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Francesco stared at it, a slow grin spreading across his face. It looked right. Strange, but right. The number nine spot. His name in bold. A new era, waiting just ahead.
Francesco exhaled through his nose, still holding the team sheet in his hand as if afraid it might vanish if he let go. There was something so tangible about seeing it printed — ST – Francesco Lee. Not projected, not theorized — but real. A declaration. A new beginning.
Wenger gave him a small nod, one of those gestures that conveyed more than words ever could — confidence, faith, a quiet encouragement that said: you're ready now. And with that, Francesco returned the nod, folded the paper gently like it was something sacred, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Thank you," he said, and it wasn't just for the team sheet or the conversation — it was for everything. The belief, the patience, the vision.
Wenger's smile lingered, warm and restrained. "Go on. Shower. Eat. Rest. You've earned it."
Francesco gave a light chuckle, the adrenaline finally starting to ebb. "See you tomorrow, boss."
As he turned and left the tactical room, the hum of the projector and distant echoes from the pitch faded behind him, replaced by the more familiar sounds of the Emirates training wing — muffled voices, the thud of boots on tile, the mechanical hiss of air vents overhead. The late afternoon sun was spilling through the windows in golden ribbons, casting long, diagonal shadows across the floor. A few youth players passed by with nods of recognition — wide-eyed, still adjusting to the gravity of sharing hallways with first-team regulars. One of them, a skinny left-back from the academy, even whispered, "That's him," as Francesco walked by.
The corridor curved around toward the dressing room, and as he reached the entrance, the low hum of music slipped through the open door. It wasn't too loud — just the tail end of a playlist someone had left running on the Bluetooth speakers. Something mellow. Maybe Drake. The kind of post-session wind-down track that hung in the air like mist.
Francesco stepped inside.
The dressing room was half-empty. Most of the players had already finished up, gone to the recovery pool or off to the nutritionist for smoothies and protein refuels. A few remained — Ox was on one of the benches, towel over his shoulders, chatting lazily with Gibbs. Mertesacker stood near his locker, methodically folding his clothes with the kind of discipline you'd expect from a man who once captained the German national team. Theo, shirtless and grinning, leaned against the doorway to the showers, still damp from his rinse.
"Hey, hat-trick hero," Theo called out when he spotted Francesco, a teasing smile spreading across his face. "Looking serious. What's Wenger done now, made you captain?"
Francesco grinned and shook his head, dropping his kit bag by his locker. "Second captain, actually."
Theo raised his eyebrows, then gave an approving nod. "Fair play, mate. About time. You deserve it."
"Thanks," Francesco said, pulling off his training top and tossing it into the laundry bin. He hesitated, then added with a slight smile, "Also… I'm starting striker this season."
That drew more attention.
Theo blinked. "Wait, seriously? Not just filling in?"
"No," Francesco said, sitting on the bench and tugging off his boots. "He told me today. I'm the number nine now."
A pause. Then Oxlade-Chamberlain let out a low whistle.
"Well, shit," he said, grinning. "Look at you. From new lad on the wing to striker at Arsenal. That's a leap."
Per looked over too, the faintest smile pulling at his lips. "You've earned it. Your movement in the final third is top class. And you're fearless. It makes sense."
Francesco rubbed at the back of his neck, still not entirely used to hearing praise from players he'd grown up watching on television. "Yeah, well. Now I've got to prove he's right."
"That's the easy part," Theo said with a wink. "Just do what you did in the final. Every game."
Francesco rolled his eyes, laughing. "Yeah, no pressure."
He stood, grabbed his towel, and made his way to the showers, the heat and humidity rising with each step. The room was tiled in deep gray, mist curling along the ceiling from the already-running streams of water. He stepped into one of the empty stalls, turned the dial, and leaned forward into the spray.
The hot water hit his skin like a balm — washing away the sweat, the tension, the gravity of the meeting with Wenger. For a moment, he let himself drift, head bowed under the stream, letting it soak through his hair and trail down his spine. The sound of water filled the space, broken occasionally by the echo of laughter from the others outside.
But beneath the calm, his mind was racing.
Striker.
Leading the line.
Second captain.
It was thrilling — no doubt — but also daunting. This wasn't just a tactical shift. It was a transformation. A challenge. Wenger hadn't just handed him an opportunity; he'd handed him responsibility. The tempo of their press would start with him. The movement, the transitions, the finishing — it all began from the tip of the spear. From him.
He thought about the goals from last season. The runs. The celebrations. The roar of the crowd. But also the misses. The heavy touches. The games where nothing had clicked. It was all part of it — the learning curve. But now, there'd be no shadow to disappear into if form dipped. No "he's just adapting" excuse. Not anymore.
And yet… he wanted it. Deep down, beneath the nerves and what-ifs, there was a fire.
He shut off the water, shook the excess from his hair, and stepped out, wrapping the towel around his waist. As he moved back into the dressing room, he caught his reflection in one of the mirrors — wet hair, flushed face, steam clinging to his shoulders.
Back at his locker, he began dressing — soft cotton shirt, joggers, socks. The others were filtering out now, the playlist fading to silence as the Bluetooth disconnected. Per clapped him on the back as he passed, a solid thump that nearly knocked the air out of him.
"Big season coming," the German said simply.
"Yeah," Francesco replied. "It is."
When he was finally alone in the room, he pulled out his phone and sat back down on the bench. He opened the Notes app and, without really thinking, began typing.
Goals for the season:
– 20+ goals
– Press like a madman
– Lead the line
– Be vocal — second captain now
– Link up with Özil, Alexis, Theo
– Be relentless
– Prove Wenger right
He stared at it for a long moment, then added one more:
– Be the striker I wish I'd grown up watching
Satisfied, he locked the screen and stood.
He stood and exhaled one last time, slipping the phone into his pocket and grabbing his bag. The dressing room lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the now-empty space. A place that just a year ago had felt massive, intimidating — where the echoes of seasoned voices filled every inch of silence — now felt different. Familiar. Not smaller, but… his.
As he left the building, the late afternoon air greeted him with a warm breeze, rustling the leaves of the trees lining the staff car park. The sun was dipping low, a gold-orange orb just above the London skyline, bathing the lot in an amber hue. His BMW X5 xDrive40e sat near the end, parked neatly between two other players' rides — Theo's sleek white Audi and Ramsey's deep-blue Range Rover.
Francesco clicked the remote and the car chirped in response, lights blinking. He opened the door, tossed his bag into the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel. The leather was warm from the sun but welcoming. With a smooth motion, he started the engine, the hybrid system humming to life in near silence.
As he pulled out of the lot, he glanced once in the rearview mirror — not out of caution, but out of habit. The Emirates loomed behind him, majestic and quiet now that training had ended. Its curved roof shimmered in the light, casting long shadows on the pavement. And yet, even in its silence, the stadium buzzed in his mind.
Striker. Second captain.
Sixteen.
He let out a short breath of disbelief, then shifted the gearstick and eased onto the main road.
The drive to Richmond was familiar, a well-worn path down West London's smoother arteries, flanked by summer trees and historic architecture that blurred past his windows. A couple of times he thought he recognized fans walking along the sidewalks — one even pointed at the car as it slowed at a red light — but no one approached. Not yet, at least.
His phone vibrated on the console. He glanced down at it. Notifications. Dozens.
Texts. Mentions. News alerts. Instagram tags piling up like an avalanche.
He picked one at random — a WhatsApp message from Jorge Mendes.
"You made headlines, kid. Everyone's talking. Call me later."
He tapped a quick reply: "Will do. On my way home."
Another message popped up, this time from Leah:
"Saw the site. Are you okay? House is quiet. Dinner's almost ready x"
A soft smile crept across his face. He texted back:
"Driving now. Be there soon. You're not gonna believe today."
The rest of the drive played out against the backdrop of gentle traffic and the murmur of the radio, which he turned on just in time to catch the tail end of a sports report.
"…and in a stunning announcement, Arsenal have named sixteen-year-old Francesco Lee as second captain, confirming that the young prodigy will also lead the line as their starting striker this season. Arsène Wenger is known for nurturing youth, but this marks a bold, unprecedented move by the club. Social media is ablaze…"
Francesco blinked. He hadn't expected it to blow up this fast.
It wasn't even matchday.
He pulled into Richmond as twilight settled in, the sleepy town painted in dusky purples and mellow oranges. The narrow streets and ivy-covered gates of his neighborhood always gave off a sense of old-world calm. It was one of the things he loved about the area — the quiet luxury, the seclusion. His house was tucked away at the end of a private road, hedges tall, driveway gate discreet.
He pulled in, and the automatic gate slid open with a soft mechanical buzz. The house beyond — a sleek, modern mansion with wide glass windows and pale stone — stood waiting in the last light of day.
The moment he stepped out of the car, the front door opened.
Leah stood in the doorway, barefoot, wearing one of his oversized training hoodies and black leggings. Her dark hair was up in a messy bun, strands loose around her face. She looked like home.
"I knew something was up," she said as he approached. "The second I saw the Arsenal website refresh, my phone lit up like a Christmas tree."
Francesco didn't say anything at first. Just dropped his bag and wrapped her in a hug.
Her arms came up around his back, tight. "I'm so proud of you."
"Thanks," he mumbled into her shoulder. "It's… a lot."
They held there for a moment before she pulled back slightly, eyes searching his. "Wenger really made you second captain? At sixteen?"
He nodded. "And starting striker."
Her jaw dropped a little. "Holy shit."
"Yeah."
She laughed and pulled him inside by the hand. "Come on, you need food. And maybe a drink."
The smell of garlic and rosemary hit him as soon as they entered. Leah had clearly been cooking — something hearty, comforting. A tray of roasted vegetables was cooling on the island countertop, while chicken sizzled on a stovetop grill. A bowl of salad sat already dressed, ready to go.
Francesco wandered to the open living room and collapsed onto the sofa, sighing loudly as he sank into the cushions. He could still feel the hot water from the shower clinging to his skin, the fatigue in his legs from training, the weight of everything from the day pressing softly against his chest.
Leah brought over a glass of cold lemon water and sat beside him, tucking her legs underneath her.
"They're calling it historic," she said, scrolling through her phone. "BBC Sport, Sky, even L'Équipe. Everyone's shocked. Some are saying it's too much too soon, others are calling it genius."
"Let me guess," Francesco muttered. "Piers Morgan thinks it's a mistake?"
She laughed. "Actually… yeah. He tweeted something about 'Wenger losing his mind again.' But Gary Lineker posted this: 'If you're good enough, you're old enough. Francesco Lee is both. Incredible talent. Can't wait to watch him this season.'"
Francesco's eyebrows lifted. "Lineker said that?"
"Yup."
He rubbed his face with both hands. "This is real, isn't it?"
Leah leaned her head against his shoulder. "Very real."
Dinner passed with quiet conversation, the kind of winding chat that meandered through the events of the day — the tactics Wenger discussed, the moment he'd seen his name on the team sheet, the reactions in the locker room. Leah listened, asked thoughtful questions, laughed at the right moments, and never once made it feel like an interview.
After they ate, they moved to the back patio. The sun had vanished completely now, replaced by a clear night sky full of stars. The pool water shimmered in the low lights, and the wind was cool but not cold.
They sat wrapped in a blanket on the outdoor sofa. Francesco had changed into shorts and a hoodie, feet bare, ankles tucked beneath him.
"It's a bit scary," he admitted, after a long silence.
Leah looked over. "What is?"
"Being out front. No more hiding behind Giroud or Alexis. I'm the one they'll look to if we go 1–0 down. If we need a goal in stoppage time. That responsibility…"
He trailed off.
Leah didn't answer right away. She watched him, the sharp lines of his face made softer by the moonlight, the flickering of the patio lanterns dancing in his eyes.
"You're allowed to be scared," she said gently. "But don't forget — Wenger didn't give you this role out of pity. He gave it to you because you've earned it. Because he sees what you are, and what you can become."
Francesco nodded slowly.
"Besides," she added with a smirk, "you're kind of brilliant."
He chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit.
Then he took her hand, threading his fingers through hers. "I'm glad you're here."
"Always."
Later that night, after Leah had gone up to bed, Francesco stayed downstairs a while longer. He stood in his home gym, staring at the row of equipment, the polished floor, the mirrored wall reflecting the image of a young man who didn't look sixteen anymore.
He picked up a football from the floor and sat on the edge of the padded bench.
Just him. The ball. Silence.
He bounced it once.
Then again.
And again.
It wasn't nerves that kept him from sleeping. It was the weight of ambition.
He didn't want to just be Arsenal's striker.
He wanted to be the striker — the kind of player kids would imitate in their back gardens. The name fans would chant with desperation and love in the 88th minute. The face on murals, on montages, on memories.
And that journey started now.
No more waiting.
By morning, the world had fully erupted.
Arsenal's announcement was trending globally. His Instagram had jumped by over a hundred thousand followers overnight. ESPN had scheduled a segment. Thierry Henry had commented on a photo of him holding the FA Cup: "Lead the line well. You have everything."
Even the Times ran a headline:
"Arsenal Place Their Faith in Sixteen-Year-Old Striker: The Francesco Era Begins."
At breakfast, Francesco scrolled through article after article while eating his eggs and toast. Leah was beside him with her coffee, amused by his wide-eyed reactions.
The folded team sheet in the jacket pocket, still tucked carefully into the closet by the front door. Proof that this wasn't a dream. It was a beginning for his legend, and Francesco Lee was ready for the challenge.
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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