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Francesco closed his eyes, the sounds of London fading into the night. The fire inside him was still there—quiet, steady, unshakable. Tomorrow, the work would begin again. But tonight? Tonight, the dream was real
The next morning, sunlight poured through the thin curtains of Francesco's flat, creeping across the floor and brushing his face with gentle warmth. His body ached in the best possible way—a deep, satisfying tiredness that only came after something monumental. He groaned, rolled over, and instinctively reached for his phone lying face-down on the nightstand.
7:36 AM.
Two hundred and seventeen notifications.
He winced, smiling to himself. He knew he should ignore them—enjoy the calm, just for a little while longer—but curiosity got the better of him. Swiping open the screen, he sifted through a flurry of messages: old schoolmates he hadn't spoken to in years, local lads from Hackney congratulating him, even a few players from rival teams dropping him respectful nods in the DMs.
But one message, sitting quietly at the top of his inbox, stood out.
Arsène Wenger:
"Morning, lads. Fantastic scenes yesterday. Tomorrow at 1 PM, we'll have the official parade across London with both trophies. Open-top bus, full route through the city. Be ready, dress smart, and bring your best smiles. Let's celebrate properly with the fans who believed in us. See you then. AW."
Francesco sat up straighter, reading the message again.
Tomorrow. 1 o'clock. The parade.
He blinked, letting it sink in. The real parade. Open bus. London-wide. Both trophies—the Premier League and the FA Cup—rolling through the heart of the city.
It suddenly felt even bigger than lifting the cup at Wembley.
He tossed the covers aside and stood up, stretching long and slow. His muscles protested, but there was a spring in his step as he wandered into the kitchen, barefoot on the cool tiles, brewing a pot of coffee. The smell of rich, dark roast filled the small flat, mingling with the fresh spring air coming in through the cracked balcony door.
As he sipped from his Arsenal mug—a gift from his dad years ago when he'd first joined the academy—he pulled up the parade route that the club had emailed overnight. It would start at the Emirates, snake through Islington, past Angel and Clerkenwell, down to central London, over Westminster Bridge, and finish with a huge rally at Trafalgar Square. Hundreds of thousands were expected. Maybe more.
He set the mug down, feeling the first prickles of nerves. Not fear, but anticipation.
It was one thing to perform on the pitch, where you could lose yourself in the rhythm of the game.
It was another to stand atop a bus, trophies in hand, under the full gaze of an adoring city.
He needed a suit. A good one.
And he needed to be ready.
The day of the parade arrived like a tidal wave.
Francesco woke to the buzz of energy in the city itself—the low, restless hum that always precedes something historic. The sky was a dazzling blue, not a cloud in sight, and the air had that rare kind of summer freshness that made everything feel possible.
At noon sharp, he arrived at the Emirates, sharp in a navy blue suit and crisp white shirt, the club's red-and-white tie knotted neatly at his throat. He carried a pair of sunglasses in his jacket pocket, just in case the sun became too much.
The stadium concourse was already a swirling sea of fans—scarves waving, drums pounding, songs soaring into the air. Kids sat on parents' shoulders. Entire families had painted their faces.
Arsenal is back, the banners read.
Arsenal is risen.
He stepped through the players' entrance, greeted by familiar faces—Oxlade-Chamberlain in a sharp grey blazer and jeans, Cazorla in full three-piece Spanish flair, Per Mertesacker towering above the rest in a sleek black number.
"Looking good, superstar," Ox teased, clapping him on the back.
Francesco laughed, smoothing his jacket. "Mate, you look like you're going to a wedding."
"Maybe I am," Ox quipped, winking.
In the middle of it all stood Arsène Wenger, cool and composed in his classic Arsenal blazer and slacks, his hair slightly tousled by the breeze. He caught Francesco's eye and smiled, nodding approvingly.
"Ready, Francesco?" he asked, voice warm but steady.
Francesco returned the smile, feeling the steadiness settle into his bones. "Born ready, boss."
The players loaded onto the open-top double-decker bus, the Premier League trophy glinting in the sunlight at the front, the FA Cup proudly beside it. Francesco found himself standing near the edge, just behind Wenger and Alexis. The bus engine rumbled to life, and a roar erupted from the crowd that shook the pavement.
The parade began.
As the bus crept through the streets, it became clear just how massive this was.
Everywhere—everywhere—there were fans. Climbing lampposts. Filling balconies. Leaning out of shop windows. Thousands upon thousands of voices blending into one massive, thunderous chant.
"WE LOVE YOU ARSENAL, WE DO!
WE LOVE YOU ARSENAL, WE DO!
WE LOVE YOU ARSENAL, WE DO!
OH, ARSENAL, WE LOVE YOU!"
Francesco leaned over the side, waving, grinning, feeling his heart pound against his ribs. Kids waved homemade signs—some with his face, others simply with the number 35 and a heart drawn next to it.
At Angel, a group of fans unfurled a gigantic banner that nearly covered the entire front of a pub:
"Francesco Lee: Hackney's Finest, Arsenal's Future."
The boys spotted it too. Cazorla whistled, impressed.
"Hackney's own prince!" he joked, nudging Francesco.
Oxlade-Chamberlain grabbed a megaphone from somewhere and held it out toward Francesco. "Speech!" he bellowed.
Francesco shook his head, laughing, but took the megaphone anyway.
He lifted it to his lips and simply said, "Thank you for believing in us. This is only the beginning!"
The cheers that followed were deafening.
By the time they crossed Westminster Bridge, the bus slowed to a near crawl—the crowd density was insane. Flags waved from every possible vantage point. Street vendors tossed Arsenal scarves into the air like confetti.
Wenger turned to his players, voice raised just enough to be heard over the din.
"Take it in," he said, gesturing around them. "Remember this. This is why we fight."
Francesco did.
He burned it into his memory—the glint of the River Thames, the golden glimmer of the Premier League trophy in the afternoon light, the ecstatic faces of the fans he used to sit among as a boy. It was overwhelming, but it wasn't paralyzing.
It was fuel.
They pulled into Trafalgar Square around 3 PM. A massive stage had been erected, draped in Arsenal banners. Giant screens broadcast their arrival. Confetti cannons blasted the sky red and white.
Wenger was the first off the bus, leading the team onto the stage.
When Francesco's name was called, the roar shook the very ground.
It was a moment he'd dreamt about in the quietest corners of his heart but had never dared imagine would feel so huge, so real.
He stepped forward, raised the FA Cup in one hand, and the noise grew even louder.
Later, backstage, exhausted but buzzing, Francesco pulled off his tie and collapsed onto a fold-out chair. His phone buzzed again—this time with a FaceTime call from Leah Williamson.
He grinned and answered.
Leah's face filled the screen, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
"Mate, you smashed it!" she said, laughing. "London's gone mental for you. I'm stuck in traffic 'cause every street's singing your name."
Francesco chuckled, brushing a hand through his hair. "Mental's right. I think my ears are still ringing."
Leah mock-scowled. "Don't let it get to your head, yeah?"
He winked. "Never."
They talked for a few minutes, trading jokes and reliving the wildness of the parade. As they said goodbye, Leah's final words stayed with him:
"Proud of you, champ. Always."
After the call with Leah ended, Francesco tucked his phone into his pocket and let out a deep breath, feeling the hum of adrenaline still in his veins. The buzz backstage was electric—players laughing, Wenger exchanging a few words with club officials, photographers snapping endless shots. But it wasn't over yet.
A stage manager waved them forward again.
"Alright lads, back on! One more round to greet the fans properly!"
Francesco straightened his jacket and followed the others as they filed back onto the stage. The sun had dipped lower now, turning Trafalgar Square into a sea of golden light, and the Arsenal fans—God bless them—had only gotten louder.
As soon as the players reappeared, a fresh roar exploded from the crowd.
Flags waved like ocean waves, scarves swung above heads, and the chorus of "We love you Arsenal" started again, even stronger this time. Francesco caught glimpses of faces in the crowd—some streaked with tears, others just beaming with pure, unfiltered joy.
Arsène Wenger stepped up to the microphone first. The crowd gradually quieted down, a hush of respect falling over the square.
He stood there for a moment, surveying the endless sea of red and white before him, the faintest smile touching the corners of his mouth.
"My friends," Wenger began, his voice steady, carrying through the square, "today we celebrate not just two trophies, but a dream realized. A belief—through all the difficult years—that we could return to where we belong."
The crowd cheered in response, but quickly settled again, hanging on his every word.
"I want to thank every one of you," he continued, gesturing widely, "for your unwavering faith. When we built the Emirates, when we saw our best leave, when people doubted if Arsenal could be great again—you were there. Always there."
He paused, his eyes glinting.
"And today, we have shown… Arsenal never left. Arsenal was just preparing for something special."
The roar that followed could have toppled Big Ben itself.
"And this team," Wenger turned slightly, smiling proudly at the players lined up behind him, "this team has brought the soul of Arsenal back to life. And believe me…"—he pointed toward the trophies gleaming under the spotlights—"this is just the beginning."
He stepped back, applauding his players along with the crowd. Then he turned to Per Mertesacker, the captain, giving a small nod.
Big Per stepped forward, his massive frame somehow even larger with the pride he was carrying. He adjusted the microphone downward with a playful smile, earning a ripple of laughter from the fans.
"Alright!" Per shouted, his thick German accent booming in friendly fashion. "First off—this one's for all of you!"
He lifted the Premier League trophy high above his head. A sea of arms shot up in reply, flares of red smoke starting to curl in the background.
"You believed in us when nobody else did. You kept singing when we stumbled. You kept dreaming when others mocked. And this…"—he pointed to the silverware—"this is your victory too!"
The chants grew deafening.
Per grinned wide, nodding toward his teammates. "But we're not stopping here. We are Arsenal. We fight for more. Next season… we go even bigger!"
As he stepped back, handing the microphone over, something remarkable started happening. The chant shifted. A new chant rose from the crowd, raw and insistent:
"FRA-NCES-CO! FRA-NCES-CO! FRA-NCES-CO!"
It started small but grew, gathering strength like a tidal wave.
Francesco laughed nervously, feeling his teammates around him start shoving him forward, playful but forceful—Oxlade-Chamberlain clapped him on the back, Cazorla pushed him toward the mic, even Alexis Sánchez was grinning like mad, pointing toward the chanting crowd.
"No way out, mate!" Theo Walcott called, laughing.
Francesco, cheeks burning but smiling wide, finally took a deep breath and walked up to the microphone. The crowd roared again, louder than ever.
He stood there, looking out at the thousands upon thousands of Arsenal faithful, trying to find the right words.
He didn't plan it. He just spoke from the heart.
"I just…" he began, laughing a little, shaking his head in disbelief. "I just wanna say… thank you. For believing in us. For believing in me."
The fans cheered, some starting to stomp rhythmically.
"And…" Francesco continued, his voice gaining strength, "next season—we're gonna fight to win the Champions League too. The one we all dream about!"
The eruption was volcanic.
Flares shot into the air. Flags whipped like furious waves. Some fans were jumping, throwing beer cups skyward, singing at the top of their lungs.
Francesco stepped back, smiling sheepishly but feeling something swell in his chest—something bigger than pride. It was connection. It was history. It was home.
As the players clapped him on the back and the music started playing again, the MC—hired by Arsenal to coordinate the event—stepped up to the side of the stage, mic in hand.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced with theatrical flair, "before we wrap up today's incredible celebration, the club has prepared something very special. A tribute… to one of our own."
The giant screens flickered to life. The music faded into a soft, emotional instrumental.
The screen went black… and then the title faded in, elegant white letters:
"Arsenal's Long Walk: Winning the Double with Francesco Lee"
The square fell silent except for the soft hush of the crowd's breathing.
The video opened with grainy, nostalgic footage: a young boy—no older than seven or eight—sitting in the stands of Highbury, wide-eyed. His scarf nearly swallowed his small frame, but his grin lit up the entire shot.
Suddenly, the camera panned—showing the Arsenal legends of old: Thierry Henry, Patrick Vieira, Dennis Bergkamp—celebrating a trophy win, right in front of him.
Young Francesco stood, waving his arms madly.
Henry, laughing, jogged over and hugged Arsène Wenger in a moment captured forever—young Arsène, laughing freely.
The crowd around Trafalgar Square sighed audibly, some already brushing tears from their eyes.
The boy on the screen—Francesco—got up from his seat in the stands and walked forward, stepping down from the terraces into a quiet London street that subtly shifted into the gates of Arsenal's training ground.
As he walked, he grew older.
Each step, he changed—his shirt shifting from a kids' jersey to a youth academy kit, then to an Under-18s shirt. His gait grew more confident, his stride longer.
Clips flashed—photos of him training in Hale End, making a U18 debut, grinning in U23 matches.
And then—heartbreaking snippets: newspaper headlines fluttered across the screen.
"Fabregas Departs for Barcelona."
"Van Persie Signs for Manchester United."
"Arsenal Trophy Drought Continues."
Through it all, young Francesco watched silently, clenching his fists, staying determined.
The next scenes lifted spirits—the true renaissance.
His first-team debut. His first goal.
Wenger's proud smile on the touchline.
Ozil embracing him after a key assist.
Fans chanting his name after a late winner at the Emirates.
But then came another moment: tabloid splashes across the screen:
"Francesco Lee: Transfer Target for Europe's Elite!"
"Barcelona, Madrid, Bayern Circle Arsenal's Young Star!"
The crowd watching in Trafalgar Square seemed to tense—even knowing how it ended, the fear of losing him was palpable again.
But then—another clip.
A breaking news banner:
"Francesco Lee Signs Long-Term Deal with Arsenal"
A triumphant, loyal moment.
Footage of him, signing the contract with a huge smile, Wenger standing beside him proudly.
The video rushed forward—the double-winning season, moments from their march toward glory.
Every goal. Every tackle. Every celebration.
Finally—the screen showed the last scenes.
Francesco, standing on the Wembley pitch, lifting the FA Cup alongside his teammates.
Wenger—older now, hair whiter, but spirit just as fiery—stepped forward and hugged him tightly, just like Henry had hugged young Wenger all those years ago.
The final scene:
Francesco, standing on the Emirates pitch alone at twilight, holding both trophies, looking up into the stands.
In the stands sat Arsenal legends—Henry, Vieira, Bergkamp—watching solemnly, proudly.
They nodded once, slowly, almost like passing the torch to him.
The screen faded to black.
And a final message appeared, stark against the darkness:
"Francesco Lee: Now and the Future of Arsenal."
For a moment, Trafalgar Square was utterly silent.
And then—it erupted.
Chants. Cheers. Flares lighting up the sky. Grown men weeping openly, kids screaming his name.
Francesco stood on the stage, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes, overwhelmed beyond words.
Oxlade-Chamberlain threw an arm around him, grinning.
"Looks like you're stuck with us, legend."
Francesco laughed, heart soaring. He wasn't stuck, but he was home. And the journey—their journey—was just getting started.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League and 2014/2015 FA Cup
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9