The King Of Arsenal

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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.

The clink of cutlery against porcelain filled the dining room with a gentle, rhythmic harmony—the kind of comforting sound that came only from a table full of people enjoying themselves. The fireplace in the adjacent sitting room still flickered, sending a soft orange glow across the oak floors. Outside, the Richmond air had turned crisp, but inside, the warmth of the evening was woven into every bite, every sip, and every laugh.

Francesco watched with subtle anticipation as his guests dug into the plates in front of them. The salmon had come out just the way he'd hoped—succulent and tender beneath its herb-crusted top, the lemon and dill cutting gently through the richness. Leah's side dishes had held their own beautifully too: the rosemary roast potatoes were golden and crunchy, the garlic green beans were snapped just right, and her beetroot salad provided a tangy sweetness that balanced the whole spread like a perfectly composed song.

Amanda set down her fork with a soft exhale of pleasure. "Okay," she said, lifting her wine glass halfway to her lips. "I need to know. Who cooked what?"

David raised his hand, still chewing. "Before anyone answers, let me just say this salmon is… absolutely spot on."

"Mum, you'd better not say it was you," Jacob added, dabbing his mouth with a napkin as dramatically as possible. "Because I'm about to ask for the recipe, and you always burn toast."

Amanda gave him a withering look, then turned back to Leah, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Leah smiled and nudged Francesco gently with her elbow. "Well… this beautiful salmon? All him."

Francesco gave a sheepish shrug, trying not to look too pleased. "Guilty again."

"Oh, come on," Sarah said, beaming. "Don't be modest. He started experimenting with salmon after his third attempt at shepherd's pie ended with us ordering curry."

"Hey," Francesco said, laughing. "The curry was good!"

"Because someone else made it," Mike muttered playfully.

Amanda, however, looked genuinely impressed. "No, this is seriously good. It's not just the flavor—it's the timing. The texture's perfect."

David nodded again, his Spurs loyalty momentarily forgotten. "I've eaten salmon in places that cost more than my season tickets, and this beats most of them."

Francesco lifted his wine glass in a small toast. "That's probably the nicest thing a Tottenham fan has ever said to me."

Everyone laughed—even Jacob, who, between mouthfuls of potatoes, raised a hand. "Wait, so Leah didn't cook anything?"

Leah turned her head toward him slowly, dramatically. "Excuse me?"

"Oh no," Amanda muttered, chuckling as she reached for another slice of bread.

"I'll have you know," Leah said, her voice rising with mock indignation, "that these potatoes, the beans, the salad—all me. And if you'd had a proper breakfast like I told you, you'd be crying right now over how good this food is."

Jacob held his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright. I take it back. These potatoes are deadly—in a good way."

Sarah leaned over slightly, smiling warmly at Leah. "It really is wonderful. You two make quite the team."

Leah glanced sideways at Francesco, and for a second, they exchanged a look that said everything they didn't need to say aloud. A shared pride. A little disbelief. A quiet joy that felt more grown-up than the kind of joy they used to chase separately.

Mike, ever the realist, cleared his throat. "Just make sure this team survives when Arsenal lose their next match."

David perked up immediately. "Oho, are we allowed to talk football now?"

Francesco laughed into his wineglass. "I told myself I wouldn't, but the table's getting too comfortable."

"Let's keep it neutral," Leah suggested, teasing. "We all like food. We all like family. Let's not ruin that over league tables."

Amanda pointed her fork at her daughter. "Listen to the girl who plays for the club and still has the sense to say that."

The table fell into an easy rhythm again—stories being passed like dishes, laughter bubbling up more often now. Amanda and Sarah slipped quickly into familiar territory, talking about books and the trials of young adulthood. Mike and David eventually found common ground in their shared love of vintage watches, which led to a surprising discussion about old markets in East London.

Even Jacob, once he realized the adults weren't going to launch into some heated sports debate, relaxed enough to ask Francesco how heavy a Premier League trophy actually was. ("Heavier than you'd think," Francesco answered with a wink. "Mostly from the pressure.")

After a few more bites, David dabbed the corners of his mouth and leaned back in his chair.

"Alright. Full marks. I came in tonight with my guard up—expected something a little posh, a little overdone. You know, 'footballer hosting family' energy. But this? This feels like a proper family dinner."

Francesco leaned forward, hands resting on the table. "That means a lot. Thank you."

"It's not just the food," David added. "It's… how you two are. The way you move around each other in the kitchen, the way you let each other shine. It's not just chemistry. It's partnership."

The table quieted for a moment—not uncomfortably, just in a shared acknowledgment that something true had been said.

Leah cleared her throat gently. "You're not going to cry, are you, Dad?"

David scoffed. "No chance. I'm too full to be emotional."

Amanda smiled gently, her gaze sliding between her daughter and Francesco. "Well, emotional or not, I'm glad we're all here."

"To new traditions," Sarah said softly.

Everyone raised their glasses again.

"To new traditions," they echoed, and drank.

The hours stretched out with the kind of unhurried grace that only comes when nobody wants to leave the table. Coffee and tea followed dessert, which Leah had insisted be simple—a spiced apple galette with vanilla ice cream. It vanished within minutes, even as the conversation flowed around it.

Eventually, someone pointed out that midnight was creeping closer. Jacob checked his phone and announced it with the urgency of a teenager waiting for fireworks and resolutions.

Francesco and Leah exchanged a glance—one part excitement, one part disbelief.

They had cooked.

They had hosted.

They had brought two very different families into one space, and it had worked.

As the final hour ticked away, they moved into the sitting room together, everyone clutching fresh glasses of bubbly. The fire had been revived, and now its warmth blended with the soft notes of jazz playing low from the speaker. The scent of herbs and sugar still lingered in the air, clinging to the curtains and drifting lazily through the hall.

The room hummed with a mellow kind of joy—the kind that wrapped around the furniture and lived in the laughter that echoed gently off the walls. The fire crackled softly, casting flickers of light across the faces gathered in the sitting room, and a low tune played in the background, the kind of smooth jazz that made everything feel timeless.

They had moved on from dinner, drifting naturally into the comfort of the living space, some seated on the large L-shaped couch, others in armchairs or leaned against the edge of the hearth. Francesco sat beside Leah on the center couch, one arm draped casually along the back, wine glass in hand. She nestled slightly toward him, her legs folded beneath her, her own glass resting on her knee. Jacob had sprawled in an armchair nearby, nursing his second glass of lemonade, his sneakers hanging off the edge. Mike and Sarah shared the loveseat closest to the fire, while Amanda and David had claimed the other side of the couch.

It was warm, soft, easy—until Amanda, in her gentle, teasing voice, shifted the mood with a single, innocent question.

"So," she began, placing her empty wine glass down on the side table with deliberate care, "when are you two getting engaged?"

The room stopped.

Not in a dramatic crash of silence—but like a skipped heartbeat. Like a single thread pulling tight across everyone's chests.

Francesco, mid-sip, choked audibly on his wine.

Leah's eyes flew wide and she whipped her head toward her mum, cheeks already flushed scarlet. "Mum!"

Amanda raised both palms, playing innocent, though her lips betrayed the beginnings of a cheeky smile. "What? I'm just saying what everyone else is probably thinking."

Francesco coughed again, trying to recover, and Sarah—his dear, sweet mother—nodded with absolute conviction from across the room.

"She's right, you know."

Leah stared at Sarah now. "Not you too!"

"Oh, come on, love," Sarah said, smiling gently. "It's not like she proposed for you. She just asked a question."

"An ambush," Francesco muttered hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mike chuckled from his spot near the fire. "Son, you've handled press conferences and Premier League derbies with more composure than that."

David, arms folded across his chest, grinned. "Look, I'm just happy someone else asked it before I had to."

Leah buried her face in her hands. "This is unbelievable."

Francesco finally found his voice again, though it still wavered slightly as he looked at Amanda. "Well… we're still at the start of our careers. And we're still young."

Amanda tilted her head. "You're both in your twenties. That's not exactly the nursery anymore."

"I mean," Francesco said, glancing at Leah like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or run, "we've only been together—what, six months?"

"Closer to eight," Leah mumbled from behind her hands.

"Right. Eight." He shifted in his seat, then looked back at the assembled parents. "And I'm not saying it's not something we've thought about. Of course we've thought about it. But we're also… building things. Football takes time. Life takes time."

Sarah smiled warmly, leaning forward slightly, her voice more gentle now. "Sweetheart, no one's rushing you. We just see the way you look at each other."

Amanda nodded. "Exactly. It's not pressure. It's just… curiosity. Hope, maybe."

Leah dropped her hands finally, face still flushed but eyes softer now. She reached for Francesco's hand beside her, lacing her fingers through his. "We talk about the future," she admitted quietly. "Just not in… calendar form yet."

Francesco turned to her, squeezing her hand gently. "Yeah. It's not a question of if. Just… when."

Jacob groaned from the armchair. "Can you guys not get all mushy right after dinner? I still have dessert in my mouth."

Leah tossed a pillow at him without looking. "You'll live."

"Barely," he said, dodging it.

David raised his glass slightly, still grinning. "Well, just know if and when that day comes, I'll walk Leah down the aisle. But I won't promise I won't wear a Spurs badge under my suit."

Mike made a choking sound into his wine. "That's grounds for being escorted out before the vows."

"Spoken like a true Arsenal dad," David shot back.

"I try."

The tension had broken, replaced again by laughter, by playful barbs and loving glances and the kind of open-hearted ribbing that only happens when everyone in the room knows the love is real—thick in the air, unspoken but undeniable.

Leah leaned her head against Francesco's shoulder with a long sigh. "Thanks for surviving that."

"I'm sweating under this shirt," he whispered back.

"Me too."

He turned his head to kiss her hair, subtle and brief. "It's okay," he murmured. "They can ask. We'll decide."

"And when we do," she whispered back, "we'll tell them. Together."

"Deal."

The room had settled again after the engagement ambush—into that sweet, quiet comfort that came from full bellies and well-loved company. The fire crackled on, the warmth seeping into the fabric of the evening, wrapping around them like a soft winter quilt. The scent of Leah's apple galette still lingered faintly in the air, cut now by the sharper tang of Champagne in tall glasses, and the TV in the corner played one of the many New Year's Eve broadcasts. Big Ben hadn't chimed yet. The countdown was still an hour away.

Amanda and Sarah were deep in conversation near the loveseat—something about books and knitting, if Leah had to guess—while Jacob was once again curled in the armchair, scrolling through his phone with one hand and sipping ginger ale from the other. Mike had taken up a spot near the record shelf, inspecting Francesco's jazz collection with a curiosity that only revealed itself after a couple glasses of bubbly.

Francesco had one arm still slung lazily around Leah's shoulders on the couch, his thumb rubbing slow, absentminded circles against the fabric of her cardigan. She'd started to melt into his side again when David's voice, laced with the sharpness of a man who knew how to turn a lull into a story, cut through the quiet.

"So, Francesco," David said, stretching his legs out and lifting his glass lazily, "how's life treating you as an Arsenal man?"

Leah shifted a little beside him, amused. She could already tell where this was going. Francesco turned his head, cocked one eyebrow at David, and took a long sip of Champagne before answering.

"It's good," he said, nodding slowly. "Training's hard, the matches come thick and fast this time of year. But I'm living the dream. Arsenal is… everything I thought it would be."

David gave an approving nod. "Glad to hear it. Lot of pressure though, isn't it?"

Francesco's grin widened, the edge of mischief creeping in. "Oh, sure. But pressure's part of it."

He paused dramatically, glancing around the room as if making sure everyone was listening. Leah already felt her chest tighten, knowing that look. His grin curled sharper, more boyish now.

"And of course," he added casually, "there's always the added joy of beating our lovely neighbors."

David blinked. "Neighbors?"

"Spurs," Francesco said, with the satisfaction of someone who had been waiting for this moment all night. "North London's second-best team."

Leah groaned under her breath, pressing her hand to her forehead.

"Here we go," Jacob muttered.

Francesco leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his grin fully formed now.

"Which, now that I mention it," he continued, "reminds me—didn't we win the Premier League and the FA Cup last season?"

He looked around, feigning thoughtfulness. "Let me see… yes. Yes, we did."

David narrowed his eyes playfully. "And?"

Francesco tilted his head. "Well, now I'm trying to remember what Tottenham won last season." He gave a long, exaggerated pause, like he was rifling through imaginary files. Then he turned to Leah. "Love, help me out—what did Spurs win?"

Leah shook her head, laughing into her wine glass. "You are so dead."

"Nothing," Francesco said triumphantly, turning back to David. "That's right. It was nothing."

Mike erupted into a short, wheezing laugh from across the room. "You walked into that one, mate."

David raised a hand in surrender. "Alright, alright. He's got a sharper tongue than most of your football players, I'll give him that."

Francesco leaned back with smug satisfaction, reaching for the bottle of Champagne to top off his glass. "It's all in good fun."

Jacob, still staring at his phone, muttered, "Just wait. Kane's gonna get the Golden Boot this year."

Francesco turned to Jacob with the kind of slow, mischievous grin that only a striker full of goals and confidence could pull off. He reclined a little further into the couch, one arm still around Leah, the other lazily lifting his glass to his lips again as if preparing for a toast.

"Oh, right," he said, pretending to have only just remembered. "Before you get too excited about Kane's boot collection… I should probably remind you that I won the Golden Boot last season."

Jacob looked up, eyes narrowing.

Francesco sipped and then added, "And unless the world flips upside down in the next few months, I'm still the leading top scorer this season."

He gave an exaggerated shrug. "So unless Harry Kane plans on scoring fifteen hat tricks before May… I'm afraid his shiny boot will have to wait."

Jacob groaned. "You're insufferable."

Leah sat up straighter beside Francesco, mouth open in exaggerated scandal. "Hey!"

He turned to her, still grinning like a man who knew he'd poked the bear and didn't care. "What?"

She jabbed him lightly in the ribs with two fingers. "Quit tormenting my baby brother."

"Ow!" he said with a chuckle, grabbing her hand and holding it in mock defense. "He started it!"

"I literally said one sentence," Jacob grumbled.

"And it was about Kane," Francesco replied innocently. "That's like waving a red flag in front of an Arsenal striker. What did you expect me to do—nod politely and let it slide?"

Leah rolled her eyes but was clearly trying not to laugh. "He's fifteen."

"He's taller than me," Francesco said, gesturing to Jacob, who had now crossed his arms and was sulking—though not too seriously. "That makes him fair game."

"I'll remember that when Spurs beat you at the Emirates next year," Jacob said, grabbing a handful of cashews from the coffee table with performative menace.

Mike chuckled from his seat by the record shelf. "You'll be waiting a long time for that one, son."

David pointed his glass at Francesco, clearly enjoying himself now. "Alright, alright, big man. You've got the trophies and the goals. Just don't let all that success get to your head."

Francesco nodded solemnly. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Amanda raised an eyebrow. "This from the man who just did a full minute of imaginary award acceptance speech over Champagne."

Francesco placed a hand over his heart. "I'm just confident. And besides, this is a safe space. Surrounded by Arsenal supporters—" he looked pointedly at Leah and Amanda "—and a few brave souls who wear lily-white in a sea of red."

Jacob muttered, "I swear, next time we come, I'm bringing a Spurs flag."

"You'll hang it in the garage," Leah replied immediately.

"Under the toolbox," Francesco added helpfully.

"Where it belongs," Mike concluded.

The laughter that followed was full and easy, the kind that rang through the room and didn't need words afterward. Even Jacob cracked a smile, shaking his head and mumbling something about how unfair life was when your sister dated an Arsenal striker with a bigger trophy cabinet than your entire club.

The conversation shifted again—this time toward travel stories. Sarah brought up the time Francesco had gotten lost on a preseason tour in Singapore because he mistook the hotel elevator for the sauna. Amanda told a story about Leah falling off a treadmill at her first gym in Highbury while trying to sneak a peek at a tall midfielder on the next machine. Leah threw a cushion at her mother, who barely dodged it while laughing so hard she had to wipe her eyes.

Mike and David slipped into a side conversation about old kits and collectible matchday programs, while Jacob finally let down his guard and asked Francesco about the Emirates locker room.

"Is it, like, super fancy?" he asked, leaning forward just slightly.

Francesco nodded. "It's nice. Modern. But it's not about the décor, honestly. It's about the vibe."

"The vibe?" Jacob frowned.

"Yeah," Francesco said, serious for once. "There's a moment—right before kickoff—when the whole place goes quiet. Just you, the shirt, and your name. It's not about being famous. It's about responsibility. That badge means something."

Jacob's face shifted—just a flicker—his usual sarcasm melting into something more thoughtful. "That's actually kind of sick."

Leah, watching them, nudged Francesco with her knee. "See? He respects you more now. Even if you are an Arsenal player."

Francesco grinned, gently clinking his glass to Jacob's ginger ale. "We'll convert you eventually."

"Never," Jacob said, but this time he smiled when he said it.

Then the television interrupted everyone gently, the volume rising slightly for an announcement: "Fifty minutes until midnight—London prepares to ring in the New Year!"

Amanda clapped her hands softly together. "Oh, it's getting close!"

Leah sat up straighter. "Francesco, did you put the bubbly in the fridge?"

"Yep," he said, popping up. "Two bottles. One actual Champagne, and one Jacob-friendly sparkling elderflower."

Jacob grinned. "Cheers."

Francesco made a mock bow. "Anything for our Spurs ambassador."

As Francesco disappeared into the kitchen, Leah turned to Amanda, who was now reapplying her lipstick in a tiny pocket mirror. "Mum," she said, her voice low and amused. "I still can't believe you asked about the wedding thing."

Amanda shrugged. "You'll understand one day when you're a mum. You see your daughter happy, and suddenly all you want is to bottle that up and keep it forever."

Leah's smile softened. "Well, maybe don't ask him again during a meal. He nearly died on that wine."

Amanda laughed. "He handled it well."

Just then, Francesco reappeared with the bottles, holding them both up like trophies. "Victory is sweet and sparkling!"

Mike helped open them, expertly twisting the cage and easing the cork free with barely a pop.

Francesco filled each glass, careful and steady, and passed them around.

When he got to Leah, he didn't hand her the glass right away.

He held it for a second longer, looking into her eyes.

"I know we joke about things like rings and boots and rivalries," he said softly, "but I meant what I said earlier."

Leah tilted her head. "Which part?"

"That it's not a question of if. Just when."

Her eyes gleamed, and not from the bubbles.

She took the glass gently, her fingers brushing his. "Then let's start with now."

He raised his own glass. "To now."

The final hour melted away in that golden, glowing kind of time that doesn't tick forward so much as it drifts—warm conversation blurring with laughter, the fire crackling a steady rhythm in the background, and the sound of clinking glasses coming now and then like a soft bell marking moments, not minutes.

Francesco and Leah sat close, still side by side on the couch, their hands entwined now, fingers threaded together beneath a shared blanket. Her cheek leaned softly against his shoulder, his chin resting just barely atop her head. Their parents—still full from the meal, still buoyed by the wine—lounged deeper into the furniture around the room, the kind of collective, contented stillness that only comes from family truly at ease.

The television murmured on, the London skyline taking over the screen in dazzling nighttime clarity. Big Ben stood tall in the distance, and the London Eye glittered like a crown along the Thames. A buzzing crowd gathered beneath it—bundled in coats and scarves, waving flags, their cheers just barely audible over the jazz still playing softly from the corner speaker.

Then came the voice of the host, the pitch unmistakably shifting—rising with anticipation.

"Ten minutes to midnight, folks! The countdown to 2016 is nearly here!"

Amanda clapped her hands once with delight. "Oh, it's close now!"

Sarah smiled dreamily from her seat beside Mike. "It's already been a wonderful evening. But this… this will top it."

Francesco lifted his glass toward the center of the room. "To the final minutes of 2015," he said with a half-smile. "May 2016 be filled with more goals, more good food, and fewer Spurs wins."

Jacob groaned theatrically but raised his elderflower drink anyway. "You're obsessed, man."

"To love," Amanda said softly, raising her own glass. "And to the people who make home feel like this."

Glasses clinked gently all around. No dramatic toast. No big speeches. Just the kind of quiet, resonant warmth that doesn't need to be spoken aloud to be understood.

As the final minutes ticked closer, the TV's volume was turned up slightly. The music had shifted—more upbeat now, celebratory—as camera shots showed the river beginning to erupt with flashes of color, brief teaser fireworks lighting up the dark sky in anticipation.

Then finally, that familiar, thrilling sound filled the room.

The countdown began.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!"

Everyone stood.

Even Jacob leapt from the armchair, grinning as he stood beside Amanda. David rested one arm around his son's shoulders. Sarah reached for Mike's hand. Amanda grabbed Leah's on one side, Francesco's on the other, her fingers warm with excitement.

"Seven! Six! Five!"

Francesco turned to Leah, her eyes already looking up at him, that soft smile back on her lips, eyes glinting beneath the glow of the TV.

"Four! Three!"

The entire city of London, frozen in glorious suspense, waited on the screen with them.

"Two! One!"

"Happy New Year!!"

The fireworks exploded across the screen—and seemingly out the windows too, as Richmond's own neighborhood display echoed in perfect timing outside, streaks of gold and red and green bursting across the frosted sky. The room filled with cheers—Amanda whooping, David clapping, Sarah leaning into Mike's shoulder with a quiet "We made it"—and somewhere in the middle of it all, Francesco pulled Leah toward him with both arms.

He hugged her tightly, lifting her slightly off the ground in the process, and when he set her back down, he didn't wait for the perfect moment—because this was it.

He kissed her.

Right there in the middle of the living room, with fireworks outside and family around and the whole world turning one second newer.

A kiss that was full and warm and certain—like everything he hadn't said yet, but already knew.

When they pulled back, she didn't say anything for a second. Just stared up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

Francesco smiled, voice low but full of something real.

"Happy New Year, Leah."

Her smile stretched wide across her face. "Happy New Year."

Then she kissed him again.

Outside, the night sky burned with light. Inside, everything felt just as bright.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 17 (2015)

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