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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.
The next morning broke softly over Richmond — the kind of slow, sun-drenched dawn that carried the smell of summer through the open balcony doors. The air was warm but gentle, full of birdsong and the distant hum of life starting to stir beyond the garden walls. Inside the mansion, the morning light streamed through the glass corridors, cutting golden paths across the oak floor, spilling into the living room where Francesco stood barefoot in a loose T-shirt and joggers, nursing a mug of coffee that had already gone lukewarm.
He'd been up early. Not because he had training, there were still a few weeks left before pre-season. But because his mind hadn't really stopped running since yesterday's call with Jorge Mendes. The excitement, the disbelief, the sheer weight of it all had kept him turning things over in his head long after he and Leah had gone to bed.
Now, as he leaned against the kitchen island, scrolling idly through the morning headlines, the world still hadn't stopped talking.
The Guardian: OBE for Arsenal's Golden Boy — Francesco Lee Honoured at Buckingham Palace
Sky Sports: The King of Hale End: Francesco Lee's meteoric rise continues after royal recognition
L'Équipe: L'Anglais qui a conquis l'Europe — Francesco Lee, la nouvelle légende d'Arsenal
Marca: Madrid eyes the English crown — Francesco Lee, the future Galáctico?
That last headline made him smile faintly, he already knew Mendes had probably shut that talk down before the ink was dry on the paper. Still, it was surreal to see his name lined up alongside words like legend and Galáctico. It didn't feel real. Not yet.
From upstairs, Leah's voice carried faintly down the hallway, humming to herself as she moved about. She'd insisted on sleeping in after the madness of the last few days, and for once, Francesco hadn't argued.
He was still halfway through the article when the intercom buzzed — a soft chime that echoed through the hall.
He frowned slightly, setting down his mug. "It's a bit early for deliveries," he muttered, pressing the button.
A familiar voice came through, warm and cheerful: "Guess who's here, son?"
Francesco's face lit up instantly. "Mum?!"
"And Dad," came another voice, deeper and full of laughter.
He grinned wide, pressing the gate release. "Get in here, both of you!"
A few minutes later, the sound of the front door opening filled the house, followed by the unmistakable shuffle of Sarah Lee's quick steps and the heavy, easy stride of her husband, Mike.
Francesco didn't even let them reach the living room — he met them halfway in the foyer, wrapping them both in a hug that nearly lifted his mum off her feet.
"Bloody hell, lad!" Mike said, laughing, giving his son a firm clap on the back. "You nearly cracked my ribs, lad!"
Sarah, still in his arms, was already teary-eyed, smiling through it. "Oh, you're too tall now, my love. You're gonna make me look like one of your fans."
Francesco laughed, pulling back to look at them both properly. His mum was dressed neatly, as always — floral blouse, simple jeans, her hair pinned up the same way she used to wear it when she'd wait for him outside Hale End after training. His dad looked proud and tired in that way only working men did — old Arsenal jacket, jeans, eyes still sharp behind his glasses.
"You didn't tell me you were coming," Francesco said, still grinning.
Sarah smiled knowingly. "Well, we thought after the Queen gives our son an OBE, we might as well stop by to say congratulations in person."
Mike smirked. "Figured the least we could do was remind him where he came from before Buckingham Palace steals him away."
Francesco laughed, shaking his head. "Never happening, Dad. You two will always be my first call."
They all moved toward the living room, and as soon as they entered, Sarah gasped softly at the sight of the medal case on the mantel — the small glass box where Francesco had placed the red-and-gold OBE ribbon and medal from the night before. Sunlight caught it just right, making it glow faintly in its place of honor.
"Oh, Francesco," she whispered, stepping closer. "It's beautiful."
He smiled quietly. "Yeah. Feels… surreal, still."
Mike crossed his arms, staring at it for a moment. "You know, when you first kicked that football through Mrs. Patterson's window, I never thought that'd be the first step to this."
Francesco burst out laughing, nearly spilling his coffee. "You still remember that?"
Sarah rolled her eyes fondly. "He had to pay for that window, remember? Out of his Christmas money."
Mike chuckled. "Best ten quid I ever lost."
Leah appeared just then, still in her dressing gown, her hair tied up loosely, smiling when she saw them. "Mr. and Mrs. Lee! I thought I heard voices."
Sarah smiled warmly, moving forward to hug her. "Leah, darling! You looked absolutely stunning that night! I saw the photos! My God, you could've walked right off a red carpet."
Leah blushed slightly. "You're too kind. But I think everyone was looking at your son more than me."
Sarah waved her off. "Please. I've seen enough of him on telly these past weeks — it's your turn to shine next!"
Mike laughed heartily, settling into one of the armchairs. "So, lad, what's next? After the Queen, you gonna have tea with the Prime Minister next week?"
Francesco grinned. "Nah, I think I'll stick to football. Leave the politics to people who wear suits for a living."
Sarah smiled proudly, eyes still glancing at the medal on the mantel. "Your dad and I just wanted to see you, Cesco. To tell you how proud we are. It's not just what you've won — it's who you've become."
For a moment, Francesco didn't say anything. The emotion hit deeper than he expected. "Thanks, Mum," he said quietly. "That means everything."
They talked for a while longer — about the ceremony, the press, even about Mike's ongoing "rivalry" with Francesco's old youth coach, who now bragged about discovering England's golden boy. The house filled with warmth — laughter echoing through the hallways, the smell of fresh coffee and Leah's pancakes spreading from the kitchen.
Then, just as Sarah was pouring herself another cup, the intercom buzzed again.
Leah tilted her head. "Expecting someone else?"
Francesco frowned, checking the monitor. "Oh, right… Jorge."
Sarah blinked. "Jorge Mendes? That Jorge Mendes?"
Francesco smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, he's bringing some documents over, the endorsement stuff he mentioned yesterday."
Mike whistled low. "Your life really is something else now, son."
A few minutes later, the front door opened again — and there he was. Jorge Mendes, immaculate as ever in a navy blazer and white shirt, his charm filling the room before he even spoke.
"Francesco!" he said warmly, spreading his arms wide. "Mi campione! And the family, the heroes behind the hero!"
Francesco laughed as Mendes swept in, shaking Mike's hand firmly before kissing Sarah's hand gallantly, drawing a surprised laugh from her. "You must be very proud," he said with his trademark grin.
"More than words can say," Sarah replied, still smiling.
Mendes turned to Francesco, lifting the sleek leather folder in his hand. "As promised, my boy. The drafts from Richard Mille, Calvin Klein, and Castrol that fresh off the printer this morning. I thought we'd go through them together."
They all moved into the study — the one room in the house that still smelled faintly of ink, wood polish, and the faint leather scent of the books that lined the shelves. Leah joined them with a tray of coffee, setting it on the table as Mendes spread out the documents.
"Alright," Jorge said, slipping into his professional rhythm. "First up, Richard Mille. They're offering a three-year contract — global ambassador role. They want you to be the face of their RM Chrono Sport line, plus they'll create a custom edition with your initials — RM11-05 F.L. They even suggested engraving the Arsenal cannon on the backplate."
Francesco blinked. "They want to make a watch with my initials?"
"Exactly," Mendes said, smiling. "And they'll give you equity on each sale. You'd be joining an elite group — Nadal, Bubba Watson, Charles Leclerc. They said you represent the next generation of excellence."
Sarah's eyes widened. "Goodness. That's… quite something."
Leah leaned in, whispering, "You're gonna have your own watch."
Mendes turned the page. "Next, Calvin Klein. Multi-year deal, global campaign. They want you to lead their Fall/Winter line — sportswear and lifestyle. You'll be the main face across Europe and North America."
Mike laughed from his seat. "Does that mean he's gonna be half-naked on billboards, then?"
Leah burst out laughing. "That's what I said!"
Francesco groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, alright, let's not make this weird."
Even Mendes chuckled. "It's a tasteful campaign, don't worry. Think Beckham — but modern."
Then he moved to the final folder. "And Castrol — this one's exciting. They want to produce a training documentary titled Engine of Champions, focusing on endurance and precision. They'll follow your training sessions, pre-match routines, even your mental prep. Big budget, global release. They said you're 'the perfect embodiment of power and control.'"
Francesco skimmed the pages, eyes darting between numbers, names, and clauses. It was staggering — the kind of thing most players dreamed of but never reached this young.
Finally, he looked up. "You really think I'm ready for all this, Jorge?"
Mendes smiled knowingly. "Francesco, you're not just ready — you've earned it. You're England's hero, Arsenal's icon, and Europe's rising star. The world sees that. Now it's time you do, too."
Francesco nodded slowly, then glanced at his parents. Sarah was smiling proudly; Mike had that same quiet, grounded look he always did when things got big.
Mike said softly, "As long as you don't forget where you came from, son — go as far as you want."
Francesco's throat tightened slightly. He smiled and nodded. "Never will."
Mendes leaned back, satisfied. "Good. I'll leave these with you to review. We can sign next week once your legal team goes through the details."
The study had gone quiet for a moment — that kind of quiet that followed the whirlwind of serious conversation. Sunlight spilled across the table, cutting through the sheen of polished oak, glinting faintly off the edges of the contracts Jorge Mendes had laid out like maps to a new world. Francesco leaned back in his chair, absently rolling his pen between his fingers, his eyes drifting over the embossed logos on the pages — Richard Mille, Calvin Klein, Castrol.
Each name carried its own gravity, its own history. And now, somehow, his was being written beside theirs.
He glanced up at Mendes, who was already sipping his coffee like a man entirely in control of every moving part of this deal. Francesco, though, couldn't help but wonder aloud — curiosity and disbelief creeping into his tone.
"So…" he said slowly, resting the pen on the table. "Just out of curiosity, Jorge — how much are we actually talking about here?"
Mendes looked up from his cup, eyes glinting with that familiar spark of showman flair. He leaned forward slightly, folding his hands together as if he were about to deliver a magician's final reveal.
"Ah," he said with a little grin. "I was wondering when you'd ask that, mi campione."
Francesco chuckled softly. "Come on, you know I had to."
Leah, perched on the armrest beside him, leaned in too, her eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. "Yeah, Jorge. Don't go keeping secrets now."
Mendes laughed warmly, tapping the top sheet of the Richard Mille contract with his finger. "Alright. Let's start with this one."
He paused, letting the silence hang for just a second — the kind of pause agents loved to use to build suspense — before saying, "Richard Mille are offering you seven and a half million pounds per year."
The words seemed to hang in the air like a pulse.
Francesco blinked. "Wait — seven point five… million?"
Mendes nodded casually, as though he were discussing the weather. "Per year. Base figure. That's before bonuses, royalties, and the sales percentage from your personalized RM11-05 F.L. edition."
Leah's mouth fell open slightly. "Oh my God."
Even Sarah gasped softly, one hand pressed against her chest. Mike, meanwhile, gave a low whistle that sounded somewhere between pride and disbelief.
"Bloody hell," he said, shaking his head. "That's more than I've earned in my entire life just for wearing a watch."
Mendes chuckled, clearly pleased with the reaction. "Not just wearing it, Mr. Lee. Representing it. They see Francesco as a symbol of a new generation — class, discipline, performance. He's not just their ambassador; he's their statement."
Francesco let out a slow breath, sitting back in the chair. He'd known the watch company was big, but hearing the figure out loud… that was something else. Seven and a half million. For one partnership.
Mendes, however, wasn't finished.
He turned the next contract toward them — Calvin Klein. "Now, for this one," he continued smoothly, "Calvin Klein are offering five million pounds per year. That includes campaign appearances, ad royalties, and global ambassador duties. They're giving you full creative input too — something they rarely do."
Francesco's brow furrowed slightly. "Five million… just for wearing clothes?"
Leah burst out laughing. "Oh, come on, you wear them well!"
Even Mendes joined in, chuckling. "Let's just say, Francesco, they're paying for more than that. They're paying for what you represent. Young, confident, elegant — someone who's conquered Europe before turning eighteen. That's not just a model, that's a global phenomenon."
Sarah smiled, half in awe, half in disbelief. "I still can't believe we're talking about my son in Calvin Klein ads."
Mike shook his head, grinning. "Well, as long as he keeps his shorts on, eh?"
Leah laughed so hard she nearly spilled her coffee, while Francesco groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Dad, please. Not in front of Jorge."
Mendes just laughed, clearly enjoying every bit of it. "Don't worry, Mr. Lee, it's tasteful — Beckham-style, elegant. But yes," he said, clearing his throat, "five million per year. Guaranteed."
He flipped to the final contract — Castrol. The branding stood out sharply against the paper, green and white and bold.
"Now, this one," Mendes said, tone growing just a bit more serious. "Castrol are offering another seven and a half million pounds for their Engine of Champions campaign. It's not just sponsorship — it's part of a full documentary project. You'd be their centerpiece: the athlete who embodies endurance and consistency. They'll follow you in training, film exclusive features, even produce your own branded sports performance line — Castrol Enduro x Francesco Lee."
Francesco blinked, leaning forward slightly. "They're naming a product after me?"
Mendes nodded. "Yes. And you'll get a cut of the sales — five percent globally. But the base fee is already seven and a half million pounds flat per year."
Leah let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "That's… astronomical."
Even Sarah looked speechless now, glancing between her son and the agent. "So… that's… twenty million?"
Mendes nodded, his smile widening. "Exactly. Twenty million pounds per year, before performance bonuses and royalties. To put that in perspective — you're earning more in endorsements now than half of the Premier League's starting forwards combined."
Francesco sat back again, running a hand through his hair. His head felt light. Not dizzy, but full — full of the surreal weight of it all. Just a year ago, he was worrying about nailing his starting place and scoring goals. Now… this.
Leah looked at him, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "Cesco," she said quietly. "You realize what this means, right? You've gone global. Like, world-icon level global."
He shook his head slightly, almost dazed. "It doesn't feel real."
Mendes smiled knowingly. "It never does, at first. But make no mistake, Francesco — this isn't luck. This is the result of who you are and what you've done. Hard work, talent, humility. Brands aren't buying fame; they're buying trust. And you've earned that."
Mike leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a proud grin spreading across his face. "Well, looks like I can finally stop pretending I know what NFTs are. My son's doing just fine without me explaining investments."
The whole room burst into laughter again, the tension breaking just enough to bring everyone back to earth.
Francesco chuckled, rubbing his temples. "It's just… twenty million pounds a year. That's mad. I don't even know what to do with that."
Sarah gave him a look only a mother could — equal parts warmth and caution. "You save it," she said simply. "You invest, you give back, and you stay grounded. Money's a tool, not a trophy."
Mendes nodded approvingly. "Your mother's right. The wealth is secondary. The legacy — that's what matters. That's why you're different, Francesco. You're not chasing fame. Fame is chasing you."
Francesco smiled faintly, his gaze dropping to the table. "Still feels like yesterday I was cleaning mud off my boots outside Hale End."
Leah reached over, brushing her fingers against his hand. "That's exactly why you'll handle this fine," she said softly. "Because you still remember that."
He looked up at her and smiled, warmth softening his features. "Yeah," he murmured. "I do."
Mendes began packing up the papers with practiced precision, slipping them neatly back into the leather folder. "Alright, my boy," he said, standing. "You've got the weekend to think about it. Your legal team will look it over, and we'll make any changes you want. Once we sign, I'll coordinate the first shoots — Monaco for Richard Mille, New York for Calvin Klein, and London for Castrol. Big calendar ahead."
Francesco nodded, still absorbing it all. "Thanks, Jorge. For everything."
Mendes smiled warmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "No, Francesco — thank you. You remind everyone what football is supposed to be about."
Sarah stood and shook his hand. "Thank you for taking care of our boy."
Mendes gave a little bow of his head. "He takes care of himself, Mrs. Lee. I just make sure the world sees it."
As he left, the house felt quieter — still bright and full of sunlight, but quieter, like the air itself was trying to give Francesco a moment to breathe.
He stood there for a while, leaning against the doorway of his study, the folder still on the table behind him. Leah came over, wrapping her arms loosely around his waist.
"Hey," she said softly. "You okay?"
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just… processing."
Mike, ever the pragmatist, clapped his son on the back as he stood. "Well, son, whatever you do, don't forget — all this is built on hard work. Keep your head down, keep scoring, and the rest'll take care of itself."
Francesco smiled faintly. "I will, Dad. Promise."
Sarah kissed his cheek, her voice full of quiet pride. "We're so proud of you, Cesco. But we're even prouder of the man you've become."
As his parents left later that afternoon, the sunlight had mellowed to a golden hue. Francesco watched their car pull away through the window, his reflection faint in the glass.
The morning light in London always carried a certain clarity — pale, clean, almost surgical in the way it slipped between clouds and glass towers. But on that particular morning, as Francesco stepped out of the car outside Mendes Global's Mayfair office, the light felt softer somehow — like even the city understood that this was one of those quiet, history-making days.
A small team waited inside — lawyers in tailored suits, assistants balancing cups of coffee and folders marked CONFIDENTIAL. At the center of it all sat Jorge Mendes, immaculate as ever, his cufflinks glinting faintly as he rose to greet him.
"Mi campione," Mendes said warmly, embracing him with that blend of pride and control only he could manage. "Ready to make it official?"
Francesco exhaled slowly, the scent of polished wood and coffee filling his senses. "Let's do it."
The conference room was pristine with a white marble table, soft leather chairs, a faint hum of the city outside. On the table lay the three contracts, now finalized: Richard Mille, Calvin Klein, and Castrol. His legal team that is Marcus and Evelyn, sharp as razors had reviewed every clause. Everything was perfect.
Leah sat beside him, poised and glowing in a simple beige dress, her calm presence grounding him in the middle of all the grandeur. Mendes stood at the head of the table, his tone turning ceremonious.
"Three signatures, Francesco," he said softly. "That's all it takes. But make no mistake, these aren't just contracts. They're milestones."
Francesco smiled faintly, uncapping the Montblanc pen Mendes handed him. "Let's make history then."
He started with Richard Mille as the paper smooth beneath his hand, the scent of ink rising as he wrote Francesco Lee with deliberate care. Cameras clicked softly in the background, capturing the moment for the private record. Then Calvin Klein, then Castrol. Each signature felt heavier, not with pressure, but with meaning.
When he finished, Mendes leaned forward and extended his hand — his grin wide and proud. "Congratulations, Francesco. You are now one of the most valuable athletes in the world."
Francesco shook his hand, his own smile subdued but genuine. "Thank you, Jorge. For believing."
Leah leaned over, whispering with a playful glint in her eye, "Guess I'll have to get used to dating a global brand ambassador."
He chuckled softly. "You sure you're ready for that kind of attention?"
She tilted her head. "As long as you're still you."
He smiled. "Always."
The legal team applauded softly, Mendes raising a glass of espresso like a toast. "To Francesco — the future of football, and the face of excellence."
That afternoon, when he stepped back outside, London had shifted. The world seemed louder, faster. His phone buzzed constantly from messages that coming in from teammates, reporters, club reps. But Francesco just tucked it into his pocket, took Leah's hand, and walked quietly to the car. The next chapter had begun.
The next day at Côte d'Azur sun shimmered like liquid gold over the Mediterranean when the helicopter descended onto the private helipad overlooking the water. Francesco gazed out the window, watching the waves glint against the cliffs of Monaco, the streets below lined with supercars and silver light.
"Welcome to paradise," Mendes said beside him, pulling off his sunglasses with a grin. "The Richard Mille team's waiting at the Hôtel de Paris."
Leah squeezed his hand, her excitement barely contained. "This doesn't even feel real."
Francesco smiled, though part of him was still processing the speed of it all. Forty-eight hours ago, he was in London signing papers. Now, he was landing in one of the most exclusive cities on Earth, about to shoot for one of the most luxurious watchmakers in existence.
At the hotel, the lobby gleamed with marble and chandeliers. The Richard Mille crew was already assembled — photographers, stylists, creative directors, each one radiating precision. Their lead, a silver-haired Frenchman named Étienne, approached with a practiced smile.
"Ah, Monsieur Lee!" Étienne exclaimed, clasping his hands. "Welcome to Monaco. We have been waiting for you."
"Thank you," Francesco said, shaking his hand. "It's an honor."
"Non, the honor is ours," Étienne said, lowering his voice reverently. "You are the perfect face for this campaign. Young, powerful, and elegant. We call this one 'L'Âme du Temps', The Soul of Time."
Leah watched proudly from the sidelines as Francesco was led into makeup and wardrobe. No elaborate costumes — just a sharp charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. The watch, of course, was the star: the new RM11-05 F.L. edition — titanium and sapphire, engraved subtly with his initials along the backplate.
The shoot took place at the edge of a private terrace overlooking the bay. The late-afternoon sun painted everything in soft amber tones. The photographer, a Milanese visionary named Paolo, guided him with quiet intensity.
"Look to the horizon," Paolo murmured. "Not as a man who dreams, but as one who knows he will reach it."
Francesco adjusted his stance — one hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly against the terrace ledge. The camera clicked, each flash capturing not just a pose, but a state of being. Calm. Focused. Certain.
Between takes, Étienne came over, his eyes bright. "Magnifique. You have a natural presence, mon ami. Not forced, not performed. Just real. That is rare."
Francesco smiled modestly. "Maybe it's the view."
"Non," Étienne said. "It's the man."
When the sun began to dip, the final shot was staged — Francesco walking along the marina, jacket draped over his shoulder, the watch glinting in the dying light. The yacht engines purred in the distance. Leah watched him from behind the monitors, her heart swelling quietly. In that moment, under the Mediterranean sunset, he didn't look like a boy who had just turned nineteen. He looked like a man who had stepped fully into his story.
That evening, the team gathered for dinner at the rooftop terrace. The sky above Monaco burned deep orange and violet. Glasses clinked, laughter carried on the breeze.
"To new beginnings," Mendes toasted.
Francesco raised his glass softly. "And to time — may it always remind us where we've come from."
Leah looked at him with quiet admiration, her fingers brushing against his beneath the table. And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to simply breathe — to take in the world as it was, not as he was told to conquer it.
If Monaco was elegance, Manhattan was energy. The city hit him the moment the car doors opened — horns, footsteps, a hundred different languages overlapping in a living pulse.
The Calvin Klein headquarters stood tall in the heart of Midtown, all glass and steel and modern art. Inside, the studio buzzed with activity. Stylists adjusted lighting, designers whispered over fabric boards, and somewhere a playlist of ambient house music pulsed like a heartbeat.
"Francesco!" A tall woman with sharp cheekbones and a confident stride approached — Amelia Hart, Calvin Klein's global creative director. "We've been dying to meet you."
He smiled, shaking her hand. "Likewise. Thank you for having me."
"You're going to love this," Amelia said, leading him through a maze of assistants. "This campaign is all about redefining masculinity. We want grace, strength, vulnerability — and you embody all three."
He chuckled. "That's quite a combination."
"That's why you're here," she said simply.
The shoot was minimalist — all white backdrop, monochrome lighting, focus entirely on presence. Francesco stood barefoot, wearing the signature CK jeans and a simple open white shirt. The goal was authenticity, not glamour.
"Less posing," Amelia called from behind the monitor. "More… being. You're not selling clothes. You're telling people it's okay to be human."
He nodded, his expression softening. The camera flashed again — capturing not the athlete, but the person underneath.
During breaks, the crew chatted easily with him. One of the assistants, a young intern from Brooklyn, approached nervously. "Hey, uh… I just wanted to say — I watched you score that goal in the Euro final. I cried, man. It was like… like you gave us hope again."
Francesco smiled, touched. "Thanks, mate. That means a lot."
Amelia, watching from a distance, murmured to an aide, "That's why we chose him. He's not performing — he's connecting."
By the end of the day, the studio felt different — lighter, warmer. The last sequence was shot outdoors, on a Manhattan rooftop at twilight. Francesco leaned against a concrete barrier, skyline glowing behind him, wind tugging at his shirt. The photographer circled slowly, capturing him in motion.
"You look like a man standing between two worlds," Amelia said softly. "The boy who came from nothing, and the icon the world just discovered."
He smiled faintly. "I still feel like the first one most days."
"That's your power," she said.
When it was over, she approached him with a folder of preview shots. "We'll send the finals to London next week, but honestly? They're breathtaking. You're going to redefine what people think a footballer can be."
Leah, who had flown in the night before, joined him afterward for dinner in SoHo. They sat by the window, watching yellow cabs blur through the drizzle.
"So," she said, swirling her wine. "First Monaco, now Manhattan. What's next, Mr. Global Ambassador?"
He grinned. "Two weeks. Castrol documentary starts when preseason begins."
She smiled softly. "Guess we should make the most of your off time then."
He nodded, reaching across the table to take her hand. "Yeah. Let's go home."
The Richmond air was cool and calm when they pulled through the gates of his mansion. The gravel crunched under the tires, the fountain in the driveway glimmered faintly under the porch lights. It was quiet here — a kind of quiet that wrapped around you, soft and familiar.
As the car stopped, Leah leaned against his shoulder, sighing contentedly. "Feels good to be back."
"Yeah," he murmured. "It does."
Inside, the house smelled faintly of cedar and coffee. The walls, lined with framed shirts and photos, seemed to hum with memory — goals, victories, moments frozen in time. Yet the best thing in the room wasn't fame or fortune. It was peace.
Leah wandered into the kitchen, barefoot, humming softly as she poured two glasses of wine. Francesco followed, still half in disbelief that the world outside could be moving so fast while this moment stood still.
"To us," she said, raising her glass.
He clinked gently against hers. "To us."
They spent the evening in the garden, the air warm and sweet with late-summer calm. Fireflies drifted lazily above the trimmed grass, and somewhere in the distance, Richmond's church bells marked another quiet hour.
Francesco leaned back, watching the stars emerge one by one. "Feels weird," he admitted. "A week ago I was signing contracts worth millions. Now I just want to sit here and do nothing."
Leah laughed softly. "That's because you've earned it. You don't have to keep running, Cesco. Sometimes standing still is part of the journey too."
He smiled, eyes distant but gentle. "Maybe you're right."
She looked at him for a long moment. "You know, I think this is what I love most about you."
"What's that?"
"You could have the world," she said quietly, "and you'd still choose to just sit under the stars and talk."
He chuckled softly, turning toward her. "Only if you're here with me."
She leaned in, resting her head against his shoulder. "Always."
The night stretched on — quiet, endless, golden with memory. Somewhere far away, the headlines were already printing his name in capital letters: LEE SIGNS MULTI-MILLION DEALS WITH GLOBAL BRANDS. RISING STAR TAKES WORLD BY STORM.
________________________________________________
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