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And with that, they walked back down the corridor toward the dressing room, the scent of liniment and victory still hanging in the air. Arsenal were top of the table. Francesco had delivered again. But they all knew: Leicester were still chasing.
The corridor back to the dressing room was quieter now, the press conference glow fading behind them. Only a few stray club officials passed by—security men with radios clipped to their vests, a janitor rolling a mop bucket toward the far tunnel exit, the faint echo of boots tapping concrete. Francesco and Mesut walked shoulder to shoulder, both in matching Arsenal tracksuits, the red stripes along their sleeves catching the white hallway lights like embers along cooled steel.
They didn't speak much. They didn't need to. The kind of performance they'd just put in—commanding, intelligent, expressive—didn't require post-match analysis between teammates who knew each other's game like fingerprints.
As they approached the dressing room again, laughter trickled from inside. Chamberlain's voice rose above the others, carrying something about Ramsey missing an open goal in training earlier in the week, and the mock jeers that followed. The mood in the room still hummed with the kind of unshakable joy that only a clean-sheet, three-goal victory could bring.
Francesco stepped in, the warm air of sweat, deodorant, and liniment washing over him like a second skin. The sharp edge of adrenaline had dulled now into a shared afterglow—a content exhaustion, the kind that sat in the bones but lifted the spirit.
"Hey, Capitaine!" Giroud called from near the snack table, holding up a protein bar like a glass of champagne. "You missed Ramsey trying to freestyle to Drake."
"I didn't miss anything," Francesco smirked, tossing his duffel bag open and beginning to gather his gear.
Özil peeled off to grab his phone from his locker, nodding to Flamini, who was lounging with his feet in an ice bucket like a man at a holiday resort.
Francesco changed swiftly, slipping into dry clothes—a simple black hoodie over his Arsenal training shirt, joggers tucked into white trainers. He packed the rest of his kit with mechanical efficiency, the muscle memory of matchdays guiding his motions. Shirt folded. Boots in the separate pouch. Water bottle clipped. Toiletries zipped. He knew the drill. All that was left now was the ride home.
As he zipped his bag shut, the familiar buzz of his phone in his pocket drew his attention. He pulled it out, thumb unlocking the screen with practiced ease.
One new message. From her.
Leah:
Heading to your place now. Didn't want to wait for the crowds to clear. I'll meet you at home, okay? Can't stop smiling after that goal… and the celebration. ❤️
He read it twice, then again.
The corners of his mouth lifted slowly. It wasn't a grin. Not quite. More like a quiet surrender to happiness—something softer, more rooted. A warmth that outlasted even the floodlights of the Emirates.
Francesco typed quickly, thumb dancing across the screen.
Francesco:
Be there soon. Drive safe. And yeah… that was for you. Every bit of it. ❤️
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, fingers lingering there for a second longer than necessary.
"Love note?" Ox teased from across the room, lacing up his shoes.
Francesco didn't rise to the bait. "Yeah," he said with a shrug. "Better than the ones you send to your reflection."
Laughter bubbled up again, and Ox took it on the chin, shaking his head. "He's feeling himself today, boys. Brace for impact."
The squad began filtering out slowly, coaches and players alike heading toward the tunnel exit that led to the team bus parked just outside the player's entrance. Wenger gave one final handshake to a club official near the door, then followed the team out with the measured gait of a man who had learned long ago to win with grace.
Francesco slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and followed the stream of bodies down the corridor. The chill outside kissed his cheeks as the exit doors opened, night air sweeping in crisp and clean under the bright halogen glow above the loading zone.
The team bus waited like a beast asleep, its engine humming low, fog rolling gently from the vents into the air. The Arsenal crest gleamed on the side in silver and red, proud and unyielding.
Francesco stepped aboard and took his usual spot—second row on the left, window seat, just behind where Wenger would sit. Özil dropped in beside him a moment later, earphones already half-in, nodding along to whatever quiet track he'd queued up for the ride.
As the last of the team settled in, the doors hissed shut. A quiet moment passed. Then the wheels began to roll.
The Emirates faded from view in the rear window as the bus turned toward the A406, bound for Colney.
Francesco rested his head against the window, the glass cool against his temple. The lights of London passed in streaks of gold and blue, traffic thinning as they pulled farther from the heart of the city. The hum of conversation behind him faded into the soft buzz of headphones and after-match silence.
He pulled out his phone again.
Another message.
Leah:
Made it. Fire's on. Shower's calling. Want me to wait up for you?
He stared at the words for a moment, a dozen memories flooding back. The sound of her voice when he read the matchday lineup aloud to her over coffee. The way her hand lingered at the small of his back when she kissed him for luck before a game. The quiet strength in her voice the night he lost to Chelsea and came home bone-weary, and she'd simply sat beside him, holding his hand in the dark.
He typed back.
Francesco:
Don't wait. Just be there. I'll come find you.
Then he tucked the phone away and leaned back into his seat.
The road to Colney was familiar. They'd traveled it hundreds of times by now—after wins, after losses, after rainy nights and cold mornings. But tonight felt different. Not because of the scoreline or even the brace.
But because of everything else.
They were top of the table still. The team had played as one. Leicester were charging from behind like a storm on the horizon, but Arsenal weren't blinking.
Francesco looked around the bus—at Ramsey three rows back, watching match highlights on his iPad; at Flamini half-asleep with a hoodie pulled over his eyes; at Bellerín and Coquelin deep in some heated game on their phones; at Wenger, quiet, as always, his gaze turned out the window, already thinking about next week.
It was a squad. A family. A side that didn't just want to win—but believed it could.
And Francesco, still drying from the spotlight and sweat of the night, felt it too.
That this was more than a season.
It could be the season.
And when the bus finally pulled into Colney, when the engine rumbled to a stop and the players slowly filed out toward their cars.
The night air in Colney was crisp and still, broken only by the rumble of engines sparking to life one by one. The team bus had already emptied, players filing off in small clumps of laughter and tired strides toward the car park. Francesco stepped out with a slower pace than usual, his duffel slung over one shoulder, the Man of the Match trophy cradled under his arm like a prize he didn't want to show off, but couldn't quite hide.
He breathed in deeply, the cold slipping into his lungs like a tonic. His body ached—the good kind, the kind that only came after the kind of game where everything clicked. Two goals, three points, chants ringing in his ears like hymns to something just beginning. His chest still felt faintly warm from it all. That, and from Leah's message.
He pulled out his key fob, and with a soft beep, the BMW X5 lit up just ahead in the row of parked vehicles, its shadowy presence sleek and familiar. The matte black finish still glistened faintly under the parking lot's low lights, the kind of car that didn't shout wealth or status but whispered control.
Francesco loaded his bag in the back, slid into the driver's seat, and shut the door. The quiet clicked in like a seal around him. He didn't start the car immediately. For a moment, he just sat there, fingers curled around the steering wheel, watching the last of the squad depart in the side mirror—Özil's modest black coupe rolling past, Chamberlain's Range Rover disappearing into the dark beyond the gates.
Finally, he turned the key.
The X5 purred to life, the console lighting up with soft LED blues and reds. His phone synced automatically with the Bluetooth system, and the soft ambient playlist Leah had made for him on a quiet Sunday months ago started playing through the speakers. No lyrics. Just soft piano, ambient guitars, the kind of background music that made London's cold night roads feel less like steel arteries and more like winding veins through something alive.
The drive from Colney to Richmond wasn't short—close to an hour with no traffic—but Francesco didn't mind. He liked the solitude after matches. It was time to sift through everything—how the game had unfolded, what he'd done well, what could be sharper. Tonight, though, he didn't do any of that.
Tonight, he thought about Leah.
The way her name still buzzed in his chest after her text. The look on her face after his celebration. The memory of her pressed against the glass of the VIP box, her smile trembling into something close to tears.
He touched his wrist lightly—the spot where her name was inked just faintly enough to be hidden under a captain's band. A private vow he carried every time he stepped onto the pitch.
The road opened wide after Hammersmith. Streetlights blurred past like paper lanterns. He switched lanes, headed for Richmond, and by the time the car eased into the quiet cul-de-sac where his mansion stood, the city had gone hushed. Sleepy.
Home.
The X5 rolled into the driveway, the motion sensor lights flickering on as he approached the garage. A soft mechanical whir followed as the doors slowly lifted, revealing the quiet gleam of the interior—clean concrete, spare tires, the familiar outline of his old Honda Civic parked beside the BMW like a memory he hadn't thrown away.
He pulled in gently, put the car in park, and sat for a second more.
Then, finally, he climbed out.
The cold kissed his face again as he stepped onto the garage floor. The scent of damp stone, motor oil, and faintly—was that… basil?
His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten since before the match.
He closed the garage door behind him and made his way through the side entrance into the house, the door opening with a soft click into the hallway near the kitchen.
And that's where he found her.
Leah.
Standing barefoot on the tiled floor, back to him, a long, oversized hoodie pulled over what he guessed were her pajamas. Her dark hair was tied in a lazy bun at the top of her head, a few strands loose and catching the light like thread. She was stirring something in a pot on the stove, her movements casual, rhythmical—completely at home.
The smell hit him then—garlic, olive oil, something rich and herby simmering low.
Pasta. Of course.
He didn't speak right away. Just stood there for a moment and watched her, letting the stillness of the house wrap around him like a second skin.
Then Leah turned.
She must have heard the door shut behind him, or maybe it was just the way some people knew when someone they loved was close.
Her eyes found his.
And for a moment, they didn't need words.
Then: "Hey, stranger," she said, her smile blooming like a light being turned on inside her.
He dropped his duffel without thinking, crossing the space between them in two steps and wrapping his arms around her waist, burying his face in the crook of her neck.
She laughed softly, arms curling around his shoulders.
"You smell like turf and glory," she murmured.
He chuckled against her skin. "Better than liniment and regret."
She leaned back slightly, hands still on his arms. "You were incredible tonight."
He looked down at her. "Did you like the celebration?"
"Francesco," she said, her voice catching just slightly, "I'm going to be living off that for a month."
"I meant every second of it."
"I know."
They stood like that for a long moment. Then the pot on the stove gurgled.
Leah turned with a mock gasp. "Oh my god, I nearly burned the sauce."
He stepped aside with a grin, watching as she moved back to the stove, barefoot and focused. "You're cooking?"
"I didn't want to wait for you at a restaurant. And I figured you'd be starving."
He glanced at the counter—two plates already laid out, candles unlit but ready. A bottle of red wine breathing beside them, and a loaf of warm ciabatta wrapped in a cloth napkin.
"You figured right," he said.
"Get changed," she called over her shoulder. "Dinner's in five."
He hesitated. "I could just eat you right now."
Leah turned slowly, eyebrow raised, smirking. "You really scored twice tonight, huh?"
Francesco held up both hands. "I'll shower. I'll behave."
As he retreated upstairs, peeling off his hoodie on the way to the ensuite bathroom, he heard her laugh again—a soft, melodious thing that stayed with him through the sound of running water.
And when he came back down, hair damp, hoodie replaced by a plain black T-shirt, she was lighting the candles, plates already filled.
They sat at the long dining table that faced the garden. It was too dark now to see much outside, but the faint glimmer of moonlight on the pool made the windows shimmer.
He took a bite of the pasta—creamy, peppered with pancetta and sun-dried tomatoes—and groaned.
"You know," he said through a mouthful, "if Arsenal ever lose you, we're screwed."
"You'd better win the next ten matches," she replied, sipping her wine, "or I'm switching to Leicester."
He rolled his eyes. "Everyone's jumping on that train now."
"They deserve it," she said seriously. "They're magic this year."
"Yeah," he murmured, "they are."
They ate slowly, the conversation drifting from the match to plans for next week, to Leah's own training (she had a rehab session scheduled at London Colney), to a friend's upcoming wedding they'd been invited to but hadn't RSVPed to yet.
It was domestic. Simple.
Perfect.
Later, as they curled up together on the oversized couch in the lounge—her head on his chest, a soft blanket pulled over them, some old movie playing half-watched in the background—Francesco felt the weight of the day finally settle.
The goals. The noise. The pressure. The future.
And beside him, Leah. The one constant that never asked him for anything except to be real.
He kissed the top of her head and whispered, "You know I meant it, right?"
She turned slightly, looking up. "Meant what?"
"The celebration. The heart. The kiss. All of it. You're my home."
Leah didn't speak. She just reached up, touched the side of his face, and held him there.
Francesco's fingers moved slowly through Leah's hair, combing through the strands as if committing the texture to memory. Her head rested against his chest, the soft rhythm of her breathing syncing naturally with his own, and for a long while, neither of them spoke. The movie on the television had long since faded into background noise—something about a stolen car and a New York detective chasing down leads—but it was only there to fill the silence between moments that didn't need words.
Leah's hand lay across his chest, fingers idly tracing the stitched lettering of the old Arsenal tee he wore. Her thumb lingered over the crest, rubbing circles absentmindedly.
Francesco tilted his head slightly to look down at her. The lights from the hallway cast a soft glow around the room, enough to see the outline of her cheek, the line of her lashes resting against her skin. She looked peaceful, still a little flushed from laughter and wine, wrapped in a blanket and safety.
"You know," he said quietly, brushing his lips against her forehead, "starting tomorrow, we've got a proper break. No matches until the thirteenth."
Leah stirred slightly, shifting her head to look up at him, the flicker of curiosity already dancing in her eyes. "International break?"
He nodded. "Yup. The whole league takes a breather. No Premier League, no cup fixtures. Just… two weeks."
Her brow furrowed slightly. "Wait, what about your national team call-up? Aren't England playing?"
A slow, knowing grin spread across his face.
"Friendly match," he said, voice low and conspiratorial. "I called Coach Hodgson yesterday. Asked if I could skip this one."
She raised both eyebrows. "You what?"
"Relax," he chuckled. "I asked. Politely. Explained I needed a breather, that it's just a friendly, and I've been running hard all season. He agreed. Said it was okay."
Leah blinked at him for a beat, a slow smirk beginning to play on her lips. "You… asked to be excused from national duty? You?"
"I know," he said, mock solemn. "Feels like sacrilege. But honestly, I just—after everything these past few months, I wanted a moment for myself. For us."
Her fingers stilled against his chest.
Francesco's voice softened. "So I was thinking… what if we go away? Just the two of us. No matches, no interviews, no analysts or recovery sessions. Just you and me. Somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet."
Leah's smirk turned playful. "Are you suggesting we elope?"
He laughed, deep and genuine. "Tempting. But I was thinking more… Maldives?"
She blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
"Crystal blue water. White sand. Little private villa with a pool. No press. No fans. Just sun, sleep, and you."
Leah sat up slightly, one knee folding beneath her as she tilted her head, watching him as though trying to decide whether he was messing with her. But the sincerity in his eyes was clear.
"The Maldives," she repeated.
He nodded. "We can leave in two days. I'll handle the flights, the bookings, everything."
"Hmm," she mused, clearly weighing the idea like a coach picking a starting eleven. "Tropical weather. You shirtless for a week. Cocktails by the ocean…"
He raised an eyebrow. "That's a yes?"
She leaned in, slowly, letting her mouth brush against his. "It's a very enthusiastic yes."
He kissed her back, fingers curling around her jaw as the world momentarily vanished behind her smile.
"Good," he murmured. "Because I've already blocked off the days. I just didn't want to go unless you said yes."
She shook her head against him, laughter bubbling in her throat. "You are dangerously good at this."
"What, planning holidays?"
"No. Making it impossible to say no to you."
He pulled her close again, their bodies sinking deeper into the couch, the movie now long forgotten.
But as the minutes passed and the house fell quiet again, Francesco's thoughts wandered—just for a second—to what lay beyond the break. Leicester's rise. The title race. The weight of expectation. The target growing on his back with every goal he scored. But then Leah's hand tightened around his, and all those thoughts… faded.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 28
Goal: 42
Assist: 6
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9