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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.
The hum of the countryside greeted Francesco as he guided his BMW X5 through the quiet roads leading into Arsenal's London Colney training ground. Dew still clung to the grass along the verges, and a soft mist curled at the edges of the fields — that typical British August morning that promised heat by noon, but lingered for now in a cool hush.
He had barely slept.
Not because of nerves, not exactly — but because every time he closed his eyes, something stirred in him. A flicker of adrenaline, a mental replay of Wenger's voice in the dressing room, or the moment Leah said "I'm proud of you" while curled up under a blanket.
But today, it was back to business.
The Community Shield was just days away — August 13th, Wembley, Chelsea. Mourinho's Chelsea. And now, Francesco wasn't just part of the squad. He was leading the line. All eyes were on him.
As he turned into the familiar entrance of Colney, security waved him through with a nod and a grin that felt a bit more knowing than usual. Word had clearly gotten around.
The car rolled smoothly across the tarmac, tires whispering to a stop in his usual space. He glanced at the other cars — the same mix of matte finishes and custom plates — but there was an edge in the air today. The calm before a storm.
Francesco killed the engine, grabbed his gym bag, and stepped out. The moment his sneakers hit the ground, he exhaled.
"Let's go."
Inside the training complex, the atmosphere was electric. Not loud, not chaotic — just charged. Staff nodded as he passed. A few of the physios offered him soft congratulations. One of the kit men, Tony, gave him a wink and a knowing pat on the back as he handed him a fresh water bottle.
"You ready for the big day?" Tony asked, eyeing him up and down.
"As ready as I'll ever be," Francesco replied, managing a grin.
He pushed through the swinging double doors into the dressing room and froze.
For a second, everything else disappeared.
There, hanging in his usual locker — same spot he'd used all year, three spaces down from Alexis, one over from Bellerín — was a new jersey.
A clean, pristine red home shirt. The white sleeves crisp, the collar neatly folded. But it wasn't the colors that struck him. It was the number.
9
Not 35. Not his old number he use when he debut for the team last season, but number 9.
The striker's number. The number worn by Alan Smith, by José Antonio Reyes, by Lukas Podolski. By the men expected to score goals, carry games, lift cups.
Francesco stared at it for a moment, almost hesitant to reach out — like touching it would make it vanish.
Then a voice came from the corner.
"Looks good on you, mate."
He turned. It was Theo Walcott, already half-changed, tying his boots on the bench.
Francesco laughed under his breath. "I didn't even know this was happening."
Theo smiled and nodded at the shirt. "Wenger told the kit guys yesterday. Said if you're leading the line, you should wear the number that means something."
Francesco lifted the shirt from the hanger, feeling the weight of it — light fabric, but heavy with meaning. The badge, the sponsor, the Premier League patch on the sleeve.
He pulled it on over his training base layer, smoothing it down across his chest. It fit like it belonged.
More players began to file in — Oxlade-Chamberlain, Coquelin, Santi Cazorla, N'golo Kante, Virgil Van Dijk— and a few clapped him on the back, others raised eyebrows at the new number, and some simply offered nods of approval.
Even Olivier Giroud, calm and gracious as ever, gave him a warm handshake and said, "Number 9, huh? Big boots. But I think you'll do just fine."
Francesco changed quickly into the rest of his kit — training shorts, socks, boots laced tight — and followed the others out onto the pitch.
The sun had broken through the mist now, and the grass glistened with a fresh cut. Coaches were already laying out cones, dummies, passing grids. Wenger stood at the far end of the field, hands behind his back, speaking with Bould and Lehmann in that calm, professorial way of his.
Warm-ups began as usual — jogging laps, dynamic stretches, passing in tight triangles. But Francesco could feel it in the rhythm of the session: there was urgency now. The Community Shield wasn't just a preseason trophy anymore — it was a statement. A test.
And for him, it was the beginning of his reign.
During the finishing drills, Wenger pulled him aside.
"Francesco," he said, beckoning him toward a separate goal setup.
"Yes, boss?"
The Frenchman held up a hand, signaling Bould to start feeding balls from the flank. "I want to work with you on your positioning in the box. Costa is a clever player, yes, but I think you can be smarter. And faster."
Francesco nodded. "I'm ready."
Wenger gestured. "Good. Then show me. Near post first."
The next twenty minutes were a blur of movement — sprints across the six-yard line, turns at the shoulder, quick finishes with either foot. Wenger corrected him with small gestures: "Shoulders lower. Don't rush the near post — arrive just late enough. Good. Again."
By the end, Francesco was panting, sweat curling down his temple, shirt clinging to his back.
Wenger offered a nod. "Better. Much better. You're going to trouble them."
The rest of training was a mix of tactical shape work and eleven-a-side simulations. Francesco led the line in red bibs, playing alongside Alexis and Oxlade, while Giroud captained the blue bibs.
It was intense. Every run was tracked, every pass weighed. The coaches barked instructions, and Wenger occasionally stopped play to explain a movement or correct spacing.
But Francesco felt alive.
He wasn't shadowing anymore. He was directing.
"Alexis, overlap!" he shouted during one break. "Hector's free wide!"
And when Bellerín fired in a low cross and Francesco flicked it past Ospina with a backheel, the squad erupted in whoops and shouts.
It was happening. He was growing into the role.
After training, most of the players filtered off toward the physio room or canteen. Francesco lingered on the pitch, boots off, sitting near the sideline with a recovery shake in hand. His legs ached. His shoulders ached. But it was a good ache.
Leah texted him again:
"You in one piece?"
He smiled.
"Barely. But yes. Number 9 now."
She sent back a single heart emoji, then:
"We need to frame that shirt."
Wenger walked past him on his way back to the building, slowing just slightly.
"You played well today," he said, eyes on the field.
"Thank you."
"Chelsea will try to rattle you. But remember — play your game. Not theirs."
Francesco nodded, standing now, body sore but soul steady. "I will."
And he meant it.
Back home, the house was quiet again. Leah was gone to train with the Arsenal Women Team, and Francesco used the alone time to soak in an ice bath, stretch out in the gym, and rewatch some footage of Chelsea's defensive line. Cahill, Ivanović, Azpilicueta — smart, physical, disciplined.
The water in the ice bath was beginning to lose its bite, and Francesco could feel his muscles growing used to the chill. He sat there motionless for a moment, just letting his body settle, breathing slow, deep breaths. The quiet hum of the house in Richmond was almost meditative — just the low hum of the refrigerator somewhere in the kitchen, the occasional creak of the floor above, and the distant buzz of a lawn mower on another street.
He rolled his head back against the edge of the tub, eyes drifting to the ceiling, his mind still ticking.
It was surreal. The number 9.
There was a kind of poetry to it — like stepping into the pages of Arsenal's history. He wasn't a kid with a dream anymore; he was the striker. The one expected to score goals at Wembley. The one the team looked to when the ball was in the box.
He stayed in the bath a few minutes longer, thinking back to training — the sting of the grass against his thighs during those slide-in finishes, the way Alexis had slapped his back after that cheeky backheel, Wenger's approving nod. All of it was still fresh. And it all felt right.
Eventually, the cold became too numbing to ignore. He climbed out, grabbed a towel, and padded barefoot across the hallway to the home gym, where he spent another half hour stretching out his hamstrings, glutes, and calves, then rolling out his back on the yoga mat.
The TV in the corner was still on mute — he'd left it on from earlier, set to Sky Sports News, just background noise for the house when Leah was out. But something on the screen caught his eye mid-stretch: the lower ticker read:
"BREAKING: Arsenal confirm Francesco Lee given iconic Number 9 shirt ahead of Community Shield clash with Chelsea."
His heart stuttered.
Francesco leaned over and grabbed the remote, unmuting the television just in time to catch the presenter, Hayley McQueen, speaking directly into camera, a smile playing across her face.
"…and there you have it. It's official now, folks. Arsenal's wonderkid Francesco Lee has been handed the number 9 shirt ahead of Sunday's Community Shield against Chelsea. The club confirmed the move earlier this morning on their website and across social media, sparking a wave of excitement among fans."
The screen shifted to clips from training that morning — his backheel flick into the net, a close-up of him jogging past the camera with the new number clearly visible on his back.
Another presenter, Michael Bridge, chimed in. "It's a big show of faith, isn't it? Arsène Wenger's effectively saying this is his man now. He's sixteen, turning seventeen in November, and already being given that kind of responsibility? That's huge."
Hayley nodded. "It is, and when you consider the players who've worn that shirt — Reyes, Podolski, even Eduardo da Silva — it's a number that carries weight. Wenger's not just giving this to a squad player. He's telling the world Francesco Lee is the guy now."
Francesco set the remote down slowly, eyes still locked on the screen as the conversation continued.
They cut to fan reactions outside the Emirates — one young supporter held up a homemade sign that read "Francesco = Future of Arsenal", while another older man in a red scarf shouted into the mic, "He's already better than Torres was at seventeen!"
Then the segment cut again — this time to Thierry Henry in the studio, sitting across from Jamie Carragher and Gary Neville. His voice had that cool calmness that Francesco had always admired.
"I've said it before," Henry began, "Francesco Lee is special. The way he moves, the way he reads space — it's not normal for someone his age. Giving him the number 9 shirt isn't just symbolic, it's tactical. He's ready. I saw it at the FA Cup Final. The big moments don't faze him."
Carragher leaned forward, skeptical but intrigued. "But isn't it too much pressure? Mourinho's gonna target him. You know what he's like — he'll put Matic or Terry on him, rattle him early."
Gary Neville interjected, "Yeah, but that's what makes this so interesting. Wenger's basically daring Mourinho — go ahead, try. Because if Francesco scores at Wembley, we're talking about a kid who's just gone from promise to problem for every defense in the league."
Francesco let out a breath, leaning back against the gym wall. He didn't even realize he was smiling.
He reached for his phone and scrolled to the club's official Twitter page. Sure enough, the top tweet was a graphic of him in training, arms raised after scoring, with the words:
"Number 9. Francesco Lee. The future is now."
The replies were a storm of celebration:
@LdnGooner84: My striker. OUR striker.
@InvincibleMind: Didn't think I could love this club more — then Wenger gives the kid the 9. Let's GO.
@HenrySZN: Thierry walked so Francesco could run.
He read through a dozen more, heart thumping. Then he saw one reply with a photo attached — it was a dad and his son, standing outside the Armoury, holding up a fresh kit with his name and number on the back. The boy couldn't have been older than ten.
That did something to him. A tug in the chest.
This wasn't just about him anymore. This was about them, too — the fans, the dreamers, the next generation. Just like he'd once stared at the name "Henry" on the back of a kit, some kid out there was now staring at his.
He called Leah.
She picked up almost immediately, slightly out of breath.
"Hey! What's up?" she asked, the sounds of football boots against turf audible in the background.
"Sky Sports," he said, unable to keep the grin out of his voice.
She laughed. "Saw it. You're famous now, huh?"
"Guess so. They're showing the new shirt, fans outside the stadium — there's a kid who already bought mine."
"You're gonna make me cry," she said. "Framing that shirt isn't enough anymore. We're turning that whole room into a shrine."
Francesco chuckled, the warmth of her voice settling him. "Just make sure you leave space for a few trophies."
"You better bring one home from Wembley first," she teased.
"I'll try my best."
After they hung up, Francesco stood for a moment in front of the full-length mirror in the gym. His reflection looked back at him: lean, still growing into his frame, but stronger now, more defined. There were new scars on his shins, a hint of stubble on his chin. But the eyes — they still burned the same way they had the first time he walked into Colney.
Hungry. Focused.
He decided to switch gears for the evening. No more analysis, no more pressure — at least not for a few hours. He grabbed a shower, changed into a loose hoodie and joggers, then drove into the city to pick up dinner from one of Leah's favorite Japanese places.
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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