221. Media Buzzing,

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And as he walked toward the team bus, the chants of "Lee! Lee! Lee!" still echoing faintly from the remaining fans in the stands, he made a quiet vow to himself — not just to make the Euro 2016 squad, but to make sure tonight wasn't the peak.

The next morning, golden sunlight filtered through the curtains of the team hotel room, cutting soft slats of warmth across the pale sheets and the messy pile of training gear at the foot of the bed. Francesco stirred under the duvet, the weight of sleep still clinging to his limbs, but the echoes of the previous night were already stirring in the back of his mind. His body ached a little — a reminder of the adrenaline-fueled sprinting, the sharp turns, the sprints, the brace, the hat-trick.

As he blinked sleep from his eyes, he caught the low murmur of a television playing across the room. The glow of the screen cast flickering light over the form of his roommate, Theo Walcott, who was propped up against the headboard, one hand behind his head, the other holding the remote loosely on his stomach.

Francesco sat up slowly, his voice still raspy with sleep. "Morning."

Theo turned to look at him, grinning. "Hey, man. You should watch the news."

Francesco rubbed his eyes. "Yeah?"

Theo nodded toward the screen. "It's all about you. Yesterday's game. The hat-trick. You broke records, man. They're saying you might be England's future Ballon d'Or winner."

Francesco blinked again, his sleep-muddled mind catching up to what he was hearing. "What?"

Theo chuckled and turned the volume up just a touch.

The screen was on Sky Sports News. A familiar studio, familiar graphics. A montage played: Francesco's first goal, a slick left-foot finish off a cutback. His second, a perfectly timed run behind the back line, latched onto a ball from Ross Barkley. The third, an audacious chip over the keeper after a one-two with Milner.

Then came the voiceover. "Sixteen-year-old Francesco Lee made his England debut last night — and what a debut it was. A hat-trick in just seventeen minutes. The youngest player to ever score three in a senior England match. Records broken. Eyes opened. The entire footballing world is talking about this boy. The Guardian called him 'England's next phenomenon.' Gary Lineker tweeted, quote: 'That was one of the most sensational debuts I've ever seen.' And perhaps most notably, some pundits are now daring to suggest — is this the boy who could one day bring the Ballon d'Or back to England?"

Francesco stared at the screen, lips slightly parted.

Theo grinned and tossed a pillow at him. "Told you."

Francesco caught it absently, still half-dazed as more footage played — his post-match interview, clips of the crowd chanting his name, headlines scrolling across the ticker: 'Francesco Lee: England's Prodigy', 'Teen Sensation Makes History', 'Ballon d'Or Future?'

He swallowed hard. "That's… mental."

"You earned it," Theo said, flipping the remote to mute. "You were incredible last night, mate. Not just the goals — the confidence, the movement, the composure. That wasn't a fluke. That was a message."

Francesco gave a half-smile, still processing it. "I don't even know how to react to all this."

"Well, first you shower," Theo said with a grin, hopping off the bed. "Then we go down to breakfast. But trust me — you won't get two bites in before someone's asking for a selfie."

Theo was right. After a quick shower and change, Francesco stepped into the hotel's breakfast hall, and the moment he entered, the room buzzed with a different kind of energy. Some of the staff clapped quietly. Roy Hodgson gave him a nod and a smile from across the buffet. Harry Kane nudged him with a grin as he passed.

But more than that — it was the players. The veterans. Gary Cahill gave him a firm handshake and said, "You did us proud." Joe Hart clapped him on the back. Even James Milner, the always-reserved stalwart, gave him a rare smile and said, "Keep your feet on the ground, but keep playing like that, and you'll go far."

The respect wasn't patronizing. It wasn't forced. It felt earned.

As he sat down with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, his phone vibrated again. Dozens of notifications. He hadn't even been able to clear the ones from last night. But this one caught his eye.

Mum ❤️: "We saw all the news this morning. You've made the whole family cry again. Call us when you get a chance. We love you."

He smiled and tapped back a reply. "Love you too. I'll call after training."

After breakfast, the squad gathered in a private conference room for a quick debrief. Roy Hodgson stood at the front, calm and composed as always.

"Last night," he began, "was a statement. Not just the scoreline — though that was certainly something — but the way we played. The cohesion, the intent, the professionalism. We respect every opponent, and we showed that respect by playing our best."

Then he looked over the table, eyes resting for a moment on Francesco.

"And of course… I think we all know who everyone's talking about this morning."

A few soft chuckles and murmurs. Francesco felt his cheeks warm, but he kept his head high.

"Francesco," Roy said, addressing him directly, "you didn't just score goals — you showed character. That's what this shirt is about. Talent is a gift. But the way you carry it — that's what will define your future."

Francesco nodded quietly. "Thank you, boss."

The meeting moved on, talk shifting to tactics, upcoming fixtures, and press obligations. But as the team broke up afterward, Hodgson pulled Francesco aside.

"Sky Sports wants a longer sit-down interview later this week. Arsenal's agreed. They'll coordinate with your agent."

Francesco hesitated. "Is it… is that normal? After just one game?"

Roy chuckled. "Nothing about what you did last night was normal. But this is the new reality. People will want to know more. Just keep being you."

And that's what he tried to do.

Back in his hotel room, he FaceTimed his family. His mum picked up immediately, wiping tears from her cheeks, his dad smiling proudly beside her. His little brother waved excitedly in the background, still wearing an oversized England shirt with "LEE 19" scrawled on the back in permanent marker.

"You were brilliant," his mum said, voice thick. "Just brilliant. I couldn't stop crying. Your nan says she prayed for you all night."

Francesco laughed, his own eyes watering. "I felt it. I really did."

Later that afternoon, Francesco joined a few teammates for a light training session on the hotel grounds. Walcott, Barkley, and Sterling messed about with a few drills, but every now and then, someone would glance his way and shake their head with a smile — still in disbelief over what they'd witnessed.

"You realize you're the main story on Match of the Day, right?" Ross said, tossing him a ball. "Lineker spent a whole segment breaking down your movement. Said you're one of the most intelligent players he's seen at your age."

Francesco juggled the ball, keeping it in the air. "No pressure, then."

Sterling laughed. "Get used to it. Once the media bites, they don't let go."

Then Francesco's phone buzzed again — not with another flood of social media notifications, but a more familiar name lighting up the screen.

Leah ❤️ calling…

His heart warmed instantly. He stepped aside from the training pitch, finding a quieter patch of grass just beyond the cones where the trainers were setting up agility drills. He answered with a grin tugging at his lips, still panting lightly from the last round of sprints.

"Hey, superstar," came her voice, soft and full of affection, the playful tease unmistakable.

Francesco laughed, the sound almost a sigh of relief. "Hey, you."

Leah's face filled the screen, her hair slightly damp and pulled back into a loose ponytail, cheeks still flushed from her own training session. Behind her was the faint background of Arsenal's women's training ground — he could just make out a bench and a glimpse of the sky over London Colney.

"I literally just got out of the changing room," she said. "Phone was blowing up. My teammates wouldn't stop talking about you. Some of them made me replay your goals on YouTube in the locker room. I must've seen that chip five times now."

Francesco rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "It was… a good night."

"A good night?" Leah laughed, shaking her head. "Francesco, you made history. Sixteen years old and you dropped a hat-trick on your debut like it was just another Sunday league match."

He chuckled, cheeks tingling with the familiar heat of humility. "I'm still trying to process it, to be honest."

She softened, her teasing fading into something warmer, deeper. "I'm so proud of you."

Those five words, coming from her, meant more than any headline. He leaned against a tree, his breath slowing, his voice gentling. "Thanks, Leah. That means everything."

They sat in companionable silence for a few seconds, just looking at each other across the screen — her eyes scanning his face, his thumb brushing the edge of his phone.

"How are you feeling?" she asked eventually. "Physically, I mean. You okay?"

"A bit sore," he admitted. "My legs feel like lead, but it's a good kind of tired, you know? Like the kind you earn."

She nodded knowingly. "Yeah. I know that one."

He could see the fatigue in her too — the way her shoulder sagged just slightly, the way she tilted her head, letting herself rest against the back of the bench.

"Did you score any bangers in training?" he asked, grinning.

Leah smiled, rolling her eyes. "I nutmegged Lotte in a rondo, if that counts."

"Oh, absolutely. That's worth at least two goals."

She laughed, then looked down for a moment. "Feels weird not being there with you. Watching everything through a screen."

Francesco nodded. "Yeah. I wish you were here too."

They let the words hang for a moment, comfortable and unspoken emotions stretching gently between them like golden thread. Then Leah leaned closer, resting her chin on her hand.

"Well, don't let it get to your head, yeah? Keep your feet on the ground. And maybe don't get too used to the word 'Ballon d'Or' being said with your name."

"I won't," he smiled. "I've got you to keep me humble, right?"

"Damn right you do."

They talked for a little longer — nothing serious, just light things. She told him about an awkward moment in training where she slipped doing a drill and tried to style it out, and he told her about Theo trying to prank him with a ketchup packet at breakfast. It was ordinary, normal, and exactly what he needed after a whirlwind of media, cameras, and glory.

Then Francesco glanced back toward the training ground, where the staff were beginning to call players over.

"I should go," he said. "We've got recovery work to do."

Leah smiled. "Alright. Call me tonight?"

"Of course," he said softly. "Love you."

"Love you too. And Franny?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really, really proud of you."

He hung up, his chest feeling a little lighter, steadier. It was like she had reminded him who he was beneath the sudden storm of fame and footballing headlines.

When he returned to the field, he moved through the drills with a clearer mind. His touches were sharp, his passes crisp, but he didn't push too hard — just as the physios instructed. Roy had emphasized the importance of recovery today. Tomorrow would be more intense, but for now, it was about managing the highs and keeping the body balanced.

After the session, they were given a few hours of downtime before their scheduled dinner. Francesco headed back to his room, a protein shake in one hand and his phone in the other. Theo had gone off to grab a massage, leaving the room silent except for the background hum of the television, still on Sky Sports News.

He flopped onto the bed and reached for the remote to turn it off, but paused when he saw the panelists.

Ian Wright. Gary Neville. Jamie Carragher.

Francesco's breath caught.

The screen showed footage of his third goal — the cheeky chip — before cutting back to the studio.

Ian Wright was grinning ear to ear. "Listen, I don't care what anyone says. That kid — Francesco Lee — he's special. I mean, you can see it. The movement, the timing, the intelligence. He's not just fast or technical — he's clever. There's something upstairs."

Gary Neville nodded, arms crossed. "And he doesn't panic. That's what stood out to me. Sixteen years old, making runs off the ball like a veteran striker. Playing one-twos on the edge of the box, chips the keeper like he's done it a hundred times. It's instinct, but also control. He's got both."

Carragher chimed in next. "And you look at how he links up with the midfield — that goal from the Barkley assist, he waited until the exact moment to make that run. Didn't go too early, didn't hesitate. Just knew. That's rare. That's something you can't teach easily."

Francesco swallowed. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Wright leaned forward, looking straight into the camera. "I've said it before, I'll say it again — if we nurture him right, if we don't drown him in pressure, if we let him grow… we might be looking at the best striker England's produced in generations. He reminds me of Rooney when he burst onto the scene. But with the finesse of someone like Aguero."

Neville added, "And the scary part is — he's not just a poacher. He's involved in the build-up. He drops deep, he turns, he presses. He's not just waiting for chances, he's creating them."

Carragher nodded. "It's one game. But what a game. If he stays grounded, keeps his work rate up, keeps learning — this lad could go to the top."

Francesco muted the volume, letting the words settle in the quiet of the room. His eyes were fixed on the image of himself on screen — arms outstretched in celebration, roaring toward the Wembley crowd, full of fire and disbelief.

He sat back, taking it in.

There was joy, yes. Pride, of course. But also a deeper feeling — a kind of responsibility. They were talking about him like he was already on the path to greatness. But he knew it was just the beginning. One match. One night. Football could be cruel and short-sighted. Praise could turn to criticism overnight.

He didn't want to be a flash in the pan.

He wanted to earn it.

Every single time.

His phone buzzed again — this time, a message from Arsène Wenger.

Congratulations, Francesco. We're all very proud. Rest well and enjoy the moment — but remember, the Premier League is waiting. See you soon.

Francesco smiled and typed back:

Thank you, boss. I'll be ready.

That night, after dinner with the squad — a warm, relaxed affair full of laughter and good-natured teasing — he returned to his room to find another surprise waiting. Theo had left a note on his bed, scrawled in blocky handwriting:

"Keep your head down, but never forget what you did. You belong here." — T

He slipped the note into his duffel bag and climbed into bed, the events of the day finally catching up to him. As he lay there in the quiet dark, the hum of traffic from beyond the hotel windows a distant murmur, he let himself think about the future — not with fear, but with calm determination.

There would be ups and downs. There would be harder games, tougher nights, injuries, setbacks. But he had the right people around him. The right drive inside him. And now, the world was watching.

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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:

Arsenal:

Match Played: 5

Goal: 9

Assist: 0

MOTM: 0

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 1

Goal: 3

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9