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He caught glimpses of Wenger across the room now and then — the manager smiling politely as board members toasted him, laughing at something Per Mertesacker said — but Francesco could tell that Wenger's mind, like his own, was already racing ahead to the future. We can do this, he thought fiercely. We can be great.
Then, after a while, the party wound down.
It didn't end all at once — nothing ever really did with this squad. It was more like a gradual fade. The music got quieter. The clusters of players grew looser, the dancing slower and lazier. One by one, the guests began to filter out, bleary-eyed and smiling, shirts untucked and ties loosened, voices hoarse from laughter and singing. Staff hugged players. Players hugged each other. There was that sense — that golden, giddy sense — of having done something unforgettable, of having written your names in the history books together.
Francesco lingered a little while longer, hovering near a window with a half-empty glass of something fizzy and expensive in his hand, watching London's skyline blink in the dark.
His legs ached — not from the game, but from the relentless congratulations, the pats on the back, the playful scuffles, and half-serious jostles from teammates who'd spent the night toasting his hat-trick. Someone had started calling him "Golden Boy," and to his horror, it had caught on with surprising speed. Jack Wilshere had sung it — tuneless and loud — into a wine bottle like it was a microphone. Laurent Koscielny had demanded a speech, and when Francesco blushed and tried to laugh it off, they'd lifted him onto a table and chanted his name until he muttered a few words just to shut them up.
He hadn't stopped smiling, not really. But now that the noise had settled and the crowd was thinning, he felt the tiredness sneak in behind his eyes.
When Wenger caught his eye across the room, they shared a subtle nod — not a conversation, not another deep moment like earlier, just the quiet acknowledgment between a young man and a mentor who both knew this wasn't the end. This was only the beginning.
Eventually, Francesco slipped away. Not with fanfare. Not with anyone draped over his shoulder or trailing after him. Just with a quiet, tired goodbye to a few still-loitering teammates and a murmured thanks to the staff by the door.
He stepped into the cool night air, the weight of the evening hitting him all at once like a soft fog.
London buzzed gently in the distance, but here, outside the event hall, it was calm. A few security guards stood around. A couple of photographers lingered behind metal barricades, too weary to pounce anymore. One of them raised a camera instinctively as Francesco passed, and he gave them a small nod, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to say, thank you, but not tonight.
He climbed into the taxi waiting at the curb — someone from the club must have arranged it — and sank into the seat with a grateful exhale.
The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, and for a moment, Francesco wondered if he would say something — ask for a photo, maybe, or mention the game. But the man just nodded once and pulled away from the curb in silence, the soft hum of the engine and the quiet city streets lulling Francesco into a sort of half-dream.
He didn't remember much of the ride home. Just a blur of streetlights and the gentle thrum of the tires against pavement. His thoughts spun lazily — moments from the match, flashes of goals, Santi's grin as he threaded that first assist, the feel of the ball as he struck the bicycle kick that would loop forever in highlight reels.
By the time the taxi pulled up to his apartment building, the adrenaline had burned away entirely. All that remained was a warm kind of exhaustion, like he'd run through a storm and come out the other side into peace.
He murmured a thank you, handed the driver a generous tip without thinking, and climbed out into the quiet.
His building was still. A few lights were on in neighboring windows — the late-night glow of people finishing work, watching TV, maybe reading in bed. The elevator ride to his floor felt like a private moment suspended in time, the hum of the lift underscored only by the low buzz in his muscles.
He stepped into his apartment, kicked off his shoes without ceremony, and left his blazer draped over the back of a chair. For a long moment, he just stood there in the dark, letting the stillness settle around him like a blanket.
Then he moved to the window and looked out — over the rooftops, the city, the blinking lights that stretched forever.
We did it, he thought. And then, more quietly: Now what?
—
When Francesco woke the next morning, it was almost noon.
Sunlight streamed in through the half-open curtains, warming the wooden floor and casting long shadows across his rumpled sheets. He blinked groggily, head pounding slightly from the wine and the sheer emotional hangover of the night before. For a few disoriented seconds, he didn't quite remember where he was or what had happened.
Then it hit him in a wave — Wembley. The hat-trick. The trophy. The party. Wenger's quiet words.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time, arms spread over the cool sheets, feeling the weight of it all settle in his chest like a heavy but welcome stone.
The season was over.
The days of training at Colney were behind him — at least for now. There would be a break, then pre-season, then the whirlwind would begin again. But for this brief window — a few precious weeks — he was free.
No early wake-ups for training. No tactical briefings. No match-day nerves.
He could just be… Francesco.
The thought made him smile.
He rolled out of bed slowly, every joint creaking like an old machine being restarted. His body hurt in places he hadn't noticed the night before — thighs, hips, shoulders — but it was a good kind of pain, the kind earned through victory.
Padding barefoot to the kitchen, he flicked on the kettle and stared blearily at the row of tea boxes, trying to decide what kind of morning this was. Eventually, he settled on peppermint — something clean, refreshing, to chase the cobwebs from his head.
While the kettle boiled, he pulled out his phone.
Notifications exploded across the screen. Dozens of messages. Instagram tags. Mentions. Twitter blowing up. Group chats lit with celebratory nonsense. The Golden Boy nickname was already trending in some corners of the football world.
He smiled, thumbed through a few messages — one from Leah Williamson that just read "HAT-TRICK? Are you even real?" with about seventeen exclamation marks, and another from his agent Jorge Mendes telling him he was "now officially on every damn billboard in Portugal."
His smile faded a little when he saw the headline from BBC Sport:
"Arsenal's Golden Future: Can Lee Lead a New Era?"
The weight of it came back in a rush. The expectation. The hope. The responsibility.
He closed the app, turned off the screen, and took his tea to the window instead.
Outside, the street buzzed with lazy Sunday energy — couples walking hand-in-hand, dogs tugging on leashes, cyclists weaving past buses.
Francesco stood there for a while, tea cradled in both hands, breathing in the simple, unhurried life happening just a few floors below him. It felt like another world entirely from the roar of Wembley, the tidal wave of celebration, the glitter of the party.
He was just letting himself sink into that thought when his phone, abandoned on the kitchen counter, buzzed insistently.
He considered ignoring it. Just for a little longer. One more stolen moment of peace.
But the buzzing kept going — steady, insistent — and something about the rhythm told him this wasn't a casual text or a teammate spamming the group chat again.
With a reluctant sigh, he pushed off the window ledge, set his tea down, and crossed the kitchen to grab it.
Jorge Mendes.
Of course.
Francesco smiled to himself — a crooked little grin that was part fondness, part exasperation — and answered.
"Morning, kid," Jorge's voice came through, bright and crackling with that unmistakable energy that never seemed to run dry, no matter the time of day. "Or should I say, Golden Boy?"
Francesco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Not you too."
"Especially me," Jorge laughed. "You think I'm gonna miss the chance to brand you with that before someone else does?"
Francesco leaned against the counter, the cool surface pressing into his hip. "Please tell me you're not already printing T-shirts."
"Not yet," Jorge said, mock-innocent. "But listen, that's partly why I'm calling. You're hot right now, Francesco. Scorching. Everyone's calling. Every brand wants a piece."
Francesco's stomach twisted a little — not unpleasant, exactly, but enough to remind him that all this — the fame, the attention — came with its own momentum, its own gravity.
"I thought the off-season was supposed to be for… you know. Rest."
Jorge laughed again, softer this time. "You'll rest. A little. But there's opportunity here, kid. Big ones. Some endorsement contracts are already being drafted. Plus, a few photoshoots lined up — nothing crazy yet, just a couple of sessions to get material out while you're still front-page news."
Francesco blew out a slow breath through his nose, staring at the faint rings his tea mug had left on the windowsill.
"Alright," he said finally. "You know best."
There was a pause — rare from Jorge — and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, more serious.
"I do know best. That's why I'm telling you — we're gonna do this smart. Not gonna burn you out. We're picking and choosing. Quality, not quantity. You've got a career to build, not just a moment to cash in on."
Francesco felt a little of the tension ease out of his shoulders. He trusted Jorge — not just because he was ruthless and brilliant and had the contacts to open any door, but because he genuinely cared. Had believed in him before the hat-trick, before the headlines.
"Thanks, Jorge."
"Anytime, kid."
There was a rustling on the other end of the line, like Jorge was flipping through papers.
"Oh, and one more thing," he said, the mischief returning to his voice like a cat slipping back through an open window. "Your BMW — the X5, the xDrive40e you got — it's here."
Francesco straightened, blinking. "Wait, seriously?"
"Seriously. It got delivered while you were busy partying and becoming a legend. I had it parked in your building's garage. Keys are with your concierge. Consider it a congratulations gift… courtesy of your own damn hard work."
For the first time that morning, Francesco laughed — a real, full laugh that pushed some of the lingering fog from his head.
"Thanks, Jorge. Really."
"You earned it," Jorge said. "Now go down there, admire your new toy, take a damn nap, and I'll send you the schedule for the first photoshoot later tonight. Sound good?"
"Sounds good."
They hung up, and Francesco stood there for a moment, phone still in hand, feeling that peculiar mix of exhilaration and exhaustion humming in his bones.
A new car. New contracts. New responsibilities. A whole new life, unfurling faster than he could catch it.
He drained the last of his tea, set the mug carefully in the sink, and decided — what the hell. Might as well go see it.
He didn't bother changing out of his old T-shirt and sweatpants — if anyone saw him, they could deal with it. He slipped on a pair of trainers by the door, grabbed his keys and wallet, and headed for the elevator.
The building was as quiet as it had been when he arrived last night — or rather, this morning. A sleepy Sunday sort of quiet, where even the usual urban soundtrack of engines and horns seemed dialed down to a lazy murmur.
The elevator carried him down smoothly, and he crossed the lobby with a small nod to the concierge at the front desk, who brightened when he approached.
"Morning, Mr. Lee! Congratulations, by the way."
Francesco smiled, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly shy again. "Thanks."
The concierge reached under the desk and came up with a sleek black key fob, which he handed over with a little flourish.
"Your vehicle's in Bay 14, sir. Enjoy."
Francesco thanked him again, pocketed the keys, and made his way to the parking garage.
The air was cooler down here, thick with the scent of concrete and oil. His footsteps echoed as he walked past rows of familiar cars — some sleek, some battered, some anonymous — until he reached Bay 14.
And there it was.
A brand-new BMW X5 xDrive40e, gleaming under the fluorescent lights like something out of a showroom.
Francesco whistled low under his breath.
It was a beautiful machine — muscular without being bulky, the metallic paint catching the dim light in waves. The M Sport package gave it an extra edge: more aggressive lines, a leaner stance. It looked powerful, but not ostentatious. Sophisticated, like something that fit who he was now — or at least, who he was trying to become.
He ran a hand lightly over the hood, feeling the smoothness of the finish. The key fob beeped when he pressed the unlock button, the car's lights blinking in greeting.
For a moment, he just stood there, taking it in.
This was his.
Not a loaner. Not something borrowed for a photoshoot or sponsored for appearances.
His.
A symbol — maybe a small one, maybe not — of everything he'd fought for. The endless hours at training. The disappointments. The bruises and the pressure and the doubters.
Moments like yesterday didn't just happen. They were built — inch by inch, day by day.
He slid into the driver's seat, the rich leather cool against his skin. The dashboard lit up with a smooth, high-tech glow as he tapped the start button, the engine purring to life beneath him.
Francesco closed his eyes for a moment, letting the low hum settle into his bones.
It wasn't about the car, really.
It was about what it represented.
He stayed there for a long while, letting himself savor it — this rare, quiet triumph that was just his, unshared by the cameras and the chanting crowds.
When he finally turned off the engine and climbed back out, it was with a different kind of tiredness — not the drained, overwhelmed fatigue of the morning, but a steadier, more grounded one.
He locked the car, smiled at it like an old friend, and made his way back upstairs.
The day was still young, and there was plenty more to do — calls to return, texts to answer, contracts to consider.But for now, he decided, he would allow himself to just be.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League and 2014/2015 FA Cup
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9