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Francesco's hat-trick was more than a personal achievement as it was a statement of leadership, awareness, and execution. Every goal had been a product of vision, timing, and collaboration. And while the scoreboard told the story numerically, the deeper narrative from the disciplined midfield, the relentless defensive structure, the precise counter-attacks, the mental resilience under pressure was what truly defined the victory.
Francesco didn't rush into the celebrations. Even with the adrenaline humming under his skin and the echoes of the Arsenal fans still shaking Old Trafford's steel bones, he took a moment to steady his breathing. His teammates were already halfway toward the travelling supporters, fists raised, shirts half-pulled over their heads as they shouted into the cold Manchester air. But Francesco turned first toward the center of the pitch.
He always had this habit, where he acknowledged the opponents before fully stepping into the triumph he had earned. Maybe it was respect, or maybe it was something older, something woven into him long before he'd worn the Arsenal badge. Either way, tonight it pulled him toward the Manchester United players.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his forearm, exhaled, and started walking.
The pitch felt oddly calm now, the storm of ninety minutes settling into a softer, heavier silence. United players stood scattered, some with hands on hips, others hunched forward, breathless, staring at the turf as if answers might surface between the blades of grass. A few exchanged brief handshakes with Arsenal players, but the mood was unmistakably somber, tinged with frustration and the sting of pride.
Francesco's eyes scanned the group until they landed on Rooney.
Wayne Rooney stood near the center circle, the captain's armband hanging loosely on his arm, his chest still rising and falling with deep, labored breaths. Under the stadium's lights, the lines on his face looked more defined than Francesco remembered of something but not wrinkles, exactly, but marks of battles, years, expectations, and the weight of carrying a club on his shoulders for so long.
Rooney wasn't that old. Everyone knew that. But he wasn't that Rooney anymore, not the unstoppable force of his early twenties, not the man who would storm through defenders like a bull through a gate, not the kid who seemed carved from something indestructible. Francesco had grown up watching that Rooney. Admiring him. Studying him. Trying to understand the engine that propelled him.
But tonight, for the first time, Francesco saw something different.
He saw a man fighting with every inch of what he had left.
Not broken. Not finished.
But human.
And maybe that was what hit Francesco the hardest.
He approached slowly, giving Rooney the respect of space, not wanting to intrude on whatever storm was moving behind those tired eyes. Rooney looked up just as Francesco reached him, their gazes meeting with one pair bright with freshness, hunger, and the future; the other carrying the gravity of a career lived under merciless lights.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Francesco stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Rooney.
It wasn't a quick sportsman's pat on the back. It wasn't a polite, distant gesture. It was a real hug that firm, lingering, carrying emotions that needed no words.
Rooney let out a long breath, the kind that trembles slightly at the end, as though surrendering a weight he'd been holding too tightly.
"Hell of a performance," Rooney muttered finally, voice hoarse, half-swallowed by fatigue. He pulled back slightly, giving Francesco a look that was equal parts admiration and melancholy. "You tore us apart today, kid."
Francesco shook his head gently. "You've carried this club for years, Wayne. I grew up watching you… You're still one of the best."
Rooney huffed a short, faint laugh but not mocking, not dismissive. Just… tired. Honest. "I appreciate that," he said. "But it's your time now. You can see it. Everyone can see it."
There was no bitterness in his tone. But there was something else. Something more vulnerable.
Acceptance.
Francesco felt his chest tighten. It was one thing to score a hat-trick at Old Trafford. It was another to have the club's own captain, a man who defined English football for a decade and give him the England captain armband that offer him that kind of acknowledgment.
Rooney placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Look after it," he said. "All this. The talent, the moment, the platform. Doesn't last forever. Make the most of it while you've got it."
"I will," Francesco said quietly. "I promise."
Rooney nodded once, slow and meaningful, and began to turn away. But Francesco reached out, stopping him gently.
"Wayne," he said, voice softer now, "you're still dangerous. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
For the first time since the whistle, Rooney's eyes lit with a small flicker as it was not pride, not ego, but gratitude.
"Thank you," he said, and this time the words carried weight.
They exchanged a final pat before Rooney drifted away toward his teammates, shoulders heavy but his steps a little more steady.
Francesco stayed rooted in place for a few seconds longer, watching the United captain walk off. There was a strange ache in his chest with admiration, respect, empathy. Football wasn't just a sport; it was a timeline, a changing of eras. Tonight, it felt like he'd stepped across a threshold, while someone else had taken a step into a new reality.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to turn back toward the rest of the United squad.
One by one, he approached them as Rashford, who looked devastated but determined; Mata, who offered a warm handshake and a gracious smile; Jones, who nodded respectfully despite the bruises of the match; Herrera, who murmured something in Spanish that sounded like both congratulations and frustration.
Every exchange grounded him further, humbling him, reminding him that dominance didn't erase respect, it demanded it.
By the time he started walking toward the Arsenal bench again, the noise in the stadium had shifted. The away fans were in full voice, singing his name, chanting the scoreline, reveling in a victory that would be talked about for years. But beneath the noise, beneath the shouts and claps and stomping feet, Francesco felt something quieter.
Balance.
This match had given him something he hadn't expected: perspective.
As Francesco walked toward his teammates, the smiles widened. Some of them called out his name; others clapped as he approached. The substitutes on the bench rose to greet him like he'd just returned from war.
Theo Walcott reached him first, slapping both hands on Francesco's cheeks playfully.
"My guy!" Walcott laughed. "Hat-trick at Old Trafford? You're taking the piss!"
Alexis Sanchez came in next, pulling him into a tight, almost suffocating hug. "Máquina!" he shouted, shaking Francesco with the same energy he'd shown on the pitch. "You killed them today!"
Ozil approached more quietly but with that familiar soft smile, placing a hand over Francesco's chest. "You earned every goal," he said. "The movement, the timing… it was perfect."
Francesco grinned, still catching his breath. "Couldn't have done it without your passes."
Ozil chuckled lightly. "I… know."
That earned a laugh from the whole group.
Even Wenger, who rarely showed emotion beyond the gentle curve of his lips, took a second to place his hand on Francesco's shoulder.
"Well done," he said, voice low but warm. "You showed maturity today. Patience. Precision. It was not just about goals, it was about control."
Coming from Wenger, those words carried their own kind of weight as it was something fatherly, almost ancestral.
But as Francesco took in the praise, the cheers, the sense of accomplishment, part of his attention kept drifting back toward where Rooney had stood.
That image lingered in him.
Not as a triumph.
But as a reminder.
A reminder that the career of a footballer wasn't a straight line upward. There were peaks, valleys, plateaus. There were nights when everything clicked and nights when nothing made sense. There were moments when the world felt like it was yours and moments when it slipped through your fingers no matter how tightly you tried to hold it.
He inhaled deeply, grounding himself in that thought, then finally allowed the wave of Arsenal's joy to pull him fully into the moment.
By now, the cameras had swarmed. Interviewers hovered, hands raised, microphones aimed like weapons of curiosity. Reporters yelled for attention, photographers crouched in clusters, and the flashes pierced the night air like small lightning strikes.
Giroud strolled over with that trademark swagger, arm wrapped around Francesco's shoulders.
"Careful," he said dramatically. "Sky Sports is going to start calling me the second most handsome striker at the club."
Francesco burst out laughing. "Mate, they've never called you the most handsome."
Giroud gasped in mock horror. "Mon dieu! Blasphemy!"
"Should've scored another then," Alexis added with a grin, patting Giroud's neck.
Giroud pushed him lightly. "I would, but I prefer to let the children shine."
Oxlade-Chamberlain leaned in. "The children? Bro, you're like 29, not 45."
The banter rolled on like a warm breeze, filling the air with something lighter, something celebratory. The tension of the match evaporated, replaced by camaraderie that made all the running, pressing, battling worth it.
Francesco let himself sink for just a few more seconds into the chaos of laughter around him with the kind of laughter that came only after a victory that demanded everything from their lungs, their legs, and their hearts. Giroud was still pretending to be offended, Alexis was trying (and failing) to hold in a grin, and Ox was wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm while muttering something about "old men" not aging gracefully.
But even within the noise and banter, even with all the teasing and those little sparks of joy bouncing between teammates like a ball in a small-sided rondo, something tugged at Francesco's chest.
A kind of instinct.
A pull toward the supporters.
He looked up.
Far beyond the ring of cameras, past the cluster of staff and security, past the swirling lights and shadows of Old Trafford, there they were at the away end. Thousands of them. Red shirts, scarves, raised banners, flashing phones, fists pumping, faces flushed with cold and euphoria. Their voices were still spilling down the stands like a waterfall of noise, rolling over the pitch in waves:
"WE LOVE YOU AR-SENAL, WE DOOO—
OH AR-SENAL, WE LOVE YOU!"
Francesco felt his heartbeat slow down, then swell again, fuller, deeper, like someone had reached into his chest and tied a thread directly from him to them.
He nudged Giroud lightly. "Come on. They deserve this."
Giroud followed his gaze, then nodded, voice lowering with understanding. "Allez. Let's go."
Francesco raised his hand and gave a small but firm gesture that not commanding, not dramatic, just a clear signal to the rest of the team:
Follow me.
The effect was immediate. Granit adjusted his captain's armband even though he wasn't wearing it today. Koscielny shifted direction. Even Alexis, who usually sprinted first without waiting for anyone, slowed and fell in line. Within seconds, the entire squad as from starters, subs, even the unused bench players are began walking behind Francesco in a loose formation.
It wasn't rehearsed.
It wasn't planned.
But there was something symbolic about it.
Francesco leading them toward the supporters.
Not because he was the captain.
Not because he was the star of the night.
But because tonight, after everything with the goals, the pressure, the noise, the weight of Old Trafford as he felt like he owed those fans something more than just celebration.
He owed them gratitude.
As they started moving, the Arsenal fans noticed the shift immediately. The volume rose, like someone had turned up the stadium's natural amplifier. Flags waved harder. Scarves swung in circles. People jumped up, arms flailing, shouting his name, shouting the team's name, shouting the kind of things fans only shouted when they felt connected to their club down to the bone.
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
The chant hit him like a current.
His throat tightened.
He tried to hide it with a breath through his nose, but the emotion still caught him for a moment that not overwhelming, not choking, but strong enough to make him feel human in the middle of all the lights and madness.
As they got closer, the barriers came into full view. Stewards in yellow stood in a thin line, trying not to get swept up in the excitement. Fans leaned forward against the railings, stretching phones, programs, shirts, anything they could hold. Some of their faces were streaked from the cold. Some were red from shouting. Some were wet with tears, the happy kind that fans shed when a match meant more than just three points.
Francesco stopped just a few steps from the barrier and pressed both palms together, raising them slightly. Not as a salute. Not as a pose.
Just a genuine thank you.
He mouthed it, even though he wasn't sure they could read his lips.
"Thank you."
The supporters roared louder.
Around him, teammates did the same as some were waving, clapping, tossing their shirts, hugging ballboys, shaking hands with the first rows of fans. The traveling support had been incredible all night, fighting United's sea of red noise with their own pockets of passion. They deserved this moment as much as the players.
But even in that explosion of joy, something pulled Francesco's attention away.
A sign.
A simple cardboard sign held by a small boy, maybe eight or nine years old, his cheeks flushed pink, hands trembling from cold or nerves, maybe both.
The sign was hand-drawn, letters bold and slightly crooked:
"FRANCESCO, CAN I HAVE YOUR SHIRT PLEASE?"
The boy wasn't shouting.
He wasn't pushing.
He wasn't even standing on someone's shoulders, just leaning forward as far as he could without falling, eyes wide with hope, mouth pressed into a tight little line like he was scared to be disappointed.
Francesco's chest warmed.
Deeply.
Without hesitating, he stepped through the small gap between security and railing.
The stewards saw him move and immediately began shifting to create space. They didn't stop him as they just made sure nobody surged forward when he approached.
Francesco reached the barrier and leaned closer until he was directly in front of the boy.
"You want it?" he asked with a soft smile, tapping the front of his jersey.
The boy nodded rapidly, eyes glistening.
"What's your name?"
"Tommy," the boy whispered, voice cracking from excitement.
"Tommy," Francesco repeated, tasting the name with warmth. "Alright then, Tommy."
He grabbed the bottom of his shirt, pulled it up over his head, the fabric sticking briefly to his damp skin before freeing itself. The cold hit him instantly, a sting along his chest and shoulders, but he didn't feel it.
He folded the jersey once with neatly, carefully, before handing it over.
The boy took it like it was something sacred, something precious, something he'd treasure for the rest of his life. He hugged the shirt against his chest so tightly it looked like he might never let go.
His eyes filled, and one tear slipped free. Not sobbing. Not dramatic.
Just honest.
Pure.
"Thank you," the boy managed, voice tiny but full of emotion.
Francesco leaned forward a bit more. "You keep supporting us, yeah?"
The boy nodded so fast it looked like his head might fall off.
"Good man," Francesco murmured, ruffling his hair gently.
The Arsenal fans around them roared in approval, clapping, cheering, some even chanting the boy's name. "TOM-MY! TOM-MY!" Which only made him cry harder while clutching the jersey like a treasure chest.
Behind Francesco, someone grabbed his shoulder as it was not roughly, but firmly enough to get his attention.
It was Per Mertesacker, smiling with that quiet, fatherly grin of his.
"That was good," Per said. "Really good."
Francesco shrugged lightly, a little embarrassed by the attention. "He asked."
"And you answered," Per replied. "That's what it means to be Arsenal."
Francesco felt the words sink into him like warmth spreading into cold hands.
Before he could reply, another voice came from behind them.
"Francesco."
He turned.
A Premier League staff member stood a few meters away, clipboard under his arm, headset on, jacket zipped all the way up to his chin. He looked slightly nervous, probably from having to approach a player at the center of all the attention.
"Sorry to interrupt," the staffer said, "but Sky Sports needs you on the sideline for the post-match interview."
Francesco blinked. "Now?"
"Yes, right now," the staffer nodded. "And… congratulations. You've been awarded Man of the Match. The presenter will give you the trophy at the end of the interview."
Several teammates overheard that part.
Alexis smirked. "Of course he did."
Ozil gave a small, satisfied shrug. "Deserved."
Granit slapped Francesco's back once. "Don't forget us when you're famous."
Francesco laughed. "You're already famous, Granit. Mostly for fouls."
"HEY—!"
More laughter broke out.
Koscielny stepped in with a captain's aura. "Go on. You earned it."
Francesco nodded, took one last look at the away fans — still chanting, still glowing, still celebrating like they'd won a final instead of a league match and raised one arm toward them in gratitude.
They answered with a wave of noise that rolled through Old Trafford like thunder.
Then he turned and began walking toward the touchline for the interview.
Only a few steps away, he glanced back one last time.
The boy, Tommy was still hugging the jersey to his chest, surrounded by fans and his parent who were patting his back, teasing him, celebrating with him, capturing pictures of him like he was the one who'd scored the hat-trick.
And for a moment, Francesco felt something settle deep inside him.
Not pride.
Not glory.
Something quieter.
Something like…
This is what football is.
Not the goals.
Not the trophies.
Not even the applause.
But moments like that, moments that stay with people long after the final whistle, moments that make football more than a game, more than ninety minutes, more than rivalry or pressure or expectation.
Moments that make it matter.
He turned back toward the staff member waiting for him.
"Alright," Francesco said, pulling in a deep breath. "Let's do the interview."
And he walked off the pitch sideline.
The cool night air hit Francesco as he left the warmth of the cluster of teammates and began his slow walk toward the touchline. Even after the chaos, after the laughter and shouts and the emotional weight of giving away his shirt, he still felt… full. Like the night had pressed itself into him, stamped itself onto his skin.
His boots crunched lightly on the pitch, grass slightly damp beneath each step. The noise from the away end followed him, less like chanting now and more like a hum, a living tide that rose and fell behind him as if unwilling to let him walk away quietly.
He could still hear them chanting his name. Still feel it vibrating faintly along the back of his neck.
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
There were nights in a footballer's life that felt like they existed outside of the normal rhythm of the world. Nights that seemed carved out, separate, glowing. Nights you remembered exactly how the air smelled, how your chest felt, what your heartbeat did inside your ribs.
Tonight was one of those.
He was halfway toward the sideline when he noticed movement to his left, someone stepping out just slightly from the line where the officials were standing.
The referee.
He recognized him instantly: tall, with a square jaw and a faint crease between his brows that never quite disappeared even when he smiled. The man had been firm all match but fair but strict when he needed to be, calm when the match heated up (and at Old Trafford, with Arsenal involved, it always heated up).
"Francesco," the referee called out, voice steady.
Francesco slowed his steps and turned toward him.
For a moment, the official just held his gaze with a look that wasn't stern, wasn't cold… but strangely warm. Respectful, even.
Then he reached behind him.
And lifted the match ball.
The white leather was smudged with streaks of green from the turf, dotted with faint marks of boot studs and fingertips. Under the stadium lights, it gleamed with a soft sheen and nothing glamorous, nothing polished, just honest wear from ninety minutes of battle.
The referee extended it toward him.
"This is yours," he said quietly. "Well earned."
For a second… just a second, Francesco felt something inside his chest loosen, then tighten again. He hadn't thought about the ball. Not with the adrenaline. Not with the fans. Not with the wave of emotions from the shirt-giving. Not with everything else.
But seeing it…
The ball from his hat-trick.
A hat-trick at Old Trafford.
He reached out gently, taking it with both hands. His fingers pressed into the familiar texture, the slight give of the panels, the weight that felt like nothing and everything at the same time.
"Thank you," Francesco said softly.
Simple words. But heavy ones.
The referee's expression softened a touch. "You played one hell of a match tonight."
Francesco dipped his head slightly. "You kept it fair."
A small smile ghosted across the official's face. "That's the job."
For a moment, the two simply exchanged a nod. Player and referee. Professional and professional. Two men who shared ninety minutes of the same storm from opposite sides of the lightning.
Then the referee gave a final pat to Francesco's upper arm that not overly familiar, just a gesture of acknowledgment.
"Enjoy your night," he said quietly.
Francesco nodded once more, clutching the ball against his hip, and turned back toward the path that led to the touchline.
The interview.
The Man of the Match trophy.
The cameras waiting for him.
The questions.
The lights.
Everything he'd grown used to.
But now, with the ball in his hands, the walk felt slightly different. He felt different. Like tonight had carved a notch into his career, one he would always go back to in his mind.
He resumed walking.
But what he didn't expect, what he couldn't have expected was how much the simple act of holding the ball changed how the fans reacted.
The away end erupted.
Not chanting this time.
Roaring.
Somehow, impossibly, even louder than before.
A wave of noise crashed across the stadium:
"HAT-TRICK HERO!
HAT-TRICK HERO!"
The chant rose, fell, rose again, spilling over the seats and barriers. People jumped, fell against each other, raised scarves, swung jackets. Even some Arsenal fans scattered across other parts of Old Trafford stood up, pumping fists into the air.
Francesco felt his ears warm.
He wasn't the type to show embarrassment. Not usually. But this as this kind of love, this kind of raw, explosive adoration are still shook him.
He swallowed.
Hard.
And allowed himself a small, honest smile.
One that tugged gently at the corner of his mouth, unforced, real.
He lifted the ball slightly and gave a small wave with his other hand.
They screamed louder.
A security guard walking alongside him chuckled under his breath. "They really love you, kid."
Francesco smirked. "I try not to disappoint."
"You didn't tonight," the guard said. "Not even close."
As he finally approached the sideline, he saw the Sky Sports crew waiting as two camera operators, a mic technician adjusting cables, a presenter holding her notes with one hand and guarding her hair from the wind with the other.
The Man of the Match trophy glinted faintly on the small table next to them.
Everything was ready.
But before he reached them, he turned his head for one last look back at the pitch, at the stands, at the fans who were still chanting, still waving, still singing.
Old Trafford's bright lights washed everything in a soft glow.
And in that glow, Francesco saw.
The boy from earlier.
Tommy.
Still holding his shirt.
Still hugging it like it was the greatest thing he had ever touched.
His parents were smiling, trying to get him to pose for another picture, and he kept wiping his cheeks with his sleeve like he didn't want anyone to know he'd cried.
Francesco lingered for just a moment longer, letting his gaze settle on Tommy, letting the boy's wide, shining eyes and trembling little hands holding the jersey imprint themselves into memory. That simple image of hope and joy made the adrenaline of goals and glory feel… distant. Not unimportant, not irrelevant but somehow smaller than this. Football, he realized, was as much about moments like this as it was about nets rattling, stadiums shaking, and rivalries burning.
The wind tugged at his hair, brushing cold across his neck and cheeks, and for a second the roar of the remaining Arsenal fans felt almost like a tide pulling him back to the moment. He raised his free hand slightly, a tiny wave he hoped Tommy could see. The boy caught it instantly, eyes lighting up brighter than the stadium lights, a grin splitting his face despite his tears. The boy's mother clapped and laughed softly behind him, tears running freely down her cheeks now, and even from here, Francesco could see her shaking her head in disbelief. Football could make grown men scream, and it could make mothers cry, not from sadness, but from sheer pride in something they couldn't possibly control.
Francesco exhaled slowly, letting that warmth wash over him. He pressed the match ball gently against his hip and finally pivoted toward the sideline, aware that every step he took carried the weight of a night that would linger in the hearts of so many people from fans, teammates, staff, even the opposition. His boots sank slightly into the damp turf, grass clinging to the sole for a fraction of a second before releasing with a soft tear. The stadium lights bounced off the panels of the ball he carried, reflecting streaks of green from the pitch, the white now almost glowing in contrast.
The chant for him had shifted slightly, more of a continuous roar now than a rhythmical call. "HAT-TRICK HERO! HAT-TRICK HERO!" They repeated it over and over, voices raw from shouting, faces flushed, scarves whipped around like small flags of victory. The sound wrapped around him, not oppressive, but enveloping, a blanket of pure, unadulterated admiration. He could feel it vibrating in the ground, through the concrete and steel of the stadium, all the way into his chest.
Behind him, the Arsenal bench was already gathering, some laughing, others wiping sweat from their foreheads, some still high-fiving the last of the travelling fans they could reach. Alexis jogged past him with a grin, tossing a playful arm over his shoulder. "Careful! Don't let them carry you off the pitch just yet!"
Francesco laughed softly, shaking his head. "Not a chance." He let the ball rest in his hands again, feeling the faint bumps and ridges of the leather against his palms. It was tangible proof of what he'd done tonight, a keepsake of a match that would live in the history of this stadium and in his mind forever.
With each step toward the sideline, the roar of the fans followed him like a pulse, rising and falling with the rhythm of his heartbeat. And then, as if the universe wanted to remind him of how fleeting moments like this were, he caught sight of a few Manchester United players still scattered near the center circle, walking slowly toward the tunnel, heads low. He had hugged Rooney earlier, acknowledged the humanity in a man who had carried a legacy, but now he noticed others as Rashford, Jones, and a few midfielders are still absorbing the weight of the loss, the reality of being dominated at home, at Old Trafford. He wondered briefly if they were thinking about the mistakes, the goals, or just the way time had shifted against them. But Francesco didn't dwell. Tonight wasn't about anyone's loss—it was about everything they'd earned.
The final stretch of turf before the touchline felt endless, every step measured against the waves of flashing cameras and shouted questions from reporters, some trying to capture his immediate thoughts, others just desperate for a soundbite. A small group of stewards moved to clear the path, guiding fans gently back, letting Francesco pass without obstructing the connection he'd built with them. He nodded to a few, murmured "thank you," and kept walking, ball tucked firmly under one arm, still glancing briefly toward the away end.
As he reached the first concrete steps leading to the touchline, he noticed the Premier League interviewer waiting, microphone extended, notebook in hand, her professional smile bright against the night. The lights from the cameras glinted across her face, and the warm glow of the sideline reflected off the shiny panels of the Man of the Match trophy sitting prominently on a small table nearby. The trophy gleamed almost as brightly as his eyes, catching the stadium light just so, a small, shining emblem of his achievement.
"Francesco!" the presenter called out, voice carrying clearly across the gap between him and the cameras. Her tone was professional but tinged with enthusiasm, the kind that spoke of someone used to interviewing stars but still genuinely delighted by a night like this. "Congratulations on winning the match against Manchester United and scoring a hat-trick at Old Trafford! How does that feel?"
Francesco paused for just a breath, the ball cradled tightly against his hip. The roar from the away end still echoed faintly behind him, fading only slightly as the sideline noise as cameras, crew members adjusting microphones, cables being pulled gently that rose around him. He allowed a small smile to settle on his face.
"Thank you," he said, voice steady but warm. "It's… incredible. A match like this, at a place like Old Trafford, against a team like Manchester United… it's everything you dream of as a kid. But more than anything, it's about the team. Every goal, every move, every counter as it's all down to them. Without the passes, without the support, without everyone working together, none of this would've been possible."
He glanced briefly at the ball under his arm, turning it slowly as if showing it off not for vanity, but as a symbol of the night's story. "And the ball," he added softly, almost to himself, though the cameras caught it, "well… it's a nice reminder of the night."
The interviewer laughed lightly, a soft, genuine sound. "A hat-trick, a win at Old Trafford, and Man of the Match. Most players would call that a dream night. What was going through your mind as the final whistle blew?"
Francesco's eyes drifted for just a second toward the emptying pitch, toward the Manchester United players who were now moving toward the tunnel, and then back to the cameras. He thought about the boy, Tommy, holding the jersey, the thousands of fans who had braved the cold to follow every pass and every sprint. He thought about the weight of the victory, and the significance of every minute on the pitch.
"Honestly?" he said, voice softer, reflective. "It was a mix. Relief, pride, gratitude… and a little disbelief. We worked so hard, prepared so much, and to see it come together in the way it did, it's just… overwhelming. But the first thing I felt was gratitude. For the fans, for the team, for the staff, even for the opposition, because games like this as they test you. They make you better. And tonight, everything clicked."
The interviewer nodded, her expression open, engaged. "You mentioned the fans. We saw you walking toward the away supporters after the match, acknowledging them, giving your jersey to a young fan. How important is that connection?"
Francesco's smile deepened slightly, the kind that reached his eyes and softened his features. "It's everything. We play for them. All of this from the training, the pressure, the goals, the tactics all of it's meaningless if we don't connect with the people who believe in us. When I saw that boy holding the sign, and later hugging the jersey… it reminded me why I started playing football in the first place. For moments like that. For hope. For joy. That connection, that energy… it's irreplaceable."
He adjusted the ball slightly under his arm, holding it a bit closer. "Tonight wasn't just a personal achievement. It was a shared moment with thousands of people who care, who travel, who sing, who hope. And that… that makes every drop of sweat, every sprint, every tackle worth it."
The cameras captured the intensity in his eyes, the slight gleam of moisture that hinted at the emotion still raw from the evening. He tilted his head subtly, letting the stadium lights catch the sweat on his brow, the damp strands of hair sticking slightly to his forehead, the way his chest rose and fell with effort just barely spent. It was the physicality of football combined with the emotional resonance that made nights like this unforgettable.
The interviewer smiled warmly. "And the opposition? Manchester United were formidable, but your team dominated in the second half. Did you feel the momentum shift?"
Francesco leaned slightly forward, resting the ball lightly against his thigh. "Yes, but it wasn't about domination. It was about understanding the game, reading the play, and responding. Manchester United are a top team as they test every aspect of your game. But tonight, we executed what we planned, we supported each other, and we stayed patient. Football is as much about patience and awareness as it is about skill. And when it all comes together… well, that's magic."
He allowed a small laugh to escape, quiet and relieved. "And, of course, scoring a hat-trick doesn't hurt either."
The presenter chuckled, shaking her head. "Not at all. A hat-trick at Old Trafford, how often does that happen?"
Francesco looked past her again, briefly scanning the stands one last time. Even though most of the fans were leaving, the energy lingered, still alive in pockets, in waves of light from phone screens, in scarves waving in the cold night air. "Not often," he said with a small, reflective smile. "That's why tonight will stay with me. Not just the goals, not just the win… everything. The fans, the teammates, the history of this place. All of it."
Then he nodded toward the camera operators, acknowledging the crew, the technical team, the people who made sure these moments could be captured and shared. "And, of course, for the people watching at home. Those moments are for them too."
As he finished speaking, he felt a tap on his shoulder. One of the Sky Sports producers was signaling that it was time for photos with the trophy. Francesco nodded, cradling the match ball tightly as he moved toward the small table where the Man of the Match award rested. The lights, the cameras, the lingering shouts from the fans as they all blended together, but for Francesco, it was perfect. He felt alive, grounded, and connected in a way that only football could provide.
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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 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 18
Goal: 25
Assist: 0
MOTM: 4
POTM: 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