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They talked for a while — about the goal, the feeling, the ridiculous chants. She made him promise to rest, to hydrate, to eat a proper meal. When they finally hung up, he lay in bed, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling again — only this time, sleep came easy.
The next morning came slowly, pulling Francesco out of a sleep that felt as deep as the sea. Sunlight cut through the hotel curtains in gentle slivers, warming the sheets tangled around him. His body was sore in the best way possible — the kind of ache that came from a match well played, a goal well earned. But beyond the physical, there was a hum in his chest, a quiet aftershock of joy that hadn't faded overnight.
He took a moment before getting up, letting the memories of the night before flicker behind his eyes. The goal. The roar. The rush of his teammates crashing into him at the corner flag. The way Wembley had screamed his name, clumsy and imperfect, but loud and proud. And Leah — her laugh, her eyes, the way she said he belonged.
By mid-morning, he was dressed in his England tracksuit again, bag slung over his shoulder, descending to the team coach for the trip to St George's Park. The air was a bit cooler today, summer quietly giving way to September, but the atmosphere inside the bus was bright. The players were relaxed, chatting easily, jokes bouncing between rows, the pressure of the match behind them now.
At St George's, Roy Hodgson gathered them all one last time before the squad disbanded and players returned to their clubs. It wasn't a long meeting, but it had the air of finality — a kind of ceremonial wrap-up to a short but meaningful international break.
Roy stood in front of them in the meeting room, hands clasped behind his back. "Good job this week, lads. You did the country proud," he began, eyes scanning the faces of the squad. "Twelve goals, clean sheet, solid performance. Exactly what we needed heading into the next round of qualifiers."
He let the praise settle before continuing, his tone softening as he looked around.
"We'll reconvene next month. Until then, go back to your clubs, stay sharp, stay focused, and above all — stay fit. Francesco," he added, his eyes landing on the youngest player in the room, "you were outstanding. Keep your feet on the ground, son. But you should be proud."
Francesco gave a small nod, not trusting himself to speak. The room gave a quiet ripple of applause, and then just like that, it was over. Bags were packed, hands were shaken, and one by one, the players filed out toward the parking lot or the team bus that would ferry them to connecting trains and flights.
Francesco found his BMW X5 where he'd parked it two days earlier, tucked beneath a line of oak trees just starting to blush with autumn. He tossed his bag in the back seat, slid into the driver's seat, and took a breath before turning the key.
The drive from St George's Park to Richmond was long but soothing. He played some soft music — a playlist Leah had made for him and let the hum of the engine and the roll of the countryside pull him into a calm, content headspace. He thought about everything — the match, the goal, the way Kane had hoisted him like a little brother, and the weird thrill of reporters asking him questions like he was some kind of veteran.
He passed through fields that turned to suburbs, suburbs that gave way to the pulse of London. Richmond welcomed him with the familiar curve of roads he now called home, and soon he was pulling into his driveway, where the white stone facade of his house stood still and serene under the afternoon sun.
Inside, the house was quiet. Leah wouldn't arrive until later — she was still finishing up a work trip but that was okay. He dropped his bag by the door, slipped off his shoes, and stood in the entryway for a moment, just breathing it in. Home.
The days that followed were a comfortable blur. He trained at Colney with Arsenal, sharp and focused, but with a lightness to him — like the Wembley goal had cut a tether that had been quietly holding him down. The other lads had seen it too. There was a new layer of respect in the way they passed to him, the way they listened when he called for the ball.
Wenger had pulled him aside during one session, a faint smile behind those ever-observant glasses.
"You've handled everything very well, Francesco," the boss said, arms crossed as they watched the rest of the team scrimmage. "The pressure. The attention. You've earned your place, but now comes the harder part — keeping it."
Francesco nodded. "I'm ready, boss."
"I believe you are," Wenger replied. "Now let's get ready for Stoke."
September 12th arrived like the echo of a drumbeat — matchday at the Emirates. The sun hovered high, golden and clear, the air crisp but warm, perfect for football. Francesco woke early, showered, dressed in his suit for the pre-match arrival, and drove his X5 to the stadium with his usual blend of nerves and excitement stirring beneath the surface.
The Emirates buzzed as they walked through the tunnel. The scent of freshly cut grass. The murmur of the crowd growing louder by the minute. Fans already filling the stands, scarves twirling, shirts bright in the afternoon light.
Inside the dressing room, the mood was focused. Wenger gave his final instructions, calm but firm. They were up against Stoke City — always physical, always gritty — and they'd need to be sharp from the first whistle.
Francesco started up top alongside Alexis and Theo, with Özil floating in behind. It was a front line of pace, intelligence, and flair, and as he tightened his boots, Francesco felt the familiar pulse in his hands — the steady thrum of readiness.
Kickoff came, and Arsenal took control early.
The first ten minutes were tight — Stoke pressed high and tried to muscle into midfield, but Coquelin and Cazorla stood strong. Özil began to drift into pockets of space, and that's when things started to open.
In the 18th minute, it happened.
Özil picked the ball up near halfway, turned, and saw Walcott peeling off the shoulder of the left-back. A delicious curling pass split the defense, and Theo, true to form, raced onto it with a touch of fire. One-on-one with the keeper, he slotted it calmly inside the far post.
1–0. The crowd erupted.
Francesco jogged over to celebrate, bumping fists with Theo and clapping Özil on the back. But there was no pause — just purpose. They were hungry for more.
Only seven minutes later, Arsenal struck again.
This time it started on the left. Alexis Sanchez danced past a defender with that signature low center of gravity, and with a quick look up, he spotted Francesco curling into space just inside the box.
The ball came low, firm and precise.
Francesco timed his run perfectly. One touch to kill the pass. Another to open his body.
And then he swept it with his left foot across the keeper and into the same corner he'd found at Wembley days earlier.
2–0.
The Emirates roared, and Francesco's celebration was a blur of fists and shouting — Alexis tackled him in a hug, laughing, while Özil arrived seconds later to ruffle his hair.
"Same finish again, mate!" Alexis beamed.
"Muscle memory," Francesco grinned, breathless.
The rest of the first half played out with Arsenal in full control. Stoke were rattled, chasing shadows, and the Gunners nearly added a third just before the break when Cazorla clipped the bar with a curler from the edge of the box.
The second half began with a bit more grit from Stoke. Their tackles were heavier, their challenges more desperate, and Wenger began to rotate — preserving energy, avoiding injury. At the 75th minute, Francesco's number came up.
He jogged off to a standing ovation, high-fiving the players on the bench as Giroud came on to take his place.
He didn't even have time to sit before Cazorla picked out a lovely little chipped pass over the top, and Giroud — always clever with his movement — chested it down and poked it home before the keeper could close him down.
3–0. Arsenal cruising.
The final whistle was almost a formality. The fans sang the last minutes away, and as the players filed back down the tunnel, it was all grins and nods — another three points in the bag, another performance to build from.
In the dressing room, Francesco sat on the bench, toweling sweat from his hair, smiling like he couldn't help it. Theo offered him a protein shake with a wink.
"Two in two weeks, superstar."
Francesco shook his head, grinning. "Still a long way to go."
"Yeah, well," Alexis said, tossing an arm around his shoulder, "you keep this up, you'll be on posters by Christmas."
They laughed. The atmosphere was light — not cocky, just joyful. A team in sync.
Later that night, back at home in Richmond, Francesco reheated some leftover pasta, flopped on the couch, and put his feet up. Leah hadn't arrived yet — her train had been delayed — but they'd texted throughout the day. She'd seen the goal. Of course she had. She'd even sent a video of herself screaming in a café as it happened, startling an old couple at the table behind her.
He chuckled to himself, replaying the video again as he ate.
Another goal. Another win. Another step forward.
The next morning broke soft and slow over Richmond, with pale light seeping through the blinds in Francesco's bedroom. The house was still quiet. Leah was asleep beside him, her breathing steady, her head buried halfway into the pillow. She'd arrived late the night before, finally walking through the door just after midnight with her suitcase dragging and a tired but excited smile stretched across her face. They'd hugged at the doorway like they hadn't seen each other in weeks, not just a few days, and then curled up on the couch with tea and the highlight reel of his goal.
Francesco stirred awake now, blinking through the fog of sleep, his legs still a little heavy from the match. He stretched slowly, careful not to wake her, and reached for his phone on the bedside table. A notification blinked on the screen — a message from the club:
"Francesco, please come to Colney this morning. It's important. See you soon. — Boss."
He stared at it for a second, confused. Wenger had made it very clear the night before: Sunday was a full day off. A reward, he'd said, for their performance against Stoke and for how intensely they'd trained during the international break. Francesco had been looking forward to a quiet morning, maybe a stroll along the river with Leah or a lazy brunch.
But the message was clear, and there was no ignoring it.
He slid out of bed quietly, kissed Leah's temple, and whispered, "I've gotta head to the club. I'll be back soon."
She murmured something sleepy and incoherent, just enough to make him smile, and then turned over and drifted off again.
The drive to London Colney was familiar now — the winding rhythm of the A316, the early morning hum of traffic starting to build. He rolled the windows down a little, letting the cool September breeze chase away the last of his drowsiness. His mind wandered. Was someone injured? Had something happened overnight? But there was no panic in the message, no sense of urgency beyond the cryptic "it's important."
When he finally pulled into the training ground, he noticed right away that something was different.
For one, he wasn't alone.
A small group had gathered outside the main entrance, not in a chaotic way, but deliberately — club staff, a few familiar faces from the communications team, and unmistakably, a few men and women in navy suits with "FA" badges pinned neatly to their lapels. Cameras were being adjusted on tripods. A mic stand was being tested for sound.
And there, standing just to the side of the reception entrance, was Arsène Wenger, arms folded, smiling faintly like he knew something Francesco didn't.
Francesco parked his BMW and stepped out, eyes narrowed in curiosity, heart now thudding a little quicker.
Wenger walked over as he approached.
"Morning, Francesco," the manager said, that calm voice of his as smooth as ever.
"Morning, boss," Francesco replied, giving a quick glance toward the others. "What's going on?"
Wenger clapped a hand gently on his shoulder. "You've been called in for a good reason today. It's not training — I promised you guys the day off, and I meant it. But the FA wanted to do this properly. You've won the Premier League Player of the Month for August."
Francesco blinked.
"What?"
Wenger smiled wider. "One hat-trick, six goals, four matches. You've been electric. Everyone's seen it — not just the fans. The league has, too. Congratulations, Francesco. You deserve it."
The words sunk in slowly, like sunlight soaking into skin after a storm. Player of the Month. It was surreal. He'd barely turned seventeen a few months ago, had only just made his league debut. And now this?
The FA team approached, one of them holding the glossy crimson plaque shaped like a stylized 'P', the Premier League logo etched cleanly into it. Cameras clicked. The small crew of staff began quietly cueing up for the shoot.
Francesco ran a hand through his hair, trying to play it cool, but the grin on his face betrayed him.
"Thanks, boss," he said quietly. "I… I don't even know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything clever," Wenger replied. "Just be honest. Be yourself. That's what got you here."
A young woman with a press pass stepped forward. "Francesco? We'll keep it short — just a quick interview to go along with the award announcement. We'll handle the rest in editing."
He nodded and followed her to the little media setup. The camera guy handed him a mic and gave him a quick thumbs-up behind the lens.
The interviewer smiled warmly. "First of all, congratulations, Francesco. Premier League Player of the Month for August. How does that feel?"
He shifted slightly, still holding the award plaque, eyes flicking toward Wenger for a second before he replied.
"It feels… incredible. Honestly. I didn't expect anything like this, not so soon. I've just been trying to play my game, help the team, do my job. So to be recognized like this — it means a lot."
She nodded, encouraging. "You scored six goals in four games, including a hat-trick against West Ham. You've captured the imagination of fans up and down the country. How have you managed to stay so composed through it all?"
Francesco laughed softly, the nerves starting to melt away. "I've got good people around me. My manager, my teammates, my family — they all keep me grounded. And I love playing football. I think when you love it that much, it doesn't feel like pressure. It feels like purpose."
"And what was it like walking out at Wembley for England and scoring on your debut?"
He shook his head with a breathless grin. "Still feels like a dream. Just hearing the fans chant my name — that moment will stay with me forever. I just wanted to make them proud."
They wrapped up quickly after that. More photos. A handshake with each of the FA representatives. A few quotes jotted down by a press officer for the club website. Wenger stood to the side the whole time, quietly watching, letting Francesco own the moment.
When it was all done and the cameras were packed away, Francesco found himself walking alongside his manager again toward the training center doors.
"I didn't know this kind of thing could feel so… weird," he admitted with a sheepish smile. "Good, but weird."
Wenger chuckled softly. "You'll get used to it. Just don't chase the awards. Keep chasing the performances that earn them."
Francesco nodded. "I will."
"Oh, and by the way," Wenger added, turning to him as they reached the front steps, "this doesn't change training tomorrow. We've got a big one coming up. Chelsea at Stamford Bridge."
Francesco's eyebrows lifted. "Right. That."
"Enjoy your day off — properly this time — but come ready tomorrow. They'll want to knock you down now that you've made a name for yourself."
Francesco grinned. "Let them try."
Back home, the moment caught up with him fully.
Leah was in the kitchen making pancakes when he walked in with the plaque in hand, trying and failing to look casual about it. She turned just in time to see the award and let out a squeal, sprinting over to throw her arms around him.
"Are you serious?! Player of the Month?! Francesco!"
He laughed as she hugged him, her excitement making it all feel even more real. "Yeah. The FA was at Colney this morning. Interview, photos, the whole thing."
She pulled back to look at him, pride glowing on her face. "You deserve it. You've been insane out there. And that finish yesterday? Cold."
They spent the rest of the afternoon just being normal. Pancakes turned into a walk by the river, into coffee at a quiet little shop they liked, into window shopping and dumb jokes and laughter echoing down side streets.
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.
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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