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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.
The morning light in Richmond came slowly — the kind of soft, golden glow that crept between the curtains like a quiet guest, painting warm shapes across the walls. For a long time, there was only stillness. No sound but the faint whisper of the breeze outside, the occasional chirp of a bird somewhere in the garden, and the calm rhythm of slow, steady breathing.
Francesco stirred first.
He blinked against the sunlight filtering through the half-drawn drapes, his vision slowly coming into focus — the familiar lines of his bedroom, the pale linen sheets, the gentle rise and fall of Leah's shoulders beside him. Her hair spilled across the pillow, a soft tangle of brown and gold that caught the morning light like silk.
He smiled to himself. She looked peaceful — the kind of peace that only came after months of exhaustion, travel, pressure, and noise.
For a moment, he just lay there watching her, the quiet weight of last night's victory still humming somewhere deep in his chest. The gold medal sat on the bedside table, catching a beam of sunlight that made it glow faintly. It didn't even feel real yet — the idea that England had finally done it. That he, a kid who once kicked a torn ball around the backstreets of Richmond, had captained his country to glory.
And yet… here it was.
The proof shimmered quietly beside him.
He leaned over and brushed a stray strand of hair from Leah's face. She murmured something in her sleep — half a word, maybe his name — then settled again, her lips curving faintly as if the dream was kind.
Francesco smiled, his heart softening.
"Sleep in, love," he whispered. "You earned it."
He slipped quietly out of bed, the floor cool under his bare feet. After grabbing a plain white T-shirt and grey sweats, he padded into the bathroom. The mirror greeted him with the faint traces of a night too long — messy hair, a bit of stubble, and eyes that still carried that post-match haze between exhaustion and disbelief.
He splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth, and for a moment just stood there, leaning over the sink, letting it all settle. The bathroom fan hummed softly. His reflection looked back at him — not the footballer plastered across headlines, not the captain who'd lifted a trophy under Paris lights, but just… Francesco.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt calm.
He took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair, and decided he'd make breakfast. Something simple, something normal. It felt right — after weeks of chaos, to just be ordinary again.
Downstairs, the house felt alive in a different way.
Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, spilling across the hardwood floors. The faint scent of lavender from the night before still lingered. Somewhere in the corner, his phone vibrated silently — no doubt full of messages, mentions, and headlines. But he didn't reach for it. Not yet.
He wanted this morning to belong to him.
He made his way to the kitchen — a wide, open space with white marble counters, dark oak cabinets, and a view that stretched out toward the back garden. The early light shimmered on the dew outside, little droplets glinting on the grass like glass.
He turned on the coffee machine first. The quiet hiss and aroma of brewing coffee filled the room almost instantly, warm and familiar. He opened the fridge, scanning its contents — eggs, tomatoes, bread, cheese, some leftover salmon from last night's dinner. That'd do.
As he began cracking eggs into a bowl, he reached for the small remote resting on the counter and switched on the television mounted near the breakfast bar. The morning news flickered to life — a BBC feed, low volume, just enough to keep him company.
"…and what a historic night it was for English football," the reporter's voice was saying. "The celebrations in London continued well into the early hours, as thousands gathered for the open-top bus parade through the city…"
Francesco paused mid-stir, glancing up at the screen.
Footage rolled — London streets overflowing with fans, flags waving high, confetti raining down like a summer storm. The open-top bus moved slowly past the packed crowds, lights flashing from every direction. He saw familiar faces leaning over the railings — Kane, Sterling, Stones — all grinning, laughing, waving the trophy. And there he was too, standing near the front with the captain's armband still wrapped around his arm, smiling like he could hardly believe any of it.
The reporter continued:
"It was a moment that will go down in English sporting history — the first major international title since 1966. And perhaps the most emotional scene of all — Wayne Rooney, England's veteran captain, officially passing on the armband to Francesco Lee in front of the jubilant crowd at Wembley's homecoming ceremony…"
The footage changed — now showing Wembley, bathed in golden evening light. The team stood lined up along the stage, confetti still fluttering in the air. Rooney, microphone in hand, his voice hoarse but steady, speaking to the tens of thousands who had packed the stands.
Francesco froze, spatula in hand, his chest tightening as the clip played.
"…This," Rooney's voice echoed through the stadium speakers, "is what we've been chasing for years. It's been my honor to lead these lads — but it's time for a new chapter. And there's only one man I'd trust to carry this team forward."
The screen showed Rooney turning to him — eyes full of pride, emotion heavy in his voice. He unclasped the armband and held it out.
"Francesco Lee — our new captain. Lead them the way you did this summer. Make us proud."
The roar that had followed was deafening. Even through the TV, even now, Francesco could still feel it — the tremor in the ground, the surge of voices, the weight of that moment pressing against his ribs.
He remembered it vividly: how his throat had tightened, how his fingers trembled as he accepted the band, how he'd hugged Rooney right there in front of everyone.
It hadn't been rehearsed. It hadn't even been planned. Rooney just did it — passing the torch with the grace of a legend who knew his time had come.
The screen cut back to the studio, where the anchor was smiling, clearly moved.
"A symbolic gesture," she said softly. "Rooney, the heart of England for over a decade, entrusting its future to Francesco Lee — the youngest captain in modern English history. A night that truly marked the beginning of a new era."
Francesco exhaled, slowly. He hadn't realized he'd stopped whisking the eggs. The sound of sizzling from the pan brought him back. He smiled faintly, shaking his head, then turned back to his cooking.
The bacon crackled, the eggs bubbled, and the smell of buttered toast began to fill the air. The coffee machine chimed softly in the background.
Outside, the morning had fully arrived — sunlight now spilling brighter through the windows, touching everything with that post-rain glow.
As he flipped an omelette, the TV kept playing — highlights, interviews, pundits still analyzing every moment from the match.
He caught a glimpse of himself on the screen again — running across the pitch, arms outstretched, teammates piling on top of him after the final whistle. The image almost felt like it belonged to someone else.
He grinned. "Madness," he muttered to himself, sliding the food onto a plate.
Then he heard soft footsteps behind him.
Leah appeared in the doorway, barefoot and sleepy, one of his shirts draped over her like a dress. Her hair was tousled, her eyes still heavy with sleep, but the small, crooked smile on her face made his chest warm instantly.
"Mmm," she murmured, stretching. "That smells like heaven."
He glanced over his shoulder, smiling. "Morning, sleepyhead."
"Morning," she said, padding toward him. She leaned up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek before peering over his shoulder at the pan. "Eggs and salmon? Look at you, Chef Lee."
He chuckled. "Figured I'd try to feed us before the next round of reporters shows up outside."
She groaned softly, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Don't even remind me. We'll probably have drones over the house by noon."
He laughed, flipping another slice of toast. "Yeah, I saw the news. Apparently, the open-top parade broke viewership records. They're calling it 'The Day That Reborn England.'"
Leah raised an eyebrow. "Bit dramatic, isn't it?"
"Maybe," he said, smiling, "but I'll take it."
She tilted her head toward the television, which was still showing highlights from Wembley. Rooney's speech was playing again. She went quiet for a second, watching the moment unfold — Rooney pressing the armband into Francesco's hand, the crowd roaring, Francesco bowing his head in disbelief.
"Still gives me goosebumps," she whispered.
"Yeah," he admitted. "Me too."
Leah looked at him, her expression soft. "He really believes in you, doesn't he?"
Francesco nodded, eyes still on the screen. "He always did. Even when I didn't."
She reached out and touched his hand gently. "Then don't ever doubt yourself again."
He turned, meeting her gaze — and for a moment, the noise from the TV, the smell of breakfast, the sunlight through the windows — all of it faded into something still and real.
He smiled. "I'll try not to."
They stood there like that for a few quiet seconds before the toast popped up, breaking the moment. Leah laughed softly, shaking her head. "Romantic moment, ruined by carbs."
He grinned. "Story of my life."
They sat together at the kitchen table, sharing breakfast as the morning rolled on. Leah sipped her coffee slowly, scrolling through her phone as headlines flooded every feed — ENGLAND'S GOLDEN GENERATION DELIVERS, LEE TAKES THE ARMBAND: A NEW ERA BEGINS, ROYAL PRAISE FOR EURO HEROES.
Francesco tried not to think too much about it. For all the glory and cameras, this — the quiet breakfast, the sunlight, Leah's laughter — this was what he'd missed the most.
When the news returned to the parade highlights again, he turned the volume down and leaned back in his chair, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"So," Leah said, looking up from her coffee, "what now, Captain?"
He chuckled, pretending to think. "Hmm. Maybe a long nap. Then maybe training tomorrow, if Wenger doesn't give me another lecture about rest."
She smiled knowingly. "You'll sneak into the gym later, won't you?"
He laughed, caught. "Maybe just a light run."
She rolled her eyes affectionately. "You're impossible."
"Yeah," he said softly, his voice warm, "but I'm yours."
The sunlight caught them just then — soft and golden — and for a moment, everything felt exactly as it should.
The last of the sunlight had shifted across the kitchen, brightening the marble counter where their breakfast plates sat empty except for a few crumbs and streaks of butter. The coffee had gone lukewarm, but neither of them minded; they were too wrapped in the soft rhythm of the morning — the kind that comes after a storm of glory, when the world seems to pause just to let you breathe.
Francesco leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest, his gaze drifting toward the wide glass doors that opened onto the garden. The dew was still there on the grass, shimmering under the growing light. The peace of it all felt strange — almost unreal — after the noise of the parade, the flashing cameras, the deafening chants of "It's coming home!" echoing through London.
Leah sat opposite him, her legs tucked beneath her, stirring what was left of her coffee. She'd pulled her hair back into a loose bun now, the kind that let a few strands fall and frame her face in that effortless way that made her look even more natural, more real than any magazine photo ever could.
"So…" she began, a playful lilt in her voice. "What's next, Captain?"
Francesco chuckled softly, brushing his thumb against the rim of his mug. "You sound like one of the pundits."
"Maybe," she said, smiling. "But I'm genuinely curious. Off-season now, right? No matches, no training schedules, no cameras for a while. So, what are you going to do with yourself?"
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, pretending to ponder. "Hmm. First thing, I might just sleep for a week straight."
Leah laughed, the sound warm and light. "You? Sleep for a week? You'd last two days before you're on a treadmill somewhere."
He grinned. "Okay, fair. Maybe not a week. But I've been thinking… maybe it's time to sit down with Jorge again."
She tilted her head slightly. "Mendes?"
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "He's been lining up a few new sponsorships — I've been dodging his calls for a while because of the tournament. Now that it's over, I should probably hear him out. He mentioned something about Nike wanting to renew the deal, and a couple of luxury brands reaching out too."
Leah raised an eyebrow, her smile teasing. "Look at you. Already in demand."
He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's weird, isn't it? Feels like yesterday I was just hoping to make the squad — now it's all agents and contracts and brand meetings."
"That's because you earned it," she said gently. "You didn't just win. You became the face of it. Everyone saw what you did out there — the goals, the leadership, the calm under pressure. England hadn't looked that alive in decades."
Francesco looked at her for a moment, his smile softening. "You always know what to say, don't you?"
She gave a little shrug, the corner of her mouth lifting. "It's part of the job description — girlfriend of England's captain."
He chuckled, reaching across the table to touch her hand. "Best title anyone's ever given you."
She squeezed his fingers back. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Lee."
He laughed, shaking his head, about to reply — when his phone buzzed loudly on the counter beside the sink. The vibration cut through the calm of the room, followed by the familiar ringtone he'd assigned for team calls.
Francesco frowned, pushing his chair back slightly. "Who's calling at this hour?"
Leah smirked. "Maybe it's Jorge. Speak of the devil."
He reached over, grabbed the phone, and glanced at the screen. His eyebrows lifted. "Nope. Not Jorge."
"Who then?"
He turned the screen so she could see. The name Roy Hodgson glowed across it.
Leah's eyes widened slightly. "Coach?"
Francesco nodded, already sliding his thumb across the screen to answer. "Yeah. Wonder what this is about." He lifted the phone to his ear. "What's up, coach?"
There was a faint crackle of static, then the familiar, warm tone of Roy Hodgson's voice came through — calm, measured, but with a spark of pride still lingering in it.
"Ah, Francesco, good morning, lad. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Not at all, coach. Just breakfast with Leah. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine, I'm fine," Roy replied, his chuckle faint but full of that old-man warmth that always reminded Francesco of a kindly uncle. "Still recovering from all the celebrations, to tell you the truth. My phone hasn't stopped ringing since last night. The FA, the media, government ministers — even old mates I haven't heard from in twenty years. You've made quite a lot of people very proud, you know."
Francesco laughed softly. "I think we all did, coach."
"True enough," Roy said, his voice carrying a note of fondness. "You lads made history — and did it with class. Now, I'm calling because there's something you need to be aware of before the next round of headlines gets to you first."
Francesco leaned forward in his chair, curiosity sparking. "What's that?"
"Well," Roy continued, "the Palace reached out this morning — Buckingham Palace, that is. Her Majesty herself has extended an official invitation to the entire squad."
Francesco blinked, caught off guard. "Wait — the Queen?"
Roy chuckled. "Yes, the Queen, son. I believe she wants to meet the nation's heroes in person. You, the players, the staff — all of you who brought it home. The visit's scheduled for two days from now. The FA's already working on the logistics."
Francesco sat back, running a hand through his hair, the news settling in. "That's… wow. I don't even know what to say."
Leah, watching him, mouthed silently, What's happening?
He covered the receiver briefly and whispered back, "The Queen wants to meet us."
Her eyes widened, then she broke into a grin. "You're kidding."
He shook his head, smiling, then turned back to the call. "That's incredible, coach. I mean, meeting the Queen — it's surreal."
"I imagine so," Roy said with a light laugh. "It'll be a formal ceremony, of course. You'll all be expected at the Palace gates by noon sharp. I've been told the Queen herself requested that you, as captain, stand front and center during the reception. They'll want you to give a few words on behalf of the team."
Francesco blinked, the words hitting him like a wave. "Wait, me? Speak in front of the Queen?"
"That's right," Roy replied, amusement in his tone. "You'll do fine. You've already spoken to thousands at Wembley — what's one more speech, eh?"
Francesco laughed nervously. "Yeah, but the Queen didn't have a pint in her hand and sing 'Sweet Caroline' after the match."
Hodgson chuckled again, the sound gentle and fatherly. "True enough. Still, you've earned it, son. You represent the best of what this country's football stands for right now — humility, drive, leadership. It's only fitting she meets you first."
Francesco paused for a moment, his throat tightening slightly. "Thank you, coach. That means a lot."
"I mean every word," Roy said softly. "You made me proud, Francesco. Not just as a player, but as a man. You took that armband from Rooney and carried it with grace. Whatever happens next — remember that you've already left a mark that'll last a lifetime."
For a second, Francesco didn't know what to say. He just sat there, letting the words settle deep. Then finally, he managed a quiet, heartfelt, "Thanks, coach. Really."
Roy's voice brightened slightly. "Good lad. Right, I'll let you get back to your morning. The FA will send over the official itinerary later today — check your emails. Oh, and tell Leah I said congratulations too. She was brilliant in all those interviews, by the way. Kept you out of trouble."
Francesco smiled softly at Roy's words — that blend of pride and humility that always made it hard to tell whether he wanted to laugh or get a little choked up. The older man had that effect on people. He wasn't loud or dramatic, didn't shout or pound his chest, but when he spoke, you listened — not because you had to, but because you wanted to.
There was a quiet second where all that sank in — the Queen's invitation, the idea of standing front and center at Buckingham Palace, the thought of speaking for an entire nation's heroes — and for the first time since that night at Wembley, Francesco found himself at a loss for words.
Then, as if the thought had just surfaced, he leaned forward a little and asked, his voice hesitant but sincere,
"Wait — what about Wayne? I mean, even though he handed me the armband, he's still the captain. He's the one who led us through the Euro. Shouldn't he… you know, be the one standing there next to the Queen?"
Roy's voice softened on the other end, the faintest sound of a smile curling into his tone. "Ah, I wondered when you'd ask that, Francesco."
He paused, letting the quiet stretch a little before continuing. "Wayne and I had a talk this morning. A long one, actually. You know how he is — straightforward, but thoughtful. He said something that I think sums up his character perfectly. He told me, 'I've had my moment. Now it's his turn.'"
Francesco sat back in silence, his jaw tightening just slightly. Roy went on, voice steady and full of quiet pride.
"He'll be right beside you, lad. Just like he was yesterday at Wembley, when the two of you lifted the cup together. He told me that moment — standing in front of the fans, shoulder to shoulder with you — it felt right. Said it was time to make it official, not just for the public, but for the team, for the country. He's going to delegate the captaincy formally in front of the Royal Family, showing everyone that this transition wasn't just a choice from management, but a passing of the torch from one leader to another."
Francesco let out a slow breath, his mind replaying the image yesterday event — the cheers of the fans, as Wayne's hand on his shoulder as they both raised the Henri Delaunay Cup toward the Sky and finally giving him the captain armband. He remembered the look in Wayne's eyes — not envy, not regret, just that fierce, brotherly pride that only a captain could have for his successor.
"That's… that's huge," Francesco murmured. "He doesn't have to do that."
"I think he wants to," Roy replied gently. "He told me himself — you've earned it, not just with your boots, but with how you carried the lads when it mattered most. He said, and I quote, 'The kid's ready. The armband's just catching up to him.'"
Francesco felt a lump form in his throat. He stared down at the table, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of his mug. Across from him, Leah watched him quietly, her expression softening as she realized what Roy was saying.
"Wayne's one of the most selfless players I've ever managed," Roy continued, voice warm. "He knows what legacy means. He's seen captains come and go, and he knows the best ones aren't chosen because they shout the loudest — they're chosen because when the storm hits, everyone naturally looks their way. That's what you've become for this team, Francesco."
The words hung there, heavy but kind.
Francesco exhaled slowly, then smiled faintly. "I don't even know what to say, coach."
"You don't have to say much," Roy said with a chuckle. "Just keep doing what you've been doing — play, lead, and stay grounded. The rest takes care of itself."
There was a beat of silence before Francesco replied, quieter now, "He really said that, yeah? About me being ready?"
"He did," Roy confirmed. "You'll see for yourself. When we stand there in front of the Queen, he'll be the first one to hand you the armband again. Not because I told him to — because he wanted to."
Francesco leaned back, eyes glinting faintly with a mix of pride and disbelief. "He's something else."
"That he is," Roy said. "But so are you, lad. So are you."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. It was one of those quiet moments that said more than words could — two generations of English football, one passing the flame to another, the unspoken understanding that history wasn't just made by goals or medals, but by the grace with which they were shared.
Finally, Roy's tone shifted, lighter now. "Right, I'll let you get back to your morning. Enjoy the calm while it lasts — these next few days will be a whirlwind again. The Palace, the media, maybe a few late-night shows trying to book you before preseason starts."
Francesco laughed softly. "I might have to turn my phone off again."
"Good luck with that," Roy said with a wry chuckle. "You'll be lucky if the PM himself doesn't call next."
Leah laughed quietly from across the table, mouthing he probably will.
"Alright then, coach," Francesco said, smiling again. "I'll check the itinerary when it comes in. And thank you — for everything."
"My pleasure, son. You've made an old man very proud. Give Leah my best, and tell her I expect her to keep you from saying anything too cheeky in front of the Queen."
That earned a laugh from both of them. "I'll do my best, coach," Leah called out loud enough for Roy to hear through the speaker.
Roy's chuckle came through faint but full of warmth. "Good girl. Alright, I'll see you both soon."
The line clicked softly, and silence filled the kitchen again — that gentle, almost sacred kind of silence that follows big news.
Francesco lowered the phone and placed it on the table, staring at it for a moment before looking up at Leah. She was already smiling at him, her eyes shining with quiet pride.
"So," she said softly, "you're going to meet the Queen… and Wayne's officially passing you the captaincy. That's—" she shook her head, a laugh slipping out, "—that's insane, Frankie."
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to process it all. "I know. It feels… unreal, doesn't it?"
Leah tilted her head, studying him with that mix of affection and curiosity that came so naturally to her. "You look a little stunned."
"I am," he admitted with a soft laugh. "I mean, a one and a half year ago, I was just trying to get into the Arsenal first team — now I'm about to meet the Queen and officially take the England captaincy from Wayne Rooney himself. It's a lot."
She reached across the table again, taking his hand. "You earned every bit of it. Don't ever doubt that."
He squeezed her hand lightly, his smile faint but full of gratitude. "You've been saying that a lot lately."
"That's because it's true," she said simply. "I was there for every bit of it, remember? The late nights when you came home frustrated, when people said England couldn't win anything, when you kept training anyway. You didn't get here by accident, Frankie."
Her words sank deep, and for a moment, all Francesco could do was nod. The noise of the world — the parades, the chants, the press — all faded until there was only the soft hum of the morning around them.
After a while, Leah smiled again and stood up, circling around the table to stand behind his chair. She draped her arms loosely over his shoulders, resting her chin lightly atop his head. "So, what are you going to wear for your royal audience, Captain Lee?" she teased.
He laughed quietly, tilting his head back against her. "Something tells me the FA will decide that for us."
"They'll probably make you wear one of those fancy tailored suits," she said. "You know — the kind that makes everyone look like James Bond."
"I could live with that," he said, grinning. "Though knowing Vardy, he'll probably sneak in a pair of white trainers and call it 'fashion.'"
Leah giggled. "Please tell me someone will stop him before he tries to fist-bump the Queen."
"I'll make sure of it," Francesco said with mock seriousness. "Last thing we need is Jamie going viral again."
Their laughter filled the kitchen — warm, real, grounding. And yet beneath it all, there was that undercurrent of awe — that electric awareness that something monumental was waiting just ahead.
The world outside their Richmond home was already stirring again — distant sounds of traffic, a dog barking somewhere down the street, the quiet rhythm of normal life resuming. But for Francesco and Leah, it didn't quite feel normal anymore. Not yet.
After a while, Leah moved around to clear the table, humming softly under her breath. Francesco stayed where he was, eyes distant, his mind wandering through memories — of Rooney's hand on his shoulder, of Hodgson's steady belief, of that first moment under the Wembley arch when he realized the whole stadium was chanting his name.
The light in the kitchen had shifted — that soft, late-morning warmth that poured through the windows and painted everything in a kind of quiet gold. The hum of London beyond their Richmond home was faint but constant, the distant sound of passing cars and the rhythmic clatter of life carrying on as if the world hadn't just changed overnight.
Francesco was still sitting there at the kitchen table, the call with Roy Hodgson echoing in his mind like a song he couldn't turn off. The words still lingered — "He said, 'I've had my moment. Now it's his turn.'"
Wayne Rooney, the captain he'd looked up to since he was a boy, was about to pass him the England armband formally. Not in the locker room, not at Wembley, but in front of the Queen herself.
Leah stood by the counter, her hands busy stacking plates but her eyes flicking toward him now and then, a small smile tugging at her lips. There was something almost cinematic about the moment — the calm after the storm, the stillness before another wave of history rolled in.
After a stretch of silence, she turned and leaned against the counter, crossing her arms with a playful tilt of her head. "So now what, Captain Lee?" she asked softly, her tone teasing but gentle. "What's the great England hero going to do next?"
Francesco looked up, a tired but content smile playing at his lips. "Honestly?" he said, his voice low and a little rough from the long morning. "I just want to get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be all prep for the Palace visit the day after."
Leah chuckled under her breath, pushing away from the counter and walking over to him. She brushed her hand through his hair — the kind of small, grounding gesture that always cut through whatever whirlwind he was in. "You've earned a break, Frankie. The world can wait for a few hours."
He leaned into her touch for a moment, his eyes closing briefly. Then he opened them again with a small sigh. "Yeah. But before I do that, I should probably make one more call."
Leah arched a brow. "Jorge?"
He nodded, already reaching for his phone. "Yeah. I need to tell him about the Palace invite. Roy said the Royal Family's media office will announce it publicly this afternoon — something about wanting the official word to come from them first. If Jorge doesn't hear it from me, he'll find out from Sky Sports, and I'll never hear the end of it."
Leah laughed softly. "You know him too well."
Francesco smiled faintly as he scrolled through his contacts and pressed the call button. The line clicked after only two rings, and Jorge Mendes' voice came through — rich, confident, and instantly recognizable even through the slight crackle of the line.
"Francesco!" Jorge's voice boomed with that familiar energy. "My boy, my champion! I was just about to call you myself. What a week, huh? You were brilliant."
Francesco couldn't help but laugh, leaning back in his chair. "Thanks, Jorge. Yeah, it still feels unreal, to be honest."
"Unreal?" Jorge replied, half scoffing, half laughing. "You're a European champion, and England's golden boy. There's nothing unreal about it. You've made history, my friend — you've changed the way the world sees English football."
Francesco smiled, though he kept his voice modest. "I'm just happy we got it done. The lads deserved it."
"Ah, always the humble one," Jorge said approvingly. "But I know that tone — it means there's something else. Go on then, tell me. What's new? What's next?"
Francesco exhaled lightly, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. "You're not going to believe this, but… I just got off the phone with Roy. The team's been officially invited to Buckingham Palace. The Queen herself wants to meet us."
There was a brief pause, and then Jorge's voice came through louder, full of delight. "Buckingham Palace?! Are you kidding me? Madre mía, Francesco, you've gone from boy wonder to British royalty overnight!"
Leah stifled a laugh from across the kitchen, watching as Francesco shook his head with a smile. "It's not just me," he said. "The whole squad's been invited. Roy said the Palace reached out this morning. He just called to confirm it with me before the media announcement goes out later today."
"I see, I see," Jorge said, his tone shifting from excitement to that smooth, calculating professionalism that made him one of the best agents in the world. "So the Royal Family's media office will make it official this afternoon?"
"Yeah," Francesco confirmed. "Roy said it'll probably hit around 3 p.m. They want to control the narrative — make it about honoring the team, not just the win."
"Smart," Jorge said approvingly. "And very British." He chuckled softly. "Alright, listen, when the news drops, we'll need to be ready. This isn't just about football anymore — this is image, legacy, diplomacy. Every paper in the world will carry the photo of you shaking hands with the Queen. You'll want to look sharp, speak calm, stay graceful. I'll have a media coach call you tomorrow morning, just for a light prep. Nothing heavy, just the usual — posture, tone, timing."
Francesco laughed quietly. "Jorge, it's a five-minute audience, not a press conference."
"Doesn't matter," Jorge countered. "Five minutes in front of the most photographed woman in history. You don't wing that."
Leah giggled quietly, mouthing He's not wrong.
"Alright, alright," Francesco said, still smiling. "I'll take the prep. But Jorge, you should've heard what Roy told me — Wayne's going to hand me the captain's armband officially in front of the Queen. Not just symbolically, but formally. He wanted to make it official."
Jorge fell silent for a moment, his voice when it returned lower, almost reverent. "Wayne Rooney giving you the armband in Buckingham Palace…" he said slowly. "That's more than football, Francesco. That's generational. It's the kind of thing that cements your place in England's story forever."
Francesco didn't reply immediately. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and murmured, "Yeah… I'm still trying to wrap my head around it."
Jorge's voice softened. "You should be proud. Really proud. Wayne's gesture says everything about the man — and about you. He wouldn't do that unless he knew you could carry it with the same weight he did."
Francesco's eyes flicked toward Leah, who was now leaning against the table beside him, watching him quietly. "Yeah," he said finally. "He's… he's something else, that man. Always has been."
"He is," Jorge agreed. "And so are you, my friend. You've earned every bit of this. Now, about logistics — when's the Palace visit?"
"The day after tomorrow," Francesco said. "Tomorrow we'll have the prep meeting, travel briefing, all that. Roy said we'll probably have to report to St. George's Park early for suit fittings and the FA's formal briefing."
"Perfect," Jorge said briskly. "I'll coordinate with the FA's communications team, make sure the photographers get the right angles — respectful, elegant, none of that tabloid nonsense. And don't worry about the wardrobe; they'll have it handled. But if they offer you a tailor, take it. A bespoke suit looks better under the Palace lights."
Francesco laughed softly. "You really think of everything, don't you?"
"That's why you pay me," Jorge said with mock modesty. "Now go rest, capitano. You've had the week of a lifetime. Let the world spin for a bit — tomorrow we make sure it keeps spinning in your favor."
"Thanks, Jorge," Francesco said sincerely. "Really."
"Always, my boy. Enjoy your day — and tell Leah I said hello. I expect to see both of you on the front page looking regal."
Leah leaned closer to the phone and said cheerfully, "Hi Jorge! Don't worry, I'll make sure he doesn't wear trainers to the Palace."
Jorge laughed loudly. "Good! Keep him in line, Leah. I'll call again tomorrow. Rest well, mi campeón."
The call ended with a soft click, and for a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the faint ticking of the wall clock.
Francesco set the phone down and exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. "Well," he murmured, "that's one thing off the list."
Leah smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "He's right, you know. You do need to rest."
"I know," he said, stretching his arms with a groan. "But it's hard to shut it off, you know? My head's still spinning. Palace visits, media prep, captaincy… it's a lot to take in."
Leah nodded and leaned down to kiss his temple. "That's because you're still running on adrenaline, Frankie. You've been running on it since the semi-final. The body's tired, but the heart hasn't caught up yet."
He smiled faintly. "You always know how to put it."
"That's my job," she teased, and then gently tugged at his hand. "Come on. You've done enough thinking for one morning. Let's get you to bed."
Francesco hesitated for a second — the kind of hesitation that comes from someone used to constant motion — then finally gave in. "Alright," he said, rising slowly. "But only if you promise to wake me before dinner. I don't want to sleep through the announcement."
Leah grinned. "Deal. I'll make sure you're up in time to see your name all over the news again."
As they climbed the stairs, Francesco glanced once over his shoulder — at the table where his phone still lay, the faint glow of the screen fading into black. It struck him, in that small, quiet moment, how surreal it all was.
Yesterday, he and the guys show the trophy beneath the Wembley arch. Tomorrow, he'd be fitted for a suit to meet the Queen. And in between those two worlds — glory and tradition, youth and history — he stood somewhere in the middle, trying to breathe it all in.
By the time he reached the bedroom, the exhaustion finally caught up to him. Leah pulled the curtains slightly, letting in just enough light for the room to glow softly. He lay down, muscles sinking into the mattress, mind drifting between memory and dream.
________________________________________________
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