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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
The job was done as it was not perfect and everything, but it's right and that exaclty how it needed to be.
The final whistle didn't echo for long.
It never really did.
One sharp sound, and then the game slipped almost immediately into something else entirely. Not silence, not celebration not fully just a shift. The tension that had held everything together for ninety minutes loosened. The structure stayed, but the edge softened.
Francesco stood still for a second after stepping back onto the pitch.
Hands resting loosely at his sides.
Breathing steady.
Eyes scanning.
Not searching for anything specific.
Just taking it in.
Because moments like this weren't about noise.
They were about recognition.
England 4–0.
Away.
Job done.
Around him, the players began to move again. Not in formation now. Not in structure. Just natural movement. Small clusters forming. A few words exchanged. Light nods. Quiet acknowledgments of the work that had just been completed.
Harry Kane was already shaking hands with one of the Malta defenders, his expression calm, respectful. Jordan Henderson clapped once, not loudly, just enough to bring a bit of energy back into his own body before stepping forward.
Francesco didn't rush.
He never did after moments like this.
He took a step forward.
Then another.
And then he was there.
Among both sides.
The lines between teams blurred now, replaced by something simpler.
Respect.
He approached the first Malta player in front of him. Their eyes met briefly. No tension. No frustration directed outward. Just fatigue. Effort. And the weight of the result.
Francesco extended his hand.
"Good game," he said.
Simple.
The Malta player nodded, shaking it firmly.
"Yeah… you too."
There wasn't much more to add.
There didn't need to be.
Francesco moved to the next.
Same motion.
Same tone.
"Good game."
Another handshake.
Another nod.
Some players responded with a quiet "well played," others just nodded, their expressions heavier. You could see it in their shoulders. In the way they held themselves.
A 4–0 loss at home wasn't easy.
It never was.
One of the Malta midfielders hesitated slightly before meeting Francesco's hand. His eyes dropped for just a second before lifting again.
Francesco noticed it.
Didn't ignore it.
He tightened his grip slightly.
"Keep going," he added.
Not loud.
Not performative.
Just direct.
The player blinked once, then nodded.
"Yeah."
It was small.
But it mattered.
Because respect after a match wasn't just about shaking hands.
It was about recognizing the effort on both sides.
Francesco moved along the line, repeating the process. Each handshake steady. Each word measured. No overdoing it. No empty gestures.
Just real acknowledgment.
Kyle Walker passed behind him, offering a quick "unlucky, mate" to one of the defenders he'd battled all game. Raheem Sterling, now off the pitch, stood near the sideline doing the same with a couple of players he knew.
Marcus Rashford exchanged a few quiet words with someone on the opposite side, a brief conversation that ended with a mutual nod.
Even Jermain Defoe lingered for a second longer with one of the Malta forwards, offering something more than just a handshake.
Because they all understood it.
Football didn't end at the whistle.
Not really.
Francesco reached the last player in the line.
A younger one.
You could tell.
The way he held himself.
The way his shoulders dropped just a little more than the others.
Francesco extended his hand again.
"Good game."
The player hesitated, then took it.
"…yeah."
There was something else there.
Frustration.
Disappointment.
Maybe even a bit of doubt.
Francesco held the handshake for just a fraction longer than usual.
"You'll be alright," he said.
The player looked up at him.
Surprised.
Then nodded once.
"Thanks."
Francesco released the grip and stepped back.
That was it.
No long speeches.
No drawn-out consolation.
Just enough.
Because anything more wouldn't have felt real.
The lines dissolved completely after that. Players drifted away from the center of the pitch, some heading toward the tunnel, others lingering for a moment longer.
Francesco stayed where he was for a second.
Looking around.
At the pitch.
At the players.
At the space that had just held everything.
Then he turned.
His eyes moved toward the stands.
The away end.
And that's when he saw them.
England fans.
Not massive in number.
But present.
Loud.
Committed.
They had followed.
All the way here.
Different country.
Different conditions.
Same support.
Francesco didn't need anyone to tell him what came next.
He stepped forward.
Then raised his arm slightly.
A small gesture.
But enough.
"Come on," he said, turning his head slightly toward the others.
Not loud.
But clear.
Kane saw it first.
Then Henderson.
Walker followed.
Rashford.
Sterling.
One by one, the England players began to move in the same direction.
Toward the away stand.
Not rushed.
But together.
Because this part mattered too.
The walk felt different.
Lighter.
Not because the game had been easy.
But because it had been handled.
Controlled.
Finished.
Francesco led the group without making it look like he was leading.
Just walking at the front.
Natural.
Unforced.
As they got closer, the sound grew louder.
The England fans had already started.
Chants rising.
Voices carrying.
Flags moving.
Energy building.
Francesco slowed slightly as they approached.
Turned to face them fully.
The rest of the squad spread out beside him, forming a loose line.
No formation.
No instruction.
Just presence.
For a second, he stood still.
Looking up at them.
Taking it in.
Then he raised both hands.
Not high.
Not dramatic.
Just enough.
A simple acknowledgment.
Thank you.
The players followed.
Clapping.
In rhythm.
Not rushed.
Not half-hearted.
Real.
The fans responded immediately.
Louder now.
More energy.
More connection.
Because they saw it.
They felt it.
This wasn't just routine.
It was appreciation.
Francesco kept clapping, eyes scanning across the stand. Different faces. Different ages. Different stories.
But all there for the same reason.
Support.
Commitment.
Belief.
Kyle Walker leaned slightly toward him.
"Good turnout," Walker said under his breath.
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
Walker kept clapping.
"They always travel."
Francesco didn't respond.
But he knew.
That's why they were here now.
Because it mattered.
Harry Kane stepped slightly forward, raising his hands higher for a moment, acknowledging the chants directed at him. Henderson followed, clapping steadily, his expression calm but appreciative.
Rashford gave a small wave toward one section before returning to clapping.
Sterling nodded toward the crowd, his movements relaxed now, tension fully released.
Francesco stayed steady.
Clapping.
Present.
No need for anything more.
After a minute or two, the energy settled slightly.
Not gone.
But complete.
The connection made.
The acknowledgment given.
Francesco lowered his hands slowly.
Then gave one final nod toward the stand.
A silent thank you.
Before turning slightly.
The others followed.
No signal needed.
Just instinct.
Because they all knew when the moment had reached its end.
They began to walk back.
Not rushed.
Not dragging.
Just steady.
Back toward the tunnel.
Back toward the next phase.
Behind them, the fans were still singing.
Still present.
Still proud.
And that sound followed them.
Not loud enough to overwhelm.
But strong enough to stay.
Francesco walked at the same pace.
Same posture.
Same calm.
But there was something settled now.
Not satisfaction.
Not complacency.
Just acknowledgment.
The job had been done.
The work had been right.
The walk back toward the tunnel didn't feel heavy.
It could have.
After ninety minutes, after the heat, after the constant movement, after the focus that never really loosened until the whistle, but it didn't.
It felt settled.
Not relaxed.
Not careless.
Just complete.
Francesco kept his pace steady, boots brushing lightly against the grass as he moved alongside the rest of the squad. The noise from the away end still followed them, softer now, but still there, still present in the background like something that didn't quite want to let go yet.
Walker was a step ahead, still half-turning back once in a while, clapping one last time toward the fans.
"Good one," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Francesco didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
Because it had been.
Clean.
Controlled.
Done the right way.
They were only a few steps from the tunnel entrance when a voice cut through that not loud, but direct enough to be heard over everything else.
"Francesco!"
He slowed.
Just slightly.
Turned his head.
A staff member stood near the sideline, wearing the familiar accreditation around his neck. FIFA staff. Neutral. Professional. Already in motion before Francesco had fully stopped.
"Interview," the staff member said, gesturing lightly toward the pitch-side area. "Just over here."
Francesco looked at him for a second.
No hesitation.
No question.
Just acknowledgment.
"Yeah."
He shifted his direction immediately, stepping away from the group without making it a moment.
Kane glanced back briefly as he noticed.
"Media?" he asked.
Francesco nodded once.
"Yeah."
Kane gave a small nod.
"Go on."
No more than that.
Because this part was understood too.
Francesco peeled away from the flow of players heading toward the tunnel, following the staff member along the sideline. The grass felt slightly cooler underfoot now, the intensity of the match replaced by the after-effect of it still warm, still alive, but quieter.
They walked past a few camera operators already repositioning.
Cables running along the ground.
Microphones being adjusted.
The post-match routine already in motion around them.
The staff member slowed near a designated area just off the pitch. A small setup. Camera facing forward. Interviewer already in position, holding a microphone, earpiece in, nodding as Francesco approached.
"Right here," the staff member said, stepping aside.
Francesco nodded once.
"Alright."
He stepped into position.
Not stiff.
Not overly composed.
Just natural.
The interviewer smiled briefly, extending a hand.
"Well played today."
Francesco shook it.
"Thanks."
They positioned themselves quickly.
No delay.
No unnecessary setup.
Camera light flicked on.
The subtle shift in attention was immediate.
The world narrowed again.
But this time, differently.
Not like during the match.
Not pressure.
Just presence.
"Francesco," the interviewer began, voice clear, practiced, but not forced. "A strong performance today. A 4–0 win away from home, and you opened the scoring. How are you feeling after that result?"
Francesco didn't rush the answer.
He never did.
"Good," he said simply.
A small pause.
"We did what we came to do."
The interviewer nodded.
"You set the tone early with that goal in the 12th minute. Can you talk us through it?"
Francesco's eyes shifted slightly, not looking at anything in particular, just recalling the moment.
"Walker had space," he said. "I saw it."
He paused briefly.
"Just moved into it."
Another short breath.
"Good ball."
That was it.
No over-explanation.
No dramatization.
Because that's how he saw it.
The interviewer smiled slightly.
"Very composed finish as well."
Francesco shrugged lightly.
"Had to be."
There was a faint shift in the interviewer's expression as somewhere between amusement and respect.
"And as captain today," he continued, "how important was it for you and the team to control the game the way you did?"
Francesco's posture didn't change.
But his tone carried just a little more weight now.
"Important," he said.
"We stayed disciplined."
A small pause.
"Didn't rush."
He glanced briefly toward the pitch behind the camera.
"Just played our game."
The interviewer nodded again, clearly expecting that kind of answer, but still leaning into it.
"You looked very calm out there, even when the tempo increased. Is that something you focus on, staying composed in those moments?"
Francesco didn't think long.
"It's part of it."
Then, after a second:
"If you lose that, everything else goes."
The interviewer let that sit for a moment.
Then shifted slightly.
"And how do you assess the team performance overall? Three goals in the first half, one in the second, clean sheet. Would you say that's close to what you were aiming for?"
Francesco nodded once.
"Yeah."
Then added:
"We can still be better."
It wasn't said critically.
Just fact.
The interviewer gave a small, knowing smile.
"Always room to improve."
Francesco didn't respond.
But his expression said enough.
Because that was the mindset.
Always.
"Final question," the interviewer continued, adjusting his grip on the microphone slightly. "The fans who traveled here today were very vocal. You and the team went over to thank them after the match. How much does that support mean to you?"
This time, Francesco's eyes shifted again.
Toward the stand.
Even though it was no longer in full view.
"They came a long way," he said.
Simple.
Clear.
A small pause.
"We respect that."
Another beat.
"That's why we go over."
No embellishment.
No exaggeration.
Just truth.
The interviewer nodded.
Satisfied.
Because that was enough.
"Francesco, thank you."
Francesco gave a small nod.
"Yeah."
For a second, it seemed like the interview was done.
The camera light still on.
The interviewer lowering the microphone slightly, then he paused.
A slight shift.
Something added.
"Actually, before you go…"
Francesco remained still.
Waiting.
The interviewer reached slightly to the side, where another staff member stepped forward, holding a small, familiar trophy.
Man of the Match.
The shape recognizable.
The meaning clear.
The interviewer turned back toward him, a small smile returning.
"For your performance today and your goal, you've been awarded the Man of the Match."
He extended it toward Francesco.
Francesco looked at it for a second.
Not surprised.
Not overly reactive.
Just acknowledging.
Then he reached out.
Took it.
"Thanks."
The weight of it settled in his hands.
Not heavy.
But present.
The interviewer continued, a hint of lightness now in his tone.
"Well deserved."
Francesco nodded once.
"Yeah."
No speech.
No big reaction.
Just acceptance.
Because for him, it wasn't about the award.
It was about the performance.
The work.
The result.
The camera stayed on for another second longer.
Capturing the moment.
Francesco standing there, holding the trophy.
Calm.
Composed.
Exactly the same as he had been on the pitch.
Then the light flicked off.
The moment ended.
Just like that.
The interviewer relaxed slightly.
"Appreciate it," he said, extending his hand again.
Francesco shook it.
"Yeah."
The staff member stepped forward once more.
"All good," he said.
Francesco nodded.
"Alright."
He shifted the trophy in his hand slightly, then turned.
The pitch behind him felt different now.
Quieter.
More open.
Most of the players had already disappeared down the tunnel.
The noise from the stands fading gradually.
The space around him didn't rush him out.
It never really did after something like that.
For a few seconds, Francesco just stood there at the edge of the pitch, the Man of the Match trophy resting comfortably in his hands. The weight of it wasn't what mattered. It was what it represented with ninety minutes of clarity, discipline, and execution.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The stadium had already begun to empty in patches. Not fully, not suddenly, but gradually. The noise had dropped from a constant presence into something softer, scattered, like waves breaking further away from the shore.
He adjusted his grip on the trophy slightly.
Then turned.
The tunnel waited again.
Same entrance.
Different feeling.
The walk back this time carried something lighter with it. Not celebration, not pride in an obvious sense. Just completion. The job had been done the way it needed to be done.
Boots tapped against the surface as he stepped off the pitch and into the tunnel. The light shifted quickly, bright sun replaced by the cooler, dimmer interior. The echo returned too, sharper now, because fewer people were around to absorb it.
He walked alone for a few steps.
Then picked up the faint sound ahead.
Voices.
Laughter.
Something louder than before.
He didn't react outwardly.
But he heard it.
Because the dressing room, this time was different.
He pushed the door open.
And the shift hit immediately.
The room wasn't silent anymore.
Not controlled in the same quiet way it had been before kickoff or at halftime.
It was alive.
Kyle Walker was in the center of it, already halfway through some kind of chant, clapping his hands in rhythm.
"—and that's how it's done, boys!"
A few of the others laughed, joining in with uneven claps, the rhythm not perfect but not meant to be.
Marcus Rashford leaned back against one of the lockers, shaking his head with a grin.
"You started that?" he asked Walker.
Walker pointed at himself, mock offended.
"Of course I did."
Jermain Defoe was laughing beside him.
"Sounds about right."
Harry Kane sat near his spot, a small smile on his face, not leading anything, not stopping it either. Just letting it happen.
Jordan Henderson stood nearby, shaking his head once but there was a hint of approval in it.
"Keep it down a bit," Henderson said, though his tone didn't carry any real demand.
Walker turned to him.
"Captain's gone quiet now, yeah?" he joked.
Henderson smirked faintly.
"Just don't break anything."
That got another round of laughter.
Francesco stepped fully into the room.
No announcement.
No shift in his expression.
But a few heads turned anyway.
Walker spotted him first.
"There he is!" he called out.
Francesco didn't react to the volume.
Just walked forward.
Walker pointed at the trophy in his hand.
"Yeah, yeah, show it off then."
Francesco glanced at it briefly.
Then at Walker.
"Just gave it."
Walker laughed.
"Course you did."
Rashford pushed himself off the lockers slightly, nodding toward him.
"Good finish, that."
Francesco nodded back.
"Yeah."
Short.
Clean.
But enough.
Kane looked over as well.
"Nice movement for it," he added.
Francesco set the trophy down near his spot.
"Ball was there."
Kane nodded.
"Still had to finish it."
Francesco didn't reply.
Because that part was understood.
The room didn't quiet down completely after that.
But it shifted slightly.
Not because of him.
Just because moments like that didn't last forever.
The laughter eased into conversation.
Voices dropped a level.
Still relaxed.
Still light.
But less chaotic.
Francesco moved to his place.
Same as always.
Bag down.
Unzipped.
Boots loosened.
He sat this time.
Leaning forward slightly as he began unlacing them properly.
The tension in his legs was still there.
Not heavy.
But present.
A reminder of the work.
Across from him, Dele Alli dropped onto the bench.
"Three before half-time helped," Alli said, more reflective now.
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
Alli leaned back.
"They didn't really recover from that."
"Didn't let them," Francesco replied.
Alli smirked faintly.
"True."
On the other side, Walker was still half-talking, half-joking with Rashford.
"Mate, you nearly took that defender out completely," Walker said.
Rashford shrugged.
"He got in the way."
Walker laughed.
"Yeah, that's one way to put it."
The energy stayed easy.
Because the result allowed it.
Because the work had been done properly.
Because there was no tension left to carry.
Francesco pulled his boots off finally.
Set them down neatly beside him.
Then reached for his socks.
Everything still methodical.
Still structured.
Even here.
Even now.
After a few minutes, the shift came again.
Natural.
Unspoken.
Showers.
Recovery.
The next phase.
Players began to stand, grabbing towels, moving toward the showers in small groups.
Walker clapped once.
"Right, before we all start smelling worse than we already do."
"That's just you," Rashford replied.
More laughter.
Francesco stood up.
Picked up his towel.
No rush.
No delay.
He moved toward the showers with the others.
The sound changed again.
Water running.
Voices echoing off tiled walls.
The steam building slowly, filling the space.
He stepped under the water.
Let it run over him.
Heat first.
Then slightly cooler.
Not standing there too long.
Just enough.
Because even recovery had structure.
Around him, the others were still talking, voices bouncing between subjects now.
Moments from the match.
Small jokes.
Observations.
Nothing deep.
Nothing heavy.
Just release.
Walker's voice carried again.
"Still saying it, too easy."
"Yeah, alright," Henderson replied from somewhere nearby. "We get it."
"Just facts," Walker insisted.
Francesco didn't join in.
But he listened.
Not fully.
Just enough.
Because it was part of it.
Team.
Connection.
Even in small moments like this.
He stepped out after a few minutes.
Dried off quickly.
No lingering.
Back to his spot.
The room had shifted again.
Now quieter.
More settled.
Players changing.
Fresh clothes.
England jumpsuits laid out neatly.
Francesco reached for his.
Pulled it on without hesitation.
Zipped it up.
Adjusted it once.
Done.
Around him, the others followed the same process.
Kane finished first, standing up, stretching his arms once.
"Bus soon," he said.
Henderson nodded.
"Yeah."
Walker dropped onto the bench again briefly.
"Food better be ready."
Rashford smirked.
"That's what you're thinking about?"
Walker looked at him.
"Always."
Francesco zipped his bag.
Picked it up.
The trophy placed carefully inside.
Not as something to show.
Just something to carry.
Because it was done now.
No need to hold onto the moment longer than necessary.
The room emptied gradually.
Not all at once.
But steadily.
Player by player.
Presence by presence.
Francesco stepped out into the corridor again.
Same path.
Same direction.
But everything behind them now.
The match.
The performance.
The result.
All completed.
Outside, the air hit again.
Still warm.
But different now.
Because the work was finished.
The bus waited.
Engine running.
Door open.
Ready.
Players moved toward it.
Francesco stepped on.
Same seat.
Window.
Routine.
Walker dropped in beside him again.
"Good day," Walker said, leaning back.
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
Walker exhaled.
"Can't complain."
Francesco glanced out the window.
"Did the job."
Walker smirked.
"Always like that, you."
Francesco didn't respond.
Because that was enough.
The bus pulled away.
Slowly at first.
Then steady.
The stadium faded behind them.
Lights.
Structure.
All shrinking into the distance.
Inside the bus, the energy was different again.
Not silent.
But softer.
More relaxed.
Conversations started in small pockets.
Not loud.
Not chaotic.
Just easy.
Kane sat forward slightly, speaking quietly with Henderson again.
Rashford leaned back, eyes half-closed, resting.
Defoe looked out the window, calm.
Walker stretched his legs slightly.
"Hotel, food, then nothing," he said.
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
Walker glanced at him.
"You ever switch off?"
Francesco looked out at the passing streets.
"Later."
Walker laughed under his breath.
"Fair enough."
The roads of Malta moved past them again.
Different now.
Same place.
Different feeling.
Because now they weren't arriving.
They were returning.
The sky had shifted slightly.
Evening starting to settle.
Light softer.
Shadows longer.
Francesco watched it without thinking too much.
Just observing.
Because sometimes, that was enough.
The bus ride stayed smooth.
No interruptions.
No delays.
Just steady movement back toward the hotel.
And inside, the team carried something with them.
Not just the result.
But the way it had been done.
Clean.
Controlled.
Right.
Francesco leaned back slightly in his seat while his hands resting loosely, with eyes still on the window.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 11
Goal: 14
Assist: 1
MOTM: 1
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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