If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
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.
The chants still echoed long after the final whistle, waves of sound rolling through the stands like the aftershocks of an earthquake. England fans were on their feet, scarves twirling, voices hoarse but unrelenting as they belted out the familiar refrains — "Three Lions on the shirt…" — every syllable charged with something that had been missing for years: hope.
Francesco and Leah lingered in their seats a little longer, watching the players make their way off the pitch. Kane, still glowing from his goal, clapped in rhythm with the fans. Sterling jogged over to toss his shirt into the crowd. Henderson, sweat streaming down his temples, pointed toward the stands and applauded like a man who knew the value of support in games like these.
Leah nudged Francesco lightly in the ribs. "They're still singing for you too, you know."
He blinked, turned his ear to the noise, and caught it — faint at first, but unmistakable once his mind tuned in. A ripple of his name threading through the thunder of chants.
"Fran-ces-co! Fran-ces-co!"
He exhaled slowly, almost laughing, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't even play for England."
"Doesn't matter," Leah said, her grin wide. "You're theirs tonight. They know what you've done at Arsenal. They know what you represent."
He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. Part of him wanted to shy away, to stay in the comfort of anonymity in the stands, just another fan in jeans and a hoodie. But another part — the part that had run onto countless pitches, carried teams on his shoulders, lived for moments exactly like this — knew he couldn't ignore it.
"Come on," Leah said, tugging his arm. "Let's go down."
Together, they started moving toward the England end. The closer they got, the louder it became, the sound vibrating through Francesco's chest until it was no longer just noise but something physical, alive, contagious. Fans spotted him before he even reached the railings.
The first to notice was a boy, no older than twelve, his face painted with the red cross of St George, holding a flag that nearly swallowed him whole. His eyes went wide, and he tugged frantically at his dad's sleeve, pointing.
"It's him! Dad, it's Francesco Lee!"
Within seconds, the ripple spread. Heads turned. Hands shot into the air. Phones were raised. And then, like a spark to dry tinder, the entire section erupted.
"FRANCESCO! FRANCESCO!"
The chant rolled over him, stronger this time, no mistaking it. Francesco stopped at the railing, stunned, Leah squeezing his hand tight as if to anchor him against the surge.
Then the first fan leaned forward, a young woman clutching a programme and a pen. "Francesco! Please, can you sign this?"
He blinked, then laughed, a warm, unguarded sound that cut through the chaos. "Of course." He reached out, took the pen, scrawled his name across the glossy page.
That was all it took.
Suddenly, he was swarmed. Programmes, shirts, flags, even ticket stubs were thrust toward him. Phones angled for selfies, arms looped around his shoulders, shouts of "Over here!" and "Just one more!" rising into the night. Leah stood close, half laughing, half shielding him from the crush, her free hand steadying fans who leaned too far over the barrier in their eagerness.
One man, his voice ragged from singing, shoved his phone toward them. "Francesco, mate, can I get a picture with you and the missus? Come on, once in a lifetime!"
Francesco glanced at Leah. She raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Missus, huh?"
He grinned. "Guess we've been upgraded." Then, without missing a beat, he leaned into the man's phone camera, Leah right beside him, both smiling as the flash went off.
The man let out a triumphant yell. "That's going on me wall!"
Everywhere Francesco turned, faces were alight — not just with joy from the win, but with something deeper. It was belief, raw and unfiltered, spilling out in every handshake, every photo, every shouted thank you. These weren't just fans celebrating a scoreline; they were clutching at the dream that maybe, just maybe, football was finally coming home.
Leah felt it too. She could see it in the way people reached for Francesco, as though touching him would tether them to the possibility of glory. And she saw how he responded — no arrogance, no impatience, just genuine warmth. Every autograph signed was done with care, every photo taken with a real smile. He didn't rush, didn't brush anyone off. He gave himself to them the way he always gave himself to the game.
At one point, a little girl no taller than Leah's waist edged forward, her oversized England jersey slipping off one shoulder. She clutched a small notebook, her hands trembling.
"Francesco," she whispered, barely audible over the din. "Will you sign for me?"
He crouched down so their eyes met, his voice gentle. "Of course I will. What's your name?"
"Amelia."
He wrote it carefully: To Amelia — always believe. Francesco Lee. Then handed it back, ruffling her hair softly. Her face lit up like a firework, and she darted back to her parents, holding the notebook above her head as though it were a trophy.
Leah's chest tightened at the sight. She leaned close to Francesco as he straightened. "You know what you just did for her, right? That's going to be the story she tells for the rest of her life."
He swallowed, blinking hard as the noise swelled again. "I remember being that kid. Watching, waiting, hoping someone would notice me. If I can give her that… yeah, that's worth everything."
The crowd only grew louder, buoyed by his presence. Chants of "It's coming home!" wove into "Francesco! Francesco!" Flags waved, beer sloshed, strangers hugged each other in the euphoria of victory and the magic of shared hope.
For a while, time seemed to blur. Ten minutes, maybe twenty, passed in a whirlwind of smiles and signatures, hugs and handshakes. Leah became photographer-in-chief, taking phones from fans to snap better angles, laughing when one particularly tall bloke nearly toppled over the railing trying to squeeze into a selfie.
The chants had begun to loop again — a blur of "It's coming home!" and "Francesco! Francesco!" that seemed to vibrate in Francesco's bones. Leah was still laughing, her hand steady on the small of his back as she tried to make space for him against the tidal wave of fans pressing forward.
But then, cutting through the wall of noise, came a voice that didn't sound like the rest.
It was small. Clear. Almost too fragile to carry over the chants.
"Francesco…"
He turned instinctively, searching. The fans around him hushed for just a heartbeat, enough for him to spot the source: a boy, maybe ten, with ears sticking out under a flat England cap that looked too big for his head. He was clutching a replica ball, the kind you bought outside the stadium, and his knuckles were white from how tightly he held it. His eyes were wide, nervous, but locked on Francesco with a determination that reminded him of someone staring down a keeper before a penalty.
"Francesco," the boy said again, his voice trembling but louder now, "do you think… do you think we can win the Euros?"
It was like someone had flicked a switch.
The crowd, so loud and unrelenting seconds before, fell into silence. Not awkward silence — reverent silence. Hopeful silence. The kind of silence that meant the question wasn't just the boy's. It belonged to everyone.
Do you think we can win?
Every eye turned to him. Hundreds, maybe thousands, all waiting. Phones lowered, flags stilled, beer cups forgotten. The chants died on lips. Even Leah stilled beside him, her hand gripping his arm just slightly tighter.
Francesco felt it hit him in the chest — the weight of expectation, the fragile hope balanced on that one question. He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself. He wasn't on the pitch tonight, but this felt like a moment as important as any he'd faced with a ball at his feet.
He crouched a little so his eyes were level with the boy's. "What's your name, lad?"
"Oliver," the boy whispered.
Francesco smiled, soft but sure. "Oliver… that's a big question you just asked." He looked up briefly, sweeping his gaze across the silent faces all around him. "And it deserves a real answer."
He rose back to his full height, the crowd leaning forward as one. Then, with his voice steady, clear, he spoke.
"Listen… I know how it feels to hope. I know how it feels to dream, and to be scared it might not come true. But I'll tell you this…" He paused, taking another breath. His words carried now, strong enough to bounce off the rafters. "I promise you — I will do everything in my power to lead England back to glory. I'll bring football home. Not just for me, not just for the players, but for you — all of you."
The crowd erupted into cheers, but he raised a hand, asking for patience. The noise ebbed again, the silence returning. He wasn't finished.
"And I promise you this isn't just my dream. It's the dream of every player in that dressing room. You saw it tonight. Kane, Sterling, Henderson, Forster — they fought like lions out there. Every single one of them is ready to bleed for this shirt. And don't forget our gaffer, Roy Hodgson. He rested the whole starting eleven from the last two games because he believes in this squad. He trusts every man, whether they start or not, to wear that badge and make this nation proud."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Heads nodded. Eyes glistened.
Francesco pointed to the sea of fans, his arm sweeping like he was drawing them in. "That's the truth. England isn't just eleven men on the pitch. It's all of us. It's unity. When we're united, when we believe — no one in the world can stop us. Not Spain. Not Germany. Not France. We're England. We're a nation overflowing with talent, with fire, with heart."
He turned his gaze back to Oliver, who clutched his ball tighter than ever, his eyes wide. Francesco's voice softened, but it carried even stronger for it.
"So yes, Oliver. We can win. Not just because we want to, but because we're going to fight for it. Every pass, every tackle, every goal — it's for you. For all of you. Football belongs here, and together, we'll bring it home."
The silence shattered.
The fans roared, louder than they had all night, louder even than when Kane scored. The sound rattled the steel beams of the stadium, shook the night air, sent flocks of birds scattering into the dark sky. "IT'S COMING HOME! IT'S COMING HOME!" The chant rolled like thunder, unstoppable now, a tidal wave of belief that seemed to lift everyone off their feet.
Leah felt tears sting her eyes as she looked at him, her chest tight with pride. He hadn't planned those words. He hadn't needed to. They'd come straight from his heart, and the crowd knew it. They believed it because he believed it.
Francesco bent down one last time, gently taking Oliver's ball. He pulled a pen from a fan nearby and scrawled across it:
"To Oliver — keep believing. Football's coming home. — Francesco Lee"
He handed it back with a wink. "Hold onto that, mate. Might be worth something when we're lifting the trophy."
Oliver grinned so wide it looked like his face might split in two. He clutched the ball to his chest like it was sacred, his parents pulling him into a tearful hug as the crowd surged again.
Francesco turned back to the sea of fans, arms lifted high, his voice rising above the chant one final time:
"Together! We do this together!"
The reply came back like a hammer strike, thousands of voices bellowing as one. "TOGETHER!"
It went on and on, the stands shaking with the force of belief, until the security staff finally had to usher Francesco and Leah back toward the tunnel. But even as they walked away, the chants didn't fade. If anything, they grew louder, rolling into the streets outside, carried by every fan into the night.
Leah leaned close, her lips brushing his ear over the noise. "You just gave them something they'll never forget."
Francesco exhaled, his shoulders heavy but his heart light. "No," he said softly, his eyes shining as he glanced back one last time at the fans still chanting his name. "They gave it to me."
The night air outside the stadium was thick with leftover energy. Even as the floodlights dimmed and the last chants of "It's coming home!" drifted into the streets, there was still a hum in the air, like electricity that hadn't found a place to ground itself yet.
Francesco and Leah walked together through the throng of fans spilling into the city. Some were still singing, others waving flags out of car windows, and groups of friends clattered down the cobbled streets in their England shirts, their voices raw but joyous. The energy clung to them as they moved, hand in hand, the crowd parting instinctively when they recognized who he was.
Leah was radiant. Not because of the victory alone, but because she'd just seen Francesco not only as a footballer, but as something larger — a figure who could hold an entire stadium in silence with nothing but his voice, then ignite it with hope. She squeezed his hand, stealing glances at him as though she was still processing it.
They reached her hotel, tucked away on a quieter street just off the main square. The flags outside fluttered in the breeze, the golden glow from the lobby spilling out onto the pavement. Leah stopped at the entrance, her thumb brushing gently over the back of his hand.
"Thank you for tonight," she said softly. "For all of it. I don't think I've ever seen anything like that before. Not just the football — you. What you gave them."
Francesco smiled, a tired but genuine smile. "They gave it to me first. I just… gave it back."
Leah tilted her head, searching his face. "And tomorrow? When the papers write about it?"
He gave a small shrug, though he knew exactly what was coming. "Then tomorrow's just another day. Another match ahead, another job to do. But tonight was for them."
She leaned up and kissed him, slow and tender, her hand resting lightly against his cheek. For a brief moment, the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the endless weight of football — it all disappeared. There was only her.
When they parted, Leah whispered, "Go on. Get some rest. You've got work to do."
He chuckled, brushing his thumb over her hand one last time before letting go. "Goodnight, Leah."
"Goodnight, Francesco."
He turned, flagging down a taxi from the line parked just beyond the hotel. As the cab pulled away, he glanced back through the window. Leah was still standing at the entrance, watching him until the car turned the corner.
The ride back to the players' hotel was quiet. The driver had recognized him immediately but, perhaps out of respect, didn't ask for photos or autographs. Instead, the man simply said, "Well done tonight, lad. You gave us all something to believe in," before focusing on the road.
Francesco stared out the window as the city lights flickered past. His mind replayed the night — Oliver's trembling voice, the silence that had followed, the explosion of belief that came after. He thought of Leah's smile, the way her eyes had glistened when he spoke. He thought of the team, resting back at the hotel, and the fire they would need in the matches to come.
By the time the taxi rolled up to the England team's hotel, the adrenaline had faded, replaced by exhaustion that sank deep into his bones. He tipped the driver generously, slipped inside the quiet lobby, and nodded at the night staff who barely hid their excitement at seeing him. Then he rode the lift up to his floor, slipped into his room, and let himself fall into bed without even switching on the lights.
Sleep took him quickly.
Morning came with the harsh glare of sunlight cutting through the curtains and the buzz of his phone vibrating endlessly on the nightstand. Francesco groaned, dragging himself upright, and reached for it. Notifications flooded his screen — mentions, retweets, tagged photos, articles. The world hadn't just noticed last night. The world had exploded because of it.
He thumbed open one of the top stories.
"England Show Depth and Unity in 3-0 Win Over Slovakia — Are They Now the Dark Horses of Euro 2016?"
The headline screamed confidence. The article praised Hodgson's bold decision to rotate the entire starting eleven, highlighting how the so-called "second string" had handled Slovakia with composure and dominance. The writer described England not as a team relying on one or two stars, but as a squad overflowing with options, each player stepping up as though desperate to prove their worth.
Francesco scrolled further, finding another article.
"England's Secret Weapon? Belief — Francesco Lee Sparks Fans With Post-Match Promise."
This one focused squarely on him. The journalist painted a vivid picture of the moment — a boy named Oliver asking the question everyone was too afraid to voice, the silence of the crowd, Francesco's steady voice filling the stadium.
"I will promise you," the piece quoted him, "to lead England back to glory and bring football home."
The article described the fans' eruption, the chants that spilled into the streets, and the way Francesco's words had traveled across social media within minutes. Videos of the moment had gone viral overnight, fans dubbing him not just Arsenal's talisman but England's unofficial captain of hope.
There were photos too — him crouched at Oliver's eye level, the ball clutched in the boy's hands, Leah smiling at his side. The captions ranged from the poetic ("A promise made to a child, carried by a nation") to the blunt ("England have their leader").
Every outlet had their spin. Some praised Hodgson's tactical gamble, others marveled at England's newfound depth, but nearly all of them carried a paragraph — sometimes more — about Francesco's words.
Leah's name appeared too.
"Francesco Lee and Girlfriend Leah Williamson Spotted at England's 3-0 Win — A New Power Couple in Football?"
He chuckled softly at that, shaking his head. The cameras had caught them in the stands, sharing a burger, holding hands, celebrating. The articles called it "a rare glimpse into Francesco's personal life," though he knew Leah would laugh it off when she saw it.
Still, he couldn't help but smile. It wasn't just about him anymore. It was about them — the team, the fans, Leah, the belief that seemed to ripple outward like a stone cast into water.
By the time he headed downstairs for breakfast, the hotel lobby was buzzing with the same energy as the media. Teammates huddled around newspapers, laughing, teasing, showing each other headlines. Kane waved a copy of one article at him.
"Look at this, mate," Kane grinned. "Apparently you're leading us to glory now."
Sterling chimed in, smirking. "Good thing you promised, eh? No pressure or anything."
Francesco rolled his eyes, though he couldn't hide the grin tugging at his lips. "Just means we've all got a job to do."
Henderson, serious even over toast and coffee, nodded firmly. "He's right. Everyone's talking now. We've got momentum. We can't waste it."
The breakfast hall smelled of coffee, toast, and that faint tang of fried bacon lingering in the air. Plates clinked against cutlery, chairs scraped across the polished floor, and the low rumble of conversation carried through the room like the hum of a well-tuned engine. England's squad wasn't just eating — they were riding the wave of a night that had spilled into the morning, their spirits bright and voices louder than usual.
Roy Hodgson, though, sat at the head of the long table, hands folded neatly before him, eyes sharp despite the faint tiredness etched into the corners of his face. He'd been in football long enough to know mornings like this were double-edged. Highs could be as dangerous as lows, if they weren't managed properly.
When the plates had been mostly cleared, Hodgson pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. The chatter softened almost immediately. Even the youngest lads, who sometimes needed a bark from Rooney or Henderson to shut up, quieted at the sight of their manager standing.
Hodgson's voice was calm, measured — the voice of a man who had weathered storms bigger than this.
"First of all," he began, "well done. You all should be proud of what you showed last night. It wasn't just a win, it was a statement — that England is more than its first eleven. That we have depth. That we can trust every man in this room."
Nods circled the table. Lallana leaned forward, eyes bright. Clyne folded his arms, his usual quiet self, but listening intently. Even Sturridge, with his natural swagger, sat straighter.
Hodgson let the silence hang just long enough for his words to sink in before continuing.
"But," he said, voice tightening, "football doesn't pause to give you time to admire yourselves. The next step is already in front of us. In the round of 16, we'll be facing Northern Ireland."
The room shifted — a murmur here, a faint chuckle there. Some players exchanged glances that hovered on the line between confidence and something dangerously close to arrogance. Northern Ireland weren't a glamour opponent. Everyone knew that.
Hodgson caught it instantly. His tone sharpened.
"I don't want to hear anyone in this room thinking this will be easy," he said, eyes scanning the table one by one. "Northern Ireland didn't come here to be tourists. They didn't fight through qualification and their group stage just to roll over. They will come at us with everything they have, and if we underestimate them for even one second, it will cost us."
His words landed like stones in water, rippling outward. Francesco felt it — the way the air seemed to still, the lightness replaced with something more grounded. Hodgson's warning wasn't just for the sake of discipline. It was real. He'd seen enough of football's cruel surprises to know the truth: respect every opponent, or be made a fool of.
"Composure," Hodgson continued, lowering his voice but making it firmer. "That's what I expect from each of you. Keep your heads. Play your game. Do not give them a chance to believe they can hurt us. Because belief —" he glanced briefly at Francesco, almost knowingly, "— is a dangerous thing when it spreads."
A hush followed. For a moment, the weight of responsibility pressed down on every chest in the room.
And then Wayne Rooney pushed back his chair. England's captain didn't stand often in these meetings — Hodgson usually led them — but when he did, it mattered. His presence had a gravity all its own, not just because of his years or his goals, but because he had carried England on his back through more than one storm.
Rooney looked around, his eyes fierce, his jaw set.
"Gaffer's right," he said, his Scouse accent cutting through the quiet. "We can't take anyone lightly. But I'll tell you this — it's our time. You hear me? Our time. We've been waiting too long, letting too many tournaments slip away, and I'm sick of it. I don't want to walk off that pitch again with regrets."
He slammed his hand against the table, not hard enough to startle, but enough to drive his point home.
"So let's bring back that football home," he growled, his voice rising, the fire unmistakable. "Come on, you Three Lions!"
For a heartbeat, the room froze. And then the energy snapped, like a dam bursting.
"Come on!" barked Henderson, fist pumping.
"Yes, lad!" shouted Sterling.
Laughter and cheers spilled across the table. Kane banged his spoon against his mug like a makeshift drum. Rashford, unable to contain himself, half-jumped out of his seat and let out a shout that was half-cheer, half-battle cry. Even the quieter ones, like Lallana and Clyne, were grinning, clapping, feeding off the surge.
Francesco felt it too. His chest tightened, not with fear, but with something fierce and hot — the kind of fire that made the hairs on his arms stand. He caught Rooney's eye across the table, and in that glance was an understanding: the torch was being shared. The captain's voice had ignited it, but it would be up to all of them to carry it forward.
The cheers echoed in the breakfast hall, so loud that one of the hotel staff peeked nervously around the corner, only to be waved off with a grin by Joe Hart. It didn't matter. Let the whole hotel hear them. Let the whole city, the whole continent, know what was coming.
________________________________________________
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