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And as Francesco sat beneath the thunder of his teammates' voices, with steam still drifting off his skin, boots drying near his locker, and the weight of ninety two goals suddenly settling into the reality of history.
The chanting eventually softened, but not because the team was any less excited, but because players were losing their voices. Laughter still rippled through the room every few seconds, like waves hitting a shore, but the initial explosion of chaos mellowed into a warm, stunned buzz.
Francesco sat there, still processing, still trying to catch up to the reality that had just crashed into his world.
Ninety two goals.
Messi's world record of ninety one goal was broken.
Him.
The kid who once dreamed of watching Messi from the stands, not surpassing him in any statistic.
The kid whose walls back home were plastered with posters of the legends he now shared a pitch with.
It felt surreal.
He leaned back against the locker, exhaling slowly, letting the noise around him wash over him like a warm tide. Above him, Bellerin was still jumping like a man whose brain had short circuited. Sanchez was dancing with Gnabry. Ozil are kept reading the tweet like he couldn't believe it existed. Xhaka was shouting in three different languages at once. Koscielny kept smiling that proud, fatherly smile he rarely showed.
And Wenger stood in the center like the calm eye of a storm, watching his team celebrate a moment that didn't happen often in a lifetime.
After a while, the room began to settle. Someone lowered the music volume. Virgil dropped onto the bench beside Francesco, patting his back.
"History maker," he said softly. "How does it feel?"
Francesco shook his head with a half-laugh. "Like I'm in the wrong timeline."
Virgil grinned. "Nah, mate. Right timeline. The Francesco timeline."
More laughter. More chatter.
But then, somewhere between the noise and the disbelief, an idea crept into Francesco's mind. At first he dismissed it as it was stupid, childish, not something a captain should even think about.
But then he thought about it again.
About the mood.
About the laughter.
About his teammates who fought for him, bled for him, trusted him.
About the magic of tonight with a kind of magic that would never repeat itself in the exact same way.
And then he decided.
He stood up from the bench and walked toward Wenger.
Amid the noise, the coach noticed him approach and raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, Francesco?" Wenger asked, still smiling faintly, still looking like he was holding back a universe of pride.
Francesco rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, suddenly aware of how childish the idea sounded, but once it was in his head, it wouldn't leave.
"Boss…" he began slowly, "I… uh… I want to ask you something."
Wenger leaned in slightly. "Go on."
Francesco took a breath.
"Can the bus stop at McDonald's?"
The entire room froze.
Xhaka's jaw dropped.
Giroud stopped mid-sip of water.
Ozil blinked.
Monreal muttered, "No puede ser…"
Even the shower pipes seemed to hold their breath.
Wenger stared at Francesco for a full second with his expression blank, unreadable, almost philosophical.
Then one eyebrow rose.
"…McDonald's?" he repeated.
Francesco nodded, cheeks warm. "Yes. I want to treat the team. For, you know… breaking Messi's record. It feels—" He gestured around the room helplessly. "—it feels like the kind of night where we should do something stupid. Something fun."
The silence lingered.
Wenger looked at him, then at the team and then back at him.
He sighed the sigh of a man who had spent decades trying to keep footballers away from junk food.
Then very slowly a smile cracked across his face.
"A special night," Wenger said, "deserves a special exception."
The room exploded.
"NO WAYYYYYY!"
"WE'RE GOING MCDONALD'S!"
"OH MY GOD I'M GETTING TWENTY NUGGETS!"
"BIG MAC FOR EVERYONE!"
"NO, NO… CHICKEN LEGEND XXL MEAL, BABY!"
"BELLERIN YOU'RE PAYING IF HE CHANGES HIS MIND!"
"CHEF WENGER HAS FINALLY FALLEN!"
Wenger lifted both hands to calm them, but he was laughing too hard to pretend he wasn't enjoying this.
"Alright, alright! Calm down!" he said. "One stop. Only one. And no supersizing!"
"NO PROMISES!" Xhaka shouted.
"And no milkshakes!" Wenger added. "Too much sugar!"
"WE'LL DRINK WATER, BOSS!" Gnabry yelled.
"From McDonald's!?" Monreal sputtered.
The staff were laughing too now. Even the physios looked excited, though they were doing their best to hide it.
Half an hour later, the team emerged from the dressing room freshly showered, tracksuits on, bags slung over shoulders, still buzzing. Security escorts walked them toward the team bus waiting just beyond the Etihad's service exit.
It was cold outside as sharp Manchester night air that bit at their faces, but none of them cared. They were floating.
Wenger climbed aboard first, followed by the staff, then the players in a loud stream of energy.
Francesco was one of the last to step in, and as he climbed onto the bus, the team erupted into applause again.
He shook his head, embarrassed but grinning.
The bus driver turned with an amused expression. "McDonald's, then?"
Wenger sighed behind him. "Yes. One stop."
The driver nodded. "There's one eight minutes from here, boss. Open 24 hours."
Xhaka cheered. "GOD IS GOOD!"
The bus roared to life.
Music blasted.
Players drummed on the seats.
Someone yelled for the aux cord.
Bellerin stole it before anyone else could, shouting, "CAPTAIN BROKE MESSI'S RECORD, EVERYONE SHUT UP!"
Then he pressed play.
A reggaeton beat blasted through the speakers.
Half the team started dancing in their seats.
Sanchez stood up immediately and began moving like he was on Dancing With the Stars.
Gnabry started freestyle dancing in the aisle.
Iwobi joined him.
Wenger gave them one stern glare before turning away, pretending the glare was enough to stop them.
But Francesco?
He sat there soaking it in.
The joy.
The noise.
The taste of memory forming in real time.
Virgil nudged him.
"You know what the craziest thing is?" the defender said.
"What?"
"You did it without realizing you were chasing anything."
Francesco smiled softly. "Feels weird."
"It feels earned," Virgil corrected. "There's a difference."
The bus suddenly slowed.
Players pressed their faces to the windows.
There it was a glowing yellow "M."
The golden arches shining like some bizarre holy beacon in the night.
The bus pulled into the parking lot.
And it was empty.
Just one worker taking bins out, doing the late night shift.
But the moment he turned and saw the Arsenal team bus pulling in, his mouth dropped open.
He dropped the trash bag.
Stared.
Didn't move.
Then he screamed:
"NO. F***ING. WAY."
Players laughed as they poured out of the bus like a tidal wave of chaos.
The worker stumbled backward.
"Oh my god, wait… hold on… ARE YOU!? IS THAT FRANCESCO!?"
"Hey mate," Francesco said with a sheepish grin. "Hope we're not crashing your shift."
"CRASHING!? BRO, YOU CAN BLOW UP THE WHOLE RESTAURANT IF YOU WANT!"
Inside, four McDonald's employees stood frozen as the door opened and Arsenal players streamed in.
Sánchez ran straight to the counter.
Giroud dramatically inhaled the smell of fries like it was perfume.
Chamberlain tried to dance with a mop bucket.
Bellerin was already talking to employees like they were old friends.
The manager that 30 something man with tired eyes blinked hard.
"Uh… can… can I help you?"
"Yes," Xhaka said, slamming his hands on the counter with unnecessary force. "WE WANT EVERYTHING."
Wenger immediately grabbed Xhaka's collar and dragged him back.
"No he doesn't! No one wants everything!" Wenger insisted. "Everyone picks ONE meal. One!"
"That's child abuse, boss," Bellerin muttered.
Wenger glared.
"Fine! Two meals!"
"OLEEEE OLE OLE OLE!" the team sang.
The staff scrambled behind the counter, overwhelmed but thrilled.
They weren't just serving customers tonight.
They were serving Arsenal.
The unbeaten Arsenal.
The champions Arsenal.
The Arsenal whose captain had just shattered Messi's record.
Francesco stepped aside to let his teammates order.
Sánchez ordered twenty nuggets.
Xhaka ordered two Big Macs.
Virgil ordered enough fries to feed a British village.
Ozil ordered one cheeseburger and a hot chocolate which is the classic Mesut.
Giroud ordered a McFlurry despite Wenger shouting "NO ICE CREAM!"
Gnabry and Iwobi ordered like two teenagers on their first night out alone.
Cech quietly ordered a single Filet-O-Fish like a man of class.
Francesco approached the counter last.
The cashier looked like she might faint.
"Hello, sir," she stuttered. "Wh-what would you like?"
Francesco smiled gently.
"Uh… can I get a double cheeseburger meal? Large fries. And… thirty nuggets for the table. For everyone to share."
"Of course," she said, still shaking.
Wenger appeared behind him.
"You're paying?"
Francesco nodded. "Yeah. My treat."
Wenger placed a hand briefly on his shoulder.
"That," he said softly, "is what makes you a true captain."
The food came out in waves.
Bags, trays, boxes, drinks, fries and more fries that like a mountains of fries.
Arsenal players filled the tables, some sitting properly, others sitting sideways, a few leaning on counters, three sitting on the floor, one (Bellerin) sitting on top of the table like it was a throne.
The restaurant echoed with laughter.
Players told stories.
Joked.
Mocked each other's orders.
Argued about dipping sauces.
Reenacted Francesco's goals in exaggerated slow motion.
Failed miserably.
Francesco took a seat between Kante and Ozil, unwrapping his burger slowly as he looked around the restaurant.
It felt magical.
Not because it was McDonald's.
Not because of the record.
Not because of the win.
But because of the people.
His teammates.
His brothers.
His family on the pitch.
Ozil nudged him.
"You know tomorrow morning," he said, "this will be everywhere. News. Instagram. Twitter. Sky Sports. ESPN. TNT. Even my mum will hear it."
"About the record?" Francesco asked.
"No," Ozil said, dead serious. "About Wenger letting us eat McDonald's."
The table erupted with laughter.
Down at the other end, Giroud lifted his cup.
"TO FRANCESCO!" he shouted.
The entire restaurant raised their drinks from paper cups, plastic cups, some filled with soda, some filled with water, some probably filled with forbidden milkshake.
"To Francesco!"
"To the record!"
"To the captain!"
"To the GOAT!"
"To the man who made Wenger break his own dietary rules!"
Francesco felt his chest warm.
He stood, lifting his cup.
"Thank you," he said, voice steady but full of emotion. "I know I scored the goals, but I didn't do this alone. I'll never do anything alone. This team… this club… this family… you all made this possible. Tonight is not about me. It's about us."
A round of applause shook the walls.
Francesco didn't remember falling asleep.
He remembered the bus ride back to the airport as the players half asleep, half delirious, still arguing about dipping sauces and which McDonald's burger was underrated. He remembered the small private terminal lights glowing against the black Manchester sky. He remembered the plane, where half the squad knocked out before takeoff, heads slumped against windows, some still in their tracksuits.
He remembered landing in London at 3:02 AM according to his phone and how the cold slapped him awake the moment he stepped off the aircraft stairs. He remembered the drive back to Richmond, the quiet hum of the city sleeping, the soft glow of street lamps painting long shadows across the road.
The next thing he knew.
He was awake in his bed.
Sunlight was drifting through the curtains, that soft winter-yellow glow that always felt gentler than summer light. Warm, cozy, almost drowsy. The kind of sunlight that made mornings feel slower, softer.
He blinked his eyes open again, letting the brightness settle.
The room was quiet. Too quiet for Leah to still be asleep.
He reached out to the right side of the bed.
Cold sheets.
Empty.
He groaned, rubbing his face. "She's awake already, of course she is…"
He checked the digital clock on the nightstand.
11:47 AM.
He winced.
Yeah. Late.
But after landing at 3 AM, after eating like a teenager at McDonald's, after the adrenaline of breaking a world record, after all the chanting, laughter, chaos as his body finally crashed sometime after 4.
Francesco sighed, sitting up slowly, muscles aching in that satisfying way that said: You did something crazy yesterday.
He stretched his arms overhead until his spine popped.
Then PSSHHH… KSSKSKK… SIZZLE…
A sound drifted up from downstairs.
Cooking.
Someone was cooking.
He smiled instantly.
Leah.
He swung his legs out of bed, walked into the bathroom, and began brushing his teeth. The mint woke him fully now, clearing the fog from his brain. In the mirror, his eyes still looked tired, small bags under them, but there was a spark which is quiet, stunned glow, like someone carrying a secret too big for the world.
Ninety two goals.
The number echoed again in his mind.
He spat the toothpaste out and leaned on the sink for a moment, shaking his head with a small smile.
Messi's record.
He still couldn't believe it.
He rinsed his face, wiped it with a towel, and walked out of the bathroom, padding softly along the warm wooden floors of the hallway.
As he descended the stairs, the smell hit him first.
Garlic. Butter. Eggs. Toast. Something sizzling of bacon or sausage. And something sweet, too that maybe pancakes or that honey drizzle Leah loved using on weekend mornings.
The scent wrapped around him like a hug.
But then, before he even turned the corner into the kitchen.
"Babe!"
Leah's voice.
He barely had time to open his arms before she practically crashed into him.
She flung herself forward, warm, soft, smelling like vanilla lotion and morning coffee. Arms wrapped around his torso. Her cheek pressed into his chest. And she squeezed him like she was trying to fuse their bodies together.
He hugged her back immediately, one hand sliding around her waist, the other pressing to the back of her head.
"Morning," he murmured into her hair.
"Morning?" she said, pulling back just enough to look at him. "Francesco, it's almost noon. I was about to check if you were still alive."
He laughed. "Very alive."
Leah cupped his face with both hands, thumbs sweeping across his cheeks.
Her eyes were glowing, the warm brown of them shining with something soft and proud. "You broke Messi's record."
He exhaled with half laugh, half disbelief. "Yeah apparently."
"No." She grabbed his cheeks and squished them lightly. "Not 'apparently.' You did it. You broke a record the entire planet thought was impossible. You've made history."
He shrugged weakly, embarrassed. "Team effort."
"Maybe so," she said, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his jaw, "but you still put the ball in the net ninety two times."
He smiled at her, and she smiled back, eyes twinkling.
Leah looped her arms around his neck and kissed him with slow, warm, full of that kind of love that didn't need fireworks because it stayed lit every day.
"Congrats, my love," she whispered against his lips. "I'm so proud of you."
He rested his forehead against hers.
"Thank you," he murmured. "Means a lot."
She finally let him go, taking his hand and pulling him into the kitchen.
It looked like controlled chaos.
Bowls everywhere.
Bread crumbs on the counter.
Egg shells in the sink.
A pan sizzling with something golden.
A plate stacked with toast.
Another plate holding berries.
Her Arsenal hoodie sleeves pushed up as she flipped something in the pan.
He leaned against the counter, watching her work with that fond smile he could never hide.
"You're cooking like you're feeding the entire squad."
"I should," she shot back. "They all burned like ten thousand calories last night. I saw the highlight reel."
He snorted.
As she plated food, she continued, "I woke up at nine, checked my phone, and you know what I saw?"
"Hmm?"
"Your name. Everywhere." She set the plate in front of him dramatically. "Every notification was about you breaking the Messi record. It's insane, Francesco. The whole world is talking about you."
He brushed a hand through his hair, still not fully believing it. "Feels unreal."
"It is unreal." She kissed his head. "And you deserve every second of it."
Before he could respond.
His phone buzzed loudly on the counter.
Then again.
Then again.
Then again.
He frowned and grabbed it.
17 missed calls.
11 from Jorge Mendes.
One from his dad.
One from his mom.
Two from unknown numbers.
A bunch of WhatsApp messages.
And dozens of notifications from sports outlets, social media, agents, clubs, brands.
He muttered, "What the hell…"
Leah wiped her hands on a towel and leaned over his shoulder.
"Mendes must be going crazy right now."
Right on cue, the phone buzzed again.
Incoming Call: Jorge Mendes
Francesco answered.
"Jorge?"
"FRANCESCO!" Mendes' voice practically exploded through the speaker. "CONGRATULATIONS, MY BOY! You did it! You actually did it! Ninety two goals, this is global news! GLOBAL!"
Francesco chuckled. "Thanks, Jorge."
"No, no, don't thank me," Mendes continued, sounding like he was pacing through a room. "This is history. Do you know how many calls I've received since last night?"
"I'm guessing a few?"
"TRY FIFTY. Clubs from Spain. Italy. Germany. England. MLS. Saudi. Even two clubs from Brazil are asking if you'd ever consider a transfer. You've become the most in demand player in the world overnight."
Leah's eyebrows shot up.
Mendes continued, rapid fire, excited like a man who smelled business opportunity.
"And endorsements? Holy mother of God. They all want meetings. Gatorade wants to double your offer from last year. Apple wants you for a global ad. Even McDonald's wants to double your sponsor because the video of the squad eating after the match has gone viral."
Francesco groaned. "Oh god."
"Oh god what? This is amazing! The world is at your feet right now."
Leah shook her head, laughing silently.
Mendes lowered his voice.
"And about transfers, are you still one hundred percent set on staying at Arsenal?"
Francesco didn't even hesitate.
"Yes."
Mendes sighed dramatically. "I knew you'd say that. Fine. I'll shut the doors before the clubs start throwing money at me. But you do realize you just became priceless? Arsenal won't ever let you go now."
"Good," Francesco replied. "Because I'm not going."
Leah kissed the side of his neck when he said that.
Mendes laughed gently. "You remind me of Totti sometimes. Loyal to a fault. But that's what makes you special."
There was a pause.
"Anyway," Mendes added, "media will be exploding for the next 72 hours. Brace yourself. And enjoy the moment. This only happens once."
"I will," Francesco said softly.
"Good. Congratulations again, kid. You've made history."
The call ended.
Francesco set the phone down.
Leah crossed her arms with a raised eyebrow. "So you're basically the most wanted man in world football this morning."
He shrugged. "Guess so."
"Does it feel weird?"
"A little," he admitted. "But I'm not leaving Arsenal."
She smiled warmly. "I know."
He sat down to eat, and Leah joined him with her own plate. The house felt quiet, comfortable, warm. Outside, a light frost glimmered on the garden grass, winter air untouched and still. Inside, the world smelled like breakfast and love.
As he took the first bite of toast, Leah reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
"Francesco?"
"Hmm?"
"Whatever happens next, don't ever forget who you are. You're the boy who loved football, not fame."
He nodded, heart warm. "I won't."
"And," she added with a playful smirk, "you're also the idiot who dragged an entire Premier League squad into McDonald's at 1 AM."
He cracked up.
"Yeah," he admitted, "I really did do that."
She leaned across the table and kissed him again, slow and sweet.
"Best idiot I know."
He squeezed her hand back.
And as he ate breakfast with the woman he loved, phone still buzzing every few minutes with agents, clubs, brands, journalists, and executives.
They finished breakfast slow, not because the food required time, but because mornings like this with a mornings that only happened once in a lifetime, deserved to stretch out. Every few minutes Francesco's phone buzzed again on the counter, screen lighting up with a new notification, but he ignored it for now. Mendes had already said everything he needed to hear. The whole world would still be there in an hour.
Leah stacked the plates, humming something soft, something familiar he couldn't place, something that made the kitchen feel even warmer. Francesco leaned back on the chair, exhaling the kind of deep, satisfied breath that came only after the craziest nights of his career.
He didn't even realize she was watching him until she walked over and kissed the top of his head.
"Come on," she said, flicking his cheek playfully. "Let's go see how badly the media is losing their minds."
He groaned dramatically. "Do we have to?"
"Yes," she said, tugging his sleeve. "Because this is history, and you need to see how big this is."
He let her drag him toward the living room.
The large TV mounted above the fireplace flickered to life as Leah grabbed the remote. She scrolled through channels from BBC Sport, ESPN, TNT, Al Jazeera Sport as every single one showing his name somewhere on the screen.
But finally, as always, she stopped on Sky Sports.
And there they were.
The usual suspects.
Jamie Carragher sitting forward with that excited, chaotic energy like he'd sprint across the studio at any moment.
Gary Neville leaning back, arms folded, giving that "I still don't believe what I saw last night" face.
Ian Wright absolutely glowing, practically vibrating with joy like a father watching his son graduate.
And today two special guests.
Thierry Henry.
Alan Shearer.
Two icons.
Two legends.
Two men whose records Francesco grew up reading about like myths carved in stone.
Leah gasped quietly. "Oh my god, they brought the Avengers."
Carragher was already mid sentence when the screen fully loaded.
"…and listen, I don't care what era you're from, I don't care how many goals you think you've seen in your life," Carra said, pointing at the camera, "what Francesco did last night isn't normal human behavior. That is alien numbers. As we're witnessing something that might not happen again for another hundred years."
Neville cut in. "Jamie, you say that, but four years ago everybody said Messi's 91 was untouchable. Impossible. A one-off in human history. I remember pundits saying it needed divine intervention to be broken."
"Yeah," Carra snapped back, "and yet here we are, Gary! The kid has NINETY TWO. Ninety two! And there's still a game left!"
Leah laughed softly, sitting down beside Francesco on the sofa, curling against him.
"Oh this is going to be good," she murmured.
Wrighty leaned toward the desk, shaking his head slowly, almost emotionally.
"I'll be honest," he said, "I cried last night. When that ninety second goal went in… I'm not ashamed to say it. This boy—" He pointed at the screen like Francesco was sitting right there. "—this boy has changed football."
Francesco felt his throat tighten a little.
That meant something.
Coming from Ian Wright?
That meant more than any trophy.
Shearer that calm, analytical, the Premier League's all-time top scorer spoke next.
"And it's not just the quantity of the goals," he said. "It's the consistency. Every month. Every competition. Home, away. Big games, small games. Hat-tricks, braces, solo goals, headers, tap ins, screamers. That's what makes a goalscorer truly great."
He paused, smiling ever so slightly.
"And trust me, I know a thing or two about goals."
The studio laughed.
Leah nudged Francesco. "A compliment from Shearer, that's basically football royalty knighting you."
He snorted softly, rubbing his face. "I still feel like that kid watching him on Match of the Day."
But then Thierry Henry leaned forward.
And everything went quiet.
The studio.
The house.
Even Francesco's breathing.
Because Thierry didn't need volume to command a room.
His voice was calm, thoughtful, and full of that quiet sharpness only a few people in football possessed.
"When Messi scored ninety one," Thierry said, "I was one of the people who thought, 'This is it. This is the limit. This cannot be done again.' Because it took perfection to achieve. It took magic. It took something more than football."
He folded his hands, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"But then comes this boy, Francesco and he makes the impossible look effortless."
Leah squeezed Francesco's thigh.
Thierry continued.
"I watched him last night. Not just the goals from the movement, the patience, the calmness. He has something Messi had. Something Ronaldo had. Something the great ones have."
He looked into the camera.
"He believes."
Wrighty nodded aggressively beside him.
Carragher tapped the desk. "You telling me he's on that level already, T?"
Thierry didn't flinch.
"I'm telling you he's carving his own."
Neville whistled low under his breath. "That is a serious statement."
Shearer leaned in, thoughtful. "And remember, lads, he's only turning eighteen last month."
Carragher threw both hands up.
"Eighteen! At that age I was still learning how not to slice clearances into my own net!"
Wrighty burst out laughing so hard he nearly slipped off his chair.
Thierry, still composed, continued:
"He broke a world record many believed untouchable. And he did it playing for the team he loves, not chasing personal glory, not forcing it. That's the most impressive part. He scores because he breathes goals. It is natural to him."
Leah looked at Francesco then, and her expression softened as if seeing him differently that not just her boyfriend, not just the man she woke up with, but someone the entire football world was lifting on their shoulders.
And then Sky Sports rolled the footage.
Every goal.
All 92 of them.
The screen flashed montage after montage as some clips he hadn't seen in months to early season goals against West Ham, volleys against Stoke, that ridiculous bicycle kick against United, the Champions League hat-trick, the curling effort against Bayern.
Every angle, every stadium, every roar.
Commentators shouting his name in dozens of different accents.
Crowds exploding.
Hands raised.
Wenger smiling.
Alexis lifting him.
Giroud pushing him.
Bellerin tackling him after goals as if that was his personal hobby.
And Francesco sat there watching the last year of his life unfold in front of him like a highlight reel of a dream he didn't even realize he was living.
When the montage ended, Gary Neville was shaking his head.
"I'm still convinced he's not human."
Carragher pointed again. "I'm telling you, he's a shapeshifting alien brought to Earth to ruin defenders."
Wrighty slapped the desk. "He's OUR alien though!"
More laughter.
Shearer waved a hand.
"And don't forget, he has ONE more match left."
Carragher nodded. "West Brom at the Emirates."
Gary Neville shrugged. "He could score five. Honestly. At this point nothing would surprise me."
Then Henry leaned forward again, voice going quieter.
"Records are not meant to last forever," he said. "But the way he's broken this one, I'm telling you all now that this boy is just getting started."
Leah turned off the volume for a moment and leaned her head on Francesco's shoulder.
"You hearing this?" she whispered.
He swallowed. "Yeah."
"No, really hearing it?" she insisted gently. "These are legends. Legends. Talking about you. Thierry Henry. Alan Shearer. Ian Wright. You grew up watching them."
He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"I know," he whispered. "It's a lot."
She rested her hand over his heart.
"You deserve it."
He stayed quiet, eyes still glued to the screen, watching as the studio debate continued.
Sky Sports put up a graphic now:
"Is Francesco the greatest goalscorer of his generation?"
Carragher answered first:
"For me, yes. Absolutely yes."
Gary Neville looked like he was fighting the urge to agree, trying to be the one 'sensible' voice, but even he cracked.
"It's honestly hard to argue."
Shearer added, "He's rewriting the rules."
Henry finished the thought:
"He's rewriting football."
Leah clicked the volume back on right as Wrighty added.
"And he's doing it wearing an Arsenal shirt. That's what makes me happiest."
Wrighty looked directly into the camera again.
"You keep going, son. Don't let anyone stop you."
Leah hadn't turned the TV off yet, but she'd lowered the volume enough that the voices of the pundits sounded like distant echoes that like background music beneath something bigger happening in the room.
Francesco leaned back into the sofa, fingers laced together over his stomach, his mind spinning slowly, thickly, like someone had stuffed his thoughts underwater. The montage, the praise, the way Henry had spoken as it all blended with memories of last night, flashes of the crowd, Wenger's trembling smile, Alexis yelling in Spanish before hugging him with both arms.
He didn't realize he was staring vacantly at the floor until Leah nudged him gently with her shoulder.
"You alright?" she asked softly.
He blinked, forcing himself back into the present. "Yeah. Just taking it in."
"Try breathing too," she teased.
He exhaled, and it almost turned into a laugh.
But Sky Sports wasn't done.
After the segment on the 92 goals, after the panel finished arguing about his left-foot finishing mechanics and the physics of his 90th goal volley, the broadcast transitioned to something else with a special feature, one he hadn't even known they'd been preparing.
A golden graphic slid onto the screen:
"FRANCESCO LEE: THE NEW BALLON D'OR WINNER."
Leah froze with the remote halfway to the table.
Francesco blinked. "Wait, what?"
Sky Sports rolled footage of the Ballon d'Or gala from three nights ago in Zürich. The moment his name was called. The slow-motion close-up of him looking shocked that truly shocked with the same expression on his face just he finally went onto the stage with a happy smile.
They showed him walking toward the podium, shoulders stiff, eyes wide, the glint of tears gathering faster than he could blink them back. In real life, it had been a blur, the world spinning with lights and applause, but now watching it as a viewer, he saw the details: the gentle smile of Henry in the crowd, the camera panning to Ronaldo nodding respectfully, Messi clapping with that small, almost fatherly smile he rarely showed on camera.
Leah murmured, "God, you looked so young."
He frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're eighteen and holding the literal golden planet in your hands," she said, shrugging. "I think that qualifies as 'baby bro on the biggest stage in the universe.'"
He clicked his tongue, embarrassed, but she wasn't wrong.
The screen showed the moment he lifted the trophy.
The applause.
The confetti.
The thunder of cheers.
And the way Messi and Ronaldo as two men who had turned the sport into a decade duel between gods are stood behind him, watching, evaluating, weighing.
The studio cut sharply to Carragher.
"Look, lads, we need to talk about this properly," he said, leaning forward as if physically bracing for the debate. "Last night Francesco broke Messi's 91-goal record. Weeks before, he won the Ballon d'Or. That officially puts him in the conversation."
Neville raised a brow. "Conversation of what?"
Carragher spread his hands wide. "The greatest of his generation."
Wrighty nodded firmly. "I agree."
Neville protested. "Hold on. Hold on, he's eighteen. Messi and Ronaldo have over a decade of dominance behind them."
Thierry spoke calmly, cutting right through the noise.
"Yes," Henry said. "But dominance has to start somewhere."
The studio fell silent.
Shearer added, "And it usually starts like this. With shock. With disbelief. With records being smashed in ways that make people uncomfortable."
Carragher snapped his fingers. "Exactly."
And then Sky Sports put up another graphic as this time one Francesco hadn't seen:
FOOTBALL'S NEW ERA:
THE BIG THREE
• Lionel Messi – Argentina
• Cristiano Ronaldo – Portugal
• Francesco Lee – England
The title underneath read:
"Football's World Divided: Three Giants, One Throne."
Leah's breath hitched. "Wow. They're actually saying it."
Francesco felt something tighten in his chest, a mix of disbelief and something heavier then something sharper.
He had grown up in a world ruled by two towering shadows: Messi and Ronaldo. Two men who had defined football more than anyone in history, two opposites constantly pushing each other higher. They weren't rivals as they were twin supernovas shaping gravity itself.
And now Sky Sports had put his name next to theirs.
Not as a prodigy.
Not as a rising talent.
Not as a promising youngster.
But as the third force.
The third great.
It didn't feel real.
Leah must have seen the panic flicker across his face because she gently slid her hand into his, grounding him.
Neville scratched his jaw as he analyzed the graphic.
"So this is what the world looks like now," he said. "Argentina has Messi and Portugal has Ronaldo, two icons still at the top of their game. England has Francesco which is the eighteen years old, already a Ballon d'Or winner, already a record-breaker, carrying Arsenal, carrying the Premier League."
He looked into the camera.
"Football is no longer a two man era."
Wrighty stepped in, voice warm but fierce.
"It's a three way war now. And it's going to define the next decade."
Carragher's eyes gleamed with excitement.
"Messi, Ronaldo, and Francesco chasing Golden Boots, Ballon d'Or, Champions Leagues, and the World Cup. The whole world split into three camps. Argentina versus Portugal versus England."
Shearer nodded thoughtfully.
"And the scary part?" He pointed at Francesco's name. "He's the youngest. By far."
Henry's eyes narrowed with a thoughtful intensity that made Francesco straighten unconsciously.
"When I played with Messi," Thierry said, "I saw firsthand how early greatness reveals itself. The calmness. The confidence. The way he changed matches just by existing."
He tapped the desk.
"I'm seeing that again, but this time in England. This time in Francesco."
The others murmured in agreement.
Henry continued,
"Messi and Ronaldo will not allow this easily. They will not let another join their throne without a fight. They will push harder. They will score more. They will try to outshine him like they did each other."
He sat back, eyes focused, voice low.
"But Francesco has an advantage they never had."
Gary blinked. "What's that?"
"He is young enough to rewrite the future," Henry said simply. "Young enough to surpass both. Young enough to chase things they are running out of time for."
Neville rubbed his chin. "Like the World Cup."
Wrighty nodded. "Like Champions League records."
Shearer added, "Like career goals."
Carragher finished, "Like legacy."
Leah leaned closer and whispered, "Are you hearing this again? Actually hearing it?"
Francesco swallowed, but didn't answer.
He couldn't.
His brain felt like it had short-circuited.
Because the panel had moved on to something even more surreal.
Sky Sports had brought up three massive split screen with Messi on the left, Ronaldo on the right, and him in the middle.
All three in their national team kits.
Argentina.
Portugal.
England.
Neville spoke first.
"This is the global picture now. Three superstars at the top of world football. Three nations pinned with hopes of World Cup glory."
Carragher sighed dramatically. "Honestly, lads, I didn't think I'd ever see the day someone joined Messi and Ronaldo in this category."
Wrighty shook his head. "Neither did I."
Thierry interlocked his fingers. "We are living in a special moment."
Shearer smiled. "A once in a lifetime moment."
Leah turned off the volume entirely this time.
The room went very still.
She shifted, turning to face him, her knee touching his.
"You know what this means," she said gently.
He dragged a slow breath, staring at the blank TV screen reflecting both of them faintly.
"It means the pressure is insane," he muttered.
"It means," she corrected softly, "you're officially one of the best in the world. Not future. Not maybe. Not someday."
She touched his cheek, thumb tracing the faint shadow of stubble.
"Now."
He blinked hard.
She leaned in, resting her forehead against his.
"Baby, you're in the same sentence as Messi and Ronaldo."
He let out a shaky laugh. "How the hell did that happen?"
"You earned it," she whispered. "Every sprint. Every finish. Every night you came home exhausted and I had to shove food into you like a stubborn toddler."
He snorted.
She kissed him softly. "Every goal. Every piece of pressure. Every time you put the team before yourself. That's why they're talking about you like this."
He closed his eyes for a moment.
She didn't let go.
"And you know what else?" she whispered.
"What?"
"You're only getting started."
A long silence stretched between them, warm and quiet until the TV suddenly blasted back to full volume because Leah had accidentally pressed the wrong button with her elbow.
Carragher's voice exploded into the room:
"—AND I'M TELLING YOU NOW, RONALDO IS NOT GONNA LET THIS STAND!"
Francesco jolted. "Jesus Christ!"
Leah fumbled the remote. "SORRY… SORRY… wait, where's the mute—"
Gary Neville's voice cut in next:
"Messi won't either! Those two are going to go into absolute overdrive next season."
Wrighty slapped the desk. "Good! Because that means Francesco will push even harder!"
Thierry nodded. "This is how rivalries are born."
Shearer added, "This is how eras are defined."
Leah finally hit the mute button and collapsed onto his chest, groaning. "I swear Carragher is going to make me deaf one day."
But the words on the screen lingered in Francesco's mind.
Rivalries.
Eras.
Three giants.
One throne.
He swallowed slowly.
Then the replay showed Ronaldo's reaction at the Ballon d'Or ceremony with his arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes narrowed in that sharp, calculating way that meant he'd already set a new goal inside his head.
Messi's reaction followed with gentle, but unmistakably alert. The same expression he'd worn when Neymar first exploded into world-class form at Barcelona: admiration wrapped tightly around caution.
Leah saw his face pale slightly.
She placed her hand over his.
"Does it scare you?" she asked quietly.
He didn't lie.
"A little."
She nodded. "Good."
He frowned. "Good?"
"Yeah," she said, smiling softly. "Because only idiots aren't scared when they're about to step into history."
He breathed out a laugh.
She shifted closer again, her legs draped over his lap now, curling into him fully, like she knew he needed grounding that like she could feel the weight settling on his chest.
The TV continued showing clips of analysts shouting, fans celebrating in pubs, news anchors announcing his record breaking numbers, commentators replaying last night's goals, international journalists debating his rise.
Every continent.
Every language.
Every headline.
And all of it came back to one thing:
The new Big Three.
Messi.
Ronaldo.
Francesco.
The world split into three camps who would now argue endlessly about who deserved the throne.
But the truth was something he hadn't admitted to anyone, not even Leah, was that Francesco had grown up idolizing Messi. Trying to copy Ronaldo's work ethic. Watching Messi's dribbling clips until his eyes burned. Practicing Ronaldo's free kick stance in the backyard until the grass was bald.
He had learned from giants.
Now he was expected to compete with them.
Leah rubbed slow circles on his arm with her thumb.
Her voice softened, the kind that could steady earthquakes.
"You're not replacing them," she whispered. "You're joining them."
He swallowed hard.
"You're not their shadow," she added. "You're their equal."
He let her words sink in.
Because deep down that beneath the excitement, beneath the shock, beneath the pressure, there was something else building inside him.
Something he couldn't deny anymore.
A fire.
A hunger.
Not sharp or desperate like fear.
Not frantic like anxiety.
But something patient.
Something steady.
Something that felt like a quiet promise.
He whispered it before he even realized the words were forming.
"I'm going to beat them."
Leah didn't flinch.
She didn't laugh.
She didn't gasp.
She didn't look shocked.
She just nodded slowly, eyes warm and proud and fierce.
"I know."
He blinked, startled. "You do?"
"I knew the moment I saw you play." She nudged his chest gently. "You're not here to be third. You're here to be first."
He felt the words settle deep, like stones dropping into water.
She continued, voice soft but solid:
"Messi won't hand anything to you. Ronaldo won't hand anything to you. They're going to fight like monsters because they've spent their whole careers on top."
Her fingers slid along his jaw.
"But so will you."
He breathed out slowly.
"So will you," she repeated. "Because you're younger. Hungrier. This is your era starting."
He looked at her for a long moment, her face close, eyes shining with belief he didn't always have in himself.
Then he whispered:
"You think I can surpass them?"
Leah didn't even hesitate.
"Yes," she said. "Because they're legends."
Her hand rested over his heart.
"But you're something new."
The room fell quiet again, the muted TV flickering in soft colors across the walls. He leaned back, wrapping his arm around her, letting the weight of everything wash over him that not in a suffocating way, but in a grounding one.
________________________________________________
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: 24
Goal: 37
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