The King Of Arsenal

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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.

The dressing room was quieter than usual.

Not silent — not like the press conference had been — but settled, like a stage after the curtain had fallen. The adrenaline from the match had long since burned off, and in its place was the kind of bone-deep fatigue that only truth and tension could produce.

Francesco moved slowly, not from exhaustion but from that mental come-down, the afterglow of having just stood on a high wire and somehow not fallen. He peeled off his training jacket, grabbed his duffel bag from beneath the bench, and glanced around.

Boots still drying by the heater. Kits half-folded on benches. A few shirts hanging like flags at half-mast. The squad had mostly cleared out — not out of avoidance, but maybe out of respect. They knew the pressure. They'd seen the headlines. But they'd also seen him speak.

Per stood beside him, tying the zipper shut on his own kit bag.

"You're heading straight home after Colney?" the big German asked.

Francesco nodded, slipping his phone into his pocket.

"Yeah. Just want to be home tonight."

Mertesacker gave him a thoughtful look, then patted him once on the back.

"Good. You've done more than enough."

They walked together out into the stadium corridor, boots echoing softly on the concrete, the low hum of distant generators and the muffled rumble of post-match traffic a steady soundtrack. Francesco tugged his hoodie up over his head as the late September wind caught him just outside the tunnel entrance.

The team bus was already idling by the curb, half-full, the rest of the players either still changing or waiting in their own cars. Francesco boarded quietly, nodding to a few of the staff, slipping into one of the rear-facing seats beside a window. Mertesacker took the aisle seat beside him, letting out a breath as he sank into the padded chair like someone laying down a burden.

The bus rolled out of the stadium car park a few minutes later, passing under floodlit walls, into the autumn dark.

Francesco's phone buzzed in his pocket.

Unknown number. Then — a second buzz. The contact image flickered on the lock screen.

Jorge Mendes.

He hesitated for half a beat, then picked up.

"Francesco," Jorge's voice came through, smooth but urgent, like it always was when something had shifted behind the scenes. "You were brilliant tonight. Everything you said. I just watched the full thing."

"Thanks," Francesco said. His voice was even, not cold — but not warm either. "You didn't exactly make it easy."

There was a pause on the other end. Then a sigh.

"I know. That's why I want to talk. In person. I'm heading to Richmond now — I'll meet you at your house?"

Francesco stared out the window at the flickering streetlights. The kind of quiet suburban lights that didn't care about football drama. Just regular London.

"Alright," he said, after a moment. "See you there."

He hung up.

Per glanced over without asking.

"Mendes?"

Francesco nodded.

"He's coming to Richmond. Wants to talk."

Mertesacker didn't say anything right away. Then:

"You sure you're okay with that? After all this?"

Francesco leaned his head against the glass, watching their reflections slide over the darkened buildings. His voice came low.

"I need to hear what he has to say."

The rest of the ride to Colney was spent in the kind of silence only long-travelled teammates can share — mutual, unbothered, steeped in trust. Francesco scrolled aimlessly through his phone, a few texts from friends, a quiet "proud of you" from Leah. A longer message from Jack Wilshere. A few Hale End academy boys had tagged him on Instagram, captioning clips of his speech with "Captain."

But none of it drowned out the weight of what was coming.

When the bus pulled into Colney, Francesco stood and stretched. The floodlights over the training center cast harsh white lines on the pavement. Mertesacker gave him a nod as they parted ways.

"Call me after. No matter what time."

Francesco nodded. Then walked out to his car, fished the keys from his coat, and drove west, past the M25, past Twickenham, toward the riverside streets of Richmond. Toward his home. Toward Mendes.

The mansion sat quiet as he pulled into the long driveway, its windows lit softly from the inside like a lighthouse on a calm sea. Francesco parked beside the gate, killed the engine, and sat for a moment in the driver's seat. Just breathing.

He stepped out, walked the flagstone path, and pushed open the front door.

The lights were already on. Mendes was standing near the fireplace, one hand in his coat pocket, the other swirling a small glass of something amber. He turned as Francesco entered, setting the drink down gently on the side table.

"Beautiful place," Jorge said.

Francesco hung his keys by the door.

"Wasn't planning to host tonight."

Francesco stepped further into the room, letting the door ease shut behind him. The warmth of the fireplace glowed off the oak-paneled walls, casting long, soft shadows across the sitting room. His home had never felt more like a sanctuary — or a stage.

He looked at Mendes, who now stood with a gentler posture, the sharp lines of his tailored coat no longer conveying authority but something closer to reflection. Francesco unzipped his hoodie and hung it on the back of a nearby armchair.

He walked toward the center of the room, brow knitting slightly.

"Where's Leah?"

Mendes's eyes met his, and for a moment, something in his expression softened.

"She told me she'd stay upstairs," he said quietly, gesturing upward with a tilt of his head. "Said she knew you and I needed a private moment. Just the two of us."

Francesco nodded, slowly, a pang of something — guilt, maybe — passing through his chest. He should have guessed Leah would understand. She always did. Still, her absence in this moment felt like a silence louder than words.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the leather couch and looked up at Jorge, gaze steady now.

"So," he said. "What do you want to talk about?"

Mendes didn't answer right away. He walked to the window, pulled aside the curtain a little, glanced out as if the words he was searching for might be hiding in the quiet gardens beyond the glass.

Then he turned.

"I want to say thank you."

Francesco's brows lifted. "Thank you?"

Mendes smiled faintly at his confusion. "Yes. Thank you."

Francesco leaned forward slightly, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

"Okay… but what for?"

The agent's eyes searched the space between them for a second, like he was weighing how to start.

"For reminding me," he said finally.

Francesco gave him a look, puzzled but patient.

"Reminding you of what?"

Jorge didn't move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he walked over to the low chair across from the couch and sat down. Not with his usual swagger, not with the confidence of a man who'd just brokered half of Europe's summer window — but like someone who was coming clean.

"When I was younger," Mendes began, voice quieter than usual, "I didn't get into this job for power. Or fame. Or headlines. I became an agent because I thought I could help players live with more freedom. Less chaos. I wanted to be the buffer — the wall between them and the shitstorm. To handle the contracts and the press and the pressure so that they could just focus on the game."

Francesco said nothing, sensing this wasn't the kind of speech to interrupt.

Mendes continued, "I used to think that if I could help one player get to his full potential, just one, then I was doing something right. Because when a player plays freely, the club benefits. The fans celebrate. The game becomes beautiful. That's all I wanted, really. To be part of that beauty… even if it was from the shadows."

Francesco's eyes narrowed a little. He had never heard Jorge talk like this. Not even close.

"But then," Mendes said, his voice hardening ever so slightly, "the calls started coming. Bigger clubs. Bigger offers. I started hearing numbers — figures that sounded like lottery wins — and I… I told myself I was still helping the players. That they wanted to move. That they needed to chase the trophies. That this was their dream. I became good at convincing myself of that."

He exhaled through his nose. There was no anger in his face. Just quiet shame.

"I didn't notice how far I'd drifted from the shore. I stopped seeing the player and started seeing the product. The brand. The marketability. And the prestige that came with it — my prestige. My name in the headlines. My 'pull.'"

Francesco tilted his head slightly, his gaze still on Jorge, unblinking.

"And then," Mendes said, "I signed you."

He looked at Francesco now. Full-on. No deflection. No layers.

"I thought you were like most of the others. Talented, yes — incredibly talented. But young. Ambitious. Career-focused. I assumed, eventually, you'd want Madrid. Or Barca. Or Bayern. That you'd push for it. Ask me for it. Like all the others did."

Francesco's jaw tightened slightly, but he said nothing.

"But you didn't," Mendes said softly. "You said no."

He leaned forward now, elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped.

"And not because you were scared. Or unsure. Or waiting for a better offer. You said no because of loyalty. Because of principle. You wanted to stay. You meant it."

He shook his head slightly, as if still bewildered by it.

"That night after the photo with Zidane leaked," he continued, "I expected you to be furious. Embarrassed, maybe. But part of me thought — hoped — you'd just accept it. That the seed had been planted. That Madrid was in your head now, and eventually, you'd let yourself want it."

His voice dropped.

"But instead… you stood in front of your teammates, your fans, the entire world… and you shut it down. With dignity. With heart. You reminded everyone what loyalty means. And you reminded me… what this job was supposed to be about."

The fire crackled in the corner, soft and steady. The only other sound was the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

Francesco looked at Jorge for a long time. Really looked at him. And in that moment, he saw the man Mendes used to be — not the empire-builder, not the puppet master, but the agent, in the truest sense of the word. The representative. The protector.

"And that's why you're thanking me?" he asked quietly.

Mendes nodded.

"For waking me up."

There was a long pause. Francesco leaned back against the couch, arms folded now across his chest.

"I didn't do it for you," he said finally, without bitterness. "I did it for the club. For the people here. For the shirt."

"I know," Mendes said. "That's why it mattered."

They sat in silence for a while after that, not uncomfortable — just reflective. The kind of silence that exists between two people who've just acknowledged something too big for words.

Finally, Jorge stood up again, walked back to the table, and picked up his glass.

He turned back to Francesco.

"I told Zidane. I made it clear — we're not interested. Not now. Not in a year. Not unless you say so. And I made sure he understood it wasn't personal. Just… final."

Francesco's eyes didn't leave him.

"You told him that?"

"I did," Mendes nodded. "He understood. He was disappointed. But he understood."

Another moment passed. Francesco got to his feet, stretching a little, shoulders still heavy from the match, from the speech, from the day.

"You meant what you said? About keeping Madrid — or anyone — at a distance?"

Mendes didn't hesitate.

"I promise you. No more dinners. No more 'chance meetings.' No more leaks. If a club wants to talk to you, they'll go through me. And if you don't want them to… I'll make sure they don't."

Francesco nodded slowly. Then extended his hand.

Mendes looked at it. Then shook it.

There was no deal being signed, no new contract, no offer sheet being drawn. Just a handshake — one with weight behind it. One that meant something.

As they released, Mendes glanced once more toward the stairwell.

"She's a good one," he said. "Leah."

Francesco smiled faintly.

"She is."

Mendes took one last sip of his drink and set the glass down with a soft clink.

"I'll leave you two alone," he said. "You've earned that peace."

He made his way to the door, pausing just before opening it.

"I'm proud of you, Francesco. Not as your agent. As someone who's seen a lot of players… and finally met a real one."

And then he was gone.

Francesco stood there for a moment, just breathing, the silence of the house settling around him like a comforter. The fire cracked quietly behind him. The wind rustled faintly through the trees outside.

Then — footsteps on the stairs.

He turned.

Leah stood halfway down, hair tied loosely back, wearing one of his old hoodies. Her eyes searched his face for a beat.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

Francesco gave a slow nod.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Better than okay."

She came down the rest of the stairs, barefoot, silent as a shadow, and folded herself into his arms.

Francesco held Leah close, his chin resting gently on the top of her head as her arms wrapped around his waist, firm and warm and grounding. The two of them stood there in the center of the room, unmoving, letting the moment settle between them like ash from a quiet fire. His heart, which had felt caught in his throat all day — after the training, the press conference, the bus ride, the confrontation with Jorge — now beat at a calmer, slower pace. Like her presence was a balm, and his system was finally processing peace.

But as Leah pulled back slightly, her hands sliding down to hold his, her expression had shifted. She looked up at him, hesitant — not unsure of him, but as though something had been sitting on her chest for too long and she couldn't keep it there anymore.

"Francesco," she began, her voice soft but threaded with tension. "Can I tell you something? Honestly?"

His brows furrowed slightly, but he gave a small nod. "Of course. Always."

She took a breath and looked away for a second, eyes flicking toward the fireplace before meeting his gaze again.

"I was scared," she said, her voice quieter now. "Not of Zidane. Not even of Madrid. I was scared that… you and Jorge were right. That he crossed a line, and worse — that you'd never forgive him for it. That you'd fire him. Cut him off completely."

Francesco didn't interrupt. His expression didn't harden, didn't shift into something defensive. He only watched her, open, listening.

Leah continued, her voice gathering a touch more strength as she went on.

"I mean, I was angry too — as your girlfriend, yeah, but also as an Arsenal fan. When I saw that photo, when I heard the media twisting it, part of me wanted to scream. Because I knew how it would look. How it wouldn't be fair to you. I knew it would hurt people who believed in you. And I knew it would hurt you, no matter how composed you acted."

Francesco lowered his gaze briefly. That sting — that moment when he saw his face on the front page of Marca, dining with Zidane — came back with a whisper of heat behind his eyes. Leah's words struck a chord he hadn't quite let himself feel earlier.

She stepped back just enough to see him fully, holding his hands still in hers.

"But the truth is… I know Jorge wants what's best for you. He always has. Even if he goes about it in the most frustrating, manipulative, media-chaos-causing ways imaginable."

That brought the ghost of a smile to Francesco's lips.

"I was mad," Leah admitted. "Still kind of am. But when I heard what he said tonight — when I watched him take responsibility and say sorry to your face — that meant something to me. That was real. He didn't dodge it. He didn't deflect. He owned it."

She tilted her head slightly, brows knitting with tenderness.

"And honestly? That's enough for me. Because I trust you. I'll always believe in what you choose. Whether you keep him on or not… whether you forgive him fully or just keep him at arm's length. That's your decision. And I'll stand by it."

Francesco blinked once, then twice, the weight of her faith in him sinking deeper than he expected. It wasn't just romantic support — it was something firmer, something foundational. She saw the whole of him. The captain, the boy who grew up loving the game, the man trying to stay true to himself in a world that wanted to remake him daily. And she stayed.

He brought her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles gently.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

She gave him a little smile, a warm one, full of tired affection and something else — something domestic and comforting.

"Alright," she said, nudging him gently with her shoulder. "Enough emotions for one night. How about I make you some dinner while you go change your clothes?"

Francesco blinked at her, surprised. "You cookin' for me now?"

"I do occasionally dabble in the kitchen, Mr. Golden Boot," she teased, nudging him again. "Don't act so shocked."

He laughed — a soft, real, grateful laugh that pulled his shoulders a little looser. "What are you making?"

"Well," she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "There's that pesto tortellini you like. Or I could try that spicy arrabbiata again if you're brave."

"I barely survived that one last time."

"That's the point," she smirked. "Keeps you humble."

He shook his head, smiling.

"I'll get changed," he said, stepping past her gently, his fingers brushing hers as he moved. "But only if you promise not to burn the house down."

"No promises," she called after him.

He climbed the stairs slowly, his legs still heavy from the match, but his spirit lighter than it had been in days. Upstairs, he changed into a plain white t-shirt and joggers, running a towel through his hair and splashing cold water on his face. When he came back down, the lights in the kitchen were on, and Leah was at the stove, humming faintly to herself, her bare feet tapping along the tiles, one of his old Arsenal training kits hanging off her like a dress.

The smell of basil, garlic, and tomatoes was already wafting through the air, mingling with the lingering woodsmoke from the fire.

He leaned in the doorway and watched her for a moment. The way she moved — confident, relaxed, at ease — made something swell in his chest. Not pride. Not lust. Just a deep, uncomplicated kind of love.

She turned, caught him staring, and gave him a mock stern look.

"What?"

"You're beautiful," he said simply.

Leah rolled her eyes but smiled as she stirred the sauce.

"Flattery won't save you from dish duty."

"I'll take dish duty. Hell, I'll do laundry too if you keep cooking like this."

"You say that now," she quipped. "But wait until I start experimenting with vegan curry again."

He walked over and slid his arms around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder.

"Deal's already made," he murmured.

They stood like that for a while, letting the sauce simmer, the air between them warmer than the fire. It was domestic. It was quiet. It was everything Francesco had needed — after the headlines, the noise, the confrontation, the weight of a decision that could have splintered trust beyond repair.

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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