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He kissed her hair and let his head rest back against the sofa. Outside, the light was fading, evening creeping in slowly.
Morning came differently the next day.
Not quietly, like the one before. Not wrapped in relief or stillness. This one arrived sharper, edged with energy that Francesco felt even before he properly opened his eyes. His body woke before his mind did, muscles already aware of the work they had put in over the past week, the dull soreness settling deep but familiar. Not unpleasant. Honest.
He trained at home.
That had become routine on recovery-heavy days. The gym at the mansion was modest by elite standards, but it was his. No cameras. No staff hovering. Just iron, rubber mats, the low hum of ventilation, and the sound of his own breathing.
He moved methodically.
Bike first. Loosening the legs. Sweat breaking lightly across his forehead.
Then core work. Slow, controlled. Focused.
He didn't rush anything. He rarely did. Training, like leadership, was about intention more than intensity.
By the time he finished, his shirt clung to him, darkened with sweat, chest rising and falling steadily. He wiped his face with a towel and glanced at the clock on the wall.
Late morning.
Perfect.
He walked upstairs barefoot, already mentally ticking through the rest of the day. Shower. Lunch. Maybe a short nap. Recovery session later. Normal things.
He pushed open the bathroom door, reached for the light.
"Francesco."
The voice came fast.
Urgent.
He turned just in time to see Leah step into the hallway, phone in hand, eyes wide in a way that immediately told him something had shifted.
"Wait," she said. "Don't shower yet."
He frowned slightly. "What's wrong?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she grabbed his wrist not hard, but firm enough to pull his attention fully to her and tugged him back down the hallway.
"Leah—" he started.
"Just come," she said.
There was a sharpness in her tone he didn't hear often. Not panic. Not fear.
Frustration.
They moved quickly, bare feet against polished wood, past the open doors, down the stairs. The sound hit him before the room came into view.
Sky Sports.
Louder than usual.
The living room television filled the space with voices layered over one another, graphics flashing, studio lighting harsh and bright against the softer tones of the house.
Leah released his wrist and gestured sharply at the screen.
"Listen."
Francesco stopped.
On the television, a Sky Sports anchor stood beside a large screen filled with Spanish newspaper headlines. Big fonts. Bold colours. Words he didn't need subtitles to understand.
ARROGANTE
IRRESPETUOSO
PROVOCADOR
The anchor spoke calmly, but the content carried weight.
"Overnight," she said, "reaction in Spain has intensified following Francesco's press conference yesterday. Several major Spanish outlets have condemned his comments, particularly those regarding Real Madrid."
The screen shifted.
Clips played.
Spanish pundits. Studio debates. Panels speaking rapidly, animated, voices overlapping with frustration and disbelief.
One man leaned forward, jabbing a finger toward the camera.
"How can a player who has done so little speak like this?" he demanded in Spanish. "Just because he won a Ballon d'Or young, he thinks he can disrespect the greatest club in history?"
Another shook his head, arms folded tightly.
"This is arrogance," he said. "Pure arrogance. He does not understand Real Madrid's history, its culture. Players like him come and go. Madrid remains."
The camera cut again.
Newspaper covers.
Marca.
AS.
Sport.
Headlines scrolled beneath them.
'FRANCESCO CROSSES THE LINE'
'NO RESPECT FOR MADRID'
'BALÓN DE ORO DOES NOT GIVE YOU CLASS'
Francesco stood very still.
Leah watched him from the side, searching his face for a reaction. Any reaction.
He didn't give her one immediately.
On the screen, the anchor continued.
"Some media figures in Spain have labelled Francesco 'arrogant', citing his status as the youngest Ballon d'Or winner as a factor in what they perceive as a lack of humility."
Another clip played. A former Madrid player now turned pundit.
"He says he hates Madrid personally," the pundit scoffed. "Who is he to say this? He has not lived our rivalries. He has not worn the white shirt. This is disrespectful."
The segment rolled on.
The tone wasn't analytical.
It was emotional.
Leah crossed her arms. "They're tearing you apart."
Francesco exhaled slowly.
"Yeah," he said. "I can hear that."
She turned to him fully now. "Does it bother you?"
He thought about it.
Really thought about it.
About the words he'd chosen yesterday. About how deliberately he'd spoken them. About the difference between provocation and honesty, and how thin that line looked from the outside.
"It doesn't surprise me," he said finally.
Leah blinked. "That's not what I asked."
He looked at her.
Dark circles under her eyes. Jaw set. Protective instinct written plainly across her face.
"It doesn't bother me," he said. "Because I meant it."
She studied him carefully. "They're calling you arrogant."
He shrugged slightly. "They always do when you don't bow."
On the TV, another Sky Sports analyst spoke now, more measured.
"To be fair," the analyst said, "Francesco didn't attack Spanish football as a whole. His comments were personal, not dismissive of the game or the league. But in Spain, particularly with Real Madrid, perception matters."
Francesco smiled faintly at that.
"Perception always matters," he said. "Truth just matters more to me."
Leah sighed and dropped onto the sofa, rubbing her temples.
"They're saying you don't respect Madrid's history."
He walked over and sat beside her.
"I respect their history," he said calmly. "I just don't respect how they use it as a shield."
She looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the screen though his attention was inward now.
"History should teach you humility," he said. "Not entitlement."
The TV showed another clip.
A Spanish journalist speaking heatedly.
"He acts like Madrid need him," the journalist said. "Like they should beg. No one is bigger than Real Madrid."
Francesco nodded once.
"They're right about that," he said. "No one is bigger than a club."
Leah frowned. "Then why—"
"But," he continued, "that cuts both ways."
He turned to her.
"No club is bigger than a person's values either."
She fell quiet.
On screen, the Sky Sports anchor shifted tone slightly.
"Not all reaction has been negative," she said. "Some commentators have praised Francesco's honesty, calling it refreshing in an era of carefully managed soundbites."
A clip played of a Spanish columnist, calmer than the rest.
"He is direct," the columnist said. "Perhaps too direct for our tastes. But he did not insult the club's achievements. He expressed a personal feeling. Football needs fewer lies."
Leah exhaled. "At least someone gets it."
Francesco reached for her hand and squeezed it gently.
"They don't have to get it," he said. "They just have to hear it."
The TV cut to footage of fans outside the Bernabéu. Some shaking their heads. Others laughing. A few holding phones, recording themselves reacting.
One fan shrugged.
"He's arrogant," the fan said. "But he's honest."
Another scoffed.
"He's afraid of Madrid," a different fan claimed.
Francesco snorted quietly.
"Afraid?" he muttered. "That's new."
Leah laughed despite herself, tension breaking just a little.
"You're trending everywhere," she said, glancing at her phone. "Spain. England. Even Italy."
He leaned back against the sofa.
"Good," he said. "At least they're talking about football."
She turned to him again. "You really don't regret it? Any of it?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he closed his eyes briefly.
Thought about being a kid. Watching matches late at night. Watching Madrid lift trophies with cold efficiency. Watching players discarded when they no longer fit the story. Watching narratives shift overnight.
He opened his eyes.
"No," he said. "I regret lying more than I regret backlash."
Leah nodded slowly. "I figured."
She hesitated. "You know they'll keep pushing this, right? The Ballon d'Or thing. Saying it's gone to your head."
He smiled faintly. "It didn't give me confidence. It just gave other people a reason to listen when I speak."
On the screen, the anchor wrapped up the segment.
"Whether arrogant or simply outspoken," she said, "Francesco has once again positioned himself at the centre of the footballing conversation. And judging by the reaction, that conversation is far from over."
Francesco reached for the remote and muted the TV.
The room fell quiet again.
Leah leaned back into the sofa, looking at him sideways.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
He nodded. "I am."
She searched his face. "Promise?"
"I've been booed in bigger stadiums," he replied gently. "This is just noise."
She smiled faintly. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
He stood then, stretching his arms overhead, muscles still warm from the gym.
"I'm going to shower now," he said.
She reached out and caught his hand again, tugging him back just slightly.
"One thing," she said.
He looked down at her.
"You're not arrogant," she said firmly. "You're just not afraid."
He squeezed her hand once.
"Those two get confused a lot," he said.
Upstairs, as the water finally hit his skin and steam filled the bathroom, Francesco let the sound drown out everything else.
The water shut off with a soft, final hiss.
Steam lingered in the bathroom, curling lazily around the mirrors, blurring the sharp edges of the room until everything felt muted and distant. Francesco stood under it for a few seconds longer than necessary after the noise died, hands braced against the tiled wall, eyes closed.
Not to escape.
Just to let the moment settle.
The noise downstairs.
The headlines.
The outrage dressed up as analysis.
All of it dulled now, pushed back by the simple, grounding sensation of heat on skin and breath moving in and out at a steady rhythm.
He stepped out, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around his waist. Water dripped from his hair onto the marble floor as he reached for another towel to dry it properly. His reflection stared back at him through the fogged mirror.
Same face.
Same eyes.
Nothing about him had changed overnight, despite what the world seemed determined to believe.
He wiped the mirror clear with his forearm and looked at himself properly.
No arrogance stared back.
Just conviction.
He dressed slowly. Comfortable clothes. Nothing flashy. A plain T-shirt, shorts, bare feet again. He was halfway down the hallway when the phone on the bedside table began to vibrate.
Once.
Then again.
He glanced back and saw the name on the screen.
Jorge Mendes.
He didn't rush this time.
He picked it up, thumb hovering for half a second before answering.
"Jorge," he said. "I figured you'd call."
Jorge's voice came through calm, measured, the way it always did when he was already ten steps ahead of whatever problem sat on the table.
"You've seen the Spanish reaction, I assume," Jorge said.
Francesco snorted softly. "Hard to miss."
"Yes," Jorge replied dryly. "It's… loud."
Francesco walked toward the window and leaned against the frame, looking out over the grounds of the mansion. The day outside was deceptively peaceful. Trees swayed lightly in the breeze. Birds moved from branch to branch without a care in the world.
A different universe.
"What do you need from me?" Francesco asked.
"Discipline," Jorge said without hesitation. "And patience."
Francesco smiled faintly. "That sounds ominous."
"It's not," Jorge replied. "It's practical. I want you to stay inside for a couple of days. No public appearances. No restaurants. No casual sightings."
Francesco raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't planning a parade."
"I know," Jorge said. "But perception matters right now. We let this breathe. My team and I will handle the public relations side. Clarifications. Context. Cooling the temperature."
Francesco nodded slowly.
"Alright," he said. "I can do that."
"Good," Jorge replied. "Because this isn't about silencing you. It's about making sure your words aren't twisted beyond recognition."
Francesco leaned his head back against the glass.
"They already are," he said.
"Yes," Jorge agreed. "But we can stop it becoming something bigger."
There was a brief pause.
Then Jorge added, more carefully now, "I need one thing very clear from you, Francesco. If anyone asks and they will, as your position doesn't change."
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"It won't," he said.
"Say it again," Jorge pressed gently. "In your words."
Francesco straightened.
"I stayed because of loyalty," he said evenly. "And because I personally hate how Real Madrid treat their players when they're no longer useful. Not because of their history. Their history is theirs. My issue is with their behaviour."
Jorge exhaled softly on the other end of the line.
"Good," he said. "That distinction matters."
"I never attacked their trophies," Francesco continued. "I attacked their culture."
"And that," Jorge said, "is exactly what we will make clear."
Another pause followed. Not tense. Just thoughtful.
"You've just become a very inconvenient man in Spain," Jorge said lightly.
Francesco smiled. "I've been inconvenient before."
"Yes," Jorge replied. "But now you're also unavoidable."
Francesco glanced toward the bedroom door, where the faint sound of Sky Sports still echoed distantly from downstairs.
"I'll stay in," he said. "No interviews. No statements. Nothing unless it goes through you."
"That's all I ask," Jorge said. "I'll check in tomorrow."
The call ended.
Francesco lowered the phone and stood there for a moment longer, letting the quiet return.
Downstairs, Leah's voice drifted up faintly.
"Francesco?"
"I'm coming," he called back.
He walked down the stairs more slowly this time.
Leah was still in the living room, remote in hand, the TV muted again. She looked up the moment she saw him.
"Who was that?" she asked.
"Jorge," he said, dropping onto the sofa beside her. "He wants me to stay in for a couple of days."
She tilted her head. "House arrest?"
"More like strategic boredom," he replied.
She smiled faintly. "Probably smart."
He leaned back, stretching his legs out.
"They'll calm down," he said. "They always do."
She studied him carefully.
"You okay with that?" she asked. "Lying low?"
He nodded. "I don't need to be seen to be present."
She relaxed slightly and leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder.
"Spain's losing its mind," she said quietly.
"They're allowed," he replied. "I poked the lion."
She snorted. "More like slapped it."
He chuckled.
Silence settled again.
But this time, it didn't feel heavy.
It felt intentional.
The rest of the day passed slowly.
Intentionally.
They ate lunch together, something simple. Pasta. Salad. Water. Nothing extravagant. No phones at the table. Just conversation that drifted from football to mundane things from her training schedule, a film they'd half-watched and never finished, a holiday they might take if the calendar ever allowed it.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, it paused.
By late afternoon, the news cycle had shifted slightly. Still loud, still dramatic, but less frantic. Leah checked her phone occasionally, reading snippets aloud.
"Listen to this," she said at one point. "'Sources close to Francesco insist his comments were directed at club culture, not achievements.'"
Francesco nodded. "That's Jorge."
Another update followed an hour later.
"'Arsenal remain fully supportive.'"
"That's Ivan," Francesco said.
"And this—" Leah hesitated, then smiled. "'Some Spanish fans praise Francesco's honesty.'"
He shrugged lightly. "You can't please everyone."
"No," she agreed. "But you've definitely annoyed the right people."
Evening came quietly.
They watched a film, half-paying attention. Francesco's phone buzzed occasionally with messages from teammates, a brief text from Wenger simply saying Ignore the noise. Train tomorrow. Francesco smiled at that.
Loyalty wasn't just something you declared.
It was something you felt echoed back at you.
Later, as the sky outside darkened fully and the house lights softened, Leah turned to him again.
"You know," she said, "they'll try to turn this into motivation against you."
He smiled. "Good."
She raised an eyebrow. "Good?"
"I play better when people want to prove me wrong," he said.
She laughed softly. "Of course you do."
Night settled in properly then.
When they finally went upstairs, the house felt wrapped in stillness again. Francesco lay back against the pillows, hands folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.
For the first time all day, he let himself think not about the headlines, but about the future.
Matches to come.
Battles waiting.
Rivals watching closely now.
He didn't fear any of it.
Because what he had done yesterday hadn't closed doors.
It had defined him.
And as sleep finally took him, one thought remained steady, unwavering, immune to outrage or applause alike.
Morning did not break all at once.
It crept in.
Light slid through the tall bedroom windows in narrow bands, catching the edges of furniture first, then widening slowly until the room took shape again. Francesco woke before the alarm, as he usually did, body clock tuned more to training schedules than rest days. For a few seconds, he stayed still, listening.
No noise from outside.
No shouting headlines.
No vibration from his phone.
Just the quiet breath of the house and the steady rhythm of Leah beside him.
He exhaled, long and slow.
The storm hadn't passed.
But it had paused.
Downstairs, the first signs of movement came from the kitchen. Coffee machine humming. Cups clinking softly. Leah moved easily through the space, hair tied back, still in training kit from the night before. She checked her phone absently while waiting for the kettle, thumb scrolling with a familiarity that told Francesco everything he needed to know.
It was already happening.
The counter-attack.
He joined her a few minutes later, barefoot again, stretching his shoulders as he walked.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning," he replied, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.
She handed him a mug without asking. Strong. No sugar. Exactly how he liked it.
"They've started," she said, nodding toward the phone.
"I figured they would," he replied calmly.
She turned the screen toward him.
Sky Sports, again but the tone had shifted.
Less fire.
More structure.
A headline scrolled along the bottom:
'Context Emerges After Francesco Comments: PR Teams Move Quickly'
Francesco took a sip and watched.
The anchor spoke clearly, deliberately.
"Overnight, representatives for Francesco have moved to clarify remarks made during yesterday's press conference. Sources close to the player insist his comments were directed at Real Madrid's player-management practices, not the club's historic achievements or footballing identity."
The screen split.
On one side, footage of the press conference.
On the other, a graphic quoting Francesco directly:
'My issue is with how players are treated when they're no longer useful. Not with history.'
Leah raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."
"Jorge doesn't waste time," Francesco said.
The segment cut to a familiar face.
Jorge Mendes himself.
Not live, but recorded earlier that morning.
Suit immaculate. Expression calm. Voice steady.
"Francesco has enormous respect for Spanish football and for the history of its great clubs," Jorge said. "His comments were personal reflections, not attacks on legacy. To suggest otherwise is inaccurate."
The anchor nodded along.
"This clarification appears to be gaining traction," she said. "Several English and European outlets are now reframing the story."
Leah glanced at Francesco. "Reframing is generous."
"Redirecting," he corrected. "That's the goal."
The day unfolded like a carefully orchestrated chess match.
By mid-morning, the shift was undeniable.
Spanish media didn't backtrack as they never truly did, but the volume changed. Where there had been outrage, now there was argument. Where there had been condemnation, now there was debate.
And debate, Francesco knew, was safer territory.
In Madrid, radio shows buzzed with callers.
"He didn't insult the trophies," one caller admitted reluctantly. "He insulted the way players are discarded."
Another scoffed.
"That's still Madrid," the host replied. "You can't separate the two."
"Yes, you can," came the response. "History is not behaviour."
That phrase began appearing everywhere.
History is not behaviour.
Jorge's team pushed it hard.
In Barcelona, the tone was noticeably softer. Analysts spoke about honesty. About rivalry. About a generation of players unafraid to speak plainly.
In England, the response was almost protective.
Arsenal-aligned outlets rallied without being asked.
Former players were wheeled out.
Legends with weight behind their names.
"He's speaking his truth," one said on BBC Sport. "And frankly, he's right. Modern football chews players up."
Another added, "This is what loyalty looks like in a market obsessed with movement."
By lunchtime, Arsenal Football Club had issued a brief statement.
Not defensive.
Supportive.
'Arsenal fully support Francesco and his right to express personal views. He remains fully committed to the club, and the club to him.'
Short.
Strong.
Enough.
Francesco watched all of it from the quiet of his living room, phone face-down on the table, refusing to scroll endlessly.
Leah paced occasionally, restless energy pulling at her.
"You're trending again," she said at one point.
"Am I ever not?" he replied.
"This time it's… mixed," she said. "But better."
He nodded.
By early afternoon, Jorge called again.
This time on speaker.
"You're doing exactly what I need you to do," Jorge said. "Nothing."
Francesco smiled. "I've always been good at that."
"You'd be surprised how many players aren't," Jorge replied. "They see one bad headline and panic. You're letting the story breathe."
"What's the temperature in Spain?" Francesco asked.
"Cooling," Jorge said. "Still hot, but controlled. The narrative is splitting."
"Good."
"English media?" Jorge continued. "Very helpful. Arsenal's influence is strong. They don't want their star player painted as reckless."
"I'm grateful," Francesco said simply.
"You should be," Jorge replied. "But also aware. This loyalty you've shown? Clubs remember that."
Francesco leaned back into the sofa.
"I didn't say it for leverage," he said. "I said it because it's how I feel."
"I know," Jorge replied. "That's why it's working."
By evening, the tone had shifted decisively.
The word arrogant appeared less frequently.
Outspoken replaced it.
Honest appeared more often than anyone had expected.
Even in Spain, some outlets adjusted.
Not apologies.
But nuance.
One editorial read:
'Francesco's comments challenge us not because they insult, but because they reflect uncomfortable truths about modern football power.'
Another conceded:
'Disagree with his words if you like, but they are not without foundation.'
Leah read that one aloud, then looked up at him.
"They're not admitting you're right," she said. "But they're not screaming anymore."
"That's as close as it gets," Francesco replied.
That night, he trained lightly at home again.
Mobility work.
Stretching.
Breathing.
The body didn't care about headlines.
Only honesty.
Later, lying in bed, he checked his phone once.
A message from a teammate.
Proud of you, mate.
Another from a youth player he barely knew.
Thank you for saying what players feel.
He locked the screen and set the phone aside.
The next day followed the same pattern.
Controlled silence from him.
Calculated noise from everyone else.
Jorge's PR team released a longer clarification through a European outlet known for balance. Not sensational. Just factual.
Quotes from Francesco, expanded.
Context added.
Intent made explicit.
Arsenal legends spoke again.
"This is leadership," one said. "Standing by values when it would be easier to hedge."
Even pundits who disagreed with Francesco conceded something else.
"He didn't backtrack," one said. "That matters."
In Spain, the conversation shifted one final time.
From how dare he say it to why did it resonate?
That question lingered.
And questions were less dangerous than accusations.
By the third evening, the storm had become background noise.
Still present.
Still rumbling.
But no longer threatening to break.
Francesco sat on the balcony with Leah, city lights glowing faintly in the distance.
"You okay now?" she asked quietly.
He nodded. "Yeah."
"You don't feel misunderstood?"
He thought about it.
"I feel seen," he said. "Even by the people who hate it."
She smiled at that.
The next morning arrived with purpose.
Not tension. Not dread.
Purpose.
Francesco woke before the alarm again, but this time he didn't linger in bed. The pause had served its role. The noise had been managed, redirected, softened into something survivable. Now came the return to routine as the one thing footballers trusted more than headlines.
Colney.
He dressed quickly, efficiently. Training gear folded neatly into his bag, boots already cleaned the night before. Leah was awake too, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling her hair into a tie.
"You good?" she asked.
He nodded, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "Always am when I'm going to train."
She smiled faintly. "They'll be waiting."
"I know."
He didn't say it like a complaint.
More like a fact of gravity.
The drive to London Colney felt familiar in a way few places did. The roads blurred into muscle memory, turns taken without thought, his mind already shifting into football mode. No radio. No podcasts. Just the hum of the engine and the quiet certainty that whatever waited for him behind the gates, he knew how to handle it.
The training ground came into view, green pitches stretching out under the pale morning sky. Security waved him through without delay. He parked, stepped out, and slung his bag over his shoulder.
Inside, the dressing room smelled the same as it always did.
Grass.
Detergent.
Coffee.
Liniment.
Comfort.
The noise hit him immediately.
"Oi."
"Captain's back."
"Careful lads, Spain's public enemy number one has arrived."
Laughter cut through the room, warm and familiar.
Francesco smiled as he stepped inside.
Sanchez was the first to clap him on the shoulder. "You alright?"
"Never better," Francesco replied.
Xhaka grinned. "You upset half of Madrid, man."
"I aim high," Francesco deadpanned.
Even the quieter players looked up as he walked past, nods of respect, brief smiles. No awkwardness. No distance. If anything, the atmosphere felt tighter.
They had his back.
That mattered.
He changed into his training kit without ceremony, movements automatic. Boots on. Shin pads adjusted. Shirt pulled over his head. Captain's armband left on the bench as this was training. Everyone equal here.
As they headed out onto the pitch, Wenger stood near the touchline, hands clasped behind his back. He caught Francesco's eye and nodded once.
That was all.
Training was intense.
Not because of anything that had happened off the pitch, but because that was Arsenal's way. Short passing drills snapped with precision. Pressing exercises demanded focus. Small-sided games erupted into shouts, laughter, frustration, recovery.
For ninety minutes, Francesco didn't think about Madrid.
Or Spain.
Or headlines.
He thought about positioning.
Timing.
Weight of pass.
Leadership through action.
That was where he belonged.
When the session finally ended, sweat soaked through his kit, lungs burning pleasantly, he felt lighter than he had in days.
In the showers afterward, the mood stayed relaxed.
Someone whistled.
Someone complained about the cold water.
Someone joked about social media being a nightmare.
Francesco stood under the spray, water pounding down, and let it all wash away again. When he finished, he dressed into his regular clothes with simple jeans, hoodie, trainers. Nothing that screamed football star.
Just Francesco.
By the time he stepped outside again, bag slung over his shoulder, he already knew.
He heard them before he saw them.
Voices.
Shuffling.
Cameras clicking.
The reporters had gathered just outside the gate, a small pack, but determined. Microphones raised the moment they spotted him.
"Francesco!"
"Over here!"
"Quick word!"
He paused.
Not long.
Just enough to acknowledge their presence.
Security glanced at him, ready to intervene.
Francesco shook his head slightly.
"It's fine," he said.
He walked toward them calmly, stopping just short of the barrier.
The questions came immediately.
"Francesco, reaction in Spain has been intense—"
"Do you regret your comments about Real Madrid?"
"Are you concerned this will affect your Ballon d'Or legacy?"
"Do you still stand by what you said?"
Francesco raised a hand gently.
Not to silence them.
To slow them.
"I've already addressed this," he said calmly. "And my position hasn't changed."
Cameras leaned closer.
He looked straight ahead, voice steady, unprovoked.
"I respect the history of Real Madrid," he said. "Their achievements speak for themselves. My comments were never about trophies, culture, or Spanish football."
A few reporters exchanged glances.
"My issue," Francesco continued, "has always been with how some clubs treat players when they're no longer part of the plan. That's personal. Not historical."
A microphone pushed closer.
"So you don't hate Real Madrid as a club?"
Francesco didn't flinch.
"I dislike behaviours," he said. "Not history. That distinction matters."
Another voice called out. "Are you worried this damages your image?"
He smiled faintly.
"My image is built on how I play and how I act," he said. "Not on whether everyone agrees with me."
There was a pause.
Then one final question.
"Does this close the door permanently on Spain?"
Francesco considered it.
Then answered honestly, but carefully.
"Football doors close and open all the time," he said. "But right now, my focus is Arsenal. It has been. It will continue to be."
He nodded once, stepped back, and turned toward his car.
No drama.
No escalation.
Just clarity.
He got into his BMW X5, closed the door, and pulled away as cameras continued to click behind him. As he drove off, the reporters already began dissecting his words, but Francesco didn't look back.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 28
Goal: 45
Assist: 1
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9