Despite the January transfer window being in full swing, Leicester City remained relatively quiet. While clubs across Europe scrambled for reinforcements, Nigel Pearson and the Leicester board were content with their squad.
They had made only one significant move—selling a fringe midfielder who had barely featured all season.
In his place?
They promoted Tristan Hale to the first team.
Dressed in a black GPS monitoring vest beneath his long-sleeved training gear, Tristan followed his teammates onto the training pitch.
The crisp winter air filled his lungs as he stepped onto the lush green grass, freshly cut and still damp with morning dew.
Laughter and chatter filled the atmosphere, blending with the rhythmic thud of footballs being passed around.
Tristan took a deep breath and calmed himself down.
As the squad began their warm-up drills, Pearson and his assistant Steve Walsh stood on the sideline, watching closely.
"Keep it moving, lads! Let's warm up those legs!" Pearson's voice carried across the pitch, commanding attention.
But his real focus? Tristan Hale.
He and Walsh observed every movement—the way Tristan sprinted, the way he carried himself, and the intensity he brought to training.
Pearson murmured, eyes locked on Tristan.
"His burst and speed are impressive. He moves with real purpose."
Walsh, nodding in agreement, added, "And look at his stamina—he's keeping pace with the fittest guys out there. If we play him in midfield, he'll contribute defensively as well. His reading of the game is natural."
Their eyes followed Tristan as he executed the next set of drills:
Tight ball control exercises? Sharp and precise.
Quick dribbling drills? Smooth, confident.
Short-passing sequences? Flawless.
Shooting drills? Decent, but room to improve.
Of course, his passing was the standout.
His ability to switch play effortlessly, his vision, and his weight of pass were something no one else in the squad could replicate.
And after what he did against Stoke-City, it was no surprise to see him shining in training.
As the session progressed, Pearson and Walsh continued their quiet evaluation.
"His performance in the game wasn't a fluke," Pearson muttered.
Walsh smirked. "No. And if he keeps this up, he won't just be part of the squad—he'll be running our midfield soon enough."
Pearson simply nodded, a satisfied glint in his eye.
As the warm-up wrapped up, the team transitioned into technical and tactical drills. The crisp morning air buzzed with anticipation as small groups formed across the pitch, focusing on passing, dribbling, and shooting exercises.
"Alright, Tristan! Show us what you've got!" Vardy called out, juggling a ball casually before volleying it high into the air.
"Yeah, mate! No hiding now!" Mahrez grinned, offering a quick thumbs-up as he breezed past in a dribbling drill.
Their encouragement steadied Tristan's nerves.
A few drills later, Matty James received a perfectly weighted pass from Tristan and maneuvered past a defender effortlessly.
"That's the stuff, Tristan!" James called back.
"Look at that vision!" Vardy chimed in. "Kid's got a radar in his head."
Tristan exhaled, his confidence growing.
He sharpened his focus, delivering a series of pinpoint passes—driven balls, lofted switches, delicate through balls—each one executed with precision. The ball zipped between teammates as if Tristan had measured each pass with a ruler.
"Alright, now you're showing off," Mahrez chuckled, collecting a slick diagonal pass from Tristan.
"Was waiting for you to actually make a run," Tristan shot back, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Laughter rippled through the group.
As the drills continued, one thing became clear to the coaching staff:
That FA Cup assist? It wasn't a fluke.
Tristan wasn't just playing safe passes—he was seeing moves unfold before they happened.
From the sideline, Pearson turned to Walsh.
"He's got it, doesn't he?" Pearson mused.
Walsh nodded. "You can't teach that level of awareness."
As the players regrouped for an intra-squad competition, Pearson divided them into two teams. The first-choice starters donned bright orange vests as Team A, while Team B—a mix of substitutes and younger players—stood opposite them.
Tristan found himself among Team B, lining up alongside Andy King, Matty James, and Liam Moore.
Andy clapped a hand on Tristan's back, grinning. "Don't think you're getting an easy ride, rookie! Let's see if you can keep up with us old-timers."
Tristan smirked. "I don't plan on just keeping up—I plan on winning."
Matty let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, I like the confidence. No pressure, mate—just don't bottle it in front of the gaffer."
From the other side, Vardy, leading Team A, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted toward Tristan.
"Oi! Don't be too fancy with those passes, Tristan—we actually want to play football, not tic-tac-toe!"
Mahrez, standing beside him, nudged Vardy playfully. "You're just worried he's gonna embarrass you."
The banter eased some of Tristan's nerves, but as the whistle blew, his focus sharpened.
The game started at an intense pace, with Team A quickly asserting dominance. Danny Drinkwater and Matty James controlled the midfield, their experience showing as they dictated possession.
Tristan quickly realized he had no time to settle. Every touch was pressured, every pass contested.
"Watch Drinkwater!" Andy called out, shifting his position beside Tristan. "He's always looking for that quick ball behind."
"Got it," Tristan responded, already tracking Drinkwater's movement.
The midfield battle was fierce, with Tristan working tirelessly to close passing lanes and regain possession. But Team A was relentless, shifting the ball quickly to stretch Team B's defensive line.
Drinkwater spotted Knockaert making a darting run and sent a quick through ball toward him.
Tristan read the pass instinctively, stepping in at the perfect moment to intercept it.
"Nice read, Tristan!" Matty called out as Tristan immediately transitioned into attack, spraying a quick diagonal pass out wide to Mahrez.
"Keep it up, lad!" Andy encouraged, clapping his hands as the momentum shifted.
Despite Tristan's strong defensive work, Team A's veteran players weren't going down easily. Lloyd Dyer used his experience to pull Tristan out of position, while Knockaert's agility kept him on edge.
Pearson, watching from the sideline, shouted, "Don't let him get past you, Tristan! Stay strong!"
The pressure was relentless, but Tristan fed off it.
Team B began finding their rhythm, with Tristan at the heart of it.
He linked up smoothly with Mahrez and Albrighton, dictating play with precise, well-timed passes.
His vision was on full display. Short, quick exchanges. A lofted switch to the right. A driven through ball splitting defenders.
Vardy, watching from Team A, called over to Pearson with a mock complaint.
"Boss! Hale's making us look bad—take him off!"
Pearson chuckled. "Then maybe stop giving him the ball."
The players laughed, but the intensity remained.
With Team A pressing high, Tristan spotted an opportunity. As soon as he received the ball, he took a quick touch forward and drove into space.
Pearson's voice boomed across the pitch: "Push forward!"
Tristan didn't hesitate. He accelerated past an onrushing midfielder, dodged a half-hearted challenge, then threaded a perfectly weighted ball between two defenders toward Mahrez.
"Go on, Riyad!" Tristan urged, eyes locked on the play.
Mahrez took it in stride, cutting inside with his signature move, but just as he shaped to shoot, his footing slipped slightly, and the defender recovered.
"Unlucky!" Vardy called, jogging over to pat Mahrez on the back. "Next time, mate!"
Tristan clenched his jaw, disappointed it hadn't led to a goal—but Mahrez clapped him on the shoulder as they jogged back.
"That pass was perfect, man," Mahrez reassured him. "We'll get the next one."
As the game progressed, Tristan felt his confidence growing.
He was no longer just keeping up—he was setting the tempo, making an impact in every phase of play.
Every pass, every movement, every decision was sharper.
As the whistle blew for a break, players gathered around, panting but grinning.
"God damn, what's inside that head of yours!" Vardy said, clapping a sweaty hand on his back. "Not just a pretty face, then."
Tristan chuckled, shaking his head.
Mahrez nodded approvingly. "If you keep playing like this, you'll be in the starting lineup sooner than you think."
Tristan let the words sink in. He wasn't just another academy kid anymore—he was a player the first team could trust.
"Alright, lads! We build on this! Keep working hard, and we'll see where it takes us!" Pearson shouted at the team once training was over.
As training wrapped up, Tristan lingered on the pitch, watching the sun dip below the training ground.
Leave some power stones and your thoughts on the story so far would be appreciated thank you
In the days that followed, Tristan fully immersed himself in Leicester City's first-team training.
The days were long and intense. Mornings were spent on the training pitch, afternoons in the gym, and evenings in the video room.
Slowly, Tristan started to gel with his teammates. Vardy never missed a chance to tease him; Mahrez had taken him under his wing, and even the more experienced players like Danny and Morgan gave him pointers.
The days were long and intense. Mornings were spent on the training pitch, afternoons in the gym, and evenings in the video room.
After every session, Tristan and Mahrez made their way to the video analysis room. The tactical coaches had already prepared clips for them—breaking down their movements, decisions, and areas for improvement.
"You know, it's not just about playing," Mahrez told him, arms crossed as they studied the screen. "It's about understanding the game."
Together, they pored over footage, analyzing patterns, dissecting movements, and refining their football IQ.
On the screen, Vardy made a perfectly timed run behind the defense.
"Look here," Mahrez pointed out, pausing the video. "See how he holds his run for just a second before exploding into space? It's all about anticipation."
Tristan leaned forward. "He's already moving before the pass is even played."
"Exactly," the tactical coach chimed in. "That's the level you need to get to—seeing the play before it happens."
Tristan nodded, absorbing every detail. The youth team and his first life had prepared him but he was still taking everything in.
A few days later, Tristan stepped onto the training pitch under the morning sun.
As training began, his muscles burned from the relentless pace, but he embraced it. Every sprint, every touch, every pass—it all mattered. He knew he wasn't the finished product yet, but that was the beauty of it. This was his second chance, and he wasn't going to let it slip.
"Tristan, quicker!" Pearson barked from the sidelines.
He gritted his teeth and picked up the pace.
"Better, lad!" Wes Morgan shouted encouragingly.
A sharp pass came his way, and without hesitation, Tristan played a first-time ball to Mahrez, slicing through the defense.
"That's it!" Mahrez grinned. "Now you're thinking faster."
Tristan let out a deep breath getting used to the training.
Tristan sat on the sidelines, catching his breath as sweat dripped from his brow. The intensity of first-team training was no joke. Around him, teammates chattered and joked, taking a much-needed hydration break.
As he observed them, his mind started analyzing.
Some players had raw, explosive speed—like Vardy, who could outrun most defenders in the league. Others, like Mahrez, had the kind of deft technical skill that made the ball look glued to their feet. Drinkwater and Matty James controlled the tempo of play with their sharp passing and positioning, while Morgan and Wes commanded the defense with sheer presence and experience.
Everyone had something. A unique strength that made them indispensable.
And him?
He had vision. He had passing that very few in history that could claim to be better. But it wasn't enough. Not yet. If he wanted to dominate at the highest level, he needed more.
A shadow loomed over him. Tristan looked up to see Danny Drinkwater grinning down at him, arms crossed.
"Oi, superstar," Danny teased, taking a swig from his bottle. "Need me to show you how to actually dribble? I've seen cats with more finesse."
Laughter erupted from the group nearby.
Tristan leaned back, smirking. "Oh yeah? Give it a few weeks, and you'll be the one taking notes from me."
Danny let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest. "Did you hear that? The kid's got jokes!"
Vardy, never one to miss out on the fun, chimed in. "Bold talk, Tristan. We'll see if you can back it up in the next drill."
Tristan shrugged, unfazed. "Guess I'll just have to embarrass a few of you to prove my point."
Through all the drills, the small-sided matches, the tactical sessions, and the relentless physical work, Tristan discovered something unexpected:
His stats were increasing.
It wasn't immediate, but after several days, small improvements became noticeable. His [Off-ball Movement] in the [Mental] category had gone from 66 to 67. His [Steal] in [Defense] had climbed from 38 to 40, and his [Marking] had inched up from 35 to 37.
It was subtle, but it was happening.
"So, training does work," Tristan mused, rolling a football beneath his boot. The professional environment—the drills, the constant competition—it was forcing his body and mind to adapt.
But there was one problem.
His passing hadn't improved at all.
Despite threading pinpoint passes in every training session, his world-class passing attributes remained exactly the same.
Weird.
He narrowed his eyes, thinking. Maybe the system works differently depending on the skill level?
It made sense. His lower-rated stats—like defending and movement—were easier to improve because there was so much room for growth. But passing?
Passing was already elite.
The better you are at something, the harder it is to improve.
That was true in real life, wasn't it? A beginner could improve quickly, but a world-class athlete refining their best skill? That took something special.
What would it feel like when all six of his attributes reached S-level?
The mere thought sent shivers and excitement down his spine.
...
Late at night, in the quiet solitude of the Belvoir Drive dormitory, Tristan Hale sat at his desk, flipping through the densely filled pages of his notebook. His room was dimly lit, the only sound being the occasional scratch of his pen as he reviewed tactical notes from the day's training.
And so, while most of his teammates rested, Tristan worked. He wrote down passing patterns, studied team formations, and made notes on movement off the ball.
This was his edge. His obsession. His path to the top.
Outside the walls of Leicester's training base, the football world was buzzing.
The FA Cup had long been a tournament built on fairy-tale stories—where the underdog could defy the odds, leaving giants humbled and stunned. But even by FA Cup standards, Leicester's 3-2 comeback victory over Stoke City was different.
It wasn't just about a Championship side beating a Premier League team—that had happened before.
It was the way it happened.
The headlines wrote themselves:
"Remember the Name: Tristan Hale Stuns Stoke with a Masterclass Performance!"
"Leicester's Wonderkid Steals the Show—The Premier League Awaits!"
Across social media, clips of Tristan's inch-perfect assist and composed finish flooded football forums. Fans debated whether he was just a flash in the pan or the real deal.
"That pass? That finish? Nah, this kid is different."
"Let's not overhype him yet. One game doesn't make a star."
"If I speak… Tristan Hale > half of the midfielders in the Prem already!"
...
The Premier League pundits soon weighed in.
"It wasn't just the stats, it was the composure. The vision. The ability to change a game," one analyst remarked on Sky Sports. "This wasn't luck. "
"Reminds me a bit of a Inesta, Beckham too." one ex-player commented on TalkSport.
For Tristan, none of this had sunk in yet. He wasn't thinking about the hype, the headlines, or the scouts who were suddenly keeping tabs on him.
He was just focused on one thing.
The next match.
....
The tactical room at Belvoir Drive buzzed with energy. Players shifted in their seats, some tapping their fingers against the table, others leaning forward, listening intently as Pearson finalized the starting eleven for the Derby County clash.
For Leicester City, the stakes were sky-high. A victory would solidify their position at the top of the Championship and create crucial breathing space in the promotion race. But standing in their way was Derby County, a team known for its aggressive, high-pressing style and relentless midfield battles.
"Okay, next, I will announce tomorrow's starting lineup," Pearson's voice cut through the murmurs, bringing full attention to the front of the room.
"Kasper"
"Morgan"
"Danny"
"Vardy"
Tristan leaned back in his chair, waiting. But as Pearson called out the final name, it became clear—he wasn't in the starting eleven.
A ripple of surprise swept through the room. Players exchanged glances. After his standout FA Cperformancece, and with how sharp he'd looked in training, many had expected Tristan to at least start this crucial match.
Pearson, however, wasn't blind to the reaction. His sharp eyes flickered toward the back row, landing on Tristan. The coach had expected at least some frustration—a clenched jaw, a flicker of disappointment. But there was nothing.
Tristan sat there, perfectly composed, hiding his emotions.
Was disappointed? Yes, but he was also prepared for it.
It made sense. He was still new to the first team. Chemistry and tactical understanding took time. The lineup was settled, and this wasn't the moment for drastic changes. He would get his chance—but he had to earn it.
And when that moment came? He'd be ready.
As the players stood up, Mahrez nudged Tristan with a knowing look.
"Hey, I know it's frustrating, but don't worry about it," Mahrez said, his Algerian accent lilting slightly. "You've been brilliant in training. Just keep going. Your time will come."
Tristan grinned.
"Appreciate it."
"And hey, at least you get to come off the bench fresh while the rest of us are knackered, yeah?" Mahrez added with a smirk.
Tristan chuckled. "That's not a bthing,ing to honest; it'sst, much easier playing when everyone is tired."
...
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