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Francesco just grinned and looked back toward the stands one more time, letting it all soak in. This was his night. His club. His title.
Francesco jogged back from the interview zone, the buzz of his own words still ringing in his ears. His heart was still pounding—not from the game now, but from the honesty he'd just thrown into the world. No filters. No clichés. Just the truth, from his gut. He knew it might stir things up in the papers tomorrow, but he didn't care. Not tonight. Tonight was about everything he'd worked for since he was a kid kicking a ball around in the park.
As he reached the side of the pitch, the sea of red and white still bouncing and singing in the away end, Francesco spotted them—Mike, Sarah, and Leah. His family. His core.
Sarah looked like she'd cried even more while he was gone. Her eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks stained with joy. Mike had the Golden Boot tucked under his arm like it was a sacred relic, like if anyone even thought about touching it, they'd lose a hand. And Leah—Leah was smiling at him like she knew everything he was thinking without a word spoken.
He slid his arm around her waist as he stepped beside them, pulling her in close. She leaned her head into his shoulder automatically, and he kissed her temple before grinning at the three of them.
"So…" he started, already chuckling, "guess what just happened."
Mike raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I don't know. You win us the league, score a hat-trick at Old Trafford, pick up the Golden Boot, and now you're telling me there's more?"
Francesco laughed, chest still rising and falling from the adrenaline. "They pulled me for an interview. Usual stuff at first—'how does it feel, Golden Boot, blah blah blah.' So I reminded them."
Sarah blinked, still wiping at her eyes. "Reminded them?"
"That I told them," Francesco said, tightening his grip around Leah, "before the season started, I told them I was going to win the Golden Boot. And they all laughed back then. Said I was too young, not ready. So I gave it back to them, right on camera."
Leah burst out laughing. "You didn't."
"Oh, I did," he said proudly. "Told them straight. I said, 'You didn't believe me, but I believed in myself—and now look.'"
Mike laughed and clapped a hand on his son's shoulder. "That's my boy."
"And then," Francesco continued, clearly enjoying this now, "they asked why we didn't settle for a draw when we knew Chelsea were losing. Said we could've parked the bus, taken the point."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "Typical."
"Exactly," Francesco nodded. "So I said, first—I don't settle. Not when we can win. Why play it safe? We're Arsenal. We didn't want to sneak the title. We wanted to take it. Right there. In front of the world. At Old Trafford."
Leah looked up at him, admiration in her eyes. "And second?"
Francesco smirked, voice dipping just slightly lower. "I said, 'I'm not thanking Chelsea.'"
Mike and Sarah both laughed.
"They didn't help us," he added. "They bottled it. That's not a favor, that's just Chelsea being Chelsea. I told them—this title is ours. We earned it. We didn't need a gift. We beat Manchester United on their turf. We didn't settle, and we didn't ride on anyone's failure."
Sarah leaned in and kissed her son's cheek, her voice catching just a bit. "You've grown up so much."
Francesco looked at her, that warm, boyish grin still hiding behind the fire in his chest. "Nah, Mum. I just finally caught up to the dream."
They stood there for a few more moments, the four of them caught in a pocket of time where the world was perfect. Francesco glanced around—players were still out on the pitch, some giving their final interviews, others sprawled on the grass, just soaking it in. Wenger was still lingering too, not in a rush to leave the stage he'd built one more masterpiece on.
Leah nudged him softly. "You know that interview's gonna go viral, right?"
"Oh, I know," he said with a smirk.
"You're going to get under Chelsea's skin."
He shrugged, utterly unapologetic. "Good. They should be embarrassed. They were in the race and collapsed when it mattered. We showed up. That's the difference."
"You're going to make some enemies," she teased, though there was pride in her voice.
"I'm used to it," Francesco said, half-smiling. "Let them hate. Let them doubt. That's how this all started, remember? Everyone saying I couldn't. That Arsenal couldn't."
Mike clapped him again, gripping his shoulder. "And now they can't say a damn thing."
Francesco let that sit for a second, feeling the weight of it in his chest. Because it was true. All the noise, all the slander, all the backhanded headlines and talk-show critiques—they were silent now. The scoreboard at Old Trafford, the match ball in his hand, the Premier League trophy waiting behind him—those were louder than any words ever could be.
And yet, somehow, it still felt like the beginning.
"You gonna talk to the fans again before you head in?" Sarah asked gently.
Francesco looked toward the away end. They were still singing. Still holding banners, scarves, shirts. Still chanting his name.
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. I'll go one more time."
He kissed Leah again, hugged his mum tight, gave Mike a firm handshake and a smile that only a son could give his father—the kind that said "We did it." Then he jogged back toward the Arsenal fans, this time with no cameras chasing him, no questions being thrown his way.
He just stood in front of them, holding the match ball aloft, nodding to their chants, his name echoing from the rafters. He raised both arms, thanking them, giving everything he had left in that final gesture. This was for them too. The fans who'd stuck around since the Invincibles, who'd suffered the heartbreaks, who'd waited over a decade for a moment like this.
Francesco stood before the Arsenal fans, his arms raised high, the match ball in one hand, his heart still pounding in rhythm with the chants that echoed through Old Trafford. His name rolled through the crowd like thunder—"Francesco! Francesco! Francesco!" He felt every note in his chest. He had dreamed of this moment, lived it in his mind a thousand times, but now that it was real, it hit deeper than anything he'd imagined.
He scanned the crowd—smiling faces, flags waving, scarves held aloft. Then, just as he was about to turn back toward the tunnel, he spotted something. Something small but powerful.
It was a boy, maybe eight or nine years old, squeezed up against the barrier with his parents behind him. His cheeks were flushed, his hands trembling slightly as he held up a sign. A makeshift one, scrawled in black marker on a piece of cardboard that looked like it had been cut from an old shoebox. It read:
"FRANCESCO, CAN I HAVE YOUR SHIRT?"
Francesco froze.
He stared at the kid—really looked. The wide eyes. The hope. The kind of belief that was pure and untouched by cynicism. That boy wasn't just holding up a sign; he was holding out a dream. One Francesco knew intimately. Because once, he had been that boy. In the stands. Watching his heroes. Believing.
He looked down at his own shirt. Sweat-soaked, dirt-smudged, creased from the game of his life. This was the shirt he'd worn when he'd scored a hat-trick at Old Trafford. The shirt from the day Arsenal became champions again. The beginning of his legend.
It mattered. He knew it did.
But the memory it could give someone else? That could matter even more.
Francesco nodded to himself, exhaled, and reached down. With deliberate hands, he pulled the shirt over his head, held it for a moment—just one moment—and then jogged toward the stands.
The boy's eyes widened. He lowered the sign slowly, disbelief washing over him as Francesco approached. The parents behind him gasped audibly, clutching each other's arms.
Francesco didn't say a word. He just leaned over the barrier, smiled at the boy, and handed him the shirt. The kid's hands shook as he took it, staring at the number 35 and the Arsenal badge like it was made of gold. His mouth opened in shock—he couldn't even speak. Behind him, his parents erupted with a cheer, one of them pumping their fist in the air, the other clutching the boy to their chest like he'd just been handed the crown jewels.
Francesco smiled one last time, gave the boy a wink, then turned and jogged toward the tunnel. As he disappeared into the bowels of Old Trafford, he could still hear the boy's voice, high-pitched and disbelieving, cut through the air behind him:
"Mum! He gave it to me! He really gave it to me!"
The roar of the parents followed. Pure joy.
Francesco didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
That moment was etched in his heart.
As he entered the dressing room, the contrast was immediate. Where the tunnel had been calm, almost quiet, the dressing room was chaos—glorious chaos.
Champagne bottles—everywhere. Half-empty, shaken-up, spraying. The floor was a puddle. The walls were sticky. Shirts were off, music was blaring, and players were either dancing, shouting, or embracing in tearful joy.
Walcott was on top of one of the massage tables, spraying champagne like he was Formula One champion. Koscielny had a bucket on his head for some reason. Wilshere was leading a chant that sounded like a mix between a pub song and a war cry. Cazorla was barefoot, swinging his shirt around like a lasso. Even Özil had cracked a grin and was tapping a rhythm on an overturned ice cooler with a water bottle.
Francesco stepped inside, and the moment they saw him, the noise exploded even louder.
"THERE HE IS!!"
"Golden Boot!"
"The Hat-Trick King!"
A champagne cork flew past his ear. He laughed and ducked as Walcott sprayed him full in the chest with a high-pressure blast. Francesco grabbed a towel and threw it at him, laughing.
"Oi! I just gave my shirt away to a kid—now I've got nothing!"
"Then you'll fit in perfectly," Wilshere shouted, gesturing to the several shirtless players already celebrating.
Francesco dropped the match ball gently on the bench next to his boots and collapsed beside it, finally letting the exhaustion of the day wrap around him like a blanket. He closed his eyes for a second, just listening—to the laughter, the music, the voices of brothers who had just made history together.
Then the door opened, and a hush slowly rolled across the room like a wave.
Arsène Wenger had entered.
He wasn't shouting. He didn't need to. Just the sight of him—calm, composed, in his trademark suit and tie—was enough to command attention. The players fell quiet, gathering around him instinctively, like students waiting for their master to speak.
Wenger looked around the room. His eyes moved slowly over each face. Players who had grown under him. Veterans. Youth. Those who had doubted, and those who had never stopped believing.
Finally, he spoke, his voice soft but firm.
"Tonight," he began, "you made history."
A murmur of emotion swept through the squad. Some clapped quietly. Others nodded.
"You earned every moment of this. Every goal. Every tackle. Every late night. Every long day. You didn't wait for someone to hand it to you. You took it. With heart. With courage. With style."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"But," he added, and his tone shifted ever so slightly, "we are not done."
Some eyebrows lifted. A few smirks started to form.
Wenger raised a hand, smiling faintly. "I will allow you to enjoy this. Celebrate it. You deserve that. But I expect no drunkenness. No injuries. No wild parties."
Groans and laughter followed.
"Because on the 30th of May," he said, eyes narrowing slightly with purpose, "we go to Wembley. And there, we finish the job."
Silence again. But this time, it wasn't out of surprise.
It was out of focus.
"Aston Villa," he said simply. "FA Cup Final. A chance to win the double. And a chance to remind the world—this isn't the end. It's the beginning."
That last sentence hit Francesco square in the chest. Because he felt it too. This wasn't the summit. This was base camp. This was the foundation of something greater.
Wenger nodded once, satisfied, then allowed a small smile to crack through his usual calm.
"Now," he said, glancing at the champagne carnage around him, "please clean this mess. I would like to leave this room with my shoes dry."
The entire squad burst into laughter, and just like that, the atmosphere relaxed again. A few players scrambled to mop up puddles with towels. Others popped one more bottle with mischievous grins.
Francesco sat back, towel draped around his shoulders, and watched it all—his team, his brothers, his club.
They were champions.
But they were also hungry.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
Later that night, when the stadium had finally emptied and the cameras were packed away, Francesco sat in his hotel room alone for a while. The match ball was on the bed next to him. The Golden Boot on the nightstand. He held his phone in his hands and stared at a picture someone had sent him—of that boy, grinning with both hands clutched around his Arsenal shirt like it was life itself.
He stared at the photo for a long time.
Then he saved it.
Because one day, when people asked him what mattered most from this night, he wouldn't point to the goals, or the trophy, or the headlines.
He'd point to that boy.
And he'd say, "That's why I do this."
And then? He'd get ready to do it all again. At Wembley. For the double. For Arsenal.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League
Match Played: 34
Goal: 42
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8