The King Of Arsenal

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Francesco pulled the blanket up around them and kissed her shoulder. "Sleep now. Tomorrow, we fly. But tonight… we're still here." Leah sighed contentedly, wrapping her fingers through his. "Then let's hold on as long as we can." And in the quiet dark, they did.

The morning of departure came quietly, like the closing notes of a lullaby that had rocked them through a dream.

The sun had barely crested over the horizon when Francesco stirred, the warmth of Leah still wrapped around him beneath the linen sheets. Outside, the world was bathed in a pale golden hue—the kind of light that made everything look softer, more tender. Even time seemed to slow, giving them one last chance to memorize this place before it became just a memory.

They didn't speak much at first. There was a reverence to the air, like the final scene of a favorite film they didn't want to end. Francesco brushed a kiss across Leah's forehead and slid out of bed quietly, pulling on his linen shirt. She woke a few minutes later, blinking against the light and reaching instinctively toward where he'd been.

"I'm still here," he murmured from across the room, zipping the last corner of his suitcase shut.

Leah sat up slowly, her hair a soft tumble of curls from sleep, her skin still carrying the warm glow of the Maldives. "I was hoping it was just a dream," she whispered, "and we still had another week."

Francesco smiled gently. "If it were up to me, we'd never leave."

They got ready in silence, in sync—like they'd been doing this for years. She folded the last of their shared beach towels into the larger suitcase, tucking in a little coral heart she'd picked up the day before. He zipped up her sandals into the side pocket of her duffel. No words were necessary. They were both savoring the last few minutes in their villa, surrounded by the scent of salt and hibiscus, the sound of waves humming just beneath the floorboards.

Their suitcases sat neatly by the door now—closed chapters filled with sun-drenched clothes, little artifacts of love, and all the moments they couldn't quite bottle.

Kaamil met them at the dock at 8:00 a.m. sharp, his smile still wide despite the early hour. "You two break my heart," he said as he helped load their luggage into the small boat that would take them to the seaplane jetty. "You belong here now."

Leah hugged him tightly. "Thank you… for everything."

Kaamil grinned. "Come back for your honeymoon, yeah?"

Francesco exchanged a glance with Leah—there was something in her smile that made his heart flip. "You might see us sooner than that," he said.

The ride to the seaplane dock was peaceful. The morning sea was still, like glass, and the sun had begun to fully rise, warming the horizon with shades of apricot and pink. Their island resort slowly receded behind them, growing smaller with each soft churn of the motor until it looked like a whisper floating on the waves.

When they reached the floating seaplane dock, the aircraft was already there—its white-and-blue body gleaming against the water, wings stretched like a seabird at rest.

The pilot greeted them with a polite nod and took their bags. Francesco held Leah's hand as they climbed aboard, the two of them settling into seats near the back. The interior was simple, clean, open to the salt-kissed breeze as the engine purred awake.

Leah rested her head on Francesco's shoulder as the seaplane slowly taxied across the calm water. Then, with a sudden lift, they were airborne—gliding over the archipelago like a bird in flight.

From up high, the Maldives looked even more unreal. A thousand specks of paradise dotting the turquoise canvas of the Indian Ocean, each one rimmed in ivory sand and crowned with green. A watercolor dream seen from above.

They watched the islands pass beneath them in silence, Leah tracing patterns across the window with her finger.

"I feel like we're leaving a piece of us down there," she whispered.

"We are," Francesco replied softly. "But maybe it means we'll always have a reason to return."

It wasn't long before the seaplane began its descent, the airport island appearing like a tiny citadel surrounded by blue. The sea turned from bright cyan to a deeper sapphire as the plane touched down gently on the water, skimming to a floating dock just offshore. A sleek speedboat was already waiting for them, ready to ferry them the final stretch to the terminal where their private jet stood prepped for departure.

The transition from tropical ease to luxury efficiency happened quickly. A pair of attendants loaded their luggage while a crew member handed them cold towels and lemon-mint drinks. Still barefoot from the plane, Leah took a slow breath as they stepped onto the polished deck of the private terminal.

"Ready?" Francesco asked, though he could already see the answer in her eyes.

"Not at all," she whispered, then gave a small smile. "But yes."

The jet waited for them on the tarmac like a promise. Sleek, silver, elegant, its engines humming low in anticipation. The flight crew greeted them warmly and escorted them up the short set of stairs into the cabin, where plush cream seats and warm wood finishes gave the space the feel of a flying lounge.

Francesco sank into the leather seat across from Leah, buckled in, and exhaled slowly.

The jet lifted from the ground in a matter of minutes—smooth, swift, seamless. The Maldives faded beneath them, the blues merging into the curve of the planet, and finally into clouds.

Once they were at cruising altitude, the flight attendant brought them breakfast trays: croissants, smoked salmon, sliced mango, coffee so rich it smelled like it had been roasted just for them.

Leah pulled her knees up beneath her in the wide seat and looked across the cabin at Francesco.

"So… do we talk about it now?" she asked.

He tilted his head. "About what?"

She smiled. "All of it."

He nodded, setting down his coffee. "Let's."

For a while, they just… unraveled the memories.

From their first sunset on the water bungalow deck to the chaos of flyboarding. From mango-glazed seafood under lantern light to bioluminescent footprints glowing beneath their toes. From the joy of jet skis to the stillness of that hammock on Reethi Beach. The way her hair curled under the sea salt. The way he looked at her when she wasn't watching. The way everything felt like it had always been leading to this.

"Do you realize we laughed every single day?" Leah asked, her voice thick with tenderness.

"Every hour," he replied.

She leaned back and let her gaze rest on the clouds outside. "I think I learned something about us this week."

Francesco turned toward her, interested. "Yeah?"

"That… we're not just good together in the real world. We're good when there's nothing but each other, too. No work, no distractions. Just us."

He was quiet for a moment, processing the depth of what she said. "And what did that tell you?"

"That I love you in every setting," she whispered. "On land, in the sea, in the air… in silence, in chaos. I love who I am when I'm with you."

Francesco stood then, walked the few steps over to her side of the cabin, and slid in beside her. He pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"I feel like this week cracked something open in me," he said against her hair. "Like I remembered who I really am when I'm not playing football. When I'm not performing. Just… a guy in love with his best friend, on a beach that felt like forever."

She turned her face up toward his. "So what now?"

"We keep the magic," he said firmly. "Not just the shells in a jar. But the ease. The laughter. The wonder."

They sat like that for a long while, the hum of the jet the only sound. At one point, Leah pulled out her phone and scrolled through the photos from the week. They laughed at the one where Francesco's flyboarding attempt ended in a glorious splash. She lingered on a picture of him looking out at the sea, the wind pulling at his shirt, his expression caught between awe and peace.

"This one," she said. "This is how I'll always picture you now."

He looked at the image and smiled. "You should've taken one of you at the glowing beach. You looked like a fairy."

"You looked like you were seeing me for the first time," she whispered.

"I was," he said. "And I still am."

The jet began its slow arc over the Arabian Peninsula, and then Europe came into view on the digital map.

London was waiting.

The cold, the gray skies, the inboxes, the meetings, the crowds.

But none of it felt as daunting anymore.

Not with her beside him. Not after what they'd shared.

As the captain announced the beginning of descent, Francesco looked over at Leah and found her still watching the ocean fade behind them.

"You okay?" he asked gently.

She nodded, turning to him with that familiar softness in her eyes. "More than okay. I feel full."

He kissed the top of her head. "Then we did it right."

They held hands through the descent, hearts still warm from sun-drenched days and starlit nights. And though the Maldives slowly slipped into memory, neither of them felt like they were leaving something behind.

The landing was soft, almost a kindness—like the jet knew what it was bringing them back to and was trying to ease the blow. Clouds thinned, the patchwork of green fields and grey rooftops of England's countryside rolled gently into view, and then the unmistakable sprawl of London appeared beneath them. The city looked pale and wintry, wrapped in that familiar steel-blue hue of British skies. It was early afternoon. Chillier. Less forgiving. But not unwelcome.

Francesco looked out the oval window as Heathrow's runways lined up ahead, then glanced at Leah, who was pulling her coat a little tighter around her shoulders.

"We're back," she murmured.

He gave her hand a soft squeeze. "Yeah… time to step back into the real world."

The words weren't sharp, but they held a quiet gravity. The cocoon they'd been wrapped in—the sunlit days, the quiet nights, the stillness of paradise—had been pure, untouched. Now they were returning to where expectations, cameras, and headlines waited like wolves just beyond the jet bridge.

The jet's tires kissed the tarmac, and the slight jolt of touchdown was their final reminder: vacation was over.

As the aircraft taxied toward the private terminal, Leah took a long breath and looked out at the wet tarmac. She didn't say anything, but Francesco could read the emotion on her face—both the calm they were carrying and the wall they were about to hit. He leaned in and kissed her temple.

"Whatever's out there… we face it together."

She smiled faintly, but nodded. "Always."

The door opened, and the wind of London hit them instantly—cool, brisk, and sobering. Two ground attendants stood waiting at the foot of the jet stairs with umbrellas and smiles, ushering them gently toward a covered path that led to the private customs area. Their luggage was already being handled, tagged, and rolled toward the collection point with smooth, practiced efficiency.

Leah tucked her hand through Francesco's arm as they walked, her sunglasses shielding her eyes more for anonymity than sunlight. He walked with confidence, shoulders relaxed, but there was a growing awareness in the air—like the calm before a camera flash.

Inside, the customs process was quick. The staff were discreet, familiar with high-profile guests. A few exchanged glances as they recognized Francesco, but no one asked for selfies or lingered too long. In less than twenty minutes, they were through, standing at the luggage claim area. Their bags—sleek black cases tagged with monograms—arrived one by one, each one pulled quickly onto a waiting trolley by the attendant.

At the exit gate, a young woman at the luxury concierge counter smiled as they approached. "Mr. Lee, your ride will be ready at the curb in just a moment."

But they never made it that far.

The second the automatic doors parted and the gray light of the pick-up area spilled onto them, the flash of cameras hit like lightning.

Reporters. Maybe a dozen, maybe more—hard to count when they moved like a swarm.

Microphones thrust forward. Lenses zoomed. Voices rising.

"Francesco! Why weren't you with the England team this week?"

"Do you think it's fair to go on holiday when Hodgson said we had optional friendlies?"

"Is this your way of disrespecting the Three Lions?"

"Was the Maldives more important than your country?"

Leah froze for a second, startled, instinctively moving closer to him.

Francesco immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body like a wall of calm steel. He reached back, gently taking her hand, and squeezed it once in reassurance without looking. His other hand gestured for calm, but his face remained composed, not angry—just firm, controlled.

"Alright," he said, his voice clear and grounded. "Let me make something very clear."

The voices lowered a bit, cameras still clicking wildly.

"I asked Coach Hodgson for permission before this trip. He approved it. I've played in almost every match for Arsenal this season, and I've been carrying a minor muscle strain that the medical team thought would be better served with rest."

Another microphone tried to jab forward, but Francesco's eyes hardened just slightly.

"This wasn't about disrespect. It was about health. Recovery. Sanity. And yeah—love."

He looked down at Leah briefly, then back at the reporters.

"I took a few days to breathe. With my girlfriend. Who means the world to me. And now if you'll excuse us—we just got off a long flight, and we're going home."

He nodded toward the counter. "We'd like to order our taxi."

The reporters continued to shout, but Francesco moved forward without breaking stride, still shielding Leah. His free hand lifted slightly, brushing away a camera that came too close. He didn't push. Just made it clear: he wasn't playing games.

The attendant at the counter, suddenly nervous, motioned toward the waiting car. The attendant's voice came a little too quickly, her smile strained by the chaos behind the glass doors. "Mr. Lee—your car is ready. It's just outside."

She motioned briskly toward the line of luxury black cars idling at the curb, and before Francesco could take a full step, two uniformed airport security officers appeared from the periphery. Then four. Then more.

"Don't worry," one said in a low voice as he fell into step beside them. "We'll form a corridor. Just stay close and we'll get you through."

Francesco gave a quiet nod. "Thank you."

The cameras kept clicking. The reporters were relentless, jostling for position just beyond the sliding glass doors. Some were shouting questions, others just names, trying to get a glance, a shot, anything they could spin into headlines by dinner.

As the security team stepped into formation—two ahead, two behind, two flanking—Francesco gently wrapped his arm around Leah's waist and guided her forward. She moved with him, head bowed slightly, a soft tremble in her hands he didn't miss.

The doors parted again, and the wave of voices surged forward like a tide.

"Francesco!"

"Did Hodgson really approve this?"

"Is this the woman who came between you and England?"

"Are you and Leah engaged?!"

"Do you feel guilty?"

The security team held their line like seasoned soldiers. One officer raised a gloved hand firmly, forcing the reporters to take half a step back. "Back up, please. Let them through."

Francesco didn't flinch. His body was coiled in that same focused calm he took onto the pitch—eyes scanning, posture steady, presence unshaken. He never let go of Leah's hand.

"Almost there," he murmured.

They reached the waiting taxi and the driver stepped out quickly, rushing to open the rear passenger door.

"In you go," the driver said quickly, his accent clipped, professional. "We'll be out of here in no time."

Francesco helped Leah in first, sliding her across the leather seat before climbing in after her. The door closed with a deep, satisfying thunk.

Outside, the flashes kept going for a moment longer—until the tinted windows stole their access.

The security team stepped away, and the driver eased the car into motion with a smooth glide forward. The noise faded. The shouting blurred. The airport shrank behind them.

Inside the car, silence finally had room to breathe.

Francesco leaned back against the seat, exhaling deeply for the first time since they landed. Leah still held his hand, her fingers tight around his, as if needing that last thread of reassurance that it was over.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

She turned her head toward him, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses, but he could see her jaw relax just a little. "Yeah," she said softly. "Just… wasn't ready for all that."

"I should've expected it. I just didn't think they'd be that aggressive," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"They were looking for blood," Leah said. "You gave them answers instead."

He let a soft smile flicker. "Maybe. Doesn't mean they'll use them."

There was a long pause then, as the taxi slid onto the M4, heading toward Richmond. Rain streaked across the windows—London's familiar drizzle washing over the car like a veil.

Leah shifted slightly in her seat and turned to face him more directly.

"Are you worried?" she asked quietly.

He looked at her. "About what?"

"Tomorrow," she said. "The headlines. The backlash. The England fans. You know how quickly the press can turn. All it takes is one angry tweet, one tabloid headline saying you abandoned your country for a vacation with your girlfriend, and suddenly… you're a villain."

Francesco didn't answer at first. He just looked out the window, watching the grey blur of motorway fly by.

She waited, sensing he wasn't dodging the question—just trying to answer it honestly.

Finally, he turned back to her. His voice was steady, low.

"Of course I'm worried. I'd be stupid not to be. I know how this works. I know what they'll say—that I chose the Maldives over England, that I'm not committed, that I've changed since the fame kicked in. Some will call it selfish. Others will say I've gone soft."

He paused, his hand tightening slightly around hers.

"But here's the thing, Leah—I gave everything I had to this season. Every match. Every minute. I've run until my legs were numb, played through bruises, trained through storms. I've done press, charity, community visits. I've shown up. And when I finally asked for a week to breathe… when I asked to take it with you… Coach said yes. The club said yes. I didn't sneak away. I didn't lie."

She nodded gently, but her gaze searched his face.

"I know that. You know that. But fans…"

"Yeah," he said. "Fans don't always want facts. They want myths."

There was another silence, this one softer. Leah leaned her head against the window, watching the rows of trees blur past the wet glass.

"So why does it still sting?" she asked quietly. "Even knowing we did nothing wrong?"

Francesco didn't answer right away. He just reached across and gently pulled her into his side, letting her lean against his shoulder, her knees folding up onto the seat. He kissed her hair, breathing her in.

"Because we're human," he murmured. "Because it's never fun to be misunderstood. But we did what was right for us. We protected something real. And if the price of that is a few angry headlines… I'll pay it. Every time."

She was quiet for a moment, then let out a soft sigh, her body relaxing against him.

"I hate that you have to defend our happiness."

He smiled faintly, pressing his cheek to her temple. "I don't mind. Not if it means I get to keep it."

They drove like that for a while—curled into each other, the hum of the engine and the soft patter of rain on glass creating a cocoon far more welcome than the one they'd left behind.

The driver didn't speak, didn't interrupt. He knew better.

When the car finally pulled onto the quiet streets of Richmond, the clouds had lightened a little. The rain had eased to a drizzle, and the tree-lined road leading to Francesco's home curved like a ribbon through quiet elegance.

Their mansion came into view, familiar and steady. The security gate opened with a slow mechanical hiss, and the car rolled up the drive.

The house looked just as they'd left it—sleek modern lines, a wall of glass at the back, the trimmed hedges slightly damp from the rain. Warm yellow light spilled from the living room windows. Someone had lit the hearth.

Home.

Francesco helped Leah out of the car, their footsteps soft on the stone drive. A housekeeper opened the door with a kind smile, stepping back to let them in, the warmth of the interior rushing over them like a blanket.

Their bags were brought in and set by the stairs. The driver nodded once and left. The gate closed.

Leah kicked off her boots and walked barefoot across the warm wooden floor. Francesco followed, shedding his coat and placing it gently on the rack.

They stood in the center of the living room, both of them quiet for a beat.

Then Leah turned, walked into him, and wrapped her arms around his chest.

"I'm proud of you," she whispered. "For everything. For how you handled it."

Francesco rested his chin on her head. "I'm proud of us. For making it count."

She tilted her head up to look at him. "Even if the papers are brutal tomorrow?"

He smiled. "Let them. Because we know what this was. And when they get tired of spinning stories, we'll still be standing. Together."

She leaned up and kissed him—slow, meaningful, full of everything they hadn't been able to say while the cameras were clicking.

And when they pulled back, he whispered against her lips, "We brought paradise home, remember?" Then Leah smile widened and replied. "Then let's not let it go."

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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