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The celebrations would continue in the dressing room, but for now, he soaked in the moment. Another step closer to silverware for him and the team.
As Francesco walked down the tunnel, the roar of the Arsenal fans still echoed through Wembley. His heartbeat was finally slowing, but the adrenaline was still there, coursing through his veins. He could still feel the weight of the ball leaving his foot, the delicate chip floating over Federici, the moment of silence before the eruption of cheers.
Inside the tunnel, the atmosphere was different—quieter, but no less intense. Staff members, substitutes, and even a few journalists were gathered, exchanging handshakes and nods. Some Arsenal staff patted him on the back as he passed.
"Brilliant goal, mate," one of the coaches said, giving him a firm clap on the shoulder.
"Class finish, Francesco," another chimed in.
He nodded in thanks, but he was focused on one thing: the dressing room.
As he pushed open the door, he was hit by an explosion of noise.
Laughter. Cheers. Singing.
His teammates were already in full celebration mode. Water bottles were being shaken up and sprayed like champagne, shirts were half-off as players embraced each other, and loud music blared from a speaker in the corner.
In the middle of it all, Alexis Sánchez and Olivier Giroud were leading a chant, pumping their fists in the air. Per Mertesacker, towering over everyone, was laughing loudly while slapping Francis Coquelin on the back.
And then they spotted him.
"There he is!" Theo Walcott shouted, pointing at Francesco.
Suddenly, a swarm of bodies rushed toward him.
Before he could react, he was grabbed and pulled into the chaos. Giroud wrapped an arm around his neck, shaking him playfully. Cazorla was jumping up and down, his beaming smile infectious. Özil, grinning widely, handed him a water bottle before immediately squeezing it, spraying Francesco with water.
"Oi, come on!" Francesco laughed, wiping his face.
"That goal, man!" Coquelin shouted, shaking his head in admiration. "What a way to kill the game!"
"You made it look too easy," Cazorla added, chuckling. "A chip, at Wembley? Cold."
Francesco just grinned. He wasn't the type to brag, but moments like this—feeling the energy of his teammates, knowing he'd contributed to something bigger than himself—this was what football was about.
Wenger entered a few minutes later, and the noise died down slightly. He had that knowing smile on his face, the one he got when he was proud but didn't want to get carried away.
"Enjoy this moment," he said, looking around at the players. "You've earned it. But remember—this is not the final. There is still one more step to take."
The team responded with a collective nod. They knew. Reaching the FA Cup final was a massive achievement, but winning it was the real goal.
Still, for now, the celebrations continued.
As Francesco sat down, finally catching his breath, he pulled out his phone. A flood of messages. Friends, family, even a few ex-teammates had reached out to congratulate him.
Then, a message from Leah.
"Proud of you. That goal was special. Enjoy the night, superstar ❤️"
A small smile played on his lips as he read it. He quickly typed back.
"Thank you, love. Means a lot. See you soon ❤️"
Just as he put his phone down, Aaron Ramsey plopped down beside him, handing him a sports drink.
"Mate," Ramsey said, shaking his head. "That chip… I mean, Özil probably loved that."
Francesco laughed. "I think he did. He was grinning like mad when we celebrated."
"Well, enjoy it," Ramsey said, leaning back. "You've just sent us to the final."
Francesco let out a deep breath, leaning his head back against the wall.
Francesco let out a deep breath, leaning his head back against the wall. The energy in the dressing room was electric, players still buzzing from the victory. But as the noise started to settle, the voice of Arsène Wenger cut through the air, calm yet commanding.
"Alright, boys," he said, stepping further into the room. The players turned their attention to him, their respect for the manager evident. "Enjoy this now, but remember—this is not the final. We've only secured a place in it. We haven't won anything yet."
The room grew quieter. The reminder was necessary. The FA Cup final was the real goal, not just getting there.
Wenger continued, his gaze sweeping across the players. "I don't want any celebrations once we leave here. No parties, no distractions. We have work to do. The job is not finished. When we win the cup," he paused, letting that expectation settle, "then we celebrate."
Some of the younger players nodded, taking in the gravity of the moment. The senior players, like Mertesacker and Cazorla, already knew the drill. This wasn't over.
"Now," Wenger said, his tone shifting, "everyone get yourselves into the showers. We'll leave soon." He then turned towards Sánchez and Özil. "Alexis, Mesut, I want you both to join me for the post-match press conference."
Both players nodded, already knowing they'd be expected to speak. Francesco wasn't surprised Wenger had chosen them—Sánchez had been outstanding, and Özil had pulled the strings in midfield.
As players started moving toward the showers, Francesco peeled off his jersey, his body still warm from the match. He could feel the sweat clinging to his skin, a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration.
Giroud, standing next to him, let out a chuckle. "So no clubbing tonight then?"
Francesco smirked. "You really thought Wenger would allow that?"
Cazorla, walking past, grinned. "You can always party in your dreams, Oli."
Laughter rippled through the room as players disappeared into the showers. Francesco followed suit, stepping under the warm spray of water. As the steam rose around him, he closed his eyes for a moment, letting his body relax. The match had taken everything out of him, but it had been worth it.
Beside him, Ramsey let out a satisfied sigh. "Nothing like a post-victory shower."
Francesco nodded, running a hand through his wet hair. "Feels even better knowing we're going to Wembley again."
Ramsey, who had experience winning the FA Cup before, simply smiled. "Trust me, mate, the final is a whole different feeling."
Francesco knew that. He had watched finals as a fan, dreaming of playing in them. Now, he was one step away.
After finishing up, he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed back to his locker. Players were already starting to gather their belongings, slipping into their travel gear. Sánchez and Özil were nowhere to be seen—they had already left with Wenger for the press conference.
Francesco pulled on a fresh Arsenal tracksuit, the emblem on his chest a reminder of the journey he was on. As he zipped it up, he glanced at his phone again—more messages, more notifications, but he decided to leave them for later.
"Alright, lads, let's get moving," Mertesacker called out, acting as the team's unofficial leader.
Players grabbed their bags, slinging them over their shoulders as they made their way out of the dressing room and toward the team bus. Francesco walked alongside Walcott, who was still grinning from ear to ear.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" Walcott said.
Francesco nodded. "Yeah. But Wenger's right. We haven't won anything yet."
Walcott chuckled. "True. But getting there is half the battle."
As they stepped outside, the cool night air greeted them. The Arsenal fans were still lingering, cheering as they spotted the players heading toward the bus. Francesco waved, acknowledging their support.
As he climbed aboard, he settled into his seat, staring out the window. Francesco leaned his head against the window, the hum of the team bus filling the air as the players waited. The excitement from the game still lingered, but fatigue was beginning to set in. Outside, a few fans remained, waving and chanting as the team bus sat parked outside Wembley.
It had been a long night, but they still had to wait for Wenger, Sánchez, and Özil to finish the post-match press conference before heading back to London Colney. Some players were chatting in low voices, while others had already put on their headphones, lost in their own world.
Francesco pulled out his phone and scrolled through his notifications. His social media was flooded with messages—friends, family, former teammates, and even some celebrities congratulating him on the goal. He smiled when he saw a text from his mother.
"Proud of you, sweetheart. That was a beautiful goal. Call me when you get home. Love you."
He quickly typed back:
"Love you too, Mom. Will call you later ❤️"
Just as he was about to check his other messages, the doors of the bus swung open. Wenger stepped inside, followed by Sánchez and Özil. The coach's expression was composed, as always, though there was a hint of satisfaction in his eyes.
Sánchez looked energized despite the long night, chatting with Özil as they moved to their seats. Özil, always calm and composed, gave Francesco a nod as he walked past.
Wenger took his seat at the front, and the driver started the engine. As the bus pulled away from Wembley, a comfortable silence settled over the team.
Francesco turned his attention back to his phone, opening the news apps. Unsurprisingly, Arsenal's victory dominated the headlines.
"Arsenal book their place in the FA Cup Final after extra-time thriller!"
"Francesco Lee steals the show with a moment of magic at Wembley!"
"Arsenal awaits their FA Cup Final opponent: Aston Villa or Liverpool?"
He clicked on one of the articles, scanning through the details. The media was full of praise for his performance, especially the goal. Some pundits were calling it one of the best finishes in an FA Cup semi-final in recent years.
"Not bad, huh?"
Francesco looked up to see Aaron Ramsey peering over his shoulder at his phone screen.
Francesco smirked. "Yeah, guess I'll take it."
Ramsey grinned, leaning back in his seat. "You've got the world watching now, mate. That goal's gonna be replayed for years."
Francesco chuckled. "Let's just hope I can do something better in the final."
Ramsey nodded. "That's the spirit. Wembley's special, but lifting that trophy? That's something else."
Francesco continued reading, shifting his focus to the upcoming FA Cup semi-final between Aston Villa and Liverpool. The match was scheduled for tomorrow, and Arsenal's opponent in the final would be decided then.
"Aston Villa or Liverpool," he muttered to himself.
A tough choice. Villa were a hardworking side, capable of an upset, but Liverpool were the bigger threat. If Arsenal wanted to lift the FA Cup, facing Liverpool would be the tougher but more rewarding challenge.
As he thought about it, Giroud turned around in his seat, leaning over. "Who do you want in the final?"
Francesco shrugged. "Doesn't really matter. We just have to win."
Giroud laughed. "Spoken like a true competitor. But still, you'd rather face Villa than Liverpool, yeah?"
"Maybe," Francesco admitted. "But beating Liverpool in a final would feel a lot better."
Ramsey smirked. "That's what I like to hear."
The conversation drifted as the bus continued toward Colney. Some players dozed off, while others watched videos on their phones.
The gentle hum of the team bus and the rhythmic motion of the ride back to London Colney had lulled some players into a light sleep. Others were still wide awake, their minds buzzing from the victory. Francesco sat comfortably in his seat, staring at the endless stream of streetlights passing by the window, his body exhausted but his mind still running through the events of the match.
Mertesacker was quietly chatting with Cazorla a few seats ahead, while Walcott was watching something on his phone, occasionally chuckling to himself. Ramsey had stretched his legs across the aisle, his arms folded behind his head, looking completely at ease.
Francesco leaned back in his seat, unlocking his phone again to check more of the news coverage. The media was already speculating on who Arsenal's final opponent would be—Aston Villa or Liverpool. Some pundits believed Villa had the heart to pull off an upset, while others were convinced Liverpool's attacking power would be too much.
He wasn't worried about who they would face. What mattered was how Arsenal would perform when the moment came.
After a while, the bus finally pulled into London Colney, the familiar training ground dimly lit in the late-night hours. As the bus came to a stop, players slowly began gathering their belongings, stretching out their stiff legs before stepping off.
Francesco grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He followed the others off the bus, the cold night air hitting him as he stepped outside.
"Alright, lads, see you tomorrow," Mertesacker said as he waved at a few of the younger players heading toward their cars.
Francesco gave a nod to the others. "Good game, boys. See you at training."
A few responded with tired grins and waves as they walked off toward their own cars.
"Take it easy, Francesco," Cazorla said as he patted him on the back.
"You too, Santi," Francesco replied, before making his way toward his car—a sleek Honda Civic parked neatly in the lot.
He unlocked it, tossed his bag into the passenger seat, and slid in behind the wheel. Letting out a deep breath, he took a moment to gather himself before starting the engine. The familiar purr of the car filled the quiet lot as he pulled out, driving toward his apartment.
The drive home was peaceful, the roads mostly empty at this hour. Francesco kept the radio on low, the sound of soft music accompanying him as he navigated through the city. The adrenaline from the match was starting to fade, replaced by a growing sense of fatigue.
After a while, he reached his apartment complex, pulling into the underground parking garage. He eased the car into his usual spot, turned off the engine, and sat there for a few seconds, letting the quiet settle over him.
Grabbing his bag, he stepped out and made his way toward the elevator. The cold air of the garage was a stark contrast to the warmth inside the car, making him shiver slightly.
The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped inside, pressing the button for his floor. The soft hum of the elevator was the only sound as he leaned against the wall, his thoughts drifting.
When the doors opened, he stepped into the hallway, fishing his keys out of his pocket as he made his way to his door. He unlocked it and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Francesco tossed his bag onto the couch and exhaled deeply. Home.
He pulled out his phone and checked the time. Late, but not too late. His mom had asked him to call her, and he wasn't about to ignore that request.
He swiped through his contacts and tapped on her name. The phone rang twice before she picked up.
"Francesco!" Sarah's voice was warm and filled with pride.
"Hey, Mom," he said, smiling as he leaned against the kitchen counter. "Did you watch the game?"
"Of course, I did! And that goal, my God, sweetheart—it was incredible," she said, her excitement evident. "I must've watched the replay ten times already."
Francesco chuckled. "Glad you liked it."
"I didn't just like it—I loved it. The whole world is talking about you right now, Francesco. You must be so proud."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, it feels good. But we haven't won anything yet."
There was a brief pause before his mother spoke again, her voice softer. "How are you feeling? You must be exhausted."
"I am," he admitted. "But it's the good kind of tired. The kind that reminds me why I love this game."
"That's what matters," she said warmly. "Just take care of yourself, alright? Get some rest."
"I will."
They talked for a few more minutes, about small things—his plans for the week, how she was doing, and when they could meet up. Eventually, Francesco stifled a yawn, and his mother laughed.
"Alright, I'll let you go," she said. "You need to sleep."
"Yeah, I think I do," he admitted. "Love you, Mom."
"Love you too, sweetheart. Sleep well."
As the call ended, Francesco let out a deep breath, setting his phone down on the counter. The exhaustion was finally catching up to him.
He pushed himself off the counter and made his way to his bedroom, peeling off his tracksuit jacket. As much as he wanted to scroll through social media a little longer, he knew he needed sleep.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 27
Goal: 32
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8