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The delivery came quick and sharp. Henderson curled it with pace toward that near corner. Francesco darted across the front of Giroud, losing Kanté for a split-second, and glanced it with his head — the faintest of touches — but it skimmed over the bar by inches. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, exhaled, then lifted his chin. As the game was still alive.
The sixty-fifth minute arrived not with calm, but with that restless pulse that comes when a match begins to boil over — where every breath from the bench feels like a decision, every glance toward the fourth official a question of fate.
Hodgson had been pacing for the last three minutes, his fingers tracing the edge of his notepad, his mind running faster than the match itself. The patterns had shifted. He could see it — France's press was tightening again, their recovery lines sharper, Kanté's presence having forced England's left side into narrower movements. Francesco was still finding ways through, but the rhythm in midfield was starting to strain.
Neville leaned closer. "They're doubling Francesco and clogging the middle. Dele's legs look heavy."
Hodgson's eyes flicked to the pitch — Alli's head was down, sweat streaming, his lungs heaving. Sterling, too, had lost that half-yard of acceleration that made him lethal. Hodgson didn't hesitate.
"Eric and Danny," he called to the bench. "Up you get."
Dier and Sturridge sprang to their feet, already peeling off tracksuits. Hodgson clapped his hands, sharp and loud. "We'll tighten the spine, and freshen the attack. Eric — sit in. You hold the line just behind Hendo. Danny — I want you cutting in from the right, driving at Varane. Keep their back four honest."
Dier nodded, jaw set, understanding his role before it was even finished. Sturridge grinned, that flash of competitive confidence lighting in his eyes. "Time to dance," he murmured.
When the board went up — #7 Sterling OFF, #15 Sturridge ON. #20 Alli OFF, #18 Dier ON — the reaction from the England fans was a swell of applause. They understood the logic. Stamina for structure, fresh legs for fire.
As Sterling jogged off, Hodgson clapped him on the shoulder. "You've stretched them well, Raheem. Now let Danny run at them while you rest."
Sterling nodded, chest still heaving. "They're cracking, boss. Just need one clean chance."
"I know," Hodgson said quietly. "And we'll take it."
On came Dier, slotting beside Henderson with his usual calm, the kind that steadies storms. His first act was a crunching interception on Pogba, a signal to France that England wouldn't concede the middle easily.
But fate — as it so often does in football — had its own timing.
Two minutes later, at the sixty-seventh minute mark, it struck.
It began almost innocently — a simple switch of play from Matuidi to Sagna on the right. The pass rolled with deceptive calm, but its intent was razor-sharp. Sagna took it in stride, lifted his head, and saw space. Rose had drifted infield to close Griezmann, leaving a channel open.
"Track him!" Rooney bellowed, waving, but it was too late.
Sagna darted down the flank, the years of Premier League muscle memory guiding him. Francesco recognized it instantly — that classic Arsenal pattern, the one drilled into Sagna during his North London days. Overlap, cross, chaos.
And chaos came.
Sagna whipped in a cross so precise it could've been measured by compass — curving away from Stones, just beyond Smalling's leap. It hung in the humid air for half a second, spinning toward the penalty spot.
Giroud was already moving.
The big striker had ghosted between the center-backs, his timing immaculate, his body shaping in that unmistakable way — chest forward, eyes locked on the ball, neck muscles coiling. He met it with a thunderclap of a header.
Hart saw it late — too late.
The ball slammed into the top corner. Net. Noise. Explosion.
2–1 France.
The Stade de France erupted. The entire upper tier seemed to quake as blue smoke unfurled from the stands. "Girouuuuuuud!" they roared in one voice, the sound rolling over the pitch like an avalanche.
Giroud sprinted toward the corner, arms wide, his face a storm of triumph and release. Payet leapt onto his back; Pogba slid in behind them, laughing, roaring, beating his chest.
Sagna jogged over, less animated but glowing with pride — the old Arsenal connection reborn on the grandest of stages. He and Giroud shared a brief handshake, one that said everything: Old habits die hard.
Across the field, silence in white.
England's players stood still for a moment — that hollow second when adrenaline can't decide between rage and disbelief. Henderson slapped his hands together, shouting, "Heads up! Still time! Still time!"
Francesco didn't move at first. His eyes tracked the French celebration, then shifted to the replay on the big screen. He saw Sagna's cross again — the exact curve, the weight, the flight — and the faintest flicker of frustration crossed his face.
He'd known that pattern. He'd trained against it for years.
Kane jogged over, voice low. "We're not done, mate. Plenty left."
Francesco exhaled through his nose, sharp but steady. "Then we hit them back. Now."
From the sideline, Hodgson barked a few words to his assistants, though his face stayed calm. He'd seen enough football to know that emotion wins nothing unless it's harnessed. "Keep structure," he muttered to Neville. "But let Francesco drift central. If he keeps hugging that line, Kanté will box him out all night."
Neville nodded. "He'll find a pocket soon. He always does."
Back on the pitch, Dier gathered the team around for a moment before kickoff. "We go again," he said simply, voice firm. "Stay tight. Stay patient. One goal changes it all."
The whistle blew. The restart came.
England moved forward again — not recklessly, but with measured aggression. The sting of the goal had burned away hesitation. Rooney dropped deeper now, operating almost as a playmaker, sending early balls toward Francesco's side. Dier anchored midfield, absorbing pressure, distributing cleanly.
But France had confidence in their stride. That's what goals do — they alter posture, breathe new belief into tired lungs. Pogba began to swagger again, rolling his boot over the ball before flicking it to Matuidi. Kanté stayed glued to Francesco, denying him the oxygen of space.
At the 70th minute, a French move nearly killed the contest.
Griezmann slipped through the middle, played a slick one-two with Payet, and broke into the box. Stones lunged — missed by inches. Hart charged, body spread — and Griezmann dinked it — soft, clever, cruel — but the ball struck the side netting.
A gasp tore through the crowd.
England's reprieve was razor-thin.
Francesco wiped sweat from his brow, forcing calm into his breathing. He could feel it — the fine line between control and collapse. This was where games were decided — not by brilliance alone, but by who refused to blink.
He caught Rooney's eye across the pitch. The captain nodded once, silent message clear: Stay ready.
And Francesco did.
He began to drift — pulling inward, away from the touchline where Kanté waited like a coiled spring. Instead, he hovered between Varane and Koscielny, testing their awareness, forcing them to glance twice, to question who should mark him.
It wasn't yet time to strike, but he could sense the pattern turning.
Still, France pressed on. The crowd's roar fed them, every touch greeted with that wave of noise that makes legs feel lighter. Pogba spread play again to Sagna — that same channel, that same danger. But this time Rose read it, lunging in early, deflecting the cross for a throw.
"Better!" Henderson shouted. "That's the line!"
The tempo slowed slightly, just enough for England to regroup.
Hodgson stood with arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his mind racing. He could feel the current of the match like a heartbeat beneath the grass. Deschamps was gambling now — using Kanté to shield the left, freeing Pogba to roam higher. That meant space behind him, if England could transition quickly enough.
The seventy-fourth minute was a moment suspended between exhaustion and hope. France were still humming with that post-goal confidence — the kind of rhythm that makes every pass look like it belongs in a highlight reel — but England were far from broken. They'd taken the blow, felt the sting, and somewhere inside that collective of tired legs and pounding hearts, a stubborn fire began to build again.
Francesco could feel it — the pulse of the game changing. It wasn't sudden; it was gradual, like a tide beginning to shift direction. Pogba had drifted higher and higher up the pitch after France's goal, savoring freedom, but that freedom came with risk. Behind him, space had begun to bloom — empty, dangerous space between France's midfield and defense. Hodgson saw it first. He stepped forward, one hand cupped around his mouth.
"Exploit that gap, Francesco! Quick transitions!"
The shout carried across the pitch, clear even over the roaring stands. Francesco raised a hand, a signal of acknowledgment, before turning his eyes back toward Dier. The midfielder caught the look and nodded, already understanding what his next pass would be if the chance came.
England pressed — just a little higher, just enough to test France's control. Rooney tracked Sissoko, Henderson pressed Pogba, and Sturridge began darting across the French back line like a restless flame. The ball rolled to Koscielny, then out to Sagna again.
And there — there was the moment.
Rose anticipated the pass, lunged forward, and nicked the ball away before Sagna could take a touch. It spilled to Dier, who snapped it forward in one motion — a crisp, vertical pass through midfield.
Francesco was already on the move.
He ghosted into that pocket behind Kanté — the very space Pogba had left vacant — and received the ball on the half-turn. The weight of Dier's pass was perfect; it allowed him to pivot fluidly, his right boot gliding over the grass as he accelerated.
Umtiti stepped forward, Koscielny dropped — but it was too late to set the trap.
Francesco's stride lengthened, every motion sharp and balanced. He had two options: shoot from distance or thread something more daring. But in his peripheral vision, he saw the white blur of movement — Kane, surging through the channel between the center-backs, shoulder down, ready to strike.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
He lifted his head and, with that same unhurried grace that had burned France in the first half, slid the ball through. It was a line-breaking pass — threaded low, curling slightly away from Koscielny's desperate lunge.
Kane took it in stride, one touch with the inside of his right foot to steady, another to open his body — and then, the finish.
Clinical. Ruthless. Pure Kane.
The ball kissed the far post and buried itself in the net.
2–2.
For half a heartbeat, there was silence — that stunned intake of breath that every stadium experiences when disbelief collides with joy. Then the English section exploded. Flags flew, voices cracked, and the bench erupted as if a dam had broken.
Hodgson punched the air once — no theatrics, just a flash of satisfaction. Neville leapt beside him, roaring into the night sky.
On the pitch, Kane wheeled away, sliding on his knees toward the England fans. Francesco was the first to reach him, grabbing him in a bear hug, their foreheads pressed together amid the roar.
"That's it!" Kane shouted, grinning through his exhaustion. "That's how we hit them!"
Francesco laughed, breathless. "You make it easy when you run like that."
Behind them, Dier and Henderson arrived, clapping, shouting, dragging them back to shape. "No time! Reset! Don't give them an inch!"
Across the field, the French players looked stunned. Deschamps was motionless on the sideline, his hands clasped behind his back, lips pressed tight. He knew what that goal meant — not just the scoreline, but the momentum. England's equalizer hadn't just tied the game; it had stolen the rhythm France had been feeding on.
Pogba clapped his hands, rallying his teammates. "Allez! Allez!" But the urgency in his voice betrayed the shift.
The game restarted with fire. France tried to respond instantly — a long ball toward Giroud, a knockdown for Griezmann — but Dier was there again, sliding in, winning cleanly. The England fans cheered as if it were a goal itself.
"Solid, Eric!" shouted Hodgson.
Now, every touch, every duel had an edge of defiance.
At the seventy-seventh minute, the match's tempo broke entirely into chaos. England surged forward again — Rooney picking the ball off Sissoko, spinning it wide to Francesco. Kanté lunged in, caught the ball, but his clearance was sliced. The ball rebounded awkwardly, bouncing between Henderson and Matuidi.
Both went for it — studs clashing — and the ball flew loose again. Francesco darted forward, trying to collect, but before he could take his first touch, Matuidi came barreling through.
The French midfielder's challenge was wild — high, late, and reckless. His boot caught Francesco low on the shin, and the English forward went tumbling, twisting onto the turf.
A collective gasp swept through the stadium.
Immediately, Dier was there, shoving Matuidi away. "Watch yourself!" he barked. Matuidi turned, angry, his hands raised in protest. "I went for the ball!" he snapped, face flushed.
Within seconds, players from both sides converged. Pogba grabbed Dier by the arm, trying to pull him back, while Rooney and Umtiti collided chest-to-chest, shouting over the din.
"Back off!" screamed the referee, sprinting into the fray, whistle shrieking.
Francesco was still on the ground, rolling slightly, his hands clutching his shin. The physio sprinted on with the medical bag, kneeling beside him, examining quickly. "You alright, son? Can you feel it?"
Francesco gritted his teeth, nodding. "Yeah… just caught me late. I'm fine."
"Stay down a second," the physio warned, but Francesco was already sitting up. The crowd began to applaud — even some French fans — as he tested his leg, flexed it once, twice, and got to his feet.
He gave a small thumbs-up toward the bench. "I'm good."
Hodgson exhaled, tension leaking from his shoulders. "Thank God," he muttered. Neville just shook his head. "That was nasty."
The referee, meanwhile, was busy restoring order. He turned first to Dier, then to Umtiti, then to Matuidi, his patience clearly gone. Out came the yellow card — once, twice, thrice — flashing in the humid Paris night.
One for Dier, for shoving.
One for Umtiti, for escalation.
One for Matuidi, for the foul.
The crowd jeered and cheered in equal measure. The atmosphere was electric, dangerous, alive.
As Francesco jogged back into position, a thin line of dirt still streaked across his shinpad, Kane clapped him on the shoulder. "You alright, mate?"
Francesco gave a small nod. "Yeah. He caught me good, but I've had worse."
"Good. Because we're not done yet."
France's free kick restarted play, but the rhythm was different now — the sting of the brawl had tilted the emotional axis. England looked sharper, more united; France looked agitated, their passing just a shade too rushed.
Pogba tried to calm things, slowing the tempo with wide passes to Sagna and Matuidi, but the latter's touches had grown hesitant under the crowd's whistles. The midfield battle had turned messy — elbows brushing, tackles biting harder, tempers still simmering.
At the seventy-ninth minute, the game teetered on the edge of breaking again. You could feel it — that nervous energy crackling through the grass, waiting for someone to seize it.
Francesco could still feel the throb in his shin, but pain had turned into fuel now. Every stride, every touch carried intent. He looked up at the scoreboard — 2–2, 79:42 — and exhaled once, long and slow.
The game resumed with that fierce, trembling urgency that only comes when both sides know the margins are thinner than breath.
At 80 minutes gone, it wasn't football anymore — it was a duel, a collision of willpower and endurance, with each side daring the other to blink first.
The French crowd was a living wall of noise, vibrating through the humid Paris night. Blue flags whipped in the windless air; the chant of "Allez les Bleus!" rolled in steady waves. Yet among that ocean of support, you could hear the sharp, defiant counter-song of English voices — a stubborn echo that refused to fade.
The scoreboard still glared down at them all: France 2 – 2 England.
And time was bleeding out.
On the pitch, Francesco could feel every heartbeat, every ounce of resistance in his lungs. His shirt clung to him like a second skin, his legs heavy, his shin still throbbing where Matuidi had caught him — but his mind was alive. Clear. He could taste the tension in the air.
France were pushing again, pressing with that high-tempo intensity that had carried them for most of the tournament. Griezmann drifted between the lines, Payet roamed wide left, and Giroud remained that hulking shadow in the box — always waiting for one perfect cross.
But England had settled. The midfield screen of Dier and Henderson was compact, disciplined; Rooney had dropped into pockets, helping where needed, and Sturridge's unpredictable movement kept France's backline honest.
Still, the next goal — everyone knew — would decide everything.
At the 83rd minute, Deschamps signaled to the bench. Kingsley Coman was warming up, jogging briskly along the touchline, his neon boots flashing under the floodlights. Hodgson noticed, jaw tightening.
"Fast legs," Neville muttered. "He'll go right at Danny."
Hodgson nodded, still calm. "Let him. We stay structured. No panic."
Out on the field, Francesco glanced to the sideline. He knew Coman — quick, direct, dangerous in space. The kind of player who could turn a balanced match into chaos with one burst.
But he also knew something else: France were starting to tire. Pogba's steps had slowed, Matuidi was breathing heavier, and even Giroud's pressing had dulled.
"Keep moving them," Francesco shouted toward Henderson, voice hoarse. "Side to side — make them run!"
Henderson raised his hand in acknowledgment, and the next minute England began to pass — not the hurried, desperate kind, but deliberate, probing, stretching France's shape until you could hear their defenders yelling at each other to stay compact.
Francesco floated inside again, shadowing between Kanté and Koscielny, forcing them to check their shoulders constantly. When the ball came near, he'd dip toward it, drag someone out, then spin into the empty pocket he'd just created.
It wasn't glamorous work. It was tiring, invisible — but it was tactical warfare, and he relished it.
At the 86th minute, another chance nearly arrived.
Rooney threaded a delicate pass down the left flank; Rose charged onto it, whipped a first-time cross toward the near post. Kane darted in front of Varane — got the faintest flick — but Lloris was there, smothering the ball to his chest.
The crowd roared in relief, and the French captain stayed on the turf for a few seconds longer than he needed, letting the clock breathe.
"Get up!" Rooney barked, frustration leaking through his voice. "Let's play!"
But Lloris only smirked, rising slowly, letting the seconds drip away like gold dust.
The final minutes of regular time were pure attrition.
Every tackle was met with a roar; every clearance was celebrated like a goal.
Pogba and Henderson collided once, both refusing to back down, both rising with dirt-streaked faces and clenched jaws.
Sturridge tried a curling effort from the edge of the box that whistled just over.
Payet answered with a blistering shot that Hart palmed away with both hands, sprawling.
The match had become a storm — not the kind you could analyze or predict, but the kind you had to survive.
In the 89th minute, Francesco's moment almost came.
He received the ball from Rooney near the halfway line, turned sharply, and drove forward. Kanté shadowed him, step for step. Francesco feinted left, cut right, burst through the narrowest sliver of space, then slipped a pass toward Kane — but Koscielny read it, stretching one long leg to intercept.
The ball ricocheted wide, and Francesco cursed under his breath. "Damn it…"
Still, the French defense didn't dare push high anymore. They'd seen what one mistake against him could cost.
When the fourth official raised his board — +3 minutes — the noise reached another crescendo.
Three minutes to find a winner. Three minutes to avoid the slow torture of extra time.
Deschamps paced like a caged general. Hodgson, by contrast, was stone still, arms folded, eyes tracking every pass. His calm wasn't for show — it was command.
At the 91st minute, France won a corner. Payet trotted over to take it, his shirt plastered to his chest, his expression focused. The stadium leaned forward collectively.
He delivered a wicked in-swinger — fast, low, curling into the danger zone. Giroud leapt, brushed the ball with the faintest touch — but it skimmed wide of the post.
Gasps. Groans. Then immediate counterattack.
Hart rolled the ball fast to Rose. Rose drove upfield, feeding Francesco. The tired forward still had one more burst in him — he sprinted diagonally, drawing two defenders, then flicked it to Sturridge.
Sturridge, perhaps too eager, tried to cut inside and shoot — only for Umtiti to block. The rebound fell to Henderson, who tried from distance — but it sailed over the bar.
The English fans groaned this time.
And then…
The whistle.
Full time: France 2 – 2 England.
The sound of it wasn't relief — it was resignation mixed with exhaustion.
Players from both sides bent double, hands on knees, sucking air. Shirts drenched, socks heavy with sweat and grass.
Francesco stood upright, though his chest was heaving. He glanced toward the scoreboard, then to the bench, then up at the night sky above the Stade de France — black, wide, endless.
He hated extra time. Not for the running, not for the fatigue — but because of what it did to the mind. You'd already played ninety minutes of battle, only to realize you had thirty more to endure, thirty where one lapse, one inch, could undo everything.
Kane came beside him, hand on his shoulder. "We go again, yeah?"
Francesco nodded, his voice low but firm. "We finish it before pens. No way we let it go that far."
Rooney gathered the squad together in a huddle before they headed off. "No regrets. Keep your heads. Play smart, not desperate. We're fitter — they're tiring. Push that line and punish them."
As they jogged toward the bench, the England supporters clapped in rhythm, chanting, "England! England! England!" over and over, like fuel for lungs that refused to quit.
Some players dropped heavily onto the benches, grabbing bottles, dousing themselves in water. Steam rose from their bodies in the cool air. Trainers rushed in with towels, physios checked on tight calves and bruised ankles.
Roy Hodgson stood in the middle of it all, calm and analytical, as if the entire storm around him were just data to be processed.
He clapped his hands sharply. "Listen up, everyone!"
The noise faded; every eye turned toward him.
He looked at them one by one — Francesco, Kane, Rooney, Dier, Henderson — players who'd fought like warriors for ninety minutes and somehow still had fire in their eyes.
"Right," Hodgson began, voice steady but firm. "First — well done. You've matched them stride for stride. You've kept your discipline. But now, this is where it's decided — these thirty minutes."
He glanced toward the French bench, where Deschamps was animatedly gesturing to his own players. "They're tired. Pogba and Matuidi are running on fumes. Giroud's pressing half-heartedly now. But they'll throw Coman and maybe Martial at us — fresh pace. Expect that."
Neville stepped forward, pointing at the tactical board. "So here's what we do. Eric, you stay deep, just like before. Protect the back four — especially when Rose pushes. Jordan, you press Pogba hard. Don't let him turn."
Then Hodgson's gaze shifted to Francesco.
"You," he said, "drift between the lines. Let Kane occupy the center-backs — they're wary of you now. If you find a seam, exploit it. You've got the legs, and they're leaving gaps every time Pogba wanders forward."
Francesco nodded silently, eyes focused. He could see the shapes in his head — where the passes would fall, where the space would open.
Hodgson continued. "We don't sit back. We don't play for penalties. That's not who we are. You go for the throat, but stay smart. Keep possession, stretch them wide, wait for the cracks."
The players murmured in agreement. Henderson leaned forward, voice low but determined. "They're cracking already, boss. We can feel it."
Hodgson gave a short nod. "Then make them break."
He looked around once more — this tired, determined group of players, some barely out of their twenties, others veterans of heartbreaks past. And for a moment, the noise of the stadium faded.
He smiled, faintly. "Thirty more minutes, lads. That's all. Thirty to make history."
Francesco felt it deep in his chest — that flicker of fire reigniting, stronger than fatigue, louder than fear. He took a long drink, set the bottle down, and rose to his feet.
"Let's finish it," he murmured.
When the referee's whistle sounded again to start extra time, the night seemed to hold its breath. The air was thicker now, the tension tangible. The grass, trampled and damp, reflected the floodlights like thin glass.
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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: 6
Goal: 12
Assist: 4
MOTM: 5
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9