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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.
The morning light cut through the thin hotel curtains in muted streaks, spilling pale gold across the carpet and over the edge of Francesco's bed. He stirred slowly, a soft groan escaping as he blinked awake. His body ached in places he hadn't even realized he had strained — thighs heavy, calves stiff, shoulders tender from the endless collisions of the night before. But there was also something else there, beneath the soreness: a kind of warmth. Not physical, but lingering, like the glow of a fire that refused to die.
His eyes flicked to the bedside table. There, resting almost reverently, was the match ball. Its white panels were smudged with grass stains, streaks of dirt, and a mosaic of inked signatures from his teammates. Beside it, the Man of the Match award caught the soft light, its edges gleaming faintly. He couldn't help but smile. For a second, he lay still, staring at the two trophies as if needing to remind himself that last night hadn't just been a dream.
Eventually, the smell of coffee and toast drifting faintly through the corridor urged him up. He dressed in the standard-issue England tracksuit, zipped his jacket halfway, and padded barefoot across the carpet until his boots were laced. Slinging his phone into his pocket, he gave the ball one last glance before slipping out.
The hallway was alive already. Doors opened and closed, laughter spilled out, the unmistakable clink of plates and cutlery rising faintly from below. He followed the sounds until he reached the restaurant.
It wasn't a grand space, not in the way fans might imagine. No velvet chairs or chandeliers — just a practical spread tailored to athletes. Still, the aroma hit him the moment he stepped inside: eggs sizzling, fresh bread, porridge, fruits stacked high, pitchers of juice glinting under the soft morning lights. The tables had been pushed together so the players could eat as one.
Francesco scanned the room. Alli and Sterling were already locked in some kind of debate, gesturing wildly with forks in hand, while Vardy laughed so hard he nearly choked on his toast. Joe Hart had his headphones hanging around his neck, hair still damp from a shower, and was busy building what looked like the world's tallest pile of scrambled eggs. Rooney, ever the captain, sat near the middle, his presence grounding the chaos around him.
Francesco grabbed a plate, sliding an omelet and a heap of fruit onto it before settling beside Wilshere. The midfielder gave him a nod, still chewing, then jabbed his fork toward him. "Sleep alright, hat-trick hero?"
"Like a rock," Francesco replied, though he knew full well he'd tossed and turned for hours replaying every goal in his mind.
The room buzzed with easy chatter, forks clinking, chairs scraping lightly against the floor. Then, the hum shifted. The players straightened instinctively as Roy Hodgson entered. Dressed in a crisp shirt and slacks, he carried himself with the same calm steadiness he always did, though his eyes seemed softer this morning. He paused at the head of the table, folding his hands briefly behind his back before speaking.
"Morning, lads," he began, his voice cutting easily through the chatter. "First off, congratulations again for yesterday. You made the nation proud."
A ripple of claps and nods followed, though most of the players simply kept eating, their gratitude shown in quiet smiles.
"Now," Hodgson continued, his tone practical, "today is a rest day. Use it well. Recover. Spend time however you need — stretch, swim, walk, sleep, but let your bodies breathe. Tomorrow, we fly to Saint-Étienne. Three days from now, we play Slovakia at the Stade Geoffroy-Guichard."
There was a pause. Rooney glanced up, already attentive, while others leaned in slightly.
"And for that game," Hodgson added, his eyes sweeping across the table, "I'll be resting the starting eleven. The substitutes will get their chance to play."
A few surprised looks were exchanged, but it wasn't disappointment — more curiosity, a shifting of gears in their minds. Sturridge raised his brows, Wilshere gave a short chuckle, and even Hart glanced sideways at Forster with a grin.
Hodgson caught the reactions but didn't waver. "We've done the hard work to put ourselves in this position. Now we must manage it. Everyone in this squad has earned their place here. Everyone will contribute. Slovakia will not be easy, but I trust the depth we have."
He let that sink in. Francesco chewed slowly, glancing around the table. The younger lads looked eager — itching for their chance to prove themselves. Rashford especially sat a little taller, the glint in his eye unmistakable.
"Enjoy today, gentlemen," Hodgson finished, his tone softening just a touch. "You've earned it. Tomorrow, we travel again."
With that, he stepped back, allowing the natural hum of the room to resume. But the energy had shifted. There was a spark of anticipation now, the kind that comes when players who often wait in the wings realize their curtain call might be next.
Vardy leaned over toward Sturridge with a grin. "Guess it's your show, mate."
Sturridge smirked, tapping his fork against the edge of his plate. "About time they let me loose."
Francesco sat back, letting their voices wash over him. His body still hummed from last night's glory, but already his mind was ticking forward. Saint-Étienne. A new city, a new challenge. And though Hodgson had said he'd rest the starters, Francesco knew his job wasn't over. Even from the bench, even from the stands, he'd have a role to play.
Breakfast slowly thinned as players filtered out one by one, plates cleared and chatter tapering into softer tones. Some headed toward the physio room for light massages, others disappeared back to their rooms, headphones clamped on, already drifting into their own worlds. The hotel restaurant grew quieter, until only a handful remained. Francesco lingered, his fork nudging the last bit of melon around his plate, his thoughts already elsewhere.
The idea had been brewing since Hodgson's announcement. A rest day today. A rotated squad against Slovakia. If the manager was serious about giving the starting eleven the night off, then chances were he wouldn't even name Francesco on the bench. The lad had just played the game of his life against Wales — three goals, ninety minutes, running himself ragged — surely Hodgson would want to protect him.
For most players, that might feel like a disappointment. For Francesco, it sparked something else: an opportunity. A night off didn't mean disconnection — it meant freedom. A chance to watch the game not as a player, but as a supporter. And immediately, one face came to mind.
Leah.
The thought warmed him almost instantly. They hadn't spoken much since before the tournament started; his days had been swallowed by training camps, team meetings, media duties. They'd traded messages late at night, quick good-lucks, brief calls that fizzled out when exhaustion overtook him. But the idea of watching the game with her, in the stands, side by side instead of through a phone screen? That tugged at him.
He pushed his chair back, grabbed his phone from his jacket pocket, and slipped into the quieter lounge just outside the restaurant. The air smelled faintly of coffee and polish, a contrast to the rich scents of breakfast behind him. He thumbed through his contacts until her name appeared — Leah ❤️ — and pressed call before he could overthink it.
The ring barely buzzed twice before her voice answered, light and teasing. "Francesco Lee, the hat-trick hero himself. Took you long enough to call."
Her words made him grin, though he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "Guilty. Things have been… well, you've seen."
"I have," she said, and he could almost hear the smile in her voice. "Half the world's seen. You were unbelievable last night."
A blush rose unbidden, though no one was around to see it. "Thanks, Leah. Means more coming from you than anyone else."
There was a pause, a comfortable silence stretched between them before he drew in a breath, deciding to just say it. "Listen, I've been thinking. Coach said he's resting the starting eleven against Slovakia, and honestly, I think he'll leave me out of the squad altogether. Give me the night off, let me recover. So…" He hesitated, then let the words tumble out. "How about you come to the match and sit with me in the stands? We can watch it together. Just us."
On the other end, there was a sharp inhale, then a laugh — bright, surprised, but warm. "Wait, are you serious? You want me next to you? At the Euros?"
"Why not?" Francesco replied, his grin widening. "I mean, I know it won't be a normal date. But I'd rather share it with you than sit there alone in the VIP box pretending I'm not itching to talk football the whole time."
Leah's voice softened, losing the teasing edge. "Francesco… you're sure? I don't want to be in the way."
"You could never be in the way," he said firmly. "Besides, who better to watch it with than another footballer? You'll probably spot things I'll miss."
There was a silence on her end, then a chuckle, shy but filled with a kind of excitement he hadn't heard in weeks. "Alright then. You've talked me into it. I'll be there. Just promise me you won't be sulking if England plays rubbish without you."
He laughed, head tipping back against the wall. "No promises. But at least I'll have you to keep me calm."
"Deal," she said, and he could hear the smile still in her voice. "Text me the details later, yeah?"
"Yeah," he breathed, the weight in his chest suddenly lighter. "Thanks, Leah. Can't wait."
They lingered a moment longer, trading softer words — the kind that didn't need to be big or dramatic, just reminders of presence, of connection. When he finally hung up, his reflection in the polished wood panel across the lounge was grinning like a schoolboy.
For a long moment, Francesco just sat there, phone still in hand, replaying her laughter in his head. The roar of stadiums, the flash of cameras, even the chants of his name — none of it compared to the warmth he felt now, knowing she'd be there, beside him, sharing the moment.
Back in the restaurant, the last of his teammates had cleared out. The room was nearly empty, save for a staff member clearing plates. Francesco slipped past quietly, his heart still drumming with a different kind of adrenaline, not from goals or crowds, but from anticipation.
The next morning dawned cooler, the sky painted with thin streaks of silver cloud drifting lazily over Chantilly. Francesco woke earlier than usual, the hum of excitement and the faint jetlag-like buzz of travel already pulling him out of bed before his alarm could ring. He had slept with his phone close, half-expecting Leah to text late in the night. She hadn't — but that didn't bother him. The promise of her company in Saint-Étienne still lingered like a secret flame, warming him from within.
By the time he zipped up his England jacket and slung his kitbag over his shoulder, the corridors outside were alive with the sounds of travel. Doors clicking shut, players' voices echoing down the hall, the dull rumble of rolling suitcases over the carpet. Francesco joined the trickle heading toward the lobby, where the team bus was already parked outside, its polished sides reflecting the pale morning light.
Joe Hart was the loudest, as usual, earbuds hanging loose around his neck while he argued with Kyle Walker about playlists. Vardy yawned so wide it looked like his jaw might dislocate, his hoodie pulled up as if he was still halfway in bed. Rashford walked beside Rooney, quiet but attentive, his young eyes wide with the kind of awe Francesco still remembered from his own first international call-ups.
Francesco slotted into the flow, exchanging nods and shoulder bumps, the easy rhythm of teammates who had long ago learned how to move as one. As he stepped onto the bus, the familiar smell of leather seats and faint air freshener hit him. He slid into a window seat midway down, dropped his bag at his feet, and leaned his head against the glass.
The ride to the airport was a mixture of chatter and silence. Some players talked football — who Slovakia might start, what shape they'd use — while others scrolled through their phones, the glow of screens lighting tired faces. Francesco found himself half-listening, half-drifting, his gaze fixed on the blur of countryside rolling by. Every so often, his phone buzzed with notifications, messages from family and old friends congratulating him again on the Wales game, but he let them wait. His mind kept circling back to Leah, to the thought of scanning the stands and seeing her there.
The airport came into view sooner than he expected. Security was smoother than it would ever be for ordinary travelers — their route greased by FA officials and tournament liaisons — and before long, the squad was boarding a chartered plane dressed in England's crest. Francesco took a seat near the back with Jack Wilshere, who immediately kicked off his trainers and stretched his legs like he owned the place.
"You sleepin' or watchin' films?" Wilshere asked, already flicking through the in-flight system.
Francesco smirked. "Might try both."
"Both it is then." Jack grinned, tossing one of his earphones over.
The plane hummed into life, engines rolling, and soon the ground slipped away beneath them. Clouds swallowed the view until all that was left was a vast white ocean outside the window. Francesco leaned back, letting the vibration of the flight settle through him. His body was still in recovery, muscles heavy from the Wales match, but there was comfort in this lull. The Euros moved at a relentless pace, but this — sitting on a plane with teammates, listening to Wilshere complain about seat legroom — felt almost normal.
Two hours later, they touched down in Lyon, the closest major airport to Saint-Étienne. The air hit Francesco the moment they stepped outside — warmer than in Chantilly, tinged with the dry scent of tarmac and the faint buzz of cicadas somewhere beyond the airport walls. Their luggage was already being handled by staff, but still, the players collected their personal bags, shuffling together toward the waiting team bus.
This bus was different — newer, greener, with AS Saint-Étienne's colors faintly stamped on the side as a mark of local hospitality. Francesco climbed aboard, settling into his usual place, though this time the view outside was new: rolling hills, slate roofs, and stretches of countryside that looked both rugged and charming. The road wound upward, snaking toward the city of Saint-Étienne, and with every turn, Francesco felt the tug of anticipation grow.
The bus finally pulled up outside their hotel — a modern building with sleek glass panels and green awnings. Cameras flashed in the distance, a handful of fans waving flags and snapping photos as the squad descended, but the FA staff kept things orderly, guiding them quickly into the lobby.
The air inside was cool, the scent of polished wood and fresh flowers replacing the dusty warmth outside. A long counter stretched across the back, where FA officials and hotel staff were already lined up with envelopes. Each player stepped forward in turn, receiving a room keycard and a brief rundown.
"Room 507," the staff member told Francesco as she handed over his card with a professional smile. He nodded, slipping it into his pocket, the weight of it a quiet reminder that this hotel would be home for the next few days.
Once everyone had their keys, Roy Hodgson gathered them just off to the side of the lobby. His hands were clasped behind his back, his voice steady as he addressed the group.
"Gentlemen," he began, "settle in, get comfortable. You've earned this phase of the tournament, but our work isn't finished. This afternoon, we'll have training at AS Saint-Étienne's ground. Nothing too heavy — a chance to stretch, to get a feel for the pitches here. Remember, we have two days to prepare for Slovakia. Use them wisely."
A murmur of acknowledgment rippled through the squad. Some players nodded, others simply listened in silence, but all understood. Hodgson's calm authority had a way of cutting through fatigue and noise, leaving only clarity.
"Lunch will be served shortly," he added, his eyes sweeping the group. "Until then, unpack, rest a little. Keep your focus sharp."
With that, he dismissed them, and the squad dispersed toward the elevators, voices low but light with the easy camaraderie of shared routine. Francesco followed, riding up with Rashford and Cahill, the lift humming as it carried them upward. Rashford leaned against the mirrored wall, earbuds already in, while Cahill scrolled through his phone with the absent intensity of someone glued to live transfer gossip.
When the doors opened on the fifth floor, Francesco stepped out, found his room quickly, and slid the card into the slot. The door clicked open to reveal a clean, airy space — double bed, small desk, wide window overlooking a patch of the city below. His suitcase had already been delivered, standing neatly by the wall.
Lunch came and went in a blur. The dining hall buzzed with forks scraping against plates, chairs dragging across polished floors, and the low murmur of conversation that ebbed and swelled like the tide. Francesco ate lightly — grilled chicken, rice, some roasted vegetables — the kind of meal that fueled but didn't weigh him down. Around him, the atmosphere was calm, businesslike.
It wasn't the nervous tension of a matchday, nor the relaxed looseness of a full rest day. It was something in between: focused, alert, a quiet reminder that they weren't here for sightseeing. Saint-Étienne was a place to work, to sharpen edges, to get ready.
Afterward, players drifted back to their rooms, some heading to the physio suite, others disappearing with PlayStations or laptops tucked under their arms. Francesco lingered by the window in his room, staring out at the city below. From this height, the streets looked narrow and winding, the rooftops uneven, patched with age. He could see a church spire in the distance, rising stubbornly above the clustered houses.
But beneath all that, his thoughts kept circling back to Leah. He could already picture her — hair tied back, that easy smile, sitting next to him in the stands with the same sharp, curious eyes she wore on the pitch. It pulled at him, steady and insistent, like gravity.
A knock at his door snapped him out of it. "Bus in twenty, mate!" It was Henderson's voice, muffled but cheerful.
Francesco grabbed his training kit, shoved his boots into a small bag, and headed down.
The squad filed once more into the bus, this time dressed in their navy training gear. The atmosphere had shifted: the casual chatter of the morning was gone, replaced with a sharper undercurrent. Some players had headphones clamped on, staring out at the passing streets. Others talked in low tones, running through tactical possibilities.
Francesco sat near the back, next to Danny Rose, who was scrolling through his phone with a frown. "Slovakia press high," Rose muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "If we're not quick, they'll nick it off us."
Francesco gave a small nod but stayed quiet. His own head was already buzzing with the possibilities Hodgson might explore this afternoon. The bus rolled through Saint-Étienne's narrow roads, the green hills folding in around the city, until finally the stands of the training ground appeared in the distance — modest, green-seated, but proud in their history.
AS Saint-Étienne. Les Verts. One of the great names of French football, their legacy woven into the walls. Even in an empty training complex, you could feel the weight of tradition.
The bus pulled up by a side entrance, where staff and local officials were waiting. The players filed off, boots clattering on the pavement, and were led inside.
The locker room was smaller than Wembley's sprawling chambers, but it had its own charm: neat wooden benches, hooks lined in a row, clean white walls accented with the club's green. Training kits had already been laid out at each spot, towels folded neatly, water bottles waiting.
"Right then, lads," Hodgson said as they settled in. He stood near the entrance, hands clasped, his voice carrying across the tiled space. "We're keeping it sharp today. No heavy loads. We'll use the substitutes against the starting eleven. I want intensity, but don't burn yourselves out. This is about structure, discipline, and understanding."
There was a rustle of movement as players exchanged looks. Francesco tied his laces, pulling the knots tight, his pulse quickening. Even knowing he'd likely be rested against Slovakia, the chance to line up in training — even in a scrimmage — still brought a thrill.
"Subs," Hodgson continued, "I want you to challenge the starters. Force them to think. Don't give them time or space. Make it uncomfortable. That's how we prepare."
The words lit something in the group. You could feel it ripple through the air, that shift from casual looseness to competitive edge. Training wasn't a friendly kickabout — it was a test, and no one wanted to be shown up.
Boots squeaked as they pulled them on, shirts tugged over shoulders, shin pads adjusted. The room filled with the familiar scents of deep-heat spray, fresh grass clinging to fabric, and the faint tang of nervous energy.
"Come on then," Rooney said, clapping his hands together as he stood. "Let's get to it."
The sun hung low by the time they stepped out onto the training pitch, bathing the grass in a warm, honeyed glow. The stands were empty save for a few staff members, their voices carrying clearly across the field.
The first drills were light — rondos to loosen legs, stretches to iron out stiffness. Balls zipped between feet, laughter breaking through whenever someone was nutmegged. Francesco found himself grinning as he slipped a cheeky pass through Wilshere's legs, earning a groan and a playful shove.
But soon, the tone shifted. The assistant coaches set up cones, marked out zones, and Hodgson called them in.
"Two teams," he said, gesturing. "Starters in white bibs. Substitutes in blue. High intensity, match conditions. Let's see it."
Francesco pulled on his blue bib, glancing around at his teammates: Sturridge up front, Vardy buzzing with energy, Wilshere in midfield, Bertrand and Clyne holding the fullback spots. Across from them, the starters — Kane, Rooney, Sterling, Alli, Dier — all with that sharp glint in their eyes.
The whistle blew.
Immediately, the game crackled to life. Vardy pressed high, harrying Cahill into a rushed clearance. Francesco dropped deep, receiving the ball from Wilshere, spinning past Henderson with a burst of pace. The touch felt good, the kind of fluidity that only came when confidence ran high.
"Close him down!" Rooney barked, charging forward. Francesco slipped the ball wide to Sturridge, who cut inside and lashed a shot just over the bar. A warning.
The starters regrouped quickly. Dier dropped deeper, dictating play, while Alli found pockets of space. Sterling danced down the wing, his pace electric, forcing Bertrand to backpedal. Then Kane — always Kane — peeled off his marker, latching onto a through ball and forcing Forster into a sharp save at the near post.
The intensity was real. Challenges crunched, sweat flew, voices rang out across the pitch. Hodgson watched from the sideline, arms folded, occasionally barking instructions but mostly letting them fight it out.
"Move it quicker, white bibs!" he called once. "Don't let them settle!"
Francesco thrived in the chaos. He pressed hard, tracked back, and in one moment, nicked the ball cleanly off Henderson before surging forward. A quick one-two with Wilshere opened space, and suddenly he was through, bearing down on Hart. The keeper rushed out, making himself big, but Francesco clipped a clever dink over him — only for the ball to kiss the crossbar and bounce out.
Gasps erupted from both sides. Vardy clapped him on the back. "Nearly, mate. Nearly."
The starters answered back immediately. Rooney dropped deep, spreading play wide, and Sterling tore down the flank before cutting it back. Kane was there, always there, sweeping it into the corner. 1–0 for the starters.
But the substitutes didn't fold. They pushed harder, Wilshere dictating tempo, Sturridge wriggling through tight spaces. Francesco found pockets, drifting between the lines, pulling defenders out of shape. The blue bibs swarmed, pressing high, forcing mistakes.
Another chance came. Wilshere slipped a ball through midfield, Francesco ghosted past Dier, and with one touch he opened his body before curling low into the bottom corner. The net rippled. 1–1.
The substitutes roared, fists pumping, voices echoing. Even Hodgson cracked a smile on the sideline, though he quickly hid it with a cough.
The game burned on, fierce and relentless. Every tackle was real, every sprint full-blooded. Forster tipped a Rooney drive wide. Vardy nearly poked home from close range. Alli tested the crossbar with a rocket. By the end, sweat soaked shirts, lungs heaved, and the players trudged toward the center circle, clapping each other on the back.
"Good work," Hodgson said as they gathered. His voice carried that rare note of approval, the kind that made everyone stand a little taller. "That's the intensity we need. That's how we prepare."
He paused, letting the players catch their breath. "We've got two days. Keep sharp. Recover well. Slovakia won't hand us anything — we have to take it."
The players nodded, hands on hips, sweat dripping from brows. The session had been more than a scrimmage — it had been a statement. Starters, substitutes, it didn't matter. Every man in that squad was ready to fight.
As they filed back to the locker room, boots muddy, voices low, Francesco felt the fatigue tugging at him. But beneath it, there was pride — not just in the goal he'd scored, but in the fire he'd felt from everyone around him. England were alive, united, pushing each other higher.
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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