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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.
The hall had begun to shift into its post ceremony rhythm that slower, softer, but still buzzing with that warm electricity unique to nights where football history had been rewritten before everyone's eyes. The orchestra played lightly, almost like a lullaby for the golden chaos unfolding across the room.
Francesco had barely taken two steps back toward the seating area, still warm from the photos with Wenger, Özil, and Sánchez, when a familiar figure approached through the crowd with the confidence of a man who could walk into any room on earth and immediately bend its currents.
His agent, Jorge Mendes.
Immaculately dressed, impeccably calm, his silver hair catching the light in thin streaks as he moved. The Portuguese super-agent always looked like he had just stepped out of a boardroom where he convinced ten billionaires to shake hands on something impossible. Tonight, though, his expression carried something gentler with respect, a hint of pride, and the unmistakable business-like urgency of a man who already knew what headlines were forming this second outside the hall.
"Francesco," Mendes called, his accented English smooth, warm, authoritative.
Francesco turned, still holding the Ballon d'Or close to his chest. Leah turned too, her arms wrapped protectively around his other two awards which the Young Player of the Year and the Puskás Award. They glowed under the lights almost as much as she did.
Mendes reached them with a small smile.
"Congratulations," he said, extending a hand. "This is… monumental. Historic. Truly magnificent."
Francesco shook his hand, still slightly breathless from the photos and the emotions swirling inside him. "Thank you," he said softly.
Mendes's gaze flicked to the Ballon d'Or trophy, just a second, but long enough to show he understood the magnitude of what the eighteen-year-old was carrying. "I'm afraid," the agent continued with an apologetic smile, "that the world is already waiting for you."
Francesco blinked. "Waiting?"
"For interviews," Mendes clarified. "All the major networks. Journalists. Broadcasters. They've been preparing their questions since the moment your name was announced. Everyone wants tonight's star."
Leah let out a small breath, half amusement, half awe. "Well… he is tonight's star."
Mendes grinned politely. "More than just tonight's, I think. But yes, everyone is waiting."
Francesco glanced down at the Ballon d'Or again, fingers tightening around its base. A strange wave of nerves fluttered in his stomach that not the bad kind, but the overwhelming kind, the kind that came with the realization that while the ceremony was over, the night wasn't.
He nodded slowly. "Okay. Where do I have to go?"
"This way," Mendes said, gesturing toward the left side of the hall where a corridor had been sectioned off with velvet ropes, security guards, and the unmistakable glow of camera lights.
Francesco took a breath.
Then another.
Then he turned to Leah.
"You coming?"
Her smile was soft but steady. "Of course. I'm not letting you go through that alone."
He nodded, grateful in a way words couldn't quite express. He adjusted his grip on the Ballon d'Or, and the two of them followed behind Mendes through the dispersing crowd.
As they walked, the hum of voices shifted. People turned. Some applauded softly as he passed. Others lifted their phones discreetly. A few even stopped mid-conversation, watching him like a comet streaking across a quiet evening sky.
Francesco didn't let go of Leah's hand.
And she didn't let go of his trophies.
The Young Player of the Year award rested neatly against her chest, the Puskás Award tucked carefully beneath her arm. She held them with a kind of fierce protectiveness, almost as if they were extensions of him with the precious, fragile pieces of the journey he had carved with sweat, tears, and unshakeable heart.
Every few steps, she looked at him.
Not the Ballon d'Or.
Not the lights.
Not the people turning to stare.
Him.
Mendes led them with purpose, weaving skillfully between groups of guests without ever losing his calm stride. As they approached the interview zone, the atmosphere shifted from elegance to controlled frenzy. Bright lights. Camera rigs. Microphones lined neatly on tall stands. Dozens of reporters stood behind barriers, adjusting their equipment, whispering urgently into their phones, handing notes to assistants.
And then, the moment Francesco appeared…
It was like a jolt of electricity shot through the room.
Heads turned.
The buzz rose.
"Francesco!"
"Over here!"
"Can we get a word?"
"One photo, please!"
"Congratulations!"
"History maker!"
The security team stepped forward instinctively to create a path, and Mendes raised a hand with a polite nod as if to say patience, he's coming.
Francesco felt his stomach tighten again.
Not with nerves.
With realization.
This… this was his world now.
For the first time, Leah leaned in slightly and whispered, "Don't worry. You'll be great. I'll be right behind you."
He glanced sideways and saw her smile, gentle and reassuring, despite balancing two trophies like some mythical guardian of awards. He felt his chest loosen, warmth spreading through him.
"Thanks," he murmured.
Mendes slowed to a stop near a gated entryway where the first interview set was arranged with a classic Ballon d'Or-themed backdrop with gold accents and a sleek black floor. A female staff member in a headset approached.
"Mr. Mendes," she said quickly, "he's scheduled first with the international press panel, then Sky Sports, then BBC, then ESPN. We'll rotate him through. Everything is ready."
Mendes nodded. "Perfect. He'll begin now."
The staff member turned toward Francesco, her face lighting with excitement. "Congratulations, Mr. Lee. If you'd just stand here…"
He followed her direction, stepping beneath the lights. They weren't hot, but they were bright and so bright the gold of the Ballon d'Or sparkled like a miniature sun in his arms.
Leah remained behind the cameras but close enough that he could see her clearly. She stood upright, balancing the trophies like royalty carrying ceremonial items. Her eyes never left him, and he could feel the connection like a thread pulled taut between them.
It grounded him.
It strengthened him.
The first interviewer approached as a middle-aged man with a warm smile and an accent Francesco couldn't immediately place.
Francesco exhaled.
Then lifted the Ballon d'Or slightly higher.
And the interview began.
But before a single question was asked, he caught one last glimpse of Leah.
She mouthed the words, "You got this."
And in that moment, Francesco believed her completely.
The lights sharpened around him as the first interviewer stepped forward, a polite but unmistakably eager smile spreading across the man's face. The hum of cameras shifting position and microphones adjusting filled the edges of the room, creating that subtle pressure in the air that told Francesco the entire world had its eyes and ears pointed directly at him.
"Francesco Lee," the interviewer began, voice smooth and carrying just enough showmanship to announce that this wasn't just another post-match chat. "First of all, congratulations. A historic Ballon d'Or win. How does it feel right now, in this moment?"
The simplest question was sometimes the hardest. Francesco felt the smallest smile tug at his lips, the kind that wasn't practiced or media-trained, just true. He lifted the Ballon d'Or slightly, its golden surface reflecting the lights like a tiny supernova.
"Honestly?" he said with a soft breath. "I feel… happy. Really happy. And proud. It's… it's a lot to take in, but it's something I'll never forget for the rest of my life."
The interviewer nodded with genuine warmth before gesturing slightly to his colleagues, signaling the next question.
A reporter with sharp glasses and a crisp European accent stepped forward. "Francesco," he said, leaning a bit closer to the microphone, "you've just beaten Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo as the two players who have turned the Ballon d'Or into a two-man competition for almost than a decade. How does that feel?"
A murmur rippled through the surrounding reporters. Even though everyone expected the question, hearing it out loud made it feel heavier, more real.
Francesco inhaled, steadying himself, eyes lifting for a moment toward Leah. She was standing just behind the front row of cameras, clutching his two other trophies with the kind of protective posture that made his heart steady. Seeing her made it easier to breathe.
He turned back.
"I'm very happy," he said honestly. "To be the first man to win the Ballon d'Or after Messi and Ronaldo have dominated it for so long… it's something I'm really proud of. They're legends. They're the best players in the world, and they've set the standard for everyone."
The reporters scribbled furiously, nodding.
"But," Francesco added, voice firming with a confidence that electrified the air, "I also hope to turn it into a three-part race. I hope next season I can win the Ballon d'Or again."
The reaction was instant.
A wave of shock or an audible shock has swept through the gathered journalists. Some whispered quickly to each other, others glanced at their phones as if already drafting headlines. Camera shutters clicked rapidly. Even Mendes, standing a little to the side, lifted an eyebrow in quiet surprise, though the hint of a proud smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Leah's eyes widened for a second too, but then she smiled with that supportive, quietly amused smile that said she wasn't surprised. She knew him too well.
Because it wasn't arrogance.
It was ambition.
And ambition, when grounded in work, was oxygen for champions.
Another reporter pushed forward, voice projecting so the microphones caught every syllable. "Many believe that if Arsenal and you continue your current form, another treble is possible. You're undefeated in all competitions except the League Cup. Do you think this kind of dominance makes your goal of multiple Ballon d'Or wins realistic?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"I think anything is possible if we keep working the way we are," he said. "Arsenal has been incredible this season from my teammates, the staff, everyone. The way we support each other, the way we fight together… if we stay humble, stay focused, and keep improving, then yes. We can achieve anything."
Before anyone could jump on the next question, another reporter as this one younger, voice carrying a slightly breathless excitement leaned in.
"Francesco," she said, "you've also broken a world record tonight. Ronaldo Nazario… a player many consider one of the greatest strikers ever… held the record as the youngest Ballon d'Or winner at 21. You've beaten that by three years. You're just eighteen. How does it feel to break a record like that?"
This time, Francesco felt something warm bloom inside his chest—something a little more emotional. Because R9 wasn't just a name or a stat in a record book. He was part of the reason Francesco ever believed a forward could play with joy and power at the same time.
"It means a lot," Francesco said slowly, honestly. "To break a record like that… held by someone like Ronaldo Nazario… it's incredible. He was one of the best strikers the world has ever seen. Someone I grew up watching clips of every day. Someone who made football beautiful."
His voice softened. "I'm happy I could break the record. But I hope I can also give the same joy to people watching me… the same way he did."
The reporter smiled, satisfied, and stepped back.
But the next person was already moving forward.
And the interview truly began in full.
For the next several minutes, questions came firing like arrows, but not hostile ones. They were questions wrapped in excitement, curiosity, awe. Questions about Arsenal's unbelievable season. Questions about his chemistry with Sánchez, Özil, and other Arsenal players. About Wenger's influence. About how he handled pressure at such a young age. About whether he felt ready to carry the expectations that inevitably came with being a Ballon d'Or winner.
"And do you feel," one reporter asked, tilting his head slightly, "that this award changes anything about your standing in football?"
Francesco shook his head gently. "I think it changes how people see me," he said. "But it doesn't change how I see myself. I still have to wake up tomorrow and train. I still have to improve. I still have to score goals, help my team, keep working. The award doesn't mean I've finished anything. It's just the beginning."
Cameras clicked wildly at that.
Mendes nodded once, approvingly.
Leah watched him with that proud softness she got whenever he said something that showed the maturity she always told him he didn't give himself enough credit for.
Another reporter leaned in.
"You've beaten Messi. You've beaten Ronaldo. You've broken R9's record. You've won the treble, the Golden Boot, the Young Player of the Year, the Puskás Award… Francesco, do you ever feel overwhelmed?"
Francesco laughed, a tiny, breathy laugh that made some of the tension in the room melt.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "Maybe more than people think. But I have good people around me. My parent. My teammates. My manager. My friends. And…" He glanced briefly over his shoulder at Leah, who blinked in surprise and then smiled with a soft blush. "…my girlfriend. They help keep everything balanced."
A few reporters chuckled softly.
The woman reporter, who had been waiting patiently for her turn, finally stepped forward with a polite but assertive nod.
"Francesco," she said, "given how quickly your career has accelerated, and now winning the biggest individual award in football… what keeps you grounded?"
He didn't need to think long.
"Football," he said simply. "And love for the game. Because all of this," he gestured gently around him, the lights, the cameras, the trophy, "it's amazing. But none of it happens if I don't enjoy playing, if I don't stay hungry, if I don't work hard every day. And I love football. It's always been my escape, my joy. The rest is a bonus."
The next question came almost immediately.
"And what about pressure? Do you feel it more now?"
"I feel responsibility," Francesco corrected gently. "Pressure… I think pressure is something people put on you. Responsibility is something you choose. I choose to take the responsibility of being someone young players can look up to. Someone Arsenal can depend on. Someone who works every day to be worthy of wearing the badge."
That one hit the room differently. A few reporters exchanged glances. Even Mendes had paused his phone for a moment, studying Francesco with an expression that clearly said: This kid is special.
The interviews continued, the questions shifting between light-hearted and serious.
"Favourite goal of the season?"
"Who inspired you the most growing up?"
"What did Arsène Wenger say to you after your name was read?"
"Do you think you've already reached world class status?"
"What's next for Francesco Lee?"
And through each answer, Francesco kept his voice steady, honest, thoughtful that not rehearsed, not clipped, not robotic. Just him.
At one point, a reporter even asked lightheartedly, "Is it true that you have a superstition where you wear the same type of socks for big matches?"
Francesco laughed, shaking his head. "Yes. But don't tell anyone," he joked. "I don't want the brand to run out."
That earned a wave of laughter from the room.
Another journalist, older and more reflective in tone, stepped forward.
"Francesco," he said, "you speak so highly of Messi, Ronaldo, and R9. You've shattered expectations in a way that puts you in conversations players don't usually enter until their mid-twenties. Do you feel any sense of… legacy forming around you already?"
Francesco hesitated only for a second that just long enough for the gravity of the question to settle.
"I feel like I'm part of something bigger," he said. "Part of Arsenal's story. Part of football's story. I don't know about legacy yet as I'm too young to think about that. But I feel like… this is the start of something. Not the peak."
That answer sent a wave of murmured approval through the press line.
Leah adjusted her hold on the trophies, and for a brief second his gaze flicked toward her again with quiet, appreciative, as if silently sharing the moment with her.
It didn't go unnoticed.
A reporter noticed the subtle exchange and smiled as she asked, "How important has your support system been behind the scenes?"
Francesco's eyes softened. "More than anything," he said. "Honestly, I wouldn't be standing here without the people in my life. They keep me grounded, motivated, calm… loved."
A few reporters whispered to each other, clearly clocking the emotional maturity in his tone.
Then someone asked a question that carried a heavier edge:
"Now that you've won the Ballon d'Or at eighteen… how do you deal with people who might expect perfection from you?"
Francesco blinked, thinking slowly.
"I don't think perfection exists," he said. "But trying to be better every day does. That's all I can promise, to keep improving, keep fighting for the badge, keep working for my teammates. And… to enjoy the journey."
It was then that the staff member with the headset stepped in slightly, checking the time, reminding the press subtly to wrap up soon so he could move to the next interview block.
But instead of rushing, the next reporter asked softly:
"Francesco… what's the first thing you want to do when tonight is finally over?"
He smiled, a small, tired, happy smile.
"Go home," he said. "Sit on the couch. Eat something simple. And let everything sink in. Maybe watch the ceremony replay with Leah."
Leah blinked in surprise again, cheeks warming.
The room chuckled warmly.
The final question came with a kind of inevitable weight.
"You've won the Ballon d'Or. You're undefeated in every major competition. You've broken Ronaldo Nazario's record. You've outperformed Messi and Ronaldo in the voting. Francesco… where do you go from here?"
Francesco tightened his grip on the Ballon d'Or.
Where?
Upward.
Forward.
Further.
But instead of giving a poetic answer, he spoke with clarity and conviction, because conviction was what had brought him here.
"I go back to the training pitch," he said firmly. "I go back to Arsenal. Back to my teammates. Back to working. Because winning this once is incredible… but I want more. I want to help Arsenal dominate Europe. I want more titles. More trophies. And yes… I want another Ballon d'Or."
Gasps. Whispers. Pens scribbling madly.
He finished softly:
"I'm just getting started."
And the room erupted that not with applause, but with something even heavier:
Respect.
The staff member stepped forward now, gently signaling the end of the first interview block. Reporters called out last-minute congratulatory remarks as Francesco stepped away from the microphone, letting the Ballon d'Or lower slightly against his chest.
He exhaled for the first time in several minutes that long, relieved, but still buzzing with adrenaline.
Mendes stepped forward, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Brilliant," he whispered. "Absolutely brilliant."
But Francesco only turned toward one person.
Leah.
She stepped closer, handing him one of the lighter trophies so he could balance the Ballon d'Or more comfortably. "You were incredible," she whispered, eyes bright. "Like… really incredible."
He grinned, a little bashful now that the cameras weren't directly on him. "You think so?"
"I know so."
He leaned his forehead gently against hers for half a second as a tiny moment of quiet in the middle of the storm.
Then Mendes cleared his throat gently. "Sky Sports is ready," he said. "We'll keep it brief, but powerful."
Francesco nodded.
"Okay," he said softly.
He tightened his grip on the Ballon d'Or.
The Sky Sports backdrop glowed in bold red and ice white, the cameras already rolling even before Francesco stepped into the small half-circle of light. The journalists and crew members that filled the cramped interview zone quieted slightly when they saw the Ballon d'Or cradled in his arm like something fragile, something sacred.
Mendes gave him a tiny pat between the shoulders with half encouragement, half "stand up straight, the British press loves confidence" before stepping to the side.
"Francesco!" the Sky reporter beamed, her smile broad and her voice warm with that polished excitement only British broadcasters seemed to master. "Congratulations! First of all, from all of us at Sky Sports giving massive congratulations on winning the Ballon d'Or. How are you feeling?"
Francesco let out a breath and tried to laugh, but it came out half-exhale, half-nervous chuckle.
"I'm… still trying to understand if this is real," he said. "I think somebody needs to pinch me."
The reporter grinned. "We can arrange that."
Francesco laughed properly this time, and the whole setup eased around him as the crews smiling, cameras adjusting less tensely, even Mendes relaxing with his hands folded behind his back.
"Honestly," Francesco continued, "I'm proud. Really proud. And happy. It's… overwhelming in a good way."
"Overwhelming is the right word!" the reporter agreed. "And the first Ballon d'Or winner not named Messi or Ronaldo in almost a decade. That's quite a sentence, isn't it?"
Francesco scratched the back of his neck with the hand not holding the trophy. "Yeah… it sounds surreal when you say it like that."
The interview moved smoothly as Sky Sports always knew how to keep things energetic but respectful. They asked about Arsenal's season, the treble, the unbeaten run, what Wenger told him backstage. Francesco answered each with a calm confidence, the kind that made even the most seasoned pundits nod at the monitors.
At one point, the reporter leaned forward conspiratorially.
"And what about facing the pressure now? You're the Ballon d'Or winner at eighteen. Surely the expectations will be through the roof?"
Francesco smirked. "They already were. Now they just have a fancy golden ball attached."
The small crowd behind the cameras burst into laughter, and even Mendes covered a quiet, proud smile.
Sky wrapped their segment with a final question that felt more like a warm hug.
"What would you like to say to Arsenal fans watching right now?"
Francesco's smile softened, sincerity taking over.
"Thank you. For everything. For believing in me even before I proved anything. I'll keep fighting. I promise."
Sky shook his hand, congratulated him again, and as Francesco stepped out of the spotlight, Mendes whispered, "Perfect. That one clips beautifully for social media."
Leah, waiting just outside the frame, nudged his shoulder playfully. "See? Told you you'd be great."
He nudged her back, matching her grin. "I'm surviving, thanks to you."
Before he could steal a moment longer with her, a staffer waved them toward the next station, BBC.
BBC's setup was more formal than Sky's with a black backdrop, golden trim, softer lights, and a slightly older journalist whose interviewing style felt less like conversation and more like "we are documenting history."
"Mr. Lee," the BBC host said with a warm professionalism, "congratulations from all of us. This is an extraordinary achievement."
"Thank you," Francesco replied, more composed now, the nerves settling into something steadier, surer.
BBC asked deeper questions, about mentality, about leadership at a young age, about carrying England to glory, about responsibility to future generations.
At one point, the interviewer asked:
"You're eighteen. At eighteen, most players are only breaking into their senior squads. Do you ever think about how unusual your path has been?"
Francesco shrugged gently. "Sometimes. But I don't want to get lost in that. I just want to keep my head down and work."
Mendes stepped in with a small comment that not interrupting, but adding color.
"If I may," he said with that polished gentleness agents perfected, "Francesco has the mentality of someone twice his age. What you're seeing tonight is only a glimpse of what he's capable of."
BBC nodded, impressed, and the questions continued with thoughtful, slow-burning, intimate.
When BBC finally thanked him for his time, the host added:
"And best of luck for what comes next. Though… something tells me luck won't be necessary."
Francesco laughed lightly. "I'll take a little luck anyway."
He stepped out. Mendes gently guided him toward the final stop: ESPN.
ESPN was… different. Loud. Energetic. More American in flavor with big personality, big reactions, big smiles. The host was practically vibrating with excitement as Francesco entered the frame.
"THE MAN OF THE HOUR!" the ESPN host announced loudly, making Francesco jump half a centimeter. "THE YOUNGEST BALLON D'OR WINNER IN HISTORY, FRANCESCO LEE!"
Francesco laughed, embarrassed and flattered at once. "Uh… hi."
"HI?" the host repeated, theatrically offended. "My man, you're eighteen with a Ballon d'Or under your arm, and you're giving me 'hi'?"
Francesco broke into a grin. "Okay, okay, hello everyone!"
The atmosphere loosened instantly.
ESPN's questions were fast, funny, playful.
"How heavy is that thing? Be honest. Your arm lookin' tired."
Francesco: "Heavier than my gym routine."
Laughter.
"You nervous holding it? Worried it'll slip?"
Francesco: "If I drop it, my girlfriend will never forgive me."
More laughter.
"On a scale from 1 to Cristiano shirtless, how confident are you right now?" Francesco blinked, then cracked up. "Definitely not Cristiano shirtless." Crew erupts.
Leah, just behind the lights, laughed into her hand.
Even Mendes chuckled, though he pretended he hadn't.
Then ESPN mixed in the more serious questions with what the award meant, how he handled pressure, whether he saw himself as the future of football.
Francesco handled every question with humor when appropriate and maturity when needed.
ESPN loved him for it.
When ESPN finally wrapped their segment, the host shook his hand and said sincerely:
"You're special, kid. Really special. Enjoy this moment. The world is yours."
Francesco nodded, breathlessly grateful. "Thank you."
He stepped away, and just for a moment, everything quieted.
The lights behind him faded softer.
The noise dimmed.
His pulse steadied.
Mendes stepped forward, checking something on his phone. "We'll have to go to the mixed zone next. Then the official photos. Then the media room."
The corridor leading toward the mixed zone hummed with a different kind of energy than the interview booths. Sky, BBC, and ESPN had felt like structured islands of light, each with their own mood and rhythm with Sky warm and celebratory, BBC formal and reflective, ESPN loud and theatrical. But the mixed zone… the mixed zone was chaos disguised as order.
As soon as Francesco and Leah followed Mendes around the corner, a thick wave of sound washed over them as dozens of voices layered over each other, camera shutters rattling like distant machinery, microphone rods raising and lowering like restless antennae, and the low static hum of an entire media ecosystem trying to move, breathe, and eat all at once.
Francesco took a slow breath.
Leah instinctively moved a little closer, her arm brushing his that not protective, not anxious, but grounding, a silent you've got this.
Mendes stepped slightly ahead, carving a small path with the confidence of a man who'd guided superstars through much worse.
"Stay close to me," Mendes murmured, eyes forward. "Mixed zones love to swallow players alive."
Francesco nodded, adjusting the Ballon d'Or in his arm so it rested more comfortably against his hip. It was warm now, warmed by his own body heat that almost like it was becoming part of him.
They reached the first stretch of barriers. Reporters leaned in, microphones like spears, voices calling different versions of his name with accented, hurried, desperate for a quote.
"Francesco—!"
"Mr. Lee!"
"Ballon d'Or winner—!"
"Over here!"
"A quick one—!"
"Can we get your reaction to—!"
Mendes didn't stop walking, but he slowed just enough so Francesco could answer a few strategically chosen questions.
A reporter from an Italian station leaned over the barrier, bright-eyed and practically glowing with excitement.
"Francesco! Complimenti! Sei il più giovane vincitore del Pallone d'Oro! How does it feel to make history for England at the same time?"
Francesco smiled, switching languages effortlessly without thinking. "È un onore enorme. Davvero. Non pensavo fosse possibile così presto. Voglio rappresentare entrambi i paesi con orgoglio, sempre."
The reporter beamed, shouting a thank you as they moved on.
Next, a Spanish journalist reached out, voice sharp and fast.
"Francesco, do you think this season proves you're already at the level of Messi and Ronaldo? Or do you think you still have more to do?"
Francesco laughed softly. "More to do. Always more to do. If I ever think I've reached their level, I'll stop improving. And I don't plan to stop."
Another rush of microphones appeared.
"Francesco, what's the hardest part of this season so far?"
"Do you fear burnout?"
"Is Wenger the reason for your success?"
Francesco answered them with the same balance he'd found over the season that honest, steady, but sprinkled with humor when needed.
"The hardest part is probably carrying this thing." He lifted the Ballon d'Or slightly. "It's heavier than it looks."
That earned laughs from nearby media, easing the tension slightly.
Next, a French journalist stepped forward.
"Francesco, have you spoken to Thierry Henry tonight? Did he send a message?"
Francesco grinned. "Not yet. But I expect something like, 'Well done, kid. Now keep scoring.'"
Leah laughed softly behind him.
Even Mendes cracked a tiny smirk. "He knows Thierry too well already."
Step by step, they made their way through the maze. Photographers called for him to look left, right, hold the trophy higher, lower, turn a bit and Francesco did, calm and patient, never losing the quiet pride edging his smile.
A cluster of Arsenal-affiliated journalists waited near the end, waving eagerly.
"Francesco! Over here! Arsenal media!"
Mendes nodded for him to pause. Leah stood just a half-step behind him, her expression softening every time she saw the Arsenal crest on someone's ID badge.
One of the club reporters, a woman in her late twenties with a scarf tied in Arsenal colors, leaned forward.
"We're incredibly proud of you. Any message to the players back home?"
Francesco's face lit up instantly. "Yeah. Tell the lads I'm bringing this to training tomorrow, but nobody touches it without washing their hands first."
Everyone burst into laughter.
"And to the fans?"
He smiled. "Same message. Hands clean."
More laughter.
Then, more quietly, more sincerely: "I'll keep working for them. For everyone who loves Arsenal."
The journalist touched her heart. "Beautiful. Thank you, Francesco."
Mendes tapped his elbow gently. "Alright, time to move."
They passed the final stretch of cameras, then suddenly they were through. The mixed zone noise faded into the distance behind them like a storm being walked away from.
Francesco blew out a breath. "Wow."
Leah squeezed his arm. "You survived."
"Barely," he joked.
"You did great," Mendes said, not looking up from his phone but sounding genuinely impressed. "Now… official photos."
The studio room was starkly different with quiet, controlled, almost serene compared to the mixed zone frenzy. Bright white panels curved across the space like the inside of a modern art museum. Two photographers stood behind tall tripods, lights angled perfectly to make the Ballon d'Or glow like a miniature sun.
A makeup artist stepped forward as they entered.
"Just a touch of powder," she said politely.
Francesco laughed. "I'm sweating that much?"
"A little," she admitted.
Leah giggled softly. "A little?"
He stuck his tongue out at her, earning an affectionate eye roll.
While the makeup artist dabbed gently at his cheeks and forehead, one of the photographers called out, "We'll start simple. Trophy in front, strong posture. Then we'll do a few action poses. And if your girlfriend wants to step in for a few pictures, that's perfectly fine."
The offer made Leah blink in surprise. "Me?"
Francesco shot her a brief, playful look. "You want to?"
She hesitated… then nodded, a shy smile growing. "Maybe one or two."
"We'll save those for the end," the photographer assured her.
The session began.
Francesco stepped onto the marked platform. The photographer adjusted the lights until the room felt like daylight condensed into beams.
"Alright, Francesco… eyes here… chin slightly up… perfect."
Click-click-click-click.
"Now hold the Ballon d'Or in both hands."
Click-click.
"Now over the shoulder."
Francesco raised it awkwardly. "Like this?"
"No, no," the photographer laughed. "You look like you're about to throw it. Gently, my friend."
Leah covered her mouth, laughing silently.
Francesco adjusted. "Better?"
"Much."
Click.
"Okay, now a smile… bigger smile… there we go."
Click-click-click.
"Let's get a serious one with strong expression, no smile."
Francesco tried.
Leah snorted. "You look annoyed at the trophy."
"Do I?"
The photographer laughed. "Actually… yes. Maybe relax your eyebrows."
They tried again.
Click.
"Perfect."
They moved through more poses that one with the trophy against his chest, one kneeling with it beside him, one sitting casually on a high stool, one looking directly into the lens like a challenge issued to the world.
Finally, the photographer looked at Leah.
"If you're up for it?"
She stepped forward slowly, cheeks warm with embarrassment.
Francesco extended his hand to her. "Come here."
She joined him at the center. He lowered the Ballon d'Or so she could rest her hand on it gently.
"That's adorable," the photographer whispered. "Okay, look at each other."
They did.
And something soft, private, quietly precious settled in the air.
Click.
The photographer lowered his camera slowly. "That one might break the internet."
Leah flushed. "Please don't post it."
"We won't," Mendes reassured. "But we'll keep it for personal use. It's beautiful."
Francesco squeezed her fingers gently. She squeezed back.
"Alright," Mendes said, glancing at his schedule. "Media room. Final stretch."
The door opened to what felt like a hybrid between a classroom, a conference center, and a storm waiting to happen. Rows upon rows of journalists filled the space, laptops open, screens glowing, microphones lined across long tables like small soldiers. A low murmur filled the room that discussions, predictions, half-written articles.
But when Francesco stepped in?
Silence fell like a curtain.
Every head turned.
Every hand rose.
Every camera clicked.
Suddenly the room felt bigger, heavier, as if the award in his arm had turned him into the gravitational center of the evening.
A UEFA representative guided him to the main table where a chair waited, flanked by microphones. Mendes stood just to the right, Leah behind them both but close enough to be a quiet support beam.
Francesco sat. The lights warmed his skin. The Ballon d'Or glimmered on the table beside him.
The moderator stepped forward.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. We're now ready to begin the post-ceremony media conference with Ballon d'Or winner, Francesco Lee."
A burst of applause that brief but sincere, rolled through the room.
Francesco blinked, surprised. Then humbled.
The moderator nodded to the room. "First question, please."
Hands shot up.
The moderator pointed. "Yes, front row."
A middle-aged journalist leaned forward.
"Francesco, congratulations. Your rise has been staggering. Do you believe this Ballon d'Or confirms you as the best player in the world right now?"
Francesco's voice was calm, humble. "I think it means I've had an incredible year. That's all. Messi and Ronaldo are still two of the greatest ever. I'm just trying to follow in their footsteps and maybe make my own path too."
Murmurs of approval.
Next question.
"Francesco, do you feel pressure to maintain this level at such a young age?"
He shook his head slightly. "Not pressure. Responsibility. And motivation. I want to prove I deserve this."
Another question.
"Are Arsenal the favorites for the Champions League as the defending champion?"
He smiled. "We're fighters. Nothing more. Nothing less."
A reporter from France raised his hand. "Francesco, Wenger spoke very highly of you earlier tonight. Can you tell us what your relationship with him means?"
Francesco's expression softened. "He gave me a chance when I was just a kid. He trusted me. He believed in me. He's like a… mentor. Someone who changed my life."
Next question.
A Spanish journalist. "Francesco, did Messi speak to you after the ceremony?"
Francesco nodded. "Yes. He congratulated me. He said the future is bright. Coming from him, that means everything."
Another.
"Francesco, what about Ronaldo? Did he say anything?"
He grinned. "He told me to enjoy the moment — and to keep working or he'll win it back next year."
Laughter.
A British journalist leaned forward. "What moment tonight hit you the hardest? Emotionally?"
Francesco paused.
Then he turned his head slightly, eyes finding Leah in the crowd.
"That moment," he said softly, "when I looked over after they called my name… and she was crying. That's when it became real."
A ripple of warmth moved through the room.
Leah's cheeks flushed deeply.
The moderator smiled. "Next question."
Hands rose again.
Hours seemed to pass, though it was probably just an intense, adrenaline-fueled forty minutes. Francesco answered everything with honesty, maturity, and the same grounded humility that had carried him through each step of the night.
At times, Mendes stepped in with small clarifications or additional comments, letting Francesco take tiny breaths in between answers.
At one point, during a particularly technical question about tactical adjustments in Wenger's system, Mendes leaned forward and murmured, "Let me handle this one," giving Francesco a moment to sip water and roll his tired shoulders.
Finally after one last question about his goals for next season, the moderator stepped in again.
"That concludes our media session. Thank you all. And once again, congratulations to Francesco Lee, the Ballon d'Or winner."
Another wave of applause that bigger this time, warmer, deeper. As Francesco stood and hold the Ballon d'Or that glowed under the lights like a small sun, like something that belonged in his hands.
________________________________________________
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