The King Of Arsenal

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And above them all, in Box 17, a dozen hearts were still thumping to the rhythm of a boy in red, running toward their joy.

The final whistle echoed like punctuation—sharp and conclusive—yet even as it rang out over the Emirates, Francesco Lee felt the match still reverberating through his body.

Sweat clung to the back of his neck beneath his training jacket, the adrenaline just beginning to fade, but the noise hadn't left him. Neither had the looks—the awe in the kids' eyes from Box 17, the grin on Özil's face after that goal, the brief, approving hug from Arsène.

Francesco leaned back against the dugout, towel still around his shoulders, when a voice called from behind him.

"Francesco! Excuse me—Premier League media. You've been named Man of the Match."

He turned.

A woman in a grey Premier League coat approached, holding a wireless microphone and smiling warmly.

"You've got a quick post-match with Sky, then a couple of stills with the award before you head in."

Francesco nodded, exhaling through his nose. He stood, rolled his shoulders once to shake off the stiffness, then followed her toward the touchline where the Sky Sports setup had been wheeled into place just beside the tunnel entrance.

The interviewer waiting for him was familiar—Simon Thomas. Trim suit, sharp tie, the kind of camera-ready polish that made him look like he never really broke a sweat.

As the mic was handed over and the red light blinked to life atop the camera, Simon offered a quick handshake and a grin.

"Francesco—congratulations. A hat trick, five-nil, and a standing ovation at the Emirates. I'd say that's not a bad day at the office."

Francesco chuckled, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead.

"Not bad at all," he said. His voice was calm, almost subdued, but the smile never left his face.

Simon tilted his head. "Let's start with the performance—both yours and the team's. After a frustrating draw against Southampton just two days ago, how satisfying was it to respond like this?"

Francesco shifted slightly, glancing toward the pitch behind them. Groundskeepers were already moving in with rollers and pitch forks, erasing the war lines.

"It was important," he said slowly, measuring his words. "After Southampton, we all felt it—we'd lost a bit of momentum. It wasn't just about the draw, it was the way we drew. We didn't play at the level we expect from ourselves."

He met Simon's gaze again, eyes steady.

"Today was about showing that we're still here. Still focused. We know what's at stake this season."

Simon nodded. "Another hat trick in an Arsenal shirt. But this one—at the Emirates, with those solo runs—it felt… electric. Did you feel it too?"

Francesco's smile deepened. "Honestly? Yeah. You do feel it. When the crowd reacts like that, when the touches start to land and you've got teammates making space—it's like you're in the right rhythm. The ball's just… talking to you. And you listen."

Simon laughed at that, clearly delighted.

"Talk us through that third goal—the solo effort. You danced through three defenders. That must be up there with your favorites?"

Francesco took a moment, recalling the run in slow detail.

"I had space. I saw Ramsey make the switch early, and I knew if I could beat Smith, there'd be a lane. Once I got through, it was instinct. You can't really plan for a goal like that—your body just takes over."

He paused, then added with a slight glance up toward the West Stand, "And I knew where to celebrate it."

Simon followed his gaze briefly, then smiled knowingly.

"We saw the gesture toward the VIP box. A heart over the chest. That was for…?"

Francesco didn't hesitate. "Some very special guests. We had a group of kids from Islington up there today. Tough backgrounds. Big hearts. I visited them not long ago, and… well, sometimes you get to give something back. A goal is one thing, but if it can mean more to someone watching—if it can lift them for even a moment—that's worth everything."

There was a pause. Not awkward. Reverent.

Simon broke it gently. "Beautifully said."

He glanced at the camera, then held up the burgundy Man of the Match plaque.

"Well, here it is—another one for the shelf. Francesco Lee, Premier League Man of the Match."

Francesco accepted the award with both hands, eyes briefly scanning the words etched into the plaque. There were dozens of these in his home by now, but each still carried its own story.

The cameraman signaled the cut, and the red light winked off.

Simon relaxed. "Class interview, mate. Thanks for that."

"Anytime," Francesco replied with a nod.

The Sky team stepped aside for the league photographers to get their shots—Francesco holding the award, then one with a young fan who'd been allowed onto the pitch with a make-a-wish lanyard and trembling hands. Francesco knelt beside him, handed him the match ball, and whispered something that made the boy's face light up like Christmas.

After the last camera flashed, he turned back toward the tunnel, still holding the match ball close. A steward opened the barrier gate for him.

"Cheers," Francesco said with a nod.

The corridor inside was quiet—just the low whirr of ventilation and the faint echo of celebration from the home dressing room deeper inside. His boots tapped against the concrete floor in rhythmic strides.

At the dressing room entrance, he paused.

The door was ajar, warm light spilling out. Inside, laughter and music greeted him. Özil was sitting on the massage table with his boots off, grinning as Koscielny mimicked Giroud's theatrical backward flick from the fourth goal. Everyone was loose now, relaxed in a way that only a dominant win could allow.

As Francesco stepped inside, a small cheer erupted.

"Eyyyy, hat-trick hero!" Walcott called.

"Oi, Francesco!" Ramsey chimed in. "You've made me look like Iniesta with that assist!"

Francesco grinned, dropped the match ball gently into his locker, and shrugged out of his damp training jacket.

"Can't score 'em if no one gives me the ball," he said. "So… thanks for the gift wrap."

Özil raised a bottle of electrolyte water in salute. "To Francesco. The only man who makes defenders look like training cones and still finds time to make a heart sign mid-sprint."

"Multitasking," Francesco deadpanned, prompting a round of laughter.

Wenger stepped in soon after, his expression relaxed but sharp.

"Well done, all of you," he began, voice calm but resonant. "Today wasn't just about goals. It was about character. Mental response. We were disappointed after Southampton—but we didn't sulk. We responded like champions."

His gaze swept across the room.

"We have Newcastle in four days. Don't lose this edge."

The room murmured assent.

As the players began changing, swapping stories of the match in bursts and fragments—"Did you see the spin Ramsey pulled on Arter?" "That turn from Özil—man, he paused time"—Francesco sat quietly for a moment, unwrapping his strapping tape, the match ball resting near his feet.

Francesco sat still for a moment longer, breathing in the warmth of the room. Banter flew around him like a pinball—light, fast, joyful. The air in the dressing room was damp with sweat and victory and the sharp tang of liniment, but it felt like oxygen.

He peeled off the last strip of tape from his shin, flicking it into the bin beneath his bench. A slow exhale left his lungs. The match ball sat at his feet like a loyal companion.

Hat trick.

Heart gesture.

Man of the Match.

But his mind wasn't stuck on the stats. It was already drifting upward, to the West Stand, to the high-glass front of Box 17 and the faces that had been pressed there all game. Jamie's fists in the air. Rosie jumping up and down. Margaret wiping her cheeks. Leah, smiling like the cold didn't matter.

He stood, scooped up a towel, and headed for the showers.

The corridor beyond the changing room was still warm, the tiles humming with heat as jets of steaming water pounded off skin and concrete. He didn't talk. Didn't think much. Just let the heat wash over him, the sting of the game leaving his muscles with every drop.

The roar of the crowd still echoed faintly in his head—thousands of voices folding over one another like waves, chanting his name, celebrating the art of it, the story of it. But beneath all that was something simpler.

They had watched him.

The kids had watched him.

And for ninety minutes, he hadn't just played for the crest on his chest.

He'd played for them.

When he finally stepped out of the showers, towel knotted at his waist and steam clinging to his shoulders, he felt… calm. Not depleted. Not euphoric. Just balanced.

Whole.

He dried off in practiced motions, then dressed slowly—compression layer first, then the red-trimmed Arsenal training polo, zipped black tracksuit trousers, white socks pulled up crisp. He slipped his feet into his sliders, tossed his used gear into the laundry cart, and reached for his phone and match ball.

Then he paused.

The room behind him was still full of life—laughter and claps and the occasional curse as someone playfully tossed a boot too far—but he angled toward the gaffer's office instead. One quick knock on the side door.

"Come," Wenger's voice called.

Francesco stepped in.

Wenger was seated behind his desk, jacket unzipped, tie loosened. A paper cup of tea steamed on the corner of the desk beside a stack of tactical printouts. The room smelled faintly of mint and something earthy—bergamot, maybe.

"Francesco," he said, lifting his eyes. "That was a joy to watch."

"Merci, boss," Francesco replied, standing just inside the door.

Wenger gave him a faint smile. "You've got that look. What is it?"

"I was wondering…" Francesco shifted the match ball under his arm, "…if I could head up to the West Stand for a bit. Box 17. The kids from Islington are still up there. I promised I'd say hello properly after the match. If it's alright with you."

Wenger regarded him for a moment.

The room went quiet, the kind of stillness only Wenger could summon.

Then he nodded. "Of course."

"Thank you."

Francesco turned to go, but the manager added, "Take your time. There are things more important than cooldowns and pressers."

Francesco glanced back. "You mean like match balls and orphans?"

Wenger's eyes twinkled. "Something like that."

The journey to the West Stand felt different now.

He moved through the Emirates not as a player escaping the pitch, but as someone returning to something unfinished. He passed staff who offered nods, congratulations, soft claps on the shoulder. Security let him through every checkpoint without question. A few lingered just long enough to say, "That last goal, mate—wow."

He rode the private elevator up to Level 3, the plush-carpeted corridor quieter now, though still gently buzzing with post-match life. Waiters rolled out trays of leftover canapés, families trickled out of suites with scarves and half-full flutes of champagne.

Box 17 was at the far end, past the Arsenal legends display wall. He heard them before he saw them.

"Jamie, not so close to the glass—"

"But he saw me! He pointed!"

"And I told you, sweetheart, don't swing the beanie like that, you'll knock someone's cocoa—"

Francesco stepped through the sliding glass door as Jamie and Rosie half-collided near the front row, just as Leah turned and froze in mid-sentence.

"Hi," Francesco said softly, smiling.

For half a second, the entire box froze.

Then chaos.

"Francesco!"

"HE'S HERE!"

"Oh my god!"

Jamie launched toward him first, arms wide, beanie halfway down his forehead. Rosie wasn't far behind, shrieking in delight. Even Ellis, the smallest of them, toddled forward holding Margaret's hand with wide, wondering eyes.

Francesco crouched just in time to catch Jamie and Rosie together, one arm wrapping each of them.

"You came!" Rosie beamed, cheeks flushed pink from excitement.

"You said you would, but I thought maybe you'd forget," Jamie added quickly.

"I don't forget promises," Francesco said. "Especially not to you lot."

Leah moved more slowly, arms folded lightly, her eyes watching him with a warmth that hadn't dulled in the cold.

"You're going to make us all look bad," she said with a smile. "Man of the Match, hat trick, and now personal meet-and-greet service?"

He stood, grinning. "I aim to please."

Margaret had tears in her eyes again, though she pretended they were from the wind. "They'll talk about this for years, Francesco. You don't know what this means to them."

"I think I do," he said softly. "Because it means something to me, too."

He turned and placed the match ball on the lounge table in the center of the box.

"That's for all of you," he said. "We scored it together, didn't we?"

There was a stunned silence—then even more chaos.

"WE GET THE BALL?!"

"No way!"

Rosie clutched it like it was made of gold. Jamie began peppering Francesco with questions: "How fast were you running when you scored the third?" "What did Özil say to you after the assist?" "Did you really see us cheering up here?"

Francesco answered them all with a lightness in his voice, half-laughing, half-listening, fully present.

Then, at one point, Leah touched his arm gently.

"Want to step out for a second?" she asked.

He nodded.

They moved to the private outdoor terrace just behind the main seats, the stadium now quiet below them—empty, open, softly lit in twilight gold.

The wind brushed through Leah's hair. She tucked it behind her ear and glanced up at him.

"They adore you," she said.

"I'm glad."

"You didn't have to do all this."

"I did." He looked out over the pitch, then back at her. "Because they believed in something tonight. And I needed to show them it's real."

Leah was quiet for a moment.

Then: "I saw the heart."

He smiled, a little crookedly. "I meant it."

She studied him with that same calm intensity she'd had the first time they met, the day at the orphanage when he'd first kicked a ball around with Jamie on gravel and laughed over hot cocoa with Rosie.

"I know," she said quietly.

Another silence, longer this time—but not awkward. Not heavy.

Then Jamie banged on the glass.

"Leah! He's showing us how to juggle it with your knees! Come on!"

She laughed. Francesco opened the door for her, motioning gallantly.

"After you."

They stayed until nearly every other box had emptied. Francesco showed Jamie and Rosie how to spin the ball on a fingertip. Margaret insisted on taking a dozen group photos. The catering team brought leftover finger food, and Rosie made Francesco try every single mini tart.

Eventually, when security gently reminded them the stadium was closing up, Francesco helped Leah gather coats and cups and scarves.

"Will you visit again?" Rosie asked, clinging to his leg.

"Every chance I get," Francesco promised.

Jamie stuck out his hand—serious, like a captain. "Thanks for scoring that one just for us."

Francesco shook it solemnly. "Wouldn't have done it without you yelling your lungs out."

Leah, at the back of the group, met his eyes once more as the children headed toward the elevator.

"Thank you, Francesco."

He nodded. "I'll see you soon."

"Count on it."

She smiled. Then she was gone, ushering the kids down the corridor.

He stood there a moment longer after they were gone, alone in the quiet corridor outside Box 17, the last of the warmth from their voices still lingering in the air.

The stillness of the stadium felt different now. Not empty—just… resting. Like a theatre after curtain call.

Francesco inhaled once, deep and full, then turned and walked back toward the private lift.

As the doors slid open and he stepped inside, his reflection caught in the mirror-finished interior. Tracksuit slightly rumpled, hair damp from the post-shower rush, match ball no longer in hand. He looked down at his empty palms and smiled faintly.

He didn't need the ball.

The night was already his.

By the time he made it back to the dressing room, the buzz had mellowed into a soft aftermath. Players were packing up, physios stacking towels, the kit staff hauling plastic bins of laundry. A few stragglers—Walcott, still laughing at something Ramsey had said; Ox, bouncing a loose ball between his knees—lingered, but most were already half-changed or sliding on jackets.

Francesco walked quietly to his locker, nodding a few farewells along the way.

He crouched, unzipped his duffle bag, and began moving through the familiar motions—folding his polo, slipping his boots into the protective sleeve, tucking in his water bottle and headphones. The match-worn kit had already been taken for laundering, so all that remained was the fresh change: a wool-lined Arsenal coat, thick socks, black joggers.

As he zipped the bag shut, he caught Özil watching him from across the room, sitting on the edge of the massage table.

"You alright?" Mesut asked.

Francesco nodded. "Yeah. Just… full."

Özil tilted his head slightly. "Of what?"

Francesco thought for a second, then smiled.

"Everything."

Özil grinned back, then stood and hoisted his own bag over his shoulder. "Come on. The bus'll leave without you if you keep being poetic."

Francesco chuckled softly and slung his bag onto one shoulder, heading toward the tunnel with the rest.

The air outside the stadium was sharp and clean now—London winter at full strength. The team bus waited just beyond the players' entrance, its interior lights casting a warm glow out onto the concrete. Security was light but tight: a few staff in yellow vests, a line of parked sponsor cars, and a pair of cameras capturing a few parting shots from a distance.

Francesco joined the quiet shuffle of bodies boarding the coach—some players chatting in small clusters, others already wired into their headphones, eyes drooping from post-match fatigue.

He moved to the middle rows, where he usually sat—window seat, left side, third row from the back. Özil slid in beside him without asking, pulling out his phone as the coach's diesel engine rumbled to life.

Across the aisle, Giroud and Koscielny were in a deep discussion—something about spacing on set pieces. Ahead of them, Ox and Iwobi were locked in a mobile game, trash talk exchanged in exaggerated whispers.

Francesco leaned his head against the window.

The glass was cool against his temple. Outside, the Emirates slowly receded—glowing softly in the rearview mirror of his mind. The hum of the engine and the low bass of chatter surrounded him like a lullaby.

The kind of quiet that followed something extraordinary.

As the bus turned onto Holloway Road, streetlights slipped across his face in intervals, painting it with amber and shadow. He stared out at the city—his city now, in more ways than one—rolling past in soft motion. Shopfronts, empty benches, late buses, the shimmer of post-rain asphalt.

"You ever think about what comes after this?" Özil asked quietly beside him.

Francesco blinked. "After what?"

"Games like that. Nights like this."

Francesco turned to him, then shrugged. "Not really. I don't want to spoil it by thinking too far ahead."

Mesut nodded, as if that was enough.

Then: "You were brilliant tonight."

Francesco glanced at him. "You too."

They left it at that.

By the time they rolled through the gates at Colney, the players were quieter—some half-asleep, others buried in playlists. The training ground was lit minimally at night, just enough to guide the bus through the entrance and toward the back lot.

No fans waited at this hour. No press. Just the cold, and the echo of footsteps on pavement.

The bus hissed as it came to a halt.

Francesco stood, stretching gently before grabbing his duffle. He was one of the last to step off.

As he descended the stairs, the cold slapped him properly for the first time.

"Ugh," Ox muttered ahead of him. "You'd think we'd get a heat lamp out here."

Francesco smiled faintly, shoulders hunched slightly against the chill, and followed the flow of players toward the main building.

A few peeled off for the physio's office. Others for the dormitories. Francesco wasn't staying overnight—he had his car parked in the lot—but he lingered near the entrance a while, talking softly with Hector and Gibbs, who were planning to meet up for coffee the next morning.

Eventually, he broke away, heading toward his car with a slower stride.

He'd parked under the far lamppost—half on purpose, half by habit. The light there always flickered a little, but it meant he got the walk back, alone. A little ritual to close the chapter.

He unlocked the car, tossed his bag into the back seat, and sat down behind the wheel.

For a long moment, he just sat there—engine off, heater not yet engaged—watching the empty field beyond the trees sway faintly in the wind.

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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: 28

Goal: 40

Assist: 6

MOTM: 4

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9