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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.
The morning light filtered softly through the tall windows of the Richmond mansion, diffused by the sheer linen curtains that swayed gently in the breeze from the cracked window. Outside, the world was quiet—no birds yet, no traffic, just the hush of winter air settling over the manicured hedges and frosted grass.
Francesco stirred.
For a moment, he didn't move—didn't have to. He lay there, eyes barely open, letting his body slowly emerge from the deep, satisfying weight of sleep. The warmth beneath the duvet was perfect, the kind that made you question why anyone ever got out of bed at all. But more than that, it was who he was sharing the bed with that made him want to stay still and quiet.
Leah.
Her blonde hair was splayed across the pillow beside him, her breathing slow, rhythmic. Her bare shoulder peeked out from under the duvet, and her hand was nestled softly beneath her cheek. She was turned toward him slightly, still deep in sleep, her expression peaceful in a way he rarely got to see during the chaos of training or matches or press attention. This was her unguarded, untouched by the world.
Francesco smiled faintly, reaching over to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. She murmured something unintelligible in her sleep, then shifted slightly but didn't wake.
He let his fingers linger for just a second more before carefully rolling onto his back, stretching once beneath the covers. The ache from last night's match was there—dull in the thighs, tight in the calves—but it was the ache of satisfaction. He reached over to the nightstand and picked up his phone.
07:32 AM.
Plenty of time.
Quietly, he slipped out of bed, grabbing a hoodie and pulling it over his bare chest as he padded down the hallway barefoot, careful not to let the wood floors creak too much beneath him. The house was cool this early—chilly tiles in the kitchen, a faint hum from the heating system slowly kicking in.
He poured himself a glass of water, sipping it slowly as he leaned against the counter, then unlocked his phone again.
One name hovered at the top of his favorites.
Jorge Mendes.
Francesco tapped the name and lifted the phone to his ear.
It rang once.
Then again.
Then—
"Francesco," came the voice, smooth and unmistakably Portuguese, groggy but alert. "Did I sleep through something?"
"Morning, Jorge. Sorry to call this early."
A pause. "No problem. I'm used to footballers with strange sleep schedules. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, all good. Better than good, actually," Francesco said. "I need a favor. A big one. Short notice."
"I'm listening."
Francesco glanced toward the hallway, making sure he wasn't overheard. Leah still hadn't stirred.
"I want to book a trip. Maldives. One week. Leaving tomorrow."
A pause. "Maldives? Okay. Let me guess—just the two of you?"
"Exactly," he replied. "No press. No autograph seekers. I want privacy. Think: most luxurious, most remote, most expensive place you can get me into with this short notice. I don't care about the price. I just want Leah to have the best week of her life."
Jorge chuckled. "So you want paradise. And a fortress."
"Exactly."
"Done. I know a place—Velaa Private Island. It's exclusive, quiet, secure. Villas with private pools, beach access, spa, chef, full concierge."
"That sounds perfect."
"I'll call them as soon as we hang up. I'll also charter a private jet to leave tomorrow morning, say around ten?"
"Make it nine. I want to beat the airport crowd."
"You're not flying commercial anyway," Jorge said, amused. "But sure, nine it is. I'll text you everything once it's confirmed."
"Thanks, Jorge. Really. This means a lot."
"Anything for you, champ. Enjoy your break."
Francesco ended the call, the corners of his lips still curved upward. The idea that by this time tomorrow, they'd be soaring above the clouds, leaving the January chill of England behind for clear blue skies and warm ocean air—it felt like stealing fire from the gods.
He padded back toward the bedroom, slower now, careful not to disturb the silence that clung to the morning.
Leah was still curled under the duvet, one leg half-tucked beneath the other, hair a dark halo against the pale pillow. He stood at the door for a second, just watching her, as if trying to capture the image in his memory—this exact moment, untouched by time or pressure or noise.
He tiptoed back under the covers, the mattress shifting gently beneath him.
And as he settled into the warmth beside her again, Leah stirred.
Her hand reached out instinctively, finding his chest, resting there.
"Mmm," she murmured, eyes still closed. "Where'd you go?"
"Nowhere," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Just planning something."
She opened one eye, groggy. "Planning what?"
He grinned, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "Something warm. With sand. And no footballs in sight."
She blinked, registering. "Wait—really?"
Francesco nodded. "You and me. One week. Maldives. We leave tomorrow morning."
Leah sat up slightly, her sleepy expression melting into a grin so radiant it felt like the sun had just cracked through the clouds. "You're not joking about last night?"
"Nope. Jorge's booking it now. Velaa Private Island. We'll be staying in one of those overwater villas you love. Private pool. Ocean view. Room service for days."
She squealed—actually squealed—before throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his neck. "Oh my god, I love you."
He laughed, arms wrapping tight around her waist. "I'll take that as a yes."
"Hell yes."
They fell back into the pillows, tangled in sheets and laughter and something deeper—something that had been forged in the quiet moments just like this.
And above the bed, morning light poured in like a promise.
By the time the sun had fully risen over Richmond, Francesco had already received the confirmation text from Jorge.
Private Jet: Booked. Departure 09:00 from Farnborough.
Velaa Private Island Villa: Confirmed. One week.
Details emailed. Concierge waiting on arrival.
He showed the message to Leah while they sat at the breakfast nook, her knees tucked under her, his hand resting lazily on her thigh.
"You weren't kidding," she said, mouth full of toast. "Private jet and everything?"
He nodded, sipping from his mug. "This isn't just a break. It's a getaway."
She leaned in, resting her forehead against his. "You keep doing this, Francesco Lee, and I might never let you go back to football."
He kissed her softly.
"Good. That's the plan."
The mid-morning light in Richmond had grown richer now, no longer the pale streaks of dawn but a soft, honeyed warmth that filled the high-ceilinged rooms of Francesco's mansion like sunlight caught in a glass jar. The temperature inside was perfectly regulated—he never liked too much heat—but there was a subtle hum of energy running through the walls. Not from the central heating. From them.
Vacation mode.
Leah padded barefoot across the polished hardwood floor, her hair still damp from a shower, wrapped in an oversized T-shirt that probably belonged to Francesco judging by how it hung off her shoulders. She was sipping tea from a massive Arsenal mug, the one he always used on recovery days. Now she'd stolen it, and he didn't even think about protesting.
Across the open-plan living room, Francesco was crouched by the couch, tugging out a pair of suitcases from the closet near the stairs. One large black TUMI roller with reinforced corners—his go-to travel companion—and a soft brown leather weekender that had been a gift from Leah after his first hat trick. It still smelled faintly of the cologne she wore when she gave it to him.
He looked up as she walked past him and gave her a little smirk.
"You packed your sunblock?"
Leah rolled her eyes, smiling. "I'm blonde, Francesco. I packed the entire Boots sun care aisle."
He laughed and stood, brushing his fingers through his hair. He was still in joggers and a fitted grey long-sleeve shirt, the kind of lazy daywear he never got to wear unless there wasn't a match looming on the weekend.
"This might be the first time I'm packing flip-flops and not shin pads," he muttered as he flipped the case open.
"Finally!" Leah exclaimed, turning to face him fully. "It's about time you packed swimwear that isn't for an ice bath."
They both laughed, and for a few seconds, the packing stopped while Leah walked over and kissed him lightly on the lips before settling on the arm of the couch next to him.
"You actually look relaxed today," she said, brushing her thumb across his cheek. "Your eyes aren't darting around like you're running game film in your head."
Francesco tilted his head thoughtfully. "Well, there's no tactics to obsess over. No press conference. No training schedule. No Roy Hodgson calling me for fitness updates."
"No Vardy breathing down your neck."
"No Mahrez dancing past everyone."
"No Wenger monologuing about 'mental strength' at breakfast."
They grinned at each other, then started packing in earnest.
Upstairs, in the master bedroom, Francesco laid open the big suitcase across the bed. He moved like a man with purpose—methodical, clean, surprisingly efficient. Years of travelling for away games had drilled a system into him: three pairs of swim shorts (black, navy, and that ridiculous flamingo print Özil dared him to wear in Dubai once), five T-shirts, one white linen button-up, two polos, his favorite aviators, and his toiletries packed with military precision in his dopp kit.
He looked across the bed to where Leah was folding bikinis with the kind of quiet confidence that comes from knowing how to travel light but stylish.
"You packed that white one?" he asked, zipping up his kit bag.
She looked over her shoulder, amused. "You mean the one that makes you stare at me for ten minutes without blinking?"
"That's the one."
She laughed and tossed it into her bag. "It's already packed. Along with the red one you keep pretending not to like."
He made a mock-offended face. "I never said I didn't like it."
"You said it was 'aggressively distracting.'"
"That's not a bad thing."
She shook her head and walked over to her side of the closet. The wardrobe in Francesco's room was massive—walk-in, full mirror, enough space for both of them. Leah was efficient as well, but her style carried more flair. Flowy dresses in bright tones, loose button-downs, linen pants, wide-brimmed straw hats, a new cover-up with golden embroidery she'd bought online the day before but hadn't told him about yet.
She turned and held it up with a playful look.
"Too much?"
Francesco's eyes scanned the piece slowly, then met hers. "You'll shut down half the resort."
"Perfect," she said sweetly, folding it neatly into her case.
They worked in sync, talking as they packed. The kind of conversation that didn't rush anywhere but wandered like soft footsteps on a beach.
"What are you most excited for?" Leah asked, tossing a rolled towel into her weekender bag.
Francesco didn't even hesitate. "Waking up next to you with the sea right outside. No alarms. No cleats. Just peace."
"Not even the snorkeling?" she teased.
He grinned. "You'll be the only thing I'm diving for."
"God, that was bad," she said, laughing as she swatted a towel at him.
"You're smiling," he replied, dodging it.
They took a short break around midday. Francesco made them both a late breakfast—his famous avocado toast with poached eggs, extra chili flakes for her—and they sat outside in the garden, sun on their shoulders, warm mugs between their palms.
Leah took a picture of their feet touching under the table, a lazy "vacation mode loading" post for later.
"You sure we'll be able to keep it private?" she asked, still looking at the photo.
Francesco nodded. "Jorge booked everything directly through Velaa's director. We'll have a private villa, private jet, even a private dock if we want to go paddleboarding. The only person who'll see us is the chef when he brings our food."
"Sounds like heaven," she murmured, leaning her head on his shoulder.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a gentle rhythm. Leah double-checked her passport and packed her underwater camera, while Francesco checked in with Jorge one last time to confirm departure details. The private jet would be wheels-up at 09:00 AM sharp from Farnborough Airport. Their car would pick them up at 07:15. Baggage had to be ready by 06:45 for transfer.
They went over it all one more time, together, in the lounge around sunset.
Francesco held up his checklist.
"Passport?"
"Check."
"Flip-flops?"
"Check."
"Emergency kit? Sunscreen, Advil, bandaids?"
"Check. Nurse Leah reporting for duty."
He raised an eyebrow. "We forgetting anything?"
She grinned. "I'm packing your book."
Francesco paused. "The one I've been pretending to read for two months?"
"The very same."
"Fine," he muttered. "It's vacation. I'll actually finish it."
Night fell slowly, golden light melting into cool blue shadows. The bags were zipped and lined up neatly near the front door. Two suitcases, two carry-ons, one week of freedom.
They curled up again on the couch after dinner, TV flickering quietly, though neither of them was watching. Leah rested her feet on his lap, scrolling through Pinterest for Maldives outfit inspiration while Francesco scrolled through photos from yesterday's match. He stopped on one—her in the box, hands over her mouth in shock, right after his second goal.
He saved it quietly to his favorites.
As the hour grew late, Leah finally looked up.
"You ready?"
Francesco nodded, standing slowly and stretching. "I'm more than ready."
They turned off the lights, locked the doors, and climbed into bed as quietly as they had the night before—but this time, their bodies curled around each other with the giddy anticipation of kids the night before Christmas.
Tomorrow wasn't just a holiday.
It was an escape.
And as Francesco fell asleep to the soft cadence of Leah's breathing and the knowledge that nothing but sun, sea, and her smile lay ahead of him, he realized it wasn't the break he was excited for.
The digital alarm clock lit up in soft amber against the still-dark bedroom: 06:30. Outside, the January sky hung heavy and blue-black, the last breath of night refusing to let go. But inside the Richmond mansion, tucked under layers of linen and winter warmth, Francesco and Leah were already waking, limbs tangled from sleep, hearts already leaning toward the sky.
Francesco stirred first.
Not because of the alarm, but because of that subtle instinct that had been honed from years of early call times—pre-match routines, gym sessions, recovery cycles. His eyes blinked open slowly, pupils adjusting to the dim light. His arm was still wrapped around Leah's waist, her back nestled into his chest, warm and soft.
"Morning," he whispered, voice still rough from sleep.
"Mmmm," Leah mumbled. "Not yet."
He smiled. "Come on. Maldives remember?"
That woke her up.
She turned slowly, sleep still lingering in her lashes. "Oh my god… it's today."
Francesco grinned. "It's today."
They kissed softly—more instinct than ceremony—then untangled themselves and slipped from the bed like two shadows. The bathroom lights came on low as they entered the ensuite, both moving around each other without speaking. She brushed her teeth while he showered. Then they swapped.
By 07:00, the master bedroom was humming with gentle urgency. Clothes were laid out, accessories checked, toiletries zipped back into their pouches. Francesco had opted for dark grey tapered joggers with a sand-coloured knitted polo, light jacket layered over the top, and pristine white trainers. His watch gleamed silver beneath his sleeve. Over his face, he pulled up a black surgical mask and tugged a black LA Dodgers cap low over his curls. Simple, clean, anonymous.
Leah looked like something off a Balenciaga runway and out of a romance novel at once—high-waisted cream trousers, a soft cropped sweater that hugged her in all the right ways, and a long, flowing beige trench coat over it all. Her white sneakers matched his, and her face mask was a silky ivory that contrasted beautifully with the black cap that framed her loose hair. Casual. Chic. Invisible.
"You ready?" he asked, slinging his weekender bag over his shoulder and grabbing the handles of both suitcases.
She tightened the strap on her crossbody bag and nodded. "Let's disappear."
Downstairs, the Richmond mansion felt different in the morning dark. The lights stayed low. The echo of footsteps across the polished floor was muffled by anticipation. A faint chill clung to the glass of the windows, and outside, the frost still painted silver along the edges of the hedges.
The luxury taxi service—a sleek black Mercedes S-Class with smoked windows and leather interiors—was already waiting in the circular driveway, the driver in a suit and gloves standing beside the open boot.
Francesco wheeled the bags out with ease, the driver immediately stepping forward to load them.
"Good morning, Mr. Lee, Miss Leah," the driver greeted with professional warmth.
"Morning," Francesco replied as he opened the back door for Leah. She slid in with effortless grace, and he followed close behind.
The car glided through the empty early streets of London like a ship on still water. The city hadn't fully stirred yet—just joggers, bakery deliveries, the occasional bus lumbering down half-lit avenues. Leah leaned her head on Francesco's shoulder, and he rested his cheek against her cap. They didn't need to speak. The anticipation pulsed between them in quiet waves.
Just after 07:45, the black Mercedes pulled into Farnborough Airport's private aviation terminal.
A smaller building, discreet and stylish, it sat apart from the chaos of Heathrow or Gatwick. No long queues, no pushy fans, no camera flashes. Just a gate to the sky, reserved for those who could afford to breathe above the noise.
As they stepped out, a sharply dressed man in a charcoal suit and a navy scarf was already waiting on the tarmac with a clipboard and an earpiece.
"Mr. Lee," he said with a courteous nod. "Miss Leah. Good morning. My name is Victor. I'm Jorge Mendes' assistant. I'll be escorting you to your aircraft."
Francesco extended his hand. "Thanks for arranging this."
"All credit to Mr. Mendes," Victor said with a smile. "He gave strict instructions—only the best."
He motioned toward the jet.
The aircraft gleamed under the morning light. Sleek, matte-white with faint gold accents, it bore no logos, no markings. Just elegance and discretion. The jet was a Gulfstream G650, top-of-the-line. It could fly halfway around the world without refueling. The steps were already extended, the engines silent, the world waiting.
Victor led them across the private tarmac, a light breeze fluttering the hem of Leah's trench coat.
"Your luggage has already been loaded. Cabin is prepped. Flight time to Malé is approximately eleven hours. You'll land at Velana International just before midnight local time. From there, Velaa's private seaplane will take you directly to the island."
"Smooth," Leah murmured under her breath as they walked.
Francesco smirked beneath his mask. "I told you Jorge would deliver."
Inside, the jet's cabin was pure indulgence. Cream leather seats wide enough to sleep in. Dark oak trim. Ambient lighting. A table set with two fresh fruit platters and chilled bottles of San Pellegrino. Soft music floated through the cabin—instrumental jazz, nothing intrusive.
Leah's eyes lit up as she stepped inside. "Holy—this is nicer than most hotels I've stayed in."
"Should I be concerned?" Francesco joked as he followed her in.
"Only if this place spoils me for life."
They took their seats side by side by the window, their carry-ons stowed, buckled in, and masks still in place until the flight attendant—an elegantly dressed woman named Isobel—offered them herbal-scented hand towels and privacy screens.
"Would you like champagne before takeoff?" she asked softly.
Francesco glanced at Leah.
"Just orange juice for now," Leah smiled. "Let's toast in the air."
"Of course."
As the jet taxied toward the runway, Francesco reached over and slid his fingers into hers. Leah looked at him and leaned over just enough to kiss his cheek through her mask.
"You really meant it," she said. "You really meant… escape."
"I'd burn half the season for a week like this with you."
"Good," she whispered. "Because I'm not sharing you with anyone. Not for the next seven days."
The engines roared quietly—more hum than thunder—and within seconds, the runway was falling away beneath them. London shrank in the window. Then the sky tilted. Then they were above the clouds.
________________________________________________
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