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Francesco jogged back toward the halfway line after the corner came to nothing, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might shake through his ribs. The air was hot with noise, the smell of sweat and wet grass thick around him.
The longer the half went on, the heavier the air became.
Every breath Francesco took carried the weight of thousands. The songs, the flags, the noise — it was everywhere, unrelenting. Red dominated the stands; the Belgian fans had made the short trip from across the border, flooding Lille's Stade Pierre-Mauroy like a crimson tide. You could see it in every section — flags draped over railings, banners painted with the tricolor, drums pounding out rhythm after rhythm.
It felt like an away game.
Even Hodgson could sense it — standing on the sideline with his arms folded, squinting into the blinding wall of red and gold behind Courtois' goal. Sixty percent, maybe more. The French border city was barely fourteen kilometers from Belgium, and it showed. Every English touch came with whistles, every Belgian pass with thunderous applause.
Francesco could feel the pressure in the air like static. It wasn't fear — it was energy. Dangerous, raw, pulsing energy that could smother a player if he let it.
But he didn't.
He took it, held it, let it burn in his chest. It became a challenge, a fire that sharpened everything inside him. He wasn't here to drown in the noise. He was here to silence it.
By the twenty-fifth minute, the game had become a contest of nerve and inches. England sat tight, the midfield packed, forcing Belgium to play sideways. Every time De Bruyne got near the ball, two white shirts closed in — Henderson and Alli hunting him like wolves. Still, he managed to slip through spaces no one else saw, threading passes that sliced through time itself.
In the twenty-sixth minute, one of those passes nearly broke England's line. De Bruyne drifted deep, ghosting between Alli and Rooney, before turning sharply to find Hazard on the left. Hazard took it in stride, shimmying past Walker with that cruel elegance of his, before cutting inside and firing low.
Joe Hart was there — again.
Low dive, fingertip save, the ball clawed just wide of the post.
The Belgian end erupted anyway — as if a near miss was enough to feed their momentum. Flags waved. Smoke flares burned red.
Henderson shouted for calm, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Reset! Reset!" he barked, pushing his teammates higher.
Francesco jogged back into position, his lungs burning, sweat glistening at the corner of his jaw. His mind wasn't rattled. It was focused — razor sharp, tuned to every sound, every vibration in the air.
Then came the twenty-seventh minute — the one that cracked the night open.
It started almost quietly, like so many goals do — a loose ball in midfield, a lucky bounce that found Rooney's boot. The captain turned, his head already scanning, eyes narrowing as he saw Francesco peeling off on the right flank.
"Go on, son!" Rooney barked, driving the ball forward with a sharp pass that split Witsel and Denayer.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
The pass met him in stride — a perfect weight, rolling just ahead of him across the slick grass. He took it in one movement, brushing it forward with his right foot, feeling the pitch come alive under him. Jordan Lukaku was already closing in, his shadow falling across Francesco's shoulder.
"Come on then," Francesco muttered under his breath, the words half a taunt, half a promise.
He feinted left, dragging Lukaku's weight across, then cut inside sharply — the kind of movement that made defenders stumble. Lukaku reached, desperate to pull him back, but Francesco's acceleration tore the space wide open. Denayer came next — the man stepping forward, trying to block the lane.
Francesco didn't slow. He slipped the ball past Denayer's outstretched boot with a flick that was equal parts arrogance and precision, his stride never breaking.
Now it was him, the ball, and Courtois.
The Belgian keeper stepped forward, spreading wide — arms out, that massive frame filling the goal. Francesco saw the near post closed off, the far post too distant. But he also saw a flicker of movement — Courtois' left foot shifting just slightly, anticipating a shot across goal.
That was all he needed.
He planted his left boot, swung with his right — not a blast, not a gamble, but a strike born of absolute conviction. The ball skimmed low, fast, slicing through the gap between Courtois' glove and the post.
For a split second, silence.
Then — eruption.
The net rippled.
England led 1–0.
Francesco threw his arms wide, running toward the corner flag, the floodlights painting his face in gold. Behind him, the English end exploded into chaos — white shirts jumping, flags waving, a thousand voices breaking into a single wordless roar.
"LEE! LEE! LEE!"
Rooney was the first to reach him, grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking him with a grin that was pure relief. "That's how you do it!" the captain shouted, voice hoarse.
Kane arrived next, sliding into the celebration, followed by Sterling and Alli, their arms wrapping around him in a chaotic bundle of joy and disbelief. The moment felt alive — heavy with meaning, electric with pride.
Francesco looked up, chest heaving, gaze sweeping across the stands. The Belgian red was still loud — still massive — but now there were patches of white dancing among them, defiant and proud.
He could see Hodgson on the sideline clapping, his expression breaking into the faintest of smiles. "Brilliant!" the manager mouthed, almost to himself.
It wasn't just a goal. It was a statement.
England were not here to bow to the noise.
As the game restarted, Belgium's response was immediate — vicious, almost desperate. They pressed higher, faster, more feral in their pursuit. Nainggolan flew into challenges, De Bruyne dropped deeper still, dictating tempo like a man possessed.
But England adjusted. Henderson and Alli closed ranks around De Bruyne, shadowing him step for step, refusing to let him breathe. Every time the Belgian playmaker looked up, a white shirt was already there, forcing him sideways, back, sideways again.
The rhythm of the game became a grind — friction and fire.
Hazard tried to force the issue, cutting infield to combine with Lukaku. Stones blocked the shot. Walker chased down Carrasco before he could cross. Every duel mattered now — every clearance, every header, every tackle.
Francesco dropped deeper to help, tracking Lukaku when he drifted wide, pressing Meunier when he advanced. The adrenaline from the goal still pumped through his veins, but it wasn't wild — it was focused, refined.
In the thirty-third minute, Belgium nearly found an equalizer. De Bruyne finally found a sliver of space — a quick one-two with Witsel and a diagonal ball toward Hazard. The Chelsea man slipped between Walker and Stones, bringing the ball down beautifully before firing low.
But Hart was untouchable tonight.
Another diving save. Another roar from the English section.
"Come on, boys!" Rooney shouted, fists clenched.
The Belgian fans chanted louder in response, drums beating, flares lighting up the upper tiers in smoky red clouds. The atmosphere was suffocating, but England thrived on it.
Francesco could feel it — the pulse of belief spreading through his team. Kane's movements became sharper, Sterling's runs more daring, Henderson's passes more direct. Every man in white now played like they believed they could finish this.
By the thirty-eighth minute, England nearly doubled their lead. Sterling wriggled past Meunier, danced along the byline, and cut the ball back toward the penalty spot. Francesco darted in again, connecting first time — but Courtois, sprawling, got just enough on it to deflect it wide.
The Belgian keeper roared in frustration, slamming his glove against the turf. Francesco exhaled, shaking his head. "Next one," he muttered to himself.
And then came the constant chess game between De Bruyne and England's midfield. Every time he looked to thread a ball through the lines, Henderson was there, arms out, blocking the lane. Alli doubled up behind him, forcing De Bruyne back toward Witsel.
The rhythm of Belgian play stuttered.
By the fortieth minute, Hazard had switched wings, trying to unbalance the English defense. Francesco tracked him all the way across the pitch, shoulder to shoulder. There was no space to breathe, no rhythm left untouched.
The half wound toward its final minutes, and England's shape remained ironclad. Hodgson's voice echoed from the sideline — "Keep compact! Keep it tight! Get to halftime!"
Francesco nodded subtly as he tracked back again. His body ached, sweat soaked through his shirt, but his eyes were still fierce. He could feel the energy of the game bending — the Belgian wave still strong, but now meeting a wall of English discipline.
The rhythm of the match had tightened like a noose.
Every pass now carried weight, every clearance a pulse of relief. The Belgian drums in the upper tiers had found their heartbeat — steady, relentless — and though England held their line with grit and discipline, there was something in the air now, a change in pressure that every player could feel.
By the forty-second minute, Belgium were pushing bodies forward with increasing desperation. Witsel hovered just behind De Bruyne, anchoring their shape; Hazard and Carrasco pressed inward, narrowing the flanks, while Lukaku waited like a lion ready to pounce. Francesco could see it — the slow tightening of space, the creeping inevitability of another chance.
Still, England stood tall.
Walker barked commands from the right, Stones kept Lukaku pinned, and Rose mirrored him on the left. The midfield compacted beautifully — Henderson and Alli pressing close together, the white shirts moving in sync, as if tethered by invisible thread.
But Belgium's rhythm — that low hum of passing triangles and feints — was beginning to seep through.
De Bruyne shifted the tempo, dropping back to collect. His first touch was silk. His second, a dagger. He slipped the ball to Nainggolan, who was standing thirty yards out, unmarked for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Henderson was just a half-step late in closing. Alli's boot didn't quite reach.
Nainggolan looked up once. Just once.
And then he struck.
It was a hit made of pure defiance — his right foot slicing clean through the ball, sending it hurtling through the Lille night like a meteor. The shot swerved viciously, cutting across the air, dipping just enough to beat the desperate reach of Joe Hart.
The sound — the rip of the net, the collective gasp of the stadium — tore through the air like thunder.
For a split second, the world froze.
Then the explosion.
The Belgian fans erupted in a tidal roar — drums, flares, flags waving violently as Nainggolan sprinted toward the corner flag, his fists clenched, veins visible in his neck as he screamed out the catharsis of that strike. His teammates crashed into him — Hazard, Lukaku, De Bruyne — all shouting into his ear, their faces lit by the red haze of smoke rising from the stands.
1–1.
Francesco stopped dead near the halfway line, hands on his hips. His chest heaved. His lungs burned with disbelief. He had watched it happen — the ball, the flight, the curve — and yet somehow, it still didn't feel real.
Henderson cursed under his breath, smacking his palm against his thigh. "How's he got that much space?" he barked, furious at himself as much as anyone else.
Walker pointed toward Nainggolan's position, still shaking his head. "We can't let him stand free like that again, lads. Not again."
Rooney gathered them quickly, clapping his hands twice, hard. "Heads up! Heads up! Don't drop, not now!" His voice cracked slightly, the sound of a captain trying to steady a ship hit broadside.
But the Belgian chants drowned even that out. "BEL-GIQUE! BEL-GIQUE!"
The noise pressed down like thunder.
Francesco jogged slowly back toward the circle for the restart, his eyes flicking toward the scoreboard — 44:12.
Barely a minute left in the half.
One mistake. One inch too much space.
And it was gone.
He felt the frustration simmering beneath his ribs, but he didn't let it boil over. He'd learned better than that. Matches like these weren't won by rage — they were won by control. By composure.
The whistle blew again, and the game resumed. England moved the ball carefully now, not daring to overcommit. Henderson passed to Stones, Stones to Rose, Rose back to Hart. The air was tight, brittle with tension.
Belgium pressed, hungry for another before halftime. De Bruyne lunged forward, forcing Hart to clear long. The ball sailed high into midfield, where Rooney nodded it down, but before Francesco could break away, the referee's whistle cut through the din.
Halftime.
The sound was both a mercy and a sentence.
Players exhaled in unison, sweat pouring down faces streaked with frustration. The England fans applauded faintly — encouragement, not celebration — while the Belgian end thundered with pride.
As Francesco trudged toward the tunnel, the world narrowed. Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted questions neither he nor anyone else could hear. Beside him, Henderson muttered something about "closing the gap faster." Behind him, Stones kicked at the turf in silent anger.
Inside, the air was different — cooler, quieter, but heavy.
The England dressing room at halftime wasn't loud. It never was. The first minute was just breathing — boots scraping against tile, the hiss of bottles being opened, the soft thud of players dropping into seats. The smell of sweat and liniment hung thick in the air.
Hodgson stood near the tactics board, hands on his hips, watching as his players caught their breath. He waited — always waited — until the noise of lungs and frustration had calmed.
Only then did he speak.
"Alright," he said, his voice steady, not loud but firm. "That goal was preventable."
No one argued.
He gestured toward the board, where a magnetic marker still showed Nainggolan's position. "We were disciplined for forty-four minutes. One moment we switch off — one moment — and we're punished."
He turned to Henderson. "Jordan, you've done well keeping De Bruyne under wraps, but when we lose shape like that, he's got space to feed the others. You have to close that gap earlier."
Henderson nodded, jaw tight. "Got it, boss."
"Good. Now listen," Hodgson continued, pointing at the midfield magnets again. "Belgium are starting to push both their full-backs higher — Meunier and Jordan Lukaku. They're trying to overload the flanks and pull our midfield wide. Don't bite. Stay compact. Let them cross — Hart's been excellent tonight."
Hart, still sitting with a towel over his neck, gave a small nod, his voice hoarse. "They're shooting from distance because they can't break through. I'll handle those."
Hodgson allowed himself a small smile. "I know you will."
Then his eyes found Francesco. "And you — brilliant finish. That's the standard. You've got their left side nervous. Keep running at Lukaku. Force him into fouls, make him hesitate."
Francesco nodded, still breathing deeply. "He's leaving space behind, boss. I can feel it."
"Exactly," Hodgson said. "Exploit it. But don't burn out early — we'll need you fresh late on."
He turned next to Sterling and Kane. "We'll use Francesco's runs to pull them apart. Raheem, stay close to him on overlaps. Harry, I want you to drag Alderweireld deep when Francesco goes — open that pocket for Dele or Wayne to attack."
Kane took a long drink from his bottle, nodding. "We can get at them, gaffer. Courtois is bailing them out."
Hodgson's voice softened then — the kind of tone reserved for moments where instruction alone wasn't enough. "Lads," he said, "we've been the better side for most of this half. Don't let one strike change how you see yourselves. You've created, you've defended, you've worked for each other. Keep that up, and this will turn."
He paused. "But — and this is important — keep your heads. Belgium will come out flying after that goal. They'll expect us to rattle. Don't give them that satisfaction."
The players nodded, quiet and attentive.
Rooney, ever the captain, stood and clapped his hands once. "Come on, boys. We've been here before. They've got one, so what? We'll get two. Stay smart, stay tight, and back each other."
The words didn't need to be shouted. They just needed to be true.
Francesco leaned back against the bench, his chest finally slowing from a sprint's rhythm to a calm, deliberate pace. He could still hear the echo of the Belgian fans above — muffled but constant. But now, it didn't sound like pressure. It sounded like opportunity.
He looked across the room — Kane adjusting his shin pads, Sterling bouncing a ball between his knees, Henderson quietly studying the board — and something settled inside him. The frustration from Nainggolan's goal was fading, replaced by something colder, more focused.
He'd scored once tonight.
He knew he could do it again.
Hodgson began pacing near the door, his last words before stepping out: "Five minutes, lads. Get your heads right. Second half — we play our football, not theirs."
As the assistant coaches moved around collecting bottles and adjusting magnets, Francesco stood, stretching his calves, rolling his shoulders. His mind was already back on the pitch.
The second half loomed like a storm just over the horizon — and this time, he was ready to meet it head-on.
Outside, as they began lining up in the tunnel again, the noise swelled back to life. The red and white halves of the stadium roared in competition, the very air vibrating with tension. Francesco glanced across to the Belgian line. Nainggolan caught his eye for a brief moment, a faint smirk flickering there — not arrogance, but acknowledgment.
The tunnel light burst open in front of them like a second sunrise. Francesco squinted briefly as they stepped out — first the echo of boots on concrete, then the sheer wall of noise slamming down from the stands. The Lille air was alive again, thick with smoke from red flares and the metallic tang of adrenaline that only knockout football could conjure.
The referee waited at the center circle, whistle in hand. Across from him, the Belgian players formed up — their faces sharp, glistening under the floodlights. Hazard barked something to Witsel; De Bruyne rolled his shoulders once, twice, like a boxer readying for another round.
And beside Francesco, Kane thumped his chest once, turning toward him with a tight grin.
"Let's finish it," he said.
Francesco nodded. "Together."
The whistle blew.
And just like that — the second half began.
The game reignited at full throttle. Belgium came out hunting, pressing high, with Witsel and Nainggolan snapping at every English touch. De Bruyne floated between lines, pulling strings, while Hazard danced at the edge of the box — sharp, unpredictable, venomous.
But England didn't back down. They matched fire with steel. Henderson roared orders through the center, snapping his arms to direct Alli and Rooney's movement. Rose and Walker pressed up cautiously, offering width but never recklessness.
The ball zipped, clattered, spun — one second at Stones' feet, the next across to Francesco as he spun away from Meunier, feeling the tug of a shirt but keeping balance. The crowd gasped at his touch — clean, confident. He laid it off to Rooney, then darted forward again, carving space.
"Move it, move it!" Hodgson's voice cut faintly through the noise from the touchline.
Belgium's shape was tight, but there was strain now — small gaps opening where legs tired, where pressing turned to chasing.
By the 50th minute, both teams had exchanged half-chances: a Hazard curler caught by Hart, a Kane header glancing just wide from a Sterling cross. The match burned with tension, every tackle sending sparks into the night.
At 54', Francesco found himself wide on the left, one-on-one with Meunier again. He feinted inside, then burst outside — pace electric, the crowd rising with him — and whipped a cross across the six-yard box. Courtois got fingertips on it just before Kane arrived. Gasps and groans rippled across the English end.
Still 1–1.
But England smelled blood.
Hodgson gestured sharply from the sideline, urging his men to push higher, faster. "Keep the ball moving!" he shouted. "Make them run!"
And then — the moment.
At the 57th minute, Henderson collected deep, pivoting under pressure from Nainggolan. He threaded a ball into Rooney, who turned just enough to slip it forward toward Francesco. Francesco took it in stride, his body half-turned, eyes already searching the penalty area. Kane was ghosting between Alderweireld and Vermaelen — perfect timing.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
He let the ball roll across his body, drew Meunier toward him, then flicked the pass — a delicate, slicing through-ball that curved just inside the channel of space between defenders. Kane surged onto it like a predator unleashed.
One touch.
Bang.
The shot tore past Courtois before he could set himself — low, ruthless, unstoppable.
2–1.
The stadium exploded.
The England end erupted into chaos — flags whipping, beer flying through the air, voices cracking from disbelief and joy. Kane sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees, arms wide, his roar swallowed by the sheer weight of the noise. Francesco was right behind him, grabbing him around the shoulders, shouting something wordless, raw — pure adrenaline turned into sound.
"YES! COME ON!" Kane bellowed, his voice hoarse.
Francesco's grin split wide as he shouted back, "That's how we do it!"
Behind them, Sterling and Rooney joined the pile, Henderson pumping both fists toward the sky. Even Hodgson on the sideline couldn't help but punch the air once, the emotion cracking through his usual restraint.
Commentators' voices boomed over the speakers and into living rooms across England:
"It's Harry Kane! England lead again! Brilliant from Francesco Lee — the vision, the weight, the timing! And Kane, absolutely clinical!"
It wasn't just a goal. It was a statement.
The scoreboard blazed: England 2–1 Belgium (57' Kane).
But if England rejoiced, Belgium seethed.
Wilmots didn't wait. He stalked toward the fourth official, gesturing furiously, the veins in his temple standing out. His assistants scrambled, shouting toward the bench.
At 63 minutes, three red shirts stood ready — fresh legs, fresh intent.
Carrasco, Jordan Lukaku, and Romelu Lukaku all came off to muted applause from the Belgian fans, each looking frustrated, sweat-soaked. In their place came Marouane Fellaini, Dries Mertens, and Michy Batshuayi.
"Triple change from Wilmots!" the commentator announced. "He's throwing everything at this now — height, pace, and creativity. Fellaini to push up as a target man, Mertens to stretch the right, and Batshuayi to poach. Belgium going all-in."
And indeed, the shape shifted almost immediately.
Hazard tucked in closer to De Bruyne. Fellaini drifted forward into the box at every chance. Mertens buzzed like a hornet down the right flank, testing Rose's stamina.
The momentum swung like a pendulum.
At 66', Mertens' first cross caused chaos — Stones and Rose collided midair, Hart barely punching clear. Seconds later, De Bruyne rifled another from range, forcing Hart into a low dive to his left.
The Belgian section chanted louder now, the rhythm like war drums. "BEL-GIQUE! BEL-GIQUE!"
But England, though under siege, held.
Rooney dropped deep to help shield the midfield. Henderson battled every aerial ball like it was personal. Francesco tracked back tirelessly, sprinting from box to box, never letting Belgium find an easy rhythm.
Every tackle was greeted with roars, every clearance a wave of relief.
Then, in the 70th minute, Hodgson turned toward his bench. He could see the energy dipping, could feel the tide trying to turn.
"Eric!" he called. "Jamie! Get ready."
Dier and Vardy were already on their feet. The coach's voice cut through the noise. "Eric for Jordan — fresh legs in midfield. Jamie for Harry — we need pace up top, stretch their backline!"
At the 72nd minute, the fourth official's board lit up.
KANE ⬅️ VARDY
HENDERSON ⬅️ DIER
The crowd clapped as Kane jogged off — sweat-soaked, exhausted, but grinning, having done his job. Hodgson clasped his shoulder as he passed. "Well done, lad. Perfect."
Kane nodded, breathing heavily. "He'll finish them off," he said, gesturing toward Vardy.
Francesco bumped fists with him briefly before jogging back into position, watching as Dier and Vardy took their spots.
Immediately, the shape evolved — Dier dropping deep beside Alli and Rooney, stabilizing the center, while Vardy's raw speed gave England another edge.
"Keep it tight!" Hodgson shouted from the line. "Stay compact — hit them on the break!"
And that's exactly what they did.
The minutes after the substitutions were trench warfare — Belgium throwing everything forward, England defending with controlled fury.
Fellaini won every aerial duel near the box, but Stones and Smalling stayed sharp, blocking the second balls. De Bruyne tried threading passes through tight seams, but Dier's fresh legs intercepted twice in quick succession.
Then came the breakaways — the dagger England had prepared.
At 77', Francesco picked up the ball deep in his own half, spun away from Nainggolan, and sprinted thirty yards before sending Vardy through. The crowd surged to its feet as Vardy raced in behind — but Courtois was quick off his line, sliding low to block.
Gasps. Close. So close.
Still, it rattled Belgium.
Now their line looked nervous again. Mertens hesitated before pressing; Alderweireld barked instructions furiously at Vermaelen. The rhythm broke, their earlier precision fading into urgency.
England began to breathe again.
At 80', Hodgson gestured toward the back line, signaling a mild retreat — a compact 4-5-1, locking down every channel. Francesco stayed slightly advanced, ready to counter, his legs burning but his mind razor-focused.
The game had turned into a siege.
Every time Belgium came forward now, it was with the desperation of a team that knew time was slipping through its fingers. Hazard darted into the channels, De Bruyne pulled wide looking for that half-yard of space, Fellaini towered over everyone in the box — a mountain in red and black — and yet still England stood unbroken.
By the 82nd minute, the clock felt like a living thing — its slow crawl matched by the pulse hammering in Francesco's temples. Every minute they survived was another inch closer to the dream.
"Keep your heads!" Rooney shouted over the roar, his voice tearing through the storm. "No fouls in the box! Stay tight!"
Francesco dropped deeper now, shadowing Meunier whenever he dared push upfield. His lungs burned, shirt soaked through, but his focus was absolute. The stadium noise had become a kind of rhythm in his veins — chants, drums, whistles, all blurring into one single heartbeat.
And then, like lightning from nowhere, England struck again.
Then at the 85th minute, it started with Rose. Deep on the left, he intercepted a pass from Mertens — read it perfectly — and turned sharply upfield. Hazard tried to foul him, pulling at his shoulder, but Rose shrugged him off and surged forward. He looked up, saw Sterling sprinting into space, and sent a low diagonal ball skimming across the grass.
Sterling's acceleration was frightening — one moment he was level with Meunier, the next he was gone. The Belgian defender stretched, lunged, missed. Sterling drove into the final third, the roar of the English fans swelling behind him.
Ahead, Vardy was already moving — curving his run between Alderweireld and Denayer, timing it to perfection.
Francesco, still fifty yards away, saw it unfold like a frame slowed in his mind — the geometry of motion, every player drawn toward the inevitable point.
Sterling waited that heartbeat too long, just enough to bait Courtois off his line — then slipped the ball square.
Vardy arrived at full sprint. One touch with his left, a toe-poke finish past the keeper's sprawling legs.
Goal.
3–1.
And the Lille night exploded.
The English end erupted in white and red ecstasy. Flags waved, fists pumped, the sound thundered down like a physical force. Vardy wheeled away toward the touchline, screaming, his arms outstretched in disbelief and triumph. Sterling followed, laughter and adrenaline mixing in his shout: "That's how we finish them, mate!"
The bench went wild. Hodgson leapt from his technical area, arms raised high, his face breaking into the broadest grin of his managerial life. Behind him, the substitutes swarmed the touchline, hugging each other, shouting over the noise.
The commentators could barely contain themselves:
"Jamie Vardy — the super-sub strikes! England double their lead! It's 3–1, and Belgium are in tatters! What a counterattack — pace, precision, perfection!"
Francesco was already jogging toward Vardy, arms wide, grinning despite the exhaustion pulling at every limb. He reached him, clapped him on the back, the two exchanging a single wordless nod — the kind of look that said everything: we've done it.
For a brief, suspended moment, it felt like the world was made of light and sound and victory.
But Hodgson wasn't celebrating for long. The man was old enough to know that football had a cruel way of punishing arrogance. As the chants of "England! England!" rolled through the stands, he glanced at his watch, then at his assistant, Ray Lewington.
"Two minutes and I'm locking this down," he said.
Lewington nodded. "Cahill?"
"Exactly. Let's bring Francesco off — fresh legs, five at the back."
He gestured to the fourth official, then turned toward the pitch. "Francesco!"
Francesco looked up immediately from his midfield zone. Hodgson's gesture — a downward open hand, the universal sign for substitution, defensive lock — said it all. He nodded once, already jogging toward the sideline as Cahill stripped off his tracksuit.
88th minute.
The fourth official's board went up:
#9 FRANCESCO LEE ⬅️ #5 GARY CAHILL
The English fans applauded as Francesco made his way off the field. It wasn't just polite applause — it was the sound of gratitude, of recognition. They knew what they had just witnessed.
Two assists, ninety minutes of relentless work, and a performance that had carved Belgium apart at their strongest points.
As he neared the touchline, Hodgson reached out a hand. Francesco grasped it, sweat-slick but firm, eyes shining with the mix of exhaustion and pride.
"Well done, son," Hodgson said, voice tight with emotion. "Absolutely magnificent. You've earned your rest."
Francesco nodded, chest heaving. "Finish it, boss."
He turned to look back one last time as Cahill jogged on, slotting between Stones and Smalling to form a solid back five. Rose and Walker tucked closer. The midfield condensed into a line of four — Rooney, Dier, Alli, Sterling — protecting every inch of grass in front of them.
The formation clicked into place: 5–4–1.
A fortress to see out the last storm.
From the stands, the fans could sense it — the shift, the intent.
England weren't chasing anymore. They were defending something precious.
And the message to Belgium was clear: Try and break us.
The last minutes were pure endurance.
Fellaini's elbows flew, Mertens crossed a dozen times, De Bruyne tried every angle. Hazard switched wings, searching for one last spark of magic.
But the English line held — five defenders moving as one, every gap sealed, every header contested. Cahill immediately asserted command, barking orders, throwing himself into blocks. Dier was immense — sliding into tackles, clearing danger with ruthless precision.
At one point, in the 90th minute, Fellaini rose for a header that looked certain to sneak under the bar — but Hart leapt full stretch, fingertips brushing it over. The save sent another roar cascading from the English fans.
Francesco, sitting now on the bench with a towel draped over his shoulders, exhaled slowly, watching every second tick away. His teammates beside him — Kane, Henderson, even Joe Hart's backup, Forster — all leaned forward, eyes locked on the field.
"Come on, come on…" Kane muttered under his breath, bouncing a knee in rhythm with the chants echoing around them.
"Almost there," Francesco said quietly. His voice was soft but steady. "One more minute."
Added time: three minutes.
Belgium threw everything forward — even Courtois drifted near the halfway line, desperate for one final chance. But every long ball met resistance, every second ball fell to a white shirt.
Rose cleared one into touch.
Walker blocked another cross.
Cahill and Smalling both launched themselves into tackles like men possessed.
Each clearance was met with a roar of approval. Each tackle, a wave of noise.
And then — the final blow.
In the 93rd minute, De Bruyne tried one last desperate shot from 25 yards — the ball skimming just wide of the post, thudding into the advertising board behind the goal. He sank to his knees, hands in his hair, eyes staring into the turf.
The referee glanced at his watch.
A heartbeat of silence.
Peeep! Peeep! Peeeeep!
Full time.
The stadium erupted.
England had done it.
England 3 – 1 Belgium.
They were through to the Euro 2016 semi-finals.
The players fell into each other's arms — laughter, disbelief, exhaustion all melting together. Rooney screamed toward the fans, pumping both fists in the air. Sterling collapsed to his knees, pounding the turf with joy. Rose and Walker embraced near the sideline, shouting over the roar.
From the bench, Francesco was already on his feet again, rushing to meet them. He reached Kane first, the two colliding in a hug that nearly toppled them both.
"You were unreal out there, mate!" Kane shouted, eyes wide with exhilaration.
"You finished it!" Francesco laughed, voice hoarse. "We all did!"
Hodgson, standing at the edge of his technical area, finally allowed himself to smile — the kind of deep, quiet smile that only comes after years of waiting for a night like this. His assistants patted his back; the England fans were chanting his name.
________________________________________________
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: 4
Goal: 8
Assist: 3
MOTM: 3
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9