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As they filed back to the locker room, boots muddy, voices low, Francesco felt the fatigue tugging at him. But beneath it, there was pride — not just in the goal he'd scored, but in the fire he'd felt from everyone around him. England were alive, united, pushing each other higher.
The two days between that Saint-Étienne training session and matchday passed quicker than anyone could quite believe. They were filled with the kind of regimented rhythm that international tournaments demanded: breakfast, tactical briefings, light sessions to keep legs ticking over, recovery dips in the ice baths, a press obligation or two, and long stretches of downtime where the walls of the hotel seemed to breathe with the squad's restless energy.
For Francesco, the hours blurred into a steady loop of routine, yet beneath it all ran that persistent current of anticipation. He knew he wasn't going to play against Slovakia — Hodgson had said as much when they first landed, hinting that he wanted to rotate the squad — but there was still something thrilling about the prospect of sitting in the stands, of watching his teammates fight it out while surrounded by fans, family, and, hopefully, Leah.
The morning of the game dawned bright and clear, a golden light spilling through the blinds of Francesco's room. He stirred awake early, heart already beating that little bit faster, as if his body knew matchday didn't care whether or not he was starting.
By the time he walked down to the hotel restaurant, the place was already buzzing. The clatter of cutlery, the low rumble of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter — it all filled the air like an overture before a performance. Tables were pushed together in groups, players scattered across them, plates loaded with eggs, toast, fruit, porridge, whatever fuel each man trusted his body with.
Francesco grabbed a plate, added some scrambled eggs, toast, and a small bowl of fruit, then joined a table where Rooney, Kane, and Henderson were already seated. Kane looked relaxed, maybe too relaxed, tapping a spoon against his mug while scrolling his phone. Rooney, on the other hand, seemed deep in thought, barely touching his food.
It was Henderson who broke the morning chatter, looking up just as Roy Hodgson and his coaching staff entered the restaurant.
"Here we go," he muttered, straightening unconsciously.
The room quieted almost instantly, as though someone had turned down the volume. Hodgson, in his usual calm, measured way, clasped his hands lightly in front of him and let his gaze sweep across the squad.
"Gentlemen," he began, voice steady, clear, carrying across the room without force. "Today's the day. Our final group match. We know what's at stake — a win puts us top, and that is what we want. But we also know the demands of a tournament. No one man can play every minute at this level and still give his best. We succeed as a squad, not as individuals."
He let that sink in, the words hanging there for a moment before he continued.
"As I said before, the players who've carried us through the last two matches will be rested today. This is not a slight on them — far from it. They've done their job, and done it well. But today is about showing the world the strength of this group. Every player here is good enough to start for England. And today, some of those who've waited will have their turn."
The players leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on him. Even those who already suspected they'd be starting couldn't help but feel the weight of the announcement.
Hodgson unfolded a piece of paper, though he barely glanced at it. He already knew the words by heart.
"Starting today," he said, voice carrying a touch more gravitas, "we will line up with Fraser Forster in goal. Nathaniel Clyne at right-back, John Stones and Chris Smalling in central defense, Ryan Bertrand on the left. Midfield will be Jordan Henderson, James Milner, and Jack Wilshere. Ahead of them, Adam Lallana. Up front, Daniel Sturridge and Jamie Vardy."
A ripple of reaction moved through the room — nods, claps on the back, quiet words of encouragement between the named starters. Sturridge grinned, tapping fists with Vardy across the table. Wilshere leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable but eyes bright with the thrill of responsibility.
Hodgson raised his hand slightly, steadying the room again. "On the bench, we'll have Tom Heaton, Danny Rose, Gary Cahill, Eric Dier, Raheem Sterling, and Harry Kane."
Kane gave a small shrug, not surprised, but Rooney leaned over to give him a reassuring pat on the arm.
Then came the part Francesco had known was coming but still felt in his chest like a thud.
"The rest of you," Hodgson continued, "will not be in the matchday squad. That doesn't mean you're uninvolved. Far from it. I want you in the stands, watching, supporting. Sit with your families, your partners, soak in the atmosphere. This is still your tournament — our tournament. And your time will come again soon enough."
There was a beat of silence, the weight of the announcement settling over the group. Some players shifted in their seats, absorbing the reality of being left out for the day. Others gave small nods, already bracing themselves to play the role of supporter rather than protagonist.
Hodgson's voice softened as he concluded: "We are not eleven men. We are twenty-three. Every training session, every match, every day together builds us. The team on the pitch today will fight. The team in the stands will back them. And together, we'll take the next step."
With that, he gave a brief smile, nodded once, and stepped back, signaling the end of the announcement. Conversation slowly returned, cautious at first, then gradually warming into its natural rhythm.
Francesco sat back in his chair, fork idle against his plate. He wasn't disappointed — not really. He'd known this was coming. But there was still that flicker of longing, the itch to be out there under the floodlights, boots on grass, sweat and adrenaline coursing.
Beside him, Rooney leaned in slightly. "Not today, mate. But your time's coming. Trust me."
Francesco gave a small smile. "Yeah. I know."
The day stretched on in that peculiar way matchdays always did when you weren't playing. For the starters, every hour felt like it pulled them closer to the floodlights, every minute sharper, taut with purpose. For those left out, the time unfolded differently — slower, looser, as though someone had quietly cut the string that kept the hours tight.
Francesco spent the late morning and early afternoon drifting between the physio suite, the games room, and his own quiet space. He dipped into the buzz of his teammates' energy but didn't stay long, retreating often to his room where he could stretch on the bed and stare at the ceiling. There was no weight of responsibility on him tonight, but in a way, that made the anticipation worse. He wanted to be useful, to fight, but tonight his role was different. Tonight, he was allowed to breathe, to feel, to reconnect.
By the time evening rolled in and the shadows stretched across the Saint-Étienne skyline, the squad began their slow funnel toward the team bus. One by one, players zipped jackets, pulled on headphones, shouldered bags. Francesco stood among them, but this time, he wasn't following. He was stepping away.
He clapped Sturridge on the back as the striker swaggered toward the doors, headphones already pulsing with bass. "Do your thing, mate. Don't dance too much until after you score."
Sturridge laughed, pointing finger-guns back at him. "You know me, bruv. I'll save the moves for later."
He shook Vardy's hand, offered a nod to Stones, shared a quick hug with Kane, who murmured something about saving his energy for the knockouts. Then Rooney came, striding past with the captain's armband already tucked into his bag, but he paused just long enough to clasp Francesco's shoulder.
"Enjoy tonight," Rooney said, steady, almost fatherly. "Soak it in. Then be ready — you'll need your legs for the next one."
Francesco nodded, feeling that familiar mix of gratitude and pressure. "Good luck, skip."
And then they were gone, filing out toward the waiting bus, the hum of voices growing faint as the doors shut. Francesco lingered a moment in the lobby, watching the reflection of the coach pull away in the glass, before finally turning toward the exit himself.
His evening was waiting elsewhere.
⸻
The taxi ride felt oddly surreal. Francesco slid into the back seat, gave the driver the name of the hotel where his parents and Leah's family were staying, and leaned back as the car eased away from the England hotel. For weeks now, his world had been training grounds, team buses, and hotel corridors. To be heading somewhere else — somewhere that wasn't part of the England bubble — felt like sneaking out of camp.
Saint-Étienne unfolded outside the window in the soft glow of early evening. Narrow streets lined with shuttered shops, couples strolling hand in hand, children chasing a ball down a side alley. The air held the faint scent of baked bread drifting from unseen bakeries, the hum of cicadas sharpening as the light dipped lower.
Francesco pressed his forehead lightly to the glass, his reflection staring back at him, hair still damp from a late shower, England tracksuit zipped halfway. For once, he wasn't a footballer on duty. For once, he was just a son, a boyfriend, a young man about to see the people who grounded him most.
The taxi slowed in front of a modest but elegant hotel, its entrance lit by warm yellow lamps. A few fans lingered across the street, but none seemed to notice him as he stepped out, paid the driver, and adjusted the strap of his bag across his shoulder.
And then he saw her.
Leah stood just inside the lobby, framed by the glass doors, waiting like she'd been standing there all day. Her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, her casual outfit simple — jeans and a light sweater — but on her it looked like the most perfect thing he'd ever seen. She was scanning the street, biting her lip in that absent way she did when nervous, and the moment her eyes landed on him, everything softened.
Francesco's chest tightened. He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and before he could even speak, Leah closed the gap between them and threw her arms around him.
The hug wasn't delicate. It was fierce, urgent, the kind of embrace that made time collapse. Her arms locked around his shoulders, his around her waist, and for a long moment, neither moved. He breathed her in — the faint scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her skin — and realized just how long it had been since they'd shared something so simple. Video calls and texts had kept them connected, but this… this was different. This was real.
"God, I've missed you," Leah whispered against his neck, her voice muffled but steady.
Francesco closed his eyes, pressing his forehead gently against hers. "I've missed you too. More than I can say."
They stayed like that, locked in the kind of hug that was less about greeting and more about healing, until finally they pulled back just enough to see each other's faces. Leah's eyes glistened, though she wasn't crying, just holding him with that look — the one that always made him feel seen, not as a footballer, but as Francesco.
"You're here," she said, almost in disbelief.
"I promised, didn't I?" he replied softly. "Even if I'm not playing, I wanted to be here with you."
Her smile bloomed, and she leaned up to kiss him — not rushed, not tentative, but steady, lingering, like two people finally allowed to exhale.
When they pulled apart, Leah tugged lightly on his sleeve. "Come on. Everyone's waiting upstairs."
⸻
The suite upstairs was buzzing with voices even before Francesco reached the door. Leah's hand slipped into his as she knocked lightly, then pushed it open.
Inside, both families filled the space in a warm, noisy tangle. His dad, Mike, sat on the sofa with Leah's father, David, the two deep in conversation about last night's Germany match. His mum, Sarah, was by the table with Amanda, Leah's mum, arranging plates of fruit and pastries that looked like they'd been liberated from the hotel buffet. And on the floor by the coffee table, Jacob — Leah's younger brother — was fiddling with a travel-sized game of chess, his brow furrowed in concentration.
The moment Francesco stepped inside, the room shifted.
"Francesco!" Sarah's voice rose above the din, her face lighting up as she crossed the room and pulled him into a hug that still carried the warmth of home. Mike was next, standing to clap him on the back with a grin that spoke volumes.
"You're looking sharp, son," Mike said. "England tracksuit suits you."
Francesco chuckled, cheeks warming. "Yeah, feels good to wear it."
Leah's parents followed with warm greetings — Amanda offering a hug, David a firm handshake that turned into a pat on the shoulder. "We've been following every game," David said, his voice steady, pride flickering behind it. "You've done us all proud already."
Finally, Jacob looked up from his chessboard, grinning as he bounded over. "You scored against Wales!" he blurted, eyes wide with excitement. "I saw it — I watched the replay, like, ten times!"
Francesco laughed, crouching slightly to meet him eye-to-eye. "Did you now? Ten times? That's dedication."
Jacob nodded fiercely. "It was sick. The way you hit it — bang!" He mimed a kick, nearly knocking over a chair.
"Careful, mate," Francesco teased, ruffling his hair. "You'll break the hotel before I do."
The room eased into its rhythm again, conversation flowing as Leah guided him to a seat between her and his mum. The two families mixed easily, as though they'd known each other for years. Stories flowed — about school, about work, about the madness of traveling to France for the tournament. Every now and then, someone would slip in a comment about England's chances, but it never turned into interrogation. Tonight wasn't about tactics. It was about togetherness.
Francesco found himself relaxing in a way he hadn't in weeks. The constant edge of professional focus eased back, replaced by the warmth of being surrounded by people who loved him for more than his goals or his minutes on the pitch.
At one point, Leah leaned into him, her voice low, just for him. "See? This is what you needed."
The hours slipped by in that hotel suite, wrapped in warmth and chatter, until Francesco noticed the time glowing on the wall clock. 19:10. His pulse picked up almost immediately, as though his body had been waiting for the cue.
"Half an hour," he murmured, glancing at Leah.
She caught his look instantly, her smile curving with anticipation. "We should go."
He rose to his feet, the room quieting slightly as he did. Sarah looked up from her tea, Mike leaned back against the sofa, and Leah's parents both straightened.
"You heading to the stadium?" Mike asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Yeah," Francesco said with a nod. "Kick-off's at eight. We'll grab a taxi."
There were goodbyes all around — warm hugs from his mum and Amanda, a hearty pat on the back from David, Jacob giving him an enthusiastic fist-bump. Leah slipped her hand into his as they left, their fingers interlaced, the quiet of the hallway folding around them after the lively hum of the suite.
Outside, the evening air was thick with energy. The city streets thrummed with the unmistakable pulse of matchday — flags draped from windows, chants drifting faintly from distant crowds, vendors waving scarves and horns from street corners. Taxis rolled past in a steady stream, ferrying supporters to the Stade Geoffroy-Guichard, that famous old ground known as "le Chaudron" — the Cauldron.
Francesco hailed one quickly, the driver nodding as soon as he mentioned the stadium. Leah slid in beside him, their knees brushing as the cab joined the flow of traffic.
Neither spoke much at first. Instead, they watched the city shift around them — green shirts of Saint-Étienne mixed with England's white and Slovakia's blue in the streets, pubs spilling fans onto pavements, flags fluttering from balconies. It was chaotic and alive, a reminder of why these tournaments meant so much.
Leah reached for his hand, resting it on her thigh, her thumb brushing lightly against his skin. "You okay?" she asked softly, tilting her head toward him.
Francesco exhaled, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Just… feels strange, you know? Not walking into the dressing room with the lads. But I'm glad I get to be here with you."
Her smile widened. "So am I. You've given enough already. Tonight, just watch. Just be."
The taxi pulled up near the stadium twenty minutes later, the sheer mass of humanity already visible — streams of supporters flowing toward the gates, stewards holding up signs, floodlights beaming into the darkening sky. The Stade Geoffroy-Guichard loomed ahead, its angular stands and steel beams glowing with anticipation.
As they climbed out, Francesco spotted the FA staff member immediately, standing by a security barrier in a dark suit, earpiece tucked discreetly into his collar. The man's eyes found Francesco's with quick recognition, and he waved them over.
"Evening," the staffer greeted, offering a polite nod. "Mr. Lee, Miss Williamson. Right this way."
The VIP channel was quieter, shielded from the chaos of the main entrances. Security checks were swift, the FA credentials smoothed their path, and soon they were being ushered through polished corridors humming with quiet efficiency. The muffled roar of the crowd above their heads grew stronger with each step until finally they emerged into the VIP stand.
Francesco felt his breath catch. The stadium stretched out before them, tiers of green and white blending with the red and white of England's travelling army and the swathes of blue from Slovakia's support. The noise was already deafening, a mix of drums, chants, and whistles echoing beneath the roof.
Their seats were in the heart of the VIP section, cushioned chairs with a perfect view of the pitch. Francesco guided Leah to hers before sitting down, his eyes already scanning the scene unfolding below.
The players were lining up in the tunnel, visible on the big screen. White shirts of England stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Slovakia's deep blue, faces taut with focus. The referee team, clad in bright yellow, positioned themselves between the two squads. Then, in a sudden surge, both teams strode onto the pitch.
The roar was thunderous. England's supporters rose, waving flags and scarves, chanting songs that carried like rolling thunder across the stands. Francesco felt the hairs on his arms prickle despite the fact he wasn't on the pitch.
Leah leaned toward him, her voice raised to be heard. "Still gives you chills, doesn't it?"
"Every time," he admitted, his eyes locked on the scene. "Never gets old."
The two lines of players spread across the pitch, facing the main stand as the announcer called for the national anthems. First came Slovakia's, their players singing proudly, the pockets of Slovak fans roaring along. Francesco found himself respecting it, the unity, the fire in their voices.
Then came God Save the Queen.
Francesco stood with the crowd, his voice joining the thousands around him, though softer, more private. Leah rose too, her hand brushing lightly against his arm. The anthem rolled across the stadium, swelling with pride, and when it ended, the players broke their lines, the noise crashing back like a wave.
At the center circle, the captains met. Rooney for England, Škrtel for Slovakia. The coin glinted in the referee's hand as it spun into the air, came down, and was caught. England won the toss. Rooney gestured to take kick-off, and the teams jogged into position.
Francesco leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, heart already thudding. Leah settled beside him, her eyes flicking between the pitch and his face.
The whistle blew.
And just like that, England's final group game began.
From the very first touches, it was clear where the balance lay. England settled immediately into rhythm, the ball moving crisply from back to front, players darting into space, Slovakia forced to retreat into a compact shape. Henderson and Milner rotated possession across the middle, Wilshere dropping deep to collect, Clyne pushing high on the right.
For twenty minutes, it was domination. England squeezed the pitch, moving the ball with patience, probing, switching play from side to side. Vardy darted between the Slovak center-backs, Sturridge dropped into pockets to combine with Lallana. Each attack felt like it might break through, though Slovakia's banks of blue shirts closed stubbornly.
Francesco could feel it in his chest, that simmering urgency. "Come on," he muttered under his breath, his knee bouncing. "One's coming."
Leah smiled, watching him more than the pitch. "You look like you're about to jump in yourself."
He grinned without taking his eyes off the game. "Feels like it."
Below, Forster hadn't touched the ball in minutes. England were camped in Slovakia's half, wave after wave, the fans' chants growing louder with every neat interchange. Yet still, the scoreline held at 0-0, Slovakia clinging on.
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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: 5
Assist: 1
MOTM: 2
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9