The King Of Arsenal

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Francesco eventually made his way into the tunnel, joined by Alexis and Özil. Behind them, the others followed in small clumps—Van Dijk and Kante discussing moments of defensive coordination, Ramsey laughing with Chamberlain, Ospina and Mertesacker trading tired nods. Inside the dressing room, the mood was vibrant. Loud music. Laughter. Slaps on backs. Bottles of water passed like victory champagne.

The corridor outside the home dressing room pulsed with residual energy from the night's spectacle. The kind of air that still trembled with the roar of 60,000 voices, even after the final whistle had long faded into the sky.

Francesco was just steps away from the dressing room door—mud-spattered boots leaving faint marks on the concrete, the match ball hugged tightly under one arm, his soaked Arsenal shirt clinging to his skin—when a figure stepped in from the left.

A polite but firm voice stopped him.

"Francesco—Mr. Lee? UEFA interview, please. You've been named Man of the Match."

Francesco blinked, still catching his breath. For a heartbeat, he'd almost forgotten the logistics that followed a performance like his. The walk around the pitch, the bow at the North Bank, the celebration—it had all felt so personal. So rooted in feeling. He gave a faint nod, then turned back toward the UEFA rep.

Alexis, still behind him with Özil, gave his shoulder a squeeze as he passed. "Deserved," the Chilean said simply. "You're on fire."

"Go enjoy it," Özil added, a crooked grin on his face. "We'll save a slice of cake in there."

Francesco smiled weakly, the adrenaline still numbing the tiredness in his legs. Then he turned and followed the UEFA rep down the hall and into a small interview corner just off the mixed zone. Bright lights flooded the space, and a couple of cameras were already rolling. A black backdrop adorned with the UEFA Champions League logo stretched behind the interview point, flanked by the logos of both clubs and the tournament sponsors.

A translator was on standby, though everyone knew Francesco spoke fluent English—articulate, even when tired. He brushed a few damp curls out of his face and exhaled as the crew adjusted a mic on his collar.

"All right," the interviewer said warmly, stepping into position beside him. "Ready when you are."

Francesco nodded once.

The red tally light on the camera blinked to life.

"Good evening from the Emirates Stadium," the interviewer began, her tone polished. "I'm here with tonight's Man of the Match, Francesco Lee. Francesco—first of all, congratulations. A Champions League hat trick, a vital win for Arsenal. Can you describe what this moment means to you?"

Francesco's gaze lifted slightly, as if searching for the right words amid the storm of emotion still rolling through him.

"It means everything," he said, voice soft but clear. "This is a club that's given me a home. The fans… they've given me belief. I wanted to give something back tonight. Not just goals—belief, too."

The interviewer nodded. "Let's talk about those goals. That third one—after Olympiacos had just scored again—felt especially powerful. Not just the finish, but the celebration. Was that a message?"

Francesco's mouth tugged into a small, knowing smile.

"Not to anyone outside," he said quietly. "Just to them. The people in the stands. The badge I wear. I know there's noise right now. Rumors. But my heart is here. That's what I wanted them to know."

She glanced briefly at her notes, then leaned forward just slightly. "You're referring, I assume, to the photo that's been circulating from your dinner with Zinedine Zidane."

Francesco's jaw tightened faintly.

"I didn't arrange that dinner," he replied. "I went because my agent asked me to. I didn't expect photos, I didn't expect the fallout. I've spoken with the club, with my teammates. My loyalty's not in question where it matters."

A brief silence followed, the sort that lingers when something real is said.

The interviewer recovered quickly. "Well, your performance tonight certainly spoke volumes. Arsenal now sit first in the group after two games. How far do you believe this team can go?"

He looked up then, a flicker of fire in his eyes.

"As far as we want," he said. "We've got the talent. We've got the spirit. You saw it tonight—we don't fold. We fight. And we learn. That's how you win in Europe."

The interviewer gave him a final nod. "Thank you, Francesco. Once again—congratulations on the hat trick and the win."

"Thank you," he said, stepping away and handing off the mic before taking a sip from a bottle of water someone had pressed into his hand.

The moment the lights dimmed and the camera crew started packing up, the adrenaline began to leak from his limbs. The exhaustion hit like a wave. Not pain—just that heavy warmth of a body that's left everything on the pitch.

He gave the UEFA staff a tired smile and finally turned back toward the dressing room.

Inside, it was a different world.

Warm, bright, filled with the scent of eucalyptus muscle balm, damp kit, and post-match adrenaline. Music blasted from someone's phone—Kendrick Lamar this time—and half the squad had already changed into recovery wear.

"Oi!" Chamberlain shouted as soon as Francesco stepped in, holding up his hands like a referee signaling a penalty. "Make way for the hat trick hero!"

A cheer rose. It wasn't massive or theatrical—just boys who'd fought together and now felt the shared joy of one of their own doing something special. Footballer applause: boots clapping the ground, palms slapping thighs, a few scattered whistles.

Alexis tossed a towel at him. "You're late. I already claimed your shower."

"Man of the match gets first pick," Ramsey grinned, stretching out on a bench with an ice pack strapped to his thigh. "Should be a rule."

Wenger was still in the room—something rare after full time. Usually, he gave them a few minutes to unwind before speaking. But tonight, he remained seated in the corner, jacket folded across his lap, watching. Bould and Lehmann hovered nearby, quietly debriefing.

As Francesco made his way to his locker, Özil reached over and patted the match ball under his arm. "Signed yet?"

Francesco shook his head, still smiling. "No. Might get the team to do it."

"That," Van Dijk said from across the room, "is what we call humility. You score three, you get the ball. No negotiation."

"I just want to sleep," Francesco laughed, finally easing down onto the bench and starting to peel off his boots. His calves throbbed, and his shirt smelled like wet chalk, but the pain was a badge of honor.

Kanté passed by with a towel around his neck, nodding softly. "You showed Zidane where you belong," he said simply, and kept walking.

That meant more than any chant. More than any headline.

Because that was N'Golo Kanté—humble, quiet, and right every damn time.

Twenty minutes later, after a round of cooldowns and quick showers, Wenger finally stood.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"Well done," he said, his voice like calm steel. "You showed character. You showed intelligence. You recovered when others might panic. That's what wins matches. And in Europe, that's what matters."

He paused, glancing around the room.

"Francesco," he added, eyes locking with the forward's, "thank you."

Francesco nodded, quiet.

"We have much ahead of us," Wenger finished. "But tonight—tonight, you can be proud."

The players clapped, subdued but sincere. Then the team dispersed in clumps—some heading for ice baths, others for the media zone or massages. Francesco stayed back for a moment, his body sore, his mind full.

He didn't have to ask for the signatures.

One by one, as they passed, his teammates scribbled their names across the ball with permanent marker—Mertesacker's careful, slow cursive. Alexis's bold and slightly tilted. Özil's impossibly elegant swirl. Ramsey's half-illegible, like a doctor's prescription.

Wenger himself signed it last. Just a small "AW" beneath the Arsenal crest.

Then he placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder.

"You answered without words," Wenger said softly.

Wenger's hand remained for a brief second longer, that rare moment of quiet connection from a man who had built dynasties with silence more than shouts. Then, just before he turned away, he said in that same level tone:

"Per, Francesco — you'll join me in the press room tonight."

Francesco blinked. Mertesacker, sitting nearby wrapping a compression sleeve around his knee, looked up with a nod of understanding.

"Of course," the German said, already mentally preparing.

Francesco only nodded back, though his stomach turned a little — not with fear, but with weight. After a night like this, of course there would be questions. Not just about the hat trick. Not just about Arsenal topping the group. But about the shadow behind it all — the photo, the speculation, the Real Madrid whispers that had stirred all week like a slow-bubbling storm just beyond the walls of the Emirates.

And now they would face it. Together.

The walk to the press conference suite wasn't long, but it felt stretched. The bowels of the Emirates were quiet at this hour — the kind of lull that only arrived after everyone had poured their hearts out and the seats were emptying, one by one, into the North London night. Wenger led, a silent figure in his familiar navy coat. Mertesacker strode beside Francesco, towel slung over his shoulders, a kind of calming presence just by virtue of his steady, anchoring gait.

"Whatever they ask," the German murmured quietly as they walked, "you've already answered on the pitch."

Francesco didn't reply immediately. His fingers traced the stitching on the match ball he still carried, now peppered with black ink from the signatures of those who mattered most. The people in that room — the ones who had passed him tape, slapped his back, given him grief for taking too long in the shower — they knew him. And maybe that was enough.

Still, he nodded. "Thanks, Per."

They reached the double doors to the media suite. A staff member opened them quietly, and the buzz inside hit like a soft wall — the click of camera shutters, the rustle of notepads, the shuffling of reporters shifting in their seats. A dozen screens glowed behind lenses. A row of chairs lined the raised platform, behind a red-draped table bearing UEFA and Arsenal branding.

Wenger walked in first and took his usual seat at the center. Francesco and Mertesacker followed, sitting to either side of him. Microphones were adjusted, water bottles uncapped.

The moment Wenger gave the nod, the press officer called the room to order.

"Good evening. We'll begin with questions for Mr. Wenger, then follow up with Per Mertesacker and Francesco Lee. As usual, please raise your hand and wait for the mic."

A forest of hands shot up. Francesco sat still, his back straight, his palms resting flat on the table. He could feel the energy — that sharpened, eager curiosity the press always brought to moments like this. Tonight, it was tinged with something more than match analysis. The vultures were circling politely.

The first question went to Wenger — a tactical one, about Arsenal's resilience after going 2–2. He answered with clarity, praising the team's mental strength, their ability to adjust, their calm under pressure. Then came a question for Mertesacker, who spoke about leadership, about trust, about the backline finding rhythm.

And then—

A reporter in a navy blazer leaned forward, eyes on Francesco.

"Francesco — a Champions League hat trick and a match-winning performance. What was going through your mind tonight, especially after Olympiacos equalized?"

He leaned into the mic slightly. "I wasn't thinking about the scoreline," he said. "I was thinking about the fans. About how we couldn't let that moment define the match. So I kept moving. Kept pressing. The third goal wasn't just mine. It came from a team that believes in each other."

A pause, scribbles on notepads. The next hand went up, more assertively.

"Can you clarify what happened with the Zidane dinner? There's a lot of speculation that this was a meeting about a potential move. Should Arsenal fans be concerned?"

Mertesacker shifted beside him, but Francesco didn't flinch. He met the reporter's eyes.

Francesco's fingers curled gently around the base of the microphone.

He could feel the weight of the room now—not oppressive, but heavy with anticipation. Cameras zoomed in, red lights blinking like eyes that didn't blink. The room didn't breathe. Even Mertesacker, always composed, went still.

Francesco spoke softly, but clearly.

"I met with Zidane," he said, "because I asked Jorge to arrange it. I admire him—what he did on the pitch, what he's done as a player. I wanted to learn. Not about contracts or transfers or any of the stories going around. I wanted to ask questions. I wanted to understand the way he sees the game."

A few pens paused. Some cameras tilted slightly, re-focusing.

"He's someone I grew up watching. I thought, if there's a chance to sit down with someone like that and just listen… you take it."

There was a beat of silence—respectful, but waiting.

Then, predictably, it came.

A different voice now. Sharper. Confident. A reporter from The Sun—one of those who always wore a smirk like armor.

"Francesco," he said, lifting his hand even though he already had the mic. "I've got sources telling me something very different. That this wasn't planned by you. That Jorge Mendes blindsided you. That you didn't even know Zidane would be there until you walked in. That true?"

The room tensed. The air stiffened like a cold wind had just slipped in through a cracked window.

Francesco didn't look away.

He leaned forward just a little, his posture calm, eyes locked with the reporter's.

"That's true," he said.

Mertesacker glanced at him, Wenger's hands stayed clasped calmly on the table.

Francesco didn't stop.

"It's true that I didn't know Zidane would be there when I said yes. Jorge said he wanted me to have dinner with someone important. He told me I'd understand when I got there. And I did."

He let the words settle for a moment, then added:

"Zidane was kind. Honest. It was a good conversation. But it wasn't about leaving Arsenal. It wasn't a negotiation. If Jorge had another agenda, I wasn't part of it. I've already told the board that. I've told my teammates that. I'm saying it now."

A few murmurs rippled across the rows of press. Some nodded. Some didn't.

The Sun reporter pressed again, smug now, trying to push the moment.

"But don't you think it sends a message, Francesco? You're Arsenal's top scorer. You're 16 years old. And you're having dinner with a representative from Real Madrid. Isn't that going to fuel speculation—especially when your agent arranges it without full transparency?"

This time, Mertesacker stirred.

"That's enough," the German said, cool and low. "You've asked your question. You got your answer."

But Francesco held up a hand, gently. His voice remained measured, steady.

"It does send a message," he said. "That I care about becoming the best player I can be. That I'm curious. That I respect people who've won everything and still take time to share their knowledge."

He looked out over the room now, not just at the reporter.

"I get it. The photo's out there. People will talk. But I didn't ask to meet Zidane so I could pack my bags. I did it to learn something. And if that's a problem, then maybe we've forgotten what football should be."

Silence again. A different kind this time. Thoughtful. Edged with the kind of discomfort truth tends to cause when it's simpler than the story people want.

Wenger finally spoke.

"I think Francesco has been more transparent than many players would be," he said, his French accent clipped but calm. "He did not betray the club. He did not negotiate behind our back. I've been in this job long enough to know when something is serious. And when something is noise."

He looked directly at the row of reporters in front.

"This is noise."

A new hand went up — more reserved, more deliberate. It belonged to the BBC's senior football correspondent, a woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a quiet authority that hushed even the more aggressive corners of the room. When the mic reached her, she didn't bother with theatrics.

"Francesco," she said evenly, "you've spoken well tonight. But this situation… it's hurt your image. Fair or not, you've been known as a loyal lad — Arsenal's own, the academy prodigy, the one who turned down offers before he was even legally allowed to vote. And now… now you're the teenager who had dinner with Zidane. That story won't go away easily. So — what are you going to do to win back the trust? Of the fans, of the club, of everyone who believed you were different?"

Her voice wasn't cruel. Just firm. The kind that wanted an honest answer, not a deflection.

Francesco nodded slowly, digesting the question. It hung heavy — maybe heavier than all the others before it. Because this wasn't about agents or dinners or transfers.

This was about who he was.

He looked down at the match ball for a moment. The same one he had clutched walking down the tunnel — signed now by every one of his teammates. A little stained with sweat, his fingerprints smudged across the logo. Then he looked back up, into the lights, into the cameras, and finally, back into the room.

"I know what this club means," he began softly. "I know because it's all I've ever known."

He didn't need to raise his voice. The stillness did the work for him.

"I came here when I was eleven. I took buses across the city from Richmond in the rain. I wore my boots until they split at the toes. I trained when my legs were so sore I couldn't sleep at night. And every time I scored for the academy, I imagined hearing the roar from the North Bank. I dreamed about it every night."

He looked directly at the reporter now. Not defensive. Not upset. Just present.

"So yes — I understand the doubt. I understand that some people see that photo and think I've changed. That I've let something in. That maybe I'm already looking elsewhere."

A pause.

"But I haven't. And I won't."

He leaned forward just slightly, resting both elbows on the table, his voice growing firmer.

"I'll win that trust back by doing the only thing that ever mattered to me: winning for Arsenal."

No one moved.

"I'll win it back by helping this club lift the Premier League again. I'll win it back by chasing the Champions League with everything I've got. I'll win it back by making sure that every kid in the Hale End academy — every boy who wears this badge and dreams of stepping onto the Emirates pitch — knows that it can be done. That you don't have to leave to be great."

He exhaled once, slowly. Then added, quieter now:

"I'm not going anywhere. Not unless Arsène throws me out of the building."

Wenger's lips curved, just slightly, into something between a smile and a sigh. Mertesacker chuckled softly under his breath.

But the room — the press, the photographers, even the BBC reporter herself — stayed respectfully hushed.

And then Wenger leaned toward his own mic.

"I think that answers your question," he said. "Unless you want him to score four next time."

A few reporters chuckled, some letting the moment release the tension. Even the Sun reporter, sitting two rows back, had the decency to look slightly sheepish. Francesco allowed himself a small, worn grin.

The press officer stepped forward again, checking his clipboard.

"One or two final questions," he said. "Then we'll wrap."

But no one raised their hand. Not yet. Not after that. There was a rare silence that settled — not awkward, not empty, but full. Full of what had been said, what had been admitted, and maybe, just maybe, what had been redeemed.

Francesco sat back in his chair, finally easing the grip on the match ball. It had always been his shield, in a way. A reminder of the thing that didn't lie — the ball, the pitch, the ninety minutes where everything was stripped bare and only truth remained.

Mertesacker turned slightly toward him, voice low enough to be drowned out by the shuffling of cameras packing up.

"You did good," he said.

Francesco gave a tiny nod.

"I just told the truth."

The press officer called time, thanked the room, and the three of them stood as the flashbulbs sparked one final time. Francesco caught a glimpse of a few of the reporters in quiet discussion already, typing headlines into open laptops.

He wasn't naïve. He knew the photo would still lead on some back pages. He knew the word "Madrid" would trend every time he touched the ball in the next month. He knew it would follow him.

But he also knew what else would follow him — this night. This performance. These words.

And maybe that would be enough.

As the three of them left the platform, descending the short stairs back into the quiet of the tunnel, Wenger gently clapped him on the back once more.

"Next time," the manager said softly, "tell Jorge you prefer lasagna. French food causes too much trouble."

Francesco snorted.

"I'll tell him to invite you, boss. Maybe then the papers will just say we're signing you again."

Wenger chuckled, and Mertesacker smiled, shaking his head.

And as the trio turned the corner toward the dressing rooms, the lights behind them faded, the noise dissolved, and what remained was just a long hallway in a quiet stadium — the kind that smelled faintly of liniment and legacy.

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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: 10

Goal: 18

Assist: 2

MOTM: 1

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9