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...
And a stadium full of voices singing, not because they hoped, but because they knew that they were the champions.
For a few minutes, it was just that.
Noise. Music. Arms around shoulders. Parents meeting teammates. Cameras flashing. The white "16" glowing under the floodlights like something carved into history rather than printed onto fabric.
Then Francesco felt it again.
Not the flicker about the finals.
Something lighter.
Mischief.
He turned his head slowly, scanning the pitch.
Wenger was near the edge of the podium now, speaking quietly with a couple of staff members. Jacket still buttoned. Tie perfectly in place. Composed. Measured. Almost as if he were at a board meeting instead of standing in the center of a stadium that was still singing We Are The Champions at full volume.
Francesco's eyes narrowed slightly.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Leah noticed immediately.
"Oh no," she said.
"What?" he asked innocently.
"That look," she replied. "You're about to do something."
He kissed her forehead quickly.
"Stay here."
Before she could protest, he turned sharply and raised his voice.
"Boys!"
It wasn't a shout.
It was a call.
The kind that cut through noise because everyone knew that tone.
Alexis looked up first. Then Xhaka. Then Giroud.
Per, halfway through greeting a teammate's family, turned as well.
Francesco gestured subtly with his head toward Wenger.
Then he made a lifting motion with both hands.
For half a second, there was confusion.
Then understanding.
Alexis' eyes lit up like a child who had just been handed permission to break the rules.
"Oh yes," he said, already jogging forward.
Per blinked once.
"Are we—?"
"Yes," Francesco replied firmly.
He raised his voice slightly.
"Grab the boss!"
The reaction was instant.
Xhaka burst into laughter and clapped his hands. Giroud rolled his shoulders like he was preparing for a set piece. Kanté looked both delighted and mildly concerned at the same time.
Wenger, sensing movement around him, looked up just in time to see half his squad approaching with very clear intent.
He held up a hand.
"No, no, no—" he started, smiling despite himself.
Too late.
Alexis reached him first, grabbing one arm.
"Gaffer!" Alexis shouted over the music.
Giroud took the other.
Per stepped in carefully, almost apologetically.
"I am sorry," Per murmured in German-accented calm.
Wenger laughed, genuinely laughed, as Xhaka and Kanté positioned themselves.
"What are you doing?" Wenger asked, though he clearly knew.
Francesco stepped in front of him, grinning.
"You deserve it."
Before Wenger could respond, they lifted him.
Clean.
Controlled.
Strong.
Up into the air.
The Emirates reacted immediately.
The roar doubled.
It was like someone had turned the volume of the stadium up another level.
Wenger went up once, as the crowd exploded.
They brought him down carefully.
Then up again, as the cheer was even louder.
A wave of applause rolled through the stands, fans recognizing what was happening and loving every second of it.
Francesco looked up at him mid-air. For just a split second, Wenger wasn't the composed professor.
He was smiling wide, arms slightly out, coat flaring open as he rose above the players.
Third time.
They counted it together.
"One!"
Up.
"Two!"
Up again.
"Three!"
The highest one.
The loudest roar yet.
When they brought him down the final time, the stadium was chanting his name.
Not sarcastically.
Not ironically.
Fully.
"Wenger! Wenger! Wenger!"
He adjusted his jacket as soon as his feet touched the ground, smoothing it instinctively, trying to reclaim a little of his dignity.
But his eyes were shining.
Francesco stepped closer.
"Three in a row," he said softly.
Wenger looked at him.
"Yes," he replied.
There was something unspoken in that moment.
For years, the narrative had followed them everywhere.
That he had to sell his captain every season.
That Arsenal would always build and then dismantle.
That they would compete beautifully but never finish.
That they were a "top club" in name but not in trophies.
And now?
Three consecutive Premier League titles.
Two unbeaten seasons inside that stretch.
Sixteen in total.
Wenger looked around the Emirates, the red scarves still raised, the white "16" shirts glowing.
"Sometimes," he said quietly, almost to himself, "you just need to keep the right ones."
Francesco heard it.
He didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
The stadium had already answered.
The music finally began to fade, replaced by a rhythmic clapping that rolled around the ground like thunder moving in circles.
Francesco turned sharply again.
"Alright," he called out. "Bring the trophy."
Per lifted it first, holding it steady.
Francesco grabbed the other handle.
Then he looked at the group around them with players, families, girlfriends, children clutching small Arsenal flags.
"Together," he said.
Leah stepped closer to his side.
Sarah moved in behind him. Mike stood tall, clapping slowly.
"Let's show them properly."
They stepped off the podium and began walking.
Slowly.
Around the edge of the pitch.
The Premier League trophy gleamed under the lights, reflecting flashes from cameras and the gold confetti scattered across the grass.
The Emirates stood as one.
Not just cheering.
Clapping.
Rhythmic.
Grateful.
For three years, rival fans had tried to diminish them.
"Nearly men."
"Bottlers."
"Beautiful but soft."
For three years before this run, they had been a top club in structure, in style, in revenue, but without the league title to silence the noise.
Since 2003/2004, the Invincibles season, the trophy had stayed away.
Ten years of waiting before that first breakthrough three seasons ago.
Ten years of jokes.
Of banners.
Of rival chants.
Then it changed.
Three years ago, they lifted it again for the first time in a decade.
The weight of that first one had been relief.
This one?
This was dominance.
As Francesco led the walk, Leah beside him, Per holding the opposite handle, the rest of the squad surrounding them with families woven into the circle, he felt the difference.
The fans weren't celebrating survival.
They were celebrating power.
He raised the trophy slightly toward the Clock End.
The roar that came back felt like a wave crashing over him.
"Champions again!" someone shouted from the front row.
"Three in a row!"
Francesco nodded toward them, pointing lightly.
"You deserve it," he mouthed.
Leah leaned closer as they walked.
"They never stopped believing," she said.
"They were tired of defending us," he replied quietly.
Now they didn't have to.
They reached the North Bank.
Per lifted the trophy high on that side.
The clapping intensified.
Some supporters were laughing through tears.
Older fans hugging younger ones, telling stories that probably started with Highbury and moved through heartbreak and doubt before landing here.
Mike walked slightly behind Francesco, watching the scene with quiet pride.
"You changed the narrative," his father said softly, close enough for him to hear.
Francesco didn't look back.
"We all did."
His mother wiped her eyes again, clutching Leah's free hand briefly.
"You boys don't understand," Sarah said. "What this means to them."
Francesco did understand.
He had felt it in away grounds when rival fans mocked them when he was little.
He had seen it online.
He had heard it in interviews.
"Top four is your trophy."
"Always second."
"Never finish."
Now?
Three consecutive league titles.
Sixteen overall.
Two unbeaten seasons inside the stretch.
As they approached the halfway line again, Alexis grabbed the microphone from a nearby staff member without asking permission.
"Thank you!" he shouted toward the stands.
The response was deafening.
Giroud laughed and took the mic briefly.
"We are not finished!" he boomed.
More cheers.
Francesco didn't grab the microphone.
He didn't need to.
His leadership wasn't always loud.
Instead, he stopped at the center circle.
He lifted the trophy one more time.
High.
Slow.
Turning deliberately so every section could see.
The clapping turned into chanting.
His name.
Per's name.
Wenger's name.
Arsenal.
Arsenal.
Arsenal.
Leah squeezed his arm.
"Look at them," she whispered.
He did.
And for a moment, the weight of the last decade washed through him.
The jokes after finishing second.
The press conferences questioning whether Arsenal could ever truly return.
The selling of captains.
The narrative that the club would always choose sustainability over silverware.
And then, three years ago.
The first title after ten long seasons without one.
The shift.
The belief returning.
Now three in a row.
The abuse from rival fans had faded into grudging respect.
You couldn't mock a dynasty.
As they completed the lap, children ran a few steps ahead, chasing confetti. Kanté laughed as a small boy tugged on his sleeve. Xhaka posed dramatically for cameras. Per walked with measured calm, but his eyes were alive.
Wenger followed slightly behind the players, hands clasped loosely, watching his team, his club, his stadium.
This was proof.
If he didn't have to dismantle every summer.
If he didn't have to sell his captain year after year.
If he could build and keep.
He could make Arsenal champions.
Not once.
Not twice.
But consistently.
Francesco slowed near the dugout, turning toward Wenger.
He extended the trophy toward him.
Wenger hesitated for just a second.
Then he placed his hands on it.
The Emirates roared again.
Francesco stepped aside, allowing him to lift it alone for a moment.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't theatrical.
It was simple.
And powerful.
Three years.
Three titles.
Sixteen in total.
As they finished the lap and began drifting back toward the center, the noise didn't die.
It settled into something steadier.
Satisfied.
Francesco wrapped an arm around Leah again.
"Tonight," he said quietly.
"Yes," she replied.
"Full house."
He nodded.
Leah's family at the mansion.
His parents already here.
Teammates celebrating.
Two finals still ahead.
But for now, the Emirates glowed red and gold.
The trophy gleamed.
And for the first time in a long time, Arsenal supporters didn't have to explain themselves.
They didn't have to defend the past.
They didn't have to endure the jokes about 2004.
It had all changed three years ago.
And tonight, walking that trophy around the stadium for the third consecutive time, it felt undeniable.
The noise didn't fall away.
It settled.
It became something warm instead of explosive, like a fire that had burned bright and now glowed steady, confident in its strength.
Francesco stood at the center circle with Leah tucked against his side, the trophy still gleaming under the lights, and he felt something building in his chest that wasn't adrenaline.
It was unfinished.
Not the season.
The moment.
He looked around the Emirates one more time. Every stand still packed. No one leaving. Scarves draped over shoulders. Children perched on railings. Older supporters leaning forward, elbows pressed against barriers as if trying to physically absorb the sight of their team still on the pitch.
He turned to one of the Arsenal staff members near the touchline.
"Mark," he called.
Mark jogged over, slightly out of breath from running back and forth all evening.
"You're not tossing anyone else, are you?" he asked cautiously.
Francesco smiled faintly.
"No. I need a microphone."
Mark blinked.
"A microphone?"
"I want to speak to them."
Mark glanced toward the stands, then back at him, reading the seriousness in his eyes.
"Give me thirty seconds."
He ran off.
Leah looked up at Francesco.
"You didn't plan this," she said.
"No," he admitted.
"You're about to say something big."
He exhaled slowly.
"I have to."
Per drifted closer, sensing something shifting again.
"What are you doing now?" he asked, half amused.
"Talking," Francesco replied.
Per nodded once.
"Good."
Mark returned, holding a wireless microphone. He handed it over carefully, like it was something fragile.
"You sure?" Mark asked quietly.
Francesco nodded.
The moment the fans saw the microphone in his hand, a ripple passed through the stadium.
It wasn't loud at first.
It was awareness.
Then gradually, like someone lowering a dimmer switch as the noise softened.
Chants slowed.
Clapping faded.
A hush spread across the Emirates, section by section.
It wasn't forced.
It was respect.
Francesco stepped forward slightly, lifting the microphone toward his mouth.
For a second, he didn't speak.
He just looked.
At the Clock End.
At the North Bank.
At the families still scattered on the pitch.
At Wenger standing a few yards behind him.
He swallowed.
"When I was little," he began, his voice steady but not theatrical, "I used to sit up there."
He pointed toward the stands.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
"I was an Arsenal fan before I was anything else."
The stadium responded with a gentle wave of applause, then quiet again.
"I remember 2003/2004," he continued. "I remember the Invincibles. I remember thinking that's what Arsenal was. That's what we were supposed to be."
His voice shifted slightly that less celebratory now. More honest.
"And then… I remember the years after."
The silence deepened.
"I remember rival fans laughing at us."
A few scattered boos echoed that not at him, but at the memory.
"I remember hearing 'Top four is your trophy.' I remember hearing 'Nearly men.' I remember hearing that we would never finish it."
He paused.
"I felt that. Not just as a player. As a fan."
He glanced toward Wenger briefly.
"I came through the academy here. I wore this badge before anyone knew my name. And every year I told myself the same thing…"
His grip tightened slightly on the microphone.
"One day, I'll help bring us back."
The crowd responded with louder applause now. Emotional. Not wild.
He nodded slowly.
"For ten years after 2003/2004, we waited."
A few older supporters wiped at their eyes.
"We watched other clubs lift it. We listened to the jokes. We heard the banners."
His voice hardened slightly.
"We were a top club, but without the trophy."
A low rumble of agreement moved through the stands.
"Three years ago," he said, his tone lifting now, "we changed that."
The roar that followed was immediate.
He raised a hand gently, asking for calm again.
"Three years ago, we lifted it for the first time in a decade."
Applause.
"And since then…"
He looked around the stadium slowly.
"We haven't stopped."
The crowd began to cheer again.
"Three in a row," he said firmly.
The words echoed around the Emirates.
"Three consecutive Premier League titles."
He lifted three fingers.
"And two unbeaten seasons in that run."
A roar.
He took a breath.
"They said we couldn't finish."
He smiled now.
"They said we would always build and sell."
He glanced at Wenger again, and the crowd followed his gaze.
"They said we'd never dominate again."
His voice rose.
"Look at us now."
The Emirates exploded.
Francesco let the noise wash over him for a second before speaking again.
"They mocked us for living in 2004."
He shook his head lightly.
"Well now…"
His grin widened.
"Now we have three Invincibles in our club history."
The reaction was thunderous.
Chants erupted immediately.
"Invincibles! Invincibles!"
He nodded.
"And now," he said, voice cutting through the noise, "now we don't have to defend ourselves anymore."
He lowered his tone, making it personal again.
"I promised myself when I was in the academy… when I was watching from the stands… that if I ever wore this shirt for the first team, I would bring Arsenal back to where it belongs."
His eyes scanned the crowd again.
"Back to glory."
He gestured around him.
"This is glory."
Applause crashed over him again.
He waited, then continued.
"But we are not done."
The shift was immediate.
The energy sharpened.
"We have two finals left."
The stadium roared at the mention.
"The FA Cup."
Cheers.
"The Champions League."
Even louder.
He nodded slowly.
"You stood by us through the waiting. Through the jokes. Through the years without a league title."
His voice softened.
"You believed when other people didn't."
He pointed toward the stands.
"So I'm making you a promise."
The stadium fell silent again.
"We will win the FA Cup."
Roar.
"We will win the Champions League."
The roar doubled.
"And we will defend our treble."
That did it.
The noise was seismic.
He lowered the microphone slightly but kept speaking, raising his voice over the cheers.
"This is Arsenal!"
The crowd responded instinctively.
"ARSENAL!"
He repeated it.
"This is Arsenal!"
"ARSENAL!"
He smiled, breathing heavily now that not from exertion, but emotion.
"For every fan who was mocked."
"For every kid who was told we'd never finish."
"For everyone who waited ten years after 2004."
He tapped the badge on his chest.
"This is yours."
He paused.
"And we're not finished writing."
He lowered the microphone.
For half a second, there was silence like the stadium inhaled.
Then the explosion.
The Emirates erupted into the loudest cheer of the night.
People were on their feet, jumping, clapping, shouting.
Some were crying openly.
Others hugged strangers beside them.
Scarves were lifted high.
Chants started immediately as his name echoing around the ground in waves.
"Francesco! Francesco!"
He stood still for a moment, letting it hit him.
Leah stepped close again, eyes shining.
"You've just set the bar very high," she whispered.
He laughed softly, still staring at the stands.
"I meant every word."
Behind him, Per placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You carry them," Per said quietly.
Francesco shook his head.
"We carry each other."
He looked toward Wenger.
The manager's expression wasn't dramatic.
It was proud.
Deeply proud.
Because they all knew the truth.
The rise of Arsenal over the last three years had coincided with one moment.
Francesco's professional debut.
The academy kid who refused to leave.
The fan who became captain.
The player who didn't just score goals, but changed belief.
The crowd kept chanting.
Some fans were crying openly now as grown men wiping tears without embarrassment. Young kids screaming his name until their voices cracked.
They weren't just celebrating a title.
They were celebrating a return.
A restoration.
The memory of the decade without a league title didn't hurt anymore.
It made this sweeter.
Francesco lifted the trophy one last time, holding it high above his head as the chanting rolled through the Emirates again.
Three in a row.
Sixteen total.
Three Invincibles in club history.
And two finals waiting.
As the noise continued to crash over him, he allowed himself one small, private thought:
This was what he had vowed as a boy in the stands.
And now the entire stadium knew it.
The rise of Arsenal over the past three years wasn't an accident.
It wasn't luck.
It was belief turned into action.
The sound didn't disappear after his speech.
It rolled.
It echoed off steel and glass and memory.
"Francesco! Francesco!"
The chant kept circling the Emirates like it didn't want to leave.
Francesco stood there for a second longer than he meant to, the trophy still in his hands, the microphone hanging loosely at his side. Leah's fingers were hooked into the back of his shirt, grounding him. His parents stood just behind him. Wenger was a few steps back, watching everything with that familiar stillness.
And then, slowly, Francesco turned his head.
He found Per.
Per wasn't in the middle of it. He never was.
He stood slightly off to the side, tall frame unmistakable, medal resting against his chest, expression calm but softer than usual. There was pride in his eyes. Pride and something else.
Something reflective.
Francesco looked down at the microphone in his hand.
Then back at Per.
The decision was immediate.
He stepped toward him.
The crowd's chanting faded a notch as they saw the captain move again.
Francesco stopped in front of Per and held the microphone out.
Per looked at it.
Then at him.
"What are you doing?" Per asked quietly.
Francesco didn't smile this time. He just held his gaze.
"It's your turn," he said.
Per blinked once.
"My turn?"
Francesco nodded.
"Retirement speech."
The word hung there between them.
Retirement.
It wasn't new. Per had announced months ago that this would be his final season. That his body had given enough. That he wanted to leave on his own terms.
But in the middle of title celebrations and trophy lifts, it hadn't felt real.
Now it did.
Per let out a slow breath.
For a split second, something flickered across his face.
Recognition.
Oh.
Yes.
This is the last one here.
The last time at the Emirates as a player.
A sad smile crept onto his face.
Not heavy.
Not regretful.
Just aware.
"I had almost forgotten," he murmured.
Francesco's voice softened.
"Don't."
He gently pushed the microphone into Per's hand.
"You deserve this too."
The stadium, sensing something shifting again, gradually quieted. The energy changed that not less intense, but more focused.
The giant screens above the stands flickered.
Arsenal staff were already moving behind the scenes.
A graphic appeared.
Per Mertesacker.
Years in red and white.
Appearances.
Goals.
Clean sheets.
Trophies.
The crowd reacted immediately.
A wave of applause rose, steady and full.
Per turned slightly, looking up at the screen.
Clips began playing.
His debut.
That first towering header.
Defensive blocks in rain-soaked matches.
The FA Cup final clearance years ago.
Moments of frustration.
Moments of triumph.
He swallowed.
He hadn't expected this.
He lifted the microphone slowly.
For a second, he didn't speak.
He just looked around.
At the Emirates.
At the stands he had defended in front of for years.
At the pitch he had bled on.
At his teammates, his family in another form.
He gave a small nod, almost to himself.
"Good evening," he began, voice calm, unmistakably his.
The fans applauded again.
He smiled faintly.
"I did not prepare something… dramatic."
Laughter rippled through the stands.
"That is not my style."
More laughter. Softer.
He looked toward Francesco briefly.
"But this man… he does not let you hide."
The crowd cheered.
Per exhaled slowly.
"Yes," he said. "This is my last season."
The words felt heavier spoken aloud in that space.
"I told you months ago."
He paused, letting the noise settle again.
"And today… this is my last match at the Emirates."
That hit.
A collective intake of breath.
Then applause.
Long.
Appreciative.
He nodded, acknowledging it.
"When I arrived at Arsenal," he continued, "I was not the loudest player. I was not the fastest."
A few playful cheers.
"I was very tall," he added dryly.
The stadium laughed warmly.
"But I came because I believed in something."
His voice steadied further.
"I believed in this club. In the way we play. In the way we try to win with courage and intelligence."
He looked toward Wenger.
"And in this man."
The cameras cut briefly to Wenger, who gave a small, respectful nod.
Per continued.
"I have seen difficult years here. Years when we were close. Years when we were doubted."
The fans hummed in agreement.
"And I have seen beautiful years."
He gestured around.
"Like this."
Applause swelled.
"When I announced my retirement, I did not know how this season would end."
He smiled gently.
"But I hoped."
He glanced at the trophy.
"To finish like this… with another Premier League title."
Cheers erupted.
"With a chance to win the FA Cup."
More cheers.
"With a chance to win the Champions League."
The loudest of the three.
He nodded slowly, emotion finally breaking slightly into his voice.
"For a defender, you do not always get the headlines."
The crowd responded warmly.
"You do not always get the songs."
A chant of "Per! Per! Per!" immediately rose from one corner.
He laughed softly.
"Okay… sometimes you get songs."
The crowd roared again.
He took a breath.
"But what you get… is trust."
He placed a hand on his chest.
"And I have felt your trust."
He looked toward the North Bank.
"I have felt it when I was not perfect."
That earned a ripple of emotional applause.
"I have felt it when I was injured."
More applause.
"And I have felt it when we lifted trophies."
He gestured toward the screen again as the staff displayed his statistics:
Seasons played.
Appearances in all competitions.
Goals from corners that shook the stadium.
FA Cups.
League titles.
Community Shields.
And now, three Premier League medals in the modern era of his career.
The crowd reacted to each milestone with cheers.
Then something shifted in the Clock End.
A movement.
Fabric unfolding.
Slowly.
Section by section.
A massive tifo began to rise.
Red and white fabric stretching upward, supporters lifting it in unison.
It was his face.
Per Mertesacker.
Illustrated in bold lines.
Arms crossed.
Captain's armband visible.
Above him, written in white across red:
"Danke Per."
The reaction was immediate.
A collective gasp.
Then applause that felt almost overwhelming.
Per stopped mid-sentence.
He turned fully toward it.
For a moment, the composed defender wasn't composed at all.
His jaw tightened.
His eyes glistened.
He lowered the microphone slightly, just staring at it.
The tifo rippled as thousands of hands held it high.
The entire section chanting his name now.
"Per Mertesacker! Per Mertesacker!"
He blinked hard once.
Twice.
Then lifted the microphone again.
"I did not expect that," he admitted quietly.
The crowd laughed through their applause.
He shook his head slightly.
"When you leave football, you hope you are remembered as someone who gave everything."
His voice wavered just slightly.
"I gave everything here."
The stadium roared in affirmation.
"And to finish my career at the Emirates like this…"
He looked at Francesco.
"…with this team."
He smiled.
"With this captain."
The chant shifted briefly to include both of them.
Per nodded.
"I am happy," he said.
Truly happy.
"There is sadness, yes."
He didn't hide it.
"But there is more pride."
He gestured around again.
"Three titles in a row."
Cheers.
"Three Invincible seasons in our history."
More cheers.
"And a new generation that refuses to accept limits."
He placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder.
"This club is in good hands."
The roar that followed was almost as loud as the earlier speech.
He took a final breath.
"I will not wear this shirt again at this stadium as a player."
The words were heavy now.
"But I will always belong here."
The crowd responded with a standing ovation that rolled like thunder.
He lowered the microphone slightly, then lifted it once more for his final words.
"Thank you for trusting me."
Applause.
"Thank you for singing for me."
Applause.
"And thank you for believing in us."
He nodded.
"Gunners forever."
He handed the microphone back to Francesco.
The two embraced immediately.
Not a quick one.
A real one.
Teammates clapped around them.
Some fans were openly crying now that not from triumph alone, but from farewell.
Francesco leaned close to his ear.
"You finished the right way," he said softly.
Per smiled against his shoulder.
"Yes," he replied. "I did."
The tifo still waved high in the stands.
The giant screens replayed his best defensive moments one more time.
A sliding block at Anfield.
A header at Wembley.
A fist pump toward the North Bank.
The Emirates continued chanting his name.
Not fading.
Not slowing.
Sustained.
Because they knew.
They weren't just celebrating a title.
They were saying goodbye to a pillar.
As Per stepped forward to wave one last time to each stand, the applause followed him around the pitch.
Francesco watched him, medal against his chest, heart steady but full.
This was what legacy looked like.
Not noise.
Not headlines.
Trust.
Trophies.
Loyalty.
The applause didn't fade when Per finished.
It followed him.
Around the pitch. Across the halfway line. Past the center circle where he had commanded so many defensive lines, stepped up for so many corners, barked so many instructions in that deep, steady voice.
Francesco stood still for a moment, watching him wave to each stand one last time as a player.
North Bank first.
Then Clock End.
Then East.
Then West.
Every section responded the same way are on their feet, clapping not just for the trophies, but for the years. For the blocks. For the quiet consistency. For the way he never hid.
Leah squeezed Francesco's hand gently.
"That's what loyalty looks like," she whispered.
Francesco nodded.
"And respect," he replied.
Per finally made his way back toward the group, still smiling, though his eyes were red now. Not from sadness alone. From something fuller than that. Completion.
Before they could properly settle again, a member of Arsenal's media team approached.
"Francesco. Per," she said, slightly breathless but professional. "Sky Sports want you both pitch side. They're set up already."
Francesco glanced toward the sideline.
The cameras were there.
The big broadcast rig.
Floodlights angled.
Microphones ready.
And standing beneath them.
Gary Neville.
Jamie Carragher.
Ian Wright.
And beside them, arms folded casually but unmistakable, Thierry Henry.
Francesco felt that small jolt in his chest again.
Not nerves.
Recognition.
Leah followed his gaze.
"Oh," she murmured. "That's… quite a panel."
He laughed softly.
"Yeah."
Per exhaled beside him.
"I thought my speech was the emotional part," he muttered.
Francesco nudged him lightly.
"Not done yet."
They began walking together toward the sideline.
The crowd noticed immediately and another wave of cheers followed them, trailing them like a current. Cameras tracked their movement on the big screens overhead.
As they approached, Ian Wright stepped forward first, beaming.
"Here they are!" Wrighty shouted into his mic, grinning wide enough to light the entire stadium. "The champions!"
The crowd roared again.
Gary Neville offered a respectful nod, professional but clearly impressed.
Jamie Carragher clapped slowly, shaking his head.
Thierry Henry didn't move at first.
He just watched them approach.
Measured.
Observant.
Francesco noticed that.
Of course he did.
They reached the broadcast line. A stagehand quickly clipped microphones to both Francesco and Per.
Wrighty didn't waste a second.
"First of all," he said, turning toward Per, "what a way to say goodbye to the Emirates."
The crowd cheered again at the reminder.
Per smiled modestly.
"It is a good way," he admitted. "I cannot complain."
Gary Neville stepped in smoothly.
"Per, you've seen this club through transition. Through doubt. Through criticism. And now with three league titles in a row. What does this era mean to you compared to the early years?"
Per took a breath.
"It means stability," he said simply. "It means belief that was allowed to grow."
Carragher nodded slightly.
"You felt the doubt?" he pressed.
Per didn't dodge it.
"Of course. We all did. After 2004, expectations were still high. But the trophies were not there."
The crowd hummed.
"And now?" Neville asked.
Per glanced sideways at Francesco.
"Now there is no doubt."
Applause rippled outward.
Ian Wright turned to Francesco with barely contained excitement.
"Alright, young man," he said, grinning. "You've just promised this lot a treble."
The crowd roared at that reminder.
Francesco didn't flinch.
"I did."
Carragher smirked.
"That's pressure."
Francesco shrugged lightly.
"We're used to it."
Neville folded his arms slightly.
"You spoke about the mocking. About 2004. About the narrative around Arsenal for a decade. Did that genuinely fuel you?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
The answer was calm. Immediate.
"I grew up hearing it. I came through the academy hearing it. You can't ignore that."
Henry finally shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing with interest.
"What did it feel like," Henry asked quietly, "to carry that as a fan first?"
The question wasn't aggressive.
It was personal.
Francesco met his gaze.
"It felt… unfair," he admitted. "Because I knew what this club stood for. I knew the work happening inside. But from the outside, it was just jokes."
The crowd murmured in agreement.
"And when you made your debut?" Henry continued.
Francesco smiled faintly.
"I told myself the same thing I told them tonight. One day, we'll change it."
Henry nodded slowly.
"And you did."
That landed heavier than anything else so far.
Hearing it from him.
From Thierry Henry.
Ian Wright jumped back in.
"Three league titles. Two unbeaten seasons in that stretch. And now potentially another treble. Do you understand what kind of era this is becoming?"
Francesco glanced toward the stands.
"I think we're still in it," he said. "So maybe not fully."
Carragher leaned in.
"Be honest, when you look around at this squad, do you see fear in anyone before finals?"
Francesco smiled slightly.
"No."
Per chuckled beside him.
"He is telling the truth."
Neville raised an eyebrow.
"Confidence or arrogance?"
Francesco shook his head.
"Confidence."
The answer drew applause.
Henry's expression softened slightly at that.
"What's different about this Arsenal compared to the one people mocked?" he asked.
Francesco thought about it for a moment.
"We don't accept limits," he said finally. "Not from outside. Not from history."
The crowd reacted again.
"And we don't sell our belief anymore."
That line hit home.
Neville nodded.
"That's noticeable."
Ian Wright turned back to Per.
"You're walking away knowing the club is strong again. That must mean something."
Per's smile returned.
"It means I can leave peacefully."
The stadium applauded warmly.
Carragher smirked slightly.
"Do you regret retiring now that you're winning everything?"
Per laughed softly.
"No. My body reminds me every morning that this is the right time."
Even Neville laughed at that.
Henry stepped slightly closer to Francesco now.
"You've mentioned the Invincibles three times tonight," he said calmly.
The crowd chuckled.
Francesco grinned.
"Deserved."
Henry tilted his head.
"You're aware that's dangerous territory."
Francesco held his gaze.
"We respect what you did. But we're building our own history."
The air tightened slightly.
Not hostile.
Competitive.
Henry's lips curved into the faintest smile.
"Good answer."
Wrighty burst out laughing.
"He's not scared of you, Thierry!"
The crowd roared.
Henry shook his head slightly.
"That's good. Arsenal captains shouldn't be."
Neville glanced between them.
"You see yourself surpassing him?"
The question was bold.
Francesco didn't dodge it.
"I see myself helping Arsenal win as much as possible."
Henry studied him carefully.
"Goals matter," he said.
"I know," Francesco replied.
The moment lingered.
Then Henry extended a hand.
"Keep going."
Francesco shook it.
The crowd erupted at that handshake alone.
Carragher whistled softly.
"That's symbolic."
Neville nodded.
"Very."
Ian Wright lifted his mic again.
"Final question. For both of you. What does tonight mean?"
Per answered first.
"For me?" he said. "Closure. Pride. Gratitude."
Applause followed.
Francesco answered next.
"For me? Responsibility."
The panel exchanged glances.
"Why responsibility?" Neville asked.
"Because when you promise things to this many people," Francesco said, gesturing toward the stands, "you have to deliver."
The Emirates roared in approval.
Henry nodded once more.
"Then go deliver."
The interview wrapped with applause swelling again around them.
Wrighty pulled them both into a quick embrace before the cameras cut.
"Unbelievable," he muttered to Francesco off-mic. "You've changed this place."
Francesco shook his head slightly.
"We all did."
Per clapped him on the back.
"You started it."
As they stepped away from the broadcast lights and back toward the center of the pitch, the stadium was still alive with noise.
Not chaotic now.
Confident.
Steady.
They had celebrated a title.
They had honored a farewell.
And now, under the bright London lights, with legends acknowledging them and fans believing again without hesitation as It felt like something bigger than a season.
It felt like an era fully accepted.
Francesco glanced once more toward the Sky Sports setup.
Henry was still watching.
Not critically.
Not skeptically.
But thoughtfully.
And that, more than anything else, told him something important.
The old guard had seen them.
And they approved.
The Emirates continued to glow red and gold as Francesco and Per walked back toward their teammates.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, Euro 2016, and Premier League Champion 2016/2017.
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 53
Goal: 84
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9