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And their young captain stood at the centre of it all, smiling beneath a storm of golden confetti, holding the trophy he and his teammates had spent the entire tournament chasing.
Then, after the photographs had finally begun to slow down and the last few moments of the podium celebration had passed, the England players were called together once more.
There was still no real sense that anyone wanted to leave the pitch.
The podium was covered in golden confetti.
Medals hung around the players' necks.
The World Cup had been lifted.
Photographs had been taken.
Families had embraced them.
And yet, somehow, the night still wasn't over.
The stadium announcer called the squad together for one final celebration.
A lap of honour.
Francesco looked toward the trophy in his hands.
Then toward his teammates.
Kane was already smiling.
Henderson was applauding.
Rooney waved toward the supporters.
Francesco laughed.
"Come on, then."
The players began moving.
Francesco took the lead, carrying the World Cup alongside his teammates.
The first few steps away from the podium felt strangely different.
There was no longer any tension.
No more waiting for the referee's whistle.
No more defending a two-goal lead.
No more checking the clock.
They could finally enjoy it.
They were champions.
The England squad began walking toward their supporters.
The moment the first section of fans saw the trophy approaching, the noise rose again.
"It's coming home!"
The chant rolled through the stadium.
Francesco lifted the World Cup above his head.
The response was immediate.
Thousands of supporters jumped to their feet.
Flags waved wildly.
Scarves were held high.
Some fans were crying.
Others were laughing.
Some simply stared at the trophy as though they still couldn't believe it was actually there.
Francesco lowered it for a few steps before raising it again.
Another enormous cheer.
Kane walked beside him, shouting toward the stands.
"COME ON!"
Henderson applauded continuously, turning from one section of supporters to another.
Rooney lifted both hands above his head and waved.
Sterling couldn't seem to walk normally anymore.
He was practically dancing as he moved along the pitch.
Every few seconds he would turn toward the crowd, throw his arms up and laugh.
Pickford carried his Golden Glove proudly.
He held it up whenever supporters called his name.
"PICKFORD!"
The goalkeeper responded with a grin.
Francesco kept looking around.
Everywhere he looked there were England shirts.
Red-and-white flags.
People embracing strangers.
Children sitting on their parents' shoulders.
Older supporters with tears running down their faces.
Fans who had waited their entire lives for another moment like this.
And Francesco understood something.
This wasn't only about the players.
It wasn't only about the squad.
It belonged to everyone.
The supporters had travelled thousands of miles.
They had followed England through every difficult match.
They had believed.
They had suffered.
They had celebrated.
And now they were standing inside Luzhniki Stadium with the World Cup being carried toward them.
Francesco walked closer to the barrier.
Fans reached over.
He extended his free hand.
High-fives.
One after another.
Kane did the same.
Sterling leaned toward the supporters, laughing as several hands reached for him.
Henderson pointed toward the England end.
Rooney waved with both hands again.
The players stopped at different points along the route.
Nobody seemed concerned about how long the lap was taking.
There was no reason to rush.
For once, football wasn't asking anything from them.
They could simply enjoy the moment.
Francesco stopped and raised the World Cup again.
The supporters responded with an enormous roar.
"It's coming home!"
He laughed.
"Yeah!"
The players joined the chant.
"It's coming home!"
The sound travelled around the stadium.
Even after everything they had experienced, the words still felt almost unreal.
England had actually done it.
Then, as the squad continued around the pitch, another familiar group appeared.
Prince William had returned.
This time, he wasn't alone.
Princess Catherine was with him, along with their children.
They walked onto the pitch and were welcomed into the celebration by the England delegation.
The atmosphere had changed completely from the formal ceremony.
There was no longer any stiffness.
No careful positioning.
Everyone was relaxed.
Players were still laughing.
Coaches were still celebrating.
Golden confetti remained scattered across the grass.
Prince William smiled as he approached the squad.
He looked around at the players.
Then at the trophy.
Francesco handed it over for a series of photographs.
William carefully took hold of the World Cup.
Princess Catherine stood beside him with their children.
The cameras immediately began flashing.
For a moment, the royal family stood beneath the stadium lights with the trophy between them.
It was an extraordinary sight.
The World Cup had returned to England.
And now it was being photographed with the royal family in the middle of the celebration.
William smiled broadly.
Catherine laughed as one of the children looked toward the trophy.
Francesco stood nearby, watching the scene with a grin.
Another photograph.
Then another.
William eventually called Francesco closer.
Francesco stepped forward.
Southgate joined them.
Then the England players gathered around.
Kane.
Henderson.
Rooney.
Sterling.
Alli.
Pickford.
Maguire.
Stones.
Walker.
Rose.
Trippier.
And the rest of the squad.
The coaching staff stood behind them.
The families remained nearby.
The photographs continued.
But now there was no pressure to get everything perfectly organized.
Players leaned against one another.
Some had their arms around teammates.
Others were still laughing.
Sterling said something that made Kane burst out laughing.
Southgate shook his head.
Francesco smiled toward the cameras.
The formal trophy presentation was over.
The World Cup belonged to England.
The rest of the night was simply about remembering it.
Eventually, however, reality began creeping back in.
There were still media responsibilities.
Official post-tournament protocols.
Television interviews.
Photographs.
Press obligations.
The players were gradually directed toward different areas around the pitch.
Some were taken toward television crews.
Others were approached by photographers.
Several players stopped for interviews.
Francesco was eventually guided toward the sideline.
He still had the captain's armband around his arm.
His gold medal hung around his neck.
The Golden Boot had been collected.
The Golden Ball.
The Young Player Award.
The match ball.
And now another group was waiting for him.
Ian Wright.
Gary Neville.
Jamie Carragher.
The three former England players and pundits were standing together near the broadcast area.
The moment Francesco approached, Wright opened his arms.
"Come here!"
Francesco laughed.
Wright embraced him.
Neville shook his hand.
Carragher smiled and nodded.
"Congratulations, mate."
"Thank you."
Wright looked at him for a moment.
Then shook his head.
"I don't even know where to start."
Francesco laughed.
"I don't either."
Wright pointed toward the pitch.
"Three goals."
Francesco smiled awkwardly.
"Yeah."
"In a World Cup final."
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
Wright laughed.
"You're making it sound like nothing!"
Francesco smiled.
"I honestly still don't know what happened."
Neville stepped in.
"I'll tell you what happened. You played one of the greatest individual performances we've ever seen in a World Cup final."
Francesco looked down.
"Thank you."
Carragher joined the conversation.
"And the thing that stood out to me wasn't just the goals."
Francesco looked at him.
Carragher continued.
"The composure. Every finish. You didn't panic."
Francesco nodded slowly.
"I just tried to take the chances when they came."
"That's exactly it," Carragher said. "You made it look simple."
Wright shook his head.
"Simple?"
He laughed.
"Scoring three goals in a World Cup final isn't simple."
The presenters laughed.
Francesco smiled.
The interview moved naturally between the three of them.
Wright talked about the atmosphere inside the stadium.
Neville reflected on the pressure Francesco had carried as captain.
Carragher broke down the quality of his movement and finishing.
They discussed the final.
Croatia's fight.
England's response.
The goals.
The moments when England had been under pressure.
And eventually, the journey that had brought them there.
Neville looked at Francesco.
"You're still so young."
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
"And you were wearing the armband."
Francesco glanced down at it.
"It's a big responsibility."
"Was it difficult?"
Francesco thought about it.
"Sometimes."
He smiled.
"But I had these guys around me."
He pointed toward the England squad.
"They made it easier."
Neville nodded.
"That says a lot about you."
Francesco shook his head.
"No. It says a lot about the team."
Wright smiled.
"There he goes again."
Francesco laughed.
Wright continued.
"You're standing here after scoring a hat-trick in a World Cup final, and you're still giving all the credit to everyone else."
Francesco shrugged.
"Because they deserve it."
Carragher nodded.
"And you kept working after the hat-trick."
Francesco looked toward him.
Carragher continued.
"When Croatia scored their second goal, you were still tracking back. You were helping close spaces. You weren't standing around waiting for the final whistle."
Francesco smiled.
"We still had to win."
"Exactly."
Carragher pointed toward the pitch.
"That tells you everything."
The conversation continued for several minutes.
The three presenters congratulated him again and again.
Francesco remained slightly embarrassed by the praise.
Every time they mentioned his individual performance, he redirected the conversation toward England.
The trophy.
The squad.
Southgate.
His teammates.
He kept returning to the same point.
"It doesn't matter without the trophy."
Wright nodded.
"That is probably the most important thing you've said."
Neville smiled.
"You've got all the individual awards tonight."
Francesco looked down at them.
"Yeah."
"The Golden Boot."
"Yeah."
"Young Player."
Francesco nodded.
"Golden Ball."
Another nod.
Neville smiled.
"And that medal around your neck."
Francesco touched it.
"That one means the most."
Wright smiled.
"World champion."
Francesco laughed softly.
"Yeah."
The interview was beginning to come to an end.
Wright offered one final thought.
"Enjoy this."
Francesco looked at him.
"Because you don't get many nights like this."
Francesco smiled.
"I won't forget it."
Neville nodded.
"Congratulations, captain."
"Thank you."
Carragher shook his hand.
"Unbelievable performance."
"Thanks."
Francesco started to turn away.
But before he could leave, another group of officials approached.
One of them was carrying something.
Francesco stopped.
He looked at Wright.
"What's that?"
Wright smiled.
"Oh, there's more."
Francesco laughed.
"More?"
The official stepped forward.
He announced that Francesco had been selected as the Man of the Match for the World Cup final.
For a moment, Francesco simply stared.
Wright burst out laughing.
"Of course you are!"
Neville applauded.
Carragher shook his head with a grin.
"Three goals. Captain. World Cup winner. And now Man of the Match."
Francesco laughed.
"I thought we were finished."
Wright put a hand on his shoulder.
"Apparently not."
The official handed him the award.
Francesco accepted it with both hands.
"Thank you."
He looked down at it.
Another trophy.
Another piece of silverware.
Another reminder of what had just happened.
Wright applauded beside him.
Neville joined in.
Carragher smiled.
Francesco looked toward the England supporters.
They had noticed.
The moment they saw the award in his hands, another roar erupted.
"FRANCESCO!"
He turned toward them.
Raised the Man of the Match award slightly.
The supporters screamed again.
Francesco laughed.
He lifted it a little higher.
Then lowered it.
He looked back at Wright, Neville and Carragher.
"Thank you."
Wright nodded.
"No, thank you."
Francesco smiled.
He turned back toward the pitch.
His teammates were still celebrating.
Kane was holding a flag.
Henderson was talking to several members of the coaching staff.
Rooney was taking photographs with his family.
Sterling was still dancing.
Pickford was proudly displaying his Golden Glove.
Southgate stood among the players, smiling at everything happening around him.
Francesco looked down at the Man of the Match award.
Then toward the World Cup.
Then at his teammates.
It was almost absurd how much had happened in one night.
A hat-trick.
A World Cup final victory.
A gold medal.
The World Cup trophy.
The Golden Boot.
The Young Player Award.
The Golden Ball.
The match ball.
And now the Man of the Match award.
But despite all of it, Francesco's eyes kept returning to the biggest prize.
The World Cup.
That was the one that mattered.
He had dreamed of holding it.
His teammates had dreamed of holding it.
The supporters had dreamed of seeing it again.
And now it was sitting among them.
Real.
Heavy.
Unmistakable.
Francesco walked back toward the England squad.
Kane spotted the new award.
"What have you got now?"
Francesco laughed.
"Man of the Match."
Kane stared at him.
"Seriously?"
Francesco nodded.
Kane shook his head.
"Give someone else a chance!"
Everyone around them laughed.
Henderson looked over.
"What is it?"
"Man of the Match."
Henderson laughed.
"Of course."
Francesco smiled.
"I didn't ask for it."
Rooney called from behind them.
"Don't pretend you don't love it!"
Francesco laughed.
He looked around at his teammates.
They were exhausted.
Their shirts were soaked.
Their medals were hanging around their necks.
Their faces were still flushed from the match.
But they were smiling.
They had won.
And that was all that mattered.
Francesco held the award for a moment before handing it to one of the staff members for safekeeping.
Then he turned toward the pitch again.
The supporters were still singing.
The lights of Luzhniki continued shining above them.
Golden confetti remained scattered everywhere.
And England's players were still celebrating as though the final whistle had only sounded moments earlier.
Francesco stood among them.
The young captain.
The World Cup winner.
The player who had scored three times in the biggest match of his life.
The player who had become only the second player ever to score a hat-trick in a World Cup final, joining England's Geoff Hurst, who had achieved the same extraordinary feat in the 1966 final.
It was a piece of history that would take time to fully understand.
Wright had said it earlier.
One goal in a World Cup final would have been unforgettable.
Two would have been extraordinary.
Three?
That was something else entirely.
And yet Francesco didn't seem interested in talking about history.
Not tonight.
He simply looked toward Kane.
Then Henderson.
Then Rooney.
Then the rest of the squad.
He smiled.
They had done it together.
England had conquered Croatia 4–2.
After fifty-two years, the World Cup was coming home.
And Francesco had somehow found himself standing at the centre of the entire celebration, surrounded by his teammates, his family, Leah, the coaching staff, the supporters, and almost every major individual honour the tournament could offer.
He looked once more toward the trophy.
Then he laughed quietly to himself.
"Unbelievable."
Kane heard him.
"What?"
Francesco shook his head.
"Nothing."
Kane smiled.
"Come on."
Francesco followed him back toward the celebrations.
There was still music playing.
Still singing.
Still laughter.
Still photographs waiting to be taken.
Then Francesco followed Kane back toward the England squad.
The noise was still there.
Not quite as wild as it had been when the final whistle sounded, but still loud enough to make the walls of Luzhniki seem to vibrate.
He slipped the Man of the Match award into the hands of one of the FA staff members, making sure it was kept safely with the rest of his things.
Then he looked toward his teammates.
Kane was still holding an England flag around his shoulders.
Henderson had his arm around Rooney.
Sterling was laughing with Alli.
Pickford was showing his Golden Glove to anyone who asked.
Maguire and Stones were standing together, still looking exhausted.
Francesco smiled.
For another few minutes, he simply stayed with them.
There was nowhere else he needed to be.
But slowly, almost without anyone noticing at first, the atmosphere inside Luzhniki began to change.
The stadium was still full of noise, but the roar was becoming less constant.
Some supporters had begun making their way toward the exits.
The songs continued from different sections, sometimes merging together, sometimes fading into smaller pockets of celebration.
Flags that had been held high for hours were beginning to disappear.
Families gathered their belongings.
Fans hugged one another one last time before heading toward the concourses.
For many of them, leaving the stadium felt almost impossible.
They had waited fifty-two years for England to win the World Cup again.
Nobody wanted to be the first to leave.
But eventually, even this night had to move forward.
Francesco looked toward the stands.
There were still thousands of supporters there.
He lifted one hand.
A few noticed.
Then more.
The response came immediately.
Cheers.
Applause.
One final wave of the familiar chant.
"It's coming home!"
Francesco smiled.
He turned back toward his teammates.
The players' families were also beginning to prepare to leave.
FA staff moved carefully through the delegation, making sure everyone knew where they needed to go and arranging transport back to the hotel.
Francesco spotted his parents.
Mike and Sarah were standing beside Leah, David, Amanda and Jacob.
For a moment, he simply looked at them.
He knew the night wasn't really ending.
They would all see one another again at the hotel.
But after everything that had happened, saying goodbye still felt strangely emotional.
Francesco walked over.
Sarah hugged him immediately.
"See you at the hotel."
Francesco smiled.
"Yeah."
Mike shook his hand before pulling him into another embrace.
"Enjoy this, son."
Francesco laughed quietly.
"I will."
Leah stepped closer.
Francesco reached for her hand.
"I'll see you upstairs."
She smiled.
"Don't disappear."
"I won't."
David hugged him.
"Congratulations again."
"Thank you."
Amanda kissed his cheek.
Jacob shook his head.
"You're going to have to explain this whole night to us tomorrow."
Francesco laughed.
"I don't think I can explain it."
Jacob smiled.
"Fair enough."
Leah squeezed Francesco's hand.
"See you soon."
"See you."
They hugged one more time.
Francesco watched as they joined the FA staff and began making their way away from the pitch.
He stood there until they disappeared into the tunnel.
Then he turned back.
Kane was waiting.
"You coming?"
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
The players remained behind for a little longer.
Nobody was ready to leave.
Eventually, however, the stadium staff began preparing the pitch for the end of the night.
The players gathered their things.
One by one, they disappeared toward the dressing-room area.
Francesco followed them.
The moment the dressing-room door opened, the noise changed.
It was louder.
Closer.
Chaotic.
Music was already blasting from the speakers.
Someone had turned the volume almost all the way up.
Players were shouting over one another.
Bottles were being raised.
Medals were swinging around necks.
England flags had been thrown over benches and lockers.
The World Cup was placed carefully in the middle of the room.
For a second, everyone simply stared at it.
Then Kane pointed.
"There it is."
Rooney laughed.
"Our trophy."
Francesco walked closer.
He touched the side of the trophy.
It was still warm from all the hands that had held it.
Or perhaps that was simply what he imagined.
Kane picked it up.
"Mine for a minute."
Francesco laughed.
"Don't drop it."
"I'm not dropping anything."
Henderson immediately took it from him.
"You've had your turn."
Kane protested.
"Oi!"
The room erupted in laughter.
The trophy passed from player to player.
Everyone wanted another photograph.
Everyone wanted another moment with it.
Someone started singing.
Another player joined.
Soon the entire dressing room was singing.
The music changed.
Players began dancing.
Sterling was at the centre of it, moving around with a grin on his face.
Alli joined him.
Rooney laughed as he watched them.
Pickford lifted his Golden Glove above his head.
"Best goalkeeper in the world!"
Maguire shouted back.
"Don't get carried away!"
Pickford laughed.
"Tonight, I am!"
Francesco was sitting for a moment, his medal still around his neck.
Kane walked over.
"You all right?"
Francesco looked up.
"Yeah."
"You look like you're about to fall asleep."
"I might."
Kane laughed.
"Not yet."
He pulled Francesco to his feet.
"Come on."
They joined the others.
Someone replayed the final on a phone.
Immediately, everyone crowded around.
The first goal appeared.
Francesco watched himself receive the pass and finish.
The room erupted.
"LOOK AT HIM!"
Francesco covered his face.
"Oh, come on."
The second goal came.
Another roar.
Then the third.
The dressing room completely exploded.
Kane grabbed Francesco.
"THREE!"
Francesco laughed.
"I know!"
Rooney pointed at the screen.
"That one was ridiculous."
Henderson nodded.
"Completely ridiculous."
Francesco shook his head.
"You lot are never going to let this go, are you?"
"No chance," Kane replied.
They replayed Pickford's saves.
The goalkeeper immediately began defending his decisions.
"That one was definitely going wide."
Everyone laughed.
"No, it wasn't!"
Pickford grinned.
"I knew that."
Maguire shook his head.
"You were terrified."
"I wasn't terrified."
"You screamed."
"That was communication."
The room erupted again.
Then someone mentioned Southgate.
The jokes softened.
The players began talking about the manager.
His preparation.
His calmness.
The way he had handled the pressure.
The way he had kept everyone together.
"He believed in us," Henderson said.
Francesco nodded.
"He did."
Nobody realized that Southgate wasn't there to hear it.
He had temporarily left the celebrations.
The manager had official duties to complete.
While the players continued celebrating inside the dressing room, Southgate walked into the media room wearing his England attire.
He looked exhausted.
His hair was slightly dishevelled.
His face showed the fatigue of ninety minutes of football, followed by an evening that had barely given him time to breathe.
But the smile remained.
The press conference began.
The first questions were about the result.
England had beaten Croatia 4–2.
Southgate nodded.
"It was an incredible match."
Then came questions about Francesco.
His hat-trick.
His leadership.
His age.
His performance under pressure.
Southgate smiled.
"He was outstanding."
A journalist asked whether Francesco's individual performance had been the difference.
Southgate shook his head.
"No player wins a World Cup final alone."
He praised the midfield.
The defence.
Pickford.
The forwards.
The substitutes.
The coaching staff.
Everyone.
Another question focused on England's response after Croatia scored their second goal.
Southgate leaned back slightly.
"That was an important moment."
He explained that England had remained disciplined.
They had resisted the temptation to panic.
They trusted their shape.
They trusted one another.
That, he said, was what ultimately carried them through.
Then came the question everyone knew was coming.
What did it mean to end the fifty-two-year wait?
Southgate paused.
For perhaps the first time during the press conference, his expression became noticeably more emotional.
"It means a huge amount."
He spoke about the generations of supporters who had waited.
Those who had watched the 1966 triumph.
Those who had grown up hearing about it.
Those who had never experienced England winning the World Cup.
"They can experience it now."
Another question asked about the travelling supporters.
Southgate smiled.
"They were incredible."
He spoke about the noise inside Luzhniki.
The flags.
The singing.
The support throughout the tournament.
Then he returned to the team.
"This belongs to everyone."
The players.
The staff.
The supporters.
The families.
And the country.
Finally, Francesco's name came up again.
Southgate smiled.
"He's a remarkable young man."
But once again, he refused to make the night about one player.
"He scored three goals. That's extraordinary. But he did it with eleven players around him."
Southgate finished the press conference.
There were still official photographs.
A few final obligations.
Handshakes.
Questions from FIFA officials.
Then, eventually, he was allowed to leave.
When Southgate returned to the team area, the dressing room erupted.
The players immediately spotted him.
"BOSS!"
Southgate laughed.
"What's going on?"
Kane pointed toward the trophy.
"We've been looking after it."
Southgate raised an eyebrow.
"Have you?"
Francesco smiled.
"Mostly."
Southgate laughed.
"Good."
He walked into the room.
The players surrounded him again.
Another celebration.
Another photograph.
Another round of congratulations.
But eventually, an FA staff member appeared at the door.
"Lads."
The music lowered.
"We need to start getting ready to leave."
A collective groan filled the room.
Kane looked at the clock.
"Already?"
The staff member smiled.
"It's very late."
Rooney laughed.
"That's an understatement."
Slowly, reluctantly, the players began gathering their belongings.
Medals were carefully secured.
Awards were placed into protective cases.
Phones were checked.
Personal bags were collected.
Photographs were saved and shared.
The World Cup was handled according to the FA's arrangements.
Francesco's Golden Boot, Golden Ball, Young Player Award and Man of the Match award were carefully secured as well.
He looked at everything one last time before allowing the staff to take them.
Then he touched the gold medal around his neck.
It was still there.
That was enough.
The players walked through the stadium corridors.
The noise from outside had become distant.
Luzhniki was slowly emptying.
They emerged outside in the early hours of the morning.
The team bus was waiting.
The players climbed aboard.
Francesco took a seat among his teammates.
For a few seconds, nobody said anything.
Then Kane broke the silence.
"World champions."
Henderson laughed.
"World champions."
The bus erupted.
They began singing again.
Someone played music through a phone.
Sterling started dancing in his seat.
Rooney laughed.
Pickford held up his Golden Glove.
Maguire leaned across the aisle.
"Put that thing down."
"No."
"You're obsessed with it."
"I'm allowed."
Francesco sat back and smiled.
The exhaustion was finally catching up with him.
His legs were heavy.
His eyes were tired.
But he couldn't stop smiling.
Around him, the final was being discussed all over again.
Some players replayed clips on their phones.
Others argued about individual moments.
"Did you see that tackle?"
"I thought you were going to score there."
"You should've passed!"
"No chance!"
Laughter filled the bus.
Outside the windows, Moscow passed quietly.
The bright lights of the city reflected against the glass.
For the first time, the players were able to look at it without thinking about training.
No match awaited them tomorrow.
No tactical meeting.
No recovery session.
They were simply travelling home.
And they were carrying the World Cup with them.
Francesco looked out the window.
He thought about everything that had happened.
Japan.
Brazil.
France.
Croatia.
The final.
Three goals.
The trophy.
His family.
Leah.
His teammates.
The awards.
Fifty-two years.
He slowly shook his head.
Kane noticed.
"What?"
Francesco smiled.
"Nothing."
Kane laughed.
"You keep saying that."
Francesco looked back out the window.
"I just can't believe we're actually taking it back."
Kane looked toward the front of the bus.
Then smiled.
"Yeah."
They were.
Eventually, the bus arrived at the hotel.
The moment the doors opened, applause erupted.
Hotel staff had gathered outside.
Management personnel were waiting.
People were smiling.
Clapping.
Congratulating the players.
"Congratulations!"
"World champions!"
The players stepped down from the bus.
Southgate thanked the staff.
"Thank you for staying up."
One of the hotel employees laughed.
"We weren't going to sleep tonight."
The players entered the hotel together.
The bar had been prepared for them.
There were drinks waiting.
Food.
Music.
Space for the squad to gather.
And, naturally, the World Cup was brought into the centre of the room.
Everyone gathered around it again.
Another toast.
Another cheer.
Another round of laughter.
Kane raised his glass.
"To England."
"To England!"
The players drank.
Someone started telling a story about the final.
Another interrupted.
"That isn't what happened!"
"It absolutely happened!"
Everyone laughed.
Francesco sat for a while, his gold medal still around his neck.
He looked toward the trophy.
Again.
And again.
Almost as if he needed to make sure it hadn't disappeared.
Pickford came over.
"Still staring at it?"
Francesco smiled.
"Yeah."
Pickford nodded.
"Me too."
They both laughed.
The players congratulated Francesco again.
Then Pickford.
Then Southgate.
Every few minutes someone would raise another glass.
The Golden Boot was admired.
The Golden Ball was passed carefully between photographs.
Pickford's Golden Glove received another round of applause.
But eventually the room began to quiet.
One by one, players started yawning.
The adrenaline was finally running out.
Henderson stood.
"I'm finished."
Rooney laughed.
"Same."
Kane stretched.
"We've got to be up later."
Everyone groaned.
Francesco smiled.
Tomorrow would be different.
Tomorrow there would be another journey.
The flight back to London.
The reception.
The celebrations waiting at home.
An entire nation waiting to see its world champions.
But that belonged to tomorrow.
Tonight belonged to them.
Francesco stood beside the World Cup one final time.
He placed a hand on it.
Then looked around the room.
Kane.
Henderson.
Rooney.
Sterling.
Alli.
Pickford.
Maguire.
Stones.
Walker.
Rose.
Trippier.
Southgate.
The coaching staff.
His teammates.
His friends.
His brothers in everything but name.
They had done it.
He smiled.
"Goodnight, lads."
"Goodnight, captain."
Francesco headed toward the lifts.
His gold medal remained around his neck.
Behind him, the World Cup stood beneath the hotel lights.
For fifty-two years, England had waited for this.
Now the trophy was sitting in their hotel.
And by tomorrow, it would be travelling home.
Francesco stepped into the lift.
The doors began to close.
For the first time since the opening whistle of the final, there was nothing left for him to do.
No more running.
No more fighting.
No more leading.
Just sleep.
And somewhere beyond the hotel walls, Moscow was beginning to wake.
But inside, England's world champions were finally allowing themselves to rest.
Tomorrow, they would fly back to London.
Tomorrow, an entire nation would be waiting.
Tomorrow, the celebrations would become England's.
Tonight, however, the World Cup belonged to the players who had fought for it.
And as Francesco walked down the quiet hotel corridor, exhausted beyond words but still smiling, he looked once more at the gold medal resting against his chest.
He touched it gently.
Then whispered to himself,
"We actually did it."
And this time, there was nobody beside him to laugh at the disbelief in his voice.
Because there was nothing unbelievable about it anymore, as England were world champions.
__________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 19 (2017)
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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, FA Cup 2016/2017, 2016/2017 Champions League, 2017/2018 Carabao Cup, Premier League 2017/2018, FA Cup 2017/2018, Champions League 2017/2018, and 2018 World Cup.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 59
Goal: 76
Assist: 6
MOTM: 7
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 11
Goal: 14
Assist: 1
MOTM: 7
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
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