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They knew it was Francesco Lee who led them. The boy from north London. The fan who stood in the stands as a child. Now the king who conquered Manchester. Now the name chanted by generations, and will be the face of Arsenal's new era.
As the celebration began to take on a life of its own, a Premier League official approached Francesco, carefully cradling something in both hands—the match ball.
It felt sacred.
Scuffed, grass-stained, and still warm from the war just fought, the ball was presented like a crown to a king.
"For you," the official said, a quiet reverence in his voice. "Match ball. Hat-trick hero."
Francesco took it slowly, as though afraid it might disappear if he touched it too quickly. He stared at the ball in his hands, then looked up at the sky, his breath catching. This wasn't just a token. This was history, captured in leather and stitching. The ball that bore the weight of Arsenal's dreams—and he'd delivered.
"Cheers," he muttered softly, brushing his thumb across the Arsenal crest printed on one of the panels.
He turned back toward the tunnel, where his teammates were beginning to make their way off the pitch. Many of them were already half-stripped, shirts traded or tossed to the fans, hugs being passed around like medals. As they reached the tunnel, a kitman handed each of them a fresh jersey—bright, bold, and unmistakable.
On the back of every shirt: 14.
The number glowed under the floodlights, not as a player's number—but as a symbol.
Fourteen league titles. Arsenal's glorious new chapter written in bold ink.
Francesco slipped into the dressing room, where the atmosphere was electric. Laughter mixed with tears. Champagne bottles were being passed around, music blared from a speaker someone had hooked into the system. Flamini had already managed to spray two bottles' worth across the room, soaking Alexis and scaring poor Koscielny half to death.
Theo Walcott spun in his new shirt and pointed at the number. "Fourteen, baby! We've done it!"
Wilshere came over and thumped Francesco on the back, still half-giddy. "You got the match ball too? You bloody better frame that thing."
"I might sleep with it," Francesco joked, holding the ball close to his chest. "It's coming with me everywhere."
But before he could join the chaos properly, another official entered the room, headset crackling, clipboard in hand.
"Francesco," he called politely but firmly, "sorry to pull you away, but you've won Man of the Match. We just need you for a quick interview pitchside. Won't be more than two questions."
There were playful groans from his teammates—"Starboy's got to do his press!"—but Francesco gave them a wink and followed the official back out toward the tunnel, ball still in hand.
The cameras were already rolling as he stepped up, framed by the Premier League backdrop and still wearing the shirt marked 14. His cheeks were flushed, his hair still damp with sweat, and a light sheen of champagne had somehow found its way onto his neck.
The interviewer, a composed woman in her thirties with a practiced smile, gave him a nod. "Francesco, congratulations. We'll keep this brief. First question—how does it feel to not just win the league, but do it with a hat-trick at Old Trafford?"
Francesco blinked, searching for words that could hold the weight of what he felt. "Honestly? I don't think it's sunk in yet. I've dreamed of moments like this since I was a kid standing in the North Bank with my dad. To win the title for Arsenal, at this stadium, in a match like that—it's surreal. It means everything to me. Everything."
The interviewer smiled, clearly moved. "And second question—what do you want to say to the Arsenal fans watching this right now?"
Francesco paused. His eyes flicked to the lens.
"To the fans—this is for you. You stood by us through thick and thin. Through the heartbreaks. Through the years when people said we were finished. You believed. You kept singing. You kept hoping. I'm one of you—I always have been—and I just want to say: we did it. We're champions. And we're not stopping here."
He gave a small, grateful nod to the camera and turned to leave. The official patted his shoulder, and Francesco walked back into the tunnel, the roar of the away end still echoing behind him.
The dressing room was even louder now. Someone had hooked up a projector and was replaying his third goal on loop against the far wall, every touch met with fresh applause and whistles.
Wenger had changed into the 14 shirt too. It hung a little loose on him, but the sight of the number on his back felt poetic. He looked at Francesco as he re-entered and raised a bottle of champagne.
"To the new era," he said. "Led by our number one."
Just as the sea of confetti began to thin and the players started dancing in their own bubbles of celebration—singing with fans, hugging their families, and taking turns holding the Premier League trophy above their heads—there was one last moment left to crown this unforgettable night.
A Premier League official, the same one who had brought them the news about the trophy presentation, stepped up to the podium once more. He waited patiently until a lull broke in the singing and chanting. The crowd quieted with curiosity, sensing something more was coming.
The official raised his mic and smiled as he spoke.
"Ladies and gentlemen, before we wrap up tonight's historic celebrations, we have one more award to present. The Premier League Golden Boot—awarded to the league's top scorer—goes to…"
He paused, not for suspense, but because the crowd had already guessed it. A roar was already building.
"…Francesco Lee, with 34 goals in just 26 matches."
The noise from the away end was seismic.
"Let's hear it for your Golden Boot winner—Francesco Lee!"
For a second, Francesco just stood there near the edge of the pitch, surrounded by his teammates. His jaw slightly slack, eyes wide. He'd forgotten about the Golden Boot. Genuinely forgotten. The title, the match ball, the emotions—all of it had blurred the season's individual tally.
Mertesacker thumped him on the back. "Go on, starboy. It's your night."
The team clapped and cheered, Walcott whistling and yelling, "Go on, Frankie!" while Flamini lifted a champagne bottle in toast. Jack Wilshere leaned over and whispered, "You better thank your midfield for all those assists."
Laughing, overwhelmed, Francesco walked back toward the podium. The spotlight followed him as he climbed the steps again, still carrying the match ball in one hand. A new plaque gleamed next to the Premier League trophy—this time a golden boot mounted on a marble stand.
The official extended the award toward him with both hands. "One more piece of history, Francesco."
He took it, a bit stunned, a bit emotional. The boot gleamed in his hands, catching the stadium lights. Francesco held it up for the fans, and once again the travelling Arsenal faithful roared.
Golden Boot. Premier League Trophy. Match ball. One night. One player. One dream realized in full.
After the Golden Boot presentation, the party truly began.
Each Arsenal player took turns stepping up to the Premier League trophy for photos. Some were playful, others emotional. Laurent Koscielny knelt and kissed the badge on the base. Bellerín wrapped himself in a Spanish flag. Özil posed calmly, expression cool but eyes glittering with pride.
A few players had their families with them—Alexis Sánchez picked up his dogs, Atom and Humber, who had been smuggled in by someone on the staff. Flamini roared triumphantly with his arms around a circle of staff, spraying more champagne on everything within five feet.
And then came Francesco.
Leah was there waiting for him, already in her own red Arsenal jacket, her arms flung open before he even reached her. He tucked the match ball between them and hugged her tight, forehead resting against hers, both smiling and shaking their heads in disbelief.
"You did it," she whispered.
"We did it," he replied, then kissed her.
Behind them, Sarah and Mike waited. Sarah looked like she'd been crying for half an hour and had no plans to stop. Mike looked proud enough to burst. Francesco stepped forward and wrapped both his arms around them.
"Thank you," he said to them both, voice low and steady despite the swirl of noise around them. "For everything."
The four of them gathered for a photograph—Francesco in front, holding the Golden Boot in one hand and the match ball in the other, Leah beside him with an arm around his waist, his parents just behind, beaming.
Next, a shot with just his parents. Sarah hugged her son like she never wanted to let go. Mike posed with the trophy like he was holding something sacred, one hand on Francesco's shoulder, the other pointing at the 14 on his back.
Then it was Francesco and Leah, just the two of them with the trophy between them. She leaned in and kissed his cheek just as the photo snapped. He closed his eyes for a beat and smiled.
Finally—his solo moment.
The photographers cleared a space on the grass. The trophy was carefully placed on the pitch, lit beautifully under the floodlights. Francesco stepped up, now holding the Golden Boot in one hand, the match ball in the other.
He crouched beside the Premier League trophy, arms resting on his knees, head tilted slightly as he looked into the lens. No words. No theatrics. Just a young man frozen in the most perfect moment of his life.
Premier League champion. Golden Boot winner. Hat-trick hero.
The picture would become iconic—used in posters, social media headers, even on billboards in London and beyond. Francesco Lee, crouching beside the ultimate symbols of a season no Arsenal fan would ever forget.
As the team slowly gathered their belongings and began to drift toward the tunnel, the emotions kept catching up in waves. Wenger stood quietly for a while, hands in his coat pockets, simply watching his players live their moment. Then, as Francesco passed, still carrying the match ball like a newborn, Arsène pulled him aside.
"I've seen many players," Wenger said softly, his voice almost lost under the noise. "Great players. Legends. But tonight, you… you became something else."
Francesco didn't know what to say, so he just nodded and held the older man's gaze.
Wenger smiled. "Go on. Soak it in. This is yours."
As the last of the champagne was sprayed and the music from the stadium speakers dipped into something softer, Arsenal's press officer tapped Francesco on the shoulder. "Hey, mate—sorry to pull you away," he said with a smile, "but the media want a word. Just a quick sideline interview."
Francesco looked over at the crowd of cameras and microphones clustered near the dugout, still clutching the match ball and Golden Boot. He gave Leah a quick kiss on the cheek, handed the boot to Mike for safekeeping, and jogged over.
The moment he stepped into the interview zone, the flashbulbs reignited. Reporters surged forward, some raising their hands, others already mid-question.
The first reporter to catch the floor had a Sky Sports mic and a cheeky grin. "Francesco, congratulations—Premier League champion, hat-trick at Old Trafford, and now the Golden Boot with 34 goals in 26 games. You beat Sergio Agüero, Diego Costa, and Harry Kane to it. How does that feel?"
Francesco took a second. He adjusted his grip on the match ball, looked out toward the celebrating fans still echoing through the stadium, and then gave a small shrug and a smirk.
"I told you," he said, calm but razor sharp. "I told you all before the season that I'd win the Golden Boot. But none of you believed me, did you?"
The reporters chuckled awkwardly, some looking at each other as if trying to remember when he said it. Francesco continued, voice steady but unfiltered.
"You laughed. You said I was too young, too raw, too inexperienced. You said it would be Agüero again. Or Kane. Or Costa. But I believed in myself. My team believed in me. And now I'm standing here with this," he held up the match ball slightly, "and that," he nodded to the Golden Boot in Mike's hands a few feet away. "So… maybe next time, believe me when I say I'm going to do something."
It was raw. It was honest. And it hit like a left hook. Even the reporters couldn't help but nod in appreciation.
Another question quickly followed—this one from a journalist from the BBC, clearly pressing on a talking point that had already lit up on social media.
"Francesco, a lot of pundits are asking—why did Arsenal keep attacking after they went 2–2, especially when word came through that Chelsea were 3–0 down at The Hawthorns? A draw would've been enough to win the title. Why not settle for that?"
Francesco didn't even flinch. His eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but focus.
"First of all," he said, lifting a hand slightly, "I don't settle. Not when we're that close. Not when we can win."
He stepped a little closer to the mic, letting the passion in his voice rise.
"Why settle for a draw when you can win at Old Trafford? Why leave your destiny in someone else's hands? If we'd played it safe and held for a draw, we'd always wonder. And it wouldn't feel the same. Not to me. I wanted this title wrapped with a win. With a message. We beat Manchester United at Old Trafford. We didn't sneak the title—we took it."
There was a murmur of agreement, even among the media. But Francesco wasn't done. His tone dipped into something sharper, something colder.
"And second," he added, "I'm not thanking Chelsea."
That got their attention. Eyebrows shot up. Pens started scribbling.
"They didn't give us anything. They bottled it. That's not a favor, that's a failure. I'm not going to pretend we owe them a thank-you card just because they collapsed at West Brom."
One reporter half-chuckled nervously, but Francesco pressed on.
"This title? It's ours. Not because someone else dropped points—but because we won. Because we fought. Because we refused to let it slip, even when we went behind today. So no—I'm not thanking Chelsea for playing poorly. I'm celebrating Arsenal for being brilliant."
It wasn't just a soundbite—it was a statement. Francesco didn't just want to win. He wanted to own the moment, to define it on Arsenal's terms. And the fans watching from home? They'd eat this up like gospel.
The interview wrapped with a few more formal questions, but the weight of what Francesco had said lingered in the air. He thanked the reporters quickly, nodded to the cameras, and jogged back toward the pitch—back to his teammates, his family, and the club that now, officially, bore his name etched into its greatest modern chapter.
As he rejoined the group, Walcott was still laughing from afar, clearly having overheard the last part of the interview. "You really told them off, didn't you?"
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.
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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