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Above it all, Arsène Wenger stood at the touchline, arms crossed but face glowing with pride. He knew what this meant. He had done it once, with Henry and Vieira and Bergkamp. And now, a dozen years later, he had done it again—with a new generation, with Francesco at its heart.
Francesco and the others continued their wild celebration on the pitch, their bodies buzzing with adrenaline, sweat mixing with champagne in the air, the roar of the crowd still thundering in their ears. Every embrace felt tighter, every laugh louder, every shout of joy more raw, because this wasn't just any victory — this was immortality. The Arsenal players knew it, the fans knew it, even the commentators struggling to find words for the occasion knew it.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, Aston Villa's players were slumped across the grass, their faces pale and hollow, their limbs heavy as though the weight of an entire season had finally collapsed onto them. Some sat with jerseys pulled over their faces, hiding the tears that came freely now. Micah Richards crouched low near the penalty area, his arms draped over his knees as he stared into the ground, his captaincy reduced to a silent vigil. Young Jack Grealish, who had tried to make something happen in brief flashes, wiped at his eyes, frustrated not just by the loss but by the inevitability of relegation — Villa's fate sealed by Arsenal's storm of brilliance.
On the touchline, caretaker manager Eric Black sat motionless, staring ahead. His players didn't need a speech. He didn't have words anyway. The reality was cruel but undeniable: Aston Villa, the proud founding members of the Football League, the club of McGrath, Cowans, and the miracle of 1982, were heading down to the Championship.
It was all there, written in the contrast. Arsenal players and fans delirious in red, Villa players cloaked in green and blue misery. One man's triumph was always another's heartbreak in football.
Francesco, panting but grinning, slowed for a moment in his celebration. Something inside him compelled him to stop running, stop shouting, just for a second. He turned slowly, looking around at the Emirates in full bloom. Everywhere he looked, he saw it — banners unfurled from the stands, scarves held high, words painted across canvas and cardboard:
"INVINCIBLE."
The word stretched across the stadium in dozens of forms — in red, in white, in gold letters, in handwritten scrawls by lifelong fans, in banners brought in anticipation, now proudly lifted as though they had been waiting twelve years for this precise moment.
Arsenal weren't just champions. They weren't just winners. They had done the impossible again.
The second Invincible season. The second in club history. The second in Premier League history.
Francesco felt his chest rise and fall with a different kind of breath now. It wasn't just exhaustion from the ninety minutes — it was the overwhelming awareness of history. He had grown up hearing about the 2003–04 Invincibles, had seen the replays of Henry gliding, Vieira towering, Bergkamp orchestrating, Lehmann saving. That team had felt like legends from another universe. And yet, here he was, standing in the same club colors, not just walking in their footsteps but carving his own into the same immortal stone.
He blinked hard, trying to keep the tears at bay. He didn't want to cry in front of everyone, but the lump in his throat wouldn't go away. His gaze wandered again, scanning the mass of faces in the stands — children on their fathers' shoulders waving flags, elderly men with tears streaming down their cheeks, young women in red shirts screaming the names of players until their voices cracked.
It hit him: this wasn't just about him scoring a hat-trick, or about Arsenal winning 4–0. It was about them. All of them. The thousands inside the Emirates. The millions watching across the world. The generations who had lived and died with this club, through lean years and heartbreak, through disappointment and mockery. This was their crown too.
Sánchez, still buzzing from his assist to Giroud, ran past him and clapped him on the back, jolting him out of his daze. "¡Vamos, niño!" Alexis shouted, eyes wide, grin wild. "We did it!"
Francesco laughed, nodding, though his eyes were still wandering. "We really did," he muttered, almost to himself.
Nearby, Ramsey hugged Cazorla, who jumped into his arms like a child, both of them laughing uncontrollably. Van Dijk was pointing up at the North Bank, roaring wordlessly, his massive frame shaking with joy. Koscielny, the steady vice-captain, simply stood with his arms wide, as if embracing the whole stadium at once.
And then there was Mikel Arteta. The armband still around his arm, the Basque veteran walked toward the players with a smile that was more fragile than usual. His last touch of the ball in Arsenal colors had been cheered, his final minutes serenaded. Francesco caught sight of him again and felt another wave of emotion. He remembered handing the armband over, remembered the whispered "Gracias, niño."
That's when Francesco realized something.
This wasn't just the end of a season. It was the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. Wenger had once passed the torch from the Invincibles to Fabregas, from Fabregas to Van Persie, from Van Persie to the next generation. Now Arteta was leaving, but he had passed it to Francesco — quite literally, on that grass, under those lights, in that noise. The old Arsenal, the one that had waited twelve years for this moment, had just given way to the new Arsenal, with Francesco at its core.
He swallowed, glancing back up at the banners: INVINCIBLE.
The word didn't feel abstract anymore. It felt like his skin, his blood. He was one of them now. Not just a boy in the academy dreaming of first-team minutes. Not just a teenager scoring goals. He was part of something that would never die.
Behind him, Giroud grabbed him suddenly, lifting him off the ground like a trophy. "Hat-trick hero!" Olivier shouted, spinning him in the air. "The kid's unstoppable!"
Francesco laughed, arms flailing. "Put me down, Oli!"
But even as he said it, he was grinning, because in that moment, being lifted by his teammates, cheered by forty-thousand voices, he felt like he could fly.
Meanwhile, on the far side of the pitch, the Villa fans were still singing. It wasn't loud, not compared to the Arsenal faithful, but it was defiant, and it was mournful. "We'll be back," some of them chanted. Others sang the names of their heroes from the past. There were tears, yes, but also resilience. Relegation was brutal, but it wasn't the end. They knew their club would rise again.
Francesco noticed them too. For a moment, guilt tugged at him. He was young, but he already understood the cruel duality of football — your greatest joy was always tied to someone else's greatest pain. He slowed his steps as he looked at Villa's players applauding their fans, some of them too broken to even wave.
He thought about how it must feel — to know your club had fallen, to know you were part of the team that carried that weight. It was hard not to empathize. Football was joy, but it was also heartbreak. He promised himself in that moment never to take this joy for granted.
The noise was still rattling inside Francesco's chest as they began to drift toward the tunnel. The Emirates was still howling, still dancing, still refusing to sit down, but the Arsenal players knew there was another ritual waiting. They had celebrated out there long enough — or maybe not long enough at all — but eventually, the magnetic pull of the dressing room called them home.
It wasn't about silence. It wasn't about retreat. It was about tradition. You win a title, especially a title like this, and you come back inside before the final act. Before the stage is built. Before the silver is raised.
Francesco fell in step with Alexis and Giroud as they walked, laughter still breaking in their voices as they teased each other. Ahead of them, Bellerín and Monreal jogged shoulder to shoulder, one buzzing with youthful speed, the other calm in veteran rhythm, both wearing the same wild grin. Ramsey had an arm thrown around Cazorla, the two of them talking animatedly about something no one else could hear, both voices high and incredulous, as if even now they couldn't quite believe what they'd done.
And behind them, Arteta trailed, applauding the crowd slowly as he walked backward toward the tunnel, drinking in every last second. His eyes weren't wet — not yet — but they were close. He knew what this was. His last steps as a player on that pitch. His last day as captain. His last title in red and white.
The tunnel swallowed them in one by one. The roars dimmed, like someone had turned down the volume on the entire universe. The fluorescent light above hummed faintly, the air cooler, sharper, stripped of the champagne mist that clung outside. The noise of studs clattering against the hard floor replaced the sound of a stadium in ecstasy.
Inside the dressing room, it was chaos in the best sense. Jerseys were peeled off and tossed into corners. Boots clattered as they were kicked free. Kit men scrambled, grinning themselves, hauling out cardboard boxes stacked high with folded T-shirts. Each shirt was white, fresh, and clean, with two words blazoned in red across the chest:
INVINCIBLE.
And just below it, in bold numbers:
15.
Fifteen league titles in the history of Arsenal Football Club. The fifteenth crown. The second in two years.
Francesco pulled his own jersey over his head, sweat sticking it to his skin for a moment before it came free. He barely even tossed it aside before reaching into the box for one of the shirts. The cotton was crisp under his fingers. He held it up, staring at the word as though to confirm it was real, as though he hadn't just lived the ninety minutes that made it true.
Invincible.
He slipped it on, the fabric cool against his overheated body, the fit snug across his chest. It wasn't a player's kit. It wasn't something designed for performance. It was something designed for memory. He looked down at the number fifteen, printed bold and clear, and for a fleeting second, he imagined the numbers across Arsenal's timeline. From Chapman's dominance to Wenger's glory, and now to this. Him, here, part of it.
Sánchez, beside him, was already pulling his own shirt on, tugging at the sleeves as if to stretch them. He grinned, flexing his biceps playfully. "Looks good, no?"
Francesco smirked, nodding. "Better on me."
Giroud, overhearing, laughed and smacked Francesco's shoulder. "Always the ego, eh? Don't worry, niño, you earned it."
One by one, the room filled with the same uniform. White shirts, red letters, the word that would never fade. The kits of sweat and toil, the jerseys of ninety-minute battles, were gone now. This was the new skin of champions.
Cazorla twirled in his, arms out like a child, giggling. "Mira! Invincible, invincible!"
Koscielny simply sat on the bench, staring down at his chest, quiet in his pride. Monreal tied the knot of his hair again, methodical, almost ritualistic, before finally allowing himself the faintest of smiles. Bellerín, phone already in hand, snapped a picture of himself, cheeks flushed, hair damp, captioning it with just the single word: Immortal.
The dressing room wasn't calm — it was buzzing, it was alive — but it had shifted from the raw chaos of the pitch into something more reflective. The boys were looking at each other differently now. Not just as teammates, not just as friends. But as brothers who had crossed into legend together.
Francesco sat down at last, the adrenaline still making his legs bounce involuntarily. He pressed his palms against his knees, looked around the room, and just let it sink in. Every laugh, every chant, every towel snapped in jest, every splash of water poured over someone's head — it was all tinged with something heavier, deeper.
Arsenal weren't just champions again. They weren't just repeat winners. They had done it without defeat. They had written themselves into the fabric of English football forever.
And now, they were waiting.
The kit men had told them: the stage was being built outside. The Emirates crew were rolling out the platforms, arranging the railings, preparing the podium where the Premier League trophy would stand. It took time. It always did. Television schedules. Sponsor boards. Perfect positioning. The whole world wanted the perfect image.
So they waited.
Some sat, towels over their heads, letting the exhaustion finally catch up. Some wandered the room, restless, unable to sit still. Others laughed endlessly, high on adrenaline that had no place to go.
Ramsey sat beside Francesco, nudging him gently. "What's going through your head, mate?"
Francesco exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling. "Everything. Nothing. I don't even know. Feels… bigger than I thought it would."
Ramsey nodded, understanding. "Because it is."
Their eyes met, and for a brief second, Francesco saw in Ramsey not just a teammate but a man who had carried the weight of Arsenal through difficult years, through injuries, through heartbreaks, and was finally seeing it all pay off.
Arteta's voice cut through then. "Chicos."
The room fell quiet almost instantly. Not because he barked it. But because when Arteta spoke, especially now, they all listened.
He stood near the center of the room, his own Invincible shirt on, the armband still clinging to his arm out of ritual, not necessity. His expression was soft, his smile faint but sincere.
"I won't make a speech," he said, his accent wrapping around the words. "I don't have many left in me. But… look around. This is not normal. This is not something you see every day. What we have done, what you have done… you will tell your children about it. Your grandchildren. And still, it will not feel real."
The silence was thick, not heavy, but reverent.
"I leave knowing this club is in the best hands," Arteta added, his eyes finding Francesco's for a moment, then moving across each face in turn. "Enjoy every second. You've earned immortality."
No applause followed. No cheers. Just nods, and silence, and the kind of respect that doesn't need noise.
Then, almost as if on cue, a knock came at the dressing-room door. One of the staff poked his head in. "Ten minutes, lads. Stage is ready."
The room erupted again, laughter and shouts bouncing off the walls. The quiet moment of reverence gave way to anticipation. The final act was coming.
Francesco felt his stomach twist, not with nerves, but with a kind of electric charge. The trophy lift. The image that would last forever. The photograph that would hang on walls, be printed on covers, be replayed on screens for decades.
He rubbed his hands together, unable to stop the grin from breaking across his face.
"Ten minutes," he muttered to himself. "Then we lift it."
The call finally came.
The knock at the door this time wasn't just staff or kit men. It was a signal that the moment they had been waiting for — the moment all the buildup inside the dressing room had been pointing toward — had arrived.
"The stage is ready," came the confirmation, firm but almost ceremonial. "It's time."
The words landed differently than any others had that day. They weren't tactical instructions. They weren't rallying cries. They weren't jokes or banter. They were a kind of summons. The Arsenal players, already buzzing, seemed to straighten just a little more. Their legs, heavy from ninety minutes of battle, suddenly felt lighter. Their eyes, still wild from the adrenaline of the match, now sharpened with a new kind of clarity.
Francesco stood, his Invincible shirt clinging to him now with sweat and the faint spray of water from some half-spilled bottle. He could feel his pulse hammering in his chest again, like a drum leading him into something he didn't want to blink through for fear of missing it.
They began to file out of the dressing room. Not in silence, but in a low hum of voices, the kind that spoke of anticipation barely held in check. Boots scuffed on the concrete floor, trainers squeaked faintly, the tunnel lights humming overhead.
And then they emerged.
The Emirates had not quieted. Not for a second. The roar that greeted them as they stepped back out of the tunnel wasn't the roar of a match anymore. It was something larger, something ceremonial. The kind of sound that felt like it rose from the foundations of the stadium itself, from the steel and stone and decades of history, from every fan who had ever sung and shouted and believed in red and white.
Out on the pitch, the stage had been constructed. Gleaming under the floodlights, rails set up to hold back the sea of photographers, sponsor boards perfectly positioned, the Premier League crest standing proud. And there, in the center, on a raised platform draped in Arsenal's colors, stood the FA President, flanked by his staff. Beside him, resplendent in his dark suit, his tie crisp, his demeanor composed but warm, was Prince William.
It felt unreal, seeing royalty waiting there for them, ready to place medals around their necks. But football had always had that strange, powerful overlap with ceremony, tradition, and heritage.
The Arsenal players walked in a line, almost like schoolboys called up for an award, but the weight of it was heavier, grander. Wenger and the coaching staff went first. Arsène's stride was unhurried, his expression measured. Yet there was something in the way his lips twitched at the corners, the way his usually stoic eyes softened, that betrayed just how much this meant. One by one, the staff received their medals, the FA President placing them gently, Prince William shaking each hand with the kind of warmth that felt genuine, not just rehearsed.
Then it was the players' turn.
One by one, they mounted the stage. Each name was called, each step carried them further into immortality. Bellerín, hair still damp and wild, grinned as the medal was hung around his neck, his youthful energy infectious. Monreal followed, his bow respectful as he received his medal, shaking hands firmly. Ramsey's smile was wide, boyish, and unrestrained. Sánchez flexed playfully as his medal dropped into place, earning laughter from the crowd closest to the stage. Giroud, always half the showman, blew a kiss to the supporters as he descended the steps, gold glinting against his chest.
The line carried on. Cazorla and Kante, who smaller than most, looked almost swallowed up by the medal but wore it with the biggest grin of them all. Koscielny and Van Dijk who accepted their with quiet dignity, as their eyes fixed outward toward the fans, as though they was trying to memorize the moment forever. Each player had his way of receiving it, of carrying himself. Some laughed, some bowed, some shouted. But all of them, every single one, radiated pride.
And then came Francesco.
He was last but one, and the moment his name echoed out into the stadium, the sound seemed to rise even higher. The fans roared it like an anthem, like they were shouting not just for a player but for the embodiment of everything they had lived that season.
Francesco walked forward, the lights bathing him, the world watching. The medal was placed around his neck, the metal cool against his hot skin. Prince William leaned in just slightly, his handshake firm, his smile genuine. "Congratulations," he said, voice just audible over the din. "You've written history today."
Francesco nodded, words caught somewhere in his throat, and managed only: "Thank you."
He stepped aside then, letting the moment wash over him. The medal bounced gently against his chest as he moved, heavy but glorious.
And at last, Arteta.
The captain walked forward, his steps slower, deliberate. The crowd gave him the ovation he deserved. His medal was placed around his neck, and for a brief second, his lips pressed tight together, his eyes blinking quicker than usual. Prince William shook his hand, speaking something soft that the microphones couldn't catch, but Arteta's faint nod said he had heard it, and it had meant something.
Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for.
The Premier League trophy, gleaming silver and gold, was carried forward. Its ribbons shone red and white, its handles waiting to be lifted. Prince William handed it to Arteta, the crowd exploding as the weight of it settled into the captain's hands.
Arteta didn't lift it immediately. Instead, he turned.
Down the steps, his teammates were waiting, arms linked, shouting, clapping, bouncing, urging him on. But Arteta shook his head, smiling.
He raised his free hand, pointing. "Francesco. Arsène. Come."
The call cut through the noise. For a moment, Francesco froze, blinking as though he hadn't heard it right. Then, Ramsey shoved his shoulder, grinning wide. "Go on, mate. That's you."
Francesco climbed the steps back up, his chest tight with something beyond adrenaline. Wenger, slower, more reserved, followed at Arteta's other side.
There they stood. The old master, the captain, and the new hero.
Arteta shifted the trophy, making room. His voice, low but urgent, carried to both of them. "Together. We lift it together."
Wenger's hand settled gently on one handle, fingers almost reverent. Francesco placed his own hand on the other, the cool metal under his grip making his skin prickle. Arteta tightened his hold in the middle, anchoring them.
And then, as the countdown began from the players below, as the Emirates Stadium seemed to hold its collective breath, the three of them hoisted the Premier League trophy high into the London night.
The explosion of noise was indescribable. Fireworks shot from the edges of the stage, golden sparks raining down. Confetti cannons blasted red and white paper into the air, fluttering down over players and fans alike. The cameras flashed endlessly, capturing the image that would live forever: Arteta in the middle, Wenger on one side, Francesco on the other, the trophy aloft, three generations of Arsenal's soul bound together in that single moment.
Francesco felt the weight of it — not just the trophy, but the history. The years of struggle, of near-misses, of heartbreaks. The Invincibles of 2004, now echoed in this new unbeaten season. The faith Wenger had shown in him, the leadership Arteta had passed on, the belief the fans had poured into him. It all pulsed through his veins as the silver glinted above them.
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.
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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