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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.
The plates had barely cleared from breakfast when the day shifted into rhythm again. Not the lazy shuffle of travel anymore, not the novelty of arrival.
The first session in Marseille was scheduled for the late afternoon, to let the heat bleed out of the sky a little. But even in the morning, the squad buzzed with a restlessness that no amount of coffee or jokes could burn away. The TV talk had wormed its way into their minds. The world was watching. Every laugh, every pass, every little nod of harmony was being spun into a story bigger than themselves.
And in football, stories carried weight.
The training pitch was tucked into a quiet complex, guarded and fenced, but even here, echoes of Marseille seeped through — distant horns from the port, the smell of sea salt on the breeze. The grass looked almost too perfect, like someone had rolled a carpet of green velvet across the earth.
The players stepped off the bus in their training kits, boots dangling from laces, banter quieter now, as though they instinctively knew the real work had begun.
Hodgson stood with his assistants near the halfway line. Ray Lewington had a clipboard tucked under his arm and gesturing with sharp movements, like he was replaying scenarios in his head.
"All right, lads," Hodgson called as they gathered in a circle. His voice wasn't booming, but it carried authority all the same. "This week isn't about Russia yet. Not entirely. It's about us. About the habits, the trust, the understanding we build on this pitch."
His gaze swept the group, lingering on the younger faces — Alli, Sterling, Stones, Francesco.
"And it's about discipline. The world's praising us for harmony. Let's make sure it's real."
The warm-up began — rondos, sprints, stretches. The kind of drills they'd done a thousand times at clubs, but here, the energy was different. When Francesco stepped into a rondo, the passes zipped faster than usual, not out of malice, but out of edge. He intercepted one, poked it through Wilshere's legs, and the circle erupted in whoops. Even Hodgson cracked a smile.
But soon the mood sobered. Tactical boards were wheeled out. Cones marked zones across the pitch. Hodgson and Neville began drilling shape, over and over.
Two banks of four, Rooney and Kane alternating roles, Francesco drifting in from the flank. The whistle shrieked, players shuffled, balls pinged across grass, and voices barked instructions.
"Quicker!" Lewington shouted. "Don't admire it — move!"
"Compact!" Hodgson added. "Don't let the lines stretch!"
By the end of the first session, shirts clung heavy with sweat. Players sprawled on the grass, chests heaving, while staff handed out water bottles.
Vardy flopped onto his back, staring up at the fading sky. "And I thought Leicester pre-season was tough."
"Pre-season's a holiday compared to this," Henderson muttered, though a grin tugged at his lips.
Francesco rolled to a sitting position, gulping water. His muscles ached, but it was a good ache. The kind that meant he belonged here.
If the pitch was their sanctuary, the outside world was anything but. Every morning, stacks of newspapers were delivered to the hotel. Headlines blared:
"NEW ENGLAND: UNITY OR ILLUSION?"
"HARMONY IN MARSEILLE — CAN IT LAST?"
"YOUNG LIONS TO BREAK THE CURSE?"
Photos splashed across back pages — Francesco laughing with Rooney, Sterling with his arm slung around Alli, Kane leading a huddle. To the press, every gesture was evidence. Every smile, a headline.
But the scrutiny had its bite.
At lunch one day, Hart tossed a paper across the table. "Listen to this — apparently I'm too busy playing cards with Vards to concentrate on training."
Vardy, mid-bite of pasta, nearly sprayed it out. "They make it sound like we're bloody Vegas showgirls."
Rooney shook his head. "Ignore it. They'll praise us one day, bury us the next. Always been the way."
Still, it gnawed at them. The pressure wasn't just about tactics anymore; it was about narrative. Fail, and they wouldn't just be losing a match. They'd be accused of betraying the harmony the nation was pinning its hope on.
Despite the weight, there were moments that reminded them they were still human, still lads away from home.
One evening, after dinner, the squad gathered in the lounge. Someone — probably Wilshere — dragged out a karaoke machine from the hotel's entertainment stash. At first, groans filled the room. But within half an hour, Kane was butchering Oasis, Vardy was dancing on a chair, and even Hodgson popped his head in, shaking it with a bemused smile.
Francesco was shoved forward by Rooney, who refused to take no for an answer. With cheeks burning, he picked a track — something safe, an old classic. His voice wobbled at first, but as Sterling and Alli waved their arms like fans at a gig, he leaned into it. By the end, half the squad was chanting his name.
"Future Golden Boot winner and X Factor finalist," Hart crowed.
Leah called later that night, video chat glowing on his phone. "I can't believe you sang," she teased.
"I was forced!" Francesco protested, but the grin on his face gave him away.
It was silly, but it mattered. These weren't just teammates anymore; they were brothers in a strange, intense bubble.
By midweek, the sessions ramped up. Hodgson split the squad into first XI and second XI, testing combinations. Kane led the line, Rooney tucked behind, Francesco shifting between wing and central roles. The drills became sharper, closer to match rhythm.
"Press, press!" Lewington barked as they swarmed over the ball. "Don't give them a second."
"Transition!" Hodgson shouted. "Move it quick — one touch if you can!"
The sun baked down. Legs grew heavy. Frustrations bubbled. Alli snapped at Henderson once, accusing him of holding the ball too long. Henderson snapped back. The clash hung for a second, the kind of spark that in past generations might have flared into something bigger.
But Rooney stepped in, clapping both on the shoulder. "Save it for Russia, eh? Channel it."
The moment dissolved, but the reminder lingered. Harmony wasn't effortless. It had to be chosen, over and over.
By the fourth day of the week, Marseille was crawling with England fans. Streets near the port flooded with red-and-white flags. Chants echoed down alleyways, spilling out of pubs. Some players could hear them faintly from their hotel balconies at night.
"England 'til I die!" rose into the humid evening air.
Francesco leaned over the railing one night, watching a sea of supporters march past, voices booming. He'd played in front of big crowds before, but this… this was a nation moving as one.
Kane joined him, folding his arms on the railing. "That's what we're carrying, mate. All of that."
Francesco nodded, throat tight. "Feels heavy."
Kane's smile was small, steady. "It's supposed to. Just means it matters."
By Thursday, the first match loomed like a shadow. Every drill felt sharper, every team talk heavier. Hodgson's words grew more clipped, more focused.
"Russia will test us physically. Strong, disciplined. We must not get drawn into their pace. Keep the ball, trust each other, break them down."
In the gym, players pushed through circuits, sweat dripping onto mats. In video sessions, they studied Russia's patterns, memorizing movements.
But it wasn't just tactical tension. It was personal. Nights grew quieter. Conversations in the lounge dwindled. Some players buried themselves in music; others paced halls.
Francesco felt it in his chest — a tightness, like something coiled waiting to spring. He lay awake one night, staring at the ceiling, hearing faint waves crash against Marseille's rocks. Leah's text pinged softly: "Proud of you. Just play your game."
He held the phone to his chest, exhaling slowly.
Friday's training was sharp, almost cruel in its intensity. Hodgson demanded perfection in set pieces. Corners rehearsed, free kicks repeated until boots tore divots in the grass.
Rooney gathered them at the end, sweat dripping down his face, voice raw. "This is it, lads. Tomorrow it's not drills. Tomorrow it's not theory. Tomorrow it's Russia. And the only way we win is if we keep what we've built here. Together."
Silence followed, thick and heavy. Then Kane clapped his hands once, firm. "Let's do it."
The huddle closed in. Arms slung over shoulders. Foreheads pressed together. For a moment, it wasn't about media, or fans, or even history. It was about them.
The next day came heavy with anticipation, the kind of weight that didn't ease with breakfast, or with tactical reminders, or even with laughter at lunch. It lingered on shoulders and pressed into chests. Hours seemed to stretch longer than usual, like the clock itself understood what was at stake and was reluctant to deliver them to it.
By 19:00 sharp, the squad and coaching staff gathered in the hotel lobby. Suits crisp, bags slung over shoulders, boots packed neatly inside. The air-conditioning hummed faintly, but it couldn't cool the electricity running through the room. The marble floor gleamed beneath their shoes, reflecting restless pacing, nervous shuffles, and the occasional half-hearted joke.
Rooney stood near the entrance, arms folded, speaking quietly with Hodgson. Cahill and Smalling exchanged nods but didn't speak. Hart tapped his fingers against his thigh, the rhythm fast and uneven.
Francesco sat on one of the leather couches, kit bag resting against his leg, staring at the glass doors that led out onto the Marseille evening. The sun had dipped, leaving the sky streaked with purple and gold, but even from inside he could hear it — the low, rolling thunder of chants. England and Russia. Two armies of voices.
"Right," Hodgson said, his tone clipped, pulling every head toward him. "Let's move."
The glass doors slid open, and the noise hit them like a wave.
Outside, the team bus waited, engine rumbling. Police escorts flanked it — motorbikes with flashing lights, sirens muted for now but ready if needed. Security lined the pavement, forming a corridor through which the squad filed out.
The moment their shoes touched the concrete, the crowd roared. Not all of it friendly.
To their left, a sea of red-and-white flags filled the street — England fans, throats raw from chanting, arms waving, pints raised high. "Three Lions on a shirt…" drifted into the air, shaky in pitch but thunderous in volume.
To the right, a block of Russian fans answered back. Blue, white, and red banners waved defiantly. Their chants came sharp, guttural, challenging. Flares spat smoke, painting the Marseille air in streaks of red and orange.
The police line held firm between them, but the hostility was palpable. Francesco felt it in his stomach, a twisting knot. This wasn't just football. It was tribal.
"Keep walking," Henderson muttered under his breath, not looking to either side.
The players boarded quickly, one by one, the roar following them inside. As the doors shut, the bus pulled away, and the chants bled into muffled echoes.
Inside, silence clung for a few beats. The engine's hum filled the gap. Then Vardy broke it, leaning back with a grin.
"Well," he said, "at least nobody can accuse this of being a friendly."
A few chuckles rippled through, thin but welcome.
Francesco sat by the window, forehead resting lightly against the glass. He watched the streets slide by — Marseille buzzing, cafes packed, flags strung from balconies. Fans spilled out of pubs, pounding on the side of the bus as it passed, some shouting encouragement, others spitting insults.
Everywhere, cameras flashed. Every face, every gesture, immortalized before the whistle had even blown.
Hodgson moved down the aisle, one hand gripping the seat backs as he spoke softly. "Ignore it. Eyes forward. Everything out there means nothing when the ball's at your feet."
The bus climbed a final hill, then turned sharply, and suddenly the Stade Vélodrome loomed into view.
It wasn't subtle. It rose like a colossus, its curved roof glowing under floodlights, steel and glass gleaming against the night sky. The roar that greeted them was unlike anything they'd heard all week. Thousands of fans pressed against barriers, scarves whipping, voices shaking the air.
The bus rolled through the gates, engines echoing off the concrete, and eased to a stop at the players' entrance.
"Let's go," Rooney said, standing.
They filed off, bags in hand, through the tunnel into the belly of the stadium. The walls here were stark white, lit with strips of fluorescent light, the hum of electricity bouncing off tiled floors. Every footstep seemed louder, sharper, echoing with the weight of history.
The dressing room door swung open, revealing their base for the night. Jerseys hung neatly in rows, pristine white with bold red numbers. Boots lined beneath, laces coiled, waiting. The air smelled faintly of liniment, fresh paint, and tension.
Francesco found his spot — number 9 — his shirt hanging like an invitation. He ran a hand across the fabric, feeling the weight of it, the stitched crest over the heart.
Around him, the routine began. Rooney pulled his boots from his bag and started lacing them, movements steady. Hart unzipped his gloves, sliding them on and flexing his fingers. Henderson stripped off his tracksuit top, already sweating before the warm-up.
The room buzzed with quiet rituals. Music thudded softly from a speaker — Sterling's playlist, a mix of grime and hip-hop. Some players bounced to it, nodding in rhythm; others blocked it out entirely, lost in thought.
"Training kit, lads," Neville reminded, clapping his hands. "Warm-up in ten."
One by one, the white shirts were replaced with training tops. Laces tightened, shin pads strapped, ankles taped. Francesco tugged his kit on, the fabric clinging cool against his skin. He checked his studs twice, nerves pushing him into habit.
Then, together, they walked the tunnel.
The noise swelled as they neared the mouth, a living, breathing force that rattled through their chests. The pitch spread out ahead, a perfect canvas under the floodlights. The stands were alive — England flags draped, Russian banners raised, both sets of fans in full voice.
The players stepped out, jogged onto the grass. Cameras tracked their every move, zooming in on faces, capturing sweat and steel.
As they began their warm-up — passing drills, stretches, short sprints — Francesco lifted his eyes to the stands. He saw fans screaming his name, some wearing shirts with LEE 9 scrawled on the back. He felt a surge of energy, a mix of pride and pressure that tightened his throat.
The ball rolled crisp across the turf. Passes snapped clean. Boots dug into grass, carving out rhythm. Rooney barked reminders. Henderson clapped encouragement. Vardy winked at a section of fans singing his name.
The whistle that cut short the warm-up was sharper than the air itself, dragging the players back from their drills and into themselves. Sweat clung to their shirts, studs clogged with damp blades of grass, but none of them lingered. The ritual was too well-worn: balls rolled back into bags, cones gathered, and then the slow jog off the pitch, toward the tunnel mouth that yawned like the throat of a beast.
The noise chased them in — a rising wall of sound that seemed to want to pull them back out, hold them hostage on the grass. Francesco let himself look up one last time. The Stade Vélodrome's stands shimmered with restless movement, England white clashing violently with Russia's colors. Flares spat smoke. Flags thrashed in the humid night. It wasn't just a football match. It felt like stepping into a storm that had been brewing for centuries.
Back inside, the dressing room felt smaller now. The walls almost leaned in, pressing down with expectation. The players sank into their benches, peeling off sweat-darkened training tops, tossing them into bins. The sound of zippers, Velcro, studs scraping tile filled the silence.
On the far wall, the jerseys waited. White. Crisp. Heavy with meaning.
Francesco's shirt — number 9 — seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights. He reached for it with hands that betrayed his nerves, fingers trembling slightly as he lifted it free. The fabric was cool, almost delicate, but the crest stitched over the heart carried weight that was anything but light.
One by one, the lads changed. Socks rolled up, tape wrapped tight around ankles. Shin pads slotted in with care. Studs checked once, twice, thrice. Gloves slapped against palms as Hart flexed his fingers. The ritual was unspoken but universal. No one rushed. No one lingered.
Then came the voice.
"Lads."
Roy Hodgson stood in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back, his frame lit by the overhead glow. He wasn't a man who shouted. He never had been. But when he spoke, there was a steadiness that pulled every head toward him.
"This is what we've worked for," he began, eyes sweeping the room. "Every session this week, every hour you've spent away from your families, every sacrifice. It's all for tonight. And tonight, it begins."
The room stilled, the sound of tape tearing and laces pulling fading into nothing.
"We go with the system we've drilled. 4-2-3-1." He gestured toward the tactical board propped on its easel, magnets lined across it in neat rows. He tapped each one in turn.
"Joe Hart in goal."
Hart gave a small nod, jaw clenched tight.
"Defenders: from left to right — Danny Rose, Chris Smalling, Gary Cahill, and Kyle Walker."
Rose rolled his shoulders, restless energy rippling off him. Smalling leaned forward, hands clasped, already visualizing the duels to come. Cahill's eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. Walker cracked his knuckles, muttering something under his breath that only he could hear.
"Eric Dier as our defensive anchor. Dele Alli central, Wayne Rooney ahead of him as captain, pulling strings as attacking midfielder."
Rooney lifted his chin, eyes hard as stone. Alli bounced slightly in his seat, restless, a fire smoldering behind his youthful grin. Dier simply nodded once, steady and silent.
"Left wing — Raheem Sterling. Right wing — Francesco Lee."
Sterling exhaled sharply, palms rubbing over thighs as though trying to ground himself. Francesco felt every eye flick toward him for a moment. His pulse thudded in his ears, but he met Rooney's gaze across the room, and in that look found enough strength to lift his chin.
"And up top," Hodgson said, his voice almost soft now, "Harry Kane."
Kane straightened his back, breathing slow and measured. He didn't need to say anything. His presence was its own statement.
Hodgson's hand drifted lower on the board, tapping the bench. "Subs: Jack Wilshere, James Milner, Nathaniel Clyne, John Stones, Adam Lallana, Ross Barkley, Fraser Forster, Tom Heaton."
The substitutes sat straighter, knowing their names meant they were part of the fight, even if their boots stayed cold until called. Milner folded his arms, expression unreadable but locked-in.
Hodgson stepped back, letting the formation hang in the air. "This isn't about magic. It's about discipline. Shape. Work for the man next to you. Trust the plan. And trust each other."
He let the silence breathe, then added, quieter: "This is your stage. Show the world what England is made of."
He gave a curt nod and stepped aside. The briefing was done. The match now belonged to them.
The players sat with it, each man folding the words into his own mind. Some prayed silently. Some bounced their knees, restless energy spilling into movement. Some just stared at the floor, letting the hum of anticipation consume them.
Rooney broke the moment, rising to his feet. His captain's armband was already snug on his bicep. "You heard the gaffer. Nothing clever, nothing fancy. We do this together. From the first whistle."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a man who had seen too much, lost too much, and refused to let it happen again.
"Treaty," Henderson muttered from his bench, just loud enough to be heard.
A ripple of smiles moved through the room. Not laughter — not tonight — but recognition. A reminder.
Francesco pulled his shirt over his head, the fabric sliding against his skin. It felt heavier than anything he'd ever worn. Not in fabric, but in meaning. He laced his boots tighter than usual, double-knotted them, checked his studs again. His hands shook, but he didn't hide it. Nerves weren't weakness. They were proof of care.
The sound outside grew louder. The walls shook with it. Chants rose, indistinguishable but feral, the kind of noise that seeped into bones.
A knock rattled the door. "Ten minutes!" a FIFA official called, voice echoing down the corridor.
Hart stood, gloves smacking together with a sound like thunder. "Let's do this."
Players rose one by one, adjusting sleeves, tugging socks. The room filled with movement, with murmured words, with the last sparks of preparation.
Francesco found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Kane as they lined near the door. Kane leaned in slightly, voice low. "First touch, first run — make it count. Set the tone."
The call came again — sharper this time, closer — "Teams out!"
The corridor ahead was narrow, painted in dull whites and greys, yet it pulsed with energy as if alive. Francesco tightened his jaw and stepped forward with the others, boots clicking against the concrete floor. The tunnel had its own smell — faint disinfectant, sweat, and the rubber tang of freshly rolled turf mats. Shadows from the floodlights outside spilled through the open mouth of the tunnel, and with them, the roar of the Stade Vélodrome grew tenfold.
Shoulder to shoulder, England and Russia stood in their ordered lines. The Russian jerseys — deep red with gold trim — glinted under the overhead bulbs. The players' faces were stern, many already wearing the hard, closed expressions of men who had come to do battle. Akinfeev, standing a few strides ahead, flexed his gloved hands and glanced sideways at Joe Hart. There was no handshake, no word, just a flicker of recognition between two goalkeepers who knew how thin the margins could be on nights like this.
Francesco felt the child's small hand slip into his — the match mascot assigned to him, no older than ten, his hair sticking damp to his forehead. The boy's eyes were wide, drinking in the chaos. Francesco bent slightly, whispered, "Don't worry, mate. Just walk with me. You're braver than all of us tonight." The boy's nervous smile steadied him in return.
The referee's whistle trilled once more, shrill in the tight space, and the lines began to move. Boots clattered, echoes bouncing off the walls. As they stepped into the open, the stadium erupted. The sheer weight of sound struck Francesco like a wave — a deafening thunder of chants, drums, and jeers, a mosaic of noise that blurred into something primal.
The players emerged side by side. England in white, Russia in red. The mascots clung tighter. Camera shutters snapped like gunfire, broadcast beams sweeping over them. Francesco's chest swelled despite himself. He'd dreamed of this walk since he was a boy — the tunnel, the anthem, the stage — and now he was living inside it.
They lined across the pitch, two columns facing the main stand. The announcer's voice boomed through the stadium in French first, then English: "Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthems."
Russia went first. The opening bars of Gosudarstvenny Gimn Rossiyskoy Federatsii thundered from the speakers, a martial swell of brass and choir. The Russian players stood rigid, some with fists pressed to their chests, others staring blankly ahead. The red sea of their fans sang with them, throats raw, banners raised high, smoke drifting from flares. It was less a song than a declaration.
Then came England's turn.
The first notes of God Save the Queen poured into the night, slow and solemn, but rising with each verse. Rooney's voice was the loudest beside Francesco, every word belted with a captain's certainty. Kane's lips moved firmly, almost defiantly. Sterling's eyes closed as if he were praying. Hart's jaw worked, eyes glistening.
Francesco sang too — not in perfect pitch, but with everything he had. His throat tightened on the words. He thought of Leah, probably watching from the stands somewhere, her Arsenal jacket pulled tight against the Marseille night. He thought of his family, glued to their television back home, his name echoing through their living room. He thought of every step that had carried him here. The anthem swelled, voices rising over the thunder of the crowd, and for those brief moments, he felt invincible.
The last chord rang out, and the noise of the crowd crashed back like a breaking wave.
Now came the ritual.
Referees first — German officials in neon kits, led by the familiar figure of Felix Brych. Then the players stepped forward in turn, handshakes exchanged down the line. Francesco clasped hands with Igor Smolnikov, then with Roman Neustädter, each grip firm, eyes unreadable. Finally, Berezutski — Russia's grizzled captain, his expression carved from granite. Their palms met in a silent test of will.
Once the line was done, the starters filed quickly into place for the official photograph. Eleven men in pristine white, crouched and standing, the weight of a nation compressed into a single snapshot. Francesco dropped to his haunches on the right side of the front row, his arm brushing Sterling's. Cameras clicked furiously, capturing a moment that would be printed on tomorrow's back pages no matter what followed.
Then the photo dissolved, and business returned. Rooney and Berezutski strode to the center circle with Brych. The coin flashed briefly under the floodlights as it spun in the referee's fingers. Francesco watched, though he couldn't hear the words, only saw the gestures: heads, tails, the coin falling, Brych catching it, showing the face. Rooney's small grin told the story. England had won. Kick-off was theirs.
The teams spread out into their shapes. Francesco jogged into position on the right wing, the turf springy underfoot, the lights bathing everything in sharp, almost unreal clarity. He bounced on his toes, tugged once at his shirt, and cast a glance at Kane in the center circle. Kane nodded once, a silent pact.
The whistle blew.
Kane tapped the ball backward to Rooney, and the match was alive.
From the start, England pressed high, the white shirts flooding forward with hunger. Francesco's first touch came within seconds — a clipped pass from Walker down the line. He drove forward, his studs biting into the grass, before cutting inside past Kombarov. The Russian fullback stuck out a leg, forcing him to lay it back toward Rooney, but the intent was clear. England weren't here to feel their way in.
The first chance came inside four minutes. Dier won a ball cleanly in midfield, swept it to Alli, who immediately fed Kane. Kane turned and let fly from 20 yards, the ball skidding low. Akinfeev reacted fast, sprawling to his left, one glove pushing it wide. The Russian fans roared, but England's end roared louder.
Francesco barely had time to catch his breath before the next wave. Sterling darted down the left, slicing inside Berezutski before whipping a shot that curled toward the far post. Again Akinfeev flew, fingertips brushing the ball past the woodwork. Two saves already, and the clock hadn't hit ten.
But Russia were no passengers. At 12 minutes, a careless pass from Rose was intercepted by Golovin. Suddenly the counter was alive. Golovin threaded a ball through to Kokorin, who sprinted clear between Cahill and Smalling. Francesco's heart leapt into his throat as Kokorin struck hard and high — only for Joe Hart to hurl himself upward, palms strong, tipping it over the bar. The roar of relief from the English fans was almost physical.
The corner came in, bodies clashing, but Cahill rose highest to clear.
Again England surged forward. At 16 minutes, Francesco got his first shot. Walker overlapped beautifully, drawing defenders wide, then cut the ball back into space. Francesco stepped onto it, rifling low with his left. It fizzed toward the near post, but Akinfeev was there, dropping sharply to smother.
The Russians countered immediately — Smolov breaking clear, unleashing a strike that swerved cruelly. Hart, scrambling, threw himself full-length to push it clear with his fingertips. His third save, every bit as crucial as the first two.
Back and forth the game swung, as though the pitch itself tilted from one end to the other. The first twenty minutes were a storm: three saves for Hart, three for Akinfeev, possession flowing mostly white but the red shirts slicing back with precision on every mistake.
The crowd lived every touch. English chants roared across one stand, answered by the guttural songs of Russian voices from the other. Smoke still curled faintly from the flare-lit sections, carrying the sharp tang of powder into the humid Marseille air.
________________________________________________
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