England's Greatest

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Hazard's low shot, after weaving past three Leicester defenders, was a masterclass in individual brilliance. Cambiasso, De Laet, and Morgan, all of whom had been left trailing in his wake, exchanged baffled glances, unable to comprehend how they had been so easily bypassed.

"Unbelievable from Hazard! That's world-class dribbling!" the first commentator exclaimed, his voice rising in awe. "He made three defenders look completely helpless, and that finish? Precision to perfection."

The Stamford Bridge crowd roared with approval, many rising to their feet in collective admiration. Hazard had taken on three Leicester men with ease, each turn and feint leaving them stranded.

 Schmeichel, the one man who had tried to stop it all, didn't waste time lamenting his fate. Instead of gesturing at his defense or throwing his hands in frustration, he calmly turned toward the goal, picked up his water bottle, and took a few sips.

"As a goalkeeper, you know when you've been beaten by quality, and Schmeichel's showing his professionalism here," the second commentator noted, his voice almost sympathetic. "Leicester's defense did everything right—Cambiasso and De Laet pressed, Morgan blocked—but Hazard just had that little bit more."

Tristan, watching Chelsea's players celebrate, found himself momentarily stunned. It was a reminder of the ever-growing gulf between the truly elite and those still climbing.

"I think that's the difference between the very best and those trying to reach that level," one of the commentator mused. "Hazard wasn't the finished article when he arrived in the Premier League, but now? He's a force. Leicester are pushing hard, but they're still a step behind."

Tristan stood, mentally processing what he had just witnessed, the reality of the gap feeling sharper than ever. Hazard wasn't just a promising talent anymore—he was the finished product, something that seemed so distant from where Tristan currently stood.

As the match resumed, Leicester pushed forward with urgency. Tristan, eager to respond, received the ball near the center circle. A quick turn left Nemanja Matic trailing, as Tristan evaded the Chelsea press and scanned for options.

Tristan's gaze darted across the pitch. He spotted Vardy darting behind Terry and Cahill. Without hesitation, he threaded a perfectly weighted through ball between the two defenders, sending Vardy racing toward the goal.

"Beautiful pass from Tristan!" the second commentator said, his voice tinged with excitement, almost shouting, "That's a chance! Vardy's in behind—he just has to finish it!"

The crowd held its collective breath as Vardy took a touch to steady himself. He aimed for the bottom corner and fired, but Courtois was quick to react, diving low to his right to keep the shot out.

Chelsea were quick to respond with a counterattack. Hazard picked up the ball in midfield, and with his low center of gravity and quick feet, he effortlessly glided past Drinkwater. Fabregas joined the move, linking up with Hazard before releasing Diego Costa down the left side.

"Here comes Chelsea again," the first commentator said with his voice rising as Chelsea's fluid transition played out. "Hazard and Fabregas linking up— now Costa's in the box!"

Costa powered into the penalty area, but a crucial block from Wes Morgan diverted the ball out for a corner.

From the resulting corner, Willian whipped in a curling delivery. Cahill rose highest, nodding the ball toward the far post, but Tristan to his defensive duties, was there to clear the danger.

The Foxes weren't just surviving; they were fighting. Tristan found himself in possession again, this time deeper in Chelsea's half. A quick give-and-go with Mahrez freed him from Fabregas' shadow, the two exchanging sharp passes as they danced through the midfield. 

As Tristan looked up, he saw Albrighton unmarked on the left wing. With one swift motion, he sent a raking diagonal pass, arcing perfectly to his teammate.

"Great vision from Tristan there," Dave, the first commentator, noted. "He's seeing things the defense isn't. That pass was inch-perfect to Albrighton."

Albrighton took the ball down with one smooth touch, setting himself up for the cross. He whipped the ball toward Vardy, who had found space in front of Terry. 

The Chelsea captain, however, was quick to react, rising above Vardy with commanding authority and clearing the ball out of danger.

"Superb defending from Terry," Mark, the second commentator said. "He knows exactly where Vardy wants to be and doesn't give him an inch."

[Don't know why the fuck I didn't name them before, I start doing that from this chapter.] 

Chelsea were under pressure, but their defense held firm. Fabregas orchestrated the next attack, calmly receiving the ball and laying it off to Hazard. The Belgian was relentlessly pursued by Tristan, who wasn't giving an inch.

"Tristan's tracking Hazard so well right now," Dave pointed out. "He's sticking to him like glue."

Tristan lunged in, timing his tackle to perfection. He won the ball cleanly, surprising Hazard with his tenacity and composure. Without hesitation, Tristan turned and surged forward, shrugging off a challenge from Ivanović in the process.

"Now, this is the Tristan we've been waiting to see!" Mark said, his voice rising with excitement. "He's showing great determination and strength there, shrugging off Ivanović like it's nothing."

Leicester's fans roared in anticipation as Tristan surged into the final third. He feinted past Ramires with a clever move, setting himself up to shoot from 20 yards out. 

The ball swerved dramatically as he unleashed a curling shot, heading toward the top corner. Courtois, with incredible reflexes, leapt to his right, tipping the ball over the bar with a fingertip save.

"What a shot from Tristan!" Dave exclaimed. "That had venom, didn't it? Courtois had to be at his best to keep that one out!"

The ensuing corner saw Leicester pile bodies into the box, desperate to find an equalizer. Mahrez delivered an outswinger that found Morgan at the near post. The captain, rising above the crowd, connected with the ball with a glancing header, but it skimmed just wide of the upright, the ball sailing inches past the post.

"That's so close!" Mark said, his voice full of anticipation. "Morgan almost had it. Leicester are knocking at the door now, but they're just not getting that final touch."

On the sideline, Pearson clapped his hands in encouragement, rallying his players for the final push. The Leicester fans, sensing a breakthrough, sang louder, urging their team forward.

Chelsea, sensing the need to reassert control, slowed the tempo, with Hazard and Fabregas exchanging quick, precise passes to break down Leicester's pressing. Hazard drew two defenders toward him before flicking a no-look pass into the path of Diego Costa, who turned quickly and let fly from the edge of the box. But Kasper Schmeichel was alert, diving low to parry the shot away to safety.

"Schmeichel with a big save there!" Mark exclaimed. "Costa thought he had him beat, but Kasper isn't letting anything slip through tonight."

As halftime approached, the intensity refused to wane. Leicester's persistence created one final chance. Tristan intercepted a misplaced pass from Ivanović, his reading of the game spot-on.

 He immediately released Mahrez down the right wing, the Algerian dancing past Azpilicueta with ease. Mahrez sent a low cross into the six-yard box, where Vardy was sliding in, inches from connecting with the ball. But the pass was just a hair too far ahead, and the ball rolled agonizingly past the far post.

"Vardy's just a moment away from tapping that in!" Dave said, frustration in his voice. "Mahrez did everything right. Vardy's just inches away, but it's not to be."

The referee's whistle blew moments later, signaling the end of the first half. Chelsea, despite Leicester's pressure and moments of promise, headed into the locker room with their 1-0 lead intact.

As the Leicester City players trudged off the field, their heads hung low, the weight of the one-goal deficit pressed down on them. The fans could sense it—a mixture of frustration and quiet optimism was in the air. The first half had shown promise, with Leicester creating real chances, but Hazard's individual brilliance had once again been the difference.

In the locker room, a heavy silence enveloped the players. Sweat dripped onto the tiled floor as some leaned back in their seats, eyes fixed on the ground, while others stretched tired limbs or nursed sore muscles.

 A few players sat quietly sipping water, their faces a mixture of frustration and determination. They had crafted moments of brilliance, flashes of promise that hinted at a breakthrough, but they hadn't been able to capitalize.

"Alright, boys, we're still in this," Pearson said as he paced the room. His voice was calm but firm, "We've had our chances. We've shown we can compete with them. We just need to keep pushing. Don't let that one goal get to you. Hazard's a special player, but we're better than this."

The players lifted their heads, their attention fixed on Pearson as he spoke. His voice held no harsh criticism, no blame—just a firm belief in what they could still achieve. He wasn't here to dwell on the mistakes of the first half; he was here to show them the path forward.

"Listen up," Pearson said, his voice steady, but unwavering. "Mahrez, you and Tristan are swapping roles for the second half. Riyad, I want you to play centrally. That's where you can add that creative spark we need in midfield. Tristan, you'll be out wide on the right. Your job has two parts: first, stay tight on Fabregas. Don't give him a second to think. Don't let him dictate the play. He's the key to Hazard, and if we cut him off, we cut off the supply."

The room was alive with nods and murmurs of agreement. Pearson's tactical brilliance had already made its mark, and his plan was clear. If they could stifle Fabregas, they could stop the Chelsea machine.

"Tristan," Pearson continued, now looking directly at the young playmaker. "I'm counting on your vision and instincts. You've got the ability to read the game, to intercept those passes. Don't let Fabregas control the tempo. And when we win the ball, I want you to stretch their back line. Use your pace to get wide, beat their full-backs, whip in crosses, or cut inside—whatever gets us that opening."

Tristan nodded sharply, his green eyes glowing with renewed purpose. There was no doubt in his mind; he was ready for the challenge.

Pearson's voice grew even firmer as he addressed the whole team. "We're not chasing this game; we're taking it back. We've shown we can hurt them. Chelsea are not invincible. Stay compact, work as a unit, and take your chances when they come. Above all, believe in yourselves. This is far from over."

The players rose, the weight of the first half starting to lift. Pearson's words had sparked a fire in them, and the energy in the room shifted. The game wasn't lost; it was there for the taking. They grabbed their water bottles, pulled on their shirts, and stepped toward the door. Chelsea may have had the lead, but Leicester were ready to fight back.

As they filed out of the locker room, Pearson called out one final reminder. "Stick together. Play smart. And leave everything on the pitch."

The door swung open, and the roar of the crowd hit them like a wave.

From the very first moment the second half kicked off, it was clear that Pearson's tactical reshuffling was in full effect. Leicester's new formation, with Tristan on the right wing, was bold and unexpected. It didn't take long for the change to catch the attention of everyone in the stadium. On the sideline, José Mourinho stood with his arms crossed, his gaze steely. There was a slight shift in his expression, his eyes narrowing as he observed Leicester's new setup.

"Interesting decision from Pearson," Mark remarked, a hint of intrigue in his voice. "He's moved Tristan to the right wing—a big change. Tristan's been at the heart of Leicester's playmaking, but now it looks like Pearson's focusing on more defensive stability in midfield."

Dave nodded in agreement, his tone reflecting a more tactical understanding. "It's a smart move to try and nullify Hazard's influence. Hazard was wreaking havoc in the first half. Moving Tristan out wide gives Leicester more bodies in the center of the park, and they're pressing Hazard aggressively now."

Mourinho, though calm on the surface, couldn't ignore the shift. He knew Pearson's move was designed to disrupt Chelsea's flow, especially Hazard's devastating runs. But he had anticipated this. He immediately gestured to his players, signaling for them to adapt and adjust to the new challenge.

As the second half got underway, the impact of Leicester's tactical change was immediate. In the center of the pitch, Tristan, Cambiasso, and De Wright formed a tight, impenetrable triangle. 

The Chelsea midfield looked to shift gears quickly, with Fabregas receiving the ball and trying to send it wide to Hazard. However, Tristan was already on top of him, closing the space. Fabregas attempted a quick pass to Oscar, but Tristan read it perfectly, stepping in to intercept the ball with a clean tackle.

With the ball at his feet, Tristan quickly glanced up, spotting the opportunity to break forward. He dinked a pass over the top of Matic for Mahrez, now positioned in his new central role. 

Mahrez took it in stride, driving forward at full pace as he shrugged off a challenge from Matic. But Chelsea's defense was quick to react, with Azpilicueta sliding in to block Mahrez's path just as he attempted to cut inside.

Leicester regained possession, and with no time to waste, Cambiasso fed the ball out wide to Tristan, now stationed on the right. Tristan wasted no time, driving at Terry and Ivanović, who were standing off.

 With a swift feint to the inside, he left Terry momentarily off-balance, then quickly burst down the right flank, beating Ivanović for pace. He swung in a low cross toward Vardy at the far post, but Terry, showing his veteran instincts, slid in to make a crucial clearance before Vardy could connect.

Chelsea, sensing the need to reassert control, started to slow the tempo, trying to settle back into their passing rhythm. Hazard received the ball in a wide position but was immediately surrounded by Leicester players.

 De Wright and Cambiasso doubled up on him, forcing the Belgian into a tight space. Hazard attempted to flick the ball past Cambiasso, but the Argentine midfielder reacted quickly, sliding in to dispossess him.

As Leicester surged forward again, it was clear that Pearson's game plan was paying off. With Fabregas off-balance and Hazard isolated, the Foxes had more freedom to attack. As Leicester pushed forward, Mahrez held the ball up and cleverly fed a pass back to Tristan, who had drifted wide. 

Tristan took a touch to steady himself, looking up to spot his teammates. With the Chelsea defense shifting toward Mahrez, Tristan seized the opportunity, sending a perfect cross to the edge of the box. Vardy, timing his run to perfection, met the ball with a diving header. It flashed past Courtois but skimmed the crossbar, narrowly missing the equalizer.

The Foxes were relentless. This time, it was a long throw-in from Morgan that found Vardy's head, flicking the ball into the path of Albrighton. Albrighton brought it under control, then played a quick one-two with Vardy to set up a shooting opportunity from just outside the box. Albrighton took the shot, but Courtois was ready, diving low to his right to make a stunning save.

The pressure was mounting on Chelsea as Leicester found their rhythm, each attack more purposeful than the last. Pearson's tactical reshuffle had not only nullified Chelsea's attacking threat but had also unlocked new avenues for Leicester to exploit. 

The crowd was electric, urging their team on.

"Leicester's intensity has been unrelenting!" Mark said with excitement. "They've taken charge of this game, closing down Chelsea's midfield and launching dangerous counterattacks."

Dave added, "They've completely turned the tables. Mourinho's defensive setup has been undone, and Pearson's tactical switch has given Leicester the upper hand. It's incredible to watch!"

As the clock ticked down, the question on everyone's mind was whether Leicester could keep up their momentum or if Chelsea would find a way to weather the storm.

"Look at this! Tristan's already on top of Hazard!" Dave exclaimed. "Pearson's strategy is working—Leicester's midfield is suffocating Chelsea's star player. Hazard just can't find any room to operate."

Mark added, "Tristan's not just a playmaker; his defensive awareness is exceptional. Every time Hazard touches the ball, he's surrounded. Chelsea has to think about their next move. The question is—can they adjust quickly enough?"

On the sideline, Mourinho was scanning the field, analyzing the shift in momentum. He knew that Pearson's move to crowd the midfield was a temporary solution. 

If Hazard couldn't influence the game, Chelsea's attack would need to flow through other players. It wasn't long before Mourinho called for a tactical change. He waved his arms toward Costa and Schürrle, signaling for them to switch positions and focus more on utilizing Costa's physicality to break through Leicester's midfield.

"Chelsea's adjusting now," Mark commentator observed. "Costa's a different kind of threat. If Leicester's going to shut down Hazard, they'll need to keep their eye on Costa. He's strong, he's aggressive, and he'll make the most of any loose ball."

Indeed, Chelsea quickly began to re-route their play, moving away from Hazard's usual starting position. Costa, positioned centrally now, battled for possession with Morgan. 

He muscled his way past the Leicester center-back with an expertly timed turn, receiving a pass from Fabregas. With his back to goal, Costa shielded the ball with ease, using his strength to hold off Morgan's pressure.

"Costa's a handful," Mark said, excitement building in his voice. "He's not just about scoring goals—he's about creating space, and Oscar's in the right place to take advantage of it."

Costa flicked the ball with a subtle yet skillful pass to Oscar, who had dropped deeper into the space vacated by Hazard. Oscar's pace took him into open ground, and as the ball came to him, he didn't hesitate. From 30 yards out, he fired a powerful shot. The ball flew through the air, dipping as it reached Schmeichel's goal.

The crowd held its breath.

The roar of the Chelsea fans grew as Oscar's strike swerved towards the bottom corner. Schmeichel, reacting just in time, dove full stretch, getting a hand to it, pushing the ball wide with an incredible save. The connection between glove and leather rang out, and the Leicester goalkeeper's reflexes had kept them in the game.

"Superb save from Schmeichel!"Mark commentator shouted, his voice cracking with admiration. "Oscar's shot was on target, but Schmeichel's reflexes kept Leicester in it. That's world-class goalkeeping!"

The tension in the stadium spiked as Leicester scrambled to clear the ball from danger. Cambiasso dropped deeper to collect the loose ball. Without hesitation, he launched a long pass into the open space down the left flank, aiming for Lingard.

"This is what Leicester does best—quick transitions!" the second commentator noted, his voice rising in excitement. "Lingard's away, and look at Tristan—he's found some space on the right."

Lingard, already at full pace, darted forward, drawing Chelsea defenders toward him. He had seen Tristan's run ahead of him. With a quick look over his shoulder, Lingard launched a perfectly weighted pass, the ball slicing through the air and landing just as Tristan burst into open space on the far side.

The crowd collectively held its breath as the ball flew toward Tristan. Azpilicueta, the Chelsea full-back, was closing in fast.

Tristan's first touch was impeccable. He controlled the ball with his right foot, settling it dead at his feet, even as Azpilicueta slid in with a challenge. The crowd erupted in a cheer, impressed by the composure shown by the young playmaker.

"That's brilliant! Tristan's first touch is flawless!" the first commentator shouted. "That's a player at the top of his game—controlled and calm under pressure."

Tristan's eyes never left the goal. Without missing a beat, he glanced up, saw the space in front of him, and made his decision: he was going to attack the goal.

As Azpilicueta rushed toward him, Tristan feigned a cross to the center, but with a sharp burst of acceleration, he cut inside. The Chelsea defender, caught off guard by the sudden change in direction, was left scrambling to recover.

"Look at that pace! Azpilicueta's completely beaten!" the second commentator exclaimed. "Tristan's one-on-one with the goal. Can he finish?"

Tristan surged forward, a few yards from the edge of the box, eyes locked on Courtois. The goalkeeper began to inch off his line, preparing for the inevitable shot. Just as Tristan was preparing to pull the trigger, Azpilicueta, realizing the threat, made a desperate lunge to recover.

Tristan had one chance, but Azpilicueta wasn't about to let him get away. With a quick, last-ditch effort, he reached out and grabbed Tristan's shirt, pulling him back just outside the penalty area. The referee immediately blew his whistle.

"Azpilicueta's done well to stop a potentially dangerous attack," Dave commentator noted. "But that's a tactical foul. He's put his team in a difficult situation now."

The crowd, still buzzing from the incredible play, watched anxiously as the referee reached for his whistle.

It was a crucial moment—Leicester had an excellent chance to take the lead from the resulting free kick. The momentum was clearly swinging in their favor, and now, they had the opportunity to punish Chelsea for their defensive lapse.

The referee blew his whistle, flashing a yellow card at Azpilicueta. The Chelsea defender nodded in acknowledgment, already accepting the consequences of his action.

Tristan remained seated on the grass, calmly adjusting his socks, his face focused despite the pressure. He rose steadily, brushing the dirt from his kit, and as he stood, he caught Mahrez's eye nearby. With a subtle wave of his hand, he motioned for his teammate to come closer.

Mahrez jogged over, a slight furrow on his brow, clearly curious about the plan. "What's the play?"

Tristan leaned in, his hand covering his mouth to avoid being overheard. His words were hushed but deliberate. "We'll run a set-piece play. When you take the free kick, I'll slip behind Azpilicueta. Pass it to the back post. Trust me—it'll work."

Mahrez's eyes lit up with understanding. Without hesitation, he gave a firm nod. "Got it."

Their quiet exchange didn't go unnoticed by the commentators.

"Looks like Leicester are plotting something special here," Mark remarked, his tone reflective of the anticipation in the air. "A set-piece from this position could be dangerous."

"Indeed," Dave agreed, his voice rising with the mounting tension. "With both Tristan and Mahrez standing over the ball, it's anyone's guess who'll take it. Mahrez's left foot can curl a delivery perfectly, but don't forget—Tristan's right foot is just as deadly. Chelsea need to stay sharp."

On the pitch, the atmosphere was electric, filled with the kind of tension only a set-piece could bring. Tristan stood to the left of the ball, his posture confident as he prepared, while Mahrez positioned himself to the right. Their contrasting stances kept Chelsea's defense guessing.

John Terry barked orders to his teammates. "Stay focused! Mark your man!" he shouted, his voice steady as he jostled for position with Leicester's captain, Wes Morgan. The two locked eyes, muscles straining as they jockeyed for space in the box.

From the stands, Pearson's gaze never wavered, his eyes fixed on Tristan. He knew that with Hazard, Fabregas, and Costa, Chelsea had the firepower to change the game. But Pearson had his own rising star—someone who could light up the night.

"Show them what you've got, kid," Pearson muttered under his breath, hands gripping the edge of his seat.

The referee's whistle pierced the air, signaling the start of the play.

In an instant, Tristan sprinted forward. His body shifted in an elaborate feint, as though he was going to strike the ball. Chelsea's defenders, momentarily distracted by his movement, shifted their focus toward him. But Tristan had no intention of taking the shot. At the last moment, he veered off, dashing behind Azpilicueta into the open space, timing his run perfectly.

Mahrez stepped up, his left foot prepared for the delivery. The ball was waiting, and the moment was now.

Instead of sending the ball into the congested penalty area, Mahrez lofted a pass over Azpilicueta's shoulder, aiming for the space just behind him. The ball's flight was precise, curving like a work of art.

Chelsea's defenders reacted instinctively, but they were a fraction of a second too slow. Tristan, anticipating the pass, surged past Azpilicueta, who was cautious not to foul again after his earlier yellow card.

As the ball neared, Tristan controlled it effortlessly with his first touch. The crowd held its breath as the ball settled at his feet. Without hesitation, Tristan struck with the confidence of a seasoned pro.

"Look at that! First touch, perfect! He's in on goal!" Mark shouted, his voice filled with excitement.

The ball soared through the crisp London air, arcing gracefully over Terry's outstretched leap. The crowd gasped as it dipped, seemingly in slow motion, towards the six-yard box. There, Cambiasso— the veteran—was in the perfect position.

Cambiasso's bald head gleamed under the stadium lights as he directed the ball with a glancing header toward the far corner of the net. Courtois, despite his lightning-fast reflexes, could only watch helplessly as the ball kissed the inside of the post before nestling into the back of the net.

"Goal! Goal! Goal!" Mark roared in pure ecstasy. "What a delivery from Mahrez, what a finish from Cambiasso! Leicester have done it! They've leveled the score at Stamford Bridge!"

The stadium erupted into a cacophony of sound, the roar of Leicester's traveling fans rising above the rest. They jumped to their feet, clapping and shouting, as the Foxes' players swarmed Cambiasso, enveloping him in a sea of joy. The Leicester supporters in the stands were beside themselves, waving scarves and chanting as if they were already celebrating a victory.

The Chelsea crowd, stunned by the equalizer, was momentarily silenced. The atmosphere in Stamford Bridge shifted, the realization dawning that Leicester were very much alive in this match. Chelsea now had to regroup quickly to regain control.

Cambiasso, his face glowing with elation, sprinted toward Tristan, who was already heading toward him with a wide grin. Cambiasso threw his arms out as if embracing the moment.

"Man, perfect pass!" Cambiasso shouted over the roar of the crowd, before they collided in an elated embrace.

Up in the stands, Pearson couldn't contain his joy. He leapt from his seat, exchanging high-fives and hugs with his assistant, his voice ringing with pride. "That's what I'm talking about! Well done, lads!"

For Leicester City, securing even a single point at Stamford Bridge would have been a monumental achievement. But not everyone shared their enthusiasm.

On the touchline, Mourinho was fuming. Watching his team concede at home left him visibly frustrated. He muttered his signature curse under his breath, a habit when things didn't go his way:

"Son of a bitch."

Without hesitation, he waved Hazard over to the sideline. His voice was sharp and commanding:

"Eden, switch places with Oscar. And make it count!"

Hazard nodded, his expression serious. "Got it, boss."

Chelsea wasn't going to be outdone. Mourinho's tactical adjustments quickly shifted the momentum. Hazard, now playing through the center, began exploiting spaces between Leicester's defensive lines. On the flanks, Schürrle and the newly introduced Willian wreaked havoc with their blistering pace and direct dribbling.

Leicester's defense was under siege. Jeff Schlupp held his own on the left, battling tirelessly against Willian's relentless runs, but the strain was starting to show. On the opposite flank, De Laet struggled to keep up with Schürrle's incisive movements, leaving the Foxes' right side exposed.

By the 70th minute, Pearson had seen enough. He gestured to the bench and brought on Danny Simpson to replace the exhausted De Laet, hoping to stabilize the defense.

The Stamford Bridge crowd roared louder, spurring Chelsea on as they turned up the pressure. For Mourinho and his players, the goal was clear: break the deadlock and crush the audacious Foxes on their home turf.

The turning point came in the 75th minute. Hazard, stationed in the center, dropped deep to collect a pass from Fabregas. With his back to goal, he felt Cambiasso closing in fast. A subtle dip of his shoulder sent Cambiasso lunging left, but Hazard spun right with a deft push of the ball using the outside of his foot.

In an instant, he accelerated, powering past Cambiasso with ease. The Argentine veteran, sensing danger, threw his body into Hazard, aiming to halt the attack. But Hazard, despite his modest stature, had developed a Premier League-hardened physique. His compact frame absorbed the impact like a charging tank, leaving Cambiasso stumbling backward.

"How is this kid so strong?!" Cambiasso thought, scrambling to recover.

Though his challenge momentarily slowed Hazard, it wasn't enough. Tristan sprinted back to help, and Leicester doubled down on their efforts to contain him. Yet Hazard didn't hesitate. Spotting Fabregas making a run into the open space he had created, Hazard executed a precise outside-foot pass, threading the ball between Cambiasso and Tristan.

Fabregas arrived perfectly in stride. The Belgian's run had drawn Leicester's defense toward him, leaving Fabregas with precious time to assess his options.

Costa looked up and assessed the positioning in an instant. Fabregas's perfectly weighted pass had already pierced through Leicester's defensive line. Costa, bracing for impact, controlled the ball at the penalty area line, using his body to shield against Morgan's aggressive tugging. One hand yanked at Costa's jersey, the other pressed firmly on his shoulder—but it wasn't enough.

Costa's core strength held firm, and before his balance faltered, he unleashed a powerful low shot.

The ball rocketed into the bottom-right corner. Schmeichel dove, stretching desperately, but the net rippled before he could even reach it.

"Goal!" Mark shouted, as the Stamford Bridge erupted. "Chelsea lead again! A brilliant finish from Costa! He's unstoppable!"

A deafening roar surged through the stadium as Diego Costa sprinted toward the home fans. Arms outstretched, he leapt into the air, punching his fist triumphantly.

The cameras quickly panned to the sideline. Mourinho stood there, hands casually tucked into his coat pockets, a slight, knowing smile curling at his lips. It was the expression of a man who had already visualized this moment before it happened.

For the Chelsea faithful, this was reassurance: their "Special One" was still their talisman, guiding the team to relentless victories.

"Diego Costa, the bull up front, makes the difference!" Mark boomed. "Pure brute strength and determination from Costa."

"This is pure brute strength and determination from Costa," Dave added. "Morgan was practically hanging off him, but Costa still managed to finish. Leicester couldn't have done much more defensively."

On the pitch, Leicester's players exchanged frustrated glances. Despite Morgan's best efforts, Costa's sheer physicality had been unstoppable.

Tristan, standing near the halfway line, furrowed his brow as he processed the goal. His mind raced with ideas on how to break down Chelsea's defense again.

Mourinho, now emboldened by his side's lead, signaled for substitutions. Schürrle jogged off, replaced by Ramires, a defensive-minded midfielder. Hazard shifted to the left, with Fabregas slotting into the attacking midfielder role.

The message was clear: Chelsea were reinforcing their midfield and preparing to close shop.

Mourinho's trademark defensive tactics took full effect. Costa, the goal scorer, even retreated into his own half, joining his teammates in fortifying their lines. Chelsea's defensive block now resembled an impenetrable fortress.

Leicester, trailing once more, dominated possession in the final stages of the match. Tristan orchestrated wave after wave of attacks, probing for any weaknesses in Chelsea's castle-like defense.

But Chelsea stood firm.

Crosses from wide areas were met with commanding clearances from Terry and Cahill. Long-range strikes were absorbed by the relentless blocks of Matic and Ramires. Even Tristan, with his explosive acceleration, found the middle lane too crowded. He weaved past one defender, sometimes two, but the third would inevitably close him down.

Desperation crept in as Leicester's attacking moves became predictable. Tristan adjusted, whipping in precise crosses from the right to create chaos in the penalty area, hoping Vardy or Lingard could capitalize. But Vardy, still raw in the Premier League, struggled against Chelsea's experienced defenders. Lingard, eager but inexperienced, was equally stifled.

In the 85th minute, Mourinho played his final card. Diego Costa exited to thunderous applause, replaced by club legend Didier Drogba. The Stamford Bridge faithful erupted in cheers as the "King of Stamford Bridge" made his emotional return. Drogba, now in the twilight of his career, acknowledged the fans with a wave before taking his place up front.

Leicester threw everything forward in the dying minutes, but Chelsea's tactical discipline prevailed. The referee's whistle blew, and the scoreline remained 2-1.

Mourinho's men celebrated, knowing they had weathered Leicester's storm. For the Blues manager, the victory wasn't just about points—it was personal. This was redemption after Leicester's infamous FA Cup upset, where they had used his own park the bus tactic against him.

...

5555 words, don't know why I find the funny, longest single chapter I think so far