The King Of Arsenal

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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.

Then the scene change to Colney, as low hum of the air conditioning did little to settle the tension swirling through the glass-walled boardroom overlooking the Colney training grounds. Night had fallen beyond the tinted panes, casting the sprawling fields outside into shadow. Inside, the room was brightly lit but heavy with unsaid things.

Arsène Wenger sat at the head of the polished mahogany table, fingers steepled, face calm but unreadable. He wore his usual navy suit with the red Arsenal tie, the club crest gleaming faintly on his chest. To his right sat Ivan Gazidis, Arsenal's CEO, brows furrowed as he read from a printed dossier. The other seats were filled by shareholders—faces familiar to Wenger after all these years, but rarely so collectively vocal.

Stan Kroenke sat impassively, his cowboy mustache stiff above pursed lips, eyes shadowed under the brim of his hat as he watched the room unfold. Alisher Usmanov, never one to mince his presence, leaned back in his chair with arms folded, thick and immovable like a mountain of silk and steel. The smaller shareholders—several local investors, international contributors, and executive board members—had taken over the floor, and for the last fifteen minutes, the air had been thick with critique.

The name at the center of it all: Francesco Lee.

"…with all due respect to the manager," said one greying investor from the City, his accent clipped and tight, "this Zidane dinner—it's not just a dinner. The press saw it, the fans saw it, and now the entire footballing world is speculating whether our most valuable asset is shopping for a bigger stage."

A murmur of agreement rippled down the table.

"It shows a lack of maturity," another chimed in, a younger man, tech-industry type, sharp suit and sharper tone. "You want to be a one-club icon, fine. You don't go courting legends from your potential rivals while we're in the middle of a title campaign."

"Exactly," said a woman down the line, her reading glasses perched at the edge of her nose. "If he stays, we face constant speculation. If he leaves, we lose the best talent we've ever had since Henry. Either way, the damage is done."

Kroenke remained quiet, but his gaze did not waver from Wenger. It wasn't open disapproval, but it wasn't support either. Usmanov, similarly, had not spoken, but the slight narrowing of his eyes signaled his agreement.

Wenger sat through it all, not once interrupting. He listened, eyes flicking to each speaker as they made their points, letting them unload their worries and projections. When silence finally returned to the room, he let it linger for a breath longer than necessary.

Then he stood.

"I have heard your concerns," he began, his voice even, faintly accented in that familiar French cadence. "And I will not pretend this has been the easiest day. But I must correct a few assumptions—before they become truths simply because they are repeated."

He turned slightly, hands behind his back, walking slowly down the length of the table like a professor before a classroom. "Francesco Lee is sixteen years old. He is not perfect. He is not immune to mistakes. But what you call scandal, I call ambition. What you call betrayal, I call learning. He did not fly to Madrid. He did not sit across a table from Florentino Pérez. He did not ask to leave. He met with a man he admired—someone who inspired him to play this game with grace and intelligence."

He paused. The room remained still.

"And yes, perhaps he should have anticipated the optics. Perhaps he should have consulted the club before arranging it. But that is a lesson for a boy to learn—not a crime to punish."

Gazidis leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing with interest as Wenger continued.

"More importantly," Wenger said, his voice rising just slightly, "he made it clear—to me, to his teammates, and to the public—that he will not leave Arsenal. He has stated it in his own words, with his own voice. You saw the interview. You saw the statement. I will never abandon this team. That was not a script written by Mendes. That was Francesco. From his heart."

At the mention of Mendes, a few of the board members shifted in their seats. Jorge Mendes was not in the room—thankfully—but his presence loomed in the conversation like a shadow at the door.

Wenger returned to the head of the table. "We are not here because Francesco betrayed us. We are here because the world cannot believe that a boy this gifted—this valuable—might actually choose to stay."

He turned to Kroenke and Usmanov now, meeting their silent gazes. "You want loyalty? He gave it. You want commitment? He showed it. This club has always prided itself on nurturing not just talent, but character. Well, you have in Francesco Lee the rarest of both. He did not destroy his image. He reinforced it. With poise. With maturity. With truth."

He exhaled through his nose, then added quietly, "If you believe this club deserves players who bleed for its badge, then you must believe in him."

The silence afterward was different. Not tense—considering.

Gazidis, who had remained silent thus far, tapped his pen against the table. "There's something else," he said, drawing their attention. "Our analytics team tracked social engagement after Francesco's press statement and media appearance. His retweet, his Instagram post, the Sky interview—it generated the highest positive sentiment swing we've seen since the Invincibles anniversary. Fans are emotional, yes. But they're not stupid. They can tell when someone's telling the truth."

The boardroom door opened slightly. A PA leaned in. "Mr. Mendes are waiting outside."

Wenger gave a small nod. "Let him in."

The glass door to the Colney boardroom eased open on silent hinges, and in stepped Jorge Mendes.

He wore his usual dark suit—tailored, sleek, expensive in that effortless European way. His tie was a muted charcoal, the shirt crisp white, and his shoes gleamed with a polish that said he was used to walking into rooms like this, rooms heavy with tension and money. But tonight, Mendes didn't stride in with the swagger of a super-agent. He entered quietly, with his head bowed ever so slightly in a rare show of humility. The room fell silent again.

"First of all," he said, his voice low and deliberate, each syllable carrying across the room like it had weight, "I want to thank Monsieur Wenger for allowing me to be here tonight."

He offered a respectful nod toward Wenger, who returned it with a subtle motion—neither warm nor cold. Just acknowledgment.

Mendes turned to face the rest of the table now, hands clasped before him, a rare posture of concession. "And I want to apologize. To all of you. The shareholders, the board, the executives of this great club."

No one interrupted him. Not even the ones who had been most vocal earlier.

"What happened yesterday was not Francesco's doing," Mendes continued. "It was mine. Entirely."

He looked to Gazidis for a moment, then Usmanov, then Kroenke, whose expression hadn't changed—but whose eyes had narrowed a fraction, watching with cautious interest.

"The meeting with Zinedine Zidane was arranged by me. Not at Francesco's request. Not with his planning. I… ambushed him."

There was a subtle stir among the seated board members.

"I had heard whispers," Mendes said, pacing slowly now down one side of the table. "That Real Madrid were planning something long-term. That Zidane had taken a special interest in certain players across Europe. And I received a direct call from Mr. Florentino Pérez."

That name landed like a thunderclap in the room. Even for men and women used to the powerbrokers of the game, Pérez carried a weight.

"Mr. Pérez asked Zidane to meet with Francesco," Mendes went on. "As a gesture. As a beginning. They wanted to establish rapport, make a connection, open a door—because, in their eyes, Francesco is the future. Not just for Arsenal, but for football."

Wenger didn't move, but his jaw clenched faintly.

"I made the call," Mendes said, tapping his own chest now. "I arranged the dinner. I invited Francesco, made it sound casual, a simple conversation over a meal. He didn't know Zidane would be there until we walked into the room."

There were audible reactions now. A sharp breath. A low curse under someone's breath. Kroenke looked over his spectacles at Mendes like someone assessing a gambler caught bluffing on the river.

"He was surprised," Mendes continued. "Confused. But he stayed polite. Listened. Asked a few questions—what any boy his age would ask if one of his idols sat across from him."

He paused.

"And then he left. We didn't even finish dessert. I was hoping for more. I thought I could make him consider it. I miscalculated."

The tension in the room had shifted. Less fury now. More quiet, simmering evaluation.

"I heard what Monsieur Wenger said before I came in," Mendes said now, returning to the center of the room. "Maybe… maybe he wishes to protect the image of his favorite disciple in front of you. Maybe he wants to shield the boy, knowing what this club means to him."

Wenger didn't move. Nor did he correct him.

"But Francesco told him the truth," Mendes said simply. "And I need you to know that. He told the truth."

Mendes looked around the room now, his gaze lingering on each individual shareholder.

"I have represented many great players in my time. Cristiano. Di María. Falcao. Many of them have worn white. Many of them have chased the biggest stages, the biggest paychecks, the most golden trophies. I know the smell of ambition. I know what hunger looks like."

He let that sit for a second.

"And Francesco Lee… is different."

A few eyebrows rose.

"He has the ambition, yes. But he also has something rare. Loyalty. Heart. A soul rooted in this club. He bleeds red and white. Even when I offered him the door—opened it wide, with Zidane sitting on the other side—he refused. Politely. Quietly. But firmly."

Another silence. Even Usmanov had leaned forward slightly now, arms no longer folded.

"He told me he would never leave this team. That he would die on that pitch before walking away from Arsenal. And that's when I knew," Mendes said, voice lowering with something close to awe, "that I had misjudged him."

He turned back toward Wenger now.

"I take full responsibility. And I am deeply sorry for the trouble it's caused. To Francesco's name. To this club's reputation. And to your trust."

Mendes bowed, slightly. A gesture almost out of place for a man used to being the kingmaker in any room.

"I am at your mercy. But if I may speak one final truth—it is this: Francesco Lee belongs here. And I will never again push him to leave."

He stepped back.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then it was Gazidis who stirred. He set his pen down and looked across at Wenger.

"Arsène?"

Wenger had been quiet throughout the confession, his expression unreadable.

But now he stood once more.

"I believe you, Jorge," he said softly.

That alone was enough to still the murmurs that were already beginning again.

"But I believe in Francesco more."

Wenger turned to the shareholders now.

"Gentlemen. Ladies. What you have seen today—from Francesco, from me, and even from Mr. Mendes—is not weakness. It is truth. It is transparency. And it is the cost of greatness."

He folded his hands behind his back.

"If we want to keep the soul of this club intact, we must stand by those who show they have one."

Gazidis slowly nodded. He looked toward Kroenke and Usmanov.

"Well?"

For the first time, Stan Kroenke finally shifted. He set both elbows on the table, fingers laced before his chin.

"I want trophies," he said plainly. "And I want this club to make money. That boy brings both. I'm satisfied."

Usmanov gave a slow grunt—approval, or at least resignation.

And the rest of the board followed suit.

There were murmurs of agreement, scattered nods, a few sighs of relief. Some still looked uneasy, but none pushed further. The storm had passed.

Mendes lingered a moment in the silence that followed Kroenke's blunt acceptance. The atmosphere in the boardroom was still thick, but the storm had passed. Reputations had been tested, and truths had been spoken. Now, with the air slightly more breathable, Mendes stepped forward again—slowly, gently—as if knowing he had one more stone to lay down.

"There's one more thing," he said, voice lower now, less performative, more reflective. "Something I didn't say earlier, but I feel I must."

The board members, perhaps expecting the ordeal to be over, turned toward him with weary eyes. But Mendes's face was grave now, serious in a way that drew the room back into attention.

"The leak—the photo of the dinner with Zidane," he said, carefully enunciating each word, "was not a mistake."

There was a pause. Eyes narrowed again. Wenger's arms crossed in front of him.

Mendes continued. "It wasn't a clumsy oversight by a waiter. Or a fan's lucky shot. That photo was orchestrated. Deliberate. It had Real Madrid's fingerprints all over it."

Gazidis blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Mendes said, straightening his spine, "that they knew exactly what they were doing. Pérez… Zidane… the people around them. They set the stage. They wanted to draw Arsenal into mistrust. Into suspicion. They wanted this room to turn on Francesco."

A quiet murmur rippled through the room again—softer this time, but darker. The kind of noise made when wolves sniff danger nearby.

Mendes's voice lowered, but it didn't lose its edge. "This is not how Madrid usually works. Not for a player this young. They'll chase Galácticos—sure. Men in their prime. Icons with brands and stadiums named after them. But Francesco? He's sixteen. Barely seventeen."

He looked around at the faces in the room. "And yet, they sent Zidane."

The room didn't speak, but the weight of it was palpable.

"They sent Zidane," Mendes repeated. "The face of their legacy. Not a scout. Not a negotiator. Not even Juni Calafat. No. Zidane. They don't do that unless they see something transcendental. And they saw it in Francesco."

Wenger's fingers tapped once against the lacquered wood of the table. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

"Last season," Mendes said, his voice picking up a faint echo of wonder now, "Francesco led your scoring charts. Won the Golden Boot. In his debut season. That doesn't happen. It never happens. Then he became your second captain at Arsenal this season. Not at twenty-eight. At sixteen. And then he leads you to the win the Premier League last season. And a Champions League semi-final. Against the best in Europe."

He gestured to the room, eyes burning with conviction now.

"You all saw it. You all profited from it. The shirt sales. The broadcast ratings. The global surge in Arsenal's brand. You know the numbers better than I do. You've never had a player like this. Not even Thierry."

That last name drew a few startled glances. It wasn't often Thierry Henry was invoked in this room with a note of comparison, much less suggestion of being surpassed.

"But Real Madrid?" Mendes shook his head. "They saw more. They don't just want a good player. They want the next Messi. Or the next Cristiano. And they think they've found him."

Now, Mendes's voice turned sharp, like the glint of a blade just pulled from its sheath.

"So what do they do? They don't make an offer. They don't contact the club. They send Zidane to talk. To seduce. And they make sure the whole world sees it, at just the right moment, with just enough ambiguity to sow doubt. Because that's how you start a fire. Not with a torch. With a whisper."

He paused.

"They wanted you—this board, this club—to start questioning Francesco. To wonder if your golden boy was already looking toward Madrid. To wonder if he was loyal. To wonder if he was for sale."

The room was silent again, but not idle. Usmanov rubbed his jaw. Gazidis leaned back slightly in his chair, gears clearly turning behind his eyes. Kroenke's fingers now steepled before his mouth, unreadable.

"They've never moved like this for a teenager," Mendes said. "Not with this level of orchestration. This level of manipulation."

He turned to Wenger now.

"I won't pretend I wasn't tempted. I saw the road. The possible riches. The brand deals. The legacy. I saw what Real Madrid could offer Francesco—and what it could mean for me."

His voice softened then, a small note of confession.

"But I didn't understand the boy. Not until that night."

He looked down for a moment, then back up.

"I tried to open the door. He closed it. No hesitation."

A long silence followed, until finally, Wenger spoke—quietly, but with that peculiar steel that always undercut his softest words.

"They do this often," he said. "Not just to us. They did it to Dortmund, to Tottenham, to Barcelona. But this time, they tried it with the wrong boy."

His gaze swept the room.

"You all know what he's done on the pitch. What I've seen in training is even more extraordinary. He's not just a prodigy. He's a professional. He has the humility of a veteran and the hunger of a boy who still plays barefoot on a street corner."

He glanced at Mendes, then back at the board.

"We won't sell him. Not now. Not ever. Not while I'm here."

Mendes nodded quietly, stepping back again, as if his part was finally done.

Then Gazidis spoke, more softly than expected. "You say this was Real Madrid's ploy. A calculated maneuver to unsettle us."

Mendes nodded.

"Then we don't give them the satisfaction," Gazidis said.

He turned to the rest of the table.

"We back Francesco publicly. A press release tomorrow morning. We kill the story before it gains legs. Wenger can issue a quote—short, strong. Something about loyalty, and the boy's commitment to the badge."

Usmanov grunted his agreement.

Kroenke didn't speak, but finally dipped his head once, slow and measured.

Mendes exhaled.

Wenger gave a small nod toward Gazidis. "Good. And I'll speak to Francesco myself in the morning."

Mendes added quietly, "He's back at home. With Leah. I told him I'd call after this."

Wenger's lip twitched—almost a smile. "Tell him I'll see him at training. And tell him thank you."

Mendes gave the most respectful nod he'd offered all night.

"I will."

The board meeting moved on, pivoting back toward stadium naming rights and mid-season commercial tours. But for those few minutes, the soul of the club had hung in the balance.

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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