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He wiped champagne from his eyes, heart pounding with a strange mix of elation and focus. For all his bold declarations outside, for all his confidence in front of the cameras, Wenger had reminded him of something deeper. Belief was one thing. Discipline was another. Both would be needed.
The dressing room had returned to noise, though it was different now — calmer, softer, as if Wenger's words had reshaped the energy. The songs still rose, but they were lighter, playful; the champagne was sipped more than sprayed. Some players slumped into seats, their bodies finally registering the weight of the ninety minutes, of the thirty-eight matches behind them.
Francesco leaned back against his locker, breath still slow, head tilted toward the ceiling. The echoes of Wenger's speech buzzed inside him. No regrets. That phrase clung to him, sharper than even his own bold declaration of the treble. Wenger had always had a way of distilling the moment into something elemental.
Bellerín nudged him, grinning through damp hair plastered against his forehead. "Oye, Francesco, you looked like a priest up there earlier. 'We will win the treble!'" He mimicked Francesco's raised chin, puffing his chest out. "The crowd went loco."
Francesco smirked, shaking his head. "Better than being silent, no?"
"Eh, true." Héctor clapped his shoulder. "If we do it, hermano, you'll be immortal."
Francesco didn't reply, but the words lodged themselves inside him. If we do it. The conditional. He knew what was still to come.
Eventually, the energy wound down into routine. The staff began collecting stray champagne bottles, trainers tossed towels, and the smell of sweat mingled with stale alcohol. Wenger clapped his hands once, gently.
"Alright. Enough. Showers, change, then the bus."
The team moved as one, laughter trailing into the tiled corridors.
The showers steamed with heat, water hissing against tiles, voices echoing with jokes and shouts. Giroud hummed some French tune over the sound, while Alexis barked something in Spanish that made Coquelin laugh so hard he slipped again. Cech, ever the elder statesman, simply washed quietly, shaking his head at the madness around him.
Francesco stood under the spray, letting the water drum against his scalp, washing away the champagne, the grass stains, the adrenaline. His muscles ached, but in a sweet way — the ache of effort rewarded. He closed his eyes and thought of Leah, of her smile when he handed her the Golden Boot, of the way her hand had brushed his cheek before she disappeared down the tunnel. Tonight, she'd be waiting. His parents too. That thought grounded him. This wasn't just about him anymore.
By the time he stepped out, towel wrapped around his waist, the room was filled with the sound of banter. Walcott was arguing about who had sung the loudest, Özil smirked as he told him he was flat, and Koscielny was mock-chastising Coquelin for wasting champagne on the floor instead of drinking it.
Francesco dressed in the Arsenal tracksuit — the red jacket with the white stripes down the arms, the crest over the heart. He zipped it up to his chest and sat down, tugging on the trainers laid out neatly. The Premier League medal still hung heavy around his neck, cool against his skin.
And then — the staff carried in the trophy.
The Premier League trophy. Gleaming silver, golden crown, red-and-white ribbons cascading like streamers. Even after the presentation on the pitch, even after lifting it in front of the fans, seeing it here — in the sanctity of the dressing room — made Francesco's chest tighten.
"Francesco," Arteta called softly, nodding toward it. "Your turn."
He hesitated for half a second, then stood. The room fell quiet as he bent, his hands closing around the cool handles. He lifted it gently, pressing it close to his chest.
It felt heavier here than on the stage, heavier in a way that mattered. Because out there, under the lights, it had been spectacle. Here, surrounded by his brothers, it was truth.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The nods, the smiles, the quiet claps of approval were enough.
"Come," Wenger said again, softer now. "Time to go."
⸻
The tunnel out of the Emirates felt strangely quiet compared to the storm of the stadium. Security flanked the players as they moved, but the sound of the fans still lingered in the air outside, muffled chants that would probably echo all night through north London.
Francesco carried the trophy as they walked, its gleam catching in the fluorescent lights. He felt the weight of eyes on him — not just from fans or cameras, but from his teammates too. Not jealousy, not even expectation. Just… trust. As though they knew he was the right one to carry it tonight.
The bus waited, sleek and red, Arsenal's crest painted proudly along the side. Its engine hummed, headlights cutting through the darkened car park. A small crowd of staff and family members waved from behind barriers, still snapping photos, still shouting words of congratulations.
As they climbed aboard, the smell of leather and polish greeted them, mingled with the faintest trace of champagne that had followed them in. The seats were plush, arranged in pairs, with tables in the middle sections.
Francesco stepped in last, still holding the trophy. As his foot hit the top step, applause broke out inside the bus. His teammates banged on the windows, clapped against the backs of seats, whistled and cheered.
"Capitano!" someone shouted — maybe Cazorla, maybe Monreal.
Francesco laughed, cheeks warming, and walked down the aisle. He set the trophy carefully on the front table, ribbons spilling across the surface like a red-and-white river. Then he dropped into the seat beside Ramsey, who immediately leaned over and patted the trophy like it was alive.
"Never gets old," Aaron said, shaking his head.
"Never will," Francesco replied.
The bus lurched forward, the engine deepening as it pulled out of the car park. The windows trembled with the chants still ringing outside — "Arsenal! Arsenal! Arsenal!" — but then the noise faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of the road beneath them.
Inside, the team settled into a mix of exhaustion and contentment. Some players plugged in headphones, leaning against windows, eyes closing. Others chatted softly, laughter still bubbling here and there. A few staff members sipped bottled water, already planning recovery sessions, their minds never fully leaving the next task.
Francesco sat back, one hand still resting on the trophy's base. He gazed out the window as the lights of London slid past — red buses, crowded pubs spilling people onto the streets, fans still in Arsenal shirts waving as the bus rolled by. It struck him then how far this victory had reached. It wasn't just theirs. It belonged to every soul in this city who had sung tonight, who had believed when belief had seemed impossible.
As the city thinned into quieter roads, the bus hummed steadily toward Colney. Francesco's eyelids grew heavy, but his heart stayed wide awake. He thought of Wenger's words. He thought of Leah waiting at the mansion, of his parents smiling with pride, of her family embracing his as though they'd always been one.
The bus slowed to a gentle crawl as it rolled past the familiar gates of Colney. The headlights swept over the sign — Arsenal Training Centre — a place that had been both fortress and crucible all season. Inside the bus, the atmosphere had settled into a quiet reverence. No more songs, no more chants. Just tired bodies, faint smiles, and the kind of silence that spoke not of emptiness but of fullness — of something deeply and completely lived.
As the driver eased the bus into its bay, the players stirred. Boots scuffed on the floor, bags zipped, and the faint sound of someone yawning stretched into the still air. Then, as the bus doors hissed open, sound poured in.
Applause.
Rows of Arsenal staff lined the pavement — physios, chefs, kitmen, ground staff, administrators, and even the security guards who usually stood watch in near invisibility. They were all there, clapping, smiling, cheering their champions home.
Francesco felt something in his throat catch. These were the people who rarely saw the spotlight, yet had carried so much of the season in their own quiet ways. He rose with the others, the Premier League trophy still gleaming in his arms, ribbons swaying with each step.
As he stepped down from the bus, the applause grew louder, filling the night air like a tide. Some staff had tears in their eyes; others whistled proudly, a few even calling out his name.
"Francesco!" "Capitano!" "Golden Boot!"
He offered a wave, smiling wide, but his hands were full with the weight of silver and glory. The crown on top caught the floodlights, scattering specks of light across the crowd.
Then, as he reached the centre of the group, he slowed. With deliberate care, Francesco lifted the trophy forward and extended it to one of the kitmen — a quiet, older man named Brian, who had been with the club longer than some players had been alive.
"Keep her safe," Francesco said softly. "She belongs in the trophy room."
Brian's hands trembled as he accepted it, his face breaking into a grin so pure that Francesco's chest ached. "With pleasure, son. With pleasure."
The applause redoubled as Brian turned with the trophy, carrying it like a relic toward the building. The players followed behind him in ones and twos, but Francesco hung back.
He took a moment — a last look at Colney under the lights. This was home, yes. But tonight, home was somewhere else. Home was waiting for him in Richmond.
He turned, waving once more to the staff, before peeling away toward the car park. The lot was quieter now, emptied of most of the day's bustle, but his black BMW X5 waited like a sentinel. He pressed the key fob, the headlights blinked, and the car came to life with a hum.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he exhaled. Alone, at last. He rested his hands on the wheel for a moment, just breathing. The medal still hung against his chest, catching faintly in the light from the dashboard. For a second, he considered taking it off, but no — not yet. Tonight, he wanted it close.
The roads out of Colney were calm, dark stretches punctuated by the occasional streetlamp. His mind drifted as he drove, scenes replaying like film reels — Wenger's words, Leah's laughter, his mother's tears, the chants at the Emirates. The trophy in his hands. The bus full of brothers.
And then, inevitably, the thought of what waited now: his family, her family, their families — together. His heart warmed at the thought of Leah in the kitchen, apron on, probably scolding his mother for trying to do too much.
The drive to Richmond passed quickly, London's veins of light thinning into the quieter luxury of wide streets and gated drives. Finally, he turned into his own. The mansion loomed ahead, soft lights glowing through the windows, every inch of it alive with warmth.
He parked the BMW carefully in the garage, its engine sighing into silence. For a moment, he sat there in the dark, both hands still on the wheel, the hum of the night pressing against the windows. Then he unclipped his seatbelt, pushed the door open, and stepped out.
The smell reached him first as he crossed to the side door — garlic, rosemary, something sizzling. Home.
Inside, the house was alive with life and comfort. The faint sound of the television carried from the lounge, voices overlapped with laughter, and somewhere down the hall a pan clattered against metal.
Francesco stepped in, the familiar creak of the floor under his feet. He paused just a second, drinking it in.
In the living room, he saw them.
His dad, Mike, sat comfortably on the armchair, leaning forward, gesturing animatedly as he spoke. Across from him, Leah's dad, David, was nodding along, his glass of wine tilting dangerously with every enthusiastic motion. The two men were lost in conversation — something about football, no doubt, or perhaps something deeper now that the barrier between their families had dissolved completely.
On the couch, Jacob sprawled with his phone forgotten at his side, eyes locked on the television where highlights of the match replayed. His face lit up every time Francesco appeared on screen, pride radiating off him like a beacon.
And from the kitchen — laughter.
He walked toward it, guided by the sounds and the smells.
There they were. Leah stood by the stove, apron tied around her waist, hair tied loosely back, a wooden spoon in hand as she stirred something bubbling. Beside her, Sarah — his mother — chopped herbs with practiced precision, while Amanda, Leah's mum, fussed over a baking tray. The three women moved around each other like a choreographed dance, bumping hips, stealing spoons, teasing in whispers and bursts of laughter.
For a moment, Francesco just stood in the doorway, watching. The sight filled him more than any trophy ever could. His worlds — all of them — merged into one kitchen, one room, one home.
Then Leah noticed him. She turned, eyes bright, a smile already tugging at her lips.
"There he is," she said softly, almost like she'd been waiting to breathe until he walked through that door.
Sarah turned too, her knife pausing mid-slice, and Amanda's laughter spilled over as she wiped her hands on a towel.
"Francesco!" his mum exclaimed, hurrying to him, her arms wrapping tight around him despite the chopping board abandoned behind her. "You must be starving. Sit, sit."
Amanda joined, hugging him warmly. "You're just in time. She's been bossing us both around like a head chef." She tilted her chin at Leah.
Leah rolled her eyes, though she was smiling, cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove. "Someone has to make sure you two don't burn the house down."
Francesco laughed, stepping forward to kiss her temple gently. The smell of rosemary clung to her hair, and the warmth of her presence settled him in ways no crowd could.
"I've missed this," he murmured.
She leaned back just enough to look up at him. "This? You've been gone a few hours."
"This," he repeated, his voice firmer. "All of this." He gestured at the kitchen, at the laughter, at the hum of family in every corner.
Her smile softened, and she pressed the spoon into his hand. "Then stir. If you want to be part of it, you work for it."
He chuckled, taking the spoon obediently, the bubbling sauce popping lightly under his wrist.
Francesco gave the sauce another slow stir, just enough to hear the gentle pop of bubbles as the flavors folded into each other. Leah smirked at him, a tiny shake of her head like she couldn't quite believe she'd gotten him to stand there playing sous-chef after the night he'd had. He gave her temple one last brush with his lips, then handed the spoon back with a low, "You're better at this part."
She swatted him lightly on the hip with the spoon, laughing, and he retreated, still smiling. The warmth of the kitchen lingered on him as he padded back down the hallway toward the living room.
The hum of voices greeted him before he even stepped in. Mike and David were exactly where he'd left them, though now their laughter was deeper, more comfortable — the kind of laughter men shared when pride replaced formality. Jacob was still sprawled on the couch, but he'd traded his earlier glow of highlights for idle channel surfing, flicking halfheartedly through reruns of sitcoms and muted news channels.
"Ah, here he is," Mike said, catching sight of his son in the doorway. He leaned back in his chair with a grin. "We were just talking about you — though not in the way those pundits do."
David chuckled, raising his glass in a mock toast. "Don't worry, Francesco. I didn't let your father exaggerate too much."
Jacob sat up, reaching for the remote. "Speaking of pundits… you want to see what they're saying? Sky Sports are doing a full breakdown of the match and the trophy lift."
Francesco tilted his head with a smile. "You really need to ask?"
Jacob grinned, hitting the guide button, scrolling quickly, then landing on Sky Sports. The screen shifted, and suddenly the familiar sight filled the room: the big, glossy studio set, the table with bright lights and that endless rotation of pundits — tonight, no less than Gary Neville, Jamie Carragher, Ian Wright, Roy Keane, Patrick Vieira, and Thierry Henry.
It was like an Arsenal reunion and an inquisition rolled into one.
Francesco dropped onto the sofa beside Jacob, the cushion sinking under him. Mike and David both leaned forward unconsciously, glasses in hand, the television glow washing their faces with shifting blues and whites.
On screen, highlights of the game played out again — the final whistle, the roar of the Emirates, Francesco holding the Golden Boot high, then the team lifting the Premier League trophy together. The images felt strange, almost dreamlike, as though they were watching someone else's life.
Gary Neville's voice cut in over the footage. "You know, nights like this don't come around often. Arsenal — invincible again. Unbeaten all season. You have to just pause and realize how monumental this is. We're talking about history repeating itself — something everyone said couldn't be done."
Carragher leaned forward in his chair, gesturing with his hands. "Yeah, Gary, but it's not just about the unbeaten run. It's the way they've done it. Free-flowing, attacking football, resilience when it mattered. And Francesco Lee — let's be honest, lads — he's been the heartbeat of this side. Golden Boot winner, record breaker. We're looking at a player who's not just had a great season, but one who's putting himself up there with the greats of the Premier League."
"Up there?" Ian Wright interrupted with a laugh, his grin wide. "Jamie, he's not just up there — he's leading the charge! Francesco's broken my Arsenal scoring records already. He's pushing Thierry. The kid's 17! He's got time to smash everything in front of him. What he's doing right now — it's world-class, generational stuff."
Jacob let out a low whistle, glancing at his brother. "You hear that? Ian Wright's practically your hype man."
Francesco smirked, scratching the side of his jaw. "Yeah, but let's see what Keane says before we celebrate too much."
Sure enough, Roy Keane sat back in his chair, arms crossed, that familiar scowl pulling at his face. "Look, it's a great achievement, no doubt. Unbeaten is unbeaten. But let's not get carried away. Football is about consistency — can they do it again next year? Can Francesco keep this level when defenders start kicking him more, when the pressure builds? Tonight's brilliant, but football doesn't stop. You enjoy it, sure, but then you go again."
David shook his head with a chuckle. "Ah, Keane. He could watch a rainbow and call it average."
Mike grunted in agreement. "That's his job. Miserable sod."
On screen, Patrick Vieira leaned in, his deep voice calm but firm. "Roy, you know as well as I do — going unbeaten in England is a miracle. Doing it twice is beyond what anyone thought possible. And Francesco — he's not just scoring goals, he's leading, he's pressing, he's fighting for every ball. That's what impresses me most. He's not a luxury striker. He's a warrior who happens to score like an artist."
Francesco felt his chest stir at that, the weight of Vieira's words settling differently than the others. Warrior. That wasn't just pundit talk — it was a legacy nod, from captain to would-be captain.
And then Thierry Henry spoke. Calm, smooth, with that deliberate precision that made everything he said feel important.
"When I look at Francesco," Henry began, his eyes narrowing slightly, "I see hunger. That's what separates him. The goals — yes, they're incredible. Breaking the record, winning the Golden Boot, all of that. But hunger — that's what makes legends. He doesn't settle. Tonight, in his interview, he said he wanted the treble. That's not arrogance, that's vision. I recognize it because I had it. And when I see him play, when I hear him speak… I see a player who wants to write his own chapter, not just live in someone else's."
The studio fell into a brief silence, as if even Neville and Carragher knew better than to step on Henry's words.
On the sofa, Jacob's mouth hung open. "Bro… Henry just knighted you on live TV."
Francesco laughed, shaking his head, though a flush warmed his cheeks. "Or cursed me. Depends how you look at it."
Mike leaned forward, pointing at the screen with his glass. "You listen to Thierry. He knows what it takes to be immortal at this club. And you — you've got the chance. Don't waste it."
David nodded in agreement, his voice softer but no less serious. "It's one thing to be a star, Francesco. It's another to carry a city, a club, a history. You've done both this season."
The pundits moved on to tactical breakdowns — the midfield's control, the defense's discipline, Wenger's subtle adjustments. Clips of Francesco's goals rolled, slow-motion finishes into corners, headers angled past keepers, volleys struck so clean the net rippled like silk.
Every so often, Wright would laugh in disbelief, Henry would smile faintly, Vieira would nod. Neville and Carragher debated positioning, while Keane scowled like he was watching someone cheat at cards.
Ian Wright had been chuckling at one of Carragher's exaggerated hand gestures when, suddenly, something seemed to flicker across his face. His grin widened, and he sat back in his chair, shaking his head in that way people do when a new realization hits them mid-laughter. He glanced sideways at Vieira, then back toward Henry, as though the thought was too good to keep bottled up.
"You know what, lads?" Wright said, voice climbing with that mischievous energy of his. "It just hit me. Spurs — poor Spurs. They've been talking about catching Arsenal, about being top dogs in North London for years. But Francesco here — what's he got now? Two Premier League trophies. Spurs?" He leaned in, eyes glinting as if the punchline wrote itself. "Zero. Not one. Not ever."
The studio cracked into laughter. Even Neville, who usually tried to keep the banter on rails, covered his mouth with his hand to hide a grin. Carragher slapped the desk with the flat of his palm. Vieira chuckled deeply, and Henry's smile was the kind that spoke volumes without a word — sly, knowing, carrying the sharp edge of truth.
The laughter carried into the living room in Richmond. Mike erupted instantly, his laugh booming as he clapped his knee. "Oh, Wrighty, you legend!" he barked, shaking his head, nearly spilling what was left of his drink. Francesco leaned back against the sofa cushions, laughter bubbling out of him uncontrollably. His shoulders shook, and he pointed at the television as though Wright had personally delivered him a gift-wrapped present.
But David and Jacob? Their reaction was… different.
David twitched first, his lips tightening as if he'd just bitten into a lemon. Jacob jerked forward on the couch, eyes wide, his whole body snapping into defensive posture before the words even formed. "Oi, that's out of order!" Jacob shouted at the screen, his voice breaking with indignation. "We've had better days, yeah, but it's not—" He turned sharply toward his brother in law, who was still laughing. "Don't you start, Frankie."
Which, of course, only made Francesco laugh harder. He bent forward, clutching his stomach, struggling to catch his breath. "I can't— I can't help it," he managed between wheezes of laughter. "Wrighty's just saying facts! Two for me, none for Spurs. Don't get mad at me, mate — get mad at history."
Mike leaned in, grinning like a schoolboy who'd just heard the perfect playground joke. "Tell him again, son! Spurs, zero. Francesco, two!" He emphasized each word with a clap, making David roll his eyes so hard it looked painful.
David threw his hands up, muttering, "Bloody typical, isn't it? A room full of Arsenal hearts and I'm left to defend my club on enemy turf." He leaned back in his chair with a sigh that was half defeat, half amusement. "One day. One day we'll get there."
"Yeah, sure, Dad," Jacob muttered, folding his arms tightly across his chest. "By then, Francesco'll have, like, ten of them stacked in his room."
That cracked Francesco up again, and he reached over to ruffle Jacob's hair in playful triumph. "That's the spirit! Keep counting, little bro. You're gonna need both hands soon."
Jacob swatted at his hand, cheeks flushing red. "Stop it! You're insufferable."
Francesco raised his hands in mock innocence. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I didn't say it — Wrighty did." He gestured back toward the screen, where Wright was still laughing, Henry was smirking, and Vieira looked like a proud uncle. "They know what's up."
Mike leaned forward, his grin broad. "You see, this is the beauty of football, David. Rivalry. Banter. Arsenal on top, Spurs chasing shadows." He wagged a finger at his old friend with exaggerated smugness. "And tonight, it's not just Arsenal — it's my boy who's done it."
David groaned but couldn't keep the corner of his mouth from twitching. "Your boy's a menace. Already bad enough he scores for fun, now he's got pundits roasting Spurs on prime time."
Jacob wasn't letting it slide, though. He grabbed the remote, pointed it like a weapon toward the TV, and muttered, "I'm changing the channel."
Francesco snatched it from him in one smooth motion, holding it high above Jacob's reach. "Oh no, no chance. You're not running away from this. You're gonna sit right here and listen to every glorious second."
"Frankie!" Jacob protested, half rising to his knees to reach. "You're such a—"
"Champion?" Francesco cut in, eyes wide with fake innocence. "Golden Boot winner? Spurs' worst nightmare?" He tilted his head, drawing out the tease until Jacob finally collapsed back onto the sofa with a groan.
"Arghhh, I hate you."
"No, you don't," Francesco said warmly, draping an arm around his younger brother's shoulders and pulling him into a half-hug, half-headlock. "You love me. Deep down. Even if I've just doubled Spurs' trophy count all by myself."
Jacob wriggled, muttering under his breath, but the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.
David, meanwhile, had leaned back with his glass, shaking his head in disbelief. "Seventeen years old, and he's already making me feel older than I am. Two titles. Christ almighty."
Mike leaned over, smirking at him. "Better get used to it, mate. This is just the beginning. By the time he's thirty, Spurs might still be on zero, and Francesco will have— what do you reckon, son? Seven? Eight?"
Francesco shrugged with mock casualness, though the gleam in his eye betrayed his competitive fire. "Why stop there? Double digits sound nice."
The room erupted again — laughter, groans, mock protests. The television carried on in the background, the pundits dissecting formations and substitutions, but for the family in Richmond, the show had taken on a life of its own. It wasn't just football anymore — it was pride, banter, legacy, and love, all tangled together in a way that only football families understood.
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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: 8
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9