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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.
The next day unfolded like something suspended between dream and destiny. From the moment the sun climbed over the rooftops of Paris, there was a pulse in the air — the kind that wrapped itself around everything: the smell of coffee drifting through the hotel halls, the low hum of traffic outside, the occasional murmur of hotel guests whispering as England's players passed through the lobby.
By midday, the streets below were already changing color. Red and white. Blue and tricolore. Every café had flags hanging from its awnings, every radio crackled with the same conversation — predictions, memories, the word finale repeated again and again, as if Paris itself couldn't believe it had all come down to this.
For most of the day, the England players stayed inside — quiet pockets of focus scattered through the hotel. Some rested, some watched films, some played cards in the lounge. Francesco spent part of the afternoon alone on his balcony, just staring out across the skyline. The Eiffel Tower shimmered in the distance, tall and indifferent, watching history gather below it.
He'd been through finals before — domestic cups, continental nights — but this was different. This was England. This was Europe.
He checked his watch. Nearly six-thirty.
Time to go.
Downstairs, the lobby buzzed with that charged silence before departure — the hum of zipped bags, the tap of boot studs against marble, the murmur of security staff ushering guests aside. Hodgson stood near the entrance, suit pressed, expression calm but unreadable. Neville and Lewington were already outside, coordinating with the police escorts.
"Alright, lads," Hodgson said, voice low but clear. "Nineteen hundred sharp. Let's make it count."
Francesco joined the line, slinging his bag over his shoulder, heart thudding just a little faster now. Around him, the others moved with that same quiet purpose — no nervous jokes this time, no banter. Just focus.
The moment they stepped through the glass doors, a wave of noise greeted them.
Fans had gathered outside — hundreds of them, maybe more. French and English both, packed along the barricades, waving scarves, chanting, singing. The police kept them at bay, but the energy was impossible to contain. Some shouted names, some just reached out their hands as the players walked toward the coach.
Phones flashed. Flags waved. The air itself seemed to vibrate.
Francesco felt the weight of it all settle in his chest as he climbed the steps onto the bus. He found his usual seat by the window — front half, left side — and watched as the last of the squad filed in. Henderson sat across the aisle, Kane just behind him, Sterling with his headphones already on, eyes closed, swaying slightly to the beat.
Hodgson climbed aboard last, gave one brief nod to the driver, and the doors hissed shut.
The engine growled to life.
As the coach pulled away from the hotel, Francesco pulled out his phone. The screen lit up instantly — messages pouring in, notifications stacked like waves. But one stood out, glowing near the top of his screen.
Leah ❤️
He opened it, and her message appeared, full of warmth even through pixels:
"We're on our way to the stadium! With Mum, Dad, Jacob — and your parents too! All of us in the VIP box. You've got the whole family behind you tonight. We love you. Go make history ❤️🇫🇷🇬🇧"
Francesco couldn't help but smile. He could picture them perfectly — Leah in her Arsenal jacket, her dad David with that calm pride in his eyes, her mum Amanda trying not to cry before the match even started. And somewhere beside them, his own parents — Mike, steady and stoic, and Sarah, probably clutching her England scarf like it was a lifeline.
He typed back:
"See you out there. For all of you — and for England. ❤️"
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and leaned against the window, watching the city roll by.
Paris was alive.
Every bridge, every intersection, every café seemed to pulse with people. English fans draped in flags spilled into the streets, singing Three Lions at the tops of their lungs. Across from them, the French answered with chants of Allez les Bleus! The two sides weren't fighting — just competing in volume, passion, belief. It was the kind of chaos that only football could create — tribal and joyful all at once.
As the bus rolled past the Seine, Francesco saw kids running alongside, waving scarves, their faces painted half-blue, half-red. A man in an England shirt lifted his pint in salute as the coach passed, while another group of French fans banged drums and shouted toward the windows.
Inside the bus, the atmosphere thickened.
No one spoke much. The hum of the engine and the faint rhythm of tires on tarmac filled the silence. Every player was somewhere in their head — replaying tactics, visualizing moments, rehearsing how they'd move, where they'd run.
Francesco's gaze drifted outside again. Paris blurred by — the golden statues of Pont Alexandre III, the shadows of Montmartre, the fleeting glimpse of the Eiffel Tower through gaps in the skyline. And then, as they turned north, the neighborhoods began to change — more flags, more police, more people.
The escort sirens echoed against the buildings as the convoy approached Saint-Denis.
And then he saw it.
The Stade de France.
Rising ahead like a spaceship of light. Rings of steel and glass, its floodlights already alive, slicing through the dusk. Even from the bus, the sound was immense — a low, endless rumble of fifty thousand voices, anticipation made flesh.
The players straightened instinctively. Conversations stopped. The coach slowed, weaving through the final stretch of barricaded road toward the players' entrance.
Out the window, Francesco saw the colors swirl — England white, France blue. Banners waved, flares burned red. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, beer, and history waiting to happen.
He pressed a hand against the window, watching it all pass — the fans, the flags, the faces. Somewhere in that sea of chaos, his family was making their way to the VIP box. That thought steadied him.
When the bus finally stopped, security moved in fast. The door hissed open.
A burst of noise hit them instantly — cameras clicking, fans roaring, lights flashing.
"Alright, lads," Hodgson said, standing. "This is it. Keep your heads. Focus."
They filed out one by one, stepping down into the bright wash of stadium light. Francesco felt the ground vibrate beneath his boots — that deep hum of thousands stamping and shouting in rhythm.
The air was cooler here, tinged with the scent of rain and fireworks.
As they walked through the tunnel entrance, the roar dulled slightly, replaced by the echo of footsteps on concrete and the faint thump of music leaking from the stands.
The dressing room was already prepped — jerseys hung neatly on pegs, boots lined up beneath, the Three Lions crest gleaming on each chest. The air smelled of menthol rub and leather polish.
Francesco found his spot — LEE 9.
He ran his hand across the shirt, feeling the smooth fabric beneath his fingertips. Every thread, every stitch felt like a story — every training session, every tackle, every dream.
Around him, the others began changing into their training kits. Conversation was minimal — just murmurs, the occasional laugh, the sound of velcro straps and bootlaces being tied.
Neville poked his head in. "Warm-up in five, lads."
Francesco pulled on his top, grabbed his boots, and followed the rest through the narrow corridor that led to the tunnel.
The first breath of open air hit him as soon as they stepped onto the pitch.
The noise exploded.
The stadium was already nearly full, a sea of color and movement. France's end rippled in waves of blue, the French anthem blaring from the PA, while the England supporters filled the opposite curve, flags fluttering, chants already rolling like thunder.
Francesco jogged out onto the grass, the sound swallowing him whole. The turf felt perfect — springy, firm, alive.
He looked up once — at the tiers stacked high above him, at the banners reading UEFA EURO 2016 FINAL, at the flashes of cameras glittering like stars.
Then, instinctively, he glanced toward the VIP boxes.
He couldn't spot faces from here, but he could feel them — Leah, his parents, her family — watching, waiting, part of this moment that was so much bigger than any one player.
He took a deep breath.
"Let's go," he muttered under his breath.
The team spread out across the field, beginning their stretches, passing drills, sprints. Neville and Lewington shouted instructions from the sideline, cones marking small circuits of precision. The French players were already out too — Griezmann, Pogba, Payet — their navy kits sharp against the green.
Every few minutes, the two teams' movements overlapped — glances exchanged, nods, little flickers of acknowledgment between rivals who understood what it meant to stand here.
Francesco moved through his warm-up with mechanical calm — high knees, side steps, short passes with Kane, one-touch exchanges with Sterling. The rhythm steadied his heartbeat.
At one point, a ball rolled long toward the halfway line. He jogged to retrieve it, and as he did, he glanced toward the touchline where a camera crew followed his every move.
He smiled faintly — not for them, but for himself. Because this, right here, was what every kid dreamed of: the biggest stage, the final night, the world watching.
The warm-up ran just under twenty minutes. When the whistle blew to end it, the players jogged back toward the tunnel, heads down, minds already shifting gears.
The crowd roared again as they disappeared inside — that last swell of sound before the storm to come.
Back in the dressing room, the noise outside dulled again, replaced by the thick hum of anticipation. Jerseys were waiting now, pristine and gleaming.
Francesco sat down at his locker, heart steady but alive. He looked around — Henderson pacing near the door, Kane tying his laces tight, Sterling leaning back with his eyes closed, mouthing the lyrics of the song playing faintly from his earbuds.
They went to change into the match kit.
It was a slow, deliberate process — not because anyone was rushing, but because each movement felt heavier with meaning. The fabric, the studs, the band on Rooney's arm — everything symbolized something larger than just a game. Francesco peeled off his warm-up shirt, the faint scent of grass and sweat clinging to it, and reached for the white jersey that hung under his nameplate.
LEE. 9.
He ran his fingers over the stitched letters before pulling it over his head.
Around him, the room filled with the rustle of shirts, the thud of boots being tightened, and the quiet rhythm of breathing — not nervous, but charged. Kane was the first to break the silence, giving a soft exhale and stretching his legs out in front of him.
"Feels like every bit of air in Paris's in here," he muttered, with a faint grin.
"Yeah," Henderson said from across the bench, "and it's only gonna get hotter when we walk out there."
Hodgson stood near the tactics board. He hadn't spoken yet — just watching, letting the ritual unfold, waiting until every player was dressed, seated, attentive. His glasses caught the overhead light as he turned to face them. For a moment, he just looked at them — eleven men, two subs benches worth of history and hope.
"Alright," he said finally, voice even but firm. "Let's get to it."
The chatter died instantly. Even the room seemed to hold its breath.
Hodgson reached for the marker and tapped the board, where the magnetic tokens already formed a familiar shape. "We stick with what got us here," he began, drawing a short, vertical line through midfield. "We'll use a four-three-three tonight. Structured, balanced, but aggressive when we get the chance. I want every man knowing exactly where the pressure starts and where the recovery ends."
He stepped aside slightly, letting the shape of the team speak for itself.
"In goal," he continued, "Joe Hart. You've been solid all tournament, Joe — stay sharp with your communication. They'll try to overload you with crosses and second balls, but I want you talking all game. Keep that line tight."
Hart nodded once from his seat, jaw set, the quiet confidence of someone who'd seen enough pressure to no longer fear it.
"Defence from left to right — Danny Rose, John Stones, Chris Smalling, Kyle Walker."
He pointed to each of them in turn. "France will try to stretch you wide. Payet and Griezmann love to cut inside. Don't dive in. Show them the outside, trust your cover. And when we break, I want those fullbacks pushing up — Rose, Walker, you two are the engines down the flanks. Don't be afraid to join the attacks."
Rose rolled his shoulders, nodding. Walker adjusted his shin pads and gave a quiet grin — "Been waiting for this one, boss."
Hodgson's mouth curved into the faintest smile. "I know you have, Kyle. Just make sure you come back as fast as you go forward."
That earned a few quiet chuckles — the kind that cut the edge off the tension just enough. Then Hodgson continued.
"In front of them, Jordan Henderson. You're our anchor, lad. Stay disciplined. Protect the back four, move it quick, keep it simple. France have Pogba and Matuidi — they'll look to bully the middle. Don't let them. You set the tempo."
Henderson's reply was simple: "Got it, boss."
Hodgson shifted the marker again. "Dele, central midfielder — your energy, your runs, they'll be key. Support Wayne when we're on the ball, press hard when we're not. I want you between their lines, snapping at heels, finding the space."
Dele Alli gave a short nod, bouncing his knees. You could almost see the spark in him, that youthful impatience just waiting to explode.
"Wayne," Hodgson said, pausing slightly before turning toward the captain. "You're our attacking midfielder — our captain, our link. You know what this means, to you, to the country. Lead them. Control the rhythm. When they look around out there and see the noise, the lights, the chaos — they'll look to you first."
Rooney's reply was barely audible, but firm. "Always."
The manager nodded, satisfied. Then his hand moved to the wide tokens.
"Out on the left — Raheem Sterling. Use your pace, your width. Don't get dragged inside. They'll leave space behind their fullbacks; you have to make them pay for it. Be brave."
Sterling lifted his head, earbuds long since gone, focus sharp now. "Won't hold back, boss."
"And on the right…" Hodgson's gaze shifted toward Francesco.
The room was still.
"Francesco Lee," Hodgson said, the faintest edge of pride threading through his tone. "You've been our spark this tournament. When the pressure's high, you've found a way through. Same again tonight — but remember, they'll double up on you. Use it. Pull them wide. Create the gaps for the others. And when your moment comes…"
Francesco's answer came quietly, but the steel in his voice cut through the silence.
"I'll take it."
Hodgson gave a single nod. He didn't need to say more.
"And up front — Harry Kane. You know your job. Link up, press from the front, drag the centre-backs out. Umtiti and Koscielny don't like being turned. Keep them honest."
Kane smiled faintly, tightening the tape around his wrist. "They'll know I'm there."
The old manager capped the marker, set it down, and let the silence linger. Every face in front of him was locked in — some with nerves, some with adrenaline, all with purpose.
"This isn't just a final," Hodgson said softly, looking around the room. "It's a chance to show what English football really means. You've carried yourselves with pride, with hunger, with unity. Don't lose that out there. France will have the crowd, the pressure, the home soil — let them. Because what we have is each other. Every tackle, every run, every inch — we fight for the man beside us."
He looked toward Rooney.
"Bring them home, captain."
Rooney stood, glancing around the room, then gave a simple, grounding nod. "We've come too far to let it slip now. Every one of us knows what's at stake. So when we walk out there — we make it count. For the badge. For everyone watching back home."
The words didn't need a response. They hung there — quiet, powerful, final.
Then came the sounds again: boots scraping tile, Velcro tightening, studs clicking against the concrete as players stood. Neville and Lewington exchanged a look; both assistants had that same taut energy in their posture, the controlled fire of men who'd lived this before but never tired of it.
Francesco bent down, tightened the straps on his boots until the pressure bit against his ankles. He tugged on his socks, adjusted the shin pads, and then leaned back for a moment — breathing slow, letting the air settle. The hum of the crowd outside was growing louder now, bleeding through the tunnel walls in waves.
The stadium was alive.
"Let's go," Rooney said finally, voice cutting through.
One by one, they filed toward the tunnel. Francesco was somewhere in the middle — the scent of liniment and grass thick in the air, the echo of drums above them. The closer they got to the tunnel mouth, the brighter it became. The ground trembled faintly beneath their boots, that unmistakable vibration of tens of thousands stamping, shouting, waiting.
Then the announcer's voice boomed through the speakers — first in French, then in English — naming the two nations that would contest the final of EURO 2016.
England. France.
The tunnel was lit in split colors — one half blue, one half white. The French players lined up opposite them, eyes sharp, faces set. Griezmann, Pogba, Giroud, Payet — familiar names, familiar threats. A few nods of acknowledgment passed between rivals who'd met in the Premier League or Champions League, but no words. Just the hum of mutual respect and mutual defiance.
Francesco stood shoulder to shoulder with Sterling. He could feel the heat of the lights, the damp of his own palms, the weight of everything pressing down and lifting him up at once. Sterling gave him a quick glance and a grin.
"Feels different, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," Francesco replied quietly. "Because it is."
Then came the cue.
The referees stepped forward, the officials gave the nod, and the anthem speakers roared to life. The tunnel opened up in a burst of color and sound — and suddenly, the world became noise and light and motion.
They walked out together — eleven men under a sky that had just begun to darken, the floodlights turning the pitch into gold. The air hit them in a wave — the roar of eighty thousand people, the whistle of chants, the thrum of drums, the glitter of camera flashes painting their faces white and silver.
Francesco's heart pounded in rhythm with the crowd.
As they stepped onto the pitch, the grass seemed impossibly green, almost glowing beneath the lights. He looked up — and there it was: the full sweep of the Stade de France, every seat filled, every voice raised. The English end was a storm of white flags and red crosses. The French end shimmered in deep blue and tricolour flares.
The anthem began.
"God Save the Queen" rolled out, carried by thousands. Francesco sang every word, not loud, but with conviction. He thought of Leah, of his parents, of all the nights and mornings and endless sessions that had brought him here. He thought of the long road — from the first touch of a football in the cold streets of Richmond to standing here, representing a nation.
When the anthem ended, the applause swallowed the stadium whole. Then came "La Marseillaise," fierce and proud, echoing off the steel. Francesco didn't understand the words, but he felt the passion. This was what football was meant to be — nations colliding, hearts in their throats.
When it ended, there was a moment's hush — the breath before battle.
Rooney shook hands with Lloris at the centre circle. The referee handed over the coin, the toss decided, and players began taking their positions.
Francesco jogged toward the right wing, feeling the turf give slightly under his boots. The ball gleamed under the lights, resting perfectly on the white mark. Kane was at the centre spot, adjusting his socks. Rooney came over, clapped both him and Francesco on the shoulders.
"Let's start fast," he said. "Let them feel us early."
"Always do," Kane replied.
Francesco gave a single nod, gaze fixed ahead. The French midfield was already forming up — Pogba, Matuidi, Sissoko — power and precision. He could see Payet drifting wide, Griezmann gesturing for movement, and Umtiti barking orders at the back.
The whistle hovered in the referee's hand.
The referee raised the whistle to his lips — that tiny sliver of metal that, for all its smallness, carried the power to start or stop dreams.
A short, sharp note cut through the roar of the crowd.
And just like that, the final of UEFA EURO 2016 began.
The ball rolled backward from Kane's first touch, slipping smoothly across the immaculate grass toward Henderson. The English captain in all but name, Rooney, immediately dropped deeper, calling for it with a shout that barely cut through the crowd's noise. The French front line pressed early — Giroud closing down Stones, Griezmann darting between passing lanes like a spark.
From the very first minute, it was clear: neither side had come here to wait.
The tempo was fierce.
Francesco darted into motion the moment Henderson released the ball to Walker. His boots tore faint ridges into the pitch as he sprinted forward, calling for the switch. The crowd on the England end roared in response, sensing danger. Walker took one touch, then another, before sliding it up the right flank — a pass weighted just enough to curl beyond Evra's reach.
Francesco met it in stride, bringing it down with his instep before cutting inside. The moment he turned, he saw blue shirts closing: Pogba's stride heavy and long, Koscielny already shifting across to block the channel. Francesco tried to slip it to Kane, but Koscielny's boot intercepted, clearing it high into the humid Paris night.
The ball landed near halfway, and suddenly France broke the other way — Payet to Pogba, Pogba to Sissoko, the rhythm fast and ruthless.
"Back, back!" Rooney's voice echoed through the din.
Henderson dropped into position as the French attack flowed toward the English box. Sissoko powered forward, shoulder down, brushing past Rose and cutting across the top of the area. For a split second, it opened — the line broke — and he unleashed a shot low to Hart's right.
Joe Hart dived full-stretch, fingertips grazing the ball to push it wide.
The first save of the night.
The stadium roared its approval, French and English alike — the kind of noise that made the turf itself seem to vibrate.
From the ensuing corner, Payet curled the ball toward the near post, where Giroud rose high — that trademark leap, all strength and timing — but Smalling met him midair, their shoulders colliding, sending the ball looping harmlessly out of play.
It had only been four minutes, and already, the match was on fire.
England responded in kind.
Henderson spread play wide to Rose, who surged up the left flank, his boots pounding the grass. Dele checked short, drawing Sagna with him, creating the gap Rose needed. A slick pass down the line found Sterling, who turned his man and drove toward the box.
"Cross! Cross!" Kane barked, arm raised.
Sterling curled it early — a teasing ball that bent between the keeper and defenders, begging for a touch. Francesco darted in at the far post, stretching — just inches from contact — but Lloris was there first, diving forward, both gloves out, clutching it to his chest.
Save number one for Hugo Lloris.
He was up in an instant, hurling the ball long toward Griezmann on the counter. The little forward let it bounce once, then volleyed it inside toward Payet, whose control was immaculate. The rhythm of play swung back like a pendulum, the noise building with every transition.
Rooney, deeper now, snapped into a tackle to stop Pogba's run — the impact echoing. The French crowd booed; the English sang.
Hodgson, arms folded by the dugout, didn't move. He was watching the shape — calm, assessing.
Neville shouted instructions from behind him: "Hendo, tighter! Don't let Pogba turn!"
By the tenth minute, the game had found its balance — a knife's edge equilibrium between two nations unwilling to yield an inch.
France pressed high, pushing Giroud between Stones and Smalling, while Griezmann drifted to find pockets of space. Pogba dictated from deep, launching passes that skimmed just above the grass, fizzing toward the flanks.
But England matched their intensity. Henderson's reading of the play was immaculate — one interception after another, his engine never stopping. Dele buzzed between lines, tugging Matuidi out of position. Rooney's voice carried across the grass, sharp, relentless, marshalling every press and retreat.
And Francesco — he was fire.
Twice, he broke beyond Evra, his acceleration too much for the veteran full-back. The first run drew a foul that earned England a dangerous free kick. Rooney took it, curling the ball toward the top corner — and forcing Lloris' second save, fingertips brushing it over the bar.
The corner came to nothing, but the English end roared, sensing they were finding rhythm.
France answered in kind. A Payet strike from 25 yards had venom behind it, dipping late, forcing Hart's second diving stop — his gloves slapping the ball away with a thunderous smack. Stones cleared, the crowd erupted, and the cycle continued.
It was chaos and beauty, collision and craft.
The midfield was a storm. Henderson and Pogba crashed again and again in tackles that reverberated through the stands. Dele's quick feet drew fouls; Sissoko's power broke lines. Every fifty-fifty ball was fought for like survival.
Francesco could feel his lungs burning already, sweat slick on his forehead, but he couldn't — wouldn't — slow down. The noise, the stakes, the sheer pulse of it all pushed him forward.
By the fifteenth minute, the match had already seen eight shots on target combined — four apiece.
Hart had denied Pogba twice, Sissoko once, and Griezmann's curling effort from distance that he palmed over. Lloris, meanwhile, had saved from Sterling, Rooney's free kick, a powerful volley from Kane, and Francesco's near-post strike after cutting inside.
Each save drew gasps, applause, disbelief. Each time, the crowd's heartbeat seemed to sync with the keepers' gloves.
At one point, after Hart's third save, Stones jogged past him with a grin, patting his shoulder.
"On fire, mate."
Hart just shook his head, breathing hard. "Just keeping us in it."
The next few minutes were war.
France began to tilt possession in their favor, Pogba and Matuidi recycling the ball with short, sharp passes, forcing England to chase shadows. Rooney urged his men to stay compact. "Patience! Don't bite!" he yelled, voice hoarse.
And they listened.
England's block held, tight and disciplined, their counterattacks sharp and sudden. In the 18th minute, one such break nearly split France open — Dele robbing Sissoko, threading the ball to Rooney, who immediately looked right.
Francesco was gone.
He tore down the flank, wind cutting past his ears, the crowd rising as he carried the ball forward. Evra gave chase but couldn't match his stride. At full speed, Francesco feinted inside, then cut back onto his right, sending a low ball across the box — inches from Kane's boot.
Lloris again. Diving low, catching it mid-slide, holding on.
That was save number four.
He lay there for a moment, clutching the ball as Kane and Francesco slowed their runs, frustration flashing in their eyes. The French captain got to his feet, glanced toward Francesco, and gave the smallest of nods — respect between warriors.
Francesco nodded back, chest heaving.
Hodgson clapped once from the touchline. "That's it, boys! Keep the pressure — it'll come!"
Rooney turned, gesturing to the wingers. "Keep wide! Stretch them!"
The response came instantly: England pushed higher. The shape widened.
For the first time, France looked a little unsettled.
Payet dropped deeper to help, but that only meant Giroud was isolated. Griezmann tried to fill the space, but Stones and Smalling were relentless — stepping up, pressing, intercepting. The rhythm swung again, the pendulum of control drifting back toward the men in white.
And yet, through it all, the tension didn't fade. Every clearance drew roars. Every pass carried weight.
By the twentieth minute, the scoreboard still read 0–0, but it felt like the match had already lived an hour's worth of football.
Hart had four saves.
Lloris had four saves.
Both sides had struck the post once.
And yet neither had blinked.
Francesco stood near the right touchline as the ball went out of play, hands on hips, chest rising and falling. Across the grass, he saw Pogba bent low, hands on his knees, sweat glistening on his forehead.
This was what finals were meant to be — not calm, not polished, but alive.
The kind of contest that stripped football down to its essence: heart, will, instinct.
Rooney jogged over, clapping his shoulder. "Keep running at him. You've got Evra on the ropes."
Francesco nodded, eyes never leaving the pitch. "I can feel it. One of these will break."
The ball came back into play, thrown by Walker, and the game roared back to life.
For twenty straight minutes, England and France had traded punches, parries, and perfect moments. It was fast, physical, beautiful chaos — the kind of start that would be remembered long after the final whistle.
________________________________________________
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: 6
Goal: 11
Assist: 3
MOTM: 5
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9