The King Of Arsenal

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The engines roared quietly—more hum than thunder—and within seconds, the runway was falling away beneath them. London shrank in the window. Then the sky tilted. Then they were above the clouds.

The moment the Gulfstream G650 pierced through the last of the cloud cover, the world below vanished, replaced by an endless ocean of soft white cotton. Sunlight flooded the windows, warm and golden, casting long shadows on the cream-leather seats and soft beige carpet. The steady hum of the engines vibrated through the floor like a gentle lullaby, and for the first time in what felt like months, Francesco Lee allowed his body to fully relax.

Leah was already curled into the window seat beside him, legs folded under her, sipping orange juice from a crystal tumbler with one hand while scrolling through the in-flight entertainment screen with the other. Her mask and cap were off now, tossed gently onto the seat arm, her blonde hair free, and her eyes still carrying that electric buzz of anticipation. She looked both content and endlessly curious—a woman who knew she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Francesco sat back with a soft sigh, the leather seat molding perfectly to his frame. His shoes were off, and he'd changed into a softer grey hoodie after takeoff. His phone was already in airplane mode, out of sight. For the next eleven hours, he wasn't a footballer, a media figure, or a symbol of Arsenal's title hopes.

He was just… Francesco. With Leah.

"I still can't believe this is real," she murmured, glancing out the window at the expanse of sky. "We've been in the air for what—forty minutes? And I already never want to leave this jet."

He smirked, picking up the room-temperature herbal towel he'd been offered earlier. "I should've booked two weeks."

She shot him a playful glare. "Don't even joke. You know I'd say yes and never return."

"I know. And then Wenger would fly out here himself, probably dressed like a beach dad, to drag me back."

That made her laugh, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Can you imagine? Wenger in flip-flops?"

"And a straw hat," Francesco added.

"With socks."

They both burst into quiet laughter, the kind that curled your stomach with warmth more than noise.

Isobel, the flight attendant, returned just then with a silver tray balanced gracefully in her hands.

"Would you like to see the lunch options now, Mr. Lee, Miss Leah?"

Francesco smiled. "Absolutely. What's on the menu?"

She handed them each a bound leather booklet. It wasn't large, but the choices were exquisite: pan-seared sea bass with lemongrass risotto, truffle gnocchi with parmesan foam, grilled corn-fed chicken breast with saffron couscous, and even a vegan beetroot tartare.

Leah flipped through it with a low hum of approval. "You weren't kidding when you said luxury."

Francesco went with the sea bass. Leah chose the truffle gnocchi. They paired it with fresh juice and agreed to save the champagne for closer to arrival.

By the time the food arrived—plated as if they were dining at a Michelin-starred restaurant—the sky had turned into a canvas of sun-washed blue. The plates gleamed, the aromas were light but decadent, and they ate slowly, savoring every bite, not because of hunger but because the moment demanded that they linger.

After the meal, Francesco unwrapped a small gift he'd tucked into his carry-on—a leather-bound journal, blank pages begging for memories. He handed it to Leah without saying anything. Just placed it on her lap while she reclined, watching a quiet documentary about ocean reefs.

She looked down, surprised. "What's this?"

"For the trip," he said simply. "Write whatever you want. Or sketch. Or press flower petals in it. I figured… someday we'll want to remember how this felt."

Her eyes softened as she flipped the cover open, then looked up at him again. "You really are that guy, aren't you?"

"What guy?"

"The one who brings notebooks on planes for romantic reasons."

"I try."

She leaned in and kissed him—long, soft, and full of a gratitude that didn't need words.

Hours passed in a rhythm all their own.

They took turns napping on the full-recline seats. Francesco dozed while Leah curled up beside him, her headphones in, watching an old French film. Then she slept, and he watched her with the kind of stillness usually reserved for church pews and penalty shootouts. Every so often, they'd glance at the screen tracking the plane's progress—tiny airplane inching over the curvature of the globe, Europe behind them, the Indian Ocean below, and the speck of the Maldives drawing closer.

By the ninth hour, Isobel dimmed the cabin lights and offered a curated fruit and dessert selection with espresso service. Leah sat up, her hair slightly tousled from sleep, and reached for a macaron with sleepy eyes.

"Are we close?"

Francesco checked the screen. "Just over two hours."

She exhaled softly. "I don't think I've ever felt this ready for anything."

By the time the plane began its slow descent into Malé, the windows on the right side of the aircraft had turned into portals to another world. Water—so bright, so clear, so unthinkably turquoise—stretched in every direction. Dots of islands, fringed with white sand and green palms, floated like jewels on a blanket of glass.

Leah pressed her hand to the window. "It's even more beautiful than the pictures."

Francesco, who'd been here once before years ago for a brief club event, nodded. "It's real now."

The Gulfstream landed with a smooth, whispered touchdown at Velana International Airport just before midnight local time. The tarmac shimmered slightly in the humidity, the lights casting long reflections across the slick surface. But the air smelled clean. Oceanic. Warm.

As they stepped off the jet, a new assistant from Velaa Private Island was already waiting—this one in a crisp white resort uniform, barefoot, smiling like an old friend.

"Mr. Lee, Miss Leah—welcome to the Maldives," he said. "The seaplane is ready when you are."

A sleek black buggy waited to drive them across the short distance to the private terminal. Their luggage, already retrieved, had been tagged for Velaa.

The seaplane—a gleaming twin-otter with Velaa's emblem—sat bobbing gently at the end of the jetty. The propellers were still, the crew relaxed and smiling. Even at this late hour, the journey felt untouched by fatigue.

As they boarded, Leah looked around, giddy. "This is insane. I feel like we're in a Bond movie."

Francesco laughed, offering her his hand as she climbed up the tiny ladder. "Just wait till you see the island."

The flight to Velaa was short—under an hour—but unforgettable.

Even in the moonlight, the Indian Ocean glowed beneath them like a living thing. The pilot took them low enough to see the outlines of coral reefs below the surface, the curved arms of atolls stretching like brushstrokes on a canvas. Leah was practically glued to the window, one hand clutched around Francesco's wrist.

When the island came into view, it shimmered like a dream—golden lights dancing along wooden walkways, private villas standing on stilts over the water, soft torches glowing like stars. It was quiet. Secluded. Alive in its own rhythm.

The seaplane landed with barely a splash, and they taxied gently toward the island's private jetty where two more staff awaited with chilled towels and a buggy.

"Welcome to Velaa, Mr. Lee, Miss Leah. We've prepared your villa. Everything's been arranged according to your preferences. We're honored to have you."

Francesco nodded, his arm around Leah's waist as they stepped onto the warm wood of the jetty. The wind smelled of hibiscus and salt. The stars overhead burned sharp and bright.

As they rode the buggy toward their private villa, every inch of Velaa unfurled like something sacred—lush greenery, swaying palms, the gentle hush of waves against the shore, and wooden walkways that seemed to stretch into forever.

Their villa stood alone at the end of a long pier. Overwater, secluded, and open to the sea on three sides. A private infinity pool wrapped around the deck. Floor-to-ceiling glass doors slid open at the touch of a hand. The bed faced the ocean. A bottle of Dom Pérignon and a welcome note from Jorge Mendes sat on the marble counter.

Leah turned slowly, eyes wide, lips parted. "This isn't real."

Francesco dropped their bags inside the door and walked over to her.

"It is now," he said.

They stood at the edge of the deck, barefoot on warm wood, watching the waves roll gently beneath them. Somewhere out there, London was a cold, sleeping city.

The villa was quiet now, lit softly by amber sconces and the golden shimmer of pool lights that danced gently across the whitewashed ceilings. Outside, the Indian Ocean whispered against the stilts, a low and constant rhythm that blended perfectly with the rustle of palm leaves farther down the shoreline. The air was thick with salt and something floral—frangipani, maybe—and even though it was well past midnight, neither Francesco nor Leah had any desire to sleep just yet.

They stood barefoot in the open-plan living area of the villa, all smooth wood and glass and elegant lines, wrapped in matching white cotton robes provided by the resort. Leah had just finished walking through the suite in awe, her fingers grazing over the marble surfaces, the oversized sunken tub, the espresso machine that probably cost more than Francesco's old Honda Civic.

Now, she was sitting on the wide daybed by the sliding doors, her feet tucked beneath her and her hair damp from a quick rinse in the rainfall shower. She looked so effortlessly perfect, even after more than thirteen hours of travel, that Francesco couldn't help but reach for his phone.

He turned on the camera without saying anything, lifting it slowly and angling the shot.

Leah glanced up and smiled—not the Instagram-influencer smile, but the real one. The one that reached her eyes. "Are you about to start your soft-boy photographer era?"

"Already started," he murmured.

Click.

He walked across the villa slowly, his bare feet silent on the smooth floor, then scrolled through the photo gallery.

There were a few he'd already favorited. One from the jet—a candid Leah hadn't noticed, her eyes fixed on the clouds, hair falling loosely over her shoulder. Another from the seaplane, where she'd been leaning forward with her hands pressed to the window as coral reefs fanned out below them. He'd caught her profile against the light, the wonder in her gaze like something from a film still.

And now, this one. Here, in the villa. Her robe slipping just slightly off one shoulder, the ocean glowing behind her through the glass, her cheeks still kissed by sun and excitement. She looked like joy itself.

Francesco sat beside her, holding the phone between them as he swiped through the pictures.

"These are too good to keep to myself," he said softly.

Leah looked at him sideways. "You posting?"

He nodded. "Think it's time."

She leaned her head on his shoulder. "What are you going to write? Something sappy?"

He laughed. "Maybe. I mean, I am in paradise with you."

He hovered his finger over the final shot—the one just now, in the villa. He added a soft warm filter, then a bit of contrast. No over-editing. It didn't need it.

He tapped out the caption with his thumb, not even thinking twice:

Vacation with My Lovely Girlfriend ❤️

He tagged the location as simply: Somewhere Peaceful 🌴

Then he hit Post.

Leah tilted her head up, amused. "You realize that's going to blow up in like… a minute."

"Good," he said, placing the phone down. "Let them know I'm out of office."

But he didn't even make it thirty seconds before the phone buzzed once. Then again. Then again. A flood of alerts poured in like a waterfall breaking its dam.

He picked it up and laughed under his breath. "Told you."

The likes were pouring in fast—thousands in under two minutes. But it was the comments that caught his attention.

@arsenal_daily: Rest well, king. You've earned it.

@hannahlikesfootball: 17 and carrying Arsenal on his back??? Give this boy a hammock and a mango smoothie!

@gunnersunited: He's been playing non-stop since August. Let the man LIVE.

@melanielondon23: They're so cute together omg 🥺 I'm so glad he's taking time for himself.

@premstatgeek: Francesco Lee: 20 appearances out of 20 games. 23 goals. And STILL finds time to be the best boyfriend alive. Iconic.

@ronnie_mfc: When he said "my lovely girlfriend" I literally screamed.

@coachhodgsonfanclub: He better not be getting called up for that friendly. Let him sleep on a beach for once.

Francesco couldn't help but feel the warmth rise in his chest. It wasn't just vanity. It wasn't about the likes. It was the support—genuine, from fans who had watched him break through at 17, fight through matches with grown men, shoulder expectations far older than he was.

He'd barely missed a match all season. FA Cup, League, Champions League, training, press obligations. And yet here they were—people he'd never even met—cheering not just for his goals, but for his rest. For his joy.

Leah peeked at the screen and smiled. "Your fans are sweet."

"They're the best," he agreed quietly. "They've seen all of it. Every bit of the grind. They get it."

She looked up at him, her voice low. "But do you get it?"

He blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean… do you know how rare this is? Not just the football, not just the hype. But you. The way you carry it. You give everything out there, and somehow you still have space for me, for this—" She gestured around the villa. "For softness."

He didn't say anything at first. Just let her words settle like sand after a wave.

Then, finally, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely.

"I don't know how long this ride will last," he said softly. "Football… it moves fast. One injury. One bad month. One shift in the manager's trust. I could be yesterday's news before I'm old enough to legally rent a car."

She reached over and laced her fingers with his.

"But I do know this," he continued. "The pressure, the matches, the media—it only means something if I have someone to come back to. Someone to share the silence with when it all stops."

Leah squeezed his hand. "You have me."

"I know."

He turned back to the phone and scrolled once more through the comments. Thousands now. Most of them heart emojis, applause, declarations of support. A few cheeky "captain next season?" posts. Even Özil had commented:

@m10_official: Finally. You rest. I can sleep at night.

Francesco laughed out loud and showed Leah.

"Mesut's watching."

"Tell him we'll bring him back a seashell."

He put the phone face down on the low coffee table.

And that was that.

The villa lights dimmed as they walked out onto the deck again, the ocean a dark mirror, the sky peppered with stars. The warm wooden boards beneath their feet felt like part of the earth itself—solid, real, grounding.

They climbed into the infinity pool slowly, the water warm from the sun that had soaked it all day. It lapped gently against their chests as they leaned on the edge, arms over the glass lip, watching the moon ripple across the surface of the sea.

The water lapped gently around their arms as Francesco and Leah leaned on the edge of the infinity pool, gazing out at the vast Indian Ocean stretching endlessly into the night. The moon was higher now, throwing silver light across the rippling water, while the stars above blinked lazily like they were on island time too. Somewhere in the distance, a soft rustle of leaves mingled with the whisper of the waves against the stilts of their overwater villa. The air was warm, wrapped in sea salt and frangipani.

Francesco shifted slightly, his chin resting on his arms as he stared out into the horizon. Leah floated beside him in quiet, her fingers tracing slow circles in the water.

Then, without looking at her, he asked softly, "What do you want to do?"

Leah didn't answer right away. She kept floating in the water, the faint moonlight catching the wet strands of her hair. Then, she turned toward him, her eyes glinting with that familiar mix of mischief and wonder.

"Let's go swimming," she said.

"In the pool?" he asked, confused.

She shook her head, smiling. "No. In the sea. Right now."

Francesco blinked. "You mean out there?" He gestured past the deck railing to the vast, moonlit ocean.

"Yeah. The water's so clean, Francesco. Like, crystal clear. Even at night. You can see fish and coral and everything—just glowing down there." She grinned and raised an eyebrow. "Come on, Mr. Premier League. You've played in the snow in Stoke. Don't tell me you're scared of the sea in the Maldives."

He gave her a look that might've passed for mock-annoyance if it weren't for the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Scared? Please."

Leah leaned in close, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. "Then suit up."

She turned and climbed out of the pool, the water cascading off her robe as she padded barefoot across the deck and back into the villa, leaving a wet trail behind her. Francesco followed a moment later, still grinning to himself, heart thumping a little faster—not from nerves, not even from the sea—but from the way she said it.

Suit up.

Inside the villa, they each grabbed their swimwear. Francesco chose a simple pair of navy blue trunks with a white drawstring, the kind that sat perfectly on his hips and made Leah pause mid-movement when he came out of the changing room. Leah slipped into the white bikini he'd been teasing her about earlier—elegant, understated, but somehow impossibly flattering under the dim villa lights.

She caught him staring.

"You okay there?"

"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat, grabbing a pair of goggles and reef shoes. "Totally fine. Just wondering how the fish are supposed to focus with you swimming around."

She laughed as she pulled her hair up into a loose knot and threw a sheer sarong around her waist. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Really? I'm pretty sure it got me here."

Touché.

Together, they made their way to the villa's private steps that led directly from the wooden deck into the sea. A small underwater light glowed just beneath the surface, illuminating the water around them like a portal. The ocean was calm tonight—barely a ripple, the tide low and the waves minimal. It felt less like they were about to swim in the sea and more like they were stepping into a gently rocking cathedral made of stars and salt.

Leah was the first to slip in.

She let herself drop silently beneath the surface, emerging with a gasp and a soft whoop, brushing water from her face. "It's warm! I told you!"

Francesco grinned and followed without hesitation. The moment his body sank into the sea, he understood what she meant. It was like being swallowed by silk—weightless, warm, and somehow deeply peaceful. The ocean wasn't cold at all. It embraced him. The salt gently kissed his skin, the faint bioluminescence glittering faintly near his legs as he moved through the water.

Leah swam a few feet ahead and turned back, eyes wide and shimmering. "Look down," she whispered.

He did.

And the breath left his lungs.

Beneath them, the coral reef unfolded like a city—teeming with color, even under the moonlight. Faint streaks of turquoise, blue, and green shimmered from the reef below, casting faint reflections on their bodies. Small fish darted between anemones, their scales flashing silver and gold. It wasn't just clear—it was alive.

Francesco floated still for a moment, just taking it all in. He wasn't someone who got emotional easily off the pitch. But this… this was something else. This was beauty that didn't ask for attention. It simply was.

Leah came up beside him and slipped her hand into his underwater.

"No press. No noise. Just this," she said quietly.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Just this."

They swam gently over the reef for a while, careful not to disturb the coral. At times they floated on their backs, watching the constellations above them drift slowly like ships. At other times they dove down—Leah leading the way like some mythical sea nymph, pointing out clownfish, parrotfish, even a curious sea turtle that hovered a few meters away before gliding off into the dark.

At one point, Francesco surfaced and looked back at their villa—the only one at the far edge of the resort. Its lights glowed like a beacon, warm and golden. The pool reflected the stars, and the thatched roof of the open villa swayed slightly in the breeze.

"This doesn't feel real," he said.

Leah, floating beside him, gave him a look. "I know. But I'm so glad it is."

They stayed in the water longer than either of them expected. Time dissolved out there. The moon shifted its position. The tide began to rise. But they weren't in a rush.

Eventually, they climbed the villa's private ladder again, dripping saltwater, skin kissed by the sea. Leah reached for a fresh towel and wrapped herself, her eyes still sparkling.

Francesco pulled one around his shoulders and took one last glance back at the water. "I think I'm going to dream of this," he said. "Good," she replied, reaching for his hand again. "Because this is only day one."

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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: 42

Assist: 6

MOTM: 5

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9