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Fuel for Success

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."

...