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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.
The next morning came soft and pale.
A sliver of light crept through the thin hotel curtains, turning the air faintly gold. The hum of the city below had changed — last night's euphoria replaced by the quieter rhythms of morning traffic and distant footsteps on the pavement.
Francesco stirred awake slowly, half tangled in the sheets, one arm flung across the pillow. For a moment he didn't move, letting himself hover in that peaceful in-between — the part of morning when memory catches up to reality.
Then it came back to him. The goals. The crowd. The win.
The final.
He exhaled, smiling to himself. We did it, he thought. We're really in the final.
He rolled out of bed, stretched until his joints popped, and rubbed the back of his neck. His body ached everywhere — the kind of deep, satisfying soreness that came from having left everything on the pitch. The clock read 8:22 AM.
He showered, dressed in the team-issued England tracksuit, and headed downstairs.
The hotel restaurant was already buzzing. The players had gathered around the long tables near the windows — trays of fruit, eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee scattered everywhere. The morning sunlight poured through the glass, reflecting off mugs and plates. Someone had queued up a playlist on a small Bluetooth speaker; soft, mellow music drifted under the low hum of chatter.
"Morning, champ," Henderson called as Francesco entered. "Sleep alright?"
"Like a log," Francesco said, grinning. "Didn't even hear the fire alarm, if there was one."
"Wouldn't be surprised if Dier set one off making toast again," Wilshere joked from the next table, earning a few laughs.
Francesco grabbed a plate — scrambled eggs, a few slices of toast, and some fruit — and joined them. The coffee smelled strong, almost too strong, but it was exactly what he needed.
The mood around the room was different from last night's chaos — calmer, steadier. The laughter was still there, but quieter, tempered by the weight of what came next. Everyone knew it: they'd made history, but the job wasn't finished.
Kane looked across the table at Francesco, smirking. "Got any messages from Leah this morning?"
Francesco grinned. "A few. Mostly just her reminding me not to 'do anything stupid' before the final."
Sterling chuckled. "She sounds like my missus."
"She is smarter than you lot," Francesco shot back, earning a round of mock groans.
Just then, the restaurant doors opened. Roy Hodgson stepped in, accompanied by Gary Neville and Ray Lewington. He gave a polite nod to the staff before making his way toward the players' tables.
The room naturally quieted. Forks and mugs were set down; even the music seemed to fade into the background. Hodgson smiled faintly as he reached the center of the room.
"Morning, lads," he said, voice calm and warm. "I trust you all slept well?"
Murmurs of "Morning, boss," and "Yeah, gaffer," rippled back.
"Good. You deserve it," he said. "But now, we move forward."
He clasped his hands behind his back, the faint sound of his wedding ring tapping against his watch. "This afternoon, we'll be departing for Paris. I want you all gathered in the lobby by 3:30 PM sharp, with your luggage ready. The bus will take us to the airport — private flight, short hop — and from there, straight to our team hotel near Saint-Denis."
A few players nodded, some quietly sipping coffee. Hodgson continued.
"Once we're there, the next stage begins. Starting tomorrow, we'll be training at the Paris FC training ground — excellent facilities, secure, and close enough to the Stade de France. We'll run light drills, tactical work, set-piece rehearsals. Recovery first, intensity later."
He paused, scanning the faces before him. "I want you to enjoy the day. Rest your legs, clear your heads. You've earned that. But I also want you to understand something…"
He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering — not stern, but focused. "France will be ready. They'll have their home crowd, their confidence, their pride. But so will we. We have our belief, our unity, and the momentum of something special. You've shown the world what this team can be — now we have the chance to finish the story."
Silence lingered for a few seconds after he finished, the weight of his words settling like morning fog.
Then Kane lifted his coffee mug. "To finishing the story," he said.
The team echoed him in quiet agreement — some clinking glasses, others just nodding. Francesco raised his cup too, the warmth of the coffee grounding him.
"To finishing it," he murmured.
Hodgson smiled faintly. "Good. Now — eat, hydrate, and relax. I'll see you all this afternoon."
He turned, spoke briefly to the hotel manager at the door, then left with Neville and Lewington. The hum of conversation slowly returned, though softer now — thoughtful.
Francesco took another bite of toast, watching as Dele and Sterling started arguing about who had the faster sprint speed in FIFA. Kane rolled his eyes, muttering something about "kids these days."
He smiled to himself. It was moments like this — ordinary, quiet — that he loved most. The matchdays were chaos; the press, exhausting. But this? This was the heart of football. A family, bound by something invisible but unbreakable.
After breakfast, most of the players drifted back to their rooms. Some went to the gym for light stretching. Others gathered in the lounge to watch highlights from last night on TV — the same goals they'd scored now framed in sweeping camera angles and dramatic commentary.
Francesco lingered in the lobby for a bit, nursing another coffee. Through the glass doors he could see the world outside — Lyon waking up, sun glinting off car roofs, locals walking dogs along the riverbank. A few fans lingered across the street, holding flags, hoping for one last glimpse before the team left town.
He waved once, discreetly, then returned upstairs to pack.
By mid-afternoon, the hotel was alive with motion again. Suitcases rolled across marble floors, staff carried gear bags, and the faint smell of cologne and coffee mixed with the buzz of departure.
Francesco zipped his bag shut, checked his phone (a text from Leah: "Good luck on the flight, my love ❤️"), and headed down to the lobby.
The team was already gathering — red England travel suits, matching luggage, the air thick with that peculiar mix of excitement and fatigue that came before a big trip. Hodgson stood by the exit, checking his watch, while Gary Neville ticked off names from a list.
"All present, boss," Neville said.
"Good. Let's move."
The players filed out into the afternoon sun, where the team bus waited. Fans and hotel staff clapped as they climbed aboard. Francesco glanced back once — at the hotel's golden facade, the flags fluttering lightly — and then took his seat near the window.
The bus rumbled to life, pulling away from the curb and rolling toward Lyon–Saint-Exupéry Airport.
Outside, the sky was bright, a clear blue stretched wide over the French countryside. The conversations inside the bus were light, scattered. Kane and Henderson debated whether they'd rather face Pogba or Kanté in midfield. Dier tried to convince Wilshere that he'd out-jump Giroud in an aerial duel. Laughter rippled through the rows.
Francesco leaned back, half-listening, half-lost in thought. He stared out at the passing fields — patches of green and yellow blurring into motion. Every mile felt like a step closer to destiny.
He thought of the journey. From the first friendly against Germany months ago, to the early matches where critics doubted him, to the pressure of wearing England's shirt. He thought of Arsenal, of Wenger's words about leadership and composure. He thought of Leah, and of the little moments that had brought him here.
He smiled faintly. Paris.
The word alone carried weight. Romance. History. Triumph. And now, maybe, redemption.
The plane was waiting on the tarmac when they arrived — the white fuselage gleaming under the afternoon sun, emblazoned with the England crest and the words "Three Lions" near the nose.
Inside, the cabin smelled faintly of leather and citrus cleaner. The seats were wide, plush, with England flags stitched subtly into the headrests.
Francesco took a window seat again, this time beside Kane. Sterling sat across the aisle, headphones on, nodding to some rhythm only he could hear.
The engines started with a low hum, and soon they were taxiing down the runway. As the plane lifted, the city of Lyon fell away beneath them — the stadium a small white bowl in the distance, the river snaking silver through the landscape.
The rest of the flight passed quietly. Some players slept; others watched films or flicked through playlists. Francesco gazed out the window most of the way, watching the landscape shift from rolling hills to dense clusters of rooftops.
As they began their descent, the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be landing in Paris shortly. On behalf of the crew, congratulations on reaching the Euro 2016 final."
A ripple of laughter filled the cabin — polite, tired, but proud.
Below, Paris spread wide and endless. The Seine cut through the city like a ribbon of light. The Eiffel Tower rose in the distance, glinting in the late afternoon sun. Francesco felt a slow, quiet awe settle in his chest.
This is it, he thought. The stage is set.
They landed just before six.
The air outside was warm, carrying that faint Parisian mix of rain, exhaust, and bread from distant bakeries. The players walked down the steps, the skyline stretching before them.
Camera crews waited behind barriers, filming as the team boarded the bus once more — but this time, the noise was softer. Respectful. Anticipatory.
As they pulled out of the airport and into the streets, the signs began to change — Bienvenue à Paris.
Francesco leaned his head against the glass again, watching the city unfold — wide boulevards, cafés spilling laughter onto sidewalks, the glow of evening catching every windowpane. He caught glimpses of posters plastered on walls: "Finale — France vs England."
By the time they reached the hotel, the sky was turning amber.
The team stepped off the bus, greeted by staff and security, and filed into the lobby — the same rhythm as always, yet somehow heavier with meaning now.
This was it. The last stop before the final.
As Francesco stood in the lobby, waiting for his room key, Hodgson's voice carried softly from nearby.
"Rest tonight, lads. Tomorrow morning, we train at the Paris FC facility. Light work, stretch, tactical review. Enjoy the evening — it's the calm before the storm."
Francesco nodded, keycard in hand. He turned toward the elevator, catching his reflection briefly in the polished glass doors — tired eyes, faint smile, quiet determination.
The next morning broke over Paris in a cool, faintly misty glow — a silvery kind of dawn that softened the skyline and painted the rooftops with quiet light.
From the upper floors of the England team hotel, the city looked almost still. The Eiffel Tower rose faintly in the distance through a thin curtain of morning haze, and the Seine caught the first touch of sunlight like a ribbon of glass.
Inside the hotel, the hallways were already beginning to stir.
Francesco woke early — before his alarm, even. He lay there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled hum of air-conditioning and the occasional car passing outside. His body felt heavier than usual, but not sluggish; it was that deep kind of tired that came from days of adrenaline, excitement, and travel.
He turned over, exhaled slowly, and smiled to himself.
Paris. Final week.
He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and looked toward the small balcony. The curtains were drawn slightly apart, letting in a soft beam of light. He stood, padded barefoot across the carpet, and stepped outside.
The air was cool and fresh, carrying faint traces of coffee, rain, and croissants from the streets below. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed briefly, then faded again into the calm hum of morning. He rested his hands on the railing, looking out over the rooftops, breathing it all in.
In less than three days, they would play France at the Stade de France — the host nation, roaring behind their team, desperate to claim the trophy on home soil. Francesco could already picture it: the sea of blue, the flags, the anthem reverberating through the massive stadium.
And somewhere inside that storm, he would stand in white.
He smiled faintly at the thought. Pressure was part of the game. It was what made it beautiful.
By 8:30 a.m., the team was downstairs in the dining room, the smell of eggs and coffee thick in the air. The atmosphere was easy but focused — voices low, laughter occasional, a certain quiet energy passing between them.
"Morning, mate," Henderson said, sliding into the seat beside him with a plate piled high. "Ready for the first day?"
"As I'll ever be," Francesco said, buttering a slice of toast. "I can already hear Neville shouting 'shape!' in my nightmares."
Kane, sitting opposite, grinned. "He'll shout it either way. It's how he breathes."
"Don't forget Hodgson's speeches," Dier added, sipping orange juice. "You know we're getting one before training."
"Yeah, but at least he means it," Francesco said, smiling. "He knows how to calm everyone."
The conversation drifted between football and small talk — who slept the worst (apparently Sterling), who forgot their shin guards (Wilshere, again), who'd already posted their Paris selfies (Alli, obviously). It was the kind of morning that kept the nerves at bay: familiar, ordinary, grounding.
By 9:15, Hodgson appeared at the entrance, neatly dressed in England tracksuit and windbreaker, Gary Neville just behind him carrying a clipboard. His expression was calm, but his voice carried the quiet authority of a man who'd been here before.
"Alright, lads," he said. "Bus leaves in ten minutes. Bring your boots, water bottles, and the right attitude. Today we start focusing on France."
The players rose, scraping chairs, stacking plates. Francesco grabbed his boots from his bag, slung his jacket over his shoulder, and followed the others through the lobby toward the waiting team bus.
Outside, the Paris morning had bloomed into something crisp and golden. The streets were alive now — locals hurrying to work, traffic buzzing, vendors setting up coffee carts on corners. Fans waved from the sidewalks as the bus pulled out, some shouting "Allez les Bleus!" in friendly rivalry, others just raising phones to snap a quick picture.
The ride took about twenty minutes.
Paris FC's training complex lay just beyond the southern edge of the city — a quiet sprawl of green pitches, low buildings, and tall fences adorned with the French Football Federation's blue-and-white signage. The air smelled faintly of damp grass and rubber turf, and the light morning mist still hung low over the far end of the field.
As they stepped off the bus, the crisp wind hit them, carrying the sound of distant birds and the rhythmic thump of another team training nearby.
"Alright, lads," Hodgson said, clapping his hands once. "Light warm-up first — jog, stretches, ball work. We'll move into tactical setup after. Let's get started."
The players began to spread out across the grass, forming loose circles. The first few minutes were gentle — jogs around the field, laughter, light stretches. Francesco jogged alongside Wilshere and Kane, breathing in deep, feeling his muscles slowly loosen under the cool Parisian air.
After the warm-up, Neville gathered them closer near the center circle.
"Okay, lads," he began, his tone clipped but steady. "We're focusing on France's shape today — specifically their midfield and how they build through Pogba and Matuidi. They like to transition quickly, especially through Griezmann drifting inside. We can't give him space between the lines."
He turned to the whiteboard propped beside him, sketching quickly with a marker. "France will probably set up in a 4-2-3-1. Giroud up top, Griezmann floating, Payet on the left, Sissoko on the right. Behind them, Matuidi or Kante and Pogba — physical, mobile, dangerous."
Neville's pen tapped the board twice. "Our job is to control that midfield zone. Henderson, Dier — you'll need to sit deeper than usual. Francesco, your pressing angle will be key — force them wide, not central. We break their rhythm; we control the game."
Hodgson stepped forward then, his voice quieter, more deliberate. "We're not going to Paris to play scared. We're going to play smart. We'll use the ball, not chase it. France are emotional when they play — if we stay disciplined, we'll frustrate them."
The team nodded in unison. Francesco caught Neville's glance — a small nod of acknowledgment. This was his moment to lead from the front.
Training began in earnest then.
They moved into passing drills — quick one-touch combinations in tight spaces, shifting shape with precision. Francesco led the forward unit, dropping deep to link play, pivoting out to the wings. Every touch mattered now. Every run had purpose.
After that came tactical shape.
The assistant coaches laid down cones marking the French structure — imaginary Pogbas and Payets — and England's formation adjusted in response. Hodgson and Neville shouted instructions over the wind.
"Hold the line!"
"Shift together!"
"Press in pairs!"
The rhythm became hypnotic — push, drop, press, recover. Francesco found himself in constant motion, orchestrating the front press with Kane and Sterling, shouting cues, pointing where needed. His voice carried sharp through the chilly air.
At one point, Neville stopped them mid-drill. "Francesco — when you cut off Pogba's lane, don't stand flat. Curve your run. Force him to play wide, then we trap them with Sterling's pace. You're the trigger."
Francesco nodded, breathing hard. "Got it."
They restarted — and this time, it clicked.
He curved his pressing run perfectly, forcing the pass outward. Sterling pounced, Henderson intercepted, and within seconds the ball was back at Francesco's feet near the edge of the final third. One touch, quick turn, low shot — thud, net.
Neville blew his whistle sharply but smiled. "That's it! That's exactly what we want. Do it again."
The rhythm built from there. Every player seemed tuned in — movements crisp, communication sharp. The earlier laughter had faded into focused silence, broken only by the sound of boots thudding against turf and the occasional barked instruction.
After nearly ninety minutes, Hodgson gathered them near the halfway line again. His expression was pleased but measured.
"That's good work," he said, voice calm but firm. "You're understanding the shape, the timing, the discipline we need. But remember — France won't give us time. They'll press us hard, especially early. We keep our heads. We keep our patience."
He gestured toward the far goal. "Tomorrow, we work on attacking transitions. I want Francesco and the front three focusing on breaking behind their fullbacks. They push high — that's our space."
Francesco nodded, already picturing it. He knew how France's full-backs loved to attack — how Evra and Sagna (or even Digne) would push high, leaving channels behind. Those gaps could be gold for him and Sterling.
After a short cooldown jog and some light stretches, training was done. The players gathered their gear, laughing now that the intensity had broken. Someone splashed water on Rashford's back; he yelped, chasing after Dier in mock rage. Even Hodgson cracked a small smile watching them.
Francesco lingered for a bit, tying his laces slowly, letting his breathing settle. His shirt clung with sweat, his boots speckled with mud, but he felt sharp — alive in that way only footballers do when everything clicks.
Neville walked over, clipboard in hand. "Good session, that," he said. "You're reading the press really well, Francesco. Keep that shape in your head — it'll be key."
Francesco nodded. "Thanks, coach. Feels good to get the legs going again."
"Yeah, and keep talking to Kane out there," Neville added. "Your communication sets the tone."
"I will," Francesco said simply.
As Neville walked off, Francesco took one last look at the field. The sun was higher now, burning through the last of the mist. The grass shimmered faintly, dotted with the marks of boots and cones. Somewhere beyond the fences, the sound of city life floated in — faint honking, distant chatter, a world still moving as theirs stood still.
He took a breath, deep and slow.
Final week. Final chance.
By the time they returned to the bus, the players were quieter — tired but satisfied. Francesco sat near the back again, gazing out the window as the city rolled past. They passed narrow streets lined with cafés, bakeries, and shop windows displaying newspapers with bold headlines:
"Les Bleus face England in final duel."
Kane nudged him lightly. "You ready for them, mate?"
Francesco smiled faintly, eyes still on the window. "Yeah. I've been ready my whole life."
Kane grinned. "Good answer."
Back at the hotel, lunch awaited — grilled chicken, pasta, salad, fresh fruit. The nutrition team hovered like hawks, ensuring hydration and balance. After eating, most players drifted off for naps or massages, the rhythm of tournament life falling naturally back into place.
The following morning dawned clearer — warmer, sharper, almost humming with a kind of restless brightness that seemed to spill through the hotel windows and down into the streets below.
By now, the city had begun to change around them. Paris was no longer just Paris — it was the beating heart of the continent, the center of everything. Banners hung across bridges and boulevards, posters plastered to lampposts and metro stations: "Finale: France vs England — Stade de France, Dimanche."
Everywhere, the flags fluttered — tricolore blue, white, and red from one window, and St. George's cross from another.
And with every hour, the noise built. The talk shows, the sports bulletins, the endless panel debates — every pundit, every newspaper, every social feed seemed to orbit this single, inevitable collision.
France, the host nation, hungry for glory on home soil.
England, reborn, daring to dream again.
Inside the England camp, that noise seeped in, no matter how much the staff tried to shield them.
The second day of training at the Paris FC ground began with the same routine — early breakfast, short briefing, and a brisk bus ride through the southern edges of the city. But this time, the mood on the bus was different. The laughter was quieter. The music, lower. Even the jokes between Dier and Wilshere had lost their edge.
It wasn't tension exactly — more like the quiet pull of focus. That razor-fine edge players reached when the horizon of a final started to take shape in their minds.
As they stepped off the bus, Francesco felt it — the subtle change in the air. The usual lightness of training had been replaced by something heavier, denser. The sun was already up, glinting off the dewy blades of grass, and the faint smell of cut turf filled his lungs.
Hodgson was already waiting near the touchline with Gary Neville and Ray Lewington, deep in conversation, clipboards open and magnets rearranged on the whiteboard.
When the players gathered, Hodgson spoke first, voice clear and steady.
"Morning, lads. We're stepping up a gear today. Yesterday was structure — today is control. France will try to dictate the rhythm of this game, and we cannot let them."
He paced slowly as he spoke, the faint crunch of his boots on the gravel edge of the pitch marking his rhythm. "They'll come at us through midfield — Pogba, Matuidi, Griezmann. Their rotations are fluid, dangerous. But every time they move forward, they leave space. That's our weapon."
He gestured to Francesco, Kane, and Sterling. "Our transitions. When we win it, we don't waste it. We break fast, we break clean, and we break with purpose."
Neville took over, his tone more clipped. "Alright — set up the 4-3-3. Dier holding, Henderson and Wilshere ahead. Front three as usual — Sterling left, Francesco central, Kane right. We'll work on defensive compactness and counter triggers."
The drills began.
It was meticulous work — building blocks of timing and instinct. They practiced recovering shape after turnovers, pressing in coordinated bursts, and launching into counterattacks within seconds. Neville barked instructions constantly, his voice echoing over the wind.
"Press on the cue!"
"Angle, Francesco — shape your run!"
"Sterling, track back, then break wide again!"
Francesco's lungs burned. Sweat clung to his temples, running down his neck. Every repetition felt heavier, sharper — like a rehearsal that needed to be perfect because the real performance would offer no second take.
When they paused for water, he and Kane leaned against the same sideline marker, both breathing hard.
"Feels like we're running laps around Paris," Kane muttered, gulping water.
Francesco smirked faintly. "Better here than chasing shadows on Sunday."
Kane nodded. "Ain't that the truth."
Behind them, Neville gathered Henderson and Dier for a quick debrief, tracing imaginary lines in the air. "You've got to double Pogba when he cuts in — don't let him drive between you. Force him to go sideways, not through."
Wilshere jogged over, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Easier said than done, mate. The bloke's built like a tank."
"Then outthink him," Neville said simply, before blowing his whistle again. "Reset!"
They moved into small-sided games next — short, high-intensity scrimmages that mimicked real match conditions. Francesco thrived in these — tight spaces, fast decisions, sharp runs. He darted between lines, combining with Sterling on one side, Kane on the other, testing timing and angles.
At one point, Henderson clipped a ball over the top — perfectly weighted — and Francesco met it first-time, volleying across goal into the bottom corner. The sound of netting snapped sharp through the air.
Neville nodded. "That's it. That's your run. Keep that picture in your head — that's the space behind Sagna you're going to get."
Francesco gave a short thumbs-up, but inside, something stirred — the flicker of vision, the sense of how it might all come together on the night.
When training ended, the players trudged toward the sidelines, boots muddy, shirts drenched. Hodgson met them halfway.
"Good," he said quietly. "Very good. We're sharper than we were yesterday. But remember — finals aren't won on fitness or flair. They're won on discipline."
He gave Francesco a small look — not stern, but meaningful. "Especially from those who lead from the front."
Francesco nodded once. "Understood, boss."
Back at the hotel that afternoon, the media machine was already in full spin.
Screens in the lounge showed looping highlight reels: "France confident ahead of final", "England's rising star Francesco Lee — key to victory?", "Le duel décisif: Griezmann vs Lee."
The French channels were almost poetic about it — talking about destiny, about reclaiming pride after 2006, about the nation uniting behind Les Bleus.
The English outlets, by contrast, dripped with cautious hope.
Headlines like "Can the dream finally come true?" and "Hodgson's young lions stand on the brink."
Everywhere Francesco looked — on phones, TVs, even the papers at the hotel reception — his name was there.
Photos of him celebrating against Germany. Slow-motion shots of his goal against Belgium. Split screens with Griezmann, the French hero of their campaign.
It was flattering, sure — but it also carried weight. The kind that settled quietly in the chest when the lights went out.
That evening, he called Leah.
Her face appeared on the phone screen, framed by the soft light of her apartment.
"Hey, champ," she said, smiling. "You look exhausted."
He laughed softly. "That obvious?"
"Your eyes are half-shut," she teased. "But you're glowing. Paris looks good on you."
"It's… intense," he admitted. "Everyone's talking about it. Feels like the whole continent's watching."
"They are," she said gently. "But don't let them in here." She tapped the screen over his heart. "That's just for you and the team."
He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Wish you were here."
"I will be," she said. "Sunday. Front row, near the halfway line. Don't you dare look nervous when you see me."
He laughed again, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders. "Deal."
They talked a bit longer — about home, about nothing in particular — and when the call ended, Francesco sat there for a long moment, phone still in his hand, staring at the darkened window.
Outside, the city glowed — golden lights stretched across the river, car headlights threading through the streets like veins of motion. Somewhere out there, France was preparing too.
And he knew — they'd be just as focused, just as hungry.
By the third morning, the routine had solidified into ritual. Wake, breakfast, bus, train, debrief, repeat.
But the difference now wasn't in the drills — it was in the air.
Tension had become almost tangible, like static before a storm.
That day, the focus was set pieces — the fine margins that could define a final.
Neville ran the defensive unit like a drill sergeant. "Watch for Giroud's movement! He drifts off the far post — don't lose him!"
Meanwhile, Hodgson oversaw the attacking end, orchestrating corners and free-kick patterns.
"Francesco, near post run. Kane, back post. Henderson, edge for rebound. Delivery — Sterling, hit it flat."
They repeated it again and again, until it became reflex. The ball whipped in, bodies crashed together, the air filled with the dull thud of impact and the grunt of effort.
Then came the penalty drills — not because Hodgson expected a shootout, but because he knew finals had a way of twisting fate.
Each player took turns.
Kane, calm and clinical.
Henderson, firm down the middle.
Francesco — sharp, low to the right, kissed the post and in.
"Good," Hodgson murmured, watching closely. "You've all seen enough tournaments to know — be ready for anything."
By late afternoon, training ended with a scrimmage — the last major session before matchday. The intensity was through the roof. Every challenge had bite. Every goal was celebrated like it meant something.
Francesco scored twice — one curling shot from the edge of the box, another sharp finish after a one-two with Sterling. The squad applauded him on the jog back.
But what struck him most wasn't the goals — it was how united they all felt. No egos. No nerves. Just a shared pulse, moving in rhythm.
As they cooled down, Kane jogged beside him, towel slung over his shoulders. "Feels good, yeah?"
"Feels right," Francesco said quietly.
Kane smiled. "Let's finish it then."
That evening, the media frenzy reached fever pitch.
Outside the hotel, fans had begun to gather — waving flags, singing, cheering. Some French, some English, all desperate to touch a moment of history.
Cameras flashed every time a player stepped through the lobby.
Journalists shouted questions through the barriers:
"Francesco! Are England ready?"
"Do you think you can stop Griezmann?"
"Is this destiny for France, or redemption for England?"
He smiled politely, gave a small wave, but said nothing. Hodgson's orders were clear: silence before the storm.
Back inside, the players gathered in the private lounge. The atmosphere was warm but subdued — a kind of quiet companionship before battle.
They watched footage of France's semifinal — the way Griezmann ghosted into space, the crispness of Pogba's distribution, the aggression of their fullbacks. Hodgson stood at the front, remote in hand, pausing and rewinding key moments.
"Look here," he said, pointing at the screen. "France play beautiful football — but even beauty has blind spots. We find them, we exploit them. We stay patient."
He looked around the room — eyes resting, just for a heartbeat, on Francesco.
"Moments decide finals. Be ready for yours."
Silence. Then a few quiet nods.
The meeting ended. The team dispersed. Some went for massages, others for ice baths, some just to their rooms.
Francesco lingered a moment longer in the dim light of the lounge, watching the replay still looping silently on the screen — Griezmann's celebration, arms wide, face blazing with joy.
He wasn't afraid of it. If anything, it sparked something inside him — that hunger that burned brightest when the odds were even.
When he finally returned to his room, the city lights pulsed faintly through the window. He sat on the edge of his bed, pulling off his training top, and glanced at the mirror.
________________________________________________
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