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He exhaled slowly, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. His body ached now that the adrenaline had faded — the kind of deep, pleasant fatigue that came only from doing something right. He leaned back, running a hand through his damp hair.
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the tall hotel windows like a slow, golden tide. The hum of the city outside was gentle — cars passing along the river, distant chatter from the cafés reopening after a long night. Inside the team hotel, it was peace — rare, welcome, and earned.
No whistles.
No tactics boards.
No Hodgson briefings.
Just a day off.
Francesco stirred awake around nine, the thin white curtains swaying slightly in the morning breeze. His body was heavy — not sore in the way it used to be after club fixtures, but that deep, contented exhaustion that comes from giving everything. He sat up slowly, rubbed his face, and reached for the glass Man of the Match trophy still sitting on the table by the bed. The sunlight glinted off the engraved lettering, scattering little shards of gold across the sheets.
UEFA Man of the Match — England vs Northern Ireland.
He still couldn't quite believe it.
For a minute, he just sat there, staring at the city beyond the window — Paris in daylight, stretching wide and calm. Somewhere out there, fans were still talking about last night. The flick. The goal. The win. But here, inside this quiet room, it was all stillness. He let that feeling sink in — the silence after the storm.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Oi, you up yet?" It was Dele Alli's voice, half-laughing through the wood.
"Yeah, yeah," Francesco called back, dragging himself up. "Give me a sec."
He splashed water on his face, tugged on a loose England training shirt and shorts, and opened the door to find Dele leaning against the frame with a lazy grin. Behind him, Raheem Sterling and Eric Dier stood waiting, both holding takeaway coffee cups.
"Morning, superstar," Sterling teased, handing him one. "Figured you might need a caffeine boost after carrying the nation last night."
Francesco rolled his eyes but accepted the cup. "You lot are never gonna let that go, are you?"
"Nope," Dier said with a grin. "You flicked a defender's soul into orbit. That's permanent."
They all laughed as they headed down the corridor toward the elevator. The hotel was alive now — bits of conversation drifting from open doors, music from someone's speaker echoing faintly down the hall. The players had scattered across the floors, but there was a shared rhythm — a relaxed one. Hodgson had kept his word: no training, no meetings, no press duties. Just recovery and rest.
The elevator doors opened to reveal a wide lounge that had been converted into a makeshift games room for the squad. Inside, it was like stepping into a university common area — beanbags, a pool table, a dartboard, and two massive TVs, one showing replays of last night's match, the other hooked up to a PlayStation 4.
"Morning, lads!" Joe Hart shouted from across the room, waving a cue stick in one hand. He was mid-game with Harry Kane, who looked like he was taking the match far too seriously. "We've been waiting for some new victims."
Sterling smirked. "You? Playing pool? Mate, you couldn't hit the broad side of a snooker table."
"Careful," Hart replied, squinting dramatically over his cue. "I've taken out bigger mouths than you."
The laughter came easy, rolling through the room as the four of them joined in. Rooney was already there too, lounging in a chair with a cup of tea, scrolling through his phone. He looked up briefly, nodded to Francesco. "Morning, lad. Sleep alright?"
"Yeah," Francesco said. "Feels strange having a day off."
Rooney smiled knowingly. "Enjoy it. You'll miss it when Hodgson gets us running drills tomorrow."
On the far side, a group of players were locked in an intense FIFA tournament. Daniel Sturridge, still wide-eyed with youth and excitement, was trash-talking loudly. "Nah, no chance, Dele — you're finished! Two-nil incoming!"
Dele grinned, snatching the controller as he sat down. "You've got short-term memory, bro. I'm the FIFA king."
The atmosphere was pure ease — laughter, teasing, little bursts of competition, the kind of simple camaraderie that reminded Francesco why he loved this team. There were no cameras, no pressure, no crowd — just mates being mates.
He drifted over to the pool table where Kane had just scratched the cue ball. Hart threw his arms up triumphantly. "Aha! That's game!"
"Lucky shot," Kane muttered, smirking as he passed the cue to Francesco. "Alright, show us what the golden boy's got."
Francesco chalked the cue, lined up, and sank two solids in quick succession. Kane groaned. "Okay, I'm officially retiring."
Hart laughed. "He's good at everything. Football, pool — probably even makes toast better than us."
"Only on one side," Francesco said dryly, grinning as the others laughed.
As the morning bled into early afternoon, the games room became a revolving door of energy. Some players moved to the couches, watching the sports channels that replayed the England victory again and again. The pundits kept dissecting every move — Francesco's goal, Kane's header, Sterling's assists. Every few minutes, the room would erupt into laughter when one of their post-match faces appeared on screen looking particularly awkward.
"Look at you!" Dier shouted, pointing at a slow-motion replay of Sterling celebrating. "You look like you're trying to sneeze!"
Sterling threw a cushion at him. "That's passion, bro!"
Outside, the sun climbed higher. Some players drifted toward the pool area, towels slung over their shoulders. The hotel's rooftop terrace opened onto a serene view of the city, the water sparkling under the pale blue sky. The sound of splashing and laughter echoed faintly up the stairwell.
By the time Francesco joined them, the poolside scene looked more like a holiday resort than an international squad between knockout rounds. Vardy was doing cannonballs to annoy the staff, while Henderson lounged on a chair reading the sports section. Rooney and Cahill were deep in conversation with one of the coaches, while a few of the younger lads tried timing their dives for who could make the biggest splash.
"Careful!" Hodgson called from the terrace above, half-smiling as he passed by. "I said rest, not drown yourselves."
That earned another round of laughter.
Francesco slipped into the pool with a smooth dive, the cool water a welcome shock to his skin. He surfaced near the edge, leaning his arms on the tiles, breathing in the scent of chlorine and city air. Kane floated past lazily on a pool noodle.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" Kane said, eyes half closed. "No pressure, no tactics, just water."
Francesco nodded. "Yeah. Won't last long though."
"Nah," Kane agreed. "But it's nice while it's here."
They talked a bit about the tournament — about how open it felt, how strange it was seeing big nations stumble. France looked strong, Germany clinical, but England… England looked alive in a way they hadn't in years.
Then the talk shifted to Belgium.
"You think they'll get past Hungary tonight?" Kane asked.
Francesco thought for a moment. "They should. De Bruyne, Hazard, Lukaku… too much quality. But you never know — tournaments have surprises."
"True," Kane said, glancing toward the sky. "Still, I'd rather face them now than later. Get the tough one out early."
"Same," Francesco said. "If we want to win this, we'll have to beat the best anyway."
By afternoon, the team had splintered into smaller groups again. Some retreated to the lounge to nap or play cards. Others hit the gym lightly — not training, just movement to keep the body from tightening. Francesco spent half an hour on the treadmill at an easy jog, headphones in, replaying match highlights in his head. Every step felt purposeful, even on a rest day.
He passed Rooney on the mats, stretching. "Couldn't sit still either, huh?" the captain asked.
Francesco smirked. "I tried. Failed."
Rooney nodded approvingly. "That's good. The best ones never really switch off. Just learn to control it."
The idea came to him almost offhand — one of those thoughts that surfaced mid-conversation and then stuck around, quietly taking shape. Francesco was still pacing on the treadmill, legs loose, rhythm steady, when he glanced at Rooney again and said between breaths, "You know what, Wayne… how about we watch the Belgium match together tonight?"
Rooney straightened from his stretch, eyebrows rising slightly. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Francesco said, slowing the treadmill to a stop. He pulled out his earbuds and grabbed his towel, slinging it over his shoulder. "We've got the night off, but it'd be smart to see how they play. You know — patterns, pressing triggers, defensive transitions, the works. If they win, we'll face them in the quarterfinal. Might as well start the homework early."
Rooney grinned faintly, that captain's grin that said he appreciated the mindset. "You've got a bit of a manager in you, you know that?"
Francesco chuckled. "Nah. Just don't like surprises."
Rooney nodded. "Alright. I'll tell the lads. We'll make it a team thing — projector, snacks, the works."
The moment felt casual, but underneath it was a shared current of focus. Even on a rest day, the hunger didn't disappear. It just found quieter outlets — observation, preparation, subtle shifts in awareness. Francesco wasn't trying to lecture anyone; it was instinct. Every match, every moment, was another puzzle to solve.
They left the gym together, the quiet hum of machines fading behind them as they stepped into the corridor. Afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, catching flecks of dust in the air. Somewhere down the hall, someone was laughing — probably Dele or Vardy again, judging by the volume.
As they passed through the lobby, Rooney clapped a hand on Francesco's shoulder. "Good thinking, mate. I'll have the staff set up a big screen in the lounge. Let's make a night of it."
Francesco nodded, smiling lightly. "Perfect."
The rest of the afternoon drifted by in an easy rhythm. Some players took naps, others ordered room service or went out for short walks along the Seine under supervision. The Paris skyline was gold and blue, alive with summer warmth. The tension of tournament football had melted away for a few hours — the first real pause in days.
By six, the players began filtering back toward the team restaurant — a private dining area reserved just for them. Long tables ran parallel under soft amber lights, with windows overlooking the quiet river. The staff had gone all out tonight — simple but hearty dishes, grilled chicken, pasta, rice, fresh vegetables, and fruit platters.
When Francesco walked in, the room was already buzzing. Laughter rolled between the tables. Kane and Sterling were arguing playfully about who had won more challenges in training. Dele was balancing a breadstick on his upper lip, trying to make Vardy laugh. Even Hodgson had cracked a faint smile from his table with the coaching staff.
"Oi, Francesco," Henderson called from across the room. "Come sit over here before Kane eats all the carbs."
Kane pointed at him with his fork. "I'm bulking for the quarterfinals, skip!"
"Yeah, well, your waistline's bulking faster," Henderson shot back, earning a round of laughter.
Francesco slid into the seat beside him, nodding at the plate of pasta waiting for him. "Smells good."
"Best part of the job," Henderson said with mock solemnity. "Eating like kings before battle."
The chatter swirled around them — pockets of conversation about everything from the match to family, even to random nonsense like who could do the most push-ups after dessert. The camaraderie was effortless, genuine. You could feel it: this wasn't just a collection of footballers. It was a unit — a team stitched together by shared effort, by mutual respect.
As the plates emptied and the clock neared eight, Rooney stood, clearing his throat. "Alright, lads. Quick word."
The table fell silent out of habit. Even Hodgson, seated with Neville at the far end, turned his attention toward him.
"Francesco had a smart idea earlier," Rooney said, glancing toward him briefly. "We'll be facing the winner of Belgium vs. Hungary next round, so we're setting up a little viewing session downstairs. Nothing formal, nothing tactical — just us watching together. Bit of fun, bit of homework."
There was a ripple of interest — nods, murmurs.
"Kick-off's at nine," Rooney continued. "We'll have snacks, drinks — the good stuff, yeah? Let's make a night of it."
"Count me in," Sterling said immediately.
"Same," Dier added. "Been dying to see how Belgium actually look under pressure."
"Hopefully terrible," Vardy said with his usual grin. "Makes our job easier."
Rooney smirked. "Alright, you've got half an hour to grab what you need. Meet in the lounge at nine sharp."
The group broke apart, some heading to their rooms, others straight to the lounge to claim good seats. Francesco stayed behind a moment, helping clear a few dishes with the staff before heading out. It wasn't something anyone noticed, but he'd always done that sort of thing — little gestures that spoke more about him than any interview could.
By the time he made it downstairs, the lounge had been transformed. The hotel staff had drawn the curtains, dimmed the lights, and set up a large projector screen against the far wall. Rows of beanbags and sofas faced forward, with tables of snacks scattered around — popcorn, crisps, bottles of water and sports drinks. The air was warm with anticipation and that particular kind of energy that comes from watching others play the game you love.
The England squad filtered in, one by one. Rooney and Hodgson sat near the back, the latter with a notepad in hand — "Old habits," he muttered when Sterling teased him. Kane sprawled across a beanbag with Vardy beside him, both of them already halfway through a bowl of popcorn. Dele, Dier, and Henderson took the center couch. Francesco found a spot slightly off to the side — close enough to talk tactics quietly, but far enough to observe everyone.
"Alright, predictions?" Joe Hart called out as the pre-match coverage started. The screen flickered with highlights of Belgium's group stage — De Bruyne threading passes, Hazard gliding past defenders, Lukaku powering through tackles.
"Belgium two-nil," said Henderson confidently.
"Three-one," Sterling countered. "Hungary's good, but Belgium'll click sooner or later."
"Nil-nil," Vardy said, grinning. "Calling chaos."
Francesco leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Belgium'll score early," he said. "They like to start fast, set the tempo. But if Hungary can weather that first twenty minutes, they'll frustrate them."
"You sound like a pundit, mate," Kane said, tossing a popcorn kernel at him.
"Just watching patterns," Francesco said with a small shrug.
The opening whistle blew, and conversation fell away, replaced by the steady rhythm of the game. The room shifted between silence and bursts of commentary — little tactical notes, the occasional cheer or groan. When De Bruyne split the Hungarian defense with an early through ball, half the room whistled in appreciation.
"See that?" Francesco said quietly, gesturing toward the screen. "That's their trigger. De Bruyne draws the full-back up, then Hazard cuts inside behind him. It's all about timing. If we can clog that channel, they lose their flow."
Rooney, from behind, murmured, "Exactly. Force them wide and make them cross. They don't like that."
The players listened — not in a formal, drilled way, but in that natural absorption that happens when the competitive instinct never truly switches off. They laughed, joked, made snacks disappear — but they were learning, too.
The match began with that restless hum every big knockout game seems to have — a low current of tension that runs beneath the surface even before a ball is kicked. The lounge had fallen into that half-focused quiet of players watching other players, each man leaning forward just a little more than they might have in any other setting.
The projector light flickered over faces — young, intense, thoughtful — as the first few minutes unfolded on screen.
Belgium were sharp from the start. De Bruyne's movement was slick, Hazard's feet electric. Hungary looked brave, disciplined, even hopeful, but there was a sense — a feeling everyone in the room could see coming — that it wouldn't last long.
Francesco had said it would happen early, and when it did, it almost felt like he had spoken it into existence.
It was the tenth minute.
De Bruyne stood over a free kick on the left side, about thirty yards out. The camera angle caught the curve of the Belgian line — Alderweireld, Vertonghen, Lukaku — all rising together like a wave.
"Watch the near post," Francesco murmured quietly, eyes narrowing. "That's where he'll put it."
The ball swung in with that perfect De Bruyne whip — low spin, violent dip — and Alderweireld met it like a hammer. His header smashed into the far corner, brushing the fingertips of the Hungarian keeper before slamming into the net.
The room erupted, not in cheers, but in overlapping reactions.
"Bloody hell," Kane muttered.
"That delivery," said Henderson, shaking his head. "That's unreal."
Francesco leaned back, thinking aloud. "Near-post run to pull the marker, then Alderweireld ghosts to the back. Classic Spurs move — seen him do that a dozen times."
Rooney's voice came from behind again, steady and thoughtful. "We'll need a body on him for set pieces. Big one. Dier or Cahill, maybe both."
On the screen, Belgium's players swarmed together in celebration, all smiles and fire. De Bruyne grinned, pointing toward the bench as Hazard slapped him on the back.
"Okay," Dier said from the couch, arms folded. "That's one pattern confirmed. De Bruyne's service, Alderweireld's timing."
Francesco nodded. "And they're pressing high after every restart — look."
Sure enough, Belgium were hunting in packs, shutting down the Hungarian buildup before it could reach halfway. The full-backs pushed up aggressively, leaving the back line exposed but trusting their recovery pace.
"They're bold," said Sterling. "You could drive a bus through that gap behind Meunier."
"Yeah," Rooney agreed. "But you'd need to get there first."
For the next twenty minutes, Hungary tried to find their rhythm. They passed neatly, broke the lines a few times, even forced Courtois into a save — a curling effort that dipped awkwardly but was palmed away. Each near-chance earned murmurs of approval from the England squad.
"See?" Francesco said, gesturing. "That's the route. Diagonal ball over the press. If you can get a runner into that space between full-back and centre-half, they panic. Hazard doesn't track back much."
Kane smirked. "You've got your scouting report ready already, haven't you?"
Francesco just smiled, half-shrugging. "Never hurts to prepare."
The match rolled on. By halftime, Belgium led 1–0 but could've had three. Lukaku had missed a sitter. Hazard had nearly danced through five defenders. And De Bruyne had rattled the crossbar with a thunderous free kick that drew gasps even from the England players.
When the whistle blew, the lounge stirred back to life. Some got up for drinks, others grabbed more snacks. Dele switched seats with Sterling to "change the luck," though it was clearly just an excuse to get closer to the popcorn bowl.
Hodgson, still in his chair near the back, scribbled something into his notepad. Francesco caught a glimpse when the older man leaned over — defensive positioning, hazard zones, passing lanes. Even now, the analytical instinct never slept.
As the second half began, the rhythm of the room settled again. The voices quieted, replaced by the hum of commentary and the soft crunch of crisps.
Belgium controlled the pace like a side that knew it was better and was now deciding just how much to show. Hungary, to their credit, didn't crumble. They fought, pressed, tried their luck. But by the 70th minute, the difference in class was showing.
"They're wearing them down," Henderson said quietly. "You can feel it."
Rooney nodded from the back. "Hungary's lines are breaking. Too much chasing shadows."
Then came the 78th minute — the kill shot.
De Bruyne again. A perfectly weighted pass slipped through Hungary's defense, the kind of ball that seemed to pause in the air before cutting sharply down like an arrow. Batshuayi, only on the pitch a minute, met it first-time.
Goal.
2–0.
"Instant impact," Dier said.
"Super-sub written all over it," Hart added.
But before anyone could even reset their thoughts, Belgium struck again.
79th minute.
Hazard, in full flow — that unmistakable glide. He received the ball near halfway, feinted inside one defender, rolled past another, then darted into the box with that low centre of gravity that made him near impossible to stop.
One touch to shift the ball onto his right.
Bang.
Far corner.
3–0.
The room let out a collective noise somewhere between awe and disbelief.
"That's ridiculous," Sterling muttered. "He just walked through them."
Francesco's expression didn't change much, though his mind was moving fast. "If we face them, we'll need a shadow marker on Hazard. He's the release valve. Cut his supply, and they lose rhythm."
Rooney grinned faintly. "Remind me to tell Hodgson to just glue you to him."
"I'll take that," Francesco said, half-smiling.
By now, Belgium were enjoying themselves. The pressure was gone; the flair was out. De Bruyne, Hazard, Lukaku — they were pulling tricks, pinging passes, playing like they were back on the training pitch.
The England squad, meanwhile, had settled into that quiet, professional kind of respect players give to a masterclass — admiration laced with calculation. They were impressed, but they were also watching for flaws.
"Look at their recovery speed," Francesco said, pointing as Belgium lost the ball and instantly regained it. "They commit five, six men forward, but when they lose it, their transition back's slow. First five seconds — that's the window."
"So," Rooney said, leaning forward, "we sit compact, absorb, and break hard."
"Exactly," Francesco nodded. "They hate chasing runners."
The final ten minutes were pure exhibition. Hungary looked spent, drained, legs heavy. Belgium probed and toyed with them, wave after wave. Then, as the game bled into stoppage time, came the fourth.
90th minute.
Carrasco, cutting in from the right after another Hazard surge, found himself in space. One quick touch. Low drive.
Goal.
4–0.
The lounge went silent for a moment, the kind of silence that wasn't shock but simple recognition.
"That," Henderson said softly, "was a statement."
"Yeah," Rooney replied, his tone more thoughtful. "They're showing their teeth now."
Francesco exhaled slowly. "No fear, no mercy. That's what makes them dangerous."
On the screen, the Belgian players celebrated again, smiles wide, confidence radiating. The final whistle followed moments later, confirming what everyone already knew — Belgium had arrived.
4–0.
Job done.
As the post-match coverage rolled, the England squad began murmuring among themselves. The noise grew — overlapping observations, quickfire remarks, the sound of professionals dissecting professionals.
"Hazard's drifting central more now," Sterling noted. "He's not hugging the touchline like before."
"De Bruyne's pressing angles are predictable," Dier added. "If you play one-touch out of pressure, you can bypass him."
"They leave space behind Alderweireld when Meunier pushes up," said Henderson. "That's our channel."
Francesco just listened for a while, arms folded, a small smile tugging at his lips. This was what he loved — the collective brain of a team at work, the quiet machinery of footballers turning what they'd seen into plans, possibilities, blueprints.
When the pundits came on screen — talking about Belgium's power, their rhythm, their depth — Francesco stood up, stretching. "Well," he said, glancing around, "we've got our work cut out for us."
Rooney chuckled. "That's one way to put it."
"Think we can take them?" Dele asked, half-serious, half-challenging.
Francesco met his gaze, calm and certain. "If we play like we did last night — as a unit — yeah. We can beat them."
There was something in his tone that settled the room. It wasn't bravado; it was belief, steady and grounded. The kind that made others nod without even realizing it.
Rooney rose next, clapping his hands together. "Alright, lads. That's enough analysis for one night. Get some rest. Tomorrow we start thinking about how we make those Belgians look ordinary."
The group began to disperse, laughter returning as the mood lightened again. Someone cracked a joke about Vardy trying to nutmeg Courtois, and another about Dele challenging Hazard to a dance-off.
But beneath the joking, everyone knew — the real work started tomorrow.
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.
________________________________________________
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