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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.
The sun had dipped low behind the treeline, casting a warm amber glow across the mansion's windows as the evening settled in. The early part of the party had been soft, warm, familiar as music drifting lightly, guests chatting, laughter bubbling up in pockets around the house. Francesco had floated through it all in a sort of blissful haze, pulled gently from one conversation to another, receiving hugs, handshakes, jokes, little nudges of "Eighteen, eh? Big man now."
But as the night approached, when the sky outside turned that deep navy, and the fairy lights inside began to glow brighter as the energy in the house shifted. It sharpened. More guests filtered in. Someone had turned on the full DJ setup. The bass now gently thumped beneath their feet, not enough to break the ambiance, but enough to promise a real party once the last guests arrived.
And the last guest was fashionably, inevitably late.
Francesco was leaning near the staircase with Leah, laughing at a story his mother was telling about how he once tried to use a banana as a telephone at the age of four ("It was the perfect size!" she insisted) when the front door opened again.
A small wave of cold night air drifted inside.
And then a familiar silhouette stepped through.
Arsène Wenger.
Not just him, behind him followed the entire Arsenal coaching staff:
Steve Bould, with his usual calm, arms crossed but smiling;
Shad Forsythe with a small gift bag slung casually over one shoulder;
Andries Jonker, chuckling as he removed his scarf;
And several others from the backroom team who were all grinning like they'd just snuck out of school early.
Wenger was dressed in a long dark coat, scarf neatly looped around his neck, his posture as elegant and unmistakable as ever. The moment the guests saw him, a ripple of excitement moved across the room—little gasps, tiny murmurs, a few quiet "Oh my God, is that—?" from Leah's side of the family. Even Jacob froze mid-sip of his soda, mouth hanging open.
Francesco's heart did a strange little flip.
This wasn't just his manager.
This wasn't just the man who put his faith in him, trusted him, pushed him, taught him.
This was Arsène Wenger. Someone whose presence carried a gravity that bent the entire room toward him.
Wenger stepped inside fully, unwrapping his scarf as his eyes found Francesco instantly. The smile that followed was warm, genuine, full of that quiet pride that had guided so many Arsenal players before him.
"Francesco," Wenger said, opening his arms slightly. "Happy eighteenth birthday."
The words sounded richer coming from him. Like a blessing more than a greeting.
Francesco moved forward, and Wenger pulled him into a hug—not long, not overly emotional, but firm and sincere, with that gentle pat on the back he always gave players after a particularly good performance or a meaningful moment.
"Thank you for coming," Francesco said when they pulled back. "Really. I didn't think you'd have the time today."
Wenger chuckled softly. "I am sorry we are late. There was some work that needed finishing at Colney. But I promised myself and the staff that we would not miss this." He placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Eighteen is important. And you… you have made it very easy to be proud of you."
Francesco felt his throat tighten.
He didn't get emotional easily, not publicly. But moments like this, moments woven with sincerity instead of spectacle, always found a way in.
Steve Bould stepped forward next, offering a handshake that turned halfway into a hug.
"You're growing up too fast," Bould teased. "But not tall enough to win my headers."
Francesco laughed.
Shad Forsythe handed him the gift bag. "No running laps tonight," he joked. "I officially allow cake."
"Officially?" Francesco echoed.
Shad nodded solemnly. "With Wenger's signature."
Wenger raised an eyebrow playfully. "Do not exaggerate."
The coaching staff dispersed naturally into the room then chatting with his parents, greeting Leah's family, nodding politely at the decorations with impressed murmurs. It gave Francesco and Leah a quiet second to breathe.
She nudged him gently. "You good?"
He exhaled, still watching Wenger greet his father with a warm handshake. "Yeah. Just… surreal."
Leah smiled. "He came because he cares. And because you earned this."
Before Francesco could respond, a sudden burst of noise came from farther down the hall, somewhere deeper inside the house.
A thud.
A gasp.
A half-yell of "BRO, NO—NO—NO—!"
Then laughter.
Loud laughter.
Familiar laughter.
Francesco's head snapped around.
He knew those voices.
"Oh no," he muttered, already moving.
Leah burst into laughter. "What now?"
"I swear to God," Francesco groaned, walking faster, "if they break anything—"
He turned the corner toward the side corridor leading to the private wing of the mansion as the quieter area where his personal rooms were, including the one part of the house he never let people wander into without him:
His trophy room.
And sure enough—
At the end of the corridor, the door to that room was open.
Wide open.
Because three very specific idiots were standing inside it.
Serge Gnabry.
Alex Iwobi.
Héctor Bellerín.
All three were half-laughing, half-fighting each other for space as they shoved their way into the room like kids raiding a candy shop.
Gnabry had his phone out already, filming.
Iwobi was spinning slowly in place, mouth open like he'd just walked into Disneyland.
Bellerín was holding onto the doorknob with one hand and pointing inside with the other. "OH MY—Bruv, look at this! Look at this!"
"That is SIIIICK," Iwobi shouted.
"No way he has this many!" Gnabry added, zooming his camera in on something.
Francesco's stomach dropped.
"Oh my God," he breathed. "No, no, no—"
He rushed forward, almost jogging, with Leah following behind him trying and failing to suppress her laughter.
As Francesco approached the trophy room door, Gnabry finally noticed him and lit up even more.
"BRO!" Serge yelled, grinning like a madman. "WHY DID YOU NEVER SHOW US THIS?!"
Iwobi spun around dramatically. "You were hiding this from us, fam!"
Bellerín threw his arms out. "AND THE JERSEY ROOM NEXT TO IT?! YOU HAVE TWO ROOMS!"
Francesco stepped inside the doorway, feeling equal parts horrified and helpless.
"Guys—" he started.
But they steamrolled him instantly.
Gnabry pointed at a glass case. "YOU HAVE YOUR FIRST PROFESSIONAL GOAL BALL IN A BOX?!"
Iwobi pointed at another. "AND YOUR UNDER-18 GOLDEN BOOT TROPHY?!"
Bellerín swung around to face him, hair tied back perfectly even in his chaos. "WHY IS THERE A GIANT FRAME OF YOU AND WENGER SHAKING HANDS?!"
Francesco rubbed his face. "Because it was a big moment, Héctor—"
"And THIS," Gnabry interrupted, zooming in dramatically on a framed Arsenal jersey signed by the entire 2014 squad. "THIS IS MADNESS."
Iwobi pressed his face to a glass shelf like an overexcited golden retriever. "BRO HE HAS THE BOOTS FROM HIS DEBUT!"
Bellerín leaned closer to a shelf of neatly arranged match balls. "And every hat-trick ball? EVERY one?"
Gnabry turned the camera back to Francesco. "I'm posting this."
"NO YOU'RE NOT!"
Serge froze for a dramatic second.
"…okay, maybe not," he conceded. "But only because I love you."
Leah laughed behind him. "You brought this on yourself, birthday boy."
Francesco groaned again. "I didn't even invite them yet, they just—"
"We invited ourselves," Iwobi admitted proudly.
"Yeah," Bellerín said. "We heard 'party,' we heard 'Francesco,' and we knew there would be food and chaos."
"And chaos is our calling," Gnabry added.
Then all three of them, at the same time, pointed at him dramatically.
"YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE LEFT THE DOOR UNLOCKED."
"I DIDN'T!" Francesco protested. "Someone must've—"
He stopped.
Slowly.
Suspiciously.
He turned around and looked at Leah.
She shrugged innocently.
Too innocently.
"Don't look at me," she said. "I just told them where it was."
"LEAH!"
She burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Behind Gnabry, another section of the door creaked open, the door to the adjacent room.
His jersey room.
A second wave of ecstatic screaming came from inside.
"BRO, HE HAS THE 2004 INVINCIBLES KIT!"
"AND HENRY'S SIGNED HOME SHIRT?!"
"THIS IS FOOTBALL HEAVEN!"
Francesco covered his face again.
"I hate all of you."
"No you don't," Gnabry said.
"He definitely doesn't," Bellerín added.
"He loves us," Iwobi concluded, nodding wisely.
Leah wrapped her arms around Francesco from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. "They're right," she whispered teasingly. "You love them. And they love you."
Francesco sighed long and dramatically.
"…I do," he admitted.
Gnabry cheered.
Iwobi fist-pumped.
Bellerín did a little dance.
And for a moment, Francesco simply stood there as he was surrounded by chaos, by laughter, by friends who were more like brothers, by a girlfriend who knew him better than anyone, by a family just down the hall, by a manager who had believed in him from the start, by a room full of memories from both the boy he used to be and the man he was becoming.
And in that chaos, something inside him softened.
This was his life.
Messy.
Loud.
Beautiful.
Surreal.
And overflowing with love.
He exhaled slowly, letting it all wash over him.
"Fine," he said, shaking his head. "You can look around."
Gnabry raised a triumphant fist.
Iwobi yelled, "LET'S GOOO!"
Bellerín kissed his fingers dramatically. "Mi hermano," he declared. "You are a king."
"But," Francesco added sharply.
All three froze instantly.
"If ANYTHING breaks—"
"We won't break anything," Gnabry said.
"Ever," Iwobi added.
"Never," Bellerín finished.
"…you absolutely will," Francesco muttered.
They did not deny it.
Leah kissed his cheek. "Come on," she whispered. "It's your birthday. Let it happen."
Francesco finally tore himself away from the chaos of Gnabry, Bellerín, and Iwobi, shaking his head as he muttered something about needing "new locks, new friends, or both."
Leah was still laughing as he took her hand and gently guided her back down the corridor toward the main part of the mansion. The bass from the DJ setup was louder now, pulsing softly through the polished wooden floors, the music blending with the growing hum of conversations and clinking glasses.
As they emerged back into the warm glow of the living room, the energy of the house seemed fuller, brighter that almost charged. More guests had arrived. More chatter filled the air. More laughter spilled in waves from room to room. But there was still that sense of grounded warmth, that feeling of something personal and deeply human beneath the celebration, and it anchored Francesco in a way the cameras, lights, stadiums, and crowds of football never could.
Leah's hand lingered in his for a moment longer before she squeezed it and pulled away with that familiar little smile she always gave him when she was about to shift into "family mode."
"I need to help your mum," she said. "And my mum too. Dinner won't prepare itself."
He brushed his thumb across the back of her hand before letting go. "I can help."
She raised her eyebrows at him. "You? Help? Francesco, you burn cereal."
"That was one time."
"It was yesterday."
He blinked. "It was experimental."
She laughed and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "Stay here. Entertain your guests. Do something useful."
"Useful?" he repeated dramatically. "I am the birthday boy. I am the opposite of useful."
"Exactly," she said, walking away. "So be useless outside my kitchen."
As she disappeared toward the kitchen, he watched her go with a faint grin tugging at his lips. It never ceased to amaze him how seamlessly she fit into every part of his life—family, friends, football, madness. She moved through it all like someone who had always been meant to be there.
In the living room, Alexis Sánchez was already waving him over with both arms, shouting, "FRAN, COME ON! YOUR TURN!"
Olivier Giroud, standing next to him with the microphone already in hand, looked at Francesco with that smug, model-like confidence that somehow carried even into karaoke sessions.
"We saved a spot for you," Giroud said. "Whether you deserve it is another question."
Francesco snorted. "You're only saying that because I beat you at karaoke last time."
Laughter rippled through the circle of guests gathered around the large-screen TV. The karaoke machine sat on the cabinet beneath it, glowing with multicolored lights that flickered in rhythm with the music. Someone had already queued up a playlist of songs that ranged from early 2000s pop to dramatic ballads perfect for belting out after two glasses of wine.
As he stepped into the center of the room, Sánchez threw an arm around him.
"We are going to sing," Alexis declared confidently. "And people will cry from the beauty."
"They'll cry," Giroud added dryly, "but not for the reason you think."
The guests laughed again.
Someone handed Francesco a microphone, and he accepted it with a dramatic bow.
"Alright," he said. "But we're doing this properly."
Sánchez pumped his fist. "¡Vamos!"
Giroud cracked his neck theatrically like a boxer preparing for a fight. "Pick the song, maestro."
Francesco scrolled through the karaoke list while the room leaned in, curious.
Behind him, he could hear Wenger's gentle voice from across the room with a tone that carried experience, depth, patience. The manager stood near the fireplace with Francesco's father, Mike, and Leah's father, David Williamson. Their quiet conversation seemed to balance the louder parts of the evening like a grounding note beneath a melody.
Wenger's voice drifted faintly toward him: "Your son carries himself well, Mike. Very well. You should be proud."
And Mike, in a slightly choked-up voice that Francesco rarely heard, responded softly, "We are. More than he knows."
Francesco swallowed.
The karaoke machine beeped. A selection locked in.
Sánchez leaned over his shoulder. "Oh HELL YES!"
Giroud nodded approvingly. "Classic."
The opening chords of Don't Stop Believin' blasted from the speakers.
Groans and cheers erupted across the room.
Somewhere behind him, someone shouted, "THIS IS SO WHITE-BOY-ANTHEM OF YOU!"
Francesco lifted the microphone. "Shut up and sing with us!"
And then the lyrics began.
Sánchez immediately went off-key with full enthusiasm.
Giroud sang too well, like he'd taken vocal lessons in secret just to spite everyone.
Francesco found himself laughing so hard mid-verse that he nearly missed his line, but the room didn't care. The room was alive with vibrant, glowing, pulsing with the kind of joy that comes from people who care for each other deeply, singing terribly together because the moment matters more than the notes ever could.
Halfway through the first chorus, half the living room joined in.
People raised drinks, waved their arms, and shouted the lyrics like a drunken choir of angels.
Even Wenger cracked a smile.
Even Mike and David sang a line or two before pretending they weren't.
And by the time the final chorus hit, Francesco felt something swell in his chest as something warm, something powerful, something he couldn't quite name. Maybe it was gratitude. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was the simple, golden feeling of turning eighteen surrounded by people who made him feel seen, supported, and celebrated in ways he had never expected when he was younger.
As the song ended, the room erupted in applause, whistles, cheers.
Sánchez lifted his arms dramatically. "WE ARE LEGENDS!"
Giroud bowed elegantly. "Thank you, thank you. I am available for weddings, baptisms, and heartbreak playlists."
Francesco laughed hard enough that his stomach started to hurt.
Before he could catch his breath, he felt a hand touch his arm that gentle but firm.
It was his mother, Sarah.
"Dinner is ready," she said with that warm smile he'd always known. "Come help us set the table."
"I thought I wasn't allowed to help," he teased.
"You aren't," she said. "But you're allowed to carry plates."
"Ah. Manual labor. Birthday privilege."
"Exactly," she said, kissing his cheek. "Now come on."
He followed her into the dining room, which had been transformed into something beautiful as the soft lighting, candles glowing gently against the long polished table, plates and silverware arranged neatly, serving dishes steaming with freshly prepared food.
Leah stood near the end of the table, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks slightly flushed from the warmth of the kitchen. Amanda, her mother, was placing the last of the dishes down, while Sarah adjusted napkins and cutlery with the same precision she used when preparing holiday dinners.
Leah looked up at him and smiled. "Perfect timing. We need someone strong."
Francesco raised an eyebrow. "I am strong."
"Good," she said, picking up a large tray. "Carry this."
He blinked. "This weighs nothing."
"Shh," she said. "Let me pretend."
He carried the tray to the center of the table and set it down.
The smell of roasted chicken, fresh herbs, lemon butter, and garlic filled the air, blending with the aromas of mashed potatoes, sautéed vegetables, pasta, and freshly baked bread that Amanda had proudly made from scratch.
"Wow," Francesco said softly. "This looks incredible."
Sarah smiled. "It's your eighteenth. We wanted it to feel special."
Leah nudged him gently with her shoulder. "And because your friends will destroy everything if they're hungry."
"That too," Amanda added with a laugh.
As people filtered into the dining room from coaches, family, teammates, neighbors, familiar faces from his childhood that Francesco found himself caught in the middle of a warm, swirling chaos of greetings, compliments, hugs, and laughter.
Someone tapped a glass.
Someone dimmed the lights slightly.
Someone said, "Let's say a few words."
And then for the first time that night, the room fell into a quiet hush.
It was Wenger who stepped forward gently, as if he understood without being told that he was meant to speak.
He placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder.
"Eighteen," Wenger began, his voice soft yet carrying effortlessly through the room. "It is an age that feels like the beginning of something important. And it is."
He paused, looking at Francesco with that mixture of wisdom and affection he reserved for players he truly believed in.
"This young man… he has shown maturity beyond his years. On the pitch, yes. But more importantly, off it. Kindness, humility, dedication. A willingness to learn. A respect for those around him. These qualities, these are what build a great player. And a great man."
Francesco felt heat rise to his face. Leah, standing beside him, squeezed his hand under the table.
Wenger continued softly, "You make us proud. All of us. And I am happy to be here tonight to celebrate the young man you are, and the man you are becoming."
The room broke into gentle applause, warm and full.
Mike spoke next, clearing his throat awkwardly. "We're proud of you, son. More than we say. More than you probably know."
Amanda added something kind and maternal. Sarah added something emotional enough to make half the table wipe their eyes.
Then finally, they began to eat.
And as Francesco sat there between Leah and his father, surrounded by food, warmth, laughter, and conversations that overlapped into a kind of beautiful tapestry of voices, he realized something.
This feeling and this moment, was something he would remember for the rest of his life.
Not the trophies.
Not the stadium lights.
Not the cameras or the headlines or the records he would one day break.
But this.
Family.
Friends.
People who loved him simply because he was him.
And as Sánchez attempted to steal a bread roll from Giroud (and Giroud responded like he was defending the Champions League), as Bellerín and Gnabry yelled something about "shots after dessert," as his mother brought out a cheesecake big enough to feed a small village, and as Leah leaned against him, whispering, "Happy birthday, love," into his shoulder.
Leah's gentle "Happy birthday, love," still lingered warmly against Francesco's shoulder when she suddenly straightened up, brushed his arm softly, and slipped away from the table with that same subtle, knowing smile she always gave whenever she had something planned.
At first, he didn't think much of it. Leah disappeared often during family gatherings as she went helping Amanda in the kitchen, sneaking in a whispered conversation with Sarah, or simply coordinating something quietly because that was just the kind of person she was. She blurred into the moment as naturally as a breath.
But then the lights dimmed.
Not just a slight adjustment, but dimmed.
The kind that made all conversations fall off mid-sentence.
The kind that made every head slowly lift from their plate.
The kind that created that charged little pause, that anticipatory breath, that collective hush that only happened when everyone suddenly realized at the same time—
Oh. Oh, this is happening.
A soft glow appeared from the hallway. A single warm flicker… then two… then three… blending into a slow, golden shimmer that drifted around the corner.
And then Leah stepped back into the dining room.
Carrying the cake.
It was beautiful as it was not extravagant, not overdone, but warm and personal, just like everything else in this house. A thick, round cake decorated with smooth white frosting, little swirls of gold piping around the edges, and strawberries carefully sliced and arranged like petals around the base. At the center stood a candle shaped like the number 18, its flame steady and bright, illuminating Leah's face in a soft, almost angelic glow.
Behind her, Amanda followed with a proud smile, and Sarah wiped her hands on a towel, already emotional, eyes shining even before the singing began. Mike rose to his feet without realizing it. David Williamson clapped his hands together with the unmistakable enthusiasm of a father who loved celebrations.
"Alright, everyone!" Leah said, raising her voice just enough to be heard, her smile tugging higher as she walked toward Francesco. "We're not skipping this part."
And then, like a wave, the room erupted.
"🎵 HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU— 🎵"
Some voices were on-key.
Some were wildly, spectacularly not.
Sánchez was louder than everyone, practically shouting the lyrics like a man singing into storm winds. Giroud sang harmonies no one asked for but everyone appreciated. Bellerín tried to clap along but messed up the timing immediately. Gnabry leaned into the performance like it was the Champions League final. Even Wenger joined with softly, gently but enough to make Francesco's heart squeeze.
Leah carried the cake closer, walking slowly, the warm light dancing across her features. She stopped right in front of Francesco, the cake shining between them like a tiny sun.
His mother reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.
His father stepped behind him, standing tall, proud.
Amanda rested a hand on Leah's back.
David folded his arms with a grin wide enough to reach the corners of the room.
The song crashed into its final line:
"🎵 HAAAAPPY BIIIRTHDAY, DEAR FRAAANCEEES-COOOO— 🎵"
"🎵 HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAY TOOO YOUUU! 🎵"
Cheering. Clapping. Someone attempted a whistle. Someone else shouted, "MAKE A WISH, BIG MAN!"
Francesco leaned forward, eyes reflecting the candlelight.
For a moment, he let the noise fade.
He let the warmth of the room wash over him.
He let the image settle into his memory: the people he loved most gathered around him, their faces glowing, their smiles soft, their pride radiating in waves he could feel in his bones.
What did he wish for?
He didn't even know if he needed a wish.
Maybe he already had everything he'd ever hoped for.
But he closed his eyes anyway.
And then—
With a steady breath, he blew out the candle.
The room erupted again as this time louder, messier, happier.
Leah set the cake down on the table, her cheeks slightly flushed from the warm glow, and Francesco looked up at her, smiling in that way he only ever smiled at her with the quiet one, the honest one, the one that said everything without needing words.
"Speech!" Sánchez shouted immediately.
"Oh, absolutely," Giroud agreed, raising his wine glass. "The man must speak!"
"Come on, Fran!" Bellerín yelled. "Don't be shy!"
"With that singing voice?" Gnabry added. "He's not allowed to be shy!"
Even Sarah nodded encouragingly. "Go on, sweetheart."
Mike patted his son on the back. "Say a few words, son. Doesn't have to be long."
Wenger chuckled quietly, sipping his wine. "Let him talk. He has earned this moment."
Francesco stood slowly, feeling the weight of eighteen years settle into his chest all at once as it's not in a heavy way, but in a warm, grounding way that made him breathe deeper.
He cleared his throat.
The room drifted into silence.
Even the kids outside the dining area seemed to still.
Everyone watched him with soft eyes, open expressions, expectant hearts.
He took a breath.
And began.
"Um… I'm not really great at speeches," he said, which immediately earned a chorus of supportive laughs.
"But… I want to try. Because tonight is important to me. More important than… I think I even realized before this moment."
He glanced at Leah first, because of course he did.
Her smile steadied him.
Then he looked at his mother.
Then his father.
Then at Amanda and David.
Then at Wenger.
Then at his teammates, his brothers in everything but blood.
His voice came out steadier now.
"First… I want to thank my mum and dad."
Sarah already teared up.
Mike looked like he was trying not to.
"You've supported me since I was little," he continued softly. "Since the first time I kicked a ball. Since the first time I said I wanted to be a footballer. You didn't tell me it was unrealistic. You didn't tell me to choose something safer. You let me dream. And you worked hard… so hard, to help me chase it. Every training session, every school night I stayed up watching matches, every early morning run… you two were there. Always."
He paused, swallowing as emotion thickened in his throat.
"So thank you. For everything."
His mother reached for a tissue.
The entire room smiled.
His gaze shifted.
"And Leah…"
The way her breath caught was so small, no one else might have noticed. But Francesco did.
"You…" He smiled, shaking his head slightly as if trying to find the right words. "You've supported me from behind even when the pressure was insane. Even when I was stressed. Even when I doubted myself. You've been there. You've kept me grounded. You've kept me sane. You've made everything easier. And… I don't know where I'd be without you."
Leah blinked hard, trying not to cry but failing beautifully.
"Amanda, David, Jacob" Francesco added, turning to her parents, "thank you for accepting me. For welcoming me. For treating me like family. That means more than I can say."
Amanda placed a hand over her heart.
David and Jacob nodded with a proud grin.
Francesco inhaled again and now he turned toward the man he had idolized for years, the man who had changed his life.
"Arsène."
Wenger's eyebrows lifted gently.
"You trusted me," Francesco said, voice tightening. "Since my debut two years ago… you trusted me. You allowed me to grow. You gave me chances I didn't know if I even deserved. You believed in me when I was terrified of messing up. You taught me not just how to play… but how to think. How to stay calm. How to be a better version of myself."
Wenger gave the tiniest nod, a gesture so subtle yet full of meaning.
"I'm grateful," Francesco said simply. "More than I can explain."
He shifted his gaze slightly to the coaches sitting among the guests to the assistants, the staff who worked behind the scenes every day.
"And to the coaching staff," he continued, "thank you for believing in me. For pushing me. For helping me improve. For every drill, every correction, every responsibility you gave me. I owe a lot of who I am as a player to all of you."
Some of the staff raised glasses. Others nodded quietly. All of them looked deeply moved.
Finally, he turned to the teammates who were now practically leaning forward in their seats, some smiling like idiots, some pretending to look uninterested but clearly listening closely.
"And to my teammates…" he said with a grin spreading slowly across his face. "Thank you. For believing in me. For working with me. For trusting me. For fighting with me on the pitch. For every run, every pass, every celebration, every mistake we fixed together. For helping me grow, not just as a player but as a man."
Sánchez put a hand to his chest dramatically.
Giroud pretended to sniffle.
Bellerín whispered, "He loves us."
Gnabry wiped an imaginary tear.
Francesco laughed softly.
"You guys… you're family. And I mean that. We've been through so much already. And we'll go through a lot more. But whatever comes next… I'm proud to play with you. I'm proud to chase glory with you."
He looked around the room, meeting every pair of eyes he could.
"Thank you," he said quietly, sincerely. "All of you. For tonight. For being here. For making this birthday… something I'll never forget."
Silence filled the room as it was not empty, but full, warm, thick with emotion.
Then, like a wave cresting—
Applause.
Loud, heartfelt applause.
People stood.
Some clapped. Some cheered. Some whistled.
Leah wiped her eyes quickly, then wrapped her arms around him in a tight, fierce hug that made his breath catch.
Wenger smiled with quiet pride.
Mike and Sarah held each other, glowing with warmth only parents could know.
Sánchez shouted, "BRAVO, HERMANO! BEAUTIFUL!"
Giroud yelled, "I RATE THAT TEN OUT OF TEN!"
Bellerín declared, "Best speech of the year!"
And someone which probably Gnabry added, "NOW CUT THE CAKE BEFORE I EAT THE TABLE!"
The room laughed again, loud and free.
Francesco took a deep breath, letting the laughter and chatter swirl around him as he steadied himself to finish his speech. His heart was still full, his cheeks warm from the emotion of the last few minutes, but there was one last thing he needed to say. His gaze swept across the room at his family, his girlfriend, his teammates, his coaches, and finally, Wenger, whose eyes glimmered with quiet pride.
"And finally," Francesco said, raising his voice slightly, "I hope this year we can defend our treble with the Premier League, the Champions League, and the FA Cup and show the world that Arsenal are not just a team, but one of the best football clubs in the world… and in history."
A cheer erupted across the room. Sánchez lifted an imaginary trophy over his head, pretending it was already theirs. Giroud struck a triumphant pose, Bellerín jumped in place like he'd scored the winning goal, and even Wenger allowed himself a small, amused smile.
Mike clapped his hands, Sarah whispered, "That's my boy," and Leah's hand found his, squeezing it gently. The air was thick with pride, joy, and a kind of uncontainable excitement that felt bigger than any trophy could ever be.
Leah clapped first, and soon the entire room joined in, some laughing, some whistling, some shouting "Yes!" over and over.
"Alright," Francesco said, exhaling slowly as he finally lowered the microphone, "let's commemorate this night."
Immediately, guests began arranging themselves for pictures. Francesco started alone first. He stood in the center of the dining room, the glow from the candles casting a warm light across his features. Someone snapped a few shots, capturing his grin with the genuine one that rarely appeared outside moments like this.
Next, he posed with his parents. Sarah held onto his arm, Mike draped a hand over his shoulder. Their smiles were wide and soft, proud beyond measure. The camera clicked again, capturing that quiet, unspoken bond.
Leah joined next, slipping her arm around Francesco's waist, resting her head lightly on his shoulder. He smiled down at her, grateful for her constant support, her presence that made every triumph feel fuller, every struggle feel lighter. Another click of the camera.
Then came the family group shot. Leah, her parents Amanda and David, and her younger brother Jacob joined Francesco and his parents. The room echoed with laughter as Jacob attempted to photobomb every shot, leaning into Francesco's side, making silly faces. Sarah shook her head and laughed, while Mike pretended to be exasperated, and Amanda guided everyone into position. The camera captured the warmth, the chaos, and the perfect imperfection of blended families and love that truly mattered.
After that, it was Wenger and the coaching staff. Francesco stood proudly in front of them, shoulder to shoulder with his mentors and guides. Wenger placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder, Bould and the others smiling warmly, Shad giving an exaggerated thumbs-up, Jonker chuckling at some inside joke only they seemed to understand. This photo felt like a bridge between the boy who had dreamed and the man who was now standing in front of them, ready to take on the world.
Finally, it was the teammates' turn. Sánchez and Giroud flanked him, Gnabry and Bellerín leaning close, everyone laughing, some making ridiculous faces. The camera captured the energy of a family forged in sweat, triumph, mistakes, and victories. The bond between them was palpable; it wasn't just football as it was trust, respect, and brotherhood.
As the last flash faded, Francesco pulled out his phone. He opened Instagram, fingers hovering over the new post button. A picture of him holding the cake, smiling broadly, surrounded by the warmth of the dining room's golden light, made the perfect first image.
"Blessed to be 18❤️," he typed as the caption, pausing just for a moment to appreciate it. Not just a birthday post, not just a fleeting moment for social media, but a small declaration: he was alive, he was loved, he was surrounded by everything that mattered.
He hit post.
Within minutes, the notifications began flooding in. Fans, friends, teammates, even former coaches and players he admired from afar as they all left comments. Hearts, emojis, birthday wishes, compliments. Some reminded him of past performances, some predicted the glory yet to come, some simply celebrated his life.
Francesco smiled quietly, scrolling through the messages, feeling the connectedness extend far beyond the walls of the mansion. But even as the digital world celebrated, he looked around the room once more from his family, Leah, the coaching staff, his teammates and he knew, unequivocally, that no post, no likes, no comments could ever compare to this.
This was his reality. His world. His people.
And as he set the phone down, the laughter and chatter of the party resumed its full volume, but Francesco felt rooted in a way that nothing as neither criticism nor accolades, neither victories nor defeats could ever shake.
________________________________________________
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