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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.
The European Cup felt heavier than it had on the pitch. Not in a bad way — more in the way a crown feels heavier than a hat, the way a promise weighs more than a word. Francesco carried it down the San Siro tunnel like a man shouldering both joy and responsibility.
The corridor reverberated with noise — Arsenal staff shouting, players still singing snatches of songs, the sound of studs clattering against the concrete floor. Every so often, a random spray of champagne mist would arc through the air as someone popped another bottle. The whole space smelled like sweat, beer, and glory.
"CAPTAIN!" Coquelin yelled, catching up to him, arm thrown around his shoulder. He was grinning so wide it looked painful. "You see the Madrid fans clapping you? Man, they hate losing — and they still clapped! You've gone and done it!"
Francesco laughed, bumping his head gently against his teammate's. "It wasn't just me."
"Oh, shut up with the modesty!" Alexis shouted from further ahead, holding the half-empty bottle of champagne he'd been carrying since the podium. "You scored a hat-trick in a Champions League final! You're never buying a drink again in London, hermano!"
The locker room doors finally swung open, and the sight that greeted them was bedlam waiting to happen. Inside, the walls were already dripping with condensation, the air sticky from humidity and celebration. Someone had lined up bottles of champagne in the corner — who, no one quite knew, but it didn't matter. It was tradition, and Arsenal were not about to skip tradition.
As the players piled in, the noise doubled, then tripled. Shirts came off, boots were kicked aside, and music — blaring, thumping, some mix of Spanish reggaeton and English grime — erupted from a speaker someone had smuggled in.
And then the first cork popped.
It was Giroud, of course. He had climbed onto one of the benches, bottle in hand, striking a pose like a Roman general about to christen his troops. "Mes amis!" he shouted, voice carrying over the chaos. "To history!"
The cork shot across the room, bouncing off a locker, and then came the spray. Champagne rained down, soaking his hair, drenching those nearest to him. Alexis ripped another cork free and retaliated, aiming his bottle squarely at Giroud, who nearly slipped off the bench in surprise.
Within seconds, the room was a storm. Showers of champagne hit walls, ceilings, and players alike. Coquelin and Bellerín teamed up to drench Mertesacker, who simply stood there laughing, arms wide, letting it pour over his bald head like holy water. Petr Čech tried to shield himself with a towel, but someone — probably Ramsey — ripped it away and dumped an entire bottle over the veteran keeper's head.
Francesco, still clutching the European Cup, was the target everyone wanted to soak. He knew it too, which was why he tried, for the first minute, to dodge sprays and weave between bodies. But there was no escaping destiny.
Koscielny and Monreal ambushed him from behind, each with a bottle, drenching him until his hair stuck to his forehead and his shirt clung to his chest. "CAPTAIN SOAKED!" Monreal laughed, nearly doubling over.
Francesco could only raise the trophy higher, letting the liquid cascade down it like a waterfall. "LET IT COME!" he shouted, laughing until his ribs ached.
The cameras were there too — club staff, UEFA crews, even a few journalists given rare access. But in that moment, the players forgot them. This wasn't for the outside world. This was theirs. Their madness, their catharsis, their proof that years of doubt and pain had ended in glory.
At one point, Wenger himself walked in, jacket damp already from some earlier ambush. The players froze for half a second, just long enough for him to raise an eyebrow. "Well?" he said dryly, adjusting his tie that was already askew. "Why have I not been soaked yet?"
The silence broke into shrieks. Thirty grown men charged at him, armed with champagne and water bottles. Wenger's glasses fogged instantly, his hair matted, his suit clung like paper. And yet he stood in the middle of it all, smiling like a grandfather whose children had finally come home.
When it finally eased, the floor was slick, puddles forming around boots and socks. Music still pounded, laughter still echoed, and the smell of champagne had permanently seeped into the walls. Players collapsed onto benches, panting like they'd played another ninety minutes.
Amid it all, Francesco sat in the corner, the European Cup still in his lap. He ran his hand along its surface, tracing the engraved names of champions past. His gold medal hung heavy around his neck, soaked and sticky, but he didn't care.
Around him, his brothers in red still shouted and danced, but he let the moment wash over him. This — this was what he'd dreamed of as a boy in Richmond, kicking a battered ball against brick walls. This was why he'd chosen Arsenal, why he'd bled for the badge.
For a long minute, he just closed his eyes, listening.
Outside the dressing room, the stadium was emptying, though its echoes lingered. Families had gathered briefly in the players' tunnel earlier, hugs exchanged, photos snapped, tears shed. Now, though, the Arsenal family and girlfriends were being ushered back toward team buses and hotels.
Leah walked hand in hand with Francesco's mother, the two laughing softly despite the late hour. "He'll never sleep tonight," she said knowingly. "Not after this."
His mother smiled, pride lighting her face. "None of us will."
Jacob was still carrying the match ball, refusing to let anyone else touch it. He held it close to his chest, chin resting on its surface, as though he were guarding a piece of the moon. Whenever someone teased him, he simply shook his head and whispered, "Treasure."
The hotel would be waiting — suites prepared, food laid out, champagne ready for the families too. But for now, they walked in a happy daze through the Milan night, the echoes of victory following them.
The showers steamed like a storm cloud had gathered inside the tiled room. Players filed in, one by one, still half-drunk on adrenaline and champagne. The spray of hot water cut through the sticky residue of celebration — sweat, beer, victory. For a moment, all the noise of the locker room faded into the rhythmic hiss of water striking skin and tile.
Francesco stood beneath one of the showerheads, tilting his head back, letting the water pour down over him. The trophy was safely propped against the bench outside, within eyesight but out of danger from the spray. He let his hands rub over his face, washing away the champagne that had dried tacky into his hair.
"Feels like another ninety minutes, eh?" Coquelin muttered from the next stall over, scrubbing at his arms.
Francesco chuckled, voice muffled by the water. "Except this time, we don't need to defend corners."
A ripple of laughter echoed across the room. Even here, banter survived. Giroud started singing again, his voice bouncing off the walls, but this time it was quieter, more intimate. Alexis threw in harmonies, and soon enough a small choir of hoarse voices filled the steamy air. It wasn't polished, but it was theirs.
By the time they emerged, toweling off and pulling on the fresh red-and-white Arsenal tracksuits laid out by kit staff, the locker room looked almost civilized again — if you ignored the puddles of champagne still drying on the floor and the faint smell of celebration embedded in the air. Players slung their medals around their necks, some wearing them proudly outside the tracksuit jacket, others slipping them into pockets like a secret.
The European Cup was the last thing to leave. Francesco picked it up again, cradling it against his chest as though it were a newborn. He could feel every set of eyes follow him, not with envy but with reverence. It wasn't his trophy. It was theirs. But they trusted him to carry it.
The bus ride back to the hotel was a carnival on wheels. The big Arsenal team coach hummed through the Milan night, headlights catching the quiet streets that had finally emptied after the chaos of the match. Inside, though, it was anything but quiet.
Players sprawled across the plush seats, phones out, FaceTiming family, posting videos, or simply recording every second. Bellerín stood up in the aisle, filming a selfie video that immediately erupted into noise when Alexis popped into frame with his medal between his teeth.
"CHAMPIONS, BABY!" Alexis screamed into the camera, nearly deafening everyone within five rows.
Francesco sat near the middle, trophy balanced on his lap. Jacob had finally fallen asleep two rows behind him, still holding the match ball against his chest like it was part of him. Leah sat beside Francesco, her head resting on his shoulder, her smile soft but endless. She hadn't said much since leaving the stadium, but she didn't need to. Her eyes carried everything: pride, love, relief.
At the back of the bus, Mertesacker tried to lead a singalong, his deep voice booming out a German folk tune that no one else knew the words to. Within moments, Alexis had hijacked it into a Spanish chant, and then Theo turned it into a grime verse. Chaos. Joyful chaos.
Through it all, Francesco kept one hand resting on the cool silver handles of the Cup, as if afraid it might vanish if he let go. He stared out the window now and again, watching Milan's lights blur by, and thought about the weight of it all. About tomorrow. About the fans waiting back in London who had lived through the barren years, the near misses, the heartbreaks. This wasn't just theirs — it was for them.
The bus finally rolled to a halt outside the hotel, a sleek glass-fronted building lit up against the night. Security had cordoned off the entrance, but even at this late hour, clusters of Arsenal supporters lingered outside, chanting softly, voices hoarse but determined to catch a glimpse of their heroes.
The moment Francesco stepped off the bus, still holding the trophy, a wave of applause erupted. Not just from the fans — but from the hotel staff lined up at the entrance. Receptionists, porters, cleaners, chefs — all had gathered, forming a corridor of clapping hands and beaming smiles.
"Congratulations, champions!" one of the staff called out in a thick Italian accent. "Grande Arsenal!"
Francesco felt his chest swell. He raised the Cup above his head, and the cheer that followed rattled the hotel's glass doors. For a fleeting second, it felt like walking through a guard of honour. The players behind him joined in, raising medals, waving scarves, singing snatches of their terrace songs.
Inside, the lobby buzzed with life. The marble floor gleamed under bright chandeliers, but no one cared about elegance tonight. The staff had laid out trays of champagne flutes, though most players ignored them in favour of heading straight toward the restaurant, where a late-night buffet awaited.
The restaurant was transformed into a second locker room celebration. Long tables were laden with pasta, pizza, roast meats, fruit platters — a spread fit for royalty. Players piled plates high, not caring for balance or taste. After ninety minutes, extra adrenaline, and gallons of champagne, they were starving.
"Eat like champions!" Giroud declared, already balancing a plate in each hand.
Somewhere near the corner, Wenger sat with his assistants, sipping a glass of red wine. He didn't say much, but his smile — rare, genuine, unguarded — said everything. Every so often, a player would come over, drape an arm around him, and snap a photo. The man who had been their constant through the years was now the man who had guided them to the peak.
Francesco ate quickly, not from hunger but from ritual. He wanted to be there, laughing with his teammates, watching Alexis and Coquelin argue over who could eat more pizza, listening to Petr Čech tell a story that had everyone howling with laughter. But his eyes kept drifting to the trophy, which now sat on the table like the honoured guest at a banquet. Even half the food seemed to be ignored in favour of players sneaking another photo with it.
As the clock crept toward three in the morning, fatigue finally began to set in. The adrenaline had burned, the champagne had worn thin, and the long day started to press heavy on their shoulders. One by one, players pushed back chairs, yawning, dragging themselves toward lifts.
"Tomorrow," Ramsey murmured, passing Francesco on the way out. "Tomorrow will be even bigger."
Francesco nodded. He knew it. London was waiting. The parade, the fans, the homecoming. If tonight was for them, tomorrow was for the thousands who had bled red and white in the stands year after year.
Morning came slowly. Not with fanfare, not with music or champagne, but with the kind of heavy silence that only follows a night where the soul has been wrung dry. The Milan sun leaked through the blinds in thin strips, casting bars of light across the hotel room floor.
Francesco blinked awake at around ten. For a moment, there was disorientation, a foggy pause where he wasn't sure if it had all been a dream — the noise, the trophy, the champagne-soaked suit, the parade through the lobby. His head felt heavy, not from alcohol but from sheer exhaustion.
Then he turned his head and saw the European Cup sitting on the desk by the window, sunlight glinting off its wide silver ears. It sat there silently, but it was loud enough. Real. Heavy. His.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it groggily and saw Leah's name light up the screen. It was a text.
Leah: We're heading back to London now with your mum and my parents. We'll see you there tonight. Don't let that trophy out of your sight, captain. ❤️
A small smile pulled at the corners of his lips. He reread it twice before setting the phone down. That was Leah all over — warm, steady, teasing just enough to remind him he wasn't allowed to float off into the clouds completely.
He sat up slowly, stretching his arms until his joints cracked. The bed sheets still carried the faint smell of champagne from his hair the night before. He rubbed his face, breathed deep, and reminded himself that there was still more to do. Winning was one thing. Bringing it home was another.
The shower washed the last of the night away. Steam filled the bathroom, and Francesco stood under the hot water longer than he usually would. His body was sore in places he hadn't realized during the adrenaline rush — thighs tight from sprints, shoulders heavy from the strain of holding the Cup aloft, ribs aching from where teammates had pounded him in celebration.
When he stepped out, he pulled on the fresh Arsenal tracksuit that had been laid out by the kit staff the night before. The crest on the chest seemed to shine brighter now, as if the shirt itself knew what they had done. He looped the gold medal around his neck — not because he needed to wear it at breakfast, but because it felt wrong to take it off just yet.
He gathered his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and glanced back at the desk. The trophy sat there, gleaming. He walked over, placed both hands on the handles, and lifted it. It was no lighter than the night before, but somehow it felt easier to carry.
The hotel restaurant was quieter than it had been during the banquet. The wildness of last night had been replaced by the gentle clatter of cutlery and low chatter. Players sat in groups of two or three, some still rubbing sleep from their eyes, others already halfway through towering plates of scrambled eggs and toast.
"Morning, captain," Ramsey greeted him, raising a coffee mug.
Francesco set the trophy down on the table nearest him and slid into a chair. "Morning."
Alexis was already there, cutting into a mountain of pancakes as though it were a personal rival. "You sleep?" he asked through a mouthful, syrup dripping from his fork.
"Not much," Francesco admitted.
"Me neither," Alexis grinned. "But who cares? We're champions!" He raised his fork like a toast before shoving it back into his mouth.
Petr Čech walked past with a plate of fruit and granola, pausing only to pat Francesco on the shoulder. "Don't get used to it," he said in that calm, measured tone of his. "Every trophy is earned again."
"Trust you to be the serious one," Bellerín called from across the room, earning a chuckle from everyone.
Francesco ate slowly — eggs, toast, and a cup of black coffee. He wasn't particularly hungry, but Wenger had always drilled it into them: recovery starts with fuel. And though Wenger wasn't hovering, his presence was everywhere, in the little rituals, in the reminders etched into their habits.
As if on cue, the man himself appeared at the doorway. Jacket pressed, tie neat, glasses perched on his nose. He moved through the room like he always did — calm, unhurried, but commanding all the same. Players straightened slightly in their chairs without even realizing it.
He cleared his throat gently, drawing eyes toward him. "Gentlemen," he began, his French accent rolling over the word like silk. "Congratulations again. But today, we return home. At twelve o'clock sharp, we leave for the airport. Please be ready in the lobby with your belongings. The club has arranged everything."
There were nods around the room, murmured agreements. Wenger's gaze softened. "Enjoy your breakfast. You deserve it. But remember — tomorrow is for the fans. They have waited a long time. We must give them the joy they deserve."
With that, he turned and moved toward the coffee table, pouring himself a small cup. The room exhaled again, conversation resuming, though with a thread of anticipation woven through it now.
By the time the clock neared noon, the hotel lobby buzzed with movement. Players trickled down from their rooms, bags slung over shoulders, headphones around necks, medals still flashing in the light. Francesco stood near the doors, the Cup resting at his feet, nodding greetings as each teammate arrived.
Coquelin bounded up, grinning wide. "You sure you don't want me to carry it for you?"
Francesco shook his head, smiling. "Not a chance."
"Worth a try."
At precisely twelve, Wenger appeared, flanked by club officials. His voice carried easily over the murmur. "Alright, gentlemen. The buses are waiting. Let's go home."
The team bus pulled away from the hotel just as the Milan streets were beginning to hum with the rhythm of a Sunday afternoon. Locals paused on sidewalks, phones raised, not because they were Arsenal fans but because they knew who had been in their city last night. Some clapped politely, others just stared. A few children waved scarves that weren't even Arsenal's colors, their parents laughing softly as the coach rumbled past. Football, after all, belonged to everyone here.
Inside the bus, it was quieter than one might expect from a team that had just conquered Europe. The adrenaline had faded into something softer — a calm, reflective hum. Players lounged in their seats, headphones on, eyes half-shut against the glare of the Milan sun. Some scrolled endlessly on their phones, watching clips of their goals, replays of Francesco's hat-trick, interviews they had been too distracted to hear the night before. Every ping of social media felt like a reminder: history had been made.
Francesco sat in the front row, the Champions League trophy resting on the seat beside him. Its polished silver gleamed with each bump of the road, catching his eye every few seconds. He kept one hand resting lightly on its wide ear, as if afraid someone might spirit it away when he wasn't looking. A few times, teammates shuffled past to snap a cheeky photo with it — Coquelin pretending to kiss it, Alexis pretending to drink from it — but always with a glance at Francesco, a silent check if it was alright.
He didn't mind. If anything, he loved it. The trophy wasn't his alone; it belonged to every man on that bus, to every Arsenal supporter who had spent years waiting for this moment.
The ride to the airport took less than an hour, but when the bus turned onto the road leading to Malpensa's departure terminal, the hum inside turned into a buzz. Through the windows, they could already see them.
Fans.
Not just a handful. Hundreds. Maybe more. Red shirts, scarves, flags waving, voices raised in chants that carried even through the thick glass of the coach. Most of them weren't locals heading home. These were Arsenal fans who had come to Milan, who had been inside the San Siro or in bars around the city, who had stayed an extra night just to send their team off properly.
The bus slowed, creeping toward the departure drop-off. Police cars flanked them, lights flashing, and airport staff in bright vests were already lined up trying — and failing — to hold back the tide of supporters pressing forward.
Inside the bus, players grinned like kids. Bellerín pressed his phone against the glass, filming the sea of red and white. "Look at this, man," he laughed. "This is insane."
The doors hissed open, and the roar doubled. A wall of sound hit them — chants of "CHAMPIONS!" and "ARSENAL!" so loud it seemed the ground shook.
Francesco rose slowly, trophy in hand. The instant the silver gleamed in the sunlight, the noise reached a fever pitch. Arms shot into the air, scarves whirled, strangers embraced as if they had just scored another goal.
Security formed a tight corridor, ushering the players toward the terminal doors. Fans surged forward, phones high, desperate for even a glimpse of the big-eared cup. Children on their parents' shoulders screamed Francesco's name, their tiny jerseys half-swallowed by scarves. A few older men, faces lined with years of waiting, simply stood there with tears on their cheeks, mouthing thank-yous they couldn't get close enough to say out loud.
Reporters darted between security guards, microphones raised, voices straining to be heard.
"Francesco! How does it feel bringing the trophy home?"
"Arsène, where does this rank in your career?"
"Alexis, is this the best moment of your life?"
Most went unanswered, lost in the din, but the cameras caught everything — the smiles, the waves, the surreal image of Arsenal players carrying luggage in one hand and medals in the other.
Check-in was chaotic but strangely efficient, the staff having clearly prepared for the onslaught. Airline workers posed quickly for photos, sneaking grins as Francesco handed over his passport with the trophy still under his arm. One young stewardess whispered, "My dad's an Arsenal fan," before flushing crimson when he smiled and said, "Tell him this is for him too."
Once through security, the team finally breathed. The terminal beyond was quieter, cordoned off from fans, though still buzzing with airline staff snapping discreet photos. The players settled into the waiting area, stretching out in chairs, swapping stories of the night before.
The trophy sat on the table in the center, attracting as much attention as if it were a living guest. People circled around it, careful not to touch, their conversations low and reverent. It was strange how even after lifting it, the players still treated it like something fragile, untouchable.
When the boarding call came, there was no rush. They filed in slowly, gold medals gleaming, every step shadowed by cameras. The flight crew welcomed them at the door with smiles wider than professionalism required. "Champions on board," the captain announced once they were seated, his voice over the intercom met with a wave of applause through the cabin.
The plane lifted smoothly, Milan shrinking below. As the engines hummed and clouds swallowed the windows, the exhaustion finally caught up. Some players tilted their seats back and dozed. Others put headphones on, eyes closed, the world shut out.
Francesco sat by the window, trophy tucked beneath the seat in front of him. He stared at it for a long while, the reflections shifting with each tilt of the wing. Wenger, seated across the aisle, glanced over once, catching his captain's gaze. He didn't say anything — just offered the faintest nod, the kind of look that said, This is only the beginning.
The flight seemed shorter than it was. London appeared beneath them, sprawling and familiar. As the plane dipped toward Heathrow, a murmur rippled through the cabin. The city was waiting.
The wheels kissed the runway, applause breaking out instinctively. Phones lit up, messages flooding in. They had landed.
The air outside the cabin doors was thick, almost electric. Security moved quickly, guiding them down the steps onto the tarmac. Luggage carts rolled by, handlers waving shyly before realizing who they were waving at. Francesco slung his bag over one shoulder, the trophy once again clutched in both hands.
The terminal loomed ahead, but even from here, they could hear it. The roar.
Thousands. Not hundreds. Not a few stray supporters. Thousands of Arsenal fans had gathered at Heathrow, packed into every available corner of the arrivals hall. Flags hung over railings. Smoke from red flares drifted near the ceiling. Chants thundered, relentless, shaking the glass walls.
As the players stepped inside, the noise hit like a tidal wave.
Francesco blinked at the sight. It was overwhelming — a wall of humanity, pressed shoulder to shoulder, every face lit with joy. Security had already formed barriers, a human wall flanking the narrow path from the baggage claim to the exit. Even so, arms stretched out, hands desperate for high-fives, voices desperate just to be heard.
Children cried in awe. Grown men sang through tears. Women waved banners scrawled with messages: Thank you for believing. For Arsène. For Arsenal.
The baggage carousel seemed absurdly mundane against the chaos, but there it was, churning slowly as suitcases thumped onto it. Players collected theirs in turn, but everyone's eyes kept flicking to Francesco. He stood there, trophy in one arm, reaching for his black duffel with the other. The absurdity made him laugh — the best player in Europe waiting at a carousel like everyone else.
When he finally lifted the bag, the crowd caught sight of the trophy fully again. The roar somehow grew louder, a sound so huge it rattled the glass. Francesco raised the cup once, briefly, and the fans erupted as though he'd just scored a fourth goal in Milan.
The walk to the team bus was slow, security holding the line as fans surged forward. Reporters shouted questions, cameras flashed, but Francesco hardly heard them. He caught glimpses — a boy on his father's shoulders sobbing with joy, an elderly woman pressing her hand to her heart, a group of teenagers clambering onto railings for a better view.
The bus doors opened. One by one, the players climbed aboard, waving, smiling, some holding up their medals. Francesco was last, as always, trophy still in his arms. He paused at the top of the steps, turned, and lifted it high into the air.
The sound that followed was indescribable — a roar, a cry, a song, everything poured into one moment. Thousands of voices united, a city's joy made flesh.
Only then did he step inside, joining his teammates. The doors shut, the engine rumbled, and slowly the bus pulled away, leaving behind the frenzy but carrying it with them 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