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For twenty straight minutes, England and France had traded punches, parries, and perfect moments. It was fast, physical, beautiful chaos — the kind of start that would be remembered long after the final whistle.
The twenty-first minute bled into the twenty-second, and still the roar of the Stade de France didn't dip for a second. It was as if the entire country had decided to hold its breath and scream at the same time. France were starting to find their groove again — little triangles forming down the left with Payet, Pogba, and Evra — but England refused to yield ground.
Henderson's voice carried over the noise, barking instructions, clapping his hands until they stung. "Shift! Shift! Stay tight!" His hair was plastered to his forehead, his white shirt streaked already with grass and sweat, but he never stopped moving.
France were slicker now — they'd drawn England deeper, forcing the back line to turn and face their own goal. Pogba drifted right, feinting to shoot before sliding it inside toward Griezmann. A heartbeat later, it was at Payet's feet, thirty yards out, curling dangerously toward the far corner —
—and again, Hart's gloves met it. He pushed it wide, the ball skipping away for a corner that Stones cleared before Giroud could leap.
"Good, Joe!" Rooney shouted, pumping a fist. "That's it!"
The next few minutes felt like trench warfare — every yard fought for, every touch contested. The tackles snapped, studs scraping grass, the air thick with noise and adrenaline. Francesco could feel it — the game building to something. The crowd, the rhythm, the space just beginning to open.
At twenty-five minutes, he found it.
It started with a mistake — just a small one, but fatal at this level. Pogba tried to thread a diagonal ball toward Matuidi, but Henderson read it. He darted in front, intercepting cleanly, then pivoted to switch play to Rooney.
Rooney didn't even take a touch.
He already knew where the danger was.
Francesco had drifted wide again, just behind Evra, exactly where he wanted him — where the veteran's legs could be tested.
Rooney's pass came spinning across the turf, quick and curling, and Francesco pounced. He reached it at full speed, one touch to steady, one to push past Evra — the old warrior lunging but half a step too late.
The noise rose.
Francesco cut inside.
Now it was him and Koscielny.
He didn't slow. A shimmy with the right shoulder sent Koscielny leaning the wrong way — just a fraction, but that fraction was everything. Francesco chopped the ball across his body, shifted it to his left, and suddenly the defender was behind him, grasping at air.
He saw the goal — saw Lloris already bracing, feet set, ready to spring.
He took one more touch.
And then, with that smooth, fluid swing that had defined his summer, Francesco struck.
The ball screamed off his boot — low, fast, and true. It skidded across the grass, swerving slightly just as Lloris dove. The French captain stretched, fingertips grazing air —
— and the net bulged.
Bottom corner.
1–0.
For a split second, there was no sound — just a sharp intake of breath from eighty thousand throats. Then the stadium detonated.
The English section behind the goal erupted into a sea of red and white. Flags whipped through the air, voices cracked, flares burst into white smoke. Francesco sprinted toward the corner flag, arms wide, his teammates thundering after him.
Kane caught him first, leaping onto his back with a shout. "You beauty! You absolute beauty!"
Rooney was next, fist in the air, face alight with pride. "That's the one! That's it, lad!"
Henderson crashed into the pile, followed by Sterling, Dele, Rose — a wall of joy and relief and disbelief. The bench exploded too — Hodgson clapping hard enough to sting, Gary Neville roaring with both arms in the air, the substitutes pouring out, their shouts swallowed by the roar.
On the other side of the pitch, France stood frozen. Evra had his hands on his knees, staring at the grass. Koscielny looked skyward, muttering something under his breath. Lloris slapped his gloves together, frustrated but not broken.
The cameras caught Francesco's face as he turned back toward halfway — eyes bright, chest heaving, jaw set. There was fire there, but also calm. The kind of calm that comes when instinct and preparation finally meet.
Rooney jogged up beside him, bumping his shoulder. "Perfect timing, son. You've just lit the fuse."
Francesco gave a quick grin. "Then let's keep it burning."
When play resumed, France came flying.
It was as if conceding had poured gasoline on their will. Pogba demanded the ball, gesturing furiously for his teammates to move. Matuidi surged forward, linking with Payet, who sent in a curling cross toward Giroud — and Hart again was there, rising through the chaos to punch clear.
England dropped into shape. Henderson barked orders. Rose and Walker held their lines, blocking runs, forcing France wide.
At the 33rd minute, Griezmann almost equalized — a delicate chip from Payet found him between Stones and Smalling. He met it with a first-time volley that looked destined for the top corner — until Hart's fingertips nudged it onto the bar.
The rebound dropped near Giroud, who tried to scramble it in, but Smalling threw his body across the line, clearing it away.
England breathed again.
The pressure was immense, but so was their resolve. Every clearance drew cheers from the English end, every block met with fists pumping on the bench.
Hodgson stayed still, but his eyes never left the pitch. "Keep your heads, lads," he murmured. "No silly fouls. Control it."
By the 36th minute, England countered. Sterling broke through the left, cutting inside before slipping the ball toward Rooney. The captain turned, saw Francesco peeling off his marker, and tried to play him through — but Koscielny intercepted, clearing it just in time.
Francesco glanced up at the clock. The minutes were crawling, but his lungs felt alive. Every stride, every breath carried purpose now.
France attacked again — Pogba to Payet, Payet to Griezmann, flicked to Giroud — shot! Blocked by Stones. The deflection spun high, and Hart grabbed it mid-air before anyone could react.
"Still 1–0!" Neville shouted from the technical area, voice hoarse. "Stay switched on!"
At the 39th minute, England had another chance. Dele wriggled free between Pogba and Sissoko, dancing past one challenge before feeding Francesco again. This time, he didn't cut inside. He went for the line, driving deep before whipping in a low cross.
Kane lunged — a fraction late. The ball zipped across goal and out.
But it sent another tremor of panic through the French defense.
The crowd could feel it — the tension, the urgency, the pulse of something monumental unfolding.
Pogba rallied his men, clapping, shouting in French. "Allez! Allez!" He tried to take charge himself, barreling through midfield and unleashing a strike from thirty yards that dipped violently — Hart saw it late, but somehow still got down to save.
At the forty-third minute, the tension that had been building like pressure under glass finally cracked.
France were pushing with everything — not just energy, but desperation. You could see it in Pogba's posture, the way he took every ball as if it were the last one left on earth. His legs pumped like pistons, his chest heaved, and his voice carried over the din: "Encore! Encore!"
England's line held — but it was creaking.
Henderson was shouting for shape, waving for Dele to tuck in; Rooney pointed for Francesco and Sterling to drop. They were compact, but France had found something — a rhythm, a chemistry that flickered in every touch. Pogba spun away from Dele, shrugging him off like dust. He looked up once and slid a pass that split the gap between Rose and Smalling.
It was perfect.
Griezmann timed his run to the millisecond — slipping in behind, his movement ghostlike. The ball rolled through like a knife, the grass shining under the floodlights as he darted forward. In one motion, Griezmann took it with his left, nudged it forward, and hit it early before Hart could set himself.
The strike was surgical — not power, but precision. Low, hard, curling inside the near post.
Hart flung himself down, arm stretched, but it brushed past his wrist, kissed the inside of the post — and rippled the net.
1–1.
For a moment, there was silence on the England bench — not from shock, but that hollow heartbeat pause that comes right before the roar. And then the French section erupted. Blue flares went up. Flags unfurled. Griezmann sprinted toward the corner, arms wide, face lit with raw emotion, sliding on his knees into a wall of teammates — Pogba, Payet, Giroud — all over him.
The cameras found Pogba laughing, pounding his chest as if to say: "Told you so."
Across the pitch, Francesco stood hands on hips, breathing hard. His face wasn't anger — it was concentration. He looked back toward the center circle, nodding once, already turning his focus forward again.
Rooney came over, clapping him on the shoulder. "We go again. We're not losing this."
Henderson called from behind. "Heads up, lads! That's one, not three! Keep working!"
But it hurt. The crowd had shifted; the noise was blue now, the rhythm of the game bending under France's momentum. Hodgson on the touchline didn't move, though his eyes flicked toward Neville. "We'll see it to halftime," he muttered. "Let them breathe."
England dug in for the final minutes of the half.
France smelled blood. Pogba wanted the ball constantly, gesturing for it every time it left his feet. He drove forward again, linking with Sissoko on the right, whose cross thundered into the box — Stones headed it clear. Payet collected, twisted, turned — blocked by Rose. The ball spilled to Giroud — shot!
Hart saved with his legs.
The crowd gasped again, the sound washing through the stadium like surf.
Every second ticked heavy on the clock now. Forty-five minutes. Then forty-six. The referee glanced at his watch, the whistle poised between his lips as France won one last corner. Payet trotted over, lifting his arm — the crowd roared again. The delivery was dangerous, curling toward the penalty spot — but Henderson rose highest, meeting it clean, clearing it halfway before Dele booted it downfield.
And finally — three sharp blasts.
Halftime.
The players slowed, exhaling as if released from some invisible weight. The noise of the Stade de France didn't fade, not really — but it softened, shifting into a hum of conversation, applause, relief.
The scoreline read 1–1, but it felt like they'd lived an entire war inside forty-five minutes.
Francesco walked toward the tunnel, sweat running down his face in rivulets, shirt clinging to him. Rooney fell into stride beside him, breathing heavy, but there was that quiet steadiness to him — the kind only captains carry.
"We're right in it," Rooney said. "We knew they'd hit back. Doesn't change a thing."
Francesco nodded. "We need more space. They're crowding the middle."
"We'll sort it," Rooney said, already glancing toward Hodgson, who was waiting at the tunnel entrance, clipboard under his arm, expression unreadable.
As they walked inside, the tunnel swallowed the roar. The hum became a muffled echo, replaced by the thud of boots and the rasp of breath. Cameras trailed behind them, catching glances, half-smiles, weary eyes.
Henderson muttered to Dele, "Pogba's getting too much room — we cut that off, we're fine."
Dele nodded. "Aye. Next one's ours."
Inside the dressing room, the door swung shut with a solid click — and for a second, silence.
Just the heavy rhythm of lungs filling and emptying. The sound of tape being peeled from ankles, the squeak of boots shifting on tile, the faint hiss of water bottles being opened.
Francesco dropped onto the bench, elbows on knees, staring at the floor for a moment. His pulse still hadn't slowed. He could feel his heartbeat through his shirt, the way it thudded in his ribs like the crowd's echo was living inside him.
Kane sat beside him, towel over his shoulders. "Hell of a first half."
Francesco let out a low breath. "Feels like we've played two already."
Across the room, Hodgson stood near the whiteboard. He waited — not long, but long enough for the noise to fade, for heads to lift, for every pair of eyes to meet his.
"Alright," he said finally, voice calm, almost conversational. "Breathe."
They did. A few seconds of collective exhale filled the room, easing the tension.
"Now," Hodgson went on, turning slightly, marker in hand, "we knew it would be this. France are too good not to have their spell. But we also knew what's working — and I want to remind you: it's working."
He pointed at the diagram of the field, little magnetic circles scattered across it. "Our front three — Francesco, Kane, Sterling — you're stretching them. You've got Evra and Sagna chasing shadows. Francesco, you've been superb. That run — the finish — that's what we talked about. Direct, confident."
Francesco lifted his head slightly, but said nothing, just nodded once.
Hodgson turned next to the midfield. "Hendo, Dele, Wayne — they're rotating quicker than we expected. So we stay compact, keep the distances. Pogba's starting deeper, trying to pull you out — don't take the bait. Let him have it in front. The moment he looks up, we close him down. Fast. No fouls, just pressure."
Neville chimed in from the corner, voice brisk. "And communication. Don't let Griezmann slip behind again. He's not marking space, he's timing you — that's what caught us. Stones, Smalling — tighter communication. One steps, one covers."
The defenders nodded, eyes sharp, tired but alert.
Hodgson paused again, then looked back toward the attackers. "We can win this on transition. France are pushing higher now, and it's leaving gaps. Sterling, you stay wide. Francesco, same — hug the line, force their fullbacks back. Kane, you drop, pull Koscielny out. That'll open the half-space."
He drew the movements with the marker, fast and sure, arrows slicing through the board.
"Then we hit them. Quick. One, two, three — in behind. That's how we scored, and that's how we'll score again."
He set the marker down and looked around the room. "Listen. You've got forty-five minutes to make history. Forty-five minutes to take everything you've done this summer and finish it. Don't wait for them to break — make them."
He smiled then, small but real. "You've earned the right to play without fear. So do it."
There was a brief silence — the kind that comes not from doubt, but focus. You could hear the sound of breathing, the faint hum of distant crowd noise seeping through the walls.
Rooney stood, clapping his hands once. "Come on, lads. You heard the gaffer. Keep your heads, trust each other."
Henderson followed with a nod. "We're better when we move as one. They can't stop us if we stay tight."
Francesco finally spoke, voice low but steady. "We're not walking out there to defend. We're walking out there to finish this."
That brought a few nods, a few grins.
Kane gave him a tap on the shoulder. "You get one more like that, mate, and they'll remember your name forever."
Francesco smirked. "Then I guess I'd better make it count."
Outside, the stadium announcer's voice rolled through the walls — muffled but clear enough to remind them the second half was near. The sound of boots scraping tile began to fill the air again. Shin guards snapped back in place. Shirts were tugged straight. Tape rewrapped around wrists and ankles.
The moment stretched — that strange calm before stepping back into chaos.
Hodgson's voice broke it softly: "Enjoy it. Every second."
Then came the captain's shout — Rooney's, strong and simple.
"Let's go win this final!"
And one by one, they rose.
Francesco was last to stand. He ran a thumb across the crest on his shirt — that little stitched lion that somehow carried a nation's heartbeat — and then turned toward the tunnel. He could already feel the noise growing again, the vibration of eighty thousand people waiting just beyond the wall.
As they stepped into the corridor, the floodlights spilled over them, turning sweat to silver. The tunnel opened up, and the sound hit like thunder. Flags, voices, drums, all of it rolling together in a tidal wave of sound.
Francesco glanced up once at the scoreboard — 1–1, 45:00 — and exhaled through his nose.
All square. Forty-five minutes to immortality.
He tightened his laces, rolled his shoulders, and followed the captain out into the blaze of the pitch, where history was waiting.
The whistle's shrill cry cut through the noise like a blade. The second half had begun.
Almost instantly, a ripple of movement ran along the French touchline. Didier Deschamps was already in motion — arms folded, jaw set, mind made. He turned toward his bench and called, voice firm over the chaos: "N'Golo, allez!"
From the cluster of blue shirts, N'Golo Kanté rose, already tugging at his bib, eyes locked on the pitch. The fourth official lifted the board, and the numbers flashed in orange and green — 3 off, 13 on. Patrice Evra trotted off, shaking his head slightly but slapping Kanté's hand as they crossed. The crowd murmured at the switch — it wasn't a typical change, not at this stage — but Deschamps wasn't thinking convention. He was thinking containment.
Kanté jogged onto the field, sliding into that hybrid role — part full-back, part sentinel — his presence immediately sharpening the left side of France's shape. The message was clear: Francesco Lee had burned Evra once. It wouldn't happen again.
And for Francesco, the irony wasn't lost. He caught sight of the familiar figure pulling into position — the same compact stride, the same sharp turns. Arsenal teammate. Training partner. The man who'd spent months studying his every feint, his every little tell — the twitch of his shoulder before a step-over, the faint lean before a sprint.
Kanté met his eyes for a brief second across the halfway line, and for all the noise around them, there was something quiet — almost personal — in that look.
Then the game ignited.
For the next eight minutes, football descended into beautiful chaos.
It wasn't just pace — it was fury and rhythm and precision colliding at once. Every touch seemed to spark a counter-touch. Every tackle, a response. The ball was a live wire — fizzing between boots, ricocheting through lines, demanding instinct and control in equal measure.
France pressed high. Pogba and Payet pushed forward, swarming Henderson and Dele the moment the ball touched their feet. Sissoko harried Rose on one side, while Kanté shadowed Francesco step for step on the other. It was like watching two shadows fight under floodlights — neither giving an inch.
England refused to break.
Henderson barked orders, pointing for Rooney to drop into the pocket, shifting the rhythm to a 4-2-3-1 in defense. Smalling and Stones were talking nonstop — a chorus of "Step! Cover! Hold!" echoing between them.
Then, on 48 minutes, France nearly broke through.
Griezmann found half a yard of daylight, pulling off Smalling's shoulder. Pogba saw it instantly — one flick of that right boot, the kind of pass that looked effortless but cut like a scalpel. Griezmann took it on the bounce, flicked it once to set himself — and shot low.
Hart dropped in a blur — right leg out, palms forward — and blocked. The rebound spun high. Giroud lunged, head first, but Stones cleared it off the line with a desperate volley.
The crowd screamed — blue and white alike.
England countered immediately. Rooney picked up the second ball and fed Francesco, who had already started his run. But before he could accelerate into that devastating stride, Kanté was there — sliding across, perfectly timed, nudging the ball away with surgical precision.
"Not this time, mon ami," Kanté muttered under his breath, already back on his feet, chasing the next phase.
Francesco barely heard him, but he felt the message. It was a duel now — not just a match. Arsenal against Arsenal. Memory against instinct.
The game became a test of reaction more than tactics.
On 50 minutes, England's pressing shape began to show its edge again. Dele and Sterling doubled up on Pogba, forcing him to turn backward. Varane's clearance was poor, sliced off the outside of his boot and straight to Rose. Rose whipped it forward first time, curling into the channel for Kane — but Lloris sprinted out, sliding to punch it clear before the striker could latch on.
The loose ball fell to Henderson thirty yards out. He took one touch, steadied — then let fly.
The strike cannoned off Koscielny's thigh, looping high into the night. The crowd gasped, every neck craning upward as Lloris backpedaled — and just managed to tip it over the bar.
Corner.
The noise from the England end was deafening. Flags waved, fists pumped. Henderson jogged to the corner flag, wiping sweat from his brow. Francesco hovered at the far post, marked tightly by Kanté, who refused to look away for even a second.
The ball came in deep — curling, dipping. Kane leapt but missed by inches. It dropped toward Francesco at the back post — he twisted midair, catching it on the half-volley — but Kanté had anticipated it, throwing his body across, deflecting it wide.
"Brilliant block!" shouted the commentator. "Kanté knows him inside out!"
Francesco landed hard, rolled, and was up again in a heartbeat, frustration flashing across his face. He clapped once — sharp, defiant.
"Next one," he muttered.
And again, the game tore away.
France transitioned faster now. Giroud dropped deeper to hold up play, allowing Griezmann to drift centrally. Pogba found space on the left flank, combining with Payet in tight triangles that tested Rose's stamina. Every pass was a test of England's structure — could they stay disciplined?
For now, yes.
At 53 minutes, the ball returned to Francesco's feet near the touchline. He glanced up, saw Sterling cutting inside, Kane dragging Koscielny away. He took on Kanté — first step inside, second feint out. Kanté mirrored perfectly, light on his toes. Francesco switched direction again — inside, outside, inside — but the little Frenchman stayed glued, tackling cleanly just as Francesco shaped to cross.
The ball rolled harmlessly out for a throw.
The crowd applauded — even some England fans couldn't help but admire it.
Francesco gave a tight smile — part challenge, part respect. He and Kanté exchanged a glance again, like two chess masters midgame, each thinking three moves ahead.
By the 55th minute, both benches were on their feet. Hodgson's lips moved silently — counting seconds, judging momentum. Deschamps, arms crossed, shouted toward Pogba and Payet to push higher still.
It was trench warfare in motion — relentless, technical, and full of heart.
On 56 minutes, England almost cracked through the chaos. Rooney intercepted a loose ball from Sissoko and sent it immediately into space for Sterling. Sterling's pace tore down the right, leaving Sagna scrambling. Kane peeled off to the near post. Francesco sprinted to the far side. The cross came in — perfect height, curling toward the six-yard box.
But Varane rose above them all.
The header cleared to thirty yards, but it didn't go far enough. Henderson stepped up again — side-footed volley — fizzed inches wide.
The sound of 80,000 lungs exhaling at once rolled around the stadium.
And still, neither side blinked.
From the sideline, Hodgson clapped furiously. "Keep it up! They're panicking!"
Deschamps shouted back across the pitch — "Reprenez le contrôle!" — calling for calm.
The midfield had turned into a battlefield of inches. Every loose touch was punished, every hesitation pounced on. Kanté was the pivot of France's resistance — cutting off passing lanes, sliding, intercepting, always two steps ahead of where Francesco wanted to go.
But even he couldn't stop everything.
On 58 minutes, a clever triangle between Rose, Dele, and Francesco opened a brief corridor down the left. Francesco burst through, skipping past Sissoko's challenge. He reached the edge of the box — drew his leg back — shot!
Blocked.
Kanté again.
Francesco groaned quietly, not in anger but in disbelief at his teammate's timing. The deflection looped high, allowing Lloris to collect.
The camera caught Hodgson exhaling sharply.
Gary Neville muttered beside him, "They're doubling him now. We might need to switch flanks."
Hodgson nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. "Let him pull them apart first. He'll open space for Sterling."
Meanwhile, Francesco jogged back, jaw tight but focused. He'd seen the shift too. Kanté wasn't alone anymore — Payet was helping double-team, which meant France were sacrificing their width on the counter.
That was a weakness. He just had to wait for it to crack.
On 60 minutes, Pogba broke again.
He powered through midfield like a locomotive, shrugging off Henderson, skipping past Rooney's slide. He released Giroud down the middle — but Stones read it, stepped across, and tackled beautifully.
England countered again, the ball snapping up the pitch in two passes. Francesco darted central, Kane laid it off — Francesco dummied — letting it roll to Sterling, who cut inside and fired.
Low shot, near post — Lloris down quick, smothered.
The tempo didn't dip for a second.
By 63 minutes, sweat was pouring, legs were heavy, but the intensity only deepened. Every player was living on instinct now, adrenaline replacing fatigue. The scoreboard still read 1–1, but it felt like the next goal would tilt the entire world.
France started to regain shape, but England's counterpress was biting. Dele intercepted again, flicked it forward to Kane — back to Francesco — and suddenly the Arsenal man was sprinting free, breaking the line.
Kanté gave chase, relentless as ever. Francesco reached the edge of the box, slowed — fainted inside — cut right — then shot low and fast across goal.
Lloris dove — fingertips brushed the ball — deflected wide.
Corner.
The England end roared again, the sound like thunder shaking the rafters.
Francesco stood breathing hard near the flag, waiting for Henderson to jog over. They exchanged a quick look — the kind that doesn't need words.
"Near post?" Henderson asked.
Francesco nodded once.
The delivery came quick and sharp. Henderson curled it with pace toward that near corner. Francesco darted across the front of Giroud, losing Kanté for a split-second, and glanced it with his head — the faintest of touches — but it skimmed over the bar by inches. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, exhaled, then lifted his chin. As the game was still alive.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, and 2015/2016 Champions League
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 12
Assist: 3
MOTM: 5
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9