The King Of Arsenal

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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.

The London night was quiet, as if the city itself had exhaled after a long day of tensions and negotiations. The last of the lights in the Arsenal boardroom flickered off as Jorge Mendes stepped out into the chill, the soft click of the heavy glass door behind him finalizing his departure. His footsteps echoed on the pavement as he made his way across the underground parking garage, the sharp sound of Italian leather against concrete.

He didn't walk quickly. There was no need. The storm inside had passed, but it had left debris behind—resentments, doubts, wounds hidden behind formal nods and corporate platitudes. Mendes felt them still, lingering like static in the air, like the smell of rain after thunder.

He reached his car, a dark Bentley with a personalized plate, and slid inside. For a moment, he sat motionless in the leather seat, letting his head fall back against the rest, eyes closed.

His fingers found his phone without looking. The moment of silence hung before him like a ledge he needed to jump from.

He dialed.

Two rings.

"Jorge?" came the voice on the other end—young, alert, but slightly hushed. Francesco.

"Yeah," Mendes said, voice low. "It's done. The meeting's over."

There was a pause.

"And?"

"I handled it."

Another silence. Then Francesco asked, carefully, "What does that mean?"

"I told them the truth," Mendes said. "Told them it was my fault. Told them you had nothing to do with Zidane showing up. That it was me who arranged the dinner, that you didn't know about it beforehand."

He took a breath.

"They listened. It got heated at times, but Wenger stood by you. Kroenke didn't throw a chair, so that's progress. Ivan wants a statement out tomorrow to clear the air. They'll back you publicly. Strongly."

Francesco let out a quiet breath on the other end. "So… that's it? It's over?"

Mendes hesitated.

"No. Not completely."

There was a beat.

"I need to be honest with you, chico," he said, his voice softening into something closer to personal regret. "I took the fall, and they accepted it. But the damage…"

Francesco didn't speak.

Mendes continued. "I could feel it. The way they looked at me. The way they looked at you. Not Wenger. Never Wenger. But the others? Gazidis, Usmanov… even Stan. There's doubt now. Suspicion. Like a crack running under the surface of the ice. You can't see it from above. But it's there. Waiting."

He drummed his fingers on the wheel as if it helped him sort his thoughts.

"I tried to shield you. I did. But I let them in, Francesco. I let them question your loyalty. I thought I could control the optics, the timing… but I underestimated them. Real Madrid. Zidane. They played me."

Another pause. "And by extension… they played you."

Francesco still hadn't spoken. Mendes waited, but the silence only stretched.

"I wanted to tell you myself," Mendes said. "Before you heard it from someone else. I made the mistake, but you're the one who'll have to carry it. At least for a while."

At last, the voice on the other end stirred—quiet, thoughtful.

"I know."

Mendes blinked.

"I know, Jorge. I saw the photo when it came out. I knew what it looked like. I knew what people would think. I tried not to care, but… I felt it. The shift. The way people looked at me at training the next day. Some of the staff. Even a couple of teammates. It's like a shadow followed me in."

Mendes clenched his jaw. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you," Francesco said. "You didn't mean for this to happen. You were just doing your job. Trying to help. I get it."

Another pause.

"But that room, tonight… they were supposed to believe in me. No matter what. That's what's hard to swallow."

Mendes's hand tightened around the phone. "They still do, Francesco. They're scared. That's all. Scared of losing something they've never had before."

Francesco gave a soft, tired chuckle. "Yeah. Maybe. Still hurts though."

Mendes nodded slowly, unseen. "Wenger wants to speak to you tomorrow. At training. He told me to tell you he's proud of you. And to thank you."

"I'll be there," Francesco said. "First one in. Same as always."

Mendes allowed himself a small smile. "Good. That's who you are. And that's what'll carry you through this."

There was a brief silence before Francesco spoke again, quieter now, almost like a whisper.

"Do you think they'll ever really trust me again? I mean… all of them?"

Mendes leaned his head back against the headrest, staring at the roof of the car. "Eventually, yes. But not because they decide to. Because you leave them no choice. Because you keep doing what you do. Week after week. Game after game. You show them with every minute on the pitch that there's no one like you."

His voice grew firmer.

"You want them to trust you again? Then you become undeniable. You give them no room for doubt."

Francesco didn't answer right away, but Mendes could hear the breath he drew in. He was listening. Processing.

Then, softly: "Alright."

A pause.

"Thanks for calling me," Francesco said.

"Always," Mendes replied. "And, hey… give Leah my best."

"I will. She's asleep, but I'll tell her in the morning."

"Good. Rest up. Big week ahead."

Francesco chuckled faintly. "Isn't it always?"

The call ended.

Mendes sat in his car for a moment longer, staring through the windshield at nothing. The night had grown colder, and the garage was still, save for the occasional hum of a far-off engine.

He leaned forward and rested his hands on the steering wheel, letting the exhaustion finally catch up with him.

In the end, he had done what he could. Taken the blame. Told the truth. Burned a little bit of his own reputation to protect the boy's.

But he had also seen something in that boardroom—something that lingered. Real Madrid wasn't done. Not by a long shot. And now that the veil was lifted, now that the world had seen what Francesco could become… the vultures would circle faster.

This was only the first test.

The cold silence inside the Bentley was broken only by the faint click of Mendes setting his phone down on the passenger seat. For a long moment, he stared at the empty dashboard, his reflection ghosting back at him from the black gloss of the central panel. His face was drawn, tired, but his eyes still burned — not with fatigue, but with something deeper.

Resolve.

He reached again for the phone, this time with the deliberate motion of someone preparing to step into a fight. His thumb hovered over the contact list for a heartbeat too long, then settled on a name: Zinédine Zidane.

It rang. Once. Twice.

Then it connected.

"Jorge," Zidane said, smooth as ever, warm in that diplomatic, maddeningly calm way. "You're calling late. Or early, depending on where you are."

Mendes didn't smile. Didn't greet him. Didn't return the pleasantries.

"You did this."

Zidane didn't answer at first. But Mendes could hear the subtle inhale. That was all he needed.

"You leaked the photo," Mendes said flatly. "Don't insult me by pretending otherwise."

Zidane's voice, when it came, was still level. "You arranged the meeting, Jorge. We both know that. All I did was show up. If the world noticed, that's hardly—"

"Cut the bullshit."

Zidane went silent.

"You knew what you were doing," Mendes went on, voice low but edged now. "You knew what that photo would mean. How it would look. The timing. You knew Arsenal were nervous. You knew the media would devour it. And you did it anyway."

Zidane exhaled softly through his nose. "You're angry."

"You're damn right I'm angry," Mendes snapped. "Do you know what I had to walk into tonight? That boardroom was a furnace. Francesco's name got dragged through the mud. All because you—Real Madrid—wanted to plant a seed. You wanted to twist a private dinner into a public drama. To destabilize him."

Still, Zidane didn't interrupt. That told Mendes everything he needed to know. The silence was as good as an admission.

"You think you're clever," Mendes said. "You think you're playing some long game. Make him feel cornered. Make Arsenal question his loyalty. Wait until the pressure builds, and then swoop in with a shiny offer in January or next summer when the smoke hasn't cleared. I've seen it all before."

There was a flicker of something cold beneath Zidane's calm when he finally replied. "We're not the only club watching him. You know that. You know how the game works."

"No. No, you don't get to hide behind that." Mendes's voice hardened. "Because this wasn't scouting. This wasn't interest. This was sabotage. You tried to break a kid who's only ever worked his ass off for his club."

He could feel his pulse in his temple, steady but forceful.

"And I'm telling you now, Zidane—because you're the face of it, because they sent you to charm him, to 'connect' over dinner, to play the legend card—I'm telling you that it backfired."

A pause. Then Mendes delivered it clean, sharp, and final.

"He'll never come to Real Madrid now."

Zidane gave a short laugh. Not mocking, exactly. But incredulous.

"You can't speak for him forever."

"I don't have to," Mendes said. "He saw what you did. He felt it. The betrayal. The manipulation. That dinner was supposed to be quiet. Private. But your people had photographers planted before he even sat down. You don't come back from that."

"He's young. Time changes everything."

"No," Mendes said, and this time there was no heat, just a grim certainty. "Francesco Lee is loyal. And stubborn. That's part of what makes him great. He doesn't forget when someone tries to humiliate him."

Zidane didn't reply. The line crackled slightly with the silence.

"You may have done some damage tonight," Mendes said. "But not the kind you were hoping for. You didn't create a crack between him and Arsenal. You just lit a fire under him."

Zidane's voice cooled. "We'll see."

"No. You won't," Mendes said. "Because even if he moves someday—and that's a big if—it won't be to Madrid. Not now. Not ever. You made sure of that."

He let that sit for a second, then added:

"And if he's ever asked, publicly or privately, if he'd consider Real Madrid? He'll say no. Every time. Not just because of what happened. But because he saw who you really are."

Zidane exhaled. For the first time in the conversation, Mendes thought he heard it — a tiny crack in the Real Madrid mystique. Not fear, not remorse, but a recognition. The realization that they might've misplayed their hand.

"You're very protective of him."

"I believe in him," Mendes said simply. "That's more than I can say for some people in this industry."

The line between them thinned for a moment, stretched tight by silence and static, by the weight of things unsaid. Then Zidane's voice came through again—calm, smooth, laced with the kind of detached rationale that had served him well for decades in boardrooms, dressing rooms, and interviews.

"You know it's just business," he said.

Just business.

Mendes stared through the windshield, the fluorescent garage lights above casting pale rectangles across the Bentley's dashboard. The words echoed in his head like a dull thud.

"Mr. Pérez really likes Francesco," Zidane added, almost gently. "He sees something in him. That's real. It's not just a move on a chessboard."

Mendes closed his eyes.

"I know," he said, and there was no sarcasm in his voice now, just weariness. "I know Pérez likes him. I know what he sees—talent, charisma, presence, marketability. A golden boy for the new era. He's not wrong, Zidane. Francesco is all of those things."

His jaw tensed.

"But what you don't see, what he clearly doesn't understand… is that Francesco's not for sale."

Zidane didn't respond.

Mendes continued, his voice low and steady. "What you did… what Madrid did… it didn't just spark a little transfer rumor. It didn't just stir the pot. It damaged him. In front of his fans. In front of his teammates. The people who trust him. The people he gives everything for."

His hand closed around the steering wheel like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

"You made him look like a traitor."

Still, Zidane said nothing. Maybe because he knew. Maybe because there was nothing to say.

"I can assure you," Mendes went on, quieter now, but firmer than ever. "He will say no to Real Madrid. Every time. Not out of spite. Not even because I told him to."

He drew a breath, calm and slow.

"But because he's that kind of man. Like Gerrard. Like Totti. One of the last few who understands that legacy isn't about lifting a trophy in white because someone handed you the biggest paycheck. It's about building something where you are. It's about loyalty. About staying when it's hard."

"You think he'll stay forever?" Zidane finally said, voice unreadable.

"I think if he ever leaves Arsenal, it won't be because you made him feel unwanted. It won't be because you pushed him into a corner with cameras and headlines. And it sure as hell won't be to join the club that tried to manipulate him."

A beat passed.

"He's not like the others, Zidane. He's not a Galáctico. He doesn't care about flashing lights and legacy tours. He cares about his people. His team. His place in their story."

Zidane let out a soft sigh, the kind that wasn't surrender but acknowledgment.

"Maybe we misjudged him," he said.

Mendes shook his head slowly, still staring ahead.

"You did worse than that. You underestimated him."

There was a long pause. Then Zidane said, quietly, "You really believe he'd shut the door completely?"

"I don't have to believe it," Mendes said. "He told me himself. Tonight. After I explained everything, after I told him how I took the fall… he looked me dead in the eye and said, 'They don't get another chance.' And he meant it."

Zidane didn't reply right away.

"You just burned a bridge," Mendes said. "One you didn't even know was yours to cross."

Zidane's tone shifted slightly, no longer measured, just weary. "That's not how Madrid works, Jorge. You know that. One door closes, another opens."

"Maybe," Mendes replied. "But not this one. Not with him."

There was another moment of silence on the line—tense, tired, final.

"Tell Pérez," Mendes said, "to look elsewhere. He gambled. He lost. And Francesco? He'll remember."

Zidane sighed once more, then said, "Alright."

Mendes didn't bother to say goodbye. He simply ended the call.

The phone screen faded to black, and he set it back on the passenger seat like it weighed a hundred pounds.

The garage was still quiet around him. Still cold. Still sterile. But in the stillness, something else settled in Jorge Mendes's chest—something that had nothing to do with anger or regret, but a conviction.

He had made many deals in his career. Arranged massive transfers. Brokered dreams and fortunes. He had walked corridors of power with the most influential men in the game. But this one, this night, this player—Francesco Lee—was different.

Mendes hadn't just brokered a future.

He'd defended a soul.

And the war, if it came, would not be fought in courtrooms or boardrooms. It would be fought on the pitch. One performance at a time. One loyal act after another. In front of roaring crowds who knew who their hero was.

Because that's what Francesco Lee would become.

Not a brand. Not a mercenary.

But as a symbol.

Then across London, in the quiet shadowed bedroom of a Richmond home, Francesco lay awake.

Leah stirred beside him, breathing softly, one arm curled over his chest, her warmth a small comfort against the cold unease that still lingered in his bones.

The phone call with Mendes played over in his head in loops. The words. The tone. The aftermath.

He didn't need Jorge to tell him what Zidane and Madrid had done. He'd known the moment he saw the headline: "Francesco Lee Dines with Real Madrid Legend – Transfer Talks Begin?"

The article hadn't even included quotes. Just a grainy photo. One flashbulb. One angle. One lie.

But it was enough. Enough to turn glances into stares at training. Enough to see the slight tightening in his teamnate's face when he passed him on the touchline. Enough to feel like something fundamental had been cracked.

And that's what hurt the most.

Not that people believed it.

But that they even considered it possible.

He was Arsenal's number nine. Their heartbeat. He'd given everything.

And now… he had to start again. Not from scratch. But from doubt.

The fire burned in his chest, low and steady.

He shifted slightly, not to wake Leah, but to free his arm, reaching for the small notepad he kept by the bedside. Scribbled in the dark—three words, more etched than written:

They don't get me.

He set the pad down, returned to the silence, and let sleep claim him. Eventually.

Tomorrow would come.

And with it, training. The weight room. Tactical meetings. Preparation for Olympiacos.

He'd be there early.

He'd be the first on the grass.

And when the cameras came, when the fans filled the stadium, when the chants rose and the ball rolled—he would speak with the only voice that mattered, and that is his football. Because Mendes was right. If he wanted the world to believe again, he had to become undeniable.

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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