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Wenger appeared briefly at the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, observing with a small, satisfied smile. He caught Francesco's eye, nodded once, then disappeared again, leaving them to it.
The next day, morning came quietly.
Not with an alarm, not with urgency, but with that soft, pale London light slipping through the curtains and resting gently across the room. The kind of light that didn't demand attention, only presence.
Francesco woke first.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting his body register where he was and what day it was. The heaviness from the match was still there, settled deep in his muscles, a dull ache behind his calves, across his lower back, in his shoulders. The good kind of pain. The earned kind.
Beside him, Leah slept on her side, facing him.
Her hair had fallen loose across the pillow, one arm tucked under it, the other resting lightly against his chest as if she'd drifted there sometime in the night without thinking. Her breathing was slow and even, lips parted just slightly, expression calm in a way that felt rare in a life that was usually anything but.
He watched her for a few seconds longer than necessary.
There was something grounding about mornings like this. No cameras. No noise. No expectations. Just a shared quiet before the world started knocking again.
Careful not to wake her, Francesco eased himself out of bed. He moved slowly, mindful of sore legs, toes curling briefly against the cool floor before he straightened. He pulled on a plain T-shirt and shorts, then padded out of the bedroom, closing the door gently behind him.
The house was silent.
Downstairs, the air felt cooler, carrying the faint scent of last night's rain through a cracked window. Francesco went straight to the bathroom first, splashing water on his face, brushing his teeth with slow, unhurried movements. He caught his reflection briefly in the mirror with eyes a little tired, faint stubble along his jaw, a barely visible mark near his collarbone where a defender had caught him late the night before.
Six–nil.
The number flickered through his mind without emotion. Just fact.
He rinsed his mouth, wiped his face, then headed down to the kitchen.
Cooking had always been his quiet ritual. Something tangible. Something he could control.
He opened the fridge, taking stock without thinking too hard. Eggs. Avocado. Tomatoes. Bread. A small container of berries. Yogurt. Coffee beans.
Good enough.
He put a pan on the stove, cracking eggs with practiced ease, the familiar sound grounding. Olive oil hissed softly as it warmed. He sliced tomatoes, sprinkled salt lightly, mashed avocado with a fork, added a squeeze of lemon. Bread went into the toaster. Coffee ground fresh, the rich smell filling the kitchen almost immediately.
Outside, the street was still waking up. A car passed. Somewhere down the road, a door opened and closed. Life moving at a normal pace, blissfully unaware of the chaos that was already building elsewhere.
By the time everything was ready, the kitchen felt warm and alive. Francesco plated the food neatly that not fancy, but thoughtful. He set two plates on the dining table, poured coffee into mugs, steam curling upward.
He was just sitting down when he heard soft footsteps on the stairs.
Leah appeared in the doorway a moment later, hair messy now, wearing one of his hoodies that hung off her shoulder, eyes still half-asleep but already smiling when she saw him.
"Morning," she said, voice low and rough in that way it only ever was first thing.
"Morning," he replied.
She glanced at the table, eyebrows lifting. "You cooked."
"I always cook," he said lightly.
She laughed softly, crossing the room to sit opposite him. "I know. I just like saying it."
They ate in comfortable quiet for a while, the kind that didn't need filling. Leah leaned back in her chair, cradling her mug, eyes closing briefly as she sipped.
"That was some performance last night," she said eventually.
Francesco shrugged, cutting into his eggs. "The team was good."
"You were good," she corrected gently.
He smiled, conceding nothing but not arguing either.
They were midway through breakfast when his phone buzzed on the table.
Once.
Then again.
Francesco glanced down, expecting a message from the group chat or maybe his parents.
Instead, the screen read:
Jorge Mendes.
He exhaled slowly.
"That didn't take long," he muttered.
Leah raised an eyebrow. "Uh-oh?"
He answered, putting the phone to his ear. "What's up?"
Jorge's voice came through immediately, calm but unmistakably energized with the tone he used when things were already moving fast.
"Good morning," Jorge said. "First of all, congratulations on last night."
"Thank you," Francesco replied. "What's going on?"
A brief pause.
Then Jorge spoke again, measured, deliberate.
"Stay at home today."
Francesco frowned slightly. "Why?"
"Because," Jorge said, "the transfer market has lost its mind."
That got his attention.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes lifting to the ceiling for a second. "Explain."
Jorge didn't waste time.
"Since last night," he began, "we've received formal expressions of interest from Paris Saint-Germain, Barcelona, Real Madrid, Bayern Munich, Inter Milan, Juventus, both Manchester clubs, and Chelsea."
Francesco went still.
Leah, watching his face, straightened slightly.
"And that's just the ones who have already contacted Arsenal directly," Jorge continued. "Others are circling. Waiting."
Francesco closed his eyes briefly.
"Numbers?" he asked.
"Between one hundred and one hundred fifty million pounds," Jorge said evenly. "Most of them. Some are prepared to go higher if necessary."
Leah's eyes widened.
Francesco said nothing for a moment.
Jorge kept going.
"The media are already running with it. They're calling it unprecedented. Comparisons to Messi. Ronaldo. Saying there's never been a moment where so many top clubs are actively pursuing one player at the same time."
Francesco let out a slow breath through his nose.
"I told you," Jorge added, "this would happen. Performances like last night accelerate everything."
Leah watched him closely now, trying to read his expression.
"So what now?" Francesco asked quietly.
"Now," Jorge said, "you do nothing. You stay home. You don't comment. You don't react. Arsenal are aware. They're calm. Wenger is calm. But the noise will be intense."
Francesco glanced at Leah.
She met his eyes, searching, steady.
"I'll handle the calls," Jorge continued. "I'll manage the narrative. But today? You stay out of it."
A beat.
"Trust me."
Francesco nodded, even though Jorge couldn't see it. "Okay."
"I'll call you later," Jorge said. "Enjoy your day."
The line went dead.
Francesco set the phone down slowly.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Leah was the first to break the silence.
"Wow," she said softly.
He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah."
She reached across the table, resting her hand over his. "How do you feel?"
He thought about it.
About the numbers.
The clubs.
The headlines that were probably already being written.
"I feel the same," he said finally. "Just louder outside."
She smiled faintly. "That's probably a good thing."
He squeezed her hand lightly.
They finished breakfast slowly after that.
Not because the food demanded it, but because neither of them was in a rush to move on from the moment. Leah scraped the last of her avocado onto a piece of toast, Francesco finished his coffee, the steam thinning as the mugs cooled between their hands.
Outside, the morning had fully arrived now. The street was brighter, livelier. Somewhere nearby, a delivery van pulled up, doors sliding open with a hollow thud. A dog barked once, then again, impatient.
Normal life.
It felt almost absurd, knowing what was happening just beyond the walls of the house.
"I'll wash," Francesco said, gathering the plates.
Leah shook her head, standing up. "We'll do it together."
They moved around each other easily in the kitchen, a quiet choreography that came from comfort rather than habit. Francesco rinsed, Leah dried. Water ran. Plates clinked softly. He handed her a mug, fingers brushing hers for half a second longer than necessary.
She glanced up at him, smiling.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing," she said. "Just this feels nice."
"It does," he agreed.
When everything was done, the kitchen restored to its clean calm, Leah leaned back against the counter and folded her arms.
"So," she said. "What now, superstar?"
He laughed softly, shaking his head. "Apparently, we're supposed to stay home and watch the world lose its mind."
She tilted her head, considering. "Sounds entertaining."
They moved into the living room together.
Francesco grabbed the remote from the coffee table, sinking down onto the sofa. Leah curled up beside him, tucking her legs under herself, her shoulder pressing lightly into his arm. He turned on the television, volume low at first, more out of curiosity than intention.
The screen flickered to life.
Sky Sports News.
And immediately, it was clear that Jorge hadn't been exaggerating.
The familiar red banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen, bold white letters moving relentlessly from right to left.
WINTER TRANSFER WINDOW ERUPTS INTO FRENZY
Francesco felt Leah stiffen slightly beside him.
The presenter, polished and wide-eyed with barely contained excitement, spoke quickly.
"…an unprecedented morning in the winter transfer window as sources confirm that nearly every major European giant has formally expressed interest in Arsenal forward Francesco, yes, that Francesco, the youngest Ballon d'Or winner in football history…"
The camera cut to a graphic.
His face.
Smiling, mid-celebration, arms outstretched after a goal.
Below it, a list began to scroll.
Paris Saint-Germain
FC Barcelona
Real Madrid
Bayern Munich
Inter Milan
Juventus
Manchester United
Manchester City
Chelsea
Leah let out a quiet breath.
"Seeing it written down is different," she murmured.
Francesco swallowed. "Yeah."
The presenter continued.
"…sources close to the clubs indicate potential bids ranging from one hundred to one hundred fifty million pounds, with some executives reportedly prepared to go higher if Arsenal show any willingness to negotiate…"
The screen split, analysts appearing side by side.
One leaned forward eagerly. "We are genuinely talking about a Messi-Ronaldo level pursuit here. I cannot remember a time when so many elite clubs were chasing a single player simultaneously and in January, no less."
Another nodded. "And let's not forget, this isn't potential. This isn't hype. This is output. Goals. Performances. Leadership. At his age, it's frightening."
Clips began to roll.
Goals from last night.
His movement.
His assists.
His reactions after scoring.
Every touch dissected.
Leah shifted closer, her hand finding his knee instinctively.
"They're talking about you like you're not even real," she said quietly.
He exhaled. "They always do. Until they don't."
On screen, the topic shifted.
A reporter stood outside the Emirates, scarf wrapped tight against the cold, microphone in hand.
"…Arsenal Football Club have declined to comment so far, but sources suggest Arsène Wenger remains calm amid the storm, believing the player is happy and focused…"
Leah smiled faintly at that. "That sounds like him."
Francesco nodded. Wenger's calm had always been contagious. A still center in chaos.
The next segment cut to social media reactions.
Tweets flashed across the screen.
£150M AND HE'S STILL A BARGAIN
THE NEXT ERA OF FOOTBALL IS HERE
BUILD YOUR TEAM AROUND HIM OR BUY HIM, THERE IS NO THIRD OPTION
Then a clip from a Spanish channel.
The headline screamed across the bottom:
BARÇA AND MADRID ENTER RACE FOR ARSENAL STAR
Spanish pundits spoke animatedly, hands flying, voices overlapping.
Leah glanced at Francesco again. "Does it scare you?"
He thought about it.
The attention.
The pressure.
The way everything could shift with one decision.
"A little," he admitted. "But not in the way people think."
She waited.
"It's not the clubs," he continued. "Or the money. It's how fast things stop being yours."
She nodded slowly, understanding more than she let on. "You don't like being pulled."
"No," he said. "I like choosing."
They sat like that for a while, watching the coverage roll on.
Different channels.
Different languages.
Same story.
A German station discussing Bayern's interest.
Italian pundits arguing over Juventus versus Inter.
French analysts talking about PSG's financial power.
English commentators debating whether Arsenal could or should resist.
The winter transfer market, officially, had gone insane.
Leah muted the TV eventually, setting the remote aside.
The room fell quiet again.
"That's enough of that," she said gently.
Francesco leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Feels like watching someone else's life."
She shifted, climbing half into his lap so she could look at him properly. "It's still yours."
He met her gaze.
"Is it?" he asked softly.
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she reached up and brushed her thumb lightly along his jaw, grounding him in a way nothing else could.
"Yes," she said finally. "Because you're still here. Sitting on this sofa. With me. That hasn't changed."
He smiled faintly. "You're annoyingly good at this."
She smirked. "I know."
His phone buzzed again on the table.
Once.
Twice.
He didn't look at it.
"Don't," Leah said quietly.
"I wasn't going to."
Another buzz.
Then another.
He sighed, glancing down.
Messages were piling in.
Unknown numbers.
Club contacts.
Journalists.
Friends.
A text from Xhaka.
Bro, are you seeing this madness?
Another from Ramsey.
You've broken football. Congrats.
One from Alexis.
Ignore it. Focus. We know who you are.
Francesco locked the phone and set it face down.
"Jorge said stay home," he said. "So I'm staying home."
Leah nodded approvingly. "Good."
She slid off his lap and stood, stretching. "I'm going to shower."
He looked up at her. "I might join you."
She raised an eyebrow. "Careful. I might say yes."
He laughed, the sound easing something tight in his chest.
She disappeared upstairs, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
For a few minutes, Francesco stayed where he was, listening to the faint sound of water starting upstairs. He stared at the dark screen of the television, at his reflection barely visible in it.
Youngest Ballon d'Or winner in history.
Messi.
Ronaldo.
Now him.
The comparisons felt surreal, almost unfair.
He stood eventually, moving to the window. Outside, life carried on. A man walked past with a coffee. A woman pushed a pram. Somewhere, someone was late for work.
None of them knew.
None of them cared.
And in that, there was something comforting.
Upstairs, the shower continued to run.
Upstairs, the shower continued to run.
The sound was steady, rhythmic, almost meditative. Water against tile. Steam curling under the bathroom door. Leah humming faintly to herself, barely audible, some half-remembered melody that drifted down the hallway and softened the edges of the morning.
Francesco stayed by the window for a little longer, hands resting loosely on the frame, eyes following the slow movement of the street below. A cyclist passed. Someone laughed on a phone call. A neighbour dragged a bin out to the curb.
It was strange how grounding that was.
Eventually, he turned away and reached for his phone again.
He told himself he was just checking messages from family. Or maybe something from the club. He wasn't looking for headlines. He wasn't looking for validation. He certainly wasn't looking to spiral.
But habits were habits.
His thumb opened Instagram without much thought.
The app loaded, stories ticking across the top, posts refreshing in that endless scroll. Notifications crowded the screen, numbers stacked so high they almost felt meaningless.
He ignored most of them.
Then he saw it.
A blue verification check.
A familiar profile picture.
Clean layout. No nonsense.
Fabrizio Romano.
The post was only minutes old.
Francesco clicked.
The image was simple: a photo of him in an Arsenal kit, mid-stride, eyes locked on the ball. The caption underneath was dense, structured the way Fabrizio always did it, precise and unmistakable.
🚨 BREAKING: Massive interest around Francesco.
Francesco's jaw tightened slightly as he read on.
Top clubs including PSG, Barcelona, Real Madrid, Bayern Munich, Inter, Juventus, Manchester United, Manchester City and Chelsea have all prepared initial approaches to Arsenal in recent hours.
There it was.
Confirmed.
Not speculation.
Not rumor.
He scrolled.
Potential fee discussed internally by clubs: £100–150m+. January window described as 'crazy' by multiple sources.
The words felt clinical, stripped of emotion, but they still carried weight.
He took a breath and kept reading.
However, important detail: Arsenal position is very clear. Arsène Wenger and the club have NO intention to sell. Francesco is considered untouchable.
Francesco felt something in his chest loosen slightly.
Then the final lines.
Sources close to the player insist Francesco is fully committed to Arsenal. No intention to force a move. Loyalty to the club remains total. 🚫🔴
He stared at the screen for a long moment.
That last sentence hit differently.
Not because it surprised him.
But because it was true.
He hadn't said it publicly.
He hadn't needed to.
Yet there it was, written plainly, broadcast to millions.
Loyalty to the club remains total.
He locked the phone and leaned back against the wall, eyes closing briefly.
Downstairs, the house felt quieter again. The noise from the television was gone. The outside world muted by brick and glass. The only real sound was the shower upstairs and the faint ticking of the clock in the living room.
He let out a slow breath.
This was the part people never really understood.
They saw the numbers.
The clubs.
The headlines.
They didn't see the years.
The first day at London Colney.
The way Wenger had looked at him, not like a prodigy, but like a project worth patience.
The debut day.
The quiet conversations.
The trust.
They didn't see the way Arsenal had given him space to grow without trying to own him.
They didn't see the nights he stayed late, alone on the pitch, lights dimmed, working on things no one would ever notice unless they failed.
Loyalty wasn't a slogan.
It was memory.
It was history.
The shower stopped.
A moment later, the bathroom door opened upstairs. Footsteps padded along the hallway. A towel thudded lightly onto the bed. A drawer slid open, then closed.
Francesco pushed himself off the wall and headed upstairs.
Leah was standing by the mirror, towel wrapped around her, hair damp and pushed back, cheeks flushed from the heat. She looked relaxed, loose in a way that only came when she felt safe.
She noticed him in the doorway and smiled. "You survived down there?"
"Barely," he said.
She laughed softly, turning back to the mirror to apply moisturizer, movements unhurried. "Did the world end yet?"
"Not officially," he replied. "But it's trying."
She glanced at him through the mirror. "You look like you've been thinking."
"I have."
She turned fully then, leaning back against the dresser. "Want to talk about it?"
He held up his phone. "Fabrizio posted."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "Already?"
He nodded. "Confirmed everything."
She crossed the room and took the phone from his hand, scrolling through the post carefully, eyes moving quickly, absorbing every line.
When she reached the end, she looked back up at him.
"They also said Arsenal won't sell," she said.
"And that I won't push," he added.
She studied his face. "Is that true?"
He didn't hesitate. "Yes."
The answer came too easily to be rehearsed.
She smiled, not wide, not dramatic, just something small and real. "I thought so."
He sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees. "It's strange," he said. "Seeing someone else define your loyalty for you."
She walked over and sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder. "Does it bother you?"
"No," he said. "It just reminds me how loud everything gets when you're quiet."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. "You don't owe anyone an explanation."
"I know."
They sat like that for a while.
Leah eventually broke the silence. "You know what people don't say enough?"
He glanced at her. "What?"
"That staying can be just as brave as leaving."
He smiled faintly. "You've been thinking too."
She shrugged. "Hard not to, when your boyfriend is apparently the center of the football universe."
He laughed quietly. "Temporary universe."
She nudged him gently. "Still."
His phone buzzed again.
This time, he picked it up.
A message from Wenger.
Short.
Direct.
As always.
Ignore the noise. We speak tomorrow. Enjoy your rest.
Francesco typed back.
Always. Thank you.
Another message came through almost immediately after.
From Per.
I hear the world wants you now. Don't worry, we'll still steal your food at training.
Francesco smiled, typing back.
Some things never change.
He set the phone down again.
Leah stood, beginning to get dressed, pulling on jeans and a sweater, movements easy and unselfconscious.
"So," she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. "If we're staying home all day, what do you want to do?"
He thought about it.
The obvious answers from rest, recover, stay hidden felt boring, even necessary.
"I want to do nothing," he said finally. "Properly."
She grinned. "I'm excellent at nothing."
They moved back downstairs together, the house welcoming them with its quiet familiarity.
The living room felt different now that the television was off. Softer. More intimate. The light had shifted, angling in through the windows, casting long shapes across the floor.
Leah curled up on the sofa again, pulling a blanket over her legs. Francesco joined her, sitting close but not crowding, his arm draped along the back of the couch.
She rested her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, steady and calm despite everything.
"Do you ever think about what it would be like," she asked quietly, "if you hadn't come to Arsenal?"
He considered it.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "But it always feels like imagining someone else's life."
She nodded. "I get that."
The phone buzzed again.
This time, he didn't even flinch.
Instead, Leah reached for it and flipped it face down without looking.
"Enough," she said firmly. "They can wait."
He laughed softly. "You're very protective today."
"Someone has to be," she replied. "Apparently half of Europe wants you."
He wrapped his arm around her properly now, pulling her closer. "I'm right here."
She smiled against his chest.
Outside, clouds drifted slowly across the sky, softening the light. Somewhere, church bells rang faintly in the distance, marking the hour.
The world kept turning.
Inside the house, time slowed.
Later that afternoon, Francesco checked Instagram again, mostly out of curiosity this time. The post had exploded. Millions of likes. Tens of thousands of comments.
Some begging him to join.
Some demanding he stay.
Some arguing violently with strangers.
He scrolled briefly, then stopped.
One comment caught his eye.
It was simple.
Legends don't chase clubs. Clubs chase legends. Stay true.
He locked the phone again.
That was enough.
As the day wore on, the frenzy outside only intensified. News alerts popped up on every platform. Talk shows debated hypothetical lineups. Fans speculated endlessly.
But inside the house, things remained stubbornly ordinary.
They cooked lunch together.
They argued playfully about what to watch.
They napped on the sofa, limbs tangled, sunlight warming their faces.
At one point, Leah traced lazy circles on his arm and said, almost to herself, "Whatever happens next. you're doing it right."
He looked down at her. "You really believe that?"
She met his eyes without hesitation. "I do."
Leah's words lingered in the air long after she said them.
Whatever happens next, you're doing it right.
Francesco didn't reply immediately. He didn't need to. He just rested his chin lightly on the top of her head, breathing her in, letting the steadiness of the moment anchor him. If the world outside was accelerating, then this stillness was the counterweight.
Time drifted.
They dozed for a while, not fully asleep, just hovering in that soft, half-awake space where thoughts blur and the body finally lets go of tension it's been holding onto for too long. At some point, the light in the room shifted again, the sun slipping behind clouds, shadows stretching and reshaping themselves across the walls.
Leah stirred first, lifting her head slightly.
"Hey," she murmured. "What time is it?"
Francesco glanced toward the clock on the wall. "Just after four."
She sighed quietly. "Feels later."
"Big day," he said.
She hummed in agreement, then sat up, stretching her arms above her head. The blanket slid down to her waist.
"Should we check again?" she asked, nodding toward the television. "Or do you want to pretend football doesn't exist for a few more hours?"
Francesco considered it.
Part of him wanted to keep the bubble intact. Another part knew that avoiding it completely only made the noise louder when it finally broke through.
"Let's see," he said. "But low volume."
Leah smiled. "Deal."
He reached for the remote and turned the television back on.
It took less than two seconds for the reality of the day to reassert itself.
Sky Sports News again.
Same studio.
Different presenter.
Same energy.
The red banner at the bottom hadn't changed.
TRANSFER WINDOW IN MELTDOWN: FRANCESCO FUTURE DOMINATES HEADLINES
The presenter was mid-sentence when the sound came back.
"…and we're continuing to bring you updates as this extraordinary situation develops. Interest in Arsenal's Francesco remains relentless, with multiple sources suggesting clubs are refusing to take no for an answer…"
Leah shot him a look. "Relentless sounds about right."
Francesco exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on the screen.
A graphic appeared, this time broader.
NOT JUST FRANCESCO: ARSENAL STARS TARGETED
Below it, names flashed one by one.
N'Golo Kanté.
Virgil van Dijk.
Alexis Sánchez.
Clips rolled as each name appeared.
Kanté intercepting, smiling shyly after a tackle.
Van Dijk dominating in the air, commanding the back line.
Alexis celebrating one of his three goals from the night before, arms outstretched, feral joy written across his face.
The presenter continued.
"…it's not just Francesco attracting attention. We understand that N'Golo Kanté has received inquiries from clubs in England and Italy, Virgil van Dijk remains a long-term target for several European heavyweights, and Alexis Sánchez's hat-trick has reignited interest from former admirers…"
Leah frowned. "That's a lot."
"It always comes in waves," Francesco said. "When a team looks strong, everyone tries to pick it apart."
On screen, a former player turned pundit leaned forward.
"This is the danger," he said emphatically. "When you've got a spine like Arsenal's right now, other clubs don't just want the star—they want the structure. Kanté, Van Dijk, Sánchez, Francesco… that's a core you build dynasties around."
Another pundit shook his head. "But Arsenal aren't in a selling position. Not emotionally, not competitively."
Leah muted the TV again.
Her jaw was tight now, not angry, but thoughtful.
"They're circling everyone," she said. "Not just you."
Francesco nodded slowly. "They always do when something special starts forming."
She glanced at him. "Does that worry you?"
He shook his head. "Not really. I trust the group."
He meant it.
Kanté wasn't someone you could lure with money.
Van Dijk didn't move without purpose.
Alexis burned for competition, not comfort.
And as for himself?
He knew where he stood.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Once.
Then immediately again.
He didn't need to look to know.
Jorge.
Leah saw his expression change. "That him?"
"Yeah."
She squeezed his hand once. "Go on."
Francesco picked up the phone and answered.
"Hey," he said.
Jorge's voice came through fast this time, stripped of pleasantries.
"Francesco, listen to me carefully."
Francesco straightened slightly. "I'm listening."
"I've spent the last three hours on the phone," Jorge said. "PSG, Barcelona, Madrid, Bayern, Juventus, both Manchester clubs again. They are not backing off."
Francesco glanced at Leah, who was watching him intently now.
"I told you earlier," Jorge continued, "I made your position clear. I told them you're happy. I told them you're not pushing for anything."
"And?" Francesco asked.
"And they don't care," Jorge said bluntly.
There was a pause, then Jorge went on, slower now.
"They're increasing pressure. Not just on Arsenal. On me."
Francesco frowned. "What do you mean?"
"They're offering incentives," Jorge said. "Personal ones."
Leah's eyebrows shot up.
"What kind of incentives?" Francesco asked, though he already suspected the answer.
"Bonuses," Jorge said flatly. "Very large ones. To convince you. To 'open a conversation.' To 'change your perspective.'"
Francesco's jaw tightened.
"How large?" he asked.
Jorge exhaled. "Enough to be insulting."
For a moment, Francesco said nothing.
He felt something hot flare in his chest, not temptation, but irritation. The assumption underneath the offer that loyalty was negotiable, that everything had a price, sat wrong with him.
"Jorge," he said finally, voice calm but firm, "you know me."
"Yes," Jorge replied. "That's why I'm telling you."
Francesco leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor.
"Tell them again," he said. "All of them. I'm not moving. Not now. Not later. Not for money. Not for trophies somewhere else."
Leah held her breath.
"I'm loyal to Arsenal until I retire," Francesco continued. "I won't force a transfer. I won't entertain it. I won't even consider it."
The words came clean, unhesitating.
Jorge was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, softly, "I know. And I told them. But I wanted to hear it from you again."
"You have," Francesco replied. "As many times as you need."
Jorge chuckled, a hint of pride bleeding through the exhaustion. "You're making my life harder."
Francesco smiled faintly. "That's part of the job, right?"
"Yes," Jorge said. "But it's also why they respect you, even when they're frustrated."
Another pause.
"I'll shut it down," Jorge said. "Completely. No more conversations. No maybes."
"Thank you," Francesco said.
"And Francesco?"
"Yeah?"
"Not many players like you," Jorge said. "Remember that."
The call ended.
Francesco set the phone down slowly, feeling the weight of the conversation settle in his chest.
Leah moved closer immediately.
"They offered you money," she said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
She shook her head, disbelief mixed with something sharper. "As if that would change anything."
He let out a breath. "They think it does for everyone."
She reached up and cupped his face gently, forcing him to look at her. "You did the right thing."
"I know."
She smiled, proud now, openly so. "I just like hearing it."
They sat together in silence again, the television muted, the phone blessedly still.
Outside, the sky darkened further, evening settling in. Streetlights flickered on, one by one, casting warm pools of light onto the pavement below.
After a while, Francesco stood and stretched.
"Hungry?" he asked.
Leah laughed softly. "Already?"
He shrugged. "All this loyalty is exhausting."
She grinned. "I'll help."
They moved into the kitchen again, slipping easily back into that shared rhythm. Chopping, stirring, tasting. Music played quietly from a speaker now, something mellow, unobtrusive.
As they cooked, Francesco's phone buzzed one last time.
A message from Alexis.
They're asking about me too. I told them no. See you at training.
Francesco smiled and typed back.
Wouldn't expect anything else.
Another message followed almost immediately.
From Kanté.
My agent says many calls. I told him Arsenal is home. 😊
Francesco felt warmth spread through him at that.
Same here, he replied.
Van Dijk's message came a few minutes later.
Noise is noise. We focus.
Simple. Solid. Exactly as expected.
He put the phone down and turned back to Leah, who was watching him with a knowing look.
"Good news?" she asked.
"The best," he said. "We're not alone."
Dinner came together slowly, comfortably.
They ate at the table, talking about small things again from Leah's training schedule, a film they wanted to watch, a place they'd talked about visiting someday when the season allowed.
________________________________________________
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: 27
Goal: 43
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