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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.
The host stepped back toward center stage with the practiced grace of a man who understood the weight of history. The orchestral music softened into something slow, suspenseful, almost tender. The lights dimmed until only the stage glowed bright gold with the Ballon d'Or gold that reflecting off the polished floor like a sunrise about to break.
It was time.
Francesco felt it before the words were even spoken.
A shift.
A tightening in the air.
A hush that wasn't silence, but expectation collected into something heavy enough to rest on every shoulder in the room.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the host said, his voice steady but warm, "we have reached the moment many of you have been waiting for. The final category of the evening. The most prestigious individual award in world football."
The audience didn't cheer. Not yet.
They leaned forward.
They held their breath.
The big screen behind the host flickered awake, the Ballon d'Or logo spinning in molten gold before transitioning into the three faces that defined the football world for the year.
Lionel Messi.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
Francesco Lee.
A ripple ran across the auditorium with soft gasps, murmurs, the tap of a camera shutter trying to catch the precise second Francesco's face appeared ten meters tall.
Beside him, Leah's fingers slipped between his again.
He hadn't realized how tense his hand was until she squeezed it, grounding him with that quiet strength she seemed to carry so effortlessly.
He exhaled, the breath shaky but controlled.
Wenger who sit behind him, leaned slightly toward him without looking away from the stage. "No matter what happens," he said softly, "you've already made history."
Francesco swallowed. "Thank you, boss."
But deep down, deep deep down… he knew.
Everyone knew.
A treble with Arsenal.
A historic season.
Breaking records.
Carrying England to their first major trophy in half a century.
It wasn't arrogance.
It wasn't entitlement.
It was simply reality.
Still… his chest tightened, and his heartbeat thumped just a little too loudly in his ears.
Winning the Young Player Award was one thing.
The Puskás Award was another.
But the Ballon d'Or?
That was the summit.
The Everest of football dreams.
The ultimate testament that your season wasn't just exceptional, it was immortal.
On the screen, Messi's highlights rolled first with his silken dribbles, that signature drop of the shoulder, that impossibly sharp left foot cutting through defenses that looked helpless against him. Every touch looked like a brushstroke on a moving canvas.
Then Ronaldo that leaping above defenders with monstrous hang-time, powering shots from impossible angles, sheer force of nature, sheer refusal to age or bend or slow down.
And then…
Francesco.
The stadiums blurred past:
The Emirates in full eruption as he bent a shot into the top corner.
Stade de France shaking when he sprinted across the pitch after scoring the winning goal in the Euros.
The Champions League nights where he danced past defenders as if gravity didn't apply to him.
Goal after goal.
Assist after assist.
Moment after moment.
His entire year, condensed into sixty seconds, but hitting him with the force of a lifetime.
Leah's thumb rubbed small circles across the back of his hand, something gentle, something almost private amidst the roar of applause that followed his highlight reel.
He looked at her then, really looked.
She wasn't smiling because he was famous.
Or winning.
Or becoming what the world wanted him to be.
She was smiling because he was him.
Her Francesco.
The boy who woke up early to train even when exhausted.
The man who cooked for her on days she was sore from matches.
The man who still laughed awkwardly when kids asked for selfies.
She squeezed his hand again.
"You deserve it," she whispered.
His chest tightened that not with nerves now, but with emotion so warm it felt molten.
He didn't speak.
He just nodded.
On the other side, Sánchez leaned in, tapping Francesco's knee lightly. "Hermano," he murmured, "if you don't win, I am walking out of this ceremony." He jerked a thumb toward the stage. "With the trophy."
Özil chuckled, his calm, velvet voice adding, "He's not joking."
Francesco cracked the smallest smile.
But inside, his stomach was twisting itself into complicated knots.
The host lifted the golden envelope that thick, shimmering, almost theatrical.
"And now… the Ballon d'Or 2016," he announced slowly, savoring the moment the way a storyteller savors the final line of a great tale. "The nominees: Lionel Messi. Cristiano Ronaldo. Francesco Lee."
The applause swelled again, respectful but infused with tension. Somewhere in the balcony section, someone shouted "COME ON, FRANCESCO!" and the room laughed lightly.
Francesco didn't move.
Couldn't move.
The host broke the seal.
The room held its breath.
Francesco's heartbeat roared in his ears like thunder rolling across open sky.
He felt Leah's hand tighten around his, she wasn't breathing either.
Sánchez whispered a rapid prayer in Spanish under his breath.
Özil clasped his hands together, elbows on his knees, leaning forward.
Wenger exhaled softly, almost inaudibly, but his eyes… his eyes were glowing with that old, unmistakable pride of a man watching a story he'd quietly believed in all along reach its crescendo.
The host inhaled slowly, and even that tiny motion felt loud enough to echo through the auditorium.
Francesco could feel everything.
The warmth of Leah's hand.
The weightless tremble in his chest.
The way the entire ballroom seemed to tilt forward as if drawn by gravity toward the single slip of paper inside that envelope.
Messi's jaw tightened, just slightly, as the spotlight brushed his face. He wasn't nervous, not in the way Francesco was, but there was something like a flicker of hope with the kind only legends still carried even after winning everything. Because even though he knew he wasn't the favorite tonight… Messi was a competitor. Hope was part of him. A flicker refusing to die.
Ronaldo, on the other side, adjusted the cuff of his suit jacket, his expression carved from stone but his eyes alive. He'd had a season strong enough that in any other era, it might have been enough. Champions League final. A heroic Euro run. A mountain of goals. Even if logic suggested the award belonged to someone else, that stubborn flame inside him, the one that made him Cristiano Ronaldo that still burned.
But all three men, despite their hopes, despite the tiny sparks that refused to go out, knew the truth the world knew:
This was Francesco's year.
The host lifted the card.
Time didn't slow, it simply collapsed. Poured through Francesco's ears like sand drying out the world.
The host's eyes flicked across the card, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips that not surprise, not shock, but satisfaction. The kind of expression someone wore when witnessing destiny unfold.
"The winner of the 2016 Ballon d'Or," he announced, letting his voice rise just a little, enough to let the syllables float above the audience like glimmering gold dust, "is…"
A heartbeat.
Another.
Leah's grip tightened.
The air tensed.
"… Francesco Lee!"
The room exploded.
Not with applause, with emotion.
A wall of sound crashed into him. Applause. Cheers. Gasps. Shouts from the balcony. Camera shutters firing like fireworks. The kind of eruption that didn't just fill a space, it shook it.
Francesco froze.
For half a second, he simply sat there, eyes widened, breath caught in his throat as if his body couldn't process the reality.
He won.
He actually won.
Even though he expected it…
Even though the whole world expected it…
The moment still hit him like a bolt of lightning burning straight through his chest.
Leah was the first to move.
She let out a soft, breathless laugh that half joy, half disbelief and threw her arms around him. Her perfume, warm and familiar, wrapped around him as the audience rose in a standing ovation.
He hugged her back tightly, burying his face briefly against her neck, a smile breaking uncontrollably across his face. His chest shook. Not with nerves now, but something far deeper with gratitude, disbelief, the weight of everything he'd worked for.
When they parted, her hands framed his face for a brief second. Her eyes shone, wet at the edges.
"You did it," she whispered. "You really did it."
He couldn't speak, so he kissed her forehead before rising.
Özil was already standing, wearing that soft smile he rarely showed unless something truly moved him. "Congratulations, mate," he said quietly, pulling him in for a quick embrace. "You deserved it. Completely."
Sánchez slapped both of Francesco's shoulders with an enthusiastic force that almost spun him around. "HERMANO! The world is yours!" he laughed, hugging him tight. "I told you! I told you! This is your era!"
Wenger stood next.
No wild grin.
No loud celebration.
Just that serene, gentle smile that the one he reserved for moments when life gave him proof that patience and belief had meaning.
"I am proud of you," he said simply. "More than you know."
He rested a hand on Francesco's forearm that firm, fatherly, steady.
"This is only the beginning."
Francesco felt something in his chest twist, warm and overwhelming.
And then, Messi and Ronaldo.
Two titans he had admired since he was a child. Two legends who had defined an era.
They approached at the same time.
Messi reached out his hand first, his expression calm, respectful, but with a real, sincere smile. "Felicidades," he said softly. "You earned it. Enjoy this moment, it's special."
Ronaldo shook his hand next, firm grip, sharp gaze, competitive fire still burning. "Congratulations," he said. "Make sure you keep working. One season doesn't define a career."
Francesco nodded, smiling. "Thank you. Both of you. It means a lot."
Ronaldo gave him a small smirk. "Don't enjoy it too much. I'm coming back next year."
Messi nudged Ronaldo lightly with his elbow. "We all will."
The respect in their eyes, that meant almost as much as the trophy itself.
Finally, with the applause continuing like a rolling wave, Francesco made his way toward the stage.
His legs felt warm, almost weightless.
His heartbeat still wild.
But his steps were steady.
The host met him at the center with an enormous smile, shaking his hand firmly. "Congratulations, Francesco. What a year. What a journey."
Then he gestured toward the pedestal.
The Ballon d'Or.
Bright.
Golden.
Glowing under the lights like a second sun.
The host handed it over.
It was heavier than he expected.
Heavy with history.
Heavy with meaning.
Heavy with the weight of every boyhood dream he'd once chased on dusty pitches with nothing but hope and a ball.
He held it close, hands trembling slightly.
The applause softened into a more respectful hush, the kind that carried admiration and awe.
The microphone waited.
He stepped forward.
He inhaled.
But when he opened his mouth, the words stumbled.
His voice cracked but not with nerves, but emotion raw enough to be heard in the first syllable.
"Wow…" He laughed softly under his breath, trying to steady himself, but the tremble in his chest wouldn't settle. "I… I don't even know where to start."
The audience chuckled warmly.
He swallowed, gripping the trophy tighter to stabilize himself.
"First of all… thank you. To everyone who voted for me. Everyone who believed I deserved this. Thank you… truly."
His breath caught for a moment, emotion pressing hard at his throat.
"To the people who chose me… I hope I made you proud this year."
More applause. Supportive. Encouraging.
He exhaled shakily.
Then the next words approached, the ones he knew would break him a little.
"I want to say thank you to my parents…"
His voice cracked.
He looked down at the trophy, blinking rapidly as his chest tightened.
"My mum, my dad… everything I am started with you. Every sacrifice, every ride to training, every moment you believed in me when no one else did… this is yours as much as it's mine."
A few sniffles echoed through the audience.
He cleared his throat softly, wiping a quick tear from the corner of his eye before it could fall.
"And… Leah."
He turned slightly, eyes finding her instantly in the front row.
She stood there, one hand over her mouth, tears already slipping down her cheeks.
He smiled or something close to a smile, because his lips trembled too much for it to form properly.
"Thank you… for being my anchor. For holding my hand through the good days, the bad days… for believing in me, even when I was exhausted or scared or unsure. I wouldn't be here without you."
She nodded slowly, mouthing the words, I love you.
He breathed out, almost losing himself again.
Then he steadied himself for the next names.
"To coach Wenger… the coaching staff… my teammates…"
His voice warmed, steadied by the memories of a season that felt like magic.
"You helped shape me. You taught me how to grow. You pushed me when I needed pushing, supported me when I faltered, and believed in me in ways I didn't always believe in myself."
He glanced toward the Arsenal table, the players cheering, clapping, some wiping their eyes even the tough ones.
"To Arsenal's management," he continued, "thank you for trusting me, for giving me the chance to be part of this incredible club, for letting me dream bigger than I ever thought possible."
Another wave of applause.
His chest tightened again, one last time for the people he hadn't mentioned yet.
"And finally… to the fans."
The applause swelled the largest it had been yet.
He nodded slowly, eyes shimmering, voice thick but full.
"To every single fan from Arsenal fans, England fans, football fans all around the world, thank you. For the energy. For the belief. For the moments you celebrate with us and the moments you cry with us."
He lifted the Ballon d'Or slightly, not high, but enough that the light hit it just right.
"This trophy is not just mine. It belongs to all of us."
The room erupted again.
A standing ovation, but deeper that just not a polite ceremony applause, but gratitude, joy, pride, reverence.
He stepped back slightly, giving a small bow, trying desperately to control his breathing because the emotions were hitting him harder now than the actual announcement.
He had done it.
He was now part of football history.
Not just in a chapter, but in the golden pages.
And as the applause continued to thunder around him, he closed his eyes for the briefest moment.
He saw everything.
The boy he used to be.
The dreams he used to hold.
The nights he trained alone.
The mornings he woke before sunrise.
The heartbreaks.
The failures.
The victories.
The sacrifices.
The love.
The belief.
The journey.
And above all, the people who walked with him.
When he opened his eyes again, he looked at Leah first.
She smiled through tears.
He smiled back.
The lights glowed softer now, the host preparing to close the ceremony, but the applause still rolled on, refusing to end.
Francesco stepped away from the microphone, clutching the Ballon d'Or tightly against his chest as he began the walk back toward his seat.
The applause still thundered in the hall, rolling like a living wave that refused to settle, even as Francesco descended the last few steps toward his table. The golden trophy hugged against his chest felt impossibly warm now that not just from the stage lights but from the emotions radiating out of him like a second heartbeat. His fingers curled around its smooth surface, grounding him, anchoring him, reminding him that this weight was real, that this night was real, that the world he'd stepped into this world of legends, history, immortality was no dream.
He finally reached his seat, where Leah stood the moment he appeared, unable to wait. Her eyes shone with fresh tears, and for a second she didn't say anything. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him with an intensity that almost stole his breath. He buried his face in her shoulder, laughing breathlessly, the trophy pressed between them awkwardly but neither of them cared. For a moment, they weren't Francesco the star and Leah the Arsenal Women's standout, they were just two young people who had lived through a storm of expectations, pressure, hopes, and noise… and somehow reached a horizon brighter than either ever dared imagine.
He could feel her tears dampen his collar.
"You did it," she whispered again, voice trembling. "You really, really did it."
This time, he whispered back, voice so raw it almost broke, "We did it."
Sánchez pulled him into a bear hug next, practically lifting him off the ground, shouting something unintelligible in Spanish that made the nearby tables burst into laughter. Bellerín slapped the back of Francesco's head gently with playfully, affectionately as if to say wake up, superstar, this is your life now. Ozil hugged him with a proud shake of the head, like an older brother who always knew the kid would someday become the hero he was meant to be. Wenger, the calmest man on earth, pulled him in and murmured, "Enjoy this moment… they don't come often," with a warmth that made Francesco feel ten again.
He hadn't even sat down when the host's voice came back through the speakers, calling the hall to settle. The applause softened but didn't fully die, fading into a respectful hush, like the room was collectively catching its breath after witnessing a miracle.
The host, smiling like a man who just had the honor of announcing a new chapter in football history, adjusted the papers in his hand.
"And now," he said, glancing meaningfully across the hall, "as tradition calls, we will reveal the full voting results for this year's Ballon d'Or."
The air shifted. Not tense as everyone already knew who won, but attentive, curious. This was the moment the world would see just how dominant the winner's year had been.
The host lifted the card again.
His voice carried across the room with a clear, ringing tone.
"In first place, with an incredible total of 782 points…"
Another murmur spread through the auditorium. Even expecting a landslide, the number was stunning. Monumental. Almost impossible.
"… Francesco Lee."
A fresh wave of applause burst out, shaking the hall again. Francesco's heart lurched, the trophy in his hands growing heavier as the reality deepened. Leah grabbed his hand beneath the table in a silent squeeze of pride.
The host continued:
"Clubs: Arsenal, England
Achievements: Treble winner with Arsenal and UEFA Euro 2016 winner with England."
The hall erupted again. Cameras clicked rapidly. Someone in the balcony shouted, "GO ON, FRANCESCO!" with such joy it made Francesco laugh under his breath.
He felt Messi's gaze from the front row that calm, respectful, a small smile on his lips. Ronaldo's expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of something close to admiration buried deep in his eyes. They weren't just hearing numbers. They were recognizing a seismic shift in football.
The host lifted the next card.
"In second place, with 286 points…"
A smaller, polite applause rippled through the room with respectful, but undeniably overshadowed.
"… Cristiano Ronaldo."
Cristiano adjusted his posture with that natural dignity he carried everywhere, nodding slightly as the hall applauded. He gave Francesco a brief glance, the kind that acknowledged defeat without bitterness, even if the competitor in him bristled quietly. Portugal's Euro semifinal run. Real Madrid reaching the Champions League final. In any other year, those achievements would have placed him in a heated race for the top. But not in this year. Not in Francesco's year.
"Clubs: Real Madrid, Portugal
Achievements: Champions League runner up and Euro semifinal with Portugal."
The applause grew slightly as people respected greatness when they saw it, even in second place.
The host moved to the final card.
"And in third place, with 200 points…"
The room already knew, but tradition guided the flow.
"… Lionel Messi."
Messi offered a gentle nod as applause filled the hall again. He didn't seem disappointed. If anything, he looked almost proud as if witnessing a younger generation step into the light brought him a kind of quiet satisfaction. Barcelona fans in the upper balcony cheered loudly, waving small flags even though they knew the night belonged to someone else.
"Clubs: FC Barcelona, Argentina
Achievements: La Liga champion with Barcelona."
The applause settled gradually, softening into murmurs and scattered flashes from cameras that never seemed to stop firing.
The host lowered the cards, clasped his hands together, and allowed a short pause, as if letting the weight of the numbers sink into the walls of the auditorium.
Then he smiled.
"Ladies and gentlemen… once again, congratulations to our winner, Francesco Lee, who has officially become the youngest Ballon d'Or winner in history at just 18 years old."
A collective intake of breath swept across the room even though everyone knew his age, hearing it said aloud in this context struck differently.
The host continued, his tone laced with awe:
"He breaks the previous record held by Ronaldo Nazário, who won at 21 years old… a record many believed would stand forever."
A gasp peppered the applause as people absorbed the magnitude of what they were witnessing. Journalists scribbled furiously. Commentators exchanged wide-eyed glances. Even players as men who had lived through their own historic nights, looked stunned.
"Eighteen years old," the host repeated with a soft laugh of disbelief. "An achievement that may stand untouched for generations."
The room exploded again into applause that deafening, emotional, thunderous applause that felt like it shook the very foundations of the auditorium.
Francesco sat frozen for a moment.
Not because he was overwhelmed even though he was, deeply but because something inside him shifted. Not a loud shift, but something quiet, profound, like the soft click of a lock opening after years of pressure.
He had entered the ceremony knowing he had won.
But this…
This felt different.
This felt like stepping onto a mountaintop he had only ever stared at from a distance. Like opening a door and seeing the world stretch wider than he ever imagined. Like realizing he wasn't just part of football history, he had changed it.
Leah leaned into him, her shoulder touching his, her voice barely above a whisper. "Francesco… this is insane. You're eighteen. Do you understand what you've done?"
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight again. "I don't know," he whispered honestly. "I really don't."
Sánchez leaned over him while laughing hysterically. "BRO. EIGHTEEN. WHAT DID THEY FEED YOU AS A CHILD?!"
Ozil then slapped Francesco shoulder and shook his head. "Record breaker. Superstar. And still the same guy who steals my hair ties."
Ramsey snorted. "We're never hearing the end of this, are we?"
Wenger who seated slightly apart, as dignified as always with simply watched him with that warm, paternal smile, the kind that said more than any words ever could. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, but his eyes were soft, proud, shimmering with the quiet knowledge that he had helped shape this moment. Not control it. Not claim it. Just guide it.
Ronaldo leaned toward Messi at their seat and whispered something that Messi chuckled softly. Then both glanced toward Francesco with half-smiles, as if admitting privately, The kid is unbelievable.
The applause began fading again as the host regained the audience's attention and launched into the closing remarks of the ceremony. Cameras swiveled, lights shifted, a few journalists prepared their microphones for immediate post-event reactions. The entire hall hummed with a cocktail of admiration and disbelief.
Francesco took a slow, steady breath.
He looked at the trophy in his hands as the golden sphere reflecting the cascade of lights above, his own faint reflection warped and shimmering in its curved surface.
The weight of it settled deeper into his palms.
He was the youngest Ballon d'Or winner ever.
He was a treble winner with Arsenal.
He was a European champion with England.
He was the new king of world football.
At eighteen.
The world had just shifted around him, and somehow he remained sitting at a round table with people he loved, in a suit slightly too warm, trying to remember how to breathe properly.
The host, still smiling, turned toward the audience one last time.
"Once again, congratulations to this extraordinary young man," he said, gesturing gently toward Francesco. "A historic winner. A deserving champion. And perhaps… the beginning of a new era in world football."
The room applauded again that lighter this time, more melodic, like a curtain call.
Cameras turned toward him once more. He straightened in his chair instinctively half out of respect, half because his body responded to the weight of history being acknowledged.
Leah squeezed his hand again under the table, grounding him back into the moment. Her thumb brushed over his knuckles softly.
He turned to look at her.
The lights glowed behind her hair, giving her almost a halo. Her eyes were still watery but bright, so full of pride it made something in his chest ache. In the best way.
"I'm so proud of you," she whispered.
He didn't trust himself to speak without shaking apart, so he leaned in and rested his forehead against hers for a brief moment. That contact, simple and soft, steadied him better than any applause ever could.
When he pulled back, he saw Wenger stand from the corner of his eye. The manager approached him, leaning slightly so their conversation remained private.
"You handled that beautifully," Wenger said gently.
Francesco blinked, surprised. "I felt like I was shaking the whole time."
Wenger chuckled quietly. "That's how you know it mattered."
The warmth in those words melted something inside him.
"You've earned this," Wenger continued. "Not just with goals. Not just with trophies. But with the man you are becoming. Humble. Driven. Focused. And generous with those around you."
Francesco lowered his gaze for a moment, overwhelmed.
Wenger placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder again. "Remember this feeling… but don't cling to it. Let it inspire you. Let it guide you. But never let it blind you."
Francesco nodded slowly. "I won't."
"I know," Wenger said with a smile. "That's why you're here tonight."
The ceremony's lights dimmed slightly as the final transitions began. Staff moved quietly around the edges of the hall. Reporters gathered near the exit where interviews would soon take place. The orchestra began playing a soft, elegant piece as the event entered its final moments.
The orchestra's soft melody drifted through the hall like a warm breeze, smoothing the lingering noise of applause, camera shutters, and excited murmurs. Francesco felt the world finally begin to slow that not in a dull way, but in the gentle, glowing aftertaste of greatness. The golden trophy still sat firmly in his hands, its warmth pressing into his palms like a heartbeat that wasn't fully his own.
He turned to Leah, who was still cradling his arm, her cheeks glowing, her eyelashes still carrying the remnants of her tears. His two awards which the Young Player of the Year and the Puskás Award are rested safely on the Leah lap, their polished surfaces reflecting the lights with quiet pride.
Francesco exhaled softly.
Then something sparked in him, an idea that brought a boyish grin across his face.
"Sánchez," he said suddenly, tapping Alexis' shoulder with the back of his hand.
Alexis turned, mid-laugh with Bellerín about something probably ridiculous. "Hmm? What is it, campeón?"
"Come here, take a picture of us," Francesco said, nodding toward the stage behind them. "In front of the backdrop. Me and Leah. With the trophies."
Alexis' face lit up immediately. "Sí, sí, of course! Come on, let's go before the crowd blocks everything."
Leah laughed quietly, her hand instinctively gliding to Francesco's. "You and your photos…"
"You're holding three trophies," Francesco said, nudging her playfully. "I'm legally obligated to show the world my girlfriend is the real goat."
She rolled her eyes affectionately, but her smile betrayed her. "Alright, fine."
They stood from the table together, and Francesco tightened his grip on the Ballon d'Or trophy as if afraid the dream might slip out of his fingers. His other hand found Leah's waist naturally, sliding around her with that instinctive protectiveness that seemed to grow with every second he spent beside her.
The two walked toward the front of the stage. The lights glimmered behind them that gold, blue, and warm white—casting a soft halo over their silhouettes. People moved aside politely, whispering and smiling, some even lifting their phones to capture Francesco and Leah as they passed by.
Sánchez followed behind them, already holding Francesco's phone like it was some priceless artifact. "Damn, you put a lock on this? What is this? Face ID? Fingerprint? Voice recognition? Blood sample?"
"Just open the camera, Alexis."
"I'm trying! The thing keeps asking me to blink in morse code."
Leah burst out laughing.
Francesco snorted. "Give it here."
He took the phone, tapped twice, and handed it back already on the camera app.
Alexis whistled softly. "Right, right… young people technology."
Francesco shook his head smiling, then turned to Leah as they positioned themselves just in front of the golden Ballon d'Or backdrop. She lifted his two trophies with a mix of pride and disbelief, while he shifted his grip on his own, placing his other hand around her waist, pulling her a little closer. Their bodies fit together effortlessly, like two pieces of a story that were always meant to touch.
Leah turned her face slightly toward him.
He met her eyes.
A silent moment passed that soft, warm, full of meaning neither could express out loud yet.
Then Sánchez squatted down slightly, adjusting the angle like some professional photographer who had been preparing his whole life for this moment.
"Alright lovebirds, get ready. This is going to be all over Instagram, Twitter, newspapers, every teenager's wallpaper… okay, smile!"
They did.
Not the practiced athlete smile.
Not the actor smile.
A real one.
Bright. Alive. Vulnerable. Joyful.
The flash went off twice.
"ONE MORE!" Sánchez shouted dramatically like a man directing a Vogue cover. "Give me something iconic! Francesco, chin up! Leah angle the trophy slightly! Yes! Yesssss! Beautiful!"
Leah couldn't stop laughing. "Alexis, oh my God, stop—"
"PERFECTION," he declared, hitting the shutter one last time like he was signing a masterpiece.
Francesco breathed out slowly, pressing a quick kiss to Leah's forehead with the kind of soft, fleeting moment that somehow felt louder than the applause earlier. She leaned into him naturally, sighing through her smile.
"Let me see," she asked.
But before Francesco could even check the photos, another thought hit him, one that spread warmth across his chest.
"Leah," he murmured, turning to her. "Can you take one more? Of me… with Wenger, Özil, and Alexis?"
Her smile softened, eyes twinkling. "Of course. Go get them."
He nodded, squeezing her hand once before jogging a few steps back toward the table.
Wenger was still standing, speaking quietly to Mesut and Bellerín. Özil noticed Francesco approach first and grinned.
"Picture time?" Özil asked, raising an eyebrow knowingly.
"With you? Always," Francesco said.
Mesut chuckled in that soft, understated way that always made Francesco think of old films and older wisdom. "Let's go then."
Wenger lifted his head, noticing the three of them approaching. "Ah," he said gently, "a photo. Yes, we must document this night properly."
His voice held that quiet pride, the kind that never needed to be shouted to be felt.
"Where's Alexis?" Francesco asked, looking around.
"Here!" Sánchez jogged over dramatically from behind them, nearly slipping because he refused to walk anywhere without chaos.
"You okay there?" Bellerín called out.
"No," Sánchez answered breathlessly, "but it doesn't matter. Francesco needs me."
Francesco laughed so hard he nearly dropped the trophy.
They all gathered again in front of the Ballon d'Or backdrop, where Leah already stood waiting with his phone in her hands, her smile blooming the moment they reached her.
"Alright," she said, lifting the phone. "Positions, gentlemen."
Wenger stepped to Francesco's left that calm, composed, proud. His hands folded lightly behind his back, that soft spark in his eyes hidden behind the glasses.
Özil took the right side, draping an arm loosely around Francesco's shoulder with the ease of someone who had led him through his earliest, toughest Arsenal days.
And Sánchez, of course, planted himself next to Özil, hooking an arm around Mesut's shoulder and giving a thumbs-up with his free hand like some chaotic uncle in a family photo.
"Everybody ready?" Leah asked.
"Wait," Wenger murmured, adjusting his jacket slightly. "There."
Sánchez leaned closer to whisper loudly, "Boss activating boss mode."
"Shut up," Özil muttered, but he smiled.
Francesco swallowed, the emotion rising in him again. He lifted the Ballon d'Or trophy higher so it caught the glow of the lights, and as he stood between Wenger and Özil—with Sánchez grinning wildly beside them—he felt a sense of belonging that ran deeper than anything he had ever known.
"Smile," Leah said softly.
They did.
Click.
Then another.
Click.
She lowered the phone slowly, letting the moment settle in the air like gold dust.
"You got it?" Francesco asked gently.
Leah nodded. "I got everything."
He took the phone from her, glancing at the photos only briefly, because even with the trophies, the lights, the historic night… the thing that made his chest tighten the most was the way she looked at him as he looked back up.
Proud.
Loving.
Certain of him in a way that made the world feel steady.
"Thank you," he whispered.
She shook her head slightly. "You don't need to thank me for anything."
Wenger stepped forward again, resting a hand on Francesco's shoulder. "These photos," he said warmly, "you will treasure for the rest of your life."
Francesco nodded. "I know."
"And take many more tonight," Wenger added gently. "Because days like this… they pass quickly. But the memories last."
"Come," Wenger then said softly, "let's sit a moment before interviews begin."
Francesco felt something hit him that not like a punch, but like a deep internal shift. Relief. Gratitude. A realization heavier than the trophy in his hands: that he had not reached this height alone. These people or this family, had held him up in ways he hadn't always seen.
________________________________________________
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