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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.
The bus rolled out of Heathrow under a blanket of noise that refused to fade, even as the airport disappeared in the rearview mirrors. Fans had gathered at every possible vantage point, spilling across barriers, waving flags, scarves, and banners that flapped wildly in the autumn breeze. Police escorts guided the coach onto the main road, but even there, supporters seemed to materialize from nowhere — honking car horns, leaning out of windows with Arsenal shirts stretched across their chests, waving like mad at the tinted windows.
Inside the bus, the atmosphere had shifted again. What had been calm reflection in Milan now bubbled into something harder to contain. The players were wide-eyed, pressed against the glass, phones out as if they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing.
"Look at that!" Bellerín shouted, pointing to a bridge overhead where dozens of fans had lined up, draped in red-and-white flags, holding up hastily scribbled cardboard signs: Kings of Europe, Merci Arsène, Francesco = Legend.
Even Petr Čech, usually the picture of composure, leaned slightly across the aisle, craning his neck to see. "I've been in parades," he said quietly, half to himself, "but this… this is something else."
Francesco sat near the front, the trophy resting on his lap this time rather than beside him. Its weight was solid against his thighs, grounding him as the bus swayed through London traffic. He glanced out the window and saw rows of schoolchildren in uniforms who must have sprinted out the moment they heard. Teachers didn't bother stopping them — they were waving, screaming, their faces lit with joy that needed no permission.
The sight pulled a small, unguarded laugh from him. He thought of himself as a boy, glued to the television, watching Thierry Henry glide across Highbury's pitch, dreaming of nights like this. Now children were watching him, their voices cracking as they chanted his name in rhythm with the roar of passing cars.
Santi Cazorla slid into the seat across from him, grinning like a man who had seen it all but still couldn't believe what he was seeing now. "You realize, eh? You're carrying not just a trophy, but every dream we've all had for years."
Francesco looked down at the cup, then back up at Santi. His voice was quieter than he expected. "It doesn't feel like mine, though. It feels like… like it belongs to them." He tilted his chin toward the window where fans were pressed against the roadside barriers, waving as though their lives depended on it.
Santi chuckled, eyes crinkling. "Exactly. That's the magic. We win it, but they carry it forever."
The roads grew busier the closer they came to North London. By the time the coach passed familiar streets, it was impossible to ignore the scale. Every pub was overflowing, its front doors open, televisions replaying Francesco's hat-trick on loops. People spilled into the roads, police gently nudging them back as the bus crawled forward, unable to move at full speed. Smoke from flares lingered in the air — red, white, sometimes gold — drifting above the crowds like banners made of fire.
The chants rolled like thunder.
"CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE! WE KNOW WHAT WE ARE!"
"ARSÈNE WENGER'S RED AND WHITE ARMY!"
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
Francesco pressed his forehead lightly against the glass, taking it all in. He caught sight of a man hoisting a toddler onto his shoulders, the child's tiny shirt with "LEE 9" ironed onto the back. The boy's arms stretched upward, reaching toward the bus as though he could touch the trophy itself. Francesco raised a hand, pressed his palm against the glass, and the boy's father spun in disbelief, mouthing "Thank you" over and over.
The team bus finally pulled into London Colney, Arsenal's training ground, after what felt like an eternity — not because of distance but because of the constant halts and starts through seas of humanity. The high, familiar gates opened, and suddenly the world outside dimmed, the chaos replaced by the ordered calm of the club's private sanctuary.
The bus eased into its usual parking bay, brakes hissing as the engine stilled. A moment of quiet lingered inside before the doors opened with a familiar pneumatic sigh.
Waiting outside was not just staff — it was everyone. Coaches, physios, analysts, groundskeepers still in their muddy boots, receptionists, kitchen staff in aprons. It seemed as though every employee Arsenal had ever hired had lined up along the walkway, forming an honor guard in red and white. At the center stood Ivan Gazidis, the club CEO, his suit sharp but his expression warm, almost paternal.
As the first players stepped down, applause broke out, rippling through the gathered staff like a wave. It wasn't polite clapping — it was full, unrestrained celebration, palms cracking together with pride and relief. They weren't clapping just for victory; they were clapping for years of near-misses, heartbreaks, and criticisms finally washed away.
One by one, the players descended. Coquelin, carrying his bag slung carelessly over his back, grinned and fist-bumped the kit men. Alexis waved both hands high, soaking in the cheers. Santi hugged nearly everyone in sight. Even the normally reserved Mesut Özil cracked a broad smile, shaking hands firmly with the physios who had kept him fit all season.
Then came Francesco.
The trophy gleamed in his arms as he stepped down, and for a moment, silence fell — not out of disrespect, but because the sight was overwhelming. Arsenal's captain, their talisman, carrying the club's first European Cup across the threshold of their own home.
Ivan Gazidis stepped forward, eyes fixed on the trophy. His voice carried, warm and deliberate. "Welcome home, champions."
Francesco shifted the weight of the cup, holding it a little higher. "It's home," he echoed, his voice thick with meaning.
The applause returned, louder than before. Staff surged forward, not breaking formation but leaning in, clapping his back, squeezing his arm, some brushing their fingers lightly across the handles of the trophy as if to prove it was real. One of the kitchen staff, an older woman with silver hair pulled back in a bun, pressed her hand over her mouth, tears brimming in her eyes. Francesco paused, leaned the trophy slightly toward her, and whispered, "This is for all of us."
The players gathered in a loose semicircle, the trophy at its center, as Ivan spoke again. "I've been at this club long enough to know how much this means. To Arsène, to the players, to everyone standing here today — but especially to our fans. You've given them more than a trophy. You've given them belief. And for that, Arsenal will forever be in your debt."
Wenger, standing slightly off to the side, adjusted his glasses, his lips curling into that small, proud smile only he could wear. He didn't need to speak — his players had spoken for him on the pitch the night before.
Francesco looked around, at his teammates, at the staff, at the training pitches beyond. The enormity of it hit him again, fresh and sharp. He tightened his grip on the trophy, lifted it slightly, and said, almost instinctively, "This is just the beginning."
The cheer that followed shook the walls of Colney.
The applause lingered, hanging in the crisp North London air like the aftershocks of an earthquake. Some of the younger staff still clapped even after their palms had surely begun to sting, unwilling to let the sound die down. Francesco stood at the center, chest still rising from the sheer emotion of it all, the weight of the trophy pressing against him like a heartbeat.
Ivan Gazidis, always so measured, stepped forward again. His voice cut gently through the noise.
"Francesco," he said, warm but steady, "you've carried this far enough. Let's give it a proper place."
For a second, Francesco's arms instinctively tightened around the big silver cup. It wasn't possessiveness so much as instinct, like a child reluctant to hand over a precious toy. He'd slept with the trophy practically within arm's reach since last night — through the dressing room chaos, the hotel celebrations, the bus, the airport, the plane. It had been his shadow.
But he understood.
He glanced down at the gleaming surface, its curved ears catching the reflection of red and white all around. Then he gave a small, almost reverent nod. "Alright," he murmured, lifting it slightly as if to kiss it goodbye for now.
Ivan gestured to one of the staff — an older gentleman named George, who had worked at Arsenal since the Highbury days. George stepped forward, hands trembling ever so slightly as Francesco eased the trophy into his arms.
"Careful," Francesco said softly, his tone half-joking but half-dead serious, "she's delicate."
George chuckled, though his eyes glistened. "Don't worry, lad. I've been waiting most of my life to carry this thing."
As George turned toward the main building, staff instinctively parted for him, forming another guard of honor, clapping just as furiously as they had moments ago. The sight of the gleaming trophy moving slowly toward Arsenal's trophy room — their holy of holies — was enough to bring tears to more than one set of eyes.
Francesco watched until the silver disappeared inside the complex, swallowed by history. He exhaled, feeling the faintest emptiness in his arms but a swelling in his chest.
Ivan turned back to the squad, his voice lifting now with the weight of news that had been waiting to be shared.
"Gentlemen, if last night gave you history, then let me give you something to remember it by."
The players, still buzzing but suddenly curious, leaned in slightly, forming a closer semicircle.
"I've just come from speaking with Mr. Kroenke and Mr. Usmanov," Ivan continued, his suit immaculate, his tone laced with just enough ceremony to heighten the moment. "They asked me to deliver a message — and a gift."
He paused deliberately, eyes sweeping across faces still glistening with sweat and emotion.
"They want every one of you to know just how much this triumph means. How much you've given to the club, to the fans, to Arsenal's place in football history. And so…"
He let the words hang a heartbeat longer.
"…every single one of you will receive a bonus of one hundred thousand pounds."
The reaction was instantaneous. Gasps, whistles, shouts. Players exchanged wild glances, some bursting into laughter, others clapping their hands over their mouths in disbelief. Even the staff behind them grinned and applauded, sharing in the joy though they weren't the ones collecting.
Olivier Giroud grabbed Laurent Koscielny's shoulders and shook him like a schoolboy. "Mon dieu, Laurent, do you hear this?!"
Alexis Sánchez pumped both fists in the air, grinning so wide his cheeks nearly split. "¡Vamos! That's more goals for my dogs!"
Bellerín whipped out his phone in record time, clearly about to text family before Ivan lifted a hand gently, signaling he wasn't finished.
"And," he continued, his tone growing heavier, "there is one more matter. A special recognition."
The noise dimmed slightly as heads turned, one name already in their minds.
"Francesco."
The captain blinked, suddenly aware of the way every eye fixed on him.
"You have been the heartbeat of this team," Ivan said plainly, his words slow, deliberate. "More than fifty percent of our goals across all competitions have come from your boots, your head, your will. Without you, this season does not exist as it does today."
Francesco shifted, uncomfortable with the spotlight. His instinct was to look down, to deflect, but the roar of applause from his teammates held him there.
Ivan's voice softened, carrying both gravity and pride.
"For that, the club has decided you will receive a bonus of two hundred thousand pounds."
The explosion of noise this time wasn't just applause — it was everything. Whoops, chants, half-serious bows from teammates who fell back dramatically as though worshipping him.
"Two hundred! Ay, capitano, drinks are on you tonight!" Alexis shouted, his voice drowned quickly by laughter.
Aaron Ramsey thumped Francesco's back so hard the captain nearly stumbled forward. "About time they paid you like the legend you are."
Santi Cazorla, ever the joker, dropped theatrically to one knee, hands clasped like a medieval knight pledging fealty. "Señor Francesco, our king!"
Even Wenger, usually stoic in moments like this, chuckled softly, shaking his head with that fatherly pride he rarely allowed to show.
Francesco raised both hands, palms out, a sheepish grin cutting across his face. "It's not just me," he protested, though his voice cracked faintly. "You all know that. Every goal I scored — someone passed it, someone fought for it, someone defended before it. This belongs to us."
But his teammates weren't letting him escape that easily.
Mesut Özil leaned in, eyes twinkling. "Francesco, sometimes you just have to accept you are special. Tonight is one of those times."
The crowd of players cheered again, echoing Özil's words, the chant of his name breaking out spontaneously, rolling across the training ground as though Colney itself wanted to sing.
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
Francesco laughed helplessly, his cheeks flushed crimson, raising his arms in mock surrender.
The chants of "FRAN-CES-CO!" echoed like thunder across the training ground, rolling and tumbling until it became almost impossible to tell if it was voices or the earth itself shaking beneath their boots. Francesco, still grinning, still flushed with embarrassment and pride, finally let the sound wash over him. He'd never admit it out loud, but it warmed him — not the money, not even the trophy anymore, but this. The bond. The brotherhood.
And then, like a conductor easing an orchestra back down from its crescendo, Arsène Wenger stepped forward. He didn't raise his hands for silence — he didn't need to. The players noticed him moving and instinctively the noise dropped, replaced by an expectant hush. Wenger adjusted his jacket, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and allowed the smallest smile to crease his face.
"I have only two announcements," he began, his voice calm, French lilt wrapping warmly around every word. "The first… is about our celebration."
The players leaned in, some already nudging each other like schoolboys who knew what was coming.
"In three days' time, we will give this trophy not only to ourselves, not only to the club, but to the people. London will belong to Arsenal." His eyes swept across them, pride glimmering just beneath the calm. "There will be a parade — through the streets, through the city — and you will see, with your own eyes, what this victory means to the supporters who have waited all their lives for it."
The eruption of cheers was instant, almost as loud as when Francesco had lifted the cup the night before. Players whooped, fists pumped the air. Olivier Giroud let out a wild, drawn-out roar. Hector Bellerín shouted something in rapid Spanish no one quite caught but everyone cheered anyway. Alexis hopped on the spot like he was already on the open-top bus, fists windmilling.
"Finally!" shouted Per Mertesacker, clapping like a giant child. "We give it back to the people!"
Wenger chuckled softly at the sight of his squad exploding with joy, then glanced sideways at Ivan Gazidis, who stepped up smoothly to add his own weight.
"Yes," Ivan said, his voice carrying a more formal tone, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his excitement. "The parade will be this Friday. The route has already been planned with the city. We expect hundreds of thousands, perhaps more. Trafalgar Square, the Emirates, every street in between — they will all be red and white." He gestured with both hands, wide and expansive. "This will not just be a parade. This will be history."
Another wave of cheers crashed through the players, some slapping each other on the back, others already imagining the scenes.
Theo Walcott leaned toward Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, his grin boyish. "Mate, can you even picture it? An open-top bus, the whole of London singing…"
The Ox laughed, shaking his head. "It's gonna be mad. Absolutely mad."
In the middle of the storm of noise, Francesco stood quietly, his eyes lifted as though picturing it himself. The open-top bus, the sea of supporters, the endless tide of red. For years, Arsenal fans had suffered, clung to hope, been mocked by rivals. This — this parade — would be their redemption song. He felt his throat tighten with the thought.
When the noise finally dipped enough for someone else to speak, Francesco stepped forward. He didn't plan to. The words simply came, carried by the moment.
He lifted a hand, almost sheepishly, and his teammates gradually turned toward him, the noise falling again into silence. His voice was steady, but softer, more personal than Wenger's or Ivan's.
"After the parade," he began, glancing around at the circle of tired, jubilant faces, "many of you will go on. To your countries, to your people. Euro 2016 is waiting."
There was a ripple of nods, murmurs — some excited, some weary at the thought of another tournament after such a season.
Francesco continued, his tone firm but warm. "I just want to say… I hope all of you who are called up, who get that chance, carry this spirit with you. We fought as brothers here. We lifted this trophy because no one thought only of himself. Take that with you. Whether you wear England, Spain, France, Germany, wherever — remember what we built."
His gaze lingered on a few faces: Aaron Ramsey, who would head to Wales. Mesut Özil, Per Mertesacker, and young Mustafi, bound for Germany. Giroud, Koscielny, and Flamini, dreaming of France on home soil. Héctor and Santi, destined for Spain. Alexis, even though Chile weren't in the Euros, still carried his country like a fire in his chest.
"I will not be there," Francesco admitted, spreading his hands a little. "Italy didn't call me. But that doesn't matter. I will be watching. And I will be proud. Because whether we wear the same shirt this summer or not, we are still family."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was thick — heavy with respect, with the unspoken weight of brotherhood. A few players clapped, softly at first, then stronger, until it rolled into a round of applause. Not wild, not rowdy, but something deeper.
Aaron Ramsey stepped forward, his Welsh lilt carrying as he said, "We'll carry it with us, captain. Don't worry about that."
Mesut Özil added quietly, but firmly, "Danke, Francesco. You remind us — we are more than just footballers."
Even Arsène, arms folded but eyes glinting, gave a small nod, pride flickering in his gaze.
The mood shifted after that — not down, but deeper. What had been noise and cheers softened into conversations, laughter mingling with reflection. Players began drifting into smaller groups: Alexis joking about bringing his dogs on the parade bus, Santi teasing Özil about needing sunglasses because London fans would be too bright, Giroud mock-arguing with Koscielny about who looked better in medals.
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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