England's Greatest

[Until further notice, we are back to daily chapters for now. Some of you guys made fair points, taking too long to update is gonna make readers lose interest and patreon is still way ahead, so we chilling for now.Also come on people I need power stones, last chapter flopped so hard, lmao. Drop some comments and reviews if you guys want, ngl reviews would be nice, and check out the Patreon if your interested.] 

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The referee marched toward Matty James, his hand raised to show the yellow card. James, knowing exactly what he had done, shrugged in acknowledgment, offering a brief thumbs-up to the referee. Without hesitation, he kicked the ball away, disrupting any hopes of a quick Arsenal free kick.

"Matty James, caught in the act. He knows it... and he reacts. A quick nod to the referee, and Leicester breathe a sigh of relief... but that foul could have been catastrophic."

While Arsenal no longer boasted the blistering pace of the like of Theo Walcott or Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, they still moved the ball with precision, flowing forward effortlessly. With just a few swift passes, Arsenal advanced from their own penalty box, crossing the halfway line before Leicester could even react.

"Look at this... Arsenal surge forward, threading passes through the Leicester defense. One, two, three... and they're in the opposition half! That could have been the most dangerous counterattack of the game!"

Matty James' decision to foul may have prevented Arsenal's rapid assault, but it came at a cost—Leicester was now facing a dangerous free kick just outside their penalty area. The ball was positioned 30 yards from goal, just to the left of center. Cazorla and Özil, two of Arsenal's most skilled playmakers, stood over the ball, preparing for what could be a deadly strike.

"An incredibly dangerous free kick here. Cazorla or Özil? Who will take it? The tension is unbearable... one way or the other, it's a moment to decide this match."

Schmeichel Jr., Leicester's last line of defense, set his position on the goal line, his gaze fixed on the duo in front of the ball. The tension in the air was palpable as the crowd fell into a hushed silence, awaiting the referee's whistle.

"Schmeichel takes his position, ready for whatever comes. But how do you stop these two from here? It's a moment that could change everything."

The referee blew the whistle, and the stadium held its breath.

Özil remained still, playing the role of the decoy, while Cazorla took a few steps back before charging toward the ball. With a precise and fluid motion, he planted his left foot firmly beside the ball, swung his right leg back, and then—wham!—he struck it with a force that echoed throughout the stadium.

"And there it is! Cazorla hits it with everything! It's a rocket! Not a pass, but a shot... and it's heading for the top corner!"

The moment the ball left Cazorla's foot, it was clear to everyone watching: this wasn't just any free kick. The ball was traveling at an incredible speed, rocketing toward the far top corner. Schmeichel, who had already shifted to cover the near post, was left helpless as the ball flew past him.

"Schmeichel moves, dives... but it's too late! The ball has beaten him! Cazorla's free kick is inch-perfect, a thing of beauty! And Leicester... Leicester can do nothing about it!"

The ball hit the crossbar with a satisfying thud before dropping into the net, rippling the fabric with the unmistakable sound of a goal.

"Goal! Arsenal lead, and it's a free kick that will be remembered! 2-0 to Arsenal at Wembley!"

The Arsenal fans, jubilant in the stands, erupted into a wave of cheers, the atmosphere charged with excitement. Their team was commanding, and the game was slipping away from Leicester.

"And there's the roar from the Arsenal fans! They're celebrating like champions already! Leicester's task just became monumental... and it's only the first half."

Over in the VIP stands, Roy Hodgson watched closely, his gaze fixed on the field. His assistant leaned toward him, speaking softly. "Leicester will find it tough from here."

Hodgson nodded, not taking his eyes off the pitch. "Yes, it could be. But watch closely now—the way Leicester respond will tell us everything."

Hodgson had come to Wembley not only to observe the match but to keep an eye on Tristan, the young player who had impressed him in previous matches. The attack in which Tristan had been involved just moments ago, the precise pass, the awareness, even his long-range shot—Hodgson had seen the potential.

But this, the early deficit, was a test. "Tristan Hale... he's got a mountain to climb now. Two goals down, but there's a fire in his eyes. What will the young man do next?"

Tristan stood in the middle of the field, his posture unwavering. Despite the two-goal deficit, there was no sign of frustration on his face. His expression was calm, almost stoic, his green eyes fixed ahead with sharp focus.

Tristan was thinking about how to win this game.

In his opinion, Arsenal—who have been ranked in the top four of the Premier League for many years, with a passing and control style deeply embedded in their play—were strong. But not strong enough to completely crush Leicester City.

The reason for their two-goal lead so early was simple: Arsenal had seized two limited opportunities at the start of the game. Two shots, two goals.

It could only mean Arsenal were either in good form today, or perhaps just lucky. But luck is part of the game, isn't it?

Still, in football, you must score to win. To score, you need to create chances. And Tristan, as the playmaker, was ready to do just that.

If he could continue creating chances, he was confident Vardy and Mahrez—two future world-class talents—would not let him down. But if not, he could always try to score himself. First, though, he needed to lift the team, which had already hit rock bottom.

Losing two goals in just over ten minutes left the Leicester players bewildered. It was the first time they had fallen behind by two goals since January. Even in a tough battle with Chelsea, they had never felt so helpless.

Arsenal had only needed two shots to score twice. Who could stand that?

A pessimistic atmosphere was slowly creeping into the hearts of the Foxes. Over the past five months, Leicester had become accustomed to dominating opponents. But here, they were being stunned by Arsenal's two early goals—goals that looked far too easy to score.

It was only natural they would feel overwhelmed and question themselves in the face of such a gap.

As the Leicester players stewed in their thoughts, Tristan took action, drawing their attention. The youngest starter in the team trotted over to Schmeichel, patted him on the shoulder, and spoke firmly.

"Casper, it's okay. Don't blame yourself. We'll get it back."

Taking the ball from Schmeichel, he ran towards the center circle for the kick-off. As he moved forward, he waved and shouted to his teammates.

"Come on, guys!"

"It's not the first time we've been behind. This isn't the end of the world!"

"The game isn't over yet!!"

With Tristan's words and the fans' applause echoing, Leicester's players snapped out of their daze. It had been just 15 minutes, and there were still 75 left to play. There was plenty of time to get back into this!

They'd worked too hard to reach the FA Cup final to give up now. If they lost their fighting spirit, how could they face their own effort, or the fans who had supported them all the way?

Looking at Tristan in the center circle, eager to restart the game, the players began to feel a sense of shame. In terms of age, experience, and competition history, each of them had more to draw on than Tristan.

But when faced with this setback, while most were lost in frustration, Tristan had kept his cool and responded with positivity.

Vardy was the first to shake off his gloom and spoke out.

"Tristan's right! We still have time!"

Then, Captain Morgan raised his hands, rallying the team.

"Listen, guys, the game's far from over. We've got nothing to lose. Let's go."

Pearson, watching from the sidelines, couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. When adversity strikes, the team doesn't give up. Instead, they unite and tackle it head-on. That was the mark of a mature, cohesive squad.

Considering Vardy had been tightly marked and involved in physical battles with Arsenal's two central defenders, the tactical changes had already been discussed.

Vardy and Nugent would swap positions. With Nugent's physicality, he could engage the two Arsenal defenders in the middle, preventing them from overextending and creating space for Vardy to exploit his pace out wide or cut inside to shoot.

It was a tactical move Leicester had used before and one they knew could work.

In the 18th minute, Leicester kicked off once again.

Arsenal immediately noticed the shift in Leicester's setup. But with two goals in hand, there was no sense of urgency from the London side. They had earned their cushion, and now the question lingered—would Leicester rally, or was this the beginning of their capitulation?

The Leicester players huddled briefly, their gestures animated but purposeful. There was no shouting, no signs of panic—just determination. They weren't here to be passengers in Arsenal's trophy parade.

"Leicester City—trailing by two but far from done. You can feel it; there's something stirring within this team. They're not bowing out just yet. And Arsenal? They might be sitting a little too comfortably on this lead."

On the touchline, Arsène Wenger stood composed, his hands resting casually in his coat pockets. The veteran manager's demeanor reflected confidence—his team had done enough to control the game. Why bark orders now? 

As the whistle blew to restart, Leicester took possession. Unlike what one might expect from a team down by two goals, there was no frantic rush. Instead, their approach was deliberate.

"Look at Leicester—this isn't desperation. This is patience. The ball's back in play, and Arsenal are holding their defensive shape, but Leicester's probing, looking for weak spots. Every pass feels calculated, every movement purposeful. You can sense they're building toward something."

The Arsenal defense remained disciplined, crowding the midfield and denying space. Yet Leicester's persistence was unyielding. Short, sharp passes began pulling Arsenal's players out of position ever so slightly, creating seams where none had existed moments earlier.

Then, it happened. The ball rolled back to Tristan who had dropped deep to dictate the tempo. Arsenal's Özil, still haunted by an earlier misstep against the young star, cautiously stepped forward, careful not to overcommit.

Tristan surveyed the pitch, his head on a swivel, reading the gaps like a chess master anticipating his next move. With a deft touch of the outside of his foot, he shifted the ball away from Özil, just enough to open the field.

"Tristan Hale—calm as ever. He's got options, but he's waiting for the perfect one. And… there it is! Look at that! A pass that cuts through the heart of Arsenal's defense!"

The ball soared over Özil's head, a perfectly weighted diagonal pass slicing through Arsenal's back line.

Jamie Vardy had already spotted the opportunity. His run was timed to perfection, breaking past the last defender just as the ball descended into his path. The Leicester faithful erupted, their collective roar urging him forward.

"Vardy's off! Look at the speed, the hunger! That ball is arcing beautifully into the left side of the penalty area, and Vardy's a step ahead of everyone!"

Vardy didn't hesitate. His body adjusted mid-stride, his right foot primed and ready. The ball hadn't even settled, but that didn't matter. Vardy struck it clean, a thunderous connection that sent the ball rocketing toward the goal.

"Oh, what a hit! Jamie Vardy—first-time strike! And it's a bullet! Arsenal's defense is rooted to the spot! This game just got interesting!"