The King Of Arsenal

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The press would have their narratives. Francesco's goal would be everywhere. Özil's assist would be clipped and retweeted a million times. But for him, for now—this was enough. As three points at the derby day, was a statement that they are the on a great form.

The morning of 25 November 2015 broke over London like a quiet blessing. There was no thunderous rain, no bitter chill—just a crisp stillness in the air, the kind that carries the scent of wood smoke and frost. The sun rose with a hesitant glow, slicing through the light fog that curled along the treetops of Hertfordshire.

At London Colney, the training ground still yawned in silence. Groundskeepers were just beginning their circuits, dragging hoses and straightening corner flags. Inside the main building, the warmth was welcome. The heating had already clicked on, the faint hum of radiators filling the corridors with domestic familiarity.

Francesco Lee stepped into the boot room, hair damp from the shower, hoodie loose around his neck, and his breath steaming slightly in the cold. A pair of fresh boots waited for him on the shelf—custom-stitched, gleaming, with his initials embroidered just beneath the laces.

A small envelope sat beside them.

He tilted his head, curious. Tore the seal.

Inside: "Happy Birthday, son. From everyone at Arsenal. The best is still to come. – Arsène."

No signature, no fuss. Just a single red Arsenal crest watermark stamped onto thick white card.

He chuckled under his breath and tucked the note into his pocket.

Today, he turned seventeen.

But if you asked him, those last thirteen days had already felt like a lifetime.

It began the morning after the North London Derby—a match still being replayed across every sports channel and plastered across newspapers in the UK, Europe, and beyond. Pundits gushed. Fans argued over which of Francesco's solo goals was better—his run against Bayern, or the one against Spurs. And the whispers began in earnest again:

"The new Gascoigne."

"The next Rooney."

"Not just a star for Arsenal—England's future."

Hodgson didn't hesitate. The next morning, Francesco's name was printed at the top of the England squad list.

He was called up again.

First up: a trip to Alicante. Spain away. Friendly on paper—but personal in atmosphere. Spain had fielded a full-strength midfield: Iniesta, Busquets, Cazorla—yes, Santi, again wearing the red of his homeland. They wanted to control the match from start to finish.

And for the most part, they did.

England chased shadows for long spells, retreating into shape, breaking up passing lanes, trying to feed balls to their attackers. Kane and Rooney found little space. Alli, energetic but erratic, struggled to keep pace.

But Francesco? He found pockets.

Not always. But enough.

He scored England's only goal in the 2–1 defeat—a sharp, curling effort from the edge of the box after a scrappy turnover in Spain's half. One touch to settle, another to release it. It clipped the inside of the post.

Busquets clapped. Even Cazorla gave him a knowing nod on the way past.

And then, four days later, Wembley.

France came to town in what should have been a cautious affair, but instead turned into a showcase of youth and hunger.

Dele Alli, with the best strike of his career so far—a rocket from 25 yards. Rooney, instinctive as ever in the box.

And Francesco.

His goal came from a sweeping counterattack started by Henderson, flicked on by Kane, and finished by Francesco—one-on-one with Lloris again, and again he chose elegance. A feint, a glide, a finish low and neat into the bottom corner.

Wembley rose.

Southgate, watching from the U21 section, leaned over to whisper something to Trevor Brooking. Whatever it was, both men smiled.

England 3. France 0.

The next morning, Francesco boarded the flight back to London. No rest. No holidays. Back to Colney.

Because Arsenal weren't waiting for him to enjoy the spotlight—they were preparing for West Brom.

At The Hawthorns, Arsenal found themselves in a real fight.

The wind cut like a blade through the Midlands. The pitch, rough and damp, slowed their usual tempo. West Brom pressed hard, fought for everything.

But the Gunners had class.

Francesco opened the scoring with a clever finish after Özil picked him out with a disguised pass through the lines. He beat the keeper low with his left foot—a cool, clinical finish.

Alexis doubled the lead, snapping up a loose ball in the box and burying it with a venomous shot into the roof of the net.

West Brom pulled one back through James Morrison—a dipping strike Čech could do nothing about.

Then, in the 70th minute, a crucial response: Giroud, on as a substitute, peeled off at the back post to meet a Cazorla corner. His header thundered past the keeper.

3–1.

A late goal from West Brom made it nervier than it should have been—Rondon smashing one in with five minutes left—but Arsenal saw it out. 3–2, and top of the table again, just ahead of Manchester City.

And then came Dinamo Zagreb.

Back at the Emirates. Floodlights painting the pitch in gold and steel. A must-win in the Champions League to keep qualification hopes alive.

Arsenal didn't just win.

They destroyed.

From the first whistle, they swarmed. Özil opened the scoring in the 12th minute—drifting into the six-yard box to meet a perfect cross from Monreal with a deft header.

Sánchez took over from there.

His first: a classic poacher's goal, reacting fastest to a loose rebound and thumping it in.

His second: pure class. Özil picked him out again, and the Chilean's first touch lifted the ball past the defender, his second was a left-footed strike that screamed into the corner.

And then—Francesco.

It was the 81st minute. Zagreb were ragged, broken. Flamini intercepted a pass at midfield and immediately sprung a counter. One touch to Özil. A through-ball to Francesco.

He ran onto it in full stride, feinted a shot, let the defender slide by, then tucked it under the keeper with a delicate, curling finish.

4–0.

The Emirates, already jubilant, reached something close to ecstasy.

Now, it was 25 November.

Francesco's seventeen birthday.

He stood on the edge of the pitch at Colney, looking out at the training cones and the staff preparing for the morning session. Frost lingered on the grass. His breath hung in the air. He tugged his gloves tighter.

"You're early."

Francesco turned. It was Wenger.

The manager approached slowly, hands in his coat pockets, scarf wrapped tight around his neck.

"I don't sleep in on birthdays," Francesco said with a half-grin.

"Good. You won't have the luxury when you're thirty."

They shared a quiet laugh. Then Wenger's gaze softened.

"You've had a good month."

Francesco nodded, but didn't say anything.

Wenger studied him for a moment longer. "Don't let the headlines define you. Let your football speak. And when it does… keep listening. Because there is always more to learn."

Francesco smirked and glanced sideways at Wenger, the steam from his breath curling between them in the morning air. His voice was light but certain.

"Don't worry, boss," he said. "You know I always do that."

Wenger's eyes, already softened from age and wisdom, crinkled further with a brief smile. "Good," he said. "Then go to training. The others are waiting for you."

Francesco nodded and turned toward the pitch. The morning fog was thinning now, revealing more of the Colney training ground with each step—the manicured turf lined with orange cones and neatly stacked hurdles, the distant hum of leaf blowers near the hedges. He tugged his gloves a little tighter, savoring the quiet.

But something was off.

The pitch ahead of him was empty.

The usual rustle of warmups, the distant thud of balls being pinged around, the laughter and shouting—it was all missing. Not a single figure in sight.

He frowned, slowing his steps.

"Where the hell is everybody?" he muttered.

Just as he reached the center circle, his instincts flared—something behind him.

Too late.

The sound came first: the collective roar of footsteps.

Then—an explosion of cold.

A shriek tore from his throat as ice water drenched him from head to toe, dumped from a large drum by unseen hands. The shock of it made his whole body lock for a second. The chill tore straight through his thermal top and undershirt. Bits of ice clung to the back of his neck, slithered down his spine, into his socks.

He spun, sputtering, blinking water from his eyes—

—and there they were.

Half the squad. Grinning like lunatics.

Sánchez, clutching the empty tub and howling with laughter. Özil doubled over, holding his ribs. Giroud with both hands in the air like he'd just scored a winner. Walcott, Oxlade-Chamberlain, Cazorla—all of them shouting:

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRAAAANNYYYYY!"

Behind them, Bellerín was filming the whole thing on his phone, panning across everyone's faces like a documentarian of mischief. Coquelin blew a party whistle with exaggerated pomp. Even Flamini, normally so serious at training, was grinning ear to ear and holding a paper birthday hat over Francesco's head like a crown.

Francesco stood there, soaked, frozen, breathless.

And then he laughed.

Loud, raw, genuine.

"You bastards!" he shouted, flinging water from his sleeves as he jogged after Sánchez, who yelped and took off sprinting toward the edge of the pitch.

"¡Corre, corre!" Alexis laughed.

Francesco chased him half-heartedly before doubling back and collapsing on the grass, arms wide, teeth chattering.

Wenger emerged from the facility just then, pausing at the edge of the training pitch. He took one look at the chaotic scene—half his team laughing, Francesco lying drenched on the turf, balloons somehow already appearing out of someone's duffel bag—and gave a small, resigned shake of the head.

Steve Bould stepped out beside him, arms crossed, chewing gum.

"You let 'em do this?"

Wenger nodded. "It builds unity."

Bould grunted. "It'll build pneumonia."

Down on the pitch, Francesco sat up, wiping his face. Cazorla trotted over with a towel, chucking it at him.

"You'll thank me later," the Spaniard said. "I convinced them to use ice cubes."

"Oh great," Francesco groaned. "Gracias, hermano."

The next hour of training blurred into something different than routine. Laughter filled the drills. During warmups, Flamini mock-wrapped Francesco in thermal blankets. When they ran rondos, no one wanted to nutmeg the birthday boy—they wanted him to nutmeg them. Ox attempted a bicycle kick so ridiculous it had even Wenger chuckling from afar. Giroud insisted on singing a very off-key rendition of "Joyeux anniversaire" before every corner drill.

But it wasn't just a prank or a celebration. There was something else.

Something earned.

Because Francesco had become something more than the kid wonder. In just a few months, he had transformed from "the academy lad with a spark" to a player everyone on that pitch trusted. Whether they were veterans with two World Cups under their belt or academy grads with points to prove—every single one of them now saw Francesco as one of them.

After training, he was ushered toward the players' lounge under suspiciously polite pretenses.

"Go chill," Bellerín said. "Stretch, shower—whatever you need."

Francesco eyed him warily but went anyway.

The moment he pushed open the lounge door, another wave of noise met him.

"Surprise!"

The room was decked out—streamers in red and white, balloons clinging to the ceiling. Someone had wheeled in a large rectangular cake with a perfectly iced Arsenal crest on top. "Happy 17th, Francesco" was piped across it in looping red frosting.

Theo had somehow arranged a speaker system. Jay-Z played low in the background.

A banner hung over the lounge TV, obviously handmade, letters slightly crooked:

"From Young Gun to Starboy."

Arteta clapped him on the back and handed him a paper crown. "Club tradition. Wear it for five minutes or pay a fine."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

Francesco sighed and put it on.

Cazorla was already cutting slices of cake. Mesut came over with a wrapped box—boots, Francesco realized when he opened it. Custom-painted. One gold, one silver.

"They're hideous," he said with a laugh.

"They're magic," Özil replied with a wink.

That afternoon melted away in camaraderie. It wasn't wild—this wasn't a nightclub. This was home. Safe. Inside jokes flew across the room. Sánchez tried to teach Ramsey how to salsa. Koscielny got pulled into a karaoke dare and butchering a French pop song. Even Petr Čech cracked a joke, dry as dust, that made the whole room groan.

And as the shadows lengthened outside and the lounge slowly emptied, Francesco found himself alone with a few stragglers—Kanté, always quiet; Walcott, nursing a protein shake; and Arteta, who sat across from him, arms resting on the back of a chair.

"You feel different?" Arteta asked softly.

Francesco leaned back, arms crossed.

"Yeah," he said. "Not older. But… more."

Walcott looked over. "More?"

"Like the world expects something from me now. Every week. Every game. Every touch."

There was a beat of silence.

Kanté smiled faintly. "That's because they do."

Arteta chuckled. "You think that changes?"

Francesco looked out the lounge window, where the frost was already forming again on the grass.

"No," he said. "But I think I'm ready for it."

Arteta stood and clapped him once on the shoulder. "Good. Because ready or not, it's coming."

Francesco lingered for a few more minutes in the quiet of the lounge, the paper crown still crooked on his damp curls. His fingertips idly traced the corner of the Özil-gifted boot box on the table, but his mind was already elsewhere—on the next few hours, the next celebration.

He glanced at Walcott and Arteta, still within earshot, and grinned.

"Hey," he said, voice light but inviting. "You lot doing anything tonight?"

Theo raised an eyebrow, sipping his shake. "Depends. What's up?"

Francesco stood and stretched, the towel on his shoulders sliding off as he tossed it onto the couch.

"I'm throwing a party. Proper one. At the Richmond place. Thought I'd do it right this year. Food, drinks, music, fire pit in the garden. You in?"

Arteta gave a lopsided smile. "So you're not going to let a seventeen-year-old birthday slide quietly, then?"

"Hell no," Francesco said, laughing. "Come on, it's been a wild month. Thought I'd get everyone together, chill, have a good time."

Walcott was already nodding. "I'll be there. Just don't let Giroud near the aux cable again."

Francesco smirked. "No promises."

As the rest of the team began dispersing from their post-training cooldowns and showers, he spread the word: Richmond tonight. No dress code, just good vibes. He made his way down the hall to the coaches' offices and gently rapped on the half-open door of Wenger's office. Inside, Wenger was tidying papers from the session, Steve Bould standing near the whiteboard with a marker still in hand.

Francesco knocked once more and stepped in. "Boss?"

Wenger looked up. "Francesco."

"Just wanted to say—thanks again. For this morning. For everything."

"You deserve it," Bould said, setting the marker down. "You've worked your socks off."

Francesco gave them a small smile, hesitated, then said, "Actually… I wanted to invite you both to my birthday thing tonight. At the house in Richmond. Little party. Just the squad and a few friends. You're both more than welcome."

Wenger and Bould exchanged a glance. Then Arsène smiled, warm but knowing.

"I appreciate that, Francesco. But… we'll pass."

Francesco tilted his head slightly, just shy of disappointed. "Really?"

Wenger stepped around the desk and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "If we come, your teammates will feel like they're still at work. Let them relax tonight. It's your moment. Not ours."

"But," Bould added, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, "we might drop by for a moment. Say hello. Have a slice of cake."

Wenger nodded. "Then we'll vanish. Ghosts in the night."

Francesco grinned. "Fair enough."

With that, he made his way back through the hallways, changed quickly, and jogged out to the car park where his black BMW X5 sat waiting like a sleeping beast in its space. The morning mist had burned off by now, revealing a sharp, late autumn sky—pale and crisp, with the kind of cold that made your breath visible long before you felt it.

He slipped into the driver's seat and plugged his phone into the dash. With one tap, he hit the contact saved under "Mom ❤️."

The line rang twice before Sarah answered, her voice soft and full of excitement.

"Happy birthday, baby."

He smiled reflexively, heart warming. "Thanks, Mum. Are you and Dad ready? I'll swing by and pick you up."

"We're waiting," she said. "Your dad's just finished lighting the lanterns for the garden. I made that rosemary roast you like—though I know no one will touch it with all the catered stuff tonight."

"Still," he said, grinning. "Your cooking wins."

Sarah laughed lightly. "Drive safe. We'll see you soon."

The call ended, and Francesco pulled out of the lot with a smooth twist of the wheel. The roads toward his parents' home were familiar, winding through neighborhoods where the leaves clung stubbornly to their branches—golden and rusted red, dancing with every gust of wind.

Halfway there, he tapped another name on his dash.

"Leah 💕."

Her voice came through, faint music and clattering in the background. "Hey, birthday boy."

"Hey, you. How's it going over there?"

"Organized chaos," she said, breathless and laughing. "The caterers just arrived, the florist came late, and I think I accidently brought a karaoke machine. Or stole one. I haven't figured it out yet."

He chuckled, easing the car to a stop at a red light. "You alright? Need me to come early?"

"No, no, we're good. It's actually kind of perfect. The weather's holding, candles are lit, your playlist is queued. It's… shaping up beautifully, Fran."

There was a pause.

"You're gonna love it."

Francesco didn't speak for a beat. Just let the quiet affection in her voice sink in.

"Thanks, Leah," he said, quietly. "Really."

"Don't thank me yet. Wait 'til you see the cake."

"Oh God."

"Let's just say," she teased, "there's an edible picture of your Bayern goal involved."

He groaned. "Why do I date you again?"

"Because I know how to throw a party," she quipped. "Now go get your parents and be here in thirty. And put on something that doesn't smell like turf."

"Yeah, yeah."

She hung up with a laugh, and he drove on, the smile on his face not fading for a second.

Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside his parents' townhouse. Mike was already on the porch, holding a coat and looking entirely too pleased with himself. Sarah stepped out a second later, scarf wrapped around her neck, a small wrapped box in hand.

Mike clapped a hand on Francesco's back as he took the keys to the X5 and slipped into the passenger seat beside his son.

"Seventeen," he said with a mock groan. "Next thing you know, I'll be retired and living in your basement."

Francesco grinned. "You can have the guest wing. But only if you behave."

Sarah chuckled from the backseat. "Don't encourage him."

As they pulled onto the road toward Richmond, Francesco found himself watching the way the sunset dipped just behind the rooftops in the rearview mirror, casting the whole city in hues of orange and violet. Something about it felt perfect. By the time they reached the mansion in Richmond, twilight had fully set in.

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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: 19

Goal: 28

Assist: 5

MOTM: 2

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 4

Goal: 6

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9