The King Of Arsenal

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He started juggling, slow at first, then faster—left foot, right foot, thigh, shoulder, head. Over and over. His breath came out in little clouds, his heartbeat steady but climbing. Every touch reminded him why he'd said no, Real Madrid does had statues and silverware. But Arsenal had soul, and he wanted to give that soul a crown.

The next day, Francesco's boots crunched lightly over the gravel of his Richmond driveway as he stepped into his car. The morning chill clung to the windows of the BMW X5, condensation slowly dissolving as he turned on the engine. His fingers were wrapped around the leather steering wheel, the weight of dawn silence still settling on his shoulders, when his phone vibrated against the center console.

"Arsène Wenger."

Francesco blinked, surprised. It was rare for the boss to call out of the blue—especially before training. He tapped the screen and answered.

"Boss?"

Wenger's voice was low, not angry, but clipped in a way that immediately unsettled him. "Francesco… I need to ask you something directly. Did you agree to a move to Real Madrid?"

Francesco's heart seemed to skip. "What? No—of course not. Why are you asking me that?"

There was a pause on the other end. A pause too long.

"Look at your phone," Wenger finally said. "Look at the news. And then meet me in my office as soon as you arrive at Colney."

The call ended before Francesco could ask another word.

He sat frozen in the car for a few seconds. Then he reached for his phone, brows furrowing as he unlocked it.

And there it was.

His thumb hovered above the screen as the headline glared up at him like a slap across the face:

"Francesco Lee Meeting Real Madrid Representative? Is He Set to Abandon His Boyhood Club?"

Below it, a wide-angle paparazzi shot of Henrietta Street—him at the dinner table with Mendes and Zidane. The framing was perfect. Too perfect. Zidane mid-speech, Mendes looking sly, Francesco leaning forward, listening. From the outside, it looked damning. Deliberate.

His chest tightened. He scrolled down.

The article spun its own story, full of thinly veiled speculation, shallow analysis, and fan-baiting language: "Lee seen dining with Madrid legend Zidane—talks of £100m transfer," "a betrayal of Arsenal's faith," "how much loyalty really matters in the modern game."

But it wasn't the headlines that hit hardest. It was the comments.

He tapped open Instagram, more out of instinct than anything else—and the flood hit like a rogue wave.

@GoonerTillIDie: Can't believe it. Thought you were different, Francesco. Judas.

@LondonIsRed: All that talk about loyalty just to run at the first call of the Galácticos. Typical.

@Kai_AFCLegacy: Wow. Nine goals and he's already out. Can't trust anyone these days.

There were hundreds. Thousands. His DMs were full. His mentions were a warzone.

He'd been called many things in football. A prodigy. A leader. A winner.

Now, overnight, "traitor" had been added to the list.

His phone rang again.

Mendes.

Francesco's jaw clenched, but he picked up.

"Cesco…" Mendes started, his voice heavy with guilt. "I'm so sorry. I—"

"You leaked it?" Francesco asked, his voice quieter than he expected. Not angry. Not yelling. Just tired.

"No! I swear I didn't. I kept it tight. But someone at the restaurant… maybe a waiter or another diner saw Zidane, recognized you—it only takes one photo. The rest writes itself."

Francesco closed his eyes, hand gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"Look," Mendes said, urgently now, "I'll fix this. I'll call Fabrizio, Sky, anyone. Just tell me what you want me to say."

Francesco's voice didn't waver. "Tell them Zidane was there because I asked him to meet me. Not about Madrid. I wanted his advice. His wisdom. That's it."

"Right," Mendes said quickly, scribbling notes aloud. "So: 'Francesco Lee requested a private dinner with Zinedine Zidane in order to learn from his experience as one of the game's greatest midfielders. There were no transfer discussions, and Lee remains fully committed to Arsenal.' That sound good?"

"Yeah," Francesco said, voice flat. "Get it out fast. Everywhere."

"I will. And Cesco—again. I'm sorry."

Francesco hung up without responding. Then he took one long breath, reversed out of his drive, and began the trip toward London Colney.

The traffic was normal for that time of day—steady but flowing. But inside the car, nothing was normal. His mind raced through images like lightning strikes: the table, the photo, Wenger's voice, the comments. He felt stripped bare. And worse, misunderstood.

He wasn't scared of losing fans. He was scared of losing the truth.

Because what made this place home—Arsenal, London, Hale End, everything—was that people believed him when he said he was one of them.

By the time he reached Colney and passed through the security gate, his stomach was in knots. He parked in his usual spot, tried to keep his shoulders straight as he stepped out and walked toward the training building.

The staff inside greeted him like they always did. But their smiles were tight. There were glances. Side looks. And then, a voice.

"Francesco," said a soft French accent behind him.

He turned.

Wenger stood at the top of the stairs, suit pressed, hands folded behind his back. His face was unreadable.

"Come," he said. "Let's talk."

Inside Wenger's office, the air was heavier. The blinds were half-drawn, and the manager's desk had a printout of the news article spread across it. Francesco stood across from him, and for a second, neither spoke.

Then Wenger gestured to the seat opposite. "Sit."

Francesco obeyed, sinking into the leather-backed chair.

Wenger studied him for a moment. "I believe you. Let's begin there."

Francesco blinked. "You do?"

"I've watched you since you were twelve. I know your ambitions. I know your character. I also know how easily the world can misread a photograph."

Francesco let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Boss… I didn't know Zidane was coming. Mendes set it up. It was supposed to be dinner. That's it."

"I figured as much," Wenger said. "But the world doesn't care about context. They care about stories. And right now, they've made you the villain of theirs."

Francesco leaned forward. "Mendes is releasing a statement. We're clearing it up."

"Good," Wenger said. "That will help. But not fix it."

Francesco frowned. "So what will?"

Wenger looked him in the eyes. "You. Not your agent. Not a press release. You. Face the team. Face the media. Be honest. Don't run from it."

Francesco hesitated. "They're angry."

"They're disappointed," Wenger corrected. "Because they care. Because they believe in you. You must give them a reason to believe again."

Francesco nodded slowly.

Wenger stood. "Go get changed. Train well. And tomorrow, you'll speak."

Training that day felt different. Francesco jogged out to the pitch with his usual boots laced tight, his bib slung across one shoulder—but the energy around him had shifted.

Cazorla gave him a nod, calm and steady.

Özil avoided his eyes at first, but warmed once the session began.

Kanté patted his back. "Ignore them. Play football."

Only Alexis muttered under his breath as they warmed up, something in Spanish Francesco didn't catch—but it didn't sound friendly.

Francesco let it all pass through him.

He trained like a man possessed—sprints, possession drills, one-touch finishes. Every action crisp. Every tackle real. When they scrimmaged at the end, he scored two goals and set up three more. But even so, when they walked back to the changing rooms, he felt the silence around him.

The changing room was quieter than usual. The shuffle of boots, the hiss of the showers, and the low murmur of private conversations filled the space, but there was no banter, no music blaring from someone's phone, no jokes tossed across benches like usual. Francesco sat on the edge of the bench near his locker, towel around his neck, boots kicked off and resting beside him. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the concrete floor beneath his feet like it might offer some answers he didn't already know.

Then came a pat on his shoulder—firm, familiar.

He looked up and saw Per Mertesacker standing there, tall and solid as ever, flanked by Mikel Arteta, arms crossed, expression calm but focused.

"Per…" Francesco started, unsure where to go.

But Mertesacker shook his head, a wry smile playing at the corner of his lips. "You know I will not move," Francesco said quickly, before either of them could speak.

Arteta nodded once. "We know."

"You always look arrogant sometimes," Mertesacker added with a half-laugh, "and sometimes humble too. But deep down? We knew you would never move."

Francesco let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "But the others…"

Mertesacker placed his hand fully on Francesco's shoulder now, the way a captain did—not with dominance, but with reassurance. "Let me handle them," he said. "They're not angry. They're shocked. You promised them something this year—something big. To lead them to win the Premier League again. And maybe even winning the Champions League. And right now, they're afraid that promise is broken. You just need to show them it's not."

Francesco stared at him for a beat longer, then nodded slowly. "Thank you, captain."

He stood, reaching for his phone on the bench beside him. "After this, I'll call Mendes. Tell him to release my official statement. And I'll go out to the press—talk to the reporters waiting outside Colney. I want it clear: I will never, ever leave this team."

Arteta finally broke his silence with a small smile. "That's the right move. Don't let them define your story."

Francesco gave them both a nod, then stepped aside, phone in hand, his reflection catching briefly in the steel locker as he passed it. He looked tired, maybe even older than his 16 years, but his eyes were clear now. Determined.

He ducked into the quiet of the physio room, closed the door behind him, and rang Mendes.

The call picked up on the first ring.

"Cesco—"

"Post the statement," Francesco said. "Now. Everywhere. All platforms."

"You got it. Are you sure about this wording?" Mendes asked, voice rapid. "You want to go personal—say it came from you, not me?"

"Yes. From me. Word for word. I'll handle the rest."

"Alright, sending now."

Within moments, the notification buzzed through. Francesco opened Twitter, saw Mendes had tagged him directly, and retweeted it without hesitation.

"Francesco Lee requested a private dinner with Zinedine Zidane for mentorship, not negotiations. There were no talks with Real Madrid. I am fully committed to Arsenal, the club of my heart, and our goals this season. Nothing has changed. I will never abandon this team. —FL"

He copied the text and posted it to his own Instagram with a caption beneath the photo of him in Arsenal red:

"Let them talk. I know the truth. I'm here to stay. ❤️⚪️🔴"

Then he closed the app and let the world do what it would with the truth.

The press was waiting as expected.

A row of cameras lined the entrance road just outside Colney's gates. Reporters jostled in their pens, microphones raised, photographers standing on step stools, trying to get the best angle.

As Francesco approached, security instinctively began to wave him toward a side exit, but he raised a hand and shook his head. "It's alright," he said. "Let me talk."

The security guard, surprised but respectful, nodded and stepped aside.

Francesco walked forward, chin high, chest steady. The moment he crossed the invisible boundary between private and public, the questions exploded.

"Francesco! Are you going to Madrid?"

"Did you meet Zidane about a transfer?"

"Do you want to leave Arsenal?"

"Do you regret the dinner?"

He held up his hand. The wave of shouting died down just enough for him to be heard.

"I'll keep this short," he said, voice clear, calm. "I met Zinedine Zidane for dinner because I wanted to learn from one of the greatest minds in football. That's all. There were no talks of Madrid. No offers. No decisions made. I'm not leaving."

He took another breath, eyes sweeping the crowd.

"I've been with Arsenal since I was a boy. I grew up dreaming of wearing this shirt. I've worked too hard, come too far, to walk away now. This season, we have a mission. Winning the Premier League again, and tried our best to win the Champions League. That's where my heart is. That's where I'll stay."

One reporter shouted, "What about the photos? The story?"

Francesco didn't flinch. "A photo tells you one frame. It doesn't tell you the truth. You want the truth? You just heard it."

He stepped back. "That's all. Thanks."

With that, he turned and walked back through the gate, the clicking of shutters chasing him all the way.

Then after that interview, the noise had shifted.

His statement was everywhere. Sky Sports ran it in full. BBC covered it with a new headline: "Francesco Lee Breaks Silence: 'I Will Never Leave Arsenal.'"

On Match of the Day, Alan Shearer gave a measured take. "You can see he's young, yes, but mature. That kind of statement, after the media storm… that's leadership."

Social media turned, too—not completely, but enough. The tide began to slow, the venom replaced with a more tempered tone:

@InvinciblesSon: That's my captain. 💪

@ArsenalSoul7: Still angry about the photo, but fair play to him for owning it.

@GoonerInRome: If he stays and wins us something this year, all of this will just be part of the story.

The evening light poured golden through the wide bay windows of Francesco's mansion in Richmond, throwing long shadows across the oak floor and the cream-colored sectional sofa. The television was on, volume turned down low but audible, casting flickers of blue and white light across the spacious living room. Francesco sat in a grey hoodie and dark joggers, legs stretched out, his back half-sunk into the plush cushions. Beside him, curled into the crook of his arm, was Leah Williamson—barefoot, hair still damp from a shower, dressed in one of his oversized training tops and soft leggings. Her head rested lightly against his shoulder, arm draped across his chest, fingers absentmindedly tracing the embroidered crest of the Arsenal badge on his hoodie.

Neither of them spoke for a while. They didn't need to.

On the screen, Sky Sports was running a recap of the day's top story. Francesco's face dominated the frame—first in photos, then in clips of his impromptu press conference outside Colney. The footage rolled again: him raising his hand, the press silencing, that steady voice saying "I'm not leaving."

The anchor continued, her voice smooth and polished. "…and after a whirlwind of speculation, Francesco Lee has quelled the rumors surrounding his alleged dinner meeting with Zinedine Zidane. The young Arsenal star issued a direct statement on his personal platforms, affirming his loyalty to the club, saying—and I quote—'I will never abandon this team.'"

They cut to a panel. Pundits in suits. More opinion. More speculation. More noise.

Francesco exhaled, the breath slow, his hand resting on Leah's shoulder, his thumb lightly brushing against the fabric of her sleeve.

"You alright?" she asked softly, her voice muffled against his chest.

He nodded, but it was the kind of nod that held layers—fatigue, relief, maybe a little sadness too. "Yeah," he said. "Better now."

Leah looked up at him, her eyes gentle but unwavering. "You handled it perfectly."

He shrugged a little. "Felt like the only thing I could do, really. I've never seen the team that quiet before. Never seen Per look like that."

"They were scared you were leaving," she said. "I don't blame them. You're the heartbeat."

Francesco turned his head, kissed the top of hers. "I never even considered it. Not for a second. But I should've seen how it looked from the outside."

Leah leaned back a bit so she could meet his eyes properly. "You're sixteen, Cesco. You're allowed to want to learn. That's all that was. Wanting to learn from Zidane? That's ambitious. It's smart. It's not betrayal."

He smiled faintly. "Tell that to Twitter."

She smirked. "Twitter forgave you the moment they saw that clip. And if they didn't, screw them. You don't owe them anything but your football."

He let out a little laugh this time, the first real one in hours. "You always know how to say the exact right thing."

She leaned up and kissed his jaw, brushing a bit of hair behind his ear. "That's because I know you. And I love you."

His breath caught—not out of surprise, not anymore. She'd said it before. But it always hit him the same way. Grounded him. He reached up, cupped the side of her face, and kissed her fully this time—soft but certain.

"I love you too," he said against her lips.

The TV kept rolling. Now a Match of the Day replay. They were analyzing his goals from the Leicester match—his goal, the solo run that made contribute the 6–1, the way he celebrated after do his celebration that is kissing the badge in front of the away end. All of it seemed so long ago already.

He broke the kiss and looked at the screen, voice quiet now. "We're six games in. Six wins. Leicester crushed, and still it felt like one photo could've undone everything."

Leah sat up slightly, legs crossed now, still close to him. "But it didn't. You controlled the narrative. That takes strength, Cesco. More than most players twice your age could've managed."

He looked at her, and then past her, at the muted footage of himself running, celebrating, shouting. "You think the others believe me now? I mean, really believe me?"

Leah tilted her head. "Per does. Arteta does. You saw that today. The rest? They will. Some of them already do. The rest will follow once you step back on that pitch and lead again."

A moment passed between them. Francesco rested his head back against the sofa, eyes closing for just a second.

"I've never wanted anything more than this," he murmured. "To lead Arsenal. To win. I don't care about the money or the fame or whatever Zidane could offer. I just want that—this club, this shirt. And the trophies we deserve."

Leah reached for the remote and turned the volume down further, until the TV was a faint whisper in the background. "Then go get it," she said, almost a whisper. "With everything you've got."

Outside, the Richmond sky was darkening now, streaks of purple and orange fading into navy. Francesco's phone buzzed again on the coffee table—new notifications, new reactions, probably another statement from the club PR team backing his words. But he didn't reach for it.

He looked at Leah instead.

"I'm lucky," he said softly. "To have you here. To come home to this—someone who believes in me, no matter what."

She smiled, eyes soft. "I'd follow you even if you did go to Madrid. But I'm glad you're staying."

He pulled her close again, this time resting his chin atop her head. They sat like that for a long while—long enough for the TV to cycle back through the segment again, long enough for the shadows in the room to stretch and deepen.

Eventually, she whispered, "Are you going to be alright?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Tomorrow we play againts Olympiacos. Then United."

She lifted her head again, her grin sly now. "So, you planning to score a hat-trick in both?"

He grinned back. "Minimum."

And this time, when they both laughed, it was full. Honest. The kind of laugh that made the weight in his chest ease a little, the kind that felt like the storm had passed.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield

Season 15/16 stats:

Arsenal:

Match Played: 9

Goal: 15

Assist: 2

MOTM: 0

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9