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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.
The match clock ticked past twenty-three minutes when Francesco received the ball again — this time deep on the right touchline, near the halfway mark. Rooney had spotted the movement early, his pass arrowed low and quick, skipping once across the grass before it reached Francesco's boots.
He killed it with a single touch. Jonny Evans was already closing in, jaw tight, shirt clinging to him with sweat. For the past twenty minutes, Francesco had run him ragged — feints, step-overs, little darts that left him chasing shadows. Evans wasn't just defending now; he was defending his pride.
Francesco let the ball roll across his body, shifted his weight, then dragged it behind his heel. Evans bit — half a step too soon — and Francesco was gone, darting past on the outside, boots hammering the turf. The England end rose, sensing danger.
Then Evans lunged.
Boot against ankle.
Francesco's legs went out from under him. He hit the turf hard, the sound of impact lost beneath the roar that followed. The whistle shrieked a split second later.
"Foul! Clear foul!" the commentator snapped, voice sharp with outrage. "Evans has completely lost his head there — Francesco Lee was away again, and that's pure frustration."
Francesco lay on the grass, hand clutching his shin. Pain shot up his leg — hot, pulsing, more from the shock than the damage itself. He hissed through his teeth, rolled onto his back. Around him, white shirts converged.
Henderson was first there, arms out. "That's a yellow all day, ref! You saw that!"
Rooney stormed in next, face flushed. "You can't just chop him down like that! He's been at him all game!"
Sterling came too, voice rising, and suddenly half the England team had surrounded Evans, whose expression was equal parts fury and defiance.
Northern Ireland players surged in response — McAuley shoving Sterling back, Davis grabbing Henderson's shoulder, trying to pull him away. The referee darted between them, whistle blaring, arms spread wide.
For a moment it teetered on the edge. Boots scraped. Words flew. The noise from the crowd surged to match it — half outrage, half chaos.
"Easy! EASY!" Rooney barked, arms wide now, forcing Sterling back. He turned to Evans, voice low but hard. "You do that again, mate, and you're off. Simple."
Evans glared, chest heaving, but didn't reply.
The referee finally restored order, stepping forward with his yellow card raised high. The flash of color under the floodlights drew a roar from the England supporters — equal parts justice and warning.
Jonny Evans' name went into the book.
Francesco sat up slowly as the England doctor jogged on with the physio. "You alright, lad?" the medic asked, crouching beside him, hands already probing at the ankle.
Francesco winced, flexed his foot. "Yeah. Just a sting. I'm fine."
"Let's be sure," the doctor said, rolling the sock down to check for swelling. A few quick presses, a stretch, then a nod. "You're good to go. Take a second, then back on."
The crowd clapped as Francesco rose to his feet, brushing grass from his shorts. Henderson offered a hand.
"You good?"
Francesco nodded, jaw tight. "Better than him." He jerked his chin toward Evans, who stood a few yards away, still breathing hard.
When the referee signaled for play to resume, Francesco stepped off the pitch briefly — the formality required for treatment — before the linesman waved him back on. The cheers that greeted his return were thunderous, rolling from one end of the Parc des Princes to the other.
He lifted a hand to the crowd, acknowledging them, but his eyes were locked on Evans. No words passed between them — they didn't need to.
The next few minutes were cagey, Northern Ireland dropping even deeper, England prodding and probing, looking for an opening. But the tension was still there, hot and thick. Francesco could feel it in the way the defenders watched him — not just wary now, but rattled.
Then came the twenty-eighth minute.
It began with Rooney again — always Rooney. He picked the ball up just inside the Northern Irish half, space opening before him. Francesco drifted off his marker, hovering between the full-back and Evans, waiting. Rooney saw him, of course he did. The pass was perfect: weighted, curling into the channel.
Francesco took it in stride, the ball glued to his boot. Evans came again, determined to make amends, closing fast. The crowd's noise pitched upward — anticipation turning into electricity.
And then Francesco did something outrageous.
He slowed, just for a heartbeat, then flicked his right foot under the ball. It lifted — high, spinning — arcing clean over Evans' head.
A rainbow flick.
Gasps exploded from the stands. Evans spun, lost, the ball dropping perfectly into Francesco's stride on the other side. He was gone before Evans could even turn fully, sprinting straight toward the box.
"OH, that's filthy!" the commentator shouted, half-laughing, half-screaming. "Francesco Lee — take a bow! He's absolutely humiliated Jonny Evans!"
Cathcart was chasing, boots thundering, but Francesco was faster. Each stride ate up grass. McGovern came off his line, hands out, bracing for the shot.
Francesco waited — waited just long enough for the keeper to commit. Then he struck, low and precise, the ball kissing off his instep and sliding past McGovern's outstretched arm into the far corner.
For a second, there was silence.
Then the stadium erupted.
"GOAL FOR ENGLAND! FRANCESCO LEE! TWENTY-EIGHT MINUTES!"
White shirts flooded toward the corner flag. Francesco ripped away in celebration, sprinting, arms spread wide, face lit by something almost feral. The sound swallowed everything — drums, chants, the commentator's words. The fans were on their feet, flags whipping through the air.
Rooney caught him first, wrapping him in a rough embrace. "You beauty!" he shouted, voice lost in the roar. Kane crashed into them next, then Sterling, then the rest. A heap of white shirts, laughter, and disbelief.
Walker, grinning ear to ear, shouted over the noise, "You just sent him back to Belfast with that flick!"
Francesco could barely hear him. His heart was hammering too loud. He turned toward the England supporters, pounding his chest once, twice, then pointing skyward. The cameras caught his face — sweat shining, eyes alight — and the replay rolled on the big screen: that flick, that touch, that finish. Each time it played, the crowd's reaction swelled again.
Even some of the Northern Ireland fans couldn't help themselves — a ripple of applause mingled with the boos. They knew genius when they saw it.
On the touchline, Roy Hodgson was clapping, his expression more relief than exuberance. Gary Neville turned to the bench, shaking his head with a grin. "That's different class. You can't teach that."
When play finally resumed, Northern Ireland were shell-shocked. Their defensive line sagged deeper still, Evans visibly rattled, Cathcart barking orders to keep shape. But England smelled blood.
Henderson kept the tempo high, switching play left and right. Dele Alli surged through the middle, dragging markers away. Sterling twisted past two defenders and whipped a low cross that McGovern palmed clear only for Kane to smash the rebound into the side netting.
England's possession was suffocating — passes crisp, movement constant. Francesco was everywhere now, confidence pouring through him. Each touch carried intent, every run forced panic.
"England in full control now," the commentator said, his voice barely audible over the chanting. "Northern Ireland clinging on here — it's attack after attack."
At the half-hour mark, Rooney threaded another through ball to Kane, whose shot was deflected wide by McAuley. From the corner, Henderson whipped in a delivery that Cahill nearly glanced home before McGovern clawed it away.
The green shirts were defending with sheer desperation — bodies flying, tackles snapping, boots clearing lines by inches. Yet every clearance came back.
Francesco received another diagonal ball, spun inside Evans again — the defender too wary to risk another challenge — and let fly from twenty yards. The ball bent wickedly toward the top corner before McGovern tipped it over with his fingertips.
"How many saves is that now?" the co-commentator marvelled. "McGovern's keeping them alive single-handedly."
On the pitch, Francesco grinned through his frustration. He could feel it — another goal was coming. Every attack felt sharper, every pass heavier with intent.
Northern Ireland's counters grew fewer, their shape compact but stretched to breaking point. When they did venture forward, it was brief, frantic: Ward dashing down the left only to meet Walker's sliding challenge; Dallas cutting inside before Henderson dispossessed him cleanly and turned it back into another England surge.
Rooney kept directing traffic, palms slicing the air. "Stay patient!" he yelled. "Keep the ball moving!"
And they did.
By the thirty-fifth minute, it was a siege. Sterling rattled the post with a curling effort. Kane skimmed the crossbar with a header. Dele Alli's shot deflected wide. Each moment drew another roar, another wave of pressure.
The England supporters were relentless, their chant rolling through the stadium like thunder:
"Eng-land! Eng-land! Eng-land!"
Francesco, breathing hard but alive with adrenaline, caught Rooney's eye after yet another near miss. Rooney smiled — a tight, proud smile that said, Keep doing it. This is yours tonight.
The siege didn't let up. The green wall of Northern Ireland bent, stretched, and creaked under England's relentless rhythm. Francesco was everywhere now — darting infield, drifting wide, demanding the ball, feeding the pulse that ran through England's game.
Every time he touched it, the air inside the Parc des Princes seemed to tighten. There was something magnetic in the way he moved, a calm electricity that drew defenders in before breaking them apart. The Northern Irish back line — Evans, McAuley, Cathcart — looked weary, breaths coming heavier, eyes darting in panic every time Francesco came near.
By the fortieth minute, the possession stats flashed on the screen — 74% England, 26% Northern Ireland — but it didn't even begin to capture the story. This wasn't just domination; it was control laced with artistry, patience, and fire.
"England look like they could score any minute," the commentator said, voice pitched just above the roar of the crowd. "You can feel it coming — Francesco Lee's been at the heart of everything tonight."
The ball came back to Rooney near the center circle. Northern Ireland's midfield was sagging, trying to block passing lanes, but Rooney's composure was unshakeable. He looked up, eyes scanning like radar, and saw Francesco out wide again — in space, near the right flank.
Rooney's pass was textbook, slicing between lines, skipping once before reaching Francesco's boots. The young forward killed it effortlessly, then looked up — he saw movement in the box.
Kane was there, wrestling between McAuley and Cathcart, body leaning, ready to fight for half an inch of space. Dele Alli ghosted near the penalty spot, pulling Davis slightly out of position.
Francesco took one touch forward, cutting the angle tighter. The defender nearest him — Ward this time — tried to close, but Francesco shifted gears, a small feint that froze him.
Then, with the calm of a painter laying the final stroke, Francesco swung his right foot through the ball.
It wasn't hit hard — just enough. The cross curled with that delicate precision that only confidence can conjure. It bent inward, almost teasingly, curling between the defensive line and the keeper.
McGovern stepped forward, then back — too late.
Kane read it first.
He launched himself between McAuley and Cathcart, timing perfect, body twisting midair. The header came clean — forehead square, power behind it — and the ball thundered into the top-left corner.
2–0.
The net bulged. The stadium exploded.
"Harry Kane! It's two! Francesco Lee with the assist — what a cross, what a finish!" the commentator roared over the noise, his voice dissolving into the sheer eruption of cheers. "England are flying!"
The white shirts converged again, but this time it was Kane who led the sprint toward the corner flag, arms wide, face alight with relief and pride. Francesco was right behind him, grinning, reaching to wrap an arm around his shoulders.
"That's how we do it, brother!" Kane shouted, laughter in his voice, breathless and alive.
Francesco nodded, a smile cracking across his face, chest still heaving. "All day long, mate. All day long."
The crowd's chant swelled again, wave after wave of it crashing down from the stands. Flags rippled, the St. George's crosses flashing like bright storms under the floodlights.
In the stands, England fans were hugging strangers, beer spraying into the air. The cameras caught one old fan crying — tears of joy, disbelief, something deeper than just a goal.
Down on the pitch, Northern Ireland looked stunned. Evans had his hands on his hips, McAuley was shouting at Cathcart, and McGovern stood staring into his net, muttering under his breath. The resolve that had carried them through the first half-hour was cracking.
But the English players weren't done celebrating.
Rooney jogged over, patting Kane's back before turning to Francesco. "That's perfect delivery, son. Absolutely perfect."
Francesco grinned, brushing sweat from his brow. "You know what they say, skip — service wins wars."
Rooney laughed, shaking his head. "And we're winning this one."
On the touchline, Roy Hodgson turned to Neville and mouthed something close to a smile — a rare break in his usual reserve. "That's the football we've been trying to build," he said quietly. "Fluid, brave, intelligent."
Neville nodded, eyes still on the pitch. "They're playing like they believe, Roy. Francesco's changed the whole rhythm. He's like… a spark that doesn't go out."
Back on the pitch, the game restarted, but Northern Ireland's energy had dipped. The sting of that second goal — so close to halftime — was heavy. They tried to press higher, but every attack felt half-hearted.
Ward tried to charge down the left again, cutting inside past Walker, but Cahill was there, reading it perfectly, sliding the ball out of play with clean precision. Rooney clapped him on the back. "Good one, Gaz. Keep it tight."
England recycled possession calmly — no rush, no panic. Henderson dropped deeper now, orchestrating from the base, while Alli and Sterling hovered like bees just behind Kane. Francesco drifted into pockets, drawing defenders out, forcing Northern Ireland to chase ghosts.
The fans could feel it. Every pass drew cheers, every spell of control felt like a performance. England weren't just winning — they were in command.
By the forty-first minute, it was a rhythm: Henderson to Rooney, Rooney to Sterling, back to Henderson, out wide to Francesco.
He took it again, of course. The defenders couldn't leave him alone — Evans stepping up, Ward tucking in — but he danced between them, not to score this time, but to remind them who was in charge. A flick behind the heel. A drop of the shoulder. Every movement was a taunt wrapped in elegance.
"Francesco Lee's playing with swagger tonight," the commentator said, barely containing his glee. "He's turning this into his own stage."
For Northern Ireland, it felt like the longest few minutes before halftime in their lives.
They tried to muster one last push — Lafferty dropping deep to collect a long ball, flicking it toward Ward — but Dier cut it out before it reached halfway. Henderson recovered and calmly reset the tempo, slowing things down.
England didn't need to chase. They'd done enough for now.
Francesco moved centrally again, closer to Kane, exchanging a few short passes as the clock ticked into the forty-fourth minute. The rhythm softened. The crowd hummed — no longer anxious, but satisfied. Confident.
Across the pitch, the Northern Irish players looked drained — sweat streaking their faces, jerseys clinging heavy to their skin. Davis tried to shout orders, but the voices around him were too loud, too broken.
"Two minutes until halftime," the commentator noted, his tone a mixture of admiration and inevitability. "Northern Ireland need the whistle here. England are in total control."
And yet, England weren't done teasing.
Rooney drifted forward, pinged a diagonal to Francesco again. The young forward plucked it out of the air with absurd ease, cushioning it on his thigh, then rolling it forward with his boot. Evans came again, careful now — no rash challenge, not after that yellow card.
Francesco smiled faintly, eyes glinting. "You've learned," he murmured under his breath.
He feinted left, darted right, then laid it off simply to Henderson. No tricks, no rush — just control. Henderson turned, recycled it back to Rooney. England were toying with their prey now.
The whistle finally blew.
Half-time.
The roar that followed wasn't relief — it was celebration. England had dominated, and everyone inside the Parc des Princes knew it.
Rooney clapped his hands, rounding his teammates. "Brilliant half, lads. Brilliant. But keep the focus — no stupid risks second half. We kill this properly."
Kane nodded, wiping sweat from his face. "We can smell blood, skip."
Francesco walked beside them, still catching his breath, sweat shining down his temples, his expression calm but charged. As they made their way toward the tunnel, a small group of England fans leaned over the railing, waving flags and shouting his name.
"Francesco! That flick! That flick!"
He couldn't help but grin, lifting a hand in acknowledgment before disappearing down the tunnel.
Inside, the contrast was striking — the buzz of adrenaline fading into the low hum of exhaustion. The dressing room lights seemed almost too bright after the cauldron outside. The players dropped into their seats, pulling at tape and socks, gulping water from bottles.
Steam rose from their skin, mingling with the smell of sweat, grass, and liniment.
Hodgson stepped forward, his tone calm but firm. "That's how you play tournament football, lads. Discipline. Patience. Quality." He looked around, eyes settling on Francesco. "And moments of brilliance."
Francesco met his gaze, nodding slightly.
"Keep your composure," Hodgson continued. "They'll come harder second half. Don't give them cheap fouls. Francesco — they'll target you again. Expect it. Stay smart."
Francesco leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice steady. "I'm ready for it."
Rooney chuckled, glancing his way. "After that rainbow flick? You might have to deal with a few angry Belfast lads, son."
The room laughed, the tension breaking for a moment. Francesco grinned, shaking his head. "Then I'll just flick it over them again."
Even Hodgson smiled. "Do it if you must. But remember — protect the ball, protect the lead."
The physio walked by, handing Francesco a cold pack for his ankle. "You're fine," he said. "Just keep it loose second half."
Kane, still catching his breath, leaned back in his seat. "That cross, man. Couldn't have asked for better. You put it right on my head."
Francesco shrugged, modest but pleased. "We practiced it, remember?"
Kane nodded, smiling. "Yeah — in training, you did it twice. I missed both."
"Not this time," Francesco said with a smirk.
The players chuckled softly, the mood a blend of fatigue and quiet confidence. The muffled roar of the crowd still seeped through the concrete walls, vibrating faintly underfoot — a reminder that thousands waited for them outside, expecting more.
In the opposite dressing room, frustration simmered. Northern Ireland's coach was barking instructions, trying to rally his men. But the exhaustion in their eyes told its own story. They had been outclassed. Outrun. Outthought.
Back in the England room, Hodgson gave his final nod. "You've earned this lead. Now finish the job. No complacency. We're ninety minutes from the quarters. Make it count."
The players stood, one by one, pulling shirts straight, retaping boots. Francesco tied his laces tighter, then stood, rolling his shoulders.
Rooney caught his eye again. "You good?"
Francesco smiled. "Always."
They walked toward the tunnel together, the noise swelling as they approached the light at its end — that blinding roar of the Parc des Princes calling them back.
The tunnel spat them back out into a roar that felt almost physical. The Parc des Princes wasn't just loud — it was alive. The England fans had spent the break singing, chanting names, waving flags that shimmered under the stadium lights. When Francesco stepped onto the pitch again, he felt it hit him like a pulse — the surge of belief, the hum of expectation.
The whistle blew.
And in an instant, everything that had felt calm and assured at halftime evaporated.
Northern Ireland came out swinging.
Within seconds, Steven Davis was snapping into tackles, barking at his teammates, his face a mask of fierce determination. They pressed higher now — far higher. Every England touch was met with pressure, every pass hounded down. It wasn't pretty, but it was urgent.
The rhythm of the game flipped on its head.
Henderson's first pass was intercepted by Lafferty, who immediately launched it wide to Dallas. The winger surged down the right, Walker tracking him step for step, both men sprinting toward the corner flag. Dallas whipped in a cross that deflected off Cahill's thigh — corner.
The green section of the stadium erupted. Their flags waved, voices rose. For the first time all night, they had something to cling to.
The ball came in, swinging viciously. McAuley climbed highest — a towering leap — but his header glanced over the bar by inches.
"Warning sign for England!" the commentator cried. "Northern Ireland have come out flying!"
Joe Hart was shouting before the ball even landed. "Wake up, boys! Switch on!"
Francesco jogged back toward his own half, chest heaving. He could feel the shift — the energy, the edge. It was no longer a stroll in the park. Northern Ireland were fighting for pride now, for belief, for the miracle every underdog dreams of.
The next ten minutes were a storm.
Northern Ireland threw everything forward — diagonal balls, overlapping runs, hopeful crosses, long-range efforts. It was chaos, organized only by sheer will. Every clearance from Cahill or Smalling was met by another wave of green.
At the forty-eighth minute, Conor McLaughlin broke through on the flank, threading a low ball toward the near post. Lafferty lunged, studs out, but Hart smothered it, the ball trapped under his body. He bounced up quickly, shouting to his defenders again. "No free runs! Stay tight!"
England's back line was bending, straining under the pressure — but not breaking.
Rooney dropped deep, nearly beside Henderson, helping to recycle possession whenever they clawed it back. Kane and Francesco were isolated up top for a while, forced to wait as their teammates weathered the barrage.
Francesco kept turning his head, shouting encouragement. "Hold it! Hold it!" His voice cut through the wind, sharp and urgent.
At the fifty-first minute, it was another scare. A long ball from Norwood floated over the back line, finding Lafferty. The striker chested it down, spun, and hit it on the half-volley. The shot skidded low — too low — right into Hart's gloves. Still, it made hearts skip across England's bench.
"Northern Ireland aren't done yet," the commentator said. "They're throwing everything forward. England need to hold their nerve here."
On the touchline, Hodgson stood still, arms crossed but eyes sharp. He wasn't panicking — he'd seen enough tournaments to know that momentum comes and goes like tides. He trusted his players to ride it.
And they did.
By the fifty-fifth minute, England began to find their shape again. Henderson started to see more of the ball, recycling play through Rooney. Alli dropped deeper to help plug the midfield, stealing possession off Norwood and springing the counter.
Francesco's lungs burned from tracking back, but every time England broke, he was first up the pitch again, stretching the defense, waiting for the one pass that could kill the game.
At the fifty-seventh minute, Northern Ireland came again — Dallas whipping another ball into the box. Smalling went up with Lafferty, both men colliding midair, the ball looping dangerously toward the back post. Ward arrived late, smashing a volley toward goal — but Walker threw his body across and blocked it with his thigh.
The rebound fell to Davis, who tried a curler — wide.
The crowd groaned in relief. England fans clapped, urging their players to steady themselves.
Then, gradually, the red shirts began to breathe again.
Henderson slowed the tempo, playing short with Rooney. Kane started dropping deeper, linking up with Dele. Francesco drifted back toward the right flank, hands out, calling for the ball. The passes began to stick again. The storm was fading.
Rooney exhaled hard, voice loud enough for those nearby to hear. "We ride it. We ride it."
And they did. For fifteen minutes, Northern Ireland had clawed and fought like lions — but England had stood their ground, taking the blows, never losing control. It wasn't glamorous, but it was a statement.
At the sixty-first minute, Hodgson gestured toward the bench, murmuring something to Gary Neville. But before any change could be made, movement stirred on the opposite side.
Michael O'Neill, the Northern Ireland manager, had seen enough.
He called three players over — Niall McGinn, Conor Washington, Josh Magennis — his voice sharp, gestures urgent. They nodded, pulling off their warm-up tops as the fourth official raised the board.
Triple substitution — sixty-third minute.
Jamie Ward, Oliver Norwood, and Gareth McAuley were coming off.
Niall McGinn, Conor Washington, and Josh Magennis were on.
Fresh legs, fresh energy, and a full roll of the dice.
"This is a bold move from Michael O'Neill," the commentator said. "He's going all in — more pace, more aggression up front. McGinn and Washington can stretch the field, and Magennis brings aerial threat."
O'Neill clapped his men on the back as they took their positions. He knew it was do or die.
England reset their lines, Henderson barking orders. Francesco watched as McGinn took up Ward's position — slightly deeper, but quicker, more direct. It was clear they were going to keep testing that flank.
The next few minutes were tense, but not chaotic like before. Northern Ireland were trying to reorganize their attack, while England began picking their moments again.
Then came the sixty-seventh minute — and the strike that sealed the night.
It started almost innocuously. Henderson intercepted a pass from Davis near midfield, spun it first-time toward Rooney. The captain looked up, saw Kane drifting into space between Cathcart and Evans, and fed him with a clever, curling ball.
Kane brought it down beautifully — one touch to control, one to hold off Evans — and then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Francesco streaking into the right channel like a bullet.
Kane's decision was instant.
A little flick of his right boot, perfectly weighted.
The ball rolled ahead of Francesco, inviting him to sprint — and sprint he did.
Cathcart gave chase, arms pumping, lungs screaming, but Francesco was already gone. His stride was effortless, every step pushing him further into space. The grass seemed to open up in front of him, the noise of the crowd growing into a deafening crescendo.
McGovern charged out, trying to narrow the angle.
Francesco's first touch was perfect, his second even better. He shaped to shoot with his right — McGovern hesitated — then with a lightning shift of balance, Francesco rolled the ball slightly left and buried it low into the far corner.
Time froze.
Then the net rippled.
The roar was thunder.
3–0.
"Francesco Lee again! It's his brace! England are running riot in Paris!" the commentator shouted, voice cracking over the volume. "Kane the provider — and that finish… absolute class!"
Francesco didn't celebrate immediately. For a split second, he just stood there — eyes wide, chest heaving, listening to the explosion of sound wash over him. Then it hit him all at once.
He turned toward the England fans, arms wide, sprinting along the sideline as his teammates chased after him.
Kane caught him first, leaping onto his back, laughing. "You beauty! You absolute beauty!"
Francesco shouted over the noise, voice raw with adrenaline. "That's for the team! For every pass we made!"
Rooney arrived next, grabbing both of them by the shoulders. "That's how we finish a game, lads. Ruthless!"
Behind them, Henderson was pumping his fists toward the crowd, shouting at the top of his lungs. Even the usually reserved Hodgson couldn't stop himself from applauding hard on the sideline, a rare smile breaking through.
The cameras zoomed in on Francesco's face — sweat, joy, disbelief all mixed into one. His grin was wide, his eyes alive. He pointed to Kane, then to the England badge on his chest, tapping it twice.
The fans roared louder, chanting his name:
"LEE! LEE! LEE!"
The replay showed it again and again — the touch, the composure, the finish. Pure class under pressure.
"That's a striker's goal," the co-commentator said, awe in his tone. "He waited, he watched, and he picked his moment. You can't teach that instinct. You're born with it."
Back on the pitch, Northern Ireland players gathered near the center circle, heads low, hands on hips. Evans looked toward Francesco, shaking his head slightly, the frustration plain. He'd been tormented all night, and now his tormentor had two goals to his name.
Francesco, for his part, offered a small, respectful nod as he jogged back into position. There was no malice — just focus. He lived for moments like this.
Rooney leaned close as they reset. "Keep your head, son. We've got them beat. Let's finish it right."
Francesco nodded. "One more if it's there."
Play resumed, but the air had shifted again — this time completely in England's favor. The Northern Irish press was gone, their shape loose, energy drained. England passed with freedom now, the ball moving like silk across the turf.
Kane dropped deeper again, linking beautifully with Alli and Rooney, while Francesco continued to ghost between the lines, half winger, half predator. Every time he touched the ball, the crowd buzzed, expecting another flash of brilliance.
Northern Ireland still tried to push back — McGinn driving forward, Washington chasing lost causes — but England's composure was unbreakable. Dier screened every counter, Henderson recycled everything. It was the kind of control that teams build through trust, through hours of training, through belief.
By the seventy-second minute, the game had turned into an exhibition. Francesco was smiling as he played, confidence radiating from him. When Walker overlapped, he fed him with a backheel. When Rooney switched play, he trapped it like it was glued to his foot. Everything he did now had ease, elegance — the mark of a player in total command.
The England bench was on their feet, clapping after every sequence. The fans sang louder, their voices carrying across the Paris night.
"England have found their rhythm again," the commentator said, voice warm with admiration. "And at the center of it all — Francesco Lee. Two goals, one assist, and a performance that's lighting up the Euros."
By the seventy-fifth minute, England's control was absolute — the kind of control that doesn't come from possession numbers or passing accuracy, but from rhythm, from the quiet assurance that the match's heartbeat now pulsed in their favor. Every touch, every pass, every defensive line shift — it all hummed with precision.
But even dominance has its limits. The human body, no matter how conditioned, begins to whisper its protest.
Hodgson could see it. From the touchline, his sharp eyes followed the flow — Rooney directing traffic but slowing slightly between sprints, Kane dragging his boots a second longer than usual when retreating from an offside run, Francesco breathing deeper after every burst down the flank. It wasn't fatigue that concerned him — it was conservation. The tournament was still long; this, only another step.
He turned to his bench, the clipboard tucked under his arm, his voice low but firm as he leaned toward Gary Neville. "It's time. Let's give them rest."
Neville nodded. "Who?"
"The front three," Hodgson replied immediately. "Wayne, Harry, Cesco."
Neville's brows lifted. "All three?"
"Yes," Hodgson said. "They've done their job. We protect them now."
He turned toward the substitutes — Dier, already stretching and jogging lightly near the sideline, Vardy cracking his knuckles with that familiar restless energy, and Sturridge grinning faintly, eyes sharp, always itching to get minutes.
Hodgson raised a hand. "You three — on in five."
Vardy clapped his hands together, the adrenaline snapping through him like static. "Let's finish it off, lads."
Dier's tone was calmer, grounded. "Close it down, you mean."
"Both," Sturridge said with a little laugh. "Score one, shut the door."
They rose, stripping off their warm-up tops as Neville briefed them quickly — positioning, duties, tempo management. Dier would sit in front of the defense, letting Henderson and Alli push slightly higher when in possession. Vardy would play off the shoulder, stretching Northern Ireland's back line to keep them honest. Sturridge would take Francesco's space — wide right, but drifting central when the gap opened.
Back on the pitch, England were cruising, passing Northern Ireland into exhaustion. Henderson was everywhere — intercepting, recycling, barking orders. Walker and Rose took turns flying down their respective flanks, offering width that pinned O'Neill's men back. Rooney, deeper now, was orchestrating from midfield — eyes always searching, passes slicing lines.
And then came the signal.
The fourth official raised the board.
A wave of applause broke out instantly from the England supporters behind the dugout.
Rooney, Kane, and Francesco — off.
Dier, Vardy, and Sturridge — on.
Three new engines for the final fifteen minutes.
Rooney glanced toward the bench first, saw the board, and nodded almost before the referee gestured. He turned toward Francesco and Kane, giving each a quick look — the kind that needed no words. They understood. Job done.
"Good shift, lads," Rooney said, jogging toward the sideline.
Kane followed, slower, giving the crowd a quick clap as he exited. Francesco lingered half a step longer, glancing around the pitch one last time — the sea of lights, the sound of the fans still chanting his name. His chest was still heaving, the sweat glistening under the stadium glow. He touched the badge on his shirt lightly before jogging off to the thunder of applause.
The cameras caught him smiling faintly as he came off. Hodgson met him halfway, clapping him once on the shoulder. "Two goals and an assist — perfect. Rest up, son."
Francesco grinned, breathless. "We're through."
"Almost," Hodgson corrected gently, eyes still on the field. "Let's see it through."
As the trio settled onto the bench, staff handed them water bottles and towels. Kane leaned forward, still catching his breath, and gave Vardy a slap on the thigh as he passed. "Go run them ragged."
Vardy grinned. "You know me."
The substitution reshaped England instantly.
Dier slotted neatly between the lines — a pivot, disciplined and unflinching. Every time Northern Ireland tried to build, his positioning cut them off, his reading of play closing channels before they even opened. Henderson, relieved of some defensive burden, began venturing further forward again, pressing Davis and forcing errors.
Up top, Vardy was a different beast from Kane. Where Harry had offered craft, Vardy brought chaos — pure, raw pace. Within seconds of stepping on, he was chasing a long ball from Henderson, forcing Jonny Evans into a desperate clearance that cannoned off the advertising board. The England fans roared in delight, chanting his name now.
"Jamie Vardy's having a party…" echoed through the stands.
On the right, Sturridge played with a kind of swagger that only he could carry. His first touch — a deft back-heel flick to Walker overlapping down the line — drew a cheer all on its own. He played like a man who'd been waiting for this stage.
The tactical shift was clear: England no longer needed to force the issue. They had three goals, full control, and a Northern Ireland side running on fumes. What Hodgson wanted now was stability — disciplined possession, controlled aggression, and above all, no complacency.
Northern Ireland still tried. To their credit, they didn't fold. Davis kept driving forward, urging his teammates to press one more time. McGinn, fresh and quick, darted down the left flank, cutting inside to whip a curling cross toward Magennis — but Smalling climbed above him, heading clear with authority.
Dier collected the loose ball, spun, and immediately switched play wide to Rose, who took one touch and found Henderson inside. The tempo slowed again — measured, deliberate, suffocating.
By the seventy-eighth minute, the green shirts were barely chasing. They jogged, pointed, gestured, but the energy was gone. England's midfield triangle — Dier, Henderson, Alli — now dictated everything.
Henderson drifted right, passing short to Sturridge. The Liverpool forward cut inside, hips swaying, teasing McLaughlin before whipping a low shot toward the near post. McGovern dropped sharply, parrying it out for a corner.
The crowd cheered again, sensing that England weren't content with three.
Rooney, still catching his breath on the bench, smiled faintly. "Typical Sturridge. Comes on for five minutes, already trying to score."
Francesco chuckled beside him, towel draped around his shoulders. "That's what makes him dangerous."
From the corner, Alli sent in an outswinger. Cahill met it — powerful, downward — but McGovern somehow scrambled across, tipping it away with his fingertips. Another corner.
The pressure mounted again, even with England easing the pace. It was control through suffocation — not frantic, not desperate, but methodical.
At the eightieth minute, Northern Ireland tried one last surge. Davis nicked the ball from Henderson and drove forward, threading a pass through to Washington. The substitute sprinted past Cahill, but Dier was there — perfectly timed, sliding in to sweep the ball clean without touching the man. The stadium erupted in applause for the tackle alone.
"That's why he's here," Neville muttered from the bench, eyes narrowing in approval. "Ice-cold."
England recycled possession again, passing backward to Hart, who calmly rolled it to Smalling. From there, the rhythm reset.
The clock ticked toward eighty-five, and with it came the sound of contentment from the stands — fans waving flags, chanting, singing the familiar refrains of victory. The English end was a festival of color, scarves swinging, arms raised high.
For Northern Ireland, though, it was the other side of the coin. Their supporters, though fewer, didn't stop singing. Even three goals down, their voices rose proudly, echoing through the Parc des Princes — a stubborn, defiant melody. The commentators noticed.
"You have to admire these fans," one said softly. "They've waited generations to see their country back on this stage. And even in defeat, they sing."
On the pitch, Vardy chased down another lost cause, forcing Cathcart to clear hurriedly into touch. He turned toward the fans, clapping above his head, sweat dripping down his temples.
England's bench applauded his effort. That's what Hodgson wanted — relentless professionalism, even with the game effectively done.
The final minutes felt like the slow unwinding of a symphony. England moved the ball with patience, every pass deliberate, as if savoring the control they'd earned. Dier directed traffic from the center circle; Henderson offered himself as the constant outlet; Alli continued to glide between lines, his touch effortless, his vision sharp.
At the eighty-eighth minute, Alli nearly added a fourth. Sturridge threaded a through ball between two defenders, and Alli met it first time with his left foot — a curling effort that beat McGovern but skimmed inches wide of the far post.
The fans groaned, then applauded again — it was that kind of night.
"Unlucky, Dele!" shouted Henderson, giving him a pat as they jogged back.
Alli just smiled, shaking his head. "Next one."
The board went up again on the sideline — three added minutes.
Hodgson folded his arms, exhaling quietly. The job was nearly complete.
Northern Ireland pushed once more, more out of pride than belief. A hopeful long ball from Evans dropped toward Magennis, but Smalling cleared cleanly. Dier picked up the second ball, spun, and released Vardy with a first-time pass.
Vardy sprinted — full tilt, a blur of motion — with only Cathcart between him and the keeper. The crowd rose in anticipation. He took one touch too heavy, though, and McGovern came sliding out to smother it.
Vardy slapped his thigh in frustration but smiled as he jogged back. "Should've dinked him," he muttered to himself.
The bench laughed. Even Hodgson cracked the faintest grin.
As the clock hit ninety-two, England began to wind it down completely. Henderson passed to Dier; Dier to Smalling; Smalling across to Cahill. The ball pinged gently between them, each touch met with a rhythmic clap from the fans — one, two, three, four — echoing around the stadium like a heartbeat.
Rooney leaned back on the bench, arms folded, eyes on the scoreboard. The numbers glowed clearly now in the Paris night:
ENGLAND 3 – 0 NORTHERN IRELAND
And then — the whistle.
It wasn't just a sound; it was a release.
The players exhaled, some dropping their hands to their knees, others lifting their arms to the sky. The bench rose in unison, applause breaking out from staff and substitutes alike.
The fans erupted.
"Full-time at the Parc des Princes!" shouted the commentator over the roar. "England 3, Northern Ireland 0! A commanding, confident performance — and Francesco Lee at the heart of it with two goals and an assist!"
On the pitch, Dier and Henderson exchanged a firm handshake. "Job done," Henderson said, voice steady.
"Job done," Dier echoed.
Sturridge threw an arm around Vardy's shoulders, laughing. "You nearly made it four, mate."
"Saved it for next round," Vardy shot back, grinning.
Across the way, Northern Ireland's players stood together in a small huddle, their fans still singing. Davis clapped toward the stands, his expression tired but proud. For them, it wasn't humiliation — it was experience. They'd given everything, but England's class had been too much.
Francesco rose from the bench, towel around his neck, and began walking toward midfield. The cameras followed him again — the man of the match, the story of the night. As he approached his teammates, Kane extended a fist toward him.
"Star man again," Kane said with a grin.
Francesco shook his head. "Team effort."
Rooney chuckled. "You can say that after you've scored twice, yeah?"
Francesco smiled, glancing toward the stands, the echoes of "LEE! LEE! LEE!" still rolling down like waves. The sound hit something deep inside him — pride, relief, belief.
He turned toward the England fans, raised both arms, and clapped — slow, deliberate, grateful.
Behind him, Hodgson and his staff gathered near the technical area, shaking hands, nodding. The job was done; the plan executed perfectly. Control, discipline, ruthlessness — all delivered.
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.
________________________________________________
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: 2
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9