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And maybe, just maybe, he was ready to embrace what Wenger had said. To stop just believing he was great—and start making sure the world knew it too.
The ride back to the Arsenal Training Center was quieting down as exhaustion finally settled over the players. The earlier excitement from the game had started to fade, replaced by tired bodies and heavy eyelids. Some players were already dozing off in their seats, while others scrolled through their phones or listened to music. Francesco, still staring out the window, found himself lost in thought.
He replayed the game in his head—the moment he scored, the rush of adrenaline, the roar of the crowd. Then his assist, the perfectly timed pass that had cut through Monaco's defense like a knife. But most of all, Wenger's words echoed in his mind.
"Be the player who makes the difference. Be the player who knows he is great—and makes sure everyone else knows it too."
Could he really do that? Could he shift from the quiet, hardworking player to someone who owned the spotlight, demanded it? He had always let his football speak for itself, but maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to step into the role of a leader—not just on the pitch, but off it too.
The bus finally pulled into the Arsenal Training Center, its headlights cutting through the darkness. The players stirred, stretching as the vehicle came to a stop. One by one, they gathered their belongings and stepped off into the cool London night.
Francesco grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, letting out a breath as he stepped onto the pavement. The night air was fresh, carrying the faint scent of rain that had passed through earlier.
"See you guys tomorrow," he called to his teammates, exchanging nods and waves with a few of them.
"Don't overthink what the boss said," Ramsey added with a smirk, giving him a pat on the back before heading toward his car.
Francesco chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. See you."
With that, he made his way toward his car—his reliable Honda Civic, parked near the exit. He preferred driving himself rather than relying on a club chauffeur like some of the other players. It gave him a sense of independence, a small piece of normalcy in a life that was becoming anything but normal.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he started the engine and pulled out onto the road, the hum of the car filling the silence. The drive back to his apartment was relatively short, the streets mostly empty this late at night. The city lights flickered past him, casting long shadows as he cruised through the quiet roads.
As he reached his apartment building, he eased the car into the basement parking lot, found his usual spot, and shut off the engine. Letting out a sigh, he grabbed his bag and made his way toward the elevator.
The ride up was silent, the soft hum of the elevator the only sound. His thoughts drifted back to the game again, to Wenger, to what Ramsey and Giroud had said.
"You don't need to say it—just show it. And if you do say it, make sure you back it up."
The doors slid open with a quiet chime, and Francesco stepped out onto his floor. His apartment was a simple but modern space—nothing overly extravagant. Just a comfortable place to unwind, away from the noise of football and expectations.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, tossing his bag onto the couch. Immediately, he felt the hunger settle in. His stomach growled in protest, reminding him that he hadn't eaten much since before the match.
Without wasting time, he headed to the kitchen. He wasn't a gourmet chef, but he could cook well enough to get by. He pulled open the fridge, scanning the contents before settling on something simple—a plate of pasta with some grilled chicken.
The scent of garlic and olive oil filled the air as he worked, the sizzle of the pan breaking the silence. It was therapeutic in a way, the rhythmic chopping, the stirring, the control he had over something as simple as cooking. It was a stark contrast to football, where so much depended on split-second decisions and the chaos of the game.
When the food was finally ready, he plated it up and carried it over to the couch. He grabbed the remote, flicking through channels before settling on a football highlights show.
As he ate, his mind wandered back to the question that had been nagging at him since he left the stadium.
How did he change his persona in front of the world?
It wasn't just about playing well. He was already doing that. He had to *own* it. Had to make sure people saw him as more than just a talented player.
Confidence. Swagger. Presence.
The greats all had it. Henry. Zidane. Ronaldo. They didn't just play the game—they commanded it.
Could he do that? Could he step out of his own shadow and into the spotlight?
He set his fork down, staring at the screen but not really seeing it. Maybe it was time to stop just letting his football do the talking. Maybe it was time to start making a statement.
Francesco leaned back against the couch, absently swirling the last bits of pasta on his plate with his fork. His mind was restless, turning over the same thoughts again and again. Confidence. Swagger. Presence. These weren't just words—they were qualities that defined the best players in the world. And yet, they felt foreign to him in some way.
He'd always been taught that humility was a strength, that letting his football speak for itself was the right way to go. But tonight, after Wenger's words, after Ramsey and Giroud's comments, he wasn't so sure anymore.
Could he find that balance? Could he carry himself with the presence of a world-class player while still staying true to who he was?
Sighing, he grabbed his phone from the coffee table and stared at the screen for a moment. He knew exactly who he needed to talk to—someone who wouldn't sugarcoat things, someone who would give him an honest answer.
Leah Williamson.
Without overthinking it, he scrolled through his contacts and hit the call button.
It didn't take long for her to pick up.
"Francesco," Leah's voice came through, slightly groggy. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
Francesco glanced at the clock and winced. It was past midnight. "Shit, sorry, Leah. I didn't realize how late it was."
She let out a small chuckle. "It's fine. If it was anyone else, I'd have ignored the call. What's up?"
He hesitated for a moment, then decided to just be upfront about it. "I need your opinion on something."
"Oh?" She sounded more awake now. "This should be interesting."
"It's about something Wenger said to me after the match," he admitted, shifting on the couch. "He told me to start carrying myself like a player who knows he's great. That I need to make sure the world knows it, not just believe it."
There was a pause on the other end before Leah responded. "Sounds like good advice."
"That's what I thought too," Francesco said. "But I don't know… I've always tried to stay humble. Let my game do the talking. Do you think I should be more—" he searched for the right word, "—arrogant?"
Leah let out a thoughtful hum. "Honestly? Yeah. Sometimes you're too humble, Francesco."
He blinked. "You think so?"
"Yeah," she said firmly. "Look, humility is great, and it's one of the things people respect about you. But there's a difference between being humble and downplaying yourself. You know you're one of the best young players in the world right now, right?"
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess."
Leah scoffed. "See? That's the problem. You shouldn't be saying 'I guess.' You should be saying, 'Yeah, I am.' Because it's the truth. Look at players like Ronaldo, Zlatan, even Henry back in the day—they didn't just play with confidence, they walked with it. They made people believe they were the best because they believed it."
Francesco listened carefully, letting her words sink in.
She continued, "You don't have to be cocky for the sake of it, but you need to start owning your greatness. The media and the fans—they eat that up. It's not just about skill, Francesco. It's about presence. When people see you, they should see someone who knows he's a superstar."
He sighed. "I don't want to come off as arrogant, though."
"There's a fine line," Leah admitted, "but you're smart enough to walk it. Think about it—who do you look up to?"
He thought for a moment. "Henry."
"Exactly," she said. "Henry was smooth, confident, and carried himself like a king. Did people think he was arrogant? Maybe some, but most just saw him as a legend. That's the kind of energy you need to bring."
Francesco ran a hand through his hair, staring at the ceiling. "So you think I should change how I present myself? Be more vocal?"
"I think you should stop hiding how good you are," Leah corrected. "Let people see it. On the pitch and off it."
He mulled over her words. Maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn't about changing who he was, but rather embracing what he already had.
Leah's voice softened slightly. "You're a brilliant player, Francesco. And you deserve to be recognized as one. Don't be afraid to own that."
He let out a small chuckle. "I should call you more often. You make a good motivational coach."
"I know," she said smugly. "Now, since you rudely woke me up in the middle of the night, you owe me coffee tomorrow."
Francesco laughed. "Deal. Thanks, Leah."
"Anytime," she said. "Now go practice your swagger in the mirror or something."
He rolled his eyes as she hung up, but he couldn't stop the small smile that formed on his lips.
Francesco sat there for a while, his phone still in his hand, Leah's words echoing in his mind.
"Stop hiding how good you are."
That was the key. He didn't have to pretend to be someone he wasn't—he just had to own who he already was. And if Leah, someone who never sugarcoated anything, believed he could do it, maybe it was time to listen.
Still, confidence was one thing. Navigating the media without it backfiring was another. If he suddenly flipped a switch overnight, it could rub people the wrong way. He needed to be smart about this.
And if there was one person who knew exactly how to handle this kind of situation, it was his agent—Jorge Mendes.
Without hesitating, he scrolled through his contacts and hit call.
The line rang a few times before a familiar deep voice answered, sounding as sharp as ever despite the late hour.
"Francesco, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
Francesco smirked. "You always sound like you're in a business meeting, Jorge."
"That's because I usually am," Mendes replied smoothly. "Now, what's on your mind?"
Francesco leaned back against the couch, running a hand through his hair. "I need your advice. About… my image."
A brief pause, then Mendes' tone turned curious. "Go on."
"After the Monaco game, Wenger told me that I need to start carrying myself like a player who knows he's great. That I should make sure everyone else knows it too," Francesco explained. "And I've been thinking about it. Leah agrees—I might be too humble sometimes. But how do I show more confidence without coming off as arrogant? Without getting bad press?"
Mendes let out a knowing chuckle. "Ah, so you're finally ready to step into the spotlight properly."
Francesco exhaled. "Something like that."
"Listen, Francesco," Mendes said, his voice steady, authoritative. "The best players in the world don't just play well. They control the narrative around them. Look at Ronaldo—he doesn't just perform, he demands attention. He exudes confidence, and the media feeds off it. But do you ever see him say something reckless that backfires? No. Because he knows exactly how to play the game off the pitch, too."
"Right," Francesco nodded, already taking mental notes. "So how do I do that?"
"You start by being deliberate with your words," Mendes said. "When you speak to the media, don't shy away from acknowledging your own quality. If they ask about your performance, don't just say, 'I did my best.' Say, 'I knew I could make the difference today, and I did.' That's confidence, not arrogance."
Francesco absorbed that. "So it's about phrasing?"
"Exactly," Mendes affirmed. "You don't need to insult anyone or act like you're better than your teammates. But you do need to own your talent. If you hesitate, if you downplay yourself, people will never see you as the star you are. But if you say, 'I believe I can be one of the best in the world,' that sends a message."
Francesco considered this. He had always given humble answers in interviews, never wanting to sound like he was above anyone else. But maybe that had made him fade into the background more than he realized.
"Confidence attracts attention," Mendes continued. "The media loves a player with personality. Look at Ibrahimović—he says things that sound arrogant, but people love it because he owns it. That's the key. You don't just say it, you back it up on the pitch."
Francesco smirked. "So you're saying I should start speaking in third person like Zlatan?"
Mendes laughed. "Only if you can pull it off. But in all seriousness, we can refine this. Next time you have a press conference, try this—when they ask about your performance, be direct. Say you were great. Say you expected to play well because you've been working for it. And when they ask about your ambitions, don't hesitate—say you want to be the best."
Francesco nodded to himself. "And what about the fans? I don't want them to think I'm changing too much."
"Fans love confidence," Mendes assured him. "But here's the trick—show them you're still grounded. Post behind-the-scenes moments. Keep engaging with them. Let them see your personality. That way, when you start carrying yourself with more presence, they'll support it instead of thinking you've become arrogant."
That made sense. If he controlled his own story, the media couldn't twist it against him.
"One more thing," Mendes added. "Social media. Start showing your confidence there too. Post pictures with captions that reflect your mindset. Not just 'happy to score today,' but 'Another step towards the top.' Subtle, but powerful."
Francesco grinned. "So basically, act like I know I'm him."
Mendes chuckled. "Exactly. You're not just a talented kid anymore, Francesco. You're a star. And it's time the world saw it."
Francesco let those words settle. This was it—the shift he needed. Not a change in who he was, but a change in how he presented himself.
"Thanks, Jorge," he said sincerely. "I'll keep this in mind."
"Good," Mendes replied. "Now get some rest. You'll need it. Because once you start this, there's no going back."
Francesco smirked. "Wouldn't have it any other way."
As he hung up, he felt something settle in his chest—not uncertainty, not doubt. He was ready.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 16
Goal: 21
Assist: 11
MOTM: 7