The King Of Arsenal

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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.

The sky outside Francesco's bedroom window was a pale, watery grey. One of those December mornings that looked like it had forgotten how to shine. But the air inside his room was warm, the sheets tangled around him, the scent of Leah's lavender shampoo still clinging to his hoodie—borrowed, of course—slung over the back of his desk chair.

The alarm hadn't even gone off yet.

But Francesco was already awake.

Not wide-eyed or anxious. Just… aware. Resting in that soft, golden quiet between sleep and the day. Leah stirred slightly beside him, one arm curled loosely around his chest. Her breath tickled the side of his neck.

The last three weeks had passed like a dream disguised as a gauntlet. Four matches, four wins, and performances that weren't just good—they were defining.

He closed his eyes again, letting the memories wash over him in fragments.

Cold wind whipped down the narrow tunnel at Carrow Road, and Francesco could still remember the exact moment it hit his face as he stepped onto the pitch. That kind of wind didn't just bite—it whispered.

"You better be ready, kid."

And he had been.

The game was scrappy from the start, Norwich packing men behind the ball and crunching tackles like they were trying to dent the Emirates itself. But Francesco had found his space anyway. Slipped between lines. Let the ball kiss his feet. Drew the fouls, drew the eyes.

Then, twenty-three minutes in—he struck.

Özil floated a pass through the narrowest channel, and Francesco took it first time—left foot, across the keeper, into the side netting.

The away end had erupted. His name echoed beneath the low ceiling of the away terrace like a chant from another world.

Özil added another after a clever team move. Norwich pulled one back through Lewis Grabban in the second half, a moment that tightened every Arsenal throat for twenty minutes. But they held on.

Three points. On the road. In the cold.

The kind of win you needed if you were going to challenge for a title.

Then playing at home was different. The Emirates had become a cathedral for Francesco now. Every time he stepped on that pitch, it felt like the floodlights were whispering: "You belong here."

And against Sunderland, he didn't wait to prove it.

Fifteen minutes in, the ball came to him at the edge of the box. A soft lay-off from Ramsey, a swivel of hips, and a thunderbolt into the top corner.

He didn't even celebrate properly. Just turned and grinned, as if to say, "This is normal now."

Walcott scored soon after, darting between defenders like a ghost. Giroud added another—but then, in a cruel twist, turned a header into his own net trying to clear a corner.

Francesco remembered the wince on Olivier's face, the way he mouthed putain under his breath. But he also remembered what happened after.

Giroud didn't sulk. He ran harder. Jumped higher. And in the second half, when Ramsey flicked a beautiful pass into his stride, the Frenchman lashed it home like a man possessed.

4–1.

Another emphatic statement.

Arsenal were flying.

The third match at Greece had been loud.

The kind of loud that rattled bones. Red flares. Shouts that shook the tunnel. A wall of sound that met them on the pitch like a punch to the ribs.

They needed a win to ensure their top spot at the group and qualify as the top spot for the knockout stage.

They arrive and left with a win.

Giroud had been unstoppable—poetic, even. A perfect hattrick. One right foot. One left foot. One header. Francesco couldn't stop smiling after the third, when Giroud pointed at him during the celebration.

Because he knew what was coming.

In the 86th minute, a half-cleared corner bounced out toward the edge of the box. Francesco adjusted his feet, let it bounce once, then curled it low and hard into the far corner—side netting. Clean. Exact.

And quiet.

The crowd had hushed, stunned. Arsenal fans roared behind the dugout. Wenger smiled. Even Bould looked like he wanted to cheer.

Francesco remembered jogging back to the halfway line, Giroud grabbing the back of his neck.

"You want to score all the good ones, eh?"

He'd laughed. "I'm learning from you."

Then on the third match, it was raining again. Birmingham rain. It fell in sheets, fast and unapologetic.

But Arsenal made the match look like training.

Francesco opened the scoring—again. Just eleven minutes in. Özil fed him with a pass weighted like poetry, and he tucked it away with the ease of a player who no longer second-guessed himself.

Ramsey added another ten minutes later, a thumping finish after a loose clearance. The game never looked in doubt.

Then, in the 67th minute, Wenger pulled Francesco off. He clapped, raised a hand to the fans.

Giroud came on.

And five minutes later, he scored.

3–0. Comfortable. Professional. Ruthless.

Arsenal went top of the table that day—level on points, superior on goal difference.

And Francesco?

He'd scored in every single one of the past four games.

Now, lying in bed, watching Leah blink her eyes open beside him, he let out a long breath.

"You're already thinking about the next match, aren't you?" she said sleepily.

He smiled. "You know me too well."

"We've got Christmas first."

"Yeah," he said, stretching. "Tomorrow was playing againts Man City's."

She groaned and pulled the blanket over her face. "Do you ever turn off?"

"Not when we're top of the league."

She peeked out from under the cover. "You're exhausting."

He grinned, then kissed her forehead. "I love you too."

The morning stretched its arms in slow silence as Francesco and Leah finally rolled out of bed, the warmth of the sheets reluctantly traded for the chill of December tiles. They made their way down the staircase barefoot, hair tousled, still wrapped in that soft post-sleep haze that made everything quieter, slower.

Francesco rubbed his eyes as he stepped into the kitchen. Leah was already moving with that graceful efficiency she always carried—opening the fridge, pulling out eggs, butter, a half-loaf of sourdough. She knew his routine by heart. He loved that about her.

"Toast or scramble?" she asked without looking up.

"Toast," he mumbled, rubbing a hand through his hair. "I'll do the coffee."

He moved toward the espresso machine—an Arsenal-red DeLonghi she'd bought for him after his first Premier League goal. With one push of a button, the kitchen filled with the warm hiss and hum of caffeine being born.

They moved together like a couple who'd done this a hundred times before. Small collisions at the counter. Quiet smiles exchanged between buttering toast and pouring orange juice. No need for words. Just presence. Just calm.

"So," Leah said eventually, handing him his plate, "you planning to score again tomorrow?"

Francesco took the toast from her, smirking. "That's the idea."

"Against City?"

He sat at the island counter. "They're tough. But they've been shaky at the back this season. Kompany's been injured. Mangala's out of rhythm. I've been watching tape."

She leaned against the counter, watching him eat. "You're seventeen, Francesco. You know that, right?"

He looked up, eyes twinkling. "I've been seventeen for less than a month. Feels older already."

She rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."

"I try."

By the time breakfast was finished, Leah had already rinsed the dishes and slotted them into the washer. Francesco padded back upstairs, showered quickly, then stood before the wardrobe.

He didn't overthink his outfit. Just a navy Arsenal tracksuit—thin-lined red along the shoulders, the club crest stitched proudly on the chest. He packed his gear methodically: boots, shin pads, gloves, change of clothes, water bottle. The same bag he'd brought to his first academy trial still served him now. That familiarity grounded him.

Leah waited by the door when he came back down. He slung the bag over his shoulder, checked his phone for messages from Colney, then turned to her.

"You good?"

She nodded, stepping into his arms. "Be careful tomorrow."

"I will."

"And try not to humiliate City too badly."

He grinned. "You're asking the wrong person."

Their hug lingered—longer than usual. There was something unspoken between them, something weightier than usual. Not nerves. Just understanding. This match meant something. Momentum. Statement. The kind of result that could bend a title race.

He kissed her once, gently, then pulled back and opened the door to the garage.

The BMW X5 sat gleaming beneath the downlight, matte-black and sleek. His boots clicked softly against the concrete as he walked over, threw his bag into the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel. The engine purred to life with a soft growl.

He glanced once more at the house before pulling out. Leah waved from the front door. He waved back.

Then he was gone, down the drive, through the quiet Richmond streets dusted with frost.

The roads were clear at this hour, and Francesco took his time as he navigated toward Hertfordshire. Familiar turns. Familiar music—soft indie guitar this morning, something from the playlist he only listened to on solo drives. No lyrics. Just mood.

As he merged onto the motorway, his mind began to shift—not into anxiety, not into pressure, but into clarity.

Manchester City.

At the Emirates.

League implications.

Biggest game of the month.

When he pulled into the gates of London Colney, the clouds were starting to break. Sunlight leaked through in patches, illuminating the frost-kissed grass and the clean white lines of the pitch.

The security guard gave him a casual wave as he rolled past the checkpoint. Francesco dipped his chin in return.

Inside, the training ground was already humming.

Players arriving one by one. Staff hauling equipment onto the pristine grass. Trainers jogging warm-up laps along the perimeter. A few academy lads were out on the smaller pitch, already in full drills.

Francesco parked beside Theo's Tesla, stepped out, and slung his bag over his shoulder.

The air smelled like cut grass, damp soil, and winter chill.

Perfect.

He walked through the doors into the players' wing—bright hallways, framed photos of Invincibles past, and a silent undercurrent of tension that hummed like a wire strung too tight.

The dressing room had that particular buzz only footballers would ever recognize—quiet enough to be focused, loud enough to be alive. The shuffle of boots across tiled floors, the hiss of zippers, the clunk of shin pads hitting benches. A low thrum of bass from someone's speaker in the corner—probably Bellerín's—rolled like ambient static under the soft hum of early morning energy.

Francesco stepped through the doorway and was met with the familiar scent of minty muscle balm and laundry detergent. The air was sharp, clean, edged with cold from the outside. But inside? Warmth, routine, purpose.

Theo was already in his base layers, lacing his boots. He looked up, gave a nod. "Mornin', champ."

Francesco tossed his bag onto his spot—third seat from the left, just beside Ramsey—and grinned. "You mean birthday champ?"

"Don't push it."

On the opposite side of the room, Giroud was fiddling with his hair in the mirror. Flamini stood beside him, holding a protein shake like it was an ancient artifact. Behind them, Nacho Monreal was joking with Gabriel Paulista in rapid-fire Spanish, while Oxlade-Chamberlain sat perched on a bench, headphones around his neck, scrolling through his phone.

Cazorla entered just as Francesco finished tugging on his training top.

"Ah! El niño dorado," Santi announced, arms out like he was calling to a stage. "The golden boy has arrived!"

"Easy," Ramsey laughed from the other side of the room. "Don't inflate his head more than it already is."

Francesco gave a mock bow. "My head's the only reason I keep winning headers over Flamini."

The Frenchman raised a hand, half-offended, half-proud. "Touche."

There was a comfort here. Not just in the routine of it all—the jerseys neatly folded on the top shelf, the staff moving like clockwork outside the frosted windows—but in the people. Francesco didn't just feel like he belonged. He felt needed. Seen.

Leaning down, he tied the laces on his boots, then sat back and let his eyes wander across the room.

Koscielny, cool and composed, talking quietly with Steve Bould near the exit.

Alexis, already shadowboxing in a corner, whispering something under his breath in Spanish—his warm-up ritual, intense and strangely poetic.

Walcott cracking a joke to the kit man about requesting golden boots "just for December."

And then there was Wenger.

The boss walked in with his long coat half-buttoned, his presence enough to settle the entire room into a lower, steadier frequency. Conversations dipped into quiet. Bellerín paused his music. Even Giroud lowered his comb.

Wenger's eyes swept the room. "Tomorrow," he said simply, "is a test of identity."

He didn't raise his voice.

He didn't need to.

"Manchester City will be physical. Structured. But also desperate. They've been chasing us. And they'll want to make a statement. What they don't understand is that we are the statement."

He paced slowly, the light from the overhead fluorescents glinting off his glasses.

"You've built something here. All of you. Brick by brick. And I will not let it be torn down by a team that still doesn't know what it wants to be."

He turned, looking at each of them. But his gaze paused just a moment longer on Francesco.

"You have earned their fear. Now remind them why."

A few nods echoed quietly. Flamini muttered something like "Let's do it" under his breath. Ramsey clenched his fists once, then stretched out his legs with a grunt. Focus returned like muscle memory.

Wenger didn't speak again. He didn't need to.

Francesco looked down at his boots—clean, red-trimmed Predators that still held a bit of Greek soil in the creases from the Olympiacos match. He flexed his toes once, rolled his shoulders, then stood.

Ramsey bumped his fist. "You ready?"

Francesco met his eyes. "Always."

Then they filed out, one by one, toward the winter air.

The pitch at Colney was slick with dew, the kind that clung to your boots like the early nerves of a big match. But it wasn't matchday yet. Just the day before. The last lap before the gun. The final stretch of calm before the storm.

Francesco jogged alongside Ramsey as they emerged onto the pristine turf. There was no music now, no crowd, no noise beyond the soft crunch of grass underfoot and the muted thump of footballs being passed around. The December sky had cleared slightly, thin ribbons of blue splitting the soft gray overhead.

"Light session today," Steve Bould called, his voice cutting through the chill. "Keep your legs fresh. Mind your knees."

Wenger stood a few paces behind him, hands in pockets, watching.

The squad split into two groups almost naturally—some circling into tight rondos, others pairing off to stretch or jog light laps. Francesco fell into a triangle with Özil and Walcott, the ball pinging between them in tidy rhythms. No tricks. No heavy bursts. Just touch, pass, move.

He loved days like this—where it wasn't about pushing your lungs to the limit, but about sharpening the knife. Feeling the ball again. Letting it live against your laces.

Özil didn't speak much. He rarely did on these days. But when he did—like now, glancing up after a no-look pass that kissed Francesco's instep—there was this deep, quiet knowing behind it.

"You ready?" Mesut asked.

Francesco nodded. "Been ready."

They kept moving, shifting the rondo tighter, sharper. Walcott giggled when he accidentally nutmegged Francesco. Francesco responded by flicking the ball back over Theo's head the next rotation. Even in training, there was joy. And something more than that.

It was rhythm. Like breathing.

Eventually, Bould whistled them into a slow jog around the perimeter. No sprints today. Just circulation. Keep the blood moving. Keep the mind clean.

As they jogged, Giroud sidled up beside Francesco, long strides easy in the cold. "You score tomorrow," he said between breaths, "I'll buy you dinner."

"You always say that," Francesco replied with a smirk.

"And I always do."

They finished with light ball-control drills—short touches, one-twos, moving through mannequins like ghosts. Then a few minutes of free shooting near the top of the box. Francesco struck a low curler with his left that tucked into the far corner. Ramsey applauded quietly.

"No rust," Aaron said.

"None," Francesco replied.

Wenger gave a short wave then, beckoning them toward the facility. "Tactical room. Let's move."

The players peeled away from the pitch in pairs and trios, wiping sweat from their brows, toweling off their faces. A few trainers handed out isotonic drinks. Flamini took two. Alexis had already zipped his jacket halfway before they stepped into the building.

The tactical room was warm. Soft lighting overhead. Leather seats arranged in rows around a massive digital display. A flatscreen the size of a cinema wall had been queued up with footage—clips from recent City games, a digital model of the Emirates pitch, data overlays blinking in the corners.

Wenger stood near the front with Bould at his side, arms crossed. The gaffer's expression was composed, not harsh—but focused. Razor focused.

As the players filed in and found their seats, Wenger waited. Only once the room had settled, once even Bellerín had tucked away his water bottle, did he speak.

"Manchester City," he began, his voice smooth, deliberate, "will not come here to play beautiful football. Not tomorrow. Tomorrow, they will come to survive."

The screen behind him flashed—slow-motion replays of City's most recent outing, a narrow 2–1 win against Swansea. Then clips of their draw with Leicester, and the full collapse they'd suffered against Liverpool a few weeks prior.

"Without Kompany," Wenger said, pointing toward a defensive clip where Mangala lost his marker on a corner, "they are not organized. Otamendi is aggressive, yes, but undisciplined. Sagna and Kolarov—still excellent on the ball—but both can be caught high up the pitch."

He tapped a button. The screen changed—now a bird's-eye animation of Arsenal's expected shape.

"Francesco," Wenger said, and the youngster's name echoed with quiet weight. "You will start on the right, tucked inside. Kante, Cazorla, and Özil will rotate with you. We're not looking for width tomorrow—we're looking to overload Fernandinho and force Yaya Touré into recovery runs. He does not like running backwards."

Francesco nodded, watching his dot flicker on the diagram, interchanging with Özil and Alexis like a triangle on fast-forward.

"Giroud will occupy Otamendi physically. That's the point of pressure. But the real damage," Wenger said, clicking to the next slide—a heatmap of Francesco's movement in the Olympiacos game—"comes when we isolate their full-backs."

The image pulsed red and orange where Francesco had drifted between the center and left half-space, exactly where Kolarov liked to push up.

"You will find the gaps behind him. You only need one run. One angle."

On the far side of the room, Bould added in a low voice, "And don't give De Bruyne time on the ball. Press him early. Force him to play backward."

Wenger nodded. "They want control. Deny them control. They want time. Deny them time."

He turned toward the squad.

"We play fast. We play forward. We do not let them breathe."

He let the silence hang, just long enough.

Then he clicked off the screen. The lights returned to full brightness.

"You've all earned this match," he said. "Now win it."

The room remained still for a beat.

Then Walcott clapped his hands together once. "Let's ruin their day before Christmas, boys."

Laughter. Tension broke.

Francesco stood, the play still unfolding in his mind like a film reel. His runs. His angles. The weight of the ball as Özil slid it through. The crack of leather on laces. The swell of the Emirates.

He turned to Ramsey. "We do this right," he said, "we go into Christmas top."

Ramsey nodded. "And stay there."

They filed out of the tactical room, minds brimming, bodies still fresh. There was nothing left to do now but trust the work.

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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: 25

Goal: 34

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