A/N: Holy shit my apologizes for the no chapter. Been dealing with patreon and a few personal issues but chapters will resume back to normal.
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The ball rolled backwards again, tapped by Kane into Henderson.
Same kickoff spot. But this wasn't the same England.
Same kickoff spot. But this was not the same England. The formation hadn't changed. The shirts were still white. But the energy, that mentality of the players was different.
The crowd could feel it.
"LET'S GO ENGLAND! LET'S GO ENGLAND!"
It came rolling out of the stands, building fast, clapping in rhythm
Clive was already on it. "They've gone straight for it. No reset, no regroup. This is a team that wants to punch back."
Beside him, Lee let out a short breath. "And look at Tristan. He didn't demand a lot of the play at the start. He seem content to give guys like Vardy and Kane their chances "
Clive agreed. "Yeah but with Wales scoring already, he needs to take the lead as the captain. It's his responsibility."
Henderson zipped it into Drinkwater. One touch. Fired into Tristan's feet on the turn.
Lee snapped, "There it is—right in the pocket. And he's spun Ramsey again!"
Tristan pushed forward, drifting left. Wales dropped. Too slow.
Clive kept pace. "They're letting him carry it—he's ten yards from the box and still no challenge."
Chilwell joined the move. Short pass. Dele touched it central. Kane flicked it behind.
Vardy peeled off Gunter, pulled it back across the box.
Tristan arrived. Dead first touch. No bounce. No panic.
Ashley Williams stepped up.
Lee's voice cracked, already too late. "Don't dive in—don't—"
Tristan feinted, dropped his shoulder, chopped inside.
Ashley was gone. Sliding on grass that no longer mattered.
Clive exploded. "OH HE'S SOLD HIM! COMPLETELY GONE! Left him on pause!"
And still Tristan didn't shoot.
He waited.
One moment with the stadium looking frozen.
Lee was on the edge of screaming. "COULD THIS BE THE RESPONSE?! COULD THIS BE THE MOMENT?!"
Tristan's eyes flicked. One gap.
He slipped it—cool, cruel, perfect—across the grain.
Through the Welsh line. Into Dele Alli's run.
Clive lost it.
"It's Alli! HE'S IN! TRISTAN'S DONE IT AGAIN! JUST LIKE HE DID TO RUSSIA! JUST LIKE HE'S TORN THROUGH EUROPE ALL SEASON LONG!"
Left foot. Contact. Arrowed low.
Hennessey dove full-stretch.
Didn't matter.
GOAL.
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Alli exploded toward the corner flag, a man uncaged—arms wide, eyes blazing, sliding on his knees with a roar that tore out of his chest. Pure release. Like every minute of frustration had snapped and turned to fire.
Tristan chased him down, caught him near the flag—one hand on the back of Alli's head, pulling him in tight, forehead to forehead, both of them breathless.
"Thank you!" Dele screamed, his voice nearly lost in the thunder.
Tristan shouted right back, lips curled into a grin. "That was you!"
Behind them, Kane came barreling in, fists clenched, mouth wide. Vardy followed with a flying leap. Walker didn't stop, full sprint, tackled Alli to the ground like it was sudden death in a cup final.
A pile formed. Arms. Shouts. Laughter. Fury. Relief. All of it tangled into one wild moment of electric celebration.
The England bench erupted.
Roy Hodgson was already out of his seat, fists clenched, tie half-loosened, shouting toward the pitch with the biggest smile on his face. He trusted the team but he didn't think they would score so quickly.
Beside him, Steve Holland hugged the nearest person without looking.
Wayne Rooney charged into the celebration like he was back on the pitch—arms wide, shouting over the noise. He grabbed Rashford in a headlock, shoved Lallana toward the touchline, then pointed out at the field.
"Yeah, good job!" he yelled, grinning like a proud older brother who'd just seen his kid brother steal the show. He couldn't be happier at this moment.
Clive's voice was shouting over the chaos. "DELE ALLI! That's his first of the tournament! What a time to get it! And what a way to do it found by England's captain, at the peak of his powers!"
Lee was grinning in disbelief.
"He's twenty, Clive! Twenty! And look at the finish! Clean. Composed. No fear at all. That's a massive moment for him—and what a pass to get it from!"
Clive was still breathless. "Tristan could've taken the shot himself. But that's what makes him different. He doesn't need to score any goals to prove himself."
Lee leaned in again.
"This is the world's best player, Clive. Twenty-one years old. Big players show up. But the best ones? They decide when it happens."
Clive added, "They've been comparing him to players like Pele and Madarona but Tristan is writing his own book. And chapters like this? This is why. He will be the greatest player of all time."
The crowd kept chanting, louder than before.
🎵 Tristan! Tristan! Tristan! 🎵
🎵 Dele! Dele! Dele! 🎵
The camera cut to Roy Hodgson pacing back toward his technical area, muttering something to his assistant with a grin that barely fit his face. He'd aged five years in the first 15 minutes. Now he looked younger than ever.
As the match rolled into the second half, managers across France were watching, not as fans, but as men trying to solve a problem none of them wanted to face. England were the clear favorites for good reasons.
So managers were hoping to find any type of weap spots.
One of them being Jan Kozák, the current manager of Slovakia and England's next opponent.
He stood near the back of the hotel viewing suite, arms crossed, face still. The Slovakian staff sat quietly around him—coaches, analysts, physios—all eyes locked on the TV.
England 2. Wales 1. Second half. 68 minutes played.
The room was silent, except for the sound of the broadcast, which only made it worse.
Clive's voice poured from the speakers, brimming with breathless disbelief. "And there it is Tristan Hale again. He's scored now. Of course he has. Because how could he not?"
Lee answered, voice cracked with energy. "It was coming, Clive. He's been pulling them apart for half an hour. He's played the pass, dragged the pressure, done everything but finish it off and now he's taken one for himself."
Kozák watched the replay on screen, Tristan drifting past Ramsey again, like he wasn't there, cutting inside from the right and curling the ball low past Hennessey.
Jan's assistant leaned in from the side. "We're playing him next."
Clive kept going.
"What more could anyone ask from Tristan. He has performed better than everyone else in this tournament including Ronaldo with 3 goals and 1 assist."
Lee added. "England could shut it down here, Clive. Sit on the lead. Play the time out. But…"
But they weren't.
The fourth official held up the board.
No. 10 – ROONEY.
The room shifted. Eyebrows raised. Eyes widened.
Clive nearly choked on his line.
"Oh my word… they're not sitting back. They're sending on Wayne Rooney. With twenty minutes to play. This is the legend's first playing time of the tournament. Against Russia, he didn't play as Roy kept the entire starting eleven."
On the screen, Rooney jogged toward the touchline.
Kozák exhaled through his nose.
"They aren't going to the run the clock," he muttered in Slovak.
His assistant nodded. "They're hoping to extend the lead even more."
Roy Hodgson stood on the sideline, clapping as Rooney stepped onto the pitch.
The England crowd welcomed Rooney like the legend he was.
🎵 ROONEY! ROONEY! ROONEY! 🎵
Clive's voice rolled under it. "The veteran. The former wonderkid. England's former best player."
Lee finished it with a grin in his voice. "They're telling the rest of the tournament: You're not safe. Not at 1–0. Not at 2–1. Not ever."
The Slovakia staff hadn't spoken in twenty minutes.
No one touched their coffees. No one checked their notes. No one moved.
The match on the screen was too loud, too one-sided. Even at 2–1, it didn't feel close. Not with how England were playing. Not with how easy they made it look.
And now add in Rooney.
The veteran had come in with the swagger of a man who had nothing to prove but every intention to prove it anyway.
And in the 84th minute, he made his mark.
It came from the left, Ben , overlapping again, surging beyond the Welsh line like it was the first minute instead of the last. One touch past Richards, a low whipped ball into the corridor of panic.
Rooney timed it.
The run. The angle. The weight.
One touch, left foot.
Back of the net.
Clive's voice hit the ceiling.
"IT'S ROONEY! OH, HE'S BACK! HE'S STILL GOT IT!"
Lee was nearly laughing now.
"Come on! That's vintage Wayne! That's exactly what they wanted from him and what a finish that is. Eyes up. Touch. Bang."
The England end went berserk.
🎵 Rooney! Rooney! Rooney! 🎵
On the screen, Rooney did his signature celebration.
Kozák rubbed both temples with his fingers, then dragged a hand down his face.
"This isn't fair," he muttered.
His assistant didn't answer. What was there to say?
Jan pointed to the screen like he was accusing it of something. "It's not just Tristan. Look at that roster. It's Kane. Vardy. Alli. Walker. Henderson. Stones. And now Rooney off the bench?"
He flipped his notepad closed.
"France, maybe. That's it. No one else can play with them."
He stood, pacing behind the chairs, half-talking to himself. "We can't press them. We can't hold the ball. We can't even park the bus. You park the bus against Tristan, and he walks around it like it's cones."
The TV showed the replay again. Rooney. First touch. Goal.
Jan exhaled through his nose. "They didn't bring him on to waste time. They brought him on to finish Wales."
The final minutes ticked down.
England led 3–1.
They weren't celebrating wildly. They weren't showboating. They looked like they expected this. Like this was just business.
Jan Kozák sat back down in his chair, heavy, already feeling the hours ahead.
England were next.
And he had no plan.
Only dread.
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If you guys have time and are interested in a basketball story, do check this new story of mine.
Basketball's Greatest.
Link: https://www.webnovel.com/book/34373284400173805