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He leaned back against his seat, Ribéry's shirt still pressed close, the MOTM trophy glinting under the fluorescent light beside him. His teammates joked and celebrated around him, but Wenger's words rang louder than anything else in his head.
The dressing room had just begun to hum again, the players easing back into their laughter and chatter, though quieter now, more measured after Wenger's words. Bottles still clinked, boots still thudded against the floor as men shifted around, but the edge of wildness had faded, replaced by something sturdier: purpose.
Wenger, meanwhile, hadn't moved far from the doorway. He watched them for a moment longer, as though ensuring his message had truly sunk in. Then, he drew a breath, adjusted his glasses with that familiar flick of his fingers, and said quietly — but clearly enough for all to hear:
"Francesco. Mesut. With me."
It was simple, almost casual, but it cut through the chatter like a whistle on the pitch. Francesco's head snapped up. He glanced across the room at Özil, who had already set his water bottle down and was rising gracefully from his chair. There was no surprise in Mesut's face — as if he had known this summons was coming.
Francesco, on the other hand, felt a small jolt in his stomach. His body still hummed from the match, from the chants and adrenaline, but this was different. The press conference. Facing the media, the questions, the storm that always followed a night like this. He gripped Ribéry's shirt tighter in his hand, then slowly pushed himself up, tucking the MOTM trophy under his arm.
"Good luck, hermano," Alexis called after him with a cheeky grin, before turning back to argue with Giroud over who had been the worse dancer during the impromptu celebration.
Francesco forced a smile, shook his head, and followed Mesut toward the door. Wenger was already holding it open, waiting with that air of patience that somehow always carried authority.
The corridor outside was quieter, but only just. Somewhere further down, voices echoed — reporters, staff, UEFA officials moving about. The muffled beat of distant music still reached them from the stands where fans lingered, unwilling to leave. The three of them walked together, Wenger slightly ahead, Mesut at his side, Francesco trailing a step behind.
The silence stretched for a moment before Wenger finally spoke, his voice calm, low enough that it felt private, meant only for them.
"You both were decisive tonight," he said. "Not only with the goals or the assists, but in the way you controlled yourselves when the match could have slipped away. That is what I need you to show now as well. Calm. Control. Intelligence."
Özil nodded once, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket. Francesco swallowed, shifting the trophy in his grip.
"Yes, boss," he managed, though his voice came out quieter than he intended.
Wenger glanced back at him briefly, and for a fleeting moment there was the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Not the indulgent one he sometimes gave in training, but something sharper, more approving.
They reached the double doors of the press room. Francesco could hear the buzz inside already — microphones being tested, the low murmur of dozens of journalists waiting, cameras clicking as photographers adjusted their lenses. The air itself seemed to hum with anticipation.
A UEFA official in a suit stepped forward, clipboard in hand. "Coach Wenger, welcome. You and the players may enter now."
Wenger nodded curtly. He turned to Francesco and Mesut, his tone firm but reassuring. "Remember, you speak for more than yourselves. You speak for Arsenal. Be respectful, but do not be afraid. Tonight you have earned your voices."
Francesco's chest tightened at that. He wasn't just walking into a room of reporters; he was walking into history, into the narrative that would be written about this night. And for once, he wasn't just a background name. He was front and center.
The doors swung open, and the light hit him first — bright, harsh, whiter than anything in the tunnels. The room was packed: rows of journalists hunched over laptops, cameras perched on shoulders, flashbulbs already beginning to spark. A long table stretched across the front, microphones lined up like soldiers. Behind it sat three chairs, nameplates neatly displayed: Arsène Wenger. Mesut Özil. Francesco Lee.
The applause was immediate, polite but sharp, tinged with awe. A Champions League semifinal had just been decided, and here sat two of its architects and the man who had led them.
Wenger took his seat first, adjusting his jacket as he settled. Mesut slid into the chair beside him with practiced ease, folding his hands on the table, eyes half-lidded but alert. Francesco hesitated for the briefest moment before sitting, setting Ribéry's shirt carefully on his lap and resting the MOTM trophy just in front of his microphone.
The sight of it triggered another round of camera clicks — dozens of flashes lighting up the room in rapid bursts. He blinked against them, forcing himself not to look away.
The press officer standing at the side of the stage leaned into the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the post-match press conference. Please raise your hands for questions."
A forest of arms shot up immediately.
Wenger gestured to the first reporter, and the barrage began.
"Arsène, congratulations on reaching the final. Could you give us your thoughts on tonight's performance? Many believed Bayern would overwhelm you here at the Allianz…"
Wenger answered first, his voice steady, deliberate, weaving praise with caution, just as he had in the dressing room. He spoke of resilience, of discipline, of the collective effort. He deflected attempts to single out individuals, always pulling the focus back to the team.
But inevitably, the spotlight shifted.
"To Francesco," a reporter from L'Équipe called, leaning forward eagerly. "You scored, you created chances, you were voted Man of the Match — and I notice you have Franck Ribéry's shirt in front of you. Tell us, what does this night mean to you personally, to beat Bayern here and to exchange jerseys with a legend like Ribéry?"
The microphone in front of him suddenly felt heavier than the trophy. Francesco cleared his throat, his accent still carrying traces of his Indonesian roots despite years in England.
"It means… a lot," he began, searching for the words. "Not just because of the goal, or the award. For me, growing up, players like Ribéry — they were the reason I wanted to play football at this level. To share the pitch with him, to fight against him, and then to take his shirt home… it's something I will never forget. But more important is what we achieved as a team. Tonight was about Arsenal. We showed that we can come here, to one of the hardest places in Europe, and win together."
Cameras flashed again. Francesco let his words hang in the air, then pressed his lips together, grounding himself.
Another hand shot up. "Mesut, can you talk about your partnership with Francesco tonight? It seemed like you two were reading each other perfectly, especially in transition."
Özil's expression softened slightly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "With a player like him, it is not difficult," he said. "Francesco moves with intelligence, he knows when to run, when to wait. For me, it is just about finding him at the right moment. Tonight it worked well. But the truth is, this understanding comes from work every day, from training. It is not magic, it is preparation."
Francesco couldn't help glancing sideways at Mesut, feeling a flicker of pride at the older man's words.
Then came the inevitable: "Francesco, you're only in your first full season with Arsenal, yet you've been decisive in the Premier League and now the Champions League. Do you believe you can lead this club to win the double — or even the treble — this year?"
The question hung heavy. Francesco felt the weight of every camera, every pen scratching at paper, every eye in the room fixed on him. He thought briefly of Wenger's words in the dressing room, of not letting tonight blind them. He took a breath.
"I believe… we can achieve something special, yes," he said slowly. "But I also believe the manager is right. Nothing is won yet. We have Real Madrid in the final. We have the Premier League still to finish. If we think too far ahead, we will lose what makes us strong. For me, I just want to help the team every game, one step at a time. If that leads to trophies, then it will be because of everyone, not just me."
A murmur of approval rippled through the room. Wenger gave the faintest nod, as if to say: well done.
And so the questions continued, flowing like a river — about tactics, about Madrid, about pressure, about the Invincibles legacy. Wenger fielded the hardest ones, Özil handled his with his usual quiet sharpness, and Francesco found himself speaking more than he ever had in front of this many cameras, each answer a balance of honesty and restraint.
The questions had begun to blur into one another — formations, substitutions, what Wenger had said at halftime, whether Arsenal had planned to target Bayern's full-backs. Francesco's mind was still buzzing with images from the match itself: Ribéry twisting past Bellerín, Neuer's massive frame diving low, the crack of the ball against the post before his goal had gone in. The press room lights felt hotter now, and he shifted in his chair, trying not to let the weight of all those gazes crush the rhythm of his answers.
Then it came.
A reporter at the far end, tall, with a voice sharp enough to slice through the air, leaned forward into his microphone. His English carried the faintest Italian lilt.
"Francesco," he began, pausing just enough for the room to still, "if Arsenal were to win the treble this season — the Premier League, the FA Cup, and now potentially the Champions League — do you believe you would be one of the top contenders for the Ballon d'Or next year?"
The question detonated in the room like a firecracker. A ripple of murmurs swept across the rows of journalists, pens scratching faster, camera shutters clattering in a staccato rhythm. Even Wenger's posture stiffened slightly, though he masked it quickly with a small adjustment of his glasses.
Beside Francesco, Mesut's lips twitched into something between amusement and caution, the way an older brother might react to a younger sibling suddenly thrown into the spotlight.
Francesco blinked. His hand instinctively brushed against Ribéry's folded shirt on his lap, as if for grounding. The Ballon d'Or. He'd grown up watching the golden orb being handed to Messi, to Ronaldo, year after year, giants of the game immortalized with each gleam of that trophy. Even being asked about it felt surreal, like someone had mistaken him for someone else.
He leaned into the microphone, his voice steady, though he spoke slower now, choosing every word carefully.
"The Ballon d'Or…" He let the words hang for a second, exhaling softly. "That's… it's something you dream of, of course. Every kid who loves football, they imagine one day holding it. But for me, I don't play with that in my head. I play for nights like this, for finals, for my teammates, for our fans. If trophies come, if awards come, they come because of the team. Alone, I am nothing. Alone, I don't reach this stage. So… Ballon d'Or contender?"
He allowed himself the faintest, almost shy smile, his accent curling slightly heavier as he went on.
"If we win the treble, it won't be about Francesco Lee. It will be about Arsenal. And if the world wants to recognize me, then they should also recognize Mesut, Alexis, Olivier, Petr, Per, everyone. Because I cannot be here without them."
The flashes came harder now, cameras devouring his words. Some reporters nodded, others scribbled furiously, but all of them knew they had their headline.
Next to him, Wenger's face softened — not into a smile, but into that unreadable expression he wore when a player had just passed one of his invisible tests. Calm. Intelligent. Respectful.
Another journalist quickly raised her hand, her voice cutting in eagerly. "But Francesco, surely you must admit — your numbers this season, your influence in games like tonight… people are already calling you Arsenal's talisman. Don't you think players like you deserve individual recognition too?"
Francesco inhaled slowly, his thumb tapping the edge of the glass trophy in front of him.
"I think recognition is nice," he said finally. "But football is cruel if you chase only that. I could score goals, win awards, and if we lose in the final, nobody will remember. What matters is that we finish this story together, with a trophy. With the treble, maybe. If we do that, I'll already have everything I want."
The press room hummed again. Some smiled at the humility, others smelt the scent of a future superstar being molded right in front of them.
Mesut tilted his head slightly, catching Francesco's eye, and whispered just loud enough for him to hear: "Good answer."
It steadied him, like a hand on his shoulder.
Wenger cleared his throat then, leaning toward his own microphone with that professorial authority. "Let me add something," he said, voice calm but firm. "The Ballon d'Or is not our target. Our target is collective success. If you play for Arsenal, you play for the team. And when the team is strong, individuals shine naturally. Francesco has been excellent, yes. But tonight, we are here because eleven players — no, twenty-five players — gave everything this season. That is what matters."
It was the kind of statement only Wenger could deliver — a shield, deflecting the sharp edges of the question away from his young star and back toward the group. Still, Francesco felt the sting of it in his chest, not as a wound but as fuel. The Ballon d'Or… The fact that anyone had even asked meant something had shifted. He was no longer just a promising name. He was part of the conversation now.
The questions rolled on — tactical breakdowns, Madrid previews, a query about whether Wenger planned to extend his contract beyond the season. Francesco answered what he could, smiled where it felt right, deferred to Wenger when it became too heavy. But all the while, that one question burned inside him.
Ballon d'Or contender.
When the press conference finally wound down, and the three of them rose from their seats, the journalists broke into scattered applause — rare, reserved for nights when history felt like it was stirring. Francesco tucked Ribéry's shirt back under his arm, collected his MOTM trophy, and followed Wenger and Mesut out into the quieter corridors.
As the doors closed behind them, the buzz of the press room muffled into silence. Only the sound of their footsteps echoed now.
Wenger walked a few paces ahead, his hands folded behind his back, his stride unhurried. Mesut fell into step beside Francesco, his expression unreadable in the dim corridor light. Then, finally, the German glanced at him and let out a small chuckle.
"Ballon d'Or, eh?" he murmured, just loud enough for Francesco to hear.
Francesco exhaled, shaking his head with a rueful grin. "I wasn't ready for that one."
Mesut's smile widened slightly, his eyes soft. "You handled it well. Better than I would have at your age."
Francesco tilted his head. "You've been nominated before, haven't you?"
Mesut shrugged lightly, as if brushing it off. "A long time ago. But trust me — it is a dangerous question. They will try to build you up, so they can also tear you down. Remember what the boss said. Focus on the team. The rest… it will come."
Francesco nodded, but deep down, the thought refused to fade. Not because he wanted the Ballon d'Or for himself — not yet, not in that selfish way — but because the idea of it represented something larger. A marker of how far he'd come. A symbol that an Indonesian kid who once played barefoot in the rain could stand shoulder to shoulder with the Messis and Ronaldos of the world.
As they turned back toward the dressing room, the noise of laughter and music swelling again behind the doors, Wenger slowed his pace just enough to glance over his shoulder at Francesco. His eyes, sharp as ever, studied him for a beat.
"You spoke well tonight," Wenger said simply. "But do not let their questions distract you. You are not ready for that… yet. Do you understand?"
Francesco met his gaze, feeling the weight of the words.
"Yes, boss," he said quietly.
Wenger's lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. "Good. Then let us return to the team. Tonight we celebrate, tomorrow we work."
And with that, the old manager pushed the door open, releasing them once more into the chaos of song, laughter, and champagne, as though nothing outside those four walls had ever existed.
Then they head to the shower room as the showers steamed with the kind of collective relief that only came after ninety draining minutes of football at the highest level. The laughter was freer now, echoing against tiled walls, voices overlapping like the chorus of a song no one was trying too hard to sing. Players joked about misplaced passes, about the referee's decisions, about who had celebrated too wildly in front of the away end.
Francesco stood under the hot spray a moment longer than most, letting it wash away not just the sweat and grit of the game, but the tension that had wrapped itself tight around him since stepping into the Allianz Arena. He closed his eyes, replaying Neuer's outstretched arm, the blur of red and white shirts surging forward, Ribéry's flickering footwork. He felt both drained and alive, like someone had run electricity through his veins.
By the time he toweled off and dressed, the dressing room smelled faintly of cologne and fresh kits zipped into travel bags. The rhythm of departure had begun — boots thudding into cases, zippers rasping shut, voices reminding each other not to forget headphones or passports.
Theo Walcott slapped him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. "Big man," Theo grinned, his teeth flashing. "Man of the match. Don't get used to it, yeah? Some of us still want a turn."
Francesco chuckled, shaking his head. "You've had enough turns, Theo."
Olivier Giroud, already immaculately styled even after a shower, leaned in from his bench. "You must let him enjoy it," he said in his half-serious tone. "The French are generous. We share the goals, we share the glory."
"Unless it's hair products," Jack Wilshere muttered from across the room, drawing another wave of laughter.
The atmosphere carried them out of the stadium, down the tunnels, and into the cool Munich night where the team bus waited. A crowd of fans still lingered behind barriers, their breath rising in white clouds, their voices lifted in songs and chants despite the late hour. Francesco spotted Arsenal scarves raised among them, a patch of red and white that cut through the Bavarian blue.
He waved as he boarded the bus, catching a glimpse of a young boy no older than ten hoisting a handmade sign: LEE 9 — MY HERO. The boy's eyes shone even from a distance. It stirred something deep in Francesco's chest, something he carried with him as he sank into his seat near the window.
The bus hummed to life, rolling out into the Munich streets, past neon signs and shuttered cafés. Inside, the players settled into their rituals — headphones slipping over ears, pillows tucked against windows, the low chatter of those not yet ready for silence. Wenger sat near the front, speaking quietly with Steve Bould, his profile lit faintly by the glow of his phone.
Francesco leaned back, his bag at his feet, Ribéry's shirt folded neatly on top. Mesut slipped into the seat beside him, not speaking at first, just offering a nod before turning his attention to the passing lights outside. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need filling.
At one point, Hector Bellerín twisted around in his seat a few rows up, grinning. "Oi, Francesco, tell us the truth — did Neuer say something when you scored? I swear he looked like he shouted at you."
Francesco smirked faintly, remembering the split second after the ball hit the net. "He said… 'Not again.'"
The bus erupted into laughter, Alexis nearly choking on the water bottle he was sipping. "Not again?!" Alexis wheezed, slapping his thigh. "You broke the man's heart!"
"Careful," Petr Čech added dryly from his seat. "If you keep scoring like that, they'll start asking him to wear a helmet."
The roar of laughter carried them all the way to the hotel.
The hotel loomed tall, glass panels reflecting city lights, a fortress of modern luxury. Inside, the lobby buzzed quietly, the hush of late-night guests mixed with the warm glow of chandeliers. Staff in crisp uniforms greeted them politely, eyes widening just a touch as the squad passed through.
Dinner had been arranged in the hotel's restaurant — long tables lined with steaming dishes, pitchers of water and juice glistening under the lights. The mood was more subdued now, not the rowdy jubilation of a dressing room, but the gentle satisfaction of men who had given everything and earned the right to sit together, eat together, and share the quiet.
Plates clinked softly, forks scraping against porcelain. Some players traded stories, others ate in silence. Wenger moved among them, speaking briefly with one table before drifting to another. He had that way of making presence felt without imposing.
Francesco sat between Mesut and Alexis, the three of them forming a small island. Alexis was already halfway through his plate, muttering something about how German bread was the only thing he could tolerate outside of London. Mesut smiled faintly at that, while Francesco mostly listened, occasionally joining in with a small comment or a laugh.
At one point, Ian Wright's voice drifted from the television mounted at the far end of the restaurant, where Sky Sports was replaying highlights. A few players lifted their heads, drawn like moths to flame. Francesco caught a glimpse of himself on the screen, sliding the ball past Neuer, arms outstretched in celebration.
A flicker of pride warmed him, but he forced his eyes back down to his plate. He didn't want to linger too long on his own image.
When dinner ended, the team rose one by one, drifting back toward the lifts. There were pats on the back, murmurs of goodnight, the soft ding of doors opening and closing. The adrenaline of the evening was finally ebbing, replaced by the pull of exhaustion.
Francesco's room was on the tenth floor, spacious and sleek, the city lights stretching wide beyond the tall windows. He dropped his bag near the door, pulled off his shoes, and collapsed onto the bed with a sigh. For a moment he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the silence of the room settle around him.
But the lure of the television proved too strong. He sat up, flicked it on, and within seconds the familiar Sky Sports desk appeared. Gary Neville, Jamie Carragher, and Ian Wright sat under bright studio lights, their faces animated, their voices carrying the rhythm of post-match debate.
"—what impressed me," Gary Neville was saying, leaning forward with his hands pressed together, "was Arsenal's maturity tonight. Normally you'd expect them to crumble under Bayern's pressure. But they held their shape, they didn't panic. And when the moment came, Francesco Lee stepped up."
Carragher nodded, jabbing a finger in the air for emphasis. "It's the timing of it. That finish — it's not just instinct, it's composure. He waits for Neuer to commit, and then slides it in like he's been doing it for ten years at this level. That's special."
Wrighty was practically glowing, his grin wide enough to light the studio. "Listen, I've said it before and I'll say it again — the kid's the real deal. He's got the hunger, he's got the mentality, and he's got the goals. You don't go to the Allianz Arena and silence that crowd unless you've got something different about you. Francesco's not just another good young player. He's Arsenal's future."
Francesco felt a strange mix of embarrassment and pride as he watched. Hearing his name bounce around between legends of the game was surreal, like he'd accidentally stumbled into someone else's dream. He leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed loosely, letting their words wash over him.
Gary leaned back in his chair now, thoughtful. "But let's be fair — one performance doesn't make you a world-beater. The challenge is consistency. Can he do this week in, week out? That's what separates the good from the great."
Carragher added quickly, "And don't forget, the media will be all over him now. Questions about the Ballon d'Or, about being Arsenal's talisman — that can weigh heavy on young shoulders."
Wright shook his head firmly. "Nah. I've spoken to the lad. He's grounded. He's not chasing headlines, he's chasing trophies. That's why I believe in him. Nights like this prove it."
Francesco muted the TV for a moment, just sitting there in the quiet hum of the room. He could still see their faces moving, their gestures sharp, their debate flowing. But the sound was gone, leaving only his own thoughts.
Ballon d'Or. Talisman. Arsenal's future.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. It was too much to carry all at once, too heavy for one night. But maybe, just maybe, it was also a sign that he was on the right path.
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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: 53
Goal: 73
Assist: 10
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