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Francesco laughed, heart soaring. He wasn't stuck, but he was home. And the journey—their journey—was just getting started.
As the roar of the crowd pulsed like a living heartbeat through Trafalgar Square, Francesco stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed. The giant screens were dimming now, the last flicker of that final black message—"Francesco Lee: Now and the Future of Arsenal"—still burning in his mind like an afterimage.
Oxlade-Chamberlain still had his arm around him, but Francesco barely felt it. Around him, the lads were clapping, smiling, some even pretending to wipe tears from their eyes in playful exaggeration. But their eyes—God, their eyes—told the real story. Pride. Brotherhood. Belief.
And the fans…
The fans were chanting his name so fiercely, it felt like the very stones beneath Trafalgar Square were vibrating. Thousands upon thousands of voices, merged into one living, breathing entity:
"FRA-NCES-CO! FRA-NCES-CO! FRA-NCES-CO!"
Francesco glanced over at Arsène Wenger. The manager wasn't smiling broadly or clapping like the others. No—he stood there, his hands lightly clasped in front of him, simply watching, his face a mask of quiet pride and hope, as if he already knew what was about to happen.
Francesco's chest heaved once.
And then he moved.
Almost without thinking, he stepped forward again to the microphone.
The noise somehow got even louder, a sonic wave crashing through the square—but as he lifted his hand slightly, almost instinctively, the crowd quieted. Not all at once, not perfectly—but enough. Enough for him to speak and be heard.
He swallowed hard, staring out over the endless river of red and white humanity stretched out before him. Somewhere out there, he knew, was his family. Somewhere, Leah was watching too, whether from the VIP box or already streaming it live on her phone to the world.
He adjusted the microphone slightly with trembling fingers. Took another deep breath.
And then he spoke—not scripted, not polished, just pure, raw, unfiltered heart.
"I, uh…"
He laughed once, nervously, drawing a warm ripple of laughter from the fans too, who leaned in as if physically willing him to keep going.
"I didn't plan this," he said, voice rough, honest. "None of this. Not the video. Not the chants. Not even being up here speaking to you all again."
He paused, looking down for a heartbeat before raising his eyes once more.
"But standing here… seeing all of you… hearing you… it makes me realize something. It's something I've always known deep down but never said out loud. And I think—" he broke off for a moment, running a hand through his hair, "—I think now's the time to say it."
Another hush, deeper this time.
Francesco set his jaw, feeling the words bubble up from a place deeper than thought, deeper than memory.
"So I'm gonna make a promise," he said, gripping the mic tighter. "Right here. Right now. In front of all of you. In front of the boss. In front of my teammates. In front of every single person who ever believed in Arsenal."
The whole world seemed to pause.
He drew in a breath that felt like it filled his whole being.
"I swear to you," Francesco said, his voice cracking slightly but gaining strength with every word, "I will never leave Arsenal on my own initiative. Never. Not for money. Not for fame. Not for trophies elsewhere. Not for anything."
A fresh cheer started to ripple, but he lifted his free hand again, asking for just a moment more.
"I will stay at this club," he said, louder now, passion lifting him up like a wave, "through the good times and the bad. Through victories and heartbreaks. Through sunny days and rainy ones. I will stay. I will fight. I will bleed red and white until the club no longer wants me."
The crowd was shaking now—not just clapping or cheering, but shaking the square itself with stomps and chants and flares igniting into crimson clouds.
Francesco's voice rose one final time, raw and full-throated:
"This is my home. This is my family. This is my life. Arsenal, forever."
And then he dropped the mic—not theatrically, but reverently, letting it swing lightly on its stand—and turned back to his teammates.
What happened next would be written about in papers, posted on social media, whispered about in pubs and playgrounds for years.
The team surged forward all at once, engulfing him in a rough, wild, joyous hug. Arms around shoulders, fists pounding backs, laughter and tears mixing in a mess of pure, unbridled emotion.
Even Arsène Wenger—ever composed, ever dignified—walked forward and placed a hand firmly on Francesco's shoulder, looking him directly in the eyes.
"Thank you," Wenger said simply, his voice thick.
Francesco just nodded, unable to find words big enough for the moment.
The music swelled again—this time a roaring, triumphant anthem—and confetti cannons exploded across Trafalgar Square, showering everything in a blizzard of red and white paper.
The players grabbed the trophies again, hoisting them high, walking down the front of the stage to get closer to the fans. The MC's voice rang out over the music, inviting everyone to sing one last time together.
And oh, they sang.
"We love you Arsenal, we do!
We love you Arsenal, we do!
We love you Arsenal, we do!
Oh Arsenal, we love you!"
The square became a cathedral of devotion.
Francesco found himself laughing and crying at the same time, wiping his face with his sleeve, getting jostled and hugged and kissed on the head by half the squad.
As the final rays of the setting sun bathed London in gold, Francesco stood there at the edge of the stage, one arm slung around Theo Walcott's shoulder, the other around Héctor Bellerín's, watching the fans celebrate with a heart so full he thought it might burst.
He had made a promise. A solemn vow, not just with words but with every fiber of his being.
And he meant it.
Later, after the official festivities ended and the players were ushered onto the team buses to head back toward the Emirates for a private reception, Francesco found himself sitting by a window, staring out at the river of fans still partying in the streets.
Next to him, Mesut Özil nudged him gently.
"That was big," Özil said, voice low and serious.
Francesco chuckled softly, still feeling a little dazed. "It felt… right."
Özil nodded. "It was. Just know… you're not alone. We're all here. We fight together."
Across the aisle, Alexis Sánchez raised a can of beer toward him in a silent salute.
Chamberlain gave him a goofy thumbs-up.
Even the usually reserved Laurent Koscielny gave him a nod of deep approval.
Francesco smiled, feeling a deep, fierce warmth grow inside his chest.
The bus rolled forward through the throng of supporters, who banged drums and set off flares and waved flags until the sky itself seemed to dance.
The bus rumbled slowly up the slope toward the Emirates Stadium, moving through streets thick with fans waving scarves and chanting until their voices cracked. Inside the team bus, the atmosphere was looser now — the tension of Trafalgar Square's public spectacle had melted into exhausted laughter, inside jokes flying back and forth across the aisles. Someone started passing around more beers. Flamini began a mock-argument with Monreal over who had worn their medal better. It felt less like a football team and more like a band of brothers returning victorious from battle.
Francesco leaned back in his seat, forehead resting lightly against the cool glass of the window, just drinking it all in — the lights, the fans, the way London felt alive and new tonight, like the city itself had been reborn.
He was still replaying the moment on stage in his mind, half-disbelieving he'd actually said all those things out loud, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
It was Steve Bould, their gruff assistant manager. "Boss wants a word when we get inside," he said simply, and then, with an unusual softness, added, "Big moment, lad. Be proud."
Francesco nodded, his heart giving a funny little jump.
When the bus pulled to a gentle stop behind the Emirates, the players filed off into a back entrance, shielded from the still-massive crowds. Inside, a private reception was already underway: banners hung across the ceilings, Arsenal staff clapped and cheered as the players walked through the halls, and the smell of hot food and expensive champagne filled the air.
Francesco barely had time to grab a water bottle before Bould was back, giving him a subtle jerk of the head toward a quieter hallway.
With a curious mixture of nerves and excitement bubbling inside him, Francesco followed.
They navigated past the main party area, where laughter and music spilled out like a warm tide, until they reached a small private lounge Wenger often used for more serious discussions. The door was slightly ajar.
Bould patted Francesco once on the back and then left him there.
Taking a breath, Francesco pushed the door open.
Inside, Arsène Wenger stood by the window, one hand tucked into the pocket of his blazer, the other cradling a half-empty glass of red wine. The city lights cast a soft glow across his features, making him look somehow both younger and older at the same time.
When he heard Francesco enter, Wenger turned and smiled — not the public smile, not the diplomatic smile he used for interviews, but a genuine, warm smile that felt like a secret passed between two friends.
"Come in, Francesco," he said gently.
Francesco stepped inside and shut the door behind him, feeling suddenly very aware of the quiet.
For a moment, Wenger simply studied him — not judgingly, but thoughtfully, almost as if he were memorizing the face of a young man standing on the edge of something enormous.
Then, with a slight chuckle, Wenger gestured to a chair opposite him.
"Sit, sit. You must be tired."
Francesco sat, hands clasped nervously between his knees.
Wenger took a slow sip of wine, then set the glass down carefully on a side table.
"I won't keep you long," he began, voice low and even. "But I wanted to tell you something privately. Before the others, before the media circus starts tomorrow."
Francesco nodded, his throat dry.
Wenger folded his hands loosely. "After today… after the season we've had… the board has agreed to something important."
He paused, letting it hang there for a moment.
"They have given me an £80 million transfer budget for the summer," he said.
The words hit Francesco like a physical blow.
£80 million.
He blinked, stunned, struggling to process the number. Arsenal — Arsenal, the club so often conservative in the transfer market, the club that had long prized development over spending — was about to unleash a war chest the likes of which Francesco had barely dared dream of.
"I…" he stammered, unable to form a complete thought. "Boss, I…"
Wenger smiled knowingly. "I know. It's a lot. And it is not something we do lightly. But it is because they believe, as I do, that we are on the brink of something extraordinary. That with a few careful reinforcements, we can dominate England. Europe."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice growing more intense.
"And I want your opinion on who we should bring in."
Francesco's jaw actually dropped slightly before he caught himself.
"My opinion?" he repeated, disbelieving.
Wenger nodded.
"I don't…" Francesco shook his head slowly, dazed. "Boss, I'm just—I'm just a player. I'm only sixteen. I don't deserve to—"
"You do," Wenger interrupted firmly, his eyes gleaming. "You do deserve it, Francesco. Because you're not just a player anymore. You're a leader."
Francesco stared at him, stunned.
Wenger smiled again, this time tinged with something almost paternal.
"And that brings me to the second thing I needed to tell you," he said. "Starting next season… you will be the second captain of Arsenal."
The room spun slightly around Francesco.
Second captain.
Vice-captain.
The words felt too big for his chest to hold.
"I…" He had to pause, swallow hard. "Boss, I don't even know what to say. I don't deserve—"
"You do," Wenger said again, voice as steady and certain as the tide. "Francesco, leadership is not about age. It's not about medals. It's about heart. It's about vision. And it's about loyalty."
He stood up slowly, walking to the window, staring out at the lights of North London stretching away into the night.
"I have seen many talented players," Wenger continued softly. "Players with technique, with speed, with skill. But very few with the spirit you showed today. Very few who could stand in front of an entire city and make a promise not out of ambition, but out of love."
He turned back to face Francesco, his gaze piercing.
"That is why you will wear the armband when needed. That is why your voice will be part of the decisions we make. Because you embody what Arsenal is. What Arsenal must remain."
Francesco sat there, completely overwhelmed. He felt like a boy again, sitting on the floor of his family's living room in Milton Keynes, watching Arsenal on TV and dreaming stupid, impossible dreams. Only now—now he was living them. And they were even more beautiful and terrifying than he'd ever imagined.
He realized his hands were trembling slightly in his lap.
Wenger noticed, of course. He always noticed.
"You're not alone," he said gently. "Per will still be captain. You will learn from him, just as others will learn from you. And I will be here too. Every step."
Francesco nodded mutely, emotion thick in his throat.
Wenger smiled at Francesco's quiet, overwhelmed expression, letting the silence hang for a moment longer before moving to refill his glass of wine. His movements were slow, unhurried, as if savoring the weight of the night.
Then he spoke again, voice warm but businesslike.
"I've already started," Wenger said. "Laying the groundwork."
Francesco blinked, coming back to earth. "For transfers?"
Wenger nodded. "Yes. I have already contacted Petr Čech. Chelsea are willing to sell."
Francesco's eyes widened slightly. Čech — the legendary goalkeeper, one of the best the Premier League had ever seen, and, even if slightly past his prime, still a colossus between the sticks. In his previous life, Francesco remembered how massive that signing had felt at the time. Čech would bring experience, composure, and a winning mentality to the dressing room.
That was a good move, he thought, heart lifting a little.
"And," Wenger continued, setting the wine down, "we are in negotiations to buy a young Egyptian midfielder. Mohamed Elneny. For around five million pounds."
Francesco stiffened slightly. His stomach gave an uncomfortable little lurch.
Elneny.
He remembered that, too — remembered how, despite the excitement around a new signing, Elneny had never truly established himself at Arsenal. A tidy player, yes, hard-working, but not transformative. Not someone who could elevate a team from "good" to "champions."
Wenger, misreading Francesco's slight hesitation, gave a small smile. "He is versatile, athletic. A good option for midfield depth."
Francesco nodded automatically, masking the sudden swirl of thoughts firing through his mind.
This is it, he realized. This is the moment. If I speak up now, I can change everything.
Because he knew — he knew from that previous existence that Arsenal needed more than just depth. They needed players who could change games, who could stand tall when the battles grew fierce.
And as Wenger spoke softly about needing a deeper squad for the fight to come, Francesco's mind raced ahead. Ngolo Kanté.
Still in France. Still almost anonymous to the wider football world, playing for tiny Caen. But in just a few months, Kanté would move to Leicester City — a team everyone assumed would be relegated — and drag them, almost single-handedly, to the most shocking Premier League title in history.
Kanté could be ours.
And then another flash — Virgil van Dijk. Towering, composed, a Rolls-Royce of a center-back who, at this moment, was still dominating the Scottish Premiership at Celtic. Next year, he would move to Southampton, and soon after, become the most coveted defender on earth.
Van Dijk could be ours too.
He sat up straighter in his chair, heart pounding.
"Boss," he said carefully, voice thick with the weight of what he was about to suggest. "I know I'm young, and I don't know everything yet… but there are two players I think we should look at. Seriously."
Wenger tilted his head slightly, intrigued. "I'm listening."
Francesco leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"Ngolo Kanté," he said. "He's playing for Caen in France. He's—he's exactly what we need. Defensive midfielder. Fast. Relentless. Breaks up play, covers every blade of grass. He could be a long-term solution next to Coquelin or even replace him when needed."
Wenger's eyes narrowed slightly, not in skepticism, but in evaluation. Francesco recognized the look — the professor assessing a new theory.
"And the second?"
"Virgil van Dijk," Francesco continued, feeling his confidence grow with each word. "Center-back at Celtic. Big, strong, good on the ball. Reads the game better than anyone his age. He's going to be world-class, Boss. I know he's not in England yet, but if we wait, someone else will get him."
Wenger said nothing for a moment, just paced slowly in front of the window, hands behind his back.
Francesco felt the weight of the silence pressing on him. Had he overstepped? Had he ruined the moment?
Finally, Wenger turned.
"You know these players?"
Francesco nodded, heartbeat roaring in his ears. "Not personally. But I've watched them. Tracked them. They're special."
Wenger's mouth twitched into a small, amused smile — not mocking, but genuinely impressed.
"Scouting in your spare time, Francesco?"
Francesco gave a sheepish shrug. "Something like that."
Wenger chuckled softly, then grew serious again.
"Kanté and Van Dijk," he repeated, almost tasting the names on his tongue. "Both unknown to the wider market. Both fitting our philosophy."
He walked over, lowered himself into the chair opposite Francesco again, steepling his fingers thoughtfully.
"I will have our scouts look into them," he said. "Quietly. Very quietly. If what you say is true…"
He let the sentence drift off, but Francesco could feel the current of excitement underneath the calm words.
"And Petr Čech?" Wenger added after a beat.
Francesco smiled genuinely this time. "He's perfect, Boss. He'll make a huge difference."
Wenger nodded once, sharply, decision already made.
"And Elneny?"
Francesco hesitated. He didn't want to be cruel — Elneny would give his all, he knew — but he also couldn't lie.
"He's good," Francesco said carefully. "Solid. Works hard. But… I don't think he'll move us to the next level. Not like Kanté would."
Wenger absorbed that silently, his gaze unreadable.
Then he stood, smoothing down his blazer.
"You've given me much to think about tonight, Francesco," he said. "More than you know."
Francesco rose too, legs feeling shaky with the sheer enormity of what had just happened.
"I—thank you, Boss. For trusting me."
Wenger extended his hand.
"And thank you, Francesco. For caring enough to dream bigger."
They shook — a firm, meaningful clasp — and for a second, the room seemed to hum with possibility.
As Wenger opened the door, the sounds of celebration washed back in — laughter, music, the clink of glasses. But Francesco barely heard it.
Because in that private room, something had shifted.
He wasn't just a kid chasing a dream anymore.
He was part of building it.
—
They rejoined the festivities after that, slipping into the jubilant chaos of Arsenal's victory party. Francesco found himself immediately swept up by his teammates — Theo Walcott draped an arm around his shoulders, grinning and offering him a beer; Alexis Sánchez tried to drag him into a ridiculous dancing circle. Flamini and Monreal were still arguing, louder now, about whose medal posed better for Instagram.
But even as Francesco laughed and celebrated with them, a piece of him remained distant, burning quietly with purpose.
He caught glimpses of Wenger across the room now and then — the manager smiling politely as board members toasted him, laughing at something Per Mertesacker said — but Francesco could tell that Wenger's mind, like his own, was already racing ahead to the future. We can do this, he thought fiercely. We can be great.
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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