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They moved toward the center circle, waving at the fans. Francesco lingered near the penalty spot for a second, just looking up into the lights, the thousands of faces above him.
The warmth of applause still lingered in the air, a tangible hum, like static after lightning. Players exchanged final handshakes, pats on the back, and the occasional jersey swap. Francesco, sweat-drenched and flushed, started making his way toward the tunnel with the others when he heard his name.
"Francesco!"
He turned. One of the Premier League media officials was jogging across the grass toward him, headset bouncing slightly over her curls, clipboard tucked under one arm. She wore that familiar lanyard and the confident, polite urgency of someone used to wrangling athletes into post-match interviews.
"You're Player of the Match," she said with a bright smile. "Hat-trick—well deserved. If you're okay to give us five minutes?"
Francesco blinked, then exhaled and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, sure."
The stadium lights felt even brighter now that the adrenaline was beginning to ebb. He glanced back at the others—Özil had a towel draped over his head, Alexis and Kanté were already exchanging jokes with one of the assistant coaches, and Giroud was deep in conversation with Cech near the halfway line. Theo gave him a wink and mock-saluted him from the bench.
He followed the staffer toward the touchline where a small stand with the Premier League branding had been erected, just in front of the camera crew. The interviewer—Dan Walker, familiar from countless Match of the Day segments—gave him a warm handshake as he approached.
"Francesco Lee, Arsenal 4–0 Southampton, a hat-trick and a captain's performance," Dan said as they set up the microphone. "We'll go live in fifteen seconds. Just be yourself, yeah?"
Francesco laughed softly. "I've never been anyone else."
"Perfect."
The floor manager gave the signal. The red light blinked to life on the camera.
"And we're live at the Emirates Stadium, where Arsenal have just beaten Southampton by four goals to nil in a resounding, dominant display. And I'm joined now by the Player of the Match, Francesco Lee. Francesco, congratulations—hat-trick, the armband, and a real statement win. How're you feeling right now?"
Francesco exhaled slowly, tongue running briefly across his bottom lip before answering.
"Exhausted," he admitted with a slight grin. "But proud. Nights like this… they stay with you. We played with fire, but also with control. That's what makes it special."
"You looked fired up after that challenge on Aaron Ramsey. Was that anger we saw in that third goal?"
A flicker crossed Francesco's eyes, but he kept his composure.
"Yeah. I won't lie. When a teammate gets a tackle like that and you see him writhing… something turns on in your head. We're not just footballers—we're brothers out there. And you protect your brothers. I just wanted to respond the best way I could—with football."
Dan nodded, clearly pleased. "And you did. The hat-trick goal—absolutely thumped in off the underside of the bar. No keeper's stopping that. What were you thinking in that moment?"
Francesco let out a breath, remembering the moment like a snapshot—ball skipping loose, angle tight, heart loud.
"Honestly? I wasn't thinking. Just… pure instinct. The touch was good, and I thought, 'hit it before they close the angle.' I didn't even see it go in. Just heard the bar rattle and the crowd erupt."
"Your partnership with Özil looks like it's getting stronger every week. The movement between you two, the understanding—it's something else."
Francesco's face lit with a genuine smile. "Mesut's a magician. He sees passes most people don't even know exist. When you run, you just trust that the ball will get there. And with him… it does."
There was a pause, then a slight change in tone.
"You've captained the team tonight. Another man-of-the-match award. Arsenal are still top of the league. Do you feel like this team is starting to believe?"
Francesco looked directly into the camera for a second, then back to Dan.
"We never stopped believing," he said, quietly but firmly. "We've had setbacks, yeah. Injuries, tough games. But belief? That's been here all season. You don't get to the top of the table by accident. And we're not done. We know what this club deserves—and we want to give it to them."
Dan smiled, clearly sensing the maturity behind the words.
"Well said. Francesco Lee, Player of the Match. Congratulations again. Go and enjoy that dressing room atmosphere."
Francesco thanked him, shook hands again, and peeled the earpiece off with relief.
The PR rep gave him a gentle clap on the shoulder. "Well handled," she said. "Some of the best captains don't need to scream to lead."
He gave her a quick smile, then turned toward the tunnel. His boots thudded softly against the carpeted ramp as he re-entered the belly of the Emirates.
The dressing room was alive now—not loud and raucous like after a scrappy win, but buzzing with satisfied energy.
Music pulsed faintly from someone's speaker. Not dance or club, but old-school hip-hop, low and smooth, the kind of rhythm that filled a space without overwhelming it. Players were half-changed—some still in kit, others already toweling off. Kanté sat barefoot with a banana in one hand and an ice pack strapped to his thigh. Ramsey, miraculously, looked none the worse after that brutal tackle, though the physio still hovered near him, just in case.
Francesco walked in to a wave of cheers and lighthearted mockery.
"Oi, superstar!"
"Did you mention me in your interview?"
"He's gonna start charging us for autographs soon."
Francesco shook his head, laughing, and made his way back to his bench.
Wenger stood near the whiteboard, arms folded, a faint but unmistakable smile on his lips.
"Interview done?" the boss asked.
"Yeah."
"Good. Because I don't want any of my players turning into TV personalities just yet."
That earned another laugh from the squad.
"Sit down, all of you," Wenger added. "Just for a minute."
The room settled, the sound dialed down. Players found their seats, pulling socks down or zipping tracksuits up. Some perched on the benches, others leaned against lockers.
Wenger's eyes moved across them all—young and experienced, quiet and vocal.
"That," he said, "was one of our best performances of the season."
He let the words hang, simple and unembellished.
"Not because of the scoreline, although 4–0 is of course very good. Not because of the hat-trick—though Francesco, bravo, truly. And not because of the statistics—possession, passes completed, distance covered. No."
He looked down for a moment, then back up.
"It was because when things got tense—when a bad tackle could've shifted the momentum, when emotions ran high—you chose not to lose yourselves. You chose to fight with football. That's what champions do. That's how you make people respect you. That's how you make them fear you."
No one spoke. They didn't need to.
"You should be proud," Wenger continued. "But not satisfied. Top of the table is not a trophy. It is a target. One every other club will now aim for. We have to keep running. Keep thinking. Keep fighting. Together."
He gave a final nod. "Go shower. Go eat. You've earned the night."
The room stirred again, energy bubbling back to the surface. Koscielny clapped Francesco on the back as he passed, offering a low, "Well led, captain."
Alexis tossed a water bottle at him with a grin. "Next time leave some goals for the rest of us."
Francesco rolled his eyes and peeled off his shirt, sweat-soaked and heavy. His muscles ached now that the post-match high was fading. But it was the ache of fulfillment.
As he stepped into the showers, steam already curling up from the hot tiles, he heard the chant echoing faintly in his head again.
"Fran-ces-co Lee, Fran-ces-co Lee…"
He closed his eyes for a moment and let the water pour over him, drowning out everything else.
The steam from the showers had barely lifted when the post-match rhythm shifted again—bags zipped, headphones slid back on, trainers squeaked on tile. The adrenaline from the game was still coursing, but it was beginning to fade into something else. Satisfaction, mostly. Relief, too. And for some—a quiet hunger that hadn't yet been fed.
Francesco sat on the edge of the bench, one sock still in his hand, his hair damp and sticking to his temples. He stared ahead for a moment—at nothing in particular—before pulling on his jacket, standing up, and rolling his shoulders.
"Team bus leaves in ten," shouted one of the staff from the hallway. "Let's go, lads!"
The dressing room emptied in a slow, casual wave—no mad rush, just that satisfied shuffle of men who knew they'd done their job.
Francesco followed the stream out into the corridor, where the night air hit him in the face like a balm. Cool, sharp, but not cold. Not biting. It felt good.
The team bus waited just outside the players' entrance—navy and silver, with the Arsenal crest stamped boldly across the side. The engine already rumbled quietly, and the door hissed open as the first of the players climbed aboard. There was always something oddly serene about the journey back to Colney. After the roars of the stadium, the tension of the pitch, and the eruption of the dressing room—this was the eye of the storm.
No more fans.
No more lights.
Just teammates, seats, and silence broken only by the occasional laugh or the thrum of tires on tarmac.
Francesco slung his bag into the overhead and took his usual window seat, second row on the right. Özil slid in across from him, already wearing a sleep mask pushed up onto his forehead like a headband. Ramsey and Bellerín sat near the back, locked in some kind of deep conversation. Alexis had earbuds in and his feet up, leaning back with that familiar post-match sprawl.
Francesco leaned his head against the glass as the bus pulled away from the Emirates. The stadium lights fell behind them, blinking through the condensation like distant stars.
They drove in silence for a while. A few quiet conversations. A few video clips being rewatched on phones—someone let out a low whistle watching Francesco's third goal. Another showed Alexis's finish on loop. But mostly… it was just calm.
As they moved through North London, the streets grew quieter. Shops closed. Pubs emptied. A light drizzle began to tap at the windows, soft as a metronome.
Francesco closed his eyes for a moment—not to sleep, just to rest.
Colney appeared like a familiar sanctuary in the dark.
The training center was lit just enough to be welcoming, its brick-and-glass facade still warm despite the hour. The bus rolled through the gates and curved into the back lot, where a line of player cars waited like sentinels.
As the bus hissed to a stop, players stirred. Bags slung over shoulders, jackets zipped up, a few yawns escaping as boots met gravel.
Francesco climbed down last.
Outside, he stood for a moment by the bus door, watching his teammates scatter toward their cars.
"Good shift, captain," said Giroud with a nod, walking past and already dialing someone on his phone.
"See you Monday," Ramsey added.
Kanté gave a little salute, banana peel in hand. Özil just bumped Francesco's fist quietly before slipping into his Range Rover.
Francesco smiled at them all. "Get home safe, lads."
The parking lot slowly emptied, car engines igniting in turn and headlights carving soft paths into the mist.
He made his way to his BMW X5, the black paint glistening under the overhead lights. Unlocking it with a soft beep, he slid into the driver's seat, dropped his bag on the passenger floor, and let the silence wrap around him again.
The cabin smelled faintly of leather and the cedar air freshener Leah had tucked into the glovebox a few weeks ago.
He leaned back for a moment.
Let out a breath.
Then started the car.
The drive home wasn't long—just under forty minutes—but at this hour, it felt like another world. He took the M25 out, music low, no radio chatter. Just some soft ambient piano from a playlist he didn't even remember saving. The rain came steady now, washing across the windshield in thin streaks. Streetlights reflected off the road like gold veins in stone.
As he drove, the night unfolded like memory. The way Özil floated across the midfield. The thud of the ball hitting the bar. The taste of sweat, sharp and clean. The way the crowd had screamed his name like a hymn.
He didn't let it overwhelm him. Just let it settle.
Tonight had been good.
But there were more games to come.
More fire to feed.
His mansion sat just outside St Albans, nestled beyond a wrought-iron gate and a winding private drive flanked by trimmed hedges and old pines. It wasn't massive by footballer standards—no gold columns or garish statues—but it was elegant. Understated. Just like Francesco.
The gate opened with a slow hum as his car approached. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as the X5 curved up to the garage. He parked it carefully, the engine softening to a purr before silence reclaimed the space.
He stepped out, boots tapping on the floor, and paused once more in the stillness of the night.
Home.
It smelled faintly of lavender from the hedges near the door. Warm light glowed from the kitchen window.
He walked up the side path, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
"Leah?"
"In here," came her voice from the kitchen—soft, familiar, and already smiling.
He kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag by the staircase, and walked in.
She was standing at the stove, barefoot in leggings and an oversized jumper, her hair tied up in a loose bun, humming under her breath. A pan sizzled quietly in front of her, something rich and garlicky in the air.
"Smells incredible," he said.
She turned, beaming. "Congratulations, hat-trick hero."
He laughed, stepping forward and pulling her into a one-armed hug from behind, kissing her lightly on the temple. "You watched?"
"Of course. Whole thing. I even paused it when you scored the third and did a little happy dance."
"I'd pay good money to see that."
"Maybe I'll reenact it—if you do the Özil flick from the first goal."
They both laughed.
He moved to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and leaned against the counter. "You didn't have to cook, you know. I could've picked something up."
"I wanted to," she said, casually flipping something in the pan. "Besides, post-hat-trick dinners are tradition now."
He watched her for a second, soaking it all in—the comfort, the normalcy, the love that didn't shout but simply showed up.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
She turned to face him again. "Tired?"
"Yeah. Good tired, though. Like… I gave everything."
She nodded. "I could see that."
He sipped his water. "Ramsey took a bad tackle. Got me a bit rattled."
"I saw. You alright?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Just reminded me how quickly things can turn. One moment you're dancing through defenders. Next, you're lying on the turf."
"You play with heart," she said. "And that's why people love you."
Francesco smiled. "Is that why you love me?"
She rolled her eyes. "That and your impeccable sock-folding technique."
He chuckled and moved toward the table as she began plating up dinner—grilled chicken with rosemary potatoes and a side of sautéed greens.
They ate together in comfortable silence for a while. Occasionally he recounted a moment from the match—the way Kanté broke up a counterattack like he had eyes in the back of his head, or how Bellerín's sprint in the 89th minute had drawn a cheer louder than a goal.
Leah listened, nodded, laughed when appropriate, and topped up his water like he was the only thing that mattered in the world.
Later, after dishes were done and lights dimmed, they curled up on the couch beneath a shared blanket.
The couch sighed beneath their weight as they sank into it together, the evening finally stretching out like a ribbon of calm. Francesco leaned into Leah, his arm draped across her shoulder, fingers absentmindedly tracing lazy shapes on her arm beneath the blanket. The kitchen behind them was dark now, the remnants of dinner cleaned and put away. The only light came from the muted flicker of the television in front of them and the soft amber glow of the lamp beside the sofa.
Leah reached for the remote, shifting slightly so she could nestle closer to his chest. "You want to see what they're saying?"
Francesco gave a small smirk, already knowing what she meant. "Sky Sports?"
She nodded. "They'll be talking about it. Probably still arguing, those three."
He chuckled. "Let's hear what the experts have to say."
She turned the volume up just in time to catch the end of a dramatic highlight reel. A low, punchy score played over slow-motion shots from earlier that day—the Emirates bathed in gold light, the roar of the North Bank after his second goal, the camera panning to Wenger on the sidelines with arms folded, a quiet storm behind his eyes.
Then, the screen cut back to the studio.
Sky Sports' flagship panel—Gary Neville, Jamie Carragher, and Ian Wright—sat beneath the glaring studio lights, with the Emirates logo rotating slowly in the background on a giant screen. The mood wasn't just analytical. It was electric. Like they knew they were witnessing something special but didn't quite have the vocabulary for it yet.
"Well," Carragher said, sitting forward with his hands clasped between his knees, "I'll say it straight, I've not seen an Arsenal team like this since the Invincibles. That wasn't just a win. That was a statement."
Neville, leaning back with that half-smile he wore when he was impressed but didn't want to admit it, shook his head slowly. "Four-nil, Jamie. Against a decent Southampton side. Not a side that just rolled over. And it could've been six. Could've been seven. I mean, some of those passages of play…"
Wright grinned, bouncing slightly in his seat like he couldn't keep the excitement out of his limbs. "And my boy Francesco Lee. Hat-trick today. This kid doesn't just score goals—he defines games. He's a striker, a creator, a tempo-setter… it's unreal. I've said it before and I'll say it again, this lad is special."
Francesco felt Leah glance up at him with a smug smile. He tried not to grin, tried to pretend it was just another evening post-match, but the way Wrighty said his name still hit something deep in his chest. Something boyish. Something proud.
Carragher nodded in agreement. "Let's just look at the numbers. Arsenal: 24 matches played. 23 wins. 1 draw. Zero losses. That's ridiculous. I mean, we all knew they were having a good season, but this is… I don't even know if we can call it a 'run' anymore. This is dominance."
Neville crossed his arms. "Alright, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. The Invincibles didn't just go unbeaten—there was a certain aura to them. A swagger. And Wenger hasn't recreated that yet."
"But he's close," Wright interjected, pointing toward the stat board on the screen. "Look at that front line: Francesco Lee, Alexis Sánchez, Özil pulling strings behind them, Ramsey linking up from midfield, and Kanté sweeping behind it all. It's like someone blended poetry and brute force. They've got the finesse, but they can get dirty too when they need to."
Leah nudged Francesco in the ribs. "You're poetry and brute force. That's you."
He gave a soft laugh. "I'll put that on a shirt."
The analysis continued, clips now showing Francesco's goals—each one slowed down and dissected. The first goal—a darting run into the box, Özil's brilliant flick over the top, and Francesco meeting it first time with his left foot, sending it across the keeper into the far corner. The second—a long-range curler from just outside the D, after sidestepping two defenders like he was gliding on water. And the third—the crowd eruption, the arms wide, the name chanted from every corner of the ground like a hymn of belief.
Neville paused the screen. "Right there," he said, pointing. "That third goal. Watch the body language. He's already scanning before the ball even drops. That's elite. That's not instinct, that's understanding the geometry of the game like it's second nature."
Carragher nodded. "That's why you're seeing comparisons to Henry now. He's got that presence."
"And he's humble," Wright added. "He's not out there chest-thumping after every goal. He scores and it's like, 'Alright, let's go again.' He's got the heart. And when you've got someone like that leading the line, you believe again."
Francesco leaned his head back against the couch, quiet for a moment. Leah studied his face.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
He exhaled softly. "Just… how surreal it is, hearing that. From them. From Wrighty, of all people."
"You earned it," she said, simply. "Every bit of it."
"I remember watching shows like this when I was fifteen," he said, voice quieter now. "Hearing them tear into players who couldn't hack it. Watching legends praise people who made it. Wondering which one I'd be."
"And now you're here," she whispered, tucking herself closer to him. "In that seat. The one you dreamt about."
The TV panel had shifted now to Wenger's post-match interview. He stood in front of the Arsenal crest, his expression calm but carrying that faint flicker in his eyes—the glint that always suggested he saw the game five moves ahead of everyone else.
"I am pleased," Wenger said in his quiet, precise tone. "We were efficient, we were intelligent. But most importantly, we played with togetherness. This team is more than just individuals—they believe in each other."
"Do you think this team can go unbeaten?" the reporter asked.
Wenger gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. "We are not thinking about invincibility. We are thinking about the next match. But… if the next match goes well, then maybe we think about the one after."
Leah laughed. "Classic Wenger."
Francesco nodded. "He won't say it. But I think he's starting to believe."
The studio cut back to the panel, now discussing the upcoming fixtures.
"They've got a tough run ahead," Carragher said. "City away. Chelsea at home. United at Old Trafford. That's a gauntlet."
Neville raised a finger. "That's the test. If they survive that run without a loss, I'll say it—this team could go all the way."
"And even if they don't," Wright added, leaning forward with passion in his voice, "they're already giving us something we haven't seen in over a decade. They're bringing pride back to Arsenal. Real, earned pride."
Leah then turned down the volume.
Francesco stared at the screen for a moment longer, then turned his gaze to her. "You know what scares me sometimes?"
"What?"
"That I'll lose it. That one bad game, one bad month, and it'll all start slipping."
Leah reached up, brushing a hand through his still-damp hair. "Then you keep fighting. Like you always have. One game at a time. And even if the goals stop, even if the invincible dream fades… none of this is luck. It's who you are."
He closed his eyes for a moment and let the comfort of her words settle into his chest like balm.
Outside, the drizzle had thickened into real rain, tapping gently on the windows like the rhythm of time itself. The world was quiet, but something larger stirred beneath it—a sense of possibility, of momentum not yet slowed.
Francesco stood slowly, taking Leah's hand as he did. "Come on," he said softly. "Let's go to bed."
She nodded, fingers entwined with his. The TV screen dimmed behind them as they left the living room, the soft hum of the rain and the echo of Ian Wright's praise lingering in the stillness like a lullaby for champions.
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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: 34
Goal: 52
Assist: 9
MOTM: 6
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9