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When the call ended, he set the phone down and leaned back in his chair, staring for a moment at the framed photos on the wall — moments frozen from his journey: his debut, his first goal, the team lifting the cup.
The next morning arrived quiet and golden — one of those crisp London mornings where the air itself felt clean, alive. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the Richmond mansion, painting warm streaks across the bedroom floor. The world outside was only beginning to stir: birdsong over distant car engines, the faint hum of someone mowing a lawn two streets over.
Francesco blinked awake to that gentle light, stretching lazily as the faint scent of perfume and makeup powder reached him. When he turned his head, he realized Leah wasn't beside him. Her side of the bed was already cool, the duvet neatly folded back — a rare occurrence, given she loved those slow, sleepy mornings more than anyone.
He pushed himself upright, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. From downstairs came the faint rhythm of voices — low, professional, punctuated by the occasional laugh that could only belong to Leah.
Francesco smiled faintly. She's already started.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded toward the en suite bathroom, the cold marble waking him fully as he splashed water over his face. The reflection that stared back in the mirror was still a little drowsy, the tousled hair and faint dark circles proof that even champions weren't immune to the human need for rest. But under it all was that quiet energy — the steady hum of purpose that came before big days.
By the time he made his way downstairs, the house had come alive in a very different way from yesterday's Armani takeover. The living room had been rearranged again — a large vanity table stood near the window, draped with an assortment of brushes, palettes, curling irons, and bottles of misting spray. A woman in her thirties, elegant but friendly-looking, was working with practiced precision, blending the final touches of Leah's makeup while soft jazz played from a small speaker.
Leah sat gracefully on the stool, wrapped in a silk robe, her hair half-styled in loose waves that caught the morning light like gold thread. When she caught Francesco's reflection in the mirror, she smiled.
"Morning, handsome," she said, her voice bright but calm. "Sleep alright?"
Francesco leaned against the doorway, smiling back. "Morning. Yeah — didn't even hear you get up. You've been at it long?"
Leah chuckled softly, glancing at her reflection as the artist brushed a soft highlight across her cheek. "About an hour. Remember the makeup artist I mentioned last night? This is Clara — she worked with the FA on their photoshoots last season. I figured if I'm about to meet the Queen, I could use a little professional help."
Clara laughed lightly without looking up from her work. "Don't let her fool you, Francesco — she's a natural. I'm just here for polish."
"Polish or not," Francesco said, crossing the room to steal a glance in the mirror, "you've definitely outdone yourself already."
Leah's eyes met his in the reflection, warm and teasing. "Flattery before breakfast? You must want something."
He grinned. "Just my morning run."
She arched a brow, amused. "You're still running today? Big day ahead, you know."
"All the more reason," he said, stretching his arms lightly. "Helps me clear my head. Promise I won't be long."
Clara, still concentrating, smiled faintly. "You footballers and your rituals. I've seen it all now."
"Hey," Francesco said good-naturedly, already heading for the door, "some people meditate — I sprint."
Outside, the Richmond air was brisk but fresh, the kind that filled the lungs and woke the muscles. Francesco slipped in his earbuds, set a steady playlist — something calm at first, then rhythmic — and started off down the lane.
The neighborhood was peaceful at that hour. Gardens still glistened faintly from the early dew. A dog barked in the distance. The familiar hum of his shoes hitting the pavement became his metronome, his pulse syncing with the rhythm of the run.
He passed the corner café — the barista inside gave him a quick wave through the glass — and looped around the park where the same group of old men played their morning chess beneath the oak tree. They looked up, recognized him instantly, and raised their cups in salute. Francesco grinned and waved back.
It was moments like that, he thought, that reminded him how far he'd come. A kid from nothing, once running laps around muddy local pitches, now jogging through Richmond on the morning of a royal audience. And yet, in the steady cadence of his breath and stride, he felt that same simplicity — the same love of motion, of rhythm, of the game that started it all.
After about forty minutes, he slowed his pace as his house came back into view, the early sun now spilling over the roofs. He took a deep breath, hands on his hips, then smiled as he saw Leah's silhouette through the window — she was standing near the vanity now, laughing at something Clara had said.
When he stepped inside again, the faint scent of foundation and perfume had been joined by another aroma — coffee and butter. He frowned in amusement. "Wait, did you start breakfast without me?"
Leah turned slightly, her face now glowing with soft, flawless radiance. "Nope," she said with a grin. "But you did promise breakfast duty today, remember?"
He chuckled, heading straight for the kitchen. "Right, right. Alright, chef's on it."
The kitchen came alive under his hands. He moved with the casual ease of habit — cracking eggs, buttering toast, slicing strawberries. The scent of sizzling bacon filled the air, mixing with the sweet tang of orange juice. It was simple, grounding — something normal before the surreal.
"Clara, you eat eggs?" he called out toward the living room.
"Only if they're cooked by a Euro champion," she called back playfully.
"Then you're in luck," Francesco said, grinning as he plated everything neatly. He took care to make Leah's just the way she liked — scrambled soft, toast barely golden, coffee sweetened just enough.
A few minutes later, he carried two plates to the dining table and called out, "Breakfast's ready!"
Leah appeared first, still in her robe but with her hair and makeup now fully done. The effect was stunning — not overdone, just luminous, effortlessly regal. Clara followed, smiling and wiping her hands on a towel.
"Oh my God, that smells incredible," Leah said as she sat.
Francesco leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "Fuel for the Queen's court."
"You're spoiling me," she said, mock-sighing as she picked up her fork.
He gave her a small, soft smile. "That's the idea."
Then he turned to Clara. "You want me to order something else for you? I can get breakfast sent in — whatever you like. There's this café down the road; they make the best croissants in Richmond."
Clara shook her head but smiled. "That's very kind of you. Maybe just a coffee and something light? I've got another client later, so I shouldn't overindulge."
Francesco nodded, pulling out his phone. "Say no more."
Within seconds, he had the app open and was scrolling through the menu. "Alright, let's see… oat latte, almond latte, or just straight espresso?"
"Oat latte's perfect," she replied.
"And a croissant or pastry?"
"Maybe a pain au chocolat," she said sheepishly. "If you insist."
"I insist," he said with a grin, tapping in the order. "It'll be here in twenty."
Leah laughed softly as she ate. "You're treating her like she's part of the team now."
Francesco shrugged good-naturedly. "Hey, she's helping you look flawless for the Palace — that's pretty vital."
"Flawless?" Leah teased, raising an eyebrow. "Big word coming from a man who still can't decide which watch to wear."
He smiled sheepishly. "Touché."
Clara watched them with a faintly amused look. "You two are adorable. Honestly, if you weren't football's golden couple already, someone would make a documentary about you."
Leah laughed. "Please, don't give anyone ideas. We're just trying to have breakfast in peace."
Francesco chuckled, sipping his coffee. But there was a quiet joy in the room — the kind that made the moment feel fuller somehow. The soft clink of cutlery, the morning light, the simple rhythm of shared calm before what would undoubtedly be one of the most public days of their lives.
After breakfast, Leah disappeared upstairs to change into her dress, while Clara began tidying her tools and wiping down brushes. The doorbell chimed just as Francesco was clearing plates — the delivery arrived, right on cue.
He greeted the delivery boy with his usual easy smile, tipped him generously, and carried the small paper bag into the living room. "Pain au chocolat, as requested," he announced.
Clara laughed. "You're too kind, Francesco. Most footballers I've worked with barely remember to say good morning."
He shrugged. "I try to keep my manners intact. My mum drilled it into me."
The hours that followed unfolded with an easy rhythm — a kind of calm before the ceremonial storm. The soft clatter of dishes had faded; the faint notes of a piano playlist drifted from the living room speakers, mingling with the last hum of Clara's hairdryer. The morning light had mellowed into something warmer, more golden now, spilling lazily through the tall windows of the Richmond mansion.
Leah's makeup was complete. She sat by the mirror, a vision of quiet poise — her hair flowing in those soft, effortless waves Clara had shaped so perfectly, the faint shimmer of highlight tracing her cheekbones like sunlight on silk. There was something serene about her in that moment — focused but calm, her every movement deliberate, the way people get when they're preparing for something they know will be remembered.
Francesco stood behind her, leaning casually against the doorframe, watching her reflection with a quiet kind of admiration. He still wore a simple black T-shirt and joggers, the remnants of his post-run comfort. His hair, though slightly damp from the shower, had dried into its natural messy waves. Leah caught his reflection and raised an eyebrow playfully.
"Alright," she said, twisting slightly in her seat, "your turn."
He blinked, mock-innocent. "My turn for what?"
"For your face," she said simply, gesturing toward the vanity with a soft grin. "You're not walking into Buckingham Palace with that post-run look, mister."
Francesco chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Leah, come on — I'm not exactly going to be on the runway."
"No," she said sweetly, "but you will be photographed by half the royal press corps. And considering you're one of the faces of English football now, the least you can do is not look like you just ran a 10k."
Clara laughed lightly from where she was packing up her brushes. "She's right, you know. A little touch-up won't hurt. I've worked with plenty of players before. They all fight me at first, but once they see the photos later, they thank me."
Francesco exhaled in mock defeat, running a hand through his hair. "You two are teaming up against me now, huh?"
"Always," Leah said with a playful wink.
He sighed dramatically, walking over to sit where she pointed. "Fine. But if I start looking like I'm auditioning for a fragrance commercial, I'm blaming you."
"Oh, trust me," Leah said, her tone dripping with amusement, "you'd never survive a fragrance shoot. You can barely stand still for a team photo."
That earned a laugh from Clara, who set down her small kit again and turned toward him with practiced efficiency. "Alright, champ. Sit back. We'll just do a light complexion fix — a bit of moisturizer, a touch of concealer under the eyes, and maybe some powder to keep you from shining under those chandeliers."
"Sounds like witchcraft," he muttered good-naturedly.
Clara grinned. "The good kind."
She worked quickly — gentle dabs here, soft brushes there — her movements confident, economical. Francesco sat surprisingly still, his usual restlessness tempered by the faint amusement of seeing himself transformed in subtle ways. Leah stood nearby, arms crossed, watching the process with the pleased expression of someone watching a plan come together.
"You know," she said softly, "it's kind of nice seeing you like this for once."
He raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
"Letting someone else take control."
He smirked. "Careful. You're starting to sound like my manager."
She chuckled, leaning down to kiss his temple. "Except I'm much nicer."
When Clara finally leaned back, she gave a satisfied nod. "There we go. Presentable, polished, still yourself. Just… less 'I woke up five minutes ago' and more 'I'm about to meet the Queen.'"
Francesco stood and looked at his reflection in the mirror. It wasn't dramatic — no transformation, no exaggerated shine — but it was enough. His skin looked even, the faint tiredness around his eyes softened, his hair slightly tamed. He still looked like him — just sharper, more composed. A quiet confidence replaced the earlier fatigue.
"Not bad," he said finally. "Guess I clean up alright."
Leah smiled, adjusting his collar lightly. "You more than clean up."
Clara began placing her brushes back in their case, humming softly as she worked. "My job here is officially done," she said, zipping the bag closed. "And I have to say, this might be one of my favorite mornings on the job — calm, happy clients, no media circus."
Francesco extended his hand with a warm smile. "Thank you, Clara. You made her look even more beautiful than she already is — and that's saying something."
Clara laughed as she shook his hand. "Careful, you'll make her blush."
Leah rolled her eyes but her smile said everything. "Thank you, Clara. You were amazing."
"My pleasure," Clara said genuinely. She slung her kit bag over her shoulder and added, "And hey, when the wedding happens — I expect a call."
"You'll be first on the list," Leah promised.
With one last cheerful wave, Clara headed for the door, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor as she disappeared down the front hall. The house quieted once again — that gentle, luxurious silence that only large spaces seem to hold, filled with the faint echoes of earlier conversation.
Francesco turned toward Leah and exhaled softly, looking around the room. "Feels weird, doesn't it? Yesterday this place was full of tailors, today it's makeup and coffee… Tomorrow it'll probably be cameras and flashbulbs."
Leah smiled faintly, moving toward the stairs. "That's your life now, Mr. Lee. Better get used to it."
He followed, laughing under his breath. "Oh, I'm trying."
They reached the bedroom, and for a brief moment, the world slowed again. The bed was made neatly, the garment bags from yesterday hanging on the wardrobe door like promises waiting to be fulfilled. The afternoon sunlight had deepened — a mellow gold that softened everything it touched.
Francesco unzipped his suit bag, revealing the midnight-blue Armani masterpiece from the day before. The jacket hung perfectly, its tailored lines crisp and fluid at once. Beside it, Leah's sapphire gown shimmered faintly even in the low light.
"Alright," she said softly, "moment of truth."
He smiled, slipping off his T-shirt and heading for the dressing area. Leah turned to her side of the wardrobe, her fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of her gown. There was a reverence in the way she handled it — not vanity, but appreciation. She slipped it carefully from the hanger and laid it across the bed before stepping toward the mirror.
When they emerged several minutes later, it felt like the world had taken a collective breath.
Francesco adjusted his cufflinks slowly, standing before the mirror in the full Armani suit. The deep blue suited him perfectly — formal yet understated, elegance without arrogance. His tie sat just right, the knot crisp, the collar clean. His watch — the one Leah had chosen for him, a sleek black Omega — glinted subtly under the light.
Leah stepped beside him, fastening her earrings. The gown fit her like it had been drawn from a dream — the deep sapphire hue glowing softly against her skin, the fabric catching the light in quiet waves. She had chosen a simple necklace, delicate enough not to compete with the dress, and her perfume — light, floral, unmistakably hers — filled the air around them.
Francesco turned to her, the faintest awe in his voice. "You look… incredible."
She smiled, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. "You don't look too bad yourself."
He chuckled softly, straightening his jacket one last time. "You ready for this?"
"As I'll ever be," she said. "You?"
He hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. "Yeah. I think I am."
It was in that quiet, that heartbeat of stillness, that his phone began to buzz on the dresser. The familiar tone broke the moment gently — business calling back into the calm. Francesco reached for it, glancing at the screen.
FA HQ – Gareth (FA Staff)
He answered, holding the phone lightly to his ear. "Gareth, morning. Everything on schedule?"
A warm, professional voice came through the line. "Morning, Francesco. Yes, everything's running perfectly. Just wanted to let you know — the car's on its way to pick you up from Richmond. It should be there in about twenty minutes."
Francesco nodded, his reflection steady in the mirror. "Got it. We'll be ready."
"Brilliant," Gareth replied. "You'll be meeting the rest of the squad at the Palace gates. Press access is tightly controlled, so don't worry about crowds near the house — we've coordinated with local police to keep things quiet."
"Appreciate it," Francesco said sincerely. "Tell the lads I'll see them soon."
"Will do. And Francesco?" Gareth's tone softened slightly. "Enjoy it. You've earned this."
A smile touched his lips. "Thanks, mate."
He ended the call and set the phone down carefully. For a moment, he stood there in silence, the reality of the day crystallizing in his chest. The car, the Palace, the cameras — it was all waiting. But before all of that, there was this: Leah, standing beside him, looking radiant, serene, proud.
He turned toward her, reaching for her hand. "Twenty minutes," he said quietly. "Then it's showtime."
She squeezed his fingers gently, her voice warm and steady. "Then let's make sure the world remembers it."
The half hour that followed moved like the quiet inhale before an orchestra's first note. The Richmond mansion was still, almost reverent — the kind of stillness that came when every detail had fallen perfectly into place. The world outside hummed with soft movement: distant traffic, the faint calls of birds, the breeze stirring the leaves in the garden. Inside, time seemed to slow.
Francesco checked his watch — twenty-nine minutes had passed since Gareth's call. Right on cue, the distant purr of an engine rolled down the street. He crossed to the tall front window, pulling back the curtain just enough to see a sleek black Mercedes S-Class gliding up the drive. The FA crest was discreet on the side panel, subtle enough to avoid attention but unmistakable to those who knew.
Leah joined him at his shoulder, her perfume catching faintly on the air. "That them?"
He nodded. "Right on time."
Her hand brushed his arm — a silent reassurance, or maybe just a shared awareness that this was one of those moments you don't forget. They both turned, scanning the house almost automatically — ensuring everything was as it should be: the lights off, the curtains drawn, the polished surfaces gleaming. Francesco slipped his phone and wallet into his inside pocket, gave a quick check to his cufflinks, and nodded toward the door.
"Let's go make some history," he murmured, his voice soft but certain.
Leah smiled. "Lead the way, Mr. Lee."
They stepped out into the crisp noon air. The chauffeur — an older man in a tailored suit, cap, and gloves — was already waiting by the open rear door. "Good afternoon, Mr. Lee, Ms. Williamson," he greeted respectfully. "I'll be taking you to St. George's Park first. The FA has arranged for the players to gather there before proceeding to the Palace together."
Francesco returned a polite smile, his tone measured but warm. "Perfect. Thank you."
Leah slid into the car first, her gown flowing gracefully as she settled into the plush leather seat. Francesco followed, ducking slightly to avoid brushing his head against the doorframe. As soon as the chauffeur closed the door, the gentle hum of the engine cocooned them in quiet luxury.
For a moment, they didn't speak. The car glided smoothly down the drive, past the manicured hedges and the quiet hum of Richmond's midday calm. Francesco leaned back against the seat, exhaling softly. Through the tinted glass, the world moved in muted color — sunlight catching rooftops, children walking home from late morning lessons, the mundane rhythm of everyday life passing by the window.
Leah glanced at him, studying his expression. "You okay?"
He gave a faint, reassuring smile. "Yeah. Just… taking it in."
"Big day," she said quietly.
"The biggest so far," he admitted.
She reached for his hand, her fingers fitting naturally through his. "You'll be brilliant. You always are."
Francesco squeezed her hand gently, his thumb tracing a slow circle across her knuckles. "I'm more worried about tripping in front of the Queen, to be honest."
Leah laughed softly. "If you can handle Camp Nou under pressure, I think Buckingham Palace will survive you."
The driver caught their laughter faintly in the mirror, his expression flickering with a professional smile before returning his focus to the road.
They passed through familiar streets, then out toward the open motorway — the city slowly giving way to the rolling green fields that lined the route north. The radio was set low, tuned to a classical station. Strings and piano blended into the hum of the wheels. For a while, they let the silence stretch comfortably.
Leah rested her head lightly against his shoulder. "You ever think about this back when you were a kid?"
He looked out the window — fields flashing by like waves. "Honestly? No. Not this. Not royalty, or palaces, or any of that. Back then it was just… the next game. The next chance. Trying not to get dropped from the squad."
"And now you're one of England's heroes," she said softly.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Heroes are the lads who fought in the trenches. I just kick a ball for a living."
"You do more than that," she said, a quiet conviction in her tone. "You make people believe again. That's something, you know?"
Francesco turned his head slightly, watching her — the way the sunlight filtered through the car, casting soft gold across her face. "You always know what to say."
"That's because you always forget how far you've come," she replied, a faint smile curving her lips.
They rode the next few miles in silence again, each lost in their own rhythm of thought. Francesco found his gaze drifting between the endless stretch of highway and the faint reflection of himself in the glass. Armani suit, polished shoes, watch gleaming. It still felt surreal — the boy who once borrowed boots to play in the mud now being chauffeured to meet the King's family.
About an hour later, the familiar sign appeared — Welcome to St. George's Park. The sprawling complex came into view soon after, pristine fields stretching under the sunlight, the FA banners rippling gently in the breeze. The car slowed as they approached the main entrance, where a small cluster of security and staff were already stationed.
Leah straightened slightly, adjusting the folds of her gown. "You ready?"
"As I'll ever be," Francesco murmured, offering her a faint grin.
The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of the glass lobby. Standing there were familiar faces — teammates, dressed sharply in suits and ties, a far cry from the muddy kits and sweat-soaked training gear they usually shared. Kane was speaking with Stones and Henderson; Rashford was leaning casually against one of the pillars, phone in hand, laughter breaking across his face as he spotted Francesco through the tinted window.
The chauffeur stepped out and opened Francesco's door. Cameras clicked faintly from a distance — official FA photographers documenting the team's gathering.
"Here we go," Francesco muttered under his breath, stepping out into the sunlight.
The air smelled faintly of freshly cut grass and polished marble. He buttoned his jacket instinctively, standing tall as Leah emerged beside him — graceful, confident, the perfect balance to his quiet composure. The low murmur of voices shifted as the others noticed their arrival.
"Francesco!" Rooney called with a grin, walking over. "Finally decided to join us, superstar!"
Francesco laughed, clasping his hand firmly. "Blame London traffic. Or maybe Leah took too long getting ready."
Leah gave him a mock glare. "Excuse me?"
Henderson chuckled. "Better not start that argument before meeting the King, mate."
Leah rolled her eyes but smiled, shaking Henderson's hand warmly. "Good to see you, Jordan."
"Likewise," he said. "You both look sharp."
Vardy appeared next, adjusting his tie. "Man, we look like a film premiere out here."
"Except we're not winning Oscars," Stones quipped.
"Speak for yourself," Francesco said with a smirk. "I plan on at least getting a standing ovation from His Majesty."
That drew laughter all around. It was light, easy, the kind of camaraderie that filled locker rooms and training grounds — except now dressed in silk and wool instead of sweat and grass stains.
One of the FA coordinators stepped forward, clipboard in hand. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen" she added with a smile, "we'll be leaving for Buckingham Palace in about ten minutes. You'll be traveling in convoy; please stay in your assigned vehicles. Security has been fully briefed. Once we arrive, Palace officials will guide you to the East Gallery for the ceremony."
A low murmur of acknowledgement rippled through the group. Francesco nodded, his gaze flicking briefly toward the distant horizon. For all his calm, a quiet pulse of anticipation thrummed beneath his ribs.
Leah leaned closer, her voice just above a whisper. "Still nervous?"
He smiled faintly. "A little. Feels different, you know? This isn't football — it's history."
"Then make it count," she said softly. "Just like you always do."
Minutes later, the convoy began to form. Black Mercedes and Bentleys lined up in neat formation, each bearing the discreet FA insignia. Drivers stood ready beside open doors, radios crackling softly with coordination chatter. The players began filing into their respective cars — Kane and Henderson in one, Rashford and Stones in another.
Francesco and Leah were placed in the lead vehicle, alongside an FA official seated up front. The moment they stepped inside, the quiet luxury of the cabin returned — leather, wood trim, the faint scent of polished metal.
As the convoy began to roll out, St. George's Park faded slowly behind them. The journey to London was smooth, escorted by discreet police outriders who kept the roads clear. Outside the window, the English countryside blurred into towns, then into the familiar sprawl of London once more.
Leah turned slightly, watching the procession of cars reflected in the glass. "It's kind of beautiful," she said softly.
Francesco followed her gaze. "Yeah. Feels like… something out of a dream."
"Feels earned," she corrected gently.
He smiled. "Maybe a bit of both."
The hours of training, the heartbreaks, the wins and losses — they all flickered through his mind like a reel: the muddy pitches, the roar of the Emirates, the heartbreak in Barcelona, the triumph at Wembley. And now, this — the culmination of years of sweat, sacrifice, and belief.
As they crossed Westminster Bridge, the city opened up before them in all its afternoon splendor. The Thames gleamed in the sunlight, ferries gliding lazily along its surface. Tourists turned their heads as the motorcade passed, some raising phones, others simply staring.
And then, through the narrowing streets of St. James's, Buckingham Palace came into view — majestic, immaculate, timeless. The grand gates shimmered under the sun, guarded by the stoic figures of the Queen's Guard in their red tunics and bearskin hats.
The cars slowed, then stopped in perfect synchronization before the main courtyard.
Francesco stared through the window for a heartbeat, taking it in — the grandeur, the history, the weight of it all pressing gently against his chest.
Leah exhaled softly beside him. "Well," she whispered, "there it is."
He turned to her, his voice quiet but steady. "Let's make it count."
The driver opened the door, and as Francesco stepped out into the sunlit courtyard of Buckingham Palace, surrounded by his teammates, cameras clicking softly in the distance.
The courtyard glimmered under the late afternoon sun, the air alive with the soft clicks of cameras and the rustle of tailored fabric. Francesco blinked once, adjusting to the brightness, and felt the crisp breeze tug faintly at his jacket. The marble steps before Buckingham Palace stretched upward like a staircase to history — white, gleaming, and utterly silent except for the measured rhythm of footsteps.
They waved to the cameras.
First Kane, smiling his easy, natural grin; then Henderson with a polite nod; then Francesco, his hand lifting in a gesture that was calm, composed — not forced, not performative — just respectful. The crowd that had gathered at the gates erupted with cheers, flashes of Union Jacks, and the excited murmur of tourists who had stumbled upon something far more significant than a changing of the guard.
"Smile," Leah whispered softly beside him, her hand brushing lightly against his. "You're about to walk into history."
He did — not the wide grin of a footballer celebrating a goal, but the quiet, genuine smile of a man realizing how far the road had taken him. The cameras caught it: the golden light on his face, the subtle pride in his posture, the unspoken connection between him and the woman beside him.
As they moved forward, the grand doors opened before them, held by two attendants in full royal livery — red coats trimmed in gold, white gloves immaculate. A rush of cool, perfumed air greeted them as they stepped across the threshold into the palace foyer. The marble floors gleamed beneath the chandeliers, polished to perfection, reflecting every glint of light from the crystal above.
The sound softened here — the buzz of the crowd replaced by the elegant hush of tradition.
An older gentleman, poised and dignified in a black tailcoat, approached them with the practiced precision of someone who had spent a lifetime serving royalty. His silver hair was perfectly parted, his bearing neither cold nor overly familiar — that rare blend of warmth and protocol.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen, ladies," he said, his voice carrying the soft lilt of formality. "Welcome to Buckingham Palace. My name is Mr. Hawthorne — Her Majesty's senior butler. It is my honor to escort you to the ballroom for today's reception."
The players nodded in quiet acknowledgement, murmurs of "thank you" rippling through the group. Francesco offered a polite nod of his own. "A pleasure to meet you, sir."
"The pleasure is ours, Mr. Lee," Hawthorne replied, his smile faint but genuine. "This way, please."
They followed him down the wide, sweeping corridor.
The walls themselves felt alive — lined with portraits of monarchs and generals, each frame gilded and impossibly detailed. The air carried the faint scent of old books and polished oak, a fragrance of centuries preserved. Every footstep echoed softly against the marble floor, merging into the rhythmic whisper of their passage.
Leah's gaze drifted upward, catching the gold-leaf patterns that traced the ceiling, the intricate moldings curling like vines frozen in time. "It's… beautiful," she murmured under her breath.
Francesco's lips curved faintly. "Feels like walking through a museum that's still alive."
As they turned a corner, distant notes of classical music began to reach them — soft strings and piano weaving through the air, elegant and deliberate. The sound grew clearer with each step, until the corridor opened into a vast archway draped with crimson and gold.
Beyond it lay the ballroom.
Francesco's breath caught for a moment.
The space was breathtaking — a cathedral of light and opulence. Chandeliers glittered like constellations suspended above them, hundreds of candles reflecting off mirrored walls and golden cornices. Long tables stretched along either side of the room, adorned with silver trays of canapés, crystal bowls of fruit, and pyramids of fine desserts that looked too perfect to touch. Waiters glided between the guests with trays of champagne, their movements choreographed like a silent ballet.
Royal media crews were already stationed discreetly near the corners — cameras set low, lenses gleaming under the chandelier glow. Beside them stood members of the FA media team, coordinating quietly with Palace staff, ensuring the day's coverage would capture both the grandeur and intimacy of the event.
As the players entered, all conversation in the room softened. Heads turned, flashes sparked gently — nothing invasive, but respectful, measured. The England team, resplendent in tailored suits and shining shoes, had just stepped into the heart of Britain's most sacred hall.
Mr. Hawthorne turned to them, his tone both precise and kind. "Her Majesty the Queen will be joining us shortly, accompanied by other members of the Royal Family who will attend today's event. Until then, please — make yourselves comfortable. Refreshments are available. You are guests of honor."
With a courteous bow, he stepped aside, and the FA staff gently encouraged the players to mingle.
Francesco glanced around.
Kane was already talking quietly with Henderson and Southgate near one of the long tables. Rashford and Grealish stood by the far side, both trying — and failing — not to look too awed by the décor. Leah, graceful as ever, was beside him, her eyes still wandering over the intricate ceiling frescoes.
"This doesn't feel real," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"It's real," Francesco murmured. "We earned this."
A nearby waiter approached, offering flutes of champagne. Francesco accepted one, turning the glass in his hand before taking a modest sip. The taste was crisp, light — the kind of luxury he rarely indulged in. Leah took one too, raising hers lightly toward him.
"To the journey," she said quietly.
He clinked his glass softly against hers. "And to whatever's next."
The moment lingered between them — quiet, meaningful, surrounded by centuries of history and the murmuring presence of greatness. But soon, the faint sound of motion drew every head toward the entrance.
A subtle change in the air — the shift of attention that happens when something momentous is about to begin. Palace aides appeared first, moving with precise steps, adjusting microphones and ensuring the path was clear.
Then, the grand double doors opened once more.
A hush fell over the room.
Even the clinking of glasses stopped.
Her Majesty entered, radiant in a pale blue gown adorned with a diamond brooch that caught the light like a starburst. Time seemed to slow as she crossed the threshold — grace and authority balanced perfectly in her every movement. At her side walked Prince Phillip, dignified in his navy suit, and behind them, Prince William and Princess Catherine, their smiles poised and genuine.
The room bowed collectively.
Francesco felt Leah's hand brush his briefly before she curtsied gracefully beside him. He bowed his head, the moment washing over him — not as performance, but as instinct. A part of him, the part that grew up watching ceremonies like this from a world away, felt a pulse of wonder rise in his chest.
"Ladies and gentlemen," came the calm voice of an announcer from the far side of the room, "please welcome Their Majesties the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh, and Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales."
Applause rippled softly through the hall. The royal family moved forward, greeting the assembled guests with warmth and measured familiarity. When the Queen reached the England squad, her smile softened.
"Ah," she said, her voice light but clear, "the heroes of the summer."
The players laughed quietly, bowing or nodding respectfully. Francesco felt her gaze rest on him for a brief, unforgettable moment.
"You must be Mr. Lee," she said, extending a gloved hand.
He took it gently, bowing slightly. "Your Majesty. It's an honor."
"Quite the tournament you had," she said with a hint of amusement. "Thirteen goals, was it?"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied humbly.
"Well," she said, eyes twinkling faintly, "I do hope you save a few for next year as well."
That drew soft laughter from the nearby players, and even the Duke faint smile. Francesco felt a rush of warmth beneath the composed exterior — a surreal mixture of gratitude, pride, and disbelief.
As the introductions continued, Prince William moved down the line, shaking hands firmly. When he reached Francesco, his tone carried both royal polish and the familiarity of a true football enthusiast.
"You've made the nation proud, Francesco," William said sincerely. "That final at Wembley… unforgettable."
"Thank you, sir," Francesco replied. "It's something I'll never forget either."
William nodded, then added with a conspiratorial grin, "And I dare say the Premier League defenders won't forget you soon either."
Laughter broke the formality just enough to ease the moment. Leah curtsied as Catherine greeted her warmly, a quiet word of admiration exchanged. Leah's cheeks colored faintly, but her posture never faltered.
________________________________________________
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