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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.
The roar of the English fans still thundered across the Parc Olympique Lyonnais, the chants of "It's coming home!" echoing through every concrete corridor and every open space of the night. Confetti — red and white — began to drift from the upper stands, catching the stadium lights like falling embers. The scoreboard still glowed brilliantly in the humid air:
ENGLAND 4 – 2 PORTUGAL
The players were still scattered across the pitch — some celebrating, others collapsed in exhaustion. Dier knelt near the center circle, eyes closed, murmuring a quiet prayer. Kane and Sterling jogged toward the England fans, clapping above their heads, jerseys drenched. Wilshere was doubled over, breathing hard but laughing, his grin wide and boyish.
And then there was Francesco.
He stood near the touchline, half-lost in the noise, hands resting on his hips, his chest still heaving. Sweat glistened on his forehead, streaking the faint smear of grass and dirt down his cheek. Around him, the chaos of victory pulsed — teammates cheering, photographers snapping, fans losing their minds — but for a moment, he wasn't looking at any of it. His eyes were fixed on one man standing alone near the Portuguese penalty box.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
The Portuguese captain hadn't moved much since the final whistle. He stood still, his hands on his hips, eyes locked on the turf. His chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths. Éder came over and tried to say something, but Ronaldo only nodded slightly, barely hearing him. His face was unreadable — neither rage nor tears, just that deep, hollow quiet that comes when the reality of defeat starts to sink in.
Francesco hesitated for a moment, then started walking toward him.
He didn't do it for the cameras or for the show — it was instinct. Respect. One striker to another. One dreamer to another.
As he crossed the field, he could still hear the distant chanting of the England crowd. "Oh, Francesco Lee!" they sang in rhythm, the melody of a nation's joy riding the Lyon air. But with every step he took, the sound seemed to fade, replaced by the quieter hum of the grass beneath his boots and the dull ring of adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
Ronaldo looked up when he saw him coming. For a heartbeat, his eyes flickered with disbelief — maybe surprise that Francesco would come — but then something softened in his face. He straightened slightly, drawing a slow breath.
When they met, there was no ceremony. No words at first. Just two players, soaked in sweat and exhaustion, standing in the fading noise of battle.
Then Ronaldo reached out and pulled Francesco into a quick, firm hug. It wasn't dramatic — just real.
"Congratulations," Ronaldo said quietly, his voice low but steady, though there was a raw edge beneath it. "You deserved it tonight."
Francesco returned the hug, clapping a hand against Ronaldo's back. "Thank you," he said, his tone equally soft, his breath still heavy. "You were incredible out there. Always are."
Ronaldo pulled back, shaking his head slightly, half-smiling despite himself. "Not enough," he murmured. "We gave everything. But you…" His eyes flicked up, and for a second, there was genuine warmth in them. "You were unstoppable."
Francesco's grin widened faintly — tired but proud. "Guess I had to be," he said. "This was more than a match for me. This was… a dream."
Ronaldo studied him for a beat, nodding. "Dreams," he said softly, almost to himself. "They make us suffer, but they make us alive too."
The floodlights painted both their faces in cold white, but the scene felt oddly intimate amid the chaos — two men who had fought on opposite sides of something immense, now sharing a small pocket of quiet respect.
Francesco glanced down for a moment, then looked back at him with a slight, hopeful smile. "Hey," he said, his tone lightening just a touch. "Let's meet again next season… maybe in the Champions League final, yeah?"
Ronaldo gave a faint chuckle — that familiar sound, half amusement, half pride. "If fate allows it," he said. "I'll be waiting for that one."
"Good," Francesco said. "Because I don't think I'll ever be satisfied until I've played against you again — on the biggest stage."
There was a short pause, then Francesco added, "How about a jersey swap?"
Ronaldo blinked once, then nodded immediately. "Of course."
Both players began unpeeling their sweat-soaked shirts. The motion felt symbolic — not just a ritual of sportsmanship, but an exchange of moments, of mutual respect carved through effort.
When Ronaldo handed his red number 7 jersey over, he did it with a faint, knowing smile. "Take care of that," he said. "It's seen a few battles."
Francesco accepted it with both hands, holding it for a second like something sacred. "I will," he said quietly. Then he extended his own — the white England number 9 — toward Ronaldo.
The Portuguese captain took it, gave it a brief look, and then, to Francesco's surprise, actually smiled — a small, genuine curve of the lips. "You know," Ronaldo said, "I think this one will be worth something someday."
Francesco laughed. "Only if I can keep up with you."
Ronaldo smirked faintly. "You're already on your way."
They shook hands one last time, firm and respectful. When they parted, Francesco turned back toward his celebrating teammates, while Ronaldo stood for a moment longer, clutching the white jersey in his hands before walking slowly toward the tunnel.
It was a beautiful, human moment — one that cameras caught but couldn't truly capture. Beneath the noise and color, it was just two men who had given everything they had.
As Francesco walked back toward the England huddle, he saw the faces of his teammates — flushed, beaming, soaked in sweat and disbelief. Henderson met him halfway, still shouting over the noise. "Mate, what was that? You just made Ronaldo look human!"
Francesco laughed, shaking his head. "He's still Ronaldo. He'll come back stronger."
Kane threw an arm around him, laughing. "Yeah, but tonight's yours, Lee. All bloody yours!"
The chant rose again from the English supporters, echoing through the Lyon night:
🎵 "LEE! LEE! LEE! FRANCESCO LEE!" 🎵
He looked up, eyes searching the stands, and saw the sea of white and red — flags waving, people crying, joy everywhere. It hit him then, properly, for the first time.
England were in a European Championship Final.
The weight of it pressed down on him like gravity and light combined. He thought of everything that had brought him here — the goals, the training, the criticism, the hours spent dreaming as a kid in London, watching old replays of England's near-misses. He thought of the heartbreak of generations before him — and how tonight, maybe, they'd just written a new chapter.
Reporters swarmed the sidelines, photographers firing off flashes like lightning. Francesco's teammates began to wave to the crowd, but when the cameras found him, he just smiled faintly and raised both arms high.
It wasn't arrogance — it was gratitude.
He pointed once more toward the England section, mouthing the words, Thank you.
Then the stadium announcer's voice echoed across the pitch:
"Ladies and gentlemen… England are through to the Euro 2016 Final!"
The roar that followed was indescribable — like the release of decades of hope and pain all at once.
As the players began to make their way toward the tunnel, Francesco walked last, still clutching Ronaldo's jersey in his hand. He glanced down at the red fabric — the weight of legacy and history stitched into every thread — and smiled quietly.
The pitch still shimmered with afterglow — a blend of floodlight glare and the restless energy of forty-thousand hearts that refused to calm down. The England players were beginning to drift toward the tunnel in twos and threes, still exchanging hugs and words that would be half-remembered tomorrow, when the adrenaline had faded and only the disbelief would remain.
Francesco was the last to start moving. His boots pressed softly into the grass, his gaze lingering on the patch where he'd scored the fourth — that shot that sealed everything. For all the noise still ringing around him, there was a strange quiet in his chest. That moment — the one where the ball had hit the net — it hadn't left him. It replayed in his head like an echo, over and over, carrying all the emotion the body hadn't had time to feel when it happened.
He was halfway to the halfway line when someone in a UEFA jacket jogged over — clipboard in hand, headset crackling with static. The man's French accent cut through the chaos.
"Francesco! You need to come this way, please. Interview on the sideline — Geoff Shreeves is waiting for you."
Francesco blinked, still half-dazed. "Now?"
"Yes, right now," the man confirmed with a smile. "And… congratulations, by the way. Man of the Match — again."
The words took a second to land. Man of the Match. Again. After scoring a hat-trick in a European semi-final. It sounded absurd even as he thought it. Francesco gave a short, disbelieving laugh and rubbed a hand through his damp hair.
"Cheers," he said softly, more out of reflex than pride.
The UEFA staffer gestured for him to follow, leading him toward the edge of the pitch where the familiar cluster of cameras and interview boards waited. The wall was plastered with the usual sponsors — Heineken, Adidas, UEFA Euro 2016 logos glowing in the lens glare. The press area was alive with movement, reporters whispering into microphones, camera operators signaling for live feeds, producers gesturing for sound checks.
And there, standing just ahead, microphone in hand and that trademark blend of warmth and professionalism on his face, was Geoff Shreeves.
"Here he is!" Geoff said as Francesco approached, flashing a grin. "The man of the hour — again!"
Francesco chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Evening, Geoff."
The interviewer stepped forward, clapping him lightly on the shoulder before nodding toward the camera. "Right, we're live in ten seconds. You okay to go?"
"Yeah, mate," Francesco said, wiping his face quickly with the corner of his sleeve. "Let's do it."
Geoff raised his mic slightly, the red light flickered on, and the noise of the crowd behind them seemed to fade as the focus narrowed to that small square of green and white backdrop — one man, one story, one impossible night.
"Geoff Shreeves here on the touchline at the Parc Olympique Lyonnais," Geoff began, voice calm and clear despite the deafening atmosphere behind him. "And I'm joined by England's hat-trick hero and tonight's Man of the Match — Francesco Lee. Francesco, first of all, congratulations. That was a truly stunning performance. How does it feel?"
Francesco exhaled, running a hand down his face before looking back at Geoff with a small, almost boyish grin. "Honestly, Geoff… I don't think it's sunk in yet. We've just beaten Portugal — one of the best teams in the world — and we're in the final. It doesn't feel real."
"You looked emotional when the final whistle went," Geoff said, nodding. "Was that relief, joy, disbelief?"
"All of it," Francesco admitted, laughing softly. "You dream about nights like this, but you never really expect them to happen. You tell yourself to stay calm, stay focused, but when that whistle goes and you realize you've done it — it just hits you all at once. I was… proud. For the team. For everyone back home."
Geoff smiled faintly. "And proud for yourself, I imagine. A hat-trick in a European semi-final — that's the stuff of history books. Walk us through what was going through your head out there tonight. Portugal put you under serious pressure in that second half."
Francesco nodded, glancing briefly toward the pitch, as if he could still see the ghosts of the game out there. "They were relentless," he said. "After we went ahead, it felt like wave after wave. Ronaldo, Nani, Éder — they kept coming. We knew we had to suffer. And when they hit the bar and Joe pulled off that double save… that was when I realized, alright, we're still standing. We can take this."
He paused, eyes lighting slightly with the memory. "And then that last goal… the counter. It was instinct, really. One of those moments where everything slows down — the ball from Hendo, the one-two with Kane, the space opening up. You don't think. You just do. And when it hit the net… I don't even remember celebrating properly. It was just — gone. All the pressure, gone."
The cameras caught the quiet intensity in his eyes as he spoke, the weight of what the moment had meant. Geoff tilted his head, voice softening a touch.
"Cristiano Ronaldo came over to you after the match," he said. "That looked like quite a personal exchange. What was said between you two?"
Francesco smiled faintly, lowering his gaze for a second before looking back up. "Respect, really. He congratulated me, said we deserved it. That means a lot coming from him — he's one of the greatest ever. I just thanked him and told him I hoped we'd meet again — maybe next season in the Champions League final."
"That's quite the invitation," Geoff said, laughing.
"Yeah," Francesco replied, laughing too. "But I meant it. Competing against players like him — that's what drives you. That's how you get better. We swapped shirts as well — I'll hang that one somewhere special."
Geoff nodded appreciatively. "You've got quite the collection now, haven't you?"
"Yeah," Francesco said with a grin. "Messi's, Neymar's, now Ronaldo's. I might need a new wall soon."
The two shared a laugh, but Geoff quickly steered back to the bigger picture. "Now, looking at the team as a whole — this was arguably England's best performance of the tournament. What changed tonight? What clicked?"
Francesco's expression turned thoughtful. "Belief," he said simply. "We believed. You could feel it in the dressing room before kick-off — nobody was scared. We respected Portugal, of course, but there was this quiet confidence, you know? Kane said it best before we walked out — 'We don't need to be anyone else. We just need to be us.' And tonight, I think we showed what that means. Togetherness, hard work, trust."
He gestured subtly toward where his teammates were still celebrating by the fans. "Everyone played their part — from Joe pulling off saves, to Dier throwing himself in front of everything, to Kane running himself into the ground. You can't score three goals without ten other lads bleeding for the cause behind you."
Geoff smiled, clearly impressed. "That's quite a speech. You sound more like a captain than a forward."
Francesco chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, we've got a proper captain. But I think we all take turns leading in our own way."
"Fair enough," Geoff said. "Now, before I let you go, there's one thing I have to ask. You've just been named Man of the Match again — your fifth time this tournament. You've scored eleven goals so far, including a hat-trick in a semi-final. You're leading the Golden Boot race. Francesco… this is fast becoming your tournament. How do you keep your head on straight?"
Francesco exhaled, scratching the back of his neck, visibly humbled. "To be honest, I just try not to think about it too much. Awards are nice — they really are — but they're not the point. If I start thinking about records or headlines, I'll lose what got me here in the first place. So I focus on the basics — the next training, the next pass, the next shot. The rest will take care of itself."
He paused, then added with a grin, "Besides, the final's still to come. That's the only thing in my head right now."
"That final," Geoff said, leaning in slightly, "will be against France who just defeat Germany 2-0. Their home soil. Their fans. Their momentum. What does that mean for England — and for you?"
For a moment, Francesco didn't answer. He looked out toward the stands, where the England supporters were still singing through the night, refusing to leave. The weight of the question hung in the air.
"It means," he said finally, voice quieter, "we have a chance to make history. France are incredible — they've got Griezmann, Pogba, Payet, Kante — world-class players everywhere. But finals aren't about who's better on paper. They're about who's ready to give absolutely everything when it matters. And I know this team will."
He straightened a little, eyes bright with determination. "We're not scared of anyone anymore. Not after tonight."
Geoff nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That's the sound of a man who's ready."
Francesco laughed softly. "I think we all are."
The camera light blinked twice, signaling the wrap-up. Geoff turned toward the lens for his closing line.
"Well, there you have it — England's hat-trick hero, Francesco Lee. Man of the Match tonight, and perhaps the story of this tournament. England march on to the Euro 2016 Final. Francesco, congratulations once again."
"Thanks, Geoff," Francesco said, shaking his hand warmly. "Appreciate it."
As the cameras cut, Geoff leaned in with a grin. "You realize you've just made about sixty million people believe again, right?"
Francesco laughed, half-disbelieving. "Let's hope we don't let them down in Paris."
"You won't," Geoff said, clapping his shoulder. "Not playing like that."
Francesco nodded, thanked the production team, and began walking back toward the tunnel. The stadium had thinned slightly now, but the England section was still alive, still singing. The noise chased him all the way down the touchline — a wall of gratitude, of love, of belief.
He stopped once before stepping inside, turning to take it in. The floodlights still painted the field gold and white. The scoreboard still gleamed — England 4–2 Portugal. And somewhere, far up in the stands, he could make out a small banner fluttering in the air.
"LEE BELIEVES — SO DO WE."
Francesco smiled faintly, the words catching somewhere deep in his chest.
He whispered to himself, so quietly it was lost to the roar, "One more game."
Then he turned and walked into the tunnel, clutching Ronaldo's red jersey in one hand and the Man of the Match trophy in the other — the two symbols of everything he'd fought for. The echoes of the crowd faded behind him, replaced by the hum of the dressing room ahead, where his teammates waited.
The tunnel felt like an escape and a continuation all at once — a narrow artery pulsing with life after the battlefield outside. The sounds of celebration echoed off the concrete walls: muffled shouts, bursts of laughter, the metallic crash of boots being kicked off against lockers. It was hot and damp, that kind of post-match humidity where sweat and steam and adrenaline all mix into the same heavy air.
Francesco stepped through, still clutching Ronaldo's jersey and the small glass Man of the Match trophy. The corridor lights hummed overhead, pale against the rush of noise coming from behind the final door — the England dressing room.
He paused just before the handle, taking one deep breath. He could hear them in there: the rhythmic pounding of fists against benches, someone singing half a chant off-key, the explosion of cheers that came whenever someone shouted "Final, baby!"
He pushed the door open.
And in that instant, chaos swallowed him whole.
The first thing that hit him wasn't noise — it was cold.
A wave of blue liquid — Gatorade, icy and sticky — exploded across his face and shoulders, drenching him from head to toe. The second thing was the laughter. Pure, roaring laughter.
"THERE HE IS!" someone bellowed — it sounded like Wilshere, voice cracking with delight.
"Hat-trick hero!" barked Henderson, already winding up another half-empty bottle in his hand.
Francesco barely had time to blink before another splash caught him square in the chest. He gasped, sputtering as the sweet, citrus scent hit his nose, and the whole room erupted again.
"Oi, lads!" Francesco shouted through the noise, wiping his face. "I just got out of an interview!"
"Perfect timing!" Kane yelled back, doubled over with laughter. "Geoff Shreeves didn't give you this treatment, did he?"
Another bottle popped open. More liquid flew. Dele Alli and Sterling were practically dancing around him, spraying what was left of their drinks like they'd just won the World Cup. Rashford was filming on his phone, laughing so hard he could barely hold it steady.
"Oh, come on!" Francesco half-laughed, half-groaned as a fresh splash hit his shoulder. "I'm freezing here!"
"Golden Boot and an ice bath!" Dier shouted. "Earned it, mate!"
Someone — probably Wilshere — started chanting, "He's magic, you know! Francesco Lee, he's magic, you know!" and the rest joined in instantly, their voices bouncing off the tiled walls. Kane started banging his shin pad against a locker in rhythm, and within seconds, the entire dressing room was a riot of noise.
Francesco stood there, soaked and smiling helplessly, watching them all. It was messy, ridiculous, beautiful.
The kind of joy that came only after months of work, of pain, of doubt — the kind that made grown men act like children again.
He could see every face glowing — Kane's grin wide and toothy, Sterling laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes, Walker waving a flag around like a man possessed. Even Hodgson, standing just off to the side, couldn't help but smile, his old eyes glinting behind his glasses as he tried (and failed) to keep order.
"Alright, alright!" Hodgson called, clapping his hands, though the grin on his face betrayed him. "That's enough Gatorade, save some for the physios!"
"Too late, boss!" Wilshere shouted, holding up an empty bottle like a trophy.
The gaffer laughed softly, shaking his head. "You boys are unbelievable."
Francesco finally managed to wipe his face, his hair plastered to his forehead, his kit clinging to him. "You lot owe me a shower," he said, grinning.
"You were getting one anyway!" Sterling yelled, and that sent the room into laughter again.
He tried to retaliate, grabbing one of the half-filled bottles from the floor and turning it on Kane, who ducked just in time. The splash hit Walker instead, who froze for half a second, then pointed dramatically. "Oh, it's on now!"
More bottles flew. Towels swung. The air turned into a flurry of color and laughter, the smell of Gatorade thick and sweet. It wasn't just celebration — it was release.
Weeks of pressure, of scrutiny, of sleepless nights worrying about formations and tactics and headlines — gone.
Hodgson let it go for a moment longer before stepping forward, raising his voice above the noise. "Alright, lads! Listen up, please!"
The shouting slowly tapered off, though giggles and chuckles still rippled through the air. Francesco sat down on the bench, still dripping, towel draped around his neck. Kane dropped beside him, panting from laughter.
Hodgson waited for a moment, then spoke — quietly but clearly.
"First of all," he said, "congratulations. Every one of you. You've just made England proud again."
A low murmur of appreciation went around the room. Even the players who had been jumping on benches moments ago were now sitting forward, eyes fixed on him.
"I've managed a lot of teams," Hodgson continued, "and I've seen a lot of nights like this — but this one feels different. Not because of the scoreline, or the hat-trick, or even the final waiting for us… but because of what I see in this room. Togetherness. Belief. Courage. You didn't crumble when Portugal equalized. You grew stronger. That's what champions do."
He let that sink in before adding, "But we're not done yet."
A hush fell.
"In a few days," Hodgson said, "we go to Paris. France on their home soil. It'll be the hardest match yet. But I don't want you to be afraid of it. I want you to enjoy it. Because this—" he gestured around the room, to the laughter still lingering in the air, "—this is what football is about. Moments like this. And now we have one more chance to make history."
A beat passed. Then applause broke out. Loud, genuine, sustained.
Francesco clapped too, his palms stinging slightly from the contact, but he didn't care. The pride swelling in his chest was too much to contain.
Hodgson smiled again. "Now — get yourselves cleaned up, eat, rest. We travel to Lille tomorrow morning before heading on to Paris. Enjoy tonight, lads. You've earned it."
The players rose, still buzzing, voices mixing again in half-serious plans about celebrations and food. Francesco lingered behind a bit, pulling off his boots and socks, his feet aching, but the ache felt earned.
Kane sat beside him again, tapping the edge of his Man of the Match trophy. "Another one for the shelf, eh?"
Francesco laughed softly. "At this point, I'll need a bigger shelf."
Kane grinned. "Or a museum."
"Maybe," Francesco said, leaning back against the locker. "But not yet. Not until we finish the job."
Kane nodded, expression softening. "You really think we can do it?"
Francesco looked at him, and for a moment, the noise around them faded again — just like it had out on the pitch.
"I don't think," he said quietly. "I know."
Kane smiled at that — a small, genuine smile that said more than any words could.
They sat there a while longer, teammates drifting around them, laughter echoing through the room. Wilshere was trying to convince Sterling to wear sunglasses for the post-match dinner. Dier was on the floor doing mock interviews, pretending to be Francesco accepting a Ballon d'Or. Henderson was half-asleep against the wall, muttering something about tactics and ice baths.
It was chaotic, imperfect, real — everything football was supposed to be.
Eventually, Francesco stood, tossing his soaked shirt into a bag and wrapping a towel around his shoulders. The Ronaldo jersey he kept separate — folded neatly, reverently. As he tucked it into his personal kit bag, he caught himself smiling again.
The red fabric felt heavy in his hands — not just from sweat, but from meaning.
He whispered under his breath, "Next stop, Paris."
When he looked up again, Kane was holding open the door, nodding toward the hallway. "Come on, mate. The bus is waiting."
Francesco slung his bag over his shoulder, gave the dressing room one last look — the laughter, the mess, the smell of victory still hanging in the air — and stepped out.
The corridor beyond was quieter, calmer, the hum of generators and distant crowd noise echoing through the concrete. As they walked toward the team bus, the cool air hit his face, drying the last traces of Gatorade on his skin.
Somewhere in the distance, the England fans were still singing his name.
He didn't turn around this time. He didn't need to.
He carried the sound with him — in his pulse, in his breath, in every step.
And as the team climbed aboard, the driver shutting the door behind them, Francesco looked out the window one last time, at the glowing stadium lights fading into the Lyon night.
The bus rolled away from the stadium under a sky that still shimmered with floodlights and noise. For a few long minutes, none of the players said much — just the soft clatter of boots against the floor, the low hum of the engine, and the distant echo of fans outside, still singing.
Francesco leaned his head against the cool window, watching Lyon drift past in streaks of gold and shadow. The glass was cold against his skin, a shock compared to the heat and chaos of the dressing room. Out there, the night was alive — red flares, flags, laughter spilling out of pubs. He caught glimpses of faces pressed to the glass of passing cars, people waving, phones flashing.
Inside the bus, though, it was calmer — not silent, but the kind of calm that came after something seismic.
Across the aisle, Kane was scrolling through his phone, trying to answer what must have been hundreds of messages. Sterling had dozed off, hood pulled low over his face. Dele was still humming that chant — "He's magic, you know…" — half under his breath, as if unable to let it go.
Hodgson sat near the front, speaking quietly to Gary Neville and Ray Lewington. Every so often, he'd glance back at the players with that small, proud smile of his. He didn't have to say much. The job — tonight, at least — was done.
Francesco felt his muscles finally beginning to unclench. His legs still throbbed, his shoulders heavy with that dull ache that only came after ninety minutes of war. But beneath the exhaustion there was warmth — not physical, but emotional. A glow.
He reached into his bag, fingers brushing over the Ronaldo jersey again. The red fabric was still damp. He held it for a second, thinking not of rivalry or fame, but of legacy — of all the nights he'd watched that man score, celebrate, inspire. And now, tonight, he'd faced him. Matched him. Beaten him.
For a moment, Francesco closed his eyes and just breathed.
The bus hummed through the streets, escorted by police bikes flashing blue lights. The sirens cleared traffic as they went — a convoy of victory cutting through the Lyon night. Every intersection brought more waving hands, more cheering faces. It was clear the locals had taken to England tonight; perhaps they'd admired the drama, or simply fallen for the romance of an underdog story.
About twenty minutes later, the bus slowed and turned into a wide driveway lined with lamps and French flags. The hotel loomed ahead — a modern glass-and-stone building glowing gold under the night sky. As the coach came to a stop, the first thing they saw were the hotel staff waiting outside, clapping.
The door hissed open, and a rush of warm air spilled in.
Hodgson stood first, gesturing for his players. "Off you go, lads. Straight in, showers, then food. And no interviews until tomorrow morning."
The players rose slowly, stretching, yawning, slinging their bags over their shoulders. Francesco followed, his body heavy but his steps light.
As he stepped down the stairs and into the glow of the hotel entrance, applause broke out.
The entire front-of-house staff — receptionists, porters, even the chefs — had lined up in the lobby doorway, smiling wide. One of the women at the front spoke up in accented English:
"Congratulations, gentlemen! To the final!"
The players grinned, a few laughing, waving back. Henderson clapped one of the staff on the shoulder. "Merci, mate. Couldn't have done it without your breakfasts."
That earned a laugh from the group, the tension of the night giving way to warmth. Cameras flashed — a few hotel guests had gathered nearby, phones raised, eager to capture the sight of England's heroes returning from battle.
Francesco caught a few familiar sounds — his name whispered between fans, that soft ripple of awe when someone recognized him. He smiled politely, offering a nod, but his mind was elsewhere — half still on the pitch, half already in the final.
Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of polished wood and coffee. The air conditioning hit his still-damp skin, sending a shiver through him. He glanced around — marble floors, soft yellow lighting, the muted hum of late-night activity. A few tourists in the lounge bar looked up from their drinks, realizing who had just walked in.
Wilshere leaned close to Francesco as they walked toward the elevators. "Feels weird, doesn't it? Like we just did something massive, but it still hasn't sunk in."
Francesco nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's like… you're proud, but you can't relax yet."
"Exactly." Wilshere grinned, slapping him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, it'll hit you when we see the Eiffel Tower."
That made them both laugh.
As the elevator doors slid open, the players piled in — laughing, talking, arguing good-naturedly over who'd scored the best goal. Wilshere insisted his assist was the real turning point. Sterling disagreed. Kane claimed it was Francesco's second goal that killed Portugal.
"Second?" Francesco raised an eyebrow. "You mean the third."
That got a round of playful boos. "Modest as ever!" Dier teased.
Francesco just smiled, shaking his head. "You know I'm right."
The elevator dinged open on the tenth floor, spilling the group into a carpeted hallway lined with brass lights and framed photographs of old French landmarks. A few housekeeping staff peeked out from side corridors, starstruck.
Their laughter echoed all the way down the corridor until doors began closing, one after another, as players vanished into rooms with tired but happy goodnights.
Francesco lingered a bit. His room was near the end of the hallway, overlooking the city. He slid his key card, heard the soft click, and stepped inside.
The lights came on automatically — warm, gentle, inviting. A large bed, a small balcony, the faint buzz of the city below. He dropped his bag on the chair, kicked off his trainers, and let out a long sigh that felt like it came from somewhere deep in his bones.
For the first time in hours, it was quiet.
He crossed to the balcony, sliding the door open. The air outside was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of rain and distant car exhaust. Lyon stretched before him — rooftops, bridges, the faint shimmer of the river under moonlight. Somewhere out there, fans were still celebrating.
He leaned against the railing, arms folded, and just watched.
It was strange, how football could make cities come alive. One win, and the night itself seemed to hum.
His phone buzzed.
Leah's name lit the screen. A photo came through first — a selfie of her watching the match in an Arsenal training top, smiling wide. Beneath it, her message:
"Final, baby. I'm so proud of you ❤️"
He smiled — one of those quiet smiles that didn't need witnesses. He typed back slowly:
"Thanks, love. One more game. One more step."
Her reply came quick.
"Then we celebrate. Paris style."
He chuckled softly, typing back a simple heart before pocketing the phone again.
Inside, he sat on the bed, running a hand through his hair. His mind was buzzing despite the exhaustion. The images replayed again — the goals, the roar, the Gatorade, Hodgson's speech. But more than anything, the feeling. That electric sense that England — his England — were finally believing again.
He thought of the final. France. Home crowd. All the pressure in the world. And yet, he didn't feel fear. He felt hunger.
After a shower and a quick bite — some pasta, chicken, and water brought up by room service — he finally switched off the lights. The city still glowed faintly beyond the curtains, and the hum of traffic below was steady, soothing. Sleep came slow, but when it came, it was deep.
________________________________________________
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: 5
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9