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The roar that followed nearly tore the sky open. Red and white smoke flares burst from the stands. The anthem thundered again, and one by one, the players ascended the steps, collecting their medals from the officials. Francesco lingered near the back, letting the others go first. He wanted them to have their moment, too — the defenders who'd blocked, the midfielders who'd run until their lungs burned, the keeper who'd saved everything thrown at him.
The ceremony lights burned like molten stars against the dark Paris sky as Francesco waited, half a step back from his teammates, watching each man walk up the short ramp toward immortality. One by one they climbed, greeted the officials, took their medals with shaky hands and wide smiles, then turned to face the roaring stands with eyes full of tears and disbelief. Henderson, still grinning like a schoolboy, kissed his medal before tucking it into his collar. Kane lifted his to the sky and mouthed something toward the English fans—maybe "we did it," maybe "for you."
Every player carried his own story in that moment—his own small war fought across years of doubt, failure, and ridicule. Francesco could see it all in their faces. For some, this was the culmination of a lifetime; for others, a promise of what was still to come.
When his turn came, he exhaled slowly and began to walk. The turf beneath his boots felt softer now, the noise around him more like a heartbeat than a roar. He could see the line of dignitaries waiting, each offering a polite smile under the floodlights. The podium glimmered silver and white, still dusted with bits of confetti that stuck to the polished surface.
Michel Platini stood at the end, medal in hand. Francesco climbed the final step and approached him.
The UEFA president met him with a warm, knowing smile. "Back again, Mr. Lee," he said lightly, eyes crinkling at the edges. "We've been seeing quite a lot of you tonight."
Francesco managed a grin, though his chest still swelled with emotion. "I could get used to this."
Platini laughed softly, looping the gold ribbon over Francesco's head. The medal dropped against his chest with a gentle thud, the cool metal pressing into the fabric of his shirt. For a second, Francesco touched it instinctively — just to be sure it was real.
"Wear it proudly," Platini said. "Few men ever earn one of these. Fewer still deserve it the way you do."
"Thank you," Francesco said quietly. "For everything. For believing in the game."
Platini's smile deepened. "It's the players like you who make belief easy."
Francesco nodded once, then stepped aside to join his teammates. As he walked down the short row, applause broke again. Rooney stood waiting at the base of the ramp, his eyes bright with pride as Francesco approached. The captain gave him a nod — one of those subtle, wordless gestures that said everything a man couldn't put into words. Francesco returned it with a small grin, his medal still glinting against his chest.
Then, it was Rooney's turn.
The captain straightened his back and began his slow walk toward the podium. The crowd, sensing the moment, rose almost as one. The noise softened — not silence, but reverence. Even among the chaos of celebration, there was respect. Rooney wasn't just another player climbing those steps; he was England's beating heart, the bridge between generations, the man who had carried the nation through its darkest hours.
He stopped to shake hands with each official along the line — a polite nod to the UEFA delegates, a firm handshake to President Hollande, a brief but sincere exchange with Prince William, who leaned forward and said something that made Rooney laugh through his exhaustion.
And then, finally, Michel Platini stood before him.
For a moment, the two men simply looked at each other — footballer to footballer, champion to champion. Platini lifted the final medal from its velvet tray and held it high. Then, with deliberate care, he placed it around Rooney's neck. The captain bowed his head slightly as the gold touched his skin, then looked up again, eyes wet but unashamed.
Platini spoke softly, his words lost beneath the roar but visible on his lips: "Félicitations, capitaine."
Then, he turned, reached down to the pedestal beside him, and lifted the Henri Delaunay Cup.
The crowd gasped — a thousand flashes going off all at once, capturing the gleam of pure silver under the lights. The handles caught the reflections of every color in the stadium — red, white, blue, gold — until it looked less like a trophy and more like a piece of living history.
Platini held it out, and Rooney's hands met it halfway. Their fingers brushed for a brief second — the passing of one era to another. Then the cup belonged to England.
Rooney gripped it tight, his knuckles whitening, his jaw trembling. For a long moment, he just stood there, staring down at the trophy, unable to move. The applause grew louder, swelling like a tide that threatened to burst from the stands and flood the field.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes sought out one face among the crowd below — Francesco's.
The young striker stood near the base of the podium, both hands resting on the shoulders of Kane and Sterling, his medal still gleaming under the lights. When their eyes met, Rooney gave the faintest nod — the same kind of nod a father gives a son who's made him proud.
Francesco smiled back, small but certain.
Then Rooney raised the Henri Delaunay Cup.
The noise that followed was not a cheer. It was something primal — a sound that belonged not to a stadium, but to a nation. The floodlights blazed. The air filled with red and white confetti, swirling through the smoke and the light like a snowstorm of history. Teammates rushed forward, arms raised, eyes wild with disbelief. Henderson was the first to reach him, shouting something incoherent as he threw his arms around Rooney's shoulders. Kane followed, then Dier, then the rest — a wave of red shirts converging on their captain.
Francesco was swept into the surge, laughter spilling out of him as he crashed into the group. The cup passed from Rooney's hands to his, heavy and shining, its metal still warm from the captain's touch. He lifted it high, shouting until his voice broke. Around him, the roar of teammates and fans blurred into one living, breathing force — England, united at last.
Tears streaked across faces. Champagne burst open, spraying through the air like liquid starlight. Someone began singing again — "It's coming home!" — and within seconds, fifty thousand voices had joined in.
The confetti still danced in the floodlights, drifting like a slow red-and-white snowfall over a field that had long since turned into a blur of joy. The podium gleamed in the center of the chaos, its silver steps smudged with champagne and turf stains. Players hugged, kissed the crest on their shirts, and shouted through the storm of music and lights that echoed around the Stade de France.
But somewhere beneath the noise, there was another sound beginning to rise — a different kind of hum. The sound of families, of love and relief, of lives that had waited in the stands and in living rooms across England for a night like this.
Down on the far side of the touchline, UEFA staff and stadium security were already opening the barriers. A few marshals in navy jackets gestured gently as wives, girlfriends, parents, and children began to make their way onto the pitch. The sight was chaos and order in equal measure — people crying, laughing, waving; the air filled with overlapping moments of reunion.
As the England players slowly descended the steps of the podium, medals gleaming around their necks and champagne still dripping from their hair, the floodlights dimmed just enough to make the scene feel almost surreal — intimate, glowing, golden.
Francesco stepped down last but one, the Player of the Tournament award tucked under one arm, the gleaming Golden Boot in his other hand. His shirt was still damp from the celebration, his hair tousled, his voice hoarse from shouting. He paused for a moment at the base of the podium and looked around.
The pitch had become a sea of red and white — children running barefoot on the grass, partners wrapped around the players' shoulders, parents holding their sons like they were still five years old. The emotion in the air was thick enough to taste.
A familiar voice cut through it all.
"Francesco!"
He turned, and for a second, everything else fell away.
There they were.
His father, Mike — tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of man who carried his pride in silence, but whose eyes now gleamed wet in the reflection of the floodlights. His mother, Sarah — hand pressed over her mouth, tears streaming freely, the kind of tears that come only after years of sacrifice and sleepless nights.
And beside them — Leah Williamson.
She was radiant even in the storm of confetti, her jacket half-zipped, hair tied up loosely, a faint shimmer of emotion on her face. Her smile wavered between disbelief and pure, unguarded love. She held tightly onto her father David's hand, her mother Amanda beside her, and her younger brother Jacob, who waved proudly as he spotted Francesco making his way toward them.
Francesco froze for a beat, his chest tightening. All the sound — the chants, the fireworks, the commentary booming faintly from somewhere above — it all just blurred into static.
He began walking.
Slow at first, then faster, the awards clutched awkwardly in his hands as he crossed the grass. The moment stretched — each step like a memory unspooling from the years before: training in the rain as a boy, his mother driving him to youth tournaments at dawn, his father fixing his boots when they tore, Leah sitting on his couch years later, watching him chase this same dream on TV.
Now, it had all led to this.
He reached them and, without a word, dropped the trophies gently into his father's waiting hands. Then he stepped forward and wrapped his mother in his arms.
Sarah broke completely then. Her shoulders shook as she held him, whispering against his ear, "My boy… oh, my beautiful boy…"
Francesco held her tighter, his chin pressed against her hair, the smell of her perfume cutting through the sweat and champagne on his shirt. "Mum," he said quietly, voice cracking, "we did it."
Mike joined them, placing a heavy hand on his son's back — the kind of gesture that spoke of pride deeper than any words could reach. "You've made us proud, son," he said simply, his voice steady but thick. "You've made England proud."
Francesco turned to him, meeting his father's eyes. They were wet now, and that alone nearly undid him. "Thank you, Dad," he said. "For everything — the early mornings, the miles, the belief."
Mike shook his head, managing a smile. "You did this, lad. You made it all worth it."
Sarah wiped her eyes, laughing softly through her tears. "I told you he would, Mike. Remember? I told you this boy would make history one day."
Francesco laughed too, the sound breaking somewhere between joy and exhaustion.
Then Leah stepped forward.
She didn't say anything at first. She didn't need to. Her eyes said everything — pride, love, awe, relief. When she finally reached him, she didn't stop to think. She just threw her arms around his neck and kissed him — the kind of kiss that silences the whole world, even if only for a heartbeat.
The stadium roared again, cameras catching the moment as if it belonged in the folklore of football itself — England's golden boy, and the woman who had believed in him long before the rest of the world had.
When they finally pulled apart, Leah laughed through a sniffle, brushing his hair from his forehead. "You did it, Frankie," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You really did it."
Francesco smiled, the corners of his eyes still wet. "We did it," he said softly, thumb brushing her cheek. "You were with me the whole way."
Behind her, David and Amanda Williamson approached, smiling wide, their faces glowing with pride. David extended his hand, firm and warm. "Congratulations, son," he said, voice deep with emotion. "You were magnificent. You played with heart."
Francesco shook it, bowing his head slightly. "Thank you, sir. It means the world."
Amanda was already hugging Sarah, the two mothers laughing and crying in equal measure, both clearly overwhelmed by the sight of their children — champions, together.
Leah's brother, Jacob, edged closer, his eyes wide as he glanced at the gleaming trophies in Mike's hands. "Can I… can I hold one?" he asked timidly.
Francesco chuckled, then said. "Of course you can, mate." He picked up the Golden Boot and handed it to him carefully. "That one's heavy — careful."
Jacob's eyes went wide, his arms lift it. "This is… wow… this is yours?"
Francesco smiled. "Ours," he corrected. "England's."
The man beamed, holding it up like a treasure before passing it gently back.
Leah slipped her hand into Francesco's again. Around them, the pitch was a blur of families and celebration — wives kissing their partners, children wearing their fathers' medals around their necks, teammates posing for photos, laughing and crying under the falling confetti.
Rooney had his boys in his arms now, both still wearing tiny England kits with "ROONEY" printed across the back. Henderson was dancing with his daughter in the grass, spinning her around until she squealed. Dele Alli was taking photos with his family, while Sterling knelt to hug his little boy, lifting him onto his shoulders as the crowd sang.
For a moment, Francesco just stood there — soaking it all in. The laughter. The lights. The warmth. The love.
Then he turned slightly, still holding Leah close, and looked up toward the stands. England's supporters hadn't left; they were still singing, waving flags, tears streaming down faces that had waited a lifetime for this. A few even held up signs — "Thank you, Francesco", "The Lion Who Brought It Home", "Our Number 9 Forever."
Leah followed his gaze and squeezed his hand. "They'll never forget this night," she said softly.
Francesco exhaled, his chest tight with emotion. "Neither will I."
Her smile deepened, eyes glinting under the lights. "Promise me something," she said.
"What's that?"
"Don't ever lose this feeling — the reason you play. The love for it. Don't let the fame or the pressure take that from you."
Francesco turned to face her fully, eyes steady. "Never," he said. "Because I've already got everything that matters right here."
Leah smiled, her eyes shimmering. "Good."
Mike called from beside them, holding up his phone. "Come on, everyone — photo time! Champions only!"
They all laughed and gathered close — Francesco in the center, his medal gleaming, Leah pressed at his side, his parents and hers flanking them, Jacob crouched in front with the Golden Boot held proudly. Behind them, the fireworks burst again, showering the sky in white and red.
Mike took the photo, the flash catching the confetti mid-fall — freezing the moment forever.
When it was done, Francesco took one last look around the pitch. The podium. The cup. The faces of teammates and loved ones scattered like stars across the field. He knew, even then, that this night would live inside him forever — not just as victory, but as proof of everything he'd ever fought for.
He reached for Leah's hand again and whispered quietly, "Let's go join the lads."
They began walking toward the center circle where the rest of the England team had gathered for one final group photo — all twenty-three players, their families, and staff. Francesco took his place at the front beside Rooney, the Henri Delaunay Cup between them.
The crowd hadn't stopped singing — not for a single breath. Even as the fireworks painted the Paris night in silver and crimson, the England fans carried the chorus like a living heartbeat: "It's coming home! It's coming home!" It rose and fell, weaving through the cheers, through the laughter, through the tears that still streaked faces all across the Stade de France.
Francesco stood shoulder to shoulder with his teammates in the center circle, the grass beneath them still glimmering with flecks of champagne and confetti. The Henri Delaunay Cup sat gleaming at Rooney's feet, its curved handles catching every flicker of the floodlights. The captain had both hands on it now, fingers tapping absently against the silver as though he were feeling its pulse.
Francesco was still smiling — that quiet, disbelieving kind of smile that came from somewhere deeper than joy. Leah stood a few paces behind him with his family, laughing with Amanda Williamson and Sarah, while Jacob fiddled with the Golden Boot's stand. The Player of the Tournament trophy rested beside them, glinting faintly under the camera lights.
Then Rooney looked up.
"Oi, Frankie," he called, his voice rasped but warm.
Francesco turned, eyebrows lifting. "Yeah, skip?"
Rooney nodded toward the cup at his feet. "You lift it," he said simply.
Francesco blinked, taken aback. "What? No, that's yours, captain. You led us here."
Rooney gave a small, knowing grin. "I might've led us," he said, "but you carried us. You've been our spark — every match, every goal, every fight. The fans out there —" he jerked his chin toward the stands, "— they've sung your name all night. They'll go mad if you're the one lifting it. Go on. Give 'em what they came for."
Francesco hesitated, glancing around at the circle of players. But instead of protest, all he saw were smiles. Henderson nodded encouragingly. Kane clapped him on the back. Dier grinned. "Go on, mate. You deserve it." Even Sterling, drenched in champagne and grinning ear to ear, shouted, "Do it, Francesco! Lift it for all of us!"
The weight of the moment sank into him. Slowly, he bent down, fingers brushing the cool silver of the Henri Delaunay Cup. It felt heavier than he expected — not in mass, but in meaning. The engraved names of legends before him seemed to hum beneath his fingertips.
Rooney's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "This is your moment, lad," he said quietly. "Take it."
Francesco looked at him once more — at the tired, proud eyes of a man who'd given his career to England — and nodded. "Thank you, captain."
Then he turned to face the stands.
Thousands of faces stared back at him, glowing in the floodlights — waves of red and white scarves, flags fluttering, tears glistening on cheeks. When they saw him step forward, the chant began again, louder than before.
"LEE! LEE! LEE!"
He gripped the cup firmly in both hands, drew in a deep breath, and then, with a roar that tore from somewhere inside his chest, he lifted it high into the night sky.
The stadium exploded.
The roar wasn't just sound — it was a force. A living wave of joy that rolled across Paris and beyond, crashing through decades of heartbreak. The confetti cannons burst again, showers of silver and red raining down. The photographers' flashes turned the air into lightning. His teammates surged toward him, shouting, jumping, clapping him on the back.
Rooney stood a few steps behind, smiling quietly — proud, fulfilled. It was as though, in that single image, he had passed the torch to the next generation.
Francesco kept the cup raised for what felt like forever, turning slowly toward each section of the crowd. He could see fans weeping, strangers hugging, children waving flags twice their size. He caught sight of a banner near the halfway line: "LEE — OUR LION." Another read, "FINALLY HOME."
He lowered the trophy slightly, kissing the cold silver rim before pressing it against his forehead. "For England," he whispered under his breath.
The cameras caught every second. That image — Francesco Lee, drenched in confetti, eyes alight, cup raised toward the sky — would become legend.
Then came the flood of teammates.
"Mate, that was mental!" Sterling laughed, throwing an arm around him. "You nearly broke my eardrums with that roar."
Francesco grinned, shaking his head. "You started it."
Henderson appeared next, tapping the cup. "Let me get in on this — I need at least one photo holding that beauty."
Rooney, still watching, motioned the photographers closer. "Alright lads, gather in! One big family photo!"
The players scrambled together, some kneeling, some crouching. Francesco stood front and center, the cup cradled in his hands. Hodgson and Gary Neville joined them — the manager's eyes misty, his expression both proud and relieved.
Neville clapped Francesco on the shoulder. "You've just written yourself into the history books, kid. Remember that."
Francesco smiled faintly. "We all did, coach."
The flashbulbs went off — one, two, a dozen — freezing that sea of smiles and medals and muddy boots for eternity.
When the team photos were done, Francesco turned toward the edge of the pitch. His parents were waiting just beyond the cluster of players, his mother already holding out her arms. He made his way toward them, the cup still in his grasp.
Sarah met him halfway, laughing through tears as she brushed at his wet hair. "You were beautiful out there, Francesco. Absolutely beautiful."
He leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Love you, Mum."
Mike stepped forward, one hand steady on his son's shoulder. "That's the proudest I've ever been," he said quietly. "You carried this whole nation tonight."
Francesco smiled, eyes soft. "Couldn't have done it without you, Dad. Without both of you."
A photographer appeared nearby, gesturing politely. "Family photo, Mr. Lee?"
Francesco nodded, motioning his parents closer. He handed the Henri Delaunay Cup to his father for a moment, helping Sarah stand on his other side. They posed — three people, one dream — framed by the blinding lights and drifting confetti. Mike lifted the cup slightly, laughing, and Sarah kissed her son's cheek just as the camera flashed.
The photo caught the truth of it — the journey, the pride, the love.
Then Leah joined them. She'd been standing back, smiling at the reunion, holding both the Player of the Tournament trophy and the Golden Boot carefully against her chest. When Francesco saw her, his grin returned full force.
"Come here," he said, extending his free hand.
She stepped into his arms, the trophies still balanced delicately in her grasp. "You're unbelievable," she murmured, smiling up at him. "You've got three of football's biggest prizes and still look like you can't believe it."
Francesco chuckled, sliding his arm around her waist. "Because I can't. Not until I see this photo."
Leah laughed, handing him the Henri Delaunay Cup as she adjusted the other two awards in her arms — one in each hand, her fingers tightening around the polished gold and crystal. The contrast was perfect: him with the trophy of nations, her with the symbols of his brilliance.
"Alright," said the photographer, crouching low for the shot. "Just the two of you now — perfect, right there."
They stood close, foreheads nearly touching. The lights behind them turned the air into gold. Francesco held the Henri Delaunay Cup at his side, its base resting gently against his thigh, while Leah tilted the Player of the Tournament award slightly so that the engraved name — Francesco Lee — caught the light.
"Smile," she whispered softly.
He did — not the wide, adrenaline-fueled grin of celebration, but something smaller, deeper. Real.
The shutter clicked.
The photo that followed would make every back page in England the next morning: "LOVE, GLORY, AND HISTORY — FRANCESCO LEE AND LEAH CELEBRATE EURO TRIUMPH."
For a while, they didn't move. Leah leaned her head against his shoulder, her hair brushing against the medal still hanging around his neck. The din of celebration filled the air again, but it felt distant — like the world had softened just for them.
"Can you believe it?" she whispered.
He shook his head slightly. "Not yet. Maybe not ever."
She smiled. "Good. Because nights like this aren't meant to feel real."
He kissed her forehead, the hum of the stadium wrapping around them. "Thank you," he said softly. "For believing. For being here."
"I wouldn't have been anywhere else," she replied, eyes glinting. "You made history tonight, Frankie. And you made me the proudest woman alive."
He smiled again, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "Couldn't have done it without my lucky charm."
She laughed lightly, eyes narrowing in mock offense. "Lucky charm? I'm the reason you score goals."
"Then I'm never letting you leave my side," he teased.
Another flash from the cameras caught them mid-laughter — the young king of England's football renaissance and the woman who shared his heart.
Around them, the team began gathering again for more photos — smaller clusters now, friends, families, teammates who'd shared rooms and bus rides and dreams. Rooney passed by, the captain's medal catching the light. He winked at Francesco. "Looks good on you, lad — the cup suits your hands."
Francesco laughed. "I was just keeping it warm for you, skip."
Rooney shook his head, smiling. "Nah. You've earned your place in history now. Just don't forget where you came from."
"Never," Francesco said.
The night rolled on — cameras flashing, anthems echoing, the weight of triumph finally settling into something gentler. For the first time in hours, Francesco felt still — like the world had slowed down just enough for him to see it clearly. His parents chatting with Leah's family. His teammates' children chasing confetti. The Henri Delaunay Cup reflecting the stars.
He looked at Leah again, at the trophies still gleaming in her arms, and felt the corners of his mouth lift. "You know," he said, "we'll need a pretty big shelf for all this."
She grinned. "Good thing we've got a house big enough now."
He laughed — that warm, full laugh that came from somewhere only she could reach. "Yeah," he said softly. "Home."
The word lingered in the air between them, glowing just as brightly as the lights above the pitch. And for the first time, as the echoes of "It's coming home" rose once more around the stadium, Francesco Lee believed it completely.
It had come home — to England, to his heart, to the people he loved. And in that single moment, under the falling confetti and the gaze of a nation, he felt not like a hero, but like a son who had finally kept his promise.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
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, and Euro 2016
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