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And somewhere beneath the calm of the morning, beneath the praise and the highlights and the talk, something deeper continued to build which is not noise, not hype, but intent.
The quiet that followed that morning lingered longer than usual.
It wasn't the kind of quiet that came from exhaustion or emptiness. It was settled. Earned. The sort that stayed with you even as the day unfolded, even as messages began to arrive, phones buzzing intermittently with reminders that the outside world never truly stopped watching.
Francesco spent most of that day doing exactly what he was meant to do which is recovering.
There was the ice bath in the late morning, the sharp cold biting at his legs as he exhaled slowly and focused on breathing through it. Stretching afterward, deliberate and careful, feeling each muscle lengthen again. A short walk in the garden later, the grass still damp underfoot, the air cool enough to clear his head completely.
Leah came and went between her own commitments, but they crossed paths often enough with passing smiles, quick touches, the easy rhythm of two people who didn't need constant words to stay connected.
By the evening, his phone finally stayed quiet.
And over the next few days, life resumed its familiar cadence.
London Colney.
Training.
Video analysis.
Laughter in the gym.
Concentration on the pitch.
But something had shifted.
It wasn't obvious at first. Not in tactics or intensity. It lived in smaller things.
The way teammates listened when Francesco spoke.
The way younger players lingered near him during drills.
The way staff glanced his way during meetings, gauging reactions, measuring tone.
Leadership, he was learning, wasn't a badge or a title. It was gravity.
And gravity was building.
The Premier League fixture list moved quickly, as it always did.
March rolled on with the relentlessness that defined English football, each match stacking upon the next until the weeks blurred together. Arsenal's form didn't dip. If anything, it sharpened.
They won at home.
They won away.
They won ugly when needed, and beautifully when space allowed.
And then came West Bromwich Albion.
The Hawthorns.
A ground that never gave anything away easily.
A place where games were rarely won without leaving a mark.
The buildup was calm but focused.
In the meeting room at London Colney, Wenger stood at the front, hands resting lightly on the table as footage rolled behind him. West Brom were disciplined. Physical. Dangerous from set pieces. Comfortable without the ball.
"This is not a match we win by patience alone," Wenger said, voice measured. "We win it by control."
Francesco sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the screen. He absorbed every detail with the movement of Dawson at corners, the way West Brom shifted into a compact block, the small pockets that opened briefly between midfield and defense.
On matchday morning, the bus ride north was quiet.
Not tense. Just concentrated.
Francesco sat by the window, headphones on but no music playing, watching the grey sky drift past. He felt ready. Balanced. Grounded.
At The Hawthorns, the atmosphere greeted them with familiar hostility. Home fans packed tight, noise bouncing off the low stands, banners rippling in the cold air.
The pitch looked heavy.
Francesco stepped onto it during warmups, studs biting slightly deeper than usual into the turf. He glanced around, clocked the corners, the tight spaces, the way the wind swirled unpredictably across the surface.
This wouldn't be easy.
The whistle blew.
From the opening minute, West Brom made their intentions clear that sit deep, stay compact, frustrate, wait.
Arsenal moved the ball patiently, probing side to side. Özil drifted into pockets. Ramsey made late runs. Sánchez buzzed constantly, sharp and aggressive, pressing even when the ball was lost.
The breakthrough came not through brilliance, but persistence.
Twenty-seven minutes in, Arsenal recycled possession again and again until finally Sánchez found space on the left. One touch to set himself. One glance up. Then the shot with low, fierce, skidding across the grass and beyond the keeper's reach.
1–0.
Sánchez wheeled away, arms spread, jaw clenched in that familiar way that meant he wanted more.
Francesco jogged over, clapped him once on the back. "Good."
There was no over-celebration. Just acknowledgement.
West Brom responded the only way they knew how from set pieces, long throws, pressure in the box.
Just before halftime, it paid off.
A corner swung in deep. Bodies collided. The ball ricocheted off heads and shoulders until Craig Dawson rose above everyone else and powered it home.
1–1.
The Hawthorns erupted.
Francesco stood near the edge of the box, hands on hips, eyes following the ball into the net. No anger. No frustration. Just calculation.
At halftime, the dressing room was calm.
Wenger spoke quietly, deliberately. "We stay patient. We increase the tempo. They will not hold for ninety minutes."
Francesco caught Sánchez's eye across the room. A nod passed between them.
Second half.
Arsenal returned sharper.
The passing quickened. The movement became more aggressive. Gaps that hadn't existed before began to appear.
In the 61st minute, it was Francesco's turn.
Özil slid a pass between two defenders, perfectly weighted. Francesco timed his run, stepped onto it, and finished first time with low, precise, no wasted motion.
2–1.
He didn't celebrate wildly. Just a clenched fist, a sharp exhale, then straight back to position.
The third goal followed not long after.
A corner. Chaos. A towering presence rising above the rest.
Virgil van Dijk.
The header was emphatic, unstoppable.
3–1.
From there, Arsenal controlled the match expertly. West Brom pushed, but the belief was gone. The final whistle came without drama.
Three points.
Another step.
As the players walked off, Francesco exchanged handshakes with opponents, nodded to a few home fans who clapped respectfully despite themselves.
In the tunnel, Ramsey grinned. "Job done."
"Always is," Francesco replied.
But he knew better.
The work never truly stopped.
Two days later, the call came.
Francesco was at home, stretching lightly in the living room, foam roller under his calf, when his phone buzzed on the table.
Unknown number.
He hesitated for half a second before answering.
"Hello?"
"Francesco," came the voice on the other end. Calm. Clear. Southern. "Gareth Southgate here."
Francesco straightened instinctively.
"Yes, Gareth."
"I won't take too much of your time," Southgate said. "I just wanted to let you know personally, you've been selected for the upcoming England squad. We'll be meeting at St. George's Park."
There it was.
England.
A new manager. A new era.
Since January, everything around the national team had felt different. Roy Hodgson's resignation had closed one chapter. Gareth Southgate's appointment had opened another that quieter, more thoughtful, focused on identity rather than reputation.
Francesco felt a slow smile form.
"Thank you," he said. "I'm honoured."
"You've earned it," Southgate replied. "Your form, your leadership, the way you carry yourself which is exactly what we're building toward."
They spoke briefly about logistics, dates, expectations. Nothing dramatic. Nothing inflated.
When the call ended, Francesco sat still for a long moment, phone resting loosely in his hand.
Leah appeared in the doorway, already reading his expression.
"That was England," she said.
He nodded. "St. George's Park."
She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her forehead into his chest. "I knew it."
He exhaled slowly, resting his chin against her hair.
England.
Different pressure. Different badge. Same responsibility.
The days leading up to the international break passed quickly.
Arsenal training continued, but there was an undercurrent of anticipation now that not just for Francesco, but for several players packing bags, preparing to switch colours, allegiances, expectations.
On the final day before he left, Wenger pulled him aside after training.
"Enjoy it," the manager said simply. "And remember, you represent yourself first."
Francesco nodded. "Always."
That evening, he packed carefully. Boots. Training kit. England tracksuit folded neatly. He paused briefly over the crest stitched onto the fabric.
It felt real now.
The following morning, the drive to St. George's Park was quiet.
The countryside rolled past, green and expansive, a contrast to the intensity of club football. When the complex finally came into view, modern and understated, Francesco felt a subtle shift inside him.
This wasn't Arsenal.
This was something else.
He parked, grabbed his bag, and stepped out into the cool March air.
Inside, the atmosphere was calm, professional. Staff moved with purpose. Players arrived in small groups, greeting each other, shaking hands, exchanging smiles.
Some faces were familiar from past camps. Others were new.
When Francesco walked in, a few heads turned.
Not dramatically. Not with fanfare.
But with recognition.
Southgate spotted him from across the room and approached, extending a hand.
"Glad you're here," he said.
"So am I," Francesco replied.
Southgate then said. "Francesco, can we talk in private for a minute?"
Then Southgate led him down a quiet corridor, away from the open hum of arrivals and greetings.
It wasn't secretive. Not dramatic. Just intentional.
The walls were clean, neutral, lined with framed photographs from England's past with moments of triumph, moments of heartbreak, frozen forever in carefully chosen stillness. The kind of images that reminded you what this place carried. What it demanded.
They stopped outside a small meeting room. Southgate opened the door, gesturing for Francesco to step inside first.
The room was simple. A table. Two chairs. A whiteboard on one wall, already marked faintly with tactical diagrams that had been wiped away and redrawn countless times. A window overlooked one of the training pitches, still empty for now, grass immaculate and waiting.
Southgate closed the door gently behind them.
"Just a minute," he said. "Nothing heavy."
Francesco nodded, relaxed but attentive. "Sure. What is it, coach?"
Southgate didn't sit immediately. He leaned lightly against the table, hands resting on the edge, eyes thoughtful rather than stern. This wasn't an authority figure about to deliver instructions. This was a man choosing his words carefully.
"I'll be straight with you," Southgate began. "This squad, what I'm trying to build as it needs balance. Youth, energy, hunger. But it also needs voices that have lived through it. Not just caps, but moments. Pressure. Failure. Success."
Francesco listened without interrupting.
"You're one of those voices already," Southgate continued. "Even now. The way players respond to you, the way you carry responsibility that it matters. And that's part of why you're here."
Francesco inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the weight without letting it inflate him.
"There's another player I'm thinking about," Southgate said. "Someone you know very well."
Francesco already suspected where this was going, but he waited.
"Wayne," Southgate said.
There it was.
The name landed softly, but with undeniable gravity.
Wayne Rooney.
England's record goalscorer. A man whose career had been defined as much by expectation as by achievement. A player who had given almost everything to club and country, often at personal cost.
Southgate exhaled quietly. "He's been talking about stepping away. From the national team, I mean. You've probably heard the noise."
Francesco nodded slowly. "I have."
"I don't want to force him," Southgate said quickly. "This isn't about clinging to the past. It's about the present and the next year. The World Cup."
He paused, then looked directly at Francesco.
"I need a veteran like him. Not just on the pitch. In the dressing room. On the training ground. Someone who understands what wearing this shirt does to you over time. Someone the younger lads will listen to without question."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was thoughtful.
"And," Southgate added, "I know you and Wayne are close. Closer than people on the outside would expect, given… everything."
Given the rivalry.
Arsenal and Manchester United had never been gentle with each other. Their history was written in collisions, controversy, bitterness, and respect forged the hard way. Francesco and Wayne had come up through that fire from opposite sides, clashing repeatedly, pushing each other, never pretending the competition wasn't real.
But over time, something else had grown beneath it.
Shared experiences.
Shared scars.
Shared understanding of what it meant to carry expectation from a young age.
"I won't ask you to pressure him," Southgate said. "That's not fair. But if you're willing… I'd like you to talk to him. Player to player. Not as a manager. Not as England. Just as someone he trusts."
Francesco leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes dropping briefly to the table before lifting again.
He thought of Wayne's laugh.
Wayne's frustration.
Wayne's pride.
He thought of late-night conversations after matches, away from cameras, where honesty came easier. Of mutual respect built not on friendship alone, but on shared survival.
"I can do that," Francesco said finally.
Southgate's shoulders eased almost imperceptibly.
"Thank you," he said. "I had a feeling you would."
"When?" Francesco asked.
"After training," Southgate replied. "He's here this camp. I want him focused today. No distractions. But later, if you can find a moment."
Francesco nodded. "I'll talk to him."
"Good," Southgate said simply.
They stood. The conversation didn't need embellishment. It had been built on trust, not persuasion.
As they stepped back into the corridor, the noise of the camp returned gradually. Voices. Footsteps. The low hum of preparation.
Southgate paused before heading the other way. "And Francesco?"
"Yes?"
"I meant what I said earlier," Southgate said. "You belong here."
Francesco met his gaze and nodded once. "I know."
Training that afternoon was sharp but measured.
No wild intensity. No unnecessary risks. The focus was on rhythm with getting bodies moving together, reacquainting players with each other's habits and tendencies.
The pitch at St. George's Park was flawless. The ball moved quickly across the surface, crisp passes snapping into feet. Shouts echoed. Laughter broke out occasionally when a nutmeg landed cleanly or someone misjudged a touch.
Francesco slotted in naturally.
He didn't try to dominate. He didn't need to.
His presence was enough.
During a small-sided game, he combined effortlessly with midfielders, dropping deep when needed, drifting wide, linking play. When he spoke, it was brief. Clear. Directional.
"Man on."
"Time."
"Switch."
Players listened.
Wayne Rooney was there, of course.
Stockier now. Slightly slower over distance, perhaps. But still unmistakably Wayne. The same sharpness in his eyes. The same competitive edge. The same refusal to let standards drop, even in training.
They caught each other's eye more than once.
No nods yet. No smiles.
Just acknowledgment.
After training ended, players drifted toward the building in small groups. Some headed for recovery rooms. Others toward the gym or physio.
Wayne peeled off toward the locker room, towel slung over his shoulder.
Francesco hesitated only a second before following.
Inside, the atmosphere was relaxed. Showers hissed. Conversations overlapped. Someone cracked a joke about misplacing boots.
Wayne sat at his locker, unlacing his trainers slowly.
Francesco approached, stopping a few feet away.
"You got a minute?" he asked.
Wayne looked up.
There it was that familiar assessing look. Then a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Depends," Wayne said. "You gonna lecture me?"
Francesco chuckled softly. "No."
"Then yeah," Wayne said. "I've got a minute."
They moved away from the main area, settling onto a bench near the far wall. Not private in the absolute sense, but removed enough that their voices stayed between them.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Wayne was the first to break it. "Southgate send you?"
Francesco didn't lie. "He asked me to talk to you."
Wayne nodded slowly, unsurprised. "Figures."
Silence again.
Francesco chose his words carefully. This wasn't a negotiation. It wasn't persuasion. It was conversation.
"I'm not here to tell you what to do," he said. "You've earned the right to decide that for yourself."
Wayne snorted quietly. "That's new."
"I mean it," Francesco continued. "I know how much this has taken out of you. Club. Country. Everything in between."
Wayne leaned back against the wall, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"You get tired," Wayne said. "Not physically. Mentally. You wake up and you're carrying twenty years on your back."
Francesco nodded. "I know."
"You ever feel like you're holding onto something that isn't yours anymore?" Wayne asked.
Francesco considered that. "Sometimes. But sometimes you're holding onto something so others don't have to carry it yet."
Wayne glanced at him.
"That's Southgate talking," Wayne said.
"No," Francesco replied quietly. "That's me."
Wayne was silent for a long time.
"I don't want to be a mascot," Wayne said eventually. "I don't want to be picked because of what I was."
"I wouldn't respect you if you were," Francesco said. "And neither would the lads."
Wayne's jaw tightened slightly.
"You still scare defenders," Francesco added. "Even the young ones. They feel you. That matters."
Wayne laughed once, dry. "You always had a way with words."
Francesco shrugged. "I've been listening more."
Another pause.
"Look around," Francesco said gently. "This squad, it's different. They need something steady. Someone who's been through the worst nights and still came back. Not to save them. Just to show them it's survivable."
Wayne closed his eyes briefly.
"Just one more year," Francesco said. "You don't owe anyone beyond that. Not a single match. But one more year? You could shape something that lasts longer than any goal."
Wayne opened his eyes and stared straight ahead.
"You think I still belong?" he asked quietly.
Francesco didn't hesitate. "Yes."
They sat there for a few seconds longer.
Then Wayne exhaled deeply and stood.
"I'll think about it," he said. "That's the best I can give you right now."
Francesco stood as well. "That's enough."
Wayne clapped him once on the shoulder. "You've changed."
Francesco smiled faintly. "So have you."
Wayne walked away toward the showers, leaving Francesco alone with the echo of the conversation.
That night, back in his room, Francesco lay on his bed staring at the ceiling.
The camp was quiet now. Most players had settled in. Tomorrow would bring more structure. More work. More integration.
He thought about the morning in Richmond.
The match at The Hawthorns.
Southgate's calm request.
Wayne's tired honesty.
Leadership wasn't always loud.
Sometimes it was sitting on a bench in a quiet corner, speaking truths no one else wanted to say out loud.
Francesco reached for his phone and sent Leah a short message.
First day done. Good atmosphere. Miss you.
The reply came quickly.
Proud of you. Always.
He smiled and set the phone aside.
Outside, the floodlights over the training pitches glowed softly against the night sky.
Morning at St. George's Park arrived without ceremony.
No roar of a crowd.
No flash of cameras.
Just the soft intrusion of daylight through tall windows, pale and clean, spreading across white walls and neatly arranged furniture. The kind of morning that felt deliberately calm, as if the place itself understood the importance of clarity.
Francesco woke before his alarm.
It wasn't nerves that pulled him from sleep. It was habit. Years of training had tuned his body to rise early, especially when something waited on the other side of the day. He lay still for a moment, listening.
Muted footsteps somewhere down the corridor.
A distant door opening, then closing.
The faint hum of heating beneath the quiet.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there, elbows resting on his thighs, head bowed slightly. The conversation with Wayne replayed itself in fragments that not the words, but the pauses between them. The spaces where meaning had lived.
I'll think about it.
That had been enough.
It still was.
Francesco dressed slowly, pulling on the England training kit with a steadiness that matched his mood. The crest on his chest caught his eye briefly in the mirror. He didn't linger on it. Not yet.
Downstairs, breakfast was already laid out.
Players filtered in gradually, some bleary-eyed, some alert, most somewhere in between. Conversations were quiet, low-volume, respectful of the hour. There was laughter here and there, a joke exchanged, a phone shoved across a table to show something ridiculous from social media.
Francesco took his seat near the middle, nodding greetings as he poured coffee.
Wayne entered a few minutes later.
No announcement.
No attention drawn.
Just Wayne, moving with that familiar weight in his stride, plate in hand, eyes scanning for a seat. When their gazes met, Wayne gave the smallest nod.
Francesco returned it.
Nothing more was needed.
After breakfast, the squad gathered briefly in one of the larger rooms for a light briefing. Southgate stood at the front, calm as always, outlining the plan for the day with recovery, tactical walkthroughs, individual meetings.
"Francesco," Southgate added casually at the end, "can I have a word after this?"
Several heads turned instinctively, but the tone was neutral enough that no assumptions followed. Francesco nodded once.
"Of course."
The meeting broke up, players dispersing in different directions. Francesco lingered deliberately, giving Wayne time to leave first, letting the room empty naturally until it was just him and Southgate.
Southgate gestured toward the same corridor as the day before.
They walked side by side this time.
Less distance.
Less formality.
They stopped outside the same meeting room. Southgate opened the door, then stepped aside.
"Come in."
Inside, the room felt unchanged, but the energy was different. Familiarity had replaced formality.
Southgate closed the door.
"So," he said, leaning back against the table again, arms loosely folded, "did you get a chance to speak with him?"
Francesco nodded. "I did."
"And?" Southgate asked, not pressing, simply inviting.
"He's tired," Francesco said honestly. "But he's not finished. He said he'll think about it."
Southgate's expression softened, relief flickering across his face.
"That's good," he said. "That's more than I expected, to be honest."
"He needed to hear it without pressure," Francesco added. "Not from a manager. From someone who understands."
Southgate nodded. "Exactly why I asked you."
He paused, then added quietly, "Thank you."
Francesco shrugged slightly. "It was the right thing to do."
Southgate studied him for a moment longer than before. Not as a manager assessing a player, but as someone weighing something heavier.
"Francesco," he said slowly, "there's something else I wanted to talk to you about."
Francesco straightened subtly. "Alright."
Southgate moved around the table and sat this time, gesturing for Francesco to take the opposite chair. The shift alone signaled importance.
"This isn't something we decided lightly," Southgate began. "And it's not just my decision."
Francesco felt a tightening in his chest that not fear, but awareness.
"The FA and I," Southgate continued, "have been looking at this group very carefully. Not just ability. Not just form. But leadership. Influence. Credibility."
He paused.
"And we've decided to appoint you as the first captain of the national team."
The words landed quietly.
No dramatic pause.
No buildup.
Just truth, stated plainly.
For a moment, Francesco didn't react at all.
His mind stalled which not because he didn't understand, but because understanding arrived all at once.
England captain.
The armband.
The anthem.
The expectation.
The history.
Images flashed involuntarily: captains of the past, lifting arms, lifting trophies, absorbing blame when things went wrong. Men defined by that responsibility whether they wanted it or not.
Francesco blinked once.
Then again.
"I—" he started, then stopped.
Southgate didn't rush him.
"I know," Southgate said quietly. "Take your time."
Francesco exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair as if grounding himself physically would help him ground the moment emotionally.
"I didn't expect that," he admitted.
Southgate smiled faintly. "Most people don't when it matters."
"Why me?" Francesco asked which is not out of doubt, but respect for the weight of the decision.
"Because you're our best player right now," Southgate said without hesitation. "And because you've already been doing the job without the armband."
Francesco listened intently.
"You're captain at Arsenal," Southgate continued. "You've led in high-pressure environments. You've won. You've lost. You speak when it matters, and you don't when it doesn't. Players listen to you that not because they're told to, but because they want to."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And England need that. Especially now."
Francesco swallowed.
He thought of the Euros the year before.
The triumph.
The unity.
The brief moment when belief had felt universal.
"We won the Euros," Francesco said quietly. "People will expect more now."
"They should," Southgate replied. "So should we."
Another pause settled between them, heavier than before.
Francesco closed his eyes for just a second.
He thought of Richmond.
Of Leah.
Of Arsenal.
Of Wayne, sitting on that bench the night before.
Then he opened them again.
"I'm shocked," he said honestly. "But… I'm ready."
Southgate's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile.
"I hoped you'd say that."
"I won't pretend it's easy," Francesco continued. "I won't always get it right."
Southgate nodded. "None of us do."
"But I'll take responsibility," Francesco said. "For the group. For the standards. For what this badge represents. We've tasted glory. I want more. Especially next year."
Southgate's eyes sharpened slightly at that.
"The World Cup," Francesco said. "We owe ourselves more than just being competitive. We owe ourselves belief."
Southgate stood and extended his hand.
"Then welcome," he said, "Captain."
Francesco stood as well and took it.
The handshake wasn't ceremonial.
It was firm.
Equal.
A passing of trust.
When they stepped back into the corridor, the world hadn't changed.
Players still moved about their routines.
Staff still checked schedules.
The hum of preparation continued as it always did.
But something inside Francesco had shifted.
The armband would come later.
The announcement would come later.
For now, it lived quietly inside him.
On the training pitch that afternoon, nothing looked different.
Francesco trained as he always did. Focused. Composed. Present.
But players gravitated toward him instinctively.
Questions.
Clarifications.
Small exchanges.
Wayne watched from a distance during one drill, eyes following Francesco's movements. When their paths crossed briefly during a break, Wayne raised an eyebrow.
"Busy day," he muttered.
Francesco smiled faintly. "You could say that."
Wayne studied him for a moment, then nodded once. "Good choice."
That was all.
That evening, alone in his room again, Francesco sat on the edge of the bed, phone in his hand.
He stared at the screen for a long moment before typing.
Southgate named me captain.
The reply came almost instantly.
I know.
I felt it coming.
I'm so proud of you.
He smiled, chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with pressure.
He was still holding the phone when the notification arrived.
A soft vibration.
Nothing urgent in the sound itself.
Francesco glanced down, expecting another message from Leah, maybe a reply from someone at Arsenal who had already heard whispers. Instead, it was a push notification from the FA app he rarely opened unless there was a fixture update or a squad announcement.
ENGLAND ANNOUNCEMENT
He frowned slightly, thumb hovering for half a second before tapping it.
The screen loaded cleanly, white background, the familiar Three Lions crest at the top. Then the headline resolved into focus.
FRANCESCO LEE APPOINTED ENGLAND MEN'S FIRST TEAM CAPTAIN
He stared at it.
Not because he didn't know.
But because knowing privately and seeing it declared publicly were two very different things.
Below the headline was a photograph taken earlier that day on the training pitch. Francesco mid-stride, England kit clinging lightly to him, jaw set, eyes forward. Not smiling. Not posing. Just moving. The kind of image that suggested inevitability rather than celebration.
He scrolled.
The statement was formal, measured, unmistakably FA in tone.
The Football Association is pleased to confirm that Francesco Lee has been appointed captain of the England men's senior national team.
Jordan Henderson will serve as vice-captain, with Harry Kane named third captain.
Francesco brings extensive leadership experience at club level, having captained Arsenal FC, alongside outstanding performances for the national team. The appointment reflects his influence on and off the pitch, professionalism, and commitment to England's future success.
Francesco exhaled slowly through his nose.
Jordan Henderson.
Harry Kane.
Two names that carried their own weight, their own history with the shirt. Leaders in different ways. Different eras overlapping, aligning.
It felt… right.
The app refreshed again, and a banner slid in at the top of the screen.
See the official Instagram post
He hesitated for only a moment before tapping it.
Instagram opened instantly, the familiar interface grounding in its normality. At the top of the England national team's profile was a fresh post, already climbing rapidly in likes.
The image filled the screen.
It was a different photo this time. Francesco standing alone on the pitch, arms folded loosely, England crest sharp against his chest. Behind him, slightly out of focus, the Three Lions emblem painted onto the training ground wall.
Overlayed text, clean and understated:
CAPTAIN.
FRANCESCO LEE.
Below it, the caption:
Leadership. Responsibility. Belief.
Francesco Lee is appointed England Men's First Team Captain.
Jordan Henderson – Vice Captain
Harry Kane – Third Captain
Onwards. Together.
The post had been up for less than ten minutes.
Already, the likes were well into six figures.
Francesco swallowed.
He scrolled.
And then he scrolled some more.
The comments came in waves.
Not all of them, and of course Instagram never showed you everything, but enough to feel the pulse of it.
@three_lions_forever:
Well deserved. Natural leader. Carried Arsenal, now carrying England.
@northbankvoice:
Captain at Arsenal. Youngest Ballon d'Or winner. Who else was it gonna be?
@englandawaydays:
This feels right. Calm. Class. Let's go.
@gunners_england:
From the Emirates to the world. Lead us, Francesco.
Francesco paused, thumb hovering as he read more.
@oldschoolfan:
I've watched England for 25 years. Haven't felt this confident in a captain for a long time.
That one made him stop.
He scrolled back up slightly, reading it again, slower this time.
There were others, too.
@tactical_tom:
Stats aside, it's the way players listen to him. You see it every match.
@youthcoachuk:
My kids all want his shirt. That's leadership.
@ballondorwatch:
Youngest Ballon d'Or winner. And still humble. That matters.
The Ballon d'Or came up more than once.
He had expected that.
Ever since that night, with the lights, his name spoken into a silence that felt unreal as he had known it would follow him everywhere. A symbol. A stick to measure him with. A reminder that no matter what he did next, people would always begin with youngest ever.
He scrolled further, bracing himself instinctively.
There were doubts, of course. There always were.
A handful of comments questioning his age, his relative lack of caps compared to legends of the past. A few complaining about Henderson being vice-captain, or Kane being moved down the order.
But they were drowned out.
Not deleted.
Not hidden.
Just… outnumbered.
The overwhelming tone was acceptance.
Agreement.
Belief.
Francesco leaned back against the headboard, phone resting loosely in his hand, eyes drifting from the screen to the ceiling.
This was what Southgate had meant.
Not noise.
Weight.
A knock sounded at his door.
Soft.
Unhurried.
Francesco sat up. "Yeah?"
The door opened, and Jordan Henderson stepped inside.
He didn't smile immediately. He never did in moments like this. Henderson was a man who treated responsibility seriously, almost ceremonially.
"Hope I'm not interrupting," he said.
"No," Francesco replied, setting the phone aside. "Come in."
Henderson closed the door behind him and leaned back against it for a second, arms folded.
"So," he said, then paused. "Captain."
Francesco huffed a quiet laugh. "Feels strange hearing it out loud."
Henderson nodded. "It should. Means you're doing something right."
There was a beat of silence.
"Just wanted to say," Henderson continued, pushing off the door and stepping closer, "you've got my full support. Whatever you need. On the pitch, off it. Doesn't matter."
"I appreciate that," Francesco said sincerely. "I really do."
Henderson tilted his head slightly. "And for what it's worth? The lads are buzzing. Not surprised. Just… confident."
That word again.
Confident.
They talked for a few minutes longer with nothing formal, nothing tactical. Just two players acknowledging a shared responsibility from different angles.
When Henderson left, Harry Kane appeared not long after.
Harry was quieter. Always had been.
"Congrats," he said simply, clapping Francesco on the shoulder. "Couldn't think of anyone better."
"Thanks," Francesco replied. "Means a lot."
Harry lingered for a moment. "If you ever need me to step up, step in, whatever, just say it."
Francesco nodded. "Same goes."
After Kane left, Francesco was alone again.
The room felt smaller now.
Not claustrophobic.
Intimate.
He picked up his phone again, instinctively opening Instagram once more.
The post had exploded.
Millions of likes now.
Thousands upon thousands of comments.
He didn't read them all. He couldn't.
But he read enough to understand the shape of it.
People weren't just reacting to an announcement.
They were responding to a story.
Captain at Arsenal since last season.
Leader through pressure.
Superstar who didn't hide when things went wrong.
The youngest Ballon d'Or winner, yes but also someone who had kept his head down afterward, gone back to training, gone back to work.
That combination mattered to people.
He thought back to his first season wearing the armband at Arsenal.
The doubts then had been louder.
Too young.
Too quiet.
Too focused on football.
He remembered the first time he had stood in the center circle, coin in hand, looking at the referee while sixty thousand people watched.
He hadn't felt powerful.
He had felt accountable.
And now England felt the same.
Later that evening, Southgate gathered the squad informally in one of the communal rooms. No press. No cameras. Just players and staff.
"I won't make a speech," Southgate said, standing casually with his hands clasped. "You've all seen the announcement."
A murmur of agreement.
"I just want to be clear," he continued, turning slightly toward Francesco. "This doesn't change who we are. It clarifies it."
He looked around the room.
"Leadership doesn't belong to one person. But responsibility does. And Francesco has shown that he's ready to carry it."
Southgate nodded once, then stepped back.
There was no applause at first.
Then someone clapped.
Then another.
And then the room filled with it.
Not roaring.
Not theatrical.
Just steady, genuine approval.
Francesco stood when the clapping faded.
He hadn't planned to speak.
But he knew silence would feel wrong.
"I won't say much," he began, voice calm, even. "Because I don't think leadership starts with words."
A few nods.
"I know what this shirt means," he continued. "I know what it asks of us. We've already shown what we can do together. The Euros weren't luck. They were work."
He looked around the room, meeting eyes.
"I'm not here to change anyone," he said. "I'm here to protect the standards we've built and push them higher."
Another pause.
"And next year," he added quietly, "we go again. Properly."
That was it.
No slogans.
No promises he couldn't control.
Just intent.
That night, lying in bed again, Francesco felt the exhaustion settle in that not physical, but emotional. The kind that came from absorbing something new into your identity.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (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: 39
Goal: 61
Assist: 3
MOTM: 8
POTM: 1
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