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He thought of the boy he used to be — sneaking into the living room past midnight to watch Arsenal games, whispering Thierry Henry's name under his breath like a prayer. He thought of the betrayal years, the anger of fans, the empty years when Arsenal were laughed at.
The night in Richmond was quiet except for the faint hum of the city in the distance. A few late cars rolled down the road below, their headlights briefly sweeping across the hedges outside his home. Francesco sat still, legs stretched out, the TIME magazine cover spread across his lap like a mirror of everything he had become.
King of the Emirates.
He traced the words with his thumb, not quite believing them even as the world seemed to roar them back at him. A king. Him. Seventeen years old, and already crowned in headlines and chants. The thought was dizzying.
He thought about the boy who used to sneak out of bed to watch Arsenal highlights on a tiny laptop screen, the boy who mimicked Henry's goals in the park until the soles of his trainers gave out, the boy who thought heroes were untouchable. Now he was on the cover of TIME.
The irony of it all was that he still felt like that same boy — raw, learning, chasing shadows in training — even as the world seemed determined to write him into history.
When he finally closed the magazine and went back inside, it was past two in the morning. Leah stirred slightly when he slipped into bed, her arm instinctively curling around his waist. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, whispered, "Goodnight, love," and forced himself to sleep.
But his mind raced long after his eyes closed.
The next morning, the world didn't slow down.
Francesco was in the living room again, TV murmuring as Sky Sports cycled through endless debates about his words, his crown, his future. Leah sat cross-legged on the rug, scrolling through her phone and smirking every time a new meme popped up.
Then his phone buzzed. This time, it wasn't another congratulatory message, nor an agent, nor a teammate sending banter. It was an unfamiliar number, but the prefix was unmistakably English FA.
Francesco hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end was calm, deep, and immediately familiar.
"Francesco, it's Roy Hodgson."
Francesco blinked, sitting straighter on the sofa. Leah glanced up, her eyes wide, sensing immediately who it must be.
"Ah, Mr. Hodgson. Hello, sir," Francesco said, his throat suddenly dry.
Roy chuckled softly. "I hope I didn't wake you. I imagine it's been… quite the week for you."
"That's one way of putting it," Francesco admitted.
There was a pause, the kind of pause older men use when they want their words to weigh heavier. "Listen, son. I wanted to call you personally. In three days, we're gathering at St George's Park to begin preparations. You're in my provisional squad for the Euros."
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.
Francesco swallowed, his voice catching. "The Euros? I— I mean… thank you, sir. I don't even know what to say."
"You don't need to say much," Roy replied kindly. "You've already done the talking on the pitch. Golden Boot. Treble. You've earned this. Now, of course, you're still very young, and I'll remind you — this is provisional. But if you carry yourself the way you have, there's no reason you won't be on that plane to France."
Francesco closed his eyes, his free hand clenching into a fist. He thought of all the matches, the sacrifices, the endless training sessions, the doubters. And now — England. The national team. The Euros.
"Yes, sir. I'll be there. I'll give everything."
"I know you will," Roy said. His tone softened slightly. "But remember this, Francesco: wearing the England shirt is different. It carries history, pressure, expectation. People will look at you not just as Arsenal's boy, but as England's. Can you handle that?"
Francesco didn't hesitate. "Yes."
Roy chuckled again. "Good lad. See you in three days."
The line clicked off.
Francesco sat frozen for a moment, the phone still pressed to his ear. Leah jumped up, her eyes sparkling.
"Well?!"
He looked at her, stunned, almost dazed, and then broke into the widest grin she'd ever seen. "I'm going to the Euros."
Leah screamed, tackling him onto the sofa, both of them laughing like kids. The medal around his neck from last night clattered to the floor, but neither cared. She peppered his face with kisses, shouting, "My king! My England star!"
Later that day, the TV confirmed it.
Sky Sports cut live to St George's Park, where Hodgson's assistant, Ray Lewington, stood at a podium. Behind him, a board displayed the names of those called up.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Lewington said, his voice steady, "this is the provisional squad for Euro 2016."
The names rolled out one by one: Joe Hart. Wayne Rooney. Harry Kane. Jamie Vardy. Raheem Sterling. Jack Wilshere.
And then — "Francesco Lee."
The cameras flashed. Reporters buzzed. Francesco sat in his Richmond living room, watching his name appear on the screen in bold white letters, and felt something shift inside him.
The king of the Emirates was now also a knight of England.
The call-up sent shockwaves almost as big as his TIME cover.
BBC ran with the headline: "Seventeen-Year-Old Francesco Joins England Squad for Euros."
The Daily Mail: "From Golden Boot to Three Lions: Francesco's meteoric rise continues."
TalkSport debated whether Hodgson was brave or reckless for bringing a teenager.
On Twitter, the reactions poured in:
• @England: The future is here. Francesco Lee joins the squad for Euro 2016. #ThreeLions 🦁🦁🦁
• @ArsenalFanTV: Our boy's about to take the crown to France!
• @ManUtd_Legacy: Overhyped. Let's see him do it outside Arsenal before calling him England's saviour.
• @ThierryHenry14: The boyhood dream continues. Play with pride, Francesco.
At pubs across North London, fans toasted him with pints, shouting, "Francesco for England!" Songs began to morph: what had been "King of the Emirates" chants became new anthems with the Three Lions stitched in.
But not everyone was convinced. On Sky, the pundits debated fiercely.
Alan Shearer leaned forward in the studio. "Listen, I love the lad, but let's be honest: this is a gamble. Seventeen, first season, now straight into a major tournament? The pressure could crush him."
Ian Wright fired back immediately. "Pressure? He's already carried Arsenal to a treble! He's stared down Barcelona, lifted trophies, scored in finals. Don't tell me he can't handle pressure."
Gary Neville, who doubled as Hodgson's assistant coach, smiled carefully. "I'll just say this: Francesco is unique. He's not like other seventeen-year-olds. He's got the mentality of a thirty-year-old. And that's why we've brought him in."
Roy Keane, of course, stayed skeptical. "We'll see if he still smiles when the whole nation turns on him after one bad game. England fans can be ruthless."
Francesco felt all of it — the pride, the doubt, the expectation — swirling around him like a storm. But he also felt something else, something deeper: hunger.
This was everything he had dreamed of. Arsenal's king, yes — but now, England's lion.
For the next three days, he trained harder than ever. Even Leah noticed the difference. He would be up at dawn, sprinting in the garden, running drills alone, ball bouncing off walls as he perfected first touches, volleys, passing angles.
"You're going to burn yourself out before camp even starts," Leah teased, handing him a water bottle as sweat dripped down his forehead.
Francesco shook his head, chest heaving. "No. I'm just getting ready to carry a country."
And so, three days later, the gates of St George's Park opened.
The England squad began to arrive — Kane in his slick tracksuit, Vardy cracking jokes, Rooney nodding to the cameras with his usual gruffness. And then, the teenage king of Arsenal stepped out of his BMW X5, wearing his training gear, headphones slung around his neck.
The photographers swarmed him instantly. "Francesco! Francesco! How does it feel to be the youngest in the squad?"
"Do you think you can handle the Euros?"
"Are you England's saviour?"
He didn't answer. He just smiled faintly, gave a little wave, and walked through the doors of England's fortress.
The first days of training at St George's Park were unlike anything Francesco had ever known.
Walking into the main building that morning, his boots clutched in one hand, his England-issued kit clinging new and stiff to his frame, he felt that mixture of nerves and electricity that he had thought he'd left behind after debuting at the Emirates. But this was different. Arsenal had been family; Arsenal was home. This was England. Here, every step echoed a legacy that stretched back through generations — from Gascoigne to Beckham to Gerrard — and now, unbelievably, to him.
The corridor walls were lined with framed photographs of England squads gone by: lineups in crisp white, eyes burning with hope, fists raised in triumph. Some were in black and white, others faded Polaroids, others still vivid HD shots of recent tournaments. He passed a photo of Rooney in 2004, the boy wonder tearing through defenses at the Euros, and paused for a moment, staring. That was supposed to be him now, wasn't it? The new boy wonder. The saviour everyone was already whispering about.
His boots felt heavier in his hands.
The dressing room was alive when he walked in. Conversations bounced off the walls — Kane joking with Dele Alli about a missed golf putt, Vardy laughing too loudly at his own punchline, Sterling slouched against a bench scrolling through his phone, Milner carefully unlacing his trainers with that deliberate, meticulous calm that defined him. Heads turned as the door clicked shut behind Francesco.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then Kane grinned. "Well, if it isn't King of the Emirates himself."
Laughter rolled around the room, light but sharp. Sterling added, "Careful lads, don't look him in the eyes — he might nutmeg you in your sleep."
Francesco smirked, shaking his head. "Morning."
But the weight in the air didn't lift so easily. He could feel it — the curiosity, the awe, the doubt. Every one of these men had fought years to be here, had scraped through the trenches of Premier League football, had endured boos, injuries, and criticism. And now here was a seventeen-year-old, stepping in with a treble, a Golden Boot, and a TIME magazine cover under his arm.
Some were impressed. Some were threatened. Most were both.
It wasn't until Rooney spoke that the room truly shifted.
Wayne Rooney, England captain, Manchester United legend, the man who had carried the Three Lions for more than a decade, lifted his head slowly from where he'd been taping his ankles. His eyes met Francesco's, steady, assessing, like a veteran measuring a rookie's worth.
"Grab a spot, kid," Rooney said simply, his voice gravelly but even. "Training's in ten."
And just like that, Francesco exhaled. Respect given. Respect earned.
Training at St George's Park was a baptism of fire.
Roy Hodgson and his staff kept the sessions sharp and tactical, designed to weld individuals into a collective machine. But in those first days, all eyes weren't on shape or pressing triggers — they were on Francesco.
The rondo circle was brutal. Kane, Vardy, and Sterling moved the ball like predators, the laughter loud and merciless every time a victim was nutmegged. Francesco stepped in, and immediately the ball zipped around him like a swarm of hornets. Kane flicked it with one touch, Sterling dropped a no-look pass, Alli pinged it off the outside of his boot. Francesco darted, lunged, tried to anticipate. He nicked it once off Henderson, but then the punishment began.
Nutmeg from Vardy.
Step-over fake from Sterling.
Kane curling it just out of reach, grinning.
The laughter rose. "Golden Boot, eh? Can't even get a touch!" Vardy crowed, hands on hips.
Francesco felt his cheeks flush, the sting biting deeper than he wanted to admit. But instead of snapping back, he gritted his teeth. Waited. Watched. The next sequence, Sterling went too casual, a flick too showy. Francesco pounced, toe out, ball stolen clean. One move, one burst of acceleration, and he was gone, sliding it between Kane's legs before anyone could react.
"Oi!" Kane shouted, half-laughing, half-serious. The circle erupted.
Francesco jogged back to the center, smirk tugging at his lips. "Guess even kings get hungry."
The balance shifted. Not all, but some. He wasn't here just to take banter — he could give it back.
The small-sided games were where the truth showed. Eleven-a-side was about structure, but in those tight half-pitch matches, instinct ruled. And instinct was Francesco's kingdom.
First touch to kill a fizzed pass from Stones.
Drop of the shoulder to glide past Dier.
A one-two with Alli, then a thunderbolt off his left foot that rattled the crossbar.
Gasps rose, even among teammates. Kane clapped lightly, Rooney gave the faintest nod. Vardy muttered something under his breath that sounded like "bloody hell."
But it wasn't just the flair. It was how he fought. Sliding into tackles, chasing lost causes, refusing to be bullied by bigger bodies. In one moment that would later be replayed on phones across camp, Cahill tried to shoulder him off the ball near the sideline. Francesco didn't budge. Instead, he spun, used Cahill's weight against him, and darted away, crossing in a low ball that Sturridge tapped home.
The squad whistled and hollered. Cahill shook his head, half-grinning, half-embarrassed. "Alright, alright, lad. Point made."
Off the pitch, though, the dynamics were trickier.
Sterling and Vardy kept the banter flowing, sometimes playful, sometimes barbed. "Oi, wonderkid, what's it like on the TIME cover? You get free suits or something?" Vardy teased over lunch.
"Better than being in the betting adverts," Francesco shot back without missing a beat. The table exploded with laughter, even Sterling choking on his drink. Vardy raised his eyebrows, grinned, and leaned back. "Cheeky little— fair play."
Kane was more measured, almost big-brotherly in his approach. He asked about Francesco's training routines, about Wenger's coaching, about how it felt to score in a Champions League quarter-final. Kane had been through his own meteoric rise, but at twenty-two, he knew how brutal it could be. He seemed to want to guide Francesco more than challenge him.
But it was Rooney who commanded everything.
Francesco noticed quickly: no one interrupted Rooney at the dinner table. No one dismissed him in drills. He wasn't loud, but when he spoke, it carried. Stories of Manchester derbies, of battles in World Cups, of the years he had worn the armband when the nation's hope was crushing and relentless. Francesco listened, eyes wide, absorbing every word.
And Rooney noticed him too.
One evening, after training, Rooney caught Francesco lingering alone on the pitch, practicing volleys into an empty net. The captain walked over, hands in his pockets, watching a few strikes whistle past.
"You know, you'll run yourself into the ground if you keep this up," Rooney said.
Francesco turned, sheepish. "I just… I want to be ready."
Rooney's gaze was steady. "You're never really ready for England. Not until you've been there, under the lights, hearing the anthems, feeling the whole country on your shoulders. But you've got something, kid. I saw it when you faced Barca. You don't shy away."
Francesco swallowed hard. "Do you… do you think I belong here?"
Rooney chuckled softly. "You already do. But belonging's not enough. You've got to lead. Even when you're young. Especially when you're young. The others will look at you and see what they want to be. Don't take that lightly."
Those words carved themselves into Francesco's mind.
The media circus outside only grew. Every training session, reporters lined the fences, cameras zooming in on Francesco's every touch, every smile, every missed pass. "England's new hope." "The teenager to carry us." "The crown prince of football."
Roy Hodgson tried to shield him, but there was only so much anyone could do. At press conferences, Kane and Rooney were asked about him more than themselves. "What's it like training with Francesco?" "Can he handle the pressure?" "Is he England's Messi?"
Rooney gave the steadiest answer: "He's a good kid. Works hard. Let's not forget he's still just starting. Don't put it all on him."
But Francesco couldn't ignore the whispers, the expectations swelling louder each day. He replayed Rooney's words in his head every night: Don't shy away.
So he didn't.
At the next training match, he demanded the ball more. Drove at defenders. Buried a finish past Joe Hart that left the keeper rooted. When Hodgson blew the final whistle, sweat clinging to his shirt, Francesco stood tall, chest heaving, and saw Rooney clapping for him from across the pitch.
For the first time, he felt not just like a guest in England camp. He felt like a lion.
And yet, beneath it all, he remained seventeen.
At night, in his room at St George's, he would FaceTime Leah. She'd tease him about the way the cameras caught him yawning in the morning warm-ups, or about Sterling's haircut, or about how Kane always seemed to squint like he'd left his glasses at home. Her laughter anchored him, reminded him that he wasn't just England's star-in-the-making. He was still a boy from Richmond who used to juggle balls in the garden until the neighbors shouted at him to stop.
But when the call ended, when the room went quiet and the weight of expectation settled back onto his chest, he would lie awake staring at the ceiling, hearing the chants that hadn't even happened yet. Hearing a nation calling his name.
The next morning, Francesco woke with something heavy on his chest — heavier than the press, heavier than the cameras waiting by the training pitch. It was the way the squad carried itself behind closed doors.
Little things, maybe, to someone on the outside. Kane ribbing Wilshere about Arsenal bottling the league. Vardy nudging Sterling about City's spending. Small, sharp barbs, dressed as banter. But Francesco noticed the edge, the undercurrent. He'd grown up watching England fail in tournament after tournament, and every time, the headlines said the same thing: too much talent, not enough unity. Club rivalries poisoning the well. Arsenal versus United, Chelsea versus Liverpool. Players sitting at different tables at dinner, teammates for England but enemies at heart.
He'd only been join England camp almost a year, but he could already feel it. The cracks are there.
And it terrified him.
That evening, as training wound down and most of the lads drifted toward the showers, Francesco walked up to Rooney. The captain was unstrapping his boots by the bench, head bent, face tired but calm.
"Wazza," Francesco said softly, nerves catching in his throat.
Rooney looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. He'd heard the nickname a million times, but hearing it from Francesco, the kid who had only just walked into camp, almost made him smile. Almost.
"What's up, kid?"
Francesco glanced around. Too many ears. Too many eyes. He lowered his voice. "Can we… talk? In private?"
Rooney studied him for a long second. The lad looked serious — not cocky-serious, but heavy, like something was burning inside him. He nodded, tugged his boots fully off, and stood. "Alright. Come on."
They walked together, past the training pitch, past the main corridors of St George's Park, out into one of the quieter pathways that cut through the complex. It was dusk, the sky tinged with orange and violet, the air cooling, the sound of birds mixing with the faint hum of the motorway in the distance.
Finally, when they reached a bench near the far end of the grounds, Rooney stopped and sat. He gestured for Francesco to do the same.
"Alright," Rooney said, folding his arms. "What's on your mind?"
Francesco sat, elbows on his knees, staring at the gravel path beneath his boots. For a moment, he wasn't sure he could get the words out. It felt wrong, almost arrogant, to say what he was about to say. But then he remembered the nights he'd stayed up watching England crash out of tournaments, the headlines calling them failures, chokers, wasted talent. He remembered the ache in his chest, the frustration of a boy who wanted to believe in his country but always saw it collapse.
He lifted his head and met Rooney's eyes.
"I need you to back me up," Francesco said quietly.
Rooney frowned. "Back you up with what?"
Francesco's throat went dry. He forced the words out. "I want to tell the lads… to leave the club rivalries outside. To keep it out of this camp. I know I'm just a kid here, I know I've only just come in, but—" He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. "I've seen it. I can feel it already. Little digs. Arsenal, Spurs, United, City. It's there. And that's why we never win. Because we don't play like one team, we play like six. I can't stand the thought of going to France and seeing it happen again."
The words spilled out in a rush, faster and sharper than he'd planned. When he finished, he sat back, heart hammering, watching Rooney's face for any sign of what he was thinking.
For a long time, Rooney just looked at him. His blue eyes were steady, unreadable, the face of a man who had seen it all — the failures, the infighting, the wasted chances.
Finally, Rooney leaned back, exhaling.
"You're seventeen," Rooney said. His voice wasn't mocking, wasn't cruel. Just stating a fact.
"I know."
"And you've been joining us, what, almost a year?"
"Yeah."
"And you want to stand up in front of a room full of men who've been in this squad for years, some of them your seniors by ten, fifteen years, and tell them how to behave?"
Francesco swallowed hard. "Yeah."
Rooney stared at him for another long beat, then chuckled. Not a laugh of dismissal — more like disbelief. "You've got some balls, kid."
Francesco felt his ears burn. "It's not about balls. It's about winning. Look, I grew up watching you lot. 2006, 2010, 2012, 2014. Every time, we had the players. Every time, we fell apart. And every time, everyone said the same thing — we weren't united. I'm not saying I know more than anyone. But I know this: if we go to France with this same attitude, we're not winning anything. And I can't…" He faltered, his voice breaking slightly. "I can't let that happen. Not again."
Rooney's face softened, just a little.
For the first time, the captain saw past the swagger, past the headlines and the TIME cover and the "King of the Emirates" nonsense. He saw a boy who had carried his club, who had lifted trophies at an age most kids were still in school, and who now wanted — desperately, genuinely — to carry his country too.
Rooney leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You're right," he said quietly.
Francesco blinked. "I am?"
"Yeah," Rooney said. "You're right. That's what's killed us for years. I've lived it. Sat in those dressing rooms, watched lads who hated each other at club level suddenly pretending to be best mates. Doesn't work. Never has. You're spot on." He paused, then added, "But here's the thing. They won't listen to you. Not yet. You're too new. Too young. Half of them still see you as a kid. The other half see you as a threat. If you stand up alone and say that, they'll laugh you out of the room."
Francesco's stomach sank. "So what do I do?"
Rooney looked at him, steady, serious now. "You wait for your moment. And when you speak, I'll back you. Because they'll listen to me. They might not like it, but they'll listen. And if they see me standing with you, they'll think twice about dismissing you."
Francesco's chest tightened. Relief, gratitude, something close to awe. "You'd do that?"
Rooney smirked faintly. "Kid, I've been trying to tell them the same thing for years. They just don't hear it anymore. Maybe they'll hear it from you. Fresh voice. Different angle. Sometimes it takes someone new to remind us of what matters."
Francesco looked down at his hands, then back at Rooney. "I don't want to step on anyone's toes."
Rooney shook his head. "Listen to me. Leaders don't wait for permission. If you want to be more than just a talent, if you want to be a real captain one day, you've got to speak when it matters. Doesn't matter how old you are. If it's the truth, say it."
The words hit Francesco like a hammer. He nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Good," Rooney said, pushing himself up from the bench. "So here's what we'll do. Tomorrow, after training, I'll call a meeting. Nothing formal, just the lads in the dressing room. You say your piece. I'll back you up. Simple as that."
Francesco stood too, heart pounding. "Thank you, Wazza. Really."
Rooney clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm and heavy. "Don't thank me yet. Thank me when we're lifting something in France."
That night, Francesco barely slept.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, rehearsing the words in his head. How do you tell a room full of England's best players — men with Premier League medals, Champions League experience, veterans of tournaments — to stop acting like schoolboys? How do you do it without sounding arrogant? Without sounding like you think you're better than them?
He turned it over and over, until finally exhaustion dragged him under.
The next day, after training, Rooney made it happen.
The lads were filtering back into the dressing room, sweat dripping, banter flying. Vardy was teasing Sterling about missing an open goal in the small-sided game. Stones was moaning about Alli's two-footed tackle. The usual noise.
Then Rooney stood up, clapped his hands once, loud. The room fell quiet.
"Alright, lads," Rooney said. "Before we hit the showers, the kid's got something to say."
All eyes turned to Francesco.
His stomach flipped. His mouth went dry. For a split second, he wanted to shrink, to disappear, to let it slide. But then Rooney gave him the faintest nod, and Francesco remembered: Don't shy away.
He stepped forward, cleared his throat.
"I know I'm new here," Francesco began, his voice steadier than he felt. "And I know I'm the youngest in the room. But I just… I need to say this." He paused, meeting their eyes, one by one. Kane. Sterling. Vardy. Wilshere. Hart. "We can't take the club stuff in here with us. We can't. I've seen it already — little digs, little rivalries. I get it. Arsenal versus Spurs, United versus City. I grew up on it. But if we bring that to France, we're done before we even start. We'll fall apart like every other time. And I can't—" His voice wavered, but he steadied it. "I can't let that happen. Not this time. Not with this squad. We're too good for that. We've got the talent to win something. But only if we're one team."
The silence that followed was suffocating. He could feel their eyes burning into him, some skeptical, some surprised, some unreadable.
Then Rooney spoke.
"He's right," Rooney said firmly, cutting through the tension. "I've been here over a decade. I've seen us lose with world-class squads because we couldn't act like a team. If we don't fix that now, it'll happen again. I don't care if you hate each other at club level. I don't care if you kick lumps out of each other in the Premier League. In here, you wear the same shirt. You fight for the same badge. And if you can't do that, you shouldn't be here."
The room shifted. Kane nodded slowly. Henderson muttered, "He's got a point." Even Vardy, smirking a little, said, "Fair enough, kid."
Francesco felt the tension in his chest ease.
The silence hung heavy, thicker than the steam that would soon fill the dressing room showers. Francesco's chest was still rising and falling too quickly, his palms damp, but his eyes stayed fixed on the circle of men around him. He had said it. The words were out there, floating, undeniable.
For a few moments, nobody moved. Then, Henderson, who had been sitting on the edge of a bench with his arms folded, leaned forward. His face was thoughtful, not mocking, not dismissive. Henderson was Liverpool through and through, but there was something in his eyes that made Francesco believe he'd been waiting years to hear those words.
"He's right," Henderson said, his voice steady, carrying across the room. "I've seen it as well. Lads splitting off into their own little groups, talking more with their club mates than with the rest. It's not good enough. We've been here before, haven't we? Golden generations that never delivered. I'm not doing another one of those. Not wasting another summer because we can't get over ourselves."
Cahill nodded slowly, tugging the tape from his shin pads, his expression a mixture of weariness and conviction. "I've been in the game long enough to know the truth of that. Chelsea, Arsenal, Spurs, United — none of it matters when you're wearing England white. We've all said it before, but saying it's not the same as living it. Maybe it takes someone new to call it out proper."
Joe Hart, still wiping his gloves down with a towel, gave a little huff that might've been a laugh, though his eyes were sharper than usual. "Bloody hell, I didn't think I'd be agreeing with a seventeen-year-old today. But he's spot on. I've stood in that goal and felt it. The cracks. The moments when lads didn't trust the pass, didn't cover the run, because deep down, they were still thinking like club men, not countrymen. And you know what happens? We lose. Every. Single. Time."
Rooney let the words settle. His presence was magnetic, and the way he leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping lower, made the room lean with him. "Then let's change it. Right here. Right now. Enough talk. We need something stronger. Something that lasts beyond tonight's speech."
His eyes flicked to Henderson. Then to Cahill. To Hart. Finally, to Francesco, who was still standing awkwardly near the center of the room, the ball of tension in his stomach slowly uncoiling.
"Let's make it a treaty," Rooney said simply.
The word hit the air like a hammer. Treaty. It wasn't banter. It wasn't a joke. It was a declaration.
"A treaty?" Vardy scoffed from his corner, half-grinning, half-curious.
"Yeah," Rooney shot back without missing a beat. "A treaty. Call it whatever you want. But from this day forward, no club rivalry steps through that door. Not a word. Not a dig. Not a whisper. You fight for the badge on this shirt, and if you can't, then you don't belong in this room."
There was no mistaking the weight in his voice. This wasn't the Rooney of press conferences, smiling politely while journalists picked him apart. This was the captain, the warrior who had carried England's burden for over a decade, putting his foot down.
Henderson stood, nodding firmly. "I'm in."
Cahill followed, rising to his feet. "I'm in."
Joe Hart tossed the towel aside and stood as well. "In."
Then all eyes turned back to Francesco.
For a heartbeat, he felt the heat of their stares again. But this time, it wasn't skepticism. It was expectation. Hope, even. They were waiting for him to seal what he had started.
Francesco straightened his shoulders, his young frame taut with a determination that belied his age. "I'm in. All the way."
Rooney's mouth curled into a rare, approving smile. "Good. Then it's done."
The five of them moved almost instinctively toward the center of the dressing room, forming a loose circle. Rooney extended his hand first, broad and calloused, veins still raised from training. Henderson laid his hand on top. Then Cahill. Then Hart. Finally, Francesco, his slender fingers pressing down atop the stack, the contrast between his hand and Rooney's almost symbolic — the old guard and the new.
"From now on," Rooney said, his voice low but carrying the authority of oath, "no rivalry comes in here. We fight as one. We live as one. We bleed as one."
Henderson's voice followed, strong. "No Liverpool. No City. No United. No Arsenal. Just England."
Cahill added, gruff but firm. "Brothers first. Clubs after."
Hart clenched his jaw, nodding. "One team. One goal."
Finally, all eyes turned to Francesco.
He swallowed, heart hammering in his chest, then said the words that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than himself:
"For England. Together."
Their voices overlapped then, the oath sealed not with ceremony but with conviction. They squeezed their hands tighter for a moment, the bond tangible, almost physical. Around them, the rest of the squad looked on — some skeptical, some inspired, but none untouched by the sight of it.
When they finally broke apart, Rooney clapped Francesco on the back, hard enough to almost knock the air out of him. "Welcome to the leaders' table, kid."
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.
________________________________________________
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