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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.
As the Arsenal Foundation van rolled through the gently winding roads of Hertfordshire, the snow that had begun to fall outside the orphanage swirled in soft drifts across the windscreen. The city was easing into that quiet stretch between midday and dusk, where Christmas dinners were being served and living rooms across the country glowed with fairy lights and warmth. Inside the van, the mood was still alight with everything they'd just experienced—laughter, joy, a kind of magic that couldn't be faked.
Francesco leaned back in his seat, the red Santa suit now folded in a duffel bag between his feet. He looked out the window, the rooftops rushing by like scenes from a snow globe, before turning his head to Leah, who was scrolling through the dozens of pictures and videos she'd taken.
Her face was peaceful, her lips tilted in a quiet smile as she replayed a clip of Callum whispering "striker" with awe.
He nudged her gently. "Hey."
She looked over, raising a brow.
"I was thinking," he said, voice low and thoughtful. "Since we're done with the visit… and it's still early… what if we invite the lads over tonight?"
Leah blinked. "The lads?"
"Yeah—teammates, staff. Their families too. Something lowkey at the house. Christmas dinner, drinks, music. You know… not a party-party. More like… I don't know. Something warm. Something good."
She tilted her head slightly. "And you want to organize that now?"
He chuckled. "We've got a big kitchen, and a bigger dining room. Plenty of food already stocked. I just—" He exhaled, eyes drifting back to the road. "I feel like after what we did today… I just want to keep the good going, you know?"
Leah smiled warmly. "Of course I'm okay with it. You're the second captain of the team, remember?"
He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," she teased. "That means sometimes you've got to throw the party. It's in the job description."
Francesco laughed, the idea already taking root in his mind. He could see it now—Sánchez showing up in a ridiculous jumper, Koscielny helping the kids open crackers, Flamini pretending he didn't care but sitting in the corner with mulled wine and a paper crown.
When they pulled into London Colney a half hour later, the sun had begun to dip behind a thin veil of clouds. The training ground looked calm, quiet, but a few figures were still out on the pitch, finishing drills in cold air and foggy breath.
Francesco stepped out of the van and turned to Emma. "Thanks again," he said, offering her a hug. "Today was… something else."
Emma beamed. "You made it what it was. Seriously, Francesco. You gave those kids a Christmas they'll never forget."
He waved goodbye, Leah walking beside him as they made their way past the first building and toward the training pitch.
A few players—Campbell, Gabriel, and Chambers—were wrapping up sprints. Francesco gave them a quick nod as he passed, then spotted Wenger near the edge of the pitch, coat zipped to the chin, talking quietly with Steve Bould.
Francesco approached, clearing his throat with a sheepish grin.
"Boss."
Wenger turned, eyebrows lifting. "Ah—Father Christmas himself."
Francesco laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just wanted to say sorry for missing training today. I wasn't sure if—"
Wenger held up a hand, already shaking his head. "Emma told me everything. Don't apologize."
He studied Francesco for a moment, his gaze softening. "What you did today matters, Francesco. More than anything you could've done on this pitch."
Francesco nodded. "Thanks, boss. Really."
Wenger smiled, then added, "Just make sure you outrun Kolarov again next week."
Francesco grinned. "I'll be ready."
As Wenger turned back to his conversation with Bould, Francesco rejoined Leah by the car, already scrolling through his contacts to start sending out messages.
One by one, he typed.
To: Özil, Sánchez, Koscielny, Ramsey, Giroud, Walcott, Monreal, Cech, Flamini, Bellerín, and more.
Hey lads — Christmas dinner at mine tonight. Bring your partners, kids, whoever. Just good vibes and food. Starts at 6. Don't be late or Alexis picks the playlist. 😉 — F.
Leah peeked at his screen and laughed. "You just cursed your own party. You know Alexis is going to show up with reggaeton and his dogs."
Francesco laughed. "Better than Flamini DJing again."
They got back into the car, the sky already turning that rich December indigo as the wheels turned toward Richmond—and what would become a Christmas night none of them would forget.
The BMW X5 rolled gently into the driveway of Francesco's Richmond mansion, its headlights casting golden beams across the icy stone pavers. The sky above was beginning to fade to a velvet blue, the last traces of daylight bleeding into the chill air. Twinkling fairy lights had already begun to blink from the hedges around the front garden—Leah must've set them to a timer the day before—and the sight made Francesco smile as he pulled up to the main entrance.
As soon as the car parked, Leah hopped out, energized in that way she always was when something needed to be done quickly and beautifully. The wind tugged at her coat as she jogged up the steps and unlocked the door, already rattling off a list of what needed doing.
"Okay," she called behind her, not even glancing back. "You find somewhere comfortable. I've got this."
Francesco stepped out, stretching his back, and watched her disappear into the house like a whirlwind. He chuckled under his breath and followed slowly behind, Santa duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
Inside, the warmth of the mansion wrapped around him like a familiar coat. The faint scent of cinnamon and pine still hung in the air from the candles they'd lit that morning, and a soft glow from the hallway sconces bathed the space in gold.
"I can help," he offered as he stepped out of his shoes near the entrance.
"Nope," came the firm reply from deeper in the house. "Don't even think about it."
He smiled and leaned against the stair banister. "Seriously, Leah. I can—"
"I said no." Her voice floated in from the kitchen. "You've already played Santa today. Let me be the elf for a while."
He surrendered, hands raised, grinning. "You win."
From where he stood, he could already hear her moving through the house—footsteps thudding lightly on the hardwood, cupboards opening, drawers sliding, the fridge door swinging shut. The clatter of silver trays and the beep of the oven starting up followed quickly after.
He walked over to the living room, where the Christmas tree stood in front of the wide bay window. It was already half-decorated from earlier in the week—ornaments glinting with soft light, the tree skirt fluffed perfectly beneath it. But Leah had clearly decided it needed something more, because a box of extra baubles and garlands sat open on the floor.
Francesco sank into the plush armchair by the fireplace and pulled out his phone. A dozen unread messages lit up his lock screen.
Özil: "You're a legend, bro. I'll bring some German cookies. But if Alexis touches the speaker, I'm leaving."
Sánchez: "WE ARE COMING! Atom and Humber too. Christmas sweaters ready 🔥🎄🔥"
Ramsey: "On our way after dinner with Soph's family. Hope you've got mulled wine."
Koscielny: "We'll be there. Ludo's bringing her famous tart. Prepare yourself."
Bellerín: "I'm bringing monopoly. Don't cry when I win."
Flamini: "I'll come. But I swear, no karaoke this time. I mean it."
Giroud: "Oui, oui, mon frère. I shall bring the mistletoe. (Don't tell Wenger.)"
Theo: "Family's in. Ava wants to see the tree. Don't let Alexis near her."
Gabriel: "Bringing FIFA and Brazilian candy. See you soon."
Francesco laughed as he read through them, each message adding another little jolt of warmth to his chest. These weren't just teammates—they were brothers. And tonight, after everything—the win against City, the orphanage visit, the long weeks of grinding matches and cold training mornings—they would be together, not as players, not as professionals, but as people. As family.
He tapped out a quick response to the group chat:
"All welcome. Come hungry. Music starts at 6. Christmas jumpers mandatory. No excuses. Leah's rules."
He hit send and leaned back, phone resting on his chest. Somewhere behind him, the oven beeped again, and he caught the rich scent of garlic, maybe roasted potatoes, drifting into the hall.
"Leah?" he called.
"Yeah?"
"You're sure you don't need help?"
Her head popped out from the kitchen doorway, face flushed from the heat, hair tied back messily. "If you try to come in here, I'll burn your name into a mince pie."
Francesco laughed. "Alright. Fair enough."
She disappeared again.
Left to his own devices, he stood and wandered slowly through the house. He adjusted a few ornaments on the tree, placed a few extra candles on the mantel, and lit the fireplace with a long matchstick, watching as the flames came to life.
His gaze drifted out the front window.
Snow had begun to fall again—gentle and slow, like feathers floating from the sky.
And with every passing second, his home grew warmer, fuller.
Soon, it would be filled with laughter, with old jokes shouted across the room, with glasses clinking and someone inevitably spilling cider on the rug. It would smell of turkey and spices, and sound like carols half-sung by voices already hoarse from cheering all month long. It would be noisy. A little chaotic. And absolutely perfect.
Just as he wanted.
And all of it—every bit—was a kind of reward he hadn't known he needed.
Not a trophy. Not a contract. Not even applause.
But this.
The people he cared about. In the place he'd built. Together.
As he turned to head upstairs to change out of his hoodie and into something vaguely more festive, his phone buzzed again.
Wenger.
A rare message.
"Francesco. Thank you for what you did today. You made us proud—on and off the pitch. Joyeux Noël."
Francesco stared at it for a second, a grin stretching wide across his face.
He replied: "Thank you, boss. Merry Christmas."
As the sky darkened into a rich navy and the last light of Christmas Day dipped behind the trees of Richmond Park, Francesco's mansion began to glow from within—warm, golden light spilling through tall windows, the silhouette of the Christmas tree dancing against the drapes like something out of a snow-globe dream.
In the kitchen, Leah wiped her hands on a red and white striped dish towel, exhaling a quiet, satisfied breath. The buffet was ready—roasted vegetables, garlic potatoes, baked salmon, trays of glazed chicken wings, a massive dish of Leah's famous lasagna, and stacks of dessert plates with chocolate cake, panettone, and gingerbread cookies. The table had been extended to its full length in the dining room, dressed in a cream linen runner with red candles and pine garlands weaving between silver cutlery and hand-written name cards that Leah had scribbled in gold ink while waiting for the oven timer to beep.
She'd just finished setting the last spoon when she heard the doorbell.
"Babe?" she called. "Can you grab that?"
Francesco was still upstairs changing, adjusting the sleeves on his Christmas jumper—green and red with a knitted cannon on the front and "Merry Gunnersmas" stitched across the chest in glitter thread. He hurried downstairs, socks sliding slightly on the polished floor, and opened the heavy oak door.
Standing on the porch was Petr Čech, towering in a dark winter coat, scarf tucked neatly around his neck. Beside him stood his wife, a kind-faced brunette with their two children bundled up in matching red hats.
"Merry Christmas!" Čech said in his deep, composed voice, a rare smile lighting up his face.
"Petr!" Francesco laughed, stepping out to greet them. "Come in, come in—it's freezing out here!"
He ushered them inside, helping carry a tray of gingerbread they'd brought. Leah appeared just as the children stepped into the hallway and gave them a warm smile. "Welcome! Food's ready if you're hungry already."
They hadn't even taken off their boots when the bell rang again.
This time it was N'Golo Kanté, wrapped in an enormous padded jacket, holding a small tin of homemade chocolate truffles. He grinned shyly as Francesco pulled him into a quick hug.
"Kanté!" Francesco grinned. "I was starting to think you'd get lost in the snow."
"Could've happened," Kanté replied with a chuckle. "But I smelled the food from down the street."
"Then you're in the right place."
Within the next twenty minutes, the door barely stayed closed.
Virgil van Dijk rolled in next, in a black double-breasted coat, laughing as he ducked under the doorframe. "Man, you live like royalty out here."
"You think this is big? Wait till you see the lasagna," Francesco quipped.
Per Mertesacker arrived with his wife and their young son, the boy bouncing excitedly with a wrapped gift in hand. Leah knelt to greet him, and he held out the gift proudly. "For the tree," he said.
"You're the first to bring one," she replied warmly. "You get the best slice of cake."
Laurent Koscielny came with his wife Ludivine and their children, all dressed in cozy matching cardigans. Ludivine handed Leah a warm apple tart. "From home," she said with a wink. "Not store-bought."
Ramsey showed up with Sophie and their toddler, who was already wide-eyed at the tree. Theo Walcott came in with Mel and little Finley, immediately getting roped into untangling the fairy lights that Francesco hadn't quite finished stringing across the living room. Flamini—true to his word—arrived in a Christmas sweater that said "No Karaoke," with a bottle of French wine tucked under one arm.
Sánchez burst in last, Atom and Humber racing in ahead of him in festive Arsenal-themed dog sweaters. "Turn up the music!" he shouted as he stomped snow off his boots. "It's Christmas!"
By the time the clock struck six, the mansion was alive.
Children raced through the halls with toy planes and footballs. The living room buzzed with conversation—Mesut discussing holiday recipes with Sophie Ramsey, Bellerín flipping through vinyl records for the evening's playlist, and Mertesacker telling the younger players an exaggerated story of how he once nearly missed a flight home for Christmas after a Champions League match in freezing Moscow.
Leah floated between the kitchen and the dining room, adjusting trays, refilling drinks, and laughing as Sánchez tried (and failed) to teach Atom to sit politely by the fireplace. Francesco had stationed himself by the front hallway with a tray of hot cider, welcoming each new arrival like it was the first guest of the night.
Then, just as the chatter and warmth reached its height, the doorbell rang again.
It was the pizza delivery guy—arms full.
Leah rushed over, laughing. "That better be the ten large ones."
"Ten large pizzas," he said breathlessly, "and ten two-liter colas. One guy in the kitchen said, 'Order enough to feed Flamini,' so we made sure to go heavy on the pepperoni."
Francesco handed over the tip and hauled the boxes inside like they were match balls after a hat trick. The smell of melted cheese and garlic sent a cheer through the players.
"Now it's a real party!" Ramsey shouted, lifting a slice of barbecue chicken pizza before it even hit the table.
The kitchen turned into a makeshift buffet line. Players loaded plates high, kids dipped cookies into hot chocolate, and the chatter grew louder, brighter, full of that particular kind of cheer that only comes when people feel entirely at ease.
Later, as everyone settled into couches and cushions, someone turned the television to the fireplace channel, and Francesco stood near the tree, sipping from a glass of sparkling apple cider.
Francesco leaned lightly against the arm of the sofa, glass of sparkling apple cider in hand, as the laughter around the living room swelled like a rising tide. The room was cozy chaos—kids zig-zagging between knees and coffee tables, Theo pretending to be an elf in distress, Mesut carefully building a pyramid of gingerbread cookies only for Sánchez to collapse it with a mischievous elbow.
Francesco watched it all with a warm grin. It was perfect.
But then an idea stirred in his head—partly inspired by the friendly banter around the dinner table earlier, and partly because he knew exactly what was tucked away in his gaming room, high on the top shelf of his glass liquor cabinet. Something rare. Something tempting.
He cleared his throat and raised his voice just enough to cut through the hum.
"Alright, everyone. Listen up for a second."
Heads turned. Kids paused mid-cookie. Flamini froze with a bottle of cola halfway to his glass.
Francesco stepped forward, that familiar, cheeky glint in his eyes.
"I have a challenge," he began, resting his cider on the mantel behind him. "It involves the gaming room, a cue stick, and a very, very old bottle of wine."
There was a collective murmur. Cech raised an eyebrow. Özil leaned forward with exaggerated interest. Koscielny immediately elbowed Giroud, who straightened his posture and looked positively knightly.
Francesco continued. "In the gaming room, there's a bottle of red. Seventy-five years old. A Bordeaux. One of those dusty ones my dad gave me with a note that said 'Only open this for something worth it.'"
"Ohhh," Sánchez said, wide-eyed. "So this is serious serious."
Francesco smirked. "If anyone can beat me in billiards tonight… that bottle is yours."
Chairs scraped.
Someone dropped a gingerbread man.
Leah poked her head in from the kitchen with a spoon still in her hand. "You're gambling with vintage wine now?"
"It's Christmas," he said innocently. "And I'm in a generous mood."
"You just want to show off," she muttered with a grin and ducked back into the kitchen.
Ramsey was the first to rise, stretching his arms. "Alright, alright. Let's go, big man."
One by one, the others followed—Mertesacker laughing with that unmistakable German baritone, Van Dijk cracking his knuckles with mock intimidation, Bellerín skipping toward the hallway already shouting about "lining up challengers."
Francesco led the procession like a proud host into the gaming room—an oak-paneled den with deep burgundy carpeting, a wall of Arsenal memorabilia, and a regulation-size billiards table in the center, lit by a hanging stained-glass lamp. The vintage wine sat proudly in a glass display, dusted and dignified like a relic from another age.
"Touch it only if you win," Francesco warned with a wink.
"Or if I trip and fall into the cabinet by accident?" Theo offered.
"No deal."
They formed a loose line of challengers. Bellerín shuffled through Spotify for a fitting playlist—settling on a mix of jazzy Christmas instrumentals with the occasional guilty pleasure dance track slipped in (courtesy of Sánchez).
First up: Ramsey.
Francesco chalked his cue and rolled up his sleeves, his smile sharpening.
They played.
And Ramsey—despite good form and even better banter—cracked under the pressure of Francesco's brutal precision. The final ball sank with a gentle click, and the room whooped.
"Next!"
Gabriel tried to play Brazilian flair—fast, stylish, no safety shots. He was down three balls within four minutes.
Cech approached next, tall and calculating, but ultimately a victim of his own hesitation. Francesco sank the black after a perfect bank shot and offered a polite bow.
"You're a monster," Cech said, shaking his head.
One by one, they fell.
Even Van Dijk, surprisingly decent with a cue, misjudged a tight corner shot and groaned as Francesco cleaned up with mechanical confidence.
It became an event. A proper spectacle.
Leah stood in the doorway with a mug of cocoa, laughing with the wives and partners as each challenger stumbled in, full of confidence, and staggered back out with hands raised in defeat.
"Anyone else?" Francesco asked, cue spinning in his fingers.
Özil hesitated. "I feel like beating you would violate some sacred creative code. So I'll pass."
Mertesacker stepped up, steady and measured like a professor analyzing geometry. For a moment, it looked like he might actually pull off a win—until he scratched on the eight ball, and the room howled with laughter.
Sánchez, of course, turned it into drama.
He strutted around the table. Took his time lining up shots. Shouted "¡Vamos!" after every success.
But he rushed a long-range angle, and Francesco punished him with a three-ball clearance and a final sink that had everyone gasping.
"It's not fair," Alexis huffed, collapsing onto the couch. "He probably sleeps on a pool table."
As the last of the hopefuls surrendered, Francesco tapped the side of the table and grinned. "Alright. I'll admit… I stacked the odds. But the prize stays safe."
"I'm not drinking any seventy-five-year-old wine anyway," Flamini muttered, arms crossed. "Too capitalist."
Leah sauntered in with a wine glass of her own—filled with lemonade—and tapped Francesco on the shoulder.
"Your reign of terror's over, champ. Dinner's ready. Everyone to the table."
The crowd groaned, joked, and shuffled back to the dining room, past the fireplace and the tree, their laughter trailing behind them like a long, cozy ribbon.
And as the scent of lasagna and garlic bread filled the house, and glasses were lifted in toasts over roast potatoes and holiday stories, Francesco sat back with a fullness that had nothing to do with food or trophies.
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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