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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.
The morning light spilled softly through the half-drawn curtains, slicing across the bedroom in thin golden lines that danced lazily on the sheets. The faint hum of London life pulsed outside with a distant engines, birds, the occasional bark of a dog that appear. But inside, everything felt still. Francesco stirred beneath the covers, the weight of yesterday's match still lingering in his muscles, that pleasant kind of fatigue that only came after victory. His hand fumbled blindly across the bedside table, searching for his phone.
When he finally found it, the screen's glow blinked to life: 09:12 AM. His notifications were flooded — texts, mentions, tags, interviews. The world, it seemed, hadn't stopped talking about Arsenal's opening-day triumph.
He rubbed at his eyes, smiling faintly when he saw the latest message in the players' group chat. Wenger's name appeared at the top, followed by his usual calm, direct tone:
Arsène Wenger: No training today, lads. You've earned it. Rest well, enjoy the recovery. Tomorrow, we prepare again.
That was it. No emojis, no exclamation marks — just Wenger's quiet way of saying "I'm proud of you."
Below that, the replies came thick and fast:
Giroud: Merci, boss! Time for wine and croissants!
Ramsey: You just had a bottle last night, Oli.
Cech: Please hydrate properly, Olivier.
Kanté: I am going for a run.
Chamberlain: Of course you are, N'Golo.
Francesco chuckled softly, scrolling through the banter as his thumb hovered over the keyboard. He typed a simple line:
Francesco: See you tomorrow, boys. Proud of the team.
He locked the screen and exhaled, letting the quiet fill the room again. Beside him, the other side of the bed was empty — the sheets cool. Leah was already gone.
Her note was waiting for him on the bedside table, folded neatly in half, written in her looping handwriting:
Morning, love. Training starts early today — we're doing set-piece drills before the rain comes. There's coffee ready downstairs. Don't eat cereal again. xx Leah.
He smiled. She knew him too well.
Kicking off the covers, Francesco swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, feeling the faint stiffness in his thighs. The ache was familiar, comforting even — the kind of soreness that reminded him he'd given everything yesterday. He pulled on a pair of grey joggers and a loose Arsenal training tee, the fabric still smelling faintly of detergent and the lavender scent Leah always used in the wash.
Downstairs, the house was quiet except for the rhythmic tick of the kitchen clock. The morning light flooded through the wide windows overlooking the garden, bouncing off the clean marble counters. Leah had indeed made coffee — the aroma hung thick in the air, earthy and rich.
He poured himself a mug and stood by the counter, staring absently at the steam rising from it. The events of last night felt like both a dream and a film he'd already watched a hundred times. The goals. The roar of the crowd. The flashes of the cameras. And Leah, standing barefoot in the kitchen hours later, grounding him back to reality.
He turned on the television, flipping to Sky Sports News, the familiar blue ticker scrolling beneath the anchor's face.
The headline read:
"Arsenal 5–2 Liverpool: Francesco Lee Leads Gunners to Opening Day Statement."
The studio cut to a wide shot — Jamie Carragher, Gary Neville, and Ian Wright sitting around the glass desk, mugs of coffee in hand, the Emirates glowing in the background screen behind them.
"Morning, gents," said the presenter with that bright tone only morning TV could carry. "Let's start with what everyone's been talking about — Arsenal. Five goals, a hat-trick from Francesco Lee, and a performance that's got people wondering if this team can go all the way again."
Ian Wright chuckled, leaning forward. "I mean, come on — what a game, eh? That kid… I still can't believe he's only seventeen. The composure, the timing, the confidence. I was watching that third goal and thinking — yeah, that's Arsenal football. That's what we used to be about."
Carragher smirked, tapping his notes. "You love him, don't you, Wrighty?"
"Of course I do," Wright grinned. "He's one of ours! But seriously, Jamie, look at the way he plays. He's not just scoring tap-ins. The movement, the link-up with Özil and Sánchez that is mature football. And what I really love about him is the leadership. He's not shouting at people, but you can see everyone looks to him."
Neville nodded slightly, his voice more measured. "Yeah, I'll admit, I wasn't sure about Wenger giving the armband to someone that young. But last night, it made sense. You could see how the team followed his tempo. He slowed things down when they needed calm, he pressed when they needed urgency. That's what top captains do. You don't get that kind of presence at seventeen, that's natural."
Carragher interjected with his trademark grin. "Still, Gary, you're saying that like it's easy. Liverpool's press was working for just twenty minutes. But once Xhaka and Kanté got control, Arsenal just passed them to death. It was old-school Wengerball showing triangles, rotation, positional play. They made it look effortless."
On screen, the broadcast switched to highlights — slow-motion replays of the match from last night. Francesco's first goal — a curling strike into the top corner. His second — a perfectly timed run behind the defence. And the third — that delicate chip over Mignolet that had the commentators screaming.
The camera cut back to Wright, shaking his head with a proud grin. "Look at that! The confidence to dink it there. That's pure instinct, mate. You don't teach that. You feel it."
Francesco smiled faintly, sipping his coffee as he watched. Hearing Wright talk like that, still didn't feel real.
Neville leaned back, his tone shifting to something more analytical. "What's interesting, though, is that Arsenal didn't panic after conceding before the end of the first half. That used to be their problem years ago. This team's different. There's structure. They don't lose control emotionally. And that comes down to the captain and the manager."
Carragher nodded. "Spot on. And let's not forget, Wenger's evolved too. That midfield pairing of Xhaka and Kanté — that's balance. That's steel and silk. It's what Arsenal have missed for years."
"Yeah," Wright added, eyes bright. "And Francesco, he's the bridge between that old flair and the new grit. He's got the Henry swagger, but he works like he's still fighting for a place in the reserves."
Gary Neville leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing the way he always did when he was about to make a serious point. He rested his elbows on the desk, fingers clasped together as the replay of Arsenal's midfield triangles flickered across the big screen behind them with Kanté intercepting a pass, Xhaka collecting it, then sliding it calmly to Özil before Francesco darted forward between the lines.
"Let's not forget," Neville began, his voice steady, analytical, "Xhaka was making his debut yesterday. His debut. And yet, look how seamlessly he played alongside Kanté. That's not easy and especially in your first Premier League match, against Liverpool of all teams."
Carragher nodded, brow furrowing slightly. "Yeah, I'll give you that. It's not like Liverpool were sitting back either. Klopp had them pressing high, flying into tackles. But Xhaka and Kanté, they didn't panic once."
"Exactly," Neville said, gesturing toward the highlight reel now showing Xhaka winning a 50–50 and immediately feeding Francesco in transition. "That partnership with that balance, could be huge for Arsenal. You can't win the league without a solid midfield base. And these two, they just click. One holds, one presses, both can pass. It's that dual anchor every great side needs."
Ian Wright grinned, tapping the desk excitedly. "You're talking like a fan now, Gary."
Neville smirked. "I'm just saying, Wrighty as we've seen Arsenal with flair before, but what we're seeing now is structure. There's steel in there. And that's what makes the difference between a team that entertains and a team that dominates."
The presenter cut in, smiling at the panel. "So you're saying Arsenal could go all the way again?"
Neville shrugged slightly but didn't deny it. "Look, I'll be honest, it's still early. First game, you can't read too much into it. But Francesco said it himself in the post-match interview last night as Arsenal want to win the Premier League for the third time in a row. That kind of mentality? That's a champion's mindset. You don't say that unless you believe your squad has it in them."
At that, Wright leaned back in his chair, beaming like a proud uncle. "And that's exactly why he's captain. I mean, you could see it in his eyes last night. That hunger, that calm. He's not chasing personal glory; he's thinking about the club, about legacy."
Carragher chuckled. "Yeah, and you'd know a bit about legacy, wouldn't you, Wrighty?"
"Damn right," Wright grinned, pointing playfully at the camera. "But listen, Francesco's not trying to be Henry, or Bergkamp, or even me. He's got his own story. The boy's seventeen, already two titles in, now captain… and he talks like someone who's been in the game for fifteen years. He's setting standards."
The broadcast cut briefly to Francesco's Sky Sports interview from the night before — his calm, confident expression under the bright lights.
He was still wearing the captain's armband, his voice even and grounded:
"We're proud of what we've built here, but we're not done. We want to win the Premier League again — that's the standard. Back-to-back was special, but three in a row would mean history. Arsenal deserves that."
The clip ended, and Wright sighed almost wistfully. "See? That's what I mean. He gets it. He's not talking about stats or fame, he's talking about Arsenal."
Neville nodded. "You can't teach that. That's culture. You look at the best captains like Keane, Vieira, Terry as they carried their clubs with a kind of conviction that went beyond football. Francesco's got that energy, and it's rare to see at his age."
Carragher added with a grin, "But he'll need to keep his head down. Once teams start targeting him, they'll test that composure."
"Oh, he's been tested already," Wright said quickly. "Liverpool were kicking lumps out of him in the first half, and he didn't flinch once. Didn't react, didn't complain. Just played his football. That's old-school captain stuff."
The studio lights reflected off the polished glass desk as the conversation shifted toward Arsenal's future fixtures — Leicester next week, followed by a Champions League qualifier. The panel kept returning, though, to that midfield duo and their influence.
Neville gestured toward the monitor again. "You see here, look at how Xhaka covers when Kanté goes forward. There's an understanding already. That's what impressed me most. Normally when you bring a new player into a system, it takes weeks to build rhythm. But Xhaka looked like he'd been there for years."
Carragher leaned back, nodding. "And that comes down to Wenger's coaching. People love to say he's old-fashioned, but that man knows how to integrate talent. He spots chemistry before anyone else does."
The presenter smiled. "So you think Arsenal could be favorites this season?"
There was a brief silence, that kind of pause where pundits hesitate to commit, knowing their words will be replayed all season.
Then Ian Wright, with that familiar sparkle in his eyes, said, "They already are favorites. Two titles back-to-back, the captain in form, the manager reinvented, and a squad that's finally got depth. You can bet your house they'll be right there again in May."
Francesco stood in his kitchen, mug halfway to his lips, smiling quietly at the screen. Wright's energy was infectious — that same fire that used to light up Highbury. But it was Neville's words that stuck with him: "That's a champion's mindset."
He turned off the volume for a moment, letting the silence of the room return. Outside, the rain had eased, leaving faint droplets racing down the windowpane. The smell of coffee and toasted bread filled the air. He leaned on the counter, reflecting — not in an arrogant way, but with the calm self-awareness Wenger always spoke about.
Three in a row.
It sounded almost impossible, but in football, that was the point — to chase the impossible.
He remembered the moment Wenger had handed him the armband just a few days ago. The look in the manager's eyes — that quiet belief, the weight of history passed down in silence. He'd said only one thing that night:
"Lead them as yourself, Francesco. Not as what others expect you to be."
Those words had replayed in his head ever since.
He glanced back at the TV; the program had shifted to the weekend's other fixtures, though the ticker still flashed Arsenal's score at the bottom in bold: ARSENAL 5–2 LIVERPOOL.
Every time he saw it, it didn't feel like pride — it felt like responsibility.
His phone buzzed softly against the countertop. A message from Wenger.
Arsène Wenger: Don't let the noise get too loud. Enjoy the quiet days, they never last long.
Francesco smiled faintly. That was classic Wenger. Always poetic, always reminding him that greatness came not from the cheers, but from the moments between them.
He replied simply:
Francesco: I will, boss. Thank you for trusting me.
He set the phone down and looked out toward the garden, where the faint sunlight broke through the clouds. The flowers Leah had planted along the edge were dripping with dew, the morning air alive with stillness.
He finished his coffee, then opened the fridge. Eggs, bread, spinach. He decided to cook properly — not just toast or cereal like Leah teased him for. The rhythm of it felt therapeutic: the sizzle of butter in the pan, the smell of garlic mingling with coffee. He flipped an omelet carefully, half-watching the TV as Sky Sports moved on to interviews with Klopp and Wenger.
Klopp's voice came through, frustrated but honest.
"They were better in the key moments. We pressed, we tried, but they punished us. Francesco was world-class — calm, deadly. Arsenal are champions for a reason."
Then Wenger appeared on screen, calm as ever, his suit immaculate, the faintest smile playing on his lips.
"It's a good start, nothing more. The boys worked hard. Francesco led well — he's mature beyond his years. But it's one game in a long journey."
Francesco chuckled softly. Wenger never changed — always tempering expectations, always grounding the noise. It was that balance, he thought, that made him so timeless.
He plated his breakfast, carrying it to the couch. As he sat down, he noticed Leah's scarf draped over the armrest — the Arsenal women's team crest stitched neatly into the fabric. She must've left in a rush this morning.
Francesco settled into the couch, balancing the warm plate on his lap, the omelet slightly steaming as he brought the first forkful to his mouth. Outside, the garden sparkled faintly in the early morning light, droplets clinging to leaves and petals like tiny diamonds. Inside, the house was quiet, almost reverent, the faint aroma of butter, garlic, and freshly brewed coffee mingling with the cool, damp air drifting in from the open kitchen window.
The presenter's voice came back through the television, warm and casual, like a neighbor chatting over a fence. "And that's how you make a simple omelet with a little flair. Remember, the key is not to rush it — just patience, a steady hand, and good ingredients. Enjoy your breakfast, folks!" A soft chuckle, a wave, and the segment ended. "Goodbye from me, and keep your kitchens warm and your coffee hot!"
Francesco smiled faintly, thinking about Leah's teasing note from this morning: "Don't eat cereal again." He had obeyed, and there was something satisfying about cooking himself something substantial, something that reminded him of both independence and home. He took another bite, savoring the warmth, the soft give of the eggs, the slight crunch of sautéed spinach and garlic.
Then, the screen flickered, and Sky Sports switched to their transfer window segment. The bold, animated graphics announced the headline: "Arsenal Transfer Update: Busy Summer Continues." The studio lights reflected off the polished surfaces as two anchors sat side by side, papers and tablets in hand, ready to dissect the latest movements.
"Good morning, Arsenal fans," the lead anchor said, voice clipped but excited. "It's been a dramatic day in North London. Let's start with the headline — Arsenal have agreed terms with Valencia for defender Shkodran Mustafi. The German international arrives for a fee of £20 million, with Gabriel Paulista heading the other way to Valencia as part of the deal."
Francesco paused mid-bite, fork hovering in the air. Mustafi. That name had been floating around in rumors for weeks, but hearing it confirmed on air made it real, tangible. He imagined the tall, composed defender stepping into the Emirates' locker room, the kind of player Wenger liked — intelligent, versatile, calm under pressure. Gabriel Paulista leaving was significant too; the Brazilian had been a steady presence in the backline last season, and Francesco remembered their brief training sessions together — Paulista's intensity, his talk in the dressing room, the occasional banter that broke through the professionalism.
The anchor continued, voice racing slightly with excitement. "That's not all for Arsenal's defense. They've also secured Rob Holding from Bolton Wanderers, a young English centre-back, for £2 million. Wenger has emphasized youth development, and Holding is expected to strengthen the squad's depth while also being groomed for future leadership. The idea, it seems, is to balance experience with potential."
Francesco leaned back slightly, processing the information. Transfers always felt like a chessboard — one move influenced a dozen others. The strategic nature of it, the careful balance between youth and experience, reminded him somewhat of Wenger's management style: calm, calculated, always with a long-term vision. He could almost see Wenger in his mind, sitting at his office in London Colney, quietly reviewing scouting reports, watching endless hours of footage, weighing decisions that could shape the club for years.
"And that's not the only news for the Gunners this morning," the anchor said, eyes brightening. "Midfielder Jack Wilshere has been sent out on a season-long loan to Bournemouth. It's a move designed to give him more first-team minutes and maintain his development after injury setbacks over the past seasons. This is typical Wenger as always keeping an eye on his players' growth, even when it means temporarily letting them go."
Francesco's fork clicked against the plate as he set it down. Wilshere. Another familiar face, another story intertwined with his own. He remembered training alongside Jack, the fiery energy, the relentless passes, the occasional teasing grin as they sparred during drills. It was always a mix of rivalry and camaraderie — that rare understanding of someone who shared both the club's weight and its joy. A season at Bournemouth would give him minutes, yes, but it also meant Arsenal's midfield depth would need adjustment. The tactical implications rippled through Francesco's mind.
The anchors continued, shifting to a tactical analysis of the new defensive pairings. "Mustafi brings European experience, strong in aerial duels and capable of ball-playing from the back. Pairing him with Koscielny or Van Dijk will gives Arsenal flexibility. Defensive solidity combined with midfield control is essential if Arsenal are to mount a serious title defense."
Neville's words from the morning replay echoed in Francesco's head: "That partnership could be huge. That dual anchor every great side needs." Now, seeing the additions, it made sense — the club was thinking ahead. Not just for today's matches, but the grind of a Premier League season, Champions League nights, and all the variables Wenger always accounted for.
The segment moved to Rob Holding, the young defender from Bolton. "He's 20, versatile, and ready to challenge in training. Wenger sees him as a long-term investment, someone who can grow into a regular starter in a few seasons. Arsenal continues to blend youth and experience in a way that keeps the squad competitive year after year."
Francesco's mind wandered for a moment, picturing Holding walking into the Emirates training ground for the first time. Young, eager, full of questions, yet quiet, absorbing the lessons around him. He remembered feeling the same way years ago — nervous, yet confident in his own ability, determined to earn his spot, determined to contribute. He knew that feeling would resonate with the boy, and a small smile crept onto his face.
"And the final piece of news from the Gunners," the presenter said, leaning slightly forward with that mixture of authority and excitement only seasoned anchors carried, "is that these transfers are not just about immediate results. Arsenal have made clear that the squad is being built not only to compete but to maintain dominance. This signals a clear statement: they're going all-in this season. Winning the Premier League three times in a row is not just ambition — it's expectation."
Francesco paused, fork mid-air again, letting the words settle. Three times in a row. The weight of it, both the history and the challenge, pressed lightly against his chest. He had said it himself — in the post-match interview, to the press, to himself in the quiet moments after the final whistle. But hearing it on national television, repeated by analysts dissecting every decision, every transfer, every nuance of strategy, made it tangible. The path was clear — but the work to walk it was immense.
The anchors cut to a small graphic showing the new defensive setup: Mustafi paired in diagrams with Koscielny, Holding ready as backup, Xhaka and Kanté anchored in midfield. Francesco noted the subtle shifts — even in these illustrations, the weight of planning was evident. Every move had a reason, every choice a ripple effect on tactics, morale, and long-term vision.
As the segment wrapped up, the presenter's voice softened slightly, a faint sign-off charm creeping in. "So there you have it, Gunners fans — excitement on the pitch, strategy in the boardroom, and the promise of a season full of ambition. We'll be keeping a close eye on how these transfers impact the squad, especially with the Premier League season already underway. Until next time, enjoy the football, and keep the debates friendly, folks. Goodbye from all of us at Sky Sports."
The screen returned to the main Sky Sports feed — highlights of other matches, brief commentary, and the ticker scrolling beneath. Francesco set the plate in the sink, washed his fork quickly, and poured himself another cup of coffee, the warmth settling into his hands.
He leaned back against the counter, gazing out at the garden again. The world of football beyond his kitchen — the press, the analysts, the transfer rumors, the expectations — all seemed enormous and almost unreal. And yet, here he was, in quiet stillness, a free day ahead of him, the rain gone, sunlight breaking through the clouds.
His thoughts drifted, unavoidably, toward the implications of the transfer moves. Mustafi's arrival would stabilize the defense, but how would the dynamics shift? How would Gabriel Paulista feel leaving Valencia? And Holding — that young, raw potential — could he adjust quickly enough to meet Wenger's standards? Francesco knew all too well the delicate balance of ego, skill, and teamwork. He could picture the conversations in the locker room already — friendly banter, light ribbing, and careful adjustments to tactics.
Then there was Wilshere's loan. He knew Jack well enough to understand the bittersweet nature of this move — opportunity mingled with distance, growth mingled with longing. Francesco had felt the same when he'd first broken into the first team — moments of triumph shadowed by the constant push to prove yourself, to stay relevant, to stay ready. A loan could rejuvenate Jack's career, yes, but it also meant Arsenal would rely on its current midfield even more, pushing Xhaka, Kanté, and Francesco himself to cement control.
Francesco refilled his coffee once again, taking slow sips, allowing the warmth to travel through him, steadying his thoughts. He picked up his phone and sent a quick message to Leah, already imagining her mid-training, feet slick on the wet turf, shouting instructions, practicing corners, fine-tuning her touches.
Francesco: Good morning, star. Hope training isn't too brutal. I'm catching up on all the Arsenal news here. Mustafi looks solid, huh?
Almost immediately, her reply came through:
Leah: Morning, captain 😉 He's good. Tall, calm, German precision. You'll like him. But don't forget, it's still all about the pitch. Breakfast done?
Francesco smiled at the thought of her, that energy, that focus, that unshakable confidence she carried on the field, mirroring, in a way, his own.
Francesco: Omelet, check. Coffee, double check. And yes, I'm ready for the quiet before the storm.
Leah: Good. Remember, a champion plans, but a champion also rests. See you after training.
He set the phone down, taking another slow breath. It was strange, he thought, how quiet mornings could feel heavy with anticipation, yet so gentle at the same time. The city outside was alive, moving, oblivious to the tiny dramas of one man's morning. Yet inside, the hum of the kettle, the faint smell of cooking, the warmth of his own home — it all created a sort of sanctuary. A pause before the intensity of the next match, before media cycles, before the pressures of leadership bore down again.
Francesco's eyes drifted to the garden again. The sunlight caught droplets lingering on the petals, turning them into miniature prisms of color. He imagined the coming days: Mustafi arriving at Colney, training alongside Xhaka and Kanté, the careful building of rhythm and understanding, the small yet crucial conversations in the locker room. He imagined himself leading, guiding, listening, pushing, and sometimes simply watching the pieces fall into place.
The next morning, the mist still clinging to the wide expanse of London Colney, Francesco pulled into the training ground in his BMW, the engine purring softly as he rolled through the familiar gates. The air was crisp, carrying that faint smell of dew-soaked grass and freshly painted lines, the unmistakable scent of a football pitch before a day of work began. Even after years, the ritual of arriving early still grounded him. It was a moment of quiet, a personal acknowledgment that the day ahead would demand everything: focus, effort, and leadership.
He parked near the main stand and stepped out, stretching slightly, the morning chill biting gently at his skin. The players' chatter carried faintly from the far end of the pitch, laughter mingling with the rhythmic thump of balls being kicked, the clatter of cones, the occasional shout from a coach adjusting a drill. Even at Arsenal, mornings weren't about headlines or transfers as they were about work. About the grind that underpinned every victory, every trophy, every fleeting moment of glory.
Walking toward the locker room, Francesco spotted Xhaka and Kanté moving toward the central circle, already discussing passing drills and pressing angles, their faces serious but relaxed. He nodded to them briefly — a silent acknowledgment, a reassurance that today, like every day, they were in control of the rhythm in midfield, the heartbeat of the squad.
Inside the locker room, Wenger was already waiting, flanked by the assistant coaches, his calm presence filling the space as always. His suit was impeccable, his hands clasped lightly in front of him, eyes scanning the room with that familiar mixture of curiosity, evaluation, and quiet pride.
"Morning, everyone," Wenger began, his voice soft but carrying that inevitable authority that immediately focused attention. "Today we have two new players joining us. Shkodran Mustafi and Rob Holding. Both of them will need our support, guidance, and patience. Football is a language — sometimes spoken in passes, sometimes in gestures, always in understanding. You will help them speak it fluently here at Arsenal."
The room hummed with a low mix of murmurs, excitement, and anticipation. Francesco felt that familiar knot of responsibility in his stomach as it was not anxiety, not fear, but a weight of duty. He had been in this position before, but never quite like this: as captain, it was his role to ensure that integration didn't happen by chance, that chemistry didn't stumble. He glanced toward the door as Wenger gestured, and in walked Mustafi first — tall, composed, a quiet presence in contrast to the more boisterous energy of the rest of the room. He had a calm, almost analytical expression, eyes scanning the lockers, the players, as if cataloging everything.
Francesco offered a hand immediately. "Shkodran, welcome. I'm Francesco. Captain here. Don't worry, we'll make sure you settle in quickly."
Mustafi's lips curled into a brief smile, firm and polite. "Thank you. I'm ready to help wherever I can."
Wenger then introduced Rob Holding. The young English defender carried the nervous energy of youth, tall but lean, eyes wide with the kind of alert curiosity that came from knowing he had a lot to prove. He looked slightly awed, as if absorbing the history embedded in the walls of Colney, the echoes of footsteps of players who had trained and fought and grown there.
Francesco crouched slightly, matching Holding's eye level. "Rob, it's a big step, I know. But don't overthink it. Arsenal is special because we work together. You play with heart, you listen, and the rest comes naturally."
Holding nodded, a small smile breaking through his tension. "Thank you, captain. That means a lot."
Wenger's hands folded behind him as he surveyed the introductions, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Good. Now, let's move to the field. The real language of football is there, not here."
The players spilled onto the training pitch, the early sun catching the droplets of dew like scattered diamonds across the green. Francesco took a deep breath, the smell of grass and wet earth grounding him instantly. He glanced toward Mustafi and Holding, walking slightly behind, absorbing the sights, the sounds, the sense of rhythm that had already formed among the returning players.
"Alright," Francesco began, stepping forward with the confidence of someone who knew both the pitch and the pulse of the team, "first things first — don't feel pressured to change how you play, but do pay attention to how we move. Communication is key. If you're unsure, just ask. And remember, every pass, every run, it all matters to the players around you."
Mustafi nodded, listening intently, adjusting the sleeves of his training kit. Holding glanced at Francesco, eyes wide but determined, as if ready to absorb every word like a sponge.
The first drills were simple: passing in triangles, movement without the ball, pressing patterns. Francesco orchestrated the sessions with the ease of someone fluent in both leadership and execution. He made small adjustments to Mustafi's positioning, whispered suggestions to Holding about body orientation, and occasionally signaled Xhaka and Kanté to give subtle support. He didn't micromanage, didn't shout unnecessarily — every word, every gesture was deliberate.
"You're doing well," Francesco said to Mustafi as the German defender intercepted a pass cleanly and returned it with calm precision. "See that? That's exactly how we want it. Keep your head up, talk to the midfield. They'll guide you."
Mustafi's brief nod of acknowledgment carried weight, and Francesco felt that initial bond forming, the quiet trust that only came from observing, correcting gently, and allowing a player to feel competent in his own skin.
Holding struggled slightly at first — his timing with the triangle rotations was off, and he hesitated in a couple of pressing drills. Francesco jogged over, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Take a deep breath. Watch Kanté's body language. See where the passing lanes open. It's not about force; it's about anticipation."
Holding tried again, this time stepping into the triangle at exactly the right moment, intercepting a pass from Ramsey, and playing it cleanly to Özil. Francesco smiled, clapping lightly. "There it is. That's exactly what I mean. You see the difference?"
By mid-morning, the team had begun to settle into rhythm. Wenger occasionally walked along the sidelines, occasionally interjecting with a precise correction or encouragement, but largely observing. Francesco noticed the subtle glances between Mustafi and Holding — cautious, deliberate — as if they were forming a silent understanding of the team's tempo, their place in the collective heartbeat of Arsenal.
During a brief water break, Francesco gathered the two newcomers near the edge of the pitch, the sun warming their shoulders. "Look, the first few days, it's about learning us as much as showing us what you can do. Don't worry if you make mistakes — everyone does. What matters is how you recover, how you adapt. And if you ever feel lost, come to me. That's my job as captain — making sure no one feels like they're on their own."
Mustafi exhaled softly, a hint of relief crossing his face. "I appreciate that, Francesco. I want to do well, not just for myself, but for the team."
Holding's eyes lit with determination. "I won't let you down. I want to learn from everyone here, and I'll give my all."
Francesco placed a hand on each of their shoulders briefly, an unspoken affirmation of trust and expectation. "Good. That's all I ask. Let's take it one session at a time. Learn the rhythm, respect the system, and we'll go from there."
The drills continued, escalating in intensity. Francesco took care to rotate positions, encourage communication, and orchestrate movement so Mustafi and Holding could see different facets of Arsenal's style. When the ball was in the defensive third, he directed Mustafi's positioning, guiding him gently toward spaces that minimized risk and maximized efficiency. When play shifted forward, he signaled Holding, coaching him on pressing angles and timing, ensuring that he would not just react, but anticipate.
Even as the sweat began to soak shirts and hair stuck damply to foreheads, Francesco's mind remained alert, cataloging the nuances: how Mustafi's calm composure could be leveraged in high-pressure situations, how Holding's raw energy could be tempered into intelligent aggression. He made mental notes for the next day, the next week, the next match — always planning, always preparing.
By the time Wenger called for a break, the two new defenders were visibly more comfortable, moving with growing confidence, communicating with teammates, laughing lightly when errors occurred, and gradually dissolving the initial tension that had clung to their shoulders since arrival.
Francesco stood back for a moment, watching the two of them exchange quick instructions with Xhaka and Kanté, nodding after a successful pass sequence, correcting each other without fear. He felt a swell of quiet satisfaction — this was the process he had been trained for, the leadership he had been entrusted with. Integration wasn't just about football; it was about culture, trust, and rhythm. And here, under the gentle morning sun, on a slightly damp pitch in Hertfordshire, it was taking shape.
When Wenger finally signaled the end of the session, the team gathered in a loose circle, towels draped over shoulders, water bottles in hand, faces gleaming with effort and satisfaction. Francesco stepped forward, voice carrying lightly but firmly over the hum of conversation.
"Alright, everyone," he said, glancing at the newcomers. "Today was just the start. You've done well. Mustafi, Holding — you're already part of this family. Keep asking questions, keep communicating. The rest of the team will support you, and I'll be right there, every step. Remember, it's not about one day, it's about building weeks, months, and the trust that will carry us through the season."
The players nodded, murmuring agreement, a mix of encouragement and camaraderie. Francesco saw the subtle shift in energy — the newcomers no longer tentative, but present, integrated, ready to contribute.
As the sun climbed higher, warming the pitch and evaporating the last of the morning mist, Francesco felt a familiar thrill, the steady pulse of anticipation that always came with the beginning of a season, with new challenges, with the forging of a team that could chase impossible dreams together. He knew that over the next days, Mustafi and Holding would grow, adapt, and blend into the rhythm of Arsenal, and he would be there, guiding, correcting, supporting — captain, teammate, mentor.
It was exhausting work, yes, but the satisfaction of seeing progress, of shaping the cohesion of a squad, was unmatched. Francesco allowed himself a quiet smile as he watched the team slowly disperse toward the locker rooms, the sun reflecting off their kits, the echoes of a successful session lingering in the crisp morning air.
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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