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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.
The training ground was still buzzing like a hive, players breaking off into little knots of conversation, the adrenaline refusing to fully fade. Shirts half-tucked, medals still glinting on their chests, they looked less like professional athletes and more like schoolboys at the end of the biggest exam of their lives, free for the summer but not quite ready to leave the playground.
Francesco was caught in the middle of it, leaning back on the balls of his feet as Aaron Ramsey nudged him with an elbow.
"So, captain," Ramsey said, his grin cheeky, "you've given us your blessing, eh? Wales'll carry the Arsenal flag into France."
Francesco smirked. "Just don't go knocking England out, yeah?"
Ramsey's laugh was full-bellied. "If it happens, I'll dedicate the goal to you."
The others nearby chuckled. Jack Wilshere, who'd been quiet but listening intently, shook his head. "Don't you dare, Rambo. We're not losing to Wales. Not this summer."
Theo Walcott, lacing his boots back and forth between his hands, joined in with a wry grin. "Mate, England always says that. Then something ridiculous happens — penalties, a dodgy ref, Iceland — and we're crying into our shirts."
"Oi, have some faith," Wilshere shot back, half-serious, half-teasing. "We've got Francesco now. He's the difference."
Francesco raised his palms modestly. "I'll do my bit, but you lot have to score some goals too. I can't do everything."
"Could've fooled me last night," Alexis called over from another group, his grin wicked as he mimed Francesco's hat-trick.
Laughter rippled again. Mesut Özil wandered closer, his tone softer, more thoughtful. "For Germany, the pressure will be heavy. Always is. But I will take your words, Francesco. Play as family."
Per Mertesacker, towering as ever, clapped Mesut's shoulder and nodded. "Yes. It is about togetherness. We know it well. But…" He gave Francesco a sly look. "If we face England, I will not go easy on you."
"Neither will I, Per," Francesco shot back, though his grin gave away the playfulness. "But whoever wins, Arsenal still wins, eh?"
Laurent Koscielny and Olivier Giroud joined next, voices overlapping in French as they teased one another about Didier Deschamps' squad. Flamini chimed in with a theatrical groan, "France at home — mon dieu, the pressure will kill us before the opponents do."
Giroud adjusted his hair with mock seriousness. "Nonsense. The cameras will love me too much to let us lose."
The group burst into another fit of laughter, but Wenger, who'd been hovering on the edge, finally approached. He moved without announcement, but the effect was immediate — like a candle suddenly appearing in a darkened room. His voice was low, calm, yet it carried.
"Mes amis," Wenger began, clasping his hands behind his back. "I will not hold you long. You are tired. But before you scatter to your nations, I give you only one word of advice."
The players quieted instinctively, heads tilting toward him.
"When you go to the Euros," Wenger continued, "remember that you represent more than your flag. You represent yourselves, your families… and yes, Arsenal too. Do not forget what you learned here. Trust. Sacrifice. Courage. These things will carry you through more than tactics or talent. And — above all — take care of your bodies. Do not give everything away for the summer, only to return to me in pieces."
His eyes twinkled slightly at that, though his expression never broke from its gentle seriousness.
"Play with pride," he finished. "But play with wisdom too."
There was a murmur of assent, nods all around. Even Alexis, who wasn't going to the Euros, crossed his arms and said, "I'll remember, boss."
Francesco felt the words settle deep in his chest. For him, the Euros were a chance — maybe his first true chance — to prove himself beyond Arsenal, to wear England's white with the same fire he wore red. But Wenger's reminder was grounding. He didn't just want to shine for himself; he wanted to come back whole, ready for more nights like Milan.
The conversations splintered again, lighter this time — teammates comparing group draws, joking about hotel food, mimicking national anthems. Francesco drifted a little from the center, his gaze wandering across the Colney grounds as the evening began to fall.
After a while, his feet carried him inside, away from the chatter. The corridors were quiet, the walls humming faintly with the echoes of footsteps and distant laughter. Here, in the stillness, the enormity of the last twenty-four hours seemed to breathe louder.
He walked slowly, not really thinking where he was going until he turned a corner and found himself outside the trophy room.
The door was ajar. A faint golden glow spilled into the corridor. Almost without meaning to, Francesco stepped inside.
The room was hushed, reverent. Cabinets lined with polished silver and gold, shields and cups from decades past. But his eyes went straight to the center.
There it was.
The Champions League trophy.
Resting on its stand, floodlit just enough to gleam like something not of this world. Its handles curled like wings, its surface reflecting the dim glow of the room.
Francesco moved closer, each step weighted. His reflection appeared in the curved metal — warped, ghostly, but unmistakably his.
He reached out, fingertips brushing the cool surface. A shiver passed through him. He had lifted it last night, kissed it, screamed into the Milan night with it above his head. But here, in the silence, it felt different.
More real.
More his.
He closed his eyes, remembering the journey. The goals, the doubts, the nights of rain at Stoke, the roar of the Emirates, the heartbreaks that came before. He remembered Ronaldo's words — "Congrats, champ. You deserved it." He remembered calling Wenger to lift it with him, because it had never been his alone.
And in that stillness, Francesco whispered, not to anyone in particular, but maybe to the trophy itself: "Thank you."
The sound barely left his lips, but it was enough. His chest eased, the tightness releasing like a sigh he'd held for years.
After a long moment, he stepped back, letting the silence claim the room again. The cup glimmered softly, waiting for the next chapter of its story.
When he returned to the main hall, the squad was beginning to scatter. Some players hugged one another goodbye, promising to text, to meet up in France. Others gathered belongings, laughter echoing as they teased each other one last time.
But before the exodus, there was one final ritual.
Dinner.
The staff had set up long tables in the dining area, plates steaming with roast chicken, pasta, salads, fresh bread. Nothing fancy — nothing compared to the champagne-soaked feast of Milan — but this meal mattered more. It was theirs.
Francesco slid into a seat between Wilshere and Ramsey, the hum of chatter wrapping around him like a blanket. Across the table, Giroud was already mock-arguing with Koscielny about who would finish their plate first. Santi Cazorla poured Mesut Özil a glass of water, then mischievously swapped it for sparkling when Mesut looked away. Alexis piled his plate higher than anyone, insisting, "This is fuel for the parade!"
The food disappeared quickly, but no one rushed to leave. The meal wasn't about eating — it was about being together one last time before they scattered across Europe.
Stories flowed: Wilshere recounting his disastrous attempt at karaoke on the plane, Bellerín mimicking Arsène's sideline gestures, Ramsey joking about swapping shirts with Gareth Bale in training just to annoy him. The room was alive with warmth, the kind that only comes when people know they've shared something unrepeatable.
Francesco leaned back in his chair, full, tired, happy. He watched his teammates — his brothers — and felt that strange ache again. The ache of knowing this exact moment, this exact night, would never return.
The hum of voices and laughter slowly ebbed as players trickled away from the long tables. Chairs scraped back, hands clasped in firm handshakes, hugs exchanged with lingering weight — each man acutely aware they wouldn't be together like this again for a while. The Euros would scatter them across Europe, and even those staying behind would drift into summer's rhythm.
Francesco stayed until the very last plates were cleared, until the hum of chatter softened to a quiet murmur. He stood, stretching his shoulders, and looked around one more time. The room still smelled faintly of roast chicken and bread, the echoes of his teammates' laughter clinging to the air. He knew it was a memory already — one he'd carry with him, long after the summer.
Jack Wilshere came up, clapping him on the shoulder. "See you at England camp, mate."
"Yeah," Francesco said with a grin. "Don't be late."
Theo Walcott hugged him quickly, muttering, "We'll make something happen this summer, you'll see."
Ramsey, cheeky as always, pointed a finger at him. "Remember what I said — if I score against you, I'll dedicate it."
Francesco rolled his eyes, chuckling. "You won't get past me anyway."
One by one, the goodbyes came. They weren't dramatic — footballers rarely were when it came to departures — but there was something heavier underneath. Each embrace, each handshake, carried an unspoken recognition of what they'd just done together.
At last, Francesco slung his bag over his shoulder, adjusted his jacket, and headed toward the exit. The evening air was cool, brushing against his face as he stepped outside. The floodlights of Colney cast long shadows across the car park. He spotted his BMW X5 waiting patiently, its sleek black paint glinting under the pale light.
As he walked, his boots crunching softly against the gravel, he passed a few staff members lingering by the doors. "Goodnight, captain," one of them said warmly.
"Goodnight," Francesco replied, offering a tired but genuine smile.
He reached the X5, unlocked it with a soft beep, and slid inside. The leather seat hugged him with familiar comfort, the faint scent of polish and his own cologne still lingering from weeks of travel. He rested his hands on the steering wheel for a moment, letting the silence settle.
But as he drove toward the Colney gates, the quiet broke.
There they were.
Dozens of Arsenal fans — maybe more — pressed against the barriers outside, scarves wrapped around their necks, flags waving, shirts from every era pulled tight over their chests. Some looked young enough to be in school uniforms still; others were middle-aged, voices hoarse from a lifetime of chanting. Despite the late hour, their eyes burned with the same fire he'd seen in Milan the night before.
They hadn't left.
They were still waiting.
The moment his headlights swept over them, the crowd surged with a roar. "FRANCESCO! FRANCESCO! ONE PHOTO, PLEASE! CAPTAIN!"
Francesco slowed the car instinctively, his chest tightening with a rush of emotion. He could have driven past — no one would've blamed him after such a draining week. But he knew. He remembered being a boy himself, waiting outside gates, desperate for a glimpse, a word, an autograph from heroes who sometimes never came.
He wasn't going to be that.
Rolling down the window, he leaned out, the night air cool against his sweat-warmed skin. "Alright, alright," he called with a grin. "One at a time, yeah? Don't break the car."
The crowd erupted. Phones shot up, flashes bursting in quick succession. A handful of fans rushed forward, but the stewards kept the line in order. One by one, Francesco took selfies, signed shirts, scribbled his name across scarves and ticket stubs. A young boy with freckles and wide eyes handed him a football nervously.
"Could you… could you write, 'To Charlie, keep dreaming'?" the boy stammered.
Francesco looked at him properly, saw himself in that trembling eagerness, and smiled softly. "Of course." He wrote it carefully, handing the ball back with a wink. "Keep dreaming, Charlie."
The boy's face lit up like fireworks.
There were tears too — an older man, voice breaking as he thanked Francesco for bringing the Champions League home after all these years. A woman with a faded Highbury-era shirt asking for a hug "just to say I was here." Francesco gave them all what he could, his heart swelling with every second.
It took nearly twenty minutes before the last fan waved goodbye, clutching their prize close like treasure. As Francesco finally rolled the window back up and eased the car forward, a chant followed him into the night.
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
He drove on, smiling to himself, the sound echoing even after the gates closed behind him.
The motorway stretched ahead, dark and steady, the hum of the engine filling the silence. Streetlights flicked overhead in steady rhythm, each one flashing against the windscreen like beats of a drum. The adrenaline of the day began to ebb at last, replaced by the deep fatigue of a man who'd given everything. But beneath it was peace too. A rare peace, like the city itself was cradling him home.
Richmond came into view at last, the familiar roads guiding him like old friends. The BMW purred as he turned into the long driveway of his mansion, the house glowing softly with light. He parked neatly in the garage, the engine dying with a sigh.
For a moment, Francesco sat there, hands resting loosely on the wheel, eyes closed. Coming home after nights like these always felt surreal — like stepping out of a dream into another.
He opened the door and stepped out, gravel crunching beneath his boots. The night air here was calmer, gentler, carrying the faint smell of damp earth and roses from the garden.
When he pushed open the front door, warmth spilled over him instantly — laughter, voices, the unmistakable hum of family.
"Francesco!"
Leah Williamson was the first to greet him, appearing in the hallway with a smile so radiant it made the tiredness in his bones vanish for a moment. She'd flown back earlier that morning, returning with his parents and her own family after watching him in Milan.
Her arms wrapped around him tightly, and he sank into the embrace, burying his face in her hair for a heartbeat longer than usual.
"You're late," she teased gently, pulling back just enough to look up at him.
"Had some business with the fans," he murmured with a grin. "They wouldn't let me leave."
Leah laughed, shaking her head. "Of course they wouldn't. You're a hero now."
From the living room, his mother's voice called, warm and full of joy. "Francesco! You are back!"
His father appeared next, clapping him on the shoulder, eyes shining with pride. Behind them, Leah's parents and brother waved, smiling warmly, already settled comfortably as if this house had always been theirs too.
The air was thick with love, with familiarity, with celebration.
Francesco stepped inside fully, letting the door close behind him, and for the first time all day, he truly felt at home.
The house hummed with a kind of gentle chaos only family gatherings can bring — the clink of glasses from the kitchen, the occasional burst of laughter from Leah's father, David, as he recounted something to Francesco's mum, Sarah. Even Jacob, Leah's younger brother, was sprawled across the rug in the living room, scrolling through his phone but clearly listening in with half an ear, a grin flashing whenever someone made a joke at Francesco's expense.
Francesco, though, was sinking into the sofa, shoulders finally dropping into a rare ease. Leah settled in beside him, her legs tucked under her, one hand resting comfortably on his. His father, Mike, had claimed the armchair closest to the television, while Sarah and Amanda — Leah's mum — were perched together on the other end of the sofa, exchanging knowing smiles like mothers do when watching their children bask in a moment they'd always dreamed of.
On the TV, Sky Sports' late-night coverage filled the room. The screen glowed with highlights: Francesco's goals, the celebrations in Milan, Arsenal's players lifting the trophy in a rain of red-and-white confetti. Even though he'd lived it only the night before, seeing it replayed like this — cut into dramatic montages, slowed down, paired with soaring commentary — made it feel unreal, like something from a film.
Ian Wright was the first pundit they showed. His face was practically split in half by a grin, his energy so infectious that even in the Williamson-Lee living room, it pulled a few chuckles.
"Look at it!" Wright exclaimed, pointing at the clip of Francesco's second goal, where he'd darted past Ramos and curled it into the far corner. "Seventeen years old. Seventeen! I don't care what anyone says, Arsenal fans have waited their whole lives for this moment. The Champions League, the treble, the unbeaten league season — you couldn't write it better. And this kid — this kid! — he's at the heart of it all."
Leah squeezed Francesco's hand tighter at that, her eyes dancing as though Wright were speaking directly to her. Francesco just gave a small, almost sheepish smile, shaking his head slightly. "He makes it sound like I did it alone."
"You might as well have," Jacob piped up cheekily from the rug. "Three goals in the final, bro. That's superhero stuff."
The room laughed, Francesco included, though he leaned forward and reached over to ruffle Jacob's hair. "Careful, or I'll make you my boot boy."
On the TV, Jamie Carragher cut in next. His voice had that analytical edge, the kind that made people lean forward as if he was about to reveal a secret truth.
"What strikes me," Carragher said, "is how young this Arsenal side still is. You've got world-class talent, sure, but we're not talking about players at their peak. We're talking about lads who are still learning, still growing. Francesco is the clearest example. Seventeen years old, yet look at the temperament. Look at the composure in Milan, against Real Madrid of all clubs. That's Messi level, that's Ronaldo level, in terms of handling pressure." He tapped the desk in front of him for emphasis. "Now, what he needs — what this whole team needs — is consistency. Messi and Ronaldo built their legacies not just on big moments, but on delivering every week, every season. If Francesco can keep this level, keep this mentality, then Arsenal aren't just looking at a great season — they're looking at a dynasty."
Amanda let out a low whistle. "A dynasty. That's a big word."
"It's true, though," David said, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees. "You see so many players have one good season, maybe two, and then fade. But if this boy keeps it up…" He gestured toward Francesco with a broad smile. "Well, the sky's the limit, eh?"
Francesco chuckled softly, trying to wave off the weight of the words, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper. Pride, yes, but also responsibility.
Gary Neville's voice came through next, level and precise.
"Look, let's not get carried away just yet," Neville began, though there was a smile tugging at his lips too. "This season has been extraordinary, no doubt about it. Arsenal have gone unbeaten in the league, they've won the treble, they've conquered Europe at last. But football doesn't stop. Next season will be harder. Every club in Europe will be studying them now, planning to stop them. What Arsenal need is to build on this — keep this squad together, keep that spirit intact, and crucially, add the right players. A bit more depth here and there, maybe an extra world-class signing or two. Do that, and they can defend the Champions League, they can dominate the Premier League. Without it, though… football has a way of humbling even the best."
"Always the cautious one," Wright teased from the panel, laughing.
Neville smirked. "I've been around long enough to know it's not easy to stay at the top."
The discussion carried on, the pundits volleying points back and forth, but in the living room, the families were having their own version of the debate.
"Gary's right, you know," Mike said, his voice calm but firm. "It's one thing to climb the mountain, but another to stay there. Francesco, you've done something incredible this season. But this is just the beginning."
Francesco nodded slowly, the truth of it settling into him. "I know, Dad. One season isn't enough. I want more."
Sarah smiled at him, pride written all over her face. "We're already proud of you, darling. Whether you win one or ten more, you've given us memories no one can take away."
Leah leaned her head against his shoulder, her voice softer, meant just for him. "And you've shown the world who you are. The rest will come."
The program switched to highlights again — the goals against Real Madrid replaying in crisp detail, slowed down so every flicker of Francesco's movement looked deliberate, almost balletic. His first strike, a poacher's finish. His second, that curling beauty past Keylor Navas. His third, the breakaway that sealed it.
"Hat-trick in a Champions League final," Carragher's voice rang over the footage. "Seventeen years old. Let that sink in."
The room fell into a hush as everyone watched. Even Jacob had put down his phone.
For Francesco, it was surreal — watching himself on the screen like that, dissected and praised by legends of the game. It didn't quite feel real. It felt like watching someone else.
But then Leah's hand squeezed his again, grounding him.
"That's you," she whispered. "Don't forget it."
Carragher leaned back in his chair for a moment on the broadcast, almost as if he wanted the pause to land properly before speaking again. His Scouse accent carried an earnest edge this time, not just analysis but something that sounded almost like hope.
"Y'know, we've talked about Arsenal tonight, about Wenger, about the treble — all that's history-making in itself. But I want to bring up something Francesco said after the match yesterday, something that stuck with me." He glanced at his fellow pundits before looking straight down the camera. "This lad didn't just talk about Arsenal. He made a promise. He said he wants to lead England this summer at the Euros — to bring football home."
The words seemed to ripple through the room like a pebble in a pond. Francesco felt Leah shift against him, lifting her head slightly to look at him with wide, proud eyes. His dad sat a bit straighter in the armchair. Even Jacob's smirk gave way to something like awe.
On screen, Wright's grin widened, his hands flying up as though Carragher had just struck a chord he'd been waiting for.
"Oh, I love it," Wright said, almost bouncing in his chair. "That's what you want to hear from your young players. Ambition. Belief. None of this hiding behind clichés — 'we'll take it one game at a time' — no. He's standing there, seventeen, and he's saying, 'I'll carry England, I'll bring it home.' That's spine-tingling stuff."
Gary Neville gave a small chuckle, shaking his head, though it wasn't dismissive — more the laugh of a man who wanted to believe but knew the pitfalls. "It is spine-tingling, Ian, but it's also a heavy load to put on your shoulders. England have seen plenty of golden boys come through with the weight of the nation on them. Some rise, some crumble. What's different here, I think, is that Francesco's already shown he can carry pressure at the very highest level. A Champions League final against Real Madrid isn't just pressure — it's the furnace. And he thrived. That gives me hope."
Carragher leaned in, his eyes glinting under the studio lights. "Exactly. And listen — I played in 2004, I played in 2006. I know what it's like to go into a tournament with the whole country saying, 'This is our time.' It's hard. But I'll tell you this: if this kid can do with England what he just did with Arsenal, if he can lead by example, score goals, set the tempo — then maybe, just maybe, this summer is different. Maybe this is the year."
Back in the living room, David let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. "Well, there it is. No pressure, eh?"
Amanda chuckled softly, glancing at Francesco. "They're talking about you like you're already captain."
Francesco gave a small shake of his head, though there was a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. "I'm not captain. Not even close. Wayne Rooney's still captain."
"But you're the one they're looking at," Mike said gently, his voice firm but not unkind. "Rooney's experience matters, yes, but football's about moments. And right now, you're the moment, son."
Leah's hand tightened around his again, her voice softer, intimate. "And you've never shied away from it. That's what they see."
The TV cut to footage of England's training camp from earlier in the spring — shots of Roy Hodgson watching from the sideline, Rooney jogging with his teammates, and a brief clip of Francesco in his England kit, laughing with Dele Alli during a rondo drill.
Carragher's voiceover played. "If England are going to win a major tournament for the first time since 1966, they need more than experience. They need belief, they need magic. And that — whether it's fair or not — is what Francesco brings."
The camera returned to the studio, and Wright leaned toward Neville with a mischievous grin. "C'mon, Gary, tell me you don't feel it. Tell me you don't think this kid could light up the Euros."
Neville sighed dramatically, though a smile betrayed him. "Alright, fine. I feel it. But I also know what happens if we build him up too much. Let's just let him play."
"Let him play," Wright repeated with a laugh, slapping the desk. "Play? He's going to set the Euros on fire!"
The living room erupted in chuckles at Wright's enthusiasm, but beneath the laughter, there was an unspoken weight. Everyone knew what was being said wasn't just pundit fluff. It was real. The nation was already expecting.
Francesco leaned back into the sofa, eyes on the glowing screen but thoughts elsewhere. He could feel the warmth of Leah against his side, the quiet pride in his father's eyes, the almost childlike awe in Jacob's face. And yet, beyond all that, he felt the pull of something bigger — the roar of Wembley, the weight of the Three Lions crest on his chest, the dream of lifting a trophy not just for a club, but for a country.
Sarah's voice cut gently through the hum of the TV. "Darling," she said, her eyes soft but steady, "whatever happens this summer, don't forget — you're still seventeen. Enjoy it. Don't let the world steal that from you too quickly."
Francesco turned to her, the corners of his mouth curving into a small smile. "I'll enjoy it, Mum. But I want it too. I want to bring it home."
For a moment, the room was silent — the kind of silence that isn't empty, but full, like a held breath. And then Jacob, unable to resist, broke it with a grin.
"If you do bring it home, bro, I'm demanding a signed England shirt. With 'To Jacob: best little brother in the world.' Don't forget the message."
The room burst into laughter again, the tension easing, but beneath it all, Francesco knew. This was just the beginning. Arsenal's treble was a dream made real, but the summer ahead — the Euros — that was a promise. And promises, once spoken aloud, had to be kept.
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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