The King Of Arsenal

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

The air still buzzed with warmth—voices, laughter, the smell of melting icing, champagne, and something slightly spicy wafting from the garden grill. Francesco was about to follow his dad back toward the billiards room when it happened again: the unmistakable sound of the doorbell echoing from the foyer. A crisp, composed ding that stood out from the noise like a punctuation mark.

Francesco glanced toward the entrance hallway.

Strange—he thought nearly everyone had arrived already.

"Probably more of the staff or one of the late arrivals," he murmured, giving Mike's shoulder a gentle pat. "Be right back."

"Send them my way if they can hold a cue," Mike quipped, heading off down the corridor again with the signed matchday program still clutched like a sacred relic.

Francesco threaded his way through the crowd—passing Bellerín now deep in a mock-philosophical debate with Flamini about the perfect beanie fabric, and Leah pouring wine for Monreal with a practiced hand. His boots tapped lightly over the polished floor, past the grand piano no one had touched yet, past the entryway vase that his mum kept insisting was "too modern" for the room.

He reached the door.

A moment's pause.

Then he opened it.

Standing on the front step, dressed in a charcoal wool coat over a slim black turtleneck, was Jorge Mendes.

The agent.

The kingmaker.

Francesco's agent.

Francesco blinked. "Jorge?"

The Portuguese super-agent smiled, eyes flicking upward as if he'd been expecting that exact reaction.

"Happy birthday, meu rapaz," Jorge said smoothly, his voice warm and unmistakably seasoned. "Sorry I'm late. London traffic is still London traffic."

Francesco stepped aside instinctively, holding the door open wide. "Mate, I didn't even know you were coming."

"I wasn't," Jorge replied, stepping inside with a kind of relaxed elegance that made even his scarf look like it belonged in a Monaco art gallery. "But I was in town for a meeting, and I thought—it's not every day my youngest prodigy turns seventeen."

He glanced around, eyes scanning the entry hall with its tasteful lighting and football-themed modern art. He gave a soft nod of approval. "Nice place. Your parents' taste?"

"Mine," Francesco said, closing the door behind him. "Well, mostly Leah's, if I'm being honest."

"Aha," Jorge chuckled. "She has good instincts. Like you."

Francesco led him toward the great room, the music slowly becoming audible again as the hallway opened wide. "Come in, come in—want a drink? There's cake. Probably too much cake, honestly."

"Wine will do," Jorge said, shrugging off his coat and folding it neatly over one arm. "And no cake for me. I'm trying to keep the Mendes brand lean."

The living room buzzed with chatter, but Jorge's entrance caused a subtle ripple—players took notice. Not the kind of overblown reaction that might greet a celebrity or someone outside the circle, but something more charged. Even Cazorla, mid-joke, caught sight of the man and nudged Özil, who glanced over and nodded quietly. A few of the younger lads did double-takes.

You didn't see Jorge Mendes at just any football party.

Leah noticed him too. She excused herself from a conversation with Sarah and approached, a smile playing on her lips.

"You must be the mysterious Jorge," she said playfully even thought she already knew him, offering a hand.

"And you must be the legendary Leah," Jorge replied with a gracious half-bow. "Francesco talks about you more than football."

She raised an eyebrow. "That's a dangerous claim."

Jorge winked. "It's also true."

He followed them into the lounge, where Francesco poured him a glass of red from the bar set up beside the fireplace. Jorge sipped slowly, approvingly.

"Tell me," he said, gesturing toward the room full of laughter, firelight, and Premier League stars, "does this all still feel like a dream to you?"

Francesco leaned against the bar, considering it.

"Not exactly," he said. "More like… something I never let myself imagine fully. Now that I'm living it—it's better. And harder."

Jorge nodded. "It always is."

He set the glass down, then clasped Francesco's shoulder with a firm hand.

"You've had a hell of a year, Fran. That goal in Munich? Half of Europe's top brass called me the next morning."

Francesco shifted slightly. "That still weirds me out."

"It should," Jorge said. "For now. But eventually, it'll feel normal. You'll expect it. Then you'll want more. And you'll have to manage that hunger—make sure it doesn't devour everything else."

Francesco nodded slowly.

"I wanted to come tonight," Jorge continued, his voice dropping just a little, "because I know what's coming. The press. The vultures. The noise. You've got a good team around you. A manager who still believes in philosophy. And you've got family. That's rare."

Francesco's jaw tightened slightly, but his eyes didn't waver.

"I can handle it."

"I know," Jorge said. "That's why I'm here."

Then he smiled again, this time with just the hint of mischief. "Besides… someone had to bring your real present."

Francesco blinked. "Wait, what?"

Jorge reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a slim, dark folder—leather-bound, the edges crisp, the corners weighted. He handed it to Francesco like it was nothing more than an afterthought.

Francesco opened it.

Inside—an envelope bearing the seal of Real Madrid.

Another—Bayern Munich.

One more—AC Milan, black and red embossed in Italian class.

Francesco stared down at them, his heart skipping a beat.

"What is this?" he asked, voice low.

"Preliminary inquiries," Jorge said. "Not official offers yet. But interest. Real interest. From people who don't send letters like this unless they're serious."

Francesco swallowed hard.

"They've seen enough. They want to talk. Not for now, necessarily—but for later. Eighteen. Nineteen."

He closed the folder carefully, hands trembling just slightly.

"And what do you think?" he asked, looking Jorge square in the eye.

Jorge didn't blink.

"I think… your story is just beginning. And you don't need to chase anything right now. Let them chase you. Let them earn you."

Francesco stood still for a long moment, the low pulse of the music behind him, the murmur of friends and teammates, the fireplace glow warming the edge of his vision.

Francesco's fingers brushed the edge of the dark leather folder as he shut it gently, like sealing away some alternate version of his future. The logos burned in his mind—Madrid, Bayern, Milan—but they didn't ignite anything in him. No desire. No curiosity. No hunger.

Not the way Arsenal did.

He glanced back up at Jorge, the familiar fire behind his eyes now clear and unwavering. His voice was calm but firm.

"You know I'll never leave Arsenal, right?"

Jorge studied him for a second. The pause wasn't long—but it was deliberate.

Francesco added, more softly now, "Especially not Madrid. Not after… everything. What happened with Zidane, that whole scandal—it burned a hole, Jorge. You were there. You saw it."

"I remember," Jorge said, nodding slowly. "I saw what it did to you."

There was a long silence between them, just long enough to let the weight of those words settle. The fire crackled gently across the room. Behind them, somewhere near the kitchen, a laugh burst out—Theo again, maybe—and a plate clinked gently against another.

Jorge didn't raise his voice when he finally spoke again. He didn't need to.

"I wouldn't have brought those," he said, nodding toward the folder, "if I thought you'd be tempted. I brought them so you'd know the kind of ripples you're making in the game. That it's not just North London watching anymore."

He leaned back slightly, letting the words sink in before adding:

"But I've already made my plan."

Francesco raised an eyebrow. "What plan?"

Jorge smiled, setting his now-empty glass gently on a nearby tray.

"To make you the king of Arsenal," he said.

Francesco didn't even hesitate. His mouth curled into a lopsided grin, full of both relief and belief.

"Good," he replied. "That's all I want."

Jorge gave him a look—not approval, not pride. Something older than both. Recognition.

Before either of them could say more, a sudden yell tore through the house.

It wasn't an emergency, not by any stretch. It was the unmistakable kind of shout that could only come from a heated, overly dramatic, and entirely unserious competition.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S A SCRATCH?! I HIT THE BALL CLEAN!"

Francesco blinked.

Jorge blinked back at him.

"That," Francesco said, setting his drink down, "is definitely my dad."

Another voice rang out—Giroud, it sounded like, possibly mid-laughter: "Mon ami, you can't call that clean! That cue ball nearly flew off the table!"

"OH, COME ON!"

Francesco sighed and laughed all at once. "Excuse me," he said to Jorge, already turning toward the corridor. "I think he's about to challenge half the first team."

"I'll come too," Jorge said casually. "I want to see the pool massacre."

They moved through the living room together, passing Bellerín and Jeff now halfway into a karaoke war with Flamini. Cazorla was playing DJ again. Leah spotted Francesco with a questioning look—he just gave a helpless shrug and nodded toward the ruckus echoing from down the hall.

The gaming room doors were wide open.

Inside, a scene of absolute comedic glory was unfolding.

Mike stood at the head of the pool table, one foot perched dramatically on the edge, cue stick raised like a sword. His face was red—not from embarrassment but from competitive fury. Or mock fury, at least. Giroud leaned against the far wall, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. Monreal was seated in a leather chair nearby, nursing a drink and looking vaguely scandalized. Theo Walcott was recording on his phone, whispering "This is going on the club group chat" while holding back giggles.

In the center of it all, a poor cue ball had come to rest a full six inches from where it was supposed to be.

Mike turned at the sound of Francesco's voice.

"There you are!" he declared. "You didn't tell me your teammates cheat at billiards!"

"They don't cheat," Francesco said, walking in. "They just don't know the rules."

"You're dead!" Mike pointed at Giroud. "You've got hands like silk and aim like a goat!"

Giroud raised both hands in surrender, chuckling. "This is slander. I am an artist!"

"You scratched three times in one frame!"

"That's how the French play, non?"

Mike waved a hand. "You're lucky this isn't snooker. I'd have run the table by now."

Francesco turned to Jorge. "Welcome to the other side of my life."

Jorge looked around—at the fancy room filled with elite players acting like teenagers in a university dorm—and smiled. "I love it."

Mike turned back to the table, lining up another shot with theatrical precision. "I'm starting a tournament. Tonight. Loser has to sing karaoke."

Theo whooped. "I'm in!"

"Let's go," said Jeff, who suddenly appeared at the doorway, waving a cue stick like a wand.

Soon, half the team was crammed into the gaming room—Cazorla somehow dragging in a speaker system while Flamini tried to explain the rules in four different languages. Leah showed up with more drinks, shaking her head with a grin as Mike tried to trash-talk Monreal in Spanish.

Jorge leaned against the wall beside Francesco, arms crossed, smiling.

"This," he said, "is better than any meeting in Madrid."

Francesco just laughed.

As the sounds of laughter and clacking pool balls filled the gaming room—Mike now loudly insisting that Theo had accidentally fouled by "breathing too close to the cue ball"—Francesco leaned back against the wall beside Jorge and casually pulled out his phone.

The screen lit up with a soft glow.

He wasn't expecting much. Maybe a message or two. But at the top of his notifications, there it was.

@arsenal

📸 Happy 17th birthday to our youngest champion!

🎂🏆 "The future is here."

[Photo: Francesco, arms raised high, lifting last season's Premier League trophy in front of a red-and-white sea of fans.]

Francesco froze for a half second.

The photo was perfectly chosen—taken moments after the final whistle last May, when the Emirates had exploded into noise and Francesco, still only sixteen, had been hoisted by teammates and handed the silverware he'd dreamed of since boyhood. His hair was sweat-soaked, eyes wide, grin wild. Pure joy, raw and unfiltered.

He stared at it for a beat. A small smile tugged at his lips.

He tapped the comments.

They were coming in by the hundreds. No—thousands.

@gooner4life27:

Happy birthday, Francesco! Our golden boy!

@arsenalvibes:

Future captain, I'm telling you 🔥🔥

@theemirateschant:

Still can't believe you did that at 16. You're different gravy, lad.

@rosie.redwhite:

Happy birthday sweetheart 🫶 stay loyal, stay legendary.

@arsenalindonesia:

Selamat ulang tahun, Francesco! Bangga banget sama kamu 🇮🇩

A swell of warmth built in his chest. It was easy, sometimes, to feel like he was still chasing something impossible. Like he hadn't quite arrived yet. But this? This was a reminder.

He tapped out a reply, nothing fancy:

@francescolee:

Thank you all for the love. Humbled. Let's make more memories together. ❤️⚽

He hit post.

Almost immediately, he saw the response:

@arsenal liked your comment.

@arsenal pinned your comment.

He blinked at the notification. Then exhaled quietly, lips curved into a quiet smile. That felt surreal.

"You alright?" Jorge asked beside him, having noticed the shift in his posture.

Francesco turned the screen toward him. "They posted it."

Jorge looked at the photo, nodded. "Of course they did. That image is iconic already."

Francesco tucked the phone away just as a new round of laughter erupted. He turned back toward the table.

"Oi!" Mike shouted across the felt, pointing the tip of his cue like a knight's sword. "You think you're too good for your old man now, birthday boy? You coming or what?"

Francesco raised an eyebrow. "You want a rematch?"

The room hushed slightly, a few players grinning like schoolboys in detention.

Giroud gasped dramatically. "A duel between father and son? The prophecy!"

Jeff cupped his hands like a boxing announcer. "In the red corner—Premier League champion, England's rising star, the birthday boy, Francescoooo Lee!"

Everyone cheered.

"And in the blue corner—billiards bully, legendary banter merchant, the man who once pocketed three balls in one shot and claimed it was 'on purpose'—Mike Lee!"

Even more cheers, mixed with laughter and a couple of high-pitched mock boos.

Mike rolled up his sleeves theatrically. "You ready to be humbled again, son?"

Francesco chuckled and stepped toward the cue rack, selecting his stick.

"I've grown since the last match, old man."

"Vertically, maybe," Mike shot back.

Francesco grinned. He chalked the cue with a practiced hand and moved toward the table. His mind ticked. Earlier, it had been fun—loose, joking, private. But this time?

This time was different.

Everyone was watching.

Teammates leaning in around the couch edges. Jorge standing nearby, arms crossed, eyes curious. Leah had appeared in the doorway too, arms folded, her smile equal parts supportive and amused. Even Sarah poked her head in from the hallway.

No pressure.

Mike racked the balls. "Your break again," he said, his tone light, but his eyes sharp with that same glint Francesco had inherited.

Francesco stepped up. Bent. Breathed.

He struck.

The cue ball cracked into the racked triangle, and two solids sank immediately.

"Alright," Jeff muttered. "Game's on."

Francesco moved around the table, studying the layout like a midfielder scanning the pitch. He lined up the next shot—deliberate. The ball glided across the felt and dropped with a clean thump into the corner pocket.

Mike gave a slow, respectful nod. "So that's how it's gonna be?"

"You started this," Francesco said, not looking up.

The game unfolded with a quiet tension now, each shot punctuated by claps and whistles. Mike, to his credit, still had the touch. He made two tricky bank shots and even pulled off a sneaky jump to clear Francesco's blocker. But every time he looked like he might pull away, Francesco answered. A perfect double-kiss into the side pocket. A corner shot so clean that even Cazorla let out an impressed whistle.

Francesco lined up for his final shot—the eight ball lingering just off center.

He paused, let the silence thrum. Everyone leaned in.

He struck.

The ball curved straight, steady, and dropped into the pocket without so much as brushing the sides.

"YES!" Jeff shouted.

Theo let out a long "OHHHHH!"

Giroud clasped his hands and fell to his knees like he'd just witnessed a miracle. "The son has defeated the father!"

Mike threw both hands up and laughed, backing away with a grin. "Alright, alright! The torch has been passed!"

Francesco turned and gave a playful bow.

Mike pointed a finger at him, half-smiling. "You've been practicing. Admit it."

Francesco shrugged. "Just learning from the best."

They shook hands—tight, firm, and warm.

Leah slipped beside him, sliding an arm around his waist. "You earned that one."

"I needed to," he said, still catching his breath.

The fire outside had long turned to glowing embers. The warmth in the house, though still alive in patches, had begun to shift—from the pulsing energy of celebration to something gentler, something winding down.

One by one, the guests began to trickle out.

Theo was the first to peel away, hugging Francesco tightly and whispering, "You keep this up, mate, and you'll be lifting that trophy every season." Jeff and Calum followed not long after, laughing about the karaoke contest and promising a rematch at Colney. Sánchez, wrapped in his thick coat again, clapped Francesco on the shoulder with a knowing grin before disappearing into the night with his driver waiting at the gate.

Wenger and Steve Bould had already gone earlier, true to their word. No fanfare, no dramatic goodbye—just a firm handshake from Bould and a quiet parting nod from Wenger, as if to say: You've got this now.

Francesco hadn't even heard the front door close behind them.

Monreal and Koscielny left together shortly after, dignified as always, while Giroud lingered longer—partly because he was still in heated debate with Mike about whether a particular pool shot had actually been legal. Eventually, even he kissed Sarah's hand with his usual Gallic flair and slipped into the evening mist.

The house grew quieter in phases, like waves receding back into seafoam.

Inside, Leah was a force of nature again.

She moved through the space with that same calm confidence she'd shown during setup, her voice light but firm as she coordinated the staff—clearing half-finished drinks, straightening throw pillows, guiding the caterers through the clean-up routine. The living room slowly returned to its original state, the chaos and joy packed neatly away like wrapping paper after Christmas.

Francesco sat for a moment near the fireplace, now low and crackling, letting the silence return. His legs were tired. His cheeks hurt from smiling. But his heart was full in a way he couldn't quite put into words.

Sarah came in from the kitchen, brushing her hands off on a tea towel. "It's been years since I've seen this house so full," she murmured, a soft smile on her lips.

"It felt like a dream," Francesco said, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Like I wasn't even in my own skin."

She walked over, kissed the top of his head, and then smoothed down his hair like she used to when he was little. "You were very much yourself tonight," she said gently. "And everyone in that room saw it."

Mike entered next, arms crossed, wearing a borrowed hoodie from the club shop rack Francesco kept near the door—his dress shirt long since retired to the laundry pile.

"I think I'm going to feel that loss in my back tomorrow," he muttered, half-smirking.

"You and Giroud were practically wrestling," Francesco chuckled. "That wasn't pool—it was theatre."

Mike let out a huff of a laugh. "I'm telling you—he was playing dirty."

"Dad," Francesco said, standing up, "I think you two broke the cue rack."

Mike looked offended. "That cue was wobbly from the start!"

Leah popped her head into the room, giving Francesco a warm smile. "Everything's almost done. Caterers are heading out. Do you want me to walk through the final checklist?"

Francesco shook his head. "You've done more than enough tonight. Seriously—this was perfect."

She stepped forward, wrapping her arms gently around his waist. "You made it perfect."

After a moment, she looked past him at Sarah and Mike. "You two staying the night?"

Sarah nodded. "We were thinking about heading back, but—honestly? I'm shattered."

Mike added, "And I'm not about to get back on the M4 with cake and champagne in my system."

Francesco grinned and gestured toward the stairs. "The guest room's made up. Both of you crash here. Please."

Sarah placed a hand on his cheek. "You've grown so much."

"Still your son, though," he said, quietly.

"You always will be," she said, her eyes shining.

They embraced—one of those lingering, silent hugs that carries a hundred quiet memories in it. Then Francesco turned to Mike and gave him a quick one-armed hug, just enough to say thank you for everything without needing to say it aloud.

"Alright, alright," Mike said, feigning gruffness. "Before I get emotional, where's that room?"

Francesco laughed. "Top of the stairs, to the left. Leah already laid out fresh towels."

"Course she did," Mike muttered. "She's better than you, you know that?"

Leah gave him a mock bow. "Took you long enough to realize."

The older couple disappeared up the stairs a few minutes later, their footsteps soft, the mood quieting like a record slowing to its end. Francesco stood at the foot of the steps for a moment, watching until they were gone from view. Then he exhaled deeply, the weight of the day finally pressing down on his shoulders like a blanket.

Leah appeared beside him, slipping her fingers between his. "That was some party."

Francesco looked at her and nodded. "I don't think I'll ever forget it."

"You shouldn't."

He led her back into the living room where only a few faint traces of celebration remained—an abandoned party hat, an empty champagne flute on the windowsill, a flicker of candle wax cooling on the coffee table.

"I always wondered what it would feel like," he said after a moment.

Leah tilted her head. "What?"

"To be… seen. Like this. Not just as a footballer. But as someone… real."

"You were always real," she said. "They're just catching up."

He laughed softly, then fell into the sofa, letting the exhaustion finally seep through his bones. Leah followed, curling up beside him, her head resting on his shoulder.

They stayed like that for a while.

No phones.

No press.

No expectations.

Just the low crackle of the fireplace, and the hum of a house that had just played host to a memory.

"I think this is the happiest I've ever been," Francesco whispered.

Leah smiled into his shirt. "Then it was a good birthday."

He nodded, eyes starting to close. "It was the best one."

And in the hush that followed—the kind only found after the last guest has left, and the music has faded, and the house breathes deep again—Francesco didn't feel like a star, he felt like a boy who'd come home.

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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