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He gave Francesco a nod and turned back toward the touchline, leaving the young midfielder 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.
The Sunday sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Francesco Lee's Richmond home, drawing golden lines across the hardwood floor as the morning stirred to life. The soft rustle of leaves outside and the distant hum of traffic gave the day a quiet rhythm, but inside, something was missing. Or rather, someone.
Francesco blinked into consciousness, the warmth of the duvet tangled around his legs. His arm stretched across the bed and found only air — the spot beside him empty and cool. Leah was already up.
A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. It had become routine over the past weeks — her waking earlier, sometimes slipping out for yoga, or making breakfast. He swung his legs out from under the covers and sat at the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The scent of something familiar — coffee, perhaps a hint of eggs and sourdough — floated in from the kitchen.
Dragging a hand through his messy hair, he stood, feet padding across the floor as he followed the smell. The house was quiet, the sort of peaceful Sunday hush that reminded him why he'd fallen in love with this place in the first place. The London buzz still existed outside the gates, but here, it was sanctuary.
As he stepped into the dining area, the soft sound of oil crackling in a pan and the occasional clink of ceramic echoed from the kitchen. Leah, dressed in a loose white tee and black shorts, her hair tied in a bun, stood over the stove, humming some tune he didn't recognize. She hadn't noticed him yet.
He paused for a second to admire the sight — not just her, but the sense of normalcy, the groundedness of it all. Football fame came with chaos: agents, media, training schedules. But here… this was life.
Francesco walked over to the dining table, turned on the TV with a click of the remote, and slouched into the chair with a low grunt of satisfaction. The screen lit up with the familiar red and white graphics of Sky Sports News. "Breaking Transfer News," the headline read.
He raised an eyebrow.
Leah, still facing the stove, called out, "Morning, sleepyhead."
"Morning," he replied, eyes still fixed on the screen. "Sky's got something on Arsenal. You might want to hear this."
Leah turned slightly, holding a spatula in one hand. "Good news or drama?"
"Looks like good news. Hang on…"
On the TV, the presenter was already mid-sentence, the graphic beneath reading:
ARSENAL SIGN KANTÉ AND VAN DIJK – EXCLUSIVE DETAILS
"…as confirmation comes in this morning that Arsenal have officially completed the double signing of N'Golo Kanté from Caen for £5.5 million and Virgil van Dijk from Celtic for £15 million."
Francesco leaned forward, his breath caught for a second. It had actually happened. Fast.
Leah's voice floated from the kitchen. "Kanté? Is that the one you told Wenger about?"
Francesco nodded slowly, still watching the screen. "Yeah. Both of them."
On the TV, the studio cut to footage of the two players — Kanté in Caen blue, harrying an opponent with relentless energy; Van Dijk, poised and commanding, sweeping the ball clear for Celtic. Then, to the analysis.
The anchor continued, "These are interesting moves for the Gunners. Starting with Virgil van Dijk — a towering presence at the back. Strong in the air, reads the game exceptionally well, and at just 24, he's seen as a long-term successor to Per Mertesacker, who turns 31 later this year."
The pundit at the desk, a former defender himself, chimed in. "Wenger's always valued intelligence in defenders. Van Dijk fits that mold. With the pace of the Premier League, you need someone who doesn't just react but anticipates. I think Arsenal have pulled off a smart bit of business here."
The screen shifted to Kanté. Francesco leaned back slightly, already anticipating the uncertainty in their tone.
"Kanté, on the other hand," the presenter said, "is less known in England. Last season, he was in France's Ligue 2 with Caen — they've since been promoted. But sources tell us Arsenal's scouting team have been watching him closely, and there's real belief in his potential."
"Potential's the key word here," the pundit added. "He's small, energetic, covers ground like a madman. But he's not flashy. This isn't a marquee name, so naturally fans are skeptical. But Wenger sees things others don't."
Francesco smiled to himself, remembering the quiet but firm conviction in Wenger's voice just a few days earlier. These two are about the future. Your future.
Behind him, he heard the light tap of footsteps. Leah placed a plate in front of him — scrambled eggs, toast, grilled tomatoes — and leaned over to kiss the top of his head. "I hope they know they owe you a cut."
He laughed, shaking his head. "Not how it works."
She sat across from him, pulling her own plate closer. "Still, it's wild. You said their names like… what, two weeks ago?"
Francesco nodded, picking at his eggs. "I didn't think it would move this quickly. But I guess once Wenger was convinced…"
He paused, eyes flicking back to the TV where the headline now read: WENGER'S NEW VISION – Laying Foundations for a New Arsenal?
"He's thinking long term," Francesco muttered. "This isn't just about next season. This is five, ten years ahead."
Leah sipped her juice. "And you're part of that."
The words hung between them. She didn't say it like it was news — more like something they both already knew, just now spoken aloud.
He set his fork down, nodding slowly. "Yeah. I think I am."
—
Later that afternoon, Francesco sat in the sun-drenched backyard, a football lazily bouncing between his feet as he stared across the grass. His phone buzzed beside him — a message from Héctor Bellerín.
You see the news, mate? You better be our new head scout.
Francesco laughed and replied quickly.
Just making sure you defenders don't fall asleep back there.
Moments later, another ping — this time from Petr Čech.
Van Dijk's a solid addition. You were right. Can't wait to work with him.
And then: a simple message from Arsène Wenger himself.
Thank you. Come to Colney early tomorrow — we'll talk tactics.
Francesco set the phone down and looked up at the sky, clouds drifting slowly in the spring air. The decisions he'd made in conversation, the names he'd mentioned off-hand — they were now contracts. Commitments. Real people, joining the fabric of a club that was slowly becoming his own.
The next morning came with a silvery overcast sky draped across London's horizon — the kind that promised a muggy summer day but couldn't quite make up its mind about whether to rain or shine. Francesco didn't mind either way. The excitement tugging at his chest made the weather irrelevant.
He zipped up his charcoal grey track jacket, slung his bag over his shoulder, and stepped into his BMW X5 xDrive40e parked on the driveway. The gentle purr of the hybrid engine gave way to a steady hum as he pulled onto the road, Richmond's morning calm gradually giving way to the bustle of commuters, cyclists, and dog walkers.
The drive to London Colney was familiar by now — past tree-lined lanes and out into the flatter landscapes toward Hertfordshire, his mind already on the day ahead. His phone was plugged in to the dash, a chilled playlist rolling softly in the background, but his thoughts weren't on the music. Wenger's message from the day before echoed in his head.
Come to Colney early tomorrow — we'll talk tactics.
There was something in the tone. Not just a regular "we'll talk" message, but one that hinted at weight. Importance. And with the news breaking about Kanté and Van Dijk, he had a strong hunch that today wasn't just going to be another training day.
As he pulled into the training ground and passed through the security gate, he offered a small wave to the guard, who gave a knowing grin and nodded. The place was already alive — players' cars filling up the lot, staff wheeling trolleys of training equipment across the grounds, and a fresh buzz in the air.
Francesco parked, grabbed his gear, and headed toward the dressing room. Inside, it was already a hive of familiar voices — boots clunking on tile, lockers opening, laughter, the unmistakable scent of liniment and fresh kit wafting through the space.
Theo Walcott was tying his boots at his locker, looked up, and gave Francesco a grin. "Scout Lee arrives."
"Piss off," Francesco laughed, dropping his bag onto the bench. "You'll thank me when Van Dijk's cleaning up your mess at the back."
"Mate, I play on the wing," Theo said, mock offended.
"Exactly," chimed in Jack Wilshere, walking past with a towel slung around his neck. "You think you're a defender with how deep you drift sometimes."
Laughter rippled through the room. The camaraderie was back, tight as ever — but it was sharpened today by a curiosity in the air. Everyone had seen the headlines. Everyone was wondering how the new guys would fit in.
Francesco quickly changed into his training kit — the sleek red and grey Puma gear hugged his frame like armor — and laced up his boots with methodical precision. A few lockers down, Mesut Özil and Laurent Koscielny exchanged a few words in French, nodding toward the pitch doors. A signal. Wenger was already out there.
They emerged together onto the grass — the heart of Colney — the wide, open fields of pristine turf stretching into the distance. The scent of freshly-cut grass mingled with the scent of damp summer air, and scattered across the pitches, cones were already set, balls neatly arranged in pyramids, and staff members standing by with clipboards.
Arsène Wenger stood near the center of the primary training pitch, arms folded, the wind gently ruffling the collar of his long coat. That same calm presence — part philosopher, part general — and beside him, three figures stood in new Arsenal training kits, each looking alert, poised, and slightly unsure of how they'd be received.
Petr Čech. N'Golo Kanté. Virgil van Dijk.
Francesco recognized all three instantly, of course, and felt a small flicker of pride that his words had helped place them here. Čech, towering and composed, had his gloves tucked under one arm, eyes scanning the players who now stepped onto the field. Kanté, shorter than most but with an unmistakable energy humming beneath the surface, stood quietly, hands clasped behind his back. Van Dijk looked utterly relaxed, as if he'd been here for years already — tall, calm, and smiling faintly as Wenger gestured for everyone to huddle in.
"Gentlemen," Wenger began as the players circled in, "before we begin today's session, I want to formally welcome three new members of our family."
He turned slightly. "Petr Čech — you all know who he is. His experience speaks for itself. A leader, a professional, and already a voice in the dressing room. We're lucky to have him."
Čech gave a small nod, murmurs of welcome already rippling through the group.
"Virgil van Dijk — a commanding presence at the back. Technically sound, mentally sharp. He's here to learn, but also to lead."
Virgil offered a small wave, his Dutch accent just faint as he said, "Looking forward to working with you all."
"And N'Golo Kanté," Wenger continued, glancing with warmth at the quiet midfielder. "Don't be fooled by the lack of headlines. This man will run for all of you. He plays with his heart and his brain. You'll see what I mean soon enough."
Kanté nodded respectfully, murmuring a quiet, "Merci."
Wenger looked back over the team, eyes sweeping across the faces — many of them young, ambitious, a few already hardened by years at the top. Then he paused, turned slightly, and gestured toward Francesco.
"And one more thing," he said. "This wasn't an easy decision, and it wasn't made lightly. But after last season, after everything we accomplished, and the role he played both on and off the pitch — not to mention the respect he's earned from each of you — I've made the decision, alongside the staff and club leadership, to appoint Francesco Lee as the second captain of Arsenal."
For a split second, the field was silent. Then came the claps. First from Koscielny, then Walcott, then Jack. It built into a short but genuine round of applause.
Francesco blinked — not in surprise, exactly, but in something deeper. A quiet kind of awe.
Wenger stepped closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You've shown leadership, vision, and a deep understanding of the values we hold. This is about more than wearing an armband — it's about embodying what this club means. And I believe you do."
Francesco nodded, voice low. "Thank you, boss. I won't let you down."
"I know you won't."
As the players began to drift into warm-up drills, slapping palms with the newcomers and ribbing Francesco lightly about "boss-man duties," he felt the weight of it settle over him — not heavy, but grounding.
Second captain.
In a club like Arsenal, that wasn't ceremonial. That was legacy.
—
The training session that followed was one of the most electric Francesco had ever been part of. There was an unmistakable intensity — the kind of sharpness that came not from fear, but from belief. Kanté impressed instantly, darting between players with balletic precision, stealing the ball with timing that seemed almost supernatural.
"You weren't kidding," Wilshere muttered at one point as they paused for water. "He's like a bloody magnet."
Van Dijk, paired with Koscielny during drills, was calm under pressure, his passing confident and vision clear. Čech was already barking orders from the back, organizing the defense like a conductor with a familiar orchestra.
Wenger watched it all from the sidelines, nodding occasionally, scribbling notes.
Francesco found himself drifting between positions — first in midfield next to Kanté, then up front in a finishing drill, then dropping back to discuss movements with the defenders. It felt natural now. Like his role had expanded not just by title, but by instinct.
And the others followed. Not blindly — but willingly.
—
After training, as the players filed back into the dressing room, Francesco took a quick shower, changed, and stepped outside into the corridor just as Wenger was walking past with a folder tucked under his arm.
"Walk with me," Wenger said.
They moved together through the hallway toward the analysis room. On the wall, framed photos of past Arsenal greats — Henry, Bergkamp, Adams, Vieira. Francesco glanced at them briefly.
In the room, Wenger set the folder down and pulled up a tactical map on the screen.
"This is where you come in," he said. "With Kanté, we have a new dynamic. He frees up our midfield — allows more fluid transitions. And with Van Dijk, we can press higher, take more risks. I want your input."
Francesco stepped closer, nodding as Wenger walked him through the shifts.
"I want to play faster," Wenger said. "More vertical. We've been too comfortable in possession. You're the connector. You see space others miss. I want to build the transitions around your movement."
Francesco nodded slowly. "And defensively?"
"With Kanté behind you and Van Dijk reading the second line, you'll have more freedom to take risks going forward. I want to see you between the lines. Let Özil create from deeper. You push."
Francesco's eyes flicked from the tactical screen to Wenger, uncertainty flickering at the edges of his focus. He'd just begun to digest everything — the additions of Kanté and Van Dijk, the shift in midfield responsibilities, the vertical press — when Wenger, hands behind his back now, glanced at him with that signature stillness. The kind of pause that signaled something more was coming. Something personal.
"There's one more thing," Wenger said, his voice low and thoughtful, as if testing the shape of the words before letting them out.
Francesco tilted his head slightly, waiting.
Wenger met his eyes. "I want to play you as the starting striker this season."
There was a beat — not of silence, exactly, but of processing. Francesco's brow creased.
"Striker?" he echoed.
Wenger nodded slowly, unfolding his arms. "Yes. Through the middle. Not on the wing. Not as a false nine, either. As the focal point. I've watched your runs, your finishing, your timing — especially in the second half of last season. You have the instincts. You can create chances, yes, but more importantly, you know how to finish them. We need that."
Francesco let out a quiet breath, blinking as the weight of the statement landed. "And Giroud?"
"He'll rotate in," Wenger said, not unkindly. "He's still important to us. His presence, his aerial ability — they give us options, especially when we need to change the rhythm or draw defenders into deeper duels. But starting every game?" Wenger shook his head. "No. The tempo I want, the pressing — it suits you better. We need verticality, speed in behind, movement between the lines. You bring all of that. Giroud's style is more traditional. Effective, yes. But we're evolving."
Francesco didn't say anything right away. He was still adjusting to the idea — not just tactically, but emotionally. The number nine role at Arsenal was sacred. Henry. Wright. van Persie. Legends who lived in the final third, who defined matches with a touch, a turn, a strike. And now Wenger was asking him to fill those boots.
"I didn't expect that," Francesco admitted quietly. "I always thought… winger, maybe a ten. Not striker."
Wenger smiled faintly, stepping closer. "You're not just a winger. You never were. You drift wide because you're intelligent — because you read the game and find the space. But I've seen what happens when you're central. You draw defenders, create chaos, find pockets others don't even see. And most importantly — you finish. Clinical. That bicycle kick in the Cup Final? That wasn't luck. That was instinct. And I want to nurture that."
Francesco rubbed the back of his neck, then chuckled softly, almost in disbelief. "So… I'm the striker now?"
"You are," Wenger said. "And we're building around you. Özil will play deeper — he thrives when he has runners. Alexis on the left, Theo or Ox on the right. With Kanté behind you and Ramsey making late runs, we'll stretch defenses until they snap. But we need a center forward who's unpredictable. Someone who can run in behind, hold it up, link play, and press. You're all of that."
He paused, then added, "But more importantly, I trust you. And so do the players. That's why you're second captain now. This isn't just about goals — it's about leading from the front. Literally."
Francesco felt something stir in his chest — pride, yes, but also a deep-rooted hunger. He thought back to that first day at Colney. The nerves, the excitement. How far he'd come since then. And now he was the focal point of Wenger's plan. The striker for Arsenal.
"I'll give everything," he said, voice steady. "Whatever you need. I'll run until my legs give out."
Wenger smiled again, more warmly this time. "I know you will."
They stood there in quiet understanding for a moment, the map on the screen glowing behind them — dots, lines, spaces. Plans in motion. A season about to unfold.
Then Wenger glanced down at the folder, flipped it open, and added, "Oh — and I had the staff print this."
He handed Francesco a mock-up of the new team sheet. At the top of the formation:
ST – Francesco Lee
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.
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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