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And the morning sunlight, soft and quiet, poured gently into the living room with the world outside already buzzing with opinions, headlines, debates.
Francesco stayed leaned back on the couch for a while, letting Leah finish off the last bites on her plate while Sky Sports cycled through replays, pundit arguments, slow-motion freeze frames, and the increasingly intense headlines that now seemed to shift every hour.
The adrenaline in his body had faded, leaving behind that morning-after heaviness that show not sadness, not fatigue, but a thick mental fog that comes when your brain still hasn't truly processed what happened.
He rubbed his hands over his face and exhaled.
Leah nudged him gently with her knee.
"You okay?" she asked again, softer this time, like she knew he wasn't answering the first version honestly.
He didn't lie.
"Not really," he murmured.
She didn't ask why.
Because she already knew.
Instead, she tapped the side of his leg lightly. "Open your phone," she said. "Before your mum starts yelling that you're ignoring her messages."
He snorted. "Why do you assume she's yelling?"
"Because she's your mum," Leah deadpanned. "She's always yelling, Francesco."
"Fair."
He reached over to the coffee table, picked up his phone, and unlocked it with his thumb.
Immediately with notifications flooded the screen.
Hundreds. Maybe thousands.
Mentions, tags, messages, reposts, videos, articles.
The whole world had something to say about last night.
Twitter threads.
Fan cams.
News outlets.
Clips that were already going viral.
But one notification sat right at the top:
Instagram that tagged in a post with 1.2M likes.
Leah leaned in closer, her chin resting on his shoulder.
"Go on," she said. "Open it."
Francesco tapped it.
The app opened instantly, lighting up the screen with one of the biggest football fan pages in the world that is @TheRealFootballVoice, the kind of account that posted clips of football drama, tactical breakdowns, and memes in equal measure.
The post was a video.
But not just any video.
It was the moment.
The incident.
The moment last night shifted from football to something else entirely.
The clip began with Matuidi jogging toward the referee to question a decision after his foul, nothing aggressive, nothing unusual. The audio was filtered, the crowd noise lowered so the voices could be heard more clearly. A faint subtitle appeared at the bottom:
"Ey, watch your tone."
"I'm speaking normally—"
"Don't talk like that, black."
The comment section exploded instantly on the screen as thousands of comments appearing so fast the app could barely load them.
But the clip didn't end there.
It continued showing the PSG players are sprinting, eyes blazing, jaw clenched, especially Cavani who shoving himself between Matuidi and the referee, hands planted firmly on Matuidi's chest to pull him back while shouting something inches from the official's face.
Then the players gathering, and the referee started to stepping back. Then came the security, who to made a wall between the referee and the players.
And then a second video slid into frame the hug, with Matuidi gripping Francesco as Francesco holding his head down like he was steadying him.
The caption read:
"Football stood up last night. Francesco Lee showed leadership beyond age, beyond football. Respect."
Francesco felt his chest tighten.
He scroll-paused the video.
Leah looked at him. "Hey…"
But he didn't speak yet.
He just scrolled down, slowly into the comment section.
And there it was.
A world speaking at once.
@bayernworldwide:
"Racism doesn't belong in our sport. Full support from Munich."
@ultraspsg:
"Matuidi, we stand with you. Respect to Francesco. Paris salutes you."
@madridismo_global:
"This referee's career should be over. Disgusting."
@juvefansonly:
"Where is this referee's account? Someone drop it."
@englishlionsnation:
"We need more captains like Fran. The kid stood up when grown men stayed silent."
@thekopend96:
"As Liverpool fans, we give respect where it's due. Massive leadership."
@fifa_memes:
"Find this referee. We're already warming up our keyboards."
@asianfootballcentral:
"Fran did what any brother should do. Proud of him."
@blackfootyfansunited:
"This is why representation matters in sport. Thank you, Francesco."
And thousands more.
Leah's eyebrows lifted as she scrolled alongside him.
"Jesus," she whispered. "They're everywhere."
And she didn't mean "they" as in fans.
She meant humanity.
People from everywhere who saw wrong and weren't debating it away.
Francesco pressed his lips together as he kept scrolling.
More comments.
More anger.
More praise.
More demands.
More people searching for the referee's name.
More people promising to "teach him a lesson online."
More people calling him unfit, unworthy, a disgrace.
Leah leaned her head slightly against his shoulder.
"You know they're going to find him," she murmured.
"Yeah."
"And when they do, he's going to get hammered."
Francesco didn't answer.
Because he didn't know how he felt about that.
Relief?
Satisfaction?
Guilt?
The world was moving fast and social media was accelerating it at warp speed.
Leah seemed to sense that swirl inside him.
She put a hand on his knee.
"You're not responsible for what people post online," she said gently.
"Feels like I am," he murmured.
"Why?"
He hesitated.
Then:
"Because last night… I'm the reason this blew up. I'm the one who confronted him. I'm the one on every clip."
"Yeah," she said softly. "Because you did the right thing."
He looked at her, quietly troubled.
"But what if doing the right thing comes with consequences? What if it ruins someone else's life? Even if he was wrong?"
Leah tilted her head slightly, studying him.
"Fran," she said carefully, "the man didn't make a mistake. He wasn't late on a tackle. He wasn't arguing a call. He used racist language. That is his responsibility. His choice. Not yours."
He didn't answer.
She touched his cheek, turning his face slightly toward her so he met her eyes.
"Listen to me," she whispered. "What happened last night was his doing. Not yours. And the world reacting? That's on the world. Not you."
He wanted to believe her.
He wanted to feel that what he'd done was simply right, clean, straightforward.
But the truth was rarely simple.
Especially when millions of people were watching.
He scrolled further.
More comments.
More outrage.
More fire.
Some comments were measured and thoughtful.
Others were furious and unforgiving.
Some were from kids barely teenagers.
Others from celebrities, ex-players, even politicians.
And more and more of them said the same thing:
"Find the referee's social media."
"Drop his account."
"We're going after him."
"Let him face the world."
Francesco exhaled deeply.
"This… this is getting dangerous," he whispered.
Leah nodded, pressing closer to him.
"It's the internet," she said. "People go to extremes."
He put his phone down for a moment, leaning back against the couch, his eyes drifting away from the screen.
His mind spinning.
Last night he hadn't thought about headlines.
He hadn't thought about Instagram.
He hadn't thought about fans or politics or the aftermath.
He saw someone being hurt.
He stepped in.
That was it.
Pure instinct.
Pure emotion.
Pure responsibility.
"Do you regret stepping in?" Leah asked quietly.
He didn't look up.
"No," he said instantly.
She nodded. "Good."
"But…" he continued, "I can't lie. I don't like seeing a mob form. Even if it's for the right reasons."
Leah sighed. "It's the modern world. People react fast, they react loud, and they react without thinking."
He rubbed his face again.
"And I'm in the middle of it."
"Yeah," she said softly. "But you're in the middle because you chose the right side."
Then Leah reached forward, grabbed his phone again, and handed it to him.
"Keep scrolling," she said gently. "Not everything is ugly."
He hesitated.
Then he took the phone back.
And she was right.
Mixed among the anger were messages that made his chest tighten in a wholly different way.
@matuidifansclub:
"Thank you. Thank you for standing up for him."
@francebleufans:
"You made us cry last night. Respect from Paris."
@ghanianfootballvoice:
"We saw courage. That moment meant more than you realize."
@diversityinsport:
"For kids watching last night, they saw hope."
@africanfootyunion:
"Young men like Fran give us belief in a better future."
@arctic_gunner:
"From Svalbard, even from here we support you."
@asian_kid_in_europe:
"As a kid who deals with racism in school… seeing you stand up makes me feel less alone."
Francesco swallowed.
His throat tightened.
He put the phone down again, this time because he needed to breathe.
Leah placed a hand on his chest.
"Hey," she whispered. "I'm here."
He closed his eyes briefly.
Not to shut out the world, but to gather himself.
The smell of breakfast lingered.
The sunlight warmed the room.
The TV hummed lightly with muted commentary.
Leah leaned against him, grounding him.
Life around him felt normal.
But the world outside, that wasn't normal.
Not today.
Not anymore.
He reached for the phone again, but this time he didn't scroll immediately.
He opened his own profile instead.
And there, right at the top of his notifications was something he didn't expect.
A message request from Blaise Matuidi.
And above it, a pinned comment from him on the viral video:
"Merci, frère."
"Thank you, brother."
Francesco exhaled again — longer, deeper, steadier.
Leah smiled softly and nudged him.
"You should reply soon," she murmured. "Before he thinks you're ignoring him."
He nodded slowly.
"Yeah… yeah, I will."
She stretched, leaning against him, letting her head rest on his shoulder again.
Francesco stared at the message from Blaise Matuidi for a moment longer before typing a reply. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitant at first, unsure what the right words with, is it polite, warm, firm? But then he let instinct take over, just as it had the night before on the pitch.
"Merci, frère. It means a lot to hear that from you. Last night… I just felt I had to do something. I couldn't stay silent."
He pressed send and exhaled, feeling a small, grounding sense of relief as the little "seen" checkmark appeared under the message. Not long after, his phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't a social media notification, it was a call. The caller ID flashed a name he recognized instantly: Jorge Mendes.
Francesco glanced at Leah. "Jorge," he murmured, a mix of curiosity and mild trepidation in his voice.
Leah tilted her head. "Your agent?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Only one way to find out." He swiped to answer.
"Fran! How are you, my man?" Jorge's voice was warm, familiar, and tinged with excitement. "Listen… sit down. This is important."
Francesco leaned back on the couch, Leah moving closer. "I'm listening."
"Well," Jorge began, "I just got off the phone with UEFA. They've been following the story, of course, everyone has. And… they want to do something. Big. Very visible. They want you, Francesco, to be part of a campaign."
Francesco raised an eyebrow. "A campaign?"
"Yes. 'Stand Against Racism.' It's going to be on posters, social media, every outlet they can. They want you to feature prominently, Fran. They want you to represent football standing up for what's right."
Francesco felt a rush of conflicting emotions. Pride, humility, disbelief. "They want me?"
"Yes!" Jorge's voice grew animated. "They're serious. And the best part, they want it done soon. How soon can you do this?"
Francesco glanced at Leah, who gave him a small encouraging nod. He felt a quiet determination swell inside him. "Of course," he said finally. "I'll do it. Tell them I'm in."
Jorge laughed, a warm, knowing sound. "Excellent! That's what I wanted to hear. Now listen, the photo shoot is tonight. UEFA will send a team to your mansion, and I'll come as well. They'll set up everything right in your living room. Temporary photo studio. You'll just have to be yourself, Fran. Easy. Authentic."
Francesco nodded slowly, already imagining the transformations his familiar living space would undergo. "Okay. I'll be waiting."
"Perfect. I'll handle all the details. Just be ready, the team will arrive around seven. I'll see you then, my man." Jorge hung up, leaving Francesco staring at the phone again.
Leah let out a low whistle. "They're really doing it. In your living room?"
He shrugged, a mixture of nerves and anticipation in his expression. "Yeah… I guess so. I just hope it all goes smoothly. I don't want it to feel staged. I want it to feel… real."
She touched his hand gently. "It will. Because it's you. Because last night was real. This… this is just showing the world what they already saw."
By evening, the sun was dipping behind the trees lining the mansion, painting long golden streaks across the floor-to-ceiling windows. Francesco paced slowly, Leah following, her presence a calm anchor as the adrenaline of the day ebbed and flowed in nervous waves.
A low hum of cars approaching made him glance out the window. Soon, the blacked-out vans rolled into the driveway. Moments later, staff in crisp black uniforms carrying lighting equipment, cameras, and backdrops emerged. Jorge Mendes stepped down from the first vehicle with his usual grin and confident stride, waving to Francesco as if it were an informal gathering rather than a professional setup of global significance.
"Fran! Ready?" Jorge called, clapping his hands once. "We'll make this quick, smooth. You just focus on… being you."
Francesco nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat. "Yeah. Let's do it."
The UEFA team moved methodically, unfurling large white and grey backdrops, positioning studio lights in the corners, adjusting reflectors so every shadow could be softened. Camera equipment was wheeled in, and a bank of monitors flickered to life, showing real-time previews of how Francesco would appear against each setup.
Leah had taken a step back, watching the transformation of their familiar living room into a professional photo studio. It felt surreal with the sofa replaced with a subtle stool, the coffee table cleared, golden light reflecting off soft panels. Everywhere she looked, the contrast between the personal and the public was striking.
"Feels weird, right?" she whispered to Francesco.
He chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah… like my life has been folded inside a spotlight I can't switch off."
"Don't think about it too much," she said. "Just breathe. You're standing for something real. That's what matters."
Jorge came over, checking Francesco's posture, the fit of his suit with a crisp, dark outfit that projected authority without losing warmth. "Perfect. You've got the presence, Fran. Look into the lens like you mean what you say. Not for the camera… for everyone watching. Let them see that courage, that integrity."
Francesco nodded. He glanced at Leah. She gave a small, reassuring smile and whispered, "You've already done that once. Just let them see it again."
The photographer, a UEFA-selected professional with years of experience in sports campaigns, began directing. "Fran, shoulders back. Chin up, but relaxed. Think about last night, the instinct, the responsibility. Don't pose. Just… be the man who did what was right."
Francesco inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment, allowing the memory of the pitch, the flare of tension, the eyes of Matuidi and the referee, the roar of the crowd, to settle in. It wasn't just the camera, it wasn't just the campaign. It was a reminder of why he did it — because he couldn't look away when something was wrong.
When he opened his eyes, the photographer clicked once. Light and shadow captured the raw emotion — a mixture of firmness, compassion, and quiet determination.
"Perfect," Jorge said, his voice low and approving. "Yes. That's it. That's the look. Now, Fran… just hold it. Let's do a few more angles. Side profile. Slightly leaning forward. Look like a captain, like a leader."
Francesco shifted subtly, careful not to overthink, letting instinct guide him as it had countless times on the pitch. Leah watched silently, proud and moved, feeling the power of the moment, the same power that had spread across millions of screens, now distilled into a single frame that could inspire countless more.
The photo session stretched on for hours. The UEFA team adjusted lights, experimented with background gradients, occasionally stopping to review shots on the monitors. Jorge offered encouraging words and small adjustments, always careful to keep the focus on authenticity rather than theatrics.
Somewhere in the middle, Francesco glanced at Leah. "It's… intense," he admitted.
She smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Yes. But it's the intensity of change, Fran. What you did last night… this is just the echo. People will see it. They'll feel it. They'll know courage exists."
The final shots were taken with Francesco alone, then with a subtle overlay of football elements as the pitch faintly blurred behind him, the UEFA logo in the corner, the words "Stand Against Racism" prominent but not overpowering.
As the team began packing up, Jorge clapped Francesco on the shoulder. "You did well. More than well. You were… honest. Powerful. Inspiring. This isn't just a poster, Fran. This is a statement. And it's you."
Francesco exhaled, feeling the weight of the day finally start to settle. He looked around at the remnants of the studio, the scattered equipment, and the familiar walls of his living room. It no longer felt like a private space, it was a bridge between his world and everyone who had seen the viral moment.
Leah moved beside him, taking his hand. "We did good today," she said quietly.
"No," Francesco replied, shaking his head slightly. "You did good. You kept me grounded while all this… chaos… happened. And… maybe the world too."
She smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder once more. "We just keep going. You lead, the rest of us follow."
Francesco chuckled, the tension slowly releasing. "Lead, huh? Feels… heavier than I thought."
"But worth it," she said. "Always worth it."
They sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the hum of departing vehicles, the low conversations of staff winding down, the distant calls of birds settling for the evening.
The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Francesco's mansion, slanting across the living room where the previous night's photo shoot had unfolded. Sunlight highlighted the faint marks on the polished floor where equipment had stood, the subtle shadows of reflectors, the displaced cushions with remnants of the day before that still carried a sense of surreal energy.
Francesco stirred awake on the couch, still in his suit from the evening's work, though loosened now, jacket draped over the armrest. Leah was already up, perched on the edge of the window seat with her phone in hand, scrolling slowly but intently. She looked up as he stretched, his shoulders stiff from hours of holding poses, his mind still half in dreams and half replaying the past night.
"Morning," she said softly, the kind of quiet that didn't demand an immediate response but invited one.
"Morning," he replied, his voice low, slightly hoarse from yesterday's emotions and adrenaline. He rubbed his face and exhaled. "Did I… sleep?"
"You did, but you were still twitching in your sleep," Leah teased gently. "All those angles, all those lights. Your subconscious is still posing."
Francesco chuckled lightly, a thin, tired sound that carried both amusement and lingering tension. He sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. "Feels strange… seeing our living room like that. It didn't feel like me, but somehow it did."
Leah smiled, sliding down beside him. "That's the point, Fran. You were standing for something bigger than the room. Bigger than the photo studio they created here. You were showing everyone who you really are."
He nodded slowly, staring at the sunlight hitting the floor. "I just hope people get it. I hope they see it for what it is, and not just another celebrity campaign."
Leah reached over, brushing a hand across his arm. "They will. Because it is real. You can't fake what you felt last night, and you can't fake courage."
By mid-morning, Francesco's phone buzzed repeatedly. Notifications were streaming in at a pace that was almost dizzying. The first few were from friends and teammates: "Saw the poster! Amazing!" "Fran, this is huge!" "Proud of you, brother!"
Then came the more formal notices with emails from UEFA itself, confirming that the photos were live on all official channels: their website, Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, TikTok, LinkedIn as every social media outlet they managed. The campaign had been rolled out overnight, fast and seamless.
He opened the UEFA website, and there it was: a large, striking photograph of him, suit tailored and posture commanding, but with a warmth in his expression that wasn't lost in the professional polish of the shot. The UEFA logo was subtly placed in the corner, and across the top, bold yet elegant, were the words: "Stand Against Racism."
Francesco's chest tightened as he stared at it. Thousands to millions of eyes would see this now. Football fans, young children, adults, parents. People who had witnessed racism, people who had experienced it, people who needed to see that it could be confronted. He felt a weight, a responsibility, but also a profound sense of purpose.
Leah leaned over, reading the caption alongside him. "It's everywhere," she murmured, voice soft with awe. "Their website, social media… there's even a billboard in central Paris showing your face and the slogan. They're really making a statement."
Francesco swallowed, leaning back. "I know. I saw the teaser pictures last night… I just… I didn't think it would hit the streets like this so fast."
Leah gently touched his arm. "That's the power of the right message, Fran. You stood up, and now the world is seeing that stand. It matters. It will matter."
The phone buzzed again, this time with a message from Jorge Mendes:
"Morning, Fran. Looks incredible. UEFA went live with it overnight. Social media is buzzing. Fans, players, media with everyone is talking. You're making a difference. And yes… Paris billboard included. Congratulations."
Francesco exhaled, a mixture of awe, anxiety, and something else he didn't have words for with a sense of being visible in a way that was both frightening and empowering. "It's… overwhelming," he muttered.
Leah squeezed his hand. "Of course it is. But it's the right kind of overwhelming. You're standing for something real. People need to see it."
He nodded, scrolling through the hashtags that had started appearing on Instagram and Twitter: #StandAgainstRacism, #FrancescoLee, #UEFA, #FootballForChange. Thousands of posts already, many sharing his photo, some quoting the slogan, some adding personal stories. Young players in kits holding signs, kids in classrooms drawing posters inspired by him, parents sharing the message with their children.
"Look at this," Leah said, handing him her phone. On her screen were several reposts from UEFA, showing youth football teams, coaches, and even amateur leagues using the slogan to educate and inspire. "It's spreading. It's not just a poster, Fran. It's becoming… movement-like."
Francesco stared at it, lips pressed together. The scale of it struck him. He'd faced something immediate, raw, and urgent on the pitch the night before a moment of instinct, of moral choice. Now, it had evolved into something far broader. The world was responding, absorbing the message, amplifying it in ways he could never have imagined.
A notification popped up from Blaise Matuidi. Francesco opened it.
"Fran, saw the poster. Incredible. UEFA did right by this. Proud to know you."
He exhaled again, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Merci, frère," he whispered, thinking of the man on the pitch, of the solidarity and trust that had made last night's courage possible.
Leah watched him, expression soft and proud. "You're going to get messages like that all day," she said. "From fans, from players, from people who just need to see someone stand up. You're inspiring them."
Francesco ran a hand through his hair. "I just… I hope it doesn't stop with me. I don't want this to be a single moment. I want it to… ripple. Make a difference."
"That's the point," Leah said, her voice firm but warm. "It's not about fame or glory. It's about standing up. And now people are seeing that even one person, even one footballer, can make a statement. Can make others think, can give them courage."
He nodded, feeling the warmth of her support, the grounding presence that had kept him steady through the viral storm of yesterday. "I guess… I didn't expect it to feel like this. So… visible. So permanent."
"Visibility is scary," Leah said gently. "But it's also the only way to change things. People need to see you. They need to see what courage looks like. They need to see that someone can act, even when it's hard."
Outside, Francesco's gaze drifted toward the skyline. In the distance, he imagined the billboards flashing across cityscapes from Paris, London, Milan, Madrid that showing his face, the UEFA logo, and the words Stand Against Racism. It felt surreal, as if his living room, once a quiet, personal space, had become a portal into the world's conscience.
"Do you think…" he began hesitantly, "do you think people will really listen?"
Leah leaned closer, resting her head against his shoulder. "Some will. Some may not. But the ones who need it — the kids, the players, the people who've felt powerless, they'll see it. And that's enough to start something. One poster, one photograph, one stand and it's a beginning."
Francesco exhaled slowly, letting the words sink in. He felt a mix of exhaustion, responsibility, and cautious hope. Yesterday had been instinct, reaction, a split-second decision that had spiraled into something immense. Today was reflection, awareness, and the realization that the ripples had already begun.
His phone buzzed again, and this time it was a stream of social media mentions: journalists sharing the poster, fan accounts posting it hundreds of times, UEFA's official channels boasting millions of impressions already. Comments poured in by the thousands: admiration, gratitude, encouragement, and even critical voices questioning whether a single campaign could truly change the system.
Francesco scrolled slowly, taking it all in, letting each reaction, each message, each heartfelt post sink in. It was chaotic. Overwhelming. And yet, there was a strange clarity to it all, the world had seen what he had done, and now it was responding, some with action, some with words, some with reflection.
Leah's hand found his again. "You're doing more than you realize," she said softly. "Not just by standing up yesterday, but by letting the world see that standing up is possible. That it matters."
He nodded, feeling the weight of her words, of the world, of the day ahead. "I suppose… this is just the beginning," he murmured. "And the hardest part might be… keeping true to it, keeping standing up, even when it's not easy, even when people are watching."
Leah squeezed his hand gently. "That's all anyone can do, Fran. Stand up, speak out, be brave. The rest… will follow."
Francesco exhaled again, the tension of the past two days slowly easing. He turned to Leah with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you. For everything. For staying with me, for grounding me. For… letting me be me."
She smiled back, eyes bright with warmth and pride. "Always, Fran. Always."
The mansion, bathed in morning light, felt alive with possibility. Francesco knew the day would be filled with messages, media coverage, interviews, and reactions from fans across the globe. And feel the hope that his stand, captured in that photograph, would ripple far beyond the walls of their home, far beyond the pitch, far beyond the headlines.
________________________________________________
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: 15
Goal: 19
Assist: 0
MOTM: 3
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