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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 movements.
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 some 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 member 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 something 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 mention 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 time," Wenger said from his corner of the room, voice quiet but firm. "You've earned the moment."
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 smell 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 emerged 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 acknowledgment, 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 cameraman adjusting his lens, and the interviewer flipping through a small notebook.
The cameraman glanced over as Francesco approached. "Give me 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 camera's live."
Francesco shook his hand firmly. "Thank you. Team played brilliantly today."
The interviewer chuckled. "We'll get to that."
The cameraman lifted a hand.
"We're good. Rolling in five…"
A subtle shift happened inside Francesco. Not nerves. Not anxiety. Just an adjustment, like switching gears in a car he'd been driving his whole life. The match intensity melted into a calm, composed professionalism.
"…three, two, one. And we're live."
The interviewer straightened, smile tightening into camera 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 time 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 moment it left your foot?"
Francesco smiled faintly. "You can never be completely sure. But I hit it clean. Alexis gave me a perfect pass, and once I got the first touch right, I just focused on staying calm. Aim low, far corner. The moment it touched the post… I knew. That sound is something footballers live for."
"You seemed 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, Mesut… was that part of the plan?"
"Yes," Francesco answered honestly. "Wenger told me at halftime 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 me, space opens behind. When they don't, I get the ball. Either way, someone benefits."
The interviewer's brows lifted. "Very articulate reading of the game. 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 come in and fight. I trust Gnabry to bring energy. At 5–0, it was smart management. 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 me proud."
The interviewer flipped a page.
"Let's talk mentality. Six goals is a statement. Do you think this sends a message 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 game 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 camera even went live. He straightened a little, the practiced neutrality slipping into something closer to genuine curiosity. Even the cameraman 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 home was waiting for. "This is your first Premier League match since winning the Ballon d'Or. Your first appearance as officially and undisputedly became the best player on the planet."
He gestured subtly off-camera.
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 gleamed. Enough so the viewers watching at home 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 camera operator, the two assistants, even the last dozen fans in the nearby stand who realized what was happening and began to shout his name again in a rising chorus.
He felt the cold air on his face, the lingering burn in his lungs from the match, and somewhere deep in his chest, the echo of that night in Zurich with the moment his name was called, the moment applause washed over him like a wave, the moment 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. Something 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 name.
"I carried that dream with me everywhere," he said. "Through youth teams, through injuries, through hard days, through the moments I doubted myself. And then… the night they called my name? It was like all those memories lined up behind me, reminding me 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, momentarily taken aback not by arrogance, but by the sincerity and clarity of the statement.
Because there was no bragging in Francesco's voice.
Just conviction.
A quiet kind of defiance meant 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 moment, 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 home 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 something like the Ballon d'Or, things don't get easier. They get heavier. Your name becomes more than your name. It becomes expectations. It becomes conversation. It becomes 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 game 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 moment like for you? Seeing the Emirates rise to its feet for you?"
For a moment, Francesco struggled to find words.
Because the truth was, he had nearly choked.
He remembered walking out behind the referee, trophy carried beside him, the golden surface catching the stadium lights like a second sun. He remembered looking up into the stands, seeing tens of thousands of fans in red and white standing, clapping, cheering his name.
He remembered the roar.
Remembered how Leah had texted him, I'm crying watching this on TV.
Remembered 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 home."
The interviewer's expression softened.
"Arsenal is where I became the player I am," Francesco continued. "Where I became the man I am. These fans… they've pushed me, lifted me, believed in me 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 me showing off. That was me saying thank you. Thank you for every chant, every message, every moment they stood with me. 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 camera. "the Premier League's newest Ballon d'Or winner, Francesco Lee."
The cameraman signaled the cutoff.
"We're clear," he said.
The interviewer immediately 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 time.
"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 equipment, analysts huddling around monitors, security walking their rounds.
As he moved through the corridor, shoulders finally settling from the intensity of the cameras, 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 mentally?
His mind was blazing.
Like something had been lit inside him the moment 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 moment.
He wanted to be an era.
As he stepped back into the dressing room, the warmth hit him immediately, 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 me, 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 moment, 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.
"Come," he said quietly, almost gently. "Join me 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 media 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 comedy act on stage.
Bellerín whistled dramatically. "Press conference with the gaffer? That's when you know you're levels above."
Mesut, seated with a towel over his head, looked up with that sleepy, amused expression. "Be calm," he deadpanned. "They'll ask you something 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 something 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 equipment 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 hummed 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, camera crews, men in suits holding coffee cups, laptops, and stress in equal measure. A sign with an arrow pointed the way:
MEDIA 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 immediately:
"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 some familiar faces in the crowd. A few nodded back with a mutual respect, even if some of them had written harsh headlines in past months. That was the dance. That was football.
The Arsenal media 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 gentlemen, 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 immediately.
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 movement 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 embarrassment, 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 time 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 moment.
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 meaningful. But I'm still the same footballer who comes 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 statement 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, cameras 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 mentality? The expectations?"
Wenger smiled faintly. "The effect is positive. Fame 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 moment that changed the entire dynamic came 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 Messi 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.
Cameras angled forward.
Francesco inhaled slowly.
He knew this question would come someday.
He just didn't know it would come today.
He leaned toward the mic, voice steady.
"Messi 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 game 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 Messi. 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 meant 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, dimmer corridor.
The corridor outside the press room was quieter than the media 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 measured as always, and Francesco followed, his mind replaying every moment from the day before: the match, the hat trick, the Ballon d'Or, the press conference. Each fragment glimmered like a jewel in his memory, vivid and almost tangible.
The exit to the tunnel leading to the dressing room loomed ahead. Wenger glanced back, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Remember, Francesco," he said quietly, "these days come 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 me."
Wenger's eyes lingered on him for a brief moment, 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 some of the staff as they packed away equipment, 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 home, exhausted physically but buzzing mentally. Even in the stillness of his flat, he could feel the residual electricity coursing through his veins. He remembered holding the Ballon d'Or close for the first time, the weight of it in his hands, a weight that was both literal and symbolic. Every line etched into that gold surface seemed to whisper every moment 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 met the cool wooden floor, grounding him immediately 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 steamed 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 something special," Gary Neville said, leaning slightly forward, eyes narrowing with analytical intensity. "We talk about Ballon d'Or winners all the time, but what Francesco Lee did wasn't just a statement about winning the award. It was a statement 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 camera with a sparkle in his eyes that could only come from genuine excitement. "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 game. 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 movement 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 movement 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 moment. The third goal… Alexis had threaded the pass perfectly, he had measured his first touch, shifted the defender's balance, and slotted it low into the far corner. The memory 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 mental game. 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 meet them. He exceeded them. That's rare."
Carragher nodded. "Exactly. You've seen players under pressure before, but this Francesco's mindset? It's something else. That's why he's up there with the very best. You can't just play well for one game. 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 me, 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 acknowledgment. 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 meaningful. 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 game.
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 messy 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 framed photos of his journey, the subtle reminders of his beginnings. Every piece of memorabilia, every medal, every framed 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 messages 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 men who had seen it all and rarely said something lightly.
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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: 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