The King Of Arsenal Chapter 497 497: 468. Rooney Decision

Novel: The King Of Arsenal Author: Tang12 Updated: Jun 16, 2026

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Now reading: Chapter 497 497: 468. Rooney Decision from The King Of Arsenal, a Action novel by Tang12.

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Francesco exhaled deeply, feeling the lingering exhaustion as a quiet, satisfying weight. Outside, fans lingered along the barriers, waving scarves, clapping, cheering the players off the pitch. England had won in Dortmund. They had beaten Germany.

The tunnel swallowed them slowly, the roar of Signal Iduna Park fading into a distant, muffled echo behind concrete walls and fluorescent lights. Boots scuffed against the floor, studs clicking in uneven rhythms as England's players drifted inward, shoulders loosening, laughter breaking out in small bursts now that the weight had lifted.

Francesco walked near the front, still wearing the captain's armband, sweat cooling rapidly against his skin. His chest rose and fell more evenly now, the sharp edge of exertion softening into a deep, satisfying fatigue. This was the part that always ca after with the strange quiet that followed chaos, when adrenaline lingered but no longer drove every movent.

He reached for a towel offered by a staff mber, dragging it across his face, then the back of his neck. The sll of linint, damp kits, and recycled air filled the corridor. Sowhere behind him, Sterling was laughing loudly about a tackle that had nearly taken him into the advertising boards. Henderson was already dissecting monts with Ward-Prowse, pointing back toward the pitch as if the ga were still unfolding in front of them.

Then Southgate with his hands in his jacket pockets, posture relaxed but attentive. He watched his players pass, offering nods, brief words, a hand on a shoulder here and there.

Then as Francesco drew level, Southgate stopped him gently with a touch to the arm.

"Francesco," he said. Then he glanced past him. "Wayne."

Rooney, still flushed from the match, turned back, eyebrows lifting slightly. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes bright in that familiar way they always were after a big mont.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Press conference," Southgate said. "Both of you. Five minutes."

Rooney nodded without hesitation. Francesco inclined his head once, already expecting it. Captain and goalscorer. It made sense.

"Grab a drink first," Southgate added. "Then co with ."

He stepped away, leaving them briefly alone amid the stream of players peeling off toward the dressing room.

Rooney let out a breath and rolled his shoulders. "Every ti," he muttered, half-amused. "Win a big one and suddenly everyone wants to hear you talk."

Francesco smiled faintly. "Better than after a loss."

"True enough."

They detoured into the dressing room just long enough to grab bottles of water. The room was alive now with kits being tossed aside, boots unlaced, physios already moving between players. Music began to thrum softly from a speaker near the corner, sothing upbeat but not overpowering. Soone yelled sothing unintelligible, followed by laughter.

Francesco took a long drink, the cold water biting pleasantly at his throat. He caught his reflection briefly in the mirror with his hair damp, eyes tired but alert, the faint flush of effort still coloring his face. Captain of England. Victorious in Dortmund. The thought still felt slightly unreal, even now.

Rooney finished his bottle in three quick pulls and crushed it absentmindedly before tossing it toward a bin.

"You good?" he asked Francesco.

"Yeah," Francesco replied. "You?"

Rooney grinned. "Ask again after the questions."

They made their way back out, eting Southgate near the corridor that led toward the dia area. The farther they walked, the quieter it beca, the noise of celebration replaced by the steady hum of stadium machinery and distant voices echoing off concrete.

It was on that walk in sowhere between the dressing room and the press suite that Southgate slowed his pace slightly.

"Wayne," he said, not looking at him directly at first.

Rooney glanced over, sensing the shift. "Yeah?"

Southgate clasped his hands together briefly, thoughtful. "There's going to be questions," he said. "About you. About what cos next."

Rooney's smile faded just a fraction, replaced by sothing more asured.

Southgate continued, voice calm, conversational. "You've been around long enough to know how this goes. I wanted to ask you first away from caras. Where your head's at."

Francesco slowed instinctively, staying close but silent. He could feel the weight of the mont without fully understanding it yet.

Rooney exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the floor as they walked.

"I've been thinking about it," he said finally. His tone wasn't heavy, but it wasn't casual either. It carried the sound of soone who'd replayed the thought many tis. "A lot, actually."

Southgate nodded, encouraging but not pressing.

Rooney rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "I know people think it's ti. I hear it. I see it. Every tournant, every squad announcent as it's there." He glanced up briefly, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. "You don't get to this stage without knowing how it works."

Francesco kept his gaze forward, respectful, aware he was witnessing sothing personal.

Rooney went on, voice steady. "But nights like this… matches like this…" He trailed off, then shook his head slightly. "They remind you why you started. Why you kept going."

They reached a small junction in the corridor. A staff mber gestured them toward the press room, but Southgate lifted a finger, buying them another mont.

Rooney looked up now, eting Southgate's eyes properly.

"I've thought about retiring," he said plainly. "I won't lie. I've thought about what it would be like to step away. Be done with the questions, the scrutiny."

Southgate listened, face open.

"But," Rooney continued, and now there was sothing warr in his voice, sothing almost boyish beneath the years, "winning a World Cup… that still feels unfinished."

Francesco felt a subtle tightening in his chest at the words. Not from pressure. From possibility.

Rooney gave a small, crooked smile. "Seems like a nice way to go out, doesn't it?"

Southgate's lips curved upward, just slightly.

"So," Rooney finished, "I'll stay. I'll give it everything I've got until the World Cup's done. And then… then I'll retire from international football."

The words settled between them, solid and deliberate.

Southgate nodded slowly. "I appreciate the honesty," he said. "And the commitnt."

Rooney shrugged lightly. "Didn't feel right to walk away yet. Not with this group. Not with him leading it." He flicked a glance toward Francesco.

Francesco blinked, surprised, then t Rooney's eyes.

Rooney grinned again, softer this ti. "No pressure, eh, skipper?"

Francesco huffed a quiet laugh. "None at all."

Southgate allowed himself a small chuckle before straightening. "Alright," he said. "Let's go tell the world sothing they can chew on."

They moved on, the press area now just ahead. The air changed again with brighter lights, the murmur of journalists, cara shutters clicking as they spotted movent down the corridor.

Inside the press room, the atmosphere was controlled but buzzing. Rows of chairs faced a raised platform with a long desk and microphones already set up. Backdrops plastered with sponsor logos frad the space. The low hum of conversation filled the room, punctuated by the occasional laugh or the scrape of a chair.

Southgate led them up onto the platform. He took the central seat, gesturing for Francesco to sit to his right and Rooney to his left.

Francesco settled into the chair, resting his forearms lightly on the table. He felt the familiar awareness return with the sense of being watched, analyzed, recorded. It wasn't uncomfortable. Not tonight.

Caras flashed as they took their seats. A moderator cleared his throat, welcoming everyone, thanking them for coming.

"Congratulations on the win," ca the opening question, directed at Southgate. "A historic result here in Dortmund. What does it an to you and to this team?"

Southgate answered smoothly, speaking about character, resilience, belief. He referenced the substitutions, the response after conceding, the maturity shown in closing the ga out.

Then the questions turned toward Francesco.

"As captain," one journalist asked, "how proud are you of the way the team responded after Germany's equalizer?"

Francesco leaned slightly toward the microphone. "Very proud," he said. "That mont could've gone either way. Germany are a top side on how they score, the crowd lifts, montum swings. But we stayed calm. Everyone did their job. We trusted the plan, trusted each other."

Another question followed, this ti about his positional shift.

"You moved from striker to right midfield after the changes. How challenging was that adjustnt?"

Francesco nodded. "It's about what the team needs. Harry coming on gave us a different presence up top. My role was to help balance things from to track, to stretch them when we could. It's not about individual positions tonight. It was about control."

Then the attention shifted, inevitably, to Rooney.

"Wayne," a journalist began, leaning forward, "you co off the bench and score the winning goal. There's been speculation about your future with the national team. Can you tell us where you stand?"

Francesco felt the room sharpen. Pens paused. Caras angled.

Rooney glanced briefly at Southgate, then forward again. His expression was composed, thoughtful.

"I've thought about it a lot," he said, echoing the words from the corridor, but now carrying them out into the open. "I know I'm not the youngest guy in the room anymore."

A ripple of quiet amusent moved through the press.

"But," Rooney continued, "I still feel I can contribute. Nights like this prove that. And honestly… winning a World Cup seems like a nice way to finish."

There it was.

The room stirred imdiately.

"So you're saying—" another journalist began.

"I'm staying," Rooney said simply. "I'll stay until the World Cup's done. After that, I'll retire from international football."

The flash of caras intensified. The murmur swelled.

Southgate glanced at Rooney, then addressed the room. "We're delighted Wayne's committed," he said. "His experience, his ntality, what he brings in monts like tonight as it's invaluable."

Francesco felt a quiet swell of emotion beside him that not dramatic, not overwhelming, just steady. This was what building toward sothing felt like. Not hype. Not slogans. Decisions. Commitnt.

More questions followed. About Germany's substitutions. About England's defensive shape. About Kane's impact, Sterling's energy, Hart's saves. Francesco answered where appropriate, always asured, always pulling the focus back to the collective.

Eventually, the moderator signaled the final question.

"What does this win an for England going forward?" soone asked.

Francesco paused before answering, choosing his words carefully.

"It ans belief," he said. "Not arrogance. Not expectation. Just belief. We know what we're capable of when we work the right way. Tonight doesn't win us anything on its own, but it shows us what's possible."

The press conference wrapped up shortly after. Southgate stood, thanked the room, and led them back out through the side corridor.

As soon as the door closed behind them, the noise dropped away again.

Rooney let out a long breath and laughed quietly. "Well," he said, "that's out there now."

Francesco smiled. "You good?"

Rooney nodded. "Yeah. Feels right."

Southgate stopped near the junction where they would split off with players back toward the dressing room, staff onward.

"Wayne," he said, extending a hand. "Glad to have you."

Rooney shook it firmly. "Wouldn't miss it."

Then Southgate turned to Francesco. "You handled that well," he said. "Both on the pitch and in there."

Francesco dipped his head. "Thank you."

Southgate gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. "Get so rest. You've earned it."

Southgate's footsteps faded down the corridor, swallowed by the quiet hum of the stadium, leaving Francesco and Rooney standing there for a mont longer than necessary. The air felt different now as it was lighter. The hardest parts of the night were behind them. What remained was the slow exhale.

Rooney broke the silence first, stretching his arms above his head, joints cracking audibly.

"Alright," he said. "Now I'm actually shattered."

Francesco smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting as the tension finally eased out of his shoulders. "Took you long enough to admit it."

Rooney scoffed. "I admitted nothing. I'm just… temporarily depleted."

They turned back toward the dressing room together, walking at an unhurried pace now. The corridor felt longer on the way back, not because of distance but because of how full Francesco's head was. The match. The goal. The substitutions. The press conference. Rooney's words about the World Cup echoed again, settling deeper each ti they resurfaced.

Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere had shifted into sothing loose and celebratory.

Music was louder now as soone had changed the playlist to sothing bass-heavy and unapologetically upbeat. Players lounged across benches, so already half-dressed in training shorts, others still in match kit, socks rolled down, shin pads discarded on the floor like relics of battle. Laughter bounced off the walls, overlapping conversations forming a constant low roar.

Sterling was reenacting his near-collision with the advertising boards, arms flailing dramatically as he retold it to a small audience of amused teammates. Kane sat nearby, towel draped over his head, nodding along while scrolling through his phone, no doubt already inundated with ssages. Henderson leaned against a locker, boots off, barefoot now, calmly talking with Ward-Prowse about a free-kick angle that hadn't even co to fruition.

Francesco stepped inside and felt it with the unity, the relief, the quiet pride humming beneath the noise.

Rooney clapped his hands together once, loud enough to cut through the chatter. "Oi," he called out. "Anyone got any hot water left, or am I about to freeze to death?"

A chorus of sarcastic replies ca back imdiately.

"Captain first!"

"Veterans' privilege!"

"You should've retired before the shower rush!"

Rooney laughed, shaking his head as he headed toward his locker. Francesco followed, placing his bag down and untying his boots slowly, thodically. Each movent felt deliberate now, like he was easing himself out of the match piece by piece.

As he peeled off his shirt, the captain's armband ca with it. He held it for a second longer than usual, thumb brushing over the fabric, before folding it neatly and setting it atop his bag.

Not because the mont was over.

Because it had been earned.

The showers beckoned, steam already curling into the room from behind the tiled doorway. Francesco grabbed a towel and a small toiletry bag, then nodded toward Rooney.

"Coming?" he asked.

Rooney raised an eyebrow. "You inviting , skipper?"

Francesco snorted. "Don't push it."

They made their way into the showers together, the sound shifting imdiately with voices echoing sharper off tile, water pounding against the floor in overlapping rhythms. Steam filled the space, fogging the mirrors almost instantly.

Francesco stepped under a free stream and tilted his head back, letting the hot water cascade over his hair and down his spine. The heat bit at first, then settled, loosening muscles that had been clenched for hours. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

This was where the night truly ended.

Nearby, Rooney let out a satisfied groan as the water hit him. "Oh, that's the stuff," he said. "Whoever invented hot showers after football deserves a statue."

Francesco chuckled softly. "You'd probably argue it should be you."

"Fair," Rooney replied without missing a beat.

They stood there in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the rush of water and the distant laughter bleeding in from the dressing room beyond.

Eventually, Rooney spoke again, voice quieter now, more reflective.

"You know," he said, staring at the tiled wall, "saying it out loud… about the World Cup. Felt different."

Francesco turned his head slightly, not fully looking at him but listening.

"Good different?" he asked.

Rooney nodded. "Yeah. Like… once you say it, it's real. No more maybes."

Francesco considered that. "I'm glad you're staying."

Rooney glanced over, eting his eyes through the steam. " too. And I ant what I said earlier. About you leading this lot."

Francesco shrugged under the water. "I'm not doing it alone."

"I know," Rooney said. "That's kind of the point."

They finished showering soon after, toweling off and heading back into the dressing room. The steam clung to them briefly before dissipating into the cooler air.

Francesco pulled on fresh underwear and then the England tracksuit, the familiar navy fabric settling comfortably against his skin. It felt grounding that less ceremonial than the match kit, more representative of the everyday grind of international football. Training, travel, recovery. The work between the monts.

Around him, the rest of the squad did the sa. Zips slid up. Trainers replaced boots. Phones reappeared in hands, ssages finally answered. The volu of the room dipped slightly, the earlier adrenaline giving way to fatigue.

Southgate re-entered briefly, clapping his hands once to get attention.

"Bus leaves in ten," he said. "Quick turnaround. Well done tonight."

A round of applause followed, spontaneous and genuine. Southgate nodded once, satisfied, and left them to it.

Francesco slung his bag over his shoulder and waited near the door as players began filtering out. Rooney joined him, adjusting his tracksuit collar.

"Alright," Rooney said. "Round two of sitting down begins."

They walked out together, back through the now-familiar corridors, toward the underground exit where the team bus waited. The stadium felt emptier now, its earlier intensity drained away, leaving behind only echoes and shadows.

Outside, the night air was cold and sharp, cutting through the lingering warmth of the showers. Breath puffed visibly as players stepped onto the pavent. The bus idled nearby, engine humming steadily, interior lights glowing softly.

Francesco boarded near the front this ti, nodding to the driver before moving down the aisle. The seats filled quickly, players collapsing into them with exaggerated sighs, bags stowed overhead or beneath feet.

As the bus pulled away from Signal Iduna Park, Francesco glanced out the window one last ti. The stadium receded into the darkness, its massive outline still visible against the night sky.

A win like that didn't disappear when you left the ground.

It stayed with you.

The ride back to the hotel was quieter than the journey there, but not silent. Conversations bubbled up and died down organically. So players leaned back with eyes closed, headphones on. Others scrolled through social dia, smirking at ssages or shaking their heads at headlines already forming.

Rooney sat a few rows behind Francesco, laughing at sothing Kane had shown him on his phone. Sterling chid in from across the aisle, offering comntary that only made Rooney laugh harder.

Francesco listened, smiling faintly, content to let the mont breathe.

Halfway through the journey, he stood.

The movent caught attention imdiately that not because it was unusual, but because of who was doing it. Conversations tapered off as heads turned.

Francesco steadied himself against a seatback as the bus rolled on, then cleared his throat.

"Oi," he said, not loudly, but firmly enough to carry.

The bus quieted.

He glanced back toward Rooney first, eting his eyes, then swept his gaze across the rest of the team.

"Listen," Francesco began. "Tonight was big. Beating Germany here, that's sothing we should all be proud of. Everyone played their part. Starters, subs, staff. All of it."

A few nods followed. Murmurs of agreent.

"But," he continued, and here his tone shifted slightly, warr, more personal, "there's sothing else we should acknowledge."

Rooney raised an eyebrow, already suspecting.

Francesco smiled. "Wayne's decided he's staying with us until the World Cup's done. After that, he'll retire from international football."

The reaction was imdiate.

A mix of cheers, whistles, applause. Soone banged the side of the bus. Sterling leaned forward, grinning. Henderson turned in his seat, clapping deliberately. Kane nodded, expression thoughtful.

Rooney lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright," he said. "Don't make it weird."

Francesco chuckled. "Too late."

He went on. "So I was thinking, when we get back to the hotel, we don't just disappear to our rooms. We get together. Lounge. Nothing formal. Just acknowledge it properly. Celebrate the win. Celebrate him."

Another wave of approval rolled through the bus.

"About ti!"

"Drinks on Rooney!"

"Captain's orders!"

Rooney shook his head, laughing now, but there was sothing in his eyes with gratitude, maybe, or sothing close to it.

"Guess I'm not getting out of this," he said.

"Not a chance," Francesco replied.

He sat back down as the bus rumbled on, the atmosphere lighter now, anticipation building for a different kind of night. Not one of tension or tactics that but of stories, laughter, shared history.

The hotel ca into view soon after, its lights bright against the dark. The bus pulled up to the private entrance, staff already waiting to guide them inside.

The bus hissed softly as it ca to a stop, brakes sighing like even the machine itself was tired after the night it had carried. The doors folded open and cold air rushed in again, sharper this ti, clean and grounding. One by one, the players stood, stretching stiff legs, grabbing bags, pulling jackets tighter around their necks.

Francesco waited until most of them had moved ahead before stepping off. The pavent was slick beneath his trainers, reflecting the hotel's lights in broken shards of gold and white. Staff lined the entrance with practiced efficiency, nodding politely, already accustod to the quiet chaos that followed a win like this.

Rooney hopped down a step behind him, landing with a small grunt.

"Right," he muttered. "If my knees seize up in the next five minutes, soone carry ."

Sterling glanced back over his shoulder. "That's what the youngsters are for, mate."

Rooney snorted. "You'd drop ."

"Absolutely," Sterling replied cheerfully.

Laughter rippled through the group as they moved inside, warmth swallowing them whole the mont the doors closed. The lobby was hushed in that late-night luxury way that soft lighting, muted colors, the low hum of conversation from guests who had no idea a small piece of international football history had just walked past them.

Security guided them quickly through, past elevators, toward the private lounge reserved for the team. It was tucked away from the public areas, shielded by heavy wooden doors and discreet signage. When those doors opened, the atmosphere shifted again.

The lounge was spacious but intimate that low couches arranged in clusters, dark wood tables, a long bar along one wall already manned by two bartenders who looked alert despite the hour. Warm amber lighting reflected off glass shelves stacked with bottles. A quiet playlist humd through hidden speakers, sothing smooth and unintrusive.

The players filtered in and imdiately spread out, claiming couches, dropping bags, collapsing into seats with exaggerated relief.

"This," Kane said, flopping down beside Henderson, "is the best part."

Henderson nodded, kicking his feet up onto a low table without guilt. "By far."

Francesco stood near the entrance for a mont, taking it all in. This was different from the dressing room. Less noise, less chaos. More… togetherness. A space where the win could actually settle.

Rooney drifted toward the bar almost instinctively, resting his elbows against the polished wood. One of the bartenders leaned forward, professional smile already in place.

"What can I get you, gentlen?"

Rooney glanced back at the room. "What's the rule, skipper?" he asked loudly enough for Francesco to hear. "Are we pretending to be responsible, or…?"

Francesco t his gaze, then looked around at the squad with their faces tired but bright, eyes still alive with the echo of the night.

He shrugged. "Within reason," he said. "We've earned a drink."

That was all it took.

A low cheer rose, not loud, not rowdy, but full of approval. Chairs scraped as a few players stood to join Rooney at the bar.

"Beer," Sterling said imdiately.

"Sa," Dele added.

"Red wine," Henderson said, glancing at Ward-Prowse.

"Make it two," Ward-Prowse replied.

Kane hesitated for half a second, then nodded. "Beer's fine."

Rooney looked at Francesco again. "Captain?"

Francesco thought about it for a beat. The night. The match. The weight finally easing.

"Whiskey," he said. "Neat."

Rooney grinned. "Of course."

Glasses were poured, bottles popped, the soft clink of ice filling the spaces between conversations. Francesco accepted his glass from the bartender, the amber liquid catching the light as he lifted it briefly in acknowledgnt.

They didn't toast imdiately. No grand speech. No raised glasses across the room.

Instead, they settled.

Players sank into couches with drinks in hand, legs stretched out, shoulders finally dropping. Conversations overlapped as so about the match, others already drifting to mories, jokes, things completely unrelated.

Sterling perched on the arm of a sofa, animated as ever, retelling the mont Rooney scored with increasing embellishnt.

"I swear," Sterling said, hands flying, "when Lallana slipped that pass, ti stopped. Wayne was already winding up before the ball even reached him."

Rooney waved him off. "That's rubbish. I just hit it."

"Yeah," Dele chid in from across the table, "but you hit it like you've been waiting years for that exact mont."

Rooney took a sip of his drink, eyes dropping briefly to the glass. "Maybe I was."

That comnt lingered longer than expected.

Francesco sat nearby, one ankle resting over his knee, listening more than speaking. He watched Rooney on how relaxed he looked now, how the usual edge had softened into sothing reflective.

Eventually, Francesco leaned forward, setting his glass down on the table with a soft thud.

"Alright," he said.

Heads turned instinctively. Not because he demanded it but because this group had learned, over ti, that when Francesco spoke in monts like this, it mattered.

He didn't stand. Didn't raise his voice.

"I don't want this to turn into a ceremony," he continued. "But I do want to say sothing."

Rooney sighed theatrically. "Here we go."

Francesco shot him a look. "Behave."

A few chuckles broke the tension.

"Wayne's decision to stay until the World Cup," Francesco said, "that's not just about goals or experience. It's about continuity. It's about having soone in this group who knows exactly what it takes, and what it costs."

He glanced around the room at Kane, Sterling, Henderson, even the quieter faces tucked into corners.

"For so of you," he went on, "this'll be your first World Cup. For others, maybe not your last. But for all of us, it's a chance. And having him here, choosing to give more when he doesn't have to that matters."

Rooney shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. "You're making it sound like I'm dying."

Francesco smiled faintly. "You'll survive."

Laughter rippled again, but it was softer now, warr.

Francesco lifted his glass finally.

"To Wayne," he said simply. "And to finishing this together."

The response was imdiate.

Glasses rose across the room, the sound of them clinking together filling the lounge in overlapping chis.

"To Wayne."

"To the World Cup."

"To England."

Rooney lifted his glass last, shaking his head slightly, but he didn't hide the emotion in his eyes this ti.

"Cheers," he said. "All of you."

They drank.

The night loosened after that.

The playlist shifted at so point as soone requested sothing louder, sothing nostalgic. The bartenders obliged, turning the volu up just enough to give the room a pulse without drowning conversation.

More drinks were ordered. Not recklessly, not to excess but enough to blur the sharp edges left behind by ninety minutes of intensity.

Francesco found himself in a quieter corner with Henderson and Ward-Prowse at one point, discussing nothing more serious than which stadium had the worst away dressing room showers. Henderson was adamant it was sowhere in Eastern Europe. Ward-Prowse disagreed vehently.

Nearby, Kane and Dele were deep in conversation, Kane listening intently as Dele spoke, hands animated, reliving so mont from the match that clearly still thrilled him.

Rooney moved between groups, comfortable, at ease. At one point he settled beside Sterling, the two of them laughing over sothing on Sterling's phone which probably a already circulating online.

Francesco watched it all with a quiet sense of satisfaction.

This was what he'd hoped for when he'd taken the armband. Not control. Not authority.

Connection.

At so point, Rooney dropped into the seat beside him, exhaling heavily.

"Alright," he said. "Confession."

Francesco raised an eyebrow. "That sounds dangerous."

Rooney smirked. "When I told you earlier I was shattered? I lied."

"Oh?"

"I was terrified," Rooney admitted, voice low enough that only Francesco could hear. "Not of playing. Of stopping."

Francesco turned slightly toward him, attentive now.

"I've been thinking about it for months," Rooney continued. "Walking away. Letting the next generation take it fully. And part of wanted that. Wanted the quiet."

He paused, fingers tapping against his glass.

"But then nights like this happen," he said. "And you rember why you stayed so long in the first place."

Francesco nodded slowly. "It's hard to give that up."

"Exactly," Rooney said. "So yeah. World Cup. Then I'm done. Properly done."

He looked at Francesco then, expression steady.

"And I trust you with what cos next."

Francesco didn't deflect this ti.

"I won't waste it," he said.

Rooney smiled, satisfied.

They sat in silence for a mont, watching the room as Sterling attempting to teach soone a dance move that clearly wasn't landing, laughter erupting anyway.

Eventually, fatigue began to creep back in, subtle but undeniable. Yawns beca more frequent. Conversations softened, slowed. The night shifted from celebration toward sothing gentler.

One by one, players stood, stretching again, clapping hands on shoulders, murmuring goodnights.

"Sa ti tomorrow," Henderson joked as he stood.

"Absolutely not," Kane replied.

Rooney lingered longer than most, nursing the last of his drink. Francesco stayed too, not wanting to rush the mont.

Finally, Rooney pushed himself up with a groan. "Right," he said. "Bed before I regret everything."

They walked toward the exit together, the lounge quieter now, only a few players still chatting softly.

At the door, Rooney stopped and turned.

"Thanks," he said simply.

Francesco t his gaze. "For what?"

"For tonight," Rooney replied. "For… all of it."

Francesco nodded. "Get so rest. We've got work to do."

Rooney grinned. "Always."

They parted there, heading toward separate corridors, the hotel swallowing them back into its quiet.

Morning ca quietly.

Not with alarms blaring or voices shouting down corridors, but with soft light creeping through curtains and the low, distant sounds of a hotel waking up. Carts rolling along carpeted hallways. Doors opening and closing gently. The muted hum of elevators carrying people who already had places to be.

Francesco woke before his alarm.

He lay there for a mont, staring at the ceiling, letting the previous night replay in fragnts rather than scenes. The goal. The roar. Rooney's finish. The clink of glasses in the lounge. Laughter. That look in Rooney's eyes when he said he was staying.

There was no rush in his body now. No matchday edge. Just a steady awareness of where he was and what ca next.

He swung his legs out of bed and stood, stretching slowly, feeling the familiar ache in his calves and lower back. Not pain as nothing concerned him, but proof that his body had worked hard and would need care today.

The shower was warm but brief. He dressed in the England travel kit laid out neatly the night before: navy tracksuit, white trainers, jacket zipped halfway. Functional. Comfortable. Anonymous in a way match kits never were.

When he stepped into the corridor, doors were already opening along it. Sterling erged opposite him, headphones around his neck, hair still damp.

"Morning, skipper," Sterling said, voice rough but cheerful.

"Morning," Francesco replied. "Sleep?"

Sterling laughed. "Define sleep."

They walked together toward the lifts, joined by Henderson and Ward-Prowse a few steps later. Conversation was minimal at first with grunts, nods, small comnts about stiffness and coffee but it felt easy. Familiar.

The lobby was brighter than the night before, sunlight streaming through tall glass panels and illuminating the polished floors. Staff moved with quiet efficiency, already accustod to the rhythms of teams arriving and leaving.

A long table near the seating area held coffee urns, fruit, pastries, bottles of water. Players gravitated toward it instinctively, so pouring coffee without speaking, others leaning back against pillars while they waited.

Rooney appeared a few minutes later, hood up, sunglasses on despite being indoors. He moved like a man whose body had opinions about the previous night.

"Morning, sunshine," Dele called.

Rooney raised a hand without removing the glasses. "If anyone speaks loudly near , we're not friends."

Laughter rippled through the lobby.

Francesco poured himself a coffee and took a sip, grimacing slightly at the bitterness before it settled. He leaned against the table, scanning the group.

Everyone was there.

Not just physically, but ntally. There was no sense of fragntation, no one off to the side with headphones pulled too tight, eyes distant. Even the quieter players stood closer together than usual, drawn into the collective orbit.

Southgate entered shortly after, clipboard under one arm, jacket neatly pressed. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"Morning, lads," he said.

A chorus of greetings ca back, so more enthusiastic than others.

"We'll load the bus in five," Southgate continued. "Flight's on schedule. London by early afternoon. Recovery this evening. Tomorrow's light."

A few relieved nods at that last part.

Francesco caught Southgate's eye briefly. A shared look passed between them that not celebratory, not self-satisfied. Just acknowledgnt.

They were on the sa page.

The bus waited outside, engine already running, its white exterior gleaming in the morning light. Players filed out in small clusters, bags slung over shoulders, coffee cups discarded in bins by the door.

Francesco boarded near the front again, greeting the driver with a nod before moving down the aisle. The seats filled quickly, the atmosphere subdued but comfortable. No music yet. No jokes shouted across rows.

Just presence.

Rooney dropped into a seat a few rows back, stretching his legs into the aisle until a staff mber gently nudged him to move them. Sterling slid into the seat across from him, imdiately pulling his phone back out.

As the bus pulled away from the hotel, Dortmund slipped past the windows in daylight this ti. Streets they hadn't really seen the night before now revealed themselves from cafés opening, people cycling to work, the city continuing on, indifferent to what had happened inside a stadium hours earlier.

Francesco watched it go by, coffee warming his hands.

The drive to the airport was short. Quiet.

So players dozed. Others stared out the window, thoughts turned inward. A few staff mbers spoke in low voices near the front.

When the airport ca into view, there was a subtle shift—bags adjusted, seats straightened, bodies preparing for movent again.

Security was smooth, efficient. This wasn't a comrcial scramble but a controlled passage through private areas, staff guiding them through corridors and checkpoints with minimal fuss.

Inside the terminal, the space felt larger, echoing slightly. High ceilings. Broad windows. The sll of coffee and disinfectant mingling oddly.

They waited briefly near the gate, spreading out across rows of seats. Francesco sat with Henderson and Kane this ti, his bag between his feet.

Kane leaned back, hands folded on his stomach. "You ever get that thing," he said, "where you're exhausted but your brain won't shut up?"

Henderson nodded imdiately. "Every international break."

Francesco smiled. "That's the job," he said. "Your head's always half a match ahead."

Kane humd in agreent.

Rooney wandered over then, dropping into a seat across from them with a heavy sigh. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and rubbed his face.

"I swear," he said, "planes used to feel exciting."

"They still do," Henderson replied. "Just not when your legs feel like concrete."

Rooney pointed at him. "Exactly."

Boarding began soon after.

They moved down the jet bridge in an unhurried line, the sound of footsteps echoing against tal and glass. Inside the plane, the cabin was arranged comfortably with wider seats, more legroom than comrcial flights. Enough space for bodies that needed to recover.

Francesco took his seat near the middle, window side. He stowed his bag, buckled in, and leaned his head back against the seat as the rest of the team settled around him.

The plane pushed back smoothly, engines humming to life. There was a collective exhale as it began to taxi.

Sterling leaned across the aisle. "Anyone actually going to sleep?" he asked.

"Not a chance," Dele replied from behind him.

Rooney closed his eyes imdiately. "Wake in London."

As the plane lifted, Dortmund fell away beneath them, shrinking into patterns of rooftops and roads before disappearing into cloud.

Francesco watched until there was nothing left to see.

At cruising altitude, the cabin settled into its own rhythm. Seatbelts off. Staff moving quietly down the aisle offering water, light snacks. Conversations resuming in low tones.

Francesco took out his headphones but didn't put them on yet. He stared at the seatback in front of him, thoughts drifting that not forward, not backward, but sowhere suspended in between.

Leadership wasn't about speeches or monts like last night's toast. Those were visible, morable. Easy to point to.

It was about this.

The in-between. The quiet hours. Making sure the group stayed connected when there was nothing imdiate demanding it.

Rooney stirred in his seat, eyes still closed. "You know," he murmured, "I dread I missed a sitter."

Francesco glanced over. "That's just your brain being cruel."

Rooney cracked one eye open. "Figures."

They shared a small smile.

Sowhere further up the cabin, Sterling laughed loudly at sothing on his phone. Kane groaned in protest. Henderson told them to keep it down.

It felt… right.

When the plane began its descent, London stretched out beneath them in familiar shades of grey and green. The Thas curved through the city like a ribbon. Francesco felt sothing settle in his chest as it ca into view.

Ho, for now.

The landing was smooth. Applause didn't break out ws this group saved that for bigger monts, but there were murmurs of relief as the plane slowed and taxied to its gate.

They disembarked quickly, moving through private corridors again, the process efficient and understated. Bags appeared promptly. Staff directed them toward the waiting bus.

Outside, the air was cooler, heavier with moisture. London slled different from Dortmund that less sharp, more lived-in.

Francesco boarded the bus and took a seat near the front, watching as the rest of the team piled on. There was more chatter now. A sense of completion.

As the bus pulled away from the airport, Francesco looked out the window, city streets rolling past once more. The win was already becoming mory.

______________________________________________

Na : Francesco Lee

Age : 18 (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, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016

Season 16/17 stats:

Arsenal:

Match: 39

Goal: 61

Assist: 3

MOTM: 8

POTM: 1

England:

Match: 1

Goal: 1

Assist: 0

MOTM: 0