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For a long moment, he just sat there—engine off, heater not yet engaged—watching the empty field beyond the trees sway faintly in the wind.
The keys sat cold in Francesco's hand. The engine hadn't started yet.
He watched the faint movement of the wind through the trees near the edge of the training ground, the way the last threads of mist clung to the hedgerows, soft and half-there. It was late. Nearly 10:45 p.m. His body was tired. Not injured, not aching—just used. Like a well-played violin, strung tight and now finally allowed to rest.
But rest didn't come.
His thoughts kept drifting back to Box 17. To the light in Jamie's eyes. To Rosie trying to spin the ball on her finger and accidentally bouncing it into Leah's lap. To the quiet, meaningful way Leah had said: "I saw the heart."
He reached for his phone, thumb brushing the familiar number in his recents.
It rang twice.
Then a voice—clear, soft, a little surprised.
"Hey."
He sat up straighter. "Hey. Leah, where are you?"
There was a pause, and then some background noise—a child's giggle, the rustle of a wrapper, the unmistakable beep of a fryer.
"We're at McDonald's," she said, almost apologetically. "The one near the orphanage. Jamie swore he'd die if he didn't get a cheeseburger tonight, and Margaret said fine, but only if we all went together. So… here we are. Fries and nuggets and cardboard crowns."
Francesco smiled at the image. "That sounds perfect."
Another small pause.
"Where are you?"
"Colney. Still in the lot."
"You haven't gone home yet?"
He shook his head instinctively, though she couldn't see it. "Wasn't ready to. Not yet."
There was a warmth in her voice now, a gentleness that said she understood. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he replied. "I just… I think I'd like to come join you. If that's alright."
The rustling stopped. A bit of muffled excitement in the background—someone yelling something about a spilled milkshake—and then her voice returned, softer.
"You really want to come to a McDonald's full of ketchup-stained kids at 11 at night?"
He didn't hesitate.
"I really do."
A beat. Then:
"Okay. We're still here. Back corner booth, under the dinosaur poster. You can't miss us."
"I'm on my way."
He ended the call, finally turned the key in the ignition, and pulled out of the lot.
⸻
The roads were quiet now, the kind of London quiet that still hummed with life if you looked closely—headlights trailing in the distance, buses sleeping in their stations, corners of kebab shops still lit. He didn't bother with music. Let the quiet speak.
Fifteen minutes later, he turned into the familiar street just off Holloway Road, the one with the neon-lit McDonald's pressed between a closed pharmacy and a shuttered bakery. The lot was nearly empty. One delivery scooter idled near the back. A single taxi waited at the curb.
He parked, zipped his coat up to the collar, and stepped out into the cold.
Inside, the heat hit him like a blanket. That unmistakable scent of fryer oil and sweetened ketchup wafted through the air, clinging to everything. The place wasn't packed—just three teens hunched over their phones near the front, a delivery driver on his fifth coffee, and one booth in the back that was unmistakably theirs.
He saw them before they saw him.
Jamie stood on the booth seat, arguing passionately about something with Rosie, who had a paper crown on sideways and a handful of fries sticking out of her mouth. Margaret was sipping tea from a Styrofoam cup, eyelids drooping. Leah sat on the aisle side, hair pulled into a messy ponytail, one sneaker untied.
He paused for a moment.
This was different.
This wasn't Box 17 or a charity gala or a post-match photo op.
This was life. Ordinary. Beautiful.
He stepped forward.
Rosie saw him first.
"FRANCESCO'S HERE!"
Heads whipped around.
Jamie nearly tripped over his own shoelaces scrambling off the booth. "You actually came!"
Francesco held up his hands as he approached. "I said I would."
"You didn't even text!" Rosie added, leaping off the bench and racing toward him. "What if we had left?"
"Then I'd have chased your milkshake trail all the way to Islington."
Leah looked up then, smile widening. "You found us."
"You weren't hard to find," he replied, motioning to the chaos. "Dinosaur poster. Nugget wrappers. Royalty wearing paper crowns. Classic footprint."
"You hungry?" Jamie asked. "We got everything. Cheeseburgers, McNuggets, that weird spicy thing Leah says is grown-up food—"
"It's just a McSpicy, Jamie."
"Whatever."
Francesco laughed. "Alright, alright. Let me get in."
Margaret shifted over with a tired smile. "You're sitting next to me, young man. I need some peace from the jungle."
Francesco slid in beside her, ducking slightly under the low-hung lamp.
Rosie immediately offered him two fries and a single chicken nugget.
"It's the last one," she said solemnly. "But I saved it."
He took it with a grin. "Then it's the best one."
Leah nudged a tray toward him. "I ordered extra in case you actually did show. There's a cheeseburger here and a few of those spicy things. And nuggets. Obviously."
He met her eyes, their hands briefly brushing.
"Thank you."
"For the food?"
"For being here."
Leah blushed slightly, but didn't look away. "You too."
The next twenty minutes passed like childhood—loud, messy, unfiltered. Jamie insisted on telling the play-by-play of Francesco's third goal with increasingly dramatic embellishments ("…and then he spun so fast, Cook just evaporated!"). Rosie made Leah promise she could sleep with the match ball tonight. Margaret kept trying to stop Ellis from dipping apple slices into the soda.
And Francesco?
He just laughed.
He sat back, eating fries from Rosie's tray, nodding along to Jamie's re-enactments, letting his legs stretch beneath the table until they accidentally bumped Leah's and stayed there.
The booth felt small, but in the best way.
It felt real.
When the wrappers were empty and the kids started yawning between sentences, Leah glanced down at her watch and sighed.
"Alright, guys. Time to go. We promised we'd get back before midnight."
There were groans. Whining. Rosie tried to argue that since Francesco was here, it should be considered a special night with no bedtime. Jamie said sleep was "for losers." Margaret rolled her eyes, already bundling coats.
Francesco stood and helped gather cups and trays, moving with that same grace he had on the pitch—fluid, unhurried. As he tossed the trash, Leah joined him by the bins, her jacket only half-zipped.
"Thank you," she said, quietly.
He tilted his head. "You've already said that."
"Yeah, well… I'm saying it again."
She looked up at him.
"It's not just what you do for the cameras, you know? You stayed. That matters."
Francesco nodded slowly. "I know. And it's not about being seen."
She smiled. "I know that too."
They walked back to the kids together, Margaret corralling them like a tired general.
Jamie was halfway asleep standing up. Rosie had curled her arms around the match ball like it was her pillow.
Francesco's feet moved quietly across the warm wooden floor as he made his way into the kitchen, the silence of the house gentle and easy around him. The overhead lights were dimmed to a soft amber, and the fire from the other room flickered shadows up onto the walls. Leah had curled up on the edge of the long suede couch in the sitting room, pulling her legs beneath her and hugging a pillow as if it were part of her.
He reached for the kettle, filled it with filtered water from the tap, and set it on the induction stove. The kitchen smelled faintly of peppermint and lemon balm—his usual evening blend—so he plucked those tins off the shelf and prepped two mugs while the water came to a boil.
As he placed the tea bags into each cup, his voice carried across the counter, casual but not careless.
"Hey… what's your match schedule looking like this month?"
Leah turned her head toward him, one brow raised in amused curiosity. "Why?"
Francesco shrugged lightly, setting the mugs near the stove. "Just wondering when your next game is."
She leaned her cheek against the pillow, watching him. "I mean, we've got Reading away on Saturday. Then I think City at Meadow Park the following weekend. Midweek we've got a Continental Cup fixture against West Ham. But seriously… why?"
The kettle clicked softly. Steam curled up in lazy spirals as Francesco poured hot water over the waiting tea bags.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, and his voice softened.
"Because I want to come."
Leah blinked. "Come where?"
"To watch you play," he said, setting the mugs on a tray. "To support you."
Leah straightened slightly, surprised. "Wait, seriously?"
Francesco smiled, carrying the tray toward her. "You've come to watch me more times than I can count. Sometimes in the freezing cold. Sometimes in box seats, sometimes on metal benches. And I've never once come to see you play. That's not right."
Leah blinked again, clearly caught off guard.
"It's not a big deal, Francesco. I never expected—"
"It is a big deal to me," he cut in gently, placing the mugs on the coffee table before her. "You're my girlfriend. You're also a professional athlete. And you play for the club we both love. That deserves the same kind of support you've always given me."
She was silent for a beat. The fire cracked softly in the distance, throwing a gold glow across the room.
Then her expression softened—less surprised now, more touched. "You know we don't get thirty-thousand crowds, right?"
"Even more reason to make mine count," Francesco replied, lowering himself onto the couch beside her.
Leah laughed, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."
He handed her a mug, his fingers brushing hers. "And you love it."
She looked at him over the rim of her cup, eyes shining.
"I really do."
Francesco settled back beside her, one arm draped loosely along the top of the couch, his legs stretched out. The warmth of the fire, the soft scent of the tea, the quiet hum of two people who had nothing to prove—it wrapped around them like a blanket.
Leah took a sip and sighed. "Alright, but I'm warning you now—our away kits are neon orange, and if you show up in Arsenal men's merch, I'm going to pretend not to know you."
Francesco grinned. "Deal. But only if you give me your shirt after the game."
Leah elbowed him lightly. "You really want a neon orange shirt?"
"If it's yours, yeah. I'll hang it next to the match balls."
She looked at him again, half-laughing. "God, you're actually serious."
"I am."
He set his mug down, turned to face her more fully.
"I love what I do. But sometimes I forget to give back to the people who love me for more than just what I do."
Her expression changed then—not just fondness, but something quieter. Deeper.
"You don't have to make everything a grand gesture," she said softly. "But this? It means something."
"I know," he replied. "That's why I'm doing it."
She leaned into him then, her head resting against his chest. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her in with a kind of instinct that needed no explanation.
They stayed like that for a while, the fire popping in gentle rhythm, the tea slowly cooling in their cups.
Then Leah whispered, almost against his shirt, "We kick off at 2:30 on Saturday. You'll need to bring a coat."
He smiled into her hair. "Wouldn't miss it."
The room was quiet in the most comforting way—quiet like a lullaby, like a safe place after a long journey. The fire in the hearth had dipped into a steady, glowing rhythm, casting long shadows against the bookshelves and throwing occasional flickers of light against the corners of the ceiling. Outside, the wind rustled faintly through the trees along the garden, whispering like the world had decided not to interrupt them anymore tonight.
Leah shifted slightly beneath Francesco's arm, her mug empty now and sitting on the coffee table beside his. Her head rested against his shoulder, one hand absently curled into the fold of his hoodie, her breathing soft and steady.
Francesco leaned his head back against the couch, fingers brushing lightly along her arm as he stared into the middle distance, not really looking at anything. He felt something settling in his chest—like peace, like presence. The kind of warmth that wasn't just from the fire or the tea or even her body next to his.
It was just… her. Them.
"You wanna watch something?" he asked eventually, voice barely above a whisper, as though afraid to disturb the moment even by sound.
Leah's cheek shifted against his chest as she nodded lazily. "Yeah. Something not too serious, though."
"No historical tragedies," Francesco quipped gently, reaching for the remote on the side table. "Got it."
"No football documentaries either," she said, poking his ribs without moving too much. "I see enough men in kits all week, thanks."
He laughed, the sound low and easy. "Fair. What about a rom-com?"
She tilted her head, her eyes lifting toward his with a suspicious squint. "Like, proper rom-com? Or one of those disguised tragedy-in-a-blazer ones you claim is a comedy?"
Francesco gasped with exaggerated offense. "I've never done that."
"You made me watch About Time, Francesco. I cried for twenty minutes."
He grinned. "That's not crying. That's… emotionally processing British cinema."
Leah rolled her eyes but smiled. "Fine. Rom-com. But no time travel."
"No promises," he murmured, already scrolling through the streaming menu. "Time travel is criminally underrated."
He finally settled on something light—a classic with enough charm to feel familiar, but not too familiar that it dulled the senses. The kind of movie that played like a shared memory, warm and just slightly faded at the edges.
They didn't say much for the first half hour.
Francesco adjusted slightly on the couch, pulling the knit throw blanket from the armrest and draping it over both their legs. Leah tucked her toes beneath it gratefully, shifting in closer without a word. Her fingers found his hand beneath the blanket and laced through.
The glow from the screen washed them in soft, shifting hues—pale blues, golden flickers, a kiss of white light whenever a close-up struck the camera just right. Francesco wasn't watching the film so much as watching her watch the film—the subtle way her eyebrows lifted during a funny scene, how her lips quirked sideways at cheesy dialogue. The little things.
And when she laughed—really laughed, that low ripple that started in her belly and danced up through her throat—he felt it like a chord strummed against his ribs.
Leah caught him looking and grinned. "You're not even paying attention."
"I am," he said, voice quiet but honest. "Just not to the movie."
She rolled her eyes but didn't look away. "You're lucky you're cute."
He chuckled softly and squeezed her hand beneath the blanket.
"Do you remember the first movie we watched together?" she asked suddenly, eyes flicking back to the screen.
Francesco tilted his head, pretending to think. "Hmm… was it that weird French crime thing with subtitles that you insisted wasn't confusing, even though you fell asleep halfway through?"
"I did not fall asleep!"
"You did."
"You fell asleep first!"
"I was just resting my eyes," Francesco said, deadpan.
Leah nudged him with her elbow, but she was smiling.
They settled into a lull again. The plot on screen hit its stride—meet-cute, first-date montage, inevitable misunderstanding. The beats all fell where they should, the music swelling predictably. But Francesco found himself less interested in the story than the feeling of her curled against him. The weight of the day behind them. The stillness of a night that belonged only to them now.
When the movie finally reached its closing montage—final kiss, rain, piano crescendo—Leah exhaled slowly.
"That was actually kind of good," she murmured, eyelids dipping lower now.
"Told you. No time travel, no trauma. Just two attractive people realizing they were in love the whole time."
She chuckled sleepily. "You think that's how it works?"
Francesco considered it. "Sometimes."
She shifted to look up at him properly. "How did you realize it?"
He blinked. "What?"
"That you… you know. Loved me."
Francesco stared at her for a moment.
The fire crackled behind them. The credits rolled on the screen.
He reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face, letting his fingers linger against her jaw.
"I think it was that night at the orphanage," he said, voice barely more than a breath. "The first one. When Jamie tried to impress me by kicking the ball into a trash bin and accidentally knocked over a crate of food."
Leah laughed softly. "Oh god. I remember that."
"And you didn't panic," Francesco continued. "You didn't scold or snap. You just helped him pick everything up and made a joke about how Messi probably started the same way."
Leah looked at him, eyes wide and shining.
"You saw all that from one moment?"
He smiled gently. "I saw you. That was enough."
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Then Leah curled closer, pressing her forehead to the side of his neck, her breath warm against his skin.
"You're ridiculous," she whispered again.
"And you love it," he whispered back.
She didn't respond, not with words.
Just leaned into him, one hand against his chest, her heart beating slow and steady beneath her fingertips.
Francesco reached for the remote with his free hand and muted the screen. Let the silence fall again—not empty this time, but full. Full of what had been said, and what didn't need saying anymore.
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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: 28
Goal: 40
Assist: 6
MOTM: 4
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9