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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.
Morning sunlight spilled through the tall glass windows of the hotel restaurant, cutting soft golden bars across the neatly arranged tables. The air carried the smell of scrambled eggs, fresh coffee, and toasted bread — a far cry from the sweat, turf, and adrenaline that had filled their lungs only hours before.
Francesco sat at a long table with a handful of teammates, a plate of eggs and fruit in front of him. His body still ached from the ninety minutes — every sprint, every collision replaying itself in small flares of soreness — but there was a strange lightness too. The kind of bone-deep fatigue that came with satisfaction. He had hardly slept, tossing between flashes of the goals, the chants in Marseille, and the thunder of his name from the stands.
Sterling slid into the chair beside him, a slice of toast already halfway to his mouth. "Mate," he said, words muffled around the bread, "you see Twitter this morning? You're everywhere. Trending worldwide. Francesco bloody Lee."
Francesco shook his head, poking at his eggs. "Didn't check. My phone's still buzzing somewhere in my room. Couldn't bring myself to look."
"Smart move," Kane chimed in from across the table, lifting his coffee. "Half the world's writing you into folklore already. Don't let it mess with your head."
Rooney, seated further down, smirked as he cut into his bacon. "Enjoy it, lad. Nights like that don't come around often. But Harry's right — don't go thinking you've cracked the game. Next match, you're back to square one. Wales won't care what you did yesterday."
Francesco nodded, grateful for the grounding. He reached for a piece of melon, chewing slowly as conversation rippled around him. Alli was laughing about Vardy's wild dancing in the dressing room, Hart was animatedly describing one of his saves that had been overshadowed by the goals, and Henderson was already breaking down tactical points from memory.
At the far end of the room, Hodgson and his coaching staff sat together, their plates neat and their voices low. Ray Lewington leaned in with a clipboard, pointing at something between bites of toast, while Gary Neville sipped tea with his brow furrowed in thought.
When Hodgson rose, a hush moved through the players' table instinctively. The manager carried himself with the quiet dignity that Francesco had come to respect. He didn't need to bark orders or slam fists — his presence alone was enough to draw attention.
"Morning, gentlemen," Hodgson began, clasping his hands lightly in front of him. His voice was calm, carrying across the clatter of cutlery without effort. "First of all, congratulations again on last night. You gave the nation something to believe in. But tournaments don't stop for applause. We move forward."
A ripple of nods traveled along the table.
"Tomorrow," Hodgson continued, "we depart for Lens. Our next match against Wales is critical — not just for the group, but for our momentum. Today, however…" He let the pause stretch, his gaze scanning the room. "…today you rest. No training. Your bodies need recovery after yesterday's intensity. Use this time wisely."
There was a murmur of approval, a few smirks — Vardy whispering something about a day of sleep to Alli, who elbowed him back.
Hodgson raised a hand slightly, enough to still the amusement. "But let me be clear: rest does not mean recklessness. I don't want to hear about anyone wandering outside the hotel, parading through town, or drawing attention to yourselves. The eyes of the press, and indeed the public, are on us now more than ever. So please — stay in. Rest. Recharge. Tomorrow, we work again."
The message was delivered without fuss, but its weight was felt. Rooney gave a small nod, echoing the sentiment with his steady presence.
"Enjoy your breakfast, gentlemen," Hodgson finished, offering a faint smile before returning to his seat.
The room eased back into chatter, though a bit more measured now.
Francesco leaned back in his chair, stretching slightly. "A whole day of nothing," he muttered. "Feels weird."
Sterling grinned. "Speak for yourself. I'm sleeping till lunch, then maybe again till dinner."
Kane chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll hit the recovery room later. Ice bath, stretch, bit of treatment. Can't just laze around."
"Always the pro," said Alli, rolling his eyes but smiling.
Francesco toyed with his fork, thoughtful. A day off sounded like a gift, but his mind was restless. The energy of last night still buzzed inside him, making the idea of sitting still feel almost impossible. He glanced toward the window, where the Parisian morning shimmered outside, the city alive and unaware of the young man staring at it from behind glass.
He knew Hodgson was right. Stay in. Rest. But still, he wondered what the streets looked like today, what conversations were happening in cafes and bakeries, what the papers looked like in shopfronts with his face staring back.
He pulled his gaze back to the table, catching Rooney watching him with a knowing look. The captain leaned closer, his voice pitched low. "You'll get used to it. The noise, the headlines. First time it happens, it's overwhelming. But the real test isn't last night, or this morning. It's what you do next."
Francesco met his eyes, steady. "And what should I do next?"
Rooney's lips curved into a small, wry smile. "Simple. Score again."
The table burst into laughter at that, even Hodgson cracking a smile from across the room.
Francesco pushed back from the breakfast table with a satisfied sigh, the scrape of his chair softened by the hum of laughter still hanging in the air. He felt lighter, though his legs still carried the faint heaviness of yesterday's match. The thought of a day with no training was strange — like a muscle he didn't know how to relax. But he knew his body needed it, even if his mind was already racing toward Wales.
The hallway outside the restaurant was cooler, quieter. His boots clicked against the marble floor as he made his way back toward his room, past closed doors where other teammates had already collapsed into naps or recovery routines. When he slid the keycard and pushed the door open, the muted stillness inside wrapped around him instantly.
Then his phone lit up on the bedside table.
The screen buzzed again — Leah.
Francesco's chest loosened in relief at the sight of her name. He snatched it up, answering almost before the vibration stopped.
"Leah?" His voice carried a softness he hadn't used all morning.
"Francesco!" Her laugh rang down the line, warm and bright, a balm against the lingering fatigue. "Finally! I thought you'd forgotten me already with all those reporters chasing you."
He grinned, sinking onto the bed, one hand raking through his hair. "Forgotten you? Not possible. Just… drowned in cameras and microphones."
"Well," Leah teased, "you'd better get used to it. You should've seen my phone last night. I swear half the world tagged me in videos of you. Like I didn't already know what you'd done."
Her voice softened then, and he could hear the pride threaded through it. "You were incredible, Frankie. I'm so proud of you."
The words landed heavier than she knew, a warmth spreading through him that even the applause of tens of thousands hadn't managed to spark in the same way.
He exhaled, leaning back against the headboard. "Tell me everything. You were in the VIP box, right?"
Leah laughed again, this time full of energy. "Oh, you should've seen it. My mum nearly spilled her drink when you scored the first goal. Dad was on his feet before the ball even hit the net. Jacob—" she broke off, chuckling, "—Jacob was jumping so hard I thought the railing would snap. And your parents? Mike and Sarah? Frankie, they were out of their seats every second. I've never seen your mum scream like that. And your dad… he kept hugging my dad like they were old friends who'd won the lottery together."
Francesco closed his eyes, picturing it — his parents, who had always been steady, proud but understated, suddenly swept up in the fever of the night; Leah's family beside them, sharing the joy like it belonged to all of them.
"That means more than anything," he murmured.
"They all said goodbye after the match," Leah went on gently. "Mum and Dad hugged your parents, Jacob was still buzzing about how he's going to be 'the next Francesco.' And your parents… they couldn't stop smiling. You should've seen the way they looked at you on the pitch, even from up there. Pure pride."
His throat tightened slightly. For a moment, he couldn't find words.
"Frankie?" Leah's voice softened.
"I just… I wish I'd seen them," he admitted. "I wish I could've been there after."
"You will," Leah reassured him. "There'll be more nights like that. And they'll be there. We'll all be there."
They talked for another few minutes — about little things, about Leah teasing him for how messy his hair had looked in the post-match interview, about how she couldn't wait to see him again. But then, as all calls do, it reached its natural end.
"I'll let you rest," Leah said finally. "Big man of the match deserves his sleep."
He smiled into the receiver. "Rest? Maybe. But I'll carry you in my head, like always."
"Good. Because I'll be carrying you in mine. Love you, Frankie."
"Love you too."
The line went quiet, and Francesco lowered the phone slowly, the weight of her voice still echoing in him. For a moment, the room seemed brighter, the ache in his muscles dulled by something gentler.
Then — a knock at the door. Firm, rhythmic.
Francesco frowned, rising. He padded across the carpet, pulling the door open.
Rooney stood there, arms crossed, his expression a mix of seriousness and mischief. Behind him crowded Kane, Sterling, Joe Hart, Smalling, and Wilshere, all grinning like kids caught sneaking biscuits from the jar.
"Morning, superstar," Rooney said dryly. "Got a few minutes?"
Francesco raised a brow. "Depends. What are you lot plotting?"
Sterling leaned around Rooney, his grin wide. "Billiards. Down at the lounge. Thought we'd see if the wonderkid's as good with a cue as he is with a ball."
Hart chuckled, clapping Francesco on the shoulder. "Come on, mate. You're not gonna sit in here all day staring at your ceiling, are you?"
Francesco hesitated, then smirked. "Alright, but only if you're ready to lose."
That set off a chorus of laughter as they herded him down the hallway.
The lounge was tucked on the ground floor, its polished wood and deep leather chairs giving it the feel of an old clubroom rather than a hotel annex. The billiard table stood in the center under a green-shaded lamp, cues lined neatly against the wall.
As they entered, Wilshere immediately piped up, grinning at the others. "Careful, lads. You don't know what you've gotten yourselves into. At Arsenal, this guy—" he jabbed a thumb at Francesco, "—was the king of billiards. Nobody could touch him."
Kane raised his brows, amused. "That so?"
Francesco smirked faintly, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Exaggeration. Jack just hated losing."
Wilshere scoffed. "Exaggeration, my arse. Don't let him fool you — he'll clear the table before you've had your first sip of Coke."
Rooney chuckled, pulling a cue from the rack. "Well then, let's find out, shall we?"
The balls were racked, the cues chalked, and as the first game began, the room filled with the same easy camaraderie that carried them on the pitch — laughter, teasing, small bursts of competitiveness. Francesco leaned into it, the rhythm of the game pulling him out of his restless energy, letting him breathe in the quiet joy of being just one of the lads again.
The games stretched on longer than any of them planned. What began as a simple one-round challenge turned into a full-blown mini-tournament. The green felt was scattered with chalk marks, the clack of balls echoing under the low-hanging lamp, their laughter bouncing around the lounge like they had no cares in the world.
Wilshere, true to his warning, had been the loudest voice when Francesco started clearing shots with unnerving calm. Every strike carried that same mixture of precision and instinct that made him dangerous on the pitch. He didn't just aim — he read the angles, traced the paths, knew before the cue connected where the ball would fall.
"See?!" Jack crowed after Francesco sunk a clean double off the cushion. "What did I tell you? King of billiards!"
Sterling groaned dramatically, slumping into a leather chair. "Mate, this isn't even fair. He's playing chess and we're playing snakes and ladders."
Rooney smirked, lining up his next shot despite the odds. "Don't let it fool you. He'll miss one eventually. Nobody's perfect."
But Francesco didn't. He closed out the game with a quiet confidence, only offering the smallest shrug when the final ball dropped.
Hart whistled low. "Right then. Never letting you near a cue again."
The night rolled on in that warm rhythm — laughter, playful swearing when shots went wrong, friendly shoulder bumps. For Francesco, it was the best kind of grounding. No chants, no headlines, no pressure — just lads, cues, and the sound of balls scattering across a table. When they finally drifted off to bed, it was with easy smiles and the kind of camaraderie that doesn't need words to be felt.
The alarm felt cruel after such a late night. Still, Francesco rose with the steady hum of routine. He dressed in the soft tracksuit England staff had laid out, his bag packed neatly by the door. When he stepped into the corridor, the morning air smelled faintly of coffee drifting from somewhere down the hall, and the muffled sounds of zipping bags and closing doors filled the space.
By the time they all gathered in the lobby, the team was a patchwork of moods — some bleary-eyed, some buzzing. Vardy cracked jokes that earned groans, Sterling walked with earbuds tucked in, Kane sipped a bottle of water like he'd been up since dawn.
Outside, the team bus waited, its white and red paint glinting under the Paris sun. Staff hustled bags into the hold while security scanned the street. Francesco climbed aboard with Rooney and the others, sliding into a window seat. The leather was cool against his arms, the faint vibration of the engine already humming through the floor.
The ride to the airport was quieter than usual. Players dozed against windows, some stared at phones, others whispered in twos and threes. Francesco leaned his head back, letting the rhythm of the road carry him. Outside, Paris drifted past — wide boulevards, morning traffic, the occasional glimpse of a bakery line curling out the door. He wondered briefly if his face was on the newspapers folded under the arms of men waiting for coffee, if yesterday's goals were still replaying on shop screens.
At the airport, everything moved in its usual blur of logistics: staff shepherding them through private entrances, security checks swift and discreet, their bags already tagged and loaded. The team boarded together, climbing the short staircase into the chartered plane.
Inside, the cabin was quiet luxury — wide seats, more space than a commercial flight. Francesco slid into a window seat again, Kane settling beside him. Across the aisle, Smalling stretched out with a book in hand, while Rooney spoke quietly with Neville near the front.
"First tournament flight?" Kane asked, fastening his belt.
"Yeah," Francesco admitted, watching ground crew wheel the steps away.
"Not bad, eh? Beats easyJet to away days," Kane said with a grin.
Francesco chuckled, though his eyes stayed on the tarmac as the engines whined to life. As the plane rumbled forward and lifted, his stomach pressed back into the seat, but the view outside pulled him forward. Paris shrank beneath them, the sprawl of streets giving way to ribbons of countryside.
The flight itself was short, barely long enough to feel like travel. Still, the hum of the engines and the enforced stillness gave Francesco time to think. His mind kept leaping ahead — Wales, Bale's runs, Ramsey's control in midfield. It wasn't nerves, not exactly, but the quiet restlessness of a player who couldn't help but prepare.
When the captain announced their descent into Lens, the players roused themselves — stretching, collecting belongings, voices picking up again. Out the window, Francesco caught sight of rolling fields, patches of green dotted with small villages, before the airport slid into view.
The landing was smooth, the kind of practiced touch that barely jostled their cups. As they taxied, the buzz inside the cabin grew.
"Lens, lads," Hart said, grinning as he stood. "New town, same mission."
The doors opened, stairs rolled up, and the players filed down into the northern French air. It was cooler here, a crispness that brushed Francesco's cheeks as he stepped onto the tarmac. Cameras flashed from a distance, cordoned off behind barriers, but security kept things moving quickly.
Another team bus waited, its logo freshly painted, its driver nodding politely as they boarded. The ride into Lens was livelier than the morning's journey — Vardy loud as ever, Alli teasing Sterling about his playlist, Hart half-singing from the back. Out the window, Francesco watched as the countryside gave way to tighter streets, rows of houses with red roofs, the occasional scattering of fans waving flags as the bus rolled past.
When they finally pulled up to the hotel, it was already flanked by media vans and a few scattered supporters. Security lines held firm as they stepped off, one by one, and into the cool marble lobby.
Inside, staff from the FA were waiting. Their efficiency smoothed the chaos, clipboards in hand, lanyards swinging as they moved. Room keys were passed out swiftly, players collecting them with murmured thanks. Francesco accepted his with a nod, sliding it into his pocket.
Then Hodgson's voice carried above the bustle.
"Gentlemen."
The players turned, forming an easy half-circle around him. The manager stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression steady.
"Welcome to Lens," he began, his tone measured, calm. "You've traveled well. You'll find your rooms prepared, and the staff here will assist you with anything you need." He paused, scanning their faces. "But remember why we're here. Tomorrow, training resumes at RC Lens' facilities. We have work to do, and Wales will demand the very best from us."
There was a ripple of nods. Rooney at the front gave a small, approving hum, his presence echoing the manager's weight.
"For now," Hodgson continued, "settle in. Rest. Recovery is still key. Tomorrow, we shift back to focus."
The players broke into smaller groups then, drifting toward the lifts or lounging chairs, the quiet clatter of bags wheeled across the floor. Francesco slipped his keycard into his palm, glancing once more toward the glass doors where the faint sound of cheering fans drifted in from outside. Then he turned toward the lifts, ready to see what awaited upstairs.
The days in Lens settled into their own rhythm — not quite calm, not quite chaotic, but something in between.
Each morning the team bus rumbled through the narrow streets toward the RC Lens training ground. The drive was never silent — Vardy would crack some joke about the driver's music taste, Sterling would be half-singing along with whatever he had blaring in his earbuds, and Rooney would occasionally bark out a reminder about being sharp in training. Yet there was always an undercurrent of focus. Everyone knew what lay ahead.
The training ground itself was tucked away behind fences and hedges, but never truly private. Even as the bus turned into the gates, they could see them — fans pressed against barriers, waving flags and scarves, shouting names, and reporters craning for glimpses of the players stepping down the steps. Cameras clicked, microphones bobbed like fishing rods over the shoulders of fans, and voices called out — sometimes in English, sometimes in French.
"Francesco! Francesco!" The chant followed him nearly every time, kids leaning over the barriers with shirts in hand, their faces lit with that mix of awe and desperation.
Francesco would lift a hand, sometimes offer a wave, once or twice he even stopped long enough to sign a shirt or snap a quick picture when security allowed. The attention still felt strange — a weight he wasn't used to carrying — but there was something grounding about the joy in those faces.
Inside the ground, the noise softened to something manageable. Grass stretched in neat green rectangles, cones were lined in sharp rows, and the smell of earth mixed with faint traces of liniment from the physio tents. Training itself was a blend of intensity and discipline.
Hodgson's voice cut across the pitches, sharp but never unkind. "Move it faster! Quicker transitions! Wales won't give you time!"
Neville and Southgate hovered near the drills, offering encouragement, occasionally pulling players aside for small adjustments.
Francesco found himself partnered often with Kane in finishing drills — a combination of England's fresh goalscoring hope and its established one. There was competition in it, sure, but more than that, there was learning. Kane's composure, his knack for finding space, rubbed off in subtle ways. And in return, Francesco's instinctive movement, his unpredictable touch, seemed to push Kane to think differently.
By the second day, Hodgson ramped up the tactical sessions. They worked on shape, defensive resilience, and quick breaks — a necessity against a Wales side built on pace and grit. Francesco could feel the weight of the manager's gaze more often now, lingering when he pressed forward, when he dropped into midfield, when he combined with Rooney.
It wasn't just training; it was trust being measured.
And always, outside the fences, the fans and reporters waited. Their cheers floated over the hedges, sometimes a muffled chant, sometimes a sudden roar when a player came close enough to wave. Reporters were more persistent — their questions carrying on the breeze:
"Francesco, how does it feel to score on your first major tournament?"
"Wayne, do you think you can handle Gareth Bale?"
"Harry, are you ready to fire England through?"
The players rarely answered, heads down, focused. But the noise seeped in all the same. At night, scrolling through social media, Francesco would see clips of him training, slowed down and dissected by fans, his touches replayed like they were already part of a highlight reel. It was flattering, but it also carried pressure — every misstep magnified, every shrug interpreted.
Still, the three days built something. A sharper edge. A cohesion that wasn't there in Paris. The mood in the camp grew confident, though never careless.
The night before the match, the atmosphere shifted.
The players filed into the hotel meeting room, its walls paneled in pale wood, chairs set neatly in rows, the faint hum of the air conditioning cutting through the silence. Some came with water bottles in hand, others with notebooks, though most simply carried the restless energy of players on the brink of something important.
Hodgson stood at the front, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes steady. Neville and Southgate flanked him, clipboards in hand, but it was clear this was Roy's moment.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice calm but carrying. "Tomorrow is not just another match. Tomorrow decides where we stand."
He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. The players leaned forward unconsciously, their attention locked.
"If we win, we top the group," he continued. "We go through to the next round. No calculators, no waiting on other results — it's in our hands. That's the reality. And that's the opportunity."
He shifted slightly, his gaze sweeping the room. "Wales will fight for every inch. You know their strengths. Bale — pace, power, precision. Ramsey — vision, control. They will press, they will chase, they will scrap for every ball. But we," he said firmly, "we have the quality. We have the discipline. And above all, we have the responsibility."
Rooney, sitting near the front, gave a small nod, his eyes narrowed with focus. Francesco, a few rows back, felt the words thread into his chest. Responsibility. It wasn't just about him anymore — it was about the shirt, the flag, the people waiting outside those fences, the fans watching back home.
Hodgson went on, his tone never rising but his conviction clear. "I don't want fireworks. I don't want chaos. I want focus. Efficiency. Every pass with purpose. Every run with intention. Play as a team, and play with trust. Do that, and we will win. Do that, and we will go through."
He let the silence stretch for a beat, then added more softly, "Tomorrow, write your names into this tournament. Not in the headlines, not in the chatter. On the pitch. With your performance. That is where it matters."
The room was quiet for a moment after he finished, the kind of silence that hums with energy. Then Rooney clapped his hands together once, a firm sound that broke the stillness. "You heard him, lads. No excuses."
There were nods all around. Kane muttered something to Alli, Sterling cracked a faint grin, but the tension was different now — sharper, clearer.
Francesco sat back in his chair, the words still echoing in his head. Tomorrow wasn't just Wales. Tomorrow was the chance to prove that his debut wasn't a fluke, that his goals weren't just a burst of luck. Tomorrow was the step that could turn a dream into a story.
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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