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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.
As the holiday evening at Francesco's mansion settled into a golden rhythm, the long dining table became the heart of the house—a glowing stretch of warmth and noise, laughter echoing off the high ceilings as plates were passed back and forth and corks popped open like a metronome keeping time with the joy around them.
The food, lovingly prepared by Leah with last-minute pizza reinforcements, had vanished almost as quickly as it was served. Even Flamini, who usually side-eyed anything he didn't personally forage or vet for environmental sustainability, had gone back for seconds of the garlic chicken.
Francesco sat at the head of the table, flanked by Cech and Sánchez, a half-empty glass of sparkling apple cider in front of him, his green and red "Merry Gunnersmas" jumper slightly wrinkled from too many hugs and shoulder claps.
Someone—probably Bellerín—had started playing an old Christmas song on the Bluetooth speaker, and the younger kids were now seated cross-legged under the tree with coloring books and LEGO sets while their parents toasted each other.
Koscielny was laughing hard at a story Van Dijk was telling, one arm around his daughter, the other nursing a tall glass of red wine. Ramsey had Sophie leaning against him, both of them mid-bite as they watched Flamini attempt to explain how to pronounce "panettone" properly in French and Italian at the same time.
Francesco looked around the room again. It was exactly what he hoped for—moments of calm, laughter, connection.
But then, as he watched Sánchez pour himself a second glass of wine—generous and loud—Francesco stood up slowly and gave his glass a gentle clink with the back of his fork.
"Oi, listen up for a second!"
It took a few seconds to get everyone's attention, but eventually the chatter paused. Flamini held his wine mid-air, eyebrows raised. A few of the kids turned their heads toward him, too.
Francesco cleared his throat and smiled. "I just wanna say… thank you. All of you. For coming out tonight."
There were murmurs and cheers, light clapping.
"I know everyone's had a long month," he continued. "Matches, travel, training in the freezing cold… but tonight's been perfect. Couldn't ask for better family than you lot."
Someone—probably Giroud—raised his glass. "To family!"
"To family!" echoed the table, clinking in rhythm.
Francesco grinned. "But… before we all go back for a third helping of lasagna—"
"Fourth!" Özil shouted.
"—and before Sánchez downs his weight in wine," Francesco added with a pointed glance, "just a quick reminder."
He paused, now with that half-serious tone—the one he used on the pitch when calling for more pressing or tracking back.
"We've got a match tomorrow."
A low chorus of "ahhh" and groans rumbled across the table.
"Southampton. Away," he continued. "We leave early, and while I love seeing all of you buzzed and full of chocolate, I'd really prefer if we didn't stumble into St. Mary's looking like we spent the night at Winter Wonderland."
Laughter again. Sánchez held up his wine glass sheepishly. "Just one more, I swear!"
"Just one?" Kante quipped.
Francesco shook his head, smiling. "Just… go easy on the wine and beer. Hydrate. Eat something green if you can find it on the table. We're top of the table right now—and I'd like us to stay there."
There were a few mock boos. Flamini put a hand on his heart like he'd been personally betrayed by the anti-wine sentiment. But no one really disagreed.
"We'll be ready," said Cech with quiet confidence.
"Tomorrow's business," Ramsey said, raising his fork.
"Tonight's still Christmas," Francesco added, voice warming again. "Let's enjoy it. Just… not too much like Sánchez."
"I'm being targeted," Sánchez declared. "Discrimination against joy!"
"Put it on a banner," Giroud said with a grin.
The table settled into laughter again, the mood lifted, the point made.
Leah appeared behind Francesco's chair and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Captain speech approved," she whispered in his ear.
"I'm not captain," he whispered back.
"You're ours," she replied.
As plates began to clear and the children were ushered toward the living room again, the rest of the evening mellowed into its second act. Someone turned down the music just slightly, and the adults migrated to the sofas with mugs of warm cider or tea, wrapping themselves in throws as the fire crackled on.
In the corner, Mesut and Flamini started a quiet chess match, with Ramsey and Bellerín offering completely unhelpful commentary.
Koscielny's youngest fell asleep on Ludivine's lap, thumb in mouth, snuggled under a red-and-white Arsenal blanket.
Francesco stood by the kitchen doorway, swirling the last of his apple cider gently in his glass, when he caught it—that unmistakable sound of tiny footsteps mixed with giggles and the frenzied barking of small dogs.
The sound came from the back patio, muffled through the double-glass doors leading out to the garden.
Curious, he crossed the wide living room, past the chess match unfolding between Mesut and Flamini, past Leah curled on the sofa with Sophie and Mel, and slowly cracked open the patio door.
A gust of sharp winter air rolled in—biting, brisk, and alive with the pure energy of children in motion.
Out on the frosty lawn, under the glow of fairy lights strung across the hedges, a miniature football match had broken out. Not between adults—no, they were all far too full now—but between the kids. Seven or eight of them, bundled in scarves and Christmas jumpers, were chasing a soft foam football across the garden.
And darting between them like cannonballs made of fur were Atom and Humber, Alexis Sánchez's two beloved golden retrievers, their red Arsenal dog-sweaters flapping as they bolted and bounded through the snow-dusted grass. Humber had the ball in his mouth at one point, until three kids tackled him with delighted shrieks, and the ball popped loose again.
"Pass it to me!" one boy shouted.
"I'm open! I'm open!"
"ATOM STOLE THE BALL AGAIN!"
Francesco stepped out onto the porch in just his jumper and socks, arms folded against the cold, and watched with a smile tugging at his lips. Leah, hearing the noise behind him, came up beside him with a knit throw wrapped around her shoulders.
"Should we tell them to come inside?" she asked, breath fogging in the chill air.
Francesco shook his head. "Let them run. We'll deal with the laundry later."
She chuckled. "Sánchez is gonna find half his wardrobe muddy by the time this is over."
As if on cue, Alexis appeared behind them in the doorway, holding a plate of cookies and blinking at the scene like he wasn't quite sure how the dogs had made it outside.
"They escaped again?" he said.
"They're midfielders, mate," Francesco said with a grin. "You should put them in for Southampton."
"They press better than Flamini," Mesut called from inside.
Flamini responded without looking up from his chess game, "My pressing wins matches. Mesut's pressing wins… Instagram likes."
Francesco shook his head and stepped further out, watching as one of the kids—Walcott's son, Finley, he thought—managed a feint that sent Humber skidding into the snow.
The lights twinkled above the garden, and despite the chill, the whole scene radiated warmth. The kids' laughter bounced between the hedges, and even the dogs seemed to smile, tongues lolling happily as they ran in circles.
It reminded Francesco of a simpler time—not just before the Premier League, before the youth academy, before everything. Back when a winter's evening like this meant nothing more than playing until your fingers froze and your mum had to drag you inside.
Leah nudged him. "You're watching them like you want to join."
"I kind of do," he admitted.
She wrapped the blanket over both their shoulders, and they stood like that for a while—watching, listening, soaking it in. The gentle fall of new snow began again, barely visible but catching the golden light just enough to feel like something out of a Christmas card.
Then, a voice behind them:
"Alright, enough spectating!" Van Dijk emerged, buttoning his coat. "Let's get out there."
And without hesitation, he stomped into the garden in boots and a full smile, instantly claimed as goalie by the kids.
"Oh, it's on now!" shouted Ramsey, peeling himself off the living room carpet and jogging to the door.
"Wait, are we actually doing this?" Koscielny asked, laughing as he pulled on his jacket.
"I am not running," Flamini said from the couch.
"You're always running—your mouth," replied Bellerín as he raced out, scarf flapping behind him.
Within minutes, a full match was underway.
Arsenal first-team players—Champions League veterans, international stars, Premier League leaders—chasing after foam footballs with children and dogs across a snowy garden like they were twelve years old again. No tactics. No formations. Just joy.
Francesco didn't even hesitate.
He pulled on his boots, grabbed a scarf, and dashed onto the field, dodging Atom, sidestepping a tackle from Kante's nephew, and laughing louder than he had in weeks.
They played for what felt like an hour.
Leah brought out blankets and cocoa, standing near the patio like the world's coziest lineswoman. The night had fully fallen by the time the last goal was scored—via a ricochet off Sánchez's shin, into Theo's son's foot, and somehow into the makeshift net made of garden chairs.
Everyone collapsed after that. Into piles of coats, into blankets, into one another's shoulders. Atom and Humber flopped onto the grass, tails thumping as the kids hugged them.
Back inside, someone lit the fire again.
Francesco peeled off his damp jumper and changed into a fresh hoodie while Leah herded everyone to the sofas with cocoa and sweet rolls. The house smelled of cinnamon and woodsmoke, and in that warm haze, the party began to wind down.
The fire crackled gently in the living room hearth, its golden light dancing across the wooden floorboards as the warmth of the evening began to taper into a peaceful lull. The foam football, scuffed and slightly damp, sat abandoned beneath the Christmas tree. Atom and Humber had finally curled up beside the couch, panting softly in sleep, their tails twitching even in their dreams. Outside, the garden bore the evidence of chaos—footprints and pawprints stamped into the thin blanket of snow, trails of laughter carved into the winter night.
Inside, the house was glowing, but quieter now. Softer. The music had shifted to mellow acoustic Christmas ballads, and the volume had been turned down to just above a whisper. The dining room had long since been cleared, the last slices of pizza boxed and stacked near the sink, and the remnants of gingerbread crumbs dusted from the table like faint snowfall.
Leah stood by the kitchen island, drying one of the wine glasses slowly as she glanced at the living room. Francesco was on the couch, half-draped over a throw blanket, a mug of cocoa balanced in his hands, and a goofy smile still lingering on his face. He looked content. Exhausted, yes—but in the most fulfilling way.
The first to stand and stretch was Laurent Koscielny.
He glanced down at his youngest, now fast asleep across his wife's lap, thumb still tucked securely in his mouth. Ludivine smoothed the boy's hair back gently and whispered something in French, then met her husband's gaze with a nod.
Francesco saw them and pushed himself upright. "Heading out?"
Koscielny nodded. "It's late, and the little ones…" He motioned toward both of his children, now bundled up and drowsy. "They'll turn into pumpkins soon."
Francesco chuckled and stood, helping them gather coats and boots from the hallway. "Thanks for coming, man. It meant a lot."
"You kidding?" Koscielny said, clasping his hand. "This was perfect."
Ludivine kissed Francesco's cheek before stepping outside with the kids, and within a minute, their SUV was gently backing down the driveway under the soft halo of snow-kissed streetlights.
Not long after, Theo Walcott was coaxing Finley into his coat, the boy sleepily resisting every step. Mel stood nearby, holding a container of leftovers Leah had insisted they take.
"Night, mate," Theo said, giving Francesco a quick hug. "That lasagna's getting a 10/10 on the Walcott scale."
"I'll tell Leah," Francesco said. "You know she's the real MVP tonight."
Finley, eyes heavy and arms wrapped around his new LEGO box, gave a sleepy wave. "Bye, Santa."
Francesco knelt and fist-bumped him. "See you at the Emirates, little man."
Once they were gone, the house felt incrementally smaller. Still full, still warm—but now with the kind of warmth you get from glowing embers rather than roaring fire.
One by one, the families with kids followed suit.
Per Mertesacker gently hoisted his son over his shoulder, murmuring lullabies in German as his wife gathered their scarves. "Danke," he told Francesco. "You reminded us tonight what this club really means."
Sophie Ramsey carried their daughter out wrapped in a knit blanket, Aaron trailing behind with one of Leah's mince pies stashed in a paper napkin.
"You sure you'll be fit tomorrow after that backheel fail in the garden?" Francesco teased.
Ramsey grinned. "You wait, mate. I'm saving the real magic for St. Mary's."
As they left, the remaining players shifted into softer postures. Fewer loud conversations now. Fewer children's shrieks. Just the gentle hum of shared comfort.
Mesut laid across the floor like a sprawled cat, head resting on a throw pillow, absently scrolling through his phone. Flamini, defeated once again in chess, poured himself a small glass of port and wandered to the window like a contemplative poet.
Bellerín and Van Dijk debated the best Christmas film—Home Alone vs. Die Hard—with Sánchez yelling "It's clearly Elf" from somewhere in the kitchen where he was stealing yet another cookie.
Leah joined Francesco on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and they watched the fading scene unfold—the evening's final stretch before it drifted into memory.
Eventually, the other single players began to rise too.
Cech was among the next to go, coat already draped across his arm.
"Early matchday wake-up," he explained with a nod. "Tonight was wonderful. Thank you, both."
"Give my best to your wife," Leah said warmly.
"I will."
Gabriel offered a quick hug, his phone already buzzing with messages from his cousins in São Paulo, wishing him Merry Christmas in Portuguese. "Still the best Christmas I've ever had in England," he admitted sheepishly before waving goodbye.
The last holdouts were Flamini, Van Dijk, and Mesut—half-in, half-out of the living room like they weren't sure if leaving would break the spell. But eventually, even they gathered their coats and bags, murmuring their goodbyes.
"I'll text you at six," Mesut said with a grin. "Don't forget to set your alarm."
"I'll be up before you," Francesco replied, smiling.
As the door closed behind them, Francesco and Leah were left alone in the house again.
It was quiet.
The clock on the wall ticked softly. The fire hissed and popped as it consumed its final logs. Outside, the snow fell just a little heavier now, coating the world in silence.
Francesco exhaled, finally letting the weight of the day settle into his chest. He sank back onto the couch beside Leah, and she leaned into him, eyes closed.
"Tired?" he asked softly.
"Mmm," she nodded. "But in a good way."
He tilted his head, resting his chin against her hair. "I was worried, earlier."
"About what?"
"That it wouldn't come together. That it would be too much. That people would feel… forced."
She turned toward him. "They didn't. You gave them something they didn't know they needed. A place. A night. A break."
Francesco stared at the fire, the soft orange reflection flickering in his eyes. "It's just… everything we do, all the pressure, the matches, the noise—it's easy to forget how important it is to feel human in it all."
"You remembered," she said, reaching for his hand. "And you made everyone else remember too."
They sat in the quiet for a long time, no words needed.
Later, Francesco rose, stretched, and turned out the kitchen lights, one by one. He passed through the gaming room, smiling at the untouched bottle of wine, and the empty cues resting quietly on the rack.
Francesco stood at the edge of the gaming room doorway, gazing for a long second at the stillness that had finally returned to his home. The once-lively billiards table now sat in tranquil silence, its green felt still slightly dented from the evening's dramatic duels. The rack of cues leaned like forgotten spears against the far wall, and the coveted bottle of 75-year-old wine still rested high on the glass shelf—unclaimed, untouched, safe for another day.
He let out a long, content breath and turned toward the living room.
Leah was still curled on the sofa, her head tilted back, eyes half-closed, a half-finished mug of peppermint tea cooling in her hands. The soft glow of the fireplace lit her face in gold, flickering across the tips of her hair like embers.
Francesco walked over quietly, placed a hand on the back of the couch, and leaned close.
"Well," he murmured with a smirk, "now let's clean up this mess."
Leah cracked one eye open and groaned dramatically, "Ugh. I was hoping you'd forget."
"Forget?" he chuckled. "There's a half-eaten gingerbread man wedged under the coffee table. He's staring at me."
"I saw him earlier. I left him as a warning to the others."
He laughed, straightening up, stretching his back until his spine gave a satisfying pop. Then he extended his hand toward her.
"Come on. One last dance."
Leah took it with a sigh of mock defeat and let him pull her to her feet.
Together, they stood in the middle of the now quiet house, looking around at the aftermath of joy—plates stacked near the sink, blankets tossed across armrests, empty glasses on every flat surface, glitter from Christmas cards clinging stubbornly to the hardwood floor, and a football that had somehow found its way into the fireplace tools rack.
It was a beautiful mess. The kind that told a full story without saying a single word.
"I'll do the kitchen," Leah said, already tying her hair back. "If you do the living room."
"Deal," Francesco replied, rolling up his sleeves. "But I get to pick the music."
She pointed a spatula at him. "As long as it's not the same Coldplay album again."
"Too late."
As the gentle piano chords of "Christmas Lights" filtered through the speakers again, they got to work.
Francesco started in the living room, gathering empty mugs and stray plates, stacking them carefully on a tray. He found half a slice of lasagna abandoned behind a cushion—Ramsey's, judging by the crumpled paper napkin beside it—and chuckled as he cleaned it up.
Leah's voice rang from the kitchen, muffled by running water and clinking glass. "So who was the best at billiards tonight, besides the obvious?"
Francesco smirked as he bent to pick up a strand of tinsel that had somehow wrapped around a lamp. "Mertesacker. Man has a geometry professor's brain. Shame about that scratch on the eight ball."
"He's too polite. Wouldn't finish you even if he could."
"He said it was strategic." Francesco chuckled again. "Called it a 'morale booster.'"
Leah appeared in the doorway with a trash bag and a playful smirk. "And how's morale now?"
"Unbeatable."
They moved like muscle memory—each step familiar, each glance unspoken communication. Francesco scrubbed wine rings off the coffee table while Leah loaded the dishwasher in perfect rhythm, their movements punctuated by soft comments.
"Ramsey's daughter drew on the table again," Leah said, lifting a placemat to reveal a blue crayon masterpiece.
Francesco peered over. "We'll frame it."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah," he smiled. "Right next to the Emirates match photo."
In the hallway, he gathered coats left behind and folded forgotten scarves, chuckling when he found a single child's mitten under the bench.
"Guess Finley's going home with cold fingers."
"He won't notice," Leah said. "He was too busy trying to tackle your dog."
Francesco's grin widened. "Atom or Humber?"
"Both."
After they'd tackled the main rooms, they met in the middle of the house again—just past midnight now. Leah leaned against the banister, hands on her hips, cheeks still flushed with residual energy.
"Still more to do," she said.
Francesco looked around. "But the soul of it's clean, y'know?"
She tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
He stepped closer and gestured to the now mostly tidied room—the tree still glowing, the fireplace still warm, the faint scent of cinnamon and rosemary still lingering in the air.
"This…" he waved slowly, "this was home tonight. Not just a house. It had heart."
Leah softened. "It always has, you just finally let it show."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah. I guess I did."
A soft silence settled between them. Then Leah tapped her knuckle gently against his chest. "It's late."
"You tired?"
"Not yet. Just full."
"Me too."
They moved to the kitchen one last time, cleaning up the final few things—stacking the leftovers, double-wrapping the wine bottles, putting cookies into tins.
Francesco pulled the last tray of glasses from the counter, careful not to clink them too loudly. "So," he said, "do you think Wenger's asleep right now?"
Leah snorted. "He probably dreams in tactics and dietary restrictions."
"Imagine him walking into this house tonight."
"Heart attack."
They both laughed, tired but light.
Finally, when the last lights were turned off and the last bin bag was tied, they made their way back to the living room, just the glow of the tree and fireplace lighting their path.
Francesco collapsed onto the sofa. Leah fell next to him.
He pulled the blanket over them both and let his head rest gently against hers. They stared at the fire together, quiet and completely still for the first time all night.
After a long pause, Francesco whispered, "You know what the best part of today was?"
"Playing Santa?"
"Nope."
"Scoring on Flamini?"
He smiled. "Close. But no."
She turned slightly, curious. "Then what?"
"This," he said softly. "Right here. With you. After everything. The whole day was chaos and joy and noise and love… but this part right now… this feels like the reward."
Leah reached over and laced her fingers with his. "It always is."
And they sat like that for a while longer.
The snow fell gently outside. The fire dimmed to embers. And the house—finally, blissfully quiet—breathed with the kind of peace that could only come after a night filled with life.
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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