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He glanced at the Hazard shirt still folded at the end of his bed and thought maybe he'd find a frame for it later. Maybe not today. Today, he just wanted to walk to the corner store, maybe grab something fresh to cook. Maybe read. Maybe nap. He'd earned a quiet day.
Francesco had just rinsed the last bit of suds from his mug when his phone began buzzing on the kitchen counter. He reached over lazily, expecting it to be another mate, maybe someone from the academy group chat, still buzzing about the Chelsea match. But when he turned the screen over, his eyebrows lifted.
Jorge Mendes.
That sobered him quickly. He grabbed the phone and slid his thumb across the screen, pressing it to his ear as he leaned back against the kitchen counter.
"Hey, Jorge. What's up?"
There was no small talk, not from Jorge. The man got to the point like a surgeon with a scalpel.
"Ivan Gazidis wants to talk," Jorge said, his voice even, deliberate. "About your contract. A renewal, if possible."
Francesco blinked. "Wait, what? Didn't we just… like, wasn't it only a few months ago I signed the deal?"
A low chuckle came through the line. "Yes, we did. But that was before you became you, Francesco."
He straightened up, brow furrowed. "What do you mean before I became me?"
"I mean," Jorge continued, still with that faint, amused lilt, "before the world started calling you the future of Arsenal. Before you now became the leading goalscorer in the Premier League. Before you scored the winning goal against Chelsea in injury time, in front of millions. Before Sky Sports played your highlights on a loop while three pundits argued over whether you were already worth nine figures."
Francesco felt the back of his neck heat up again. He walked back to the living room and sank onto the sofa, phone pressed tighter now.
"You're saying Arsenal want to renegotiate?"
"Yes. And not because they're being generous," Jorge replied. "Because they have to. That £40 million release clause? Half of Europe's calling me, asking if you want to leave. After this season."
Francesco's breath caught slightly. "What clubs?"
There was a pause, just long enough for the weight of the moment to settle.
Jorge answered calmly. "The duo from Manchester. PSG. Real Madrid. Bayern. Chelsea."
Francesco sat there stunned, lips parted, forgetting for a moment to breathe.
"Chelsea?" he finally muttered. "They just— they literally just lost to us."
"They know talent when they see it," Jorge said. "And they don't like losing to it."
He was quiet for a while, just staring at the muted Sky Sports screen in front of him. A stat box showing his name flashed across the bottom ticker:
Francesco Lee – 29 goals, 11 assists in 23 appearances in Premier League
"I didn't think it was like that," he said eventually. "I knew I was doing alright, but… not that level."
"It's not hype anymore," Jorge said. "You're a commodity. A phenomenon. When you made your debut, your market value was around five million, tops. Now? Triple digits. One hundred million and rising. Some are saying you could be the biggest teenage signing ever—if you wanted to be."
"But I'm still… I mean, I'm sixteen."
"Exactly," Jorge said. "And you're English. That inflates value. But even without that—Francesco, your performance is doing the talking. Everyone who watches you play sees it. You don't just fit in. You stand out."
Francesco ran a hand over his face, then through his hair. The toast he'd eaten earlier sat like a stone in his stomach now.
"And what are we going to do?" he asked quietly.
Jorge's voice softened slightly. "That's up to you. But I'll tell you this—Ivan knows he's sitting on gold. He'll want to protect that investment. New contract, bigger wages, maybe a new clause—something insane to scare the sharks away. But if we wait, if we play this smart, the power stays with you."
Francesco leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring down at the carpet.
"I don't want to be a circus act. Or someone who just jumps from club to club because they're flashing cash."
"You're not," Jorge said. "You're a player with values. And right now, you have the chance to decide what kind of career you want."
There was silence again. Francesco's eyes drifted to the Hazard shirt, still folded neatly on the bed across the room. A piece of history from the night before. But suddenly, it didn't feel like a full stop anymore. It felt like a comma.
"Let me think about it," he said finally.
"Of course," Jorge replied. "Ivan will call me in a day or two. You take your time. No pressure. But understand—this is just the beginning."
When the call ended, Francesco sat there with the phone resting in his lap, staring out the window at the brightening sky. His tea had gone cold. The city was waking up, but for the first time in his life, it felt like the world was turning with his name in its headlines.
He leaned back against the couch and exhaled slowly.
His thoughts spiraled in every direction—legacy, loyalty, money, pressure. What did it all mean, really? What was he chasing? Was it trophies? Glory? Or just the sheer joy of playing the game, like he had when he was six years old, knocking a ball off the garden fence until his mum yelled for dinner?
He remembered what Wenger had told him after the game, just before the press conference. The manager's hand had rested on his shoulder, warm, firm.
"You've earned the spotlight, Francesco. But never let it blind you."
Francesco nodded now, to no one. That was it. Keep the noise out. Trust the game. Trust the grind.
Still, he couldn't ignore the names Jorge had listed. Real Madrid. Bayern. PSG. Chelsea. Manchester United. Manchester City. It felt surreal. The kind of clubs he'd played as in FIFA, fantasized about as a boy. And now? They were watching him.
Francesco sat motionless on the sofa, the phone call with Jorge Mendes still echoing in his head. He stared blankly at the muted TV screen, which had switched to footage of Arsenal training at London Colney. There he was, in the background, a blur of red and white darting past defenders, legs pumping, eyes fixed forward. It was surreal watching yourself become the subject of headlines and highlight reels.
But then, something tugged at the edges of his thoughts—an old memory, sharp and clear. The Emirates faded from his mind, replaced by a sunlit day from more than a decade ago. He was just six years old, his hand wrapped tightly around his dad's as they navigated the sea of fans outside Highbury. His father, Mike, had surprised him with tickets to see Arsenal play. It was the 2003/04 season, the day they sealed the title. The roar of the crowd, the sea of red shirts, and the chant of "Invincibles" echoing through the stands—it was the moment Francesco fell in love with the club.
He could still remember his dad lifting him onto his shoulders when Thierry Henry scored, and the way Henry pointed toward the crowd, chest out, eyes blazing. That was his first footballing hero—elegant, lethal, loyal. A man who seemed bigger than life.
Francesco leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees again. "That was when I knew," he whispered to himself. "I wanted to wear this shirt."
But even as a child, he'd seen the pain that followed. The 2006 Champions League final—that loss to Barcelona still stung. He remembered watching Henry sit on the pitch, exhausted, devastated. And not long after, the inevitable happened: Henry left. Moved to the very team that broke Arsenal's heart, chasing the one trophy he never won in red and white.
Francesco's stomach clenched as more memories followed. Fabregas, the golden boy, raised at the club, only to push for a return to Barcelona. It wasn't just the move that hurt—it was the way he'd forced the club's hand. Then Van Persie, who'd carried the team through bleak seasons only to leave for Manchester United—and win the league immediately.
He remembered the sting of betrayal, the feeling that Arsenal was always a stepping stone. Always the nearly-men.
"Why do they always leave?" he muttered.
And now, it was him. Sixteen years old, touted as the next big thing, with the giants of world football already circling like hawks. Chelsea. PSG. Real Madrid. United. City. Bayern. Clubs that offered everything—money, trophies, prestige.
But Francesco remembered something they didn't have.
They weren't Arsenal.
This club had given him everything. The academy coaches who stayed late to help him train. The physios who worked overtime after he tore a ligament at thirteen. Per Mertesacker, who checked in on him after every youth match. Arsène Wenger, the man who heart broken but still carry on and tried to led this team to glory as Francesco walked into every day.
He stood up slowly, walked across the room, and picked up the folded Eden Hazard shirt from the foot of his bed. It still smelled of grass and sweat—proof of battle. But it was just a souvenir. A memory of a night he helped Arsenal win. The shirt that mattered most was the one with his own name on the back.
Francesco stared at the wall for a moment, thinking.
"No more stepping stones," he said aloud. "Not this time."
He picked up his phone again and scrolled through his recent calls. Jorge's name was still at the top.
Francesco tapped it and lifted the phone to his ear. It rang once. Twice.
"Francesco," Jorge said, his voice a little surprised. "Everything alright?"
"I've made up my mind," Francesco said. His tone was calm, but there was a fire in his chest.
"I want to renegotiate the contract. Call Ivan. Tell him I'm staying."
There was a pause, longer than Francesco expected.
"You're sure?" Jorge asked. "No pressure, but… this is a big moment. The biggest clubs in the world—"
"I know," Francesco cut in gently. "And they're great. But they're not mine."
He took a deep breath.
"I've supported this club since I was a kid. I watched Henry leave to win the Champions League. Watched Fabregas force a move. Watched Van Persie lift the Premier League for United after leaving us behind. I promised myself, when I was little, that if I ever got the chance to wear this shirt—this one—I wouldn't run. I'd stay. I'd bring the glory back."
"I'm going to retire here," he said quietly, like an oath. "At Arsenal."
Jorge exhaled on the other end. "Alright. I'll set the meeting. But you should know—this changes things. When you commit like that, you're setting a tone. You're making a statement."
"I know," Francesco replied. "And that's exactly what I want to do."
After the call ended, he placed his phone down with a sense of finality. There was clarity now—a steady calm in his chest. Not because he thought it would be easy. Not because he didn't feel the weight of expectation. But because for the first time, all of it made sense.
He wasn't here for the headlines or the money or the buzz. He was here to finish what his heroes started. He was here to lead Arsenal back to where they belonged.
He walked to his wardrobe, pulled out the red and white shirt with his name and number—35—on the back, and held it up to the morning light. The sun hit the fabric just right, lighting up the badge on the chest like it was glowing.
Francesco stood there for a while, holding the Arsenal shirt in his hands like it was made of something sacred. The morning light poured in through the window, casting a warm glow over the fabric and making the red look deeper, bolder. His name—LEE—was stitched neatly across the back above the number 35. It looked right. It felt right. He wasn't just wearing the shirt. He was the shirt now.
He draped it over the back of a chair and let out a slow breath. The decision had been made. The moment he hung up with Jorge, it felt like a weight had been lifted—but not in the way people usually describe it. It was more like trading one kind of pressure for another. The pressure of temptation for the pressure of responsibility. He was choosing the harder path—the one that didn't promise instant trophies or glamorous spotlights. But it was the one he believed in.
His phone buzzed in his hand, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Jorge Mendes calling.
Francesco answered quickly. "Jorge?"
"Francesco," Jorge said, his voice lighter now, almost proud. "It's done."
Francesco's heart jumped. "Wait—already?"
"Yep," Jorge confirmed. "I called Ivan the second we hung up. He didn't even hesitate. Told me he'd make time. Wenger's going to be there too. They're waiting for you at Colney."
Francesco blinked. "Wait, Boss there too?"
"Yes. Ivan thought it would mean something, having him there for this."
"You need to be at Colney at 12 sharp," Jorge continued. "I'll be waiting outside the main office when you arrive."
Francesco looked at the clock on the wall. It was 10:23 AM. His heart started racing. It was really happening.
"Thank you, Jorge," he said, his voice steady despite the sudden whirlwind in his chest. "For everything."
"Don't thank me," Jorge said with a soft chuckle. "This was all you. You've got something most players don't. You've got roots. They'll respect that. But they'll expect everything now. Be ready."
"I am," Francesco said, not even hesitating.
When the call ended, he set the phone down again—this time with a different kind of finality. The kind that meant the next chapter was about to begin. He showered, got dressed, and grabbed his keys. On the way out, he took one last glance at the Arsenal shirt draped over the chair.
He walked back, picked it up, and carried it with him.
As he slid into the driver's seat of his Honda Civic, the shirt sat folded neatly on the passenger side. Not just for show, not for press—just because he wanted it close. It had always been with him, one way or another. From the six-year-old with wide eyes at Highbury to the teenager standing at the edge of something far bigger than himself.
The roads to Colney felt familiar—he'd taken them hundreds of times before—but today they felt different. Today they felt like a journey toward something more permanent. Toward legacy.
As he approached the gates of the training ground, he saw Jorge standing just outside the main building, sharp in his suit, waving him in with a knowing smile. There was something in Jorge's eyes that said, You did the right thing.
Francesco parked, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the car, the folded Arsenal shirt still in his hand. This was more than a contract, this was his promise.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 31
Goal: 37
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8