If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
____________________________
Francesco blinked, turned, and nodded. The hotel swallowed him up, but the sound of the fans — both the cheers and the rival chants — stayed with him long after the doors shut.
The next day came with a weight of its own, heavy but electric, like the air before a storm.
By mid-afternoon the hotel lobby had transformed from a place of casual comings and goings into something else entirely — a kind of staging ground. Players trickled down one by one, some in tracksuits zipped to the chin, others with headphones clamped tight, eyes fixed ahead. The staff were already there: Hodgson with his notes tucked under his arm, Neville pacing in short strides like a man trying to walk off nerves, physios with bags of tape and kits slung across their shoulders.
The clock struck 16:00, and the call came: "Bus is ready."
The air shifted. Conversation dulled, footsteps fell in sync, and the squad filed out into the Paris afternoon.
Outside, the sky was soft grey, the kind that could pass for calm but seemed to hum with something underneath. The team bus, gleaming and enormous, waited with its doors open. Security flanked the entrance, radios crackling, eyes sharp. Beyond the barriers, fans had gathered again — more of them now, louder, waving flags and shouting names as the players climbed aboard.
Francesco felt his chest tighten as he stepped onto the bus. His boots clicked against the first step, and then he was swallowed into the narrow aisle. The smell was familiar — that blend of leather seats, faint sweat, and the antiseptic tang of cleaning products. He slid into his usual spot by the window, Kane dropping into the seat beside him without a word, earbuds already in place.
The doors hissed shut. The engine rumbled. And then they were moving.
Paris rolled past them, but it wasn't Paris anymore. The streets were rivers of color.
On one side, England fans lined the pavements in their thousands, faces painted, flags draped around shoulders like capes. They chanted, they sang, they banged drums and rattled bottles against barriers. Every time the bus came into view, the noise swelled, hands shot up, scarves waved like storm signals.
On the other side, the green of Northern Ireland rose to meet them. Their chants were different — rougher, rawer, but no less proud. They sang folk songs as though they were hymns, clapping in rhythm, voices braided together until they sounded like one. The rivalry didn't just sit on the terraces — it spilled into the very streets of Paris.
Between the seas of red-white and green, clusters of neutral fans stood with cameras raised, capturing the spectacle. Some wore French shirts, others no colors at all, their smiles wide as if savoring the rare theater of nations colliding. Children balanced on lampposts or sat atop shoulders, waving down at the bus as it passed beneath them.
Francesco leaned forward slightly, pressing his palm against the cool glass. He could see it all: the faces, the painted flags, the blur of hands reaching out. He thought of that sign from the night before — Bring it home. He thought of his family watching somewhere far away, maybe seeing the same scenes on television. And for a flicker of a moment, he wished he could stop the bus and step out, just to stand in the middle of it, to feel it on his skin instead of through glass.
Rooney's voice broke the silence from the front. "Remember this, lads. Remember it, but don't let it get inside your heads. All this is noise. What matters is the ninety minutes."
The bus pushed deeper into the city. The chants outside never let up — they shifted, swelled, collided, but never stopped. It was as if Paris itself had become a drum, beating, beating, beating.
The first glimpse of the Parc des Princes came suddenly — the curved facade rising like a fortress at the end of the boulevard. Its concrete pillars jutted skyward, stark and commanding, banners draped between them in the tournament's colors.
As the bus turned into the secured entrance, the roar of fans outside intensified. Police lined the roads now, barriers channeling the masses back, but their voices carried over regardless.
When the bus pulled to a halt, the players rose in near unison. Tracksuit zips tugged up, headphones slipped off, bags hoisted. The door hissed open, and the outside air rushed in — cooler, sharper, tinged with the faint smell of smoke and food from the vendors outside.
One by one, they stepped down. Rooney first, his expression a mask of steel. Then Henderson, Sterling, Kane. Francesco followed, the soles of his trainers hitting the concrete with a muted thud. Cameras flashed, shouts rose, but the path was clear, security ushering them through.
The tunnel into the stadium swallowed them, the noise muffled but not gone. It clung to the walls, a distant thunder that seemed to pulse beneath the concrete.
The dressing room awaited.
It was wide, bright, its walls plastered with tournament branding, the air already carrying the faint sting of liniment and fresh kit fabric. Along the benches, shirts hung in neat rows, numbers bold, boots lined beneath like soldiers at attention. The room hummed with energy, not yet released but coiled tight.
Francesco found his place — the number stitched across his shirt catching the fluorescent light. He ran a hand over the fabric, smooth beneath his fingertips, before setting his bag down. Around him, teammates moved through their own rituals: Sturridge bouncing lightly on his toes, Rashford pacing with restless energy, Rooney speaking quietly with the staff.
"Training kit," Neville called, clapping his hands. "Let's get moving. Ten minutes."
Tracksuits peeled off. Players changed swiftly, pulling on the lighter kits reserved for warm-up — white tops, shorts, boots tightened with practiced hands. Francesco knelt to lace his boots, tugging each knot firm until it sat flush. He could feel the blood thrum in his legs already, eager, impatient.
The walk to the pitch was a short one, but it carried weight.
The corridor was lined with photos of past matches at the Parc des Princes — legends frozen mid-strike, crowds mid-roar. Each step echoed off the walls, boots clattering, voices low. Then came the final door, and with it, the swell of sound that had been muted until now.
It hit them like a wave.
The stadium was alive. Fans had already begun to fill the stands, their colors a mosaic of red, white, green, and everything between. Songs rolled across the tiers, flags rippled in the evening air, and the pitch itself stretched out beneath the lights like a stage awaiting its play.
England jogged out in a line, greeted by a fresh surge of noise. The neutrals applauded, the England fans roared, the Northern Irish booed good-naturedly, their chants doubling in volume to match.
Francesco stepped onto the turf, the grass springy beneath his boots, the air cool against his skin. He drew a deep breath, letting the smell of cut grass and distant smoke fill his lungs.
Warm-up began.
Cones laid out, passes snapping between players, stretches pulling muscles loose. The ball moved quickly, confidence in every touch. Francesco joined a rondo circle, the ball pinging around him, his body moving sharp and fluid, each flick a reminder of why he was here.
Across the pitch, Northern Ireland warmed up in their green kits, their drills no less intense. They shouted encouragement, pressed hard, stretched with the same determination. There would be no gifts given tonight.
The players peeled themselves away from the rondo circles, the last passes fizzing across the turf with the crispness of habit. A whistle from one of the staff cut through the air, sharp but low, and the England squad began jogging toward the tunnel. Francesco gave the ball a final touch, letting it skid across the immaculate grass before collecting it for the kit man.
The walk back was slower than the one out. Their muscles were warm now, but so were their minds — switched on, sharpened. The Parc des Princes crowd followed them with noise all the way to the tunnel, voices rising and falling like a tide. The closer they came to the dressing room, the more the roar became muffled, traded for the slap of boots on concrete, the hiss of breath cooling against damp shirts.
Inside, the dressing room had changed. Where before it had been a staging ground, now it was a command center. The match kits were hung in perfect symmetry, white shining under the fluorescent lights, numbers bold and black across the backs. The air carried the heavy tang of liniment now, stronger than before, mixed with the faint musk of sweat and anticipation.
Francesco sat at his place, peeling off the warm-up top and replacing it with the crisp match shirt. The fabric hugged tighter, somehow heavier even though it was the same weight as any other. His number — bold across the back — felt like a brand against his skin. He pulled on the socks, rolling them up to his knees, then began the ritual of lacing his match boots again, tugging each knot down firm until it pressed snug into place.
Around him, the rhythm of preparation echoed in small sounds: the snap of shin pads being strapped, the tug of tape around ankles, the quiet exhale of players centering themselves. Rashford muttered a short prayer under his breath. Henderson flexed his shoulders in the mirror. Kane rolled the ball beneath his studs in tiny circles, gaze unfocused but fixed somewhere far ahead.
Then the room shifted. Hodgson had stood.
He wasn't a man who often filled space with his presence, but in that moment he didn't need to shout to command attention. The chatter fell off instantly, boots stilled, heads lifted. He set his notes down, untouched, and looked around the room as if weighing every man against the moment.
"This is it," he said, voice firm but calm. "This is why we're here. All the training, all the talk, all the hard graft you've put in… it leads to nights like this. Don't take it for granted. Don't waste it."
The words carried not because of volume, but because of weight.
He gestured at the tactical board to his side. "We're setting up 4-3-3." He tapped the magnet pieces into place, each click loud in the silence. "Joe in goal. Back four — Danny, Gary, Chris, Kyle. Solid. Compact. No gaps." His gaze lingered briefly on Cahill and Smalling, making sure the message sank in.
He shifted his hand to the midfield. "Jordan sitting deepest. Protect the line, break up play, keep it moving. Dele ahead of him, box-to-box. Wayne higher, just behind Harry. You're our heartbeat in there, Wayne. Everything runs through you."
Rooney gave a curt nod, jaw clenched, eyes steady.
"Wide," Hodgson continued, sliding two magnets into place. "Raheem on the left. Francesco on the right. I don't want you just hugging the line — I want you attacking them. Stretch them. Get in behind. Force them back. Make their full-backs hate you."
Francesco felt his chest tighten, not with nerves but with something close to fire. Hodgson's eyes had met his just briefly, but it was enough. He knew the trust in that instruction. He knew the demand hidden inside it.
"And Harry," Hodgson said finally, pressing the last magnet forward into the striker's role. "Lead the line. Stay sharp. If they give you half a yard, punish them."
Kane exhaled, almost a growl, a man winding the spring inside himself.
Hodgson straightened. "That's the shape. But listen carefully — it's not just about positions. It's about responsibility. About covering each other, fighting for each other, not letting the shirt down. These fans out there… they've come here believing in you. Let's make them proud."
He paused then, long enough for the silence to thicken. "We play our football tonight. Not theirs. Ours. Keep the ball when we can, move it quick, make them chase shadows. But when it's time to go? We go with everything. No hesitation. No fear."
The captain rose to his feet. Rooney didn't say much — he never needed to. His presence was enough. He looked around at the younger players, then back at Hodgson, and simply said, "We're ready."
And they were.
The room shifted into motion again, but this time it wasn't casual. Shirts were pulled on and tucked. Shin pads strapped, boots double-knotted. Francesco slid his tape tight around his wrists, the ritual grounding him, before tugging the last strap of his shin guard into place. He stood and rolled his shoulders, feeling the kit settle onto him like armor.
The staff came around with final touches: a pat of encouragement on the back, a quick adjustment to tape, a whispered reminder. Music thumped faintly from a speaker in the corner — low, steady, more heartbeat than anthem.
Francesco glanced across the room at Kane, who caught his eye and gave the smallest nod. It wasn't much, but it was enough — a promise, an unspoken pact.
Outside, the muffled roar of the crowd swelled, filling the corridors, leaking through the walls. It wasn't background noise anymore. It was the pulse of the night, the drumbeat of expectation.
Neville clapped his hands. "Alright, lads. Tunnel."
The players rose as one, boots striking against the tiled floor, shirts gleaming white under the fluorescent light. Francesco adjusted the hem of his sleeve one last time before following the line out of the dressing room. The corridor was narrow, the kind that funneled sound, amplifying every breath, every scrape of studs.
And then the double-doors opened, spilling them into the belly of the stadium.
The noise hit them like thunder.
The tunnel wasn't just a passageway — it was a crucible. The walls were close, the lights harsh and white, and the noise from the stands pressed through the concrete in rolling waves. It smelled of fresh paint, rubber soles, and the faint dampness of turf dragged in on boots. Every step the players took echoed, magnified, as though the stadium itself was listening.
Francesco could feel the weight of his heartbeat now, slow but heavy, each thud pushing against his ribs like a drum. He tugged once more at the hem of his shirt, not because it needed fixing but because his hands needed something to do. Kane walked beside him, silent, jaw tight, and Rooney was just ahead, his captain's armband already strapped, his back broad and unshaken.
The England squad lined up neatly on one side of the tunnel, white kits glowing under the fluorescent strips. Across from them, Northern Ireland emerged, a wall of green. Their faces were taut, their eyes sharp, their voices low but brimming with an intensity that could be felt even across the narrow space. Francesco studied them without meaning to — the way Steven Davis stood at the front with calm authority, the way Jonny Evans rolled his shoulders like a fighter preparing for the bell, the way the younger lads looked both terrified and defiant all at once.
The referees appeared then, FIFA logos bright on their jackets, the match ball tucked under the arm of the main official. His presence settled the tunnel in an odd way — like a teacher walking into a classroom right before chaos broke out.
"Line up," one of the assistants instructed.
The players shuffled, shoulder to shoulder. Francesco found himself standing next to Sterling, whose knee bounced with restless energy, and behind him, Walker cracked a small grin, whispering something under his breath that only Cahill caught. It was nerves — all of it — but nerves that felt like fire, ready to spread the second the whistle blew.
Then the doors ahead swung open, and light poured in.
The roar hit harder this time, a storm crashing through the tunnel. The announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, but it was nearly drowned out by the crowd. Flags rippled in every direction, red-and-white clashing against deep green, the occasional French tricolor or neutral scarf adding splashes of color to the tapestry. Drums pounded somewhere in the England end, answered by chants rising like thunder from the Northern Irish contingent.
The players stepped forward.
The pitch was a stage under the floodlights, grass trimmed so fine it looked unreal, like something grown for kings. Francesco's boots sank slightly into it as they crossed the touchline, and his chest rose with a sharp breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The sound was everywhere now — in his ears, in his chest, in his bones.
The teams spread across the pitch for the formalities. The referees motioned them into line, each squad forming a row facing the main stand. Children in miniature kits jogged out, each one clutching the hand of a player. A small boy no older than eight slipped his hand into Francesco's. His eyes were wide, his smile nervous but full of wonder. Francesco gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, bending slightly to murmur, "Enjoy this, yeah?" The boy grinned, and something in Francesco's chest loosened.
The announcer's voice rolled across the stadium. "Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthems."
The first chords of "God Save the Queen" swelled.
The England fans erupted, their voices raw, proud, filling the air like a wave. The players stood tall, shoulders squared. Rooney sang with his jaw tight, Henderson's lips moved with steady rhythm, Sterling closed his eyes and let the words carry him. Francesco sang too, not out of duty but out of something deeper — the kind of belonging he had chased his whole life and finally caught. The anthem poured out of thousands of throats and through his own, until it felt like it wasn't just sound but armor wrapping itself around him.
The last note lingered, echoing against the concrete bowl of the stadium, before the applause and cheers drowned it out.
Then came "Amhrán na bhFiann."
The Northern Ireland fans roared it with every ounce of pride in their bodies, green scarves twirling, fists pumping skyward. Their voices rose strong and defiant, not drowned out by numbers but sharpened by conviction. Francesco felt the hairs rise on his arms listening to it. He didn't understand the words, but he understood the meaning — the weight of identity, of history, of a small nation standing tall on a stage this big. Across from him, the Northern Irish players belted it out, their faces fierce, some with eyes closed as if summoning every ounce of strength from the sound.
When the final line ended, the stadium thundered with noise — cheers, whistles, drums, chants — all colliding until it was impossible to separate one from the other.
The children were led away, the referees stepped forward, and it was time.
Captains Rooney and Steven Davis strode to the center circle with the main referee. The coin glittered briefly in the floodlight as the official held it up. He spoke to them both in short, clipped tones, explaining the call, the choices. Rooney called it — his voice steady, sharp in the brief silence between roars. The coin spun, hit the grass, and landed.
The referee bent, lifted it, and showed the result. A quick nod from Rooney, a handshake with Davis, and the decision was made: England would kick off.
Rooney jogged back, relaying the choice with a brief gesture. The team spread into formation, players adjusting shin pads one last time, boots scuffing against the pristine turf, breaths deepening. Kane clapped his hands, barking a quick word to Francesco and Sterling to stay sharp from the first whistle. Henderson pointed, orchestrating shape. Walker shouted back at Cahill, making sure the back four were set.
Francesco jogged into position on the right wing. The stadium noise melted for him into something strange — a dull roar, steady, like the ocean in his ears. He bounced on his toes, shook out his arms, stared at the ball resting on the center spot where Kane now stood ready.
The referee glanced around once, twice. His whistle hung at his lips.
The referee's whistle cut through the noise, shrill and absolute. For a heartbeat, the stadium seemed to tighten, breath caught in its chest — then Kane nudged the ball back to Rooney, and the match had begun.
The white shirts of England moved almost in unison, like a tide spreading across the pitch. Rooney touched wide to Henderson, who immediately dropped deep to collect, shaping his body to face forward. The ball rolled under his boot as smoothly as if the grass had been laid just for him. Already Francesco peeled wide on the right, forcing the Northern Ireland back line to shuffle nervously.
From the very first minute, England stamped their authority. The midfield trio clicked into rhythm, passes snapping sharp between them. Henderson dropped to cover the defenders, while Dele Alli drove forward, darting into little pockets of space between green shirts. Rooney, chest out, played like a man pulling strings, arms gesturing, eyes scanning for gaps.
The ball zipped right to left, left to right, Northern Ireland chasing shadows.
"England settling quickly here," the commentator's voice carried across televisions and radios, sharp with excitement. "Rooney dictating tempo, Henderson and Alli giving balance… Northern Ireland under pressure early."
Francesco felt it himself. Every time the ball came near, it was alive under his boots. Walker overlapped him instantly, dragging Stuart Dallas back, which gave Francesco license to cut inside. Kane peeled off Gareth McAuley, drawing defenders like metal to a magnet. And Sterling, on the far side, danced on his toes, always a pass away from springing into space.
By the fourth minute, England had their first shot.
Rooney, dropping deep, spotted Sterling's diagonal run and lifted a ball over. Sterling brought it down with a neat touch, skipped past Aaron Hughes, and drilled a low shot. McGovern was equal to it — down sharp, gloves smothering the ball — but the England fans erupted anyway, fists pumping in the Paris night.
"Sterling with the early test!" the co-commentator barked. "Lovely pass from Rooney, and England already showing intent."
Francesco clapped his hands as Sterling jogged back. "Keep at 'em, Raz!" he shouted, his own blood hot with hunger.
A minute later it was his turn. Kane dropped deep, spun, and slipped the ball wide. Francesco cut infield, his right boot caressing the ball as he burst between Evans and Craig Cathcart. The grass blurred under his stride, the green shirts closing in, but he didn't hesitate. He shaped, curled his foot around the ball, and let fly.
The shot screamed toward the far corner — but again McGovern flung himself full length, fingertips brushing it away. The England end roared, a guttural sound of nearly, of what if.
"McGovern!" the commentator gasped. "That's a stunning save. Francesco Lee, cutting in from the right, almost gave England the dream start."
Francesco pressed his hands to his face briefly, grinning through the frustration. Walker clapped him on the back. "Next one, mate. Next one."
The pattern was set. England monopolized possession, triangles forming and reforming across the pitch. Every pass drew a cheer, every touch building momentum. Henderson barked instructions, always available, the metronome at the heart of it all.
But Northern Ireland were not here to roll over.
Michael O'Neill had drilled them for this exact scenario: suffer, absorb, and strike when the moment came. They sat compact, lines barely ten yards apart, every man behind the ball when England entered their half. Lafferty was left up top, broad shoulders and a fighter's snarl, ready to wrestle with Cahill and Smalling for any scrap of service.
And when the ball broke, they broke fast.
On eight minutes, Aaron Hughes pinched the ball off Sterling near halfway. In a blink, Davis released Dallas down the right. The winger surged into space, his stride long and hungry. Francesco tracked back, but Dallas had momentum. A low cross whipped in, Lafferty stretching, but Cahill's boot sliced it clear.
A ripple of green cheers rolled across the stands.
"That's what Northern Ireland are looking for," the co-commentator said knowingly. "They'll soak it up, and if England get sloppy, Ward, Dallas, and Lafferty can hurt them."
Joe Hart's shout echoed across the back line. "Switch on, boys! No chances, yeah?"
Francesco jogged back into position, lungs heaving but fire still in his legs. He exchanged a glance with Cahill, who gave him a nod. They knew: one lapse, and Northern Ireland would punish.
Back came England. Rooney spread it wide left, Sterling wriggled past McLaughlin, squared it to Kane, who swiveled and shot — blocked by Jonny Evans, the ball spinning high. Dele Alli pounced, volleying, but McGovern again was in place, fists punching it clear.
The England fans were loud now, chanting, stamping, demanding. Francesco could feel their voices vibrating through his chest, pulling him forward every time he touched the ball.
Minutes ticked by, each one a push and pull. England with the ball, Northern Ireland with the grit. Henderson's passes sliced, Rooney probed, Francesco drove inside again and again, only to see McGovern's gloves flash like iron gates closing at the last instant.
In the stands, pundits muttered into microphones. "England dominant, but they must find composure. They can't let frustration creep in. Northern Ireland are disciplined, well-drilled, and the longer it stays goalless, the more belief they'll draw from it."
And still, chances came.
In the 15th minute, Kane dropped deep, flicked to Rooney, who instantly threaded Francesco through on the right channel. Francesco surged into the box, his stride long, the ball dancing ahead of him. He cut across Evans, struck with his left — and McGovern again denied, sprawling low, his body a wall between England and the breakthrough.
Francesco let out a roar, half fury, half disbelief. Sterling jogged over, slapped his shoulder. "He can't stop all of 'em. Keep going."
But Northern Ireland answered again. Davis picked up a loose ball in midfield, slid Ward into space on the left. Ward drove forward, his pace sudden, cutting past Walker and firing low across goal. For a second, the air froze — until Hart dropped, palms smothering, body over the ball.
The England end exhaled as one.
"Big stop from Joe Hart!" the commentator bellowed. "And you can see Northern Ireland's plan — break quick, feed the wide men, look for Lafferty lurking."
The game had teeth now. England were dominant, yes, but Northern Ireland's counters had danger written across them. The ball zipped back and forth, the roar of the crowd rising with every touch, every tackle, every save.
________________________________________________
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: 3
Goal: 5
Assist: 1
MOTM: 2
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9