If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
_____________________________
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
The champion of the world once again are standing beneath the lights of Paris, with the Ballon d'Or in his hands and the future that still waiting ahead.
The following morning arrived slowly.
Not with alarms.
Not with training schedules.
Not with tactical meetings.
For once, there was no rush.
No immediate destination.
No manager waiting at a training ground.
No teammates arriving for another session.
Just Paris.
Just a luxury hotel suite overlooking one of the most beautiful cities in the world.
And just enough silence for everything that had happened the previous night to finally begin feeling real.
Soft winter sunlight filtered through the curtains.
The city outside was already awake.
Traffic moved through the streets below.
People hurried toward work.
Cafés were opening.
Tourists were beginning another day of exploring the French capital.
Meanwhile inside the hotel suite, the atmosphere was considerably more relaxed.
Francesco sat on the sofa wearing a simple black t-shirt and training pants.
The Ballon d'Or sat several feet away on a table near the window.
Still exactly where he had placed it before going to sleep.
The golden trophy reflected the morning sunlight.
Looking almost unreal.
As if somebody had simply forgotten to remove part of the ceremony set.
Every now and then his eyes drifted toward it.
Not intentionally.
It just happened.
Because no matter how many trophies a player won, some still carried a different weight.
A different meaning.
This was one of them.
Across the room, Leah was busy with an equally important mission.
Breakfast.
She sat near the room-service menu with the concentration of someone negotiating an international peace treaty.
Francesco watched for several moments before speaking.
"You've been reading that menu for five minutes."
Leah didn't look up.
"I'm making decisions."
"It shouldn't take this long."
"It absolutely should."
"It's breakfast."
"Exactly."
He laughed.
The response was immediate.
Predictable.
Very Leah.
She finally looked up.
"You want anything?"
"Food."
"Helpful."
"I try."
She rolled her eyes.
Then returned to studying the menu.
Eventually she picked up the room-service phone.
The order itself took several minutes.
Mostly because Leah kept changing her mind.
Twice.
The poor employee on the other end handled it professionally.
Though Francesco suspected they were silently suffering.
When the call finally ended, Leah placed the phone down triumphantly.
"There."
"Successfully?"
"Successfully."
"Congratulations."
"Thank you."
"Big achievement."
"It is."
Neither could keep a straight face.
Both laughed.
The comfortable kind of laughter that existed when people genuinely enjoyed being around one another.
The kind that required no effort.
No performance.
No pretending.
Just comfort.
Eventually Francesco reached for the television remote.
The screen flickered to life.
Almost immediately football appeared.
Naturally.
It always did.
Especially after Ballon d'Or night.
Every sports channel across Europe seemed dedicated to discussing the same topic.
The same player.
The same achievement.
Him.
The headline stretched across the screen.
FRANCESCO LEE WINS SECOND BALLON D'OR
Below it, another headline rotated into view.
YOUNGEST EVER BACK-TO-BACK WINNER
Then another.
SEVENTH PLAYER IN HISTORY TO WIN CONSECUTIVE BALLON D'ORS
Francesco leaned back against the sofa.
Slightly uncomfortable.
Not because the coverage was negative.
Because watching people discuss you always felt strange.
No matter how many times it happened.
A presenter appeared on screen.
"The football world is still reacting this morning after Francesco Lee secured his second consecutive Ballon d'Or."
Behind the presenter, footage from the previous night began playing.
The red carpet.
The award presentation.
The speech.
The moment David Ginola handed over the trophy.
The standing ovation.
The challenge directed toward Messi and Ronaldo.
Everything.
The presenter smiled.
"At just twenty years old, Francesco has now become the youngest player ever to win consecutive Ballon d'Or awards."
A panelist nodded.
"And perhaps more importantly, he joins one of the most exclusive groups in football history."
The screen changed.
Seven photographs appeared.
Past legends.
Icons.
Football immortals.
And now Francesco among them.
The presenter continued.
"Only seven players have successfully defended the Ballon d'Or."
The camera zoomed slightly closer.
"And Francesco Lee is now one of them."
For a moment he simply stared.
Not because he didn't know.
Because seeing it displayed like that felt different.
Football history had always seemed enormous.
Untouchable.
Something written by other people.
Older people.
Legends.
Yet somehow his name now sat among them.
Leah noticed the expression.
"You okay?"
Francesco nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
"You don't look convinced."
He glanced toward the television.
"They keep saying it."
"Saying what?"
"Seven players."
Leah followed his gaze.
Then smiled.
"Because it's true."
He shook his head slightly.
Still processing it.
Still struggling to fully absorb it.
The television continued.
Another analyst began speaking.
"This isn't simply about talent anymore."
Interesting.
The room quieted.
Even Leah paid attention.
The analyst continued.
"Last year proved he could reach the top."
"This year proved he could stay there."
Another panelist agreed immediately.
"That's the difference."
"Football history is full of players who reached incredible heights."
He pointed toward the screen.
"The truly special ones are the players who remain there."
The conversation continued.
Statistics appeared.
Goals.
Assists.
Trophies.
Records.
Every achievement from the previous season.
One analyst summarized it perfectly.
"Another Premier League."
"Another Champions League."
"Another treble."
"Another Ballon d'Or."
He laughed softly.
"At some point we're running out of ways to describe these seasons."
The panel laughed.
So did Leah.
Francesco groaned.
"I don't like this."
"You absolutely do."
"I don't."
"You do."
"I don't."
She pointed toward the television.
"You've been watching for twenty minutes."
"Research."
"Sure."
"Professional research."
"Very convincing."
The discussion shifted toward future predictions.
Which immediately became more dangerous.
Because football loved predicting things.
Usually incorrectly.
A former player leaned forward.
"The frightening thing is his age."
The others nodded.
"He isn't approaching his peak."
"He's nowhere near it."
Another panelist agreed.
"Most players reach their prime years later."
He shook his head.
"Francesco is already winning Ballon d'Ors while still improving."
The conversation turned toward records.
Historic records.
The kind usually reserved for players like Messi and Ronaldo.
That made Francesco uncomfortable almost immediately.
Not because he lacked confidence.
Because football had taught him respect.
Records were dangerous things.
People talked about them as though they were guaranteed.
They never were.
Football could change quickly.
An injury.
A poor season.
A stronger rival.
Everything could change.
That was one reason he had never liked discussing future Ballon d'Ors.
Even after joking with Messi and Ronaldo the previous night.
The television suddenly replayed that exact moment.
His challenge.
Messi's smile.
Ronaldo's grin.
The room immediately laughed again.
One panelist pointed toward the screen.
"I loved this."
Another nodded.
"So did I."
"It wasn't arrogance."
"No."
"It was competition."
Exactly.
That was the difference.
Elite athletes rarely feared challenges.
They welcomed them.
The panelist continued.
"Messi loved it."
"Ronaldo loved it."
"Because those three understand something most people don't."
The screen froze briefly on the image.
Francesco standing beside the two legends.
"They're all chasing greatness."
Leah looked toward him.
"You did enjoy that part."
"A little."
"A little?"
"A lot."
She laughed.
"I knew it."
The conversation shifted again.
Now discussing Arsenal.
Wenger.
The treble.
The future.
Several analysts believed Arsenal would enter the next season as favorites for virtually every competition.
That brought a different feeling.
Pressure.
The good kind.
The kind every great team eventually faced.
Expectations.
Success created them.
There was no avoiding it.
Another highlight package began.
This one focusing entirely on Arsenal.
Champions League goals.
Premier League celebrations.
Cup finals.
The image of Wenger lifting trophies.
Van Dijk celebrating defensive masterclasses.
Robertson sprinting the length of entire football pitches.
Walker talking constantly.
That clip somehow made it into the montage.
Leah nearly choked laughing.
"That's accurate."
"Very."
A commentator's voice played over the footage.
"This Arsenal side may be remembered as one of the greatest teams of its generation."
The words lingered.
Because Francesco knew exactly how much work had gone into building it.
People saw trophies.
They didn't see training sessions.
Recovery work.
Painkillers.
Travel.
Pressure.
Sacrifice.
The hundreds of small moments required to create success.
The television eventually cut to interviews recorded after the ceremony.
Several guests were asked about Francesco's achievement.
One former Ballon d'Or winner praised his consistency.
Another praised his leadership.
Another praised his mentality.
Then came Wenger.
The interviewer asked him a simple question.
"What makes Francesco different?"
The Arsenal manager paused.
Thinking carefully.
As he always did.
Then answered.
"His hunger."
The interviewer looked surprised.
Wenger continued.
"Talent matters."
"Of course it matters."
"But talent alone doesn't explain sustained success."
The room became quiet.
Even through a television screen, Wenger commanded attention.
"What separates Francesco is that he is never satisfied."
The interviewer smiled.
"Even after two Ballon d'Ors?"
Wenger's response came immediately.
"Especially after two Ballon d'Ors."
Leah looked toward Francesco.
Neither spoke.
Neither needed to.
Because Wenger understood him.
Perhaps better than almost anyone.
The interview ended.
The coverage continued.
Outside the hotel windows, Paris kept moving.
Morning gradually became late morning.
Sunlight brightened the city.
The room service finally arrived.
A knock echoed through the suite.
Perfect timing.
Leah immediately stood.
"Food."
The enthusiasm in her voice suggested she hadn't eaten in weeks.
The hotel employee wheeled in a cart loaded with breakfast.
Fresh pastries.
Fruit.
Eggs.
Coffee.
Juice.
Enough food for several people.
Francesco raised an eyebrow.
"How many breakfasts did you order?"
Leah ignored him.
The employee smiled politely.
Clearly amused.
A few moments later they were eating together while the television continued replaying Ballon d'Or coverage.
The atmosphere felt peaceful.
Comfortable.
Normal.
Ironically, far more normal than most people would imagine.
Because while the world celebrated records and trophies and history as inside the hotel suite, life remained surprisingly simple.
Breakfast.
Conversation.
Laughter.
Plans for the journey home.
The Ballon d'Or sitting quietly by the window.
Leah eventually glanced toward the trophy.
Then toward him.
"You know what's funny?"
"What?"
"You won the Ballon d'Or again."
"Apparently."
"And somehow you're already thinking about next season."
Francesco looked guilty immediately.
Which answered the question.
Leah laughed.
"I knew it."
"I can't help it."
"You're impossible."
"Probably."
She shook her head.
Smiling.
Because she already knew the truth.
The newspapers would spend weeks discussing the achievement.
Fans would celebrate it.
Pundits would analyze it.
Football history would remember it.
But Francesco?
Francesco was already thinking about training.
About Arsenal.
About defending titles.
About the next challenge.
About the next mountain.
Because that was the reason he stood at the top of football in the first place.
Not because he loved winning.
Though he did.
Because no matter how much he achieved, a part of him always remained the same young footballer chasing the next goal.
The next trophy.
The next dream.
The breakfast gradually disappeared.
Coffee cups emptied.
Plates became less crowded.
The television continued talking about Ballon d'Or rankings, Arsenal's dominance, and Francesco's growing place in football history, but neither Francesco nor Leah paid much attention anymore.
The noise had become background sound.
A soundtrack to a morning that already felt strangely detached from reality.
The previous night had been one of the biggest moments of Francesco's career.
Yet now he was sitting in a hotel suite in Paris arguing with Leah about whether she had ordered enough food to feed an entire football team.
Life had a funny way of doing that.
Turning extraordinary moments into ordinary mornings.
Outside the window, Paris continued moving.
Cars flowed through the streets.
People hurried along sidewalks.
The Eiffel Tower stood proudly against the winter sky.
And somewhere below, thousands of football fans were probably still debating the Ballon d'Or result.
Inside the suite, however, everything felt peaceful.
At least until somebody knocked on the door.
Three sharp knocks.
Confident knocks.
The kind of knocks that somehow announced the identity of the person behind them.
Leah looked up immediately.
"That's Jorge."
Francesco laughed.
"How do you know?"
"Nobody else knocks like they're negotiating a transfer."
That earned a laugh.
A few seconds later the door opened.
And there he was.
Jorge Mendes.
Phone in one hand.
Another phone in the other.
Looking remarkably energetic for a man who had spent the previous night attending football's most glamorous ceremony.
The agent stepped inside.
"Morning."
"You own a watch?" Francesco asked.
Mendes looked confused.
"Obviously."
"You ever sleep?"
"What does that have to do with a watch?"
Leah immediately laughed.
Francesco simply shook his head.
Some questions truly had no answer.
Mendes sat down across from them.
Placing both phones onto the table.
The phones immediately began vibrating.
Almost simultaneously.
The agent ignored them.
For nearly three seconds.
Then picked one up.
Answered it.
Spoke Portuguese rapidly.
Ended the call.
Then finally looked back toward Francesco.
"Right."
"Right?"
"We need to discuss things."
That immediately sounded dangerous.
Leah sat back.
Interested.
Because whenever Jorge Mendes said "we need to discuss things," it usually meant football had become complicated again.
The agent folded his hands.
Or at least attempted to.
One phone vibrated again.
He ignored it.
With visible effort.
"Since last night," Mendes began, "my phone has basically become unusable."
Francesco raised an eyebrow.
"Only since last night?"
"Don't interrupt."
"Sorry."
"You aren't sorry."
"Fair."
Leah smiled into her coffee.
Mendes continued.
"The Ballon d'Or has created… interest."
The way he said "interest" immediately suggested an enormous understatement.
Francesco already knew what was coming.
Sponsors.
Commercials.
Marketing campaigns.
Photoshoots.
The glamorous side of football.
The side he tolerated rather than enjoyed.
The agent nodded.
"There are brands everywhere."
He gestured vaguely.
"As in…"
Another gesture.
"…everywhere."
Leah laughed.
"Helpful explanation."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
Mendes ignored that.
Again.
"There are luxury brands."
"Technology companies."
"FnB companies."
"Fashion companies."
He paused.
Then pointed toward the Ballon d'Or sitting beside the window.
"Everyone wants to be associated with that."
Francesco followed his gaze.
The trophy glimmered in the sunlight.
Still looking surreal.
Mendes continued.
"Several companies want you as a global ambassador."
"Others want long-term partnerships."
"Some want advertising campaigns."
"Some want appearances."
The list seemed endless.
Because it probably was.
Success attracted attention.
Ballon d'Or winners attracted even more.
Back-to-back Ballon d'Or winners attracted everybody.
Francesco listened quietly.
Not because he wasn't interested.
Because he trusted Jorge.
The Portuguese agent had managed elite footballers for years.
He understood business better than almost anyone.
Eventually Francesco asked the obvious question.
"What are you going to do?"
Mendes smiled.
"The same thing I always do."
That answer somehow sounded reassuring and terrifying simultaneously.
"Which is?"
"I'm going to say no to most of them."
Leah nodded immediately.
That sounded exactly like Jorge.
The agent leaned back.
"I'll choose carefully."
"Very carefully."
His voice became more serious.
"You're nineteen years old."
"Your career is more important than any sponsorship."
Francesco nodded.
That philosophy had always existed between them.
Commercial opportunities mattered.
Football mattered more.
Always.
Mendes pointed toward him.
"I don't want you becoming one of those players who spends more time selling products than winning matches."
"I agree."
"Good."
The agent nodded.
"Then we'll choose the right partnerships."
"Not the biggest."
"The right ones."
Francesco smiled.
"That's why I pay you."
"Exactly."
The answer arrived so quickly that everyone laughed.
Even Mendes.
Briefly.
The moment didn't last long.
Because another phone began vibrating.
Again.
The agent silenced it.
Then looked back toward Francesco.
"That's actually the easier conversation."
The smile disappeared.
Not entirely.
Just enough.
Francesco immediately recognized that expression.
Transfer talk.
Of course.
It was always transfer talk.
Leah recognized it too.
Because she sighed.
The exact sigh of someone who had heard this conversation many times before.
Mendes pointed toward his phones.
"Do you know what those calls have mostly been?"
"I have a feeling."
"You do."
The agent nodded.
"Transfers."
Of course.
Always transfers.
Francesco didn't even seem surprised.
Ballon d'Or winner.
Back-to-back winner.
Treble winner.
Nineteen years old.
Every major club on Earth would be interested.
That wasn't arrogance.
That was reality.
Mendes leaned forward.
"Paris Saint-Germain."
No surprise there.
"Real Madrid."
Even less surprising.
"Manchester City."
Again.
Expected.
The list continued.
Several of the richest clubs in football.
Several of the biggest clubs in football.
Several clubs capable of changing transfer history with a single offer.
Leah shook her head.
"Already?"
Mendes laughed.
"Already?"
He pointed at the Ballon d'Or.
"He won that yesterday."
"Of course already."
Fair point.
The agent continued.
"They called."
"They asked."
"They hinted."
"They pushed."
Francesco already knew where this story was going.
Still, he listened.
Because it was always entertaining hearing Jorge describe transfer negotiations.
The Portuguese agent smiled slightly.
"And I told them no."
Simple.
Direct.
Final.
The room became quiet for a moment.
Not because the answer surprised anyone.
Because of how quickly it had apparently happened.
Francesco looked at him.
"You didn't even ask me?"
"I didn't need to."
The answer arrived instantly.
Without hesitation.
Without uncertainty.
Mendes looked genuinely confused by the question.
"You weren't leaving Arsenal yesterday."
"You aren't leaving Arsenal today."
"You won't be leaving Arsenal tomorrow."
Francesco laughed.
The logic was difficult to argue with.
The agent continued.
"I know my client."
He pointed toward him again.
"You love Arsenal."
Another point.
"You love Wenger."
True.
"You love your teammates."
Also true.
"You've built something special."
Definitely true.
Mendes spread his hands.
"So why would I waste your time?"
Leah smiled.
Because honestly, the answer made sense.
Francesco had never hidden his feelings.
Arsenal wasn't simply his employer anymore.
It was home.
The club that had trusted him.
Developed him.
Believed in him.
The club where he had become a superstar.
Money couldn't replace that.
Neither could prestige.
Neither could promises.
Not right now.
Maybe not ever.
The agent smiled.
"Besides."
That word usually meant trouble.
"Real Madrid's sporting director sounded disappointed."
Francesco laughed.
"I'm devastated."
"I could tell."
"And PSG?"
Mendes smirked.
"They were persistent."
"Very persistent."
"And City?"
"Even more persistent."
Leah shook her head.
Football never changed.
Ever.
The conversation continued for another half hour.
Schedules.
Media appearances.
Travel plans.
Future obligations.
The endless machinery operating around elite footballers.
Eventually, however, even Jorge Mendes accepted reality.
They needed to leave.
London awaited.
Arsenal awaited.
Normal life awaited.
Or at least whatever version of normal existed for a nineteen year old Ballon d'Or winner.
The hotel suite gradually transformed into organized chaos.
Luggage appeared.
Garment bags emerged.
Chargers disappeared.
Personal belongings were gathered.
The familiar ritual of departure.
Leah handled most of it with military efficiency.
Francesco handled less of it.
Mostly because he became distracted.
Repeatedly.
Usually by the Ballon d'Or.
The trophy still sat near the window.
Shining.
Waiting.
Almost demanding attention.
Eventually Leah caught him staring at it again.
"You know we have to leave."
"I know."
"You've looked at that thing about fifty times."
"Probably more."
"Definitely more."
He smiled.
No denial.
No argument.
Because she was absolutely right.
A few minutes later everything was finally ready.
The Striker of the Year trophy had been carefully packed away inside secure luggage.
Protected.
Wrapped.
Stored safely.
The Ballon d'Or, however, remained elsewhere.
In Francesco's arms.
There had never really been another option.
Leah noticed immediately.
"You aren't putting it in a case?"
"No."
"A bag?"
"No."
"Anything?"
"No."
He adjusted his grip slightly.
"I'm carrying it."
Leah laughed.
"Of course you are."
"Wouldn't you?"
"Probably."
"Exactly."
The elevator ride down felt strangely symbolic.
The ceremony was over.
The celebration was ending.
Reality was returning.
Yet the trophy remained there.
Physical proof that none of it had been a dream.
The hotel lobby was busier than the previous day.
Guests checked out.
Staff moved efficiently between responsibilities.
Journalists lingered nearby hoping for photographs.
The moment Francesco emerged carrying the Ballon d'Or, several heads turned immediately.
Not surprising.
The trophy attracted attention everywhere.
Near the entrance, familiar faces were already waiting.
Mike.
Sarah.
And Jorge.
The moment Sarah spotted the Ballon d'Or in her son's arms, she smiled.
Again.
The same smile she had worn throughout the ceremony.
The smile of a proud mother who still hadn't fully processed what had happened.
"You carried it."
Francesco looked down.
"Obviously."
Sarah laughed.
Mike shook his head.
"You're enjoying this."
"A little."
"A little?"
"A lot."
The family laughed together.
Because honesty was easier.
Outside, vehicles were already waiting.
Prepared.
Organized.
Naturally.
Jorge Mendes considered logistics a sacred responsibility.
The journey through Paris felt different than it had two days earlier.
Then, anticipation had filled the car.
Possibility.
Expectation.
Now there was satisfaction.
Memories.
Achievements.
The city rolled past outside the windows.
Beautiful as ever.
Elegant as ever.
Paris remained Paris.
Yet somehow it felt slightly different.
Because now it would always be linked to another Ballon d'Or.
Another unforgettable chapter.
Leah rested comfortably beside him.
Mike and Sarah chatted quietly.
Jorge answered calls.
Of course.
Some traditions remained eternal.
At one point Francesco looked out toward the city skyline.
Watching Paris gradually disappear behind them.
The Eiffel Tower emerged briefly in the distance.
Standing proudly above everything else.
For a moment his thoughts drifted back to the previous night.
The stage.
The applause.
The speech.
Messi.
Ronaldo.
The challenge.
The trophy.
History.
Then the moment passed.
Because football always moved forward.
Always.
The airport arrived soon afterward.
Security.
Check-in procedures.
Private terminals.
The familiar routine of elite travel.
Yet even here the Ballon d'Or attracted attention.
Airport staff noticed.
Passengers noticed.
Everyone noticed.
Several people politely congratulated him.
Others simply smiled.
One young airport employee stared openly at the trophy before finally gathering enough courage to speak.
"Congratulations."
Francesco smiled.
"Thank you."
The employee looked thrilled.
A small interaction.
A simple moment.
Yet somehow meaningful.
Eventually boarding began.
The aircraft waited.
Ready for departure.
Ready to carry them back across the Channel.
Back to England.
Back to Arsenal.
Back to the next challenge.
As Francesco climbed the steps toward the plane, the Ballon d'Or still resting securely in his arms, he glanced briefly toward the sky.
Gray clouds stretched across the horizon.
The same kind of sky that often welcomed him home.
And somewhere ahead waited London.
Training sessions.
League matches.
Champions League nights.
Pressure.
Expectations.
The endless pursuit of more.
The world would spend weeks discussing his second Ballon d'Or.
Debating his place in football history.
Comparing him to legends.
Predicting future records.
But inside the aircraft, as he settled into his seat beside Leah, only one thought truly occupied his mind.
Not what he had achieved.
What came next.
Because for all the trophies already collected, all the records already broken, and all the history already made, Francesco Lee remained exactly what Wenger had described which is hungry and hunger rarely stayed satisfied for long.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 28
Goal: 35
Assist: 1
MOTM: 4
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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