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On that stage, Wenger and Francesco stood side by side, hoisting the great silver cup above their heads, their teammates piling in around them, hands raised, voices hoarse with triumph. Because for the first time in their history, Arsenal were Champions of Europe.
The confetti was still raining down, drifting like tiny shards of silver and red snow across the San Siro, when the announcer's voice broke gently through the cacophony.
"Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome onto the pitch the families of the champions."
It was a detail few in the crowd noticed at first—the noise was too volcanic, the songs too loud. But down by the touchline, behind the advertising boards, stewards and UEFA staff were beginning to part the barriers. A different kind of procession began.
They came cautiously at first, those families—wives, girlfriends, parents, children—hesitant under the glare of 80,000 eyes, but drawn forward by love too strong to be denied. Security ushered them toward the grass, and when the first child in a tiny Arsenal shirt darted out across the turf into his father's waiting arms, the dam burst.
All around the stadium, the supporters roared again, not for goals this time, but for reunions. For the sight of footballers transformed back into sons, into husbands, into fathers.
Francesco had been at the very heart of the storm, the trophy still in his hand, the weight of Arsenal's history still pressing down on his shoulders. But when he looked past his teammates, past the confetti and the lights and the flashing cameras, he saw something that cut through everything.
His family.
Mike and Sarah, his parents, stood arm in arm, their faces streaked with tears and pride. His mother had her hand clamped over her mouth, as if the moment was too big to breathe in all at once. His father's eyes were red but steady, fixed on his son as though committing every detail to memory.
And beside them was Leah.
Leah Williamson, his girlfriend, her blonde hair catching the lights, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She wasn't alone—her parents, David and Amanda, flanked her, both smiling wide, their pride unmistakable. Her younger brother Jacob was there too, already waving both arms wildly, shouting something that was swallowed by the crowd.
The second Francesco saw them, the cup in his hands suddenly felt like an afterthought. He shoved it into Giroud's chest, the Frenchman laughing as he nearly stumbled with its weight, and sprinted.
The cameras caught it all—the captain of Europe's new champions tearing across the confetti-strewn pitch, the medal bouncing on his chest, the match ball still tucked under his arm, his smile so wide it threatened to split his face.
"Francesco!" Leah screamed, her voice cracking, her hands reaching out before he even reached them.
And then he was there, colliding into them like a wave.
His arms went around his parents first, pulling Mike and Sarah in so tight that Sarah's scarf nearly slipped off her shoulders. She clung to him, burying her face in his chest, sobbing with the force of twenty years of hope and fear and sacrifice. Mike clapped his son on the back so hard it echoed, muttering, "You've done it, boy. You've bloody done it."
Francesco kissed his mother's forehead, then his father's cheek, the tears streaming down his own face now indistinguishable from sweat. "Couldn't have done it without you," he said, voice ragged. "This… this is for you."
And then Leah was there.
He turned, arms open, and she flew into them. He lifted her clean off the ground, spinning her once, twice, her laugh breaking through her tears. The stadium roared louder, fans cheering the sight of their captain kissing his girlfriend beneath the falling confetti, the two of them locked in a moment that belonged to them but was shared by millions.
"I knew you would do it," she whispered against his ear, her voice trembling. "I always knew."
Francesco held her tighter, pressing his forehead to hers, his voice breaking. "I did it for you too. For us. For everything."
Her parents came next. David, broad-shouldered and smiling, shook Francesco's hand with a grip that spoke volumes. "You made her proud," he said simply, his eyes shining. Amanda hugged him too, motherly and fierce, whispering, "Take care of each other."
And then Jacob, bouncing on his toes, shouted, "You're a legend, mate! A hat-trick in the final! Can I hold the ball?!"
Francesco laughed through his tears, pulling the boy into a rough hug before handing him the match ball. "Don't lose it," he grinned. "That's history you're holding."
Jacob's eyes went wide as saucers, clutching the ball as if it were made of gold. "I won't! I promise!"
Around them, other Arsenal players were collapsing into their families too. Wilshere had his children in his arms, kissing their heads as they tugged at his medal. Alexis held his partner close, the two of them wrapped in a flag of Chile. Giroud was down on his knees with his little daughter perched on his shoulders, both of them laughing so loud it carried even through the noise.
It was chaos, but it was beautiful chaos—football stripped back to what mattered most.
Francesco stayed in the middle of it, moving from one embrace to another, never letting go of Leah's hand as he introduced her parents to his own, the families mingling in joy. Sarah hugged Leah tightly, whispering, "You're part of this too now," while Amanda clasped Mike's hand, both parents glowing with the shared pride of raising children who had found each other.
The cameras circled, the commentators barely able to keep up with the flood of emotion. "Look at this," one voice said, awed. "This is more than football now. This is life. This is family. Francesco Lee, Arsenal's captain, celebrating the greatest night of his career with the people who made him who he is."
Leah's head rested on Francesco's shoulder, her hand brushing the medal at his chest. "It looks good on you," she teased softly.
He laughed, kissing her hair. "It looks better with you beside me."
The celebrations were still raging across the San Siro pitch, a blur of red confetti, family reunions, and raw emotion, when a hand touched Francesco's shoulder.
He turned, still holding Leah's hand, to see a UEFA staffer in a navy blazer and headset. The man's expression was polite but firm, the kind of smile that belonged to someone who had done this dozens of times but knew tonight was special.
"Francesco," he said over the din, leaning close so his words weren't lost in the storm. "We need you for a moment. You've been selected as the official UEFA Man of the Match. There's a short presentation and then… interviews. They're waiting for you on the sideline."
Leah squeezed his fingers. His parents were still wrapped up in conversation with David and Amanda, Jacob still clutching the match ball like treasure. Francesco's first instinct was reluctance—how could he step away now, from this pure warmth, this once-in-a-lifetime togetherness?
But Leah gave him the look—the one that was both encouragement and command, the one that told him she understood even when he couldn't find the words. "Go," she whispered. "This is your night. We'll be right here when you're done."
He bent and kissed her quickly, then hugged his parents once more, murmuring, "Don't go anywhere." Mike grinned, clapping him again. Sarah wiped her eyes.
Then Francesco straightened, medal glinting against his chest, and followed the UEFA official across the pitch.
The noise was deafening, but somehow, as he approached the sideline, it shifted. The crowd had realized what was happening. Chants started again, rising in waves:
"FRAN-CES-CO! MAN OF THE MATCH! FRAN-CES-CO!"
The words rolled down the San Siro like thunder. Francesco's throat tightened as he walked up the short platform that had been erected by the dugouts. A small presentation stand stood there, draped in UEFA blue, and waiting behind it was Angel María Villar again, flanked by two UEFA staffers holding the distinctive crystal-shaped Man of the Match award.
It sparkled under the floodlights, refracting the red confetti still floating in the air.
The announcer's voice boomed:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the UEFA official Man of the Match… with a hat-trick in the Champions League Final… Francesco Lee!"
The stadium erupted, Arsenal fans screaming themselves hoarse, Madrid fans—gracious despite their heartbreak—applauding as well.
Francesco stepped forward. Villar shook his hand warmly, then handed him the crystal award. It was smaller than the great trophy he had lifted minutes ago, but in its own way, it felt just as heavy. Not because of the material—but because of what it meant.
He raised it briefly toward the Arsenal fans, who exploded again, then lowered it and tucked it carefully under his arm, next to the match ball that Jacob still held.
But he wasn't allowed to leave just yet. A microphone appeared, thrust gently toward him by a UEFA press officer in a suit. A television camera zoomed in close, its red light blinking.
"Francesco," the interviewer began, his voice carrying through the broadcast feed across the world. "Man of the Match. Hat-trick in the Champions League Final. Arsenal's first ever European Cup. Try, if you can, to put this into words for us."
Francesco exhaled, shaking his head, sweat still dripping, his hair stuck to his forehead. He adjusted the medal on his chest and looked up toward the Arsenal fans. His voice cracked when he finally spoke.
"I… I don't even know where to begin," he said, almost laughing at himself. "This—this is everything. This is every night as a kid dreaming, every kick in the park, every time I watched Arsenal and imagined myself there. And tonight… to score three goals, to help my team, to give our fans this moment… it's unbelievable. It's not just my award. This is for the whole team. For the boss. For the fans. For everyone who believed in me."
The interviewer smiled, nodding. "Did you ever imagine—really—that this night could end this way?"
Francesco's eyes flicked toward where Leah and his parents stood on the touchline, watching him with shining eyes. He swallowed. "I imagined it," he admitted softly. "But living it… that's different. This is beyond dreams. This is life."
The reporter let the words hang in the air, the crowd still chanting his name. Then, with a final handshake, he gestured toward the sideline. "Congratulations, Francesco. We'll let you join Sky Sports now. They're waiting for you."
The handover was quick. Another staffer guided him across the grass, where a section of the sideline had been cordoned off for the post-match broadcast. Big floodlights had been set up, illuminating a desk emblazoned with the Sky Sports logo. Behind it sat four men, legends in their own right—Gary Neville, Jamie Carragher, Thierry Henry, and Raúl González.
Each wore a headset and suit, microphones clipped neatly, but their eyes were locked on him as he approached, the Man of the Match award glinting in his hand.
Gary Neville was the first to stand, extending his hand. "Francesco. Wow. What a performance."
Francesco shook his hand firmly, then Carragher's, then Henry's—who pulled him briefly into a hug, smiling like a proud uncle—and finally Raúl's, who clasped his hand with the respect of a man who had once lived nights like this himself.
"Take a seat, champ," Carragher said with a grin, patting the empty chair between Henry and Raúl.
Francesco lowered himself onto it, still catching his breath, the medal tinkling softly as it bumped the glass table. He set the crystal award in front of him, glancing at it as if to check it was real.
Gary Neville leaned in, smiling into the camera. "We are joined by the man of the night, Arsenal's captain, Francesco Lee. Francesco… where do we even begin? A hat-trick in a Champions League final. You've written yourself into football history tonight. Tell us—what's going through your head right now?"
Francesco rubbed a hand over his face, laughing almost nervously. "Honestly, Gary? It hasn't sunk in. It feels… surreal. I'm sitting here with you lot, holding this thing, with a medal around my neck… I don't know if it's real yet."
Carragher chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, it's very real. And let me tell you, as a defender—I'm just glad I wasn't the one trying to stop you tonight. Those finishes, the movement, the composure… that was world-class."
Francesco grinned, shrugging modestly. "I just tried to do my job. The team put me in those positions. Özil, Alexis, Héctor… everyone. Without them, I don't score anything."
Thierry Henry, who had been watching him with a mixture of pride and nostalgia, finally leaned in. His voice was softer, almost fatherly. "Francesco… you know what this means. For the club. For the fans. You've given Arsenal what we've been waiting our whole lives for. How does it feel to be the man who delivered that?"
The weight of Henry's words hit Francesco harder than anything yet. He swallowed, eyes glistening again. "It feels… like a responsibility. But also like the biggest honor of my life. Thierry, you're one of the reasons I ever dreamed of wearing this shirt. To stand here, after a final like that, and hear you say this… it means the world."
Henry smiled, visibly moved, and gave his knee a squeeze under the table.
Raúl spoke next, his Spanish accent smooth but his tone heavy with respect. "Francesco… tonight you defeated Real Madrid, my club, a team I love. But I must tell you—watching you tonight, I could only admire. It reminded me of what football is about. You showed courage, passion, and respect. And that is why you deserve this moment."
Francesco turned to him, nodding deeply. "Thank you, Raúl. Coming from you… that's huge. You were one of my idols too. I had your name on a shirt when I was a kid. To sit here with you now—it's crazy."
The panel laughed warmly, the cameras catching every moment.
Gary Neville leaned in again, grinning. "So, Francesco—hat-trick in the final, Champions League trophy, Man of the Match. What's next? Where do you go from here?"
Francesco's answer came without hesitation. He looked directly into the camera, voice steady despite the whirlwind around him.
"What's next? The Premier League. The double. And after that… to keep going. To keep pushing. I want to make history with Arsenal. I want us to be remembered forever."
Francesco didn't flinch. He leaned forward just slightly, elbows resting on the desk, the UEFA Man of the Match crystal glinting in front of him, his medal still hanging heavy around his neck. The San Siro's chaos roared in the background—songs, chants, fireworks popping in the distance—but in that moment, under the glare of the broadcast lights, it felt as though the world had gone silent, waiting for what he'd say.
He gave a small smile, one that seemed to balance on the line between humility and unshakable confidence, and spoke clearly into the camera.
"And after this," he said, his voice steady, "after leading Arsenal to our first European trophy… and our first Treble in club history…" He paused, letting the weight of those words settle, the crowd noise even dipping as though instinctively. "I will lead England this summer. I will lead my country at Euro 2016. And I will bring football back home."
The words hit like thunder.
Neville's eyebrows shot up. Carragher's mouth fell open slightly, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. Henry's eyes widened, then softened into an approving grin, while Raúl simply blinked, momentarily stunned by the sheer conviction of the young striker sitting in front of him.
But the San Siro crowd, with tens of thousands of English voices mingled among them, heard it. They roared. It wasn't just Arsenal fans now—it was English supporters, traveling neutrals, even Italians and Spaniards who respected audacity when they heard it. A chant broke out almost instantly from the Arsenal end, picked up by traveling England fans who were already dreaming ahead:
"FOOT-BALL'S COMING HOME! FOOT-BALL'S COMING HOME!"
Francesco didn't break eye contact with the camera, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp, like a man who had already seen the future and was simply reporting it.
Carragher leaned back, laughing in disbelief, shaking his head. "Wow. Wow. That's—listen, that's a big statement, lad. Champions League final one minute, promising the Euros the next. Do you know what you've just said?"
Francesco finally allowed himself to grin, glancing sideways at Carragher. "I know exactly what I said, Jamie. And I meant every word. This is just the start."
Gary Neville chuckled, but his tone carried a mix of amusement and seriousness. "You're putting a target on your back there, Francesco. The whole of Europe will have just heard you say that. You're saying you can carry Arsenal and England in the same summer? That's pressure on another level."
"Pressure," Francesco replied, leaning back in his chair now, "is what makes diamonds. Tonight was pressure. Tonight was Real Madrid in a Champions League final. Tonight was history on the line. And we delivered. England's been waiting too long. We've got the players, we've got the fight, and we've got the belief. I'm ready. We're ready."
The confidence in his tone wasn't arrogance—it was conviction. Even the panel could feel the difference. It wasn't the bluster of a cocky young forward; it was the steel of a man who had just conquered Europe and refused to stop there.
Henry finally spoke, a smile tugging at his lips, his hand gesturing toward Francesco as though he were presenting him to the world. "I like it. I like it a lot. People will call it bold, maybe too bold, but… I've been there. I know what it means when you feel unstoppable, when you feel like the moment belongs to you. Francesco is not just saying this—he believes it. And when you believe it that much… sometimes, it happens."
Raúl, still processing, nodded slowly. "It takes courage to say such things. In Spain, we say, 'El que no arriesga, no gana'—who does not risk, does not win. He has risked with his words tonight. Now he must prove them."
Francesco nodded respectfully. "And I will."
The noise behind them only grew. Arsenal fans had picked up the England chant again, mixing it with his name. "FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!" They weren't just celebrating a final anymore—they were rallying behind a new symbol, a player who had stepped onto the grandest stage and declared war on history itself.
Carragher leaned forward again, smirking. "Well, Gareth Southgate—if he's watching—will be sitting there either with the biggest grin or with his heart pounding."
Neville corrected him with a laugh. "Roy Hodgson, Jamie. Southgate's the U21s."
Carragher waved dismissively, still grinning. "You know what I mean. The England manager's just been handed a live grenade by this lad."
The camera zoomed in on Francesco again, his expression calm but burning with fire beneath the surface.
"I'll say it again," he said, voice firmer now. "This is our time. Arsenal's. England's. Football is coming home."
The panel wrapped up eventually, thanking him, congratulating him once more, but the electricity of his words lingered in the air like a storm refusing to break. As Francesco left the desk, shaking their hands again, Thierry pulled him into another hug, whispering something in his ear—something only Francesco could hear, though the look in Henry's eyes suggested it was an anointing of sorts, a passing of the torch.
When Francesco stepped back onto the grass, his teammates were still scattered in clusters, celebrating with families and fans. Leah spotted him instantly, her face lit up by the floodlights, her hand rising in a small wave. His parents were beside her, Jacob still gripping the match ball as though it were life itself.
As he walked back toward them, though, he noticed the ripple moving through the Arsenal supporters—chants shifting, banners waving even more furiously, a new rhythm catching fire among them. It wasn't just "Arsenal, Arsenal" anymore.
It was:
"ENGLAND! ENGLAND! ENGLAND!"
The fans had connected the dots. His words had been carried across the San Siro, across television screens, across radios and phones. In one sentence, he had turned from Arsenal's talisman into England's standard-bearer.
And he could feel it. The weight. The responsibility. The possibility.
When he reached Leah, she didn't speak right away. She just looked at him, eyes wide, shaking her head with something between awe and disbelief. Then, finally, she laughed and said, "You really don't do small statements, do you?"
Francesco smiled, pulling her close, planting a kiss on her temple. "Why would I? Small statements don't change history."
The smile was still on Leah's lips when the call came. A few Arsenal staffers were waving toward Francesco, gesturing for him to join the rest of the squad near the halfway line. The red-and-white sea in the stands hadn't stopped moving for a second, flags whipping, scarves raised, songs booming into the Milan night.
"It looks like they're ready," Leah said softly, brushing his arm. "Go on. They want you."
Francesco pressed a quick kiss to her hair and hugged his parents once more, Jacob still refusing to let go of the match ball. "Keep that safe," he told his little brother. "That's treasure."
Jacob nodded fiercely, eyes glowing, as though he were holding Excalibur itself.
Then Francesco turned and jogged toward his teammates.
The Arsenal squad was beginning to gather together in a loose circle, arms slung around shoulders, the European Cup still glinting like a sun in Mikel Arteta's grasp. The coaching staff, physios, and kit men stood just behind, some already with their phones out to capture what was about to happen.
Per Mertesacker spotted Francesco first and beckoned him over. "Captain!" the German boomed, grinning, his arm stretched wide. "Time for the lap!"
As Francesco slipped into the circle, Alexis Sánchez slapped him on the back, laughing. "You and your speeches, hermano," he teased, shaking his head. "Now you've got the whole country watching us!"
Mesut Özil smiled faintly beside him, more reserved but with warmth in his eyes. "He's not wrong, though," Özil murmured. "We can do it. Why not?"
Francesco glanced around at all of them — his brothers in arms, sweat-soaked, grinning, some still teary-eyed. He didn't need to say anything more. A nod was enough. And then, almost instinctively, they began to move together, breaking out of their circle and heading toward the corner flag where the Arsenal fans were packed the densest.
The lap of honour.
The noise rose as soon as they began. It wasn't orderly, not at first — more like a surge of joy that erupted with each step. Fans scrambled down closer to the barriers, holding out shirts, flags, programmes. Some of them had been here since mid-morning, crammed into the stands, singing their voices hoarse even before kickoff. Now they were being rewarded in the most intimate way: their heroes, walking right before them, trophy in hand, sharing the victory face to face.
Bellerín was the first to jog ahead, draping a huge Spanish flag around his shoulders like a cape, but when he reached the supporters he slowed, clapping above his head. The roar that met him was deafening. Aaron Ramsey followed, bouncing with that loose-limbed energy of his, pointing into the crowd when he recognised a Welsh flag waving proudly.
And then there was Francesco.
The fans' reaction to him was different. Louder, more sustained, more desperate. People reached out as though they needed to touch him, to make sure he was real, that this wasn't some dream from which they'd wake tomorrow morning. Children held homemade signs — LEE, OUR HERO! CAPTAIN FANTASTIC! TAKE US TO EURO GLORY! — while grown men wept openly, singing his name with trembling voices.
Francesco slowed his pace deliberately, letting himself absorb it. He clapped his hands high above his head, turning side to side, bowing his head once in thanks, then raising his medal to show them. When a kid no older than Jacob held out a programme, eyes wide with tears, Francesco stopped, crouched down, and signed it. The boy's scream of joy nearly matched the stadium's decibel level.
The lap carried them along, a current of celebration. Players draped scarves around their necks, tossed their shirts into the stands, swapped flags with supporters leaning over the rails. Alexis lifted the European Cup high above his head, holding it out toward the crowd before kissing it once more. Giroud, never one to miss a theatrical moment, blew exaggerated kisses after scoring fans with his shirt.
At one point, Petr Čech walked arm in arm with Mertesacker, both towering, both veterans who had seen and lost finals before. They looked around almost in awe, like men who understood exactly how rare this night was.
When the group reached the far end, near the section where the Madrid supporters were, the noise shifted. There was no anger, no bitterness — just respect. Madrid fans, many of whom had stayed in their seats despite the heartbreak, rose to applaud. It was subdued, but it was sincere. They recognised greatness when they saw it, and they had just been beaten by something historic.
Francesco was the one who walked closest to them. He clapped respectfully back at the Madrid end, raising a hand in salute, bowing his head slightly. And then, with the match ball tucked under his arm — the very one Jacob had clutched before — he held it aloft toward them in acknowledgement. A gesture that said: Thank you. For the battle. For the respect.
The applause grew louder.
By the time they reached the Arsenal end again, the lap was nearly complete. But instead of stopping, the players bunched together in front of their own fans, forming a line, arms linked. Then, with one great shout, they ran forward to the barrier, sliding on their knees, celebrating as one with the supporters who had crossed countries to be here.
Francesco found himself in the middle of it, crushed between Alexis and Koscielny, laughing, shouting, hair and jersey soaked with champagne spray from behind. The fans leaned down, hands brushing the players, songs rolling over them like waves.
"CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE! YOU'LL NEVER SING THAT!"
The chant stung Madrid's pride but lifted Arsenal's to the heavens.
As the team finally stood again, breathless from laughter, the European Cup was passed back into Francesco's hands. The captain. The hat-trick hero. The man who had promised not just tonight, but tomorrow too.
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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, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, and 2015/2016 Champions League
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9