The King Of Arsenal

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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.

The fire had gone out completely by morning.

Only a faint, smoky scent lingered in the living room, curling through the still air like a memory that didn't quite want to fade. Francesco stood by the hearth for a moment, running a hand through his hair, feeling the slight crunch of sleep in his scalp. His eyes scanned the fireplace absently, then shifted to the empty couch—the blanket still folded where Leah had placed it the night before.

She'd already gone to training. He could feel her absence in the quiet hum of the house. It was the kind of morning that wanted to stretch itself slowly, to linger between sleep and motion, but today didn't allow for that luxury.

It was February 2nd now. Matchday.

Francesco checked the time—8:37 AM. He had a few hours before the squad would gather at Colney. Plenty of time, but not time to waste. He headed upstairs to shower, the steam slowly fogging the glass as the hot water pelted away whatever traces of sleep clung to his shoulders. The familiar rhythm of matchday began to settle over him like a second skin—the rituals, the thoughts, the mental checklists.

Shampoo. Rinse. Stretch. Breathe.

When he emerged from the bathroom, a towel looped around his waist, he paused in the bedroom doorway. His Arsenal tracksuit was already laid out on the edge of the bed. Leah had done that before she left. A simple gesture, but one that made his chest ache a little with gratitude.

He dressed in silence, the motions practiced and fluid: pants, socks, zip up the jacket. Laced up a fresh pair of black Nike Air Max, grabbed his duffel from the corner, and headed downstairs.

The house still smelled faintly of firewood and the herbal tea they'd abandoned the night before. Francesco grabbed a banana and some peanut butter toast from the kitchen, scarfed it down more from routine than hunger. His mind was already shifting into pre-match focus, narrowing its aperture. Southampton were a solid side—defensively compact, organized. Fraser Forster had returned from injury and was a mountain in goal. Long, Mané, and Tadić could hurt you on the break. Wanyama and Romeu would be snapping at heels all night.

Francesco rinsed his plate, slid it into the dishwasher, and grabbed his keys. The BMW X5 growled to life in the driveway, its engine a low purr in the gray morning light. The sky above Richmond was smeared in a pale steel hue—thick clouds pressed low, as if threatening rain without quite delivering. Typical London winter.

As he backed out, he noticed Leah's car already gone. Probably halfway through drills by now.

Francesco exhaled, adjusted the rearview mirror, and set off for London Colney.

The drive up the A316 was smooth, traffic manageable for once. Francesco kept the radio off. He didn't need music today—didn't want distraction. His mind played through sequences instead: triangles on the left flank with Monreal and Alexis, one-touch layoffs to Özil, darting runs between Fonte and Van Dijk, shots curling low past Forster's reach.

He reached the training ground just before 10:00 AM. A few cars were already there—Özil's black Mercedes AMG, Ramsey's matte gray Range Rover, Flamini's absurdly clean Tesla. Francesco pulled into his usual spot and killed the engine.

The crisp February air bit at his cheeks as he stepped out. The sky had remained stubbornly overcast. He zipped his jacket up higher, slung the duffel over his shoulder, and made his way inside.

The players' entrance at Colney always had a certain energy on matchday morning. Not the high-octane buzz of kickoff, but a quieter charge—like standing at the mouth of a tunnel. Familiar greetings passed in murmured tones, half-hugs and nods. Some lads had headphones on. Some were laughing. Others, like Per and Petr, were already locked in.

"Franny!" Hector Bellerín's voice cut through the corridor like sunshine. He jogged up, bundled in full tracksuit, a protein bar in one hand.

"You ready, hombre?"

"As I'll ever be," Francesco smiled, clapping his shoulder. "You?"

Bellerín grinned. "Born ready. And I'm faster than ever."

"Prove it on the pitch then."

"I will—just don't let me down with your hold-up play," he teased, nudging Francesco with his elbow before veering off toward the boot room.

Francesco made his way to the locker area, where kitbags were already laid out. The red-and-white match jerseys hung crisply on their pegs, the club crest stitched with care, names and numbers bold in the familiar font.

LEE 9.

He ran his fingers along the fabric before dropping his duffel beside the bench and sinking down to change into his warm-up kit.

Santi's peg remained empty.

Even after weeks, it still felt off seeing that space unused. The little magician was recovering in Spain, trying to coax his Achilles back into obedience. Jack's kit wasn't here either—not even in the rehab wing today. Probably doing solo work again with the physio team.

Francesco pulled on his compression top, then layered the training shirt over it. Laced his boots tight. Everything had to be precise—there was comfort in the routine.

He joined the rest of the squad in the indoor warm-up hall, where Shad Forsythe was already organizing light stretching and mobility drills. The air buzzed faintly with fluorescent lights overhead and the dull thump of players warming up on the turf.

Wenger arrived soon after, long coat sweeping behind him, his stride slow but watchful. He greeted the lads with a nod, then moved to speak quietly with Steve Bould. Their heads bowed close, occasionally glancing around the squad.

Training was light but purposeful. Dynamic stretches, short passing drills, a few bursts of acceleration. Nothing to wear them out—just enough to wake the body up. Wenger believed in freshness, especially in midseason. Mental clarity over physical overload.

After warm-up, the players returned to the building to shower and change into travel suits—red polos, black trousers, club blazers. The Emirates awaited.

On the short walk back to the locker area, Özil fell into stride beside Francesco.

"You sleep well?" Mesut asked in his soft, lilting voice.

"Well enough. You?"

Özil nodded. "Had a dream we won 4–0. You scored a hat trick."

Francesco chuckled. "I hope you're prophetic."

"I rarely am. But I like to pretend."

They parted to their own lockers, both wearing half-smiles.

At 11:45 AM sharp, the team bus rolled out from Colney.

The ride to the Emirates was subdued. Players tucked into their seats with headphones on or phones in hand. Some dozed. Some stared out the window at the passing blur of suburbs, red brick buildings, gray skies, cranes leaning over new construction sites. Francesco sat near the front beside Theo Walcott, who had wrapped a blanket over his lap and was scrolling idly through Instagram.

As the bus pulled onto Holloway Road, the Emirates Stadium rose into view like a modern fortress, sleek and glinting despite the gray light. Fans had already begun to gather—scarves tucked up to their noses, huddled outside the gates.

Inside the stadium, everything moved with matchday precision.

The players filed off the bus and entered through the private entrance. Security nodded them through. Staff bustled with clipboards and radios. Wenger led the way, long strides eating the distance to the changing room.

The locker room at the Emirates was spotless, serene. Warm lighting, fresh kit laid out, polished boots lined up like soldiers on parade.

LEE 9.

Francesco took his seat, unpacked slowly, methodically. The sounds of boots tapping against tile, velcro tearing, the occasional laugh or low conversation created a familiar symphony.

Inside the dressing room, a hush of focus settled like morning mist. Each player sank into his own mental space—the unspoken rhythm of match preparation unfolding in careful order. Kitbags were opened, boots unzipped, shin pads checked, laces pulled taut. Francesco sat quietly at his peg beneath the "LEE 9" shirt, the air tinged with the familiar cocktail of deep heat, fresh grass, leather polish, and that subtle trace of adrenaline that always crept in on matchday.

One by one, the players began slipping into their training kits—lightweight tops, shorts, warm-up boots. Francesco tugged the top over his head, smoothing the fabric down his chest as he listened to the buzz of activity. Zippers, conversations in low tones, and the faint squawk of a coach's walkie-talkie just outside the door.

Wenger appeared briefly, arms folded as he scanned the room, eyes moving across his squad not with pressure, but with a composed expectancy. He said nothing yet—just gave a subtle nod before stepping aside. It was time.

They filed out of the tunnel like quiet soldiers.

The Emirates opened up before them, colossal and gleaming beneath the gray London sky. The pitch was pristine—rich emerald, freshly watered, its lines drawn crisp and straight as a blade. Floodlights overhead buzzed faintly, already warming up for evening's glow. A few early fans dotted the lower tiers, bundled in scarves and anticipation, waving as the players emerged to warm up.

Francesco moved with the group, settling into his usual routine. They began with light jogs along the touchline, calves and hamstrings loosening under the mild February chill. He bounced slightly on his heels, letting the tempo flow back into his limbs. This was the part he loved—before the tactics, before the noise—when football was still just rhythm and breath and repetition.

He paired with Özil for the short-passing drills. Tap-tap, turn. Tap-tap, shift. They passed in silence, letting their timing speak for them. Mesut gave him a small smirk after one particularly crisp exchange.

"Still sharp," he murmured.

"You're welcome," Francesco shot back with a grin.

After that came sprint bursts—ten meters, twenty, cut and turn. Francesco pushed into the movement with just enough intensity to fire the muscles without draining them. Shad Forsythe called them into small groups next for agility ladders and balance drills. Francesco moved through cleanly, aware of the cameras flashing from the sidelines, the subtle hum of Sky Sports cameras capturing every warm-up detail for pre-match packages.

Then came the finishing drills. Tight angles. First-time shots. Low crosses from the wingers. Francesco stepped into each one with poise, burying three in a row past the reserve keeper, his final effort a smooth, curling shot inside the far post.

He didn't celebrate. Just nodded and jogged back to the line.

It wasn't time to celebrate anything yet.

After forty minutes of movement, the squad regrouped and began their slow walk back into the tunnel. Francesco lingered a moment on the grass, turning to scan the stadium bowl. The seats were filling now—red and white scarves multiplying like blossoms in spring. The hum was growing, low and electric.

Then he turned and followed the others down the tunnel.

Back in the dressing room, the mood was slightly more intense now. Gone was the ease of warm-up. Now came the moment where words began to matter—where shirts were pulled on with purpose, and eyes met with clarity.

The matchday kit lay waiting for each man.

Francesco peeled off his training top, towelled the sweat from his neck, then reached for his game jersey. He pulled it over his head and adjusted the collar, then strapped on the black captain's armband—its weight subtle but undeniable.

The red and white of Arsenal always looked cleanest under the lights, like it was meant to be worn only when the stakes were high. And tonight, they were. Three points would keep them right on City's heels. A slip would let Leicester pull further away.

Wenger waited until the players had changed before stepping to the center of the room, arms behind his back, calm and precise. Steve Bould stood just behind him with a tactical board in hand, magnets already arranged.

"Listen closely," Arsène began, his voice quiet, commanding. "This is a match we must win. We are at home. The crowd is with us. But Southampton will not give us anything. They are well-organized. Compact. So we must work."

He gestured toward the board as Bould shifted it slightly for all to see.

"We play the usual system. 4-2-3-1."

He tapped the magnets one by one, each click punctuating a name.

"Petr in goal. Laurent and Virgil at center-back. Nacho on the left, Hector on the right."

Francesco caught Bellerín's small nod beside him—he was always hungry to attack from the flanks.

"Midfield two: Ramsey and Kanté."

A murmur of approval. The Frenchman had become essential since his arrival this season—tidy, relentless, a one-man engine room. Wenger had moved decisively to sign him ahead of the big clubs especially Leicester who want to sign him as well, and it was paying dividends already.

"Mesut plays in the ten. Alexis on the left. Theo on the right."

Francesco could feel the growing pulse now—formation falling into place.

"And up front…"

Wenger turned to face him fully.

"Francesco."

A few claps rose softly around the room. Wenger nodded.

"You wear the armband."

Francesco's mouth twitched into a humble smile. He didn't say anything—just gave a single nod, then adjusted the band on his arm.

"This group," Wenger continued, scanning the room, "has balance. Movement. Work rate. But we must impose ourselves. Press together. Transition together. Patience with the ball. Aggression without it."

He let the words settle for a moment.

"Francesco, you lead them."

Francesco straightened, chest rising slightly. It wasn't the first time he'd captained the side—but each time carried its own gravity. He looked around the room. Eyes met his—Ramsey's steady gaze, Özil's calm nod, Cech's unreadable focus, Alexis's twitching shoulders. They were ready.

On the bench: David Ospina. Gabriel Paulista. Per Mertesacker. Kieran Gibbs. Francis Coquelin. Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain. Olivier Giroud.

Francesco noted them all. Depth would matter. Southampton were physical. Games could turn in the last twenty.

Steve Bould now spoke briefly about set-pieces. Cech offered a few cues about communication from the back. Then it was quiet again.

Francesco stood, his boots clicking against the tile as he stepped into the center.

He looked at each of them, then said quietly, "Let's be clean. Let's be brave. And let's make this place shake."

Ramsey clapped his hands once, sharp and loud. "Let's go, lads."

The room erupted in a chorus of low voices, boots thudding the floor as the squad rose together.

They filed out of the dressing room in silence.

The tunnel was alive with noise now. Officials checking watches. Broadcasters muttering. A cameraman wheeling backwards. Players lining up shoulder to shoulder. Southampton were already there in their yellow and navy kits, faces stoic.

Francesco stood at the front of the Arsenal line, Cech just behind him, then Koscielny, Van Dijk, Monreal.

The referee gave the nod.

The walk into the Emirates cauldron began.

Bright lights. Bursting noise. The announcer's voice echoing through the speaker system: "And now… your Arsenal starting eleven!"

Francesco stepped onto the grass, heart hammering against his ribs like a drum. The stadium rose with sound—cheers flooding down in a wave. He looked up at the tiers. Banners flapping in the corners. Red and white everywhere.

He tapped the captain's armband once, then pointed skyward.

The two teams filed onto the pitch, boots thudding the pristine grass as the roar of the Emirates deepened into a wall of sound. It wasn't the kind of noise you heard with your ears—it was the kind that soaked through skin and bone, that hummed in your chest and made every breath feel like part of something ancient and tribal. The kind of noise only football could summon. Not chaos. Not rage. Something purer.

Pride.

Francesco stepped toward the center circle, flanked by his teammates, as the announcer's voice cut through the stadium:

"Captaining Arsenal tonight, number nine, Francesco… Lee!"

Another burst of cheers echoed from the stands. He didn't wave. Not yet. This was still part of the ritual. First came the line-up. The formalities. The bridge between the calm before and the chaos to come.

The referee stood at the halfway line, clean-shaven and sharp-eyed, the fourth official and linesmen in place with their earpieces and flags. Southampton's players were already forming their row to the left—yellow shirts with deep navy trim, contrasting against Arsenal's bold red and white. Their captain, the experienced José Fonte, stood at the front of their line, stoic, calm.

Francesco extended a hand as he reached the center. Fonte shook it with a polite firmness, and both men turned to the referee, who offered his own handshake with a quick, "Evening, gents. Let's have a clean one."

Francesco nodded. "Always."

One by one, the Arsenal players followed his lead, stepping forward to shake the hands of the officials and Southampton players opposite them. Koscielny with Long. Van Dijk with Shane Davis. Özil with Ward-Prowse. A mutual respect settled over the line-up—not warmth, not friendliness, but that unspoken acknowledgment among professionals who knew what it meant to lace up their boots for a Premier League night.

The photographers scurried into place just off the touchline, long lenses raised. The Arsenal players turned and crouched into formation. Cech, Monreal, Koscielny, Van Dijk, and Bellerín stood at the back; Ramsey, Kanté, Özil in front; then Alexis, Walcott, and Francesco up top.

The camera shutters clicked in rapid fire.

Francesco glanced out at the stands behind the photographer's backs—banners rippling above the North Bank. He spotted a young boy holding a sign: LEE 9 – MY HERO. The lad looked maybe seven, scarf too big for his head, but grinning like he was watching a god.

Francesco winked at him. The boy's face lit up like a Christmas tree.

Then it was time.

Francesco and José Fonte followed the referee to the very center circle. The coin was already out—silver, thick, unmistakably worn by a hundred matches.

"Call it," the ref said, flipping the coin high into the air.

"Heads," Francesco called.

It clinked against the grass. Rolled once. Twice. Stopped.

"Heads it is," said the referee.

Francesco smiled faintly.

"We'll take the kick," he said. "Attack the Clock End first."

Fonte nodded. "Good luck."

They shook hands again and jogged back to their teams.

Francesco gave Özil a short gesture with his hand, confirming the kickoff routine. The German nodded once, brushing his sleeve and rolling his shoulders. The rest of the squad took their positions.

Ramsey and Kanté at the base. Özil in the ten, drifting slightly left. Alexis lurking deep, Walcott poised on the right like a spring ready to uncoil. Francesco stood over the ball.

The whistle blew.

He nudged it cleanly to Özil, and the match was on.

The Emirates Stadium came alive instantly—not in a single scream, but in a swelling wave of expectation. Francesco backed off into space as Özil touched the ball wide to Ramsey, who sent it back toward Koscielny. Arsenal began with slow, steady possession, letting the rhythm build like a drumline tuning up before a march.

Southampton didn't press too high. They were disciplined. Set in two deep blocks. But that didn't mean they lacked bite. The first real tackle came in the 2nd minute—Kanté nicking the ball off Ward-Prowse with a timed interception, only to be immediately fouled by Romeu. No booking yet, just a warning.

"Watch your studs," the ref said.

Francesco moved like a shark along the front line, dipping into the half-spaces between Fonte and Yoshida, then peeling out wide to drag defenders with him. He didn't need the ball early—he needed to disrupt. To pull strings without touching them.

In the 7th minute, Bellerín burst forward, latching onto a one-two with Walcott before swinging in a low cross toward the near post. Francesco darted in front of Fonte and flicked the ball with the outside of his boot—clean, quick, but not quite past Fraser Forster. The big keeper got a toe to it, deflecting it wide for a corner.

The Emirates rumbled with appreciation.

"Close one, Frank!" Walcott shouted as he jogged back.

They reset for the corner. Özil trotted over to take it. A short routine—they didn't want to swing it into the trees against Southampton's giants. Özil played it short to Alexis, who rolled it back to Ramsey at the top of the box. The Welshman hit it first-time—low and hard—but it skipped just wide of the post.

The game settled into a fierce rhythm. End to end. Measured, but with menace.

In the 12th minute, Southampton countered sharply. Tadić found Long with a clever ball between Van Dijk and Bellerín, and the Irish striker cut in to fire a shot low toward the far post.

Cech dropped like a guillotine. Right hand outstretched. Glove to ball. Corner saved.

Applause rippled through the Emirates. Van Dijk clapped the keeper on the back as they reset.

Two minutes later, Alexis surged down the left, slicing between two defenders before teeing up Francesco at the edge of the D. He let the ball run slightly before striking it with his laces—a venomous hit bound for the bottom corner. But Forster was again equal to it, diving full stretch.

Fourteen minutes gone. Two saves each.

The pace didn't slow.

In the 17th minute, Southampton had their best spell of pressure yet. Bertrand overlapped down the left and swung in a curling cross toward Tadić, who met it on the volley from twelve yards out. Cech—impossibly composed—reacted again. Third save. This time, a diving palm to the side. Koscielny cleared the rebound.

Arsenal surged forward again.

Özil found Walcott in space. The winger beat his man and squared it toward the penalty spot. Francesco darted in, met it first-time—sweet contact, low and true—but Forster threw himself at it and somehow parried again. Fourth save.

Twenty minutes played. Four saves each.

The scoreboard still read 0–0, but the game felt like it had already lived through an hour. You could see it on the players' faces—sweat darkening hairlines, mouths open wide for air.

On the sideline, Wenger stood near the technical area, arms crossed, studying the patterns.

Inside the pitch, Francesco pushed back his damp fringe and exhaled.

It wasn't frustration. Not yet. It was a war of margins.

He jogged back to his position, locking eyes with Özil on the way.

"They're giving me just half a second," Francesco murmured.

Özil's eyes narrowed. "Then we take a quarter."

They didn't need more words. Not after two seasons together. Not after hundreds of hours on the training ground.

Francesco clapped twice toward the midfield—energy, encouragement. The Emirates responded with a louder chant now, the volume rising with each minute that passed.

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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: 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