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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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And four trophies shining above an ocean of Arsenal supporters as for the rest of their lives, they would carry this day with them.
The six buses finally began to slow as the Emirates Stadium came into view.
Francesco had been standing for most of the final stretch of the journey, one hand resting against the railing and the other occasionally reaching toward the Champions League trophy whenever another wave of supporters surged forward with a chant.
But now he stopped.
The stadium was there.
The Emirates rose beyond the crowds, familiar and enormous, its glass and steel catching the afternoon light. Yet it barely looked like the stadium Francesco knew.
The streets surrounding it were completely transformed.
Red-and-white flags hung from every available railing. Scarves were stretched above heads. Supporters had climbed onto safe vantage points around the surrounding streets, while thousands more packed the pavements leading toward the stadium.
The noise seemed to come from everywhere at once.
"ARSENAL!"
"ARSENAL!"
"CHAMPIONS!"
Francesco stared for a moment.
Leah stood beside him.
"There it is," she said softly.
He nodded.
"Yeah."
The Premier League trophy was being held proudly on one of the buses.
The Carabao Cup stood beside another group of players.
The FA Cup had become the centrepiece of yet another section.
And on Francesco's bus, the Champions League trophy gleamed beneath the daylight.
Four trophies.
Four different reminders of what the players had accomplished.
Wenger stood farther along the bus with members of his coaching staff, waving toward supporters. Giroud had wrapped an Arsenal scarf around his shoulders and was singing along with the crowd. Walker was holding his phone above his head, trying to capture the sheer scale of the scene.
Cazorla laughed as another group of supporters began chanting his name.
Francesco looked toward Leah.
"We're actually here."
She smiled.
"You sound surprised."
"I am."
She slipped her hand into his.
"Enjoy it."
He squeezed her fingers.
"I am."
The bus crawled forward.
It took several minutes to cover a distance that would normally have taken seconds.
Police officers and security personnel maintained the route, but even they seemed overwhelmed by the sheer number of people surrounding the stadium.
Whenever the crowd saw one of the trophies being raised, another explosion of noise followed.
Francesco lifted the Champions League cup.
The response was immediate.
The supporters nearest the bus screamed.
Flags shot upward.
Phones appeared above heads.
A chant of his name rolled through the crowd.
"FRANCESCO!"
He laughed and shook his head.
Leah leaned against him.
"You're going to hear that all afternoon."
"I think I've heard it enough for one lifetime."
"You don't mean that."
"No."
She laughed.
"Thought so."
Eventually the buses reached the designated entrance.
The players began disembarking slowly.
Security formed a passage toward the prepared stage, while club personnel guided the families and coaching staff toward their positions.
Francesco stepped down with the Champions League trophy still in his hands.
A roar greeted him.
He looked up.
The stage had been prepared directly outside the Emirates, with a huge Arsenal backdrop behind it and space arranged for the players, coaching staff and four pieces of silverware.
The Premier League trophy.
The Carabao Cup.
The FA Cup.
The Champions League.
They stood together beneath the afternoon light.
Francesco approached the stage.
Leah followed.
The rest of the squad gathered around them.
Wenger eventually stepped forward, and the moment the supporters recognised him, the chant changed.
"ARSÈNE!"
"ARSÈNE!"
Wenger smiled and raised one hand.
The noise continued.
Then another chant started.
"ARSENAL!"
The players joined in.
Francesco looked toward the crowd.
There seemed to be no end to it.
The Emirates itself appeared surrounded by people.
Flags moved in every direction.
Red smoke drifted across parts of the street.
Flares burned among the supporters, their smoke rising into the daylight.
Music played between chants, although most of the time the crowd was louder than the speakers.
Cameras were everywhere.
Photographers stood in designated areas, capturing the players as they gathered around the trophies.
Club executives and representatives eventually joined them.
There were handshakes.
Congratulations.
Brief speeches.
More photographs.
But everyone knew who the supporters were waiting to hear.
Wenger stepped toward the microphone.
The noise gradually softened.
Not completely.
It was impossible for a crowd this large to become silent.
But enough.
Wenger looked across the sea of red.
For a moment, he simply smiled.
Then he began.
"First of all, I want to say thank you."
The crowd applauded.
"Thank you for your loyalty. Thank you for your belief. And thank you for staying with us through every difficult moment of this season."
Another wave of applause.
Wenger glanced toward his players.
"What this team has achieved is extraordinary. To win one major trophy is difficult. To win two is incredibly difficult. To win three requires an exceptional level of consistency."
He paused.
"To win four…"
The crowd erupted.
Wenger smiled.
"To win four requires everyone."
He turned slightly toward the squad.
"The players. The coaches. The medical team. The analysts. The academy. The grounds staff. The administration. Every person who works for this football club."
He looked back toward the supporters.
"And you."
The response was deafening.
"You believed when perhaps we had difficult moments. You travelled. You sang. You supported these players. You gave them energy."
He paused again.
"And three Champions League titles in a row…"
The crowd roared.
Wenger laughed softly.
"I don't think I need to explain to you how difficult that is."
The supporters began chanting.
"ARSENAL!"
Wenger waited.
"This team has made history. But history is not created by one person. It is created by people working together."
He looked toward the four trophies.
"Today, we celebrate the Premier League, the Carabao Cup, the FA Cup and the Champions League. We celebrate an extraordinary season."
Then his expression softened.
"But most importantly, we celebrate Arsenal."
The applause became enormous.
Wenger stepped away from the microphone.
Then he looked toward Francesco.
"Now," he said, smiling, "I think there is someone else you would like to hear from."
The crowd immediately understood.
"FRANCESCO!"
Francesco's face changed.
He looked at Wenger.
"Me?"
Wenger nodded.
Francesco laughed nervously.
The players began pushing him forward.
Giroud gave him a playful shove.
"Go."
Walker laughed.
"Your turn."
Francesco walked toward the microphone.
The noise became almost unbearable.
He stopped beside the Champions League trophy and looked out at the crowd.
Thousands upon thousands of faces.
People he would never meet.
Children wearing his shirt.
Older supporters holding photographs of Arsenal teams from decades earlier.
Families standing together.
People crying.
People laughing.
People singing.
He swallowed.
"Wow."
The crowd laughed.
Francesco smiled.
"I don't really know what to say."
That earned another cheer.
He looked toward Wenger.
"First, I want to thank the boss."
Wenger smiled.
"Thank you for believing in us."
Then Francesco turned toward the squad.
"And my teammates."
He gestured toward them.
"None of this happens without them."
He looked toward the staff.
"The coaches. The medical team. The analysts. Everyone at the club."
He paused.
"All the people who work behind the scenes."
His voice became slightly quieter.
"You don't always see them, but we see them. We know how much they give."
He looked toward the crowd.
"And then there's you."
The supporters responded.
Francesco smiled.
"I've played in some incredible stadiums. I've experienced nights I never thought I would experience."
He rested a hand against the Champions League trophy.
"But standing here, lifting this trophy in front of Arsenal supporters…"
He shook his head.
"That's different."
The crowd applauded.
"We won four trophies this season."
He pointed toward the silverware.
"The Premier League. The Carabao Cup. The FA Cup. The Champions League."
He smiled.
"And yes, people will talk about the final. They'll talk about the goals. They'll talk about the overhead kick."
The crowd immediately erupted.
Francesco laughed.
"I know. I know."
He waited for the noise to settle.
"But that was one moment."
He looked toward his teammates.
"This was an entire season."
His expression became more serious.
"There were difficult days. There were injuries. There were matches where we weren't good enough. There were moments when we had to fight for each other."
He looked at Wenger.
"And every time, we had people around us who believed."
Then he looked toward Leah.
She was standing near his family, smiling.
"And I have to thank my family."
Mike and Sarah applauded.
Francesco pointed toward them.
"My mum. My dad. Mike and Sarah. Thank you."
His voice caught slightly.
"And Leah."
The crowd reacted warmly.
Leah laughed, covering her face for a moment.
Francesco smiled.
"Thank you for putting up with me."
She shouted back:
"Always!"
Everyone around them laughed.
Francesco shook his head.
"Especially after some of those nights."
Leah blew him a kiss.
He smiled.
"I love you."
The crowd responded with another enormous cheer.
Francesco looked back toward the supporters.
"I promise you something."
The crowd became quieter.
"We will remember today."
He gestured toward the streets.
"We will remember seeing all of you out there. We will remember the flags, the songs, the children, the families, everyone who came out to celebrate with us."
He looked down at the Champions League trophy.
"And whenever I look at this…"
He touched the cup.
"I'll remember that we didn't win it alone."
The applause became thunderous.
"We won it together."
Francesco stepped away from the microphone.
For several seconds, he simply stood there.
Then the entire squad rushed forward.
Giroud grabbed him around the shoulders.
Walker shouted something directly into his ear that Francesco couldn't understand.
Van Dijk laughed.
Alexis grabbed an Arsenal flag.
The four trophies were lifted.
The players began singing.
Wenger was pulled into the middle of the group.
"No, no," Wenger protested, laughing.
Giroud grabbed his arm.
"You're coming with us, boss!"
Wenger surrendered.
The crowd exploded.
Champagne appeared.
Someone sprayed it across the players.
Francesco ducked too late.
"Oi!"
Everyone laughed.
Leah was caught in the spray as well.
She looked at Francesco.
"You did that."
"I didn't!"
"You absolutely did."
He laughed.
Then she kissed him.
The cameras caught the moment.
Another round of photographs followed.
Francesco and Leah stood together beside the four trophies.
Then with Walker.
Then Van Dijk.
Then Kanté.
Giroud insisted on another photograph.
Cazorla joined.
Xhaka appeared from behind them.
Alexis raised the FA Cup.
Another photograph.
Then Wenger was pulled into the group.
Then the families.
Mike and Sarah stood beside their son, both visibly emotional.
David and Amanda joined Leah.
Jacob appeared between Francesco and Walker, grinning.
"Move over," Jacob said.
Francesco laughed.
"You're stealing my picture."
"It's my picture now."
Everyone laughed.
The camera clicked.
Another memory.
Then another.
Confetti suddenly exploded above the stage.
White pieces of paper and red streamers filled the air.
Fireworks cracked somewhere beyond the stadium.
Red smoke rose behind the supporters.
The four trophies were raised simultaneously.
The sight was almost impossible to comprehend.
Premier League.
Carabao Cup.
FA Cup.
Champions League.
Four pieces of silverware above a team that had already won three consecutive European titles.
Francesco stood beside Leah and stared.
She squeezed his hand.
"You did it."
He smiled.
"We did."
The celebration continued for a long time.
Eventually the afternoon light began fading.
The loudest parts of the crowd slowly started dispersing, though thousands remained outside the Emirates, still singing.
The players grew quieter too.
They had spent two days celebrating.
Two days without proper sleep.
Two days of emotion.
Francesco looked around.
His teammates.
Wenger.
Leah.
His parents.
Her family.
The staff.
The trophies.
The stadium.
Everything was there.
He finally understood that the season was truly over.
Not because the final whistle had sounded in Kyiv.
Not because the trophies had been placed in the cabinet.
But because Arsenal had celebrated it with the people who had made every difficult moment worthwhile.
Francesco smiled.
"What a year."
Leah leaned against him.
"The best."
He looked toward the Emirates one final time.
"Yeah."
Then the next day, the mansion was unusually quiet.
After two days of noise, singing, fireworks and crowds, the silence felt almost strange.
Francesco sat comfortably on the sofa with Leah beside him.
Mike and Sarah were seated nearby.
David and Amanda occupied the opposite side of the living room, while Jacob had claimed an armchair and was eating something from a bowl.
Nobody was dressed particularly well.
Nobody cared.
The television was on.
News coverage showed the parade.
The six open-top buses moved through Islington and North London.
Crowds filled every street.
The Champions League trophy appeared repeatedly.
Then came footage of Wenger speaking.
Then Francesco.
He immediately groaned.
"Oh, no."
Leah laughed.
"You're famous."
"I hate this."
Jacob grinned.
"They're showing your speech."
Francesco sank lower into the sofa.
The television showed him standing beside the four trophies.
Mike smiled proudly.
Sarah touched his arm.
"That was beautiful."
Francesco shook his head.
"I was terrified."
"You didn't look terrified," Leah said.
"I was."
The footage changed.
Francesco lifting the Champions League trophy.
The crowd exploding.
Red smoke.
Confetti.
Players dancing.
Giroud spraying champagne.
Jacob laughed.
"That was brilliant."
Francesco looked at him.
"You weren't the one covered in champagne."
"No, but I would've enjoyed it."
David laughed.
The family continued watching.
Then Sarah reached for the remote.
"Enough of you."
Francesco looked relieved.
"Thank you."
She changed the channel.
A different programme appeared.
A press conference.
Gareth Southgate was standing before the media.
Francesco sat upright.
Leah noticed immediately.
"What is it?"
He looked at the screen.
"England squad."
The room became quieter.
Southgate began speaking.
The announcement was underway.
Names started appearing.
"Pickford."
Francesco listened.
"Butland."
"Pope."
Then the defenders.
"Walker."
Francesco smiled.
"Rose."
"Dier."
"Stones."
"Maguire."
"Trippier."
"Phil Jones."
"Delph."
"Cahill."
"Young."
"Alexander-Arnold."
The room remained attentive.
Then the midfielders and attackers.
"Lingard."
"Henderson."
"Alli."
"Loftus-Cheek."
"Rooney."
"Sterling."
"Vardy."
"Rashford."
"Kane."
Francesco's hands had slowly tightened together.
Then Southgate looked down at his list.
There was a brief pause.
"Francesco Lee."
For a second, Francesco didn't move.
Then his eyes widened.
"No way."
Leah immediately turned toward him.
"Francesco!"
She threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek.
Mike stood up.
"Yes!"
Sarah clapped her hands, tears immediately appearing in her eyes.
David laughed.
Amanda hugged Leah.
Jacob jumped out of his chair.
"You're going to the World Cup!"
Francesco laughed.
"I am?"
"Yes!"
He looked back at the television.
His name was there.
Francesco Lee.
England.
2018 FIFA World Cup.
The room erupted.
Leah hugged him tightly.
"I knew it."
Francesco smiled.
"I didn't."
Mike came over and hugged his son.
"Congratulations."
Sarah kissed his cheek.
"We're so proud of you."
David shook his hand.
"That's incredible."
Amanda embraced him.
Jacob pointed toward the television.
"You realise this means I'm going to have to support England now."
Francesco laughed.
"You weren't before?"
"Not properly."
Everyone laughed.
On television, the reaction was already beginning.
Journalists were talking rapidly.
Cameras flashed.
Reporters exchanged comments about the selection.
Francesco's inclusion was being discussed almost immediately.
His season had changed the perception surrounding England.
He had just won the Premier League, Carabao Cup, FA Cup and Champions League.
He had scored twice in the Champions League final.
He had produced one of the most spectacular goals of the season.
He was one of the best player in the world.
He lead England win 2016 Euro.
And now he was joining England for World Cup.
The discussion was no longer simply about whether England could compete.
With Francesco added to the attack, people were beginning to believe they could genuinely challenge.
Perhaps even win.
Francesco watched silently for a moment.
Then Leah rested her head against his shoulder.
"World Cup."
He nodded.
"Yeah."
After everything that had happened, the next challenge suddenly felt enormous.
Only days earlier, he had been lifting the Champions League trophy.
Yesterday, he had stood before hundreds of thousands of Arsenal supporters.
Now another dream had opened in front of him.
England.
The World Cup.
He looked around the room.
Leah.
Mike.
Sarah.
David.
Amanda.
Jacob.
Everyone was smiling at him.
For the first time since Southgate had said his name, Francesco allowed himself to fully absorb it.
He was going to the World Cup.
He smiled.
Excitement was there.
Pride too.
But beneath both was a small, unmistakable feeling of nerves.
A new shirt.
A new tournament.
A different kind of pressure.
Another chance to make history.
Leah squeezed his hand.
"You ready?"
Francesco looked at her.
He laughed softly.
"Absolutely not."
She smiled.
"Good."
He looked back toward the television, as Southgate continued discussing the squad.
Then the following morning arrived with a completely different feeling.
There were no crowds outside the mansion.
No open-top buses.
No cameras pressed against barriers.
No chants rolling down London streets.
Just the quiet hum of an ordinary morning.
And somehow, that made leaving feel more difficult.
Francesco stood near the front door with his luggage already packed, dressed casually in England training gear that still looked strangely unfamiliar on him.
A jacket.
Track trousers.
Trainers.
His England bag sitting beside him.
For the first time in days, there wasn't an Arsenal crest somewhere nearby.
He looked down at the bag.
Then at the front door.
Then back toward the living room.
Leah was standing there with her arms folded.
"You've checked your bag three times."
Francesco frowned.
"I haven't."
"You have."
"I checked it twice."
She laughed.
"That's not better."
Francesco smiled.
"I just don't want to get there and realise I've forgotten something."
"You're going to St George's Park, not the moon."
"I know."
Leah walked over and straightened the collar of his jacket.
"There."
"What?"
"You looked messy."
"I was going for the messy look."
"No, you weren't."
He laughed softly.
She rested her hands against his chest for a moment.
The excitement was obvious in her eyes.
But there was something else there too.
Pride.
And perhaps a little sadness.
The last few days had been almost impossible to process.
The Champions League.
The parade.
The four trophies.
The celebrations.
The families.
And now suddenly Francesco was leaving for England duty.
A new chapter.
A different shirt.
A different responsibility.
"You nervous?" Leah asked.
Francesco hesitated.
"A little."
"Good."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Why is everyone saying that?"
"Because if you weren't nervous, I'd be worried."
He smiled.
"I've played Champions League finals."
"I know."
"Against Real Madrid."
"I know."
"I scored twice."
"I know."
"And you're still telling me the World Cup is something to be nervous about?"
"Yes."
She leaned closer.
"Because this time, it's England."
Francesco nodded.
That was exactly what had been sitting in the back of his mind.
Arsenal had been his club.
His teammates knew him.
Wenger knew how he played.
He knew the systems.
The routines.
The expectations.
England was different.
He would be walking into a group of players from different clubs, different systems, different personalities.
And there was no hiding from the scale of the tournament.
The World Cup was something every footballer dreamed about.
Now he was actually going.
Mike appeared from the living room.
"You ready?"
Francesco turned.
"As ready as I'm going to be."
Mike smiled.
"That's all you need."
Sarah followed him.
She immediately hugged her son.
"Call us when you arrive."
"I will."
"And eat."
Francesco laughed.
"Mum."
"I mean it."
"I'll eat."
"Properly."
"I will."
She looked at him for another moment before kissing his cheek.
"We're proud of you."
Francesco swallowed.
"Thanks, Mum."
David stepped forward next and shook his hand.
"Big day."
"Yeah."
"You've earned it."
Amanda hugged him.
"Enjoy every second."
"I will."
Jacob came last.
He looked at Francesco's England bag.
"So…"
Francesco already knew what was coming.
"What?"
"Can I have your shirt if you score in the World Cup?"
Francesco laughed.
"You haven't even seen the shirt."
"I don't care."
"You're already asking for it?"
"Planning ahead."
Mike shook his head.
"That's your brother-in-law's business mind."
Jacob grinned.
Francesco pulled him into a quick hug.
"If I score, we'll talk."
"Deal."
The sound of a car horn came from outside.
The driver had arrived.
Francesco looked toward the door.
For a moment nobody moved.
Then Leah stepped closer.
She hugged him tightly.
"Go."
He smiled against her shoulder.
"I'll call tonight."
"You'd better."
"I will."
She pulled back.
"Good luck."
Francesco kissed her.
"Thank you."
He picked up his bag.
Mike opened the door.
Morning air drifted inside.
Francesco stepped outside, then stopped beside the car.
His luggage had already been placed securely in the trunk by the driver.
He turned around.
Leah stood beside Mike and Sarah.
David, Amanda and Jacob were behind them.
Everyone was smiling.
Francesco lifted one hand.
"See you soon."
"Good luck!" Sarah called.
"Go on, England!" Jacob shouted.
Francesco laughed.
He opened the rear door and climbed inside.
Before the door closed, he looked back one final time.
Leah was still watching him.
Their eyes met.
She smiled.
He smiled back.
Then the door shut.
The car pulled away.
Francesco watched his family disappear behind him.
For several minutes he said nothing.
The city slowly moved past the windows.
Cars.
Buildings.
People beginning their mornings.
London carrying on as normal.
But Francesco's life had just changed again.
He leaned back.
His phone vibrated.
A message from Leah.
Go make history. ❤️
He smiled.
Then typed back.
I'll try.
He looked out the window.
St George's Park was waiting.
As the journey took approximately two and a half hours.
For much of it, Francesco simply watched the scenery change.
London gradually disappeared behind him.
The roads became quieter.
The buildings thinned.
Green fields stretched farther into the distance.
It was peaceful.
Almost too peaceful.
Francesco found himself thinking about Kyiv.
Then the Emirates.
Then the parade.
Then the four trophies.
He could still hear the supporters.
Still remember the feeling of standing beside the Champions League trophy while hundreds of thousands of people sang his name.
Now that seemed strangely distant.
Not forgotten.
Never forgotten.
But distant.
England was already pulling him forward.
His driver occasionally checked the rear-view mirror.
"You all right, sir?"
Francesco looked up.
"Yeah."
"First time at St George's Park?"
"Yeah."
The driver smiled.
"Big day."
Francesco nodded.
"Very."
Eventually the signs appeared.
St George's Park.
Francesco straightened in his seat.
There it was.
England's national football centre.
The car passed through the entrance.
The atmosphere changed immediately.
There were England flags.
Security personnel.
Staff vehicles.
Signs directing players and officials.
The unmistakable feeling of an international camp beginning.
Francesco looked through the window.
Players were already arriving.
Some stood outside with luggage.
Others were walking toward the accommodation buildings.
A few were greeting staff members.
Then he recognised someone immediately.
Kyle Walker.
Walker spotted the car almost at the same time.
The moment Francesco stepped out, Walker shouted.
"Look who's finally here!"
Francesco laughed.
"Finally?"
"You're late."
"I've been travelling for two and a half hours."
"Exactly. Late."
Francesco walked over and hugged him.
"Good to see you."
"You too, mate."
Walker looked at Francesco's England gear.
"Feels weird, doesn't it?"
"Very."
Walker nodded.
"First World Cup."
Francesco smiled.
"Yeah."
"Don't worry. You'll get used to it."
Francesco looked at him.
"You sound like you've done this before."
Walker shrugged.
"I've been around."
"Old man."
"Careful."
They laughed.
More players began arriving.
Harry Kane walked across the courtyard carrying a bag and immediately greeted Francesco.
"Good to finally meet you properly."
Francesco smiled.
"You too."
Kane shook his hand.
"Hell of a season."
"Thanks."
"You've made everyone's job harder."
Francesco laughed.
"How?"
"Now everyone expects us to score about five every game."
Walker interrupted.
"That's him, mate. He's responsible now."
Francesco shook his head.
"Brilliant."
Raheem Sterling arrived shortly afterward.
"Francesco!"
They embraced.
"Congratulations on everything."
"Thanks."
Sterling laughed.
"You still look exhausted."
"I am exhausted."
"You've had about three days of celebrations."
"Two and a half."
"That's not enough."
Marcus Rashford joined them.
"What's happening?"
Walker pointed at Francesco.
"New boy."
Rashford smiled.
"Welcome."
Francesco shook his hand.
"Thanks."
Jordan Henderson arrived next, followed by Dele Alli.
Then John Stones.
Harry Maguire.
Trent Alexander-Arnold.
Danny Rose.
Kieran Trippier.
The familiar rhythm of an international camp began forming around them.
Handshakes.
Hugs.
Jokes.
Questions about club seasons.
Comments about the World Cup.
Players comparing travel times.
Some discussing the weather.
Others talking about their families.
It felt remarkably normal.
And yet it wasn't.
Because every player there knew why they had come.
The World Cup.
Francesco stood with Walker, watching more teammates arrive.
Walker nudged him.
"Still nervous?"
"A bit."
"You'll be fine."
Francesco nodded.
"Thanks."
"You've just won everything with Arsenal. Don't suddenly forget how to play football."
Francesco laughed.
"That's reassuring."
"It should be."
By early evening, the squad had largely assembled.
Staff members guided everyone toward one of the briefing rooms.
The players took their seats.
Francesco sat near Walker.
Kane was several places away.
Sterling and Rashford were talking quietly.
Henderson sat near the front.
The room gradually became quieter.
Then the door opened.
Gareth Southgate entered.
He carried a folder beneath one arm.
His expression was calm.
Professional.
But there was an unmistakable seriousness in his eyes.
He stood at the front.
"Good evening, everyone."
"Good evening, boss."
Southgate smiled.
"First of all, welcome."
He looked around the room.
"For some of you, this is familiar territory. For others, like Francesco, this is your first World Cup camp."
Francesco nodded.
Southgate continued.
"You've all earned the right to be here."
The room became completely still.
"But that doesn't mean the work is finished."
He paused.
"We're here to represent England."
His voice remained measured.
"That requires discipline. Unity. Humility. And ambition."
He looked from player to player.
"I don't want anyone thinking that simply qualifying for the World Cup was the achievement."
Nobody moved.
"We are here to compete."
He tapped the folder lightly against his hand.
"We must believe we can compete against anyone."
Francesco listened carefully.
The tone was different from Arsenal.
Wenger had always spoken about football almost like a puzzle.
Southgate was more direct.
Preparation.
Responsibility.
Collective discipline.
"We will work hard," Southgate continued. "We will recover properly. We will prepare properly. We will understand every opponent. And we will remain professional from the first day until the last."
He looked toward the players.
"Training officially begins tomorrow morning."
A few tired smiles appeared.
"Today is not for proving anything."
That earned a small laugh.
"Today is for settling in. Meeting the staff. Recovering from travel. Eating properly. Sleeping properly."
Walker whispered to Francesco.
"Your mum would approve."
Francesco covered a smile.
Southgate continued.
"And preparing mentally."
The room became quiet again.
Then he moved toward the screen.
"There is another thing we need to discuss."
The display behind him changed.
GROUP G
Belgium.
Panama.
Tunisia.
A few players exchanged looks.
Southgate nodded.
"Belgium will be a major challenge."
Henderson leaned forward.
"We know the quality they have."
"Exactly," Southgate replied.
"But Panama and Tunisia are not games we can treat casually."
Nobody argued.
"We respect every opponent."
Southgate pointed toward the screen.
"Belgium has world-class players. Panama will be organised and physical. Tunisia will be disciplined and difficult to break down."
He paused.
"There is no easy game at a World Cup."
Francesco looked at the names on the screen.
Belgium.
Panama.
Tunisia.
It suddenly felt real.
Not television.
Not a dream.
Not something that happened to other players.
This was his group.
His tournament.
His responsibility.
Southgate continued discussing preparation and tactical plans.
The players asked a few questions.
Kane spoke about attacking structure.
Henderson asked about midfield roles.
Trippier discussed set pieces.
The discussion became increasingly detailed.
Francesco mostly listened.
He wanted to absorb everything.
This was different from club football.
At Arsenal, he knew every movement his teammates made.
Here, he was learning.
Understanding.
Adjusting.
Southgate eventually looked toward him.
"Francesco."
Francesco looked up.
"Yes?"
"We're very pleased to have you with us."
A few teammates smiled.
"You've had an extraordinary season. But tomorrow, you're an England player like everyone else."
Francesco nodded.
"Understood."
"Good."
Southgate smiled briefly.
"Then we'll get to work."
The meeting continued for a little longer.
Eventually Southgate closed the folder.
"That will do for tonight."
Chairs moved.
Players stood.
Conversation immediately returned.
The tension lifted.
Henderson clapped Francesco on the shoulder.
"Welcome to England."
"Thanks."
Kane smiled as he walked past.
"See you tomorrow."
"See you."
Francesco left the room alongside Walker.
Outside, the evening air had cooled.
The training centre was quieter now.
Lights glowed through the windows of the buildings.
Staff moved around in the distance.
A few players were already heading toward their rooms.
Walker looked at Francesco.
"So."
"So?"
"You still nervous?"
Francesco thought about it.
"Yeah."
Walker nodded.
"Good."
Francesco laughed.
"Again with that."
"Means you care."
They continued walking.
Francesco looked across the grounds.
Only days ago, he'd been surrounded by four trophies.
Premier League.
Carabao Cup.
FA Cup.
Champions League.
He had stood beneath confetti with Leah beside him.
He had watched London celebrate Arsenal.
Now those memories felt like something he'd placed carefully into a box.
He hadn't left them behind.
But he had closed the lid.
Tomorrow morning, another chapter would begin.
England training.
A World Cup.
Belgium.
Panama.
Tunisia.
And a chance to make history all over again.
Walker noticed him staring across the training pitches.
"Thinking?"
Francesco smiled.
"Apparently I do that too much."
Walker laughed.
"Come on."
They walked toward the accommodation.
Francesco glanced back once more.
St George's Park was quiet beneath the evening sky.
The work hadn't started yet.
But it was coming.
And for the first time, the reality of it settled properly inside him.
The Arsenal season was behind him.
The celebrations were behind him.
The four trophies were safely back in London.
Ahead stood England.
Ahead stood the World Cup.
Francesco took a slow breath, because tomorrow the serious work began.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 19 (2017)
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, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, FA Cup 2016/2017, 2016/2017 Champions League, 2017/2018 Carabao Cup, Premier League 2017/2018, FA Cup 2017/2018, and Champions League 2017/2018.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 59
Goal: 76
Assist: 6
MOTM: 7
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 4
Goal: 4
Assist: 1
MOTM: 2
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
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