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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.
Three days had passed, though it hardly felt that way. The memories of Milan — the confetti, the roar, the hat-trick — still clung to Francesco's mind like the last notes of a song you couldn't stop humming. But London had already moved on from memory to celebration.
Sunday had been recovery. Monday had been press duties, interviews, photoshoots, sponsors. Tuesday had been a blur of calls — Wenger, Hodgson, even a congratulatory message from Thierry Henry that Francesco kept replaying just to make sure it was real. And now, Wednesday morning, the city was vibrating with anticipation. The Arsenal treble parade day.
The sun was out, startlingly bright, the kind of light that made every red-and-white flag draped from windows seem like it was glowing. Francesco steered his BMW X5 carefully through the north London streets, Leah beside him in the passenger seat. She had on sunglasses and a soft smile, her hand resting lightly on his thigh as she watched the city outside their tinted windows.
"Feels like the whole of London's come out," Leah murmured, watching as they passed clusters of fans already crowding pavements. Some waved scarves, some carried banners, and some simply craned their necks, trying to catch sight of any Arsenal player's car heading toward Colney.
Francesco gave a small laugh, though his eyes stayed sharp on the road. "They probably have. I don't think I've ever seen this many people out, not even for New Year's fireworks."
Up ahead, a line of police motorcycles crawled past, lights flashing but sirens silent, shepherding traffic into slow, cautious order. On street corners, officers in high-vis jackets were trying — and mostly failing — to keep fans behind barriers. Every time a car tinted just enough to look like a footballer's, the crowds surged, phones raised, voices rising in hopeful chants.
"Look at them," Leah said, her voice warm but tinged with awe. "They're here because of you. Because of what you did."
Francesco shook his head slightly, lips twitching in a half-smile. "Not just me. Because of the team. Because of Alexis, Mesut, Héctor, the whole squad. They don't just cheer for me."
Leah turned her gaze back to him, lifting her sunglasses just enough for him to see the playful arch of her brow. "You really think they're not chanting your name in there? Want me to roll down the window and test it?"
He let out a laugh, reaching over briefly to squeeze her hand before returning it to the gearstick. "Please don't. The police already look stressed enough."
And stressed they were. Every few streets, Francesco had to slow to a crawl as officers waved cars through tight squeezes, while fans tried to peek inside the tinted windows. Some spotted him — he knew it by the sudden shouts, the frantic waving of shirts, the pounding of hands against barriers.
"LEE! FRANCESCO LEE!" one group of teenagers screamed as the BMW crept past. They waved Arsenal shirts above their heads, one boy even holding a cardboard sign scrawled with OUR KING AT 17.
Leah tilted her head, grinning at him. "See? They know exactly who's in this car."
Francesco's ears burned, though he gave a small nod and a smile to the crowd before pulling away. "Still feels weird. Like they're chanting for someone else, not me."
She reached over, brushing her fingers against his jaw, grounding him the way she always did. "That's because you still see yourself as the boy who played street football in Richmond. But they see the man who won Arsenal the Champions League. It's both, Frankie. You're both."
He let out a soft breath, nodding, the truth of her words settling in.
By the time they reached the familiar turn into London Colney, the roads were locked down entirely. Security had cordoned off the training ground with layers of barriers, fans pressed shoulder-to-shoulder against them, waving flags and holding phones high like glowing periscopes. Police horses patrolled the perimeter, steady but watchful, while chants of "We won the treble!" rolled in waves that could be heard even inside the car.
Francesco pulled up slowly to the checkpoint, rolling down his window for the guard. The man gave a quick grin as he leaned in.
"Morning, champ," he said, his voice raised slightly over the roar outside. "Got your name on the list, no worries. Straight through to the players' car park. You and the missus enjoy the madness today."
Leah smiled politely, and Francesco gave a nod of thanks before driving through.
Inside, the car park was already filling with sleek cars — a few Ferraris, a handful of Range Rovers, even Özil's unmistakable matte-black Mercedes. Players were stepping out one by one, laughing, clapping each other on the back, dressed not in training kits but casual wear. Today wasn't about work. Today was about showing off what they'd achieved.
Francesco parked next to Héctor Bellerín's Audi, cutting the engine and sitting for a moment in the sudden quiet. Outside, the noise was still there — muffled but relentless. The kind of sound that seeps into your skin.
Leah unbuckled, turning to him. "You ready for this?"
He gave a small laugh, running a hand over his hair. "As ready as I'll ever be. I mean… I played in front of 80,000 in Milan, but somehow this feels scarier."
"Because this is home," she said softly. "It's different when it's your people."
He nodded, the weight of that truth pressing against him. Then he leaned over, kissed her forehead, and opened his door.
The moment he stepped out, a wave of cheers hit the car park. Some fans had managed to climb onto nearby walls or trees, craning for a glimpse inside. Francesco lifted a hand in greeting, flashing a quick smile, and the sound doubled.
"Frankie! Frankie!"
"Treble hero!"
"Seventeen years old!"
Leah slipped out on the other side, her hand naturally finding his as they walked toward the entrance. Players were converging ahead — Alexis already cracking jokes in Spanish to Monreal, Giroud striking a mock-heroic pose for the cameras of the official Arsenal media team, and Cazorla bouncing on his toes like a child, unable to stop grinning.
"Lee!" Bellerín called, striding over in ripped jeans and a white tee. He threw an arm around Francesco's shoulder. "The boy wonder arrives! You ready to wave at a million screaming people today?"
"More than a million," Alexis chimed in, smirking. "London is red. Every single one of them will be there."
Francesco laughed, shaking his head. "Guess I better practice my wave then."
As they all gathered, the energy was infectious — part disbelief, part joy, part sheer adrenaline. And then, at the far end of the lot, the sight that made it real appeared: the red double-decker Routemaster buses, decked out in Arsenal colours, each one gleaming in the sun with banners stretched across their sides: PREMIER LEAGUE. FA CUP. CHAMPIONS LEAGUE. TREBLE WINNERS 2016.
Even from this distance, Francesco could see the trophies lined up inside, ready to be hoisted high above the capital.
A lump caught in his throat. He squeezed Leah's hand gently. "We actually did it."
She looked up at him, her smile both soft and fierce. "You did it. Now go show them."
The Arsenal media staff called them into the main building after a round of greetings and jokes, handing out neatly folded shirts still warm from the printer's press. White cotton, bold red lettering splashed across the chest: TREBLE WINNERS 2016. On the back, in smaller type, the words Forever Arsenal.
Francesco ran his fingers across the letters like they were stitched from something holy. He glanced sideways and saw Alexis already pulling his on over a sleeveless undershirt, grinning like a boy in a sweet shop. Giroud, of course, checked his reflection in a window, tilting his head this way and that before giving himself an approving nod. Even Özil cracked a rare smile as he unfolded his shirt, lifting it to show to his phone camera before slipping it on.
Leah leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her sunglasses perched in her hair as she watched Francesco change. "You know," she said, smirking, "you look better in this than you do in your training kit."
Francesco chuckled as he tugged it down over his head. "That's because it doesn't smell like sweat and grass."
"Not yet," she teased, poking him in the ribs.
One by one, the players emerged from the changing area, the matching shirts turning them from individuals into a brotherhood, a moving banner of red and white pride. The coaches joined them too — Wenger looking oddly boyish in his, like he'd been pulled into the moment despite his usual reserve. Even Steve Bould cracked a grin.
"Alright, lads," Wenger said, voice carrying even without effort. "Time to show London what you've done. Time to give this back to the supporters."
The words lit a fire under them, though no one needed reminding. They spilled back out into the sunlight, laughter and chatter filling the air, and headed for the gleaming red Routemasters.
Up close, the buses were overwhelming — draped with banners, Arsenal crests plastered across the sides, the words CHAMPIONS OF ENGLAND AND EUROPE painted in gold along the panels. On the open-top deck, three glass cases shimmered in the sunlight, each holding a prize: the Premier League trophy, the FA Cup, and the Champions League.
"Which one are you holding first?" Héctor asked Francesco, nudging him in the side as they climbed aboard.
Francesco shrugged, though his eyes kept flicking back to the biggest one of all — the Champions League trophy, its silver arms catching the light like it was alive. "Don't know. Maybe all three at once."
"Greedy," Alexis laughed, slapping him on the back. "Leave some glory for the rest of us."
The upper deck filled quickly, players claiming spots along the railings, girlfriends and families slipping into spaces beside them. Leah took a place at Francesco's right, her hand still woven with his, while Alexis stood on his left, already gesturing animatedly at the crowd gathering beyond the gates.
And then, with a low rumble, the engine turned over. The bus shuddered, rolled forward, and as it nosed past the training ground gates into the sunlit streets of north London, the roar hit them.
It was like a wall — a wall of sound, of colour, of movement. Thousands pressed against barriers, spilling into streets, waving flags, scarves, banners. Red smoke curled up into the sky, caught in the bright blue light. The chant was deafening, unstoppable:
"We are the Champions, ole ole ole!"
Francesco leaned on the railing, wide-eyed, his heart thundering against his ribs.
"Look at them!" Héctor shouted, his voice ragged from laughing as he waved both arms above his head. "Madness!"
Cazorla was already bouncing up and down, clapping along to the chants. Giroud leaned over the side, blowing kisses like a movie star. Monreal had his phone out, filming the sea of humanity stretching as far as the eye could see.
Francesco glanced down. A group of kids, no older than twelve, were screaming his name, holding up homemade signs: LEE 9 — OUR KING! He couldn't help it — he waved, pointed right at them, and their reaction was explosive. One boy actually burst into tears, clutching his shirt as though Francesco had handed him a trophy of his own.
Leah squeezed his hand. "That's what you mean to them."
He swallowed hard, unable to reply. The lump in his throat was too big.
The bus turned onto a wider road now, and the chants shifted:
"Francesco Lee! He's one of our own!"
Alexis leaned close, grinning wickedly. "See? I told you, hermano. They're not singing for me right now. They're singing for you."
Francesco laughed shakily, lifting his arms in the air to join the chant. The sound doubled, tripled, until it felt like the whole city was moving to the rhythm of his name.
Someone uncorked the first champagne bottle. A sharp pop cracked through the noise, and a fountain of bubbles sprayed over the side of the bus. It was Giroud, of course, grinning like a devil as he shook the bottle and aimed it over the crowd. Fans screamed with delight as the spray hit them, arms outstretched as though it were holy water.
"Pass me one!" Alexis yelled, grabbing a bottle from the crate stacked near the trophies. He popped it, sprayed Héctor full in the face, and the right side of the bus erupted in laughter.
Héctor spluttered, wiping his dripping hair back. "¡Cabrón!" he shouted, though he was laughing too, already grabbing another bottle to retaliate.
Leah ducked just in time as foam flew over their heads, shrieking with laughter as it splattered on the deck. Francesco grabbed a bottle himself, shook it hard, and let the spray fly in a golden arc over the fans below. They screamed like the noise of a goal, jumping and pushing forward just to feel the droplets hit their skin.
"Champagne showers for London!" Cazorla cried, drenched but delighted.
As the bus rolled further into the city, the scenes only grew more unbelievable. From balconies and rooftops, fans waved flags and shirts, some letting off red flares that turned the air hazy and electric. The chants never stopped — songs about Wenger, about the treble, about being kings of Europe at last.
At one stoplight, a group of schoolkids in uniforms had escaped class, climbing onto a lamppost and belting out "Super Frankie Lee!" at the top of their lungs. Francesco laughed so hard he nearly doubled over, waving both hands above his head at them.
The players took turns with the trophies. First the FA Cup — small, delicate compared to the others, but glittering as Alexis hoisted it high, leaning dangerously far over the railing to present it to the crowd. Then the Premier League trophy — Giroud and Koscielny lifting it together, kissing the top before turning it outward so the sun made it blaze like fire.
And then… the big one.
The Champions League.
Wenger himself carried it up from its glass case, his thin arms surprisingly steady as he handed it to Francesco. "Go on," he said softly, his eyes gleaming. "Show them what you've given them."
Francesco's chest tightened as he gripped the handles, the weight familiar but still staggering. He lifted it high above his head, the metal catching the sunlight, and the crowd below erupted. It was a sound like nothing he had ever heard — pure joy, pure pride, pure Arsenal.
"WE'VE WON IT ALL! WE'VE WON IT ALL!" the fans bellowed, bouncing as red smoke flares lit the street like fire.
Leah leaned in, kissing his cheek as he held the trophy aloft. "Look at you," she whispered. "Seventeen years old, and you've conquered Europe."
His hands shook, but he smiled through it, his voice barely audible over the roar: "This is just the beginning."
The bus wound its way through Islington now, streets choked with humanity, faces pressed so close Francesco could see the tears, the laughter, the awe. Fans reached out as if they could touch the glory itself, and in a way, they had — because this was theirs as much as his.
The parade didn't just belong to London anymore. By mid-afternoon, the world had pulled up a front-row seat.
Everywhere Francesco looked, a new lens caught him. Helicopters hovered above, cameras mounted to their bellies, broadcasting the red tide rolling through the streets. A drone buzzed near the rooftops, its whirring faint against the thunder of chants. On the side of the bus, one of Arsenal's media crew yelled into a headset, coordinating live feeds with Sky Sports, BBC, ESPN.
"Francesco Lee!" a commentator's voice barked from a monitor just inside the bus, the sound turned up enough for the players to hear their own story narrated. "Seventeen years old — the man of the match in Milan, a hat-trick hero — and now look at this! A city in ecstasy, a global audience tuned in. Arsenal's treble parade isn't just news, it's history in motion!"
Alexis grinned, tilting his head toward the commentary. "Listen to them. You're the headline everywhere, hermano."
Francesco shook his head, laughing softly. "We're the headline. All of us."
Leah squeezed his hand, but he could see her smile — proud, almost knowing — from the corner of his eye.
The players leaned into it now. Bellerín was practically a showman, whipping the crowd up with waves and chants, even leading a chorus of "Come on you gunners!" that shook the pavement. Santi Cazorla, drenched to the bone with champagne, danced in circles while fans copied his moves below. Giroud blew kisses to every rooftop balcony, somehow making it look like theatre rather than arrogance.
And Francesco? He kept catching faces. A middle-aged man sobbing into his scarf. A young girl lifted onto her father's shoulders, both of them holding up her tiny homemade banner: I LOVE YOU, FRANCESCO with glittery hearts. A group of lads in suits — clearly bunked off work — raising their pints in salute.
Every face told him the same thing: this is bigger than you, bigger than us — this is Arsenal reborn.
By the time the buses snaked their way down Holloway Road, the sound had turned almost primal. The Emirates loomed in the distance, its curves gleaming in the low sun, and the roar grew and grew until it was a living creature all its own.
Leah leaned close, voice raised to be heard. "I think the whole stadium's full already."
She was right. Even from blocks away, they could see it — every seat packed, every concourse spilling over with fans. Red shirts, red flags, red smoke. A festival. A cathedral.
"Home," Wenger said softly from the lower deck as he peered upward, his face unguarded in rare awe.
The buses pulled into the stadium's shadow, rolling past security and into the private service road beneath the stands. The players broke into cheers, clapping, some hugging as though they'd just scored another goal.
As Francesco stepped down from the bus, clutching the Champions League trophy against his chest, he heard the sound change. Inside the Emirates, fifty, sixty thousand voices were waiting. The ground shook with it.
The staff had prepared everything. At the heart of the pitch, a stage gleamed under floodlights, draped in red-and-white banners. Three podiums had been placed at its centre, waiting for the trophies. Big screens towered above, already showing slow-motion highlights from Milan, from Wembley, from the Premier League run — Francesco's hat-trick against Real Madrid, Sánchez's screamers, Cech's saves, Bellerín's runs.
"Alright lads," Per Mertesacker said, rallying his teammates as they lined up by the tunnel. "Trophies up first, then us."
One by one, they carried the silverware onto the stage. First the FA Cup, then the Premier League, and finally Francesco himself, walking slow, steady, holding the Champions League aloft as the stadium rose in unison.
The sound hit him like a wave. Not just noise, but something physical, rattling his bones, vibrating in his chest. He set the trophy down on its pedestal, then stepped back with the others, arm slung around Sánchez's shoulder, Leah smiling proudly from the sidelines.
The fans wouldn't stop singing. "We've won the lot! We've won the lot!"
Ivan Gazidis was the first to step up to the microphone. The Arsenal CEO looked sharp in his suit, but the grin tugging at his face betrayed the executive polish. He waited until the chanting died down just enough, then leaned forward.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice booming through the stadium's speakers. "What we have witnessed this season is nothing short of extraordinary. The first treble in Arsenal's history. The Premier League. The FA Cup. The Champions League. And not just victories, but memories — nights we will tell our children and our grandchildren about."
The crowd roared, clapping, stamping feet.
"This club belongs to you," Gazidis continued, sweeping a hand toward the stands. "It belongs to every supporter here, every supporter watching around the world. And tonight, we celebrate not just trophies, but what Arsenal means — passion, resilience, family."
He paused, smiling toward the players lined behind the trophies. "And of course, none of this happens without these men here. Led by a manager who has given more than two decades of his life to this club. Please, join me in welcoming our manager, Arsène Wenger."
The ovation that followed was deafening. Wenger stepped forward slowly, almost shy in the spotlight, but when he reached the microphone, something in his posture lifted. He smiled, the kind of smile that softened even his sharpest lines.
"Bonsoir," he began, his accent curling warmly. "Good evening, my friends."
The crowd cheered again, but he held up a hand. Silence fell, eager, respectful.
"When I came to this club in 1996, I was an unknown Frenchman. Many of you asked, 'Arsène who?'" His smile widened, and laughter rippled through the crowd. "Now, twenty years later, I stand before you humbled. Humbled by your passion, humbled by your loyalty, humbled by the privilege of serving Arsenal Football Club."
His eyes glimmered in the floodlight, voice steady but thick with emotion. "This treble — it is not mine. It is not only the players'. It is yours. Every one of you who filled the stadium, who sang in the pubs, who believed when it was difficult to believe. This belongs to you."
Fans roared, flags waving, a chorus of "Arsène, Arsène!" echoing from the North Bank.
Wenger bowed his head slightly. "Merci. Thank you. Tonight, I am simply proud. Proud of these players, proud of this club, proud of all of you."
He stepped back, nodding toward the players. But instead of leaving the stage, Gazidis gestured for another figure to come forward.
Mikel Arteta.
The captain's armband had long since passed to Francesco, but tonight, Arteta was given the honour of stepping to the microphone. The Spaniard moved slowly, his face solemn but calm, and when he looked out over the sea of fans, his voice carried a different weight.
"My friends," he began, pausing as the crowd cheered his name. "Tonight is special for all of us. We celebrate trophies. We celebrate history. But for me, it is also goodbye."
A hush fell. Even the players behind him grew still.
"This season will be my last as a player," Arteta continued, his tone warm but steady. "I will retire from football. It has been the honour of my life to wear this shirt, to be your captain, to play for Arsenal Football Club."
The Emirates erupted — not in shock, because many had suspected it, but in emotion. Cheers, applause, chants of "Arteta! Arteta!" filled the night.
He smiled, his eyes glistening. "I came here from Everton with hope. Hope to be part of something greater. And I found it. I found family. I found love. I found supporters who never gave up, who made me proud every single time I stepped on the pitch."
He glanced over his shoulder at Francesco, who stood still, the Champions League trophy gleaming beside him. "And I found teammates who will carry Arsenal into the future. Young men like Francesco, who have already achieved more than most dream of, and who will write new chapters for this club."
The camera zoomed in on Francesco, his expression caught between pride and sorrow, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
Arteta's voice cracked slightly now. "Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. For everything. I will always be one of you. Arsenal forever."
When he stepped back, the ovation nearly shook the stadium apart. Fans chanted his name, scarves held high, while his teammates crowded around to hug him, pat his back, whisper their own farewells. Francesco embraced him too, holding him longer than he expected, murmuring into his ear:
"You'll always be my captain."
Arteta smiled faintly, gripping his shoulder. "And you'll be theirs now. Take care of them."
The noise hadn't settled since Arteta stepped down from the microphone. His farewell had stirred something primal inside the Emirates — respect, gratitude, sorrow, love. The chants of "Arteta! Arteta!" still echoed as he rejoined the line of players, his arm briefly lifted by Cazorla, who refused to let the moment sink into melancholy.
Ivan Gazidis, who was acting as a quiet master of ceremonies, gave a small nod toward the squad. "Now," he said into the mic, his voice bright, "tonight isn't only about managers or farewells. It's about this group of players — the men who gave you everything, week in and week out, to make this dream real. And I think it's only right that they speak to you themselves."
The cheer that followed was more than approval; it was an invitation.
One by one, players began stepping forward.
Per Mertesacker was the first. The big German lumbered toward the microphone with his familiar unhurried gait, the floodlights making him seem even taller.
"My friends," he began, the words careful but warm, "you have heard me shout on the pitch many times — usually telling Héctor to get back into position." A ripple of laughter rolled across the stands. Even Bellerín laughed, raising his hand in mock surrender.
"But tonight," Per continued, "I shout something different. I shout thank you. Danke. For believing in us, for standing with us, for making this dream possible. I am proud — so proud — to be your BFG."
He raised both arms, and the North Bank answered: "B-F-G! B-F-G!" He grinned sheepishly, bowed his head, and stepped aside.
Next came Santi Cazorla, who skipped up with the same bounce he had on the pitch. He gripped the microphone with both hands like it was oversized, his smile dazzling.
"Hola, Gunners!" he shouted, and the fans roared.
"I have been here four years now. And every year, I think maybe I cannot love Arsenal more. But then — every year — you surprise me. You give me more love, more support. This treble, it is for you."
He kissed his fingers and lifted them toward the crowd. "And don't worry — I will keep dancing for you next season!"
The stadium laughed and cheered, chanting his name in rhythm: "Santi Cazorla! Santi Cazorla!"
Mesut Özil followed, quieter, as was his nature. He spoke softly, almost shy, but his words carried in the silence that fell.
"I am not always… the loudest," he said, eyes down for a moment before lifting them to the North Bank. "But I see you. I hear you. When you sing my name, when you believe in me — it means everything. This season, we made history together. Next season, we will make more."
He raised his arm, understated but certain, before stepping back to warm applause.
Then Olivier Giroud, who of course strutted up like the stage was a runway. He winked at the cameras, smoothed his hair dramatically, and the crowd laughed before he even opened his mouth.
"My beautiful Gooners," he began, leaning casually on the microphone. "I hope you enjoyed all my goals this year. But remember, even when I do not score, I am still very handsome."
The roar of laughter nearly drowned him out. He grinned, then grew a touch more serious. "But seriously… this season, we did it together. Merci. Thank you. I love you all. And maybe next year, I score even more goals — and maybe finally, Héctor stops teasing me in training!"
Bellerín shook his head, laughing. Giroud blew kisses to the crowd, then strolled back like a man leaving a catwalk.
Alexis Sánchez came next, fiery as always.
"My friends!" he shouted, pounding his chest. "This is why I came to Arsenal — to win, to make history, to fight for something bigger than myself. And look at us now!" He spread his arms wide, eyes blazing. "But we are not finished. No, no, no! Next year — we win again! We fight again! Because we are Arsenal!"
The crowd was swept up in his fire, chanting his name, roaring their approval. Alexis shook his fists at the air, his energy impossible to contain, before stepping aside.
Then, one by one, others took turns:
• Nacho Monreal, modest, thanking the fans for making London his home.
• Héctor Bellerín, youthful and cheeky, promising to keep running "up and down, up and down, until I collapse."
• Petr Čech, dignified, thanking them for welcoming him after years at Chelsea, saying, "I never thought I could love another club like this."
Each speech was its own note in a symphony, weaving together a tapestry of gratitude, pride, and hope.
At last, it was Francesco's turn.
The chant started before he even moved. "FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!" Thousands of voices, insistent, rhythmic, demanding.
He felt the weight of it as he stepped forward, the Champions League trophy glinting behind him, the treble spread out like a crown at his back. His heart pounded. He was only seventeen, but tonight he was something more.
He reached the microphone, and for a moment, he just looked around. The Emirates was glowing — red scarves, red smoke, red light spilling from the giant screens. He swallowed hard, then leaned forward.
"My family," he said simply, his voice carrying clear and strong.
The crowd hushed, leaning into his words.
"This… this is not a dream anymore. This is real. The Premier League. The FA Cup. The Champions League. All in one season. And we did it together — us on the pitch, you in the stands, everyone in this club."
He paused, the cheers swelling, then raised his hand for quiet.
"But listen. This is not the end. No. This is just the beginning."
The stadium trembled as the roar rose, but Francesco pressed on, voice firm, filled with belief.
"Next season — we go again. We will dominate this league. We will defend this crown in Europe. We will lift the Champions League again!"
The eruption was deafening. Flags waved, fans jumped, the stands shook. Francesco's voice cut through it one last time as he leaned into the mic, his young face blazing with conviction.
"COME ON YOU GUNNERSSSS!!!"
The roar that followed felt like it could tear the roof off the Emirates. Players behind him punched the air, fans clutched one another, and Leah, watching from the sidelines, wiped a tear from her cheek, her smile radiant.
The speeches complete, the players gathered around the trophies once more. Wenger gave a subtle nod, and Per Mertesacker clapped his hands.
"Alright boys — time to take them for a walk."
The staff lifted the three trophies carefully, handing them to the players. The FA Cup went to Cazorla and Monreal. The Premier League to Mertesacker and Giroud. And the Champions League — gleaming, immense — was placed once more in Francesco's hands.
The crowd's noise shifted, a rolling thunder, as the players spread out across the pitch. Together, they began their lap of honour.
Every step was answered by cheers, by chants, by waves of scarves and flags. The trophies gleamed under the floodlights, reflecting the red glow of flares and the white of camera flashes.
Francesco carried the Champions League high, but not alone — Alexis had one handle, Özil the other, the three of them lifting it together as they paraded past the North Bank.
Children clambered onto parents' shoulders to get a glimpse. Grown men cried openly. Women waved flags, some holding newborns already dressed in Arsenal onesies.
The songs rolled around the stadium like waves: "We love you Arsenal, we do!" then "By far the greatest team, the world has ever seen!"
When they reached the Clock End, Francesco slowed. He knelt down, set the Champions League gently on the turf, and kissed the badge on his shirt. The cameras zoomed in, capturing the image that would be splashed across front pages worldwide: a teenage captain, bowing to the club, offering glory back to the fans who had given him everything.
The lap continued, laughter and tears mixing freely. Wenger walked with them, smiling shyly as fans chanted his name, while Arteta waved one last goodbye, visibly moved by the love pouring down on him.
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.
________________________________________________
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