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He wrapped an arm around her shoulders as the morning sunlight flooded the room, the TV's sound fading into the background. The world outside was already roaring with his name, but in that kitchen with Leah, the smell of food, and the medal catching the light on the counter, it was just life.
The kitchen had filled with that late-morning calm that always came after the first coffee — warm sunlight spilling across the counter, the hum of the refrigerator the only steady sound. Leah leaned against the marble island, her hair still damp from the shower, a mug cradled between her hands. Francesco sat opposite her, his breakfast half-finished, eyes fixed on the television across the room.
Sky Sports News had switched to its signature blue studio, the ticker at the bottom scrolling with words that made him blink twice.
"THE STORY OF FRANCESCO LEE: FROM ACADEMY PRODIGY TO WORLD SUPERSTAR."
The camera cut to the desk — Jamie Carragher, Ian Wright, and Thierry Henry all sitting side by side beneath the Sky Sports banner. Behind them, the giant screen displayed a montage of Francesco's most iconic moments: his first Premier League goal at 16, the curling strike against Manchester United, the stoppage-time volley at Stamford Bridge, the celebration in Paris with the Euro trophy lifted high above his head.
Leah smiled faintly as she turned the volume up. "Looks like they've dedicated a whole segment to you."
Francesco chuckled softly, almost sheepish. "Well… let's hope they don't roast me too much."
Jamie Carragher leaned forward, grinning in that familiar Scouse way. "Right, lads — we've covered some incredible stories over the years, but I'm not sure we've ever seen anything quite like this. A year and a half ago, Francesco Lee was just this fearless teenager breaking through Arsenal's academy ranks. Now, he's a two-time Premier League champion, an FA Cup double-winner, part of Arsenal's first ever treble, and — let's not forget — the lad who led England to their first major trophy in over fifty years. At seventeen!"
He gestured toward the screen as highlights began rolling.
First came that blistering counterattack against Manchester City from Francesco racing from midfield, skipping past Kompany and curling the ball into the top corner. Then came the clip of him lifting the Premier League trophy at the Emirates, Leah standing beside him in her Arsenal blazer, confetti raining around them.
Thierry Henry smiled, his voice low, deliberate — the kind of tone that carried both pride and awe. "I've said this before, and I'll say it again: you can teach a player how to move, how to strike the ball, how to read the game. But what Francesco has… you cannot teach. It's instinct. It's hunger. It's that same fire I saw in Dennis, in Patrick, in the Invincibles era — only this time, it's inside a seventeen-year-old boy who plays like he's been doing this for twenty years."
Ian Wright burst into laughter. "And he's a proper Arsenal lad too! I mean, come on he has two Premier League titles already, one of them unbeaten, FA Cups, a treble! Even we didn't manage that in our day!"
Leah giggled quietly at the sight of Wrighty slapping the table. "You can tell he's your biggest fan," she said.
Francesco shook his head, though his cheeks flushed a little. "He's just too kind."
On screen, the montage shifted again as it was showing Euro 2016.
The music underneath swelled: the roar of Stase de France, the sea of white shirts, the moment Francesco's shot hit the net in the final, the camera cutting to his ecstatic teammates piling on top of him.
Carragher's voice came back in. "Let's not forget, this kid didn't just win trophies, because he led teams to them. Look at the Euros. That final. The composure, the movement, the way he carried himself on the biggest stage. England had been waiting fifty years for that moment, and somehow a seventeen-year-old from Arsenal was the one to make it happen."
The studio cut briefly to a slow-motion clip of Francesco standing on the podium in Paris, the gold medal around his neck, the England flag draped over his shoulders. The crowd behind him roared, the caption beneath reading:
"ENGLAND'S GOLDEN BOY — FRANCESCO LEE, EURO 2016 PLAYER OF THE TOURNAMENT."
Henry leaned back, nodding slowly. "When you think of what Arsenal means now — it's his era. The way he works with his teammates, how he links up with Sánchez, Özil, and even the younger lads, it's modern football played with classic intelligence. He reminds me of the kind of players Arsène always dreamed of coaching."
Leah smiled proudly. "He'd love hearing that from Thierry," she said.
Francesco swallowed hard, trying not to look too emotional. "He was my idol growing up. To hear him say that… it's unreal."
The program then switched to a timeline graphic — a glowing line stretching across the screen.
"November 2014– ARSENAL YOUTH DEBUT."
"MAY 2015 – DOUBLE WINNER."
"MAY 2016 – TREBLE WINNER."
"JUNE 2016 – EURO 2016 CHAMPION & OBE RECIPIENT."
Carragher pointed at the timeline, shaking his head. "That's eighteen months. Eighteen. I don't think we've ever seen that kind of rise in modern football. Even Messi or Ronaldo didn't pack that much success into that short a time."
Wright leaned forward, still grinning. "The craziest part? He's not done. You talk to the lads at Arsenal, they'll tell you he's the first one in at training, last one to leave. He still plays with the same energy he had when he was fifteen. No ego. Just pure love of the game."
The segment then cut to clips of Arsenal training — Francesco sprinting through drills at London Colney, laughing with Kante and Bellerín, his touches sharp, his focus absolute. Then another scene from the dressing room after their unbeaten season: champagne flying, Wenger smiling proudly, and Francesco standing on a chair with the Premier League trophy raised high.
Henry's voice returned, quieter now. "I've watched him grow not just as a footballer, but as a man. You can tell he understands what it means to represent Arsenal, to represent England. That humility, that work ethic — it's rare. And it's why I believe he could go down as one of the greatest players this country has ever produced."
Leah turned to Francesco, her voice soft. "Did you hear that?"
He nodded slowly, his throat tight. "Yeah. Feels like… I don't know. Like all those mornings running in the rain finally make sense."
Wright's laughter cut through the moment again. "And let's not forget, he's doing all this while dating Leah Williamson, Arsenal Women's future captain! Talk about a power couple!"
Leah groaned with mock embarrassment. "Oh no…"
Francesco laughed, resting his chin on his hand. "They were bound to bring that up."
Carragher chuckled. "It's a fair point, though between the two of them, Arsenal's got leadership sorted for the next decade!"
Henry smiled knowingly. "You can see how much she grounds him. That balance off the pitch, it always matters. Great players always have great support behind them."
The camera then cut to a short interview recorded from the previous night outside Buckingham Palace. Ian Wright stood there with a grin, speaking to Sky's reporter, the palace lights glittering behind him.
"I've been around this game a long time," Wright said. "And I can tell you, Francesco's different. He's got that sparkle, that joy. You see him smile and you remember why you fell in love with football in the first place. That's why people connect with him because it's not just about the goals, it's the heart."
Back in the studio, Carragher gestured toward the screen. "It's hard to argue with that. When you watch him play, there's this sense — like you're witnessing history in real time."
The segment faded into a montage of headlines from across Europe:
"THE NEW ENGLISH ICON – L'EQUIPE."
"LEE LEADS THE EMPIRE – MARCA."
"THE BOY WHO MADE ENGLAND DREAM – THE TIMES."
The music softened, and Henry spoke again. "What stands out most is how much he still smiles. All that pressure, all that fame, and he still plays with joy. That's the mark of greatness as it's not about how you score, but how you make people feel watching you."
The screen lingered on a slow-motion clip of Francesco celebrating at Wembley — arms stretched wide, face lit with disbelief and triumph, fans exploding behind him in white and red.
Carragher then saying, "From a young lad at Hale End to one of the brightest stars in world football — Francesco Lee's journey is only just beginning."
Ian Wright leaned back in his chair, his grin softening into something more thoughtful as the highlight reel faded into the studio lights again. He tapped his pen against the desk twice with that familiar, rhythmical motion of someone about to drop a question that carried weight.
"Alright, lads," he said, eyes flicking between Thierry Henry and Jamie Carragher. "We've talked about his medals, his records, his impact, but let's really get into it now." He paused for effect, his tone shifting from banter to genuine curiosity. "Do you reckon this kid — Francesco Lee — has reached that level? I mean the level of Messi and Ronaldo. And maybe even more than that can he actually break into that duo's hegemony and make it a three-way era? Messi, Ronaldo, and Lee?"
For a heartbeat, the studio went quiet — not from hesitation, but from the recognition that Wright had just put into words what half the footballing world had been whispering since the summer.
Thierry Henry leaned forward slightly, folding his hands, his eyes narrowing in thought. The lights reflected softly off the glossed table, and for a moment, he looked less like a pundit and more like a teacher weighing the truth in front of a classroom full of believers.
"You know…" Henry began slowly, his French accent lending that measured rhythm he always had when he spoke about football. "I've been very careful about comparisons like that. Because we are talking about two players which is Messi and Ronaldo, who changed the definition of what it means to be great. They didn't just score goals. They redefined consistency, mentality, and dominance over a decade. Ten years, maybe more."
He turned slightly toward the large screen behind them, where a still image of Francesco appeared with his arms raised, confetti falling, that wide grin of disbelief and joy frozen in time.
"But," Henry continued, "I think Francesco has reached that level of performance this season. He's at their level, now. The numbers, the influence, the titles which they're all there. But what he still needs," he added, his tone gentle but firm, "is time. We must see if he can maintain that same intensity, that same focus, that same hunger for ten years like those two have done. That's what separates the extraordinary from the eternal."
Jamie Carragher nodded immediately, his Scouse voice cutting in with that energetic bluntness that made him so watchable. "Spot on, Thierry. Look, people keep saying we're being dramatic, but the stats don't lie, right? You can't win a treble, an international trophy, lead your club in goals, and do it all before you're eighteen, unless you're touching that elite level already. It's not us saying he's going to be Messi or Ronaldo. It's us saying he's already performing at that level this season."
He jabbed his finger toward the camera for emphasis, that trademark Carragher fire lighting up. "If Ballon d'Or voting closed today, right now, I'm telling you — Francesco Lee wins it. No question."
Leah glanced across the kitchen island, her eyebrows arching slightly as she sipped from her mug. "Ballon d'Or winner," she echoed softly, the words tasting strange but wonderful on her tongue.
Francesco gave a half-laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "They're crazy," he muttered, though the faint pink on his cheeks betrayed how deeply it hit him. "Ballon d'Or? I'm still figuring out how to make proper scrambled eggs."
Leah smiled, resting her chin on her hand. "And yet you're somehow on Sky Sports being compared to Messi and Ronaldo before breakfast."
Back on the television, Ian Wright gave a mock gasp, throwing his hands up. "You heard it here first, Jamie Carragher's just declared the Ballon d'Or race over!"
Carragher laughed, leaning back. "Hey, I'm not afraid to say it! Look at what he's done from treble with Arsenal, unbeaten league campaign, win the Euro, Player of the Tournament at the Euros, an OBE at seventeen. Come on, Wrighty. Tell me one player, any era, who's done that before turning eighteen."
Wright opened his mouth, then closed it again, grinning. "Alright, fair. But you know what I love about it? He's not chasing anyone. You can tell he's not trying to be Messi or Ronaldo. He's just being Francesco Lee and that's what makes it so special. He's playing football with freedom, with joy, with that same spark he had when he was a kid in Hale End."
Henry nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. That's exactly it. Messi and Ronaldo, they are perfectionists. Everything they do is calculated. Francesco plays like someone who still remembers the street. There is unpredictability in his game."
The control room director must have felt the weight of the moment too, because the broadcast cut to another highlight, Francesco's solo goal against Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. The camera followed his movement: picking up the ball near the halfway line, shrugging off Azpilicueta, gliding past Cahill, feinting past Courtois, and rolling the ball into the empty net before collapsing to his knees in front of the away fans.
Henry's voice came in softly over the replay. "Look at that. You cannot coach this. This is not muscle memory. This is intuition. The game speaks to him."
Carragher whistled. "And that's against one of the best defences in the league. At seventeen."
Francesco sat silently for a moment in the kitchen, eyes fixed on his younger self on the screen — the energy, the spontaneity, the pure joy. Leah reached across the counter, gently brushing his hand. "You know," she murmured, "I still remember that goal. I was watching from the stands that night. Everyone around me was just… stunned. Like we'd all just seen something we weren't supposed to see yet."
Francesco looked up at her, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It's weird seeing them talk about me like that," he admitted quietly. "Like I'm not even real."
She squeezed his fingers. "That's because they're not talking about fame, Cesco. They're talking about what you've earned."
On the television, Wright was laughing again, waving his hands as Carragher and Henry kept debating. "Listen, I get it, Jamie! You want to crown him already. But you know what I'd love to see? How he handles next season, because when you're that good that young then the pressure only doubles. The press, the fans, the expectation — it can eat you alive if you don't stay grounded."
Carragher nodded in agreement. "That's fair. But I think he's got the right people around him. You see him after games — no flash, no entourage, just his family, Leah, and his teammates. He's humble. That's rare."
Henry added, "He has Wenger. And that makes a difference. Arsène always protected his players, especially the young ones. Francesco was lucky to have him at that stage. It's like how he handled Fabregas. He gives them the space to grow without being crushed by the spotlight."
The control room switched to a short interview clip of Arsène Wenger from the previous week, recorded outside the Emirates after the unveiling of the new training complex.
"I've had many talented players," Wenger said, his French accent gentle, his expression calm. "But Francesco… he has something very few have. He plays as though the game belongs to him, yet he never behaves as though he owns it. That humility — that's the secret. The moment a player believes he is bigger than the game, he starts to lose it. Francesco still plays for the joy of it."
Leah smiled, whispering softly, "He's right."
Francesco chuckled. "He's always right."
The broadcast returned to the Sky studio, and Wright shook his head in admiration. "Wenger's spot on. And you can see how much the kid respects him. I mean, when Francesco lifted the Premier League trophy last May, first thing he did was hug Arsène before anyone else. That tells you everything."
Carragher nodded. "And you could see it again at the Palace ceremony last night — he carried himself like someone twenty years older. You could tell he understands the weight of history. That moment with the Queen — unbelievable."
Henry smiled. "And he looked very sharp in that suit, too."
Wright laughed, clapping his hands together. "That's Leah's influence right there!"
Leah, watching from the kitchen, groaned again, covering her face with her hands. "Oh, no, not again."
Francesco burst out laughing. "They're never going to let you off the hook."
She peeked through her fingers, smirking. "I swear I'm going to have to start doing your media training if they keep this up."
The program shifted tone again as the host teased the next segment — "THE MAKING OF ENGLAND'S NEW ICON." A montage of training ground clips rolled — Francesco leading team huddles, laughing with teammates, then switching into intense focus during drills.
Henry leaned back, speaking more softly now. "When I see that — the leadership, the composure — I remember how young he still is. Seventeen. But you wouldn't know it by the way he carries himself. He reminds me of when I was at Monaco, and Arsène told me once, 'Maturity in football isn't about age, it's about awareness.' Francesco has that awareness. That's why I said yes — he's reached the level of Messi and Ronaldo in performance. The rest will come with time."
Carragher nodded slowly, his expression unusually serious. "You know, when we look back in ten years, I think we'll talk about this era not as the Messi-Ronaldo rivalry… but as the Messi-Ronaldo-Lee era. Three players, three generations overlapping — one final evolution before the next football world begins."
The words hung in the studio air, the gravity of them sinking in. Wright glanced between them, his voice quiet but full of admiration. "If that happens… England won't just have their hero. They'll have their legend."
In the Richmond kitchen, the screen faded into a commercial break. Francesco exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. For the first time all morning, he looked almost dazed.
Leah studied him for a moment, then smiled softly. "You alright?"
He rubbed his forehead and chuckled. "Yeah. Just… trying to process all that. Messi, Ronaldo, and me." He said it almost like a joke, but there was a tremor of disbelief underneath. "That doesn't even sound real."
Leah reached over, resting her hand gently on his arm. "Maybe it's not supposed to yet," she said. "But it will be. Because you've earned every word they just said — not because of the trophies, but because of how you got there."
He met her gaze — steady, warm, grounding. Then he smiled faintly, almost shy. "Guess we'll see if I can keep it up, huh?"
She grinned. "You will. Because you don't play to prove people wrong. You play because you love it."
Francesco stayed quiet for a long while after the commercial break rolled across the TV, the gentle rhythm of the morning reclaiming the space between him and Leah. The golden light had grown warmer now, pouring lazily through the wide windows that looked out onto the garden, where the dew had already begun to glisten and fade under the rising sun. The smell of toast lingered in the air, coffee half-finished, and the faint murmur of the television carried through the background like an echo of the world outside trying to pull him back in.
He leaned back on the counter stool, one arm draped over the backrest, his eyes still fixed on the muted screen — on that freeze-frame of himself, smiling beside Henry and Wright from a few moments earlier. Then, almost without thinking, he reached for his phone.
The device was still buzzing faintly from earlier — new notifications popping up every few seconds, each vibration a reminder that somewhere out there, millions were still talking about him. He swiped across the home screen and opened Instagram.
There it was. The blank canvas of a new post.
Leah noticed the faint shift in his focus and smiled knowingly. "You're gonna post the Palace photo, aren't you?"
He smirked, eyes still on the screen. "I mean, how could I not? It's not every day you get knighted by the Queen."
"OBE'd," she corrected with a playful grin.
He chuckled. "Right. OBE'd. Still feels unreal, though."
She sipped from her mug, watching him scroll through his photo gallery until he found the one — the image taken just after the ceremony, inside the ballroom. The chandeliers glimmered overhead, the Queen's red carpet stretching out behind them, and there they were — Francesco in his sharp tuxedo, the OBE pinned proudly to his lapel, and Leah beside him in her elegant dress, smiling up at him as if the world itself had stilled just for that moment.
He looked at it for a long second. The expression on his face in that photo — pride, disbelief, gratitude — said everything he couldn't quite put into words.
Then he began typing.
What a night!
Very proud to receive this honour from Her Majesty the Queen.
Thank you to my family, my teammates, my coaches, and everyone who's believed in me from the start.
This one's for England ❤️👑⚽️
He paused, reading it over twice, then added a final line almost as an afterthought:
And for her — my rock through it all 💫 @leahwilliamson
Leah, noticing her name appear at the end of the caption, raised a brow and laughed softly. "Oh, smooth," she teased.
He gave a lopsided grin. "Well, it's true."
With a final tap, he hit "Post."
For a moment, nothing happened — just the faint spinning circle at the bottom of the screen. Then it uploaded, and within seconds, the little red hearts began to flood in.
The numbers jumped almost immediately.
10,000 likes.
Then 50,000.
Then 100,000.
By the time he'd taken another sip of his coffee, it had already crossed a quarter of a million.
Leah leaned closer to look. "It's ridiculous," she said with an affectionate laugh. "You could post a picture of your breakfast and it'd go viral."
Francesco smiled faintly, scrolling through the rapidly expanding sea of comments — a blur of emojis, congratulations, and national pride.
Legend! 🇬🇧🔥
So proud of you, King! 👑
OBE at 17. Unreal.
From Hale End to Buckingham Palace!
He scrolled a little further, and familiar names began to pop up among the flood.
🗨️ @alexis_official: Well deserved, hermano! You've earned it. Enjoy the moment! 🇨🇱❤️
🗨️ @aaronramsey: My captain in the making. Buzzing for you, lad! 👏🔥
🗨️ @hectorbellerin: Still remember you almost showing up late to training on your first day — now look at you 😂 Proud, bro! 💪
🗨️ @kante_7: Proud of you, my friend. You represent us all with honour 🙏⚽️
🗨️ @mesutozil1088: Family ❤️ Arsenal family. So proud.
Leah leaned over his shoulder, scanning the comments. "Even Özil commented. You know that means something."
Francesco smiled softly, his thumb hovering over the screen. "He was one of the first people to message me after the final. Said I reminded him of how football felt when he was young."
Leah's gaze softened. "That's beautiful."
He kept scrolling, his expression caught somewhere between pride and disbelief. Every comment, every little heart, every message of support — it all felt like a wave crashing over him, too vast to absorb.
Then he saw one that made him freeze.
🗨️ @thierryhenry14: Keep your feet on the ground, your heart in the game, and your eyes on the future. The rest will come. Proud of you, kid. 🔴⚪️
Francesco's chest tightened. He stared at the comment, a small smile breaking through. "Thierry…" he whispered.
Leah smiled gently, seeing the look on his face. "That one's going in the memories box, isn't it?"
He nodded, his eyes still glued to the screen. "Yeah. Definitely."
Then another notification popped up — a direct message this time. From someone unexpected.
🕊️ @cristiano: Congratulations, Francesco. Keep working. Greatness isn't given — it's defended every day. 💪⚽️
Francesco froze completely, the air leaving his lungs for a second. "Oh, my God."
Leah looked up instantly. "What?"
He turned the screen toward her. She read it, blinked twice, and then laughed in sheer disbelief. "Cristiano Ronaldo just messaged you."
He leaned back, still staring at the words, shaking his head in stunned silence. "That's… insane."
Then, almost on cue, another notification appeared — this time from @leomessi.
🕊️ @leomessi: Felicidades, chico. You play beautiful football. Keep smiling. 🌟
Leah clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. "Okay, that's it. You've officially broken the football universe."
Francesco could only laugh — a soft, breathless sound of disbelief. "Messi and Ronaldo in the same morning…"
He locked his phone for a moment and just sat there, staring at nothing, as if trying to let it all sink in. The quiet hum of the fridge, the faint song of a bird outside, the sunlight on the table — it all felt strangely grounding against the enormity of what was happening on that tiny screen in his hand.
Leah reached across the counter again, her fingers brushing his. "You realise what this means, right?" she said softly. "They don't just see you as a kid anymore. You're one of them now."
He smiled faintly, a mix of humility and quiet awe. "Feels like I'm standing on the edge of something," he murmured. "Like a line between what I used to dream about and what's actually happening."
Leah tilted her head, smiling warmly. "Then don't be afraid of it. You've earned your place here — with them, with the greats."
He exhaled slowly, nodding. "Yeah. I just… want to make sure I don't lose what got me here in the first place."
She squeezed his hand. "You won't. You're still the same boy who used to stay out kicking a ball under the streetlight until your mum yelled you in."
He laughed softly. "Yeah, except now the Queen's giving me medals instead of my mum giving me lectures."
They both laughed, the sound filling the kitchen with warmth.
As the morning stretched on, Francesco's phone continued to buzz every few seconds. Fans from all over the world posted edits of him holding the medal, fan pages tagged him in collages with the caption "From Hale End to Buckingham Palace." Sky Sports reposted his photo, calling it "A new chapter in England's golden story." Even Arsenal's official account shared it with the caption:
Our very own @francescolee — OBE. History made. ❤️⚪️
The numbers were staggering. Within an hour, his post had reached two million likes. The comments — thousands upon thousands — were a mix of flags, hearts, and messages of pride from every corner of the footballing world.
Leah was scrolling beside him now, half-amused, half-awed. "You know," she said with a small smile, "I think this might be the first time the internet's unanimously happy about something."
He chuckled. "Give it a day."
But deep down, he could feel it — the energy, the love, the connection. It wasn't just fame; it was belonging. He had become a symbol of something larger than himself — a boy who had grown into England's dream.
Then, a message popped up from Arsenal's group chat — "Invincibles Reloaded 🏆🔥"
Ramsey: Guess we're gonna need a bigger trophy cabinet for you, mate!
Bellerín: And a new suit for the Ballon d'Or, yeah? 😂
Sánchez: Don't forget us little people when you get knighted next year!
Kanté: Dinner on you, Francesco. You are the OBE man now. 🍽️
Özil: Proud of our boy. Remember: humility is the strongest crown. 👑
Francesco typed back, smiling to himself as he did:
Francesco: Wouldn't have done any of it without you lads. See you at next season when it's time back to training, no excuses! 💪⚽️
A flood of laughing emojis followed immediately.
Leah grinned. "You really text like the captain already."
He shrugged, pretending to look casual. "Someone's gotta keep them in line."
But she could see it — the pride he tried to hide behind humour, the weight of everything finally settling in. He had carried Arsenal to an unbeaten season, lifted England to glory, stood before the Queen herself — and yet, sitting here in his Richmond kitchen with a mug of coffee and his girlfriend teasing him, he looked at peace.
The TV in the corner flickered back from commercials to Sky Sports. A breaking-news banner glided across the bottom of the screen:
"#FrancescoLee trending worldwide after Palace Honour."
The headline switched to live fan reactions across the country. Kids playing football in schoolyards, copying his celebration; pundits calling him "the face of modern English football"; and even the Prime Minister's tweet congratulating him for "making England proud again."
Leah watched him quietly as he stared at the screen — the way his eyes softened, a hint of awe and disbelief mingling in them.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
He hesitated for a moment, then said softly, "That somewhere out there, there's a kid in Hale End watching this and he's gonna believe it's possible."
Leah's expression warmed. "Because of you."
He shook his head gently. "Because of us. Because of what football can do."
The phone buzzed again — this time, not with the chaotic flood of Instagram notifications or group chat banter, but a persistent, longer vibration that Francesco recognized immediately. It wasn't the kind that came from fans or friends. This was business. Important business.
He glanced down, and the name flashing across the screen made him smile faintly.
JORGE MENDES.
Leah raised an eyebrow, her voice teasing but curious. "Oh boy. When the super-agent calls this early, that's either very good or very expensive news."
Francesco laughed softly, shaking his head. "Only one way to find out."
He slid his thumb across the screen and lifted the phone to his ear. "What's up, Jorge?"
The voice on the other end was sharp, smooth, and unmistakably confident — the kind of tone that carried the weight of a man who had negotiated half of football's biggest deals. "Ah, Francesco, mi campione!" Mendes' Portuguese accent rolled warmly through the line. "Congratulations, my boy. What a night yesterday! I watched everything. Buckingham Palace! The Queen herself! You made the front page of every major sports paper in Europe and even Forbes called me this morning asking for your PR team's details."
Francesco chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as Leah shot him a mock impressed look. "That's crazy, Jorge. I still feel like the same kid who used to get yelled at by the academy coach for showing up late."
Mendes laughed, a rich, familiar sound. "Well, that kid just became one of the most wanted players on the planet, my friend. And I mean that literally, I've been getting calls all morning. Real Madrid, Barcelona, PSG, Bayern, Manchester City, even AC Milan. They all want to know if there's a chance or any chance you might be open to a move this summer."
Francesco blinked, the words hanging in the air for a second before he leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "Already?"
"Already?" Mendes repeated with amused disbelief. "Francesco, you lifted three trophies with Arsenal, won the Euros, got an OBE, and you're seventeen years old. Clubs don't wait for chances, they create them. Madrid says they're ready to break the bank. Barcelona wants to pair you with trio MSN says they'll build their future around you. And Real Madrid…" Mendes paused dramatically. "They said they'd make you the face of their new era after Ronaldo."
Leah glanced over from the counter, frowning slightly. "What's he saying?"
Francesco covered the mic with his palm and smiled faintly. "Every club in Europe wants me, apparently."
She raised an eyebrow. "And?"
He grinned. "You already know."
Leah smirked. "Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it."
He turned back to the call, his voice calm but firm. "Jorge, you already know my answer. Reject every single one. Like I've said before, I'm loyal to this team. Arsenal is my home."
There was a short silence on the other end before Mendes laughed approvingly. "That's exactly what I expected you to say. Muito bem. I told them all the same thing — that you're focused, disciplined, and loyal. Arsenal made you who you are, and right now, your legacy is growing right there in London."
Francesco nodded to himself, leaning back as the sunlight washed over his face. "It's not about the money or the fame, Jorge. You know me. Wenger gave me a chance when I was just a kid with too much energy and no control. Arsenal believed in me when no one else would. I owe everything to this club."
Leah smiled at him quietly, her hand resting against her mug, pride softening her features.
Mendes' tone shifted, more measured now. "You're a rare one, Francesco. Most young stars would have had their heads turned by now. Madrid calls, and they dream of white shirts and stadium lights. But you, you understand legacy. You understand that history isn't about moving, it's about building. And that's what you're doing at Arsenal."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Exactly."
There was a rustle on the other end of the line — the sound of papers shifting. "Alright, then," Mendes continued briskly, "I'll handle the clubs. They'll keep coming, of course, but I'll make sure they know where you stand. However…" His tone lightened, amusement creeping back in. "That brings us to the second reason I called — endorsements."
Francesco leaned forward, resting an elbow on the marble countertop. "Endorsements?"
"Yes, my boy." Mendes sounded positively delighted. "Since last night, I've had five major brands reach out, and three of them have already sent draft proposals. Richard Mille, Calvin Klein, and Castrol. Each of them wants to partner with you — and not for one-off campaigns. We're talking multi-year contracts."
Leah blinked, nearly spilling her coffee. "Wait — Richard Mille?"
Francesco turned the phone slightly so she could hear. "Yeah, that's what he said."
Mendes continued, clearly in his element now. "Richard Mille wants you to be the face of their new luxury sports line — the RM Chrono series. They said, and I quote, 'Francesco Lee represents modern excellence — a fusion of elegance and performance.' They want you for a global campaign, photoshoot in Monaco next month, with a custom-designed model in Arsenal red and silver."
Leah let out a low whistle. "That's… insane."
Francesco's eyes widened slightly. "Richard Mille… that's next level, Jorge."
"Oh, it gets better," Mendes said with a grin in his voice. "Calvin Klein wants you for their Fall 2016 campaign — global ambassador deal. They said they haven't seen this much youth appeal since David Beckham in his prime. They're offering a full line partnership: lifestyle, fitness, travel wear — the works."
Francesco laughed in disbelief. "What, you mean me standing in my boxers on a billboard in Times Square?"
Leah burst out laughing, covering her face. "Oh no, please no. The internet would explode."
Mendes chuckled. "Exactly why they want you! Young, confident, handsome, sexy — but with that spark. You're football's next icon, Francesco. And lastly…"
He paused for effect, as if savoring the moment.
"Castrol."
Francesco raised a brow. "The motor oil company?"
"Not just that," Mendes said quickly. "They're launching a new performance and endurance campaign called Engine of Champions. They want to sponsor your training series, your boot customizations, and even co-brand an Arsenal training documentary next season. Think Cristiano's 'Tested to the Limit,' but starring you."
Francesco's mouth fell open slightly. "You're serious?"
"Completely," Mendes replied. "I'll send you all three draft contracts tomorrow morning for review. You'll have creative control on the campaigns — I made sure of that."
Leah's eyes widened as she whispered, "That's like… global star level."
Francesco leaned back, letting out a low breath. "That's a lot to take in, Jorge."
"I know," Mendes said warmly. "But you've earned it. You've done what most players only dream of — you've united performance and character. The world doesn't just see your goals, Francesco. They see who you are."
For a moment, Francesco said nothing. He looked down at his hand — the faint indentation from where his OBE medal had rested against his tuxedo the night before — and he smiled softly. "Feels weird, you know," he said finally. "To think all this started with a football on the pavement outside my mum's flat."
Mendes chuckled gently. "And that's exactly why you'll last. Because you remember."
There was a short pause before Francesco spoke again, his tone steady, resolute. "Send me the drafts tomorrow, Jorge. But about the clubs — reject everything, no matter what they offer. Arsenal's my home. Always will be."
"Understood," Mendes said simply, and there was genuine respect in his voice now. "I'll take care of it, champ. You just keep doing what you do — making the world fall in love with football again."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Thanks, Jorge."
"Sempre. Call me if you need anything. And tell Leah she looked stunning last night, the press won't stop talking about her dress."
Leah laughed from across the counter. "Thanks, Jorge!"
"Anytime! I'll talk to you both tomorrow."
The line clicked off, and for a moment, the kitchen fell quiet again, the hum of the morning slipping gently back into place.
Leah was the first to speak. "Richard Mille, Calvin Klein, Castrol…" She shook her head with a smile. "Not bad for a kid who still forgets where he leaves his boots."
Francesco laughed softly. "Hey, I'm getting better."
She leaned forward, her voice soft but filled with admiration. "You know, what I love most is that your first instinct wasn't to ask how much or what they'd pay, it was to stay with Arsenal."
He shrugged lightly, though his eyes were serious now. "That's home. You don't leave home just because someone builds a bigger house."
Leah's smile deepened. "That's why people love you, Cesco."
He chuckled, glancing back at his phone where the post of him and Leah at the Palace had now reached nearly three million likes. "Maybe," he murmured. "Or maybe they just like a good story."
She stood, walking around the counter to him, her hand resting lightly against his shoulder. "No," she said quietly. "They love the truth. And you've never stopped being honest — on or off the pitch."
He turned his head slightly, meeting her eyes, and for a moment, everything — the fame, the noise, the flashing headlines — faded into silence. There was just them. The simple warmth of morning light, the hum of ordinary life, and the quiet certainty that no matter how far the world tried to pull him, his heart would always stay right here.
Outside, the sky stretched blue and endless over Richmond. Somewhere beyond that skyline, football's giants were plotting, sponsors were drafting deals, and fans were chanting his name.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 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