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Francesco said nothing, but inside, he made a silent vow. He wasn't just here to play. He was here to finish what they'd started and get that title.
The hallway was quieter now. The distant hum of the crowd had faded entirely, replaced by the softer sounds of the stadium settling. As the trio—Wenger, Mertesacker, and Francesco—stepped back into the dressing room, the energy that had once been electric had mellowed into a comfortable afterglow.
The players who had remained were lounging, some with their feet propped up on benches, others still in half-kits, laughing over highlights on someone's phone. The room still smelled faintly of liniment and turf, and damp socks were strewn near the drying racks like evidence of battle.
Heads turned as they entered.
A whistle came from Oxlade-Chamberlain. "Back from the big leagues, eh?"
"You become more famous now, Francesco," Walcott grinned, tossing him a water bottle.
Francesco caught the bottle but didn't respond immediately. He was still digesting the whirlwind that had just unfolded—the questions, the lights, Wenger's praise. His legs were heavy now, the adrenaline retreating at last, replaced by a sudden wave of exhaustion.
Mertesacker clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Come on," he said, nodding toward the showers. "Before your muscles seize up."
Francesco nodded and followed him. As they passed by Cazorla and Coquelin, he caught snippets of a debate about who'd been man of the match.
"Lee, obviously," said Monreal, matter-of-fact.
"Nah, Özil's assist," Cazorla countered.
"Can't be Özil every time," muttered Ramsey.
Francesco gave a small smile, saying nothing as he stepped into the tiled corridor that led to the showers. The sound of running water echoed off the walls, warm steam curling around the corners as they entered.
Mertesacker peeled off his training top and winced. "Getting old," he muttered with a grin.
Francesco laughed and pulled his own shirt over his head, carefully placing the folded Hazard shirt atop his kit bag. He glanced down at the grass stains, the stretch of dried sweat and grime across his torso—visible proof of the war he'd just fought on the pitch.
"Think Wenger's serious?" he asked, voice low beneath the sound of falling water. "About us holding the chain?"
Mertesacker turned one of the knobs and stepped under the stream before answering. "When Arsène says something like that," he replied, "you listen. He doesn't waste words."
Francesco stood still a moment longer before stepping into a stall beside him, the hot water relaxing muscles he hadn't even realized were aching.
They showered in relative silence, the kind born not of awkwardness, but of mutual respect and shared fatigue. It wasn't just about cleaning up—it was a moment to exhale, to mentally process everything. The kind of silence that usually followed battles or breakthroughs.
After a few minutes, Mertesacker spoke again.
"You've earned tonight," he said. "But now comes the hard part."
Francesco raised an eyebrow, shampoo still lathered in his hair. "Harder than that second goal?"
Mertesacker chuckled. "Consistency. That's what separates good players from legends. One night makes headlines. Three games make a champion."
Francesco nodded slowly, letting the water rinse over his face. He understood.
They finished their showers, dried off, and stepped back into the dressing area with towels wrapped around their waists. The mood in the room had shifted again. A few players were already getting dressed, others scrolling through texts and messages. Phones buzzed constantly—congratulations from friends, family, old coaches, maybe even old crushes.
Francesco sat back at his locker and began to get dressed. His body ached, but it was a satisfying ache. A badge of honor. As he laced up his sneakers, his phone vibrated.
One new message:
[Mom] – Proud doesn't even begin to cover it. I love you so much, Frankie.
He smiled at the screen and typed back a simple:
Love you too, Mum.
Another buzz.
[Leah] – You were great tonight! Scoring twice! This is the ability of the man I love❤️
He laughed to himself, picturing his girlfriend jumping around in front of the screen back at her home. Suddenly, the pressure, the stadium, the interviews—it all felt more human. More real.
When he looked up, Wenger had reappeared by the doorway, speaking softly to the press officer. Before he left again, he looked toward Francesco and gave a small nod—almost imperceptible.
Francesco nodded back.
He had a few more minutes before the team bus would be ready. He glanced around and saw Mesut Özil seated at the far end of the room, quietly sipping tea from a flask, ever the composed artist. Francesco walked over.
"You weren't kidding," he said, sitting down beside him. "About making you sound like Zidane."
Özil smirked, eyes not leaving the screen where someone was replaying Francesco's first goal in slow motion. "You made it easy."
They shared a moment of silence, watching the footage—Francesco spinning away from Cahill, ball slicing into the corner, the Emirates erupting. No commentary. Just the pure sound of football.
"You did what needed to be done," Özil said. "That's what winners do."
Francesco looked down at his hands. They were still trembling, just slightly. "What if I can't do it again?"
"You will," Özil replied. "Because you don't want to prove anyone wrong—you want to prove yourself right."
The words sat with him.
Soon after, the call came. The team bus was ready. Players began grabbing their bags, joking again, stretching out stiff legs. A few clapped Francesco on the back, others offered passing nods or quiet compliments. Not over the top—just enough. A young man being welcomed not just as a wonderkid, but as part of the fabric.
Outside, the night air was cool, but clean. The stars above North London flickered through scattered clouds. Francesco stepped onto the bus behind Mertesacker, who dropped into his usual seat near the front.
Francesco slid into the row beside Theo Walcott.
"Tired?" Walcott asked, sliding his headphones around his neck.
"Exhausted."
Walcott grinned. "Good. Means you left it all out there."
The bus rolled forward, the glowing lights of the stadium slowly disappearing behind them. The conversation on board faded in and out—music, murmured voices, tired chuckles.
The drive from the Emirates back to Colney wasn't long, but in the dim quiet of the bus, it felt like a slow drift between worlds. From the roar of thousands to the hush of a darkened training ground, the transition gave Francesco time to reflect—not just on the game, but on everything.
He leaned his head against the window, letting the vibration of the road hum gently through his thoughts. His phone buzzed once or twice in his hoodie pocket, but he didn't check it. Not yet. He wanted to stretch this calm as far as it would go.
Around him, the bus had mostly quieted. Oxlade-Chamberlain had dozed off mid-conversation with Gibbs, slouched at a lazy angle. Cazorla and Monreal were sharing headphones, nodding to the rhythm of something soft. And up front, Wenger sat with a notebook open on his lap, pen in hand, jotting who-knew-what. Tactical notes? A grocery list? Wenger things.
When the bus finally pulled into the familiar lot at London Colney, its tires crunched gently over gravel. Security lights bathed the facility in a pale amber hue, and the low hum of overhead lamps buzzed faintly in the air.
The engine cut off.
A moment of stillness, like no one wanted to break the quiet. Then movement. Bags slung over shoulders, shoes squeaking against the aisle. One by one, the players filed off, some laughing softly, some groaning as their stiff legs returned to gravity.
Francesco stepped out into the cool night, exhaling a long breath. The air smelled clean, like rain had passed through earlier. He pulled his car keys from his pocket and walked toward the small cluster of vehicles where his black Honda Civic sat patiently. A humble car in a car park where Range Rovers and Audis loomed, but it was part of his routine. It grounded him.
"See you Monday, kid," Mertesacker called, slinging a duffel bag over his shoulder as he moved toward his own car.
Francesco lifted a hand. "See you, Per."
"Don't let the Hazard shirt give you nightmares," Walcott joked from the driver's side of a sleek black Benz.
Francesco laughed. "I'll frame it before that happens."
He offered a few more waves, a couple quiet goodnights, then climbed into his Civic, tossing his bag gently into the passenger seat. He started the engine and let it idle for a moment, hands resting on the wheel. The radio came on low—some indie track he didn't remember queuing.
The drive home was quiet.
Streetlights passed like metronome ticks on a fading rhythm. His body ached in strange places—his lower back, his quads, his shoulder where Cahill had clipped him. But it wasn't pain that bothered him. It was a dull satisfaction, a post-match soreness that said, You did something tonight.
He passed a few late-night buses, the occasional pedestrian hunched against the breeze. The city wasn't asleep, not entirely, but it was definitely winding down. He turned onto a narrower street lined with flats, the Civic's headlights sweeping across rain-slick pavement before he pulled into the small lot behind his building.
The building was modest—clean, practical. His apartment sat on the seven floor, facing the courtyard. He liked the space.
He killed the engine, grabbed his bag, and get into the elevator and when he arrive, went to his door and unlock it with the quiet ease of muscle memory.
Inside, the place was dim, lit only by the hallway bulb spilling in through the open door. He flicked on a light and dropped his keys onto the dish by the door. The familiar scent of fabric softener and cinnamon tea still lingered from earlier in the day.
Shoes off. Bag by the door. Shirt hung carefully, as always.
He padded into the kitchen and opened the fridge—half a bottle of orange juice, some leftover pasta, a couple apples. His appetite hadn't returned yet, but he took the juice and poured a glass, sipping it slowly as he leaned against the counter.
On the table sat his laptop, still open from the morning. He walked over, tapped the trackpad, and watched the screen come to life.
A few new tabs—match previews, some tactical breakdowns, a YouTube tab paused on a video titled "How Arsenal Beat the Press: Wenger's Tactical Masterclass". He smirked, refreshed the page, and found the post-match highlights already uploaded.
There it was.
Francesco Lee—Arsenal 2–1 Chelsea. 90+3'.
He watched it again. The run. The angle. Özil's pass. The way he timed his sprint, how he tucked the shot just past Courtois' outstretched arm. He didn't hear the commentator this time. He heard the crowd.
He clicked play again.
Then once more.
And then he closed the laptop.
He walked to his bedroom, undressed slowly, leaving the folded Hazard shirt at the foot of his bed. He stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at it—at the blue against the cream duvet, like a flag planted at the end of a long conquest.
He didn't know if he'd sleep. His body was exhausted, but his mind still raced. He lay down eventually, the duvet pulled up to his chest, and stared at the ceiling. For a while, he didn't think. Just let the silence hold him.
Then, somewhere between minutes and hours, he closed his eyes.
He dreamed of green grass and the roar of a crowd. Of red shirts flying forward. Of chasing something just out of reach—but never slowing down.
And when the sun began to rise over London, casting pale gold through the half-closed blinds, Francesco Lee was already awake.
Not from nerves.
From purpose.
He got out of bed, stretched, and padded barefoot to the kitchen, blinking away sleep. He flicked on the kettle, poured water into a mug, and grabbed a slice of bread to toast. No rush. No meetings. Just a rare off-day to breathe, to recover.
He brought the toast to the living room, still warm in his hand, and sank into the sofa with a quiet sigh. The mug of tea sat on the table in front of him, steam curling lazily into the soft morning light. It was one of those rare mornings when time didn't seem to press down on him. No training. No press duties. Just a chance to be.
He reached for the remote and flicked on the TV. The volume was still low from last night, and the screen glowed to life with the familiar blue and white branding of Sky Sports. The morning panel was already in full swing, the title bar reading in bold:
"Arsenal Edge Chelsea 2-1 – Title Race Blows Wide Open."
There they were—Garry Neville, Ian Wright, and Jamie Carragher—seated under the studio lights, a slow-motion replay of Francesco's stoppage-time winner looping behind them on the screen. He sat up slightly, toast paused halfway to his mouth.
Garry Neville was speaking first, his arms folded, eyebrows raised in that skeptical-but-impressed way he had when he saw something unexpected.
"Look, I've said this before and I'll say it again—this Arsenal side, under Wenger, with the young players he's been developing—Francesco Lee in particular—there's something different about them this year. That second goal, that was composure beyond his years. You can't teach that kind of instinct."
Francesco felt heat rise behind his ears, that odd mixture of pride and disbelief.
Ian Wright leaned forward, practically vibrating with energy.
"Mate, I've been screaming about this kid for weeks! Weeks! I watched him in the academy, I saw him tear it up in youth matches—but this? That turn past Ivanović, the decision-making, the finish—it's top class. I'm telling you, Arsenal have a real gem here. Not just a good player. A game-winner. A star in the making."
Francesco chuckled quietly to himself, taking a bite of his toast. Ian Wright always had that contagious energy, like he couldn't sit still when something excited him. And somehow, Francesco was now part of that excitement.
Then Jamie Carragher chimed in, pointing to the replay.
"What impressed me was the build-up. Özil spots the run early, yes, but Francesco's movement—it's what we call a 'third-man run.' He starts wide, ghosts inside between the two centre-backs, and when Özil releases the ball, Francesco's already a step ahead. And the finish—let's not overlook that. Courtois is no mug. You need real finesse to beat him one-on-one at that angle."
The camera panned back to all three of them, and Garry Neville added:
"It's not just the goal. It's the maturity. He didn't force things. He didn't try to do too much. He stuck to his job, tracked back when needed, and when the moment came, he seized it. That's what title-chasing teams need."
Ian Wright grinned.
"And let's not forget—he's sixteen. Sixteen! He's out here deciding games against Chelsea. What were we doing at sixteen, lads?"
Carragher laughed.
"Getting kicked off the reserves for being late."
Francesco nearly choked on his tea. He set the mug down, grinning.
The ticker at the bottom of the screen updated with the standings:
Premier League Table:
1. Arsenal – 80 pts
2. Chelsea – 75 pts
3 Games Remaining
Neville nodded toward it.
"So now it's Arsenal's to lose. They've got three matches left. If they win out, it's over. Doesn't matter what Chelsea do. The pressure's on, but this performance—especially from the younger lads—shows they're up for it."
Ian Wright looked almost emotional.
"I've waited a long time to see this again. That swagger, that unity, the belief. We've got something special here. Francesco Lee—remember the name. If he stays grounded, if he keeps doing what he's doing—he could be the future of this club."
Francesco muted the TV and just sat there for a long while, staring at the frozen image of his goal celebration, arms stretched wide, face lit up in a storm of red and white.
He let himself breathe it in—really breathe it in. The moment, the praise, the validation. But only for a moment. Because deep down, he knew what came next. Three more games. Ninety minutes each. Anything could still happen.
He stood up, carried his empty plate and mug to the sink, and washed them out by hand—another grounding routine, something simple and human that didn't involve flashbulbs or headlines. Then he grabbed his phone from the coffee table. Dozens of new messages—some from friends, a few from academy teammates.
He smiled. There it was again—that normalcy. The balance between being a kid and a professional, a rising star and just… Francesco.
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.
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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