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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.
The fire that Rooney lit didn't flicker out when the breakfast ended. It lingered. The players carried it with them as they drifted back to their rooms, as they packed their training kits, as they slipped into quiet conversations in the corridors. Even when laughter broke out — Wilshere teasing Sterling about his hair, or Sturridge insisting his dance was going to be the official celebration if he scored again — there was something steady underneath. A current. A direction.
The next morning, the air in the hotel lobby buzzed with a different kind of energy. Not the wild joy of a win, but the anticipation of a journey. The players and coaching staff gathered one by one, some dragging their suitcases, others shouldering backpacks slung casually over their England tracksuits. The lobby smelled faintly of polish and fresh flowers — the hotel's attempt at elegance — but the players' chatter drowned out the quiet music playing from the speakers near the front desk.
Francesco arrived with his headphones looped around his neck, not playing any music yet, just a habit. He scanned the lobby, spotting Kane leaning against the wall scrolling through his phone, Walker cracking jokes with Rose, and Hart loudly arguing with Smalling about who was more essential in FIFA Ultimate Team.
Roy Hodgson stood near the entrance, clipboard tucked under his arm, glasses perched on his nose. He wasn't saying much, just nodding occasionally to the staff, his calm presence keeping the group from tipping into chaos. Beside him, Gary Neville checked off names with the efficiency of a schoolteacher.
"Bus is here in ten," Neville called out, his voice carrying over the noise. "Let's move, lads."
The players began to shuffle out, wheeling their luggage across the marble floor. The automatic doors slid open, and the cool morning air hit them as they stepped outside. The bus waited, sleek and painted with the Three Lions crest, its engine humming like a beast ready to be set loose. A few fans had already gathered behind the barriers, waving flags, calling out names, phones raised to capture the moment.
"Francesco! Francesco!" one boy shouted, his voice breaking with excitement. He waved a homemade sign scrawled with Lee 9 — Bring it Home!
Francesco couldn't help but grin. He jogged over for a quick second, signed the boy's England shirt, and ruffled his hair before slipping back into the line of players boarding the bus. Kane slapped him on the shoulder as he passed.
"Mate, you're never gonna get any peace again."
"Wouldn't trade it," Francesco said, settling into his seat by the window.
The bus rolled out, the fans' cheers fading as they merged onto the motorway. Inside, the atmosphere was a blend of nerves and routine. Some players pulled on their headphones and disappeared into their own worlds. Others leaned across aisles to joke or chat. Rooney sat near the front, already deep in conversation with Hodgson about shape and tactics.
The drive to the airport didn't take long, though time seemed to stretch in that peculiar way it always does before big matches. Francesco watched the scenery blur past — green fields, roadside cafés, the occasional car filled with waving fans who recognized the bus.
At the airport, security was tight. The players moved as a unit, guided through private entrances and escorted past crowds that had gathered just to catch a glimpse. Shouts echoed off the walls. Phones flashed. Someone tried to start a chant of "Three Lions on the shirt" before being drowned out by the airport announcements crackling overhead.
"Never thought airports would be part of the job description," Wilshere muttered as he hauled his bag onto the conveyor.
"They're not," Henderson said dryly. "They're part of the circus."
The flight itself was private, chartered for the team. The players filed into the plane, finding seats, joking about who was stuck next to who. Francesco ended up beside Kane, who wasted no time in pulling out his iPad and firing up a tactical analysis app.
"Look at this," Kane said, pointing at the screen. "Northern Ireland press higher than people give them credit for. They're not just going to sit back."
Francesco leaned in, genuinely interested. "Which means we'll need to play out quick. Stretch them before they can settle."
Kane nodded. "Exactly."
Behind them, Sterling and Vardy were locked in a heated debate about who was faster, while Sturridge filmed it all on his phone with running commentary. Rooney, a few rows up, had his eyes closed, arms folded across his chest, the picture of a man catching precious minutes of rest. Hodgson sat across the aisle, reading notes, occasionally glancing up at the players with a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
The hum of the engines became white noise as the plane climbed above the clouds. Francesco closed his eyes for a moment, letting the rhythm of flight steady him. He thought again of Hodgson's words: composure. Respect every opponent. Belief can spread. He felt the truth of it in his bones.
When the plane dipped and the captain announced their descent into Paris, the players stirred. Hart stretched dramatically, groaning loud enough for half the cabin to roll their eyes. Sturridge cracked a joke about the French air already smelling like croissants. Rooney smirked but didn't comment.
The wheels hit the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle with a jolt, and the players broke into light applause — a tradition on these trips, half serious, half banter.
"Safe landing, boys," Cahill grinned. "That's already our first win."
They filed off the plane in orderly fashion, though the moment they stepped onto the steps, the humid Parisian air hit them, heavy with jet fuel and the faintest trace of fresh bread drifting from the terminals. Cameras were waiting again — journalists stationed at the airport, clicking away as the players descended. Security guided them quickly inside, where luggage was already waiting.
Francesco hefted his bag off the carousel, slinging it over his shoulder. Kane did the same beside him, muttering, "Feels like we're moving a small army with all this gear."
"Because we are," Hart said behind them, dragging two cases like he was hauling treasure.
They loaded onto another team bus, this one marked with tournament branding. The windows were tinted, but outside, fans waved flags and shouted, their voices muffled through the glass. The bus rumbled out of the airport, winding its way into the heart of Paris.
The city unfolded outside their windows — wide boulevards lined with trees, cafés spilling out onto sidewalks, the Seine glinting under the late afternoon sun. Tourists craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the bus, some snapping photos, others just waving in surprise.
"Not bad, eh?" Walker said, leaning against the glass. "Beats Manchester on a rainy Tuesday."
"Careful," Rooney muttered without opening his eyes. "Paris'll look a lot less pretty if we lose."
The hotel rose ahead of them, a tall modern building with the English flag discreetly hung near the entrance. Security had cordoned off the area, keeping fans and journalists at a respectful distance. The players filed off the bus, lugging their bags inside. The lobby was spacious, polished, cool air rushing to meet them after the warmth outside. Staff greeted them in hushed French-accented English, guiding them toward check-in desks set aside just for the team.
Francesco glanced around as they waited. Some players were already drifting toward the lounge area, where refreshments had been laid out. Others stood in small groups, talking quietly. Rooney was at the front desk, collecting his room key with the authority of a man who'd done this a dozen times before.
Roy Hodgson gathered them not long after check-in. The players had been given room keys, but instead of scattering upstairs, they were called to the hotel's conference room — a sleek, modern space with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a boulevard dotted with cafés and the glow of Parisian traffic lights. A long table stretched across the middle, water bottles neatly arranged, name cards not needed but still placed with almost ceremonial precision.
Hodgson stood at the front, glasses sliding slightly down his nose, clipboard tucked under one arm as though it had become an extension of his body. His expression was calm, but his voice, when it filled the room, carried that unmistakable tone of firm authority.
"Alright, lads," he began, scanning the faces in front of him. The chatter dwindled into silence. Chairs scraped lightly as the last of the squad settled. "First of all — well done. The job against Slovakia was professional, and we move on with confidence. But…" He paused, letting the word hang in the air long enough for every player to feel its weight. "Confidence is not the same as complacency."
A faint rustle moved through the room — not disagreement, just a collective acknowledgment.
Hodgson shifted his clipboard into both hands, tapping it lightly with one finger as he spoke. "From tomorrow, we'll be training at Paris FC's ground. We've got three days there before Northern Ireland. Use it wisely. That means focus. Composure. I'll remind you of something simple: Northern Ireland are not here by accident. They earned their place, same as we did. They press higher than people expect, and they'll punish any arrogance we bring onto that pitch."
Francesco caught Kane's eye across the table. They'd already talked about that pressing style on the plane, but hearing it from the manager underscored it. Kane gave the slightest nod, a flicker of understanding passing between them.
Hodgson's gaze drifted toward the players who had sat out the Slovakia match — Rooney and Francesco, rested; Sterling, rotated; Harry Kane, who play on the second half. "For those of you who didn't start, or who were spared the full ninety — these next days are critical. We need fitness tuned, sharpness restored. Training will be structured with that in mind. No easing in. From tomorrow, you're back to the grind."
He let the clipboard drop gently onto the table, freeing his hands. His voice softened, though it didn't lose its edge. "Tonight, I don't want you thinking about tactics. Don't overanalyze. Rest. Sleep. Hydrate. The tournament doesn't wait for us to catch up, and matches can be won or lost in the margins of preparation. The work begins tomorrow."
He looked around the room again, eyes moving from one player to the next, not as a group but as individuals. Hart, already sitting forward, elbows on the table, jaw tight. Sturridge, chewing his lip but listening intently. Wilshere, arms crossed, fidgeting slightly. Rooney, hands clasped on the table in that natural captain's poise. And Francesco — who found himself sitting straighter under the weight of that quiet, deliberate eye contact.
Then Hodgson leaned back slightly, the tension easing just a fraction. "That's it for now. Go on. Unpack, get comfortable. Remember, this city isn't here for sightseeing. It's here as our base. Treat it as such."
He gave a small nod to Gary Neville, who stood by the door with his notebook already tucked under his arm. "Gary will circulate the schedule. Lights out at a reasonable time, gentlemen. No excuses."
The meeting broke with the scrape of chairs and the low murmur of voices rising again. Players drifted toward the door in groups — some still talking about the message, others slipping back into jokes as though flipping a switch. But the undertone Hodgson had planted lingered in the room like the faint aftertaste of strong coffee.
Upstairs, the corridors echoed with the thump of luggage wheels and the muffled slam of doors as players disappeared into their rooms. Francesco keyed into his, a sleek space with a wide bed, a desk neatly arranged with a fruit basket, and a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the Paris skyline. The Eiffel Tower stood distant but visible, its iron frame lit in gold against the darkening sky.
He dropped his bag onto the bed, sitting beside it for a moment. His headphones dangled from his neck again, unused. The adrenaline of travel was fading now, replaced by that quiet exhaustion that crept in after long days of movement. He stretched, rolling his shoulders, then stood to tug the curtains wider, taking in the city lights. Paris had its reputation — romance, beauty, art — but for him right now, it wasn't a postcard. It was a battlefield in disguise.
A knock on the door broke his train of thought. He opened it to find Kane standing there, hotel keycard in hand, a grin tugging at his lips.
"Thought I'd check if you were gonna sulk in here all night," Kane said.
Francesco smirked. "I was actually planning on sulking in silence, thanks."
"Come on," Kane said, nudging his way in. "Couple of the lads are heading down to the lounge. Just a tea, nothing wild. Keep Hodgson happy. You in?"
Francesco hesitated a beat, then nodded. "Yeah, alright."
The lounge was softly lit, low music humming through hidden speakers. A few players had already gathered — Hart with a mug of something steaming, Walker stretched out on a sofa telling an animated story, Henderson and Milner quietly talking tactics even though they'd been told not to. Rooney sat off to the side, not aloof but simply settled, his posture relaxed in a way that only came from years of knowing how to conserve energy.
Francesco and Kane grabbed seats near the others. Tea arrived, steaming in white porcelain cups, and for a while the conversation was light — Sterling joking about Paris fashion, Rose pretending he was going to spend his rest day learning French in three hours, Hart declaring he'd already mastered "bonjour" and "croissant" and therefore was fluent.
But underneath the laughter, Hodgson's words kept resurfacing. Every joke about Paris was balanced by a reminder — Northern Ireland. Focus. Composure.
When the group began drifting upstairs one by one, the night's weight settled fully. Francesco lingered a moment longer by the window of the lounge, looking out over the glow of the streets. Cars streamed like veins of light through the city. Somewhere out there, fans were buzzing about the tournament, about England, about players like him. But tomorrow — tomorrow it would narrow again to the grind. To cones, passes, drills, sweat. To finding sharpness, finding edges.
The morning broke with a pale wash of sunlight over Paris, the kind that slipped through hotel curtains no matter how tightly they were drawn. Francesco woke to it reluctantly, blinking against the glow before pulling himself upright in bed. His body felt rested but heavy, as though it knew what was waiting for him — the grind Hodgson had promised.
He moved through his routine without rush but with purpose: splash of cold water on the face, careful pull of the training kit from his bag, boots dangling by their laces as he slung them over one shoulder. Down in the dining hall, the team was already gathered around tables stacked with eggs, fruit, porridge, and the inevitable mountain of toast. The air was a blend of chatter, cutlery clinking against plates, and the low hum of the coffee machine that seemed to work as hard as the players themselves.
"Morning, lads," Hodgson's voice carried across the room as he entered, Neville at his side. He didn't sit — didn't need to. His presence was enough to tilt the energy. "Eat well. You'll need it. Training's sharp today."
Francesco exchanged a glance with Kane, who was spreading jam on toast with the kind of focus usually reserved for set pieces. "Told you," Kane muttered. "Back to the grind."
The bus ride to Paris FC's training ground wasn't long, but the silence in it carried a different tone than the journey the day before. No fans, no cameras, just thirty minutes of quiet anticipation. Players had their headphones in, some tapping their boots against the floor in restless rhythm. Francesco kept his gaze on the passing city — the rows of bakeries, the mopeds weaving through traffic, the kids in playgrounds waving when they spotted the tinted bus. Paris felt alive, but the players' world had shrunk to the task ahead.
When the bus pulled up to the ground, the sight was modest compared to the gleam of Premier League facilities. A cluster of tidy buildings, a couple of pitches enclosed by fences, the faint hum of activity as local staff prepared for their unusual guests. A banner with the tournament's logo fluttered at the entrance, a reminder of why they were here.
As they filed off the bus, Hodgson clapped his hands together, voice firm. "Boots on. No delays. You've had your rest — now we sharpen."
The players spilled onto the grass, its surface trimmed neat, the air carrying that distinct smell of damp turf and cut blades. Francesco pulled his boots tight, feeling the ground give slightly underfoot. It wasn't the Emirates, but it was good enough for battle prep.
The warm-up began briskly: jogging laps, dynamic stretches, resistance bands snapping with tension. The coaches' whistles punctuated the air, driving them into sharper movements. For the rested players — Rooney, Sterling, Francesco, Kane — the intensity was ramped up. The sports scientists hovered close, GPS vests strapped to chests, tablets in hand to monitor every stride and heartbeat.
"Sharper, sharper!" Neville barked as Francesco moved through cone drills. "First touch clean, body open!"
Francesco felt his lungs pull harder, the burn in his calves coming quicker than he liked. But it was good — it meant the body was waking, muscles remembering. Beside him, Sterling zipped through with that low, darting style of his, while Rooney's heavier frame still carried an authority of movement. Kane grunted through sprints, sweat already dotting his forehead, determination etched on his face.
After warm-ups came the possession drills — small-sided rondos that tested awareness, touch, and tempo. Two-touch limits, tight spaces, constant movement. Francesco found himself in the thick of it, the ball pinging around like a pinball machine. Henderson snapped passes, Wilshere twisted his body into impossible angles, and Hart's voice boomed from the sideline, demanding intensity even though he wasn't part of the drill.
When Francesco miscontrolled one ball — letting it roll half a yard too far — Rooney's voice cut through, not cruel but sharp.
"Focus, Cesco. That's what Northern Ireland feed on. Loose touches."
Francesco nodded, breath short, but the reminder lodged itself deep. No margin for error.
After water breaks, Hodgson gathered them into a huddle near the halfway line. Assistant coaches carried whiteboards onto the grass, magnets already arranged in formations.
"Now," Hodgson began, his voice clear over the faint city noise beyond the fences, "let's talk Northern Ireland."
He pointed at the board, sliding magnets into their familiar 4-5-1 block. "They'll defend in numbers, yes, but don't let that fool you. When the ball turns over, they push their wide players high. Fast transitions. They'll try to catch us with men out of position."
He moved a red magnet — representing Francesco — just behind Kane's. "This is where you come in. Linking midfield to attack. Draw their midfielders out. If they press too high, we exploit the gaps."
Neville chimed in, his tone more animated. "Watch for their full-backs. They'll tuck in narrow, so our width matters. Walker, Rose — your overlaps will be key. That means Francesco, Sterling, you'll need to drift wide at times to create overloads. Keep them guessing."
The players leaned in, nodding. Henderson asked about their set-piece patterns. Wilshere muttered something about the physicality they'd face. Hodgson answered each question with patience but precision, reinforcing one theme: discipline.
"They'll try to turn this into a scrap," he said. "If we let them drag us down to chaos, they'll fancy it. But if we stay composed — quick passes, controlled tempo — they'll chase shadows."
The rest of training mimicked those scenarios. One half of the squad donned bibs in green to act as Northern Ireland. Their job: press higher than usual, force mistakes, counter quickly. The other half — Francesco among them — had to break through.
The drill was relentless. Francesco found himself constantly checking shoulders, dropping deep to collect from Dier, then spinning passes out to Sterling or feeding Kane between lines. The "Northern Ireland" group, led by Vardy and Milner, pressed with manic energy. Every pass felt like it was under siege.
At one point, Vardy nicked the ball off Wilshere and darted toward goal, only for Cahill to clatter in with a crunching but clean tackle. The shouts that followed — half laughter, half challenge — only added to the edge.
Francesco relished it. The sweat stung his eyes, his lungs heaved, but he could feel the sharpness returning. Every successful link-up with Kane, every dart wide to pull a marker, every quick flick past a pressing opponent — it was fuel.
Before the session wound down, Hodgson brought them together again. "Set pieces," he said simply, and groans followed — half-joking, half-genuine. But the manager raised a hand.
"They'll rely on them. We must be better. Francesco, near post runs. Cahill, Smalling, you're our towers. Delivery — Milner, Henderson, practice until your feet ache."
Balls were lined up, and repetition took over. Corners whipped in, bodies clashing, headers thundering over the bar or into Hart's gloves. Free-kick routines were rehearsed, with Francesco sometimes peeling off his marker to create space. Each time the execution faltered, Neville reset them, demanding precision.
By the end, shirts clung heavy with sweat, socks stained green from the turf.
The final whistle from the coach's lips wasn't for a match but for the session itself. Players dropped into stretches, physios circulating with water bottles and towels. Hodgson gathered them once more, voice lower now, the edge softened but the intent no less firm.
"That," he said, "is the standard. Northern Ireland won't roll over. They'll fight for every blade of grass. But if we play with this sharpness, this discipline, we'll dictate the game. It's in our hands."
Rooney, kneeling on one knee, lifted his head. "We stick together, we'll be fine."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Francesco felt it too — the current Hodgson spoke of, the belief that could spread if they held it tightly enough.
As they walked off the pitch, boots scuffing against gravel, Francesco glanced back at the field. The cones were scattered, the goals stood silent, but he could still feel the echoes of the session — the intensity, the urgency, the quiet vow that this tournament wouldn't slip by them.
The two days between that sharp, unforgiving training session and the eve of the match slid by in a blur of repetition — drills, meetings, ice baths, recovery walks through Paris boulevards, team dinners under the watchful eyes of Hodgson's staff. For all the structure, though, the undercurrent was restless. Everyone knew what was coming.
By the time the sun dipped lower on the day before the match, the shift in the city was unmistakable.
The England players climbed aboard the team bus after finishing their final training run — sweat cooling under tracksuits, muscles humming from exertion. As the bus rolled out of the training ground and into the arteries of Paris, the windows became a frame for something new.
Francesco was one of the first to notice. He leaned an elbow against the glass, watching as the pavements began to swell with clusters of people. At first, it was subtle — a few lads in white shirts, a scarf slung around shoulders, the faint chorus of a chant rising from a corner bar. But street by street, block by block, it grew.
"Look at that," Kane muttered beside him, pulling out his earbuds.
Flags draped from balconies, red and white painted faces shouting up at the bus, Northern Ireland's green spilling into the mix like rival armies converging. In one square, a group of England fans had broken into song — the melody ragged, the rhythm drunk but determined. Across from them, a sea of green-clad supporters answered with their own chorus, hands raised, pints aloft.
The bus slowed at a junction, giving the players a longer view. A pub on the corner was spilling fans into the street, their voices bouncing off the walls, scarves twirling like makeshift banners. The chanting was playful for now, even joyful, but the energy was sharp-edged. It was football energy — the kind that could turn in an instant.
"Paris has gone mad," Henderson said from a few seats up, shaking his head but smiling.
Sterling pressed his forehead against the window, eyes wide. "It's like a carnival, man."
But Rooney, sitting near the front, didn't grin. He watched in silence, arms folded, his jaw tight. He'd seen this before — the passion, the fire, the pride. He also knew how quickly it could turn, how easily headlines could be written in broken glass and sirens.
Francesco, though, felt a shiver of something different. Not fear — not exactly. It was more like awe. This was the kind of moment he'd dreamt of as a kid, watching tournaments from the safety of his living room. Streets turned into stages. Nations colliding not with weapons but with songs and scarves. All this noise, all this color, because of a game he was about to play in.
"Oi, Cesco," Sturridge called from across the aisle, catching him staring. "Soak it in, bruv. This is what it's all about."
Francesco nodded but didn't move his gaze. The fans on the pavement spotted the bus then — a ripple of realization spreading like a spark through dry grass. Arms shot up, voices rose, and suddenly the chants were louder, sharper, aimed directly at them.
"England! England!"
Green voices countered almost immediately.
"Norn Iron! Norn Iron!"
It was a battle cry through glass, and though the players sat inside the tinted shell of their bus, insulated from the roar, the vibrations reached them. Francesco's chest tightened. He could feel it, like the city itself was pressing against him, demanding a response.
The bus rolled on, leaving the chanting behind, but the echoes clung. The streets remained thick with fans, police posted at corners, blue lights flashing softly as a precaution. Everywhere they looked, Paris was no longer Paris — it was a canvas painted red, white, and green.
"Tomorrow's gonna be a war," Cahill muttered under his breath, almost to himself.
The bus finally pulled into the hotel's secured entrance, gates sliding shut behind them with a metallic thud. Security cordoned off the street outside, but the murmur of chants still drifted through, carried on the Paris evening air.
Inside, the players filed out, some still buzzing, some quieter, all carrying the weight of what they'd just seen.
Francesco lingered a moment by the glass doors before following the others. Outside, beyond the line of guards and barriers, a knot of England fans had already gathered, waving scarves, shouting names. He caught sight of a kid on his father's shoulders, holding up a hand-drawn sign that simply read: Bring it home.
For reasons he couldn't quite explain, Francesco felt something lodge in his chest. He wasn't the captain. He wasn't the most experienced in the squad. But that sign felt like it was meant for him too, like a promise he couldn't let fall.
"Cesco," Kane's voice called from behind. "You coming or what?"
Francesco blinked, turned, and nodded. The hotel swallowed him up, but the sound of the fans — both the cheers and the rival chants — stayed with him long after the doors shut.
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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