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As he finished speaking, he felt a tap on his shoulder. One of the Sky Sports producers was signaling that it was time for photos with the trophy. Francesco nodded, cradling the match ball tightly as he moved toward the small table where the Man of the Match award rested. The lights, the cameras, the lingering shouts from the fans as they all blended together, but for Francesco, it was perfect. He felt alive, grounded, and connected in a way that only football could provide.
25 November 2016 arrived quietly, almost shyly, the way winter mornings often did in Richmond. The early light slipped through the tall curtains of the mansion bedroom in pale gold streaks, warming the edges of the sheets and brushing softly against Francesco's face. Outside, the trees swayed with a lazy breeze, the kind that whispered instead of howled, and the air carried a cool stillness that made the whole world feel paused, held respectfully in a moment of calm.
Inside the room, everything smelled faintly of fresh linen and something sweet, mayb maple syrup? Pancakes? Or maybe it was simply the warmth of being home after another stretch of exhausting matches. Either way, the morning felt different, special, like the house itself somehow knew what day it was.
Francesco blinked awake slowly, the remnants of sleep still clinging stubbornly to his eyelids. His muscles felt pleasantly heavy, the kind of heaviness that came from weeks of pushing himself to the limit with scoring, assisting, running, defending, and trying to juggle a life that was somehow becoming too large and too fast for an 18-year-old to fully comprehend.
Eighteen.
He almost laughed at the thought. The newspapers and pundits always talked about him as if he were some seasoned veteran. A machine. A phenomenon. A new face of English football. But inside this quiet bedroom, under these soft covers, he was still just a boy trying to figure out how to breathe in a world that suddenly expected perfection from him every week.
He stretched subtly, letting out a low exhale, before he heard the softest sound.
The click of the door.
Followed by quiet footsteps. Familiar ones.
He didn't open his eyes right away, not because he wanted to pretend he was still asleep, but because he knew that scent drifting toward him: perfume mixed with the subtle fabric-softener smell of a football training kit washed a few too many times. It was comforting, grounding.
And then he heard her voice.
Warm. Soft. Smiling even before the words formed.
"Happy birthday, babe."
He opened his eyes properly this time.
There she was, his girlfriend, Leah Williamson standing with a small grin, cheeks slightly flushed from the morning chill, blonde hair tied loosely in a way that framed her face perfectly. She wore a casual sweatshirt from Arsenal's training line, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and in her hands…
A tray.
Not just any tray.
A tray overflowing with breakfast she clearly made herself.
There were pancakes stacked with proud, slightly uneven edges. There were strawberries sliced with the kind of concentration that left a few pieces looking adorably crooked. There was scrambled eggs, golden and steaming, and a mug of hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows melting on the top. And next to it all…
A tiny candle.
A birthday candle.
Lit.
She'd placed it right in the middle of the pancake stack.
He blinked again, harder this time, because the sight hit him with a wave of warmth he wasn't prepared for.
"Leah…" he whispered, voice rough with sleep. "You didn't have to do all that."
She smirked, nudging the door shut behind her with her hip. "Well, too bad. I did."
She approached the bed carefully, balancing the tray with the focus of someone carrying something priceless, which in a way, she was. When she set it down across his lap, the warmth of the food spread softly across the blanket, and he couldn't help but smile, a slow, genuine, almost disbelieving smile.
"Happy eighteenth," she said again, leaning down to kiss his forehead, then his cheek. "My superstar is officially an adult now."
He snorted lightly. "Officially, yeah. But I think the world has been treating me like an adult since I scored my first Premier League goal."
Leah rolled her eyes dramatically and sat on the edge of the bed. "Yeah, well. They can treat you like a superstar all they want. But in here—" she tapped his chest lightly, "—you're still the same dork who asked me if I could help him find the right washing machine settings for his kit."
He laughed, covering his face with one hand. "Oh my god, you're never going to let that go, are you?"
"Nope." She took a strawberry from the tray and popped it into her mouth. "That's staying with me forever."
He shook his head, grinning.
For a moment, they just looked at each other. Really looked. The way two people did when the world outside didn't matter as when the cameras, the stadiums, the headlines and pressure were all miles away.
Then Leah cleared her throat, trying but failing to hide her excitement.
"Okay," she said, almost bouncing where she sat. "Before you eat, before you shower, before anything else… I have something to tell you."
"Oh?" Francesco lifted a brow. "Should I be worried?"
She playfully shoved his shoulder. "Just shut up and listen."
He raised his hands in surrender, smiling.
Leah inhaled dramatically. "Tonight… I've invited your teammates for your birthday party."
He blinked. "Wait… like, everyone?"
"Everyone who isn't halfway across the world right now, yes." She laughed softly. "The whole squad. And before you panic, they all said yes. Even the ones who pretend they don't do parties."
He felt his chest warm up again. "Seriously?"
"Mm-hm." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "And your parents are coming. And mine. And a few close friends. As in, a proper celebration. For you. Because you deserve it."
He stared at her for a long second, trying to process the weight of it.
Not the party.
Not the crowd.
But the thought behind it.
The time she took.
The effort.
The love.
"Leah…" he murmured, softer than before. "Thank you."
"You haven't even seen the decorations yet."
"There are decorations?"
"Oh, absolutely," she said proudly. "I started last night. Banners, fairy lights, themed cake, everything. And before you say anything—" she placed a finger on his lips, "—no, you're not allowed to complain that it's 'too much' or 'unnecessary.' I know how your brain works. This is happening. End of discussion."
He kissed her finger gently before lowering her hand. "I wasn't going to say that."
"Yes, you were."
"Okay, maybe," he admitted, laughing under his breath. "But only because you didn't have to go so big."
"Of course I did," she replied instantly. "You've spent the whole year giving everything with your goals, your energy, your time for everyone else. For the club, for the fans, for the country, for the league." Her expression softened, eyes shimmering with a sincerity that cut right through him. "So tonight? Tonight is ours. Yours. A moment where you get to breathe. To celebrate. To be surrounded by people who love you without needing anything from you."
He swallowed, throat suddenly tight.
"You make it sound like I never breathe," he joked lightly, though his voice wavered.
She didn't let the moment slip away. Instead she took his hand gently, squeezing. "You breathe. But not enough for someone who carries the entire world on his shoulders."
He stared at her for a long moment, the weight of her words settling warmly inside him.
"I'm serious," she added softly. "Tonight, you get to just be Francesco. Not top scorer. Not the headline. Not the prodigy. Just… you."
He exhaled slowly. "I like the sound of that."
"You'd better," she teased. "I spent two hours last night arguing with your massive speakers to get them to work."
He laughed again, shaking his head. "Why didn't you ask me for help?"
"Because," she said, shrugging, "I wanted to do it myself. It's your birthday, not mine."
He let the silence linger, letting gratitude swell in the space between them. Then he picked up a fork, twisted it between his fingers, and nudged it in her direction.
"Eat with me."
She blinked. "What? No, it's your breakfast."
"And you made it. Which means you're definitely eating some of it."
She opened her mouth as if to argue but then sighed, smiling as she grabbed another strawberry. "Fine. But I'm telling you now, the pancakes might be a little burnt."
He stabbed into the top one dramatically. "Burnt pancakes taste better. Character."
"Oh my god, you're such an idiot," she said through a bright laugh.
They ate together in the warm quiet of the morning with teasing each other, stealing bites, laughing at nothing and everything. The world outside could have been frozen for all they cared. Here, inside these walls, life felt simple. Soft. Real.
Every few minutes, she would glance at him with the kind of affection that made his chest feel full to the brim. Every few minutes, he would look at her like she was the only person in the world who truly understood him.
After a while, she shifted closer, leaning her head on his shoulder as he finished the last bite of pancake.
"Eighteen," she murmured, tracing small circles on his arm. "How does it feel?"
He thought about it. Then shrugged. "Honestly? The same as yesterday. Except… I think I'm happier today."
"Good," she whispered. "I wanted it to start like that."
They stayed like that for a long, quiet minute with her leaning on him, him soaking in the warmth of her presence until she finally sat up again, clapping her hands together.
"Okay! Now that you've eaten, you need to go shower. You smell like football."
"I always smell like football."
"Exactly." She grabbed his cheeks with both hands. "Go. Shower. Now. We have a full day ahead."
He sighed dramatically. "Bossy."
"Very," she said proudly. "You'll thank me later."
He leaned forward to kiss her gently. "I already do."
She froze for just a heartbeat with the heart warming visibly, then nudged him toward the edge of the bed.
"Go, birthday boy. And don't take forever! I still have things to set up before everyone arrives."
He stood, stretching, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. As he walked toward the bathroom, he glanced back at her as the legs curled under her, tray pushed aside, sunlight framing her like something out of a dream.
"I love you," he said quietly, without thinking.
Leah blinked.
Then smiled.
Soft. Radiant. Certain.
"I love you too."
The quiet of the room lingered even after Leah left to finish whatever mysterious preparations she'd been planning since yesterday. The door clicked softly behind her, leaving Francesco alone again in the morning glow, the remnants of shared laughter still warm in the air.
He breathed out, long and slow, letting the peace settle into him. Birthday or not, mornings like this were rare with gentle moments where the world didn't feel like it was demanding something from him every minute. He let the blankets fall to his waist, feeling the rising energy settle beneath his ribs, a mix of excitement, disbelief, and something softer he couldn't quite name.
He reached over to the bedside table, grabbing his phone.
The screen lit up instantly.
And his eyes widened.
Sixty-eight notifications.
He blinked.
Then laughed quietly.
"Bro… it's not even 10 AM."
Message after message filled the lock screen as some predictable, some surprising, some chaotic in ways only footballers could manage. He unlocked the phone and started scrolling.
At the top was the first message he'd received, timestamped at 12:01 AM:
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KID!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉"
—from Alexis Sánchez
Right underneath:
"18 already?? I feel old. Have a great day, little brother."
—from Mesut Özil
Then:
"Enjoy your day, lad! Don't eat too much cake, we need you in sharp mode 😉"
—from Olivier Giroud
And immediately followed by:
"Ahem. Ignore Giroud. Eat as much cake as you want. You run enough to burn it anyway."
—from Petr Čech
He snorted, shaking his head. Classic dressing-room banter.
More notifications awaited him.
"Happy birthday, youngster! Proud of how far you've come."
—from Per Mertesacker
"18! Massive milestone. Celebrate well, stay humble."
—from Laurent Koscielny
"Broooo! Happy birthday! Miss u man!"
—from Serge Gnabry
That one made him pause a bit, smiling.
Serge always sent the most chaotic messages.
"Happy birthday, warrior. Big year ahead."
—from Virgil van Dijk
He scrolled again.
"Happy birthday, little engine. Keep running, keep fighting."
—from N'Golo Kanté
He laughed softly, shaking his head.
Trust N'Golo to call him "little engine."
Then he noticed a whole group chat of teammates from the senior squad absolutely spamming:
"OI BIRTHDAY BOY WAKE UP"
"someone go to his house"
"no don't he'll kick us out"
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY BOSS"
He rolled his eyes fondly.
Idiots. But his idiots.
As he scrolled, a different set of messages appeared, ones that softened everything inside him.
Mom – Sarah:
"Happy birthday, sweetheart ❤️. Your father and I love you so much. We're so proud of you. Can't wait to see you later tonight."
And before he could smile fully, another message popped in:
Dad – Mike:
"Happy 18th, champ. I know I say this every year, but you amaze me more and more. We'll bring your gift tonight. And no, it's not another football."
Francesco laughed out loud.
Yeah. That sounded exactly like Dad.
He leaned against the headboard, letting the warmth settle in his chest. Having their support, especially now with everything moving so fast in his life that meant more than words could ever really express.
Then, another message appeared at the bottom.
Its sender made his breath hitch for a second.
"Happy birthday, Francesco. Wishing you a day of peace, joy, and good company. You have been exceptional this season, on and off the pitch. Enjoy today. You've earned it."
—from Arsène Wenger
The text was simple, polite, warm in that reserved Wenger way.
But it hit him.
Harder than expected.
Because coming from the man who had changed the trajectory of his life from the man who had believed in him boldly, publicly, fearlessly made those few lines felt heavier than paragraphs.
He stared at the message for a long moment, thumb resting above the keyboard as he let the emotions swell and ebb.
Then he typed out a reply:
"Thank you, boss. For everything. Really."
Once he sent that, he took his time responding to each message. Every single one.
He didn't want to be that guy, the one who only sent emoji replies or generic thank-yous, especially not today. These people were part of his life, his growth, his circle. Some were teammates, some were mentors, some practically family.
And today of all days, gratitude felt easy. Natural. Overflowing.
By the time he finished, nearly fifteen minutes had passed.
The room felt warmer, lighter somehow.
He placed the phone aside and stood from the bed, stretching until his joints gave small satisfying pops. Then he grabbed a towel and headed toward the bathroom.
The hot water hit him like a wave of release.
His muscles, tight from weeks of training, instantly loosened. Steam curled around his skin, fogging the mirror by the sink as the spray drummed rhythmically against his shoulders.
He closed his eyes and let the warmth wash over him.
Images ran through his mind with the goals he'd scored this season, the tackles he'd thrown himself into, the nights he couldn't sleep from adrenaline, the pressure, the stadium lights, the noise of crowds, the headlines, the expectations.
And then, just as quickly, softer images:
Leah laughing with pancake batter on her cheek…
His parents in the stands…
Arsène Wenger's proud nod after a match…
His teammates hugging him after a crucial goal…
His childhood bedroom…
His first pair of boots…
His first dream of playing football on a big stage…
Life had become surreal so fast.
He leaned against the cool tile wall, letting the water run down his back in slow cascades.
Eighteen.
Legally an adult.
Emotionally? Somewhere between kid and grown man.
Responsibility weighed differently now. Fame too. The world expected things from him. Countless strangers had opinions about him as some adoring, some brutal. And yet here, under the heat and steam, none of that mattered.
Here, he was just Francesco.
A boy turning into a man.
A player learning what it meant to carry a club's hopes.
A son. A boyfriend. A friend.
Just… him.
He stayed in the shower longer than he needed to, not because he was stalling but because the warmth felt like a quiet conversation with himself, one he rarely had time for.
Eventually he turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping the towel around his waist. As he wiped the fog from the mirror, his reflection stared back at him with his eyes slightly puffy from sleep, but clearer now, calmer.
"Happy birthday, mate," he murmured to his own reflection, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
He changed into casual clothes with fitted joggers, a fresh white tee, and a hoodie thrown over his shoulders. Nothing fancy. Just comfortable.
When he opened the bedroom door, the faintest scent drifted toward him.
Vanilla… maybe?
Or candles?
He walked down the hallway, bare feet soft against the polished wood floor, and descended the grand staircase toward the main living area.
He was only halfway down when he froze.
Because the house, his house that looked unrecognizable.
In the best way.
The entire open living space had been transformed. Completely. Thoroughly. Almost magically.
His breath left him in a quiet, stunned exhale.
There were strings of warm fairy lights draped across the ceiling beams, dipping elegantly like constellations trapped inside the house. Balloons with white, gold, deep Arsenal red that clustered around the staircase, tied neatly to banisters and furniture legs. A massive banner stretched above the far wall:
"HAPPY 18th BIRTHDAY, FRANCESCO!"
The letters glittered faintly under the morning light.
There were ribbons. There were candles. There were even small framed photos of him from baby photos, academy photos, snapshots of him and Leah, him with teammates that placed carefully across the shelves and counters.
The living room had been rearranged to make space for what was clearly meant to be a party area: the long dining table had been moved aside, replaced with a wider open space and a small DJ booth setup (which explained her battle with the speakers last night).
Soft music played from somewhere with quiet instrumental guitar, the kind of mellow morning playlist that felt like a warm hug.
For a long second, he didn't move.
He just stared.
He didn't even realize Leah was standing at the far end of the room until she turned around, holding a roll of tape and a half-finished balloon arch.
When she spotted him, her entire face lit up.
"There you are!" she said, grinning wide. "Took you long enough!"
He didn't answer.
Didn't even try.
He just walked toward her slowly, almost cautiously, as though if he made a wrong step, the whole beautiful scene might disappear.
When he reached her, he stopped just in front of her and whispered:
"Leah… what is all this?"
She blinked. "Um… decorations?"
He shook his head slowly, voice cracking with a soft, disbelieving laugh.
"No, I mean… all this. You didn't have to make the house look like… like…"
"Like what?" she teased gently.
"Like the best birthday I've ever had."
Her smile softened into something gentler, deeper, full of the affection she never tried to hide.
"Good," she murmured, brushing her thumb over his cheek. "Because that's exactly what I was going for."
He exhaled.
It felt like his chest was too small to hold everything he was feeling.
Love. Gratitude. Awe. Maybe even a little fear—because he had no idea how he was supposed to ever deserve someone like her.
Before he could say anything, she nudged his shoulder. "I have way more to show you, by the way. This is just the morning setup. The evening one is—"
He didn't let her finish.
He leaned in and kissed her.
Soft at first.
Then deeper.
Her hands slid around his waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater as if grounding himself. When they pulled apart, foreheads touching, she sighed with a smile.
"So," she whispered, "what do you think?"
He took another slow look around the room.
Every detail.
Every light.
Every balloon.
Every photo.
All done by her.
Just for him.
"I think…" he murmured, turning back to her with a warmth spreading deep in his chest. "I think I'm the luckiest guy in the world."
She rolled her eyes playfully but leaned into him again. "You better remember that when I ask you to help me move the furniture back tomorrow."
He laughed, rubbing his forehead against hers. "Deal."
Francesco stayed wrapped in Leah's arms for a moment longer, letting himself breathe her in with the faint vanilla candle scent still clinging to her hoodie, the warmth of her body against his chest, the way her fingertips absentmindedly drew small circles on his back. He didn't want to move. Honestly, he could've stood there the whole morning, suspended in this soft quiet where the world didn't demand anything from him. But she eventually nudged him lightly in the ribs.
"Go on," she said, smirking. "I know you're dying to check your phone again."
He blinked. "What? No I—"
"You absolutely are," she cut in, poking his side. "Your pocket has been buzzing like crazy for the last five minutes."
He looked down.
Right. His phone, still in the pocket of his joggers, had lit up twice. Then three times. Then again.
He groaned, leaning forward slightly to rest his forehead on her shoulder. "Why does everyone remember my birthday more than I do?"
She laughed into his hair. "Because you're you."
He pulled back just far enough to raise a brow. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," she said, cupping his jaw to make him look at her properly, "you're loved, you idiot."
He didn't blush easily. Not anymore. Not after interviews and crowds and late-night chants of his name. But he felt heat touch his cheeks anyway.
"Okay, okay," he muttered, pretending to shrug it off even though his chest felt dangerously full. "I'll… check it."
"Good," she said, giving him a little push toward the sofa. "And sit down, you mani— I swear, Francesco, if you drop that balloon arch I will kill you."
He laughed, raising his hands in surrender as he stepped carefully around the decorations. "Alright, alright, I'm sitting. I'm sitting."
He sank onto the couch, sinking into the cushions with a soft exhale. The fairy lights reflected faintly on the screen as he unlocked the phone again.
A fresh wave of notifications blurred the top bar for a second.
But what caught his eye or that what made his breath catch, wasn't the messages.
It was the bold red-and-white logo sitting at the top of his Instagram notifications.
Arsenal FC
Tagged you in a post.
He opened it.
And froze.
The picture was simple, yet stunning with one of the professional shots from earlier in the season. He remembered that match clearly: the derby where he'd scored twice, the night the Emirates roared louder than anything he had ever heard. In the photo, he was standing with his arms outstretched, roaring into the North Bank, captain's armband tight on his left arm, sweat glistening against the bright stadium lights.
Above the photo, in large clean lettering:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRANCESCO 🎉
The caption below hit even harder:
Happy Birthday to our own Golden Boy and Captain 🥳🥳🥳
His lips parted slightly.
He knew it was just a post.
Just graphics.
Just social media.
But God… it felt like so much more.
The badge.
The armband.
The words "our own."
His throat tightened.
He didn't realize Leah had quietly come up behind him until she rested her chin on top of his head.
"Let me see," she murmured, sliding her hands over his shoulders.
He tilted the screen a little.
The comment section was exploding faster than he could scroll:
"OUR CAPTAINNNN!! ❤️🔥 HAPPY BIRTHDAY KING!!!"
"Golden Boyyy!!! We love you Francesco!!"
"18 and already a club legend?? Unreal 😭"
"CAPTAIN AT 18 IM GONNA PASS OUT"
"I hope you spend your birthday scoring hat-tricks in your dreams 😤👑🔥"
"My captain, my striker, my serotonin 😭😭😭"
"WE ARE SO PROUD OF YOU, LAD!!! 🎉🎉🎉"
Heart emojis.
Cannon emojis.
The English flag.
Half the world it felt like cheering for him in the comment box of a single photo.
Leah leaned a little closer, her voice softening. "You know… it's crazy."
"What is?"
"That this," she said, tapping the screen lightly, "is normal for you now."
He didn't know what to say.
Because she was right.
This was normal now.
Daily attention.
Daily pressure.
Daily eyes watching him, measuring him, celebrating him, waiting for him.
Yet on a day like today… the weight felt different. Softer. Brighter.
He continued scrolling, reading comment after comment of thousands of fans flooding the section with birthday wishes.
And then another notification appeared, this time from a different official account.
Premier League
Tagged you in a post.
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, wow."
"What?" Leah asked, leaning over his shoulder again.
He opened the notification.
The Premier League account had posted a photo carousel. The first photo was him dribbling past two defenders. The second was him celebrating with his arms crossed, chin lifted. The third was him lifting the man-of-the-match award with the caption graphic beside him reading:
Player of the Month, November.
But the caption on today's post?
Happy Birthday to the Arsenal Golden Boy 🎉
One of the brightest young stars and superstars in world football.
He stared at the words for a long, long moment.
Golden Boy.
He'd seen it online before.
Journalists loved that nickname.
Fans used it constantly.
But seeing it from the league itself…
"Babe," Leah whispered, almost in awe, "you're going to break the internet."
He gave a shaky laugh. "Feels like it's breaking me."
She slid onto the couch beside him, pulling her legs up and tucking them beneath her. "Too many emotions?"
He nodded once, voice low. "It's… overwhelming. In a good way."
Leah smiled and kissed his temple. "Good. You deserve overwhelming."
Before he could respond, another notification appeared.
His heart thudded.
Because this one was blue and white.
England
Mentioned you in their story.
He tapped it quickly.
It was a graphic of him in his England kit, armband glowing, the stadium lights painting his face in that familiar international-night haze. The caption along the bottom read:
Happy Birthday to England's youngest-ever captain 🎉
A leader. A fighter. Our future.
And then in smaller text:
Have a brilliant day, Francesco.
His breath caught again.
England's youngest-ever captain.
Something inside him twisted with pride so sharp and warm it almost hurt.
He set the phone on his lap, staring at the screen but not really seeing it anymore. Instead, he felt everything at once:
The first time he wore an England shirt.
The anthem.
The roar of Wembley.
The day Rooney handed him the armband.
The world watching.
The weight of leadership settling onto his shoulders like destiny.
The pressure.
The joy.
The disbelief.
Eighteen.
Eighteen and here.
He swallowed hard.
Leah watched him quietly for a moment before reaching out and threading her fingers through his.
"How are you feeling?" she asked softly.
He took a moment before answering.
"Like…" He paused, searching for the right words. "Like I'm standing in the middle of something massive. Bigger than me. Bigger than anything I ever imagined."
She squeezed his hand.
"Are you scared?"
He shook his head slowly.
"No. Not scared. Just… aware."
"Of what?"
"That this," he said, gesturing vaguely to the phone, the house, the decorations, the life he had built before even hitting twenty, "could disappear one day. And I don't ever want to forget what it feels like right now."
Leah's eyes softened with something deep, warm, fiercely loving. "Then don't," she whispered. "Hold on to it. Hold on to today. Hold on to what you've worked so hard for."
He nodded slightly, absorbing her words.
But Leah being Leah, didn't let him stay in his feelings too long. She leaned forward and plucked the phone from his hand.
"Alright," she announced. "Enough birthday philosophy. Finish looking at your comments before I start posting embarrassing baby photos."
His eyes widened. "You wouldn't."
She smirked. "I absolutely would."
He lunged for the phone, but she held it out of reach, laughing as she shifted away from him.
"Leah… Leah, give it back—"
"Nope."
He reached again.
She dodged again.
And then he stood, chasing her through the decorated living room while she shrieked with laughter, weaving through balloon clusters and fairy light wires like some chaotic indoor football drill.
She finally stopped when she cornered herself between the sofa and the kitchen counter, holding the phone behind her back while trying not to laugh too loudly.
"Say 'please,' birthday boy."
He narrowed his eyes. "I'm not saying please."
"Then no phone."
He crossed his arms, pretending to consider his options.
"…Can I bribe you with pancakes?"
She hesitated.
His grin widened.
"Cinnamon pancakes," he added.
She groaned dramatically. "Ugh, fine, give me five minutes and I'll make them."
He stepped forward, stole a quick kiss, and snatched the phone from her hand while she was distracted.
"HEY!" she sputtered.
"You said pancakes," he sang teasingly.
She pointed at him with warning eyes. "You're lucky it's your birthday."
He laughed, walking backward toward the sofa again. "So you keep reminding me."
She shot him one last playful glare before turning toward the kitchen, tying her hair up as she began gathering ingredients.
Francesco sank into the cushions again, breathing out slowly.
He opened Instagram once more, watching more and more birthday messages pour in, not just from fans but from former coaches, youth academy teammates, pundits, players from other clubs, retired legends… people he'd grown up watching on TV now wishing him a happy birthday.
He kept scrolling.
He didn't rush.
Didn't skim.
He read every single one, trying to soak it in — the love, the support, the disbelief of thousands of people witnessing his rise and cheering him on collectively like he was theirs.
Because he was.
He was Arsenal's.
He was England's.
He was Leah's.
He was his parents' son.
He was the boy who grew up chasing a ball through small streets.
He was the man becoming something bigger than he ever thought possible.
He kept scrolling.
Comment after comment.
Message after message.
A few caught his eye:
"Happy Birthday, future Ballon d'Or winner."
"Captain already. Legend in the making."
"Protect this boy at all costs."
"Imagine being this good at 18 😭"
And buried among the flood of excitement, a simple one:
"Proud of you, son. Always."
His dad had commented.
His heart clenched.
He screenshot it immediately.
Another comment, this time from his mom:
"Happy birthday, my love.❤️"
He screenshot that too.
The kitchen behind him filled with the warm smells of butter melting in a pan and cinnamon swirling through the air. Leah hummed softly to herself, completely unaware of the emotional hurricane she had stirred in him with something as small as letting him read birthday comments in peace.
He looked up.
She glanced back at him at the same time, smiling without needing a reason.
And something inside him, whispered:
I'm exactly where I'm meant to be.
He put the phone aside and stood, walking into the kitchen.
Leah looked up. "What? Why are you staring at me like that?"
He slid his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.
She leaned back against him instinctively, one hand still stirring the batter.
"Just thinking," he murmured.
"About?"
"How lucky I am."
She scoffed lightly. "Please. You're only saying that so I'll give you extra pancakes."
He smiled into her neck. "Maybe."
She elbowed him gently. "Sit down. They'll be ready in—"
"No," he whispered, hugging her a little tighter. "Just… stay like this for a sec."
Francesco held Leah a little longer, letting the quiet of the kitchen surround them. The hum of the morning sun spilling through the windows, the soft sizzle of butter in the pan, the faint aroma of cinnamon as all of it anchored him. For a brief, almost sacred stretch of time, the world outside didn't exist. There were no stadiums, no cameras, no pundits dissecting every goal, no crowds chanting in unison. There was just the warm, safe, almost magical bubble of home.
Leah shifted slightly, the spoon still in her hand, and leaned back into him. "You're scaring me, you know," she murmured. "You're way too quiet for someone who just woke up to seventy billion notifications."
He chuckled softly, resting his forehead against the back of her head. "I'm… taking it in," he admitted. "It's just… a lot. In the best way. But… a lot."
She hummed, as if understanding completely. "Good," she whispered, running a hand down his arm. "Take your time. Today isn't going anywhere. It's yours."
And in a way, it was true. Every heartbeat of the day seemed to stretch and expand, slowing for him in that rare, perfect way when time bends around happiness.
Eventually, the morning passed. Pancakes were eaten with laughter and gentle teasing, cinnamon sugar dusting the corners of their mouths and the tips of their noses. Leah made him take second helpings, insisting he couldn't survive on "one measly stack" and he let her convince him. Because for once, he didn't need to argue. For once, he could just… enjoy.
By midday, he found himself sprawled on the couch with a fresh cup of cocoa Leah had poured, the soft hum of music playing in the background. He scrolled through his phone again, revisiting messages, smiling at the relentless enthusiasm of his teammates. Alexis had sent a voice note of himself yelling "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GOLDEN BOY!" in the kind of chaotic, dramatic style only Alexis Sánchez could manage. Mesut had sent a perfectly written paragraph reflecting on their journey together, punctuated by subtle emojis, thoughtful and precise in the way only Mesut could be. Olivier had sent a GIF of someone tripping with "DON'T TRIP ON YOUR OWN LEG TODAY, BIRTHDAY BOY," which made Francesco snort into his cocoa. Petr Čech's message popped up again, advising him to eat as much as he wanted and to "not let Giroud tell you otherwise," which made him laugh again, shaking his head at how absurdly loving and ridiculous these men were.
Then there were the sweet, grounding messages from home. His parents' texts and calls had been constant, each one brimming with warmth and pride. Reading them, Francesco felt a quiet swell in his chest that no amount of trophies, headlines, or official recognition could replicate. Their love was a steady, unwavering tide with the kind that reminded him why he pushed himself on and off the pitch.
By the time the sun had shifted westward, he was ready. A hot shower cleared away the traces of cinnamon and butter and gave him a moment to himself with a small, necessary pause before the evening chaos began. He let the water cascade down, focusing on the rhythm, letting his thoughts float freely: the season's highs and lows, the goals scored, the mistakes made, the proud nods from Wenger, the encouraging pats from teammates, the subtle yet constant reassurance that he was exactly where he belonged.
Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped himself in a towel and let the steam fog the mirror as he caught a glimpse of himself. Eighteen. A legal adult. A boy with a dream that had already begun to bloom into something astonishing, a life that had started to expand in ways he was only beginning to understand. And yet, seeing his reflection now, damp and bare of all the public expectation, he was just… Francesco. Just a boy standing in a bathroom, caught between childhood and manhood, the weight of his life both heavy and thrilling at once.
He dressed casually, the soft joggers and hoodie pulling him back into comfort, into the familiar. He descended the staircase slowly, as if savoring every second of this calm before the storm, letting the faint scent of candles and vanilla lead him to the living room. And the moment he stepped into the open space, he paused.
Leah had outdone herself.
Every detail was immaculate: the fairy lights strung with careful precision, clusters of red, white, and gold balloons framing the room, the banner declaring his eighteenth birthday stretched proudly across the far wall. Small framed photos, from baby snapshots to academy days to memories of him and Leah together, lined the counters and shelves like a quiet testament to his life so far. A soft instrumental playlist played, mingling perfectly with the gentle rustle of the wind outside. The dining area had been cleared to make room for a party zone, with a small DJ setup tucked neatly into the corner.
He didn't move at first. He just absorbed it. His chest felt tight in that strange, thrilling way that full of gratitude, disbelief, awe, and an almost childlike wonder.
Leah emerged from the kitchen with a balloon in each hand, grinning at him. "So, this is it," she said softly, her eyes sparkling. "The morning setup. And tonight… well, tonight's going to blow your mind."
He didn't say anything. Instead, he closed the short distance between them, wrapping his arms around her. Their foreheads touched, and he whispered, "I… I don't even know what to say."
"Say nothing," she replied, smiling gently. "Just feel it."
And he did. He felt it. Every second, every detail, every ounce of love she had put into this day. He felt it in his chest, in his stomach, in the small tremble of his hands as he finally released her from the hug.
"Do you… want to sit?" she asked after a moment, nodding toward the sofa.
He shook his head. "Not yet. I want to remember this standing. I want to see it all."
She took his hand and guided him gently across the room, pointing out little touches here and there: the hand-written notes tucked among the photos, the way the balloons matched the colors of the Arsenal crest, the careful placement of candles to catch the morning light just right.
He smiled softly, brushing a hand across one of the balloon strings. "You've thought of everything."
"Of course I did," she said, nudging him with her hip. "You've spent the year giving your all to everyone else. This is your day. And you deserve it."
He exhaled, a mixture of awe and emotion tugging at his voice. "I… I don't even know if I deserve this."
"You do," she said firmly, placing her hands on his cheeks and looking into his eyes. "Every bit of it. Today, you're allowed to be selfish in the best way. You're allowed to let yourself feel proud, happy, loved… whatever you need."
He nodded slowly, letting the weight of her words settle. For the first time in a long while, he let himself breathe in the enormity of it all. His life, chaotic and beautiful, was being celebrated in the most personal, heartfelt way imaginable.
And then the day started to shift.
By early evening, the first guests began arriving. His parents were the first to step through the door, smiles lighting up their faces as soon as they saw him. His mother, Sarah, enveloped him in a hug that was warm and grounding, her familiar perfume wrapping around him like a shield against the chaos of the outside world. His father, Mike, followed shortly after, holding a neatly wrapped gift in his hands — his signature grin playing across his face.
"Happy birthday, champ," Mike said, ruffling Francesco's hair gently. "Don't worry, I didn't get you another football. This one's… something different."
Francesco's eyebrows shot up. "Something different?" he echoed, taking the gift carefully from his father. "You've piqued my curiosity, sir."
Mike chuckled. "All in good time. Go greet your guests first."
Before he could respond further, Leah's parents that is David and Amanda and her younger brother Jacob arrived, all smiling warmly as they stepped inside. David clasped Francesco's hand firmly while Amanda gave him a quick, welcoming hug. Jacob, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as teenagers do, reached for Francesco eagerly.
"Hey, Francesco!" Jacob exclaimed, his grin wide. "You ready for tonight?"
Francesco smiled and extended his hand. "Always," he said, pulling Jacob into his signature handshake with the one full of quick moves, a little flick, a subtle nod, and a final slap of the back of the hand. Jacob laughed, shaking his head, impressed as usual.
"Alright," Francesco said, looking around the room at all the people who had come to celebrate him, each of them important in their own way, each of them contributing to the mosaic of love, support, and laughter that now filled the mansion. "Let's make this a night to remember."
Leah slid her hand into his, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "We already are," she whispered.
And Francesco, looking around at the familiar faces, the thoughtful decorations, and the warm, glowing lights, felt the undeniable truth of it, that this day, this moment, was the beginning of something he would carry with him forever.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 18
Goal: 25
Assist: 0
MOTM: 5
POTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9