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The cameras zoomed in for Sky Sports' closing shot toward Francesco, standing at the center of the pitch, armband off but presence undiminished. Behind him, the scoreboard gleamed: ARSENAL 5 – 2 LIVERPOOL.
The Emirates still trembled from the final roar, the echoes of 60,000 voices vibrating through steel and concrete. The scoreboard continued to glow in defiance of every doubt that had surrounded Arsenal in pre-season:
ARSENAL 5 – 2 LIVERPOOL.
Francesco stood near the centre circle, his breath still unsteady, hands on his hips, eyes scanning the field where bodies sagged, shirts clung, and exhaustion turned rivals human again. The floodlights shone down on the grass, slick with sweat and rain as the battlefield glistening under the afterglow of victory.
As the noise softened to a celebratory hum, Francesco turned first toward Jordan Henderson.
The Liverpool captain was already walking his way, face red from effort, shirt streaked with grass stains. Yet there was no bitterness in his eyes, only a quiet respect.
"Hell of a performance, mate," Henderson said, extending his hand. His Geordie accent rough but warm. "You were everywhere tonight."
Francesco took the hand firmly, shaking it with the kind of strength that comes from mutual understanding. "Thanks, Hendo. You kept them fighting till the end, always do."
Henderson cracked a tired grin. "Aye, but couldn't stop you this time. That hat-trick… bloody hell. You're turning into a monster."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Trying to follow good examples," he said, nodding toward the armband still wrapped around Henderson's bicep.
Henderson chuckled, clapping his shoulder. "Keep leading like that, you'll be lifting something big come May."
"Let's hope so," Francesco replied, genuine gratitude in his tone.
Around them, handshakes spread across the pitch with weary but respectful gestures between players who'd just spent ninety minutes testing each other's limits.
Kanté hugged Mane briefly, both smiling despite the exhaustion. Özil swapped shirts with Coutinho before the Brazilian walked off, head down but graceful. Koscielny exchanged a word with Firmino, while Giroud and Lovren laughed about some late tangle near the box.
Then Klopp approached.
The Liverpool manager's cap was askew, his glasses fogged, his tracksuit darkened with sweat and rain. Yet even after a defeat, he still carried that energy with that strange mix of teacher and warrior.
He extended his hand before Francesco could even speak. "Congratulations, Francesco," he said, his German accent crisp but kind. "You were magnificent tonight. I've seen many players do special things, but not many lead like you do at your age."
Francesco smiled, gripping the older man's hand with sincerity. "Thank you, sir. That means a lot coming from you."
Klopp leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice so only Francesco could hear. "Remember this, talent opens the door, but mentality keeps you inside. Keep your feet on the ground, ja? Enjoy this moment, but don't let it blind you."
Francesco nodded, his eyes steady. "I won't. Still got everything to prove."
Klopp gave a toothy grin. "Good answer. You remind me of someone… maybe a young Gerrard, but with more rhythm and striking ability."
Francesco laughed lightly, a little taken aback. "That's some comparison."
Klopp shrugged. "Then make it true."
With that, the German patted his shoulder once, hard, before turning back toward his players, calling Origi and Firmino for a quick post-match huddle.
Francesco stood for a moment, watching him go — admiring the energy, the leadership, even in defeat. Then he turned back toward the Arsenal fans, who were still chanting his name.
He began walking toward the North Bank slowly, clapping above his head. The chant grew louder, almost deafening:
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
Behind him, Giroud joined in, waving to the stands. Chamberlain followed, grinning like a schoolboy. Xhaka pointed toward the captain and shouted, "Our man of the match!" as the Emirates responded with another roar.
The cameras followed Francesco closely now, Sky Sports' lens catching the glisten of sweat on his temple, the soft exhaustion in his smile.
Down pitch-side, Geoff Shreeves was already preparing for the post-match interview, earpiece crackling as producers queued the segment.
"Right," Shreeves murmured to the cameraman. "We're live in thirty. Francesco Lee, what a debut as captain. Let's make this one count."
Francesco reached the halfway line, and Wenger caught his eye. The manager motioned him over with a simple gesture that's not commanding, but inviting.
"Francesco," Wenger said softly when he approached, voice barely audible over the din. "Enjoy this. Nights like this, they don't happen often. You've made everyone proud."
Francesco bowed his head slightly. "Merci, boss. This was for you, for the trust."
Wenger smiled faintly, lines deepening around his eyes. "For Arsenal, mon capitaine. Always for Arsenal."
He turned to walk toward the tunnel, giving his captain the moment that belonged to him.
Francesco looked up toward the stands again, seeing faces he didn't know but who somehow felt like family — children holding banners with his name, men with tears in their eyes, women clapping with pride. The connection felt real, almost sacred.
He waved, mouthed a silent "thank you," then turned toward Geoff Shreeves, who stepped forward, microphone raised.
"Francesco," Shreeves began as Sky Sports went live, his tone carrying that mix of awe and professionalism. "A hat-trick, captain's armband, and a 5–2 victory over Liverpool. Be honest with me, how does that feel?"
Francesco exhaled softly, running a hand through his damp hair. "It feels… surreal," he said, his voice calm but sincere. "When you're out there, you don't think about the numbers or the goals — you just think about fighting for the badge. But to start the season like this, in front of these fans, it's special. Really special."
Shreeves nodded. "You looked like you were enjoying yourself — especially that third goal. Bit of composure there, wasn't it?"
Francesco smiled modestly. "Yeah, maybe. It's instinct, really. You see the keeper come out, you trust your touch. I just tried to stay calm — something the boss always tells me: 'the greatest players breathe when others panic.'"
"Wise words from Arsène," Shreeves said. "And you seemed to be leading more vocally today, we saw you directing traffic, motivating the lads. Has being captain changed your approach?"
Francesco thought for a moment, then answered, "I think it's made me more aware — not just of my role, but of everyone's around me. You feel responsible for their energy, for their confidence. I'm still learning, but tonight we showed what unity can do."
"Final one," Shreeves added, lowering the mic slightly. "A message for the fans?"
Francesco looked up toward the roaring stands and smiled faintly. "We're just getting started."
The crowd responded instantly, another wave of noise rippling through the stadium as his words echoed on the broadcast.
"Thank you, Francesco," Shreeves said, grinning. "Brilliant as always."
Francesco shook his hand politely, then walked toward the tunnel, where cameras flashed and photographers shouted his name. He stopped briefly to pose with the match ball — holding it under one arm, his other hand lifting in a small salute toward the fans.
The headline image would be everywhere by morning:
"CAPTAIN, LEADER, LEGEND IN THE MAKING."
As he disappeared down the tunnel, the noise outside faded into the muffled buzz of celebration. The corridor smelled of sweat, grass, and detergent — football's perfume.
He walked past the framed photos of Arsenal's history from Adams, Henry, Vieira, and paused for a heartbeat under one particular picture: Wenger embracing Tony Adams after a 1998 victory.
He smiled quietly to himself.
Now it's my turn.
Inside the dressing room, laughter and music filled the air. Chamberlain had his phone blasting Drake, Xhaka was mock-dancing in front of the lockers, and Giroud was already half-changed, towel around his waist, holding up three fingers toward Francesco.
"Three goals, mon capitaine!" Giroud shouted. "The bar is high for the rest of us, eh?"
Francesco grinned. "Just keeping you lot on your toes."
Kanté handed him a bottle of water with that soft, unbothered smile. "You deserve this one," he said simply.
Özil leaned back on the bench, eyes half-closed. "You made it look easy," he murmured. "That third goal… very Bergkamp of you."
Francesco laughed quietly. "Coming from you, that means a lot."
The room buzzed with energy — that post-victory warmth that comes when a team not only wins but feels united. Wenger stepped in briefly, applauding once, and everyone quieted.
"Well done," he said, voice steady. "That was not perfect, but it was full of heart. And heart wins you matches before tactics ever will. Francesco — your first match as captain. You led like a man twice your age."
Francesco nodded respectfully. "Merci, boss."
Wenger gave a small smile. "Enjoy tonight. Tomorrow, we work again."
Laughter rippled through the room, light and genuine.
As the players began filtering toward the showers, Francesco sat for a moment on the bench, unwrapping his boots slowly. The match ball rested beside him, signed by every teammate — a small ritual of gratitude. He stared at it for a while, fingers tracing the smudged ink, the faint scent of grass still clinging to it.
The noise from the dressing room still hummed like an echo of joy and laughter, the soft hiss of showers, and the rhythmic thump of a speaker still playing something distant and defiant. Francesco was sitting quietly by his locker, towel around his neck, the match ball resting on his thigh. His hands traced the signatures over the white panels — Özil, Giroud, Kanté, even Cech had written a short message: "Captain's performance. Proud of you."
He smiled to himself, not out of arrogance, but quiet disbelief. It was one of those moments that felt suspended in amber, real but somehow untouchable.
That's when the door opened again. The laughter dimmed slightly as Arsène Wenger stepped back into the room. The manager's face, calm and unreadable as always, carried a faint trace of satisfaction and showing the rare kind that only appeared after something truly special. He looked around once, scanning the faces of his players, before his eyes settled on Francesco.
"Francesco," Wenger said softly, his French accent threading through the hum of voices. "Come with me. Press conference."
Francesco blinked, sitting up straighter. "Now?"
"Yes," Wenger replied, giving the faintest of smiles. "They'll want to hear from their captain tonight."
A few players whistled and teased as Francesco stood, still clutching his towel. Giroud called out, "Make sure you mention my goal, eh?"
Chamberlain grinned. "And don't take all the credit, skip after all we did some of the work."
Francesco chuckled, shaking his head as he slipped into his track jacket. "Don't worry, lads, I'll make us sound good."
Wenger gestured toward the tunnel. "Let's go, mon garçon."
They walked side by side down the corridor, the thud of their steps softened by the carpet. The sounds of the crowd had long faded into the night, replaced by the low buzz of television crews setting up their post-match spots, the rustle of journalists typing furiously, the faint hum of cameras still rolling for highlights.
The air outside the dressing room felt cooler, touched by the faint scent of rain and grass drifting in from the pitch exit. Francesco glanced at Wenger — the old manager's posture as straight as ever, hands clasped behind his back, the faintest smile beneath the wrinkles of a face that had seen thousands of nights like this but still cherished each one.
"Good work today," Wenger murmured without looking at him.
"Merci, boss," Francesco replied, matching his quiet tone. "It felt right. Everyone played for each other."
Wenger nodded slightly. "That is what we must keep. Not every match will give you three goals. But if the spirit remains, the victories will come naturally."
Francesco nodded, the weight of the words sinking in.
As they turned a corner, the low murmur of voices grew louder — journalists talking over one another, the mechanical clicking of camera shutters, and the bright flicker of light bouncing off metal fixtures. The pair stepped through the final doorway, and instantly, they were hit by the wave of flashes.
Dozens of photographers lined the back of the room, their cameras snapping as Francesco and Wenger entered. Arsenal's media officer, Mark Gonnella, stood to the side, clipboard in hand, signaling for them to take their seats on the small stage. Behind them, a crimson backdrop stretched wide with the golden Arsenal crest repeated across it, flanked by the Premier League logo.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Mark said into the mic, his professional voice cutting through the chatter. "We'll begin the post-match press conference with Arsenal manager Arsène Wenger and captain Francesco Lee. Please raise your hand if you have a question."
The room immediately filled with a rustle of movement — reporters shifting, hands shooting up, laptops snapping open.
Wenger adjusted the microphone, gave a small nod to Mark, and waited.
The first question came from a familiar face, James Olley from The Evening Standard.
"Arsène," Olley began, his voice clear and practiced, "a statement win tonight, 5–2 over Liverpool on opening day. What did you make of your team's performance and particularly Granit Xhaka's debut?"
Wenger leaned slightly forward, his expression thoughtful, as always choosing his words like a man selecting fine wine.
"I am very pleased," he began, voice smooth but authoritative. "To start the season with such energy and conviction is a very good sign. We knew Liverpool would press us, that they would test our structure, and they did. But our response with showing our composure after going behind, that is what I am most proud of."
He glanced briefly toward Francesco before continuing. "Granit, on his debut, showed exactly what we wanted from him showing calm, intelligence, and precision. He controlled the rhythm with N'Golo very well. You could see moments where his passing broke Liverpool's press, and that is something not every midfielder can do under pressure."
He paused, hands clasped together now. "It was not perfect after all nothing is, especially on the first day. But the balance between attack and control was good. And of course…" He smiled faintly, nodding toward Francesco. "When you have a captain who can score three goals like that, everything becomes easier."
The room chuckled softly.
A few cameras swiveled toward Francesco, who sat slightly forward, listening carefully. His hands rested lightly on the table, that humble poise of a player trying to remain grounded in the whirlwind of attention.
Another hand shot up. This time it was Kaveh Solhekol from Sky Sports News.
"Kaveh Solhekol, Sky Sports," he began. "Francesco, you've just captained Arsenal to a 5–2 win on opening day and scored a hat-trick. You're seventeen years old, does it feel real yet?"
Francesco gave a small laugh, the kind that escapes before you can stop it. "Not really," he admitted, earning a ripple of laughter from the room. "I think it'll hit me later, maybe when I'm home and it's quiet. Right now it still feels like a dream."
He glanced briefly toward Wenger, then back to the reporters. "But honestly, the goals only matter because we won. The team did everything from Granit, N'Golo, Mesut, Oli as they made it easy for me to play my game. I'm lucky to have that support around me."
Another question came quickly, this one from BBC Sport's David Ornstein.
"Francesco, we've seen you develop incredibly quickly over the past year. Tonight you wore the armband for the first time in a Premier League match since you been chosen as the first captain. How did that feel, and did the responsibility change your mindset?"
Francesco inhaled quietly, considering. "It's a huge honour," he said simply. "Wearing that armband, especially for Arsenal… it's history. You feel it. You think of Adams, Vieira, Henry — players who led not just with their voices, but with their hearts."
He looked down for a moment, then back up, sincerity glowing in his eyes. "It changes how you see the pitch. You start thinking for the whole team, not just yourself. When we went behind early, I could see a few heads drop. I just told them: keep believing, keep playing our football. That's what the boss always says — trust the process. Tonight, it worked."
The reporters nodded, several scribbling rapidly.
Another question came from The Guardian's Amy Lawrence, her tone warm but probing.
"Arsène, you've trusted young captains before, but rarely someone as young as Francesco. What made you confident enough to give him the armband?"
Wenger smiled faintly, eyes flicking toward his captain again. "Leadership is not always about age. Some players are born with a certain… serenity, a calm authority that lifts others. Francesco has that. Even at training, he commands respect not by shouting, but by how he plays, how he listens. He reminds me of certain greats I have worked with — perhaps with a bit of Bergkamp's intelligence and Henry's ambition."
Francesco blinked, clearly flustered, and muttered under his breath, "That's too much praise, boss." The room laughed again.
Wenger chuckled lightly. "Then he will have to prove me right."
Cameras flashed again. Someone from ITV called out next. "Francesco, can you talk us through that third goal — the goal over Mignolet? It looked so composed, so deliberate. Was that instinct or planned?"
Francesco smiled, shaking his head slightly. "Definitely instinct. You don't plan moments like that. When I saw Mignolet come out, I knew I had half a second to make a decision. My first touch was good, so I just trusted it. Sometimes football's about feeling that made you don't think, you just do."
He leaned back slightly, a humble shrug. "Luckily, it went in."
The reporters laughed softly, impressed by his composure.
The hum of camera shutters filled the air again — the constant, flickering rhythm of attention. Francesco could feel it, that slight rise of energy that always came when the room began to shift its focus back to him. A reporter near the middle with a sharp suit, slicked hair, Sky Sports badge glinting on his lanyard, leaned forward and raised his voice over the low murmurs.
"Francesco," he began, tone confident, a hint of teasing in his phrasing, "you've just won your first Premier League match as captain, coming off a treble-winning season with winning the league, the FA Cup, and the Champions League. You scored a hat-trick today, you're seventeen, and Arsenal look as strong as ever. The question is… can you defend all of that again? Can Arsenal actually go on and win the Premier League for the third year in a row?"
A ripple of quiet laughter spread through the room. Some reporters smiled; others raised their phones to capture the young captain's reaction. It was the kind of question loaded with both admiration and challenge, the kind meant to test whether the new Arsenal captain would play safe or dare to dream.
Francesco leaned back slightly, the corner of his mouth curling into a half-smile. His fingers tapped the table once, twice, before he looked up.
"I think," he began slowly, "if you start a season thinking about defending something, you've already lost it."
The room went silent for a heartbeat. Francesco's voice carried a quiet confidence, that same tone he used on the pitch when telling his teammates to push higher, to trust him with the ball.
He continued, "We don't want to defend titles. We want to win them again in our own way, with our own story. What we did last season was incredible, and I think it showed the world what Arsenal could be. But that's history now. The Premier League doesn't care what you won yesterday. Every club wants to beat you with every stadium you go to, you feel that pressure. That's why we play."
He paused, eyes scanning the rows of faces in front of him. "So yes, we believe we can do it again, but not because we're protecting something. Because we're still hungry for more."
It wasn't rehearsed. It didn't sound like a media line crafted by a press officer. It was raw, natural showing the kind of answer that came from someone who still played football like it was life itself.
The room buzzed again with quiet murmurs, the reporters scribbling and typing. The Sky Sports mic light blinked red, recording every word. A few journalists exchanged glances, nodding as though they'd just caught the quote of the night.
Then another hand went up from the front row — this time, from The Guardian. "Arsène, same question to you," the journalist said. "You've built one of the most dominant Arsenal sides in modern football, but maintaining hunger after so much success can be difficult. How do you keep the team motivated, focused, and competitive after achieving everything — the treble, the records, the acclaim?"
Wenger exhaled softly, folding his hands together. His eyes, deep and thoughtful beneath the glare of the lights, shifted toward Francesco for a brief second — almost as though framing his answer around the boy sitting beside him.
He began slowly, the way only Wenger could: calm, philosophical, deliberate. "Hunger," he said, "is a strange thing in football. It is easy to have when you have nothing. It is harder when you have everything."
He leaned forward, his voice gaining quiet gravity. "This team has achieved something extraordinary. They have won not only titles, but the respect of Europe with the admiration of many who once doubted. But what separates a great team from a legendary one is not the trophies; it is the desire to keep improving even when no one expects you to."
He turned his gaze toward the press, his tone warm but firm. "Every morning, I see it at training. You can tell when a group still has that fire. When you watch Francesco arrive early, when you see Alexis shouting encouragement, when N'Golo runs as if it's his first trial, you know — the hunger is not gone. It's in their eyes, their sweat, their silence after a mistake. It's something you cannot fake."
He smiled faintly. "My job is only to remind them that success is not a destination, it is a habit. You must wake up every day and earn it again."
A murmur of appreciation swept through the room. Even the seasoned journalists, who'd spent decades listening to post-match platitudes, seemed to take a moment to absorb Wenger's words. The cameras zoomed in on him, flashes glinting against his glasses.
Francesco glanced sideways at his manager, that faint smile still tugging at his lips. He'd grown used to Wenger's wisdom by now, but it still amazed him the way the man could make football sound like poetry.
Then a hand shot up again — one from ESPN's Julien Laurens. "Francesco," he said, voice curious, "you mentioned hunger. You've already achieved so much at such a young age with Golden Boot, Champions League, Euro, now club captain. Where does your motivation come from now? What keeps you waking up hungry every day?"
Francesco thought for a moment. The hum of the lights above seemed louder now. His hand brushed the edge of the table as he searched for the right words.
He finally said, "When I was a kid, I dreamed about just playing one game for Arsenal. That was everything. I never imagined this — the goals, the trophies, the fans chanting my name. But when you live that dream, it doesn't end. It changes. Now, my motivation is to keep earning that dream every week."
He leaned slightly closer to the mic. "I don't want to be remembered for one season, or one moment. I want to build something that lasts, something that makes people remember what Arsenal stood for in this era. That's what keeps me going."
The words hung in the air. There was no applause, just a respectful hush as the quiet acknowledgment that something genuine had been said.
Then, from the back, a voice called out — one that Francesco instantly recognized. It was Geoff Shreeves, Sky Sports' senior pitch-side reporter, standing with a half-smile.
"Francesco," Geoff said, "you spoke about legacy. Thierry Henry once said he wanted to make people dream when they watched Arsenal play. Do you feel you're carrying that same torch now, especially being the captain at such a young age?"
Francesco's expression softened. He looked down for a moment, the question hitting him deeper than most.
He finally replied, "Thierry's one of the reasons I fell in love with football. I used to watch old clips of him scoring at Highbury with the elegance, the power, the way he made everything look effortless. So if I can make even one kid watching from the stands dream the way he made me dream… then I'm doing something right."
He smiled faintly, almost bashful now. "But I'm not Thierry. I'm Francesco. And I still have a long way to go."
Geoff grinned. "Well said, captain."
The room broke into soft laughter again, and for a few moments, the atmosphere relaxed — less press conference, more celebration of what Arsenal had become.
Wenger leaned back in his chair, clearly content. He had been in football long enough to know these moments were rare — when talent and humility shared the same space, when a seventeen-year-old spoke like a man who had already lived a lifetime in the game.
The questions continued for another twenty minutes — tactics, injury updates, transfer speculation — but the tone never drifted from that opening spark. Every answer from Francesco and Wenger carried a calm conviction, a sense that this Arsenal team wasn't just good; it was united.
When Mark Gonnella finally signaled the end, thanking the media for their time, the flashes flared one last time. Francesco stood, shaking Wenger's hand first before turning to wave politely toward the journalists.
"Thank you, everyone," Wenger said with that soft half-smile. "You can write something nice tomorrow, huh?"
Laughter echoed across the room.
As they stepped out of the press room and back into the corridor, the air felt cooler, quieter. Francesco exhaled deeply, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. The sound of their footsteps echoed faintly down the empty hallway.
Wenger walked beside him, hands tucked behind his back as always. "You handled that very well," he said softly.
Francesco smiled. "Thank you, boss. They always find ways to ask tricky questions."
Wenger chuckled under his breath. "Yes. But you answered like a captain."
They turned another corner, passing the dimly lit trophy cabinet — the polished glass reflecting the faint golden gleam of Arsenal's history. Francesco slowed slightly, his eyes tracing the familiar trophies: the FA Cups, the Premier League shields, and now, the Champions League cup gleaming proudly at the center.
Wenger noticed and stopped too. "You know," he said quietly, "I sometimes walk past here at night when everyone's gone. It reminds me of what we've built — and how fragile it can be if we ever stop believing."
Francesco nodded slowly. "We won't stop."
Wenger smiled faintly, his eyes soft. "I know."
They continued walking until the hallway opened toward the players' exit. The muffled noise of the media still lingered faintly behind them, but out here, the night was peaceful.
Francesco stepped outside first, greeted by the cool London air. The stadium lights still glowed faintly in the distance, the hum of traffic blending with the last whispers of departing fans. A few security staff nodded as he passed.
For a moment, he just stood there, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the night sky above the Emirates. The weight of the captain's armband still felt new — heavier than fabric, lighter than fear. Somewhere deep down, he knew this was only the beginning.
Behind him, Wenger paused at the doorway, looking at his young captain with that familiar, knowing expression — the look of a man who'd seen the start of many legends, and perhaps, the birth of one more.
"Go rest, Francesco," he said quietly. "Tomorrow, the world will talk again. But tonight, enjoy the silence."
Francesco turned, smiling softly. "Goodnight, boss."
The night had settled over London, heavy with the soft hum of traffic and the faint drizzle that always seemed to linger after a big match. The Emirates Stadium, now nearly empty, glowed faintly in the distance as its red halo a quiet reminder of the storm that had passed.
Francesco climbed into the team bus with a sigh of relief, the adrenaline finally beginning to ebb. The players were scattered around in their usual spots — some already on their phones, others half-asleep, the quiet laughter of a few still echoing near the back. Granit Xhaka and N'Golo Kanté were in deep conversation about a midfield rotation from earlier, and Olivier Giroud had his headphones in, tapping the rhythm of a French song against his thigh.
Francesco took his usual seat by the window, near the middle, and leaned his head against the glass. The faint vibration of the engine rumbled through the bus as it pulled away from the stadium, escorted by the low hum of police motorbikes guiding them through the city's late-night traffic.
He could still feel the faint sting of the captain's armband against his skin, though he'd taken it off long ago. It was strange how symbolic a piece of fabric could feel — how heavy it could become after a night like this.
Outside, the lights of London rolled by in blurred streaks — street lamps, reflections in puddles, the distant glow of pubs still open, with patrons spilling out onto the pavements. Now and then, a few fans still wearing Arsenal scarves waved as the bus passed, their faces lighting up as they recognized the red crest in the darkness. Francesco smiled quietly to himself.
He could see Wenger a few rows ahead, reading something on his tablet with that same calm concentration he always had even after a 5–2 victory. The man never stopped working. To Wenger, every game was a story that could still be improved in the margins.
Francesco turned his gaze back to the window. His mind replayed fragments of the match — the sound of the crowd erupting after his third goal, the blur of red shirts swarming around him, the weightless joy as the final whistle blew. And then, of course, the press conference — the questions, the flashes, the way Wenger's quiet pride had filled the room.
For a brief moment, he thought about his younger self — the kid juggling a football alone in his parent house backyard, watching Thierry Henry highlights on an old iPad, whispering to himself that one day he'd wear that Arsenal shirt. That one day had turned into tonight.
"Hey, skip," a voice called from behind him. It was Chamberlain, grinning as he leaned over the seat. "Still smiling, huh? Can't stop thinking about that volley, can you?"
Francesco chuckled. "Which one, mine or yours?"
"The one that hit Row Z," Chamberlain laughed, tossing a plastic bottle cap at him. "Nah, seriously, mate — unreal performance tonight. Hat-trick on opening day? That's some fairytale stuff."
"Thanks, Ox," Francesco said, shaking his head with a faint grin. "You'll get one next week."
Chamberlain winked. "As long as you pass more often, captain."
Francesco laughed, but his mind was already drifting again. As the bus turned onto the motorway toward Colney, the world outside darkened into the soft glow of headlights and shadows. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, the hum of the tires against the road almost hypnotic.
When the bus finally pulled into the familiar gates of Arsenal's London Colney training ground, the time on his watch read 21:34 p.m. The air outside was crisp, the faint smell of wet grass and diesel mixing in the night breeze.
One by one, the players got off, exchanging lazy goodbyes and backslaps. "See you tomorrow," "Good session, eh?" "Don't oversleep." The easy camaraderie of victory still lingered in the air.
Cech headed toward his black Audi, Giroud to his Range Rover, and N'Golo as always climbed into his modest Mini Cooper with that humble smile. Francesco couldn't help but grin watching him go.
He unlocked his BMW X5, the soft click echoing in the quiet car park. The interior lights flickered on, bathing the leather seats in a warm glow. Sliding into the driver's seat, he took a moment before starting the engine — hands resting on the steering wheel, mind still processing the night.
The roar of the engine broke the silence, low and steady. He pulled out of the car park and onto the main road, the wet tarmac glistening under the streetlights.
The drive from Colney to Richmond was one he knew by heart. The city at night felt like another world — quieter, almost sacred. He passed through stretches of countryside before the suburban lights began to reappear, familiar roads leading him home.
He turned onto his street — a quiet, tree-lined lane where the houses stood behind wrought iron gates and trimmed hedges. As he pulled into the driveway of his mansion, the motion lights flicked on automatically, casting soft pools of gold across the wet stone path.
Francesco parked the BMW X5 in the garage beside his older Honda Civic — still kept clean and polished, a reminder of simpler days. He shut off the engine, exhaled deeply, and just sat for a second in the stillness. The echoes of the match, the adrenaline, the cheers — all of it seemed to fade into the background now.
Then he opened the door, the faint creak of the hinge mixing with the patter of rain outside. As he stepped inside the house through the side entrance, a warm smell hit him immediately — savory, rich, and comforting.
He froze for a second, then smiled.
The scent was unmistakable — roasted garlic, herbs, and something faintly sweet, like caramelized onions. It was the kind of smell that could make any house feel like home.
He walked quietly through the hallway, shoes tapping softly against the polished floor. The lights were dimmed low, the house calm except for the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the faint clatter of something coming from the kitchen.
When he turned the corner, there she was.
Leah — her hair tied up in a messy bun, wearing one of his oversized Arsenal training tops, her bare feet padding softly across the tiled floor. She was standing by the stove, stirring something in a pan with the kind of focus she usually reserved for the pitch.
Francesco leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a quiet smile spreading across his face.
"I didn't think you'd still be up," he said softly.
Leah turned, startled for a split second before her face lit up with that familiar, bright smile. "And miss your post-match meal? Not a chance, captain."
He laughed under his breath, walking toward her. "You know, most people would just send a text and tell me to grab takeaway."
She shrugged playfully, stirring the sauce again. "Most people don't score hat-tricks on opening day. You deserve something proper."
He smiled wider, stepping closer, the smell of the food wrapping around him. "What's on the menu, chef?"
"Chicken and mushroom risotto," she said, with a little flourish of the spoon. "Your favorite. And maybe a little tiramisu after, if you're lucky."
Francesco chuckled, slipping an arm around her waist from behind, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. "I think I've already used up all my luck today."
Leah leaned her head back against him, her laughter soft. "You're too modest for a guy who just made national headlines again."
He hummed in response, pressing a light kiss against her temple. "Headlines come and go. This —" he glanced at the pan, the quiet kitchen, the warmth of her hand resting on his — "this is what feels real."
She smiled, turning slightly to face him. "You always say that after a big game."
"Because it's always true."
Leah studied him for a moment — the faint tiredness in his eyes, the small streaks of sweat still clinging to his hairline. "You haven't even showered, have you?"
He grinned guiltily. "I was saving the best part of the night for last."
She rolled her eyes, playfully swatting his chest with the wooden spoon. "Go. Shower. You smell like grass and victory."
"Those are good smells," he protested.
"Not in my kitchen," she said, smirking.
Francesco laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Ten minutes."
As he walked upstairs, he could still hear the faint sound of her humming to herself — the comforting melody of someone utterly at ease in a world he often found chaotic.
The shower was quick, just long enough for the steam to clear away the fatigue clinging to his skin. When he came back down, wearing a plain white T-shirt and dark joggers, Leah was setting the table — two plates, candles lit, soft jazz playing quietly from the speaker by the counter.
Francesco stopped for a moment, taking it in. The simplicity of it. The peace.
"Romantic dinner for two, huh?" he teased gently.
Leah looked up and grinned. "You think you're special just because Sky Sports called you 'the face of Arsenal's new dynasty'?"
He laughed, shaking his head as he sat down. "I was hoping you didn't see that headline."
"Oh, I did," she said, sitting opposite him. "And I also saw the part where they called you 'the calm heart of chaos.' Bit dramatic, don't you think?"
Francesco smiled faintly, swirling his fork through the risotto. "Maybe. But it's not far off. The pitch can be chaos sometimes — even when it looks controlled."
Leah studied him, her expression softening. "And yet, you always seem calm out there."
He shrugged slightly. "Maybe that's why the boss made me captain. He said it's not about shouting the loudest, but being the one who never loses his head."
They ate quietly for a few moments after that — the kind of silence that felt easy, filled with unspoken understanding. Outside, rain tapped gently against the windows, and the city lights shimmered faintly through the glass.
Leah finally broke the quiet. "You know, I'm proud of you."
Francesco looked up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," she said softly. "Not just because you scored. But because I saw the way you spoke at the press conference. Confident, grounded… you sounded like a real leader out there."
He smiled gently, setting down his fork. "You watched?"
"Of course I did," she said, eyes sparkling. "I always do."
He reached across the table, taking her hand in his. "Then you probably saw how nervous I was."
She laughed quietly. "You hid it well."
He exhaled, a small laugh of his own escaping. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm ready for all this — being captain, carrying expectations. But then I remember nights like this. Coming home, seeing you. It reminds me why I do it."
Leah squeezed his hand. "You're more than ready, Francesco. You've always been. The world's just finally catching up."
For a long moment, they just sat there — two people, the world outside fading into nothing. The night stretched on softly, the risotto growing cold, the candles burning lower.
Later, after they'd finished eating, Leah curled up next to him on the couch, a blanket wrapped around them both. The faint sound of rain, the flicker of the TV showing highlights of the match — his goals replaying again and again, each met with the roar of the Emirates crowd.
Francesco smiled faintly, his fingers tracing idle circles on Leah's hand. "You think it'll ever feel normal?"
She looked up at him, her voice barely above a whisper. "I hope it never does."
He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
Outside, London slept. Inside, the captain of Arsenal sat with the woman he loved, the echo of the crowd long gone, replaced by something deeper — something that didn't need to be shouted to be real.
________________________________________________
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 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 1
Goal: 3
Assist: 0
MOTM: 1
POTM: 0
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