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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Everything pointed to one thing now, as the kickoff was coming.
They didn't stay on the pitch any longer than they needed to.
Warm-up had done its job.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The tempo eased, the final passes finished, the last touches taken. Balls rolled to a stop one by one. Conversations stayed minimal, almost nonexistent now. The crowd noise continued to build in the background, but it felt distant like something happening outside the space they were in.
Francesco stood still for a second.
Hands resting at his sides.
Breathing steady.
Everything aligned.
Then, without needing a call, the shift came.
Back inside.
They moved together again.
Not rushed.
But direct.
Boots turning from grass to the harder surface near the tunnel entrance. The light behind them faded as they stepped back into the interior of the stadium. The air cooled slightly, but the heat still clung to their skin, carried in with them.
No one spoke.
There was nothing left to say.
Down the corridor.
Footsteps echoing.
Rhythm steady.
Francesco walked in line with the others, eyes forward, mind clear. Not thinking about the crowd. Not thinking about anything beyond what came next.
The dressing room.
The door opened.
And the space felt different now.
Not because it had changed.
But because they had.
The shirts laid out weren't training kits anymore.
They were match kits.
Numbers.
Names.
Identity.
Purpose.
Francesco walked straight to his place.
No hesitation.
Bag down.
Unzipped.
But this time, he didn't reach for training gear.
He reached for the shirt.
England.
His number.
His responsibility.
He picked it up, holding it for a brief second which not staring, not admiring, just acknowledging then pulled it on.
The fabric settled against him.
Familiar.
But heavier in meaning.
Around him, the room filled with the same quiet process.
Harry Kane adjusting his socks before stepping aside.
Jordan Henderson already speaking softly to Gary Cahill, tone low but focused.
Raheem Sterling sitting still for a second before pulling his shirt over his head.
Marcus Rashford tightening his laces again, checking them once more.
Kyle Walker bouncing lightly on his toes, energy contained but ready.
Francesco moved through his own routine.
Shorts.
Socks.
Boots.
Tight.
Secure.
Checked.
Once.
Then again.
He stood up.
Rolled his shoulders.
Exhaled once.
And then, Gareth Southgate stepped forward.
The room settled instantly.
Not forced.
Not commanded.
Just understood.
Southgate looked across them all, taking a second—not long, just enough to see everyone, to make sure they were present.
Then he spoke.
"Alright, lads."
Calm.
Clear.
Direct.
He didn't pace.
Didn't raise his voice.
Didn't need to.
"We go with a 4-2-3-1."
Simple.
Structured.
Expected.
Eyes stayed on him.
No distractions.
"Joe Hart in goal."
A small nod from across the room.
Southgate continued.
"Back four."
He glanced briefly as he spoke, almost marking the shape in the air.
"Left to right was Ryan Bertrand, Gary Cahill, Phil Jones, Kyle Walker."
Each name landed clean.
Each role understood.
"Double pivot, Jake Livermore and Jordan Henderson."
Henderson gave a small nod.
Focused.
Already there.
"Ten, Dele Alli."
Alli leaned slightly forward.
Ready.
"Wide with Raheem Sterling left, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain right."
Both acknowledged without words.
Then Southgate's eyes moved to Francesco.
Just briefly.
But clearly.
"Up top."
A short pause.
"Francesco."
No extra words.
No emphasis.
But the meaning sat there anyway.
"And captain."
That part landed differently.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
But final.
Francesco didn't react outwardly.
Didn't nod.
Didn't speak.
He just stood there.
Still.
Because inside, it was already accepted.
Southgate continued.
"We keep it simple."
His tone sharpened slightly.
"Move the ball quick."
"Use the width."
"Be patient, but clinical."
A brief pause.
Then.
"Respect the opposition."
Always.
His eyes moved across the group one more time.
"That's it."
No speech extended beyond what it needed.
No theatrics.
Just clarity.
Direction.
Trust.
Southgate stepped back.
The room stayed quiet for a second longer.
Then movement.
They didn't rush.
But they didn't linger either.
Final adjustments.
Shin guards checked.
Boots tightened.
Shirts smoothed.
Francesco reached for the armband.
Lifted it.
Slid it onto his arm.
Adjusted it once.
Then left it.
No second-guessing.
"Ready," Walker muttered beside him.
Francesco glanced at him.
"Yeah."
Walker smirked faintly.
"Let's go then."
The tunnel waited.
They stepped out of the dressing room together.
Down the corridor again.
But this time, as the energy was different.
Heavier.
Sharper.
More defined.
Boots echoed louder.
Not because they were.
But because everything else had quieted.
The tunnel opened ahead.
Light at the end.
And the opposition.
Malta national football team.
Already lined up.
Already waiting.
Francesco stepped into position with the rest of the England side.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Line forming.
No words exchanged.
No need.
Just presence.
The referee stood ahead.
Glanced down the line.
Checked both sides.
A small signal.
They walked out.
The stadium opened around them.
Sound rising.
Not overwhelming.
But real.
Crowd filling the space.
Color.
Noise.
Heat.
Everything at once.
They stepped onto the pitch.
Forming lines on either side of the referee.
England to one side.
Malta to the other.
Francesco stood at the front.
Captain.
Still.
Focused.
The formalities began.
Handshake line.
Francesco stepped forward first.
Hand out.
Firm.
Professional.
Each Malta player met it the same way.
Respect.
Acknowledgment.
No extra words.
Just contact.
Then the referees.
Quick.
Clean.
The lines broke.
Now the captains.
Francesco walked toward the center circle.
Met the Malta captain halfway.
A brief nod.
No smiles.
Just understanding.
The referee stepped in.
Coin in hand.
"Call it."
Francesco looked down.
"Right."
The coin flipped.
Spun.
Dropped.
The referee glanced.
Then nodded.
"England."
Francesco gave a small nod.
Decision made.
Kickoff theirs.
They stepped back.
Positions forming immediately.
The whistle came.
Sharp.
Clear.
And the match started.
England didn't ease into it.
They moved forward immediately.
Possession controlled from the first touch.
Ball moving quickly.
Side to side.
Stretching.
Probing.
Francesco stayed high.
Central.
Reading the shape.
Watching the lines.
Jordan Henderson dictated tempo early.
Jake Livermore held position behind.
Dele Alli moved between lines.
Raheem Sterling stretched left.
Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain drove forward on the right.
And behind them, Kyle Walker pushed high.
Relentless.
Pressure built.
Not frantic.
Controlled.
Deliberate.
Malta stayed compact.
Disciplined.
But England kept moving the ball.
Faster.
Quicker.
Sharper.
Minutes passed.
Possession dominated.
Opportunities forming.
Not clear yet.
But close.
Francesco dropped once.
Received.
Turned.
Released wide.
Then moved again.
Always moving.
11 minutes.
The ball shifted right.
Walker had space.
Time.
He took it.
One touch forward.
Head up.
Francesco saw it.
Before it happened.
He moved.
Between defenders.
Timing the run.
Not early.
Not late.
Exact.
Walker delivered.
Low.
Driven.
Into the space.
Francesco stepped into it.
First touch was clean.
Setting it forward.
Second strike.
No hesitation.
No extra movement.
The ball left his foot.
Fast.
Low.
Precise.
Past the keeper.
Net.
Goal.
For a split second, there's nothing.
Then sound.
The stadium reacted.
Crowd rising.
Noise breaking through.
Francesco didn't celebrate wildly.
Didn't run to the corner.
Didn't lose control.
He turned.
Exhaled once.
Looked back.
Walker already jogging toward him.
Grinning.
"Told you," Walker said.
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
Teammates gathered briefly.
Short touches.
Hands on shoulders.
Acknowledgment.
Then reset.
Because the match wasn't finished.
Not even close.
But the start, was exactly what they needed.
The restart came quickly.
It always did after a goal.
There was no time to sit inside the moment, no space to let it stretch beyond what it was. The referee's whistle cut through again, and just like that, the game moved forward.
Francesco jogged back into position.
Calm.
Measured.
Nothing about him changed outwardly.
But inside, everything stayed sharp.
Because one goal wasn't the objective.
It was just the beginning.
Malta kicked off again, trying to settle themselves, to bring some control back into the game. For a few seconds, the ball moved between their midfield and defense, short passes, cautious, measured.
But England didn't drop.
Didn't step off.
They pressed.
Not wildly.
Not recklessly.
But with intent.
Structured.
Organized.
Jordan Henderson stepped forward first, closing the angle, forcing the ball sideways. Behind him, Jake Livermore held his position, reading the second pass, ready to intercept if needed.
Francesco stayed high.
Watching.
Waiting.
Not chasing the ball unnecessarily.
Just positioning.
Because pressure wasn't always about running.
Sometimes it was about presence.
Blocking options.
Forcing decisions.
Malta tried to move forward once.
A longer pass toward their right side.
But Ryan Bertrand read it early, stepping in cleanly, controlling it without panic.
He didn't rush the next action.
Just shifted it inside.
Back into England's rhythm.
And the rhythm returned immediately.
Ball to Henderson.
Out to Kyle Walker.
Forward again.
Always forward.
Francesco moved again.
Small adjustments.
A step left.
Then right.
Dragging defenders subtly.
Not dramatic.
But effective.
Creating space where it didn't seem to exist.
The tempo built.
Not chaotic.
Not rushed.
Just controlled dominance.
England had the ball.
And they kept it.
Minutes passed.
Fifteen.
Eighteen.
Twenty.
The pattern didn't change.
If anything, it became clearer.
Malta stayed compact.
But England kept stretching them.
Wide.
Then narrow.
Then wide again.
Raheem Sterling was constantly available on the left, receiving, turning, forcing defenders backward.
On the opposite side, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain carried the ball forward with intent, driving into space whenever it opened.
Dele Alli floated between lines, always finding that small pocket, always ready to receive.
Francesco stayed patient.
Didn't drop too deep.
Didn't force involvement.
Because he knew that the moment would come again.
26th minute.
England worked the ball down the left this time.
Henderson switched play quickly.
Out wide.
Sterling received it.
One touch.
Then another.
Drawing two defenders toward him.
That was enough.
Because space opened behind them.
Bertrand saw it.
Didn't hesitate.
He pushed forward from deep.
Timing perfect.
Sterling slipped the ball into his path.
Now space.
Now movement.
Bertrand took it in stride.
Carried it forward.
Into the box.
Angle tightening.
Defender closing.
Francesco moved centrally.
Dragging his marker.
Creating just enough separation.
Bertrand didn't look for a pass.
He struck.
Left foot.
Clean.
Low.
The ball skipped across the surface.
Fast.
True.
Past the goalkeeper.
Net.
2–0.
This time, the reaction lifted a little more.
Not wild.
But present.
Bertrand slowed, exhaling, teammates moving toward him.
Francesco jogged over, placing a hand briefly on his shoulder.
"Good," he said.
Bertrand nodded.
"Yeah."
Short celebration.
Quick acknowledgment.
Then reset again.
Because the job wasn't done.
Back to positions.
Malta restarted again.
But now, the weight was heavier on them.
England didn't let up.
Not even slightly.
The control remained.
Ball moving faster now.
Confidence building with every pass.
Francesco touched the ball more frequently now.
Dropping slightly deeper at times.
Receiving under light pressure.
Turning.
Releasing.
One moment stood out.
Just past the half-hour mark.
He received the ball just outside the box.
Back to goal.
Defender tight behind him.
One touch.
Hold.
Second touch.
Turn.
The space opened for a split second.
He struck.
But it went just wide.
No frustration.
No reaction.
Just a small exhale.
And reset.
Because chances would keep coming.
Time moved.
35 minutes.
Malta defended deeper now.
More compact.
More desperate.
But England kept probing.
And then at 43rd minute.
The ball shifted right again.
Oxlade-Chamberlain had it.
Driving forward.
Head up.
Reading everything ahead of him.
Francesco moved centrally again.
Pulling defenders.
Creating that pocket just behind.
Alli saw it.
Moved into it.
Oxlade didn't hesitate.
He delivered.
A sharp, low pass.
Between lines.
Perfect weight.
Alli received it.
First touch clean.
Second adjust.
Then the strike.
Quick.
Controlled.
Accurate.
Past the keeper.
Net.
3–0.
The timing made it heavier.
Right before halftime.
Alli turned, a small burst of energy in his celebration, teammates coming in around him.
Francesco reached him first this time.
A quick hand to the shoulder.
"Good."
Alli nodded.
"Nice ball."
Oxlade raised a hand in acknowledgment.
Again short.
Controlled.
Then reset.
Because there was still time left in the half.
The final minutes ticked down.
Added time minimal.
England didn't force anything.
Didn't rush for a fourth.
They controlled the ball.
Managed the tempo.
Kept possession.
Francesco stayed central.
Still moving.
Still available.
But not overextending.
Then the whistle.
Halftime.
3–0.
The shift came again.
Immediate.
No celebration.
No lingering.
They turned and walked.
Back down the tunnel.
The noise of the crowd followed briefly.
Then faded.
Replaced by the echo of boots against the floor.
The air cooled again as they stepped inside.
But the heat of the game stayed with them.
No one spoke much.
Not yet.
Because they all knew that there was still work to do.
The dressing room door opened.
They stepped in.
The atmosphere different again.
Not tense, but focused.
Players moved to their spots.
Sat.
Stood.
Drank water.
Shirts slightly damp.
Breathing steady.
Francesco sat down this time.
Leaning forward slightly.
Forearms resting on his thighs.
Listening.
Because now, it was about the next part.
Gareth Southgate stepped forward again.
Same calm.
Same presence.
He didn't rush.
Didn't start immediately.
Just looked at them.
One by one.
Making sure they were all there.
Mentally.
"Good first half."
Simple.
True.
A small pause.
"But it's not done."
That landed.
His tone didn't rise.
But it sharpened.
"We stay disciplined."
"Keep the shape."
"Don't force it."
He glanced briefly toward the midfield group.
"Move it quicker when it's there."
Then toward the wide players.
"Keep stretching them."
And finally, his eyes passed over Francesco.
Just for a moment.
"Be ready."
Because chances would come again.
Southgate brought his hands together loosely.
"We control the game."
"Second half, same focus."
Another pause.
"Finish it properly."
That was it.
No long speech.
No overcomplication.
Just clarity.
Direction.
Expectation.
He stepped back slightly.
Allowing the players a moment.
The moment didn't stretch.
It never did at this level.
Southgate's words settled quickly, not because they were short, but because they were already understood before they were even spoken. The room stayed quiet for a few seconds after he stepped back. Not awkward. Not empty.
Focused.
Francesco stayed where he was, leaning slightly forward, forearms resting on his thighs, eyes fixed somewhere ahead which not on anything in particular, just steady.
"Finish it properly."
That line stayed.
Not loud.
Not heavy.
But clear.
He pushed himself up slowly.
No rush.
No hesitation.
Around him, the rest of the squad began to move again. Small adjustments. Shirts pulled tighter. Shin guards checked. Boots pressed once more against the floor to feel the grip.
Jordan Henderson stood first among the midfield group, rolling his shoulders once before glancing toward Gary Cahill.
"Same again," Henderson said quietly.
Cahill nodded.
"Same again."
Across the room, Raheem Sterling adjusted his sleeves, exhaling once, then twice. Dele Alli leaned back briefly before standing, already mentally ahead of the moment.
Francesco reached down, pressing his boots firmly into the ground once.
Then again.
Not out of doubt.
Just habit.
He straightened up.
Eyes clear.
Breathing steady.
Ready.
The tunnel called them again.
And they answered.
No words this time.
None needed.
Boots echoed through the corridor as they stepped out together, the sound sharper now, more defined. The light at the end of the tunnel grew quickly, and then the pitch opened up again.
Brighter.
Hotter.
Louder.
The crowd had found its voice now.
Not overwhelming.
But present.
Alive.
Francesco stepped back onto the grass.
Same surface.
Same feel.
Fast.
Firm.
Predictable.
He took his position again.
Center.
High.
Malta followed.
Lines forming.
Shape resetting.
The referee checked both sides once more.
Then the whistle.
Second half.
England didn't change.
Didn't drop.
Didn't relax.
They controlled the ball immediately.
From the first touch.
Back through the defense.
Into midfield.
Out wide.
The rhythm returned like it had never left.
Jake Livermore sat just behind the play again, steady, reading everything ahead. Henderson dictated the tempo, always offering, always moving.
Francesco stayed patient.
Still.
Watching.
Malta had adjusted.
Slightly deeper.
Slightly tighter.
Trying to close spaces faster.
But England kept stretching them.
Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain drove forward again on the right, pushing defenders back with each carry.
Sterling mirrored it on the left.
Width.
Always width.
Minutes passed.
Fifty.
Fifty-five.
England didn't rush.
Didn't force the fourth.
They controlled.
Circulated.
Waited.
Francesco dropped deeper once again.
Received under pressure.
Turned cleanly.
Released it wide.
Then moved again.
Always moving.
The game slowed slightly in tempo, but not in control.
England dictated everything.
Then 60th minute.
The signal came from the sideline.
Substitution.
Not one.
Three.
Francesco saw it immediately.
Board raised.
Numbers changing.
Gareth Southgate stood calmly, arms folded lightly, watching the transition.
Francesco jogged toward the sideline.
No reaction.
No frustration.
Just acknowledgment.
As he approached, Harry Kane was already stepping forward, ready to enter.
Beside him, Marcus Rashford and Jermain Defoe stood prepared.
Francesco reached the line.
Kane met him first.
A quick hand.
Firm.
"Good," Kane said.
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
No long exchange.
No speech.
Sterling came off next.
Then Livermore.
The changes completed quickly.
Francesco stepped beyond the line.
Onto the sideline.
Then toward the bench.
He didn't look back immediately.
Didn't need to.
Because the game was still there.
Still moving.
He sat down.
Leaning slightly forward.
Eyes already back on the pitch.
Now watching.
Still involved.
England reshaped slightly.
Kane took the central role.
Rashford moved into wide areas.
Defoe positioned himself just off the forward line.
Malta adjusted too.
Their coach reacted.
Two changes.
More defenders.
Deeper block.
The intent was clear.
Contain.
Limit.
Survive.
But England still controlled.
The ball moved.
Quick.
Clean.
Relentless.
Minutes ticked.
Francesco watched everything.
Movements.
Spaces.
Decisions.
Kane dropped once.
Received.
Turned.
Released.
Rashford drove forward.
Direct.
Sharp.
Defoe moved intelligently.
Small spaces.
Quick runs.
And then at 72nd minute.
It came.
The ball started deep.
Cahill to Henderson.
Henderson forward.
Defoe dropped slightly.
Received between lines.
One touch.
Hold.
Kane was already moving.
Reading it.
Anticipating.
Defoe slipped the pass.
Perfect weight.
Into Kane's path.
Kane didn't hesitate.
First touch.
Set.
Second, strike.
Clean.
Powerful.
Precise.
The ball flew past the keeper.
Net.
4–0.
This time, the reaction lifted again.
More visible.
But still controlled.
Kane turned.
A small release of energy.
Teammates moving toward him.
Defoe reached him first.
A quick tap.
"Good ball," Kane said.
Defoe smiled.
"Finish was better."
On the sideline, Francesco nodded once.
Simple.
Clean.
Effective.
Exactly what was needed.
The game didn't change after that.
If anything, it settled.
Malta stayed deep.
England kept the ball.
No need to force anything now.
Control.
Management.
Precision.
The tempo slowed slightly.
But the quality didn't.
Francesco stayed seated.
Watching.
Reading.
Every movement still mattered.
Even from here.
Minutes passed.
England rotated possession.
Moved Malta side to side.
Waited.
No risks.
No unnecessary chances.
Just control.
The crowd noise dipped and rose in waves.
But it didn't affect anything.
Because the result was already there.
90 minutes approached.
The referee checked his watch.
Added time minimal.
And then the final whistle
Sharp.
Clear.
Final.
England 4–0.
Away.
Complete.
Players slowed.
Then stopped.
No wild celebrations.
No dramatic reactions.
Just acknowledgment.
Kane exchanged a few quick words with teammates.
Henderson clapped once.
Cahill nodded quietly.
Francesco stood up from the bench.
Adjusted his shirt once.
Then stepped forward.
Back onto the pitch.
Not as a player now.
But still part of it.
He walked among them.
Calm.
Composed.
The job was done as it was not perfect and everything, but it's right and that exaclty how it needed to be.
______________________________________________
Name : 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: 1
Goal: 1
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