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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.
The hum of quiet conversation filled the ballroom once more, like a tide returning after the hush of ceremony. The royal introductions had concluded, the formalities gracefully completed, and yet the air still seemed to shimmer with the afterglow of significance. Waiters glided in coordinated motion, their white gloves catching the golden light as they set out silver domes and crystal flutes along the endless tables.
The Queen had taken her seat at the head of the long dining arrangement, an elegant expanse of white linen and gilded tableware that seemed to stretch forever. The royal family sat beside her, with Prince Philip to her right and Prince William and Princess Catherine further along, flanked by senior FA officials. The England team and their guests had been seated in neat but relaxed proximity — enough distance for decorum, but close enough to invite conversation and warmth.
Francesco sat several seats down from William, with Leah to his left and Roy Hodgson across from him. Henderson and Kane were nearby, already chatting softly with Sir Geoff Hurst, who had joined the dinner as an honored guest. The atmosphere was relaxed but reverent — a blend of formality and familiarity that few occasions could balance so perfectly.
Francesco looked around the table, his gaze sweeping over the ornate dining room — the golden candlelight reflected off the crystal chandeliers, the muted gleam of polished silver, the soft strains of a string quartet near the far end. Leah, radiant in her deep emerald gown, leaned close to him and whispered, "This feels unreal."
He smiled faintly, his voice low. "Yeah. Like something out of a painting."
Her eyes lingered on him a second longer before drifting toward the Queen, who now rose gently to her feet. Instinct rippled through the hall — chairs quietly slid back, glasses were set down. All conversation faded into expectant silence.
The Queen's voice carried easily through the vast room — clear, poised, and full of quiet authority.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, her tone gracious yet warm, "tonight we gather to celebrate not merely a victory, but a spirit — the enduring heart of English football."
A soft murmur of appreciation moved through the hall. The players straightened slightly, attentive.
"For generations," she continued, "this nation has found joy, pride, and unity in the game that began on our fields and has carried our flag across the world. And in this team — this remarkable group of young men and women — we have seen not only skill, but humility, character, and hope."
Her gaze swept along the table, and for a fleeting moment, Francesco felt her eyes meet his again. The faintest smile touched her lips.
"Mr. Hodgson, your leadership and your belief in this team have been invaluable. And to our players — your performance this summer reminded the nation of what football truly is: not merely a contest of goals, but of courage, resilience, and heart."
Roy bowed his head modestly, visibly moved. Francesco saw Rooney give a small nod of gratitude, while Vardy and Stones exchanged proud glances down the table.
The Queen lifted her glass, the crystal catching the chandelier's light, scattering it in tiny bursts across the tablecloth.
"So, let us raise our glasses," she said. "To the prosperity of England football to those who play, to those who lead, and to those who believe. May the game continue to inspire generations to come."
"God save the Queen," several voices echoed softly as the room raised its glasses.
Francesco lifted his own, the champagne sparkling faintly as he murmured, "To the game," before taking a sip. Leah followed, her eyes shining as the toast's meaning seemed to sink into her — this wasn't just celebration; it was legacy.
As the Queen resumed her seat, the music swelled gently again — a soft interlude of violins and piano that drifted like silk through the golden air. Dinner began, the quiet clink of silver and crystal replacing applause.
The first course arrived in a perfect ballet of motion — pan-seared scallops with caviar cream, served on porcelain plates adorned with the royal crest. Francesco took a moment before tasting his, appreciating the artistry as much as the flavor. "This is…" he murmured, shaking his head with a faint grin, "unbelievable."
Leah laughed softly. "You're used to post-match pasta and protein shakes."
He chuckled. "Yeah. Feels criminal eating something this delicate."
Across from him, Roy Hodgson overheard and smiled, his expression kind. "Enjoy it, Francesco. Nights like this — they remind you what all the hard work was for."
Francesco nodded. "You're right, boss."
Roy leaned back slightly, swirling his glass of wine. "I meant what I said earlier, you know — your composure in front of goal this summer, it changed everything for us. The team played with belief because you gave them reason to."
Francesco hesitated, glancing down at his plate before looking up again. "I just did my part. Everyone did."
Roy's eyes softened, his tone turning almost paternal. "You did more than that. You carried moments most players would've buckled under. That's rare, son."
Leah's hand brushed against Francesco's beneath the table — a quiet, wordless gesture of pride.
Further down, laughter erupted softly — Vardy had said something cheeky to Prince William, who responded with an easy grin and a shake of his head. "If you'd scored that backheel you tried in the semifinal, Jamie," William said, his voice carrying just enough for the nearby table to hear, "you'd have a knighthood already."
The table burst into laughter. Vardy grinned. "Still time for that, Your Royal Highness."
William smiled, raising his glass. "Just make sure it's in the final next time."
As the meal progressed, the formal edge gave way to genuine warmth. The second course arrived — roast lamb with minted jus, perfectly plated beside a swirl of golden potato purée. The scent filled the air, rich and comforting, grounding even the grandeur of the hall in something familiar and human.
Francesco found himself speaking with William next — the prince had leaned slightly across the table, genuine curiosity in his tone. "So, Francesco," he said, "I've been meaning to ask — when you step up for those crucial penalties, what goes through your head? You never seem to flinch."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Honestly? Everything slows down. You hear the crowd fade away, and it's just you and the ball. It's strange — feels like time stops."
William nodded thoughtfully. "A bit like flying a helicopter, then."
That drew laughter around them. "I'll take your word for it, sir," Francesco replied, smiling.
Leah joined the conversation gracefully. "He's being modest," she said. "He's always calm, even when he's not on the pitch. It drives me crazy sometimes."
William laughed. "Ah, the famous composure extends off the field, then. A good quality to have — though I imagine it keeps life interesting."
"It does," Leah said, her smile soft but playful.
"Your Highness," Roy chimed in lightly, "you might not know this, but Francesco nearly missed that semifinal through an ankle strain. He insisted on playing anyway."
William turned to Francesco, surprised. "You did?"
Francesco shrugged modestly. "Didn't want to watch from the bench. Sometimes pain's just… part of it."
"Spoken like a true competitor," William said. Then, quieter, almost to himself, "England needs men like that."
A comfortable silence followed — not awkward, but respectful, as though everyone at the table understood the weight of what had just been said.
Dessert soon arrived — a delicate arrangement of dark chocolate mousse and strawberries, each plate a small masterpiece. The conversation softened, taking on a more personal rhythm.
Leah spoke briefly with Princess Catherine, the two of them exchanging smiles that were genuine and warm. Catherine leaned closer at one point, her tone conspiratorial but kind. "I've seen you play for Arsenal," she said quietly. "You're remarkable. Fast, fearless — you must give him trouble on the training pitch."
Leah laughed lightly. "He pretends not to notice, but yes. Sometimes."
Catherine smiled knowingly. "That's the secret to balance — challenge each other, never outshine."
Leah nodded, her eyes thoughtful. "We try. It's… nice to have someone who understands what it means to carry the weight of a shirt."
Francesco overheard just enough of that to glance at her — the way she said it, the quiet pride beneath it, made his chest tighten. He reached for her hand again, this time openly, fingers brushing softly against hers beneath the candlelight.
The hours passed not in the heavy tick of ceremony but in the gentle rhythm of conversation and laughter. The Queen, having finished her meal, remained a presence of quiet grace at the head of the table, speaking occasionally with Prince Philip and FA President Greg Clarke. Every so often, her gaze wandered fondly toward the players, as though she were watching grandchildren more than guests.
After dessert, coffee was served on small golden trays, the aroma blending with the floral scent from the centerpiece arrangements — roses, lilies, and soft sprigs of lavender.
Francesco leaned back in his chair, the taste of the espresso lingering faintly as he looked around the hall. The chandeliers had dimmed slightly, the light mellowed into a warm amber glow. It struck him then how surreal this was — the same room that had seen coronations, treaties, and royal balls, now echoing softly with the laughter of footballers.
Roy stood to stretch his legs, exchanging a quiet word with the FA chairman. Francesco joined him a moment later, walking toward one of the tall windows overlooking the palace gardens. William followed shortly after, holding a glass of cognac.
"Quite the view, isn't it?" William said, looking out into the dark expanse of manicured lawns and silver moonlight.
"Beautiful," Francesco agreed. "You can almost forget where you are."
William smiled. "That's the trick, isn't it? Remembering that behind the gold and glass, we're all just people."
Francesco nodded slowly. "Yeah. Football teaches you that too. Doesn't matter where you start — once you step on the pitch, everyone's equal."
They stood in quiet for a moment, the hum of conversation behind them fading into background music.
Then William turned to him, voice thoughtful. "You know, Francesco… you've inspired a lot of kids. Not just here — everywhere. I've seen them, down at the parks, wearing your shirt, trying your celebrations."
Francesco blinked, caught off guard. "That's… hard to believe."
"It's true," William said simply. "And it's why nights like this matter. They remind people that dreams can come from anywhere."
The conversation by the tall windows had settled into an easy quiet, the hum of the ballroom folding softly around them, like a gentle tide against stone. Francesco was just about to turn back toward Leah when a familiar sound cut through the calm and distinct clearing of a throat, polite but firm.
It was one of the Queen's aides, a tall man in formal livery, standing a few steps from the center of the room. His voice, though composed, carried enough command to draw attention without force.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, his tone respectful yet authoritative, "Her Majesty requests that all players, coaching staff, and Mr. Hodgson please gather around the head of the table."
A ripple of quiet surprise ran through the hall. Chairs shifted, conversations paused. The clinking of cutlery ceased altogether.
Roy Hodgson looked momentarily puzzled, but stood first, adjusting his jacket before nodding toward his players. "Come on, lads. Let's not keep the Queen waiting."
Francesco exchanged a brief glance with Leah — she smiled, that silent encouragement she always gave him in moments that felt too large to comprehend. He leaned close enough to murmur, "I'll be right back," before following Roy and the rest of the squad toward the front of the ballroom.
The players formed a semi-circle near the dais where the Queen sat. Prince Philip stood slightly behind her, his hands clasped neatly, while Prince William and Princess Catherine remained off to the side, watching with the same quiet anticipation that seemed to fill the room.
The Queen's gaze swept over the group — from the youngest squad members like Alli to veterans like Rooney and Cahill. Her expression softened; there was something almost maternal in it.
She rose slowly, with the assistance of her aide, and when she spoke, her voice carried the calm grace that seemed to make time itself pause.
"Gentlemen," she began, "and Mr. Hodgson."
Even in that brief address, there was warmth — familiarity threaded through formality.
"When I first welcomed England's World Cup champions in 1966, I remember speaking of pride, and of what it means to see one's country united by the achievements of its sons. Tonight, I feel that same pride once more."
Her words settled into the air with the weight of history. Several of the players glanced at each other, eyes wide — to hear her evoke 1966 was no small thing.
The Queen continued, her tone deepening slightly. "It has been half a century since our nation last lifted a major international trophy. And now, because of your efforts, your spirit, and your leadership, you have written a new chapter for England."
Francesco's chest tightened. The weight of it from her voice, the word England, the history it carried pressed gently against his heart. He could see Kane standing a few feet away, eyes glistening faintly. Rooney's jaw tightened, his posture straightening with pride.
"And so," the Queen said, allowing the faintest smile to soften her composure, "I believe it is only right and proper that we honour those who have brought this joy to our people, and this distinction to our country."
A collective hush fell over the ballroom. Even the faint hum of the quartet stopped. You could almost hear the flicker of candle flames.
The aide stepped forward, carrying a small, velvet-lined tray deep blue, with four compartments, each holding something glimmering under the chandelier's light.
Her Majesty turned first toward Roy Hodgson.
"Mr. Hodgson," she said, her voice rich with respect. "For your decades of service to English football, and for leading your country to its first major trophy in fifty years, I am pleased to bestow upon you the title of Knight Bachelor, Sir Roy Hodgson."
A soft, stunned murmur rose through the hall — applause quickly following, warm and heartfelt.
Roy blinked, visibly moved, before stepping forward. He bowed slightly, as was tradition, while the Queen smiled and extended her hand.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," he said quietly. His voice trembled slightly with emotion. "It has been the greatest honour of my life to serve this country."
When he stepped back, several of the players clapped him on the back. Rooney whispered something to him as a grin breaking through the emotion, but even that moment of levity couldn't hide the shine in their eyes.
The Queen waited for the applause to fade before continuing.
"Mr. Rooney," she said, turning toward him with a look that carried both fondness and admiration. "As captain of the England national team, you have demonstrated not only leadership but loyalty — qualities that define the very spirit of English sport. For your service and your influence in uniting this team and inspiring the nation, it is my pleasure to confer upon you the title of Commander of the Order of the British Empire."
There was another round of applause, warmer still. Rooney stepped forward, visibly humbled. He bowed his head slightly, accepting the honour.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," he said softly, his accent thick with sincerity. "It's been an honour to wear the armband for this country. I'll never forget this."
The Queen nodded, her eyes twinkling faintly. "We shall never forget your service either, Mr. Rooney."
Then her gaze shifted.
It landed on Francesco.
For a moment, the room seemed to still around him. He felt the weight of every gaze from his teammates, the royals, Leah from across the room. His heart gave one steady, heavy beat.
"Mr. Francesco Lee," the Queen began. "At seventeen years of age, you have captured not only the attention of the sporting world but also the hearts of your nation. Your extraordinary performance throughout this tournament has exemplified both talent and composure beyond your years. In every sense, you represent the promise of the next generation."
Her words struck him with an almost surreal clarity — like hearing his own name spoken in a dream that somehow felt too vivid to be real.
"For your contribution to the success of the England national team," the Queen continued, "and for inspiring countless young men and women across the country, it gives me great pleasure to bestow upon you the honour of Officer of the Order of the British Empire."
There was a beat of silence — then the hall erupted in applause.
Francesco blinked, half in disbelief, before stepping forward. The aide held out the small box — deep navy, lined in satin — and the Queen's hand extended toward him.
He bowed deeply, the way his parents had once taught him when meeting someone of great respect.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," he said quietly. "For everything. I'll do my best to keep making England proud."
The Queen smiled — that same small, knowing smile from before. "I have no doubt you will, Mr. Lee."
As he stepped back, applause thundered again, filling the vast room. Leah's hands came together over her heart, her eyes shining with tears she didn't bother to hide. Francesco caught her gaze for half a second — and in that small exchange, everything between them seemed to say we made it.
When the applause softened, the Queen turned one final time toward the rest of the squad — the players, the coaches, the physios, even the analysts who had stood quietly at the back of the hall.
"To all of you," she said, her tone warm and inclusive, "for your dedication, discipline, and unity. For reminding our country what it means to believe again, I am pleased to confer upon each of you the Member of the Order of the British Empire."
That was it. The room erupted in cheers — respectful, but joyous all the same. Even the most stoic players couldn't help grinning. Henderson looked stunned, Kane shook his head in disbelief, and Vardy whispered something about framing the medal next to his wedding photos.
It wasn't just ceremony anymore — it was history.
When the formalities concluded, applause rippled again and again, lingering like a heartbeat through the ballroom. The Queen offered a final, graceful nod before sitting once more.
For a moment, no one moved. It was as if the players collectively needed to breathe in what had just happened — to let the reality of it settle.
Then, quietly, Roy or Sir Roy now, turned toward his squad and raised his glass. "To the lads," he said, voice steady but thick with feeling. "We brought it home."
Glasses lifted across the room, crystal catching light.
"To the lads!" echoed Kane.
"To England!" someone else called.
"To history!"
And then — laughter, applause, voices overlapping, the sound of a nation's joy condensed into one golden moment.
Francesco stood amidst it all, the medal box still in his hand. The small gold insignia inside gleamed under the chandeliers, the letters OBE engraved beneath the royal crest. He turned it over once, twice, as if trying to convince himself it was real.
Leah appeared beside him then, her hand slipping into his. "An Officer of the British Empire," she whispered, smiling through her tears. "Francesco Lee, OBE. How's that sound?"
He laughed softly, still stunned. "It sounds… impossible."
"Nothing about tonight's impossible," she said gently. "You earned this."
Roy passed by then, still grinning. "Enjoy this while you can, son. Not many men your age can say they've been knighted or honored by the Queen herself."
Francesco smiled. "Congratulations, Sir Roy."
Roy laughed. "Still getting used to that." He patted Francesco's shoulder. "You keep doing what you're doing — and one day, maybe we'll be calling you Sir Francesco."
Francesco laughed, but inside something about that line settled deep — like a quiet promise to himself.
The celebrations stretched late into the night. Cameras were allowed in for a brief moment, capturing the players' smiles, the medals gleaming against black tuxedos. The Queen departed gracefully, escorted by Philip, but not before offering one last wave to the players — a gesture of genuine affection.
When the palace clock struck midnight, the music softened again. Francesco found himself standing near one of the windows once more, Leah beside him, both watching the lights of London glow beyond the palace gates.
"You know," Leah murmured, her voice barely above the whisper of the city beyond, "this is the kind of night people tell their grandchildren about."
He turned toward her, smiling faintly. "Yeah," he said softly. "But I don't think I'll wait that long to tell it."
She laughed quietly, leaning into him. "Francesco Lee, OBE," she said again, tasting the words like something new.
He shook his head, smiling. "Still just Francesco, to you."
She kissed his cheek lightly. "Always."
Behind them, laughter and chatter still filled the ballroom — players posing for photos, toasts echoing, the weight of history melting into the warmth of shared joy.
The night had grown deep and tender by the time the last of the laughter began to fade into the high, gilded ceilings of Buckingham Palace. The orchestra had slowed its rhythm to a soft waltz, played now only for atmosphere, as if even the strings themselves understood that the evening's crescendo had passed. The golden light of chandeliers glowed warmer now, subdued, reflecting in half-empty glasses and the scattered glimmer of medals that still caught the light whenever someone moved.
Francesco stood near one of the tall windows again, his jacket unbuttoned, the OBE medal still pinned to his lapel. The heavy velvet drapes framed the night beyond, London shimmering faintly under the fog of midnight, the city alive yet distant, quiet in reverence to the history unfolding behind those palace walls. Beside him, Leah looked radiant still, though fatigue softened her movements now. Her emerald gown caught the faint reflection of the chandeliers, the fabric glowing faintly with each subtle turn of her body.
Around them, the ballroom was gradually emptying. FA officials spoke in hushed tones, exchanging handshakes and quiet laughter; waiters moved like ghosts, clearing glasses and silver cutlery with delicate precision. The Queen's aides were beginning to make their rounds discreetly, a silent orchestration of order returning to grandeur.
Then, a subtle ripple moved through the room. The Queen was preparing to leave.
The Royal Family stood together at the far end, Queen Elizabeth II, timeless and poised, Prince Philip by her side, and further behind, Prince William and Princess Catherine, still chatting softly with Greg Clarke and Sir Roy Hodgson. The moment felt both intimate and monumental, like watching the final brushstroke complete a masterpiece.
The Queen turned toward the players one last time, her smile gentle, the fatigue of the night hidden beneath that practiced grace that had carried her through decades of such ceremonies. "Gentlemen," she said, her voice still soft but clear across the hall, "thank you again for what you have given to this country. You have brought pride, and in these halls and in every home across England, that will not be forgotten."
Roy Hodgson, standing closest, bowed his head respectfully. "Your Majesty, it has been an honour beyond words."
The Queen's smile deepened. "Sir Roy," she said, emphasizing the title with quiet affection. "It is well-earned."
A light murmur of warmth passed through the players as she turned toward the others. "Mr. Rooney, Mr. Lee, your country thanks you."
Francesco bowed slightly, his voice steady but full of reverence. "Thank you, Your Majesty. It's something I'll never forget."
Her eyes lingered on him, a small spark of pride in them — perhaps not for the footballer, but for the young man who had, in his own way, carried England's spirit onto the world's stage.
Then, the Queen and Prince Philip made their graceful exit, escorted by their aides and guards. The royal family followed, each offering final nods and smiles as they departed. William caught Francesco's eye once more and gave him a subtle, approving nod.
And then, suddenly, the great ballroom, the heart of the evening began to breathe again.
The spell of ceremony faded, replaced by the murmurs of farewell. Players began collecting their medals and certificates, posing for final photos, exchanging one last round of toasts before reality beckoned them back to the world outside those palace walls.
Francesco and Leah stayed a moment longer, standing side by side near the dais where the honours had been bestowed only an hour earlier. The OBE medal gleamed faintly on his lapel — a quiet symbol of the night's impossible beauty. Leah reached into her small clutch and pulled out her phone, grinning softly.
"Come on," she said, lifting it up. "We can't leave without proof this actually happened."
Francesco laughed, stepping closer to her. They stood in front of one of the great mirrors that lined the ballroom walls — the reflection catching not just their faces but the endless stretch of chandeliers above and the faint sparkle of confetti still clinging to the floor.
He angled slightly, smiling that tired, genuine smile — the one that came only when the weight of everything finally sank in. Leah leaned in beside him, her hand resting gently against his chest, her head tilted against his shoulder. The phone clicked, capturing the moment — the royal ballroom behind them, the OBE glinting under golden light, and two young souls standing at the heart of history.
Leah lowered the phone, looked at the photo, and laughed softly. "You look like you've just won the universe."
Francesco peered at the screen, shaking his head with a grin. "I feel like I did."
"Keep that one," she said. "Frame it. You'll want to remember this when you're old and grumpy."
He smirked. "Old and grumpy? You'll still be making fun of me then."
"Of course," she said, her voice soft. "That's love, isn't it?"
They lingered for a moment, the sound of voices behind them fading as more players made their goodbyes. Henderson and Kane were the first to leave, shaking hands with the FA officials. Vardy, still energetic despite the hour, cracked one last joke that made the photographer near him burst out laughing. "Bet they'll miss me when I'm gone," he said, earning an eye roll from Rooney.
As Francesco and Leah made their way toward the exit, they passed clusters of familiar faces from teammates, coaches, and FA staff. Each conversation carried that blend of fatigue and disbelief that comes after something monumental.
"Hey, OBE boy!" Vardy called out, spotting Francesco. "Don't forget about us little MBE folk when you're flying private next week."
Francesco laughed, shaking his head. "You'll be the first name on the invite list."
Rooney, standing nearby with his CBE still pinned neatly to his jacket, smiled at the exchange. He extended his hand as Francesco approached. "You did good tonight, kid," he said, his voice warm. "Not just on the pitch, but here too. You carried yourself like you've been doing this for years."
"Means a lot coming from you, Wayne," Francesco said sincerely, clasping his hand. "Congratulations again — Commander Rooney."
Rooney laughed. "Sounds weird, doesn't it? Like I'm about to lead a spaceship."
"Better than 'Sir Roy,'" Vardy joked from behind them.
"Watch it, lad," Roy said as he joined the group, smiling despite himself. "You'll be running laps at St. George's Park if you keep that up."
That drew laughter all around. Even Sir Roy couldn't hide his pride as he looked at his players — the team he had guided to immortality, now joking and smiling under the same roof where kings and queens had once stood.
Francesco reached out his hand to the manager. "Congratulations, Sir Roy," he said respectfully.
Roy's expression softened. "Thank you, Francesco. And congratulations to you too — Officer Lee, was it?"
Francesco chuckled. "Feels strange hearing it out loud."
Roy placed a hand on his shoulder. "You've earned it. Every bit of it. This is only the beginning, you know. What you did this summer… it'll be remembered for generations."
Francesco nodded, humbled. "I hope we made you proud."
"You did more than that," Roy said. "You reminded us all what England could be again."
They shared a firm handshake before Roy moved on to speak with Kane and Rooney.
Leah tugged gently on Francesco's sleeve. "We should go, love. It's late."
He looked around one last time. The ballroom was quieter now — the grand echoes of celebration fading into soft farewells. The FA officials stood near the exit, exchanging final thanks with the players. Francesco and Leah walked toward them, the sound of their footsteps blending with the faint strains of the orchestra's last piece of the night.
Greg Clarke greeted them with a wide smile. "Francesco, Leah — congratulations again. What a night, eh?"
"Unbelievable," Francesco replied. "Thank you for everything — for making this possible."
Clarke nodded. "You've done the country proud, son. Remember this moment — it doesn't come around often."
Leah smiled warmly. "We'll remember it forever."
Outside, the air had cooled. The palace courtyard glimmered under soft spotlights, a line of black luxury cars idling quietly beyond the grand entrance steps. Each bore the FA insignia on the side, drivers waiting in crisp uniforms.
Francesco paused for a moment, taking in the sight. The city's lights twinkled faintly beyond the palace gates — London, wide awake even at this hour. He turned to see Rooney hugging Vardy goodbye, both laughing, both a little drunk on joy rather than champagne. Sir Roy stood nearby, hands in his pockets, watching them with that soft, paternal pride that had defined his entire career.
Francesco approached him one last time before leaving. "Goodnight, Sir Roy."
Roy smiled. "Goodnight, Francesco. Get some rest. You've got a bright morning ahead of you — the press will be everywhere."
Francesco laughed softly. "Guess the dream doesn't sleep, huh?"
Roy patted his arm. "No, son. But it's worth staying awake for."
With that, Francesco turned to Leah. Their driver, a polite man in a black cap, opened the rear door of a sleek FA car. "Mr. Lee, Ms. Williamson," he said respectfully. "Your car is ready."
Francesco gave one last wave to the few still lingering — Rooney, Vardy, Sir Roy — and then helped Leah into the car before sliding in beside her. The leather seats were soft, the faint scent of cologne and fresh polish filling the cabin.
As the car began to move, the palace slowly receded from view. The gates loomed ahead, the golden crests gleaming in the moonlight, and beyond them stretched the sleeping city — streets washed with the quiet glow of lamplight and promise.
Leah rested her head against his shoulder. "Home?" she murmured.
"Home," he said softly.
The driver took them through London's winding roads, past the Thames glimmering faintly in the dark, past silent landmarks that seemed to nod in recognition as they passed. Big Ben, stoic and timeless. Westminster, sleeping under the watch of history.
When they reached Richmond, the sky was beginning to pale slightly — a whisper of dawn brushing the horizon. The BMW X5 sat waiting in his driveway, the quiet familiarity of home greeting him like an old friend.
The driver stepped out to open their door. "Good night, sir," he said.
"Thank you," Francesco replied.
Leah stretched slightly as they stepped onto the cobblestone path leading to the front door. The mansion stood in tranquil silence, the garden lights casting a soft amber glow over the hedges and stone. She smiled up at him, her eyes soft and tired.
"You did it," she whispered.
He smiled faintly, pulling her close. "We did it."
Inside, the world was quiet. The gold of the OBE still gleamed faintly against his jacket as he hung it by the door. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at it — the small medal that held within it an entire lifetime of dreams, sweat, and belief.
Leah slipped her hand into his. "Come on," she said gently. "You've earned some rest."
He nodded, letting her lead him toward the staircase. But before they disappeared into the soft darkness of the hall, Francesco looked back once more at the medal.
The first light of morning crept gently through the half-drawn curtains, spilling across the soft folds of linen and the quiet expanse of the bedroom. Richmond was wrapped in a hush, the kind that only came after nights that felt too large to belong to reality.
Francesco stirred slowly beneath the sheets, one arm draped loosely across Leah's waist. For a moment, he didn't move, his breathing calm, the residue of dreams still clinging faintly to his thoughts. The memory of last night shimmered in the edges of his mind — the chandeliers, the applause, the Queen's voice, the glint of gold on his lapel.
It didn't feel real yet.
He opened his eyes, blinking into the pale gold of morning. The bedroom was awash in soft light, the curtains shifting slightly with the faint breeze from the cracked window. Leah was still asleep beside him, her hair spilling across the pillow in delicate waves, her face peaceful in a way that only came after nights of wonder.
He smiled faintly. For all the noise of the world outside, this — the quiet, the warmth, the closeness — felt like home.
Reaching across the bedside table, he fumbled for the remote. The TV flickered to life with a low hum, the familiar BBC Breakfast logo filling the screen. He turned the volume down low so as not to wake her, propping himself up slightly against the headboard.
The first thing he saw made his breath catch.
"A Royal Night for England: Queen Honours Football Heroes at Buckingham Palace."
The screen showed clips from the previous night — the red carpets outside the palace, the flashes of cameras, the echoing grandeur of the ballroom. Then, there it was: a still of him and Leah, standing side by side, smiling before the great mirrors with the OBE pinned to his chest. The caption beneath read:
"Francesco Lee, 17, awarded OBE for services to English football."
The anchor, Louise Minchin, spoke with the calm enthusiasm of someone delivering news that felt universally good.
"It was a historic evening at Buckingham Palace as Her Majesty the Queen bestowed honours upon England's Euro champions, marking one of the most memorable nights in modern football history. Among the recipients was 17-year-old Arsenal forward Francesco Lee, whose performances throughout the tournament and the final that captured the imagination of a nation."
Francesco blinked at the screen, half-smiling, half-stunned. Hearing his name followed by Officer of the British Empire was something he still hadn't adjusted to.
Leah stirred beside him, her voice soft and husky from sleep. "Morning," she murmured, eyes half open.
He turned to her, smiling. "Morning."
She blinked at the light from the TV, then noticed the footage. "Oh God," she groaned with a sleepy grin. "They've already got us on BBC?"
"Seems like it," he said quietly. "Guess the news doesn't wait."
On-screen, the footage cut to Sky Sports News, showing another angle from him shaking hands with the Queen, the medal glinting as the room applauded. The commentator's voice carried pride and excitement in equal measure.
"It was a night that transcended sport — the Queen honouring England's champions, with young Francesco Lee stealing the spotlight once again. At just seventeen, he's now not only a national hero but one of the youngest recipients of the OBE in modern British sporting history."
Leah sat up slightly, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. "Youngest ever, they said?"
Francesco chuckled softly. "I guess so. Feels… heavy. Like it's not just mine."
She looked at him, her expression soft. "It's yours, love. But it's also everyone's — that's what makes it special."
He smiled faintly, then turned back toward the TV. The coverage had switched to pundits now — Gary Lineker, Alan Shearer, and Alex Scott, all speaking from the Sky Sports studio, the familiar blue background glowing behind them.
Gary leaned slightly forward, his tone reflective.
"We've seen special talents come through English football — Rooney, Owen, Beckham, you name it. But there's something about Francesco Lee that's different. It's not just the goals or the skill — it's his composure, his understanding of the game, his humility at such a young age. To be recognised by the Queen herself — well, that's something none of us can even dream of."
Shearer nodded beside him.
"I'll be honest," he said. "I've been watching England football for decades. That lad — he's got something we haven't seen in a long time. A mix of Henry's finesse and Rooney's drive. And to see him getting an OBE before his eighteenth birthday? It's historic."
Then Alex Scott smiled, her tone warm.
"And he's grounded. You can tell he hasn't lost who he is. I spoke to a few of the Arsenal women's players — Leah Williamson, his partner, included — and they said he's the same kid off the pitch as he is on it. That's rare."
Leah chuckled quietly beside him. "You're on telly because of me," she teased.
He laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, but you deserve it more."
She nudged him gently. "Flatterer."
He reached over, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "True, though."
The TV cut next to The Guardian's morning coverage, the bold headline on screen:
"From London to Windsor: Francesco Lee's meteoric rise continues."
A journalist spoke over footage of him arriving at the palace in his tuxedo, Leah on his arm.
"It's been a remarkable year for the Arsenal forward — Premier League Golden Boot winner, European champion, and now an OBE from Her Majesty the Queen. Many have already begun calling him the future of English football — though judging by his performances this summer, he might already be its present."
He exhaled softly, leaning back against the headboard. "It's all a bit mad, isn't it?"
Leah smiled gently. "Mad, yes. But beautiful."
She glanced toward the window, where the first real sunlight was beginning to spill across the floorboards, painting their room in gold. "Yesterday you were at Buckingham Palace shaking the Queen's hand," she said softly. "Today you're here, in bed, watching breakfast news. That's balance."
He grinned faintly. "Feels surreal. Like both worlds can't exist at once."
"They do," she said simply. "You just live in both now."
There was a pause — a soft, content silence broken only by the faint chatter of the TV and the distant hum of London beyond the glass.
Then his phone buzzed.
He reached for it from the bedside table. Hundreds of notifications flashed across the screen — messages from teammates, journalists, fans, and friends.
— Congratulations, OBE! Well deserved, mate! — Aaron.
— Didn't think you'd beat my headlines so soon, eh? — Alexis.
— So proud of you, love! — Mum.
Francesco smiled faintly as he scrolled through them, the warmth of every message sinking deep.
He stopped at one from Sir Roy Hodgson. It read simply:
You made us all proud, Francesco. Rest well — the world's watching, but don't forget to keep being yourself.
He stared at the message for a long moment, a lump rising in his throat. "He's too good," he muttered softly.
Leah tilted her head. "Who?"
"Roy. Sir Roy," he said, still reading it again.
She smiled. "You brought out the best in him too, you know."
He nodded slowly. "He changed my life. They all did."
Leah yawned, stretching her arms. "Come on," she murmured. "Let's have breakfast before you start calling half of England back."
Francesco grinned, switching off the TV. "Yeah. Might as well face the day properly."
He slipped out of bed, the floor cool beneath his feet. The medal box sat neatly on the dresser beside the mirror — navy velvet, the royal crest embossed in gold. He picked it up carefully, opening it one more time.
The OBE shimmered in the morning light — not as an object of ceremony now, but as a symbol of something greater. Effort. Faith. Teamwork. The sum of years spent dreaming under streetlights and sweating through cold training mornings.
He traced the edge of it gently with his thumb, then set it down again. "You know," he said quietly, "I don't think I've ever felt more… grateful."
Leah smiled from the bed, watching him. "That's why you deserve it."
They made their way downstairs, the morning spilling wider around them — golden, unhurried, alive. The living room TV was on again, now tuned to Sky Sports News HQ, running a segment titled "England's Golden Night: Inside the Royal Reception."
Clips rolled of the players leaving Buckingham Palace, of Rooney joking with Vardy, of Hodgson's emotional smile, and of Francesco helping Leah into the FA car as flashbulbs went off.
Then came the fan reactions — clips from Trafalgar Square, from pubs in Manchester and London, from schoolyards where kids wore England kits with LEE 9 printed on the back.
"He's my hero," said a boy no older than ten, grinning at the camera. "One day I wanna play like Francesco Lee."
Leah smiled at the sight. "Look at that," she whispered. "You're inspiring a whole generation already."
Francesco watched quietly, his throat tightening. "Feels like yesterday I was one of them."
She reached over, taking his hand. "Now you're the reason they believe they can be."
He didn't say anything for a moment. He just looked out through the wide glass windows of his kitchen, where the garden glistened softly with dew, and the air outside was filled with the muted song of morning.
And for the first time since last night or since the ceremony, the applause, the flashbulbs, the titles, he allowed himself to exhale. To breathe in the quiet truth of everything he had become, and everything still ahead.
"Leah," he said softly, almost to himself. "Whatever comes next… I just want to keep doing this right. For them. For us. For England."
She smiled, leaning into him. "You will. You already are."
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders as the morning sunlight flooded the room, the TV's sound fading into the background. The world outside was already roaring with his name, but in that kitchen with Leah, the smell of food, and the medal catching the light on the counter, it was just life.
________________________________________________
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