The King Of Arsenal Chapter 203 203: 191. Media Buzzing

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And then? He'd get ready to do it all again. At Wembley. For the double. For Arsenal.

The next morning, sunlight stread through the half-drawn curtains of Francesco's hotel room, casting golden slants across the floor. He stirred gently under the covers, his body sore in the best kind of way—like it had been through a battle and erged victorious. For a few blissful seconds, he didn't move. He just let the feeling settle. The kind of feeling that made sleep sweeter, air fresher, and even silence feel like a song.

Then he smiled.

He smiled because he rembered.

They'd done it. Champions. Arsenal—Premier League champions. At Old Trafford. And he—Francesco Lee—had scored a hat-trick to win it. He sat up slowly, rubbed his face, and took a long breath.

"Still real," he murmured to himself.

The match ball was on the table near the window, right next to the Golden Boot, glinting softly in the morning light. His phone buzzed from the nightstand—more ssages, probably hundreds more. He didn't check it right away. That could wait. He wanted to savor this mont like a fine glass of wine. No rush.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, joints cracking faintly. A quick glance in the mirror revealed the faint bruises on his shin, a small scratch near his knee, and the unmistakable mark of a man who had left every ounce of himself on that pitch.

A hot shower called to him.

He stepped into the steamy comfort of it and just stood under the water for a while, letting it cascade over his head and shoulders, washing away the sweat, the adrenaline, and maybe even so of the disbelief. The monts from the night before flashed in his mind—his first goal, the roar of the Arsenal end, the second, the volley for the equalizer, the crowd erupting, and then the third…

The third.

The match-winner.

That pause. That breath he took as Wilshere slid the ball into his path. The way he opened his body, let it run just ahead of his stride, then drilled it past De Gea. The net bulging. The entire away section exploding into madness. The sound—the feeling—when he roared toward the fans and kissed the badge.

He closed his eyes as the water kept pouring over him.

Yeah, that one would live forever.

After drying off and getting dressed in a simple hoodie and joggers, Francesco walked over to the TV and flicked it on. It was still early, just past eight, but Sky Sports was already buzzing. He poured himself a cup of the hotel coffee—not great, but enough—and settled on the edge of the bed.

The screen lit up with the familiar studio set. Jamie Carragher was mid-sentence, his hands gesturing wildly. Gary Neville sat to his right, arms crossed, expression serious but with a faint trace of admiration hidden beneath the usual pundit bravado. And Ian Wright—Arsenal legend and forever the heart of the red side of North London—was practically bouncing in his chair.

"…you talk about great monts in Premier League history," Carragher was saying, "and this—this is up there. Arsenal going to Old Trafford, on the final day, needing a win, and they get it. Not just get it—they take it. They own it. And that kid—Francesco Lee…"

He turned to Wright, who was already grinning like a proud father.

"Ian, I know you've been talking about this lad for a long ti, but co on—that's one of the all-ti great title-winning performances, isn't it?"

Wright didn't even wait a second.

"One of the best I've ever seen," he said, almost bursting. "I've been saying it for months, but people thought I was being biased. No. The boy's a killer. A proper big-ga player. At Old Trafford, with everything on the line, and he scores a hat-trick? That's legend stuff. Legend stuff!"

Francesco chuckled to himself, sipping his coffee.

Then Gary Neville chid in, surprising Francesco.

"I have to admit," Neville began, "I didn't think Arsenal would have the ntality to pull this off. I thought maybe they'd freeze under pressure, especially coming to United. But that lad… Francesco… he changed the ga. He was unplayable. His movent, his aggression, the way he handled the double-marking—it was top class. And I've played against Thierry Henry. This lad's got that aura."

Francesco blinked.

Coming from Neville? That was big.

Carragher nodded, continuing, "And what impressed most was the third goal. Ninety-fourth minute, title on the line, legs are gone, and he finds the composure, the technique, and the bottle to slot it past De Gea like he's in his backyard. It reminded of—"

"?" Wright interrupted with a grin.

Everyone laughed, and Francesco did too.

The hosts then rolled a highlight reel—his three goals back-to-back, each one played with comntary from the matchday broadcast.

"…And here's Lee again, twisting past Rojo and Jones—how's he done that?—OH MY WORD, IT'S IN! It's Francesco Lee! It's Arsenal 1, United 0!"

Then the second…

"Walcott's cross—Giroud dummies—Lee's there! VOLLEY! 2–2! Arsenal are level, and it's that man again!"

And finally, the third.

"Wilshere threads it through… Lee's onside… he's in… can he win it? YES, HE CAN! HAT-TRICK HERO! FRANCESCO LEE HAS SURELY WON THE TITLE FOR ARSENAL!"

He watched, frozen, as the images played.

His celebration.

The away end in chaos.

The hugs. The disbelief.

Then, Sky Sports cut to fan footage—clips from the away end, people crying, screaming, singing his na.

"Francesco! Francesco! Francesco!"

He leaned forward, eyes soft.

Then the panel returned.

"Look," Neville said, almost grudgingly, "I still think United let it slip with their defending. But take nothing away from him. That was a world-class performance."

Wright nodded. "And he's only just getting started."

Carragher smirked. "Thirty-four goals in 26 matches. Golden Boot. Premier League champion. That's the kind of season Ballon d'Or shortlists are made of."

Francesco set the coffee down and rubbed his hands over his face.

He couldn't believe it was him they were talking about.

Him.

The sa kid who used to kick a ball against the wall in his parents' garden until it got dark. Who collected match programs and dread of playing just one ga for Arsenal. Now he was being compared to the greats. Now he was the one people looked up to.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

He stood and opened it. It was Jack Wilshere, in flip-flops and sunglasses, holding two coffees and wearing a grin.

"You watching?" Jack asked, stepping in without waiting for an answer.

"Of course," Francesco said, accepting the coffee. "They're actually being nice."

Wilshere flopped onto the armchair. "You earned it, mate. You were ridiculous yesterday."

Francesco sat down again, eyes still on the TV as they played slow-motion replays of his goals.

"Think it'll ever feel real?" he asked.

Jack looked at him seriously for a mont, then smirked. "Nah. That's the best part."

Jack took a long sip of his coffee, grinning as Francesco stayed locked onto the slow-motion highlight of his third goal—the one that sealed the title. But then he leaned forward a little, nudging Francesco's arm.

"Check your phone," Jack said with a knowing look. "Seriously. Go online."

Francesco raised an eyebrow but reached over to the nightstand, unplugged his phone, and thumbed it awake. The notifications were still pouring in—over a thousand ssages, dozens of missed calls, social dia absolutely blowing up. For a mont, he hesitated. Part of him wanted to stay in the bubble, in the stillness of the morning after. But curiosity won.

He opened up Twitter first.

It was chaos. His na was trending worldwide. Every scroll brought new praise, quotes, replays, screenshots, fan reactions, and pundit takes. So were just posting three fire emojis with his na. Others had screenshots of him roaring at the crowd, badge in hand, with captions like "Written in the stars" and "Cold-blooded killer."

Then Jack pointed again, grinning even wider now. "Go to the news. Just—trust ."

Francesco tapped open Safari and pulled up a football news site. The hopage was flooded with Arsenal. Banners and full-width articles. One had a photo of Wenger and Bould embracing on the touchline. Another showed the entire squad holding up the trophy under the lights at Old Trafford. But then his eyes caught sothing that made his breath catch for a second.

It was a picture—him, mid-celebration after the third goal. Arms out, mouth open in a triumphant yell, running toward the fans. The away end was a blur of red and white behind him, people spilling over the barriers in sheer euphoria. But it was the title that hit him like a second wave of emotion:

"The Gunners' Now and Future Ammunition!"

He stared at it, almost disbelieving.

"Damn," Jack said, peering over. "That's the one. That headline's everywhere, mate."

Francesco tapped the article open. It began with a poetic opening line:

"In a theatre of past glory, a new legend wrote his chapter in blood, sweat, and gold."

The writer didn't hold back. It spoke of the pressure, the weight of expectation, the location—Old Trafford, the final day, the stakes. It described how Francesco didn't just rise to the occasion—he defined it. His first goal? Described as "a declaration." His second? "A reminder." And the third?

"The third was destiny catching up to him. A strike of such clarity and composure, it didn't just win Arsenal the title—it carved his na into history."

The article continued to heap praise, quoting forr players, coaches, and analysts.

"Francesco Lee didn't just play like a star—he played like a leader," one excerpt read. "At 16, he played with the spirit of Bergkamp and the killer instinct of Henry."

Francesco scrolled slowly, the words sinking in. His fingers paused over a photo embedded midway through the article—one taken after the final whistle. Him on his knees, head tilted to the sky, arms spread wide. Teammates rushing toward him. The fans—his people—screaming his na.

He felt sothing tighten in his chest.

"You alright?" Jack asked, his tone a bit softer now.

Francesco nodded slowly, setting the phone down on the bed. "Yeah. It's just… weird."

Jack leaned back. "Not weird. Real. You earned every letter of that article."

"I know," Francesco said quietly. "But reading it like that… seeing the photos… it's different."

Jack smiled, more solemn now. "It's different because now the world sees you the way we've seen you all season. You're not just the kid with potential anymore. You're the guy who delivered the title. At Old Trafford. With a hat-trick."

Francesco looked away for a mont, eyes drifting back to the match ball on the table, still resting proudly next to the Golden Boot. He got up, walked over to it, and picked it up gently, running a hand over the faded markings where signatures from teammates surrounded the number panels.

He rembered signing match balls himself as a youth player, after soone else's hat-trick.

Francesco stood there for a mont longer, fingers lightly tracing the seams of the match ball. The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the telly still playing highlights in the background. He felt like he was still caught between two worlds—the calm of the morning and the storm he'd created the night before.

He turned back toward the bed, where his phone buzzed again, lighting up with a fresh wave of notifications. Jack had already plopped himself down on the other side of the bed, lazily sipping his coffee with that sa annoying, knowing smirk on his face.

Francesco picked his phone back up, refreshed the hopage on Safari, and began scrolling again. More articles. More praise. Every sports outlet in the country—hell, in Europe—was running with so version of the sa narrative: Francesco Lee, the boy wonder who brought the title back to Arsenal.

But then, just as he was about to swipe past, a different headline caught his eye. This one wasn't written in gold-trimd glory or poetic grandeur. No, this one had a bit more bite. And a hell of a lot more controversy.

The headline read:

"Francesco Lee Blasts Chelsea After Title Win: 'They Bottled It, We Took It'"

Francesco blinked and tapped it open, curiosity piqued. He rembered the post-match interview, of course. He rembered the adrenaline, the sweat still drying on his skin, the roar of the Arsenal fans still ringing in his ears when the reporter stuck a mic in front of him. He rembered the heat of the mont—and yeah, he rembered saying a few things that might've ruffled feathers.

But seeing it in bold print now? That was sothing else.

The article opened with a freeze-fra of him on the pitch, shirt off, his torso streaked with grass and sweat, arms raised in front of the traveling Arsenal faithful. The caption below read:

"Arsenal's Francesco Lee, monts after sealing the Premier League title with a hat-trick at Old Trafford."

Then ca the quote. It hit harder in print:

"People said we needed Chelsea to drop points, that we might play for a draw. I didn't give a damn about Chelsea. I said I wanted to win it at Old Trafford—and we did. They bottled it. We took it. Simple."

Francesco exhaled through his nose, both amused and slightly wary.

"Bloody hell," Jack muttered, leaning over to look. "You actually said that?"

Francesco shrugged. "More or less. You know how it was. Everyone kept asking if we were watching Chelsea's score, like we were passengers in this race."

Jack laughed. "Yeah, and you reminded them exactly who was driving."

The article went on, dissecting the post-match interview with every ounce of dramatic flair. The pundits were already spinning it. So were calling it arrogance. Others were praising it as pure passion and competitive fire. And then there were the Chelsea fans—outraged on social dia, calling him disrespectful, cocky, overrated. One tweet read:

"Francesco Lee's got no class. One good season and he thinks he's better than us? Enjoy it while it lasts, kid."

But right beneath it was another, clearly from an Arsenal supporter:

"Francesco said what we were all thinking. Chelsea got battered at the Hawthorns. Don't cry 'disrespect'—he just told the truth."

Francesco scrolled a bit further, reaching the part of the article that laid out the facts: Chelsea's 3–0 collapse against West Brom. It detailed how they looked flat, uninspired, and unworthy of a title fight on the final day. It ntioned how Arsenal fans at Old Trafford started singing "Champions!" the mont the third West Brom goal went in.

Then it circled back to Francesco's interview again.

"You could see the fire in his eyes," the reporter wrote. "It wasn't enough for Francesco Lee to win the title—he wanted to take it, define it on Arsenal's terms, not soone else's misstep. He didn't want to back into glory. He wanted to kick the damn door down."

Francesco sat back on the edge of the bed, the phone still in his hand.

Jack was watching him now. "You worried about the blowback?"

Francesco shook his head. "No. I ant it."

He looked up, jaw set. "We didn't wait around for soone to hand us the trophy. We won it. We fought back from 2–1 down. Away. At Old Trafford. On the last day. That's not arrogance, Jack. That's belief."

Jack nodded slowly, finishing the last of his coffee. "You're gonna catch so flak for it. But honestly? That's how legends are made. You didn't play it safe. You spoke your truth. You backed it up on the pitch."

Francesco looked down at his phone again. New notifications. He tapped on his Instagram, where his latest post—a photo of him kissing the badge just after his third goal—had already racked up over five million likes. In the comnts, legends of the ga had weighed in.

Thierry Henry: "That's how you wear the shirt. Proud of you, my man."

Ian Wright: "BOTTLED IT?! Hahaha—he's not wrong! What a performance."

Cesc Fabregas: "This kid is sothing else. Reminds of the old days."

He felt his heart swell again, but this ti it wasn't nerves. It was pride. Not just in what he'd done, but in who he was becoming.

Still, he could hear his mum's voice in his head. "Be humble, even in your triumphs, son."

Francesco smiled faintly and made a ntal note to call her before the day got away from him. She'd probably already seen the interview—and would have a few choice words ready.

Jack stood up and stretched. "Alright, superstar. You ready to go downstairs? I think Wilshere's trying to organize a full English for the lads. Probably hungover as hell."

Francesco nodded, finally pulling himself to his feet. He grabbed a hoodie, threw it over his head, and slipped into his trainers. But as he was about to walk out the door, he paused.

He turned back, walked over to the match ball and the Golden Boot, and picked up the match ball again—this ti not just to admire it, but to hold it, properly, like the symbol it had beco.

He looked at Jack and grinned.

"You know what the best part is?" he said.

"What's that?"

"We've still got the FA Cup final next week. We're not done yet."

Jack let out a low whistle. "Mate, if you score in that one too, they're gonna have to rena the damn stadium after you."

"Let's eat," he said. "The future ammunition's gotta refuel."

Francesco chuckled, set the ball gently back down, and opened the door. Now they will focus on their next priority, winning the FA Cup.

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Na : 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