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The Arsenal end of Wembley sang louder, louder, "Arsenal! Arsenal! Arsenal!" — their voices stretching into the night sky. The FA Cup was theirs, and their dream of the treble lived on.
The pitch at Wembley was a sea of contrasts. On one end, a flood of red-and-white joy — Arsenal players leaping, shouting, falling into each other's arms, subs sprinting in from the sidelines, Wenger applauding serenely. On the other end, shadows hung low over United's faces, heads bowed, jerseys heavy with sweat and regret.
Louis van Gaal, stiff-backed as ever, moved among his men like a general among fallen soldiers. He wasn't barking, wasn't fuming. His face was unreadable, but his gestures were deliberate, almost paternal. A pat on Valencia's shoulder, a hand on Lingard's back, a word in Smalling's ear. He pulled Rooney aside briefly, speaking low, his hands shaping the air like he was still orchestrating movements on a tactics board.
Rooney stood there, chest heaving, sweat trickling down the lines of his face, eyes fixed on the grass. He nodded once, twice, before drawing a long breath and stepping toward his teammates.
The captain's instincts kicked in. He gathered them near the center circle, clapping his hands, his voice carrying even through the storm of Arsenal celebration around them.
"Chins up, lads! Hey! Look at me!" Rooney barked, his Scouse grit cutting through the gloom. Rashford, shoulders slumped, lifted his head. Lingard blinked hard, frustration in his eyes. Mata shook his head, muttering in Spanish, but quieted.
"We gave everything," Rooney said firmly, looking at each of them. "Don't walk off with shame in your faces. You fought. You bled for it. Some days it's not enough — today wasn't ours. But that's football. We learn, we go again. You hear me? We go again!"
He slapped Ashley Young's chest, pulled Mata into a half-hug, thumped Carrick's back. Slowly, the shattered pieces of United began to knit back together, even if just for the walk toward their fans, who still applauded them for the fight they'd given.
Francesco, caught in the blur of Arsenal's euphoria, noticed it. The way United's players lingered, half-defeated, half-defiant. Something in him stirred. He had been on the other side of this before — staring at the confetti falling for someone else. The sting was familiar. And respect, he thought, demanded more than victory laps.
So, with Arsenal still locked in their red tide of celebration, Francesco broke away. He jogged, slower now, toward the cluster of United shirts.
At first, Lingard looked up at him, wary, almost defensive. But Francesco only extended his hand, gripping the young winger's shoulder firmly. "You've got fight, kid. Don't let tonight break you," he said, his Italian lilt softening the words. Lingard blinked, then nodded quickly, shaking his hand.
He moved next to Mata, who had his hands on his hips, his gaze distant. Francesco clasped his palm. "You've got too much class to hang your head, hermano." Mata gave a faint smile, muttered a quiet gracias, before pulling him briefly into a hug.
Step by step, he made his way through them — Carrick, who gave him a tired nod; Valencia, who met his handshake with a warrior's grip; Rashford, who looked like the loss weighed twice his age. Francesco held the boy's arm. "Big stages come fast. Learn from it. You'll be back stronger."
And then, Rooney.
The two captains faced each other, sweat-slick, exhausted, the noise of Wembley surging around them. Rooney's jaw worked for a moment, then he extended his hand. Francesco took it, their palms slapping together firmly, the handshake strong, lasting.
"Well played, mate," Rooney said, his voice steady now, stripped of earlier frustration. "You earned it. Enjoy it tonight."
Francesco inclined his head, respect etched into his expression. "Your fight kept it alive till the end. Without you, they don't last that long."
Rooney smirked faintly, shaking his head. "Not enough, though, was it?" Then, softer, with a look that felt like a bridge between them: "I'll see you soon. England camp. Euro's coming quick."
The words landed like a promise and a warning.
Francesco's chest tightened, but he grinned. "Then we go from enemies to brothers."
Rooney chuckled, clapping his shoulder hard. "Damn right. And let's make sure we bring that trophy home too."
For a moment, they stood there — rivals who had just gone to war, now bound by the thin thread of international duty, already looking ahead to the battles that would come wearing the same crest.
As Rooney turned back to rally his teammates toward their end of the pitch, Francesco jogged back into the heart of Arsenal's celebrations. His teammates engulfed him instantly — Wilshere leaping onto his back, Bellerín shouting into his ear, Van Dijk grabbing his head like he wanted to shake it off his shoulders.
The air at Wembley was still vibrating with the aftershock of the final whistle, but within the red-and-white huddle, Arsène Wenger's voice eventually cut through. It wasn't a shout, not a bark — Wenger had never been that kind of man. Instead, it was calm, deliberate, carrying the authority of someone who'd seen every kind of triumph and heartbreak in this game.
"Mes amis," he said, clapping his hands once, "to the dressing room. Vite. There is still more to come tonight."
Some players were reluctant to move, still buzzing from adrenaline. Wilshere, face flushed, looked like he wanted to celebrate right there on the grass until sunrise. Sánchez had his arms wide, demanding one last roar from the Arsenal end. But slowly, the pack turned toward the tunnel, guided by their manager's quiet insistence.
Francesco, still riding the high of his thunderbolt strike, jogged beside Kante and Bellerín, his grin unstoppable. "He's right, lads," he said. "We've got one more page to write tonight."
In the dressing room, the players were met with neat piles of folded white t-shirts draped over their benches. Across the front of each shirt, bold red lettering declared:
"Wembley Kings. FA Cup 13."
Thirteen.
The number hit home immediately. The room filled with whistles and cheers as players yanked off their sweat-drenched jerseys, tugging the commemorative shirts over their heads. Giroud flexed dramatically, admiring the shirt on his chest. Wilshere kissed the number like it was scripture.
Francesco slipped his on slowly, savoring the weight of it. Thirteen times. Thirteen trophies. More than any other club in English football. He caught his reflection in a mirror across the room, the shirt stretched across his shoulders, and for a moment he let himself feel the enormity of being part of this tapestry.
Arteta, captain's armband now slung loosely on his wrist, stood at the center of the room. His voice, always softer than most, carried with quiet conviction. "Boys… this is not just for us. This is for everyone who wore this shirt before us. For the people who built this club. Thirteen means history."
Applause broke out again, boots stamping on the tiled floor, echoes bouncing against the walls.
Then came the knock. Sharp, official.
A staffer from the FA poked his head in, lanyard swinging. "Gentlemen — it's time. Trophy presentation is ready."
Cheers erupted once more, louder than before, and suddenly the room was in motion. Shirts tugged down, hair ruffled, boots tightened. Wenger, calm as always, simply adjusted his tie, then gestured toward the tunnel.
"Come," he said. "Let us give Arsenal its moment."
Back on the pitch, the stadium lights glared bright as day. The pitch was now set with the stage draped in banners, the FA's insignia gleaming in the floodlights.
Arsenal's players filed out to the roar of their supporters, but their eyes flickered toward the other side of the ceremony first. Manchester United's squad were already lined up, one by one stepping forward to receive silver medals from the FA President. Beside him stood Prince William, impeccably dressed, offering a firm handshake and a sympathetic smile to each defeated player.
Rooney went first, his face set in stone, but he accepted his medal with dignity, giving a short nod to the President and exchanging a brief word with the Prince. One by one, United's players followed — Rashford, Lingard, Mata, Carrick — each man bowing his head as the medal ribbon was slipped over his neck. The applause from the stands was respectful, but it carried that bittersweet timbre reserved for the fallen side.
Francesco watched closely, his arms folded across his chest. He caught Rooney's eye for just a second as the United captain stepped down from the stage, silver medal glinting. Rooney's nod was small but clear — a silent bridge of mutual respect.
And then, it was Arsenal's turn.
The announcer's voice boomed across Wembley:
"Ladies and gentlemen… your 2016 FA Cup winners… Arsenal Football Club!"
The Arsenal end erupted. A sea of red-and-white flags rippled in unison, the noise swelling into a deafening chorus. The players surged forward, almost jogging toward the stage, smiles wide, arms raised.
Protocol dictated the order: coaching staff first, then players.
Wenger led the staff, stepping onto the platform with his familiar composed grace. The FA President clasped his hand firmly, the Prince offering a warm word. The old manager's smile was small, but his eyes glimmered with a pride he couldn't fully hide. Steve Bould followed, then the physios, analysts, kit men — each man greeted with respect.
Then came the players.
One by one, they ascended, medals slipping around their necks. Bellerín with his boyish grin, Kante grinning ear to ear, Sánchez beaming like he'd scored the winner himself. Giroud blew a kiss to the crowd. Wilshere lifted his medal immediately toward the Arsenal end, thumping his chest.
And Francesco — when his turn came, the crowd surged with an extra roar. He shook hands firmly with the FA President, who congratulated him personally on his goal. Prince William's handshake was just as steady, his words warm: "That was some strike tonight. You've written your name in this cup's history."
Francesco bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, sir. For the club, for the fans — always."
And then he stepped aside, gold medal gleaming against his shirt, heart pounding as he waited for the moment he knew was coming.
The line moved on until only one remained.
Arteta.
The captain stepped forward, sweat-damp hair still slicked back, his expression composed yet glowing. He received his medal last, bowing his head slightly as the ribbon was placed around his neck. Then he turned toward Prince William.
The Prince smiled, reaching down to lift the gleaming silver trophy, its blue and white ribbons trailing like streamers. He placed it carefully into Arteta's hands.
"Congratulations, captain," he said.
And just like that, history was sealed.
Arteta raised the FA Cup aloft, his arms straining, his face breaking into a wide smile. The Arsenal players around him roared, fists punching the air, medals bouncing against their chests. Confetti cannons fired, showering the stage in a storm of red, white, and silver.
The Arsenal end of Wembley became a cathedral of noise. Chants of "ARSENAL! ARSENAL!" boomed beneath the arch.
Francesco, standing just behind Arteta, felt the spray of confetti against his face, the vibration of thousands of voices rattling through his chest. He grinned so wide it hurt, clapping his hands above his head, shouting until his throat went raw.
The confetti still clung to his hair, the taste of it sharp and dry in his mouth, but Francesco didn't care. The FA Cup shone under the Wembley floodlights like a beacon, lifted high in Arteta's arms, the ribbons dancing with every sway. Around him, teammates were roaring, grabbing one another, leaping onto shoulders. The Arsenal end hadn't quieted for even a second; they were still bellowing, an endless wave of red voices, chanting and singing as if their lungs would never tire.
But then came the next moment of ritual, one almost as important as the lifting itself. The lap of honour.
The Arsenal squad began to peel away from the podium, drifting toward the touchline as the stewards pulled back barriers and the first trickle of family members and partners were ushered onto the grass. It was the merging of two worlds — football and home — and Francesco could feel anticipation swelling in his chest, tighter even than the tension of the ninety minutes that had come before.
All around him, the scene was turning into a festival. Alexis Sánchez scooped his little daughter into his arms, spinning her around as she squealed in delight, her tiny hands reaching for the medal that swung from his neck. Giroud was already kissing his wife under a cascade of camera flashes. Monreal jogged toward a cluster of his relatives, his grin as wide as the Wembley arch above them.
Francesco's eyes darted, scanning through the flood of people spilling onto the pitch. He could see Koscielny's children chasing each other near the touchline, and Bellerín laughing as his parents waved two flags half their size. But Francesco's heart didn't stop its pounding until he saw her.
Leah.
She was moving through the throng, her golden hair catching the floodlight glow, her smile bright enough to outshine it. In her arms, clutched carefully, was the Golden Boot trophy he had entrusted to her earlier — she'd carried it all this time as if it was a newborn. Just behind her, his parents Mike and Sarah walked arm in arm, Sarah still dabbing her eyes, Mike looking almost dazed with pride. And beside them came Leah's family: her dad David in his smart jacket, chest puffed with fatherly pride; Amanda, her mother, wearing an expression of quiet awe; and Jacob, her brother, already holding his phone up, recording everything with an excitement that almost made Francesco laugh.
The sight of them all together, two families converging on him in this cathedral of football, was almost too much. For a split second, he just stood frozen, hands on his hips, drinking it in. His throat burned, not from shouting this time, but from holding back the tide of emotion that wanted to spill over.
Then he broke into a run.
"Leah!" he shouted, voice cutting through the din.
She looked up instantly, and the way her face lit at the sight of him nearly stopped him mid-stride. When they reached each other, she didn't hesitate — she leapt into his arms as her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his neck. Francesco spun her once, twice, laughing breathlessly as he buried his face against her shoulder. The roar of the fans melted into something distant, something unreal.
"You did it," she whispered into his ear, her voice breaking. "You really did it."
"We did it," he murmured back, his voice hoarse. "You've been with me every step, Leah."
When he finally set her down, she touch the golden medal in his neck. "And this—" she tapped the gold medal — "is staying with us forever."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "No, no, tonight it's yours. You carried it through all of this. It's ours."
Before Leah could respond, Sarah was suddenly there, pulling him into the kind of hug only a mother can give, fierce and shaking with pride. "Francesco," she sobbed softly against his chest, "I don't even know how to describe what I'm feeling. You've made us so proud."
He kissed the top of her head, his voice thick. "Mum… this one's for you and Dad. Always."
Mike clasped his son's hand firmly once Sarah stepped back, his grip strong enough to make Francesco's knuckles ache. "You're more than a footballer tonight, son. You're Arsenal history."
Francesco swallowed hard, nodding. "Couldn't have done it without the two of you pushing me all these years."
Then David, Leah's father, was next. He reached out, gripping Francesco's shoulder with that quiet approval only a man who raised Leah could give. "You've done her proud," he said, his voice deep but steady. "And you've done us proud too. Remember that."
Amanda, softer, leaned in to kiss his cheek. "You looked like you were born for this moment, Francesco."
And then there was Jacob, bounding up like an excited kid, phone held high. "Bro!" he shouted, though Francesco wasn't technically his brother yet. "That goal—oh my God—that goal's gonna break the internet. I swear, I got the whole celebration too. You sliding, Sánchez jumping on you—perfect!"
Francesco laughed, ruffling Jacob's hair. "Glad someone's documenting my finest hour."
The family clustered close, Leah's arm slipping back around his waist as though she couldn't bear to let go. Behind them, his teammates were already circling the pitch, waving to fans, holding up children, lifting scarves. Arteta, still with the trophy in hand, was pausing every few steps so fans could get their photographs of him.
Francesco looked at Leah, then at both sets of parents, and finally at Jacob. "Come with me," he said, his grin returning. "Lap of honour. This isn't just ours — it's yours too."
And so they went, together.
As Arsenal made their way around the Wembley turf, Francesco led his little parade — Leah at his side, his parents close, Leah's family trailing happily. Fans reached out over the barriers, desperate for a handshake, a photo, a piece of the moment. Francesco obliged them all, grabbing scarves tossed down, signing shirts, even letting one little boy in an Arsenal cap hold his medal for a photo before carefully draping it back around his neck.
Leah was glowing, beaming as she waved the Golden Boot trophy toward the fans, who cheered her as if she were one of the players herself. "Mrs. Lee!" someone shouted, and she laughed, leaning into Francesco with a blush.
Sarah clapped in rhythm with the chants, unable to stop smiling through her tears. Mike walked beside her, shoulders squared, pride radiating off him in waves. Amanda and David looked every inch like parents swept up in a dream, Jacob running ahead every few steps to snap more pictures or take a quick video.
Everywhere they turned, there was joy.
Santi Cazorla stopped them briefly, hugging Sarah like she was his own mother. "Family of champions!" he declared in his lilting Spanish accent, drawing another round of laughter.
At one point, Francesco and Leah posed together in front of the Arsenal end, her arms tight around him, the sea of fans waving behind them. Cameras flashed endlessly, but for Francesco, the only frame that mattered was the one etched in his memory — Leah's cheek pressed against his shoulder, her smile wide and unguarded.
As they neared the north stand, Arteta caught up with them, the FA Cup still raised high. He gestured for Francesco to take a turn.
"You've earned this too, hermano," Arteta said, his voice low but certain.
Francesco hesitated for only a heartbeat before taking the trophy into his hands. The weight of it nearly staggered him — not because it was heavy, but because of what it meant. He lifted it above his head, letting the floodlights catch its gleam, and the Arsenal supporters roared even louder. Confetti still littered the pitch, swirling around his boots as he shouted up into the stands.
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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, 2015/2016 Community Shield, and 2016/2017 Premier League
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 59
Goal: 79
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