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They sat there for a long time, the plates slowly emptying, the conversation wandering — from Arsenal's preseason tour to her own training schedule with the women's team, to the stray cat that sometimes wandered onto the property. The air felt easy, like home should.
The morning after felt slower, quieter, one of those London mornings wrapped in soft grey light and the smell of rain that clung to everything. The Thames moved lazily outside, rippling under a sky that couldn't quite decide if it wanted to pour again or let the sun through. Francesco was sitting in the living room, barefoot on the couch, a mug of coffee cupped loosely in his hands, his hair still tousled from sleep.
Leah had left early for training with the Arsenal women's team. Before she went, she'd pressed a kiss to his forehead and whispered, "Don't forget breakfast this time." He hadn't listened — breakfast had become black coffee, a slice of toast, and Sky Sports News murmuring in the background like a friend he didn't have to answer.
The morning ticker rolled bright and alive across the screen:
BREAKING NEWS: Arsenal sign Swiss midfielder Granit Xhaka from Borussia Mönchengladbach.
Francesco's brows lifted slightly. He took a slow sip from his mug, eyes fixed on the TV as the camera cut to a reporter outside the Emirates.
"Arsenal have completed the signing of Swiss international Granit Xhaka for a reported fee of thirty million pounds. Xhaka, known for his composure, long-range passing, and leadership qualities, joins the club after four strong seasons in the Bundesliga. Arsène Wenger has described him as a player with 'intelligence, maturity, and a good left foot.'"
They rolled footage — clips of Xhaka bossing midfields, pinging 40-yard passes with laser precision, barking instructions at teammates, chest puffed, eyes blazing. He played with a kind of intensity that reminded Francesco of something Arsenal had missed for a while — a commander in the middle.
Francesco leaned back, smirking to himself. "Good one, boss," he murmured quietly. "He'll fit in."
He imagined what that midfield could look like — Kante sweeping defense, Xhaka anchoring, Ramsey bursting forward, Özil weaving threads of silk between lines, Sánchez darting along the edge of chaos. And himself — waiting in those spaces where goals were born. Arsenal were building something again.
But as the reporter wrapped up, another graphic slid across the screen — "Elsewhere in England…" — and Francesco's relaxed grin faded into curiosity.
"Pep Guardiola has officially ended his tenure at Bayern Munich and will take charge of Manchester City ahead of the new Premier League season."
Francesco's coffee stopped halfway to his lips. For a second, he just stared, the sound of the rain pattering against the window filling the silence between words.
"The former Barcelona manager, widely regarded as one of the greatest tactical minds of modern football, will bring his philosophy of positional play and high pressing to the Premier League. Guardiola's appointment is expected to mark a new era for Manchester City."
They showed footage — Pep on the touchline, bald head gleaming under Munich floodlights, gesturing sharply with that restless energy that never seemed to sleep.
Francesco chuckled under his breath, but there was no mockery in it — only respect. "So it's happening," he muttered, his voice low.
He'd known it was coming, of course. Rumors had floated for months, whispers from journalists and players alike. But seeing it confirmed, official, stamped with that Sky Sports urgency — it hit differently.
Pep Guardiola in England.
That meant change. Real change.
The Premier League had always been chaos — emotion, aggression, unpredictability. But Pep would bring structure, control, obsession. He'd shape City into a machine — maybe not immediately, but inevitably. Francesco knew it the same way he could sense when a goal was about to come before it even happened.
The camera switched to the pundit panel — three former players in sharp suits, each wearing that knowing grin of men who'd already played their part in football's carousel.
"Pep's arrival is going to raise the level of everyone," said one of them. "Tactically, mentally — this league's about to get even tougher."
"And it's not just Pep," the second added. "Mikel Arteta's joining him as assistant coach. That's huge. He knows the Premier League, knows Arsenal, knows the kind of discipline Pep demands."
Francesco froze for a moment. Then he smiled faintly, shaking his head. "Mikel…"
He set his mug down on the coffee table and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. Seeing that name on the screen — Mikel Arteta — felt like a gentle tug in his chest, a flicker of nostalgia mixed with pride.
He could still picture Mikel's calm voice in the dressing room after tough games. "Don't let emotion cloud the craft," he used to say. Always measured, always thoughtful, always more like a teacher than a teammate.
Arteta had been the steady hand guiding the young ones — Francesco included — through the chaos of Arsenal's transition years. And now, the thought of him standing beside Guardiola on that sideline, clipboard in hand, analyzing every pass and movement, made perfect sense.
"He was born for that," Francesco said softly to himself, smiling.
But then, just as the screen faded from Guardiola's sharp smile to another headline, the atmosphere shifted again.
"Tomas Rosicky departs Arsenal to rejoin boyhood club Sparta Prague."
For a long second, Francesco didn't move.
The segment cut to highlights — Rosicky in his prime. A blur of motion, elegance, control. That feather-light touch, the effortless glide past defenders, the soft smile after every goal.
Then came a clip from his farewell interview — Rosicky, hair shorter now, eyes shining with quiet emotion.
"It's been a beautiful journey," he said, his Czech accent thick with sincerity. "Arsenal will always be in my heart, but home is where it all began."
Francesco felt something tighten in his chest. Rosicky had been one of the first to truly believe in him. Back when he was still just a boy in Hale End — raw, anxious, wide-eyed — Tomas would stay after training, passing the ball back and forth under the setting sun, giving small corrections and softer advice.
"See the space, not the man," Rosicky used to say. "Football is about rhythm. Feel it, don't force it."
He hadn't realized until this moment how much those words still guided him.
"Thanks for everything, Mozart," Francesco whispered, the nickname slipping out naturally. He could almost hear Rosicky's chuckle echo through the years.
But before he could sink too deep into memory, the final headline arrived — one that made him straighten instantly.
"Wojciech Szczęsny joins AS Roma on loan."
The Sky Sports presenter continued, calm and detached, but the words struck harder than expected.
"Arsenal's Polish goalkeeper, Wojciech Szczęsny, has completed a season-long loan move to Serie A side AS Roma. The decision follows Petr Čech's arrival from Chelsea last summer, which saw Szczęsny fall down the pecking order."
For a few seconds, Francesco just stared at the screen, blinking slowly. Then he exhaled through his nose, muttering, "Bloody hell, Wojciech."
It wasn't anger — not really. Just surprise mixed with something bittersweet. Szczęsny had always been a larger-than-life presence — loud, proud, sometimes reckless, but fiercely loyal. A joker off the pitch, a fighter on it.
He remembered those early Hale End days — Szczęsny teasing him endlessly, calling him "Silent Lee" because Francesco hardly spoke during youth training. He remembered the celebrations, the pranks, the goalkeeping howlers they'd laughed about long after full-time.
Seeing him leave — even if just on loan — felt like the end of a chapter.
He leaned back against the couch, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Roma, huh? Guess Italy will either love him or lose their minds."
He smiled faintly, imagining Szczęsny's booming laugh echoing through Italian tunnels. But then the thought turned inward.
Petr Čech.
Francesco's eyes shifted back to the screen, where footage of the veteran keeper flashed — calm, composed, with that trademark helmet and quiet authority. Čech had been immense since joining, but with Szczęsny gone, it meant one thing: Arsenal's faith in him was now total.
The voice of the pundit filled the room again.
"With Szczęsny gone, it's clear Arsenal are committing to Petr Čech as their number one for the coming season. His experience and leadership are invaluable, especially for a team aiming to challenge at the very top."
Francesco nodded to himself. Čech was world-class, no doubt. But he also knew how vital it was for Arsenal to build depth — the kind of squad capable of surviving injuries, fatigue, and those inevitable winter slumps.
If Wenger wanted to go toe-to-toe with Guardiola's City, Mourinho's United, and Klopp's Liverpool, every piece had to fit perfectly. Every player had to buy into something bigger.
He switched off the TV and sat in the quiet for a moment, the screen's blue glow fading from his reflection in the window.
Outside, London was waking properly now — the low hum of traffic, a bus rumbling in the distance, the steady rhythm of rain easing into mist. Francesco stood, stretched, and wandered toward the balcony.
The air smelled of wet leaves and the faint sweetness of summer trying to push through spring's last chill. The city stretched out below him — alive, restless, always moving.
He rested his arms on the railing, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Football was changing again. The whole world could feel it — the tectonic plates of tactics and ambition shifting beneath every club's feet. Pep was coming. Arteta was reborn. Rosicky had gone home. Szczęsny was in Rome.
And he — Francesco Lee — stood somewhere in the middle of it all, captain of Arsenal, tasked with carrying the club into whatever came next.
He thought of Leah's words from the night before — "You've stayed the same through all of it."
He smiled faintly. Maybe that was his role now — to be the constant, the anchor. The one who remembered the heart of Arsenal while everything else evolved around it.
Then suddenly his phone buzzed on the coffee table — a sharp, familiar vibration that broke the quiet rhythm of the rain outside.
Francesco glanced down, half expecting a text from Leah, but the name flashing on the screen made his heart jolt slightly.
Arsène Wenger.
He blinked once, then smiled softly. Even after all these years, that name still carried weight — a quiet gravity that pulled you to attention. He picked up the phone, thumb brushing over the answer button as he leaned back against the couch.
"What's up, boss?" he said, voice casual but respectful, a small grin tugging at his lips.
On the other end, Wenger's familiar French accent came through — calm, deliberate, measured. "Bonjour, Francesco. I hope I am not disturbing you."
"Never," Francesco replied, settling in. "Just watching the news — seeing Xhaka's already in London."
There was a faint chuckle from the other side. "Ah, yes. It seems Sky Sports is faster than our own announcement. But yes, it's done. He will be a good addition."
Francesco could almost picture Wenger in his office at London Colney — tidy desk, blinds half-open, a neat pile of reports and scouting notes beside a steaming cup of tea. There was always something strangely reassuring about the thought.
Wenger's tone shifted, warm but firm. "I wanted to speak to you personally, Francesco, about the pre-season tour."
Francesco straightened a little, instinctively attentive. "Alright — what about it?"
"I want you to skip it."
There was a small pause on the line.
Wenger continued, "You've given too much of yourself this year — the treble, then the Euro with England. Your body needs rest, not airplanes and training sessions under thirty-degree heat in California."
Francesco opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, absorbing the words. He wasn't surprised — Wenger had always been careful with his players' well-being — but something in the way he said it carried genuine concern.
"Boss," Francesco said finally, his voice softer, "I'm fine, really. You know me, I get restless when I'm not training."
"I know," Wenger replied, a faint smile audible in his tone. "That's why I'm insisting. Rest is part of training too, mon capitaine. You've earned a real break."
For a moment, Francesco said nothing. He leaned back, exhaling through his nose as his gaze wandered toward the balcony again. The truth was, his body did ache — not in the sharp, alarming way of injury, but in the dull, deep way that came from months of pushing past limits.
He thought about the night of the Euro final — the roar of Stade de France, the confetti, the weight of the medal around his neck, and the quiet exhaustion that followed. The kind that seeps into your bones.
Finally, he nodded to himself. "Alright, boss," he said quietly. "Understood."
There was a small pause. Then Wenger's voice softened, that familiar paternal warmth threading through. "Good. You've done enough for one year, Francesco. You've made us all proud from Arsenal, England, everyone. Let your body and mind reset. The club will wait."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Thank you, boss."
They both stayed silent for a few seconds — the kind of silence that came easily between two people who didn't need to fill every space with words. Then Francesco cleared his throat. "So," he began, "since you're making me rest, at least tell me this, who are we buying next?"
Wenger gave a soft laugh. "Ah, so you cannot help yourself, can you? Even on holiday, you want to play sporting director."
"Just curious," Francesco said, grinning. "If you permit it, I could help. You know I've got a few names in mind, like Kante and Van Dijk last year. That worked out pretty well, didn't it?"
At that, Wenger actually chuckled — the quiet, genuine kind that carried through the receiver. "Yes. That worked very well. Two of the best recommendations I've had in a decade. You have a good eye for balance, Francesco. You see football the way I like — structure with soul."
Francesco leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It's not just that," he said. "It's about hunger, too. You can't build a winning team without players who bleed for the badge. Kante, Van Dijk — they weren't just good players. They wanted to prove something."
"And that is exactly why I want your input again," Wenger said. "But for now, I am still searching. There are names, of course, but I will wait until the right one appears. If you have someone in mind — someone who fits the Arsenal way — send me the name. You know my door is always open."
Francesco smiled. "Alright. I'll do some thinking."
"Good. But promise me one thing."
"Anything."
"Don't think too much." Wenger's voice softened, carrying a rare gentleness that made Francesco's chest tighten slightly. "Go live a little. Spend time with Leah. Sleep. Eat. Be human. The game can wait."
For a moment, Francesco didn't respond. The advice hit home in a way he hadn't expected. He thought of Leah's laugh the night before, the way she'd teased him about never resting. He thought of the quiet rhythm of home — something he rarely allowed himself to feel.
"Alright, boss," he said at last, his tone sincere. "I promise."
"Good." Wenger's voice brightened. "Then I will leave you to your coffee. Enjoy the quiet, it never lasts long in football."
They both laughed softly before the call ended.
When the line went silent, Francesco sat there for a while, staring at the black screen of his phone, lost in thought. The old man always had that effect on him — a way of grounding him when the world around him moved too fast.
He placed the phone down, exhaled, and let the silence of the room settle again. The rain had stopped outside, replaced by the soft chirp of birds and the distant echo of traffic starting to hum through Richmond's streets.
He rose slowly, stretching, feeling the pull in his shoulders and calves. For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel guilty about not being in motion. Wenger was right. Rest wasn't weakness — it was recovery.
As he walked toward the kitchen to make a fresh cup of coffee, his mind couldn't help drifting to the idea of who next.
The question echoed through his thoughts like a tactical puzzle.
Who would fit?
Xhaka was a start, a conductor. Kante was the engine. Van Dijk was the wall. They had strength, control, and leadership. But what Arsenal needed next wasn't just another star — it was someone who could elevate the collective rhythm. Someone who could read the game like a symphony, not just play it.
He leaned against the counter, staring absently out the window, the steam from his coffee curling into the air. His mind wandered through names — players he'd faced, ones he'd admired from afar, hidden gems he'd noticed in scouting clips or during England's Euro run.
There was something thrilling about it — the idea that football, even at the highest level, was still about discovery. About finding the right soul to fit the music of a team.
And beneath it all, Wenger's voice echoed quietly:
"Structure with soul."
A small smile touched his lips.
Maybe, he thought, this was what rest meant for him — not switching off completely, but slowing down enough to see again. To think with clarity rather than exhaustion.
He took his coffee to the balcony, the morning now brightening into a soft, golden haze. The Thames shimmered faintly in the distance, and the world below bustled back to life.
Somewhere in London Colney, new players were already training, reporters were setting up their cameras, transfer rumors were swirling. But for now, up here, Francesco Lee allowed himself a rare luxury, to simply breathe.
He took another sip and murmured to himself, almost like a vow:
"Let's make next season even better, boss."
Over the next few hours, the day unfolded gently. Leah returned from training with a bag of pastries and two takeaway coffees, and the first thing she said when she saw him lounging on the couch again was, "You actually listened for once."
He grinned. "Wenger's orders."
Her eyebrows rose. "Oh? The man himself?"
"Yeah," he said, accepting the paper bag she tossed his way. "He called this morning. Told me to skip pre-season. Wants me to rest."
Leah laughed softly, sitting beside him. "About time someone told you that."
He shrugged, taking a bite of croissant. "I might go crazy in a week, though."
"Then go crazy," she said simply. "You've earned that too."
He looked at her, smiling faintly. "You sound like him, you know."
"Then he's right," she replied, leaning back. "You don't realize it, but your body's been in overdrive for years. Even when you're not playing, you're thinking about playing. Maybe you need to remember what it's like to just be Francesco."
He paused, chewing thoughtfully. "And who's that again?"
She smiled, brushing a crumb off his cheek. "The guy who burns garlic when he gets distracted."
He laughed, shaking his head. "Unbelievable. Can't win."
"Yes, you can," she said softly. "You already did."
The days pass to the morning of 9 August 2016 dawned with the sort of crisp clarity that seemed to snap the city awake. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, glinting off the wet asphalt from a light overnight drizzle. Francesco's BMW X5 purred steadily along the M25, its engine a comforting low hum beneath him. The road ahead was lined with trees starting to turn golden at the edges of summer, and in the air hung the faint smell of damp earth and exhaust — the real scent of England in transition between seasons.
He drove without rush, hands gripping the wheel with a calm focus he hadn't felt in weeks. Preseason had been strange. He'd spent the past month largely at home, waking slowly, cooking, walking with Leah, and trying to breathe without the constant demands of the season. The contrast between the stillness of Richmond and the chaos that awaited him at Colney felt almost surreal.
The radio crackled to life, Sky Sports News giving the first bulletin of the morning.
"Good morning, football fans. Arsenal have now concluded their preseason with four wins and a single draw in five matches across Europe, with promising performances from their new signing Granit Xhaka. Fans are eagerly anticipating the return of captain Francesco Lee, who has spent the past month recovering from a historic treble-winning campaign and England's Euro glory. Lee's presence on the training pitch at London Colney today is expected to send a ripple through the squad ahead of the 2016/2017 Premier League opener."
Francesco smirked at the broadcast, one hand lightly tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of the announcer's voice. The praise sounded pleasant, but he didn't let it swell in his chest. Headlines were fleeting; performances were eternal. That was the mantra he lived by.
He could picture Wenger now, pacing along the Colney training grounds, clipboard in hand, hair slightly disheveled, a look of measured intensity etched onto his face. The Frenchman's ability to balance vision and patience — to see the long game without panic — had always fascinated Francesco. Even now, the memory gave him a quiet reassurance.
Pulling into the familiar gravel lot, the BMW X5 settled under the early morning sun. The Colney grounds lay ahead, pristine and almost too perfect, a green promise of what awaited. Francesco took a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs as he stepped out. The smell of fresh-cut grass, warmed slightly by the sun, reminded him of endless training sessions, the squeak of studs on turf, the rhythm of the ball at his feet, the murmurs and shouts of teammates blending into a single, familiar language.
Walking toward the main training pitch, Francesco noticed the early arrivals: young players jogging in small groups, laughing lightly, tossing balls back and forth, their energy unspoiled by the weight of media scrutiny. He paused for a moment, letting himself observe them. In a way, this was exactly why he had insisted on rest. The season would demand everything — body, mind, spirit — and he wanted to return not just fit, but fully ready.
"Captain!" a familiar voice called, cutting through the morning quiet. It was Bellerín, sprinting lightly across the grass, his hair still damp with pretraining sweat. "Finally, we get to see you in action again!"
Francesco chuckled, raising a hand in acknowledgment. "Don't get too excited — I'm rusty, remember?"
Bellerín grinned. "We'll see about that. Don't make me carry you."
As Francesco made his way to the locker room, the hum of activity around him increased. The first-team staff were already moving between pitches, coaches giving pointers, goalkeepers diving into drills, and the faint echo of Wenger's voice projecting across the grounds.
Inside the locker room, Petr Čech was already there, adjusting his gloves and helmet, calm and methodical as ever. Francesco approached, and Čech looked up, a faint smile breaking across his face.
"Welcome back," Čech said, voice low but steady. "Rested?"
"More than I've been in months," Francesco replied, placing a hand lightly on the shoulder of the veteran. "I feel… ready. Just hope the legs remember how to move."
Čech laughed softly. "They'll remember. Yours are built for it."
Wenger appeared then, striding in with his usual quiet authority. Even without words, his presence carried weight. He stopped in front of Francesco, hands clasped behind his back.
"Ah, Francesco," Wenger said, voice calm but firm. "I trust the rest has been beneficial?"
"It has, boss," Francesco replied. "I feel strong, fresh… ready."
"Good," Wenger said, nodding. "We have a season to begin soon, and I want my captain sharp, clear-minded, and focused. Preseason form is important, yes, but it is the season that defines a man — the victories, the challenges, the moments that test character."
Francesco smiled faintly, feeling the familiar fire light behind his eyes. "Understood, boss. I won't let the team down."
Wenger's gaze softened just slightly. "I know you won't. You have always carried more than just goals on your shoulders, Francesco. Today, begin with the simple things — warm-up, touch, rhythm. Find the connection again before we push harder."
The instructions were simple, but Francesco knew that simplicity often held the most depth. He changed into his kit, feeling the familiar fabric slide against his skin, the shorts brushing over the legs that had conquered trophies, stadiums, and Euros. Standing on the edge of the pitch, he felt a rush of nostalgia — and anticipation.
Sky Sports, as always, was ready. Cameras had been set up along the main pitch, reporters whispering excitedly into microphones. The ticker flashed across the screen:
"LIVE: Francesco Lee returns to Arsenal training at Colney. Fans anticipate captain's influence in attacking position ahead of Premier League opener. Wenger emphasizes rhythm and sharpness for new season."
The camera panned to him, capturing the moment with a mixture of reverence and curiosity. Francesco waved subtly at the lens, not for glory, but as a nod to those who followed him faithfully. The flashes of the past months — the treble, the Euro, quiet mornings with Leah — all merged with the present.
"Focus, Lee," he muttered under his breath, almost a mantra. "Focus on the ball, the team, the rhythm. Nothing else matters right now."
The warm-up began. Light jogs, dynamic stretches, short passes with teammates — the body remembered more than the mind sometimes allowed. He could feel the familiar hum returning: the touch of the ball, the push off his right foot, the arc of a perfectly timed pass. His lungs expanded, his heart settled into the tempo he'd missed.
"Oi, Francesco! Don't take it easy on us!" Bellerín called, smirking as he intercepted a pass.
"Don't worry," Francesco replied, his grin stretching. "I'm saving the best for when the real season starts."
The first drills were followed by small-sided games. Wenger watched quietly from the sidelines, clipboard resting under one arm. Francesco moved fluidly, directing the attacking play traffic, communicating with gestures and eye contact. Xhaka was nearby, calm and commanding, his style complementary to Francesco's instincts. Even in the early stages of training, the chemistry sparked, hints of the Arsenal that could dominate the Premier League.
Sky Sports' ticker updated again, live from Colney:
"Observation: Francesco Lee shows his shooting prowess in return. Granit Xhaka integrates seamlessly in midfield. Arsenal pre-season continues with focus on tactical cohesion and captain-led drills."
Francesco noticed the camera but ignored it, focusing instead on the rhythm of the game. Every pass, every movement felt like both a warm-up and a declaration: he was back, fully invested, and ready for the weight of the season.
By midday, Wenger called a brief pause. Players gathered around, towels draped over shoulders, bottles clinking as water was passed. Francesco sat on the grass, letting his breath come back in easy bursts.
"Excellent energy," Wenger said to the group. "Even in preseason, we must cultivate rhythm, awareness, and anticipation. Remember, the season will demand more than effort — it will demand intelligence and instinct."
Francesco nodded, catching a glimpse of Xhaka exchanging a quiet smile with him. This wasn't just about fitness or tactical drills. This was about understanding each other — the subtle communication that could make or break matches.
Leah's voice echoed faintly in his mind, a soft reminder from their last quiet mornings: "You've stayed the same through all of it." It gave him grounding, a sense of balance amidst the rising adrenaline.
The final drill of the morning involved positional play. Francesco moved across the field like a player who fully fit, orchestrating off ball movement, anticipating pass, and showing his shooting skill. Every movement reminded him why Wenger had trusted him with the armband: vision, calm, presence.
After the drill, Wenger walked over, a slight smile on his face. "You have your rhythm back, Francesco. Now it is about endurance. Preseason is not a sprint; it is a preparation for a marathon. Pace yourself, but lead."
Francesco exhaled slowly, letting the weight of words settle. It wasn't just about the games, the trophies, or the goals. It was about influence, about presence, about guiding the team through every twist and turn of the season.
By the afternoon, training wound down. Players jogged lightly, cool-down stretches, quiet chatter between teammates. Francesco felt fatigue, but the kind that was earned and welcome — proof that rest had done its work, and his body had remembered its craft.
As he walked toward the locker room, the sunlight beginning to soften through clouds, he felt a deep satisfaction. Today wasn't just about being ready physically. It was about reestablishing rhythm, reconnecting with teammates, and stepping back into a role he had always carried: captain, anchor, leader.
Sky Sports would no doubt capture some footage, comment on his return in their evening bulletin, dissect every pass, every gesture. But Francesco didn't think about that. He thought about the field, the rhythm, the team — and the season ahead.
The next morning broke with a subtle hum of expectation, though London was cloaked in the soft, diffused light of early summer clouds. Francesco's BMW X5 wound through the quiet streets of Richmond, tires whispering over the wet tarmac from a drizzle that had come and gone overnight. His mind wasn't on the road, but on the pitch awaiting him. Preseason had already begun to settle into its rhythm, but today carried a different flavor: the Castrol team was arriving to film the "Engine of Champions" documentary, and he could already sense the cameras threading their way through every drill, every sprint, every shot.
Pulling into the familiar gravel of Colney, Francesco felt that old mix of nerves and excitement he'd learned to accept over the years. There was something intimate about training that only the players truly understood: the meticulousness, the focus, the rhythm of muscle memory and instinct. Now, cameras would capture it all.
By the time he stepped out of the X5, the Castrol crew was already unloading equipment. Lighting rigs, tripods, drones, and handheld cameras littered the edge of the main pitch. Two producers approached him, introducing themselves quickly, speaking in that energetic, slightly anxious cadence of people who worked in media but were still utterly thrilled to be on location with someone like him.
"Mr. Lee," one said, extending a hand, "thank you for letting us film. We want to capture everything — your training, your routines, your perspective on what makes a striker succeed. We'll move carefully around you, won't disrupt drills."
Francesco gave a soft smile, shaking the man's hand. "I don't mind the cameras," he said. "They can see what I see. They just have to keep up." He let a faint chuckle escape. "Training doesn't stop for filming."
Wenger, already striding along the sidelines in his usual crisp jacket, gave a nod of approval. "Messieurs," he said to the producers, voice calm but authoritative, "we welcome this. Francesco is prepared. You will see the rhythm of the work, the attention to detail. But remember — do not interrupt the essence of the game. Respect the process."
The camera crew exchanged glances, nodding quickly. They clearly hadn't expected a coach who spoke with such precision and calm. Wenger's presence carried the same gravity it always did — a reminder that this wasn't a spectacle for vanity. This was craft.
Sky Sports had also caught wind of the documentary shoot. A brief headline had flashed across their morning segment:
"Exclusive: Francesco Lee continues preseason at Colney as Castrol films 'Engine of Champions.' Wenger and Arsenal squad participate in unique behind-the-scenes footage. Fans anticipate insight into captain's training routines."
Francesco felt the faint buzz of adrenaline. Even in the calm of preseason, his instinct always leaned toward performance, toward excellence. Cameras didn't change that. They merely highlighted it.
He stepped onto the pitch, the grass cool beneath his boots, and immediately fell into the familiar rhythm of warm-up stretches. Side lunges, hamstring sweeps, dynamic rotations — each movement precise, deliberate, each breath measured. The cameras followed unobtrusively, gliding along with him, catching the subtle tension in his calves, the flex of his core, the sway of his arms as he moved.
"Let's begin with touch," Francesco said softly, almost to himself, though the camera picked up the murmur. Xhaka was at his side, already in motion, calm and composed, passing the ball back and forth.
The first sequence involved short passes, tight control, and explosive acceleration. The camera angles caught the spray of dewy grass as Francesco cut past defenders, his head lifting at just the right moment to survey options. He moved naturally, almost unaware of the lenses; instinct and muscle memory dictated the flow.
Wenger watched from the sidelines, clipboard in hand. Occasionally, he interjected quietly, his voice carrying just enough for Francesco and Xhaka to hear. "Relax your shoulders, Francesco. The ball will follow where your mind guides it."
The producers whispered instructions to the camera operators, adjusting angles to follow Francesco without interrupting the drill. A drone hovered briefly above, capturing an aerial view of the midfield interplay, then floated away as he sprinted toward the penalty area.
Small-sided games began shortly after. Francesco's teammates — Bellerín, Sánchez, Ramsey, and Özil — moved into position naturally, aware of the cameras but focused entirely on rhythm and cohesion. Francesco orchestrated the attack, checking his shoulders, pivoting, feinting a run, pulling defenders out of position. Every shot, every pass, every flick of the boot was captured, yet it all felt seamless.
During one particular exercise, he found himself in a familiar groove: Xhaka feeding him the ball from the deep, Francesco taking a single touch to control, a second to set up his run, and then letting fly with a strike that curved beautifully toward the top corner. The goalkeeper, Čech, leaped but couldn't reach it. The camera caught the moment of release, the power and finesse, the almost imperceptible celebration in the tilt of Francesco's head.
The production team buzzed quietly among themselves. "That's it, that's exactly the shot we wanted," one murmured into a walkie-talkie. Francesco barely noticed, lost in the flow of the drill.
Between sequences, he jogged lightly to the sidelines, taking a quick sip from his bottle. Wenger approached, hands tucked behind his back.
"Excellent technique," Wenger said. "Even after a month away from structured training, your timing remains precise. That is the mark of experience, Francesco. But remember, we focus on endurance today, not just moments of brilliance."
Francesco nodded, wiping his brow. "Understood, boss. Endurance first. Precision follows."
The Castrol crew moved unobtrusively, capturing moments of recovery — Francesco massaging his calves, adjusting his boots, exchanging quiet words with teammates. The filmmakers seemed to instinctively understand that the story wasn't just in the goals, but in the minute details: the small shifts of weight, the shared glances with midfielders, the focus before a pass, the slight exhale after a sprint.
During a break, Francesco crouched slightly, tying his boots again. A young Arsenal academy player passed nearby, glancing up with wide eyes. Francesco gave him a subtle nod. "Keep your head up. Always see the space first."
The boy grinned, inspired, and darted back to the drill. For Francesco, moments like these — mentoring, guiding, inspiring — were as crucial as his own fitness. The cameras caught it all, and yet it felt natural, unforced.
By mid-morning, Wenger called the squad together. They circled on the grass, stretching out, exchanging brief banter, water bottles clinking. The documentary team stepped back slightly, capturing wide shots of the players in formation, the interplay of leadership, camaraderie, and focus.
"Francesco," Wenger said quietly, pulling him aside, "remember to communicate your thoughts today. The cameras can follow your physicality, but the intelligence of a striker — vision, anticipation, leadership — that is what they need to see."
Francesco exhaled slowly, letting the guidance sink in. He felt a surge of quiet pride, tempered with responsibility. Every movement, every glance, every instruction would now be part of this narrative — the story of how a striker prepared, thought, and led.
The drills resumed, with Francesco now more aware of the cameras but never distracted. He guided runs, orchestrated passes, demonstrated feints, shooting techniques, and positional awareness. Xhaka complimented him quietly after one sequence: "You've recovered well, Francesco. Even with cameras, you move naturally."
Francesco smiled. "I've learned — it's all about focus. Cameras or no cameras, the ball doesn't change."
Sky Sports' ticker updated once more, reporting live:
"LIVE: Francesco Lee leads Arsenal pre-season drills at Colney. Castrol filming exclusive behind-the-scenes footage for 'Engine of Champions' documentary. Wenger and squad support captain in demonstrating key striker techniques."
The afternoon light began to soften, golden hues painting the pitch. The final sequences were designed to capture explosive speed, finishing, and decision-making under pressure. Francesco sprinted through cones, dodging markers, and then unleashed a perfectly weighted shot into the top corner, the net rippling with precision. The cameras circled, capturing the arc of the strike, the follow-through, the quick pivot to prepare for the next sequence.
As the last drill concluded, Wenger clapped his hands softly. "Very good. Technique, intelligence, endurance — all present. This is how we prepare. This is how we build a season."
Francesco jogged lightly to the sideline, breathing heavily but with a quiet satisfaction. He knew his body, his mind, and his rhythm were back. The documentary crew had captured more than just drills; they had glimpsed the meticulous preparation, the leadership, and the subtle artistry that made him captain.
As he collected his water bottle, Xhaka patted him on the shoulder. "You've set the tone again," he said quietly.
Francesco exhaled, smiling faintly. "Just keeping the engine running. The season's long — we have to keep it tuned."
Wenger approached again, nodding slightly, a rare, quiet approval in his gaze. "The rhythm returns. The focus returns. And so does leadership. Excellent work today, Francesco. Remember — the season will test all of this, but you have already demonstrated you are ready."
Francesco glanced across the pitch, the sun now soft on the horizon, the cameras carefully retracting their equipment, the squad beginning to chatter and cool down. In that moment, he felt a rare clarity: preseason, filming, media, all of it — it didn't matter. What mattered was the craft, the team, the preparation.
He glanced down at his phone — a message from Leah: "Saw some clips on Sky! You're incredible. Don't forget pasta tonight."
He smiled, typing back quickly: "Engine tuned. Pasta memory intact. See you later, Captain's orders."
As he walked toward the locker room, the sun casting long shadows across the Colney pitch, Francesco felt a profound sense of satisfaction. The cameras had witnessed the work, but more importantly, he had rediscovered his rhythm, his focus, and his purpose. The season was coming. And he would be ready, fully, unmistakably ready.
________________________________________________
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