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Confetti cannons roared. Red and white streamers flew across the podium. The squad huddled around him, bouncing, laughing, shouting. Champagne sprayed. The moment stretched out into eternity.
Then, on the massive Wembley screens above the jubilant chaos, the number 12 flashed into view—bold, bright, and unmissable.
FA Cup Wins: 12.
Arsenal Football Club had just lifted their twelfth FA Cup trophy. The crowd erupted again, a second wave of celebration crashing through the red side of the stadium. It wasn't just a number—it was history. It was legacy. It was proof that, on this grandest of domestic stages, Arsenal were kings.
Francesco stood at the center of it all, the trophy still in his hands, breath catching in his throat as he looked up at the screen. The "12" seemed to glow like a halo above them. And for a second, he just… stood there. Letting it all sink in. This moment, this feeling—it was something he would carry for the rest of his life.
Eventually, the players began to move back down to the pitch, filtering off the stage like musicians stepping down after a perfect performance. But the music hadn't stopped—it had just changed. Now it was celebratory chants, camera shutters clicking like drums, fans singing and crying and holding up scarves like they were sacred banners.
As Francesco descended the steps, the trophy still close to his chest, he could already see the faces waiting at the edge of the pitch. Family members, friends, girlfriends—people who had walked the journey with them from muddy training pitches and quiet, anxious car rides to this kaleidoscope of glory.
And there they were.
Mike and Sarah Lee. His parents.
Leah Williamson. His girlfriend. Arsenal through and through.
They were waiting near the touchline, just behind the security barrier, smiling through tears. Mike had his phone in one hand and the other gripping Sarah's shoulder, trying and failing to keep it together. Sarah, beaming, had her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes shining with pride. And Leah—Leah looked like she was holding the whole sky inside her. Her red Arsenal shirt with "LEE 35" across the back clung to her in the warm Wembley air, her ponytail swinging slightly as she waved both arms.
Francesco didn't walk. He ran.
As soon as his boots hit the grass again, he sprinted across the pitch, the trophy bouncing against his chest, laughter tearing out of him like wind from a storm. He didn't care that cameras were following him. He didn't care that the world was watching. All that mattered was reaching them.
The barrier didn't stand a chance.
Security stepped aside with knowing smiles as he vaulted the advertising board like it was nothing and landed in front of them. His mum was first. He practically tackled her into a hug, nearly knocking her backward.
"Oh my God, Mum," he whispered, burying his face in her shoulder. "We did it. We really did it."
Sarah kissed his forehead, her hands trembling as they held the sides of his face. "You did more than that, sweetheart. You became a legend today."
Then Mike was there, wrapping them both in one of those tight, dad-grip hugs that says everything words can't. "Hat-trick at Wembley," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "The Premier League. The FA Cup. Jesus, son."
And then—Leah.
Francesco pulled back from his parents and turned to her, suddenly shy in the most ridiculous way. The crowd noise softened for him, even though it didn't for anyone else. All he could hear was the hammering of his heart.
Leah stepped forward, eyes locked onto his.
"You're unbelievable," she whispered, tears streaking her cheeks.
He dropped the trophy gently to the grass—just for a moment—and wrapped his arms around her. She melted into him, clinging tightly, her hands pressing into his back like she never wanted to let go. They didn't say anything at first. Didn't need to. Their embrace said it all. The games, the setbacks, the sacrifice, the lonely nights, the training, the pressure—it all poured out between them in that one long, endless hug.
After a minute, Francesco leaned back, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"I couldn't have done any of this without you," he murmured.
Leah gave him a lopsided smile. "You'd have done it anyway. But I'm glad I was here to see it."
He kissed her—quick, soft, but full of all the adrenaline and affection and triumph still charging through his veins.
Around them, more scenes like theirs were unfolding. Bellerín was laughing with his brothers. Cazorla had his kids clambering on him like he was a jungle gym. Alexis Sánchez was video-calling family back home in Chile, holding the FA Cup high for the camera. The grass was now a sea of smiles, hugs, family reunions, camera flashes, and spontaneous cheers.
And everywhere, the trophy kept moving—passed from hand to hand, kissed, raised, photographed. A piece of silver that had just become a relic of Arsenal immortality.
Eventually, Francesco and Leah walked back toward the team, arms still wrapped around each other. Leah wiped her cheeks, smiling at the confetti caught in his hair.
"Look at you," she said, grinning. "Still the same boy I met at the park. Just… shinier now."
"Bit shinier," he admitted, laughing.
"Oh, don't remind me."
They rejoined the squad near the center circle where a group photo was being assembled. The giant silver cup was placed at the front, and everyone started crowding around it—players crouching in front, others draping arms over each other's shoulders in the back row, coaches and staff squeezed into every available gap. Someone handed Francesco the match ball again, and he tucked it under his arm with pride.
Wenger joined them last, walking slowly, still wiping his eyes, but wearing the most unguarded smile anyone had seen from him in years. The players cheered when he stepped in, pulling him into the huddle. Santi pulled him to the center, insisting he sit right in the middle with the cup.
"For the gaffer!" someone yelled, and the whole group echoed it.
"FOR THE GAFFER!"
The shutter clicks started. Flashes burst like fireworks. Arsenal's class of 2015 had their moment frozen in time—trophies at their feet, arms around each other, history behind them.
Then, after the last shutter clicks faded into the open Wembley air, and the team began to ease from their frozen smiles into more natural laughter, a mischievous glint passed between three players in the back row.
Francesco caught Chamberlain's eye first. Then Ramsey's. No words were needed. Just a subtle nod, a shift in posture, the kind of silent communication that only comes from shared years, shared victories—and shared pranks.
It was Francesco who moved first.
He slipped around the mass of teammates like a fox in tall grass, dipping behind the rows where the coaches and staff were slowly stepping away from the photo setup. Chamberlain and Ramsey followed close behind, their steps quick and deliberate.
Somewhere in the back, nestled between crates of water bottles, energy drinks, towels, and all the chaotic detritus of a victorious dressing room temporarily spilled out onto the pitch, sat a heavy metal bucket—half-filled with melting ice and now mostly champagne. It had been used to chill bottles earlier during the post-match celebrations, but now it was something else entirely.
A weapon.
Francesco grabbed one handle, Ramsey the other. Chamberlain jogged beside them, already stifling a laugh.
Back near the center circle, Wenger was chatting with Mertesacker and Flamini, still wearing that dazed smile of disbelief. His suit was rumpled, his eyes red, his tie slightly askew, but he looked lighter than anyone had ever seen him. Decades younger. Maybe because he had just witnessed the most dominant FA Cup Final performance in Arsenal's long and storied history—and perhaps because this time, it felt like vindication, not just victory.
The boys moved fast.
"Boss!" Francesco called out, just as they reached him.
Wenger turned—too late.
With a shout of laughter, Francesco and Ramsey tilted the bucket and Chamberlain yanked it forward. A cascade of icy, bubbly champagne came pouring out like a golden waterfall, drenching Wenger from shoulders to shoes.
He gasped, let out something between a shout and a laugh, and staggered backward, blinking as liquid ran down his face and soaked through his shirt.
The entire squad roared.
The fans in the nearby stands who caught the moment on the jumbotron exploded with joy. A few began chanting his name.
"Ar-sène Wen-ger! Ar-sène Wen-ger!"
Wenger wiped his face with both hands, blinking through champagne. His expression, for a moment, was pure shock. Then it cracked—he laughed. A deep, heartfelt, belly laugh that started slow and then rolled out of him in waves. He tried to scold them, wagging a wet finger at Francesco and the others, but it was pointless. His voice couldn't be heard over the cheers, and anyway, he didn't really mean it.
"You little devils," he managed, shaking his head, eyes twinkling. "You think I'm not too old for this?"
"No way, boss," Francesco grinned, already backing away. "You're immortal now."
Cazorla came up next, tossing Wenger a towel and giving him a one-armed hug. "You needed a little cool down, míster. Too hot in that suit."
Wenger shook his head, chuckling again, wrapping an arm around Cazorla. "I should've seen it coming. You lot never change."
And maybe that was part of the magic—that on a night where everything had changed for the club, everything had been elevated, some things still stayed the same. The camaraderie. The chaos. The joy.
After the champagne ambush, the squad broke into smaller groups. Some players returned to the crowd, handing shirts over the barriers to young fans. Others reclined on the grass, lying back and staring up at the Wembley sky, watching as the last streaks of pink and gold faded into dusk. Music blared from the stadium speakers now—classic Arsenal chants mixed with celebratory tunes. The kind you didn't just hear—you felt them in your ribs, in your pulse.
Francesco sat down on the turf, legs stretched in front of him, the match ball in his lap. Leah dropped beside him, her knees brushing his. Her eyes were still glassy, but her smile hadn't faded one bit.
"Still feel real?" she asked, leaning her head on his shoulder.
He was quiet for a beat, just watching as his teammates moved around them in a blur of red and gold and silver and champagne.
"I think it always will," he said softly. "Even when we're old and boring."
Leah smirked. "Speak for yourself. I plan on being fabulous forever."
He laughed, nudged her with his shoulder. "Fine. You'll be fabulous. I'll be boring. But I'll still remember this night."
She reached over and tapped the match ball. "That's going in a case, right?"
"Front and center," he nodded. "Golden Boot's going next to it."
Leah took a deep breath, let it out slow. "You know what's crazy? This is just the beginning for you."
He looked at her, eyes narrowing with a smile. "You think?"
"I know," she said. "Today was history. But you—you're the future."
Just as the sun dipped below the edge of Wembley's sweeping roof and the lights began to glow a little brighter against the deepening sky, Francesco heard his name called again—this time not from the fans or teammates, but from a production assistant wearing a lanyard and a headset.
"Francesco! We need you for post-match," she said, panting a bit as she trotted up to him and Leah on the grass. "Man of the Match. Interviews are waiting."
He blinked, as if waking from a dream, then looked down at the match ball in his lap. He ran a hand over the scuffed leather, its white panels now streaked with green from the pitch and little smudges of champagne. He kissed it once, quick and almost shy, then stood up and offered Leah his hand.
"You're going to be brilliant," she said, brushing some grass off his back as he turned. "Not too many jokes, though. Be serious. Just for a little bit."
Francesco gave her a mock salute. "Yes, ma'am."
He jogged lightly across the pitch, where two cameramen and a small crowd of reporters were clustered near the sideboards, beneath a large banner with the Arsenal crest and "FA Cup Final 2015" printed in bold letters. A small pedestal stood nearby with a black-and-gold plaque that read Emirates FA Cup Man of the Match. The glass trophy sparkled under the lights, and someone had already placed a miniature Arsenal scarf around its base.
Francesco approached with the easy, practiced swagger of someone who'd done interviews before—but this felt different. This wasn't just a match. This wasn't just another win.
This was the win.
"Francesco Lee, congratulations," said the Sky Sports presenter, holding the mic just under his chin. "Three goals, one hat-trick, a historic scoreline, and now the FA Cup Final Man of the Match. How does it feel?"
He let out a breath and smiled, shaking his head slightly, almost in disbelief.
"I don't even know what to say," he admitted, voice still breathless from adrenaline and celebration. "It's surreal. I've dreamed about playing at Wembley since I was a kid. To do this, in a final, for Arsenal… I just—I'm still trying to take it all in."
"Your hat-trick," another reporter cut in, "especially that bicycle kick in the 89th minute—did you mean to do that, or was it instinct?"
Francesco grinned wide, rubbing the back of his neck.
"A bit of both, maybe?" he said. "I saw the cross coming in and thought, Why not? You don't get moments like this every day. I just threw myself at it and hoped for the best. Luckily, it hit sweet."
"Sweet? That goal will be on highlight reels for the next fifty years!"
He laughed at that, but another voice jumped in—a BBC reporter now. "Francesco, this caps off a sensational season. Golden Boot winner, league champion, and now an FA Cup Final hat-trick. What's been driving you this year?"
His smile faded a little, not from sadness but from sincerity. He paused before answering.
"Honestly? It's the team. The belief in the dressing room. The gaffer. The fans. Everyone's played their part. We've had ups and downs, but we stuck together. And personally… I guess I've always felt like I had something to prove. I was a long shot when I joined. People weren't sure about me. But Arsène gave me a chance. The lads backed me. And I've just tried to give everything in return."
"You've done more than that," the interviewer said, nodding. "You've become a fan favorite, a match-winner, and arguably the face of the next generation at Arsenal. What's next?"
Francesco chuckled softly. "Right now? A shower. Then maybe a kebab. Long term? Who knows. Hopefully more trophies. More nights like this. But I'll keep working, keep improving. That's all I can promise."
Another reporter piped up with a more playful tone. "So… who was the mastermind behind drenching Wenger in champagne?"
That got a bigger laugh from him. "I plead the fifth," he said with a wink. "But let's just say, it was a team effort. And he took it like a champ."
The questions kept coming—about tactics, teammates, future ambitions, even his thoughts on potentially captaining the side one day. He answered them all with charm, humility, and the kind of poise that seemed beyond his years. Cameras flashed. Pens scribbled. Somewhere just beyond the line of microphones, Leah stood watching, arms crossed, smiling proudly.
Eventually, the formal interviews ended. Francesco was handed the Man of the Match trophy, which he held up briefly for another round of photos. Then, slinging an arm around one of the club's press officers, he asked, "Can I go see my family now?"
Back inside the stadium's bowels, in the VIP hospitality lounge, his parents were waiting. Sarah and Mike Lee were dressed smartly, still glowing with pride, and as soon as they saw him, Sarah gasped and wrapped her arms around her son.
"You did it," she whispered, tearful. "You really did it."
Mike clapped him on the back, grinning like a schoolboy. "That third goal—bloody hell, son. You almost gave me a heart attack!"
Francesco laughed, hugged them both, then looked over his shoulder as Leah joined them.
"We're getting him a case for the ball and boot," Leah said, grinning as she slipped her hand into his.
Mike nodded. "Damn right we are. We'll build a shrine if we have to."
After a while, the group drifted back toward the players' lounge. More celebrations, more toasts, more music. The FA Cup sat on a central table, surrounded by phones snapping selfies, bottles clinking, players dancing or just basking in the afterglow. Wenger, now in a dry shirt, was seated nearby with Ivan Gazidis, talking quietly—but when Francesco passed, the manager caught his arm.
"You were brilliant tonight," Wenger said simply. "But more than that—you were brave. The third goal was audacious. And the second—sliding in front of two defenders? That's what champions do. You showed character."
Francesco swallowed. Praise from Wenger always landed differently. He wasn't effusive often. When he said things like this, you felt them.
"Thank you, boss," Francesco said, and then added, almost shyly, "For believing in me."
Wenger nodded once. "I always did. You just needed time to show the world."
He left Wenger with a hand on his shoulder and returned to the party. At one point, someone handed him a karaoke mic. Ox started chanting "Francesco Lee, he's our number 35!" and soon the whole room picked it up. Francesco couldn't stop laughing.
The FA Cup gleamed on the table. The match ball sat in his bag. The Golden Boot was somewhere nearby, next to his boots and shin pads, like it belonged.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League and 2014/2015 FA Cup
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9