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So he simply closed his eyes for a second, absorbing the words, the weight, the meaning. When he finally opened them, the world looked slightly blurred, as if the room's warmth had softened everything.
Francesco's fingers unconsciously tightened around the coffee cup, feeling the warmth seep into his palms. The TV continued to replay clips of the discussion, but he barely registered the words anymore. His mind had gone quiet, swirling with Thierry Henry's declaration with the King of the Emirates, King of London. The weight of it felt both impossible and exhilarating.
Leah reached across the table again, lightly tapping his hand. "Hey… come back to me," she said softly, voice grounding him. "It's okay to be stunned. I get it."
He gave a faint smile, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. "Yeah… yeah, I'm here." He laughed quietly. "It's just… surreal."
She leaned forward, resting her chin on her folded arms on the table. "Do you know what I think?" she asked, tilting her head. "I think the world doesn't realize yet how strong you are. You've been carrying this… not just physically last night with the trophy, but mentally, emotionally, since you were a kid. Every challenge, every match, every setback as you carried it. And now, everyone else finally sees it."
Francesco nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Feels like I just woke up in someone else's life."
"You're still you," she said. "You just… have proof now." She gestured toward the Ballon d'Or, gleaming softly on the bed behind him.
He reached over and gave it a light, affectionate pat. "Yeah… proof that maybe all the sleepless nights, all the sacrifices, weren't in vain."
They sat like that for a while, letting the morning sun slowly warm the room through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Francesco finally glanced at the plate, now barely containing a few crumbs and half-eaten hash browns. He chuckled softly. "Breakfast," he muttered. "We should probably finish before the food gets cold."
Leah smiled, standing and stretching her arms above her head. "We still have a flight back to London, remember? Mendes will be waiting downstairs with the car. We can't linger forever."
"Yeah," Francesco said, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape against the carpet. He stood, brushing crumbs from his lap. "Time to pack."
The packing was surprisingly methodical. Francesco carefully arranged the trophies, as if each required its own kind of respect. The Young Player of the Year award and his Puskás Award went neatly into the luggage, padded carefully so they wouldn't shift during the journey. The Ballon d'Or, too heavy to stow away in the suitcase, remained in his hands, cradled like a fragile but precious artifact.
Leah busied herself folding clothes and organizing toiletries, her robe tied loosely as she moved gracefully around the room. She occasionally glanced at him, smirking whenever he adjusted the Ballon d'Or as if the weight alone could make it slip through his fingers.
"Seriously," she teased, "are you going to hold that thing all the way to London?"
"Of course," he replied with a grin. "It's not leaving my side. Not now, not ever."
Finally, everything packed, they double-checked the room. The hotel staff had left everything immaculate, and the faint golden light from the early Swiss sun spilled across the floor, casting a quiet serenity over the room. Francesco slung the luggage behind him, still holding the golden globe like a trophy and a guardian all in one.
Down in the lobby, Mendes was already waiting with the driver, leaning casually against a sleek black luxury car. Wenger, Özil, and Sánchez were already in the car, smiling and chatting quietly among themselves. Their expressions were a mixture of pride and amusement, like they could hardly believe this was happening either.
"Francesco," Wenger said warmly as they approached, "congratulations again. Truly deserved. We're proud of you."
"Thank you, sir," Francesco replied, bowing his head slightly. His fingers tightened around the Ballon d'Or unconsciously.
Sánchez grinned, punching Francesco lightly on the shoulder. "You little monster… making the rest of us look bad since 18!"
Özil simply smiled, quiet but full of affection. "We all knew it would be you one day," he said. "Glad the world finally caught on."
Mendes adjusted his sunglasses, his usual composed self with a hint of pride showing. "Alright, gentlemen, if you're ready, the jet is waiting."
The drive to the private airport was smooth, the early morning streets of Geneva quiet except for the occasional car or cyclist. Francesco held the Ballon d'Or on his lap, carefully studying the reflections of the sun along its golden surface. He felt a strange combination of calm and excitement.
"Do you ever get used to this?" Leah asked softly, leaning over to glance at him.
"Used to what?" he asked, eyes still on the trophy.
"This… the attention. The awards. The… world staring at you."
He shook his head. "I don't know if I want to get used to it. I like it being… real, like this moment."
She smiled, brushing her fingers along the edge of his arm. "Then don't."
Soon, they arrived at the small, private airport. Mendes had rented a private jet for the occasion with a sleek, silver fuselage glinting under the sun. Francesco stepped out of the car, holding the Ballon d'Or with care, and Leah followed closely, her hand brushing his side.
Boarding the jet felt surreal. The cabin was pristine, all leather seats and polished wood, a quiet hum of engines waiting to come alive. Francesco set the luggage with the Young Player and Puskás Awards carefully in the storage compartment. The Ballon d'Or remained in his hands, as if it could sense the journey wasn't finished without him.
"Comfortable?" Mendes asked, sliding into a seat near them.
"Absolutely," Francesco said, leaning back and letting himself relax slightly. "Though it feels weird to think about what everyone is doing right now from media, fans… everyone."
Leah nudged him gently. "Don't think about it. Enjoy this flight. We'll be in London soon enough, and the real celebration continues there."
The jet lifted smoothly into the sky, and for the next hour, Francesco let himself sink into the quiet luxury, sunlight streaming through the windows, Leah's hand resting softly on his. The world outside the plane, filled with flashing cameras and cheering crowds, seemed distant.
By the next day, Francesco's return to London brought him back to a reality that was just as exhilarating, but somehow more grounding. He arrived at Arsenal's training ground at Colney early, the crisp autumn morning brushing against his skin. As he stepped onto the familiar turf, memories of countless hours spent running, dribbling, and perfecting every detail of his game returned instantly.
Even the wind seemed to whisper congratulations.
As he walked through the gates, teammates quickly spotted him. And within seconds, the usual morning chatter was replaced by cheers and laughter.
"Ballon d'Or winner!" Bellerín shouted, running over with a grin, slapping Francesco on the back. "Finally, you've done it, man!"
Kanté smiled quietly, clapping him on the shoulder. "Congratulations, brother. Well deserved."
Özil approached with his typical quiet confidence. "It suits you," he said softly. "Don't let it change you, but… enjoy it."
Sánchez, ever dramatic, enveloped him in a bear hug. "You're officially untouchable now! Don't forget us little people when you're signing autographs at the Louvre!"
Even club management joined in. The Sporting Director, Head Physio, and several staff members came forward, offering warm handshakes, smiles, and heartfelt congratulations. Francesco laughed, shook hands, hugged a few people, and let himself be swarmed by warmth and camaraderie.
Wenger, watching the scene unfold, gestured for Francesco to follow him. "Francesco," he said once they were a little aside, "first of all, again, congratulations. It's a moment not just for you, but for the club."
Francesco nodded, listening intently.
Wenger continued, voice steady and kind. "Tomorrow, before the match against Stoke, we want you to share this with the fans. Show them the Ballon d'Or. Let them celebrate this achievement with you. You've earned it, and they should see it."
Francesco blinked, letting the weight of the request settle. "Really, sir?"
"Yes," Wenger said, smiling. "It's more than a trophy. It's a symbol of your dedication, your work ethic, and your talent. And Arsenal fans… they deserve to see it. Don't worry about the pressure. I'll be there. We'll do it together."
Francesco felt a rush of gratitude, warmth, and nervous excitement all at once. "Thank you… I'll make sure they remember it."
Wenger clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "I have no doubt about that."
As training began, Francesco threw himself into the familiar rhythm of drills, passes, and finishing exercises, but something was different. The Ballon d'Or, still safely tucked into his locker for now that felt like a silent companion, a reminder of what he had achieved and what he still had to prove.
Every completed sprint, every shot on goal, every touch of the ball reminded him that the world had watched, had applauded, but tomorrow's match was another opportunity to show that his success wasn't a fluke.
Teammates repeatedly stopped by, offering thumbs-up, high-fives, and lighthearted teases. "Don't get a big head, superstar," Bellerín joked. "We're still taking you down in the next drill."
Francesco laughed, warmth spreading through him. "Bring it on."
Even the younger players looked up at him differently now, some hesitantly asking for advice, others giving respectful nods as they passed. He realized that this wasn't just about recognition. It was about leadership. About showing, by example, how dedication and humility could coexist even at the very top.
As the session wound down, Wenger called the team together. "Alright, everyone," he said, voice calm but authoritative, "tomorrow before kickoff, Francesco will share a moment with the fans. We'll arrange the presentation. I expect everyone to be there. This is not just his achievement, it's Arsenal's achievement."
Francesco felt his chest tighten, not with fear, but pride. A quiet, steady pride. He glanced at his teammates, all nodding, smiling, ready to support him. And he glanced at Wenger, whose gentle yet unwavering gaze reminded him that guidance and trust were constant companions in his journey.
Leah, who had accompanied him to Colney that morning, watched from the stands with quiet admiration. She had witnessed the whirlwind of fame, awards, and headlines and yet here, among the familiar green pitches, the sun reflecting off dew-laden grass, he was still Francesco. The same kid who had dreamed, worked, and fought for every step.
He caught her eye and smiled with a private, warm acknowledgment amid the bustling energy of training. She returned the smile, a quiet anchor in a sea of noise and expectation.
By the time training ended, Francesco felt a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. The reality of being a Ballon d'Or winner had begun to settle, not just as a headline or a social media post, but as a tangible part of his life, intertwined with the people, routines, and stadiums he loved.
Tomorrow, the fans at the Emirates would see him holding the golden sphere. And he knew that deep in his chest, that he would carry not just the weight of the trophy, but the weight of possibility, legacy, and responsibility.
But for now, as he left the pitch, the sun dipping low over Colney's training ground, he allowed himself a rare, unguarded smile. He was Francesco Lee, Ballon d'Or winner, King of the Emirates, and, perhaps someday, King of London. And for the first time since the award, he felt ready to step into that crown that not just in title, but in heart and spirit.
Leah caught up to him as he walked to the car. "So… you ready for tomorrow?" she asked.
He laughed softly, shaking his head. "As ready as I'll ever be."
She nudged him gently. "Good. Because the fans are going to love this. They're going to see what all of London has been talking about and it's you, baby. You."
Francesco looked at her, heart swelling. "Yeah… it's us, too. We've made it together."
The next morning, Francesco woke early, sunlight filtering softly through the blinds of his bedroom. There was a quiet serenity in the air that only the early hours could bring, but it was punctuated by the fluttering anticipation that seemed to hum in his chest. Today was more than a match as it was the moment to share his Ballon d'Or with the Arsenal fans, to show them that the golden sphere wasn't just a personal triumph but a symbol of the journey they had all shared with him.
Leah was already up, quietly packing her bag for the day. She glanced at him as he stretched, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips. "Morning, superstar," she said softly, though her eyes shone with pride.
"Morning," he replied, his voice still rough from sleep. He glanced at the Ballon d'Or sitting on the dresser, its polished surface catching the first rays of sun. Even now, holding it or seeing it, he couldn't quite reconcile the surreal reality of it. It was heavy that not just in weight, but in meaning.
"Ready for the big moment?" Leah asked, walking over to him. She placed a gentle hand on his arm. "The fans, the team… your city. They've waited to see this."
Francesco nodded slowly, swallowing against the lump that had formed in his throat. "Yeah… I think so. It feels… right, you know? Finally letting everyone see it."
Leah's fingers intertwined with his. "It's not just about showing it. It's about celebrating what you've built. What you've earned."
He smiled softly at her, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "I'll carry it with me… everywhere today. Through the bus, into the stadium, through the dressing room. I want it to feel real for me, too, not just for them."
By the time breakfast was over and luggage packed, Francesco cradled the Ballon d'Or carefully in his hands. The other awards which is his Young Player of the Year and Puskás had been stored safely in the car, but the golden globe remained close to him, like a heartbeat he could hold.
At the lobby, Arsenal club had already arranged for the team to meet. Wenger, Özil, Sánchez, and Bellerín were waiting, chatting quietly among themselves, the energy calm but expectant. The team bus outside was sleek, black, and polished, ready to carry them to the Emirates.
"Morning, Francesco," Wenger said warmly as he approached. "The fans are waiting. They'll be thrilled to see this."
Francesco nodded, lifting the Ballon d'Or slightly, as if offering it in silent acknowledgement. "I hope they like it."
"They will," Sánchez said, grinning. "You're not just a player—they see you as their own. Today, they'll see why."
Özil placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder, steady and reassuring. "Just be yourself. That's all anyone ever wanted from you."
The team gathered, ready to step onto the bus. Mendes opened the door for them, helping with the luggage, and Francesco carefully set the Puskás and Young Player awards alongside him. The Ballon d'Or remained in his lap, its golden sheen reflecting the early morning sunlight filtering through the bus windows.
The ride to the Emirates was short but filled with quiet anticipation. Francesco stared out the window, watching the familiar streets of north London pass by. The roar of traffic and distant sirens mixed with the hum of the bus engine, but it all felt distant, almost irrelevant. All that mattered was the moment waiting for him at the stadium.
When the bus arrived, the roar of the fans was instantaneous, a tidal wave of noise that hit Francesco as soon as he opened the door. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, had gathered along the perimeter, waving scarves, flags, and banners, eyes wide with excitement and admiration. Their cheers were deafening, a living, breathing energy that seemed to pulse through the air.
Francesco stepped off the bus carefully, cradling the Ballon d'Or against his chest. His teammates surrounded him, offering quiet encouragement and friendly nudges. "Don't forget to smile," Bellerín shouted over the crowd. "They've waited for this, man!"
He did. He smiled with a genuine, open, almost shy smile that reflected the warmth and gratitude he felt in that instant. The fans leaned forward, reaching out to him, chanting his name. Some waved scarves frantically. Others held up smartphones and cameras, desperate to capture even a moment of the day.
"Francesco! Francesco!"
He lifted the Ballon d'Or slightly, just enough to show it to them. Gasps and cheers erupted again, the golden globe catching the sunlight and sending glimmers across the faces of the crowd. Francesco's heart thrummed in his chest. Each cheer, each cry of his name, felt like it was both for him and for everyone who had been part of his journey—the staff, his family, the teammates, the fans who had believed in him before the rest of the world did.
He leaned slightly toward the crowd, acknowledging the banners, the waving hands, the sea of red and white. Some fans had signs: "King of the Emirates!", "Francesco Forever!", and "Ballon d'Or Legend!" As all words that seemed almost too big to describe what this moment truly felt like.
"Thank you," he said softly, voice just loud enough for the front row to hear. "Thank you all for believing in me. This… this is as much yours as it is mine."
A collective roar met his words, some fans wiping tears from their eyes, others laughing with pure joy. Francesco's chest tightened, his throat catching in a way that was emotional, raw, and unashamed. He felt Leah's hand find his as he stood there, grounding him, reminding him that he was still Francesco with the same kid who watch the game at Highbury, the same kid who had chased a ball through training grounds and dreams alike.
After a few more moments, Wenger gently nudged him from behind. "Alright, Francesco," he said quietly, "time to go inside. You've made their morning. Now let's get ready for the pitch."
Reluctantly, Francesco nodded and took one last sweeping look at the fans before stepping into the Emirates concourse. Their cheers still echoed in his ears even as the doors closed behind him. It was a moment he would carry for the rest of his life.
Inside, the corridors of the Emirates felt alive with energy. The stadium itself seemed to breathe with the collective excitement of everyone inside. Yet the quiet calm of the team tunnel offered a moment of reprieve with a chance to shift focus from the spectacle to the preparation.
Francesco walked alongside his teammates toward the dressing room, the Ballon d'Or still clutched in his hands. Sánchez, ever the dramatist, leaned close. "You know," he whispered, "we're going to have a hard time beating this memory of today. Just holding that thing…"
Francesco smiled, feeling a flush of warmth. "I know. I just… I wanted to share it with them. With everyone who's been there since the beginning."
Once inside the dressing room, the golden glow of sunlight streaming through the windows was replaced by the hum of lockers, the soft squeak of trainers on the tiled floor, and the low murmur of players getting ready. Francesco carefully placed the Ballon d'Or on a side bench, treating it almost reverently. His Young Player and Puskás Awards had been stowed safely in their cases beside it.
He removed his casual gear and began changing into his training kit, the fabric soft and familiar against his skin. The weight of the upcoming match against Stoke City pressed gently against him, not as pressure but as purpose. Training kits were different than match kits as they were lighter, freer, a symbol of preparation. Yet today, even the familiar green and red of Arsenal's practice gear carried with it a sense of ceremony.
Bellerín and Kanté chatted lightly, occasionally glancing at Francesco with knowing smiles. Sánchez hummed a tune under his breath while stretching. Özil silently focused on his warm-ups, a quiet pillar of composure amid the small flurry of energy in the room.
Francesco, changing slowly, glanced at the Ballon d'Or again. Its golden surface gleamed, catching the light in a way that almost seemed to breathe. It reminded him not only of the awards, the accolades, and the recognition, but of the path that had brought him here with the endless hours, the doubts, the sweat, the camaraderie, and the unwavering love of those who believed in him.
He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the trophy settle into a familiar rhythm with his heartbeat. Tomorrow, he would hold it in front of tens of thousands of fans. But for now, it sat quietly in the dressing room, a silent promise that his journey had only just begun.
As he laced his boots, Francesco felt Leah's presence behind him, a soft hand brushing his shoulder. "You're going to be amazing tomorrow," she whispered.
He turned slightly, giving her a small, determined smile. "I'll do my best. For them. For us."
And with that, he finished getting ready. The Ballon d'Or waited patiently on the bench with a beacon of achievement and a reminder that even in the chaos of expectation, the moments that truly mattered were the ones shared, the ones earned, and the ones celebrated with those who believed in him.
The dressing room hummed with quiet energy, the soft shuffle of cleats against tile, the occasional metallic clink of shin guards being fastened, and the low murmur of teammates stretching, chatting, and preparing for training. Francesco sat on the edge of his bench for a moment, glancing down at the Ballon d'Or, its golden surface reflecting the fluorescent lights above. The trophy was heavy that not just in weight but in meaning. Each curve, each glimmer of polished gold seemed to pulse with the memory of every goal, every sprint, every challenge, every doubt he had fought through to get here.
He ran his fingers lightly along the smooth surface, inhaling slowly, letting it ground him. He knew that this was a moment unlike any other, but somehow he needed to feel it intimately, personally, as a reminder that this was real. The Ballon d'Or wasn't a symbol of vanity but it was a testament, a mirror reflecting all the sacrifices, the sleepless nights, the relentless pursuit of something far bigger than himself.
Leah, standing near the locker row, watched quietly. Her eyes followed him with pride and tenderness, her presence a calm anchor in the sea of anticipation swirling inside him. "It's all going to be alright," she said softly, her hand brushing his shoulder as he adjusted the socks in his boots. "The fans, the team, they're ready to see you. And you… you're ready too."
Francesco looked up, giving her a small, almost shy smile. "I just… I hope it's enough. That it feels like what it's supposed to."
She shook her head gently. "It will. You carrying this? It's enough. You always make it enough."
With a quiet nod, he stood, securing the laces of his boots with deliberate care. Each knot was a rhythm, a heartbeat syncing his nervous energy to the calm focus he needed. Around him, teammates began moving toward the tunnel, calling out last-minute encouragements, joking, laughing, the easy camaraderie that had been a steady thread through every season.
Sánchez, leaned close with a grin. "Francesco, you know the crowd isn't ready. They're going to explode. You just… walk out there and show them the golden ball. That's it. Simple."
Francesco chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Simple isn't exactly the word I'd use," he replied, though the tension in his chest eased slightly. Sánchez clapped him on the shoulder, the weight of friendship grounding him further.
Özil, quiet and composed as always, gave him a steady nod. "You don't need to think too much about it. Just let it happen. The fans, the stadium, they'll feel it too. You've earned it."
Even Bellerín, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as he prepared, leaned in with a teasing smile. "And if anyone yells too much, just hold the ball higher. That'll quiet them down!"
Laughter rippled through the room, and for a moment, the nerves that had been knotting Francesco's stomach began to untangle. He glanced once more at the Ballon d'Or resting on the bench, its golden sheen catching the light in a way that seemed almost magical. It was a beacon, a promise, a culmination of everything he had worked for and yet, a reminder that the journey had only just begun.
Wenger's voice cut through the soft hum of preparation. Calm, deliberate, but carrying the weight of authority and trust. "Alright, gentlemen. Francesco, take a moment. Then we'll head to the tunnel. Today, you share this with our fans. Let them celebrate with you. It's yours, but it's also theirs."
Francesco exhaled slowly, letting the tension roll out of his shoulders. He picked up the Ballon d'Or, cradling it as if it were a living thing, a fragile flame he had been entrusted to carry. The golden sphere felt heavier in his hands now, but not burdensome or rather, it anchored him, gave him focus.
The team began moving toward the tunnel, Wenger leading the way with the quiet confidence that had guided them all these years. Francesco followed, walking slowly, deliberately, every step measured, as though each footfall was part of a ceremony. His teammates flanked him on either side, protective yet celebratory, creating a small corridor of solidarity.
As they approached the tunnel entrance, a wave of sound and anticipation rolled through the stadium. Even through the concrete and steel, the fans' cheers were audible—a relentless, throbbing heartbeat echoing through every corridor. Francesco felt it resonate in his chest, vibrating through his bones. He took a deep breath, letting the sound fill him, allowing it to remind him that this wasn't about him alone. It was about them or all of them: the fans who had cheered, the staff who had supported, the teammates who had fought alongside him, and every person who had contributed to this moment in some small, irreplaceable way.
He stepped closer to the tunnel entrance, holding the Ballon d'Or firmly against his chest. The stadium announcer's voice cut through the air, amplified, deliberate, carrying a weight that made Francesco's heart skip.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Please give a warm welcome to the youngest ever Ballon d'Or winner… and the King of the Emirates… Francesco Lee!"
The roar that followed was instantaneous, seismic in its intensity. It washed over him in a tidal wave of sound and color. Thousands of fans jumped to their feet, scarves waving, voices raised in unison, chants bouncing from the stands like rolling thunder. "FRANCESCO! FRANCESCO! FRANCESCO!"
He froze for a heartbeat, letting it all hit him. The stadium was alive, an ocean of red and white, every eye turned toward him. The banners, the signs, the screaming faces as it was overwhelming, breathtaking, and beautiful. He felt Leah's hand brush his arm for reassurance, grounding him.
Then, he walked forward. Slowly at first, every step measured but purposeful, holding the golden trophy aloft. The sun glinted off its polished surface, reflecting across the stands, catching in the eyes of fans who were leaning over the barriers, stretching for a glimpse. Gasps, cheers, and whistles punctuated the air, a symphony of admiration and excitement that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
"FRANCESCO! FRANCESCO! FRANCESCO!"
The chants grew louder, unstoppable, wrapping around him, filling every corner of the tunnel. He raised the Ballon d'Or higher, allowing the stadium to see it glimmering. Each movement felt ceremonious, yet intimate as he wasn't showing it off for vanity; he was sharing it, giving the fans a moment they had waited for, a tangible connection to the player they had cheered for every week.
For a fleeting moment, time seemed to stretch. He could see faces: young children with painted cheeks, grandparents with scarves wrapped tightly, couples holding hands high in the air. Each face seemed to hold a story, a memory, a shared joy. And in that moment, Francesco understood something profoundly simple and humbling: this wasn't about trophies or records. This was about community. About shared passion. About being part of something bigger than himself.
Wenger's voice, calm and steady behind him, cut through the euphoria. "Go on, Francesco. They're ready. You're ready."
Francesco nodded, lifting the Ballon d'Or higher, letting the golden sheen catch the morning sun streaming into the stadium. He inhaled deeply, letting the roar wash over him, filling him with energy and purpose. And then, with one final glance at Leah standing near the tunnel, giving him a warm, grounding smile, he stepped fully onto the pitch.
The stadium erupted again, this time louder than before, as if every cheer, every chant, every scream had gathered and condensed into this single, electrifying moment. Francesco held the Ballon d'Or aloft with pride and gratitude, feeling its weight not as a burden, but as a testament to every step, every match, every goal, every struggle that had led him here.
The pitch beneath his feet, the crowd surrounding him, the golden trophy in his hands as everything aligned in that moment, perfectly, beautifully, undeniably real. He was Francesco Lee, Ballon d'Or winner, King of the Emirates, and now, in the eyes of the fans who cheered without restraint, a symbol of inspiration, dedication, and heart.
For a moment, he simply stood there, letting it all sink in—the cheers, the banners, the light glinting across the pitch, the smiles, the tears. It was everything he had ever dreamed of, magnified a thousandfold. He could feel the pulse of the stadium, a rhythm of collective joy and admiration that would stay with him forever.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned toward the center of the pitch, the Ballon d'Or held high, and allowed himself a private, quiet smile. The trophy wasn't just a moment frozen in time; it was a promise, a reminder that the journey continued, that every match, every pass, every sprint was part of something bigger than trophies.
________________________________________________
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