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Chapter 277: Overshadowed by a Miracle
🕑 Added 2025-10-02 00:44:16 +0000 UTCMay 8, 2016 | Leicester – Morning After
The light stabbed through the curtains like a punishment.
Tristan groaned.
His mouth was dry. His head throbbed like someone had left a drum kit inside his skull and handed the sticks to a toddler on a sugar rush. His tongue felt like it had been sandpapered. Every muscle in his body ached not from training, not from football, but from letting go for the first time in what felt like years.
He was still wearing one sock.
The sheets were twisted around his legs like they’d been in a wrestling match. The faint, cloying scent of champagne clung to his skin. His throat was raw, probably from singing, or yelling, or both. It was hard to remember. The last clear memory he had was Mahrez dancing on the coffee table with his shirt off, shouting something in French that sounded like a toast and a threat at the same time.
And Vardy…
Jesus. Vardy had tried to crowd-surf in a pub. Not a club, a pub. And when there wasn’t a crowd big enough, he dove anyway straight onto Albrighton, who spilled an entire tray of tequila shots all over Danny Drinkwater.
Tristan dragged a hand over his face and muttered something that might’ve been a prayer.
So this is what a hangover feels like.
He honestly forgot. It had been years. Last night was his first proper drink since he came back to the past.
They’d done it.
Leicester City—his Leicester—had reached the mountaintop. 99 points which would be 102 when they beat Chelsea. 31 games unbeaten the same day they beat Chelsea. A Golden Premier League trophy glinting behind glass. The kind of season people would talk about in pubs and around the world for decades.
And now… he didn’t have to be perfect.
No early wake-up. No looming match in 48 hours. The schedule gods had finally gifted them a week’s break before the final match at Stamford Bridge, followed by the Europa League Final in Basel, and the FA Cup Final at Wembley. Then straight into England duty for the Euros.
This week—this tiny bubble of time—was the only chance they’d get to act like champions.
They just had to have the greatest season in a year with an international cup where he was the Captain. So they didn’t go too crazy but they partied.
And now?
Now he was paying the price.
Tristan exhaled and sat up slowly, ribs protesting like they were mad at him. The blanket fell away. The room was dead quiet, save for the faint ticking of the hallway clock and the distant purr of the dishwasher downstairs.
Then he noticed.
Barbara wasn’t in bed.
He blinked blearily. The space beside him was cold. Her pillow untouched. Her robe was gone from the back of the chair. Biscuit’s tiny bed in the corner was empty too.
“Barbara?” he rasped. His voice sounded like gravel soaked in whiskey.
No answer.
He rubbed his eyes, squinting around. No sound of the shower. No phone in sight. B
Was that bacon?
He sniffed.
That was definitely bacon.
His head throbbed again as he stood up.
She was cooking.
Of course she was.
He smiled faintly. Hangover or not, he already felt better.
But still… part of him wondered what else he’d forgotten.
Like whether it was him who tried to kiss the Premier League trophy last night or Vardy who slipped while doing it and knocked over two waiters.
Actually… maybe it was both of them.
He really needed water.
And Barbara.
Preferably both.
Tristan staggered out of the bedroom like a man who’d been in a bar fight with a bottle of rum and lost all ten rounds. His curls were sticking in every direction, his shirt was hanging off one shoulder like he’d tried and failed to put it on in the dark, and his socks didn’t match. He looked like chaos wrapped in cotton.
He blinked against the brightness of the kitchen, the smell of eggs and bacon hitting him first, followed by the soft clatter of pans and a low hum of music from Barbara’s phone.
“Morning, champion,” Barbara said without turning, her voice lilting with mischief.
He groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “Don’t call me that right now. My skull feels like Old Trafford packed and screaming.”
Barbara smirked over her shoulder. “At least you scored, though.” She opened a cabinet, grabbed a bottle, and slid it across the counter toward him. “Painkillers. And some water before you collapse on my kitchen floor.”
Tristan obediently downed both, wincing. “Thanks, nurse.”
She turned fully this time, one brow raised, the corner of her mouth twitching. “So… do you remember anything from last night? Or do I get to tell you how my boyfriend tried to salsa dance with Ranieri?”
Tristan blinked. “…I did what?”
Barbara laughed, setting the spatula down. “Full on twirls. Claudio was laughing so hard he threw up.”
He groaned into his hands. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” She walked over, sliding into his space, tilting his chin up with one finger. “And then you tried to kiss the Premier League trophy.”
“Keyword: tried?”
“You missed. Knocked over two waiters instead.”
Tristan winced, then broke into a sheepish grin. “Still counts if my heart was in the right place.”
Barbara shook her head, laughing softly. “You were wild. Properly wild. First time I’ve ever seen you let go.” Her smile softened. “It was kind of nice, actually.”
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers. “Remind me never to let Vardy convince me into tequila again.”
Barbara kissed him once, quick. “You say that now.”
He kissed her back, slower, lingering this time. “No, I mean it.”
She pulled away just enough to look into his eyes, her grin teasing but her gaze warm. “Well… drunk or sober, you’re still mine.”
Tristan smirked, stealing another kiss, deeper this time. “Best hangover cure I’ve had all morning.”
Tristan squinted at her over the rim of his water glass. His voice was still gravel. “Where were you this morning? Woke up thinking aliens abducted you.”
Barbara smirked as she flipped an egg with unnecessary flair. “I was being productive.”
“Productive?” He rubbed his temples. “The only productive thing today should be me lying here until death claims me.”
She wiped her hands on a towel, then came around the island. Without warning, she grabbed his wrist, tugging gently. “Come outside. I want to show you something.”
Tristan groaned. “Unless it’s coffee in a hot tub, I don’t have the strength.”
Barbara just grinned. “You’ll want to see this.”
Still barefoot, he let her drag him toward the front door. The sunlight hit him like a slap.
“God,” he hissed, shielding his eyes. “Why is the sun so angry?”
She only laughed and pulled him down the drive.
And then he saw it.
A car sat under a silk cover.
Tristan blinked. “Barbara…”
“Mm?” she hummed, walking toward it like she was presenting art in a gallery.
“You didn’t have to,” he said. “We already have enough cars.”
“I wanted to,” she replied, lifting the edge of the sheet. “And besides, someone has to reward you for winning the Premier League, the League Cup, breaking every record ever…”
The cover slipped free, pooling at their feet.
An emerald green Audi R8 gleamed in the morning sun, polished so perfectly it looked like it had been carved out of glass and dipped in starlight.
[Image > Here]
Tristan froze. His dream car.
Barbara’s voice softened. “I saw your face last year. When you picked me up from the airport and an R8 drove past. You didn’t even say anything, but you stared at it. Like a kid who just saw Christmas morning.”
Tristan exhaled slowly, running both hands through his messy curls. “Babe…”
“I bought it a month later,” she said with a smile. “Had it stored until the time was right.”
He turned to her, still dazed. “You bought me a bloody R8.”
“I did,” she said proudly. “Took me forever to pick the color until the day you bought me that Porsche because it matched my eyes. So… I had yours repainted to match yours.”
He walked toward the car slowly, like it might disappear if he blinked too fast. His palm skimmed the hood, fingertips tracing the curve like it was holy.
“Barbara,” he whispered, almost reverent. “I’m not kidding if I wasn’t so hungover, I’d make love to you right here on this car.”
Barbara burst out laughing, shoving his arm. “That’s disgusting. Please no. I rather not think about what we did everytime you drive me around inside of it.”
But when he turned and scooped her up in his arms, setting her carefully on the hood, her laughter broke into a smile that was all warmth.
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. “You’ve just given me the best gift anyone’s ever given me. Not just the car. You. All of this.”
Her hands slid around his neck. “You deserve it.”
And then he kissed her slow, deep, with the sunlight spilling gold around them, the R8 gleaming beneath, Biscuit barking faintly in the distance like she was jealous.
“I love you,” he murmured against her lips.
Barbara smiled back, brushing her nose against his. “I love you too.”
Next Day | Belvoir Drive – 10:04 AM
The emerald green Audi R8 rolled into the car park like it owned the place. The windows were tinted so no could see the driver.
Ben squinted, shielding his eyes. “Who the hell is that?”
Schlupp tilted his head. “New signing? Bit dramatic to roll up like James Bond on deadline day.”
“Oi, Tristan’s not here yet, is he?” Vardy said, glancing around. He hadn’t clocked any of Tristan’s Aston Martins.
The R8 purred to a stop. The driver’s door lifted open then out stepped Tristan.
Tristan shut the door with a click. “Did what?” he asked, perfectly deadpan.
Vardy pointed, wide-eyed. “Mate. When did you get an R8?”
Tristan scratched the back of his neck casually. “Barbara got it for me.”
Silence. Actual silence.
“Wait Barbara got you that?” Chilwell asked, voice cracking like a teenager.
“Yup.” Tristan gestured at the car like he was introducing a pet. “Said I deserved it. Surprise gift.”
Drinkwater blinked slowly. “…man got an R8 like it’s a Yankee candle.”
“Mate,” Vardy said, clutching his chest. “What kinda fairy-tale relationship did I stumble into? I’m out here buzzing if I get socks that don’t itch.”
Tristan shrugged, completely unfazed.
Vardy wasn’t done. He slapped Tristan’s back. “You keep playing like this, she’ll buy you a helicopter next.”
“I think she already looked into it,” Tristan mumbled.
Everyone froze.
Ben’s eyes went wide. “Wait… are you serious?”
Tristan didn’t answer. Just picked up his water bottle, turned toward the training pitch, and said, “Depends how many goals Jamie scores.”
Vardy’s jaw dropped. “Oi, don’t put this on me!”
The entire squad erupted, laughter echoing across the car park.
.
Inside
Half the squad looked like extras from The Walking Dead. Drinkwater and Simpson were collapsed on yoga mats pretending to stretch but really just napping. Schlupp was face-down on a foam roller, groaning into the floor. Mahrez had his sunglasses on indoors, clutching a bottle of Lucozade like it was holy water.
And then there was Kanté. Calm. Serene. Sitting cross-legged in the corner sipping tea like he’d spent the night in meditation rather than a title-winning pub crawl. Granted he didn’t drink and no one really forced him to either.
Vardy flopped onto the physio table with the grace of a sack of potatoes.
“If anyone mentions Red Bull,” he groaned, “I’m swinging. My mentions are just people @ me saying I broke the record ‘cause of the drink. Fucking hell at least I’m gonna win the European Golden Boot.”
Ben wheezed a laugh. “Aren’t you sponsored by them?.”
The door opened.
Ranieri walked in, scarf looped neatly, eyes sharp even behind his glasses. Instantly, the room hushed. Boots shuffled. Lads sat up straighter, though most still looked half-dead.
His gaze swept the room, pausing on Vardy, then Mahrez dangling Tristan’s Audi keys from earlier and finally landing on Tristan, who was perched on the edge of a bench, water bottle in hand.
Ranieri clasped his hands behind his back. “Good,” he said at last, voice dry as desert air. “You’re alive.”
A ripple of chuckles broke the tension. Huth coughed into his sleeve.
“Now,” Ranieri continued, his tone light but steady, “looking at everyone, it is better we cancel training today.”
Half the squad sighed in relief.
“But,” Ranieri added, raising a finger like a teacher about to assign extra homework, “you must prepare yourselves. Sky Sports. BBC. TalkSport. BBC Breakfast. And—” he paused for effect, “ITV called. They want one of you to cook.”
The room erupted. Groans, laughter, whistles.
“That’s you, Vardy,” Mahrez smirked, lowering his shades. “You’re the one who posted lasagna like you were Gordon Ramsay.”
“It was fire,” Vardy shot back. “Ten outta ten. Ask my mum.”
Tristan shook his head, smiling faintly, though his eyes were sharp when Ranieri spoke again.
“This,” Ranieri said, softer now, “is the price of being invincible. Everyone wants to hear your story. Enjoy it. You earned it. But—” he let the word hang like a blade, “tomorrow, I want full focus. Rest your bodies. Rest your minds. Because we still have Chelsea. Liverpool. Manchester United.”
The room quieted. Even Vardy sat up straighter.
Ranieri’s eyes shone as he finished. “Win them all… and you do not just win trophies. You write a season no one, in all of football, will ever forget.”
Silence. Then Tristan rose, rolling his shoulders, voice calm but firm.
“Then let’s give ‘em something worth remembering.”
The room erupted cheers, claps, whoops bouncing off the walls. Even Ranieri cracked a smile, small but proud, as his players rallied once again.
By midday, clips of Leicester’s squad stumbling into Belvoir Drive half-hungover, sun-dazed, and still buzzing had already gone viral. Tristan’s emerald Audi R8 reveal was trending across Twitter. Sky Sports had just dropped a glossy mini-documentary titled The Day Leicester Painted the League Gold.
Messi vs Ronaldo vs Tristan debates raged online. Pundits filled columns with think pieces about “The Greatest Season in English Football History” and how Leicester’s quadruple dreams seemed inevitable.
But tucked away from the global noise, one small corner of the internet had its priorities straight.
Reddit Post – r/VardyParty
Posted by u/Xcrafterbrazuka – 6 hours ago
Title: Jamie Vardy’s 2015–16 season is one of the greatest by any English striker. Let’s give the man his flowers.
Vardy this season (Premier League only):
🔥 42 goals
🅰️ 1 assist
📅 1 game left
Unless Harry Kane scores 20 goals on the final day (lol), Vardy is about to win the Premier League Golden Boot.
But wait — it gets even better:
🏆 5 goals in the FA Cup — Final still to come.
🥇 7 goals in the Europa League — Final still to come.
🥉 3 goals in the League Cup — already won.
🇬🇧 4 goals, 1 assist for England this season.
And here’s the kicker: he’s about to win the European Golden Boot. Not Messi. Not Tristan. Not Ronaldo. Not Suarez. Not Neymar. Not Lewandowski. Jamie. Bloody. Vardy.
Now, before anyone says “Tristan this, Tristan that” — we all know Tristan’s numbers are a cheat code. Different galaxy. He’s rewriting football in real time.
But this post isn’t about Tristan.
This is about one man.
The underdog.
The speedster from the second division.
The bloke who once worked twelve-hour shifts in a factory, went home smelling like carbon fiber, then still had to lace up for non-league football.
This is about Jamie Vardy.
The same Vardy who was told at sixteen he wasn’t good enough at Sheffield Wednesday. Who dropped into non-league, playing in front of a hundred fans. Who had to wear an ankle tag while playing for Stocksbridge Park Steels, sprinting off the pitch after full-time to make curfew.
The same Vardy who nearly quit the game more than once because the grind was too much. Who was earning less than some of us make on a weekend shift, all while chasing a dream everyone said was already dead.
And now?
Let’s put it into perspective:
Alan Shearer’s best Premier League season: 34 goals (1994–95).
Thierry Henry’s best Premier League season: 30 goals (2003–04).
Cristiano Ronaldo’s Premier League peak: 31 goals (2007–08).
Luis Suárez’s best Premier League season: 31 goals (2013–14).
Harry Kane’s best so far: 35 goals (2015–16).
Tristan Hale’s alien numbers at just 20 years old: 36 goals (2015–16).
All legends. All names carved into Premier League history.
And then Jamie. Freaking. Vardy.
42 goals.
Not for Manchester United. Not for Arsenal. Not for Chelsea, City, or even Liverpool.
For Leicester City.
Let me say that again so it sinks in Jamie Vardy has just broken the all-time Premier League single-season goal record.
Shearer held it. Kane threatened it. Tristan looked like he was about to own it for the next decade which he might but for now somehow, somehow, it’s Vardy who’s just blown the record to pieces.
This isn’t supposed to happen.
This is a guy who got released at 16, worked factory shifts, played non-league with an ankle tag, and almost quit football because he couldn’t afford it. And now? He’s outscored every striker in the history of this league.
Messi? Outscored.
Ronaldo? Outscored.
Suárez, Henry, Shearer? All looking up at a bloke who once played in front of 100 people and a dog.
This is beyond a golden boot. This is beyond a fairy tale. This is history in the making.
I don’t even care what happens next week, or in the finals. We are witnessing something we will tell our grandkids about.
So the question isn’t just whether this is the greatest underdog season ever (it is). The question is whether Jamie Vardy has just forced his way into the conversation as one of the greatest strikers in Premier League history. Maybe even in English football history.
Because this isn’t just a hot streak. It isn’t luck. It’s relentless running, ruthless finishing, and carrying the badge of Leicester City into immortality.
So while the headlines belong to Tristan and the miracle Leicester machine, here in this subreddit we know the truth:
This season belongs to Jamie Vardy.
Give the man his flowers. 🌸💐
.
u/Ethan Brown: Absolute madness. 42 goals in the league. 1 assist. Man said “nah, I’m not passing.” 😂
🔁u/JellyFishRogers: Tbf when your front line is Tristan–Vardy–Mahrez, why would you pass?? Just shoot and the other two will score the rebound 😭
u/Amos: Imagine telling 2012 Vardy he’d be the European Golden Boot winner ahead of Suarez, Neymar, Lewa, Messi and Cristiano.
🔁 u/Harryman: Imagine telling 2012 Vardy he’d play in Europe much less break the Premier League record. Life truly is wild.
🔁 u/Taz: Imagine telling 2012 Vardy he’d get a Netflix documentary made about him in 2026 narrated by Idris Elba.
u/Mark_M: Kinda crazy how his 42-goal season is being overshadowed just because the entire team went undefeated and Tristan exists 💀
🔁 u/Bless: He’s the most overshadowed all-time season in history… by his own team 🤯
u/Ali Ali: This man was non-league in his twenties. Now he’s outscoring everyone in Europe at 29. Legend. That word doesn’t even do it justice. Not “good for his story.” He IS the story.
u/Thomas:
📊 Just some fun trivia:
Vardy has scored more goals than Manchester United’s entire front line combined.
He broke Shearer’s record, Rooney’s record, Van Nistelrooy’s record… all of them.
10 goals against the Big Six this season alone.
You’re watching history.
u/Lucas: I saw a little clip where Ranieri hugged Vardy after the Everton game and said, “You proofed everyone wrong!” Made me tear up, not gonna lie.
u/Pong97: We believed. He delivered. Tristan might be a god. But Vardy? He’s the miracle. God damn it.
Those were just some of the top comments, most talking about the record breaking numbers. And the rise of Jamie Vardy to superstardom.
.
Next Day
The street was quiet, just a row of identical brick houses and clipped hedges, the kind of neighborhood where the loudest thing on a Monday was the postman’s van. Until today.
A convoy of cars rolled in slowly, blue Aston Martins, Vardy’s battered Range Rover, Mahrez’s matte black Mercedes, and at the front of it all Tristan’s new emerald-green Audi R8. Neighbors’ curtains twitched. A kid on a bike skidded to a stop, jaw hanging.
One by one, the doors opened. Out stepped Leicester City. Just the lads, still a little pale, still tired from the weekend, sunglasses hiding bloodshot eyes. But smiling. Carrying silver.
Mahrez cradled the League Cup like it was a baby. Tristan had the Premier League trophy in both hands.
Emma opened the door. She froze. “Oh my God…”
Behind her came a small voice. “Mum? Who is it?”
Jack appeared in the hallway, IV line still taped to his wrist from yesterday’s hospital visit. He stopped dead when he saw the front garden.
Tristan knelt down on the path, setting the trophy at Jack’s feet. The gold caught the weak afternoon sun and blazed.
“You told me to win it,” Tristan said softly. “So we did. But we thought you should lift it first.”
For a second, no one moved. Then Jack’s face cracked into a grin so wide it looked like it hurt. He stepped forward, trembling, and put his hands on the handles.
Mahrez crouched to steady it. “Both hands, little man. We can’t have you breaking gold now can we.”
Jack heaved. The cup lifted. The garden erupted players clapping, cheering, whistling, neighbors spilling out of houses with phones up.
Vardy handed Jack the League Cup next. “This one too, champ. Double’s yours.”
Jack tried to speak but only managed a choked, “Thank you.”
Tristan pulled him into a hug, trophy still between them. “No, thank you. You reminded us why we play.”
Jack wiped his eyes and looked up at the squad. “You’re gonna win the FA Cup and Europa League too, right?”
Tristan grinned, confident as he could be. “Count on it.”
Vardy pointed at Mahrez. “We’re signing him next window, yeah?”
The whole garden laughed.
Emma took a picture on her phone , the entire Leicester squad around Jack, trophies glinting, A memory to live forever.
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If you guys have time please do check out the Basketball story.
