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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And somehow, on a day already filled with happiness, that felt like the best Christmas gift of all.
The days after Christmas slipped by with a rhythm that felt wonderfully familiar.
Not quite a holiday.
Not quite normal life.
Something in between.
For most people, the period between Christmas and New Year was a time of rest.
For footballers?
It was usually one of the busiest periods of the entire season.
The Premier League never stopped.
The fixtures kept coming.
The schedule remained relentless.
And yet somehow, despite the demands of football, the Christmas spirit still lingered throughout the week.
The mansion remained decorated.
The Christmas tree continued glowing every evening.
Cheddar continued believing every wrapped object inside the house belonged to him.
And every morning Francesco woke to find new messages from supporters thanking him for the Christmas donation.
The story had somehow reached the public despite his intentions.
Not because he had announced it.
He hadn't.
But kindness rarely stayed hidden for long.
Several orphanages had publicly thanked the anonymous donor.
It hadn't taken the football world very long to figure out who that donor was.
The response had been overwhelmingly positive.
As always, however, Francesco preferred not to dwell on it.
The focus quickly shifted elsewhere.
Football.
Because football always returned.
No matter what season it was.
No matter what holiday appeared on the calendar.
Football never waited.
And neither did Arsène Wenger.
Three days after Christmas, London Colney came alive once again.
The training ground parking lot gradually filled.
Players arrived one by one.
Some looking refreshed.
Some looking slightly heavier after Christmas dinners.
Some pretending they definitely hadn't eaten too much.
Nobody believed those players.
Especially not the fitness coaches.
The moment Francesco stepped inside the main building, he immediately heard a familiar voice.
"Ballon d'Or boy!"
Kyle Walker.
Of course.
Who else?
Francesco didn't even need to turn around.
"Morning."
Walker appeared carrying a coffee and wearing a grin that suggested trouble.
"How was Christmas?"
"Good."
"Get anything nice?"
Francesco stared at him.
Walker stared back.
Then immediately burst out laughing.
"Sorry."
Robertson walked past at that exact moment.
"You've been waiting to make that joke, haven't you?"
"Three days."
"That's embarrassing."
"It was worth it."
Van Dijk arrived moments later.
Towering as usual.
"Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas."
Then the Dutch defender looked toward Francesco.
"Still carrying the Ballon d'Or around your house?"
The question attracted immediate attention.
Several players looked interested.
Francesco sighed.
"Maybe."
Walker pointed triumphantly.
"I knew it."
"You don't know anything."
"I know enough."
The dressing room erupted into laughter.
Some things never changed.
And honestly?
Francesco was grateful for that.
Because inside football dressing rooms, nobody cared how many awards you won.
Nobody cared how many headlines you generated.
Nobody cared about social media.
You were simply another teammate.
Another player.
Another target for jokes.
The normality felt refreshing.
Training resumed.
The intensity returned.
The Christmas food was forgotten.
The festive atmosphere slowly disappeared beneath tactical discussions, passing drills, recovery sessions, and preparation.
Because Crystal Palace awaited.
And Selhurst Park was never an easy place to visit.
Matchday arrived beneath a cold December sky.
The journey across South London felt familiar.
The Arsenal team bus rolled through busy streets while supporters gathered outside pubs and stadium entrances.
Selhurst Park appeared in the distance.
Compact.
Intimidating.
Loud.
One of those grounds where the crowd seemed almost on top of the pitch.
The kind of stadium players secretly loved.
Even when they hated playing there.
Inside the dressing room Wenger remained calm.
As always.
No dramatic speeches.
No theatrics.
No unnecessary pressure.
Just trust.
"Focus."
That was his message.
Simple.
Clear.
Professional.
The players nodded.
Then headed toward the tunnel.
The noise hit immediately.
Crystal Palace supporters were already in full voice.
Arsenal's travelling fans responded.
The atmosphere crackled with energy.
Premier League football during the festive period always carried a special feeling.
Families attended together.
Children filled the stands.
Songs echoed around the stadium.
The match kicked off.
And almost immediately Arsenal looked sharp.
Not perfect.
But sharp.
The passing flowed.
The movement looked good.
The confidence remained high.
Champions played like champions.
Palace fought hard.
Naturally.
Nobody expected anything else.
Yet Arsenal's quality gradually began taking control.
The breakthrough arrived from an unexpected source.
A set piece.
The ball swung into the area.
Bodies rose.
Defenders challenged.
And suddenly Shkodran Mustafi appeared.
The German defender powered a header beyond the goalkeeper.
Goal.
1-0 Arsenal.
The away supporters erupted.
Mustafi sprinted toward the corner flag.
A rare smile appearing on his usually serious face.
Teammates surrounded him immediately.
Walker somehow arrived first despite starting nowhere near the incident.
Nobody questioned it.
The man seemed capable of appearing anywhere.
The goal settled Arsenal.
The football improved further.
The passing became quicker.
The confidence increased.
And eventually Alexis Sánchez took over.
As great players often did.
The Chilean looked unstoppable.
Hungry.
Aggressive.
Determined.
The first goal came after a brilliant combination near the edge of the area.
One quick exchange.
One clever touch.
One clinical finish.
2-0.
The travelling Arsenal supporters sang even louder.
Alexis responded by pointing toward them.
The relationship between player and supporters remained strong as ever.
Crystal Palace attempted a response.
And eventually found one.
A goal pulled the score back to 2-1.
The stadium exploded.
Selhurst Park suddenly believed again.
For several minutes the pressure increased.
The crowd became louder.
The tackles became harder.
The momentum shifted.
Briefly.
Because great teams knew how to respond.
And this Arsenal side was unquestionably a great team.
The third goal arrived through Alexis once more.
Another moment of quality.
Another finish.
Another celebration.
3-1.
The noise from the away end became deafening.
The Palace supporters grew quieter.
The momentum vanished.
The contest effectively ended.
Yet there was still time for one more.
Francesco had worked tirelessly all afternoon.
Pressing.
Running.
Creating space.
Linking play.
The goal finally arrived late in the match.
A quick move down the right.
The cross arrived.
The timing felt perfect.
And with one clean strike he buried the ball into the net.
4-1.
Another goal.
Another celebration.
Another reminder of why he remained the best striker in world football.
The away supporters sang his name immediately.
Thousands of voices rising together.
A familiar sound.
One he never took for granted.
The final whistle eventually arrived.
Crystal Palace 1.
Arsenal 4.
Another victory.
Another three points.
Another successful step forward in the title race.
As the players applauded the travelling supporters, Francesco looked toward the away section.
Scarves waved.
Children smiled.
Fans held up signs.
Many still referenced the Ballon d'Or.
Others simply celebrated another Arsenal win.
The connection remained powerful.
Always.
The days between matches disappeared quickly.
Recovery.
Training.
Analysis.
Preparation.
The festive schedule offered little time to breathe.
Soon attention shifted toward the final fixture of the year.
December 31st.
West Bromwich Albion.
The Hawthorns.
One last challenge before New Year.
One final match before the calendar changed.
The journey north felt quieter.
Perhaps because everyone understood the importance.
West Brom away was never glamorous.
Never easy.
Never comfortable.
The Hawthorns possessed a reputation.
Physical football.
Organized defending.
Relentless effort.
The sort of match that demanded patience.
And patience became necessary almost immediately.
West Brom defended deep.
Compact.
Disciplined.
Every attack felt difficult.
Every opportunity needed to be earned.
The first half became a battle.
Not a spectacle.
A battle.
Tackles.
Headers.
Second balls.
The sort of football supporters appreciated but analysts rarely celebrated.
Eventually Arsenal found a breakthrough.
And unsurprisingly, Francesco played a central role.
A clever movement inside the penalty area.
A quick touch.
A brief opening.
Enough.
For players of his quality, enough was all that was required.
The finish flew past the goalkeeper.
1-0 Arsenal.
The away supporters erupted.
The players celebrated together.
Not wildly.
Professionally.
There was still work to do.
West Brom refused to surrender.
And shortly after halftime they equalized.
The stadium exploded.
Hope returned.
The home supporters sensed an opportunity.
The pressure increased.
The match became tense.
The kind of tension that existed only in Premier League football.
One mistake could change everything.
One moment could decide the result.
Fortunately for Arsenal, they possessed players capable of producing moments.
And eventually one arrived.
The move began near midfield.
Quick passing.
Sharp movement.
Space opening.
The ball eventually reached Serge Gnabry.
The German winger drove forward confidently.
One touch.
Two touches.
Then a finish.
Precise.
Clinical.
Beautiful.
Goal.
2-1 Arsenal.
The away supporters exploded with joy.
Gnabry sprinted toward the corner.
Teammates followed.
The celebrations carried extra meaning.
Not because the goal was spectacular.
Because everyone knew how important it could be.
The final minutes felt endless.
West Brom pushed forward desperately.
Crosses entered the box.
Challenges flew in.
Arsenal defended bravely.
Van Dijk won everything.
Mustafi threw himself into tackles.
Robertson ran himself into exhaustion.
Walker somehow found enough energy to sprint even in the ninety-third minute.
Some mysteries remained unsolved.
Eventually the whistle arrived.
West Bromwich Albion 1.
Arsenal 2.
Victory.
Again.
The final victory of the year.
The perfect way to close 2017.
As the players embraced and exchanged congratulations, there was an undeniable feeling throughout the squad.
Pride.
Not arrogance.
Pride.
The year had been extraordinary.
Treble winners.
Champions of Europe.
Champions of England.
Club World Cup winners.
Coach of the Year.
Ballon d'Or winner.
And now another successful festive period.
The momentum remained strong.
The belief remained strong.
Everything still felt possible.
Back at London Colney, the atmosphere was noticeably lighter than usual.
The final training-ground return of the year always carried a special mood.
Players gathered their belongings.
Staff exchanged New Year wishes.
Laughter echoed through the corridors.
The pressure could wait until January.
For a few hours at least.
Walker was naturally the loudest.
"Don't do anything stupid tonight."
Robertson immediately replied.
"You're the one we should be telling that."
"Unfair."
"Accurate."
Van Dijk laughed.
Several others joined in.
The dressing room felt relaxed.
Comfortable.
Like a family preparing to spend a few days apart.
Eventually Wenger appeared.
The room quieted instantly.
Not out of fear.
Respect.
The manager looked around at his players.
His team.
A small smile appeared.
"You've earned the evening."
The words carried weight.
Because praise from Wenger was never given lightly.
The Frenchman continued.
"Enjoy time with your families."
"Recover."
"Rest."
"Then we start again."
Simple.
Perfect.
The players nodded.
Because everyone understood.
Football never stopped for long.
January awaited.
New challenges awaited.
But tonight belonged to family.
One by one the squad began departing.
Cars left the training ground.
Players headed home.
Different destinations.
Different celebrations.
The same purpose.
To welcome a new year.
Francesco collected his belongings.
Said goodbye to teammates.
Exchanged New Year wishes.
Then headed toward the parking area.
His car waited.
The winter evening air felt cold.
Fresh.
The sky above London already darkening.
Fireworks would come later.
Celebrations would come later.
For now there was simply the drive home.
Home to Richmond.
Home to Leah and Cheddar.
Home to the Christmas tree still standing proudly in the living room.
As he pulled away from London Colney, leaving the training ground behind, he allowed himself a rare moment of reflection.
What a year it had been.
The victories.
The trophies.
The goals.
The Ballon d'Or.
The memories.
The people who had shared the journey.
It felt impossible to summarize.
Impossible to fully process.
The drive back to Richmond felt different from every other journey home that year.
Not because of the traffic.
Not because of the weather.
Not because Arsenal had just secured another hard-fought Premier League victory.
It felt different because it was New Year's Eve.
The final evening of an extraordinary year.
A year that had changed everything.
As Francesco guided his car through the familiar roads of Richmond, the city around him already carried signs of celebration.
Restaurants glowed warmly behind large windows.
Families hurried through the cold carrying bags and food trays.
Christmas lights still decorated houses.
Children could occasionally be seen peering through frosted windows while adults prepared for the evening ahead.
The entire city seemed to be holding its breath.
Waiting.
Waiting for midnight.
Waiting for a new year.
Waiting for a fresh beginning.
Inside the car, Francesco drove comfortably while reflecting on everything that had happened over the previous twelve months.
The memories came one after another.
His first thought was Arsenal.
Always Arsenal.
The Premier League title.
The Champions League triumph.
The domestic cup victories.
The dressing room celebrations.
The long nights.
The difficult matches.
The moments nobody saw.
The moments everybody remembered.
Then came the Ballon d'Or.
Again.
A second consecutive Ballon d'Or.
Even now it still felt strange.
Surreal.
As though it had happened to somebody else.
Yet every time he looked at the trophy sitting back at the mansion, reality returned.
It had happened.
It was real.
And somehow the journey was still only beginning.
His phone buzzed briefly beside him.
A message from Walker.
Don't arrive late tonight. Someone needs to stop Robertson from dancing.
Almost immediately another message appeared.
Robertson.
Ignore him. He's already embarrassing himself.
Then another.
Van Dijk.
Happy New Year in advance. See you all in January.
Francesco smiled.
The group chat was already descending into chaos.
Exactly as expected.
Some things never changed.
Thankfully.
The familiar gates of his Richmond mansion eventually appeared ahead.
Tall.
Elegant.
Decorated with Christmas lights that softly illuminated the entrance.
Home.
The security system recognized his vehicle immediately.
The gates slowly opened.
And as the car rolled forward, Francesco noticed something unexpected.
Two additional vehicles were already parked outside.
One belonged to his parents.
The other…
He immediately recognized it.
Leah's family.
A smile appeared before he even switched off the engine.
Of course.
It suddenly made perfect sense.
Leah had probably organized everything days ago.
Possibly weeks ago.
She liked planning things.
Especially family gatherings.
Especially Christmas gatherings.
Especially New Year gatherings.
He climbed from the car and immediately felt the cold winter air.
His breath appeared in front of him.
The evening sky had already darkened considerably.
The mansion itself glowed warmly through large windows.
Laughter could be heard faintly even from outside.
A good sign.
A very good sign.
The moment he stepped through the front door, warmth greeted him.
Along with the unmistakable smell of cooking.
A lot of cooking.
The kind of smell that instantly told him several parents had taken over the kitchen.
There was no stopping that once it began.
The Christmas tree still stood proudly in the living room.
Its lights glowing beautifully.
Presents remained beneath it.
Decorations sparkled softly.
The room felt alive.
Comfortable.
Home.
And directly in front of the television sat Jacob.
Completely absorbed.
Utterly focused.
Holding a PlayStation controller.
The teenager was leaning forward on the sofa with the concentration of somebody attempting to save the world.
Or win an important match.
On screen, digital footballers sprinted across a virtual pitch.
Jacob didn't even notice Francesco enter.
Not immediately.
Francesco quietly set his bag down.
Walked behind the sofa.
And looked over his shoulder.
"You're losing."
Jacob nearly jumped out of his skin.
The controller almost flew from his hands.
"What the—"
Then he turned around.
Immediately recognizing him.
"You're back!"
Francesco laughed.
"Apparently."
Jacob pointed accusingly.
"You scared me."
"You were concentrating."
"I was winning."
The scoreboard immediately exposed the lie.
He was losing 3-1.
Francesco raised an eyebrow.
Jacob looked at the screen.
Paused.
Then nodded reluctantly.
"Okay, I was losing."
"Thought so."
The teenager grinned.
Then stood up and pulled him into a quick hug.
"Merry almost New Year."
"Merry almost New Year."
Jacob immediately resumed sitting down.
Priorities.
The match on screen clearly remained important.
Very important.
Possibly life or death important.
Teenagers had a unique relationship with video games.
Francesco glanced further across the living room.
And spotted his father.
Mike sat comfortably in one of the armchairs.
A cup of coffee in hand.
Looking completely relaxed.
Beside him sat David.
Leah's father.
The two men appeared deeply involved in conversation.
The kind of conversation fathers always seemed to have.
Part discussion.
Part debate.
Part storytelling.
Nobody truly knew how those conversations worked.
Only that they could continue for hours.
Mike noticed him first.
A broad smile appeared instantly.
"There he is."
David turned around.
"Finally."
Francesco laughed.
"What did I do?"
"You're late."
"I finished a football match."
"Excuses."
"Good evening to you too."
The older men laughed.
Mike stood and pulled him into a hug.
A proud father hug.
The sort that never really changed no matter how old a son became.
"Good game."
"Thanks."
"We watched it."
"Of course you did."
David stood next.
Shaking his hand before pulling him into a quick embrace as well.
"Congratulations on the win."
"Thank you."
"That goal wasn't bad."
"Only not bad?"
"It was acceptable."
Francesco shook his head.
"You sound like Wenger."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
The conversation immediately settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Football was discussed.
Naturally.
The West Brom match.
The title race.
The festive schedule.
The difficulty of winning away at The Hawthorns.
Mike proudly brought up the Ballon d'Or again.
Naturally.
David rolled his eyes.
Naturally.
Francesco groaned.
Naturally.
Some family traditions were unavoidable.
Eventually another smell drifted through the house.
Rich.
Warm.
Delicious.
The kitchen.
The source of the operation.
The true headquarters of the evening.
He followed the aroma.
And immediately discovered organized chaos.
The best kind of chaos.
The kitchen was alive.
Every counter seemed occupied.
Ingredients sat everywhere.
Bowls.
Pans.
Serving trays.
Vegetables.
Desserts.
Enough food to feed a small army.
Possibly a medium-sized army.
And standing at the center of it all was Leah.
Of course.
Wearing an apron.
Hair tied back.
Completely focused on helping coordinate the evening meal.
Beside her stood Sarah.
His mother.
And Amanda.
Leah's mother.
The three women worked together with impressive efficiency.
Nobody appeared confused.
Nobody appeared stressed.
They simply moved around one another naturally.
The result of years of experience.
The result of mothers possessing powers that remained largely unexplained by science.
Leah looked up first.
Her face immediately brightened.
"You're home."
The simple words somehow made the entire room feel warmer.
Francesco smiled.
"I am."
Without hesitation he crossed the kitchen.
Leah met him halfway.
And immediately wrapped her arms around him.
A brief hug.
Comfortable.
Natural.
The sort of embrace that instantly erased the stress of matches, travel, and competition.
"Good game."
"Thank you."
"You looked tired."
"I was."
"I could tell."
Sarah laughed.
"Footballers."
Amanda nodded.
"They always look tired."
"They are always tired."
"True."
The kitchen erupted into amusement.
Leah finally stepped back.
Though not very far.
Never very far.
Francesco kissed her forehead gently.
The gesture earning immediate reactions from both mothers.
Naturally.
Because mothers noticed everything.
Absolutely everything.
"Aww."
"Mom."
"What?"
Sarah looked completely innocent.
Nobody believed her.
Amanda laughed.
Leah buried her face in Francesco's shoulder for a moment.
Already embarrassed.
The teasing only increased.
As expected.
Eventually Francesco looked around the kitchen.
"How much food are we making?"
The women exchanged glances.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Amanda answered first.
"A reasonable amount."
Leah immediately looked away.
Trying not to laugh.
Francesco recognized the phrase.
The exact same phrase used during the gingerbread incident.
His eyes narrowed.
"A reasonable amount?"
Sarah pointed toward several trays.
"That's only the starters."
Francesco stared.
Then stared again.
There was enough food visible to feed an entire football squad.
Possibly two football squads.
"And the rest?"
Amanda smiled.
"Oh, you'll see."
That answer somehow made everything worse.
Much worse.
Leah finally laughed.
Unable to contain herself anymore.
The sound immediately made everyone else laugh too.
Even Francesco.
Because honestly?
This was exactly what New Year's Eve should feel like.
Family.
Food.
Laughter.
Warmth.
The kitchen gradually became even busier as the evening continued.
Francesco helped where he could.
Though the women quickly discovered his usefulness had limits.
Very specific limits.
"Can you cut those vegetables?"
"Sure."
Several minutes later:
"Why are they different sizes?"
"They're artistic."
"No."
"They have personality."
"Absolutely not."
Leah nearly doubled over laughing.
Sarah looked disappointed.
Amanda looked concerned.
Francesco defended his work.
Nobody supported him.
Not even slightly.
Meanwhile Jacob occasionally wandered into the kitchen searching for snacks.
Only to be chased back out again.
David and Mike periodically appeared as self-appointed quality inspectors.
Their inspections mainly involved stealing food.
Repeatedly.
The women eventually threatened them.
Repeatedly.
Nothing changed.
Outside, darkness fully settled across Richmond.
The Christmas lights around neighboring houses glowed beautifully.
The mansion itself looked stunning.
Warm golden light shining through large windows.
A welcoming sight against the cold winter evening.
Inside, the atmosphere only grew better.
Music played quietly.
Conversation flowed effortlessly.
Stories were shared.
Old memories resurfaced.
Football stories.
Family stories.
Childhood stories.
Embarrassing stories.
Mostly embarrassing stories.
Usually about Francesco or Leah.
Unfortunately.
By the time the meal finally began taking shape, the house felt alive in a way that no trophy or award could ever create.
Because success was wonderful.
Achievements were wonderful.
The Ballon d'Or was wonderful.
But this?
This was different.
This was family.
And as Francesco looked around the kitchen at Leah laughing beside her mother, Sarah discussing recipes, Mike debating something with David, Jacob still trying to sneak food whenever possible, and the Christmas tree glowing softly in the next room, he felt something even rarer than pride.
Peace.
For one evening, there were no transfer rumors.
No interviews.
No pressure.
No expectations.
Just the people who mattered most.
Just home.
And as New Year's Eve continued unfolding around him, Francesco knew that regardless of how many trophies he won in the future, regardless of how many records he broke, and regardless of how many Ballon d'Ors might still come, these were the moments he would remember forever.
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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, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 30
Goal: 37
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