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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Francesco leaned back slightly in his seat while his hands resting loosely, with eyes still on the window.
The road unwound in front of them in long, smooth stretches, Malta drifting by beneath the late evening light.
Francesco remained where he was, shoulders resting comfortably against the seat, gaze fixed on the passing streets beyond the glass. Buildings slid by in soft colors. Pale stone. Narrow balconies. Small cafés beginning to fill as locals reclaimed the evening.
Inside the bus, the atmosphere had settled into that familiar post-match rhythm.
Not exhausted.
Not overly energetic.
Just content.
The kind of content that only came after a professional job completed exactly as intended.
Walker had finally stopped talking for a full minute, which in itself was an achievement worthy of recognition.
Rashford had noticed too.
"Someone check his pulse," Rashford said from across the aisle.
Walker opened one eye.
"Resting. Recovering. Planning my dinner."
"That's all you ever plan," Dele said.
Walker pointed a finger at him without opening both eyes.
"And I plan it brilliantly."
A few chuckles moved through the seats.
Henderson, seated further ahead, shook his head with the sort of amusement that came naturally around teammates like these.
Harry Kane was quietly scrolling through his phone, likely messages from family, perhaps checking highlights, perhaps simply enjoying a rare moment of stillness.
Francesco didn't check his.
Not immediately.
He preferred the quiet first.
The separation.
The small stretch of time between the work and everything that followed it.
The bus rolled on.
Malta slowly gave way behind them.
And by the time they arrived back at the hotel, the night had fully settled.
The evening itself passed without complication.
Dinner was exactly what everyone wanted after a match like that.
Simple.
Plentiful.
Effective.
There was laughter around the tables, small debates about moments from the match, Walker insisting his overlapping run had been "criminally underappreciated," Henderson informing him with complete sincerity that it had been appreciated exactly the right amount.
Francesco ate steadily, quietly, listening more than speaking.
That had always been his way.
Not withdrawn.
Just selective.
He answered when spoken to, offered the occasional comment, and let the room carry itself.
Which it always did.
After dinner, players gradually dispersed.
Some headed to the recovery room.
Others retreated to their rooms.
A few lingered in the lounge.
Francesco chose the simplest option.
Recovery.
Then rest.
He spent twenty minutes with the physios, allowing the routine to do its work—stretching, ice, mobility, hydration. Nothing dramatic. Nothing optional.
Then upstairs.
A shower.
Fresh clothes.
A brief call home.
And then sleep.
Deep.
Undisturbed.
The kind that came only after ninety minutes played properly.
Morning arrived clean and bright.
Francesco was awake before his alarm.
He always was.
Years of routine made it automatic.
The room was quiet, curtains allowing thin lines of sunlight to spill across the floor. For a moment, he simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting his body assess itself.
Legs good.
No knocks worth noting.
A little stiffness.
Nothing unusual.
He sat up.
Feet to the floor.
Another day.
A quick shower.
A shave.
Training kit replaced by travel gear.
Everything folded neatly.
Bag packed efficiently.
No wasted motion.
By the time he stepped out into the corridor, a few others were doing the same.
Kane emerged from the room opposite, duffel slung over one shoulder.
"Morning."
Francesco nodded.
"Morning."
"Sleep alright?"
"Yeah."
Kane smiled.
"Good."
They walked together toward the lift.
Nothing forced.
Just easy company.
Walker joined them on the next floor, somehow already talking.
"Breakfast. Priority one."
"You've got priorities two through ten as food as well, haven't you?" Kane asked.
Walker considered it.
"Honestly? Mostly."
Francesco glanced at him.
Walker grinned.
"Balanced lifestyle."
The breakfast room carried that familiar travel-day atmosphere.
Relaxed.
Slightly quieter than usual.
Everyone understanding the schedule ahead.
Players gathered in small groups, plates filled, coffee poured.
Henderson sat with Kane, Rashford, and Defoe.
Francesco took his usual place nearby.
Scrambled eggs.
Toast.
Fruit.
Coffee.
Enough.
No more.
Walker arrived with a plate that looked capable of feeding a small village.
Rashford stared at it.
"You planning for a famine?"
"Recovery nutrition," Walker replied solemnly.
"That's three croissants."
"Elite recovery."
The table laughed.
Even Henderson cracked a smile.
Breakfast moved comfortably.
Conversation drifted from the match to upcoming club fixtures, holiday plans, and the universal truth that airport security somehow always took longer than expected.
Eventually, Henderson checked his watch.
"Lobby in fifteen."
Chairs scraped back.
Plates cleared.
The process began.
The hotel lobby was already buzzing by the time Francesco arrived.
Staff moved efficiently around the team, bags lined up, passports checked, final headcounts taken.
Players stood in clusters.
Some talking.
Some scrolling through phones.
Some simply waiting.
Francesco preferred waiting.
He stood near one of the large windows, watching the morning outside.
Clear skies.
Good flying weather.
Walker wandered over.
"You know, most people use these things." He waved his phone.
"I do."
"Could've fooled me."
Francesco looked at him.
"I use it when needed."
Walker nodded thoughtfully.
"Mysterious. I respect it."
Before Francesco could respond, Henderson's voice carried across the lobby.
"Right, lads. Bags on. Bus."
That was enough.
Instant movement.
Professional.
Ordered.
The kind of efficiency built over years.
They filed out through the entrance, the warm Maltese morning greeting them one final time.
The team bus waited at the curb.
Engine humming softly.
Luggage already being loaded.
Francesco climbed aboard and, without thinking, took his usual seat by the window.
Routine mattered.
Walker, predictably, took the one beside him.
"Fate," Walker declared.
"Or habit," Francesco said.
Walker grinned.
"Same thing, really."
The drive to the airport was smooth.
Malta passed by once more, now under full daylight.
The roads were busier.
Locals commuting.
Shops opening.
Life carrying on around them.
Inside the bus, the mood was mellow.
Travel mode.
A few players wore headphones.
Kane reviewed something on his tablet.
Henderson spoke quietly with one of the staff.
Rashford was already half asleep despite being upright.
Walker alternated between looking out the window and offering running commentary on absolutely nothing important.
Francesco listened without always replying.
It worked.
It always did.
As the airport came into view, the bus slowed.
Security gates.
Terminal buildings.
Aircraft parked in neat rows.
Another familiar transition.
From footballers back to travelers.
The bus came to a stop.
Henderson stood first.
"Same as always. Stay together."
Nobody needed reminding.
But leaders reminded anyway.
They stepped off into the morning air, collected their bags, and moved inside.
Airports with football teams always attracted attention.
Even private sections couldn't entirely prevent it.
A few staff members glanced up.
A couple of passengers recognized them.
Phones emerged discreetly.
Smiles followed.
Francesco acknowledged those who approached politely.
A quick photo.
A short greeting.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Security was handled swiftly.
Passports stamped.
Bags scanned.
Then through to the private lounge.
The team spread out.
Some collapsed into seats.
Others grabbed coffee.
Walker immediately found food.
Again.
"Honestly impressive," Rashford said.
"It's called consistency."
Francesco sat near the window overlooking the tarmac.
Their plane stood ready, sunlight reflecting off its fuselage.
There was something satisfying about departures.
Completion.
Transition.
One task ending.
Another beginning.
Kane took the seat beside him.
"Straight back into it."
Francesco nodded.
"Always."
"You looking forward to club football?"
"Yeah."
Kane smiled.
"Same."
That was enough.
No grand discussion needed.
Players understood each other that way.
Boarding was efficient.
The squad moved as one.
Up the steps.
Into the cabin.
Seats already assigned.
Francesco settled into his place, again beside the window.
Walker, naturally, was across the aisle this time.
"Bit offended, honestly," Walker said.
"You'll survive."
"Barely."
The plane taxied.
Engines roared.
Malta began to fall away beneath them.
Francesco watched through the glass as the island shrank, surrounded by endless blue.
Then clouds took over.
The flight itself was uneventful.
Exactly how everyone preferred it.
Some players slept.
Others watched films.
A few played cards.
Henderson reviewed notes.
Kane spent part of the journey speaking with staff.
Francesco alternated between reading and simply resting.
Not sleeping.
Just still.
At one point, Walker leaned across the aisle.
"What are you reading?"
Francesco showed him the cover.
Walker frowned.
"Looks educational."
"It is."
Walker leaned back.
"Couldn't be me."
"No."
That earned a laugh from both of them.
Lunch was served.
Conversations resumed briefly.
Then quiet returned.
The gentle hum of the engines filled the cabin.
England was getting closer.
Club football was getting closer.
Routine, once again, waiting.
The descent into Birmingham began in the early afternoon.
Clouds parted.
Fields appeared.
Roads.
Industrial estates.
Familiar terrain.
The wheels touched down with a soft jolt.
A ripple of movement passed through the cabin as players instinctively prepared to disembark.
Phones came back on.
Messages flooded in.
Walker checked his immediately.
"Three missed calls. Mum's efficient."
Rashford laughed.
"Probably checking you actually played."
"Cheeky."
The plane taxied toward the private terminal.
And soon enough, the doors opened.
Cooler English air greeted them.
A noticeable difference from Malta's warmth.
Not unpleasant.
Just home.
Francesco stepped onto the tarmac and inhaled once.
Fresh.
Crisp.
Familiar.
There was comfort in that.
⸻
Bags were unloaded quickly.
Staff worked with practiced precision.
The team regrouped beside the waiting coach.
Same routine.
Different country.
Francesco climbed aboard, taking the same seat.
Walker dropped in beside him once more.
"Nature is healing," Walker said.
Francesco looked at him.
"You talk too much."
"Yet you keep sitting here."
Francesco allowed the faintest hint of a smile.
Walker noticed immediately.
"That's basically affection."
"Don't push it."
Walker laughed.
The drive from Birmingham Airport to St. George's Park was one every England player knew well.
Familiar roads.
Familiar landmarks.
The transition point between international duty and whatever came next.
Outside, the Midlands rolled past under grey-white skies.
Inside, the mood was reflective.
Not sleepy anymore.
Not energetic either.
Just settled.
Players were already shifting mentally.
Some back toward their clubs.
Some toward recovery.
Some toward the next international window months away.
Henderson stood briefly near the front.
"Good trip, lads. Professional all week."
A chorus of nods and murmured agreement followed.
"Enjoy the time back with your clubs. Recover well."
Simple.
Appropriate.
He sat back down.
No speech necessary.
The work had spoken for itself.
Kane turned around from the row ahead.
"See you soon."
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
They always would.
Football ensured that.
As the coach approached St. George's Park, the familiar entrance came into view.
The gates.
The long drive.
The immaculate grounds stretching beyond.
For many, it felt like coming home.
For others, leaving one.
Perhaps both at once.
The bus rolled to a gentle stop outside the main building.
Engine idling.
Then silence.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Not because they didn't want to.
But because endings always carried a small pause with them.
Then Henderson stood.
"Right, lads."
And that was that.
Seatbelts unclipped.
Bags lifted.
Conversations resumed.
The squad filtered off the bus into the cool afternoon.
The cool Staffordshire air wrapped around them the moment they stepped off the bus.
It always felt different here.
Cleaner.
Sharper.
Less noise.
Less distraction.
St. George's Park had that effect on people. Even the loudest players seemed to lower their volume by instinct. Something about the place demanded it that not through rules, but through atmosphere.
Francesco adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and glanced across the grounds.
The familiar red-brick buildings stood beneath a pale afternoon sky. The training pitches beyond were immaculate, every blade of grass trimmed with almost suspicious precision. It looked exactly as it always did.
Which was part of the comfort.
No surprises.
No unnecessary complications.
Around him, the rest of the England squad dispersed in small groups near the bus. Some were already stretching after the journey. Others exchanged quick words with staff. A few checked their phones, no doubt flooded with club messages, family texts, and whatever chaos social media had decided to manufacture while they were in the air.
Walker, unsurprisingly, was still talking.
"I'm just saying," he announced to absolutely anyone willing or unwilling to listen, "the food on that flight was better than usual."
Rashford slung his bag over his shoulder.
"That says more about the usual food than this one."
Walker pointed accusingly.
"Negativity. That's what that is."
"Reality."
"Jealousy."
Dele laughed.
"Nobody's jealous of airplane chicken, Kyle."
"Speak for yourself."
Francesco shook his head once, the corner of his mouth threatening something dangerously close to a smile.
Walker caught it immediately.
"There! Witnesses. He smiled."
"It wasn't a smile," Francesco said.
"Mate, that was practically a laugh."
"It definitely wasn't."
Henderson walked between them, entirely uninterested in settling the matter.
"Save the debate for dinner."
That ended it.
At least temporarily.
The players began moving toward the main building, boots and trainers clicking softly against the pavement. Staff unloaded the remaining bags while security personnel moved with quiet efficiency around them.
Francesco walked alongside Kane and Henderson, the three naturally falling into step.
"How're the legs?" Kane asked.
"Good."
"Recovery alright?"
"Yeah."
Kane nodded.
"Same."
It was the kind of conversation footballers had a thousand times over. Brief, practical, entirely understood.
Ahead of them, the main entrance opened.
And standing just inside was Gareth Southgate.
He'd clearly been waiting.
Hands in his coat pockets, posture relaxed, expression calm.
The sort of calm that never felt accidental.
He watched the players approach with a faint smile, taking in the group the way only a manager could with checking body language, energy, focus, fatigue. Always observing.
As the last few players stepped inside, Southgate raised a hand.
"Lads."
That was enough.
Conversations quieted almost instantly.
Not completely silent.
But attentive.
The group naturally formed around him in the lobby, some standing, some leaning against luggage, all eyes shifting toward the manager.
Francesco stood near the front, arms folded loosely.
Southgate looked around at each of them before speaking.
"First of all, well done in Malta."
Simple.
Direct.
No theatrics.
"A professional performance. Controlled, disciplined, and exactly what was required."
A few nods moved through the squad.
Francesco glanced down briefly, accepting the praise the way captains often did without needing to own it.
Southgate continued.
"You handled yourselves properly on and off the pitch. That's important. Always."
He let that settle.
Then his expression softened slightly.
"Now, you've all had a long day. Travel takes its toll, whether you realise it immediately or not."
Walker muttered under his breath, "Especially when the in-flight meals are emotionally moving."
Rashford elbowed him lightly.
Southgate either didn't hear it or chose not to acknowledge it.
Both were possible.
"Get yourselves settled in at the player dormitory. Recovery this evening. Hydrate. Eat. Sleep."
His gaze moved across the room again.
"Tomorrow, we're back to work."
That sharpened everyone's attention by a fraction.
Because that's how football functioned.
One result behind you.
One challenge ahead.
"We continue training in the morning. Slovakia at Wembley is the next focus."
The name itself carried weight.
Not because Slovakia were the biggest opponent in the world.
But because international football never allowed complacency.
Southgate knew that.
The players knew that.
"We'll need another strong performance. Wembley demands it."
A few smiles appeared at that.
Wembley always did something to players. No matter how many times they'd been there, it remained special.
Southgate clasped his hands together once.
"So, rest tonight. Recover properly. We'll meet after breakfast."
He paused.
Then added, with the faintest trace of humor:
"And Kyle, no reviewing airline catering in the tactical meeting."
The entire room burst into laughter.
Walker looked personally attacked.
"Gaffer, I was providing valuable analysis."
"Save it for retirement."
Even Southgate smiled at that.
Walker placed a hand over his heart.
"Harsh. Fair, but harsh."
The moment dissolved the remaining tension from travel.
Exactly as intended.
Southgate nodded once.
"Off you go."
And just like that, the group broke apart.
The walk to the player dormitory was short.
A familiar path across immaculate grounds and carefully maintained walkways. The sun hung low now, casting long shadows over the training pitches.
Francesco carried his bag without hurry.
Kane walked beside him, while Walker somehow remained on his other side despite several opportunities to drift elsewhere.
"You know," Walker said, "I think the gaffer secretly appreciates my food insights."
"He doesn't," Kane replied.
"He definitely does."
"He definitely doesn't."
Francesco said nothing.
Walker looked at him.
"Back me up."
"No."
"Betrayal."
"Accuracy."
Kane laughed.
"That one."
They entered the dormitory building together.
Inside, everything was exactly as it should be.
Quiet.
Organized.
Professional.
Room assignments had already been prepared.
Staff moved efficiently through the corridors.
A few players headed straight for the recovery facilities.
Others made for their rooms.
Francesco accepted his keycard, nodded to the staff member, and headed upstairs.
Same room as before.
He preferred consistency.
The keycard clicked.
The door opened.
And there it was.
A simple room.
Spotless.
Functional.
Perfect.
Bag on the chair.
Shoes aligned neatly by the wall.
Jacket hung immediately.
No wasted movement.
He stood for a moment, listening to the silence.
Not empty.
Just peaceful.
A rare commodity in football.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Leah.
Safe back?
He replied almost immediately.
Back at St. George's. Training tomorrow.
A few seconds later:
Proud of you. Rest.
He looked at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.
Then typed:
Will do.
He placed the phone down.
Small moments mattered.
Recovery came first.
Always.
Francesco changed into training shorts and headed downstairs to the recovery area. Several players were already there.
Ice baths.
Compression gear.
Stretching mats.
The usual collection of controlled suffering.
Walker stared at one of the ice baths like it had personally offended him.
"Who invented these?"
"Someone smarter than you," Henderson replied.
"That narrows it down to most people."
Rashford stepped into one with admirable courage.
Walker still hadn't committed.
Francesco simply lowered himself in without ceremony.
Cold hit instantly.
Sharp.
Brutal.
Necessary.
Walker finally followed, accompanied by language that suggested profound betrayal by modern sports science.
"Absolutely criminal."
"You chose this career," Dele reminded him.
"I was young and naive."
"You were seventeen."
"Exactly."
The room laughed.
Even in discomfort, footballers found ways to entertain themselves.
Fifteen minutes later, everyone emerged feeling simultaneously refreshed and vaguely offended.
Standard procedure.
Dinner that evening was quieter than the night before.
Travel had a way of doing that.
The energy wasn't low.
Just measured.
Players ate in smaller groups, conversations softer, less animated.
Francesco sat with Kane, Henderson, Rashford, and Walker.
Balanced company.
Walker was still recovering emotionally from the ice bath.
"I've lost feeling in three toes."
"You'll survive," Henderson said.
"That's what concerns me."
Kane chuckled.
"Your commitment to complaining is impressive."
"Elite level."
Francesco focused on his meal.
Chicken.
Rice.
Vegetables.
Water.
No complications.
Exactly what his body required.
At one point, Henderson glanced around the table.
"Good week so far."
Kane nodded.
"Yeah."
Rashford added, "Need to finish it properly."
"Exactly," Henderson said.
Francesco looked up.
"We will."
No bravado.
No overstatement.
Just fact.
That was enough.
Later that evening, the dormitory settled into its usual rhythm.
Doors closing.
Showers running.
Muted voices in hallways.
Televisions humming behind walls.
Francesco spent half an hour reviewing clips from the Malta match on his tablet.
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to.
A movement here.
A passing angle there.
Tiny adjustments.
Marginal gains.
The details never stopped mattering.
Then he switched it off.
Enough.
His body had earned rest.
Before sleeping, he looked out the window.
The training pitches lay under floodlights in the distance, empty now.
Waiting.
Tomorrow.
He climbed into bed.
And sleep came quickly.
Morning arrived with the gentle buzz of his alarm.
Francesco was already awake.
Again.
Routine was undefeated.
He sat up, rolled his shoulders once, and assessed.
Body good.
Travel stiffness minimal.
Mind clear.
Exactly where he wanted to be.
Outside, St. George's Park was waking up.
Groundskeepers already at work.
Staff arriving.
Another day beginning.
He showered.
Dressed.
Packed his training essentials.
And headed downstairs.
Breakfast awaited.
Breakfast at St. George's Park always had its own rhythm.
Not rushed.
Not slow.
Just efficient.
The dining hall was already half full when Francesco walked in. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting long rectangles across polished floors and neatly arranged tables. Outside, the pitches gleamed under the morning light, the grass so perfect it looked artificial.
Inside, the familiar sounds of an England camp drifted through the room.
Cutlery against plates.
Coffee being poured.
Low conversations.
Walker, naturally, talking louder than everyone else combined.
Francesco grabbed what he always grabbed before training.
Scrambled eggs.
Two slices of toast.
A small bowl of fruit.
Black coffee.
Nothing excessive.
Nothing experimental.
Food was fuel. He'd long ago stopped trying to make it more complicated than that.
Kane was already seated with Henderson and Rashford. Walker occupied the chair opposite, somehow managing to eat, talk, and gesture all at the same time without dropping anything.
A skill.
A dangerous one.
"Morning," Kane said as Francesco sat down.
"Morning."
Walker looked up.
"You're late."
Francesco checked the clock on the wall.
"I'm not."
"You are emotionally."
Rashford nearly choked on his orange juice.
Henderson sighed the sigh of a man who had heard far too much from Kyle Walker over the years.
"Eat your breakfast."
"I am eating breakfast."
"Then do more of that and less of everything else."
Walker grinned.
"No promises."
Francesco ate quietly, listening more than speaking.
That was normal.
Kane mentioned Tottenham's next fixture.
Rashford was discussing a new pair of boots he'd been trying.
Henderson was already mentally somewhere in the tactical meeting.
Walker, meanwhile, had somehow pivoted into a detailed ranking of hotel omelettes across Europe.
"Madrid is clear," he announced.
"Clear of what?" Rashford asked.
"Clear at the top."
"Based on what scientific method?"
"Taste."
"Bold."
Francesco took a sip of coffee.
"Berlin was better."
Walker froze.
The table went silent.
Then Kane laughed.
"Francesco's spoken. Debate over."
Walker narrowed his eyes dramatically.
"You've betrayed me twice in twenty-four hours."
"Could be worse."
"How?"
"I could agree with Henderson."
"I usually am right," Henderson said.
"That's not helping," Walker replied.
Breakfast passed quickly after that.
Light.
Relaxed.
Exactly what it needed to be.
Nobody overate. Nobody lingered too long.
Training waited.
It always did.
Eventually Henderson checked his watch and stood.
"Changing room in ten."
That was all it took.
Players rose almost immediately, trays cleared, conversations naturally ending.
The easy part of the morning was over.
Now the work began.
The walk to the dressing room carried a subtle shift.
It always did.
The joking didn't disappear.
But it softened.
Focus settled in.
Francesco felt it the moment they stepped into the corridor leading toward the training complex.
The smell hit first.
Fresh grass.
Rubber flooring.
Liniment.
Familiar enough to feel like home.
The dressing room itself was immaculate.
Training kits had already been laid out, folded with military precision.
England crest on the chest.
White tops.
Navy shorts.
Everything exactly where it should be.
Francesco moved to his usual spot.
Bag down.
Shoes off.
Training gear on.
Each motion automatic after years of repetition.
Around him, the room filled with the sounds of preparation.
Tape being torn.
Lockers opening and closing.
Studs clicking against tile.
Walker was lacing his boots while somehow still talking.
"I'm telling you now, first rondo, Rashford's in the middle."
"Not happening," Rashford replied.
"Manifesting it."
"You can't manifest bad first touches."
Walker looked deeply offended.
"That's disrespectful."
Dele, changing nearby, snorted.
"It is also accurate."
Laughter rippled through the room.
Henderson stood near the center, finishing the last wrap on his wrist.
"Boots on. Outside in five."
Professional.
Direct.
No wasted words.
Francesco tightened the final lace, stood, and rolled his shoulders once.
Body ready.
Mind ready.
Training began before players ever stepped onto the grass.
Outside, the morning air carried a slight chill, the kind that woke every part of you instantly.
The pitches stretched out like green carpets under a cloudless sky.
Southgate was already there.
Hands tucked into his jacket, speaking with Steve Holland and several members of the coaching staff.
Cones were set.
Mini-goals positioned.
Mannequins arranged.
Every session meticulously planned before a single player arrived.
Francesco appreciated that.
Preparation respected preparation.
Southgate greeted them with a simple nod.
"Morning, lads."
A chorus of replies followed.
Then they got to work.
Warm-ups first.
Always.
Dynamic stretching.
Mobility drills.
Activation work.
Nothing glamorous.
Everything essential.
The sports science staff guided them through the routine while the coaches observed.
Francesco moved fluidly, each exercise precise.
Lunges.
High knees.
Lateral shuffles.
Acceleration bursts.
His body loosened with each repetition.
The stiffness from travel disappeared completely.
Walker, halfway through a hamstring stretch, looked miserable.
"I miss sleeping."
"You slept on the plane," Rashford said.
"That wasn't sleep. That was aviation-based unconsciousness."
Kane laughed.
"Remarkably specific."
"I'm a detailed man."
"That's one word for it."
Southgate's whistle cut through the chatter.
"Rondo groups!"
Instant movement.
Players split into circles.
The ball started flying.
One touch.
Two at most.
Sharp.
Fast.
Demanding.
Francesco thrived here.
The rhythm suited him.
Pass.
Move.
Receive.
Release.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Rashford ended up in the middle first, much to Walker's delight.
"Called it!" Walker shouted.
"You'll be in next."
"Lies."
He was in next.
The squad made sure of it.
His protests were ignored entirely.
The main session followed.
Tactical structure.
Shape.
Patterns of play.
Slovakia had been studied extensively.
Southgate and his staff left very little to chance.
The team worked through build-up sequences, pressing triggers, and defensive transitions. Positioning was adjusted repeatedly, sometimes by inches rather than yards.
At this level, inches mattered.
Southgate stopped play frequently.
"Harry, a yard wider."
"Kyle, release earlier."
"Marcus, check your shoulder before receiving."
"Francesco, excellent. Again."
Francesco absorbed every instruction without comment.
That was his way.
Listen.
Apply.
Improve.
The drills intensified.
Possession games shifted into attack-versus-defense scenarios.
Southgate wanted quick circulation against a compact block. Slovakia would likely defend deep, remain organized, and look for transitions.
England needed patience.
Precision.
Francesco dropped between lines repeatedly, receiving on the half-turn, moving the ball quickly into dangerous areas.
One touch.
Two.
Then gone.
Southgate noticed everything.
"That's the angle," he called. "Exactly that."
Kane nodded in agreement as they reset.
"You drag their midfield every time."
"They follow."
"Then space opens."
"Exactly."
Football, reduced to its purest language.
Movement.
Space.
Timing.
Understanding.
The session lasted nearly two hours.
By the end, shirts clung to backs and breathing had deepened, but the quality never dropped.
That was the standard.
Southgate gathered them in at midfield.
"Good work. Sharp today."
He glanced around.
"Recovery this afternoon. Tactical video after lunch."
A few groans, mostly theatrical.
Walker raised a hand.
"Any chance the video includes breakfast rankings?"
"No."
"Worth asking."
Southgate almost smiled.
Almost.
"Inside."
And so the days passed.
One after another.
Structured.
Purposeful.
Each built around the same principles.
Morning activation.
Tactical meetings.
Training.
Recovery.
Analysis.
Rest.
Then repeat.
There was comfort in that rhythm.
Professional athletes often lived chaotic lives from travel, media, pressure, expectations but training camps like this restored order.
Every hour had a purpose.
Every session had a goal.
Southgate oversaw everything.
Not always loudly.
Not always visibly.
But constantly.
He moved between drills, speaking quietly to players, offering corrections, encouragement, reminders.
He understood personalities.
When to push.
When to trust.
When to leave a player alone.
Francesco respected that.
Deeply.
On the second day, the focus shifted heavily toward attacking combinations.
Southgate wanted fluidity.
Interchange.
Unpredictability.
Francesco, Kane, Rashford, and Sterling spent nearly forty minutes working through rotations in the final third.
Wide overloads.
Third-man runs.
Cutbacks.
Near-post movements.
Francesco scored repeatedly in the finishing drills.
Low into the corner.
First-time volleys.
A chipped finish over Pickford.
Nothing spectacular.
Just ruthless.
Walker jogged past after one particularly clean strike.
"Save some for Slovakia."
"No."
"Selfish."
"Correct."
Walker laughed.
"Love the honesty."
By the third day, Wembley was beginning to feel close.
You could sense it.
The sharpness in training increased.
The laughter between drills remained, but there was steel underneath it now.
Purpose.
Urgency.
Southgate introduced eleven versus eleven scenarios.
Likely starters against likely defensive shapes.
Francesco found himself in the first team.
No surprise.
Not after Malta.
Not after his form.
He played just off Kane, drifting between midfield and attack.
Exactly where he was most dangerous.
The chemistry was evident.
Kane dropping.
Francesco spinning beyond.
Rashford attacking the far side.
Sterling driving inside.
The movement forced constant decisions.
And against elite players, forced decisions usually became mistakes.
Southgate stopped the drill after a particularly incisive move.
Kane into Francesco.
Quick layoff.
Sterling wide.
Cutback.
Finish.
Goal.
"That's it," Southgate said. "That's exactly it."
Francesco jogged back into position without reaction.
Inside, though, he knew.
The patterns were clicking.
That mattered.
Evenings remained relatively quiet.
Recovery dominated.
Ice baths.
Massage.
Pool work.
Team dinners.
Occasional card games.
Walker somehow lost at cards while accusing everyone else of conspiracy.
"I refuse to believe this is statistically possible."
"It is when you're bad," Dele informed him.
"Sabotage."
"Skill issue."
Francesco watched, amused, from a safe distance.
Kane joined him.
"Best not to get involved."
"Wasn't planning to."
"Smart."
Some battles simply weren't worth fighting.
Southgate held individual meetings as the week progressed.
Francesco's came on Thursday afternoon.
Short.
Focused.
Southgate sat across from him in a small analysis room, clips paused on the screen.
"You're finding excellent spaces between their midfield and defensive lines," he said.
Francesco nodded.
"They collapse centrally when pressed."
"Exactly."
Southgate clicked to the next clip.
"Your decision making has been outstanding. Keep trusting the first option."
"I will."
A pause.
Then Southgate leaned back slightly.
"You're in excellent form. Enjoy it, but don't chase it."
Francesco understood immediately.
Don't force moments.
Let them come.
"I know."
Southgate smiled faintly.
"I thought you would."
Meeting over.
Simple.
Effective.
Just like the man himself.
By the final training session before Slovakia, the entire squad felt ready.
Not hopeful.
Ready.
There's a difference.
The session was shorter, sharper, more explosive.
Set pieces.
Final patterns.
Restarts.
Small details.
The margins that decided international matches.
Southgate ended training early.
A sign of trust.
He gathered them in.
"Excellent week."
He looked around the circle.
"Now recover. Tomorrow, Wembley."
That single word changed the energy instantly.
Wembley.
Even seasoned internationals felt it.
The history.
The expectation.
The noise.
Francesco glanced toward Kane.
Kane met his eye.
Both understood.
Another stage.
Another opportunity.
Another job.
As the squad dispersed toward the dressing room, Walker fell into step beside Francesco.
"Nervous?"
"No."
"Excited?"
"Yes."
Walker nodded.
"Same."
That was football.
Not fear.
Not anxiety.
Anticipation.
The good kind.
The necessary kind.
They walked back beneath the afternoon sun, boots brushing softly against the grass.
______________________________________________
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