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The whole team piled around him, arms raised, champagne flying somewhere behind them. Confetti shot upward in thin, sparkling strands. Wenger watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, that same faint smile still on his lips.
Then, after the confetti settled and the last photos were taken, the Arsenal squad slowly made their way down from the podium. Francesco still held the Community Shield in his arms like something sacred — not because of its material worth, but because of what it represented: the beginning of something real. A dream no longer suspended in imagination, but anchored in sweat, effort, and a roar that would echo in his heart for years.
The tunnel felt cooler than before, the afternoon sun now starting to mellow outside. The adrenaline had begun to ebb, replaced by that post-match ache — the heavy legs, the sore shoulders, the satisfied exhaustion that only comes after victory.
Inside the dressing room, the mood shifted from triumph to release. The players spilled in, laughing, cheering, throwing down boots and shin pads, peeling off sweat-drenched shirts. Someone blasted music — something loud, rhythmic, and joyful. Maybe it was Ramsey who pressed play, or maybe Coquelin. Francesco couldn't tell. The room was a blur of movement and energy.
Giroud let out a booming laugh and dropped onto the bench beside Francesco, pointing at the shield now propped against a kit bag. "You know what that is, right?" he said between swigs from a water bottle. "That's your third trophy."
Francesco grinned, still catching his breath. "Yeah, I know."
Showers hissed in the background. Steam started to rise. Koscielny and Monreal were already half undressed, towels around their waists, shouting in Spanish to Cazorla, who had started dancing — barefoot, jersey still on — in the middle of the room. Someone popped open a bottle of champagne despite Wenger's usual preference to wait until back at Colney. Drops hit the floor. Cheers erupted again.
Francesco stood slowly, his legs finally beginning to feel the toll of ninety-plus minutes. He peeled off his jersey, revealing the imprints of tackles, the red marks on his ribs from Azpilicueta's failed body checks, the fingerprint bruises on his arms from Cahill's persistent grabs.
He made his way to the showers, nodding at Kante as he passed — the Frenchman just smiled, unbothered as ever, drying his face with a towel. Even now, Kante seemed more concerned about the next training session than the medal around his neck.
Under the hot spray, Francesco let the water wash away the sweat, the tension, and the magnitude of the afternoon. He closed his eyes and breathed, just for a moment, letting it all settle in his bones.
He stood there longer than he intended, only stepping out when someone — probably Oxlade-Chamberlain — started pounding the tiles and yelling for him to "Hurry the hell up, mate, we've got champagne to drink!"
Francesco laughed. He wrapped himself in a towel, walked barefoot back to his spot, and got dressed in the travel kit Arsenal had laid out. White polos with the red crest embroidered over the chest. Black tracksuit bottoms. Fresh socks. It felt like putting on armor again, but a different kind — one for the journey home.
The shield was now in a case, already packed up by the staff, but it didn't matter. The feeling lingered. Wenger came in briefly to speak to the group — not a long speech, just a few quiet words. About pride. About focus. About not getting carried away. But even he couldn't hide the gleam in his eye as he looked at Francesco.
"You played without fear," Wenger said, locking eyes with the boy. "You honored the shirt."
Francesco nodded, humbled.
As they boarded the team bus outside Wembley, the sun was beginning to dip low behind the stadium's great arch, casting long golden shadows over the car park. Fans still loitered nearby, waving, shouting names, snapping photos through the tinted glass. Francesco waved back as he climbed aboard, sliding into a seat near the middle with Giroud and Bellerín flanking him like older brothers.
"Sleep," Giroud said, already reclining. "We party later."
"Think he'll sleep after that performance?" Bellerín laughed, tossing Francesco a bag of crisps.
The bus rumbled to life, the low hum of the engine blending with chatter, music, and the occasional burst of laughter. Cazorla and Monreal had somehow gotten hold of a speaker, and Spanish ballads now echoed down the aisle. Sanchez debated Özil over some Champions League moment from years ago. Kante, as always, sat quietly near the front, earbuds in, eyes closed.
Francesco leaned back, eyes on the window as London slid by — red-brick terraces, tower blocks, pubs with TVs showing replays of his goals. He caught a glimpse of his own face on one, just for a second: a freeze-frame of his celebration, arms raised, the crowd behind him lost in a storm of joy.
Then, after a while, the team bus finally rolled through the familiar security gates at London Colney, the low rumble of the engine fading beneath the gentle crunch of gravel as they pulled up beside the main building. The sun was low now, casting a soft amber light over the training ground's pristine pitches, the kind that made everything look a little more golden, a little more magical — like the world itself was congratulating them.
The players began to stir from their seats, some stretching groggily, others still locked in their phones or banter. Cazorla was snoring softly across the aisle, his head tilted at an impossible angle. Giroud yawned like a lion, stretching out before grabbing his small designer duffel from the rack above. Bellerín was already sliding on his sunglasses despite the fading light.
"Back to reality," Ramsey muttered as he stepped off the bus, carrying a small bag slung over his shoulder. A few staff members greeted them at the door, congratulating players as they passed.
Francesco stood and followed the procession out, the cool evening air wrapping around him like a fresh wave. He breathed in deep. The day had been long and unforgettable, but he was ready for quiet now. For peace.
"Later, champ," said Giroud, pulling him into a brief, one-armed hug. "Rest well. You've earned it."
Francesco smiled and returned the gesture. "See you Monday?"
"Unless I'm still hungover," Giroud grinned and disappeared into the player's entrance.
"Good game, bro," Bellerín said, fist-bumping him. "Take it all in. You'll never forget this one."
Francesco nodded. He turned, gave a quick wave to the last of the staff, and peeled away toward the small lot near the back of the complex where the senior players kept their cars. The lot was quiet, save for the buzz of insects and the distant laughter from a group still gathered at the entrance. His BMW X5 sat gleaming beneath one of the tall floodlights, the black paint polished to a mirror shine.
He opened the door and slid inside, the plush leather hugging him with the familiar comfort of home. He sat there for a few seconds, letting the silence settle over him like a blanket. Then, with a low hum, the engine came to life, and he pulled out gently onto the quiet road.
The drive to Richmond took just under an hour at this time of night, traffic light and cooperative. Francesco kept the windows down, letting the wind wash over him as he cruised along the A316, the city gradually softening from industrial gray to leafy green as the buildings gave way to suburbs and quiet neighborhoods. The warm air carried the faint scent of summer flowers and freshly cut grass, and for a while, he didn't even bother turning on the radio. He wanted to feel this moment — just him, the road, and the echo of a stadium's roar still fresh in his bones.
As he neared his turnoff, his thoughts drifted to home — not the home he grew up in, but the one he'd built. The one waiting for him just past the gates of a quiet, tree-lined estate in Richmond. The mansion was Modern Style, and it was undeniably beautiful — modern, clean lines, six bedrooms, a gaming room, a garden,a gym, a pool, and a mini football.
But more than all of that, Leah was there.
He pulled up to the front gate, tapped a button on his dash, and watched the iron bars slowly swing open. Lights blinked on along the stone path leading to the main entrance, and as he turned into the driveway, the house seemed to glow gently in the evening light.
He parked the car in front of the entrance and stepped out, the engine ticking as it cooled. Before he could even reach the front steps, the door swung open.
Leah Williamson stood there barefoot in black leggings and one of his old Arsenal shirts, her blond hair pulled into a loose bun, her face lit by the warm glow of the foyer. She was smiling — the kind of smile that wrapped around his heart and tugged.
"There he is," she said, her voice soft and warm. "The hat-trick hero."
Francesco didn't answer at first. He just walked up the steps, dropped his bag beside the door, and wrapped his arms around her. She melted into him immediately, resting her cheek against his chest.
"You watched?" he asked, voice muffled slightly by her hair.
"I watched every second," she said, looking up at him. "You were… unbelievable, Franny."
He smiled — not the wide, media-trained grin he gave to cameras, but something gentler. "It didn't feel real until now."
She brushed his hair back from his forehead. "It's real. You were magic out there."
He kissed her then — slow, thankful, lingering — and when they finally broke apart, she tugged him inside. "Come on. I've got food. You need to eat."
The house smelled like roasted garlic and herbs. Something warm and home-cooked. Francesco kicked off his shoes near the entryway and followed her toward the kitchen. The space was wide and open, clean marble counters and a long wooden table. A large pot simmered on the stove, and the table was already set with two plates of pasta, garlic bread, and a small dish of olives.
"You didn't have to do all this," he said, but sat anyway.
Leah rolled her eyes playfully. "You just scored three goals at Wembley. Let me feed you."
He took a bite, groaned with appreciation, and kept eating. They talked softly between mouthfuls — about the match, the celebrations, the banter on the bus. Leah asked him about the goals, the moment he knew he had it in him to take on Terry, then Cahill, then Courtois.
"It just… happened," he said. "Like the game slowed down. I wasn't even thinking. I was just moving, reacting. And then it was in the net."
Leah reached across the table and took his hand. "That's instinct, babe. That's not normal. That's something else."
He gave her a look. "You think?"
"I know." Her eyes twinkled with pride. "The whole country saw it today."
They lingered there at the table for a while, finishing dinner slowly, savoring the quiet together. Then they moved to the sofa in the living room, where highlights of the game were already playing on the muted TV. Francesco watched in silence for a moment as Sky Sports replayed his first goal — the turn, the strike, the net bulging, the crowd exploding.
"Surreal," he muttered.
Leah curled up beside him, tucking her legs under his. "You already get used to it. This is your life now."
He turned toward her. "Does that scare you?"
She met his gaze, unflinching. "No. Because I know who you are off the pitch too."
They sat like that for hours, replaying bits of the match, switching to a movie eventually, though neither paid much attention. His body began to ache more deeply now, muscles tightening, the adrenaline fully gone. But the presence of Leah beside him, her hand resting lightly on his leg, grounded him.
Around midnight, they climbed the stairs together, hand in hand. In the quiet of the master bedroom, Francesco peeled off his polo and joggers, dropping them into the laundry hamper before sliding beneath the covers. Leah joined him a moment later, the sheets cool against their skin.
She curled against his chest, her head resting just above his heartbeat.
"Sleep well, captain," she whispered.
He smiled into the darkness, his eyes already heavy.
The next morning came slowly, the kind of morning that didn't rush you. Sunlight filtered in gently through the long curtains in the Richmond bedroom, washing the room in pale gold. Outside, the garden was still, the trees barely moving in the summer breeze. Inside, Francesco stirred beneath the sheets, his body sore but satisfied, the good kind of ache that came after a job well done. Leah was still asleep beside him, one arm draped across his chest, her breathing soft and steady.
He let her sleep. Carefully, he slipped out of bed, grabbed a hoodie off the back of a chair, and padded down the wide staircase barefoot. The house was quiet, almost reverent in its stillness. He brewed a coffee in the kitchen — black, strong, just how he liked it — and moved to the living room where the massive flat screen hung above the fireplace.
Sky Sports News was already on, a replay looping silently on the screen — Francesco's third goal from the Community Shield, the curling finish past Courtois that sent Wembley into chaos. He stood there for a second, sipping, watching himself in slow motion. It still didn't feel quite real. Even now.
He picked up the remote, unmuted the TV, and sank into the couch as the segment began. The familiar theme tune faded out, and the camera cut to the Sky Sports studio, where Jamie Carragher, Ian Wright, and Gary Neville sat around the sleek desk, deep in discussion.
"Alright," said the host, flashing a grin, "Let's talk about what we saw yesterday. Community Shield, Arsenal three, Chelsea nil. And gentlemen, I want to start with the man of the moment — Francesco Lee. Sixteen years old, and playing like he's been in this league for ten years."
Wright leaned forward, grinning wide. "I've been watching this kid for a year now, right? And even back then, he was fearless. But what we saw yesterday — that was a step up. That was maturity. That was a complete centre-forward performance. It's not just about the goals — it's his positioning, his decision-making, the way he holds the ball up and brings others in. He's added layers to his game."
Neville nodded, looking unusually impressed. "Exactly. Last season, he was electric, sure. You'd see those bursts of raw talent. But this — this was composed. Intelligent. He made the right decisions every time. Played like a seasoned pro."
Carragher, smiling wryly, added, "Let's be honest, Chelsea's defence didn't know what to do with him. Cahill, Terry — they looked rattled. That's not something you see every day. And it's not just him, either. Look at Kante and van Dijk — what debuts those two had!"
The screen shifted to highlights: Kante winning the ball off Fabregas like it was nothing, then gliding forward to start the counterattack. Van Dijk rising above everyone to head clear a corner, then immediately barking orders, organizing the back line like he'd been there all season.
"Those two were immense," Neville said. "Kante's everywhere. He's like two midfielders in one. Covers so much ground, recovers the ball so quickly — and never loses his head. And van Dijk — calm, composed, reads everything. Arsenal have added serious steel to their spine."
Wright leaned back, laughing. "And that's why they won the double last year, and why they might just do it again. This team isn't just flashy anymore. They're balanced. They've got bite. They've got leaders."
Francesco smiled at that, sipping his coffee. There was something surreal about hearing his name spoken like that — not as a prospect or a talent, but as part of something bigger. As part of why Arsenal were champions.
Carragher turned serious. "Let's not forget the message Arsenal sent yesterday. This wasn't just a friendly. That was Chelsea's full-strength side. And Arsenal made them look ordinary."
Neville nodded. "It was a statement. They've added the right pieces. Their young players are developing — Francesco, Bellerín, Chamberlain. There's depth. There's competition. And there's confidence."
Wright was grinning like a proud uncle. "And you can see they love playing together. Look at that celebration for the third goal — every player sprinted to Francesco. That's unity. That's belief."
As the segment wrapped up, the host said, "Well, the season starts in a week, and Arsenal look ready. If this is the level they're starting at, it's going to be a long year for the rest of the league."
The panel chuckled, and the broadcast cut to a commercial break.
Francesco muted the TV again, setting the remote on the coffee table. He leaned back into the couch, letting it all soak in. It wasn't just noise. It wasn't just pundit talk. They saw it. They really saw it.
A soft sound broke the silence — footsteps on the stairs.
He turned to see Leah emerging in one of his oversized hoodies, her hair still messy from sleep. She rubbed her eyes and smiled at him.
"Morning," she said, voice husky. "Watching yourself on the news, are we?"
He grinned. "Guilty. They're being kind, though."
She plopped onto the couch beside him, stealing his coffee. "They're being honest. You were brilliant."
They sat there together, watching the sun rise a little higher, watching the world take notice of what they already knew — that something special was happening. And it was only just beginning.
"Big season coming," Leah murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.
Francesco nodded slowly. "Yeah. But I'm ready for it."
And he meant it. With every aching muscle and every bit of joy still lodged in his chest, he meant it. The season hadn't even started yet, and already, it felt like the whole world was watching.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
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:
Match Played: 1
Goal: 3
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9