The King Of Arsenal

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Francesco looked ahead, feeling the cool London night air as they stepped outside. He knew the spotlight was on him now more than ever. Every game, every interview, every moment—it all mattered.

As the three of them walked back toward the dressing room, the echoes of their footsteps filled the hallway. The excitement of the game and press conference still buzzed in Francesco's mind, but as they stepped inside, they were met with silence. The locker room was empty, save for two backpacks—one belonging to Mertesacker and the other to Francesco. The rest of the team had already made their way to the bus, eager to return to the Arsenal Training Center after a long but rewarding night.

Francesco exhaled, grabbing his backpack from the bench while Mertesacker did the same. Wenger, ever the composed figure, merely glanced around the empty room before nodding toward the exit.

"Let's go," Wenger said simply.

The two players followed their manager out of the dressing room, the cool London air greeting them as they stepped outside. The team bus was parked just outside the stadium, its engine already running, with the rest of the squad waiting inside. As they climbed the steps, Francesco could hear the low hum of conversation, the occasional chuckle from a joke shared between teammates. The mood was light, as it should be after such a convincing victory.

Wenger took his usual seat at the front, while Mertesacker and Francesco made their way toward the middle, settling into seats next to each other. The moment they sat down, Giroud, who was sitting across the aisle, leaned in with a smirk.

"Took you long enough," he teased. "What, were you signing autographs in the press room?"

Francesco smirked. "Nah, just letting the media know who's running the show."

Giroud chuckled, shaking his head. "This kid, man…"

As the bus pulled away from the stadium, Francesco leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out. The adrenaline from the game was still coursing through his veins, but the exhaustion was beginning to creep in. Across from him, Mertesacker let out a deep sigh, rubbing his face with his hands before looking over at Francesco.

"You know, you really are embracing this whole 'arrogant superstar' thing," the German said, a mix of amusement and curiosity in his voice.

Francesco shrugged. "It's not arrogance if you can back it up."

Mertesacker laughed. "Just remember—this league has a way of humbling people. You'll have bad games, tough games. The media will turn on you just as fast as they praise you."

Francesco nodded, but there was no doubt in his mind. "Then I'll just have to make sure I don't give them a reason to turn."

Mertesacker shook his head, a knowing smile on his face. "You remind me of a young Van Persie. Confident. Hungry. Just… don't be like him in the loyalty department."

Francesco chuckled but didn't say anything. He wasn't thinking that far ahead. Right now, all that mattered was continuing to dominate, continuing to prove himself as Arsenal's next big thing.

As the bus cruised through the quiet streets of London, the conversation among the players slowly died down. Some of them were scrolling through their phones, checking the highlights of the match. Others, like Alexis and Cazorla, had their headphones in, lost in their own world.

Francesco pulled out his own phone, checking his notifications. As expected, his name was trending.

"Francesco Lee: The Future of Arsenal?"

"Arrogance or Confidence? Francesco Lee's Post-Match Comments Spark Debate"

"Is Arsenal's New Star the Next Big Thing in the Premier League?"

He smirked. This was exactly what he wanted—people talking about him, debating him, analyzing every word he said. Because that meant they were paying attention. And as long as they were watching, he would keep giving them something to talk about.

Mertesacker glanced over at his screen and chuckled. "Careful. Don't let all that attention get to your head."

Francesco grinned. "Too late."

The German shook his head. "You're a piece of work, you know that?"

Francesco laughed, putting his phone away. He leaned back, letting his eyes close for a moment, allowing himself to finally relax. He had done his job tonight. Another win, another dominant performance, another step closer to cementing his legacy.

The bus rolled on through the night, carrying a team that was beginning to believe they could go all the way.

As the bus finally pulled into the Arsenal Training Center, a collective sigh of relief swept through the squad. It had been a long night, but the euphoria of victory still lingered. Francesco stretched his arms over his head before grabbing his backpack, ready to head home and unwind.

Just as the players started filing out of the bus, Wenger's voice cut through the night air.

"Everyone, gather in the tactics room before heading home. I need to speak with you all."

A few groans rippled through the squad—after all, they were expecting to be dismissed straight away. But no one dared argue with Wenger. He wasn't the kind of manager who held unnecessary meetings, which meant whatever he had to say was important.

Francesco exchanged a quick glance with Mertesacker, who just shrugged as if to say, 'Might as well get it over with.'

As they made their way into the tactics room, the mood in the squad was still light, with a few players joking around. Giroud playfully nudged Theo Walcott.

"Bet he's just calling this meeting to tell you to work on your finishing."

Theo rolled his eyes. "You're one to talk, mate."

Francesco smirked but didn't say anything. He was still riding the high from the match, still feeling invincible.

Once everyone had settled into their seats, Wenger stood at the front of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. His expression was serious—not angry, but firm. That alone was enough to get the squad's attention.

"I'll keep this brief," he began, scanning the room. "We are in a strong position this season. We have a real chance to compete for the Premier League title and the FA Cup. But after reviewing the latest reports from the medical team, I have made a decision."

A slight pause.

"We will abandon the Champions League this season."

For a moment, silence. Then—chaos.

"Wait, what?"

"You can't be serious!"

"This is Arsenal! We don't abandon competitions!"

Francesco sat forward in his chair, his jaw tightening. "Boss, we can win all three."

Wenger exhaled, clearly anticipating this reaction. He lifted a hand to silence the outbursts, his voice remaining calm but firm.

"I understand your frustration. But this is not a decision made lightly. Our squad depth is not strong enough to sustain challenges on all three fronts. The medical reports show too many red indicators—too many players at risk of injury. If we continue pushing in all competitions, we will burn out. And if that happens, we could end up with nothing."

The room was still tense. Players exchanged glances, some shaking their heads in disbelief.

Francesco wasn't having it. He leaned forward, his voice edged with determination. "With all due respect, boss, we've fought hard to get this far. You saw how we played tonight. We're not just contenders—we're the best team in England right now."

A murmur of agreement spread through the room. Even Alexis, usually one to keep quiet in these discussions, nodded in support.

Wenger met Francesco's gaze, unfazed. "I admire your ambition, Francesco. But this is not just about one game. It is about the long run. I will take responsibility for this decision, both with the media and with the fans. If we exit the Champions League early, it will be on me, not on you."

There was still visible tension, but Wenger's words carried weight. No one questioned his authority outright, even if many disagreed.

Santi Cazorla sighed, rubbing his temples. "So, we're just going to throw it away?"

"We're going to manage our priorities," Wenger corrected. "I am not saying you should go out there and lose on purpose. But we will not overextend ourselves. We will not risk unnecessary injuries for a competition where we are not in the best position to win. We will focus on the Premier League and the FA Cup, where we have the best chance of success."

Francesco clenched his jaw, biting back his frustration. He understood the logic—he really did. But it still didn't sit right with him. He wanted everything. He wanted to lift trophies, to dominate every competition, to cement himself as a legend.

Wenger could see the frustration on Francesco's face. His voice softened slightly. "Francesco, I know how badly you want to win. And I promise you—next season, you will have your chance. We will strengthen the squad, and we will go into the Champions League fully prepared to win it. But for now, trust me on this."

Francesco exhaled, leaning back in his chair. He didn't like it, but what choice did he have? Wenger wasn't going to change his mind.

Slowly, the frustration in the room started to die down. Players still looked disappointed, but they knew the conversation was over.

Wenger nodded, sensing the shift in mood. "That's all. Get some rest. We have training tomorrow."

One by one, the players stood and started making their way out of the room. Francesco stayed seated for a few moments, staring at the tactics board in front of him. He hated this feeling—this sense of being held back.

Mertesacker patted his shoulder as he passed. "Come on, kid. We've still got two trophies to win."

Francesco forced a small smile. "Yeah. I know."

As he walked out of the room and into the cold night air, one thought burned in his mind.

'Fine. If we're not going for the Champions League this season, then I'll make damn sure we win everything else.'

As Francesco stepped out into the night, the crisp London air cooled his heated frustration. The meeting hadn't gone the way he'd wanted—none of them had wanted to hear Wenger say they were giving up on the Champions League. He understood the logic, sure. But that didn't mean he liked it. He wanted to fight for everything.

"See you tomorrow, mate," Mertesacker said, giving Francesco a small nod as he walked toward his own car.

"Yeah, see you," Francesco replied, his voice still carrying traces of irritation.

A few of his other teammates waved or muttered goodbyes as they headed toward their cars. Giroud, ever the joker, patted Francesco on the back as he passed by.

"Don't let it ruin your night, kid. You've got plenty of time to win the Champions League."

Francesco forced a smile. "Yeah, plenty of time," he muttered.

He made his way to his car—a sleek black Honda Civic Type R parked neatly under the training center's fluorescent lights. It wasn't the flashiest ride in the lot—not compared to the Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and Range Rovers some of his teammates had. But he liked it. It was his. And it was fast.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he started the engine, the low growl of the turbocharged motor humming beneath him. He took a deep breath, gripping the wheel tightly for a second before exhaling and pulling out of the parking spot.

The drive home was quiet. The streets of London were still active, but nothing compared to the chaos of match day. Francesco kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear stick as he shifted smoothly between lanes. Music played softly through the car's speakers, but he wasn't really listening. His mind was still stuck in that tactics room, still replaying Wenger's words.

By the time he pulled into the underground parking lot of his apartment building, he had pushed the frustration aside. It wouldn't help to dwell on it now. All he could do was focus on what was ahead.

He parked in his usual spot, turned off the engine, and stepped out, locking the car with a quiet beep before heading toward the elevator.

The ride up was silent, the soft hum of the elevator filling the space as he leaned against the wall. When the doors opened on his floor, he stepped out, made his way down the hallway, and unlocked his apartment.

As soon as he stepped inside, he tossed his backpack onto the sofa and let out a deep breath.

Finally home.

The apartment was modern but not overly extravagant—an open-concept living room and kitchen, large windows with a view of the city skyline, and a bedroom tucked away in the back. He had kept things simple, preferring a sleek, clean design with neutral tones.

The first thing he did was peel off his hoodie and toss it onto a chair. The post-match adrenaline was starting to wear off, replaced by the familiar post-game exhaustion. He needed a shower.

Heading into the bathroom, he turned the water on, waiting for it to reach the perfect temperature before stepping in. The hot water cascaded over his shoulders, relaxing his muscles. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself enjoy the quiet, the stillness.

After a few minutes, he grabbed his shampoo, washing out the sweat and grime from the match. The feeling of clean, fresh skin helped clear his mind a little. By the time he stepped out and wrapped a towel around his waist, he felt a bit lighter—both physically and mentally.

With his hair still damp, he changed into a pair of comfortable sweatpants and a simple t-shirt before heading into the kitchen. His stomach rumbled—a reminder that he hadn't eaten since before the game.

He opened the fridge, scanning its contents before deciding on something quick but satisfying. Smoked beef mac and cheese.

He grabbed the ingredients: pasta, cheese, milk, butter, and a pack of smoked beef. The process was automatic—boil the pasta, melt the butter and cheese, stir in the milk until it reached the perfect creamy consistency. He cut the smoked beef into small pieces and tossed them in, letting the flavors mix together.

Within fifteen minutes, he had a steaming plate of mac and cheese in front of him.

Carbs. Protein. Everything he needed after a game.

He grabbed a fork, took his plate over to the living room, and plopped down onto the couch. With a few quick presses on the remote, he turned on the TV.

A Premier League highlights show was playing, recapping all the matches from the day.

He smirked when Arsenal's match came up. There he was—Francesco Lee, slicing through defenders, delivering that perfect assist, then scoring his own goal. The commentators were already buzzing about him.

"This kid is something special. Arsenal fans have been waiting for a player like him for years."

Francesco grinned, shoveling another bite of mac and cheese into his mouth.

Damn right.

But then the panel switched topics.

"Now, let's talk about Wenger's decision to focus on domestic competitions. It's controversial, to say the least. Arsenal have a real shot at the league, but giving up on the Champions League? That's not going to sit well with the fans."

Francesco's jaw tightened slightly. He already knew what they were going to say.

"This is a club that should be competing on all fronts. If they crash out of the Champions League early, the backlash will be massive."

"And what about the players? Do you think guys like Alexis, Özil, or even young Francesco will accept this decision?"

Francesco sighed, shaking his head. They had no idea.

The truth was, he wasn't okay with it. None of them were. But Wenger had made his choice, and as much as Francesco hated it, he had to respect it.

He turned off the TV, deciding he didn't need to hear any more pundits analyzing his team.

Instead, he leaned back into the couch, finishing the last few bites of his food before setting the plate aside. His muscles were still sore, but the exhaustion was creeping in now.

Tomorrow was another day. Another training session. Another chance to prove himself. And if Arsenal wasn't going for the Champions League this season? Then he'd make damn sure they won everything else.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : None

Match Played: 18

Goal: 23

Assist: 12

MOTM: 7