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The night ended on that perfect note: two people, their homes and passions entwined, drifting off not from fireworks or trophies, but from simple love in a cozy kitchen. And as the final embers died, they knew tomorrow would bring a new dawn, new matches, new moments. But tonight had done its magic—and they'd remember it long after any story had faded.
The pale blue wash of early morning light slipped gently through the half-cracked curtains of the Richmond bedroom, casting faint shadows across the linen sheets and softly rumpled duvet. Francesco stirred with a quiet breath, eyes squinting open into the still silence of the room. The other side of the bed—Leah's side—was already empty. The sheets still faintly held her warmth, but she was gone.
At first, his hand instinctively patted the space beside him, half-asleep. When it came up empty, he turned onto his back, exhaled through his nose, and blinked at the ceiling with a slow, dawning smile. She was up early. Again.
Slipping out from under the covers, he padded barefoot across the floor, tugging on a sweatshirt as he walked. The scent reached him before the sounds did—something buttery, something warm. Toast, eggs, maybe. A whisper of fresh basil or sautéed garlic. He descended the stairs in quiet steps, careful not to clomp, even if Leah was no stranger to the creaks of this house by now.
And then he saw her.
In the kitchen, Leah stood facing the stove, her long-sleeve tee slightly oversized, hem brushing the waistband of her joggers. One bare foot tapping faintly as she flipped something golden in the pan. The sunlight through the window caught in the flyaways of her loosely tied-back hair. A mug of half-sipped coffee sat near the counter, along with chopped tomatoes and toast waiting to be buttered.
Francesco didn't say a word—he just crossed the last few steps and gently wrapped his arms around her from behind, burying his face in the slope of her neck.
"Morning," he mumbled against her skin, voice still heavy with sleep.
She smiled, the kind that tugged slow and warm at the corners of her mouth. "Hey. Sleepyhead."
"Woke up and thought I dreamt you," he muttered.
"Still here," she replied, tilting her head slightly so he could press a kiss beneath her ear.
"I like this dream better."
She flipped the eggs with practiced ease, then gestured with her chin toward the French press on the counter. "Coffee's fresh."
"You spoil me."
"Says the man who made me garlic shrimp and mousse last night."
Touché.
When the last egg was plated, Leah carried their breakfast to the dining table—two steaming plates of scrambled eggs, cherry tomato salad, and slices of toast with avocado and feta. Francesco followed with their mugs, settling into the seat across from her.
The morning sunlight washed through the wide windows now, soft and calm, the garden outside barely stirring in the wind. It was a perfect Sunday.
Between bites and small talk—her complaining about how the oil splattered on her wrist, him teasing her about her egg flipping—Francesco leaned back in his chair and gave her a soft look.
"You know, if you want to take the Civic today, go ahead. It's got a full tank."
Leah arched an eyebrow mid-bite. "Yeah? I can take it to the Emirates?"
"Course," he said with a shrug. "Isn't it basically your car now anyway?"
She laughed, loud and bright, the kind of sound that filled the room without trying. "You mean ever since you traded up for that BMW X5 like a proper footballer?"
He grinned sheepishly. "Hey, BMW gave it to me, technically."
She leaned forward, pointing a toast crust at him. "And you parked the Civic like it's your backup spaceship. I've used it more than you lately."
"You're not wrong," he chuckled. "You drive it better than me, too."
"Damn right I do."
They clinked coffee mugs in mock celebration, eyes bright in the light of the kitchen.
After breakfast, Leah gathered the dishes and told him to go shower. He lingered for a moment, half-arguing, then caved—he'd learned not to push too hard when she was in her Sunday mode. He climbed the stairs and disappeared into the ensuite, steam rising a few minutes later as he turned on the hot water.
In the quiet warmth of the shower, his mind slipped ahead to the afternoon—Newcastle at the Emirates. The press would be watching, fans buzzing, the league table as tight as ever. He could already feel the old pulse building in his chest. He loved the anticipation. Loved the storm of it.
By the time he stepped out and toweled off, he felt sharp again. Awake. Grounded.
Back in the bedroom, he dressed quickly: club polo, joggers, fresh socks, boots by the door. His duffle bag was already half-packed from the night before, but he double-checked anyway—shin pads, boots, recovery bands, warm layers. AirPods, protein bar. Extra tape.
When he zipped it shut, he slung it over his shoulder and headed downstairs.
Leah was waiting by the kitchen counter, nursing the last of her coffee and scrolling on her phone.
He stepped up to her, duffle bag slung over one shoulder. "Alright, I'm off."
She looked up, pushing her phone aside. "Already?"
"Need to head to Colney first. Bus leaves for the Emirates from there."
She nodded, stepping forward into him without needing to be asked. He dropped the bag for a moment and held her close, arms tight around her back.
"You'll be amazing," she murmured into his chest. "You always are."
He kissed the top of her head. "Make sure you grab a seat early."
"I'll be there. In your car."
He chuckled. "My Civic, your Civic."
She kissed him then—slow and full—before pulling back with a whisper. "Go win."
Francesco slung the duffle bag back over his shoulder, shot her one last smile, and walked toward the front door. As he opened it, cold air rushed in, brisk and sharp. He took it in like a breath of purpose.
Leah watched from the doorway as he climbed into the X5, engine purring to life. He gave her a two-fingered salute through the windshield, and then he was off, easing down the drive, the morning light catching the edges of the hood as he turned onto the main road.
The drive to Colney had that specific kind of calm—the kind that only ever came on matchday mornings. Francesco rolled down the motorway with the hum of the BMW X5 filling the silence, passing leafless trees swaying gently in the cold January breeze. It was just after 10:30 AM, and the world still felt slow, hushed under the weight of the winter sky. The radio was on low—mostly out of habit—a soft playlist of indie rock and old favorites keeping the cabin from falling completely silent.
His mind wasn't blank. It never was on matchday. But there was a strange stillness inside him—a gathering, a focusing. Every few minutes his thoughts would flicker to Leah, to the way she smiled behind that steaming plate of scrambled eggs, to the quiet confidence in her voice when she said, Go win. Then it would shift forward, to the grass at the Emirates, the roar of the crowd, the sense of responsibility that always settled in his chest like armor just before kickoff.
By the time the familiar rows of fences and training signs came into view, Francesco's heart was already syncing into match tempo. He eased the X5 into the car park and spotted a few familiar vehicles already lined up—Per's modest black Audi, Héctor's sleek white electric coupe, and Olivier's Mercedes coupe, predictably polished like it had just stepped off a magazine page.
Francesco pulled into his usual spot, cut the engine, and grabbed his duffle bag from the passenger seat. The moment he stepped out, the cold hit sharper—colder than Richmond, somehow. The wind was stronger this far north of the city, and it bit at his collar as he zipped his coat up to his chin and made his way toward the players' entrance.
Inside the main facility, the familiar buzz of matchday routine was already alive and well. Players moving in and out of the prep rooms, trainers wheeling gear carts down the hall, voices echoing with quiet focus. The air smelled of muscle rub and turf—sharp and clean and filled with anticipation.
In the gathering room just off the entrance corridor, most of the squad was already present. Özil was sitting quietly near the far wall, earbuds in, flipping a ball lazily between his feet. Theo Walcott was leaning against the window, chatting with Kieran Gibbs, both of them half-laughing about something muffled. Alexis Sánchez stood in front of the tactics board with Gabriel and Flamini, already half-gesturing about pressing movements and passing lanes.
Francesco spotted Arsène Wenger at the far end of the room, standing in front of the main tactics screen, arms folded, expression unreadable in that classic Wenger way. The boss always arrived early. Always stood before them with that sense of composure that made you believe even when the odds weren't in your favor.
Robert Pirès, who'd been helping out with forward drills lately, spotted Francesco first and gave him a nod from across the room. "Sleeping in, Lee?" he teased in a low voice, though there was no bite to it.
Francesco grinned and dropped his bag next to a row of benches. "Just taking the scenic route."
Aaron Ramsey clapped him on the back as he passed. "You bring breakfast for the rest of us?"
"Not unless you count adrenaline."
"Pity," Olivier added, walking by with a protein shake in hand. "I was hoping you'd bring more of that mousse."
Francesco chuckled and started stretching out his calves, glancing around the room. The mood was light, but tight. Everyone knew what was at stake. Newcastle might not have been the fiercest opponent in the league standings, but they were scrappy, unpredictable—one of those clubs that could catch you flat-footed if you weren't switched on.
By 11:15, Wenger finally turned toward them fully.
"Everyone," he called, his voice calm but clear, "we'll go through final notes, then we leave at one sharp."
The players instinctively quieted, eyes turning toward the manager as he picked up the marker pen.
Wenger didn't waste time. He rarely did on matchdays. He walked them through the strategy with measured assurance, pointing out Newcastle's tendencies—where Wijnaldum liked to drift, how Mitrović might press on goal kicks, the spacing they needed to keep in transitions. He emphasized width, sharp passing, early crosses into the box—particularly to capitalize on Olivier's aerial presence and Francesco's speed on the shoulder of the last defender.
"Francesco," Wenger said at one point, gesturing toward a diagram on the left side of the final third. "Their right back tends to push up aggressively. Exploit that space. Take your chances early."
Francesco nodded. "Got it, boss."
The whole talk took less than twenty minutes. That was the thing with Wenger—you never felt overwhelmed. He trusted his players. Gave them information, not instruction. They knew how to play. He reminded them why.
When the briefing wrapped, players filtered out to grab final gear or take a few minutes to themselves before boarding the bus.
Francesco slipped into the boot room and double-checked his matchday studs, already cleaned and packed by one of the kit assistants. He picked up his gloves—he didn't usually wear them unless it was truly freezing, but today might be the day—and slid them into his duffle bag.
By 12:45 PM, they were all assembled outside in the January cold, jackets zipped, headphones on, bags loaded underneath the coach. The team bus, gleaming in its Arsenal livery, idled gently at the curb.
Francesco stood beside Theo and Calum Chambers as they waited to board, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet to stay warm.
"You good?" Theo asked, adjusting his neck warmer.
Francesco nodded. "Yeah. Feeling sharp."
"You better be," Calum added. "Leah's gonna be in the stands, right?"
Francesco shot him a smirk. "Front row."
"Then you've got no choice," Theo said with a grin. "You gotta score. She won't let you live it down otherwise."
Francesco laughed, his breath misting into the cold air. "Don't worry. I'm not missing today."
Wenger walked past them with a clipboard in hand, nodding for everyone to load up.
"Let's go, gentlemen."
Francesco stepped onto the bus, sliding into his usual seat by the window. As the engine growled a little louder and the vehicle pulled out of Colney, he pulled out his phone, instinctively checking for a text.
There it was—from Leah.
Leah: Civic made it safely to Islington. I've claimed your parking space. Don't be late, golden boy.
He grinned.
Then sent back: Wouldn't dare. See you soon.
The ride to the Emirates passed in a quiet, charged kind of silence. Not the tense kind, but the focused kind. Headphones on. Eyes out the window. Bodies leaning gently with the bus as it hummed along Holloway Road, past rows of North London townhouses and familiar corners covered in red and white scarves.
Francesco leaned his head against the glass and let the light blur. The closer they got to the stadium, the more his pulse settled—not spiking, not jittering, but settling, like a runner finding their stride. He glanced down at his phone again. The last text from Leah still glowed on the screen:
Leah: Civic made it safely to Islington. I've claimed your parking space. Don't be late, golden boy.
He grinned. Only she could call him that and make it sound like both a joke and a challenge.
As the bus rounded into Hornsey Road, the stadium loomed ahead—massive, gleaming, iconic. The Emirates in all its glass-and-steel grandeur, red banners fluttering outside the entry, a few dozen early fans already gathered at the gates in scarves and winter coats. Some lifted their phones, catching glimpses of the team coach as it rolled past the main steps and around toward the players' entrance.
Francesco tucked his phone into his coat pocket and sat up straighter, duffle bag at his feet. This was it.
The bus slowed to a gentle stop. The hiss of the door opening broke the last bit of stillness. One by one, players stood and slung their bags over their shoulders.
"Let's move," Per said in his quiet, German way—measured, certain.
Francesco rose with the rest, offering a nod to Petr Čech in the seat across from him. The goalkeeper gave a small smile, already locked into game mode.
The cold outside rushed in as they stepped off the coach, but it didn't sting anymore. It was part of the ritual. Security led them through the side entrance, past the tunnel mouth and down the corridor that split toward the home dressing room.
Inside, the locker room buzzed with familiar rhythm. Clean lines of kit hung beneath each player's nameplate. Warm lights bounced off the red and white, and the crest on the wall seemed to glow with that quiet intensity that only matchday could summon.
Francesco found his spot—"LEE 7" stitched boldly across the back of the home kit. Captain's armband already folded neatly on the bench beside it. He reached for the training top first, peeling off his coat and sliding into the long-sleeve tech shirt with practiced ease.
Boots on. Shin pads. Stretch bands. All routine.
Across the room, Özil adjusted the tongue of his left boot, while Flamini and Koscielny spoke softly with Wenger over a clipboard. Theo Walcott bounced slightly from foot to foot as he adjusted his warm-up top.
Francesco stood, tied the last knot on his right boot, then pulled his hair into a short tie at the back of his head.
"Alright," called Boro Primorac from the doorway. "Pitch in five. 45 minutes."
They filed out through the tunnel and into the crisp London afternoon.
The pitch. The stage.
It never got old.
The Emirates stretched wide and welcoming, the red seats gleaming even under the dull overcast light. The stadium crew had done their usual perfect job—grass cut short, lines crisp, the ball rolling clean from the first touch.
The squad split into groups. Francesco ran through dynamic drills with Bellerín and Theo, sharp movements across the width of the pitch, short passing patterns and agility work with cones. Coaches watched, murmuring feedback as they jogged.
He felt good. Sharp. Maybe even better than sharp. His legs moved easy. Every sprint had spring. Every touch felt like an extension of his breath.
The crowd was beginning to trickle in now, filling rows with red-and-white jerseys and winter coats, a slow hum of voices swelling behind the warm-up.
Around the 30-minute mark, he glanced up toward the west stand.
And there she was.
Leah.
She wasn't in the usual section behind the home bench. Instead, she stood just behind the clear VIP box glass, arms folded, scarf wrapped tight, watching with a soft smile. One of the club staff had clearly moved her inside—a good call, he thought, considering the crowds.
A moment later, his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket on the sidelines. During a quick water break, he checked it.
Leah: They moved me to the VIP Box. Less mobbing, more good coffee. I can see you perfectly. Go do your thing.
Francesco smiled down at the message. No reply. Just that smile.
He tucked the phone away and didn't look again.
Warm-up wrapped shortly after. The players jogged back into the tunnel as the announcer's voice began echoing through the stadium, running through the lineups.
Back in the dressing room, the energy shifted.
No more laughter. No more stretching jokes. Just silence and the soft sound of tape ripping, boots tightening, armbands being pulled up.
Wenger stepped forward, voice steady.
"Today we play with structure. With intelligence. But also—fire."
He turned toward the whiteboard.
"Formation is four-two-three-one."
He underlined it.
"Petr in goal."
Čech nodded silently, adjusting his gloves.
"Back four: Monreal, Koscielny, Van Dijk, Bellerín."
Each player received a brief glance from the manager. All focused. No questions.
"Flamini and Kanté as our double pivot. Keep shape. Break transitions. Make them earn every inch."
Flamini grunted with approval. Kanté simply nodded.
"Özil in the middle. Francesco left. Walcott right."
He looked straight at Francesco next.
"You wear the armband today."
A beat passed. Francesco didn't move. Just a slow nod of acceptance.
"You know what to do."
Lastly, Wenger raised a hand toward Olivier.
"Giroud leads the line. Hold up play. Be the pivot. The finishing touch."
Olivier gave a confident smile and tapped his chest. "Oui, boss."
Wenger continued.
"On the bench: Ospina, Mertesacker, Gabriel, Gibbs, Ramsey, Iwobi, Oxlade-Chamberlain."
There was a brief pause. He surveyed the room again.
"Francesco."
The captain looked up.
"Lead them. From the first whistle. Energy, yes—but calm. This match is ours to win if we play like Arsenal. Fast. Precise. Relentless."
Francesco stood, sliding the captain's armband over his sleeve.
He gave Wenger a firm nod.
"Yes, boss."
Boots clattered softly against the floor as they made final adjustments. Shin pads in place. Gloves on. Özil flicked his fingers nervously; Flamini muttered to himself. Giroud tied and re-tied his right boot twice.
Francesco reached into his coat pocket and took one last breath before switching off his phone.
No distractions now.
This was the part that mattered.
The sound of the tunnel marshal calling for lineup echoed faintly.
Francesco looked around the room one last time—his team. His moment.
And then he led them out.
The heavy double doors at the end of the dressing room swung open, revealing the tunnel in its familiar half-light — that strange in-between place of echoing footsteps, blinking advertising boards, and tension so thick it seemed to vibrate off the concrete walls. Francesco stepped out first, the armband snug around his sleeve, boots clicking against the polished floor.
The rest of the Arsenal starting eleven lined up behind him — Walcott stretching his hamstrings, Giroud bouncing slightly on his toes, Van Dijk with arms crossed and gaze steady. On the opposite side, Newcastle's team emerged in black-and-white stripes, their captain Fabricio Coloccini stepping forward, expression unreadable beneath his thick curls.
Francesco stood tall, adjusting the collar of his shirt, eyes ahead as the tunnel marshal gave a brisk nod.
"Alright, gents. Walkout in thirty seconds."
A breath passed through the tunnel, like everyone exhaled at once. Francesco clenched and relaxed his fists. Just above, he could hear the muffled roar of the crowd, swelling into one long crescendo as kickoff neared.
Theo leaned in behind him, grinning. "Alright, Cap. You ready to go make Leah proud?"
Francesco gave a small smirk without looking back. "I'm always ready."
The signal came. "Let's go!"
With a gentle push of momentum, Francesco led the team forward.
Out they stepped into the sudden blaze of noise and color — red and white flags waving in the upper tiers, chants already rising through the Emirates like thunder rolling uphill. Francesco squinted into the sky briefly, then down toward the pitch, breathing in the smell of fresh-cut grass and winter air. He could feel it in his chest — the gravity of it, the theatre of it. And now, the responsibility of the armband.
They walked the full length of the touchline before lining up in front of the dugouts. The anthem played over the stadium speakers — a low, dramatic hum that rolled through the crowd as cameras panned across the starting elevens. Francesco kept his face neutral, gaze ahead, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
When the last note faded, the players clapped briefly, then turned to shake hands. Francesco met Coloccini at the center circle for the coin toss, their boots scraping softly on the pristine turf.
The referee — Anthony Taylor — stepped between them with the coin already in hand.
"Alright, lads. You know the drill."
Francesco and Coloccini bumped knuckles briefly. There was no edge between them, just the cool respect of captains who'd seen enough matches to know that the real talking started with the first touch of the ball.
"Call it in the air," Taylor said, and flipped the coin.
Francesco's eyes followed it.
"Heads," he said firmly.
The coin clinked against the ref's palm — then turned.
"Heads it is."
Francesco gave a short nod.
"We'll take kick-off."
Coloccini gestured toward the Clock End without hesitation. "We'll switch sides."
Taylor made the signal official. Francesco jogged back toward Özil and Walcott with a small grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"Got us kick-off," he said under his breath.
Mesut gave him a quick nod. "Good omen."
They lined up in their shape — Giroud already stationed near the halfway line, Özil a few paces behind him, Kante and Flamini forming the wall of control in the center.
Francesco took his place wide on the left, squinting into the box to size up Newcastle's back four. Janmaat was at right back, as expected. Quick, aggressive, but prone to overstepping. That's where the gap would be.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance back up toward the west stand.
There she was. Still in the VIP box. Leah's figure just behind the glass, scarf wrapped around her neck, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her coat. She wasn't looking at her phone. She wasn't talking. She was watching him.
Francesco took a breath and focused.
The whistle blew.
Özil tapped the ball back, and the match began.
Red shirts immediately surged forward — Flamini roaring for space, Bellerín darting up the flank. Francesco dropped a shoulder and drifted wide, dragging Janmaat out with him and carving the beginning of a channel.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
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: 28
Goal: 40
Assist: 6
MOTM: 4
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9