,000, having 40,000 Leicester fans fill Wembley felt like a true reflection of how much this final meant to them.

As the pre-match atmosphere stirred, the Leicester City players were the first to step onto the pitch for their warm-up, and the stadium roared when Tristan's face appeared on the massive screen above the field. A thunderous cheer erupted, and Leciester fans showed their appreciation, while the female fans screamed with excitement.

Even most Arsenal fans knew of this young player. 

The bright lights of Wembley Stadium blazed down onto the pitch as the pre-match atmosphere began to intensify. The roar of the crowd was deafening, with waves of Leicester City fans chanting and singing, their voices rising in anticipation. Their deep blue scarves and shirts adorned the stands, giving off an undeniable sense of unity, as if the entire stadium was one big, throbbing heart, pulsing with excitement.

Leicester City was the first to step onto the pitch for their warm-up. The Arsenal players, still in the locker room, would follow shortly. The Foxes had the field to themselves for a brief moment, and as the players emerged, the fans erupted into a thunderous cheer, each one eager to see their heroes up close. The cameras flashed in every direction, capturing the faces of those who had earned their place in the final.

Tristan was among the first to appear in the line-up. His face appeared on the giant screen that hung above the center of the stadium. Instantly, the crowd's excitement surged. Cheers rang out, but there was a distinctive hum of adoration from the female fans—high-pitched voices screaming his name, their admiration for the handsome young talent evident.

Tristan remained calm, his eyes scanning the crowd briefly before focusing on the task at hand. The applause, though flattering, didn't distract him. He knew what this moment meant for Leicester City, for himself, and for everyone who had supported the team throughout this improbable FA Cup run.

The other players were already beginning their routines—Vardy leading a light jog around the edge of the pitch, Mahrez working on some intricate dribbling, and Drinkwater taking a few shots at goal. But Tristan, despite the commotion and the weight of the occasion, didn't immediately join in.

Instead, he found a quiet corner of the field, just beside the penalty box, where the grass was still fresh, and the bright green of the turf contrasted sharply against the white goalposts. He walked over to a ball that had been left near the sideline, sat on top of it, and closed his eyes.

Tristan's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—his family, his teammates, the fans, and, most of all, the pressure of this moment. The excitement in the air had only amplified his nerves, but he knew he couldn't afford to let it overwhelm him. This was his chance to prove himself at a Cup final against a giant.

This is what he wanted more then anything else in his first life to be a part of a final that mattered, that meant something, he wanted to proof himself, that he had talent, he was worth something in life.

He let the noise of the crowd fade into the background, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing. Inhale, exhale. His body was loose but ready, every muscle primed for action. He thought back to all the moments that had led him here: the years of hard work, the setbacks, the disappointments. Nothing had been handed to him. This was the culmination of a dream—a dream he wasn't about to let slip away once more.

But he didn't want to think too far ahead. Focus on the present. He needed to keep his mind sharp, his feet steady, and his heart calm.

...

As the team made their way back to the locker room, the usual energy was noticeably absent. Normally, there would be chatter, music, and banter echoing off the walls, but today the room was thick with silence. Even Vardy, who usually blared his favorite songs to hype everyone up, was quietly tying his shoelaces, doing and redoing them as if trying to steady his own nerves. Drinkwater, headphones in, was lost in his own world, his usual pre-match juggling absent.

Tristan observed it all with a calm that was almost out of place. He knew what he needed to do. The distractions, the weight of the occasion, the nerves of others—none of that was his. He focused inward, shutting out the noise.

It was an important match, but he trusted his preparation, his instincts, and his abilities. He had spent years working for moments like this. Nothing about today would change that.

When Coach Pearson and the staff entered, the tension in the room was palpable. Pearson, always perceptive, sensed the nerves running through the squad. Instead of launching into a long tactical discussion, he simply clapped his hands, bringing everyone's attention to him.

"Listen, lads," Pearson began, his voice steady. "I know this is the first final for most of you, and it's okay to feel nervous. That's normal."

"But remember this—no matter what happens today, you've already achieved something incredible. We've won the league early, secured promotion, and getting to the FA Cup final was the cherry on top. This match is just another opportunity to show what we're made of."

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the coach's words sinking in.

Captain Morgan stood up, his presence commanding. "Did you hear what the gaffer said?" he asked, his voice firm. "Form a circle, now!"

As the players gathered, placing their arms around each other's shoulders, Tristan could feel the shift in the room. The nerves were still there, but now there was a renewed sense of purpose.

"Let's give it our best shot, show Arsenal what we're made of," Morgan said, his voice resolute. 

Tristan felt a smile tug at his lips. The nerves, the pressure—it all seemed distant now. He was ready.

The walk down the tunnel to the pitch felt surreal, but in a way that was familiar. Posters of both teams lined the walls—Arsenal's Ramsey and Koscielny, Leicester's own heroes, Tristan and Vardy. As he passed the Arsenal line-up, Tristan locked eyes with Ramsey, a brief but genuine moment of acknowledgment.

"Hey, Allen!" Tristan called.

"Tristan, how's it going?" Ramsey asked, smiling warmly.

"Good, you?" Tristan replied.

Before they could say anything more, a voice interrupted, and Tristan turned to see Arsène Wenger himself approaching.

Wenger, the embodiment of poise and experience, greeted him with a warm smile. "Mr. Wenger! It's an honor," Tristan said, extending his hand.

"Likewise, Tristan," Wenger replied, shaking his hand firmly.

"I didn't expect to meet you here at Wembley before we even made it to the Premier League," Tristan remarked with a grin.

Wenger chuckled, his gaze thoughtful. "Perhaps it's fate that brought us together now," he mused. "If you'd joined us during the winter window, maybe you'd be in an Arsenal jersey today."

Tristan felt a flicker of surprise but responded with a calm, reflective smile. "There are moments in life where we make choices. Whether they're the right ones or not, we can never really know. All I know is that I've never regretted mine."

Wenger raised an eyebrow, impressed by Tristan's maturity. "You remind me of a young Spaniard, one who rose to greatness at an early age. But your journey is yours to carve."

Tristan met Wenger's gaze, the weight of the compliment grounding him. This was his moment, his path to walk. He didn't need the approval of others—he was ready to create his own legacy.

Just then, the Leicester manager, Nigel Pearson, entered the tunnel, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the exchange.

"Mr. Wenger!" Pearson called with a playful edge.

Wenger turned, offering a charming smile. "Ah, Pearson! How are you?"

"I'm not fine," Pearson replied, a slight grin tugging at his lips. "Still trying to poach my players, huh?"

Wenger chuckled softly. "Oh, no, no. Just having a friendly chat. Nothing more."

Pearson stepped back, playfully raising his hands in mock surrender. "Forgive me, I'm just a bit on edge today. You know how it is."

With a knowing nod, Pearson gestured for Tristan to return to the team. "Go on, get ready for the game."

"Yes, boss," Tristan said, already shifting his focus back to the task ahead now was standing behind Vardy who turned around, his voice low but curious.

"Wenger seems to be really high on you. Does he still want to buy you?"

Tristan raised an eyebrow at the question. It took a moment for him to process, but then it hit him—the transfer rumors from his previous life. He remembered the headlines—the chatter about Arsenal being keen on acquiring a certain talented forward. But this time, the spotlight was on him, not Vardy.

The memory flashed by in a heartbeat. It was Arsenal who had shown interest in Vardy too, after the miracle season. Wenger had made his move, wanting to add more firepower to his attack. But Vardy, steadfast in his loyalty to Leicester, had turned down the Gunners' advances. He stayed with the Foxes, becoming their heartbeat, the "Soul of Leciester."

Tristan smirked at the thought, shrugging nonchalantly.

"I'm so good, every team would want me, right?" he said, playing it cool, leaning into the banter.

Vardy shot him a look, rolling his eyes. "Bastard!" he muttered, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

Despite the playful exchange, the atmosphere in the tunnel was palpable, each player gearing up mentally for what lay ahead. After a brief moment of camaraderie, both teams lined up to head out onto the pitch.

The stadium lights flickered as the DJ's voice echoed over the speakers, ushering in the spectacle. "Let's welcome the finalists!"

The teams followed the referees and head coaches, stepping onto the hallowed grounds of Wembley. The first to enter were the coaches, holding, their steps deliberate and proud. Behind them came the players holding their caddies each of them feeling the weight of the occasion.

Among the special guests were Prince William and Princess Kate, who waved to the crowd as they followed the teams. The royal presence only added to the grandeur of the day.

Tristan scanned the scene before him. The FA Cup final, the oldest cup competition in history, was a grand occasion—every detail spoke of tradition, passion, and pride. Music played as the Royal Guard Band filled the air with anthems, further enhancing the sense of importance.

As the players took their positions, Prince William made his way through the lines to shake hands with the coaches and players. Tristan stood in line, his posture straight, his face neutral. When the prince approached him, Tristan offered a polite smile, extending his hand. 

After the ceremonial handshakes, the players took their places in their respective halves. The roar of the crowd grew louder, the tension palpable. Tristan's gaze shifted to the stands, and he saw it—the flag. The massive blue fox flag soared high above the crowd, a symbol of Leicester.

On the opposite side, the Arsenal faithful waved their bright red flags in unison, chanting for their team to rise above. The energy from both fanbases was electric, filling the stadium with an energy that was almost tangible. The cheers, the chants, the noise—it all blended together into a symphony of passion.

Standing there, on the hallowed turf of Wembley, with the roars of 90,000 spectators surrounding him, Tristan felt a rush of emotions. His heart pounded in his chest, his thoughts sharp.

This is it. The FA Cup Final.

The energy, the stakes, the history—it was overwhelming, yet exhilarating. 

Tristan couldn't suppress the thrill that surged through him. He felt the adrenaline coursing, his body humming with anticipation.

He Loveed it.

This was the moment he had waited for. This was where he would make his mark.