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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.
The confetti still drifted through the air, weightless as dust caught in sunlight. The Stade de France had become a cathedral of celebration — voices rising, laughter echoing, cameras flashing like fireflies in the dark. Players were still scattered across the pitch, their families close by, as if no one wanted to leave, no one wanted to let the night end.
Francesco stood at the heart of it all — his medal glinting against his chest, the Henri Delaunay Cup resting just in front of him, its curved handles gleaming under the floodlights. The Player of the Tournament award and the Golden Boot sat nearby, both symbols of his brilliance, but he didn't see them as trophies. They were pieces of a story — fragments of a journey that had carried him from muddy parks as a boy to this, the summit of Europe.
His parents stood a few paces away, talking softly with Leah's family, while Leah herself had crouched near the cup, helping rearrange the awards so they looked just right. Her hair shimmered under the lights, and she gave him a quick grin as she adjusted the position of the Golden Boot. "There," she said. "That's the money shot."
Francesco chuckled, crouching down beside her. "You're more of a perfectionist than any photographer I've ever met."
"Someone has to make sure history looks good," she teased, standing up and dusting confetti from her jeans.
He smiled, then turned toward his mother. "Mum! Can you take a few photos?"
Sarah looked up from her conversation with Amanda Williamson and immediately smiled. "Of course, sweetheart!" She hurried over, still beaming, and took the phone from his outstretched hand. "Alright then, what do you want me to capture?"
Francesco crouched low, resting one hand on the gleaming cup, the other on his knee. The Player of the Tournament trophy and the Golden Boot sat perfectly on either side of him — one symbolizing his artistry, the other his ruthlessness.
"Like this," he said, adjusting slightly, his grin widening. "I want it to feel real. Not staged — just me, the trophies, and the cup. Like we've just shared the moment together."
Sarah lifted the phone, chuckling warmly. "You and your trophies, Francesco. You always did love a good picture after a win."
"Just keeping the tradition alive," he replied, flashing a quick smile.
She leaned forward slightly, focusing the frame. The background shimmered with red and white confetti, the stands still alive with fans singing, flags waving in rhythm. Francesco looked down at the cup, brushed his fingers over its silver surface once more, then looked up at the camera. The smile that came was effortless — proud, humble, grateful.
Click.
The shutter sound cut through the noise, capturing him perfectly: crouched on the grass, drenched in champagne and glory, surrounded by the symbols of everything he'd fought for.
"Got it!" Sarah said brightly, checking the photo. "Oh, Francesco, it's beautiful. You'll want to frame this one."
"Let me see," Leah said, stepping closer, peering over her shoulder. "Oh, that's perfect. You look like the king of England football."
He laughed softly. "Then I guess you're the queen, yeah?"
She raised an eyebrow, grinning. "Well, I didn't want to say it."
He reached for the phone. "Mum, one more? This time with Leah."
Sarah nodded, smiling as she gestured for Leah to step in. Leah crouched beside Francesco, close enough that their shoulders touched. The silver of the cup gleamed between them, framed by the two smaller trophies that bore his name.
Sarah lifted the phone again. "Alright, you two — look at me."
They did. Francesco's arm slipped naturally around Leah's waist, and she rested her hand gently atop his, fingers brushing against the medal that hung around his neck. The lights behind them turned everything golden — their skin, the trophies, even the faint mist of champagne still hanging in the air.
Click.
Another moment frozen in time — not just glory, but love.
Leah looked at the image afterward and laughed quietly. "You look like you've just conquered the world."
He glanced at her, his smile softening. "Maybe I just found it instead."
For a heartbeat, the noise of the crowd faded. There was only her — her warmth, her eyes reflecting the lights of the stadium, the faint smell of champagne on her hair.
Then his father's voice called out, breaking through the haze. "Oi! Francesco! Let us get in one before you run off!"
Francesco looked up, grinning as Mike and Sarah approached. His dad's eyes still shone with pride — that kind of silent, trembling pride that fathers carry when their sons become everything they ever hoped they'd be.
"Leah," Francesco said, "you take this one."
Leah smiled, taking the phone from Sarah's hand. "Gladly."
Mike and Sarah crouched down beside their son, who once again settled next to the cup. His mother slipped her arm around him, his father rested a hand on his shoulder, and Francesco leaned slightly into them — a family bound not by the lights or the noise, but by the years that had built this moment.
Leah crouched low to frame the perfect angle. "Okay," she said softly, "say… 'it's home.'"
Francesco laughed. "It's home," he echoed.
Click.
The image appeared bright and sharp on the screen: Francesco crouched beside the cup, his arm around Sarah, his father's hand firm on his shoulder, the trophies glowing at their feet. Behind them, the pitch shimmered with celebration, the story of a nation told in confetti and color.
Leah looked at the photo and smiled — not the practiced smile of someone admiring perfection, but the quiet one of someone who knew exactly how much that picture meant.
She handed the phone back. "That's the one," she said simply.
Francesco stared at the photo for a long moment, his smile fading into something more tender. It wasn't just the image itself — it was what it carried. The years of sacrifice, the long nights, the doubts, the faith, the love. His parents' unwavering belief. Leah's endless support. Everything that had built the man who now crouched on the grass beside three trophies.
Without another word, he unlocked his phone, opened his social feed, and selected the image of him crouching beside the cup, the Player of the Tournament and Golden Boot glinting beside it. He stared at the caption box for a second — the words came naturally.
He typed:
IT'S HOME❤️
He hit post.
Almost instantly, notifications began flashing. Likes, comments, shares — the world reacting in real time. Fans writing messages from every corner of the globe:
"Legend."
"The man who made it come home."
"Francesco Lee — England's lion."
Leah peeked over his shoulder and smiled. "You just broke the internet again."
He laughed quietly, slipping the phone into his pocket. "Let it break. Tonight's worth it."
His mother brushed her hand through his hair, her touch gentle as ever. "You've made your country proud, Francesco," she whispered. "But more than that, you've made us proud. Always."
He looked at her, his voice soft. "Couldn't have done any of it without you, Mum. Without both of you."
Mike grinned, shaking his head. "You did the hard part, son. We just kept the kettle on."
Leah laughed, her arm brushing against Sarah's as she spoke. "I think we all deserve a cup of tea after this."
"Or something stronger," Mike added with a wink.
The laughter that followed was gentle, human, pure. It didn't sound like the noise of victory — it sounded like home.
The floodlights above began to dim slightly as UEFA staff started ushering families toward the tunnel. The pitch still shimmered with life — players hugging loved ones, staff packing up banners, fans still refusing to leave.
Francesco stayed for one last look. The Henri Delaunay Cup sat at his feet again, surrounded by the Player of the Tournament award and the Golden Boot. The trophies gleamed like old friends under the floodlights, and for the first time, the reality of it all truly sank in.
He had brought it home.
Not just the trophy, but the dream — the one whispered by generations, sung in pubs and playgrounds, written in hearts and headlines. It had all led here, to this patch of grass, this night, this young man standing with his family beneath the Paris sky.
The silver gleam of the Henri Delaunay Cup shimmered one last time under the floodlights, and Francesco stood for a moment, just letting it sink in — the texture of the grass under his boots, the roar of the crowd beginning to fade into a soft ocean of sound, the last confetti still swirling lazily through the night.
He knew he had to go — the officials were beginning to herd the players back toward the tunnel, the loudspeakers calling out names, the UEFA staff trying to restore a sense of order to the chaos of joy. But his heart wasn't ready to leave the pitch. Not yet.
He turned first to his parents. Mike and Sarah stood side by side, arms around each other, both still wearing that stunned look — the one that said we can't quite believe it either. His mother's cheeks were wet with tears that caught the stadium lights, and his father's grin hadn't faded once since the final whistle.
Francesco walked up and pulled them both into a tight hug. It wasn't the kind of polite embrace that cameras loved; it was a real one — heavy, long, wordless. His mother's hand came up to the back of his neck, and his father's voice rumbled quietly beside his ear.
"We're so proud of you, son."
Francesco just nodded, his throat too thick to answer. For a moment, he felt like that same boy again — the one Mike used to drive to training every freezing Saturday morning, the one Sarah would wait for with a thermos of hot chocolate afterward.
Then he stepped back, his eyes finding Leah just beyond them. She stood with her family — Amanda, her brother Josh, her father — all smiling, all glowing with pride. She looked like she belonged on that pitch as much as he did, her England jacket hanging slightly oversized, a stray piece of confetti tangled in her hair.
He crossed to her. For a second, they just looked at each other, both half-laughing from the emotion of it all. Then she leaned in and hugged him — long, unhurried, the kind of embrace that said everything words couldn't.
"Go celebrate," she whispered against his shoulder. "You earned every second of it."
He smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You sure you'll be okay?"
"Francesco," she said softly, a teasing glint in her eyes, "the whole stadium's watching you. Go be England's hero before I have to drag you back there myself."
He laughed quietly. "Alright, alright. I'll see you at the hotel later, yeah?"
She nodded. "I'll be waiting."
He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, then turned back toward the pitch. His parents waved once more as he began jogging toward the tunnel, boots still slick with champagne and confetti clinging to his socks. The crowd caught sight of him leaving and erupted again — a thunderous farewell cheer that followed him all the way down the sideline.
As he reached the edge of the tunnel, he glanced back one last time. The pitch behind him was a living painting — flashes of camera light, flags fluttering, teammates still embracing their families, and the trophy gleaming at the center like a beacon. For a heartbeat, he wished he could freeze it — just to hold on to what it felt like right now.
Then he ducked into the tunnel.
The noise changed instantly — from the vast roar of 80,000 voices to the echoing hum of concrete corridors and distant laughter. His boots clacked against the floor as he followed the familiar scent of grass, sweat, and champagne that led to the England dressing room.
As he rounded the corner, he heard it before he saw it — music blaring, shouts of laughter, the thud of fists against lockers, and someone — probably Stones — yelling, "Turn it up! We're champions of Europe, lads!"
The moment he stepped through the doorway, a roar went up.
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
Showers of champagne sprayed through the air again as his teammates mobbed him. Henderson grabbed him first, locking him into a half hug, half chokehold. "You absolute machine, mate! Thirteen goals — you're not human!"
Sterling came dancing past with a bottle in each hand. "Golden Boot boyyy! Someone get him another medal for carrying us!"
Laughter rippled around the room. Francesco couldn't even get a word out — champagne hit his hair, his shirt clung to him, and he was caught between laughter and coughing as Kane poured another bottle over his head.
"Oi, careful!" Francesco gasped, blinking through the spray.
"Not my fault you scored too much, bro!" Kane laughed, his grin wide and wild. "This is payback for making the rest of us look lazy."
The atmosphere was pure electricity — chaos, joy, disbelief all mixed together. Music thumped from a Bluetooth speaker somewhere near the back — "Three Lions" bleeding into "Sweet Caroline," and then someone switched it to "Freed From Desire," and the whole room erupted again.
He's Francesco Lee — England's on fire!
The chant thundered from the players' throats, echoing off the walls. Even Hodgson was laughing, leaning against the wall, shaking his head in disbelief as his squad danced like schoolboys.
Francesco, still dripping with champagne, was swept up into a bear hug by Eric Dier. "Mate, you're going down in history," Dier said breathlessly. "You realize that, yeah? England's greatest tournament ever — and you led it. You're the story they'll tell their kids."
Francesco grinned, clapping him on the back. "Couldn't have done it without you lot. Every one of you."
"Ah, don't give us that humble act," Walker shouted from across the room. "We all know whose goals got us here!"
More laughter. Vardy cranked the speaker volume even higher and began dancing on one of the benches, holding his medal like a microphone. "This one's for home, baby!"
The sound of spraying champagne, the pounding rhythm of boots on the tile floor, the mix of accents and laughter — it all blurred together into something Francesco knew he'd never forget.
After a while, the noise began to settle. The bottles ran dry, the air filled with the smell of wet fabric and victory. Players started peeling off their shirts, tossing them into laundry bins, joking about the photos that would flood social media by morning.
Francesco sank down onto a bench, his legs finally feeling the weight of ninety minutes and a lifetime of dreams. His medal hung heavy around his neck. He stared at it for a long moment — the gleam of gold reflecting in the fluorescent light, the engraved "UEFA EURO 2016 – Winners."
Across from him, Henderson was talking quietly with Hodgson, both smiling. Stones and Smalling were arguing playfully about who had the best tackle of the tournament. In the corner, Heaton sat with his phone, FaceTiming his family, tears in his eyes and a grin that wouldn't fade.
And then there was silence — not complete, but enough that Francesco could finally breathe.
He stood, slowly untying his boots. His socks were soaked, grass-stained, the laces stiff with dried champagne. He tossed them into the bin and leaned back against the wall.
That was when Southgate approached.
"Hell of a performance, son," the manager said quietly, his tone steady but full of warmth. "You've given this country something we've waited generations for."
Francesco smiled faintly. "It still doesn't feel real, boss."
"It will," Hodgson said, patting his shoulder. "It'll hit you in a few days. Maybe when the parade starts. Or maybe when you walk past a kid in an England shirt with your name on the back."
Francesco looked down, his voice quieter. "I just… wanted to make people proud."
"You did," Hodgson said simply. "More than you know."
The words sank deep — the kind that didn't need any noise around them.
After a while, the players began filing toward the showers, their laughter echoing again. The sound of running water filled the air, and steam began to cloud the mirrors. Francesco lingered behind for a moment longer, still sitting on the bench, tracing the edge of his medal with his thumb.
When he finally stood and walked toward the showers, he caught his reflection in the mirror — hair dripping, eyes bright, medal glinting, skin shining with sweat and champagne. It wasn't the face of a boy anymore. It was the face of a man who had carried a nation.
By the time they boarded the team bus, it was close to midnight. The streets outside the Stade de France were still alive — fans draped in England flags, horns blaring, songs echoing into the night. French police lined the roads, trying to manage the chaos, but everywhere Francesco looked, there were smiles, flags, fireworks.
Inside the bus, the players were still buzzing. Henderson had commandeered the speaker again, blasting Oasis. Kane sat near the front, FaceTiming his wife and kids, showing them the medal. Stones had wrapped the England flag around himself like a cape and was pretending to be a superhero, leaping between the aisles.
Francesco sat by the window, his head resting lightly against the glass. Outside, Paris blurred past — golden lights and celebrating fans. He caught glimpses of English supporters crying, hugging strangers, waving flags as the bus rolled by.
Leah texted him.
Leah: "You look exhausted. But so damn proud of you ❤️"
Francesco: "Couldn't sleep if I tried. Feels like I'm floating."
Leah: "That's because you're walking on history."
Francesco: "You sure you're not a poet?"
Leah: "Only when it's about you."
He smiled, staring at the screen for a moment before typing back:
Francesco: "See you soon."
When the bus finally pulled up outside the team hotel, it was pandemonium again. Hundreds of England fans had gathered outside, waving flags and singing "It's Coming Home" into the humid Paris night. Security had to form a line to get the players through, but Francesco paused before heading inside.
He lifted his medal to the crowd.
The cheer that came in response shook the street.
He didn't say a word — he just smiled, nodded once, and followed his teammates through the hotel doors.
Inside, the lobby had been transformed. Banners hung from the ceiling, champagne bottles lined the tables, and the hotel staff applauded as the players entered. Someone shouted, "To the champions of Europe!" and another round of singing began.
But Francesco hung back again, taking it all in — the laughter, the music, the pride. His boots squeaked faintly on the marble floor, his body aching now that the adrenaline had finally faded.
Kane clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "See you in the lounge, mate. They've got more champagne waiting."
Francesco grinned. "Might switch to water for now."
"Lightweight!" Kane teased before disappearing down the hallway.
Francesco just shook his head, smiling. He made his way upstairs, the corridor quiet except for the muffled noise of celebration from the floors below. His room door clicked open.
The medal hit the table with a soft clink. His boots landed beside it. For a long time, he just stood there, looking out over the Paris skyline — the city lights shimmering against the dark, the faint sound of singing still drifting up from the streets below.
The hotel hallway was quiet, carpet muffling his steps, and for the first time all night Francesco felt the stillness of it — the strange calm that comes after chaos. The adrenaline had ebbed just enough for him to feel the weight in his legs, the ache in his shoulders. But under it all, there was still that fire, that hum in his chest that refused to fade.
He looked at himself once more in the mirror by the door. His hair was still damp from the shower, his medal lay gleaming on the table, and the reflection that stared back at him looked… lighter. Not exhausted — fulfilled.
He pulled on a clean England t-shirt — simple white, the Three Lions stitched over the heart — and a pair of black joggers. As he tugged the shirt down, his fingertips brushed against the embroidered badge. He smiled. Even now, after all the cameras, all the glory, the weight of that symbol meant everything.
He slipped his phone into his pocket, ran a hand through his hair, and opened the door.
The corridor was buzzing now — footsteps, laughter, the sound of doors opening and closing as players and staff made their way to the lounge. The faint rhythm of music drifted down the hall, mixed with the murmur of celebration and the unmistakable pop of another champagne cork.
He followed the sound.
The elevator ride was short, but it gave him just enough time to breathe — to gather the fragments of the night that still danced through his mind like sparks. The roar of the crowd, the weight of the Henri Delaunay Cup in his hands, Leah's smile through the falling confetti, his father's voice saying, We're proud of you, son.
The doors slid open.
The lounge was alive.
Music pulsed softly under the laughter — not the wild chaos of the dressing room anymore, but something more grounded, more human. Tables were covered in snacks, glasses half-filled with champagne and orange juice, medals glinting under the golden hotel lights. The room felt warm, alive, full of shared joy and relief.
Most of the squad was already there — Kane with his wife and kids, Sterling with his family, Stones laughing with a glass in hand. Rooney was leaning against the bar, deep in conversation with Roy Hodgson, while Vardy had somehow found a speaker again and was already trying to queue up another playlist.
The air smelled faintly of cologne, champagne, and something sweet — maybe the hotel's attempt at a victory dessert spread.
As Francesco stepped in, a few heads turned.
"Here he is!" Walker called, raising his glass. "The man himself — the one who brought it home!"
The cheer that followed wasn't the stadium's kind — it was smaller, warmer, the sound of teammates who'd bled and sweated together for weeks. Henderson clapped twice, then lifted his glass toward him. "Get over here, Lee. We've been waiting for the man of the hour."
Francesco smiled, shaking his head slightly as he crossed the room. "You lot started celebrating without me?"
"Mate," Stones said with a laugh, "you took long enough, we thought you'd gone to parade the cup through Paris."
"Maybe I should've," Francesco teased. "Would've been quicker than getting out of that stadium."
The room rippled with laughter again. Kane nudged him as he passed. "There's a seat over there — near the families. Leah's probably waiting for you."
That made him pause for a moment — not out of surprise, but because even hearing her name in the middle of all this still made him smile.
He glanced around the room. Sure enough, by the far side, near one of the tall glass windows overlooking the glittering Paris skyline, stood his parents — Mike and Sarah — chatting animatedly with Leah's family. David and Amanda looked proud, relaxed, their faces glowing under the soft light. Jacob, Leah's younger brother, was perched on the edge of a chair, holding a fizzy drink in one hand and scrolling through his phone with the other.
And there, in the center of it all, was Leah.
She'd changed out of her stadium jacket into a soft white blouse and jeans, her hair loose now, shimmering with a few stray flecks of confetti still tangled near the ends. She was laughing at something Sarah had said, one hand holding a glass of water, the other gesturing as she talked. When she turned and spotted Francesco across the room, her face lit up instantly — that unmistakable spark that had first drawn him in months ago.
Francesco's smile widened. He started toward them, weaving between groups of players and families, exchanging quick hugs and congratulations as he went.
"Unreal night, mate," Dier said as he passed, raising his glass. "Still doesn't feel real."
"Not one bit," Francesco replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "See you in a bit."
When he finally reached his family, Sarah was the first to spot him. "There you are!" she exclaimed, eyes bright. "We were just talking about you."
"Hopefully good things," he said with a grin, stepping into her hug.
"Only the best," Mike chimed in, shaking his son's hand firmly before pulling him into a brief embrace. "How's it feel, champ?"
Francesco exhaled, smiling. "Like I've been running for ten years and finally stopped."
Leah laughed softly beside him. "You looked like it, too. I don't think I've ever seen you that emotional."
He turned to her, playfully narrowing his eyes. "And you? You were crying harder than half the fans."
She smirked. "Well, someone had to cry for both of us."
David chuckled. "I think we all did at one point. It's not every day we get to see England lift that trophy."
Sarah nodded. "I've waited my whole life for that moment," she said quietly, smiling at her son. "And to see you at the heart of it… Francesco, I still can't believe it."
He squeezed her hand gently. "Neither can I, Mum. It still feels like a dream."
Leah reached up, brushing a lock of damp hair from his forehead. "Then let's make sure you stay awake long enough to enjoy it," she said softly.
Amanda smiled warmly at the two of them. "You both should be so proud. This—" she gestured toward the medal still faintly visible under Francesco's shirt, "—this is what the world will remember, but what we'll remember is how you carried yourself. The heart, the way you play, the way you look at her when you win."
Leah flushed slightly. "Mum…"
But Francesco just laughed. "She's not wrong."
Mike grinned. "So what's next then, superstar? You gonna sleep for a week, or are they already planning parades back in London?"
"Probably both," Francesco said with a smirk. "Though I think the FA's already talking about a bus route through Trafalgar Square."
Jacob perked up from his seat. "That's mad. You're gonna be like Beckham levels of famous now, bro."
Leah rolled her eyes affectionately. "He already is, Jacob."
Francesco chuckled. "You keeping those photos safe, yeah? You were our unofficial photographer tonight."
Jacob grinned proudly. "Already backed them up. Don't worry, I'm charging royalties when you use them."
"Fair enough," Francesco said, laughing.
The moment was easy — warm, human. The chaos of the stadium had given way to something softer here, like the calm tide after a storm. The families mingled freely — Kane's wife chatting with Sarah, Sterling's mum laughing with Amanda — all sharing one emotion that bound them tighter than any anthem: relief.
After a while, one of the hotel staff passed around trays of small plates — fruit, pastries, and champagne flutes for those who still had energy left to toast. The players gathered again near the center, forming a loose circle with their loved ones around them.
Rooney raised his glass first. "To us," he said, his voice across the room. "To everyone here. The lads, the gaffer, the families — we didn't just win tonight; we made history."
A cheer followed, and he turned toward Francesco, his expression softening. "And to the man who made it possible — Francesco Lee. Our lion. Our brother."
Applause erupted, glasses lifted, and Francesco felt the heat rise to his face. He shook his head, smiling modestly. "Alright, alright, enough of that," he said, voice raised just enough to carry. "This was all of us. Every goal, every tackle, every save — it's all one story. And tonight…" He looked around, meeting the eyes of his teammates and family alike. "Tonight, we finished the chapter England's been waiting to read for fifty years."
The room went quiet for half a breath, then filled with another wave of cheers and clinking glasses.
Leah squeezed his hand. "Perfect words," she whispered.
He looked at her and smiled. "You always said I should talk less, remember?"
She laughed softly. "Not tonight."
They stood close as the night rolled on — laughter spilling over from table to table, old songs being sung again, the kind of joy that didn't feel loud anymore, just full.
After a while, Francesco drifted toward the window again, his arm around Leah's waist. Outside, the city glittered under the midnight sky. Down below, he could still see a few fans gathered by the gates, waving flags, chanting softly. The echo of It's coming home rose faintly through the glass.
Leah leaned her head against his shoulder. "You did it," she murmured. "You really did it."
He looked down at her, his voice barely above a whisper. "We did."
Behind them, his parents had joined David and Amanda at a table, cups of coffee replacing the champagne now, all four of them talking quietly — the kind of conversation that happens when pride becomes peace. Jacob was showing Sarah a video he'd taken of the lift, and her laughter carried faintly across the lounge.
It struck Francesco then — how surreal it all was, how perfectly human. The medals, the trophies, the chants — they were incredible, yes, but this was what he'd remember: his mother's laugh, Leah's hand in his, the sound of his teammates' joy mixing with the murmur of family voices.
He looked down at Leah again. "You know something?" he said quietly.
She tilted her head, curious. "What?"
He smiled faintly. "All the noise, the trophies, the photos… they're amazing. But this — right here, with you, with them — this is what it really feels like when it comes home."
Leah's smile softened. "Then don't forget it."
"I won't," he said, pressing a light kiss to her temple.
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.
________________________________________________
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