The King Of Arsenal

Chapter 300: 282. Media Storm And Official Statement



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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."

The morning light drifted through the wide floor-to-ceiling windows of Francesco's private gym, casting long golden shafts across the matte-black floor. Outside, the rain had stopped. A pale mist clung to the ground, curling around the garden hedges and the quiet trees like something that hadn't quite decided whether to vanish or settle in. But inside, the world was all motion—precision, breath, rhythm.

Francesco moved with practiced ease, sweat darkening the front of his sleeveless training shirt, the steady thud of his footsteps echoing faintly off the gym walls. His hands were wrapped in white tape. The punching bag swayed in front of him, rocked by the focused force of every blow. He wasn't going full strength. Not really. This was discipline, not anger. Routine, not punishment.

It was early. He liked it that way.

He had always believed that how you began the day defined how the world could shape you. Control the first hour, and you controlled your response to everything after.

Even fallout.

Even headlines.

He threw another combination—left hook, jab, side step, uppercut—then stepped back, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. The playlist from his phone played low through the in-ceiling speakers—mostly jazz this morning, something he liked to train to when his thoughts were too loud. The kind of music that made space between thoughts, helped him breathe.

And then his phone lit up.

It was buzzing from the towel-covered bench where he'd left it, right next to a bottle of water and his Apple Watch. One buzz. Then another. Then five.

He paused mid-step, eyes narrowing. The name flashing on the screen made him still.

Jorge Mendes.

Francesco grabbed the towel, patted down his arms and face, then answered the call.

"Morning," he said, voice still calm but carrying a note of wariness. "You're up early."

"I've been up since five," Jorge said without preamble. His voice, though always measured, had a sharpness to it now. "Francesco, I need you to turn on the television. Now. Any news channel. Doesn't matter."

Francesco stilled. "Why? What's going on?"

"It's everywhere," Jorge replied. "All over Sky Sports, BBC, ITV, TalkSport, you name it. And social media's gone nuclear. Just… turn it on. I'm watching Sky News right now."

Francesco didn't ask again. He walked toward the mounted TV on the wall, picked up the remote, and flicked the screen on. The gym lights dimmed slightly with the shift, a design feature he'd never bothered to disable. The screen blinked to life.

Sky Sports News – Live

The headline ticker scrolled in bold red at the bottom:

BREAKING: STAR STRIKER FRANCESCO LEE SKIPS NATIONAL DUTY FOR PRIVATE MALDIVES GETAWAY — "LEISURE OVER COUNTRY?"

His heart slowed for half a beat.

On screen was a still from the airport yesterday—he and Leah walking between the security corridor, his arm around her waist, cameras flashing in the background. The photo was grainy and hastily cropped, but it had the weight of an accusation behind it.

Then the anchors spoke.

"—Francesco Lee, England's current best young talent and one of the brightest stars in the Premier League, was spotted arriving back in London yesterday after a private trip to the Maldives with his girlfriend, Arsenal Women's midfielder Leah Williamson."

"Right, and this wouldn't be quite so controversial, Martin, if not for the timing. England played a friendly against Poland last night—at Wembley. And Lee wasn't on the pitch."

"No, he wasn't. Sources say Hodgson gave him permission to rest after a demanding season, but the optics here are brutal. While his teammates were sweating it out in the white shirt, Lee was photographed in a villa, in crystal-clear water, holding cocktails. I mean—what do you think the fans are going to say?"

Francesco muted the TV. His jaw was tight now, not with anger, but with something heavier—something tangled between frustration and inevitability.

Jorge's voice came through the phone again, softer now.

"You okay, son?"

"I'm fine," Francesco said, though his voice had dulled. "Just tired of being predictable to them."

"They're not attacking your form," Jorge said quickly. "No one's questioning your ability. This is optics. Politics. The press is bored, and it's a slow summer. But this… it's a perfect storm."

Francesco paced a little, towel over one shoulder now, his eyes still on the frozen image on the TV.

"Have you spoken to anyone at the FA?" he asked.

"I've had two calls already this morning. Unofficial. Some are livid. Others are standing by Hodgson's decision. But the mood is turning. They want a statement from you. Something that frames this trip as what it was—a sanctioned break. They're worried about fan reaction. Sponsors, too."

"Let them react," Francesco muttered. "I won't apologize for living like a human being."

Jorge was quiet for a second. Then, gently, "Francesco. I believe in that. You know I do. But you also know how this game works. You're not just a footballer anymore. You're an icon. A symbol. Fair or not, every move gets judged like it's a referendum."

"I'm not issuing some manufactured apology," he said. "Not when I've done everything they've asked of me for months. I carried Arsenal to the title. I didn't fake an injury. I didn't run off to Vegas. I went on a five-day vacation with the woman I love after getting approval from my manager."

"I know," Jorge said. "And so do the people who matter. But still… silence can be shaped into anything. And right now, the tabloids are shaping you into the villain."

Francesco exhaled slowly. His reflection in the window across from the TV caught his eye—a little older than the boy who first signed for Arsenal, a little leaner, a little more weathered by spotlight. But still himself. Still standing.

"I'll call Leah," he said. "Make sure she's seen it."

"Good," Jorge said. "Let me know what you decide to do. But whatever it is, do it soon. The longer the gap, the louder the speculation gets."

"Understood."

They hung up.

Francesco stood there for a long moment, listening to the silence settle back in. The sweat on his skin had cooled. The music had stopped. And the weight of the world—or at least the weight of public perception—had crept quietly into the room.

He grabbed his phone and left the gym.

Leah who was still in bed when he came in—tangled in white sheets, half-asleep, the curve of her back warm against the soft pillows. She stirred slightly at the sound of the door, eyes cracking open.

"Morning," she murmured. Then, sensing his energy before she even registered his face, she sat up straighter. "What happened?"

Francesco crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and gently took her hand.

"It's started," he said quietly. "The backlash."

She blinked. "Already?"

He nodded. "They ran it everywhere. Photos of us at the airport. Headlines calling me a traitor, saying I abandoned the national team for a 'romantic getaway.' The usual noise."

Leah frowned. "But they knew you were taking time off. They knew—"

"They don't care," he said. "The truth isn't profitable. Controversy is."

Her hand slipped into his. "Do you want to issue a statement?"

He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her—messy hair, tired eyes, the concern in her features blooming not out of ego, but love. She wasn't worried about herself. She was worried about him. That made all the difference.

"I want to tell the truth," he said. "Not to win them back. Not to convince anyone. Just… so we don't disappear beneath their version of us."

Leah nodded slowly, then stood from the bed, the sheet sliding off her shoulders. She walked over to the dresser and picked up his phone, unlocking it and pulling up the Notes app.

"Then let's write it," she said. "Together."

He stood beside her, staring at the blank screen. Then he began to type.

Later that morning, Francesco post his statement on all of his social media.

Francesco Lee (@francescolee)

I've seen the headlines this morning. I've read the tweets, the comments, the assumptions.

Here's what happened:

After a demanding season—one where I played every match, gave everything to my club and country—I was given a week off by Coach Hodgson and Arsenal. I chose to spend that time with the person I love.

I didn't abandon my country. I didn't walk away from the badge. I took a breath so I could come back stronger.

Football is my passion. But I'm also human. And in the moments between matches, I live. I laugh. I love.

I don't expect everyone to understand. But I won't apologize for protecting my health and happiness.

I'm proud to play for England. I always have been. And I always will be.

– FL

He hit post.

Then he turned to Leah, who was reading over his shoulder, and kissed her forehead.

"Whatever comes next," he said, "we face it."

The phone started ringing before the post had even finished making its rounds.

Francesco barely had time to set it down on the kitchen island before it lit up again—first a buzz, then a sharp trill of a FaceTime call. He glanced at the name flashing on the screen and felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Dad.

"Answer it," Leah said gently, handing him a cup of warm tea as she leaned on the other side of the counter, still dressed in his oversized hoodie.

Francesco swiped the screen.

"Hey, Pops."

Mike Lee's face filled the screen immediately—strong-jawed, sun-weathered, and unmistakably furious, though not at his son. His brows were drawn tight, but his voice, when it came, was thick with concern more than rage.

"Franny, are you okay?"

"I'm alright," Francesco said, leaning one elbow on the counter. "Seen the news, I take it."

"Of course I've bloody seen the news," Mike snapped. "Half the garden center was talking about it this morning like you'd spat on the Queen's portrait. Your mother nearly took someone's head off with a rake."

In the background, Sarah's voice chimed in—"Tell him we're proud. Tell him the only thing he abandoned was the chance to get shin splints before the qualifiers!"

Francesco chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Tell Mum I love her. And thanks."

"She's pacing the living room like a lioness," Mike muttered. Then his voice softened. "Look, we knew the moment you blew up the way you did that this would come, didn't we? The critics, the cameras, the constant magnifying glass. But what they forget—what they always forget—is that you're still just a lad. A seventeen-year-old lad who's been running nonstop since he could tie his boots."

Francesco swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat.

Mike wasn't done.

"And Leah's a brilliant girl. The world saw two people in love trying to get five minutes of peace. If they've got a problem with that, it's their problem."

Francesco nodded, quieter now. "Thanks, Dad."

"Anytime. And don't worry—we've already turned off the telly. Not giving those jackals a minute more of airtime."

Then came Sarah's voice again, even louder this time: "If I see one more pundit with a stupid opinion and a suit two sizes too small, I'm calling Ofcom."

Francesco grinned and ended the call with a final, warm "I love you."

He didn't even get to lock the screen before it started buzzing again.

This time, it was a group FaceTime.

Theo Walcott, Hector Bellerin, and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain all appeared at their own home, they all laughing even before they spoke.

"Oi! Look who's back from sipping piña coladas on a private island!" Bellerin grinned.

"Man looks well-rested," Chamberlain added. "That Maldives sun hit different, didn't it?"

Francesco rolled his eyes affectionately. "Y'all finished? Or should I come back after the memes?"

"Mate, we've got a full folder already," Walcott said, holding up his phone. "You, shirtless on a jet ski? Bro, you gave the tabloids dessert."

But then the teasing faded, and Bellerin leaned in, his tone suddenly sincere.

"Real talk, though. We've got your back. Everyone at the club's buzzing about that post. Even the physios were like, 'Finally, someone said it out loud.'"

"Yeah," Chamberlain said. "You've been carrying us all season. Literally carried us to that title. If anyone deserves a break, it's you."

Walcott nodded. "We're behind you. One hundred percent. And the national team need you healthy for the Euros. None of us want to see you burned out before you even turn eighteen."

Francesco smiled, deeply touched. "Appreciate that. Seriously."

"You earned every damn minute of that vacation," Bellerin said. "And Leah? Absolute queen. Tell her we said hey."

Leah, still sipping tea behind him, gave them a little wave. "Tell them I said thanks. And that jet ski photo was taken under duress."

Everyone burst out laughing.

Francesco signed off the call with a final round of fist bumps and grins, and just as he was pocketing the phone, another notification flashed.

Private Number.

He answered without hesitation.

"Francesco," came the voice, unmistakable and wise, rich with a French accent. "It is Arsène."

"Coach," Francesco said quickly. "Good morning, sir."

Wenger chuckled. "Relax, boy. I am not here to lecture. I am calling to tell you… you did the right thing."

Francesco blinked, stunned into silence.

"You must always listen to your body," Wenger went on. "I've seen careers ruined not by injury, but by exhaustion. The mind is clever, yes, but it is also fragile. The greatest players I ever coached knew when to press pause."

"I didn't expect this to blow up like it did," Francesco admitted.

"Of course you didn't. Because you are still young. You are seventeen, Francesco. Seventeen, and already they speak of you like you've been here for decades. That is a compliment, yes—but also a burden. And it is not one you must carry alone."

Francesco's throat tightened.

"I've never wanted to let the team down," he said quietly.

"You have done the opposite," Wenger replied gently. "You have shown your teammates that rest is not weakness. That love is not distraction. That life is worth living beyond the pitch."

There was a pause, then Wenger added, "I read your statement. It was beautiful. Mature. Human. Do not let the noise drown out your truth."

"Thank you, sir," Francesco said, voice thick now.

"Get some rest, my boy. The qualifiers will be here soon enough. And England will need you."

They said their goodbyes, and the call ended, but Francesco sat in stillness for a moment longer.

And then, as if the world had been waiting for the right moment, his phone buzzed again—this time with a notification from Sky News.

FA STATEMENT ON FRANCESCO LEE

He clicked.

The screen loaded, and there it was—a formal release from the Football Association, stamped with the official crest and shared to every major outlet.

In it, the FA publicly confirmed that Francesco had been given a sanctioned rest period following "an intense and physically demanding season." They acknowledged his youth—only seventeen—and emphasized their commitment to safeguarding the mental and physical health of their players.

The statement read:

"We support Francesco Lee's decision to take a brief rest, which was approved by both the national team management and Arsenal FC. At just seventeen years old, Francesco has already shown incredible dedication, professionalism, and talent beyond his years.

The national team is rich with experienced senior players who can step up during this period. All squad members are united in supporting Francesco's well-being and look forward to having him back in full form for the upcoming Euro 2016 Qualifiers.

His commitment to England is not in question."

Francesco let out a long breath.

Leah, now reading over his shoulder, smiled slowly. "That's… better than I expected."

"Same," he said. "Feels like they're finally seeing me as a person."

Then his phone buzzed again.

A string of messages. From players. From pundits. Even a few surprising names—David Beckham. Rio Ferdinand. Thierry Henry. All of them with the same message, more or less:

You did the right thing.

Take care of yourself.

Come back stronger.

He turned to Leah, her fingers linked loosely with his now, and whispered, "Feels like the storm's passing."

She nodded. "Because you faced it. Without flinching."

He smiled, pressing a kiss to her temple.

The phone was finally quiet.

No buzzing. No ringing. No new headlines exploding across the screen. For the first time since they'd landed back in London, it felt like the tide was beginning to settle. Not retreat completely—no, not yet—but soften. As if the world had taken a breath, seen the truth, and started to shift its weight off his shoulders.

Francesco turned from the counter, still holding the phone in one hand, the other laced with Leah's. Their tea had gone cold. He wasn't even sure how long it had been since they'd taken a sip.

Leah looked at him with a small smile that said everything—pride, relief, a little weariness, and something soft beneath it all. Love. Pure and unfiltered.

"Lunch?" she asked gently, brushing her knuckle along his jaw. "You haven't eaten anything since you woke up this morning."

He blinked, as if the mention of food had just reminded him he had a body again.

"Yeah," he said, voice scratchy. "God, I'm starving."

She grinned, already reaching for the iPad they usually used for room service or takeout. "Alright, superstar. You want something warm and cozy or fancy and photogenic?"

He gave a half-laugh, rubbing his stomach. "Something that doesn't require silverware."

Leah tapped a few things on the screen, scanning menus. "There's that Italian place near Richmond Green—you liked their lasagna last time. And they've got those little meatball subs with the spicy marinara."

"Done," he said without hesitation. "And fries. Please. I want enough fries to bury my worries in."

She nodded seriously. "Two orders of fries. And a tiramisu for later."

"Bless you," Francesco said, finally sitting down on the couch like he could afford to relax. His body sank into the cushions with a small groan.

As Leah finished the order and set the tablet aside, she glanced over at the TV remote lying abandoned near the throw pillows. "Want to check the news?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Might as well. Better to know what's being said than wonder."

She reached over, turned on the TV, and flipped to Sky Sports. The sound came in halfway through a segment, and both of them instinctively leaned closer.

"…following a strong, supportive statement from the Football Association, public opinion appears to be shifting in favor of the young Arsenal striker," the anchor was saying, his tone neutral but not unfriendly.

And then, in a split-screen, two photos: one of Francesco shirtless on a jet ski, laughing and carefree, and one of him from a match in May—jersey soaked, face streaked with sweat, eyes blazing with focus.

The contrast was striking.

The anchor continued. "Social media reaction has been mixed, but is rapidly leaning in favor of the seventeen-year-old, with major figures such as David Beckham and Thierry Henry posting messages of support. Let's go to our correspondent outside Arsenal's training ground—"

The feed cut to a young reporter in a red puffer jacket, standing in front of London Colney.

"Thanks, James," she said into the mic. "The mood here has changed significantly since the FA's statement this morning. I've spoken to several fans and insiders who all seem to echo the same sentiment: Francesco Lee deserved this break, and the criticism was unwarranted. Here's what some supporters had to say."

A cut to man in his forties wearing an Arsenal scarf: "He's a kid, yeah? A kid who's done more for the club in one year than some players do in five. Let him live."

Then a woman in her twenties, holding a takeaway coffee: "People act like he skipped the World Cup. It was a friendly. And he was with Leah Williamson, for God's sake. It's not like he was clubbing in Ibiza."

Then, as if fate had decided to throw them a bone, came the best one: a boy, maybe ten years old, in a red Francesco Lee shirt two sizes too big.

"I think he's the best," the kid said shyly. "He scores cool goals and he's nice. I want to be like him when I grow up."

Francesco stared at the screen, unable to move for a second.

Leah reached for his hand again, squeezing it softly.

"That," she murmured, "is what matters."

He nodded, jaw tight with emotion. "Yeah. That."

Back on the TV, the reporter was still talking. "We're also hearing that the England squad has been briefed not only on the FA's position, but on Francesco's return timeline. Sources tell us he's expected back in camp before the first Euro 2016 qualifier, and that both club and country are coordinating his training schedule to ensure he returns in peak condition…"

The doorbell rang.

Lunch.

Leah hopped up while Francesco turned down the volume, and a moment later she returned with two big brown bags of food. The smell was immediate and wonderful—melted cheese, garlic, something spicy and fried and perfect.

They unpacked everything right there on the coffee table—meatball subs, golden fries, a side of garlic knots, and two bottles of sparkling water. No fancy plating, no distractions. Just food. Real food.

Francesco took a bite of his sub and groaned. "Oh my God. I want to marry this sandwich."

Leah smirked. "Not in front of your actual girlfriend."

"Sorry. You're both beautiful," he said around a mouthful of marinara. "But only one of you has spicy meatballs."

She laughed—deep, genuine—and stole one of his fries.

For a while, they didn't speak much. Just chewed, nudged knees together, and let the weight of the last few days slowly, quietly unravel. The kind of silence that wasn't awkward or heavy—it was healing.

After a while, Leah leaned back with a sigh and wiped her fingers on a napkin. "I know this wasn't how you wanted the break to go."

Francesco shook his head. "I thought we'd come home, post a couple pictures, and just… chill. Maybe do a few interviews next week, get ready for training. Instead…"

"Instead, half the country debated your soul," she finished, raising an eyebrow.

He gave a sheepish grin. "Yeah. That."

She leaned over and kissed his temple. "I'm proud of you. You handled it better than most adults I've seen in this industry."

He looked at her—really looked at her—and felt something deep inside settle into place. "I don't think I could've done any of it without you."

She smiled, eyes warm. "You don't have to."

A silence fell again, more intimate now. More personal.

Then Francesco said, "I kept thinking… if I just pushed through, people would respect me more. That they'd take me seriously."

Leah reached for his hand again. "They already do. But respect earned through pain isn't the kind that lasts. You taught them something more important."

He exhaled slowly. "Still feels weird. Like I stepped off the pitch and the world freaked out."

She nodded. "That's because you're special. Not just in talent—anyone can have talent. But in how you carry it. How you don't let it turn you into someone else."

Francesco leaned back against the couch, letting her words wrap around him.

They watched the screen in silence as another segment rolled—this one showing footage of his first ever Arsenal goal, then the hat-trick against Chelsea, and finally the goal that clinched the title last season.

The commentator's voice said: "Francesco Lee is not just the future of English football—he is its present. But perhaps what this past week has shown us is that beyond the player, there's a person worth listening to."

Francesco felt his chest tighten again—but it wasn't from pressure this time. It was from peace, a real peace after a very busy day.

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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


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