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Below, Forster hadn't touched the ball in minutes. England were camped in Slovakia's half, wave after wave, the fans' chants growing louder with every neat interchange. Yet still, the scoreline held at 0-0, Slovakia clinging on.
The pressure inside the stadium seemed to fold in on itself as the minutes ticked by. England had the ball, they had the territory, they had the crowd on their side — but they didn't yet have the goal. Francesco knew too well how matches like this could twist: domination without reward was always dangerous. He sat forward again, his knuckles pressed against his lips, his eyes narrowing as England worked the ball across midfield.
Then it happened.
At the 27th minute, ball rolled into Adam Lallana's feet on the right side of midfield. Francesco's eyes immediately tracked his movement. Lallana's first touch was soft, his second precise, a little swivel of the hips to open space. He looked up, spotted Jack Wilshere pulling into a central pocket, and threaded the ball inside.
Wilshere, sharp as ever, killed it with one touch and lifted his head. His timing was instinctive, honed from years of threading passes into spaces most players never even dared look at. Francesco saw it before the Slovak defenders did: Vardy, ghosting between Martin Škrtel and Ján Ďurica, riding the line of the offside trap like a gambler pushing every chip into the center of the table.
"Go on, Jack," Francesco whispered, his voice tight with hope.
Wilshere didn't hesitate. His boot carved through the ball with perfect weight, a slicing through pass that curved just enough to evade Škrtel's lunging boot but not so much that it drifted beyond Vardy's reach. The space opened like a wound.
Vardy was onto it in a heartbeat, his raw pace leaving both Slovak defenders flat-footed. Francesco could almost feel the rush himself — that explosive sprint, the pounding turf beneath studs, the air thinning as the goal grew larger with every stride.
"One on one," Leah gasped beside him, her nails tightening gently into his arm.
Matúš Kozáčik surged forward, desperate to close the angle, his body broad, his arms spreading. For a split second, the whole stadium seemed to hold its breath.
Vardy didn't blink. He drew back his right foot and lashed it low and fast. The ball skidded under Kozáčik's desperate dive and rippled the net.
The eruption was instant, deafening. England 1, Slovakia 0.
The stands exploded into sound — a thunderclap of cheers, chants, flags waving wildly. Francesco leapt to his feet before he even realized it, fists pumping, voice cracking in a roar that came from his chest more than his throat. Leah was up too, laughing, her arms flung around him as they jumped in unison, swept away in the pure electricity of the moment.
"Yes!" Francesco bellowed, his face split in a grin. "That's what I'm talking about!"
Leah pulled back just far enough to look at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes alight. "That was brilliant! The timing on that pass—perfect!"
He nodded, breathless, his gaze darting back to the replay flashing across the big screen. The pass. The run. The finish. All of it had been carved from instinct and precision, the kind of goal that belonged to tournament football — fleeting, ruthless, unforgettable.
Below, Vardy was mobbed by his teammates, Henderson leaping onto his back, Wilshere clapping him on the head, Sturridge grinning from ear to ear. The England fans behind the goal were a sea of limbs, surging forward against the barriers, voices roaring in unison.
Francesco sat again, though it was more a collapse than a sit, his heart still hammering. Leah rested a hand on his knee, smiling at the way he couldn't quite keep still.
"You miss it, don't you?" she asked softly, not accusingly, just observant.
He exhaled, eyes still on the pitch. "Every second."
The restart came, and England resumed their dominance, the white shirts fanning out across the pitch like waves pushing against a shoreline. Wilshere demanded the ball constantly, Henderson orchestrated the press, Clyne kept bombing forward on the overlap. For long stretches, it felt like Slovakia were being smothered in their own half.
But football, Francesco knew, had a way of punishing waste. For all their possession, England's attacks began to fray at the edges. A cross overhit. A shot scuffed. A clever run that wasn't spotted in time. The energy was there, the control was there, but the edge — that sharpness to kill the game off — wavered.
Slovakia, meanwhile, reminded everyone that they weren't there just to make up the numbers.
It started with Marek Hamšík. Francesco recognized the body language straight away — the way Hamšík began demanding the ball, gesturing to teammates, slowing the tempo to his own rhythm. A leader wasn't always the loudest voice; sometimes it was the calmest presence in the storm.
Hamšík dropped deep, collected the ball near the center circle, and with a casual flick of his boot, released Róbert Mak into space on the right. The Slovak winger darted past Bertrand, his low cross zipping dangerously across the box before Cahill managed to hook it clear.
"See?" Francesco muttered, leaning toward Leah. "That's what I mean. One lapse, and they're in."
Minutes later, it was Hamšík again, this time feeding Vladimír Weiss on the left. Weiss twisted inside Clyne, his balance deceptive, and cracked a shot from the edge of the box that skimmed just wide of Forster's far post.
The Slovak fans, quiet for much of the half, suddenly roared into life, drums pounding, flags whipping in the stands. Their team had weathered the storm and was now striking back, testing England's composure.
Leah's hand slipped into Francesco's again, her thumb rubbing slow circles against his knuckle. "They're pushing back."
He nodded, his jaw tight. "England need the second. One goal's never enough in games like this."
The ball zipped back and forth across the pitch, possession still weighted toward England but laced now with Slovak menace. Ondrej Duda joined the attack, his sharp runs pulling Stone and Smalling into awkward positions, leaving gaps that Hamšík looked eager to exploit.
Every counterattack carried danger. Every misplaced pass from England sent a jolt of anxiety through their supporters. The noise in the Cauldron shifted — not lessened, but tense, a hum of anticipation, of nerves wound taut.
For Francesco, the emotions were layered. The pride of seeing England lead. The frustration at their inefficiency. The dread that always came when a slender margin hung in the balance. He could feel the match in his bones, like muscle memory, every surge and retreat echoing the rhythm of games he'd lived through himself.
Leah tilted her head toward him, her voice barely audible above the din. "If you were down there, what would you do?"
He chuckled softly, though it was tinged with seriousness. "I'd be screaming for more runners. The space is there — they just need to break with conviction. But mostly?" His gaze tracked Vardy, already harrying Škrtel again. "I'd just make sure I was where it mattered when the chance came."
Her smile curved knowingly. "You always were."
Francesco's eyes flicked back to the pitch, his chest tightening as Hamšík threaded another pass into Mak, forcing Forster into his first real save of the match. The England keeper sprawled low to his right, fingertips just enough to turn the shot wide. The Slovak fans roared again, sensing the momentum tilt, however slightly.
The tension only seemed to grow heavier, pulsing with each Slovak counter. England still had their noses in front, but Francesco's instincts told him that a single goal was a dangerous lead. He sat there, leaning forward, elbows digging into his thighs, his breath measured but quick, eyes tracking every movement on the pitch.
The 38th minute came like a crack of lightning.
England had pushed forward again, their shape stretching Slovakia to breaking point. The ball worked its way back to Nathaniel Clyne on the right-hand side. Francesco's eyes sharpened immediately — Clyne wasn't just hugging the touchline, he was looking up, scanning, shaping himself for something more ambitious than a simple pass inside.
"Cross it," Francesco muttered, as though his voice might reach the pitch.
Clyne obliged. With a whip of his right boot, he sent the ball arcing across the face of goal. It wasn't a hopeful hit; it was deliberate, measured, bending away from the keeper, teasing defenders to misjudge their steps.
And then Sturridge arrived.
He'd ghosted in from the left, perfectly timed, splitting the space between the retreating Slovak defenders. The ball dropped into his path, and Sturridge rose with the grace of a dancer, neck muscles tensing, forehead meeting the leather with precision.
The header was clean, fierce, directed low and hard past Kozáčik's outstretched gloves.
The net bulged.
England 2, Slovakia 0.
The stadium erupted again, this time with even more ferocity than before. Flags whipped the air, fans leapt onto each other's shoulders, the travelling England support turning the VIP stand into a wall of sound. Francesco was up in a heartbeat, fists punching the air, his roar mixing with the thousands.
"Get in there!" he shouted, almost shaking with adrenaline. "That's how you do it!"
Leah was laughing beside him, her face lit up with joy. "What a cross! What a finish!"
He pulled her into a hug, the energy from the pitch thrumming through his veins, and when they pulled apart he was grinning wide, his eyes darting down to the replay on the big screen. Clyne's delivery, Sturridge's run, the way the ball snapped into the bottom corner — it was football stripped to its most elegant simplicity.
Down on the pitch, Sturridge was pointing toward Clyne, clapping him on the back as the rest of the team swarmed around them. Henderson jogged over to join in, Wilshere gesturing animatedly as if to remind everyone that the job wasn't finished yet.
"Two before halftime," Francesco murmured, his grin softening into something more thoughtful. "That's massive. Gives you breathing room. Changes everything."
Leah brushed a strand of hair from her face, smiling at him. "You can breathe a little now, yeah?"
He chuckled, though his eyes stayed on the field. "A little. But only a little."
The match carried on, the Slovaks rattled but not broken. They tried to respond, Hamšík pushing his men higher, Duda driving forward whenever he could, Weiss probing down the left. But England had the wind in their sails now, their confidence radiating in the sharpness of every pass. The ball zipped around like it belonged to them alone, Slovakia chasing shadows, their counters less frequent, their fans quieter now, subdued by the weight of that second goal.
When the referee finally lifted the whistle to his lips and signalled halftime, the scoreboard read 2-0. The England players jogged off, sweat glistening under the floodlights, their faces tight with concentration but tinged with satisfaction.
The roar from the stands didn't ebb. It rolled on, the England supporters celebrating loudly, songs breaking out across the Cauldron in waves. The Slovak fans countered with chants of their own, but the balance of sound leaned heavily toward white shirts.
Francesco leaned back in his seat, finally exhaling properly. His heart was still hammering, but there was relief in the beat now, not just tension. Leah, beside him, smiled knowingly, her hand resting on his forearm.
"You're buzzing," she teased.
He laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Can't help it. Goals change everything." His gaze flicked down toward the players disappearing down the tunnel. "Two-nil at the half in a game like this — that's exactly where you want to be."
Then he turned to her, his expression softening. "You hungry?"
Leah blinked, a little surprised by the sudden shift. "Actually… yeah. A bit."
He nodded, already half-rising from his seat. "Alright. Stay here. I'll go grab us something — burgers, fries, and some coke? Classic match fuel."
Her grin widened. "Perfect. Don't take too long."
"I won't," he said, squeezing her hand once before slipping into the aisle.
The stadium concourse was buzzing. Fans spilled out from the stands, some giddy with celebration, others grumbling into their beers. The air was thick with the smell of grilled meat, fried onions, chips fresh from the fryer. Vendors shouted above the din, juggling orders, while supporters queued in long but fast-moving lines. The noise of halftime was different from the pitch — more chaotic, less orchestrated, a mix of laughter, shouting, and the occasional chant echoing off the concrete walls.
Francesco joined the queue at one of the food corners, his height giving him a clear view of the menus hanging above the counter. Burgers. Fries. Coke. Nothing fancy — just the kind of food that belonged to football nights, greasy and comforting. He glanced around as he waited, catching snippets of conversations from fans around him.
"Sturridge, mate, what a header—"
"Yeah, but we need one more, just to kill it, you know?"
"Slovakia's still dangerous. Hamšík's class, can't give him space."
"Tell you what, Wilshere looks sharp though, doesn't he? Proper sharp."
It made Francesco smile faintly. He'd been on the other side of those conversations, his performances dissected in queues just like this, his name tossed around in the casual certainty of supporters who loved, who worried, who lived every moment as though it were theirs.
When his turn came, he ordered quickly — two burgers, two portions of fries, and two cokes. The server handed him a cardboard tray loaded with steaming food and clinking cups, the smell making his stomach tighten with hunger he hadn't realized was there.
Balancing it carefully, he made his way back through the flow of people, dodging a group of singing fans draped in England flags, sidestepping a pair of kids racing each other down the concourse. By the time he climbed the steps back into the VIP section, the stadium's hum had shifted again — fans were returning to their seats, the stands slowly filling, the pitch below alive once more with players warming up for the second half.
Leah spotted him immediately, her face brightening as he approached. "Hero," she said with mock-seriousness, taking one of the cups from the tray to lighten his load.
He grinned, sliding the tray onto the small ledge between their seats and handing her a burger and fries. "Fuel for the second half. Can't be shouting on an empty stomach."
She laughed, unwrapping her burger, the steam rising into the cool evening air. "You think of everything."
He settled in beside her, unwrapping his own burger, the first bite melting into his mouth with the perfect hit of grease and salt. For a moment, the game faded into the background, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, sharing food, sharing quiet.
The last bite of the burger was still warm in Francesco's mouth when he balled up the wrapper and set it aside, brushing his hands against his jeans. Leah, licking a streak of ketchup from her thumb, gave him a satisfied grin.
"Perfect timing," she said, nodding toward the pitch.
Down below, the players were filing back onto the grass, the stadium filling once more with noise. The lull of halftime chatter faded into chants and stomps, that peculiar swell of energy that only comes with the restart. Francesco leaned forward in his seat again, elbows to knees, eyes fixed. He was done with food; now it was all about the game.
The referee's whistle pierced the air, and the second half began.
At first, England looked comfortable — stroking the ball around midfield, probing for an opening, keeping Slovakia at arm's length. But within minutes, something shifted. Slovakia weren't retreating anymore. They were stepping up, pressing higher, pushing men forward as though they'd been lit by a fuse in the dressing room.
Hamšík, the heartbeat of their play, took the game by the throat. He demanded the ball, dropped into pockets, sprayed passes wide. Suddenly Weiss and Duda were buzzing around the edges of England's box, and every Slovak move seemed to carry a sting.
By the 60th minute, the match was a siege.
Slovakia hammered down the flanks, crosses whipping in, England's defenders retreating, blocking, lunging. Ryan Bertrand flung himself into a sliding challenge to cut out a ball destined for Mak's boots. Smalling tracked back and rose highest to nod away a corner, his neck muscles straining with the effort. Stone stuck close to Šesták, never letting him turn freely. And Clyne — quick and tireless — raced back time and again to shut down Weiss before he could square his hips toward goal.
Still, Slovakia came.
A shot curled from distance — Forster flew left, fingertips brushing the ball wide of the post. Another attempt cut low through the grass — his leg stuck out just enough to block it, the rebound hacked clear by Henderson, who by now was everywhere. The Liverpool midfielder seemed to multiply, dropping between the centre-backs to intercept, then surging forward to break up a Slovak pass, barking orders at Wilshere and Lallana to stay switched on.
"Slovakia smell blood," Francesco muttered, his fingers tightening around the Coke cup. "England are on the ropes here."
Leah's eyes followed the Slovaks swarming forward, her hand unconsciously slipping into his again. "Do you think they'll score?"
He shook his head, not in denial but in determination. "Not if England keep this shape. They just need to weather it. Don't panic, don't dive in — stay disciplined." His voice was taut, almost as if he were coaching from the stands.
The stadium's atmosphere shifted. England fans grew restless, groaning at every misplaced clearance, roaring encouragement when defenders threw themselves in front of shots. Slovak supporters, meanwhile, had found their rhythm, their chants booming, drums echoing across the Cauldron as though to beat out England's composure.
Then, at the 61st minute, the board went up on the sideline.
Slovakia's manager, Ján Kozák, had seen enough.
Off came Ondrej Duda, who had run himself into the ground with sharp forward bursts. Off too went Viktor Pečovský, the defensive midfielder who had struggled to keep up with England's runners. And with him, Vladimír Weiss, whose twisting runs had lost a bit of edge against Clyne's stubborn defending.
In their places came fresh legs: Dušan Svento, versatile and experienced, sliding onto the wing; Norbert Gyömbér, younger, energetic, slotting into midfield to tighten things; and Milan Škriniar, still early in his international career but strong, tall, and composed enough to bring solidity at the back.
The substitution board snapped shut, the fourth official lowered it, and the game shifted again.
Francesco leaned back slightly, processing the changes. "Interesting," he murmured, half to himself. "Kozák's shoring up the middle, fresh legs wide, and Škriniar at the back… they're going for balance. Means one thing — they're not giving up. They want back in this game."
Leah tilted her head, studying him with that curious softness she often wore when he slipped into analysis. "You sound like you're still down there."
He smiled faintly, though his eyes stayed locked on the pitch. "Part of me is. Always will be."
The Slovaks, reinvigorated by the substitutions, pressed with renewed fury. Svento tore down the flank, his left foot delivering a dangerous ball that Bertrand barely managed to deflect. Gyömbér clattered into Henderson, winning the duel, his chest puffed out as though to set the tone for his side. And Škriniar, calm beyond his years, mopped up England's counters with sharp positioning, snapping into tackles that drew cheers from the Slovak fans.
The game had turned into a battle of wills.
England, two goals ahead, leaned on their defence and the hard running of Henderson. Slovakia, desperate to halve the deficit, poured men forward, gambling space behind them. Each attack felt like it could tilt the entire match — either England would break, or Slovakia would overreach and be punished.
Francesco's heart thudded with every sequence, every clearance, every second Forster held the ball in his gloves before launching it downfield. He could feel Leah's hand still wrapped in his, grounding him, but his focus was absolute.
"This is it," he said softly, his voice almost drowned by the chants around them. "This next stretch decides the game. If England hold, they win. If Slovakia score, the whole thing changes."
Leah turned to him, her brow furrowed, her lips parting as though to answer — but the roar of the crowd drowned her out as Hamšík unleashed another shot, this one dipping viciously.
Forster, immense, dove full stretch, palms stinging as he pushed it wide again.
The stadium gasped, then erupted.
The save from Forster seemed to hang in the air longer than it should have, his outstretched fingertips brushing the ball just wide of the post. Gasps rippled through the stands, followed by a wave of applause from the England supporters who knew just how crucial that intervention had been.
Leah exhaled beside Francesco, her shoulders loosening just slightly. "That was close," she said, her voice a touch shaky.
Francesco didn't answer right away. His eyes were still fixed on Forster, watching the big keeper thump his fists together and bark at his backline. It was exactly what Francesco would have done — demand focus, demand shape, demand unity.
"Close doesn't even cover it," he said finally, shaking his head. "That was inches from turning this game upside down."
As the corner was cleared and the game rolled on, Francesco sat forward, his entire body tense. He knew matches like this lived on knife edges. A two-goal cushion looked comfortable on paper, but in reality, it was one mistake, one slip, one piece of brilliance from Hamšík away from unraveling.
And Roy Hodgson knew it too.
At the 67th minute, the fourth official raised his board, the bright red and green numbers lighting up against the floodlights.
OFF: Smalling. ON: Cahill.
OFF: Vardy. ON: Kane.
OFF: Lallana. ON: Sterling.
The shuffle brought murmurs from the crowd. Francesco immediately leaned toward Leah, his instinct as sharp as ever.
"Big call," he muttered. "Fresh legs at the back with Cahill, makes sense. Vardy's run himself ragged, Kane will hold the ball up better. And Sterling… Sterling's pace will stretch them on the counter. Smart moves."
Leah smiled faintly, eyes flicking toward him. "You really can't turn it off, can you?"
He laughed, though it was brief, tight. "Not when I've lived it. Substitutions like this — they can change everything. It's chess at full speed."
On the pitch, the changes made themselves felt almost immediately.
Kane, bigger and stronger than Vardy, planted himself firmly between Škrtel and Škriniar, forcing the Slovak defence to adjust. Instead of darting runs in behind, he offered himself as a target, someone to play into and bounce off. The midfielders, grateful for the relief, began to look for him with long passes, his chest and first touch bringing others into play.
Sterling, meanwhile, was a live wire. His first touch of the ball drew a roar from the crowd — a burst of acceleration down the left flank that left his marker stumbling. He didn't quite get the cross right, but the message was clear: England weren't just going to sit back.
Cahill, sliding in alongside Bertrand, Smalling, and Clyne, brought a calm authority to the backline. He wasn't spectacular, but he was steady, barking instructions, ensuring no gaps appeared as Slovakia kept pushing.
For ten minutes, the match was a tug-of-war. Slovakia, desperate to get back into it, hurled men forward, Hamšík still the orchestrator, Gyömbér snapping into challenges, Svento hugging the touchline. But England's substitutions shifted the balance. With Kane holding play and Sterling stretching the Slovaks wide, the pressure began to ease.
And then came the 77th minute.
It started with Sterling.
A ball out of midfield found him isolated on the left, Škriniar tight to his back. Sterling turned, shifted his weight once, twice, then was gone — bursting past with that electric acceleration that seemed to bend time. He streaked down the line, head up, the crowd roaring him forward.
Francesco was already half-rising from his seat. "Go on, Raheem. Go on!"
Sterling didn't rush it. He drove to the edge of the box, then cut inside just enough to draw Škrtel across. And then, with the precision of a player who'd spent hours drilling the movement, he squared the ball low across the face of goal.
Harry Kane had peeled into space at the near post.
One touch. A swing of his right boot. The ball fizzed low, skimming just under Kozáčik's arm, and slammed into the back of the net.
The explosion of sound was thunderous. England 3, Slovakia 0.
Francesco shot to his feet, fists in the air, his roar joining the thousands around him. Leah was right there with him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as they jumped together in the chaos of celebration.
"That's it! That's the one!" Francesco bellowed, his grin wide, his voice hoarse. "Game over!"
Leah was laughing, shaking her head, her eyes bright with joy. "What a move! Sterling's pace, Kane's finish — perfect!"
On the pitch, Kane wheeled away, arms spread, sliding on his knees toward the corner as teammates mobbed him. Sterling, beaming, pointed back toward him, accepting the thanks but knowing full well what his assist had meant.
Francesco watched it all, his chest swelling with something deeper than just excitement. It was pride. Pride in the players, pride in the moment, pride in seeing England do what so many times they hadn't managed: kill a game when they were on top.
"That's how champions play," he murmured, almost to himself. "You don't just defend the lead. You finish it."
The final thirteen minutes ticked by with Slovakia still trying, still pushing, but the fight had drained from them. Their passes lacked the bite they'd shown earlier. Their runs slowed. England, buoyed by that third goal, played with control, knocking the ball around, forcing Slovakia to chase shadows. Henderson still buzzed around like a terrier, Wilshere still picked his passes, and the defence, steady and unflinching, saw out every half-chance.
The England fans sang without pause now, their voices echoing around the stadium, a sea of white and red bouncing in unison. The Slovak supporters, quieter now, still waved their flags, still clapped their players on, but they knew. They knew it was over.
Francesco felt it too. That certainty. That rare comfort of knowing the job was done. He leaned back in his seat, finally allowing himself to relax, the tension bleeding from his muscles. Leah shifted closer, resting her head lightly against his shoulder.
"Happy?" she asked softly.
He smiled, the kind that reached his eyes. "Yeah. Tonight, I am."
And then the whistle came.
Three sharp blasts, clear and final.
The scoreboard froze: England 3 – 0 Slovakia.
The players embraced, clapped the fans, swapped shirts. Kane lifted his arms to the crowd, Sterling grinned like a kid, Henderson shouted praise at his teammates. Forster, clean sheet intact, raised his gloves in triumph.
The England fans roared again, their voices shaking the night air. Three goals, three points, a performance that blended grit with brilliance.
Francesco stood with them, applauding, his heart thumping not just with the victory but with the reminder of everything he loved about this game. Beside him, Leah clapped too, her smile soft and proud, her hand slipping back into his.
Together, they watched as the players made their way toward the tunnel, the chants still rolling, the flags still waving, the night still alive with football's timeless electricity.
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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