Full‑time. England 2–1 France.
The Stade Vélodrome was drowning in noise, thunderous, shaking, alive from both sides. And when football demanded poetry, Peter Drury did what he always did: he delivered
"For decades… England have shouted it.
Sung it.
Begged for it.
Football's coming home.
And for decades… football refused."
The camera swept across the broken blue shirts.
Pogba on his knees, staring at the grass like it betrayed him. Griezmann seated, hands in his hair. Varane flat on his back, chest heaving.
Evra just sitting down in disbelief.
Kanté the only one still standing, head bowed, hands on hips, accepting the inevitability.
Drury didn't stop.
"There were summers of hope…
and summers of heartbreak.
Penalties lost.
Generations doubted.
A nation forever reaching and forever falling short."
England's players weren't celebrating wildly. They were collapsing, into hugs, into the turf, into each other.
This for the young squad was perhaps the most challenging game they faced. They didn't even believe the finals would be this hard.
Kane bent over, hands on his knees.
Vardy on one knee, head down, exhaling everything inside him.
Rooney gripping Milner's head with both hands, shouting something lost to the sound.
Henderson screaming at the sky.
Chilwell crying into Walker's shoulder.
And Tristan, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling, absorbing it all.
Drury's voice softened… then strengthened:
"Until now.
Until him."
The screen zoomed in on Tristan.
"Two years ago in Brazil, he was only eighteen.
A child with a nation on his back and still England's brightest light."
"And before that…
who could forget Leicester?
A boy dragging a second‑tier club through giants through Chelsea, all the way to Wembley…
and scoring in an FA Cup Final for the ages."
"Since that day…
he has dealt in miracles.
For club.
For country.
For anyone brave enough to believe in him."
Tristan turned toward the English end and lifted a single fist.
The stadium shook.
"And tonight… in Marseille…
at twenty‑one years of age…
he has carried England again.
Past France.
Into the semifinals.
Into history."
Tyler's voice followed, hoarse and awestruck.
"England should be thankful for him. Every single one of them. Because without Tristan… this story ends very differently."
Back to Drury for the final line.
"The nation called for a saviour.
And a young king answered."
.
The final whistle had blown, but the air hadn't settled.
France stood where they fell.
England moved where they could.
It was Kane who crossed first, offering a quiet pat to Giroud. Rooney followed, arms open, muttering something respectful into Payet's ear.
There were no wild celebrations anymore.
Near midfield, Tristan spotted Kanté, hands on hips, jersey clinging to sweat, walking alone, sulking a little.
Tristan jogged over, boots thudding against the grass.
Kanté didn't look up until he was a few steps away. Then he turned.
The two stood there for a second, neither speaking.
Finally, Tristan broke the silence. "You good?"
Kanté gave him a long, sideways look. "I had you."
Tristan raised both eyebrows. "You had me?"
"You were quiet the whole first half."
"Yeah?" Tristan shrugged. "And you were loud when the net bulged?"
Kanté exhaled through his nose. A faint, tired smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Stupid shot."
"Stupid pass too," Tristan added. "Right through your midfield. You sleeping?"
Kanté shook his head. "You never stop moving. I hate it."
Tristan extended his hand. "Good game, brother. You made me work for it."
Kanté took it, pulled him in for a short half-hug. "Same to you. You made me look shit on national television. I'll never forgive you."
Tristan pulled back. "Then you better come rested next time."
.
On the sideline, Roy Hodgson and Didier Deschamps met near the fourth official.
Both looked like they aged five years in ninety minutes.
Deschamps reached out, voice low. "Congratulations. You caught us. We almost had your boy more than once."
Roy clasped his hand.
"And you almost had all of us. That was a proper match."
They didn't linger. A clap on the shoulder, a glance back at their players, and then the weight returned to their spines.
The semifinals weren't waiting.
.
Post-Match – 9 minutes later
The pitch was emptying. Players waved to fans. Some traded shirts. Others collapsed into staff hugs.
And in a roped-off zone near the tunnel, under a sky of flashbulbs and sponsor boards, a plaque was handed off.
The UEFA Man of the Match award.
Tristan took it with both hands. He had five of them, winning it in every single match. Pretty sure he broke a record or two by now.
The interviewer stepped forward.
The headset was adjusted. The camera light flicked red.
The backdrop behind him was a mosaic of logos, Coca-Cola, Hisense, SOCAR, Adidas, UEFA EURO 2016.
The microphone came up.
"Tristan," the interviewer began, still catching his breath from sprinting pitchside. "You've just knocked out the host nation. You've led England into the semifinals. You were everywhere tonight, a goal, an assist, dribbles, tackles… How do you even begin to process this?"
Tristan blinked. Looked past the camera. The adrenaline was still fading.
Then he spoke, voice nearly gone.
"Man, I'm still processing it. This game I think was the hardest game I ever played in the England shirt. But thanks to the guys and all the preps and tactics made by Roy and our coaching staff, we are here."
This means a lot of knocking out one of the clear favorites."
The interviewer leaned forward, continuing.
"France built a wall around you in the first half. It wasn't just Kanté. We saw that there was a whole system to cage you. What shifted? What changed after halftime?"
Tristan exhaled.
"Yeah… they came with a full plan, man. It wasn't just Kante, he was the lead dog, sure but they doubled me anytime I turned, cut my lanes, tried to box me toward the sideline. Even Pogba dropped back more than usual to help."
He scratched his jaw, eyes flicking up to the sponsor board like he was still replaying the match in his head.
"I spent the whole first half trying to figure things out. Timing their triggers, watching who bit first. We made adjustments too, Hendo started dropping deeper, Dele drifted wider, and that pulled their shape apart just enough."
He paused. Then grinned.
"After that, it was just about waiting for the right crack. Soon as it opened, I hit it."
The interviewer nodded slowly.
"So it wasn't just instinct, it was problem-solving?"
Tristan smiled.
"Always is. First half, I was in the maze. Second half, I drew the map."
The interviewer laughed.
"And once you had the map… a 9.1 rating, a game-winning assist, and that solo goal just before the break. How does it feel?"
Tristan shrugged.
"Feels heavy, man. We knocked out France. In France. That's not small."
He glanced off-camera, toward the pitch.
"But again—this is about the squad. The lads ran their lungs out. Vardy made the run. Rooney changed the rhythm. Milner kept the ball. I get the award, but this was a team fight."
"How will you celebrate a night like this?"
Tristan smirked.
"We can't do anything crazy with the semi but hopefully a hug and a kiss from Barbara then I pass out for fourteen hours. If I'm lucky."
.
And so the night ended.
One of the great quarterfinals in European Championship history.
A match that will echo through pubs, headlines, and highlight reels for years… and dominate every conversation in the days to come.
France, the hosts left stunned.
England marched on.
.
Short chapter I know but I wasn't going to write tonight as I'm out with my mom. But I had some free time and figured I should still post something.
Also join discord or P@tron if you are interested. And my other stories, besides that peace.