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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones everyone!)
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But for now, in this moment, under these lights, surrounded by this noise, it was enough just to stand there as champions again.
For a few seconds after the final whistle, everything felt distant.
The sound was there that deafening, beautiful, overwhelming but it felt like it was coming from underwater. Francesco stood in the middle of it all, chest rising and falling, heart still racing from ninety minutes of football, but something deeper than adrenaline settling into him.
They had done it.
Again.
Per was still in his arms when the first wave of teammates arrived.
Alexis came sprinting back onto the pitch from near the touchline, having embraced the staff, and threw himself into them both. Giroud followed, wrapping his long arms around the three of them. Kanté arrived almost shyly at first, smiling that quiet smile of his, before being dragged fully into the huddle by Cazorla.
Suddenly it wasn't just two men in a private moment.
It was a circle.
A mass of red shirts and sweat and laughter and disbelief.
"Three!" Walcott shouted, jumping onto someone's back. "Three in a row!"
"Invincible again!" Xhaka roared, pointing toward the stands.
Per was still laughing, shaking his head, overwhelmed. Francesco kept one hand on his shoulder like he was anchoring him to the moment.
"You had to score," Alexis said, grabbing Per by the face dramatically. "In your last one, eh?"
Per let out a breathless chuckle. "I couldn't leave quietly."
"No," Francesco said, smiling at him. "You never did."
They broke slightly, enough to look at each other properly now.
Per's eyes were red. Not from sweat.
From everything.
"You gave me the armband," he said quietly to Francesco, the chaos around them momentarily fading. "You didn't have to."
Francesco shrugged gently. "I wanted to. It belongs to you as much as anyone."
Per looked down at the band around his arm, running his fingers across it like he was memorizing the feel of it.
"I thought I'd be nervous," he admitted. "Last game here. I thought it would feel heavy."
"And?" Francesco asked.
Per glanced up at the roaring stands, at the red scarves spinning in the air.
"It felt like home."
Francesco didn't respond immediately. He just nodded.
Because he understood that feeling better than most.
Around them, the celebrations were growing louder.
The coaching staff had come onto the pitch now. Bould hugged Koscielny tightly. The fitness coaches were clapping, shouting, taking pictures on their phones. Even the substitutes who hadn't played were racing around like children let loose.
Čech stood a few yards away, gloves off, clapping slowly toward the crowd, face composed but eyes soft. He caught Francesco's eye and raised a single fist.
Francesco returned it.
Then the blue shirts began walking toward them.
It was subtle at first. Just shapes moving through the red.
Everton.
Lukaku was the first to arrive.
He walked straight toward Francesco and Per, sweat still shining on his forehead, expression tired but genuine.
"Champions," Lukaku said simply, offering his hand.
Francesco took it firmly. "You made us work."
Lukaku gave a small nod. "That's the idea."
He turned to Per and shook his hand as well. "Great header."
Per laughed lightly. "Thank you. I won't get many more chances."
Lukaku's smile flickered. "Then it was a good one."
Behind him, Barkley approached, clapping as he walked.
"Fair play," he said. "You were relentless this year."
Xhaka stepped forward to shake his hand. "You pushed us tonight."
Barkley shrugged. "Not enough."
Mirallas hugged Alexis briefly, speaking in quick Spanish. Baines shook Robertson's hand warmly. Jagielka embraced Koscielny, both veterans sharing a quiet moment of mutual respect.
There was no bitterness in it.
Just recognition.
They had been beaten by the better team.
Robles came over to Francesco, holding out his gloves as if offering something symbolic.
"You were clinical," the keeper said. "Couldn't do much."
Francesco shook his head. "You made some big saves."
Robles smiled faintly. "Not big enough."
They all knew how nights like this worked.
One team left with memory.
The other left with history.
Gradually, the Everton players drifted away, heading toward their own supporters to applaud them. The away end responded warmly. They had fought. They had shown up. That mattered.
And then, cutting through the noise, came the sight of two managers meeting in the middle.
Wenger stood tall, coat buttoned, hands clasped lightly in front of him as Ronald Koeman approached. Koeman's face carried that mixture of disappointment and professionalism that defined seasoned managers.
They shook hands firmly.
"Congratulations," Koeman said first, voice steady but sincere. "You deserved it."
Wenger inclined his head slightly. "Thank you, Ronald. Your team was brave tonight."
Koeman smiled faintly. "Brave doesn't always win leagues."
Wenger's eyes softened. "No. Consistency does."
There was a pause that not awkward, just thoughtful.
Koeman looked around at the celebrating Arsenal players, at the crowd still singing.
"Three in a row," he said. "And two unbeaten."
Wenger nodded.
Koeman extended his hand again, firmer this time.
"Good luck in the final," he added. "Defend the treble. Make it count."
Wenger's expression shifted just slightly at that word.
Treble.
League. Domestic cup. Champions League final still ahead.
"We will try," Wenger said. "We always try."
Koeman gave a final nod before turning away to gather his staff.
Wenger remained standing there for a moment longer, watching his players.
Watching Francesco.
There was pride there. Deep, quiet pride.
Francesco noticed eventually.
He walked over.
They didn't speak at first.
They didn't need to.
Wenger placed a hand lightly on Francesco's shoulder.
"You led well," he said at last.
Francesco exhaled slowly. "They made it easy."
Wenger shook his head. "Leadership is not about shouting. It is about timing."
Francesco glanced back at Per, now laughing as Cazorla attempted to climb onto his back.
"He deserved tonight," Francesco said.
"Yes," Wenger replied. "He did."
A cheer rose suddenly from the stands.
The trophy was being prepared.
A platform was being assembled near the center circle. Staff in suits moved quickly, efficiently, placing the plinth, adjusting the red ribbons on the silver trophy that gleamed under the floodlights.
The players began to gather instinctively.
But before they moved toward it, there was one more moment.
Per called Francesco back over.
"Wait," he said.
The rest of the squad followed, forming a loose circle again.
Per looked around at all of them.
"I don't have a speech," he admitted, drawing laughter.
"But I want to say this."
The stadium noise dimmed slightly in their awareness as they leaned in.
"This club gave me everything. You gave me everything. Tonight…" he paused, swallowing, "…tonight is not about goodbye. It's about what we built."
Francesco nodded slowly.
"We built it together," he said.
Per looked at him and smiled. "And you'll carry it forward."
For a moment it sounded like a passing of something invisible. Not just the armband. Not just leadership. Something older than that. Culture. Expectation. Standards that didn't bend.
But Per wasn't finished.
He cleared his throat lightly, rubbing the back of his neck like a man about to say something slightly awkward.
"And… one more thing," he added.
There were groans immediately.
"Oh no," Alexis muttered dramatically. "Now it is the speech."
Per pointed at him. "You asked for it."
Laughter rippled around the circle.
But Per's expression softened again, more serious now, though still warm.
"I mean this," he said. "Listen."
They did.
Even in the middle of confetti drifting through the air. Even with the stadium still singing. They leaned in.
"We are at a peak," Per continued. "Three leagues. Two unbeaten. A cup already. Two finals still to go. If we defend the treble…"
He paused, glancing around at each face.
"…it will not get bigger than this."
That landed differently.
Not heavy.
Just honest.
"And sometimes," he continued carefully, "when players reach something like this, they think maybe it is enough. Maybe they want something new. Or maybe…" he smiled faintly, "…they lose a little hunger because they have tasted everything."
Nobody spoke.
They all knew he wasn't accusing. He was warning.
"If any of you ever decide to leave," Per said gently, "or if you ever feel the desire fading… leave with decency."
He shrugged slightly.
"Leave with respect. For the club. For the fans. For each other."
There was no drama in his voice. No bitterness. Just clarity.
"And for the ones who lose desire," he added, his tone shifting lighter, a grin creeping back in, "remember something important."
He looked directly at Alexis.
"Many trophies make your name bigger."
Alexis raised an eyebrow.
"And bigger name means more sponsors," Per finished, laughing.
The circle burst into laughter.
Even Kanté covered his mouth, shaking with quiet amusement.
Giroud slapped Per on the back. "Ah! Now we understand. The German businessman speaks!"
"Always thinking long term," Xhaka added.
Per raised his hands defensively, still laughing. "I am just being practical!"
Francesco stepped forward then, shaking his head, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Why talk so much, old man?" he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The group erupted immediately.
Per clutched his chest dramatically. "Old man?!"
Francesco continued, grinning now.
"We still have two finals to go. When it finishes, then you can start lecturing us about life and sponsors and retirement plans."
More laughter.
Alexis pointed at Francesco. "Yes! Let him enjoy his retirement speech later!"
Cazorla wiped tears from his eyes. "He already started coaching!"
Per shook his head, but he was smiling so wide now that it was impossible to take offense.
"You see?" he said, pointing at Francesco. "This is why he is captain."
Francesco shrugged.
"Focus first," he said. "Celebrate after everything."
He stepped closer to Per again, lowering his voice just enough that only those nearest could hear.
"We're not done," he added quietly.
Per's smile faded into something steadier.
"I know," he said.
Around them, the stadium announcer's voice rose again, calling for the squad to gather properly for the official lift.
The circle loosened.
Alexis broke off first, jogging toward the platform. Giroud followed, stretching his arms like he was preparing for another match instead of a trophy presentation. Kanté jogged with that same tireless bounce in his step, as if ninety minutes had barely touched him.
Francesco lingered with Per for half a second longer.
"You serious though?" Francesco asked softly. "About that?"
Per nodded once.
"Yes."
Francesco studied him.
"Anyone look like they've lost hunger to you?"
Per's eyes drifted across the pitch.
Alexis laughing with the staff. Xhaka shouting toward the fans. Kanté applauding the away supporters in respect. Robertson hugging Baines. Walcott taking photos with a ball boy.
"No," Per admitted. "Not tonight."
Francesco clapped his shoulder.
"Good. Then save the philosophy for when we're actually old."
Per chuckled. "You will be old soon enough."
"Not before you," Francesco shot back.
Per rolled his eyes at that, but there was affection in it. The kind that only comes from shared battles, shared bruises, shared dressing rooms after defeats that nobody else ever sees.
Before Francesco could say anything else, one of the Arsenal staff members named Mark, breathless and half-laughing are came jogging toward them, waving his arms like a schoolteacher trying to herd a class that didn't want to listen.
"Alright, alright!" Mark shouted over the noise. "Champions, I need you inside for five minutes. Quick turnaround. Shirts."
Alexis immediately made a face. "We just finished ninety minutes and now there is homework?"
Mark pointed at him. "Inside. Now. Trust me."
There were playful groans, exaggerated sighs, but they obeyed. The staff had earned that authority. Besides, there was something in Mark's grin that suggested it was worth it.
As they began walking toward the tunnel, the noise from the Emirates followed them like a living thing. Every step closer to the sideline felt surreal, like stepping out of a painting while it was still being painted.
Francesco slowed slightly as he reached the touchline, turning once more to take in the stands. Red everywhere. Scarves in the air. People hugging, crying, filming on their phones, singing until their voices cracked.
Three in a row.
Two unbeaten.
And still two finals waiting.
Per came up beside him again.
"Memorize it," Per said quietly.
"I am," Francesco replied.
Then they disappeared into the tunnel.
The moment the heavy doors shut behind them, the sound dulled that still loud, but no longer overwhelming. It became a hum instead of a storm.
The dressing room corridor smelled like sweat and champagne and something metallic from the fireworks.
Inside the dressing room, it was chaos in a different way. Staff moving quickly. Equipment managers laying out neatly folded white T-shirts across each seat.
Francesco walked to his spot and picked one up.
Bold red lettering across the chest.
16
Below it:
English First Division Champions
A small cannon printed underneath.
Sixteen times.
He ran his fingers over the number.
Sixteen.
That wasn't just a statistic. That was history. Decades of players before them. Generations of stories.
"Sixteen," Giroud whistled from across the room. "That sounds heavy."
Xhaka was already pulling his match shirt off. "Heavy is good."
Alexis tossed his boots into his locker and grabbed the shirt, holding it up like he was presenting it to the room. "It looks good on me already."
"Everything looks good on you," Cazorla said dryly, grinning.
Per stood in front of his locker for a second longer than the others.
He held the shirt carefully, almost reverently.
Sixteen titles.
And he would forever be part of one of them.
Francesco noticed.
"You okay?" he asked.
Per nodded.
"Yes," he said simply. "Just… absorbing."
They changed quickly. Sweat-soaked match shirts peeled off. Fresh white championship shirts pulled on. Medals carefully adjusted so they hung perfectly over the number sixteen.
Someone popped a bottle of champagne too early, and the cork ricocheted off a locker.
"Not yet!" one of the staff shouted.
Too late.
Spray exploded across the room.
Laughter followed.
Kanté tried to dodge it but ended up getting caught in the splash anyway, blinking through droplets with a helpless smile.
"Save some for the podium!" Mark called again, clapping his hands.
Francesco slipped the white shirt over his head and looked down at himself.
It felt different from the red.
Red was battle.
White felt like legacy.
Per finished dressing and adjusted the captain's armband still around his arm, now contrasting against the white.
"You keeping that on?" Alexis asked.
Per looked down at it.
"Yes," he said.
Nobody argued.
There was a knock on the door.
"Two minutes!" came the call.
The energy shifted again.
Celebration softened into ceremony.
They began lining up instinctively.
Francesco found himself near the front, Per beside him, Wenger just behind them. The rest of the squad fanned out, bouncing lightly on their heels, still riding adrenaline.
"You nervous?" Cazorla asked Francesco quietly.
"No," Francesco said.
Then he paused.
"Maybe a little."
Cazorla grinned. "Good. Means it still matters."
The tunnel doors opened again.
And as they stepped back out, the noise hit them like a wave crashing over rock.
The podium had been built.
It stood tall at the center of the pitch now, red carpet laid out, silver barriers glinting under the floodlights. The Premier League branding stretched across the backdrop, cameras positioned everywhere, lenses pointed and waiting.
The trophy gleamed at the center.
And standing just to the side of it were the officials.
The FA head, dignified, composed.
And beside him, Prince William.
Tall, poised, a familiar figure in a dark suit, smiling as the Arsenal squad emerged from the tunnel.
A murmur rippled through the crowd that turned into applause.
Francesco felt something tighten in his chest that not nerves, not fear. Just the weight of the moment. This wasn't just club history now. It was national stage. Ceremony. Recognition.
Per leaned closer.
"Now it is official," he murmured.
They lined up at the foot of the podium.
One by one, names were announced.
Each player stepped forward, shook hands with the FA head, then Prince William.
When Per's name echoed across the stadium, the roar that followed felt personal again.
He walked up calmly, head high.
The FA head placed the gold medal around his neck, already resting over the white "16" shirt.
Prince William extended his hand.
"Congratulations," he said, smiling warmly. "Quite a farewell."
Per smiled back. "Thank you, sir. It was perfect."
They exchanged a few quiet words, inaudible beneath the noise, before Per moved along.
Francesco's name came next.
The roar intensified again.
He stepped forward, heart steady but heavy with meaning.
The gold medal felt cooler than the first one that ceremonial, symbolic.
Prince William looked him in the eye.
"Three in a row," he said. "Impressive leadership."
Francesco nodded respectfully. "Thank you. It was a team effort."
Prince William smiled slightly. "The best kind."
They shook hands firmly.
And then Francesco stepped onto the platform fully, turning to face the sea of red stretching beyond the floodlights.
Sixteen titles.
Three consecutive.
Two unbeaten.
His eyes found Per again, already standing near the trophy.
This time, when the squad gathered around it, there was no rush.
No frantic jumping.
This lift would be different.
More composed.
More official.
Wenger stood slightly to the side, allowing Per and Francesco to take the center.
The FA head stepped forward, gesturing toward the trophy.
Per placed both hands on the handles again.
But before lifting it, he looked sideways at Francesco.
"Together," he said.
Francesco nodded.
They gripped it at the same time.
And lifted.
The eruption that followed shook the stadium.
Gold confetti cannons fired again, this time raining down metallic shimmer instead of red. The white shirts with the bold red "16" stood out brilliantly beneath it.
The players shouted, jumped, embraced.
Francesco felt the trophy's weight through his hands.
Heavy.
Real.
Earned.
Per leaned his forehead briefly against the silver rim before raising it higher.
Sixteen.
The cameras flashed relentlessly.
Below the podium, staff and families cheered. Everton players, now changed and preparing to leave, paused to watch for a moment. Even in defeat, there was respect.
Alexis grabbed the trophy next, holding it aloft with exaggerated drama. Giroud kissed the side of it again. Kanté lifted it carefully, laughter bubbling from him as the crowd chanted his name.
When it came back to Francesco, he raised it alone this time, turning slowly, letting every stand see it.
He didn't shout.
He didn't scream.
He just smiled.
Because this was what they had worked for since the first training session of the season.
The podium ceremony lasted longer than the raw lift on the pitch earlier. Handshakes. Applause. Photographs. Formal acknowledgment.
Prince William spoke briefly with Wenger as well, offering congratulations. Wenger inclined his head, dignified but clearly proud.
When the official segment concluded, the squad remained on the podium longer than necessary, unwilling to let the moment end.
Per finally stepped back, exhaling deeply.
"That is different," he admitted.
Francesco nodded.
"Yes," he said. "It feels… permanent."
Per looked at the "16" on his chest.
"It is."
As the Emirates continued to sing.
The singing didn't fade.
It swelled.
At first it was just a chant rolling through the lower tier, something rhythmic and proud. Then the opening piano chords drifted through the stadium speakers that soft at first, almost drowned beneath the cheers.
But everyone recognized it instantly.
A ripple passed through the stands.
Then ten of thousands of voices joined in.
"We are the champions, my friends…"
The Emirates didn't just sing it.
It felt it.
The words didn't sound like lyrics tonight. They sounded like testimony.
Francesco heard it and let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh under it. Of course. Of course it was this song. It always found its way back to moments like these, but tonight it felt earned in a way that couldn't be faked.
Around him, the players began to sing along almost instinctively.
Alexis was loud immediately, slightly off-key but committed, arm slung over Giroud's shoulder.
"We'll keep on fighting—!" he belted, dragging the Frenchman with him.
Giroud rolled his eyes but joined in, deep voice booming.
Kanté sang more quietly, smiling shyly, looking around as if slightly embarrassed by how loud everything was.
Per didn't sing at first.
He just stood there, eyes scanning the stands, lips pressed together.
Then when the chorus hit.
"We are the champions… of the world…"
He sang too.
Not loudly.
But fully.
Francesco felt it vibrate through his chest as he joined in, his voice blending with tens of thousands of others.
No time for losers…
The words hit differently after a season like this. After grinding through December injuries. After narrow away wins in the rain. After defending a lead with ten men at Anfield. After the pressure of protecting an unbeaten run while everyone waited for it to collapse.
'Cause we are the champions…
He turned slowly on the podium, soaking in the sight of scarves raised like flags. Some fans were crying openly. Others were holding children on their shoulders so they could see better.
Then something shifted at the edge of his vision.
Movement near the tunnel.
Not staff.
Not officials.
Families.
The barriers were opening.
Security stepping aside.
Wives. Partners. Children.
The pitch was no longer just theirs, it was becoming shared.
A fresh wave of noise rose from the stands as supporters recognized familiar faces entering.
Alexis pointed first.
"Look!" he shouted over the music, nudging Francesco. "Reinforcements!"
Francesco laughed and then his breath caught for just half a second.
He spotted her immediately.
Leah.
She wasn't in heels or some overly formal outfit. Just a dark coat, hair loose, walking quickly but trying not to look like she was running.
And she was smiling.
Not the composed, media-trained smile she wore during interviews.
The real one.
The one that reached her eyes.
Behind her.
Mike.
Sarah.
His parents.
His father's posture straight even in a stadium full of chaos. His mother's eyes already shining.
Francesco's throat tightened unexpectedly.
He hadn't known for certain they'd make it down onto the pitch.
He stepped off the podium almost without thinking.
Per caught his arm briefly.
"Go," Per said softly, understanding immediately.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
He jogged toward them, medal bouncing against his chest, white "16" shirt bright under the lights.
Leah reached him first.
She didn't say anything.
She just wrapped her arms around him.
And for a moment, the noise, the music, the cameras as it all blurred.
He held her tightly, burying his face briefly against her hair.
"You did it," she whispered into his shoulder.
"We did it," he replied automatically.
She pulled back just enough to look at him properly.
"Three in a row," she said, shaking her head like she still couldn't believe it. "You're ridiculous."
He laughed softly.
"Still two more," he said.
She rolled her eyes affectionately. "You can't just enjoy something for five minutes, can you?"
Before he could answer, his mother reached them.
Sarah didn't hesitate either.
She cupped his face in both hands like he was still ten years old coming home from a school match.
"I am so proud of you," she said, voice trembling slightly.
That did it.
That cracked something inside him.
He swallowed hard.
"Thank you," he managed.
Mike stepped forward next, firm and steady, pulling him into a hug that was strong and grounding.
"Champions," his father said simply.
Francesco nodded against his shoulder.
"Champions."
Behind them, the chorus rose again.
"We are the champions…!"
Leah stepped slightly to the side to give space, but she didn't move far. Her hand stayed at his back, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like she was anchoring him.
"You see?" she said quietly. "Your parents made it."
He nodded.
"I didn't know if they'd get on the pitch."
"They would never miss this," Leah replied.
He glanced around her.
"You said your family—?"
"They're coming tonight," she reminded him. "They're already at your mansion preparing chaos."
He laughed at that.
"Good. We need chaos."
She smirked. "You have enough of that in your dressing room."
Behind them, Alexis had already found his own circle, speaking rapidly in Spanish with family members. Giroud lifted a child that probably a teammate's child into the air as confetti stuck to both of them. Kanté stood quietly with relatives, smiling, slightly overwhelmed but radiating quiet happiness.
Per was walking toward them now, slower, taking in every second like he didn't want to miss a single detail.
Francesco turned and beckoned him over.
"Per!" he called.
Per approached with that easy stride of his, medal glinting against the white shirt.
"Family reunion?" he asked.
"Yes," Francesco said. "And you need to meet them properly."
He turned to his parents.
"This is Per," he said unnecessarily.
Mike extended his hand firmly.
"I know exactly who you are," his father said warmly. "Thank you for everything you've done for this club."
Per smiled humbly. "Thank you for raising him."
Sarah laughed softly at that.
"It wasn't easy," she teased.
Francesco groaned. "Please. Not tonight."
Leah stepped forward then, smiling at Per.
"You were magnificent," she said. "That header."
Per waved it off lightly. "Perfect delivery. I just didn't miss."
Francesco nudged him. "Don't act humble now."
The music swelled again, the final chorus repeating as if the stadium refused to let it end.
"We are the champions… of the world…"
Francesco found himself singing again, softer now, arm around Leah's waist, his parents beside him, Per just a step away.
It wasn't just about lifting a trophy anymore.
It was about sharing it.
Photographers were everywhere now, crouching, climbing small ladders, shouting instructions.
"Francesco! Over here!"
"Captain, this way!"
He obliged for a few shots, pulling Leah closer for one, then standing between his parents for another. His mother wiped at her eyes again between flashes.
"You always said you wanted this," she murmured.
"I always wanted Arsenal to have this," he corrected gently.
Mike smiled at that.
"And now you've given it to them."
Francesco shook his head.
"We all did."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leah watching him that not just smiling, but studying him.
"What?" he asked quietly.
"You're different," she said.
"How?"
She shrugged lightly. "Calmer. Bigger somehow."
He laughed softly. "That's the shirt. Sixteen looks good."
She stepped closer again.
"You deserve this," she said, more serious now.
He held her gaze.
"So do you," he replied. "You deal with me through all of it."
She smirked. "That's the harder job."
They stood there for a moment longer, just breathing in the atmosphere. The stadium lights glowed warmer now, less sharp, as if even they were relaxing into the celebration.
Across the pitch, Wenger stood with Prince William again briefly, exchanging final pleasantries. Staff were beginning to dismantle parts of the staging, but slowly, respectfully.
No one wanted to rush it.
Per leaned closer to Francesco again.
"Tonight at the mansion?" he asked.
Francesco nodded.
"Yes. Leah's family too."
Per smiled faintly. "Good. Full house."
Francesco looked around the pitch once more.
Red scarves.
White shirts with "16."
Gold medals.
Family.
Friends.
And the echo of Freddie Mercury's voice still lingering in the air.
He tightened his arm around Leah slightly.
"Enjoy this," she whispered again.
He nodded.
"I am."
But even as he said it, somewhere deep inside, he felt that familiar flicker.
Two finals left.
Two more chances to make the season untouchable.
Leah caught the look in his eyes.
"Don't," she warned playfully.
He grinned.
"Just thinking."
"Dangerous," she replied.
They began walking slowly across the pitch together, his parents just behind them, Per drifting off to greet more teammates' families.
The confetti crunched under their boots.
The Emirates kept singing.
And for once Francesco allowed himself to stop thinking about what was next.
He let the moment sit.
Sixteen times champions of England.
Three in a row.
Two unbeaten.
Family on the pitch.
Love beside him.
And a stadium full of voices singing, not because they hoped, but because they knew that they were the champions.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (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, 2015/2016 Champions League, Euro 2016, and Premier League Champion 2016/2017.
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 53
Goal: 84
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9