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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.
The air outside the Heathrow press hall still hummed with the echo of applause and camera flashes when Francesco and the rest of the England squad finally began to make their way toward the waiting team bus. The adrenaline from the press conference hadn't quite faded — it pulsed beneath the surface, mingling with fatigue and the surreal calm that always seemed to follow something monumental.
As they stepped out onto the tarmac again, the overcast London sky greeted them — pale and grey, but somehow perfect. The smell of jet fuel still lingered faintly in the breeze, and beyond the barriers, fans were still singing even as security gently ushered them back. Flags rippled in the wind, the rhythm of the chants fading only when the bus doors hissed open.
The FA staff were efficient as ever. One of them — a tall man in a navy blazer — carefully lifted the silver case that held the Henri Delaunay Cup, carrying it as though it were made of glass. Francesco's gaze followed it as the case disappeared into the luggage compartment of the bus, cushioned and secured for the short drive north. There was something oddly poetic about it, he thought — England's long-lost dream being ferried through the city that had waited half a century for it.
"Alright, lads," came the familiar voice of Steve Holland from the side, clipboard tucked under one arm. "Hop in. Bags loaded, cup's safe, everyone accounted for."
Kane clapped Francesco on the back as they boarded. "Another bus ride," he murmured with a grin. "Feels like we've been living on these things since June."
Francesco chuckled. "At least this one's got air-conditioning and no training session waiting at the end."
"Don't jinx it," said Stones, trudging up the steps behind them with a half grin. "Roy might still pull out the cones when we get there."
That earned a laugh from the aisle, a few voices chiming in as the players filed into their seats. The interior of the bus still smelled faintly of the polished leather from the flight, mixed with aftershave and coffee. The noise was soft — tired conversation, laughter, the quiet scrape of medal ribbons clinking faintly as the lads shifted in their seats.
Francesco slid into his usual spot by the window again, resting his arm on the sill. Outside, the terminal slowly drifted away as the bus began to roll forward, escorted by a couple of police motorbikes at the front and back. Fans along the road waved as they passed, phones held high, flashes sparking against the dull London light. A few even ran along the barriers for a few seconds before slowing, laughing, breathless.
Inside the bus, Rooney leaned back in his seat near the front, phone pressed to his ear, probably talking to Coleen and the kids. Henderson and Walker were deep in a conversation about whether they'd ever get used to the word "champions." And Vardy — of course — was still recording everything.
"Live from the champions' bus," Vardy announced dramatically, turning his phone camera toward the back. "The man of the moment, golden boy himself — Francesco Lee! Give the people a wave, mate!"
Francesco, caught mid-yawn, laughed and waved lazily at the camera. "Jamie, people are gonna think we haven't slept in a week."
"Have we?" Kane muttered from the next seat over.
The bus filled with laughter again, that warm, easy kind that came from men who'd been through everything together — the pressure, the heartbreaks, the silence before penalties, the noise after goals. Now, finally, it was laughter without weight.
The roads cleared quickly once they left the airport perimeter. London's skyline began to rise in the distance — the Shard piercing the clouds, the slow sprawl of the Thames winding through the heart of the city. It was surreal, watching it pass by. Home, in every sense of the word, and yet everything about it felt a little different now. The air seemed lighter, the buildings brighter. Maybe that was just what victory did to the eyes.
Francesco leaned his forehead against the glass for a moment, his reflection staring back at him — medal glinting faintly under the muted light. He thought of all the nights that had led here: the training sessions that had left him bruised and limping, the early mornings at St. George's when the fog was so thick you could barely see the next pitch. The fear, too — the whispers before the tournament that England still weren't ready, that they lacked the mentality to go the distance.
And now, all those doubts had been silenced — replaced by a roar that would echo for decades.
As the bus merged onto the motorway, the city fell away behind them, replaced by green fields rolling out to the horizon. It wasn't long before the familiar signs for Burton upon Trent appeared — and with them, the feeling of coming full circle. St. George's Park — England's home of preparation, sweat, and hope — was waiting to welcome them back as champions.
The rain had started by the time they pulled through the main gates — a soft drizzle that speckled the windows and blurred the landscape into shades of green and grey. But even in the rain, the training complex looked almost majestic. The FA banners fluttered in the wind, the lawns perfectly trimmed, and near the entrance, a small crowd of local staff and youth players had gathered, waving flags and clapping as the bus approached.
"Here we go again," muttered Henderson with a grin as he stood to grab his bag.
The bus hissed to a stop beside the main building. The doors swung open, and the smell of wet grass and rain hit them instantly — earthy, clean, unmistakably English. One by one, they stepped down, greeted by applause and cheers from the staff lined up under the overhang.
Francesco was among the last to disembark. As his shoes hit the wet pavement, he took a deep breath of the cool air, feeling it fill his lungs. There was something grounding about it — as though the earth itself was acknowledging what they'd done.
Roy Hodgson stood a few steps away under the shelter of an umbrella, hands clasped behind his back, that familiar thoughtful expression softening into something warmer as he looked over his squad. Even drenched in drizzle, the man radiated quiet pride.
"Alright, lads," he said, his voice carrying over the rain. "Welcome home."
The players gathered around him, forming a loose semicircle — some with hoods up, some just letting the rain soak in. Hodgson waited until the last of the FA staff had finished unloading the cup case from the bus before speaking again.
"I'll keep this brief," he began. "I know you've all had a long few days — and an even longer few weeks. What you've achieved… I think it'll take time to truly understand. You didn't just win a tournament. You restored belief. Not just in this team, but in what English football could be."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over them — Kane, Rooney, Stones, Dier, Sterling, Francesco. "Fifty years is a long time to wait for a trophy. But the way you carried yourselves — with courage, with unity — you've given this country something that will last far beyond any one summer."
The group stood in silence, the rain tapping softly against the pavement. Even Vardy wasn't filming this one.
Hodgson smiled faintly then, that dry, understated expression that had become his trademark. "Now," he said, glancing at his watch, "you've all earned some rest. But don't get too comfortable just yet."
A ripple of laughter went through the group — tired, knowing.
"Tomorrow," Hodgson continued, "I want everyone back here at ten sharp. We'll head out from here together for the open-top bus parade through London. The route ends at Wembley, where we'll hold the ceremony and show the Henri Delaunay Cup to the fans properly. It'll be their turn to celebrate with you."
Even the rain couldn't dampen the spark that lit across the players' faces at that. Wembley. The word carried weight now — not just a stadium, but the heart of everything they'd worked for.
"Until then," Hodgson finished, "rest up, eat properly, and please — for the love of God — don't let Jamie near any cameras tonight."
That got a burst of laughter again, Vardy throwing up his hands in mock protest. "Gaffer, I'm media trained now!"
"You're a hazard," muttered Walker.
The laughter that followed Walker's jab hung in the cool, rain-speckled air for a few more seconds before it softened into the comfortable kind of silence that happens when everyone knows the moment is nearly over. Roy waited until it had settled, then shifted his umbrella slightly and gave that familiar half-smile again — the one that always carried more warmth than he probably realised.
"Oh, and before you all vanish," he added, tone easy but purposeful, "one last thing. Tomorrow's parade is going to be… well, a big one. We'll be moving through central London with open streets and media coverage from every angle. The FA wants to make sure it runs smoothly. So, if any of your family members or partners want to join you on the parade bus, have them meet here at nine-thirty sharp. That gives the staff time to sort passes, security bands, all that fun stuff. The bus itself rolls out at ten."
He glanced up, meeting a few eyes — Rooney, Kane, Francesco — as if to make sure the message landed. "If they can't make it for that, tell them not to worry. We'll see everyone at Wembley afterward for the main ceremony."
The squad nodded, a few murmured acknowledgments. There was something quietly grounding in the way Hodgson handled these moments — steady, organised, but never overbearing. He gave them just enough structure to feel cared for, never caged.
"Alright," he said, finally lowering the umbrella as if to dismiss them. "Go get some rest. You've earned it."
The players began to disperse in small groups — some toward the dorm-style housing on the west side of the complex, others toward their cars. A few staff members lingered to finish unloading gear from the bus, the silver case holding the Henri Delaunay Cup carried carefully inside to the main building under armed security.
Francesco lingered for a moment by the entrance steps, his boots slick with rain. He watched the others drift off — Rooney chatting with Henderson near the foyer, Sterling jogging toward the gym wing to grab a forgotten jacket, Kane stretching as he walked. The drizzle had softened into mist now, and the world felt washed clean, quiet, alive with that post-victory calm.
He dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone, and hit the first number that came to mind. It rang once, twice — then Leah's voice came through, bright and warm even through the faint crackle of the line.
"Hey, superstar," she said, her tone equal parts teasing and affectionate. "Back at St. George's already?"
Francesco smiled, shifting under the overhang. "Yeah. Just got in. Roy gave us the speech — you know, the usual stuff about resting, eating properly, staying out of trouble."
"I assume he looked directly at Vardy when he said that."
"He did," Francesco said, laughing. "Twice."
He could hear her laughter on the other end, that light, musical sound that always seemed to pull the weariness out of his bones.
"So," she said after a beat, "what's the plan for tomorrow? I heard something about a parade?"
"Yeah," Francesco replied, running a hand through his damp hair. "Open-top bus through London, ending at Wembley. Roy just told us that if family or girlfriends want to join, they have to be here at St. George's by nine-thirty. FA staff need to sort security stuff before we leave."
"Okay," Leah said thoughtfully. "Nine-thirty. Got it."
He hesitated, then added, "I was actually going to ask — could you check with my parents too? See if they want to come along? And maybe your family? I think it'd mean a lot, you know, having everyone there."
"Of course," she said instantly. "I'll call them right after this."
He smiled faintly. "Thanks, love."
There was a brief silence — comfortable, the kind that stretched softly between two people who didn't need to fill every second with words. The rain pattered gently against the concrete.
"You sound tired," she finally said.
"Exhausted," he admitted, chuckling. "Feels like my body's still on that pitch in Paris."
"Well," she replied with mock seriousness, "get some sleep, hero. You've got a parade to look pretty for tomorrow."
He grinned, the fatigue melting a little. "I'll try my best. Call me once you've talked to them, yeah?"
"Promise. Love you."
"Love you too."
The call ended, leaving the quiet hum of rain and distant laughter from the complex behind him. Francesco slid the phone back into his pocket, exhaled slowly, and started toward the dorms.
Later that evening, Leah kept her promise. Sitting at her flat in North London, a mug of tea cooling beside her, she made the calls one by one — first to Mike and Sarah Lee, then to her own parents.
Mike answered first, his voice warm, still heavy with pride. "Leah, love! You must be calling about tomorrow."
She smiled, curling her legs up on the sofa. "You guessed right. Francesco wanted me to check if you and Sarah wanted to come on the parade bus. The FA's letting family and partners join — we just have to be at St. George's by nine-thirty."
There was a pause on the line — the sound of Sarah in the background, faint but clear.
"That's very sweet of him," Mike said after a moment. "But I think we'll skip the bus. We were planning to meet you all at Wembley instead. It'll be easier for us to get there directly."
"Are you sure?" Leah asked.
"Positive," Sarah's voice called faintly from somewhere nearby. "You go enjoy it, love. You deserve it. We'll see him there — let him have his moment in front of the fans first."
Leah smiled softly. "Alright. I'll tell him."
She rang off, then dialled her own parents. David picked up this time, the clinking of dinner plates audible in the background.
"Hi, Dad! Just checking — Francesco wanted to know if you, Mum, or Jacob want to join the parade tomorrow? We'd have to be at St. George's by nine-thirty."
David chuckled, his voice filled with that easy warmth she'd missed. "Oh, sweetheart, that's kind of him. But no — we'll meet you all at Wembley. Your mum's already got her England shirt ironed and ready. Jacob's been planning to bring his flag since this morning."
Leah laughed. "Of course he has."
"Tell Francesco we're proud of him," Amanda's voice chimed faintly from the background. "And of you too, darling. You both enjoy the parade. Let the city see what it's been missing for fifty years."
"I will," Leah said softly. "Thanks, Mum."
When the last call ended, she leaned back against the couch and stared at the phone for a long moment. The thought of riding that open-top bus beside him — of seeing the streets of London lined with fans waving, singing, celebrating — filled her with a mix of excitement and awe. She'd seen it on television before, those moments of national triumph. But tomorrow, she'd be part of it — not as a spectator, but as someone who'd lived every heartbeat of his journey.
She texted Francesco quickly:
LEAH: Just spoke to everyone — my parents and yours will all meet you at Wembley. I'll be the only one joining you on the bus. Hope that's okay. ❤️
The reply came almost instantly.
FRANCESCO: Perfect. Wouldn't want it any other way. ❤️ See you in the morning, love.
Back at St. George's, Francesco was stretched out on his bed, phone still in hand, the faint glow of the screen casting soft light over his face. The message made him smile — a slow, tired, content smile that reached his eyes. He set the phone down on the nightstand, closed his eyes, and exhaled.
The room was quiet except for the distant hum of rain on the window and the low murmur of a television from the next corridor. His medal still hung from the lamp beside him, catching the dim light in its golden curve. For the first time in weeks, there was no match ahead to think about, no tactics to memorize, no pressure to shoulder.
Just peace.
Tomorrow would bring its own kind of chaos — the cameras, the parade, the crowds — but tonight, for once, the world could spin without him needing to chase it.
He drifted off somewhere between exhaustion and contentment, the rain outside lulling him into sleep.
Morning came early, as it always did at St. George's. The sun broke through thin streaks of mist over the fields, painting the wet grass in bands of silver and gold. Birds called faintly from the trees beyond the training pitches, and the faint smell of coffee and toast drifted from the cafeteria.
By eight, most of the squad were awake — some still in half-zipped tracksuits, others already dressed for the cameras. Laughter echoed faintly through the corridors again. The same kind of laughter that had filled buses, planes, locker rooms.
At nine-twenty, the first cars began pulling up near the main building — family members, partners, children clutching miniature flags. FA staff in crisp suits moved with practiced coordination, handing out passes, guiding people toward the waiting area.
And then, Leah arrived.
Francesco spotted her through the glass doors before she'd even stepped inside — hair tied back neatly, England jacket zipped halfway, the faintest smile on her lips. For a heartbeat, the bustle of the morning faded.
She reached him in a few quick steps, her eyes lighting up. "Morning, champion," she said, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Ready for another day of being adored by millions?"
He laughed softly, squeezing her hand. "Only if you're beside me."
"Good answer," she teased.
Behind them, Hodgson's voice carried faintly from near the buses as he greeted a few more arriving families. The atmosphere was lighter today — celebratory but organised. The FA had outdone itself; every detail was in place.
Francesco and Leah joined the others as they boarded the open-top bus parked just outside the main building, its sides freshly painted with CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE 2016. Rows of red and white balloons lined the edges, and at the very front, nestled securely in its display cradle, gleamed the Henri Delaunay Cup — England's long-awaited prize.
As Leah settled into her seat beside him, she glanced around at the others — Kane with his fiancée, Rooney with his kids bouncing excitedly, Sterling chatting animatedly with his partner. The sky above them was clear now, the rain gone, replaced by soft morning sunlight.
The engine rumbled softly beneath them, a deep, steady sound that vibrated through the floor of the open-top bus. Around them, the morning air was cool and clean — the kind of crisp English air that carried the scent of rain and summer warmth all at once. The crowd noise was still faint at first, just a hum somewhere in the distance, like the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for them to arrive.
Francesco leaned back against the red leather of the seat, one arm resting loosely along the railing behind Leah. The bus hadn't even begun to move yet, but there was already an electric tension in the air — the kind that made your pulse quicken for no reason other than anticipation. He could feel it in his chest. That same buzz that came before a kickoff.
"Feels strange, doesn't it?" Leah said beside him, her eyes following the long line of buses and police escorts stretching ahead. "Usually, this is the part before the game — not after."
Francesco smiled faintly, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. "Yeah," he murmured. "Except this time, we already won."
She grinned, tilting her head toward him. "You sure? You look like you're about to start pressing the back line again."
He laughed — really laughed — and the tension broke a little. "Old habits."
And then the cheer hit.
It came from somewhere beyond the gates of St. George's Park — one great, swelling roar that seemed to rise from the earth itself. Francesco looked up just in time to see the first cluster of fans appear through the misty morning light — hundreds of them pressed against the outer fences, waving flags, banners, scarves. Some had climbed onto low stone walls; others held up signs painted in red and white, their words shaky and uneven but full of heart:
"FINALLY HOME."
"LEE 9 — OUR KING."
"ENGLAND BELIEVED."
The driver honked twice — a loud, celebratory sound — and the convoy began to roll. Slowly at first, wheels crunching over the wet tarmac, then easing into motion as the police escorts opened the way onto the main road.
Leah turned in her seat, one hand on the railing, her eyes wide. "Oh my God," she whispered, the wonder in her voice soft but unmistakable. "There's so many of them."
Francesco didn't answer right away. He just looked — really looked — at what was unfolding around them.
By the time they reached the first stretch of highway leading toward Burton, the crowds had thickened into walls of people on either side. Entire families stood under umbrellas, kids on their parents' shoulders, elderly couples waving little plastic flags. The bus crawled through at walking speed, but no one minded. Every few seconds, a new wave of sound would roll across — cheering, chanting, horns blaring — as though every street they turned onto had been waiting decades just to let loose.
It wasn't just fans either. TV cameras lined the sidewalks. Reporters stood on ladders and car rooftops, shouting into microphones. Helicopters circled above, their rotors chopping the air, each one bearing the logos of Sky Sports, BBC, ITV. Leah glanced up and caught sight of one — its long camera arm trained directly on them.
"Look," she said, pointing. "You're live, love. Don't forget to smile."
He laughed and gave a little wave, half-sheepish, half-playful. The crowd erupted louder as the cameras zoomed closer. He could almost imagine what the broadcast looked like — his image filling the screen, Leah beside him, flags waving behind them. And somewhere at the bottom of the screen, that headline banner every channel had chosen for the day:
FOOTBALL ARE HOME.
The phrase flashed everywhere. On digital billboards, on banners strung across balconies, on the scrolling tickers of news vans following the route.
Even the BBC commentary, piped faintly through speakers on a nearby truck, was filled with awe:
"And there they are, ladies and gentlemen — your European champions, rolling through the heart of England. Fifty years of waiting, of heartbreak, of almosts — and now, finally, the day the nation can say it: Football are home."
Francesco turned his head slightly, trying not to smile too wide. But he couldn't help it. The chant started then — deep and rumbling, spreading block by block.
🎵 "It's coming home… it's coming home…" 🎵
The old anthem — sung not by one voice but by tens of thousands. The sound climbed up the walls of buildings, echoed through the glass windows, spilled across streets and rivers. Leah reached out, touched his arm lightly, and he looked down at her. Her eyes shimmered with something between pride and disbelief.
"They're singing for you," she said quietly.
He shook his head. "They're singing for all of us."
But she only smiled. "You still led them there."
The bus turned onto the A38, and suddenly London wasn't just a destination — it was visible on the horizon, the skyline glinting faintly in the morning sun. As they approached the city limits, the roar grew. Every bridge, every intersection, every overpass was filled with fans waving flags, tossing confetti, shouting his name.
Francesco leaned forward against the railing, both hands gripping it tight. He could see it now — the red and white tide spilling across the city, a moving celebration that seemed to stretch forever. The air smelled faintly of smoke flares and rain and something sweet, like roasted chestnuts from the street stalls.
Behind them, Sterling had climbed onto his seat, one hand cupped around his mouth as he started leading a chant.
"ENGLAND! ENGLAND! ENGLAND!"
The rest of the squad joined in, banging their fists against the metal railing, laughter mingling with the roar. Kane threw his arm around Francesco's shoulders and shouted above the noise, "You realise what this means, yeah? They're never letting us pay for another pint again!"
Francesco laughed, shaking his head. "You'd drink the savings in a week, mate."
"Probably!" Kane grinned, raising a hand to the crowd, and the fans responded with another cheer that shook the air.
They rolled past Westminster next — Parliament on their left, the Thames glimmering below. The bridges were packed solid. People hung flags from the railings, waved scarves, threw confetti that fluttered down like red and white snow. Leah pressed closer against him, pointing up at a huge digital billboard near the riverbank.
It showed a slow-motion replay from the final: Francesco's goal against France, the one that had sealed it. Underneath, the caption read in bold white letters:
"FRANCESCO LEE — THE MAN WHO BROUGHT IT HOME."
He stared at it for a moment, stunned silent. Then he turned away, overwhelmed, hiding a small smile as he muttered, "Bloody hell."
Leah squeezed his hand. "You deserve it."
The cameras never stopped rolling. Reporters from Sky Sports and BBC were stationed on rooftops, balconies, even in boats along the Thames. Every channel ran split screens — one feed from the helicopter above, one from the crowd level, and one close-up of the players.
You could hear snippets of the commentary floating up through the street speakers:
"There's Francesco Lee — the Golden Boot winner, the Player of the Tournament, the heart of this England side. What a journey it's been for him, from London boy to European champion…"
Children waved homemade signs with his face printed on them. An elderly man lifted his flat cap and saluted as the bus passed. A group of students held up a banner that read, "LEE FOR KING," which made him laugh so hard he nearly dropped the bottle of water in his hand.
Everywhere they went, the same chant followed:
🎵 "Three Lions on a shirt… Jules Rimet still gleaming…" 🎵
And as they crossed into central London, it reached its peak. Trafalgar Square was a sea of red and white — thousands packed shoulder to shoulder, flares painting the air pink and crimson. The fountains had been dyed red, the air thick with confetti. The bus slowed to a crawl as they entered the square, and Francesco stood up fully now, waving both arms to the crowd. The noise was indescribable — deafening, alive, raw.
Leah rose beside him, her hair caught by the wind, her smile wide and bright. "This is insane!" she shouted, though he could barely hear her.
He turned to her, the sun glinting off the silver cup at the front of the bus, and shouted back, "This is England!"
They moved through the square inch by inch, fans reaching out to touch the side of the bus, security guards keeping just enough distance to keep it moving. Francesco reached down once, shaking a small boy's hand — the kid couldn't have been older than seven, his face painted with the St. George's cross, eyes wide with awe.
"You'll be next," Francesco told him over the noise, and the boy nodded, grinning so hard it almost hurt to look at.
By the time they turned toward Wembley, the day had shifted into full celebration. The sky was bright now, streaked with sunlight and ribbons of smoke from flares. Every station on the radio was broadcasting the same thing — live commentary of the parade. The BBC announcer's voice came through again, clear and proud:
"And there it is — the bus now making its way toward Wembley Stadium, where the final ceremony will take place. The headline across every channel today says it all: Football are home. And for the first time in half a century, it feels true."
Leah leaned her head against his shoulder, her voice soft against the roar. "You know," she said, "you might never see anything like this again."
Francesco looked out across the skyline — the flags, the faces, the sound that seemed to shake the very air. "I don't need to," he said quietly. "Once is enough to last a lifetime."
The bus rolled on, slow and triumphant, through streets that felt reborn. Cameras flashed, fans sang, and for that one long, golden morning, England wasn't just a country celebrating victory — it was a country united by it.
________________________________________________
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