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That night, lying in bed again, Francesco felt the exhaustion settle in that not physical, but emotional. The kind that came from absorbing something new into your identity.
The exhaustion stayed with him longer than he expected.
Not the kind that made his legs heavy or his eyelids droop, but the quieter one that settled behind the ribs, where responsibility lived now. Francesco lay awake for a while after the lights went out, listening to the muted sounds of St. George's Park winding down for the night. Somewhere down the corridor, a door closed softly. A laugh drifted, then faded. A cart rolled past outside, wheels whispering over concrete.
England captain.
He didn't repeat the words to himself. He didn't need to. They were already there, lodged deep enough that trying to articulate them felt unnecessary, almost indulgent.
Eventually, sleep came. Deep. Dreamless.
Morning came early again.
This time, the alarm did wake him. A low vibration on the bedside table, steady and insistent. Francesco reached out, silenced it, and sat up in one smooth motion. Outside the window, the sky was pale, stretched thin with early light. Another day of transition.
He showered quickly, methodically, the routine grounding him. Pulling on the England tracksuit felt more familiar now than it had the day before. Not lighter, not heavier which just settled.
Downstairs, the lobby of St. George's Park was already alive.
Not loud.
Purposeful.
Players gathered in loose clusters, travel bags at their feet. Staff moved through with clipboards and quiet instructions. Someone wheeled a crate of water bottles toward the exit. The smell of coffee lingered, sharp and comforting.
Francesco stepped into the space and felt it again, that subtle shift. Conversations adjusted when he arrived. Not stopping, not freezing. Just… orienting.
Jordan Henderson caught his eye from across the room and lifted his chin in greeting. Harry Kane stood nearby, earbuds in, tapping something out on his phone. A few younger players hovered together, excitement barely contained beneath practiced calm.
Today, they were traveling.
Germany awaited.
Dortmund.
Signal Iduna Park.
Even thinking the name carried weight.
"Morning, skipper."
The voice came from his left. Wayne Rooney, travel bag slung over one shoulder, baseball cap pulled low. His tone was casual, but there was something steadier in his eyes than the night before.
"Morning," Francesco replied. "Sleep alright?"
Wayne shrugged. "As well as I ever do in these places."
A beat.
"I've been thinking," Wayne added, quieter now.
Francesco didn't push. He didn't need to.
Wayne nodded once, as if filing the thought away for later, and moved on toward the exit.
Francesco watched him go, then exhaled slowly.
Leadership, he was learning again, wasn't about collecting answers. It was about creating space for them to arrive.
The team bus waited outside, engine humming softly. The England crest gleamed on its side, clean and unmistakable. One by one, players loaded their bags beneath, then climbed aboard.
Francesco stepped on last, as instinct rather than instruction. The interior smelled faintly of leather and fresh air, the seats arranged in pairs. Some players claimed their usual spots. Others shifted, testing new arrangements.
Francesco moved toward the middle of the bus and took an aisle seat. A few moments later, Henderson slid into the seat across from him, offering a nod. Kane sat two rows ahead, already leaning back, eyes closed.
As the bus pulled away from St. George's Park, Francesco glanced out the window.
The complex receded quietly. Fields. Trees. The neat geometry of training pitches disappearing behind them.
A chapter closing.
Ahead lay the motorway, the airport, the flight.
Germany.
The airport was handled with efficiency.
Private entrance. Minimal disruption. Staff guiding them through security with practiced ease. There were a few glances from airport personnel with recognition flickering, quickly masked by professionalism.
Francesco walked through it all with his head level, backpack slung over one shoulder. He felt aware of the armband even though it wasn't there yet. A phantom weight, reminding him that eyes would always follow now, even when they pretended not to.
The plane waited on the tarmac, sleek and white, England crest near the door. Players boarded in small groups, greetings exchanged with flight crew.
Francesco paused briefly at the entrance.
The cabin stretched ahead of him, orderly, quiet. Seats already assigned. Windows catching the morning light.
He stepped inside.
As the plane taxied and eventually lifted off, England rising away from beneath them, Francesco allowed himself a moment to breathe. He watched clouds slide past the window, sunlight breaking and reforming across their surfaces.
This was international football.
Not weekly rhythms.
Not familiar opponents.
This was condensed pressure. Short camps. Immediate judgment.
Across the aisle, a younger midfielder stared out his own window, eyes wide, trying to absorb it all. Francesco caught his gaze briefly and smiled, just a little.
The kid smiled back, tension easing.
That mattered.
Dortmund greeted them with grey skies and a cold edge in the air.
The descent brought the city into view with industrial stretches giving way to dense neighborhoods, the geometry of roads and rooftops tight and purposeful. When the wheels touched down, there was a collective shift in the cabin. Belts clicked open. Bags were adjusted.
Germany.
The bus ride from Dortmund Airport to the hotel was quiet.
Not subdued.
Focused.
Outside, the city moved past in fragments from brick buildings, tram lines, flashes of yellow and black scarves hanging from balconies. Even without a matchday buzz, Dortmund carried football in its bones.
Signal Iduna Park loomed briefly in the distance as they passed it on a different route. Massive. Distinct. Yellow walls already visible even from afar.
A few heads turned instinctively toward the windows.
No one spoke.
They arrived at the hotel with a modern structure, glass and steel, understated but secure. Staff ushered them inside swiftly, luggage appearing as if by choreography.
Keys were distributed.
Dinner was scheduled.
Recovery protocols outlined.
Francesco made his way to his room, dropped his bag, and stood by the window for a moment.
The city stretched below, muted under cloud cover. Somewhere out there, the stadium waited.
Tomorrow.
The night passed smoothly.
Some players watched film. Others FaceTimed family. A few wandered down to the hotel lounge for quiet conversations that drifted and dissolved.
Francesco spent part of the evening reviewing Germany's recent matches. Not obsessively. Just enough to sharpen awareness.
Fluid midfield. High press. Ruthless transitions.
He closed the laptop and leaned back.
This was why he played.
Matchday arrived heavy with anticipation.
The hotel lobby buzzed from early morning. Breakfast was quieter than usual, conversations clipped, efficient. No nerves, but no wasted energy either.
By mid-morning, they gathered again as this time dressed in travel kits, boots packed, training gear ready.
The bus waited.
As they boarded, Francesco felt it more clearly now. The collective focus narrowing. Jokes fading. Music rising in headphones.
The drive to Signal Iduna Park was short but intense.
Traffic slowed as they neared the stadium. Police escorts joined. Fans appeared along the streets as some in German colors, some in England scarves, phones already raised.
The stadium emerged fully this time.
Signal Iduna Park.
Massive. Steep. Intimidating even when empty.
Yellow steel and concrete towering overhead.
The bus rolled beneath the structure and into the underground entrance. The engine cut. Silence followed, heavy and immediate.
"This is it," someone muttered quietly.
Francesco stood.
As captain, he stepped off first.
The tunnel swallowed them, fluorescent lights casting sharp shadows on concrete walls. The air smelled faintly of grass and history. Boots echoed with each step.
They reached the dressing room assigned to England.
Clean. Functional. Purpose-built.
Names taped above lockers.
Francesco's sat centrally.
He paused there for just a moment, then began to change.
Training kit on.
Boots laced.
Shin pads adjusted.
Around him, the room filled with the sounds of preparation with Velcro tearing, studs tapping, murmured conversations.
Southgate entered briefly, offering final reminders. Nothing dramatic. Trust over theatrics.
When it was time, the door opened.
They stepped into the tunnel again, this time leading out toward the pitch.
The stadium opened up suddenly, overwhelming even in its emptiness. Rows upon rows of yellow seats rising steeply, the vastness impossible to ignore.
Francesco stepped onto the grass.
The pitch was immaculate.
Perfectly trimmed. Firm beneath his boots.
The cold crept in properly once they were out there.
Not the sharp, punishing kind, but the kind that settled into the joints and stayed, reminding the body that this wasn't a friendly kickabout or a warm evening at Wembley. Dortmund in early spring carried a different edge. The air sat low and damp, breath faintly visible when players exhaled too hard.
Francesco rolled his shoulders as he stepped further onto the pitch, the grass springing back beneath his boots. He took a few slow strides, feeling the surface give just enough. Perfectly watered. Perfectly cut. A pitch designed for speed.
Around him, the rest of the England squad began to spread out instinctively, muscle memory taking over where nerves might otherwise have crept in.
Balls were rolled out from a mesh bag near the touchline. A staff member called something in a clipped voice. Studs tapped. Shin pads were checked one final time. Gloves were tugged tighter.
Francesco jogged lightly toward the halfway line, then turned back toward his teammates, clapping his hands once, softly, just to gather attention.
"Easy," he said. "Find your rhythm."
No shouting. No speech.
Just grounding.
They began with simple movements. Laps around a section of the pitch, building heat gradually. Francesco settled into an easy jog beside Kyle Walker, their breaths syncing after a few strides.
"Feels quick," Walker muttered, glancing down at the grass.
"Good," Francesco replied. "Use it."
Walker nodded, already adjusting his stride, already thinking about space and overlap.
Nearby, Adam Lallana moved with that familiar elastic looseness, hips swiveling as he loosened up, always half a beat away from improvisation even in warm-up. Dele Alli followed him, quieter in movement but alert, eyes constantly scanning.
Jordan Henderson barked something brief toward Eric Dier as they ran past each other, not sharp, just calibrating distances, communication starting early.
At the other end, Joe Hart stood near the penalty area, gloves on, working through simple catches with a coach. Each thud of the ball into his palms echoed slightly in the empty stadium.
Francesco slowed to a jog-in-place, lifting his knees higher now, arms pumping, feeling his heart rate climb. The vast yellow stands loomed over them, silent for now, but not empty in presence. Even without fans, Signal Iduna Park felt like it was watching.
They moved into passing drills.
Short, sharp exchanges at first. One-touch when possible. Two if needed.
Francesco slotted himself into a small triangle with Lallana and Dele. The ball zipped between them, feet soft, touches clean. Francesco dropped off slightly, then spun, opening his body to receive on the half-turn.
Lallana slid a pass into him. Francesco cushioned it, rolled it back with the sole of his boot, then darted sideways, already anticipating the next movement.
"Again," Dele said quietly.
They repeated it. Faster.
A staff member called time, and the drill shifted. Longer passes now. Diagonals. Switches of play.
Ryan Bertrand sent one arcing across to Walker, who took it in stride and whipped a low ball back into the box. Francesco attacked the space instinctively, meeting it with a controlled touch before pulling up just short of a shot.
No finishing yet. Just patterns.
Germany's half of the pitch remained empty, but their presence was felt anyway. The knowledge of who would soon occupy those spaces sharpened everything.
Hummels' positioning.
Rüdiger's aggression.
Kimmich's intelligence.
Ter Stegen's calm behind them.
Francesco jogged back toward the centre circle, wiping his hands on his shorts, breath steady now. He glanced toward the touchline where Gareth Southgate stood, hands in pockets, eyes following movement rather than individuals.
Trust over theatrics.
They finished warm-up with shooting drills.
First without pressure. Then with light resistance.
Francesco took his turns from different angles. A quick layoff from Lallana, a snap shot low toward the corner. Then a ball clipped in from Walker, met with a controlled volley, guided rather than smashed.
Each strike was measured. Not about power. About feel.
Joe Hart faced him once, gloves snapping as he pushed a shot wide.
"Sharp," Joe said, nodding.
Francesco smiled faintly. "You too."
Eventually, the staff clapped their hands together, calling them in.
"That's enough. In."
The session had done its job. Legs warm. Minds narrowing.
They jogged back toward the tunnel together, a compact group now, shoulders brushing as they passed beneath the stands and into the concrete belly of the stadium.
The dressing room welcomed them back with artificial warmth.
Steam rose faintly as damp training tops were peeled away. The smell of liniment and grass mixed with the hum of ventilation. Players moved with purpose, but not haste.
Francesco sat at his locker, unlacing his boots slowly. He peeled off his socks, flexed his toes, then reached for the match kit folded neatly above his seat.
White shirt.
Number nine.
The armband waiting.
He pulled it on carefully, smoothing the fabric down, then slid the armband up his sleeve, adjusting it until it sat comfortably. Not too tight. Not loose.
Around him, the room changed.
Training gear disappeared. Matchday faces emerged.
Southgate stepped into the centre of the room once everyone was changed, his presence quieting the last scraps of conversation. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Alright," he said, calm and steady. "This is it."
He gestured toward the tactics board.
"We're going three at the back," he continued. "Three-four-two-one."
No murmurs. They already knew. This was confirmation, not revelation.
"Joe," he nodded toward Hart. "You start."
Joe gave a short nod, jaw set.
"Back three," Southgate said, tapping the board. "Michael, Gary, Chris."
Keane. Cahill. Smalling.
"Be compact. Communicate early. Don't let them turn."
He moved his hand forward.
"Jordan. Eric. You anchor us."
Henderson straightened slightly. Dier rolled his shoulders once.
"Control the centre. Win second balls. Be brave."
Southgate shifted again.
"Ryan on the left. Kyle on the right."
Bertrand and Walker both nodded, already visualizing their lanes.
"Balance your runs. Choose your moments. Recover fast."
Then the two just behind Francesco.
"Adam. Dele."
Lallana leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. Dele sat back, eyes focused.
"Find pockets. Link the lines. Make them choose."
Finally, Southgate looked directly at Francesco.
"And up top," he said simply. "Francesco."
No embellishment.
Captain.
"You lead the line. You set the tone. Press smart. Hold it when we need you to. Hurt them when it's there."
Francesco met his gaze and nodded once.
Southgate took a breath.
"Bench," he added, turning slightly. "Tom. Fraser. John. Luke. Nathaniel. Ross. James. Alex. Jesse. Marcus. Raheem. Wayne. Harry."
Each name landed with weight. Depth. Options.
"No one here is a passenger," Southgate finished. "Stay connected. Trust each other."
He stepped back.
"That's it."
No dramatic send-off. No last-minute shouting.
Just clarity.
They rose together.
Boots were checked one final time. Shin pads tapped into place. Gloves adjusted. Francesco tugged the armband once more, then took a step toward the door.
The tunnel awaited.
They formed up behind the refereeing team, the official in black standing at the front, assistants flanking him. Germany lined up beside them, red and black filling the opposite side of the narrow space.
Francesco's eyes flicked across instinctively.
There was Lukas Podolski, captain's armband on his arm, familiar face, familiar presence. Older now. Heavier with experience. Still dangerous.
Podolski caught Francesco's gaze and gave him a brief nod.
Respect.
Behind Podolski stood Julian Weigl, calm and composed. Toni Kroos beside him, posture relaxed, eyes already thinking three passes ahead.
Further back, Timo Werner bounced lightly on his toes, restless. Leroy Sané rolled his shoulders, loose and coiled. Julian Brandt adjusted his sleeves, expression unreadable.
At the back, Hummels spoke quietly to Rüdiger. Kimmich glanced toward the pitch entrance. Hector stood with hands on hips.
Ter Stegen, last in line, calm as ever.
The referee turned.
"Gentlemen," he said. "Let's go."
The doors opened.
Noise rushed in.
Even without full capacity, Signal Iduna Park came alive the moment they stepped out. A wall of sound rolled down from the stands, yellow and black surging, England pockets responding in white and red.
Francesco stepped forward with the referee, heart rate ticking up, senses sharpening.
They walked out together.
The pitch stretched ahead, green and immaculate under the floodlights. The air vibrated now, crowd energy pressing in from all sides.
They lined up beside the referee.
Handshakes followed.
Firm grips. Brief eye contact.
Francesco shook hands with Podolski, then with Kroos, then with Ter Stegen.
"Good luck," Ter Stegen said quietly.
"You too," Francesco replied.
They broke into their starting elevens, lining up for the cameras.
The photo was taken quickly. Eleven men standing shoulder to shoulder, faces set, moment frozen.
Then it was time.
Francesco and Podolski walked toward the centre circle with the referee between them. The noise swelled again as they stood beneath the stadium lights.
The coin flashed as it spun.
"Call it," the referee said.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Right."
The coin landed.
The referee nodded. "England's ball."
Francesco exhaled slowly and nodded back.
Kick-off.
They returned to their positions.
Francesco stood alone at the front, just inside Germany's half, the ball resting beneath his boot. Dele and Lallana hovered behind him, angled slightly, ready to move.
He glanced left. Bertrand was already high. Right. Walker coiled, ready to explode forward.
Behind him, Henderson and Dier anchored themselves. Further back, Cahill, Keane, and Smalling formed a compact line in front of Joe Hart.
The whistle blew.
Francesco rolled the ball back.
The match began.
Germany pressed immediately.
Hector stepped up. Kimmich tucked in. Rüdiger edged closer to Francesco, physical from the first second.
The ball moved quickly through England's midfield, Lallana dropping to receive, Kroos shadowing him closely. Henderson and Dier engaged with Weigl and Podolski, bodies colliding, space contested.
Francesco drifted wide, pulling Hummels with him, opening a channel. Dele tried to exploit it, bursting through, only to be met by Kimmich's interception.
Germany transitioned fast.
Werner sprinted into the channel, Sané overlapping. Cahill stepped across, timing his challenge perfectly, forcing the ball wide.
The crowd roared.
England responded.
Walker surged forward, exchanging passes with Dele, whipping a ball toward the near post. Francesco attacked it, rising between Hummels and Rüdiger, glancing it just wide.
Close.
Very close.
At the back, Hart barked instructions, voice cutting through the noise. Smalling tracked Brandt tightly. Keane stepped in front of Werner, using his body well.
In midfield, the battle intensified.
Podolski dropped deeper, linking with Kroos. Henderson pressed him aggressively, Dier sweeping behind, snapping into tackles when space opened.
Lallana wriggled free once, twice, twisting away from Weigl, slipping a pass into Bertrand's path. Bertrand drove forward, cut inside, forced Ter Stegen into a low save.
The tempo was relentless.
Germany pushed again. Sané danced past Walker, cut the ball back toward Werner. Cahill threw himself across the line, blocking with his thigh.
The ball ricocheted loose.
Francesco dropped deep to help, muscling past Kroos, turning and driving forward again, refusing to let England sink.
Francesco felt it before it happened.
Not the goal itself, not the finish, but the shift with the way Germany's back line began to lean just a fraction too far toward the ball, the way space started to appear not wide and obvious, but thin and fleeting, like a crack in glass that only showed if you were looking for it.
England had weathered the early storm.
The first twenty minutes had been sharp, unforgiving. Germany pressed in waves, Kroos dictating tempo when allowed, Sané testing Walker again and again with that gliding, elastic stride. Werner's movement was constant, never still, always dragging defenders half a step out of shape. Every clearance felt temporary. Every possession felt earned.
And yet, England held.
Cahill was immense, reading danger before it formed. Keane stepped in with authority, timing his interceptions cleanly. Smalling matched Werner stride for stride more than once, using his body intelligently rather than diving in.
Behind them, Joe Hart was loud which unapologetically so. His voice cut through the stadium, through the noise, through the pressure.
"Step up!"
"Hold!"
"Again!"
In midfield, Henderson and Dier worked relentlessly. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't meant to be. Henderson snapped into challenges, then immediately showed for the ball again. Dier screened, shuffled, broke passing lanes. Kroos still found moments, but they were moments now, not stretches.
Ahead of them, Lallana and Dele floated between lines, always on the move, always offering angles. Sometimes they received cleanly. Sometimes they were swallowed by red shirts. But Germany had to track them, had to respect them, and that mattered.
And then there was Walker.
Kyle Walker, on the right, was relentless.
He pushed high when England had the ball, dropped deep when they didn't, and every time he received it with space ahead of him, Germany's shape tightened instinctively. Hector hesitated. Sané tracked back. Rüdiger shifted across.
Francesco noticed.
He had been drifting, testing Hummels, pulling him wide, then darting back inside. Sometimes he dropped deep, sometimes he pressed high. He wasn't hunting a goal. Not consciously.
He was hunting the moment.
It came in the thirty-second minute.
England had possession deep on the right, Walker collecting a simple pass from Henderson. Germany's press arrived late, half a second off. Walker took a touch forward, head up.
Francesco was central at first, marked tightly by Hummels. He feinted toward the near post, dragging the defender with him, then checked his run suddenly, stepping back into the space between Hummels and Rüdiger.
Walker saw it.
He didn't hesitate.
The ball came low and hard, drilled across the face of the box, threading the narrow channel like it had been drawn there.
Francesco met it in stride.
One touch.
Not to control. To redirect.
He opened his body and guided it with the inside of his right foot, angling it away from Ter Stegen, past the outstretched glove, toward the far corner.
Time slowed.
The ball kissed the turf once.
Then the net rippled.
For half a heartbeat, there was silence that shock more than absence.
Then Signal Iduna Park erupted.
England's corner of the stadium exploded in sound, white shirts leaping to their feet, scarves thrown skyward. Francesco didn't celebrate immediately. He turned first, arms half-raised, eyes finding Walker.
Kyle Walker was already sprinting toward him, face split with disbelief and joy.
They collided near the edge of the box, Francesco wrapping him in a fierce embrace, shouting something incoherent into his shoulder.
"Get in!" Walker yelled back, breathless.
Around them, teammates swarmed.
Lallana grabbed Francesco around the neck. Dele punched the air, laughing. Henderson arrived last, hands on hips for a split second before clapping hard, pride written plainly across his face.
Francesco finally allowed himself the release.
He turned toward the stands, fists clenched at his sides, chest rising and falling. He didn't scream. He didn't slide.
He simply stood there, absorbing it.
England led.
In Dortmund.
Against Germany.
As captain.
The restart came quickly.
Germany didn't panic. They never did.
Podolski dropped deeper immediately, demanding the ball, gesturing for calm. Kroos took over rhythm again, spreading play wide, probing. Sané pushed higher. Werner hovered on the shoulder of the last defender.
England responded by narrowing.
The back three tucked in. Bertrand dropped slightly. Walker balanced his runs more carefully now. Henderson and Dier sat even closer to the defence, forming a dense block.
The remainder of the half settled into something tense and controlled.
Germany dominated possession, but England limited space. Shots were rare. Half-chances smothered. Crosses cleared.
Francesco continued to work tirelessly, pressing when he could, holding the ball when England needed to breathe. He took fouls. Drew defenders. Bought seconds.
The whistle for halftime arrived almost unexpectedly.
Relief rippled through England's players.
They walked toward the tunnel together, shoulders brushing, expressions focused rather than celebratory. One goal meant nothing yet.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere was intense but composed.
Players collapsed onto benches, gulping water, towels draped over shoulders. Steam rose from bodies cooling too quickly. The goal replay flashed briefly on a small screen before being switched off.
Southgate waited until everyone had settled.
"Good," he said simply. "Very good."
He gestured toward the board.
"They'll come harder. We know that. Don't drop too deep. When we win it, first pass forward if it's on. If not, keep it. Make them work."
He looked at Walker.
"Kyle, keep trusting that run."
Walker nodded.
He looked at Francesco.
"Same movement. Keep them guessing."
Francesco nodded once, breathing steady.
"Defensively," Southgate continued, "stay connected. Don't get dragged wide unnecessarily. Force them outside."
No shouting.
No fear.
Just clarity.
They rose again, refocused, and headed back out.
The second half began at a furious pace.
Germany came out aggressive, pushing numbers forward, playing quicker, sharper. England responded in kind, matching intensity rather than retreating.
For ten minutes, it was end-to-end.
Sané broke free once, forcing Hart into a sharp save at his near post. At the other end, Dele slipped Francesco through with a perfectly weighted pass, only for Ter Stegen to smother bravely at his feet.
The crowd was fully alive now, noise surging and dipping with every transition.
Then, gradually, the game shifted again.
The pace dropped just a fraction. Both teams settled back into counter-attacking shapes, aware of the danger on offer.
England defended deeper now, inviting Germany on, looking to strike through Walker or Bertrand on the break. Germany circulated patiently, probing for gaps.
It was in the fifty-seventh minute that Germany found their reward.
The move began innocuously, Kroos recycling possession back to Weigl. The ball moved left, then right, drawing England's midfield across.
Sané received it wide, just outside the box.
Walker stepped out to meet him, body low, stance balanced. Sané feinted, cut inside, then slipped a perfectly timed pass through the channel.
Podolski had drifted into space unnoticed.
He met the ball first time, striking through it with his left foot, low and precise.
Hart dived.
He got fingertips to it.
But not enough.
The ball nestled into the corner.
1–1.
The stadium exploded again, this time in yellow and black.
Podolski turned away, arms spread, face fierce with emotion. Teammates piled onto him. The noise was deafening.
Francesco stood near the centre circle, hands on hips, breathing deeply.
He didn't look angry.
He looked focused.
He clapped his hands once, loudly this time.
"Alright," he called. "Again."
The match reset.
England gathered themselves, heads lifting, shoulders squaring. They had been here before. They would be here again.
Germany pressed, buoyed by momentum. England responded with steel.
The reset after Podolski's strike was tense but brief. Francesco, sweat still dripping from his brow, turned toward Henderson and Dier, catching their eyes, offering a small, steadying nod. They didn't need words. They understood with the game was far from over. Germany were buoyed now, energized by the equalizer, and every English player felt the invisible tug of urgency pressing into their muscles.
Francesco slid back into rhythm. His right foot nudged the ball forward, met by Lallana's pass. He took it cleanly, half-turned, and felt the familiar weight of anticipation settle across his shoulders. Every pass, every touch, carried more than technique now; it carried responsibility. Germany's midfield surged around him as Kroos and Weigl pressing in tandem, Podolski drifting like a shadow in between. Each movement had to be precise. Each step measured.
For the next few minutes, the battle raged. Germany's tempo was relentless. Sané darted along England's right flank again, teasing Walker before the substitution eventually replaced him with Sterling. Werner, Müller, and Brandt rotated across the forward line, creating angles and confusion. England's defensive trio of Cahill, Smalling, and Keane were constantly adjusting, speaking in sharp, clipped bursts:
"Step up!"
"Watch your line!"
"Hold the gap!"
Francesco found himself dropping slightly deeper than before, feeling the spaces open in front of him as Germany shifted across the pitch. He was the striker as the ball moved through him, through his body and feet, guiding England's attack when the chance arose.
Then came the sixty-second minute. Southgate, calmly observing from the sideline, made the decisions that would shift the match. Bertrand, exhausted from chasing wide German wingers all night, was replaced by Raheem Sterling. Dele Alli, whose energy had been vital but now fraying under constant tracking, was taken off for Wayne Rooney. Walker, relentless as ever on the right, made way for Harry Kane, who would take up the striker's mantle, and Dier shifted aside, replaced by James Ward-Prowse to add fresh legs and composure in midfield.
The reshuffle rippled through England instantly. Francesco moved to the right midfield, a position requiring him to balance defensive diligence with offensive thrusts. Kane's presence up top demanded attention, and the German defenders of Hummels, Rüdiger, Kimmich, Hector that immediately recalibrated. England's attack felt sharper now, more structured, yet still dangerous in its fluidity.
Germany responded in kind. Joachim Löw was unafraid to alter his own setup: Brandt, Weigl, Werner, and Podolski all came off, replaced by Schürrle, Can, Müller, and Rudy. Löw's substitutions were bold, aimed at pressing England higher, regaining control of midfield, and finding another opening against a defense that had already frustrated them.
Francesco adapted instantly, sensing where the gaps appeared. Kane received a long diagonal from Henderson and shielded the ball, holding off Rüdiger before spinning to lay it wide for Francesco. Sterling had already darted into the space vacated by Walker, offering an option for the right channel. Francesco crossed cautiously at first, testing the new configuration. Germany shifted again, Müller dropping deeper to cut angles, Can pressing the centre.
Minutes passed with possession flowing, probing and retreating, England inching forward without overcommitting. Francesco felt the rhythm of the crowd, the silent push behind every English pass. Signal Iduna Park, even with pockets of German support, was vibrating now with tension, every decision amplified.
Then, seventy-six minutes in, it broke. Lallana, who had been darting between lines with relentless intelligence, received a pass from Ward-Prowse, shifted his weight, and saw Rooney moving into the box. Francesco had already pulled wide, dragging a defender with him, creating the crucial opening. Lallana's pass was precise, threaded into the space Rooney had carved for himself.
Rooney didn't hesitate. One touch to control, one sharp strike, and the ball flashed past Ter Stegen's outstretched hands, nestling into the corner.
2–1.
The eruption was instantaneous. England fans screamed in unison, a tidal wave of white and red. Wayne Rooney spun toward the bench, fists clenched, letting out a triumphant roar. Kane sprinted up, clapping him on the back. Francesco, slightly winded, joined the celebration, giving Rooney a firm pat on the shoulder, his eyes scanning the field even as the adrenaline surged.
Germany didn't wilt. They pushed immediately, trying to find the equalizer. Schürrle darted wide, Müller and Can orchestrated attacks from midfield, and Sane tore forward in bursts that forced England's defense into full alert. Cahill, Keane, and Smalling communicated constantly, adjusting and closing channels. Walker and Francesco tracked back, intercepting passes, tackling hard but clean, denying any rhythm to Germany's advances.
England countered whenever possible. Kane held the ball up at the top, flicking it back to Ward-Prowse or Sterling, allowing England to exploit the space behind Germany's pressing line. Francesco made clever runs down the right, pulling defenders out of shape, creating just enough disruption to give England breathing room.
The last ten minutes were tense. Germany committed more bodies forward, desperate to restore parity. Podolski had returned briefly for rotation, Sané's bursts were increasingly dangerous, but England's compact shape held. Every interception, every tackle, every clearance counted. Joe Hart remained calm, commanding the box, punching away crosses, organizing his defenders with authority that belied the stadium's intensity.
Francesco's legs burned, but he pushed on. He had become the bridge between the attack and the defense now, tracking back relentlessly, offering passes forward when he could, pressing intelligently. Kane's presence at striker meant he could pass off the direct finishing role but still influence the game's tempo and pull German defenders in ways that created opportunities for the rest of the team.
In the final minutes, Germany threw caution to the wind. Crosses came from every angle. Long balls, through balls, insistent pressure. England absorbed it, shape remaining disciplined, cohesion unbroken. Sterling and Rooney harried passing lanes, Ward-Prowse and Henderson protected the midfield, and the back three oc Cahill, Keane, Smalling stood like a wall. Francesco intercepted a dangerous pass into the box, rolled the ball to Kane, who cleared it into touch. Another wave came. Another clearance.
And then, finally, the whistle.
It sounded like a release. A declaration. England had survived. England had triumphed.
2–1.
Francesco dropped to his knees briefly, exhausted but exhilarated. Around him, teammates embraced, panting, shouting, laughing. Rooney lifted his arms toward the crowd, Kane slapped backs and shook hands with Henderson and Lallana. Walker and Sterling exchanged high-fives. Even the substitutes spilling onto the pitch with Ward-Prowse, Oxlade-Chamberlain, Lingard joined in the celebration, proud and relieved.
Francesco stood slowly, scanning the field. Ter Stegen walked off toward his goal line, calm, dignified despite the loss. Podolski and Müller exchanged quiet words, acknowledging the effort. And Germany, though defeated, had been formidable that forcing every player to give more than they had at any previous point in the match.
Signal Iduna Park continued to hum around them, now a chorus of England fans celebrating the win, yellow and black still prominent, but fading under the sheer volume of white and red. Francesco raised a hand toward the away fans, clapping slowly, deliberately, taking a moment to acknowledge their support.
Kyle Walker jogged over beside him, breathing heavily, a grin plastered on his face. "That… that was intense," he said, shaking his head.
"Yeah," Francesco replied, voice low but steady. "But we did it. Everyone did."
Wayne Rooney came up, slapping Francesco's back firmly. "Captain. Well done. You set the tone. Kept us together."
Francesco nodded, shoulders slumping just slightly under the weight of exertion. Leadership, he knew, wasn't in celebration. It was in maintaining calm, distributing responsibility, trusting the team. Tonight, it had worked.
As the squad regrouped and began jogging slowly toward the tunnel, clapping hands and exchanging laughter, Francesco allowed himself one glance back at the pitch. The grass gleamed under the floodlights, the stadium walls looming like sentinels. Every inch of it would hold memories of the game from the pressing, the tackles, the passes, the goals.
Inside the tunnel, voices were higher now, lighter. Southgate's expression was measured but unmistakably pleased. "Well done," he said simply, meeting Francesco's gaze. "You led them. Exactly what we needed."
Francesco exhaled deeply, feeling the lingering exhaustion as a quiet, satisfying weight. Outside, fans lingered along the barriers, waving scarves, clapping, cheering the players off the pitch. England had won in Dortmund. They had beaten Germany.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (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, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 39
Goal: 61
Assist: 3
MOTM: 8
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9