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He rose slowly from the bench, jacket slipping from his shoulders, and walked onto the pitch as if floating. His teammates found him instantly, pulling him into their celebrations, clapping his back, tugging at his shirt. "Hat-trick hero!" they shouted.
The noise was still a storm when Francesco finally found himself in the middle of the pitch, half-embraced by teammates, half-lost in the sea of white shirts and jubilation. The scoreboard glowed cruelly for the Welsh — England 5–1 Wales — but for him, it felt like the culmination of something larger, something that had been building since he first pulled on the England shirt. His chest rose and fell as if he had just finished another sprint, though he hadn't moved much in the last minute. The adrenaline refused to leave him.
Around him, the pitch was alive with clashing emotions. England's players bounced like children, arms thrown around shoulders, cameras swarming to catch every grin and every roar. The Welsh, meanwhile, trudged with heavy limbs, shoulders dropped, the fire in their eyes reduced to smouldering embers. They had fought, they had believed, and yet they had been dismantled.
And in the middle of it all, Gareth Bale stood.
He wasn't sulking, nor storming off as some might expect from a player so often burdened with the hopes of his nation. Instead, he stood tall, hands on hips, his chest heaving, eyes scanning the pitch as though he were memorising it — every blade of grass, every echo of the roar. Sweat streaked his forehead, glinting under the stadium lights.
Francesco's gaze locked on him. There was something magnetic in the Welshman's presence — not the arrogance of a superstar, but the weight of one. Bale had nearly broken England in those early minutes of the second half, his runs like lightning, his shots like cannon fire. Without Hart's saves, the game might have been different.
Francesco walked toward him. Slowly at first, then with more purpose as the other players filtered off toward their respective corners, some heading toward fans, some toward the tunnel. Bale noticed him coming, his tired eyes narrowing briefly before softening.
Francesco extended his hand. His voice was swallowed by the din of the crowd, but the gesture was enough. Bale reached out, gripped his hand firmly, and held it for a second longer than a perfunctory shake.
"Well played," Bale said, his Welsh lilt still carrying an edge of defiance, though his words rang with honesty. "That was… some performance."
Francesco smiled, his cheeks still flushed, his hair plastered to his forehead. "Thanks, Gareth. Coming from you, that means a lot." He hesitated, then asked, almost shyly despite the night he had just produced: "Would you… want to swap shirts?"
For a moment, Bale's expression flickered with surprise. Then, a faint smile tugged at his lips. He nodded. "Of course."
They both tugged at their drenched shirts. Bale peeled his red jersey from his torso, his muscles glistening under the lights, and extended it toward Francesco. In return, Francesco handed over his own England shirt — still damp with sweat, grass stains smudged across the front where he had slid in desperation earlier.
When their hands met in the exchange, Bale gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. "Keep playing like that," he said, his voice low, almost swallowed by the roar of the crowd, "and you'll be one of the best."
Francesco felt the words sink deeper than the applause of thousands. Compliments came and went in football, but from Bale — one of the best in the world, a man who had carried Real Madrid and his country — it carried weight. He nodded, tucking the Welsh shirt into his hand like treasure. "Thank you," he replied, genuine and earnest. "Really."
They parted then, Bale turning toward his teammates, Francesco toward his own. But for a brief moment, amid the chaos of victory and the ache of defeat, there had been a shared recognition between two players — one established, one emerging — bound by the game and the night.
The cameras had caught it all, of course. Even as Francesco rejoined his teammates, Vardy slapping him on the back, Sturridge teasing him about already collecting shirts like trophies, the commentators were buzzing.
"Look at that," one voice said over the footage of the handshake and exchange. "That's respect. Bale knows he's seen something special tonight, and Francesco Lee — what a way to announce yourself to the world stage. A hat-trick in a derby, and a shirt from Gareth Bale to remember it by."
The stadium still vibrated with celebration as the England players made their way to the fans. Rooney led them toward the white wall of supporters, clapping above his head, his voice hoarse from shouting instructions all game. Alli and Wilshere threw their arms around each other, bouncing as if they were still teenagers on the schoolyard. Vardy, beaming, pointed to the crowd, mouthing, "We're top, we're top!"
Francesco followed, still clutching Bale's shirt, which he eventually handed to a kitman to keep safe. He didn't want to lose it in the madness. His eyes went up to the stands, and the sight nearly overwhelmed him: thousands of England fans, faces flushed, voices breaking as they sang. Some pointed at him, others simply shouted his name. He raised his arms in gratitude, his heart swelling.
The match ball came to him almost quietly, almost humbly, compared to the roar that still reverberated across the stadium. The referee walked toward Francesco, ball tucked under his arm like it was nothing more than a tool of the trade, but when he extended it out, there was a weight to the gesture. The ball — smudged with grass stains, marked by studs, damp with the sweat of twenty-two men — was his now. His ball.
Francesco held it carefully, almost reverently, like something fragile. He turned it in his hands, his fingertips brushing over the panels. It wasn't just leather stitched together — it was memory stitched into shape. Three goals. His goals. His night. His history.
A chorus rose up as the England fans noticed the moment. They chanted his name again, louder, more unified, as if to stamp the moment permanently into the night sky. He lifted the ball above his head, and the noise surged even higher. For a second, he felt like he was glowing under the floodlights, not just another player in white, but the one everyone had come to see.
But the moment didn't linger too long. A UEFA staffer in a navy jacket approached him, headset pressed against his ear, clipboard in hand. The man touched Francesco's arm lightly, gesturing toward the sideline. "Interview. Pitchside. This way."
Francesco nodded, tucking the ball under his arm like a child clings to a toy, and followed. His legs were heavy now that the adrenaline was beginning to fade, but every step toward the cameras felt surreal. He had dreamed of this — not in clear images, but in vague feelings, the idea of one day being the player who stopped to talk while the world watched.
The sideline was a hive of activity. Cameramen adjusted lenses, wires snaked across the grass, producers waved signals with urgency. The crowd behind the barriers pressed closer, phones lifted, faces flushed from shouting for ninety minutes. And at the centre of it all stood the interviewer, microphone in hand, the smile already fixed, the energy already tuned for broadcast.
"Here he is!" the interviewer said, his voice pitched high to cut through the background noise. "Francesco Lee — the hero of the night!"
The cameraman leaned in, the red light blinking on the lens. Francesco adjusted the ball under his arm, wiped a bead of sweat from his temple with the back of his wrist, and tried to steady his breathing.
The interviewer's grin widened as he lifted the microphone. "First of all, congratulations, Francesco. Not only on England's emphatic 5–1 victory over Wales, but also on your hat-trick. What a performance!"
Francesco let out a half-laugh, half-exhale, shaking his head as if he still couldn't quite believe it himself. "Thank you… thank you. Honestly, it's… it's hard to put into words. The team were incredible today. Everyone worked so hard, and I was just lucky to be in the right places to finish it off."
The interviewer nodded, leaning in slightly, eager to pull more out of him. "Lucky, you say, but some of those finishes looked anything but luck. That third goal especially — composure, confidence, a striker's instinct. You made it look easy."
Francesco smiled faintly, glancing down at the ball as though it might explain it better than he could. "It didn't feel easy at the time," he admitted. "Hennessey's a big keeper, he makes himself massive. You just… trust your touch, trust your instincts. I've practiced those moments thousands of times. Tonight, it all just… came together."
The interviewer gave a knowing nod, then his tone shifted, becoming more formal, the weight of history creeping into his voice. "Francesco, I don't know if you're aware, but tonight you've broken a record. By scoring that hat-trick, you've become the youngest hat-trick scorer in the history of the European Championship. You've just beaten the record set all the way back in 1976 by Dieter Müller of West Germany, who scored his hat-trick in the semi-final against Yugoslavia at the age of 22 years and 77 days. You've done it younger."
There was a pause, almost a ripple of silence, as the words sank in. The fans behind the barriers, catching on through the loudspeakers and big screens, roared even louder, their pride swelling as if the record belonged to them too.
Francesco blinked, his lips parting slightly in disbelief. "Really?" he asked, his voice softer, almost boyish for a moment. "The youngest?"
The interviewer nodded firmly. "Yes. Tonight, you've written your name into European Championship history."
Francesco exhaled, the weight of it hitting him harder than the ball ever could. He thought of the years of training, the endless drills in the rain, the lonely evenings running sprints when no one was watching. He thought of the sacrifices — friends' parties missed, family holidays shortened, the criticism, the doubts. All of it, now crystallised into this. His name. His record. His moment.
He tightened his grip on the ball, his voice finding strength again. "That's… wow. I don't even know what to say. To even be mentioned alongside names like that… Dieter Müller… it's surreal. But again, it's not just me. It's the team around me, it's the manager who trusted me, it's the fans who lifted us today. I'll never forget this."
The interviewer smiled, clearly sensing the authenticity in his words. "You say it's about the team, but you must feel immense pride yourself. Hat-trick hero, record breaker, England's talisman tonight. How do you take all this in, at just your age?"
Francesco ran his free hand through his damp hair, his eyes flicking briefly toward the stands where the England fans were still chanting, still singing. "I think… I think you don't take it all in. Not yet. Maybe later tonight, when it's quiet, when I'm lying in bed with this ball next to me, then it'll hit me. Right now, it just feels like I'm living in a dream. And I don't want to wake up."
The interviewer chuckled softly, then turned serious again. "This win takes England top of Group B. It wasn't just a victory, it was a statement — a demolition of a strong Welsh side. Do you think this shows the rest of Europe what England are capable of?"
Francesco nodded, his expression firming, resolve cutting through the exhaustion. "Absolutely. We respect every opponent, Wales are a tough, tough team. Gareth Bale showed how dangerous they can be. But tonight we showed our strength too. The energy, the goals, the fight — we've got all of it. And we're only just getting started."
The interviewer, sensing the moment had stretched into something beyond just numbers and history, gave a small signal to one of the UEFA staffers just off-camera. The man hurried forward, holding a sleek glass award shaped like a shard of crystal, its surface glimmering under the stadium floodlights. Etched into it were the words: Man of the Match – England vs Wales, UEFA Euro 2016.
The interviewer turned slightly toward Francesco, his voice warm but ceremonial now.
"And, Francesco," he said, his hand hovering over the award as though he were unveiling treasure, "on top of your goals, your record, and your impact tonight, UEFA has chosen you as the official Man of the Match. Congratulations — this is yours."
For a heartbeat, Francesco simply stared. The ball under his arm already felt like a crown, but now this — a tangible recognition, something that could sit on a shelf, something to show family, something that proved to the world this wasn't just a lucky night. This was his.
He shifted the match ball carefully to his left side, freeing his right hand. When he reached out, his fingers brushed against the cool glass, and he felt its weight settle into his palm. It wasn't heavy, not really, but his hand trembled slightly as he lifted it up. The floodlights bounced across the surface, reflecting tiny sparks of light across his face.
The fans behind the barriers saw the moment, and the roar reignited. The sound was deafening again, washing over him, filling his chest until it felt like he might burst. They weren't just chanting anymore — they were singing, belting out his name in rhythm, in waves, in joy.
Francesco swallowed, his voice catching slightly as he leaned toward the microphone. "Thank you," he managed, his words almost drowned by the crowd. He lifted the award just a little higher, glancing between the interviewer, the camera, and the thousands of supporters. "This means everything. To win this… in this game, against Wales, with the fans behind us… I don't think it gets better than this."
The interviewer, smiling broadly now, seemed to recognize that nothing else needed to be said. He turned slightly toward the camera, his voice rich with conclusion.
"There you have it," he declared, his tone rising above the roar. "Francesco Lee — youngest ever hat-trick scorer at the Euros, the hero of England's stunning 5–1 victory over Wales, and Man of the Match tonight. Remember this name, because it's already carved into history."
The camera zoomed closer on Francesco's face — still flushed, still damp with sweat, but glowing with something more powerful than fitness or adrenaline. It was the glow of realization, of destiny beginning to take shape. He raised the award in one hand, the ball tucked firmly under his other arm, a smile breaking across his features that was equal parts pride, disbelief, and pure happiness.
The interview wrapped, the cameraman gave a thumbs-up, and the red light on the lens flicked off. The interviewer squeezed Francesco's shoulder briefly, murmuring, "Soak it in, son. Nights like this… they don't come often."
Francesco nodded, his throat tight. "I'll remember this forever," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
But the night didn't end there.
As he stepped away from the cameras, a cluster of his teammates were waiting for him near the touchline, grinning like conspirators. Vardy was the first to speak, his grin so wide it looked like it might split his face. "Oi, golden boy!" he shouted, clapping Francesco hard on the back. "Match ball, trophy, and Bale's shirt? You're bloody greedy!"
The others laughed — Sturridge shaking his head, Alli tugging playfully at the glass award, trying to steal it from his hands. "Careful, Dele!" Francesco laughed, pulling it back. "This one's mine!"
"Not bad for a lad who still looks like he's on work experience," Wilshere teased, his voice light with pride. "Seriously, mate. That was unreal."
Rooney, ever the captain, was more measured, but his eyes were alight with approval. He stepped forward, clapped Francesco firmly on the shoulder, and said simply, "You've arrived, kid. And the world knows it now."
Those words hit differently. From Rooney — England's captain, England's record scorer, the man Francesco had watched as a boy — it felt like a passing of the torch. He met Rooney's gaze, nodded once, and tucked the moment away in his heart.
The walk back to the tunnel was slower this time, not from fatigue, but from the sheer flood of emotions. Fans leaned over the barriers, reaching out hands, waving flags, shouting his name. Francesco touched as many hands as he could, still clutching the ball and award, grinning until his cheeks hurt. Somewhere, he knew, cameras were still rolling, still capturing every second.
By the time he reached the dressing room door, the noise from the stands had dulled, replaced by the clatter and chatter of the corridor. Staff members bustled around, media people hurried past, and yet Francesco moved as though in a bubble. Every few steps he looked down at the ball, at the award, then back up again, half-expecting it all to vanish.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere was electric. Shirts clung to pegs, shin pads littered the floor, and the air was thick with sweat and deodorant, but none of it mattered. Music blared from a speaker in the corner — someone had already queued up a victory playlist — and the players were laughing, joking, shouting over each other.
The moment Francesco stepped inside, a cheer went up. "MOTM! MOTM!" they chanted, banging on the benches, stomping on the floor. He blushed, shaking his head, but lifted the award anyway, drawing another round of whoops and applause.
Joe Hart, still buzzing from his saves, leaned across and pointed at the ball. "Oi, don't let anyone nick that, mate. That's your pension right there!"
Laughter rippled around the room. Francesco tucked the ball carefully into his kit bag, almost protective. "Trust me," he said with a grin, "no one's getting this."
Roy Hodgson stood at the doorway of the dressing room, hands tucked neatly behind his back, his posture still the same measured calm it had been all night. His face, though, was looser now — the faint lines of stress that usually tugged at his features seemed softened, as if the victory had smoothed them over. He let the players bask in their chants for a moment longer before raising his voice, firm but never harsh.
"Wayne, Joe," he called, nodding toward his captain and keeper. "With me. Press conference. The rest of you — clean up, pack your things. Bus leaves as soon as we're done."
The room quieted, just enough for the order to sink in, then returned to its usual post-match rhythm. Rooney gave a quick clap of his hands, pointing toward Francesco with a grin. "Don't let this lad's head get too big while I'm gone!"
A ripple of laughter followed, Alli tossing a sock at Francesco, who dodged it easily with a smirk.
Joe Hart grabbed a towel from his peg, still shirtless, his chest flushed from the adrenaline. He muttered something about hoping the press wouldn't ask him about Gareth Bale's free kick again. "Bloody nightmare, that," he grumbled, but with a grin that made it clear he was still buzzing from the win.
Hodgson held the door open, waiting until both men had shuffled past him, then gave one last glance back into the room. His eyes lingered briefly on Francesco, who was kneeling by his bag, carefully tucking the Man of the Match award beside the match ball. Hodgson's expression softened into something almost paternal, though he didn't say anything. Then he closed the door behind him, the muffled thud cutting off the chaos inside.
The dressing room, without the manager and senior figures, loosened even further. Music thumped louder now, some of the younger lads bouncing along on the benches. Jack Wilshere stretched his legs out, shaking his head with mock disbelief. "Five-one against Wales. Never thought I'd see the day."
Vardy piped up, his voice cutting through the music. "Nah, mate, never thought you'd see the day this kid bangs in three on his own!" He jerked a thumb toward Francesco, whose cheeks flushed red even as he grinned.
"Oi, leave him," Sturridge said, leaning back with his arms folded behind his head. "He's earned his moment. But don't forget — I want that speaker next game. Playlist was dodgy tonight."
Laughter broke out again, the sound rich and genuine, the kind that only comes when tension has finally snapped. Sweat-streaked bodies peeled off shirts, boots were tugged loose, tape unwrapped from ankles. The floor soon filled with the usual detritus of a matchday — socks, guards, towels, bottles — but the mood was too buoyant for anyone to care.
Francesco moved a little slower than the others, not from fatigue, but because he was savoring it. Every tug of his laces, every splash of water from the shower, every shout of banter around him — it all felt magnified. He knew nights like this didn't come often.
As steam filled the tiled corner where the showers hissed to life, some of the players began singing again, their voices echoing off the walls. It wasn't the neat rhythm of the fans in the stands, but a rough, off-key chorus that somehow meant more.
When they finally started packing, the mood dipped just slightly — not from sadness, but from the quiet practicality of routine. Boots were shoved into bags, damp kits stuffed into laundry bins, headphones slipped back over ears. Some lads, like Sterling and Alli, kept chattering away, unable to let the energy die just yet. Others, like Cahill, packed in silence, their professionalism kicking back in.
Francesco took longer again. He double-checked the ball, running his fingers over the dark ink of his teammates' signatures that were starting to collect on its panels. Then he lifted the glass award one more time, turning it so the floodlight glare bounced across its surface. He slipped both items deep into his kit bag, pulling the zipper all the way shut with care.
As he slung the bag over his shoulder, Wilshere clapped him on the back. "Careful with that, mate. Don't let the hotel staff walk off with it."
Francesco smirked. "They'd have to wrestle it from me first."
The corridor outside was quieter, the heavy fire doors muffling the noise of the crowd that still lingered in the stands. Security staff guided the players down toward the team bus, their boots thumping softly against the concrete floor. The air smelled faintly of grass, sweat, and damp earth — that unique stadium scent that never quite fades, even after the game.
Fans had gathered near the barriers by the exit, their voices echoing through the tunnel. Some waved flags, others held up shirts, phones flashing with camera lights. The players waved, a few tossing spare bits of kit into the crowd. Sterling gave away his shin pads, Vardy his wristbands.
Francesco, ball and award still zipped away safe, lifted a hand in acknowledgment. The chants of his name carried again, following him even as he stepped onto the bus. He couldn't help but grin.
The team bus was a world of its own — plush seats, tinted windows, a faint hum of air conditioning battling the sweat and heat. The moment the last player climbed aboard, the door hissed shut, and for a few seconds there was just silence, broken only by the shuffle of bags being shoved into overhead racks.
Then, predictably, Vardy broke it. "Right, who's got the speaker? We're not sitting in silence after that!"
Groans and laughter followed, someone tossing the speaker his way. Within moments, music blared again — something fast, something loud, something that made the whole bus shake with rhythm.
Some lads sang along, others leaned back against the seats with tired smiles. Rooney wasn't there, nor Hart, and without Hodgson either, the space felt freer, more like a brotherhood than a team.
Francesco slid into a seat by the window, pressing his forehead briefly against the cool glass. The city outside was alive with lights — pubs spilling over with fans, streets buzzing with traffic, flags waving from open windows. Even from here, even behind tinted glass, he could see his name on some of the banners, scrawled in hurried paint, raised high into the night.
He exhaled slowly, the weight of it all pressing against his chest — not heavy, not crushing, but profound.
By the time they reached the hotel, it was nearly midnight. The bus eased into the private entrance, away from the crowds that had gathered at the front. Security was tight, staff ushering them quickly inside, but even so, the muffled roar of supporters drifted through the walls.
The lobby was lit warm and golden, polished marble floors gleaming under chandeliers. Staff stood ready, offering polite smiles, bottles of water, trays of fruit. The players filed through in small clusters, still in tracksuits, still carrying their kit bags.
"Straight up, lads," one of the assistants called. "Showers, food's waiting upstairs."
The lift ride was cramped, shoulders brushing against shoulders, the air filled with quiet chatter. Sturridge leaned his head back against the wall, eyes half-shut, while Sterling scrolled through his phone, already watching clips of the match.
Francesco stood near the doors, his kit bag at his feet. His reflection in the mirrored wall caught his eye — damp hair, tired eyes, but still that same grin. He almost didn't recognize himself.
The team floor of the hotel was buzzing when they stepped out. The dining area had been set with a late spread — pasta, chicken, rice, vegetables, bottles of water and energy drinks. The smell was rich, comforting, almost homely after the sterile air of the stadium.
Players drifted toward the food, some piling plates high, others just grabbing fruit and heading for their rooms. The laughter hadn't faded though — if anything, it grew louder here, echoing off the walls of the private space.
Francesco filled a plate with pasta and chicken, sliding into a seat near Wilshere and Vardy. The older lads teased him again, joking about how he'd need a bigger shelf at home for all the awards he'd collect now.
"Give him time," Wilshere said, raising his fork like a toast. "This is just the start."
Francesco ducked his head, cheeks warm, but the smile wouldn't leave his face. Deep down, he knew Wilshere was right.
By the time food was cleared and players began drifting off to their rooms, it was close to 1:30 in the morning. The energy had started to dip now, fatigue finally catching up. Bags were dragged into rooms, doors clicked shut, and silence slowly replaced the chatter.
Francesco lingered a little longer. He carried his bag into his room, shutting the door softly behind him. The space was simple but comfortable — bed neatly made, curtains drawn against the night, a faint hum of the air conditioner filling the quiet.
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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: 2
Goal: 5
Assist: 1
MOTM: 2
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9