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He exchanged brief smiles with teammates as they passed, absorbing their happiness and camaraderie. Wenger patted him lightly on the shoulder, a quiet acknowledgment of not just the goals, but the leadership, the spirit, and the professionalism Francesco had displayed throughout the game. The captain's armband had been passed during his substitution, but his presence had dominated the match from start to finish.
The noise did not fade when the whistle went.
If anything, it swelled.
It rolled down from the upper tiers, crashed against the pitch, echoed back again, as if the Emirates itself refused to let the moment end. The scoreboard still glowed 6–0, frozen there like a statement carved into steel, and the players stood scattered across the grass, hands on hips, chests rising and falling, soaking it in.
Francesco rose fully from the bench and stepped forward onto the pitch as the final echoes of the whistle dissolved into chants.
Not rushed.
Not hurried.
He wanted to feel it under his boots again.
The grass was damp, slightly torn in places where celebrations had ripped through it, and it felt grounding, real. He clapped slowly at first, then faster, raising his hands above his head toward the stands. The response was immediate.
A roar.
A wall of sound.
His name, over and over again.
"FRAN-CES-CO!"
"FRAN-CES-CO!"
"NINE-SIX! NINE-SIX!"
He exhaled, long and steady, and then turned toward the West Brom players.
This part mattered.
He walked first toward Darren Fletcher.
The West Brom captain looked tired, sweat-soaked, disappointment etched into his face, but when he saw Francesco approaching, he straightened and extended his hand immediately.
"Well played," Fletcher said, firm grip, honest eyes. "That was something else."
Francesco nodded. "Respect. You never stopped fighting."
Fletcher shook his head with a rueful smile. "Not sure it felt like fighting today, but history's history. Congratulations."
They released hands, and Francesco moved down the line.
Evans.
McAuley.
Dawson.
Nyom.
Each handshake was brief but sincere. Some players murmured congratulations, others just nodded, eyes distant, processing a long afternoon they'd rather forget. Foster met Francesco's eyes for a moment longer than most, a half-smile tugging at his mouth despite himself.
"Couldn't do much about those," Foster said quietly.
Francesco gave a small shrug. "One of those days."
The final handshake came with Tony Pulis.
The West Brom manager stepped forward, expression stern but respectful, hand extended before Francesco even reached him.
"Congratulations, son," Pulis said, voice gravelly. "Records are meant to be broken. You earned that one."
"Thank you, sir," Francesco replied, genuinely. "Your teams are always hard to play against."
Pulis snorted softly. "Not today," he said, then smiled despite himself. "Enjoy it. Doesn't come around often."
Francesco nodded again, a flicker of humility crossing his face, before turning back toward his own teammates.
And that's when it happened.
He barely had time to register Alexis charging at him from the left before arms wrapped around his waist and lifted.
"HEY—" Francesco laughed, the sound torn from him as his feet left the ground.
Ramsey joined in immediately.
Then Xhaka.
Then Giroud.
Before he could protest properly, he was airborne.
Up.
Down.
Once.
The crowd roared louder.
Up.
Down.
Twice.
Francesco laughed helplessly now, arms instinctively bracing against shoulders.
Up.
Down.
Three times.
By the time they set him back on his feet, he was breathless, shaking his head, cheeks flushed, grin wide and unguarded.
"You're all idiots," he said fondly.
Alexis grinned back, eyes alight. "Four goals, hermano. You don't get to complain today."
Kanté slipped in close and hugged him quickly, almost shy, before stepping back with that familiar warm smile.
"Very good game," he said. "Very, very good."
Özil said nothing at first.
He simply stepped in, clasped Francesco's shoulder, and leaned in just enough to speak quietly.
"You make football easy for the rest of us," he said.
That one landed deeper than the chants.
Wenger approached last.
He didn't say anything immediately.
He just looked at Francesco for a long moment, eyes sharp, reflective, proud in a way that didn't need words. Then he placed both hands briefly on Francesco's shoulders.
"Enjoy this," Wenger said softly. "You deserve it."
That was all.
And somehow, it was enough.
The players began to drift toward the tunnel, but Francesco didn't follow immediately.
He turned instead toward the North Bank.
Toward the tifo.
It was still there, hanging proudly, massive and impossible to ignore.
His face.
The number 92.
Now outdated within a single match, but somehow even more meaningful because of it.
He jogged lightly toward that end of the pitch, raising his hand to signal where he was going. Security stewards tensed instinctively, but Wenger waved them off from the sideline.
Let him go.
The chants changed as he approached.
"THANK YOU, FRAN-CES-CO!"
"ONE OF OUR OWN!"
"CAPTAIN! CAPTAIN!"
He stopped just short of the advertising boards, standing there alone for a moment, chest rising and falling, eyes scanning the wall of red and white.
He bowed his head.
Just slightly.
Then he clapped.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
A thank you that didn't need translation.
He lifted both hands, palms open, gesturing up at the tifo, then back to his chest.
This is for you.
The fans responded with an explosion of sound so loud it felt physical, like pressure against his ribs.
Then he did something instinctive.
He reached for the hem of his shirt.
Pulled it up.
Over his head.
The cold air hit his skin immediately, but he barely noticed. He scanned the front rows, eyes searching, until he found them.
A young boy.
Maybe ten or eleven.
Arsenal scarf wrapped too big around his neck.
Eyes wide, mouth open, hands gripping the barrier like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
Their eyes met.
Francesco pointed.
The boy froze.
Francesco smiled and nodded.
The boy's hands flew to his mouth.
Francesco walked closer, leaned over the barrier with the help of a steward, and handed him the shirt directly.
"Keep it," Francesco said.
The kid burst into tears instantly.
Ugly, uncontrollable, joyful tears.
He clutched the shirt to his chest like it was fragile, like it might disappear if he loosened his grip. His father or maybe older brother wrapped an arm around him, shouting thank you over and over, voice cracking.
Francesco patted the boy's head gently.
"Enjoy it," he said. "And keep dreaming."
The moment stretched, pure and unfiltered, until the steward gently reminded him they needed to move.
The steward's hand hovered politely at Francesco's elbow, a gentle reminder rather than a command.
Reluctantly, he stepped back from the barrier.
The boy was still crying, still clutching the shirt like it was something sacred, still being held by the man beside him who looked just as overwhelmed. Francesco gave them one last nod, a silent promise sealed between strangers, and then finally turned away.
As he did, something else happened.
The main official stepped onto the pitch, carrying something tucked under his arm.
The match ball.
White.
Scuffed.
Marked with faint grass stains and boot prints that told the story of ninety minutes.
The referee approached Francesco with a small smile, waiting until he was fully clear of the barrier before stopping him.
"Francesco," the referee said, holding the ball out. "Four goals. Match ball's yours."
For a second, Francesco just stared at it.
He'd imagined this moment before as every striker does, even if they won't admit it but the reality of it felt different. He reached out slowly, fingers closing around the leather, feeling the weight of it, the slight roughness beneath his palms.
Four goals lived in this ball.
Every strike.
Every touch.
Every roar of the crowd.
"Thank you," he said, quietly but sincerely.
The referee nodded. "Hell of a performance."
Francesco smiled faintly and tucked the ball under his arm.
The crowd noticed instantly.
A new roar rose, louder somehow, more pointed.
"TAKE IT HOME!"
"FOUR! FOUR! FOUR!"
"CAPTAIN! CAPTAIN!"
He lifted the ball above his head in acknowledgment, and the reaction nearly shook the ground beneath him. Cameras zoomed in from every angle. Somewhere in the stands, flashes went off like a constellation.
He turned back toward the tunnel at last, ball secured, heart still racing that not from exertion now, but from the sheer magnitude of it all.
But he didn't make it far.
A Premier League staff member in a dark jacket stepped forward, headset on, clipboard tucked under one arm.
"Francesco," she called out, voice raised but polite. "Quick word for broadcast, please. Sideline interview."
He glanced instinctively toward Wenger.
Wenger was already nodding.
"Go," he said. "Enjoy that as well."
Francesco exhaled, adjusted his grip on the match ball, and followed her toward the designated interview spot near the technical area.
The noise followed him like a living thing.
As he approached, he could see the setup clearly now.
A branded Premier League backdrop.
A cameraman adjusting focus.
A presenter holding a microphone, smiling wide but waiting patiently.
It was one of those moments where time seemed to slow just enough for everything to sink in.
He stepped into position, still breathing heavily, sweat clinging to his hair, chest rising and falling beneath the base layer that clung to him now that his shirt was gone. The cold air brushed against his skin, but adrenaline kept it at bay.
The presenter turned to camera.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice perfectly polished, "we're joined pitchside by Arsenal's Francesco Lee after a truly remarkable performance. Four goals, a six–nil win, and a new Premier League record."
He turned back to Francesco, extending the microphone.
"Francesco," he said, "first of all congratulations. How does that feel?"
Francesco took the mic, glanced once at the ball under his arm, then out toward the stands.
He didn't rush his answer.
"It feels unreal," he said honestly. "You grow up dreaming of games like this, but when it actually happens, when you're standing here with the crowd like that, your teammates around you as it's hard to put into words."
The crowd reacted instantly, a swell of approval.
The presenter nodded. "Four goals today. And You've just broken a record that's stood for years. When did you realize this might be a special afternoon?"
Francesco smiled, a little sheepish, a little amused.
"Probably after the third," he admitted. "The free kick. I heard the noise then, I really heard it and I thought, okay… this is different."
He paused, then added quickly, "But honestly, this wasn't about me. The way the team played today, the movement, the passing as it makes my job easier."
The presenter raised an eyebrow slightly. "You say that, but this team clearly plays with you at the center of it. How important has that connection been this season?"
Francesco nodded slowly, choosing his words.
"It's everything," he said. "Football's not an individual sport, no matter how it looks from the outside. I score because Mesut sees things before anyone else. Because Alexis never stops running. Because the midfield gives us control. Because the back line lets us play with confidence."
He glanced briefly toward where Wenger stood near the bench, arms folded, watching.
"And because the manager trusts us."
The presenter followed his gaze and smiled. "Speaking of the manager, Arsène Wenger has just led Arsenal to one of their most dominant performances of the season. What does his belief mean to you personally?"
Francesco's expression softened.
"It means everything," he said simply. "He believed in me before a lot of people did. He gave me responsibility, freedom, and support. You don't get days like this without that."
The presenter nodded appreciatively, then gestured toward the ball.
"Can we talk about that?" he asked with a grin. "The match ball, four goals. Where's that going?"
Francesco laughed, the sound easy and genuine.
"That's coming home with me," he said. "Definitely. I'll probably put it somewhere safe and look at it when I need reminding why I love this game."
The crowd roared again.
The presenter leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to feel conversational.
"Last one from me," he said. "This win sends a message. What message do you think Arsenal sent today?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"That we're hungry," he said. "That we're together. And that we're not done."
That one hit.
The roar that followed was visceral, raw, full of belief.
The roar didn't die down.
It didn't even soften.
If anything, it grew sharper, more focused, as Francesco's final words hung in the air was hungry, together, not done. The presenter let the noise wash over them for a few seconds, smiling knowingly into the camera, before lifting a hand slightly to signal there was still more.
"And before we let you go," he said, turning back toward Francesco, "there's one more thing."
A Premier League staff member stepped in from just out of frame, holding a small black podium tray with both hands. Resting on it was the Man of the Match trophy, the Premier League lion etched into its surface, catching the floodlights in sharp flashes.
The presenter took it carefully and turned back toward Francesco.
"For a performance like today's," he continued, voice warm but carrying, "four goals, complete control, and history made, there really was only one choice."
He held the trophy out.
"Francesco Lee, you are the Premier League Man of the Match."
For a fraction of a second, Francesco didn't move.
Not because he didn't understand.
But because the weight of everything seemed to land at once.
The six goals.
The chants.
The tifo.
The kid in the North Bank.
The match ball under his arm.
And now this.
The crowd exploded all over again.
A fresh wave of sound tore through the stadium, bouncing off steel and concrete, pouring down from the stands in a way that felt almost physical.
"MAN OF THE MATCH!"
"MAN OF THE MATCH!"
"FRANCESCO!"
Francesco let out a breath that turned into a laugh before he could stop it. He shifted the match ball slightly under his left arm and reached out with his right hand, fingers wrapping around the trophy.
It was heavier than he expected.
Cold.
Solid.
Real.
"Thank you," he said, voice thick but steady. "Thank you very much."
The presenter stepped slightly to the side to give the camera a clear view as Francesco lifted the award chest-high, not above his head, but proudly, respectfully. The lights caught the polished edges, sending brief flashes across the lens.
Somewhere behind them, Alexis whistled loudly.
Ramsey clapped over his head.
A few Arsenal players still on the pitch raised their arms in mock ceremony, bowing toward him.
Francesco glanced toward them and shook his head, smiling, before turning back to the presenter.
"As you has know," the presenter added, eyes glinting slightly. "With today's four goals, you've not only broken Messi record as you've previously with 92 goal as now has taken your tally to ninety six."
The number rippled through the crowd.
Ninety-six.
Francesco blinked once.
Twice.
He'd known the number, of course. Everyone had been tracking it. Every goal, every appearance, every graphic flashed on screens and shouted by commentators. But hearing it said out loud, here, in this moment, with the award in his hand and the match ball under his arm, did something to him.
He swallowed.
"That's honestly surreal," he said, voice quieter now, more personal. "Messi is… he's someone I watched growing up. Someone everyone watched. To even be mentioned in the same sentence is something I never imagined."
He shook his head slightly, almost in disbelief.
"But records don't happen in isolation," he continued. "They happen because of teams, because of trust, because of people pushing you every day. I don't take any of this lightly."
The presenter nodded, clearly sensing the moment.
"Well," he said, smiling, "today you've written another chapter in football history. Congratulations again, Francesco."
He gestured toward the tunnel.
"We'll let you go and enjoy this with your teammates."
Francesco nodded gratefully, gave a final wave to the crowd with trophy in one hand, match ball tucked firmly under the other arm and stepped away from the interview area.
The noise followed him immediately.
As he walked toward the tunnel, he raised the Man of the Match award higher this time, above his head, and the reaction was instant. Fans leapt to their feet again, scarves held aloft, voices cracking as they screamed his name.
Wenger stood near the edge of the technical area, hands clasped behind his back.
As Francesco passed him, Wenger leaned in just enough to speak.
"Enjoy every second," he said softly. "These moments are rare."
Francesco nodded. "Thank you, boss."
Inside the tunnel, the sound shifted.
Less thunderous.
More intimate.
Echoing laughter and shouts bouncing off concrete walls.
The Arsenal players were waiting.
And the moment they saw the trophy, all restraint vanished.
"OF COURSE," Alexis shouted. "OF COURSE!"
Ramsey pumped both fists. "Well deserved!"
Giroud pointed dramatically. "History maker!"
Someone which probably Bellerín started chanting "Nine-six! Nine-six!" and within seconds the whole tunnel had joined in, voices overlapping, boots stamping against the floor in rhythm.
Francesco laughed, shaking his head as he walked through them, accepting claps on the back, hands pulling him into quick embraces.
Kanté hugged him tightly, smiling wide. "Very happy for you," he said, genuinely.
Özil stepped in next, eyes bright.
"You know," he said quietly, "I'll take at least half the assists credit for that record."
Francesco snorted. "Only half?"
Özil smirked. "Okay. Sixty percent."
They both laughed.
By the time Francesco reached the dressing room, the atmosphere had turned electric.
Music blasted from the speakers now, someone having finally found the courage or recklessness to turn it up. Shirts were tossed aside, boots kicked into corners, ice packs slapped against legs.
Francesco set the Man of the Match award carefully on the bench next to his seat, then placed the match ball beside it.
For a moment, he just looked at them.
The ball.
The trophy.
Side by side.
A physical record of a day that would live forever.
Alexis dropped onto the bench beside him, towel around his neck.
"So," he said casually, "ninety-six."
Francesco exhaled. "Yeah."
Alexis bumped his shoulder. "Not bad, huh?"
"Not bad," Francesco agreed, smiling.
Across the room, Wenger raised his voice just enough to cut through the music.
"Gentlemen."
The sound dipped, slowly.
He waited until eyes were on him.
"This," he said, gesturing around the room, "is what happens when you respect the game. When you respect each other. Enjoy tonight but remember, tomorrow, the work continues."
The music didn't come back on immediately after Wenger finished speaking.
For a few seconds, there was just the sound of breathing, of boots scraping against the concrete floor, of water bottles being opened and squeezed. The words hung in the air, not heavy, not tense but just grounding. A reminder that even days like this, days that felt unreal, were still part of a longer road.
Then Alexis broke it.
He clapped his hands together once, loud and sharp.
"Alright," he said, grinning as he looked around the room, "enjoy tonight, yes. But right now," his eyes flicked to Francesco, "this guy still owes us something."
Francesco looked up from the bench, where he'd been sitting quietly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes still drifting back to the match ball and the Man of the Match award beside him.
"Owes you what?" he asked, genuinely confused.
Alexis pointed around the room. "Proof."
Ramsey laughed. "Yeah. Proof that this actually happened."
Bellerín snapped his fingers. "Photo. We need a photo."
That's when it clicked.
Francesco straightened slightly, the idea settling in, and then he smiled.
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "Let's do it."
A few heads turned toward him.
"Everyone," Francesco added, pushing himself to his feet. "Not just the starters. Everyone. Staff too, if they want."
The room reacted instantly.
"YES."
"Come on!"
"Someone get a phone!"
Monreal was already moving, towel slung over his shoulder, rummaging through his locker. "I've got mine."
"No, no," Bellerín said quickly. "Use mine, the camera's better."
"I don't trust you," Ramsey shot back. "You'll filter it."
Bellerín feigned offense. "That's art."
Laughter rippled through the room as players shuffled closer together, dragging chairs, standing on benches, squeezing into the center space in front of the lockers. The physios hovered near the back, smiling but hesitant, until Xhaka waved them forward.
"Come on," he said. "You're part of this."
Wenger didn't immediately move.
He stood slightly apart, arms folded, watching the scene with quiet amusement, as if etching it into memory rather than rushing to be part of it.
Francesco noticed.
He turned and walked over.
"Boss," he said softly, "you too."
Wenger raised an eyebrow. "This is your moment."
Francesco shook his head. "It's ours."
For a second, Wenger said nothing.
Then he nodded and stepped forward.
That alone earned a cheer.
Someone which probably Alexis started chanting his name, exaggerated and playful, and Wenger waved it away with a small smile, but he didn't step back.
The match ball was placed front and center, resting on a bench. The Man of the Match award stood beside it. Francesco stood behind both, shoulders squared, still in his base layer, hair damp, face flushed but relaxed in a way it hadn't been all afternoon.
Alexis slung an arm over his shoulder.
Özil stood close on his other side.
Kanté was just behind them, smiling shyly.
Ramsey leaned in from the side, arm raised.
Giroud struck a mock-serious pose.
Bellerín held the phone out at arm's length, angling it upward.
"Ready?" he asked.
"WAIT," someone shouted. "Everyone look happy!"
"After six–nil?" Alexis laughed. "Impossible not to."
Bellerín counted down. "Three… two… one…"
The flash went off.
Once.
Then again.
"Take another," Francesco said. "Just in case."
Another flash.
Another.
In the photos, they looked exactly like what they were.
A team.
Not perfect.
Not posed.
Just together.
When Bellerín finally lowered the phone and checked the screen, his grin widened.
"Oh yeah," he said. "That's a good one."
"Let me see," Francesco said.
Bellerín passed it over.
Francesco stared at the photo for a moment longer than necessary.
The smiles.
The arms around shoulders.
The ball.
The trophy.
Wenger standing just behind, calm, proud.
A snapshot of something bigger than numbers.
"Send it to me," Francesco said quietly.
"Already doing it," Bellerín replied.
The music came back on then, louder than before, and the dressing room relaxed into celebration again. Some players headed for the showers, steam quickly fogging the mirrors. Others sat back down, laughing, replaying moments from the match in overlapping stories.
Francesco remained seated for a moment, phone now in his hands.
The photo stared back at him from the screen.
He unlocked Instagram without really thinking about it.
The app opened instantly, notifications already stacking up faster than he could process with tags, mentions, stories, headlines.
He selected the photo.
Paused.
Caption.
He didn't want something long.
Didn't want something polished.
Just the truth.
He typed:
96 goals 🔥🔥🔥
That was it.
No hashtags.
No speeches.
He posted it.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then his phone vibrated.
Once.
Twice.
Then continuously.
Alexis noticed first.
"Oh no," he said, leaning over. "You posted."
Francesco laughed. "Yeah."
Ramsey peeked over his shoulder. "Already?"
"Already," Francesco confirmed.
Within seconds, the comments began to pour in.
Alexis Sánchez:
🔥🔥🔥 MONSTRUO. Proud to share the pitch with you, hermano.
Mesut Özil:
At least 60% assists. Congratulations, my friend 👏
Aaron Ramsey:
Special day. Special player. Enjoy every second.
Héctor Bellerín:
96 😏 History.
N'Golo Kanté:
Very happy for you. Congratulations 😊
Olivier Giroud:
Records fall. Legends rise. Bravo.
Theo Walcott:
What a performance. Incredible.
Jack Wilshere:
The Emirates was electric. Well deserved, mate.
Santi Cazorla:
Football with a smile. Congratulations ❤️
The likes climbed rapidly.
Ten thousand.
Fifty thousand.
A hundred thousand.
Francesco scrolled slowly, overwhelmed but smiling, each comment landing like a quiet handshake, a nod of respect.
Then new names started to appear.
Not just teammates.
Not just former teammates.
Players from other clubs.
Other leagues.
Other countries.
Sergio Agüero:
Unbelievable form. Congratulations.
Cristiano Ronaldo:
Hard work always pays off. Enjoy it.
Neymar Jr:
🔥🔥 Football history. Congrats!
Luis Suárez:
What a year. Respect.
Robert Lewandowski:
Goals don't lie. Amazing achievement.
The phone buzzed again.
And then Francesco froze.
He stared at the name for a moment, just to make sure it was real.
Lionel Messi.
The verified badge sat beside it quietly, unassumingly.
He opened the comment.
Lionel Messi:
Congratulations. Records are meant to be broken. Enjoy the moment.
That was it.
No emojis.
No extra words.
Just that.
The room around him faded for a second.
All the noise, the laughter, the music as it softened into background hum as the weight of that comment settled.
Alexis saw his face change.
"What?" he asked. "Who is it?"
Francesco turned the phone slightly so he could see.
Alexis's eyes widened.
"No way," he breathed. "No way."
Özil leaned in next, read it, and smiled slowly.
"That's class," he said. "That's real class."
Ramsey shook his head in disbelief. "From him… that's special."
Francesco locked his phone and set it face-down on the bench for a moment, pressing his palms against his knees, grounding himself.
It wasn't triumph he felt.
It wasn't ego.
It was connection.
A thread between generations.
Between idols and peers.
Between the boy who watched and the man who now played.
He picked the phone back up and typed a reply.
Not immediately.
He thought about it.
Then wrote:
Thank you. An honor.
He posted it as a reply beneath Messi's comment.
That was enough.
Across the room, Wenger watched the scene quietly.
He didn't need to ask.
Didn't need to see the phone.
He could tell.
The way Francesco sat.
The way the room seemed to orbit him without suffocating him.
This was the balance Wenger had always believed in.
Greatness without arrogance.
Success without isolation.
As the celebrations continued and the evening began to stretch forward that toward recovery sessions, media obligations, quiet dinners, and eventually sleep as one thing was certain that this day would be remembered.
________________________________________________
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: 25
Goal: 41
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