Halftime
Stade de Lyon | England vs. Belgium
Inside England's locker room, the mood was light. Relaxed. Calm.
Shin pads clattered to the floor. Water bottles were passed around. Shirts tugged off and swapped.
"I swear," Henderson said, toweling off, "they're arguing like it's a training ground bust-up."
"You see Hazard shove Kevin?" Vardy piped in, perched on the bench with his socks rolled halfway down. "Proper little brother fight that."
"Didn't even track back after," Kane added, sitting on the physio table. "Just stood there, arms up like he got left on read."
Tristan didn't say much. He sat at the far end, jersey clinging to his frame, sweat still drying on his collarbones. One boot off. The other still laced. He was aware the Belguim players didn't get along but not to this extent. Bloody hell they were almost worse than the England's golden generation.
"They're broken," said Smalling, glancing at the tactical sheet on the wall. "France tried to fight. These lot are fighting each other."
"Exactly what we needed after the France war," Henderson muttered, stretching his hamstring. "This feels like a gift."
Roy Hodgson stepped in from the hallway a bright smile on his face.
"I don't need to say much, do I?"
Heads shook.
"Keep it that way. No early hero plays. Kill the clock if you must. But if they break again—"
His eyes cut toward Tristan.
"—you know what to do."
A few players chuckled.
.
Belgium Locker Room
It was silent.
Then shouting.
Then silence again.
A water bottle cracked off the far wall and rolled under the bench. No one retrieved it.
"Does no one know how to track a run?!" Hazard snapped, pacing back and forth like a fuse running low. "He's walking through us like we're mannequins!"
"Maybe if someone passed instead of playing hero ball," De Bruyne fired back without looking up, "we'd have possession for more than three seconds."
Hazard stopped cold. "You think this is on me?"
"You're supposed to be the captain." Kevin stood now too. "Act like one."
"Say that again."
Lukaku said nothing. He hadn't moved since sitting down, elbows on knees, face buried in a towel.
Vertonghen leaned forward, voice low but sharp. "Both of you—shut it. We're getting picked apart, and you're throwing punches at the air."
Fellaini was cracking his knuckles one by one. The room stank of sweat and disbelief.
The manager slammed his clipboard down. "Enough."
No one breathed.
"You're not playing England right now," he said, low and cold. "You're playing yourselves. You're giving England exactly what they want.."
A murmur from the back. "At least they've got Tristan."
The room turned.
"Yeah?" Hazard snapped. "And what've we got? Two hundred million in midfield and not one working relationship."
Kevin didn't answer. He just sat again ignoring everything around him.
The manager looked around the room one last time. "You've got fifteen minutes to fix it."
A pause.
"Or don't bother coming back in."
No one looked up.
Not even when the whistle blew.
.
Stade de Lyon roared again as the players emerged from the tunnel. England in white. Belgium in red. And the scoreboard quietly, proudly, still read: ENGLAND 1–0 BELGIUM.
The second half began like the first ended.
England didn't come flying out. They didn't need to. They just picked up where they left off.
Tristan drifted into midfield, dictating angles with a flick of the eyes, a drop of the shoulder, a pass with no backlift. Every time De Bruyne tried to follow, he looked frustrated, a man trying to chase his own reflection.
"Kevin just can't live with him," said Shearer. "Every time they meet, it's like watching two versions of the same player. But only one of them was born for nights like this."
Hazard tried to spark something. He dropped in to receive from Alderweireld, turned and instantly met white shirts. Tristan and Walker closed like twin jaws. One touch. Gone.
The Belgian fans winced. The English fans rose.
It was clinical. Ruthless. And it was only just beginning.
By the 52nd minute, England were stringing 20, 30, 40 passes together without resistance. Stones overlapped. Walker tucked in. Henderson scanned. Kane dropped deep. And Tristan? He just moved in silence, dragging Belgium apart with every clever touch.
At one point, Belgium pressed. Carrasco surged forward. Tielemans stepped high. Vertonghen followed Kane. It was the cue.
Minute 63. England sprung.
Henderson to Alli. One touch. Alli to Vardy. Flick. Vardy to Tristan. Tristan took no touch at all. Just a perfectly weighted ball through the lines.
Kane didn't have to look. He knew where it was going. One touch out of his feet. Courtois came rushing. Too late.
Low drive. Bottom corner.
GOAL.
2–0.
The stadium detonated.
"HARRY KANE!" Mowbray shouted. "AND ENGLAND HAVE ONE FOOT IN THE FINAL!"
Kane shouted, screaming as he celebrated.
Behind him, the celebration erupted.
.
De Bruyne was hunched watching the England players. Hands on knees. Soaked in sweat and disbelief.
Hazard kicked at the turf. Vertonghen swore under his breath. Belgium weren't just beaten. They were broken.
The next twenty minutes passed like a training drill.
Tristan dropped deeper to dictate. Henderson played like a wall. Kane and Vardy rotated like a pendulum, swinging Belgium's line apart with every movement.
Then came the subs.
Hazard tried one last solo run in the 83rd. Stepovers. A fake shot. A shift inside. Tristan waited. Slid. Didn't touch him. Just took the angle away. Hazard ran out of pitch. Goal kick.
The camera found Tristan again. Muddy. Breath even. Shirt clinging to his frame. He looked up at the England fans behind the goal. They were already singing.
And then the whistle blew.
Full-time: England 2 – Belgium 0.
Mowbray let the noise wash over the feed before speaking again.
"England... are going to a major tournament final. For the first time since 1966."
Shearer exhaled like he couldn't believe it. "Fifty years, Guy. We've waited half a century to see this shirt on this stage again."
The camera panned across the pitch, Kane walking toward Hodgson, who pulled him in with both arms. Alli and Vardy were pointing at each other, laughing. Stones knelt at the halfway line, face buried in his sleeves. And at the centre of it all, surrounded by cameras, by noise, by history…
Tristan Hale stood alone.
Just for a second.
Head tilted up toward the lights. Eyes closed. Arms slack at his sides. Like he could feel it all: the weight, the pressure, the dreams, the years.
The roar swallowed him.
"England have tried," Guy continued. "And failed. Over and over again. Penalties. Heartbreak. Golden generations. Always close. Never enough."
Shearer nodded. "But this team… this kid… they're something else."
"With him the impossible becomes a probability."
In the stands, the England end had lost its mind. Flags. Tears. Drums. Every voice chanting the same two words:
"FOOTBALL'S COMING HOME."
Guy Mowbray's voice dropped one last time.
"We'll see you in Paris."
.
Okay finally to the finals, I think you guys will like it as the finals chapter are my most liked chapter on Patreon with like 80 likes on all three chapters. So something to look forward to after this short chapter.
Besides that check my other stories and join Discord and Pa@tron if you are interested.
Peace and have a good day.
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