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This was what football gave them that is the victories, yes, but also the human moments that carried meaning, that cemented bonds, that left them knowing, for a few hours at least, that everything they had worked for, everything they had sacrificed, had been worth it.
The next morning arrived without the jolt of an alarm clock or the rigid discipline of a matchday schedule. It came softly, filtered through tall glass windows and pale winter light that spilled gently into the living room of Francesco's mansion. The house, usually alive with movement on training days, felt calm thar almost suspended like the pause between breaths after a long exhale.
Francesco was already awake.
He sat on the deep, grey sectional sofa in the center of the living room, legs stretched out, one arm resting loosely along the backrest, a mug of black coffee warming his hand. He wore a simple Arsenal training top and dark lounge trousers, hair still slightly damp from a quick shower earlier that morning. Outside, the gardens were quiet, trimmed hedges dusted lightly with frost, the bare branches of trees swaying gently in the breeze. Richmond was peaceful at this hour, insulated from the noise of stadiums, tunnels, and crowds.
The television in front of him was tuned to Sky Sports News, the familiar red and blue ticker rolling endlessly along the bottom of the screen. Transfer speculation, pundit debates, highlights from last night's fixtures as it was the daily rhythm of the football world, relentless and unyielding, even after decisive victories.
Francesco leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on the screen but mind only half-engaged. He had grown accustomed to this ritual on quieter mornings: coffee, Sky Sports, and the strange comfort of watching the wider football world spin on, regardless of his own involvement in it. Last night still lingered in his body with the faint heaviness in his legs, the dull echo of adrenaline now settled into calm satisfaction. Arsenal sat top of the Premier League table, their dominance unquestionable, their momentum undeniable.
The presenter's voice cut through the quiet room.
"…and we begin this morning with breaking transfer news coming out of Spain…"
Francesco's eyes sharpened instantly. He didn't move, didn't change posture, but something in his expression shifted with alert, attentive. Transfer news was never just background noise, not at this stage of the season, not for a team sitting at the summit.
The screen transitioned smoothly to footage of the Camp Nou, sunlit and sprawling, the iconic structure filling the frame. Beneath it, bold white text appeared:
BREAKING NEWS: BARCELONA SUBMIT €40M BID FOR HÉCTOR BELLERÍN
Francesco's fingers tightened slightly around the mug.
The presenter continued, voice measured but carrying the gravity Sky Sports reserved for moments like this.
"Sources in Spain and England are reporting that Barcelona have made a formal offer of forty million euros to Arsenal for right-back Héctor Bellerín. It's understood the player has grown increasingly frustrated with his role at the club following the arrival of Kyle Walker, which has seen him lose his place as a regular starter."
The camera cut to footage of Bellerín in an Arsenal shirt with overlapping runs, bursts of pace, crosses whipped into the box then to Walker powering down the flank in more recent matches. The contrast was subtle but unmistakable.
Francesco exhaled slowly through his nose.
He took a sip of coffee, letting the bitterness ground him as he listened.
"Barcelona are believed to see Bellerín as a long-term solution at right-back, with personal terms unlikely to be an issue given the player's previous ties to La Masia. Arsenal, however, are yet to respond formally, and it remains unclear whether Arsène Wenger is open to negotiations at this stage of the season."
The living room felt suddenly quieter, despite the television continuing to talk.
Francesco's gaze drifted briefly to the floor-to-ceiling windows, to the stillness outside, before returning to the screen. His expression was unreadable that not shocked, not angry, not dismissive. Just thoughtful.
Héctor.
He knew before Sky Sports ever reported it that something like this was inevitable. Not because Bellerín lacked loyalty or commitment, but because football was rarely as simple as effort and affection. It was timing, competition, ambition, and the cruel mathematics of squad depth.
Kyle Walker's arrival had changed everything.
Walker had been immense since joining. Powerful, relentless, tactically disciplined. Wenger had trusted him in the biggest matches, and Walker had delivered with defensively solid, offensively precise, relentless over ninety minutes. In a team pushing for titles on every front, merit mattered more than sentiment.
And Héctor had felt it.
Francesco shifted slightly on the sofa, setting the mug down on the low table in front of him. His mind drifted back through memories that not highlights, not goals, but moments of shared effort.
Héctor sitting beside him on the team bus years ago, headphones on, tapping his foot nervously before a big away match.
Héctor laughing in training after being nutmegged, brushing it off with that familiar grin.
Héctor sprinting back forty yards to make a last-ditch tackle, chest heaving, eyes burning with determination.
He wasn't just a teammate. He was part of the fabric.
The television cut to the Sky Sports studio, where two pundits had already begun dissecting the situation.
"Forty million euros is a serious offer," one of them said. "And from Barcelona, it's not just about money. It's about identity. Bellerín grew up there. There's a pull."
The other nodded. "But Arsenal are top of the league. You don't dismantle a squad like this lightly. Especially not mid-season. Wenger values stability."
Francesco leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlaced.
Stability.
It was the word that echoed loudest.
He knew Wenger well enough to understand the conflict that would be raging quietly behind the scenes. Arsène was a protector of players, a believer in development, but also a realist. If a player was unhappy or truly unhappy, that dissatisfaction had a way of seeping into performances, into training intensity, into dressing-room energy.
And Héctor wasn't the kind to cause drama. That was precisely what made this dangerous. Silent frustration was harder to manage than open rebellion.
Francesco's phone buzzed softly on the table beside him.
He glanced at it.
A message.
Alexis:
You seeing this Sky Sports thing about Héctor?
Francesco didn't reply immediately.
The screen now showed a clip of Wenger from a previous press conference, the familiar calm deflection playing on loop. "We will see. Transfers are not something I like to discuss publicly."
Francesco let out a quiet breath and finally reached for his phone.
Francesco:
Yeah. Just saw it. Was bound to happen sooner or later.
A pause.
Another message came in almost instantly.
Alexis:
He's not happy. You can see it in training.
Francesco's jaw tightened slightly.
That confirmed what he already suspected.
He typed slowly, deliberately.
Francesco:
I'll talk to him.
Alexis didn't respond right away, but Francesco didn't need a reply. The intention was enough.
He set the phone back down and leaned into the sofa again, eyes returning to the screen. Sky Sports had moved on to replaying analysis graphics with Bellerín's minutes this on 2017 versus 2016, Walker's impact metrics, overlapping heat maps.
Statistics.
They told one version of the story. Not the whole one.
Francesco let the broadcast continue, but his thoughts drifted inward.
He understood ambition. He understood the desire to feel indispensable, to feel trusted, to feel chosen. He himself had fought for that role, earned it, defended it week after week. And even now, with goals flowing and praise abundant, he never assumed permanence.
Football never allowed that luxury.
But Héctor was still young. Still developing. Still capable of becoming one of the best full-backs in Europe. And being on the bench, even occasionally felt like stagnation when the world was telling you that you should be flying.
Barcelona represented more than a move.
It represented familiarity. Identity. A return to roots. A chance to be central again.
Francesco rubbed his temples briefly, then stood, carrying his mug to the kitchen. The mansion remained silent except for the muted hum of the television echoing through the open-plan space. He rinsed the cup, set it aside, and leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes unfocused.
Leadership didn't end at the final whistle.
This was part of it too.
He returned to the living room and muted the TV just as the presenter began speculating about Arsenal's response. The silence felt heavier now, but also clearer.
Francesco picked up his phone again, scrolled through his contacts, and stopped at Héctor's name.
He didn't call immediately.
Instead, he stared at it for a moment, weighing the approach. A phone call might feel too confrontational. A text too casual. This wasn't something to handle carelessly.
He decided on honesty, but with space.
Francesco:
Morning, hermano. Saw the news. If you want to talk later, I'm here.
He sent it and placed the phone face-down on the table.
Then he sat back down, this time not to watch the television, but to think.
Arsenal were flying. Top of the league. Unified. Balanced. But unity was fragile and it relied on trust, communication, and respect for individual journeys within a collective goal.
Francesco knew Wenger would address it in his own way, with patience and discretion. But players talked. Feelings spread quietly. And as one of the leaders in that dressing room, Francesco understood his responsibility extended beyond tactics and performances.
He looked around his living room from the clean lines, the quiet luxury, the calm that success had afforded him and felt the familiar grounding sensation that came from knowing where he stood.
But not everyone felt that certainty.
The phone buzzed again.
He flipped it over.
Héctor:
Thanks, brother. I appreciate that. Maybe later today.
Francesco nodded to himself.
Francesco nodded to himself, the faintest acknowledgment to the message glowing on his phone screen. He didn't reply immediately. He didn't need to. The exchange had done what it needed to do: it had opened a door without forcing Héctor through it. Space, when offered sincerely, could be more powerful than persuasion.
He set the phone down again and leaned back into the sofa, eyes drifting toward the ceiling for a moment. The house was still quiet, but the calm had shifted. It was no longer just restfulness; it was anticipation. He could feel it in the subtle tension beneath his ribs, the sense that something was beginning to move beyond his control.
He reached for the remote and unmuted the television.
Sky Sports News filled the room again, brighter now, more urgent. The presenters had that particular edge in their voices with the one that came when a single story began to ripple outward, touching everything around it.
"…and as expected, that Barcelona bid appears to have opened the floodgates…"
Francesco's gaze sharpened once more.
The graphic on screen changed, the Camp Nou replaced by a carousel of club crests. Chelsea. Manchester City. Manchester United. Each one appeared in turn, crisp and unmistakable.
BREAKING: PREMIER LEAGUE RIVALS JOIN RACE FOR BELLERÍN
The presenter continued, barely pausing for breath.
"We can now confirm that Chelsea, Manchester City, and Manchester United have all submitted bids in the region of forty million euros for Arsenal right-back Héctor Bellerín. Sources suggest these clubs see an opportunity to capitalize on the uncertainty surrounding the player's role at the Emirates, with Arsenal yet to make a definitive stance public."
Francesco sat forward this time, elbows resting on his knees, forearms tense.
So that was how quickly it happened.
One bid didn't stay isolated for long. In football, interest was contagious. The moment vulnerability was sensed that real or perceived, the predators circled. It wasn't personal. It was business. Strategic, calculated, ruthless.
The screen cut to footage of Stamford Bridge, then the Etihad, then Old Trafford. Three stadiums. Three ambitions. Three very different propositions.
"Chelsea are believed to be looking to reinforce their right flank as they prepare for a long-term transition," the presenter said.
"Manchester City view Bellerín as a player who fits their high-intensity, possession-based system."
"And Manchester United, under new leadership, are eager to make a statement signing, especially one that could weaken a direct rival."
Francesco let out a slow breath, hands clasping together more tightly than before.
This wasn't just about Héctor anymore.
This was about Arsenal.
About stability. About intent. About whether the league leaders would allow themselves to be chipped away at piece by piece while the season was still alive.
He glanced again at his phone, half-expecting another message. None came.
Outside, the light had shifted slightly, the frost beginning to melt on the hedges as the morning progressed. The world moved on, indifferent to the storm brewing inside football boardrooms and dressing rooms.
The presenter's voice softened, almost sympathetically, as the segment transitioned.
"This news has, unsurprisingly, sparked a significant reaction from Arsenal supporters…"
The screen filled with screenshots.
Twitter posts. Instagram stories. Comments flooding in at a pace too fast to read individually.
"Don't leave, Héctor."
"You're one of us."
"North London is your home."
"We need you."
"Stay and fight."
Photos appeared next: fans wearing Bellerín shirts outside the Emirates, scarves held aloft, messages written on cardboard and shared online within minutes.
The presenter continued, "Supporters have taken to social media in their thousands, showing an outpouring of love and support for the Spanish international. Many are urging him to stay, emphasizing his importance not just as a player, but as a symbol of the club's identity."
Francesco leaned back slowly, the weight of it settling.
This was the part that complicated everything.
Fans weren't naïve. They understood transfers. They understood ambition. But they also understood connection. And Héctor had always embodied something deeper than just form and minutes played. He had grown here. Learned here. Failed and improved here. He had been one of their own.
Francesco reached for his phone again, instinctively opening Instagram. He didn't need to search. Héctor's name was already trending.
He tapped.
Héctor's most recent post, just a photo from training a few days earlier had exploded. Tens of thousands of comments, the number ticking upward even as he watched.
❤️🔥
"Once a Gunner, always a Gunner."
"We'll sing your name louder."
"Competition makes us stronger. Don't go."
"You don't have to leave."
"Walker or not, you're Arsenal."
There were flags. Hearts. Memories. Clips fans had reposted with Héctor racing back to stop a counterattack, Héctor celebrating with arms wide in front of the North Bank, Héctor kissing the badge after a big win.
Francesco swallowed.
Footballers talked often about pressure, but this was a different kind. Not the pressure to perform, but the pressure to belong. To choose between ambition and loyalty when both pulled equally hard.
He locked his phone and set it down again, palms resting on his thighs.
He knew this feeling. Not exactly, but close enough.
The calls would start soon. Agents. Journalists. Club officials. Everyone wanting clarity, leverage, reassurance. And through it all, Héctor would be expected to train, to smile, to play when called upon, as if none of it weighed on him.
Francesco stood and walked slowly toward the windows again, hands slipping into the pockets of his trousers. The glass reflected his image faintly that calm on the surface, but eyes sharp, thoughtful.
Arsenal fans were afraid.
He could feel that fear even without scrolling further. Fear wasn't always loud. Sometimes it showed up as love expressed too quickly, too urgently, as if saying it louder might keep something from slipping away.
They were afraid because they knew what dismantling looked like.
They had seen it before.
One departure became two. Two became a pattern. And suddenly a team that felt invincible became a memory.
Francesco closed his eyes briefly.
This team was different. He believed that. He felt it every time they stepped onto the pitch together. But belief didn't cancel reality. Reality demanded action, communication, reassurance.
His phone buzzed again.
This time it wasn't Héctor.
Ramsey:
Mate… this Bellerín thing is getting mad.
Francesco exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose briefly before replying.
Francesco:
Yeah. It's moving fast.
A pause.
Ramsey:
Fans are losing it online. Hope he's alright.
Francesco stared at the message for a moment, then typed.
Francesco:
I'm going to see him later. We'll talk.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Ramsey:
Good. He'll listen to you.
Francesco read that twice.
He didn't respond to the compliment. He didn't need to. But it sat with him, heavier than praise ever did.
He turned back toward the sofa, sitting down slowly, posture more grounded now. This wasn't something to react to emotionally. This was something to navigate carefully.
The television continued in the background, now featuring a former Arsenal player as a guest pundit.
"When fans react like this," the pundit said, "it tells you something. Bellerín isn't just a squad player. He represents continuity. And Arsenal supporters are terrified of losing pieces of a puzzle that's finally fitting together."
Francesco nodded faintly to himself.
That was exactly it.
He picked up his phone again, not to message Héctor this time, but to open Arsenal's internal group chat. He didn't type immediately. He read instead. Messages were already stacking up.
Jokes trying to lighten the mood.
Side comments about bids.
A few laughing emojis masking unease.
Francesco typed carefully.
Francesco:
Whatever happens, we stay united. Don't let outside noise creep in.
He sent it.
There were immediate reactions with thumbs up, hearts, short replies of agreement. It wasn't a solution, but it was a reminder.
He leaned back again, letting the noise settle around him rather than inside him.
Arsenal fans were showing their love now because they were afraid later might be too late.
They weren't just asking Héctor to stay. They were asking the club to protect something fragile and precious: momentum, identity, belief.
Francesco looked down at his hands.
He couldn't make decisions for the board. He couldn't control bids or negotiations. But he could do one thing: be present. Be honest. Be human.
Later today, he would sit with Héctor that not as a captain lecturing a teammate, not as a symbol of the club, but as someone who understood what it meant to stand at a crossroads.
The afternoon arrived gently, London wrapped in that familiar winter-grey that never quite felt bleak, only contemplative. Clouds hung low but thin, letting light through in soft sheets rather than sharp beams. The city moved at its usual rhythm that measured, busy, alive but for Francesco, the hours between morning and now had passed in a blur of thought rather than action.
He left the mansion just after noon.
The drive into central London was quiet, traffic cooperative for once. The radio stayed off. He didn't need commentary or music filling the space; his mind was already full. Every red light gave him another moment to think, to rehearse not a speech, not an argument, but an approach. This wasn't about convincing Héctor to stay or pushing him to leave. It was about perspective. Honesty.
He parked a short distance from Westminster, choosing to walk the final stretch. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of coffee, damp pavement, and the Thames not far away. Big Ben loomed in the distance, partially shrouded by scaffolding but still unmistakable, its presence steady and timeless, watching the city change around it.
The café sat just off a quieter street with warm light glowing through its windows, wooden tables visible inside, steam fogging the glass slightly. It was the kind of place players liked: discreet, calm, frequented by locals who either didn't recognize faces or respected them enough not to stare.
Francesco arrived first.
He chose a corner table near the window, back against the wall, habit ingrained from years of public life. He ordered an espresso, hands wrapped loosely around the small cup when it arrived, and waited.
He didn't check his phone.
He didn't rush his thoughts.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
And then the door opened again.
Héctor Bellerín stepped inside.
He looked… tired. Not physically, not the exhaustion of matches or training, but the quieter kind. The weight behind the eyes. The stiffness in the shoulders that came from carrying too much internally. He wore a dark coat, scarf pulled loosely around his neck, hair slightly longer than usual, falling forward when he looked down.
His gaze swept the café once, then found Francesco.
Their eyes met.
Héctor smiled that small, genuine, but restrained and walked over.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Hey," Francesco replied, standing briefly to pull him into a quick embrace. Not dramatic. Just familiar. Grounding.
They sat.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The espresso machine hissed somewhere behind the counter. Cups clinked. A low murmur of conversation floated around them. Outside, a bus rolled past, tires hissing against wet asphalt.
Finally, Héctor exhaled and leaned back slightly, fingers lacing together on the table.
"So," he said, half-smiling, half-sighing. "I guess this was inevitable."
Francesco nodded once. "Yeah. It was."
No judgment. No dramatics.
Just truth.
Héctor looked down at his hands. "My phone hasn't stopped. Agent. Family. Friends. Journalists pretending they're friends." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Fans, too. That part… that part I didn't expect like this."
Francesco watched him carefully. "How does it feel?"
Héctor thought about it. Really thought.
"Overwhelming," he said eventually. "Grateful. Guilty. Confused." He shook his head. "All at once."
Francesco took a slow sip of his coffee, then set the cup down. "That makes sense."
Héctor looked up, surprised. "You're not going to tell me I should just be happy about the interest?"
Francesco smiled faintly. "No. Because it's not that simple."
Héctor's shoulders relaxed a fraction.
Silence returned briefly, but it was easier now.
"I know why they're bidding," Héctor said quietly. "I know the story they're telling. Lost my place. Unhappy. Ready to move on." He shrugged. "Some of it's true. Some of it's… convenient."
Francesco nodded. "Kyle Walker."
Héctor didn't flinch. He didn't bristle. He simply nodded back.
"Yeah."
He leaned forward now, elbows on the table, voice low. "I'm not angry at him. I respect him. He's class. Experienced. Strong. He's earned his spot." His jaw tightened slightly. "But it's hard. One season, you're the first name. Next, you're watching more than playing. And everyone tells you to be patient."
Francesco listened. Fully. No interruptions.
"I train hard," Héctor continued. "I stay professional. I don't complain. But inside…" He tapped his chest lightly. "Inside, you start asking questions. About your future. About whether you're still growing or just… waiting."
That was the heart of it.
Francesco leaned back slightly, eyes steady on Héctor. "Can I be honest?"
Héctor met his gaze. "That's why I'm here."
Francesco took a breath that not to soften his words, but to steady them.
"I understand exactly why this hurts," he said. "Losing your starting position doesn't just affect minutes. It affects identity. Confidence. The way you see yourself." He paused. "But I also see something else here. Something you might be missing because it's too close."
Héctor frowned slightly. "What?"
"Kyle Walker isn't just competition," Francesco said calmly. "He's a resource."
Héctor blinked. "A resource."
"Yeah," Francesco continued. "You've always had pace. Technique. Intelligence. You read the game well. But Kyle brings something different. Positional discipline. Game management. Knowing when not to go. When to hold. When to kill momentum."
He leaned forward now, voice firmer but not forceful.
"You're not being replaced," Francesco said. "You're being challenged. And that's uncomfortable. But it's also how players level up."
Héctor looked unconvinced. "Hard to level up from the bench."
Francesco nodded. "True. If the bench is where you stay. But that's not written yet."
Héctor looked away, eyes drifting toward the window, Big Ben's silhouette visible in the distance.
"Barcelona feels like a way out," he admitted quietly. "Familiar. Safe. They know me. I know them. Same with the others. City, Chelsea, United. They're offering clarity."
Francesco didn't react immediately.
"Clarity isn't always growth," he said eventually. "Sometimes it's comfort."
Héctor turned back to him. "Are you saying I shouldn't go?"
Francesco shook his head slowly. "I'm saying you shouldn't run."
The words settled between them.
"I won't lie to you," Francesco continued. "Kyle's experience is something you can learn from, if you choose to. Watch how he positions himself when we're under pressure. How he times his overlaps. How he communicates with the center-backs. That knowledge? You don't get it from watching videos. You get it from living it."
Héctor listened, eyes fixed now, engaged despite himself.
"You're still young," Francesco said. "And you're still trusted here. Maybe not in the same way, maybe not every match but trust isn't static. It moves with performance, maturity, adaptability."
Héctor rubbed his hands together slowly. "And if I stay and nothing changes?"
Francesco didn't dodge it. "Then you reassess. With more experience. More leverage. More certainty."
Silence again.
This one heavier.
Héctor finally spoke, voice quieter. "Do you know what scares me?"
Francesco waited.
"That if I leave now," Héctor said, "I'll always wonder what I could've become here. And if I stay… I'm afraid I'll fade."
Francesco's expression softened.
"You won't fade," he said simply. "Not if you stay present. Not if you keep pushing. Not if you use this moment instead of letting it use you."
Héctor looked down, then back up. "You really believe that."
"I do," Francesco said. "Because I've seen you when you're challenged. You don't shrink. You adapt."
They sat quietly, the noise of the café filling the gaps again.
Outside, the clock chimed softly in the distance.
Héctor exhaled deeply, like someone releasing a breath they'd been holding all day.
"I needed this," he said. "Not advice. Perspective."
Francesco smiled faintly. "That's all I was offering."
Héctor picked up his cup, realizing only now that he hadn't touched it. He took a sip, then another.
"I don't know what I'll decide yet," he said honestly.
Francesco nodded. "You don't have to. Just don't let fear make it for you."
They stood a few minutes later, coats pulled back on, scarves adjusted.
Outside the café, the city moved around them again.
Héctor paused before they parted. "Thanks, hermano."
Francesco clasped his shoulder. "Whatever you choose… make sure it's your choice."
Héctor nodded, once, firmly.
They went their separate ways, the conversation lingering longer than any headline ever could.
The night settled quietly over London.
After they parted near the café, the city carried on as if nothing consequential had happened with cars flowed across bridges, lights flickered on in office buildings, the Thames slid past its banks without urgency. Francesco drove home in silence again, the conversation replaying in fragments rather than full sentences. Not Héctor's words exactly, but the pauses between them. The way his shoulders had eased slightly by the end. The way his eyes had steadied when fear finally gave way to thought.
Some conversations didn't end when people walked away. They followed you. Lingered. Grew roots.
By the time Francesco reached the mansion in Richmond, the house was dark except for a few lamps left on automatically. He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, loosened his coat, and moved through the familiar space with practiced ease. The quiet didn't feel empty tonight. It felt… resolved, in a way. Not solved, but aligned.
He slept deeply.
No dreams of matches. No noise of crowds. Just rest.
Morning arrived without ceremony.
Grey again, but lighter. The kind of morning that hinted at movement beneath stillness.
Francesco woke early, as he always did on training days. Habit more than necessity. His body stirred before his alarm, muscles loose but ready, mind clear in that rare space between sleep and obligation.
He showered, dressed, and headed downstairs.
Breakfast was simple. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. He stood by the kitchen counter rather than sitting, eyes occasionally drifting toward the garden beyond the glass doors, frost still clinging stubbornly to the grass. The world felt suspended, as if waiting for something to tip it one way or another.
He ate slowly.
Not distracted. Not rushed.
When he finished, he rinsed his plate, set it in the dishwasher, and turned toward the living room to grab his training bag.
That was when the television caught his eye.
He hadn't turned it off the night before.
Sky Sports News glowed quietly in the background, muted but alive, scrolling headlines moving steadily across the bottom of the screen. Francesco didn't usually stop for it in the mornings, but something in the presenter's posture made him pause.
He set his empty mug down.
Unmuted the TV.
"…and this just in from North London," the presenter said, voice edged with that familiar mix of urgency and satisfaction. "Arsenal right-back Héctor Bellerín has released a public statement moments ago, addressing the recent transfer speculation surrounding his future."
Francesco froze.
His hand remained on the remote, thumb hovering uselessly as his attention locked fully onto the screen.
The graphic changed.
HÉCTOR BELLERÍN BREAKS SILENCE
Footage rolled beneath it with clips of Héctor in an Arsenal shirt, sprinting down the right flank, celebrating goals, clapping fans after full-time. Familiar images, but now reframed by context.
The presenter continued.
"After intense interest from Barcelona, Chelsea, Manchester City, and Manchester United, Bellerín has made his position clear…"
The camera cut to a full-screen image.
White background. Black text.
A statement.
Francesco stepped closer, duffle bag forgotten at his feet.
The presenter began to read aloud.
"I've seen the speculation. I've felt the noise. And I want to speak directly to the supporters who have shown me nothing but love during this time…"
Francesco's chest tightened that not with anxiety, but with recognition.
He knew that tone.
"Arsenal is my home. This club shaped me, not just as a footballer, but as a person. I understand competition is part of this game, and I welcome it. I am committed to fighting for my place, learning, improving, and giving everything I have to this badge."
The words hung in the air.
The presenter paused deliberately before continuing.
"I am staying. And I will earn my place back on the pitch."
For a moment, the room was utterly still.
No commentary. No reaction shots. Just the weight of the statement settling into space.
Francesco exhaled slowly, realizing only then that he'd been holding his breath.
He didn't smile immediately.
Instead, he sat down.
Not because his legs were weak, but because the moment deserved grounding.
The screen shifted to studio discussion almost instantly.
"This is a massive statement," one pundit said. "At a time when many players might look for an exit, Bellerín has chosen loyalty and competition. That will resonate deeply with Arsenal supporters."
Another nodded. "It sends a message not just to the fans, but to the dressing room. This isn't a player running from pressure. This is a player embracing it."
Francesco leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, eyes fixed on the screen.
Clips of social media reactions flooded in.
"HE STAYS."
"LOYALTY."
"ONE OF OUR OWN."
"FIGHT WITH US."
Outside the TV, his phone began to vibrate on the kitchen counter.
Once.
Twice.
Then continuously.
He didn't pick it up yet.
He let the noise wash over him.
Because in that moment, something clicked into place.
This wasn't just about Héctor staying.
It was about how he stayed.
About the message he chose to send that not defensively, not vaguely, but with conviction.
Francesco stood again, slinging the duffle bag over his shoulder at last. He picked up his phone now.
Dozens of notifications.
Group chats exploding.
Private messages.
Missed calls.
He opened the Arsenal players' group chat first.
It was chaos, in the best way.
Ramsey:
YESSSS 💪❤️
Özil:
That's big.
Sánchez:
Respect.
Cech:
Strong words. Good man.
Someone had posted a screenshot of the statement. Someone else had added a fire emoji. Another followed with a simple heart.
Francesco typed.
Francesco:
Proud of him. That's how you face it.
Replies came instantly.
But there was one message he was looking for.
He left the group chat and opened his private messages.
There it was.
Héctor:
Morning. Guess you've seen it.
Francesco smiled then.
Just a little.
He replied.
Francesco:
I have. Took courage. I'm proud of you.
The typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Héctor:
I meant what I said. I'm not running. Not from Walker. Not from expectations.
Francesco leaned against the counter, the hum of the fridge behind him grounding the moment.
Francesco:
That's all anyone can ask. The rest will follow.
Another pause.
Héctor:
Yesterday helped. More than you know.
Francesco didn't overcomplicate it.
Francesco:
Anytime.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and headed for the door.
London Colney buzzed with energy that morning.
The training ground always had a rhythm to it with arrivals spaced out, engines cutting, boots hitting pavement but today, there was something sharper in the air. Not tension. Purpose.
Players gathered in small clusters as they arrived, conversations overlapping, laughter breaking through seriousness. Everyone had seen it. Everyone had an opinion. But more than anything, there was respect.
Héctor arrived not long after Francesco.
No grand entrance. No extra attention. Just the same quiet confidence he always carried that only now, steadier. Rooted.
When he stepped into the locker room, a few heads turned. A few nods followed. Nothing performative. Just acknowledgment.
Francesco caught his eye across the room.
Héctor smiled.
Not small this time.
Real.
Training began as usual.
Warm-ups. Passing drills. Movement patterns. But there was an edge to Héctor today. Not reckless. Intentional. His touches were cleaner. His runs sharper. When Walker lined up on the opposite side during a defensive drill, there was no resentment and only focus.
Francesco watched from midfield, reading the flow as he always did.
He noticed things others might miss.
The way Héctor mirrored Walker's positioning.
The way he held his run half a second longer.
The way he communicated more, louder, clearer.
This wasn't a player trying to prove something loudly.
This was a player learning.
During a brief water break, Walker approached Héctor. They exchanged a few words. No tension. A nod. A gesture toward the pitch, as if pointing something out.
Héctor listened.
Francesco felt something settle in his chest.
This was what growth looked like.
After training, as players filtered toward the changing rooms, Wenger stood near the pitch edge, hands clasped behind his back, eyes thoughtful. He caught Francesco's attention briefly.
A look.
Nothing more.
But it said enough.
Later, as Francesco packed up his boots, Ramsey nudged him with his elbow.
"Seems like your café talk worked," he said lightly.
Francesco shrugged. "He did the work. Not me."
Ramsey grinned. "Still. Leadership."
Francesco didn't respond. He didn't need to.
He glanced across the room.
Héctor was laughing now, towel over his shoulder, relaxed in a way he hadn't been days ago.
Not because the pressure was gone.
But because he'd chosen how to face it.
Outside, the sky was still grey but brighter.
And as Francesco left the training ground that day, bag slung over his shoulder, he felt it clearly.
Not relief.
Belief.
Because sometimes, the most important victories didn't come on the pitch.
They came in moments like this with quiet, resolute decisions that held a team together when everything tried to pull it apart.
______________________________________________
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: 29
Goal: 47
Assist: 2
MOTM: 6
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