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They came in moments like this with quiet, resolute decisions that held a team together when everything tried to pull it apart.
Two weeks passed not with a bang, but with accumulation.
Small moments stacked on top of each other. Training sessions that carried a little more bite. Conversations that lingered longer than usual. Headlines that slowly shifted tone from speculation to observation, from "will he leave?" to "how will Arsenal manage this depth?"
January crept toward its final pages, cold and unforgiving, the way transfer windows always were. And through it all, Arsenal kept moving.
Winning.
Working.
Holding themselves together.
The first match came on a Saturday afternoon at the Emirates.
Burnley.
On paper, the kind of fixture people underestimated. Compact. Physical. Unapologetic. The kind of team that didn't care about narratives or title races, only about disrupting rhythm and making the afternoon uncomfortable.
From the tunnel, Francesco could feel it.
The air was sharp, the crowd expectant but cautious. January football had a way of stripping games down to their core. No romance. Just resilience.
As the teams lined up, Francesco glanced right.
Héctor Bellerín stood there, pulling his sleeves down, jaw set, eyes forward.
Starting.
Again.
Kyle Walker was on the bench.
No drama. No whispers. Just a decision.
Francesco caught Héctor's eye for a split second. Héctor nodded once. That was all.
The whistle blew.
Burnley didn't wait to settle. They pressed early, bodies flying into challenges, long balls launched into Arsenal's half, the kind of football designed to test patience more than skill.
Arsenal responded with control, but it wasn't smooth. Not yet.
In the 18th minute, Burnley won a corner.
The delivery was vicious that flat, fast, dipping late. Arsenal's line hesitated for half a second too long.
Virgil van Dijk rose.
Above everyone.
The thud of his header echoed through the stadium before the net rippled.
1–0 Arsenal.
Francesco clenched his fist instinctively, turning toward Van Dijk as the defender landed, chest puffed, eyes blazing. The Emirates erupted not with relief, but with momentum.
Burnley didn't back off.
They equalized shortly after halftime, a scrappy goal born from chaos in the box. A deflection. A rebound. The kind of goal that turned matches ugly if not answered quickly.
Francesco gathered the team at the restart.
"Calm," he said. "We keep playing."
Ten minutes later, the ball found its way to him just outside the box.
One touch to settle. Another to open the angle.
The shot was instinctive.
Low. Driven. Unstoppable.
2–1.
He didn't celebrate wildly. Just a sharp turn toward the stands, arms spread briefly, before jogging back. Job not done.
Héctor was relentless down the right.
Every run purposeful. Every cross measured. He tracked back relentlessly, matching Burnley's wingers stride for stride, refusing to give them the satisfaction of space.
Late in the match, Alexis Sánchez sealed it.
3–1.
The Emirates exhaled as one.
After the final whistle, Francesco clapped the crowd, then turned to Héctor.
They bumped shoulders.
Nothing said.
Everything understood.
Three days later, Watford came to town.
And this one was chaos.
From the opening minutes, Arsenal looked… off. Not disinterested, but loose. Passes just a fraction late. Pressing half a second slow.
Watford punished it.
First Kaboul.
A header from a set piece, powerful and decisive.
Then Deeney.
A bully of a goal. Holding off defenders, smashing the ball home with pure defiance.
2–0 Watford.
The Emirates fell into stunned silence.
Francesco stood at the center circle, hands on hips, breathing steady. He glanced around at his teammates.
No panic.
But urgency.
He jogged back toward his position, clapping his hands.
"Next action," he shouted. "Next one."
Arsenal responded immediately.
Pressure. Possession. Movement.
Héctor was everywhere.
Overlapping. Underlapping. Stretching Watford's back line until it began to crack. His cross in the 32nd minute was half-cleared, falling to Iwobi at the edge of the box.
Iwobi didn't hesitate.
2–1.
The stadium roared back to life.
Before halftime, Francesco struck again.
A quick one-two with Özil. A darting run between center-backs. A finish clipped delicately over the keeper.
2–2.
He pumped his fist once, hard.
Watford looked shaken now.
The second half was relentless.
Arsenal pinned them back, wave after wave of pressure crashing against yellow shirts. Héctor continued to drive forward, fearless, his confidence growing with every successful duel.
In the 74th minute, the moment arrived.
Alexis slipped a ball through the channel.
Francesco timed his run perfectly.
One touch.
Second touch.
Goal.
3–2.
Brace.
Comeback complete.
He turned toward the North Bank, arms raised, the noise crashing over him like a physical force.
At full time, the scoreboard told the story.
Arsenal 3–2 Watford.
Two wins.
Six points.
Héctor Bellerín, starting both matches, had done more than hold his own.
He had sent a message.
By the time January 31st arrived, the mood around London Colney was… composed.
Not relaxed. Not careless.
Composed.
The final day of the winter transfer window always carried an undercurrent of madness. Phones buzzing. Agents hovering. Journalists camping outside gates, hoping for a glimpse, a whisper, anything to feed the cycle.
Inside the training ground, though, it felt different this year.
Focused.
Francesco arrived early, as usual. The air was biting, frost crunching beneath his boots as he walked toward the building. He glanced briefly toward the road outside the gates, where a small cluster of reporters already stood.
He didn't slow.
Inside, players trickled in one by one.
Héctor arrived mid-morning.
Same routine. Same posture. Same quiet intensity.
No one asked him about the window.
No one needed to.
The training session was light with tactical work, recovery, preparation for the weekend ahead. Wenger watched from the sideline, hands tucked into his coat, eyes missing nothing.
At one point, during a defensive drill, Walker and Héctor were paired together.
It wasn't accidental.
They worked through scenarios from overlaps, recovery runs, defensive positioning. Walker spoke. Héctor listened. Then Héctor spoke. Walker nodded.
Competition.
Not conflict.
Francesco watched, arms folded, a faint smile touching his lips.
This was what the best squads looked like.
Training wound down the way it always did at London Colney that gradually, almost quietly, as if the place itself knew when to release the players back into the wider world.
The last drill ended with a short whistle. Cones were nudged aside with boots, bibs peeled off and tossed toward the equipment crate, laughter drifting in small bursts as the tension of focused work finally eased. Breath steamed faintly in the cold air, shoulders rolled loose, calves stretched against the grass.
Francesco stayed on the pitch a little longer than most.
Not because he needed extra work, but because he liked to watch the after-effects of training. The way habits revealed themselves when structure fell away. The way confidence showed up not in words, but posture.
He saw it clearly now.
Héctor Bellerín moved differently than he had two weeks ago.
Not faster, he'd always been fast.
Not sharper as his technique had never been in question.
But steadier.
There was a quiet assurance in the way he jogged toward the touchline, how he bent to retie his laces without rushing, how he exchanged a few words with Kyle Walker before they split toward the changing rooms. No forced smiles. No guarded glances. Just ease.
Contention didn't always look aggressive.
Sometimes it looked settled.
Francesco gathered his gloves, slung his jacket over his shoulder, and jogged lightly toward the tunnel. He caught up with Héctor just before the door, both of them slowing instinctively, allowing the others to funnel past.
"Got a minute?" Francesco asked.
Héctor nodded immediately. "Yeah."
They stepped aside, just off the main corridor, where the noise dropped to a dull hum. The concrete walls held the chill, but it wasn't uncomfortable and just familiar.
For a moment, they stood there in silence.
Then Héctor spoke first.
"Feels different," he said.
Francesco looked at him. "In a good way?"
Héctor nodded. "Yeah. In a good way."
He leaned back against the wall, arms loosely crossed, eyes fixed somewhere ahead rather than directly at Francesco. It wasn't avoidance. It was reflection.
"When the bids came in," Héctor continued, "I thought… maybe that was the club telling me something. You know? That maybe I was becoming expendable." He let out a quiet breath. "Football does that to you. Makes you read signs that aren't always there."
Francesco listened, head tilted slightly, hands resting at his sides.
"But then Wenger starts me," Héctor went on. "Once. Then again. No explanations. Just trust." He shook his head faintly. "That changes how you see things."
Francesco smiled, just a little. "Trust does that."
Héctor finally looked at him now. "I get it now. About Walker."
Francesco raised an eyebrow. "You do?"
"Yeah," Héctor said. "At first, I thought he was here to replace me. Simple as that. Stronger. Older. Proven." He shrugged. "Easier to believe that than to believe the club still saw something in me."
He pushed off the wall, shifting his weight forward. "But watching him… training with him… he's not here to push me out. He's here to push the standard."
Francesco nodded. "And how does that feel?"
Héctor thought about it. Really thought.
"Hard," he admitted. "Some days. When he starts and I don't. When he makes something look effortless that I'm still learning." A pause. "But also motivating. Because I can see what's missing in my game now."
He gestured vaguely with his hand, as if outlining something in the air.
"Positioning. Patience. Knowing when not to go. I used to think being a full-back was all about running," Héctor said with a faint smile. "Turns out it's about restraint just as much."
Francesco let out a quiet chuckle. "Welcome to experience."
Héctor laughed softly, then grew serious again.
"I don't feel like I'm fighting the club anymore," he said. "I feel like I'm fighting for myself. And that's different."
That landed.
Francesco crossed his arms now, mirroring Héctor's earlier posture. "You know," he said, "there's a difference between being trusted and being guaranteed. Wenger doesn't guarantee anyone minutes. Not even me. But when he trusts you, he gives you opportunity. And what you do with it, that's on you."
Héctor nodded slowly. "That's what these last two matches felt like. Opportunity."
Francesco's mind flickered briefly to Burnley. To Watford. To the way Héctor had responded not with flashy moments, but with consistency. With discipline. With effort that didn't fade after the first sprint.
"You took it," Francesco said simply.
Héctor exhaled, a small smile breaking through. "Feels good to hear that."
They began walking again, unhurried now, boots echoing softly along the corridor toward the changing room.
"I used to think competition meant someone had to lose," Héctor said. "Like one of us walks away diminished."
Francesco glanced sideways. "And now?"
"Now I think competition means the bench gets stronger," Héctor said. "And so do we."
They reached the locker room doors. Inside, voices rose and fell, the familiar post-training chaos already underway with jokes, music, towels snapping, the smell of liniment and damp kit filling the air.
Héctor stopped just before going in.
"I wanted you to know," he said quietly, "that staying… it wasn't just about loyalty. It was about believing the club still believes in me."
Francesco met his gaze. "They do."
Héctor nodded once, satisfied.
"And Walker?" Francesco added. "Don't stop watching him. Don't stop learning. That's how you turn competition into advantage."
Héctor smiled properly now. "I will."
They stepped inside.
The locker room buzzed.
Someone had turned the music up too loud. Someone else was arguing about whose assist had been better over the last two matches. Alexis was animated as ever, Özil quieter but smiling, Van Dijk already half-dressed, scrolling through his phone.
Kyle Walker sat a few lockers down from Héctor, towel around his shoulders.
Their eyes met briefly.
Walker gave a short nod.
Héctor returned it.
No tension. No ego.
Just mutual acknowledgment.
Francesco took his place, unlacing his boots, letting the sounds wash over him. This was the part of football that never made highlight reels that meant everything. Alignment. Quiet respect forged not by words, but by shared intent.
As he pulled his boots off, he thought back over the last two weeks.
The chaos of the window.
The fear of losing pieces.
The noise from outside trying to fracture something fragile.
And yet here they were.
Stronger.
Not because nothing had challenged them, but because something had, and they'd faced it together.
Héctor sat down a few lockers away, peeling off his socks, posture relaxed, shoulders loose. He looked like a player at ease with uncertainty and not immune to it, but no longer ruled by it.
Wenger passed through the room briefly, offering a few words here and there, his presence calm, almost understated. When he reached Héctor, he paused for half a second longer.
"Good work today," he said.
Héctor straightened instinctively. "Thank you, boss."
Wenger nodded and moved on.
Francesco caught Héctor's eye again.
There it was.
Confirmation.
Trust wasn't loud. It didn't announce itself. It showed up in selections, in minutes, in moments like that quiet, affirming, powerful.
Later, as the players filtered out, jackets pulled on and bags slung over shoulders, Francesco lingered once more.
Héctor was tying his trainers, ready to leave.
"You alright?" Francesco asked.
Héctor smiled. "Yeah. I really am."
They walked out together, the winter air biting but fresh, the training ground settling back into stillness behind them.
The gravel crunched softly under their boots as they stepped away from the building, the sounds of London Colney fading behind them in layers with first the muffled thud of doors closing, then the distant echo of laughter, then finally just the wind moving through bare trees and the low hum of traffic far beyond the training ground.
They stopped at the small fork in the path where players usually split toward their cars.
Héctor adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. Francesco pulled his jacket tighter around himself, breath fogging faintly in the cold.
"See you tomorrow," Héctor said.
"Yeah," Francesco replied. "Keep this feeling. Don't let it slip."
Héctor nodded, serious now. "I won't."
There was a brief pause that not awkward, not forced. The kind that only existed between people who understood each other without needing to fill silence.
Then Héctor smiled, lighter again. "Drive safe."
"You too."
They clasped hands briefly, a quick squeeze of forearms, and then Héctor turned away toward his car.
Francesco watched him go for a second longer than necessary.
Not because he was worried.
Because he was proud.
Then he turned in the opposite direction.
The drive out of London Colney always felt like a decompression chamber.
The gates slid open smoothly, the guard offering a familiar nod as Francesco eased his car forward. The reporters were gone now, or at least pushed back farther down the road, their presence reduced to a distant inconvenience rather than an immediate pressure.
Once he merged onto the main road, the world widened again.
Traffic wasn't bad. The sky hung low and grey, the kind of overcast that muted everything it touched. Trees stood bare and skeletal along the roadside, winter stripping them down to essentials.
Francesco drove in comfortable silence.
No music.
No phone calls.
Just the steady rhythm of the engine and the quiet hum of tires against asphalt.
His thoughts drifted that not racing, not heavy. Just moving.
Training. Matches. Conversations.
Héctor's words replayed in his mind.
I don't feel like I'm fighting the club anymore.
That line stuck with him.
Football careers were defined by those internal battles more than anything else. The fight against doubt. Against fear. Against the constant sense that someone younger, stronger, shinier was always one window away.
He'd felt it himself, even now, even with goals and headlines and chants carrying his name.
Trust was fragile.
It had to be earned every day.
The road curved gently as he left the denser parts of the city behind, houses giving way to wider spaces, quieter streets. The closer he got to Richmond, the more the pace of everything seemed to slow.
His phone buzzed briefly on the passenger seat.
A message.
He didn't look at it immediately.
He already knew who it was from.
The gates to his property slid open with a soft mechanical whir, revealing the long, curved driveway leading up to the house. The mansion sat back from the road, partially shielded by tall hedges and trees, its lights already glowing warmly despite the early hour.
Francesco eased the car forward, the tires rolling smoothly over the stone.
As he pulled into the garage, the engine cut off with a low purr, leaving sudden quiet behind.
For a second, he stayed seated.
Hands still on the steering wheel.
Breathing steady.
This was another transition. From player to person. From pressure to presence.
He grabbed his bag, stepped out, and closed the door behind him.
The garage was warm, faintly echoing, the space holding not just his car but the remnants of a life lived mostly elsewhere with old boots lined neatly on a shelf, training cones stacked in a corner, a bicycle he promised himself he'd use more often.
He headed inside.
The moment the door opened, it hit him.
The smell.
Garlic, sautéed slowly.
Something rich and warm from tomatoes, maybe, or herbs simmering down into something deeper. Olive oil. Fresh bread.
Home.
He paused just inside the doorway without meaning to.
For all the stadiums he'd walked into, all the noise and lights and adrenaline, nothing grounded him like that simple, domestic moment as the unmistakable scent of food cooked by someone who knew him.
"Leah?" he called out.
"In here!" her voice answered, light and effortless.
He shrugged off his jacket, set his bag down, and followed the sound into the kitchen.
Leah stood at the stove, hair tied back loosely, sleeves rolled up, moving with the easy confidence of someone entirely at home in her own space. A pan sizzled quietly in front of her, steam rising as she stirred, tasting, adjusting.
She glanced over her shoulder when she heard him.
"Hey," she said, smiling.
Just one word.
But it softened something in his chest instantly.
"Hey," he replied, stepping closer.
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her cheek, inhaling the scent of her mixed with whatever she was cooking. She laughed softly, shifting the pan away from the heat.
"Careful," she said. "You're going to distract me."
"Smells too good," he said. "Couldn't help it."
She grinned. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
He leaned against the counter, watching her work, his body finally relaxing in a way it never quite did anywhere else. The kitchen was warm, golden light bouncing off stone counters and wood cabinets, a stark contrast to the cold, grey world outside.
"What are you making?" he asked.
She gestured with the spoon. "Pasta. Nothing fancy. You looked tired this morning."
That made him smile.
"Tired is relative," he said. "But this… this helps."
She glanced at him again, eyes searching his face in that quiet way she had, the way that saw past interviews and performances and numbers.
"How was training?" she asked.
"Good," he said. Then, after a beat, "Better than good."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's not your usual answer."
He considered how much to say.
Then decided there was no reason to hold back.
"Héctor's in a good place," he said. "Really good. You can see it. He's calmer. More confident. Starting to understand what competition actually is."
Leah nodded slowly. "That's good."
"It is," he agreed. "The whole squad feels… aligned. Like we've absorbed the chaos instead of letting it fracture us."
She turned the heat down, letting the sauce simmer. "Sounds like leadership."
Francesco scoffed lightly. "Don't start."
She laughed, shaking her head. "I'm serious. You notice these things because you care."
He watched her for a moment.
This was the part of his life that rarely made it into headlines. The quiet conversations. The shared meals. The space to process everything without cameras or expectations.
He reached for his phone now, finally checking the earlier message.
It was from Héctor.
Thanks again. Really. See you tomorrow.
Francesco typed back quickly.
Anytime. Keep pushing.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Leah plated the food carefully, the movement practiced, deliberate. When she set the plates down on the counter, the colors popped with deep red sauce, fresh green herbs, steam curling upward invitingly.
"Alright," she said. "Eat before it gets cold."
He pulled out a chair, sitting heavily, the day finally catching up to him now that he'd stopped moving. Leah sat across from him, tucking one leg under the other, watching as he took the first bite.
His eyes closed briefly.
"Yeah," he said. "This was the right decision."
She laughed. "High praise."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that didn't need filling. Outside, the light faded further, evening settling in slowly, peacefully.
After a few minutes, Leah spoke again.
"You seem lighter," she said.
He looked up. "Do I?"
"Yeah," she said. "Not less focused. Just… steadier."
He thought about that.
About Héctor.
About Walker.
About Wenger's quiet nod in the locker room.
"I think we're building something," he said finally. "Not just results. Understanding."
Leah nodded. "Those are the teams that last."
He reached across the table, covering her hand with his.
"For what it's worth," he said, "coming home to this helps more than you know."
She squeezed his hand gently. "I know."
They stayed at the table longer than the food required.
Not because either of them was slow, but because neither of them felt any urgency to move. The plates gradually emptied, forks scraping softly against ceramic, the warmth of the meal settling comfortably rather than heavily. Outside, the last traces of daylight slipped away, the windows reflecting the kitchen lights back at them, turning the world beyond the glass into a muted blur.
Leah leaned back first, exhaling quietly.
"That hit the spot," she said.
Francesco nodded, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "Perfect timing."
She stood, gathering the plates, and he rose with her without thinking, taking his own and following her to the sink. They worked in that unspoken rhythm they'd developed as she rinsed, he loaded the dishwasher, movements overlapping without collision.
Domestic choreography.
When the last plate was set inside and the machine hummed to life, Leah glanced at him.
"TV?" she asked.
He smiled. "Yeah. That sounds good."
They moved into the living room together, the space opening up around them with high ceilings, soft lamps casting pools of light, the quiet hum of the house settling in for the evening. Francesco dropped onto the sofa first, stretching his legs out, boots kicked aside near the door earlier now replaced by thick socks.
Leah curled up beside him, tucking her feet under herself, reaching for the remote.
For a while, it was just comfort.
Some light-hearted show played on the screen that nothing demanding, nothing tied to football or headlines or pressure. Just familiar characters, predictable jokes, the kind of thing that let the mind drift without disengaging entirely.
They laughed at the right moments.
Leah rested her head briefly against his shoulder. Francesco let his arm fall naturally around her, fingers absently tracing the fabric of her sleeve.
Time passed unnoticed.
Eventually, during a lull between episodes, Leah flicked through the channels.
The screen changed.
Blue graphics.
Bold lettering.
A clock.
Sky Sports.
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.
Not tense, but attentive.
On the screen, the familiar studio backdrop glowed with urgency. A large digital timer dominated one corner.
WINTER TRANSFER DEADLINE DAY
HOURS: 02 : MINUTES: 41 : SECONDS: 18
The countdown ticked forward relentlessly.
Leah glanced at Francesco. "You alright with this?"
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's fine."
She left it there.
The presenters were animated, voices layered with that particular tone only deadline day brought with half excitement, half manufactured drama. Split screens showed reporters stationed outside training grounds across the country, scarves pulled tight against the cold, breath visible as they waited for developments that might or might not come.
Francesco leaned back into the sofa, eyes fixed on the screen now, though his posture remained relaxed.
"This always feels louder from the outside," Leah said quietly.
He hummed in agreement. "Inside the club, it's calmer. Or at least… controlled."
On screen, a graphic flashed.
ARSENAL – LATEST
The camera cut to a reporter standing near London Colney's gates.
"Good evening," the reporter said. "Arsenal have been relatively quiet today, but there's still interest around a few names. As we understand it, the club remains open to late offers but are not actively pushing anyone out…"
Francesco exhaled slowly through his nose.
Leah watched him more than the screen.
"…of course, there's been significant speculation around Héctor Bellerín earlier this window," the reporter continued, "but sources close to the club suggest that his recent performances and public commitment have effectively ended any chance of a move tonight."
Leah smiled faintly. "That's good."
"It is," Francesco said.
The screen shifted again, showing clips from the recent matches from Burnley, Watford. Héctor overlapping down the flank. Francesco's goals. Alexis celebrating.
"This Arsenal side looks settled," one pundit said. "There's competition, yes, but there's also clarity. And that's rare on deadline day."
Another nodded. "They've strengthened the bench with Walker, kept their key players, and the mood seems positive. It wouldn't surprise me if they close the window without any major movement."
Leah muted the TV slightly, lowering the volume but not turning it off.
"Does it ever get to you?" she asked. "All this… speculation?"
Francesco thought for a moment.
"It used to," he admitted. "Earlier in my career, every rumor felt personal. Like someone somewhere was deciding my worth without knowing me."
"And now?"
"Now," he said, "I see it for what it is. Noise. Useful sometimes, dangerous if you listen too closely."
She nodded, understanding.
They sat quietly again as the countdown ticked down minute by minute. On screen, chaos erupted elsewhere from clubs scrambling, deals collapsing, journalists shouting over one another as last-minute transfers were confirmed or denied.
Manchester United signing a defender.
Chelsea pulling out of a deal.
Barcelona failing to offload a player.
Each announcement came with flashing graphics and breathless commentary.
Arsenal's section remained… still.
Leah glanced at the clock on the screen again. "Less than two hours."
Francesco shifted slightly, adjusting his position. "If something was going to happen, we'd know by now."
She smiled. "That sounds like experience talking."
"Or hope," he said lightly.
Another segment rolled.
A presenter addressed the camera directly. "One of the quieter stories today has been Arsenal's internal competition, particularly at right-back. The arrival of Kyle Walker was initially seen as a threat to Héctor Bellerín's position, but sources suggest it's had the opposite effect…"
The screen showed training footage as Walker and Bellerín working side by side, communicating, pushing each other.
"…Bellerín's response has been exemplary. Two starts, two strong performances. Arsenal fans will be pleased to see depth without division."
Francesco felt a small, private satisfaction at that.
Leah nudged him gently with her elbow. "You were right."
He raised an eyebrow. "About?"
"Him," she said. "About how he'd respond."
Francesco shrugged. "He just needed to feel trusted."
The countdown ticked lower.
01:17:45.
The studio grew more frantic as time shrank. Papers shuffled. Phones rang. Presenters leaned into earpieces, listening for updates.
Francesco stayed still.
This part of the night had always fascinated him with the contrast between the frenzy on screen and the calm in his living room. Outside, nothing changed. The house remained warm. Leah's presence remained steady. The world didn't actually end or begin because a clock reached zero.
And yet, careers could pivot.
On screen, the presenter smiled broadly. "We're hearing Arsenal have officially closed the door on any outgoing transfers tonight."
Leah let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "There it is."
Francesco nodded. "That'll be that."
They watched the final minutes tick down together.
00:10:32.
00:05:00.
The presenters began their closing statements, summarizing the day, recapping the major moves, speculating briefly before resigning themselves to the inevitable.
The clock hit zero.
WINDOW CLOSED
Applause broke out in the studio.
Francesco felt… nothing dramatic.
Just confirmation.
Leah turned the volume down completely now and leaned into him, resting her head against his chest.
"So," she said softly. "Another window survived."
He smiled, wrapping his arm around her more securely. "Another one."
They sat there for a while longer, the TV now background noise, the intensity gone, replaced by a sense of quiet finality. Outside, the night deepened, frost beginning to settle again over the garden.
Eventually, Leah shifted, stretching.
"I'm going to get ready for bed," she said.
"Yeah," he replied. "I'll be there in a bit."
She stood, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before heading upstairs.
Francesco stayed on the sofa a moment longer.
Alone now, but not lonely.
He replayed the last few weeks in his mind.
The café conversation.
Héctor's statement.
The matches.
The goals.
The trust rebuilt piece by piece.
The window closing not with loss, but with cohesion.
This was how seasons were won that not in dramatic deadline-day signings, but in stability, belief, and people choosing to face pressure instead of escaping it.
He turned the TV off.
The room fell into comfortable silence.
Upstairs, he could hear the faint sound of water running, Leah moving around, the house alive in small, reassuring ways.
Francesco stood, stretching, feeling the pleasant fatigue of a full day.
Tomorrow would bring another training session. Another chance to earn trust. Another step in a long season.
But tonight was enough.
He headed upstairs, the countdown clock now a memory, the window closed, the focus sharpened. And as he reached the bedroom, slipping into the quiet warmth of the space he shared with Leah.
______________________________________________
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: 31
Goal: 50
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