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Francesco stood in the middle of it all, hands on his hips, sweat streaming down his temples, eyes wide as he drank it all in. Two goals, an assist, victory in his first major tournament game for England. He could feel the weight of the shirt on his shoulders — but now, it wasn't a burden. It was wings.
The final whistle still echoed in the Marseille night, the sound rolling off the concrete terraces and into the air heavy with smoke, sweat, and song. For England's players, though, it was something more than a whistle. It was release. It was vindication. It was proof.
On the pitch, the men in white were still celebrating, their arms wrapped around each other, bodies pressed together in moments of shared joy. Kane, sweat-soaked but grinning, pointed toward the fans who had sung his name. Sterling bounced on the spot like a boy, his energy unspent, his smile wild. Vardy cupped his ears to the crowd, reveling in their thunderous roar, while Hart ran half the length of the pitch just to embrace Stones and Smalling, the three of them shouting in each other's faces like brothers who had survived a war.
And at the centre of it all was Francesco.
He had been mobbed by supporters near the touchline who had surged toward the advertising boards, arms outstretched as if trying to touch the man who had carried their hopes tonight. He smiled, slapped hands, pointed to the Three Lions crest on his chest. His hair clung damp to his forehead, his legs trembled with exhaustion, but the pride radiating from him was undeniable.
Behind it all, on the touchline, Roy Hodgson stood still for a long moment. His expression, at first, was the same as always: composed, careful, as though he refused to let the emotion of the night overwhelm his measured nature. But then, as he looked out at his players, the corners of his mouth lifted. A small, private smile.
Because he could feel it.
The power of this group.
Not power in the usual sense — not just the goals, not just Francesco's brace, not just Kane's slide into immortality. No, it was something deeper, something Hodgson had spent years chasing, something every England manager before him had struggled to grasp.
Unity.
He watched as Kane embraced Vardy, two strikers who, in another age, might have looked at each other as rivals, competing for the same shirt. Tonight, there was no rivalry — just joy. He saw Sterling and Lallana laughing together, men who on Premier League weekends wore different colors, fought tooth and nail, but here in Marseille stood as brothers. Even Stones and Smalling, one from Manchester blue, one from Manchester red, clasped hands and shouted into the night with shared pride.
For decades, the story of England had been the same. Golden generations undone not by lack of talent, but by fractures invisible to the naked eye. Club rivalries carried into training camps. Egos inflated by domestic glories. The weight of shirt and expectation cracking the foundations of togetherness.
But tonight, Hodgson thought, it was different.
Tonight, they weren't Liverpool or Arsenal, Manchester United or Tottenham. They weren't players caught up in personal rivalries, or men divided by who played where on a Saturday afternoon. They were England.
He breathed deeply, the humid Marseille air thick in his lungs. For all his years in football, all his miles traveled, moments like these were rare. A manager lived for them — the sight of men not just playing for themselves, but for each other.
Francesco walked toward him, flanked by Sterling and Alli. His chest still heaved, his smile wide, but his eyes found Hodgson's, and for a beat the noise of the stadium seemed to fade.
"We did it, boss," he said, voice rough from shouting, sweat dripping down his chin.
Hodgson gave him a nod, his smile soft but sincere. "You did it. You all did. And remember — this is only the beginning."
Francesco laughed, a breathless sound, then reached out to clasp his manager's hand. The gesture was brief but full of weight. Francesco knew the story of England as well as anyone. He had grown up watching those painful summers where stars burned brightly but never together, where rivalries from Old Trafford or Stamford Bridge seeped into the national shirt. He had sworn, privately, that he would never let himself fall into that trap.
And now, as he stood there with Sterling and Alli beside him, with Kane waving toward the fans, with Henderson raising his fists in triumph, he believed England could be different.
Around them, the Stade Vélodrome was alive in a way few stadiums ever were. The English end, a swaying mass of flags and bare-chested men, sang "Three Lions" so loudly the words seemed to shake the very structure. They didn't care that it was only the first game, that Russia's late goal had blemished the scoreline. To them, this was a dream beginning. They had come to Marseille full of nerves, burdened by memories of past failures. Tonight, they walked away with belief.
The Russian fans, though quieter, had not abandoned their team. Flares still burned, banners still waved, and when Berezutski walked to thank them, their roar was one of respect, of pride in a captain who had at least given them a moment to cling to.
But this was England's night.
And as the players began their slow lap of the pitch, applauding the fans, waving, swapping shirts with their opponents, Hodgson allowed himself to imagine what might come next. He thought of the matches ahead, the challenges of Slovakia and Wales, the battles still to be fought. He thought of the weight of history pressing down on these young men. And then he thought of Francesco's smile, Kane's roar, the way Sterling had slipped that perfect pass.
The lap of honor had only just begun when a figure in a navy-blue UEFA jacket stepped briskly across the grass, a lanyard bouncing against his chest. He moved with the purposeful air of someone used to being ignored but unwilling to accept it. His hand came up in a polite but firm gesture, intercepting Francesco just as he lifted his arms toward a section of roaring supporters.
"Francesco," the man called, his accent clipped and continental. "Excuse me, you've been selected for post-match interview. This way, please."
For a heartbeat, Francesco hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder — Kane was still pointing to the stands, Sterling was clowning with Vardy, and Hodgson stood a few yards back, arms folded but eyes still tracing his players with quiet pride. Francesco could feel the magnet pull of the crowd, of the lap he wanted to complete with his teammates. But duty was part of the game too.
He gave a quick nod, slapped palms with Sterling, then jogged after the official toward the sideline where a small set-up of camera, microphone, and backdrop had been assembled. The lights were already glaring in the dark Marseille night, hot and clinical against skin that still glistened with sweat.
The interviewer, a tall woman with auburn hair pulled neatly back, smiled warmly as he approached. She wore the UEFA bib but carried herself with the polish of someone who had spoken to a thousand footballers before him.
"Francesco, congratulations," she began, her English smooth but tinged with a French lilt. "First of all — how are you feeling after that? Two goals, one assist, and England's first points here in Marseille."
Francesco bent slightly, hands on his knees, trying to steady his breathing. His heart still hadn't slowed, his throat burned from shouting, and every muscle in his body seemed to throb. But as he straightened again and the camera's red light blinked on, he found his voice.
"Honestly?" he said, his accent carrying the faintest trace of London street mixed with something gentler. "It feels incredible. Nights like this… you dream about them when you're a kid. To do it for England, in a tournament like this — it's special. We knew it would be tough, Russia are always difficult to break down, but we stuck together. That's the most important thing. We played as a team."
The interviewer nodded, then tilted her head just slightly, a signal from years of media work. "And you personally — two goals and an assist. You've just been named the official Man of the Match. Congratulations."
For a split second, Francesco blinked. The words seemed to hang there, half-suspended in the noise of the stadium. He hadn't thought about awards, not once. He had thought about running, scoring, tracking back, linking with Kane, finding Sterling in space. Man of the Match? He had barely allowed himself to think beyond the whistle.
A UEFA staffer stepped forward, almost theatrically, and held out a small, sleek trophy — clear glass shaped like a stylized player mid-kick, mounted on a black base. Under the floodlights it caught the glare, scattering shards of silver-white across Francesco's jersey.
He laughed then, a sudden, breathless sound that was half disbelief and half joy. "Man of the Match? Wow. Thank you. But really, this belongs to everyone out there. Rooney and Sterling that gave me the perfect ball for the first and second goal, Kane pulled defenders away all night, the midfield worked their socks off. Without them, I don't score anything. This," he lifted the award slightly, "is for all of us."
The interviewer smiled, sensing the honesty in his tone. "Still, you've just put your name firmly on the map of this tournament. England fans will be singing about you tonight. What message do you have for them?"
Francesco turned, just briefly, to glance at the heaving mass of white shirts still packed into the stands. The noise hadn't stopped once since the whistle — "Three Lions" echoing, drums beating, flags waving like restless waves. He lifted the glass trophy high above his head in their direction, and the roar that followed rolled through him like a physical thing.
"My message?" he said, lowering his arm again, voice rough with emotion. "Keep believing in us. We feel your support. Every tackle, every sprint — we do it for you. This is just the start. We want to make you proud."
Behind the camera, the producer gave a small circular gesture — wrap it up. But the interviewer wasn't quite finished. "One last thing, Francesco. Tonight we saw an England side that looked… united. No club rivalries, no tension, just joy. You were at the center of it. What's changed?"
Francesco paused. For a moment, the weight of the question pressed harder than the ninety minutes had. He thought of Hodgson's quiet smile, of Kane's arm around Vardy, of Sterling laughing with Alli. He thought of all those summers watching England teams fall apart under the strain of expectation and division.
"What's changed," he said slowly, "is that we understand now — it's not about who you play for in the league. It's about this shirt. It's about the badge. We're brothers out there. We fight for each other. And when you have that… anything is possible."
The interviewer lowered the mic, smiling. "Thank you, Francesco. Congratulations again — Man of the Match tonight."
As the red light on the camera blinked off, the UEFA staffer handed him the trophy properly, pressing it into his tired hands. He turned it over once, studying the reflection of the floodlights in its glass curves, then tucked it carefully under his arm.
But before he could even step away, a chant broke out from the English end — louder, clearer, directed only at him.
"Fraan-ces-co! Fraan-ces-co!"
It rolled like thunder, hundreds of voices in perfect rhythm, carrying his name into the Marseille night. Francesco felt his throat tighten. Not with exhaustion, not with pain — but with something far rarer. Pride. Belief. A sense that tonight was more than just a football match. It was a moment. A beginning.
He lifted the trophy again, pointed to the crest on his chest, and mouthed the words silently toward the fans: For you.
The noise followed them into the tunnel like a living thing, muffled only slightly by the concrete walls that wrapped around the Stade Vélodrome's bowels. Francesco still had the Man of the Match trophy tucked under his arm, his boots clattering against the floor, his lungs drawing in cooler air now that the Marseille night was behind him. He walked in step with Sterling and Alli, their voices still half-shouting, half-laughing, replaying moments from the ninety minutes as if the adrenaline refused to let them go.
The closer they got to the dressing room, the more the sounds of victory changed shape — no longer the roar of thousands but the bark of kitmen, the hiss of showers, the thump of boots being kicked off in the hall. And then, as the heavy door swung open, the real celebration hit.
Music. Laughter. The rhythmic pounding of fists on benches. Someone — probably Vardy — had already commandeered the speaker system, blasting out something thumping and unashamedly loud. Towels and shirts were tossed in the air, bottles of water sprayed like champagne. Kane sat back in his chair, grinning from ear to ear, while Hart was still so pumped he punched the air with every other breath.
Francesco stepped inside and was immediately mobbed again, his teammates pulling him in, ruffling his hair, slapping his back until the trophy nearly slipped from his grasp. "Man of the Match!" shouted Henderson, grinning as he pointed at the award. "Two goals, one assist — lad, you're on fire!"
Francesco just shook his head, laughing, holding it close to his chest like it was fragile. "I told them out there — it's for all of us. Doesn't happen without you lot."
"Maybe so," Rooney's voice cut across the din, deeper and steadier, "but someone had to put the ball in the net. Fair play, mate. You earned it." He clapped Francesco on the shoulder, his captain's approval carrying more weight than any official award.
Before the atmosphere could boil over completely, Hodgson stepped into the room. He didn't need to raise his voice — the players spotted him quickly enough and the volume dipped a notch. He stood near the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, his expression touched with something that looked suspiciously like pride.
"Well done, gentlemen," he said simply. "You showed fight, discipline, and, above all, unity. Exactly what we've been asking for. Enjoy this moment — you've earned it." His gaze swept the room, then settled on two figures. "Wayne. Francesco. Quick shower, into your tracksuits. You're with me for the press conference."
A chorus of mock groans went up from the rest of the squad. "Ah, unlucky lads!" shouted Vardy, grinning like a schoolboy. "Press duty while we celebrate!" He flicked water from a bottle at them, earning a playful shove from Sterling.
Rooney just chuckled, rolling his eyes like a man who had been through this ritual a hundred times before. Francesco, though, felt a sudden twist in his stomach — not nerves, exactly, but the realization that the night wasn't over. Cameras still waited, questions still lingered, and now he would face them not just as a player, but as the face of England's victory.
He nodded at Hodgson, then grabbed a towel from the pile, heading toward the showers.
⸻
Steam filled the tiled room, carrying with it the smell of sweat, grass, and the faint tang of disinfectant. Francesco dropped his boots and socks into the kit bin, set the trophy carefully on the bench, then stepped under the hot spray. For a moment, he just stood there, letting the water hammer against his shoulders, washing away the grime of ninety minutes. His muscles loosened under the heat, but his mind was alive, replaying every detail — the first goal, the second, the roar of the crowd, the way the ball had left his foot clean and true.
Beside him, Rooney lathered his hair, humming something tuneless under his breath. He looked over once, giving Francesco a nod. "You did well tonight, lad. Not just the goals. The work rate. The link-up. That's what makes the difference at this level."
Francesco blinked water from his eyes, the compliment settling on him heavier than he expected. "Means a lot, coming from you," he said simply.
Rooney shrugged, rinsing the suds from his hair. "You've got it, kid. Don't let it go to your head, but… you've got it."
The words hung there, simple but powerful. Francesco felt a surge of determination tighten in his chest. He wanted to prove Rooney right. Not just tonight, but for every night to come.
They finished quickly, drying off and pulling on the crisp England tracksuits laid out for them. Francesco brushed his damp hair back with his fingers, then picked up the trophy again. Even now, it felt unreal to hold.
When they stepped back into the main room, the music was louder, the laughter wilder. Vardy was dancing on one of the benches, Alli had his phone out recording everything, and Hart was pretending to conduct the noise like an orchestra. Hodgson gave a small shake of his head but didn't intervene.
"Come on, you two," he said quietly, gesturing toward the tunnel. "Time to face the press."
⸻
The press conference room smelled of coffee, cables, and impatience. Dozens of journalists sat hunched over laptops, microphones clustered like a field of metal flowers on the table at the front. The low hum of voices quieted as the door opened and Hodgson led Rooney and Francesco inside. Flashbulbs popped instantly, blinding for a moment.
Francesco followed the others to the dais, setting the trophy on the table before him. The glass caught the light again, and the cameras clicked hungrily. He sat between Rooney and Hodgson, his back straight, his palms pressed together on the table to still their nervous energy.
The moderator tapped the mic. "We'll begin with questions. Please raise your hand, state your name and outlet."
A man from the BBC was first, his voice carrying the authority of experience. "Roy, you spoke before the tournament about unity. Tonight, we saw it in spades. How important was that to the result?"
Hodgson leaned forward slightly, his voice calm, deliberate. "Extremely important. We've always known we have talented individuals. But talent alone doesn't win tournaments. Tonight, the boys showed they're willing to work for each other, to sacrifice for the team. That gives me great confidence moving forward."
Another hand shot up — The Guardian. "Francesco, congratulations on Man of the Match. Two goals, one assist — what was going through your mind out there?"
Dozens of lenses turned toward him. Francesco swallowed, glanced briefly at Rooney, then leaned toward the mic. "Honestly, I just wanted to help the team. When the first goal went in, it felt like a dream. The second… I couldn't believe it. But what mattered was that we kept pushing, kept fighting. It's not about me, it's about England."
A ripple of camera shutters followed, the room hungry for every word.
"Wayne," came another voice, this time from Sky Sports. "You've captained England for years, you've seen ups and downs. Where does tonight rank for you?"
Rooney smiled faintly, his expression measured. "It's up there. We've had good nights and tough ones, but to see the lads perform like that, with energy and togetherness — it makes me proud. Francesco here," he nodded toward him, "showed exactly what we need. Hunger, quality, and the right attitude."
The words hit Francesco harder than he expected. Praise from Hodgson was one thing, but from the captain — in front of the world — it meant everything. He sat a little taller, his hands no longer trembling against the table.
More questions followed — tactical, technical, probing. Hodgson handled most with ease, Rooney with seasoned calm. Francesco answered when asked, his honesty cutting through any nerves. He spoke of Sterling's pass, of Kane's movement, of the roar of the fans. And always, he circled back to the team.
When the moderator finally announced the session was over, the room buzzed with chatter, journalists already firing off headlines. Hodgson stood, Rooney beside him, and Francesco gathered the trophy once more.
As they left the stage, a reporter near the front muttered, perhaps not meaning to be heard: "England finally have their star."
Francesco heard it anyway. And as the door closed behind him, the weight of those words pressed against his chest — heavy, dangerous, but thrilling.
The hum of the press room still clung to Francesco's ears long after the door had shut behind him. The flashbulbs, the rustle of notebooks, the way the questions had come like waves — it all blurred now into a single impression: England had arrived. Not just as a team, but as a story the world wanted to hear. He carried the glass trophy tucked against his side as the trio made their way down the corridor, Hodgson quiet, Rooney exchanging a few quiet words with a staffer. For Francesco, though, the buzz didn't dim. He could feel it in his skin.
But what he didn't know — what none of them quite knew yet — was how far that buzz had already traveled. Because across the Channel, back home, the night was only just beginning.
In Camden, the World's End pub shook as though an underground train were rolling through. The match had been shown on the big screen above the bar, sound turned up so loud you could hear the referee's whistle bounce off the walls. By the time Francesco had buried his second goal, half the pint glasses in the room were already empty, their contents spilled over shirts, hair, and sticky floors.
Now, with the whistle long gone and the cameras cutting to the press conference, the crowd was still alive. Rooney's calm answers drew polite cheers, Hodgson's steady words brought nods, but when Francesco leaned toward the mic and spoke, the room erupted again.
"There he is!" someone shouted, pounding a table hard enough to rattle the plates. "That's our boy! That's Francesco!"
A group of lads at the front — all in Arsenal shirts, their scarves still tied around their heads like makeshift bandanas — sang his name over and over, drowning out half his sentences. "Fraan-ces-co! Fraan-ces-co!"
But it wasn't just Arsenal fans. A pair of Spurs supporters, usually quick to grumble at the mention of a rival, clinked glasses and admitted, "Fair play. Kid was unreal tonight. Doesn't matter who he plays for in the league. He's one of us here."
The barkeep, polishing glasses but stealing glances at the TV, muttered with a grin, "Been pouring pints here twenty years. Haven't seen a reaction like this since Beckham's free-kick in '01."
In a semi-detached house on the edge of Birmingham, three generations crowded onto a sagging sofa. The grandparents sat at one end, a knitted England flag draped over their knees. The father, pint in hand, leaned forward in his seat, his voice hoarse from shouting at the screen. The children — two boys and a girl, all under twelve — were sprawled on the carpet, their faces glowing with the reflected light of the television.
When Francesco's image appeared at the press conference, holding the Man of the Match trophy, the youngest boy sat up sharply. "Dad, that's the guy! That's the guy who scored the goals!"
His father ruffled his hair. "That's him, lad. Remember his name. Francesco Lee. You'll be telling your mates about tonight for years."
The grandfather, slower to speak, finally murmured, "Reminds me of Gazza, in a way. Not the same, no. But the spark. The difference-maker. England's been needing that."
The grandmother just smiled, her knitting needles pausing in her hands. "Look at the pride in his eyes. He knows what it means to wear that shirt."
The little girl tugged at her father's sleeve. "Can girls play for England too?"
"Course they can, love," he answered without hesitation. "And maybe one day you'll be out there, just like him. Scoring goals, making us proud."
The match had been shown on a massive outdoor screen in Albert Square. Now, with the game over, the crowd hadn't gone anywhere. They spilled into the streets, waving flags, chanting, hugging strangers. Horns blared from passing cars, drivers leaning out of windows to shout "England!" as though the word itself were a victory.
A group of young women, faces painted with St. George's crosses, climbed onto the fountain base and led the chant: "Two goals! One assist! Francesco's magic does exist!"
Nearby, a pair of older men argued in good-natured tones.
"Told you he'd be class. Arsenal's finest since Henry!" one said, gesturing with a half-empty can.
"Steady on," the other laughed. "It's one game. Let the lad breathe."
But even as he said it, his grin betrayed him. They all knew they'd seen something special.
By the time Hodgson, Rooney, and Francesco had left the Stade Vélodrome, the presses back in London were already rolling. Headlines were being typed at furious speed, sub-editors shouting over each other in newsrooms filled with stale coffee and glowing screens.
The Sun went with its trademark punch: FRA-NOMENAL!
The Daily Mail struck a more dramatic chord: A Star is Born: Francesco Fires England to Glory in Marseille.
The Guardian, more measured but no less glowing: Unity, Bravery, and Lee's Brilliance Give England Hope.
On Sky Sports, pundits crowded the desk. Jamie Carragher leaned forward, jabbing a finger at the camera. "This is the performance we've been waiting for. Not just from England, but from a young player willing to take responsibility. Two goals and an assist at a major tournament debut? That's not luck. That's talent and temperament."
Thierry Henry, beaming from the studio in Paris, added his own weight. "I know Francesco well. I saw him grow at Arsenal. But tonight… tonight he showed the world. He is not just Arsenal's boy anymore. He is England's."
Back at the BBC, Lineker couldn't help but smile as he closed the broadcast. "England needed a hero tonight. They found one in Francesco Lee."
In a Jamaican restaurant off Coldharbour Lane, the match had drawn a crowd larger than usual, families pressed shoulder to shoulder, jerk chicken and patties forgotten on the tables as the game played out. When Francesco scored, the place exploded, strangers embracing, reggae blaring from the back speakers to mix with the chants.
Now, hours later, the talk hadn't stopped.
"Mi tell you," said one man, tapping the counter, "dat youth have ice in him veins. Pressure? Him nuh feel it. Him step up."
An older woman, wiping down a table, added softly, "Is nice to see. Nice to see the young ones lifting the country. We needed this."
From Newcastle to Norwich, from Liverpool to Leeds, the story was the same. In pubs, in homes, in streets, the name "Francesco" had been sung, shouted, whispered. The goals had been replayed on phones, in slow motion, with captions and edits that spread across Twitter and Facebook within minutes. Memes bloomed, some silly, some reverent — Francesco's face edited onto St. George himself, his celebration painted like a Renaissance portrait, his name stretched out in chants typed in all caps.
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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
Euro 2016
Match Played: 1
Goal: 2
Assist: 1
MOTM: 1
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9