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Francesco watched it all from the sideline, still in his training bib, but glowing. He knew this one would be remembered. They weren't just top of the league now, but they had planted a sign that they are the number one contender to win the Premier League this season.
The morning of December 25, 2015, was still and hushed, the kind of winter quiet that felt almost sacred. Outside, Richmond lay under a thin dusting of frost, rooftops sugar-white and gardens rimmed with ice. But inside Francesco Lee's mansion, the warmth of Christmas had already begun to stir.
He blinked awake slowly, the residual weight of sleep still tugging at his limbs. The sheets were soft, the air in the bedroom comfortably warm. He lay there for a moment, just listening. No alarm. No shouts from the touchline. No Wenger voice cutting through the air.
Just peace.
A smile flickered across his face.
Christmas.
After a few seconds, he swung his legs off the bed, toes sinking into the plush carpet as he stood and stretched. Shirtless and drowsy, he padded across the master bedroom and into the en-suite bathroom. The tiles were cool underfoot, but he didn't mind. He turned the tap of the shower, steam rising in curling plumes as the hot water began to pulse from the rainfall head above.
He stepped in, letting the heat soak into him, muscles uncoiling one by one. The game against City still echoed faintly in his bones—the sprint, the strike, the celebration—but there was no soreness he resented. It was the good kind. The earned kind.
When he finally stepped out, a towel slung low around his waist, the mirror was fogged and the light had shifted slightly in the room. He walked back into the bedroom—and paused.
Leah was awake.
And not just awake—she was already halfway dressed in a soft red sweater and grey leggings, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, humming to herself as she moved quietly through the hall and down toward the kitchen.
Francesco leaned on the doorframe, grinning.
Of course she was up first. She always loved Christmas.
He pulled on a hoodie and joggers, then followed the smell—coffee, eggs, something sweet baking in the oven. Leah was standing at the counter, flipping slices of panettone in a skillet.
"Merry Christmas," he said, voice low and warm.
She turned, eyes bright. "Merry Christmas, you sleepy captain."
He walked up behind her, arms looping around her waist, kissing her cheek. "You started without me."
"You were snoring," she teased. "And I was hungry."
As he chuckled, a sharp chime rang out from the living room.
His phone.
Francesco frowned, peeling away to check it. The screen read: Arsenal FC - Club Staff
"Hang on," he muttered, picking up. "Hello?"
"Francesco! Morning! Merry Christmas!" came the familiar voice of Emma, one of the community outreach coordinators at Arsenal.
"Merry Christmas," he replied, curious.
"Listen, sorry for the short notice—but we've picked you to do something special today," she said, already brimming with enthusiasm. "We're doing a surprise Christmas visit to a local orphanage in Islington. You'll be Santa Claus."
He blinked. "Wait—what?"
"You'll be in full costume. Fake beard, red suit, boots, the works. The kids don't know it's you until the end—you'll hand out gifts, take photos, and then do the reveal."
Francesco scratched the back of his neck, glancing toward the kitchen. "That's… really sweet. But—I thought I had training today?"
There was a small pause, then the smile returned to her voice.
"We already cleared it with Arsène. He approved it personally. Said, and I quote, 'Let the boy bring joy—today, that is training of another kind.'"
Francesco smiled despite himself. Wenger. Of course.
"Alright," he said. "I'm in."
Leah had been watching from the kitchen, mug in hand, an eyebrow raised. "What was that about?"
Francesco smirked. "Apparently I'm Santa today."
Her eyes lit up. "You're what?"
"I've been drafted by the club. I'm visiting an orphanage. Full costume. Presents. Photos. Reveal."
She was already laughing. "Do I get to help dress you?"
"You're going to help me find the beard," he grinned.
As he turned back toward the stairs, she called out behind him. "Make sure to stay in character. You've got the eyebrows already."
He rolled his eyes. "Ho ho ho," he muttered under his breath.
But already, something warm was blooming in his chest. This wasn't how he imagined spending his Christmas morning—but somehow, it felt exactly right.
And the children didn't even know Santa was coming.
Francesco turned from the stairs, half-dressed in his hoodie, and glanced back toward Leah. She was leaning against the kitchen counter now, coffee mug in hand, her expression soft but bright with that unmistakable spark she always had when something good was happening.
"You know," he said, his voice casual but full of invitation, "you could come with me. If you want."
She looked up, eyes twinkling over the rim of the mug. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. I mean—if I'm going to be the youngest Santa Claus in Premier League history, might as well have you there to keep me from falling on my face."
Leah set the mug down and crossed the kitchen in a few steps, that familiar half-smile tugging at her lips. "Of course I'm coming. You think I'd miss seeing you try to walk in boots three sizes too big while handing out teddy bears? That's premium holiday entertainment."
Francesco laughed, relieved and happy in the kind of quiet way that meant more than a celebration. "Alright then," he said. "Let's make some kids' Christmas."
They finished breakfast—warm panettone French toast, eggs, and coffee. Leah ate like someone who was actually hungry; Francesco nibbled more than anything, heart already half out the door.
By 9:15, they were ready.
Francesco zipped up his long black winter coat over a red Arsenal hoodie, tugged on gloves, and grabbed his keys. Leah was wrapped in a beige wool trench coat over a cozy Christmas jumper she'd borrowed from his closet last year and never given back. Her hair was tied in a loose braid now, minimal makeup, just that fresh glow she always seemed to carry effortlessly.
They stepped out into the December cold together, breath puffing in the air.
The black BMW X5 gleamed under the pale morning light, warmed and waiting from the remote start Francesco had triggered a few minutes earlier. Leah slid into the passenger seat while Francesco loaded a small duffle bag with his Santa costume into the back.
He glanced at her as he started the engine. "You're going to make a great elf," he teased.
She shot him a mock glare. "Try calling me that again when I'm the one fixing your beard after the third kid pulls it off."
The drive from Richmond to London Colney was smooth—roads still relatively empty, the city quiet in that rare, serene way it only ever is on Christmas morning. They passed a few joggers, a couple of families on morning walks, and the occasional dog being dragged reluctantly through the frost.
Inside the car, Christmas tunes played softly through the speakers—Nat King Cole, Mariah Carey, a touch of Michael Bublé—and the atmosphere was light, warm, filled with that kind of rare calm that only came after something well-earned.
Francesco's thoughts drifted once or twice to the City match—his goal, Özil's brilliance, Wenger's half-smile on the sideline. But today wasn't about that. Not now. Today was about something different. Bigger, in a quieter way.
By the time they pulled through the gates of London Colney, the sun was higher, casting long, gold-tinted shadows across the training ground's pristine lawns.
Emma was already there, standing outside one of the smaller side buildings near the community outreach offices. She wore a red puffer jacket and Arsenal beanie, a clipboard in one hand, a walkie-talkie clipped to her belt. Behind her, a van with the Arsenal Foundation logo was already half-loaded with wrapped presents.
Francesco parked the X5 and stepped out, Leah joining him at his side.
"Ah, there he is!" Emma called, waving them over with a grin. "Our Santa. And—" she paused, recognizing Leah, "our elf?"
Leah rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Let's not start that again."
Emma laughed. "Kidding. So glad you could both make it."
They exchanged hugs. Emma handed Francesco a small bag with the Santa suit inside and pointed to the building's back room. "Get changed in there. We'll do a final run-through in ten. And yes, the boots are ridiculous."
Francesco gave her a salute and disappeared inside.
It didn't take long to change—but looking in the mirror once he'd suited up was another matter. The costume was full-on—big red coat, white-fur trim, enormous black boots, the floppy red hat with a white pom-pom, and of course, the big white beard that wrapped awkwardly around his chin.
Leah burst out laughing when he stepped back outside.
"I look like a mall disaster," he muttered.
"You look like a Premier League Santa who's about to make a bunch of kids cry with joy," she replied, stepping in to adjust his beard with careful hands. "There. Perfect."
Emma walked over with a checklist. "Right. Presents are loaded. The orphanage staff are expecting 'Santa' in about twenty-five minutes. Here's the plan: we go in through the back entrance, surprise the kids during their Christmas breakfast, hand out gifts, and do a few photos. Then once they're warmed up to you—bam—we do the reveal."
Francesco nodded, already feeling his heart tighten a little at the thought of those kids. He didn't know what he'd expected from Christmas this year, but it wasn't this. And yet—this felt right.
He turned to Leah. "Ready?"
She gave a thumbs-up, eyes shining. "Let's go spread some magic."
And with that, they climbed into the Arsenal van, Francesco careful not to crush any gifts with his boots, Leah helping Emma secure a few final items before they pulled out.
As they drove through North London, the streets slowly waking up with the late-morning light, Francesco stared out the window at the city that had become his second home. For a kid who'd once trained in silence on frozen fields in the dark, now heading to bring joy dressed as Santa Claus for Arsenal… it was almost too poetic.
They pulled up outside the orphanage just past 10 a.m.
It was a modest brick building tucked between two narrow residential blocks, its windows lined with strands of tinsel and faded paper snowflakes cut by tiny, eager hands. A wreath hung crookedly on the front door, and a red banner reading "Merry Christmas from all of us!" was taped above the entrance. The street was quiet except for the laughter that carried from inside—a warm, unfiltered kind that belonged only to children.
Francesco stepped down from the van, his Santa boots clunking heavily against the pavement. Leah hopped out behind him, adjusting her scarf, eyes scanning the building with the soft affection of someone seeing something real, something human, something bigger than football.
The front door opened almost at once.
A woman in her late forties, wearing a green sweater with snowmen printed across it, stepped out with a beaming smile.
"You made it!" she said, stepping forward, arms outstretched. "Emma! Francesco! Oh, and Leah—wonderful to meet you, dear. We've been buzzing all morning."
Francesco tugged slightly at the beard under his chin and chuckled. "Hope I'm not too tall for the job."
"You're perfect," she said, shaking his hand warmly. "I'm Margaret—coordinator here. Come, come. We've kept them all in the breakfast room. They don't know who Santa is, only that he's very special this year."
As they walked up the steps, Margaret slowed and turned to Francesco. "Just so you know… they're all Arsenal fans. Every single one of them. Most of the boys sleep with posters above their beds. And all they talk about lately is your goal against City."
Francesco blinked.
Margaret smiled, more gently now. "You're their hero."
Something shifted quietly in his chest.
This—this wasn't the kind of attention he was used to. Not the flashbulbs or screaming crowds at the Emirates, not the headlines or transfer gossip. This was quieter. Purity distilled. A room full of kids who believed in magic—and thought maybe, just maybe, he was a part of it.
Leah stepped beside him and squeezed his hand lightly, reading him without a word.
Margaret led them down a hallway trimmed with garland and cotton snow. The smell of cinnamon and toast hung in the air, along with the distant echo of chairs scraping and juice boxes opening.
Emma leaned in. "You ready?"
Francesco adjusted his hat. "Let's do it."
Behind the closed doors of the breakfast room, the children were already giggling and talking over each other, unaware that Santa Claus was seconds away from walking into their lives.
Emma knocked once, then opened the door wide.
"Look who's come all the way from the North Pole!"
Francesco stepped in.
The room froze.
There were maybe twenty kids—ranging from toddlers to early teens—all dressed in Christmas jumpers, eyes wide and unblinking. Santa's coat swayed with each step. His boots thudded dramatically. His beard, slightly off-center, gave him the appearance of a slightly confused but very enthusiastic Kris Kringle.
"Ho, ho, ho!" Francesco bellowed, his voice pitched just deep enough to sound unfamiliar. "Merry Christmas!"
The room erupted.
Cheers, laughter, the scraping of chairs as kids jumped up and ran forward. They crowded around him, tugging at his coat, laughing at the size of his boots, already shouting their wish lists even though the morning had barely begun.
"Do you have a sleigh?!"
"Did you fight the Grinch?!"
"Can I have a Francesco Lee shirt, please?!"
Leah stood just behind him, filming a short clip on her phone and grinning from ear to ear.
Francesco played along beautifully.
He sat down in the large chair they'd set up at the front of the room, the kids forming a semi-circle around him. One by one, Emma and Leah passed him small, wrapped presents labeled with names. Each gift was chosen based on their interests—small balls, toy kits, puzzles, Arsenal scarves, and some jerseys donated by the club.
Francesco handed out each one with a short joke, a wink, a "Have you been good this year?" Some of the younger ones clung to his leg. A few whispered nervously before smiling up at him with absolute trust. One little girl just stood in front of him for a full ten seconds, staring in awe, before quietly hugging his arm.
And still, they didn't know who he really was.
Not yet.
Finally, after the last present had been unwrapped, Emma gave the nod.
Francesco stood.
"Now," he said, pulling down the beard slowly, "I have one more surprise."
Gasps. Small gasps, growing louder.
He peeled off the hat, then unfastened the top buttons of the coat to reveal the red Arsenal training hoodie beneath.
Some of the older boys began to murmur.
"No way…"
"Is that—?"
Francesco smiled, the beard now hanging at his side. "Merry Christmas… from Francesco Lee."
The room exploded.
Kids shouted his name, several ran up and threw their arms around him, one even started crying—happy tears, overwhelmed by the sight of the person they'd only seen on screens and posters.
Margaret dabbed her eyes at the back of the room. Leah was already crouched down, helping a little boy adjust his new Arsenal scarf.
Francesco stayed with them for nearly an hour.
He signed every toy. Every ball. Every shirt.
He posed for a group photo in the middle of the breakfast room, arms wrapped around a dozen kids all trying to hold on to him at once.
And when he sat down on the floor next to a small boy named Callum, who had just been too shy to speak before, he asked, "You play football?"
Callum nodded.
Francesco smiled. "What position?"
"Striker," the boy whispered, eyes huge.
"Same as me," Francesco whispered back, bumping fists. "You keep playing. You never know."
As the children buzzed with excitement, darting between chairs, showing off their new toys and jerseys, Francesco sat back down in the oversized Santa chair for a moment, his heart still racing—not from exertion, but from something deeper, something warmer.
Leah knelt nearby, tying a loose shoelace for a giggling boy who'd just received a mini football. Her smile was unguarded, proud.
Francesco glanced around the room—every face glowing, every voice high with joy—and then turned to where Margaret stood by the door, quietly wiping at the corner of her eye with a tissue.
He stood and walked over.
"Margaret," he said gently, lowering his voice so the kids wouldn't overhear.
She looked up. "Yes?"
"How many kids are here?" he asked, softly.
She blinked at the question, then replied with warmth in her voice, "Twenty-five. We're full at the moment."
Francesco nodded slowly, thoughtful.
He glanced back at the room—at the kids jumping around, pretending to be him, doing fake commentary over imaginary goals. Then he turned to Leah, who had just finished zipping up a little girl's coat for a photo and was walking back over.
"Leah," he said, beckoning her closer.
She came, brushing her hair out of her face. "What's up?"
Francesco turned back to Margaret. "I'd like you to give Leah the orphanage's bank account details."
Margaret blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"I want to make a donation," he said, without any fanfare or flourish. "I don't know how much yet—just… enough to help with whatever you need. Maintenance, meals, supplies. I trust you'll use it where it matters most."
Margaret's lips parted slightly, her eyes glassy. "That's… that's incredibly generous."
"It's nothing," Francesco said, waving it off. "Honestly. It's Christmas. And they've given me more today than I could ever give back."
Leah, caught off guard but already reaching into her coat pocket for her phone, nodded with understanding. "You can send it to my email, or just give it now and I'll save it."
Margaret pressed her hands together in front of her mouth for a moment. "You don't know what this means to us. Especially this year. You have no idea."
Francesco gave her a small smile. "I think I do."
Margaret turned away to fetch a notepad with the details. Francesco took a deep breath, heart still full—and then his eyes lit up with one more idea.
He turned back toward the middle of the room, where the kids had all started a game of penalty shootout using a rubber ball and two armchairs as goalposts.
"Hey!" he called out, voice firm but smiling.
The room froze.
Every head turned to him.
"I've got one more Christmas present for you."
That caught their attention. They edged forward, wide-eyed.
"On December 28," Francesco said, voice lifting with energy, "Arsenal are playing Bournemouth at the Emirates. And guess what?"
They waited, holding their breath.
"I'm inviting all of you. Every single one of you. VIP box tickets. You'll get to watch the match from the best seats in the house. Food, drinks, photos—everything. My treat."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then—
An explosion.
Shouts. Screams. Cheers.
Some of the older boys started hugging each other. A younger girl burst into tears from pure joy. One of the teenage boys pumped his fist and shouted, "We're going to the Emirates!"
Leah looked at Francesco, eyes wide. "That's… wow. That's amazing."
He shrugged modestly. "They deserve it."
Margaret, notebook in hand, just shook her head in disbelief. "You're—" she chuckled softly, overwhelmed. "Francesco, you've just made their year."
He nodded, smiling. "That's the goal."
He knelt again, speaking directly to the kids now, their faces packed close around him. "But here's the deal—you've got to wear your best Arsenal gear, alright? No Chelsea blue, no Spurs white, no Man United anything."
The room laughed.
"Promise?" he asked.
"Promise!" they chorused.
He bumped fists, high-fived a dozen tiny hands, and hugged two more kids who refused to let go until Leah helped gently peel them off.
Margaret stood nearby, watching it all unfold with a hand pressed to her heart.
As the morning stretched into early afternoon, and the last of the presents were stacked neatly against the walls or stuffed into backpacks, Francesco and Leah helped the children take group photos, even joining in a small kickabout in the courtyard with the older boys.
Snow flurries began to drift lightly in the air as the van was loaded again with empty boxes and costume bags. But the warmth never left.
Not from the room.
Not from Francesco's chest.
Not from the eyes of twenty-five children who would never forget the Christmas when Santa turned out to be their football hero—and then did something even better. He made them feel seen, feel wanted, and feel loved. And that, he knew as they drove back toward Colney in the fading light, was the most important goal he'd ever scored.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
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: 26
Goal: 35
Assist: 5
MOTM: 2
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9