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Francesco chuckled, set the ball gently back down, and opened the door. Now they will focus on their next priority, winning the FA Cup.
The hotel restaurant was already buzzing with the low hum of conversations and clinking cutlery when Francesco and Jack stepped inside. The scent of fresh coffee, scrambled eggs, and toasted sourdough hit them imdiately—a welco kind of warmth after the adrenaline-charged chaos of the previous 24 hours.
A few of their teammates were already there, slouched over half-finished breakfasts or enthusiastically digging in. Oxlade-Chamberlain had a plate so stacked it looked like a breakfast mountain, and Theo Walcott was waving a fork mid-conversation with Santi Cazorla, who was nursing what looked like the world's tiniest espresso.
"Morning, champions!" soone called out—Frimpong, probably—prompting a round of light applause and cheers as Francesco and Jack made their way to the buffet.
Francesco tried to play it cool, but there was no denying it: the mood was euphoric. Everyone was still glowing, riding high on the previous night's triumph. It wasn't just the win—it was the way they'd won. At Old Trafford. Against Manchester United. With a 16-year-old scoring a hat-trick. The stuff of pure, ridiculous, perfect football fantasy.
Francesco grabbed a plate and loaded up with eggs, toast, sausages, and a few grilled tomatoes. Jack, ever the traditionalist, made sure to stack on a few rashers of crispy bacon and a generous helping of baked beans.
They found seats by the window overlooking a quiet courtyard, where morning light spilled gently across the floor tiles. It was peaceful. For a mont, it felt almost like any other morning. But then Francesco glanced across the room—and there it was, standing proudly in the corner of the restaurant on a wheeled trolley: the Premier League trophy.
rtesacker was sat beside it, smiling like the Cheshire Cat, occasionally letting teammates take turns posing with it between bites of food.
"You gonna grab a photo with it again?" Jack asked, mouth half-full.
Francesco chuckled. "Nah. Think I've got enough for now. I'll leave that to the rest of the lads."
Instead, he leaned back in his chair, letting the food settle in his stomach as he cradled his Golden Boot under the table, resting gently against his thigh. His hat-trick ball was nestled in the sh of his rucksack, zipped up but always in reach—like a personal reminder of what had just happened, what he'd done.
After they finished eating—and after Jack went back for another round of toast—they returned to their room. The vibe shifted again. The hotel suite, once a quiet cocoon in the early morning, now felt like a space being packed away along with the mory of the ga. Clothes went back into bags, suitcases were zipped shut, and golden dals were carefully tucked into side compartnts, next to boots that still held the faint scent of Old Trafford grass.
Francesco checked under the bed one last ti for any stray socks, then slung his duffel over his shoulder. Jack grabbed his charger and passport, and the two of them headed out, the door clicking shut behind them with a finality that signaled it was ti to move on—to whatever ca next.
The lobby was a ss of rolling suitcases, buzzing conversation, and still-sowhat-tired smiles. Coaching staff were checking headcounts. Players were greeting family mbers who'd stayed nearby. A few fans had gathered outside the glass doors, hoping for selfies or autographs.
Francesco spotted Leah Williamson standing with his parent Sarah and Mike, who'd made the trip to Manchester to support the squad. She shot him a wink and gave him a thumbs-up, mouthing, "Future captain!" across the room. He laughed and nodded in appreciation.
Soon, the call ca—bags loaded, ti to move.
They walked as a group out of the lobby and toward the waiting team bus. The morning air was crisp, a little sharper than it had been, with a bite of wind that rustled hair and flapped coat tails. rtesacker was the last to step on, still holding the Premier League trophy like it was Excalibur. His tall fra moved slowly, but there was reverence in it—like he understood this might be the last ti he ever got to carry it like this.
Francesco climbed aboard behind him, one arm wrapped around his rucksack with the match ball, the other holding the Golden Boot by its base. He slid into a seat near the middle, letting the trophy-bearing rtesacker take the front spot, surrounded by caras and staff.
Jack plopped into the seat beside him, earbuds in already. But he pulled one out long enough to murmur, "Back to London. Back to parade planning."
Francesco chuckled softly. "And FA Cup training."
They settled in as the bus pulled away from the curb, engines humming. The road ahead stretched south toward the airport, toward a flight ho, toward their next challenge.
Out the window, Manchester faded. The city that had been the backdrop to his greatest triumph was already disappearing behind them.
Inside the bus, conversations turned to light jokes and future plans. Alex Iwobi was trying to get a poker ga going. Giroud was scrolling through photos of the title celebrations and passing his phone around. Coquelin had already fallen asleep.
Francesco stayed quiet, staring out at the passing trees and road signs, thinking about what this ant. This season. This victory. This beginning.
He clutched the Golden Boot a little tighter, feeling its weight—not just physical, but symbolic. Thirty-four goals. A season of effort, pressure, expectations. And a match ball signed by his teammates, each signature a tribute to the night Arsenal rose again.
When they reached the airport, a private hangar awaited them—chartered jet on standby, staff ready to fast-track them through. The players moved in a swarm of red and black tracksuits, accompanied by security and dia liaisons.
Fans had gathered behind barriers here too, waving flags, screaming nas, holding up signs like "WE BELIEVED!" and "LEE THE LEGEND ALREADY!"
Francesco couldn't help it—he paused. He reached into his duffel and pulled out the match ball. Then he raised it over his head with a grin, prompting a wild cheer from the crowd. Jack leaned in and whispered, "You know they're never gonna forget that mont."
Francesco didn't answer. He didn't need to. The match ball was still warm from the heat of their mory.
They boarded the plane, players settling into their seats in pairs and small groups. The trophy was placed carefully at the front, visible to all, gleaming in the overhead light.
As the engines roared and the plane began to ascend, Francesco leaned back in his seat, eyes half-closed.
He felt the buzz of movent around him—teammates joking, texting, dozing off. But for a mont, he let himself drift.
Not into sleep, but into the mory of the roar at Old Trafford. The kiss on the badge. The look on Wenger's face. The way his na was chanted like a hymn by thousands.
Then, after a while, the plane began its slow descent. The familiar patchwork of southern England erged through the clouds, Heathrow drawing closer, the gray of the runway cutting across fields and rooftops. Francesco sat upright now, stretching out his legs, brushing the sleep from his eyes. Jack nudged him with an elbow, nodding toward the window.
"Ho."
Francesco smiled, the word landing with quiet weight. "Yeah. Ho."
The tires screeched gently as the plane touched down, a smooth landing that drew light applause from a few passengers, mostly staff. But for the players, the landing felt more like a punctuation mark. They'd left London as contenders. Now they were champions.
As they taxied toward the private hangar, Francesco glanced around the cabin. Everyone looked a little more relaxed. So still a bit groggy. Giroud was yawning. Theo Walcott was half-asleep against the window. Oxlade-Chamberlain had his hoodie up and headphones on. rtesacker, always the composed giant, had one hand on the trophy's case like it was sothing sacred, irreplaceable.
When the plane finally ca to a stop and the cabin doors opened, a gentle buzz of excitent humd to life again. A steward gave them the go-ahead, and soon the players filed out, stepping down the mobile stairway one by one into the cool London air.
Francesco walked out into it with his rucksack slung over one shoulder, the Golden Boot tucked in the crook of his arm like a newborn. The sun was peeking through light cloud cover, casting just enough warmth to make the chill bearable. He felt the tarmac under his boots and took a breath.
Then he heard it.
The distant swell of chants. Cheers. Horns. Whistles. And that unmistakable drumbeat rhythm of football fans waiting for their heroes.
As they rounded the corner of the hangar, the source ca into view: hundreds—maybe thousands—of Arsenal supporters, gathered behind barriers outside the airport fence. Red shirts. Flags waving. Banners stretched high. So people were holding cardboard signs with "Champions" scribbled across in bold letters. Others had drawn sketches of Francesco, his celebration pose frozen in pen and marker.
The reaction was instant.
Francesco's face lit up. Jack grinned wide and gave him a little shove toward the front. "Go on then, golden boy. They're here for you."
rtesacker led the way as they exited the secured area and headed to the team bus. But as soon as the fans spotted them, the volu exploded. Chants of "Champions of England, we know what we are!" filled the air, interspersed with shouts of "LEE! LEE! LEE!" like a heartbeat.
So fans broke into spontaneous songs:
"Francesco Lee, he's one of our own!
Hat-trick at Old Trafford, now the crown is ho!"
Security kept the crowd at bay, but the players didn't rush. They took their ti—high-fiving fans through the railings, signing autographs, taking photos. It wasn't just celebration. It was communion.
Francesco slowed near a group of young fans. One boy, maybe ten or eleven, was holding a sign that read: "Can I touch the Golden Boot?" with a hopeful look on his face.
Francesco laughed and walked over. "Only if you've washed your hands," he joked.
The boy nodded furiously, and Francesco crouched down, gently letting the kid run his fingers along the polished surface. The boy's face was pure disbelief. His parents snapped a picture. Francesco gave him a quick fist bump before standing back up.
Monts like that? Priceless.
The team bus doors were open now, engine rumbling softly as bags were loaded into compartnts. Players slowly made their way aboard, waving to fans, so still stopping for final photos.
Francesco turned for one last look before stepping up onto the coach. The sea of red and white, the flags, the songs—it felt surreal. Like every childhood dream had manifested itself in one chaotic, beautiful morning.
Jack was already on board, holding two seats near the back. Francesco joined him, carefully placing his Golden Boot in the seat beside him and keeping the match ball snug in the sh pocket of his bag.
The engine revved, and the bus rolled out slowly, pulling away from the hangar and back toward the open road. Fans ran alongside for a few steps, still waving, still singing, until they faded in the side mirrors.
Francesco leaned his head against the window. The skyline of London was still a ways off, but the buzz had settled into sothing quieter, deeper—a kind of contented exhaustion. Not the kind that put you to sleep, but the kind that reminded you you'd just done sothing that would live forever.
Jack nudged him. "You know what I was thinking?"
Francesco glanced over. "Uh-oh."
Jack smirked. "Mate, if we win the double… the parade's going to need two routes."
Francesco laughed, low and easy. "Let's get through Wembley first."
He stared out the window again. A street sign pointed toward central London. The real hocoming was yet to begin.
As the bus humd its way through the outskirts of London, Francesco unlocked his phone and opened up his cara roll. He scrolled past dozens of photos—celebrations in the dressing room, champagne flying everywhere, the Premier League trophy held aloft by red-shirted arms, Jack doing his best to photobomb every shot. But there was one picture that stood out. One his heart had silently bookmarked the mont it was taken.
It was him, crouching on the Old Trafford pitch.
The grass still damp beneath his boots, the red and white of Arsenal vivid against the historic backdrop. The Premier League trophy stood proudly beside him, its gold crown gleaming under the stadium lights. Cradled in his left arm was the Golden Boot—proof of 34 goals in 26 league gas. And tucked under his right was the match ball, signed by his teammates, marked by history. His head slightly bowed, smiling—not a cocky grin, but the kind of smile that knows the weight of what it took to get there.
He tapped "Edit," adjusted the brightness just a little, added the faintest vignette, then hit share.
He typed out the caption slowly, every word from the heart:
"A Dream Co True🔴⚪️"
Simple. Honest. True.
He hit post, locked the screen, and leaned back with a soft sigh. He didn't expect anything more than a few supportive comnts from teammates and fans. But barely three minutes later, his phone buzzed once. Then again. And again. A cascade.
Jack, ever the nosy one, leaned over.
"You just posted it, didn't you?"
Francesco glanced down. "Yeah. Why?"
Jack snorted. "Mate, your phone's vibrating like it's having a seizure."
He unlocked it—and was imdiately overwheld.
Thousands of likes pouring in by the second. Tens of thousands, actually. Comnts flooding in. ssages from old teammates, coaches, even players he hadn't spoken to in years.
Ian Wright: "Told you you were special, kid. What a photo."
Cesc Fabregas: "That's how you write history. Respect."
Piers Morgan: "Arsenal's future AND present. What a player."
Dennis Bergkamp: "Beautiful. Made us all proud."
And the fans? They were losing it.
"Statue incoming at the Emirates."
"He did it. Our number 35 did it."
"From Hale End to Old Trafford. This is poetry."
"That's our Thierry now."
"LEE! LEE! LEE!"
Even official Arsenal's account reposted it within minutes, adding their own caption:
"Written in the stars. Francesco Lee, our champion."
He scrolled in silence, blinking, just letting it wash over him. There was sothing deeply surreal about seeing people respond so emotionally to a single photo—to a mont he'd lived and now shared with the world. Not because he wanted the likes. But because this photo ant sothing. It was proof that the kid who once kicked a battered ball around a London park now stood at the summit of English football.
Jack looked at the screen, then back at him. "You know this is going to be the photo, right? Like, for years. Books, posters, murals… it's iconic already."
Francesco chuckled, shaking his head. "It's mad, isn't it?"
"Nah," Jack said. "It's exactly right."
The bus began to roll through North London now. Familiar streets. Familiar turns. Fans started appearing on corners again, recognizing the coach, cheering as it passed. So even ran alongside for a stretch, waving scarves and banners, still singing.
And yet, Francesco felt this weird sense of calm in the middle of all the madness. Maybe it was the way the sun hit the rooftops, or how the buzz of celebration had llowed into sothing more profound. But more likely, it was that he'd done what every kid dreams of doing—and now, he was just taking it all in.
He looked at his phone once more. The likes were approaching a million. The caption—A Dream Co True—suddenly felt like an understatent.
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.
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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
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