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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.
The bus slowly approached Wembley Stadium.
The towers rose in the distance like white sentinels, gleaming through the haze of smoke flares and confetti. Even from half a mile out, Francesco could see the arch — that great silver curve against the blue sky, haloed by sunlight and memory. Around Wembley, the streets had turned into something almost otherworldly: not just a crowd, but a sea. Tens of thousands of England fans lined every road, every bridge, every bit of pavement, waving flags, scarves, and even cardboard replicas of the European trophy.
Some fans were on lampposts, others on the roofs of vans and shopfronts. People sang from open windows. Children sat on their parents' shoulders with faces painted red and white, waving plastic horns. The closer they got, the more unreal it became — the sheer volume, the colour, the joy that seemed to spill from every direction.
Leah leaned forward, eyes wide, the reflection of the arch glinting in her sunglasses. "My God…" she whispered. "It's like the whole country came here."
Francesco didn't answer. He couldn't. For a moment, he was just lost in it — the hum that became a roar, the faces blurring together into a tide of humanity.
When the bus finally turned onto Wembley Way, it was as if time itself slowed.
That long, wide boulevard — once so familiar from every childhood broadcast, every memory of finals and heartbreaks — was now their path of triumph. The air shimmered with red smoke, drifting from flares and fireworks. Banners waved high above the heads of the masses. Some read "CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE"; others simply had his name scrawled across them in thick paint:
LEE 9 — THE LION KING.
OUR HERO. OUR HOME.
Television cameras tracked every inch of it. From above, the aerial view showed a living river of red and white flowing toward the stadium. From below, every step of the bus was greeted by chants, songs, and tears.
🎵 "It's coming home… it's coming home… it's coming…" 🎵
The chant rolled like thunder, each word echoing off the stone walls and glass façades around them. Francesco turned his head and saw Rooney, Kane, Sterling, and Henderson standing at the front of the bus, waving to the crowd with arms raised high. Joe Hart banged a drum someone had passed up, leading the rhythm. Stones and Smalling clapped along, laughing.
It wasn't just celebration anymore — it was catharsis.
From the sidewalks, grown men wept openly, their faces flushed with pride. Women waved Union Jacks from balconies. Kids sprinted alongside the convoy, their sneakers slapping against the pavement as they tried to keep up. For decades, England had chased this dream — now it rolled before them in a slow-moving bus, trophies gleaming in the sunlight.
"Listen to that," Leah said, her voice almost trembling.
He did. The chant had shifted now, swelling into a new rhythm, a single name pulsing through the crowd like a heartbeat:
"LEE! LEE! LEE! LEE!"
It hit him harder than he expected.
He'd heard stadiums chant his name before — at the Emirates, at Wembley during the group stages, even in Marseille when England had silenced France — but this was different. This was his home. His people.
His hand tightened on the railing, knuckles pale. Leah noticed and glanced up at him, her expression softening.
"Breathe," she whispered.
He managed a shaky smile. "Trying to."
The bus crawled forward, almost swallowed by the crowd now. Police escorts flanked the route, but even they were smiling, clapping, waving to fans as the players passed. Overhead, drones hovered, capturing every second of the procession for the world to see. The BBC helicopter circled low, its camera sweeping across the faces on the open-top deck — Francesco, at the heart of it all, sunlight glinting off the golden medal still hanging loosely around his neck.
The BBC commentator's voice echoed faintly through loudspeakers set up along the road:
"And there he is — Francesco Lee, England's talisman, the man who brought it home. Thirteen goals, a Golden Boot, the Player of the Tournament, and a moment that will live forever in English football history."
The crowd erupted again, a tidal wave of sound that made the air vibrate. Francesco caught sight of one banner near the front of the stadium gates — a massive one, painted by hand, stretched across the barrier:
"FROM LONDON TO EUROPE, HE BROUGHT IT HOME."
He blinked, a small, stunned laugh escaping his throat. "They even got my birth city," he murmured.
Leah grinned. "They know everything now, mister Golden Boot."
The bus came to a stop at the base of Wembley's grand staircase. The sound from the crowd became almost unbearable — a roar so huge it blurred into vibration. Security stepped forward, clearing a narrow corridor from the bus to the tunnel entrance.
The players began to rise, gathering their things, slapping each other on the back, still half in disbelief. Kane turned to Francesco, that familiar grin breaking through.
"Go on then, mate," he said, nodding toward the stairs. "Lead us in. You earned it."
Francesco hesitated for a second, then nodded. He took Leah's hand, giving it a light squeeze.
"I'll see you after the ceremony?" he said.
"I'll be right behind the podium," she promised, her eyes bright. "Go make history again."
He smiled — that quiet, grounded smile she loved so much — and stepped off the bus.
The first thing that hit him was the wall of sound. It wasn't just noise; it was emotion made audible — pride, relief, joy, disbelief — all layered together. Every cheer carried fifty years of longing, every voice echoing the same feeling: We finally did it.
As he walked toward the steps, cameras flashed from every angle. Photographers shouted his name, flashes bursting like starlight. He moved slowly, his boots crunching against the temporary red carpet laid out across the concrete.
When he reached the top of the stairs, the view hit him like a punch to the chest.
Wembley was full.
Not just the seats — the aisles, the tunnels, the balconies. Over eighty thousand people crammed inside, waving flags and scarves, their voices rolling across the stands like a storm. The big screen above the arch showed a live feed of the bus arriving, and now his own face filled it — Francesco Lee, smiling faintly as the stadium erupted once more.
He turned slightly, looking back. The rest of the squad was following behind him — Rooney with the trophy in his hands, Vardy waving to the crowd, Dier and Henderson who walk with a big smile on their face. The staff followed — Roy Hodgson, his calm smile hiding a thousand emotions, and behind him, the rest of the coaching team.
The players lined up on the pitch, the European trophy resting on its pedestal near midfield. Beside it, a smaller table had been prepared with the individual awards — golden boots, silver plaques, and the Player of the Tournament trophy gleaming under the midday sun.
Then came the announcement, echoing through the stadium speakers, crisp and ceremonial:
"Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome to the stage His Royal Highness Prince William."
Applause broke out again as the three dignitaries walked out from the tunnel. Prince William smiled warmly, clapping as he approached.
One by one, the England team ascended the short podium steps to receive their medals. Cameras flashed, hands were shaken, shoulders patted. When Francesco's turn came, the announcer's voice seemed to boom louder than before:
"Number nine — Francesco Lee! Player of the Tournament and Golden Boot winner!"
The crowd exploded. The noise was physical, like a surge of wind.
Prince William extended his hand first. "You've made your country very proud, Francesco," he said, his tone warm but formal.
"Thank you, Your Highness," Francesco replied, voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him.
Leah was there, standing near the edge of the pitch among the families and staff. Their eyes met across the distance, and in that instant, nothing else existed — not the cameras, not the officials, not even the trophy in his hands. Just her.
He gave a small nod, the faintest smile. She smiled back, tears glinting in her eyes.
Then the noise came rushing back.
Chants of his name filled the air again:
"LEE! LEE! LEE!"
Kane appeared beside him, the European trophy raised high. "Come on, lad," he shouted over the roar, "let's lift it one more time!"
The team gathered around the center podium, arms over each other's shoulders. The cameras zoomed in, the crowd's chant swelling to a crescendo. Francesco stood front and center, the Golden Boot in his left hand, his right gripping the rim of the silver cup.
The countdown began — from the fans, from the players, from the nation watching on screens across every pub, every living room, every street corner in England.
"THREE… TWO… ONE!"
The confetti cannons exploded.
Red and white paper rained down from the sky. The trophy rose high into the sunlight, glittering like fire. Francesco's voice joined the rest, shouting into the chaos, laughter bubbling out of him unrestrained. Around him, his teammates screamed, jumped, embraced.
The air shimmered with red and white confetti, drifting through shafts of sunlight like falling embers. The sound inside Wembley was indescribable — laughter, singing, the kind of roar that no recording could ever truly capture. Francesco could barely hear his own voice, and yet he kept shouting, the joy pouring out of him like something he couldn't contain.
He turned and found Kane, arms raised, yelling into the sky. Dier was on his knees, pounding the turf, laughing uncontrollably. Rooney stood off to the side, clapping with tears in his eyes. And through the haze of confetti and colour, the faces in the stands blurred into a single wave of red and white.
Then, slowly, the music began to fade.
The chanting softened. The crowd's roar dissolved into applause and cheers that still rolled around the stadium like echoes. The players caught their breath, wiping sweat and tears from their faces. Francesco leaned on Kane's shoulder, laughing breathlessly. "You'd think we just won it again," he said, voice rough.
Kane grinned. "Feels like we did."
The announcer's voice crackled back to life over the PA system, warm and measured — a tone halfway between official ceremony and heartfelt admiration.
"Ladies and gentlemen, what an extraordinary moment for English football. Fifty years of waiting, fifty years of dreams — and at last, it has come home. Today, we celebrate not just a victory, but a generation of players who gave everything to bring pride back to this nation."
The crowd erupted into cheers again, and as the players regrouped near the stage, a tall man in a black suit and a neatly knotted red tie stepped up to the podium set at the halfway line.
It was the Master of Ceremony — a familiar face to anyone who followed English football, a veteran broadcaster whose voice had carried through decades of highs and lows.
He smiled wide as he stepped up to the microphone, waiting for the cheers to die down. "Wow," he said finally, his voice rich with feeling. "Just… wow. Standing here today, at Wembley Stadium, surrounded by heroes, by champions — it's an honour I can hardly put into words."
Applause rolled around the stands.
He looked out toward the players, where Francesco stood near the center, confetti still clinging to his hair and shoulders. "When I got the call asking me to host this ceremony," the MC continued, "I thought they were having a laugh. Me? At Wembley? For the moment we've been dreaming of for half a century? But then I realised — this isn't just about football. It's about every man, woman, and child who ever sang that song and believed that maybe, just maybe, it could come true."
The crowd roared in agreement, breaking into a spontaneous chant of "It's coming home!" that made the MC laugh. He nodded, letting them have their moment before continuing.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, voice steadying, "before we go any further — before we bring up the players to speak, before we hear from the coaches and captains — I want us to take a moment to remember what it took to get here. What this team achieved wasn't luck. It wasn't just form or fate. It was courage, unity, and belief."
He paused, gesturing toward the massive screen that hung beneath Wembley's arch. "So now, I ask everyone — players, fans, families — look to the screen. Let's relive the journey that brought our Lions to glory."
The stadium lights dimmed slightly. The screen flickered to life, and a ripple of anticipation moved through the crowd. Then — a low hum of strings began to play, the kind of cinematic build-up that made goosebumps rise.
Across the giant display, white letters faded into view:
"ENGLAND'S ROAD TO GLORY — UEFA EURO 2016."
The first images appeared — the group stage in France.
There was Francesco, walking out arm-in-arm with Rooney before kickoff against Wales. The crowd in the video was a sea of red shirts, the tension palpable even through the recording. Then came the footage: his first goal against Wales — a perfect volley from outside the box that kissed the top corner. The crowd at Wembley now roared as if the goal had just been scored again, some fans even rising to their feet, clapping, shouting his name.
The montage cut quickly: England's victory over Russia, Wales, and Slovakia that has secured top spot for England in Group B. Henderson's pinpoint cross, Francesco's header, and the explosion of relief when the ball hit the net.
The camera panned over the current players watching the footage on the big screen. Kane laughed, nudging Francesco lightly. "Mate, look at your hair back then," he joked. Francesco grinned, shaking his head. "Don't start, Harry."
Then the footage rolled on — the Round of 16. Northern Ireland.
The crowd cheered again as the screen showed Francesco's brace — two goals and assist that sealed a 3–0 win and sent England through. His celebration — a slide on his knees toward the England fans, fists pumping — filled the screen. Leah, watching from the sideline even now, felt her throat tighten. That had been the night she realised, deep down, that this wasn't just another tournament. Something special was happening.
Then the screen shifted — the quarter-final.
England vs Belgium.
The footage showed the tension of the match — Lukaku's early miss, Courtois' saves, and then that strike from Francesco. A twelve-yard rocket that rattled the post and went in off Courtois' hand, with the game ended with England win 3-1 againts Belgium. The entire Wembley crowd erupted as if it had just happened, flags waving, voices rising. The MC's voice returned faintly over the video:
"The goal that silenced Brussels and sent England into the final four."
The montage transitioned again — a slow zoom into the semi-final headline:
ENGLAND vs PORTUGAL — The Ronaldo Duel.
The footage began with Cristiano Ronaldo's early goal — a header that had silenced the English fans for just a heartbeat. But then came the response. The screen showed Francesco's equaliser. Then, the match finally end with England win 4-2 againts Portugal.
The screen cut to Ronaldo's stunned expression, then to the explosion of joy from the English bench. The roar inside Wembley now was deafening.
Fans began chanting again — "LEE! LEE! LEE!" — as Francesco's younger self on the screen sprinted toward the cameras, shouting into the lens, pounding the badge on his chest.
Leah clasped her hands together, smiling through the tears that had started to gather. She remembered watching that one on the edge of her seat, heart racing so fast she'd barely breathed until the whistle blew.
And then — the final.
The crowd fell quieter, anticipation hanging heavy in the air.
The video slowed, the tone shifting. Somber piano chords played as black-and-white footage of the tunnel appeared — England on one side, France on the other. The captions read:
FINAL — ENGLAND vs FRANCE — PARIS.
The tension returned even now, though everyone in Wembley knew how it ended. As the match was go through extra time, and finally Francesco goal in the last minute that send them to become the champion.
The stadium roared all over again, the same primal joy reborn. Some fans jumped and hugged each other as if it were happening right there and then. Francesco himself stood frozen, watching the screen replay it in slow motion — his face young, fierce, determined. He barely remembered that version of himself, only the surge of adrenaline that had carried him through.
And then the final whistle.
The video showed the team collapsing in tears, arms around one another, confetti falling over them as the words faded onto the screen:
ENGLAND — CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE 2016.
The music swelled. The footage cut to celebrations — Francesco kissing the trophy, Rooney lifting it high, Hodgson clapping with pride. Then, for the final image, the screen showed a freeze-frame: the team huddled together, the silver cup shining in the middle, the caption below reading:
"For England. For history. For home."
As the video ended, Wembley erupted once more. The applause rolled like thunder, a standing ovation that seemed to last forever. Fans waved flags and scarves, singing the chorus of "Three Lions" again, their voices cracking from emotion.
Francesco turned slightly, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Kane nudged him again, voice low but full of warmth. "Hey, don't start crying now, mate. You'll set me off."
Francesco chuckled shakily. "Too late."
On the sidelines, Leah couldn't stop smiling. Around her, players' families hugged, children climbed the barriers to wave at their fathers, mothers, and brothers on the pitch. The sense of unity, of shared triumph, filled every inch of the stadium.
The MC returned to the microphone, his voice slightly hoarse with emotion. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, smiling broadly, "that… was the story of a dream realised. From Wales to France, from doubt to destiny. These men gave us something we'll never forget."
He paused, glancing toward Francesco, whose name still rippled faintly through the crowd. "And at the heart of it — a young man who wore the number nine and carried the hopes of millions on his shoulders."
The crowd responded with another wave of chants, louder now, echoing from one end of the stadium to the other:
"LEE! LEE! LEE! LEE!"
Francesco felt his throat tighten again. He gave a small wave, half shy, half overwhelmed, and the sound rose even higher. The MC laughed, shaking his head. "You see, lad? You're never getting any peace again."
Laughter rippled across the pitch, light and human.
The ceremony continued — the MC calling up Hodgson for a brief speech, then Kane, then a few of the senior players. Each spoke with gratitude, humility, and awe, their voices occasionally breaking under the weight of it all. Francesco's turn came last.
When the MC beckoned him forward, the crowd instantly stood, a wall of applause following him to the microphone. He hesitated, looking around Wembley one last time before he spoke.
"This…" he began, voice low, steady, "…this isn't just our win. It's yours. Every fan who believed when it was easy not to. Every kid who stayed up late to watch us play. Every person who sang even after years of disappointment."
He paused, eyes sweeping the stands. "We didn't just bring it home. You brought us here."
The stadium erupted again, but this time the sound was softer beneath — more emotion than noise.
Leah felt her heart swell with pride.
The MC leaned back toward the microphone after Francesco stepped away. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, voice rising for the grand close, "one last time, please — for your Champions of Europe — for the Three Lions — for England!"
Fireworks exploded behind the arch. The music kicked in again, louder, triumphant. "Three Lions" boomed through the speakers, and this time, even the players sang along, voices hoarse but joyous. Francesco laughed, arm around Kane's shoulder, the silver cup glittering beside them as the anthem of a nation filled the sky.
The cheers were still rolling through Wembley like a living thing when the MC returned to the podium. The last fireworks had just fizzled out above the arch, leaving faint trails of white smoke curling into the sky. The music faded again — not abruptly, but gently, giving space for what came next.
The players stood in a loose half-circle around the podium, the silver European trophy gleaming under the sunlight, confetti still scattered across the grass like fallen snow. Francesco stood beside Kane and Rooney, his arm loosely around his captain's shoulder, both of them still smiling, still trying to take in the reality of it all.
The MC raised his microphone again, his tone warm but now with that ceremonial steadiness returning.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "we've heard from the heart of this victory — from the man who carried England's dream on his shoulders. But now, it's time to hear from the man who guided this team through every moment of this incredible journey. The man whose belief never wavered, even when the world doubted him. Please welcome — England manager, Roy Hodgson!"
The applause that followed wasn't the wild, explosive kind that had met Francesco's name — it was deeper, more grounded, full of gratitude. A standing ovation rose through Wembley as Hodgson stepped forward, his expression a mix of disbelief, pride, and something almost fatherly.
He approached the microphone slowly, adjusting his glasses as the noise washed over him. For a moment, he didn't speak. He just looked around — at the players, the fans, the endless sea of flags.
Then he smiled — that small, weary, genuine smile that everyone who'd watched him through the years had come to know.
"Well," he began, his voice calm, a little shaky, "I've been in football a very long time. Long enough to know that nights like this… don't come around often."
The crowd cheered, and he nodded gently in acknowledgment before continuing.
"I've managed clubs all over the world. I've seen good players, great players… and I've known disappointment too. England has known its fair share of heartbreak. But when I look at these men standing behind me…" He turned slightly, gesturing to the squad, who straightened, their faces glowing with respect. "I see something that England has been searching for a long time — unity."
Applause rippled again, quiet at first, then growing stronger.
"This group," Hodgson went on, "wasn't just talented. We've had talented teams before. But talent alone doesn't win tournaments. What wins tournaments — what wins this," he said, touching the edge of the trophy, "— is heart. It's trust. It's togetherness. It's players who play for one another, not against."
He paused there, his voice softening. "And that didn't come from me. It came from them. From our captain, from our young leaders, and from a lad named Francesco Lee who, if you'll forgive me for saying so, reminded us all what it means to believe again."
The crowd erupted, chanting Francesco's name again — "LEE! LEE! LEE!" — and Hodgson chuckled softly, waiting for it to fade.
"I told the players at the start of this tournament," he continued, "that history doesn't remember excuses. It remembers moments. And tonight — all of you, every one of you out there — witnessed a moment that will be remembered for generations. So from the bottom of my heart… thank you, England. For believing in us, even when it was hard."
He stepped back, raising a hand in salute, his eyes shining faintly. The players clapped, fans roared, and as Hodgson walked back toward them, Kane and Rooney embraced him warmly, Francesco following with a heartfelt pat on his back.
The MC returned once more, his voice carrying that same emotion the entire stadium shared.
"Thank you, Roy. A true gentleman of the game, and now — a legend of English football."
Applause thundered again, but it was already shifting — because everyone knew who was coming next.
"And now," the MC said, his grin widening, "there's one man we've all waited to hear from — the captain, the leader, the heart of this team. A man who's worn the Three Lions longer than most, and who has finally lifted the trophy he's chased his whole career. Ladies and gentlemen — Wayne Rooney!"
The sound that followed was enormous — an outpouring of love and respect that Rooney himself looked almost embarrassed to receive. He stepped forward slowly, medal glinting against his chest, a folded piece of paper in his hand that he didn't even glance at.
He looked around for a long moment before speaking — at the fans, the faces in the stands, the flags waving high. Then he turned his eyes toward his teammates, his voice carrying softly but firmly across the microphone.
"You know," he began, "I've stood in this stadium more times than I can count. Scored goals, played finals, felt both sides of what football can give you."
He paused, exhaling through his nose, his gaze dropping briefly before rising again. "But nothing — nothing — feels like this."
The crowd cheered, and Rooney smiled faintly, his voice cracking slightly as he went on.
"I've been part of a few so-called 'golden generations,'" he said, a hint of wryness in his tone, "and I've seen us come close. I've seen us fall apart, too. Back then… we had the best players in the world. Scholes, Gerrard, Lampard, Terry, Rio, Beckham — you name it. But we never did it. We couldn't."
A silence fell, respectful, heavy with understanding.
"And I've been asked a thousand times why," Rooney continued. "People said it was tactics, luck, managers, the weather, whatever. But I'll tell you the truth." He looked straight ahead, his expression raw, open. "We didn't fail because we weren't good enough. We failed because we weren't together enough."
The words hung there for a moment, echoing through the hushed stadium.
"We carried our rivalries into the camp," he said quietly. "Liverpool versus United, Chelsea versus Arsenal — it was always there, just beneath the surface. We played for the same badge, but not always for the same purpose. We said we were united, but deep down, we weren't."
He paused again, taking a breath. "That changed with this team. And it didn't change because of me."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Rooney smiled faintly, shaking his head. "No, this time… it changed because of someone else. Someone younger, someone brave enough to look us all in the eye and tell us the truth we didn't want to admit."
He turned then, his gaze landing on Francesco. The cameras caught the moment — the young forward looking back at his captain, surprise flickering in his eyes.
"I'll never forget it," Rooney said, his tone softening. "It was a few weeks before the tournament. We were at St. George's Park. Tensions were high — training had been rough, a few of the lads were sniping at each other. And out of nowhere, this kid — this seventeen-year-old — comes up to me after dinner and says, 'Wayne, can we talk?'"
Laughter rippled through the players, but it was affectionate. Francesco lowered his head slightly, smiling shyly as Rooney went on.
"I said, 'Sure, what's up?' And he says — and I'll never forget this — 'I need your help.' I thought he meant something small, like tactics or training, right? But no. He wanted me to help him call a meeting with the senior lads — all the big names, all the personalities. And he said to me, clear as day: 'We can't win this if we're still acting like club rivals. We've got to be brothers. We've got to be England.'"
There was a pause — one of those rare silences that carried the weight of awe.
Rooney's voice softened, carrying the truth of it. "I looked at him, this kid who could've been my son in football years, and I realised he was right. He had more courage in that moment than most of us had in a decade. So we did it. We called everyone in. We sat in that meeting room for hours — just talking. About the past, about pride, about what it means to wear this shirt. And from that day on… we were different."
The crowd broke into applause — not the wild, screaming kind this time, but something deeper, filled with admiration.
"That's why we won this," Rooney said, turning slightly, his hand gesturing toward the trophy. "Because we weren't just a team. We were one family. One nation."
He took a deep breath, then looked back at Francesco, his expression proud and almost paternal. "So yeah, people can call me captain all they want. But the truth is — the real leader out there, the one who gave us our belief back — is standing right beside me."
The cameras zoomed in on the two of them — Rooney's arm slipping around Francesco's shoulder, the older man smiling through the emotion tightening his throat. The crowd's response was volcanic. Wembley shook with chants, the same name rolling again like thunder through the stands:
"LEE! LEE! LEE! LEE!"
Francesco laughed, shaking his head, his cheeks red, but his eyes bright with gratitude. Rooney chuckled too, leaning into the mic one last time.
"Yeah, yeah, alright — you'll give him an even bigger head than he's already got," he joked, earning a wave of laughter through the stadium. "But I mean it. This lad — he's the future. He's the reason this shirt means something again. And as long as he's wearing it, I think football's home to stay."
The cheer that followed drowned out everything else. Flags waved, voices cracked, families in the crowd embraced, tears streaming freely. The players clapped their captain, some even whistling and hollering in approval. Kane patted Francesco on the back; Henderson gave him a thumbs-up.
Rooney turned back toward the fans, raising his arms one last time. "This… this one's for every England fan who never stopped believing," he shouted, voice breaking with pride. "For every time we fell short, for every heartbreak — this is your night. You brought us here!"
Fireworks boomed again above Wembley, scarlet sparks lighting up the afternoon sky. The anthem blared once more, and the players joined in — arm in arm, singing with everything they had left.
The anthem was still echoing across Wembley when Wayne Rooney stepped back from the microphone, the sound of the crowd swelling like a living heartbeat all around him. Fireworks burst above the arch again, showering the pitch in light and red smoke. The players had begun to sing along — off-key, half-laughing, drenched in confetti and sweat — and yet somehow, in that imperfection, it was pure.
Francesco was beside him, still blinking through the blinding lights, one hand on Rooney's shoulder, the other clutching a half-crumpled England flag that some fan had thrown from the stands earlier. His grin was tired but unstoppable — the kind that hurt your face but refused to fade.
Rooney looked at him for a long moment, the noise dimming in his mind. In the background, Kane was shouting something at Dier, Stones was dancing terribly near the trophy, and Hodgson was smiling quietly to himself — but Rooney wasn't hearing any of it. His eyes were on Francesco.
Something in his chest told him that this — this exact moment — was the right one. The right time. The right place.
He turned back toward the crowd, his voice hoarse but still carrying through the microphone.
"You know…" he said, pausing for breath, "I've been wearing this armband for a long time."
The crowd quieted slightly — not silent, but curious. The players glanced toward him, their smiles fading into puzzled looks. Kane frowned lightly. Francesco, still beside him, tilted his head.
Rooney's fingers brushed the red band wrapped around his bicep — that familiar weight he'd carried for years. Through failures. Through criticism. Through endless nights when England had come close but never close enough.
He let out a long breath and gave a small, wistful smile. "It's been my honour," he said softly. "More than anything else I've ever done in football."
The noise in the stands dulled to a low murmur. The camera crews instinctively zoomed in. Even the confetti seemed to hang heavier in the air, drifting slower.
Rooney turned toward Francesco.
"And now…" he said, voice firm but warm, "it's time to pass it on."
Francesco blinked. "What?" he mouthed silently, but Rooney was already unstrapping the armband.
The crowd gasped.
It wasn't rehearsed. Nobody expected it — not the team, not Hodgson, not the MC, not even the FA officials standing near the podium. It was one of those moments that wasn't planned, but that instantly felt like it had been waiting to happen all along.
Rooney held the armband in both hands, looking down at it for a brief moment. The red cloth was faded at the edges, the stitching worn, the crest slightly frayed. It wasn't just a strip of fabric — it was history, pressure, love, and pain all in one.
He looked back up at Francesco, his voice low but clear enough that every microphone picked it up.
"You'll be the captain now," Rooney said. "You'll lead the Three Lions — now and in the future."
A ripple of astonishment spread through the stadium like electricity. The fans rose to their feet, first in disbelief, then in roaring, uncontainable cheers.
Francesco froze. For a heartbeat, he didn't move — didn't even breathe. His brain couldn't quite catch up with what his heart already knew was happening.
"Wayne…" he started, shaking his head. "No, I—"
But Rooney just smiled. That knowing, calm, fatherly smile that said everything without words. He stepped closer and placed the armband firmly around Francesco's left bicep. The gesture was slow, deliberate — symbolic. A passing of eras.
The cameras caught every second — the captain of England, handing the mantle to the new generation.
Francesco swallowed hard. The noise around him blurred into a distant hum. All he could feel was the soft pressure of Rooney's hand on his arm, the weight of the band now sitting against his skin.
"I can't…" Francesco said quietly, his voice cracking with disbelief. "You're the captain. You've always been the captain."
Rooney shook his head. "Not anymore," he said softly. "It's your turn."
The words hit Francesco harder than any goal, any trophy, any roar of a crowd ever had. His throat tightened. He wanted to speak, to say something — anything — but all that came out was a shaky laugh that was half tears.
Kane was the first to react. He clapped — once, twice — then shouted, "Come on, lads!" before leading a cheer that rolled across the pitch. "LEE! LEE! LEE!"
The rest of the team joined in instantly, the chant growing louder, more feverish, more emotional than before. The crowd picked it up, the stands shaking as tens of thousands of voices thundered his name again and again.
Rooney stepped back, still smiling, still clapping. "He's ready," he said simply, almost to himself.
Francesco looked at him, eyes glassy with emotion, and then suddenly stepped forward and hugged him tight. It wasn't the polite embrace of teammates — it was something deeper, heavier, filled with respect and gratitude.
"Thank you," Francesco whispered, his voice trembling. "For everything. For believing in me."
Rooney's hand came up to the back of his neck, steady and firm. "Don't thank me, lad," he murmured. "Just keep doing what you're doing. Keep them believing."
The crowd roared even louder. Flags waved wildly, phones flashed, and the chant of "LEE! LEE! LEE!" mixed with "ENGLAND! ENGLAND!" until the entire stadium felt like it might lift off the ground.
The MC, clearly stunned but quick to recover, lifted his microphone again, his voice ringing out over the thunderous applause.
"Well… ladies and gentlemen," he said, laughing in disbelief, "you've just witnessed something extraordinary — the passing of the torch, from one legend to the next! Wayne Rooney — England's great captain — to Francesco Lee, the man who led us to glory!"
The crowd went absolutely mad.
Cameras flashed, reporters shouted from the touchline, and somewhere in the VIP box, Prince William was on his feet, clapping with visible pride, his voice joining the chant.
Francesco finally looked down at the armband again, turning it gently on his arm as if he still couldn't believe it was real. The red fabric stood out vividly against the white of his jersey. He touched it once, then looked back at Rooney — the man who'd just changed his life in front of the world.
He raised his arm slightly, almost hesitantly, and the crowd's response was instant — another wave of thunder. He couldn't help it; he laughed through the tears that finally spilled over, shaking his head in disbelief.
Kane wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Well, Captain," he teased with a grin, "guess drinks are on you now."
Francesco laughed, wiping his eyes. "Drinks? Mate, after this, I might just buy the whole bloody pub."
Rooney chuckled, stepping back toward the rest of the team. "That's the spirit," he said. "Just don't forget to pick up the bill."
The players burst into laughter, the tension breaking, replaced by that raw joy that comes after history has already been made.
But deep inside, Francesco felt something shift — something fundamental. The armband wasn't just a piece of cloth; it was a promise. A duty. A future he'd just inherited from a man he'd idolized since childhood.
He remembered being a kid — sitting in front of a flickering TV, watching Rooney smash goals from impossible angles, dreaming that one day he'd be on that pitch. Now, he stood there as the new captain of England, with Rooney's handprint still warm on his shoulder.
The gravity of it nearly buckled him. But then he looked up — saw the sea of faces, the flags, the pride, the belief — and steadied himself.
He lifted the trophy again, this time as captain.
The roar that followed was almost physical — it struck through him like a wave, every shout, every song, every tear feeding into the moment.
Fireworks exploded once more, streaking across the fading daylight. The air smelled of gunpowder and grass and victory.
Rooney stood just behind him, watching with quiet satisfaction. Kane leaned in close and said, "Feels right, doesn't it?"
Francesco nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said softly. "It does."
Then, for the first time as captain, he turned back to the crowd and raised his voice over the chaos.
"England!" he shouted. "This is for you!"
The entire stadium answered, a single, unstoppable roar that shook the air. And somewhere in that storm of sound and light and emotion, the old era ended and the new one began.
The future of English football — with a red armband, a fearless grin, and the heart of a lion — had just taken its first breath.
________________________________________________
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