219. Debuting For England From Side Substitute PT.1

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And as Francesco headed back inside, the warmth of that vote of confidence stayed with him. He didn't know if he'd start, come off the bench, or sit the whole match out.

The next morning came earlier than Francesco would've liked.

His phone buzzed with the team wake-up call, and for a second he groaned, curling deeper into the hotel-standard duvet. The room was still faintly lit from the soft glow of the hallway light bleeding under the door. He blinked at the time — 6:02 AM. Too early for someone who hadn't gotten more than five hours of sleep. But this wasn't just any morning.

This was international duty.

He rolled out of bed, stretched, then shuffled over to the en-suite bathroom and splashed cold water on his face until the haze began to lift. Across the corridor, he could hear movement — doors opening, suitcases rolling, soft chatter filtering through the otherwise still floor. The squad was mobilizing. Time to go.

Downstairs in the lobby, players and staff gathered in quiet groups, most of them still waking up, trainers on feet, duffel bags slung over shoulders. Francesco found his usual trio — Walcott, Oxlade-Chamberlain, and Gibbs — clustered near the coffee machine, each of them nursing steaming paper cups.

"You look like a man who regrets his career choices," Ox said as Francesco joined them.

"I regret my bedtime," he muttered, stifling a yawn.

"Get used to it," Theo said with a grin. "Club football spoils you. These trips, it's all airports and buses and training on half-sleep."

They piled onto the England national team coach shortly after, where Francesco collapsed into his window seat near the middle, plugging in his earphones and resting his head against the cool glass. The engine hummed to life, and slowly the coach pulled away from St. George's Park, ferrying its precious cargo — the Three Lions — toward the next stage of their campaign.

The airport wasn't far, and by the time they rolled onto the tarmac, the sun had fully broken through the clouds, casting pale golden light over the chartered plane waiting for them. A few ground staff milled about, loading the last of the catering and gear cases into the undercarriage. The team filtered out of the bus and toward the jet, players trailing like a school trip group — albeit with multi-million-pound boots and customized Beats headphones.

Francesco walked up the airstairs behind Harry Kane and Ross Barkley. Inside, the plane had been reconfigured — a luxury airliner retrofitted for elite athletes. Wider seats. More legroom. A nutrition bar and an area for stretching if needed. He slid into his seat beside Walcott, who was already grinning at a documentary on his tablet.

"Bet you didn't think you'd be flying to San Marino this time last year," Theo said as the engines began to whir.

Francesco smiled, tightening his seatbelt. "This time last year I was still trying to get through GCSE maths."

The flight was smooth. Most players dozed or watched film. The staff circulated, offering hydration tablets and reminding them to stretch out periodically. Francesco spent part of the journey journaling quietly in a small notebook he'd brought with him — something Leah had given him after he signed his professional contract. "To remember where you came from," she'd written inside the cover.

A couple of rows up, Milner was having a laugh with the physios. Delph was reading a novel. Kane seemed entirely absorbed in game footage on his laptop.

They landed in San Marino just after noon.

The sun there was stronger, the air warmer. The tarmac shimmered as they descended the stairs. Around them, the green, hilly landscape of the microstate framed the airport — small and quiet, with only a handful of other aircraft in sight. They moved quickly through the modest terminal, security and customs handled efficiently by prearranged agreements, and soon they were back on the team bus, heading into the city.

It was hard to believe this small enclave was the setting for a UEFA Euro qualifier. San Marino's footballing history was modest at best — perennial underdogs, often goal fodder for the larger European powers. But that didn't mean they'd be underestimated. If there was one thing international football taught, it was that pride, especially on home soil, could bring out performances that surprised even the most elite.

Francesco sat with his forehead against the window again, watching the countryside roll by — cypress trees, terracotta roofs, winding roads that climbed and curved along the slopes of the Apennines. It was beautiful in a way that felt slow, unhurried. A world away from London, from the clamor of the Premier League, from the noise of Sky Sports headlines.

Their hotel was perched on a ridge just outside the heart of San Marino's capital. A sleek, modern building with a sweeping view of the valley below. Staff from the England FA were already waiting at the entrance as the bus pulled up, guiding players inside, handing out room keys, and making sure luggage followed behind.

"Room 314," a staffer said to Francesco, handing him a keycard. "You're with Theo again. Dinner at six, team meeting at seven-thirty. You've got a few hours to rest."

Francesco nodded, thanking him before heading up in the lift. His legs were heavy from the trip, not physically strained, but tingling with that sort of dull fatigue that came from constant movement without release.

The room was spacious. Two queen beds, minimalist decor, a wide balcony overlooking the hills. Theo dropped his bag by the closet and stretched. "Claiming the one with the view," he said.

"Fine by me," Francesco replied, already flopping onto the other bed with a sigh.

He lay there for a few minutes, arms spread out, listening to the rustling of luggage, the distant hum of a TV somewhere else on the floor. His mind wandered — to the match tomorrow, to the possibility of stepping onto the pitch with the England shirt for the first time, to Leah back home, probably watching the FA's travel updates with quiet pride.

Eventually, he unpacked, showered, and pulled on the standard-issue team hoodie before heading down to dinner. The hotel's restaurant had been reserved exclusively for the England squad — long white-clothed tables lined the room, with salads, pasta, lean meats, and smoothies laid out in neat, labeled rows.

Roy Hodgson sat with his assistants at a table near the back, casually discussing set pieces while finishing their meals. Francesco joined the usual crowd — Kane, Barkley, Milner, and Theo — and listened as the older players discussed past qualifiers and away trips.

San Marino might not be a footballing powerhouse, but Hodgson had made it clear in his brief pre-flight talk that complacency would not be tolerated. "Respect your opponent," he'd said. "But respect the shirt even more."

That evening, the team gathered in a small conference room on the hotel's second floor. A whiteboard dominated one end of the space, and the England crest was projected large against the wall. Hodgson stood at the front, remote in hand, glasses perched on the end of his nose.

"Right, gentlemen," he began. "This is how we line up tomorrow."

Francesco's stomach fluttered.

He hadn't dared to expect anything. Being called up was already a dream. But still — part of him had hoped.

As the manager clicked through the tactical slides, formations appeared. The names populated the screen, one by one.

Francesco leaned forward slightly in his chair, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the projected formation as Roy Hodgson clicked to the next slide. The screen displayed a clean 4-2-3-1 setup, with each name typed in bold white against a pale blue tactical board.

"Joe Hart in goal," Hodgson announced, nodding toward the back. "Defense — Shaw, Jagielka, Stones, and Clyne."

Francesco's eyes moved from left to right across the screen. Solid choices, all of them experienced. Shaw's pace and attacking instinct on the left, Clyne's discipline and overlapping runs on the right, and the central pairing — Jagielka and Stones — was a blend of rugged assurance and youthful composure.

"In midfield," the manager continued, "we've got Shelvey and Milner sitting in the double pivot."

Francesco registered a flicker of surprise at Shelvey's inclusion. Not the flashiest name, but he brought a range of passing and a bite in midfield that could keep a side like San Marino pinned back.

"And just ahead of them," Hodgson said, tapping the screen again, "Ross Barkley pulling the strings."

Francesco glanced across the room at Barkley, who sat upright, chin raised. The Everton man had flair and the confidence to try things others wouldn't — that would be vital in a game likely to see England dominate possession.

"Out wide — Vardy on the left, Oxlade-Chamberlain on the right."

Francesco exchanged a quick look with Ox, who smirked and raised his brows as if to say, Let's go. Vardy was the real wildcard. Out on the left, he'd bring his tireless pressing and straight-line speed, dragging defenders into uncomfortable positions. Ox would bring the creativity and tight control to cut inside and make things happen.

"And up top, leading the line," Hodgson said, pausing just long enough for dramatic effect, "Wayne Rooney."

No surprises there. The captain. The talisman. Rooney's name felt almost inevitable. Even though his prime years were behind him, there was something commanding about his presence in the lineup — as if the game revolved a bit more tightly around him.

Then came the substitutes. The names scrolled across the screen as Hodgson read them off:

"Walcott, Delph, Kane, Smalling, Butland, Cahill, Carrick, Francesco, Sterling, Gibbs, and Heaton."

There it was.

His name.

Sandwiched between Carrick and Sterling, Francesco saw LEE in white text. He stared at it for a second longer than he needed to, as if trying to confirm it wouldn't disappear if he blinked. It felt surreal. That was his name. On the same board as Rooney, Milner, Hart. On the England squad list. For a competitive fixture.

"You all know the drill," Hodgson said, turning from the board to face them properly. "Doesn't matter who we're playing. Doesn't matter what the scoreline is meant to be. This is about executing our game plan. About discipline. Shape. Tempo. And above all — professionalism."

He swept the room with a serious look, pausing here and there on faces both young and weathered. "We don't take anything for granted. We've got fans traveling to see us. We've got eyes watching from back home. You all represent more than just yourselves."

Francesco felt the weight of that. It wasn't heavy, exactly — not crushing. But it was there, coiled somewhere in his chest like a spring, reminding him that this wasn't just another game. It wasn't even just about his dreams. It was about the badge, about legacy, about what it meant to wear the England shirt.

After the meeting, players shuffled out in small groups, chatting quietly. Some were talking tactics. Some were joking about Vardy's new boots. Others just wanted to get back to their rooms and decompress.

Francesco lingered a moment near the back of the room, walking up to the formation still frozen on the screen. His eyes found his name again. Sub, yes — but that didn't matter. He was here. In the squad. One injury, one change, one tactical switch, and he could be on the pitch.

Theo came up beside him, holding a bottle of water and grinning.

"Don't stare too long," he joked. "You'll wear it out."

Francesco laughed under his breath. "Can't help it. Looks surreal."

"I remember my first time," Theo said, leaning against the wall. "Didn't believe it until I stepped out in the kit. Even then, felt like I was dreaming. But once you're out there — ball at your feet, fans singing — everything clicks."

Francesco nodded. "I hope I get a chance."

"You will," Theo said. "Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not the next match. But you're in the room. That's how it starts."

They walked back upstairs together, parting ways at their door. Theo went straight for his tablet again, mumbling something about catching up on a Formula One race he'd missed. Francesco, on the other hand, stepped out onto their balcony.

The evening had dipped into a rich indigo, the last streaks of sunset staining the clouds orange and purple. Below, the lights of San Marino glittered like scattered stars against the dark contours of the hills. The air was still and warm, filled with the faint chirp of crickets and the occasional sound of distant traffic.

He leaned against the railing, hands wrapped around the metal edge, letting the breeze wash over him. Somewhere down in the city, locals were probably finishing dinner, maybe sipping espresso or wine at candlelit tables. He wondered what they thought about the match. If they'd come expecting a miracle, or if it was more about pride — showing up, flying their flag, even if the scoreboard wasn't kind.

Eventually, he went back inside and began to prepare for bed — brush teeth, change into the FA-provided sleepwear, check messages on his phone. There was one from Leah.

Saw the squad list. You're on it. So proud of you ❤️ Call me if you can?

He smiled, heart lifting. He stepped out of the room briefly to find somewhere quiet and gave her a call. They spoke for twenty minutes, most of it filled with warm laughter, quiet encouragement, and that reassuring sense of calm only Leah could bring.

When he finally climbed into bed, it didn't take long for sleep to come.

⸻

Matchday.

Francesco was up before the alarm. 6:23 AM. The room was still dim, the sky outside barely tinged with light. He lay still for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then, quietly, he rolled out of bed, careful not to wake Theo, and padded into the bathroom.

Cold water. Deep breaths. Routine.

By 7:00 AM, the team was assembling in the dining hall for breakfast — porridge, eggs, toast, avocado, fruit, protein smoothies. No one overate. Most players kept things light, knowing they'd need that careful balance of fuel and lightness to perform later.

Back in his room, Francesco pulled on the training gear for the morning session — a light jog and stretch at a nearby facility to loosen up, shake off nerves, and go over the last tactical reminders.

San Marino's stadium — the Stadio Olimpico di Serravalle — was nestled in a picturesque valley, surrounded by low hills and tidy homes. Small, cozy, more akin to a League One ground than the sprawling arenas of the Premier League. But it was theirs. And today, it would host a UEFA qualifier.

They arrived in the afternoon to a modest fanfare. A few hundred supporters lined the outer fence, waving flags, holding up signs, shouting encouragement. Francesco waved at a small group of kids holding up England scarves, their eyes wide with awe.

Inside, the dressing room was all white tiles and wooden benches. The England shirts were already hung up — each one crisp and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Francesco found his shirt — number 19 — with LEE stitched proudly across the shoulders.

He ran his fingers across the fabric, took a slow breath, and sat for a while, just looking at it.

By the time warm-ups were done, the stands had filled to capacity — just over 6,000 strong, though it felt louder than that. The national anthems rang out, solemn and proud. Francesco stood on the sidelines, hand over heart, singing along, feeling his pulse rise with every note.

Kickoff.

From the opening whistle, England dominated. Possession climbed quickly past 75%, and San Marino retreated deep, defending with two banks of five. It was a test of patience, not brute force.

Rooney's presence was immediately felt — dropping deep to collect, threading passes, directing traffic with the calm authority of someone who'd done this a hundred times before. Oxlade-Chamberlain buzzed along the right flank, his pace slicing through defenders. Vardy's movement was relentless. Barkley was finding pockets of space, trying shots, feeding passes.

Milner and Shelvey shielded the backline expertly, keeping the pressure on and recycling possession.

By the 30th minute, England had scored twice — Rooney with a close-range finish after a Barkley backheel, and Ox tapping in a driven cross from Shaw.

Francesco watched from the bench, heart thudding, living every moment as if he were on the pitch. Each surge forward, each shot on target — it all felt magnified. He leaned forward constantly, whispering thoughts to himself, reading the game.

In the second half, Kane and Walcott came on and Kane added one more goals, while Walcott added two more goals. San Marino were brave, never gave up, but the gulf in quality was simply too wide.

Then, in the 70th minute, Hodgson turned and nodded toward him.

"Francesco. Get ready."

Time slowed.

He stood up, pulled off his warmup top, and jogged over to the touchline. The assistant coach clapped him on the back. "Take Vardy's spot. Play free. You've got fifteen minutes."

Francesco nodded, barely hearing anything else. The fourth official's board flashed — 9 — Vardy, 19 — LEE.

Vardy jogged off to applause. Francesco jogged on to cheers. He was on the pitch. For England.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield

Season 15/16 stats:

Match Played: 5

Goal: 9

Assist: 0

MOTM: 0

POTM: 1

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9