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Francesco sat back in his chair, the words still echoing in his head. Tomorrow wasn't just Wales. Tomorrow was the chance to prove that his debut wasn't a fluke, that his goals weren't just a burst of luck. Tomorrow was the step that could turn a dream into a story.
Morning broke in Lens with a sharp clarity. Sunlight cut through the thin curtains of Francesco's hotel room, laying bright lines across the bedspread. He'd managed only fragments of sleep — not the tossing, turning kind, but the restless drift of someone whose mind had been sprinting all night. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw the Welsh shirts, the flash of Bale's speed, the roar of the crowd to come.
By the time his alarm buzzed, he was already sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, head bowed. The air felt heavy with anticipation, but there was also something clean in it — the sense of a page waiting to be written.
He showered, dressed, and packed the small bag England staff had instructed each player to carry for matchday: boots polished, shin guards tucked neatly, headphones looped around the strap. By late morning, the corridors of the hotel pulsed with the quiet movement of teammates doing the same.
Breakfast was subdued. Plates clinked gently, voices stayed low. Some players ate heartily — Vardy piling eggs and toast, Sterling sipping orange juice between mouthfuls — while others picked nervously at lighter meals. Francesco found himself somewhere in between, forcing fuel into his body even as adrenaline dulled his appetite.
Rooney sat nearby, calm as stone, speaking occasionally in short bursts — a reminder here, a bit of reassurance there. His presence steadied the table.
By noon, the staff reminded them to head back to their rooms. The lobby call was set: 1 PM sharp.
When the clock finally struck, the players began filing down, one by one, into the hotel lobby. It was a strange sight: men who hours ago had looked like ordinary travelers now stood transformed, sharp in their tailored England tracksuits, each carrying the weight of expectation stitched into the crest on their chest.
The lobby buzzed with restrained energy. Staff scurried with clipboards, photographers snapped discreet shots, security men spoke into earpieces. Yet amidst it all, the players gathered in small clusters — Kane with Alli, Sterling with Stones, Francesco with Wilshere — conversations short, eyes flicking constantly toward the glass doors.
At precisely 1 PM, Hodgson arrived, flanked by Neville and Southgate. His presence didn't silence the room, but it drew it into order, as though a string had been pulled tight.
"Gentlemen," he said with a small nod, his voice steady. "Bus is ready. Let's go."
And just like that, the team began to move.
The bus loomed outside, its body wrapped in white and red, the Three Lions crest emblazoned on its side. As they climbed aboard, cameras flashed from behind the barricades, journalists shouting questions that dissolved into the air.
Inside, the players settled into their usual places. Francesco took his spot by the window, headphones slung around his neck but not yet playing. Kane dropped into the seat beside him, bottle of water in hand. Across the aisle, Rooney leaned back, eyes closed, already locking into his pre-match bubble.
The engine hummed to life, the gears shifting as the bus pulled away from the hotel.
At first, the streets were ordinary — quiet stretches of suburban Lens, shopfronts shuttered, children on bicycles pointing and waving as the team rolled past. But the closer they drew to the stadium, the louder it became.
The first hint was a scattering of England flags draped from balconies, flapping in the breeze. Then, clusters of fans appeared — some in white jerseys, others in red, scarves aloft, singing snatches of chants that carried even through the closed windows of the bus.
"EN-GER-LAND! EN-GER-LAND!"
A few streets later, the colors shifted — green, red, and white. Wales fans. Their voices were just as fierce, their chants just as loud.
"WALES! WALES! GARETH BALE!"
Francesco pressed his forehead lightly to the glass, watching as the two seas of supporters seemed to pour into the same streets, kept apart only by lines of police. The noise collided, chants overlapping into a chaotic symphony. Some fans banged on barriers, others waved scarves like weapons. Yet for all the rivalry, there was a strange beauty in it — two nations converging, passion spilling over every pavement crack.
The bus crept forward, police motorcycles guiding its path. Francesco caught sight of a young boy on his father's shoulders, draped in an England flag. The kid's face lit up as the bus passed, his small hand punching the air. That image burned itself into Francesco's mind, more than the chants, more than the colors. That was who they played for.
Kane nudged him lightly. "Mad, innit?"
Francesco smirked faintly. "Yeah. Feels like we're driving into a storm."
"Good storm," Kane said simply, then twisted the cap off his water.
By the time the bus turned into the approach of Stade Bollaert-Delelis, the noise outside was deafening. The stadium rose above the streets like a fortress of steel and glass, its stands already vibrating with early arrivals. Flags rippled from every corner, the air charged with anticipation.
The bus hissed to a stop at 1:30 PM sharp. Security moved swiftly, ushering the players down the steps and through a tunnel of staff into the bowels of the stadium. The air was cooler here, shaded, echoing faintly with distant chants seeping through concrete walls.
The dressing room awaited them — large, rectangular, lined with wooden benches and hooks. England shirts hung in pristine order, each with its number, each a silent reminder of the responsibility it carried. Francesco found his — the fabric crisp, the number shining against the white. He brushed his hand over the crest briefly before setting his bag down.
The room filled with the sounds of zippers, Velcro, and the low murmur of voices. Players changed swiftly, trading tracksuits for training kits — white tops, navy shorts. Boots were laced loosely for now, socks rolled halfway. Staff moved in and out, delivering water bottles, taping ankles, adjusting equipment.
"Ten minutes, lads," Neville called, his voice brisk. "Then we're out for warm-up."
Francesco tied the final knot on his laces, exhaling slowly. The room smelled faintly of grass already, carried in by kit bags. The adrenaline was there, simmering just beneath the surface, but the routine kept it in check.
When the call came, they moved as one.
The tunnel was long, concrete walls echoing with every step. Francesco fell into stride between Wilshere and Sterling, the three of them exchanging brief glances but no words. Ahead, Rooney walked with his usual steady gait, shoulders squared, eyes forward.
And then they emerged.
The pitch opened up like a stage. Sunlight spilled across the grass, the stands towering, filled already with waves of red and white. The noise hit them instantly — not a roar, but a rolling thunder of voices, songs clashing, drums pounding. It vibrated through Francesco's chest, made his pulse jump.
England fans cheered the moment they saw their team step out, flags lifted high. Wales supporters responded in kind, their own chants surging louder. The atmosphere was alive, electric, thick with rivalry.
Francesco jogged lightly onto the grass, the studs of his boots biting into the turf. The ground felt firm, perfect. He glanced around — Kane stretching beside him, Hart clapping his gloves, Rooney already speaking with a coach.
They spread out across the pitch, trainers setting up cones. The warm-up began: light jogs, high knees, stretches. Then came ball work — short passes, one-touch drills, movement in tight triangles. Francesco felt his muscles loosen, the rhythm of touch and pass calming his nerves. The ball felt good at his feet, responsive, almost eager.
From the stands, the fans never stopped. Every completed drill drew cheers, every goal in the finishing practice sparked applause. Francesco could hear his name again, shouted from somewhere high up, but he kept his eyes on the ball, on the work.
This was routine. This was preparation. The storm outside the lines could rage, but here, between the white marks of the pitch, everything was simple.
Pass. Move. Shoot.
Focus.
The warm-up ended as swiftly as it had begun. The final sprint drills pushed their lungs hard, the finishing exercises left boots smudged with divots of turf, and the passing rondos wound down with sharp claps from Neville.
"Alright lads, bring it in!" his voice rang across the pitch, sharp and commanding.
The squad jogged together toward the sideline, beads of sweat running down their faces, breath steadying in unison. They gave a few waves to the supporters as they retreated toward the tunnel, the roar of England fans mixing with the defiant songs of Wales.
Inside, the sound shifted instantly. The tunnel swallowed the chaos, muting it into a low hum that echoed off the concrete walls. Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere thickened. The air smelled of liniment, fresh sweat, and the faint tang of polished leather boots. Shirts hung neatly where the staff had prepared them, each one crisp white, numbers bold, the Three Lions crest gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
Francesco found his spot. Number 9. His name stitched above it still felt surreal. He ran a thumb along the fabric, pausing for just a heartbeat before pulling it over his head. It clung cool against his skin, almost heavy, like it knew the history sewn into its threads.
Players around him moved with quiet focus. Kane tugged his socks high before taping them, Sterling bounced lightly on his toes as though trying to shake nerves away. Cahill stretched his calves against the bench. Rooney — calm as stone — tightened the captain's armband around his left arm with practiced precision.
Then Hodgson's voice cut across the room, low but firm.
"Gentlemen," he began, standing at the front with Neville and Southgate beside him. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture upright. The room stilled, all eyes finding him.
"This is it," Hodgson said. "Matchday. Lens. England versus Wales." His eyes scanned the room, his tone deliberate. "You know the stakes. You win today, you top the group. You go through to the next round. Nothing left to chance. No waiting on other results. It is in your hands — and only in your hands."
He let that sit, his gaze moving slowly from Hart to Rooney, then to the younger faces — Alli, Sterling, Francesco.
"This is how we play," he continued, shifting his weight slightly. "Formation: 4-2-3-1."
He raised a hand, ticking off each position with steady rhythm.
"Joe Hart, goalkeeper."
Hart smacked his gloves together once, the sound echoing in the room.
"Defenders, left to right: Danny Rose, Gary Cahill, Chris Smalling, Kyle Walker."
Rose nodded, head bowed in focus. Cahill leaned forward, lacing his boots tighter. Smalling adjusted his shin pads, jaw set. Walker gave a small grin, bouncing one leg lightly.
"Midfield. Eric Dier, defensive anchor."
Dier gave a small fist pump.
"Beside him, Dele Alli, central midfielder."
Alli cracked his knuckles, eyes sharp.
"Wayne Rooney," Hodgson said, his tone carrying weight, "attacking midfielder. And captain."
Rooney lifted his chin slightly, meeting the eyes of teammates around him. He didn't need to say a word.
"On the wings: Raheem Sterling on the left. Francesco Lee on the right."
Sterling gave a sharp nod. Francesco drew a breath deep into his chest, his hand brushing the England crest again. This was it.
"And up top," Hodgson concluded, "Harry Kane as striker."
Kane smirked faintly, exhaling through his nose.
Hodgson's gaze swept the substitutes next. "Your bench: James Milner, Nathaniel Clyne, Fraser Forster, Jordan Henderson, John Stones, Ross Barkley, Jack Wilshere, Adam Lallana, Daniel Sturridge, Tom Heaton. Every one of you may be needed. Be ready."
Silence followed. The weight of the lineup settled into the room like a heavy cloak. Then Hodgson spoke again, softer this time.
"I don't need fireworks from you. I don't need reckless risks. I need efficiency. I need focus. I need you to play as a team." His eyes locked with Rooney's. "Wayne, lead them." Then they flicked briefly to Francesco. "And play without fear. That's why you're here."
He clapped his hands once, sharp. "Now — let's go."
Boots clattered as they rose. Gloves tightened, socks adjusted, final sips of water taken. The staff collected bags, leaving the benches clear. Rooney was first toward the tunnel, Francesco falling into stride behind him with Sterling. The narrow corridor smelled faintly of damp concrete, its air heavy with anticipation.
And then they stopped. The Welsh players were there already — red shirts, green trim, their dragon crest bold on their chests. Gareth Bale stood tall, hair slicked back into a tight knot, his expression calm but eyes blazing. Ramsey stretched at his shoulders, Ashley Williams spoke quietly with a teammate.
For a moment, the tunnel felt smaller, the air thicker. England on one side, Wales on the other, separated by a thin strip of concrete and the referee's assistants. The murmur of the crowd outside was distant thunder waiting to crash.
The referee gave the signal.
"Alright lads, let's have you out."
The players began to walk. Step by step, boots clicking against the floor, the tunnel sloping upward toward daylight. Francesco felt his chest tighten as the light grew brighter. Then the roar hit him.
They emerged into the open.
The Stade Bollaert-Delelis was alive. Red and white everywhere, flags rippling, scarves raised high. The sound was a wall — one side singing "God Save the Queen," the other roaring "Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau." It was deafening, dizzying, intoxicating.
The teams lined up on either side of the referees, England to the right, Wales to the left. Francesco stood between Sterling and Kane, the anthem about to begin.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please stand for the national anthems."
The stadium hushed for a heartbeat, then the first notes of "God Save the Queen" rang out. Francesco felt his chest swell, his voice joining the others — not loud, not perfect, but strong. To his left, Sterling sang softly; to his right, Kane's lips moved with steady rhythm. Rooney's voice carried a weight, his arm slightly raised as though pulling the squad with him.
When the final line ended, the applause crashed again, only to be matched by the opening of "Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau." The Welsh sang with fierce pride, voices booming, Bale's lips moving with intensity, Williams singing like his voice alone could carry his nation. Francesco listened, absorbing it — the rawness, the fire. It sent a shiver down his spine.
When both anthems finished, the players shook hands with the referees. The Welsh line followed — Bale's handshake was firm, Ramsey's eyes flickered briefly, Williams gave Rooney a nod of mutual respect. Francesco clasped hands with Neil Taylor, then Joe Ledley, their grips short, professional.
Next came the group photo. The England starting eleven gathered quickly, Rooney calling them in. They crouched and stood in formation, arms over shoulders, the crest prominent. The photographer's shutter snapped, the image frozen for history.
Then it was down to business. Rooney and Ashley Williams stepped forward to meet the referee in the center circle. The coin glittered in the sun as it spun upward, caught the light, then slapped into the referee's palm. He covered it, glanced at the captains, then revealed it.
"England."
Rooney gave a small nod. "We'll take kickoff."
Ashley Williams accepted without complaint, pointing his team toward the opposite end. The referee gestured toward the center circle.
The decision was made. England would start with the ball.
Francesco exhaled slowly, jogging toward his position on the right wing. The roar of the crowd swelled again, anticipation cresting like a wave.
Roy Hodgson had barely lowered himself onto the England bench when his eyes flicked across the touchline to the opposite dugout. Chris Coleman stood tall, arms folded, his suit jacket pulled taut across his chest as he barked last-second instructions toward his players. Hodgson narrowed his eyes. He'd studied Wales, of course, but seeing the shape form on the pitch confirmed what he suspected.
Coleman had set his side up in a compact 5-3-2.
Wayne Hennessey stood in goal, shoulders broad and gloves snapping together as he gestured at his back line to stay tight. Ahead of him, five defenders stretched across the grass: Neil Taylor hugging the left, James Chester tucking just inside, Ashley Williams in the center with the captain's armband strapped tight around his bicep, Ben Davies to his right, and Chris Gunter locking down the flank. A wall of red shirts.
The midfield three settled into place: Joe Allen, wiry and restless, already scanning with those sharp eyes of his; Joe Ledley, beard thick and freshly dyed, carrying himself like a man who'd bleed every drop for the dragon on his chest; and Aaron Ramsey, blond hair gleaming under the Lens sun, drifting between Allen and Ledley with an air of calm menace.
And up top — the danger. Gareth Bale, unmistakable with his topknot and electric stride, alongside Hal Robson-Kanu, the hard-running forward who lived for moments like this.
Hodgson sat back, pressing a hand to his chin. "Five at the back," he muttered toward Neville beside him. "They'll try to choke the spaces, hit us with Bale on the break." Neville gave a curt nod, eyes fixed on the Welsh line.
The referee, arms stretched, lifted the whistle to his lips.
A sharp trill.
The game began.
Harry Kane rolled the first touch back to Rooney, who immediately swept it wide to Kyle Walker. The ball zipped across the turf, slick from the morning's light drizzle. The Stade Bollaert-Delelis erupted in noise again, English voices roaring their anthem of belief, Welsh supporters answering with fire of their own.
The first minutes were cagey but fierce. England pushed forward with quick passes through the midfield, looking to stretch Wales' stubborn five-man back line. But every time Francesco or Sterling tried to cut inside, a wall of red shirts collapsed around them. Wales weren't here to fold; they were here to fight.
By the 6th minute, the game already had teeth. Ramsey, spotting Bale drifting wide, clipped a long ball into the channel. Bale sprinted past Cahill, his pace brutal, and smashed a shot toward the near post. Joe Hart, reading it just in time, flung himself low, gloves stinging as he punched the ball away. The England fans roared their relief, Hart barking furiously at his defenders to wake up.
Two minutes later, England replied. Rooney dropped deep, collected from Alli, and threaded a pass between Davies and Williams. Francesco latched onto it, cutting in on his left. He rifled a low strike toward the far corner — but Hennessey's long frame stretched across, fingertips pushing it wide. The Welsh end erupted, their chants rising louder as if to lift their keeper higher.
The tempo refused to ease. In the 12th minute, Sterling wriggled past Gunter and slipped Kane through one-on-one. Kane took it early, right-footed, but Hennessey again spread himself wide, blocking with his chest. Groans rippled through the England section.
Back came Wales. Ramsey, clever as ever, drifted between the lines, sucking Dier out of position. A slick one-two with Robson-Kanu opened a sliver of space at the top of the box. Ramsey curled one — dipping, spinning — and Hart had to leap, fingertips brushing the ball over the bar. The Welsh fans behind the goal exploded, arms in the air, voices thunderous.
By the 15th minute, sweat already dripped down faces. The sun bore down, the match played at a pace that felt unsustainable.
In the 18th, Francesco almost delivered the breakthrough. Walker darted forward, overlapping down the right, and cut a ball back across the top of the box. Francesco met it first time with his left foot, a rising strike that arrowed toward the far top corner. The stadium held its breath — but Hennessey, impossibly, got fingertips to it, pushing it onto the bar before Davies hacked it clear.
Francesco threw his hands to his head, teeth clenched. Sterling patted his back, urging him on. Hodgson was up from his bench, clapping furiously, his face flushed with the urgency of it all.
Then, in the 20th minute, Bale struck again. Picking the ball up just inside the England half, he surged past Rose, shrugged off Alli, and let fly from 30 yards. The ball swerved wickedly, dipping late, but Hart had been watching him all game. Diving full stretch to his left, he pushed it away with a palm that rattled from the force.
The whistle for a goal kick gave both sides a momentary pause, players bending hands to knees, sucking in air. The scoreboard still read 0-0, but it already felt like the match had lived an hour's worth of drama.
The whistle for Hart's goal kick had barely died when England surged forward again. The pressure was relentless, the crowd living every pass, every interception, every missed chance. The Welsh sang louder to drown out the English chants, but momentum was tipping toward white shirts.
Then, in the 25th minute, it happened.
Francesco, drifting inside from the right, darted between Taylor and Ledley. His first touch was heavy — just enough to draw Taylor lunging. The tackle came late. Francesco's legs were swept from under him, his body tumbling forward as studs grazed his ankle. The whistle shrilled instantly.
Foul.
The referee pointed to the spot — not the penalty, but a free kick, twenty-five yards out, central, almost perfect.
Francesco rolled onto his back, grimacing, but when Rooney bent down and pulled him up, he nodded, shaking it off. The pain was real, but so was the opportunity.
The England fans erupted, their roar echoing like thunder against the steel roof of the Bollaert-Delelis. The Welsh players argued half-heartedly, Ramsey throwing his arms up, Williams barking at the referee, but the decision was made.
Wayne Hennessey, tall in neon green, shouted at his back line, waving his arms like a conductor. The wall began to form: five red shirts shoulder-to-shoulder — Taylor, Davies, Williams, Chester, Gunter — crouched and braced, Ramsey just behind, ready to clear any loose ball.
On the edge of the box, Francesco, Rooney, and Kane huddled together.
"You want it?" Rooney asked, his voice calm but eyes serious.
Francesco's heart pounded. He wasn't the designated free-kick taker. That was usually Rooney, sometimes Kane. But he knew the ball, he knew the distance, he knew his right foot could conjure something special.
"I can hit it," Francesco said, almost under his breath.
Kane's brow furrowed. "You sure? Big moment."
Rooney didn't hesitate. He clapped Francesco on the shoulder. "Alright. You take it. I'll run over it. Sell the dummy."
Francesco swallowed, nodded. His mouth was dry, but his veins thrummed with adrenaline.
The referee paced the wall back to the regulation ten yards, then stepped aside.
Silence began to fall. Not completely — a murmur, a low hum of tension rippled through the stands. But the roaring, the chanting, the singing? It faded as the weight of the moment pressed down on everyone in the stadium.
Even the Welsh fans hushed, their flags drooping for a second. They knew.
Francesco almost never took free kicks. But those who followed him closely — who had seen him in training, who had seen him in flashes at Arsenal — knew that when he did, something extraordinary could happen.
He placed the ball carefully, spinning it once so the valve faced him. He crouched, adjusted the angle. The grass smelled sharp, damp, alive. He took four steps back, then one to the left, eyes fixed on the target.
Rooney hovered just behind the ball, Kane a step to the right, both ready to run.
The referee lifted the whistle.
A shrill blast.
The wall tensed. Hennessey crouched, eyes wide, gloves twitching.
Rooney strode forward first — a convincing feint, his body leaning as if to strike. The Welsh wall jumped, half-committed. Hennessey shifted slightly to his left.
And then Francesco came.
His stride was smooth, his posture upright until the last instant, his right foot whipping through the ball with a vicious, upward snap.
The strike wasn't power — it was technique. An elevator free kick, rising sharply, clearing the wall with a snap, then dipping violently. The ball danced through the air, erratic, swerving like it had a mind of its own.
For a heartbeat, it seemed to hang above the Welsh wall, teasing, unpredictable.
Hennessey dove, arms stretching, but his timing was off. The ball dipped just past his fingertips, kissed the inside of the post, and rippled the net.
Goal.
For half a second, silence. And then — eruption.
The England fans exploded, a tidal wave of noise crashing across the stadium. Flags whipped, arms punched the air, voices cracked as they screamed Francesco's name.
"LEE! LEE! LEE!"
On the pitch, Francesco sprinted away, arms outstretched, disbelief and joy painted across his face. His teammates swarmed him — Sterling leapt onto his back, Kane wrapped an arm around his neck, Rooney grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, yelling in his ear.
The scoreboard flashed:
England 1 – 0 Wales (26' Lee)
Hodgson leapt from the bench, fists clenched, relief bursting through his usually reserved demeanor. Neville pumped both arms toward the crowd, Southgate clapped furiously. Behind them, the England bench erupted, substitutes spilling forward, Milner and Lallana hollering, Sturridge grinning wide.
On the other side, Coleman's jaw tightened. His fists stayed clenched, his eyes narrowed. Ashley Williams barked at his men, pointing, rallying them to stay focused. But frustration rippled through the Welsh side — they had contained England's attacks, denied Francesco once already, and yet here they were, trailing from a set piece.
Hennessey pounded the turf, furious at himself, then sprang up and shouted at his defenders. But inside, he knew: that strike was unsaveable.
Francesco, still buzzing, slowed his run and pressed a hand over the England crest on his chest, tapping it twice, eyes closing as the roar of the fans washed over him.
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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: 2
Goal: 3
Assist: 1
MOTM: 1
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9