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He glanced toward the locker of Sánchez and Walcott, exchanged nods of mutual respect, a quiet celebration of what they had accomplished together. The Arsenal dressing room was alive with joy, with laughter, with the warmth of victory earned not just by talent, but by intelligence, teamwork, and an unbreakable understanding of each other's movents.
Francesco had just finished wiping the sweat from his forehead with a white towel when a light tap landed on his shoulder. He turned, expecting maybe one of the lads ready with a joke or Wenger offering so final words, but instead it was a man in a Premier League windbreaker, headset crackling with static, clipboard tucked beneath his arm.
"Francesco," the staff mber said politely, slightly breathless as though he'd had to weave through the celebrating players just to reach him. "We need you pitch-side for your post-match interview. Broadcasters are waiting."
There was sothing about the tone that made it clear: this wasn't a request. It was the Premier League calling. And when the League called, you didn't linger.
Francesco nodded, tossed the towel aside, and rose from the bench. His legs that still warm, still humming with adrenaline felt lighter than they had any right to after ninety minutes of relentless intensity. Maybe it was the hat trick. Maybe it was the 6–0 victory. Maybe it was the subtle electricity of knowing he had just delivered one of those performances people would talk about in pubs and highlight reels for weeks, months, maybe years.
He caught the eyes of a few teammates as he made his way toward the dressing room exit.
Kanté gave him a small thumbs-up.
Özil offered that serene, almost gentle smile that always felt like a silent "well done."
Bellerín are still buzzing and clapped him once on the back. "Go enjoy it, hermano. You deserve every spotlight."
And Walcott shouted from across the room, "Don't forget to ntion my goal!"
Francesco responded with a quick laugh. "If they ask," he called back, grabbing his boots and slipping his feet back into them loosely just to avoid walking out in socks.
"Take your ti," Wenger said from his corner of the room, voice quiet but firm. "You've earned the mont."
Francesco nodded with respect, then followed the Premier League staffer out into the corridor.
The transition from the warm, humid air of the dressing room to the colder, sharper corridor felt like stepping between worlds. Out there, the noise of the stadium though softer now are still rolled in waves. There was the faint sll of cut grass drifting from the tunnel, mixing with the industrial scent of concrete and paint.
The staffer kept a brisk pace, headset buzzing.
"They've got Sky Sports and Premier League Productions set up," he said over his shoulder. "You're first. We told them you'd be out in under a minute."
"No pressure," Francesco said lightly.
The staffer cracked a smile. "Mate, after that hat trick? I don't think pressure applies to you today."
They erged from the tunnel into the cool London air. The stadium lights were still blindingly bright, illuminating the emptying stands. A few fans lingered, waving scarves, shouting chants, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the afternoon's hero.
"FRANCESCOOOO!"
"You beauty!"
"SIGN THE SHIRT!"
Francesco lifted a hand in acknowledgnt, offering a small wave. Nothing exaggerated. Just enough to say he saw them, felt them, appreciated them.
The staffer guided him toward the pitch-side interview area: the familiar backdrop plastered with Premier League logos, the sponsor boards, the bright LED lights, the caraman adjusting his lens, and the interviewer flipping through a small notebook.
The caraman glanced over as Francesco approached. "Give ten seconds," he said, adjusting focus. "Lighting's harsh today."
The interviewer that mid 40s, sharp suit, tidy hair who offered a warm smile and an outstretched hand.
"Francesco. Congratulations. Sensational match. We'll get started as soon as the cara's live."
Francesco shook his hand firmly. "Thank you. Team played brilliantly today."
The interviewer chuckled. "We'll get to that."
The caraman lifted a hand.
"We're good. Rolling in five…"
A subtle shift happened inside Francesco. Not nerves. Not anxiety. Just an adjustnt, like switching gears in a car he'd been driving his whole life. The match intensity lted into a calm, composed professionalism.
"…three, two, one. And we're live."
The interviewer straightened, smile tightening into cara mode.
"Francesco Lee joins us now after an extraordinary performance at the Emirates. Arsenal 6, Stoke City 0. Francesco, first of all a hat trick, three points, total dominance. What's going through your mind right now?"
Francesco exhaled softly, letting the words flow naturally.
"It feels… honestly, it feels special," he began, glancing briefly toward the pitch as if replaying the afternoon. "A match like this isn't just about goals. It's about control, discipline, belief. From the first minute, we felt connected. We felt sharp. Every ti the ball moved, it moved with purpose."
The interviewer nodded. "Three goals from you. Talk us through the hat trick. Especially the third that beautifully struck, inside of the post. Did you know it was going in the mont it left your foot?"
Francesco smiled faintly. "You can never be completely sure. But I hit it clean. Alexis gave a perfect pass, and once I got the first touch right, I just focused on staying calm. Aim low, far corner. The mont it touched the post… I knew. That sound is sothing footballers live for."
"You seed in complete control of the Stoke defence today," the interviewer continued. "Pulling Indi out of position, dragging Muniesa wide, constantly creating space for Alexis, Theo, sut… was that part of the plan?"
"Yes," Francesco answered honestly. "Wenger told at halfti to keep asking questions of their back line to move them, disrupt them, force choices they didn't want to make. When their defenders follow , space opens behind. When they don't, I get the ball. Either way, soone benefits."
The interviewer's brows lifted. "Very articulate reading of the ga. But let's talk about the team performance. Six goals. Six. Including strong contributions from Walcott, Alexis, Iwobi… What does a win like this say about Arsenal right now?"
Francesco leaned back slightly, crossing his arms comfortably.
"It says we're growing," he said. "We're understanding each other more. It's not just talent, it's chemistry. Today wasn't one player shining. It was the whole system working: Kanté controlling everything, Xhaka setting tempo, Özil finding pockets like only he can. Bellerín, Monreal pushing forward, Virgil that solid as always. It all clicked."
"And your substitution in the 80th minute?" the interviewer asked with a grin. "You looked… well, content to be coming off with that hat trick in the bag."
Francesco chuckled. "I trust the squad. I trust Giroud to co in and fight. I trust Gnabry to bring energy. At 5–0, it was smart managent. We have more matches coming."
"Speaking of substitutes as Gnabry with the assist, Iwobi with the sixth goal… what did you think of the final one?"
Francesco's expression softened. "Beautiful. Just beautiful. Gnabry's awareness, Iwobi's timing… that's Arsenal's future. Watching that from the sideline made proud."
The interviewer flipped a page.
"Let's talk ntality. Six goals is a statent. Do you think this sends a ssage to the rest of the Premier League?"
Francesco paused, then answered carefully.
"I think it reminds people of what we're capable of when everything aligns. But one ga doesn't win a title. We stay humble. We stay focused. This is a step, not the finish line."
The interviewer flipped to the last tab on his clipboard, one that had been waiting, almost glowing, since before the cara even went live. He straightened a little, the practiced neutrality slipping into sothing closer to genuine curiosity. Even the caraman leaned in the slightest bit, adjusting his stance without realizing it.
"And finally, Francesco…" the interviewer began, voice dropping just a fraction, as though he knew he was about to step into territory every viewer at ho was waiting for. "This is your first Premier League match since winning the Ballon d'Or. Your first appearance as officially and undisputedly beca the best player on the planet."
He gestured subtly off-cara.
A stage assistant stepped forward with a velvet-covered display box. She opened it just slightly that not fully, just enough so the gold interior glead. Enough so the viewers watching at ho would recognize exactly what it was even in a half-second glimpse.
The Ballon d'Or.
The award that had changed Francesco's life three nights ago.
The interviewer continued, "How does it feel stepping out in front of the Emirates crowd as the Ballon d'Or winner, showing that trophy to the fans, and then delivering this performance with a hat trick in your very first match back?"
Francesco could feel their eyes on him from the interviewer, the cara operator, the two assistants, even the last dozen fans in the nearby stand who realized what was happening and began to shout his na again in a rising chorus.
He felt the cold air on his face, the lingering burn in his lungs from the match, and sowhere deep in his chest, the echo of that night in Zurich with the mont his na was called, the mont applause washed over him like a wave, the mont Leah squeezed his hand so tightly he almost laughed.
He drew in a slow breath.
And smiled.
"To be honest," he began, voice warm, steady, "it feels… emotional. Special. Sothing I'll never forget."
The interviewer leaned in slightly, sensing authenticity.
Francesco continued, "Winning the Ballon d'Or… it's the dream. The dream of every kid who kicks a ball on a street, in a park, in a tiny backyard. It's the dream I used to tell myself at night when I was a boy in London, juggling a football barefoot and pretending I was in stadiums I had only seen on television."
His eyes drifted briefly toward the stands, still scattered with those who stayed just to keep chanting his na.
"I carried that dream with everywhere," he said. "Through youth teams, through injuries, through hard days, through the monts I doubted myself. And then… the night they called my na? It was like all those mories lined up behind , reminding why I fought so hard."
The interviewer nodded, allowing silence to fill the space with a respectful silence.
"So yes," Francesco said, heartbeat picking up, "I'm proud. I'm very proud. And I wanted today to show that. To show why I won it. To show that this wasn't accidental. That it wasn't luck. That I didn't just win an award, I earned it. And I want to keep earning it."
His tone sharpened slightly, not arrogant, just certain.
"That's why I scored a hat trick today," he said simply. "To show the rest of the world why I won the Ballon d'Or."
The interviewer blinked, montarily taken aback not by arrogance, but by the sincerity and clarity of the statent.
Because there was no bragging in Francesco's voice.
Just conviction.
A quiet kind of defiance ant for anyone who thought last season was a fluke. Anyone who thought the treble was a miracle never to be repeated. Anyone who wondered if Francesco might fade after reaching the peak.
No.
He was just getting started.
The interviewer recovered quickly, adjusting the mic.
"Well," he said with a breathy chuckle, "I think you've certainly made a point today."
A few fans in the stand nearest the interview zone began chanting:
"BAL-LON D'OR! BAL-LON D'OR! BAL-LON D'OR!"
Francesco gave them a small wave, and the chant turned into applause.
The interviewer smiled at the mont, then looked back at him.
"Did you feel extra pressure?" he asked. "Walking out with that trophy, knowing thousands inside the stadium and millions watching from ho that wanted to see how the new Ballon d'Or winner would perform?"
Francesco shook his head lightly. "Pressure? No. Responsibility? Yes."
"Responsibility?"
"Yes," he said. "Responsibility to the team, to the fans, to the badge. When you win sothing like the Ballon d'Or, things don't get easier. They get heavier. Your na becos more than your na. It becos expectations. It becos conversation. It becos headlines."
He paused, breath forming soft clouds in the cold air.
"But on the pitch?" he said. "On the pitch, I'm free. On the pitch, it's just the ball, the space, and the ga I love. Today felt like… like a reminder of why I play. Why I compete. Why I want to be better every single day."
The interviewer let out a small breath. "Beautifully said."
Francesco dipped his head modestly.
"Last question," the interviewer said. "You showed the Ballon d'Or to the crowd before kickoff. What was that mont like for you? Seeing the Emirates rise to its feet for you?"
For a mont, Francesco struggled to find words.
Because the truth was, he had nearly choked.
He rembered walking out behind the referee, trophy carried beside him, the golden surface catching the stadium lights like a second sun. He rembered looking up into the stands, seeing tens of thousands of fans in red and white standing, clapping, cheering his na.
He rembered the roar.
Rembered how Leah had texted him, I'm crying watching this on TV.
Rembered how Wenger had rested a hand on his shoulder for three seconds before kickoff, as three seconds that said more than any speech.
He finally exhaled, slow and soft.
"It felt…" he started, then stopped. He laughed quietly. "It felt like ho."
The interviewer's expression softened.
"Arsenal is where I beca the player I am," Francesco continued. "Where I beca the man I am. These fans… they've pushed , lifted , believed in in ways I still can't fully explain."
His voice thickened slightly that not with tears, but with depth.
"So showing them the Ballon d'Or?" he said. "That wasn't showing off. That was saying thank you. Thank you for every chant, every ssage, every mont they stood with . This trophy… it belongs to them too."
The interviewer smiled, genuinely moved.
"Well, Francesco… congratulations once again. On the win today. On the hat trick. And on the Ballon d'Or. An incredible start to the second half of the season."
Francesco gave a respectful nod. "Thank you."
"And as always" The interviewer pointed to the cara. "the Premier League's newest Ballon d'Or winner, Francesco Lee."
The caraman signaled the cutoff.
"We're clear," he said.
The interviewer imdiately relaxed, dropping his shoulders. "Mate… fantastic interview. One of your best."
"Thank you," Francesco said warmly, shaking his hand again.
The assistant returned to collect the display box. Francesco touched the lid gently before letting her take it that not possessively, just with a sense of reverence.
As the staffer guided him away from the lights, the last few fans leaning over the barrier called out one more ti.
"FRANCESCO! HAT TRICK HERO!"
"BALLOOOON D'ORRRRR!"
And then, a girl no older than fourteen, clutching an Arsenal flag, shouted:
"WE'RE PROUD OF YOU!"
That one hit him deeper than expected.
He gave her a thumbs up.
Then the staffer nudged him gently. "This way, mate."
They crossed back into the tunnel. The echoes of the crowd faded behind them, swallowed by concrete and steel. The inner halls of the Emirates were quieter now, but still buzzing with post match activity with the staff wheeling equipnt, analysts huddling around monitors, security walking their rounds.
As he moved through the corridor, shoulders finally settling from the intensity of the caras, Francesco felt a strange mixture of exhaustion and energy. Physically tired, yes, his legs were heavy, his thighs still burning from the sprint that set up Alexis for the fourth goal. But ntally?
His mind was blazing.
Like sothing had been lit inside him the mont he lifted that trophy in Zurich.
He wasn't defending the Ballon d'Or.
He was building on it.
He was already thinking about the next match. The next training session. The next chance to prove he wasn't just a one-season wonder. That he wasn't just hype. That he wasn't just a mont.
He wanted to be an era.
As he stepped back into the dressing room, the warmth hit him imdiately, wrapping around him like a fire after walking through the snow.
The lads erupted in a cheer.
"There he is!" Bellerín shouted.
"Our superstar!" Walcott added with a grin.
"Our Ballon d'Or winner," Özil said quietly, with that understated grace he carried everywhere.
Alexis punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Hat trick again. You're making the rest of us look bad."
Francesco laughed, shaking his head. "Trust , you don't need my help to look good."
Wenger approached him last, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed but eyes gleaming in that way only he could manage with half father, half professor, half proud architect watching one of his masterpieces grow.
"Well done," Wenger said softly.
"Thank you, boss."
Wenger lingered for a mont, his eyes still holding that rare softness with the kind he gave only to players he truly believed in. He shifted his weight slightly, then tilted his head toward the far exit door of the dressing room.
"Co," he said quietly, almost gently. "Join for the post-match press conference."
Francesco blinked.
It wasn't unusual for Wenger to take a player with him to a presser, but it wasn't common either. And usually, it depended on the storylines of the day like who scored, who played well, who might be facing dia narratives. But today… after the Ballon d'Or presentation, the hat trick, the domination… it made sense.
Still, it carried weight.
"Yes, boss," Francesco said with a small respectful nod.
Around him, the dressing room didn't miss a beat.
"Ooooh, big man's getting the call!" Walcott teased, stretching out the 'big' as if announcing a cody act on stage.
Bellerín whistled dramatically. "Press conference with the gaffer? That's when you know you're levels above."
sut, seated with a towel over his head, looked up with that sleepy, amused expression. "Be calm," he deadpanned. "They'll ask you sothing ridiculous. They always do."
The room exploded into laughter.
Even Kanté cracked a tiny smile with the equivalent of a loud cackle for anyone else.
Francesco just shook his head, chuckling. "I'll try not to embarrass the club."
"You won the Ballon d'Or," Alexis reminded him, hand slapping his back. "The club should be terrified of embarrassing you."
More laughter.
Wenger simply lifted a hand and the chorus tapered. Not instantly, but naturally. Respectfully. The way a room shifts when the person who holds it speaks without raising his voice.
"Let him go," Wenger said, eyes flicking toward Francesco. "He has done enough on the pitch. Now he can speak for all of us."
That tightened sothing in Francesco's chest that not like pressure, but like pride settling in his ribs, warm and full.
He followed Wenger out of the dressing room, the door swinging shut behind them, leaving the buzzing laughter of teammates in the background. The corridor outside felt colder, quieter, lined with equipnt carts, folded flags, crate boxes covered with labels from various broadcasters.
The echo of their footsteps filled the hallway.
Wenger walked at his usual pace: slow, deliberate, thoughtful. He wasn't a man who hurried unless he needed to. Everyone matched his rhythm, not because it was demanded, but because it was natural.
"Good interview pitch-side," Wenger said without looking at him.
Francesco glanced over. "You watched?"
"I listened," Wenger corrected. "One of the staff had the broadcast running. You spoke well. Honest. Mature."
"Thank you."
Wenger humd softly. "Just be mindful in the press conference. They will try to pull you in all directions. Big victory, Ballon d'Or, hat trick, title race… when you are at the top, people poke hard to see if you will wobble."
Francesco smiled. "I'll keep my balance."
"I know you will," Wenger said, eyes forward. "That is why I brought you."
They turned right at the end of the corridor. The noise grew louder from the reporters, cara crews, n in suits holding coffee cups, laptops, and stress in equal asure. A sign with an arrow pointed the way:
DIA ROOM →
Another staffer held the door open as Wenger and Francesco stepped inside.
The press room was already packed with rows of chairs filled with journalists, photographers lined along the edges, bright lights fixed toward the long table where two microphones stood. The reporters' chatter filled the space: overlapping voices, scraping pens, the faint tapping of phone screens.
But when Wenger walked in, the sound dipped instantly.
And when Francesco followed him in, the dip turned into a ripple.
Heads turned.
A few murmurs rose imdiately:
"He's here."
"Ballon d'Or winner, of course they brought him."
"Three goals today, this will be interesting."
"He looks calm… how does he always look so calm?"
Francesco gave a polite smile to so familiar faces in the crowd. A few nodded back with a mutual respect, even if so of them had written harsh headlines in past months. That was the dance. That was football.
The Arsenal dia spokesperson, a woman in her late thirties with sharp eyes, a navy club blazer, and a stack of cue cards stepped forward.
"Good to have you with us, Francesco," she said warmly, guiding him to the chair beside Wenger's.
He nodded. "Good to be here."
She took her seat at the far end of the table. Wenger sat in the middle. Francesco sat to his right, mic angled toward him. Not too close, not too far.
The room settled.
The spokesperson tapped the microphone lightly.
"Ladies and gentlen, thank you for your patience. We'll begin today's post-match press conference following Arsenal's 6–0 win over Stoke City. With us are Arsenal manager Arsène Wenger and today's hat-trick scorer and this season's Ballon d'Or winner, Francesco Lee. We'll open the floor for questions."
A dozen hands shot up imdiately.
Wenger scanned the room calmly, then nodded to a familiar journalist.
"Yes, John."
John Simmons from BBC Sport stood. "Arsène, congratulations on the win. Complete dominance today. How would you describe the team's performance, and specifically Francesco's impact?"
Wenger leaned slightly toward the mic, folding his hands.
"I think the performance today was the product of understanding," he said. "Understanding of our principles, our shape, our responsibility to one another. You saw combination play, discipline, intelligence… and of course, quality."
He turned his head toward Francesco briefly.
"Francesco was exceptional. But not just because he scored. Because he led. Because every touch had purpose, every movent created space. These are the things that define great players that not only the goals, but the impact on those around them."
Francesco felt heat crawl up his neck and not because of embarrassnt, but a deep, genuine appreciation for the manager's words.
Another hand rose. The spokesperson gestured. "Emma, Sky Sports."
Emma Clarke stood. "Francesco, first of all congratulations on the hat trick and again on the Ballon d'Or. This is the first ti you've spoken in a full press room since winning it. What's the difference between walking into this room last month versus walking in today as the best player in the world?"
Light laughter scattered across the room that not mocking, just acknowledging the weight of the mont.
Francesco took a breath.
"Honestly," he began, "I don't walk in here thinking about being 'the best player in the world.' Titles are beautiful. Awards are aningful. But I'm still the sa footballer who cos in, listens to the gaffer, trains hard, and tries to help the team win."
Emma nodded. "And the hat trick today? Was that intentional, making a statent after the award?"
Francesco's smile turned sharper.
"It was intentional," he admitted openly. "Not because I want people to bow to a trophy. But because when you win the Ballon d'Or, there's always talk. People wondering if it was deserved. If you can maintain the level. If you will fade."
He rested his arms on the table.
"So today I wanted to show why I won it. And why I'm not finished."
A low ripple passed through the room with pens scribbling faster, keys tapping harder, caras snapping.
The spokesperson scanned the room, then pointed to another hand.
"David, The Guardian."
David leaned forward. "Arsène, how does having a Ballon d'Or winner in your squad affect the dressing room? The ntality? The expectations?"
Wenger smiled faintly. "The effect is positive. Fa can inflate egos, but in Francesco's case, it inflates ambition. The players around him are lifted by his rise, not overshadowed."
He shifted slightly.
"And as long as he keeps his feet on the ground, which I believe he will, it is only beneficial."
More hands.
More questions.
The conference continued that deep, probing inquiries about tactics, title races, individual plays, dressing room atmosphere, fan expectations. Wenger answered with philosophy. Francesco answered with heart.
But the mont that changed the entire dynamic ca almost near the end.
A reporter from a Spanish outlet stood.
"Francesco," he said, accent crisp. "In Spain, the discussion all week has been whether your Ballon d'Or marks the beginning of a new era after ssi and Ronaldo. Do you feel you are stepping into that space now?"
The room stilled.
Wenger turned his head slightly as not to intervene, but to observe.
Caras angled forward.
Francesco inhaled slowly.
He knew this question would co soday.
He just didn't know it would co today.
He leaned toward the mic, voice steady.
"ssi and Ronaldo are legends," he said plainly. "Icons. They changed football. They made the impossible look normal. No one replaces them."
A pause.
"But every era has players who push the ga forward. If people think I might be one of them, then I will work every day to live up to that."
His eyes sharpened.
"I don't want to be the next ssi. I don't want to be the next Ronaldo. I want to be—"
He tapped his chest once.
"—the first Francesco Lee."
The room didn't erupt.
It went quiet.
The kind of quiet that ant reporters were already composing headlines in their minds.
Wenger smiled.
The spokesperson sensed the perfect closing point.
"Thank you, everyone. That concludes today's press conference."
Chairs scraped softly. Photographers snapped final shots. Voices rose again in clusters as reporters discussed angles, quotes, narratives.
Wenger stood, stretching slightly, then looked at Francesco.
"Well said," he murmured. "Very well said."
Francesco smiled. "Thank you, boss."
As they left the table and headed toward the exit door at the side of the room, several journalists stepped forward that not to interview, but simply to offer handshakes, congratulations, respect.
He shook their hands.
He thanked them.
And as he walked out of the press room, following Wenger back into the quieter, dimr corridor.
The corridor outside the press room was quieter than the dia frenzy inside, but it was still alive in its own subtle way. Footsteps echoed against polished concrete. The low hum of the stadium's ventilation system mingled with the occasional distant shout of a groundskeeper or security guard. Wenger walked ahead, calm and asured as always, and Francesco followed, his mind replaying every mont from the day before: the match, the hat trick, the Ballon d'Or, the press conference. Each fragnt glimred like a jewel in his mory, vivid and almost tangible.
The exit to the tunnel leading to the dressing room lood ahead. Wenger glanced back, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Rember, Francesco," he said quietly, "these days co and go. Enjoy it, yes, but never let it define you. The trophy, the headlines as they are a recognition. They are not the work itself. Your work is what earns respect day after day."
Francesco nodded, his chest swelling with a mix of pride and resolve. "I understand, boss. I won't let it distract ."
Wenger's eyes lingered on him for a brief mont, then he turned, walking off toward his office. Francesco remained for a heartbeat, letting the silence of the corridor sink in, before following him. The dressing room felt almost normal now, the echoes of the previous night's celebrations fading into a soft hum. He could still hear the distant laughter of so of the staff as they packed away equipnt, but it was nothing compared to the roar of the stadium or the press room's clamor. Here, he could breathe.
The night after the match had been quiet, at least in his own mind. He'd gone ho, exhausted physically but buzzing ntally. Even in the stillness of his flat, he could feel the residual electricity coursing through his veins. He rembered holding the Ballon d'Or close for the first ti, the weight of it in his hands, a weight that was both literal and symbolic. Every line etched into that gold surface seed to whisper every mont of his journey: the early mornings in youth academies, the rain-soaked training pitches, the pain of injuries, the countless sacrifices, the unwavering focus.
He had gone to sleep that night with the trophy on the small shelf by his bedside, a silent sentinel watching over him. And when he closed his eyes, the echoes of the Emirates, the chants, the applause, and the cheers of the fans blended into a lullaby of triumph and responsibility.
Morning arrived softly, the light spilling through the blinds of his bedroom. The city outside was beginning its usual rhythm from cars humming along quiet streets, the distant clatter of delivery vans, the faint murmur of early risers greeting the day. Francesco stirred, stretching under the warmth of the duvet, feeling the familiar ache in his thighs and calves from the previous day's exertion. He rubbed his eyes, blinking against the sunlight, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Bare feet t the cool wooden floor, grounding him imdiately in the present.
He padded toward the kitchen, still half-lost in thought, hair tousled from sleep, eyes heavy but alert. The kettle hissed and stead as it boiled water for coffee, a small ritual that marked the start of every day. He set a plate down, cracked a couple of eggs into a frying pan, and listened to the low hum of the appliances. It was a different kind of battlefield than yesterday's pitch, but one that required attention nonetheless: the slow, deliberate art of routine.
The television flickered on, a small box in the corner of the room. Francesco poured coffee into his favorite mug, the heat searing through his hands as he carried it to the counter. The screen displayed the usual morning chatter: news, weather, and sports updates. He scrolled through the channels, almost unconsciously, before settling on Sky Sports. He had no intention of watching himself. Not really. But curiosity had a way of compelling even the most disciplined.
The familiar studio appeared: Gary Neville's sharp features, Jamie Carragher's intense focus, Ian Wright's animated expressions. The trio were in mid-conversation, their voices layered over the ticker displaying yesterday's headline: "Francesco Lee Hat Trick Hero: Ballon d'Or Winner Shows the World His Class."
"Yesterday was sothing special," Gary Neville said, leaning slightly forward, eyes narrowing with analytical intensity. "We talk about Ballon d'Or winners all the ti, but what Francesco Lee did wasn't just a statent about winning the award. It was a statent about why he deserved it. Three goals, commanding presence, tactical intelligence… it was a masterclass."
Jamie Carragher nodded, arms folded. "Absolutely. And it wasn't a fluke. It was complete control from start to finish. People forget, it's one thing to have skill, but it's another to execute under expectation. The man just lifted the Ballon d'Or, walked out in front of the Emirates, and produced that kind of performance. That's confidence, that's professionalism, and most importantly, that's consistency."
Ian Wright grinned, leaning into the cara with a sparkle in his eyes that could only co from genuine excitent. "And let's not sugarcoat it. This is the real deal. We've seen great players in the Premier League, yes, but Francesco? He's special. Not just for Arsenal, but for the whole ga. The composure, the awareness, the timing as it's the perfect combination. And yesterday, he reminded the world that this award wasn't just because he's part of a great team. He's earning it as one of the best players in the world. Period."
Francesco stirred slightly at the kitchen counter, fork paused midair over the eggs, listening with that familiar mixture of humility and satisfaction. He had spent his career learning to temper reactions, to avoid arrogance. But hearing the voices of legends discussing him in the morning light, evaluating his performance with respect and admiration… it was a quiet, personal kind of affirmation. Not vanity. Not ego. Just validation that the work he poured into every session, every sprint, every touch, had a tangible impact.
The discussion continued, moving through replayed highlights of the match. The Sky Sports studio toggled between Francesco's three goals, the build-up to each, and slow-motion analysis of his movent off the ball. Neville dissected the runs, pointing out how Francesco's positioning had created space for Alexis and Walcott. Carragher highlighted the tactical disruption he imposed on Stoke's defensive structure, noting that every touch had a purpose, every movent a strategy. Wright, animated as ever, punctuated the analysis with laughter and awe, celebrating Francesco's instinctual brilliance.
"Look at that third goal," Wright said, pointing to the screen. "The way he shifted the defender, the timing of the pass, the calmness of the finish… that's what separates good from great. And that's what a Ballon d'Or winner does."
Francesco's fork slowly returned to the plate. He didn't need to see the screen to recall the mont. The third goal… Alexis had threaded the pass perfectly, he had asured his first touch, shifted the defender's balance, and slotted it low into the far corner. The mory was vivid: the ball kissing the post, the roar of the crowd, his teammates rushing to celebrate, the surge of adrenaline and pride.
He sipped his coffee, warm and grounding, as the trio continued dissecting his performance.
Neville leaned back, a small smirk forming. "And the best part? The ntal ga. You could see it on his face. He walked onto that pitch yesterday knowing the world was watching, knowing that expectations were sky-high, and he didn't just et them. He exceeded them. That's rare."
Carragher nodded. "Exactly. You've seen players under pressure before, but this Francesco's mindset? It's sothing else. That's why he's up there with the very best. You can't just play well for one ga. You have to sustain, perform, and inspire. Yesterday, he did all three."
Wright leaned forward again, enthusiasm practically vibrating through the screen. "And don't forget the fans! I saw the footage of him holding up the Ballon d'Or before kickoff. That's not just a photo opportunity, that's him connecting with them. Saying, 'We did this together. You believed in , now I'll show the world.' That kind of presence, that kind of leadership… it's priceless."
Francesco felt the subtle lift in his chest, a warmth that had little to do with ego and everything to do with acknowledgnt. He had always believed that football was bigger than individual accolades and that the fans, the team, the collective heartbeat of the club, were what made victories aningful. And here, in the quiet morning of his flat, watching legends analyze, break down, and appreciate his work… it reinforced everything he valued about the ga.
He finished his breakfast slowly, letting the conversation wash over him. Coffee gone, plate cleared, he leaned back in the chair, a hand running through his slightly ssy hair. The television continued to play, but he found himself reflecting rather than watching intently. Thoughts of the next training session, the next match, the next goal, flickered through his mind. The Ballon d'Or was in his possession now, but it wasn't the peak. It was a milestone, a symbol, yes, but not a limit.
Minutes passed. The analysts shifted to comparisons with past Ballon d'Or winners, discussing the era he had entered, the tactical evolution of modern football, and the responsibility he now carried not only to his team but to the expectations of an entire global audience. Each word resonated with him in different ways. The scrutiny was real, the responsibility heavy, but he had been preparing for this his entire life without fully knowing it.
And then, as he switched the channel to replay snippets of his goals, he felt a sense of calm. A sense of balance. A sense of purpose. The morning sun had fully lit the room now, illuminating the small trophies on the shelf, the frad photos of his journey, the subtle reminders of his beginnings. Every piece of morabilia, every dal, every frad photograph of his youth academy days in London… it was all part of the path that led here.
The phone buzzed beside him with the ssages from teammates, from family. Congratulations, excited notes, laughter emojis, hearts. He smiled at each one, responding briefly, thoughtfully, but never letting himself linger too long in the praise. There was work to do. Always work to do.
Sky Sports continued its analysis, moving from the individual brilliance to tactical implications. Neville, Carragher, and Wright dissected how Arsenal's entire system had benefited from Francesco's presence. How the team now had a player capable of turning a match with a single run, a single touch, a single idea. How his hat-trick wasn't just goals as it was a lesson in football intelligence, leadership, and timing. And as the minutes stretched, Francesco listened, absorbed, and allowed himself to quietly savor the respect of n who had seen it all and rarely said sothing lightly.
________________________________________________
Na : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (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: 22
Goal: 33
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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