The King Of Arsenal

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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."

The next three days unfolded like scenes from a dream too vivid to forget.

It wasn't just the beauty of Velaa Private Island—it was the rhythm they fell into, the seamless way time bent and stretched around them, as if the hours weren't measured by clocks anymore but by sunlight across water, the hum of reef life, and the laughter that came easier with each breath.

Every morning began the same way.

Francesco woke first—not out of habit now, but because he wanted to be the first to see her waking up in this kind of light. He would lie there for a moment in the gauzy early glow, watching the breeze stir the sheer curtains at the glass doors, then lean over to press a kiss to Leah's shoulder. She'd mumble something sleepy and adorable and bury her face into the pillow. Then, when she finally turned to face him—hair a mess, eyes half-shut—she'd smile and say the same thing every time:

"I forgot we were in paradise."

On the first full day, after a slow breakfast on their villa's private deck—fresh fruit, flaky pastries, strong espresso—they changed into wetsuits and boarded a sleek catamaran with two dive instructors named Sena and Miko, both sun-browned and impossibly relaxed, as if saltwater had replaced blood in their veins.

Francesco had done some light diving training before, but nothing like this. Leah, naturally, had taken to it like she had everything else on the trip—with curiosity and a quiet kind of fearlessness that made him fall harder every minute.

The water beyond the lagoon was a different world.

Down there, in the blue silence, coral exploded in color like underwater fireworks. Neon fish zipped past them in every direction. Schools of yellowtail snapper parted like clouds when they swam through. Giant sea fans swayed lazily in the current. Francesco and Leah swam side by side, holding hands now and then, gliding effortlessly through the water. Every so often, Francesco would turn his head just to watch her. Watch how she moved, how her eyes darted with awe beneath her mask. Watch the way she laughed—bubbling up through her regulator—when a curious pufferfish puffed up right in front of her.

They surfaced after nearly an hour, climbing back onto the boat, their wetsuits slick and heavy, masks pushed up onto their foreheads.

"I can't even explain what that was," Leah said breathlessly, dripping seawater and grinning like a child. "It's like swimming inside a dream."

Francesco chuckled, brushing water off his brow. "I was thinking the same thing."

He reached for his phone, already opening the camera.

Leah raised a brow. "Really?"

He snapped a photo of her—windswept, salt-soaked, laughing—and another of the sea behind them, impossibly blue and endless.

"Just in case I ever think this was all some hallucination brought on by too many matchdays."

That night, they posted a few snippets to their Instagram stories—just clips: a slow pan of the reef from above, a shot of their fins moving in sync underwater, a short video of them clinking fresh coconut drinks on the boat ride back. The messages started pouring in, but neither of them checked them right away. The moments were for them first, and the world second.

Day two began with snorkeling in the shallows of a nearby reef—this time without guides. Just the two of them, a packed lunch from the resort kitchen, and a GoPro camera that Leah had insisted they bring.

"Trust me," she'd said as she handed Francesco the camera strap. "We're going to want video of this."

They spent nearly two hours drifting lazily over coral gardens, sun on their backs, pointing out sea cucumbers and starfish and brilliant flashes of blue tangs. At one point, Leah chased a butterflyfish across a patch of white sand and nearly lost her snorkel from laughing too hard.

They swam back to shore just before lunch, lying under a thatched cabana and watching clouds drift across the sky, their shoulders kissed pink by the sun, bellies full of grilled shrimp, mango salad, and rice wrapped in banana leaves.

Then, the ocean gave them something even rarer.

Whale sharks.

The resort had informed them earlier that sightings were rare—less than 20% of guests ever got to see one. But that afternoon, as their boat skimmed across the southern atoll with a small group of guests and a marine guide named Resham, the captain suddenly slowed and pointed.

"There!" he shouted.

And then, there it was.

Like a moving island of shadow, the whale shark glided beneath them—enormous, silent, ancient. Francesco and Leah slipped into the water carefully, hearts pounding, staying several meters behind the majestic creature as it moved slowly through the deep blue. It was the largest thing Francesco had ever seen underwater, and somehow the gentlest.

They swam with it for nearly five minutes, awestruck and weightless, until the giant drifted deeper, disappearing like a ghost into the dark.

Leah surfaced first, her mask on her forehead, water streaming down her face. "That was…" she gasped, wiping her eyes. "That was holy."

Francesco didn't say anything. He just pulled her close in the water and kissed her forehead.

As if the sea hadn't given them enough, dolphins showed up at dusk.

Dozens of them—spinning, leaping, racing the boat. The captain slowed, and for a long while, the entire boat just floated there, watching as the pod performed their wild ballet. Leah rested against Francesco's chest, arms wrapped around his waist, and whispered, "Do you think they know how lucky they are? Just… existing here?"

"I think we're the lucky ones," he said.

That night, they ate on the beach—candles in glass jars flickering on the sand, a private table for two under a canopy of stars. Francesco took another photo: Leah with a wine glass held to her lips, her face lit softly by firelight, her eyes full of starlight.

He didn't post it.

He saved it for himself.

Day three was slow and quiet by design.

They started with a spa treatment in a floating villa built entirely over the water. The glass floors beneath their massage tables revealed fish gliding by as gentle hands worked out every knot and ache from months of pressure and performance. The scent of lemongrass and coconut oil hung in the air, and soft Maldivian music played like the ocean had learned to hum.

After the massage, they were given herbal tea and led to a shaded lounge where they rested in silence. Leah turned to Francesco after a long stretch of quiet and said, "This is the first time in my life I've ever felt completely unguarded."

Francesco took her hand and kissed her knuckles. "Me too."

In the afternoon, they took a short boat ride to Malé, the capital. The city was unlike anything they'd seen on the island—bustling, colorful, alive with noise and scent and motion. Motorbikes zipped past food stalls. Locals sold spices, textiles, and hand-carved jewelry. The call to prayer rang out from mosques tucked between modern cafés and colonial buildings.

They wandered the streets hand-in-hand, trying dried coconut chips and mango juice. Leah bought a handmade shell bracelet from a woman near the docks and slipped it onto Francesco's wrist with a proud grin.

"To remember this place."

He smiled, kissed her in the middle of a crowded square, and muttered, "Like I'd ever forget."

As the sun dipped behind the skyline, they climbed a rooftop restaurant overlooking the harbor. From there, they watched fishing boats glide home while the sky turned the color of apricots and rose. They took a selfie—hair windblown, cheeks flushed, the city behind them—and posted it to their stories with the caption:

City lights, island hearts 🌇🌴

That night, they returned to Velaa by boat. The stars came out again, brighter than before, and the villa greeted them with dim lighting and the soft scent of jasmine.

Francesco lay in bed later that night, Leah curled against his chest, his phone screen the only glow left in the room. He scrolled back through the photos—so many now. The seaplane. The reef. The whale shark. The candlelit beach. Her smile in Malé.

He didn't post anything else that night. He just watched the slideshow of their days together and whispered, "Thank you," into the dark.

Leah stirred slightly. "Hm?"

He kissed the top of her head. "Nothing. Just… thank you."

The ocean was still humming outside their villa—soft, lazy rhythms of water brushing against stilts like a lullaby that refused to fade. Overhead, the stars had grown sharper, as if the night had pulled a blacker velvet across the sky just to frame them better. It was nearing midnight again, but neither Francesco nor Leah seemed interested in surrendering to sleep just yet.

Leah had changed into one of the resort's silk sleep sets—a flowing ivory camisole and matching shorts that shimmered under the warm golden lights of their villa. Her feet were tucked under her on the corner of the massive bed, the tablet on her lap open to some local article she'd picked up from earlier in the day—something about coral regeneration projects near Malé. Her fingers were combing gently through her own damp hair, her legs warm from the bath they'd taken after returning from the city.

Francesco, meanwhile, had been sprawled on the couch a few feet away, legs stretched out, a towel still draped over his shoulders. The salt still clung faintly to his skin even after the soak, and his cheeks carried that kind of warm pink you could only earn from days spent outdoors under sun and sea. His phone was face down on the coffee table, away from reach. No notifications tonight. No news. No training alerts. Just him. Just her.

His stomach, however, had different ideas.

It rumbled.

Leah looked up.

Francesco raised his eyebrows with a sheepish grin. "I know, I know. We ate like kings at sunset."

"You did have that extra portion of tuna tartare."

"Still hungry though."

She smirked, setting the tablet aside and hugging a pillow. "Are you about to raid the minibar again?"

"Nah," he said, pushing himself up. "Too risky. If I eat one more of those macadamia cookies, I'll explode."

He walked over to the sleek villa phone on the nightstand, still wrapped in white lacquer and gold trim, and picked it up. The receiver was smooth in his palm. He squinted down at the laminated room directory beside it and saw what he needed.

"Zero for room service," he said aloud, then pressed the button.

The line clicked once.

A gentle voice picked up almost immediately, warm and polite. "Good evening, Mr. Lee. This is the Velaa culinary team. How may we serve you tonight?"

Francesco glanced toward Leah, who had perked up now, sitting cross-legged, clearly curious.

"Hey, good evening. We were wondering if the kitchen's still taking orders?"

"Of course. The late-night dining menu is available 24 hours. Would you like it brought to your villa tablet, or may I read the selections aloud?"

Francesco covered the receiver and asked Leah, "Tablet or voice?"

"Voice," she said with a smile, rising from the bed to walk barefoot over to him. "I want to hear it like a story."

He grinned and nodded, then returned to the phone. "Could you read it out for us?"

"Absolutely. Tonight's offerings include: butter-poached lobster tail on saffron jasmine rice, grilled wagyu beef sliders with truffle aioli, pan-roasted seabass with lemongrass emulsion, Maldivian-style chicken curry with coconut flatbread, and for something lighter, we also have burrata over heirloom tomatoes with basil oil."

Francesco shot Leah a look. She bit her lower lip, clearly struggling to decide.

He turned back to the phone. "Anything sweet?"

"Yes, sir. We have two desserts available tonight—vanilla bean panna cotta with passionfruit glaze, and our signature chocolate lava cake with coconut ice cream."

Leah's eyes widened. "Oh, say less."

Francesco laughed. "Okay, I think we'll do the seabass… one portion. The chicken curry, also one. And can we get the lava cake to split?"

"Certainly. Would you like any drinks brought up?"

Francesco turned to Leah again. "Tea? Wine?"

"Ginger tea sounds perfect."

"And just one ginger tea, please."

"Of course, Mr. Lee. Your meal will arrive in twenty-five minutes."

"Perfect. Thank you."

He hung up and turned around just as Leah wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her face against his shoulder blade.

"You order food like someone who's never known hunger," she teased.

He laughed. "Because I haven't. You see that training table at Colney?"

She kissed the back of his neck and walked over to the sliding glass doors, pulling them open to let in more of the ocean breeze. The scent of salt and hibiscus wafted in, cool against the warm night air. "Still… this feels like the kind of meal we're going to remember."

They spent the next twenty minutes wandering around the villa like two people trying to kill time before Christmas morning. Francesco pulled on a linen shirt, leaving it open, while Leah brushed her hair into a braid and draped herself across the lounge chair near the pool, her bare legs catching the moonlight.

They talked about the reef. The whale shark. The children they'd seen playing barefoot on the docks in Malé. Francesco asked her if she'd ever want to live somewhere like this. She said not forever. But maybe for one year. Maybe when they were older.

"Imagine us here," she mused aloud, "You retired from football. Me writing poetry on the veranda. Catching fish for dinner. Salt in our hair. No one knowing our names."

"You'd go mad after a week," he teased.

"True," she admitted. "But I'd enjoy the madness."

At precisely the twenty-five-minute mark, a gentle knock came at their villa's service door. Francesco answered and found a young staff member in the resort's cream uniform standing beside a gleaming rolling cart, polished to perfection. With a quiet smile, the staffer bowed and said, "Your midnight supper, sir."

Francesco thanked him and took the cart inside, wheeling it carefully toward the living room where Leah had already jumped to her feet.

The dishes were presented on stoneware plates—elegant and minimalist. The seabass glistened atop a bed of lemongrass-scented greens, the sauce delicately drizzled in artistic streaks. The curry steamed gently from a clay bowl, flanked by fresh, fluffy coconut flatbread stacked like clouds. And the lava cake sat alone on a chilled slate, the coconut ice cream balanced atop a sugared biscuit.

Francesco lifted the silver lid off the teapot and inhaled deeply. "That smells divine."

Leah's eyes sparkled as she reached for the chicken curry. "I'm starving."

They sat cross-legged on the soft floor cushions by the glass doors, facing each other across the low table. No need for the dining chairs. This was better. More intimate. The ocean was still whispering, and the pool reflected both moonlight and hunger.

They didn't talk much while they ate. The flavors were too good. Francesco moaned at one point—not even theatrically—and Leah laughed through a mouthful of curry.

"This is dangerously good," she said. "Like… makes-you-believe-in-life good."

He nodded. "Wenger would lose his mind if he knew I was eating like this past midnight."

She smirked. "You've earned it. Your fans keep saying so."

After they'd finished the mains, Francesco moved the plates aside and placed the dessert between them. "Moment of truth."

He tapped the edge of the cake with his fork.

It cracked gently—and then oozed molten chocolate across the plate like warm ink. The coconut ice cream began to melt into the river of chocolate, forming a pool of sweetness.

Leah dipped her spoon in first and tasted it.

Her eyes closed slowly. "I need a minute."

Francesco chuckled and dug in. It was absurd. Not too sweet. The richness of the chocolate was offset perfectly by the coconut's creamy coolness. He leaned back against a cushion and exhaled like someone who had finally reached the mountaintop.

As they finished, Leah scooted beside him and laid her head on his chest. The ginger tea steamed gently beside them. The ocean sang. The stars blinked on, undisturbed.

"This is what we'll remember, you know," she said softly. "Not just the reef or the massages or the sunsets. But this."

He looked down at her. "This?"

She nodded, cheek pressed against his chest. "Sitting on the floor. Eating curry and chocolate cake. Laughing because the ice cream melted too fast."

He stroked her hair gently. "You're right."

They sat like that for a long time. No words needed. Just a quiet warmth between them that felt bigger than any stadium he'd ever played in.

The plates were cleared and stacked neatly on the rolling cart, and the last flickering curl of steam from the ginger tea had faded into the warm air. The villa had taken on that peculiar midnight stillness—the kind that blankets everything in softness, where even the ocean outside seemed to hush itself into quieter rhythms.

Francesco and Leah were still curled together on the thick floor cushions, her head on his chest, one of his arms wrapped lazily around her shoulders. Neither of them had spoken in a while. The lava cake had melted down to a chocolate-swirled memory, and both of them were wrapped in that unique, irreplaceable kind of satisfaction that only comes after a perfect meal, in a perfect place, with the perfect person.

And yet, somehow, neither of them felt sleepy.

Leah shifted slightly, brushing a hand across his stomach, then tilted her chin up toward him.

"So," she said softly, voice a half-whisper. "What do we do now?"

Francesco gave a low hum, his fingers drawing idle circles along her arm. "Whatever you want."

She smiled. "Netflix?"

He laughed gently. "Wow, we're really bringing Netflix to the Maldives?"

"I mean…" She sat up slowly, her braid falling over one shoulder as she adjusted her camisole strap. "We've done snorkeling, scuba diving, dolphin watching, massages, coconut curry, and chocolate lava cake. I think we've earned an episode of something dumb and comforting."

Francesco stretched his legs out with a mock groan. "Fair. Something dumb and comforting it is."

He pushed himself up from the cushions and walked barefoot across the villa to the flat-screen TV mounted on the polished wood wall. It was sleek, probably newer than anything he had in his London flat. A single remote rested on the credenza below it, minimalist and all white. He picked it up and flicked the screen on.

The resort's media system loaded immediately, cycling through welcome messages in several languages before settling on the Velaa interface. A small prompt popped up: Would you like to switch to Netflix?

Francesco selected Yes.

A soft chime rang out, and seconds later, the familiar red logo appeared on the screen, glowing like a portal back to reality—or perhaps to something safer than reality. Leah climbed onto the bed, folding her legs beneath her, and pulled a throw blanket around her waist. She looked small, soft, and stunning in the dim light of the villa.

Francesco joined her, the mattress giving slightly under his weight as he leaned back against the plush headboard. The bed faced the open ocean directly, and even with the curtains half-drawn, the shimmer of moonlight on the water danced like a subtle projection across the floor.

"Alright," he said, scrolling through the carousel. "What's your poison?"

She leaned over to peer at the screen. "Not a documentary. No politics. No serial killer stuff."

"Damn. You're killing my entire Netflix algorithm."

Leah nudged him with her shoulder. "You can go back to football bios when we're in London. I want something that makes me laugh or cry. Or both."

He flicked through a few more titles. Modern Family. The Office. Emily in Paris. Heartstopper. Chef's Table.

"Ooh, wait," she said, pointing. "That one."

"Which one?"

"About Time."

He blinked. "The Rachel McAdams one? Time travel romance?"

"Yes. I haven't seen it since high school. And you've never watched it, right?"

"Nope," he admitted.

Leah turned to him with mock horror. "Then I'm about to ruin your life in the best way."

He chuckled and clicked play.

The familiar Netflix ba-dum thudded softly through the villa's built-in surround system, echoing faintly off the glass. The opening chords of Ben Folds' "The Luckiest" drifted in, and the film began its gentle, melancholic unfurling.

Francesco didn't expect to get drawn in.

But within twenty minutes, he was hooked.

There was something so unpretentious about it—about the simplicity of its message. Love deeply. Cherish time. Live the mundane days like they're miracles. As the story wove through moments of laughter, tragedy, awkwardness, and grace, Francesco felt himself caught in its rhythm. The film didn't try to shout anything profound. It whispered it.

Next to him, Leah was curled under his arm, her head nestled against his shoulder, her fingers loosely interlaced with his. He glanced at her every now and then—not to see if she was watching, but just because. Because he liked seeing her like this: relaxed, unarmored, happy.

When the film hit its emotional peak—when Domhnall Gleeson's character returns to that last walk with his father—Francesco felt a lump rise in his throat.

He didn't cry easily. Not from injuries. Not from press attacks. Not even when he scored his first hat trick at the Emirates. But something about this scene, the idea of time slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you tried to hold it—he felt it. In his bones.

He blinked rapidly.

Leah turned her face toward him just in time to see it.

"You okay?" she whispered.

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Was it the dad part?"

He nodded again.

She leaned up and kissed the spot just under his jaw. "I knew it."

When the credits rolled, neither of them moved.

They just sat there, the soft hum of the ocean filling the silence left behind by the music. Francesco rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled.

"That hit harder than I expected."

"I told you."

"You did."

She sat up slightly, letting the blanket fall to her lap, and looked at him. "You want to know something dumb?"

"Always."

"I used to fantasize about watching movies like that with someone who actually felt things."

Francesco raised a brow. "Not exactly a high bar."

"You'd be surprised."

He chuckled, then leaned in and kissed her—slow and steady and full of the emotion the film had just stirred in both of them. When they pulled apart, she touched his cheek lightly.

"I don't want to forget this night."

"You won't," he said. "I won't let you."

He stood and walked over to the nightstand, grabbing his phone. With the Netflix screen still glowing in the background, he turned the camera around and snapped a selfie of the two of them—her under the blanket, eyes misty, him still shirtless, still slightly puffy-eyed from holding back tears. He captioned it simply for his story:

Who said romance is dead? ❤️

Within seconds, responses started trickling in from friends, teammates, and fans.

@aaronramsey: Soft boy cinema hours 👏

@bellerin: My man finally watching the good stuff.

@leah_gordon_art: About time you watched About Time. 😉

@arsenalqueen_: This is the cutest thing I've seen all day. Protect them at all costs.

Francesco chuckled, dropped the phone onto the nightstand again, and pulled the blanket over them both. He wrapped his arms around Leah and rested his forehead against hers.

"Think they have more movies like that?" he asked softly.

"We've got three more nights," she replied. "We've got all the time in the world."

And with the ocean still whispering, the stars keeping quiet watch outside, and the ghost of Ben Folds' lyrics lingering in the air, they drifted not into sleep just yet—but into that in-between space where the world feels perfectly still, and everything you love is right within reach.

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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