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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Francesco found himself surrounded, arms wrapping around him, voices shouting, laughter and relief and joy mixing together in a moment that would live with them forever. Above them, red and white confetti had already begun to fall.
The roar inside Wembley did not fade quickly.
It lingered, rolled, echoed, bounced off the high steel and glass and came crashing back down onto the pitch in waves of red and white noise that seemed almost alive. The Arsenal supporters were still singing, still jumping, still holding scarves above their heads as if afraid that if they stopped even for a second, the moment might somehow slip away.
On the pitch, the Arsenal players were scattered in small clusters of celebration, each group wrapped in its own version of joy.
Some were laughing uncontrollably, adrenaline still surging through their bodies.
Some were kneeling on the grass, heads bowed, whispering quiet thank-yous to whatever force they believed had carried them through.
Others simply stood, hands on hips, chests heaving, trying to understand what they had just done.
Because it wasn't just a win.
It was the win.
Silverware. Redemption. Proof.
And in the middle of it all stood Francesco.
For a while, he let himself be pulled along by it.
He hugged Kanté again, tighter this time, their foreheads briefly touching as both of them laughed in disbelief. He clapped Xhaka on the shoulder, pulling him into a quick embrace, murmuring something about that pass, about how perfect it had been, about how it had changed everything. He ruffled Gnabry's hair like an older brother, still grinning at the young German who looked like he might float off the ground from pure happiness.
Özil came next, a quieter moment that just a handshake that turned into a brief pull-in hug, the kind of connection that didn't need many words. Özil's eyes said enough.
We did it.
Van Dijk and Mertesacker were celebrating like pillars finally allowed to relax, the two defenders who had stood like walls for so long now smiling in a way defenders rarely do that relieved, proud, satisfied.
Giroud was already applauding the fans, chest out, chin lifted, soaking in the noise like a man who knew exactly what these moments meant.
Somewhere near the touchline, Arsène Wenger stood with that familiar composed expression, but even from a distance, you could see the softness in his eyes, the hint of pride, the quiet satisfaction of a man who had once again guided his team through fire and out the other side with silver in their hands.
Francesco looked around at all of it.
At the confetti drifting down like snow.
At the fans who had sung their lungs raw.
At his teammates, his brothers in this moment.
And slowly, gently, the first rush of wild celebration began to settle inside him.
The pounding of his heart slowed.
His breathing steadied.
And another feeling began to take its place.
Respect.
Because he knew, better than most that finals like this weren't just won by brilliance.
They were forged in shared struggle.
Chelsea had pushed them to the very edge.
Chelsea had made them suffer.
Chelsea had made this mean something.
Francesco's smile softened.
And without saying anything to anyone, he turned and began to walk across the pitch, away from the cluster of celebrating Arsenal players, and toward the scattered blue shirts who were still processing the other side of this result.
The defeated side.
The side that had come so close, and yet would leave with nothing but the ache of what could have been.
The first Chelsea player he reached was Hazard.
Eden Hazard stood with his hands on his hips, staring out at nothing in particular, his face a mixture of frustration and quiet resignation. Sweat still clung to his forehead, his chest still rose and fell with the effort of the match.
Francesco approached him calmly.
No grin now.
No celebration in his eyes.
Just sincerity.
He extended his hand.
Hazard looked at it for a moment, then took it.
Their handshake was firm.
Respectful.
"Good game," Francesco said, voice steady, genuine. "You were… dangerous all night."
Hazard let out a small breath through his nose, half a smile flickering.
"Not enough," he replied.
Francesco shook his head slightly.
"It was," he said. "It just… went our way today."
A small nod passed between them.
Mutual understanding.
Mutual respect.
Francesco moved on.
He found Willian next as Willian still looking frustrated, still replaying moments in his head no doubt. Francesco patted him on the shoulder, gave him a few quiet words.
To Gary Cahill, as he offered a firm handshake and a nod that acknowledged the defensive battle they had fought all afternoon.
To David Luiz, which there was a brief exchange, a few words about movement, about reading the game, two players who understood the chess match that had played out between them.
To César Azpilicueta which he gave a small, respectful salute, the kind one professional gives another after ninety minutes of relentless duels down the flank.
Even to Thibaut Courtois as there was a moment. A handshake. A quiet, "You kept them in it."
One by one, Francesco moved through them.
Because that's what the game demanded.
Because that's what the game deserved.
But there was one player he hadn't approached yet.
One player he had deliberately avoided.
And that absence did not go unnoticed.
Standing a few yards away, watching the interactions unfold with a tight jaw and burning eyes, was Cesc Fàbregas.
Cesc had seen it.
Every handshake.
Every nod.
Every word of respect.
Everyone…
Except him.
His fists clenched slightly at his sides.
He could feel it again that old, familiar heat that had never quite gone away. The history. The betrayal. The feeling that lines had been crossed long ago that could not be uncrossed.
And now, standing here, having just lost a final to the club he had once called home…
And watching one of their brightest stars deliberately ignore him?
It cut deeper than the defeat itself.
Francesco, meanwhile, was finishing his last handshake, turning away slightly that clearly intending to return to his own teammates.
And that was when Cesc took a step forward.
"Francesco!"
The name cut through the noise.
Sharp.
Direct.
Not friendly.
Francesco stopped.
Slowly, he turned his head.
Their eyes met across a few yards of grass littered with confetti and studs and the remnants of a war that had just been fought.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
But the tension between them was immediate.
Palpable.
Old wounds, reopened.
Old resentments, still alive.
Cesc took another step forward, his voice tight.
"What is this?" he demanded. "You shake hands with everyone… except me?"
Francesco's expression didn't flare into anger.
If anything, it went colder.
More controlled.
More deliberate.
"That's right," he said calmly.
The words landed heavy.
Cesc scoffed, disbelief and anger mixing.
"Still?" he snapped. "After all this time? You still act like this? Disrespecting me like I did nothing for that club—"
Francesco cut him off.
"You did a lot," he said, voice still level. "And then you left. That's your choice. I'm not here to debate it with you."
"Debate it?" Cesc's voice rose. "You're acting like I betrayed you personally!"
Francesco's eyes hardened slightly.
"You did what you did," he replied. "I remember it. That's all."
Cesc took another step closer now, his frustration boiling over.
"Oh, so now you're the judge?" he said. "You think you're better because you choose to stay? Because you wear that shirt now?"
The space between them tightened.
The atmosphere shifted.
Several players nearby began to notice.
Voices around them dipped, curious, cautious.
Francesco didn't step forward.
But he didn't step back either.
"I don't think I'm better than anyone," he said quietly. "But I know what that badge means to me. And I don't forget who walks away from it."
That did it.
Cesc's anger flared fully now, his body leaning forward, his hands lifting slightly as if ready to gesture more aggressively.
"Walks away?" he snapped. "I gave everything to that club! I carried it on my back for years!"
"And then you left," Francesco repeated, firmer now. "To them."
The word hung in the air.
Them.
Barcelona.
The enemy in so many Arsenal hearts.
Cesc's jaw clenched.
"And what about now?" he shot back. "You think ignoring me after the final is respect? You think that makes you look good?"
Francesco didn't answer immediately.
He held Cesc's gaze.
Steady.
Unmoved.
Then he said, simply:
"I'm not here to make you feel good."
For a split second, it looked like Cesc might step even closer.
Might escalate it further.
Might let emotion take over completely.
But before he could, a firm hand came down on his shoulder.
Strong.
Grounding.
Pulling him back.
"Enough."
The voice was deep. Authoritative. Unquestionable.
John Terry stepped in between them slightly, positioning himself just enough to create space without making it a spectacle.
He looked at Cesc first.
His expression wasn't angry.
But it was serious.
Controlled.
"What are you doing?" Terry asked quietly, but firmly. "You want to embarrass us more?"
Cesc turned toward him, still breathing hard, still frustrated.
"He's disrespecting me," Cesc said, gesturing back toward Francesco. "You heard him—"
Terry shook his head once.
"That's his personal thing," he said. "Not ours."
Cesc stared at him, incredulous.
"Personal? He's treating me like I don't exist after a final!"
"And we just lost that final," Terry replied, his tone sharpening slightly now. "We're the ones who lost, Cesc. Not them."
Cesc opened his mouth, but Terry continued.
"We don't get to act like winners right now," he said. "We don't get to demand respect like that. Especially not you… knowing the history."
That last line landed heavier than the rest.
Cesc's expression faltered, just for a fraction of a second.
Because he did know.
He knew exactly what Terry meant.
The move.
The rivalry.
The feelings that still lingered among Arsenal players and fans alike.
Terry's voice softened slightly, but his words remained firm.
"You can't expect them to treat you like one of them anymore," he said. "Not after what happened. That's the reality."
Cesc's jaw tightened again.
But this time, he didn't step forward.
Didn't push.
He just looked back at Francesco one more time, anger still there, but now mixed with something else.
Frustration.
Regret.
Maybe even a hint of understanding he didn't want to admit.
Francesco met his gaze for a second.
No words.
No gestures.
Just a look that said everything that needed to be said.
Then he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod to Terry with a silent acknowledgment of the intervention and turned away.
The moment between Francesco and Cesc dissolved into the wider noise of Wembley, but it didn't disappear entirely.
It lingered in the air for a few seconds more, like the echo of a clash that never quite became a fight. A reminder that football wasn't just played in ninety minutes. It carried memory. It carried choices. It carried consequences.
But there was no time to stay in that space.
Not tonight.
Because tonight belonged to something else.
Tonight belonged to victory.
Francesco walked back toward his teammates, the tension draining from his shoulders with every step. The roar of the Arsenal supporters pulled him back into the moment, back into the present, back into the reason they were all here in the first place.
Silverware.
Glory.
History.
As he rejoined the group, Alexis immediately slung an arm around his neck.
"Where did you disappear to?" the Chilean asked, grinning, still breathless with excitement. "You went to make new friends, eh?"
Francesco gave him a sideways look, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"Something like that."
Kanté jogged over as well, still smiling in that gentle, quiet way of his.
"Everything okay?" he asked softly.
Francesco nodded once.
"Yeah," he said. "All good."
From the touchline, one of the Arsenal staff members waved them over, gesturing toward the tunnel.
"Inside, boys!" he called out. "Quick change! Then we come back out for the ceremony!"
Groans mixed with cheers.
"Already?" Giroud said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Let me enjoy the grass for five more minutes!"
"You can enjoy the trophy more," Ramsey shot back with a laugh.
They began to jog toward the tunnel together, still buzzing, still laughing, still exchanging moments and memories of the match that had just passed.
As they reached the entrance, Francesco glanced back once.
The pitch was still alive with red and white.
Scarves waving.
Flags dancing.
Voices singing.
And for a brief second, he let himself take it in one more time before stepping into the tunnel.
Inside the dressing room, the energy shifted into something different.
Still joyous.
Still loud.
But now mixed with anticipation.
Shirts were laid out neatly on each seat with bright, fresh, clean white fabric with bold red letters across the chest:
FA Cup Winners
And beneath that, printed proudly, unmistakably:
14
Fourteen times.
Fourteen moments like this in the long, proud history of the club.
The players began changing quickly, pulling the shirts over their heads, some tossing their match jerseys aside, others folding them carefully, wanting to keep them as mementos of a final they would never forget.
Alexis spun around once he had his on, arms stretched wide.
"How do I look?" he asked dramatically.
"Like a champion," Bellerín replied instantly.
"Like a man who scored the winner," Özil added with a smirk.
Alexis placed a hand over his heart, nodding solemnly. "Correct."
Laughter filled the room.
Kanté adjusted his shirt quietly, smoothing the fabric down, his smile never fading.
Xhaka tugged his into place, looking down at the number.
"Fourteen," he said softly. "That's… something."
"It's Arsenal," Mertesacker replied from across the room, already dressed, already standing tall again, the captain's presence returning as the moment demanded.
Francesco pulled his own shirt over his head, the fabric cool against his skin.
He looked down at the words.
FA Cup Winners.
14.
A small exhale left his lips.
Another piece of history.
Another line written.
But not the end.
Not yet.
He glanced toward Per.
The big German met his eyes.
No words.
Just a shared understanding.
Two finals still to go.
The staff began ushering them again.
"Alright, boys, let's go!" one coach called out. "Back out there, podium is ready!"
The players lined up loosely, still joking, still buzzing, but with a sense of ceremony now settling over them.
They stepped back into the tunnel.
And then, as they emerged from the darkness into the light again, Wembley revealed a new stage.
The podium had been built.
Raised and centered.
Decorated with the FA Cup insignia, ribbons already hanging, gleaming in the lights.
And standing at the top, waiting with composed formality, were the officials of English football.
Among them, unmistakable in his presence, stood Prince William.
Beside him, the FA president and senior officials, all prepared to honor the champions.
The noise rose again as Arsenal stepped into view.
A wall of sound.
Applause.
Cheers.
Songs.
The players approached the steps, forming a line as instructed, their smiles returning, their chests lifting again with pride.
At the front of the line stood the referees.
One by one, they stepped forward first, climbing the steps, receiving their gold medals in recognition of their officiating, shaking hands politely with the dignitaries, nodding with quiet professionalism.
Then it was Arsène Wenger.
The manager stepped forward, his suit now slightly creased from the match, but his posture still elegant, still composed.
As he climbed the steps, the applause grew warmer.
Louder.
Because this was a man who had given so much to this competition.
To this club.
To English football.
He reached the top, shook hands with the officials, then with Prince William, receiving his medal with a gracious nod, a soft smile that carried years of work behind it.
Behind him came the coaching staff.
Each one stepping up.
Each one receiving their moment.
Then it was time for the players.
The line began to move.
One by one.
Each Arsenal player climbed the steps, greeted by applause, by smiles, by the weight of a gold medal being placed around their neck.
Walker and Robertson went up, beaming.
Kanté followed, almost shy in his smile as he accepted his medal.
Özil stepped forward, calm, dignified.
Alexis climbed the steps with a grin that refused to be contained, raising his medal slightly as he turned to the fans.
Xhaka, Ramsey, Walcott, Giroud as all of them taking their turn, each of them receiving the symbol of what they had just achieved together.
Francesco waited his turn, standing just behind Mertesacker in the line.
As each teammate returned from the podium, medal around their neck, they patted shoulders, exchanged quick embraces, shared words that would only ever make sense to them.
Then it was Francesco's turn.
He stepped forward.
The noise hit him again as he climbed.
Each step felt heavier now.
Not with fatigue.
But with meaning.
He reached the top of the podium.
He shook hands with the officials.
Then he stood before Prince William.
The Prince smiled politely, extending his hand.
"Congratulations," he said.
"Thank you," Francesco replied.
The medal was placed around his neck.
Cool metal against warm skin.
A small, tangible reminder of everything they had just done.
Francesco gave a small nod of thanks and turned, stepping aside to make room for the final man.
The captain.
Per Mertesacker.
The big German walked forward, his expression composed but his eyes shining with something deeper.
Pride.
Responsibility.
Honor.
He climbed the steps slowly, deliberately, each step representing years of dedication to the club.
He greeted the officials.
Then he stood before Prince William.
Their handshake was firm.
Respectful.
The medal was placed around his neck.
And then came the moment.
The FA Cup itself was brought forward.
Silver.
Shining.
Ribbons hanging from each handle.
A piece of history that had passed through the hands of legends.
Prince William took it gently and turned toward Mertesacker.
There was a pause.
A breath.
A moment where time seemed to hold still.
Then he handed it over.
Per Mertesacker, Arsenal captain, received the FA Cup.
His hands wrapped around the handles.
He lifted it slightly, just testing the weight.
Feeling it.
Understanding it.
Behind him, his teammates gathered, arms already beginning to rise, voices already beginning to build.
Francesco stood just over his shoulder, eyes fixed on the trophy.
The stadium held its breath.
And then.
Per lifted it high.
And Wembley exploded.
A roar that shook the air.
That rattled the stands.
That surged through every Arsenal supporter and every player in red and white.
Fourteen times.
FA Cup winners.
Again.
The sound did not stop when the cup went up.
If anything, it grew.
The moment Arsenal had been waiting for, had been working toward, had been grinding through for months of fixtures and fatigue and pressure as it erupted in one release of noise that seemed to push the very air inside Wembley outward. Flags waved harder. Songs came back louder. The red and white of the stands swayed like a living tide, pulsing in rhythm with the heartbeat of thousands of supporters who had lived every second of this journey with them.
Up on the podium, Per Mertesacker held the FA Cup aloft for a few seconds longer, letting the weight of the moment sink into his bones, into his memory. Around him, his teammates shouted, clapped, jumped, and pointed into the stands, sharing that joy outward, feeding off it, giving it back.
Francesco stood close beside him, eyes locked on the silver, on the reflection of stadium lights dancing across its surface. There was something almost surreal in that reflection with tiny, distorted images of all of them, frozen in the metal. It felt like a photograph that would never fade.
He let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Fourteen times.
But to him, this one had its own place.
Its own story.
Its own heartbeat.
Per lowered the trophy slightly, turning toward his teammates so each of them could get a hand on it, could feel it, could be part of the lift. One by one, hands reached out from Alexis grabbing one handle, Xhaka pressing a hand against the side, Ramsey laughing as he tried to wedge himself into the moment, Kanté smiling shyly but touching the base with gentle pride.
Francesco stepped forward and placed his hands on it as well.
Cold.
Solid.
Real.
He tightened his grip for a second, just to confirm to himself that it wasn't a dream.
Then he released it, stepping back as Per held it again and turned, presenting it to each side of the stadium in turn, giving every supporter their moment.
The applause rolled like thunder across the stands.
After a few more seconds, the officials gently signaled that it was time to move, time to make way, time to clear the podium for the closing formalities.
Per lowered the trophy carefully, holding it at his side, and the team began to step down from the podium, one by one, medals bouncing lightly against their chests as they moved.
The descent felt different.
Quieter.
Not in sound, but in the players themselves.
The frenzy of the lift gave way to something warmer, something more grounded.
Gratitude.
Connection.
As soon as their boots touched the grass again, there was only one direction their bodies naturally turned.
Toward the Arsenal end.
Toward the people who had sung for them for ninety minutes, who had carried them through difficult moments, who had traveled, paid, hoped, believed.
Francesco adjusted the medal around his neck as he walked, his gaze lifting to the sea of red ahead. He could see faces now. Individual faces. Scarves wrapped around shoulders. Flags with names. A child on someone's shoulders waving a banner with his number on it.
He swallowed once, feeling something tighten in his chest.
Alexis jogged ahead, raising both arms to the crowd, blowing kisses exaggeratedly that made the front rows laugh and cheer louder.
Kanté clapped continuously as he walked, head slightly bowed in his humble way, acknowledging every corner of the stand.
Giroud pointed up toward a group of fans who had his name on their shirts, grinning wide as they screamed back at him.
Mertesacker carried the trophy at the front, holding it high enough for everyone to see, but close enough that the players around him could still touch it, still feel its presence.
When they reached the barrier, they slowed.
Then stopped.
And for a moment, there was no choreography, no script, no instruction.
Just instinct.
They raised the FA Cup toward the supporters.
And the sound that came back was deafening.
"AR-SEN-AL! AR-SEN-AL! AR-SEN-AL!"
It rolled in waves, rising and falling, echoing off the roof of Wembley and back down onto the pitch like a blessing.
Francesco stepped closer to the barrier, lifting his hands to applaud the crowd directly in front of him. He locked eyes with a man who looked to be in his fifties, scarf around his neck, tears openly running down his face as he clapped back.
The man pointed at Francesco, then tapped the badge on his chest.
Francesco nodded.
He understood.
This wasn't just their victory.
It was shared.
All of it.
Behind him, Per carefully angled the trophy so it faced the fans fully, tilting it just enough that the ribbons fell forward, catching the light as they swayed. Alexis and Ramsey helped hold it steady as more of the team gathered around, forming a semi-circle in front of the supporters.
"Lift it again!" someone shouted from the crowd.
Per laughed and looked at the others.
"Well?" he said.
Francesco grinned.
"Why not?"
They counted it together, half in English, half in laughter.
"One... two... three!"
And the FA Cup rose again, this time directly in front of their fans.
The roar that followed was even louder than before.
Because now it was for them.
For the supporters.
For the ones who had been there through every pass, every goal, every setback, every comeback.
Francesco felt the vibration of it through the soles of his boots.
This was why.
After a few more moments, they lowered the trophy again, and the players began to spread out along the touchline, applauding, waving, throwing shirts and wristbands into the crowd, exchanging gestures of thanks that didn't need words.
Bellerín took a selfie with a group of fans leaning over the barrier.
Walcott tossed his boots into the stands, drawing a scramble of hands and laughter.
Kanté handed his medal briefly to a young child so they could hold it for a second, the boy's eyes going wide in disbelief.
Francesco walked slowly along the line, clapping, pointing, nodding, drinking in every face, every sound, every emotion.
He knew nights like this didn't last forever.
You had to hold onto them while they were here.
Then, from somewhere behind him, a voice called out:
"Boss!"
Francesco turned.
The players had begun to gather again, forming a loose circle behind the manager, who was walking toward the fans with that same composed smile, acknowledging the applause directed at him now.
Alexis looked at Ramsey.
Ramsey looked at Xhaka.
Xhaka looked at Giroud.
And a familiar grin began to spread across multiple faces at once.
Francesco saw it instantly.
"Oh no," he said, already laughing.
Per caught on too, shaking his head with mock disapproval that fooled absolutely no one.
"Gentlemen," the German said dryly, "please behave like professionals."
"Of course," Alexis replied innocently.
Then he winked.
And in the next second, they moved.
Ramsey and Giroud took Wenger gently by the arms.
"Wait, what are you doing?" Wenger laughed, trying to maintain his balance.
"Celebration, boss!" Ramsey shouted.
"Traditional!" Giroud added.
Francesco stepped in to help, along with Xhaka and Alexis, forming a secure circle around their manager.
"Careful," Per warned, though he was smiling.
"On three!" Alexis called.
Wenger's eyes widened.
"Now wait just a—"
"One!"
"Two!"
"Three!"
They lifted him.
Up into the air.
Just high enough that his feet left the ground, his suit jacket lifting slightly with the motion, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and reluctant amusement.
They caught him cleanly.
Lowered him.
And then did it again.
"One!"
"Two!"
"Three!"
Up again.
This time Wenger laughed openly, the sound carried away by the noise of the crowd, his hands lifting slightly as if surrendering to the moment.
They brought him down again, steady, careful, making sure his landing was soft.
Francesco looked around at the others.
"One more," he said.
"Of course," Ramsey agreed.
"Last one!" Alexis shouted.
Wenger shook his head, smiling helplessly now.
"You are impossible," he said.
"One!"
"Two!"
"Three!"
Up he went for the third time.
The crowd saw it now and cheered louder, loving the sight of the manager being celebrated by his own players, by the group he had built, guided, trusted.
They caught him again, lowering him gently back to the ground.
Wenger straightened his jacket, smoothing it down, then looked at them all with that warm, slightly tired, deeply proud expression that said more than any speech ever could.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Francesco met his eyes.
"No," he replied just as quietly. "Thank you, boss."
There was a moment of stillness between them.
Then it broke again, because the pitch was beginning to change.
The gates along the sides opened.
And slowly, steadily, people began to come down.
Families.
Partners.
Children.
The people behind the players.
The people who shared their lives away from the stadium lights.
The Arsenal family widened.
Francesco felt his heart skip once as he scanned the faces coming onto the pitch.
And then he saw her.
Leah Williamson.
She walked onto the grass with that same calm confidence she carried onto her own pitch, her eyes already searching, already finding him in the crowd of red and white.
Their eyes met.
And both of them smiled.
Francesco moved toward her without hesitation, weaving through teammates and staff until he reached her.
"Hey," she said softly as he approached.
"Hey," he replied, his voice gentler than it had been all night.
For a second, the noise of Wembley faded to the background again.
He pulled her into an embrace, holding her close, feeling her arms wrap around him, grounding him in something beyond football, beyond trophies.
"I'm proud of you," she whispered.
He exhaled against her shoulder.
"Thank you for being here," he answered.
She pulled back slightly, looking up at him.
"I wouldn't miss this," she said.
He laughed softly.
"Good."
A few steps behind her, two more familiar faces approached.
Mike.
Sarah.
His parents.
Francesco's smile widened instantly.
"Mum. Dad."
Sarah reached him first, wrapping him in a hug that was full of years from years of training, of sacrifice, of early mornings and long drives and belief when things weren't certain.
"You did it," she said, her voice thick with emotion.
"We did it," he replied, holding her tight.
Mike stepped in next, gripping his shoulder firmly before pulling him into a strong embrace.
"Proud of you, son," he said.
Francesco swallowed hard.
"Thanks, Dad."
They stepped back, looking at him, at the medal around his neck, at the joy written across his face.
Leah stood beside him, one hand resting lightly at his back, sharing the moment with his family as naturally as if she had always been there.
Around them, similar scenes unfolded everywhere.
Teammates introducing partners to each other.
Children being lifted up to touch the trophy.
Photos being taken from every angle.
Laughter mixing with tears.
Per stood with his family as well, kneeling slightly so he could be at eye level with a child who was touching the FA Cup carefully, as if it might disappear.
Alexis posed for photos with a group of relatives, still buzzing, still full of energy.
Kanté stood quietly with his loved ones, smiling softly, holding his medal in his hands like it was something delicate.
Wenger walked slowly through it all, greeting families, shaking hands, sharing words with each player, each partner, each parent.
This was the part that cameras didn't always show.
But it mattered just as much.
Francesco looked around at it all from the pitch, the people, the lights, the trophy, the badge on every shirt and felt something settle deep inside him.
Not an ending.
Never that.
Just another chapter.
Another memory.
Another night that would live with him long after the noise faded.
He looked at Leah again.
"At least one more," he said quietly.
She tilted her head.
"Final?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Then I guess I'll be back in the stands again," she said.
He leaned his forehead gently against hers for a brief second.
"I'll be looking for you," he replied.
Behind them, the FA Cup was lifted again by a group of players and their families, another roar rising from the remaining supporters who still filled the stands, still singing, still celebrating.
Francesco turned, one arm around Leah, his parents close by, and walked back toward his teammates, toward the trophy, toward the celebration that would continue long into the night.
______________________________________________
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: 54
Goal: 85
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