Apologizes for the no chapters for a few days. But I had to slow down updates for a few days as Patreon was lagging behind. So chapters for the next week will probably be around 4 chapters. But things should go back to normal around the 30th. I could pause the updates but I felt like this is better than no chapters at all.
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May 15, 2016 | Stamford Bridge – The Final League Game
The Leicester City team bus rolled to a halt outside Stamford Bridge.
The streets buzzed with anticipation, a crackling energy in the air despite the early afternoon drizzle. Fans pressed against barricades, scarves waving, phones aloft. A sea of blue—but this time, not just Chelsea blue. Leicester blue was everywhere.
Tristan stepped off the bus first, the Premier League champions' patch stitched into his warmup jacket. He looked up at the old stadium, remembering how small it had once made him feel.
Not today.
"One more," Mahrez muttered beside him.
Tristan nodded. "Let's finish it right."
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"Hello, good afternoon, and welcome to Stamford Bridge."
Peter Drury's voice carried a quiet awe.
"Where rivals applaud rivals. Where tradition bows to the present. And where, in just a moment, Leicester City—the miracle men—will walk through a guard of honour to the applause of champions past."
The camera panned across the tunnel. Chelsea players lined up, clapping slowly as the Leicester squad prepared to enter.
Drury continued, "Eighteen months ago, they were bottom. Doomed. Forgotten. Today, they are crowned in gold. A golden Premier League trophy. An undefeated run. Ninety-nine points. Ninety-three goals. Zero defeats. And one last chapter."
The teams began walking out.
Stamford Bridge rose to its feet.
Vardy jogged out first, head high. Tristan followed, flanked by Mahrez and Kanté. Behind them, Wes Morgan, Fuchs, Huth, and Schmeichel. Claudio Ranieri at the rear, his hands behind his back, eyes glinting.
Chelsea players clapped each one as they passed. Fabregas gave a nod. Hazard patted Mahrez's shoulder. John Terry saluted Ranieri.
"It is called a guard of honour," Clive Tyldesley said. "But today, it feels like a moment of football respect."
Leicester fans roared in the away end.
Peter Drury picked up again.
"Tristan Hale. Twenty years old. Thirty-four goals. Twenty-five assists. Jamie Vardy. Forty-two goals. Golden Boot winner. Together, they did not just conquer England. They rewrote its rules."
The teams lined up.
Mascots stood between the players, wide-eyed and awestruck.
Chelsea's lineup was strong. Hazard. Willian. Fabregas. Costa.
Leicester was unchanged. No rest. No rotations. Ranieri had promised one final dance.
And as the whistle loomed, Drury said one last thing:
"Thirty-seven games down. One to go. Leicester City. Champions of England. History's ink still wet and ready for one more stroke. Can they reach 102 points milestone!"
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The final whistle hadn't yet blown, but yet the crowd was going crazy.
Leicester, already crowned champions, weren't chasing glory anymore. They were protecting perfection.
In the 67th minute, the moment came.
It started with Kanté stealing possession off Fabregas with a sliding tackle near the halfway line. A flick to Drinkwater, a glance from Vardy and then the ball was at Tristan's feet.
He surged forward like it was still October and the league was on the line. Azpilicueta backpedaled, then lunged. Too late. Tristan cut inside onto his left foot, curled it low and hard toward the far post.
Courtois dove.
Didn't matter.
The net rippled.
"There it is," Peter Drury said, his voice low with awe. "Tristan Hale. One more goal. One more brushstroke on the season's masterpiece."
Leicester 1, Chelsea 0.
The away end exploded, flags waving, arms lifted. But the rest of the stadium… it was a long silence. Not anger. Just resignation. Mourning. Admiration.
On the touchline, Mourinho looked like he would rather be on the opposite side of the planet.
A year ago, Chelsea were champions.
Today? Mid-table misery. No Europe. Booed in their own stadium. The empire in ruins. The Special One reduced to the Spectator One.
And after today, finally — finally — he could wash his hands of Chelsea and take the Manchester United job.
Which, judging by how they were doing, was like switching cabins on the Titanic.
Still, there was hope.
A small, stubborn hope that somehow, someway, United could beat Leicester in the FA Cup Final and relieve him of at least 12% of the incoming pressure.
And while he was at it, he said a quiet prayer to whichever god managed transfers:
Please don't let Tristan go to Liverpool.
Let it be Madrid. Or Barcelona. Or literally the moon.
Anywhere but England. Anywhere he wouldn't have to face him.
Because Mourinho already knew he wasn't recruiting Tristan. He tried everything with Mendes, with Sir Alex but Tristan rejected everything.
So now he was preparing to survive in Manchester. The team which Tristan has scored the most against.
He watched as Tristan jogged back to the halfway line, teammates swarming him, fans chanting his name like it was scripture.
The final whistle blew minutes later.
Peter Drury closed off this chapter of Leicester City.
"Leicester City…have walked the impossible path… and left golden footprints behind."
"One hundred and two points. Zero defeats. Ninety-four goals. Four possible trophies with Leciester already winning the ELF Cup and the league. They are a team that refuses to lose no matter the obstables thrown at them."
""From the depths of despair… to the summit of sport.Not a miracle no, this was not divine chance. This was design. Will. Belief. From the touchline genius of Claudio Ranieri… to the tireless engine of N'Golo Kanté… to the ruthless boots of Jamie Vardy… to the young man who turned promise into prophecy, Tristan Hale."
"England watched… and fell in love."
"From Old Trafford to Anfield, from White Hart Lane to the Emirates… this Leicester side did not just beat their rivals. They rewrote the rules of what was possible. And now, with 102 points, they have set a new standard, a golden line in the Premier League's history book that may never be touched."
"In a season that began with doubt, they gave us belief. In a league ruled by giants, they reminded us what underdogs can do when they bite back."
"So stand. Applaud. Remember. Leicester City… the Invincibles of 2016."
"Untouchable. Unbelievable. The greatest season in football history."
And with that, the 2015-2016 had come to an end.
The final whistle had blown, but no one rushed off the pitch.
Chelsea's players lingered. Applause rippled from all sides of Stamford Bridge, an unfamiliar sound for Leicester's opponents, but this wasn't defeat. This was history paying respect.
John Terry approached Wes Morgan first, pulling him into a firm hug.
"Well done, skip," Terry muttered. "No one can say a damn thing after this. You boys earned every point."
Wes clapped him on the back. "Appreciate that, John."
Nearby, Cesc Fabregas offered a handshake to Drinkwater and Kanté. Willian swapped shirts with Mahrez.
And then Eden Hazard was there, arms already spread.
"Mon frère!" he called out with a grin.
Tristan turned just in time to catch Hazard in a brief, back-slapping hug.
"You didn't have to do us like that, you know," Hazard said, laughing. "We already knew you were good. No need to twist the knife."
Tristan chuckled, sweat still clinging to his curls. "You lot made it tough. I had to work for that one."
Hazard gestured to the scoreboard. "One nil, but it could've been four if Vardy had his shooting boots on."
"Please don't tell him that," Tristan muttered. "He'll blame the grass."
Hazard laughed, then grew a little more serious.
"Look, man congrats," he said. "Proper congrats. This whole year, you've been insane. All of you. But you… You made this league your playground."
Tristan shrugged. "We just kept going."
"Nah" Hazard said. "This was all you. Now I'm praying you go easy on in the Euros."
Tristan smiled faintly. "Come on now you think the media will let me get away with that."
Hazard laughed before he clapped Tristan's shoulder. "Now don't mess it up, yeah?"
"Mess what up?"
He jabbed a finger at Tristan's chest.
"FA Cup. Europa League. United and Liverpool. You have to win those. I don't care if it's on penalties, on your left foot, off your arse just win."
Tristan raised a brow. "Since when are you a Leicester fan?"
Hazard shrugged. "Since you made Mourinho miserable. And since Vardy scored that volley against Spurs."
The two laughed again.
Hazard leaned in. "Seriously though… make it the Quadruple. Golden trophy, gold boots, gold medals. I'm tired of Messi and Ronaldo winning everything."
Tristan held his gaze. "Yeah, our time is herel."
While those two plotted to overthrow the throne of modern football…
The two managers were the complete opposite.
The two managers shook hands, stiff at first, then warmer.
"You did well, Claudio," Mourinho said. "You built something beautiful."
Ranieri nodded. "Thank you, José. It has been… surreal."
Mourinho's lips twitched into a dry smirk. "Be honest. Are you sleeping at all these days? Or are you dreaming the whole time?"
Ranieri's eyes glinted. "Both."
The two shared a small laugh.
Mourinho glanced at Tristan across the pitch. "He'll go to Spain soon," he said, almost to himself. "It's the only way this league will breathe again."
Ranieri didn't answer knowing just how wrong Jose was. He just patted Mourinho's shoulder in pity and walked off.
As the Chelsea manager turned back toward the tunnel, a chant echoed through the Bridge.
"CHAMPIONS! CHAMPIONS! OLE, OLE, OLE!"
Mourinho sighed.
And muttered beneath his breath.
"Just get me to Manchester."
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And then the announcer's voice crackled over the Stamford Bridge tannoy.
"Ladies and gentlemen… please remain in your seats. We have one final presentation."
The crowd settled. Blue flags, both Chelsea and Leicester, waved in the damp spring air. Reporters clustered at the sidelines, cameras already rolling.
"Tonight," the announcer continued, "we honour the Premier League's top goalscorer for the 2015–2016 season. With forty-two goals, a new Premier League record, the Golden Boot goes to… Jamie Vardy of Leicester City!"
The roar that followed wasn't just from the away end. It rolled around the entire stadium. Even Chelsea fans couldn't deny it. Forty-two goals. More than Shearer. More than Henry. More than Suarez. More than Cristiano Ronaldo. More than anyone.
Vardy stepped forward, almost sheepish, hands shoved into his shorts like a Sunday league lad getting called up at the pub. Tristan shoved him in the back, laughing.
"Go on, mate," Tristan grinned. "It's your bloody day."
The silver pedestal was waiting, the golden boot gleaming under the floodlights. Vardy picked it up awkwardly at first, then lifted it high above his head. The Leicester end erupted.
Drury's voice rose over the noise.
"Jamie Vardy. Once rejected, once forgotten, once working factory shifts to pay for petrol money. Tonight, the boy from Stocksbridge stands alone at the summit. Forty-two goals, more than any man before him. The record is broken. The story is written."
Cameras zoomed in on Vardy's face. He was laughing, shaking his head in disbelief, pointing to the Leicester fans.
Mahrez ran up first, smacking his head with both hands like he couldn't believe it either. Kanté gave him the quickest, shyest hug imaginable. Fuchs picked him up off the ground like he weighed nothing.
Then came Tristan. He slid his arm around Vardy's shoulders and whispered something into his ear.
Vardy's grin widened. He held the boot aloft again, then wagged his finger at the cameras.
Later, reporters asked Tristan what he'd said. He only smiled and replied.
"Told him he's got to buy me a pint for every one of those goals. Forty-two pints, minimum."
The room erupted with laughter, but the truth was simpler. What he really told Vardy in that moment was:
"Mate, you earned this. And no one can ever take it away from you."
As the team gathered around, hoisting Vardy on their shoulders, Stamford Bridge echoed with chants that no one could have predicted a year ago:
"Jamie Vardy's having a party!"
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The Premier League season was over.
But the conversations were just beginning.
All across England and around the world screens flickered with scenes of Leicester City lifting the golden trophy. From pubs in the Midlands to rooftops in Bangkok, from schoolyards in Hackney to cafés in Budapest, there was only one name on everyone's lips.
Leicester.
The fairytale had become fact.
And not just any title win: the greatest league campaign in football history.
🥇 Leicester City – 102 points | +69 GD
🥈 Arsenal – 72 points | +28 GD
🥉 Tottenham Hotspur – 67 points | +25 GD
🔴 Liverpool – 67 points | +21 GD
🔵 Manchester City – 66 points | +29 GD
⚪ Manchester United – 66 points | +22 GD
Leicester finished 30 points clear of Arsenal, 35 ahead of Spurs, and nearly wiped out the traditional Big Six in the process.
And still, it wasn't over.
Europa League Final vs. Liverpool – May 18
FA Cup Final vs. Manchester United – May 21
Euro 2016 looming just weeks away
This wasn't the end of Leicester's fairytale.
It was the end of Act I.
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Finally we are done with the league. Holy shit took us forever. I might have skipped a few parts here and there but finally we are done.
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