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Because for Francesco Lee, the dream wasn't just scoring a hat-trick at Old Trafford. Or lifting the Premier League trophy. Or winning the Golden Boot. The dream was doing all of that for Arsenal.
Then days pass and it was morning at 30 May 2015 and the light filtered through the blinds of Francesco's apartment, soft and golden, the kind of light that hinted something special was about to unfold. He stirred awake, but unlike most matchdays, there was no groggy hesitation, no snoozed alarms. His eyes opened, sharp and alert. Today wasn't just any game.
It was Wembley. It was the FA Cup Final.
He swung his legs out of bed, feet hitting the floor with a thud that grounded him instantly. As he stood up and stretched, he took a glance at the kit laid out on the chair the night before: crisp training tracksuit, his matchday boots polished to a shine, his name stitched proudly on the travel top. He smiled. It was all real.
After a quick shower and breakfast—eggs, toast, and that all-important black coffee—Francesco grabbed his keys, slung his gym bag over his shoulder, and headed out. The streets were quiet this early, a contrast to the storm of energy simmering just below the surface of London. He knew that as the day progressed, the red-and-white flood would take over the capital.
He slid into his trusty Honda Civic, the same one he'd been driving since his getting his first team contract. It was modest, sure, but it was his. And something about driving himself to Colney on the biggest day of his career made it feel all the more personal. Like the final stretch of a very long, beautiful road.
The drive from his flat to London Colney training ground was familiar, but every turn this time carried a deeper weight. His phone buzzed a few times with good luck messages—some from old coaches, others from friends who were probably already halfway to Wembley. He didn't open them yet. He wanted to stay in the moment. Music played quietly through the speakers, a playlist he'd used all season—equal parts hype and calm. One song ended, and as the next one started, the chorus hit him differently:
"This is everything I dreamed of, everything I've worked for…"
Yeah. It really was.
As he turned into the long, winding entrance of Colney, the security gate opened without question. The staff recognized him immediately, one of them even offering a fist bump and a quick "Let's bring it home today, Lee!"
Francesco parked in his usual spot—not too close to the door, not too far either—and stepped out. The crisp morning air greeted him, laced with the faint scent of dew and grass. He took a breath and looked around. The team bus was already idling, Arsenal's crest shining in the sunlight, red and white like a banner of destiny.
Inside, the atmosphere was a calm before the storm. Staff moved with quiet urgency. Kit managers sorted final pieces, boxes of boots and gear stacked neatly. Players started to arrive in ones and twos, all in their travel gear, nodding to each other with that unspoken understanding: today was it.
Jack arrived shortly after Francesco, coffee in one hand, sunglasses perched atop his head like he was trying not to look too amped—though the bouncing in his step gave him away.
"You ready?" Jack asked, clapping a hand on Francesco's shoulder.
Francesco grinned. "Been ready since Old Trafford."
More players filtered in. Theo, already on his second protein shake. Giroud, wearing cologne that could knock out a locker room. Mertesacker, the captain, calm and towering, greeting each player with a quiet confidence that settled nerves.
Arsène Wenger entered last, carrying his notes and that same focused expression he'd worn all season. He gave Francesco a nod, his eyes twinkling.
"You know what to do today," Wenger said. "Just play your football."
Those words, simple as they were, landed with the weight of trust.
Soon, everyone was on the bus. Bags loaded. Seats taken. Ramsey had his headphones in. Oxlade was already filming a video for the club's social media, walking up and down the aisle, narrating the moment.
"And here we have our hat-trick hero—Golden Boy Lee," he said, pointing the camera at Francesco, who rolled his eyes and smirked.
"Pressure's on you to score four today," Ox added.
"Only if you get the assist," Francesco shot back.
Laughter filled the aisle. It felt good. Relaxed. But underneath it all, that quiet fire was spreading. This wasn't just about silverware. It was about making a statement. A double.
As the bus pulled out of Colney and headed down the motorway toward Wembley, police escorts flanking both sides, the players settled in for the ride. Some closed their eyes. Others stared out the window as the roads filled with more and more red-and-white shirts. Fans waving scarves from overpasses. Banners hung off balconies. Cars honking in rhythm.
Francesco sat by the window again, his Golden Boot not with him this time, but his sense of purpose just as sharp. The buzz of notifications hadn't stopped since that photo post a few days ago—now the most liked photo on Arsenal's Instagram ever. And yet, he wasn't thinking about that.
He was thinking about the last time he'd been to Wembley. As a kid, watching from the stands with his dad. Arsenal had won that day, and he remembered tugging on his father's arm, saying, "I want to play here one day."
And now, here he was. Not just playing, but leading the line.
Jack nudged him again. "You nervous?"
Francesco shrugged. "Not really. Just… focused."
"Good," Jack said. "Because when we win this, you're gonna need to hold two trophies in the parade."
Francesco chuckled. "I'll need a third arm."
They were approaching Wembley now. The arch—the iconic white curve of steel—rose into the sky like a gateway to footballing immortality. And as the stadium drew closer, so did the noise. The fans. The energy. It was pulsing, alive, and impossible to ignore.
The bus turned into the private entrance and slowly came to a stop.
Francesco took a deep breath.
He stood, grabbed his bag, and followed the others off the bus, boots in hand, mind locked in. As he stepped out onto the concrete leading into the stadium, the echo of distant chants reached his ears. It wasn't the roar yet—not the full explosion. But it was coming. Just on the other side of those tunnel walls.
Then they headed to the dressing room.
There was a quiet rhythm to the way the players moved, almost ritualistic—the hum of boots on tile, zippers, the rustle of training gear being pulled over shoulders. The mood was a mix of calm and controlled anticipation, no overexcitement, no nerves showing, just a sense of purpose. Francesco peeled off his tracksuit top and slid into his training kit: breathable, snug, and light—meant to get him into rhythm, not weigh him down.
He tied his laces tight, double-knotted, and checked the studs. Everything had to be perfect. This wasn't the kind of day you left anything to chance.
"Alright boys, warm-up in five," came the call from the coaching staff.
Together, they walked out of the dressing room, boots clicking against the Wembley corridor floors, the kind of sound that made your pulse spike. Francesco walked beside Alexis, the two exchanging a look—no words needed. Giroud was just behind them, humming some French tune to himself. It helped keep things light.
And then, they emerged from the tunnel.
The stadium was already alive. Not full yet, but nearly. The energy buzzed through the stands like electricity, fans waving flags, snapping photos, chanting in waves that rose and fell like the sea. The Arsenal supporters were in strong voice, one half of the stadium bathed in red and white. The Villa faithful mirrored them in claret and blue, their noise no less fierce.
Francesco took it in with a deep breath. The pitch was perfect, the kind of surface that just begged for beautiful football. The sun had risen high enough now to bathe everything in a golden glow, as if Wembley itself had a spotlight cast over it.
The squad spread out across their side of the pitch. Francesco started with light jogging drills, then moved to dynamic stretches, opening up his stride, loosening his hamstrings. He did the usual shuffle-and-sprint warm-up, then some passing drills with Ozil and Coquelin—sharp, precise, like clockwork.
Across the halfway line, the Aston Villa players were warming up too. Francesco saw Benteke stretching with deliberate focus, Grealish adjusting his socks just before a sprint, and N'Zogbia doing shuttle runs near the sideline. They looked hungry. But Francesco didn't flinch. He welcomed it.
"Eyes on our game," Mertesacker called out from across the pitch, commanding without raising his voice too much. That's all they needed. Focus. Trust the process.
After 45 minutes of steady work—passing patterns, shooting drills, set-piece simulations—the whistle blew from the touchline, calling them in. Warm-up done.
Back in the dressing room, the buzz kicked up another notch. The match kits were waiting in neat rows. Red and white, pristine. Francesco took off his training top and reached for the jersey, running his fingers over the fabric for a second before pulling it on. He buttoned up his collar, tucked in his shirt, and slipped on his socks and shin pads before finally lacing up his boots for real.
Everything had led to this.
The players took their seats as Wenger stepped into the middle of the room. Silence fell.
The boss held his usual notepad, scribbled with final thoughts, but he barely glanced at it. He didn't need to.
"Alright," he began, his voice steady and sure. "We go with a 4-2-3-1."
Everyone leaned forward slightly—not because they didn't know it, but because this was the moment. The final affirmation.
"Wojciech in goal."
Szczesny nodded from his seat, face focused.
"Back four—Nacho, Laurent, Per, Hector. Per, you wear the armband today."
A quiet "Yes, boss" from Mertesacker, the kind that carries weight.
"In midfield: Cazorla and Coquelin. Santi, your creativity will be key. Francis, I want you to control their transitions."
The two midfielders gave each other a quick nod.
"Ozil just ahead of them. Mez, find the pockets, pull them apart."
Ozil didn't speak—just that little grin he always wore when he knew he had the freedom to create.
"On the flanks, Alexis on the left, Francesco on the right. Play with pace, purpose. You know what to do."
Francesco could feel his heartbeat slow as Wenger said his name. It was grounding.
"And up front, Olivier. Play smart, hold up play when needed, make them work."
Giroud cracked his knuckles and gave a small nod.
"For the bench—Ospina, Gabriel, Gibbs, Ramsey, Ox, Jack, Theo."
Each sub acknowledged the call, some stretching, others adjusting their jackets.
Then Wenger glanced down at his notes once more before continuing, his voice dropping a bit, taking on a more tactical tone.
"I've just heard from the press. Sherwood's going aggressive. 4-3-3. Attacking intent. They want to go toe-to-toe."
A few eyebrows raised. It wasn't unexpected—but it confirmed what they had to deal with.
"Given in goal," Wenger continued. "Back four: Richardson, Okore, Vlaar, Hutton."
He paced slowly now.
"Holding mid is Westwood. In front of him, Cleverley and Delph. Delph is their captain—he'll try to drive them forward."
Francesco was already visualizing the gaps. Delph's surges left space. Cleverley could be forced wide.
"Wingers—Grealish on the left, N'Zogbia on the right. Benteke up top."
That got everyone's attention. Benteke was a threat in the air and had a rocket shot. They'd have to be tight.
"They'll press. They'll run. They'll try to drag us into a scrap. But we've been here before. We play our football."
He paused, looking around at the room, meeting the eyes of each of his players.
"We've already made history once. Let's do it again. You want the double? You go out there and earn it. Every pass. Every run. Every tackle."
He took a breath.
"This is your final. Now go make it Arsenal's."
The room erupted with the energy of claps, shouts, the metallic clang of shin pads as players stood up. The mood shifted instantly—focus sharpened, adrenaline surged.
Francesco zipped up his jacket halfway as they waited for the call to walk out. He looked around at the men he'd fought alongside all season. The same players who'd picked each other up after missed chances, who'd celebrated every victory like it mattered. Because it did.
He felt the thrum of energy now in his chest. This wasn't nerves. This was readiness.
Jack leaned over from the bench. "Still focused?"
Francesco looked ahead, expression calm. "More than ever."
He could hear the crowd swelling now, the muffled chants building just beyond the concrete walls of the tunnel. Somewhere in the background, the announcer's voice echoed faintly, calling out the lineups, greeted by thunderous cheers.
Then the call came.
"Let's go."
The squad stood in a line, captains at the front, mascots beside them. The players began to walk, the echoes of their boots bouncing off the tunnel walls as the light grew brighter ahead.
And then—Wembley.
The roar was deafening. A sea of Arsenal and Villa supporters alike, flags waving, scarves spinning, banners flying. The red flares, the claret chants, the booming drums. It all merged into a perfect chaos.
Francesco looked up at the arch once more. That beautiful curve, etched into the sky. And in that second, he felt time slow, just for a heartbeat. Everything he'd dreamed of. Everything he'd worked for.
The teams lined up for the anthem. The camera panned across their faces. Francesco kept his gaze locked ahead, eyes burning with intensity. The camera paused on him for a moment—and he didn't flinch. He knew millions were watching.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League
Match Played: 34
Goal: 42
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8