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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Francesco allowed himself one final glance back toward the pitch before disappearing down the corridor.
The dressing room doors swung open, and the noise hit Francesco immediately.
Not chaos.
Not quite.
But close enough.
The kind of happy disorder that only followed a convincing international victory.
Laughter bounced off the tiled walls. Music had already started somewhere near the far corner which is Walker, almost certainly. Water bottles were being tossed around. Rashford was in the center of at least three conversations at once, all of them involving people reenacting his goal with wildly exaggerated body movements.
Which, to be fair, was fully deserved.
England had been excellent.
Three-nil against a stubborn Slovak side.
Professional. Ruthless. Mature.
Exactly the sort of result good international teams collected.
Francesco stepped inside and immediately felt an arm wrap around his shoulders.
Kyle Walker, naturally.
"Captain!" Walker announced loudly, as though introducing royalty to a crowded ballroom. "I would just like everyone to know that my relentless overlapping created the tactical environment necessary for victory."
Henderson, unlacing his boots nearby, didn't even look up.
"You didn't get an assist."
"I got emotional assists."
Rooney snorted.
"That's not a statistic."
"It should be."
"It absolutely should not."
Laughter rolled across the room.
Walker looked personally offended.
"Philistines. Every one of you."
Francesco shook his head, grinning.
"Your contribution has been noted by absolutely nobody."
"Jealousy is ugly, skip."
"You're ugly."
"Harsh."
"True."
Walker placed a hand over his heart as if mortally wounded before wandering off to find a less hostile audience.
Francesco dropped into his seat, exhaling deeply for the first time since the final whistle. The pleasant heaviness in his legs had started to settle now, muscles cooling after ninety minutes of sharp movement.
Around him, the atmosphere remained buoyant.
Joe Hart was animatedly describing Weiss's first-half chance, complete with hand gestures large enough to direct airport traffic.
"And then, bang! I just spread. Massive. Absolutely massive."
Cahill deadpanned, "You should really stop describing saves like that."
That earned another burst of laughter.
A few lockers down, Dier was being forced to watch his goal on someone's phone for what looked like the seventh time already.
He wasn't exactly protesting.
"Honestly," Alli said, replaying it again, "that's disgusting."
Dier folded his arms, trying and failing to look modest.
"I caught it alright."
"Alright?" Kane said. "Mate, the ball nearly filed a noise complaint."
Even Southgate, standing near the coaches' area, allowed himself a small smile at that one.
Francesco leaned back, soaking it all in.
This was one of the best parts.
Not the roar of Wembley.
Not the cameras.
This.
The private moments after the work was done, when the adrenaline softened and the team simply became a group of men enjoying each other's company.
Henderson sat beside him, towel draped around his neck.
"One more."
Francesco nodded.
"Slovenia."
"At Wembley."
"Win that, and we're through."
Henderson smiled.
"Nice position to be in."
"It is."
England had put themselves exactly where they wanted to be.
Another victory next month, against Slovenia under these same lights, and their place at the 2018 World Cup would be secured.
No calculators.
No permutations.
No final-day drama.
Just take care of business.
Southgate eventually gathered the room for a brief word.
Nothing elaborate.
He wasn't the elaborate type.
"Excellent tonight."
Instant silence.
The players turned toward him.
"We controlled the match well. Patience in possession, aggression without it. That's what we asked for."
He glanced around, meeting eyes as he spoke.
"You've put yourselves in a strong position. Another win next month, here again, and qualification is ours."
A ripple of approving nods.
That was the target.
Clear. Immediate.
Attainable.
"But don't look beyond that. Slovenia will be difficult. They always are."
He let that settle.
"Enjoy tonight. Recover properly. Then we focus."
Simple.
Direct.
Effective.
Rooney clapped once.
"Well said, boss."
That seemed to release the room again.
Conversations resumed. Music got louder. Walker attempted a dance move that should probably be banned under international law.
Francesco rose, grabbed his wash bag, and headed toward the showers.
The hot water hit his shoulders like medicine.
For a few minutes, the world narrowed to steam, tile, and the steady rush of water. The ache in his calves eased. Tension flowed out of his back. The little knocks and bruises collected over ninety minutes began to fade into background noise.
Football had a way of making a body feel ancient and immortal at exactly the same time.
He closed his eyes briefly.
England captain.
Wembley.
Three-nil.
Another step toward Russia.
Not bad for a Tuesday night.
By the time he finished, the dressing room had settled into a more relaxed rhythm. Some players were already dressed. Others were halfway through post-match meals.
Francesco towel-dried his hair, then pulled on the England jumpsuit that the color is navy look comfortable, bearing the Three Lions over the chest.
A different kind of uniform.
Less battle, more business.
Rooney was adjusting his own tracksuit nearby.
"You doing the press?"
Francesco zipped up the jacket.
"Apparently I committed the crime of playing well."
Rooney laughed.
"Same here."
"And Gareth?"
"He committed the crime of winning."
"Repeatedly."
They headed out together, passing staff members, security personnel, and a few lingering officials in the tunnel.
The stadium beyond was beginning to empty now, though pockets of supporters still lingered, reluctant to let the evening end.
Francesco understood that feeling.
The walk to the media room was always slightly surreal.
One moment you were on the pitch in front of eighty thousand people.
The next, you were under fluorescent lights answering questions about tactical spacing and left-sided overloads.
Football contained multitudes.
A media officer intercepted them just outside.
"Gareth's already inside. We'll start in thirty seconds."
"Lovely," Rooney said. "Plenty of time for me to develop a personality."
"You've had thirty years."
"And yet."
Francesco chuckled.
Then the door opened.
The room was packed.
Rows of journalists. Cameras already rolling. Microphones arranged with military precision across the table.
Southgate sat in the center, composed as ever, hands folded neatly in front of him.
Rooney took the seat to his right.
Francesco slid into the chair on his left.
The flashes started immediately.
One after another.
Bright enough to remind you why sunglasses were invented.
Southgate waited patiently until the room settled.
Then the moderator began.
"We'll start with Gareth."
A reporter from Sky Sports raised his hand first.
"Gareth, a very convincing performance tonight. How pleased were you with the overall display?"
Southgate nodded.
"Very pleased. Slovakia are an organized side. They make it difficult for opponents, especially once they settle into their shape. I thought we were patient early, controlled possession well, and then took our opportunities when they came."
He glanced briefly toward Francesco and Rooney.
"The leadership from the senior players was excellent, and the younger players made a real impact again."
Another hand.
"How significant is it to be one win away from qualification?"
"It's important, but that's all it is at the moment which is an opportunity. Slovenia will present a different challenge. We know what's at stake, but the focus remains exactly the same."
Classic Southgate.
Never too high.
Never too low.
Measured to the millimeter.
A BBC journalist turned to Rooney.
"Wayne, your role tonight seemed particularly influential in midfield. How much are you enjoying this position?"
Rooney smiled.
"A lot, actually. You see the game differently there. You've got more of it, more responsibility. I like that. We've got plenty of pace and quality ahead of us, so my job is to help get them into good areas."
He tilted his head toward Francesco.
"Which isn't exactly difficult when he's making those runs every thirty seconds."
Laughter rippled through the room.
Francesco shrugged modestly.
"I get bored standing still."
"That's putting it mildly," Rooney said.
The next question was directed at Francesco.
"Francesco, captaining England at Wembley in a performance like that. What does it mean to you?"
He paused for a second.
Not for effect.
Just honesty.
"It means everything."
The room quieted.
"Wembley is special. It always will be. Leading your country out there, hearing that anthem, seeing the crowd as it never gets old. Then to perform well and win like that, that's the ideal night."
He rested his hands lightly on the table.
"But the most important thing is the team. We were excellent tonight. Disciplined, patient, clinical when it mattered."
A journalist from The Times leaned forward.
"You seemed to identify Slovakia's weaknesses very quickly."
Francesco smiled faintly.
"They helped by showing them."
That earned a few chuckles.
"They started compact, which we expected. Once we scored, they had to come out more. When teams do that, spaces appear. At this level, you have to recognize those moments immediately."
Southgate gave a barely noticeable nod.
Exactly right.
Another reporter.
"Marcus Rashford was outstanding again. How highly do you rate him?"
Rooney answered before Francesco could.
"Very highly. And not just because he makes me look younger by comparison."
Laughter again.
Francesco joined in.
"He's fearless. That's the biggest thing. He gets the ball and immediately wants to hurt defenders. You can't teach that. His finish tonight was top class."
Rooney added, "He's got no respect for reputations, which is brilliant. Defenders hate that."
A Slovak journalist asked Southgate whether England were now among Europe's strongest sides.
Southgate handled it perfectly.
"We're improving. That's the key word. We have talented players, but international football is about consistency over time. Nights like tonight help, but you earn that reputation over years, not months."
Fair.
Accurate.
Annoyingly sensible, as usual.
The questions kept coming.
On Dier's thunderbolt.
On Kane's impact off the bench.
On Walker's endless running.
That particular one made Rooney laugh out loud.
"I'm convinced Kyle actually sleeps while sprinting."
Francesco nodded solemnly.
"We're still investigating."
Even Southgate cracked a smile.
Then came the inevitable question.
A journalist from ITV looked directly at Francesco.
"With Slovenia next month and qualification potentially on the line, how important will Wembley be again?"
Francesco leaned toward the microphone.
"Huge."
He didn't overcomplicate it.
"We know what the opportunity is. One more win, and we're going to the World Cup. That's the standard you want, to control your own fate."
He glanced around the room.
"Wembley gives us an edge. The supporters were outstanding tonight, and they'll be even louder next month. It's our job to give them another performance."
Another reporter asked about wearing the captain's armband.
Rooney looked over at him, smiling.
Francesco answered carefully.
"It's an honor. It always is. But leadership isn't one person. Wayne leads. Jordan leads. Gary leads. Joe leads. That's why this group is strong."
Rooney gave a small approving nod.
That mattered.
The final few questions centered on the squad's mentality.
Southgate spoke about maturity.
Rooney spoke about togetherness.
Francesco spoke about standards.
"We've got talent, everyone can see that. But talent only gets you so far. The best teams are relentless. They do the basics every single game."
He tapped the table lightly.
"That's what we're building."
The moderator eventually stepped in.
"Last question."
A young journalist, clearly nervous, stood up.
"Francesco, what was your favorite moment tonight?"
He considered it.
There were several good candidates.
Rashford's finish.
Dier's rocket.
The roar after the final whistle.
But the answer came easily.
"The anthem."
A brief silence followed.
"Every single time."
That was enough.
The press conference ended moments later.
Chairs scraped. Cameras powered down. Reporters hurried away to file their stories before midnight.
Southgate stood first.
"Well handled."
Rooney rose beside him.
"I only said three things outrageous enough for tomorrow's headlines."
"Personal best," Francesco said.
Rooney grinned.
They made their way back through the corridors, the stadium now significantly quieter than before.
That post-match emptiness always felt strange.
Like a theater after the audience had gone home.
The magic still lingered, but softly now.
Walker was waiting near the dressing room door.
"How was it?"
Rooney answered immediately.
"Francesco declared his intention to become Prime Minister."
Walker nodded thoughtfully.
"I'd vote for him."
"You'd vote for anyone who promised overlapping full-backs."
"That's fair."
Inside, the mood remained excellent.
Recovery shakes were being distributed.
Players were finishing meals.
Dier was, astonishingly, still watching his goal.
"I think it's getting better," he said.
"It physically cannot," Henderson replied.
Francesco dropped back into his seat, finally allowing the evening to settle around him.
Another win.
Another clean sheet.
Another step closer.
Slovenia next.
Wembley again.
World Cup qualification within touching distance.
He looked around the room.
Rashford laughing with Sterling.
Kane debating finishing angles with Rooney.
Southgate speaking quietly with his staff.
Walker trying to convince anyone who would listen that his overlapping had changed the course of European football.
It was a good group.
A real group.
And that mattered more than any tactical board ever could.
Eventually, the call came to board the team bus.
Players gathered their bags.
Phones.
Headphones.
The usual post-match ritual.
As Francesco slung his duffel over his shoulder, Rooney fell into step beside him.
"One more."
Francesco nodded.
"One more."
They walked out together, into the London night, Wembley shining behind them like a cathedral of light.
The team bus rolled away from Wembley just after eleven.
The stadium still glowed behind them, white arches cutting through the London night like something unreal. Even from the motorway, it dominated the skyline, refusing to be ignored.
Francesco watched it disappear through the tinted glass.
Wembley always left something behind.
A sound.
A feeling.
A memory that stayed lodged somewhere just beneath the ribs.
Tonight had given him all three.
Beside him, Rooney had already loosened his tracksuit jacket and sunk comfortably into his seat, looking like a man who had fully embraced the art of post-match recovery.
Which, in Rooney's case, largely involved eating anything within reach.
He was currently halfway through a protein bar and eyeing Rashford's untouched fruit cup with questionable intent.
"You planning on eating that?" Rooney asked.
Rashford looked up from his phone.
"I was."
"Shame."
"You've got your own."
"Not the point."
Francesco chuckled and leaned back.
The bus hummed with the quiet contentment that followed a successful night. Some players had headphones on. Others were still replaying moments from the match, each retelling somehow making Dier's goal travel faster and Walker's overlapping runs longer.
Walker himself was seated across the aisle, showing Sterling what appeared to be a freeze-frame of his own sprint from the seventy-eighth minute.
"Look at the angle," Walker insisted. "Perfect body mechanics."
Sterling stared at the screen.
"That's just you running."
"Elite running."
"Still running."
"You're jealous."
"I really am not."
Kane, sitting behind them, offered the final verdict.
"He's got a point, Raheem. It is technically running."
That ended the debate about as conclusively as possible.
Southgate sat several rows ahead, quietly discussing logistics with his staff. Even after a three-nil win, he still looked like a man already preparing for Slovenia.
Managers never really switched off.
Francesco respected that.
The journey back to St. George's Park passed in that comfortable, drowsy way only late-night coach rides could. The adrenaline had faded. Fatigue had replaced it.
The lights outside blurred into ribbons.
England had won.
That was enough.
By the time they arrived at St. George's Park, the clock was nudging toward one in the morning.
The complex stood silent beneath the Staffordshire sky, immaculate even at this hour. Security staff greeted them with the practiced efficiency of people very used to footballers returning at ungodly times.
Bags were unloaded.
Players shuffled inside.
There was none of the earlier noise now. No grand celebrations.
Just tired men ready for sleep.
Walker, naturally, still had energy.
"Anyone fancy table tennis?"
Nobody answered.
"Rude."
Henderson didn't even turn around.
"Go to bed, Kyle."
"I might."
"You should."
"I probably will."
"Excellent."
Walker pointed accusingly.
"You're very controlling."
"Captain material."
"He's not captain."
"He'd be better at it than you."
"Most houseplants would."
That got one final ripple of laughter before the group dispersed toward their rooms.
Francesco paused outside his door, keycard in hand.
Rooney stopped beside him.
"Good camp."
"Very."
"See you next month."
"Try not to score too many for United before then."
Rooney grinned.
"No promises."
"Selfish."
"Veteran's privilege."
They exchanged a quick handshake before heading into their respective rooms.
Francesco's was exactly what he expected which is spotless, quiet, and wonderfully empty.
He dropped his duffel onto the floor, kicked off his trainers, and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment.
The silence felt almost foreign after the noise of Wembley.
He checked his phone.
Several messages.
Family.
Teammates.
A few Arsenal lads.
And one from Leah.
Great win. Proud of you. Cheddar barked at the TV when you came on screen. I think he's developing tactical opinions.
Francesco smiled.
He typed back immediately.
Tell him his pressing shape needs work.
A reply came less than a minute later.
He says your first touch was decent.
Cheeky.
He went to sleep smiling.
⸻
Morning at St. George's Park always arrived too early.
Breakfast was a quieter affair than dinner had been. The previous night's excitement had given way to the usual travel-day sluggishness.
Coffee was essential.
Conversation optional.
Francesco entered the dining hall to find Kane already seated, looking offensively awake.
"Morning."
"Why are you like this?" Francesco asked, pouring himself coffee.
"Like what?"
"Functional."
"It's a gift."
"It's disturbing."
Rooney wandered in moments later, hair pointing in several directions at once.
"Nobody speak to me until this coffee works."
Walker followed.
"Morning, gentlemen."
Rooney stared at him.
"Why are you smiling?"
"I enjoy life."
"Unacceptable."
Breakfast drifted by in a haze of toast, eggs, and lighthearted abuse.
Southgate addressed the group briefly before departure.
Recovery plans.
Club commitments.
A reminder about Slovenia.
Professional as ever.
Then came the goodbyes.
Not dramatic.
Just the routine parting of teammates who knew they'd reconvene soon enough.
Handshakes.
Quick hugs.
Promises to stay healthy.
"See you next month."
"Take care."
"Don't get suspended."
That last one was directed at several people simultaneously.
Francesco shared a brief embrace with Henderson.
"Ready for Arsenal?"
"Always."
"Slovenia first."
"One thing at a time."
Rooney slapped him on the shoulder.
"Look after yourself."
"You too."
"I mean it."
"So do I."
Then the group scattered.
Manchester.
Liverpool.
London.
Tottenham.
Different badges.
Same country.
For now, club football reclaimed them.
Francesco boarded the team flight back south, headphones on, though he wasn't actually listening to anything.
He spent most of the journey looking out the window.
England one month from qualification.
Arsenal fighting on multiple fronts.
Life was busy.
Good.
He preferred it that way.
London greeted him with gray skies and familiar traffic.
Perfect.
His driver met him at the airport, loaded his bags, and soon they were cutting through west London toward Richmond.
The city moved around him with its usual relentless energy.
Red buses.
Morning commuters.
Cyclists convinced traffic laws were merely suggestions.
Home.
There was something deeply comforting about returning to London after international duty.
No matter how grand Wembley felt, no matter how special wearing England's shirt could be, London was still home.
Richmond even more so.
As the car turned through the gates of his property, Francesco felt that particular tension between work and rest finally begin to dissolve.
The mansion stood exactly as he'd left it—elegant, understated, surrounded by carefully kept grounds just beginning to show autumn's first hints.
Home, sweet ridiculously expensive home.
He barely had time to step out before the front door opened.
Leah.
She was already smiling.
That smile alone could improve almost any day.
She crossed the driveway quickly, arms open, and Francesco met her halfway.
The hug came naturally, instantly.
Warm.
Familiar.
The kind of embrace that made the rest of the world briefly irrelevant.
"You won," she murmured against his shoulder.
"We did."
"You played well."
"I had my moments."
She pulled back just enough to look at him, one eyebrow raised.
"Modesty. Very unlike you."
"I've been working on it."
"It's not taking."
He laughed, leaning down to kiss her.
Long enough to feel like coming home.
Short enough to avoid becoming the subject of future mockery.
Though with Leah, future mockery was inevitable regardless.
Before he could say anything else, a blur of tan and white came hurtling out of the doorway.
Cheddar.
Their corgi had clearly decided that human reunions were moving far too slowly.
He sprinted across the stone path with all the determination his short legs could produce, ears bouncing wildly.
"Incoming," Leah warned.
Too late.
Cheddar skidded to a halt directly at Francesco's feet and immediately began licking his trainers with a level of devotion normally reserved for saints and barbecue.
"There he is," Francesco said, crouching down.
Cheddar responded by launching himself against Francesco's shins and wagging with such intensity that his entire body seemed to oscillate.
"I see you've maintained your standards."
Cheddar barked once.
Leah folded her arms.
"He watched the match."
"Did he?"
"He barked at the referee twice."
"Excellent instincts."
"And growled when Slovakia had that first-half chance."
"A natural defender."
Cheddar sneezed.
Francesco scratched behind his ears, earning a contented grunt.
There were few welcomes in life better than being greeted by someone who loved you and someone who thought your shoelaces were the greatest invention in human history.
Inside, the house felt wonderfully lived in.
The faint smell of coffee lingered in the kitchen. A pair of Leah's trainers sat by the staircase. Cheddar's toys had colonized most of the living room.
Francesco wouldn't have changed any of it.
Leah took his bag while he bent to remove his shoes.
"How was camp?"
"Good. Professional. Walker remains a threat to public dignity."
"So, no change."
"None whatsoever."
She laughed and handed him a mug of coffee she'd apparently anticipated he'd need.
One of the many reasons he loved her.
They settled onto the sofa, Cheddar wedging himself triumphantly between them like a furry diplomat.
Leah tucked one leg beneath herself.
"Southgate happy?"
"Quietly. Which for Gareth is basically euphoria."
"And Rooney?"
"Still convinced he can eat three breakfasts."
"He probably can."
"He nearly stole Rashford's fruit."
"Veteran move."
Francesco sipped his coffee, letting the warmth spread through him.
This.
This was the balance.
International football provided the adrenaline.
Home provided everything else.
Leah rested her head lightly against his shoulder.
"One more win."
"Against Slovenia."
"Then Russia."
"Hopefully."
"No hopefully."
She looked up at him.
"When have you ever liked uncertainty?"
"Fair point."
Cheddar snored softly between them, already exhausted from his intense welcoming duties.
Leah smiled down at him.
"He missed you."
"I missed him too."
"He also stole one of your socks."
"Again?"
"He claims possession."
"He's a tyrant."
"A very short tyrant."
Francesco laughed.
The afternoon drifted comfortably.
He unpacked while Leah recounted training stories from Arsenal. Cheddar supervised, mostly by sitting directly where he was least helpful.
Later, they walked him through Richmond Park, the autumn air crisp and clean.
A few fans recognized Francesco, offering congratulations and polite requests for photos. He obliged, as always.
Leah rolled her eyes when one young supporter asked if Walker really ran as much in training as he did in matches.
"The answer," Francesco said solemnly, "is unfortunately yes."
That seemed to delight everyone.
As evening fell, they returned home.
Dinner was simple.
Pasta, wine, and football talk that gradually turned into everything except football.
Movies.
Travel.
Cheddar's ongoing war against the vacuum cleaner.
The ordinary things.
The important things.
Later, as London settled outside and the house grew quiet, Francesco stood by the bedroom window.
The lights of Richmond twinkled softly in the distance.
Leah joined him, slipping an arm around his waist.
"Tired?"
"A little."
"Happy?"
He turned to look at her.
"Very."
She smiled.
"Good."
England was close.
Arsenal awaited.
Home was here.
And tomorrow, inevitably, would bring fresh challenges.
But tonight?
Tonight was enough.
Leah kissed his cheek.
"Welcome home, captain."
Francesco wrapped an arm around her.
"It's good to be back."
Below them, Cheddar was already asleep on the rug, legs twitching as he undoubtedly chased imaginary squirrels.
Francesco looked out across the darkened grounds and felt the satisfying weight of a life well-built.
______________________________________________
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: 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