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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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And in the middle of it all, with the trophy still in his hands, surrounded by the people who meant the most.
The moment lingered.
For a little while longer, nobody rushed away from it.
The photos were done, the flashes had faded, but the feeling that deep, quiet satisfaction was remained wrapped around them like a warm night breeze that refused to leave.
Francesco stood there with the trophy still in his hands for a few more seconds after that final picture with Arsène Wenger.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just stood in the center of it all.
Letting it sink in one last time.
Around him, the pitch was still alive with celebration with players talking, laughing, hugging, families moving in small clusters, camera crews still capturing the final pieces of the night.
But slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the energy of the stadium began to shift.
It wasn't ending.
Not really.
It was just… transitioning.
The songs from the stands were still loud, still full of joy, but there were gaps now between the verses, little pauses where voices caught, where people began to gather their things.
Flags started to lower.
Scarves began to come off shoulders.
The great sea of red and white that had filled the stands for hours began, little by little, to move.
Fans lingering for one last look.
One last photo.
One last glance at the players who had just written history for them.
Down on the pitch, club stewards and UEFA staff began to gently guide things along.
One group at a time.
One section at a time.
The supporters began to file out.
Not quickly.
Never quickly on a night like this.
But steadily.
Reluctantly.
Still singing as they went.
Still chanting the names of their heroes as they made their way up the steps, into the concourses, out into the night.
Francesco noticed it.
He turned slightly, still holding the trophy, and watched as that movement began.
He saw a young kid in an oversized Arsenal shirt being lifted onto his father's shoulders, waving down at the players as they walked away.
He saw a group of friends linking arms, singing as they made their way toward the exit.
He saw a woman with tears in her eyes, blowing a kiss toward the pitch before she turned.
He raised his free hand one more time.
A quiet goodbye.
A silent thank you.
Then, behind him, one of the Arsenal staff approached, gently but efficiently guiding the next stage of the evening.
"Families and guests, this way please," the staff member called, gesturing toward the tunnel entrance that would lead them to the waiting team buses.
Leah's hand found Francesco's again.
"So this is where they take us away from you?" she said softly, a small smile in her voice.
"For a little while," Francesco replied.
"Until the party later," Jacob added excitedly, bouncing slightly on his feet again.
Mike gave a low chuckle.
"Sounds like it's just getting started," he said.
Sarah looked between them all, still smiling that soft, proud smile.
"Take care of yourself," she told Francesco gently. "And don't let them get you too drunk."
Francesco laughed.
"No promises," he admitted.
She rolled her eyes affectionately and pulled him into another quick hug.
Mike stepped forward next, gripping Francesco's shoulder firmly, then pulling him into a brief, strong embrace.
"Proud of you," he said again, his voice steady.
Francesco nodded.
"Thank you," he replied quietly.
David and Amanda followed, warm handshakes and congratulations, their smiles just as full of pride.
"Take care of her," David said with a small grin, nodding toward Leah.
Francesco smiled.
"Always."
Finally, Leah stepped in.
For a second, the noise around them faded again.
Just like it always seemed to do when it was just the two of them.
"You were amazing," she said softly.
"You were there," he replied.
She smiled.
Then leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
"Go celebrate," she said. "I'll see you at the hotel."
"Soon," he promised.
She squeezed his hand once more before letting go.
Then, along with both families, she allowed herself to be gently guided by the Arsenal staff toward the tunnel.
Francesco stood there for a moment longer, watching them walk away.
Watching the people who meant the most to him disappear slowly into the corridor that led away from the pitch.
He took a breath.
Let it out slowly.
Then turned.
Because now, it was time for the other half of the night.
The part that belonged just to the players.
Just to the team.
One by one, the Arsenal squad began making their way toward the tunnel as well, the trophy carried carefully by Per at the front, still gleaming under the stadium lights.
The music from the stands was fading now, replaced by the echo of their own footsteps as they descended down the tunnel.
The roar of the stadium behind them softened into a distant hum.
And then, they were inside.
Back in the place where it had all begun hours earlier.
The dressing room.
But it didn't look the same anymore.
Not even close.
Where earlier it had been focused, quiet, filled with nervous energy and concentration, now it was alive.
Speakers had already been set up.
Music was playing that loud, celebratory, the kind that made it impossible to stand still.
Bottles were lined up along the benches.
Champagne.
Water.
Energy drinks.
Anything and everything they might need.
Shirts were already being swapped, boots kicked off, players moving around in a blur of laughter and excitement.
And the moment Per carried the trophy through the doorway, it exploded.
Cheers.
Shouts.
Arms raised.
The trophy was placed in the center of the room on one of the benches like a sacred object returned home.
"Come on!" Xhaka shouted, already grabbing one of the champagne bottles and shaking it vigorously.
"Not yet—!" someone started to protest.
Too late.
The cork popped.
A sharp, celebratory crack that echoed off the walls.
And then, the spray.
Champagne bursting out in a golden arc, splashing across the room, catching players full in the chest, the face, the hair.
"Yesssss!" Giroud roared, grabbing another bottle and joining in.
Kanté laughed, trying to dodge at first, then giving up and joining the chaos.
Cazorla spun away as a spray hit him, laughing uncontrollably.
Van Dijk raised his arms, letting the droplets rain down on him.
Bellerín grabbed a towel and tried to use it as a shield, failing miserably.
The room filled with noise.
Music.
Laughter.
The hiss and pop of champagne.
Boots stomping on the floor.
And right in the middle of it all was the Champions League trophy, shining under the bright lights, covered now in tiny droplets of champagne.
Francesco hadn't come in yet.
He was still just outside the dressing room door, having lingered that little bit longer in the tunnel after saying goodbye.
Taking one last breath.
One last moment.
But the second he stepped through the doorway; he didn't even get a chance to speak.
"THERE HE IS!"
Xhaka's voice cut through everything.
Heads turned.
Grins spread.
And before Francesco could even lift his hands as he was hit.
A full spray of champagne straight across his chest and shoulders.
"HEY—!" he shouted, laughing instantly as he raised his arms to shield himself.
Giroud came from the other side, adding another blast.
"Leader of the revolution!" he shouted again.
Cazorla darted in, splashing him with a smaller bottle.
Kanté, laughing, added a light spray of his own.
Francesco staggered back a step, soaked within seconds, his hair dripping, his shirt clinging to him.
"You're all unbelievable!" he laughed, trying to grab one of the bottles himself.
"No escape!" Bellerín shouted.
Van Dijk wrapped an arm around him from behind just for a second, holding him in place as Xhaka delivered one final spray right over his head.
Then they let him go.
Francesco wiped his face with both hands, pushing wet hair back, still laughing, still catching his breath.
"Alright," he said, grabbing a bottle of his own now, shaking it with a grin. "Now it's my turn."
The cork popped.
And he fired right back into the group, hitting Giroud square in the chest.
"Hey!" Giroud laughed. "Respect your elders!"
"Never," Francesco shot back.
The room descended into chaos again.
Spray crossing spray.
Players chasing each other.
Slipping slightly on the damp floor.
Laughing so hard they could barely stand.
In the middle of it all, Per stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, watching the younger players go wild, a deep, satisfied smile on his face.
Then even he reached for a bottle.
And joined in.
Because nights like this didn't come often.
And when they did, you lived them fully.
Francesco moved through the room, hugging teammates one by one, champagne-soaked, laughing, shouting, reliving moments from the match, replaying goals, tackles, saves.
"Your run for the second goal—" Xhaka started.
"Your pass for the third—" Francesco shot back.
"Per's header clearance—" Cazorla added.
"Čech's save in the first half!" Giroud shouted.
Voices overlapping.
Memories stacking on top of each other.
Every moment of the match replayed in fragments of laughter and pride.
At one point, someone turned the music up even louder.
Another song started.
One they all knew.
One they had sung on the bus all season.
And suddenly the entire room was singing together, arms over shoulders, bouncing in place, the trophy gleaming in the center of it all.
Francesco found himself in the middle of that circle.
Arms around Xhaka on one side, Kanté on the other.
Voices raised.
Faces shining.
And for a second, as he looked around at all of them, he saw it clearly.
This wasn't just a team.
It was a family.
Built through training sessions.
Through wins.
Through losses.
Through long nights and early mornings.
Through belief.
And now, through history.
He closed his eyes for just a second.
Let the music carry him.
Let the moment settle deep into his chest.
He let the music carry him for a few seconds longer.
Let it settle into his chest.
Let the rhythm of it sync with his breathing, with his heartbeat, with the steady pulse of something that felt like fulfillment.
The kind of feeling that didn't shout.
Didn't demand attention.
It just… sat there.
Solid.
Certain.
Earned.
But moments like that never lasted forever.
Not because they faded.
But because the night kept moving.
Because there was still more to live.
More to celebrate.
More memories waiting to be made.
Francesco opened his eyes again slowly, his arm still draped around Xhaka on one side, Kanté on the other, both of them still singing, still bouncing, still soaked in champagne and sweat and joy.
He looked around the dressing room again.
At Giroud dancing like he was on a stage.
At Cazorla spinning with a bottle in one hand, towel in the other.
At Bellerín laughing so hard he nearly slipped.
At Van Dijk clapping in rhythm.
At Per, tall and calm even in celebration, still smiling like a man who knew this was a perfect ending.
At the trophy, sitting right in the middle of it all.
And something clicked in Francesco's mind.
A spark.
A playful idea.
A mischievous thought.
He leaned slightly toward Xhaka, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the music.
"Hey," he said, a grin already forming. "You know who hasn't been sprayed yet?"
Xhaka followed his gaze for a split second.
Then his eyes lit up immediately.
"Oh…" he said slowly, a wicked smile spreading across his face. "Oh yes."
Kanté looked between them, already starting to laugh just from the tone alone.
"What?" he asked, though he already suspected the answer.
Francesco leaned back, raising his voice now so more of the group could hear.
"Boys!" he called.
A few heads turned immediately.
Giroud lowered his bottle.
Cazorla paused mid-spin.
Bellerín leaned in.
Per lifted one eyebrow slightly.
Francesco lifted his champagne bottle, pointing it slightly toward the door.
"I think," he said, drawing out the words with a grin, "we've forgotten someone."
There was a beat.
A second where the idea landed.
Where it spread.
And then, the room erupted again.
"THE BOSS!" Giroud shouted.
"Of course!" Cazorla laughed.
"He's still in the press conference!" Bellerín added.
Xhaka clapped his hands together once, energized instantly.
"Let's go!" he said.
Per shook his head slowly, already smiling.
"You are all children," he muttered, but even he didn't stop them.
Francesco pointed toward the hallway.
"Quietly," he said, though his tone made it clear he didn't really expect quiet.
"Quietly?" Xhaka repeated with a laugh. "Impossible."
Still, they tried.
Or at least they tried for the first few steps.
A group of grown men, Champions League winners, attempting to sneak down a corridor while holding half-shaken bottles of champagne.
It lasted about three seconds before someone laughed too loudly.
Then someone else.
Then another.
By the time they reached the press conference room, they were already grinning like schoolboys about to pull off the greatest prank of their lives.
Inside, at that very moment, Arsène Wenger was sitting calmly behind the desk, answering questions from the media.
The room was full.
Journalists from all over Europe.
Cameras set up in rows.
Microphones lined across the table.
Wenger sat in the center, suit still slightly damp from earlier celebrations but composed as always, speaking with that familiar calm intelligence.
"Yes," he was saying, hands folded lightly in front of him, "I believe what we showed tonight was not only quality, but also character. This team has grown—"
The door behind him opened.
At first, it was subtle.
A small sound.
A slight shift.
A few journalists in the back row turned their heads.
Confusion flickered across their faces.
Then, they saw them.
Francesco at the front.
Bottle in hand.
Grinning.
Behind him, the rest of the Arsenal squad packed into the doorway, trying and failing to hold in their laughter.
Wenger noticed the shift in the room.
He paused mid-sentence.
Turned slightly.
And the moment he saw them, he knew.
"Oh no," he said softly, already smiling despite himself.
"NOW!" Xhaka shouted.
And chaos erupted again.
They rushed forward in a wave of red tracks, champagne bottles raised, laughter exploding into the room.
Corks popped in quick succession.
Sprays burst forward.
Golden arcs of champagne shooting through the air, straight toward Wenger.
He raised his hands instinctively, half in defense, half in surrender, laughing as the first splash hit his shoulder, then his chest, then his face.
"Ah!" he laughed, trying to lean away but not really trying very hard at all.
Francesco reached him first, spraying a light arc across Wenger's jacket.
"For the Champions League double, boss!" he shouted.
Giroud came in from the side.
"For defending the treble!" he added.
Cazorla sprayed a smaller burst, laughing uncontrollably.
Kanté tried to aim low, almost politely, but still ended up splashing Wenger's trousers.
Per, arriving a second later, simply tipped a small amount gently over Wenger's shoulder, smiling.
The media room exploded into noise.
Journalists laughing.
Shouting.
Cameras flashing wildly.
Video cameras capturing every second of the chaos.
Microphones picking up Wenger's laughter as he sat there, completely soaked, hands raised, surrendering to the moment.
"This is not very professional!" he said with a grin, though his tone held no real complaint.
"It is tradition!" Xhaka shouted back.
Francesco stepped closer, lowering the bottle now, his smile softening as he looked at his manager.
"Thank you," he said quietly, just loud enough for Wenger to hear over the noise.
Wenger met his eyes.
Even with champagne dripping from his hair, from his jacket, from his sleeves.
And he nodded.
"Thank you," he replied.
The moment held for just a second.
Then someone else popped another cork.
And the room erupted again.
Eventually, the staff stepped in, laughing as they gently ushered the players back out before the entire press room turned into a swimming pool.
"Enough, enough!" one of the media officers called, though she was smiling as she said it.
"Let the man finish his press conference!"
"Good luck with that now!" Giroud laughed as they backed out of the room.
Wenger shook his head, still smiling, wiping his face with a towel that someone handed him.
The last thing the cameras caught before the door closed was him laughing softly, soaked but happy.
Back in the hallway, the players were still buzzing.
"That was worth it," Bellerín said, grinning.
"Best press conference ever," Cazorla added.
Per simply chuckled.
"You will never change," he said.
Francesco laughed, wiping his hands on his already soaked shirt.
"Never," he agreed.
From there, the night moved forward again.
The chaos of champagne gave way to something a little more practical.
Showers.
Fresh clothes.
A chance to reset, even just slightly, before the next stage of celebration.
One by one, the players filtered into the shower area, the sound of running water replacing the music for a while.
Steam filled the air.
Laughter still echoed, softer now, more relaxed.
Francesco stood under the stream for a long moment, letting the warm water wash away the sticky feel of champagne from his skin, from his hair, from his face.
He leaned his head back slightly.
Closed his eyes again.
And for a second, everything went quiet.
Just water.
Just breath.
Just the steady, calm aftermath of something incredible.
He thought about the match.
The goals.
The tackles.
The roar of the crowd.
The moment he lifted the trophy.
The look on Leah's face.
His parents.
His teammates.
Wenger.
All of it.
A night he would carry with him forever.
Eventually, he stepped out, drying off, changing into the Arsenal tracksuit laid out for them.
Clean.
Fresh.
The crest on his chest.
Still the same.
But now carrying even more meaning.
When he stepped back into the dressing room area, most of the team was already dressed and ready, the energy still high, but now focused toward the next destination.
The hotel.
The continuation of the celebration.
Outside, the team bus waited.
Engine running.
Lights on.
A familiar sight, but tonight, it felt different.
Special.
Wenger emerged a few minutes later, having changed into a fresh suit, his hair still slightly damp but his composure fully restored.
He looked around at his players, a soft smile settling on his face again.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Always," Francesco replied.
They made their way out together.
Into the cool night air.
The stadium behind them now quieter, lights still glowing but the seats slowly emptying.
The bus doors opened.
One by one, the players climbed aboard, laughter and conversation continuing as they took their seats.
Francesco stepped up last, pausing for just a second at the top of the steps.
He turned his head.
Looked back once more at the stadium.
At the place where they had just made history.
Then he nodded to himself.
And stepped inside.
The doors closed.
The engine hummed.
And slowly, the bus pulled away from the stadium.
Heading into the night.
Heading toward the hotel.
Toward the next chapter of a celebration that was far from over.
The bus rolled on through the city night, its headlights cutting clean lines through the darkness as the engine hummed in a steady, almost soothing rhythm beneath them.
Inside, the energy had changed again.
Not gone.
Never gone.
Just… shifted.
The chaos of the dressing room from the champagne, the music, the shouting had softened into something warmer, more relaxed. Laughter still filled the bus, voices still bounced from seat to seat, but now there were quieter pockets too.
Some players leaned back in their seats, heads resting against the windows, watching the city lights streak by.
Some were still talking, replaying moments of the match.
Others scrolled through their phones, already seeing the first images and headlines appearing online.
Francesco sat somewhere in the middle of it all, one arm resting on the back of his seat, his body angled slightly toward the aisle.
He was still smiling.
It hadn't really left his face all night.
Across from him, Xhaka and Cazorla were mid-conversation, debating one of the goals again like it was happening in real time.
"I'm telling you," Xhaka insisted, gesturing with his hands. "The angle was impossible."
"And yet," Cazorla replied with a grin, pointing toward Francesco, "he still found it."
Kanté laughed softly beside them, shaking his head in disbelief all over again.
From a few rows back, Giroud's voice cut through.
"Next time," he called, "I'm taking the free kicks."
"Next time?" Bellerín shot back instantly. "You mean when we win it again?"
A ripple of laughter rolled through the bus.
Francesco leaned his head back for a moment, letting the sound of it all wash over him.
His teammates.
His brothers.
His family.
The city outside the window slowly began to change as they moved further away from the stadium.
The lights became more spaced out.
The streets a little quieter.
And then, after a short while, the bus slowed.
The indicator clicked softly.
They turned into a wide, well-lit driveway.
And there it was.
The hotel.
Grand.
Elegant.
Its entrance glowing warmly under soft golden lights.
A small crowd had already gathered outside with hotel staff lined neatly along the entrance, some holding discreet Arsenal flags, others simply waiting with proud smiles.
As the bus came to a gentle stop, the players inside instinctively sat up a little straighter, the energy rising again.
"Here we go," Xhaka said under his breath, already grinning.
The door hissed open.
One by one, the players began to step down onto the pavement.
The moment their boots touched the ground, the hotel staff broke into applause.
Warm.
Genuine.
Heartfelt.
At the front stood the hotel's general manager, a middle-aged man in a crisp suit, beaming as he stepped forward.
"Welcome," he said warmly, his voice carrying just enough for them all to hear. "And congratulations on your Champions League victory. It is an honor to host you tonight."
There were handshakes.
Nods.
Words of thanks exchanged in return.
"Thank you," Per said, offering a polite smile.
"We appreciate it," Wenger added with a small, respectful nod.
Francesco stepped down a few seconds later, glancing around at the welcoming scene.
He wasn't used to being on this side of it.
Being the one being congratulated by strangers.
But tonight, it felt… right.
Earned.
"Congratulations," one of the staff members said directly to him, smiling brightly.
Francesco smiled back.
"Thank you," he replied.
The night air was cool against his skin, a contrast to the heat of the dressing room earlier.
But it felt refreshing.
Grounding.
A reminder that the night wasn't over yet.
The general manager gestured politely toward the entrance.
"If you would follow us," he said, "everything has been prepared in the ballroom."
The players began to move again as a group, guided by the hotel staff through the elegant lobby.
Marble floors.
Soft lighting.
High ceilings.
The quiet luxury of a place used to hosting important moments.
But tonight felt different.
Because tonight, it was filled with something else.
Celebration.
History.
They moved through the corridors, past a few other hotel guests who stood aside, some clapping softly, some simply staring in awe as the team passed by.
At the end of the corridor, double doors stood open.
Light spilled out.
Music drifted through.
Voices.
Laughter.
And as the Arsenal players stepped through into the ballroom, the celebration rose again.
The room was beautifully prepared.
Large round tables arranged around the edges.
A dance floor in the center.
A stage at one end with a DJ booth already set up.
Soft golden lights mixed with flashes of red, the club's colors subtly woven into the décor.
And most importantly, people.
Their people.
Families.
Girlfriends.
Club staff.
Coaches.
Medical team.
Everyone who had been part of the journey.
And among them, standing in small clusters, were also two very familiar figures.
Stan Kroenke and Alisher Usmanov.
Alongside them, club executives, including Ivan Gazidis, and members of their respective families and staff.
The moment the players entered, the room erupted into applause again.
Cheers.
Smiles.
Hands clapping.
Some people even whistling.
Francesco felt it hit him again.
That wave of warmth.
Of pride.
Of belonging.
And then his eyes found the people he was looking for.
Near the center of the room.
His parents.
Mike and Sarah.
Leah.
Her family beside her.
They had arrived before the team.
They were already waiting.
Already smiling.
The moment Leah saw him, her face lit up instantly.
Francesco didn't even think.
He just moved.
Crossing the room with quick steps, weaving past tables and chairs until he reached them.
His mother opened her arms first.
He stepped into them without hesitation.
"Hey, Mom," he said softly, holding her for a second.
"Hey, champion," Sarah replied, her voice warm with pride.
Mike stepped in next, pulling him into another firm, grounding embrace.
"You made history tonight," his father said quietly.
"We all did," Francesco replied, glancing back for a second at his teammates scattered around the room.
Leah was next.
She didn't wait.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him tightly.
For a moment, everything else blurred again.
Just them.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
Francesco smiled against her hair.
"Better than okay," he replied.
She pulled back slightly, looking up at him.
"Good," she said, her eyes shining.
Behind her, David, Amanda, and Jacob all stepped forward one by one, offering congratulations, smiles, laughter.
Jacob was practically vibrating again.
"Best night ever," he declared.
Francesco laughed.
"Definitely up there," he agreed.
After a few more seconds with them, Francesco turned slightly, scanning the room again.
Because there were others he needed to greet too.
Important people.
People who had helped build the club he now called home.
He spotted them quickly.
Stan Kroenke standing in conversation with a few staff members, a glass in hand.
Beside him, Alisher Usmanov, equally composed, equally watchful.
And nearby, Ivan Gazidis speaking with one of the club's directors.
Francesco took a breath, then stepped forward toward them.
Kroenke noticed him first.
His face broke into a broad smile.
"Ah," he said, extending his hand. "There he is. The man of the night."
Francesco shook his hand respectfully.
"Thank you, sir," he replied.
"Incredible performance," Kroenke added. "Truly. You've made the club proud."
"Thank you," Francesco said again, meaning it.
Usmanov stepped forward next, offering his hand as well.
"Well done," he said, his tone calm but approving. "A night for history."
Francesco nodded.
"Yes, sir. For all of us."
Ivan Gazidis joined them, smiling warmly.
"Enjoy it," he said. "You and the team deserve every second of this."
Francesco smiled back.
"We will," he said.
They exchanged a few more words.
Short.
Respectful.
Meaningful.
Then Francesco stepped back slightly, rejoining his family and Leah as the night's next chapter truly began.
Music began to rise again in the ballroom as glasses were lifted, toast were prepared. And all around them, the celebration of a lifetime was just getting started.
______________________________________________
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, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
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