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Francesco lingered a moment longer, eyes still on the frozen image of the Belgian team celebrating on the screen. The flicker of the projector light danced across his face, highlighting the faint, thoughtful smile that had settled there.
The screen went dark a few moments later, the last of the highlights fading into the low hum of the lounge lights. For a while, no one said anything. The players were stretched out across the couches and beanbags, heads tilted back, the quiet weight of travel and competition already settling over them again.
Roy Hodgson pushed himself up from his chair near the back of the room, his notepad tucked beneath his arm. His expression was thoughtful, not grim — just that familiar, contemplative look he wore whenever his mind was running through details faster than his pen could keep up.
"Alright, lads," he said, voice calm but carrying through the room. "That's enough for tonight. Get some rest."
A few heads lifted.
"Tomorrow morning we're heading to the airport," he continued, glancing around at the group. "Plane to Lille. We'll go through recovery, then we'll start prep for Belgium. Early start, so don't stay up all night watching replays, eh?"
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the room, but it was the kind of laughter that came when everyone knew the day was done.
"Sleep well," Hodgson finished, nodding once before heading toward the door. "Big day tomorrow."
The room began to stir. Chairs creaked, bottles clinked as they were gathered, and the murmur of low conversation replaced the silence. Francesco rose slowly, stretching the stiffness from his back, then glanced toward Kane and Sterling, who were still talking in low voices near the far wall.
"Lille," Kane said, rolling the word around like he was testing the weight of it. "Feels like the tournament's moving fast, doesn't it?"
Sterling grinned faintly. "Better than moving home early."
Francesco chuckled, the sound light but genuine. "Let's make sure of that, then."
They exchanged tired smiles — the kind of smiles born more from shared exhaustion than anything else — and drifted toward the corridor.
The hallways of the team hotel were quiet, the muted carpet swallowing the sound of footsteps. The framed photos on the walls — old England teams, black-and-white shots of glory and heartbreak — seemed to watch them pass with quiet judgment. Francesco lingered briefly by one of them: Bobby Charlton, captured mid-swing, determination carved across his face.
Different era, same weight.
He walked on, down the corridor to his room. The door clicked softly shut behind him.
The stillness was almost immediate. The room was neat, impersonal — the kind of place that felt like it existed only for the days between matches. His suitcase sat open on the rack, half-packed, the top layer a mix of England gear and folded casuals. The faint hum of the air conditioning filled the silence.
Francesco sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his neck. The day's adrenaline had faded, replaced by that strange mix of tiredness and restlessness that came with tournament football. He could still hear the echo of the lounge — the banter, the laughter, the talk of Belgium's threat — like a distant pulse behind his thoughts.
He stood, crossed to the window, and looked out. The city lights stretched out below, muted by the glass. Somewhere down there, fans were probably still awake — singing, drinking, talking about England's win.
He smiled faintly, then drew the curtains shut and lay back on the bed.
Sleep didn't come right away. His mind replayed the game against Northern Ireland in flashes — the crowd, the movement, the rhythm of passes. Then it shifted to Belgium again — De Bruyne's whip of the ball, Hazard's glide, that look of inevitability on their faces.
It wasn't fear that kept him awake. It was curiosity.
He wanted to know how to beat them.
That thought carried him down into sleep like a tide.
Sunlight leaked through the curtains in pale stripes. The alarm buzzed softly on the nightstand, a low vibration rather than a sharp tone — England's staff knew better than to startle players out of recovery sleep.
Francesco sat up, blinking the fog from his head. The room was cool, the air sharp and clean. He took a moment, just breathing, before swinging his legs out of bed.
Down the corridor, doors were opening and closing, muffled voices drifting in and out. He showered, changed into travel gear — England tracksuit, light trainers — and packed the last of his things into his bag.
By the time he reached the lobby, the team was already gathering.
The atmosphere was quiet but warm. A few yawns, a few jokes, that half-awake camaraderie of men used to early mornings and constant motion. Coffee cups in hand, they clustered in loose groups — Kane and Henderson talking tactics already, Sterling leaning against a pillar scrolling through his phone, Dier arguing good-naturedly with Hart about who had the better playlist for the bus.
Roy Hodgson stood off to the side, checking his watch. Gary Neville was next to him, clipboard under his arm, going over the logistics with a staffer.
Francesco dropped his bag near the others and joined Kane.
"Sleep alright?" Kane asked.
"Enough," Francesco said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Dreamt about De Bruyne's free kicks, though."
Kane laughed. "That's one nightmare I'll take over losing sleep to Sterling's snoring."
"Oi!" Sterling called from a few feet away, grinning. "Heard that!"
The banter spread, light and easy, a welcome bit of normality before the next stage of their journey.
When Hodgson finally called out, "Alright, let's move," the group began to file out toward the waiting bus.
Outside, the air was crisp — morning cool, with the faint scent of rain still lingering from the night before. The team bus waited by the curb, its engine already humming, the familiar red-and-white livery gleaming in the pale light.
Francesco climbed aboard near the middle, taking a seat by the window. As the rest settled in, he watched the city roll by — streets just beginning to stir, shop shutters lifting, the world waking up.
The bus rumbled through the early traffic, the low chatter of conversation filling the space. Someone put on music — low, rhythmic, something to fill the quiet without overpowering it.
Francesco leaned his head against the glass. Outside, a few passing cars honked as they recognized the team bus, fans waving scarves, a kid on a bike chasing alongside for a moment before slowing down, grinning wide.
Inside, Kane leaned across the aisle. "You ready for Lille?"
"Always," Francesco said, eyes still on the view. "Feels like a good place to play."
Kane nodded. "Yeah. Feels like the kind of place something important happens."
The conversation drifted after that, each man slipping into his own quiet rhythm — headphones, small talk, naps. The ride to the airport wasn't long, but it had that timeless quality travel often does — a slow, steady hum of motion that pulled thoughts inward.
When they arrived, the tarmac stretched wide under a pale sky. Security was tight, but smooth — private access, luggage checked quickly, the efficiency of tournament organization at full speed.
The plane — painted in understated white with the England crest near the tail — waited on the runway. The players filed up the steps one by one, nodding to the ground crew as they passed.
Inside, the air was cool and scented faintly of coffee and new upholstery. Francesco found his seat near the wing, next to Henderson.
"Another flight, another step," Henderson said, settling in.
Francesco nodded, fastening his seatbelt. "Feels like we've been living in transit since the group stage."
"That's tournament life," Henderson replied with a grin. "You win, you move. Lose, you go home."
The engines whined softly, then roared to life. The vibration ran through the floor, steady and strong. As the plane lifted, the city fell away beneath them — roads shrinking to lines, buildings to dots.
Francesco watched the horizon until it blurred into the clouds. Then he closed his eyes.
Time passed in fits and starts — the hum of engines, snippets of conversation, the occasional announcement. At some point, one of the staff passed through the aisle offering drinks; someone behind him was laughing quietly about a joke involving Dier's French pronunciation.
But beneath the chatter, there was calm. A kind of collective focus that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
When the pilot finally announced their descent into Lille, the mood shifted slightly. Players stirred, stretching, adjusting seats. The hum of anticipation returned — subtle but unmistakable.
The view through the window changed again — clouds breaking, sunlight spilling over a patchwork of green fields and rooftops. The plane banked, turned, and the city of Lille appeared below, sharp and bright.
When they landed, applause rippled softly through the cabin — not the loud, tourist kind, but the small, reflexive gesture of footballers acknowledging one more safe leg of a long journey.
Outside, the air was warmer, softer. The sky was a clear blue, with only a few thin clouds drifting lazily overhead.
They moved through the terminal quickly — private route, minimal fuss. Luggage rolled along polished floors, the sound echoing faintly off the walls. Cameras flashed from a distance, a few journalists calling questions that no one stopped to answer.
Francesco hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and followed the line of players toward the exit. The air outside smelled faintly of jet fuel and spring.
The team bus was waiting again — same colors, same quiet order. They loaded up, and soon enough, the wheels were turning once more.
The drive into Lille was smooth. The city unfurled around them — narrow streets, tidy facades, cafes already spilling people onto sidewalks, laughter and conversation drifting through open windows.
Francesco watched it all go by with quiet fascination. There was something about Lille that felt alive, grounded — less frantic than Paris, but pulsing with its own kind of energy.
He caught glimpses of the Stade Pierre-Mauroy as they passed a turn — the curved shape rising in the distance, unmistakable even from far off.
"That's where we do it," Kane said from the seat behind him.
Francesco smiled faintly. "Yeah. That's where it starts again."
The bus rolled on, sunlight flashing through the windows in soft bursts. Inside, the mood was a mix of calm and anticipation — the quiet before another battle.
When they finally pulled up outside the hotel, a small crowd of fans had already gathered behind the barriers. Flags waved, chants broke out, phones lifted to catch glimpses of their heroes.
Francesco stepped off the bus and felt the hum of energy hit him. It wasn't overwhelming — just that steady thrum that came whenever football and expectation shared the same space.
He signed a few shirts, smiled for a few photos, then followed the others inside.
The lobby was bright and modern, filled with glass and polished stone. Staff greeted them warmly, guiding them toward the elevators.
The lobby was still humming with the sounds of arrival — suitcases rolling, staff exchanging keys, the low rustle of movement that came whenever a traveling football squad took over a space. Francesco stood near the reception desk, the strap of his duffel slung over one shoulder, his gaze drifting across the glass walls that looked out over the streets of Lille. The afternoon sun spilled golden light across the marble floor.
Roy Hodgson and Gary Neville were already waiting by the elevators. Hodgson had his jacket draped over one arm, the same notepad from the night before tucked under the other. His face was composed, patient — the calm of a man who had been through enough tournaments to know that every minute mattered, even the ones that looked quiet from the outside.
"Alright, lads," Hodgson said once everyone had filtered in. His voice was steady, carrying just enough command to still the background chatter. "Before you all head up to your rooms, a quick word."
The group gathered loosely in a semicircle. Players leaned against suitcases or folded their arms, their attention turning toward the manager. The hotel staff drifted respectfully to the side, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
"We'll start training tomorrow morning," Hodgson began. "The facilities have been arranged at LOSC Lille's training ground. We'll have three days there before the match against Belgium."
A few nods rippled through the squad — small, focused movements.
"Tomorrow's session will be light," Hodgson continued. "Recovery work only. Stretching, mobility, hydro, low-intensity drills. You've earned the right to ease into it. But after that…" He paused, tapping the notebook lightly against his hand. "After that, we focus on Belgium."
Francesco felt the words land with quiet weight. The name hung in the air like a challenge.
Hodgson went on, voice still calm but now threaded with steel. "We all saw what they did to Hungary yesterday. Four-nil. Ruthless, clinical, composed. Toby Alderweireld's header, Hazard's brilliance, Batshuayi and Carrasco off the bench — it was a statement performance. And that's exactly why we'll study it. Every pass, every press, every rotation."
He glanced briefly at Francesco — just for a moment, but it was enough. There was trust in that look. Expectation, too.
"Tomorrow evening," Hodgson said, "we'll review the match footage together. Full tactical breakdown. We'll discuss how to contain their front three, how to exploit their high line, how to win the midfield battle. We'll use every hour we've got. Three days of work to earn ninety minutes that can take us to the semi-final."
The room was quiet now. Even the usual rustle of movement had stilled.
"Rest well today," Hodgson finished, softer now. "Eat, hydrate, recover. We've got business to do, gentlemen."
He nodded once, then stepped aside with Neville to speak quietly with the logistics staff.
For a few seconds, no one moved. Then Kane exhaled a slow breath and clapped Francesco lightly on the shoulder. "Three days," he murmured. "Not much time, is it?"
Francesco shook his head. "Enough if we use it right."
"Yeah," Kane said. "Let's make it count."
The elevator ride up was quiet, save for the soft thrum of movement and the faint hum of conversation that drifted between groups. Francesco shared the lift with Henderson, Sterling, and Dier. The mood wasn't tense exactly — more like coiled focus, each of them already thinking ahead.
"De Bruyne's gonna be a handful," Sterling muttered, eyes on the changing floor numbers. "The way he drops between the lines…"
Henderson nodded. "Yeah, but they push too high sometimes. Their full-backs leave gaps when Hazard cuts in. If we're sharp, we can hit that space."
Francesco leaned back slightly, his tone quiet but certain. "Then that's where I'll be."
The words weren't cocky. Just matter-of-fact — the kind of confidence that came from knowing his role, from the repetition of hours on the training ground and the rhythm of big games.
The doors opened. The group split off to their rooms.
Francesco's suite overlooked a quiet stretch of the city. He dropped his bag, loosened the collar of his tracksuit, and went straight to the window. The view was beautiful — rooftops lined in faded red and grey, sunlight catching the steeple of a nearby church. For a moment, he just stood there, hands in his pockets, letting it sink in.
There was something grounding about seeing the world beyond the pitch. Ordinary people, ordinary lives — all of it still moving while his own had narrowed into this small, focused orbit of football, travel, and expectation.
He turned away, unpacked a few essentials, and made his way down to the dining hall.
Dinner that evening was subdued but comfortable. The staff had laid out a buffet — grilled chicken, fish, rice, vegetables, fruit, hydration drinks. The usual pre-match diet. Players came and went in groups, the conversation mixing quietly around the room.
Rooney was already seated at a table with Hodgson, Neville, and Joe Hart. The captain was deep in conversation, gesturing occasionally with a fork as he spoke about defensive organization.
Francesco joined Kane and Henderson at another table. The talk turned quickly, as it always did, to tactics.
"They'll probably play 4-2-3-1," Henderson said, scooping rice onto his plate. "Witsel and Nainggolan holding, De Bruyne ahead, Hazard and Carrasco wide. Lukaku up top."
"Yeah," Kane said. "That double pivot's solid. But Nainggolan drifts forward too much sometimes. Leaves Witsel isolated."
Francesco looked up from his food. "That's where we can hurt them. If we overload that channel between Witsel and the right-back, we can drag Alderweireld out of position."
Henderson nodded slowly. "Use your movement, pull their shape apart. Could work."
Kane grinned. "And I'll take any rebound that comes my way."
"Sounds fair," Francesco said, smiling faintly.
The mood lightened again — the natural ebb and flow between strategy and humor that kept the pressure from crushing them.
By the time they finished eating, the sun had dipped below the skyline. The hotel lights glowed warm against the soft blue of evening.
Most of the squad drifted toward the lounge or their rooms. A few stayed behind to chat with the coaching staff. Francesco lingered near the doorway for a moment, watching Hodgson and Neville reviewing a tablet between them, their voices low and precise. Then he turned and made his way upstairs.
He spent an hour stretching, another reviewing clips on his phone — Belgium's movements, De Bruyne's positioning, the patterns that repeated in their build-up play. He watched Hazard's runs, Lukaku's timing, the press triggers from the back. The more he studied, the clearer the puzzle became.
By midnight, his mind was still humming with possibilities, but his body was ready for rest. He lay back on the bed, the quiet rhythm of the city below fading as sleep finally pulled him under.
The sun rose pale and gentle over Lille. Breakfast was early — seven a.m. sharp — and the dining room buzzed with quiet energy. Some players still looked half asleep, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. Others, like Francesco, were already alert, mentally flipping through what lay ahead.
By eight-thirty, they were on the bus to LOSC Lille's training ground.
The facility sat on the outskirts of the city — sprawling fields of immaculate grass bordered by low modern buildings. Security was tight but discreet, and as the bus rolled to a stop, a few local fans cheered from beyond the gates, waving flags and shouting names.
Francesco stepped off first, the morning air cool against his face. The smell of cut grass was sharp and familiar — the universal scent of football mornings.
Inside the complex, England's medical and fitness teams had already set up the recovery stations. Massage tables, cryo chambers, hydro pools, yoga mats — every detail in place.
Hodgson clapped his hands once, voice brisk but encouraging. "Light work today, lads. Hydrate, stretch, loosen the legs. We'll go through hydro and mobility circuits, then you're free for the afternoon. Tactical work begins tomorrow."
The group split into smaller rotations. Some went to the pool, others to the training pitch for slow jogs and dynamic stretches.
Francesco jogged alongside Kane and Henderson, the rhythm easy, their conversation quiet.
"How's the leg?" Henderson asked after a few laps.
"Fine," Francesco replied. "Bit tight from travel, that's all."
Kane nodded toward the goal at the far end. "You thinking about practicing finishes later?"
Francesco smiled. "Always."
They finished the jog, then joined the recovery circuits — resistance bands, foam rollers, stretches. The staff moved among them, offering guidance, checking data from fitness monitors.
By late morning, they were done. Sweat glistened under the soft sun, laughter broke out in pockets, and the atmosphere had shifted from groggy to rejuvenated.
"Good work, everyone," Hodgson said, gathering them together. "That's all for today. Afternoon's yours — keep it light. Tomorrow morning, we go deeper."
Francesco towelled off, slinging it around his neck as he walked back toward the bus. His body felt loose again, the stiffness gone. He could feel the energy building — not in a frantic way, but steady, deliberate.
Then the tactical briefing meeting was held in one of the hotel's conference rooms. The curtains were drawn, the lights dimmed. A projector hummed softly at the front.
On the screen: Belgium 4–0 Hungary.
Hodgson stood at the front, pointer in hand. "We'll go through this in phases," he said. "Watch closely."
The footage rolled — Alderweireld's tenth-minute header flashing across the screen.
"Set-piece," Hodgson said. "Near-post run, perfect timing. Francesco, Harry — we'll drill that in defensive training. Eyes on their movement, block the space before he attacks it."
The video jumped ahead. Hazard weaving through defenders, the crowd roaring as he scored the third.
"Now here," Hodgson said, pausing the frame. "Hazard drifts in, Carrasco overlaps. That's their overload pattern. If we track early, we stop this before it develops. Raheem, Kyle — communication between you two will be crucial."
Sterling nodded, eyes narrowed in focus.
The next clip showed De Bruyne's orchestrations, passing lines slicing through Hungary's midfield.
"That's the key," Hodgson said. "De Bruyne sets the rhythm. Press him intelligently — not recklessly. Henderson, Dier, Francesco — alternate the press angles. Force him wide, deny the through ball."
Francesco watched closely, taking in every detail — the way De Bruyne shifted his weight before a pass, the subtle signals that set their tempo.
When the session ended, the room was quiet for a beat before Hodgson said simply, "That's the level we're facing. But they're not unbeatable. Stay disciplined, stay compact, and they'll give us space behind their full-backs. That's where our pace hurts them."
The projector clicked off with a soft pop, and for a moment the room stayed dim, lit only by the faint glow from the laptop on the table. No one spoke right away — the silence wasn't heavy, but charged, like the quiet that comes after a storm when everyone is still processing the power of it. The players sat back in their chairs, eyes adjusting to the muted light, minds already running through pictures of Hazard cutting inside, of De Bruyne pulling the strings, of Alderweireld rising above defenders.
Roy Hodgson rested his hands on the edge of the table, scanning the room. His expression carried that calm steadiness that had become his anchor — not too high, not too low, always deliberate. "That's enough for tonight," he said at last. "You've seen what they can do. Tomorrow, we start making sure they don't do it to us."
He gave a small nod toward the door. "Get some rest, lads. Big two days ahead."
The chairs scraped softly against the floor as the team began to rise. The air in the room felt different now — sharper, more focused. Conversations were hushed, practical, the kind that stayed close to the tactical lines they had just studied.
As Francesco stood and slung his water bottle into his bag, Kane leaned toward him. "Looks like we'll be chasing De Bruyne's shadow for half the game."
Francesco smirked faintly. "Maybe. Or maybe he'll be chasing ours."
Kane's grin widened. "That's the spirit."
They filed out of the room into the softly lit corridor. The hum of the hotel was a low backdrop — distant laughter from the lounge, the clatter of plates from the restaurant, the muted ding of the elevator. It all felt strangely normal compared to the intensity they were living in.
The next morning dawned crisp and pale, sunlight cutting through the thin curtains of Francesco's hotel room. He woke early, as usual, before the knock on the door came to signal breakfast call. He sat at the edge of his bed for a long moment, staring out across the quiet rooftops of Lille, before pulling on his training gear — the England crest stitched proudly over his chest — and heading down.
The dining hall buzzed softly with morning energy: the smell of coffee and toast, the faint clink of cutlery, snippets of half-awake banter. Francesco joined Kane and Henderson at their usual table.
"Recovery's over," Henderson said with a small grin. "Back to work."
Francesco nodded. "Back to building."
By eight, they were back on the bus to LOSC Lille's training ground. The sky had cleared completely — blue stretched wide over the flat French landscape, the air warm but still comfortable. The players spilled out onto the pitch in good spirits, their breath fogging faintly in the cool start of the day.
Roy Hodgson and Gary Neville stood together near the edge of the field, clipboards and whistles at the ready.
"Alright, lads," Hodgson called out, his voice brisk but carrying warmth. "Yesterday we studied Belgium. Today we start preparing to beat them."
He paused, letting the words hang for a moment. "Everything we do today is about purpose. Structure, discipline, and speed. Let's set the tone early."
The drills began slowly, then built in intensity. They started with positioning work — compact defensive shape, lines shifting in unison, every movement measured. Hodgson and Neville barked small corrections:
"Closer, closer! Francesco, hold that pocket!"
"Harry, drop half a yard when he turns!"
Every adjustment mattered. The sun climbed higher as the hours passed, the rhythm of training quickening into something sharper, more synchronized.
When they switched to pressing drills, the energy changed entirely. Francesco led the front press, his movements crisp, his shouts clear.
"Left shoulder! Cut the pass!" he called as they closed down on the ball.
The coaches clapped encouragement from the sidelines. "That's it, that's how you trap them! Force it wide!"
By midday, sweat streaked down faces and shirts clung to skin. They broke for hydration, sitting in the shade of the dugout, gulping down cold water as Hodgson paced before them.
"This is how Belgium hurt teams," he said, drawing a quick pattern in the dirt with his shoe. "They lure you in, then play through your blind side. Don't take the bait. Stay compact, force them backward. The moment they lose patience, that's when you strike."
He looked at Francesco. "You see the channel behind Meunier? That's where your run comes in. Kane drops, you attack the space. It's one motion — they won't have time to reset."
Francesco nodded, eyes locked on the rough sketch. "Got it."
The next drill put that idea into motion. Quick one-touch passing, transition play, breaking through a high line. The midfielders shifted the ball left and right, waiting for that perfect moment to spring Francesco forward.
Over and over, they rehearsed it — timing, angles, positioning. Each time a little cleaner, a little faster.
By late afternoon, the players were spent. The warm-down was quiet, stretching under the soft hum of the wind. Hodgson gathered them one last time before dismissing them.
"Excellent work," he said. "That's the shape I want. Rest, refuel, and tomorrow we go again. Same place, same focus."
The players clapped their hands together in quiet acknowledgment and headed back toward the bus, the mood tired but confident.
The final day before the match arrived like the calm before a storm. The morning air was lighter, the sky clear and pale. The players moved with quiet confidence — not the kind born from arrogance, but from preparation.
Breakfast was subdued. Laughter still flickered between tables, but conversation leaned toward the practical: small reminders about positioning, cues, and signals. The staff floated between them, checking hydration levels, making sure every muscle and tendon was ready for what was coming.
At the training ground, the session began with light passing routines — crisp, deliberate touches, rhythm without strain. Hodgson wanted sharp minds, not heavy legs.
Then came the final tactical run-through.
"Same shape as before," Hodgson said, standing at the center circle, whistle around his neck. "4-3-3 in and out of possession. Compact middle third, quick transitions. Francesco, remember: you're our outlet. Every counter starts with you."
Francesco nodded. "Understood."
"Good. Let's walk through it one more time."
For the next hour, they moved through their tactical pattern like a well-rehearsed dance. Kane dropped deep, pulling markers with him. Francesco ghosted between the lines. Sterling cut in from the wing at the perfect moment. The midfield rotated like gears in a machine — Henderson covering, Dier screening, Rooney linking.
Hodgson blew his whistle, stopping play mid-move. "Perfect. That's the balance I want."
The team reset, then ran it again — faster this time, instinct taking over where thought once was. When the final whistle sounded, the session ended not with exhaustion, but satisfaction.
As they gathered near the touchline, Hodgson's face softened. The stern precision of the past two days gave way to something gentler. He looked around at the players — tired, sun-drenched, but unified.
He waited until the noise faded and then spoke, his voice quiet but clear enough for everyone to hear.
"Lads," he began, "you've worked brilliantly these past few days. Every one of you has put in the effort, the focus, the trust. You've listened, you've adapted, and you've believed in what we're building."
He paused, hands behind his back, the faint wind rustling through the grass around them. "Tomorrow, we face Belgium — one of the strongest sides in Europe right now. But we don't go in as underdogs. We go in as a team with a purpose."
His gaze moved across the circle, catching faces one by one — Kane, Sterling, Henderson, Francesco. "Our purpose is simple: go through the semi-final, then the final, and bring this trophy home. Nothing less. That's what you're here for."
The words hung there — not shouted, not forced, but grounded in quiet conviction.
He smiled faintly. "I want you to play with confidence. Play with freedom. You've earned the right to trust yourselves. Tomorrow, you're not just representing England — you're carrying every fan who's ever believed that football could come home again."
Silence settled for a moment, deep and resonant. Then Rooney clapped his hands once. "Come on, lads. Let's make it count."
A chorus of agreement followed — short, fierce, real.
As they walked off the pitch, Francesco lingered for a moment at the edge of the grass. The sun was dipping low now, the sky streaked with gold. He glanced toward the empty goal at the far end, imagining the roar of the crowd, the echo of a strike hitting the net.
Kane jogged past and nudged him with a grin. "You ready for tomorrow?"
Francesco turned, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "Been ready since the draw came out."
"Good," Kane said. "Because tomorrow — we make them remember our names."
They walked together toward the tunnel, the shadows stretching long behind them as the training ground fell into evening quiet.
Back at the hotel, dinner was quieter than usual — no need for words now. Just focus. The hum of plates, the murmur of low conversation, the sound of a team sharpening its edge one last time before battle.
Upstairs, as night deepened over Lille, Francesco stood by the window again. The city lights shimmered in the distance. Somewhere beyond those rooftops, Belgium were probably going through the same motions — preparing, planning, believing.
________________________________________________
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: 3
Goal: 7
Assist: 2
MOTM: 3
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9