“Welcome to Leicester’s King Power Stadium!” “This is Sky Sports, bringing you live coverage of the FA Cup fourth round.
Leicester City host Premier League giants Chelsea, visiting from London!” “Compared to the side that beat Manchester United 3-1 last time out, Mourinho has made six changes.
Clearly, he’s rotated his squad.” “New signing Nemanja Matić, the Primeira Liga Player of the Season from Benfica, earns his first start alongside Lampard in midfield.” “With this match, Lampard surpasses Bonetti to become second in Chelsea’s all-time FA Cup appearances, just six behind Harris.” “Leading the line: Torres.” “Eto’o, the Leopard who scored a hat-trick against Manchester United, and captain Terry both start on the bench.” “Leicester City have also made some changes from their last league match.” “Most notably, the young talent who burst onto the scene in the last round of the FA Cup against Stoke City, Leo Hale, after a string of standout substitute performances, has finally earned his first senior start!” As the commentary rolled, the stadium’s big screen found Leo again.
A homegrown product of the Leicester academy.
This kind of spotlight was nothing special.
Facing the camera, Leo just gave a crooked grin.
The female fans in the stadium erupted, hearts fluttering.
“He’s gorgeous!” “Those gray eyes are incredible!” Before kickoff, the two teams lined up for the handshake.
His heart was racing with excitement and nerves.
But Leo worked hard to keep his inner fanboy firmly hidden, greeting each of these stars he’d only ever seen on television with a calm smile.
Lampard.
Hazard.
Ashley Cole.
The Chelsea players’ first impression of Leo was unanimous: Damn, this kid is ridiculously good-looking.
As the teams gathered for the pre-match photo, Leo stood at the far left of the second row and flashed his brightest smile at the camera.
Click.
The shutter snapped, and Leo had his first starting lineup photo.
After the captains’ coin toss, Leicester won choice of ends, and Chelsea kicked off.
Gathering in their own half, captain Morgan called everyone into a huddle.
“Let’s show them what we’re made of!” Seeing his teammates stack their hands, Leo reached in and added his, shouting with them at full voice: “Forward, Foxes!” The referee, Paul Tierney, blew a long whistle, and the match was underway.
Chelsea kicked off.
El Niño Torres, in the all-white away kit, rolled the ball back to Oscar.
Oscar didn’t think twice, sending it further back.
As Chelsea’s ball-carrying hub, a few quick passes later, the ball found its way to Hazard on the left wing.
In this era, United’s Zaha hadn’t yet moved to Crystal Palace, and Gladbach’s Xhaka was still years from becoming a Gunner.
London had only one King Hazard.
The Chelsea number seventeen, left winger Eden Hazard.
His incisive dribbling and close control had drawn eyes on him since his earliest days at Lille in Ligue 1.
After arriving at Chelsea in 2012 as the Premier League’s record signing, he’d wasted no time winning over the Stamford Bridge faithful with his ball-carrying ability.
Over the past season and a half, he’d ranked among the top three in the league for successful dribbles.
He might not have hit his peak yet, but Hazard was already Chelsea’s sharpest blade for carving open a defense.
The moment the ball reached him, Hazard had no hesitation.
He drove straight down the left flank.
Marking him was his fellow Belgian, Leicester right-back De Laet.
In the pre-match tactical briefing, Pearson had stressed repeatedly that Chelsea’s left side was their primary attacking outlet.
So, to contain Hazard, he’d not only told De Laet to get physical, he’d also instructed the right-sided central midfielder, Andy King, to drop in and help.
But even against two men, Hazard couldn’t have cared less.
A feint left, a burst right, a slick touch, and he’d glided effortlessly to the edge of Leicester’s box.
Then he cut inside, created space, and unleashed a thunderous strike.
Bang.
The ball bent through the air in a curling arc, heading for the far corner.
Thankfully, Kasper Schmeichel was locked in.
Diving instinctively, he got a fingertip to the ball, just enough to redirect it inches wide of the post.
Hazard clutched his head in disbelief.
The entire move had been seamless: bursting down the wing, cutting inside, shaking off the defender, and curling it for the far corner.
He’d been sure that was in.
To his shock, Schmeichel had stretched into a full-extension save and somehow tipped it away.
He stared at Schmeichel’s calm expression for a moment, then turned and jogged back without a second thought.
As he ran, a quiet voice in his mind made a promise: You stopped it this time.
Next time, I’m burying it.
Watching the chance go begging, the traveling Chelsea fans let out a collective groan of anguish.
The Leicester supporters inside the stadium, meanwhile, had been given a real scare.
Conceding to Hazard in the opening minutes would have made this match a whole lot harder.
Mourinho’s Chelsea, after all, built everything on the strongest defense in the game.
The commentator couldn’t help but admire Hazard’s run.
“A perfect dribbling display!” “Just a shame about the finish.
A slightly sharper angle on that curl, and even Peter Schmeichel would’ve struggled to keep it out.” Hazard had fired a warning shot right from the off.
But that was only the beginning.
When possession turned over, what stunned the Leicester coaching staff and players was this: Chelsea, a team built on defensive counterattacks, had come to the King Power Stadium and deployed a high press.
From Torres up front to Matić in the holding role, the entire Chelsea shape pushed forward.
Matić, in particular, shadowed Leo like a second skin, giving him no room to receive the ball.
With no other option, central midfielder Dean Hammond dropped deep to collect, only to be forced out to the wing.
But on the left, Knockaert took just a couple of touches before two Chelsea players swarmed him, and the ball was gone.
Possession flipped in an instant.
And then, wave after wave of white shirts surged into Leicester’s half, piling relentless pressure on the back line.
Watching this unfold, Pearson, who’d been sitting calmly, shot to his feet, his face tightening.
He had never expected Chelsea to come out swinging with such relentless aggression.
The sheer strangeness of Chelsea’s approach threw him completely.
He turned his head and stared toward the visiting dugout, where Mourinho sat.
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