If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
Before long, their flight was ready for boarding. They made their way onto the plane, settling into their seats for the journey back to London.
As the plane touched down at Heathrow, Francesco let out a quiet breath, feeling the familiar sense of relief that always came with returning to London. No matter how much he enjoyed traveling, there was something about coming back to his own city that felt grounding.
Jorge was already a step ahead, as usual. The moment they were allowed to turn their phones back on, he was making calls, ensuring that their ride was waiting outside. Leah, meanwhile, stretched in her seat, shaking off the stiffness of the flight.
"Back to reality," she murmured, running a hand through her hair before turning to Francesco. "You ready to jump straight back into training mode?"
Francesco smirked. "I never left it."
She rolled her eyes but smiled. "Yeah, yeah. Mr. Dedicated."
Jorge put his phone away, glancing at both of them. "Car's waiting. Let's go."
They gathered their things, making their way through the airport with the smooth efficiency that came from experience. It was late evening in London, the airport quieter than usual, which made their exit swift. Outside, a sleek black Range Rover was already idling at the curb, courtesy of Jorge's ever-reliable connections.
Leah slid in first, followed by Francesco and Jorge. The car pulled away smoothly, slipping into the London night.
Francesco leaned back against the seat, his head resting against the cool leather. His body was exhausted, but his mind was still alert, scrolling through his phone as he caught up on messages and notifications. As expected, his Armani shoot had already made waves online—fashion pages, football accounts, and even some celebrity gossip sites were all buzzing about it.
Leah glanced over and smirked. "Already checking out your fan club?"
"Nah," he said, still scrolling. "Just seeing how much of a big deal I apparently am."
She laughed. "Oh, don't play humble now. You love the attention."
He grinned, not bothering to deny it.
A thought crossed his mind, and before he could overthink it, he opened his Instagram, selecting a picture from earlier that day—one of him and Leah at the Armani headquarters. She looked effortlessly stunning, as usual, standing beside him in a tailored outfit, her signature confident smile in place.
Without hesitation, he tagged her account and typed out the caption.
London's finest. ❤️
He hit post.
Leah's phone buzzed almost immediately, and she glanced at the notification before raising an eyebrow at him. "Really? A heart emoji?"
Francesco smirked, locking his phone. "What? Too much?"
She made a face but didn't complain. "You're lucky I look good in that picture."
Jorge, who had been quietly observing, shook his head with a knowing chuckle. "You do realize you just set the internet on fire, right?"
Francesco shrugged. "Let them talk."
The car ride continued in comfortable silence, the city lights casting a soft glow through the windows. When they pulled up outside Leah's apartment, she gathered her bag before turning to Francesco.
"Thanks for the trip," she said. "It was fun."
He nodded. "Yeah, it was. See you soon?"
She smirked. "Depends. If you keep posting heart emojis, I might start charging you for my appearances."
Francesco laughed. "Deal."
She stepped out, giving them a small wave before disappearing into her building. The car pulled away, leaving Francesco and Jorge alone.
Jorge exhaled, rubbing his temples. "You really don't care about stirring things up, do you?"
Francesco shrugged, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. "People are gonna talk no matter what. Might as well give them something good."
Jorge shook his head, but there was a hint of amusement in his expression. "Just don't let it be a distraction."
"Relax," Francesco said, stretching his legs out. "Football first, remember?"
Jorge chuckled. "Good. Just making sure you haven't forgotten."
As they made their way through the quiet London streets, Francesco allowed himself to relax. Tomorrow, it would be back to training, back to routines, back to the grind.
The car rolled to a stop in front of Francesco's apartment building, its sleek exterior dimly illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlamps. Francesco gave Jorge a lazy grin as he unbuckled his seatbelt.
"Thanks for handling everything, as usual," he said, opening the door.
Jorge nodded. "Get some rest. You've got a big week coming up. And maybe ease up on the Instagram PDA, yeah?"
Francesco smirked. "No promises."
He grabbed his overnight bag from the back seat, slung it over his shoulder, and headed inside. The familiar lobby greeted him like an old friend—clean marble floors, quiet lighting, and the doorman giving him a polite nod.
"Evening, Mr. Lee."
"Evening," Francesco replied with a tired smile before stepping into the elevator.
He pressed the button to his floor and leaned back against the mirrored wall, letting his head rest for a moment. The hum of the elevator was oddly soothing. When the doors opened, he stepped out and walked down the hallway, the soft padding of his sneakers echoing faintly against the hardwood.
He unlocked his door, stepped into the sanctuary of his apartment, and let out a long, exhausted sigh. Home.
The familiar scent of his space hit him first—something between cedarwood and the clean linen fragrance of his fabric spray. He dropped his bag by the door and made his way to the living room, collapsing onto the couch like a man who'd just run a marathon.
Francesco pulled out his phone again, curiosity tugging at him. He opened Instagram and checked the post he had made in the car.
The likes had exploded.
Hundreds of thousands and climbing by the second. Comments poured in nonstop—fans, friends, journalists, all chiming in. Some were supportive, others cheeky, a few confused, and most just excited to see this glimpse of his personal life.
And then there it was, right near the top: a comment from Ramsey.
"Bro really forgot about training after cuffing Leah like that. Can't blame you tho."
Francesco laughed, the kind of genuine, tired chuckle that bubbled out of his chest. He tapped a quick reply: "Relax, I'll still outscore you this week."
He set the phone down on the coffee table, rubbed his hands over his face, then stood up and shuffled into the bedroom. He changed into one of his favorite old sleeping shirts—a slightly faded Arsenal training top—and stretched once before crawling into bed.
Sleep came quickly.
…
The next week flew by in a blur.
Training sessions were intense, sharp, and focused. Wenger kept them all on edge, reminding them what was at stake. The league was coming down to the wire, and with Manchester City has out from the Premier League title race and Chelsea right now just behind them on one point, every point counted.
The first match was at the Emirates against Sunderland.
On paper, it looked like a manageable win—but reality told a different story. From the first whistle, Sunderland parked the bus, lining up with five at the back, three sitting midfielders, and practically no intent to attack.
Frustration set in early. Every pass, every cross, every run was met with a wall of defenders. Francesco found himself double-teamed every time he touched the ball. Ramsey was crowded out. Even Alexis struggled to find the usual spark.
As the minutes ticked by, the anxiety in the stadium grew.
70 minutes. Still no goal.
85 minutes. Still nothing.
Then, in the 91st minute, a flicker of hope.
Cazorla slipped in a pass between the lines. Ramsey picked it up just outside the box, took one touch, and played a delicate through ball.
Francesco timed his run to perfection.
He darted past the last defender, barely staying onside, and met the ball with a low, first-time strike that slid just beneath the keeper's outstretched glove and into the net.
The Emirates erupted.
He ran toward the corner flag, arms outstretched, soaking in the roar of the crowd. His teammates mobbed him seconds later, and for the first time that match, the tension lifted.
Final whistle: 1-0 to Arsenal.
Wenger clapped slowly from the sideline, and as they walked off the pitch, he gave Francesco a rare, proud nod. "Big players show up in big moments," he said.
…
The second match took them away to Hull City's KC Stadium.
This one couldn't have been more different.
From the first few minutes, Arsenal were dominant. Hull tried to press early but quickly got overwhelmed by the fluid movement of the midfield trio and the sharp interplay up front.
Francesco scored first in the 17th minute. A cut inside from the left, a quick one-two with Özil, and a low drive into the bottom corner. Clean. Clinical.
Ramsey doubled the lead ten minutes later, catching a deflection and rifling it home from just outside the box.
By halftime, Arsenal were up 3-0, with Alexis adding his first of the night from a tight angle after a brilliant solo run.
Hull managed to pull one back early in the second half—a scrappy goal from a corner—but it was never really in doubt.
Alexis added his second in the 72nd minute, curling a beauty into the top right after dancing through three defenders.
Final score: 4-1 to Arsenal.
Francesco was buzzing with adrenaline as they walked off the pitch. The media were waiting, of course, and his name was already trending again.
Two goals in two matches. Arsenal top of the league.
But the real test was coming.
Chelsea.
The match that will be the title decider.
Back in the dressing room at the KC Stadium, Ramsey clapped him on the back. "That post of yours still got people talking," he said with a grin.
Francesco smirked. "Let them. Long as we win, I don't care what they say."
Leah had sent him a text just before the match. Good luck, superstar. Bring it home.
He planned to.
But for now, it was back to London, back to training, and back to the pressure cooker. The weight of the Premier League rested on ninety minutes against their biggest rivals.
The next day at London Colney, the mood was focused—electric in a way that only comes around when you're playing for something bigger than just points.
The sun was just peeking through the clouds as Francesco pulled into the training ground, his blacked-out Civic humming softly before shutting off. He stepped out wearing a grey hoodie and joggers, earbuds in, the bass of his music still thumping in his ears. Ramsey waved him over from the car park.
"You ready for the big one?" Ramsey asked as they walked toward the entrance.
Francesco cracked a smile. "Always."
Inside, the rest of the squad was already trickling into the dressing room. Some guys were laughing, trying to keep things light. Others sat quietly, headphones on, lost in their own routines. Francesco sat down at his spot and started lacing up his boots, glancing over at Alexis, who was bouncing a ball gently off his thigh like he had springs for legs.
Then Wenger walked in.
The room quieted instantly. No shouting, no whistles—just his presence was enough. He carried a clipboard under his arm, but he didn't look down at it. He looked straight at them.
"Gentlemen," Wenger began, his voice calm but loaded with purpose, "you've come this far. You've fought for every inch of the pitch this season, and now it all comes down to one match. Chelsea."
The word alone carried weight. You could feel it in the silence that followed. Wenger slowly walked to the center of the room, eyes moving from player to player.
"They are strong. They are disciplined. They will try to control the tempo, frustrate us. But we," he paused, "we have heart. We have fire. And more than anything—we have each other."
Francesco felt something stir in his chest. It wasn't nerves. It was that sharp, focused hunger. The kind of hunger that makes you push through the pain, the pressure, the noise.
Wenger continued. "Today, we train as we've never trained before. This is about precision. Focus. Awareness. Every movement matters."
The players followed him out onto the pitch, where the assistant coaches already had drills set up. The wind was picking up, but it wasn't cold—just brisk enough to keep them sharp.
They began with passing drills, tight one-touch triangles under pressure. Wenger moved between groups, quietly correcting posture, telling someone to check their shoulder, to tighten the gap, to stay composed.
Francesco was paired with Ramsey and Cazorla for rondos. The touches were crisp. Every pass had bite. You could hear the clack of the ball like it was a heartbeat. Alexis and Bellerín joined in, making the tempo even quicker. There was no joking now—just intensity.
Afterward, they moved to tactical positioning. Wenger set up Chelsea's expected formation using cones and stand-in players. "They'll sit deep when they don't have the ball, and look for quick transitions with Hazard and Willian," he said, pointing toward the wings.
"Francesco," he turned to him, "I want you making that space behind Ivanović. Exploit it. Every time Ramsey or Özil gets the ball between the lines, you run. Don't wait. Don't hesitate. Make them chase you."
Francesco nodded. "Got it."
"And Ramsey," Wenger added, turning to the Welshman, "Francesco's run is your trigger. The second he goes, look for him. The third man is the key. Don't force it—but when the gap's there, play it."
"Yes boss," Ramsey replied, nodding.
They ran simulated scenarios over and over—building from the back, transitioning through midfield, and attacking wide. Francesco was constantly in motion, checking in, darting behind the line, pulling defenders. Özil's weight of pass was near-perfect every time. It was like watching a painter with a brush—so delicate, yet deadly.
After two hours, they paused for water. Everyone gathered around as Wenger spoke again.
"This is more than just a match," he said. "This is your moment. Francesco, you're sixteen. But you're playing like a veteran. You've led by example. Just in three days, the spotlight will be on you. And I have no doubt—you'll rise to the occasion."
Francesco felt a jolt in his chest. It wasn't just the compliment—it was the responsibility.
Wenger turned to the rest. "You've all earned this. Now go out there and take it."
They ended the session with finishing drills—rapid-fire crosses and shots under pressure. Francesco was clinical. One touch. Bang. Far post. Low corner. Header. Volley. You name it.
As the sun dipped lower, the team started heading back in. Sweat clung to their shirts, boots caked in bits of grass and dirt. Francesco walked off the pitch with Ramsey, both of them breathing hard but grinning.
"That movement behind Ivanović? Deadly," Ramsey said. "If Özil finds you like that in three days…"
Francesco nodded, eyes forward. "He will."
Back in the locker room, Wenger gave them the rest of the day off. "Get your recovery in. Eat well. Hydrate. Sleep. Tomorrow, we fight."
Francesco showered quickly, changed into fresh clothes, and checked his phone. Leah had messaged.
Can't wait to see you play tomorrow. You've got this, love.
He smiled, typed back: Wouldn't be doing it without you. I'll make you proud.
After leaving the facility, he drove home with the windows down, letting the cool spring air clear his head. Back at his apartment, he fixed himself a clean dinner—grilled salmon, brown rice, steamed greens. No room for junk, not tonight.
He stretched, foam-rolled, even took a cold plunge in the tub. Every little detail mattered. Recovery was as important as the game itself.
And then he sat on the couch with the lights low and watched clips of Chelsea's last few matches. He paid attention to Cahill's positioning. Matic's transitions. Courtois's reaction times.
Finally, when he'd seen enough, he shut the laptop, stood, and looked out the window. London stretched out before him, lights twinkling like stars. Somewhere beyond the buildings was the Emirates Stadium—waiting.
He took a deep breath.
This is it.
In three days, it wouldn't just be about tactics. It wouldn't be about stats or headlines. It would be about desire and pride, and also writing his name into Arsenal's history.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 30
Goal: 35
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8