January 1st, 2016 – Belvoir Drive

. - [Jamie Vardy]

Everyone looked like death warmed up.

Seriously. Kasper looked half-asleep, eyes glassy, like he'd woken up in the wrong timezone. Drinkwater kept rubbing his face with both hands between every few steps.

Mahrez didn't even fake a smile looking like he be anywhere but the training grounds in the morning.

Albrighton yawned mid-jog and didn't bother covering it.\\

Even Kanté who was usually first to warm up —\\ walked like his legs hadn't fully agreed to be here yet. Which shocked him if he was being honest until he realized he spent the New Years with his family in France than rushed to be here.

But the most surprising of all players was the golden child, Tristan looking rough as the rest of the team.

Since the kid joined, he was a true professional with strict limitations to everything from what he ate and drank to what time he slept.

And Tristan? That was the weirdest part.

He could finally brag as he felt amazing. Okay, maybe not amazing. Technically, I was still a little drunk. But I'd brushed my teeth and I could walk in a straight line. Compared to everyone else, I was thriving.

New Year's Day. First training session of 2016.

And all I could think about was the streak.

Nine games. Nine goals.

If he scored tomorrow, I'd tie Van Nistelrooy's Premier League record.

Tie it.

And if he scored after that? Break it. Blow it apart. Rewrite the whole damn book.

The press was already calling it historic what Leicester was doing. What he was doing. Headlines. They didn't mention how heavy it felt. Didn't talk about the pressure.

The expectation. Like every blade of grass was watching. Like even my boots were thinking, "don't screw this up."

And still he wanted more.

He didn't just want to tie the record.

He wanted to bury it. So this is how Tristan felt like every day. Not a bad feeling at all. \\

But it was loud not out on the pitch. Inside your own head. Every touch felt heavier. Every movement echoed like it meant something.

And for Tristan? It did.

He couldn't imagine carrying what he did. The pressure. The headlines. The "best in the world" chatter. Every match, every touch judged. One bad game, one misstep, and it's like the world forgets everything else.

That kind of weight? It'll eat you alive if you let it.

He watched him for a second Tristan, I mean. Barely jogging. Face pale. Hair still mashed flat on one side like he'd slept on it wrong. If that was the same guy who lit up Liverpool last week?

Then I'm Harry Kane's mum.

I had a joke loaded, too, something about the Sidemen video. He was trending again. Fans calling him the English Buffon. I was gonna hit him with:

"You saving YouTubers now? Save me next, yeah?"

But he looked wrecked. Didn't even seem like he was fully awake. So he let it go. Pocketed the line for later. I'd get him after training, once he'd properly switched on.

He had two more Premier League games until he made history. Bournemouth tomorrow than the League Cup against the Wolves than the third round of the FA Cup against United, he almost felt bad for United, key word almost. And than finally against Spurs, if he scores, history would be his.

He had two games coming up. Bournemouth tomorrow. Spurs after that.

One goal to tie the record.

One to break it.

Claudio Ranieri stood near the edge of the training pitch, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, scarf wrapped tight against the cold.

A few paces away, Paolo Benetti paced in slow loops, occasionally blowing into his hands, muttering into a small notepad. Another assistant stood beside Craig Shakespeare, both of them looking like they'd rather be anywhere else.

On the pitch, the players moved like men made of wet cloth. Not lazy — not unprofessional — just drained.

It was written across their faces: New Year's Day hangover. The kind that had nothing to do with alcohol.

Fatigue. Pressure. Cold. The weight of everything ahead.

"Albrighton looks like he slept in the kit room," Craig murmured.

"Kasper's still mentally in Denmark," Paolo replied, glancing toward the keeper, who'd barely moved all morning.

Ranieri didn't answer. His eyes stayed locked on Tristan.

The kid was jogging, but only just. There was stiffness in his stride — not physical, but mental. Like he was stuck in second gear. It made Claudio's heart skip, until Kanté came over earlier and explained that Barbara's entire family was staying with them for the holidays.

Fair enough. But still he never once thought Tristan could look like that. But he figured it was time Tristan let out some stress and had some fun.

Across the pitch, Vardy was the only one with any real spark. Legs pumping, smile tight. Talking too much. Laughing too loud.

Claudio saw it immediately: pressure. It was riding him hard.

"He wants it too much," Ranieri said quietly.

Craig looked over. "Vardy?"

Ranieri nodded. "You can see it. He's chasing it. Pushing himself to be the headline. But he's walking a fine line."

"And Tristan?" Paolo asked, watching the midfielder half-heartedly stretch near the sideline.

"He'll settle," Ranieri said. "He's off, but he'll snap back. It's not him I'm worried about. It's the others. Especially N'Golo. That boy's lungs can't carry the whole team forever."

Paolo nodded once, then asked, "What about tomorrow? Do we start them all? Ride the wave?"

"It's Bournemouth. At home. We've beaten better teams with worse squads," Craig offered.

Ranieri didn't respond immediately. He watched as Mahrez underhit a pass, then flinched at himself. Watched Kanté misread a bounce. Watched Tristan trap the ball perfectly, only to pause just for a second — like he needed to remember what came next.

His core clearly weren't ready and never in a hundred years would risk any type of injures for a game that didn't matter.

Then he spoke.

"We rest," he said simply.

The assistants turned to him in unison.

Craig frowned. "Seriously? Even with the streak?"

Ranieri didn't look away from the pitch. "Look at them."

"They'll want to play," Paolo pointed out.

"Yes. But what they want, and what they need those aren't the same."

Craig stared for a moment, then exhaled slowly. "You think dropping points is worth it?"

Ranieri's mouth twitched.

"If we lose, the streak dies," he said. "But so does the weight of it. And last I checked, we were still seven points clear at the top. Arsenal is in second place right now with 40 points so we have nothing to worry about. Besides," he added, glancing toward Vardy, "I'm not convinced we will lose."

They stood in silence for a while longer, watching the squad drag themselves through another drill.

The cold didn't bother Ranieri. But the fatigue did. It clung to the team like fog.

He didn't need more effort. He needed clarity. And sometimes, the only way to get it — was to take something away. Or so he hoped.

January 2nd, 2016 – King Power Stadium

84th Minute – Leicester 0, Bournemouth 1

The ball was stuck on the left again. Tension crackled. Fans shifted in their seats, cold fingers hovering over coat zippers. A few had already started walking toward the exits.

But then—

Crack.

Drinkwater stepped in like a wrecking ball, crunching the ball clean off Surman's boot. It sent a ripple through the stands — one part gasp, one part hope.

Rob Hawthorne's voice surged to life. "And Drinkwater wins it back! That's better from Leicester!"

No time to think. Albrighton took one touch, head up. He saw the run. Everyone saw the run.

Vardy was off.

"Vardy's gone. He's GONE!"

The ball flew.

One arcing pass — early, perfect, fearless.

Vardy hit the gas like he was built for this moment alone, tearing past the back line with pure intent.

Boots digging. Muscles snapping. Eyes locked.

Rob shouted.

"Jamie Vardy in behind! One touch—"

The first touch was silk.

The second, brutal — carving space inside the final man.

The keeper lunged. Vardy didn't blink. He snapped his right foot through the ball like he wanted to kill the record.

Thwack.

Low. Hard. Far post.

It kissed the inside of the upright and slammed home like a gunshot.

The stadium erupted.

Rob's voice cracked. "VARDY SCORES! HE'S DONE IT! HE'S DONE IT!"

The King Power didn't cheer. It exploded.

Arms flew up. Scarves whirled. Beer sprayed. Voices broke.

Andy was yelling into chaos.

"TEN. IN. A. ROW! JAMIE VARDY HAS TIED THE RECORD!"

Vardy didn't even pause. He turned mid-sprint, eyes wide, arms outstretched, roaring as he sprinted to the corner flag like a man possessed. Every vein in his neck screamed. Every step thundered.

And then the bench exploded.

Tristan was the first over the barrier, coat flapping behind him like a cape, boots pounding the turf. His shout was loud enough to be heard over the crowd. Mahrez followed, nearly tripping over his bib. Even Schmeichel was charging down the line like it was the 95th minute and he had a corner to take.

Marc Albrighton launched himself halfway into the pile.

Tristan kept going — half-tackle, half-hug — but a steward grabbed him before he hit the pitch.

"Mate! No!"

"LET ME CELEBRATE WITH HIM!"

"YOU'LL GET A CARD!"

"FINE, I'LL TAKE TWO!"

Even the fourth official looked overwhelmed, arms out like he was bracing for an earthquake. The dugout had turned into a riot.

Ranieri was screaming a fist in the air, coat halfway unbuttoned, the happiest man in England.

Rob's voice barely kept up.

"Leicester's comeback is complete! From behind, with a rotated squad, in the final moments — Leicester have found another miracle one again!"

Andy was breathless. "Ten consecutive games. Premier League history. Vardy ties Van Nistelrooy and he's not done!"

Vardy dropped to his knees by the corner flag.

Arms raised. Eyes to the sky. Mouth open in something between a laugh and a scream.

Every player on the pitch swarmed him. Hugs. Shoves. A boot thrown. Biscuit would've been there if they'd let her.

Tristan stood just outside the touchline, fist pumping, shouting with every bit of his chest.

"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!"

Mahrez grabbed his collar. "You see that?! Did you see that?!"

Tristan yelled, "I'm playing next week just to tackle him in celebration!"

Cameras zoomed in. Phones were out. The stadium shook.

And somewhere, in all the noise, the record felt like it had just cracked open.

Rob said it best.

"Jamie Vardy, on the verge of immortality — and Leicester City? They're writing something none of us have seen before."

The whistle blew like a starter pistol.

Vardy dropped to the grass, arms spread, chest heaving. He didn't even celebrate again just laughed. Like he couldn't believe it either.

The crowd didn't sit. Not one person. They sang through the final whistle, through the hugs, through the handshake line like they were still riding that high like the draw didn't matter, because something bigger just happened.

Tristan was the first one to pull him up.

"Oi," he said, grabbing Vardy's arm and hauling him upright. "You mad bastard."

Vardy was still breathless. "You see that? Far post. Inside the post. That's how you write your name down."

"You've got a pen?" Mahrez asked, walking by. "Because you've got one game left."

Vardy turned toward the crowd — arms raised again. He didn't even need to say anything. The fans filled in the blanks.

"VARDY'S ON FIRE…"

"...YOUR DEFENCE IS TERRIFIED!"

One giant chorus. Over and over.

The inside of the tunnel was chaos.

Security. Media. Staff. Match balls. Shouts echoing off concrete.

Vardy had a towel slung over his shoulder, sweat still dripping off his forehead when the steward pointed him toward the waiting camera crew.

"Player of the Match," the man said. "You know the drill."

Vardy gave a mock salute and jogged over.

Microphones. Sponsor board. Sky Sports red light flashing.

The reporter barely waited.

"Jamie — ten in a row. You've tied the record. What does that feel like?"

Vardy exhaled hard. Still catching his breath.

"Tired, mate. Feels like I've just sprinted through history."

The reporter grinned. "You didn't panic. Inside the post. Deadly finish."

"Didn't have time to panic," Vardy shrugged. "Ball came, I hit it, crowd lost their minds. Just how we planned it, right?"

Laughter off-camera.

"It's not just about the goal you kept going. Even with a rotated squad. How much did this match matter?"

Vardy's expression settled. A little quieter.

"Everything. Every match matters. We're not here to chase streaks — we're here to win."

Then the edge crept back in.

"But if I break a record or two on the way, I won't complain."

"Next week: Spurs. You score again — you go down in history."

Vardy grinned, eyes bright.

"Good. I've always wanted to make someone else's nightmares."

Just Off-Camera

A hiss. Then the shuffle of boots on concrete.

Tristan popped into view holding a plastic Gatorade bucket. Mahrez and Kante beside him. Albrighton right behind.

"NOW!" Tristan shouted.

SPLASH.

Water. Freezing. Everywhere.

Vardy jerked, cursed, and flailed sideways, knocking the mic off its stand.

"YOU ABSOLUTE SHITS!"

Tristan threw his arms up like he'd scored the winning pen.

Mahrez pointed at the camera. "THAT'S OUR RECORD MAN!"

Vardy was soaked. Shirt clinging. Hair dripping. Laughing so hard he bent over.

The Sky Sports reporter wiped her jacket with a sleeve and muttered, "...Premier League, ladies and gentlemen."

.

Don't worry I haven't forgotten the shootout, lol. Hopefully this little Vardy arc doesn't take up no more than 2 chapters, 4 if something happens like I couldn't write a long chapter or something.