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The match ended, and one by one, the players drifted off — some heading to their rooms, others lingering to talk tactics in quiet corners. Francesco stayed behind a while longer, the glow of the TV flickering against his face.
The morning after the victory broke quietly over France — pale sunlight streaming through the curtains, the hum of early traffic a distant murmur beyond the hotel glass. The high of the night before still lingered faintly in the air, like the echo of a song that refused to fade. For the England squad, sleep had been shallow but contented; bodies tired, hearts full.
Francesco stirred awake to the soft vibration of his alarm. He blinked into the light, eyes adjusting slowly. For a few seconds, he wasn't sure where he was — just the unfamiliar ceiling, the muted carpet, and the faint smell of hotel coffee drifting from the corridor. Then the memories surged back all at once — the roar of the crowd, Geoff Shreeves' voice, the MOTM plaque still sitting on the bedside table.
He smiled faintly. What a night.
His phone buzzed again — a group message from the team chat. Henderson had already sent the first text:
Hendo: Lobby breakfast 8:30 sharp, lads. Don't make Roy wait again.
Vardy: Bro I'm still buzzing. Slept like two hours.
Sterling: You? I heard you snoring through the bloody wall.
Kane: Behave, boys.
Francesco chuckled quietly, tossing the phone aside. He rolled out of bed, stretching, muscles protesting in that satisfying way that followed a proper game. His body ached — calves, shoulders, the deep strain in his thighs — but it was the good kind of pain, the kind that whispered you did something that mattered.
He showered quickly, letting the hot water wash the stiffness away. As he dressed in his England training kit, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror — eyes still carrying that post-match fire. There was a calm confidence about him now, a subtle shift in how he stood.
When he reached the hotel lobby, the rest of the team was already gathering around the breakfast buffet. The mood was light but composed; no wild celebration now, just quiet satisfaction and focus returning.
Rooney was at a corner table, sipping coffee with Hodgson. Vardy and Stones were arguing over whose assist was better. Dier had a newspaper open, eyes scanning the sports headlines. Francesco walked past him just as Dier muttered with a grin, "Front page — 'Lee Leads Lions to Lyon.' You've gone and made the journos poetic now."
Francesco laughed softly, shaking his head. "They'll change the tune quick if we lose, mate. Don't believe the papers too much."
Hodgson looked up from his coffee as Francesco approached. "Morning, Francesco," he said warmly. "Sleep well?"
"Eventually," Francesco replied with a grin. "Still had the crowd noise in my head."
The gaffer chuckled, nodding. "Good. Let that energy stay with you, but remember — we move forward now. Portugal in Lyon — four days. This will be another kind of battle entirely."
Rooney, leaning back in his chair, added, "He's right. They'll play their game, slow it down, make it frustrating. We'll need patience."
Francesco nodded, tucking into his plate of scrambled eggs and toast. "We'll be ready," he said simply. "Portugal's good, but they're not invincible."
That quiet conviction seemed to ripple through the table. Even Hodgson gave a faint approving nod — the kind that didn't need words.
Breakfast lingered with easy chatter. The players discussed small details — Ronaldo's free-kicks, Renato Sanches' pressing, how Portugal liked to overload the flanks. But even amid the talk, there was laughter. Kane joked that Vardy's "scientifically proven" celebration was the secret to England's luck, and Henderson countered that it was just the chicken curry the night before.
When the plates were cleared, the team dispersed — some heading to the gym for a light recovery session, others to the pool or the massage rooms. Francesco spent a quiet half hour on the treadmill, headphones in, letting the rhythm of the run clear his head. The thought of Portugal — of Ronaldo — kept surfacing. It wasn't pressure; it was purpose.
By afternoon, the team reconvened in the meeting room. Hodgson stood at the front beside a large tactical board. Clips from Portugal's last match played on the projector screen — transitions, defensive shapes, Ronaldo's movements off the ball.
"Alright, lads," Hodgson began, his voice steady, "this isn't analysis yet, but I want you to understand who we're facing. Portugal play with patience. They don't always dominate possession, but when they break, they break with purpose. Their midfield will try to dictate tempo, and Ronaldo — well, he'll find space wherever you leave it."
He paused, glancing at Francesco. "You'll be up against Pepe and Fonte if they keep the same back line. They'll be physical. Don't get drawn into their rhythm."
Francesco nodded, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen. "I'll keep them busy, boss. Make them chase me instead."
Rooney smirked quietly. "There's the confidence talking again."
The meeting wrapped up after an hour, with light applause and a few jokes as the players filtered out. Hodgson called out just as Francesco reached the door. "Francesco — a word?"
He turned back. The gaffer approached with a thoughtful expression. "I saw the interview last night," Hodgson said. "The bit about Ronaldo."
Francesco exhaled softly, half-grinning. "Yeah… figured you might."
Hodgson's lips curved into a small smile. "It was bold. Honest, too. I like that. Just make sure you keep that fire aimed in the right direction. Confidence wins battles; arrogance loses them."
"Understood, boss," Francesco replied, his tone sincere.
"Good lad. Now get some rest. We travel this evening."
By late afternoon, the sun had dipped low, casting long gold streaks across the hotel courtyard. Bags were packed, tracksuits zipped up, headphones draped around necks. The lobby buzzed with the soft rhythm of movement — zippers, rolling suitcases, the murmur of staff coordinating departure.
Francesco joined the queue to check out, duffel slung over his shoulder. Outside, the team bus idled quietly, its paint glinting in the fading light. A few fans had gathered behind barriers, waving flags and snapping photos.
Rooney approached with a coffee cup in hand. "Lyon next, lad. Parc Olympique Lyonnais — proper ground, that one. Big pitch, fast surface. It'll suit us."
Francesco nodded, adjusting his bag. "Good. I want space to run. Make them stretch."
"Careful what you wish for," Rooney replied with a grin. "Ronaldo'll love that space too."
As they boarded the bus, the evening air carried a faint chill. Francesco took his seat by the window again, watching the city roll by as they left. Paris slipped into the distance, replaced by countryside and twilight. The roads wound gently, the world outside fading into fields and lights.
Inside, the team settled into their usual rhythm. Some dozed off, headphones in; others chatted quietly. Henderson and Stones were playing cards at the back. Vardy was trying to convince Sterling to join his FIFA tournament challenge later.
Francesco rested his head against the window, eyes half-closed. His reflection looked calm, but his mind was racing — not with nerves, but with images of what was coming. Lyon. The semi-final. Ronaldo across the halfway line.
He could almost feel the stadium — the weight of the air before kickoff, the anthem echoing under floodlights, the sense that the world was watching.
The bus reached the airport just after sunset. The tarmac shimmered under orange light, their chartered jet waiting at the gate with the England crest emblazoned near the steps. As they climbed aboard, the cool rush of conditioned air met them, the soft hum of engines filling the cabin.
"Alright, lads," Hodgson said once everyone had found their seats. "It's a short flight. Get some rest, hydrate. When we land, it's straight to the hotel — then lights out. Tomorrow, we start preparing properly."
"Yes, boss," came the chorus of replies.
Francesco sat by the window again, buckling in as the engines grew louder. He glanced across the aisle — Rooney already leaning back with his eyes closed, headphones in. Kane was flipping through notes on his tablet. Francesco smiled faintly. The calm before another storm.
The plane lifted smoothly into the night sky. The lights of Lille fell away beneath them, replaced by the dark stretch of clouds and stars. Francesco looked out into the endless black, the faint reflection of his own face staring back at him.
The descent into Lyon came with a faint tremor through the cabin — a subtle shift that stirred the drowsy quiet of the England squad. Outside the window, the world below had begun to shimmer in scattered lights, clusters of gold against the deep blue of the French night. The captain's voice came over the intercom, calm and clipped in accent:
"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be landing shortly at Lyon–Saint Exupéry Airport. Local time is 10:42 p.m., temperature is twenty-one degrees. Please fasten your seatbelts."
Francesco stirred, blinking away the haze of half-sleep. The rhythmic hum of the engines had been almost hypnotic, and for the past hour, he'd drifted between thought and dream — flashes of the quarterfinal, the roar of the crowd, and the unmistakable face of Ronaldo standing opposite him beneath floodlights. He stretched slightly, rolling his shoulders back as the soft overhead lights flickered to life.
Across the aisle, Kane yawned, rubbing his eyes. "Already there, huh?" he murmured, voice thick with fatigue.
"Feels like we just took off," Francesco replied, smiling faintly. "Time flies when you're chasing dreams."
Kane chuckled, shaking his head. "You and your quotes, mate. You sound like a Sky Sports promo."
"Maybe they'll hire me when I'm done scoring," Francesco quipped, earning a tired laugh from Rooney a few rows behind.
As the plane dipped lower, the outline of Lyon spread wide beneath them — bridges crossing rivers like silver threads, traffic lights twinkling along highways, the faint pulse of a living city waiting below. The seatbelt sign chimed softly. A few of the lads leaned toward the windows, their faces illuminated by the glow outside.
"Big city," Sterling murmured. "Feels different already."
"It's got that football heartbeat," Rooney replied, eyes half-closed but smiling. "You can tell when you land somewhere like this — there's history in the air."
The wheels touched down with a gentle thud, followed by the rising whine of reverse thrust. The cabin shook lightly as the plane slowed along the runway. A ripple of quiet relief and anticipation passed through the team — no applause, no words, just that unspoken recognition that each landing brought them one step closer to destiny.
When the doors finally opened, a wave of warm night air rushed in — thick with the scent of tarmac, jet fuel, and faint summer wind. The players filed out one by one, the soft hiss of the stairway platform echoing underfoot.
Francesco paused briefly at the top of the steps, looking out over the runway lights. The Lyon night stretched vast and endless, the stars sharp above the distant silhouette of the city. He felt that small, quiet pulse in his chest again — the same one that came before every big chapter.
By the time they reached the terminal, fatigue had settled fully in. Their footsteps echoed dully against polished tiles, the airport mostly empty save for a few staff and local security personnel. England FA officials guided them efficiently through — passports, bags, brief checks. Cameras weren't allowed this time; the FA wanted focus, not headlines.
Still, a few airport workers waved as they passed. "Bonne chance, Angleterre!" someone called out in accented English.
Rooney grinned, waving back. "Cheers, mate!"
Laughter rippled softly through the group. It wasn't the wild energy of celebration — it was gentler, steadier, the calm hum of men who had already earned one victory and were quietly hungry for the next.
The luggage came out quickly — their black and navy duffels marked with England's crest. Francesco grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, the familiar weight grounding him again. Around him, the air buzzed with small talk and the low murmur of instructions from FA staff.
"Right, everyone, bus is waiting just outside," said Mark Ellis, the FA's logistics officer, clipboard in hand. "Straight to the hotel from here. Keys and assignments will be sorted when we arrive."
Outside the terminal, the Lyon night had cooled slightly, the scent of rain lingering faintly from earlier showers. The team bus idled nearby, headlights glowing soft white against the slick pavement. A few reporters lingered behind barricades, cameras at the ready, but security kept the path clear.
Francesco followed the line toward the bus, exhaling slowly as the warm air met his skin. The city stretched beyond — streetlights reflecting off wet roads, neon signs flickering from distant cafés. Somewhere out there, he knew, were Portuguese fans already buzzing about the upcoming semi-final.
"Four days," he muttered quietly to himself as he climbed aboard. "Four days to make it count."
He took his usual seat by the window again, setting his bag down beside him. Rooney and Kane sat a row ahead, chatting softly; Sterling leaned back with his hoodie pulled up, earbuds in. Across the aisle, Stones and Walker were scrolling through their phones, comparing the day's headlines.
The bus eased into motion with a low rumble, pulling away from the airport and out into the arteries of the city. Streetlights blurred past like streaks of amber. The mood was subdued — voices soft, laughter occasional, the kind of quiet that comes when exhaustion meets purpose.
Henderson, sitting across from Francesco, glanced over. "Hard to believe, huh?"
Francesco raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"
"Just… all this," Henderson said, gesturing vaguely toward the window, the night beyond. "Semifinal. Portugal. Feels like we've stepped into one of those dreams we used to watch on telly as kids."
Francesco smiled faintly, nodding. "Yeah. But it's real now. And we've got four days to make it more than just a dream."
Henderson leaned back with a grin. "You've got a quote for everything, mate. You should start writing a book."
"Maybe after the tournament," Francesco said quietly. "Depending on how it ends."
The bus fell quiet again after that — not from lack of things to say, but because words felt almost unnecessary. The road hummed beneath them, a steady lullaby of rubber on asphalt.
Lyon passed by in glimpses — the Rhône River glinting beneath bridges, shuttered cafés glowing faintly with their last customers, wide boulevards lined with trees that swayed under the night breeze. The players watched in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.
Francesco leaned his head against the window, watching reflections of his teammates flicker across the glass. His body was heavy, but his mind refused to rest. He could already picture the training ground, the drills, the sharpening of tactics. And, inevitably, he saw Ronaldo again — not as an idol this time, but as an opponent.
The bus slowed as it turned into a gated driveway. Their hotel loomed ahead — a grand, modern building with glass walls and soft golden lighting spilling from its entrance. Security guards opened the gates, and the FA staff inside the bus began to stir.
"Alright, lads," called Mark Ellis from the front. "We're here. Grab your bags, stay together. Keys will be handed out in the lobby."
Francesco stood, stretching his legs. The door hissed open, letting in the scent of cool night air mixed with the faint sweetness of nearby flowers. One by one, they stepped down from the bus.
The hotel lobby was elegant — high ceilings, marble floors, potted palms along the walls, and a quiet hum of soft music playing through hidden speakers. The staff greeted them with polite smiles and nods, clearly briefed on their arrival. Cameras were forbidden here too; privacy was paramount.
FA personnel were already waiting at the reception desk with envelopes neatly arranged. Each contained a keycard, itinerary, and daily schedule.
"Name and signature, please," said one of the staff, handing over the forms.
Francesco stepped up, pen in hand. The tag on his envelope read: Lee, Francesco — Room 803. He thanked the attendant quietly before tucking it into his jacket pocket.
Behind him, laughter echoed faintly as Vardy joked with Stones about who'd get the better room view. "Bet mine's facing the car park again," Vardy grumbled. "Proper motivation, that."
"Could be worse," Stones replied. "You could be rooming next to Hendo's snoring."
"Oi!" Henderson protested, to a round of muffled laughter.
Roy Hodgson, who had been standing off to the side, finally stepped forward, his calm presence immediately gathering everyone's attention. His voice carried easily through the spacious lobby — steady, patient, but warm.
"Alright, lads," he began, his tone low but firm. "Good work tonight. Smooth flight, no issues. Get yourselves settled — I want everyone rested and fresh tomorrow morning."
He paused, letting his gaze move slowly across the group. "Starting tomorrow, we'll train at Olympique Lyonnais' facility — top-class pitch, perfect conditions. Four days of work, four days of focus. Use them well. Portugal will be ready for us, so we'll make sure we're ready for them."
A few players nodded; others murmured quiet affirmations. There was no need for long speeches now — Hodgson knew when to let silence do the talking.
He continued, "Recovery session tomorrow morning at nine. Breakfast before that. Keep it light tonight — no room service marathons, no wandering off. We're in Lyon now, and the real work starts tomorrow."
"Yes, boss," came the unified reply.
Hodgson gave a faint smile, one that carried both pride and reassurance. "Good. Off you go then. Get some rest."
The players began to disperse toward the lifts, their footsteps echoing softly across the marble floor. Francesco lingered a moment, watching them go — Rooney giving a quick nod his way, Sterling yawning loudly, Kane walking with quiet focus.
He finally followed, stepping into the lift with a few teammates. The mirrored walls reflected their tired faces — eyes half-lidded but still alight with that inner flame.
As the doors closed and the lift began to rise, Vardy stretched his arms, muttering, "Can't believe we're this close. One more game and we're in the final."
Francesco leaned back against the wall, eyes lifting briefly toward the ceiling. "Yeah," he said softly. "One more."
The lift chimed softly as it reached the eighth floor. The carpeted hallway was quiet, lined with soft lighting and framed photographs of Lyon's cityscape. Francesco found his room, slipped the keycard through the slot, and stepped inside.
The room was cool and welcoming — a large bed neatly made, curtains half-drawn to reveal a partial view of the city. In the distance, the faint glow of the Parc Olympique Lyonnais stadium lights flickered like a promise.
He set his bag down gently, then walked toward the window. Lyon sprawled beneath him, calm and glimmering under the moonlight. Cars moved like slow fireflies across bridges, and far beyond, the silhouette of the stadium stood waiting — distant but clear, like destiny itself.
Francesco stood there for a long moment, his reflection ghosted against the glass. The air-conditioning hummed softly, a steady counterpoint to the faint pulse of the city below.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, the work begins.
He turned away finally, switching off the lights and sinking onto the bed. The sheets were crisp and cool against his skin, the mattress swallowing the last of his fatigue.
The night passed quietly. The sheets were crisp and cool, and though the city outside hummed faintly with late-night traffic, Francesco drifted easily into sleep. For once, there were no restless dreams of matches past or goals missed — only the low, steady rhythm of his heartbeat, syncing with the thought that somewhere across Lyon, preparations for history were already in motion.
Morning came with soft light filtering through the curtains. Francesco woke early, the faint scent of hotel coffee and fresh linen still in the air. His watch read 6:42. For a few moments, he just sat at the edge of the bed, breathing in the calm before the day began. The ache in his legs had faded to a dull hum — the kind of fatigue an athlete learns to carry like a second skin.
Downstairs, the breakfast room was already alive with quiet movement. Henderson was at the buffet, loading up on fruit and yogurt; Sterling had a towel around his neck, fresh from an early stretch; Vardy was telling a story so animatedly that even Dier cracked a grin.
"Morning, champ," Kane called out as Francesco joined them. "You ready to run again?"
Francesco smirked. "Always."
They ate quickly, talk turning to the day's session. Hodgson had scheduled light drills for the morning — recovery first, then tactical shape in the afternoon. "Ease in," the manager had said last night. "We're not burning legs before we need them."
After breakfast, the team bus rolled toward the Olympique Lyonnais training complex. The road wound through suburban edges of the city — quiet streets lined with chestnut trees and old stone walls. The air was crisp and clean, the kind that wakes every muscle as it hits the lungs.
As they pulled into the facility, the players looked out over the immaculate pitches — trimmed to perfection, the grass glowing under the late-morning sun. The red and white of the Olympique Lyonnais crest shimmered on the clubhouse wall.
"Now this," muttered Rooney from the front, "this is proper football ground."
The first session was all about rhythm — stretching, jogging, passing triangles, rondos to loosen up. Hodgson, clipboard in hand, watched from the sideline while assistant coach Gary Neville barked gentle reminders: "Quicker touch, Jamie. Francesco, open your body more. That's it. Keep it alive."
Francesco felt the ball roll smoothly under his boots, the air crisp on his skin. It felt good — simple, grounded, pure. By midday, sweat had darkened the collars of their training tops, laughter breaking out as small-sided games grew competitive.
When training wrapped, Hodgson gathered them in a semicircle.
"Good start," he said, his voice even but satisfied. "We build from here. Portugal will test us in every way — technically, mentally, emotionally. Use every minute we have."
The players nodded, some crouching, some sipping from water bottles. Francesco listened in silence, hands on hips, gaze fixed on the pitch that gleamed under the sun. He could already picture the next few days in his mind — sessions, analysis, repetition, perfection.
By the second day, the quiet bubble around the England camp had begun to tremble. Reporters had gathered outside the training ground's perimeter fence, lenses trained between the bars, microphones thrust at every glimpse of movement. What started as routine coverage turned into something else — a swelling story that had begun to capture Europe's imagination.
Headlines bloomed across the newsstands in Lyon:
L'Équipe: "Lee vs Ronaldo: The New Era Arrives in Lyon."
The Guardian: "England's Francesco Lee: The Heir Who Dares to Challenge Kings."
Marca: "Ronaldo's Revenge? Or Francesco's Coronation?"
BBC Sport: "From Treble Winner to England's Hope — Francesco Faces Ronaldo Once More."
It wasn't just a semifinal now. It was theatre.
At breakfast, Dier scrolled through his phone, shaking his head with amusement. "Mate, you're everywhere," he said to Francesco, turning the screen so he could see a Sky Sports headline with his photo superimposed beside Ronaldo's. "They're calling it The Clash of Crowns."
Francesco laughed softly, though there was a flicker of tension behind it. "They love building castles out of stories," he said. "But once the whistle blows, it's just football again."
Rooney leaned in from across the table. "You're right, lad. Let them talk. You do your job on the pitch — that's what matters."
Training that afternoon had more intensity. Hodgson introduced set-piece drills, then switched to formation work: 4-2-3-1 against Portugal's expected 4-4-2 diamond. The staff adjusted cones, timed runs, and shouted corrections.
"Compact in midfield," Hodgson emphasized. "Don't give Moutinho or Sanches space to breathe. Lee, Kane — press their first pass. Make Pepe uncomfortable."
Francesco nodded sharply. "Got it, boss."
He could feel the rhythm tightening — movements more precise, communication sharper. When they switched to scrimmage, Francesco scored twice in ten minutes, one with a curling left-foot shot, the other off a quick link with Kane.
As training ended, applause rippled faintly from the small crowd beyond the fence. Word had spread — locals had started turning up just to watch England train. A few held banners that read ALLEZ LES LIONS and LEE, THE NEW KING.
That evening, the team returned to the hotel to find media vans parked outside. Cameramen waited respectfully, flashes ready but distant. Hodgson had ordered strict media discipline — no individual interviews until matchday minus one. Still, Francesco could feel the eyes everywhere.
He passed through the lobby with his hood up, headphones on, keeping his focus inward. The noise outside was flattery, he reminded himself. The truth lay in the 90 minutes to come.
By the third day, the mood inside camp had changed — quieter, heavier, but not grim. It was the silence of concentration. Every player now moved with a sense of inevitability, as if the steps they took between hotel and training ground were being counted down.
That morning, Francesco joined Kane and Henderson in the gym before breakfast. The thud of weights and steady breaths filled the room.
"How's your head?" Kane asked between reps.
"Clear," Francesco replied, gripping the bar. "Feels like one of those games that decide more than a trophy."
Henderson nodded thoughtfully. "They always do. Ronaldo knows it too."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Yeah. But maybe it's time someone else writes the next chapter."
Later that afternoon, Hodgson gathered everyone in the video suite. The room dimmed as the projector flicked on, showing clips from Portugal's previous matches — Ronaldo's movements, Nani's inside runs, Guerreiro's overlaps.
"Watch here," said Gary Neville, pausing the screen as Ronaldo shifted wide. "He'll drift from left to center, bait the full-back. Don't chase him. Force him to receive with his back turned."
Rooney added from the back, "And if he gets it facing goal — foul him smartly. Don't let him run."
Laughter rippled quietly, but the tension underneath was real.
Francesco studied every frame. He saw Ronaldo's acceleration, the balance, the instinct — the same qualities he'd admired years ago when watching him at Old Trafford as a teenager. But this time, admiration was secondary. This time, it was about equilibrium — proving that the world had space for another name in that conversation.
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the city, Francesco went for a quiet walk near the hotel courtyard. He passed a small café where French fans were watching highlights on a TV inside. The sound carried faintly through the open door — his goal against Belgium replaying on screen, followed by Ronaldo's celebration against Poland.
The café owner noticed him and stepped outside, smiling kindly. "Monsieur Lee," he said in accented English, "bonne chance, eh? You make beautiful football."
Francesco smiled and thanked him softly before heading back. The compliment lingered, simple and sincere.
Back in his room, he stared for a while at the Lyon skyline through the glass — the stadium floodlights glowing in the distance. He thought of the fans waiting, of Arsenal's season, of Leah's message earlier that read only: You've got this. Always.
He smiled faintly, replying just two words: For us.
The fourth morning dawned grey and cool. Rain misted over the city, dotting the windows of the breakfast hall. The players sat in loose clusters, speaking in hushed tones. Even Vardy was quieter now.
Hodgson stood at the front, coffee in hand. "Final tune-up today. Light work only — pattern play, set pieces, penalties. Save the legs."
At the training ground, drizzle streaked the air, but that didn't stop the squad. The rhythm of passing drills echoed like a drumline across the damp pitch. Francesco and Kane moved in sync — one touch, swivel, pass, repeat. The kind of chemistry that didn't need words.
After the final whistle, Hodgson gathered them at midfield. His raincoat dripped, his glasses fogged, but his voice was steady as stone.
"You've worked well," he said simply. "Four days of focus, four days of belief. Tomorrow isn't about who's the star or who headlines the paper. It's about who stands tallest when the lights come on."
He looked around — at Rooney's seasoned calm, Henderson's determination, Kane's quiet fire, and finally at Francesco, who stood with arms crossed, gaze unwavering.
"Rest now," Hodgson said softly. "Because tomorrow, the world watches you."
They applauded quietly, the sound muted by the rain. Then the players dispersed, boots squelching through the soft turf as staff gathered cones and bibs. Francesco lingered a moment longer, turning to look at the distant stands where the media had watched from beneath umbrellas.
Somewhere out there, he knew, Ronaldo and Portugal were doing the same — sharpening their own swords for the duel ahead.
That evening, the England camp buzzed with a tense stillness. The FA media team monitored headlines; journalists flooded the airwaves with anticipation.
CNN Sport: "Francesco Lee: The Man Who Broke the Hegemony."
ESPN: "From North London to Lyon — Arsenal's Hero Faces The Madrid Superstar Again."
The Times: "England's New Hope Carries the Weight of a Generation."
AS: "Ronaldo vs Lee: A Final Before the Final."
Clips of Arsenal's treble season and England's Euro journey played side-by-side with Portugal's Euro journey. The montage framed the moment like prophecy: the veteran versus the heir, the eternal champion against the one who dared to dethrone him.
In the England hotel, the players gathered quietly in the lounge. The TV was on mute, showing those very headlines. No one commented. They didn't need to.
Kane turned to Francesco and said quietly, "They'll try to make it about you and him. But it's us versus them, yeah?"
Francesco met his gaze and nodded. "Always has been."
Rooney, sitting across with his cup of tea, smiled. "Good. Then let the world talk. We'll write the story ourselves."
As night fell over Lyon, the rain cleared, leaving the streets shining under the glow of streetlamps. Francesco stood by his window again, gazing at the city that now held his fate.
________________________________________________
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: 8
Assist: 3
MOTM: 4
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9