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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Francesco turned, one arm around Leah, his parents close by, and walked back toward his teammates, toward the trophy, toward the celebration that would continue long into the night.
The celebration stretched on in waves with moments of loud, chaotic joy breaking into softer pockets of quiet conversation, then rising again when someone lifted the FA Cup, or when a new group of fans caught sight of their heroes and began to sing again. It felt like the night refused to settle, as if even Wembley itself didn't want to let it end.
Francesco was standing with Leah and his parents near the halfway line, still talking, still laughing, still absorbing everything, when one of the FA staff members approached carefully through the cluster of players and families.
"Francesco," the man called politely, raising his hand to catch his attention without interrupting too abruptly.
Francesco turned, instinctively alert even in the middle of celebration.
"Yes?"
"They need you at the pitchside interview area," the staff member explained, nodding toward the sideline where a small stage had been set up with cameras and microphones. "Sky Sports. They're ready for you now."
Francesco blinked once, glancing toward the direction indicated.
He could already see them gathered there was figures he recognized immediately even from a distance.
Leah followed his gaze and smiled knowingly.
"Duty calls, captain," she teased gently.
He exhaled through his nose, a soft chuckle escaping him.
"Give me two minutes," he said to the staff member, who nodded and stepped back slightly.
Francesco turned back to Leah and his parents.
"I'll be right back," he said. "Don't disappear."
Mike laughed. "We're not going anywhere."
Sarah reached up and adjusted his medal instinctively, as if he were still a boy heading off to something important.
"Go on," she said softly. "We'll be here."
Leah leaned in slightly, her voice quieter.
"I'll be watching," she said, eyes warm.
Francesco smiled at her, then squeezed her hand once before stepping away.
As he walked toward the sideline, the grass felt different under his boots again that not like a battlefield now, but like a stage. The lights above still shone bright, the cameras were still rolling, and even as fans continued to sing in the background, there was a sense that this next moment would be captured, replayed, remembered in a different way.
He approached the pitchside area, where a familiar group of faces stood waiting.
Ian Wright stood at the center, microphone in hand, a wide grin already on his face.
Beside him, arms folded with a half-smile, was Gary Neville.
On the other side, relaxed but sharp-eyed, stood Jamie Carragher.
And just slightly behind them, watching with the quiet presence of legends, were Thierry Henry and Frank Lampard.
Francesco slowed for half a second as he reached them, taking in the sight.
These were names he had grown up watching.
Studying.
Admiring.
Now they were here, waiting to speak to him.
Ian Wright was the first to step forward, his smile turning into something almost paternal as he opened his arms slightly.
"Come here, man," Wright said warmly.
Francesco stepped in and shook his hand firmly, Wright pulling him into a quick, one-armed embrace.
"Congratulations," Wright added, his voice full of pride. "That's special."
"Thank you," Francesco replied, genuinely.
Gary Neville stepped forward next, offering his hand.
"Well done," Neville said, his tone respectful. "Big performance. Big season."
"Appreciate it," Francesco answered, meeting his handshake.
Jamie Carragher followed, clapping Francesco lightly on the shoulder after their handshake.
"Proper captain's job out there," Carragher said with a grin. "Led from the front."
Francesco nodded once. "Thank you."
Then came the two figures just behind them.
Thierry Henry stepped forward slowly, his expression calm, but his eyes carrying a depth of understanding that only someone who had worn that same badge at that level could have.
Francesco straightened slightly as Henry approached.
Henry extended his hand.
"Congratulations," he said, voice smooth and measured. "You did the club proud today."
Francesco shook his hand, firm but respectful.
"That means a lot coming from you," Francesco said honestly.
Henry gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly.
Frank Lampard came next, offering a firm handshake and a friendly smile.
"Enjoy it," Lampard said. "These moments don't come easy."
"I will," Francesco replied.
The group settled into position, cameras adjusting, microphones being clipped into place. The roar of Wembley still hummed in the background, a constant presence beneath the conversation.
Ian Wright looked into the main camera, his energy instantly shifting into broadcast mode.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice rising over the atmosphere, "we are here at Wembley just moments after Arsenal have lifted the FA Cup once again, and I am joined by the man and captain himself, Francesco Lee."
A cheer rose from the nearby fans who had gathered along the barrier behind the camera positions, some of them calling out Francesco's name.
Francesco gave a small wave in acknowledgment, then focused back on Wright.
Wright turned toward him, smiling wide.
"First of all," he said, "how does that feel? Another FA Cup. Another trophy in what has already been an incredible season."
Francesco let out a breath, glancing briefly back toward the pitch where his teammates were still celebrating with their families.
"It feels… real now," he said. "When you're playing, when you're in the middle of the season, everything is just match after match, focus after focus. But when you lift it, when you stand there with your teammates, with the fans… it hits you."
He paused, searching for the right word.
"Pride," he finished. "A lot of pride."
Wright nodded, clearly pleased with the answer.
Gary Neville leaned in slightly, taking his turn.
"You mentioned pride," Neville said. "This group with has three league title, two league title invicble, and now another FA Cup to made it three for this squad. From the outside, it looks like one of the most driven squads we've seen in years. What is it inside that dressing room that keeps that hunger alive?"
Francesco smiled faintly at that, glancing down for a second before looking back up.
"Standards," he said simply. "Every day. In training. In matches. From the manager, from the staff, from the senior players, from everyone. Nobody lets anything drop. Even when we win, we look at what we can do better. That's the culture."
Carragher nodded in approval.
"Culture's a big word," Carragher added. "But it's clear watching you lot that it means something real. And you, as captain on how much responsibility do you feel to keep that going?"
Francesco's expression softened slightly.
"A lot," he admitted. "But I'm not alone. Per, the senior players, the manager as everyone contributes. My job is just to make sure we don't forget who we are and what got us here."
Behind him, a fresh chant of "Arsenal! Arsenal!" rolled through the stands again, echoing across the pitch.
Ian Wright raised his eyebrows slightly, smiling at the noise.
"Well, they certainly haven't forgotten," he said. "And let's talk about what this means now. Winning the FA Cup tonight means Arsenal are now just one step away from defending their treble. One more final. One more chance to make history again."
He leaned slightly closer, eyes bright.
"How big is that in your minds right now?"
Francesco's jaw tightened slightly that not in tension, but in focus.
"It's everything," he said. "We've come this far. We've worked too hard. But we know it's not done. One more match. One more performance. That's where all our focus goes now."
Thierry Henry, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke, his voice calm but carrying weight.
"You say one more performance," Henry said. "But mentally, after a night like this, after lifting a trophy, how do you reset? How do you make sure the hunger is still there for that last final?"
Francesco met his gaze.
"You remember nights like this," he said. "You remember this feeling. And you want it again. That's what drives you."
Henry held his eyes for a second, then gave a small nod of approval.
Frank Lampard stepped in next.
"There's also pressure," Lampard said. "When you're chasing something historic, it's not just excitement, it's expectation. From fans, from media, from yourselves. How do you handle that as a group?"
Francesco's answer came quickly.
"Together," he said. "We don't carry it alone. We trust each other. We focus on the work, not the noise. That's the only way."
Gary Neville let out a small approving hum.
"Good answer," he muttered, almost to himself.
Ian Wright laughed.
"He's done this before, Gaz," Wright said.
The group shared a light chuckle, easing the tension of the moment.
Then Wright looked back at Francesco one more time.
"Last one from me," he said. "You've already achieved so much this season. But standing here now, FA Cup medal around your neck, fans still singing, what do you want to say to them? To the Arsenal supporters who've been with you every step of the way?"
Francesco turned slightly, looking past the cameras toward the stands where the red and white still filled the seats, where flags still waved, where voices still sang.
For a second, he didn't speak.
He just looked.
Then he turned back to the camera.
"Thank you," he said simply. "For everything. For every game, every away trip, every moment you've supported us. We feel it. We hear it. And we carry it with us every time we step on the pitch."
His voice strengthened slightly.
"One more final," he added. "We'll give everything for you again."
Behind the cameras, the nearby fans erupted into cheers at that, some of them shouting his name again.
Ian Wright grinned broadly.
"You heard the man," he said into the camera. "One more to go. Arsenal chasing history once again."
He turned back to Francesco, extending his hand one last time.
"Go enjoy it," Wright said warmly.
Francesco shook his hand, then each of the others in turn from Neville, Carragher, Lampard, and finally Henry again, who gave him a firm nod and a quiet, "Well done."
With that, Francesco stepped away from the interview area, the noise of Wembley rising back around him as he walked back toward the center of the pitch.
The lights still burned bright above Wembley, the hum of celebration still alive in every corner of the stadium, when Francesco stepped away from the Sky Sports setup and back onto the open grass.
The microphones were off now.
The cameras had turned to someone else.
But the noise? The noise was still there.
It wrapped around him the moment he left the structured space of the interview area. The chants were softer now than they had been at the trophy lift, but they were still constant, still rhythmic, still full of that deep, satisfied joy that only comes after silverware.
He walked slowly at first, letting the adrenaline settle properly this time. The medal around his neck bounced lightly against his chest with each step. He adjusted it absently, fingers brushing the engraved surface.
FA Cup winners.
Fourteen.
And one more final waiting.
He spotted them again near the center circle.
Leah was standing with Mike and Sarah, the three of them watching the rest of the squad near the Arsenal end. Per had the trophy again, Ramsey had somehow found another scarf, and Alexis was still playing conductor to the crowd.
Leah saw him first.
Her eyes lit up immediately.
"Well?" she asked as he approached. "How was it?"
He let out a quiet laugh.
"Surreal," he admitted. "Standing there with all of them… Wright, Neville, Carragher… Henry."
Sarah smiled knowingly. "You looked calm."
"I wasn't," he said honestly. "Not at first."
Mike clapped him on the shoulder. "You handled it well."
Leah stepped closer, brushing her fingers lightly against his medal.
"Treble talk already?" she asked softly.
He nodded.
"They won't stop," he said. "Neither will we."
She smiled at that.
Behind them, the team's cheering rose again as Per lifted the FA Cup toward one final section of supporters who had refused to leave their seats.
"Come on," Francesco said gently. "Let's join them."
Together, the four of them walked toward the group. As Francesco approached, Ramsey spotted him and immediately pointed.
"Interview star!" Ramsey shouted.
"Oh, shut up," Francesco replied, laughing.
Alexis jogged over, eyes bright.
"You promised one more final," Alexis said dramatically. "Now we have to win it."
"We were going to try anyway," Francesco shot back.
Kanté stepped in quietly, smiling.
"You did well," he said simply.
Francesco nodded once in appreciation.
He stood with them again, shoulder to shoulder, Leah and his parents slightly behind the line of players as the squad formed up one more time in front of the fans.
The chanting began to taper slowly.
Not suddenly.
Not sharply.
But gradually.
You could feel it shifting.
The first rows were still singing loudly, but further up the stands, people had started to gather their scarves, fold flags, take last photos. The emotional peak had passed; now it was the gentle descent.
Francesco watched as a young boy in the front row hugged his father tightly, both of them smiling through exhaustion.
He watched an older couple take one final picture of the pitch before turning toward the exit stairs.
He watched flags being lowered, scarves wrapped back around necks.
There was no disappointment in it.
Just fullness.
Fulfilled joy.
The players kept clapping as long as they could see faces still looking back at them.
"Thank you!" Ramsey shouted toward one corner.
"Safe journey home!" Per added.
Francesco raised both hands high and applauded slowly, deliberately, making eye contact with as many supporters as he could.
Because they had earned it too.
Little by little, the red and white thinned.
The songs softened into murmurs.
The stadium that had felt like a roaring furnace began to cool.
Eventually, only pockets of supporters remained, waving one last time before disappearing into the Wembley concourses.
The pitch felt bigger now.
Quieter.
The echoes were fading.
Arsène Wenger walked toward the group, hands loosely clasped behind his back, his expression calm but reflective.
"Gentlemen," he said softly.
They turned instinctively.
"There will be no celebration party tonight," he continued. "We enjoy this moment here, and then we rest. Recovery. Focus. One more final to prepare for."
There were no groans this time.
No protests.
Just nods.
They understood.
Wenger's eyes softened slightly.
"You may tell your families," he added. "They can go home. You will join them later."
Francesco glanced toward Leah and his parents.
Leah caught his look and smiled faintly, already understanding.
Mike nodded once, like he had been expecting it.
"Professional," he muttered approvingly.
Sarah squeezed Francesco's hand.
"Go do what you need to do," she said.
Francesco turned fully toward them, suddenly feeling the emotional weight of the night settle in his chest again.
"I'll see you at home," he said to Leah quietly.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him one more time.
"You were brilliant," she whispered.
He smiled against her hair.
"We're not done," he said.
She pulled back, eyes steady.
"I know."
Mike embraced him firmly.
"Stay sharp," his father said.
"I will."
Sarah kissed his cheek gently.
"Drive safe," she added, even though he wouldn't be the one driving.
He laughed softly.
"I always do."
They stepped back slowly.
Leah lingered a second longer, then turned with his parents, walking toward the tunnel entrance designated for families and guests.
Francesco watched them go until they disappeared beneath the stands.
Only then did he turn back to the squad.
The pitch was nearly empty now.
Only staff and players remained.
The FA Cup rested near the dugout, shining under the stadium lights.
Ramsey clapped his hands once.
"Right," he said. "Now we can celebrate properly."
Per raised an eyebrow.
"Within reason," he reminded him.
They began moving toward the tunnel together.
The walk back felt different from earlier.
Less chaotic.
More intimate.
It was no longer for the cameras.
No longer for the fans.
It was for them.
Inside the tunnel, the echo of their boots bounced off concrete walls. Laughter returned quickly.
Alexis nudged Francesco.
"You were serious in that interview," he teased.
"I am always serious," Francesco replied.
"That is a lie," Kanté said gently.
They all laughed.
When they reached the dressing room, the door closed behind them with a heavy thud.
And the noise exploded again.
Someone had already found the champagne.
It started with a pop so loud it echoed off the tiled walls.
"Careful!" someone shouted.
Too late.
A spray of foam shot across the room, catching Giroud directly in the chest.
He gasped dramatically.
"This is a new shirt!" he protested.
Another cork flew.
Then another.
Within seconds, champagne was everywhere.
Francesco barely had time to react before Ramsey aimed a bottle directly at him.
"Oh no you don't—"
Too late.
Cold foam splashed across his shoulders and down his back.
He yelped, half laughing, half protesting.
"You're dead," he warned.
He grabbed a bottle from the nearest bench and returned the favor immediately.
Alexis was spinning in circles, spraying whoever got too close.
Kanté tried to escape but ended up soaked anyway.
Per stood in the middle of it all, shaking his head but laughing harder than anyone else.
"Moderation!" he shouted.
Nobody listened.
Champagne ran across the tiled floor in small rivers.
The music started—someone had connected a speaker to a phone, blasting celebratory songs through the room.
They jumped together, arms over shoulders, medals bouncing, shirts clinging wetly to their backs.
Francesco felt the fatigue in his legs, the heaviness of ninety minutes and a full season pressing into him.
But in that moment, it didn't matter.
He looked around the room.
These were his brothers.
The ones who trained in rain and sun.
The ones who argued and pushed and challenged each other.
The ones who had just lifted another trophy together.
After a while, the champagne ran dry.
The shouting softened into laughter.
The air smelled sweet and sharp.
Per clapped his hands.
"Showers," he ordered in mock authority.
They groaned but obeyed.
One by one, they peeled off soaked shirts and boots, tossing them into piles.
Francesco stepped under the hot spray and let the water run over his head, washing away champagne, sweat, grass, the physical evidence of the battle.
He closed his eyes for a second.
Just breathed.
The roar of Wembley felt distant now.
Muted.
Replaced by the steady rhythm of water hitting tile.
Another final.
That thought returned again.
He opened his eyes.
Focus.
After showering and changing into club tracksuits, they gathered their belongings slowly.
The dressing room was quieter now.
Still joyful.
But tired.
Content.
Francesco tied his laces and looked around once more.
Ramsey was scrolling through his phone, probably already seeing replays.
Alexis was talking animatedly about a chance he thought he should have scored.
Kanté sat quietly, smiling at something on his screen.
Per stood near the door, speaking softly with Wenger.
Eventually, they began filing back out into the tunnel.
The stadium was almost empty now.
Only cleaning crews and staff remained.
The FA Cup was carefully carried by Per again as they made their way toward the team bus.
Outside, the London night air felt cool against their skin.
The bus stood waiting.
Dark windows.
Engine humming softly.
They climbed aboard one by one.
Francesco took his usual seat near the middle.
As the last player stepped on, the door folded shut with a mechanical hiss.
The bus pulled away slowly from Wembley.
Through the window, Francesco watched the arch recede into the distance.
The lights.
The memory.
The night.
Ramsey leaned across the aisle.
"Colney," he said.
"Recovery tomorrow," Kanté added.
Francesco nodded.
The bus merged onto the road, heading back toward London Colney.
The bus ride back to Colney passed in a kind of soft, content silence.
Not the heavy silence of exhaustion after defeat.
Not the tense quiet of a team replaying mistakes.
But the gentle, satisfied quiet that comes after a job well done.
Every so often, laughter broke through it.
A joke from Ramsey drifting down the aisle.
Alexis replaying one moment out loud, insisting again that he should have scored a second.
Kanté smiling at something on his phone, occasionally turning the screen to show the player beside him.
Francesco leaned his head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded as the city lights of London passed by outside the window in streaks of gold and white.
The FA Cup medal still rested around his neck.
He hadn't taken it off.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
He let his fingers rest against it again, feeling the weight, the cool metal pressing into his palm.
Another trophy.
Another step.
But still not the last.
He thought of what he had said in the interview.
One more final.
The bus turned off the main road and onto the familiar route toward London Colney. The training ground appeared gradually, floodlights dimmed now, the complex quiet in contrast to the chaos of Wembley just an hour earlier.
As the bus rolled to a stop, the engine idling low, a few of the players let out soft sighs.
"Home," Ramsey muttered.
"Not quite," Per replied calmly. "Almost."
The doors opened with a soft hiss.
Cool night air flowed inside.
One by one, the players stood, collecting their bags, their jackets, their boots.
Francesco stood with them, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
He took one last glance down the bus aisle.
The place that had carried them through countless away days.
Victories.
Draws.
Defeats.
Now carrying them back after another cup lifted.
He stepped off the bus and onto the pavement of Colney.
The quiet hit him immediately.
No chanting.
No roar.
Just the distant hum of the countryside at night.
The staff moved efficiently, unloading equipment from the storage compartments.
Wenger stood near the front, speaking quietly to a couple of staff members before turning to the players.
"Good work tonight," he said simply. "Rest. Recover. We begin preparation tomorrow."
They nodded.
Professional.
Focused.
Even after everything.
Per clapped his hands once.
"Good night, everyone."
"Good night," a few voices echoed.
Players began peeling away toward the car park.
Engines started one by one, headlights flicking on in the darkness.
Francesco walked to his car, unlocking it with a soft beep.
He paused for a moment before getting in.
Looked back at the building.
At the badge on the wall.
At everything they had built together.
Then he got into the car, set his bag in the passenger seat, and started the engine.
The drive back to Richmond was calm.
London at night had its own rhythm.
Quieter streets.
Fewer cars.
The occasional taxi gliding past.
Streetlights casting long, golden reflections across the road.
Francesco drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely against the gear shift.
His mind moved slower now.
Processing.
Reliving moments.
The whistle.
The lift.
The fans.
Leah.
His parents.
The interview.
The dressing room chaos.
And through it all, one constant thought:
We're not done.
Eventually, he turned into the familiar street that led to his mansion in Richmond.
The gates opened smoothly at the press of a button.
He drove in, the headlights sweeping across the front garden and up the façade of the house.
Warm light glowed from inside.
Someone was still awake.
He parked, turned off the engine, and for a moment just sat there in the quiet.
Then he exhaled and stepped out.
The night air was cool against his face as he walked up to the front door.
The moment he opened it, a different warmth greeted him.
Not stadium lights.
Not adrenaline.
Home.
And something else.
Food.
He smiled instantly.
"Leah?" he called out as he stepped inside.
"Kitchen!" her voice came back, light and warm.
He followed the sound, dropping his bag near the hallway as he walked in.
There she was.
Standing by the counter, sleeves rolled slightly, hair tied back, a soft smile already forming when she saw him.
"You're late," she teased gently.
He laughed.
"We had to clean up," he replied.
His eyes dropped briefly to the table.
Plates set.
Food prepared.
Steam still rising gently.
"You didn't have to do all this," he said softly.
"I wanted to," she replied simply.
He stepped closer, leaning in to kiss her gently.
She smiled.
They sat down together.
Just the two of them.
No cameras.
No noise.
Just the soft clink of cutlery and the quiet comfort of being together.
The food tasted incredible.
Partly because it was good.
Mostly because of what it represented.
Care.
Home.
Normal life in the middle of something extraordinary.
They talked as they ate.
About the match.
About his interview.
About Ramsey getting soaked in champagne.
About Kanté trying and failing to stay dry.
About his parents, who had texted to say they got home safe.
Leah laughed softly at each story, eyes bright.
"I wish I could've seen the dressing room," she said.
"You would have been hit by three champagne bottles in the first ten seconds," Francesco replied.
"Worth it," she said.
They finished eating slowly, not rushing the moment.
Eventually, the plates were cleared, the kitchen quiet again.
Leah stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him.
"Tired?" she asked.
"A little," he admitted.
"Proud?" she added.
He nodded.
"Very."
She rested her head lightly against his chest.
"One more," she whispered.
He looked down at her, his voice quiet but certain.
"One more."
The days that followed moved quickly.
Recovery sessions at Colney.
Light training.
Video analysis.
Tactical meetings.
The FA Cup celebration had been brief by design, and now the focus sharpened completely toward the final target.
The biggest stage.
The one they had been chasing all season.
The UEFA Champions League Final.
Date circled.
Preparations meticulous.
Intensity rising.
And then, suddenly, it was time.
5 June 2017.
The team plane touched down in Wales.
Cardiff.
The sky above the runway was a soft grey-blue, clouds stretched thin across the early evening light.
As the players disembarked, there was a different energy in the air compared to domestic matches.
Heavier.
Bigger.
More global.
This wasn't just England watching.
This was the world.
The bus waiting outside the airport was already surrounded by a controlled line of security and a sea of color beyond it.
Red and white.
White and black.
Scarves held high.
Phones raised.
Voices already singing.
Francesco stepped onto the bus and took his seat near the middle again, placing his bag under the seat in front of him.
As the last players boarded, the doors closed, and the bus began to move through the streets of Cardiff.
Immediately, the scale of it became visible.
Fans lined the roads.
Not just Arsenal supporters.
Not just Juventus supporters.
Neutral fans too.
Tourists.
Families.
Groups of friends wearing mixed colors.
All of them drawn to the same place.
All of them there to witness something special.
Flags waved from lampposts.
Banners hung from buildings.
Every few meters, another group of supporters cheered as the team bus passed.
Some banging lightly on the sides.
Some chanting Francesco's name.
Some simply filming in awe.
Francesco watched it all through the window.
The magnitude of it pressed gently into his chest.
This was it.
The final stage.
Beside him, Ramsey leaned slightly across the aisle, pointing toward a group of Welsh fans waving both Arsenal and national flags proudly.
"Home crowd for me," Ramsey said with a grin.
"You'll have extra energy then," Francesco replied.
"I'll need it," Ramsey answered.
A few rows ahead, Alexis had his headphones in, already locked into his own pre-match routine.
Per sat upright, calm as always, eyes forward.
Kanté was looking out the window, smiling softly at the supporters.
Francesco reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
One message notification blinked.
Leah.
He unlocked the screen and opened their chat.
Before replying, he decided to call instead.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Then connected.
"Hey," Leah's voice came through, clear and warm.
"Hey," he replied, a smile already forming.
"You landed?" she asked.
"Just did. On the bus now, heading to the hotel."
He glanced out the window again as another wave of supporters cheered them past.
"You should see the streets," he added. "It's full. Arsenal fans, Juventus fans… everyone."
"I can imagine," she said. "It's already loud here too."
That made him pause slightly.
"You're at the hotel?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied. "We arrived a couple of hours ago."
He nodded, though she couldn't see it.
"Good," he said. "Are you with my parents?"
"Yeah," she answered. "Mike and Sarah are here. We met them in the lobby earlier."
"And your family?" he asked gently. "Your dad, your mum, Jacob?"
"They're here too," she said warmly. "All checked in. Dad's already talking about the match like he's part of the coaching staff."
Francesco laughed.
"That sounds right."
"Jacob's just excited to be here," she continued. "He's been looking at the stadium from the window for the last half hour."
Francesco felt a soft warmth settle in his chest.
Everyone was here.
Together.
For this.
"You booked the rooms perfectly," Leah added. "We're all on the same floor."
"Good," he said quietly.
He leaned his head lightly against the bus window, watching the city pass by.
"I'll see you after the match," he said.
"We'll be there," she replied.
There was a small pause.
Then, softly:
"We believe in you."
Francesco closed his eyes for a second.
Then opened them again, gaze steady now.
"I know," he said.
The bus continued through Cardiff, edging closer to the hotel where the final preparations would begin.
______________________________________________
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: 54
Goal: 85
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