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Francesco watched the screen fade to another topic. Then he stood, feeling the dull ache in his legs again, but this time, it came with clarity.
Francesco stood there for a moment longer after the segment ended.
The television rolled on, voices changing, topics shifting, but he wasn't really listening anymore. The image of the team moving together still lingered in his mind from the shape, the spacing, the quiet authority of a system beginning to trust itself.
His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
Once.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Leah glanced at it, then at him. "You going to answer that, or are you pretending you didn't hear it?"
He smiled faintly and reached for it.
The name on the screen made him pause.
Wenger.
That alone changed the atmosphere in the room.
Not in a dramatic way. Not in a sudden spike of tension. But in that subtle, instinctive shift that came from years of association. From knowing that when Arsène Wenger called, it was never for nothing.
Francesco swiped to answer.
"Morning, boss," he said, voice respectful but relaxed.
"Good morning, Francesco," Wenger replied, his tone calm, familiar, carrying that gentle authority that never needed to raise itself. "I hope I'm not interrupting breakfast."
Francesco glanced at Leah, who raised an eyebrow knowingly.
"No," he said. "All good."
There was a brief pause on the line. Wenger never rushed into things.
"I watched the analysis this morning," Wenger said eventually. "Very interesting."
Francesco smiled to himself. "I imagine you did."
"Yes," Wenger replied lightly. "And I agree with some of it."
Another pause. This one more deliberate.
"Listen," Wenger continued, voice softening but sharpening at the same time. "I wanted to ask if you could come to London Colney today."
Francesco straightened slightly.
"Of course," he said immediately. "Training?"
"Yes," Wenger said, "but also… something else."
Francesco waited.
"As you know," Wenger went on, "there has been a great deal of noise around you. More than usual."
Francesco exhaled quietly. He didn't need clarification.
"I've spoken with the board," Wenger said. "With the club management. We believe it is time to put an end to it."
Francesco leaned back against the counter, free hand resting on the edge.
"An end how?" he asked, carefully.
"We want to hold a press conference," Wenger said. "Today. At Colney."
Leah's eyes widened slightly when she caught the words press conference.
Wenger continued, measured as ever.
"Not to negotiate. Not to respond to speculation. But to be very clear. To tell everyone from other clubs, agents, media that this club has no intention of selling you. That this saga ends now."
There it was.
Francesco didn't speak immediately.
He stared out of the kitchen window, watching a car pass slowly down the street, sunlight flashing across its windshield.
"I thought we already told them that," he said quietly.
Wenger sighed softly. Not tired. Just honest.
"We have," he replied. "Many times. But sometimes, silence allows imagination to grow. We want clarity. Finality."
Francesco nodded, even though Wenger couldn't see it.
"And you want me there," he said.
"Yes," Wenger replied. "Your presence matters. Your voice matters."
Another pause.
"You are our captain," Wenger added gently. "And more than that, you are our future."
That landed.
Francesco closed his eyes briefly.
"Alright," he said. "I'll come in."
"Good," Wenger said. There was satisfaction there, but also relief. "We'll see you soon, Francesco."
The call ended.
Francesco lowered the phone slowly.
Leah was already standing, leaning back against the counter, arms folded loosely.
"Well," she said. "That sounded… important."
He let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
"Press conference," he said.
Her expression shifted. "About the transfer stuff?"
He nodded. "They want to shut it down. Properly."
She studied him for a moment, searching his face.
"And how do you feel about that?"
He thought about it.
About the rumours. The headlines. The endless questions about his future, his loyalty, his value. About clubs circling like vultures, convinced that if they made enough noise, something would give.
"I feel… relieved," he said finally. "Tired of it. It's distracting."
Leah stepped closer and rested a hand against his chest.
"You don't owe anyone anything," she said quietly.
"I know," he replied. "But the club deserves clarity too."
She nodded. "Go then. Do what you need to do."
He kissed her forehead, quick and affectionate.
"I'll text you later," he said.
"Don't forget to eat," she replied automatically.
He smiled. "Yes, mum."
London Colney felt different that morning.
Not tense. Not dramatic. Just… purposeful.
Staff moved with intent. Media teams were already setting up near the press room. Cables ran along the floor. Microphones were tested, adjusted, tested again.
Francesco arrived quietly.
No entourage. No fuss.
A few staff members nodded as he passed. Some smiled. Others offered brief words of encouragement.
"Good game last night."
"Morning, skipper."
He returned each greeting naturally.
In the main building, Wenger waited.
He stood near the window of his office, hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the training pitches where a few players were already warming up lightly.
"Francesco," he said, turning as the door closed behind him.
"Boss."
They shook hands.
"Thank you for coming," Wenger said.
"Of course."
They sat.
For a moment, neither spoke. Wenger liked silence. Used it like punctuation.
"This is not something I do lightly," Wenger said at last. "Press conferences like this… they create ripples."
Francesco nodded. "But sometimes ripples are better than noise."
Wenger smiled faintly. "Exactly."
He leaned forward slightly.
"There are clubs," he continued, "who believe persistence will change our mind. Who think pressure creates opportunity."
Francesco's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"They are wrong," Wenger said calmly.
Francesco met his gaze.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said simply.
Wenger held his eyes for a second longer, then nodded once.
"I know."
A knock came at the door.
A member of the media team stepped in. "We're ready in ten, Arsène."
Wenger stood. "Thank you."
Wenger stood and reached for his jacket, smoothing it out with the same habitual care he applied to everything. The conversation had settled into that quiet understanding he valued most with the kind where nothing more needed to be said, because everything important already had been.
Francesco rose as well, rolling his shoulders once, feeling the familiar calm return. Whatever nerves might have existed earlier were gone now. This wasn't about defending himself. It wasn't about proving loyalty. It was about drawing a line and moving on.
They were just about to head toward the press room when Francesco's phone buzzed again in his hand.
He glanced at the screen.
Jorge Mendes.
He hesitated for half a second, then answered as he stepped toward the corridor.
"Jorge," he said. "You're early."
Jorge's voice came through immediately, smooth as ever, layered with faint background noise from traffic, footsteps, the low murmur of a city.
"Early and accidental," Jorge replied with a small laugh. "I'm in London already. Meetings. Unrelated, I promise."
Francesco slowed his pace slightly. "That's convenient."
"Life sometimes is," Jorge said. "I saw the news building already. Journalists texting me. I assume Arsène finally decided to end the circus?"
Francesco smiled faintly. "You could say that."
There was a brief pause on the line.
"You want me there?" Jorge asked, already knowing the answer.
Francesco didn't hesitate. "Yes. It would help. They'll listen."
Jorge chuckled softly. "Of course they will. I'm five minutes away."
"London Colney," Francesco said.
"I know where it is," Jorge replied lightly. "I'll see you shortly."
The call ended.
Francesco lowered the phone and looked up just in time to see Wenger watching him with mild curiosity.
"Jorge?" Wenger asked.
"Yes," Francesco replied. "He's in London already. He's coming."
Wenger considered that for a moment.
"That may be useful," he said. Not enthusiastic. Not resistant. Simply pragmatic.
They walked back toward Wenger's office instead of heading straight to the press room. The corridors buzzed more now. Staff moved faster. Someone wheeled a cart of bottled water past them. A communications officer spoke hurriedly into a phone near the corner.
The sense of occasion was growing.
They had been seated again for barely a few minutes when footsteps approached.
The door opened.
And Jorge Mendes walked in as if he had always planned to.
Immaculate suit. Calm expression. Phone already silenced and slipped into his pocket. He carried himself with the easy authority of a man who had stood in rooms like this all over Europe and left them quieter than when he arrived.
"Arsène," Jorge said warmly, extending a hand.
"Jorge," Wenger replied, shaking it firmly. "Good to see you."
"And Francesco," Jorge added, turning slightly, eyes sharp but friendly. "You look relaxed. That's good."
Francesco smirked. "I slept well."
Jorge laughed softly. "That's how I know the rumours haven't reached you properly."
They all shared a brief smile.
Jorge took a seat without being invited, setting his briefcase neatly at his feet.
"I won't take much time," he said. "I understand what you're doing today."
Wenger nodded. "Then you understand why clarity is important."
"Absolutely," Jorge replied. "Speculation is profitable for some people. Stability is profitable for others."
Francesco leaned back slightly. "I prefer the second group."
"As do I," Jorge said.
The door opened again.
This time, there was no mistaking the presence.
Ivan Gazidis stepped in, jacket off, sleeves rolled up slightly, expression focused but calm. He carried a folder tucked under his arm, the Arsenal crest embossed on the front.
"Arsène," Ivan said. "Francesco. Jorge."
"Ivan," Wenger replied. "You're joining us?"
Ivan nodded. "I think it's important."
He closed the door behind him and took a seat beside Wenger.
"I'll be at the press conference," Ivan continued. "We want this to be unequivocal. Club, manager, player, representation. All aligned."
Jorge inclined his head approvingly. "That's wise."
Francesco looked between the three of them for a moment.
This wasn't something he took lightly.
The people in this room represented power, responsibility, leverage. And yet, none of it felt heavy now. It felt… resolved.
Ivan opened the folder briefly, glancing at a page before closing it again.
"We've received enquiries from four clubs in the last forty eight hours," he said matter of factly. "All informal. All testing the same thing, whether persistence changes the answer."
"And?" Jorge asked.
"And the answer hasn't changed," Ivan said.
Wenger nodded. "It will not."
Ivan looked at Francesco.
"We want to make sure this doesn't become a monthly topic," he said. "It's disruptive. Not just for you, but for the squad. For the project."
Francesco met his gaze evenly. "I agree."
Jorge folded his hands loosely. "Then the message today should be simple."
He looked around the room.
"No drama. No numbers. No hypotheticals. Just facts."
Wenger smiled faintly. "That is very much my style."
Ivan glanced at his watch. "Five minutes."
Outside, the press room was already full.
Inside, the four of them sat together in quiet anticipation.
Francesco felt something shift then which not nerves, but perspective.
This wasn't about closing doors.
It was about committing fully to the one he'd already chosen.
A knock came again.
"They're ready," the media officer said from the doorway.
Wenger stood first.
"Gentlemen," he said simply.
They rose together.
As they walked toward the press room, Francesco felt the weight of it that not as pressure, but as responsibility. To the club. To the teammates who trusted him. To the supporters who sang his name without ever asking for reassurance.
The room fell silent as they entered.
Four chairs behind the desk.
Four microphones.
Four different expressions of the same message.
Wenger took the centre-left seat.
Ivan sat beside him.
Francesco took the centre-right.
Jorge settled at the far end, relaxed, unreadable.
Cameras clicked immediately.
The press sensed it. This wasn't routine. This was definitive.
Wenger leaned forward first.
"Good morning," he said. "Thank you for coming on short notice."
Silence followed.
"We are here to address speculation surrounding Francesco's future," Wenger continued. "And to do so clearly, directly, and conclusively."
He gestured lightly toward Ivan.
"Ivan will speak from the club's perspective."
Ivan leaned in.
"Arsenal Football Club is not entertaining any offers for Francesco," he said. "He is a central part of our sporting and commercial vision. This is not a negotiating position. It is a statement of fact."
Pens scratched.
Hands hovered.
Ivan continued. "We have communicated this privately. Today, we are communicating it publicly so there is no ambiguity."
He leaned back.
Wenger nodded and turned toward Francesco.
"Francesco," he said.
Francesco adjusted the microphone slightly.
He didn't rush.
"I'll keep it simple," he said. "Because it is simple."
A few journalists exchanged glances.
"I am committed to Arsenal," Francesco continued. "I'm under contract. I'm happy. I'm focused on winning here."
He paused.
"I respect interest. But interest doesn't equal intention."
Cameras flashed.
"This club has given me responsibility and trust," he added. "I don't walk away from that."
He leaned back.
Jorge leaned forward next, uninvited but perfectly timed.
"From my side," he said smoothly, "there are no negotiations. No discussions. No back channels."
He smiled faintly.
"And if anyone believes otherwise, they are misinformed."
That did it.
Questions erupted.
"Is there a release clause—"
"Which clubs made enquiries—"
"How long is the contract—"
Wenger raised a hand.
"One at a time," he said calmly.
Wenger's raised hand didn't silence the room immediately, but it slowed it.
The questions kept coming for a second longer, voices overlapping, journalists trying to get their angle in before the door closed again. Then, gradually, the sound settled into something more orderly. Hands went up. Names were called. The familiar rhythm of a press conference took over.
Wenger pointed calmly to a reporter near the front.
"You," he said.
A man from a Spanish outlet stood, microphone already in hand. He didn't bother easing into it.
"Francesco," he said, "with respect, clubs like Real Madrid and Barcelona rarely hear a definitive 'no'. Why don't you want to move to either of them?"
The room shifted.
That question landed differently.
This wasn't about contracts or clauses or timing. This was personal. Everyone felt it as journalists leaning forward, cameras subtly adjusting their focus, even Ivan and Jorge glancing sideways for a fraction of a second.
Francesco didn't look at Wenger.
He didn't look at Ivan.
He looked straight at the reporter.
And for a moment, he said nothing.
Not because he didn't have an answer, but because he was choosing how honest he was willing to be.
He adjusted the microphone again, a small habit, grounding himself.
"I'll answer honestly," he said.
That alone sent a ripple through the room.
"With Madrid," Francesco continued, voice steady, unembellished, "I don't like them."
A few journalists blinked.
Some smiled despite themselves.
Others froze, fingers hovering over keyboards.
"It's not tactical," he added. "It's not financial. It's personal."
A murmur rolled through the room.
"I grew up watching them beat teams I loved," Francesco said. "I grew up watching how they treat players when they're no longer useful. I don't respect that culture."
The murmur grew louder now, edging toward disbelief.
"And yes," he said calmly, "I hate them. Personally."
That was it.
That was the quote.
You could feel it leave the room before anyone had even typed it.
Ivan shifted slightly beside Wenger, not alarmed but aware.
Wenger's expression didn't change at all.
Francesco wasn't finished.
"As for Barcelona," he continued, turning his head slightly as if acknowledging the second half of the question, "that's different."
The tension recalibrated.
"I respect Barcelona," he said. "I respect how they play. I respect their history."
A few Catalan journalists nodded instinctively, already preparing the follow-up.
"But," Francesco added, "I don't want to play with Messi."
That landed almost as hard as the Madrid comment, but in a different way.
The room went quiet again.
"Why?" the reporter pressed.
Francesco leaned back slightly in his chair, shoulders relaxed.
"Because I don't want to stand next to him," he said. "I want to stand across from him."
That drew a reaction.
Some laughter. Some sharp inhales. Some incredulous looks exchanged between journalists.
"I grew up measuring myself against players like him," Francesco went on. "Not dreaming of assisting them. Dreaming of beating them."
He glanced briefly toward Jorge, then back to the room.
"I don't want to be part of his story," Francesco said. "I want him to be part of mine."
That was quieter.
But somehow louder.
Cameras flashed again.
The reporter hesitated, clearly unsure whether to push further or sit down.
Wenger smoothly intervened.
"Next question," he said, already pointing.
A British journalist stood this time, voice more measured, more familiar.
"Francesco," she said, "if not Madrid, if not Barcelona, why stay at Arsenal? Especially when you could win elsewhere sooner, perhaps easier?"
That question cut deeper.
Not aggressive. Not sensational.
Honest.
Francesco didn't answer immediately.
He glanced around the room, at the Arsenal crest on the wall behind them, at the faces he'd seen dozens of times before.
"This club," he said slowly, "is my boyhood club."
A few pens paused.
"I was a kid wearing this badge before anyone knew my name," he continued. "Before cameras. Before contracts. Before expectations."
He swallowed once that not emotional, but reflective.
"I didn't choose Arsenal because it was easy," Francesco said. "I chose it because it felt right."
He leaned forward slightly now.
"And I'm staying because it still does."
The room was quiet enough to hear the hum of the lights.
"I'll stay here until I retire," Francesco said. "Or until the club tells me they don't need me anymore."
Ivan's gaze flicked toward him sharply.
That wasn't scripted.
"And when that day comes," Francesco added, "I'll leave with respect. Not regret."
He sat back.
"That's why."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the questions came again that faster now, sharper, more animated.
"Are you saying you'll never leave Arsenal?"
"What if Wenger retires?"
"Is this a promise to the fans?"
Wenger raised his hand again.
"One more question," he said. "Then we will conclude."
He pointed to the back.
A young reporter stood, visibly nervous.
"Francesco," he asked, "do you understand how much pressure comments like these put on you?"
Francesco smiled faintly.
"Yes," he said. "But pressure doesn't scare me."
He looked down the row of cameras.
"Expectation is a privilege," he added. "It means people believe you can carry it."
Wenger nodded once.
"That will be all," he said.
The conference ended not with chaos, but with certainty.
As they stood and stepped away from the desk, Francesco felt it again as that strange mix of relief and responsibility settling into his chest. He hadn't hedged. He hadn't softened the edges. He'd said exactly what he believed.
Whether people liked it or not was no longer his concern.
In the corridor outside, the noise returned with phones ringing, journalists already speaking into recorders, staff moving briskly past.
Ivan exhaled slowly.
"Well," he said, half to himself, "that'll dominate tomorrow."
Jorge smiled faintly. "Tomorrow? Try the rest of the season."
Wenger stopped walking and turned to Francesco.
"You spoke from conviction," he said. "That matters."
Francesco met his eyes.
"I meant every word."
Wenger nodded. "I know."
Wenger's nod lingered with Francesco for a moment longer than the words themselves.
It wasn't approval in the loud sense. It was something quieter. Deeper. The kind of acknowledgment that came from one man recognising conviction in another, without needing to dress it up.
They resumed walking.
The corridor outside the press room felt narrower now, crowded not just with bodies but with aftermath. Journalists clustered in tight knots, already dissecting soundbites into headlines. Phones were pressed to ears. Voices were lowered, urgent, excited. The story had escaped the room and was already mutating in real time.
"Did you hear what he said about Madrid—"
"That Messi line—"
"He just ended half the market in ten minutes—"
Francesco kept his eyes forward.
He said his goodbyes efficiently.
First Ivan.
Ivan stopped him briefly, hand on his shoulder. "The board appreciates this," he said. "Not just the words. The timing."
Francesco nodded. "I didn't do it for the board."
Ivan smiled thinly. "I know. That's why it worked."
Jorge was next.
Jorge studied him for a second longer than necessary, that agent's gaze that was always calculating but, in rare moments, softened by respect.
"You realise," Jorge said quietly, "you've just made my job harder and easier at the same time."
Francesco smirked. "Good."
Jorge chuckled. "Enjoy the silence while it lasts. You earned it."
Wenger was last.
They stopped near the exit, the automatic doors sliding open and closed as staff passed through.
"Go home," Wenger said. "Rest. Training tomorrow is light."
Francesco raised an eyebrow. "That's new."
Wenger allowed himself the smallest smile. "Even captains need space sometimes."
They shook hands.
Francesco stepped outside.
The air felt different.
Cooler. Cleaner. As if the weight he'd been carrying without fully acknowledging it had finally lifted. He walked across the parking area without looking around, unlocked his BMW X5, and slid into the driver's seat.
The door closed with a familiar, solid thud.
For a second, he just sat there.
Hands on the wheel.
Breathing.
Then he started the engine and pulled away.
The drive back was quiet.
No radio.
No calls.
Just the hum of the road and the steady rhythm of passing scenery. London thinned out gradually, buildings giving way to trees, traffic loosening its grip as he moved farther from the city's centre.
At a red light, his phone buzzed again.
He glanced down.
Leah: You alive?
He smiled and typed back.
Barely. On my way.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
You just broke the internet, she replied.
He shook his head, amused, and put the phone back down as the light turned green.
By the time he reached Richmond, the sky had shifted. Late afternoon light filtered through the trees lining the road, shadows stretching long across the asphalt. His mansion came into view at the end of the drive, gates already opening automatically as the car approached.
He pulled in, parked, and shut the engine off.
The silence here was different.
Not empty. Comfortable.
He stepped out, rolled his shoulders once, and walked inside.
The house greeted him with familiar stillness.
Then sound.
From the living room.
Television voices.
He followed them.
Leah was sprawled across the sofa, legs tucked under her, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. A mug sat on the coffee table, steam still rising. The TV was tuned to Sky Sports News.
And there he was.
On the screen.
Frozen mid-sentence.
BREAKING: FRANCESCO TRANSFER SAGA ENDS
Beneath it, a ticker scrolled relentlessly.
Arsenal and captain put speculation to rest after definitive press conference.
Leah didn't turn immediately. She was too focused on the screen.
"They're looping it," she said, as if narrating a documentary. "Again. And again. And again."
Francesco leaned against the doorway, watching himself talk about Madrid, about Barcelona, about Arsenal.
"Do I really look that serious?" he asked.
Leah turned, eyes lighting up when she saw him.
"There he is," she said. "The man who apparently just declared war on Spain."
He laughed softly and crossed the room, dropping onto the sofa beside her. She shifted instinctively, curling closer, her shoulder pressing into his side.
"They're saying it's over," she continued, nodding at the screen. "Transfer saga. Finished. Dead."
He watched the words scroll past again.
"Good," he said quietly.
On the TV, a pundit was speaking now, gesturing animatedly.
"This is rare," the pundit said. "You don't often see a player of his calibre shut the door so publicly. No ambiguity. No 'we'll see'. Just, this is my club."
Another voice cut in.
"And you have to talk about what this means tactically as well for the team. As now Arsenal's fullback rotation is suddenly one of the most interesting in the league."
The screen split.
Footage of Robertson and Walker appeared, highlights rolling.
Robertson bombing forward, relentless, overlapping, still pressing late into matches.
Walker surging down the flank, powerful, aggressive, defending with authority.
Leah glanced at Francesco. "They're talking about your team now."
He hummed thoughtfully.
"They should," he said.
On screen, a graphic appeared.
FULLBACK ROTATION ANALYSIS
"Walker gives Arsenal something they've lacked," the analyst said. "Physical dominance. Defensive assurance. He's stronger than Bellerín in almost every duel, apart from pure sprint speed."
Francesco smiled faintly.
"That's fair," he said.
"And Robertson," the analyst continued, "his stamina is absurd. He covers ground like Monreal but offers more intensity. He's becoming a perfect rotation option. Keeps the level high without disrupting balance."
Leah nudged him lightly. "You agree?"
"I do," Francesco replied. "They push each other. That's the point."
The TV showed clips now of Robertson tracking back deep into stoppage time, Walker winning aerial duels, overlapping runs stretching the pitch.
"They make us harder to play against," Francesco said. "More complete."
Leah studied him for a moment.
"You sound relieved," she said.
He leaned back, exhaling.
"I am," he admitted. "That noise… it was always there. Even when I pretended not to hear it."
She rested her head against his shoulder.
"It's gone now."
"Mostly," he said. "Football never stays quiet for long."
She smiled. "Still. Tonight's yours."
On screen, the anchor returned.
"So to summarise," she said, "Arsenal have drawn a firm line. Francesco is staying. The club is united. And one of the most talked-about transfer sagas of the season appears to be over."
The words lingered.
Francesco stared at the screen, then reached for the remote and turned the volume down.
The house fell quiet again.
He wrapped an arm around Leah and pulled her closer.
"Thank you," he said.
She looked up. "For what?"
"For being here," he replied. "For not pushing. For grounding me."
She smiled softly. "That's what partners do."
He kissed her hair and let his head rest back against the sofa. Outside, the light was fading, evening creeping in slowly.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 28
Goal: 45
Assist: 1
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9