If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
Upstairs, as night deepened over Lille, Francesco stood by the window again. The city lights shimmered in the distance. Somewhere beyond those rooftops, Belgium were probably going through the same motions — preparing, planning, believing.
The next day arrived wrapped in a kind of silence that felt almost sacred — the kind that hangs in the air before something immense. Francesco woke before his alarm, his body tuned by routine, his mind clear in a way that only match days could bring. The world outside his window glowed under the late-afternoon light of Lille. The city was alive already — fans in red and white and others in the vivid tricolor of Belgium filled the cafés, flags draped from balconies, chants echoing faintly even this high up.
He sat at the edge of the bed for a long moment, staring out over the city, feeling the pulse of it beneath the calm. There was no need for words now. Everything that could be said had already been said in the days before. What came next would be written on the pitch.
He showered, dressed, and pulled on his team tracksuit — England crest on the chest, initials stitched small over the heart. In the mirror, his reflection looked composed, but the fire in his eyes told a truer story: this was it. Quarter-final. England versus Belgium. Ninety minutes for a place in history.
Downstairs, the hotel lobby was already a sea of red and white tracksuits. The atmosphere wasn't loud — it didn't need to be. It was focused, the low hum of conversation punctuated by the occasional laugh, the clink of coffee cups, the muffled thump of kit bags being set down. The staff moved quietly through the space, their efficiency a silent rhythm beneath it all.
At exactly 18:30 PM, Roy Hodgson appeared at the foot of the staircase, flanked by Gary Neville and goalkeeping coach Dave Watson. Hodgson's expression was calm, steady as ever, though there was an undeniable flicker of anticipation in his eyes.
"Alright, gentlemen," he said, voice low but carrying. "Time to go."
A few nods passed through the group. Boots were zipped, headphones slipped over ears, hoods pulled up. Francesco adjusted the strap of his duffel and fell in beside Kane and Sterling as they moved toward the doors.
Outside, the evening light painted everything in gold and copper. The team bus waited at the curb, its glossy surface reflecting the soft movement of flags and people beyond the barriers. Security guards held the lines as fans craned their necks for glimpses — some shouting names, others waving scarves, others just holding their phones high to capture the moment.
As Francesco climbed aboard, the air inside the bus was cool, filled with that faint scent of leather seats and sportswear that he'd come to associate with big games. He took his usual seat by the window, second row, headphones ready but unused for now. He preferred the sound of the world outside — the rising hum of anticipation, the heartbeat of matchday.
The engine rumbled to life, and the bus pulled away.
The streets of Lille unfolded around them like a tapestry. Red and white flags of England fluttered alongside the bold red, black, and yellow of Belgium. Every corner, every café, every bar seemed to pulse with energy. Fans sang from windows, spilled onto sidewalks, waved scarves, banged drums. Car horns blared in rhythm with chants. "Three Lions on a shirt!" mixed with the booming refrain of "Allez les Diables Rouges!"
Francesco leaned his head against the glass and watched the blur of colors roll past. He saw kids on their fathers' shoulders, waving flags half their size. He saw rival fans sharing beers at outdoor tables, laughing despite the stakes. For a moment, he smiled. This — this was what football was meant to feel like.
Kane nudged him from the aisle seat. "Look at that, mate. Feels like half of England followed us here."
Francesco glanced at the window again. "Feels like all of Europe's watching."
Kane grinned. "Then let's give them something worth watching."
Behind them, Sterling and Rooney were trading quiet jokes, while Henderson and Dier leaned forward over their phones, rewatching short clips from Belgium's last match. Even in the small moments, the focus stayed anchored on the game.
Roy Hodgson sat near the front, in quiet conversation with Gary Neville. Occasionally, he'd turn his head slightly, looking down the bus, just observing — measuring the mood, the body language, the readiness. He didn't need to say anything. The players knew what this meant.
As the bus turned down the main boulevard toward Stade Pierre-Mauroy, the stadium began to rise into view — massive, gleaming under the floodlights, its architecture cutting sharply against the fading blue of the evening sky. The closer they got, the louder the noise became — a wall of chants and drums and singing that seemed to vibrate through the glass.
Francesco's pulse quickened. It didn't matter how many of these moments he'd lived through — that first sight of the stadium on match night always hit the same way. A reminder that this was more than just a game; it was theatre, it was battle, it was everything they had trained for condensed into ninety minutes.
The bus rolled through the gates, past lines of security and media vans. Camera flashes sparked like fireflies against the growing night. Staff in UEFA jackets directed them to the player entrance, where the words "UEFA EURO 2016 — QUARTER-FINAL" glowed bright against the concrete walls.
When the doors hissed open, the sound hit them — a low, thunderous roar that rolled from the stands even though the match was still an hour away. Francesco stepped down, the cool air brushing against his skin. The ground vibrated faintly beneath his boots. He adjusted his bag strap and followed the group down the tunnel toward the dressing rooms.
The Stade Pierre-Mauroy interior was all clean lines and soft light — grey concrete, white beams, the faint hum of ventilation systems. Staff waited at the door, handing out player accreditation and water bottles as the squad passed through.
Inside the England dressing room, the atmosphere shifted immediately. The air was cooler, quieter, filled with the rustle of kit bags and the muted thud of boots being unpacked. Jerseys hung neatly on the wall — crisp white, numbers gleaming under the overhead lights. Francesco's shirt waited for him between Sterling's and Henderson's, the name "LEE" bold across the back, the red number 9 beneath it.
He ran a hand across the fabric. The texture was smooth, light — a reminder that this was more than just uniform; it was identity.
"Training kits, lads," called Gary Neville. "Warm-up in fifteen."
The players began changing, laughter and quiet talk mixing with the sounds of zippers and studs clinking against the floor. Francesco pulled on the navy training top, the breathable fabric cool against his skin. He laced his boots carefully, fingers moving by habit more than thought — double-knot, tug, press the tongue flat.
Across the room, Joe Hart was taping his wrists, muttering a mantra under his breath. Rooney sat beside him, head bowed slightly, eyes fixed on the ground, lost in his own rhythm of focus. Kane stretched by the benches, headphones on now, his expression locked in calm concentration. Every player had their ritual — the small, familiar acts that brought order to the chaos of the moment.
When Hodgson gave the signal, the squad rose as one.
They filed out of the dressing room and down the narrow corridor that led toward the pitch. The noise grew louder with every step — the muffled chants swelling into something thunderous, alive. The tunnel opened into a corridor lined with UEFA branding and security barriers, the walls vibrating faintly from the roar beyond.
And then, finally, they stepped out.
The Stade Pierre-Mauroy stretched before them — a cathedral of football bathed in white light. The stands were already a sea of color: one half a storm of St. George's crosses, the other a wave of Belgian tricolors. Flags rippled. Flares glowed faintly red in the distance. Chants clashed and merged into a single, deafening roar that wrapped around the stadium like a living thing.
Francesco breathed in deep. The air smelled of grass, adrenaline, and something faintly metallic — the scent of anticipation.
They walked as a group toward the pitch, boots crunching lightly against the turf. The surface was perfect — smooth, dense, trimmed to a whisper of a blade. Floodlights poured down, casting their shadows long and clear across the green.
The England players spread out across one half of the field, while on the opposite side, Belgium were already warming up — Hazard juggling a ball near the sideline, De Bruyne trading quick passes with Lukaku, Alderweireld stretching alongside Vermaelen and Vertonghen. Even in warm-up, their precision was unnerving. Everything about them screamed quality, rhythm, control.
But England matched it stride for stride.
Gary Neville blew a short whistle. "Alright, lads, let's get sharp!"
They began with light jogs, forming a loose circle. The air was alive with the crisp rhythm of passes snapping between boots, the dull thud of the ball striking turf. Francesco received a pass from Henderson, turned sharply, and laid it off to Sterling. The movement was instinctive now — practiced, clean.
"Good touch, Fran!" Henderson called. "Keep it ticking!"
Francesco nodded, controlling another pass, his gaze flicking across to Belgium's half. Hazard was laughing at something Lukaku had said, but De Bruyne's expression was locked, unreadable. Their warm-up looked like choreography — smooth transitions, pinpoint passing, effortless movement.
But so did England's.
After ten minutes, the warm-up shifted gears. Sprint drills, passing triangles, small bursts of acceleration. Francesco felt his legs loosen, muscles humming with power. Every movement now was about control — not wasting energy, not letting adrenaline tip over into recklessness. Just readiness.
Near the sideline, Hodgson and Neville watched with arms folded, exchanging quiet words. Behind them, the England fans had begun singing again — "Don't Take Me Home" rising through the stadium, thousands of voices blending into one anthem of defiance and belief.
Francesco glanced up toward the stands, toward the waves of flags and faces. Somewhere out there, Leah was probably watching — maybe from the stands with his parent Mike and Sarah with her parent David and Amanda with her brother Jacob. The thought gave him an extra spark, not pressure, but purpose.
He exhaled slowly, then burst forward into another sprint drill, boots tearing against the grass.
The warm-up came to a gradual end, the rhythm of passing slowing to soft taps, the voices of coaches cutting through the hum of the stadium. A whistle blew — sharp, final — and like a collective breath being drawn in, the England players began to jog back toward the tunnel. The crowd roared as they passed, a rising wave of noise that pressed against their backs and followed them into the cool corridor beneath the stands.
The shift from open pitch to concrete tunnel was always jarring — from light to shadow, from chaos to focus. Francesco felt the temperature drop immediately, the air thick with that familiar pre-match scent of grass, tape, and liniment. The players' boots clattered softly against the floor as they moved, echoing in the narrow space.
Inside the dressing room, the world seemed to close in — a pocket of calm before the storm. The fluorescent lights hummed quietly above, washing over the rows of white jerseys now laid out like a ceremonial offering. Each shirt waited on its bench: pristine, pressed, and ready.
Francesco's eyes went straight to his.
LEE — 9.
The bold red numbers gleamed against the white, the St. George's cross shining on the chest. He reached out and brushed his fingers across the fabric, feeling the weight of it — light as air, yet heavy with meaning.
He peeled off his training top, skin still warm from the drills, and pulled on the jersey. The material clung just right, snug but breathable. The crest sat over his heart like it belonged there. As he tugged the hem into place, Sterling glanced across with a grin.
"Big night, yeah?" Sterling said, tightening his armband tape.
Francesco gave a small nod, a half-smile. "Biggest one yet."
In the corner, Joe Hart was rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. The rhythmic thwap of palms meeting gloves echoed through the room. Beside him, Chris Smalling was adjusting his shin pads, murmuring something to John Stones. Rooney, seated at the center bench, was silent for now — head bowed, eyes closed, captain's armband already snug around his left arm.
Roy Hodgson stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed behind his back. Gary Neville hovered nearby, marker in hand, erasing the last few notes from the tactical session earlier that day. The air had changed — gone was the chatter from the warm-up, replaced now by a focused, taut stillness.
"Alright, lads," Hodgson began, his voice steady, calm but carrying authority. "Bring it in."
The shuffle of boots on tile filled the room as everyone gathered in a semicircle before him. The sound of the crowd outside — the thunder of drums, the distant horns, the chants — seemed to fade for a moment, replaced by the quiet gravity of this space.
Hodgson stepped closer to the board and clicked the cap off his marker. "Formation stays as we've trained. Four-three-three."
He drew the familiar shape — four at the back, three across midfield, three up front — quick, confident lines. Then, one by one, he began calling out names.
"In goal — Joe Hart."
Hart gave a firm nod, knuckles tapping the post of his locker as if anchoring himself in place.
"Back four — from left to right: Danny Rose, John Stones, Chris Smalling, Kyle Walker."
Each defender acknowledged the call with a quiet "yes, boss," their eyes fixed on the board.
"Defensive midfielder — Jordan Henderson."
Henderson straightened slightly, already adjusting his wrist tape.
"Central midfielder — Dele Alli."
Alli cracked his knuckles, nodding once, a flash of focus crossing his young face.
"Attacking midfielder and captain — Wayne Rooney."
Rooney finally looked up, that weathered calm in his eyes. He gave a short nod. "Ready."
Hodgson's marker tapped the front three positions next. "Left wing — Raheem Sterling. Right wing — Francesco Lee. And up top — Harry Kane."
For a heartbeat, the room was still. Francesco felt the sound of his own pulse more than heard it. His gaze flicked to Kane, who gave him that small, familiar smirk of understanding — two forwards bound by trust and instinct.
Hodgson turned, leaning his back against the desk, folding his arms. His voice softened, but it carried even more weight.
"You all know your jobs. We've studied them, trained for them, breathed them all week. Belgium are sharp — they'll move the ball quick, they'll try to pull us out of shape. Don't give them that chance. Keep compact, stay disciplined."
He gestured toward the defensive line. "Rose, Walker — you'll need to balance your runs. Hazard and Mertens love drifting inside. Keep them wide, force them onto their weaker feet."
Then to Henderson and Alli: "Win the middle. That's where they'll test us. De Bruyne, Witsel, Nainggolan — they'll try to dictate the tempo. Match them stride for stride. Make them uncomfortable. Don't let them settle."
Finally, his eyes found Francesco. "Fran, you'll have space tonight. Vertonghen's not the quickest turning back toward goal. Exploit it. Run at him, stretch their back line. You're not just our winger tonight — you're our spark."
Francesco nodded once. "Understood."
Hodgson allowed a faint smile. "Good. I want you to be brave. Don't wait for permission to create something — make it happen. That's what gets us through."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. "And remember — we do this together. Every run, every tackle, every breath. If one of you presses, we all press. If one of you drops, we all cover. That's how we win this."
A quiet murmur of agreement rippled through the group. The air was electric now — not loud, but charged with belief.
Gary Neville stepped in beside Hodgson. "Quick note," he said, tapping the whiteboard. "Transitions. Belgium push their full-backs high — Meunier and Carrasco. That leaves gaps. Kane, when you drop, look for Fran or Raheem spinning in behind. They'll be vulnerable between the lines. We hit those spaces fast, clean, and early."
Kane nodded, already visualizing it. "Got it."
Neville capped his marker, stepping back. "That's all, gents. You know what to do."
For a moment, silence returned. Then Hodgson spoke again, softer this time, almost like he was speaking to each of them individually.
"Look around you," he said. "This — right here — this is a moment you'll remember for the rest of your lives. Quarter-final of the Euros. You've earned it. You belong here."
He let that settle before continuing. "Now go out there, play our game, and make this country proud."
Rooney rose to his feet, clapping his hands once, the sound sharp and decisive. "Let's have it, lads."
The room erupted into motion. Chairs scraped back. Boots thudded against the tile. The hiss of spray-on grip echoed as players finished taping their ankles. Francesco pulled his socks up, tightening the elastic just below his knees. He adjusted his shin pads, tugged once at his sleeves, and took one last glance at his reflection in the metal of the locker door.
This was it.
The sound from outside grew louder — the stadium now in full roar, a wall of noise pressing down through the concrete. A UEFA official appeared at the door. "Five minutes."
Rooney turned to the squad. "Together."
They formed a circle, arms slung over shoulders. The smell of liniment and sweat mixed with the sound of their own breathing. Francesco felt Kane's arm over his back, Sterling's shoulder against his. The pulse of the team was one — steady, synchronized, alive.
Rooney spoke low, controlled. "We've worked for this. Every tackle, every run, every session — it's for right now. We don't hold back. We fight for each other. We fight for England."
"For England," came the reply, a chorus of voices, unified and fierce.
The official returned. "Teams out."
Rooney gave a final nod. "Let's go."
They moved as one, boots striking tile, echoing down the tunnel. Francesco's heart thudded in rhythm with each step. The noise at the far end swelled into something enormous — chants merging into thunder, drums pounding like war calls.
And then they emerged.
Floodlights poured over them, brilliant and white, washing the tunnel's shadows away. The pitch stretched wide and perfect before them, the Stade Pierre-Mauroy roaring in full voice. England fans waved flags and banners, a storm of red and white rising and falling like a living wave. Across the halfway line, Belgium waited in their deep red kits, a picture of focus and fire.
Francesco looked up at the stands — tens of thousands of faces, a blur of color and motion. The national anthem was minutes away, the air vibrating with anticipation. He caught sight of Kane ahead of him, shoulders squared, jaw set. To his left, Sterling bounced lightly on his toes. To his right, Henderson adjusted his armband.
The referee's whistle blew once — short, clear, ceremonial — and the noise of the stadium shifted from restless anticipation to reverent silence. Both teams lined up across the center circle, shoulders squared, faces turned toward the main stand where the flags rippled gently in the evening air.
A voice rose over the loudspeakers — "Mesdames et messieurs, please stand for the national anthems."
The first notes of "God Save the Queen" unfurled across the Parc des Princes, carried by brass and echoing strings.
Francesco drew in a slow breath as the melody swelled. The crowd's roar softened into a mass hum of voices — tens of thousands joining in, off-key but earnest. The England players stood shoulder to shoulder, their white kits gleaming under the floodlights, their gazes fixed on the flag waving high above the tunnel.
He sang quietly — not loud, not performative — but with the kind of steadiness that came from deep within. Around him, Kane's lips moved in rhythm, jaw tight. Sterling, a few meters down, closed his eyes. Rooney, front and center, sang with that captain's weight in his chest — a quiet pride, unflinching and weathered by years of battle in this shirt.
When the final line faded — "God save the Queen…" — the applause broke like a wave. Flags fluttered, voices rose again, and before the echoes could die down, the announcer's voice rolled on.
"Et maintenant, l'hymne national de la Belgique."
The opening bars of "La Brabançonne" rose — bright, strong, defiant. The Belgian players stood in a clean line of red, arms linked, their anthem rolling like a drumbeat through their chests. Eden Hazard's lips moved steadily beside De Bruyne's; Lukaku's chin lifted slightly toward the crowd, his expression all steel.
Francesco watched them for a moment — not in intimidation, but in respect. He'd faced many of them before, knew the danger they carried. Belgium weren't just a team of stars; they were a storm — technical, powerful, unpredictable.
When the last note of the anthem dissolved into the electric air, both teams broke formation and turned toward one another.
The referees stepped forward — a clean line of black and yellow shirts, led by the main official in the center. Handshakes followed: calm, routine, but with an undercurrent of tension. The kind of formal courtesy that always preceded the fight.
"Good luck, mate," Francesco said softly as he clasped Jordan Lukaku's hand — firm grip, brief eye contact.
"See you on the flank," Jordan Lukaku replied, his French accent threading through his English, a faint grin tugging at his mouth.
He moved on — Alderweireld, Denayer, Witsel, Hazard, Lukaku — each handshake a silent acknowledgment of what was coming. Courtois gave him a curt nod, towering, gloves already fastened tight.
Once the final handshake was done, the players gathered again for the official team photo.
Eleven men in white crouched or stood in formation — Rooney, Kane, Francesco, Sterling, Alli, Henderson, Rose, Walker, Smalling, Stones, and Hart. The photographers crouched ahead, camera shutters clicking in rapid bursts as the flashlights sparked.
Francesco, crouched on the right side of the front row, fixed his eyes on the lens for a heartbeat, the noise of the crowd fading for just a moment. Somewhere in the stands, beyond the rows of flags and faces, he knew Leah was watching. He didn't know exactly where — but he could feel it. That thought steadied him more than anything Hodgson could have said.
The moment passed. The teams broke apart again. The referees moved toward the center circle, and Rooney and Hazard followed.
Francesco watched them go — captain to captain, two leaders cut from very different cloth. Rooney, short, square-shouldered, all grit and English stubbornness. Hazard, sleek and composed, his armband gleaming against the deep red of his kit.
The referee produced the coin, silver glinting under the floodlights. A murmur rippled through the crowd as it flicked up into the air, spinning end over end before dropping into the referee's palm.
"Your call, Wayne," the official said.
"Heads," Rooney replied without hesitation.
The coin settled. The referee turned his hand over, revealing the engraved crown.
"Heads it is."
Rooney nodded once, expression unreadable, but Francesco caught the faintest twitch of a grin tugging at his lips as he pointed toward the southern end of the pitch. "We'll take the kick-off."
Hazard gave a polite shrug, gesturing to his team to switch sides. "See you in a minute," he said with a small smile — all calm confidence.
The captains shook hands once more, and then the referee signaled with a nod.
Players peeled away to their positions. The pitch — freshly cut, glistening faintly under the lights — stretched out like a perfect canvas waiting for its story.
Francesco jogged lightly toward the right flank, boots biting softly into the turf. His pulse had found that steady rhythm now — the calm before the surge. He rolled his shoulders, adjusted the tape on his wrist, and glanced toward Kane standing over the ball in the center circle.
Rooney joined him — the two forwards exchanging a short nod. Behind them, Alli stood poised, weight balanced, eyes sharp.
The referee stepped back, hand on his whistle. The hum of the stadium grew again — tens of thousands inhaling together, a single heartbeat shared by strangers.
Francesco took that moment to scan the Belgian lineup, imprinting it in his mind like a battlefield map.
Thibaut Courtois in goal — towering, calm, a wall with reflexes that defied reason.
Across the back: Thomas Meunier on the right, confident going forward but always leaving space behind. Toby Alderweireld — the anchor, experienced, precise. Beside him, Jason Denayer, young and athletic but not yet battle-hardened. And on the left, Jordan Lukaku, raw pace and strength, but prone to rash decisions when drawn out wide.
Midfield — the Belgian engine room: Radja Nainggolan, fierce, aggressive, always hunting the tackle; Axel Witsel, calm in possession, shielding the back four; and Kevin De Bruyne, the maestro — all vision and precision, capable of cutting open a defense with a single touch.
Then came the danger line — the front three. Eden Hazard, all balance and unpredictability on the left. Romelu Lukaku, power and movement down the center, a force of nature. And Yannick Carrasco, starting on the right, the kind of player who could vanish for twenty minutes and then decide a game in a heartbeat.
It was, as Hodgson had warned, a lineup that demanded respect.
But respect was not fear.
Francesco exhaled slowly, eyes drifting up to the sea of flags in the stands — a mosaic of red, white, and green shimmering under the floodlights. He could see the English end alive with motion, fans chanting his name now, faintly at first but growing stronger.
"Francesco! Francesco! Francesco Lee!"
The sound of it lifted him.
The referee glanced at both goalkeepers, then at the linesmen. A final nod. Whistle poised.
Francesco shifted his stance — one last roll of his shoulders, one last flex of his knees.
Rooney looked across at Kane. "On the whistle."
Kane's boot hovered just behind the ball, the pitch beneath it immaculate, the blades of grass glinting like glass shards under the lights.
Francesco could feel the air tighten around them.
This was it.
The whistle blew.
The game began.
Kane nudged the ball forward to Rooney, who immediately swept it back to Henderson. The first touch was clean, crisp — a small sound swallowed by the roar that followed. The white shirts began to move in unison, lines shifting, patterns forming.
Francesco sprinted into space down the right, feeling the grass hum beneath his boots, the stadium's electricity coursing through every stride.
The opening surge was like a thunderclap.
White and red jerseys collided in the center of the pitch, tackles snapping in, the rhythm of boots striking grass echoing like war drums. The Parc des Princes, alive and seething, felt smaller than it really was — the noise folding in on itself, pulsing with every movement, every breath.
For the first few minutes, both teams danced on the knife's edge between control and chaos. The ball zipped from one end to the other, heavy with intention, every pass hunted down by a rival foot.
Francesco's lungs burned with the first sprint — an early burst down the right flank, drawing Jordan Lukaku out wide before cutting sharply inside. Henderson spotted it, threaded a long diagonal through the gap, but Lukaku lunged back, his slide tackle clean and thunderous, sending the ball spinning out of play.
The Belgian fans roared. The English end answered. The tone was set.
Hodgson's voice carried faintly from the sideline: "Keep the shape! Compact!" But the game didn't want compact. It wanted fire.
By the fifth minute, Belgium began to settle into their rhythm. De Bruyne dropped deeper to collect the ball, his touch smooth and deceptively simple. Nainggolan prowled just behind him, ready to break any attempt at English build-up with a scything tackle.
Francesco tracked back instinctively as Carrasco got possession on the right flank. The Belgian winger pushed it forward with a quick, almost lazy stride — but Francesco saw it early, closed the distance, and poked the ball off his toe. It rolled into touch, and Carrasco gave him a sharp look.
"Not tonight, mate," Francesco muttered under his breath.
Moments later, England countered.
Rooney dropped deep, collecting the ball between the lines, and flicked it wide to Sterling, who immediately burst forward, drawing Meunier into a chase. Francesco sprinted across to offer the overlap, Sterling laid it off with a backheel, and Francesco whipped a cross toward the near post.
Kane was there, darting between Alderweireld and Denayer, getting the faintest touch — but Courtois reacted like lightning. A dive to his left, one massive glove stretching out to parry it wide.
Save number one.
The English fans erupted. "LEE! LEE! LEE!" they chanted, their voices a living wave.
Francesco exhaled, sweat already trickling down his temple. Courtois was in form — that much was obvious.
But so was Joe Hart.
In the 9th minute, Belgium hit back.
Hazard drifted in from the left, dancing through the narrow corridor between Walker and Stones. A faint touch, a body feint, and suddenly he was free. He fired low toward the near post — and Hart got there just in time, diving full stretch to palm it away.
The ball fell to Lukaku, who tried to smash the rebound, but Smalling flung himself across, blocking it with his thigh. The crowd gasped; the echo of the clearance rang like a gunshot.
Save number one for Hart.
England reset, the line pushing out, breathing in unison. Henderson barked orders — "Keep it tight, Dele! Push up!" — as the back four slid in perfect sync.
But Belgium were relentless.
By the 13th minute, De Bruyne had found his pocket of space again, threading a gorgeous diagonal to Meunier. The full-back took it first time, crossing deep toward Lukaku at the far post. Hart came charging out — fist first — punching it clear just ahead of the Belgian striker's header. The punch sent Lukaku sprawling and the ball spinning toward the halfway line.
Save number two for Hart.
Rooney was on it immediately, turning defense into offense. He flicked it to Alli, who ran through midfield with long, confident strides. Kane peeled off to the left, dragging Alderweireld with him, opening a channel through the middle. Alli slipped it into the space.
Francesco darted in from the right, timing his run perfectly, taking the ball on the half-volley.
For a heartbeat, everything slowed — Courtois narrowing the angle, Francesco planting his left foot — then he struck it cleanly, low and curling toward the far post.
Courtois dropped like a shadow, fingertips grazing the ball just enough to turn it wide.
Save number two for Courtois.
The noise was deafening now — a match inside a volcano. The crowd felt every near miss, every roar of the goalkeepers, as if the game itself was alive and unwilling to yield.
Fifteen minutes in, and neither side had blinked.
Belgium came again. De Bruyne picked up a loose ball and fed Carrasco, who ghosted in from the right. A quick one-two with Lukaku and suddenly he was through on goal.
Hart stepped up, eyes wide, every muscle coiled. Carrasco went for the low drive — but Hart blocked it with his leg, the rebound smacking against Rose and spinning back toward the penalty spot.
Nainggolan charged in — but Henderson threw himself across, sliding to poke it clear just before the Belgian could pull the trigger.
Save number three for Hart.
The England fans cheered like it was a goal.
By the 17th minute, the rhythm had turned into something primal — wave after wave, both sides testing, prodding, biting.
Dele Alli got clipped by Nainggolan near midfield, rolling once before springing back to his feet, fire in his eyes. "That all you got?" he shouted. The referee jogged over, gestured calm, but the temperature of the game was climbing.
And still, the keepers held the line.
England won a corner in the 18th minute. Sterling's delivery curled in beautifully toward the near post. Kane met it with a thundering header — and Courtois, impossibly, reacted again. He flung himself to his right, fingertips brushing the ball over the bar.
Save number three for Courtois.
Francesco stood at the edge of the box, hands on his hips, breathing hard. He caught Kane's eye, both of them shaking their heads with the same half-smile — disbelief and determination twisted together.
Belgium took the next sequence, Hazard collecting deep and driving forward. He skipped past Henderson, slipped through Alli, and curled a ball toward the far corner.
Hart again. Perfect dive. Palmed it wide.
Save number four.
The commentators' voices rose over the stadium roar — though in the chaos, Francesco barely heard them. All he knew was rhythm: sprint, recover, press, sprint again.
By the 20th minute, Courtois answered in kind.
Rooney found Francesco with a diagonal pass that cut through the lines. He took it on the run, darted inside past Jordan Lukaku, and struck from just inside the box. The ball was venomous — rising, dipping, curling toward the near top corner.
Courtois' gloves exploded into motion, the Belgian keeper flying sideways, tipping the shot over the bar with one miraculous reach.
Save number four for Courtois.
Four saves each in twenty minutes.
Four times the crowd had held its breath, four times the goalkeepers had refused to yield.
It wasn't just football anymore. It was a duel — raw, ruthless, beautiful.
From the stands, the chants grew louder:
"Come on England!"
"Allez les Diables Rouges!"
Each song crashed against the other like waves on stone.
Francesco jogged back toward the halfway line after the corner came to nothing, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might shake through his ribs. The air was hot with noise, the smell of sweat and wet grass thick around him.
________________________________________________
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: 4
Goal: 7
Assist: 2
MOTM: 3
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9