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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
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.
The flight from Paris passed more quietly than the journey there.
Not because anyone was tired.
Though they probably were.
Not because there was nothing left to say.
There was plenty.
But because the previous twenty-four hours had been so extraordinary that everyone seemed content simply sitting with their thoughts.
The Ballon d'Or rested securely beside Francesco throughout the flight.
Not in an overhead compartment.
Not hidden away.
Not tucked inside a case.
Beside him.
Exactly where he could see it.
Exactly where he knew it was.
Leah had laughed about it at first.
Then stopped mentioning it.
Because honestly?
If she had just won the biggest individual award in her profession for a second consecutive year, she probably wouldn't have let it out of her sight either.
Across the cabin, Mike and Sarah spoke quietly.
Occasionally looking toward their son.
Occasionally toward the trophy.
Still smiling every time they did.
Meanwhile Jorge Mendes spent most of the journey exactly as everyone expected.
Working.
Calling people.
Answering calls.
Sending messages.
Receiving messages.
Negotiating something.
Possibly several things.
Nobody knew.
Nobody asked.
Some mysteries were best left unsolved.
Outside the aircraft windows, thick clouds stretched endlessly across the sky.
Below them lay the English Channel.
And beyond that…
Home.
England.
London.
Arsenal.
The next chapter.
Eventually the captain's voice echoed through the cabin.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have begun our descent into London."
Almost immediately passengers began looking out windows.
The clouds gradually broke apart.
And there it was.
London.
Gray.
Busy.
Beautiful in its own way.
The familiar skyline stretched across the horizon.
Roads crowded with traffic.
Buildings packed tightly together.
Parks cutting patches of green into the urban landscape.
For Francesco, no city in the world quite felt the same.
Paris was spectacular.
Barcelona was beautiful.
Rome was unforgettable.
But London was home.
The city where everything had changed.
The city where dreams had become reality.
The city where Arsenal had trusted a teenager and turned him into one of the best footballers on the planet.
The aircraft touched down smoothly.
A gentle bump.
Then another.
The engines roared.
Passengers relaxed.
The journey was over.
Almost.
A few minutes later everyone began gathering their belongings.
Leah collected her handbag.
Mike retrieved a jacket.
Sarah checked her phone.
Jorge answered another call before the aircraft door had even opened.
Some things truly never changed.
And Francesco?
He picked up the Ballon d'Or.
Naturally.
Leah noticed immediately.
"You really aren't putting that down, are you?"
"No."
"Not even for five minutes?"
"No."
"Fair enough."
He smiled.
Because honestly, there wasn't much else to say.
Soon the aircraft door opened.
Cool English air greeted them.
The kind of air that instantly felt different from Paris.
Colder.
Sharper.
Familiar.
One by one they stepped onto the tarmac.
The Ballon d'Or gleamed beneath the overcast London sky.
Looking almost surreal against the gray surroundings.
A piece of gold against a world painted in winter colors.
The journey through the private terminal proceeded smoothly.
Airport staff greeted them politely.
Security formalities were handled quickly.
Everything efficient.
Everything organized.
Yet even inside the terminal, people noticed.
How could they not?
A man walking through the airport carrying the Ballon d'Or in his arms wasn't exactly subtle.
Several employees smiled.
A few quietly congratulated him.
Others simply stared.
Not rudely.
Just with curiosity.
Because moments like this weren't exactly common.
Eventually they reached the arrivals area.
And the moment the automatic doors opened…
The noise hit them.
Loud.
Unexpectedly loud.
A roar.
Cheers.
Shouts.
Applause.
Excitement.
Francesco blinked.
Then laughed.
Because somehow he should have expected this.
Beyond the barriers stood hundreds of Arsenal supporters.
Maybe more.
Men.
Women.
Children.
Families.
Fans wearing Arsenal shirts.
Arsenal scarves.
Arsenal jackets.
Some carried homemade signs.
Others carried photographs.
Many simply wanted a glimpse of him.
And almost all of them wanted to see the Ballon d'Or.
His second Ballon d'Or.
The moment supporters spotted the trophy, the noise somehow increased.
"FRANCESCO!"
"BALLON D'OR!"
"CAPTAIN!"
"COME ON ARSENAL!"
The atmosphere became electric immediately.
Phones appeared everywhere.
Cameras flashed.
People pushed forward against barriers.
Security personnel looked mildly concerned.
Francesco simply smiled.
Because moments like this mattered.
A lot.
These were the people who had supported him since the beginning.
The people who filled the Emirates every week.
The people who traveled across Europe following Arsenal.
The people who celebrated victories and suffered defeats.
The people who had believed.
And now they were here.
Waiting at an airport simply to welcome him home.
Beside him, Sarah looked overwhelmed.
Mike shook his head slowly.
Even after everything, moments like this still amazed them.
Leah smiled warmly.
She had seen Arsenal supporters countless times.
Yet their passion never stopped being impressive.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, the fans weren't the only people waiting.
The media had arrived too.
In force.
Television crews.
Photographers.
Journalists.
Reporters.
Microphones immediately appeared.
Questions began flying from every direction.
"Francesco, how does it feel to win your second Ballon d'Or?"
"Can Arsenal win another Champions League?"
"Do you believe you can win a third?"
"What did Messi say after the ceremony?"
"Any response to Real Madrid's interest?"
"Can Arsenal defend the treble again?"
The questions came nonstop.
Relentless.
A wall of noise.
Yet Francesco barely acknowledged them.
Not out of disrespect.
Simply because his attention was elsewhere.
The fans.
Always the fans.
Instead of moving toward the media area, he walked directly toward the supporters.
The reaction was immediate.
The crowd erupted.
Security exchanged nervous looks.
Then quickly reorganized themselves.
Because once Francesco made that decision, there was no changing it.
The first supporter he reached couldn't have been older than ten.
An Arsenal shirt hung almost to the child's knees.
The boy stared at the Ballon d'Or with absolute disbelief.
Like he was looking at something mythical.
Something impossible.
Francesco smiled.
"You want a photo?"
The boy nodded so hard it looked painful.
A second later the photograph was taken.
The smile on the child's face was worth a thousand interviews.
Then came another supporter.
And another.
And another.
A seemingly endless stream.
Autographs.
Photographs.
Handshakes.
Conversations.
One elderly fan proudly showed him a shirt from years ago.
One that still carried his original squad number.
Francesco signed it carefully.
Another supporter handed over a captain's jersey.
Signed.
A young girl nervously asked if she could hold the Ballon d'Or for a photo.
For a few seconds, he let her.
The resulting reaction from her family was unforgettable.
Nearby journalists continued trying to attract his attention.
"Francesco!"
"One question!"
"Just thirty seconds!"
But the answers could wait.
These moments couldn't.
For nearly twenty minutes he remained there.
Moving along the barrier.
Meeting supporters.
Listening to stories.
Signing shirts.
Taking photographs.
Everywhere he looked there were smiling faces.
Proud faces.
People genuinely happy to see one of their own succeed.
Because that's how Arsenal supporters viewed him now.
Not as a superstar.
Not as a celebrity.
One of their own.
Eventually security gently informed him they needed to move.
Reluctantly.
Very reluctantly.
The crowd understood.
Most supporters did.
Though that didn't stop them from cheering again when he finally stepped away.
As he turned toward the exit, the fans broke into song.
A familiar song.
His song.
Hundreds of voices singing together inside an airport terminal.
The sound echoed through the building.
Powerful.
Emotional.
Unmistakably Arsenal.
Francesco couldn't stop smiling.
Neither could Leah.
Or Mike.
Or Sarah.
Even Jorge Mendes looked vaguely impressed.
Which was saying something.
Outside, a convoy of vehicles already waited.
Naturally organized by Mendes.
Because if there was one thing the Portuguese agent loved almost as much as football, it was logistics.
A sleek black vehicle waited closest to the entrance.
Drivers stood ready.
Everything arranged perfectly.
The moment the group climbed inside, the noise from the airport gradually faded behind them.
London traffic replaced it.
Busy roads.
Constant movement.
The rhythm of the city.
For a few moments nobody spoke.
Everyone simply settled into their seats.
Finally Sarah broke the silence.
"There were a lot of people."
"A few," Francesco replied.
"A few?"
Leah laughed.
"That's what we're calling hundreds now?"
Mike shook his head.
"The trophy probably helped."
Francesco glanced down at the Ballon d'Or resting in his lap.
"Maybe."
"It definitely helped."
Everyone laughed.
The vehicle merged into traffic.
Moving steadily through London.
Past familiar landmarks.
Past neighborhoods Francesco knew well.
The city looked exactly as he remembered.
Which was strangely comforting.
No matter how much football changed.
No matter how much his life changed.
London remained London.
Their first stop came roughly forty minutes later.
Mike and Sarah's house.
A place filled with memories.
The home where countless conversations about football had once taken place.
The home where dreams had first been discussed long before they became reality.
As the vehicle pulled into the driveway, Sarah looked toward her son.
Still smiling.
Still proud.
"I'm framing those photos."
"I know."
"Several of them."
"I know."
"Possibly all of them."
That made everyone laugh.
Mike opened the door first.
Before stepping out, he looked back toward Francesco.
"Congratulations again."
The words were simple.
But they carried everything.
Pride.
Love.
Respect.
Years of support.
Francesco smiled.
"Thanks, Dad."
They embraced briefly.
Then Sarah hugged him immediately afterward.
Longer.
Naturally.
"Try not to win another Ballon d'Or before Christmas."
"No promises."
"Francesco."
He laughed.
"I'll try."
Eventually Mike and Sarah headed toward the house.
Standing together near the doorway.
Watching the vehicle.
Watching their son.
Still carrying the Ballon d'Or.
Still making history.
The car slowly pulled away.
Back onto the road.
Back into London traffic.
Now only Francesco, Leah, and Jorge remained.
The atmosphere immediately became quieter.
More relaxed.
Mendes answered another phone call.
Of course.
Leah rested comfortably beside Francesco.
And outside the windows, Richmond gradually came into view.
Closer.
Closer.
Home.
The mansion eventually appeared beyond iron gates.
Large.
Elegant.
Private.
The place Francesco had built through years of success.
Yet despite all the luxury, what mattered most wasn't the house itself.
It was what it represented.
Home.
The gates opened.
The vehicle rolled forward.
And as Francesco looked ahead toward the house, Ballon d'Or still resting in his arms, he felt something rare.
Contentment.
Not satisfaction.
Those weren't the same thing.
Satisfaction implied the journey was complete.
It wasn't.
Not even close.
There would be training soon.
Matches soon.
Pressure soon.
Expectations soon.
Another title race.
Another Champions League campaign.
Another Ballon d'Or battle.
Another mountain to climb.
But for now?
For this moment?
He was home.
A two-time Ballon d'Or winner.
Arsenal captain.
Champion of Europe.
Champion of England.
And a young man who still had the same hunger burning inside him that had carried him from academy prospect to the very summit of world football.
The next morning arrived wrapped in a different atmosphere.
Not the intensity of football.
Not the pressure of competition.
Not the endless cycle of training sessions, tactical meetings, interviews, and expectations.
Something softer.
Something warmer.
Christmas Eve.
For the first time in what felt like weeks, maybe even months, the mansion felt completely detached from football.
No reporters waiting outside.
No training schedule pinned to the kitchen counter.
No match preparation dominating every conversation.
Just the quiet calm of a winter morning.
Outside, Richmond sat beneath a pale gray sky.
Thin frost clung to rooftops.
The gardens surrounding the mansion sparkled beneath the weak morning sunlight.
The air looked cold enough to bite.
The kind of weather that practically demanded hot chocolate and thick blankets.
Inside, however, warmth filled every room.
Francesco woke later than usual.
A luxury football rarely allowed.
For months his body had been programmed to wake early.
Training had a way of doing that.
Even during holidays.
Yet today he managed something close to a lie-in.
When he finally wandered downstairs wearing a dark Arsenal training hoodie and sweatpants, he found Leah already sitting at the kitchen island.
Coffee in hand.
Phone in hand.
Looking suspiciously productive.
Francesco narrowed his eyes.
"I don't trust that look."
Leah glanced up.
"What look?"
"That one."
"There isn't a look."
"There is absolutely a look."
She smiled.
Which immediately confirmed his suspicions.
"What have you done?"
Leah calmly took a sip of coffee.
"I've made a plan."
Francesco groaned instantly.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
"Those words are dangerous."
"They're festive."
"They're dangerous."
Leah ignored him.
Again.
One of her favorite hobbies.
"It's Christmas Eve."
"I know."
"We need a Christmas tree."
Francesco blinked.
Then looked around.
The mansion looked suspiciously undecorated.
Suddenly he realized she was right.
There wasn't a Christmas tree anywhere.
A crime, according to Leah.
A very serious crime.
His girlfriend pointed dramatically.
"We are buying one today."
The decision had clearly already been made.
Francesco recognized a lost battle when he saw one.
"Do I get a vote?"
"No."
"Thought so."
Twenty minutes later they were in the car.
Driving through Richmond.
The streets felt alive with Christmas energy.
Families carrying shopping bags.
Children wearing winter hats.
Decorations hanging from shop windows.
Christmas music drifting from cafés.
Everywhere they looked, people seemed excited.
Happy.
Relaxed.
For a brief moment it felt wonderfully normal.
No football.
No trophies.
No Ballon d'Or discussions.
Just Christmas.
Well…
Almost.
Because every now and then someone recognized Francesco.
A few people waved.
Others pointed.
One Arsenal supporter nearly drove into a curb after spotting him at a traffic light.
Leah laughed for almost two minutes afterward.
Eventually they arrived at a local Christmas tree lot.
Rows upon rows of trees stretched across the area.
Large ones.
Small ones.
Perfect ones.
Crooked ones.
Some looked majestic.
Others looked like they had lost a fight.
The scent of pine filled the air immediately.
Fresh.
Earthy.
Unmistakably Christmas.
The moment they stepped out of the car, Leah looked genuinely excited.
The kind of excitement usually reserved for children.
Or footballers winning Ballon d'Or awards.
Francesco noticed.
"You really love Christmas."
"I do."
"I can tell."
Leah smiled.
Then immediately began inspecting trees with remarkable seriousness.
Francesco followed behind.
Watching.
Amused.
Because apparently selecting a Christmas tree required the same concentration as scouting a Champions League opponent.
"What about this one?" he asked.
Leah examined it.
"No."
"Why?"
"It's leaning."
"Trees lean."
"Not our tree."
"Right."
Five minutes later:
"What about that one?"
"No."
"Too tall?"
"No."
"Too short?"
"No."
"Then what's wrong with it?"
"It knows what it did."
Francesco stared.
The tree looked innocent.
Very innocent.
Yet somehow he knew arguing would be pointless.
After nearly thirty minutes of searching, debating, comparing, and rejecting perfectly respectable trees, they finally found one.
A beautiful tree.
Tall enough to dominate the living room.
Full branches.
Perfect shape.
The kind of tree that looked like it belonged on a Christmas card.
Leah immediately pointed.
"That one."
Francesco laughed.
"You decided quickly."
"I know."
"You rejected forty trees."
"Thirty-eight."
"You counted?"
"Of course."
Naturally she did.
A staff member approached.
Friendly.
Helpful.
And very obviously trying not to stare at the Ballon d'Or winner standing beside the Christmas trees.
Eventually arrangements were made.
The tree would be delivered later that afternoon.
Directly to the mansion.
Problem solved.
Or at least the first problem.
Because now came decorating.
And decorating, according to Leah, was serious business.
By early afternoon the delivery truck finally arrived.
The Christmas tree looked even larger inside the mansion.
Massive.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
Workers carefully positioned it near the large windows overlooking the grounds.
Once everything was secure, they departed.
Leaving behind a magnificent tree.
And two people already planning how to decorate it.
Leah stood with her hands on her hips.
Admiring it.
"It needs decorations."
"It definitely does."
"Storage room?"
Francesco sighed dramatically.
"Storage room."
The storage room occupied part of the lower level of the mansion.
A place filled with things that only appeared a few times each year.
Holiday decorations.
Boxes.
Seasonal lights.
Old memorabilia.
Random items neither of them remembered buying.
The moment they opened the door, Leah smiled.
"Perfect."
Francesco looked less enthusiastic.
Because there were a lot of boxes.
A worrying number of boxes.
Christmas apparently required more equipment than he remembered.
Together they began carrying everything upstairs.
Boxes of ornaments.
Boxes of lights.
Boxes of ribbons.
Boxes containing things neither of them could identify.
Each trip seemed to reveal another forgotten Christmas decoration.
"How many decorations do we own?" Francesco asked.
"A normal amount."
"This isn't normal."
"It is."
"It really isn't."
Leah ignored him.
Again.
By the time they finished, the living room looked like Christmas had exploded.
Decorations covered nearly every surface.
Lights tangled together.
Ornaments waiting to be hung.
Garlands piled nearby.
And standing proudly in the middle of everything…
The tree.
Waiting.
Watching.
Ready.
At least someone else was watching too.
Cheddar.
The small dog sat several feet away.
Head tilted.
Watching the chaos unfold with deep suspicion.
The expression on his face seemed to ask a very important question.
What exactly are these humans doing?
Francesco pointed toward him.
"He's judging us."
"He is."
Cheddar blinked.
Still watching.
Still confused.
Then he wandered toward his food bowl.
Apparently deciding the situation wasn't urgent enough to investigate.
For now.
Decorating finally began.
Leah handled ornaments.
Francesco handled lights.
Which immediately proved problematic.
Because Christmas lights had apparently spent eleven months tying themselves into knots.
"How is this possible?" Francesco asked.
"What?"
"The lights."
"What about them?"
"They've evolved."
Leah laughed.
"They're tangled."
"They're plotting against me."
The battle lasted nearly fifteen minutes.
Eventually victory was achieved.
Barely.
The lights finally wrapped around the tree.
Golden illumination spreading through the room.
Instantly transforming the atmosphere.
Warmer.
More magical.
More Christmas.
Even Francesco had to admit it looked incredible.
Then came the ornaments.
One by one they decorated the branches.
Gold.
Silver.
Red.
White.
Traditional decorations mixed with newer ones.
Some elegant.
Some ridiculous.
Several carrying personal memories.
One ornament had been a gift from Mike and Sarah years ago.
Another came from Leah.
Another from teammates.
Each decoration carried a story.
A small piece of history.
The afternoon passed surprisingly quickly.
Laughter filled the room.
Christmas music played quietly from speakers.
Outside, daylight slowly faded.
Inside, the mansion became brighter with every new decoration.
Meanwhile Cheddar had grown increasingly concerned.
Because his humans were clearly paying attention to the tree.
Not him.
A terrible situation.
An unacceptable situation.
A crisis.
The first warning sign came when he deliberately dropped a toy directly onto Francesco's foot.
Francesco looked down.
Cheddar stared back.
The message was clear.
Play with me.
Now.
"He's jealous," Leah said.
"He is."
Cheddar barked once.
Agreement.
Francesco threw the toy.
The dog immediately sprinted after it.
Problem solved.
For approximately three minutes.
Then Cheddar returned.
Demanding another throw.
Then another.
Then another.
Eventually the decorating process became a strange combination of Christmas preparation and dog entertainment.
Neither seemed willing to stop.
As evening approached, the tree finally began looking complete.
Beautiful lights wrapped around every level.
Ornaments filled the branches.
Garlands added texture.
Decorations reflected the warm glow.
It looked magnificent.
Exactly the kind of tree Leah had imagined.
The kind of tree that transformed a house into a home during Christmas.
Cheddar sat nearby chewing happily on a toy.
Seemingly satisfied now that he had successfully regained some attention.
At least temporarily.
Leah stepped back.
Admiring their work.
"We did well."
"We did."
She smiled.
Proud.
Happy.
The tree lights reflected softly in her eyes.
For a moment neither spoke.
They simply stood together.
Looking at what they had created.
A simple Christmas tree.
Yet somehow it felt important.
Because football dominated so much of their lives.
Matches.
Travel.
Pressure.
Expectations.
Awards.
Trophies.
All of it.
Moments like this were different.
Simple.
Human.
Normal.
The kind of moments that often mattered most.
Behind them, Cheddar suddenly decided peace had lasted long enough.
Without warning, he grabbed a loose ribbon and sprinted across the room.
Dragging it behind him like stolen treasure.
Leah gasped.
"Cheddar!"
The dog accelerated.
Tail wagging furiously.
Francesco burst out laughing.
The ribbon trailed across the floor as Cheddar raced around the living room.
Proud of himself.
Thrilled with himself.
Completely convinced he had achieved greatness.
Leah chased him.
Cheddar ran faster.
Francesco laughed so hard he nearly fell onto the sofa.
Eventually the ribbon was recovered.
Justice was served.
And Cheddar received exactly what he had wanted all along.
Attention.
Lots of attention.
As Christmas Eve settled over Richmond and darkness covered the gardens outside, the mansion finally felt ready for the holiday.
The Christmas tree stood proudly in the living room.
The decorations sparkled.
The lights glowed warmly.
Cheddar curled up near the sofa after exhausting himself with mischief.
And for the first time since returning from Paris, there was no Ballon d'Or conversation.
No football discussion.
No talk about records.
Or transfers.
Or trophies.
Just Christmas.
Just home.
Just two people and a mischievous dog enjoying a rare peaceful evening together before the next chapter of football inevitably arrived.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 19 (2017)
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