The King Of Arsenal

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By the time he crawled into bed, it was well past midnight. But as he closed his eyes, a sense of satisfaction washed over him. He wasn't just chasing personal glory; he was part of something bigger. And for Francesco Lee, that was what football was all about.

The next day, Francesco woke to the sound of his alarm buzzing softly on the nightstand. The thin slivers of sunlight crept through the hotel curtains, painting faint streaks of gold across the room. He let out a deep breath, stretching lazily under the warm sheets before rolling over to turn off the alarm. Despite the late night, he felt surprisingly refreshed—his body tired but his mind sharp, still riding the high from last night's performance.

He swung his legs over the bed and sat for a moment, his hands running through his disheveled hair. The memories of the previous match flashed in his mind: the goals, the cheers from the away fans, and the praise from pundits he'd grown up watching. A small smile crept across his lips. Still hard to believe this is all real, he thought. But there was no time to dwell. The routine of professional football didn't allow for it. He had work to do, even on a travel day.

Francesco pushed himself up and walked to the bathroom, where a warm shower awaited. The water cascaded over his skin, easing away the lingering soreness in his muscles. He relished the quiet moments under the steam, a chance to center himself before the day began. After a while, he turned off the water and stepped out, towel-drying his hair before slipping into his Arsenal training suit. The iconic crest of the club sat proudly over his heart, and seeing it reflected in the bathroom mirror gave him a jolt of pride. This is home now.

He packed up his belongings quickly, careful to make sure he didn't leave behind anything—not the match ball, not the Man of the Match trophy. Both were neatly tucked into his kit bag. Once everything was zipped up, he slung the bag over his shoulder and grabbed his phone and room key, making his way out.

The hallway was quiet as he stepped outside, save for the faint sound of voices coming from rooms down the corridor. Francesco checked his watch—it was still early. He made his way to the elevator, taking a quick look at his phone as he descended to the lobby. A few congratulatory texts lit up the screen, messages from old friends, coaches, and even family members who'd stayed up to watch his performance live. He smiled to himself, quickly sending back a few short replies before slipping his phone into his pocket.

The hotel lobby was already starting to fill up with his teammates. Some sat lazily on the plush couches, headphones on and coffee cups in hand, while others were chatting in small groups. Francesco spotted Per Mertesacker and a couple of the senior players near the lobby entrance, joking around and bantering like it was just another day at the office.

"Morning, superstar," Theo Walcott called out, flashing a grin as Francesco walked past.

Francesco laughed softly, shaking his head. "Morning, Theo. Don't start."

"You know he's going to milk this hat-trick for weeks," another teammate teased, earning a wave of laughter from the group.

Francesco took it all in stride, smiling as he set his bag down near one of the couches. He knew the lighthearted jokes were all part of the camaraderie, the way the team stayed grounded even during moments of success. He'd always admired how the senior players handled that balance—how they could shift effortlessly from joking around to being serious competitors when it mattered most.

Francesco found an empty seat and sat down, resting his hands on his knees as he took in the scene around him. Moments like this—where the team gathered together, united in the rhythm of their routines—felt just as meaningful as the victories on the pitch. This was the part of football the fans didn't see, the quiet bond that formed during travel days, shared meals, and long bus rides.

It wasn't long before the coaching staff arrived, led by Arsène Wenger himself. The manager moved through the lobby with his usual calm presence, nodding toward players and exchanging quick words with some of them. Wenger spotted Francesco sitting toward the back and gave him an approving nod—a subtle acknowledgment of last night's performance. Francesco straightened up slightly, feeling a sense of pride swell in his chest. Wenger didn't need to say much; that look alone was enough to tell him he'd done well.

"All right, lads," one of the assistant coaches called out, clapping his hands to get everyone's attention. "Let's gather your things and head to the bus. We've got a flight to catch."

The players began to rise, grabbing their bags and finishing off whatever coffee or snacks they'd been holding. Francesco followed suit, slinging his kit bag over his shoulder and making his way outside with the others. The morning air was crisp and cool as they stepped out of the hotel and toward the waiting team bus.

The bus ride to the airport was a familiar routine. Most of the team was quiet, either catching up on sleep or listening to music through their headphones. Francesco slid into a window seat again, his match ball and trophy safely tucked beside him. He leaned his head against the cool glass, watching the city pass by as the bus rumbled down the road. It was still early enough that the streets were only just coming to life, the occasional car or pedestrian dotting the quiet scene.

His phone buzzed softly in his hand, and Francesco glanced down to see a message from his mom.

"Proud of you, son. You made us all so happy last night. Safe travels home. ❤️"

A warmth spread through him as he read the words. He typed back a quick reply:

"Thanks, Mom. Love you. I'll see you soon."

The bus eventually pulled up to the airport, where they were quickly ushered through security and to the gate reserved for their charter flight. The entire process had become second nature to Francesco now, though he still felt a quiet thrill at traveling with the first team—walking through airports surrounded by teammates he used to watch on TV. The occasional fan or passerby would stop to snap photos or shout words of encouragement, and Francesco always made sure to smile and wave back. He didn't take any of it for granted.

Once on board the plane, Francesco found his seat and settled in for the flight back to London. He pulled out his notebook again, flipping to a blank page to jot down a few thoughts about the game. Even after such a strong performance, he didn't let himself get complacent. There was always something to improve, always another challenge on the horizon. He scribbled down notes about his positioning, his decision-making, and moments where he could have involved his teammates more. It was a habit he'd developed to stay sharp, to keep pushing himself forward.

After a while, the steady hum of the engines lulled him into a light doze. When he woke, the plane was beginning its descent into London. Francesco sat up and peered out the window, catching a glimpse of the sprawling city below. The sight of it—his new home—filled him with a sense of comfort and belonging.

Once the plane touched down and taxied to the gate, the players gathered their belongings and filed off the plane. The team bus was waiting to take them back to the training ground, where their cars were parked. Francesco climbed aboard with the others, slipping into his usual spot as the bus rumbled to life again.

The drive back to the training ground was relatively quiet, the players visibly tired from the trip. But there was a sense of satisfaction in the air—another match won, another step forward. When they arrived, Francesco grabbed his bag and headed straight to his bicycle. He waved goodbye to a few teammates before hop in to his bicycle.

As he drove through the familiar streets of London, Francesco felt a deep sense of contentment. This was his life now: the matches, the travel, the constant push to improve. It was everything he'd ever dreamed of, and yet he knew it was just the beginning.

He pulled up outside his home and parked his bicycle, carrying his bag inside. The match ball and trophy found a new spot on his shelf, joining a growing collection of mementos from his young career. He paused to look at them for a moment, then turned away with a small smile. There was no time to dwell. Tomorrow was another day, and the work never stopped.

The next day, Francesco woke up to the familiar scent of home. The aroma of freshly baked lasagna wafted through the air, pulling him from the last tendrils of sleep. He blinked a few times, the early morning light filtering through his curtains. It was a peaceful kind of morning, the kind he appreciated most after a busy match day and travel schedule. Stretching lazily, he climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom for a quick wash before heading downstairs.

As he reached the dining room, he was greeted by a heartwarming sight. His mom, Sarah, was bustling around the kitchen, setting down a tray of lasagna at the dining table. She turned and smiled brightly when she saw him. "Morning, sweetheart! You're just in time. Breakfast is ready."

Francesco chuckled, stepping into the room. "Morning, Mom. Lasagna for breakfast? You're spoiling me."

"Well, you deserve it," Sarah replied, her voice full of pride. "After that hat-trick last night, how could I not? Plus, I know it's your favorite."

His dad, Mike, was already seated at the table, sipping on a cup of coffee. He looked up as Francesco entered, a broad smile spreading across his face. "There he is, the man of the hour! You were incredible last night, son."

Francesco felt a flush of warmth at the praise. "Thanks, Dad. It was a good night."

Mike gestured for him to sit. "Come on, eat up. You've got a big day ahead, and you're going to need your energy."

Francesco sat down and helped himself to a generous portion of lasagna. It was still steaming, the cheese perfectly melted and the sauce rich and flavorful. As he took his first bite, he couldn't help but hum in satisfaction. His mom's cooking was second to none, and moments like this—sitting with his family, enjoying a home-cooked meal—reminded him of the simpler joys in life.

For a while, they ate in comfortable conversation. Sarah asked him about the match, beaming with pride as Francesco recounted some of the highlights. Mike chimed in with his own observations, offering a mix of fatherly advice and encouragement. They talked about his training schedule, his teammates, and even shared a few laughs about the playful teasing he'd gotten from the squad.

"You're handling all of this so well, Francesco," Sarah said as she refilled his glass of orange juice. "It's a lot for someone your age, but you're making it look easy."

Francesco smiled, his fork pausing mid-air. "It's not always easy, Mom, but I've got good people around me. And you and Dad keep me grounded."

Mike leaned back in his chair, a look of quiet pride on his face. "That's our job, son. You focus on the football. We'll handle the rest."

After finishing breakfast, Francesco stood and carried his plate to the sink, giving his mom a quick kiss on the cheek as he passed. "Thanks for breakfast, Mom. It was amazing, as always."

"You're welcome, sweetheart. Good luck at training today."

Mike called out as Francesco grabbed his bag and headed for the door. "Knock 'em dead, kiddo!"

Francesco laughed. "It's just training, Dad. But thanks!"

He grabbed his bicycle from where it was parked in the garage, slinging his bag over his shoulder. The air was cool and crisp as he pedaled through the streets, the early morning sun casting long shadows over the quiet neighborhoods. He loved these rides to the Arsenal Training Centre. It gave him a chance to clear his mind, to focus on the day ahead. The hum of the tires on the pavement and the rhythm of his pedaling felt almost meditative.

As he neared the training grounds, the familiar sight of the Arsenal crest came into view, emblazoned on the entrance gates. He slowed to a stop and waved to the security staff, who greeted him warmly. "Morning, Francesco. Big game last night, huh?"

Francesco smiled, nodding. "Morning. Yeah, it was a good one. Thanks!"

He parked his bicycle in the designated area and made his way into the facility. The buzz of activity was already in full swing, with players and staff moving about in preparation for the day's training session. Francesco headed straight to the locker room, where a few of his teammates were already changing into their gear.

"Morning, Francesco," said Theo Walcott, giving him a quick nod. "Still riding that bike of yours, eh? You're going to make the rest of us look lazy."

Francesco laughed as he opened his locker. "Hey, it keeps me in shape. Plus, it's good for the environment."

"Fair enough," Theo replied, pulling on his boots. "Just don't be late to training one day because of a flat tire."

Francesco grinned, quickly changing into his training kit. He felt a surge of energy as he pulled on the iconic red and white jersey. Every time he wore it, he was reminded of the responsibility it carried, the history and pride of representing Arsenal Football Club.

Once he was ready, he joined the rest of the squad on the training pitch. Arsène Wenger and the coaching staff were already there, setting up cones and drills. The morning sun cast a golden hue over the lush green grass, and the crisp air carried a sense of focus and determination.

Wenger called the team into a huddle, his calm yet commanding presence setting the tone for the session. "Good morning, everyone. First of all, congratulations on the win last night. It was a strong performance, but as always, there's room for improvement. Today, we'll focus on recovery and tactical drills. Let's keep the momentum going."

The players broke off into groups, and Francesco found himself paired with a mix of senior players and fellow young talents. The drills were intense but purposeful, designed to sharpen their skills and reinforce their understanding of Wenger's tactical vision. Francesco threw himself into every exercise, his mind fully focused on improving his game.

Throughout the session, Wenger occasionally pulled him aside to offer feedback. "Francesco, your movement off the ball is excellent, but remember to communicate more with your midfielders. It will open up even more opportunities."

"Yes, boss," Francesco replied, absorbing the advice like a sponge.

As the morning progressed, the team transitioned into a small-sided game. Francesco's team was pitted against a group led by Theo Walcott, and the competition was fierce. Francesco's quick footwork and precise passing earned his side the win, and the playful banter that followed kept the mood light.

By the time training ended, Francesco was drenched in sweat but felt a deep sense of satisfaction. He knew he was growing, improving with each session. As the players began to head back to the locker room, Wenger called out to him.

"Francesco, a word?"

Francesco jogged over, wiping his face with a towel. "Yes, boss?"

Wenger smiled, his tone encouraging. "You're doing very well, Francesco. Keep this up, and you'll go far. But remember, football is a marathon, not a sprint. Take care of your body and your mind."

"I will, boss. Thank you."

As Francesco headed back to the locker room, Wenger's words stayed with him. He knew the road ahead would be challenging, but moments like this—where he felt supported and believed in—gave him the strength to keep pushing forward.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : None

Match Played: 3

Goal: 11

Assist: 2

MOTM: 3