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By the time they completed the circle, returning to the stage, the Emirates had turned into something more than a stadium. It was a church, a family, a kingdom — and Arsenal stood at its heart, crowned kings of England and Europe.
The stage lights still shimmered against the night sky, beams cutting through the haze of smoke and confetti that drifted over the Emirates pitch like the remnants of a great battlefield. Francesco was still clutching the Champions League trophy when he noticed movement by the edge of the touchline, just beyond the swarm of staff and teammates.
At first, he thought it was another wave of photographers pushing through, but then he recognized the faces — faces he had grown up studying on old DVDs, in highlight reels, in whispered stories told by his father late at night.
Thierry Henry. Patrick Vieira. Robert Pirès. Freddie Ljungberg. Ian Wright. Dennis Bergkamp. Ashley Cole. Tony Adams.
Legends. Pillars. The men who had built Arsenal's name into something more than a club — something eternal.
The crowd recognized them at once, a ripple of awe running through the Emirates like electricity. Chants rose spontaneously, voices cracking with nostalgia and pride:
"Thierry Henry!"
"Vieira, woah-oh-oh-oh!"
"Super Robert Pirès!"
"They are our Arsenal boys!"
Francesco froze, his breath catching in his chest. These weren't just retired players. These were gods wearing mortal smiles, walking across the grass toward him. He felt a sudden pull inside — the boy in him, the fan who had once sat cross-legged in front of a flickering TV, screaming at every Henry goal, every Vieira tackle, every Bergkamp touch. And now… they were here. Walking to him.
Virgil van Dijk leaned close, his voice hushed with something that sounded almost like reverence. "Brother… that's royalty coming your way."
Francesco swallowed hard. His hands tightened on the trophy handles, not out of fear but to ground himself. Because in this moment, he wasn't just the seventeen-year-old who had helped Arsenal conquer Europe — he was the bridge between eras, the living proof that the legacy had survived and grown.
Thierry Henry was the first to reach them. The King. His black suit was sharp under the lights, but nothing could outshine the quiet fire in his eyes. He didn't rush, didn't wave for cameras. He simply stepped up to Francesco, gaze steady, lips curled in the faintest smirk — the kind of smirk that used to terrify defenders.
"Mon petit," Henry said, his voice velvet and thunder all at once. "You carried this club tonight. No — you carried it this season. And you carried it with style."
He extended his hand, but Francesco, almost instinctively, bypassed it and wrapped his arms around him. The stadium roared at the sight: the legend and the heir locked in an embrace. Henry's grip was firm, protective, like a father claiming a son.
"You remind me," Henry murmured into his ear, low enough for only him to hear, "not of me… but of Arsenal itself. Relentless. Fearless. Beautiful."
When they broke apart, Francesco felt a lump in his throat, his eyes burning. He tried to mask it with a grin. "If I'm Arsenal, then you're the crown, Thierry."
Henry's smirk widened. "No, mon ami. The crown is in your hands now."
Before Francesco could reply, Patrick Vieira stepped forward. Taller than memory, his presence was imposing even without a kit. He placed a massive hand on Francesco's shoulder, his gaze warm but heavy with meaning.
"I captained this club," Vieira said, his voice a rolling drum. "But what you did tonight — at seventeen — that is not just leadership. That is destiny." He glanced at the trophy, then back at Francesco. "Protect this. Protect what we built. Because Arsenal is not trophies alone — it is spirit, family, fight. And you, Francesco, you carry all of it."
Francesco nodded, his chest swelling with pride. "I won't let it slip, Patrick. Not on my watch."
Robert Pirès came next, elegance still radiating from every movement. He clasped Francesco's face gently between his hands, smiling that mischievous smile that fans still adored.
"Incroyable," Pirès whispered, kissing him lightly on both cheeks in French tradition. "You play with joy, with freedom. It is like… déjà vu. When I see you, I remember what it felt like to play with Thierry, with Dennis. Magic."
Francesco laughed softly. "Coming from you, Robert, that's like hearing music praise a song."
Pirès chuckled, tapping his cheek before stepping aside.
Freddie Ljungberg, in his sharp blazer but still with that rebellious glint in his eyes, pulled Francesco into a rough hug. "You little bastard," Freddie grinned. "I thought nobody could run like me on that wing, but you proved me wrong. Just promise me one thing — keep the fire. Don't ever play safe. Arsenal football is about daring."
Francesco grinned back. "Don't worry, Freddie. I don't even know how to play safe."
Ian Wright came bounding next, his energy uncontainable even after all these years. He grabbed Francesco by both shoulders, shaking him with gleeful intensity.
"Do you even know what you've done, son?!" Wrighty shouted, his voice carrying over the noise, tears already welling in his eyes. "I waited my whole damn life to see nights like this, and you — YOU — you gave it to us! At seventeen! You're making old men cry here, bruv!"
Francesco couldn't help but laugh, overwhelmed. "You're not that old, Ian."
Wrighty howled with laughter, pulling him into a bear hug. "Flattery will get you everywhere, kid!"
Then came Dennis Bergkamp. The Iceman. Silent, graceful, enigmatic. He didn't speak at first — he just looked at Francesco, his piercing blue eyes studying him like an artist studies a canvas. Finally, he gave the faintest smile and placed a hand over Francesco's heart.
"Technique, vision, calm," Bergkamp said quietly. "You have all of it. But this—" he tapped Francesco's chest lightly "—this is what makes you unstoppable. Never lose it."
Francesco's voice caught. "I grew up watching you, Dennis. Every touch, every turn. You're the reason I learned to see the game differently."
Bergkamp's smile deepened, subtle but proud. "Then my job is done."
Ashley Cole approached, a complicated figure in Arsenal's history, but tonight there was no bitterness — only brotherhood. He clapped Francesco on the back, nodding firmly.
"You showed balls tonight," Cole said bluntly. "Proper balls. That's what Arsenal needs. Keep that edge, and you'll write your own story — bigger than anyone else's."
Finally, Tony Adams stepped forward. Mr. Arsenal himself. Broad-shouldered, towering, his very presence seemed to hush the noise for a moment. He looked at Francesco not like a fan, not like a peer — but like a guardian passing judgment.
"Young man," Adams rumbled, his voice deep and steady, "I bled for this badge. I lived for it. And when I see you out there — seventeen years old, carrying the weight of history on your back — I know the club is safe."
He extended his hand. Francesco took it, and Adams pulled him close, their foreheads nearly touching.
"Lead them well," Adams said, his grip unyielding. "Because Arsenal is more than a club. It's a cause. And tonight… you proved you're ready to fight for it."
The words crashed into Francesco like a tidal wave. His throat tightened, his chest trembled, but he met Adams' gaze with fierce resolve. "I'll fight for it every day of my life."
When the legends finally stepped back, the players around Francesco looked at him differently. Not just as a teammate, not just as a boy wonder — but as a captain in the making, validated by the very giants whose shadows once loomed over the Emirates.
The crowd, sensing the weight of the moment, erupted again. Chants rolled across the stadium, not just for the legends, not just for Wenger, but for the bridge between them:
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
Francesco raised the Champions League high once more, the lights gleaming off the silver, his face shining with sweat and tears. And behind him, Thierry Henry clapped slowly, deliberately, before raising his fist to the sky — the King anointing his successor.
The chants still echoed in the night when the first wave of reporters surged forward. Microphones, cameras, lenses — all of them seemed to materialize at once, a flood of hungry questions carried on the tide of noise. Security staff tried to hold them back, but Francesco, still gripping the Champions League trophy, raised his free hand and nodded. He wasn't hiding tonight. Not after everything.
The semi-circle formed around him, wires and boom mics dangling overhead. Floodlights from the cameras burned bright against his sweat-streaked face, but he stood tall, the silver cup gleaming at his side.
The first voice cut through the chaos, clear and urgent.
"Francesco! How does it feel — seventeen years old, treble winner, Arsenal hero — what's going through your mind right now?"
Francesco exhaled, laughter bubbling out almost involuntarily. His chest was still heaving from adrenaline, but the words came easier than he expected.
"How does it feel?" he repeated, glancing briefly at the trophy in his hand. "It feels… like the greatest dream you don't want to wake up from. You grow up watching Arsenal, you grow up dreaming about playing here — but to win everything? The Premier League, the FA Cup, the Champions League? At seventeen? It's beyond words. I feel proud. I feel grateful. And most of all, I feel like this is just the beginning."
The pens scribbled furiously. The cameras zoomed in. A ripple of nods went through the reporters before another fired a question.
"You've had an unbelievable season — Golden Boot, treble, man of the match performances. Did you expect to have this much impact so soon?"
Francesco shook his head, still smiling. "Expect? No. Hope? Always. You don't come into Arsenal thinking small. The manager believed in me, the players trusted me, and the fans… they gave me the courage to play my game. Every goal I scored, every assist, every tackle — it wasn't just me. It was all of us together. I'm just one piece of this machine."
Another voice chimed in, sharper, cutting straight to the bone.
"Francesco, what do you think this treble means for Arsenal as a club? For its history, for its place in world football?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, his tone shifting from giddy to solemn. "It means Arsenal is back. For years, people said this club was soft, that we didn't have the fight, that we were happy with fourth place. Tonight, we showed the world that's over. This treble — it's not an accident. It's proof. Proof that Arsenal is still one of the biggest, proudest clubs in the world. And we're not stopping here."
The crowd behind the barriers roared their approval, their voices echoing his words back at him like a chant. "Arsenal is back!"
The questions came faster now, a tangle of accents and tones, everyone desperate for a line, a headline, a spark. Francesco fielded them as best as he could, his answers steady, confident, but always tinged with the raw honesty of youth.
Then came the question that shifted the air.
"Francesco," a reporter called out, her voice deliberate, "you talk about Arsenal's pride, about fighting for this badge. But what do you think about the players who left this club for rivals? Cesc Fàbregas to Barcelona, Robin van Persie to Manchester United. Players who said they loved Arsenal, then walked away — chasing trophies elsewhere. And now here you are, winning the treble with Arsenal. How do you see them in this moment?"
The circle seemed to tighten. Even the other reporters went quiet, pens poised, cameras zooming closer, eager for a reaction. It was the kind of question that could define headlines for weeks.
Francesco didn't answer immediately. He tilted his head, lips twitching into a smile — not the boyish grin of earlier, but something sharper. He let the silence hang for a beat, heavy with tension, before finally speaking.
"Shame on them."
The words dropped like a stone in a lake, rippling outward. Gasps, clicks of shutters, a sudden surge of murmurs. Francesco didn't flinch. He leaned slightly toward the microphones, voice calm but cutting.
"They will forever be known as the betrayal era. Not because they left — players come and go, that's football. But because of how they left. They went back on their own words, they promised loyalty and then broke it, and worst of all — they went to our rivals. Manchester United. Barcelona. Rivals who wanted to take Arsenal's pride."
His smile lingered, but his eyes had hardened. "They thought they had to leave to win trophies. And now? We've done it without them. We've won everything. The treble. And their names will always carry that stain — the Judas years. They could have left with dignity. They could have walked away with respect. But they didn't. They betrayed the badge. And Arsenal never forgets."
The reaction was instant. The fans behind the barriers erupted, chanting his name, clapping, waving scarves. Reporters exchanged glances, some grinning at the sheer boldness of it. This wasn't the polished answer of a media-trained star. This was raw. Honest. A seventeen-year-old with the guts to say what thousands of Arsenal fans had screamed from the terraces for years.
One journalist, eyes wide, leaned forward. "So you're saying — history won't remember their trophies, only their betrayal?"
Francesco shrugged, almost casually. "They'll have their medals, sure. But medals fade. Legacy doesn't. And their legacy here at Arsenal? It's broken. You ask any fan in this stadium tonight if they'd rather have those players back or have this treble — they'll laugh in your face. We didn't need them. We proved that."
Ian Wright, still lingering by the touchline, threw his head back and howled with laughter, clapping like a proud uncle. Henry smirked knowingly, arms folded across his chest. Even Wenger, watching from a few feet away, tried — and failed — to hide a flicker of a smile.
The reporter pressed again, cautious but curious. "Don't you think those words are harsh for players who gave so much to Arsenal before leaving?"
Francesco's grin returned, softer now, but still edged with steel. "Harsh? Maybe. But truth is always harsh when it's real. Listen — I respect what they did for the club while they were here. But loyalty is tested when times are hard, not when everything is easy. And when it got hard, they walked away. I won't do that. Not now, not ever."
The words thundered through the microphones, amplified across the stadium, and the fans responded in kind. Chants of "Francesco! Francesco!" rolled through the night, waves of adoration crashing against the pitch.
For a moment, Francesco just stood there, letting the noise wash over him. He thought of the kids in the stands wearing his shirt, of Leah watching with tears in her eyes, of the legends who had just passed him the torch. He thought of Arsenal's history, its heartbreaks, its betrayals. And he thought of its future — his future.
Finally, he raised the Champions League again, flashing a defiant grin to the cameras. "This is Arsenal's answer. This is what we stand for. And this is just the beginning."
The sun had barely risen over North London when the echoes of the night before were still reverberating through the football world. The Emirates had emptied hours ago, the champagne stains still wet on the turf, the confetti scattered like forgotten stars. But Francesco Lee's words — those sharp, unapologetic words — had taken on a life of their own.
"Shame on them. The betrayal era. The Judas years."
Every newspaper headline ran with it. Every broadcaster cut those three sentences into their highlight reels. By the time morning broke, the seventeen-year-old's defiant declaration wasn't just a post-match quote — it was the story.
Sky Sports News had a split screen up before most fans even finished their morning tea. On the left, Francesco lifting the Champions League trophy; on the right, the moment he leaned into the microphones and said, "Shame on them."
The host, leaning forward at the desk with that practiced intensity, shook his head as the clip replayed.
"Look, folks," he began, "we've heard young players make bold claims before. But this? This is seismic. A seventeen-year-old, treble winner, calling out some of the most decorated former Arsenal players of the modern era — Van Persie, Fàbregas — and branding their departures as betrayal? It's… it's extraordinary."
Beside him, Gary Neville pursed his lips, half-smiling, half-cautious. "Extraordinary, yes, but also authentic. He's saying what every Arsenal fan has felt for years. Let's not forget the banners, the boos, the anger every time those players came back to the Emirates. Francesco's not inventing this — he's channeling it."
Across the panel, Jamie Carragher burst into laughter, shaking his head. "Seventeen though! Seventeen! When I was his age, I could barely lace my boots properly, let alone call out legends on live TV after winning the Champions League! The kid's fearless. I love it."
Roy Keane, sitting in his usual unbothered stance, leaned into the microphone with that low Irish growl. "Listen, I'll say this — I like him. He's a fighter, he's a winner. But he needs to be careful. You don't want to burn bridges in this game, because careers are long. Calling out Fàbregas and Van Persie… bold, yes. But football has a way of humbling you. He better keep winning."
The debate raged on, clips looping, pundits dissecting every word. But outside the TV studio, something much bigger was happening.
Twitter, Instagram — the platforms exploded. The hashtags #BetrayalEra, #JudasYears, and #ShameOnThem all trended worldwide within hours.
• @GoonerForLife: This kid just said what we've been screaming for years. Francesco is Arsenal through and through. A true Gunner already. 🔴⚪️🔥
• @ChelseaBlueBlood: Fàbregas gave Arsenal everything before he left. This kid is being disrespectful. Win more than one treble, then talk.
• @UnitedTillIDie: Funny that Arsenal fans worship this boy now. Let's see if he still feels that way when Real Madrid come calling in 3 years.
• @Leah_Arsenal9 (with a photo of Francesco kissing the Champions League): He's ours. Our star. Our future. And he's not afraid to speak the truth.
Memes flooded timelines. Side-by-side images of Van Persie in a United shirt and Fàbregas in Barcelona blue, stamped with the word "Judas," contrasted against Francesco hoisting the treble. Fans photoshopped him into heroic posters: "The Prince Who Spoke the Truth."
It wasn't just Arsenal fans. Rival supporters chimed in, either mocking or begrudgingly respecting the audacity of a teenager who'd lit a fire under football's most sensitive debates.
By midday, the responses came.
The first was Fàbregas. Sitting in Chelsea blue at Cobham, the Spaniard was asked directly by a Sky reporter. His eyes flickered with that familiar mix of pride and defensiveness.
"I think he's a young boy who's very emotional after a big night," Cesc said, voice calm but tight. "I understand his passion — I was the same at his age. But I don't accept the word 'betrayal.' I gave everything to Arsenal. I captained the club, I bled for the shirt. When I left, it was because I wanted to return home, to Barcelona, where I grew up. Was it easy? No. But betrayal? No. I will never see it that way."
He paused, then added, a hint of steel in his tone: "I respect Francesco as a player. He's had an incredible season. But let's see how he feels in ten years. Football is long. Loyalty is complicated."
The Chelsea PR team clipped the quote, but the damage — or the debate — was already underway.
Later, in Istanbul, Van Persie spoke after a Fenerbahçe training session. His smile was polite, but the questions cut sharp.
"Betrayal? No, no," he said, shaking his head. "When I left Arsenal, it was because I wanted to win. I was thirty, not seventeen. I had one shot left at trophies. And I won the Premier League with Manchester United. I don't regret it."
Then, almost pointedly, he added: "But I wish Arsenal well. If they've finally won everything, then I'm happy for them. Francesco is a big talent, but he should be careful with his words. One season doesn't make a career."
Back in North London, the responses from fans weren't cautious. They were electric.
At pubs from Holloway Road to Finsbury Park, chants broke out over pints and late breakfasts.
"Francesco Lee — he said what we believe!"
Banners were painted overnight: No More Judas Years. Our Prince, Our Future. Shame On Them — We're Arsenal.
Supporters' groups organized marches, not in protest, but in celebration. The young star's honesty was embraced like gospel.
At the Armoury, the official club shop, Francesco's shirt sales doubled overnight. The number 11 jersey flew off racks, parents buying them for kids who had never even seen Van Persie play. The narrative shifted: where once Arsenal fans felt a lingering bitterness about their past stars, now they had a defiant figure to rally behind.
By evening, every football talk show in England had carved out time for Francesco's comments.
On Match of the Day, Gary Lineker leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. "I have to say — whether you agree with him or not — this is remarkable. A seventeen-year-old, after winning the treble, standing in front of the world and calling out players like that? It's one of the boldest interviews I've ever seen."
Alan Shearer chuckled. "He's got the medals already though, doesn't he? Golden Boot, treble — at seventeen. He's got the right to talk. And honestly, he's just given Arsenal fans a new anthem. That's power."
Ian Wright, grinning ear to ear, couldn't contain himself. "That's my boy! That's what Arsenal needed — a leader who's not afraid to say it. You know how many years I've sat here, biting my tongue, wanting to say the same thing? Francesco just said it for me. For all of us."
And through it all, Francesco himself sat at home in Richmond, Leah curled against him on the sofa, the Champions League medal still hanging loosely around his neck. The TV flickered with images of his face, his words, his name in headlines across the globe.
Leah glanced up at him, eyes soft. "You know you've just started a war, right?"
Francesco smirked, squeezing her hand. "Good. Let them come. Arsenal already won."
The Richmond night eventually gave way to morning, though Francesco hardly noticed. He dozed in and out on the sofa, still in his tracksuit bottoms, Leah tucked against him, the Champions League medal lying cool against his chest. The TV hummed on in the background, replaying the scenes of the final over and over — the goals, the celebrations, and of course, the words.
By mid-morning, Leah slipped into the kitchen to make coffee, leaving Francesco half-awake in the glow of the screen. His phone buzzed non-stop on the armrest beside him — messages from teammates, old school friends, journalists, even numbers he didn't recognize. Every few minutes, a new notification lit up: "TRENDING: #KingFrancesco," "ESPN feature on Arsenal's prodigy," "Henry praises Francesco's leadership."
But nothing prepared him for the sight that came next.
On the coffee table lay a stack of newspapers Leah had fetched earlier — The Guardian, The Telegraph, The Sun. Each headline screamed variations of the same theme: "Seventeen-Year-Old Treble Hero Sparks Firestorm." But tucked in between them was a glossy cover, its red masthead unmistakable.
TIME.
The iconic white-framed border encasing Francesco's own face.
The photo was almost unreal — him in the Arsenal kit, Golden Boot in one hand, the three gleaming trophies arrayed around him like crown jewels. His stare was calm, almost regal, the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of his lips. Above it all, the words in bold:
KING OF THE EMIRATES.
The breath caught in his throat. He blinked, leaned closer, as if to make sure it wasn't some doctored fan art. But no — it was real. A global institution had declared him not just a champion, not just a prodigy, but a king.
Leah padded back into the room, two mugs of coffee in her hands. She froze when she saw him staring at the cover, her own eyes widening.
"Oh my god," she whispered, setting the mugs down carefully. "Francesco… that's TIME."
He swallowed, his fingers brushing the glossy surface like it might vanish. For a fleeting moment, the seventeen-year-old boy inside him peeked through — the kid from Richmond who once watched Henry's highlights on YouTube before school, who taped posters of Arsenal legends to his bedroom wall.
And now here he was, crowned their heir.
The cover spread across the world within hours. Newsstands in London, New York, Madrid, and Tokyo stacked their shelves with Francesco's face staring back. Online, TIME's digital release went viral, their tweet captioned simply:
"Seventeen years old. Treble winner. Arsenal's new king. Francesco Lee is our cover star. #KingOfTheEmirates"
The responses poured in:
• @ThierryHenry14: Arsenal always needed a leader who could carry the crown. I wore it once. Now it belongs to Francesco. Respect, kid. 👑🔴⚪️
• @Cristiano: Seventeen and already a king. The future of football is here.
• @Arsenal (official account): Long live the King of the Emirates. 🏆🏆🏆👑
Even rival accounts couldn't resist chiming in. Manchester United fans mocked the headline as premature. Chelsea fans posted images of Drogba, calling him the "real king of London." Barcelona fans shared Messi comparisons, half-admiring, half-jealous. But none of it could drown the roar of Arsenal supporters, who flooded timelines with the crown emoji, their boy officially christened by the world.
The magazine cover became the main topic of every evening broadcast.
On Sky's Monday Night Football, Jamie Carragher held the cover up for the camera, laughing. "Look at this! King of the Emirates! Seventeen! He's barely started shaving!"
Gary Neville leaned forward, shaking his head, though his smile betrayed admiration. "It's insane, isn't it? We're talking about a teenager who's already being compared to Henry, already being put on TIME Magazine. But you know what? He's earned it. Golden Boot, treble winner, man of the match in finals. What more can he do?"
Roy Keane, arms folded, looked unimpressed. "I don't like all this king nonsense. He's had a brilliant year, but let's not crown him after one season. Football can chew you up. The lad should keep his feet on the ground."
Jamie Redknapp interjected, grinning. "Roy, come on, you've got to admit it though — this kid's different. He's not just a talent. He's got personality. He's got fire. He speaks like a leader, plays like a leader. Arsenal fans see him as their king because he's given them what they've craved for decades."
Keane muttered, "We'll see if he still wants to be king when Madrid come calling."
The panel laughed, but the question lingered in the air.
Meanwhile, the Emirates Stadium itself had transformed. Outside the Armoury, the club shop unveiled a special edition: the King of the Emirates collection. Shirts with Francesco's name and number. Scarves emblazoned with a crown above the Arsenal crest. Even mugs and posters featuring the TIME cover.
Queues snaked down the road. Fans held the magazine like scripture, waving it at TV cameras. Some brought it to pubs, slapping it on tables like proof of prophecy fulfilled.
"Since Henry, we've waited," one lifelong fan told BBC reporters outside. "Since Henry, we wanted a king. And now we've got one. Francesco isn't just a player. He's the soul of Arsenal."
Later that day, Thierry Henry himself finally broke his silence on Sky Sports, his voice warm with pride.
"When I look at Francesco," Henry said, "I see something rare. He has the numbers, yes — the goals, the assists, the trophies. But he also has the courage. Do you know how hard it is to speak your truth at seventeen? To call out what everyone else is afraid to say? That's leadership. Arsenal has a king now, and I am proud to pass him the crown."
The studio erupted. Ian Wright clapped his hands, eyes gleaming. "We've been waiting for this moment for years. Arsenal's new king, Thierry's heir. Long may he reign."
Back at home, Francesco scrolled through his phone, overwhelmed. His DMs were flooded. Some from strangers, some from legends. Messi had sent a private message: "Congratulations, champion. Enjoy every moment. But remember — the crown is heavy."
Wenger texted too: "Don't let it distract you, my boy. Kings are made by consistency, not headlines."
Even Leah teased him, placing an old paper Burger King crown on his head while he ate cereal. "All hail His Majesty of North London," she said with a dramatic bow.
He rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his grin. "It's not about me. It's about Arsenal."
But deep down, he felt the weight of the word king. It wasn't just flattery anymore. It was expectation.
Internationally, the cover became a phenomenon. In France, L'Équipe ran a headline: "Le Nouveau Henry." In Spain, Marca questioned: "¿El próximo galáctico?" Italy's Gazzetta dello Sport printed: "Re d'Inghilterra."
Even in America, where football fought for attention, ESPN ran a primetime feature: "Seventeen-Year-Old Crowned King of the Emirates: The Francesco Story." Clips of his goals against Barcelona, his derby winners, his treble lifts, all cut together like a Hollywood trailer.
For once, Arsenal wasn't mocked, pitied, or ignored. Arsenal was front-page news everywhere — because of him.
That night, long after Leah had gone to bed, Francesco sat alone on the balcony of his Richmond home. The city stretched out before him, lights shimmering like scattered jewels. The TIME cover sat on his lap, the crown of headlines buzzing in his ears.
He thought of the boy he used to be — sneaking into the living room past midnight to watch Arsenal games, whispering Thierry Henry's name under his breath like a prayer. He thought of the betrayal years, the anger of fans, the empty years when Arsenal were laughed at.
________________________________________________
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