The King Of Arsenal

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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.

The tires of the BMW X5 crunched gently over the smooth gravel drive as Francesco pulled up in front of the grand, warm-lit entrance of his Richmond mansion. Golden lights had already been strung along the eaves, flickering softly in the early evening gloom, casting the house in an almost storybook glow. A valet—one of the temporary staff hired for the night—stepped forward just as Francesco eased the SUV to a stop.

"You two go on in," he told his parents, shifting into park. "I'll tuck the car into the garage."

Sarah smiled, brushing invisible lint from her scarf. "Don't forget your gift is in the backseat."

"Already saw it," he grinned. "Didn't peek."

Mike clapped his hands once as he stepped out. "Right then. Time to show these Premier League stars how real men play billiards."

Francesco raised a brow. "You sure about that, old man?"

Mike just pointed a finger at him and walked toward the front door, laughing.

Francesco watched them head inside, then reversed the car around the side of the property, guiding it smoothly down the gentle incline toward the private garage. The large doors opened with a quiet hum—inside, the overhead lights flickered on automatically, illuminating the spotless floor, the matte-black Aston Martin parked in the far bay, and the line of bikes, boards, and a custom e-scooter he hadn't ridden in months.

Once parked, he killed the engine and sat for a beat. Just a breath to himself.

His home. His party. His people.

This didn't feel like seventeen. It felt older. Bigger.

He stepped out into the garage, pulled the door shut behind him, and took the shortcut entrance through the back hallway—the one that led past the kitchen, the music room, and finally the main foyer. From there, he entered into the long, open-plan great room—vaulted ceilings, the firepit outside crackling through the glass doors, and the scent of rosemary and citrus already thick in the air.

Inside, it was alive.

Not chaotic yet. But getting there.

Soft jazz buzzed through the built-in speakers as catering staff zipped in and out of the dining space. Tablecloths were being adjusted. Dozens of candles had already been lit, their scents mingling pleasantly—vanilla, sandalwood, lemon. Balloons shaped like a giant "17" hovered by the fireplace. A buffet table stood half-stocked with finger food and drinks, waiting for the evening rush.

And right in the center of it all—Leah.

Hair tied up messily with strands falling around her cheeks, wearing a cropped cream sweater and black jeans, phone in one hand, clipboard in the other, she looked like a general commanding a battlefield.

Next to her stood Sarah, who'd ditched her coat and now held a tray of canapés, instructing a staff member where to place the vegan options.

Francesco paused by the entrance, watching for a second, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

He cleared his throat lightly.

Both women turned in unison.

"Look who finally made it," Leah called, mock exasperated. "Did you take a detour to Paris?"

Francesco lifted his hands. "Hey, some of us park our own cars."

Sarah rolled her eyes with a laugh. "Well the birthday boy is officially here. Which means you're now banned from helping."

He stepped closer, playfully indignant. "What if I want to help?"

Leah put down her clipboard and crossed her arms. "Why would the birthday boy make himself busy on his birthday?"

Sarah gave him a little shove toward the hallway. "Go find your father. He's already in the gaming room."

"He's gonna talk trash the entire game."

"You deserve it," Leah said, smirking. "Go on. We'll call you when people start arriving."

Francesco gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks, Commander."

"You'll owe me a massage after this," she whispered.

He laughed and backed toward the hallway, letting the laughter and warm lights carry him into the eastern wing of the mansion. The further he walked, the more the familiar quiet returned—the hum of old walls, the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corridor, and then finally, the sound of pool balls clacking.

The gaming room was one of his favorite spaces. Dark wood floors, soft leather couches, a towering bookshelf filled with both old books and odd trophies from youth tournaments—and at the center, a polished billiard table glowing beneath the low-hanging pendant lights.

Mike was lining up a shot, one knee bent, tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth in deep concentration.

Francesco leaned on the doorway, arms crossed.

"Am I interrupting a masterpiece?"

Mike broke his stance and grinned. "You're just in time to witness greatness."

"Greatness? You missed the eight ball by a country mile last week."

Mike straightened up. "Beginner's misfire. Today, I'm dialed in."

Francesco grabbed a cue from the rack, chalked it once, and moved around to the opposite side.

"You rack 'em?"

"Already did. Your break."

Francesco slid into his stance and cracked the cue ball into the triangle of reds and yellows with a satisfying thud. The balls scattered. One sank into the corner.

Mike groaned. "Well, damn."

They played for the next fifteen minutes, bantering back and forth. Each shot came with commentary—bad impressions, fake commentary voices, jabs at Francesco's love life, Mike's inability to bend without wincing. It was easy. Real. The kind of joy that existed only in spaces like this—where the world couldn't intrude, and the expectations faded for just a little while.

Francesco knocked in a clean corner pocket and straightened, glancing toward the large arched windows facing the garden. Outside, he could already see the torches glowing. A few guests were arriving—he recognized Oxlade-Chamberlain's laugh even through the glass.

"We should probably go say hi," Francesco said, setting his cue down.

Mike held up both hands. "Admit defeat first."

Francesco smirked. "I'll admit you're not as bad as usual."

"I'll take it."

Francesco racked his cue and leaned it gently back against the wall, a mischievous glint in his eye as he turned to his dad.

"You know what?" he said, casually tugging the sleeves of his hoodie up. "You should challenge some of the lads tonight. Show 'em what real pool looks like."

Mike raised a brow, the corner of his mouth curling. "Your friends? You mean those overpaid, under-coordinated mannequins?"

Francesco laughed. "Exactly. Target Özil first. I don't think he even knows what a cue is. And don't go easy on Giroud either—he'll pretend he's French Paul Newman."

Mike tapped the edge of the table, considering. "Alright then. I'll take them all. Let's see if any of them can handle a real hustler."

Francesco gave him a mock salute. "You're doing your country proud."

Then, without another word, he slipped out of the game room and headed back down the hall toward the main living area. The sound had shifted—grown fuller, warmer. A hum of voices now rolled softly through the house, the unmistakable beat of low music thumping gently through the walls, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. The party had begun to take on life.

As Francesco stepped into the heart of the mansion, the scene that greeted him was nothing short of surreal.

The tall windows flanked by rich, burgundy drapes let in the dimming twilight from outside. The overhead lights glowed low and amber, casting everyone in a warm sheen that made even the sleek wooden floors feel cozy. Dozens of candles flickered in their holders across the long oak table and along the stone fireplace. The smell of roasted almonds, citrus zest, and sweet wine drifted through the air—mingling with a faint trace of the woodfire crackling outside in the garden.

And his teammates were arriving.

The first he saw was Hector Bellerín—dressed down in a loose flannel over a white tee, his hair tied back as usual. He was already halfway through a conversation with Calum Chambers and Jeff Reine-Adélaïde near the drinks table.

"Oi, birthday prince!" Hector called out, raising a glass that looked suspiciously like elderflower soda. "Finally gracing us with your presence, yeah?"

Francesco grinned and strolled over. "Sorry, had to warm up the old man with a game of pool."

"He any good?" Jeff asked, curious.

Francesco nodded. "He talks more than he scores. But yeah. He's decent. Might start taking names later tonight."

Chambers gave him a backhanded tap on the shoulder. "We'll see about that."

The greetings rolled in fast after that. Theo Walcott appeared from the kitchen with two sliders in hand, one already half-eaten. "Mate," he said, swallowing. "I don't know what caterer you hired, but I'm marrying whoever made this."

"Leah handled the food," Francesco said with a grin. "You'll have to ask her."

"That girl deserves a Ballon d'Or," Theo said, and vanished with his plate toward the sofas.

Next came Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, bursting in from the back patio like he owned the place. "Happy birthday, golden boy!" he roared, catching Francesco in a bear hug that nearly lifted him off the floor.

"Careful!" Francesco gasped. "I still need my lungs."

"You need drinks!" Ox shot back. "And I've found the stash."

Following behind him were Koscielny and Monreal—subdued, dressed in neat black coats and sweaters, looking both stylish and vaguely amused by the younger players' energy.

Monreal gave Francesco a two-handed handshake and a firm nod. "Feliz cumpleaños, hermano."

"Gracias, Nacho," Francesco said warmly. "Glad you made it."

Koscielny raised a glass. "To seventeen," he said simply, and clinked it with Francesco's own.

The party was swelling now. Sánchez arrived not long after, bundled in a thick coat with a scarf and a mischievous smirk. "You ready for your birthday song?" he asked in Spanish, clapping Francesco on the back.

"I swear, Alexis, if you start singing…"

Too late.

Sánchez bellowed a ridiculously dramatic "Feliz cumpleaños a ti!" with his arms wide and vibrato so exaggerated that even Monreal was laughing.

Francesco buried his face in his hands. "I'm never going to live this down."

By the time Özil walked in—dressed like a fashion ad and already unboxing a pair of sleek, customized boots as a gift—the living room was full.

Cazorla made a late entrance with a small portable speaker under his arm and a grin as wide as his face. "This place needs better music," he declared. "Let's see if I can save the evening."

"Don't you dare touch my playlist!" Francesco called from across the room.

"Says the child with Taylor Swift on repeat."

"I stand by that."

Outside, the fire pit roared to life under Leah's direction, and groups began to migrate toward the patio. Wool blankets were passed around. The drink bar opened up wider. People lounged in half-circles, toasting marshmallows over the flames while someone pulled out an acoustic guitar and began plucking a soft melody.

Even players who didn't always mix off the pitch—Flamini and Debuchy, for instance—seemed lighter tonight. The weight of the season was gone, just for a few hours. The world felt far away.

As Francesco moved among them—chatting, laughing, fielding jokes and compliments—he felt something he hadn't had time to reflect on all month.

He felt held.

This wasn't just celebration. It was belonging.

The doorbell rang just past nine, and when Francesco opened it, he was surprised to find Wenger standing there in a dark wool coat, Steve Bould just behind him, hands in his coat pockets.

"Coach," Francesco said, genuinely surprised. "I thought you weren't coming."

"We said we'd drop by," Wenger replied softly, stepping inside. "We won't stay long."

Steve glanced around. "Nice place."

"Thanks," Francesco said, a little sheepishly. "Want a drink? Or cake?"

"No, no," Wenger said, waving it off. "We just came to see the atmosphere. And to say…" He looked at him for a long beat. "You've come very far, Francesco. In football. But more importantly—in character. Keep going. Don't change."

"I won't," Francesco said.

Bould gave him a nod. "Happy birthday, kid."

The firelight flickered across the garden's edge as more of Francesco's teammates filtered into the Richmond mansion, laughter trailing in behind them with every opened door. The place was full now—crowded in the best possible way. Music still played low from Cazorla's updated playlist, drinks clinked softly between cheers and toasts, and stories were being swapped across couches, chairs, and beanbags pulled in from the corners of the entertainment room.

Francesco floated between it all—pulled in every direction. Bellerín had just tried to drag him into a heated FIFA match upstairs, only to be intercepted by Giroud waving a cue stick, demanding a game in the billiard room. Sánchez was already halfway into coaxing Koscielny into doing a backflip over a sofa. Özil, lounging with a blanket over his lap, simply raised his glass again every time Francesco passed.

It was controlled chaos. Glorious, wonderful chaos.

And through it all, Leah moved like she'd been born to command it.

She was calm but sharp—coordinating the last of the setup now that nearly everyone had arrived. She passed a quiet word to Sarah in the kitchen, gave a thumbs-up to one of the catering staff carrying a tray of desserts, and finally disappeared briefly into the side pantry. When she emerged, she wasn't alone.

In her hands, carefully balanced on a wide silver tray, was the birthday cake.

The room stilled in an almost cinematic way—not all at once, but in pockets. Like the energy was quietly shifting from revelry to focus. The music faded slightly as Leah nodded toward the speakers, and someone (Francesco suspected Jeff) lowered the volume with an exaggerated bow.

"All right, all right," she said, her voice cutting through the buzz. "Everyone—can I steal your attention for a second?"

A chorus of whistles and fake boos greeted her, but she smiled through them, undeterred.

"Get your phones out, yeah?" she added, stepping into the center of the living room now.

Francesco turned around slowly just in time to see her approaching with the cake, and what he saw nearly made him laugh out loud.

It wasn't just any cake.

It was a two-tiered monstrosity—gorgeously decorated, no doubt, but at its center, printed on edible icing, was a high-res photo of his solo goal celebration against Bayern. Arms spread wide, shirt tugged halfway over his head, mouth open in that wild, euphoric scream.

Sánchez burst out laughing when he saw it. "Look at this guy! Thinks he's Ronaldo!"

"It's the boots, I swear," Walcott added. "Those Özil customs made him do it."

Francesco stood in the center of the room now, laughing, hands out like he was surrendering. "I take no responsibility for that image!"

"Too late!" Leah grinned. "You approved it when you chose to date me."

She set the cake down gently on the coffee table, which had been cleared of everything except a circle of candles and some artfully scattered red-and-white confetti. Sarah handed over the matches with a gentle smile, and Leah lit each of the seventeen candles one by one—tiny golden flames dancing to life in a slow spiral.

"Everyone ready?" she called.

A cheer went up.

And then—

The entire room erupted in unison.

🎵 "Happy birthday to you…" 🎵

It started messy, like most spontaneous group sing-alongs do—Walcott in the wrong key, Giroud halfway in French, Cazorla singing harmony with no one. But the chorus swelled quickly, and soon everyone joined: a full-throated, unfiltered celebration of the boy at the center of it all.

🎵 "Happy birthday dear Francesco…" 🎵

He stood still, arms crossed now, grinning hard as the room wrapped around him in sound.

🎵 "Happy birthday to you!" 🎵

There was a roar of applause. Whistles. Someone set off a party popper, and bits of red and silver shot across the rug.

Then, as the last cheer died down, the room fell into a kind of reverent hush.

Francesco stepped forward, eyes fixed on the candlelit cake.

"Alright," Ox whispered from the back. "Make it a good wish, Lee."

"Don't blow it," Ramsey added, which earned a soft punch in the arm from Bellerín.

Francesco smirked but didn't say anything.

He closed his eyes.

And for a moment—just a moment—the noise faded completely.

He wasn't thinking about trophies, or goals, or the weight of expectation that had grown heavier with every match and headline. He didn't think about the pressure, or the whispers about England's future. Not even about the crowd in front of him now, all of them here for him.

He thought about the game. The joy of it. The first time he'd ever kicked a ball down a muddy field in Richmond with his dad watching from the fence. The first time he pulled on an Arsenal shirt and looked in the mirror. The feeling of a perfect pass. The sound of the net.

He thought about how grateful he was—for this life, this moment.

Then he opened his eyes.

Took a breath.

And blew out the candles.

The room exploded again—this time with whoops and claps and a chorus of messy cheers. Leah leaned in quickly to move the cake aside so the icing wouldn't melt. Sánchez gave him a two-handed high five, while Bellerín clapped him on the back like he'd just scored at Wembley.

"You wish for more goals?" Monreal asked with a wink.

Francesco shook his head. "Nope."

"What then?" Cazorla asked, tilting his head.

Francesco just smiled. "I'll tell you if it comes true."

They never pressed him for more. Instead, Sarah was already cutting slices of the cake and passing them around on little ceramic plates. Leah retreated briefly to retrieve champagne flutes—or sparkling cider for those not drinking—and within minutes, everyone had a glass in hand.

Francesco looked around—really looked.

At his teammates lounging by the fire, sharing stories. At his mother, seated beside Leah now, both laughing softly. At his dad, still holding court by the pool table, gesturing dramatically as he explained the art of the trick shot to a very skeptical Cazorla and Ox. At Wenger and Bould, who had long since slipped away, true to their word.

This was his life.

This moment was his.

And he wasn't taking a second of it for granted.

He raised his glass quietly, not demanding attention, but those near him noticed.

"To seventeen," he said. "To football, friends, and everyone who made tonight what it is."

Leah turned and leaned her head against his shoulder. "To you," she whispered.

As the soft clinks of toasting glasses faded into the background and the cake's sugary scent lingered on the air, Francesco's gaze drifted toward the far end of the living room. Past the half-finished plates and bottles resting on coasters, past the armchairs filled with familiar faces and stories mid-laugh—there, by the arched entrance to the hallway, stood something that made him pause.

His dad.

And Arsène Wenger.

Talking.

Francesco blinked for a second, unsure if he was seeing it right. But no—there was Mike, hands animated as he spoke, eyes lit up like a kid backstage at a rock concert. Wenger stood opposite him, arms loosely crossed, smiling in that quiet, reserved way that only ever grew warm when he truly meant it.

Francesco didn't move yet. He stayed where he was, watching from the edge of the crowd.

Mike had always talked about this moment, though never seriously. "One day," he used to say, usually after a few beers or while watching a rerun of the Invincibles documentary, "one day I'll meet the man. I'll shake his hand. Tell him what he's done for the club, for the soul of it. What he meant to us."

To them.

Francesco had heard all the stories. How Mike used to listen to the radio in their old flat, headphones clamped over his ears while little Francesco played with a plastic football by the couch. How he'd watched that unbeaten 2003–04 season like a religious rite. How, when Francesco was barely six and kicking about in local leagues, his dad would mutter things like, "Arsène would've signed you already, you know. He had an eye for players like you."

And now here he was.

Living room of his son's house.

Talking to the man he still called "the godfather of Arsenal."

Francesco finally wandered closer, not to interrupt, but to listen. Mike was in full flow, one hand now gripping a program from the Invincibles season he must've pulled from his coat pocket. Wenger's eyes flicked to it with faint amusement.

"—and that match against Liverpool at Highbury, when Pires scored that curler into the top corner—I'll never forget it," Mike was saying. "My wife and I were in the stands. Top row. Could barely see the pitch, but when it went in… I swear, I thought the roof would come off. That was magic, Mr. Wenger. Pure magic."

Wenger nodded politely, eyes crinkling. "We were fortunate," he said, his French accent smooth. "But we had good players. And better supporters."

Mike chuckled, then hesitated, fumbling slightly as he pulled something from his pocket.

"Look, I know this is a bit… unorthodox. But if you don't mind—would you…?" He held up a black Sharpie and the back of the matchday program. "I promised myself that if I ever met you… I'd ask."

Francesco saw the tremble in his father's hand. Not nerves, exactly. Something more reverent.

Wenger took the pen gently, without a word, and began to write. A flourish of careful strokes, neat and elegant. Then he handed it back with a quiet, "Of course."

Mike stared at it like it was holy scripture.

"Thank you," he said, voice catching slightly. "I mean it. You—this club—you've given us everything. You helped make him," he nodded toward Francesco, "believe in dreams."

Wenger looked over, locking eyes with Francesco, then back to Mike.

"No," he said softly. "He did that himself. You just gave him a good foundation."

Francesco stepped forward then, finally, letting himself join them. His father turned, grinning wide, cheeks a bit pinker than usual.

"You see this?" Mike said proudly, holding up the signed program. "I'm framing this. Right next to your first England shirt."

Wenger smiled at Francesco, then nodded once more to Mike. "Take care of him. He has a bright future."

And with that, the great man slipped back into the crowd—quiet, dignified, almost like a memory.

Mike stood still for a moment longer, then shook his head in wonder. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "I just met Arsène Wenger."

Francesco smiled, arm slung around his dad's shoulder. "Happy birthday to me, huh?" Mike laughed. "Nah. This one's mine."

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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: 21

Goal: 30

Assist: 5

MOTM: 2

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9