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Francesco exhaled, finally letting himself feel the weight of the moment. The next day would be the first step onto an entirely new stage, one where history and fame met, where legends and records waited, and where he as an eighteen years old, Arsenal and England's prodigy that would finally be recognized by the world not just as a player, but as a story in itself.
Morning in the Richmond mansion didn't feel like any ordinary morning, at least not to Francesco.
There was a different silence in the room when he opened his eyes.
Not the lazy weekend quiet or the peaceful hush before training,
but the kind of silence that fills the air just before a life-changing moment that thick, anticipatory, heavy with meaning.
He lay there for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, letting his mind process the reality waiting outside his bedroom door.
Switzerland.
Ballon d'Or.
Top three in the world.
At eighteen.
It still felt unreal.
Next to him, Leah stirred with a sleepy sigh, rubbing her cheek against the pillow before cracking one eye open.
"…You're awake early," she murmured.
"So are you," he whispered back.
"Only because someone kept turning in their sleep like a rotisserie chicken."
He cracked a smile at that, brushing a stray strand of hair off her face.
"Sorry. Big day."
"Mmhm. The biggest."
They stayed like that for a bit with faces close, breaths warm, the soft morning light slipping through the curtains like a shy guest. For a moment, everything was still. Calm. Almost too gentle for what the day would become.
But eventually, the world moved again.
Leah sat up, pushing her loose hair behind her shoulders. "Alright superstar," she said, tapping his chest, "time to pack."
Francesco groaned theatrically but got up anyway, stretching until his joints popped. His suitcase lay open on the floor, half-filled with carefully chosen outfits with the tuxedos from Armani, casual travel wear, essentials for the ceremony, and the boots he insisted on bringing "just in case."
Across the room, Leah packed with the precision of someone born organized. Dresses carefully folded, makeup tucked into little pouches, jewelry wrapped individually to avoid scratches.
"You don't have to pack everything you own," he teased.
She gave him a look. "I'm not showing up underdressed in front of half the football world. If you're walking into a palace of cameras, I'm not walking in looking like a background NPC."
He laughed and lifted both hands in surrender. "Okay, okay."
Downstairs, someone knocked on the front door.
A firm, confident knock.
Jorge.
Francesco zipped up his luggage and carried it down, Leah following behind with hers.
Sure enough, Jorge Mendes stood in the doorway, dark coat neatly pressed, expression sharp enough to cut glass. Behind him were three people he'd chosen for the trip—an assistant manager, a media specialist, and a personal security liaison. The kind of entourage only someone entering the world stage would have.
"Buenos días," Jorge greeted, stepping inside with purposeful stride. "Are you both ready?"
"As ready as we'll ever be," Francesco answered, lifting his bags.
Jorge looked him over that calm, evaluating, and oddly proud. "You look prepared. Good. Today is not a small day, Francesco. This is history in motion."
Leah smiled politely at the entourage before looping her arm through Francesco's. "We'll handle it."
Jorge nodded approvingly. "Excellent. Then let's move. At the airport, we'll meet Alexis Sánchez, Mesut Özil, and of course, Arsène Wenger. Arsenal is attending in representation. You three will travel together."
Francesco blinked. "Alexis and Mesut are already on the way?"
"They insisted," Jorge replied. "Wenger as well. The club wants to show unity. And frankly… they're proud. Extremely."
The words hit Francesco deeper than he expected.
Proud.
The kind of word no trophy could replace.
They stepped outside into the cold air, breath fogging instantly. The black executive van waited at the curb, engine humming softly. The luggage was loaded, the entourage seated, and Leah slid in beside him, slipping her hand into his as if anchoring him to reality.
As the van pulled away from the mansion, Richmond fading behind them, Francesco stared out the window while watching the world pass by, normal and unbothered, completely unaware that one of their own was heading toward one of the most prestigious stages in modern sport.
Jorge leaned forward from the front row, speaking without turning. "At the airport, there will be cameras. Journalists. Not an ambush, but an opportunity. Remember your posture. Calm, confident, polite. Let me handle the questions."
"Got it," Francesco murmured.
Leah squeezed his hand again. "You're going to be fine. Just do what you always do."
"What's that?" he asked, glancing at her.
"Be yourself. It's what got you here."
The roads blurred past with familiar lanes giving way to highways, the sky turning a lighter shade of gray-blue. His phone buzzed nonstop with notifications: congratulations, articles, DMs, mentions, edits, fan messages, predictions, even betting odds. Every major outlet in the world circulated his name.
But Francesco put the phone face-down.
Social media could wait.
Switzerland couldn't.
They arrived at Heathrow's private terminal forty minutes later. The vehicle slowed, turning into the secured area, and immediately Francesco spotted them:
Alexis Sánchez with lean, sharp-jawed, wearing a black beanie and bomber jacket, earbuds in; arms folded, waiting with the intensity of a man already imagining match tactics.
Mesut Özil that calm, elegant, wearing a long coat and scarf, expression soft but warm, waving the moment he saw Francesco.
And beside them, the unmistakable figure of Arsène Wenger that tall, dignified, hands in pockets, observing every detail like a grandfather watching over his prodigy.
The moment Francesco stepped out, Alexis whistled loudly.
"There he is!" he called, grinning as he jogged forward. "The boy who wants to take all our awards!"
Francesco laughed as the Chilean pulled him into a tight hug.
Mesut followed, giving Francesco a warm handshake before pulling him in gently. "We're proud of you, man. Truly."
Wenger approached last. His expression wasn't loud or dramatic; it was soft, full of warmth, and unmistakably proud.
He placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder.
"You deserve everything ahead of you," Wenger said quietly. "And I am honored to accompany you there."
It hit Francesco harder than he expected.
Not the compliment, but the sincerity behind it.
He bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, boss."
Wenger nodded once, squeezing his shoulder. "Now then… shall we go to Switzerland and make history together?"
As soon as Francesco, Leah, Jorge, Sánchez, Özil, and Wenger stepped toward the private-terminal entrance, the quiet morning Heathrow air shattered like thin glass.
The crowd hit them all at once.
Reporters surged forward with cameras lifted high, microphones jutting past shoulders, flashes erupting like tiny lightning bolts. Fans pressed against the security barriers yelling his name, waving Arsenal shirts, posters, scarves, whatever they could get signed.
Airport security that already briefed ahead of time are forming a moving shield around them, thick black jackets and radios crackling as they tightened their formation.
And right at the point of contact, taking the brunt of the chaos, was Jorge Mendes.
Jorge Mendes lifted one hand immediately, like a conductor quieting an orchestra, except this orchestra was made of fifty screaming voices and ten different outlets trying to shout the loudest question.
"Señores, por favor, one at a time," Jorge said smoothly, sliding into his polished, battle hardened mode. "He will not be answering questions today. We are on a strict schedule."
He didn't shout.
He didn't shove.
But somehow every journalist leaned in closer because when Jorge Mendes spoke, the entire football world tended to listen.
Microphones shot forward anyway.
"JORGE, IS FRANCESCO WINNING THE BALLON D'OR TONIGHT?"
"IS HE THE FAVORITE OVER MESSI AND RONALDO?"
"WHAT DO YOU SAY ABOUT THE COMPARISONS TO MESSI AND RONALDO?"
"WHAT DOES HIS FUTURE LOOK LIKE, WILL HE STAY AT ARSENAL LONG TERM?"
"JORGE, CAN YOU CONFIRM HIS CONTRACT BONUS FOR TOP THREE?"
Jorge answered with that perfectly measured PR calm WITH noncommittal, polite, precise. "We are honored to be here. He is focused. His priority is Arsenal. The rest, we will speak about after the ceremony…"
Behind the wall of noise, Francesco stayed glued to the plan.
Silent.
Calm.
Unbothered.
He kept Leah tucked close with one arm wrapped around her waist, the two of them moving in rhythm with the pace security set. She leaned into him instinctively THAT not out of fear, but support and he could feel her heartbeat through her coat.
Despite the chaos, Francesco slowed just long enough to sign a few shirts pushed toward him by trembling hands. A young boy nearly burst into tears when Francesco scribbled his name across the sleeve.
"Thank you," the boy whispered, voice cracking.
Francesco smiled softly and ruffled the kid's hair. "See you after the ceremony, yeah?"
Another fan shoved forward with a marker, and for a moment Francesco broke the protective positioning to sign her poster quickly before security nudged him back in.
Phones hovered over their heads recording everything.
People screamed his name like a chant.
Airport workers peeked from behind glass doors.
Leah slipped her fingers into his, squeezing gently as if reminding him: Breathe. You're handling this.
Alexis who walking just to Francesco's left leaned slightly toward him with a smirk, voice low enough to avoid cameras.
"You're causing earthquakes everywhere you go now," he muttered.
Mesut, on the other side, chuckled under his breath. "And this is just the airport."
Wenger walked slightly ahead, long coat fluttering behind him. Dignified. Calm. Head high. He moved through chaos the way only a man who had survived twenty years of Premier League pressure could.
But he glanced back just once, just enough to check that Francesco was okay.
Francesco nodded at him.
Wenger nodded back.
Security opened the main terminal doors and guided them inside as finally away from the crush, away from the echoing shouts, away from the cameras.
But even as the glass doors sealed shut behind them, Francesco could still feel the noise buzzing faintly in his bones.
Leah rested her head on his shoulder for a second while catching her breath.
"You did good," she whispered.
He let out a quiet laugh, warm, breathless. "That was… a lot."
"You'll get used to it," Jorge said as he stepped in beside them, smoothing down his coat. "This is only the beginning."
The walk through the terminal felt calmer that quieter in the way a storm becomes quiet once doors shut behind you, but Francesco's pulse was still running a little too fast, the adrenaline refusing to settle. The lights inside were soft, warm, and the polished floor reflected their steps like a runway into a different world. Leah stayed close to him, her hand brushing his every few steps, subtle but grounding.
They passed through two layers of security, private corridors, and a quieter lobby area reserved for charter flights. Out on the tarmac, the cold Heathrow wind slapped sharply against their faces, carrying the heavy scent of jet fuel and winter. And then it came into view:
Jorge's private jet.
Clean white body.
Chrome-trimmed windows.
The Mendes Management crest faintly near the nose.
Steps lowered, door open, the warm glow inside beckoning them.
It wasn't the biggest jet in the world, but it was unmistakably luxurious with the kind of plane that whispered status and preparation and "you deserve to travel well if you're heading to the biggest night of your life."
Jorge walked first up the steps with the casual ease of someone who had boarded hundreds of these. Alexis followed, boots thudding lightly. Mesut walked with hands tucked in his coat pockets, scarf shifting in the wind. Wenger climbed patiently, almost like he was boarding a simple commuter flight to France rather than a private jet to Switzerland for the Ballon d'Or.
Francesco waited for Leah, offering his hand.
"After you," he said with a playful tilt of his head.
She grinned. "Look at you, being a gentleman on a private jet."
"Trying to impress you," he murmured.
"You already have," she whispered back.
Together they climbed, stepping into warmth, into leather seats the color of rich caramel, into soft lights that made the cabin glow like a cozy lounge rather than an aircraft.
Francesco exhaled the moment he settled into his seat.
Not relief.
Not exhaustion.
Just a kind of… exhale that felt like letting go of the noise outside.
Leah slid into the seat beside him, removing her scarf and shaking out her hair before fastening her seatbelt with a small click. Across the aisle, Alexis and Mesut took their spots, already joking in Spanish about whose tuxedo would get more attention.
Wenger sat by the window, hands folded, posture elegant, as if he were about to lecture a university class on philosophy rather than football.
Jorge, meanwhile, was already in work mode with coat off, laptop bag open, his assistant whispering things about documents, schedules, interviews, rehearsal timings, red carpet placements. It was the kind of organized chaos that came naturally to him.
The door shut with a soft thud.
The engines hummed.
The wheels rolled.
And then the jet angled itself down the runway.
Leah reached over and silently placed her hand over Francesco's.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
He nodded, though his chest felt tight—not from nerves, but from the surreal weight of everything happening.
The engines roared softly, smooth and powerful.
And then they were airborne.
London slid away beneath them like a moving painting with patches of green, roads like silver veins, buildings shrinking down until they were no more than tiny squares between rivers of motion.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. They just breathed the kind of breath that comes after surviving noise and entering quiet.
Finally, Sanchez leaned back, stretched his neck, and muttered, "Dios… that was a lot of cameras. I swear every news outlet in Europe was there."
Özil nodded. "They want the story. The eighteen-year-old who broke every rule of what's normal."
Francesco chuckled lightly. "I didn't break anything."
"You did," Mesut said gently. "In the best way."
Wenger smiled quietly, gaze still fixed on the clouds outside.
Francesco unbuckled his seatbelt now that the plane had leveled off. He twisted slightly so he could talk to Wenger from across the small aisle.
"You know…" he began, tone thoughtful, "you should be the one expected to win an award tonight."
Wenger blinked, turning his head slightly. "Oh?"
Francesco nodded. "Best Coach. There's no one else who deserves it after last season."
Alexis lifted a hand instantly. "Agreed. A treble. A Premier League title with an unbeaten record for the second time. Champions League. FA Cup. Nobody touches that."
Mesut tapped his fingers against the armrest. "It wasn't just trophies. It was the way we played. Everyone respected it, even the teams who hated losing to us."
Wenger looked… embarrassed.
It was adorable, really.
He lowered his gaze slightly, shifting his glasses, almost trying to hide the small smile tugging the corner of his mouth.
"My friends," Wenger said softly, "these awards… they come and they go. Success is not measured in trophies alone."
"Boss," Francesco said gently, leaning forward, "we're not talking about trophies. We're talking about you. Your management. Your vision. You took a team that was stuck for years and turned it into the best in Europe."
"And the world," Sanchez added, raising a brow with emphasis.
Wenger chuckled under his breath. "You make it sound far grander than it was."
"It was grand," Mesut insisted. "People forget how hard it is to win even one competition. You made us win three."
"Three," Alexis repeated, raising three fingers. "In one year."
Francesco pressed on, eyes earnest. "Arsenal is winning the Best Club Award tonight. I know it. And if they don't give you Best Coach… it won't matter. We'll still know it belongs to you."
Wenger looked at him slowly that really looked, eyes soft but shining.
There it was.
The pride he tried so often to hide.
"I appreciate the sentiment," Wenger said, voice warm like a worn blanket. "But my job… my pleasure, truly, is watching you grow. That is reward enough."
"Oh, come on," Sánchez scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Take the damn compliment, boss."
Even Özil laughed at that, shaking his head with amusement.
Leah, smiling at all of them, raised a small menu from the holder beside her seat. "Okay, before this turns into a love-fest that makes them emotional" As she gave Francesco's thigh a gentle tap. "anyone want food? I'll order."
Alexis perked up. "Do they have empanadas?"
Mesut squinted at the menu. "Alexis… it's a private jet, not a Chilean restaurant."
"You never know," Alexis shot back.
Francesco leaned over her shoulder. "Get whatever you want," he murmured.
"I was planning to," she whispered cheekily.
She pressed the small service button and the flight attendant appeared within seconds. Leah placed orders with a confidence that made Francesco smirk as she always took charge around food, and he loved that about her.
"One grilled chicken sandwich… a pasta for him… soup for Mr. Wenger… coffee for Mesut… and whatever spicy option you have for Alexis," she said. "He can handle it."
Alexis puffed his chest proudly. "Damn right."
The attendant smiled and nodded before heading back to the small galley.
Meanwhile, Jorge was pacing gently in the aisle, the plane stable enough that he walked without issue. His phone was pressed to his ear, conversation crisp, clipped, very… Jorge.
"No, no, tell them we are not confirming anything until after the event," he said. "Yes. Yes, I understand. But timing is everything."
His assistant handed him a stack of papers from sponsorship agreements, media guidelines, red carpet placements, transfer clause clarifications. Jorge accepted them without breaking his stride.
Wenger watched him for a moment, amused.
"He never stops, does he?" the coach murmured.
Mesut shook his head. "He sleeps only when the world sleeps. And the world never sleeps."
Francesco laughed softly.
It felt surreal.
All of it.
This morning he had woken up in his Richmond mansion, staring at the ceiling with nerves swirling under his ribs.
Now he was flying to Switzerland in a private jet with Wenger, Sánchez, Özil, Leah at his side, and Jorge Mendes negotiating half the planet's football business behind him.
"Boss," Francesco said suddenly, turning slightly toward Wenger again, "can I ask you something?"
Wenger lifted his brows. "Of course."
"…What does today feel like for you?"
Wenger thought for a moment.
"It feels," he said slowly, "like watching a dream I did not dare believe would arrive so soon."
Francesco's chest tightened at that.
Wenger continued, eyes drifting toward him again.
"Players… extraordinary players… they emerge often. But someone like you? At this age? This maturity? This influence? This love for the game?" He shook his head. "It is not normal, Francesco. It is once in a generation."
Alexis pointed. "Exactly what I've been saying."
Mesut nodded. "He's right. You're different."
Leah laid her hand on Francesco's arm, thumb rubbing him gently.
Francesco felt heat rise in his face with not embarrassment, but something soft and weighty and impossible to hide.
He swallowed.
Voice low.
Barely above a whisper.
"I just… want to make you all proud."
"You already have," Wenger said.
And something in his voice made the entire cabin go still.
Warm.
Quiet.
Full.
A silence that wasn't empty, but overflowing.
Food arrived a few minutes later. Leah passed plates around with easy grace, exchanging smiles and teasing comments as she handed Alexis his spicy meal, which he sniffed like a detective trying to determine if it met his standards.
"It'll do," he decided.
"Thank you," the flight attendant said as Leah collected a spare napkin.
"You're welcome," Leah beamed.
She took her own plate, then curled her legs slightly toward Francesco on the shared loveseat-style seat. He nudged her knee gently before digging into the steaming pasta in front of him.
Warm food.
Warm cabin.
Warm company.
And miles and miles below, Europe passed silently beneath them.
Jorge eventually ended his call with a long exhale, pressing the phone to his chest for a second before sliding it into his pocket. He collapsed which is not dramatically, but with a rare show of relaxation that into one of the seats across from them.
"If any of you ever decide to retire early," Jorge said dryly, "I beg you to tell me at least a month in advance so I can prepare emotionally."
Sánchez laughed. "You? Emotional?"
"It happens," Jorge said, straightening his cuffs. "Less often than you, Alexis, but it does happen."
"¡Ay, Dios mío!" Alexis clutched his chest theatrically. "The man has jokes today. Must be the Ballon d'Or pressure."
Jorge's lips twitched faintly. "Believe me, I feel no pressure. The football world is already aware of his place tonight."
Francesco shook his head softly. "Nothing is certain."
"No," Jorge corrected, pointing a finger at him. "But prestige does not need certainty. You have already won something far greater."
"What?"
"The world," Jorge said simply.
Mesut chuckled. "That's very dramatic of you."
"It's true," Jorge countered. "No matter the result tonight, his story becomes global. Every young player will remember his name. Every club will fear him. Every defender will study him. And Arsenal—" he nodded toward Wenger "—will be the center of world football again."
Wenger gave a humble half-smile. "We try."
Leah leaned her cheek against Francesco's shoulder, whispering, "They're right, you know."
"I know," he murmured back. "But hearing it still feels unreal."
"It won't in a few years."
"Few years?"
She looked up at him with a smirk. "Okay… maybe next season."
He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
The plane continued its quiet hum across the clouds, shadows of mountains beginning to form far below as Earth changed beneath them.
Hours passed that not quickly, but peacefully.
They talked.
Laughed.
Shared small stories.
Alexis told a ridiculous tale about meeting a llama during a Chile national team trip.
Özil confessed he once missed a team meeting because he fell asleep cuddling his dog.
Wenger revealed he didn't actually like champagne as much as everyone assumed as he preferred a quiet glass of red wine at home.
Jorge revealed nothing, because he was Jorge.
And Francesco listened, soaking in every minute like sunlight.
It felt like a family.
Not a normal one.
A chosen one.
A football one.
At one point, Wenger quietly opened a small notebook with old, worn, frayed at the edges. He jotted something down.
Francesco nudged him softly. "Tactics?"
Wenger smirked. "I am always thinking about tactics, Francesco."
"Even on a private jet?"
"Especially on a private jet," Wenger corrected. "Peace is rare. A clear mind even rarer."
"What are you planning now?"
"Next season."
Sánchez groaned. "Boss, let us finish this one first!"
Wenger shrugged elegantly. "Football does not sleep."
Neither did Francesco, really.
His mind wasn't anxious.
Just… full.
Lights dimmed slightly as the cabin crew prepared tea, coffee, and small desserts. Leah fed Francesco a bite of tiramisu with a little "open your mouth" gesture.
He rolled his eyes but obeyed.
Alexis gagged dramatically. "You're going to make the jet fall from the sky with this romantic nonsense."
Mesut nodded. "I agree. Too sweet."
Leah lifted her fork like a weapon. "I will stab both of you."
Alexis raised both hands. "Lo siento, lo siento!"
Mesut laughed, sipping his coffee.
Eventually, Jorge looked at his watch.
"We'll be landing in about forty-five minutes," he announced. "Once we touch down, everything becomes more intense. Media. Interviews. Rehearsals. Wardrobe checks. Timelines. Red carpet. Coordinated entrances."
Leah squeezed Francesco's arm. "I'll be right next to you."
"I know," he said quietly.
"And I'll make sure your bow tie isn't crooked," she added.
"That's your real job tonight," he teased.
"Damn right."
The plane dipped slightly that beginning its descent, Switzerland rising to meet them.
Francesco inhaled slowly.
The mountains were breathtaking. Snow caps glowed like polished marble. The lakes caught the sunlight and sparkled like diamonds scattered across earth.
He had seen Switzerland before.
But today…
It felt different.
Like the view was greeting him rather than just existing.
Wenger leaned forward slightly, eyes soft. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
Francesco nodded. "Yeah… it really is."
"You'll remember this moment," Wenger said. "Years from now, when you have more medals, more trophies, more awards… this flight, this arrival, this age… it will stay with you."
Francesco swallowed.
Emotion built slowly in his chest not overwhelming, but steady and warm.
Leah gently took his hand again, giving it a delicate squeeze.
And Francesco whispered, almost to himself:
"…I feel like everything is changing."
Wenger's reply was calm, wise, and full.
"No," he said, placing a comforting hand on Francesco's shoulder. "This is not change, my boy… this is destiny catching up to you."
The jet dipped lower.
Clouds parted.
Runway approaching.
The jet dipped below the last thin veil of cloud, the Swiss landscape unfurling beneath them like something painted by a patient hand. Pines, rooftops, soft hills dusted white, and the shimmering coil of a distant lake as all of it growing larger, clearer, more real.
Francesco felt the shift in the cabin as the landing gear extended.
A low, steady hum.
A gentle vibration through the floor.
Leah's fingers slipping between his once more.
No one spoke now… not from nerves, but from the quiet, collective breath people take before stepping into something big.
The runway flashed into view.
A soft bump.
Then another.
Rubber against asphalt, smooth but grounded.
They were in Switzerland.
Wenger exhaled with a small smile. Alexis made the sign of the cross dramatically despite the landing being smoother than most bus rides. Mesut stretched his neck as if preparing for an interview already. And Jorge merely checked his watch again, already snapping back into work mode.
The aircraft slowed, drifted toward the private terminal, and finally rolled to a cautious stop beside a row of luxury jets.
But even through the thick windows, even before the door opened, they heard it.
The noise.
A wall of it.
Screams.
Camera shutters.
Voices shouting names.
Francesco blinked. "Are those… fans?"
Alexis leaned toward the window. "Madre mía… that's a lot."
Leah peered out too. "Love, they're here for you."
He stared at her. "They're here for all of us."
She kissed his cheek lightly. "Sure. But mostly you."
The door opened.
Cold air rushed in that sharper than London's, crisp with mountain wind. And with it came the roar of a crowd fenced behind barriers only fifty meters away from the terminal entrance.
The jet's staircase lowered.
A security team appeared below, headsets on, already forming a path.
Jorge stood first. "Everyone, stay close. No wandering. Cameras are everywhere."
Alexis smirked. "Relax. I'm not going to jump into the crowd."
"Not this time," Mesut murmured.
That made Francesco laugh, tension dissolving from his shoulders.
Wenger descended first, elegant despite the biting wind. Then Alexis and Mesut, the crowd reacting loudly to each name. Leah nudged Francesco gently forward.
"Go on, superstar."
He squeezed her hand. "Come with me."
"I'm right behind you."
Together they stepped out into the Swiss winter.
The cold hit instantly that not painful, but bright, almost electric. It sharpened the senses, made colors look crisper, made the whole world feel awake.
The moment Francesco appeared at the top of the stairs, the crowd erupted.
"FRANCESCOOOO!"
"LEE! LEE! LEE!"
"THE KING OF LONDON!"
"AR-SEN-AL! AR-SEN-AL!"
A sea of scarves waved of Arsenal red, Switzerland red, even a few Barcelona and Juventus fans holding banners with his name on them.
He paused halfway down the steps, momentarily stunned.
Not by the attention.
Not by the noise.
But by the sheer emotion of it.
The signs people held:
• "Teenage Legend."
• "My hero."
• "Ballon d'Or winner."
• "We love you, Francesco!"
Leah came down beside him and whispered, "Take it in. This is your world now."
He swallowed.
And took the last steps to the ground.
Security tightened around them immediately. The air was crisper here, thinner, mixing jet fuel with cold wind. The shouting continued, echoing like a chorus around the tarmac.
Alexis grinned at him across the path. "Welcome to chaos, hermano."
Mesut nudged him playfully. "Better get used to it."
Wenger walked with that patient stride of his, acknowledging fans with gentle nods. Jorge waved professionally, already signaling instructions to the event staff.
As they crossed toward the terminal, the crowd surged forward, pressing against barriers. Security pushed them back gently.
One young fan, a boy no older than ten yelled in a trembling voice:
"FRANCESCO! PLEASE!"
Francesco paused.
Security hesitated.
He raised a hand. "Just one second."
He stepped to the barrier.
The kid looked like he might pass out, breath turning to fog in the cold air. He held out an Arsenal shirt with Francesco's name and number printed on the back.
Francesco smiled softly. "Is this yours?"
The boy nodded rapidly.
Francesco took the pen offered by one of the guards and signed the shirt carefully, making sure the signature was neat and clear. He then leaned forward and ruffled the kid's hair gently.
"Thank you for supporting us," he said.
The boy burst into grateful tears.
Leah touched his back with quiet pride. Wenger watched with a smile that carried more pride than words. Jorge just nodded as if this moment would become PR gold tomorrow.
Inside the terminal, the noise faded but didn't vanish. Reporters pressed forward behind ropes, cameras snapping continuously.
A woman from the event staff approached. "Welcome to Switzerland, gentlemen and lady. The cars are ready."
They stepped outside again, this time into a lineup of black limousines gleaming under the winter sun.
The crowd screamed again as each of them entered their own car. Francesco and Leah shared one, Wenger took another, and Alexis and Mesut piled into a third.
The door shut.
Silence.
Warm, thick silence.
Leah leaned her head on his shoulder, her breath still a little uneven from the cold. "You handled that perfectly."
He let out a long, slow breath. "I didn't expect that many people."
"They love you," she murmured. "They see you."
The limo started moving, gliding away from the airport.
Outside, the mountains rose like stone giants dipped in snow. Tall pines lined the road. Swiss chalets dotted the landscape. Everything with every building, every hill that looked polished, precise, beautiful.
Leah took a photo through the tinted window. "Even the trees look rich here."
Francesco laughed, tension easing further into comfort. "They do."
She shifted slightly, curling her legs toward him. Her hand rested on his chest in a casual, intimate gesture that made the world feel softer.
"Are you nervous?" she asked.
"No," he said quietly. "Just… aware."
"Of what?"
"That today will be a memory for the rest of my life."
She smiled at him, nodding. "I know."
The drive continued, smooth and uninterrupted. Occasionally, Alexis's voice drifted through the open internal comm as he was talking loudly enough that even the driver laughed. Mesut sounded like he was lecturing him. Wenger was probably already planning lineups for next season.
When the hotel finally came into view, even the limo driver inhaled in appreciation.
The Ballon d'Or organizers had put them in a place that wasn't just luxurious as it was artfully, breathtakingly beautiful.
A sprawling five-star hotel built like a modern palace from glass, stone, warm wood, fountains frozen partially from the cold. Flags from nations across the world hung neatly around the entrance. Security was tight, with ropes guiding VIPs and staff ushering people with practiced precision.
And again, the crowd.
Hundreds.
Maybe more.
They pressed behind barriers around the hotel entrance, chanting names, waving flags, calling out to their heroes.
The moment Francesco's limo door opened, the sound hit again like a wave of music made entirely of human voices.
Flashlights burst.
Camera shutters snapped relentlessly.
"FRANCESCO!"
"LEE! OVER HERE!"
"HANDSOME COUPLE! LOOK THIS WAY!"
"FRANCESCO, SMILE!"
Leah stepped out first, coat wrapped around her dress, hair dancing slightly in the wind. Reporters immediately began shouting questions at her too, recognizing her as Arsenal Women's young rising star.
Francesco joined her, placing a hand on her lower back instinctively.
He waved to the crowd, smiling that not forced, but genuinely.
He could feel pride radiating off the fans, even from afar. Their warmth cut through the cold air.
Inside the hotel lobby, warmth swallowed them whole with rich golden lights, a massive chandelier glittering above, polished stone floors that reflected everything like water. Staff guided them immediately to the reserved check-in desks.
Wenger checked in with composed dignity. Alexis argued jokingly with a staff member about whether his room had a bathtub or not. Mesut asked if they had room service coffee available already. Jorge hovered over every detail.
Francesco and Leah approached the desk together.
"Welcome," the receptionist said with a respectful smile. "We hope your stay will be exceptional. Mr. Lee, Ms. Williamson, your rooms are on the twentieth floor. The Armani team is already upstairs waiting for last fittings."
Leah lifted her brows. "Already?"
"Yes, Ms. Leah. They wanted to ensure everything is perfect for tonight."
Francesco exchanged a glance with her.
"You ready?" he asked.
She smirked. "Always."
The elevator ride was quiet except for soft orchestral music playing from hidden speakers. Leah slipped her fingers into his again, watching the numbers rise on the screen.
"Twenty floors up," she murmured. "We better have a view."
"We will," he promised.
When the elevator doors opened, the hallway greeted them with warm, dim lights and a subtle scent of cedar wood. Their rooms were side-by-side but connected by a private internal door.
Two members of the Armani team stood waiting politely outside.
"Mr. Lee," one said with a nod. "Ms. Williamson. Everything is ready."
They stepped into Francesco's room first.
It was breathtaking.
A massive window overlooked Switzerland's snowy valley. The bed looked like a cloud sculpted into a rectangle. Soft carpets muffled every step. A tray of welcome treats from chocolates, fruit, wine that sat on a table beside an envelope embossed with the Ballon d'Or insignia.
And on the rack near the center of the room…
His tuxedo.
Silk lapels.
Custom fit.
Hand-stitched.
Designed for him and him alone.
The Armani tailor stepped forward. "Shall we begin, sir?"
Francesco nodded and slipped off his coat.
Leah sat on the sofa, watching with a small, almost secret smile.
He stepped into the trousers first, the fabric cool but perfect. Then the shirt with crisp white, fitted exactly to his shoulders. As the tailor adjusted the cuffs, Francesco caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
He looked older.
Sharper.
More composed.
Not a boy heading to a school ceremony.
A man walking into world recognition.
Leah rose and approached slowly, the heels of her boots silent on the carpet.
"Damn…" she whispered. "You don't even look real right now."
He laughed softly. "Good?"
"Dangerously good."
The tailor hid a smile.
Next came the jacket that smooth, weightless, immaculate. They checked the shoulders, the waist, the arm length. Tiny adjustments were made with expert precision.
Meanwhile, another Armani stylist knocked on the adjoining door.
"Ms. Leah? We are ready for your fitting as well."
"Oh God," she breathed in a half laugh, "they're about to put me into that dress."
She gave Francesco a teasing look. "Don't come peeking unless you want to get caught."
"I absolutely want to peek."
She nudged his chest. "Behave."
Leah disappeared into her room with the team, leaving the connecting door slightly ajar.
Francesco continued his fitting.
Bow tie adjustment.
Button alignment.
Minor stitching check.
Fabric smoothing.
The tailor stepped back finally. "Perfect."
Francesco turned slowly toward the mirror again.
It didn't feel like wearing clothes.
It felt like wearing destiny that tailored, shaped, polished.
"Sir," the tailor added, "you will turn heads tonight."
Francesco smiled. "Thank you."
When the tailor left, Francesco walked to the connecting door and knocked lightly.
"Leah? Everything okay?"
Her voice floated out with amused, breathlessly playful.
"Come in… but walk slowly."
He pushed the door open gently.
Leah stood by the window, the Armani team doing the last adjustments on the strap of her gown. The dress was a deep emerald green that shimmered like a jewel against her skin. Her hair was curled loosely, falling over one shoulder.
Francesco froze.
Not from shock.
Not from lust.
But from awe.
She looked like she belonged on the same stage he was about to walk that the kind of beauty that didn't compete with the world… it simply existed above it.
Leah saw his expression and grinned. "That good?"
He stepped closer, heart thudding. "You're… incredible."
She held his gaze, cheeks warming. "So are you."
The Armani team exchanged proud looks as they lived for reactions like this.
Leah lifted the hem slightly, revealing the way the fabric flowed. "Try not to trip when you walk beside me later."
"I'll be too busy staring."
She laughed softly and stepped toward him, taking both his hands.
"You're ready for tonight," she whispered. "I can see it in your eyes. You look like a man who knows exactly who he is."
He swallowed. "And who's that?"
She smiled gently.
"A legend in the making."
He leaned his forehead to hers.
"And you?"
She grinned. "I'm the girl who gets the best view of it."
The Armani team pretended not to listen, though several smiled behind their hands.
Outside the window, the Swiss mountains glowed in the winter light. Inside, Francesco and Leah stood face-to-face, dressed for the biggest night of their lives, the quiet hum of luxury and destiny settling around them.
________________________________________________
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: 21
Goal: 30
Assist: 0
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
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