The King Of Arsenal

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Because nights like this weren't just for goals or assists. They were for building something lasting. Something worth remembering. And tonight, under the lights of the Emirates, Francesco Lee had written himself into another page of that story.

The cold in London didn't bite the way it did in Stoke or the windswept North. It wrapped around you—persistent, damp, like fingers pressing through your coat. Francesco could feel it when he stepped outside on the morning of January 1st, 2016, but it was the kind of cold he welcomed. The kind that made you feel alive.

There was no New Year's hangover. No fanfare. Just training. Just focus. That win over Sunderland had meant more than progression in the FA Cup. It had pulled the team together. It had whispered to them, you're still here. And for Francesco, it was another thread stitching him tighter into the Arsenal fabric.

The days that followed came and went like quick blinks. Each training session bled into the next. The Emirates pitch, the London Colney turf, the cold showers, the protein shakes, the physio tables, the brief flickers of evening light vanishing before dinner—it all folded into a rhythm only footballers truly understood. Days off were rare. When they came, they felt alien, like a strange silence after the final whistle.

Francesco spent one of those off-days in Richmond, curled on the couch with Leah, watching Match of the Day highlights of their own performances, critiquing his movements, laughing at the replays of Iwobi's wild-eyed celebration. Leah always picked up on the tiniest things—his positioning, his shoulder drops, the way he checked over his shoulder before making a run.

"Why do you do that little hip-feint before you pass sometimes?" she asked once, foot nudging his beneath the blanket.

Francesco grinned. "It's like bluffing in poker. You want them to think the ball's going somewhere else. Make space before space even exists."

She gave him a look. "You're ridiculous."

"Am I wrong?"

"Unfortunately, no."

They both laughed. But underneath the warmth of those moments, there was tension building. Transfer tension.

Every day, journalists camped at London Colney's gates. Every press conference was a minefield of questions: Who's coming in? Who's leaving? Are Arsenal really serious about the title this year?

Wenger stayed composed, as always. But Francesco could read it on him.

The professor wasn't just calm.

He was calculating.

When the Elneny deal finally crossed the line—£11.25 million from FC Basel—it felt less like a headline and more like a whisper. There were no fireworks. No Instagram montages. Just a photo of the Egyptian midfielder holding up the shirt, grinning awkwardly beside Wenger in that familiar Arsenal backdrop.

The fan response was mixed. Some were disappointed, hoping for a big-money reinforcement to replace the injured Santi Cazorla or to take the pressure off Coquelin's absence. But others, especially those who watched Swiss football or saw Egypt's rising stars, knew what Elneny brought—energy, tenacity, composure.

Francesco met him during training three days later.

They shook hands, Elneny's grip firm but respectful.

"Welcome to Arsenal," Francesco said with a nod.

Elneny smiled. "I've watched you play. You make it look simple."

Francesco laughed. "It never is. But it gets easier when the guy next to you runs like a machine."

Elneny chuckled. There was something humble about him. Eager, but not overawed. The kind of player who came to work, not just to dream.

Wenger addressed the squad that afternoon inside the meeting room.

"I wanted to do more," he said, his voice low but honest. "We were close. But the market was…not friendly. Elneny is our only addition this window. So we do what we've always done: we trust ourselves."

No one said anything, but heads nodded.

Francesco leaned back in his chair and thought about it. They could have used more—especially with Cazorla and Coquelin out. But it wasn't about what they didn't have. Not anymore. It was about what they were.

And what they were—if they got it right—was something formidable.

Bet365 Stadium, January 10th.

Grey skies. Angry wind. That kind of air that felt like it could skin your cheek if you weren't careful.

Stoke away was never a fixture anyone circled with joy. It was a test of toughness, grit, of whether you could play your football through mud and muscle. But Francesco felt sharp. From the first whistle, he knew he was on.

Arsenal started quick—moving the ball side to side, drawing Stoke out, probing. Özil was back in form, dancing between the lines, and Ramsey pulled the strings like a pianist on caffeine.

Francesco's first goal came in the 14th minute.

It started from Bellerín, who surged past Pieters on the right and pulled back a cross with just the right weight. Francesco ghosted in front of Ryan Shawcross—timed it perfectly—and met the ball with a glancing header that fizzed inside the near post.

He didn't celebrate with wild theatrics. Just a calm point to Bellerín and a pat on his chest. "That's one," he mouthed.

Stoke fought back with their usual aggression, but Arsenal didn't flinch.

The second came just after halftime—a counterattack that unfolded like poetry. Ramsey won the ball in midfield, fed it to Özil, who turned and slipped it into Francesco's stride. The number 9 didn't break rhythm. One touch to set it. Second to curl it past Butland from outside the box.

The third? That was the cherry.

78th minute. A short corner routine between Arteta and Iwobi. Francesco peeled away from his marker at the top of the box, received the pass, chopped it left, then back to the right—leaving Philipp Wollscheid frozen—and fired it low into the far corner.

A hat-trick.

His first for Arsenal.

As he jogged to the corner flag, arms outstretched, the away section erupted. Flags waved. Fists punched the January sky.

Francesco closed his eyes for a moment and let it sink in. The sound. The feeling. The cold that didn't bite anymore. Just warmth. A fire inside.

3–0. Final score. Statement made.

January 24th.

Chelsea. Arsenal. A derby with weight.

Kickoff came under a crisp twilight sky. The floodlights bathed the pitch in gold and shadow, and the air crackled with anticipation.

Chelsea struck first.

Diego Costa, of course. A scrappy deflected effort in the 19th minute that bounced cruelly past Čech. The celebration was taunting. Loud. Costa pointed to his chest and cupped his ears toward the North Bank.

Francesco saw red—but not the reckless kind. The focused kind. The answer-it-on-the-pitch kind.

And answer he did.

Just before halftime, Özil threaded a needle of a pass between Mikel and Azpilicueta. Francesco anticipated it, split the gap, and shot first-time across Courtois. The net rippled. The Emirates roared.

1–1.

He didn't celebrate toward the Chelsea bench. He didn't need to.

The second half was a masterclass in control. Elneny made his debut as a substitute, tidy and relentless. Coquelin, still recovering, watched from the stands, nodding at the Egyptian's touches.

The winner came in the 71st.

Francesco again.

This time, not as scorer—but as creator.

He pressed Fabregas near the halfway line, won the ball cleanly, and surged forward. As Cahill stepped up to confront him, Francesco slipped the ball through to Giroud, who took one touch to set himself and slammed it home.

2–1.

Wenger didn't celebrate like a madman. He just clenched his fist and let a satisfied breath escape.

January 30th. Emirates. Fourth round of the FA Cup.

The rotation was expected. Chambers in for Koscielny. Gibbs for Monreal. Oxlade-Chamberlain started, as did Sanchez, returning from injury.

Burnley weren't here for a photo-op. They pressed high, fought for second balls, and equalized quickly after Chambers' opener. For a moment, tension returned. But it never stayed long with this team anymore.

Sanchez made it 2–1 with a stunning volley from the left. The kind of goal that reminded you what he could do when his mind was clear and his hamstrings were willing.

Then, with Burnley chasing, Francesco struck again.

This one was different.

A long ball from Čech. A flick-on from Giroud. Francesco let it bounce, once, twice, then lifted it over the onrushing keeper with a cheeky lob. Pure instinct. Pure joy.

3–1.

The Emirates clapped not just in celebration, but in respect. This team was growing—not just winning.

And as Francesco walked off that night, hand raised to the crowd, he passed Wenger at the sideline.

"Well done," the manager said, softly.

Francesco nodded. "Feels like something's building."

Wenger smiled. "Yes. And you're one of the architects."

By January 31st, the window shut with a dull thud. No last-minute signings. No drama. Just Elneny. Just trust.

Wenger faced the press that afternoon, calm as ever.

"We strengthen in training. That is where the title is decided."

Francesco watched from the back of the room, arms folded.

He believed that now.

Not because Wenger said it.

Because he'd felt it.

In Stoke's mud. In Chelsea's tension. In Burnley's fight.

And so, as the final day of January faded into February's breath, Francesco Lee sat at home in Richmond, boots resting by the fire, Leah curled against his side, and whispered two words to himself.

The kettle was hissing softly in the kitchen. The rain hadn't stopped all day—drizzling, pattering against the bay windows like a patient knock. Francesco sat slouched on the sofa, socks half-off, legs stretched toward the edge of the coffee table where a curled-up blanket leaned uselessly beside an untouched copy of FourFourTwo. On the muted TV, Sky Sports News was looping the closing moments of the January transfer deadline. "Window slammed shut," the headline scrolled below Jim White's animated gestures.

Leah appeared with two mugs, sliding one onto the table near Francesco's hand, the other tucked into her chest as she curled up beside him.

"Nothing?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Francesco shook his head slowly. "Just Elneny."

He didn't say it with disappointment. He said it like someone who had hoped, but not expected.

Leah blew across her tea and gave him a curious glance. "I thought you guys were in for more. Especially with Cazorla and… what's his name—Coquelin?"

Francesco nodded, eyes flicking to the ceiling. "Yeah. We were. I asked the boss."

"And?"

A beat passed. Francesco took a sip, then leaned his head back on the cushion.

"He said we tried. A lot of names. Midfielders mostly. But every time it got close, the price spiked, or the club refused to sell. Classic January nonsense. Everyone thinks their player's worth double if it's Arsenal calling."

Leah frowned. "So that's it? You go into the second half of the season short?"

Francesco tilted his head toward her. "Not short. Just… lean."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You sound like him."

Francesco chuckled. "I've been around the man long enough. It's infectious."

There was something calming about Wenger's influence—frustrating sometimes, yes, in its stoicism, its aversion to panic—but there was also serenity in it. You didn't get the sense he ignored problems. He just refused to solve them in a way that violated his own principles.

"I mean," Francesco continued, turning slightly, "he told me they were close to two other players. But then he said something else…"

Leah perked up. "What?"

Francesco lowered his voice as if the walls might be listening. "That we've already done good business. For the summer."

Her eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Yeah. He said—strictly between us—that the deal's practically done for a guy named Granit Xhaka. Swiss. Plays for Borussia Mönchengladbach."

Leah rolled the name on her tongue. "Granit? That's not very… delicate."

"He's not delicate," Francesco said with a grin. "He's a wall. Good passing range. Bit reckless sometimes—loves a card. But technically sharp. Left-footed. Could slot in nicely once he adapts."

He paused, then added thoughtfully, "Wenger rates him. Says he's got that combination—intelligence and steel. We need that."

Leah sipped her tea, still cradling it against her chest. "And that's it? Just him?"

"Well…" Francesco hesitated.

"What?"

"I told him to watch someone."

Leah looked amused. "You? Making scouting suggestions now?"

"Hey," Francesco said, mock-affronted, "I watch football like it's my second job. And I know what we're missing."

She smirked. "Okay, fine. Who?"

"Mohamed Salah."

She blinked. "Wait, the Chelsea reject?"

Francesco grinned. "Not anymore. He's at Roma. Been electric. Quick, sharp off the turn, relentless runner. And he's learning to finish now."

Leah considered it. "You really think he could work at Arsenal?"

"Under the right manager? Yeah. He needs freedom. Confidence. Space to run into. We give him that? He could be devastating. I told Arsène just to keep tabs."

"You're ridiculous."

Francesco shrugged, smirking. "That's what you love about me."

She leaned in, resting her head on his shoulder. "That and the hat-trick."

They laughed together, quiet and warm, the weight of the month easing off like steam from their mugs.

Leah's head still rested lightly on Francesco's shoulder, her tea cooling slowly in her hands. The low rumble of the rain outside had deepened, a steady rhythm against the windowpanes now, like the sky had given up the pretense of drizzle and was committing fully to the gloom.

She shifted slightly, one leg tucked under the other on the sofa. "So wait," she said, glancing up at him, "you told Wenger to keep an eye on Salah… does that mean you don't think Theo's good enough anymore?"

Francesco didn't answer right away. His fingers tapped softly against his mug, eyes narrowed at nothing in particular. It wasn't that he didn't want to say. It was that the answer was complicated—and if there was one thing he hated doing, it was throwing a teammate under the bus.

Finally, he sighed, lips tightening just a bit. "Theo's a good player. Great, even, on his day."

Leah caught the on his day and raised her eyebrows.

Francesco smirked faintly. "You caught that, huh."

She nodded. "Go on."

He took another sip before continuing. "Look. He's got blistering pace, makes those diagonal runs defenders hate, and when he's confident, he can be lethal. But… the thing with Theo is, you never really know which version of him you're getting. Some matches, he's ice. Next match, he's air."

Leah frowned thoughtfully. "Inconsistent."

"Exactly." Francesco leaned forward, placing the mug carefully on the table. "And that inconsistency—it puts pressure on the rest of us. If your winger's not tracking back, or if he's misplacing passes or fluffing finishes, suddenly the shape collapses. Özil drops deeper. Ramsey gets pulled wide. It's a domino effect."

She nodded slowly, taking it in.

"I've talked to him before," Francesco added, quieter now. "Told him he just needs to simplify sometimes. Trust his instincts. But when confidence dips, you start overthinking everything. And for a player like Theo, who's built on pace and instinct? That's like clipping his wings."

Leah looked down at her tea, swirling it absently. "So is that why you think Salah would be better?"

Francesco paused. "Not better. Just… different. More direct. More pressure. Salah would give us that unpredictability—he's relentless. Even if he doesn't score, he's always threatening, always asking questions. And honestly?" He leaned back, gaze lifting toward the ceiling. "Theo needs that kind of competition. Right now, he knows Ox isn't taking his place anytime soon."

Leah let out a soft laugh. "Chamberlain's not cutting it?"

Francesco gave her a rueful smile. "He's got heart. Loads of it. But he's still raw. End product's not there yet. His decision-making in the final third—it's like flipping a coin. Heads, it's brilliance. Tails, it's row Z."

They both laughed at that, and Francesco reached out to rub his hands together, a nervous habit more than a need for warmth.

"Wenger knows all this," he added after a beat. "He's not blind. But he's also got a loyalty streak that runs deep. He wants to see his players come good. He invests in them emotionally."

"That's sweet," Leah said, tilting her head. "Dangerous, but sweet."

Francesco looked at her sideways. "It is. But you know what's even more dangerous?"

"What?"

"Sticking with the same formula when it's not delivering the edge we need. Football doesn't wait for potential anymore. It wants performance."

They fell into a comfortable silence after that. Outside, the wind had begun to hum softly under the eaves, and every few minutes, a car hissed by on the slick road outside—its tires whispering through puddles.

Leah shifted again, setting her mug down next to his and curling her arms around her knees. "You're really thinking like a manager these days," she said, half teasing, half admiring.

Francesco smiled but didn't deny it. "I think about the team a lot. The balance. Who we need, what we're missing. Maybe too much."

She reached over and took his hand in hers. "I don't think so. I think it's because you care."

That made him pause.

Because she was right. He did care. Deeply. Not just about his performances, or the glory, or the goals—but about the structure, the chemistry, the why behind every result. He wasn't one of those players who could shut it off once the whistle blew. He was constantly assessing, watching patterns, feeling for momentum. Like living inside the match even when it was over.

"It's just frustrating sometimes," he murmured. "Knowing we're so close. Seeing where we can improve. And then having to wait… and hope the pieces fall into place."

Leah ran her thumb over the back of his hand. "You ever think about what would happen if they didn't?"

He looked over at her.

"If you never win anything here. If all these great seasons are just… nearlys."

He didn't answer right away.

That was the question, wasn't it?

The elephant in every Arsenal conversation. The glass ceiling everyone felt pressing against them. Great football, beautiful goals, a world-class manager—and still, for years now, the same end to the story.

"We have to believe," he said finally. "Otherwise, what's the point?"

Leah nodded. "And do you?"

He met her gaze. "I do."

And he did.

Even if sometimes, believing was a kind of faith you had to recommit to every day.

The fireplace crackled in the corner, slow and low, but steady. The warmth it offered was quiet—more ambiance than heat—but it filled the room with a soft orange glow. Leah rested her head on his chest again, fingers tracing light patterns over the sleeve of his Arsenal hoodie.

The fire cracked again, a log settling in on itself with a soft pop, and Francesco's breath slowed. His hand rested gently on Leah's forearm now, and he could feel her warmth, steady and grounding, against his side.

They didn't speak for a moment, not because there was nothing left to say, but because some silences carried more weight than noise. Outside, the rain had eased just slightly, falling in a calmer rhythm now—less like a storm and more like a long exhale.

Leah shifted her head just a little on his chest. "What about Jack?" she asked softly. "Wilshere. Have you heard how he's doing?"

Francesco's gaze, which had been absently tracking the flickering firelight, refocused at the sound of the name. He exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. "Yeah," he said, voice low. "Jack…"

There was a certain heaviness that settled over the room now, one they both felt but didn't rush to explain.

"I ask because," Leah continued gently, "he's so good. Like—really, really good. But… he's barely played. Is he still hurt?"

Francesco nodded slowly. "Still in rehab."

He sat up slightly, shifting so he could look at her more fully. "You're right. He is that good. You've seen him when he's fit—he's a nightmare to play against. Keeps the ball glued to his boots, glides through tight spaces like it's second nature. We talk about tempo all the time in midfield—Jack is tempo. He sets it, controls it, bends it to the team's rhythm."

Leah was watching him now, listening with that focused stillness she always gave when it mattered. Her brows furrowed slightly, like the weight of Jack's absence was starting to hit her, too.

"He broke his fibula last August," Francesco said quietly. "Clean break. Just from a tackle in training. Nothing malicious, but… you know how it goes. Had to get surgery. At the time, they said he'd be out maybe a month, six weeks tops. Then it became two months. Then three. And now?"

He shook his head, the frustration curling at the edges of his words.

"We're nearly into February, and he still hasn't been back in full training."

Leah winced. "That's brutal."

"It is. And it's Jack, so… it's always like this." Francesco's fingers laced together on his lap. "That body of his—it's like glass, yeah. But it's not just bad luck anymore. It's a pattern. And I hate saying that, because I know how hard he works. I've seen it. He lives for football. He's not one of those players who coasts or takes it for granted. If anything, he pushes too hard, too soon, every time. And then it breaks again."

Leah leaned back slightly, crossing her legs as she took it in. "Is he at London Colney every day?"

Francesco nodded. "Most days, yeah. We see him sometimes in the physio wing. Rehab room's always full, especially this season."

He gave a wry smile. "It's like we've been cursed. Santi's out too. That one really hurts."

Leah gave him a look. "Santi always hurts. Losing him's like removing a gear from the whole machine."

"Exactly." Francesco smiled at her, almost proud. "You've been watching."

"Of course I have," she said, playfully nudging his leg with her foot. "You think I just show up for the goals?"

He laughed, but it was subdued, and a beat later his expression sobered again.

"With both Jack and Santi out… our midfield's had to adjust. Flamini's been doing well, and Ramsey's taken more responsibility. But without Santi to link up with Özil, and Jack to drive forward—it's like we've lost a whole layer of creativity."

"And you feel it," Leah said. "Even up top."

He nodded again. "Especially up top."

He leaned forward and picked up his mug again, though the tea had long since gone tepid. He cradled it anyway, more for the weight in his hands than anything else.

"Every time I get the ball near the box," he said, voice quieter now, "I think—'If Jack was here, he'd be five yards ahead, drawing two defenders. Santi would be ghosting into space. I'd have three options.' But now… it's just tighter. Harder. You start having to create from scratch every time. That wears on you."

Leah rested her chin on her knees, her eyes never leaving his. "Do you think he'll make it back this season?"

Francesco's answer came slower this time. He hated to say it.

"I don't know."

A long pause stretched between them.

"I want to believe he will. And the club still believe in him—Wenger most of all. But the truth is, it's a long road. And when you've been out this long… even if you come back, it takes weeks to get sharp again. To trust your body. Right now, every time Jack steps wrong, every time he plants a foot, there's that risk."

Leah was quiet for a while, then said, "That must mess with your head."

"It does." Francesco looked over at her, his gaze steady. "Jack's the kind of player who wants to take the ball under pressure, wants to drive into contact. That's his nature. You start second-guessing that, and you lose the core of what makes you you."

Francesco settled back against the cushions, his shoulder sinking into hers once more. "You know what I think about sometimes?" he asked.

"What?"

"How different things would be if Jack had stayed fit. Like, really fit. Two, three seasons in a row. No setbacks. Just consistent football."

He let the thought hang for a moment, unfinished.

"I think we'd have built the team around him," he said finally. "Wenger always wanted to. You could see it in how he spoke about Jack—in his pressers, in meetings. He saw him as a future captain. A heartbeat."

Leah's voice was soft. "And now?"

Francesco's jaw flexed a little. "Now we don't know. And that… that breaks my heart a bit."

The words sat heavily between them. The kind that didn't ask for a response.

Leah reached over and touched his hand again, her fingers lacing gently through his. "You carry a lot of this with you."

He didn't deny it.

"You care about your teammates," she said, almost to herself. "Even when it's not your job to."

"It is, though," Francesco said quietly. "That's what no one tells you when you break into the first team. You're not just playing with these guys. You're playing for them, too. You win together, lose together. When one of us breaks, it affects all of us."

She nodded, watching the embers shift and crackle in the hearth.

"You ever think that's why Wenger likes you so much?"

Francesco turned to her. "What do you mean?"

She smiled. "You see the game like he does. As a system. A harmony. Not just eleven individuals chasing glory, but a balance. An organism."

He gave a slow nod, thoughtful. "Maybe. Or maybe he just likes that I track back."

Leah grinned. "Well, that too."

He turned to her more fully now, his eyes bright despite the fatigue in his limbs. "You'd like Jack," he said. "The real Jack. When he's fit. He's got a wicked sense of humor. Knows every lyric to every Oasis song. Always winding up the staff."

"He sounds like trouble."

"He is," Francesco laughed. "But the good kind."

Leah tilted her head. "Is he close with you?"

Francesco nodded. "Yeah. We've had a lot of long talks. About injuries, life, pressure. He's a deep thinker, underneath it all. Doesn't show it often, but it's there."

He paused, then added, "I check in on him now and then. Just to remind him he's still part of this."

Leah smiled at him, eyes soft. "You're a good friend."

Francesco looked down at their joined hands. "I just… I know how lonely it can get. When you're sidelined. When everything's still moving, and you're stuck."

They sat like that for a while—no more words needed. The fire dwindled into glowing coals, and the rain softened to a whisper.

Eventually, Leah stood and stretched, her limbs long and graceful in the firelight. She moved to the window, pulling the curtain slightly to peer out at the quiet street.

"Still raining," she murmured.

"Of course it is," Francesco replied, smiling.

She turned back to him, arms folded loosely across her chest. "Come to bed soon?"

"I will," he said.

She leaned over the back of the couch and kissed his forehead gently before disappearing down the hall.

Francesco sat there a little longer, letting the silence settle. His mind turned again to Jack—his friend, his teammate, his near-mythical presence in the squad. And to all the things that might've been, had fate chosen a different path.

________________________________________________

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: 33

Goal: 49

Assist: 9

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