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The weight of the afternoon sun shifted through the windows, casting golden light across the room. Outside, the branches rattled, shadows stretching long across the garden.
The next morning arrived like a quiet drumbeat in a world that suddenly felt larger than Richmond. Francesco woke to the faint hum of the mansion's heating, the pale winter sunlight filtering through the curtains like hesitant applause, tentative but persistent. He rolled over, phone in hand, even before opening his eyes. The night's conversations with Jorge replayed endlessly in his head, like a looped highlight reel, each word of preparation, caution, and encouragent echoing louder than the distant city streets below.
Leah stirred beside him, blanket draped haphazardly over her shoulders, hair tousled and soft against her pillow. "Morning," she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
Francesco didn't respond. He was already scanning Twitter, Instagram, and every sports news outlet he could think of. His heart raced faster with each swipe, and he finally froze.
There it was. The list. The announcent from France Football, the top eleven footballers of 2016. Francesco's thumb hovered over the screen, almost afraid to scroll. But the headline was unavoidable. Bold letters, glaring in that official typeface that had made the hearts of countless players skip a beat:
2016 Ballon d'Or – Top 11 Nominees
He scrolled carefully, his eyes catching nas, familiar faces, titans of the sport, living legends and then it hit him.
Francesco Lee.
Lionel ssi. Cristiano Ronaldo.
Top three.
And beneath that, the Golden Boy announcent:
Golden Boy 2016: Francesco Lee – Arsenal & England
The words hit him with the force of a stadium roar. He blinked once. Twice. Then, finally, his mouth fell open, but no sound ca. The mansion was quiet around him. The sun spilled across the wooden floor in golden ribbons, but it couldn't compete with the dazzling reality that the world had now spoken, and it had nad him not just a contender but the winner, at least for the Golden Boy.
Leah had seen the change in his posture before she even opened her eyes fully. "Francesco… what is it?"
He turned the phone toward her, eyes wide, almost wild with disbelief. She read the screen and gasped, covering her mouth with her hands.
"No… this is insane," she whispered, voice trembling with excitent. "Francesco… you're on the top three. Top three in the world!"
He sank into the edge of the bed, shoulders slumping under a sudden weight that was almost disbelief, almost awe. "I… I can't… I don't even…" His hands shook slightly as he tried to put coherent thoughts together, his brain fighting against the enormity of what he was seeing. "Golden Boy… top three Ballon d'Or… I an, ssi, Ronaldo… how…?"
Leah threw her arms around him, pressing close. "It's real, baby. You did this. You earned this. Nobody gave it to you. Not the press. Not social dia. Not so lucky streak. You. You. Arsenal. England. Every goal, every match… they saw it. The world saw it."
The phone buzzed relentlessly on the nightstand. Francesco barely noticed at first, eyes glued to the screen. Then he realized with calls, ssages, notifications exploding like fireworks. First, it was his parents. Sarah. Mike. ssages stacked like paper in a flood:
"We are beyond proud of you! Congratulations, Francesco! Love you so much!"
"You're officially a legend in the making. Keep shining, baby!"
"Golden Boy! Top three in the Ballon d'Or! We knew you could do it!"
Then ca teammates. Alexis Sánchez, sut Özil, Héctor Bellerín with hundreds of ssages, calls, and voice notes. One after another, laughter, joy, and disbelief bleeding through each congratulatory note. So of the players tried to be funny, poking fun at his youthful age. "Eighteen and already beating Ronaldo? Are you even human, Francesco?" Özil laughed in a voice note.
Wenger himself sent a personal ssage, short but heavy with aning:
"Incredible. We always knew you had this. Stay humble, stay focused, and know this is just the beginning. I'm proud to be your manager."
Even the coaching staff at Arsenal flooded his inbox, photos from training, old clips of Francesco scoring hat-tricks, the text overlayed: "The boy from London now stands with the giants."
Jorge leaned back in the armchair, a wry grin spreading across his face as he watched Francesco alternately scroll through ssages and gape in stunned silence. "And this," he said slowly, voice low and deliberate, "is why I told you to stay calm yesterday. You didn't expect it. You weren't prepared. And now, suddenly… you are the center of the football universe, whether you like it or not."
Francesco exhaled shakily. "It's… it's too fast. Too real. I can't… I can't even process it. Ronaldo… ssi… and ? Eighteen years old. Arsenal. England…" His words stumbled over themselves. The room felt impossibly small, though it had always been grand. The walls, the high ceilings, the fireplaces as all of it blurred into the background. This was bigger than anything he had ever imagined.
Leah squeezed his hand, voice quiet but steady. "You can process it later. Right now… you let yourself feel it. Shock, excitent, disbelief with all of it. It's normal. It's human. And it's deserved."
The phone buzzed again, this ti a video call. Francesco swiped to accept, and the familiar faces of Sarah and Mike filled the screen, their eyes sparkling with pride. "We just saw the news," Sarah said, voice shaking slightly with emotion. "Our boy… Francesco, you're… oh God, I can't even…" She laughed, half-crying.
Mike picked up, trying to contain his own excitent. "You've made history, son. History! From that little boy kicking a ball in the garden to this with top three Ballon d'Or, Golden Boy… it's unreal!"
Francesco swallowed hard, voice catching. "I… I don't even know what to say. Thank you. For everything… for believing in ."
"No, no, you did this yourself," Sarah said firmly. "We just got to watch. And we're going to celebrate, of course. But today… we let you sit in the glow a little."
The call ended, but the buzz of notifications didn't stop. ssages from journalists, dia agencies, fans, even childhood friends poured in. The phone's screen seed to glow constantly in his hands. Headlines were already being drafted. Pundits were preparing soundbites:
"Arsenal's Francesco Lee becos the youngest top-three Ballon d'Or finalist since the award's inception."
"Golden Boy 2016 goes to Francesco Lee with dethroning Renato Sanches by a landslide."
"England finally has a hero. Ballon d'Or 2016 top three confird: ssi, Ronaldo, Lee."
Even European and South Arican outlets were buzzing, the collective shock palpable. While many insiders had predicted Francesco's nomination with a treble with Arsenal, leading England to its first major trophy in fifty years as seeing his na in print, in bold, in the top three, was sothing entirely different. The world was no longer theorizing. They were reacting.
Leah perched on the edge of the sofa, watching Francesco scroll, noticing the way his jaw clenched, the way his shoulders tensed and relaxed in cycles. "So… everyone knew, and yet everyone's shocked," she said softly, trying to add so levity. "I an… you're eighteen. The world can't even compute it yet."
Francesco exhaled slowly, leaning back into the cushions. "I feel like I'm dreaming," he admitted. "It's not just the Golden Boy as that's amazing, but top three Ballon d'Or? And they're talking about next to ssi and Ronaldo. I… I don't know if I'm ready for this."
Jorge's voice cut in, calm and precise. "You don't have to feel ready. You just have to show up. The ceremony, the interviews, the caras… none of that changes your ability to play, to be, to exist in that space. You're ready, whether you feel it or not."
The phone buzzed again, this ti a flurry of group ssages from teammates. "Mate! You've just broken the internet!" texted Bellerín. "I knew you were good, but this… ridiculous."
"Unreal, Lee!" ssaged Alexis Sánchez. "You've made history before breakfast, I swear."
Francesco let out a laugh, the tension inside him releasing just slightly. It was a small laugh, shaky and uneven, but it was there. He looked at Leah. "It's… it's actually happening. This is real. I don't have to imagine it anymore."
Leah leaned against him, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "And you didn't just get lucky. You earned every bit of it. Every sprint, every goal, every ti you pushed yourself past exhaustion. This is yours, Francesco. Don't forget that."
He nodded, letting the thought settle. Amid the swirl of ssages, calls, and notifications, he finally felt a spark of clarity. I did this. I earned this.
Jorge leaned back in his chair, letting a rare mont of pride shine through. "And now," he said, voice low and deliberate, "we prepare. Armani fittings this week. dia coaching. Switzerland. The stage. Interviews. Everything. We make sure that when the world sees you, it sees everything you've worked for and nothing you're not ready to give."
Francesco closed his eyes briefly, letting the weight of that reality wash over him. And then, slowly, deliberately, he smiled.
"Let's do it," he whispered. "Let's show them what eighteen years of hard work can do."
Leah laughed softly, tugging him closer. "That's my boy."
The following morning dawned with a crisp winter chill in Richmond, but inside the Lee mansion, the atmosphere was electric, buzzing with anticipation. Francesco awoke before the sun, the excitent of the previous day still coursing through him like an adrenaline aftershock. He didn't need his phone to know the world had already reacted; he could feel it in his chest, in the strange jittery warmth that made even his fingers tingle.
Leah was already downstairs, sitting at the dining table with a mug of steaming coffee, eyes half-closed but alert, the soft morning light highlighting the gentle curve of her cheek. She smiled at him as he appeared in the hallway, still in pajamas. "Morning, superstar," she said playfully.
Francesco gave a tired half-smile, his hair sticking up in random tufts. "Superstar doesn't even begin to cover it," he muttered. "Golden Boy… top three Ballon d'Or… I feel like I'm living in soone else's dream."
Leah laughed, sliding a chair out for him. "Well, you're not. This is your life. And today… today, Armani is coming."
The words alone made Francesco sit straighter. Armani. Tailored suits. Custom fittings. The very image of the Ballon d'Or night suddenly beca tangible, concrete, a reality that slled faintly of luxury, polish, and precision.
Within the hour, there was a polite knock at the front door. Francesco's chest tightened in anticipation as he opened it to find Jorge standing there, impeccably dressed in his usual tailored black coat, a faint smile tugging at his lips, and behind him, a small team of Armani designers and tailors, their arms laden with fabric samples, asuring tapes, and an aura of quiet authority.
"Mi campeón," Jorge greeted warmly, stepping inside. "Today, we begin the transformation from prodigy to global icon."
Francesco swallowed nervously, nodding. "Right. Transformation."
Leah, already in a flourish of curiosity and excitent, motioned the designers inside. "This is… surreal," she whispered, almost to herself, as she followed them into the expansive living room, now cleared to function as a makeshift atelier. Sunlight pooled across the polished wooden floors, highlighting the golds and browns of the room, but today, the only thing that mattered was fabric, thread, and vision.
The Armani team imdiately began their work, moving with an orchestrated precision that reminded Francesco vaguely of the movents on a football pitch that calculated, elegant, purposeful. They asured him for suits, taking every detail into account: shoulder width, arm length, waist, inseam, even the subtle slope of his neck. Each tape asure seed to hum with anticipation.
"Do you want a classic black tuxedo for the ceremony, or sothing slightly more daring?" asked a designer, voice soft, lodic, and professional.
Francesco paused, trying to balance modesty with ambition. "Classic… but with sothing… morable. Sothing that says I'm here. But also… not too flashy."
Jorge nodded approvingly. "Exactly. Confidence. Authority. Subtlety. That's how legends are dressed."
anwhile, Leah was whisked off by another team mber for dress fittings. Swatches of silk and satin, small sketches pinned to a clipboard, delicate discussions about color, cut, and silhouette filled the room. Francesco caught snippets of it. "A soft navy… subtle shimr… neckline elegant but not overpowering…" And he found himself smiling. Not just at the dresses, but at the fact that he and Leah were about to walk this path together, side by side, into one of football's most glamorous stages.
Hours passed in a blur of asuring, adjusting, discussing, and refining. Francesco tried on several suits with a deep midnight blue that brought out the color of his eyes, a textured charcoal that felt almost like armor, and finally, the classic black tuxedo with a subtle sheen that Armani promised would capture the cara lights perfectly. He moved in each, turned, adjusted his posture, and listened to Jorge's quiet but precise feedback. "Stand taller. Relax your shoulders. Let your presence fill the room. You are not just wearing the suit; the suit is wearing you."
Leah returned to the living room mid-afternoon, draped in a flowing erald gown that shimred with understated elegance. Her eyes t Francesco's, and for a mont, they simply looked at each other as the two people on the cusp of history, about to be presented to the world in their most polished, most public selves.
"Wow," Francesco breathed, standing beside her. "You… you look incredible."
Leah laughed softly, twirling in the dress. "We're supposed to be matching icons, rember?"
The Armani team clapped gently, moving to adjust the hem, the cuffs, the collar. Every detail mattered. Francesco could feel the weight of the occasion in the way the fabric sat on his shoulders, the precision of the cut against his fra, the way the shoes added an invisible height of confidence.
Then ca the photoshoot. The room was transford once again, this ti with soft lighting, a neutral backdrop, and a quiet hum of cara equipnt. Francesco shifted nervously, the shutter clicks echoing in the grand space like distant applause. Each pose, each angle, was carefully directed with stand relaxed, chin up, shoulders back, eyes forward.
Leah stood beside him, hands lightly touching his arm, offering silent support as the caras captured them together. The photoshoot wasn't just about images; it was a statent, a prelude. Armani explained that these images would be released in the mont of victory, a way to congratulate Francesco even before the stage lights hit Switzerland.
He could feel his pulse in his ears, a rhythmic drumbeat of excitent and nerves. "It's strange," he said quietly to Leah between poses. "Seeing myself like this… it doesn't feel real. I don't recognize this version of ."
Leah smiled softly. "It's still you. Just… the part everyone is about to see."
Jorge, watching from a distance, nodded. "And it's exactly the version you need them to see. Confident, calm, prepared. This is how history rembers monts, Francesco. This is how the world sees greatness."
By late afternoon, the fittings were complete. Francesco's suits hung neatly on padded hangers, Leah's dress carefully wrapped for transport, and the photoshoot images were reviewed, approved, and carefully cataloged for future release. The mansion, which had been buzzing with asured chaos all day, settled into an almost reverent quiet.
Jorge leaned back in his chair, hands clasped, eyes bright with a mixture of pride and strategy. "Rember this feeling," he said softly, his voice carrying that quiet authority that always cut through Francesco's nerves. "This… this calm, this preparation… this is the foundation of the night to co. When the world is watching, when every cara is on you, when ssi and Ronaldo are in the sa room… you will stand exactly as you are now: composed, ready, and unforgettable."
Francesco nodded, absorbing the words. He felt the weight of the upcoming ceremony settle in his chest, but it no longer pressed him down. Instead, it anchored him, a solid presence amid the whirlwind of fa, expectation, and history.
Leah squeezed his hand. "We're in this together. No matter what happens, we've already won our own victories."
Francesco smiled, the kind of smile that reaches the eyes, warm and slightly trembling. "Yeah… together."
As the Armani team packed their equipnt and prepared to leave, Jorge placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder. "Tomorrow, we begin the dia coaching sessions. Then, Switzerland. Then… history."
Francesco let out a long, steadying breath. He could feel it with the culmination of years, of goals scored in the rain, of Euro nights, of long runs through Emirates Stadium. He could feel the gravity of the mont pressing gently forward, not as a burden, but as a promise.
The next morning sun filtered softly through the tall windows of the Lee mansion, but inside, the atmosphere was far from quiet. Francesco sat at the grand dining table, a notebook open before him, his mind oscillating between nerves and anticipation. He had expected the day to be filled with usual routines: training, light press interactions, perhaps even a quiet mont with Leah. Instead, Jorge ndes had arrived promptly, arriving with his usual air of authority and precision, dressed sharply, his eyes already scanning Francesco like a coach analyzing a player mid-match.
"Good morning, Francesco," Jorge said, voice low but commanding. "Today, we focus on sothing just as crucial as your performance on the pitch: dia presence. You've handled interviews and press conferences before, yes. But this… this is different. This is global. Every word, every gesture, every hesitation… it will be dissected."
Francesco shifted slightly in his chair, the chair creaking softly beneath him. "I… I've done a lot of press before," he said cautiously, "but yeah… this… this feels different. More intense."
Jorge nodded. "Exactly. Think of it as a Champions League final. Only this ti, the opposition is the world, and the stakes are your image, your legacy, everything you've built to this point. One misstep… one poorly phrased sentence… and the narrative changes. That's why we're here today."
Leah, seated beside him, squeezed his hand reassuringly. "You've always been good with words, Francesco. Just… be yourself."
"Being myself is the goal," Francesco muttered, though his voice was layered with doubt. He felt the familiar butterflies in his stomach, the ones he usually experienced before a big match. Only now, the audience was invisible, a sprawling mass of reporters, pundits, and millions of fans.
Jorge set a small stack of papers in front of Francesco, each containing potential interview questions, typical press prompts, and a selection of provocative, hypothetical scenarios. "We'll go through these one by one. I want you to practice not just the words, but the delivery, the tone, the posture. Your body language is as important as your answers. Confidence isn't just spoken; it's worn, like armor."
Francesco exhaled slowly and nodded. He leaned forward, fingers lightly touching the edge of the table as he studied the questions. The first were simple enough: "How does it feel to be nominated for the Ballon d'Or?" or "What does winning the Golden Boy an to you?" But as he read on, the questions grew more loaded: "Do you feel you can surpass ssi or Ronaldo at this stage?" "Do you believe age matters in football greatness?" "How do you respond to critics who think this is premature recognition?"
He glanced at Leah, who offered a small, encouraging nod. "Just answer from the heart," she whispered. "You've earned this. You know your story. Let it guide you."
Jorge clapped his hands lightly. "Let's start. I'll ask you the questions as if we're live on press day. And rember, Francesco, you don't answer everything. Silence can be more powerful than speech. You control the story. You control the narrative."
Francesco took a deep breath, trying to center himself. Jorge's eyes were steady on him, unwavering, a mix of ntor, coach, and strategist. The first question ca, delivered with a tone that mimicked a seasoned reporter:
"So, Francesco, how does it feel to be considered among the top three footballers in the world?"
Francesco felt his pulse spike. He had rehearsed variations of this in his head a thousand tis, but out loud it felt different. "It… it's surreal," he said carefully, letting his words settle. "I've worked incredibly hard, and to be recognized like this… it's an honor. I'm grateful to my parent, teammates, my coaches, and everyone who's supported along the way. And of course, it motivates to keep pushing, to keep growing."
Jorge nodded, approving the asured response. "Good. Humble, but confident. Now, try adding subtle composure with your gestures. Chin slightly up. Shoulders relaxed, but open. Eye contact steady. You're not just answering; you're commanding the room without speaking too loudly."
Francesco adjusted his posture, feeling the difference instantly. He tried the sa answer again, slower this ti, letting the words roll with rhythm. The tension eased slightly; he could feel a quiet satisfaction in the controlled delivery.
Jorge moved on to a more challenging question. "So critics have said you're too young to be compared to legends like ssi or Ronaldo. How do you respond?"
Francesco paused, sensing the trap. The words were calculated, ant to provoke defensiveness. But Jorge's training echoed in his mind: control, composure, presence. He exhaled slowly, choosing each word deliberately.
"I understand the perspective," he said carefully, "and I respect the opinions of people who've watched football for decades. But I also know that age isn't the only asure of ability or impact. My focus is on playing my best, helping my team, and continuing to improve. Recognition will co, naturally, if the work is done right."
Jorge leaned back, a small smile crossing his face. "Excellent. You didn't react emotionally. You acknowledged the critique, redirected the narrative, and reinforced your story. This is how you handle challenging questions."
The next hour passed in a blur of simulated interviews. Jorge played the role of an array of reporters: the enthusiastic fan, the skeptical analyst, the sharp-tongued pundit. Francesco answered questions about everything: goals, tactics, leadership, his role in England's major trophy win, even questions about the treble with Arsenal. Each ti, Jorge paused him, adjusting tone, suggesting micro-expressions, reminding him that the press was not the enemy, but a stage to project composure and authenticity.
Francesco began to feel a rhythm erge. The first anxiety-laden flutters in his chest settled into a quiet, confident beat. He realized that his instinct to overthink had been his greatest obstacle, and Jorge's calm, ticulous guidance was turning it into focus, a lens through which he could see the dia not as critics, but as part of the performance of his career.
Leah watched him quietly, occasionally whispering encouragents. "You're doing amazing," she said after one particularly tough simulation. "Look at you. Calm, poised… you look ready for the world."
Francesco smiled at her, a mixture of fatigue and exhilaration. "I feel… like I'm learning to walk on a completely new pitch," he admitted. "One without a ball. One where words, tone, and presence are the playmakers."
Jorge nodded, approvingly tapping a finger on the table. "Exactly. Football gave you instincts, and now we're shaping them into communication instincts. Every press conference, every interview, every cara lens… they will see you exactly as you want them to. And that is powerful."
Francesco had gone through dozens of question, each more nuanced than the last. Jorge introduced more hypothetical scenarios: a journalist pressing him on ssi versus Ronaldo comparisons, a tricky question about fan expectations, even subtle provocations about Arsenal's managent and dia speculation surrounding transfer rumors. Francesco responded each ti with calm authority, gradually building a ntal catalog of responses, a quiet inner confidence that he could draw on when caras were rolling in Switzerland.
During a brief pause, Leah leaned against the arm of his chair. "You've changed already," she whispered. "You're more… solid. Like a rock, but a rock that can move gracefully."
Francesco chuckled softly, exhausted but satisfied. "It's strange… this is almost harder than facing Barcelona last season. Pressure isn't coming from defenders, it's coming from words, from perception… from the world watching speak."
Jorge interjected gently, "And yet, just like football, preparation makes the difference. You anticipate. You control the pace. You execute. Today, you are training for a performance as vital as any match. The difference is, the opponent is invisible, but the stakes are monuntal."
The morning passed into afternoon. Francesco's voice had grown stronger, steadier; his gestures smoother, his gaze unwavering. Every correction, every adjustnt, every rehearsal had etched a new layer of confidence into his posture. For the first ti, the enormity of the Ballon d'Or stage felt like an arena he could step into without being overwheld.
By the ti the dia coaching session concluded, Francesco was drained physically, yet exhilarated ntally. He collapsed into the sofa, Leah curling beside him, her presence grounding him after hours of intense focus. Jorge placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady.
"Rember," Jorge said quietly, "what we practiced today will be your anchor. When you're on that stage, caras flashing, legends surrounding you, you will feel the calm you've cultivated here. You will respond with clarity, with grace, with precision. And the world will see the truth: you are not just a young player. You are a leader, a professional, and now… a figure of history."
Francesco exhaled, finally allowing himself a small, genuine smile. "I… I think I can do it," he admitted, the words almost a relief to say aloud. "Not just play on the stage, but… live it, own it."
Leah leaned over, pressing a light kiss to his temple. "I've always known you could. Now… the world will see it too."
Jorge smiled, satisfied. "Tomorrow, we review the images from the Armani photoshoot, finalize travel logistics to Switzerland, and prepare for the interviews you will conduct upon arrival. The final step before the grand mont. Rember this feeling… excitent tempered with preparation. That is the edge you bring to every challenge."
Francesco nodded, exhausted but focused. For the first ti, the whirlwind of fa, expectation, and history felt less like a storm threatening to sweep him away, and more like a current he could navigate with skill. The dia, the fans, the caras as they were no longer an invisible opponent. They were part of the stage, a stage he was ready to command.
The afternoon sun had begun to dip behind Richmond's rooftops when Francesco finally rose from the sofa, his body still humming from the intensity of Jorge ndes' dia coaching. He stretched slowly, the muscles in his back and shoulders reminding him that while his mind had been occupied with words, his body had been tense in anticipation.
Leah followed him to the hallway, her hand brushing lightly against his arm. "You did so well today," she said softly. "I could see it. You've grown into the calst version of yourself I've ever seen."
Francesco gave a faint, tired smile, shaking his head as he slung his duffle bag over his shoulder. "Calm… that's relative," he muttered. "I feel like a volcano that's just been bottled up."
Jorge ndes, standing by the door, gave him a knowing look, sharp and reassuring. "It's natural," he said. "What you feel now is the awareness of responsibility. But you've done the work. Tomorrow, we refine the images, the travel, and your approach in Switzerland. Tonight, you rest, and tomorrow you rest in readiness."
Francesco nodded, gratitude mixing with exhaustion. "Thank you, Jorge. For everything."
"You're welco," Jorge replied simply. There was no need for embellishnt; his quiet confidence conveyed more than words could.
Leah gave him a final squeeze. "I'll be right here when you get back," she said, a soft warmth in her voice. "You've got this."
With a deep breath, Francesco stepped outside into the crisp Richmond air. The sky was painted with the soft oranges and pinks of late afternoon, the cold biting slightly at his cheeks. He climbed into his car, the familiar leather steering wheel under his fingers grounding him after the ntal intensity of the day. As he drove toward London Colney, his mind flickered between thoughts of training, the upcoming ceremony, and the whirlwind of ssages, headlines, and congratulations he had received over the past forty-eight hours.
The drive was quiet, almost ditative. Francesco let the rhythm of the engine and the steady traffic lull him into focus. He reminded himself: one step at a ti. Training first, the world later.
When he arrived at the training ground, the familiar sight of the Colney complex filled him with a mix of comfort and anticipation. The crisp air slled faintly of freshly cut grass and leather, an olfactory mory that always reminded him of countless hours spent chasing the ball, sweating, and striving.
The mont he stepped onto the grounds, club staff and teammates were waiting. Smiles, handshakes, and a few light pats on the back greeted him. "Congratulations, mate," Bellerín said with a grin, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Golden Boy and top three Ballon d'Or… you've made history before breakfast!"
"Yeah," Özil chid in, teasing lightly, "don't forget us little people when you're up there with ssi and Ronaldo."
Francesco laughed, feeling a mixture of pride and grounding relief. These were his people, the team that had carried him through every season, every goal, every heartbreak, and every triumph. Their warmth, their familiarity, kept the whirlwind of fa tethered to sothing real.
Inside the dressing room, the energy was palpable. Players moved around, so lacing boots, others stretching, and yet every conversation seed to gravitate back to Francesco's recent accolades. "Mate, seriously, top three in the world?" Giroud asked, disbelief and admiration mingling in his tone. "You've just made the rest of us look lazy!"
Francesco shook his head, chuckling. "Don't flatter too much. I still have to earn my place on the pitch. It's one thing to be recognized, it's another to keep performing."
Even the staff from trainers, physiotherapists, nutritionists that ca by to congratulate him, their smiles genuine, their admiration obvious. "We've seen you grow, Francesco," one of the physiotherapists said. "It's incredible, but honestly… not a surprise. You've earned every bit of it."
As he changed into his training kit, Francesco felt a quiet sense of clarity settle over him. The whirlwind of dia, awards, and headlines was still out there, waiting, but here, on familiar ground with his team, he could breathe, focus, and prepare his body.
The session itself was rigorous but grounding. Sprints, tactical drills, ball control exercises with the kind of training that had been routine for years that helped him reconnect with the sport itself, with the reason all the accolades existed in the first place. Each goal scored during the finishing drills, each perfectly executed pass, brought a sense of balance: fa might elevate you, but skill sustained you.
By the end of the session, Francesco was sweating, muscles tired but satisfied. He showered quickly and returned to the dressing room, feeling the warmth of camaraderie and genuine celebration from his teammates. "You're inspiring, mate," Bellerín said again, as they laced up boots for the next drills. "Honestly, it's crazy seeing soone our age, or younger even, standing next to legends."
Francesco smiled, brushing off the praise, though he felt it warm him from the inside out. "Thanks… but rember, it's team work. We did this together. Every assist, every defensive play, every run… it all counts."
The next morning, back at the mansion, Francesco t Jorge ndes again. This ti, the focus was slightly different: the images from the Armani photoshoot and the final logistical preparations for Switzerland. The mansion, usually a quiet retreat, had transford into a strategic operations center. Francesco and Jorge spread the printed photos across the large oak table, their colors vivid under the afternoon light.
"These images are strong," Jorge said, running his finger along a carefully frad shot of Francesco in the black tuxedo, Leah in the erald gown beside him. "Notice the posture, the lighting, the subtle expression. This is how the world will see you. Confident, composed, controlled. Every cara will want this mont, and you are ready for it."
Francesco leaned in, scrutinizing the photos. He could see himself, yes, but also the story being told through every crease of the jacket, the placent of Leah's hand, the alignnt of their gaze. "It feels… strange," he admitted. "Seeing it like this… this isn't on the pitch, but it's in the world. And it feels… heavy. Important."
Jorge nodded. "Exactly. You are not just a player tonight. You are a global figure. And these images set the stage. They tell a story without words: elegance, maturity, calm under pressure. When the ceremony releases these, the world will already see a leader, even before the lights hit Switzerland."
Leah, seated nearby with a cup of tea, watched the discussion quietly. "You've always had presence on the pitch," she said softly, "and now… everyone else gets to feel it too."
Francesco exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "I just… want to make sure I get it right. One wrong angle, one awkward photo, and…" He trailed off, frustration mingled with exhaustion.
Jorge's voice was calm, grounding. "It won't happen. You've prepared. You've trained your mind for monts like this as much as your body for gas. The world doesn't expect perfection, Francesco. They expect authenticity, composure, and confidence. That is exactly what you have."
After the photos, they turned their attention to travel logistics. Switzerland awaited: flights, transfers, interviews upon arrival, schedules, rehearsals, and finally, the grand stage itself. Every detail was mapped out. Flight tis, hotel arrangents, press conference schedules, wardrobe bags with nothing was left to chance. Jorge spoke quietly, deliberately, as Francesco listened intently, absorbing everything like a sponge.
"This is where preparation ets opportunity," Jorge said, tapping the itinerary. "Every movent, every word, every second counts. But because of everything we've done from dia coaching, photos, strategy as you will handle it. You will arrive, and you will command presence without even thinking."
Francesco nodded, feeling a mix of excitent and nervous anticipation. "I want to be ready," he said simply. "Not just physically or tactically… but… completely."
"Good," Jorge replied, eyes sharp, approving. "Because tomorrow, we depart. Switzerland. Ballon d'Or. Every cara lens pointed at you. And I have no doubt… you will not just stand there, you will shine."
Leah leaned over, squeezing Francesco's hand. "You've got this. You've trained for years, prepared for today, and now… it's your mont. We're all with you."
Francesco exhaled, finally letting himself feel the weight of the mont. The next day would be the first step onto an entirely new stage, one where history and fa t, where legends and records waited, and where he as an eighteen years old, Arsenal and England's prodigy that would finally be recognized by the world not just as a player, but as a story in itself.
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Na : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 21
Goal: 30
Assist: 0
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9
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