If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
He roared then, a sound torn from somewhere deep, somewhere primal, somewhere only football could touch. The others roared with him. And the Emirates roared louder still, as though North London itself had found its voice.
The trophy lift still hung in the air like smoke from fireworks. Confetti drifted down in lazy spirals, settling on shoulders, hair, even sticking to the glistening shirts of the players. The cameras kept flashing, but the Arsenal players, once the photographers' subjects, were already spilling forward, drawn not to the stage anymore but to where their hearts were anchored — the North Bank.
It wasn't even a question. They didn't have to be told. Instinct pulled them there. The North Bank had carried them all season, roaring them on, singing when lungs were empty, standing when legs were tired. And now, with medals glinting against their chests, with the Premier League trophy still shimmering from the lift, the players surged toward that end of the stadium like a tide returning to shore.
The fans knew it before the players reached them. The North Bank erupted as though plugged into some electric current, scarves whirling, flags waving, faces streaked with tears and smiles. Some had waited their whole lives for this. Children, hoisted on shoulders, saw Arsenal crowned as champions for the first time in their memory. Parents, grandparents, lifers of the club, clutched one another in disbelief, as if afraid the spell would break if they let go.
Francesco jogged with the others, his medal bouncing rhythmically against his chest, one hand gripping it as though it might disappear. Alexis was beside him, waving his arms to the crowd like a conductor pulling the volume higher. Giroud sprinted a few steps ahead, leaping into the air with that model-like flourish, arms wide as though he could embrace the whole stand at once. Ramsey's grin was plastered so wide across his face it looked painted on.
And then came the moment that blurred the line between pitch and terrace: the players formed a line, holding hands, arms linked, and they raised the trophy again, this time facing the North Bank, this time not for cameras or ceremony but for their people. They lifted it high, bouncing together, the North Bank bouncing with them. The chants rolled down like thunder, songs that had been sung all season now exploding in their purest form:
"We are the champions, champions of England!"
It wasn't just noise. It was communion. Player and fan, no separation, no hierarchy — just Arsenal.
The coaches joined them too. Steve Bould, his normally stern face cracked into something almost boyish, was swept into a hug by Monreal. Shad Forsythe, the fitness coach who had kept so many of them standing through injuries and fatigue, was clapped on the back by Koscielny. Even Colbert, the usually unnoticed kit man, had his name chanted by a pocket of fans who recognized him, pulling him into the glory as though he'd scored a goal himself.
And then, almost on cue, a ripple passed through the group. Something shifted. Players started glancing at each other, grins widening, whispers passing quickly into shouts. It was Sánchez who made the gesture first, pointing back toward Wenger, who had hung slightly behind, clapping slowly, his thin frame silhouetted in the floodlights. The look on his face — God, it was hard to describe. A mixture of joy and disbelief, of quiet pride and the faintest shadow of relief.
"Boss!" Ramsey yelled, cupping his hands to his mouth. "Boss, come here!"
The chant caught instantly. "Ar-sène Wen-ger! Ar-sène Wen-ger!" It was a chant Arsenal fans had sung for decades, but this time, it had the weight of vindication. He wasn't just their manager. He was the architect of the night, the prophet who had finally been proven right, the stubborn dreamer who had led them back to the promised land.
Wenger shook his head at first, smiling bashfully, like a professor refusing applause after a lecture. But then Giroud and Bellerín ran back, grabbed him gently but firmly by the arms, and tugged him forward. The North Bank's roar rose another octave.
And that's when it happened.
The players surrounded him, a tight circle forming around their manager. Francesco found himself shoulder to shoulder with Koscielny, Sánchez, and Cazorla. They bent slightly, gripping Wenger around the waist, under his arms, hands locked in firm holds. For a split second, Wenger's long fingers clutched at their shirts, as if he couldn't quite believe what was about to happen. His laugh bubbled out — nervous, incredulous, utterly genuine.
"Non, non, non…" he chuckled, shaking his head. But they didn't listen.
"One… two… THREE!"
Up he went.
The crowd roared as Arsène Wenger, the man who had been both worshipped and doubted, both loved and criticized, was launched into the London sky. His long coat flared like wings, his arms spread instinctively, his face turned upward. And he laughed — really laughed, the way people had rarely seen him in public. The sound carried faintly even over the thunder, the laugh of a man unburdened, of a man who had chased glory for over a decade and finally caught it.
They caught him, bouncing on their heels. And then again:
"One… two… THREE!"
Higher this time, his white hair catching the floodlight glow, confetti sticking to his shoulders. He was no longer just the Professor. He was their champion.
And again, the third time, the one that sealed it. Wenger went up, arms now raised himself, his voice joining the roar as he came down into the waiting arms of his players. When his feet finally hit the grass again, he staggered slightly, breathless, but his smile didn't falter. He placed both hands over his chest, patting twice, then pointed outward at the North Bank.
It was as though he was saying: This is for you. All of it.
Francesco's chest tightened watching it. He'd never seen the manager like this — not in press conferences, not in training, not even in the moments after big wins. This was different. This was release. And Francesco understood, in a way he hadn't fully until now, what this night meant to Wenger.
The comparison hung in the air, whispered among pundits, fans, even players: Ferguson at United, Wenger at Arsenal. Different styles, different men, but tonight, Wenger had crossed that final bridge. He wasn't just a builder of beautiful football. He was a winner again, a leader of champions.
The North Bank wouldn't stop. Chants rolled and collided, every song in the book sung with raw voices. From "We love you Arsenal" to "One Arsène Wenger," it was an endless wall of sound. And the players kept giving it back — clapping, bowing, some throwing their shirts into the crowd, others draping scarves handed down from the stands around their necks.
Francesco didn't throw his shirt. Not this one. The Invincible shirt was too sacred, soaked in sweat and history. Instead, he held it tight, patting the badge over his heart, then lifting his medal up so the fans could see it glint under the lights. The roar that came back at him felt like a wave, nearly knocking him back. He laughed, shaking his head, eyes wide, because what else could he do?
Beside him, Arteta pulled him into a hug. The captain's voice was hoarse but steady in his ear. "This is your club now too, Francesco. Don't ever forget that."
Francesco couldn't answer. His throat closed. He just nodded, gripping Arteta tight, the words sinking deeper than any medal ever could.
They stayed there, in front of the North Bank, for what felt like forever. Time didn't move the way it normally did. It wasn't minutes and seconds anymore; it was chants and cheers, laughter and tears, embraces and waves. Wenger, still flushed from being thrown, stood just a step behind them all, hands in his pockets now, but his smile never leaving. Occasionally he tilted his head back, eyes darting to the sky as though to steady himself, as though to make sure this wasn't just a dream.
Francesco barely knew where to begin. The night felt like a blur of light and sound, yet every detail etched itself into him like a carving on stone. After Wenger's lift, after the waves of chanting and the flood of songs, Francesco finally let himself drift back toward his teammates, drawn to them the way fireflies drift to a lantern.
One by one, he pulled them into his arms. There was no ceremony to it, no need for words at first. Just the press of shoulders, the slap of hands on backs, the sweat and joy mingling. Giroud was first — he embraced Francesco with that effortless flair, laughing loudly, his cologne still somehow present even after ninety exhausting minutes. Then Alexis, smaller but fiercer, his hug a tight squeeze like he wanted to transfer the fire from his chest into Francesco's. Ramsey came next, grinning ear to ear, whispering something about history in his ear.
But then Francesco turned, and there they were.
Kanté stood just a few steps away, his smile shy but unshakable, eyes crinkled as if he still couldn't quite believe he belonged here, among champions. Francesco didn't hesitate. He closed the distance and wrapped his arms around the midfielder, pulling him in so tight he felt the short man almost lift off the ground. Kanté laughed — that quiet, modest laugh — and patted Francesco's back once, twice.
"You've been everywhere this season," Francesco told him, his voice rough from shouting but heavy with sincerity. "We couldn't have done this without you."
Kanté shook his head quickly, as though deflecting the compliment. "No, no, Francesco. Everyone. Together."
But Francesco held his gaze, refusing to let him wriggle out of the truth. "No, N'Golo. You. You changed everything."
The Frenchman only smiled wider, his humility unshaken, but Francesco knew he'd heard him.
Then came Van Dijk. Towering, broad-shouldered, his hair slick with sweat and confetti sticking stubbornly to it. Francesco approached him with both hands raised, and Van Dijk clasped them firmly before pulling him into a crushing embrace.
"You're a wall," Francesco said, his cheek pressed against the Dutchman's chest. "A bloody wall. Best signing we've made since Özil and Alexis. No one gets past you."
Van Dijk's laugh was deep, almost disbelieving. "And you—" he leaned back, gripping Francesco's shoulders firmly — "you're the reason we believe. You score, we win. Simple as that."
Francesco shook his head, but his grin was irrepressible. These weren't empty words. They had lived this season together, fought side by side, and now stood with medals to prove it. They weren't just teammates anymore. They were brothers.
Around them, the celebrations had shifted again. Security had opened the gates, not for fans but for family. Wives, girlfriends, children, parents — the true support systems — began streaming down the touchline, many holding phones aloft to capture the moment, others simply running into waiting arms. The stadium announcer said nothing, the cameras didn't need prompting. This was as much their night as it was the players'.
Francesco turned instinctively toward the cluster moving nearest to him — and his heart jolted.
There they were. His parents, Sarah and Mike, walking arm in arm, their faces glowing under the floodlights. His father's usual quiet composure seemed to have cracked, his eyes shining in a way Francesco rarely saw. His mother, always so expressive, already had tears streaking her cheeks, her hands raised to her mouth as if she couldn't quite believe the boy she had raised was the man holding that medal.
And then Leah.
She was moving faster than anyone else, breaking into a jog the second she saw him, her blonde ponytail bouncing, her Arsenal jacket half-zipped as though she'd rushed down without even thinking to adjust it. Behind her came David and Amanda, her parents, smiling proudly, and her brother Jacob, already pulling out his phone to capture the hug he knew was about to happen.
Francesco's chest swelled, and he didn't wait. He started running too, medal bouncing wildly against his sternum, boots pounding against grass that was now more confetti than turf.
When they met, it wasn't some staged, graceful embrace. It was messy, urgent, full of energy and relief and love. Leah threw her arms around his neck, almost knocking him backward, and he wrapped both arms tightly around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground. She laughed into his shoulder, the sound muffled but joyous, her breath hot against his ear.
"Congratulations!" she gasped, pulling back just enough to look at him, her eyes sparkling in the floodlights. "Your second league title — my God, Francesco, you did it again!"
He couldn't stop grinning. "We did it," he corrected softly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "And you were here for it. That's what matters."
She shook her head, almost disbelieving, then kissed him — quick, tender, but enough to ignite the crowd around them into fresh cheers. Somewhere in the stands, a chant even started: "Le-ah Wil-liam-son!" The absurdity of it made them both laugh mid-embrace.
Behind her, Sarah and Mike finally reached him. His mother was already crying fully now, her hands cupping his face even as Leah kept one arm firmly around his waist. "Oh, Francesco," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm so proud of you."
His father clapped a hand firmly on his shoulder, the weight steady, grounding. "Second title," he said simply, but his voice carried a pride words couldn't quite capture. "And the way you've done it… son, this is just the beginning."
Francesco swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He hugged them both in turn, pressing his forehead briefly to his mother's before shaking his father's hand with the grip of a man trying to say everything words failed to express.
David and Amanda joined next, their smiles warm, their embrace genuine. "You're part of the family now," David said, pulling him into a hug that surprised him with its firmness. Amanda kissed his cheek quickly, whispering, "Take care of our girl as well as you take care of that team."
Jacob was last, his grin wide, his phone still recording. "Mate," he said, shaking his head, "I don't even know what to say. You're living every dream I ever had."
Francesco chuckled, pulling him into a half-hug. "Come down to training sometime," he teased. "We'll see if we can't make one of those dreams real."
The group laughed, the sound mingling with the chaos all around them — other players embracing their children, toddlers stumbling across the pitch in oversized shirts, couples kissing under falling confetti.
The laughter was still hanging in the air when Francesco heard his name being shouted again, this time not from the crowd but from the touchline. He turned, still with an arm wrapped around Leah, and saw a group of FA staff in suits and lanyards motioning toward him. Their smiles were wide, but their gestures were purposeful. One of them raised a clipboard, another pointed toward a setup near the half-way line where a glimmer of gold caught his eye under the floodlights.
The Golden Boot.
It sat on a plinth draped in Premier League purple, shining as if it had been waiting for him all season. In a way, it had.
Leah gave him a gentle nudge. "Go," she said, her eyes dancing with pride. "That's yours. You earned it."
He glanced at his parents, who were nodding, at David and Amanda who were already clapping him forward, at Jacob who had lowered his phone just long enough to flash him a wide, brotherly grin. And then, with his chest tight and his medal still bouncing against him, Francesco started walking toward the FA staff, each step carrying the weight of a thousand moments that had brought him here.
As he got closer, the announcer's voice boomed across the Emirates, clear and deliberate:
"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we not only celebrate Arsenal's Premier League triumph… but also history. Please put your hands together for the winner of this season's Premier League Golden Boot — with a record-shattering fifty goals — Francesco Lee!"
The roar that erupted wasn't just noise. It was seismic. The Emirates shook with it, fans stamping their feet, clapping their hands raw, shouting his name like it was a hymn. Fifty goals. The number repeated itself in his head, unreal yet undeniable. Alan Shearer. Andy Cole. Legends who had set a bar so high it had stood untouched for decades. And here he was, a kid who once played barefoot on cracked asphalt, now walking toward a trophy that said he had climbed higher.
The FA staff ushered him into place. Cameras swarmed like bees, shutters firing endlessly. They handed him the Golden Boot — solid, heavy, absurdly reflective — and the weight of it almost made him laugh. It wasn't just metal. It was every sprint, every finish, every bruise, every roar of celebration and groan of near-miss, condensed into one golden shape.
He lifted it high above his head, and the crowd's noise doubled. Confetti cannons fired again, raining down more purple and white strips that stuck to his sweaty hair and jersey. Francesco couldn't stop smiling — a grin so wide it made his cheeks ache — but he felt something else too. A trembling at the edges of his vision, a lump in his throat.
Because this wasn't just about numbers.
This was about the afternoons he'd spent as a boy watching Henry glide across the same pitch, dreaming that maybe one day he'd wear the cannon on his chest. It was about the nights in Richmond when he sat with his dad in front of the TV, quietly promising himself that he'd make those commentators say his name one day. It was about the sacrifices his parents made, the long drives, the countless meals missed, the patience, the faith.
And now — fifty.
The photographers called his name, asking him to turn, to pose, to hold it higher. Francesco did, but he also looked beyond them, into the stands. He spotted clusters of fans holding banners: LEE = LEGEND, KING FRANCESCO, 50 AND COUNTING. Some had brought cutouts of his face, others painted his number on their cheeks. He waved the boot toward them, and the chants rose again, thundering through the London night.
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
He lowered the trophy for a moment, cradling it against his chest, then turned back toward his teammates who had now gathered just off the circle, waiting for him. Giroud was cupping his hands around his mouth, yelling something half-cheerful, half-mocking: "Save some goals for the rest of us, eh?" Alexis was clapping furiously, Özil nodding with that quiet smile of his, and Ramsey bouncing on his heels like a kid. Even Wenger, usually so composed, had his arms folded but with the kind of smile that said he was soaking in every ounce of pride.
But his eyes found Kanté first. The little Frenchman was clapping too, but more gently, modestly, as though Francesco's feat somehow embarrassed him by proxy. Francesco caught his gaze and mouthed: We did this. Kanté shook his head again, but this time he was grinning, his humility giving way to joy.
Van Dijk, towering behind him, pointed at Francesco and then tapped his chest, mouthing something simple: King.
Francesco laughed, shaking his head, and held the boot aloft once more, this time turning back toward the dugout where his family stood. Leah was clapping furiously, her face glowing with pride, and when he caught her eye she mimed blowing a kiss. His mother was openly sobbing now, his father's arm tight around her shoulders. David had one arm around Amanda, the other raised high in applause. Jacob was still recording, but his grin was so wide the phone was practically shaking in his hand.
Francesco lifted the Golden Boot toward them, holding it steady, a silent offering. This is for you.
The announcer's voice returned, calmer now but with reverence.
"Fifty goals in one Premier League season. A record that may never be broken again. Ladies and gentlemen… you have witnessed history tonight."
And for a moment, the stadium seemed to breathe together. The chants softened, replaced by applause that rolled like a tide, swelling, retreating, and swelling again. Francesco felt it sink into him, deeper than any cheer had before. This wasn't just Arsenal fans anymore. This was respect. From football itself.
The FA staff leaned in, asking if he would say a few words. Francesco blinked, caught off guard, but nodded. A microphone was placed into his hand, the Golden Boot tucked under his other arm. He took a breath, steadying himself, and lifted the mic.
"Wow," he started, his voice cracking slightly from the rawness of it all. The crowd chuckled warmly, encouraging him. He smiled, shaking his head. "I don't even know what to say. Fifty goals… if you told me this when I was a kid kicking a ball around the streets of Richmond, I would've laughed at you. But here we are."
Applause again. He tightened his grip on the boot.
"I want to say this first: this isn't just mine. It belongs to this team. To every one of those guys who passed me the ball, who ran with me, who defended when I lost it. Alexis, Mesut, Aaron, Oli, N'Golo, Virgil, Hector — all of you. This is ours. And to the boss — Arsène, thank you for believing in me, for giving me the chance to write my story here."
Wenger smiled faintly, dipping his head.
Francesco's throat tightened as he continued. "And my family… Mum, Dad, Leah, all of you — I wouldn't be here without you. This boot, this medal, this night — it's because of everything you sacrificed for me. I love you."
His mother covered her mouth again, tears spilling. Leah's eyes shone, her hands pressed to her chest.
"And lastly," Francesco said, his voice firming, "to the fans. To the Arsenal family. You've carried us all season, through good days and bad. You make the Emirates a fortress, and you make us believe every single time we step on this pitch. I hope tonight, with this trophy, with this record, we've given you something back. Because this—" he lifted the Golden Boot high again, "—this is for you."
The crowd erupted, the sound so loud it rattled the microphone in his hand. He lowered it slowly, letting the moment wash over him, before handing it back to the staff. The cameras flashed again, capturing him with the trophy raised, with the medal around his neck, with confetti still falling like snow in a dream.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 56
Goal: 78
Assist: 10
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9