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The future of English football — with a red armband, a fearless grin, and the heart of a lion — had just taken its first breath.
The sun had long since dipped below the edge of the stadium by the time the ceremony drew to a close. The floodlights still burned across Wembley like a halo — white and golden beams piercing through the haze of smoke, drifting confetti, and the faint tang of fireworks still hanging in the evening air. The crowd had thinned but not disappeared. Thousands still lingered in the seats, reluctant to leave, singing old chants that floated through the night like echoes of something eternal.
Francesco stood for a long moment at the edge of the podium, his medal cool against his chest, the trophy glinting in the hands of the FA officials now carrying it toward the photographers' stand. The sound of celebration rolled across the pitch — teammates embracing, laughing, calling for photos — but his world had narrowed to a deep, quiet pulse in his ears. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by that heavy, almost sacred exhaustion that came when dreams turned into memories.
He turned his wrist slightly and looked at the red armband again. It still didn't feel real. He flexed his fingers, feeling the fabric stretch slightly, the faint trace of Rooney's touch still there. He could hear his voice too — "It's your turn."
A smile ghosted across his lips.
"Oi, Captain," Kane's voice broke through behind him. "Stop admiring your arm and get over here! Team photo!"
Francesco chuckled under his breath and jogged over, sliding between Sterling and Stones as the official photographer shouted, "One more! Big smiles, lads!"
The flash went off — a split second of blinding light — and the moment was immortalized. England, champions.
Later, the pitch began to empty. The fans trickled out through the gates, the stands slowly fading from a wall of noise to a low, steady murmur in the distance. Francesco walked off the grass with his medal still around his neck, his boots clicking faintly against the tunnel floor. The air inside was cooler, quieter — it smelled of grass, champagne, and sweat.
He found himself walking alongside Rooney again. For a moment, neither spoke. Just two generations sharing the calm after the storm.
"Never thought I'd see it, you know," Rooney said finally, voice soft, distant. "England lifting a trophy again."
Francesco glanced sideways at him. "Neither did I."
Rooney laughed, shaking his head. "You did, lad. You've always believed it." He gave a small, crooked smile. "That's why you'll do just fine with that band."
Francesco looked down again, the weight of the moment returning. "I'll try to make you proud."
"You already have," Rooney said simply, clapping him once on the shoulder before turning down toward the dressing rooms.
By the time Francesco reached the tunnel exit, the FA staff were already clearing things up. A few players were giving short interviews to the last of the broadcasters. Geoff Shreeves was still around, chatting with Hodgson near the tunnel mouth. But Francesco slipped past quietly, heading toward the changing area where laughter was already echoing off the tiled walls.
Inside, it was chaos — joyous, champagne-drenched chaos. Henderson was dancing shirtless on a bench, Dier spraying a bottle toward the ceiling, Kane trying to shield himself behind a towel and failing miserably. Music boomed from someone's portable speaker — something loud, fast, and gloriously off-key.
"Captain on deck!" Stones yelled when Francesco walked in, and the whole room erupted in cheers again. A wave of clapping and whooping swept over him as someone shoved a fresh bottle of champagne into his hands.
Francesco lifted it instinctively, grinning, and popped the cork. It hit the ceiling with a sharp crack, followed by another eruption of laughter. Foam and spray flew through the air.
"Oi, save some for the afterparty!" Sterling shouted between laughs.
Francesco laughed back. "Don't worry, mate, I'll drink yours too!"
"Not if I finish it first!"
The FA had spared no expense for the evening's celebration. By the time the players were dressed and on the team bus, the staff were already guiding them toward the afterparty location — an exclusive event hall just outside central London, decorated in white and red, with massive LED screens replaying highlights of the final.
The bus ride was short but loud — music, jokes, singing that spilled out the windows at traffic lights. Francesco sat near the back, head leaning against the glass, watching the lights of London glide by in a blur. His phone buzzed non-stop — messages, notifications, calls — but he ignored most of them. His mind was drifting elsewhere.
He thought about everything that had led here. The years of training, the heartbreaks, the doubts, the near-misses. And now, England — his England — were champions. He smiled faintly at the thought.
"Thinking about what pub to buy first?" Kane asked from the seat ahead, turning around with that signature smirk.
Francesco laughed. "Nah. Just… taking it in."
"Yeah," Kane nodded. "Soak it up, mate. You earned it."
When they finally arrived, the hall was already buzzing. Lights shimmered across the glass walls, and the faint bassline of music pulsed through the ground. Security ushered them through the main doors — and as soon as they stepped in, a huge cheer went up.
The players' families, friends, and partners were already there, waiting. Laughter, applause, hugs — the sound of love and relief and pride all blending together.
Francesco paused near the entrance, momentarily overwhelmed. The music softened just slightly, and in the shimmering light, he saw them — his parents.
Mike and Sarah were standing a few meters away, smiling in that quiet, emotional way only parents could. His father looked proud but slightly dazed, as though trying to process the fact that his son was now England's captain. His mother, on the other hand, was glowing with pure happiness — eyes wet, hand clutched over her chest.
And beside them, talking animatedly, were Leah's parents — David and Amanda. David had that easy, polite smile of a man who'd seen a few football matches in his time, while Amanda looked genuinely delighted, gesturing with her champagne glass as she chatted with Sarah.
A little further off, near the buffet table, Leah's brother Jacob was piling his plate higher than should've been physically possible — a mountain of sliders, chips, and whatever dessert had been placed too close to him.
Francesco chuckled under his breath.
And then he saw her.
Leah.
She was near the side of the room, laughing softly with Wayne Rooney's wife, Coleen, the two of them caught mid-conversation under a cascade of silver light from the chandeliers. Leah was still in the same white dress she'd worn for the ceremony — simple, elegant, yet strikingly radiant. Her blonde hair was tied back neatly, a few loose strands falling across her cheek, and when she turned slightly, her eyes caught his.
For a second, everything else fell away.
The noise, the chatter, the music — it all blurred into background hum. Francesco's chest tightened, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth before he could stop it.
She saw him, and the corners of her lips lifted into that familiar, knowing smile. The one that said "You did it."
He crossed the room slowly, greeted by pats on the back, handshakes, congratulations that came from every direction. Teammates' families, FA officials, even waiters paused to nod or clap. It felt surreal — like walking through a dream he didn't want to wake from.
Mike saw him first. "There's the man himself!" he shouted, grinning wide as he opened his arms.
Francesco barely had time to reply before his father pulled him into a tight hug.
"Proud of you, son," Mike said quietly, his voice slightly rough. "You made the whole country proud tonight."
Sarah joined in, wrapping them both. "You were wonderful," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I still can't believe it — England's captain."
Francesco smiled, hugging them tighter. "Couldn't have done it without you two."
Mike laughed. "Oh, we just paid for the boots when you were ten. You did the rest."
"Don't forget all the driving!" Sarah added with mock indignation. "Those freezing Saturday mornings in the rain — you owe me for that."
Francesco laughed softly. "Alright, alright. I'll buy you both a new car."
"Make it two," Mike said, winking.
Just then, David and Amanda stepped closer, joining the conversation with warm smiles. As the parents continued chatting — laughter and easy conversation flowing between them — Francesco glanced over toward Leah again. She was still talking with Coleen, but when she caught his gaze, she excused herself and walked toward him.
Each step seemed to stretch time thinner. The room blurred around her — music softening, lights glowing warmer. She reached him and, without a word, wrapped her arms around his neck.
He pulled her close, his hands instinctively finding her waist. For a few seconds, they just stood there — no words, no explanations — just the rhythm of their breathing and the faint pulse of the music.
Then she leaned back slightly, looking up at him with a teasing smirk. "Captain Lee, huh?"
He laughed softly. "Don't start."
"Oh, I'm starting," she said, eyes gleaming. "You realise this means I have to salute you now?"
"Please don't."
She tilted her head. "You're blushing."
"I just lifted a trophy in front of seventy thousand people," he said, trying to hide a grin. "But sure, this is the part that embarrasses me."
Leah laughed — a bright, unguarded sound — and kissed him. The kind of kiss that silenced the world.
Applause erupted from somewhere behind them — Sterling, predictably, shouting, "Oi! Get a room, Captain!" — and the players burst into laughter.
Francesco pulled away just enough to laugh against her forehead. "I swear, they never change."
"Would you really want them to?" she asked, smiling.
He thought about it and shook his head. "Not a chance."
The night went on. Music played louder, laughter spilled across tables, champagne bottles clinked, and the entire hall shimmered with joy.
As the night deepened, players danced — some terribly — their families joined in, and the trophy sat in the center of the hall on a lit pedestal, catching glimmers of gold under the lights.
Francesco and Leah sat together near the edge of the crowd for a while, watching it all. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hand wrapped around his.
"Feels different, doesn't it?" she said softly.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Feels… right."
He looked at the trophy, at his teammates, at his family still laughing with Leah's parents, and smiled faintly. "You know, I think this is just the beginning."
Leah turned to look at him, her eyes soft and proud. "Then let's make sure the rest of the story's even better."
The music softened to a smooth, jazzy rhythm as the night ripened — the kind of music that didn't demand attention but filled the spaces between laughter and conversation. Champagne glasses clinked, soft camera flashes sparkled, and clusters of players and families mingled beneath the chandeliers.
Francesco and Leah sat together near one of the smaller tables draped in white and silver. The noise around them was joyful but mellow now — the initial explosion of celebration had given way to that sweet afterglow of victory, when reality slowly begins to settle into the bones. Leah still had her hand in his, their fingers loosely interlaced atop the table.
She was mid-sentence — something about how Jacob was already making a second trip to the buffet — when a gentle shift in the air drew Francesco's attention. It was subtle at first — conversations quieting, heads subtly turning, the kind of instinctive hush that rippled through a crowd when someone important entered the room.
Leah noticed it too. Her voice faltered, and she followed his gaze toward the entrance.
Walking through the open double doors, surrounded by a discreet pair of security officers, were Prince William and Princess Catherine.
The reaction was instant — polite applause, a few surprised gasps, then a flurry of respectful nods and murmurs of "Your Royal Highness." The couple moved with that calm, effortless grace that seemed to draw the light toward them. William wore a tailored navy suit, crisp and understated, while Catherine's elegant emerald dress caught the soft light like glass.
Francesco blinked once, twice, before reality truly hit.
"Oh, bloody hell," he whispered under his breath.
Leah squeezed his hand, suppressing a grin. "Language, Captain," she teased softly, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of nerves too.
William and Catherine were making their way through the hall, stopping every few steps to greet someone — Rooney and Coleen first, then Hodgson, then a few FA officials. But as their eyes swept across the room, William's expression shifted — his smile widening when he spotted Francesco and Leah seated near the side.
"They're coming this way," Leah whispered quickly.
Francesco's heart thudded once, hard enough that he thought Leah could probably hear it. He stood up immediately, almost knocking his chair backward in the process. Leah followed, the two of them instinctively straightening their posture as the royal couple approached.
When William and Catherine stopped in front of them, Francesco and Leah quickly bowed slightly in greeting.
"Your Royal Highness," they said in unison, voices just a touch nervous.
William chuckled warmly, lifting a hand. "Oh, please — no need for that. You've already made the country proud tonight."
Francesco smiled, slightly sheepish. "Force of habit, sir."
"Well," William said with a good-natured grin, "if every England captain was this polite, I'd say we're in very safe hands indeed."
Catherine smiled as well, her eyes moving fondly between the two of them. "We wanted to come congratulate you both personally," she said, her voice soft and elegant, the faintest trace of warmth in her tone. "It was an extraordinary match — truly one for the ages."
"Thank you," Leah said, her nerves melting a little at Catherine's kindness. "It still doesn't feel real."
"I imagine not," Catherine said with a gentle laugh. "Though I suspect the sore muscles tomorrow might convince you otherwise."
That earned a laugh from both Francesco and Leah.
William turned back toward Francesco, studying him with that perceptive, half-amused gaze of someone who had watched his rise closely. "You know," he said, "I've seen plenty of England teams over the years. Talented ones, too. But I don't think I've ever seen one with that kind of unity. It was… different tonight. You led them brilliantly."
Francesco felt the back of his neck flush with humility. "Thank you, sir. But honestly — it wasn't just me. Everyone played their part. Wayne set the example; I just tried not to mess it up."
William smiled knowingly. "Humility suits you, Francesco. But don't undersell what you did. That armband wasn't just handed to you tonight — you earned it."
The words carried a certain weight, and Francesco met his gaze for a beat, sensing the sincerity behind it. "Means a lot, sir," he said quietly.
"Tell me," William continued, his tone easing into conversation, "what's next for England? Hodgson must be thrilled, but I imagine everyone's already thinking about the future."
Francesco chuckled softly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Honestly? Right now I'm just thinking about getting a full night's sleep and maybe a proper breakfast that isn't pasta and protein shakes."
That made William laugh. "Fair enough. But I suspect the nation might expect a bit more than that."
"Oh, absolutely," Francesco said, smiling. "We've set the standard now — can't afford to drop it. I think this group has something special, sir. There's belief. Real belief. The kind that doesn't go away when the whistle blows."
William nodded, clearly pleased. "That's good to hear. England needs leaders like you — ones who understand that it's not just about football, but about what you represent."
Francesco nodded thoughtfully, taking that in. "I'll do my best to live up to it."
"I have no doubt you will," William said warmly. Then, with a glint of humor: "Though I'd advise you to keep that striker's temper under control. We can't have the England captain shouting at referees every match."
Francesco laughed, rubbing his temple. "I'm working on it, sir. Slowly."
Meanwhile, beside them, Leah and Princess Catherine had fallen into their own easy conversation.
Catherine's genuine curiosity shone through as she glanced at Leah's dress with admiration. "You have such wonderful style, Leah. That dress is stunning — very classic, but modern too."
Leah smiled, slightly bashful. "Thank you, Your Royal Highness. It's actually one of my favorites — Arsenal event from last year. I just… added a few touches."
"Touches?" Catherine asked, intrigued.
"Well," Leah admitted, gesturing lightly at her waist, "I tailored it myself a little — I'm not great at sewing, but I didn't want it too formal. I wanted something I could actually move in, you know?"
Catherine laughed softly. "Practical and elegant — that's always the best combination."
Leah relaxed even more now, her natural warmth emerging. "That's actually what I love about your style, ma'am. You always make things look effortless. Half of the Arsenal girls try to copy your looks, you know?"
Catherine laughed again, genuinely touched. "Oh, goodness. I'll have to thank them — though I suspect you'd make anything look fashionable, Leah."
Leah blushed faintly. "You're too kind."
Then Catherine's expression softened, her curiosity shifting tone. "And how's your football going? I've followed a few of your matches — you've been brilliant for Arsenal this season."
Leah's eyes brightened instantly. Talking football always brought that fire out of her. "Thank you, ma'am. It's been a great year. The team's strong — lots of young talent coming through. We've been trying to build the same kind of culture the men's team has now — togetherness, unity. It's starting to click."
"I've heard wonderful things about the women's squad," Catherine said warmly. "It's inspiring to see how far the women's game has come. You're part of something very important."
Leah nodded earnestly. "We all feel that way, honestly. The growth's been huge, but there's still so much more to do. Better facilities, more exposure — but nights like this help, too. They make people believe in English football again — men's and women's."
"That's beautifully said," Catherine replied. "And very true. You both represent the best of what English sport can be — determination, grace, and heart."
Leah smiled, glancing toward Francesco and William still deep in conversation. "Thank you, ma'am. I think he's got enough heart for all of us combined."
Catherine followed her gaze and chuckled. "He certainly seems to. And he's lucky to have someone who understands that world just as well as he does."
Leah's expression softened. "Yeah," she said quietly, "we both know what it takes. The sacrifices, the pressure. But… it's worth it when moments like this happen."
"I imagine it is," Catherine said gently. "And you handle it all with such composure. You remind me of myself a bit when I first had to navigate public life — there's always noise, but the trick is learning which voices matter."
Leah tilted her head, thoughtful. "That's actually great advice, ma'am. I'll remember that."
Across from them, William and Francesco's conversation had drifted into lighter topics — favorite matches, childhood idols, even a brief chat about how surreal it was to see their names on headlines every morning.
"You know," William said, half-smiling, "I was at Wembley when Beckham scored that free kick against Greece in 2001. I thought I'd never see another Englishman capture a stadium like that again. But tonight — when you lifted that trophy — it felt the same."
Francesco laughed, half in disbelief. "That's… quite a compliment, sir."
"Well earned," William replied simply.
Catherine joined in again, smiling between them. "We'll have to invite you both to Kensington sometime — though you might have to promise not to bring the trophy to dinner."
Francesco grinned. "No promises, ma'am. It might need its own seat at the table."
That made everyone laugh — even the nearby guests, who'd been politely pretending not to eavesdrop.
For a moment, it was easy, natural — two couples talking not as royalty and athletes, but as people who understood pressure, expectation, and pride.
As the conversation continued, William spoke about his passion for football development — grassroots, youth academies, leadership — and Francesco listened intently, occasionally adding his thoughts about the next generation. Leah and Catherine talked about community outreach, mental health in sports, and the responsibility of public figures to inspire the next wave of athletes.
Time slipped by quietly. The rest of the party hummed around them — music, laughter, clinking glasses — but their small circle felt somehow still, grounded in mutual respect.
When at last the royal couple began to take their leave, William reached out, shaking Francesco's hand firmly. "Congratulations again, Captain," he said, his tone both formal and warmly personal. "England's future looks bright with you leading it."
"Thank you, sir," Francesco said sincerely. "We'll do our best to make you proud."
"I've no doubt you will."
Beside them, Catherine took Leah's hands gently in hers. "It was such a pleasure speaking with you, Leah. I hope we'll see you again soon — perhaps at an Arsenal match."
Leah's eyes lit up. "That would be an honor, ma'am."
Catherine smiled. "Then it's settled."
And with one last exchange of smiles and polite bows, the royal couple moved on, greeted by applause and admiration from the surrounding guests.
As they disappeared toward the exit, Leah turned to Francesco, exhaling softly with a half-laugh. "Well," she said, still a little breathless, "that just happened."
Francesco grinned, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. And I think I just survived talking tactics with the future King of England."
Leah laughed, nudging him gently. "You did great, Captain."
He looked at her, eyes warm. "So did you, future Arsenal legend."
She rolled her eyes affectionately. "Flattery won't get you out of dish duty tomorrow."
The night began to soften at the edges, like the last page of a book gently folding shut. The music in the hall had slowed to a warm hum — still alive, but quieter now, mellowing into something nostalgic. The laughter was softer too, touched with that drowsy contentment that comes after hours of joy.
The players, still wearing their medals, lounged in small clusters around tables. Empty glasses glinted beside them, a few forgotten jackets draped over chairs. Families were beginning to gather their things; FA staff moved quietly in the background, clearing plates and dimming the brighter lights.
Francesco sat with Leah again near the same table where they'd met the royal couple earlier. He had loosened the top buttons of his shirt, the gold medal still hanging loose around his neck. Leah leaned against his shoulder, her hair brushing lightly against his jaw.
Neither spoke for a moment. The kind of silence that wasn't empty — just full of the night's memories.
"Feels like it's ending too soon," Leah murmured, her voice barely audible under the fading jazz.
He turned his head slightly, brushing a strand of her hair back. "Yeah. But maybe that's what makes it perfect."
She smiled softly at that, the kind of smile that said she agreed but didn't want to yet.
A few tables over, Kane and his wife were saying their goodbyes. Rooney had already slipped out earlier, waving off teasing shouts about his "dad bedtime." Sterling was still talking animatedly with his friends, but even he looked like the night was catching up to him. One by one, the group that had shared triumph and tears began to slowly scatter — players leaving with family in tow, FA staff shaking hands, a few even shedding quiet tears of pride.
The party wasn't over so much as it was settling — shifting from celebration to reflection.
Francesco glanced toward the center of the room, where the trophy still sat on its pedestal. The light from the chandeliers shimmered off its silver curves, catching hints of the England flag draped beside it. For a moment, he felt something ache inside him — not sadness, exactly, but the heavy awareness that this kind of night might never come again.
He stood slowly, and Leah followed his gaze. "One last look?" she asked gently.
He nodded. They walked together through the thinning crowd, hands entwined, and stopped before the trophy. The closer they got, the quieter it seemed to become — as if even the air knew to hold its breath around something sacred.
Francesco reached out, letting his fingers hover just above the silver rim without touching it. "You know," he said softly, "when I was a kid, I used to imagine this moment. Lifting it. Hearing the crowd. But it always felt like some far-off dream. Like… something that belonged to someone else."
Leah tilted her head, her eyes searching his. "And now?"
He smiled faintly. "Now it feels like it belonged to everyone. The lads. The fans. The ones who kept believing when we didn't. I was just lucky enough to hold it."
Leah squeezed his hand gently. "You earned it, Francesco. Don't ever say lucky again."
He chuckled quietly, though there was a glint of emotion in his eyes. "Alright. Maybe just… blessed, then."
She smiled. "That I can agree with."
They stood there for a moment longer, letting the last notes of the music carry through the air like a lullaby. Then, gradually, they turned and began to make their way back toward where their families were waiting.
Mike and Sarah stood near the entrance, chatting with David and Amanda while Jacob looked half-asleep beside them, arms crossed, head drooping slightly. Their laughter softened as Francesco and Leah approached.
Sarah was the first to notice. Her face lit up with that same proud warmth it had held all evening. "There they are," she said. "Our champions."
Francesco grinned, leaning in to hug her. "You're still saying that, Mum. I don't think it'll ever sink in."
"I don't think it's supposed to," she said, laughing. "You made history, sweetheart. You and that whole team."
Mike patted him on the back, firm and proud. "And you handled yourself well tonight — even when the royals showed up."
Francesco groaned softly. "Please don't remind me. I nearly forgot how to breathe when Prince William started talking tactics."
David chuckled. "You held your own, son. Saw the way he was nodding — I think he's ready to make you a knight already."
Amanda joined in with a warm laugh. "And Leah, dear, you looked absolutely lovely. Catherine seemed quite taken with you."
Leah blushed a little, glancing down. "She was so kind. I was terrified at first, but she made it feel like a normal chat."
"Well," Sarah said, smiling, "you both handled it beautifully."
Jacob, who had been silent up to that point, muttered sleepily, "Can we go home now? I can't feel my legs."
Everyone laughed.
Francesco bent slightly, ruffling Jacob's hair. "Go on then, champ. You've earned some sleep too."
"Yeah," Jacob said, already half-yawning. "You too, Captain."
That earned him another round of chuckles.
Francesco straightened and took a moment to look at them all — both sets of parents, smiling and proud, the quiet contentment between them that only families can share. It hit him then, just how rare this kind of peace was — not just victory, but togetherness.
He took Leah's hand gently, his thumb brushing her knuckles. "We should probably get going too," he said softly. "Before the FA staff start locking the doors."
"Good idea," Leah said, though her eyes lingered on their families. "Let's say goodbye properly."
They did — hugs, laughter, promises to call tomorrow. Sarah kissed Francesco's cheek once more and whispered, "Sleep well, my boy. You've earned every second of it."
"I will," he said, smiling. "Love you."
Mike pulled him in for one last pat on the shoulder. "Proud of you, son. Always."
"Thanks, Dad."
Leah hugged her parents and Jacob next, warm embraces that carried the glow of shared pride. David gave her a gentle smile. "Take care of him, alright?"
Leah chuckled. "Always do."
Amanda squeezed her hand. "You two make a good team — on and off the pitch."
"Thanks, Mum," Leah said softly.
When the goodbyes were done, Francesco and Leah stepped outside together.
The cool London night greeted them with a soft breeze that carried the faint scent of rain and city air. The lights from the event hall spilled onto the pavement behind them, glinting off the wet ground. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed, the world still going about its business even as theirs felt like it had paused.
The valet line was full of sleek cars and black sedans, but Francesco didn't bother waiting for a fancy ride. The buses were long gone, and most of the lads had already left in private cars or FA vehicles. He glanced down the street where a few taxis idled, headlights casting warm glows through the mist.
"Taxi?" he asked.
Leah nodded, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders. "Taxi."
They walked hand in hand toward the waiting line. One of the drivers recognized them immediately — a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a grin that spread across his whole face.
"Evenin', champs!" he said cheerfully as he opened the door for them. "Heard the noise from miles away. Congratulations — both of you!"
"Thanks, mate," Francesco said with a tired smile as he helped Leah into the back seat. "Appreciate it."
As the taxi pulled away from the curb, the city unfolded around them in a wash of gold and shadow. Streetlights streaked past, glimmering off the wet roads. The reflections danced across the windows, and for a while, neither of them spoke.
Leah leaned her head on Francesco's shoulder again, her hand resting on his chest where the medal still hung. The faint clink of metal filled the quiet space between them.
"You should take that off," she murmured. "You're going to forget it's there and wake up with a bruise."
He chuckled softly. "Maybe. But I kinda like the reminder."
"Of what?"
He looked out the window — the city lights flashing across his eyes like little fires. "That it actually happened."
She smiled, eyes closed. "Yeah. It happened."
The cab rolled on through London's late-night calm — past darkened shops, quiet terraces, the occasional bus rumbling by. The driver had switched on the radio, and the faint sound of a sports commentator filtered through the static:
"…and there's no doubt now — Francesco Lee has written his name into English football history tonight. The youngest player to ever lift the European Championship trophy…"
The words faded into the background, but Francesco felt them all the same. He reached up and switched the radio off, the sudden quiet somehow warmer.
They drove past the Thames, its black surface gleaming under the lamplight. The bridges were nearly empty — just a few couples strolling, a cyclist here and there. When they crossed toward Richmond, the streets grew quieter, the air fresher. The city's pulse softened into something gentler.
Finally, the taxi turned down the familiar road lined with tall trees, their leaves whispering faintly in the wind. Ahead, the lights of Francesco's mansion glowed softly behind the gates — warm, inviting, home.
Leah looked up as the car rolled to a stop. "Still feels weird calling this place home," she said with a sleepy laugh.
He smiled, fishing a note from his wallet to hand the driver. "Guess we'll just have to keep making it feel right."
The driver gave them both a wide grin. "Congratulations again, you two. You made the whole country smile tonight."
"Thank you," Francesco said sincerely.
He stepped out first, then opened the door for Leah. The night air hit them — crisp and quiet. Somewhere nearby, the faint chirp of crickets mixed with the distant hum of the motorway.
As the taxi drove away, its taillights disappeared into the dark. Francesco and Leah stood for a moment on the gravel driveway, hands linked, the weight of the night still hanging around them like stardust.
Leah let out a soft sigh. "Home sweet home."
"Finally," he said with a grin. "No press, no cameras, no crowds. Just us."
She smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder. "And maybe a shower. I think there's still champagne in my hair."
He laughed, slipping an arm around her waist as they walked toward the front door. "Yeah, same here. Think we earned a long one."
The motion-sensor lights flicked on as they reached the steps. Francesco unlocked the door, the familiar creak greeting them. The scent of oak and faint lavender drifted out — the kind of smell that felt like safety.
Inside, the house was still and dim, save for the soft glow from the hallway lights. Leah kicked off her heels near the door, sighing in relief, while Francesco set the medal carefully on the small wooden table beside the keys. For a second, it caught the light — one last shimmer of gold — before resting quietly.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (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 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