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The two of them sat there, leaning into each other as the sky outside slowly shifted toward twilight — a gradient of lavender and deepening blue. Somewhere in the distance, birds called lazily from trees not yet familiar. The house creaked slightly, adjusting to its new occupants.
Then the days passed.
Then the months changed into August, warm and long, and the hum of summer deepened across Richmond. The once-silent house had grown into itself — walls no longer echoed, rooms had begun to feel like chapters, and the scent of home had replaced the clinical smell of fresh paint and new furniture. It was no longer just a place Francesco lived in — it was where life was happening.
The days found their rhythm quickly, even as they shifted. Mornings began with sunlight seeping through linen curtains, casting soft rectangles of gold across the bed where Leah would still be curled up under the duvet, hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. Sometimes Francesco would wake first, already tugging on his track pants and slipping quietly out the back to the mini football pitch while the air was still cool.
There was something meditative about it — the light dew on the grass, the resistance of the ball as he juggled it with his instep, the hush of the wind as it moved through the garden hedges. The pitch wasn't regulation size, but it was enough. Enough to stretch, to move, to keep his touch sharp. Sometimes he'd spend an hour there before even touching breakfast — nothing structured, just movement. Flow.
Leah would come out with a mug of coffee in hand on some mornings, still in her robe, barefoot in the grass. She never interrupted — just watched him for a while with a little smile, like seeing him out there helped her start the day, too.
By mid-morning, their schedules would diverge. Leah had a freelance project she was working on — a new digital campaign for a fashion brand — and would retreat to her upstairs workspace. Francesco often hopped in the car and headed out. Sometimes to see his parents in Kensington, other times to meet Jorge Mendes at his central London office or at quiet cafés tucked away from nosy lenses.
The summer transfer window had opened, and with it came the murmurings. Rumours, predictions, speculation. Not all of it grounded — most of it wasn't. Francesco wasn't looking to leave Arsenal. Not this season. But Jorge kept him looped in, because it was the game they played. And occasionally, the calls weren't about Francesco at all — they were about younger players, about brand deals, about foundations and events and favors owed. Francesco was more involved now than before, sitting in on discussions, giving his opinion. He didn't want to be just another footballer with a short shelf life. He wanted to shape things.
"Your instincts are good," Jorge told him one afternoon, sipping espresso across from him at a quiet table in Notting Hill. "You read people. That's rare."
Francesco just nodded, tapping a thumb against the rim of his cup. "It's easier when I'm not the one on the market."
Jorge grinned. "But everyone's on the market, eventually."
Still, Francesco kept his focus close. Training. Rest. A few press obligations. A charity shoot with Adidas. And always, time with Leah.
They cooked together more often now. It had started as a novelty — the two of them fumbling around the glossy kitchen, arguing gently over garlic quantities or pan sizes — but it quickly became ritual. Francesco had grown up with his mum's cooking and the warmth of a shared table, and Leah, though newer to it, had a flair for flavor. They weren't gourmet, but they made a mean pasta, and Leah could roast vegetables like an alchemist.
Some nights they'd eat outside under the festoon lights Francesco had strung along the back fence. Other times they'd curl up on the massive modular sofa with plates balanced on their knees, watching old Champions League replays or bingeing some docuseries Leah had found.
On weekends, they had people over. Just a few. Sometimes Jack Wilshere and his wife. Other times Theo Walcott dropped by with his kids, who'd bolt straight for the mini pitch like it was a theme park. Francesco loved it — hearing laughter bounce off the garden walls, feeling the space breathe with company.
In early August, he made another trip to his parents' home. His mum insisted on it.
"You haven't visited in a week," she chided, giving him a long hug at the door. "You could be on Mars, for all I know."
"I called you yesterday," he said, grinning as he handed her a paper bag of fresh sourdough from a bakery in Richmond.
"That's not the same," she sniffed, but her eyes softened. "Your father's out back. Go say hi before he finishes the rosé without you."
They sat in the small back garden, surrounded by potted plants and hanging ivy, and talked about everything and nothing. His father asked about training. His mother asked about Leah. And Francesco, despite everything going on — the media noise, the transfer buzz, the new house — felt settled.
"I'll bring them over soon," he said, gesturing toward the house. "You and Mum. For dinner. Leah wants to make sea bass."
"Sea bass," his father said, amused. "Fancy."
Francesco chuckled. "We're trying things."
By mid-August, the sun began to stretch lower in the sky, and the evenings came with a breeze that hinted — just barely — at the eventual return of autumn. The Premier League would start soon. The buzz around Arsenal had reached fever pitch. After the double — the Premier League title and the FA Cup — expectations were sky-high. And Francesco's name had become something bigger than just a striker. He was now the face of a new era. A talisman. A hero.
Jorge reminded him of it constantly.
"They're watching you differently now," he said. "The clubs. The media. Even your own teammates. You're not the underdog anymore."
Francesco knew it. He felt it. In the way people paused when he walked into rooms. In the way the club had set up new shoots around him. In the offers that Jorge occasionally showed him — discreet inquiries from Spain, from Italy. Some were flattering. Some were absurd. All were politely ignored.
Then the next day, Francesco woke up and saw it on Sky Sports — the headline splashed across the lower third of the screen in bold white text over red:
BREAKING: ARSENAL SIGN PETR ČECH FROM CHELSEA.
The familiar jingle of the network's football bulletin played just as the camera cut to the anchor in the studio, who was already launching into the details — footage of Čech in Chelsea blue flashed beside his name and age. 33. Over 400 appearances for Chelsea. One of the most decorated goalkeepers in Premier League history. And now, unbelievably, an Arsenal player.
Francesco blinked against the sunlight pouring in through the bedroom window, squinting at the screen for a moment. The remote was still on the duvet where he'd dropped it last night, after flipping through channels before dozing off. He could hear the muffled sound of Leah in the ensuite — a hairdryer humming softly.
He sat up slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, and smiled to himself.
He already knew, of course.
Wenger had told him. Quietly. Almost conspiratorially.
It had been at the Emirates, before the official party, when most of the press not arrive and the players was arriving one by one. Wenger had called him to the private room, seated with a glass of wine.
And now here it was, breaking on Sky Sports as if the world had just found out. For them, it was news. For Francesco, it was confirmation. The first domino in what was shaping up to be a bold season.
Leah stepped into the bedroom a minute later, her damp hair swept up into a lazy bun, dressed in a white tank top and soft shorts. She was brushing her watch strap into place when she caught sight of his expression.
"What's that look?" she asked, voice still tinged with morning.
Francesco gestured to the TV. "Čech's official."
Leah smiled faintly, walking over to peer at the screen. "Is that good?"
"Very good," he said, and meant it.
She leaned in and kissed the top of his head. "You already knew."
"I did," he replied, a little smugly. "Wenger told me at the Emirates."
She raised an eyebrow. "You kept a secret from me?"
"I was under oath," he teased.
She laughed and swatted him lightly with the watch strap before padding out the room. Francesco glanced at the TV again, now showing footage of Čech training with Chelsea. The screen cut to pundits at the desk discussing the implications — one of them already arguing that this made Arsenal "legitimate title contenders." Another reminded everyone of Čech's clean sheet record and what his presence would mean in big games.
Francesco switched off the TV.
He already knew what it meant.
It meant Arsenal weren't interested in being just a good story anymore. They were ready to win again — for real. And this time, they weren't asking permission.
—
The rest of the morning passed quickly. Francesco had training at London Colney by late morning — nothing too intense yet, just pre-season conditioning and technical drills. Still, the atmosphere was noticeably different.
Guys were buzzing.
Everyone had seen the news.
Oxlade-Chamberlain gave him a knowing smirk in the boot room. "Your mate Čech's really coming, huh?"
"He's not my mate," Francesco replied, grinning. "Yet."
Theo passed them, pulling on his training top. "Hope he likes pressure. He's gonna get it here."
"Better here than rotting on Chelsea's bench," someone added, and a round of laughter followed.
But beneath the banter, there was something else. A crackle of momentum. The kind you couldn't fake. They had won the double last season. That should've been enough to quiet the doubters — but this move made it loud. It said Arsenal weren't done. They were building something.
Wenger walked out to the pitch just as the team began warmups, hands behind his back, eyes scanning his players like a painter considering his canvas. He didn't say much, as usual. Just a few instructions, a few nods. But Francesco caught his eye across the turf — and Wenger gave him the barest of smiles. A quiet, shared understanding.
After training, Francesco stayed behind a little longer. Extra drills. Just sharpness work. Repetition. He struck balls into an empty net from various angles, low and hard, then chipped a few into the corners. It wasn't about volume. It was about touch. Precision. Feeling.
When he finally showered and changed, the complex had started to empty out. He checked his phone in the car: a few messages from Jorge, one from his dad ("Čech, eh? About time we bought a keeper!"), and a text from Leah:
Hope training was good. I picked up sea bass. You still up for cooking tonight?
He grinned and replied:
Always. I'll bring the wine.
—
Dinner that evening was calm. Intimate. A return to the simple things.
Francesco chopped herbs while Leah worked the fish — skin scored, lemon slices ready. They had soft jazz playing in the background, and the kitchen lights dimmed to a warm gold. The world outside — the media frenzy, the transfer chaos, the opinions — felt far away.
"This house really feels like ours now," Leah said softly as she set the timer on the oven.
Francesco looked around. The shelves lined with books. The mug rack she'd insisted on. His boots by the door. Her dried flower arrangements on the window sill. Yeah. It did.
"It is," he said. "And I like it better when we cook like this. Less Uber Eats."
"I still think your mum's lasagna beats us both."
"She has decades of experience. We'll catch up."
They ate outside that night, under the festoon lights, with a breeze rustling through the leaves. The sea bass came out perfectly. The wine — a chilled white from a local shop — was crisp. Leah tucked her feet up on the chair and listened as Francesco recounted some of the training ground gossip, the way Per Mertesacker had jokingly tried to call dibs on Čech's parking spot.
"Do you think he'll fit in?" she asked.
Francesco shrugged. "He's a pro. I think he wants to prove something."
"To Chelsea?"
"Maybe to himself."
A pause. Then Leah asked, "And what about you?"
He looked at her.
"What about me?"
"What do you still want to prove?"
Francesco leaned back in his chair, staring up at the sky, where a few stars had just begun to appear.
"I don't know," he admitted. "That last season wasn't a fluke. That I belong at the top. That I can stay there."
Leah nodded thoughtfully.
"Well… I think you already have," she said.
But Francesco didn't reply right away. Not because he didn't believe her — but because part of him didn't want to believe it fully. Because the hunger still burned. Because it had to.
—
In the days that followed, things picked up.
Čech arrived officially — press conferences, interviews, the works. He was calm, dignified, wearing the Arsenal red like it was his second skin already. He spoke of new challenges. Of fresh starts. Of the respect he had for Arsenal's history and how much he admired the footballing philosophy. He said the right things. Did the right things.
Francesco watched from the side during Čech's first training session. The man was composed, even in drills. Not flashy. Just efficient. Unshakable.
Later that afternoon, as the squad was filing back inside, Čech caught up to him.
"You're Francesco," he said with a slight smile.
Francesco turned, nodding. "And you're the man who just made half of North London explode."
Čech chuckled. "Good. I'd rather start with impact than silence."
They shook hands — a firm grip, mutual respect.
"Welcome," Francesco said.
"Thank you," Čech replied. "Let's win things."
Francesco was about to head back into the changing room when he heard his name — or rather, "Francesco!" — called out across the pitch in that distinctive French-tinged tone. He turned to see Wenger standing near the halfway line, hands behind his back, posture as relaxed as ever, though the glint in his eyes told a different story. There was something brewing. Francesco jogged over, brushing sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, his boots scuffing softly against the turf.
Wenger waited until he was close before speaking, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. "You remember what you told me. About Kante. Van Dijk."
Francesco blinked, caught off guard by how direct it was. He nodded. "Yeah. I do."
Wenger's mouth curved into a thin smile. "I sent the scouts, as you know. I wanted to see with my own eyes too. They've both been watched over the last few weeks."
Francesco's chest tightened slightly. This was it — a moment that felt bigger than just football talk. He hadn't expected his suggestions to carry this much weight, but now it was clear they had.
"They reported back yesterday," Wenger continued, voice smooth but purposeful. "Kanté — remarkable engine, very intelligent positioning. Caen will try to hold onto him, but the fee is doable. He's open to the move."
Francesco exhaled, nodding slowly. "He could cover the whole midfield alone if we let him."
Wenger chuckled softly at that. "Yes. I think he might actually try."
He paused then, eyes drifting out across the grass, where players were still wrapping up their cooldowns. "And Van Dijk. At Celtic. Tall. Composed. Reads the game like someone ten years older. My scout says he has the tools to become one of the best."
Francesco couldn't help but grin now. "He does. I saw him in play at the Scottish League for Celtic. He was a wall. And he's got a good head — not just physically."
Wenger nodded, clearly satisfied. Then, more quietly: "We've started negotiating the fees. With both clubs. It won't be immediate, but it's in motion. It could happen within days."
Francesco felt something flicker inside him. Pride. Excitement. The feeling of being trusted — not just to score, not just to create, but to build.
"I'm glad," he said honestly. "They're the right kind of signings, boss. Hungry. No egos."
"That's what I like about them," Wenger replied, watching the sunset-tinted sky. "We've done well with Petr. That makes this club feel more serious again. But these two…" He turned back to Francesco, his voice dropping. "These two are about the future. Your future."
Francesco felt the weight of those words settle into his chest. Wenger wasn't just building a squad. He was shaping a legacy — and, apparently, Francesco was at the heart of it.
"I won't let you down," he said quietly.
Wenger gave him that rare full smile, the one that looked like it came from some private place inside him. "You haven't yet."
He gave Francesco a nod and turned back toward the touchline, leaving the young striker standing in the warm air, the hum of the stadium silence all around him. He looked back at the pitch, feeling a new kind of responsibility settle on his shoulders.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League and 2014/2015 FA Cup
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9