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Both teams had drawn blood in spirit. Both keepers had stood defiant. The midfield had become a battlefield of technique and willpower, of youth and experience colliding under Lyon's blazing lights.
The twenty-fifth minute began as a blur of pressure and motion — England pushing forward again, Portugal retreating but not breaking. The air inside Parc Olympique Lyonnais seemed to vibrate with anticipation, the pitch itself almost humming beneath the boots of twenty-two men who refused to yield.
Henderson intercepted a half-hearted pass from Adrien Silva near the center circle — reading it perfectly, snapping into the space before Ronaldo could react. His studs scraped the turf as he nudged the ball ahead, looked up, and sent it toward Rooney in one quick, precise motion.
"Turn! Turn!" shouted Kane, pointing ahead.
Rooney received it on the half-turn, body between ball and opponent, his left arm shielding João Mário as he surveyed the lanes opening before him. Francesco had already started his run down the right flank — the kind of run that defenders hate, the kind that promised danger the moment it began.
Rooney didn't hesitate.
One glance. One perfect touch forward. Then a threaded through-ball that split Portugal's shape clean in half.
It was inch-perfect.
The pass bent through the gap between Raphael Guerreiro and José Fonte, skimming the wet grass like a whisper.
Francesco's timing was immaculate. He burst into the space with explosive acceleration, cutting inside as Guerreiro lunged desperately. His shoulder dipped once, sending the full-back off balance, and in that heartbeat, the path opened.
The crowd's noise swelled — a long, rising shout that followed him like wind.
"Go on, Lee!"
Guerreiro recovered, but Francesco was already gone — a blur of white and motion. Fonte stepped up, bracing himself, but Francesco's first touch carried both speed and control. He feinted left, dragged the ball right with the outside of his boot, and slipped past the defender's reach as though gravity itself had bent around him.
Now it was open field.
Just him and Rui Patrício.
The Portuguese keeper charged forward, arms wide, eyes fierce. Francesco slowed for a fraction of a second — long enough to set his balance — then struck cleanly across goal with his right foot.
The sound of it — leather meeting ball — was sharp, pure.
The ball skimmed low, quick, unstoppable.
Rui Patrício went down hard, stretching full length, fingertips grazing air and nothing more.
The net rippled.
For a heartbeat, there was silence — that stunned, breathless silence that comes when the impossible becomes real — and then the stadium exploded.
"YEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!"
England fans behind the goal erupted in wild, chaotic joy — flags whipping through the air, voices breaking as they screamed his name. Francesco turned, sprinting toward the corner flag, both arms outstretched, every line of his body alive with fire.
Rooney was the first to reach him, sliding in on his knees, laughing, shouting something lost in the roar. Henderson followed, then Kane and Sterling, the entire team converging in a wave of white shirts.
Francesco clenched his fists and let out a raw, triumphant yell that tore through the air — all the tension, all the pressure released in that one moment of unfiltered joy.
One–nil to England.
On the sidelines, Hodgson's fist came down in a rare, emphatic punch of satisfaction. "That's it! Brilliant! Brilliant!" Gary Neville was shouting at the back, his voice cracking. "Exactly like in training — perfect run, perfect finish!"
The replay flashed on the giant screen: Rooney's threaded pass, Francesco's sharp feint past Guerreiro, the way he glided past Fonte as if skating, and the cold, clinical strike past Patrício. It was poetry in motion, born from precision and instinct.
The commentary roared over the crowd:
"Francesco Lee again! The man who carried England past Belgium — he's done it here against Portugal! A breathtaking solo run, and England lead one-nil in Lyon!"
Francesco jogged back toward the halfway line, the grin still flickering across his face but his focus already sharpening again. He knew — they all knew — this was just the beginning.
Portugal's restart was immediate, and with it came a visible shift in energy. Ronaldo clapped his hands together, barking orders to his teammates, demanding sharper movement, quicker transitions.
From then on, the match became a furnace.
At twenty-eight minutes, João Mário threaded a clever ball into the right channel, where Nani ghosted behind Rose. One touch, two, then a curling strike aimed for the far corner — but Joe Hart was ready, leaping to his left, fingertips brushing the ball wide. The English section erupted in cheers again, chanting Hart's name as he rose to his feet, thumping his chest.
Moments later, Portugal struck again — this time through Ronaldo himself. Renato Sanches broke the line with a quick burst through midfield, skipping past Dele Alli before sending the ball to the captain near the D.
Ronaldo cut inside, shaping to shoot with his right, but instead flicked it onto his left foot, a sudden shift that sent Smalling sliding across the grass. The strike came a heartbeat later — a vicious, dipping shot headed for the top corner.
Hart's reaction was reflexive genius. He twisted mid-air, both gloves reaching high, tipping the ball just over the bar. The stadium gasped.
Ronaldo's hands went to his head. Hart roared in response, voice echoing across the pitch. "NOT TODAY!"
The corner came in — dangerous, dipping — but Henderson rose to meet it, heading clear with authority.
England countered instantly. Rooney took the loose ball, pivoted, and lofted it toward Kane near halfway. Kane brought it down expertly on his chest, then turned, spotting Sterling darting into space down the left.
It was the kind of move England had drilled for weeks — pressure, recover, release.
Kane's pass split the field like a blade. Sterling was gone, pace blistering, Cédric Soares chasing shadows behind him.
The crowd roared again, rising with him.
Sterling reached the box, body leaning inward as he carried the ball onto his right foot. Fonte tried to close him, but Kane was already sprinting into the area, dragging Pepe wide. The defenders hesitated — split for a fraction of a second — and Sterling used that instant.
He shifted the ball once, then again — small, tight touches that hypnotized defenders — and just as Patrício braced himself, he curled the shot low into the far corner.
The ball kissed the post and bounced in.
2–0.
The eruption that followed shook the stadium to its foundations.
"RAHEEM STERLING! ENGLAND DOUBLE THEIR LEAD!"
Sterling ran straight to the corner flag, sliding on his knees, fists clenched, eyes blazing. Kane was right behind him, grabbing his shirt and shouting something incoherent in joy. Francesco came sprinting from the right flank, laughing, arms open wide.
He jumped onto Sterling's back, shouting, "You beauty!" as the rest of the team swarmed around them.
In the dugout, Hodgson turned to Neville with a look of disbelief and pride. "That's the football we talked about. Controlled chaos. Fast. Ruthless."
Neville grinned, still staring out at the pitch. "This isn't chaos, boss. This is rhythm."
As the celebrations subsided, Francesco jogged back into position, his heart pounding but his head clear. Two–nil. It was the perfect start, but the job wasn't done.
Portugal, to their credit, didn't fold. If anything, they came alive.
At thirty minutes, João Mário again slipped into space, whipping in a cross toward Nani. This time, Nani connected cleanly, snapping a header toward goal — but once again, Hart was unshakable, diving to his right and clutching the ball midair. He held it for a second longer than usual, exhaling slowly before launching it upfield.
"Keep it calm!" shouted Henderson, waving his arms. "We stay tight! No panic!"
But calm didn't mean passive.
England still pressed, hunting for openings. Francesco and Sterling kept stretching Portugal's defense wide, creating room for Rooney and Alli to weave between the lines. The crowd could feel it — that intoxicating rhythm of English football when it clicked: pressing, passing, precision.
In the thirty-second minute, Francesco picked up another diagonal ball from Henderson. He controlled it instantly, turned inside Guerreiro, and drilled a low cross toward Kane — but Pepe intercepted with a last-second slide. The ball deflected high, and Patrício tipped it over before Kane could react.
From the corner, Rooney nearly made it three — his header flashing inches above the bar. The groan from the English fans was almost as loud as the cheers that had come before.
On the pitch, Ronaldo's frustration showed — arms waving, voice raised. "Move! Press! We're too deep!"
Renato Sanches nodded grimly, pressing higher, his youthful energy pulling the Portuguese forward again. But every time they built momentum, England's structure held. Henderson anchored the midfield like a wall. Smalling and Stones communicated constantly, reading every through ball, every attempted one-two.
Portugal looked stunned — not beaten, but shaken. Ronaldo clapped his hands again, shouting at his team to wake up, to fight, to press.
The tempo of the match didn't so much rise as it boiled over.
The moment England had gone 2–0 ahead, the rhythm of the game changed entirely. What had been fierce and tactical now turned feverish — an open-ended battle of nerve and instinct. The noise from the stands felt like weather — thick, humid, and ever-present, pouring down over the players with every touch, every sprint, every save.
Portugal had been stunned by the second goal, their bench momentarily frozen — but Ronaldo was the first to react. He clapped his hands together, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Up! All of you — up!" he shouted in Portuguese, the captain's fury flashing in his eyes.
And from that moment on, it was like watching a storm gather force.
England were still playing with confidence — Francesco darting between lines, Sterling tormenting Cédric Soares again and again — but Portugal began to shift shape. Fernando Santos called from the touchline, gesturing sharply: "Renato, mais à frente!" — push forward. Suddenly Sanches was no longer holding; he was bursting into the final third, linking with João Mário, overlapping Guerreiro.
By the thirty-sixth minute, England's back four were beginning to feel the weight of Portugal's renewed purpose. Ronaldo, who had spent much of the first half drifting, was now central, prowling like a shark between Stones and Smalling. Nani and João Mário pressed higher, suffocating Henderson's usual passing lanes.
For every clearance, there came another red wave.
In the thirty-eighth minute, Portugal earned a free-kick thirty yards out — the kind Ronaldo lived for. The stadium fell into that tense, fragile hush. He stood over the ball, legs planted wide, eyes narrowing on Hart's goal. The English wall adjusted nervously — Rooney, Francesco, Henderson, and Kane shoulder to shoulder, breathing heavy, waiting.
Ronaldo took three measured steps back.
Then came that unmistakable stance.
He struck it clean — the ball dipping, swerving violently through the air. For a moment it seemed destined to sneak under the bar, but Hart reacted with a split-second leap, tipping it just over the top. The crowd erupted, both in relief and awe.
"Bloody hell, Joe!" shouted Rooney, clapping him on the back as they reformed for the corner. "That's massive!"
Hart only grinned, breathless. "He's not beating me that easy."
The ensuing corner was scrambled clear — Dele Alli booting it long, giving the defense precious seconds to breathe — but it was clear the momentum was shifting. England's bright, attacking control had given way to something else: survival.
Portugal sensed it too.
By the fortieth minute, England were pinned deep. Guerreiro and Cédric were bombing forward, pinning Sterling and Francesco into defensive roles. Henderson and Rooney were shouting instructions, trying to plug holes as passes zipped through the lines faster than they could track.
Then came the warning sign — a ball from João Mário into Ronaldo's feet at the top of the box. Ronaldo spun sharply, slipping between Smalling and Stones before firing low. Hart saved again, but this time the rebound spilled dangerously into the six-yard area. Nani lunged — and somehow Rose slid in at the last second, clearing it off the line.
The crowd gasped. For an instant, it felt as though England had survived a miracle.
But Portugal didn't let up.
Ronaldo was shouting constantly now — commanding, demanding — dragging his team higher, louder, faster. Every time he got the ball, two white shirts closed around him, yet he still found ways to carve space.
By the forty-third minute, England looked stretched. Rooney motioned for calm, waving his arms down, but Portugal were relentless — passing crisp, direct, confident again.
Then, in the forty-fourth minute, it came.
It started innocently — a simple ball from William Carvalho to Renato Sanches, who drove through midfield like a charging bull. Dele Alli tried to foul him, but the teenager shrugged him off, his balance perfect, his strength ridiculous for his age. He pushed forward another ten yards before laying it off to João Mário on the right.
João didn't hesitate. He curled a teasing, hanging cross toward the far post — high, spinning, perfectly weighted.
And there he was.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
He rose above everyone — Smalling, Rose, even Hart's desperate leap — hanging in the air longer than physics should have allowed. His forehead met the ball with brutal precision.
The sound of impact was like a drumbeat.
The ball thundered downward, bouncing once just inside the post before slamming into the back of the net.
2–1.
The stadium erupted in noise, half in elation, half in disbelief. Red flares burst behind the Portuguese goal. Ronaldo sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees, his arms spread wide in that familiar, defiant celebration. His teammates engulfed him, the red shirts swarming like fire.
England's players stood frozen for a heartbeat — frustrated, breathless. Francesco exhaled sharply, clapping his hands once, forcing his focus back.
"Shake it off," he muttered. "Shake it off."
Rooney echoed the sentiment, clapping his palms together. "Heads up! We're still ahead, lads! Focus!"
But everyone could feel it — the rhythm of the match had shifted again.
Portugal pressed for one more before the break, pouring forward with that dangerous mix of confidence and fury. Nani darted between Stones and Walker, Ronaldo drifted into half-spaces, Renato Sanches thundered forward like a machine — but England held on. Barely.
Then, mercifully, came the whistle.
The sound sliced through the chaos like release.
Half-time.
The score read: England 2 – 1 Portugal.
The players trudged off, shirts drenched, faces tight with sweat and concentration. The air in the tunnel was heavy — the kind of heat that comes not from weather, but from nerves and exhaustion.
Francesco ran a hand through his damp hair, his chest still heaving. Kane gave him a quick pat on the back. "That finish, mate… unreal."
Francesco nodded faintly. "Could've been two if not for Pepe," he said between breaths.
Rooney, walking just ahead, turned his head slightly. "Forget that now. We've got another forty-five to finish this job. They're not done, trust me."
The dressing room was a different kind of noise. The roar of the crowd outside was replaced by the hiss of open water bottles, the scrape of studs on the floor, the occasional bark of the coaching staff. Steam hung in the air like fog.
Joe Hart slumped onto the bench, towel over his head. Henderson sat beside him, rubbing at his knees. Rooney stood in the center, breathing deeply, eyes scanning the team.
Roy Hodgson entered last. His expression was calm — not relaxed, but composed, the look of a man who'd seen every kind of storm.
He waited for a moment, letting the sound of heavy breathing settle. Then he spoke, voice firm but controlled.
"Alright," he began, pacing slowly in front of the whiteboard. "That was a hell of a half. You've done what many teams can't — you've taken control early, you've broken through their line, and you've forced them to chase. But this game's not over."
He stopped, eyes moving from one face to another.
"Portugal are built for one thing — transition. They'll wait, they'll bait you into pressing, and then they'll break fast through Ronaldo and Renato. You've seen it now — they've got the legs for it."
He jabbed a finger at the board where arrows marked Portugal's shape.
"They'll use Sanches to drive at Henderson, João Mário to drag Dele and Kyle out of position. That's where their danger comes from. So — what do we do?"
No one answered immediately. Then Rooney spoke, quiet but firm: "Stay compact. Don't give 'em space to break."
Hodgson nodded once. "Exactly. Keep your composure. Don't chase shadows. When you have the ball, make it count. Be patient, use the flanks. Francesco, Raheem — you two are the key. You stretch them, you drag their full-backs out, and we'll find the gaps inside."
Francesco nodded, running a towel over his face. "They're doubling up already," he said between breaths. "Guerreiro's pushing higher, but Pepe's covering behind him. There's room between the lines if we move the ball quicker."
"Good," Hodgson replied. "Recognize it early. And if you can't go forward, recycle it. Slow it down when you need to. We're leading — we control the pace."
He turned to the midfielders. "Jordan, Dele — don't get pulled too deep. Keep your distances tight, stay disciplined. That's what'll win us this game. Not panic, not heroics — discipline."
The room was silent now, everyone listening, heads nodding, breaths still ragged but steadier.
Hodgson let a faint smile flicker across his face. "You've done the hard part. You've made them chase. Now make them suffer for it."
He stepped back, arms folded. "Alright, lads. Breathe. Five minutes, then warm-up again. And remember…"
His gaze lingered on Francesco, on Kane, on Rooney.
"…don't let them catch you sleeping on the counter. That's all they've got left."
As Hodgson stepped aside, the hum of the dressing room rose again — the rustle of tape, the splash of water, the quiet rhythm of boots tapping against the floor.
Francesco sat forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor for a moment. His goal replayed in his mind — the pass, the feint, the finish — but so did Ronaldo's header. That reminder of how quickly a match could turn.
He exhaled deeply, stood, and began stretching, rolling his shoulders. Sterling was beside him, adjusting his socks.
"Feels like they're waking up," Sterling said quietly.
"They are," Francesco replied. "But so are we."
A faint grin touched Sterling's face. "Let's finish it before they get the chance."
Francesco nodded once, eyes steady, heartbeat already quickening again. Outside, the roar of the crowd still pulsed through the concrete walls — a reminder of the battlefield waiting just beyond the tunnel.
And as the whistle blew again for the start of the second half, England's players rose — focused, composed, ready to face the storm Ronaldo had promised to bring.
The air at the Parc Olympique Lyonnais felt thicker now — charged, alive, carrying that restless hum that only comes when the balance of a match hangs by the finest of threads. The players emerged from the tunnel into the floodlit expanse, white and red colliding again under the roar of seventy thousand voices. The first half had been a storm — but the second promised to be something far greater.
Francesco rolled his shoulders once, breathing in deep as he took his place wide on the right. The grass beneath his boots looked slick now, brushed damp with the faintest mist, and the smell of liniment and sweat still clung to him. His pulse wasn't just fast — it was steady. Controlled. The calm before the next clash.
Across from him, Ronaldo stood near the halfway line, bouncing lightly on his heels, his expression set like carved stone. He looked like a man who hadn't come this far to leave with a loss. He kept glancing toward the England goal, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with that cold, impossible certainty. The same look he'd worn a thousand times before — the one that said he would not be denied.
Then came the whistle.
And the second half began.
From the first pass, it was clear the game had changed shape. England no longer looked like a side simply protecting their lead — they were trying to control again, to reassert themselves. But Portugal had been reborn by Ronaldo's goal. They pressed higher, moved faster, and their touches seemed to carry a little more venom, their passes a little more risk.
The rhythm was immediate: one side trying to breathe, the other trying to suffocate.
Ronaldo dropped deeper now, almost like a playmaker, pulling Stones out of his comfort zone. Renato Sanches still burned through the midfield like a blade, slaloming between white shirts with that impossible mixture of power and grace. João Mário found little pockets near the right, while Nani hovered on the left, waiting for any flicker of chaos to turn into chance.
For England, the first few minutes were about survival — about absorbing that renewed surge without losing shape. Henderson barked orders constantly, his voice rasping over the din: "Shift left! Stay tight! Don't let 'em turn!"
Rose and Walker obeyed, narrowing the line, forcing Portugal wide where their crosses could be dealt with.
But the pressure was real. You could feel it — like the air itself was leaning toward England's goal.
At the forty-ninth minute, a sign of danger came again: Ronaldo spun past Smalling, flicked a pass to Nani, who cracked a shot just wide of Hart's post. It didn't count for anything on the scoreboard, but it sent a message.
Francesco, watching from the far flank, clenched his jaw. "We need the ball," he muttered under his breath. "We're giving them too much."
Rooney heard him and nodded, already drifting deeper to link with Henderson. They tried to slow things down — simple touches, triangles, anything to get back into rhythm — but Portugal hunted them like wolves. Adrien Silva pressed tight on Rooney; Renato and João Mário hemmed Henderson in. Every pass forward came with risk.
Then came the fifty-third minute.
It started from what looked like a harmless passage — a throw-in deep on the right for Portugal. Cédric played it short to Renato Sanches, who spun away from Dele with a single touch and surged forward. The kid had no fear — he was all muscle and movement, driving toward the box like a man who'd been doing this for decades, not months.
He slipped it to Ronaldo on the edge of the D.
Ronaldo took one touch, just enough to open his body, then rifled a shot low toward the near post.
Hart reacted beautifully — diving hard to his right, strong palm down to block — but the rebound spun wickedly across the face of goal.
And waiting for it, alive to every half-chance, was Nani.
The winger didn't hesitate. He pounced, side-footing it through the small gap between Cahill's lunge and Hart's outstretched hand. The ball clipped Cahill's shin, deflecting slightly — just enough to wrong-foot Hart entirely.
The net rippled.
2–2.
The explosion of red from the Portuguese end was instant, deafening. Nani tore away toward the corner, arms wide, face twisted with emotion. Ronaldo followed, shouting his name, slamming his hand against his chest in celebration. The rest of the team poured in — Sanches, Adrien, João Mário — the air filled with the crackle of defiance.
England were stunned.
Francesco dropped to his knees for a second, head down, breath heavy. He heard the sound — that sickening roar — but it felt far away, like something happening in another world. Kane punched the ground once. Rooney stood with his hands on his hips, eyes scanning the field as if trying to find reason in the chaos.
Then came the voices. Hodgson yelling from the touchline, "Reset! Reset! Stay calm, stay tight!"
Henderson gathered them quickly, clapping his hands together. "Come on, lads — heads up! Still plenty of time. We go again!"
Francesco rose, wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his wrist, and exhaled hard. His heart thudded in his chest — not panic, just that raw electric urgency that comes when a game turns knife-edge.
He looked up toward the stands — a sea of waving red and white — and reminded himself of what they were here for. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
The next ten minutes were chaos in its purest form. Every tackle came with a roar, every counter-attack with a gasp. The ball barely stayed still for more than a heartbeat.
Portugal, buoyed by their equalizer, began to push England deeper again. Ronaldo prowled constantly at the edge of the box, dragging defenders with him, leaving gaps for Nani and Sanches to exploit. Every touch of his boots seemed to bring a collective intake of breath from the crowd.
But England had steel in them yet.
Francesco started dropping deeper, helping Walker double up on Guerreiro's runs, but the moment the ball broke free, he turned and sprinted the other way — like a slingshot waiting to fire. Sterling mirrored him on the opposite side. Gradually, inch by inch, England began to claw their way back into rhythm.
At the sixty-second minute, Hodgson began gesturing to the bench. Wilshere was up, stretching his calves, eyes sharp, jaw clenched. The manager conferred quickly with Gary Neville, then made his move.
"Jack — on for Dele," Hodgson barked. "Keep the tempo. Get Francesco on the ball earlier."
A moment later, the substitution board flashed. Dele jogged off, drenched in sweat, frustration etched across his face. Hodgson caught him with a pat on the shoulder. "You've done your job, son. Now let Jack finish it."
At the same time, Fernando Santos made his move. João Mário and Adrien Silva came off — replaced by Danilo Pereira and João Moutinho. A statement of intent: more control, more structure, a bid to tilt the midfield balance back in their favor.
The changes shifted the dynamic immediately.
Moutinho brought calmness — every touch neat, every pass precise. Danilo added muscle beside Carvalho, anchoring the midfield to give Sanches and Ronaldo freedom to roam. England responded in kind, Wilshere slotting beside Henderson with his trademark rhythm — short, crisp passes, forward movement, no hesitation.
And within minutes, the tone began to change.
By the seventieth minute, the game had become a test of composure. Both sides were playing at full tilt, but it wasn't chaos anymore — it was chess played at lightning speed. Every run had a purpose; every pass a calculation.
Henderson and Wilshere started to dictate the pace — one touch, two touch, then out wide. Sterling cut inside, drawing Cédric out of position. Francesco ghosted into that gap, just as Wilshere looked up. The ball zipped toward him — first time, sharp and true.
But Pepe read it. He stepped across, intercepting it with an outstretched leg, clearing high into the night sky. The danger passed — but not the intent. England were finding seams now, finding belief again.
Then came the seventy-third minute.
It began quietly — a simple recovery by Henderson deep in England's half. He nicked the ball off Sanches, looked up, and spotted Wilshere dropping into space. Jack turned with that trademark glide, smooth and fearless, slipping past Moutinho's challenge with a deft pivot.
He pushed forward, scanning, waiting for movement.
Francesco saw it before anyone — the hint of an opening between Guerreiro and Pepe, the half-yard of daylight that separates defenders who've just switched their attention. He darted into it, raising a hand once.
Wilshere didn't hesitate.
The pass sliced through the midfield like silk — perfectly weighted, threading between two red shirts, spinning into Francesco's path. He caught it on the run, first touch cushioning it forward, second touch setting up the strike.
Pepe lunged across, but he was half a step late.
Francesco didn't blast it — he placed it, side-footing through the ball with precision, low and curling just beyond Rui Patrício's reach toward the far corner.
The moment it left his boot, he knew.
The net bulged. The white shirts erupted.
3–2 England.
Francesco tore away toward the corner flag, fists clenched, veins standing out on his neck as the stadium thundered around him. His teammates surged after him — Kane the first to grab him, followed by Sterling and Rooney, shouting over the roar, "That's it! That's bloody it!"
Francesco pointed toward Wilshere as they embraced. "That ball, mate — perfect!"
Wilshere just grinned, breathless. "You made it easy."
But nothing about that goal had been easy. It had been pure instinct, pure courage — the kind of moment that turned matches and made memories.
The camera panned to Hodgson on the sideline — fists clenched, shouting for calm, though his smile betrayed his pride. "Hold it now! Focus! Keep shape!"
On the other side, Fernando Santos was barking orders, fury in his gestures. "Press! Press! Don't drop off!" Ronaldo, hands on hips, stared at the turf for a moment before glancing up toward the scoreboard — 3–2 — and then back at his teammates. His message was clear: not over yet.
The match didn't slow down after that — it ignited.
Portugal threw everything forward. Moutinho sprayed passes like artillery shells, Sanches kept driving at the line, and Ronaldo demanded the ball at every opportunity. England, though, stood firm — compact, disciplined, their counters razor-sharp.
Francesco kept drifting wider now, making Guerreiro chase shadows. Each time he received the ball, the crowd rose with a sense of anticipation — would there be another? Another cut inside, another strike, another dagger?
By the seventy-eighth minute, his legs burned, lungs raw — but the fire in his chest only burned brighter. Every sprint, every touch was a promise to hold the line, to make this night theirs.
The clock hit seventy-seven minutes, and the rhythm of the match began to shift again. You could feel it — the pulse, the sense of risk in every pass. Both managers were on the edge of their technical areas now, barking orders over the roar of the Lyon night, every gesture sharp, every instruction a plea wrapped in authority.
Fernando Santos was the first to blink. His assistant leaned in, whispered something over the clipboard, and Santos gave a sharp nod. The fourth official raised the board, the numbers flashing red and green through the humid air.
🔁 Portugal substitution: Renato Sanches off, Éder on.
The stadium responded with mixed noise — part applause for the young dynamo who had run himself ragged, part hope for the man now stepping onto the pitch. Éder jogged in, broad-shouldered and tall, pulling his socks up as he crossed the touchline, his face unreadable. Portugal were done probing; now they were going direct.
Roy Hodgson read it immediately. He turned toward his bench, eyes finding Eric Dier already half-standing, tracksuit off. "Eric, on for Wayne," Hodgson called, voice clipped but calm.
Rooney, the captain, turned with a faint frown but no argument. He knew what it meant. This wasn't about pride — it was about survival. England had one foot in the final, and Hodgson wanted steel to protect it.
Rooney clapped his hands toward his teammates as he came off. "Keep it together, lads! Talk to each other!" He slapped Dier's shoulder as they crossed paths. "Hold the line, yeah? Don't give 'em an inch."
Dier nodded once, jaw tight, then jogged into position — just ahead of the back four, sitting deep beside Henderson, a human wall against the red tide that was about to come crashing down.
The substitution board dropped. The whistle went. And from that moment, the match became siege warfare.
Portugal surged forward.
It wasn't the slow, methodical passing from earlier — this was fury, urgency, desperation. The kind of attacking that comes when time is bleeding out and instinct takes over. Ronaldo began floating between lines, calling for the ball on the half-turn, his movements unpredictable now — one moment wide left, the next deep in the right half-space. Éder pushed high, bullying Cahill and Smalling, trying to pin them back.
Nani stayed wide, his touches quicker, more frantic. Guerreiro started overlapping like a madman, throwing himself forward even when he shouldn't, leaving oceans of space behind.
For England, it was pure reaction.
"Drop! Drop!" Henderson shouted, waving his arms furiously as Portugal pressed higher. The white shirts compacted, closing the gaps, leaving barely a blade of grass between the lines. Dier stood like a sentinel in front of the defense, his every movement measured, eyes darting left to right.
In the seventy-ninth minute, Portugal almost broke through.
A cross from Cédric curled dangerously toward the six-yard box. Éder rose high, crashing into Smalling mid-air, and got a clean header on goal. Hart leapt backward, fingertips grazing it just enough to tip it onto the bar. The rebound fell to Ronaldo, who lashed a volley at point-blank range — but Hart somehow recovered, blocking it with his thigh before Walker cleared.
The crowd erupted — half in relief, half in disbelief.
Ronaldo wheeled away, both arms raised, shouting toward the referee for a handball that never was. "No! No!" he yelled, his voice hoarse, fury in every syllable. But the ref pointed to the corner flag.
"Boys! Focus!" Cahill yelled, breathless. "They'll keep coming!"
They did.
From that corner, Moutinho whipped it near-post; Nani flicked it on; Éder stretched again — this time his header bounced inches wide.
The next five minutes felt like an eternity.
Portugal sent wave after wave, the ball rarely leaving England's third. Ronaldo tried from distance — twenty-five yards, knuckling viciously — but Hart read it, parrying down and clutching it to his chest as if the ball were his heartbeat itself.
Moments later, Nani cut inside from the left, slipping past Walker, and unleashed a shot that deflected off Dier's thigh. Hart again, sprawling low, punching it clear.
The pressure didn't stop. Guerreiro recycled it, swinging in another cross; Éder battled for it, chested it down, struck — blocked by Cahill. The rebound fell to Ronaldo, who hit it first time — deflected by Stones. Then Moutinho followed up — smothered again, this time by Henderson sliding desperately across.
It was relentless. The kind of spell that breaks weaker teams. But England weren't breaking.
They bent, yes — but they bent together.
Every clearance, every tackle, every groan of contact was greeted by roars from their teammates. When Walker threw himself in front of a shot and it smacked against his ribs, Francesco was the first to sprint over, shouting, "That's it, Kyle! That's how we fight!"
By the eighty-fifth minute, the scoreboard still read 3–2, but it felt like the game was hanging by a thread.
The England fans in Lyon sang louder now — voices cracking, flags waving, desperate to drown out the Portuguese rhythm. "Three Lions on a shirt!" they bellowed, hearts pounding. The sound seemed to give the players something extra, some unseen reservoir of defiance.
Francesco, stationed high up the pitch now, could barely feel his legs, but he never stopped moving. He knew his role — the out-ball, the escape route, the counter-threat. Each time England won possession, he sprinted into space, dragging defenders with him even if he never received the pass.
Portugal, meanwhile, were throwing everything forward. Santos urged them on with both hands. "Avançar! Avançar!" he barked, his tie gone, his shirt soaked through.
And then came the eighty-ninth minute.
Portugal won yet another corner — their seventh of the half. Guerreiro jogged over to take it, the red section of the stands thundering for one last miracle. Hart shouted himself hoarse organizing the box. "Mark up! Smalling, front post! Cahill, on Éder! Watch Ronaldo!"
The whistle blew. The corner curled in.
Smalling met it cleanly with a towering header, clearing it beyond the eighteen-yard line. The ball bounced once, twice — and rolled straight to Henderson, standing just inside his own half.
He took one glance upfield.
And what he saw made his decision for him.
Francesco was already sprinting, cutting diagonally from the right into open grass, and Kane was beside him, shoulder to shoulder, both charging toward two red shirts — Guerreiro and Cédric Soares, the only defenders left back.
Henderson didn't hesitate. He drove his foot through the ball, sending it arcing high and long, cutting through the Lyon night like a flare.
Francesco tracked it the whole way — eyes locked, heart hammering. It dropped perfectly into stride. He cushioned it with his chest, kept it close, then immediately laid it off sideways toward Kane. Guerreiro stepped across, but Kane took it in stride, flicking it back — a simple one-two.
The movement was poetry.
Guerreiro bit. Soares turned too late.
Kane slipped the return pass perfectly into space.
Francesco was through.
The roar from the England end was primal.
He took one touch to steady, another to open his body — Patrício rushed out, hands spread, desperate. Francesco waited until the last possible second… and then guided the shot low past the keeper's right, curling it into the far corner.
The net rippled again.
Hat-trick.
4–2 England.
For a heartbeat, time froze. Then it exploded.
Francesco didn't even celebrate right away — he just stood there, chest heaving, eyes wide, taking in the sight of the ball nestled against the netting. Kane was the first to reach him, tackling him into a hug. "Unbelievable, mate! That's you all day long!"
The rest piled in — Henderson, Wilshere, Sterling, Dier — a blur of white shirts and fists in the air. Behind them, the England fans were delirious, waving flags, some crying, some laughing, all singing like they'd waited their entire lives for this.
On the touchline, Hodgson clenched both fists, face breaking into a rare grin. Even Gary Neville, usually stone-faced, punched the air.
It wasn't just a goal. It was the statement of belief — of defiance — that sealed England's night.
Francesco finally broke from the embrace, pointing up toward the stands, his voice swallowed by the crowd. He mouthed the words more than shouted them — "For England."
Ronaldo stood near the halfway line, watching silently, his hands on his hips. For the first time that night, there was something in his eyes that looked like resignation. He gave a slow, solemn nod — not to Francesco directly, but perhaps to the inevitability of the game itself.
As play resumed, Portugal still pushed, but their legs were gone. Their hearts were willing, their minds burning, but the energy had drained from them.
Dier marshaled the midfield now like a general, stepping into every gap, clearing every second ball. Henderson barked until his throat was raw, commanding every press and retreat. The back line stayed firm — no risks, no drama, just composure.
Francesco, still chasing every long ball, glanced at the scoreboard. Ninety-one minutes. Ninety-two.
The referee checked his watch.
Then, at long last — the final whistle.
The sound was drowned out by the eruption that followed.
England had done it. England 4, Portugal 2.
They were going to the Euro 2016 Final.
Francesco dropped to his knees, hands pressed against the grass, sweat dripping from his hair. His body ached everywhere, but none of it mattered. He looked up — the floodlights gleaming against the smoke of flares, the flags waving in unison, the echoes of thousands of voices roaring his name.
"LEE! LEE! LEE!"
Kane knelt beside him, grinning. "Mate, you've just written your name in history."
Francesco exhaled, half laughing, half crying. "Not yet. One more to go."
Henderson came over, wrapping both arms around them. "That's the spirit. One more step, boys. We finish what we started."
As they stood together, the England team walked toward their fans — arms linked, shoulders pressed close, the Union Jacks in the stands shaking like living things. It wasn't just a victory; it was a redemption.
________________________________________________
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: 5
Goal: 11
Assist: 3
MOTM: 4
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9