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...
They walked back beneath the afternoon sun, boots brushing softly against the grass.
The morning of a match always felt different.
It didn't matter how many tis Francesco had done it.
Club level.
European nights.
Cup finals.
International football.
There was always sothing in the air.
A charge.
A hum beneath everything.
Not nerves, exactly.
More like heightened awareness.
Every sound sharper.
Every movent more deliberate.
Every minute carrying a little extra weight.
The team bus rolled out of St. George's Park shortly after lunch, black windows reflecting the pale English sky as staff loaded the final equipnt cases underneath.
Inside, the atmosphere sat sowhere between relaxed and intensely focused.
Different players handled matchdays in different ways.
Walker, naturally, was incapable of prolonged silence.
Rashford had headphones on, nodding faintly to music only he could hear.
Henderson studied his tactical notes for what was probably the twentieth ti.
Dier stared out the window.
Kane sat a few rows ahead, calm as ever.
Francesco took his usual seat, one hand resting against the window, watching the countryside slide past.
Fields.
Roads.
Villages.
Then gradually, the scenery shifted.
Motorways grew busier.
Buildings taller.
Traffic thicker.
London announced itself long before the skyline appeared.
Walker leaned across the aisle.
"Still weird, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"Wembley."
Francesco glanced at him.
Walker smiled.
"Even after all this ti."
He wasn't wrong.
Wembley never beca ordinary.
It couldn't.
So stadiums were just stadiums.
Wembley was sothing else entirely.
History seed built into the concrete.
Generations lived in its foundations.
Every England player understood that.
So tried not to think about it.
Others embraced it.
Francesco did both.
As the bus drew closer, police escorts cleared the roads ahead. Supporters had already gathered outside the stadium, England shirts everywhere, flags draped over shoulders, phones raised as the team coach approached.
The first roar hit before the bus even stopped.
A wall of sound.
Not hostile.
Not intimidating.
Expectant.
Hopeful.
England.
The word ant sothing different here.
The doors opened.
One by one, players stepped out into the sea of noise.
Francesco adjusted the strap of his bag and descended the steps.
Imdiately, the volu doubled.
His na rang out from sowhere in the crowd.
Then again.
And again.
Children pressed against barriers.
Adults waved scarves overhead.
Security held the line, but the energy spilled everywhere.
Francesco acknowledged them with a brief wave.
No grand gestures.
No theatrics.
Just appreciation.
Because supporters deserved that.
Walker erged behind him.
"Never gets old."
"No."
"It gets louder, though."
"That might just be you."
Walker pointed accusingly.
"I choose to interpret that as respect."
Inside, Wembley felt cooler.
Calr.
But only on the surface.
Beneath the polished corridors and pristine walls, tension pulsed quietly.
Staff moved with purpose.
Officials checked credentials.
dia crews hurried through designated areas.
Everything ran to schedule.
Everything always did.
The dressing room awaited them, spotless and perfectly arranged.
White England shirts hung neatly in each locker.
Boots lined beneath benches.
Water bottles positioned with almost military precision.
Francesco walked to his station.
His shirt hung there.
LEE.
Number nine.
Captain's armband folded beside it.
He touched it briefly.
A small ritual.
Then placed his bag down.
For now, though, it was training kit first.
Warm-up before battle.
The squad changed quickly.
Training tops.
Navy shorts.
Studs laced tightly.
Tape applied.
The usual routine.
Around him, conversation remained light.
Walker was arguing that he could absolutely beat Rashford in a sprint over twenty ters.
Rashford looked deeply unconvinced.
"You're thirty-six."
"I'm experienced."
"That's not the sa thing."
"It absolutely is."
Henderson cut in.
"It absolutely isn't."
Laughter broke the tension.
Southgate entered briefly, hands tucked into his tracksuit pockets.
"Five minutes, lads."
That was enough.
The tunnel leading to the pitch felt endless, even though it wasn't.
Then suddenly.
Light.
Noise.
Wembley.
The first step onto that grass always sent sothing through Francesco's chest.
The stadium was already filling rapidly.
Forty thousand.
Fifty.
Then more.
White shirts everywhere.
Flags rippling across the stands.
The giant arch stretching overhead like a steel halo.
The pitch looked immaculate.
Perfect stripes.
Not a blade out of place.
Exactly as it should be.
Warm-up began imdiately.
Jogging first.
Then mobility.
Short passing patterns.
Acceleration drills.
The crowd applauded almost everything.
A crisp one-touch sequence.
A sharp finish.
A diving save.
International supporters didn't need much encouragent.
Francesco thrived on it.
He moved freely, body loose, touches clean.
Rooney clipped a ball into his path during a finishing drill.
Francesco t it first ti.
Low.
Inside the far post.
The net rippled.
The crowd roared.
Walker shouted from behind him.
"Save that one for the match!"
"No promises."
Joe Hart laughed.
"Good. I'd rather not face it."
The warm-up flew by.
As it always did.
One mont they were stepping onto the pitch.
The next, Southgate was clapping his hands.
"Inside, lads."
The walk back through the tunnel felt heavier.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
The real work was seconds away.
Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere transford completely.
Conversations shortened.
Music lowered.
Players moved with quiet concentration.
Training kits ca off.
Match kits replaced them.
White shirts.
Navy shorts.
White socks.
Studs tightened one final ti.
Francesco pulled the England shirt over his head, smoothing the fabric down over his chest.
Then the captain's armband.
Blue against white.
A responsibility, not an accessory.
Southgate stood in the center once everyone had settled.
His voice remained calm.
asured.
That was his strength.
No need for shouting.
No need for theatrics.
Just clarity.
"Joe starts in goal."
Hart nodded once.
Southgate continued.
"Back four, left to right is Bertrand, Cahill, Jones, Walker."
Each player acknowledged with a brief glance.
"Dier and Henderson holding."
Henderson sat forward slightly.
"Wayne central."
Rooney rolled his shoulders.
"Marcus left. Ox right."
Both nodded.
Then Southgate looked directly at Francesco.
"You lead the line."
A tiny pause.
"And you lead the team."
Francesco t his gaze.
"I will."
Southgate gave a single nod.
"Good."
He moved to the tactical board, outlining final reminders.
Slovakia would sit deep.
Compact.
Disciplined.
They would look to frustrate.
England needed patience.
Quick circulation.
Movent between lines.
No forcing the ga.
"No cheap transitions," Southgate said. "Make them defend. Keep moving them. The chances will co."
He looked around the room.
"This is Wembley. Enjoy it. But earn it."
Then he stepped back.
The room fell silent.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Henderson stood.
"Together."
The team ford a circle instantly.
Arms linked.
Heads lowered.
Henderson spoke first.
"Work."
Cahill added:
"Discipline."
Rooney:
"Quality."
Then all eyes turned to Francesco.
Captain.
He didn't need a speech.
He never believed in speeches for the sake of hearing yourself talk.
Just honesty.
"Start fast. Stay ruthless. Finish the job."
That was enough.
A collective roar followed.
Then movent.
Tunnel ti.
The walk from dressing room to tunnel felt slower than usual.
Every footstep echoed.
Studs clicked against concrete.
Crowd noise filtered through the walls like distant thunder.
Slovakia were already there when England arrived.
Red shirts.
Focused faces.
Quiet conversations.
Professional respect.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Francesco took his place at the front of England's line, ball tucked under one arm.
The captain's armband felt snug against his sleeve.
Beside him, the Slovak captain stood equally composed.
The referee checked both lines, then glanced toward the tunnel entrance.
A nod.
A signal.
Ti.
The officials stepped forward.
England followed.
The noise hit like a physical force.
Ninety thousand voices rising together.
The Wembley arch glowed overhead.
The floodlights shone despite the afternoon sun.
Francesco walked onto the pitch with asured steps, heart steady, breathing controlled.
This was where he belonged.
Both teams lined up beside the referees.
England to the right.
Slovakia to the left.
National anthems rang around the stadium.
Francesco sang every word.
Not loudly.
But fully.
He always did.
Then ca the handshakes.
Referees first.
Firm grip.
Brief eye contact.
Then the Slovak players, one by one.
Mutual respect.
No smiles.
No hostility.
Just competition waiting to begin.
Finally, Francesco and the Slovak captain walked to the center circle alongside the main referee.
Coin in the air.
A brief spin.
It landed.
England won.
Francesco chose to kick off.
He preferred setting the tone imdiately.
Back at the center spot, Rooney placed the ball carefully.
Francesco stood beside him.
Rooney glanced over.
"Ready?"
Francesco smiled faintly.
"Always."
The referee checked both assistants.
Raised the whistle.
Blew.
And Wembley erupted.
England imdiately took control.
Just as Southgate had demanded.
Possession moved quickly.
Hart to Cahill.
Cahill to Jones.
Into Dier.
Across to Henderson.
Then forward.
Sharp.
Precise.
Purposeful.
Slovakia dropped deep, exactly as expected.
Two banks.
Little space.
Plenty of bodies behind the ball.
England probed patiently.
Walker bombed forward down the right, stretching the defensive line.
Bertrand mirrored him on the opposite side.
Rooney drifted intelligently between midfield and attack, always offering an angle.
Francesco moved constantly.
Dropping short.
Spinning behind.
Dragging center-backs out of position.
Forcing decisions.
That was the key.
Against compact defenses, movent created uncertainty.
And uncertainty created openings.
In the seventh minute, Rashford drove inside and slipped a clever pass toward Francesco near the edge of the box.
One touch to set.
Second touch to shoot.
Blocked.
Corner.
The crowd applauded.
Encouragent, not frustration.
They could see it coming.
Rooney delivered the corner.
Cahill rose highest.
Over the bar.
Close.
Very close.
Walker clapped furiously.
"Good start!"
England kept pressing.
Dier dictated tempo from deep, recycling possession intelligently.
Henderson covered enormous ground, snuffing out the rare Slovak counter before it began.
Rooney orchestrated.
Rashford attacked.
Oxlade-Chamberlain ran relentlessly.
And Francesco knitted everything together.
The first twenty minutes belonged entirely to England.
Slovakia barely crossed halfway.
Joe Hart could probably have read a newspaper.
If goalkeepers still carried newspapers.
Which, thankfully, they did not.
In the fifteenth minute, Walker whipped in a dangerous cross that Francesco t near the penalty spot.
Header.
Strong contact.
Just wide.
He cursed softly.
Walker pointed at him.
"Next one."
Francesco nodded.
There would be a next one.
There always was when England played this way.
Rooney was magnificent.
Even at this stage of his career, his understanding of space remained elite.
He knew when to slow the ga.
When to accelerate it.
When to risk the difficult pass.
And when simplicity was smarter.
In the twenty-third minute, he dropped deeper, collected possession under pressure, and turned elegantly away from his marker.
The Wembley crowd appreciated it imdiately.
A murmur.
A ripple.
A sense of anticipation.
Francesco saw it too.
He began his run before Rooney even looked up.
First, he drifted left.
Subtle.
Just enough to draw the center-back a step wider.
Then he exploded diagonally into the channel between center-back and full-back.
Rooney spotted it instantly.
Of course he did.
The pass was exquisite.
Threaded perfectly between defenders.
Weighted to invite, not force.
Francesco t it in stride.
One touch.
Clean.
Forward.
The Slovak goalkeeper rushed out, narrowing the angle.
Defender closing from behind.
Crowd rising.
Ti slowing.
Francesco opened his body.
Saw the far corner.
Trusted instinct.
Right foot.
Low.
Precise.
Past the goalkeeper's outstretched glove.
Inside the post.
Net.
Goal.
Wembley detonated.
A roar so loud it seed to shake the ground itself.
Francesco wheeled away toward the corner flag, arms spread, face lit by pure adrenaline.
Teammates sward him instantly.
Rashford first.
Then Rooney.
Walker arrived at full speed, nearly tackling everyone involved.
"I told you!"
Rooney laughed, grabbing Francesco around the shoulders.
"What a run."
"What a pass."
"Fair point."
The stadium announcer's voice bood overhead, but it was swallowed by the celebration.
England one.
Slovakia nil.
Twenty-six minutes.
Exactly the breakthrough the match had been demanding.
Francesco pointed toward Rooney as the replay flashed across the giant screens.
Credit where it belonged.
The pass had made the goal possible.
Rooney acknowledged it with a grin and a raised hand.
As the players jogged back toward halfway, the Wembley crowd continued singing.
Louder now.
Belief swelling with every note.
Walker leaned close.
"One down."
Francesco glanced toward the Slovak half, already resetting his focus.
"More."
Walker grinned.
"Excellent answer."
The match restarted, but England's confidence had visibly grown.
Passes snapped with extra conviction.
Movent sharpened.
Slovakia, forced to co out slightly, suddenly had more problems than solutions.
Slovakia had no choice now.
Conceding early against England at Wembley was one thing.
Staying passive after that was another entirely.
And to their credit, they didn't.
The restart carried a different edge. Their midfield pushed ten yards higher. Their full-backs beca more adventurous. The neat, disciplined shell they'd spent the opening half-hour hiding inside began to stretch outward.
Which, of course, was both necessary and dangerous.
Francesco noticed it imdiately.
The distances between their lines were growing.
Tiny gaps at first.
Then larger ones.
The kind of spaces international matches are won in.
But Slovakia had quality too, and they reminded England of that within minutes.
A quick turnover in midfield.
A sharp one-two through the center.
Suddenly Hamsik was carrying the ball at England's retreating back line, his head up, options either side.
For the first ti all evening, Wembley inhaled sharply.
Phil Jones stepped out aggressively.
Tid it perfectly.
Toe to ball.
Clean challenge.
The loose ball ricocheted toward Dier, who instantly swept it wide to Walker.
Danger gone.
Counter on.
Walker charged forty yards before finally being hauled down near halfway.
He bounced straight back up, grinning.
"That's a booking all day!"
The referee agreed.
The crowd certainly did.
England remained in control, but the ga had developed teeth now.
That was no bad thing.
Matches often needed a little resistance to sharpen focus.
In the thirty-fourth minute, Slovakia carved out their best chance of the half.
A clever diagonal from deep found Weiss drifting between Bertrand and Cahill. His first touch was excellent, taking him into the area.
Joe Hart ca quickly.
Weiss struck low toward the near post.
Hart spread himself brilliantly.
Strong left hand.
Behind for a corner.
The Wembley crowd erupted in appreciation.
Hart punched the air once.
"Wake up!" he shouted, though there was more command than criticism in it.
Cahill clapped both center-backs together.
"Concentrate."
Francesco jogged back into position, already scanning the setup for the corner.
This was international football.
Control never ant comfort.
The delivery ca in fast.
Cahill rose.
Cleared.
Henderson collected the second ball and imdiately looked forward.
Francesco was already moving.
Henderson found him with a crisp pass near the center circle.
One touch.
Turn.
Space ahead.
Rashford flying down the left.
Walker overlapping on the right.
Options everywhere.
Francesco slipped Rashford through with the outside of his boot, a pass that sent the teenager racing into the box.
Rashford shot early.
Saved.
Good save, too.
The goalkeeper pushed it wide at full stretch.
Francesco clapped.
"Good run!"
Rashford nodded, frustration already fading.
He'd get another.
The rest of the first half followed the sa pattern.
England probing.
Slovakia threatening occasionally but never sustaining pressure.
Dier and Henderson were imnse, swallowing transitions before they could breathe.
Rooney dictated the pace beautifully, always appearing where England needed him most.
And Francesco kept testing the Slovak back line, never allowing them a mont's peace.
Just before halfti, Walker nearly produced the goal of the night.
Receiving a short corner from Oxlade-Chamberlain, he took one touch and whipped a vicious effort toward the far top corner.
The goalkeeper tipped it over magnificently.
Walker stared at the sky in disbelief.
"I had that asured!"
Henderson walked past him.
"With what, a ruler from nursery?"
Even Walker had to laugh.
Then ca the whistle.
Halfti.
England one.
Slovakia nil.
A deserved lead.
But not a decisive one.
Not yet.
The walk back to the dressing room was brisk. Players grabbed water bottles, towels draped over shoulders, breathing heavy but controlled.
Francesco took a long drink before sitting down.
His shirt clung to his back.
His heartbeat was settling quickly.
That was experience.
Around him, the room buzzed with quiet conversation.
Walker was still convinced his shot had been destined for the top corner.
Nobody seed willing to agree.
Southgate entered a mont later, clipboard in hand.
The room fell silent instantly.
He stood in the center, composed as ever.
"No panic. Good first half."
He pointed toward the tactical board.
"They've started stepping out more. That's exactly what we wanted."
A marker tapped the right half-space.
"There's space behind their midfield now. Use it quicker."
Rooney nodded.
"I can feel it opening."
"You will again."
Southgate turned to Rashford.
"When you isolate their full-back, attack him imdiately."
Rashford simply said, "Yes, boss."
Then to Francesco.
"Keep pulling their center-backs apart. They're uncomfortable when you drift wide."
"I know."
Southgate smiled faintly.
"I thought you might."
A few players chuckled.
Then his expression sharpened.
"One goal isn't enough. Stay patient, but be ruthless when the mont cos."
He looked around the room.
"They'll have a spell. Every team does. Survive it, then punish them."
Simple.
Direct.
Perfectly Gareth Southgate.
As the players rose, Henderson gathered them again.
"No drop."
"No drop," the room echoed.
Francesco adjusted the captain's armband and headed for the tunnel.
Forty-five more minutes.
Job unfinished.
The second half began exactly where the first had left off.
England on the ball.
Slovakia compact but increasingly stretched.
The Wembley crowd sensed the possibility of more.
Every forward pass drew a collective surge of anticipation.
Rooney nearly provided it five minutes after the restart.
Receiving from Henderson twenty-five yards out, he shifted onto his right foot and curled an effort inches wide of the far post.
The goalkeeper didn't move.
He simply watched.
That told you everything.
Rooney exhaled sharply.
"So close."
Francesco jogged past him.
"Next one."
Rooney smirked.
"You're stealing Walker's lines now."
"Soone has to improve them."
England's pressure intensified.
Rashford tornted his marker repeatedly, his acceleration almost unfair.
Walker overlapped relentlessly, forcing Slovakia deeper and deeper.
Bertrand provided balance on the opposite side.
Dier screened everything.
Henderson covered everything else.
At the hour mark, Southgate turned toward his bench.
The decision had already been made.
Francesco saw the board being prepared and understood imdiately.
His night's work was nearly done.
Minute sixty-three.
The fourth official raised the electronic board.
Number nine.
Number ten.
Number seven.
Off.
Francesco.
Rooney.
Oxlade-Chamberlain.
On ca Harry Kane, Dele Alli, and Raheem Sterling.
Wembley rose to applaud.
Not polite applause.
Warm, appreciative applause.
The kind reserved for players who had delivered exactly what was asked.
Francesco jogged toward the touchline, clapping the supporters as he went.
Rooney t him halfway.
"Good shift."
"You too."
They bumped fists.
At the sideline, Southgate shook Francesco's hand firmly.
"Excellent work."
Francesco nodded.
"The second's coming."
"I agree."
Kane slapped his shoulder as they crossed.
"Left an easy one, yeah?"
"No promises."
"Selfish."
Francesco laughed as he settled onto the bench, a towel draped over his shoulders.
The ga looked different from here.
Slower.
Wider.
Patterns easier to see.
And Southgate was right.
The second goal was brewing.
Slovakia, anwhile, responded with changes of their own.
Fresh legs in midfield.
A new striker.
More attacking intent.
They had to gamble.
At one-nil, hope still existed.
At two, it probably wouldn't.
For ten minutes, they pushed.
Nothing reckless.
But purposeful.
A dangerous cross from the right forced Cahill into a vital headed clearance.
Monts later, Hart claid a looping free kick confidently under pressure.
England remained composed.
Never rattled.
Never hurried.
The mark of a mature side.
Then ca minute seventy-three.
The mont Wembley had been waiting for.
Dier intercepted in midfield, as he had all evening.
One touch into Henderson.
Henderson imdiately found Alli between the lines.
Dele turned beautifully, shrugging off a challenge before sliding the ball wide left.
Rashford was already gone.
The defender backpedaled.
A terrible place to be.
Rashford drove at him with that elastic stride, dropping one shoulder, then the other.
The crowd rose as one.
Inside.
Outside.
Then inside again.
The defender committed.
Wrong choice.
Rashford burst into the box and, from a tight angle, lashed a ferocious right-footed strike across goal.
The net bulged.
Wembley exploded.
Marcus Rashford sprinted toward the corner, arms wide, pure joy written across his face.
Sterling caught him first, nearly jumping onto his back.
Then Kane.
Then Alli.
The entire bench rose.
Francesco was already applauding, a huge grin breaking across his face.
"Brilliant," he muttered.
Walker, sohow arriving from right-back at full speed, slid into the celebration like a man with absolutely no regard for friction.
Rashford laughed uncontrollably.
The scoreboard flashed.
England 2.
Slovakia 0.
Ga, very likely, over.
Southgate allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
Not much.
But enough.
Francesco sat back down, crossing his arms.
"That'll do."
Rooney nodded beside him.
"Lovely finish."
"He's frightening when he runs at people."
"Terrifying," Rooney agreed.
With the two-goal cushion, England settled into complete control.
Passes flowed.
Confidence surged.
The substitutions had injected fresh energy exactly when needed.
Kane linked play intelligently.
Sterling buzzed across the frontline.
Alli found pockets everywhere.
Slovakia's resistance had finally cracked.
The crowd relaxed, turning their attention toward songs rather than tension.
Walker was still sohow making overlapping runs in the eighty-third minute, which should probably be studied by sports scientists.
"Does he ever stop?" Rooney asked.
"No," Francesco said.
"I didn't think so."
Then ca the final flourish.
Eighty-nine minutes on the clock.
England won possession thirty yards from goal after another Slovak attack fizzled harmlessly.
Sterling rolled the ball back centrally.
It arrived at Eric Dier's feet.
The Slovak midfield hesitated.
A fatal mistake.
Dier took one touch.
Then another.
And unleashed absolute violence.
The strike was thunderous.
Clean.
Pure.
A rising missile that scread through the London air before crashing into the top corner.
No goalkeeper on earth was touching that.
The net snapped.
Wembley erupted all over again.
For a mont, even Dier looked surprised.
Then he rembered to celebrate.
He sprinted toward the England supporters, roaring, fists clenched, teammates flooding after him.
The bench emptied.
Francesco reached him near the touchline, grabbing him around the shoulders.
"Where did that co from?"
Dier laughed.
"Been saving it."
"Fair."
Walker arrived seconds later, shouting nonsense that nobody could hear over the noise.
The giant screens replayed it again.
And again.
And honestly, it deserved every replay.
Absolute rocket.
England 3.
Slovakia 0.
Finished.
Completely finished.
The remaining minutes were little more than ceremony.
England kept the ball.
Slovakia, beaten and exhausted, could do little except chase shadows.
The Wembley crowd sensed the end approaching and began to sing louder still.
Three minutes of added ti passed quickly.
Then the referee checked his watch.
Raised the whistle.
Blew.
Full ti.
England 3.
Slovakia 0.
A comprehensive victory.
A professional victory.
A Wembley victory.
The players embraced one another imdiately.
Handshakes.
Hugs.
Smiles.
Hart punched the air.
Cahill applauded every section of the stadium.
Henderson exchanged shirts with an opponent.
Rashford still looked like he could sprint another ten kiloters.
Francesco walked onto the pitch from the bench, joining the celebrations properly.
Kane wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
"Good captaincy."
"Good finish from the bench."
"I try."
They shared a laugh.
Southgate made his way around the squad, shaking hands, offering brief words to each player.
When he reached Francesco, he paused.
"Excellent performance."
"We controlled it."
"You led it."
That ant sothing.
Coming from Southgate, it always did.
The players gathered near the center circle, applauding all four corners of Wembley.
Supporters responded with deafening approval.
Flags waved.
Scarves spun overhead.
Children climbed onto seats just to see better.
This was why you played.
Not for headlines.
Not for statistics.
For nights like this.
Francesco lingered for a mont, taking it in.
The floodlights.
The noise.
The pride.
Wembley under the lights after an England win was one of football's great sights.
Walker appeared beside him, breathing heavily despite having stopped running five minutes earlier.
"Three-nil."
"Good result."
"I was excellent."
"You usually think that."
"I am usually right."
Francesco laughed.
"Occasionally."
Walker pointed toward the tunnel.
"Co on, captain. Interviews await."
A horrifying prospect.
But an unavoidable one.
As they walked off together, the crowd gave one final roar.
Francesco turned, raised both hands in acknowledgnt, and received an even louder response.
That sound stayed with him.
It always would.
Inside the tunnel, the adrenaline began to ease.
Fatigue crept in.
The good kind.
Earned.
Rooney clapped him on the back as they headed toward the dressing room.
"That's how you handle business."
"One step at a ti."
"Exactly."
The dressing room would be loud tonight.
Walker would definitely claim an assist he hadn't actually made.
Rashford would be mobbed.
Dier would be forced to watch his goal at least fifteen tis.
And Southgate, beneath his calm exterior, would be very pleased indeed.
England had done exactly what strong teams were supposed to do.
Control.
Patience.
Quality.
Three goals.
Clean sheet.
Three points.
Wembley satisfied.
Francesco allowed himself one final glance back toward the pitch before disappearing down the corridor.
______________________________________________
Na : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 11
Goal: 14
Assist: 1
MOTM: 1
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9
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