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It was exhausting work, yes, but the satisfaction of seeing progress, of shaping the cohesion of a squad, was unmatched. Francesco allowed himself a quiet smile as he watched the team slowly disperse toward the locker rooms, the sun reflecting off their kits, the echoes of a successful session lingering in the crisp morning air.
The two weeks that followed at London Colney were steady, intense, and quietly transformative. The summer light had begun to mellow into early autumn's soft warmth, and the rhythm of Arsenal's training ground settled into that familiar hum of business — not the chaos of preseason anymore, but the deliberate, disciplined rhythm of a team sharpening itself for the long campaign ahead.
For Francesco, those days blurred into a cycle of sweat, tactical discussions, and leadership. Each morning he arrived early, engine of his BMW humming low in the quiet mist, and stayed late, often long after the others had gone. He'd watch replays of drills with the coaching staff, dissecting angles, spacing, and transitions. The weight of the captaincy was there in every decision as it was not oppressive, but grounding.
Mustafi had adjusted quickly. Within days, he was barking instructions from the back line, timing interceptions with precision, and his communication with Koscielny grew sharper by the hour. Rob Holding, meanwhile, had begun to find his voice too — timid at first, but slowly steadying under Francesco's encouragement. The two new defenders were no longer strangers; they were becoming part of Arsenal's pulse.
And in the heart of midfield, Xhaka and Kanté had become an axis of calm and chaos with one dictating tempo, the other disrupting rhythm. Their partnership, the same one Gary Neville had highlighted on Sky Sports, now hummed with assurance. Özil had regained his composure too, his passes slicing through defensive lines with ghostly elegance, while Sánchez had rediscovered that fierce glint in his eyes that always meant danger for opponents.
By the time the second weekend of the season arrived, Arsenal looked complete with organized, hungry, and quietly confident. Their first away match was against Leicester City at the King Power Stadium. The headlines that morning were everywhere, with one of it is:
"Lee vs Vardy: The Future of England's Attacking Firepower."
The team bus hummed quietly as it made its way up the motorway, rain pattering against the tinted windows. Inside, players were scattered in their usual pre-match moods — some focused in silence, others joking softly, headphones on, heads bowed. Francesco sat by the window, his reflection merging with the grey blur outside.
He thought of Wenger's words earlier that morning in the team briefing:
"Leicester are direct, disciplined, and fearless. But we are patient. We control what they cannot, rhythm. Do not match their chaos; make them match your calm."
As the bus pulled into the King Power Stadium, the chants from outside grew louder. Leicester fans, still proud of their miracle title, filled the air with defiance. The air smelled of wet concrete and adrenaline.
Inside the locker room, the tension was electric. Arsenal's red away kit gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Wenger stood at the center of the room, arms folded, speaking with that quiet precision that made every player lean in.
"Remember," he said, "you are champions because you earned it. But champions stay champions only if they play like it from every minute, every duel, every pass."
Then he turned to Francesco, and for a second, the room's noise dimmed. "Lead as you always do with no words, but with clarity."
Francesco nodded once. "We'll bring it home, boss."
When they walked out onto the pitch, the rain had stopped but the grass still glistened. The roar of the crowd rose like a living thing, blue flags waving in the stands. The whistle blew, and the match began.
Leicester started like lightning with Vardy darting between defenders, Mahrez twisting down the right, and Drinkwater launching long passes into channels. But Arsenal held firm. Kanté and Xhaka dropped deep, choking off passing lanes, while Mustafi and Koscielny coordinated perfectly, anticipating every counterattack.
Then, in the 27th minute, Arsenal struck.
It started with Özil dropping deep to collect a loose ball. One look, one weighted pass through midfield — and suddenly Francesco was off, gliding between two defenders. The touch was soft, the finish even softer — a side-footed effort curling just past Schmeichel into the far corner.
The away end erupted. Francesco's celebration was understated, as always — a fist clenched to the badge, a brief salute to the fans, then a quiet jog back to halfway. For him, it wasn't about showmanship. It was about statement: Arsenal are here. Again.
Leicester tried to respond, but every time they pushed forward, Arsenal's shape held tight. Kanté, against his former club, was everywhere — intercepting, covering, linking. By the 70th minute, the resistance broke again.
Özil, drifting wide left, drew two defenders before slipping a perfect ball across the box. Alexis Sánchez met it first time — low, hard, clinical. 2–0.
Francesco was the first to embrace him, grinning, their foreheads pressed together briefly amid the chaos of red shirts.
When the final whistle went, Arsenal's players didn't celebrate wildly. They just nodded, clapped the fans, and walked off like professionals who knew there was a long season ahead.
Wenger's smile in the tunnel said everything: "Composed. Intelligent. That is how champions play."
A week later came the trip to Vicarage Road to face Watford — another tricky away ground, another test of Arsenal's focus. The day was hot, humid, and restless; the kind of afternoon where tempers fray and legs grow heavy.
The home crowd was loud, yellow flags fluttering in the heat. But Arsenal walked onto the pitch with a calm that bordered on eerie.
Francesco could feel it — that perfect pre-match stillness in his mind, the balance between instinct and control. From kickoff, the team moved like a machine.
Watford pressed hard in the first ten minutes, and for a brief spell, Arsenal were pinned back. But in the 15th minute, everything changed.
Kanté snapped into a tackle just outside Arsenal's box, poked the ball to Xhaka, who immediately lofted it forward. Francesco was already moving, ghosting past defenders, meeting the pass in stride. One touch, two — then a curling shot that flew beyond Gomes' reach.
1–0.
He didn't even celebrate loudly this time, just pointed to Xhaka in acknowledgment, the two exchanging a quick nod.
From there, Arsenal took control.
Theo Walcott made it 2–0 in the 29th minute, darting between defenders after a lightning-quick one-two with Özil. The speed, the precision, the timing — it was pure Arsenal, pure Wengerball.
By halftime, the players gathered near the bench, sweat glistening under the afternoon sun. Wenger's instructions were simple:
"Stay compact. Stay calm. Let the ball move faster than their legs can chase."
The second half began, and Arsenal executed perfectly. Sánchez added the third goal just five minutes after the restart — a whipped strike after Francesco's clever backheel flick in the box left him in open space.
Watford managed a consolation through Roberto Pereyra, who found a pocket of space and curled a beautiful effort past Čech in the 67th minute. The home fans roared, desperate for a comeback, but Arsenal never looked rattled.
In the 80th minute, the final dagger came. Özil, who had been quietly orchestrating the entire afternoon, ghosted into the box, received a chipped pass from Sánchez, and nodded it coolly into the corner.
4–1. Game over.
The final whistle was met with polite applause from the Watford faithful — an acknowledgment of having been outplayed by a team that looked untouchable.
As the players gathered in the center of the pitch, Francesco clapped his teammates together. "That's how we play. Relentless. Smart. Together."
Walcott grinned, slapping his shoulder. "You're enjoying this captain thing too much, aren't you?"
Francesco laughed. "Only when we win."
Sánchez came over, arm around his neck. "Three goals between us in two games — not bad, capitán."
"Let's make it four next time," Francesco replied, eyes bright with that quiet hunger that never seemed to leave him.
As they walked toward the tunnel, Wenger watched them with a kind of paternal satisfaction. He turned to Steve Bould beside him and murmured, "You see? The maturity. That's why he wears the armband."
Bould nodded. "He's more than a captain, Arsène. He's a standard."
Inside the dressing room, laughter and chatter filled the air. Players joked, music played low, the smell of liniment and sweat thick in the room. Francesco sat quietly for a moment, towel draped over his head, the echo of the fans still humming faintly outside.
Two wins away, two commanding performances. Six points. Seven goals scored, only one conceded. Arsenal were not just defending champions, they were setting the tone for the entire league.
He looked up and caught Wenger's eyes from across the room. The manager gave him that small, knowing nod — not of praise, but of trust.
Francesco exhaled slowly, a faint smile on his lips. He could feel the season beginning to take shape. The chemistry was there, the hunger intact, the momentum real.
The morning sun at London Colney had that gentle, golden glow that only appeared after a string of victories. The air felt lighter, the laughter sharper, and even the grass seemed to shimmer greener under the bright sky. Two away wins from Leicester and Watford, had re-ignited that unmistakable hum of belief through the training ground. Players moved with purpose now, confidence flowing in their stride.
But for Francesco Lee, captain, leader, and the quiet axis of Arsenal's transformation, there was never a day of rest.
That morning, as he drove into the car park in his BMW X5, the mood was still buoyant from the weekend's triumphs. From the moment he stepped out, the familiar sounds of football's routine surrounded him as boots tapping against the concrete, trainers shouting instructions, and the occasional thud of a ball striking net from the first warm-ups.
Inside the main building, the energy was infectious. Theo Walcott and Alexis Sánchez were laughing near the nutrition area, playfully arguing about whose goal against Watford had been better. Kanté was quietly sipping his shake while Xhaka gestured animatedly at a tactics sheet. Wenger's assistants, Steve Bould and Shad Forsythe, were already preparing the session plan on a whiteboard filled with red and blue magnets.
"Morning, captain," Bould said with a nod as Francesco entered. "You ready to keep these lads grounded?"
Francesco grinned faintly, dropping his gym bag. "Always. Two wins mean nothing if we don't keep climbing."
The session that followed was crisp and high in intensity. Wenger wanted structure — transitions, defensive synchronization, and quick vertical breaks. Francesco moved through the drills like clockwork, his passes clean, his movement intelligent, his voice constantly guiding.
"Mesut, check your shoulder before the turn."
"Kanté, step earlier — they'll press there in transition."
"Rob, talk to Shkodran — don't wait for him to shout first!"
It wasn't shouting; it was rhythm. The rhythm of a captain who had earned the respect of everyone around him.
By the time the sun was high and the sweat soaked through shirts, Wenger blew the whistle for the final cool-down. The players collapsed into stretches and laughter, wiping their brows as bottles of water were passed around. Training cones were gathered, the crisp sound of boots dragging through the damp turf echoing across the pitch.
"Good session, lads," Wenger called from the sideline, his voice carrying the calm assurance of a man who had seen everything. "We build on what we've done, not live off it. Tomorrow will be recovery and review. Enjoy the afternoon."
The group broke apart, some heading toward the gym, others to the dressing room. Francesco lingered near the pitch, the kind of quiet moment he always allowed himself after a hard session. He'd grown to love that brief silence — the sight of the empty nets swaying gently in the breeze, the distant hum of cars along the A414, and the faint rustle of the Colney trees that bordered the training complex.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement.
Across the smaller practice pitch, near the far goal, a lone figure was still training — his red bib sticking out against the fading green. It was Serge Gnabry.
Francesco paused, watching from a distance as Gnabry drove a shot into the top corner. Then another. Then a third. Each one cleaner, sharper, more purposeful than the last. The young German's movements were raw but hungry — that kind of fire only a few players had, the same one Francesco himself had carried at that age.
He remembered this moment as it was not déjà vu, but as memory. From his past life.
In that timeline, Gnabry's story had been a tragedy for Arsenal. A prodigious winger, full of pace and instinct, but never quite given the chance he deserved. Injuries, loan spells, inconsistency — then a sale to Werder Bremen for pennies. Within a few years, he'd exploded at Bayern Munich and became Champions League winner, Bundesliga star, and one of Europe's deadliest wingers.
And yet here he was, still in Arsenal red, still within reach.
Francesco folded his arms, his mind already working. If he could convince Wenger to keep Gnabry and develop him properly, Arsenal wouldn't just retain a future star — they'd strengthen their depth on the wings and start preparing for life after Walcott.
Theo had been a loyal servant, yes, but Francesco had seen the signs from that half-second delay in acceleration, the lost duels against younger full-backs, the frustration in his eyes when his crosses didn't meet their mark. Time was catching up with him.
Francesco knew that if Arsenal wanted to dominate for years, they couldn't afford sentimentality.
He approached slowly, boots crunching on the turf. Gnabry looked up mid-drill, chest rising and falling with exertion, eyes widening slightly when he saw the captain walking toward him.
"Hey, Serge," Francesco called out, voice casual. "Still going?"
Gnabry laughed lightly, wiping sweat from his brow. "Yeah, I just… wanted to work on my finishing. I missed a few chances last session."
Francesco nodded, watching him take another shot — low, powerful, but just wide of the post. "That's good. Not many stay this late anymore."
The young winger shrugged. "I feel like I need to catch up. I lost a lot of time last season after the loan. Feels like I'm always one step behind the others."
Francesco studied him quietly. Gnabry's tone wasn't bitter as it was just honest, tinged with frustration but still burning with hope.
He stepped closer. "You've got talent, Serge. Real talent. You've just got to trust the process. Wenger believes in patience and sometimes too much, but you've got to make yourself impossible to ignore."
Gnabry looked up, surprised by the directness. "You think I can make it here?"
Francesco smiled faintly. "If you keep working like this? Absolutely. You've got speed, balance, and a finish that can hurt anyone on their day. You just need time and matches. You'll get there."
The young German nodded, a spark of belief returning to his eyes. "Thanks, captain."
Francesco clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Keep training, but don't overdo it. You'll need your legs fresh tomorrow."
As he walked away toward the building, Francesco's thoughts were already racing. This was the kind of player Arsenal couldn't afford to lose, not again. Gnabry wasn't just raw talent; he was the future if guided correctly.
He waited until evening, when the building was quiet, and Wenger's office light still glowed through the frosted glass. Francesco knocked twice.
"Come in," came that familiar French-accented voice.
Wenger sat behind his desk, glasses low on his nose, reviewing tactical notes. When he looked up, his face softened into that paternal expression he reserved for his captain. "Ah, Francesco. I was just going through the match data. You played well, as always."
"Thank you, boss," Francesco said, taking a seat across from him. "But I wanted to talk about something else."
Wenger tilted his head. "Go on."
"It's about Serge Gnabry."
The manager's brows lifted slightly, but he said nothing, waiting.
"I saw him training after everyone left," Francesco continued. "He's putting in real effort, Arsène. And I think there's something there, more than we've seen yet. I remember what you told me once: talent is nothing without direction. I think he just needs that direction."
Wenger leaned back, fingertips pressed together thoughtfully. "Serge… yes. He is a talented boy. But you know, he has had injuries. And competition is high. We have Alexis, Theo, Alex Iwobi, and even Oxlade-Chamberlain. Opportunities are limited."
Francesco nodded slowly. "I understand. But if we let him go, we'll regret it. He's young, he's hungry, and he's improving every week. He reminds me a little of Alexis — not the same intensity, but the same drive. Give him more time, a plan, a focus. Maybe use him in the League Cup or in smaller league games. Let him grow with us."
Wenger's gaze softened, the corner of his lips lifting. "You sound like a coach already."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Just trying to look ahead, boss. If we want to keep winning, we can't only rely on the same core forever. Walcott's still important, but his pace isn't what it used to be. Gnabry could be his successor if we invest in him now."
The words hung in the air, the faint hum of the air conditioning the only sound for a few seconds. Wenger studied him, seeing not just the captain but the thinker — the strategist who understood both the emotional and practical sides of the game.
Finally, Wenger nodded slowly. "You may be right. I'll review his progress more closely in the next few weeks. Perhaps we can involve him in the next EFL Cup match. I'll have Bould and Shad work with him on positional play."
Francesco exhaled quietly in relief. "That's all I wanted to hear, boss."
Wenger smiled warmly. "You know, Francesco, not many players would take the time to discuss another's future like this. That is why you are captain. You don't only lead on the pitch, but off it too."
Francesco stood, returning the smile. "We all win when the team gets stronger."
The sky above London Colney was turning the color of honeyed dusk by the time Francesco stepped back onto the pitch. The floodlights flickered on one by one, washing the grass in soft white glow. Most of the players had already gone home, the sound of the training complex had quieted to that rare evening stillness that only came when everyone else had packed up.
But one figure was still out there.
Serge Gnabry.
He was still going through his finishing drills, exactly where Francesco had left him an hour earlier. The young German's shirt clung to his back, drenched in sweat, his breathing quick and shallow but determined. Every touch carried a bit more weight now, every strike a touch more tired — but he refused to stop.
Francesco stood at the edge of the pitch for a moment, hands in his pockets, watching. There was something about that kind of stubbornness he admired deeply. The hunger to improve, to earn a place and that was the heart of football. He saw himself in Gnabry more than he cared to admit.
He started walking across the grass, the crunch of his boots breaking the silence.
Gnabry turned mid-strike, startled. "Oh — captain! I thought you'd gone home."
Francesco smiled faintly, dropping a bag of training balls he'd brought along. "I did. Then I came back. Thought I'd get some extra work in."
The younger player blinked, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "You? After running everyone into the ground this morning?"
"Old habits," Francesco said, crouching to unzip the bag. "Besides, I can't preach hard work if I'm not doing it myself." He picked up a ball and rolled it gently toward Gnabry's feet. "Come on. Let's train together. You mind?"
Gnabry's face lit up. "Mind? No way. I'd be stupid to say no to that."
Francesco chuckled softly. "Alright then. Let's work on your finishing first. You've got good power, but you're rushing your last touch before the strike. It's costing you accuracy."
The younger winger nodded eagerly, jogging back toward the edge of the penalty box. Francesco moved behind him, placing another ball on the grass.
"Alright," the captain said. "We'll go simple. One touch to control, one to finish. Don't think about where I am, don't think about the goal. Just focus on balance. When you take your first touch, I want your body already in shape to strike — chest over the ball, not leaning back. Ready?"
"Yeah," Gnabry said, nodding.
Francesco flicked the ball toward him. Gnabry took it down and fired — clean strike, but it rose too high, clipping the top of the crossbar.
Francesco jogged over, picking up another. "Better contact. But you're still leaning back. You want to kill the ball, not chase it. Watch."
He set up the ball himself, one touch to control, then drove it low across the grass into the far corner. The net rippled with that crisp, satisfying snap.
"The difference," Francesco said, "is balance. Don't just swing your leg. Let your whole body follow the strike."
Gnabry nodded, studying the motion carefully. He tried again. This time, the shot stayed low, curling neatly inside the post.
"Better," Francesco said, a smile tugging at his lips. "Now again — left foot."
The German groaned jokingly. "You're cruel."
"Trust me," Francesco said. "If you want to stay in the starting eleven one day, your weak foot can't be weak."
For the next twenty minutes, the two of them worked through repetition after repetition — first touch, strike, control, shoot. Francesco adjusted his angle, tossed different kinds of passes — some soft, some driven, some lofted — forcing Gnabry to adapt. And slowly, the young winger's movements began to sharpen. The strikes became cleaner, the contact smoother, the follow-through more natural.
The floodlights hummed above them, the shadows of their movements stretching long across the pitch.
Between sets, Francesco walked over, tossing him a water bottle. "You know," he said casually, "you remind me of Alexis sometimes. That same explosion in the first few steps. The difference is he never second-guesses his body. You've got to learn to trust yours the same way."
Gnabry took a swig, breathing hard. "Yeah… I think sometimes I just overthink. I get into good positions, but then I hesitate — like I'm waiting for permission to shoot."
Francesco nodded. "That's normal. Confidence isn't just about belief; it's about memory. When you've scored a few times, your body remembers how it feels. The trick is getting there first. So, until then — fake it."
Gnabry blinked. "Fake it?"
"Yeah," Francesco said, half-grinning. "Pretend you're the best finisher in the world, even when you don't feel it. The defenders don't know what's in your head — they only see your body language. Act like you're about to destroy them, and nine times out of ten, they'll believe it."
The young German laughed. "That's easy for you to say."
Francesco smirked. "It wasn't always. Trust me, I've had matches where I couldn't score if the goal were the size of the Emirates. You keep shooting anyway. You learn through failure. Every miss teaches you something."
Gnabry nodded slowly, the words sinking in. "Alright. Let's go again."
This time, Francesco switched it up. "We'll go one-on-one. I'll defend. You beat me, then finish. Make your decision early — commit to it."
Gnabry's grin widened. "You're serious?"
"Completely."
They set up the drill — Francesco as the lone defender, arms out, weight on his heels. Gnabry picked up the ball near the edge of the box, shifting it from foot to foot, eyes searching for a gap.
"Come on then," Francesco said lightly, a hint of challenge in his tone. "Show me what you've got."
Gnabry darted forward, cutting left, feinting right, then suddenly dragging the ball through Francesco's legs. The captain turned quickly, but not fast enough — Gnabry was already past him, smashing the shot low into the corner.
Francesco raised his hands, laughing. "Alright, alright! That's cheeky!"
Gnabry grinned, chest heaving. "I've been saving that one!"
"Good," Francesco said, nodding approvingly. "But don't rely on tricks. Use your body — the first touch, the direction, that's what beats defenders. Make them move before they realize they've been sold."
They reset the drill again and again — Francesco pushing, jostling, forcing Gnabry to make quicker decisions. Each time, the younger player adjusted. The movements grew cleaner, the touches tighter. He wasn't just reacting anymore — he was dictating.
Finally, after a solid hour, Francesco held up a hand, breathing out. "That's enough. You'll burn yourself out."
Gnabry chuckled, bending forward to catch his breath. "You don't get tired, do you?"
"Of course I do," Francesco said, smiling. "I just don't show it."
They both laughed, collapsing onto the grass near the halfway line. The evening air was cool now, carrying that faint scent of wet turf and distant rain. For a while, they just sat there, two players from different paths but bound by the same hunger.
"You know," Gnabry said after a pause, "I used to watch you in the academy. The coaches said you were different — that you trained like it was life or death. I didn't get it back then. But now I think I do."
Francesco looked down, brushing a blade of grass off his glove. "It wasn't about being special. It was about survival. Football's full of talent. The difference between those who make it and those who don't… is how badly you want to stay."
Gnabry nodded quietly. "I want to stay."
"I know you do," Francesco said, turning to face him. "That's why I came back tonight. You've got something, Serge. You just need to keep pushing. You'll get your chance soon — when it comes, take it. Don't wait for it to come again."
The young winger smiled faintly, a look of gratitude flickering across his face. "Thanks, captain. For believing in me."
Francesco leaned back on his elbows, gazing at the pale blue sky above the floodlights. "It's not about belief. It's about seeing what's already there. Wenger will give you a shot, I'm sure of it. Just keep training like this. Let your football talk."
They sat in silence for a while after that — the only sounds were the rustle of the grass and the soft hum of the lights. The pitch was empty now, the rest of Colney asleep.
When they finally stood to leave, Francesco clapped Gnabry on the back. "You did well today. Keep that up, and you'll be starting before Christmas."
Gnabry grinned, half-joking, half-hopeful. "You think so?"
"I know so," Francesco said with quiet certainty. "Talent like yours doesn't stay hidden for long."
As they walked toward the tunnel, Francesco glanced back at the pitch, the place where every dream at Arsenal began. The nets swayed gently in the wind, and for a moment, he imagined what the future could look like: Gnabry sprinting down the wing, cutting inside, curling one into the top corner in front of a roaring Emirates crowd.
He smiled. Maybe that future was closer than anyone thought.
The car engine purred softly as Francesco eased his BMW X5 out of the London Colney car park. The night had settled in fully now, the sky a deep navy brushed with streaks of silver clouds drifting lazily across the moon. The floodlights behind him glowed like distant stars over the training pitches, fading slowly in the rear-view mirror as he turned toward the main road.
The drive to Richmond was calm, the kind of quiet that allowed thoughts to roam freely. He rolled the window down halfway, letting the cool breeze sweep through the cabin, carrying with it that faint, earthy scent of cut grass that always lingered around football grounds. The hum of the tyres against asphalt, the rhythmic flicker of passing streetlights that it all felt like part of a ritual, a slow descent from the intensity of the pitch to the calm of home.
As he drove, his mind replayed the evening with Gnabry with the kid's determination, the way he kept going even when his legs must have been screaming. Francesco smiled to himself. He saw a reflection of something familiar there with the same relentless hunger he had once carried through the academy, the same fire that still burned, quietly but constantly, deep in his chest.
He could almost hear Wenger's voice echoing in his head: "Leadership is not about shouting, Francesco. It's about how you make others better around you."
And tonight, he'd done exactly that.
When he finally reached Richmond, the streets were bathed in the soft amber glow of streetlights. The neighborhood was quiet, the kind of calm wealth that came not from showiness but from peace. His mansion stood at the end of a long, tree-lined road with sleek, modern, yet warm. The driveway lights flickered on automatically as his car approached, guiding him toward the garage.
The metal door lifted with a smooth mechanical hum, and he parked beside his old Honda Civic that still there, still clean, a quiet reminder of where he'd started. He sat there for a moment after turning off the ignition, the silence wrapping around him like a soft blanket. For a brief second, he simply leaned back in the seat and exhaled — not from exhaustion, but from contentment.
The kind that came from knowing he was exactly where he needed to be.
As he stepped out, the faint sound of music floated through the slightly open back door with something light, jazzy, familiar. The warm glow of the kitchen spilled out into the hallway, mingling with the scent of garlic, herbs, and something rich and buttery that made his stomach tighten in anticipation.
Leah was in the kitchen, her back to him, hair tied loosely in a ponytail, sleeves rolled up. She was humming quietly to herself, moving between the stove and the counter with the fluid rhythm of someone who enjoyed the process as much as the result.
Francesco paused at the doorway for a moment, watching her with a soft smile tugging at his lips. There was something grounding about this sight, about coming home from a long day of sweat, tactics, and adrenaline, only to find this small, perfect corner of normalcy waiting for him.
He leaned against the frame and called out, "If I'd known I'd be walking into a Michelin-star kitchen, I'd have skipped the protein shake."
Leah turned, startled, then broke into a smile that immediately softened the entire room. "You're back earlier than I thought," she said, wiping her hands on a towel. "I figured you'd be the last one out again."
"I was," he said, walking in and peering over her shoulder at the simmering pan. "But I had company. Stayed behind with Gnabry to work on finishing drills."
Her eyebrows lifted, impressed. "Helping the next generation, huh?"
Francesco grinned. "Trying to. He reminds me a lot of myself, actually. Just… less handsome."
Leah laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, please. You footballers never run out of confidence."
"Confidence keeps me scoring," he teased, slipping his arm around her waist as he kissed her temple. "And it smells like confidence has also made dinner?"
She chuckled, pointing at the table already set with plates, candles, and a bottle of sparkling water. "Roasted salmon with lemon butter sauce, mashed potatoes, and grilled asparagus. Thought you might like something lighter after training."
Francesco looked genuinely touched. "You didn't have to, you know. You had training too."
"I wanted to," she said simply, turning to face him fully. "It's nice cooking for someone who actually appreciates it."
"I more than appreciate it," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "It's the best part of my day."
They sat down together at the table. The gentle clink of cutlery mixed with the quiet jazz in the background, and for a few moments, neither spoke — they just ate, the kind of peaceful silence that didn't need filling.
Finally, Leah broke it. "So, how was training? Besides the extra hour with Gnabry."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Good. The team's sharp — you can feel the rhythm building. Two wins have lifted the mood, but everyone's grounded. Wenger's been emphasizing structure. We're pressing better, moving the ball quicker."
Leah nodded thoughtfully. "And you? Still carrying the captain's weight well?"
He leaned back slightly, fork in hand. "It's… heavier than it looks, sometimes. But it's good. I feel like I'm seeing the game differently now — not just from my position, but from everyone's. It's strange, though. Some days, I miss just being a player. Just worrying about scoring."
She tilted her head, studying him. "You were never just a player, Francesco. Even when you weren't captain, you led."
He smiled at that. "You sound like Wenger."
"Well," she said, smiling back, "he's a smart man."
They both laughed quietly, the warmth between them soft but steady. Francesco took another bite, savoring the food, the texture of the mashed potatoes rich and smooth.
Leah watched him for a moment, then said, "You know, I saw the Sky Sports headline this evening — 'Captain Lee Leads Arsenal Revival'. You're everywhere again."
He rolled his eyes slightly, chuckling. "Yeah, they love their headlines. Next week it'll be something dramatic like 'Can Francesco Save Arsenal's Soul?' They make it sound like I'm leading a crusade."
"You kind of are," she said teasingly. "Just without the sword."
"Trust me," he said, smirking. "Footballers have sharper weapons."
Her laughter filled the kitchen again — the sound of home.
They kept talking, moving from football to her own day. Leah described her training session with the Arsenal Women's team — how they were preparing for the next FA WSL fixture, how the manager was experimenting with a new 4-3-3 setup.
"Beth's been insane in training," she said, gesturing animatedly with her fork. "She's hitting top corners like she's got radar. And Kim — she's still the heartbeat of midfield. I swear she sees passes before anyone else even thinks about them."
Francesco smiled, genuinely invested. "Sounds like you're building momentum too. Who've you got next?"
"Chelsea," she said with a sigh, rolling her eyes. "Of course. Big one at Meadow Park."
"Ah," he said, grinning. "The classic. Arsenal vs. Chelsea — men or women, it's always personal."
"Exactly," she said. "But we're ready. And besides," she added, glancing up at him playfully, "it's not just your team carrying the Arsenal banner this week."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Francesco said warmly. "One Arsenal. Two captains."
Leah raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh? You're calling me captain now?"
He smirked. "If the boot fits."
Their laughter overlapped again, easy and genuine. The plates were mostly cleared now, the flicker of candlelight dancing across the silverware. The world outside was still, but inside the house, it felt alive — filled with the small, simple things that made all the chaos of football worth it.
After dinner, Francesco helped her clear the table. He moved with that quiet efficiency that came from habit — washing, drying, stacking — while Leah wiped down the counter. Every so often, he'd glance over, smiling softly at how at home she looked in his kitchen.
When they were done, they stepped out into the patio for a while. The air was cool, the Richmond night calm and crisp. From the garden, they could see the faint glimmer of the Thames through the trees, reflecting the city lights in the distance.
Francesco leaned against the railing, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. Leah stood beside him, arms folded loosely.
"You ever think about how far you've come?" she asked after a moment. "From the boy with the Civic and the dream — to this?"
He chuckled lightly. "I think about it every day. Especially when I see that Civic still sitting in the garage."
She smiled. "You kept it."
"Of course. It reminds me of where it all started. Every time I look at it, I remember that kid who used to drive to training at 6 a.m. just to get an extra hour of practice. The one who had to fight for every chance."
Leah turned to him, her expression soft. "That's still who you are, you know. That's why everyone follows you."
He looked out at the horizon for a long moment before replying quietly, "I just don't want to forget who I was — or lose sight of why I play. Sometimes it's easy to get lost in the noise — the fame, the money, the media. But when I step on the pitch… it's still just football. It's still that same feeling I had as a kid kicking a ball against a wall until my feet went numb."
Leah smiled faintly, her hand brushing his. "That's what makes you different, Francesco."
He turned, meeting her gaze. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just what keeps me sane."
They stood there in silence for a while, the faint hum of the city in the distance. Somewhere far off, a train passed, its echo fading into the night.
Finally, Leah yawned lightly, stretching. "Alright, captain. You've trained, mentored, and reflected enough for one day. Time to rest."
He chuckled, following her inside. "Yes, coach."
As they headed upstairs, the house fell into a comfortable hush. Francesco glanced once more through the window — at the quiet street, the trees swaying gently under the moonlight. Tomorrow would bring another day of challenges — more training, more media noise, more expectations.
But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight was about warmth, about calm, about balance.
He slipped into bed beside Leah, her head resting against his shoulder. The rhythm of her breathing lulled him slowly toward sleep, his mind still replaying the soft thud of the ball hitting net, the glint of floodlights on grass, and Wenger's approving smile when he'd left the office earlier.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 1
Goal: 3
Assist: 0
MOTM: 1
POTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9