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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.
The storm never seemed to relent. Every tackle bit harder, every clearance carried danger, every breath drew in the fever of 60,000 throats chanting, booing, roaring. The clock ticked into the 25th minute, and though England looked sharper, Russia's threat never felt more than a heartbeat away.
It happened in a flash.
A loose ball skidded in midfield, and Smolov was the first to pounce. He didn't hesitate, didn't even need to look — his instincts told him where Dzyuba would be. The big man had drifted just off Stones' shoulder, lurking like a shadow in the half-space between defence and keeper. Smolov curled a first-time pass with the outside of his boot, a clever arc that bent around Dier's outstretched leg and landed perfectly into Dzyuba's stride.
Stones was there, or so it seemed. He threw his body across, arm out, studs digging into the turf. But Dzyuba was too strong, too experienced. He braced his frame, nudged Stones aside with the simplest of gestures — just a shift of hip and shoulder, like brushing away a child's hand — and suddenly he was clear.
The noise surged. Dzyuba set himself, the goal gaping before him, Hart rushing forward in a desperate scramble of arms and legs.
Francesco froze where he stood on the wing, breath caught in his throat. Time slowed. He could see the whites of Dzyuba's eyes, the way the Russian striker's boot angled, the brutal inevitability of it.
The shot thundered low and hard toward the bottom corner.
Hart threw himself left, every sinew stretched to breaking. His gloved hand exploded outward and somehow, impossibly, he caught it. Not clean, but enough — the ball ricocheted off his palm, spinning wickedly, before Smalling hacked it into the night.
For half a second there was silence, the kind of silence that feels like the whole world inhaled at once. Then the English fans detonated. A roar of relief, of disbelief, of sheer defiance.
Hart scrambled up, thumping his chest, screaming toward his defenders. "Wake up! Stay tight!" His face was red with fury, but behind it was fire — he was alive, England were alive.
Francesco exhaled, only then realising he'd been holding his breath. His pulse rattled in his ears. This was the knife's edge they all stood on — one slip, one duel lost, and it could all vanish.
But England didn't crumble. They responded.
The tempo surged again, the midfield buzzing with quicker passes, Rooney dropping deeper to collect, Alli buzzing like a wasp between the Russian lines. Francesco could feel the rhythm shift, the ball moving with purpose rather than panic. The white shirts began to swarm forward with intent, the crowd sensing the change and leaning into every touch.
At the 30th minute, Sterling drew a foul on the left, winning a free kick after darting inside Neustädter. Rooney trotted over, adjusting the armband on his sleeve as he placed the ball carefully. The stadium hushed in expectation. He whipped it deep, curling toward the back post. Smalling rose, beating Ignashevich, and nodded it back across. For a heartbeat, Francesco thought it would fall to Kane, but Akinfeev launched himself into the mess of bodies, punching clear with both fists.
Still, England pressed. The Russians were rattled, stepping back, inviting pressure.
And then it happened.
Then at the 33rd minute.
It began innocently, with Rooney receiving the ball near the halfway line, tight to the right flank. He had space, but only a little, Neustädter pressing close. Rooney didn't rush. He rolled the ball under his boot, glanced up once, and spotted Francesco already darting into the channel, hand raised.
The pass was perfect — a diagonal whip with just enough curl to tempt him forward, the ball skidding invitingly toward the edge of Russia's box.
Francesco was already moving, heart in his throat, legs pumping like pistons. Berezutski stepped out to meet him, body angled, eyes calculating. Behind him, Schennikov tracked across, preparing to double up. It was two against one, a wall of red.
But Francesco didn't slow.
He let the ball run across his body, cutting inside with his right. Berezutski lunged, one long leg stretching, but Francesco flicked it past with the deftest of touches, his studs brushing the ball forward. Schennikov came barreling across, desperate to cover, but Francesco dropped his shoulder, feinted left, then burst right. For an instant both defenders collided, their momentum betraying them.
The space opened. The goal beckoned.
Akinfeev loomed ahead, crouched low, arms twitching. Francesco didn't think. He didn't measure. He trusted the hours, the muscle memory carved into him through repetition and failure and triumph. He struck with his right, clean and ruthless.
The ball zipped low, slicing just beyond Akinfeev's desperate lunge.
Time froze.
Then the net bulged.
The stadium erupted, half in ecstasy, half in anguish. White shirts scattered, arms raised, voices breaking into a deafening roar. Francesco wheeled away, sprinting toward the corner flag, his face contorted in a scream that was equal parts joy and release.
Rooney was the first to reach him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, dragging him into a bear hug. Sterling piled in, Alli too, the whole team converging in a flurry of white. Kane leapt onto his back, yelling into his ear. The noise was overwhelming — a chorus of English voices rising into the Marseille night.
Francesco's chest heaved, his vision blurred with sweat and tears, but the feeling was indescribable. His first goal in a major tournament. In the opening match. Against Russia. The scoreboard now gleamed:
England 1 – 0 Russia.
The Stade Vélodrome shook beneath their feet.
Far behind them, Hart punched the air, roaring his approval. On the touchline, Hodgson clapped once, a rare smile creasing his face. The bench leapt as one, substitutes flooding to the edge of the technical area, fists pumping.
The Stade Vélodrome had not yet calmed from Francesco's eruption. The echoes of his goal still bounced around the stadium like thunder trapped between walls. England's fans were delirious, flags snapping in the night air, their voices a single booming chorus of pride and release. Yet as the ball was placed back at the center circle, and Russia prepared to restart, Francesco felt his pulse refuse to settle. A goal in a tournament like this was never an ending — it was the beginning of a storm.
At the 37th minute, Russia tried to compose themselves, passing in neat triangles at the back, but England pressed high. Hodgson had barked from the technical area, urging them forward, refusing to let the Russians breathe. Rooney set the tone, hustling Neustädter, snapping at his heels until the ball was forced back to Berezutski. The roar of the English fans grew sharper, urging their players to stay on the front foot.
Francesco found himself wide on the left, tugging at his collar, chest rising and falling. His lungs burned, but he wanted the ball again. Every fibre of his body screamed for another chance, another run. And when it came, he didn't hesitate.
Henderson nicked possession in midfield, sliding it quickly to Rooney. Rooney glanced up, spotted Francesco hugging the touchline, and spread the play. The ball skipped across the grass, fizzing toward him like a challenge.
Francesco's first touch was velvet, cushioning it under his boot, and the second was already in motion — a burst down the flank, cutting inside Schennikov before sweeping his head up. Kane was in the box, locked in a wrestling match with Ignashevich, but he had half a step. Half a step was all a striker of Kane's instinct ever needed.
Francesco's cross was whipped with pace, curling toward the penalty spot. Kane shrugged off his marker, leapt with perfect timing, and met it flush with his forehead. The sound was crisp — leather on bone, the ball angling down toward the bottom corner.
The English end rose as one, the goal seemingly written.
But Akinfeev was a cat in human form. He flung himself sideways, his body almost parallel to the turf, and with fingertips stretched to the very limits, he clawed the ball wide. The rebound spun out of play, kissing the advertising hoardings.
The Russians in the stands erupted in relief, while English hands flew to heads in disbelief. Francesco's own jaw dropped, his arms frozen mid-air. He'd already seen the ball in the net, seen Kane sprinting toward the corner flag. Instead, he found himself clapping furiously, shouting encouragement toward Kane.
"So close! Next one, Harry!"
Kane, still catching his breath, gave him a quick nod and a raised thumb, though his eyes betrayed frustration. That was the kind of header strikers dream of — and yet Akinfeev had denied him.
The camera panned to Hodgson on the touchline, his face a mixture of relief and irritation. He clapped, but his shout was unmistakable: "Stay patient! Stay patient!"
England had Russia rocking, but they needed to kill, not rush.
At the 42nd minute, for all England's pressure, Russia had teeth.
It started with Kokorin, clever and slippery, who drifted into the half-space to collect a simple pass. He turned sharply, skipping away from Dier's trailing leg, and suddenly England's shape was cracked. The ball zipped quickly into Dzyuba, that mountain of a man who seemed to bend space with his frame.
Stones tried to grapple him again, but this time Dzyuba didn't even look at goal. He rose, chest out, and with a deft flick of his forehead cushioned the ball backwards into Smolov's path.
The danger unfolded in a heartbeat. Smolov didn't hesitate — he swung his boot through the ball from just outside the box, a shot drilled low and venomous toward the bottom corner.
The English fans gasped, a sharp intake of breath.
But Chris Smalling, England's quiet sentinel at the back, threw himself across. His body hit the turf with a crunch, shin outstretched, and the ball cannoned off him, ricocheting wide. For a moment the crowd didn't react, frozen in terror at what might have been. Then they roared their gratitude, chanting his name in relief.
"SMALLING! SMAL-LING!"
Smalling stayed down for half a second, sucking in air, then thumped his fist into the ground and rose. Rooney sprinted back, slapping his teammate on the shoulder. "Massive, mate. Absolutely massive."
Hart was already barking orders, waving his defenders tighter, his voice ragged with intensity. "Don't let them breathe in the box! Tight on your men, tight!"
Francesco, backtracking hard, felt his legs heavy, but his resolve doubled. This was no parade. This was survival. Russia wouldn't roll over. They would claw, they would fight, and they had players who could punish one slip of concentration.
The final minutes before halftime were a blur of noise and nerves. England sought to keep the ball, knocking it between midfield and defence, trying to smother Russia's late push. Rooney dropped deeper, gesturing with calm authority, telling his teammates to "hold, hold." Alli buzzed between lines, still pressing, still snapping, but more cautious now, wary of leaving holes.
In the stands, the English fans sang louder than ever, determined to see their team into the break with a lead intact. Flags waved, drums pounded, voices hoarse but unrelenting. For every Russian surge, there was a defiant roar in response.
And then, after one last Russian long ball was headed clear by Stones, the referee brought the whistle to his lips.
The shrill note cut through the Marseille night.
Halftime.
England 1 – 0 Russia.
The shrill whistle faded into the roar of the crowd, but for the players, it was a different world. Boots crunched across grass, shirts clung with sweat, and lungs burned with the taste of effort and adrenaline. The referee's signal hadn't just ended the first half — it had delivered a moment's reprieve.
The England squad filed down the tunnel, their boots clicking against the concrete, their breath still ragged. The air was cooler inside, though not by much. The Stade Vélodrome's bowels were heavy with humidity and the faint tang of disinfectant, a sharp contrast to the wild noise that still seeped faintly through the walls from the stands above.
Francesco collapsed onto the bench, the fabric of his shirt sticking to his back. He reached down for the bottle handed to him by a staffer, gulping down the fluorescent-blue Gatorade as if it were oxygen. The cold sting of it shot down his throat, waking muscles that already ached with the effort of the first forty-five minutes.
Across from him, Hart was pacing, towel around his neck, muttering to himself in between furious swigs of water. Smalling sat slumped, chest rising and falling in heavy rhythm, the imprint of Smolov's strike still written across the red welt on his shin. Kane leaned forward, forearms resting on thighs, sweat dripping from his brow as he stared at the floor.
Rooney broke the silence first, tossing his empty bottle aside and leaning back. "Good half, lads. But it's only half." His voice was calm but edged with that steel he had carried for years. His words weren't just for himself — they were for the room.
Roy Hodgson waited until every player was seated, until every breath had steadied enough to listen. Then he stepped forward, clipboard in hand, glasses perched low on his nose, his voice measured and deliberate.
"You've shown fight. You've shown control," he began, scanning the room. "But we've also shown them that one lapse, one hesitation, and they can hurt us. We don't get to switch off. Not once. You saw what Dzyuba can do. You saw what Smolov nearly did."
Players nodded, silent but intent.
"We stay compact," Roy continued. "Don't chase shadows. Let them have the ball in harmless areas, then squeeze as a unit. When we break, we break fast. Francesco — keep running at them. They don't like you. You've got their fullbacks scared stiff."
Francesco nodded, still catching his breath, but inside he felt a spark of pride. His goal had shifted the game, but Roy was reminding him — it wasn't enough. Not yet.
"Kane," Roy turned, locking eyes with his striker. "Your runs are pulling their centre-backs all over the place. Keep at it. You'll get your reward. I promise you."
Kane wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, gave a terse nod. He wasn't one for long words, but his eyes burned with determination.
"Second half," Roy said, voice tightening, "will not be easier. They will come out swinging. They have to. Russia cannot afford to sit. They will push. That's when we stay calm. That's when we hit them."
Silence lingered for a moment, the weight of his words pressing on each man. Then Rooney clapped his hands together, a sharp crack. "Let's finish this."
Bottles were drained, shirts tugged down, boots re-laced. The room was no longer heavy with exhaustion — it was alive with intent.
Back out on the pitch, the Marseille night wrapped around them like a furnace. The stadium buzzed, Russia's fans chanting with renewed vigor, their drums pounding like war calls. The whistle blew, and immediately the storm arrived.
For ten relentless minutes, Russia poured forward.
Kokorin twisted and turned, drawing fouls and jeers from the English fans. Smolov hovered at the edge of the box, firing off a low strike that Hart smothered at the second attempt. Dzyuba was a constant menace, backing into Stones, demanding long balls and flicking them into danger.
England bent, their lines straining. Henderson barked at his midfielders to tuck in, Rooney dropped deeper to shield the defence, and Alli sprinted until his lungs seemed ready to tear. Francesco was forced back, chasing Schennikov all the way to his own penalty area, sweat dripping into his eyes.
"Stay calm!" Hodgson yelled from the sideline, hands chopping downward in measured rhythm. "Stay calm!"
It was survival. For ten minutes, nothing else mattered. Blocks, clearances, tackles — they were the currency of England's resistance. And though the Russian end roared with every half-chance, the English defence stood firm.
Then, slowly, something shifted.
Dier intercepted a loose pass, spinning away from Glushakov and feeding Rooney. Rooney, with a calmness that belied the storm, rolled his foot over the ball, lifted his head, and spread play wide to Sterling. Suddenly, England were moving forward with rhythm.
Francesco, sensing the moment, sprinted down the left, demanding the switch. Sterling obliged, whipping a diagonal pass across the pitch. Francesco took it in stride, his legs pumping, defenders backpedaling in panic. The fear Hodgson had spoken of was written across their faces.
England began to hold possession, their passes cleaner, their shape tighter. Every successful exchange drew roars from the English end, the fans sensing the tide had turned.
And then came the breakthrough.
Then at the 58th minute, it started innocently, as many great moments do. Henderson nicked the ball in midfield again, slipping it quickly to Francesco, who was already in space on the left.
Francesco's eyes lit up. He darted forward, dragging Schennikov with him, but instead of cutting inside this time, he drove to the byline. His stride was long, relentless, his body leaning forward as if the whole world tilted him toward destiny.
Kane had peeled away from Ignashevich, drifting toward the near post, hand raised ever so slightly. It was the faintest signal, but Francesco saw it.
Without breaking stride, he whipped the cross low and hard, threading it through the narrow corridor between defender and keeper.
Kane pounced.
He threw himself at the ball, sliding in with perfect timing, and his boot met leather with force. The shot cannoned past Akinfeev before the Russian keeper could even flinch.
The net bulged.
For a heartbeat, the world held still. Then it exploded.
The English fans were a tidal wave of sound, bodies crashing against each other in ecstasy. Flags twirled, voices shattered, the Marseille night turned white with noise.
Kane sprinted toward the corner, arms wide, face split in a roar. Francesco chased after him, leaping onto his back, both of them swallowed by the swarm of teammates piling in. Rooney, Henderson, Alli — all crashing together in a heap of joy.
The scoreboard flashed:
England 2 – 0 Russia (58' Kane)
Francesco's chest heaved as he hugged Kane, the two of them laughing, shouting into each other's ears, words lost in the cacophony.
"I told you!" Francesco yelled, voice raw. "I told you the next one was yours!"
Kane grinned through the sweat, thumping his teammate's back. "Keep 'em coming, mate. Keep 'em coming."
On the sideline, Hodgson allowed himself the smallest of smiles, but his hands immediately signaled calm. "Focus! Reset!" he shouted, refusing to let joy cloud discipline.
But inside, he knew — this was a dagger. Russia's spirit had been wounded.
With the lead secure, Hodgson moved quickly. At the 65th minute, the fourth official raised his board, numbers glowing against the night.
Off: Harry Kane.
Off: Wayne Rooney.
On: Jamie Vardy.
On: Jack Wilshere.
The change sent ripples through the crowd. Kane jogged off to a standing ovation from the English end, his face alight with satisfaction. Rooney followed, applauding both sets of fans, the captain's duty fulfilled for the night.
In their place came fresh legs. Vardy bounded onto the pitch with his trademark grin, a man hungry to stretch tired Russian defenders with his raw pace. Wilshere, with his tidy touch and ability to keep possession under pressure, offered calm in midfield.
Francesco clapped Kane on the back as he passed. "Brilliant, mate."
Kane gave him a nod, sweat dripping down his temple. "It's your game now. Tear them apart."
The roar hadn't faded yet. Kane's sliding finish still reverberated in the Marseille night, still pulsed through the stands where red-and-white flags waved like storm-tossed seas. The scoreboard gleamed its new truth — 2–0 England — and though the English players had gathered back into formation, you could see the fire in their eyes, the way their chests swelled with a belief that hadn't been there in the nervous opening minutes.
But football is never so simple.
By the 68th minute, Russia sought to claw themselves back into the fight. Their manager, Leonid Slutsky, a bulky figure with a face drawn tight with frustration, stood at the edge of his technical area, barking instructions in clipped Russian syllables. His hands were sharp, chopping gestures, each one a command for change. He had seen enough of Smolov's wasted sprints, Neustädter's hesitations, Golovin's youth struggling against the press. It was time for experience, for hardened legs and lungs.
The fourth official raised the board.
Off: Roman Neustädter.
Off: Aleksandr Golovin.
Off: Fyodor Smolov.
On: Roman Shirokov.
On: Denis Glushakov.
On: Pavel Mamaev.
The Russian fans roared their approval, clapping their replacements on, voices rolling like thunder across the stadium. These weren't just substitutions — they were a gamble. Shirokov, older and cunning, could dictate tempo. Glushakov had the engine to wrestle midfield battles. Mamaev, sharp-eyed and restless, brought a hunger Russia desperately needed.
Francesco, standing near the halfway line as the play resumed, glanced at Wilshere. "Fresh legs," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Wilshere, shouted over the din, "Stay tight! They'll throw the kitchen sink now. We don't let 'em breathe!"
The warning was true enough. Within minutes, Russia pressed high again, their midfield snapping into tackles, their forwards buzzing like hornets around Stones and Smalling. The ball skidded across the grass, challenges flew in, and for a spell, it felt as if the storm of the first ten minutes of the half had returned.
But England weren't the same side they'd been then.
They'd tasted blood. They'd struck twice. And they had Francesco.
The 75th minute came like a dagger in a velvet sheath — quiet at first, almost unnoticeable, and then devastating.
It began with Sterling, out wide on the right, his boots light as feathers against the turf. Russia had doubled up on him, Schennikov and Mamaev closing fast, bodies angled to shove him toward the touchline. But Sterling, who had been growing in confidence all match, lifted his head and spotted the run.
Francesco.
He had ghosted into the channel between full-back and centre-half, timing it with the instincts of a predator who'd learned patience. His shirt clung to him, sweat pouring down his temples, but his stride was electric, alive.
Sterling slipped it through. Not a flashy pass, not a Hollywood ball — just perfectly weighted, the kind that spoke of trust.
Francesco was gone.
He latched onto the ball, body leaning forward, each stride eating the ground. Ignashevich lunged desperately, his arm outstretched, but he was a fraction too late. Francesco cut across him with the ruthless precision of a striker who knew exactly what he wanted.
Inside the box now, the crowd rising to its feet, Akinfeev squared his shoulders, hands spread wide.
Francesco didn't blink.
He opened his body, shaping for the far post. Akinfeev shifted, reading the move — and in that heartbeat, Francesco snapped the ball low to the near side, the tiniest flick of his boot disguising the strike until the very last instant.
The net rippled.
The Stade Vélodrome erupted.
England 3 – 0 Russia (75' Francesco Lee).
Francesco tore away toward the corner flag, his arms outstretched, head thrown back in a scream that was swallowed by the thunder of tens of thousands. Sterling chased after him, leaping onto his back, pounding his shoulders with a grin wide enough to split his face.
"Brace, mate! Brace!" Sterling yelled, half-laughing, half-shouting.
Teammates piled in — Vardy, Alli, Dier, all of them swarming their talisman. The English end had become a madhouse of song and smoke, chants pouring down like rain.
On the touchline, Hodgson clapped, expression controlled but eyes glinting. Beside him, Gary Neville pumped a fist, unable to hide his joy.
Francesco stood in the centre of it all, chest heaving, heart pounding, but a smile breaking across his lips. He had dreamed of nights like this, had seen them in flashes when he lay awake at home, but now they were real — sweat, sound, and the smell of cut grass beneath his boots.
This was his tournament.
Still, football never lets you rest easy.
Minutes ticked away. Russia, battered but not broken, pressed on with stubborn defiance. Every lost ball was chased, every throw-in contested. Berezutski, their captain, barked orders with raw authority, clapping his hands, demanding fight from his men.
England, perhaps lulled by the comfort of a three-goal lead, began to sag. Passes slowed, tackles came a step late, and though Hart's goal hadn't been breached, the Russians sensed a sliver of hope.
The board went up again. England made more changes — Hodgson looking to shore things up, to rest legs that had run themselves ragged. But with each minute, the Russians grew hungrier.
Then came stoppage time.
The 90th minute had bled into the 92nd. England's fans were already singing of victory, voices raw with triumph, when Russia won a corner.
It seemed harmless enough — one last chance for pride. But football's cruelty lies in moments like these.
The ball was whipped in, curling viciously toward the heart of the six-yard box. Bodies clashed, shirts were tugged, and in the chaos rose a figure — Vasili Berezutski, the captain himself.
He soared above Stones, above Smalling, above the desperate flail of Hart's fist. His forehead met the ball with brutal precision.
The net shook.
Russia had their goal.
England 3 – 1 Russia (90+2' Berezutski).
The Russian end erupted, flares lighting up the stands, fists punching the air. Berezutski roared, veins straining in his neck, teammates mobbing him as if it were the goal to win the match rather than a consolation.
For England, it was a sting. A reminder that nothing ever comes without cost. Hart punched the ground in frustration, shouting at his defenders, while Hodgson on the sideline cursed under his breath.
Francesco gathered his teammates, waving his arms. "Heads up! It's nothing! One more minute, lads. One more bloody minute!"
And then, at last, the whistle.
Sharp, shrill, final.
The storm was over.
England had won.
The players sank to their knees, to the turf slick with sweat and tears. The English fans were a wall of noise, chanting, singing, dancing in Marseille's night. Flags rippled, voices rose, and for a moment, it felt as if the whole of England had descended into the South of France to rejoice together.
England 3 – 1 Russia.
The perfect start. A campaign begun with fire.
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.
________________________________________________
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
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9