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But every so often, Francesco would glance down at the photo on his phone, the one the club had taken of him holding the award and feel that warm in his chest again. Not the roar of Wembley. Not the rush of a goal. Something deeper. A sense that all the nights he'd spent training alone, all the mornings he woke up sore and still pushed harder — they were leading somewhere.
The next morning, the world knew.
It started with a quiet ping on Francesco's phone. Then another. And another. Notifications, messages, mentions piling up in waves like the tide coming in. He blinked himself awake and reached for his phone on the nightstand, still curled beneath the covers in the soft grey morning light that seeped through the windows of the Richmond house.
When he unlocked the screen, it hit him all at once.
Premier League official Instagram:
📸 Francesco Lee wins Player of the Month for August!
🔥 6 goals in 4 games, including a stunning hat-trick.
🙌 The youngest ever to win the award. The future is now.
#PLPOTM #Arsenal #FrancescoLee
There it was — his name, his photo, his moment — broadcast to millions.
Francesco sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, blinking in disbelief. There was the shot they took yesterday — him grinning with the crimson plaque in hand, the Arsenal badge bright on his chest, the faint watermark of Colney's training pitch in the background. The comments were already pouring in. Fans from every corner of the world. Arsenal supporters. England fans. Even rival supporters who begrudgingly admitted he was something special.
And then came the news outlets.
Sky Sports. BBC Sport. ESPN. The Athletic. All of them with headlines in bold, wide fonts:
"Francesco Lee Becomes Youngest Ever Player of the Month Winner"
"Arsenal Prodigy Francesco Lee Shatters Premier League Record"
"16-Year-Old Francesco Lee Dominates August: The Stats Behind the Sensation"
The media frenzy ignited like dry grass in summer heat. Everyone wanted a piece of the story — pundits arguing on air about how far he could go, comparisons to Wayne Rooney's early rise, Ronaldo, even Messi.
But for Francesco, lying in bed with Leah beside him still half-asleep, it felt like something else.
It felt like confirmation.
Not hype. Not a fluke. But proof that the long nights, the solo drills on the mini pitch in his backyard, the quiet hours studying film — they were building something real.
Leah rolled over, squinting toward him. "What time is it…?"
Francesco held the phone up, grinning.
She blinked again, focusing on the screen. "Oh my god. It's live?"
"Everywhere," he whispered, still a bit stunned.
She sat up, brushing her hair behind her ear as she read. "Youngest ever… They're saying that on the main Premier League account? That's huge, Frankie."
He nodded. "Yeah."
She looked at him for a long moment, her expression softening. "You okay?"
He let out a quiet laugh. "I think so. Just… a lot, you know?"
She leaned in and kissed his shoulder. "You earned it. Every bit of it."
That day passed in a daze of attention. His agent called — twice. Nike reached out with a congratulatory message and mentioned a campaign idea they wanted to float. A journalist from The Guardian requested a sit-down. Even some old teachers from his school emailed the club to pass along their congratulations.
And through it all, Francesco kept a low profile. He trained lightly at home, ate clean, hydrated, and watched tape of Chelsea's last three matches with a focus that cut through the noise like a blade.
Because while the world buzzed about his past month, he was already thinking about the next challenge.
Chelsea. Stamford Bridge. September 19th.
One of the hardest away days in the league — the kind of match that made or broke seasons. Not just because of the opponent, but because of the tension, the edge. The rivalry had teeth. Arsenal hadn't beaten Chelsea in the league in years. Stamford Bridge had become a kind of haunted ground. And Mourinho was still there, still a ghost in the dugout that seemed to cast a shadow even in the brightest sunshine.
Francesco knew this wasn't just any match. This was a proving ground. A test of mettle. And now, after all the attention, the award, the headlines — it was also a target painted on his back.
By the time the morning of the 19th arrived, he was ready.
He rose early, same routine — oatmeal and eggs, a run around the neighborhood to loosen up, shower, shave, dress. This time in his full matchday suit, the sharp lines of the club blazer hugging his shoulders, the Arsenal crest gleaming silver on the chest.
Leah hugged him by the door before he left. "Play smart. Play hard. And don't let that smug little Portuguese man in the dugout get in your head."
Francesco grinned. "Yes, coach."
At London Colney, the team gathered one by one, the atmosphere more serious than usual. Everyone knew what this was.
The bus ride to Stamford Bridge was quiet — a couple of players with headphones in, a few murmured jokes here and there, but mostly just a building tension. Francesco sat by the window, watching the city shift and blur past. As they crossed the Thames and turned toward Fulham Road, he felt the nerves settle into their familiar rhythm — not panic, not fear, just anticipation. The fire in the gut.
They rolled into the stadium grounds just before noon, greeted by a barrage of cameras and shouting journalists. Francesco stepped off the bus and kept his head down, following Cazorla through the tunnel and into the visitor's dressing room. The ceilings were low, the walls tight. Stamford Bridge wasn't like the Emirates — it felt older, closer, louder.
Wenger called them into a tight circle after they'd changed. No theatrics. Just simple words.
"They'll try to rattle you. They'll want you frustrated, distracted. Don't give them that. Play your game. Focus. Find the spaces. Be ruthless."
Then his eyes found Francesco.
"This is just another match, son. You don't have to prove anything. Just do what you've been doing."
Francesco nodded, tying his boots with a breath so deep it shook in his chest.
The squad moved briskly, falling into the familiar rhythm of routine. As soon as Wenger wrapped up the pre-match words, they began to strip off their suits and pull on the crisp, dark training kits — black tops with thin red trim, Arsenal's cannon glinting subtly on each chest under the stadium lights.
Francesco tied the final loop on his left boot and stood, adjusting his collar before walking out with the rest of the team into the narrow, dim tunnel that fed onto the pitch.
Stamford Bridge was already alive.
The low hum of early chants, drums, jeers and laughter echoed off the steel and concrete around them. Francesco stepped onto the pitch for warm-ups and felt the swell of noise as Chelsea fans clocked who he was. Some jeered. Some booed. Others just stared, like they were trying to figure him out.
The away supporters were corralled high in one corner of the stadium, already in voice. "Arsenal! Arsenal!" They called, some holding up scarves, some chanting his name.
Francesco took it all in stride. He jogged across the turf, rolled his shoulders, and began his first touches. The team formed lines — sprints, ball movement drills, short-pass rondos, sharp turns. Francesco found his rhythm early. One touch, pass. Two touches, swivel, volley. He and Özil exchanged passes in tight spaces, feet moving like dancers' steps on slick floors.
Wenger and the coaching staff observed quietly, arms folded.
Virgil van Dijk occasionally barked encouragements in Dutch-accented English, and Koscielny offered small gestures of reassurance — a thumbs-up, a nod. Kante, as always, was quiet, letting his feet do the talking as he chased every loose ball in the warmup like it owed him money.
After 45 minutes, the team began to pull back toward the tunnel again. Their breath fogged slightly in the autumn air. Francesco jogged in last, casting a final glance around the Bridge.
Back in the dressing room, the kits were already laid out. Bright red shirts with white sleeves, white shorts, red socks. The club crest embroidered against each heart. And on the hook above Francesco's spot — the captain's armband.
He paused for a second, staring at it. The weight of it.
Then he sat, peeled off his training top, and began changing into his match gear. He wrapped the armband slowly around his left bicep, fastening it snug.
Wenger stood in the center of the room as everyone got dressed. The atmosphere was tight, coiled. No music now. Just the scrape of studs on floor tiles, the shuffle of gear being adjusted, and Wenger's voice, calm but unwavering.
"We'll go with a 4-2-3-1," he said, eyes moving across the group. "Cech in goal. Back four — Nacho on the left, Virgil and Laurent in the center, Héctor on the right."
The defenders nodded quietly. Francesco glanced at van Dijk, who gave him the faintest smirk.
"In midfield," Wenger continued, "Santi and N'Golo. You two will have to be our spine today. Break up play, control tempo. You know what to do."
Cazorla gave a small smile, while Kanté just gave a brief nod, already tuned in.
"Mesut ahead of them — keep the rhythm, find the spaces, dictate the link play," Wenger said, turning toward Özil. "We'll need your vision today, Mesut."
Özil, quiet as always, simply tugged his socks up and made eye contact with Francesco for a moment — a silent connection.
"Wings," Wenger continued, "Alexis left, Theo right. Be direct. Press high. Use your pace."
Both nodded, Alexis bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet already like a boxer before a bout.
"And up front," Wenger said at last, "Francesco. You lead the line."
Francesco lifted his eyes to the manager.
"You're the captain today," Wenger said softly. "Mertesacker's out. But this is your team to carry now."
Francesco swallowed, nodded once. He didn't say anything. Didn't need to. His face said it all.
Wenger turned back to the rest of the room. "We go out together. We stay together. This is a team. Play for each other. Keep your heads."
He gave a brief glance toward the bench list posted on the wall.
"Subs are David, Gabriel, Kieran, Aaron, Mikel, Ox, and Olivier. Be ready."
As the last instructions were handed out, the dressing room began to buzz with motion again. Final stretches, gloves pulled on, tape wrapped around wrists and ankles. Francesco stood and looked into the full-body mirror beside his locker. His reflection stared back — eyes calm, jaw set, armband tight on his arm.
Captain.
He took a deep breath and turned toward the door. The players began to file into the tunnel. The noise from the crowd filtered in more clearly now — the chants, the claps, the low grumble of anticipation from the home fans.
Chelsea players began to gather on the other side. Blue shirts, sharp stares. Diego Costa, snarling already. Hazard bouncing in place. Fabregas — the former Arsenal captain — standing with arms folded, jaw clenched.
Mourinho stood a few feet behind them all. Stone-faced. Dressed in black.
Francesco could feel eyes on him. Some curious. Some hungry.
He kept his gaze ahead.
Petr Cech stood behind him, calm and giant, tapping his gloves together.
"Big one today," Cech murmured.
"I know," Francesco replied. "Let's make it count."
The fourth official gave the signal.
The referee gestured forward.
And the teams began their slow march onto the pitch.
As Francesco stepped into the light, the noise hit him full-on. Stamford Bridge roared — blue scarves waving, banners fluttering from the upper decks, chants rising like war drums. The pitch looked perfect, slicked with pre-match water, the smell of fresh-cut grass mingling with smoke from nearby flares.
He walked tall.
Led the team out.
Then turned, and faced them as they lined up behind him for the pre-match handshakes. A full circle moment — a 16-year-old captain standing across from seasoned internationals and hardened veterans.
The camera panned in on him. Sky Sports. NBC. Premier League world feed. His face on millions of screens. He didn't blink.
The anthem played. Then came handshakes, coin toss, brief words exchanged with the referee.
Cech in goal. Bellerín, Koscielny, van Dijk, and Monreal across the back. Cazorla and Kanté in the heart. Özil at ten. Alexis and Walcott on the flanks.
Francesco took his place at the top of the formation, rolled his shoulders back, and bounced on his heels once. The crowd roared again as Chelsea kicked off.
Then the match started — a sharp whistle slice through the roar of Stamford Bridge, and suddenly it was on.
The first twenty minutes exploded with intensity. No feeling-out period, no slow buildup. Just fire from the off.
Chelsea surged forward immediately, testing Arsenal's resolve. Diego Costa barrelled into Koscielny inside the opening thirty seconds, trying to stamp authority with a flailing elbow. The ref blew for the foul, and Costa gave that familiar smirk — part snarl, part dare.
Arsenal responded in kind. Straight from the restart, Cazorla and Kanté shifted the ball left and right with precision, feeding Özil, who in turn floated a pass into space behind Chelsea's line. Walcott darted onto it, blazing past Azpilicueta like a ghost, and whipped in a low cross. Begovic had to sprawl out fast, tipping it away just before Francesco could pounce.
The game was manic, breathless.
Inside five minutes, Hazard drew gasps with a mazy run down the left, gliding past Bellerín and flashing a shot toward the bottom corner. Cech, reading it early, flung himself low and clawed it out. A stunning save.
Two minutes later, Özil turned on a dime just outside the Chelsea box and played a reverse ball to Alexis, who smashed a rising shot from 18 yards. Courtois matched Cech's brilliance — both keepers clearly in the mood, both defiant.
By the tenth minute, each side had already notched two shots on target, and both goalkeepers had two saves apiece.
From the touchline, Mourinho's brow was already furrowing.
He was used to Arsenal being pretty, elegant, sometimes fragile. But this team — this version of Arsenal — wasn't breaking. Wasn't folding under pressure.
Instead, they pressed. Fought. Bit back.
Virgil van Dijk, in particular, was immense in those early exchanges. When Costa tried to rough him up, the Dutchman didn't blink. He held his ground like a redwood, brushing the striker off with quiet dominance. When Hazard drifted inside and tried to combine with Fabregas, it was Kanté who swept in, read the danger like a book, and dispossessed his former teammates with the same calm precision that made him France's rising star.
Mourinho folded his arms, eyes narrowing. He could see the difference already. Arsenal's spine had steel now — real steel. No more brittle gaps in midfield. No more easy runs at their centre-backs.
Kanté and van Dijk. Those two had changed everything.
Kanté was a shadow at Chelsea's feet, appearing wherever he was needed. No matter the angle, no matter the build-up, he was there: toe-poking balls away, intercepting blind passes, hounding the playmakers without fouling. His energy was endless, but it was his discipline that impressed most — always knowing when to press, when to hold, when to step in.
And behind him, van Dijk was a wall. An intelligent wall.
He barely spoke, but his positioning spoke volumes. He nudged Monreal into place, directed Koscielny with subtle gestures, and seemed to always be a step ahead of Costa. When the big striker peeled wide and tried to isolate Monreal, Virgil swept across and shoulder-barged Costa clean off the ball before striding away like it was nothing.
Chelsea were used to exploiting Arsenal's softness in big games.
Not today.
In the 13th minute, another chance. Fabregas chipped a ball behind Monreal for Pedro, who brought it down beautifully with his first touch. He cut inside and let fly with a curler aimed for the far post — but Cech again was equal to it, leaping to tip the ball around the post. The Chelsea fans roared, half in awe, half in frustration.
Four saves now for Cech. Four for Courtois. And only fifteen minutes gone.
The tempo never dipped.
Arsenal stormed upfield again. Alexis danced through a half-hearted Cahill challenge, drifted inward, and fed Özil. The German's first-time flick split Zouma and Ivanović, releasing Francesco in behind.
He was in.
The crowd collectively held its breath.
Francesco surged toward goal, the ball just ahead of him. Begovic charged out. One touch too heavy.
Francesco lunged — a desperate toe-poke — but the England goalkeeper was quicker, sliding out and smothering it at the edge of the box. Francesco tumbled over him and onto the grass, face down, groaning in frustration. The away end had already started celebrating. So close.
He got up, clapped his hands, and nodded at Özil in appreciation. No sulking, and ran back into position.
Wenger watched from the technical area, arms folded, jaw tight, but heart likely hammering with pride. His side was matching Chelsea blow for blow. His teenage captain was leading the line like a man ten years older. His new signings — the spine he had built over the summer — were passing their first great test.
Mourinho began shouting instructions. He gestured wildly to Matic and Fabregas, demanding more cover, more presence. His midfield was losing the battle. Kanté had both of them in his pocket.
The 18th minute arrived with another Arsenal break.
Cazorla dropped deep to collect from Koscielny, turned on the ball with that signature elegance, and fizzed it into Özil. Özil back-heeled it instantly to Walcott, who had found space in between Azpilicueta and Cahill. He surged forward — two touches, then a thunderous strike from 20 yards.
Begovic tipped it over.
Five saves now.
The pace was almost unsustainable, but neither side let up.
Even the fans seemed breathless, clapping at every tackle, every shot, every interception.
Then, Chelsea responded.
A quick one-two between Hazard and Fabregas sliced through the middle. Costa peeled off van Dijk for once, running into the channel. Fabregas threaded it through. Costa was in.
He took it early — low, with venom.
But Cech, standing tall against his former club, extended a strong right hand and parried it wide.
Four saves apiece became five. Still goalless.
And still — no one backing down.
As the 20-minute mark passed, Mourinho stood frozen at the edge of his technical area, watching an Arsenal side that didn't look like the one he used to taunt, mock, and pick apart. This was something else. Something sturdier.
He could feel it.
The spine. The engine.
Kanté. Van Dijk.
They were the difference.
And Francesco? He was the leader.
The boy-captain leading men, dragging the front line into battle, chasing lost causes, pressing with relentless hunger. He pointed, shouted, demanded. Not with arrogance — with belief. That kind of belief Wenger used to talk about, quietly, like a priest whispering a gospel and the game had only just begun.
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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: 6
Goal: 10
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9