222. Againts Switzerland

If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!

Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12

___________________________

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.

The next morning came slowly, sunlight bleeding in through the thin curtains of the hotel room. Francesco stirred, the quiet stillness of dawn wrapping around him like a soft blanket. His body ached in places — not painfully, just that familiar soreness that followed a hard match, a reminder of muscles pushed to their edge and a heart that had sprinted for ninety intense minutes. He blinked up at the ceiling for a while, mind neither here nor there, and then turned to his phone.

6:42 AM.

Too early to be up on a recovery day, but he was already awake now. He glanced toward Theo's bed. Still empty — either he hadn't returned yet or had crashed somewhere else. Wouldn't be the first time Theo fell asleep in the physio room after a massage.

Francesco sighed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He moved slowly, carefully, trying not to aggravate the stiffness in his quads. There was something solemn and peaceful about hotel mornings like this — a team still asleep, London still far away, the storm of attention paused for a few precious hours. He pulled on a hoodie and wandered over to the window, parting the curtains slightly.

San Marino skies was grey. The clouds hung low and heavy, the kind that whispered of drizzle and endless tea. But even in the gloom, Francesco felt steady. Grounded. Last night had been full of noise — pundits praising, phones buzzing, texts from teammates and old school friends lighting up his notifications like fireworks. But this morning? Just silence, and breath, and his own quiet thoughts.

By the time he made it down to breakfast, a few of the lads were already gathered. Barkley was nursing a cup of coffee like it had betrayed him in a past life, and Stones was scrolling his phone with the dead-eyed stare of someone halfway through a TikTok rabbit hole. Theo arrived moments later, hair still damp from a shower, and clapped Francesco on the shoulder with a grin.

"Morning, superstar," he teased, plopping down across from him. "Sleep alright or did the ghost of Alan Shearer whisper in your ear all night?"

Francesco rolled his eyes but smiled. "Fine. Bit sore. You?"

"Slept like a log. Didn't even hear the physio snore this time. Miracles happen."

They shared an easy laugh, and for a moment, the enormity of the last 24 hours receded into the background. This — the quiet camaraderie, the teasing, the early breakfasts in hotel dining rooms — was what made the madness manageable. He loaded up a plate with eggs, avocado, and toast, and let himself enjoy the normalcy.

A couple hours later, the team gathered in the hotel lobby, their England tracksuits crisp, bags slung over shoulders. The flight back to London awaited. Roy gave a short briefing — nothing too heavy, just a reminder to hydrate, stretch, and mentally reset. "We go again in two days," he said. "Switzerland. Wembley. Let's finish the job."

The journey to the airport was mostly quiet, save for the occasional burst of laughter when someone played an embarrassing clip from the night before. Someone had edited Francesco's goals into a highlight reel with overly dramatic music — violins swelling as he chipped the keeper, drums pounding as he slid on his knees.

Theo, of course, couldn't resist showing everyone.

"Look at this! Mate, they've got you playing like it's the Champions League Final!"

Francesco groaned and buried his face in his hoodie, cheeks flushing.

On the plane, he sat by the window, earbuds in but no music playing. He watched the ground fall away beneath them, Manchester shrinking into green and grey patches before clouds swallowed the view. His thoughts drifted. Not to the game ahead, not even to last night, but to Leah.

He pulled out his phone and typed a quick message.

"On the plane now. Miss you already."

The reply came a few minutes later.

"Miss you too. Don't let Theo get you into trouble. And hydrate. I mean it. 😘"

He chuckled softly and leaned his head against the window, eyes closing.

⸻

By the time they landed in London, the sun had finally broken through the clouds. The air was different here — lighter somehow, warmer, like the city had been waiting to welcome them home. A team bus was already waiting on the tarmac, tinted windows and England flags discreetly etched into the paint. Security was tight, as always, but not overbearing.

Francesco climbed aboard and took his usual seat beside Theo. As the bus rolled through familiar roads, heading toward St George's Park for a brief layover before their return to Wembley, the sense of routine settled back in. This was the grind of international duty — the travel, the brief respites, the sharp shift from one match to the next.

In the evening, they arrived at their base just outside London — the same place they always used before home matches. The hotel was sleek and modern, with a private wing for the players and staff. Francesco was glad to see his kit already laid out in his new room. The number 18 shirt hung on the back of the door like a quiet guardian.

Training the next day was light. Recovery-focused. Warm-ups with the physio team, short technical drills, stretching, and ice baths. Roy didn't want anyone overexerting — not with Switzerland looming. Francesco moved through the sessions smoothly, his body still buzzing with the confidence of his debut, but he kept his focus sharp. No showboating. No unnecessary flair. Just clean touches, smart passes, steady composure.

After lunch, the squad split for media duties. Francesco had been warned about this part — the buzz of the press, the sudden attention. The FA's PR team was gentle but firm: "Just be yourself. Don't try to sound like a seasoned pro. Everyone knows you're sixteen. That's why they love you."

So he did his best. He answered questions about the match, his goals, what it meant to play for England. When asked about comparisons to Rooney and Aguero, he smiled and shook his head.

"I'm just trying to be Francesco," he said, with a shrug. "Those guys are legends. I've got a long way to go."

The headline, of course, would read: 'Francesco: I'm just trying to be me' — and it would be splashed across social media by evening.

After dinner, he FaceTimed Leah again. She was sprawled on their couch in Richmond, hair up in a bun, a cup of tea balanced precariously on the armrest.

"You're getting good at this whole media thing," she teased, after he told her about the interviews.

He laughed. "Am I? Felt like I was just trying not to say anything stupid."

"You didn't," she said. "You looked calm. You sounded… grounded."

"That's you, y'know," he murmured. "You do that to me."

She smiled, eyes soft. "Good. Because this world? It can swallow people whole. And I don't want to lose you in all that noise."

"You won't," he promised.

The night before the Switzerland match, Francesco lay in bed staring at the ceiling of his hotel room, the soft hum of the air conditioning and occasional creak of the hallway outside his door the only sounds in the quiet. Sleep was elusive. He'd tried — lights out by ten, screen dimmed, body tucked under the sheets — but his mind wouldn't switch off. The thought of Wembley buzzed in his chest like a soft current of electricity.

He wasn't starting — Roy had told him earlier that morning, gently, as they walked off the training pitch.

"We want to ease you in, son," the manager had said. "Big occasion. Lots of eyes. You'll get your moment."

Francesco had nodded. It wasn't disappointment he'd felt, not exactly. Just a familiar restlessness, that ache to be in the thick of it. Still, he understood. He was sixteen. These men had years on him. Tonight, he was part of the squad — and that alone was something sacred.

He finally drifted off close to midnight, dreams hazy and swift.

⸻

The next day arrived crisp and golden, London wrapped in the kind of early autumn sunlight that made the leaves shimmer in gold and bronze. Francesco stood near the window of the team bus as it turned onto Olympic Way, the towering arch of Wembley drawing closer with every second. Even now — with all the training, the travel, the press — the sight of the stadium made his breath catch. It was something mythic, almost. A cathedral to the game.

Inside the changing room, there was the usual low hum of energy. Shirts hanging, boots neatly arranged, physios taping ankles and players plugging in headphones. Francesco found his kit — number 18 again — folded and set out at his seat. He sat down beside Theo, who grinned and elbowed him.

"Nervous?"

Francesco smiled faintly. "More like… itching to get out there."

"Good. That's the right kind of energy." Theo leaned back and tugged his socks on. "Just remember — if you get minutes, take your time. Don't try to be a hero. Just play like you always do."

Across the room, Roy gave the starting eleven a quick talk. The lineup was confirmed.

4-3-3 formation:

• Goalkeeper: Joe Hart

• Defenders: Luke Shaw (LB), Chris Smalling (LCB), Gary Cahill (RCB), Nathaniel Clyne (RB)

• Midfield: James Milner, Jonjo Shelvey, Fabian Delph

• Forwards: Raheem Sterling (LW), Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain (RW), Wayne Rooney (CF)

Francesco glanced at the bench list taped beside the door. His name was there alongside Stones, Kane, Barkley, Gibbs, Butland, Walcott, Jagielka, Vardy, and Heaton. He swallowed back the knot of nerves and settled in.

⸻

The opening whistle blew just after 8 PM under the floodlights of a roaring Wembley. Francesco sat on the bench in his full kit, a warm-up jacket zipped up over his shirt, legs bouncing slightly. He watched with sharp eyes as the match unfolded — England quick off the mark, pressing with intensity. The Swiss, tactically disciplined, absorbed pressure well, sitting deep and looking for counterattacks.

In the 1st half, England's breakthrough came from none other than Wayne Rooney. It was a classic striker's goal — Delph's clever pass opened up the left flank for Sterling, who darted into the box and cut the ball low across goal. Rooney anticipated it perfectly, arriving between the two center-backs to slot it home with his left. The crowd erupted.

1–0 to England.

Francesco found himself clapping along before he realized it, heart thumping. Even from the bench, he felt the pulse of the game flow into him like an adrenaline IV.

Halftime came. The dressing room was calm. Roy offered encouragement, tactical tweaks. Nothing fancy. "Keep your heads. Keep the ball. Don't let them settle."

Second half. The rhythm dipped slightly. Switzerland adjusted — bringing on fresh legs, pressing higher. England's midfield began to tire under the pressure.

Then, at minute 65, the moment arrived.

"Francesco, Harry — up."

Francesco shot up from his seat. His heartbeat roared in his ears as he stripped off his jacket, adrenaline flaring. Theo slapped his back as he passed. "Go on, kid. Make some noise."

Harry Kane was set to replace Shelvey. Francesco was told he'd take the right wing, coming on for Oxlade-Chamberlain.

As the board went up, the crowd reacted with a mix of intrigue and excitement. They knew the name now. They remembered the goal against San Marino. But this was Wembley.

This was different.

Francesco jogged onto the pitch, boots gripping the lush grass, head clear despite the roar. Sterling gave him a thumbs-up from the left flank. Rooney nodded. "Stick close, yeah?"

Francesco nodded back, settling in on the right.

⸻

The next ten minutes were tense. Switzerland pushed. A couple of half-chances on Hart's goal had the bench on edge. But Francesco stayed composed — pressing hard when needed, keeping the ball close, tracking back when Clyne needed cover. Then, in the 75th minute, the moment.

England worked the ball out from the back. Cahill to Delph. Delph to Milner. Milner wide to Sterling, who was already off like a shot. Sterling jinked past the Swiss right-back, slowed for a moment — and saw Francesco tearing toward the edge of the box, unmarked.

Sterling cut it low and quick — a perfect diagonal ball just behind the defenders.

Francesco met it in stride.

One touch to control.

One heartbeat to settle his body.

And then a low, laced shot across the keeper and into the bottom-left corner.

GOAL.

Wembley erupted.

A sixteen-year-old, scoring in front of 90,000 under the lights. Francesco didn't even think — he just sprinted toward the corner flag, arms outstretched, teammates swarming him seconds later. Kane lifted him slightly off the ground with a roar of laughter. Even Rooney came over, clapping him on the back.

"Kid's got ice in his veins," someone shouted behind him.

2–0.

⸻

Francesco caught his breath as play restarted, legs buzzing with energy. The stadium kept chanting his name — or trying to — the syllables slightly awkward but heartfelt. Every time he touched the ball, the crowd surged with expectation. But he didn't let it go to his head.

He kept it simple. Crisp passes. Smart movement. One flick through to Kane nearly created another chance, drawing a corner.

Then, at the 84th minute, Kane went down in the box under a clumsy tackle. The referee didn't hesitate. Penalty.

Wayne Rooney had already been subbed off, giving Kane the ball. Harry stepped up, took a deep breath — and buried it low and hard to the keeper's left.

3–0.

England were cruising now.

Roy made a couple more changes in the dying minutes to keep things fresh, and Francesco kept up the pressure until the final whistle.

When it blew, he stood in the center circle for a moment, just breathing. Wembley lights overhead. Teammates patting his back. The crowd singing and applauding.

He soaked it all in.

⸻

In the tunnel, Roy gave him a firm handshake. "That's how you announce yourself. Brilliant goal. Composed. You've earned that."

The locker room was all smiles and banter. Theo tossed a towel at his head as he walked in. "Oi, wonderkid — save some magic for the rest of us, yeah?"

Francesco laughed, peeling off his shirt and flopping onto the bench, exhausted and elated.

The media swarm began shortly after. He kept it humble, just like they'd coached him. But the grin on his face gave away the truth.

Later that night, back in the hotel, he FaceTimed Leah again.

She picked up instantly. "I saw it."

"Yeah?" he said, barely able to keep still. "You watched it live?"

"Of course I did, you dork. I screamed so loud I scared the dog. Francesco, it was unbelievable. You looked… I don't know. Like you belonged."

He scratched the back of his neck, flushed. "Felt like a dream."

"Wasn't. You made Wembley roar."

They talked for a while — about the goal, the feeling, the ridiculous chants. She made him promise to rest, to hydrate, to eat a proper meal. When they finally hung up, he lay in bed, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling again — only this time, sleep came easy.

________________________________________________

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: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9