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The FA Cup gleamed on the table. The match ball sat in his bag. The Golden Boot was somewhere nearby, next to his boots and shin pads, like it belonged.
The morning after the final felt like waking up inside a dream that hadn't ended.
Francesco opened his eyes in a hotel room that still smelled faintly of champagne and celebration. His suit jacket was draped over the back of a chair, his boots still crusted with Wembley grass, and the match ball—his match ball—sat on the bedside table like a holy relic. Sunlight spilled through the curtains, warm and golden, but the glow didn't just come from the sun.
His phone had already exploded with notifications—messages from teammates, old friends, distant cousins, and footballing legends he'd grown up idolizing. Ian Wright had tweeted about him. Thierry Henry had posted a picture of Francesco's bicycle kick with three fire emojis and a crown. Arsène had even left him a voice note sometime around 2 a.m.—it was short and half-laughing: "Get some rest. You've earned it, champion."
He smiled to himself and rolled out of bed, padding barefoot over to the window. Down below, central London moved with its usual early morning hum. But on the street corner near the hotel, two kids were kicking a football around. One wore an Arsenal shirt with "LEE 35" scrawled on the back in permanent marker.
"Bloody hell," he murmured, eyes misting slightly.
Downstairs in the breakfast room, the players trickled in like hungover war heroes—most of them in sunglasses, still riding the high. Cazorla waved a spoon at Francesco. Oxlade-Chamberlain offered him a chair and a plate of bacon. Jack Wilshere, half-asleep, was still wearing his winner's medal over his hoodie.
Then Mertesacker slapped a newspaper down on the table, grinning wide.
"Boys," he declared, "we are officially legends."
Francesco leaned over to see the headline:
THE DOUBLE IS OURS!
Arsenal conquer Wembley after historic 7–0 thrashing. Lee hits hat-trick.
The front page showed him midair, suspended in time as his bicycle kick struck true. Behind him, the net bulged. The crowd exploded. Cazorla's arms were raised. Even the stewards on the sideline were frozen in awe.
Beside the paper, someone had set down another magazine. Not football-related. Not even sports-related.
It was Time.
And there, across its iconic red-bordered cover, was a panoramic shot of the Arsenal squad, FA Cup lifted high, confetti falling like red and white snow. Right in the center was Francesco—sweaty, smiling, holding the match ball and the Man of the Match trophy in one arm, fist raised with the other.
"Arsenal on the Rise!?"
How a young squad, an old manager, and one magical night at Wembley might signal the dawn of a new football dynasty.
He stared at it for a long time.
Jack elbowed him gently. "You gonna frame that or sleep with it?"
Francesco grinned. "Both."
Later that morning, the press coverage truly erupted. Every major outlet—from The Guardian to The New York Times, from L'Équipe in France to Marca in Spain—ran deep dives on Arsenal's remarkable season. Pundits who'd once called them "fragile" now labeled them "fearsome." One headline in Italy read: "Lee il nuovo re di Londra." — Lee, the new King of London.
Clips of his hat-trick ran on every sports channel in the world. In pubs from Holloway to Hong Kong, fans mimicked the scissor motion of his final goal, shouting in disbelief each time it played again.
And through it all, Francesco remained calm. Not because he didn't feel the weight of it—but because he'd always carried it with him. That fire to prove something. That dream to be more than just another academy hopeful.
Then the TV in the corner of the breakfast room flickered with a familiar jingle—Sky Sports News. The volume was just loud enough to catch attention without overpowering conversation, and one by one, heads turned toward the screen. A bold red banner read:
"THE MORNING AFTER THE MASTERCLASS: 7–0 AT WEMBLEY"
The anchor's voice cut in crisply, and the camera panned to a studio bathed in Arsenal red and white. A gleaming digital backdrop showed slow-motion highlights of the match—Alexis Sánchez's thunderbolt, Mertesacker's header, and then, of course, the now-iconic shot of Francesco's bicycle kick, frozen in time as the ball soared toward the top corner.
"Joining us this morning," the anchor announced with a grin, "a man who knows a thing or two about scoring goals for Arsenal—Thierry Henry."
A roar of laughter and applause from the studio crowd. Thierry, relaxed in a black turtleneck and blazer, nodded with his usual suave charisma.
Next to him sat Ian Wright, already animated, arms gesturing as if still riding the adrenaline of the match. Beside Wright were Jamie Carragher and Gary Neville, the seasoned duo ready with their pundit sharpness and occasional friendly jabs. A pundits' roundtable fit for a post-Wembley coronation.
"Right," Wright began, rubbing his hands together. "Let's not waste any time. That wasn't just a win. That was a statement. That was Arsenal sending a message—not just to Villa, but to everyone. This is a new era. And at the centre of it? Francesco Lee."
In the breakfast room, Francesco felt a half-dozen eyes glance his way. He kept his expression neutral, but his ears burned.
"Let's talk about the goals first," Jamie Carragher chimed in, leaning forward. "Seven. Seven! That second half—it was like watching a team possessed. I've been on the wrong end of a heavy defeat before, but I've never seen a side collapse like Villa did. It was brutal."
"Six goals in 45 minutes," Gary Neville added. "That's not normal. That's demolition. It wasn't just the scoreline—it was the control, the hunger. Every Arsenal player was chasing, pressing, linking. They smelled blood, and they went for it."
Thierry gave a knowing smile. "You could see it in their eyes. That front line—Francesco, Alexis, and Özil, then later Ox and Theo—they weren't just playing. They were hunting. Every time they got the ball, they believed they could score. And when Francesco got that third goal—the goal—it felt like a passing of the torch."
"Yeah, let's talk about that bicycle kick," Wright interrupted, shaking his head in disbelief. "Listen, I've seen some wild finishes. I've scored a few myself. But that—that was ridiculous. The technique, the confidence to even try it, in a cup final, at 6–0 up? It's a flex. It's 'I'm here now' stuff. That was his moment."
The screen replayed it again—Francesco leaping, contorting mid-air, catching Jack Wilshere's lofted pass sweetly on the turn. The ball rocketed past the Villa keeper. Wembley erupted.
Back at the breakfast table, Oxlade-Chamberlain laughed and leaned toward Francesco. "You know you've made it when Thierry Henry's breaking down your goal like it's art history."
Francesco shrugged modestly, but his grin gave him away. Mertesacker reached across the table and gave his shoulder a squeeze.
"Big man," Per said, "this time last year you were what, still in the reserves?"
"Under-21s," Francesco replied, voice quiet.
"Now you're on Time Magazine and Sky Sports has half of England calling you the next king of London." Per chuckled, eyes twinkling. "Not bad for a lad from Hackney."
On the screen, the discussion shifted to Arsenal's future.
"This isn't just about one match," Gary Neville said. "Let's not forget—they've done the double. Premier League and FA Cup. And they did it playing attractive, ruthless football. This isn't a fluke. This is what we're going to be dealing with next season."
Jamie nodded. "Wenger's cracked it. He's found the balance. Youth and experience. Flair and grit. And Lee up top—he's the glue. He links, he scores, he presses. He's the modern striker."
"But it's not just his goals," Thierry said, turning serious. "It's his attitude. He doesn't dive. He doesn't complain. He fights. He plays for the badge. That's rare now. And that's what Arsenal fans have been craving—a hero who bleeds red and white."
The camera cut to a live feed from outside the Emirates Stadium. Fans were already gathering in their shirts, waving flags, and chanting songs about Francesco. A reporter tried to interview a young boy, who could barely contain his excitement.
"He scored three goals! Did you see the bicycle kick? He's better than Ronaldo!"
The breakfast room burst into laughter.
"That kid's not wrong," Wilshere said, raising his coffee. "To Francesco."
"To Francesco!" the rest of the table echoed, lifting juice glasses and teacups in mock ceremony.
Francesco buried his face in his hands, laughing. "Alright, alright, enough. You lot are gonna get me benched for blushing too hard."
But it wasn't just his teammates watching. Across London, across the UK, and far beyond—millions were tuned in. Old fans who'd given up on Arsenal. Young kids discovering football for the first time. Neutral supporters who simply couldn't ignore a team playing such beautiful, ferocious football.
Later that day, Francesco would read the features—The Guardian praising his "rare blend of grace and grit," The New York Times dubbing him "England's quiet storm," and Marca in Spain marveling at "El joven Lee, una joya inesperada del norte de Londres."
But in this moment, seated in a sunlit breakfast room among friends and legends, watching his dream unfold on a television screen—it all felt impossibly surreal.
After breakfast, the squad gathered on the hotel's rooftop terrace for a media event. Cameras flashed. Microphones were shoved forward. Reporters from every major outlet in Europe jostled for position.
Francesco stood next to Alexis and Cazorla as Wenger gave a short speech—grateful, humble, proud. The sun glinted off the FA Cup, which sat center stage on a velvet stand, beside the Premier League trophy. A double. Their double.
Then came individual interviews. Francesco stood beneath a Sky Sports umbrella, squinting into the camera lights.
"Francesco, you scored a hat-trick in the FA Cup Final. A bicycle kick to complete it. You're being called the new face of English football. How does it feel?"
He hesitated, then smiled. "It feels… surreal. I grew up watching finals like this on TV. Seeing legends like Thierry Henry and Ian Wright do the impossible. To be here now, holding this cup, seeing my name on the back of some kid's shirt—I'm just grateful."
The interviewer nodded. "Wenger said last night that you represent the future of Arsenal. Is that a responsibility you're ready for?"
Francesco looked past the cameras, toward the skyline of London stretching into the distance.
"I think… I've always wanted to represent something bigger than myself. Not just goals or wins, but what it means to wear this shirt. If the manager believes in me, if my teammates believe in me—then yeah. I'll carry that."
As he stepped away, he was pulled into another embrace—Thierry Henry, having finished his pundit duties, had made his way to the terrace.
"You were special yesterday," Thierry said softly, voice low and warm. "But don't think this is the top. This is the beginning."
Francesco nodded, the words sinking in like gospel.
"I won't stop," he replied.
"I know you won't," Thierry said, smiling. "And I'll be watching."
By afternoon, the team bus rolled toward the Emirates for the victory parade. The streets were lined with fans—tens of thousands of them—waving scarves, holding signs, singing themselves hoarse. As the open-top bus crawled through the city, confetti rained down, and Francesco stood at the front, holding the FA Cup high above his head.
He spotted the kids from the hotel window again, this time pressed against the barrier, chanting his name.
"LEE! LEE! LEE!"
He reached down and tossed them his hat-trick match ball. One of them caught it, eyes wide as saucers. The kid looked up at Francesco like he was invincible.
And maybe, in this moment, he was.
Back home that night, after the parade, Francesco sat alone on his flat's balcony. The city buzzed below, still alight with celebration. He rested the match ball on his lap and replayed the game in his mind—the roar of the crowd, the weight of the trophy, the stunned silence after his bicycle kick.
His phone buzzed again—another notification.
Leah Williamson had posted a photo on Instagram: the two of them from the celebrations, arms slung around each other, grinning like idiots. The caption read:
"We said we'd do it. You did more than that. So proud of you, champ. #DoubleWinners #Number35"
He smiled, tapping a heart.
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
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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