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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
The Emirates continued to glow red and gold as Francesco and Per walked back toward their teammates.
They walked back toward the center of the pitch together, Francesco and Per side by side, their footsteps slow not from fatigue but from reluctance to let the moment end.
The Emirates was still singing.
Not as loud as during the lift, not as explosive as when Francesco had spoken that full, rich, constant. The kind of sound that didn't rush you away, but held you there, like it wanted to keep you part of it just a little longer.
Francesco looked around again at the stands.
Scarves still raised.
Phones still recording.
Kids still perched on barriers, refusing to leave.
He felt it felt it all settling into memory even as it was happening.
Beside him, Per exhaled slowly.
"That interview," he said quietly, "was more intense than ninety minutes defending a counterattack."
Francesco laughed.
"You did alright."
Per gave a soft shrug.
"I survived."
They reached the rest of the squad near the center circle, where players were still laughing, still hugging family members, still taking pictures with the trophy.
Leah drifted back beside Francesco, her hand slipping into his again.
"Are you done with speeches?" she asked playfully.
He glanced sideways at her.
"For tonight?" he said.
"Hopefully."
She smirked.
"Good."
Per was speaking to Cazorla and Giroud now, smiling, the heaviness of the farewell speech settling into something lighter again.
Francesco watched him for a second.
Then something flickered across his face.
A thought.
A decision.
He glanced around at the rest of the team from Alexis, Xhaka, Kanté, Ramsey, Bellerín, Özil, Walcott, Van Dijk, Walker, Robertson, Holding, Oxlade-Chamberlain, Cazorla, Monreal, Koscielny, and more as all gathered loosely, still buzzing.
Francesco caught Alexis's eye first.
Then Bellerín.
Then Giroud.
Subtle.
A small nod.
A tilt of the head toward Per.
It took them a second.
Then Alexis's grin widened.
"Oh…" he whispered, understanding instantly.
Bellerín bit his lip, already trying not to laugh.
Giroud nodded slowly, stepping closer.
Francesco leaned slightly toward them and murmured just loud enough for the nearby players to hear.
"Last Emirates match," he said softly. "We send him off properly."
Alexis's eyes lit up.
"Yes."
Within seconds, the message spread.
Quietly.
Discreetly.
Like a well-rehearsed set piece.
Per, meanwhile, was still speaking casually with Santi, unaware.
Francesco stepped forward.
"Per," he called.
Per turned.
"Yes?"
Francesco smiled.
"Come here."
Per raised an eyebrow slightly but walked over.
"What now?" he asked, amused but cautious.
Francesco shrugged innocently.
"Just a small thank you."
Per didn't have time to ask what that meant.
Because suddenly, hands.
From both sides.
Giroud and Koscielny grabbed his arms.
Xhaka and Ramsey at his back.
Alexis laughing as he took a position.
"Wait, what are you doing?" Per asked, already half laughing, half realizing.
Too late.
"One!" Alexis shouted.
They lifted.
Per's tall frame rising into the air.
"Two!"
Up again, higher this time.
"Three!"
They launched him one last time, a clean, controlled toss, arms reaching up as he lifted above them, the stadium lights catching his white shirt and medal as he rose and fell.
The crowd saw it instantly.
A cheer rolled across the Emirates again, loud and warm and approving.
Per landed back in their arms, laughing now as any last trace of solemnity replaced with joy.
"You are all crazy," he said, shaking his head, but his smile was wide.
Francesco stepped in and wrapped him in another embrace.
"That's from all of us," he said.
Per squeezed him back.
"Thank you."
The players clapped around them, a circle of noise and energy and affection.
It was simple.
No speech.
No microphone.
Just a gesture.
A teammate's goodbye.
A brotherhood's salute.
The energy lingered for a few more minutes after that with photos, laughter, final waves to the fans.
But slowly, gradually, almost gently…
The night began to wind down.
The stands started to thin.
At first just a few supporters leaving early as families with young children, people catching late trains.
Then more.
Rows of red emptying one by one.
Not in a rush.
In a satisfied drift.
Scarves wrapped back around necks.
Voices still singing, but softer now, fading into the London night.
Francesco stood at the center circle one last time with Leah beside him, his parents just a few steps away, talking quietly with one of the club staff.
The pitch felt bigger now.
Quieter.
The echo of footsteps replacing the roar of the crowd.
He looked up at the stands.
Moments ago, they had been a wall of noise.
Now they were slowly becoming what they always became after nights like this.
Seats.
Concrete.
Memory.
Leah leaned her head lightly against his shoulder.
"You ready to go?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer immediately.
He looked around one last time.
At the goal where he had scored earlier in the season.
At the halfway line where he had lifted the trophy.
At the touchline where he had spoken to the fans.
Then he nodded.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I think so."
Behind them, Arsenal staff were already organizing the next stage.
Families and partners were being gently guided toward the tunnel.
A staff member approached Leah.
"Miss, if you'd follow me, we're taking everyone to Colney for the celebration."
Leah nodded.
"Of course."
She looked back at Francesco.
"I'll see you there."
He smiled.
"Don't start the party without me."
She laughed.
"No promises."
She leaned up, kissed him quickly, then followed the staff toward the tunnel, joining the group of families and partners from wives, girlfriends, children are being escorted out.
Francesco watched her go for a moment.
Then turned back toward the pitch.
Per was already walking toward the tunnel as well, arm around Cazorla, both of them talking quietly.
Wenger stood near the sideline, shaking hands with staff members, thanking them one by one.
The rest of the squad were beginning to drift off too, the adrenaline finally giving way to the physical reality of a long season.
Francesco picked up the trophy from where it rested near the center circle.
It felt just as heavy now as it had earlier.
Maybe heavier.
Because now the moment had settled.
This wasn't just the peak of a celebration.
It was the closing of a chapter.
He turned and began walking toward the tunnel.
Each step echoed slightly in the growing quiet.
At the edge of the pitch, he paused one last time.
He turned back.
The Emirates stood there under the lights.
Silent now, almost.
Waiting for the next time.
Francesco gave a small nod.
A silent thank you.
Then he disappeared into the tunnel.
The dressing room felt different when they came back in.
Not chaotic now.
Not explosive.
Warm.
Relaxed.
The music was playing softly in the background with something celebratory but not overwhelming. The sharp smell of champagne had faded into something sweeter, mixed with the familiar scent of grass and liniment and clean kits.
Players dropped into seats, onto benches, some onto the floor.
Boots kicked off.
Socks peeled down.
Medals still hanging around necks.
Alexis collapsed onto the bench with a groan.
"I cannot feel my legs," he declared dramatically.
Kanté sat beside him, smiling quietly.
"You can still celebrate," he said.
Alexis grinned.
"That is true."
Giroud was already opening another bottle as this time carefully, without launching the cork across the room.
"Controlled celebration," he said, pouring into plastic cups.
Per sat down slowly, leaning back against his locker, exhaling deeply.
"That is the longest day of football I have ever had," known or unknown.
Francesco sat beside him.
"And the best?" he asked.
Per didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
They clinked cups.
Around them, the room filled with low conversation with stories being told already, jokes about moments in the match, about the interviews, about Per's toss into the air.
"Three times!" Ramsey laughed. "We nearly sent you into the stands."
Per shook his head, smiling.
"I trusted you."
"You had no choice," Alexis replied.
More laughter.
Wenger entered a few minutes later, still composed, still dignified, but there was a softness in his expression that only came on nights like this.
He stood at the center of the room for a moment, looking at all of them.
"Gentlemen," he said quietly.
The room settled.
"Enjoy tonight," he continued. "You have earned it."
He paused.
"But remember, two finals."
The response was immediate.
Nods.
Determined smiles.
Francesco met his eyes.
"We'll be ready," he said.
Wenger nodded once.
"I know."
He turned, allowing the players to return to their celebrations.
Time moved differently after that.
Showers.
Fresh clothes.
Jackets pulled on over white championship shirts.
Medals still worn proudly.
Phones buzzing constantly with messages from friends, former teammates, family members who couldn't be there.
Eventually, one of the staff members reappeared at the door.
"Bus is ready," he said. "Colney."
The room stirred.
Energy lifting again.
"Party time," Alexis declared, jumping up.
Kanté laughed.
Per stood slowly, taking one last look around the dressing room.
This room.
His locker.
His seat.
He reached out and touched the nameplate lightly.
Then turned.
Francesco watched him, understanding the moment without words.
"You good?" he asked.
Per nodded.
"Yes."
He smiled.
"Let's celebrate."
Together, they walked out of the dressing room and down the corridor.
They stepped out into the corridor together, boots now replaced with soft trainers, jackets pulled over white shirts that still carried the number 16 across the chest. The noise of the stadium had dulled into a distant murmur now, something that lived outside the concrete walls and down the tunnel behind them.
Francesco walked with the trophy tucked under one arm, his fingers resting along the engraved base, tracing the lettering without really thinking about it. Per walked beside him, shoulders relaxed, his medal still resting against his chest.
The corridor lights hummed quietly overhead.
Some of the staff passed them, offering smiles, nods, quiet congratulations. A few of the younger academy players lingered further down the hall, watching their heroes walk by with a kind of wide-eyed reverence that Francesco recognized immediately.
He had been that kid once.
Now he was walking through it.
They turned the corner toward the exit that led out to the team bus area.
And just before they reached it.
"Francesco. Per."
The voice came from behind them.
Calm.
Measured.
Familiar.
They both stopped.
They turned.
Arsène Wenger stood a few steps down the corridor, hands lightly clasped behind his back, suit immaculate as always, expression composed but warm.
"Could I borrow you both for a few minutes?" he asked.
Francesco glanced at Per.
Per sighed softly, already smiling.
"I knew it was not over," he murmured.
Francesco chuckled.
"Post-match press?" he asked.
Wenger nodded.
"Yes. They would like the captain and… the man of the evening."
He looked toward Per as he said the last part.
Per dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement.
"Of course," he replied.
Francesco shifted the trophy slightly in his grip.
"Let's do it."
They followed Wenger down another corridor, this one quieter, more formal. The sound of the stadium faded almost completely here, replaced by the soft echo of their own footsteps and the distant hum of equipment.
As they approached the media room, they could already hear voices.
Journalists talking.
Chairs shifting.
Cameras being adjusted.
The door opened.
And the low buzz of the press room swelled into something more focused as they entered.
Flashbulbs.
Cameras immediately turning.
Whispers of recognition.
"Francesco…"
"Per…"
"They're here…"
At the front of the room, a long table had been set with three chairs and microphones.
The Arsenal crest sat behind them on the backdrop.
Wenger gestured politely.
"After you."
Per allowed Francesco to step forward first, the captain taking the central seat, placing the trophy carefully on the table in front of them so it faced outward toward the press.
Per sat to his right.
Wenger to his left.
For a moment, the cameras simply clicked.
Capturing the image.
The captain.
The retiring defender.
The manager.
The trophy.
A season in one frame.
Wenger leaned slightly toward the microphone.
"Good evening," he began.
The room quieted.
"We will take a few questions."
Hands went up immediately.
The press officer pointed to one of the front rows.
A journalist stood.
"For you, Arsène. Three league titles in a row now. Where does this rank in your managerial career?"
Wenger folded his hands lightly.
"It is a special achievement," he said. "Not only because of the titles, but because of the way the team has grown together. The resilience. The mentality. This group has built something sustainable."
He paused, glancing briefly at Francesco.
"And it is not finished yet."
Another hand went up.
"For Francesco. You spoke to the fans tonight about chasing a treble. Do you feel this team is ready to handle that pressure?"
Francesco leaned slightly toward his microphone.
"Yes," he said simply.
A few journalists smiled at the directness.
"Why?" another asked quickly.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Because we've already been carrying pressure for years," he replied. "It didn't start tonight. It didn't start this season. It's part of who we are now. Finals don't change that."
Murmurs of approval.
Pens scribbling.
Another question.
"For Per. You said this was your last match at the Emirates. What are you feeling right now, sitting here?"
Per exhaled softly.
"Gratitude," he answered.
He glanced down briefly at the table.
"Pride. And a little bit of disbelief that it is actually finished."
The room softened at that.
"You've been part of Arsenal through difficult years and now through this dominant era," another journalist said. "What changed?"
Per thought for a moment.
"Belief," he said again, echoing his earlier words. "But not just belief in words. Belief in action. Recruitment. Training. Mentality. The club aligned itself again."
He gestured slightly toward Francesco.
"And then the new generation carried it forward."
The attention shifted naturally back to the captain.
"Francesco, you've been compared to great Arsenal captains of the past," a reporter said. "How do you handle that expectation?"
Francesco gave a faint smile.
"By focusing on the next match," he said. "History is important, but it doesn't win you finals. Work does."
Another hand rose.
"For Arsène again, how do you keep this group motivated after so much success?"
Wenger's answer was immediate.
"By reminding them it is not enough."
He let the words settle.
"Football moves quickly. What you did yesterday is already history. The only thing that matters is what you do next."
He gestured lightly toward Francesco and Per.
"They understand that."
A journalist from the back raised his voice.
"For Per, any chance you reconsider retirement after a season like this?"
The room chuckled.
Per smiled warmly.
"No," he said. "My body would not forgive me."
Laughter.
"But I leave knowing the team is in a strong place," he added. "That is enough."
Another question followed quickly.
"For Francesco, your relationship with the fans seems very strong. What does that connection mean to you?"
Francesco's voice softened slightly.
"It means responsibility," he said again. "When they believe in you like that, you owe them your best every single day."
He glanced briefly at the crest behind them.
"This club is built on that connection."
The press officer looked at Wenger, who gave a small nod.
"Last question."
A journalist stood.
"For all three of you, two finals left. What is the message going into those matches?"
Wenger answered first.
"Focus."
Per followed.
"Discipline."
Francesco finished.
"Win."
The room responded with a quiet hum of appreciation.
Wenger stood.
"Thank you," he said.
The press conference ended in a flurry of camera clicks as they stood up.
Francesco picked up the trophy again.
Per adjusted his jacket.
They stepped away from the table together, walking back toward the corridor.
The door closed behind them, sealing off the world of questions and headlines.
For a moment, they walked in silence.
Then Per exhaled.
"That one was easier than the interview," he admitted.
Francesco smirked.
"You're getting used to it."
Per shook his head.
"No. I am retiring from interviews as well."
Francesco laughed.
Wenger walked with them for a few more steps, then slowed slightly.
"I will see you at Colney," he said.
Francesco nodded.
"Thank you, boss."
Per offered a respectful nod.
"Thank you for everything."
Wenger's expression softened just slightly.
"It has been a pleasure," he said.
He turned down a separate corridor, heading back toward his office.
Francesco and Per continued toward the exit.
The night air greeted them as they stepped outside.
Cool.
Fresh.
A contrast to the warmth of the dressing room and the heat of the stadium.
The team bus was already waiting.
Large.
Red.
Arsenal crest gleaming under the lights.
The rest of the squad were already climbing on, laughter spilling out through the open door.
Alexis leaned out.
"Finally!" he shouted. "We thought you were giving another speech!"
Francesco rolled his eyes.
"Get inside."
They climbed the steps.
Inside, the atmosphere was lively but relaxed.
Music played softly.
Players sprawled across seats, some already half-asleep, others still buzzing.
Francesco set the trophy carefully at the front, securing it so it wouldn't slide.
Per took a seat near the middle, leaning back with a satisfied sigh.
Francesco dropped into the seat beside him.
"You good?" he asked again.
Per nodded.
"Yes," he said. "Now I am ready."
The bus doors closed.
The engine rumbled to life.
Slowly, the bus pulled away from the Emirates.
Francesco looked out the window as the stadium drifted into the distance.
The lights.
The stands.
The place where everything had just happened.
It grew smaller behind them as they drove into the London night.
Inside the bus, conversations flowed.
Ramsey showing someone a video from the celebration.
Bellerín laughing at a photo of Per mid-air during the toss.
Kanté quietly congratulating teammates again, one by one.
Giroud humming a song under his breath.
It wasn't wild.
It was content.
A team that knew what it had done.
And what still remained.
The drive to Colney didn't feel long.
The rhythm of the road.
The low music.
The hum of conversation.
It all blurred into something comfortable.
When they finally turned into the training ground, the gates were already open.
Lights were on.
And even from the bus, they could see it.
People.
Movement.
Color.
Celebration waiting for them.
As the bus rolled to a stop, the players could already hear music drifting through the air.
The doors opened.
And the atmosphere hit them immediately.
Families.
Partners.
Children running across the courtyard.
Arsenal staff moving between groups with drinks and food.
Laughter.
Cheers as the players stepped off the bus.
Leah spotted Francesco immediately, pushing through the small crowd toward him.
"There you are," she said, wrapping her arms around him.
"You didn't start without me?" he asked.
She grinned.
"Barely."
Per was greeted by former teammates, by staff members who had worked with him for years, by academy coaches who had watched his leadership from afar.
It was warm.
Genuine.
A celebration not just of a title, but of a journey.
Francesco stood in the middle of it for a moment, taking it in.
This was different from the stadium.
More intimate.
More personal.
Music played from speakers set up along the walls.
Tables lined with food and drinks.
The trophy soon found its place at the center again, surrounded by players and families taking pictures.
Children climbed onto chairs to get closer to it.
Players laughed as their partners tried to lift it and realized just how heavy it was.
But even as the celebration grew, there was a different tone to it.
Joyful, yes.
But measured.
No one was losing themselves completely in it.
Because everyone knew.
Two finals remained.
That knowledge sat quietly in the background, shaping everything.
Alexis raised a glass at one point.
"To the champions," he declared.
"And to finishing the job," Francesco added.
The group responded with a cheer.
But not a wild one.
A focused one.
Time passed in waves.
Conversations.
Photos.
Quiet moments between teammates who had been through everything together.
At one point, Francesco found himself standing with Per slightly off to the side, both of them watching the rest of the team.
"You see it?" Per asked.
Francesco nodded.
"They're happy," he said.
"But not satisfied," Per finished.
Francesco smiled.
"Exactly."
Per took a slow breath.
"This is a good place to leave it," he said softly.
Francesco looked at him.
"You're not leaving it," he replied. "You're passing it on."
Per considered that.
Then nodded.
"Yes," he said. "That is better."
The music continued.
The laughter continued.
But gradually, as the night wore on, the celebration began to soften.
People began to say their goodbyes.
Families gathered their children.
Staff started clearing glasses.
Players hugged each other, not as a farewell, but as a pause before the next challenge.
Francesco stood near the trophy one last time that night, looking down at it.
Sixteen titles now.
And maybe more to come.
Leah slipped her hand into his again.
"Proud of you," she said softly.
He squeezed her hand.
"We're not done," he replied.
She smiled.
"I know."
Around them, the lights of Colney glowed warmly in the night.
The lights at Colney glowed softer as the night edged toward something quieter.
Not empty.
Never empty after a night like this.
But the energy had changed.
The music had dropped into a low, warm rhythm. Conversations had turned from loud bursts of laughter into softer clusters of voices. The kind of conversations people have when they don't want the moment to end, but they also know it has to, at least for now.
Francesco stood there with Leah's hand in his, looking out over what remained of the celebration.
A few of the younger players were still joking near the drinks table. Alexis and Giroud were mid-debate about something that had nothing to do with football, their arms moving wildly as they argued and laughed at the same time. Kanté was still making his quiet rounds, checking in with everyone as if he hadn't already done it ten times over.
Per was surrounded by staff with old faces, familiar faces, people who had seen him grow into the leader he had become. He was smiling, nodding, speaking with that same calm presence he always carried.
Francesco watched him for a second.
Then he exhaled.
"Feels different now," he murmured.
Leah tilted her head slightly against his shoulder.
"It always does at the end of nights like this," she said softly. "The noise fades. What's left is what really matters."
He nodded.
She was right.
The trophies.
The wins.
They were loud.
But this, quiet sense of belonging.
This was what stayed.
He glanced down at her.
"You tired?"
She gave a small shrug.
"A little," she admitted. "You?"
"Yeah."
He looked back at the small groups of teammates, at the staff tidying up, at the trophy sitting under the lights.
"Maybe it's time," he said.
Leah nodded gently.
"Let's go home."
The word settled in his chest differently tonight.
Home.
Not just the mansion in Richmond.
But the place where the night would end.
Where the noise would finally stop.
Where it would just be family.
They made their way through the courtyard slowly, saying quiet goodnights as they passed people.
Alexis pulled Francesco into a quick hug.
"Rest," he said. "Tomorrow we start thinking again."
Francesco smirked.
"You never stop thinking."
Alexis grinned.
"That is true."
Per stepped forward next.
"No long speech this time," he said, smiling.
Francesco shook his head.
"Save it for the finals."
Per nodded.
"I will."
They embraced briefly.
A simple, firm hug.
Understanding without words.
Francesco clapped him once on the back.
"See you soon."
Per smiled.
"Yes."
Leah said her own goodbyes, quick hugs with some of the other partners, a few words exchanged with staff members who had helped organize the evening.
And then they stepped away.
Out of the glow of the main courtyard lights.
Toward the parking area.
The night air had cooled more now, carrying a light breeze that moved gently through the trees around the training ground.
Francesco reached into his pocket, pulling out his keys.
The soft chirp of his car unlocking echoed lightly in the quiet.
His BMW X5 sat waiting where he had left it earlier, its dark frame reflecting the lights from Colney behind them.
Leah smiled as she saw it.
"You still look at it like you just bought it," she teased.
He opened the passenger door for her.
"It's still better than my old Civic."
She laughed as she slipped into the seat.
"You loved that Civic."
"I still own it," he replied, closing the door gently.
He moved around to the driver's side, sliding into the seat and settling back for a moment before starting the engine.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
The silence wasn't awkward.
It was full.
The kind of quiet that comes after a long, emotional day.
Francesco started the car.
The engine hummed softly to life.
He pulled out of the parking area, giving one last glance toward the Colney building in the rearview mirror.
Lights still on.
People still moving.
The night still alive.
Then he turned onto the road.
And they drove.
London at night was different.
Quieter than the daytime chaos.
Streetlights stretching in long lines ahead of them.
The occasional car passing.
Shadows of trees slipping by the windows.
Leah leaned her head lightly back against the seat, turning slightly toward him.
"Hey," he said after a few minutes.
"Hmm?"
"Where are my parents?" he asked. "They didn't stay at Colney?"
Leah smiled faintly, as if she'd been waiting for that question.
"They left earlier," she said.
Francesco glanced at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road.
"Left? Why?"
"They went back to your mansion," she explained. "To help my mum prepare everything."
He blinked once.
"Everything?"
She nodded.
"Dinner. Some small decorations. Just… something for us to come back to."
Francesco felt something warm settle in his chest.
"They didn't have to do that," he said quietly.
Leah smiled.
"They wanted to."
There was a pause.
Then Francesco smirked slightly.
"What about your dad? He's helping too?"
Leah laughed softly.
"Yes. Your dad and mine are probably in the kitchen pretending they know what they're doing."
Francesco chuckled at the image.
"That sounds about right."
He drove a little further in comfortable silence.
Then another thought came to him.
"And your brother?" he asked casually. "Jacob. Is he helping as well?"
Leah turned her head slowly toward him.
A slow grin spreading across her face.
"Do you really expect him to help?" she said.
Francesco raised an eyebrow.
"I mean… maybe he's changed."
Leah burst out laughing.
"Changed? Jacob?"
She shook her head.
"He's probably creating chaos somewhere in your house right now."
Francesco laughed with her, the sound light and easy.
"That sounds more accurate."
"Last time we left him alone in a kitchen, he nearly set off the smoke alarm making toast," she added.
Francesco winced slightly.
"Alright, maybe we should hurry then."
Leah grinned.
"Don't worry. Our mums will keep him in line."
They continued talking like that for the rest of the drive.
Nothing heavy.
Nothing intense.
Just small stories.
Little jokes.
Moments from the match they hadn't had time to process yet.
The sound of their laughter filled the car, soft and relaxed.
Eventually, the familiar roads leading toward Richmond began to appear.
The streets grew quieter.
More residential.
More peaceful.
Francesco slowed the car as they turned onto the road that led to his home.
And then, there it was.
The mansion.
His mansion.
Lights glowing warmly from inside.
The front of the house illuminated softly.
And parked in the driveway, was two cars that he recognized immediately.
His parents' car.
And Leah's parents' car.
Francesco smiled as he pulled into the driveway.
"Looks like they beat us," he said.
Leah nodded, smiling.
"Told you."
He parked the car and turned off the engine.
For a moment, they both just sat there.
Looking at the house.
The warm light.
The quiet promise of what was waiting inside.
Francesco exhaled slowly.
"Ready?"
Leah reached over and took his hand.
"Yeah," she said softly.
They stepped out of the car together.
The cool night air brushed against them again as they walked up toward the front door.
Before Francesco even reached for the handle.
He paused.
Sniffed lightly.
Leah noticed immediately.
"You smell that?" she asked.
He nodded.
A slow smile spreading across his face.
Food.
Warm.
Fresh.
Home-cooked.
The door opened before he even knocked.
And there they were.
Inside.
His mother, Sarah.
Leah's mother, Amanda.
Both standing near the entrance, smiling warmly, aprons still tied around their waists.
Behind them, his father David and Leah's father talking near the dining table, both of them mid-conversation, both of them turning as soon as they heard the door open.
And from somewhere deeper in the house.
A voice.
Loud.
Energetic.
"Hey! They're here!"
Jacob.
Of course.
Leah covered her face briefly, laughing.
"I told you."
Francesco stepped inside, the warmth of the house wrapping around him instantly.
The smell of the food stronger now.
Spices.
Roasted meat.
Fresh bread.
Everything mixed into something that felt like comfort.
His mother stepped forward first, pulling him into a hug.
"We're proud of you," she whispered.
He hugged her back tightly.
"Thank you, Mom."
Leah's mother embraced her next.
Her father clapped Francesco on the shoulder.
"Well done, son."
"Thank you, Dad."
Leah's father smiled warmly.
"Champions," he said simply.
Jacob appeared from the kitchen, grinning wide.
"Finally! I was starving waiting for you."
Leah shook her head.
"You were eating ten minutes ago."
Jacob shrugged.
"That was a warm-up."
Everyone laughed.
Francesco looked around the room again.
The table set.
Plates ready.
Food laid out carefully.
Family gathered.
The noise of the stadium now just a distant memory.
This was where the night truly ended.
Not in front of cameras.
Not under floodlights.
But here.
At home.
With the people who had been there long before the trophies.
And who would be there long after them.
Francesco slipped his arm around Leah's waist gently.
"Let's eat," he said.
And the word itself seemed to release something in the room.
Not tension as there was none of that, but a kind of held-in excitement that had been waiting for him and Leah to arrive before it could properly begin.
"Finally," Jacob said, clapping his hands once as if he had been personally responsible for orchestrating the entire evening. "I was starting to think you were going to celebrate without us."
"You've already eaten," Leah shot back, raising an eyebrow.
"That was a starter," he replied, already moving toward the table.
Everyone laughed again, the kind of easy, overlapping laughter that only came when everyone in the room knew each other well enough to tease without hesitation.
Francesco slipped off his jacket and set it carefully over the back of a chair, the white championship shirt beneath still marked faintly with the creases of the medal that had rested against it all evening. Leah did the same beside him, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she moved toward her parents to help carry a few dishes over from the kitchen.
The dining table had been set beautifully but not overly formal that warm lighting, simple plates, glasses already filled halfway, cutlery placed neatly. It wasn't a grand banquet.
It was something better.
It was intentional.
It was love in the form of preparation.
Sarah moved around the table with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done this her whole life, adjusting a plate here, straightening a napkin there.
"I hope you're hungry," she said, glancing at Francesco with a small smile.
"I always am," he replied.
Amanda laughed lightly from across the table.
"Good, because we might have cooked enough for the entire team."
David shook his head, looking at the spread.
"This is more than the entire team," he said. "This is enough for the fans too."
Leah leaned in slightly, nudging Francesco with her elbow.
"You see what happens when your mum and my mum work together?"
He smiled.
"Dangerous combination."
They all gathered around the table, chairs pulling back in a soft chorus of wood against floor.
For a moment before anyone reached for the food, before the first plate was passed around, there was a pause.
A quiet one.
Francesco looked around at them.
His mother.
His father.
Leah.
Her parents.
Jacob already eyeing the food like he was preparing for a competitive event.
This was his world.
The real one.
He reached out and gently rested his hand over Leah's on the table.
"Thank you," he said quietly, not directed at one person but at all of them.
Sarah smiled softly.
"You've earned it."
They began to eat.
And the room filled with the simple, grounding sounds of it with cutlery moving, plates being passed, small comments about how good something tasted, Jacob insisting that he needed "just a little more" of everything.
The conversation moved naturally.
They talked about the match, but not in analysis, not in tactics, not in the way pundits would break it down later.
They talked about moments.
Leah mentioned the way the stadium had gone silent for a split second before Francesco's speech.
David spoke about the feeling of watching from the stands, how every goal still made his heart race as if it were the first time.
Amanda described the look on Sarah's face when the trophy had been lifted.
Sarah shook her head at that, smiling.
"I was trying not to cry," she admitted.
"You failed," Jacob said immediately.
Everyone laughed again.
Francesco listened more than he spoke, letting their voices wash over him, letting himself be in the moment rather than perform it.
Every now and then, Leah's hand would brush against his under the table.
A quiet reminder.
A grounding point.
Eventually, plates began to empty.
Glasses were refilled and then left half-finished as conversation slowed, the energy of the long day finally catching up to all of them.
The night wound down naturally.
No announcement.
No formal ending.
Just the gradual understanding that it was time to rest.
Sarah and Amanda began gathering plates together despite protests from Francesco and Leah that they should leave it for the morning.
"It keeps us busy," Sarah insisted gently.
David stretched his back slightly, letting out a long breath.
"Best kind of tired," he said.
Francesco nodded.
"The best."
Leah leaned her head lightly against his shoulder again as they stood in the living room for a moment before heading upstairs.
"Long day tomorrow?" she asked softly.
He shook his head.
"No training," he said. "Recovery day."
She smiled.
"Good."
He kissed her forehead lightly.
"Get some rest."
"You too, captain," she teased quietly.
They said their goodnights, hugs exchanged again, softer this time, more intimate in the quiet of the house.
And then, slowly, the house settled.
Lights turned off one by one.
Doors closed gently.
Footsteps faded.
And the night, finally, came to rest.
Morning arrived not with noise, but with light.
Soft London sunlight filtered through the large windows of the Richmond mansion, stretching across the wooden floors and up along the walls, touching framed photos and quiet corners of the home.
Francesco woke first.
Not abruptly.
Not with the jolt of an alarm.
But naturally, the way the body wakes after exhaustion has been properly met with rest.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the previous day come back to him in fragments.
The match.
The lift.
The speech.
Per's farewell.
The interview.
The drive home.
Dinner.
Family.
It all settled into place again.
Real.
Not a dream.
Beside him, Leah was still asleep, her breathing slow and even, her hair resting across the pillow.
He watched her for a moment, a small smile forming without him even realizing it.
Careful not to wake her, he slipped out of bed and moved quietly across the room, pulling on a light shirt and stepping out into the hallway.
The house was already stirring.
The faint sound of movement from downstairs.
Voices.
Low.
Comfortable.
He followed them.
When he reached the living room, he found them all there.
Sarah and David sat on one sofa, mugs of coffee in their hands.
Amanda and Leah's father David sat across from them, engaged in quiet conversation.
And on the television was Sky Sports.
The familiar theme music played softly through the speakers.
Francesco stepped into the room.
"Morning," he said.
Four heads turned.
Smiles immediately.
"Morning," Sarah replied.
"Sleep well?" Mike asked.
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah. You?"
"Like a rock," his father said.
David gestured toward the sofa.
"Come sit," he said. "You'll want to see this."
Francesco walked over and sat down, leaning slightly forward as his eyes moved to the screen.
The headline was already there.
ARSENAL CROWNED CHAMPIONS — INVINCIBLE AGAIN
A montage played.
Goals.
Celebrations.
The final whistle.
The trophy lift.
His speech.
Per's farewell.
The camera cut back to the studio.
A panel of pundits sat beneath the studio lights, the discussion already in full flow.
On the left, was Gary Neville.
Next to him, was Jamie Carragher.
Across from them are Thierry Henry.
And beside him, was Ian Wright.
Francesco leaned back slightly, arms folding loosely as he listened.
"…you're not just talking about a title," Neville was saying. "You're talking about two unbeaten seasons in a row. Back-to-back invincible campaigns. We've never seen that in the Premier League era."
Carragher nodded.
"It's not just consistency," he added. "It's mentality. To go an entire season without losing once is hard enough. To reset and do it again? That tells you everything about this squad."
Ian Wright was smiling, almost unable to hide his pride.
"This is what Arsenal is supposed to be," he said. "This is what the fans have been waiting to see again for years. And now they've got it, and more."
Henry leaned forward slightly, hands clasped.
"It is not just about matching history," he said calmly. "It is about building something that stands on its own."
The screen cut to footage of Francesco lifting the trophy.
Henry's eyes followed it.
"This team," he continued, "they respect what came before. But they are not afraid to go beyond it."
Francesco felt the room around him shift slightly at that.
Mike leaned forward, watching closely.
Sarah glanced at her son for just a moment, then back to the screen.
On the broadcast, they cut to the moment of Francesco's speech again.
His voice echoed through the living room from the night before.
"We don't accept limits. Not from outside. Not from history."
Leah entered the room quietly at that moment, her hair still slightly tousled from sleep, drawn by the sound.
She walked over and sat beside him, leaning gently into his side.
"They're talking about you," she whispered.
Francesco smiled faintly.
"They're talking about the team," he corrected.
On the screen, the discussion continued.
Neville nodded slowly.
"What I like about them," he said, "is they don't look satisfied. They've won everything domestically, and yet you listen to that captain and he's talking about what's next."
Carragher added, "And they've got two finals coming up. This isn't the end of their season. This is just another step."
Wright grinned.
"Imagine finishing a season unbeaten and defending the treble. That's where they're heading if they keep this up."
Henry didn't smile.
But there was something in his eyes.
Respect.
"They must finish the job," he said simply.
The camera cut again to the highlights of the players celebrating, Per being tossed into the air, the team laughing around him.
Leah laughed softly at that.
"You nearly dropped him," she murmured.
Francesco shook his head.
"We had him."
On the screen, they began breaking down individual performances.
Francesco's goals.
Kanté's interceptions.
Özil's assists.
Van Dijk's defensive dominance.
Each piece of the machine.
Each part of the system.
Each contribution.
"This is a complete side," Neville said. "Every department. Every position. They've built something that can last."
Francesco sat quietly, absorbing it all.
Not letting it inflate him.
Not letting it distract him.
Just listening.
Understanding.
Remembering.
Beside him, Leah reached for his hand again, squeezing it gently.
Sarah spoke softly from across the room.
"You've made us very proud," Sarah said.
Francesco looked at her.
"I didn't do it alone," he replied.
Mike nodded.
"We know."
David smiled.
"That's why it means more."
On the television, the conversation shifted again.
"What does this mean for the future?" the host asked.
Henry answered.
"It means expectation," he said. "When you reach this level, you do not go back. You must stay here."
Francesco nodded slightly to himself.
He understood that.
He had said it himself the night before.
Responsibility.
It didn't end with winning.
It started there.
The segment wrapped up with one final shot of the Emirates under the lights, red and gold banners draped across the stands.
______________________________________________
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, Euro 2016, and Premier League Champion 2016/2017.
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 53
Goal: 84
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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