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He pushed himself off the counter and made his way to his bedroom, peeling off his tracksuit jacket. As much as he wanted to scroll through social media a little longer, he knew he needed sleep.
The next day Francesco woke up and let out a deep sigh as he placed his phone down on the nightstand, rubbing his face with both hands. His body ached from last night's match, but there was something satisfying about the soreness. It was a reminder of what he had given on the pitch.
He reached for his phone again and instinctively checked his notifications. Social media was still buzzing about Arsenal's win, and his name was everywhere. But something else caught his attention— a message from the team's group chat.
Wenger: No training today, lads. Enjoy the rest. See you tomorrow.
A grin spread across Francesco's face. A day off? He wasn't going to complain. He stretched his arms over his head and lay back for a moment, staring at the ceiling. He could already feel his body demanding more sleep, but his stomach had other plans.
With a groan, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He checked the time—9:12 AM. Not too bad. He could afford to take things slow today.
Francesco made his way to the bathroom, stripping off his clothes as he turned on the shower. The warm water was a relief, washing away the fatigue and tension from last night. He stood under the stream for a long moment, letting himself fully wake up.
After stepping out, he dried himself off and threw on a pair of grey sweatpants and a black Arsenal training hoodie. His hair was still damp as he padded barefoot into the kitchen, his stomach grumbling in protest.
Bacon and scrambled eggs sounded perfect.
He moved through the kitchen on autopilot, grabbing the eggs from the fridge and setting them on the counter. He pulled out a frying pan and turned on the stove, the sizzle of bacon soon filling the air. The familiar smell made his stomach growl even louder.
As he worked, he let his mind drift back to the title race. Arsenal were leading the table with 77 points, just one ahead of Chelsea. The upcoming match at the Emirates was going to be a war. Every point mattered now—especially with City trailing behind at 61 points, practically out of the race.
Once the eggs were scrambled to perfection, he plated up his breakfast and carried it over to the living room. He plopped down onto the couch, grabbing the remote and flipping the TV to Sky Sports.
The morning football show was already in full swing. Ian Wright, Gary Neville, and Jamie Carragher were deep in discussion about the Premier League title race.
Francesco smirked. He knew exactly how this conversation was going to go.
"This is Arsenal's best chance to win the league since '04," Ian Wright was saying, his voice animated as always. "We've got the momentum, we've got the squad, and we've got the belief. I don't see Chelsea stopping us."
Gary Neville scoffed. "Come on, Ian. Arsenal are one point ahead, and they've got to face Chelsea at the Emirates in a couple of weeks. You seriously think they're just going to walk away with the title?"
Ian Wright leaned forward. "Yes, Gary, I do. We've been the best team all season."
Neville shook his head. "Look, I don't want to be the guy to say it, but Arsenal… they have a history of bottling it. When was the last time they were in this position? They don't have the experience to see it through."
Francesco rolled his eyes as he took a bite of his eggs. Classic Neville.
Carragher chuckled, stepping in before the debate got too heated. "Alright, alright. Let's be real here. It's between Arsenal and Chelsea. City are too far behind now. The match at the Emirates is massive. Whoever wins that will likely win the league."
Ian Wright nodded. "Exactly. And Arsenal are at home. That makes a difference."
Neville smirked. "Unless Chelsea beat them on their own ground."
Francesco shook his head, amused. He knew Neville just didn't want to see Arsenal lift the trophy. But deep down, he also knew Neville had a point. The pressure was immense. Every game mattered now.
As he finished his breakfast, his phone buzzed beside him. He picked it up and saw a message from Leah.
Leah: Morning, superstar. Hope you're not too sore from last night. I'm heading to training soon, but let me know if you want to hang out later.
A smile tugged at Francesco's lips. Leah always knew how to check in on him.
He quickly typed back:
Francesco: Morning, Leah. A little sore, but nothing I can't handle. Enjoy training. Let's meet up later.
Leah's reply came almost instantly.
Leah: Okay, I'll wait for the news 💕
Francesco grinned as he quickly typed back.
Francesco: Ok 💕
Setting his phone aside, he leaned back into the couch and turned his attention back to the debate on Sky Sports. Ian Wright was in the middle of another passionate argument, this time with even more enthusiasm.
"You lot are forgetting something—no, someone—who's been the difference-maker for Arsenal this season," Wright said, gesturing animatedly toward the screen. "Francesco Lee."
At the mention of his name, Francesco perked up slightly, a piece of bacon halfway to his mouth.
Wright continued, "This is a sixteen-year-old kid we're talking about. Made his debut in November, right? And what's happened since then? Arsenal have gone on a ridiculous run. We were inconsistent before, struggling to keep up with Chelsea, City, and United, and now look at us—top of the table with 77 points, and you know why? Because Francesco Lee has been unstoppable."
Neville sighed, shaking his head. "Look, I'm not saying the kid isn't special. He's unbelievable, no doubt about it. He's the top scorer in the league with 24 goals in 18 games—that's a joke. Seven assists, too. I've never seen a teenager dominate the Premier League like this before."
Francesco smirked. Damn right you haven't.
"But," Neville added, holding up a finger, "this is exactly my point. Arsenal are relying too much on him. He's sixteen. What happens if he has an off day? What happens if Chelsea shut him down in that game at the Emirates? Then what?"
"You can say that about any world-class player, Gary!" Wright shot back. "What happens if Chelsea shut down Eden Hazard? What happens if Diego Costa has a bad game? You can't base an argument on a hypothetical."
"Yeah, but Chelsea aren't just relying on one player, Ian," Neville countered. "They've got Diego Costa, who's a nightmare for any defender. They've got Eden Hazard, the best player in the league in my opinion. They've got Fabregas pulling the strings, Oscar providing creativity, and let's not forget the veterans—John Terry, Didier Drogba—players who know what it takes to win a title. Arsenal don't have that experience."
Carragher, who had been quiet for a moment, finally chimed in. "That's a fair point, actually. Chelsea do have players who've won it all before. Arsenal, on the other hand, haven't been in a title race for years. The pressure is different now."
Francesco's jaw tightened slightly. He understood the argument. Chelsea did have experience, but Arsenal had hunger. They had talent. And they had him.
Wright, however, wasn't backing down. "Look, I get it. Chelsea are a fantastic side. But this Arsenal team? This is the best squad we've had since the Invincibles. And I'm telling you, Francesco Lee is the X-factor. No one—no one—has been able to stop him since his debut. If he keeps playing like this, Arsenal are winning the league."
Francesco couldn't help but grin. Wright was always on Arsenal's side, but hearing that level of belief still gave him a boost.
Neville, though, just shook his head. "We'll see, Ian. We'll see."
Ian Wright leaned forward, his expression filled with unwavering confidence. "Believe me, Gary. You know exactly why I'm saying this is the best Arsenal squad since the Invincibles, right?"
Neville raised an eyebrow, waiting for Wright to continue.
"Because Francesco Lee is like Thierry Henry in that Invincible squad," Wright declared, his voice rising slightly. "Look at him. The kid's got everything—pace, skill, finishing, intelligence beyond his years. He's not just scoring goals; he's dictating games, tearing apart defenses, making things happen when no one else can. That's what world-class players do."
Francesco, still watching from his couch, felt a warmth spread through his chest. Being compared to Henry was no small thing. The Frenchman was a legend, and to have Ian Wright, another Arsenal great, put him in the same conversation? That was special.
Wright wasn't done. "And it's not just Francesco, is it? Arsenal have Alexis Sanchez, Mesut Özil, and Santi Cazorla—three of the most creative and dangerous players in the league. Alexis works harder than anyone, scores goals, and makes defenders miserable. Özil, when he's at his best, is the best playmaker in the world. And Santi? He's been Mr. Consistent. Always delivers."
Neville sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Ian—"
Wright steamrolled ahead. "Then you've got Giroud. Say what you want about him, but he scores in big moments. He's come through in important games time and time again. And the defense—Laurent Koscielny and Per Mertesacker? That's one of the best center-back duos in the Premier League right now."
Carragher nodded slightly. "They have been solid, to be fair."
But Wright wasn't done. He turned to Neville with a smug grin. "You're just jealous, Gary. Admit it."
Neville scoffed. "Jealous? Of what?"
Wright smirked. "Because Manchester United are out of the title race. You lot don't have a player anywhere near Francesco's caliber, and it's killing you. That's why you're backing Chelsea. You don't want Arsenal to win."
Francesco nearly choked on his last piece of bacon, laughing to himself. Ian Wright never held back.
Neville, clearly agitated, shifted in his seat. "Oh, come on, Ian. That's ridiculous."
"No, it's the truth!" Wright insisted. "United used to dominate the league with players like Ronaldo, Rooney, Van Persie. But now? You're struggling to even get top four. Meanwhile, Arsenal have the most exciting player in the league, and you can't stand it."
Neville opened his mouth, but no words came out. For a moment, he actually looked like he wanted to argue—but what could he say? The truth was, Francesco was the most exciting player in the league. And United were out of the title race.
Carragher chuckled, clearly enjoying Neville's discomfort. "He's got you there, Gary."
Francesco leaned back into the couch, finishing his breakfast as the debate continued. This was all just talk, of course. At the end of the day, it didn't matter what Neville or Wright or anyone on TV thought. What mattered was what happened on the pitch.
And Francesco knew exactly what he had to do.
After washing up his plate and setting it in the sink, he checked his phone again. Leah hadn't messaged yet, but that wasn't surprising. She was probably busy with training.
Still, he figured he'd shoot her a quick text.
Francesco: Hope training's going well. Let me know when you're free.
Setting his phone aside, he stood up and stretched. His body still ached from the game, but it wasn't anything unbearable. A light recovery session wouldn't be a bad idea.
He grabbed his headphones and made his way to his home gym. The room was sleek, modern, and equipped with everything he needed—weights, a treadmill, a stretching area, and even a massage gun for recovery.
He started with some light jogging on the treadmill, keeping it slow and steady. As he ran, his mind drifted back to Arsenal's upcoming fixtures. They still had to face Chelsea at the Emirates, then a tough away match at Manchester City. Every game was a final now.
He picked up the pace slightly, his breathing controlled. If he wanted to keep up his level, he had to stay sharp—even on rest days.
After about twenty minutes, he stepped off the treadmill and grabbed his massage gun, running it over his calves and thighs. The soreness was still there, but it was manageable. He'd been through worse.
Just as he was finishing up, his phone buzzed.
Leah: Just finished training! Where are you?
A small smile played on his lips.
Francesco: At home. You want to come over?
Her reply was instant.
Leah: Be there in 30.
Francesco set his phone down and exhaled. A quiet day off with Leah? That sounded perfect.
Thirty minutes later, the sound of his doorbell echoed through his apartment. Francesco made his way over, opening the door to find Leah standing there, still in her training gear—leggings, a loose hoodie, and her hair tied back in a ponytail.
"Hey, superstar," she teased, stepping inside.
Francesco chuckled. "Hey yourself."
She leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before flopping onto the couch. "I saw the Sky Sports debate this morning," she said, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to her chest. "Ian Wright is your biggest fan."
Francesco smirked, sitting next to her. "Yeah, he was going off, wasn't he?"
"He's right, though," she said, looking at him seriously. "You are Arsenal's biggest difference-maker."
He shrugged. "Maybe. But it's a team effort."
Leah rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Don't be humble. You know you've been carrying them."
Francesco laughed. "Alright, alright. I'll take the compliment."
She nudged him playfully. "Good. You should."
They spent the next hour just lounging on the couch, flipping through TV channels, talking about everything and nothing. It was nice—just being able to relax, away from the pressure of football.
At one point, Leah turned to him. "How are you feeling about the Chelsea game?"
Francesco sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's gonna be tough. They're experienced. They've got big players."
"But?" she prompted.
"But," he said with a small smirk, "I don't think they've faced a player like me yet."
Leah grinned. "Now that's the confidence I like to see."
He chuckled. "It's true, though. If we play our game, if we stay focused, we can beat them. And if I get a chance in front of goal…" He shrugged. "I'll take it."
She reached over, squeezing his hand. "I know you will."
For a moment, they just sat there, hands intertwined, the weight of the season temporarily forgotten.
Then Leah smirked. "Alright, enough football talk. What are we doing for the rest of the day?"
Francesco chuckled. "Anything but more debates about Chelsea."
She laughed. "Agreed."
And then they continue to cuddle together, while watching the TV. And enjoying the moment together, while forgetting about football and just enjoying the moment together.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 27
Goal: 32
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8