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  "Welcome to Sky Sports for the World Cup quarter-final csh between Engnd and Colombia!" the commentator's voice boomed through the broadcast.

  "Let's take a look at the starting XIs for both teams."

  Due to a heavy rotation in Colombia's final group match against Japan, their key pyers were well-rested. On the other hand, most of Engnd's main squad pyed full minutes in their st game. However, since that game against Costa Rica had been one-sided, the English pyers hadn't expended much energy. Physically, Colombia might have a slight advantage, but both teams seemed prepared.

  Colombia's starting lineup was rgely the same as the one that beat Greece 3-0 in the tournament opener. Led by James Rodríguez, the team also boasted Porto striker Jackson Martínez and Fiorentina winger Juan Cuadrado, offering serious firepower. Their bench was equally strong, with the likes of Inter Min's Fredy Guarín and Sevil's Carlos Bacca.

  Engnd, meanwhile, stuck to the same lineup that had bested Costa Rica. Not a single change. In football, it's common for coaches to adhere to a superstition: "If it works, don't change it." Roy Hodgson was a firm believer in this. With their previous game pn having proven effective, there was no reason to switch things up now.

  Both teams lined up in the popur 4-2-3-1 formation, where the key figure was the attacking midfielder. This role demanded not only vision and pymaking ability but also the ability to score goals. Interestingly, both teams had a standout attacking midfielder.

  Many experts noted the simirities between Tristan and James Rodríguez. Both were pyers who dictated py with their vision and smart positioning. But while James excelled in his goal-scoring ability, Tristan's strengths y elsewhere—his superior pace, IQ, vision, work rate, and defensive contributions set him apart.

  James Rodríguez, for all his brilliance, was limited by his ck of speed and average ability to evade pressure when double-teamed. On the other hand, Tristan had speed that allowed to rush him past defenders and avoid losing the ball under pressure. Tristan also worked harder defensively, often pressing high up the pitch, something James wasn't known for.

  Their roles within their national teams also varied. James pyed closer to goal, often functioning as a shadow striker, ready to strike. Tristan, however, acted as the orchestrator. He would drop deep or drift wide, using his passing to break down defenses, controlling the tempo of the game rather than focusing on scoring himself.

  In essence, James Rodríguez was the assassin, lurking just behind the striker, always ready to pounce, while Tristan was the architect, constantly supplying ammunition to his teammates. James had gring strengths but equally obvious weaknesses, relying heavily on systems that pyed to his specific abilities. Teams like Colombia, where he was the central figure, allowed him to thrive.

  Tristan, however, was far more versatile. He could adapt to any tactical setup and contribute in various ways. What he cked in goal-scoring compared to James, he made up for in his all-around py. Tristan could press, transition quickly, and contribute defensively—traits that made him indispensable across a wide range of tactical systems.

  That's why James needed a team built around him, like Colombia, where he could shine with the right support. Colombia had once looked to Radamel Falcao as their star, but after his knee injury, James had been thrust into the spotlight. With the team now built to showcase his talents, James was flourishing at this World Cup.

  As the teams lined up for the pre-match handshake, Tristan took a moment to gnce at James Rodríguez—the young star destined for Real Madrid after the World Cup for a staggering transfer fee.

  Before the match, English football pundits and experts echoed a common sentiment: "If you can stop James Rodriguez, you can stop Colombia." It was a simple take, but football fans—armchair critics, and even those who knew little about tactics—couldn't help but agree. Limit James, and victory is in sight. But what few understood was how to neutralize a pyer of his caliber. The tactical nuances went far deeper than just marking one man.

  Roy Hodgson had his strategy, though. Henderson was specifically tasked with shadowing Rodriguez, sticking to him like glue, roughing him up when necessary to disrupt his rhythm. Gerrard, meanwhile, was told to stay back in midfield, controlling the game from deeper, unching long balls when the opportunity arose.

  It was frustrating for Gerrard, whose attacking instincts still burned brightly, but he knew the reality: at his age, pushing too far forward might leave Engnd vulnerable. He accepted the role, for the good of the team, for the chance at victory. After all, sacrifices had to be made.

  And then there was Tristan. Hodgson had given him clear instructions: press the Colombian midfielders high, force them into mistakes, and funnel their py to the wings. Anything to prevent that ball getting to Rodriguez.

  The pn was simple: anyone on Colombia could have the ball—anyone but James Rodriguez.

  "And we're off!" The commentator's voice crackled with excitement as the whistle blew. The Round of 16 begins, Engnd versus Colombia! A crucial match for both teams, and all eyes are on two pyers: Tristan Hale for Engnd, and James Rodriguez for Colombia."

  Engnd kicked off, with Rooney quickly knocking the ball back. Tristan immediately received it, but as soon as he did, Colombia's entire formation shifted. Gutierrez, their lone striker, hovered upfield, but everyone else dropped deep into their own half.

  Instead, they were packing the midfield and cutting off the passing nes. Engnd would have to be patient.

  "This is a cssic approach from Colombia—zone defense, compressing the space, and waiting for Engnd to make the first move."

  Tristan carried the ball forward, his eyes scanning the field, but he quickly found himself faced by two Colombian defensive midfielders, Carlos Sanchez and Abel Aguir.

  "Sanchez and Aguir, boy are they are doing a good job! Tristan's finding it tough to get any breathing room. They're right on top of him."

  The commentators were right.

  Whenever Tristan dropped deep to collect the ball or tried to find space, one of the midfielders was right there, pressuring him, while the other stayed back to protect the center-backs.

  "This is smart from Colombia. They know what Tristan's capable of, and they're not giving him an inch. If he's to unlock this defense, he's going to need something special today."

  Despite the pressure, Tristan was no stranger to this kind of treatment. Throughout the Championship and FA Cup, opponents had deployed simir tactics. Sometimes, defenders would py clean, using their physicality to disrupt his flow; other times, they were rough—pushing, grabbing, fouling.

  Sanchez and Aguir? They were definitely the tter.

  Tristan took the ball with his back turned and was immediately shoved hard from behind. He hit the ground, grass clippings scattering as the referee's whistle blew.

  "Oh, that was rough! Tristan just got absolutely cttered there! Aguir, the guilty party, but no card from the referee. It's just a foul."

  Tristan sat on the grass for a moment, looking incredulously at the Dutch referee, Kuipers, before gesturing for a card.

  "Come on, ref!" he shouted, miming the motion.

  But Kuipers wasn't having it. He waved it off, signaling that it was a common foul.

  "No card again! That's the eighth foul on Tristan, and we're barely ten minutes in! Colombia are pying physical, but the referee is letting them get away with it. How much more of this can he take?"

  Sterling was quick to offer Tristan a hand, pulling him back to his feet.

  "You good?" Sterling asked.

  Tristan nodded, dusting the grass off his kit. It's fine. It's just part of the game. But inwardly, he was fuming. Aguir had made it clear he wasn't going to ease up, and the referee wasn't helping.

  As Tristan moved back into position, the cameras zoomed in on his expression—a mix of calm and silent angry ready to explode.

  "Look at that—Tristan doesn't look fazed at all! If anything, he seems to be relishing this challenge."

  The referee, meanwhile, had finally called Aguir over, giving him a stern talking-to. But still, no card.

  "Well, Aguir gets a warning, but you wonder—how many more of those can he get away with? This match is getting scrappy, and Engnd will need to find a way to break through this aggressive Colombian defense."

  Aguir shrugged innocently and quickly jogged back into position, as if nothing had happened.

  "Tristan's been targeted all game, but he's no stranger to this kind of treatment. The question is, how much longer will the referee allow Colombia to get away with these tactics? It's been rough from the start."

  But Tristan wasn't rattled. He'd faced this before, and he knew what to expect. The key was to stay calm, keep pushing, and wait for the right moment.

  The ball was back in py, and the battle resumed, each side waiting for the first real opening. The crowd could feel the tension, the game on a knife's edge, as Colombia's aggressive, stifling tactics continued to test Engnd's patience.

  "It's still early, but we're already seeing the makings of a cssic tactical showdown. It's clear—this is going to be a long, tough night for Tristan and Engnd if they want to break through this Colombian wall!"

  Just like James Rodriguez was frequently fouled by the English pyers but seldom saw his opponents receive yellow or red cards, Tristan found himself simirly targeted whenever he touched the ball. The Colombian midfielders pulled, dragged, and harassed him, yet they seemed to escape without punishment. This was a part of professional football Tristan had come to understand, but it didn't mean he had to accept it.

  Under constant pressure from Henderson and Gerrard, James Rodriguez struggled to influence the game. Whenever he received the ball, he was forced to pass it back or push it wide, unable to find space to orchestrate py.

  In contrast, Tristan had adapted to the intensity of Colombia's defense within the first ten minutes. Though the Colombian midfielders were physical, they were far less imposing than the likes of Chelsea's Matic, whom Tristan had faced in the past. Matic had the strength and intelligence to shut down space, while these Colombians relied more on brute force and less on technique.

  But this time, Tristan was ready.

  In the eleventh minute, Engnd earned a free kick on the left side of the front line. Gerrard and Tristan both stood over the ball, discussing their next move. Covering his mouth with his hand, Tristan asked in a low voice, "Are we sending this into the box directly?"

  Gerrard shook his head slightly while bending over to adjust the ball. "It's too far to score from here. Walk forward, I'll py it short to you. You decide the next move."

  After earning his teammates' trust with solid performances in training and matches, Tristan had earned Gerrard's belief. The veteran captain saw in him the potential for greatness. A quiet confidence bloomed in Tristan—Gerrard was giving him the responsibility, the opportunity to create something magical.

  Tristan nodded in agreement. "Got it."

  As the whistle blew, Tristan casually moved forward, leaving Gerrard to handle the ball. The commentators specuted, "Will Gerrard whip this into the box or py it short? Let's see what Engnd has pnned…"

  To everyone's surprise, instead of unching a long ball, Gerrard tapped the ball forward—directly to Tristan.

  Aguir immediately lunged at Tristan, but Tristan anticipated it. With a swift pull-back and a quick flick with his heel, Tristan rolled the ball past Aguir's outstretched foot and darted around him in one fluid motion. The crowd erupted in cheers at the sight of the quick dribble.

  "Lovely footwork from Tristan! He's slipped past Aguir effortlessly!" the commentator shouted, excitement cing his voice.

  Aguir was left grasping at thin air as Tristan powered forward. Another midfielder, Sanchez, charged toward him. But Tristan had already seen this coming. He slowed his pace, luring Sanchez closer, then with a sudden burst of speed, he flicked the ball past him using the outside of his foot—a move he had perfected by watching Mahrez in training.

  Sanchez, completely fooled, stumbled as Tristan glided past him.

  "Tristan is through again! Two Colombians beaten, and he's still driving forward!"

  With open space ahead of him and the Colombian defenders retreating, unsure whether to close him down or hold their line, Tristan charged into the final third. The crowd sensed something special was brewing, the tension palpable.

  The commentators spoke in rapid bursts. "Look at the space opening up for Tristan! This is dangerous for Colombia!"

  As he approached the edge of the penalty area, the Colombian defenders hesitated, fearful of committing too early and leaving themselves exposed. Tristan now had room for a long-range strike. The fans, the coaches, and even the commentators seemed to scream the same word in their heads: Shoot it!

  And it was as if Tristan heard them. He slowed his stride, raised his left arm, and drew his right leg back as if preparing to unleash a thunderous shot. Colombian captain Yepes immediately barked orders, "Zapata, close him down!"

  But Tristan had other ideas. Just as Zapata lunged forward to block the anticipated shot, Tristan smirked, releasing the power in his leg at the st second. Instead of shooting, he gently nudged the ball forward with the inside of his foot, slipping it neatly between Zapata's legs.

  "A brilliant dummy! He's fooled them all!" the commentator roared. "He's passed it right through Zapata's legs!"

  Tristan surged into the penalty area, now one-on-one with Ospina, the Colombian goalkeeper. The stadium held its breath.

  "It's Tristan! He's through on goal!"

  He adjusted his body slightly, pnting his left foot as he prepared for the decisive strike. With perfect bance, he slotted the ball low and hard into the bottom right corner of the net, beyond Ospina's reach.

  Time seemed to slow.

  Ospina dived desperately, his fingertips brushing the air. The ball zipped past him and smmed into the back of the net. For a split second, the stadium was silent. And then—

  The fans exploded in jubition!

  "GOOOOOAAAAALLLL!!!"

  The deafening noise was like an earthquake, the entire stadium shaking under the roar of the Engnd supporters. Tristan stood frozen for a moment, adrenaline surging through his veins, the reality of what he'd just done sinking in. He had scored. He had broken the deadlock.

  Tristan's eyes widened as the noise engulfed him, the vibrations of the crowd's energy hitting him like a tidal wave. The cheers were a symphony of joy, disbelief, and euphoria. He felt a rush of heat, his pulse quickening as the overwhelming sensation of the moment overtook him. He let out a yell, fists clenched in triumph.

  His teammates rushed toward him, but Tristan broke away, sprinting toward the Engnd fans. The cameras zoomed in, capturing his every move as he stopped just before the corner fg. And then, with swagger and fir, Tristan did his celebration from the st game that would become an iconic celebration and frame.

  He slowed down, turned to face the stands, and stretched his arms out wide, as if to present himself to the roaring supporters. He stood there, chest out, arms extended, soaking in the wave of adution crashing over him like a tidal wave.

  The Engnd fans erupted even louder, chanting his name in unison:"Tristan! Tristan! Tristan!"

  He stood there, basking in the adoration of thousands, feeding off their energy like a star drawing power from the universe. His heart pounded in rhythm with the crowd's chanting, adrenaline fueling his every breath.

  Up in the stands, Julia was on her feet, screaming in joy, tears in her eyes. She clutched her husband's arm, her emotions raw and uncontrolled. Ling stood beside her, pride swelling in his chest as he wiped away a tear. This was the moment they had always dreamed of, and now it was real.

  On the sidelines, the Engnd coaching staff erupted as well. The head coach punched the air in sheer delight, turning to his assistants with a beaming smile.

  Meanwhile, back on the pitch, Tristan's teammates finally caught up to him. Gerrard grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him with excitement."That was insane, mate! Unbelievable!"

  Rooney ruffled his hair, grinning."You're a star, kid!"

  The Engnd bench had erupted in celebration as well, pyers jumping up and down, pumping their fists, knowing the importance of the moment.

  The commentators was just as stunned:

  "Tristan Hale, remember the name! That was world-css! The composure, the vision, the sheer audacity to pull off that pass and finish—this is a star-making performance from the young man!"

  .....

  Just got my first 2 star review, don't know how to feel about that but he did bring up some good points which reminded to edit like the first 20+ chapters, I will be slowly doing that from tomorrow hopefully.And yeah that's about it, peace.

  And thank you for 2k collections.