England's Greatest

Chapter 293 293: Wales Part 2

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"They want to bore them into opening up," Clive said. "Let the diamond do the work. Pull them narrow, flip it wide."

On the pitch: Stones to Smalling, into Drinkwater, a clean one-touch turn. Ramsey lunged late.

The Welsh backline moved as one tight, braced, elbows out. Allen dropped in, barking at Edwards to stay tucked. Jazz Richards yelled at Bale to push.

"They're not breaking yet," Clive murmured. "Holding."

"Won't last," Lee snapped. "Not if Walker's that high every time. One pass—"

And there it was. Drinkwater zipped it out to the right, and Walker exploded into the gap.

"He's gone," Lee said, almost laughing. "That's too easy."

Walker slowed Taylor with a touch inside, laid it short for Alli.

Tristan drifted into space. Right channel. No one within five yards.

Clive's voice dipped. "And now... they've found the seam."

Alli threaded it.

Tristan let it roll, let Williams overcommit.

A cutback. Clean. Williams slid by like he wasn't there.

Now Tristan stood alone just inside the box.

Neither commentator said anything.

Then Lee: "Jesus, he's in."

Tristan took a breath and whipped it—first time, far post, chest height.

Kane lunged, missed by inches.

The ball kissed the bar and dipped out.

The crowd roared in disappointment.

"What a warning shout." Clive said, sounding a little disappointed just like every single Englishman at the stadium.

???? England's full of sht players!*

You've only got one! ????

And from the England end, loud and loose:

???? Bale's got a ponytail, Tristan's got a throne! ????

Wales held firm. Barely.

Five at the back stayed welded. Jazz Richards tucked tighter. Neil Taylor dropped until he was nearly scraping studs along the six-yard box. In front, Ramsey and Joe Allen pressed like they had fire in their lungs—no space, no daylight, nothing easy.

But the sixth minute cracked the rhythm.

Smalling hit Drinkwater. Clean touch. Then a threaded pass—low, fast, and aimed straight at Tristan.

One touch left. Spin right. Gone.

David Edwards was stuck reaching for air.

Lees voice leapt with it—half disbelief, half warning. "Ohhh he's turned him—he's absolutely rinsed him!"

Tristan exploded up the pitch. One, two, three touches—controlled violence. Vardy peeled wide, Kane drifted central. The back five scrambled, shuffling like chairs knocked out from under them.

Clive's voice followed, rising fast. "He's cutting through them like wet paper—look at the space—look at the intent—"

Then the collision.

Ashley Williams stepped in with his full weight. Shoulder low, hips forward. Body-first.

Thud.

Tristan staggered, boots digging trenches behind him. He caught his balance. Just.

Clive snapped, voice sharp now. "No. No way. That's not shoulder to shoulder, that's just blunt force."

Lee fired right after him, furious. "How's that not a foul?"

The ref waved play on.

The Welsh end went feral.

Tristan turned turning around towards Ashley pissed as hell. He stopped a breath away. "You late," Tristan muttered, low. "Or just scared?"

Ashley looked offguard by the line. From all the reports and everything he knew about Tristan, the kid didn't like to fight. He honestly didn't think he would get away with the foul. "Not scared of you, prince so fuck off.."

The tension hung thick.

Tristan turned to the ref, both palms up, like he was checking for sanity. "That's nothing now? He wants to box, what do I do—wait for the first swing?"

Walker and Vardy were already jogging over, Henderson not far behind, voice raised.

But Tristan turned away first. One hand lifted. "Leave it," he said, never looking back.

And they listened.

Tristan jogged back into shape.

Ashley watched him go, lips tight, eyes narrow.

The crowd didn't stop. Neither did the game.

The crowd hadn't caught its breath.

England were still at it.

Stones played the restart short to Chilwell, who lifted it down the line into Kane's path. Kane pinned Gunter with one shoulder and rolled it clean into Drinkwater, who flipped it across to Alli in a single motion.

"And again they go," Lee said, low and impressed. "No delay. They're not giving Wales a second to breathe."

Clive's voice was measured. "They want blood now not after what hapened to their Captain."

Tristan popped up left this time. Alli slid it across, and he let the ball run across his body, eyes locked on the nearest defender.

Jazz Richards was too late.

Tristan chopped inside him like he was made of paper and pulled Wales out of shape again. Kane dropped toward him, baiting a marker. Vardy ran. It was chaos.

Clive's voice surged. "It's three on five, but it feels like England have the numbers—!"

Tristan didn't pass.

He froze.

Half-step. Pause. Then a disguised flick back into Dele's path, who went for the near post—

Hennessey read it.

A full-stretch save.

The ball clattered off his gloves and out for a corner.

The England end groaned, half-laughing.

"Dele so close," Lee said. "But Tristan doing what he does best.That little feint before the pass? It's criminal."

Wales reset. Backs to the wall again.

The corner came short. Tristan shaped to cross, pulled it back, and rolled it out to Chilwell instead. Deep service, near-post flick—

Vardy nearly got there.

Gunter cleared it wildly. Off Ramsey. It spun back toward midfield.

And suddenly—

Bale was off.

One bad bounce. That's all it took.

The crowd felt it instantly.

One Welsh cheer rose in panic, in hope. Bale swept the ball off the turf with one touch and hit fourth gear by the halfway line. Stones turned. Smalling backed off. There was space.

Clive felt it before he saw it. "Oh no. Here we go."

Gareth Bale took off like he'd been unchained.

Thirty yards from goal—grass vanishing under him. One touch, two, and he was gone. Tristan gave chase but it was already too late. He could only trust the defenders.

Clive was rising with him, voice climbing. "This is Gareth Bale! This is what he lives for!"

Bale angled inside—Smalling stepped to meet him.

Too slow.

One shift left. One touch into daylight.

He was clear.

The crowd didn't just roar—they detonated.

Clive was shouting now, voice cracking through the storm. "He did it to Inter! He did it to Barcelona! He did it to Manchester City! And now—"

Joe Hart burst from his line. It was one-on-one, world-class versus hopeless.

Bale didn't care who was at the front.

Right foot. Full lace.

SMASH.

The net didn't sway. It shook.

GOAL.

South stand blew up. Arms flung into the air. Flags ripping sideways in the noise.

Clive howled above it all. "He does it again! The man is lightning!"

Lee, half-laughing, half-winded: "That is Gareth Bale. From his half. On his terms. No one catches him. No one touches him. That's why he's world class."

The scoreboard flickered.

Wales 1 – 0 England.

Sixteen minutes in.

Tristan stood just inside England's half, hands on hips, breathing hard.

Watching as Bale celebrated.

He turned, walked calmly to the center circle, and waited for the ball.

The stadium noise hadn't faded. England fans roared back louder now, not shaken but angered.

????TRISTAN! TRISTAN!. ????

The chant rippled across the white-and-blue half like thunder trying to will something into being.

Vardy jogged up beside him. Kane looked pissed.

Walker shouted something from the wing, voice lost in the noise.

And Tristan?

He just stared down at the ball. Then the whistle came. And England kicked off again.

But this time—

They were chasing.