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The night drifted on, and the laughter grew softer, the songs slower. Some players began to slip away with their families, others lingered, still soaking in every moment. And as the clock edged toward dawn, Francesco stayed by the window, surrounded by the people who'd built his world — the ones who'd made history worth living.
The sunlight was soft when it finally broke through the curtains — a pale, golden glow that cut gently across the hotel room, slicing through the thin haze of sleep and the faint scent of champagne that still lingered in the air. Francesco stirred, groaning quietly as he turned over. His throat was dry, his head heavy with that slow, pleasant ache that only comes after a night worth remembering.
For a few seconds, he didn't move. His mind hovered in that fog between dream and reality — the kind where you can still hear echoes of the crowd, the chanting, the laughter. Then he blinked the sleep from his eyes, and the room came into focus.
The first thing he saw was silver.
The Henri Delaunay Cup sat nestled in the crook of his arm, its polished surface catching the sunlight and scattering it across the sheets like tiny stars. Just beside it, his Player of the Tournament trophy gleamed from where it rested on the pillow, its curved lines almost glowing in the morning light. His Golden Boot — slightly scuffed from where it had been dropped last night during the celebrations — lay across his chest, the gold plating reflecting faintly against his shirt.
Francesco blinked, then laughed quietly under his breath. "Oh, for God's sake…" he murmured, rubbing his eyes. "I really slept with them."
It wasn't even a joke. He had. Sometime after stumbling back into his room, after hugging half his teammates goodnight and dodging Vardy's last attempt to make him dance to "Freed From Desire" one more time, he'd made it as far as the bed — with the trophies still in his arms. And then, exhaustion and joy had swallowed him whole.
He lay there for a moment longer, just staring at the cup. Its silver rim was smudged slightly where champagne and fingerprints had dried, the kind of imperfection that somehow made it even more real. The engraved letters — UEFA EURO 2016 — caught his eye again, sharp and permanent, proof that last night hadn't been a dream.
He reached up, tracing a thumb along the words, and whispered to himself, "We actually did it."
The words sounded strange in the stillness — too small for what they meant.
He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of it settle again: England, European Champions. Francesco Lee, Golden Boot. Player of the Tournament. It wasn't just medals or numbers. It was something deeper — something that had lived in him since childhood, since the nights he'd fallen asleep watching grainy replays of Euro '96 and hearing his father's quiet sigh when England lost on penalties again.
And now… it was real. He'd been the one to change that story.
His phone buzzed faintly on the nightstand. The sound jolted him a little, and he reached for it, the movement causing the cup to tilt precariously. "Whoa, whoa — steady," he muttered, catching it before it rolled off the bed. Carefully setting the trophies aside, he grabbed his phone and unlocked it.
The screen was a sea of notifications — messages, missed calls, mentions, tags. The entire footballing world, it seemed, had erupted overnight. There were texts from teammates, from his agent, from people he hadn't spoken to in years.
Congratulations, champ.
Unreal performance.
You made history, mate.
And then, among all the noise, one message stood out — the one name that instantly softened everything.
Leah ❤️
He opened it.
Morning, love. Don't freak out when you wake up and see we're gone! We decided to head back early — Mum, Dad, Jacob, and your parents too. The airport's going to be chaos later with all the fans flying out, so we figured it's better to leave before it turns into a circus.
We didn't want to wake you. You looked like you hadn't slept in days when we last saw you.
I left something for you on the table by the window. Read it when you're properly awake. And don't worry — I'll see you back in London soon.
I'm proud of you, Francesco. More than words can say. ❤️ — L.
He smiled, the kind that grew slowly, unforced. For a long moment he just stared at the message, reading it again, letting her words sink in. Leah always had this way of sounding calm, even in moments that felt enormous. She grounded him — the way she had last night, and every night before a match when the pressure had tried to eat him alive.
He sat up, running a hand through his hair. The room around him looked like a photo from another life — empty champagne glasses on the nightstand, a wrinkled England flag draped halfway across the sofa, his match shirt hanging over a chair near the balcony, still stained with grass and champagne. The medal ribbon peeked out from beneath it, a shimmer of red and white.
His gaze shifted to the table by the window. There, just as she'd said, sat a small folded note and a paper cup of coffee from the hotel café — still warm.
He grinned faintly. "You really thought of everything, didn't you?"
He swung his legs off the bed, wincing as his bare feet hit the cool marble floor. His body was sore — the good kind of sore. The kind that tells you every muscle has earned its rest.
Crossing the room, he picked up the note. Leah's handwriting curved neatly across the paper.
In case you forgot to eat or drink something before reading the hundred interviews you'll have today. Take one sip, breathe, and remind yourself this isn't the end — it's just the start of something even bigger.
Also, stop smiling like an idiot while reading this. I can feel you doing it.
Love you. — L.
Francesco chuckled softly. "She knows me too well."
He sat by the window, sipping the coffee — bitter, but grounding. Outside, Paris shimmered under the morning sun. The Eiffel Tower stood clear against the pale sky, the city already awake. He could still see remnants of last night's celebration down on the street — scattered flags, empty champagne bottles, people still walking with England scarves draped over their shoulders.
He thought of his parents — Mike and Sarah probably at the airport by now, his dad still grinning, his mum probably holding Leah's hand as they went through security. They'd deserved this moment more than anyone. They'd lived through every injury, every setback, every time a headline said he wasn't ready, wasn't enough.
And now, finally, they could go home knowing their son had written his name into England's story.
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a second. The hotel room was quiet again — the kind of quiet that feels earned, sacred even. His phone buzzed once more — a text from Rooney.
Morning, champ. Breakfast at 9 with the lads before we head out. Don't be late — Kane's already talking about doing a "victory jog."
Francesco laughed out loud. "Yeah, not happening," he muttered, typing back quickly.
Tell him I'll join if he carries me the whole way.
He stood, stretching his arms high above his head until his back cracked. The mirror caught his reflection again — eyes still heavy with sleep, but softer now. No cameras, no interviews. Just Francesco Lee, a 17-year-old kid from London who'd somehow helped bring football home.
He took one last look at the cup on the bed — its surface glimmering faintly in the morning sun — then reached for his medal and slipped it gently around his neck again. It felt right there, resting against his chest.
Then he went to the bathroom to take a shower, as the shower hissed softly as steam began to fog up the bathroom mirror, the sound of running water filling the quiet space. Francesco stepped under the stream, wincing a little as the hot water hit his skin — sore muscles, bruised ribs, and the faint scrapes from a long, hard night all reminding him that glory came with a price. But it was a good ache, the kind that spoke of effort rewarded, of battles won.
He let the water run over him, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. For a few minutes, there was nothing but the rhythm of it — steady, cleansing, almost meditative. His thoughts drifted again, unhurried now. Last night replayed itself not as noise, but in flashes: the way Kane hugged him after the final whistle, the sight of Leah in the stands, tears streaming as she clapped above her head, the weight of the trophy pressing into his palms as confetti fell like soft rain.
He remembered the smell of the grass, the deafening joy of the anthem echoing through the stadium one last time, the disbelief when he realized it was over — they had actually done it.
"Bloody hell," he whispered under his breath, half-laughing at the absurdity of it. "We really brought it home."
When he finally turned off the tap, the room was thick with steam. He stood there for a moment, the droplets still clinging to his skin, before grabbing a towel and wiping his face. In the mirror, his reflection stared back — tired eyes, faint smile, a few dark circles, but something else too: a quiet pride that ran deep, anchored.
He pulled on his England tracksuit — the white and navy one with the subtle red stripe across the shoulder. Clean, simple, national. The fabric was soft and still faintly smelled of detergent, a small luxury after weeks of sweating through training gear and match kits. The embroidered crest over his chest caught the light for a moment, and his hand brushed over it instinctively.
It still gave him that feeling — that strange surge of warmth and responsibility that never really went away. The lion badge wasn't just a symbol; it was a promise.
He checked his phone one last time — a few new messages had come in overnight. One from his agent reminding him about the media schedule back in London, another from Leah saying they'd landed safely at Heathrow. Parents say to get some real rest when you're back. They'll wait for you at home.
He smiled softly, pocketed his phone, grabbed his hotel keycard, and slipped on a pair of clean white trainers.
When he opened the door, the hallway was already humming with life. You could tell the players were stirring — doors opening and closing, bits of laughter echoing down the corridor, someone's music playing faintly through a half-open door. It wasn't the wild energy of last night anymore; it was the quieter, contented buzz of men who had achieved something immense and were now easing back into the rhythm of normal life.
He stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the ground floor. As the doors slid shut, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored wall — the tracksuit, the medal still around his neck, the faint smile that refused to leave. It was surreal, but it was his reality now.
When the elevator doors opened, the scent hit him first — coffee, toast, and the unmistakable aroma of scrambled eggs and sausage. The hotel restaurant was bright, warm, alive with conversation. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, spilling across white-clothed tables where players, coaches, and FA staff gathered for breakfast.
It wasn't a formal meal — just a big, sprawling buffet that stretched across two tables, with trays of bacon, fruit, pancakes, and every kind of bread imaginable. There were a few cameras around the edges — FA media staff documenting the morning after, snapping candid photos of smiles and sleepy faces.
"Morning, superstar!" called Vardy from the far end of the room, waving a fork in one hand. "Thought you'd slept through the flight home, mate."
Francesco grinned as he made his way over. "Nearly did," he said, sliding into a seat beside him. "Had a busy night cuddling trophies."
That got a round of laughter from the nearby tables. Stones, sitting across from him, shook his head. "Only you would do that," he said. "The rest of us were cuddling pillows or bottles of water."
"Or both," Henderson added, raising his coffee.
Kane chuckled, already halfway through a plate of eggs. "You earned it, though, mate. Golden Boot, Player of the Tournament, and you still managed to sleep holding the bloody cup."
Francesco shrugged modestly, grabbing a glass of orange juice. "It was cold. Kept me company."
That earned another ripple of laughter, and even Roy Hodgson, seated a few tables away with some of the coaching staff, turned briefly to smile at the joke. He looked proud — tired, yes, but quietly satisfied. Years of pressure, of near-misses and heartbreak, had finally given way to vindication.
As Francesco filled his plate with toast and eggs, he glanced around the room. The atmosphere was calm but joyful. Some players were with their families, others alone but chatting easily. Staff members — physiotherapists, kit men, even the press officers — mingled freely with the squad. They'd all been part of it.
Near the far corner, the FA's media team was setting up small banners and microphones — the kind used for quick farewell interviews before the team flew back to England. A few reporters were already taking short clips of players laughing over breakfast, the kind of wholesome footage that would make the rounds online before lunchtime.
Francesco sipped his juice, feeling the faint hum of contentment settling in. Across from him, Dier leaned back in his chair. "Hard to believe it's all over," he said.
Francesco nodded. "Feels like we've been in a bubble for weeks. Don't even know what day it is anymore."
"It's Sunday," Walker said, checking his watch. "And I can't wait to get home. My kids are probably climbing the walls waiting."
"You and me both," said Kane with a grin. "Though I think my missus will have me doing school runs again by Tuesday."
"Reality comes fast," Stones added, shaking his head with mock despair.
Francesco smiled. "Can't say I mind it. Feels good knowing we're going home as champions this time."
At that, the table went quiet for a second — not out of awkwardness, but from the shared weight of the truth. Champions. England had waited half a century for that word to mean something again.
Then Henderson raised his coffee cup. "To that," he said. "To history."
The group clinked cups, water glasses, even spoons — whatever they had. Laughter returned easily after that.
When Francesco finished his plate, he excused himself for a moment and wandered toward the buffet again, passing Rooney and Hodgson deep in conversation by the coffee machine. Rooney caught his eye and smiled.
"Morning, kid," he said. "How's the head?"
"Still buzzing, skip," Francesco said honestly. "Don't think it's sunk in yet."
Rooney chuckled. "Give it a few more days. Then you'll wake up and realize every paper back home's got your face on it."
Francesco groaned. "That's the part I'm not ready for."
Hodgson looked up from his cup. "Enjoy it while it lasts, son. You've earned every headline."
He smiled appreciatively, then moved along, grabbing a plate of fruit. The restaurant buzzed louder now — a blend of accents, laughter, and the soft clatter of dishes. You could tell the team was trying to hold onto it, this final morning together, before they scattered back into their club worlds.
At one table, the FA's logistics manager was quietly briefing the players about departure schedules. "Buses leave for the airport at eleven," he said. "Press conference first when we land, then the official celebration route in London tomorrow afternoon."
"Celebration route?" Vardy said, eyes wide. "Open-top bus again?"
"You bet," the man replied. "Trafalgar Square, Wembley, Buckingham Palace stop — full parade."
A cheer went up from that side of the room, loud enough to turn a few heads. Francesco couldn't help but smile again.
He found a seat near the window this time, looking out over the quiet Paris streets. The city looked peaceful, washed clean by the soft morning light. Somewhere out there, people were still wearing England shirts, maybe replaying the final on their phones, maybe still singing.
"Mind if I join you?"
He turned to see Harry Kane standing there with a second coffee.
"Of course," Francesco said, motioning to the seat.
Kane sat down, setting the cup on the table. For a moment, they just looked out at the city together — two captains, two men who'd shared every minute of the fight.
"Hell of a ride, huh?" Kane said finally.
Francesco nodded. "More than that. Feels like we changed something — not just for us, but for everyone back home."
Kane smiled, eyes thoughtful. "You did, mate. You really did. You know how long we've all wanted this? Since we were kids. And now every lad out there's gonna grow up believing it's possible again."
That hit Francesco deeper than he expected. He looked down at the medal still hanging around his neck. "Guess it's our turn to be the poster boys now," he said, half-joking.
Kane laughed softly. "You already are, mate. Golden Boot, Player of the Tournament — you're everywhere. But the thing I like most is that you're still you. Haven't changed one bit."
Francesco smiled at that. "That's thanks to Leah," he said quietly. "She keeps my feet on the ground."
Kane nodded knowingly. "Good woman, that one. You two remind me a bit of me and Kate back in the day — all that noise around you, and somehow she's the calm in the storm."
"She really is," Francesco said softly.
For a few more minutes they talked — not about tactics or fame, but simple things: family, summer plans, what they'd eat first when they got home. It was grounding, human, the way all the best mornings after are.
The low hum of conversation carried softly through the breakfast hall, underscored by the clatter of plates and the smell of roasted coffee. Morning sunlight streaked across the white tablecloths, catching fragments of silverware and the faint gleam of medals hanging from tired necks. Francesco leaned back slightly in his chair, half-listening to Kane talk about the school runs he was dreading, half-lost in the quiet rhythm of the morning. The adrenaline of last night was gone now, replaced by something gentler — a fatigue that wasn't unpleasant, just heavy and full.
He reached for his coffee again when he noticed one of the FA staff making their way through the tables — clipboard in hand, the neat navy suit crisp even this early. The man smiled politely as he approached.
"Morning, Francesco," the staffer said, a little breathless from weaving through the tables. "Sorry to bother you — quick one. The photographers and trophy transport crew are heading out soon. Would it be alright if we open your room to collect the Henri Delaunay Cup? We need to get it packed securely before the airport transfer."
Francesco blinked for a moment, then laughed quietly. "Right — yeah, of course. It's by the window, under the lamp. I left it there."
The man nodded gratefully. "Perfect. I'll have the staff handle it carefully. We've got a case and everything."
"Don't scratch it," Kane teased from across the table, grinning. "That thing's basically sacred now."
The FA man chuckled politely. "Don't worry, Harry. It'll get more padding than a newborn." He gave a small nod to Francesco again. "Thanks, champ." Then he slipped away through the tables, clipboard tucked under his arm, already calling into his earpiece as he went.
Francesco watched him go for a moment, then exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a faint smile. "Can't believe that thing was sitting in my room all night."
Kane laughed softly, leaning back in his chair. "You and your trophies, mate. You probably tucked it in like it was a baby."
Francesco shrugged, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't trust myself to let go of it, to be honest. I thought I'd wake up and it'd all be a dream."
Kane smirked. "Yeah, well, dream or not, we've got to face reality soon. Best start packing, yeah? The coaches leave for the airport at eleven."
Francesco nodded, glancing at the watch on his wrist — 9:42 a.m. Time had slipped by quietly, wrapped in laughter and coffee. "You're right. I'll head up soon."
Kane stood, stretching his shoulders with a groan. "Don't take too long. You know how Hodgson gets when we're late for transfers. Man still thinks we're in 1998."
Francesco chuckled. "I'll be quick. Promise."
As Kane wandered off toward the buffet for a refill, Francesco lingered a bit longer, gazing absently out the wide window that overlooked the streets of Paris. A few England fans were gathered just beyond the barriers outside the hotel — waving flags, snapping photos, singing half-heartedly through the morning fog of hangovers and joy.
He took another sip of his coffee, then pushed his chair back and stood. His legs still carried the faint stiffness of battle — muscles sore, tendons tight — but every step felt meaningful now. He crossed the restaurant, nodding at a few teammates on the way out. Stones raised a toast triangle of bread in salute; Henderson gave him a thumbs-up.
The elevator was quiet when he stepped inside, the hum of the machinery oddly soothing. As the doors closed, his reflection appeared once more — medal glinting faintly in the overhead light, tracksuit slightly wrinkled, eyes still soft with the residue of triumph. He ran a hand through his hair, then leaned back against the wall as the numbers ticked upward.
When the doors opened on his floor, the hallway greeted him with a hush. The earlier bustle downstairs hadn't reached up here yet — just the muffled sound of suitcases rolling somewhere down the corridor and the soft buzz of voices behind closed doors.
His keycard beeped against the lock, and the door clicked open.
The room looked almost untouched. The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn halfway open, letting in a spill of pale light. On the side table, a few stray mementos from last night remained — his armband, a program sheet with faint champagne stains, and a single England flag folded neatly over the armchair.
He smiled when he noticed the empty spot near the window — the faint circular impression where the trophy had sat. The FA staff must have already come and gone. For a moment, he could almost still see it there — gleaming under the hotel lamp, the reflection of Paris lights dancing across its surface.
He crossed to the dresser and pulled open his suitcase. Inside, his belongings were half-packed — the formal FA blazer folded on one side, his match-worn boots wrapped carefully in a towel on the other. He lifted one of them, turning it in his hands, running a thumb over the faint grass stains near the toe. They'd been cleaned overnight, but the marks were still there, ghostly reminders of what they'd been through.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, the boot resting on his knee, and let the silence fill the space. It was strange how quickly things shifted — the noise, the celebration, the chaos… and then this, the quiet hum of transition.
From the window, he could see the team buses parked below — gleaming white with the FA crest on the side, their engines still off. A few staff members were loading cases, others checking clipboards. Even from here, he could feel the efficiency of the operation.
He started packing properly then — phone charger, toiletries, his match medals tucked carefully into a small zippered pouch, his player of the tournament award and golden boot were carefully put at his luggage. His room keycard he placed by the bedside.
Halfway through folding a shirt, his phone buzzed. A new message from Leah:
"Just saw the news! They showed your interview again on BBC. Everyone's talking about how proud they are. Mum says the whole neighborhood's putting up flags again for when you get back. ❤️🇬🇧"
He smiled, thumb hovering over the screen before he replied:
"Tell them to save some for the parade tomorrow 😉 love you."
A typing bubble appeared for a few seconds, then:
"We'll be there waiting. Proud of you❤️"
He locked his phone and slipped it into his bag, took one last look around the room, then zipped his suitcase shut.
When he stepped back into the corridor, the noise had picked up. Doors opening, laughter spilling out, the thud of luggage wheels. Kane was up the hall, dragging his case with one hand while balancing a second coffee in the other.
"About time," Kane called out, grinning. "Thought you were writing your memoirs up there."
"Nearly," Francesco said with a smirk, wheeling his suitcase beside him. "Just saying goodbye to the room. It's seen a lot."
They made their way toward the lift together, joining the small crowd of teammates converging on the same spot — Dier, Stones, Walker, all in similar tracksuits, medals glinting. The chatter was easy, punctuated by jokes about who'd forgotten to pack their adapters or left their passports in the minibar.
When the lift doors opened to the lobby, the atmosphere hit them like a wave. The press officers were already marshaling the scene — FA media teams setting up a quick backdrop near the doors, hotel staff directing luggage, fans pressed just beyond the glass, cheering every time a player appeared.
"Alright lads, once your bags are loaded, just a few quick interviews for the social channels," one of the PR managers called out. "Then onto the buses."
Francesco and Kane shared a look that said it all — here we go again.
They moved toward the cameras, each player giving a few short lines about how it felt to win, what the fans meant to them, how proud they were to represent the country. Francesco's turn came last.
The young cameraman adjusted the mic. "Ready, champ?"
Francesco smiled faintly. "As I'll ever be."
"Alright. Francesco Lee, one day after the final — how does it feel now that it's sinking in?"
He paused, then exhaled slowly through his nose. "Honestly? Still hasn't sunk in completely. I think it'll take a few more days. But looking around this morning, seeing the lads smiling, hearing the fans outside… yeah. It's real now. We did it together — every single one of us."
"Last night you slept with the trophy, right?"
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, guilty. Guess I wasn't ready to let go of it yet. Might've drooled on it a bit though — don't tell the FA."
Laughter broke out around the set, and even the cameraman grinned as he wrapped it up. "Brilliant, mate. Cheers."
Francesco gave him a pat on the shoulder and moved aside, watching as the next group filed in. The FA staff were efficient — luggage being loaded, names ticked off, water bottles handed out.
Then he saw Roy Hodgson standing by the bus door, coat draped neatly over his arm, chatting quietly with Steve Holland. The old manager's eyes found him across the crowd, and for a moment, they simply nodded at each other — no words needed. There was respect there, but also something deeper. Gratitude. Vindication.
As Francesco climbed aboard the bus, he glanced back one last time through the hotel's glass façade. The lobby shimmered faintly in the morning light, the reflection of fans waving flags outside merging with the silhouettes inside. For a heartbeat, the two worlds — the public and the private — overlapped perfectly.
He found his seat near the window, the familiar hum of pre-flight chatter filling the air. Across the aisle, Vardy was joking with Stones about his "bus parade wave," rehearsing exaggerated royal gestures. Kane had his earbuds in, scrolling through his phone. Dier was already asleep against the window.
Francesco leaned back, resting his head against the seat, and let his gaze drift outside. The hotel was shrinking now as the bus rolled forward, fans waving, banners fluttering, horns blaring. One voice — probably a kid — shouted above the rest:
"LEE! YOU'RE OUR HERO!"
He smiled, pressing a hand briefly against the glass, a silent acknowledgment. Then he turned away, exhaling as Paris began to blur past.
The road to the airport stretched ahead, lined with trees and sunlight, and for the first time since the final whistle, Francesco allowed himself to feel still. The cup was already in safe hands, heading home with them.
The motorcade wound its way out of central Paris under a sun that had grown brighter by the minute, washing the city in that soft, pale light that comes only in the calm after something seismic. From the windows of the team bus, the streets blurred past — café terraces just beginning to fill, shopkeepers setting out morning chairs, flags of every color still draped across balconies like memories that refused to fade.
Francesco leaned his head lightly against the glass, watching the world drift by. The low hum of the engine vibrated beneath his seat, steady and rhythmic, a gentle counterpoint to the easy laughter filling the aisle. Kane was still teasing Stones about his "princely wave," while Vardy filmed the back of the bus with his phone, narrating dramatically in his best mock commentary voice.
"And here we have the heroes of England," Vardy said, zooming in on Henderson, who was half-asleep with his mouth open. "Look at the composure, the grace, the athletic brilliance. Truly a sight to behold."
"Piss off, Jamie," came Henderson's groggy reply, drawing laughter from all around.
Francesco smiled faintly, half amused, half content. The air on the bus was warm, thick with the kind of quiet joy that comes only when everyone knows they've done something unforgettable. There were still aches, still bruises and dark circles — but behind it all, there was peace. That rare kind that only victory could buy.
Outside, the city gave way to wider roads, the urban sprawl thinning into open stretches of motorway. A faint, faraway rumble grew louder — airplanes gliding overhead, the first signs of Charles de Gaulle Airport looming in the distance.
"Alright, lads," called one of the FA logistics officers from the front, turning in the aisle. "We're about ten minutes out. Once we get there, just grab your carry-ons and head straight to the private terminal. We've got security and customs cleared already. Smooth in, smooth out."
Kane raised an eyebrow. "Sounds too good to be true."
"Don't jinx it," muttered Dier without opening his eyes.
As the bus rolled closer, the airport skyline took shape — glass, steel, and motion everywhere. Jet engines roared faintly beyond the terminal buildings. The coach curved around to a smaller entrance marked "Affaires Privées" — the private charter zone reserved for official teams and delegations. Waiting there was the familiar sight of FA staff in navy suits and bright vests, clipboard after clipboard in hand, ready to usher their champions home.
When the bus hissed to a stop, the door swung open to a rush of warm air and distant noise — not the wild roar of a stadium, but a smaller, heartfelt cheer from airport workers and a handful of French fans who'd gathered behind barriers just to wave them off. Some wore England shirts, others held up handmade signs: Merci, les champions! and Well done, Lions!
Francesco smiled as he stepped down from the bus, suitcase in hand, the faint breeze tugging at the hem of his tracksuit. He could smell jet fuel and coffee and the faint metallic tang of the runway.
"Alright, lads, straight through here," called one of the FA officials, gesturing toward a glass walkway that led to the waiting aircraft — a sleek white Airbus with the Three Lions crest painted proudly near the door.
They filed in one by one — players, staff, medical team, press officers — the rhythm of footfalls and rolling luggage echoing softly in the corridor. Francesco walked near the back, taking a moment to glance back through the glass at the distant skyline of Paris. For a heartbeat, it didn't feel like a departure — more like the closing of a chapter.
Then he followed the others onto the plane.
Inside, the cabin was bright and spacious, rows of plush seats marked with the FA logo, small England flags tucked neatly into the headrests. The hum of the air-conditioning filled the space, along with the quiet chatter of the crew greeting each player as they boarded.
"Welcome aboard, gentlemen," said a flight attendant with a warm smile. "Congratulations on your victory."
"Cheers," Kane replied as he passed, tapping the overhead compartment before dropping into a seat.
Francesco found his spot by the window again — he'd always liked the window seats — and slid his bag into the space below. Across the aisle, Stones was already trying to connect to the onboard Wi-Fi while Vardy argued with Dier about who got the last mini croissant from the refreshment tray.
The engines began their low, steady rumble as the crew prepared for takeoff. The captain's voice came over the intercom, calm and clear.
"Good morning, gentlemen, and congratulations once again. It's an honor to have you on board. Flight time to London Heathrow will be just over an hour. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride — and thank you for bringing football home."
That drew a cheer from the cabin — light applause, whoops, someone (probably Vardy) shouting, "We bloody did!"
Francesco chuckled softly, then leaned his head against the seat as the plane began to taxi. Through the oval window, the runway stretched ahead in shimmering silver lines. A moment later, the engines roared louder, pressing him gently into the seatback as the aircraft lifted smoothly off the ground.
The city fell away beneath them — blocks of color, curling roads, tiny glints of light. Paris became smaller, then distant, then gone altogether beneath the haze of clouds.
For a while, the cabin quieted. Some players pulled their caps down and tried to sleep. Others scrolled through their phones, replaying videos of the final or sending messages home. Hodgson sat near the front, reading a newspaper in silence, though the faint curve of a smile betrayed him.
Francesco simply stared out the window, watching the clouds drift by like slow tides. His reflection ghosted faintly against the glass — medal still around his neck, eyes heavy but calm. He thought of Leah waiting back in London, of his parents, of the crowds that would be there when they landed. It didn't feel real yet. Maybe it never fully would.
At some point, a flight attendant came by with drinks. Francesco accepted a bottle of water and a packet of biscuits, murmured his thanks, and smiled faintly when she said, "You made us all proud."
He didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded, meaning it.
By the time the captain's voice returned — "Ladies and gentlemen, we've begun our descent into London Heathrow" — the cabin had stirred back to life. Curtains of sunlight streamed through the windows as the aircraft dipped lower, cutting through a soft blanket of clouds until the familiar patchwork of English countryside came into view: green fields, winding roads, scattered towns.
Someone started singing quietly — "It's coming home…" — and within seconds, half the cabin had joined in. It wasn't loud or rowdy, just soft and warm, like a shared secret.
When the wheels touched down, a small cheer erupted, followed by applause. Francesco found himself smiling again — that same involuntary, disbelieving grin he'd worn since last night. Home. They were home.
The plane taxied to a private terminal marked with a banner the FA had clearly arranged overnight: WELCOME HOME, CHAMPIONS.
As the doors opened and the first rush of London air swept in, Francesco caught the faint scent of rain and tarmac. Cool, familiar, grounding. He stepped down the stairs behind Kane, blinking against the brightness of the afternoon.
And then he heard it.
The crowd.
Beyond the barriers near the terminal, hundreds — maybe thousands — of fans had gathered. Flags waved in a sea of red and white, banners with his name, with LEE 9, with FOOTBALL CAME HOME. The noise was thunderous, joyous, uncontainable.
"Bloody hell," muttered Stones beside him, eyes wide. "They actually turned up for us."
"Of course they did," Kane said, grinning. "Fifty years they've been waiting."
The moment Francesco stepped fully onto the tarmac, cameras began to flash — a staccato rhythm of light and color. FA staff guided the players quickly toward the covered walkway, where a red carpet of sorts had been hastily laid out. Reporters clustered along one side, microphones raised, voices overlapping.
"Francesco! Over here! How does it feel to bring it home?"
"Harry, can we get a quick word?"
"England's golden boys — one photo, please!"
Security kept a polite but firm barrier as the players smiled, waved, occasionally stopping for a brief shot. It was chaotic, but good chaos — the kind that smelled like victory.
Near the terminal doors, one of the FA officers was waiting, holding a familiar silver case. Inside, carefully cushioned, was the Henri Delaunay Cup.
"Wayne," the man said, turning to Rooney, "this belongs to you now."
Rooney's expression softened as he accepted it, lifting the lid and staring for a moment at the gleaming trophy. The reflection of the cloudy English sky curved across its surface. He turned toward the team, the cameras, and the crowd.
"Well, lads," he said with that gravelly half-smile of his, "guess it's time to show them what they've been waiting for."
The crowd beyond the glass barriers roared as he lifted it high — the Henri Delaunay Cup catching the afternoon light, a burst of silver brilliance that seemed to ignite the air. Francesco stood just behind him, the noise vibrating through his chest, the cheers blending with the rhythmic chant that had followed them all summer:
"EN-G-LAND! EN-G-LAND!"
Inside the terminal, FA staff ushered them toward the press area — a makeshift stage lined with microphones and banners. Dozens of reporters filled the space, cameras poised, flashes already sparking. The smell of coffee, paper, and electricity filled the air.
Rooney set the cup gently on the table in front of him, its reflection shimmering across the polished wood. Hodgson sat beside him, composed but clearly moved. Francesco took a seat to Rooney's left, Kane to his right. Behind them, the rest of the squad lined up, all still in tracksuits, medals glinting faintly under the lights.
A hush fell as the FA's press director stepped up to the mic.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here to welcome home your European Champions. It's been a historic night — and now, their first morning back on English soil."
Applause rippled through the room. Cameras clicked like rain.
Rooney leaned forward, smiling faintly. "Feels good to be home," he began, his voice carrying easily. "Feels even better knowing we've made the fans proud. Last night wasn't just for us — it was for everyone who's waited, believed, and sung through all the heartbreaks. This trophy," he rested a hand on it, "belongs to England."
Another wave of applause. Francesco could feel it — that pulse of shared pride threading through every person in the room.
Then a reporter called out, "Francesco, can we ask — how does it feel, after everything, to come home not just as a winner, but as the tournament's top scorer?"
He leaned into the mic slightly, his tone modest but steady. "Honestly… surreal," he said. "It still hasn't fully hit me. But seeing everyone here — seeing what it means — that's what makes it real. You grow up dreaming of nights like that, and now it's part of our story. I'm just proud to have played my part."
A soft murmur of approval rippled through the room. The cameras loved him — but more importantly, he meant every word.
Another question came, and another — about the match, about the future, about how this team had changed English football's narrative. Hodgson spoke with quiet dignity, Kane with his usual grounded sincerity. But it was when Rooney held the trophy aloft again at the end — flanked by his teammates — that the room truly erupted.
Flashbulbs exploded like fireworks. The chant rose again from outside, echoing faintly through the glass walls: "Football's coming home."
Francesco looked out through the sea of lights and saw faces — children on shoulders, fans waving flags, people crying, laughing, believing. For the first time, truly believing.
And as the press conference drew to a close, and the team began to move toward the buses waiting to take them to Wembley for the next day's parade, Francesco paused at the doorway for one last look. The cup glimmered on the table behind them, surrounded by reporters and history.
________________________________________________
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