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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Just two people and a mischievous dog enjoying a rare peaceful evening together before the next chapter of football inevitably arrived.
Christmas morning arrived in complete silence.
Not the uncomfortable kind.
Not the lonely kind.
The peaceful kind.
The kind that only seemed to exist a few times each year.
Outside, Richmond remained wrapped beneath a cold winter sky. Frost still clung stubbornly to the grass surrounding the mansion. The gardens shimmered beneath the pale morning sunlight, looking almost silver beneath the Christmas morning glow.
Inside the mansion, however, everything felt warm.
Comfortable.
Safe.
The Christmas tree stood proudly in the living room exactly where they had left it the night before.
Its lights still glowing softly.
Ornaments reflecting tiny pieces of golden light across the room.
A reminder of yesterday's work.
And judging by the position of several ornaments hanging slightly lower than they should have been, a reminder of Cheddar's involvement as well.
Upstairs, Francesco slowly opened his eyes.
For a brief moment he remained still beneath the blankets.
No training.
No matchday.
No alarm clock demanding he get up.
Just Christmas.
A luxury that professional football rarely provided.
He reached toward the bedside table and grabbed his phone.
Immediately the screen lit up.
And immediately he regretted checking it.
Not because anything was wrong.
Because the number of notifications was ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
Messages.
Dozens of them.
Then hundreds.
The notification screen looked endless.
Francesco blinked.
Then laughed.
"Merry Christmas to me."
His phone was overflowing.
Teammates.
Friends.
Former teammates.
Academy coaches.
Agents.
Brand representatives.
Club staff.
Footballers from around Europe.
People he hadn't spoken to in months.
Even players from rival clubs.
Everyone seemed to have sent something.
Merry Christmas.
Happy Holidays.
Hope you have a great day.
Congratulations again on the Ballon d'Or.
Enjoy the break.
The messages kept coming.
One after another.
He opened the Arsenal group chat first.
Naturally.
The chaos began immediately.
Walker had apparently been awake since six in the morning.
Nobody knew why.
Nobody wanted to know why.
The right-back had already sent approximately forty messages.
Most of them nonsense.
One was a photo of himself wearing an absurd Christmas sweater.
Another was a video of him attempting to sing Christmas songs.
The reactions beneath it suggested the attempt had gone poorly.
Very poorly.
Robertson had replied:
Please never do that again.
Van Dijk simply wrote:
Delete this.
Gnabry responded with seventeen laughing emojis.
Francesco laughed out loud.
Exactly what he expected.
Further down the conversation were messages from almost every teammate.
Merry Christmas, skipper.
Enjoy the holidays.
See you after Christmas.
Don't win another Ballon d'Or before training starts.
That last one came from Robertson.
Francesco smiled.
Then continued scrolling.
There were messages from former Arsenal legends too.
Thierry Henry.
Robert Pirès.
Several others.
Then came messages from brands.
Corporate Christmas greetings.
Professional holiday wishes.
Some of them clearly written personally.
Others very obviously written by social media teams.
Still thoughtful.
Still appreciated.
Then came the fans.
Thousands of messages.
Literally thousands.
Instagram.
Twitter.
Facebook.
Every platform seemed flooded.
Photos.
Artwork.
Videos.
Christmas edits featuring Arsenal goals.
Ballon d'Or celebrations.
Supporters wishing him happiness.
Families wearing Arsenal shirts beside Christmas trees.
Young children holding homemade signs.
The sheer amount of kindness was overwhelming.
Francesco spent nearly twenty minutes simply reading.
Smiling.
Replying where he could.
Liking messages.
Appreciating the effort.
Because these people had supported him through everything.
The highs.
The lows.
The pressure.
The success.
Moments like this mattered.
Eventually another thought crossed his mind.
His parents.
He immediately pressed Mike's contact.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Then answered.
"Merry Christmas."
Mike's voice sounded amused.
"Merry Christmas, son."
Francesco smiled.
"You were expecting me?"
"You call every Christmas."
Fair point.
A moment later another voice appeared.
Sarah.
Loudly.
"MERRY CHRISTMAS!"
Francesco winced dramatically.
"Mom."
"Merry Christmas!"
"I'm right here."
"I know!"
Mike laughed somewhere in the background.
The next few minutes passed exactly as Christmas calls should.
Warm.
Comfortable.
Full of affection.
Sarah asked if he was eating properly.
Naturally.
Mike asked if he was enjoying the break.
Naturally.
Both asked how Leah was.
Naturally.
Eventually Sarah said something that immediately made Francesco smile.
"You know what your father did this morning?"
Mike groaned instantly.
"No."
"He's already shown the Ballon d'Or photos to three different neighbors."
"I have not."
"You absolutely have."
"It was only two."
Francesco burst out laughing.
Sarah sounded victorious.
"See?"
Mike surrendered.
"Fine."
The conversation continued for several more minutes before finally ending.
"Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
The call ended.
And for a moment Francesco remained sitting there smiling.
Simple things.
The things that mattered most.
Eventually he climbed out of bed.
Pulled on a hoodie and sweatpants.
Then headed downstairs.
The smell hit him before he even reached the kitchen.
Coffee.
Fresh bread.
And something sweet.
Very sweet.
Interesting.
The moment he entered the kitchen, the source became obvious.
Leah.
Of course.
She stood near the counter wearing a Christmas sweater, flour dusted lightly across one sleeve.
Several bowls sat nearby.
Ingredients covered the counter.
And what looked suspiciously like an army of gingerbread cookies was currently being assembled.
Francesco stopped.
Leah looked up.
Immediately smiling.
"Merry Christmas."
The words barely left her mouth before Francesco crossed the room.
He wrapped both arms around her waist from behind.
Pulling her gently against him.
Leah laughed softly.
"Merry Christmas."
Francesco rested his chin against her shoulder.
The kitchen suddenly felt warmer.
Comfortable.
Perfect.
"Merry Christmas."
Then he kissed her cheek.
A simple gesture.
Natural.
Effortless.
The kind of affection that existed after sharing countless moments together.
Leah immediately turned slightly and kissed his cheek in return.
The smile that followed made the entire kitchen brighter.
For a few seconds neither moved.
Just enjoying the moment.
The quiet.
The warmth.
The simple happiness of Christmas morning.
Eventually Francesco glanced toward the counter.
"You're baking already?"
Leah looked proud.
"Of course."
"It's Christmas."
"Exactly."
He looked around.
There were ingredients everywhere.
Cookie cutters.
Mixing bowls.
Measuring cups.
Flour.
Sugar.
Icing.
The kitchen looked like it had suffered a festive explosion.
"How many cookies are you making?"
Leah considered the question.
Then looked at the trays.
Then at the ingredients.
Then back at him.
"A reasonable amount."
Francesco immediately knew that meant far too many.
Breakfast came first.
Fortunately.
Because footballers remained footballers.
Even on Christmas.
Soon they were sitting together at the kitchen island.
Eating.
Drinking coffee.
Enjoying a peaceful morning.
The television played quietly in the background.
Every channel seemed dedicated to Christmas.
Christmas films.
Christmas music.
Christmas cooking specials.
Christmas charity events.
Even the news felt friendlier.
One presenter wore a Santa hat.
Another sat beside a decorated tree.
Nobody appeared interested in discussing transfer rumors or football controversies today.
For once.
The world seemed willing to take a break.
Cheddar eventually appeared too.
The small dog wandered into the kitchen looking slightly sleepy.
Then immediately spotted breakfast.
Instant transformation.
His tail began wagging.
Hope returned.
Life had meaning again.
"Good morning."
Cheddar barked once.
Apparently that qualified as a response.
A few moments later he settled beside the kitchen island.
Watching.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Plotting.
Mostly plotting.
After breakfast ended, Leah immediately returned to her baking operation.
Francesco watched for several seconds.
Then rolled up his sleeves.
"What do you need?"
Leah looked delighted.
"Help."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It probably is."
The next hour quickly became one of the funniest mornings either of them had experienced in months.
Because football genius and baking genius were apparently not the same thing.
Not even close.
Leah handed him cookie cutters.
Simple enough.
Or so she thought.
Within ten minutes Francesco had somehow created a gingerbread man that looked like it had suffered a serious injury.
Leah stared at it.
"What happened?"
"I followed the instructions."
"No you didn't."
"I did."
"You absolutely didn't."
He examined the cookie.
Fair point.
It looked terrible.
Cheddar appeared beneath the counter again.
Watching carefully.
Possibly judging.
Definitely judging.
The television continued playing Christmas music.
The kitchen smelled incredible.
And gradually trays began filling with gingerbread cookies.
Stars.
Trees.
Snowflakes.
Gingerbread men.
Some looked professional.
Others looked questionable.
Very questionable.
Those were usually Francesco's.
Leah laughed every time.
Which only encouraged him further.
Eventually the first batch went into the oven.
The waiting began.
And the smell became even better.
Warm gingerbread filled the kitchen.
Cinnamon.
Sugar.
Christmas.
The kind of smell capable of instantly transporting people back to childhood memories.
Even Cheddar seemed impressed.
Though mostly because he believed food might eventually become available.
Hours slipped by.
Christmas films replaced Christmas music.
More cookies appeared.
Icing was applied.
Decorations were added.
Some cookies became masterpieces.
Others became victims.
Nobody spoke about football.
Not really.
Not seriously.
The Ballon d'Or remained elsewhere in the mansion.
The television barely mentioned it.
The phone stayed mostly ignored.
For one day, Francesco wasn't the reigning Ballon d'Or winner.
He wasn't the Arsenal captain.
He wasn't the best striker in the world.
He wasn't the footballer being discussed on every sports channel across Europe.
He was simply Francesco.
A young man spending Christmas with the woman he loved.
Baking cookies.
Watching television.
Laughing at mistakes.
Stealing pieces of gingerbread when Leah wasn't looking.
Getting caught immediately when Leah was looking.
The afternoon continued exactly the way Christmas afternoons were supposed to.
Slow.
Comfortable.
Unhurried.
The kind of afternoon where nobody looked at the clock because nobody needed to.
Outside, the winter sun hung low above Richmond.
The pale light filtered through the mansion's large windows, casting long shadows across the living room floor.
The Christmas tree glowed softly nearby.
Golden lights reflected from dozens of ornaments.
The decorations they had spent hours hanging the previous day now looked even better in daylight.
Cheddar was stretched across the rug near the fireplace.
One eye closed.
One eye open.
Maintaining what he clearly believed was an important security position.
Mainly because gingerbread cookies still existed somewhere inside the house.
And he intended to monitor the situation.
Closely.
Very closely.
Meanwhile, the kitchen looked like the aftermath of a festive baking competition.
Cooling racks were filled with gingerbread cookies.
Decorated stars.
Snowflakes.
Christmas trees.
And several gingerbread men that looked as though they had survived traumatic life experiences.
Those particular cookies were Francesco's contribution.
Leah had made sure to point that out repeatedly.
Francesco still claimed they had character.
Leah claimed they needed medical attention.
Neither had changed their opinion.
Eventually the last batch finished cooling.
The icing had set.
The decorations were complete.
And for the first time all day, they finally had a chance to admire everything they had made.
Leah stepped back from the kitchen island.
Her hands rested on her hips.
A satisfied smile appeared.
"I think that's enough."
Francesco looked at the mountain of cookies.
"I think that's enough for an entire village."
"It's Christmas."
"That's not an answer."
"It absolutely is."
He laughed.
Then reached for one of the gingerbread stars.
Leah immediately slapped his hand away.
"No."
"I helped make these."
"You've already eaten six."
"I have not."
"You have."
"Five."
Leah pointed toward him.
"Exactly."
Before the argument could continue, Cheddar suddenly appeared beside them.
Almost magically.
Nobody had seen him move.
One moment he had been sleeping.
The next moment he was standing beside the kitchen island staring directly at the cookies.
Hope radiated from his entire body.
Francesco looked down.
"No."
Cheddar tilted his head.
The universal dog response to disappointing information.
Leah laughed.
"He really thinks persistence will work."
"It usually does."
Cheddar wagged his tail.
Apparently taking that as encouragement.
A few moments later, after finally arranging the best-looking cookies onto a festive serving board, Leah looked toward Francesco.
"We should take a picture."
Francesco immediately knew what that meant.
Social media.
The modern holiday tradition.
"Of the cookies?"
"Of us."
"Oh."
Leah smiled.
"With the cookies."
"That makes more sense."
"And Cheddar."
Francesco looked down.
The dog immediately wagged his tail.
Somehow he always knew when attention was about to happen.
Within minutes the living room had become a photography studio.
A very relaxed photography studio.
The Christmas tree provided the perfect background.
The lights sparkled beautifully.
The decorations glowed warmly.
Everything looked festive.
Everything looked homey.
Everything looked real.
Leah sat beside Francesco on the sofa.
Cheddar positioned himself proudly between them.
Or at least attempted to.
Mostly he kept moving whenever somebody tried to take a picture.
Francesco held a tray containing several gingerbread cookies.
Leah held one of the better-looking gingerbread men.
And Cheddar stared directly at the cookies.
Not the camera.
The cookies.
His priorities were clear.
Very clear.
The first photograph failed because Cheddar moved.
The second failed because Francesco laughed.
The third failed because Leah started laughing at Francesco laughing.
The fourth wasn't much better.
By the fifth attempt everyone finally cooperated.
Including Cheddar.
Mostly.
The result was perfect.
Simple.
Natural.
A Christmas tree glowing behind them.
Gingerbread cookies in hand.
Cheddar sitting proudly between them.
No trophies.
No Ballon d'Or.
No awards.
No football.
Just a Christmas moment.
Just a family moment.
Just happiness.
Leah looked at the picture and smiled.
"I like that one."
"So do I."
"It feels real."
Francesco nodded.
Because it did.
It wasn't staged.
It wasn't professional.
It wasn't designed by a marketing team.
It was simply their Christmas.
A few moments later he opened Instagram.
Uploaded the photo.
And typed a caption.
Merry Christmas to you all 🎄❤️
Simple.
Exactly how he wanted it.
He posted it.
Then set his phone down.
Or at least attempted to.
Because less than ten seconds later it vibrated.
Then again.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
Leah burst out laughing.
"It's started."
Francesco looked at the screen.
The numbers were climbing absurdly fast.
Likes.
Comments.
Shares.
Notifications appeared faster than he could read them.
Within minutes the post had spread everywhere.
Arsenal supporters flooded the comments.
Football fans from around the world joined them.
Messages appeared in dozens of languages.
Thousands of people wishing him Merry Christmas.
Congratulating him again on the Ballon d'Or.
Complimenting the cookies.
Several people specifically complimented Cheddar.
Cheddar would have approved.
The Arsenal players arrived quickly too.
Walker commented first.
Of course he did.
My cookies look better.
The responses underneath were immediate.
Robertson replied:
Nobody believes that.
Van Dijk added:
Show evidence.
Gnabry posted:
Cheddar is carrying this photo.
That particular comment immediately became popular.
Very popular.
Even Leah laughed.
"He isn't wrong."
"He absolutely isn't."
More comments appeared.
Friends.
Former teammates.
Footballers from other clubs.
Even several football legends.
The Christmas wishes continued pouring in.
For a while Francesco simply scrolled through them.
Smiling.
Appreciating them.
Because despite everything football had given him, moments like this still felt special.
The connection with supporters.
The feeling that people genuinely cared.
The feeling that people shared in the happiness.
Eventually he locked his phone.
Not because the messages stopped.
Because they weren't going to stop.
Not today.
Probably not for several days.
The afternoon continued peacefully.
Christmas movies played on television.
Cheddar successfully convinced multiple people to throw toys for him.
The mansion remained warm.
Comfortable.
Relaxed.
Yet sometime later, as Francesco sat quietly looking toward the Christmas tree, another thought entered his mind.
One that stayed there.
One that refused to leave.
Christmas wasn't easy for everyone.
He knew that.
He had been fortunate.
His family had always done everything possible to give him good Christmas memories.
Not everyone had that.
Especially children.
The thought lingered.
Then lingered longer.
Finally he picked up his phone again.
Scrolled through his contacts.
And selected a familiar number.
Jorge Mendes answered almost immediately.
Naturally.
The man probably answered calls in his sleep.
"Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas," Francesco replied.
A brief pause followed.
Then Mendes laughed.
"You're calling because you need something."
The accuracy was annoying.
"A little."
"I knew it."
Francesco smiled.
"Busy?"
"Always."
"Good."
"That's usually not how people respond."
The footballer leaned back comfortably.
"I want your help."
"With?"
Francesco glanced toward the Christmas tree.
Then toward Leah.
Then back toward the phone.
"There are a lot of children spending Christmas without families."
The line became quiet.
Mendes immediately understood where this conversation was going.
Francesco continued.
"I want to donate one million pounds."
A brief silence followed.
Not because the amount shocked Mendes.
Because he was already thinking.
Planning.
Organizing.
Working.
"What kind of donation?"
"A few orphanages around London."
His voice softened slightly.
"I want the children to have presents."
The answer came instantly.
"Okay."
No hesitation.
No discussion.
No questions about publicity.
No questions about announcements.
Just okay.
Because Jorge knew him.
The agent understood that some things weren't about football.
Weren't about branding.
Weren't about publicity.
They were simply about helping.
Mendes spoke again.
"I'll handle everything."
"Thank you."
"Any preferences?"
Francesco thought for a moment.
"Just make sure it helps as many children as possible."
"It will."
The certainty in Mendes' voice was reassuring.
The man could negotiate football contracts with world-class clubs.
Organizing charitable donations would not be a challenge.
They spoke briefly after that.
Mostly Christmas wishes.
Then the call ended.
And the matter seemed settled.
At least for Francesco.
Because once he trusted someone to handle something, he rarely worried about it afterward.
The day continued.
Evening gradually approached.
Darkness settled outside.
The Christmas lights around the mansion became more visible.
The tree glowed beautifully.
Dinner came and went.
Christmas films continued playing.
Cheddar received entirely too much attention.
Which, judging by his expression, still wasn't enough.
Eventually the sky outside turned completely black.
The mansion felt even warmer.
Even cozier.
The kind of atmosphere that only existed during the holidays.
At some point later that evening, Francesco's phone vibrated again.
He glanced at the screen.
Jorge Mendes.
He answered immediately.
"That was fast."
"I told you I'd handle it."
Francesco smiled.
"Fair."
A notification appeared moments later.
Photos.
Several of them.
Mendes had sent everything.
Francesco opened the first image.
And immediately fell silent.
The photograph showed a group of children inside an orphanage.
Smiling.
Genuinely smiling.
Wrapped presents sat beneath a Christmas tree.
Bright wrapping paper.
Colorful boxes.
Excitement visible on every face.
He swiped to the next photo.
Another orphanage.
More children.
More gifts.
More smiles.
The third image showed staff members standing beside stacks of presents.
The fourth showed children opening gifts.
The fifth showed a little boy hugging a football nearly half his size.
The sixth showed a young girl holding a teddy bear.
Each photograph carried the same thing.
Joy.
Pure joy.
The kind that couldn't be faked.
The kind that reminded people what Christmas was supposed to be about.
Across the room, Leah noticed his expression.
"What is it?"
Without speaking, Francesco handed her the phone.
She looked through the photos.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The smile that appeared on her face was immediate.
Then emotional.
Then proud.
"Oh."
Another photo.
Then another.
Then another.
Her eyes softened.
"These are beautiful."
Francesco nodded quietly.
Because they were.
Far more meaningful than any headline.
Far more meaningful than any sponsorship.
Far more meaningful than almost anything else that had happened recently.
The phone buzzed again.
A message from Mendes.
The donations reached several orphanages this afternoon. Every child received presents. Merry Christmas.
Simple.
Efficient.
Very Jorge.
Yet somehow perfect.
For a while neither Francesco nor Leah said much.
They simply sat together on the sofa.
Looking through the photographs.
Watching the smiles.
Watching the happiness.
Watching the difference a simple act of generosity could make.
Nearby, Cheddar eventually climbed onto the sofa.
Curled beside them.
Completely unaware of everything.
Completely content.
Outside, Christmas lights twinkled across Richmond.
Inside, the Christmas tree glowed softly in the corner.
The television continued playing holiday movies.
The mansion felt warm.
Peaceful.
Full of life.
And as Francesco looked one final time at the photographs Mendes had sent, he felt something deeper than pride.
Gratitude.
Because football had given him trophies.
Football had given him success.
Football had given him opportunities beyond anything he had imagined as a child.
But moments like this reminded him that the greatest thing success allowed wasn't collecting awards.
It was having the ability to make somebody else's day a little brighter.
Somewhere across London, children who might otherwise have gone without presents were smiling on Christmas evening.
Opening gifts.
Laughing.
Making memories.
And somehow, on a day already filled with happiness, that felt like the best Christmas gift of all.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 19 (2017)
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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 28
Goal: 35
Assist: 1
MOTM: 4
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 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