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Outside the window, the Swiss mountains glowed in the winter light. Inside, Francesco and Leah stood face-to-face, dressed for the biggest night of their lives, the quiet hum of luxury and destiny settling around them.
The last threads of daylight were fading over the Swiss mountains by the time the hands on the ornate hotel clock touched six. Evening settled softly but unmistakably with white peaks turning lavender, the sky dimming into a bruised blue, and the warm gold glow of the hotel lobby flickering against polished marble like fire reflected in still water.
Francesco descended the final step from the mezzanine slowly, the world shifting around him as if a new chapter were clicking into place with each footfall. The tuxedo he wore felt less like clothing and more like an atmosphere with a tailored hush of silk and black shadow that followed the lines of his body with quiet reverence. Leah walked beside him, the emerald sheen of her gown grazing the marble floor, each step a whisper of fabric that glowed under the chandelier.
For a moment, everything felt suspended from the murmuring staff, the distant piano, the mountain air being sucked in each time the revolving door spun.
Waiting in the lobby were the others.
At the center stood Arsène Wenger, hands folded calmly, the quiet kind of pride radiating from him that one couldn't mistake. Beside him, Alexis Sánchez adjusted the cuff of his suit with a smirk that suggested he was both impressed and already planning to tease someone about something. On his other side, Mesut Özil looked content, a man who appreciated good tailoring and good lighting in equal measure.
And near them, checking two phones at once with the practiced calm of someone who juggled empires, stood Jorge Mendes.
When the pair finally crossed the lobby's final stretch, all eyes turned. The subtle clicks of cameras from staff, guests, and even passing journalists hiding behind potted plants echoed faintly.
The first to speak was the manager.
"You both look ready," he said, voice warm with that understated admiration he rarely voiced too directly. "It will be a special night."
Leah smiled politely, fingers brushing Francesco's hand with a small, grounding touch. He could feel confidence in that brush, and something gentler too, something like I'm here. Breathe.
Sánchez gave a low whistle.
"Look at you two. Armani didn't come to play tonight."
Özil nudged him with an elbow. "You're just jealous your suit didn't come with a full glam team."
"It should have," Alexis shot back, tongue clicking theatrically.
Mendes tucked his phones away. "If we're done evaluating everyone's wardrobe," he said with a wry smile, "the cars have been waiting for fifteen minutes."
That pulled a laugh out of nearly everyone.
Outside, the cold embraced them instantly with crisp, bright, thin mountain air cutting through the warmth of the lobby like a blade dipped in ice. Yet it felt refreshing after the heat of lights and fittings, like a lungful of winter snapping the senses awake.
Two black limousines waited at the entrance, engines humming quietly. Their glossy surfaces reflected the tall hotel façade and the clusters of fans still lingering behind the velvet barriers, hoping to catch one last look before the procession left.
Security personnel stood ready, carving a path with disciplined movement.
The group divided naturally.
The manager took a step toward the first limo. Alexis followed him with long, confident strides, and Özil slipped in after them, giving a small wave to supporters as camera flashes painted streaks of light across the snow-dusted ground.
Mendes gestured toward the second limo. "You two come with me."
Francesco opened the door for Leah, who dipped her head in thanks as she slid into the warm, plush interior. He followed, and Mendes entered last, shutting the cold out with a muffled click.
Inside, the dim cabin lights glowed softly, casting warm highlights across the expensive interior. The city lights of Zurich shimmered faintly through the tinted glass as they began to move.
The seat vibrated under them with the hum of the engine, the outside world slipping past in streaks of gold and navy blue.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Not out of awkwardness and just the kind of quiet that comes before a horizon shifts, before something monumental settles onto the night.
Then Francesco exhaled, turning slightly toward Mendes.
"Can I ask you something?"
Mendes raised a brow. "Of course."
"Why Switzerland this year? Why not Paris? I thought the ceremony was always held in France."
The agent leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. The passing glow of streetlights slid across his face, giving him an almost cinematic gravity.
"I honestly don't know," he admitted. "France Football hasn't given a concrete explanation. Maybe they wanted a change of scenery, a different kind of energy. Maybe they wanted to experiment. Or maybe—" He shrugged lightly. "They just felt like Switzerland would give the ceremony a fresh vibe."
A fresh vibe.
The phrasing felt deliberately vague, intentionally lightweight. Something inside Francesco tugged with curiosity, with the slight shift of unease that comes when answers feel too broad, too trimmed at the edges. But he let it go. Tonight wasn't about logistics or politics.
Tonight was about history.
He leaned back into his seat. The leather felt cool at first, then warm beneath his shoulders, grounding him.
Leah's hand found his again, fingers threaded securely as she leaned her head lightly against his shoulder.
"You okay?" she murmured softly.
He nodded. "Yeah. Just thinking."
"About tonight?"
"About everything."
A hum of amusement escaped her. "You always think too much right before something big."
"Helps me stay calm."
"No," she teased gently, "I help you stay calm."
He laughed softly under his breath, and Mendes, listening without intruding, smiled faintly as if he agreed.
Outside, the roads turned smoother, broader with leading them from the city toward the venue. Streetlights became less frequent. Pines rose on both sides, tall and dense, like silent guardians of the winter night. The mountains loomed quietly beyond, their silhouette black against the star-spotted sky.
For a moment, the limo dipped slightly as it glided over a small bridge as beneath it, a frozen river reflected the moonlight like broken silver glass.
Leah shifted, sliding a little closer, her gown brushing his leg. "You look like you're already on the stage," she teased. "Breathing slow. Shoulders straight. Eyes focused."
"I just don't want to mess anything up," he admitted quietly.
"You won't," she said simply, as if the idea itself was absurd. "Look at you. You're built for this."
Her confidence settled into him like warmth spreading down the spine.
Mendes cleared his throat lightly. "She's right, you know."
Francesco lifted his gaze.
"Moments like this," Mendes continued, "aren't given. They're earned. And you earned this one with sweat and discipline. With nights you didn't sleep and mornings you trained before dawn. With goals. With vision. With everything you've poured into your career."
The words weren't dramatic. They weren't overstated. But they carried weight.
Weight that felt both grounding and uplifting.
The limo turned again, this time onto a private road lined with decorative lanterns that cast warm halos of light over the snow.
Ahead, the venue appeared.
A modern architectural jewel built from glass, polished stone, and lines of golden illumination that shimmered like the edges of a dream. Snow dusted its roof. Cameras flashed in bursts of white from the arrival area. A red carpet stretched across the entrance, bordered by velvet ropes and guarded by security in black coats.
People were everywhere from fans, journalists, photographers, presenters, officials. Their breaths puffed into the freezing air like clouds released all at once.
The limo slowed.
The sounds sharpened.
Voices.
Cheering.
Camera shutters.
Announcements.
Music faintly pulsing through unseen speakers.
Leah inhaled softly. Francesco felt her fingers tighten around his.
"This is it," she whispered.
He nodded slowly, feeling his pulse steady.
Not race.
Not spike.
But steady.
Like the beat of a drum before a ceremony.
Mendes checked his cufflinks one more time, glanced at them both, and nodded toward the door.
"Ready?"
They didn't answer with words.
Only with breath.
Only with presence.
The door opened.
Light flooded in with white, golden, dazzling.
Cold swept inside immediately, kissing the skin, lifting the hairs on their arms, dancing across their faces.
Francesco stepped out first.
Cheers erupted so loudly the air itself seemed to vibrate. A wall of sound, a roar of emotion, the kind of greeting that felt almost physical in its force.
"FRANCESCOOO!"
"LEE! OVER HERE!"
"THE KING OF LONDON!"
"CONGRATULATIONS!"
Flashlights flickered like stars collapsing and being reborn.
He straightened his jacket unconsciously, the silk whispering as it shifted. The cameras caught every angle, every breath, every tilt of his head.
Leah stepped out next.
The crowd gasped with an actual gasp as her emerald dress glimmered under the lights like a green flame. She touched the side of her hair instinctively, steadying herself, before gliding to his side.
Together, they looked like something sculpted out of a storybook.
Mendes followed them, immediately surrounded by journalists calling his name too, though he waved them off politely.
Security guided them forward.
The carpet felt soft under their shoes, warmer than expected thanks to hidden heating strips beneath it that melted the snow before it could settle. The night wind wrapped around them, cold but alive.
Each step drew more attention, more flashes, more questions hurled from behind the ropes.
"Francesco! How do you feel?"
"Do you think you'll win tonight?"
"Leah! Look here!"
"Sir, can we get a quote?"
"Where's Alexis?"
"Are you nervous?"
"What will you say if you win?"
He didn't answer. Not yet. Not because he wanted to play mysterious, but because this was the walk. The ritual. The procession into the heart of football's greatest night.
He focused on the warmth of Leah's fingers, the comforting presence of Mendes just behind him, and the hum of music rolling from the venue like a heartbeat.
Inside the glass walls, gold lights shimmered. Figures in suits and gowns moved gracefully. Screens displayed past winners. A giant Ballon d'Or statue stood just ahead, glowing like a sun in the winter night.
Leah leaned slightly toward him as they walked.
"You're doing amazing," she whispered.
He smiled.
"This is surreal," he murmured.
"It's meant to be."
They paused for official photographs as instructed. Francesco stepped forward, shoulders squared, expression calm but bright with an expression of a young man standing on the threshold of legacy. Leah stayed at his side, her hand resting just above his waist, her gown flowing like emerald water around her legs.
The photographers yelled instructions:
"Over here!"
"Look to your left!"
"Smile!"
"Serious look now!"
"One of you both, please!"
"Perfect, hold that!"
The flashes were relentless, but somehow, strangely, it felt easy. Natural. Like he'd been here before in a dream and now the dream had simply opened its door to him.
After the photos came the interviews.
The camera flashes dimmed just enough for Francesco to see the interviewer clearly, a tall man in a sleek black suit holding a microphone as if it were a wand that could summon words into order. The buzz of the lobby, the echoes of applause from arriving guests, the soft murmurs of the crowd behind barriers as all of it seemed to recede into a manageable rhythm now, leaving him grounded and aware of the moment.
"Francesco," the interviewer began, voice calm but carrying an edge of excitement, "this is one of the most anticipated nights of your career. How does it feel to be here in Switzerland, standing among football's greatest, dressed to perfection, and on the cusp of possibly winning the Ballon d'Or?"
Francesco tilted his head slightly, his fingers brushing Leah's hand resting lightly on his arm. He let a small smile form, a quiet mixture of humility and confidence. "Honestly," he said, voice steady, "it feels surreal. But it also feels… right. Like every step, every match, every goal, led to this room, this night. I'm just happy to be here, celebrating the game I love."
The interviewer nodded, encouraged by the ease in his answer. "And of course, the competition is stiff. Messi, Ronaldo, Hazard, Neymar… the list goes on. Does that add pressure or motivation?"
"Motivation," Francesco replied immediately, without hesitation. "Pressure is something that comes and goes. Motivation that's what stays. It pushes me to train harder, to focus, to be better. Every player here deserves to be recognized. I'm just hoping I can add a little piece of my story to this night."
A slight laugh escaped the interviewer, impressed with the composure. "Beautifully said. Tell me, tonight is more than just awards. It's about legacy, about moments people will remember forever. How do you want to be remembered?"
Francesco thought for a heartbeat, glancing toward Leah, who offered a small, supportive nod. Her eyes seemed to say: speak your truth. He exhaled softly. "I want to be remembered as someone who gave everything on the pitch. Someone who never gave up, who stayed true to the team, the fans, and the love of the game. That's it. The rest… the trophies, the awards as they're just icing on top of what football really is."
The interviewer smiled, clearly enjoying the conversation. "And tonight, your fans around the world are wondering, are you confident you can take the Ballon d'Or home, especially with Messi and Ronaldo in the running?"
Francesco's gaze sharpened slightly, a confident gleam in his eye that wasn't arrogance, just certainty. He let the words come naturally. "Yes," he said simply, firmly. "I've worked for this. I've believed in it. And tonight… we'll see."
The cameras clicked once more as reporters scribbled notes, microphones extended just a little closer, but Francesco's attention had already shifted.
Movement at the entrance of the lobby caught his eye. Alexis, Mesut, and Wenger had arrived. A brief wave exchanged, Alexis grinned as if to say, don't worry, we got this, while Özil gave a small nod, already assessing the room for strategic vantage points. Wenger's presence, calm and reassuring, anchored Francesco more than anything else. He let his eyes rest for a second on them, the familiar faces offering a bridge between comfort and anticipation.
Leah leaned slightly into him, whispering just above the din, "Time to go. Your night awaits."
He nodded, fingers tightening around hers, and they walked forward, guided by attentive staff in crisp black uniforms. The red carpet inside gleamed softly under the golden lights, casting long reflections that shimmered like liquid bronze across the marble floor. Guests in gowns and tailored suits moved gracefully around them, all heading toward the grand hall where the ceremony would soon begin. The air smelled faintly of polished wood, subtle floral arrangements, and the soft perfume of anticipation.
The staff ushered them to the front seats, a velvet rope marking their passage, and suddenly, they were there with directly facing the stage. The light hit them perfectly, the room's acoustics carrying every soft murmur and shuffle from across the hall.
And then he saw them.
Right in the front row, to his right was Messi and Ronaldo. Both stood briefly as he approached, smiles polite but filled with the kind of mutual respect shared only by those who've chased the same impossible dreams in different stadiums. Francesco extended his hand first, a warm, genuine gesture. Messi grasped it firmly, eyes twinkling. Ronaldo's handshake was firm, almost a challenge, yet laced with the slightest hint of a grin.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Francesco said smoothly. "It's an honor."
Messi chuckled softly. "Good evening, Francesco. Always a pleasure."
Ronaldo nodded with that half-smile, half-assessment look. "Yes. Best of luck tonight."
"Thank you," he replied, not missing a beat. "To all of us."
Leah leaned lightly against his shoulder, glancing toward the two legends. "See? You fit right in."
He chuckled softly, exhaling quietly. "Let's hope I don't mess up the first impression."
The greetings didn't end there. Across the first few rows, he saw Sergio Agüero giving a small wave, Karim Benzema nodding with that quiet confidence he always carried, Gareth Bale adjusting his tie and giving a half-grin, Eden Hazard glancing over with a polite, approving smile, Neymar flashing a quick thumbs-up, and Luis Suárez offering that playful, mischievous grin that reminded him of pitch-side banter.
One by one, Francesco greeted them, each handshake, each nod, each brief exchange carrying the weight of competition, friendship, and respect. They were all stars of the same constellation, and tonight, he was part of it too—not as a guest, not as an observer, but as a player in the story that would be written by votes, by fans, and by history.
Leah, by his side, whispered lightly, "You know them all. Smile. This is part of the night too."
He smiled, keeping it easy, genuine, letting the thrill of the moment course through him. Every handshake reinforced what he already knew: tonight was not just about him; it was about football, about recognition, about moments carved into memory.
The staff guided them to their final positions. Francesco and Leah took their seats, settling comfortably while the ceremony began in earnest. Lights dimmed slightly, the music shifted to a soft orchestral rhythm, and a hush fell over the room as the host began the opening remarks.
Francesco leaned slightly back, Leah's hand warm in his, scanning the room without losing focus. Cameras rotated slowly, capturing every expression, every shimmer of gowns, every sparkle of tailored suits. Every superstar seemed like a point on a map of excellence, and he was now a marker too as a fresh star among old, shining ones.
He caught Messi's eye once more, who raised an eyebrow with a faint smile, and Ronaldo subtly acknowledged him with a nod. He returned both gestures quietly, fully aware of the unspoken tension, the friendly competition simmering beneath the surface of elegance.
Leah whispered, almost teasingly, "You've got this. Tonight… it's yours if you let it be."
He took a breath, letting it fill his chest like the mountains outside that cool, deep, grounding and nodded. "Let's make it a night to remember."
The orchestra softened, and the murmurs of the audience faded into a reverent hush. The host, a poised figure in a sharply tailored tuxedo, stepped forward on the illuminated stage, eyes sweeping the crowd with careful precision. A warm smile crossed his face, a practiced charm that immediately commanded attention without demanding it.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice carrying easily through the hall, clear and confident. "Tonight, we celebrate the brilliance, the dedication, and the artistry that football brings to the world. A game that unites continents, inspires millions, and creates legends."
The applause swelled, a tidal wave of appreciation and expectation that rippled across the room. Francesco felt it vibrating through the leather of the seat beneath him, through the warmth of Leah's hand resting on his arm. His pulse, steady and calm, quickened just the slightest at the sound.
"And now," the host continued, raising a hand subtly, "we begin with a very special category with the FIFA Young Player Award. This award recognizes exceptional talent, dedication, and potential, bestowed upon those who have already made a significant mark in football, despite their youth."
The audience leaned forward in anticipation, the soft shuffle of photographers and scribbling of notes forming a quiet hum underneath the spotlight. Francesco straightened imperceptibly, his shoulders squared but his nerves a quiet whisper rather than a roar.
"The nominees for the FIFA Young Player Award this year are," the host paused, letting the tension stretch just long enough for the room to inhale collectively, "Marcus Rashford, Renato Sanches… and Francesco Lee."
The mention of his name caused a subtle ripple through the front rows. Some clapped, some whispered his name in awe, others caught the moment on their devices. Francesco's heart ticked just slightly faster, a warm thrill threading through him, but the outward calm remained unbroken. He allowed himself a small glance at Leah. Her eyes were wide with excitement, her hand squeezing his gently, radiating pride and unspoken encouragement.
He exhaled softly, settling into the gravity of the moment. All the months, the years of training, the sacrifices, the nights of relentless focus as they had led here. And now, the outcome awaited.
The host's smile widened. "And the winner of the FIFA Young Player Award is…"
A dramatic pause. Francesco's chest tightened in the most controlled, exhilarating way.
"Francesco Lee!"
The audience erupted. Applause, cheers, flashes from cameras that sudden, explosive, alive. For a heartbeat, the noise seemed almost too much, a physical wave rolling over him. Then he felt Leah's hand press against his side, steadying, grounding, and he turned to her, letting a small, incredulous laugh escape.
Leah's smile was radiant, eyes shining as she leaned slightly forward. "You did it," she whispered, her voice soft but full of awe.
Francesco felt a swell of something warm, almost overwhelming, and instinctively leaned down to press a quick, tender kiss to her cheek. "We did it," he murmured, and she leaned into the gesture, laughing softly against the edges of the moment.
He rose from his seat, every movement deliberate, composed, but carrying the electricity of excitement. Around him, a few players in the nearby rows stood to congratulate him. Alexis Sánchez was the first, striding forward with a broad grin and a playful clap on the shoulder. "I knew it, hermano! I knew it!" Alexis exclaimed, eyes sparkling with genuine happiness.
Mesut Özil gave a quiet, approving nod. "Well deserved," he said softly, voice low enough that only Francesco could hear, yet it carried that sense of understated pride that Özil always gave when he meant something.
Even Messi leaned forward from his row, offering a quick handshake accompanied by that signature twinkle in his eyes. "Congratulations, Francesco," he said sincerely. Ronaldo's hand followed, firm, professional, acknowledging not just the achievement but the talent behind it.
The stage itself seemed to call him forward. The steps felt smaller than expected, almost ceremonial in their intimacy. The bright lights of the stage haloed him in a glow that made him feel simultaneously immense and grounded, a paradox he found thrilling. He reached the top and took the award in his hands. It was solid, heavy with importance, glinting under the lights, engraved with the names and symbols that marked it as a symbol of excellence.
Francesco took a moment before turning to face the audience. His chest rose, shoulders back, chin lifted slightly. The microphone felt cool under his fingers. And then he spoke, voice calm but resonant, carrying the subtle weight of someone who knew this moment could be remembered for a lifetime.
"Thank you," he began, simple, humble, yet perfectly measured. "First, to my team, my coaches, and everyone at Arsenal who has supported me through every season. Without your guidance and belief, none of this would be possible. To my teammates around the world, those I've shared pitches with, those who've pushed me to be better every single day as this award is a reflection of all of us."
He paused, letting the audience absorb the words, their applause rising like gentle waves, then continued. "To my family, my friends, and of course, Leah, who has been by my side through every challenge, every victory, every moment of doubt, thank you for believing in me even when I struggled to believe in myself. This is a dream, but it's not mine alone."
He held the award lightly but confidently, a symbol not just of achievement but of everything it represented: discipline, perseverance, and unwavering dedication.
"And to the fans," he said finally, his voice softer but no less powerful, "who inspire me every day, this is for you. Thank you for watching, for cheering, for believing. Football is nothing without you. Merci. Obrigado. Gracias. Thank you."
The applause swelled again, more sustained this time, the audience rising in acknowledgment. Francesco allowed himself a small, private grin before stepping down carefully, the award held firmly in his hands.
The moment he reached the first few steps, he felt Leah's fingers threading through his, her smile radiant. He leaned slightly, pressing a quick kiss to her temple, whispering, "We did it," and she laughed softly, a mixture of delight and pride.
The first few rows erupted in handshakes and congratulations. Messi offered another brief nod, Ronaldo gave a subtle thumbs-up, and Alexis, Özil, and Wenger all converged with words of praise and smiles.
"You've made history tonight," Wenger said quietly, his hand on Francesco's shoulder steady, grounding, proud.
"Absolutely," Sánchez added, clapping him on the back. "You owned that room, hermano."
Özil's quiet approval followed. "You were perfect," he said.
Francesco nodded, still catching his breath from the exhilaration, and finally turned back to Leah, holding the award out toward her with a small grin.
"Here," he said gently, "hold it for me."
Leah's eyes sparkled with amusement and affection as she took the award. "You earned it," she whispered, glancing down at the glimmering trophy. "Not me."
"I know," he said softly, leaning his forehead lightly against hers, "but I want you to hold it, just for a second. You've been part of every goal, every moment of focus, every sacrifice. This is ours, too."
She held it carefully, the weight of the metal a tangible reminder of his triumph, her fingers brushing against his as she adjusted it slightly in her hands. Francesco watched her eyes, shining with pride, warmth, and shared excitement.
The room continued to buzz around them, flashes and applause blending into a living, breathing celebration. For Francesco, for Leah, for the people who had supported him and believed in him, this moment was crystallized: a memory to be revisited, a marker in time, a proof of what determination, love, and relentless pursuit of one's dreams could achieve.
As he settled back into his seat beside Leah, hand still gently entwined with hers, Francesco allowed himself the quiet thrill of recognition. The award glimmered softly in her hands, catching the stage lights in a hundred dancing reflections, and in that instant, everything with the years of hard work, the sacrifice, the sleepless nights, the dreams that aligned perfectly.
He glanced briefly toward Messi and Ronaldo, nodding respectfully again. Across the hall, he noticed Hazard, Bale, Benzema, Aguero, Suárez, and Neymar offering polite smiles and subtle acknowledgments. Each glance, each nod, each small gesture of respect carried the weight of shared understanding: they were all here as athletes, yes, but tonight, they were all witnesses to history.
Leah whispered softly, just for him, leaning her head against his shoulder, "You're going to remember tonight forever, aren't you?"
Francesco exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm. "I already do," he murmured, letting his gaze sweep across the stage, the crowd, the lights, the faces, and the sense of accomplishment settle into him. "Every second of it."
The applause continued, filling the hall with warmth, electricity, and recognition.
The applause for Francesco's FIFA Young Player Award hadn't yet faded when the host returned to the podium, eyes sparkling with the thrill of a night that promised more history. The soft golden glow of the stage lights reflected off the polished floor, bouncing into the audience like sparks of celebration. Every flash of a camera, every muted murmur of conversation, every ripple of anticipation felt like electricity threading through the room.
"Thank you," the host said smoothly, letting the audience's applause die down just enough to bring focus back to his words. "Next, we move to the FIFA Puskás Award. This award honors the most beautiful goal of the year, the strike that captures imagination, technical brilliance, and the sheer poetry of football in motion."
The audience leaned forward in anticipation, the hum of excitement vibrating subtly through the front rows. Francesco shifted slightly, feeling Leah's hand rest gently over his, her warmth anchoring him. He already knew what this could mean with the goal he had scored months ago that had everyone talking, the one where he had danced past five defenders before finishing with perfect composure, had become the stuff of highlight reels, the kind of goal that didn't just count for points, but counted for hearts.
"The nominees for the FIFA Puskás Award this year," the host continued, allowing the tension to stretch just a little, "are Mohamed Salah, Lionel Messi, and Francesco Lee."
A murmur ran through the audience. Heads turned, cameras angled toward the front rows. Francesco felt his pulse tick up in that familiar, exhilarating rhythm of expectation. He allowed himself a small, controlled breath. Leah squeezed his hand lightly, a silent affirmation of shared triumph.
"And the winner of the FIFA Puskás Award is…" The host's pause felt like the room itself inhaling, waiting for history to be spoken aloud.
"Francesco Lee!"
The reaction was immediate and overwhelming. Applause thundered, camera flashes erupted like fireworks, and Francesco felt a rush of warmth, a thrill so tangible it prickled at his skin. He turned toward Leah instinctively, pressing a quick, grateful kiss to her temple.
"Again?" she whispered with laughter, her eyes shining. "You did it again."
Francesco chuckled softly, the corners of his lips lifting. "We did it again," he corrected, letting the shared pronoun underline the partnership, the support, the journey that had brought them here.
As he rose from his seat, the front rows seemed almost to vibrate with the energy of the moment. Alexis Sánchez was the first to reach him, clapping him on the shoulder with enthusiasm. "I told you, hermano! Incredible!" Alexis's grin was wide, eyes alight with genuine joy.
Messi extended a firm hand, that same twinkle in his eye, nodding appreciatively. "A beautiful goal," he said softly, almost conversational, as if they were discussing a match rather than an award ceremony. Ronaldo's handshake followed, steady and professional, carrying a subtle acknowledgment of skill, of the competitive fire that drove every top-class player.
Francesco allowed himself a moment to bask in the acknowledgment before stepping onto the stage, the Puskás trophy waiting there, gleaming under the lights. The weight in his hands felt perfectly balanced, not just in kilograms, but in meaning. This award wasn't just recognition; it was proof that moments of artistry in sport, moments of pure imagination and courage, could be celebrated just as loudly as long seasons and team victories.
When he faced the audience, the applause still rolling, he held the trophy carefully, speaking slowly, deliberately, letting each word land.
"Thank you," he said, voice steady and calm, carrying warmth rather than theatrics. "To my teammates, whose trust and movement made every play possible. To the defenders, whose challenge inspired me to push further. And to the fans, who cheer, who celebrate, who make every moment on the pitch worth it as this goal, this award, is as much yours as it is mine."
The applause built, rising into a tide of appreciation. Francesco stepped down, careful on the stage steps, glancing toward Leah. She was already smiling, her eyes alight with pride and delight, holding the trophy with both hands as if cradling something precious.
He pressed a quick, playful kiss to her cheek. "Yours to hold for a while," he whispered. "You earned it too."
The room buzzed with energy as the host returned to the podium, clearly delighted at the evening's momentum. "Now, we move to the Best Coach category," he announced, voice warm but charged with authority. "This award recognizes those who have not only led their teams to victories, but have shaped players, inspired strategies, and left a mark on the game that will last generations."
The audience leaned in, the gravity of the category clear. Coaches weren't just tacticians, they were architects of legacies. Francesco's gaze shifted briefly toward Arsène Wenger, who was sitting composed yet alert, a quiet, dignified pride already radiating from him. Alexis and Özil, seated nearby, shared subtle nods with Francesco, almost conspiratorial, acknowledging that the man beside them had shaped their careers in profound ways.
"The nominees for Best Coach this year," the host continued, "are Arsène Wenger, Roy Hodgson, and Zinedine Zidane."
The room broke into a subdued murmur. Wenger's calm gaze swept over the crowd, understated but commanding. There was no doubt in Francesco's mind about the weight of his manager's achievements with the treble, the unbeaten Premier League run, the careful cultivation of talent, the patience and vision that had elevated an entire squad.
"And the winner," the host continued, "is… Arsène Wenger!"
The audience erupted, standing applause rolling across the hall like waves against a shore. Wenger rose gracefully, his expression composed yet touched by the unmistakable warmth of recognition. Francesco found himself clapping the hardest, his eyes shining with admiration. Alexis patted him on the back, Özil leaned forward to offer a quiet, "Well done, boss," and even Messi and Ronaldo, acknowledging the coach's legacy, offered respectful nods.
Wenger approached the stage with careful dignity, shaking hands with the host before accepting the award. The applause and camera flashes intensified as he delivered a short speech, understated yet resonant. He spoke of teamwork, discipline, vision, and the joy of guiding players to reach their potential, his words weaving a tapestry of mentorship and inspiration that seemed to fill the hall.
Francesco, back in his seat, felt a surge of gratitude. Wenger had been more than a manager; he had been a guide, a calm force in the storm of pressure and expectation, a constant belief in the capabilities of the young striker beside him. He caught Wenger's eye, nodding respectfully, and Wenger returned the gesture with a quiet, approving smile.
The evening's rhythm carried on, shifting seamlessly to the next category. "And now," the host announced, "we honor the pioneers of the women's game with the Ballon d'Or Féminin."
The audience shifted, attention drawing to the inspiring narratives of the women nominees. "The nominees this year are Carli Lloyd, Ada Hegerberg, and Amandine Henry." The announcement drew appreciative applause, acknowledgment of excellence that had shaped women's football and inspired countless aspiring players worldwide.
The host let the tension build just enough before continuing. "And the winner of the Ballon d'Or Féminin is… Carli Lloyd!"
The applause was immediate and thunderous. Carli Lloyd rose gracefully, a figure of elegance and power, shaking hands with the host and accepting her award with dignity and joy. The audience's cheers spoke not just to her skill, but to the barriers she had broken, the standards she had raised, and the inspiration she provided to countless players, male and female alike.
Francesco leaned slightly to Leah, whispering softly, "History is everywhere tonight."
Leah nodded, eyes glimmering. "And we get to witness it all."
The awards continued, each announcement a pulse of the evening's heartbeat, each recognition a note in the symphony of football's history. Francesco held his gaze steady, his presence composed but vibrant, the victories, both personal and shared, painting the night with color, light, and the quiet thrill of anticipation.
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Name : 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: 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