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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.
The laughter and teasing in Richmond that night carried on until the food was served, until plates were scraped clean, and until the clock edged toward midnight. But eventually, the television was switched off, glasses were washed, and the weight of the day — and the season — caught up with everyone.
Francesco lay in bed later, Leah tucked against him, the faint glow of the streetlight seeping in through the curtains. He should have been exhausted. His legs were heavy, his chest still bore the faint ache of ninety minutes of intensity, and his mind had enough moments to replay to last until sunrise. But he couldn't sleep.
Two trophies. Seventeen years old. A Golden Boot. Unbeaten.
It didn't feel real. And yet, it was.
But there was no time to let it become a dream. Football never allowed it.
Two days later, at Colney looked different when the season shifted gears. The confetti of the title celebrations had barely been swept from the Emirates, but here, out on the training pitches under the chilly spring sky, there was no music, no fireworks, no champagne. Just the sharp whistle of Arsène Wenger cutting through the air, the thump of balls struck cleanly, and the rhythmic thud of boots against turf.
The treble.
That word hung over them like a storm cloud.
Arsenal had one in the bag already — the Premier League — but now came the test that could turn a great season into immortality. The FA Cup semi-final against Manchester United at Wembley, four days away. And beyond that, the Champions League final are looming.
As Francesco jogged onto the pitch, bib tugged over his head, he felt the eyes on him. Not just his teammates, who slapped him on the back, laughing and joking as usual. Not just Wenger, standing with arms folded as if watching a chessboard come alive. But the invisible eyes. Cameras. Headlines. Fans in every corner of the world who were suddenly asking one question:
Can Arsenal win the treble?
And underneath that, a sharper, more personal one: Can Francesco lead them there?
Inside the training ground, the media frenzy was impossible to escape. Every morning on the way in, journalists crowded the gates, flashes of cameras popping against tinted car windows. Headlines screamed from every paper and every website:
"History Beckons: Arsenal Chasing Treble Dream"
"From Invincibles to Untouchables? Wenger's Men Stand on the Brink"
"Golden Boy Francesco — Can He Deliver the Treble at 17?"
Even abroad, the fever caught. Italian papers claimed him as one of their own, the Corriere dello Sport calling him Il Prodigio di Londra. Spanish outlets compared him to Messi. French journalists linked him to Henry and Mbappé in the same breath. American sports channels, usually allergic to football, ran features calling him "the teenager redefining greatness."
It was relentless. Every corridor at Colney seemed to buzz with it. Staff smiled at him with pride, teammates ribbed him with jokes about needing sunglasses indoors because of his "bright future," and yet… every word added to the pressure.
Treble. Treble. Treble.
Training was sharp that day. Wenger had them working in tight rondos first — crisp passing, one-touch, the sort of drills that demanded concentration. Every mistake drew groans from teammates, every successful nutmeg drew whoops and laughter. Francesco thrived in it, quick feet darting, eyes always up, slipping balls into spaces defenders didn't even know were open.
"Good, Francesco, good," Wenger called out, his accent still thick despite decades in England. "But don't force it. Patience — always patience."
Then came tactical drills, the manager setting them up in shadow formations to mimic Manchester United's shape. Mourinho's men — direct, physical, cunning. Wenger reminded them of the battles to come. "They will try to suffocate you. They will try to provoke you. But remember — we are Arsenal. We play with intelligence, with composure. Let the ball do the work."
Later, they split into two teams for a practice match. Giroud at striker, Sánchez wide, Özil pulling strings. Kante and Coquelin snapping in midfield. The back four barking instructions.
And Francesco? Everywhere. Dropping deep to collect the ball, spinning past challenges, darting into space, firing shots that made Čech dive full stretch. Every goal he scored in training drew cheers from teammates, but he didn't celebrate. Not today.
He wanted it sharper. Quicker. Deadlier. Because in four days, Wembley awaited.
But even as he drilled passes and sprinted through cones, the outside world wouldn't let him breathe. His phone buzzed constantly in the dressing room. Leah sent her usual encouragement, his mum kept telling him to eat more, and his dad… his dad sent him links.
Clips of pundits. Wright laughing. Henry praising him. Neville debating tactics. Even Keane grumbling about whether Arsenal could "handle the pressure of history."
And then there were the editorials. Long, glowing essays about him being "the future face of football." Quotes from old players comparing him to Henry, Ronaldo, even Pelé.
One morning, he scrolled through a BBC Sport headline that read:
"Seventeen Years Old. Two Titles. Can Francesco Become Football's Youngest Treble Winner?"
He dropped the phone face-down on his locker, leaning forward with his hands braced against the metal. The words swirled in his head. Youngest treble winner. History.
It was exhilarating. But also terrifying.
That evening, as he sat at home in Richmond, Leah curled up against him, the television humming softly in the background, he finally let it slip.
"I feel like I can't breathe sometimes," he admitted quietly, voice low enough that only she could hear.
She shifted, lifting her head to look at him. "Because of the pressure?"
"Because of everything. Everyone's watching. Talking about trebles, legends, history. I'm seventeen, Leah. Seventeen. And they're saying I need to do what even Henry and Bergkamp never did. What even Messi hasn't done yet." He exhaled, rubbing a hand across his face. "What if I fail?"
Leah reached out, catching his wrist, pulling his hand away so she could see his eyes. "Then you fail. And you get back up. And you try again. Frankie, nobody remembers the pressure — they remember how you carried it. Look at you." She tapped his chest. "You've already done more at seventeen than most do in their whole careers. And you did it being yourself. Not pretending to be Henry or Messi. Just Francesco."
Her words settled into him like medicine. Not erasing the weight, but reminding him he could bear it.
The next morning at Colney, Wenger gathered them before training began.
"The treble," the manager said simply, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes sweeping across the room. "I know you all hear it. Everywhere. On television, in newspapers, from fans. But I tell you now — we do not chase the treble. We chase the next game. Only that. Manchester United. Wembley. That is our treble. If you think beyond it, you will fail. If you focus only on it, you will succeed."
He let the words hang in the room, the silence drawing tight like string on a violin. Every man there knew the truth of it. They were all thinking of history — of what immortality might taste like — but Wenger, in his quiet, professorial way, was pulling them back down to earth. One game. Always one game.
When he clapped his hands, the room came alive again, boots squeaking against the floor as they filed out toward the training pitch. Francesco lingered for a moment at the back, eyes tracing Wenger's tall, lean frame as the manager walked with Bould, deep in conversation. He thought about what Leah had told him last night — "Nobody remembers the pressure, they remember how you carried it."
He wanted to carry it well.
⸻
The morning was brisk, the spring wind tugging at the edges of the bibs the players were given. The sky was mottled grey, but the pitches were immaculate as always, the grass clipped short, the white cones set out with Wenger's usual precision.
This wasn't just any session. Wenger was staging a scrimmage — a full eleven versus eleven rehearsal with one aim: to sharpen the game plan for Manchester United.
"Red bibs, you will play as United," Wenger explained, pointing toward Giroud, Coquelin, Chambers, Gibbs, and a few others who were pulled aside. "Think like them. Press like them. Use their movements. You must make it as hard as they will."
"And the rest," he added, glancing at Francesco and the starters, "you are Arsenal. Play our game. Play the game we will play at Wembley."
There was something about Wenger's phrasing — our game — that always hit Francesco. It wasn't just tactics. It was philosophy. Identity. A belief in the Arsenal way.
The whistle blew.
The scrimmage began.
⸻
The first few minutes were cagey, almost hesitant. The "United" side pressed high, Coquelin snarling into tackles as if he had been born a Red Devil instead of an Arsenal man. Giroud, wearing the red bib, became their Zlatan-lite, using his size to hold the ball up against Mertesacker and Gabriel. Chambers and Gibbs pushed aggressively down the flanks, mimicking Valencia and Shaw.
Wenger shouted instructions constantly, his French accent cutting the air like a metronome:
"Close him, Héctor! Quicker, Alexis, quicker!"
"Patience, Francis! Don't dive in!"
"Francesco — move inside, make them think, make them choose!"
Francesco drifted, searching for space. He knew United under Mourinho — compact blocks, frustrating tempo, waiting for counter-punches. They would sit deep when under threat but could explode forward through Martial or Rashford in a flash.
He tested it early, dropping deeper into midfield, demanding the ball from Kante. He turned on the half-touch, spun past Chambers' lazy leg, and slipped a pass toward Özil ghosting between the lines. Özil's return ball was perfectly weighted, and suddenly Francesco was at the edge of the box, opening his body for a shot — but Ospina, deputizing in the "United" goal, stretched low to deny him.
"Good, Francesco!" Wenger barked. "Do it again, with patience!"
The game settled into rhythm. The "United" side pressed high, trying to suffocate Arsenal's buildup, but Cazorla and Kante began to dictate. Ping-ping-ping — the ball zipped between red shirts, forcing them to chase shadows. Sánchez hugged the left, cutting inside when he could, while Bellerín flew down the right with his usual piston-like legs.
Still, the "United" mimicry worked. Giroud bullied Gabriel in the air, Coquelin smashed into tackles that rattled bones, and Gibbs surged past Bellerín once to deliver a cross that Chambers nearly buried. Wenger applauded the realism.
But then — Arsenal's quality began to shine.
In the 20th minute, Francesco picked up the ball from deep. He let it roll across his body, dragging Coquelin one way before flicking it the other. He accelerated into the gap, body low, eyes scanning. Alexis was darting in from the left, Özil drifting right. Francesco chose neither. Instead, he slipped a disguised ball into Walcott, who had peeled off Gibbs' shoulder. Walcott took one touch and finished low into the corner.
"Excellent!" Wenger called, clapping his hands. "This is how we beat them. Patience, then incision."
Francesco jogged back, Walcott giving him a playful shove. "You've got eyes in the back of your head, kid," Theo laughed.
"Just watching yours, mate," Francesco replied, grinning.
⸻
The scrimmage carried on, intensity ratcheting up. Wenger's substitutions kept it fresh, rotating players to simulate United's depth. At one point, Elneny came in as "Carrick," slowing the tempo deliberately, forcing Arsenal to probe and probe. Later, young Iwobi took a red bib and sprinted at defenders like Rashford, stretching the back line.
Francesco felt his lungs burn, but he welcomed it. He wanted the fatigue, the sharpness that only came from matches like this. Every duel mattered. Every pass carried weight. He barked instructions like a man older than seventeen, pointing Özil into pockets, waving Kante to hold position, urging Sánchez to press.
"Talk, Francesco! Talk!" Wenger called from the touchline, pleased. "You are not a passenger — you are a conductor."
The word hit him — conductor. He had thought of himself as a striker, a scorer. But here, Wenger was telling him he was the orchestra leader. That was heavier than any Golden Boot.
⸻
The breakthrough moment came in the 60th minute of the scrimmage. Arsenal had been probing, frustrated by a deep block of "United" red shirts. Francesco had dropped between the lines, but every pass seemed closed, every gap plugged. He could feel the impatience creeping.
Then he remembered Wenger's words: Patience — always patience.
So he waited. He shifted left, dragging Coquelin with him. Then he feinted right. Özil saw it, darting into the vacated pocket. The ball came to Özil, who flicked it instantly back into Francesco's stride.
In one movement, Francesco let the ball run across his body, skipped past Chambers' desperate tackle, and lashed a low shot into the corner.
Ospina didn't even dive.
"YES!" Wenger shouted, punching the air. "That is the moment! Wait, and then strike like lightning!"
Teammates mobbed him in mock celebration, Sánchez ruffling his hair, Kante thumping him on the back.
But Francesco didn't celebrate much. He jogged back, breathing hard, eyes sharp. He wanted more. He wanted it perfect.
⸻
The scrimmage ended 2–1 to the "Arsenal" side, goals from Walcott and Francesco against a single Giroud header for "United." Wenger blew the whistle, gathering them into a huddle at midfield. His expression was firm, but there was pride in his eyes.
"This is the picture," he told them. "They will fight. They will press. They will foul, they will frustrate. But if we play with calmness, with intelligence, we will break them. Do not play their game. Play our game. Always."
His gaze fell on Francesco at the end. "And you — you must lead. Not with words, but with rhythm. Conduct the game. Trust yourself."
Francesco nodded, sweat dripping down his temple. His chest heaved, but inside, his resolve hardened.
Wembley was coming. Manchester United were coming.
And if the treble dream was to live, it had to live through games like this — sharp, tactical, fought with patience and courage.
Francesco looked around at his teammates, the faces of men who had already conquered England and were hungry for more. Alexis with fire in his eyes. Özil with that serene calm. Kante, unyielding as stone.
The scrimmage was over, but the echoes of it stayed with Francesco long after the whistle. He could still hear Wenger's voice — that calm insistence, always reminding them of patience, reminding them of the Arsenal way. It wasn't about just beating United. It was about outlasting them, outthinking them, outliving them in footballing terms.
That night, as Francesco lay in bed, his body sore from the drills, he found himself replaying moments of the scrimmage in his mind — Özil's soft flick, Sánchez's intensity, the thump of Kante's tackle, even Giroud's physical dominance when he had worn the "United" bib. It was all a rehearsal, but it felt real. And if rehearsal felt this heavy, what would tomorrow feel like at Wembley?
He turned his head. Leah's voice came back to him from the evening before: "Nobody remembers the pressure. They remember how you carried it."
He wanted to carry it with grace. With strength. With purpose.
And so the next day came and went in a blur of recovery sessions, video analysis, and light tactical drills. The atmosphere around London Colney was taut, like a bowstring being pulled back but not yet released. Journalists hovered outside the gates like vultures, waiting for scraps, but inside, Wenger kept the circle tight. No distractions. No noise. Only Arsenal.
The final training session before the semi-final wasn't about sweat. It wasn't about lungs burning or legs heavy. No — Wenger knew better than that. At this point in the season, the body needed rest as much as sharpness. The work had been done already. Today was about the mind.
The players jogged lightly, stretching, moving through rondos where laughter occasionally bubbled up but never fully broke the tension. Francesco joined in with Alexis, Özil, and Monreal, the little circle of possession snapping the ball around with sharp one-touch passes. They teased, they grinned, but their eyes betrayed them. Focused. Tired of waiting.
After the rondos, Wenger gathered them in the main hall, not the pitch. That alone was unusual. The hall was quiet, almost reverent. The players sat scattered — some on benches, some leaning against walls, others cross-legged on the floor. It wasn't a tactical meeting. There were no whiteboards, no markers. Just Wenger, standing at the front, hands behind his back, his long frame still imposing even after twenty years at the club.
He let the silence breathe before he spoke.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, "we go to Wembley."
No one moved. His voice had that weight, the kind that drew you in without force.
"We all know what is at stake. A place in the FA Cup final. Another chance at silverware. Another step closer to immortality. But I do not want you to think of immortality tonight."
He paused, letting that hang, the way he always did. His ability to control silence was just as powerful as his words.
"I want you to think of the game. Only the game. Because the truth is simple: if you think about history, if you think about treble, if you think about legacy… you will be heavy. And heavy legs cannot win at Wembley."
Francesco felt his chest rise and fall, his throat dry. Wenger's eyes scanned the room, pausing on each man like he was speaking to him personally.
"You have all worked hard. You know the plan. You know the opponent. United will not come to play a beautiful game. They will come to fight. They will come to foul, to disrupt, to make you doubt. Do not let them."
He took a step closer, his voice firmer now.
"When the whistle blows, there is no tomorrow, no yesterday. Only that ninety minutes. And you must give everything in that ninety. Nothing else matters. Not the journalists, not the headlines, not the fans' chants. Only the game. Only your brothers beside you. Only the shirt on your back."
He paused again, but this time he smiled faintly, just enough to soften the steel.
"And if you do this — if you give everything to the game — the rest will come. The wins. The cups. The immortality. It will come. But not before. Never before. Always one game at a time."
Silence followed. A heavy silence, but not uncomfortable. A silence that settled like armor around their shoulders.
Then, almost gently, Wenger clapped his hands.
"Go. Rest. Be ready."
The players slowly dispersed, voices low. Some cracked small jokes, some kept to themselves. Francesco lingered again, much like he had after the scrimmage. He watched Wenger step down from the small platform, watched him move toward Bould, toward the staff. The man carried himself with such calm dignity, even now, under pressure that would crush most men.
One game at a time, Francesco repeated in his head. He had always thought about the Golden Boot, about the records, about surpassing Henry. But Wenger was right. If he carried that weight into Wembley, he'd stumble. Tomorrow wasn't about history. Tomorrow was about ninety minutes.
As he left the hall, Alexis caught up to him, slapping a hand on his shoulder.
"Ready, hermano?" the Chilean asked, his grin sharp, eyes blazing with that competitive fire that never seemed to dim.
Francesco smiled faintly. "Always."
"Good," Alexis said. "Because tomorrow… tomorrow we run until our lungs break. And we win."
The way he said it — not if, but we win — made Francesco chuckle despite himself. Alexis always carried certainty, like doubt wasn't part of his vocabulary.
Behind them, Özil walked quietly, headphones already in, his expression calm, almost serene. And Kante trailed just behind, nodding politely as Francesco glanced back at him. Each man carried the moment differently — Alexis with fire, Özil with ice, Kante with stone. Francesco realized then that his role, as Wenger said, was to conduct. To hold them all in rhythm.
That evening, Francesco drove back to Richmond in his BMW X5, the streets quiet under the dim glow of London streetlights. His old Honda Civic still sat in the garage, gathering dust, but he kept it as a reminder of where he had come from. Sometimes he thought about taking it out for a spin, just to feel the rough gear shift, the unpolished wheel. But not tonight. Tonight, he needed focus.
Leah was waiting when he got home, sitting curled up on the sofa in one of his oversized Arsenal training tops, the television on but muted. She looked up as he entered, her eyes soft, but searching.
"How was it?" she asked.
He exhaled, sinking into the seat beside her. "Wenger spoke."
She tilted her head, smiling faintly. "He always does."
"No… this time it was different. He told us not to think about immortality. Just… the game. One game at a time."
Leah reached out, threading her fingers through his. "And he's right. That's what I told you, remember? People don't remember the pressure. They remember how you carried it."
He squeezed her hand gently. "Yeah."
"You don't have to carry all of it alone, you know," she added. "You've got a team. And you've got me."
Francesco leaned his head back against the sofa, eyes closing for a moment. "Sometimes I feel like it's all on me. Like if I don't score, if I don't lead, we lose everything."
Leah shifted closer, resting her head against his shoulder. "That's the striker's curse. But listen to me: tomorrow, it's not about you. It's about you all. Remember that. Conduct, like Wenger said. Let the music flow through you."
Her words settled into him like warm tea on a cold night. He opened his eyes, gazing at the ceiling, and for the first time in days, he felt a measure of calm.
Tomorrow would come. Tomorrow would demand everything of him. But tonight, he could just breathe.
And when he finally drifted to sleep, the dreams that came were not of lifting trophies, not of immortality. They were of ninety minutes under the arch of Wembley, of the ball at his feet, of the roar of the crowd. Of the game itself.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, and 2016/2017 Premier League
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