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And as he set the phone down, the laughter and chatter of the party resumed its full volume, but Francesco felt rooted in a way that nothing as neither criticism nor accolades, neither victories nor defeats could ever shake.
The chatter rose again around the dining room, warm and bright, but something inside Francesco felt different now with steadier, fuller, grounded in a way that didn't rely on applause or attention. He let the sounds of the party wash over him: Leah leaning close to whisper something funny to Amanda, Bellerín arguing with Gnabry over who looked better in the group photo, Giroud dramatically complaining that the camera always betrayed him, and Wenger smiling quietly at the chaos like a grandfather watching over an unusually energetic family gathering.
Francesco slipped the phone back into his pocket and exhaled, for the first time truly aware of how much his life had changed in the last year. A season and a half ago, he had been a boy trying to earn a place. Tonight, he stood at the center of a family with football and blood both, and realized just how far he'd come.
He walked toward the table again, and Leah met him halfway, looping her arm around his waist.
"You sure you're alright?" she whispered, tilting her head to search his expression.
"Yeah," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, "just… grateful."
Leah's smile warmed. "Good. Because after this, we're dancing."
He groaned dramatically. "Leah, please… my feet have been through enough this season."
She laughed and tugged his shirt. "You're not escaping."
Before he could argue, Sánchez clapped him on the back hard enough to nearly knock the breath from him.
"Birthday boy! Cake time!"
The room erupted again with cheers, whistles, Jacob shouting "CUT IT! CUT IT!" like he was part of a stadium crowd. Francesco laughed helplessly as he was rushed toward the cake, candles flickering gently on top of the perfect white icing Amanda had somehow crafted to look like an Arsenal crest.
Cutting the cake turned into an entire theatrical event, mostly because Giroud refused to accept a slice smaller than Sánchez's, and Sánchez kept trying to swipe frosting with his finger when he thought no one was looking. Leah fed Francesco a piece, smudging a bit of icing on the corner of his mouth, which Bellerín loudly pointed out, claiming, "Disgusting. Get a room!"
It was loud, chaotic, imperfect and perfect in every way.
After the cake came dancing, and Francesco was dragged into it with no mercy. He danced with Leah first, swaying slowly as they whispered nonsense and giggled like teenagers who had just discovered love for the first time. Then Sarah stole him for a mother and son dance, resting her head against her son's chest with the kind of tenderness that made even the players quiet down for a moment.
The night blurred into joy with one long, warm stretch of laughter, hugs, music, and the kind of comfort only people who love each other can create.
Hours passed. People drifted home little by little. Wenger was one of the first to leave, giving Francesco a goodbye embrace that was both paternal and professional.
"Rest well," he said softly. "You have a long season ahead."
"I will, boss."
And he meant it.
By the time the final goodbyes were exchanged, the mansion was quiet again. Leah stayed beside him, helping him carry empty plates and half-finished drinks to the kitchen, though they both knew the cleaning staff would handle it in the morning.
"You happy?" she asked as they stood by the window, looking out at the moonlit garden.
Francesco wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing his cheek against her hair.
"More than happy," he said quietly. "I feel… ready."
"For what?"
"For whatever comes next."
Leah didn't respond at first. She simply turned her head enough for her temple to rest against his. Then she whispered.
"Then go get it."
The days moved quickly after Francesco's birthday with training, recovery, tactics sessions, warmups, cold mornings at London Colney, laughter in the dressing room, and the growing as December was approaching. The schedule tightened, the pressure thickened, and Arsenal were hungry, confident, bonded which stepped into it with the fire of a team that believed in something bigger than themselves.
The Emirates was buzzing. December football in North London always carried a crisp excitement, but tonight something extra simmered in the air with momentum, confidence, the electricity of a team chasing greatness again.
Francesco felt lighter than usual during warmups, the ball clinging to his feet like an old friend. He could still feel the warmth of the birthday celebration lingering in the back of his mind, but now it fed him, sharpened him.
Kickoff came with the usual roar.
Arsenal moved like a machine with slick combinations, sharp passing, the rhythm of a team that understood each other without speaking.
It didn't take long.
Sánchez struck first with a brilliant curling effort from the left side after cutting in and weaving past two defenders. The Emirates exploded. The Chilean didn't celebrate alone either; he pointed straight at Francesco on the touchline, yelling something in Spanish that Francesco only understood because Alexis had shouted it at him in training before:
"Éste es para tu cumpleaños!"
This one's for your birthday.
Francesco laughed as he jogged over to bump shoulders with him.
Minutes later, Sánchez struck again, this time from a through ball by Özil, gliding past the keeper with the elegance of a man who was born to score.
Arsenal didn't slow. In the second half, Walcott drove in a fierce low shot to make it 3–0, sending the crowd into an even louder frenzy.
But the moment of the night, the one the fans were waiting for was came near the end.
Bellerín whipped a ball early into the box. Francesco met it in stride, left foot, clean, pure connection. The net rippled like silk, and the stadium roared.
He didn't celebrate wildly. He simply lifted both arms and smiled with soft, grateful, almost serene as his teammates mobbed him.
4–0. A statement. A reminder.
Arsenal were here.
And they were serious.
Then the second match at 3 December 2016, as the London Stadium carried a different kind of pressure that tougher atmosphere, colder air, a crowd that wanted nothing more than to see Arsenal stumble.
But Arsenal walked in with a swagger that quieted even the loudest West Ham shouts.
The whistle blew and Arsenal didn't just dominate.
They crushed.
Özil opened the scoring with a calm finish after Sánchez unselfishly squared the ball in the box. The German raised a finger to his lips, silencing the home supporters, and the Arsenal away fans erupted behind the goal.
From there, it was an avalanche.
Sánchez hit his hat-trick in just the kind of fashion only he could deliver with relentless pressing, sharp finishing, pure hunger. His second goal, a curling shot into the top corner, left the stadium stunned. His third came from a solo run that ripped West Ham apart.
Francesco added one of his own with a thunderous strike from outside the box, and the Arsenal bench leapt to their feet as the ball bulleted past the keeper.
Chamberlain finished the demolition with a smooth finish in the final minutes.
6–0.
Six.
Arsenal didn't just win, but they sent a message to the league:
We are not slowing down. We are coming for everything.
In the dressing room afterward, Sánchez tossed his match ball to Francesco.
"Hold it," he said in accented English, grinning. "Maybe next game it's yours."
Francesco laughed, tossing it back. "We'll see."
Wenger walked in moments later, calm as always, though even he couldn't hide the proud glimmer in his eyes.
"That," he said simply, "is what champions look like."
The room erupted in cheers.
The pun three days later, they turn to Switzerland that greeted them with icy wind and sheets of cold rain, but Arsenal were used to winter now. They warmed up in blue jackets that puffed steam with every breath, their energy calm but dangerous like a storm waiting to break.
Wenger had made it clear:
Finish the group strong. No mercy. No complacency.
And Arsenal obeyed.
From kickoff, they dominated Basel with a level of composure and confidence that felt almost unfair. Basel's defence scrambled, sliding, lunging, desperately trying to keep their shape while Arsenal carved them open again and again.
Francesco scored early with slipping behind the back line and finishing a low shot with the kind of clinical precision that made commentators whisper about golden boots and prodigies.
Minutes later, he scored again as this one a brilliant header from a whipped cross by Monreal. He didn't even land properly before Sánchez and Iwobi crashed into him, tackling him into the grass in celebration.
Iwobi added his own goal shortly after with a smart finish after receiving a neat pass in the box.
Giroud then stepped into the spotlight, scoring twice with one a tap-in from a rebound, the other a powerful header that bounced into the net despite Basel's keeper getting a hand on it.
5–0.
Away from home.
Cold weather.
Rotated squad.
Still no mercy.
Wenger only said one sentence after the match:
"Professional. Ruthless. Beautiful."
Francesco, wrapped in a heavy coat with his hair still damp from the rain, grinned to himself as he sat on the bench, watching the empty stadium and letting the cold Swiss air bite at his cheeks.
Three matches.
Three wins.
Fifteen goals scored.
None conceded.
The next morning arrived softer than expected.
Francesco woke up to that gentle winter sunlight that barely pushed through the curtains of the Richmond mansion, the kind of pale gold that made everything slow and warm. He stretched, feeling a faint soreness in his legs which is the good kind, the kind that reminded him he'd done something right, something big, something that kept Arsenal marching forward.
Downstairs, the mansion smelled like toasted bread, scrambled eggs, and Leah's favorite vanilla coffee. She sat at the breakfast counter in her oversized jumper, hair tied loosely, eyes half-glazed in that sleepy, adorable way that made him smile before he even reached for a plate.
"You look happy," she said, squinting at him.
"I scored five goals in three match," he said matter-of-factly, lifting a piece of toast. "Let me be arrogant for at least twenty more minutes."
She rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
He leaned across the counter and kissed her cheek. "You love it."
She didn't deny it and just nudged her plate toward him so he could steal a bite, which he did, earning a playful glare.
They were in the middle of this easy, domestic calm with the kind of peace that felt strange for two people whose lives revolved around stadiums, training pitches, interviews, and endless expectations, when suddenly:
RING RING RING RING….
Francesco didn't even look at the caller ID at first. Probably his dad. Or maybe Bellerín sending him a meme at 9 AM like a menace. But then the name flashed:
JORGE MENDES
His agent.
His very serious, never-calls-this-early agent.
He blinked. Leah paused mid-bite.
Francesco answered immediately, pressing the phone to his ear.
"What's up, man?" he said casually.
But Jorge's tone wasn't casual.
Not even close.
"Francesco," Jorge said, voice sharp with excitement or a rare excitement, the kind he usually only showed when negotiating seven or eight digit contracts. "Listen carefully. I just received something important. Very important."
Francesco sat straighter.
"What?"
There was a beat of silence before Jorge dropped the bomb.
"You've been invited to the Ballon d'Or ceremony. December 13th."
For a moment, the kitchen disappeared.
The toast in Francesco's hand stopped halfway to his mouth.
Even the clock on the wall seemed to freeze.
"…Really!?" he blurted, louder than he intended.
Leah jumped so hard she choked on her egg, coughing with wide eyes. Francesco winced and mouthed SORRY at her, reaching over to pat her back, but she smacked his arm lightly in disbelief with half annoyed, half curious.
On the phone, Jorge continued, "Yes. And this isn't a courtesy invitation either. It's real. Very real."
Francesco felt his throat tighten with something too big for words.
The Ballon d'Or.
The award every kid dreams of.
The award players spend decades chasing.
The award legends lift.
At eighteen years old.
He swallowed hard.
"What… what should I do?" he asked, voice cracking slightly. "Am I… am I supposed to prepare something? A speech? A suit? What does this mean?"
Then the question slipped out before he could stop it, because it burned too strongly to hold back:
"Jorge… does this mean I'm winning it? The Ballon d'Or and the Golden Boy at the same time?"
Leah froze mid cough, staring at him with eyes so wide they could've popped out. Her hair practically frizzed from shock.
On the phone, Jorge burst out laughing.
"Whoa, whoa, hold on," he said quickly. "Calm down, mi chico. Breathe. Don't sprint before you even tie your boots."
Francesco tried to inhale. It didn't work. His heart was practically sprinting laps.
"I will come to your mansion this afternoon," Jorge said firmly. "We'll talk about everything face to face. What it means, what you should expect, what you shouldn't assume."
"Okay… okay," Francesco said, though he sounded far from calm.
"Good. Eat your breakfast. Calm your girlfriend before she kills you. I'll see you at three."
The line clicked.
The kitchen fell silent.
Leah wiped her mouth with a napkin, staring at him like he'd just told her he bought Mars.
"…The Ballon d'Or?" she whispered.
Francesco nodded slowly.
She blinked once.
Twice.
"THE Ballon d'Or?"
"Yeah."
She stared at him for a solid four seconds.
Then—
"ARE YOU TRYING TO GIVE ME A HEART ATTACK AT BREAKFAST!?" she yelled, throwing her napkin at his face.
He caught it, laughing helplessly as she got up and paced the kitchen like she was on a phone call with God.
"You're eighteen!" she exclaimed, pointing at him accusingly. "Eighteen! That's illegal! That's… that's you can't just win the Ballon d'Or like you're collecting Pokémon badges!"
"I didn't say I'm winning," he said, holding up his hands defensively. "Jorge just said I got invited."
"People don't just 'get invited' to the Ballon d'Or ceremony unless they're part of the top three!" she shot back. "Do you know how insane that is!?"
He didn't.
Not really.
Not until now.
But suddenly the world felt… different. Larger. Heavier.
Realer.
Leah walked around the counter, grabbed his face between her hands, and forced him to look at her.
"Baby," she whispered, suddenly soft again. "Do you understand what this means? Even being nominated at your age is ridiculous. Being invited is… it's—"
She didn't even know what word to use.
She didn't need one.
Her eyes said everything.
Francesco exhaled slowly, his forehead falling against hers.
"I don't know what it means," he said honestly. "But Jorge does. He said we'll talk later."
Leah nodded, taking his hand.
"Well… whatever happens…" she whispered, squeezing gently, "…you deserve it."
That hit him harder than the phone call.
Because no trophy, no award, no golden statue in the world compared to being believed in by the person he loved.
Francesco took a deep breath, leaning in to kiss her.
Then another.
Then a long one, because suddenly the fear and excitement and disbelief tangled inside him all at once.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur as it was not feel rushed with the frantic kind, but the strange dreamy kind where time feels like warm syrup, slow and sticky, as if the world hasn't yet decided whether it's allowed to change.
Francesco cleaned the kitchen robotically, even though Leah kept telling him to sit down, to stop wiping the counter that was already spotless, to breathe. But how could he breathe? His brain was doing somersaults. His chest felt too tight for his own ribcage. His legs twitched like he was still mid-game at the Emirates, waiting for a corner to swing in.
Every few minutes, he caught himself spacing out not in a nervous way, but in that stunned disbelief that comes before reality fully sinks its teeth in.
He had been invited to the Ballon d'Or ceremony.
Him.
At eighteen.
From Richmond.
The boy who once posted YouTube compilations of Henry and dreamed of scoring one goal for Arsenal.
Now he was being called to sit among the titans of the sport with the kind of players who shaped entire generations, whose posters hung above children's beds, whose names were spoken in reverent tones.
It made no sense.
And somehow it also made perfect sense.
Leah was pretending to read something on her iPad, but she looked over it every ten seconds just to check if he was still breathing. At one point she even reached over with her foot and nudged his shin.
"You okay?"
"No."
"Do you want tea?"
"No."
"Do you want to sit down?"
"No."
"Do you want to stop pacing like a caffeinated squirrel?"
"…Possibly."
She sighed dramatically, put down her iPad, and walked over to him. She grabbed his shoulders, forced him to turn toward her, and stared directly into his eyes.
"Baby," she said gently, "you need to chill. Jorge will explain everything. He's the calm one. You're the hurricane. Let the calm one handle the chaos."
Francesco nodded, then immediately resumed pacing the moment she let go.
"Unbelievable," she murmured, but there was affection hidden in her exasperation.
The afternoon sunlight had shifted into deeper gold by the time the doorbell finally rang.
Francesco froze like he'd been unplugged.
Leah nudged him with her elbow.
"Well? Go open it! I don't think the Ballon d'Or will climb through the window."
He shot her a half-hearted glare, wiped his palms on his sweatpants, and walked toward the front door.
When he opened it, Jorge Mendes stood there in a black winter coat, scarf draped perfectly, sunglasses resting on his head. He looked strangely out of place in the quiet suburban calm of Richmond, like a billionaire who had accidentally wandered into a holiday rom-com.
But his grin was unmistakable.
"Mi campeón," Jorge said, stepping inside with open arms. "Look at you. You look like you haven't slept in a month."
"I woke up four hours ago."
"Exactly."
Leah met him at the hallway with a polite smile. "Hi Jorge. Welcome back."
"Leah, querida," he said warmly, kissing her cheek like he'd known her for twenty years instead of ten months. "You look lovely as always."
She playfully narrowed her eyes. "Flattery will not distract me from the stress your phone call caused."
Jorge put a hand over his heart. "Then I apologize, sincerely."
He wasn't, of course. But he meant well.
Francesco gestured toward the living room. "Let's sit."
They settled onto the sofas with Jorge on the single armchair, Francesco and Leah together on the couch. The fireplace crackled softly, filling the room with a warm amber glow. Outside, a cold breeze rattled the branches near the window.
Jorge wasted no time.
"Francesco," he began, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes serious now, "I came because what I told you this morning… that was only part of it."
Francesco's heartbeat hiccuped.
Leah instinctively grabbed his hand.
Jorge reached into his coat and pulled out a sleek black envelope that not showy, but unmistakably official. The golden embossed lettering glinted under the firelight.
FIFA
France Football
Ballon d'Or Gala
The air thickened.
Jorge placed the envelope on the coffee table.
"This," he said quietly, "is your formal invitation. Not general. Not honorary. Not media attendance. Top three. Finalists."
Leah gasped softly.
Francesco blinked with once, twice, then again, like his eyes needed manual resets to process the words.
Top three.
Top. Three.
For the Ballon d'Or.
At eighteen.
It didn't feel real. His brain simply refused to wrap around it, as if someone had handed him the moon and said, "Here. Hold this."
Jorge let the silence sit for a moment, because he knew moments like these weren't meant to be rushed. They needed space. They needed breath.
Finally, he continued:
"You have officially been voted into the top three players in the world for 2016."
Francesco's lips parted soundlessly.
The world.
Not England.
Not the Premier League.
Not some youth ranking.
The entire planet.
Jorge leaned back, clasping his hands together.
"And that's not all."
His grin returned, sharper this time. "I have some inside information which is a very reliable information, that you will win the Golden Boy Award."
Leah slapped Francesco's thigh in excitement. "See!? I told you! I told you!"
"After missing it last year, sí," Jorge added. "This year, there is no debate. No contest. You dominated England. You dominated Europe. You won the treble with Arsenal. And then…" He lifted a finger dramatically. "You led England to the Euro 2016 title. The country's first major trophy in… what, fifty years? Half a century?"
Francesco swallowed, his chest rising and falling like ocean waves.
He had lived it with every goal, every sprint, every bruise, every roar from Wembley, but hearing it spoken aloud like a résumé of destiny made it sound almost mythical. Like he wasn't just a footballer, but some storybook hero who'd done the impossible.
Jorge continued, voice growing even more deliberate:
"When you add all that together… there is a very real chance or a strong chance, that you may win the Ballon d'Or itself."
The world stopped spinning.
Leah's lips parted in silent shock.
Francesco felt the sofa dip under him, as if gravity had suddenly doubled.
"Win… it?" he echoed, barely audible.
Jorge nodded. "Maybe. Possibly. Even likely. I won't promise it as no agent should promise what he cannot guarantee, but let me tell you this: you are not attending the ceremony as decoration. You are not attending as a token. You are attending because this may be your year."
Francesco stared at him, chest tight.
"But… Messi? Ronaldo?" he whispered.
Jorge smiled softly. "Even legends don't win every year. And you just had the kind of season that shifts narratives. You won everything with Arsenal. You carried England. You broke records that shouldn't even be touched at your age."
He spread his hands.
"And the world noticed."
Francesco felt his throat tighten, eyes stinging that not enough to cry, but enough to feel dangerously close.
Leah squeezed his hand tighter.
Jorge went on:
"You are the youngest top-three finalist since the award existed. The world is watching you, Francesco. They already call you the King of London. They see you as the future face of football."
Francesco let out a shaky breath.
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything," Jorge replied gently. "You have to prepare. The ceremony is in Switzerland. France Football will provide everything for press, travel, accommodation. But interviews… reaction… image… that we will practice. That is why I'm here."
Leah laughed lightly. "He's still processing the first sentence you said."
"I noticed," Jorge chuckled.
Francesco rubbed a hand over his face, his mind spinning.
"So… the Ballon d'Or ceremony… I will actually be on stage? With the finalists?"
"Yes."
"And the camera will… show me?"
"Constantly."
"And people will… expect something from me?"
"Of course."
He groaned and leaned back. "I don't think I'm built for this."
Leah curled into his side, placing her head gently on his shoulder. "You are. You just don't know it yet."
Jorge nodded approvingly. "Your girlfriend is smarter than both of us combined."
"Obviously," Francesco muttered.
Jorge then leaned forward again, voice shifting into business mode.
"But let me be clear. No matter what happens, whether you win the Ballon d'Or or finish second or third… you have already made history. This is not a normal career. This is once-in-a-lifetime. You are rewriting what is possible. And now we prepare for the next step."
Francesco's breath steadied slightly. "What next step?"
"The one where the world stops seeing you as a world class prodigy…" Jorge said softly, "and starts seeing you as a world class superstar."
Francesco's heart hammered.
This was happening.
Not someday.
Not in the future.
Not after another season or another trophy.
Now.
Leah gently shifted so she was facing him more directly.
"How do you feel?" she asked quietly.
Francesco opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I don't know," he said finally. "Terrified. Excited. Numb. Happy. Scared. All of it."
"That's normal," Jorge said simply. "The first time always feels like this."
"The first time?" Francesco echoed.
Jorge gave him a knowing smile. "You think this will be the last time you're nominated?"
Leah laughed, smacking his knee again. "He has a point, you know."
Francesco ran a hand through his hair. "This is insane."
"Yes," Jorge agreed. "But it's your life now."
Silence settled for a moment as it was not awkward, but heavy with meaning.
Then Jorge shifted gears.
"There is one more thing we must discuss."
Francesco braced himself.
"The press," Jorge said. "They are already circling. Some know. Some suspect. Some are guessing. Once the official announcement goes out, your phone will explode."
Leah scoffed. "His phone already explodes when he scores one goal. Imagine top-three Ballon d'Or."
"Exactly," Jorge said. "So… I want you to be ready. Mentally. Emotionally. Because once this goes public, nothing will be the same."
Francesco swallowed. "What do I do?"
"Stay grounded. Stay focused. No arrogance. No drama. No controversial quotes. Speak with humility. With gratitude. Especially toward Arsenal, the England team, and your coaches."
He paused.
"And keep those closest to you even closer."
Francesco looked at Leah.
She looked back at him with that warm, steady, comforting gaze he had fallen in love with.
Jorge smiled knowingly.
"Like her."
Leah squeezed his hand again.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Francesco exhaled slowly, his shoulders loosening just a bit.
"Okay," he whispered. "I'll do it. I'll be ready."
Jorge nodded proudly.
"You already are."
Jorge leaned back slightly, letting the weight of his words settle in the room. He rubbed his hands together, a subtle signal that the next points were delicate, serious, and Francesco straightened instinctively, bracing for whatever was coming.
"There's one thing I need you to understand," Jorge said slowly, voice lowering so that only Francesco and Leah could hear. "Even though the world already suspects… maybe even knows… that you are in the top three…" He paused, letting that hang like a thread dangling over a precipice. "…I want you to remain silent if any reporters ask. Do not confirm. Do not deny."
Francesco blinked. "But… everyone's going to know! Isn't it obvious? I'm in the running." His voice cracked slightly.
Jorge shook his head, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, gaze intense. "Exactly. That is why you do not confirm it. Let the speculation build. Let the story grow. That's how legends are made. Silence creates mystery. Mystery creates anticipation. And anticipation… anticipation feeds the magic of the moment when the winner is revealed."
Leah tilted her head, clearly processing this like she was trying to translate it from football logic to normal life logic. "So… you're saying… even if he's asked directly on live TV, or Instagram, or some Twitter storm…" She stopped, waving her hands in exasperation. "He just… doesn't answer?"
"Exactly," Jorge said. "Even if they shove microphones in your face as you leave training. Even if cameras camp outside your house. Even if… God forbid… they ask while you're eating breakfast." He smirked at the absurdity, though Francesco could tell he was only half-joking. "You nod, smile politely, and say… nothing of consequence."
Francesco's stomach twisted with a combination of thrill and nerves. "I… okay. I can do that. I think." His fingers tangled with Leah's on the couch, seeking a grounding point as the magnitude of the instructions sunk in. The concept of keeping a secret… a secret the world already knew, felt almost… paradoxical.
"Good," Jorge said, nodding approvingly. "Because right now, every word you say is gold. Every gesture, every comment, everything. The media world will dissect it, twist it, and redistribute it. We need control. You need control. You control your story. Not them."
Leah leaned forward, resting her chin lightly against Francesco's shoulder. "So, no celebratory tweets, no teasing your friends, no casual remarks to teammates?"
Jorge shook his head firmly. "Exactly. You stay calm, you stay silent, and you prepare for the moment when the entire world sees you claim what you've earned… if the fates align, of course."
Francesco exhaled, leaning back into the couch, feeling Leah's warmth against him like a tether in the storm of thoughts spinning through his head. The reality of it all was staggering. Just feels like yesterday, he had been celebrating a birthday with laughter, cake, and the comfort of family and friends. And now days later, he was on the precipice of one of football's most significant nights.
"And that brings me to the next thing," Jorge continued, producing a sleek black folder from his coat. "I've already contacted Armani. They're preparing suits for you and dresses for Leah, for the Ballon d'Or ceremony. Custom fittings. Private appointments. Everything. You will look the part, Francesco. Not just a young player, not just a finalist… but a man who belongs on that stage."
Francesco's eyes widened. "Custom suits? Dresses? What do you mean everything?"
Jorge smiled, leaning back in his chair, the image of composed authority he always carried somehow amplified in this moment of revelation. "Everything. The outfit. The cut. The color. Accessories. Shoes. Cufflinks. Tailored perfection. For Leah, dresses, shoes, styling, hair, makeup, everything. You are walking onto the stage in Switzerland not as a teenager, not as a hopeful, but as someone who commands attention. Someone whose appearance, posture, and presence reflect the talent and accomplishment the world will see in your play."
Leah's eyebrows shot up, a mixture of awe and amusement on her face. "You're really… going to do all of this for us?"
"Of course," Jorge said, leaning forward again, voice softer but precise. "Appearance matters. Perception matters. But above all and this is the key, confidence matters. Your clothing will give you that extra layer of composure. It will remind you: this is your night, Francesco. No one else. Your achievements, your talent, your story. Own it."
Francesco's mind was racing. He thought of the Emirates, the roar of the crowd, the tight passes, the goals scored against Basel, West Ham, Bournemouth. He thought of Euro 2016. And now… he imagined the grand hall in Switzerland, lights sparkling, cameras clicking, legends watching, the weight of history pressing down with both expectation and promise.
"And what about… you know… the ceremony itself?" he asked, voice low, almost tentative. "Do I… rehearse something? Say something? Walk on stage a certain way?"
Jorge nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. But it's subtle. No memorized speeches. No overt dramatics. Presence is enough. Confidence is enough. Your history, your performance, your achievements as they will speak for themselves. You will not need to announce or justify anything. Simply be. Walk to your place. Accept the recognition. Smile. Be gracious. And above all… remember the people who brought you here."
Leah gave him a quick squeeze. "That's… actually reassuring."
Francesco tried to let it be reassuring, but every muscle in his body buzzed with the strange mix of anxiety and anticipation. Be gracious. Simply be. Those words bounced inside him like a mantra. He could do that. He had faced pressure before. He had scored when the stakes were sky-high. He had led, carried, and endured. This… this was different, yes, but not impossible.
"And one more thing," Jorge said, leaning even closer, lowering his voice like a coach about to reveal a secret strategy. "During all this… you cannot let excitement betray you. You must remain focused. Emotion controlled. Eyes forward. Ears open. Observe. Absorb. Learn. Take everything in, but do not react in a way that shifts the narrative before the announcement."
Francesco swallowed hard, nodding. "So… I smile, I stay quiet, I don't show too much, and I let it all play out."
"Exactly," Jorge said, his eyes glinting with a mix of pride and calculation. "Patience is part of victory. Composure is part of legacy."
Leah leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek. "You've got this."
Francesco let out a shaky laugh. "You really think so?"
Jorge chuckled. "I know so. You've done impossible things before. This… this is just another stage. Another challenge. Only this one happens to be global, spectacular, and historically significant. And yes… extremely glamorous."
Leah rolled her eyes playfully. "He's already stressed about the glamour. Can we focus on the part where he's going to win the award?"
"Patience," Jorge said with mock sternness. "You focus on calming him. I focus on logistics. And together, we make history."
Francesco exhaled slowly, letting himself sink into the sofa, Leah curling closer into his side, Jorge perched like a darkly charming mentor in his armchair. The room smelled faintly of the fireplace, coffee, and the residual excitement of a breakfast that now felt like it had happened in another lifetime. Outside, the Richmond wind rattled the windows gently, reminding him that the world continued but inside, the three of them sat in a bubble of possibility, a quiet eye in the storm of everything that was about to come.
Jorge pulled a tablet from his folder, swiping through appointments, measurements, travel schedules, and media sessions. Francesco tried to absorb it all without panicking. Tailoring appointments at Armani in London before the flight. Hair and makeup consultations for Leah. Private coaching sessions on how to handle interviews. Briefings about each of the other top-three finalists with Messi, Ronaldo, whoever else might be there. The layers of preparation were meticulous, precise, overwhelming. And yet… somehow, incredibly exhilarating.
After an hour, Jorge leaned back, satisfied that the message had sunk in, at least partially. "That's the plan. Armani, Switzerland, press, stage, composure, wardrobe, media, all of it. Your responsibility is simple: you. Everything else? Managed. Executed. Controlled."
Francesco nodded slowly, running a hand over his face. "Simple… sounds terrifyingly simple."
"Terrifyingly exciting, yes," Jorge corrected, smiling warmly. "And don't forget… you're not alone. Leah, me, your family, Arsenal as all of us behind you. Never forget that. This is your moment, yes… but you don't walk into it alone."
Leah rested her head on his shoulder again. "Exactly. I've got your back, always."
For the first time that day, Francesco felt his chest expand just a little. A flicker of calm. A hint of clarity. He let himself smile, small but genuine.
"Okay," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "Let's do this."
Jorge grinned, nodding approvingly. "That's the spirit. We'll meet with Armani this week. Fittings. And I'll arrange a media rehearsal before we even get to Switzerland. By the time the ceremony begins, you will be prepared. Confident. Calm. And unforgettable."
The weight of the afternoon sun shifted through the windows, casting golden light across the room. Outside, the branches rattled, shadows stretching long across the garden.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 21
Goal: 30
Assist: 0
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9