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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
They looked like professionals trying to solve a complicated problem. And sometimes in football, that distinction made all the difference.
The following day began long before sunrise.
Not because of training.
Not because of a match.
Not because Arsène Wenger had scheduled another early tactical session.
This was different.
This was Paris.
This was the biggest individual night in football.
This was the journey to the Ballon d'Or.
And for Francesco, it carried a strange feeling.
A familiar feeling.
Yet somehow an entirely different one.
Because last year, he had arrived as the young challenger.
The wonderkid.
The phenomenon nobody had fully seen coming.
The teenager who had exploded onto the world stage and stunned football.
The player who had walked into the ceremony surrounded by uncertainty before leaving with the most prestigious individual prize in the sport.
This year?
Everything had changed.
Now he wasn't the surprise.
He wasn't the outsider.
He wasn't the unknown.
He was the defending winner.
The man everyone was chasing.
The face on the posters.
The player whose image appeared on every promotional graphic.
The reigning king of world football.
And that reality followed him all the way to the airport.
The private terminal remained relatively quiet when Francesco arrived that morning.
Leah was already there.
A long coat protected her from the cold London air as she stood beside several pieces of luggage.
She smiled the moment she spotted him.
"There he is."
Francesco walked over.
"You say that like I was late."
"You were three minutes late."
"That's still on time."
"Not in my world."
"Your world sounds stressful."
"It is."
They exchanged a quick kiss before turning toward another familiar figure.
Jorge Mendes.
The agent looked exactly as he always did.
Impeccably dressed.
Perfectly organized.
And somehow managing three phone conversations simultaneously.
The Portuguese super-agent ended one call and immediately pointed toward the aircraft.
"Good."
Francesco raised an eyebrow.
"Good morning to you too."
Mendes ignored that.
"We leave in ten minutes."
"Always nice seeing you."
"You can thank me later when you're holding another Ballon d'Or."
Leah laughed.
Francesco shook his head.
Some things never changed.
The flight itself passed smoothly.
Paris wasn't far.
Just enough time to relax.
Enough time to review schedules.
Enough time for Mendes to receive approximately four hundred phone calls.
At one point Leah counted.
Then gave up.
The number had become ridiculous.
"You ever stop working?" she asked him.
Mendes looked genuinely confused.
"What does that mean?"
Francesco nearly choked laughing.
The agent stared at both of them.
Completely serious.
Which somehow made it even funnier.
Clouds drifted beneath the aircraft as England gradually disappeared behind them.
Soon France emerged.
Fields.
Roads.
Towns.
Then eventually the unmistakable outline of Paris.
Even from above, the city looked beautiful.
Elegant.
Historic.
Timeless.
Leah pressed slightly closer to the window.
Every time she visited Paris she reacted exactly the same way.
Like someone seeing it for the first time.
Francesco understood.
Paris had that effect on people.
A few hours later they landed.
The moment they stepped off the aircraft, the atmosphere felt different.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The air.
The language.
The energy.
Paris always possessed a certain character.
A certain confidence.
Luxury cars waited nearby.
Prepared by Mendes long before their arrival.
Everything had been organized with military precision.
Of course it had.
Jorge Mendes treated logistics like an art form.
The group climbed into a black luxury vehicle and departed the airport.
The city gradually unfolded outside the windows.
Traffic flowed through wide boulevards.
Historic buildings lined the streets.
Tourists wandered through the afternoon.
Cafés buzzed with life.
Paris looked exactly as Paris should.
Beautiful.
Busy.
Alive.
Leah spent much of the drive looking out the window.
Meanwhile Francesco checked messages.
There were hundreds.
Teammates.
Friends.
Former teammates.
Sponsors.
Family.
Footballers from around the world.
Everyone wishing him luck.
Everyone discussing the ceremony.
The scale of the event still amazed him.
A football award ceremony somehow managed to capture global attention.
Yet every year it did.
The hotel was exactly what one would expect from Ballon d'Or week.
Luxury everywhere.
Players.
Agents.
Media personnel.
Sponsors.
Security.
Every corner seemed occupied by someone connected to football.
The lobby alone felt like a gathering of the sport's elite.
World-class players arrived throughout the afternoon.
Managers.
Club executives.
Legends.
Past winners.
Present stars.
Future contenders.
All under one roof.
The moment Francesco entered, several heads turned.
Not because he demanded attention.
Because attention followed him now.
That was another thing that had changed.
A year earlier he had been one of many stars attending.
Now he was the defending champion.
People naturally noticed.
Staff greeted him warmly.
Photographers positioned around the lobby immediately began taking pictures.
Even before the ceremony officially started.
The machine surrounding the Ballon d'Or never truly stopped.
⸻
The afternoon disappeared quickly.
Soon it was time for preparations.
And that meant the arrival of the Armani team.
Several garment bags appeared.
Stylists arrived.
Tailors checked measurements.
Assistants moved around hotel suites with impressive efficiency.
The entire process resembled a carefully choreographed performance.
Leah experienced her own version next door.
Hair specialists.
Makeup artists.
Fashion consultants.
Everyone working against the clock.
Meanwhile Francesco stood patiently while a tailor adjusted the sleeve of his jacket for approximately the tenth time.
"Perfect."
The tailor stepped back.
Then frowned.
"No. Wait."
And returned immediately.
Francesco sighed.
The room laughed.
Fashion apparently required suffering.
At least according to professionals.
Hours passed.
Slowly the transformation occurred.
The casual travelers who had arrived earlier disappeared.
In their place emerged the polished versions the world would see on television.
The final Armani suit fit perfectly.
Elegant.
Sharp.
Sophisticated.
The kind of suit designed for one of football's biggest nights.
When Leah finally entered the room after finishing her own preparations, the conversation stopped for a moment.
Even Mendes paused a phone call.
Leah looked stunning.
Simple as that.
The dress was elegant without being excessive.
Confident without demanding attention.
Perfectly suited to the evening.
Francesco smiled immediately.
"You look incredible."
Leah smiled back.
"So do you."
Mendes pointed between them.
"Good."
"That's romantic."
"It means the photographs will be expensive."
There he was again.
Always the agent.
Never changing.
By 19:15 PM everything was ready.
The hotel entrance had become increasingly crowded.
Vehicles arrived one after another.
Security coordinated movements.
Media tracked every departure.
The anticipation continued building.
Outside, Paris had transitioned into evening.
Lights illuminated the city.
The atmosphere felt magical.
Almost cinematic.
The car carrying Francesco and Leah joined the procession heading toward the ceremony.
Nobody spoke much during the drive.
Not because of nerves.
Because everyone was absorbing the moment.
The closer they got, the more obvious the scale became.
Road closures.
Security.
Crowds.
Media zones.
Everything surrounding the event had expanded enormously.
Then finally it appeared.
The illuminated silhouette of Eiffel Tower.
Towering above the Paris skyline.
Magnificent against the night sky.
Golden lights shimmered across its structure.
Even people who had seen it countless times couldn't help appreciating it.
Tonight it felt even more special.
Because beneath it, football's biggest individual celebration awaited.
The car gradually approached the arrival area.
Security personnel directed vehicles.
Photographers crowded behind barriers.
Reporters prepared questions.
Fans gathered wherever they could.
Energy crackled through the air.
The kind of energy that only existed during major events.
Then the vehicle stopped.
The moment had arrived.
A member of the event staff opened the door.
Instantly everything changed.
The noise hit first.
Shouts.
Cheers.
Voices.
Camera shutters.
Hundreds of them.
Maybe thousands.
Flashes exploded everywhere.
White light illuminated the evening repeatedly.
Photographers immediately recognized who had arrived.
And their reaction made it obvious.
"FRANCESCO!"
"THIS WAY!"
"LOOK LEFT!"
"FRANCESCO!"
"OVER HERE!"
The volume increased dramatically.
Leah stepped out beside him.
More flashes.
More shouting.
More photographs.
The red carpet stretched ahead beneath brilliant lighting.
Elegant.
Prestigious.
Iconic.
The entrance to football royalty.
For a brief moment Francesco simply stood there.
Taking it all in.
The cameras.
The crowd.
The Eiffel Tower towering above everything.
The realization that one year earlier had somehow become reality.
Then become expectation.
And now perhaps history.
Because every journalist present understood the same thing.
The favorite had arrived.
The reigning Ballon d'Or holder.
The youngest winner in history.
The player who had led Arsenal to another extraordinary season.
Another treble.
Another year filled with goals.
Records.
Trophies.
Moments.
The man many believed would become the youngest back-to-back winner football had ever seen.
The cameras practically doubled.
Photographers surged forward behind barriers.
Reporters called his name repeatedly.
Every angle mattered.
Every expression.
Every image.
Tomorrow these photographs would appear across newspapers worldwide.
Sports websites.
Social media.
Television broadcasts.
The global football audience wanted to see Francesco.
And the media knew it.
Leah leaned slightly closer.
"You getting used to this yet?"
Francesco smiled.
"No."
"Good."
"Why?"
"It would be weird if you did."
That earned a laugh.
Together they began walking down the red carpet.
Slowly.
Professionally.
Stopping occasionally for photographs.
Turning when requested.
Posing when necessary.
The routine had become familiar.
Yet never normal.
It was impossible for something like this to feel normal.
Ahead, more stars continued arriving.
One after another.
The biggest names in football.
World Cup winners.
Champions League winners.
League champions.
Icons of the sport.
The red carpet had become a living museum of football greatness.
And yet whenever Francesco moved, the cameras somehow intensified again.
Not out of disrespect toward others.
Because tonight's narrative centered around him.
The defending champion.
The possible repeat winner.
The young superstar standing at the center of football's attention.
One reporter managed to call out a question from behind the barriers.
"FRANCESCO! HOW DOES IT FEEL COMING BACK AS DEFENDING CHAMPION?"
He paused briefly.
Smiled.
Then answered simply.
"It's an honor just to be here."
The response immediately generated another explosion of camera flashes.
Professional.
Respectful.
Safe.
Mendes would approve.
Somewhere nearby, the agent almost certainly did.
As they continued along the carpet, more players arrived.
More cameras flashed.
More interviews occurred.
The evening continued growing larger.
Grander.
More significant.
Above them, the Eiffel Tower illuminated the Paris sky.
Beneath it, football celebrated its finest.
And Francesco walked toward the entrance alongside Leah, surrounded by the noise of the world's media, he could feel the anticipation building with every step.
As they continued toward the entrance, the noise of the red carpet slowly began fading behind them.
Not disappearing entirely.
Just becoming more distant.
More muted.
The flashes of cameras gave way to elegant lighting.
The shouts of reporters were replaced by conversation.
Laughter.
Greetings.
The sound of football's biggest names gathering under one roof.
The moment Francesco and Leah stepped inside, the scale of the evening became even more obvious.
The venue beneath the illuminated Eiffel Tower looked breathtaking.
Crystal chandeliers hung from above.
Golden light reflected from polished surfaces.
Tables stretched across the massive hall.
Television crews moved carefully between guests.
Event staff coordinated everything with remarkable precision.
Everywhere Francesco looked, there was another familiar face.
Another football legend.
Another icon of the game.
Another person whose career had shaped the sport.
For a brief moment, it almost felt surreal.
Not because he didn't belong there.
That feeling had disappeared long ago.
But because football had a strange way of compressing history into a single room.
Past.
Present.
Future.
All gathered together.
The very best.
They had barely taken ten steps inside before the greetings began.
One after another.
A seemingly endless line of handshakes.
Congratulations.
Conversations.
Smiles.
A respected manager stopped him first.
Then a club president.
Then a former Ballon d'Or winner.
Then another.
And another.
Everywhere people wanted a few moments with him.
Some to congratulate him on Arsenal's season.
Some to discuss football.
Some simply to say hello.
The attention was constant.
Yet Francesco handled it naturally.
Years earlier it might have felt overwhelming.
Now it felt normal.
Or at least as normal as something like this could feel.
Leah remained beside him throughout.
Graceful.
Comfortable.
Confident.
She had attended enough major events now to understand how they worked.
How conversations flowed.
How football's elite socialized.
At one point an executive from a major European club greeted them warmly.
Then another.
Then a former international manager.
The list seemed endless.
Eventually a familiar voice called out.
"Francesco."
He turned.
Immediately smiling.
Standing several meters away was Thierry Henry.
The Arsenal legend opened his arms.
The two embraced briefly.
"Good to see you."
"You too."
Henry stepped back.
Looking him over.
"You clean up surprisingly well."
Francesco laughed.
"I was thinking the same thing about you."
"Liar."
"Absolutely."
The two shared another laugh.
Nearby, Leah smiled.
Watching the interaction.
Because there was genuine affection there.
Mutual respect.
The kind that only existed between Arsenal legends separated by generations.
Eventually Henry shook his hand once more.
"Good luck tonight."
Francesco smiled.
"Thank you."
Both men understood what that really meant.
As the minutes passed, more arrivals continued.
One by one.
The biggest names in football entering the venue.
Every entrance creating another ripple of excitement.
Every arrival generating another wave of camera flashes.
And despite all of them being global superstars in their own right, there remained one obvious reality.
Many eyes kept returning to Francesco.
The defending winner.
The favorite.
The man expected to make history.
The anticipation surrounding him had become impossible to ignore.
Eventually event staff approached.
Polite.
Professional.
Discreet.
"Mr. Lee."
Francesco turned.
The staff member smiled.
"We are ready to escort you to your seats."
"Thank you."
Leah joined him as they followed.
The walk toward the front of the venue felt strangely symbolic.
Past former winners.
Past football royalty.
Past executives and dignitaries.
Closer and closer toward the stage.
Closer and closer toward the center of the evening.
And then they arrived.
Front row.
Exactly where everyone expected him to be.
The seats themselves immediately caught his attention.
Because of who occupied them.
To his right sat Lionel Messi.
To his left sat Cristiano Ronaldo.
For a brief moment, Francesco couldn't help smiling.
A decade earlier football fans around the world had debated those two endlessly.
Messi.
Ronaldo.
Ronaldo.
Messi.
The defining rivalry of an era.
Now he found himself seated directly between them.
The symbolism wasn't lost on anyone.
Especially the photographers.
The cameras immediately began flashing again.
Three generations of football dominance captured in a single image.
Messi noticed first.
Smiling warmly.
"Good evening."
"You too."
The Argentine extended a hand.
Francesco shook it.
Then Ronaldo did the same.
The Portuguese smiled.
"You ready?"
Francesco laughed softly.
"I think so."
Ronaldo nodded.
"Good answer."
The exchange remained simple.
Respectful.
Comfortable.
The way elite competitors often treated each other.
The cameras loved every second of it.
Soon the lights began dimming.
Conversations gradually softened.
Guests returned to their seats.
Television crews prepared for broadcast.
The giant screens surrounding the venue came alive.
Music filled the hall.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
The ceremony was beginning.
A ripple of excitement spread through the audience.
Football's biggest night had officially start.
The hosts emerged to warm applause.
Opening speeches followed.
Introductions.
Highlights from the year.
Celebrations of football's greatest moments.
Goals.
Trophies.
Historic performances.
Everything that had made the year unforgettable.
The audience watched attentively.
Occasionally laughing.
Occasionally applauding.
Occasionally seeing themselves appear on the giant screens.
Then came the first major award.
Coach of the Year.
The nominees appeared.
Three outstanding managers.
Three remarkable seasons.
The tension lasted only a few moments.
Because when the envelope was opened, the reaction came immediately.
"Coach of the Year goes to…"
A brief pause.
"Arsène Wenger!"
The room erupted.
Applause filled the venue.
Loud.
Sincere.
Deserved.
Francesco was already standing before the announcement fully finished.
So were several Arsenal representatives throughout the room.
Leah applauded enthusiastically beside him.
Messi applauded.
Ronaldo applauded.
Virtually everyone did.
Because even rival clubs respected what Wenger had achieved.
Another Premier League title.
Another Champions League triumph.
Another treble.
Another masterpiece.
The camera quickly found Wenger.
The Arsenal manager looked characteristically composed.
Though a faint smile appeared.
One of those rare Wenger smiles that revealed genuine emotion.
He made his way toward the stage.
The applause continued.
Longer than usual.
Because football understood exactly who he was.
A builder.
A visionary.
A legend.
Wenger accepted the trophy.
Then approached the microphone.
The speech remained elegant.
Gracious.
Classy.
Everything people expected from him.
He thanked Arsenal.
The players.
The staff.
The supporters.
And as he glanced toward the front row where Francesco sat, there was an unmistakable look of pride.
Because managers never achieved success alone.
And Wenger knew exactly how important his captain had been.
The audience applauded again as he left the stage.
The ceremony continued.
More awards.
More highlights.
More celebrations.
Then came another major category.
Striker of the Year.
The room immediately became more attentive.
Because everyone knew who the favorite was.
The nominees appeared on screen.
Extraordinary goals.
Extraordinary numbers.
Extraordinary seasons.
Then the envelope was opened.
The presenter smiled.
"Striker of the Year…"
A pause.
"…Francesco Lee."
The reaction was immediate.
Applause echoed throughout the venue.
Warm.
Enthusiastic.
Expected.
Leah smiled proudly.
Messi nodded.
Ronaldo grinned.
Both congratulating him before he even stood.
Francesco shook their hands.
Then made his way toward the stage.
The giant screens displayed goal after goal.
Free kicks.
Long-range strikes.
Champions League moments.
Premier League moments.
Everything that had defined another incredible season.
The audience watched.
Applauding repeatedly.
The award felt important.
Meaningful.
Yet everyone understood another reality.
The biggest prize still remained.
Still waiting.
Still sitting quietly in the background.
Francesco accepted the trophy.
Thanked teammates.
Thanked coaches.
Thanked supporters.
A short speech.
Professional.
Respectful.
Then returned to his seat.
The applause followed him all the way back.
The ceremony continued moving forward.
Then came Club of the Year.
The category barely needed explanation.
The achievements spoke for themselves.
Another treble.
Another historic season.
Another year dominating English and European football.
When the winner was announced, nobody seemed surprised.
"Club of the Year…"
The presenter smiled.
"Arsenal."
Another huge reaction.
Applause filled the venue once more.
This time even louder.
Because Arsenal's season had been extraordinary.
Defending a treble was almost impossible.
Yet they had done it.
The camera quickly located Arsenal's delegation.
Several executives stood.
Among them was Ivan Gazidis.
The Arsenal representative made his way toward the stage.
The trophy gleamed beneath the lights.
A symbol of collective excellence.
Of years of work.
Of a football club operating at the highest level.
Gazidis delivered a speech on behalf of the club.
Thanking Wenger.
The players.
The staff.
The supporters.
The academy.
Everyone who had contributed.
When he returned to his seat, Arsenal's section received another round of applause.
A fitting tribute.
Then the atmosphere changed.
Not dramatically.
Not immediately.
But everyone felt it.
The room seemed to settle.
Conversations disappeared.
People adjusted in their seats.
The energy shifted.
Because now there was only one award left.
The award.
The reason the entire football world was watching.
The reason millions of people sat in front of televisions across continents.
The reason journalists had filled the red carpet.
The Ballon d'Or.
A video montage played first.
The year's defining moments.
The greatest goals.
The biggest matches.
The most unforgettable performances.
The audience watched silently.
Absorbed.
Captivated.
When the montage ended, the hall remained quiet.
Almost reverent.
The anticipation had become tangible.
Something you could practically feel.
Then the presenters appeared.
One carrying the famous golden trophy.
The Ballon d'Or itself.
Glowing beneath the lights.
Beautiful.
Iconic.
The symbol every footballer dreamed about.
The presenter introduced the final guests.
First came Ronaldo Nazário.
The legendary Brazilian received enormous applause.
Then beside him stood David Ginola.
Together they approached center stage.
The hall fell completely silent.
No whispers.
No conversations.
Nothing.
Just anticipation.
Ronaldo Nazário held the envelope.
For a brief moment he smiled.
Then handed it to David Ginola.
The Frenchman accepted it carefully.
The cameras immediately found the nominees.
Messi.
Ronaldo.
Francesco.
The three faces appeared on giant screens.
The future.
The present.
The legends.
All waiting.
Ginola slowly opened the envelope.
The room seemed frozen.
Every eye focused on the stage.
Every camera ready.
Every journalist waiting.
Then he looked up.
Smiled.
And began speaking.
"The winner of the 2017 Ballon d'Or…"
A pause.
One final pause.
"…Francesco Lee."
For a fraction of a second, there was silence.
Then the entire venue exploded.
Applause.
Cheers.
People rising to their feet.
An instant standing ovation.
The cameras immediately turned toward him.
Leah's hands flew to her mouth.
Her eyes shining.
Pure pride.
Pure happiness.
Beside him, Messi stood first.
Smiling warmly as he extended a hand.
"Congratulations."
Then Ronaldo did the same.
A genuine smile across his face.
"Well deserved."
Francesco shook both hands.
Still processing it.
Still trying to absorb what had just happened.
History.
Again.
The youngest Ballon d'Or winner had just become the youngest back-to-back Ballon d'Or winner.
Something nobody had ever done.
Not Messi.
Not Ronaldo.
Not anyone.
The applause continued.
Relentless.
As Francesco stood and looked around the hall, he saw football's greatest players standing for him.
Managers.
Legends.
Champions.
All applauding.
All acknowledging another extraordinary year.
And as the golden Ballon d'Or waited on the stage beneath the lights of Paris and the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, one truth became undeniable.
The wonderkid who had shocked the football world was no longer a surprise as he was no longer the future, as he had become the standard everyone else was chasing.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
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, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 28
Goal: 35
Assist: 1
MOTM: 4
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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