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As the players began their customary walk toward the fans, the stadium lights shimmered above, catching the faint mist of sweat and night air. Francesco walked beside Rooney and Henderson, the three of them side by side, united in silence that needed no words.
The roar still hung in the air like smoke after cannon fire — thick, alive, electric. England's players were scattered across the pitch, some embracing, others simply standing there, heads tilted toward the night sky, soaking in the noise. The fans' chants rolled over them in waves, and for a moment it felt as if the whole stadium pulsed in one rhythm: red, white, and blue hearts beating in unison.
Francesco was still walking toward the England end, sweat glistening down his neck, the towel now damp from the cool night air. He raised it briefly to his face, wiped away the sheen, and looked up — tens of thousands of faces, flags, and flares, all blurring into one glowing sea of celebration. It was the kind of sight that didn't need words. It said everything.
He could feel the vibration of the crowd even in his chest — that low, resonant thrum that you only get when a nation sings your name. "LEE! LEE! LEE!" It echoed down, through the terraces, through the cameras, through the night.
Then came a tap on his shoulder.
A UEFA staff member, neatly dressed in the navy blazer and earpiece of post-match protocol, gave him a polite smile. "Mr. Lee? This way, please. You've been selected for the UEFA Man of the Match interview."
Francesco blinked once, nodding. "Right now?"
"Yes, sir. Right on the sideline — Geoff Shreeves is waiting."
He exhaled softly, one last glance at his teammates still clapping the crowd, before handing the towel to a nearby kitman. He ran a hand through his damp hair, straightened his shirt, and followed the official toward the edge of the pitch where the press lights glowed like a small constellation.
The atmosphere changed subtly as he stepped closer. The roar of the fans softened into a steady hum, replaced by the clatter of camera shutters, the whir of broadcast rigs, and the faint static of earpieces crackling with producer voices. Beyond the sponsor board, Geoff Shreeves stood ready — mic in hand, the familiar calm professionalism etched across his face.
Geoff turned as Francesco approached, his smile genuine. "Here he is — the man of the match himself," he said warmly, offering a handshake.
Francesco took it, still catching his breath. "Evening, Geoff."
"Evening, Francesco," Geoff replied, tone friendly but precise — the practiced mix of interviewer and admirer. "Congratulations — what a performance tonight. Two goals, an assist, and a place in the quarterfinals. That's quite the night."
Francesco gave a modest grin, his voice still a touch hoarse from the effort. "Yeah, it feels good. It was one of those games where everything just clicked. From the first minute, we were confident, and once we got the rhythm, it was just about keeping control."
Geoff nodded, stepping half a pace closer so their voices would catch cleanly on the mic despite the background roar. "You say 'keeping control' — and that seemed to be the story of the match. England looked composed from start to finish. What was the mindset going in, especially against a team like Northern Ireland, who we know can frustrate teams defensively?"
Francesco looked toward the pitch, the green still vibrant under the floodlights. "We knew it wasn't going to be easy. They're organized, disciplined, and they've got players who'll fight for every ball. But the boss told us before kickoff — don't rush it. Patience wins these games. Keep the ball moving, stretch them, and the chances will come."
He paused, a faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth. "And once the first one went in, you could feel it — the belief just spread."
Geoff chuckled softly, glancing toward his notes but not really needing them. "Let's talk about that first one. That flick over Evans — the rainbow, the composure — people will be replaying that for days. Walk us through it."
Francesco laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah… that one just kind of happened, to be honest. I saw the ball coming down and felt Evans closing in. I didn't really have space to take it down, so instinct just kicked in. I lifted it over him, and once it came down, I just thought: hit it clean. And it went in."
He shrugged slightly, still smiling. "Sometimes the ball listens to you."
"Beautifully put," Geoff said with an amused nod. "Now, that moment also came not long after you took quite a heavy knock from Jonny Evans. We all saw the replay — it looked nasty. How close were you to coming off?"
Francesco's expression softened, recalling it. "Yeah, it was a tough one. He caught me on the ankle — I don't think there was any malice, just mistimed. When I went down, I felt a bit of a sting, and the doc came on, checked me. For a second, I thought that might be it. But once I stood up, I could move, I could plant. I wasn't coming off for that. Not tonight."
Geoff nodded approvingly. "You stayed on, and you punished them right after. That's resilience — and confidence. You've shown that all tournament, really. How's your mindset been? You look like a player enjoying himself right now."
Francesco's eyes lifted for a moment toward the stands, where the fans were still celebrating. "Yeah… I'm happy. I've worked a lot the last few months — mentally, physically. I just try to enjoy the game now. Playing for England, hearing those fans — it's special. You don't take it for granted."
He looked back at Geoff, sincerity in his tone. "When I pull on that shirt, it's more than football. It's pride. It's responsibility. And I love it."
The camera zoomed slightly, catching the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his temples. The floodlights reflected off his eyes, making them glint — alive, fierce, human.
Geoff gave a small nod, then tilted his mic slightly. "We saw you come off in the seventy-fifth minute — Hodgson making those changes to rest you, Rooney, and Kane. What did the manager say before that substitution?"
"He told us we'd done our job," Francesco said with a faint chuckle. "He wanted us to save our legs for the next round. I wasn't too happy coming off — you never are, you know — but I understood it. The team comes first. And the lads who came on — Dier, Vards, Studge — they kept it going perfectly."
Geoff's smile widened. "And speaking of next round — you'll now face either Belgium or Hungary. Do you have a preference?"
Francesco exhaled through his nose, thinking carefully before replying. "At this level, there's no easy match. Belgium have the quality, Hungary have the heart. Whoever it is, we'll prepare the same way — focus on ourselves, stay disciplined, and play our football."
Geoff raised his eyebrows slightly. "Very diplomatic answer."
Francesco laughed. "It's true, though. You can't pick your opponent — you just make sure you're ready for whoever stands in front of you."
Behind them, the noise from the England fans swelled again — a chant rising in unison, rolling down the terraces like thunder.
"We're on our way, we're on our way… to Paris, we're on our way!"
Geoff glanced over his shoulder, smiling. "You can hear what the fans think."
Francesco turned slightly, watching them with a soft smile that said more than words. He lifted a hand, waving in their direction — the cameras catching the gesture instantly, broadcasting it live across Europe.
When he turned back, Geoff leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly — not for drama, but for intimacy, the way good interviewers do when they want the moment to breathe.
"Francesco, a lot of people are talking about you — not just tonight, but this whole tournament. You've been England's standout performer. Two goals tonight, seven in total now. People are already mentioning your name alongside some of England's greats. How do you handle that kind of attention?"
Francesco smiled faintly, but his answer came measured. "You don't think about it too much. You stay grounded. I'm just a player — part of a team. I've still got so much to learn. Hearing my name next to legends like Rooney, Gerrard, or Shearer… it's an honor, but I've got a long way to go before I can even be in that conversation."
He paused, his tone softening. "But if people are inspired by what I do — if kids watching at home dream because of it — that means everything."
Geoff nodded slowly. "That's a good answer. And I have to say — the composure, the maturity you've shown this tournament — it's been remarkable. You've become a real leader on the pitch. Even when you're not wearing the armband."
Francesco's eyes flickered with something quieter — humility mixed with pride. "I just try to lead by example. The lads trust me, and I trust them. When you play for England, leadership doesn't come from one man — it comes from everyone. Wayne sets the tone, but we all follow."
The camera panned momentarily to the England captain on the bench, now smiling and clapping toward the interview area, clearly having heard Francesco's words. Geoff noticed the gesture and smiled. "Rooney seems to agree."
Francesco chuckled softly, shaking his head. "He's the boss on the pitch. I'm just the runner."
For a moment, both men laughed, the tension melting away into the comfortable afterglow of victory.
Then Geoff's earpiece crackled faintly — the signal from the producer. He straightened slightly, turning back toward the camera. "Alright, Francesco, before we wrap up, one final question. You've been named UEFA's Man of the Match for this performance. What does that mean to you?"
Francesco blinked once, the weight of the moment landing quietly. "It means a lot. To be recognized on a stage like this — it's special. But honestly, this belongs to the team. The defenders who kept it tight, the midfielders who ran all night, the forwards who created space. We all earned this."
Geoff smiled. "Spoken like a true professional."
At that cue, the UEFA staff member stepped forward again, carrying the small glass award on a black velvet tray — sleek, elegant, etched with the tournament crest and the words Man of the Match: Francesco Lee.
Geoff gestured toward it. "Well, on behalf of UEFA and everyone watching tonight — congratulations, Francesco. A brilliant performance, and a well-deserved award."
He handed the trophy over.
The cameras flashed, catching the moment perfectly — Francesco accepting the crystal plaque with both hands, lifting it just slightly toward the stands, where the fans roared again. The lights glimmered through the glass, refracting in shards of silver and gold.
Francesco's smile was faint but genuine — that kind of quiet joy that only comes after ninety minutes of sweat, pain, and triumph. He turned back to Geoff. "Thank you, mate."
"Well done," Geoff said, giving his arm a friendly pat. "We'll be seeing more of you, I'm sure."
As Francesco stepped away from the microphone, the broadcast cut to the pundit desk — Ian Wright, Jamie Carragher, and Lee Dixon all waiting with broad smiles.
Ian was the first to speak, laughter already in his tone. "That lad's special, you know. Two goals, one assist, and still humble as ever. Reminds me of someone…"
Carragher smirked. "You?"
"Damn right!" Wright laughed, slapping the table. "But seriously, he's got everything — pace, confidence, end product. He's leading this team like a veteran."
Lee Dixon nodded in agreement. "He's the spark. England haven't had a forward with that kind of flair and efficiency since Henry days in the Premier League. He changes games."
Back on the pitch, Francesco began walking again toward the tunnel, the glass trophy still in his hand. As he passed the technical area, Hodgson stopped him briefly, giving his arm a squeeze.
"Proud of you, son," the manager said quietly. "Keep your feet on the ground. We'll need you again soon."
Francesco nodded. "Always, boss."
He moved on, the tunnel lights glowing warm ahead of him. The noise of the crowd dimmed gradually, replaced by the echoing sound of studs on concrete, the hum of reporters, and the faint whir of distant generators.
The sound of his boots echoed down the tunnel — that hollow, rhythmic thud that every footballer knows by heart. Sweat still traced faint lines down his temples, the scent of grass and adrenaline still clinging to him like a second skin. He turned one last time before disappearing fully beneath the stands. From there, the pitch looked like something out of a dream — drenched in floodlights, dotted with players still waving to the fans, the night humming with pride.
Inside, the noise dulled to a low murmur. The tunnel was lined with concrete, cool and silent save for the distant rhythm of voices — reporters murmuring, cameramen packing up, officials exchanging notes. Francesco walked past the mixed zone, still clutching the glass Man of the Match trophy. Every few steps, someone stopped him for a handshake, a nod, a quick "Well played, mate."
He smiled at each of them, but his mind was still half out there on the pitch, replaying moments in flashes: the rainbow flick, the volley, the roar.
As he turned toward the dressing room corridor, a familiar voice echoed from a nearby monitor.
"Let's go back to our pundits — Ian Wright, Jamie Carragher, and Lee Dixon — for analysis on England's 3–0 victory over Northern Ireland."
Francesco slowed, glancing at the large screen mounted above a sponsor wall. The live broadcast filled the air — Sky Sports' studio gleaming with blue light and the iconic Euro backdrop. The pundits were already in full flow, each with that post-match buzz that comes when everything finally clicks for your country.
Ian Wright leaned forward first, his trademark energy filling the space even through the cameras. He was grinning so wide it was almost infectious.
"Listen," he said, pointing at the screen as a slow-motion replay began — Francesco's rainbow flick looping over Jonny Evans in crystal clarity, the stadium gasping all over again. "You see this? That right there is confidence. That's not arrogance — that's a man who's feeling it. Look at that touch — timing, awareness, the audacity to try it in a knockout match? You can't teach that."
Jamie Carragher chuckled beside him, shaking his head. "It's the kind of thing defenders hate seeing. You know what Evans is thinking right there? 'Please don't make me a meme.' And then — bang — Francesco does exactly that. Perfect touch, and the finish… he makes it look easy. It's world class."
Lee Dixon nodded, more analytical, his tone balancing the excitement. "And notice the positioning too. Before that moment, he'd already drifted into the half-space, pulling Cathcart out of shape. It wasn't random flair — it was deliberate. He knew where the gap would open. That's intelligence as much as talent."
Wright turned, eyes alight. "I said it before the game — he's the difference-maker. Kane and Rooney are the headlines, but Francesco's the heartbeat. You can build a team around a lad like that."
Carragher gestured toward another replay. "And what impressed me wasn't just the goals — it was how much defensive work he put in. Look here." The footage shifted to a frame of Francesco sprinting back toward his own half, tackling Dallas cleanly before recycling possession. "You don't get that from a flair player too often. He's running thirty, forty yards to help the team. That's commitment."
Lee Dixon added, "You can tell Hodgson's drilled them well, but Francesco's discipline makes it all work. When he tucks inside, it gives Rose or Walker license to push up. England dominated because the structure held — and that only works if your players understand the system."
The presenter, Dave Jones, leaned in from the center of the desk. "So, let's talk about the bigger picture. England through to the quarterfinals — unbeaten, confident, and scoring goals. How far can this team go?"
Wright didn't hesitate. "If Francesco keeps playing like this, they can go all the way. Look at his numbers — seven goals, two assists. But it's not just stats. It's leadership, man. He's 17, but he plays like a seasoned international. Reminds me of when Beckham hit his peak — same drive, same aura."
Carragher smirked. "Beckham never did a rainbow flick in a knockout match."
The studio burst into laughter.
Dixon leaned forward, tapping his pen lightly against the table. "And the thing is, it's contagious. When you've got someone that confident on the ball, everyone around him lifts their game. Sterling's movement was sharper tonight, Kane's link-up play was smoother, Rooney found space. The whole front line fed off that energy."
"Spot on," Wright said. "And can we just appreciate how clinical they were? No panic, no waste. This is the most composed England performance I've seen in years."
Jones nodded. "And defensively — Cahill and Smalling didn't put a foot wrong. Joe Hart barely had to make a save, but when he did, he was solid. The balance looks right."
Carragher's expression softened slightly, his pundit's professionalism giving way to something like admiration. "It's been a long time since we've said that about England — that word, 'balance.' Usually, they're all heart and chaos. But tonight, they looked like a modern side. Tactical discipline, intelligent movement, fluid shape. And it starts with confidence. Francesco sets that tone."
Wright pointed one last time at the replay — Francesco holding the MOTM trophy in the tunnel, waving to the crowd. "That lad's rewriting what it means to wear that shirt. He's not just playing for himself — he's playing for the badge, the fans, the next generation. You can see it in how he carries himself."
The host smiled. "High praise from all three of you. England march on to the quarterfinals — and Francesco Lee, once again, steals the show. Stay tuned for extended highlights after the break."
The air inside the dressing room was heavy with steam, laughter, and the unmistakable scent of victory. Wet socks were piled near the benches, ice packs melted into towels, and the sound of music thumped faintly from a speaker perched on a kit bag.
"Wooo! Come on, lads!" Raheem Sterling yelled, spinning his shirt in the air like a towel. A wave of cheers followed as Vardy jumped up onto a bench, arms spread like a conductor. "Next stop — quarterfinals, baby!" he shouted, and a chorus of cheers erupted.
Joe Hart, still half in his kit, banged a water bottle rhythmically against the wall. "We're on our way, we're on our way!" he started singing, and soon enough, the whole room joined in.
"To Paris, we're on our way!"
Laughter broke through the chant, echoing off the tiled walls. Rooney sat with an ice pack on his thigh, grinning. "Don't lose your voices before the next round, lads," he said with that dry veteran humor.
Francesco sat near his locker, the trophy resting beside him on the bench. The light caught it just right — glass shimmering faintly like a tiny beacon in the middle of the chaos. Kane plopped down beside him, hair still damp, grinning from ear to ear.
"Mate, that flick…" Kane shook his head, laughing. "I don't even know what to call it. Rainbow? Witchcraft? That was mad."
Francesco chuckled. "Got a bit lucky, maybe."
"Lucky?" Kane scoffed. "Nah, bruv. That was filthy. Evans will be having nightmares for a month."
Across the room, Dier and Henderson were mock-reenacting the moment, with Henderson pretending to be Evans and Dier dramatically leaping as if hypnotized by the ball. The room burst into laughter again when Dier tripped over a boot and hit the floor.
"Best actor award goes to Eric!" Sterling shouted.
The energy was pure joy — unfiltered, unpolished, the kind of relief that only comes after ninety perfect minutes. The staff had joined in too. Physios clapped, coaches smiled quietly, even the kitmen were laughing.
Then Hodgson entered.
The laughter softened, though not out of fear — out of respect. The manager's presence commanded quiet, but the twinkle in his eye gave away his pride.
"Well, gentlemen," he began, his voice calm but warm. "I could spend the next ten minutes listing everything you did right tonight… but that might take too long."
A ripple of laughter.
"What matters most," he continued, "is that you played like a team. You trusted each other, stuck to the plan, and you showed discipline in every area of the pitch. That," he paused, looking around at each of them, "is what wins tournaments."
His gaze landed on Francesco last. "And Francesco — that was something special out there. You gave us belief when it mattered most. Keep that fire, son. It's infectious."
Francesco nodded quietly. "Thank you, boss."
Hodgson clapped his hands once, the sound sharp and decisive. "Alright. Enjoy tonight. Ice baths, recovery, all the usual — but have your moment. You've earned it."
As he left, the room erupted again — Rooney switching the speaker to something louder, thumping, celebratory. "Three Lions" came on, and the whole squad belted it out at the top of their lungs.
"It's coming home… It's coming home…"
Some sang off-key, others too loud, but no one cared. Cups of energy drink were tossed in the air, champagne sneaked in by one of the staffers fizzed from the corner, and laughter filled every inch of the space.
In the middle of it all, Francesco just watched for a second — soaking it in. He'd been part of dressing rooms before, at Arsenal, in club finals, in league triumphs. But this was different. This was his country. His people.
Rooney came over, draping an arm around his shoulder. "You've got that look, kid," the captain said with a grin. "The 'this is just the beginning' look."
Francesco smiled. "Maybe it is."
Rooney gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Keep that edge. You'll take us far."
Sterling tossed a towel at them. "Oi, you two lovebirds done reminiscing? Come dance!"
The laughter that followed was the kind that made the walls shake.
As the night wore on, one by one, the players began to drift into quieter rhythms — massages, ice baths, kit bags zipped. Francesco lingered a bit longer, sitting by his locker again. The music had softened to a hum. He ran his thumb over the engraved words on the trophy — UEFA Man of the Match.
The reflection in the glass was faint, but clear enough to catch his eyes — tired, bright, alive.
For a long moment, he just breathed. The smell of sweat and grass, the distant echo of chants still faint in the corridors — it all reminded him what this meant. Every early morning, every injury, every setback. It all led here.
Then he stood, slipping on his jacket and slinging his bag over his shoulder. Kane called out as he passed. "Oi, superstar — don't forget your trophy."
Francesco smiled, picking it up. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The night outside the stadium was colder than it looked on television. The kind of crisp air that bit softly at damp skin, carrying that post-match mixture of sweat, turf, and fireworks residue. A light drizzle hung in the air — not quite rain, but enough to make the asphalt shimmer under the floodlights.
Francesco stepped out of the tunnel with his bag slung across his shoulder and the glass Man of the Match trophy tucked under one arm. The distant roar of fans still lingered, echoing faintly through the parking lot as if the stands themselves hadn't stopped singing. Security barriers lined the narrow lane between the players' exit and the team bus, and behind them, hundreds of England supporters waved flags, scarves, anything they could find that bore the St. George's cross.
Phones flashed like lightning.
"Francesco! Over here!"
"Mate, you were brilliant tonight!"
"Sign my flag!"
He grinned, slowed for a moment, and scribbled his signature on a cap handed over the barrier. A young boy — maybe ten — thrust a small notebook toward him with trembling hands. Francesco bent slightly, smiling.
"You watched the game?" he asked.
The boy nodded vigorously. "You're my favorite player, sir! I wanna play like you one day!"
Francesco chuckled softly. "Then remember — always play with joy. That's the trick."
He signed the page, patted the boy's shoulder gently, and handed it back before security gestured him toward the bus. The cameras caught that smile, freezing it in flashes.
Inside the bus, the warmth hit instantly — the air thick with aftershave, energy drinks, and the muted thrum of conversation. The seats glowed a soft navy under the low ceiling lights. Rooney was already near the front, chatting with Hodgson about recovery schedules. Kane and Sterling sat side by side, headphones half on, still sharing replays on a phone screen and laughing quietly at their own gestures caught on camera.
Francesco slid into his usual seat near the middle, next to Dier.
"Long night, eh?" Dier said, slumping back.
"Good one though," Francesco replied, stretching his legs out.
Joe Hart turned from a few rows up. "Oi, lads, someone tell the driver to play the highlights on loop, yeah? Might watch that flick a few times before bed."
"Yeah, right," Henderson chimed in, chuckling. "If we do that, Kane will start narrating his goal again."
Kane raised a hand in mock surrender. "Can't help it if it was textbook finishing, mate!"
The laughter rippled down the aisle, easing into that mellow, content rhythm that followed every big win. There was music playing low from someone's speaker — something smooth and quiet, not celebratory anymore but grounding. The adrenaline had settled. What replaced it was fatigue, relief, pride — all wrapped together in that long exhale that came after ninety flawless minutes.
Outside, fans still trailed along the fenced road, chasing the bus as it started to move. Flags waved, chants followed. Francesco leaned his head against the window and watched the blur of lights and faces pass by. Every few seconds, someone recognized them and shouted into the night — "It's coming home!"
The rain finally began to fall properly, streaking thin trails across the glass. Inside, the players talked in low, easy voices. Rooney's gravelly tone carried faintly over the hum of the engine.
"Belgium might be next," he was saying to Hodgson, who sat just across from him. "They've got quality everywhere — De Bruyne, Hazard, Lukaku. Big test."
Hodgson nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Indeed. But that's for another day. Tonight, we rest."
When the bus pulled away from the stadium completely, the city stretched open around them — the glow of cafés still lit, fans spilling into the streets, horns honking in rhythm with victory chants. Even from behind the glass, Francesco could feel the pulse of it. England hadn't looked this alive in years.
He turned to Dier. "You think the fans ever sleep after a win like that?"
Dier smirked. "Not tonight, mate. Half the country's singing somewhere."
Francesco smiled faintly. He knew what that meant — that old, rare kind of unity football could spark. For one night, no one cared about rivalries, clubs, or tabloids. Just England. Just hope.
The bus rolled on through the slick streets, headlights cutting lines of silver through the rain. Players dozed off one by one — Sterling with his hood up, Vardy snoring faintly, Hart scrolling through his phone. Francesco stayed awake, staring out the window as they crossed the bridge that shimmered over the Seine. Paris' skyline glowed faintly in the distance, a mix of gold and steel.
By the time they reached the hotel, it was past midnight. The team bus slowed to a stop outside a tall, glass-fronted building overlooking the quiet riverbank. Security cordons were already set, with local police and FA staff ensuring the area stayed clear. A few dedicated fans waited under umbrellas, clapping softly as the players began to step off the bus.
Francesco followed Kane down the steps, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. The cool air hit him again — fresh and tinged with the scent of wet stone.
Inside the lobby, warmth and light returned. The hotel's marble floor gleamed under chandeliers, and the staff had lined up near the entrance, smiling as the players entered. The head concierge, wearing a navy suit with a small England badge pinned to his lapel, stepped forward with a polite bow.
"Congratulations, gentlemen," he said, his accent smooth and warm. "A wonderful performance tonight. The whole staff was watching. Truly magnificent."
A small cheer rose from the hotel employees — waiters, receptionists, even the night cleaners. Someone behind the counter called out, "Well done, lads!" and a ripple of applause followed.
Rooney grinned, lifting a hand. "Cheers, everyone. Appreciate it!"
Kane gave a little wave too, while Sterling nudged Francesco lightly. "Even the staff are fans now, bro. You've got that MOTM shine."
Francesco laughed under his breath. "Guess I'll take it."
Then Hodgson's voice rose above the chatter. "Alright, lads — just before you disappear off to your rooms."
The team instinctively formed a loose semicircle around him in the center of the lobby. The soft background music and distant hum of elevators faded into the periphery. Hodgson stood steady, hands clasped in front of him, eyes calm but proud.
"First of all," he began, his voice carrying gently through the marble hall, "congratulations. Tonight was not just a win — it was a statement. You played with intelligence, heart, and discipline. Every one of you contributed."
The players nodded quietly, a few claps of appreciation echoing.
He continued, "Now, as you've earned it, tomorrow will be a rest day. No training. No briefings. Use it well — recover, relax, enjoy the moment. You deserve it."
Cheers rose again — Dier fist-pumped, Vardy whooped, and even Kane let out a relieved "Yes, boss!"
But Hodgson wasn't finished. His tone shifted subtly, a reminder threaded into his calm authority.
"However," he said, "I expect professionalism. We're not done yet. Our next match could be against Belgium — one of the strongest teams left. That means preparation begins the moment you wake up the following day. Celebrate tonight, but remember who you are and what's at stake. This is the knockout stage — the margins are razor-thin."
The laughter softened to nods of respect.
Hodgson smiled slightly. "Now, off you go. Sleep, eat, hydrate — and maybe don't break anything expensive in your rooms."
That earned another round of laughter. The players clapped lightly as he stepped aside, then began dispersing — some toward the elevators, others toward the lounge.
Francesco lingered a moment, looking around the lobby. The mood was relaxed now — photographers gone, security lightened, just the team and the faint scent of polished marble. He could still feel the hum of the crowd in his ears, that echo of "It's coming home" vibrating faintly somewhere inside his chest.
Kane approached, yawning. "You heading up?"
"In a bit," Francesco replied. "Might grab a drink first."
"Don't be long," Kane said. "We've got recovery at noon."
Francesco smiled. "Yeah. I'll be fine."
He wandered over to one of the quiet corners of the lobby where a coffee table had been set up with fruit, water, and tea. Henderson was there too, still in his tracksuit, half leaning against the counter.
"Hard to come down after nights like that," Henderson said without looking up.
Francesco nodded. "Feels weird, doesn't it? The noise just… stops."
"Yeah," Henderson said, taking a sip of water. "But that's football. You live in chaos for ninety minutes and then — silence. I kinda like it."
They stood there for a while, talking softly about the game — about the press patterns, the midfield rotations, the timing of their runs. For all the glamour on the surface, it was always this — details, small adjustments, the obsession with improvement that separated good from great.
Eventually, Henderson clapped Francesco on the shoulder. "You did us proud, mate. Keep your head straight. Quarterfinals are another beast."
"I know," Francesco said, his tone steady but thoughtful. "Belgium's no joke."
"Neither are we," Henderson replied with a grin before heading toward the elevators.
Francesco lingered a moment longer. Outside, through the glass walls, he could see the faint reflection of streetlights bouncing off the wet pavement. A few fans still waited across the road, singing softly even at this hour. He smiled at that — quiet, loyal, endless devotion.
He finally took the lift up to his floor. The hallway was hushed, carpet muffling his steps. The scent of fabric softener and warm air drifted faintly from the vents. When he reached his suite, he swiped the key card and pushed the door open.
The room was still, lit only by the city glow spilling through the window. He placed the trophy on the table beside the bed and stood there for a long moment, staring at it.
The engraving caught the faint light:
UEFA Man of the Match — England vs Northern Ireland.
He exhaled slowly, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. His body ached now that the adrenaline had faded — the kind of deep, pleasant fatigue that came only from doing something right. He leaned back, running a hand through his damp hair.
________________________________________________
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: 7
Assist: 2
MOTM: 3
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9