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Francesco turned back, nodded once, and then jogged away, shirt still tucked under his arm, heart still drumming like war in his chest.
Francesco hadn't made it far before he was surrounded.
Not by fans. Not by press. Not even by his teammates—most of whom were still leaping and screaming in front of the North Bank, arms raised to the sky like warriors returning home. No—this time, it was the men in blue and maroon who closed in on him. The Barcelona players. The ones he had just spent ninety relentless minutes tearing through with the precision of a scalpel and the fury of a storm.
The first to reach him was Andrés Iniesta.
Older now, but still gliding rather than walking, Iniesta approached not with bitterness or a scowl, but with the half-smile of a man who had seen legends born and battles won, and knew exactly what he had just witnessed.
"Francesco," Iniesta said, his voice low, reverent even. His Spanish accent softened his English, but his words carried sharpness like a blade. "You're… stronger than Messi was at your age."
Francesco blinked, stunned.
Iniesta placed a hand on his shoulder—not just a gesture, but a recognition. An anointing.
"When Leo was 17," he continued, "we knew he was special. He could dance through three defenders and still find the goal. But you—" he paused, searching for the right words, "you don't just dance. You command. There's… a gravity in you."
Francesco, mouth slightly open, could only nod. He had grown up watching Iniesta orchestrate Champions League finals like symphonies. And now the man was speaking to him like this?
He managed a hoarse, "Thank you," and shook his head, humbled to the marrow. "I don't know what to say."
"You don't need to say anything," Iniesta replied, tapping his chest. "Just keep playing like that. And don't let the noise distract you. Football's full of noise. The real ones—" he gestured to Francesco's heart, "—know how to stay quiet in here."
Behind him, other Barça players joined.
Sergio Busquets gave him a firm pat on the back. "You ruined our midfield today, chico. But I can't even be mad."
Gerard Piqué, limping slightly from his collision with Sánchez, offered a wry smile. "You really had to score that bicycle kick, huh? I'll be seeing that in nightmares for a week."
Even Luis Suárez, competitive to the bone and usually too proud to praise the opposition, gave him a brief nod. Acknowledgment. Respect.
And then there was Neymar—who bumped fists with him, grinning from ear to ear. "That second goal?" he said, shaking his head. "Madness. You killed us, hermano. Killed us."
It felt surreal. This wasn't just post-match diplomacy. These weren't hollow compliments given out of duty. Francesco could feel it—these men meant it. They had faced hundreds of talents, battled through waves of hype and promise year after year. But tonight, they had felt something different.
Before he could say anything else, a voice crackled through a headset nearby.
"Francesco Lee?"
He turned, still clutching Messi's jersey under his arm.
A UEFA staffer was standing just beyond the cluster of players, holding a small clipboard and a lanyard that marked her as part of the official operations team.
"We need you for the post-match interview," she said, gently. "You've been named Man of the Match."
Francesco blinked again. Of course he had—but somehow, it hadn't even crossed his mind. The match itself had been such an emotional maelstrom, such a fierce, intimate experience that awards and accolades felt like an afterthought.
He nodded and gave the staffer a quick thumbs up.
"Be right there."
He turned back to Iniesta, who smiled and gave him one final nod before stepping away.
Francesco jogged lightly toward the touchline, weaving past teammates and camera crews, the din of the crowd still swirling like a living thing around them. His heart hadn't slowed. If anything, it was getting faster.
As he reached the small podium near the dugouts—UEFA's temporary interview stand already lit up with spotlights and branded backdrops—he saw the familiar faces of reporters from Sky, BT Sport, and UEFA Digital waiting. A translator stood nearby, though Francesco had long since learned to answer in both English and Spanish when needed.
A camera operator signaled, and the broadcast light blinked red.
The first reporter leaned in, her voice bright with awe.
"Francesco, first of all—congratulations. A hat-trick against Barcelona in the Champions League. Words almost fail to capture it. How do you feel right now?"
Francesco rubbed the back of his neck, still trying to breathe evenly. His hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead.
"I… I don't even know," he admitted, his voice still raspy. "I'm trying to make sense of it myself. It's just… it's every kid's dream, isn't it? To play against Barcelona. To score. But three goals? At the Emirates? In a knockout round? It's unreal."
The reporter smiled. "Talk us through that second goal—the volley. Özil's pass, Alexis's cross, your finish. It looked impossible from where we were."
Francesco nodded, replaying it in his mind.
"It was instinct, honestly," he said. "We work on transitions all the time in training—Wenger's always drilling us on positioning during counters. When Alexis looked up, I knew I had to time it. I just… threw my body into it. When the ball hit my boot, I didn't even see it go in. I just heard the roar."
The next reporter chimed in. "We saw you exchange shirts with Messi at the end. He even spoke to you for quite a while. Can you share what was said?"
Francesco hesitated, glancing down at the jersey in his arms—the sacred number 10 of Barcelona, now folded and damp against his forearm.
"He told me to keep going," he said quietly. "Said I reminded him of himself. And Cristiano. That… the game needs someone to carry the fight forward."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
"And what did you say to him?"
Francesco smiled faintly. "I told him to come join us."
The reporters laughed, but there was something behind Francesco's eyes—still wide, still absorbing. A kind of disbelief, and yet also a dawning recognition of what this night had done. What it had started.
The UEFA translator leaned in as a Spanish journalist from Marca asked something quickly in her native tongue.
"She wants to know what it means to you—to receive praise from Iniesta, from Messi, from all those legends."
Francesco didn't answer immediately.
He looked out at the pitch behind them—still glowing under the lights, still haunted by the ghostly echoes of thousands of fans.
"I grew up watching them," he said slowly. "Iniesta, Messi, Xavi… I studied them. Not just their skills, but how they moved. How they saw the game. Tonight… to hear them say those things to me? It's like hearing your heroes tell you you're one of them. I'll never forget it."
The reporter nodded, visibly moved.
"Last question," she said. "You're only twenty. This performance will change everything. Bigger clubs might come calling. What's next for Francesco Lee?"
Francesco looked into the camera. For a moment, he imagined Leah watching from wherever she was—probably back in London, pacing in front of the television, wearing his Arsenal jacket. He imagined his mum, her hands clasped together, eyes full of tears. He imagined the academy coaches who taught him to shoot, to pass, to dream.
He thought of Wenger.
And then he smiled—broad, open, boyish.
"What's next?" he repeated. "We go again, there still the second leg'. We're not done."
The camera light clicked off.
As he walked back down the tunnel, the weight of the moment began to settle into his bones—not heavy, but grounding. Like the first page of a new book that you know will be a classic.
Inside the changing room, the celebration was in full swing.
Cazorla was spraying water at Monreal. Özil was FaceTiming someone with a massive grin on his face. Koscielny was clapping his hands and shouting, "HAT-TRICK HERO! LEE!" over and over like a chant.
Wenger, arms crossed, stood back and let the chaos unfold—his eyes never leaving Francesco.
When their gazes finally met, the manager gave him the smallest of nods. But in it was everything. Pride. Gratitude. Belief.
Francesco walked over and wrapped him in a hug.
"Merci," he said softly.
Wenger squeezed his shoulder. "No. Thank you."
Then Francesco went to take a shower and the steam from the shower room mingled with the fading adrenaline in the air, giving the Arsenal dressing room a kind of holy glow. Music blared from someone's phone—probably Oxlade-Chamberlain's playlist again—and boots tapped against tile in celebration rhythms. Wet socks clung to ankles, champagne hadn't been brought out but jokes about it flew freely, and somewhere in the back, Flamini and Coquelin were mock-wrestling over an ice pack.
Francesco had just peeled off his socks and dropped onto the bench beside Bellerín when he heard it:
"Francesco, Mesut. With me."
Wenger's voice wasn't loud, but it cut through everything. Calm, composed, precise—like always. He stood just inside the doorway now, already dressed in his usual sharp navy overcoat and wine-red tie, the badge on his chest catching the dressing room light.
Mesut caught Francesco's eye across the room and gave a little shrug. His hair still wet, he flipped his towel over his shoulder and pushed himself up from the bench.
Francesco followed without a word, towel still wrapped around his waist, bare chest still glistening with the remnants of war. His boots clacked softly on the floor.
As they left the changing room behind, the sound of celebration faded into the distance like a song moving underwater. The hallway that led to the press room was quieter—lined with security guards, UEFA officials, and a few murmuring staffers.
Wenger walked just ahead of them, his posture as upright as if he were walking into Parliament. Calm. Focused. Like he always knew what this moment would be.
"I want you two there," he said over his shoulder. "They'll want to talk about the goals, of course. But more than that… tonight was about how we played. The control. The maturity. They'll ask about Barcelona. But don't forget—we're Arsenal."
Mesut nodded with that soft, knowing smile he always had in moments like this. Francesco, meanwhile, stayed silent. His stomach fluttered again—not with nerves, but something stranger. Something deeper. Like this night hadn't finished revealing itself yet.
The door to the press room swung open.
The air inside was electric—flashing bulbs, the constant clicking of camera shutters, journalists hunched over laptops, and the low murmur of dozens of voices in multiple languages. A long table sat on the small podium, three microphones in place, flanked by Arsenal and UEFA backdrops.
When the three of them stepped out, the room seemed to hush all at once.
Wenger walked to the center seat, Mesut to his right, and Francesco took the far end. Someone handed him a bottled water. He barely noticed.
The UEFA moderator tapped the microphone. "Good evening, everyone. We'll begin with opening comments from Arsenal manager Arsène Wenger, then we'll take questions."
Wenger leaned forward, fingers steepled.
"Thank you. First, I would like to congratulate both teams. Barcelona remain an exceptional side with fantastic talent, and tonight's match, I think, was a great advert for football. But I'm proud of my team. The discipline, the unity, and above all, the courage to express themselves in the biggest moments. I've always believed that this club can match the best in Europe—not just on paper, but in spirit."
The questions came fast after that.
"How do you rate Francesco's performance tonight?"
Wenger glanced at Francesco, then smiled thinly.
"I have been in this game many years. I've seen players have magical nights. But this… this was something more. Francesco was not just effective—he was intelligent, ruthless, and brave. His decision-making, his work rate, his execution… it was complete."
Francesco lowered his head a bit, a flush rising in his cheeks.
"And you, Francesco," came another voice from the back—one of the German reporters, judging by the accent. "How did it feel to share the field with Messi and then outperform him?"
A few murmurs rippled through the room.
Francesco leaned toward his mic, cleared his throat.
"I… I don't think I outperformed him," he said. "Messi is Messi. He's the best. If I had a good night, it's because of my teammates. Özil's pass on the counter, Alexis's cross—those things don't show up as goals for them, but they made mine happen. And Leo? He told me he's waiting for me at the top. That means more to me than anything."
Özil grinned beside him, but said nothing yet.
Another journalist chimed in.
"Mesut—your pass for the second goal. It was vintage playmaking. What did you see?"
Özil shrugged modestly.
"I saw movement. I saw Francesco sprinting between Piqué and Alba. And I saw Alexis running into the pocket. It's something we've done in training a lot. It's not about seeing magic—it's about knowing your teammates. And he—" he nudged Francesco slightly, "—makes it easy."
Laughter rippled gently through the room. The atmosphere was light now—respectful, even reverent.
Then came a question from a Catalan voice.
"Francesco, there are already rumors in Spain that Barcelona might make a move for you. If they came calling… would you consider it?"
A beat.
Francesco's jaw tightened slightly, not with irritation but thought. Then he sat up a little straighter.
"I respect Barcelona. Every kid in the world dreams of playing there. But right now? I'm at the club that believed in me first. That gave me my debut. That raised me. I wear this badge with pride. And tonight was for Arsenal. Only Arsenal."
A quiet, reverent murmur went through the room—reporters scribbling, camera lenses whirring.
Wenger looked sideways at him and gave a barely perceptible nod. Approval. But also… something more paternal.
The questions went on—about tactics, about the second leg, about whether Arsenal could finally break their quarterfinal curse this season.
But through it all, Francesco felt a strange sense of detachment—not in a bad way. More like… like he was watching the night unfold from above, as if some part of him was already trying to understand the significance of what he had done.
It wasn't just the hat-trick.
It was what it represented.
The change in perception. The shift in narrative.
After what felt like an hour, the press conference began to wind down. The moderator tapped the mic again.
"Thank you, everyone. That concludes tonight's press duties."
The three of them stood slowly—Wenger first, then Mesut. Francesco followed, the water bottle still clutched in his hand, the UEFA lanyard tugging at his neck.
As they stepped off the platform and walked backstage again, Wenger turned toward them.
"Well done," he said. "You both handled that like professionals."
Mesut grinned. "We've had good training."
Wenger's eyes flicked to Francesco again. "You've started something tonight," he said softly. "Not just for yourself. For the club. For the shirt. Remember that."
Francesco nodded. His throat was dry, and it wasn't from thirst.
"I won't forget."
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
By the time Francesco finally got back to the dressing room, most of the team had changed. Some were already boarding the team coach, others still laughing with staffers in the hallway. But a few lingered—Alexis, Koscielny, Monreal—all of them standing around the centre table now, reviewing their own phones for clips, messages, memes.
Francesco stepped back into the dressing room like someone stepping off a mountaintop. The lights were still bright overhead, but the energy had shifted. No longer electric and humming with adrenaline—it was soft now, reflective. A few players still lingered, tying their laces, zipping up their coats, tapping out messages to family and friends. Others had already left, off to see loved ones or simply to wind down after one of the most surreal nights of their careers.
Alexis Sánchez glanced up from his phone and gave Francesco a grin—the kind of grin that only came when you knew you'd been part of something big. Not just a match. A moment. A memory that would live forever.
"You see the clip of your overhead?" Alexis asked, holding up his screen. "They've already slowed it down to 120 frames per second. Cinematic, hermano."
Francesco chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Don't let it go to your head. That cross of yours was the real masterpiece."
"Bah," Alexis waved him off. "The goal is the goal."
From behind, Bellerín tossed a towel at Francesco's shoulder. "You'll be trending till next week, bro. Mesut's pass? Alexis's cross? Your finish? Football Twitter is melting."
Francesco grinned and reached down to finally pull on his training pants. The cold of the fabric against his still-damp legs grounded him, just enough to start bringing him down from the high.
Minutes later, the locker room finally began to clear for good. Coaches gave last instructions for recovery tomorrow, physios handed out protein shakes and ice wraps, and the low hum of conversation faded into nothing as the players filed out toward the coach waiting outside Emirates.
The air outside was cool, crisp—London spring in its late-winter clothes. Francesco zipped up his padded coat, backpack slung over one shoulder, and walked alongside Mesut and Flamini toward the team bus. Floodlights still poured down from the stadium above like a parting spotlight, catching in his breath as he exhaled slowly. The buzz of celebration was still tucked behind his ribs, but now it was laced with something softer—gratitude. And maybe a bit of disbelief.
They climbed the steps of the team coach, each player taking their usual seats by habit. Francesco dropped into the seat behind the driver's side, window cracked slightly to feel the night air. A moment later, someone passed him a recovery shake, and someone else slapped him on the back in passing.
"Overhead. Against Barça," came a low voice from behind—Koscielny, smiling faintly. "You've arrived, mate."
Francesco said nothing. Just nodded once, deeply.
The bus rumbled into gear, easing out of the Emirates loading bay with a low hydraulic hiss. Out the window, Francesco could still see a handful of lingering fans beyond the barricades, waving flags, holding up phones, some even wearing shirts with his name already inked on the back. A few chanted his name in that sweet blend of song and accent only North London had.
The journey to Colney training center wasn't a long one—maybe 40 minutes—but that night, it felt like drifting through another world. Players dozed, or scrolled through their phones, or murmured quietly between rows. The coaching staff kept to themselves near the front, already likely planning for the second leg in Catalonia. Francesco leaned back in his seat, earbuds in, letting the low murmur of post-match commentary wash over him.
"…Francesco Lee with what might go down as one of the finest individual performances in Arsenal history…"
"…hat-trick against one of the greatest club sides of all time…"
"…only 17 years old. The boy's not just special—he's different…"
He shut his eyes for a moment. Not to sleep—just to take it all in. To bottle the night and carry it with him.
Eventually, the bus slowed as they turned into the gates of Colney. The familiar hum of the training ground lights flickered through the window, and players began stirring, gathering their gear, stretching limbs stiff from the ride.
Francesco stood up, backpack slung again over one shoulder, and filed out with the others. Outside, the night air was cooler now, heavy with dew. He turned toward his BMW X5, parked neatly in the players' lot. A few of the lads waved or clapped him on the back again.
"See you tomorrow, champ," said Coquelin, tossing a Gatorade bottle in the air.
"Sleep well, superstar," added Ox, already laughing with Bellerín about something.
Francesco just smiled and raised a hand in farewell. "Night, boys."
He slid into the driver's seat of the X5 and started the engine with a soft growl. The dashboard glowed faintly, calm and modern, a sharp contrast to the chaos of the stadium just hours earlier.
As he pulled out of the lot and down the winding road toward his home in Richmond, he finally felt the quiet sink in. The sort of quiet you earn. No more floodlights. No more cameras. Just him and the night.
He rolled the window down a crack, letting the wind kiss his temple, and let the music play low. Something instrumental. No words. He didn't need any right now.
The drive home passed like a meditation. Familiar streets, soft turns, the hum of London settling into its midnight lullaby. It was just past 1:00 AM when he turned the final corner and eased into the driveway of his mansion. The house was quiet from the outside, save for a faint glow from the living room window.
He parked the X5 in the garage, turned off the engine, and just sat for a second. Hands on the wheel. Breathing.
A small laugh escaped him.
Then he stepped out, closed the car door gently, and walked through the side entrance into his home.
The warm scent of leather and eucalyptus still lingered from the candles Leah liked to burn. The floor was cool against his sneakers, and his footsteps echoed lightly in the front corridor.
He walked toward the living room, and as he turned the corner—
There she was.
Leah.
Curled up on the couch in her Arsenal hoodie, hair loose around her shoulders, a bowl of popcorn on her lap and her legs tucked under her. The telly flickered in front of her, tuned to Sky Sports Late Review. Ian Wright, Gary Neville, Jamie Carragher, and Roy Keane sat in their studio chairs, gesturing wildly over slow-motion replays of his goals.
"—I mean, look at that technique," Ian Wright was saying, wide-eyed. "Body at full extension, both feet off the ground. That's not just instinct—that's artistry. Francesco Lee, man. Arsenal fans have got something real here."
"I'll tell you what," Gary Neville added, leaning forward. "You don't score a hat-trick against Barcelona by accident. He's got timing, vision, and guts. He's only 17, but he plays like a veteran."
Leah glanced up and saw him standing there.
Her face lit up.
"There's the man himself," she said softly, patting the couch beside her. "Come here, wonderboy."
Francesco smiled, dropped his backpack by the wall, and walked over, peeling off his coat.
"Wonderboy, huh?" he said, settling next to her.
"They're calling it the Emirates Miracle, you know," she said, gesturing at the screen.
Roy Keane was grumbling now. "Good player, yes. But let's not get carried away—Barcelona let him into too many pockets. Piqué and Alves weren't sharp enough."
Jamie Carragher smirked. "Or maybe the lad just made them look slow."
Leah snorted. "Keane being grumpy? Shock."
Francesco laughed and leaned back, letting his head rest against the top of the couch. He glanced at the screen again—replay of his overhead goal now playing in slow motion. From the side angle, from above, from the reverse. A ballet of timing and violence.
"They're really showing it that much?" he asked.
"They've shown it eleven times since I sat down," she replied, nudging him. "I counted."
He turned to look at her, eyes soft. "How was it? The stadium?"
Her expression melted into something a little more serious. "It was magic. Everyone was just… transfixed. I've been to big games before, Franny. I've seen world-class stuff. But tonight? The whole place felt like it was floating. You gave them a night they'll never forget."
His throat tightened again—not in pride, but in that quiet, overwhelming kind of emotion that doesn't always know where to go.
He reached over and took her hand. "Thanks for being there."
"Wouldn't have missed it," she whispered, squeezing back.
They sat there in silence for a while, the television voices fading into the background as the highlights rolled into another cycle.
Eventually, Francesco leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared at the screen as Ian Wright held up a graphic comparing him to Thierry Henry's Champions League debut.
"It's mad," he said quietly. "All of it."
Leah tilted her head. "You earned every second of it."
"Sometimes I feel like I'm still that kid… training on my own in the park in Jakarta, hoping someone would notice."
She smiled and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Well, they noticed."
And then they just sat there.
The room was quiet, but not silent. Outside, the city slept. Inside, the fire crackled faintly in the wall grate, casting soft golden shadows across the hardwood floor. The TV kept looping pundits, replays, reactions. Francesco didn't mind.
He had nowhere to be. Nothing more to prove tonight.
The night had finished revealing itself. And what it showed—through cheers, through goals, through cameras and quiet looks in the hallway—was something Francesco had always hoped might one day be true.
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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: 38
Goal: 58
Assist: 9
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9