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A shout from down the tunnel snapped him out of it. "Francesco!" It was Virgil, his deep voice booming even from the distance. "Come on, superstar, shower time! Stop giving Sky your life story!" Francesco laughed, shaking his head as he jogged back toward the tunnel.
Francesco ducked his head beneath the low doorway and stepped back into the Arsenal dressing room, the sound of voices and laughter spilling over him like a wave. The atmosphere in there was nothing short of electric—steam rising from the showers, boots clattering into bags, teammates buzzing like kids at a carnival. The kind of scene you only got after a big European win, when exhaustion and joy collided into something messy, noisy, and unforgettable.
He barely had time to peel off his training jacket before Héctor Bellerín grabbed him in a half-headlock, shaking him with a grin wide enough to split his face in two.
"Superstar!" Bellerín shouted, his accent rolling over the word with playful exaggeration. "What was that thing you said to Pep, eh? Everyone's already talking about it!"
Francesco laughed, wriggling free. "I didn't say anything! You lot are the ones making it a story."
"Oh, come on," Alexis Sánchez chimed in from across the room, towel slung around his neck. "I saw the cameras. You gave him cheek. To Pep Guardiola! That's going in history."
The room erupted again, players clapping and whistling. Even Petr Čech cracked a smile as he unlaced his gloves. It wasn't mockery—it was pride. Francesco had stood up not just on the pitch, but off it, representing Arsenal's spirit with a mix of boldness and humor.
Shaking his head, Francesco stripped out of his kit, his muscles heavy with the ache of ninety minutes played at full tilt. He stepped into the showers, the hot water cascading over his shoulders, and for a moment, the noise dimmed. Alone with the steam and the rhythm of the spray, he let himself breathe again.
He replayed the match in his mind—the goals, the roar of the Emirates, the way Bayern's backline had looked rattled for once, how every touch of the ball had felt alive in his boots. Nights like this didn't come often. And yet, there was still a second leg in Munich. Still more battles to fight.
By the time he stepped back out, wrapped in a towel, the room was already thinning. Players dressed quickly, media obligations done, everyone eager to get on the bus. Francesco slipped into his tracksuit, slid his headphones around his neck, and shouldered his bag.
The ride to Colney was its own kind of theatre. Players slumped into plush seats, some tapping at their phones, others joking loudly at the back. Wenger sat quietly near the front, reading notes even at this late hour, while Steve Bould spoke in low tones with a staff member.
Francesco settled near the middle, pressed against the cool glass of the window, watching London drift by under sodium lights. His body was drained, but his mind hummed restlessly. Messages buzzed through his phone—friends, family, old coaches, all congratulating him. His Instagram had already exploded with tags, clips of his goals, and memes about him telling Guardiola to come to Arsenal.
Across the aisle, Laurent Koscielny leaned over, speaking in his calm French lilt. "Enjoy it, Francesco. Nights like these… they make a career."
Francesco nodded, offering a tired but genuine smile. "I know. Feels surreal, honestly."
The bus rumbled on through the night, carrying them not just away from the Emirates but deeper into memory, into a story they'd tell years later.
When they finally rolled through the familiar gates of London Colney, the players stirred back to life. The air outside was sharp, colder than it had been in North London, and the grass smelled faintly of rain. One by one, they stepped off, bags slung, saying their goodbyes in the soft glow of the facility lights.
Francesco lingered near the car park, exchanging a quick fist-bump with Olivier Giroud and a hug with Mesut Özil. "See you tomorrow," Özil said, his voice quiet but content, that little half-smile on his face.
"Yeah. Rest up, mate," Francesco replied.
And then it was just him, walking toward the sleek black shape of his BMW X5. He clicked the fob, the lights blinking awake. Sliding into the driver's seat, he exhaled deeply, resting his forehead briefly against the wheel. Then, with a low purr, the engine came alive, and he steered onto the road.
The drive back to Richmond was a blur of empty roads and glowing streetlamps. London at night always had that strange duality—grand and alive in the distance, but quiet, almost intimate when you were on its smaller roads. Francesco rolled the window down a crack, the cool breeze brushing his still-damp hair.
The radio murmured faintly, but he barely heard it. His thoughts drifted—to Pep's words, to the roar of the Emirates, to Leah. Especially Leah. The idea of walking into the house and seeing her there, waiting, grounded him more than anything else.
By the time he turned into his driveway, the mansion stood there like a sanctuary, warm light spilling from the kitchen windows. His chest loosened at the sight.
He parked, killed the engine, and stepped inside. Instantly, the smell hit him—garlic, tomatoes, something rich and familiar. He followed it into the kitchen, and there she was: Leah, her hair tied loosely back, moving gracefully between the stove and counter.
She turned at the sound of his footsteps, her face lighting up. "There's my hero."
Francesco grinned, dropping his bag by the door. "You're the real hero. That smells incredible."
She laughed, handing him a wooden spoon with a playful gesture. "Taste."
He leaned in, blowing gently on the spoon before trying it. The flavor burst across his tongue, rich and savory. "Perfect. Better than scoring against Bayern."
"Liar," she teased, but her eyes softened as he kissed her forehead.
They sat down soon after, plates steaming, glasses of wine catching the light. Francesco ate like a man who hadn't seen food in days, Leah watching with amused affection. They talked—about the match, about Pep's comment, about how the headlines were already going viral. She teased him mercilessly, and he took it with a grin, glad just to be here, in this quiet corner of the world where the noise of football couldn't quite reach.
Later, in the living room, they curled up on the couch, Leah tucked against his side, a blanket over their legs. The television flickered with Sky Sports' familiar studio glow—red and blue panels, the desk gleaming under studio lights.
There they were: Gary Neville, Jamie Carragher, and Thierry Henry, faces animated as they dissected the night.
Neville leaned forward, his voice sharp. "Arsenal were brilliant tonight. Organised, aggressive, clinical. But make no mistake, Bayern will come at them in Munich. The second leg will be the real test."
Carragher gestured broadly, his Scouse accent cutting through. "But Gary, you've got to give credit. That front line—Sánchez, Özil, and this lad here"—he pointed toward the highlight reel where Francesco's goal replayed—"they terrified Bayern. He's seventeen years old, and he's making Alaba and Martinez look ordinary."
Henry, calm but glowing with pride, leaned back slightly, his French cadence smooth. "What I love is his composure. Look at the finish here." The screen replayed Francesco's goal, the way he'd taken the ball in stride, slotted it past Neuer with cold precision. "That's Thierry Henry-esque. But more than that, it's Arsenal DNA. Courage, elegance, belief."
Francesco chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. Leah nudged him with a grin. "Look at you. Even Thierry Henry's comparing you to himself."
"It's surreal," he admitted, his voice soft. "I grew up watching him. Now he's… saying that."
On screen, Neville continued, half-smiling. "The big question now—can Arsenal actually win the Champions League? Because with Francesco Lee in this form, they've got a chance."
Carragher nodded, almost reluctantly. "I'll tell you what—if they defend like tonight, and he keeps scoring, they're in it. They're properly in it."
The clip cut to the crowd's chants from earlier, Francesco's name echoing through the Emirates. He sat there on the couch, hearing it again through the television, but this time with Leah's hand resting on his chest, anchoring him.
She tilted her head to look at him. "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"You're not just living your dream. You're rewriting Arsenal's story. And they can feel it."
The studio lights glared off Thierry Henry's smooth scalp as he leaned in, his expression thoughtful, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had lived every possible emotion with Arsenal.
"This," Henry said, gesturing toward the highlight reel that showed Francesco's strike nestling past Manuel Neuer again, "this could be the closest Arsenal have ever come to winning the Champions League. Closer than 2006 in Paris, when we were a man down and still almost beat Barcelona. Closer than last year, when they reached the semi-final but fell short against Juventus. This time… they have a different spirit. And I believe Francesco Lee can lead them to their first Champions League trophy."
The words hung in the studio like incense. Even Neville and Carragher didn't jump in straight away. It was rare for Henry to speak with such certainty, to lay a claim down like a gauntlet.
On the couch, Francesco felt the air shift in the living room. Leah's hand stilled where it rested against his chest. She looked up at him, eyes wide, a soft smile teasing her lips.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered, though the volume was still high on the TV.
Francesco swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He'd heard it — every syllable. Thierry Henry, the king of Highbury, the Invincible, the man whose posters had once papered his childhood bedroom, was saying he could be the one to lead Arsenal where Henry himself had never managed to.
On screen, the camera cut to Carragher, who finally leaned forward, shaking his head slightly. "Thierry, that's a big statement. Massive. You really think a seventeen-year-old can carry Arsenal to a Champions League title?"
Henry didn't flinch. "Yes. Because it's not just him. Look at the team tonight. Van Dijk commanding at the back, Sánchez pressing like a demon, Özil finding the spaces, Giroud taking his moment. But Francesco — he's the spark. The difference. The thing Arsenal have always lacked in Europe — that killer instinct."
Neville rubbed his chin, skeptical but intrigued. "You might be right. But it's dangerous to put so much on his shoulders. Young players can burn out."
"Or," Henry replied smoothly, his eyes glinting, "they rise to the occasion."
The screen split to show clips of Francesco again — his movement, the sharpness of his runs, the finish for the goal, his celebratory roar as the Emirates shook. Henry's voice layered over it: "I see a young man who isn't afraid. That's rare. That's what wins you trophies."
Leah gave Francesco's arm a squeeze. "Thierry Henry just said you're the one. The one, Frankie. Do you realize how insane that is?"
Francesco leaned back against the cushions, running a hand through his still-damp hair. His heart was pounding again, almost like he was back out on the pitch. He managed a half-laugh, but it was shaky. "It's… surreal. I don't even know what to say. Thierry's a legend. He's Arsenal. To hear him say that…"
"You're shaking," Leah teased softly, though her eyes were warm.
"Of course I'm shaking," he admitted, grinning despite himself. "When I was a kid in London, I used to watch his highlights on a little TV, trying to copy his runs in the park. And now he's saying this?" He exhaled, long and slow, as if trying to steady himself. "It's like… the dream inside the dream."
They watched as the pundits moved on to analyze Bayern's shortcomings — Guardiola's tactical gamble, Lewandowski's isolation, Neuer's rare vulnerability. But Francesco barely registered it. His mind kept circling back to Henry's words, to 2006 in Paris.
He remembered watching that final as a boy, Arsenal down to ten men after Lehmann's red card, Sol Campbell's towering header giving hope, only for Eto'o and Belletti to break hearts. He remembered seeing Henry, hands on hips, staring at the ground, a god suddenly human.
And last year — Juventus. The semi-final where Arsenal had fought, clawed, but still crumbled under the weight of Italian precision.
"Do you believe it?" Leah's voice cut softly through his thoughts.
He turned to her, brows furrowing. "Believe what?"
"That you can lead them. That you can win it."
The question wasn't mocking, wasn't pressure — just quiet, intimate curiosity. He looked into her eyes, searching himself.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I want to. God, I want to. But football's cruel. One bad night in Munich and everything changes. I've seen it too many times."
She tilted her head, her hair brushing his shoulder. "Maybe. But you've already changed something. You've made people believe. That's the first step."
Her words settled into him like an anchor, heavier than Henry's, steadier. She wasn't a pundit or a legend. She was Leah. And if she believed… maybe that was enough.
They finished the program in silence, Sky Sports looping the goals again and again, the pundits dissecting every angle. When the broadcast ended and the screen faded to commercials, Leah clicked it off.
The room dimmed, only the soft lamplight and the hum of the London night outside. Francesco leaned back, eyes closed, letting the quiet wrap around him. Leah curled into his side, her head resting against his chest, her breathing steady.
For the first time all day, he felt the weight of exhaustion finally drag him down. Not just the physical toll of ninety minutes against Bayern, but the emotional avalanche that followed — the crowd, Lewandowski, Pep, Henry.
He kissed the top of Leah's head, whispered, "Goodnight," and drifted into dreams that felt suspiciously like reality.
The morning came with sunlight slanting through half-closed blinds, birds chattering in the trees outside. Francesco woke slowly, body stiff but mind already racing back to football. The second leg. Munich. Henry's words.
Leah stirred beside him, murmured something sleepily, then rolled over. He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face before sliding quietly out of bed.
The screen of his phone glowed pale against the morning light. Francesco squinted as his eyes adjusted, the brightness cutting through the lingering blur of sleep. Notifications stacked like dominoes—Twitter mentions, Instagram tags, WhatsApp messages from teammates, family, even old school friends he hadn't heard from in years. It felt like the whole world had suddenly turned its gaze on him.
He tapped open a headline first.
"Arsenal Emerging as Serious Champions League Contenders — Lee the Catalyst."
Another one:
"From Boy to Beacon: Can Francesco Lee Carry Arsenal Past Europe's Giants?"
And another, this one with a photo of him mid-celebration, arms outstretched in front of the North Bank:
"Thierry Henry Backs Arsenal Teen to Lead Them to Glory."
His thumb hovered. There were countless more, but one caught him in particular, from Marca in Spain. The headline, bold and unmissable:
"Arsenal's New Dream — But Can They Compete with Madrid's BBC?"
Francesco clicked it open. A familiar photograph filled the top half of the screen: Gareth Bale, Karim Benzema, Cristiano Ronaldo — arms slung around each other, grins sharp, kits gleaming under the Santiago Bernabéu floodlights. The trio looked untouchable, like titans carved from marble.
The article beneath was clinical, almost dismissive: Real Madrid's front three were "a proven machine," the piece declared. Bale's pace, Benzema's link-up, Ronaldo's inevitability. Arsenal's young starlet might be "the story of the season," but against Madrid's established force? "It is like comparing a spark to a wildfire."
Francesco stared at the words, jaw tightening. Spark. Wildfire. Maybe it was true. Madrid had years of dominance, a squad dripping with experience, with Champions League medals practically rattling in their lockers. He had… what? A handful of goals, a surge of form, and Thierry Henry's belief.
But then, almost as quickly as the doubt crept in, another thought flared. Sparks started wildfires.
Behind him, the sheets rustled. Leah's voice, still heavy with sleep, drifted across the room. "What's got you up so early?"
Francesco locked his phone, slipping it face down on the nightstand. "Just… news. Everyone's talking."
She propped herself on an elbow, blinking at him, her hair messy but her eyes warm. "Let me guess. Champions League favorites?"
He let out a dry laugh. "Yeah. Us and Madrid. The BBC versus… me, I guess."
Leah tilted her head, studying him. "You sound like you don't believe it."
He shrugged, running a hand across his face. "It's not that. It's just… I look at those names—Bale, Benzema, Cristiano. They're world-class. Champions. And then there's me. Seventeen."
"Frankie." Leah's tone softened, but there was an edge of firmness beneath it. She swung her legs out of the bed and padded over, sitting beside him. "You've already gone toe to toe with Lewandowski, with Neuer, with Bayern. And you didn't look out of place. You belonged."
He met her gaze, searching for the conviction he wanted to feel. "But Madrid's different. Cristiano's different. He's…" He shook his head, words failing him. "He's Cristiano."
Leah smiled faintly, her hand brushing against his. "And one day, some kid will sit in his bedroom, look at a poster of you, and say, 'He's Francesco.' Don't forget that."
The words hit him harder than she could know. Because he remembered being that kid, staring at Henry's posters, copying his finishes on the cracked concrete of a local park. And now Henry was the one pointing to him.
Francesco exhaled slowly, some of the tightness in his chest easing. "I'm trying. I really am. But it's a lot. Feels like the whole world's watching."
Leah leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Then let them watch. Show them why they should."
The phone buzzed again, as if demanding his attention. This time, it was a message in the Arsenal group chat. Ramsey had sent a meme — a photoshopped image of Francesco standing in front of a burning Bernabéu, the words BBC Cancelled, Now Showing: FLC stamped across it. A chorus of laughing emojis followed. Giroud added, "Better hair than Bale, better smile than Ronaldo, better link-up than Benzema. Case closed."
Francesco laughed despite himself, typing back a quick "Pressure's on then."
He set the phone down for real this time, rising to his feet. "I need to clear my head. Go for a run."
Leah stretched, catlike, then flopped back onto the bed. "I'll be here when you get back. Don't overdo it — you've got Munich to think about."
"Yeah," he murmured, pulling on his trainers. "Munich."
The streets of Richmond were quiet in the morning, the kind of stillness that made the world feel paused. Francesco's footsteps echoed against the pavement as he ran, his breath forming faint clouds in the cool air. He wasn't pushing pace, just letting his body move, letting the rhythm of running untangle the knot in his chest.
But his mind didn't slow. Headlines scrolled behind his eyes. Henry's words replayed. Madrid's BBC loomed like a mountain range. Munich loomed even closer.
He thought of Wenger, calm but firm in the dressing room, always talking about focus, about moments, about seizing them. He thought of Özil, who had seen Madrid from the inside, who had played alongside Ronaldo, who knew exactly what it took. He thought of Van Dijk's commanding presence, Sánchez's fire, Giroud's persistence.
And he thought of himself — the kid who wasn't supposed to be here. The kid who was now at the center of everything.
By the time he looped back home, sweat slicking his temples, he wasn't sure he had answers. But he had resolve. Maybe that was enough for now.
Leah was in the kitchen when he walked in, hair tied back, toast on the counter, tea steaming. She looked up and smiled, like the sight of him — flushed, messy, alive — was enough to brighten her morning.
"You look less haunted," she said, handing him a mug.
"Maybe," he admitted, taking a sip. The warmth spread through him. "Or maybe I just outran it for now."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "That works too."
Later that day, as the news cycle spun faster, Francesco sat down at the dining table, phone in hand again. He scrolled through more headlines, each one hammering home the same point: Arsenal were suddenly not just contenders, but favorites. Alongside Madrid. Always alongside Madrid.
It wasn't lost on him — the symmetry. Arsenal, the nearly men of Europe. Madrid, the kings. Him, the spark. Them, the wildfire.
For the first time, he didn't feel small against the comparison. He felt… hungry.
Hungry to prove that sparks could burn brighter than anyone expected.
Hungry to show that Arsenal's dream wasn't just a fairytale, but something real, something coming.
Hungry to write himself into history — not as the boy who tried, but as the man who did.
And when his phone buzzed again with a notification — this one from Thierry Henry himself, a simple message that read: "Believe, Francesco. You already have everything you need." — he knew the gauntlet had been well and truly thrown.
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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: 52
Goal: 72
Assist: 10
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9