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Francesco exhaled deeply, feeling the lingering exhaustion as a quiet, satisfying weight. Outside, fans lingered along the barriers, waving scarves, clapping, cheering the players off the pitch. England had won in Dortmund. They had beaten Germany.
The tunnel swallowed them slowly, the roar of Signal Iduna Park fading into a distant, muffled echo behind concrete walls and fluorescent lights. Boots scuffed against the floor, studs clicking in uneven rhythms as England's players drifted inward, shoulders loosening, laughter breaking out in small bursts now that the weight had lifted.
Francesco walked near the front, still wearing the captain's armband, sweat cooling rapidly against his skin. His chest rose and fell more evenly now, the sharp edge of exertion softening into a deep, satisfying fatigue. This was the part that always came after with the strange quiet that followed chaos, when adrenaline lingered but no longer drove every movement.
He reached for a towel offered by a staff member, dragging it across his face, then the back of his neck. The smell of liniment, damp kits, and recycled air filled the corridor. Somewhere behind him, Sterling was laughing loudly about a tackle that had nearly taken him into the advertising boards. Henderson was already dissecting moments with Ward-Prowse, pointing back toward the pitch as if the game were still unfolding in front of them.
Then Southgate with his hands in his jacket pockets, posture relaxed but attentive. He watched his players pass, offering nods, brief words, a hand on a shoulder here and there.
Then as Francesco drew level, Southgate stopped him gently with a touch to the arm.
"Francesco," he said. Then he glanced past him. "Wayne."
Rooney, still flushed from the match, turned back, eyebrows lifting slightly. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes bright in that familiar way they always were after a big moment.
"Yeah, boss?"
"Press conference," Southgate said. "Both of you. Five minutes."
Rooney nodded without hesitation. Francesco inclined his head once, already expecting it. Captain and goalscorer. It made sense.
"Grab a drink first," Southgate added. "Then come with me."
He stepped away, leaving them briefly alone amid the stream of players peeling off toward the dressing room.
Rooney let out a breath and rolled his shoulders. "Every time," he muttered, half-amused. "Win a big one and suddenly everyone wants to hear you talk."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Better than after a loss."
"True enough."
They detoured into the dressing room just long enough to grab bottles of water. The room was alive now with kits being tossed aside, boots unlaced, physios already moving between players. Music began to thrum softly from a speaker near the corner, something upbeat but not overpowering. Someone yelled something unintelligible, followed by laughter.
Francesco took a long drink, the cold water biting pleasantly at his throat. He caught his reflection briefly in the mirror with his hair damp, eyes tired but alert, the faint flush of effort still coloring his face. Captain of England. Victorious in Dortmund. The thought still felt slightly unreal, even now.
Rooney finished his bottle in three quick pulls and crushed it absentmindedly before tossing it toward a bin.
"You good?" he asked Francesco.
"Yeah," Francesco replied. "You?"
Rooney grinned. "Ask me again after the questions."
They made their way back out, meeting Southgate near the corridor that led toward the media area. The farther they walked, the quieter it became, the noise of celebration replaced by the steady hum of stadium machinery and distant voices echoing off concrete.
It was on that walk in somewhere between the dressing room and the press suite that Southgate slowed his pace slightly.
"Wayne," he said, not looking at him directly at first.
Rooney glanced over, sensing the shift. "Yeah?"
Southgate clasped his hands together briefly, thoughtful. "There's going to be questions," he said. "About you. About what comes next."
Rooney's smile faded just a fraction, replaced by something more measured.
Southgate continued, voice calm, conversational. "You've been around long enough to know how this goes. I wanted to ask you first away from cameras. Where your head's at."
Francesco slowed instinctively, staying close but silent. He could feel the weight of the moment without fully understanding it yet.
Rooney exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the floor as they walked.
"I've been thinking about it," he said finally. His tone wasn't heavy, but it wasn't casual either. It carried the sound of someone who'd replayed the thought many times. "A lot, actually."
Southgate nodded, encouraging but not pressing.
Rooney rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "I know people think it's time. I hear it. I see it. Every tournament, every squad announcement as it's there." He glanced up briefly, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. "You don't get to this stage without knowing how it works."
Francesco kept his gaze forward, respectful, aware he was witnessing something personal.
Rooney went on, voice steady. "But nights like this… matches like this…" He trailed off, then shook his head slightly. "They remind you why you started. Why you kept going."
They reached a small junction in the corridor. A staff member gestured them toward the press room, but Southgate lifted a finger, buying them another moment.
Rooney looked up now, meeting Southgate's eyes properly.
"I've thought about retiring," he said plainly. "I won't lie. I've thought about what it would be like to step away. Be done with the questions, the scrutiny."
Southgate listened, face open.
"But," Rooney continued, and now there was something warmer in his voice, something almost boyish beneath the years, "winning a World Cup… that still feels unfinished."
Francesco felt a subtle tightening in his chest at the words. Not from pressure. From possibility.
Rooney gave a small, crooked smile. "Seems like a nice way to go out, doesn't it?"
Southgate's lips curved upward, just slightly.
"So," Rooney finished, "I'll stay. I'll give it everything I've got until the World Cup's done. And then… then I'll retire from international football."
The words settled between them, solid and deliberate.
Southgate nodded slowly. "I appreciate the honesty," he said. "And the commitment."
Rooney shrugged lightly. "Didn't feel right to walk away yet. Not with this group. Not with him leading it." He flicked a glance toward Francesco.
Francesco blinked, surprised, then met Rooney's eyes.
Rooney grinned again, softer this time. "No pressure, eh, skipper?"
Francesco huffed a quiet laugh. "None at all."
Southgate allowed himself a small chuckle before straightening. "Alright," he said. "Let's go tell the world something they can chew on."
They moved on, the press area now just ahead. The air changed again with brighter lights, the murmur of journalists, camera shutters clicking as they spotted movement down the corridor.
Inside the press room, the atmosphere was controlled but buzzing. Rows of chairs faced a raised platform with a long desk and microphones already set up. Backdrops plastered with sponsor logos framed the space. The low hum of conversation filled the room, punctuated by the occasional laugh or the scrape of a chair.
Southgate led them up onto the platform. He took the central seat, gesturing for Francesco to sit to his right and Rooney to his left.
Francesco settled into the chair, resting his forearms lightly on the table. He felt the familiar awareness return with the sense of being watched, analyzed, recorded. It wasn't uncomfortable. Not tonight.
Cameras flashed as they took their seats. A moderator cleared his throat, welcoming everyone, thanking them for coming.
"Congratulations on the win," came the opening question, directed at Southgate. "A historic result here in Dortmund. What does it mean to you and to this team?"
Southgate answered smoothly, speaking about character, resilience, belief. He referenced the substitutions, the response after conceding, the maturity shown in closing the game out.
Then the questions turned toward Francesco.
"As captain," one journalist asked, "how proud are you of the way the team responded after Germany's equalizer?"
Francesco leaned slightly toward the microphone. "Very proud," he said. "That moment could've gone either way. Germany are a top side on how they score, the crowd lifts, momentum swings. But we stayed calm. Everyone did their job. We trusted the plan, trusted each other."
Another question followed, this time about his positional shift.
"You moved from striker to right midfield after the changes. How challenging was that adjustment?"
Francesco nodded. "It's about what the team needs. Harry coming on gave us a different presence up top. My role was to help balance things from to track, to stretch them when we could. It's not about individual positions tonight. It was about control."
Then the attention shifted, inevitably, to Rooney.
"Wayne," a journalist began, leaning forward, "you come off the bench and score the winning goal. There's been speculation about your future with the national team. Can you tell us where you stand?"
Francesco felt the room sharpen. Pens paused. Cameras angled.
Rooney glanced briefly at Southgate, then forward again. His expression was composed, thoughtful.
"I've thought about it a lot," he said, echoing the words from the corridor, but now carrying them out into the open. "I know I'm not the youngest guy in the room anymore."
A ripple of quiet amusement moved through the press.
"But," Rooney continued, "I still feel I can contribute. Nights like this prove that. And honestly… winning a World Cup seems like a nice way to finish."
There it was.
The room stirred immediately.
"So you're saying—" another journalist began.
"I'm staying," Rooney said simply. "I'll stay until the World Cup's done. After that, I'll retire from international football."
The flash of cameras intensified. The murmur swelled.
Southgate glanced at Rooney, then addressed the room. "We're delighted Wayne's committed," he said. "His experience, his mentality, what he brings in moments like tonight as it's invaluable."
Francesco felt a quiet swell of emotion beside him that not dramatic, not overwhelming, just steady. This was what building toward something felt like. Not hype. Not slogans. Decisions. Commitment.
More questions followed. About Germany's substitutions. About England's defensive shape. About Kane's impact, Sterling's energy, Hart's saves. Francesco answered where appropriate, always measured, always pulling the focus back to the collective.
Eventually, the moderator signaled the final question.
"What does this win mean for England going forward?" someone asked.
Francesco paused before answering, choosing his words carefully.
"It means belief," he said. "Not arrogance. Not expectation. Just belief. We know what we're capable of when we work the right way. Tonight doesn't win us anything on its own, but it shows us what's possible."
The press conference wrapped up shortly after. Southgate stood, thanked the room, and led them back out through the side corridor.
As soon as the door closed behind them, the noise dropped away again.
Rooney let out a long breath and laughed quietly. "Well," he said, "that's out there now."
Francesco smiled. "You good?"
Rooney nodded. "Yeah. Feels right."
Southgate stopped near the junction where they would split off with players back toward the dressing room, staff onward.
"Wayne," he said, extending a hand. "Glad to have you."
Rooney shook it firmly. "Wouldn't miss it."
Then Southgate turned to Francesco. "You handled that well," he said. "Both on the pitch and in there."
Francesco dipped his head. "Thank you."
Southgate gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. "Get some rest. You've earned it."
Southgate's footsteps faded down the corridor, swallowed by the quiet hum of the stadium, leaving Francesco and Rooney standing there for a moment longer than necessary. The air felt different now as it was lighter. The hardest parts of the night were behind them. What remained was the slow exhale.
Rooney broke the silence first, stretching his arms above his head, joints cracking audibly.
"Alright," he said. "Now I'm actually shattered."
Francesco smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting as the tension finally eased out of his shoulders. "Took you long enough to admit it."
Rooney scoffed. "I admitted nothing. I'm just… temporarily depleted."
They turned back toward the dressing room together, walking at an unhurried pace now. The corridor felt longer on the way back, not because of distance but because of how full Francesco's head was. The match. The goal. The substitutions. The press conference. Rooney's words about the World Cup echoed again, settling deeper each time they resurfaced.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere had shifted into something loose and celebratory.
Music was louder now as someone had changed the playlist to something bass-heavy and unapologetically upbeat. Players lounged across benches, some already half-dressed in training shorts, others still in match kit, socks rolled down, shin pads discarded on the floor like relics of battle. Laughter bounced off the walls, overlapping conversations forming a constant low roar.
Sterling was reenacting his near-collision with the advertising boards, arms flailing dramatically as he retold it to a small audience of amused teammates. Kane sat nearby, towel draped over his head, nodding along while scrolling through his phone, no doubt already inundated with messages. Henderson leaned against a locker, boots off, barefoot now, calmly talking with Ward-Prowse about a free-kick angle that hadn't even come to fruition.
Francesco stepped inside and felt it with the unity, the relief, the quiet pride humming beneath the noise.
Rooney clapped his hands together once, loud enough to cut through the chatter. "Oi," he called out. "Anyone got any hot water left, or am I about to freeze to death?"
A chorus of sarcastic replies came back immediately.
"Captain first!"
"Veterans' privilege!"
"You should've retired before the shower rush!"
Rooney laughed, shaking his head as he headed toward his locker. Francesco followed, placing his bag down and untying his boots slowly, methodically. Each movement felt deliberate now, like he was easing himself out of the match piece by piece.
As he peeled off his shirt, the captain's armband came with it. He held it for a second longer than usual, thumb brushing over the fabric, before folding it neatly and setting it atop his bag.
Not because the moment was over.
Because it had been earned.
The showers beckoned, steam already curling into the room from behind the tiled doorway. Francesco grabbed a towel and a small toiletry bag, then nodded toward Rooney.
"Coming?" he asked.
Rooney raised an eyebrow. "You inviting me, skipper?"
Francesco snorted. "Don't push it."
They made their way into the showers together, the sound shifting immediately with voices echoing sharper off tile, water pounding against the floor in overlapping rhythms. Steam filled the space, fogging the mirrors almost instantly.
Francesco stepped under a free stream and tilted his head back, letting the hot water cascade over his hair and down his spine. The heat bit at first, then settled, loosening muscles that had been clenched for hours. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
This was where the night truly ended.
Nearby, Rooney let out a satisfied groan as the water hit him. "Oh, that's the stuff," he said. "Whoever invented hot showers after football deserves a statue."
Francesco chuckled softly. "You'd probably argue it should be you."
"Fair," Rooney replied without missing a beat.
They stood there in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the rush of water and the distant laughter bleeding in from the dressing room beyond.
Eventually, Rooney spoke again, voice quieter now, more reflective.
"You know," he said, staring at the tiled wall, "saying it out loud… about the World Cup. Felt different."
Francesco turned his head slightly, not fully looking at him but listening.
"Good different?" he asked.
Rooney nodded. "Yeah. Like… once you say it, it's real. No more maybes."
Francesco considered that. "I'm glad you're staying."
Rooney glanced over, meeting his eyes through the steam. "Me too. And I meant what I said earlier. About you leading this lot."
Francesco shrugged under the water. "I'm not doing it alone."
"I know," Rooney said. "That's kind of the point."
They finished showering soon after, toweling off and heading back into the dressing room. The steam clung to them briefly before dissipating into the cooler air.
Francesco pulled on fresh underwear and then the England tracksuit, the familiar navy fabric settling comfortably against his skin. It felt grounding that less ceremonial than the match kit, more representative of the everyday grind of international football. Training, travel, recovery. The work between the moments.
Around him, the rest of the squad did the same. Zips slid up. Trainers replaced boots. Phones reappeared in hands, messages finally answered. The volume of the room dipped slightly, the earlier adrenaline giving way to fatigue.
Southgate re-entered briefly, clapping his hands once to get attention.
"Bus leaves in ten," he said. "Quick turnaround. Well done tonight."
A round of applause followed, spontaneous and genuine. Southgate nodded once, satisfied, and left them to it.
Francesco slung his bag over his shoulder and waited near the door as players began filtering out. Rooney joined him, adjusting his tracksuit collar.
"Alright," Rooney said. "Round two of sitting down begins."
They walked out together, back through the now-familiar corridors, toward the underground exit where the team bus waited. The stadium felt emptier now, its earlier intensity drained away, leaving behind only echoes and shadows.
Outside, the night air was cold and sharp, cutting through the lingering warmth of the showers. Breath puffed visibly as players stepped onto the pavement. The bus idled nearby, engine humming steadily, interior lights glowing softly.
Francesco boarded near the front this time, nodding to the driver before moving down the aisle. The seats filled quickly, players collapsing into them with exaggerated sighs, bags stowed overhead or beneath feet.
As the bus pulled away from Signal Iduna Park, Francesco glanced out the window one last time. The stadium receded into the darkness, its massive outline still visible against the night sky.
A win like that didn't disappear when you left the ground.
It stayed with you.
The ride back to the hotel was quieter than the journey there, but not silent. Conversations bubbled up and died down organically. Some players leaned back with eyes closed, headphones on. Others scrolled through social media, smirking at messages or shaking their heads at headlines already forming.
Rooney sat a few rows behind Francesco, laughing at something Kane had shown him on his phone. Sterling chimed in from across the aisle, offering commentary that only made Rooney laugh harder.
Francesco listened, smiling faintly, content to let the moment breathe.
Halfway through the journey, he stood.
The movement caught attention immediately that not because it was unusual, but because of who was doing it. Conversations tapered off as heads turned.
Francesco steadied himself against a seatback as the bus rolled on, then cleared his throat.
"Oi," he said, not loudly, but firmly enough to carry.
The bus quieted.
He glanced back toward Rooney first, meeting his eyes, then swept his gaze across the rest of the team.
"Listen," Francesco began. "Tonight was big. Beating Germany here, that's something we should all be proud of. Everyone played their part. Starters, subs, staff. All of it."
A few nods followed. Murmurs of agreement.
"But," he continued, and here his tone shifted slightly, warmer, more personal, "there's something else we should acknowledge."
Rooney raised an eyebrow, already suspecting.
Francesco smiled. "Wayne's decided he's staying with us until the World Cup's done. After that, he'll retire from international football."
The reaction was immediate.
A mix of cheers, whistles, applause. Someone banged the side of the bus. Sterling leaned forward, grinning. Henderson turned in his seat, clapping deliberately. Kane nodded, expression thoughtful.
Rooney lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright," he said. "Don't make it weird."
Francesco chuckled. "Too late."
He went on. "So I was thinking, when we get back to the hotel, we don't just disappear to our rooms. We get together. Lounge. Nothing formal. Just acknowledge it properly. Celebrate the win. Celebrate him."
Another wave of approval rolled through the bus.
"About time!"
"Drinks on Rooney!"
"Captain's orders!"
Rooney shook his head, laughing now, but there was something in his eyes with gratitude, maybe, or something close to it.
"Guess I'm not getting out of this," he said.
"Not a chance," Francesco replied.
He sat back down as the bus rumbled on, the atmosphere lighter now, anticipation building for a different kind of night. Not one of tension or tactics that but of stories, laughter, shared history.
The hotel came into view soon after, its lights bright against the dark. The bus pulled up to the private entrance, staff already waiting to guide them inside.
The bus hissed softly as it came to a stop, brakes sighing like even the machine itself was tired after the night it had carried. The doors folded open and cold air rushed in again, sharper this time, clean and grounding. One by one, the players stood, stretching stiff legs, grabbing bags, pulling jackets tighter around their necks.
Francesco waited until most of them had moved ahead before stepping off. The pavement was slick beneath his trainers, reflecting the hotel's lights in broken shards of gold and white. Staff lined the entrance with practiced efficiency, nodding politely, already accustomed to the quiet chaos that followed a win like this.
Rooney hopped down a step behind him, landing with a small grunt.
"Right," he muttered. "If my knees seize up in the next five minutes, someone carry me."
Sterling glanced back over his shoulder. "That's what the youngsters are for, mate."
Rooney snorted. "You'd drop me."
"Absolutely," Sterling replied cheerfully.
Laughter rippled through the group as they moved inside, warmth swallowing them whole the moment the doors closed. The lobby was hushed in that late-night luxury way that soft lighting, muted colors, the low hum of conversation from guests who had no idea a small piece of international football history had just walked past them.
Security guided them quickly through, past elevators, toward the private lounge reserved for the team. It was tucked away from the public areas, shielded by heavy wooden doors and discreet signage. When those doors opened, the atmosphere shifted again.
The lounge was spacious but intimate that low couches arranged in clusters, dark wood tables, a long bar along one wall already manned by two bartenders who looked alert despite the hour. Warm amber lighting reflected off glass shelves stacked with bottles. A quiet playlist hummed through hidden speakers, something smooth and unintrusive.
The players filtered in and immediately spread out, claiming couches, dropping bags, collapsing into seats with exaggerated relief.
"This," Kane said, flopping down beside Henderson, "is the best part."
Henderson nodded, kicking his feet up onto a low table without guilt. "By far."
Francesco stood near the entrance for a moment, taking it all in. This was different from the dressing room. Less noise, less chaos. More… togetherness. A space where the win could actually settle.
Rooney drifted toward the bar almost instinctively, resting his elbows against the polished wood. One of the bartenders leaned forward, professional smile already in place.
"What can I get you, gentlemen?"
Rooney glanced back at the room. "What's the rule, skipper?" he asked loudly enough for Francesco to hear. "Are we pretending to be responsible, or…?"
Francesco met his gaze, then looked around at the squad with their faces tired but bright, eyes still alive with the echo of the night.
He shrugged. "Within reason," he said. "We've earned a drink."
That was all it took.
A low cheer rose, not loud, not rowdy, but full of approval. Chairs scraped as a few players stood to join Rooney at the bar.
"Beer," Sterling said immediately.
"Same," Dele added.
"Red wine," Henderson said, glancing at Ward-Prowse.
"Make it two," Ward-Prowse replied.
Kane hesitated for half a second, then nodded. "Beer's fine."
Rooney looked at Francesco again. "Captain?"
Francesco thought about it for a beat. The night. The match. The weight finally easing.
"Whiskey," he said. "Neat."
Rooney grinned. "Of course."
Glasses were poured, bottles popped, the soft clink of ice filling the spaces between conversations. Francesco accepted his glass from the bartender, the amber liquid catching the light as he lifted it briefly in acknowledgment.
They didn't toast immediately. No grand speech. No raised glasses across the room.
Instead, they settled.
Players sank into couches with drinks in hand, legs stretched out, shoulders finally dropping. Conversations overlapped as some about the match, others already drifting to memories, jokes, things completely unrelated.
Sterling perched on the arm of a sofa, animated as ever, retelling the moment Rooney scored with increasing embellishment.
"I swear," Sterling said, hands flying, "when Lallana slipped that pass, time stopped. Wayne was already winding up before the ball even reached him."
Rooney waved him off. "That's rubbish. I just hit it."
"Yeah," Dele chimed in from across the table, "but you hit it like you've been waiting years for that exact moment."
Rooney took a sip of his drink, eyes dropping briefly to the glass. "Maybe I was."
That comment lingered longer than expected.
Francesco sat nearby, one ankle resting over his knee, listening more than speaking. He watched Rooney on how relaxed he looked now, how the usual edge had softened into something reflective.
Eventually, Francesco leaned forward, setting his glass down on the table with a soft thud.
"Alright," he said.
Heads turned instinctively. Not because he demanded it but because this group had learned, over time, that when Francesco spoke in moments like this, it mattered.
He didn't stand. Didn't raise his voice.
"I don't want this to turn into a ceremony," he continued. "But I do want to say something."
Rooney sighed theatrically. "Here we go."
Francesco shot him a look. "Behave."
A few chuckles broke the tension.
"Wayne's decision to stay until the World Cup," Francesco said, "that's not just about goals or experience. It's about continuity. It's about having someone in this group who knows exactly what it takes, and what it costs."
He glanced around the room at Kane, Sterling, Henderson, even the quieter faces tucked into corners.
"For some of you," he went on, "this'll be your first World Cup. For others, maybe not your last. But for all of us, it's a chance. And having him here, choosing to give more when he doesn't have to that matters."
Rooney shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. "You're making it sound like I'm dying."
Francesco smiled faintly. "You'll survive."
Laughter rippled again, but it was softer now, warmer.
Francesco lifted his glass finally.
"To Wayne," he said simply. "And to finishing this together."
The response was immediate.
Glasses rose across the room, the sound of them clinking together filling the lounge in overlapping chimes.
"To Wayne."
"To the World Cup."
"To England."
Rooney lifted his glass last, shaking his head slightly, but he didn't hide the emotion in his eyes this time.
"Cheers," he said. "All of you."
They drank.
The night loosened after that.
The playlist shifted at some point as someone requested something louder, something nostalgic. The bartenders obliged, turning the volume up just enough to give the room a pulse without drowning conversation.
More drinks were ordered. Not recklessly, not to excess but enough to blur the sharp edges left behind by ninety minutes of intensity.
Francesco found himself in a quieter corner with Henderson and Ward-Prowse at one point, discussing nothing more serious than which stadium had the worst away dressing room showers. Henderson was adamant it was somewhere in Eastern Europe. Ward-Prowse disagreed vehemently.
Nearby, Kane and Dele were deep in conversation, Kane listening intently as Dele spoke, hands animated, reliving some moment from the match that clearly still thrilled him.
Rooney moved between groups, comfortable, at ease. At one point he settled beside Sterling, the two of them laughing over something on Sterling's phone which probably a meme already circulating online.
Francesco watched it all with a quiet sense of satisfaction.
This was what he'd hoped for when he'd taken the armband. Not control. Not authority.
Connection.
At some point, Rooney dropped into the seat beside him, exhaling heavily.
"Alright," he said. "Confession."
Francesco raised an eyebrow. "That sounds dangerous."
Rooney smirked. "When I told you earlier I was shattered? I lied."
"Oh?"
"I was terrified," Rooney admitted, voice low enough that only Francesco could hear. "Not of playing. Of stopping."
Francesco turned slightly toward him, attentive now.
"I've been thinking about it for months," Rooney continued. "Walking away. Letting the next generation take it fully. And part of me wanted that. Wanted the quiet."
He paused, fingers tapping against his glass.
"But then nights like this happen," he said. "And you remember why you stayed so long in the first place."
Francesco nodded slowly. "It's hard to give that up."
"Exactly," Rooney said. "So yeah. World Cup. Then I'm done. Properly done."
He looked at Francesco then, expression steady.
"And I trust you with what comes next."
Francesco didn't deflect this time.
"I won't waste it," he said.
Rooney smiled, satisfied.
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the room as Sterling attempting to teach someone a dance move that clearly wasn't landing, laughter erupting anyway.
Eventually, fatigue began to creep back in, subtle but undeniable. Yawns became more frequent. Conversations softened, slowed. The night shifted from celebration toward something gentler.
One by one, players stood, stretching again, clapping hands on shoulders, murmuring goodnights.
"Same time tomorrow," Henderson joked as he stood.
"Absolutely not," Kane replied.
Rooney lingered longer than most, nursing the last of his drink. Francesco stayed too, not wanting to rush the moment.
Finally, Rooney pushed himself up with a groan. "Right," he said. "Bed before I regret everything."
They walked toward the exit together, the lounge quieter now, only a few players still chatting softly.
At the door, Rooney stopped and turned.
"Thanks," he said simply.
Francesco met his gaze. "For what?"
"For tonight," Rooney replied. "For… all of it."
Francesco nodded. "Get some rest. We've got work to do."
Rooney grinned. "Always."
They parted there, heading toward separate corridors, the hotel swallowing them back into its quiet.
Morning came quietly.
Not with alarms blaring or voices shouting down corridors, but with soft light creeping through curtains and the low, distant sounds of a hotel waking up. Carts rolling along carpeted hallways. Doors opening and closing gently. The muted hum of elevators carrying people who already had places to be.
Francesco woke before his alarm.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the previous night replay in fragments rather than scenes. The goal. The roar. Rooney's finish. The clink of glasses in the lounge. Laughter. That look in Rooney's eyes when he said he was staying.
There was no rush in his body now. No matchday edge. Just a steady awareness of where he was and what came next.
He swung his legs out of bed and stood, stretching slowly, feeling the familiar ache in his calves and lower back. Not pain as nothing concerned him, but proof that his body had worked hard and would need care today.
The shower was warm but brief. He dressed in the England travel kit laid out neatly the night before: navy tracksuit, white trainers, jacket zipped halfway. Functional. Comfortable. Anonymous in a way match kits never were.
When he stepped into the corridor, doors were already opening along it. Sterling emerged opposite him, headphones around his neck, hair still damp.
"Morning, skipper," Sterling said, voice rough but cheerful.
"Morning," Francesco replied. "Sleep?"
Sterling laughed. "Define sleep."
They walked together toward the lifts, joined by Henderson and Ward-Prowse a few steps later. Conversation was minimal at first with grunts, nods, small comments about stiffness and coffee but it felt easy. Familiar.
The lobby was brighter than the night before, sunlight streaming through tall glass panels and illuminating the polished floors. Staff moved with quiet efficiency, already accustomed to the rhythms of teams arriving and leaving.
A long table near the seating area held coffee urns, fruit, pastries, bottles of water. Players gravitated toward it instinctively, some pouring coffee without speaking, others leaning back against pillars while they waited.
Rooney appeared a few minutes later, hood up, sunglasses on despite being indoors. He moved like a man whose body had opinions about the previous night.
"Morning, sunshine," Dele called.
Rooney raised a hand without removing the glasses. "If anyone speaks loudly near me, we're not friends."
Laughter rippled through the lobby.
Francesco poured himself a coffee and took a sip, grimacing slightly at the bitterness before it settled. He leaned against the table, scanning the group.
Everyone was there.
Not just physically, but mentally. There was no sense of fragmentation, no one off to the side with headphones pulled too tight, eyes distant. Even the quieter players stood closer together than usual, drawn into the collective orbit.
Southgate entered shortly after, clipboard under one arm, jacket neatly pressed. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Morning, lads," he said.
A chorus of greetings came back, some more enthusiastic than others.
"We'll load the bus in five," Southgate continued. "Flight's on schedule. London by early afternoon. Recovery this evening. Tomorrow's light."
A few relieved nods at that last part.
Francesco caught Southgate's eye briefly. A shared look passed between them that not celebratory, not self-satisfied. Just acknowledgment.
They were on the same page.
The bus waited outside, engine already running, its white exterior gleaming in the morning light. Players filed out in small clusters, bags slung over shoulders, coffee cups discarded in bins by the door.
Francesco boarded near the front again, greeting the driver with a nod before moving down the aisle. The seats filled quickly, the atmosphere subdued but comfortable. No music yet. No jokes shouted across rows.
Just presence.
Rooney dropped into a seat a few rows back, stretching his legs into the aisle until a staff member gently nudged him to move them. Sterling slid into the seat across from him, immediately pulling his phone back out.
As the bus pulled away from the hotel, Dortmund slipped past the windows in daylight this time. Streets they hadn't really seen the night before now revealed themselves from cafés opening, people cycling to work, the city continuing on, indifferent to what had happened inside a stadium hours earlier.
Francesco watched it go by, coffee warming his hands.
The drive to the airport was short. Quiet.
Some players dozed. Others stared out the window, thoughts turned inward. A few staff members spoke in low voices near the front.
When the airport came into view, there was a subtle shift—bags adjusted, seats straightened, bodies preparing for movement again.
Security was smooth, efficient. This wasn't a commercial scramble but a controlled passage through private areas, staff guiding them through corridors and checkpoints with minimal fuss.
Inside the terminal, the space felt larger, echoing slightly. High ceilings. Broad windows. The smell of coffee and disinfectant mingling oddly.
They waited briefly near the gate, spreading out across rows of seats. Francesco sat with Henderson and Kane this time, his bag between his feet.
Kane leaned back, hands folded on his stomach. "You ever get that thing," he said, "where you're exhausted but your brain won't shut up?"
Henderson nodded immediately. "Every international break."
Francesco smiled. "That's the job," he said. "Your head's always half a match ahead."
Kane hummed in agreement.
Rooney wandered over then, dropping into a seat across from them with a heavy sigh. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and rubbed his face.
"I swear," he said, "planes used to feel exciting."
"They still do," Henderson replied. "Just not when your legs feel like concrete."
Rooney pointed at him. "Exactly."
Boarding began soon after.
They moved down the jet bridge in an unhurried line, the sound of footsteps echoing against metal and glass. Inside the plane, the cabin was arranged comfortably with wider seats, more legroom than commercial flights. Enough space for bodies that needed to recover.
Francesco took his seat near the middle, window side. He stowed his bag, buckled in, and leaned his head back against the seat as the rest of the team settled around him.
The plane pushed back smoothly, engines humming to life. There was a collective exhale as it began to taxi.
Sterling leaned across the aisle. "Anyone actually going to sleep?" he asked.
"Not a chance," Dele replied from behind him.
Rooney closed his eyes immediately. "Wake me in London."
As the plane lifted, Dortmund fell away beneath them, shrinking into patterns of rooftops and roads before disappearing into cloud.
Francesco watched until there was nothing left to see.
At cruising altitude, the cabin settled into its own rhythm. Seatbelts off. Staff moving quietly down the aisle offering water, light snacks. Conversations resuming in low tones.
Francesco took out his headphones but didn't put them on yet. He stared at the seatback in front of him, thoughts drifting that not forward, not backward, but somewhere suspended in between.
Leadership wasn't about speeches or moments like last night's toast. Those were visible, memorable. Easy to point to.
It was about this.
The in-between. The quiet hours. Making sure the group stayed connected when there was nothing immediate demanding it.
Rooney stirred in his seat, eyes still closed. "You know," he murmured, "I dreamed I missed a sitter."
Francesco glanced over. "That's just your brain being cruel."
Rooney cracked one eye open. "Figures."
They shared a small smile.
Somewhere further up the cabin, Sterling laughed loudly at something on his phone. Kane groaned in protest. Henderson told them to keep it down.
It felt… right.
When the plane began its descent, London stretched out beneath them in familiar shades of grey and green. The Thames curved through the city like a ribbon. Francesco felt something settle in his chest as it came into view.
Home, for now.
The landing was smooth. Applause didn't break out ws this group saved that for bigger moments, but there were murmurs of relief as the plane slowed and taxied to its gate.
They disembarked quickly, moving through private corridors again, the process efficient and understated. Bags appeared promptly. Staff directed them toward the waiting bus.
Outside, the air was cooler, heavier with moisture. London smelled different from Dortmund that less sharp, more lived-in.
Francesco boarded the bus and took a seat near the front, watching as the rest of the team piled on. There was more chatter now. A sense of completion.
As the bus pulled away from the airport, Francesco looked out the window, city streets rolling past once more. The win was already becoming memory.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (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, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 39
Goal: 61
Assist: 3
MOTM: 8
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9