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Outside, the world was already rewriting narratives, updating record books, arguing about legacies. Inside, the kettle clicked off with the sunlight shifted across the floor and two plates sat drying on the counter. Francesco leaned back into the sofa again, phone finally quiet for the moment, and let himself breathe.
The quiet didn't last forever.
It never did.
It lingered just long enough to feel earned.
The rest of that morning passed gently, without ceremony. Francesco and Leah moved around the house in an easy rhythm, neither rushing, neither lingering too much. He stretched carefully in the living room, rolling out stiff calves and tight hamstrings on the mat the club physio had insisted he keep at home. Leah showered, changed, answered a few messages of her own. The television stayed on, volume low, Sky Sports now deep into extended debates, historical graphics, phone-ins from fans across the country.
Francesco caught fragments of it while stretching.
"…we are genuinely running out of superlatives…"
"…this changes how we talk about modern greatness…"
"…the Guinness recognition removes any ambiguity…"
Eventually, he muted it.
Not because he was tired of hearing it.
But because he didn't need it anymore.
By late morning, the house settled again into silence. Leah left for her own commitments, kissing him softly on the cheek before she went.
"Text me when you're done," she said.
"I will."
"And don't overdo it," she added, pointing at him.
He smiled. "It's recovery training."
"That's what you said last time," she replied, already halfway out the door.
He laughed, shaking his head as it closed behind her.
By the time afternoon rolled around, Francesco felt that familiar shift in his body and mind, the one that came before training days. Muscles still sore, yes, but loosened now. Focus sharpening. Routine reasserting itself.
Whatever the world wanted to call him today from record holder, history-maker, headline as Colney would still call him the same thing it always had.
Player.
He showered, changed into simple training gear, then grabbed his keys from the counter.
The BMW X5 waited in the driveway, black paint catching the muted London daylight. He slid into the driver's seat, the leather cool beneath him, and started the engine. The familiar low hum filled the space, grounding him instantly.
As he pulled out onto the road, traffic was light. The city moved around him as it always had from buses, cyclists, pedestrians lost in their own routines. A few glances lingered longer than usual when people recognized him at stoplights. One man gave a thumbs-up. A kid on the pavement nudged his friend and pointed, eyes wide.
Francesco acknowledged them with small nods, nothing more.
He didn't need to rush.
Didn't need to hide.
The drive north toward London Colney gave him time to think.
Not about records.
Not about Messi.
Not about Guinness.
About training.
About his legs.
About the way his right calf had tightened late in the second half yesterday.
About the run he'd mistimed just before halftime.
About what still needed work.
The gates of the training ground came into view sooner than he expected.
And then he saw them.
Fans.
More than usual.
They lined the barriers near the entrance, scarves wrapped around their necks despite the mild weather, phones already raised. Some had jerseys draped over their arms. Others held signs hastily written, sharpie ink bleeding through cardboard.
"96!"
"GOAT"
"HISTORY"
"CONGRATS FRANCESCO"
The security guards stood alert but relaxed, clearly prepared for this.
As Francesco slowed the car near the gate, a cheer went up.
Not deafening.
But warm.
Supportive.
He rolled down the window slightly.
"Francesco!"
"Legend!"
"Well done, mate!"
A few kids surged forward until gently held back by stewards, eyes bright, faces flushed with excitement. One boy held up a homemade poster with uneven lettering:
THANK YOU FOR MAKING ME BELIEVE
Francesco felt that quiet tightness again in his chest.
He lifted a hand in acknowledgment, smiling, nodding.
"Thank you," he called out, voice carrying just enough. "Appreciate it."
That alone drew another ripple of cheers.
The gate opened, and he eased the car through, the noise fading behind him as the world narrowed back to grass, buildings, and routine.
Inside the grounds, everything looked exactly as it always had.
The same parking lot.
The same training pitches stretching out in neat green lines.
The same low buildings humming softly with life.
He parked in his usual spot, switched off the engine, and sat there for a moment with his hands resting on the wheel.
Yesterday, he had been a footballer who'd just scored his ninety sixth goal.
Today, he was a footballer going to training.
He grabbed his bag, stepped out, and walked toward the building.
Inside, the smell hit him immediately from grass, liniment, fresh coffee, detergent. Comforting. Familiar. Almost sacred.
The dressing room door was open.
Francesco pushed it wider and stepped inside.
It was quiet, but not empty.
A few players were already there, scattered around the room, moving slowly, stretching, talking in low voices. Boots lay beneath benches. Training kits hung neatly in open lockers.
"Morning," he said.
A beat.
Then heads turned.
Ramsey was the first to react, grinning broadly. "Well, well. If it isn't the world record holder."
Francesco rolled his eyes. "Don't start."
Too late.
"Too late," Ramsey laughed. "I've been waiting all morning."
Özil looked up from tying his boots, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "You slept well?" he asked.
"Like a rock," Francesco replied. "You?"
Özil shrugged. "My phone did not."
Kanté entered behind him, already in his kit, offering his usual gentle smile. "Congratulations, Francesco," he said sincerely. "Very nice."
"Thanks, N'Golo," Francesco said, meaning it.
Alexis arrived moments later, energy already high, clapping his hands loudly as he walked in.
"Here he is!" he announced. "The man who ruined numbers for everyone else."
Francesco laughed. "You're welcome."
Alexis grinned. "Seriously though," he added, voice lowering slightly. "Well done. That's not normal."
"None of us are," Ramsey cut in.
More players filtered in as the minutes passed.
Bellerín with headphones on, nodding along to music.
Giroud carrying a coffee, beard immaculate as always.
Cech already changed, methodical, calm.
Each one offered a word, a nod, a clap on the shoulder.
Nothing exaggerated.
Nothing forced.
Just recognition.
Francesco changed quietly, slipping into his training kit, the familiar red and white settling against his skin like armor he'd worn a thousand times before. He tied his boots slowly, deliberately, feeling the room settle back into its usual rhythm as more bodies filled the space.
The noise level rose naturally.
Jokes.
Complaints about soreness.
Talk of the upcoming fixture.
A brief debate about who'd been the worst dancer at last night's celebration.
At one point, Walcott leaned over.
"So," he said, smirking, "Guinness ceremony. You inviting us?"
Francesco shook his head. "Only if you promise not to trip over the stage."
"Rude," Walcott replied, offended.
The physios popped their heads in, calling out names for individual checks. Francesco's name was among them, unsurprisingly.
He followed one of them down the corridor, passing through the familiar hallways lined with photos from seasons past. Trophies glinted behind glass. Faces stared out from frames from legends, moments, history.
Now his own image had begun to appear among them.
That thought still felt strange.
The physio room was quiet, professional. Francesco lay back as they worked through his legs, checking tight spots, asking questions.
"How are the calves?"
"Stiff but fine."
"Any lingering pain?"
"No."
"Sleep okay?"
"Perfect."
They nodded, satisfied.
"Nothing out of the ordinary," one of them said. "Just be smart today."
"I always am," Francesco replied, earning a knowing look.
Back in the dressing room, the team was nearly ready. Wenger's voice echoed faintly from the hallway that calm, measured, unmistakable.
They filed out together, boots tapping against concrete, the sound echoing softly as they stepped onto the pitch.
The grass looked perfect.
It always did.
As they warmed up, Francesco felt eyes on him — not just from teammates, but from staff, coaches, even a few academy players watching from the sidelines. Not staring. Just aware.
Aware of the moment.
But once the first sprint began, once the ball was introduced, everything narrowed again.
Touch.
Movement.
Breath.
The record didn't run with him.
The headlines didn't chase him.
Only the ball did.
He received a pass from Özil, cushioned it instinctively, laid it off first time. Muscle memory took over. Patterns returned. The game simplified itself into something pure and manageable.
At one point, Alexis pressed him aggressively during a small-sided drill.
"You think you're untouchable now?" Alexis called out, grinning.
Francesco shrugged as he spun away. "You can try."
Alexis laughed, chasing him down.
From the sidelines, Wenger watched quietly, hands in pockets, expression unreadable but eyes sharp. When the drill paused, he called the group in.
"Good," he said simply. "Intensity is there. Keep it clean."
He glanced briefly at Francesco that not lingering, not dramatic.
Just a nod.
That was enough.
As training wound down, sweat-soaked and breathless, Francesco felt that familiar post-session calm settle over him. The kind that came not from accomplishment, but from routine fulfilled.
Back in the dressing room, the noise returned with laughter, showers running, boots kicked off with relief.
Francesco sat on the bench, towel draped over his shoulders, phone in his hand again. More messages. More congratulations. A few missed calls he'd deal with later.
The dressing room slowly began to empty of its immediate urgency.
Steam thickened the air as showers ran in staggered bursts, the hiss and clatter echoing off tiled walls. Towels hung from hooks and shoulders alike, damp and heavy. Someone laughed loudly near the far corner, retelling a moment from the rondo drill with exaggerated hand gestures. Another voice answered back, sharp with mock protest. It was the sound of a squad at ease, the work done, the body tired in the good way.
Francesco stayed seated for a while.
He didn't rush for the shower. He didn't rush for his phone either, though it kept lighting up in his hand every few seconds, vibrations pulsing softly against his palm. Messages stacked up faster than he could open them. He glanced at the screen once, saw the number climb, then locked it again and let it rest on his thigh.
Around him, normal life continued.
Ramsey limped theatrically toward the showers, groaning loud enough to earn a towel thrown at his back.
"Drama," Giroud muttered.
"I'm injured," Ramsey protested. "Emotionally."
Özil shook his head, smiling as he taped his wrist with practiced precision. "You will be fine. You always are."
Alexis sat on the bench opposite Francesco, leaning forward, elbows on knees, scrolling through his own phone. He snorted suddenly.
"You see this?" he asked, holding the screen up.
Francesco glanced over without standing. "If it's another meme, I swear—"
"It's you," Alexis said, grinning. "Someone edited you into a Guinness bottle."
Francesco laughed despite himself. "I don't even like Guinness."
"That's what makes it funny," Alexis replied.
The physios passed through again, checking names off lists, reminding players about recovery schedules, hydration, stretching. A few players peeled off toward the ice baths with audible complaints. Others lingered, unwilling to break the spell just yet.
Then the door opened again.
Not the casual swing of a teammate.
Not the hurried push of staff.
This time, it was deliberate.
Wenger stepped inside.
The room didn't snap to attention, but it did shift. Conversations softened. Laughter dipped. Not out of fear or obligation, but instinct. Respect.
Wenger closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment, hands clasped loosely in front of him, eyes moving across the room. He took in the scene from the tired faces, the relaxed posture, the quiet satisfaction that hung in the air.
He waited.
Not long.
Just enough.
"Gentlemen," he said.
That was all it took.
The room stilled.
Players turned on benches. Phones lowered. Towels paused mid-wipe. Even the showers seemed quieter somehow, though they hadn't changed at all.
Wenger stepped forward slightly.
"First," he said calmly, "well done today."
No raised voice.
No dramatic flourish.
Just truth.
"You trained properly," he continued. "You respected the session, each other, and the work. That matters, especially now."
He let his gaze travel again, briefly catching Francesco's without lingering. There was no spotlight in it. No separation. Just acknowledgment.
Then Wenger clasped his hands behind his back, a familiar posture, and exhaled softly.
"Now," he said, "I have an announcement."
A few eyebrows lifted.
Alexis leaned back slightly, curiosity written across his face. Ramsey stopped fiddling with his shin pad. Even the far end of the room quieted fully now.
Wenger spoke evenly.
"As of today, you are on vacation," he said.
For half a second, the words didn't register.
Then.
"Yes!"
"Ohhh!"
"Finally!"
"Thank you!"
Laughter and cheers burst out, relief washing through the room like a released breath. A few players clapped. Someone let out an exaggerated sigh and slumped back against the bench.
Wenger allowed it to happen. He always did. He understood the rhythm of these things.
After a few moments, he raised one hand slightly.
The noise softened again.
"But," he added.
That single word was enough.
"But," Wenger repeated, calm but firm, "this is not a holiday from responsibility."
Groans followed immediately.
"Ahh, boss."
"We knew it."
"There it is."
Wenger smiled faintly, the barest curve at the corner of his mouth.
"You will rest," he said. "You will spend time with your families. You will recover. But you will remain fit."
He paused, letting the message sink in.
"Because on the first of January," he continued, voice steady, "we play at home."
A few nods already.
"Against Crystal Palace."
That name settled differently.
A home match.
A new year.
A line drawn in the calendar.
"I expect you back sharp," Wenger said. "Not 'almost ready'. Ready."
His eyes swept the room again.
"This season is not finished," he said. "And what we do in the next weeks will matter just as much as what we've already done."
Silence now.
The good kind.
The attentive kind.
Wenger straightened slightly.
"Enjoy your time," he concluded. "You've earned it. But remember who you are when you return."
He turned toward the door, then paused.
"And Francesco," he added, almost as an afterthought.
The room stilled again, instantly.
Francesco looked up.
"Yes, boss?"
Wenger met his eyes.
"Congratulations," he said simply.
No adjectives.
No elaboration.
Just the word.
Francesco nodded, feeling it land deeper than any headline.
"Thank you," he replied.
Wenger inclined his head once more and left the room, the door closing softly behind him.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then.
"VACATION!" Ramsey shouted again, throwing both arms up.
"PALACE ON JAN FIRST," Alexis countered. "No excuses."
"Who's hosting New Year's?" Bellerín asked immediately.
"Not me," Giroud said. "I cook, but I do not clean."
Laughter returned, fuller now, freer.
Francesco leaned back against the bench, towel slipping from his shoulders to his lap. He stared at the ceiling for a second, letting it all settle.
Vacation.
The word felt strange.
Not unwelcome.
Just unfamiliar.
He hadn't truly stopped in a long time. Not mentally. Not fully. There had always been a match ahead, a record looming, a stretch of fixtures demanding more and more.
Now, for a brief window, the calendar would open.
Alexis nudged him with his foot.
"So," he said, smirking, "what does a world record holder do on vacation?"
Francesco snorted. "Same thing as everyone else."
Ramsey leaned over from the other side. "Sleep?"
"Eat," Özil added helpfully.
"Not train?" Walcott suggested.
Francesco laughed. "We'll see."
He finally stood, stretching his back carefully, muscles complaining in chorus. He grabbed his kit bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed toward the showers at last.
Under the hot water, he closed his eyes.
The noise of the dressing room blurred into something distant, almost soothing. The water beat against his shoulders, washing away sweat, grass, the last physical traces of the session.
Vacation.
Crystal Palace.
January 1st.
Home.
The year would turn soon.
The slate would shift.
But the hunger was still there.
When he returned to the dressing room, towel around his waist, hair damp, the mood had softened again into something easy. Players packed bags, made plans aloud, compared flight times, debated destinations.
"Spain," someone said.
"Dubai."
"I'm not leaving London," another replied.
Francesco changed back into his clothes slowly, methodically. He checked his phone again, finally, scrolling through messages with more intention now.
One from his father.
Short. Proud.
One from an old youth coach.
Emotional.
Several from teammates already planning meetups during the break.
He replied selectively, thoughtfully.
As he zipped his bag closed, Alexis clapped him on the shoulder.
"Enjoy it," he said. "You don't get many of these."
Francesco nodded. "I know."
Outside, the winter light had already begun to dip, the sky softening toward evening. As he walked back through the corridors, past the photos, the trophies, the quiet hum of Colney settling into its afternoon rhythm, Francesco felt something rare.
Not pressure.
Not expectation.
Balance.
He stepped out into the cool air, pulled his jacket tighter around himself, and headed back toward the parking lot. The BMW waited where he'd left it, unchanged, patient.
The dressing room slowly began to empty of its immediate urgency.
Steam thickened the air as showers ran in staggered bursts, the hiss and clatter echoing off tiled walls. Towels hung from hooks and shoulders alike, damp and heavy. Someone laughed loudly near the far corner, retelling a moment from the rondo drill with exaggerated hand gestures. Another voice answered back, sharp with mock protest. It was the sound of a squad at ease, the work done, the body tired in the good way.
Francesco stayed seated for a while.
He didn't rush for the shower. He didn't rush for his phone either, though it kept lighting up in his hand every few seconds, vibrations pulsing softly against his palm. Messages stacked up faster than he could open them. He glanced at the screen once, saw the number climb, then locked it again and let it rest on his thigh.
Around him, normal life continued.
Ramsey limped theatrically toward the showers, groaning loud enough to earn a towel thrown at his back.
"Drama," Giroud muttered.
"I'm injured," Ramsey protested. "Emotionally."
Özil shook his head, smiling as he taped his wrist with practiced precision. "You will be fine. You always are."
Alexis sat on the bench opposite Francesco, leaning forward, elbows on knees, scrolling through his own phone. He snorted suddenly.
"You see this?" he asked, holding the screen up.
Francesco glanced over without standing. "If it's another meme, I swear…"
"It's you," Alexis said, grinning. "Someone edited you into a Guinness bottle."
Francesco laughed despite himself. "I don't even like Guinness."
"That's what makes it funny," Alexis replied.
The physios passed through again, checking names off lists, reminding players about recovery schedules, hydration, stretching. A few players peeled off toward the ice baths with audible complaints. Others lingered, unwilling to break the spell just yet.
Then the door opened again.
Not the casual swing of a teammate.
Not the hurried push of staff.
This time, it was deliberate.
Wenger stepped inside.
The room didn't snap to attention, but it did shift. Conversations softened. Laughter dipped. Not out of fear or obligation, but instinct. Respect.
Wenger closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment, hands clasped loosely in front of him, eyes moving across the room. He took in the scene from the tired faces, the relaxed posture, the quiet satisfaction that hung in the air.
He waited.
Not long.
Just enough.
"Gentlemen," he said.
That was all it took.
The room stilled.
Players turned on benches. Phones lowered. Towels paused mid-wipe. Even the showers seemed quieter somehow, though they hadn't changed at all.
Wenger stepped forward slightly.
"First," he said calmly, "well done today."
No raised voice.
No dramatic flourish.
Just truth.
"You trained properly," he continued. "You respected the session, each other, and the work. That matters, especially now."
He let his gaze travel again, briefly catching Francesco's without lingering. There was no spotlight in it. No separation. Just acknowledgment.
Then Wenger clasped his hands behind his back, a familiar posture, and exhaled softly.
"Now," he said, "I have an announcement."
A few eyebrows lifted.
Alexis leaned back slightly, curiosity written across his face. Ramsey stopped fiddling with his shin pad. Even the far end of the room quieted fully now.
Wenger spoke evenly.
"As of today, you are on vacation," he said.
For half a second, the words didn't register.
Then.
"Yes!"
"Ohhh!"
"Finally!"
"Thank you!"
Laughter and cheers burst out, relief washing through the room like a released breath. A few players clapped. Someone let out an exaggerated sigh and slumped back against the bench.
Wenger allowed it to happen. He always did. He understood the rhythm of these things.
After a few moments, he raised one hand slightly.
The noise softened again.
"But," he added.
That single word was enough.
"But," Wenger repeated, calm but firm, "this is not a holiday from responsibility."
Groans followed immediately.
"Ahh, boss."
"We knew it."
"There it is."
Wenger smiled faintly, the barest curve at the corner of his mouth.
"You will rest," he said. "You will spend time with your families. You will recover. But you will remain fit."
He paused, letting the message sink in.
"Because on the first of January," he continued, voice steady, "we play at home."
A few nods already.
"Against Crystal Palace."
That name settled differently.
A home match.
A new year.
A line drawn in the calendar.
"I expect you back sharp," Wenger said. "Not 'almost ready'. Ready."
His eyes swept the room again.
"This season is not finished," he said. "And what we do in the next weeks will matter just as much as what we've already done."
Silence now.
The good kind.
The attentive kind.
Wenger straightened slightly.
"Enjoy your time," he concluded. "You've earned it. But remember who you are when you return."
He turned toward the door, then paused.
"And Francesco," he added, almost as an afterthought.
The room stilled again, instantly.
Francesco looked up.
"Yes, boss?"
Wenger met his eyes.
"Congratulations," he said simply.
No adjectives.
No elaboration.
Just the word.
Francesco nodded, feeling it land deeper than any headline.
"Thank you," he replied.
Wenger inclined his head once more and left the room, the door closing softly behind him.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then.
"VACATION!" Ramsey shouted again, throwing both arms up.
"PALACE ON JAN FIRST," Alexis countered. "No excuses."
"Who's hosting New Year's?" Bellerín asked immediately.
"Not me," Giroud said. "I cook, but I do not clean."
Laughter returned, fuller now, freer.
Francesco leaned back against the bench, towel slipping from his shoulders to his lap. He stared at the ceiling for a second, letting it all settle.
Vacation.
The word felt strange.
Not unwelcome.
Just unfamiliar.
He hadn't truly stopped in a long time. Not mentally. Not fully. There had always been a match ahead, a record looming, a stretch of fixtures demanding more and more.
Now, for a brief window, the calendar would open.
Alexis nudged him with his foot.
"So," he said, smirking, "what does a world record holder do on vacation?"
Francesco snorted. "Same thing as everyone else."
Ramsey leaned over from the other side. "Sleep?"
"Eat," Özil added helpfully.
"Not train?" Walcott suggested.
Francesco laughed. "We'll see."
He finally stood, stretching his back carefully, muscles complaining in chorus. He grabbed his kit bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed toward the showers at last.
Under the hot water, he closed his eyes.
The noise of the dressing room blurred into something distant, almost soothing. The water beat against his shoulders, washing away sweat, grass, the last physical traces of the session.
Vacation.
Crystal Palace.
January 1st.
Home.
The year would turn soon.
The slate would shift.
But the hunger was still there.
When he returned to the dressing room, towel around his waist, hair damp, the mood had softened again into something easy. Players packed bags, made plans aloud, compared flight times, debated destinations.
"Spain," someone said.
"Dubai."
"I'm not leaving London," another replied.
Francesco changed back into his clothes slowly, methodically. He checked his phone again, finally, scrolling through messages with more intention now.
One from his father.
Short. Proud.
One from an old youth coach.
Emotional.
Several from teammates already planning meetups during the break.
He replied selectively, thoughtfully.
As he zipped his bag closed, Alexis clapped him on the shoulder.
"Enjoy it," he said. "You don't get many of these."
Francesco nodded. "I know."
Outside, the winter light had already begun to dip, the sky softening toward evening. As he walked back through the corridors, past the photos, the trophies, the quiet hum of Colney settling into its afternoon rhythm, Francesco felt something rare.
Not pressure.
Not expectation.
Balance.
He stepped out into the cool air, pulled his jacket tighter around himself, and headed back toward the parking lot. The BMW waited where he'd left it, unchanged, patient.
The BMW sat where he'd left it, dark and still, a familiar shape against the pale concrete of the parking lot. Francesco unlocked it with a soft chirp and slid into the driver's seat, setting his bag carefully in the back. The engine came alive beneath him, smooth and low, vibrating through the steering wheel in a way that always grounded him.
He didn't pull away immediately.
Instead, he rested his forearms lightly on the wheel and exhaled, long and slow, letting the day finish settling into his bones. Training was done. The announcement had landed. Vacation had officially begun, even if it didn't quite feel real yet.
His phone buzzed again.
This time, he didn't ignore it.
He unlocked the screen and scrolled past the flood of notifications, his thumb moving instinctively now, searching for one name among many.
Leah.
He opened the message thread, the familiar warmth hitting him before he even read the words. He typed quickly, without overthinking it.
You done with training yet?
He watched the screen, the little typing bubble not appearing right away. He set the phone down on the passenger seat, adjusted the mirrors, then glanced back at it as it buzzed softly a moment later.
Yeah, just finished 😊
A smile tugged at his mouth, unforced, immediate. He typed back without hesitation.
Want me to pick you up?
There was a pause this time. Not long, but long enough to make him picture her still in the changing room, towel around her shoulders, hair damp, phone balanced in one hand while she laughed with a teammate.
Then the reply came.
Yes ❤️
That single word, that single emoji, did something quiet but profound to him. It shifted the rest of the day instantly, rearranging its importance. Training, records, announcements as all of it slid a little further back, making space for something simpler.
He picked up the phone, locked it, and finally pulled out of the parking space.
The drive toward the Arsenal Women training ground was familiar, but it felt different now. Lighter. The tension that often lingered after sessions with that constant mental review of touches missed or movements mistimed that wasn't there. Instead, his mind drifted easily, comfortably.
He thought about her.
About the way she'd kissed his cheek that morning, half-awake but already sharp, already teasing him about overdoing recovery. About how her own training schedule rarely synced perfectly with his, how they stole time where they could, between sessions and matches and obligations that never really stopped.
Vacation, he thought again.
This was what it was for.
Traffic thickened slightly as he merged onto the main road, the city moving around him in its usual, indifferent rhythm. Buses hissed to stops. Cyclists threaded through gaps with practiced confidence. Pedestrians hurried along pavements, collars turned up against the cold, phones pressed to ears, lives unfolding in parallel lines.
A few drivers recognized him when they pulled alongside at lights. A double-take. A widened eye. One man mouthed his name silently, then grinned and gave a small nod of appreciation. Francesco returned it, nothing more, nothing less.
He didn't need to be anything else right now.
The Arsenal Women's training ground came into view sooner than he expected, tucked neatly away, purposeful but understated. As he slowed near the entrance, a security guard glanced up, recognized the car, and waved him through without delay.
Inside, the atmosphere felt subtly different from Colney, though the bones of it were the same. Purpose, focus, routine. But there was a lighter edge here, a different cadence of voices carrying across the pitches.
He parked near the building and switched off the engine.
For a moment, he stayed seated, watching through the windshield as a group of players exited the doors in small clusters, laughing, stretching, tugging jackets on against the chill. He scanned faces instinctively.
Then he saw her.
Leah stepped out a second later, bag slung over one shoulder, hair pulled back but already loosening from its tie. She wore a training jacket zipped halfway up, hands buried in the pockets, cheeks slightly flushed from the cold and the session that had just ended.
She spotted the BMW almost immediately.
Her face lit up.
It wasn't exaggerated. It wasn't performative. Just real. Immediate. That small, bright smile that always hit him square in the chest.
She lifted a hand and waved, quick and casual, then jogged the last few steps toward the car.
Francesco stepped out at the same time, meeting her halfway. She dropped her bag without ceremony and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face briefly into his chest.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey," he replied, one hand settling easily at her lower back, the other brushing against her shoulder. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, breathing her in, clean sweat, shampoo, cold air.
"How was training?" he asked.
She pulled back slightly, looking up at him. "Good. Hard. You?"
"Same," he said. "We're off until New Year."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Seriously?"
"Yeah."
She grinned. "That's dangerous."
He laughed. "Wenger doesn't think so."
She reached for her bag again, swinging it up onto her shoulder. "Well," she said, "I'm glad you came to get me."
"Me too."
They slid into the car together, Leah settling into the passenger seat with a satisfied sigh as she adjusted it and kicked her feet up onto the mat briefly, stretching her calves.
"Home?" she asked.
"Home," he confirmed.
As they pulled away, the training ground receded behind them, the pitches fading from view as the road curved back toward the city. The sun was already lowering now, the winter sky tinged with soft oranges and greys, the light diffused and gentle.
Leah leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes for a moment.
"You look tired," Francesco said.
She smiled without opening them. "Good tired."
He nodded. He understood that kind of tired better than most.
They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that didn't need filling. The radio played softly in the background, some afternoon program neither of them was really listening to. Traffic ebbed and flowed, London doing what it always did.
Eventually, Leah opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him.
"So," she said, "how does it feel?"
He glanced at her briefly, then back to the road. "What?"
"Don't pretend," she replied, smiling. "You know exactly what I mean."
He exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. "Honestly?"
"Always."
"It feels quiet," he said after a moment. "In a good way."
She nodded. "That makes sense."
"Everyone else is louder about it than I am," he added. "Records, headlines, interviews. But today at training, it just felt normal again."
"That's because you're still you," she said simply.
He looked at her again, this time holding the glance a little longer. "You always know how to say it."
She shrugged. "I pay attention."
They fell back into silence, but it felt warmer now, threaded with shared understanding. The city thinned gradually as they headed west, buildings giving way to trees, streets growing quieter, wider, more open.
Richmond always felt like a breath to him.
By the time they turned into the neighborhood, dusk had settled fully, the sky a deepening blue streaked faintly with the last remnants of daylight. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting soft pools of light across the road.
The mansion came into view at the end of the drive, lights already glowing warmly inside, automatic sensors illuminating the path as the car approached.
Francesco pulled in and parked, the engine cutting off with a soft purr.
Leah stretched again, this time with a small groan. "I could eat everything in the fridge," she announced.
He laughed. "I had a feeling you'd say that."
They stepped out of the car together, grabbing their bags, the cool evening air brushing against their faces. Francesco unlocked the front door, and they stepped inside, warmth enveloping them instantly.
The house felt different in the evenings.
Calmer.
Fuller.
Leah kicked off her shoes near the door and padded inside, shrugging off her jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair. Francesco followed, setting their bags aside, flipping on a few lights as he moved through the space.
"Shower first," Leah declared. "Then food."
"Agreed," he said.
They moved upstairs, the routine familiar, unspoken. Leah disappeared into the bathroom first, the sound of water starting up moments later. Francesco changed into more comfortable clothes, the stiffness in his muscles reminding him again of the work done earlier that day.
He sat on the edge of the bed briefly, stretching his calves, rolling his shoulders.
Vacation.
The word felt a little more real now.
When Leah emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and loose around her shoulders, she looked instantly more relaxed. She caught him watching her and smiled.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said. "Just glad you're here."
She crossed the room and kissed him, slow and unhurried, hands resting lightly on his chest.
"Me too," she said softly.
They eventually made their way downstairs again, the kitchen lights bright against the deepening night outside. Leah opened the fridge and stared inside for a long moment, evaluating options.
"Leftovers or delivery?" she asked.
"Dealer's choice," Francesco replied.
She glanced over her shoulder. "Pizza?"
"Always pizza."
She laughed and reached for her phone, already scrolling through options as Francesco filled two glasses with water and set them on the counter.
The phone buzzed softly in Leah's hand as she leaned against the kitchen island, scrolling through delivery options with the seriousness of someone choosing tactics before a final.
"Okay," she said, narrowing her eyes at the screen. "There's the usual place, the fancy place that takes an hour and the one that always arrives fast but somehow burns the crust every time."
Francesco took a sip of water and shrugged. "Fast and burnt sounds like us after training."
She laughed. "That's not a ringing endorsement."
"Yet somehow still accurate."
She tapped the screen decisively. "Alright. Fast and burnt it is."
"Strong choice."
She placed the order, set the phone down, and leaned back against the counter beside him. For a moment they just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, the kitchen filled with a quiet hum from the refrigerator and the faint sounds of traffic outside, distant and muffled.
It felt domestic in a way that still surprised him sometimes.
Not boring.
Not heavy.
Just real.
Francesco glanced toward the living room, where the television sat dark and silent now, a rare sight after days of constant sports coverage. "Movie?" he asked.
Leah nodded immediately. "Absolutely. Something dumb or something comforting. No football documentaries."
He grinned. "Deal."
They moved into the living room together, sinking into the sofa with the easy familiarity of people who'd done this many times before. Leah curled her legs beneath her, tucking her feet against his thigh, while Francesco stretched his legs out, one arm draped along the back of the sofa behind her.
She grabbed the remote and flicked the TV on, scrolling through options while narrating her thoughts aloud.
"No. Too sad. No. Too serious. We are not watching anything that makes us think."
Francesco chuckled. "Strong criteria."
She paused. "This one?"
He glanced at the screen. A familiar title, something they'd both seen at least once before.
"Comforting," he said. "Approved."
She hit play and set the remote aside just as the doorbell rang.
"Well," she said, smiling. "Perfect timing."
Francesco stood and headed for the door, the sound of footsteps echoing lightly through the house. When he opened it, the delivery driver blinked once, then twice, recognition flashing across his face.
"Uh—" he started, then caught himself. "Pizza delivery."
Francesco smiled politely. "That's me."
The driver handed over the boxes, trying and failing to hide his grin. "Congrats, by the way," he said, lowering his voice slightly, like it was a shared secret. "Incredible stuff."
"Thank you," Francesco replied sincerely.
He closed the door and carried the boxes back into the kitchen, the smell of hot cheese and dough filling the air instantly.
Leah appeared beside him with plates already in hand. "See?" she said. "Fast."
"And burnt?" he asked.
She opened the box and inspected it critically. Then she smiled. "Only a little."
"Perfect."
They settled back onto the sofa with their plates, the movie already rolling, familiar opening scenes playing softly in the background. Francesco balanced the box on the coffee table while Leah passed him a slice, the cheese stretching between them before snapping back.
"Careful," she warned. "Hot."
"I live dangerously," he replied, blowing on it anyway.
They ate in companionable silence at first, eyes on the screen, occasionally reacting to scenes they both knew were coming. Leah laughed before the punchlines. Francesco shook his head at moments that hadn't aged particularly well. They shared looks without speaking, a language built over time.
Halfway through the second slice, Leah leaned back against him, resting her head on his shoulder again.
"This," she said quietly, "is nice."
He tilted his head slightly, resting it against hers. "Yeah."
The movie continued, its glow flickering across the room, casting shifting shadows along the walls. Outside, the night deepened, Richmond settling into its calm, insulated quiet.
They finished eating slowly, neither of them rushing, both content to let the evening stretch. Francesco gathered the empty plates and boxes during a lull in the film, stacking them neatly before returning to the sofa.
Leah adjusted herself closer when he sat back down, tucking herself against his side fully now, one hand resting idly on his chest.
"Can I ask you something?" she said after a while.
"Always."
She hesitated for just a moment, fingers tracing a small circle absentmindedly through the fabric of his shirt. "Do you want to travel during your holiday?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Not because he didn't know, but because he wanted to choose his words carefully.
"Like… where?" he asked gently.
She shrugged. "Anywhere, really. Somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that doesn't know what day it is."
He smiled at that. "Tempting."
She tilted her head to look up at him. "But?"
"But," he echoed softly, "I think, I don't really want to go anywhere."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly, not in disappointment, just curiosity. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he said. "I've been moving nonstop. Seasons blur together. Airports, hotels, buses, matches. Even celebrations feel scheduled."
He paused, gathering the thought fully before continuing.
"I kind of just want to be here," he said. "At home. With you. No bags to pack. No plans we can't change."
Leah studied his face, searching for any hint of doubt.
"And the record?" she asked gently. "The attention?"
He huffed a quiet laugh. "That's exactly why."
She smiled then, slow and warm. "I get that."
He shifted slightly, turning toward her. "That said," he added, "I was thinking about something else."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"New Year's," he said. "December thirty-first."
Her eyes brightened. "Yeah?"
"I thought maybe we could host a dinner," he continued. "Here. Keep it small. Family."
She sat up a little now, fully engaged. "Whose family?"
He smiled. "Both."
Her mouth parted slightly in surprise.
"My parents," he went on. "Mike and Sarah."
She nodded, already picturing them.
"And yours," he added. "David. Amanda. And Jacob."
For a moment, Leah didn't speak.
Then she smiled in a way that was different from before. Softer. More emotional.
"You want all of them together?" she asked.
"I do," he said simply. "Feels like the right way to end the year."
She considered it, her fingers tightening just slightly against his shirt.
"I think that would be really nice," she said finally.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," she repeated. "Really nice."
He exhaled, a tension he hadn't fully noticed easing from his chest. "Good."
She leaned back against him again, more relaxed now, and rested her head on his shoulder.
"We'd need to plan," she said thoughtfully. "Food. Seating. Who cooks what."
"I was hoping you'd say that," he replied. "Because I absolutely do not want to be in charge of all of it."
She laughed. "Of course."
The movie continued playing, but now it was more background than focus. Their conversation drifted in and out, touching on small details and half-formed ideas.
"Your mum will insist on helping," Leah said.
"She always does," Francesco replied. "And she will absolutely ignore any attempt to stop her."
"And my dad will bring wine," Leah added. "Too much wine."
"That sounds like him," Francesco smiled.
"And Jacob will eat everything," she finished.
Francesco laughed. "That sounds exactly like him."
They fell quiet again, comfortable, the plan settling into something real, something to look forward to. The end of the year no longer felt like an abstract date on the calendar, but a moment with shape and meaning.
Eventually, the movie reached its end, credits rolling quietly across the screen. Leah stretched, arms raised above her head, letting out a small yawn.
"Tired?" Francesco asked.
"Mmm," she murmured. "In a good way."
He reached for the remote and turned the TV off, plunging the room into a softer light. For a moment, they just sat there, the house humming quietly around them.
"This is my favorite part of the day," Leah said suddenly.
He looked down at her. "Which part?"
"This," she said, gesturing vaguely. "When nothing's pulling at us."
He nodded slowly. "Mine too."
They eventually stood, moving through the house with unhurried ease, turning off lights, tidying up the last traces of dinner. Upstairs, the bedroom felt calm and welcoming, the bed neatly made, lamps casting a warm glow.
Leah slipped into bed first, pulling the covers up around her as Francesco joined her moments later. She shifted closer immediately, resting her head against his chest, his arm wrapping around her without thought.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (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: 25
Goal: 41
Assist: 0
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
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