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The crowd erupted, the sound so loud it rattled the microphone in his hand. He lowered it slowly, letting the moment wash over him, before handing it back to the staff. The cameras flashed again, capturing him with the trophy raised, with the medal around his neck, with confetti still falling like snow in a dream.
As the confetti finally stopped drifting from the air and settling into a soft mosaic across the Emirates pitch, Francesco let out the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. The night felt endless and fleeting all at once, a blur of light, noise, and emotion. He had an arm comfortably draped around Leah's waist now, grounding himself against her presence as the adrenaline hummed through his veins.
Leah, radiant with pride, had insisted on carrying the Golden Boot for him, the massive gleaming trophy tucked carefully in her arms like it was a newborn. He glanced down at her every so often, half-smiling at the sight of her clinging to the boot as though it was theirs together — which, in many ways, it was.
They stood there with his parents, Leah's family, David and Amanda, Jacob with his ever-ready phone, and a cluster of friends who'd managed to slip closer to the touchline. His mother was still wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, dabbing carefully so as not to smudge her makeup further, though it was already hopeless. His father was talking animatedly with Leah's dad, who seemed equally swept up in the magic of the evening. It felt like the whole of his two worlds had fused here, on this patch of grass where dreams had just solidified into reality.
Francesco leaned in, squeezing his mum gently with his free hand. "You okay, Mum?"
She laughed through her tears, the sound wobbly but warm. "Okay? Francesco, you just broke a record I didn't even think could be broken. I don't think I'll ever be okay again!" She gave him a watery smile and shook her head. "You've made us so proud, son. So proud."
Before he could answer, Leah brushed her hand lightly against his back, leaning close so only he could hear. "They're right, you know," she murmured. "This is bigger than anyone realizes right now."
He turned to her, reading the sincerity in her eyes, and for a fleeting moment the roar of the crowd dimmed in his ears. "It's bigger because you're here," he whispered back, his lips brushing her temple as he kissed her softly.
The moment was intimate, almost too perfect, when a suited figure cleared his throat just politely enough to interrupt. Francesco straightened, recognizing one of the FA staffers he'd seen earlier. The man was smiling, clipboard in hand, his lanyard swaying as he approached the cluster of family and friends.
"Francesco," the staffer began warmly, leaning forward just slightly to make himself heard above the lingering noise of the stadium. "Congratulations again — truly historic. I hate to pull you away from your loved ones, but you're needed on the sideline for a quick post-match interview."
Francesco blinked, chuckled, and nodded. "Of course. Man of the Match, right?"
The staffer grinned, tapping his clipboard. "That's right. You've swept it tonight. Golden Boot, Premier League champion, and Man of the Match. Quite the collection."
Leah laughed softly at that, shifting the boot carefully in her arms. "He's running out of hands to hold all this stuff," she teased, earning a round of chuckles from both families.
Francesco looked at her, his expression playful. "So you'll hold this one for me?"
"I already am," she said with mock seriousness, hugging the boot closer to her chest. "And don't think I'm giving it back anytime soon."
"Fair enough," he said with a grin, leaning in to kiss her cheek quickly before turning back toward the staffer.
His father gave him a firm pat on the back. "Go on, son. We'll be right here when you're done. Show them what you're made of."
"Don't worry," David chimed in with a grin, "we'll make sure no one steals your girlfriend or your trophy while you're gone."
Leah rolled her eyes, though she was smiling. "Not a chance, Dave."
Francesco laughed, then let his hand slide one last time across Leah's waist before stepping toward the FA staffer. As he began walking, he could still feel the weight of everyone's eyes on him — family, Leah, teammates, thousands of fans, and millions watching from their homes. Every step to the sideline felt like another page in the story he was writing, one he knew people would be talking about long after tonight.
The staffer guided him to the edge of the pitch, where the familiar backdrop of sponsor logos had already been set up, the floodlights making it glow unnaturally bright. A microphone crew was ready, camera lenses trained like spotlights, and just beyond them he could see Geoff Shreeves waiting with his earpiece, his expression professional but warm, the kind of smile that invited truth.
Francesco inhaled, steadying himself. He had celebrated with his teammates, with his family, with Leah. But this — this was the part where his words had to meet the moment.
The FA staffer gave him a last nod of encouragement, and Geoff stepped forward, shaking his hand before guiding him gently into place.
The cameras blinked red, and suddenly, Francesco was live.
The bright lights of the camera rigs bore down on him, so harsh that they almost made the confetti still floating in the air look like snow under a streetlamp. Francesco blinked once, twice, then lifted his chin, slipping instinctively into the composure of a man who had carried himself through ninety grueling minutes — through an entire season, really — and now stood on the summit.
Geoff Shreeves stepped closer, microphone in hand, his voice crisp but warm as it cut through the hum of the stadium.
"Francesco," Geoff began, his smile widening, "congratulations — not only on winning the Premier League, but on doing it in an Invincible season. And, of course, breaking the Golden Boot record in the process. It's hard to know where to even start. How does it feel?"
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. The Invincibles. The Golden Boot. The double triumph of history and personal glory all wrapped into one sentence. Francesco felt his mouth part slightly, searching for where to begin.
He let out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck before leaning into the microphone. "It feels… surreal, Geoff. Honestly, I don't think it's really sunk in yet. When you grow up watching football, dreaming about moments like this, you imagine what it might feel like — but living it? It's bigger. It's louder. And at the same time, it feels so personal. Because I know what it's taken to get here, the sacrifices, the doubts, the pressure. To be standing here as a champion, unbeaten all season, and to have broken the Golden Boot record… I don't even have the words, really. I just feel… grateful."
The camera caught the way his eyes flickered briefly toward the stands, where Leah's blonde hair gleamed under the floodlights as she still cradled the Golden Boot like a prize no one could take. His parents, his friends — all there, all part of this moment.
Geoff gave a small nod, sensing the emotion bubbling just under Francesco's words. "Let's talk about the Invincible season first. It's something that only one other Arsenal side in history has achieved — Arsène Wenger's famous 2003–04 team. Tonight, you and your teammates have etched yourselves into the history books alongside them. Did you ever truly believe it was possible when the season began?"
Francesco breathed out slowly, eyes dropping for a moment before lifting back up with a smile that was both tired and proud. "At the start? No. I'll be honest, no one really sits down in August and says, 'Right, we're going to go unbeaten this year.' That's not how football works. It's too unpredictable. The Premier League is too competitive. What we wanted was to compete — for the title, for the Champions League spots, to be up there with the best. But as the weeks went by, as we kept winning, as we started grinding out results in tough away games… it became something more. We started whispering about it in the dressing room. Quietly at first, almost like we'd jinx it if we said it too loudly. But then, as the run kept going, it became this unspoken belief — that maybe, just maybe, we could do it."
He shifted his weight slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "And I think the difference this season was that we didn't chase the Invincible dream. We chased the next win. One game at a time. Every weekend, every midweek, we just said: let's get through this one. And somehow, those games added up to something extraordinary."
Geoff leaned in, his eyes sharp behind the glasses. "What about the pressure? Every week the media was talking about it, every mistake was scrutinized. How did you and the team cope with that weight?"
Francesco chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Pressure? We felt it, of course we did. Every player reads the headlines, every player knows what people are saying. But inside the dressing room, it was different. Arsène kept us grounded. He always reminded us that football is played on the pitch, not in the papers. And the lads — we leaned on each other. We joked, we kept it light when we needed to, we fought for each other when things got tough. And the fans… oh, the fans were unbelievable. They carried us in moments where we were tired, when our legs were heavy, when doubt crept in. You could hear them in every stadium, sometimes louder than the home fans. That made a difference."
Geoff nodded, then angled the question toward the personal. "And on top of that, you've broken the Golden Boot record. Fifty league goals in a single season, surpassing Thierry Henry's best. That's a monumental achievement in itself. What does that mean to you?"
At the mention of Henry, Francesco's face softened, reverence in his expression. "Thierry… he's a legend. Not just for Arsenal, but for football. I grew up watching him — the elegance, the power, the way he made the game look so easy. To even be mentioned in the same sentence as him is an honor. To have broken his record… I can't quite believe it, to be honest. Records are something you read about in history books, not something you imagine yourself breaking. I don't see it as me surpassing Henry. I see it as me carrying on the legacy he built here. He inspired a generation of Arsenal players and fans, and I hope I can do the same for the next generation."
The stadium noise swelled behind them — chants of "Francesco! Francesco!" echoing from the North Bank, rippling across the stands like a tide. He paused, letting the sound wash over him, before continuing softly: "This Golden Boot, it's not just mine. It belongs to the lads who set me up, who ran for me, who defended so I could score. It belongs to the fans who believed in me. It belongs to my family, who sacrificed so much so I could chase this dream. And it belongs to Leah, who's been my rock through everything. I couldn't have done it without any of them."
Geoff smiled, his instincts as an interviewer sensing the raw honesty in Francesco's tone. "You mention Leah — we saw her out there just now, holding the Golden Boot tighter than you were. How important has she been in your journey this season?"
Francesco's expression warmed instantly, his eyes flicking once more toward the touchline where Leah stood with his family. "She's been everything. Football can be a lonely job sometimes, Geoff. People see the goals, the celebrations, the interviews. They don't see the nights you come home exhausted, the mornings you wake up doubting yourself, the injuries, the pressure. Leah has been there for all of it. She picks me up when I'm down, she keeps me grounded when I'm flying too high. She celebrates with me, but she also reminds me of who I am away from the pitch. Having her here tonight, with both our families… it makes this feel real. It makes it feel complete."
The camera caught that flicker of emotion in his eyes, the way his throat worked as he swallowed against the lump forming there. Geoff, ever the professional, let the silence linger just enough before moving on.
"You've spoken about Wenger, about the fans, about Leah and your family. Let me ask you this: what does this title — this Invincible season — mean for Arsenal Football Club as a whole?"
Francesco drew in a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he chose his words with care. "It means… hope. It means belief. Arsenal has always been a club with a beautiful history, with tradition, with style. But in recent years, there have been doubts, frustrations. People questioned if we could compete with the financial power of other clubs, if we could win titles again. This season, we've shown the world that Arsenal is still Arsenal. That we can play football the right way, that we can win with integrity, with class, with fight. We've brought joy back to the Emirates. And I think this is just the beginning. This title isn't the end of a story — it's the start of a new chapter."
Geoff raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "The start of a new chapter, you say. What comes next for Francesco Lee and for Arsenal?"
And there it was — the inevitable question. Francesco felt the adrenaline surge once more, the sense that he stood not just at the end of a season but at the edge of something bigger. He let the chants fill the pause before speaking, his voice steady, his eyes burning with determination.
The chants still rolled across the Emirates, a symphony of belief that seemed to grow stronger every time Francesco so much as breathed into the microphone. He took a second — just one heartbeat — to let it all sit in his chest before answering Geoff's pointed question.
What comes next?
His jaw tightened, then relaxed, and finally he leaned in, his voice low but carrying the kind of conviction that could echo through decades.
"What comes next, Geoff?" Francesco began, a wry smile tugging at his lips before it blossomed into something brighter, sharper, almost defiant. "We win the treble. That's what's next."
The crowd closest to the touchline erupted, the words spreading like wildfire. Geoff's eyebrows shot up, his lips parting just slightly, but Francesco wasn't done. His voice grew steadier, stronger, every word like a stake driven into the ground.
"We've won the Premier League unbeaten — something people said couldn't be done again. I've broken the Golden Boot record — something people said would stand forever. And now, we're two games away from completing the greatest season in Arsenal's history. We will beat Manchester United in the FA Cup Final. And we will beat Real Madrid in the Champions League Final. That will give this club its first European trophy. And it will give us our first treble in history. That's our destiny."
The Emirates exploded. It wasn't just cheers anymore — it was a roar, primal and relentless, like the sound of a thousand lions set free. Francesco could hear the chants turning, words morphing into something new, rolling down from the stands:
"Tre-ble! Tre-ble! Tre-ble!"
Geoff had to wait for the noise to calm, though he wore a grin now, part disbelief, part admiration. He leaned closer, microphone angled just right. "That's… that's an extraordinary statement, Francesco. You're calling your shot. Beating United in an FA Cup Final, then going toe-to-toe with the most successful club in European history for Arsenal's first Champions League. That's bold."
Francesco didn't flinch. "It's not bold, Geoff. It's belief. Look — this team has proven everything people said we couldn't. We were told we weren't strong enough, that we didn't have the squad depth, that we couldn't match the oil money clubs. And yet here we are — unbeaten in the Premier League. Champions. Golden Boot winners. The pressure doesn't break us; it fuels us. So when I say we'll win those games, it's not arrogance. It's faith. Faith in my teammates, faith in Arsène, faith in this badge, and faith in these fans who never stop singing. We've come too far to stop now."
Geoff tilted his head, still probing, still searching. "Let's take them one at a time. Manchester United in the FA Cup Final. They've had their ups and downs this season, but in a one-off game at Wembley, anything can happen. How do you see that match?"
Francesco smiled knowingly, his eyes narrowing with the edge of a competitor. "United are United. No matter their form, no matter the drama around them, they're dangerous in finals. They've got world-class players, and they'll want to end their season with silverware. We respect that. But we also know what we've built this year. Our mentality has carried us through 38 unbeaten league games. We've fought in every stadium, we've been tested in every way. At Wembley, we'll fight again — and we'll lift that trophy. We owe it to ourselves, to our fans, to make this season truly unforgettable."
The crowd responded with another surge of cheers, Arsenal scarves swinging wildly, red and white flares lighting up little patches of the stands.
Geoff leaned in further. "And then — the big one. Real Madrid. Fourteen-time European champions. The kings of the Champions League. Arsenal have never won it. Not once. And you're saying, here and now, you'll beat them?"
The question carried weight, the kind that could crush a weaker man. But Francesco only straightened, shoulders square, his expression etched with determination.
"Yes," he said, his voice firm, unshakable. "We will beat Real Madrid."
Gasps rippled through the press area. Geoff blinked, then pressed, "Why are you so certain?"
Francesco's eyes burned under the floodlights. "Because this is our time. Madrid are legends, no doubt. They've got history, they've got stars, they've got that aura. But history doesn't step onto the pitch in Istanbul. Men do. Players do. And we're ready. We've been waiting for this moment — not just this season, but for years. Arsenal has carried the weight of being nearly men in Europe for too long. 2006, we fell short in Paris. Countless heartbreaks since. But this team? We're built different. We've shown resilience, courage, unity. And when we face Madrid, we'll show the world that Arsenal can be kings of Europe too."
His voice rose, conviction sharpening every syllable. "We'll bring that trophy back to north London, back to the Emirates, where it belongs. And when we do, it won't just be about winning the Champions League. It'll be about changing the story of this club forever."
The stadium was electric now, chants of "Arsenal! Arsenal! Arsenal!" rolling like thunder. Geoff let it breathe, then leaned in again, his tone softer.
"Francesco, you've painted a picture here — not just of titles, but of legacy. If you go on to complete this treble, unbeaten in the league, Golden Boot in hand, Arsenal's first Champions League… where does that place you in history?"
Francesco hesitated, his jaw tightening as though weighing humility against honesty. Finally, he exhaled and spoke with measured calm.
"History will decide that. Not me. I don't play this game to be remembered for records or headlines. I play it because I love it. Because it's what I was born to do. But if we do complete this treble… if we lift that European Cup… then I think people will say this was the greatest Arsenal team of all time. And if my goals helped make that possible, then I'll be proud. Not for myself — but for everyone who's worn this shirt, for every fan who's stood by us, for every kid out there dreaming in red and white. That's what matters."
The words struck like lightning, sending the crowd into a frenzy. Even Geoff, seasoned as he was, seemed momentarily moved. He lowered the mic just slightly, nodding with genuine respect. "Well, Francesco, I think you've just given Arsenal fans everywhere something to dream about. Congratulations again — on the title, the Golden Boot, and the history you've already made. We'll see you at Wembley. And then… in Istanbul."
Francesco smiled, eyes shining as he shook Geoff's hand firmly. "We'll see you there."
The cameras cut, the red light blinking off, but the roar of the Emirates stayed deafening. Francesco stepped back, letting out a long breath, his pulse racing. He could already see Leah at the edge of the touchline, her smile wide, her arms still cradling the Golden Boot like it was an extension of their future. His parents were clapping, his teammates cheering from the other side, some shaking their heads at his audacity — but grinning nonetheless.
The cameras were finally lowered, the floodlights cooling in their towers, but the Emirates still pulsed with life as if it were the beating heart of London itself. The chants hadn't died down — if anything, they'd only grown louder after Francesco's declaration, his promise of immortality ringing across every seat, every terrace, every street corner where red and white had gathered.
And yet, as the noise swirled, one voice finally cut through — calm, deliberate, the authority of decades shaping its timbre.
"Back inside, mes garçons," Arsène Wenger called, his French accent gentle yet commanding. His hand rose, subtle, but the squad recognized it instantly. "We must return to the dressing room now. There will be more time for this… but not too much. Come."
Francesco turned his head, his chest still heaving from the adrenaline of his words, his declaration, his prophecy. His eyes caught Leah's at the edge of the pitch — she hadn't stopped smiling, hadn't stopped holding the Golden Boot trophy as if it were both hers and his, as if the achievement bound them in something unshakable. His parents stood just behind her, their faces flushed with pride, while Leah's family clustered nearby, waving red scarves and soaking in the night as though they'd been Arsenal supporters their whole lives.
He walked toward them quickly, his boots crunching on the turf. Leah stepped forward first, handing him the Golden Boot, but he pressed it back into her arms.
"Keep it with you," he said softly, leaning close so only she could hear. "Take my parents, your family, back to the mansion. Celebrate there, wait for me. Tonight we'll do it together — properly."
Leah's eyes sparkled, her smile softening into something tender. "Are you sure?"
Francesco nodded, his voice steady despite the chaos around him. "Yes. I need to be with the lads for now. But I'll come home. Tonight isn't just mine. It's ours."
She kissed his cheek quickly, whispering something only he heard — words that made his chest tighten — before turning to gather both families, shepherding them out toward the car park with a grace that spoke volumes about how deeply she already belonged in his life.
Francesco lingered for just a second, watching them disappear into the tunnel's glow, then turned back toward the pitch. His teammates were already filtering inside, some still waving to the stands, others clutching bottles of champagne they'd liberated from somewhere. The crowd roared as the last of them disappeared, and then the tunnel swallowed them all whole.
⸻
Inside, the dressing room was a storm.
Champagne corks popped like gunfire, fizz spraying across the walls, the ceiling, the kit bags piled in corners. The floor was slick already, boots squeaking as players danced and shouted. Someone — maybe Giroud, maybe Alexis, it was impossible to tell in the chaos — had started singing "Campione, campione, olé olé olé!" and within seconds, the entire room had taken it up, their voices colliding in a wild, delirious chorus.
Francesco was shoved into the center of it, arms thrown around his shoulders by Bellerín and Monreal, the three of them spinning as foam rained down. Ramsey leapt onto a bench, spraying another bottle like a firehose, while Coquelin tried to dodge, only to slip and crash into the floor, laughing too hard to care.
It was joy unchained, the kind of celebration born not just of victory but of vindication. They hadn't just won a league. They had gone unbeaten. Thirty-eight games, not one defeat. A feat people had said belonged only to the Invincibles, only to history. And yet here they were — rewriting it.
Francesco laughed until his ribs hurt, until the spray stung his eyes, until the singing blurred into a single roar. He grabbed a bottle himself, shook it hard, and aimed it at Cech, who pretended to shield himself with his massive gloves but ended up soaked anyway, roaring with laughter like a man ten years younger.
But then — gradually, like a tide retreating — the noise began to still. One voice rose above it, low but firm.
"Gentlemen."
Wenger stood at the front of the room, arms lightly folded, his face wearing that familiar half-smile — not joyless, but tempered, thoughtful, as if even in the heart of triumph, he was already measuring what came next.
"Please. Just for a moment. Quiet."
It took effort — players shushing each other, the last cork popping awkwardly in the silence — but finally, the only sound left was the drip of champagne down the lockers, the echo of breaths slowing after laughter.
Wenger's gaze swept the room. His eyes lingered on each player in turn — on Francesco, still damp with spray; on Alexis, shirt half-torn in celebration; on Mertesacker, towering yet solemn; on every face that had given everything for this season.
"You have achieved something extraordinary," he began, his French cadence soft, almost paternal. "Do not underestimate it. Thirty-eight games. No defeats. A Premier League title won with style, with courage, with unity. You have joined history. No one can take this away from you. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Heads nodded, some players straightening under the weight of his words.
"But…" Wenger paused, his expression tightening, his voice firming. "History does not end here. And if we are not careful — if we allow ourselves to be arrogant, to think the work is already finished — then we will live with regret. Because there are two matches left. Two matches that can define not just this season, but the legacy of this team forever."
He stepped forward, hands behind his back now. "The FA Cup Final. Manchester United. A great rival, in a great stadium. They will come with everything, because they have nothing else. And then…" His eyes narrowed slightly, the weight of decades in European football behind them. "Real Madrid. The Champions League Final. The kings of Europe. The trophy this club has never lifted."
A silence settled. Even the air seemed to thicken.
"You must understand," Wenger continued, his voice now like steel wrapped in velvet, "what we have built this season can crumble if we lose focus. Tonight, yes — celebrate. Laugh, sing, remember this moment. But tomorrow? Tomorrow we prepare again. Tomorrow we return to discipline. Because if you give everything in these next two matches, if you play with humility, with courage, with the same unity that brought you here, then you will not only win. You will leave no regrets. None."
His eyes found Francesco's, holding them with something almost fatherly. "And that, mes garçons, is what will make this the greatest Arsenal team of all time."
No one spoke. For a heartbeat, it was as though the entire room was carved from silence. And then — as if on cue — the players began to clap. Slow at first, deliberate, until it grew, swelling into thunder that shook the walls. It wasn't the wild clapping of celebration, but the sharp, rhythmic applause of men acknowledging truth.
Francesco felt it in his chest — the shift. The champagne still dripped, the smell of victory still hung heavy, but Wenger's words had re-centered them. This wasn't the end. It wasn't even close.
He wiped champagne from his eyes, heart pounding with a strange mix of elation and focus. For all his bold declarations outside, for all his confidence in front of the cameras, Wenger had reminded him of something deeper. Belief was one thing. Discipline was another. Both would be needed.
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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: 56
Goal: 78
Assist: 10
MOTM: 8
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9