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And somewhere — in a pub, in a living room, in a pub in Islington — Arsenal fans raised their glasses.
The morning sun poured in through the wide glass panels of Francesco's Richmond mansion, a golden warmth stretching across the sleek marble countertops and hardwood floors. Outside, the garden was quiet, dew still clinging to the grass, while the Thames flowed lazily beyond the treeline. It was the kind of stillness that only came the day after a war had been won.
Francesco sat barefoot at the breakfast bar, hoodie thrown on loosely over his white cotton T-shirt, legs stretched out beneath the high stool. A plate sat before him—half-eaten toast smeared with avocado and poached eggs, still warm. Leah had made it for him before heading out to training that morning—half an hour ago now. She'd kissed him on the forehead as he grumbled from beneath the duvet, whispering something about "don't forget to eat" before slipping out the front door with her duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
And now here he was, alone but not lonely, sipping a glass of orange juice and watching Sky Sports on the mounted flat-screen.
It was one of those studio panels—four chairs, a lot of banter, and opinions flung like jabs across a ring. The usual suspects were in: Ian Wright, Gary Neville, Jamie Carragher. But today, Thierry Henry was there too. Sitting back in a charcoal blazer, legs crossed, arms resting like a king watching his court. The respect was unspoken. You could feel it. When Thierry talked, even Neville listened.
The chyron at the bottom of the screen read:
"Arsenal Flying High: 6 Wins From 6 — Can They Be Stopped?"
Francesco smirked as he bit into the last bite of toast. He already knew what they were going to say. But hearing it from their mouths still gave him a strange, fuzzy satisfaction—like validation from older brothers.
"I'll tell you this right now," Ian Wright was saying, practically leaning out of his chair, "that boy, Francesco Lee, is not just playing like the best youngster in the league—he's playing like one of the best strikers in Europe. Full stop. He's sixteen. Sixteen! And he's bullying Premier League defences like he's been doing it for a decade."
Carragher nodded, smiling despite himself. "He's got that… that old-school number nine instinct, right? He wants to be in the box. He lives for the big moments. But then he's also got the feet, the movement. You see that second goal yesterday? That solo run?" He whistled. "That's not just power. That's intelligence."
Neville crossed his arms. "I was skeptical. Not about the talent—we all saw the talent from day one. But it's the mentality that's blown me away. He's sixteen, and he's captaining Arsenal at Stamford Bridge. Scores two, sets one up, leads from the front. That's not just technical maturity—that's leadership."
Francesco laughed to himself, shaking his head slightly. It still didn't feel real, even when they said it. He looked down at his phone, which was buzzing with messages—group chats, journalists, old friends from school, even some England staff. But he set it face down. He didn't want distraction. Not now. Not when Thierry Henry was leaning forward, eyes serious.
"You know what I love about him?" Henry said, his voice lower, more deliberate. "It's not just the goals. It's that he belongs. Some players arrive at a club like Arsenal and try to fit in. Francesco arrived and owned it. He makes the players around him better. Özil looks like he's enjoying his football again. Giroud is sharper. The midfield feels alive. Why? Because they trust him. And you only trust someone that young when they show you every day that they're not just here to play—they're here to lead."
Wright chimed in again. "Let's not forget—he's top scorer in the Premier League now. Nine goals from six games. He's already on pace to defend the Golden Boot."
"Defending the title, too," Carragher added. "They're not scraping results. They're controlling matches. With Kanté and Van Dijk, it's like they finally fixed the spine."
Neville, ever the analyst, pointed to a graphic. "Look at this— this season, they has five goals conceded, sixteen scored from 6 match. That's not luck. That's structure."
Francesco leaned back, rubbing a bit of toast crumb from the corner of his mouth. His mind wandered, just for a moment, back to yesterday. That second goal—the way Ivanović turned too late, the flick past Zouma, the bend around Begović. He could still feel the ball coming off his foot, that thud that told him it was perfect. And then Giroud's header to make it 4–2—raw, classic football. Team football.
The whole thing was still in his bones.
He rose from his stool, plate in hand, and walked to the sink. The kitchen was quiet except for the faint murmur of the TV. Through the tall windows, the light had shifted, more golden now, falling across the framed photo of him and Leah on the shelf—smiling, arms around each other, one of their first public photos after she'd come to watch him score a hat-trick at the Emirates last season.
Francesco washed the plate and left it to dry before padding barefoot into the living room, collapsing onto the sofa with the remote. Sky Sports was still on, now cutting to interviews from yesterday. Wenger. Then Cech. Then finally, a replay of Francesco's own post-match words.
"We're just getting started."
He winced slightly, then laughed. "Could've said something deeper," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair.
But that wasn't the point. He meant it. They were just getting started. He looked down at his legs—still sore from the match, the muscles tight, bruised, alive. The physiotherapists would probably want to see him tomorrow. But today was his. A rare day of peace.
He grabbed his phone, scrolled through Instagram briefly. Arsenal had posted a highlight reel—his second goal front and center, slow-mo as he slipped past Zouma, the finish cut between two angles.
Below it, thousands of comments.
"Generational talent."
"Captain already and he's SIXTEEN."
"Henry reincarnated."
He swiped past them, not out of arrogance but necessity. If he started reading those, he knew he'd get lost. It was too easy to get swept away in praise, to believe the noise. But there were bigger games ahead. Leicester City were coming up in one weeks. Then Champions League nights away againts Dinamo Zagreb in 3 days.
And somewhere in his mind, he knew what was at stake—not just his Golden Boot, not just Arsenal's title defense, but the legacy they were building. Wenger had built the platform. The squad had the hunger. Now it was up to them to carry it forward.
The front door opened.
Leah walked in, hair tied back, hoodie zipped up, cheeks flushed from training. She dropped her bag by the door and smiled at him.
"Watched Sky Sports?" she asked, walking over.
"Yeah," he said, scooting to give her space on the sofa. "Henry said I belong."
"You do," she replied, leaning over and kissing him. "You've earned it."
The next morning, the sun had barely broken over the horizon when Francesco stepped onto the training pitch at London Colney. The air was sharp, cool in that early autumn way that hinted at the months to come—European nights, foggy breath, and roars echoing under the lights. But today was clear. Blue sky, trimmed grass, fresh lines chalked on the turf. The kind of day that made a footballer feel alive.
Francesco was in his full training kit now—red long-sleeve, black track pants, boots tied tight, socks pulled to the knees. His headphones hung around his neck, still warm from the short drive in. He'd parked next to Alexis' matte black Audi, arriving just minutes after the Chilean, who was already out on the far side doing stretches alone.
The rest of the squad trickled out slowly. Walcott and Bellerín laughing about something as they jogged out side by side. Özil in a beanie, his sleeves rolled up, hands tucked in his armpits. Giroud, ever the model, striding out like he was walking into a photoshoot. Behind them, Kanté and Cazorla murmured in French, their breath visible in the crisp morning chill.
Wenger was already there, clipboard in hand, speaking quietly with Steve Bould and Shad Forsythe. The manager wore a dark windbreaker zipped up to the neck and his usual slightly-too-long tracksuit bottoms. He didn't need to raise his voice. When Arsène spoke, people listened.
Francesco joined a small rondo as warm-ups began. The ball zipped between feet—one touch, two touch, then a cheeky flick from Cazorla that drew an appreciative "Oi!" from the group. Francesco caught it cleanly and pinged it back to Monreal with a laugh.
After fifteen minutes of movement and light technical drills, Wenger clapped his hands and gestured everyone in.
"Alright, listen up," he said, his voice calm but direct. "You've all earned this good run. Six wins in the league. A beautiful win at Stamford Bridge. But now we turn the page."
He looked around the circle, his eyes pausing on Francesco for just a beat longer than the others.
"Champions League. Group F. Dinamo Zagreb, Olympiacos, and of course… Bayern Munich."
There was a collective breath from the group. Everyone knew. Bayern was the heavyweight. The monster. But the real challenge was more nuanced.
Wenger turned to the tactics board now, clicking a magnet into place next to each club name.
"If we want to top this group," he said, tapping Dinamo and Olympiacos, "we must win all four of these matches. No excuses. Home and away. That gives us twelve points. And with twelve, we only need one result against Bayern—ideally a draw at the Allianz and a win here at the Emirates."
He paused.
"But we cannot slip. Not against Zagreb. Not against Olympiacos. These are professional teams, disciplined, dangerous on the counter. If we underestimate them, we drop points. And then we're chasing."
Wenger stepped back and folded his arms. "So. Focus. We play Zagreb in two days. Let's make sure we're ready."
And with that, training began in earnest.
The rest of the morning was a blur of controlled chaos—passing drills, defensive transitions, high pressing simulations. The staff had clearly studied Dinamo's recent games. They mimicked their 4-2-3-1 shape during the shadow match, asking the Arsenal starting eleven to press the ball high, cut out vertical channels, and exploit the narrow spacing between Zagreb's lines.
Francesco found himself paired up top with Alexis, Walcott just behind. Özil rotated into midfield later, drifting like a ghost, always in space. When the play clicked, it clicked beautifully—one-touch triangles, flicks around corners, Francesco peeling off a defender and striking low past Macey.
But when it didn't click—when a pass went astray or a press was half a second late—Wenger would blow his whistle sharply.
"Reset! Again! Faster transition, Francesco, you must anticipate that second ball. You're the outlet!"
"Yes boss," Francesco called back, already moving.
By noon, they were soaked in sweat. Shad called everyone in for hydration and cooldowns, and the squad filtered into the cool-down area behind the training ground—yoga mats, foam rollers, trainers checking ankles and groins for strain.
Francesco dropped beside N'Golo Kanté and began working on his calves. The Frenchman handed him a Gatorade without a word.
"Merci," Francesco said.
Kanté nodded, smiling. "You look sharp today."
Francesco wiped sweat from his brow. "Still feeling that Chelsea game in my legs. But I'm good. You?"
Kanté shrugged. "Always good. Zagreb press high for short periods. If we play through them, we'll find space."
Francesco nodded, thoughtful. "Yeah. Özil and Santi can cook if we give them time."
Their conversation drifted into silence as Wenger came over and crouched beside them.
"You'll start, of course," he said quietly to Francesco. "But I'm debating resting Alexis for this one. He's played a lot."
Francesco tilted his head. "Walcott?"
"Or Giroud," Wenger said. "We'll see tomorrow. But either way, you'll lead the line."
"Understood."
The manager's eyes held his for a moment. "Be ruthless. We need a strong start."
The afternoon was recovery—ice baths, massages, and team meetings. In the film room, the staff rolled tape on Zagreb's last few matches—lines of blue kits pressing high, then collapsing into low blocks. Francesco leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching intently.
"Look at this," the analyst said, pointing with a laser. "They overcommit when chasing the ball near the half line. If we beat the first line of pressure, it's three on three."
Wenger stood beside him. "That's where you make the difference, Francesco. Turn quickly, carry it forward. The others will follow."
Francesco nodded.
As the day wound down, he lingered in the dressing room a bit longer, lacing up his casual trainers and pulling on a hoodie. Walcott walked by, towel slung around his neck.
"You heading out?"
"Yeah," Francesco replied. "Might get dinner with Leah."
Walcott smiled. "Take it easy. Big game coming."
"I know."
Outside, the sun had begun to dip again. The sky was painted in gold and lavender, and the cool breeze brushed across the car park as Francesco unlocked his BMW. He glanced back at the Colney complex, its low buildings glowing in the light.
Champions League. His first game in Europe this season was two days away.
That night, Francesco lay in bed beside Leah, her head on his chest, one leg hooked lazily over his. The television was on but muted. Some random crime drama flickered in the background, forgotten.
"You nervous?" she asked softly.
He thought for a moment. "Not really nervous. More… ready. I want to hear the anthem."
She laughed against his skin. "You're such a romantic."
"I am," he agreed. "About football, anyway."
They lay there in silence for a while. Then she whispered, "It's going to be a big season, isn't it?"
"The biggest," he said. "And it's just starting."
The next morning was matchday minus one—final preparations. Colney buzzed with quiet intensity. No wasted words. No jokes. Just sharp touches, passing lanes, drills with purpose.
Wenger held a brief huddle just before the session ended.
"We've done the work," he said. "Now just remember who we are. Play our football. Trust each other. Zagreb is not coming to lie down. They want to shock the group. Don't give them that chance."
And with that, the group broke, players filtering back inside.
In the changing room, Francesco sat beside Virgil van Dijk, unwrapping tape from his wrist.
"You've played in Europe before," he said.
"Yeah," Virgil replied, adjusting his boots. "Different pace. More tactical. Less chaos than the Prem."
"How do you handle the pressure?"
Virgil gave a small shrug. "Same way I handle everything. I know what I bring. The rest doesn't matter."
Francesco liked that. He'd try to remember it.
That evening, the squad boarded the flight to Zagreb. Business class seats, sleek chartered plane. Francesco sat beside Özil, who spent most of the flight watching Netflix on his tablet. Across the aisle, Cazorla and Mertesacker played cards. Wenger read a book, headphones in.
The city lights twinkled below as they descended.
By the time they arrived at the team hotel—central, quiet, surrounded by trees—the players were ushered in with minimal fanfare. The Champions League banners were already out. The hotel TVs were playing UEFA promo videos. Francesco spotted one on mute as they passed the lobby bar—his goal against Chelsea already part of the montage.
He smiled.
The night was early, but the players turned in soon. Lights out by 10:30. Francesco lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow game then the music and the anthem, with the whole world watching. He turned over and closed his eyes.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 7
Goal: 12
Assist: 1
MOTM: 0
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9