The King Of Arsenal

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Francesco reached for the remote with his free hand and muted the screen. Let the silence fall again—not empty this time, but full. Full of what had been said, and what didn't need saying anymore.

The days rolled by like slow, golden honey—the kind of days that didn't rush but rather unfolded, gently and steadily, like music in a quiet room.

After that night on the couch, with the fire crackling and the rom-com still glowing dimly on the muted screen, Francesco and Leah had fallen into a rhythm. Mornings were quiet, often beginning with tea and the sound of wind brushing through the trees outside his Richmond estate. Sometimes Leah trained with the Arsenal Women's squad, sometimes she had rest days. Francesco returned to Colney for light drills and tactical sessions, the coaching staff cautious not to overload players during the congested holiday period.

But through all the days—between matches, training, interviews, team meetings—Francesco kept coming home to her.

To quiet conversations. To movie nights. To shared breakfasts and long walks through Richmond Park with wool scarves and gloved hands intertwined.

And then the calendar turned again.

December 31st, 2015. New Year's Eve.

The morning light poured gently through the bay windows of Francesco's kitchen, streaking across the marble countertops and dancing against the surface of his coffee mug. He stood barefoot on the warm hardwood floor, sipping from a mug that said "Gooner for Life," watching the garden sway outside in soft grey wind.

Leah came down the stairs in one of his oversized sweatshirts, hair still slightly damp from the shower, rubbing her eyes as she stepped into the kitchen. Her feet made no sound against the floor as she padded over and leaned against the counter next to him.

"Mmm… smells like actual adulthood in here," she muttered sleepily.

Francesco smiled and passed her a mug he'd just poured. "It's just coffee."

"Still," she said, taking a sip and sighing. "You, kitchen, sunrise, coffee. You're basically a Pinterest board."

Francesco turned, leaning one hip against the counter, watching her fondly. "I was thinking," he began.

"That's dangerous," she teased.

He smirked. "I was thinking… since it's New Year's Eve, why don't we make tonight special?"

Leah raised an eyebrow, curious. "How special?"

"A dinner. Here. Just family. You invite yours, I'll invite mine. Keep it warm and simple. Something about saying goodbye to the year properly… and starting the new one with people who matter."

Leah blinked, then lowered her mug slightly, surprised—but not in a bad way. "You want our families to meet?"

He nodded. "I want them to see what we see. And… it's time."

She tilted her head, studying him with that same calm, measuring gaze she always gave when something really mattered. And then her lips softened into a smile.

"Okay," she said. "I'll call Mum."

Francesco leaned in and kissed her forehead. "I'll call mine too."

Leah took her phone into the living room while Francesco stayed in the kitchen, chopping apples for a winter salad and glancing occasionally out the window.

It didn't take long.

From the other room, he heard Leah's warm voice—half laughing, half negotiating.

"Mum. Yes, I promise. It's not a big thing. Just us and his parents. No, you don't need to bring anything. No, I won't let him serve you takeaway. Mum—stop it. He can actually cook. Yes, I'll tell him you want wine. Red, not white. Got it. Okay. Love you. See you tonight."

She reappeared a moment later, tucking her phone into the pocket of his hoodie.

"She's in," Leah said. "She's bringing my little brother too. I told her not to fuss."

"Good," Francesco said, placing the apples in a bowl. "I'll text Mum."

He grabbed his phone and typed quickly:

Hey Mum, hey Dad—can you both come to the house tonight for New Year's Eve? Just a small family dinner. Leah's inviting her family too. Would mean a lot.

It took only a minute before the reply came.

Sarah: Of course, sweetheart! We'd love to. What time? And do you want me to bring dessert?

Mike: Finally! I've been waiting for a chance to meet the girl parent's who's got you walking around like a poet.

Francesco grinned and looked at Leah. "They're coming."

Leah raised her mug in a mock toast. "To us hosting New Year's dinner. Let's not burn anything."

"I'll have you know," Francesco replied, grabbing a notepad and scribbling down a list, "I've successfully cooked salmon for three consecutive humans before."

"Three?" she gasped. "A legend."

He rolled his eyes, laughing. "Come on, sous-chef. We've got work to do."

The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind of low jazz on the kitchen speakers, bursts of laughter, chopping boards, flour-smeared sleeves, and the occasional intermission where one of them leaned in just to kiss the other mid-task.

Leah called her brother Jacob, who groaned about having to wear a proper shirt and then immediately asked if Francesco had "any spare boots lying around." Francesco promised he'd dig through the storage room for a signed pair.

Mike texted at noon asking if he should bring a bottle of Champagne or "the weird Polish vodka from Uncle Henry's trip to Krakow." Francesco responded, "Champagne. Let's keep it civil."

Sarah messaged Leah personally with a warm: "Can't wait to meet you, love. My son lights up differently when he talks about you." That left Leah standing in the kitchen, cheeks flushed, phone pressed to her chest.

As the sun dipped and Richmond glowed in late-winter dusk, the house began to transform.

Candles were placed on the long oak dining table. Plates were set—ivory china with gold trim, passed down from Francesco's grandparents. Soft linen napkins. Silver cutlery. Leah arranged small vases of fresh rosemary and white camellias for a centerpiece, while Francesco made sure the stereo system was queued with a playlist of soft jazz and nostalgic New Year's classics.

The kitchen buzzed with motion and warmth as the afternoon light gave way to evening glow. The winter dusk painted the windows in soft mauve, but inside the Richmond mansion, everything was alive with motion—fragrant, bright, quietly joyful.

Francesco stood at the far counter, brow furrowed in intense concentration as he adjusted the oven temperature. He was wearing a dark apron with a small Arsenal crest stitched near the chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with cracked black pepper and thyme. On the cutting board in front of him sat two fresh salmon fillets—pink, plump, and delicately scored with a diamond pattern to absorb the marinade.

Leah, across the island, was just as focused but with a different rhythm. She was dicing shallots at a pace that suggested this wasn't her first dinner party rodeo. Her side of the counter was an organized chaos of ingredients—baby potatoes already roasting in rosemary oil, green beans trimmed and blanching in salted water, a mixing bowl of lemon-zested yogurt for dipping, and another of arugula, figs, and crumbled feta waiting to be tossed.

"So," she said between cuts, "how nervous are you right now?"

Francesco glanced up from the salmon, lips curving in a crooked smile. "About the dinner?"

"About hosting both our parents at the same time," she clarified, wiping her hands on a towel. "That's peak pressure."

He chuckled softly. "I mean, the salmon might dry out and I might spill the wine, but… I think we'll survive."

Leah raised a brow. "What if my mum brings up the time I tried to dye my hair purple with blackberry juice?"

Francesco's eyes lit up. "She's definitely bringing that up."

"She's absolutely bringing that up," Leah muttered, grinning as she poured the blanched green beans into a bowl and tossed them in garlic butter and toasted almonds. "Do I still have time to fake food poisoning?"

He turned back to his prep, rubbing a blend of lemon zest, cracked pepper, sea salt, and crushed garlic across the salmon's surface. "Nope. You're stuck with me."

As he reached for a sprig of fresh dill to finish the herb crust, his hand paused, and he glanced toward the rack of bottles tucked into the wooden alcove above the wine fridge.

"Oh—almost forgot." He stepped away from the counter and crouched near the rack. "Red wine. Your mum prefers it, yeah?"

"Cabernet Sauvignon, if we've got it," Leah replied. "And not too heavy. She'll say it gives her headaches."

Francesco ran his fingers over the labels. "2009 Château Montrose. Should work."

Leah whistled lowly. "That's a bit fancy, isn't it?"

"It's New Year's. And your mum," Francesco said, standing and holding the bottle like a small treasure. "She deserves it."

He grabbed a clean decanter and began to pour carefully, the rich ruby liquid catching the light in soft ribbons. The scent lifted into the air—deep, velvety, with notes of blackberry and something gently spiced. He set it aside with a proud little flourish, then turned back to the salmon.

"So what happens if this comes out dry?" he asked, only half-joking as he placed the fillets onto the preheated pan and slid them into the oven.

"Then we order pizza," Leah said, already stirring the potatoes. "But you're not going to burn it."

"You say that like you've seen me succeed before."

"I have," she replied, grinning at him. "When you made that mushroom risotto last month, remember? I genuinely thought about proposing."

Francesco snorted. "You hated the plating."

"I said it looked like an 'ambitious puddle.' That's not hate."

"Harsh critique, same difference."

They were quiet for a while after that, both lost in the rhythm of dinner prep. Leah chopped fresh parsley for garnish, humming faintly to herself as she checked the roasted potatoes—golden brown, crispy at the edges. Francesco seared a pan of cherry tomatoes in olive oil, tossing them in with shallots and the drippings from the salmon's marinade.

Every so often, their eyes met. They didn't need to say much.

They were building something.

Not just a dinner, not just a party.

A table. A ritual. A memory.

A home.

Leah carefully laid out the side dishes—stacked roast potatoes with herbs, the garlic green beans, a beetroot and citrus salad she'd dressed with honey and red wine vinegar, and a dish of warm bread from the bakery down the road.

Francesco slid the salmon from the oven just as the doorbell rang.

"Moment of truth," he said, lifting the pan and testing the flake with a fork. Perfect—still pink and tender in the middle, edges crisped from the herb crust.

Leah peeked at it and gave a nod of approval. "You did it."

He raised a mock fist. "Michelin star when?"

Francesco had just finished garnishing the salmon with a final sprig of fresh dill when Leah, wiping her hands on her apron, stepped closer and gave him a look. Not a warning, exactly, but something close—a flicker of amusement mixed with a twinge of caution.

"Okay," she said, leaning in so her voice wouldn't carry beyond the kitchen. "Quick heads-up."

Francesco turned to her, lowering the pan onto a cork trivet. "What's up?"

Leah bit her bottom lip, trying not to laugh. "Just… be a little careful with my dad and Jacob."

He raised an eyebrow, already sensing where this was going. "Careful?"

She nodded, folding her arms. "They're both Spurs fans."

Francesco blinked.

Then blinked again.

"You're kidding."

"Wish I was," she replied, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Dad's from North London but grew up on the wrong side of the rivalry. Jacob followed him like a loyal little duckling."

Francesco looked genuinely wounded. "Your brother—Jacob, the one who begged me for signed boots last week—is a Tottenham supporter?"

"Yep."

"But your mum's Arsenal."

"She's got taste."

"And you…"

Leah gave him a deadpan look. "I play for Arsenal, Francesco."

He held his hands up in mock surrender. "Right, right. Just—my world's shaken a little here."

She smirked and leaned against the counter. "Dad's not too bad about it. He likes to talk football, and he'll probably say something slightly inflammatory to test you, but it's not personal. And Jacob's just a teenage wind-up merchant—if he starts going on about 'Harry Kane's golden boot,' just ignore him."

Francesco placed a hand dramatically on his chest. "What if I burst into flames from proximity?"

"Then I'll save you," she said, grabbing a tea towel and tossing it at him playfully. "But just… don't mention the North London Derby unless you want a spirited debate before dessert."

"Got it," he said, eyes twinkling with amusement. "No Derbies. No Kane. No mocking their trophy cabinet—"

"Definitely don't do that," Leah warned, laughing now.

Footsteps echoed down the front walk, followed by the sound of voices—Amanda's soft timbre, Jacob's louder teenage grumble, and another male voice, deeper, tinged with that unmistakable Tottenham-born drawl.

"They're here," Leah said, glancing toward the front door. "Brace yourself."

Francesco stepped back and smoothed his apron, glancing once at the table and then at the wine. Everything looked perfect. More importantly, it felt welcoming.

He turned toward Leah, his voice soft but honest.

"Thanks for warning me."

She smiled and kissed his cheek. "You'll survive. Just don't serve them raw salmon."

Then she disappeared toward the front hall, the scent of rosemary and garlic trailing after her as Francesco took a deep breath and followed, ready to greet the family who would help him and Leah close out the year—and start something even better.

The front door creaked open just as the winter wind gave a playful tug at the edges of Leah's coat. She stepped onto the front porch of the Richmond estate and smiled when she saw her mum, Amanda, leading the way up the path in a long navy peacoat and a crimson scarf that Leah had knitted for her the previous Christmas. Behind her, Jacob walked with both hands buried in the pockets of his grey hoodie, his hair slightly windswept and his shoes scuffing along the flagstone walkway. To their right, a tall man walked with the confident gait of someone who had once played amateur football and still thought of himself as having a good first touch. Leah knew that walk anywhere—her dad, David.

"God, this place is massive," Jacob muttered as they got closer, his breath visible in the cold. "Are we sure we're not at the wrong mansion?"

"Shush," Amanda said, elbowing him lightly without looking. "It's lovely."

David let out a low whistle. "He's a Gooner, but he's clearly doing well for himself."

Leah stepped forward, arms open. "Mum!"

Amanda's face lit up. "There's my girl."

They embraced tightly on the porch, Leah clinging to her for a few seconds longer than she normally might. Her mum still smelled like lavender and eucalyptus and warm cinnamon—like home.

"You look beautiful," Amanda said softly, brushing her thumb along Leah's cheek. "You sure about letting us in? It's not too late to pretend we got lost on the way."

Leah laughed and turned to hug her father next.

"Hi, Dad."

David hugged her back, a bit more restrained but no less sincere. "You sure he's ready for me and Jacob in the same room?"

"I warned him," she said with a grin.

"That poor boy," David muttered.

"Oi!" Jacob said, stepping forward and hugging his sister more quickly. "Do you think he'll give me a pair of boots tonight?"

Leah tousled his hair. "Try asking after dinner. When he's full and happy."

Just as she was turning to lead them inside, the crunch of tires on gravel pulled her attention toward the drive again. Headlights swept across the hedgerow as another car turned slowly onto the path—sleek and dark, the familiar silhouette of Mike Lee's Jaguar XF.

Leah's smile grew warmer as she stepped aside.

"Looks like your parents are here too," Amanda said gently.

Francesco appeared at the door just as Mike pulled up. His hair was slightly tousled from the heat of the kitchen, and he was still wearing his apron over a white button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves, looking every bit the picture of a host caught mid-dinner prep.

He stepped down the porch stairs with a wide smile and jokingly said. "Evening! You must be Amanda."

Amanda stepped forward to meet him, taking his outstretched hand with both of hers. "And you must be the charming young man who's had my daughter smiling into her tea every morning."

Francesco laughed. "Guilty. Come inside—please, it's freezing."

As he helped them with their coats and ushered them through the wide oak doors, Mike and Sarah were already stepping out of their car at the other end of the path.

Sarah wore a deep forest green coat with a tan shawl collar, her smile already wide with anticipation. Mike, in a dark wool coat and simple scarf, waved toward the door as soon as he spotted Francesco.

"Hey!" he called. "There's my boy!"

Francesco turned, something light flickering across his face—relief, warmth, that quiet love reserved for parents who'd seen it all.

"Mum! Dad!" he called, jogging down the steps to meet them.

Sarah pulled him into a tight hug before he could even get a word out. "We're miss you," she whispered.

Mike clapped his son on the back with a grin. "Nice to meet you buddy."

Francesco chuckled. "Nice to meet you too dad."

He walked them back toward the porch, where Leah stood with her family, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her eyes meeting his with something soft and proud.

"Mum, Dad—this is Leah's mum, Amanda, her dad, David, and her younger brother, Jacob."

There was a polite shuffle of hellos, firm handshakes, and exchanged smiles. Sarah greeted Amanda like an old friend, immediately launching into a warm compliment about Leah's work ethic and how it reminded her of Francesco's tenacity as a boy. Mike and David shook hands like men with just enough suspicion of one another to keep things interesting.

"You're a Spurs man?" Mike asked, eyeing David's navy scarf.

"Born and bred," David replied coolly. "But I promise to behave."

"No promises needed," Mike said with a grin. "We're here to celebrate, not debate."

Inside, the house buzzed with a quiet, golden energy.

Francesco helped Amanda and Sarah hang their coats while Leah led Jacob into the living room and handed him a glass of cranberry punch. David and Mike followed slowly, eyes sweeping the space in appreciation—bookshelves lined with old hardcovers, tasteful art on the walls, and the faint sound of jazz playing from the dining room speaker.

Francesco rejoined Leah at the kitchen island, where the salmon rested under foil, still warm.

"Alright," he whispered. "They haven't fought yet."

"Give it ten minutes," she whispered back.

He handed her the salad bowl. "Table's ready. Shall we?"

She nodded and took the bowl with both hands, carefully placing it at the center of the long wooden dining table where six places had been set with ivory plates and gold-rimmed glasses. A vase of rosemary and white camellias sat beside a pair of flickering candles, and the red wine Amanda preferred had already been poured and was breathing in a crystal decanter near her seat.

Francesco brought the salmon, placing it down with quiet pride. Leah followed with the sides—potatoes, green beans, beetroot salad, and still-warm bread.

The parents found their seats naturally, like they'd done this before. Amanda beside Sarah, already mid-conversation about Leah's recent match against Chelsea. Mike and David flanked the far ends of the table, trading light jabs about football managers while Jacob made a show of sniffing the wine like a sommelier.

Francesco stood at the head of the table, Leah beside him, and lifted his glass.

"I know we're all from different backgrounds," he began, "and some of us have very, very questionable taste in clubs—" he nodded toward Jacob, who stuck out his tongue, "—but I wanted to say how grateful I am that we could all be here tonight."

He looked toward Leah, and his smile softened. "This year's had its challenges. But it also brought me something… someone I didn't expect. Someone who makes everything brighter."

Leah's cheeks flushed pink, but she didn't look away.

"To family," Francesco finished. "The ones we're born with, and the ones we choose."

"To family," everyone echoed, glasses clinking gently under the soft light.

As the first bites were taken and wine was poured, the house settled into something warm and unforgettable—full of food and laughter, of old stories and new beginnings.

And in the quiet moments between courses, when Leah caught Francesco watching her from across the table, both of them surrounded by people who mattered, they didn't need to say anything.

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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