If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
Francesco laughed breathlessly, the sound bubbling out of him before he could stop it. He had dreamed of scoring goals for England, of lifting trophies, of glory under the lights. But this — this moment of unity, of forging something real with the men he had admired from afar — felt like the beginning of something greater than any single match.
The silence that had once hung heavy didn't vanish all at once — it melted, slowly, like frost under the first rays of morning sun.
Around the dressing room, players shifted in their seats, exchanging glances that carried all the unsaid things swirling in their minds. Some were hesitant, some thoughtful, some quietly stirred in ways they didn't want to admit.
The oath had been spoken, sealed in that stack of hands. But an oath meant little unless the room — all twenty-three men, not just five — carried it together.
Vardy was the first to break the spell. He leaned back in his chair, boot still half-tied, a smirk tugging at his lips. His voice came sharp, laced with that familiar Leicestershire bite.
"So that's it then? We're just gonna pretend years of history vanish 'cause Wayne Rooney says the word 'treaty'? What's next, lads — group hugs before every game?"
A few chuckles bubbled around the room, mostly from the younger lot — Stones, Sterling, even Alli hiding a grin. But it wasn't cruel laughter; it was nervous, like kids covering their unease with jokes.
Rooney didn't flinch. He turned his head slowly, fixing Vardy with a stare that had cut down defenders twice his size. "Say what you want, Jamie. But we've tried it your way before, haven't we? A bit of banter, a bit of 'who cares.' And where did it get us?"
Vardy's grin faltered, just slightly. "Doesn't mean I'm gonna start holding hands with a United lad."
"You don't have to," Rooney said flatly. "You just have to trust him when he makes the run. Cover him when he slips. Back him when he falls. You reckon you can manage that?"
Vardy shifted, tugging his laces tighter. His smirk didn't return, but neither did another protest.
Across the room, Stones leaned toward Sterling, whispering something that drew another chuckle. Rooney caught it. He always did.
"Something funny, John?"
The defender froze mid-laugh, his ears coloring. "Nah, skip. Just… bit dramatic, innit? 'Treaty' and all that."
"Dramatic?" Henderson cut in, sharper than usual. "You've not been in this long enough to know what dramatic is. Ask anyone who's been to a tournament before. Ask Joe how it feels watching penalties knowing the bloke next to you barely spoke to you all month 'cause you wear the wrong kit on Saturdays."
Hart didn't hesitate. He slammed his glove against the bench, the sound cracking through the room. "He's right. You think this is about words? It's about trust. You can't fake that when it matters. And it will matter."
The weight of it pressed on Stones. He wasn't mocking anymore. He wasn't even smirking. He was just quiet, his young face caught somewhere between pride and realization.
Francesco watched it unfold, heart thumping. For the first time since stepping into the England camp, he felt something shift in his favor. They weren't looking at him as the kid anymore. Not just. They were listening.
But he also knew Rooney couldn't carry the skeptics alone. So he stepped forward, his voice cracking a little at first but steadying as the words came.
"Look, I know I'm new. I know some of you probably think it's easy for me to say all this — seventeen, no scars yet, no failures on my back. But that's why I'm saying it. 'Cause I've grown up watching you lot. Watching England fall short when we had the players to win it all. I don't want to just be part of another story about nearly men. I want to be part of the one that ends different. Don't you?"
The room fell still again. Even Vardy's smirk faded for good.
Sterling rubbed his chin, his expression softer now. "Suppose there's worse things than trying."
Stones exhaled slowly, leaning forward, elbows on knees. "Alright. Fine. Treaty, then. But if I catch Rooney and Cahill holding hands, I'm out."
Laughter broke the tension this time — real laughter, warm and cutting through the heaviness. Even Rooney cracked a smile, shaking his head.
"That's better," he muttered.
The days that followed carried a different air. It wasn't an overnight transformation — no magic wand waved away years of rivalry — but the edges softened.
At breakfast, where tables used to fracture by club colors, there was now a mixing. Small at first. Henderson sitting next to Smalling. Cahill swapping toast across the aisle to Sterling. Francesco catching Kane's eye and sliding into the seat beside him, talking about runs and movement until they realized half the table was leaning in.
On the training ground, it showed more. Passes zipped sharper, crisper. Runs overlapped with instinct instead of hesitation. When Francesco darted between defenders, it wasn't just Rooney feeding him — Alli, Sterling, even Wilshere were looking for him. And when Rooney dropped deep, Francesco found himself drifting into space, knowing Henderson or Cahill would cover the gaps.
Skeptics still lingered, of course. Vardy barked jokes whenever sessions grew too serious, deflecting the weight with humor. Stones still carried that youthful swagger, raising eyebrows whenever Rooney barked orders. But the treaty had done something undeniable — it gave them language, a reminder.
Whenever someone bristled, whenever an old rivalry threatened to creep in, someone — Henderson, Hart, sometimes even Francesco — would simply say, "Treaty."
And it would stop.
It wasn't perfect. But it was progress.
The coaches noticed first in the little things.
On the second morning after the "treaty," Roy Hodgson sat with Ray Lewington at the corner of the breakfast hall, his porridge untouched, eyes drifting across the players. He wasn't a man given to romantic illusions; he'd seen enough football, enough squads, to know when camaraderie was forced and when it was genuine.
Something had shifted.
Normally, he expected the usual cliques — United lads sticking together, Liverpool boys laughing too loudly among themselves, Spurs keeping to their own, Chelsea sitting stiffly at the other end. And Arsenal players, with their quiet, almost aloof air, orbiting just beyond.
But now… it was scrambled. Henderson was sat next to Smalling, deep in conversation about positioning. Cahill was buttering toast and passing it across the table to Sterling. Kane, Francesco, and Rooney leaned over the same table, sketching invisible runs with knives and forks, bread rolls standing in for defenders.
Even Vardy, usually the loudest voice of independence, was trading jabs with Hart and Alli in a way that didn't feel like mocking, just release.
Roy's spoon clinked against the bowl as he set it down, a faint smile flickering. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered.
Lewington, his assistant of many years, followed his gaze. He frowned. "Never seen that before. Not in this lot."
"Nor have I," Roy said quietly. "It's… odd. Good, but odd."
Ray leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Maybe they've just grown up. Tournaments have a way of beating sense into you."
But Roy wasn't convinced. He'd seen them too many times before, watched too many "golden generations" crumble under the same invisible weight. He knew the difference between maturity and something else. This wasn't just age. This was… deliberate.
Later that day, on the training ground in Chantilly, the coaches noticed it again.
Passing drills. Normally simple, mechanical. But there was an energy to them now. The tempo higher. The voices louder. Rooney shouting encouragement at Sterling. Francesco clapping when Stones found him with a cross-field ball. Kane and Vardy actually linking up in a finishing drill, high-fiving afterward instead of muttering under their breath.
Ray jogged over to Roy, shaking his head as if he'd seen a ghost. "I swear, boss, I don't know what's happened to them. But if you bottled this and sold it, you'd never coach again."
Roy narrowed his eyes. He wasn't a fool. He had to know.
That evening, after dinner, he called Rooney aside. They stepped out onto the terrace of the team hotel, the night air cool, carrying the faint hum of Paris in the distance. Rooney looked surprised at first, then wary — as if expecting another tactical lecture or a captain's responsibility speech.
But Roy's voice was softer than usual. Curious. Almost paternal.
"Wayne, I've been watching them. The squad. They're… different. The rivalries, the distance — it's gone. Or at least, going. What happened?"
Rooney hesitated, scratching the back of his head. He wasn't used to explaining the unexplainable. Finally, he sighed.
"They made a treaty."
Roy blinked. "A… treaty?"
Rooney half-smiled at how absurd it sounded when said out loud. "Yeah. That's what we called it. No rivalries in camp. Not a whisper. Not a dig. Just England. That's it."
For a moment, Roy just stared at him. Then a laugh, rare and genuine, rumbled in his chest. "A treaty," he repeated, shaking his head. "And they all agreed to this?"
"Most did," Rooney admitted. "Some took convincing. Vardy gave me a bit. Stones too. But Henderson, Hart, Cahill — they backed it. And the kid — Francesco — he pushed it over the line."
Roy's brows rose. "Francesco? The youngest one in the squad?"
Rooney nodded. "Yeah. Surprised me too. Spoke up in the dressing room. Said what we've all been thinking but never said out loud. Seventeen years old, but he had them listening."
Roy leaned against the railing, gazing out into the night. His mind raced. He'd spent months agonizing over how to knit this squad together, how to cut through decades of mistrust. And here it was — not from him, not from his staff, but from within.
A treaty.
"You're telling me the unity of this squad rests on the word of a teenager?" Roy asked finally.
Rooney's smile was faint, but his eyes were steady. "Not just a teenager. A leader. Maybe sooner than we all thought."
The days leading up to the Euros had a different texture after that. Training wasn't just sharper — it was joyful. Players ribbed each other, yes, but without malice. Rivalries that once carried venom turned into banter. When Kane missed a sitter, Vardy didn't sneer — he laughed, and Kane shoved him back with a grin. When Sterling dribbled too long and lost the ball, Rooney barked, "Oi, City lad!" — then immediately clapped him on the back, adding, "Next time, shoot."
In tactical meetings, the body language changed. No more folded arms and rolled eyes. Players leaned forward, chimed in, argued constructively. Cahill and Smalling debated defensive lines without bringing Chelsea or United into it. Henderson and Alli spoke over each other trying to map out transitions.
Even in the hotel corridors, the atmosphere was different. Doors left open, music spilling out, players drifting between rooms instead of shutting themselves off. Late-night FIFA tournaments where United boys played alongside Arsenal lads. Poker games that mixed Chelsea and Spurs.
Roy walked through it all with quiet astonishment. He didn't interfere, didn't try to over-manage. He just let it breathe.
But in private, with Ray Lewington, he confessed: "I don't know if I should be proud of them or terrified. Something's changed, Ray. And it wasn't me that did it."
Ray shrugged, a grin tugging at his lips. "Then maybe that's the point, boss. Maybe they didn't need us for this. Maybe they needed themselves."
And at the center of it all, Francesco found himself in a strange new place.
He wasn't just the kid anymore. He was still seventeen, still wide-eyed when Rooney barked an order or Hart bellowed from his goal. But when conversations sparked about mentality, about unity, heads turned to him. Sometimes subtle, sometimes obvious.
He felt it in training when Kane pulled him aside, asking how he wanted the ball played. He felt it at dinner when Sterling leaned across the table, asking about Arsenal's patterns so they could mirror them in England's shape. He felt it in the small nods from Henderson, in the rare but steady claps from Cahill.
Rooney saw it too. One evening, after another long day of training, he caught Francesco lingering on the pitch, the ball at his feet, staring at the empty goal.
"You alright, kid?" Rooney asked, jogging over.
Francesco nodded, though his voice was quiet. "Just… feels like too much, sometimes. Like I started something I don't know how to carry."
Rooney chuckled, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "That's the secret, lad. You don't carry it alone. None of us do. You spoke up, yeah — but now it belongs to all of us. That's what makes it real."
Francesco looked up at him, the weight in his chest easing. Rooney wasn't just a captain now; he was an ally. A mentor. Maybe even something closer to a brother.
The next day began with a hum that felt different from the days before.
It wasn't nerves exactly — not yet. But it was the kind of quiet anticipation that comes when you know you're moving from theory into reality. The treaty, the unity, the smiles over breakfast — all of it was about to be tested outside the safe walls of their Chantilly base.
This was the first step into the real thing.
The bus waited outside the hotel, its polished white sides gleaming in the morning sun, "England" stamped bold across the front. The coaching staff moved first, checking clipboards, ticking names, counting bags. The kit men loaded crates of boots, jerseys, physio gear — every piece of a traveling circus that came with a national team.
Inside the lobby, the players drifted down in waves. Kane with his headphones slung around his neck. Hart balancing a coffee cup in one hand, boot bag in the other. Henderson double-checking he had his passport, then checking again, muttering under his breath.
Francesco came down with a backpack slung over one shoulder, his phone buzzing in his hand. Leah had sent him a good-luck message, just three words and a red heart, and it warmed him more than he'd admit out loud. He slipped the phone away before anyone could peek, but Rooney caught the faint smile tugging at his mouth.
"Your girlfriend?" Rooney teased, eyebrows raised.
Francesco nod his head quickly. "Yeah."
"Sure enough," Rooney said, smirking as he clapped him on the back. "Just make sure you've got both boots packed."
The atmosphere was light, but beneath it ran a current of focus. This was travel day. No one wanted to be the idiot who left something behind.
Sterling and Alli jostled each other near the luggage trolley, arguing over who had the bigger designer suitcase. Vardy, true to form, tried to climb onto the trolley itself until Cahill barked at him like a schoolteacher. Stones wandered past humming a tune, only to double back when he realized he'd left his passport in his jacket upstairs. Hart rolled his eyes so hard it nearly counted as a warm-up drill.
Roy Hodgson stood near the bus doors, his coat folded neatly over his arm, watching it all. There was confusion on his face, still, at this squad's transformation — but also a warmth he couldn't quite hide. He looked like a headmaster proud of his rowdiest class finally coming good, even if he didn't quite know how it had happened.
By ten sharp, they were all aboard. The bus rumbled to life, pulling away from the hotel gates with a low growl. Francesco took a window seat, pressing his forehead briefly to the glass, watching the trees slip by as they left Chantilly behind. The air inside buzzed with conversation — not the hushed, fractured chatter of before, but overlapping voices, jokes, and bursts of laughter.
Sterling and Stones sat a few rows back, squabbling over music on a shared speaker. Rooney leaned across the aisle, deep in tactical chat with Henderson. Vardy had already pulled out a pack of cards, roping in Hart, Alli, and Wilshere for a game that promised more cheating than rules.
Francesco found himself next to Kane. For a moment it was quiet between them, the hum of the engine filling the gap. Then Kane nudged him gently with his elbow.
"First tournament, eh?"
Francesco nodded. "Feels massive."
"It is," Kane said, his voice steady, almost mentor-like. "But don't let it eat you. First match is always the hardest. Once we're out there, it's just football again."
Francesco let that sink in. He liked Kane — calm, grounded, the kind of presence that steadied the pulse. Different from Rooney's fire, but just as vital.
The airport wasn't far, and soon enough the bus rolled onto the tarmac where the charter plane waited, engines whirring. Security checks blurred into bag drops, and before long they were climbing the steps into the aircraft, a sleek white bird dressed with the England crest near the nose.
Inside, the rows had been customized for them — more legroom, tables between seats, small luxuries that reminded them this wasn't a holiday flight but a mission. Coaches took the front rows, players spread out through the middle, staff toward the back.
Rooney and Cahill claimed the table nearest the aisle, immediately spreading out tactical notes like schoolboys cramming before an exam. Hart and Vardy set up their card game again. Francesco found himself pulled by Sterling and Alli into a cluster where music played softly and laughter spilled over the drone of the engines.
When the seatbelt light dinged, silence fell briefly as the plane surged forward, wheels lifting from ground into sky. Francesco pressed his hand against the armrest, heart lifting with the altitude. Below, France stretched out — fields, towns, rivers like silver threads — and ahead lay Marseille.
The flight wasn't long, but it carried weight. In that sealed cabin, there was no escape from each other, no retreat into club bubbles. And yet, it wasn't tense. It was… easy. Players wandered between seats, swapping stories. Henderson told one about Gerrard bollocking him during his first Liverpool training that had everyone roaring. Stones admitted he once called Jagielka "dad" by accident in training, and even Rooney cracked up.
Francesco mostly listened, soaking it in.
When the plane touched down in Marseille, the heat hit them first. The air was thicker, warmer than Chantilly's mild breezes, carrying the tang of salt from the nearby sea. As they stepped down onto the tarmac, sunglasses on, kit bags slung, it felt less like a team arriving and more like an army marching toward destiny.
Cameras flashed. Fans pressed against barriers waving flags. Shouts of "England! England!" rolled over them in waves. Some players waved, some ducked their heads, but all felt the pull of it. The weight of expectation.
The bus that whisked them to their hotel wound along streets lined with Marseille's patchwork of white buildings, laundry strung from balconies, murals splashed on stone walls. Locals paused in doorways, watching the convoy roll past. Kids chased alongside for a few strides before peeling away, laughing.
The hotel itself was draped in security — fences, guards, police vans idling. But inside, it was a sanctuary. Rooms with sea views. A dining hall set up for them alone. Meeting spaces converted into tactical briefing rooms. The FA had spared nothing.
As bags were delivered, players gathered in the lounge, some peeling off to explore their rooms, others collapsing onto sofas. Roy and his staff huddled near the corner, whispering, casting occasional glances at the squad as if trying to decode the mystery of their sudden unity.
Francesco wandered out onto the balcony that overlooked the Mediterranean. The sun hung low, bleeding gold across the water. For a moment, he let himself breathe. A week until Russia. A week until it all began.
Rooney joined him quietly, hands in his pockets. They stood side by side in silence for a beat, the waves far below crashing against the rocks.
"You ready?" Rooney asked finally.
Francesco swallowed, eyes fixed on the horizon. "I think so."
Rooney chuckled softly. "Good. 'Cause ready or not, it's here."
The morning sun bled into the hotel restaurant through wide glass panes, pouring a soft golden wash across the tables. Plates clinked, cutlery scraped, and the low murmur of conversation rippled through the room as the England squad gathered for breakfast.
It wasn't a formal sit-down. Some were already halfway through eggs and toast; others lingered near the buffet, indecisive over croissants or cereal. But the important thing wasn't what they ate — it was how they ate.
Together.
Rooney was at the long table near the center, coffee in hand, his voice carrying as he joked with Cahill and Hart. Sterling and Alli sat shoulder to shoulder, scrolling through something on Sterling's phone, laughter bubbling between them. Kane leaned back, quiet but content, while Vardy attacked his plate of beans with the same intensity he brought to the pitch.
Francesco slid in near Henderson, spooning some yogurt into his bowl. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the glass — seventeen, barely old enough to vote back home, yet here he was, seated among giants.
The hum of the room had a strange comfort to it. It wasn't forced. It wasn't fractured. It was… harmony.
And then the TV cut across the atmosphere.
Mounted high in the corner, tuned permanently to Sky Sports, the morning broadcast filled the air with a commentator's familiar cadence. The volume wasn't loud, but it was enough to catch ears, to pull heads upward.
"—the big story coming out of Chantilly and now Marseille," the anchor said, images flashing of the squad arriving at the airport, stepping off the plane, waving to cameras. "This England side looks… different. United. For years, critics have accused England's so-called golden generations of letting club rivalries seep into the national camp. Manchester United against Liverpool, Chelsea against Arsenal, Spurs against everyone else — it fractured squads, eroded trust. But if the pictures we've seen this week are anything to go by, something's changed."
The broadcast cut to footage from training. Rooney passing to Sterling. Vardy laughing with Kane. Francesco weaving between cones as Henderson shouted encouragement.
"They look harmonious," the anchor continued. "Professional. Like players who've left their club shirts behind and put England first."
A pundit — familiar voice, sharp and skeptical — chimed in. "I'll believe it when I see it on the pitch. Training ground smiles don't win tournaments. But credit where it's due: if they've truly buried the hatchet, this could be the most cohesive England team we've seen in decades."
At the table, a ripple of reaction spread.
"Look at that," Hart said, jabbing his fork toward the screen. "We're bloody famous for not killing each other."
Laughter broke out. Even Rooney smirked into his mug.
Vardy leaned back in his chair, his grin wicked. "Harmonious, they said? That's me and Kane right there. They'll be writing poems about us next."
Kane rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his smile. "If you pass the ball once, maybe."
Sterling tilted his head, studying the footage as if seeing it fresh. "It's mad, though, innit? They've been slating England for years, and now they're acting like we've cracked world peace."
Alli snorted. "Mate, if you'd seen Rooney and Francesco swearing at each other in five-a-sides two days ago, you'd know it's not exactly peace."
"Oi," Rooney barked, though the glint in his eye betrayed his amusement. "That was competitive spirit. There's a difference."
Francesco shook his head, cheeks warm. "Didn't hear you calling it that when I nutmegged you, skip."
That brought the loudest laugh yet. Hart slapped the table. Vardy nearly choked on his beans. Even Roy Hodgson, lingering near the buffet with a plate in hand, cracked a smile at the noise.
But beneath the banter, there was weight.
Because the pundits weren't wrong. Everyone in that room knew the history. Knew the whispers. Knew the years of fractured camps, where players wore the same crest but carried daggers in their backs. England hadn't just been beaten by opponents; they'd been beaten by themselves.
And now the world was watching, wondering if this time was truly different.
The TV rolled on, cutting to old clips — Beckham's red card, Lampard and Gerrard staring through each other, penalty shootouts where body language screamed division. The contrast was stark.
Henderson's jaw tightened as he watched. He muttered low, more to himself than anyone else. "We can't be those blokes. Not again."
Rooney heard it. He didn't answer right away, just leaned back, letting the words hang. Then he said quietly, so the nearest few heard: "We won't be."
The conviction in his tone was enough to still the laughter.
Francesco glanced around. Heads had turned back toward plates, but the mood had shifted. The TV had reminded them — harmony wasn't just a nice feeling. It was survival.
The broadcast cut to fan interviews in Marseille. England supporters draped in St. George's flags, pints in hand, shouting into cameras.
"This is our year, innit? The lads look together. Proper together. That's what we've been missing. Russia won't know what hit 'em."
The room chuckled again, but softer this time. It wasn't ridicule; it was recognition. Fans could feel it. The country could feel it. The treaty, their little pact whispered in a dressing room, had somehow seeped into the air around them.
Roy finally set his plate down at the head of the table, his voice carrying over the murmur. "Enjoy the headlines, lads. But remember — it's not harmony they'll measure us by. It's results."
It was classic Hodgson. Simple. Grounding.
The room nodded as one.
Breakfast carried on — eggs finished, toast buttered, fruit bowls emptied — but the TV had done its work. It reminded them that they weren't just a group of players sharing coffee and banter. They were England. Every step, every laugh, every handshake would be dissected, weighed against decades of disappointment.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, and 2015/2016 Champions League
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9