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As night fell over Lyon, the rain cleared, leaving the streets shining under the glow of streetlamps. Francesco stood by his window again, gazing at the city that now held his fate.
The next day crept in with a quiet kind of tension — the sort that settled into every movement, every breath, without a word needing to be said. It was matchday. But not just any matchday. This was the semifinal of the European Championship. The kind of night that children dreamed about and professionals spent lifetimes chasing.
By early afternoon, the England hotel in Lyon felt less like a place to rest and more like a ticking clock. Every hallway hummed faintly with that shared silence of concentration — boots being cleaned, playlists being fine-tuned, headphones pressed tightly over ears. Outside, the sky was bruised with a slow-setting dusk, the last of the daylight fading over the Rhône River.
Francesco spent most of the day in his room — not out of superstition, but necessity. His world had narrowed down to routine: stretch, hydrate, breathe. He'd already gone through his tactical notes twice, reviewing Portugal's defensive shapes, the triggers for their press, and the way Ronaldo often drifted into half-spaces when possession turned.
The hotel corridor was empty when he finally stepped out around six-thirty. Down the hall, he could already hear faint laughter from Kane and Stones' room — nervous laughter, but laughter nonetheless. A sign that they all still carried that thread of joy that football was supposed to be about.
By the time Francesco reached the lobby, the team was already assembling. The air was heavy with cologne, polished leather, and the faint static buzz of tension. Every player wore the formal navy England tracksuit, the crest stitched bright against the chest. Hodgson was near the front desk, speaking quietly with Gary Neville and the team liaison officer. Behind them, the kitmen wheeled out large blue crates marked "ENG KIT 02 – SEMIFINAL LYON."
At precisely 19:00, Hodgson turned to the group.
"Alright, lads," he said, his tone level but firm. "You know the drill. Phones off, minds on. This is where all that work comes together. Let's keep it calm, keep it sharp. We arrive, we warm up, we play our football."
No rallying speech. No theatrics. Just quiet authority.
The players nodded, some murmuring "Yes, boss," others simply clapping each other on the shoulder as they began to file out. Francesco slung his backpack over one shoulder and followed Kane, Rooney, and Henderson toward the revolving glass doors.
Outside, the evening air hit with a faint chill, the kind that sharpened the senses. The England team bus waited at the curb — gleaming white with the St. George's cross stretched across the side, flanked by security vehicles and a police escort already idling with lights on standby. The fans waiting across the street erupted the moment they appeared, flags and scarves waving in a blur of red and white.
"LEE! KANE! ENGLAND!"
"BRING IT HOME, LADS!"
The sound rolled like surf against the side of the bus.
Francesco paused for a heartbeat before climbing aboard, glancing at the faces in the crowd — men, women, children, voices hoarse from belief. He smiled faintly, lifted a hand, and waved once before stepping inside.
The air-conditioning hit cool and clean as he found his seat beside Kane halfway down the aisle. Across from them, Dier had his headphones on, eyes closed; Rooney was scrolling through the team sheet one last time, murmuring something under his breath.
The bus rumbled to life.
As they pulled away from the hotel, the sound of the escort sirens pierced through the glass — a steady, rhythmic howl leading them through Lyon's evening streets. Francesco leaned his head lightly against the window, watching the blur of city lights glide past. Cafés, waving fans, street banners that read UEFA EURO 2016 – LYON.
They passed the Rhône, crossed into the eastern district, and the stadium lights began to emerge in the distance — first as a faint glow on the horizon, then a halo that grew brighter with every turn of the wheel.
No one said much on the bus. There was music, low and private. The occasional cough, the shuffle of boots against floor. But otherwise, silence — the kind that didn't need breaking.
Kane leaned slightly toward him at one point and whispered, "You ready, mate?"
Francesco turned his head, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. "I was born for nights like this."
Kane smiled back. "Good. Then let's make it one to remember."
As they approached the Parc Olympique Lyonnais, the police escort peeled ahead, clearing the route through the throngs of supporters. Thousands lined the barriers, waving flags and phones in the air. The roar grew so thick it seemed to vibrate through the asphalt.
And then the stadium came into full view — a white colossus glowing under the night sky, every panel gleaming like armor. Floodlights lanced upward into the dark, cutting through the smoke of flares and the haze of anticipation.
Inside the bus, the players instinctively leaned closer to the windows, drawn to it — the cathedral where their fate would unfold.
The bus slowed, turned past the player entrance, and rolled to a halt beside a line of waiting UEFA officials. The doors hissed open.
One by one, they stepped out into the noise. Cameras flashed instantly — a blur of light and shouts. Francesco was halfway down the steps when he caught sight of the Portugal bus parked not far away. For a brief second, he saw him — Cristiano Ronaldo — stepping off, headphones on, gaze fixed straight ahead. The two didn't speak, didn't even exchange looks long enough for it to count as acknowledgment, but it was enough. A silent signal. The night was officially alive.
Inside, the corridors of the Parc Olympique Lyonnais were bright and clinical — white walls, UEFA signage, polished floors that echoed with the sound of boots and the roll of kit trolleys. Security staff lined the hall, nodding respectfully as England passed through.
The dressing room door bore the simple printed label: ENGLAND – LOCKER ROOM 2.
Hodgson held it open as the players filed in.
The air inside was cool, faintly scented with liniment and new leather. The kits hung neatly at each station — white shirts, navy shorts, white socks folded with precision. Every name was there in crisp lettering: KANE, ROONEY, HENDERSON, LEE.
Francesco's spot was beside Kane's, as always. His No. 14 shirt waited, the fabric catching the light like silk. He sat down, took a slow breath, and began his ritual — tape first, socks next, boots last. Each movement deliberate. Measured. Grounding.
The low thump of bass started up from the corner, courtesy of Sterling's speaker. Not loud, but enough to give the room rhythm. Dier and Stones exchanged quiet jokes while Lallana sat cross-legged near his locker, eyes half-closed in calm focus.
Hodgson moved about the room, speaking in low tones with Gary Neville and the staff. The physios checked straps and massages, the kitmen laid out spare boots, and the assistant manager placed a tactical board near the center bench.
After ten minutes, Hodgson clapped his hands once.
"Alright," he said, voice cutting clean through the sound. "We'll go for warm-up in five. Standard order. Keep it sharp but save the legs. We'll do the rest in here."
Francesco stood, stretching lightly. Kane caught his eye and gave him a nod. Together, they followed the group out through the tunnel.
The sound hit them like a wave.
Even though the match hadn't started, the stadium was already alive — a living organism of light, sound, and color. England's traveling fans had taken over one corner, flags draped over railings, the chant of "It's coming home!" echoing through the air. Across from them, a sea of red and green — Portuguese supporters waving scarves, some holding giant banners with Ronaldo's face, others singing in unison.
The pitch stretched before them in flawless green symmetry, every blade of grass gleaming under floodlight glare.
As the players stepped out, a few Portuguese fans near the corner shouted something — playful, mocking, but lost in the roar. Francesco didn't even turn. His gaze stayed fixed on the grass, on the geometry of the space, on the world that would soon shrink down to eleven versus eleven.
The warm-up began with slow jogs along the touchline, the air thick with the smell of damp turf and pyrotechnic smoke. They loosened their joints, passed in small groups, worked on dynamic stretches. Francesco and Henderson traded quick touches, short passes that snapped and rolled with practiced familiarity.
Gary Neville's whistle cut through the air. "Alright, quick transitions — one-touch, move, open body. Let's go!"
The tempo rose. Francesco felt the rhythm settle into his bones — the touch, the roll, the awareness. Every pass felt lighter now, the tension in his shoulders bleeding out through the motion.
From the far end, Portugal's squad mirrored their movements — Ronaldo chatting briefly with Nani before striking a ball across the field with effortless precision. The crowd roared each time he touched it, flashes lighting up like camera fire.
"Don't watch him," Kane muttered under his breath as they lined up for finishing drills.
Francesco smirked. "I'm not."
He wasn't lying. He'd watched Ronaldo enough to understand what made him brilliant. But now, his focus wasn't on imitation or admiration — it was on outdoing him.
They moved through the last of the shooting drills — quick setups, finishes low and hard into the corners. Francesco's boots met the ball with that familiar, satisfying thud, each strike cleaner than the last. When one ripped into the top right corner, a small cheer rose from the England fans behind the goal.
The last echo of boots against turf faded as the England players jogged toward the tunnel, sweat gleaming under the floodlights. The warm-up cones had been cleared, and the assistants rolled the balls into netted bags while the stadium PA blared the Euro 2016 anthem. The noise swelled, folding into itself — thousands of voices blending into one restless hum.
Francesco wiped his forearm across his face, exhaling through clenched teeth. His lungs felt clean, his heartbeat steady. This was the best part of the night — that delicate balance between readiness and adrenaline, when the world shrank to focus and movement.
As they ducked into the tunnel, the air changed — cooler, denser, carrying the faint tang of wet grass and disinfectant. The sound of the crowd dimmed, replaced by muffled echoes and the rhythmic thump of studs on concrete. Francesco pulled at the collar of his training top, sweat dampening the fabric as they reached the dressing room.
Inside, it was brighter, harsher. The smell of liniment and tape filled the air again. Each player returned to his place — calm, deliberate. The warm-up shirts were peeled off and tossed aside, replaced by match kits that hung waiting in neat, perfect rows.
Francesco's white No. 14 jersey felt weightless in his hands, the fabric cool against his fingertips. He slipped it on, the material clinging lightly to his skin. For a brief second, he looked down at the crest — the three lions shimmering faintly under the fluorescent light — and he drew a breath that felt heavier than it should have.
Across the room, Kane sat with his elbows on his knees, eyes closed, headphones hanging loose around his neck. Rooney stood near the tactics board with Gary Neville, arms folded, quietly nodding. Henderson adjusted the captain's armband on Rooney's sleeve, a ritual they'd done since the group stages.
Hodgson waited until the last pair of boots were laced before speaking. His voice wasn't loud; it didn't need to be.
"Alright, listen up."
The chatter faded. Every head turned.
Hodgson took a slow step toward the tactics board, where the formation was already marked out in neat red magnets. His finger traced the shape — a simple 4-3-3 — then hovered over the center of the pitch.
"We stick with what got us here," he said, tone even, measured. "Discipline, control, trust in the press. Don't get drawn into their tempo — make them play at ours."
He pointed to the goal magnet. "Joe Hart between the sticks. Communicate, Joe. Keep that line steady."
Then his hand moved down the back line, tapping each magnet as he called the names:
"Defenders from left to right — Danny Rose, John Stones, Chris Smalling, Kyle Walker. You hold firm, keep your distances. Portugal like to overload the half-spaces; don't give them an inch. Danny, mind Nani's runs inside. Kyle, Ronaldo will drift — he always does — but force him wide, don't dive in."
He looked up, eyes briefly meeting theirs. "Stay smart."
Then came the midfield. "Jordan Henderson, sitting deep — you're the anchor tonight. Screen the back four. Make the simple passes, break their rhythm. Dele Alli, central — keep the energy high. Drive the ball forward when the space opens. Wayne," he nodded to Rooney, "you're higher up. The link. Keep feeding the front three. You're also captain — keep everyone's heads steady out there."
A few nods followed.
Finally, his hand reached the top line of the formation.
"Raheem Sterling, left wing — stretch them, use your pace. Francesco Lee, right wing — I want you direct. Attack the full-back, test him early, make him panic. You know what to do when you cut inside. Kane," his hand tapped the center magnet, "you're the point of the spear. Hold it up, bring the others in, and when the chance comes…" He paused, a faint smile flickering. "…make it count."
There was no dramatic crescendo, no shouted war cry. Hodgson just looked around the room once more, meeting every gaze.
"This is it, lads. Semifinal. Ninety minutes to make history. Stay together, play your football, and trust each other."
He gave one final nod. "Alright — finish your prep. Five minutes."
The room broke into controlled motion. The assistant coaches moved between players with last-minute reminders — hand signals, set-piece triggers, defensive cues. The physios checked boots and laces. Someone turned off Sterling's speaker, leaving a hum of quiet breathing and the rustle of fabric.
Francesco sat forward on the bench, tightening his shin pads until the straps dug slightly into his calves. Across from him, Henderson retied his laces twice, a ritual of focus. Rooney flexed his wrists and blew out a long breath.
The seconds seemed to stretch thin. Francesco closed his eyes for a heartbeat, letting the sounds blur — the faint creak of leather, the scratch of Velcro, the click of studs on the tiled floor. He could almost hear the crowd above them, muffled but enormous, like an ocean against the ceiling.
Then the knock came — three sharp raps on the door.
"Tunnel time," called a UEFA official.
Every motion became precise. Rooney stood first, voice steady. "Come on, lads. Let's go."
The group filed out of the room, the narrow corridor glowing white under strip lights. The closer they got to the tunnel, the louder the world became — the low roar swelling through concrete, the percussion of drums from both sets of fans, the echo of announcers booming names through distant speakers.
Francesco's pulse quickened. The air in the tunnel was different — cooler, heavier, tinged with the metallic scent of sweat and damp grass drifting in from the pitch.
England lined up to the right, Portugal to the left. The referees stood at the front, UEFA badges gleaming on their shirts. Cameras were already waiting near the mouth of the tunnel, lenses glinting like eyes.
Francesco glanced to his side — the Portugal line was solid, focused, a wall of red. Rui Patrício adjusted his gloves near the back. Cédric Soares bounced on his toes, rolling his shoulders loose. Pepe and José Fonte stood shoulder to shoulder, unmoving, eyes forward. Raphael Guerreiro gave a small nod to Renato Sanches, who was barely twenty but carried himself with defiant fire.
William Carvalho stood stone-still behind them, expression unreadable. João Mário whispered something to Adrien Silva, who responded with a short grin. Then came Nani — calm, almost smiling — and finally Cristiano Ronaldo at the front, armband tight on his sleeve, jaw set, gaze fixed on the pitch ahead.
Francesco let his eyes trace over them briefly, memorizing the shapes of his opponents, their stances, their readiness. He felt no fear — only that razor-edged anticipation that sat halfway between excitement and instinct.
Kane stood next to him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Rooney adjusted his armband again and muttered, "Heads up, lads. This is ours tonight."
The referee turned, gave both captains a curt nod, and raised his hand toward the pitch entrance.
"Teams ready?"
Rooney and Ronaldo both nodded.
A pause. Then the UEFA anthem began — a rising swell of horns and drums that filled the tunnel, reverberating through every rib and breath. The signal came.
"Let's go."
They stepped forward together — two nations, two dreams — into a wall of light.
The sound hit like thunder.
Sixty thousand voices exploded into the Lyon night as the teams emerged, the air alive with color and motion. The England section behind the goal erupted into flags and flares of white smoke. Across from them, Portugal's fans answered with a sea of red banners, their chants rising in rhythmic unison.
Francesco squinted slightly under the floodlights, the grass blindingly green beneath his boots. The temperature had dropped just enough to feel sharp against his skin, the breeze carrying the scent of cut turf and adrenaline.
They walked in a line across the pitch, children at their sides for the anthem ceremony. Francesco's young mascot looked up at him wide-eyed, and he gave the boy a reassuring smile, a quick thumbs-up. The kid grinned back, gripping his hand tighter.
As they reached the center circle, the teams split — England to the right, Portugal to the left.
The anthem began.
"God save our gracious Queen…"
The English voices rang out proud and clear, swelling over the stadium. Francesco sang quietly, lips barely moving, his eyes on the stands where the white flags waved like restless hearts. He could feel the vibration of every syllable through his chest.
Then came the Portuguese anthem — a wall of melody that surged through their section, Ronaldo singing loudest of them all, hand over his heart, eyes glinting with fierce determination.
When it ended, the applause thundered.
The mascots were ushered away. The referees called both captains to the center for the coin toss. Rooney and Ronaldo shook hands briefly — polite, professional, the faintest flicker of rivalry behind their smiles.
Ronaldo's fingers brushed the coin as it flipped through the air, glinting once under the floodlights before landing in the referee's palm. The official turned it over, nodded once, and gestured toward the right-hand side of the pitch.
Ronaldo's mouth curved into a small, knowing smile. He pointed toward the England half. "We'll take this side," he said firmly in Portuguese-accented English. Then he glanced briefly at Rooney — polite acknowledgment, not challenge — before turning to his team.
"Kick-off."
Rooney nodded once, adjusted the armband on his left arm, and jogged back toward England's half, clapping his hands once to rally the others. "Come on, lads — straight focus now!"
Francesco followed him with a steady jog, the studs beneath his boots biting into the turf. The grass was soft but springy — perfect for football, the kind that invited quick touches and sharp changes of direction. He took one last deep breath, filling his lungs with the electric mix of air, adrenaline, and the faint sweetness of the grass.
At the halfway line, Ronaldo stood with Nani beside him, one foot resting lightly on the ball. He leaned slightly toward his old teammate, murmuring something only they could hear. Nani nodded, adjusting his stance, his body language loose and ready.
The referee glanced toward both goalkeepers — Rui Patrício in neon green at one end, Joe Hart in bright yellow at the other — then lifted the whistle to his lips.
The stadium held its breath.
Then came that sharp, cutting sound.
Kick-off.
Nani nudged the ball backward, and instantly Portugal's midfield shifted — Adrien Silva dropping deeper, João Mário drifting into the right channel. Ronaldo accelerated forward a few paces, testing England's line, before peeling away toward the left flank.
Francesco was already tracking back toward his zone, pressing into position as England's shape settled — 4-3-3 in defense, lines compact, midfield tight. Henderson was already barking orders behind him: "Push up! Don't let them settle!"
Portugal moved the ball smoothly, their rhythm slow but deliberate, probing. William Carvalho collected it at the base of midfield, pivoted, and spread it wide to Guerreiro on the left. The left-back darted upfield, exchanging a one-two with Renato Sanches before floating a cross toward the far post — but Kyle Walker read it early, springing up to head it clear.
The clearance fell toward Sterling, who cushioned it with his chest before flicking it into Rooney's path. Instantly, England turned defense into attack. Rooney looked up, saw Kane pulling wide, and pinged a diagonal ball across the field toward Francesco.
It hung for a heartbeat in the air — a perfect arc, spinning under the lights.
Francesco was already sprinting, his boots digging into the grass, eyes locked on the ball. Cédric Soares came rushing toward him, but Francesco's timing was perfect — he took it down on his thigh, let it drop, and darted past the full-back with a quick feint inside. The crowd roared, a wave of noise swelling as he drove forward.
"Go on, Lee!" someone shouted from the England bench.
Francesco cut in, twenty-five yards from goal, the space closing fast. He shaped to shoot — right foot back — but Pepe lunged in with that trademark precision, stretching one long leg to deflect the strike wide. The ball spun out toward the corner flag.
England's fans erupted in applause.
"First blood, boys!" shouted Henderson, clapping as they lined up for the corner.
Rooney jogged over to take it, raising a hand to signal the routine. The delivery whipped in, curling toward the near post — Kane rose above José Fonte, but Patrício was there, strong hands punching it clear.
The rebound dropped to Dele Alli, who tried a volley from the edge of the box. It skidded through traffic — but once again, Patrício was quick, dropping low to smother it.
The crowd groaned in unison.
"Unlucky, Dele!" yelled Sterling, already retreating to shape back into position.
Portugal didn't waste a second. Patrício hurled the ball long to Renato Sanches, who took it in stride, chest out, head high. The young midfielder burst down the center, the ball glued to his feet, evading Henderson's first attempt to slow him. Francesco darted inward instinctively, shadowing his movement.
Sanches fed Nani on the right, who cut inside Rose and unleashed a curling shot toward the far corner. Hart dived — full stretch — and with a slap of gloves, turned it away.
A gasp rippled through the stadium, followed by a thunderous cheer from the England supporters behind the goal.
"Brilliant, Joe!" shouted Smalling, pumping a fist.
Hart was already back on his feet, barking orders. "Talk! Keep the line! Kyle, shift left!"
The game's rhythm hardened like steel. Every pass, every touch carried a weight — the kind of intensity only a semifinal could summon.
By the tenth minute, it was a battle of control.
Henderson and William Carvalho clashed like twin anchors, each trying to dictate the middle third. Dele Alli pressed high, snapping at Adrien Silva's heels, while Rooney floated just behind Kane, searching for space to receive between the lines.
For Portugal, João Mário and Sanches began rotating cleverly, dragging England's midfield out of shape. Ronaldo was drifting again — sometimes hugging the touchline, sometimes ghosting inward to create triangles with Nani and Silva.
It was chess, played at lightning speed.
In the twelfth minute, Portugal came dangerously close. Guerreiro overlapped again, whipping in a cross that dipped wickedly toward the six-yard box. Ronaldo met it with a towering header — pure power — but Hart reacted like lightning, palming it over the bar.
The crowd's roar rose in admiration — even English fans clapped that save.
Francesco, jogging back to his defensive position, clapped his gloves together. "Massive, Joe! Massive!"
The corner came to nothing — Stones cleared, Alli completed the second ball — and England immediately broke on the counter.
Rooney sent a perfectly weighted through-ball toward Kane, who flicked it first-time to Sterling sprinting up the left. The Manchester City winger tore down the wing, Cédric struggling to match his pace.
Francesco sprinted on the opposite flank, shouting for the switch. Sterling looked up, spotted him, and sent a low diagonal pass that sliced through midfield.
Francesco reached it first, took a touch, and drove forward — forty yards, thirty, twenty. Pepe closed in again, so he cut sharply inside, slipping a short pass to Rooney, who turned and fired from the edge.
Patrício again. Sharp, alert, hands strong.
Four saves already for the Portuguese keeper — and barely fifteen minutes played.
The game refused to slow.
Moments later, Portugal retaliated — Nani curling a long-range effort that Hart tipped wide for another corner. A roar answered from the red half of the stadium, flares flickering behind the goal.
"Keep your shape!" shouted Rooney, voice carrying above the noise.
Both sides were fighting for rhythm — possession was shared almost evenly, but neither could seize full control. The midfield became a trench war — sliding tackles, interceptions, recoveries, transitions that burned bright for seconds before collapsing under pressure.
Francesco was tireless — tracking back to help Walker double-mark Ronaldo, then springing forward again whenever England recovered the ball. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, the cold Lyon air biting against his neck each time he slowed.
At one point, in the seventeenth minute, the ball broke loose near halfway. Francesco darted in ahead of João Mário, nicked it cleanly, and surged down the right. The crowd's roar followed him like a wave.
He beat Guerreiro with a deft body feint and crossed early, curling the ball toward Kane's run. But José Fonte stretched just enough to flick it away — inches before it reached its target.
Kane clapped his hands in frustration. "Nearly, mate! Nearly!"
Francesco nodded, catching his breath. "Next one, H."
Portugal countered instantly — Sanches bursting forward again, Ronaldo peeling left. This time the attack looked dangerous. Sanches found Nani, who slipped it into Ronaldo's stride just outside the box. Ronaldo took one touch, opened his body, and fired low toward the far corner.
Hart again. The save was clinical, the dive perfect.
That made four saves for Joe Hart — and four for Rui Patrício at the other end.
Twenty minutes gone. Still 0–0.
But it was no stalemate — it was a storm without a break.
The Lyon air throbbed with noise. The two teams moved like mirrors — attacking and retreating, pressing and breaking, the ball a flash of white between blurs of red and white shirts.
England's fans roared encouragement every time Francesco touched the ball. "Go on, Lee!" "Show 'em your pace!" "Come on, England!"
The Portuguese end responded with rhythmic claps, their chants pulsing through the stands: "Portugal! Portugal! Campeões!"
Every tackle drew gasps. Every block drew applause.
In the 19th minute, Henderson slid perfectly to dispossess Renato Sanches near the center circle — the timing immaculate. He popped up and immediately fed Rooney, who found Sterling wide left. Sterling darted forward again, dancing past Cédric before cutting inside and laying it off to Dele Alli. Alli flicked it through for Kane — a split second of brilliance — but Pepe's reading of the game was impeccable. He stepped across and intercepted, knocking the ball clear before Kane could shoot.
The sound of the collision — boots, shouts, the slap of contact — merged with the crowd's gasp.
"Keep at it, boys!" shouted Hodgson from the touchline, voice hoarse but steady. "Tempo, tempo!"
Francesco's lungs burned, but he didn't feel it. Not really. The adrenaline drowned everything else — the ache, the fatigue, the sound. All that existed was the ball, the space, the rhythm of play.
He could feel the match's heartbeat.
Every time Portugal had possession, he'd glance over at Ronaldo — watching how the captain moved, when he checked his shoulder, how he drifted to create mismatches. It wasn't just admiration now; it was study. He wanted to learn, to absorb, to surpass.
And when the ball came his way again, Francesco didn't hesitate.
He took it on the half-turn, drove down the flank, and unleashed a curling cross toward the six-yard box — perfectly placed, teasing between defender and keeper. Kane lunged — inches away — but Patrício managed to snatch it just before contact.
Applause erupted again from the England fans.
Francesco straightened, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling. He turned slightly, caught Ronaldo's glance from across the field. For a split second, they shared a silent acknowledgment — the understanding of two players chasing the same moment, the same glory.
Then the game swept on.
The first twenty minutes had burned away like seconds — fierce, flawless, breathless football.
No goals. But the crowd knew: it was only a matter of time.
Both teams had drawn blood in spirit. Both keepers had stood defiant. The midfield had become a battlefield of technique and willpower, of youth and experience colliding under Lyon's blazing lights.
________________________________________________
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: 5
Goal: 8
Assist: 3
MOTM: 4
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9