If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
_____________________________
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And in that moment, surrounded by noise and light and history and love, it truly was.
For a while after that, they didn't try to move.
They just stayed there.
Together.
Breathing.
Laughing.
Looking at one another like they were still trying to make sure everyone else was real.
Because nights like this always felt a little like dreams while they were happening. Too loud. Too bright. Too full of everything.
Francesco stood beside Per for a few more seconds, the two of them shoulder to shoulder, looking out across the pitch as confetti continued to fall in soft golden sheets.
Behind them, teammates were still celebrating with their families. Giroud had his arm around his children. Kanté was crouched down speaking gently to a young relative who looked a little overwhelmed by the noise. Xhaka had both hands on his head, still laughing with disbelief. Cazorla was spinning his son around in a playful circle.
Everywhere, joy.
Everywhere, release.
Francesco turned his head slightly, just enough to look at Per again.
"You alright?" he asked.
Per exhaled slowly, nodding once, still smiling in that quiet way of his.
"Yes," he said. "Now I am."
Francesco nodded.
He understood.
There were no more words needed.
But then, just beyond them, one of the UEFA staff members began walking briskly across the pitch, weaving through groups of players and family members with the practiced focus of someone used to navigating moments like this.
He had a headset on.
A clipboard tucked under his arm.
And when his eyes found Francesco, he raised a hand slightly.
"Francesco!" he called over the noise, his voice professional but friendly. "Interview, please."
Francesco blinked once, the shift in focus pulling him out of the warm bubble of celebration.
"Now?" he asked, half-laughing, still catching his breath.
The staff member nodded, gesturing toward the touchline.
"Sky Sports. They're waiting."
Francesco let out a small breath, glancing once more at his teammates, at Leah, at his parents.
Leah gave him a small nod, a supportive smile that said go.
His mother wiped her eyes again and waved him forward.
His father gave him another firm pat on the shoulder.
"Go on," Mike said. "Finish the night properly."
Francesco smiled.
"Stay here," he said to them. "I'll come back."
He turned, jogging lightly across the pitch, boots brushing through the last of the scattered confetti as he made his way toward the sideline.
The closer he got, the more the noise of the stadium shifted again.
Still loud.
Still celebratory.
But here, near the touchline, there was another kind of energy.
Cameras.
Microphones.
Crew members moving with purpose.
And standing just ahead of him, waiting beneath the bright pitch-side lights, was the Sky Sports panel.
Jamie Carragher stood with his arms folded, already smiling broadly as he saw Francesco approaching.
Beside him, Gary Neville leaned slightly forward, eyes sharp with analysis even in celebration.
Ian Wright was already beaming, practically bouncing on his feet with excitement.
And just to the side of them, two figures whose presence added even more weight to the moment.
Thierry Henry, arms crossed loosely, a proud, almost fatherly smile on his face.
And Alessandro Del Piero, composed but respectful, his expression carrying both admiration and the quiet ache of seeing his former club fall short again.
Francesco slowed as he approached, wiping his hands briefly on his shorts, trying to steady his breathing.
A producer counted them in.
"Three… two… one…"
The red light on the camera blinked on.
Ian Wright stepped forward first, unable to hide his grin.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice ringing out over the broadcast, "we are here on the pitch with the captain in all but not with the armband tonight… the man who has just led Arsenal to back-to-back Champions League titles… Francesco Lee!"
The crowd noise swelled again as the big screens in the stadium picked up the interview.
Francesco gave a small wave, still slightly out of breath, still smiling.
Ian stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Mate," he said, shaking his head in disbelief, "how does that feel?"
Francesco let out a soft laugh, looking down at his medal for a second before lifting his eyes again.
"It still feels… unreal," he admitted honestly. "You work all season, every day, every match, and you dream of this. To do it once is special. To do it twice… with this group…" He shook his head slightly. "I don't have words yet."
Jamie Carragher leaned in next, his tone more analytical but still warm.
"Talk us through that performance," he said. "Five–two in a Champions League final against Juventus. From the outside it looked like control, composure, but we know it's never that simple on the pitch."
Francesco nodded, shifting slightly, his mind already going back through the match.
"It wasn't simple," he said. "They're a top side. You saw it in the way they started, the way they kept pushing. But we stayed calm. We trusted our structure, trusted each other. When we had chances, we took them. And defensively, everyone worked. Everyone ran. That's what made the difference."
Gary Neville stepped forward, eyes narrowing slightly in that familiar analytical way.
"Your second goal," he said, pointing slightly as if tracing the run in the air, "that run between Chiellini and Bonucci. That's timing, that's instinct. Is that something you read in the moment or something you've studied?"
Francesco smiled a little at that.
"A bit of both," he said. "We watch them. We know how they defend, how they move as a line. But in the moment, you have to feel it. Giroud gave me the perfect touch. After that, it's just about staying calm."
Ian Wright laughed, clapping his hands once.
"Staying calm in a Champions League final!" he said. "Listen to this guy!"
They all laughed lightly.
Then Ian's expression softened again.
"I've got to ask you," he said, "because I know what this club means to you. Back-to-back Champions Leagues. Defending the treble. What does this mean for Arsenal? For the fans who've waited so long to see nights like this again and again?"
Francesco took a breath, looking out toward the stands for a moment before answering.
"It means everything," he said quietly. "For the players, for the staff, for the supporters. They've been with us through everything. They travel, they sing, they believe. Nights like this… this is for them. For the people who love this club."
Behind Ian, Thierry Henry shifted slightly, his eyes never leaving Francesco.
Then he stepped forward himself.
"From one striker to another," he said, a small smile on his face, "I want to ask you something. You've just scored twice in a Champions League final. You've been leading this team all season. You've spoken before about wanting to push yourself, to chase records, to build a legacy here. Where does this night sit for you personally?"
Francesco met his gaze.
There was respect there.
History.
Understanding.
"It's one of the biggest nights of my life," Francesco said honestly. "But I don't see it as the end of something. I see it as part of a journey. I want to keep improving. Keep helping the team win. The club has a history of great players… including you." He smiled slightly. "I just want to add my chapter to that."
Thierry nodded slowly, approvingly.
"Good answer," he said.
Then, Alessandro Del Piero stepped forward, his expression calm, dignified.
"From the perspective of Juventus," he said gently, "this is another painful final. You spoke to Buffon after the match. Can you tell us what that moment meant to you?"
Francesco's expression softened.
"Yes," he said quietly. "He's a legend. For all of us. I grew up watching him. To play against him in a final… to score against him… and then to see him like that after the match…" He shook his head slightly. "I just wanted to show respect. He deserves that."
Del Piero nodded, appreciating the answer.
"Grazie," he said.
Then Ian stepped back in, grinning again.
"One last thing," he said. "Because I know the fans want to hear it from you. What's next for you, Francesco? After all this… what's next?"
Francesco paused for a second.
Not because he didn't know.
But because he wanted to say it right.
He looked up at the stands again.
At the fans.
At his teammates celebrating in the background.
At the trophy, still shining under the lights.
Then he looked back at Ian.
"We keep going," he said simply. "We enjoy tonight. Then we come back next season and we try to do it again. We want to keep winning. Keep making history. For the club."
Ian broke into a wide grin.
"There you go," he said, turning toward the camera. "You heard it here first."
The panel laughed, the crowd cheered again, and the producer signaled that they were clear.
The red light went off.
Immediately, the mood shifted from broadcast professionalism back into warm, personal celebration.
Jamie Carragher reached out to shake Francesco's hand.
"Brilliant performance," he said sincerely.
Gary Neville nodded. "Top level. Really top level."
Ian Wright pulled him into a quick hug.
"Proud of you, man," he said quietly.
Thierry Henry gave him a firm handshake, holding his gaze for a second.
"Keep going," he said.
And Alessandro Del Piero offered a respectful nod and handshake as well.
Francesco thanked them all, one by one, then turned back toward the pitch.
The celebration was still going.
His family was still there.
His teammates were still there.
And as he jogged back toward them, medal bouncing lightly against his chest, as the noise of the stadium rising once more around him.
He barely made it five steps back onto the pitch before he felt it.
Hands.
Multiple.
Grabbing his shoulders.
His arms.
His waist.
"Hey—!" Francesco started, half-laughing, instinctively bracing himself as he turned.
But he didn't need to ask what was happening.
Because the looks on their faces said everything.
Xhaka was grinning like a man who had been waiting for this moment all night.
Giroud had that wide, mischievous smile.
Kanté that usually so quiet was already laughing, covering his mouth, eyes sparkling.
Cazorla was clapping, bouncing on his toes.
Bellerín and Van Dijk were already stepping in from the other side.
And just behind them, Per Mertesacker stood with the trophy in his hands, watching with a knowing smile.
Francesco shook his head, already laughing.
"No, no, no—" he protested, even as they closed in around him.
"Your turn, capi!" Xhaka shouted.
"Leader of the revolution!" Giroud added dramatically.
"Captain without the armband!" Cazorla chimed in, winking.
Francesco raised his hands as if surrendering.
"Careful," he said, still laughing. "I just did an interview!"
"Perfect," Xhaka shot back. "Now you celebrate properly."
Hands found their positions.
Under his arms.
Behind his back.
At his legs.
Strong.
Secure.
Francesco looked around at them for just a second, his chest tightening that not with fear, but with something warmer.
Something deeper.
Because in their eyes there wasn't just mischief.
There was appreciation.
Respect.
Love.
"Ready?" Giroud called out.
Francesco exhaled once, smiling.
"Alright," he said. "Let's do it."
"One!"
Up he went.
Lifted high above their heads, his body rising into the bright lights, the roar of the crowd swelling as the big screens caught the moment.
For a split second, suspended in the air, Francesco could see everything.
The entire stadium.
The sea of red and white.
The gold confetti drifting.
The trophy gleaming below.
His family near the touchline.
Leah watching, laughing, her hands raised in delight.
Then.
"Two!"
He came down and went back up again, higher this time, the players shouting, the fans screaming his name.
His laughter was loud now, open, free, carried away into the night.
"Three!"
The final lift.
The highest one.
The one that seemed to stretch just a heartbeat longer than the others, as if the moment itself didn't want to end.
Then they caught him again, steady and safe, bringing him back down onto the grass.
As his boots touched the pitch again, Francesco was still laughing, breathless, shaking his head.
"You're all crazy," he said, but there was no complaint in it.
Only gratitude.
Xhaka pulled him into a quick, tight hug.
"You earned it," he said simply.
Giroud clapped him on the back.
"Leader," he added.
Kanté smiled, nodding quietly.
Francesco looked at each of them, taking that in, letting it settle.
Then, just over their shoulders, he saw Per begin to move.
The tall defender lifted the Champions League trophy again, adjusting his grip on the handles.
And without needing to say anything, he turned toward the Arsenal end.
The supporters.
Their supporters.
The ones who had carried them through every moment of this journey.
Francesco saw it immediately and nodded.
"Come on," he said softly.
The players didn't need telling twice.
One by one, they fell in behind Per, forming a loose procession across the pitch.
Families joined them.
Girlfriends slipped their hands into their partners'.
Children ran alongside them, some holding hands, some skipping with excitement, some just staring in wide-eyed wonder at everything around them.
Leah stepped in beside Francesco, her fingers finding his hand naturally, like they had done a thousand times before.
"You survived the interview," she teased lightly.
"Barely," he replied, smiling.
"You survived the toss," she added.
"That was more dangerous," he admitted.
She laughed, shaking her head, then squeezed his hand once.
"I'm proud of you," she said softly.
Francesco looked at her for a second, that same quiet space between them opening again even in the middle of the noise.
"Thank you," he said.
Ahead of them, Per reached the edge of the pitch near the Arsenal supporters' end.
He slowed.
Then he stepped forward.
Right up to the barrier.
He raised the trophy slightly, letting the fans see it up close.
The reaction was instant.
A wall of sound.
A wave of arms.
People shouting, crying, laughing, reaching toward the silver that represented everything they had dreamed of.
Per lifted it higher.
Tilting it slightly so the floodlights caught it, so the reflection of thousands of faces danced across its surface.
Francesco came up beside him, Leah still at his side.
One by one, the rest of the players gathered around them, forming a line along the barrier.
Giroud lifted his children up so they could see the trophy.
Kanté stood just behind, clapping softly toward the fans.
Xhaka shouted something in his native language, pumping his fist toward the stands.
Cazorla waved both hands, spinning once more, soaking in every second.
Bellerín leaned over the barrier to high-five a group of supporters.
Monreal and Koscielny stood shoulder to shoulder, both smiling, both nodding toward the crowd.
Van Dijk stood tall, one arm raised.
Čech stood just behind them all, watching quietly, his expression content.
Per turned slightly, offering the trophy toward the supporters, as if presenting it to them.
Because in a way, it was theirs.
Francesco stepped forward, resting one hand briefly on the base of the trophy as Per held it.
Then he looked up at the fans again.
Really looked.
And for a moment, everything else faded.
All the noise.
All the lights.
All the cameras.
Just that connection.
Between team and supporters.
Between players and people.
He raised his free hand.
Placed it over his heart.
And mouthed the words again.
"Thank you."
The response was overwhelming.
A chant.
His name.
The club's name.
The sound rolling down from the stands like thunder.
Beside him, Per lowered the trophy slightly, turning it so more people could see it, could feel part of it.
Behind them, more family members gathered.
Parents taking photos.
Children pointing at the trophy in awe.
Leah's brother Jacob was practically bouncing on his toes again, his eyes fixed on the silver prize.
"Can I touch it?" he asked, half-joking, half-serious.
Francesco laughed.
"Ask Per," he said.
Jacob looked up at the tall German, who overheard and chuckled.
"Careful," Per said, lowering it just enough for Jacob to gently tap one of the handles with his fingertips. "It is heavy."
Jacob's face lit up like it was Christmas.
Behind them, Sarah and Mike stood close together, watching their son, pride written across every line of their faces.
David and Amanda stood beside them, smiling warmly at Leah and Francesco together.
The whole scene felt like something out of a dream.
A shared dream.
One that included not just the players on the pitch, but everyone who had walked that journey with them.
The staff.
The families.
The supporters.
All of them.
Per straightened again, lifting the trophy once more, this time holding it high above his head toward the Arsenal end.
The fans answered with another deafening roar.
And in that moment, standing there with his teammates, with his family, with Leah's hand still in his, Francesco felt something settle inside him again.
The same thing he had felt earlier.
Not just pride.
Not just joy.
Something steadier.
Something stronger.
Belonging.
This was his club.
These were his people.
And this.
This connection between them.
was what made everything worth it.
They stayed there for a long time, longer than anyone told them to, longer than any schedule demanded.
Because some moments you don't rush.
Some moments you live inside for as long as you can.
They stayed there for a long time.
Long enough that the first rush of adrenaline had softened into something warmer.
Something steadier.
The kind of feeling that settles deep in your chest and stays there, quiet and sure, long after the noise fades.
Eventually though, the rhythm of the night began to shift again.
Not in a way that broke the moment.
Just… gently guided it forward.
A photographer appeared near the edge of the group, one of the club's media staff, camera hanging at his chest, gesturing toward the center of the pitch with a polite but insistent smile.
"Boys," he called out, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the singing that still echoed around the stadium. "Group photo. Let's get everyone together."
There were a few playful groans.
A few exaggerated sighs.
"Ah, now the serious work begins," Cazorla joked, wiping his forehead like a man about to do something exhausting.
"Everyone look handsome," Giroud added, smoothing his hair dramatically.
Xhaka clapped his hands once.
"Come on, come on," he said. "One more job."
Per Mertesacker lowered the trophy slightly and nodded toward the center.
Francesco gave Leah's hand one last squeeze before stepping forward with the rest of the players.
"Stay just there," he told her softly. "I'll be back."
She smiled, nodding.
"I'll be the photographer's assistant," she teased.
"You'll be better than him," Francesco shot back with a grin before jogging off.
One by one, the Arsenal players gathered into position in the middle of the pitch.
The Champions League trophy was placed right at the center of them.
Gleaming.
Solid.
The heart of it all.
The players formed up around it naturally with some crouching in the front row, some standing behind, arms draped over shoulders, bodies leaning in toward one another, the closeness of a group that had been through everything together.
Per stood just behind the trophy, one hand resting lightly on one of the handles.
Francesco moved in beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched.
Kanté crouched in front, hands resting on his knees, smiling shyly.
Xhaka stood with one arm slung over Van Dijk's shoulder.
Giroud stood tall, chest out, beaming.
Cazorla crouched beside Kanté, already grinning at the camera.
Bellerín leaned in from the side, throwing up a playful peace sign.
Monreal and Koscielny stood side by side, both relaxed, both smiling.
Čech stood just behind them all, gloves tucked under his arm, expression calm but proud.
"Alright!" the photographer called out, stepping backward, lifting his camera. "Everyone look here!"
The players leaned in just a fraction more.
The noise of the stadium still rolling behind them.
The confetti still drifting in the air.
"Champions on three!" someone shouted.
"One…"
"Two…"
"Three!"
"CHAMPIONS!"
The flash went off.
Freezing that moment.
That collection of faces.
That exact combination of joy, exhaustion, pride, disbelief.
A moment that would be framed on walls.
Printed in history books.
Remembered for decades.
"Another one!" the photographer called.
"Serious face this time!"
Immediately, they all tried to look serious.
Tried.
Xhaka crossed his arms, attempting a stern expression that lasted about half a second before he broke into laughter again.
Giroud puffed his cheeks out dramatically.
Cazorla tried to hold a straight face but his eyes gave him away.
Even Per's lips twitched slightly.
Click.
Another photo captured.
"Perfect!" the photographer said. "Now, staff! Come on in!"
Arsène Wenger, who had been standing just off to the side watching his team with that familiar soft, proud smile, stepped forward.
Along with him came the entire coaching staff.
Assistant coaches.
Fitness staff.
Medical team.
The people who had worked behind the scenes all season, all year, all those long hours nobody ever saw.
They joined the players around the trophy, filling in the gaps, arms finding shoulders, laughter mixing together as the circle grew wider.
Wenger took his place just behind the front row, close to the trophy, close to his players.
Francesco glanced back at him for a second.
Their eyes met.
No words needed.
Just a small nod.
A shared understanding of everything they had just achieved together.
"Alright, everyone!" the photographer called again. "One more big one! This is the full family!"
They all leaned in.
Closer.
Tighter.
A club.
A team.
A family.
"One… two… three!"
"ARSENAL!"
The flash went again.
And in that burst of light, another piece of history was captured forever.
When the formal group photos were done, the shape of the gathering loosened again.
The structure melted away into something more personal.
More intimate.
Because now it was time for the moments that belonged to each individual player.
The trophy didn't stay in one place anymore.
It began to move.
Passed carefully, respectfully, from one set of hands to another.
Each player taking their turn.
Each one stepping forward with their family, their loved ones, their own small circle inside the larger celebration.
Giroud went first, lifting the trophy with a proud smile as his children gathered around him, their tiny hands reaching up to touch the silver, their faces lit with wonder. His partner stood beside him, one hand resting on his back as the photo was taken.
Kanté came next, almost shy about it, smiling gently as he held the trophy while a young relative stood close at his side, looking up at it with wide, amazed eyes.
Xhaka's turn was louder as his family laughing, shouting, pulling him into a tight group as he lifted the trophy slightly for the camera, his grin as wide as the stadium itself.
Cazorla posed with his son, crouching down so they could both hold one of the handles together, father and child sharing the weight of something extraordinary.
Bellerín, Monreal, Koscielny, Van Dijk as one by one they all stepped forward, each photo telling its own small story of sacrifice, love, and triumph.
Per took his turn as well.
Standing tall with the trophy once more, his family around him, his expression softer now, more reflective.
The last of his career.
The perfect ending.
And then, gradually, the trophy made its way back around.
Until finally.
It was in Francesco's hands.
For a second, he just stood there.
Holding it.
Alone.
The weight of it resting in his grip.
The cool metal against his palms.
He exhaled slowly.
Leah stepped forward first, camera already in her hands.
"Alright," she said, slipping easily into the role. "Captain, stand right there."
Francesco laughed softly, shifting slightly into the center of the frame, the trophy held firmly in front of him.
"Like this?" he asked.
"Perfect," she said, stepping back a few paces, adjusting the angle, the light catching both him and the trophy.
"Give me one serious one," she added.
Francesco tried.
He really did.
But there was still that smile there, soft at the corners of his mouth, impossible to fully hide.
Click.
"Now one with the smile," Leah said.
"That one is easier," he replied.
Click.
She lowered the camera, looking at the photos quickly, her smile growing.
"They're perfect," she said.
"Good," Francesco replied, shifting the trophy slightly as he looked at her. "Now come here."
She stepped in beside him.
He adjusted his grip on the trophy with one hand.
With the other, he reached up and gently removed the gold medal from around his neck.
Leah blinked.
"Francesco—"
He shook his head softly, already placing it around her neck.
"You're part of this," he said simply.
Her eyes softened immediately, her fingers instinctively reaching up to touch the medal resting against her chest.
Sarah, standing just a few feet away, lifted her phone.
"Oh, this one is mine," she said, smiling through eyes that were still slightly red from earlier tears. "Stand still, both of you."
Francesco and Leah stood side by side, the trophy between them, his arm slipping lightly around her shoulders as she leaned in close.
"Ready?" Sarah called.
They both looked up.
At her.
At the lens.
At the moment.
Click.
Another memory captured forever.
"Beautiful," Sarah said softly, lowering the phone.
Francesco then turned slightly.
"Mom, Dad," he called.
Mike and Sarah stepped in together.
Francesco moved to stand between them, lifting the trophy again so it rested just in front of all three of them.
His father stood tall at his side, one hand resting firmly on Francesco's back.
His mother stood on the other side, her hand gently on his arm, her eyes still shining with pride.
"Big smile," Leah called now, taking over the camera.
Mike gave a proud, slightly emotional smile.
Sarah beamed.
Francesco stood in the middle, holding the trophy that represented everything they had supported him through.
Click.
Then another.
Click.
"Perfect," Leah said, lowering the camera.
Next came Leah's family.
David, Amanda, and Jacob stepped in, laughing, still a little overwhelmed by everything.
Francesco shifted slightly so everyone could fit in, the trophy held proudly at the center as they gathered around him.
Jacob leaned in close to it again, clearly fascinated.
"Don't drop it," he whispered jokingly.
Francesco laughed.
"I won't," he promised.
"Everyone look here!" Leah called again.
Click.
A picture of two families brought together by football, by love, by this shared journey.
After that, there was one more person Francesco wanted to share this with.
He looked up, scanning the pitch for a second.
Then he spotted him.
Just a few yards away.
Standing slightly apart, watching it all with that familiar, composed expression.
"Boss!" Francesco called.
Arsène Wenger turned, his eyes finding Francesco immediately.
He smiled and walked over.
"May I?" Francesco asked, gesturing to the space beside him.
Wenger's smile deepened.
"Of course," he said.
They stood together, side by side.
The manager and his player.
The man who had built this era and the young captain who was carrying it forward.
Francesco held the trophy.
Wenger stood beside him, one hand resting lightly on the side of it, the other tucked calmly by his side.
For a second, neither of them said anything.
They didn't need to.
"Ready," the photographer said softly.
They both looked up.
Calm.
Proud.
United.
Click.
A final image.
One that would live on as a symbol of everything they had achieved together.
As the camera lowered and the moment passed, Francesco looked at Wenger and smiled.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Wenger nodded once.
"No," he replied just as softly. "Thank you."
Around them, the celebrations still carried on.
Laughter.
Music.
The echo of songs that would be sung for years.
And in the middle of it all, with the trophy still in his hands, surrounded by the people who meant the most.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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