Just days after his first-team debut, Leicester City’s eighteen-year-old Leo Hale had now made his Championship bow.
Alongside him came Algerian newcomer Riyad Mahrez.
Leo replaced veteran left midfielder Lloyd Dyer.
Mahrez came on for Anthony Knockaert on the right.
With those two changes, the shape shifted from a flat 4-4-2 to a 4-2-3-1.
Vardy slid out to the left, filling in as a wide midfielder.
Leo sat just behind striker Nugent, in the number ten role.
As Leo jogged onto the pitch, Leicester manager Nigel Pearson cupped his hands and shouted toward his players from the touchline.
“Get Leo on the ball!” Truth was, Leo had already earned his teammates’ trust in training.
Even without the manager’s orders, the rest of the Leicester squad were more than willing to let him pull the strings.
Pearson’s shout barely registered with the Leicester players.
It did, however, catch the attention of Derby County’s side.
The Derby players seemed to pick up on something, eyes flicking toward Leo one after another.
They already knew his name and his story from every angle before the match.
Subbed on, delivered two assists, dragged his team back to knock out Premier League Stoke City.
Before kickoff, their manager had drilled them on Leo’s passing threat, stressing that if the kid came on, they had to press him hard and never let him pick a pass in comfort.
Still, most of the Derby squad had shrugged it off.
An eighteen-year-old rookie who still smelled like milk.
How dangerous could he really be?
Maybe this black-haired kid was the crack they could exploit to turn the game around.
Leo felt the Derby players’ stares and kept his face neutral.
Inside, he was cursing.
Oh, come on.
Next time you’re laying out tactics, could you not yell it right in front of the other team?
He grumbled to himself, but he had been expecting this.
After his FA Cup breakout and the media hype machine going into overdrive, he knew he would draw extra attention the moment he stepped onto the pitch.
Sure enough.
Drinkwater fed him the ball, and the Derby holding midfielder who had been shadowing him came barreling in, all aggression, looking to put the black-haired kid on his backside.
A welcome gift.
But before the man could get close, Leo flicked the ball straight back to Drinkwater without a moment’s hesitation.
Like he had eyes in the back of his head.
Seeing the pass go backward, the Derby midfielder figured the kid was scared of the pressure.
He slowed his charge, a little smug.
Leo paid him no mind.
He simply upped his movement a fraction and drifted into space, ready for the return.
Before long, everyone inside the King Power Stadium, the crowd, the commentators, even the Derby players on the pitch, noticed something strange.
Was the ball on fire?
Why did this black-haired kid look desperate to offload it the instant it touched his foot?
Slowly, the ones who knew the game began to piece it together.
Leicester’s number 23 was working the midfield with constant short passes and intelligent movement, forming a fluid triangle with his two central partners and keeping possession locked tight.
Every time a Derby player closed in, Leo released the ball immediately.
No chance for a foul, no opening for any physical contact.
Derby’s players could not get near it.
They had no choice but to drop back and watch Leicester control the game.
In the five minutes after Leo came on, Leicester’s possession rate hit a staggering one hundred percent.
The sight had the commentator in the booth struggling for words.
“Wow.” “What am I watching?!” “Is this Spanish tiki-taka?” “The movement, the composure on the ball.
You would never guess he is eighteen!” “Honestly, if it were not for that blue shirt, I would swear he came through La Masia.” In the home dugout, Nigel Pearson sat back, legs crossed, a smirk settling on his face.
He leaned toward assistant coach Walsh.
“Looks like we got it right.” No one outside the coaching staff and Leo himself knew the truth.
They had studied his strengths and weaknesses and built this playing style specifically for him.
And the match footage Leo had watched most in the video room?
The Barcelona matches from the Guardiola era, and Xavi’s individual highlights.
In Pearson and Walsh’s eyes, Leo was their very own Leicester City Xavi.
The safe short passes knitting the midfield together were the setup.
A way to lull the opponent to sleep.
Then, the moment their defensive focus slackened, the moment they assumed he would only ever play the safe ball, he would strike.
And through the constant rhythm of short passes, Leo finally spotted the gap in Derby’s shape.
When Drinkwater fed him the ball for the twenty-sixth time, Leo paused.
The Derby holding midfielder, seeing Leo hold it instead of releasing instantly, assumed he was about to turn.
He did not hesitate.
He charged.
Now.
Just as the midfielder came flying in, Leo’s expression sharpened.
He tapped the ball to Matty James, who was already showing for the return.
The instant the pass left his foot, Leo spun and burst forward, brushing right past the lunging Derby midfielder.
He could see the shock written all over the man’s face.
Leo let a faint, mocking smile touch his lips.
Confused, are we?
“Brilliant turn!” Seeing Leo sprint into space, James fed the ball straight back.
One simple give-and-go, and Leo had evaded the reckless press.
He had time.
He had space.
The Derby center-back’s eyes went wide.
He shouted instinctively.
“Close him down!” On the touchline, Derby manager and former England boss Steve McClaren was yelling at his players too.
“Don’t let him pass!” Too late.
Without a flicker of hesitation, without even lifting his head to look, Leo swung his right leg and drilled a low through ball.
The ball skidded across the turf, slicing between the center-back and the left-back, and rolled into the right edge of Derby’s penalty area.
The commentator could barely keep up.
“A pass of pure imagination!
It cuts through Derby’s defensive seam and arrives just outside the box…” “Wait, number 26, Mahrez!” As the commentator’s voice spiked, Riyad Mahrez, wearing that 26 shirt, burst into the box like a gust of wind.
It was the understanding they had built in training and in scrimmages.
The moment Leo faced goal and shaped to release the ball, Mahrez was already making his run into the space behind the full-back.
Because he knew with absolute certainty: if he ran, Leo would put the ball right where he wanted it.
If you ranked every player in Leicester’s first-team squad by first touch, the newly signed Mahrez sat at the top without a shadow of a doubt.
Ball racing toward him.
Goalkeeper charging off his line straight ahead.
Mahrez’s face stayed cold, calm.
A killer with no pulse.
Under the held breath of tens of thousands inside the King Power Stadium, he simply slipped his left foot under the ball and lifted it with a feather-light chip.
The ball sailed over the Derby keeper’s head and dropped softly into the empty net.
“Mahrez, one-on-one with the keeper…” “He chips him!” “GOAL!!!” “GOOOOOAAAAAL!” With that delicate, devastating finish, Mahrez had his first Championship goal.
And Leo had his first Championship assist.
He had been on the pitch for ten minutes.