The King Of Arsenal

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And at the centre of it all stood Francesco, surrounded by his teammates, holding the World Cup while Trafalgar Square roared around him.

A few days later, the mansion in Richmond finally felt like home again.

Not a hotel.

Not a dressing room.

Not an airport terminal.

Not a parade route surrounded by thousands of people.

Home.

The quiet felt almost strange.

For the first time since the final in Moscow, Francesco could sit down without somebody asking him for a photograph, a quote, an autograph, or another celebration.

He was stretched comfortably across the sofa in the sitting room, one arm resting along the back cushion.

Beside him, Cheddar had curled himself into a small, warm ball, occasionally lifting his head whenever something interesting happened on the television.

The television itself was still refusing to let Francesco forget what had happened.

Every few minutes, another familiar image appeared.

The Luzhniki Stadium.

The final whistle.

England players celebrating.

Francesco lifting the World Cup.

The bus moving through London.

Trafalgar Square.

Thousands upon thousands of supporters.

Confetti.

The players singing.

The World Cup held above his head.

Francesco watched the screen for a few seconds.

Then shook his head.

Again.

The television showed the moment from another angle.

His expression changed as he watched himself raise the trophy in Trafalgar Square.

He smiled.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Cheddar opened one eye.

Francesco glanced down at him.

"They're still showing it."

Cheddar gave absolutely no indication that he cared.

He lowered his head again.

Francesco laughed.

"Fair enough."

The news presenters continued discussing England's historic victory.

One spoke about the four-two final against Croatia.

Another talked about the fifty-two-year wait.

A former player was explaining Francesco's three goals again, breaking down each movement and discussing how the young captain had handled the pressure.

Francesco leaned back.

He had heard all of it.

Over and over.

Three goals.

Golden Boot.

Golden Ball.

Young Player Award.

Man of the Match.

World Cup winner.

Captain.

Every description seemed to belong to somebody else.

He knew it was him.

He had the medals.

He had the awards.

He had lifted the trophy.

Yet there was still a small part of him that hadn't completely caught up.

He looked toward the television as another replay appeared.

There he was.

Standing beneath the lights of Luzhniki.

The World Cup in his hands.

His teammates surrounding him.

He smiled again.

Then quietly shook his head.

"Still feels weird."

Cheddar shifted closer against his leg.

Francesco reached down and scratched behind the corgi's ears.

"You weren't there."

Cheddar looked up.

"You missed everything."

A short bark came in response.

Francesco laughed.

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

From somewhere deeper inside the mansion came the sound of plates being moved.

Then the unmistakable smell of breakfast began drifting through the sitting room.

Francesco's stomach immediately reminded him that watching television wasn't enough.

Leah was in the kitchen.

She had been awake for a while, preparing breakfast while Francesco enjoyed the rare luxury of not having anywhere to be.

The smell of freshly cooked food gradually filled the house.

Francesco closed his eyes for a moment.

This was different.

Simple.

Quiet.

Normal.

After the madness of the previous week, it felt almost perfect.

From the final to the official homecoming, then the receptions, the parade, Trafalgar Square, photographs, appearances, parties and gatherings, there had barely been a moment when the England players weren't surrounded by people.

For two entire days, they had celebrated almost without stopping.

Every time Francesco thought they had reached the end, somebody had another event.

Another photograph.

Another toast.

Another appearance.

Another group of supporters waiting to see the trophy.

He loved every second of it.

He wouldn't have traded any of it.

But eventually, his body had made its opinion very clear.

Sleep.

Now.

And plenty of it.

The silence around the mansion was therefore more welcome than he could explain.

"Francesco!"

Leah's voice came from the kitchen.

"Breakfast is ready!"

Francesco looked toward Cheddar.

"You heard that."

Cheddar immediately stood.

Francesco laughed.

"You're very quick when food's involved."

Cheddar trotted toward the kitchen.

Francesco followed.

When he entered, Leah was already sitting at the dining table.

She looked up and smiled.

"There you are."

"I was watching the news."

Leah raised an eyebrow.

"Again?"

"They're showing the parade."

"They've been showing the parade all morning."

"I know."

"And you've watched it three times."

Francesco smiled.

"Maybe four."

Leah laughed.

"Come and eat."

Francesco sat opposite her.

Cheddar immediately positioned himself nearby, staring at them both with the concentration of someone who believed he was about to receive something.

Leah noticed.

"Don't look at me like that."

Cheddar continued staring.

Francesco laughed.

"He's learned from you."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Leah smiled.

Breakfast was wonderfully ordinary.

No cameras.

No microphones.

No security people hovering nearby.

Just the two of them sitting together.

For a while, they talked about nothing important.

The food.

The weather.

Cheddar.

Then, inevitably, the conversation returned to Russia.

Leah laughed when she remembered the parade.

"You nearly dropped the trophy."

Francesco looked offended.

"I did not."

"You nearly did."

"I had it under control."

"You were waving with one hand while holding it with the other."

"That was completely under control."

Leah smiled.

"I have photographs."

Francesco pointed at her.

"Don't use evidence against me."

She laughed.

They remembered the crowds.

The little boy on his father's shoulders.

The chants.

The moment Francesco had lifted the trophy in Trafalgar Square.

Leah smiled when she mentioned the speech.

"You looked terrified."

"I was terrified."

"You didn't look it."

"I was."

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

"You did well."

Francesco smiled.

"Thanks."

For a moment, neither said anything.

They didn't need to.

They had both been through an extraordinary few days.

And now they were simply sitting together, eating breakfast.

That felt valuable.

After they finished, neither of them made any attempt to create a schedule.

There was nowhere they needed to rush.

No appointment.

No training session.

No team meeting.

Nothing.

They returned to the sitting room.

Leah settled beside Francesco.

Cheddar immediately reclaimed his place against Francesco's leg.

The television remained on, although neither of them was paying much attention anymore.

They spent the rest of the morning doing absolutely nothing.

And it was wonderful.

They talked.

They laughed.

They occasionally fell into comfortable silence.

Francesco checked messages on his phone.

Leah looked through photographs.

Cheddar slept.

Outside, Richmond carried on with its ordinary summer rhythm.

Cars moved along the road.

People walked past.

The world continued.

But inside the mansion, time seemed to slow.

They still had three weeks.

Three weeks before Francesco would have to return to his club duties with Arsenal.

Three weeks before football would once again begin demanding his attention.

Leah would also eventually have to return to her own football responsibilities.

There would be training.

Matches.

Travel.

Schedules.

The familiar rhythm of the football season.

But not yet.

For now, they had time.

Time to sleep.

Time to relax.

Time to see family.

Time to enjoy the summer.

Time to simply be Francesco and Leah rather than the England captain and the person standing beside him in photographs.

Later that morning, Francesco picked up his phone.

He opened the photographs from the last few days.

There were hundreds.

Maybe thousands.

His camera roll had become almost impossible to navigate.

He slowly scrolled through them.

There were pictures from Russia.

Pictures from the dressing room.

Pictures from the flight.

Pictures from the bus.

Pictures from London.

Pictures with the squad.

Pictures with Southgate.

Pictures of the trophy.

Pictures of his family.

He stopped at one photograph.

His parents.

Mike and Sarah.

Francesco smiled.

He remembered seeing them after the final.

The hug.

The pride on their faces.

He saved the photograph.

Then he found another.

Leah's family.

David.

Amanda.

Jacob.

Everyone smiling together.

He smiled again.

Then he found the photograph he had been searching for.

Himself and Leah inside the stadium.

Francesco was holding the World Cup.

Leah stood beside him.

They were both smiling.

For a moment, he simply stared at it.

That photograph brought back everything.

The noise.

The lights.

The emotion.

The realization that England had actually done it.

He showed Leah.

She smiled.

"I love that one."

"Me too."

"You should post it."

Francesco nodded.

"I think I will."

He selected several photographs.

His parents.

Leah's family.

The stadium photograph.

A few others from the celebrations.

He looked at the collection.

There was no need for a long explanation.

No dramatic message.

Nothing complicated.

Just one line.

He typed it.

World Champion🔥🔥🔥

He looked at Leah.

"Done."

He pressed post.

For perhaps five seconds, nothing happened.

Then his phone vibrated.

Once.

Twice.

Then continuously.

Francesco stared at the screen.

"Oh."

Leah laughed.

"What?"

"It's started."

Another vibration.

Then another.

The notifications began flooding in so quickly that the screen struggled to keep up.

Thousands of supporters were reacting.

Congratulations.

Messages of pride.

People talking about the final.

People sharing memories of watching the match.

People telling Francesco what the victory meant to them.

He scrolled through them, smiling.

Then an account he recognized appeared.

Mesut Özil.

Francesco stopped.

Özil had left a message congratulating him.

Francesco smiled.

"Look."

Leah leaned closer.

"That's nice."

Another notification appeared.

Alexis Sánchez.

Another Arsenal teammate.

Then another.

Messages began appearing from teammates who had shared dressing rooms with Francesco throughout his club career.

Some were sincere.

Some were joking.

Some simply consisted of trophy and fire emojis.

Francesco laughed.

Then England teammates began commenting.

Kane.

Henderson.

Sterling.

Pickford.

Rooney.

Alli.

The messages quickly became less formal.

Kane wrote something that made Francesco laugh.

Francesco turned the phone toward Leah.

"What did he say?"

Leah read it.

Then laughed.

"He's never going to let you forget the trophy."

"Apparently not."

Another message appeared.

Rooney.

Francesco shook his head.

"Here we go."

Leah smiled.

"What did he say?"

Francesco read it.

Then laughed.

"Something about Euro 2016."

Leah laughed.

"You really did embarrass him."

"He deserved it."

The comments continued.

Arsenal legends appeared.

England legends.

Former teammates.

Friends from earlier in Francesco's career.

People he hadn't spoken to in months.

Even people he hadn't expected to hear from at all.

Everyone seemed to have something to say.

Congratulations.

Pride.

Jokes.

Memories.

A few people simply posted pictures of the World Cup.

Others mentioned the hat-trick.

The final.

The fifty-two years.

Francesco kept scrolling.

He couldn't possibly answer everyone.

But he read as many as he could.

And the longer he looked, the more the meaning of the victory seemed to expand beyond the stadium.

For the people commenting, this wasn't just a football match.

It was something they had experienced with him.

They had watched.

They had celebrated.

They had screamed at television screens.

They had waited.

And now they were sharing the moment with him.

Cheddar eventually lifted his head.

Francesco looked down.

"What?"

Cheddar stared at the phone.

"Are you jealous?"

Cheddar blinked.

Francesco laughed.

"You want attention too?"

He scratched Cheddar's head.

Leah watched them from the other side of the sofa.

"You know he's probably wondering why you've spent twenty minutes staring at that thing."

Francesco looked at the screen.

"Fair."

He locked the phone.

For a few seconds, the room became quiet again.

The television was still playing softly.

The sunlight came through the windows.

Cheddar settled back down.

Leah leaned against Francesco.

Francesco looked at the photographs one more time before placing his phone on the table.

The final.

The trophy.

His parents.

Leah's family.

The parade.

His teammates.

Trafalgar Square.

So much had happened in such a short amount of time.

Only a few days earlier, he had been standing in Luzhniki with the World Cup above his head.

Now he was sitting on his sofa in Richmond with Cheddar asleep beside him.

It was almost funny how quickly life could change.

Francesco looked toward the television.

Another replay appeared.

Him lifting the trophy.

This time, he didn't shake his head.

He simply smiled.

Leah noticed.

"Still can't believe it?"

Francesco thought about it.

"Not completely."

She rested her head against his shoulder.

"Maybe you never will."

Francesco smiled.

"Maybe."

He looked down at his hands.

Those same hands had held the World Cup.

Had lifted it above his head.

Had carried it through London.

Had placed it beside his bed.

And now they were simply resting on his knees.

There was something strangely comforting about that.

The celebrations were over.

The crowds had gone home.

The cameras had moved on to the next story.

The songs had faded.

The confetti had been swept away.

The buses had returned to their garages.

The medals were safely stored.

The awards were sitting somewhere inside the mansion.

And yet none of that changed what had happened.

He was still a World Champion.

England were still World Champions.

Nothing could take that away.

Francesco leaned back into the sofa.

Cheddar slept beside him.

Leah was sitting close enough that their shoulders touched.

Outside, the summer continued quietly.

Inside, the television carried another reminder of the greatest week of his life.

Francesco smiled to himself.

The official celebrations had ended.

The noise had finally disappeared.

Football would eventually return.

Arsenal would need him again.

England would eventually gather again.

There would be another season.

Another campaign.

Another set of expectations.

But none of that mattered this morning.

For now, he could simply sit there.

Look at the photographs.

Remember the people.

Remember the journey.

Remember the trophy.

And be grateful.

Because somewhere between the heartbreak of Euro 2016 and the roar of Luzhniki, between the long road through Russia and the streets of London, something extraordinary had happened.

England had become world champions.

And Francesco had been there at the centre of it.

He glanced at the photograph of himself and Leah one final time.

Then he smiled.

"World Champion."

Leah heard him.

She smiled.

"Yeah."

Francesco looked down at Cheddar.

The corgi remained completely uninterested.

Francesco laughed softly.

"Even he doesn't care."

Leah laughed.

"He'll care when you give him breakfast."

Francesco shook his head.

"That's all he ever cared about."

Cheddar's ears moved.

Francesco and Leah both laughed.

As the mansion returned to silence.

Then the following morning arrived quietly.

There were no alarms demanding that Francesco get out of bed.

No messages from the England staff.

No training schedule waiting on his phone.

No interviews.

No meetings.

Nothing.

For the first time in what felt like months, he could wake up and decide what he wanted to do with the day.

And that was exactly what he intended to enjoy.

Breakfast was relaxed.

There was no rush.

Francesco sat at the table with Leah while Cheddar waited patiently nearby, staring at them with the same expression he always wore whenever food was involved.

"You know," Francesco said, looking down at him, "you've already eaten."

Cheddar continued staring.

Leah smiled.

"He doesn't think that's relevant."

Francesco shook his head.

"He's impossible."

Cheddar's tail moved once against the floor.

Leah laughed.

After breakfast, Francesco looked toward the windows.

The morning outside was warm and bright, the kind of summer day that seemed almost designed for doing absolutely nothing.

He turned toward Leah.

"Want to go for a walk?"

She looked at him.

"With Cheddar?"

"Obviously."

Cheddar's ears immediately lifted.

Francesco laughed.

"See? He knows exactly what we're talking about."

Leah stood.

"All right. Let's go."

A short while later, the three of them left the mansion.

Francesco dressed simply.

Nothing that suggested the captain of the newly crowned world champions.

No England shirt.

No medal.

No trophy.

Just casual clothes, comfortable shoes and a pair of sunglasses.

For once, he wanted to feel like an ordinary twenty-something spending a summer morning with his girlfriend and his dog.

He knew, of course, that ordinary had become somewhat difficult for him.

But that didn't mean he wasn't going to try.

They drove a short distance before reaching one of the parks around Richmond.

The moment they stepped onto the grass, Cheddar seemed to forget that he had ever been tired.

The corgi tugged at his lead with surprising determination.

Francesco nearly lost his grip.

"Whoa."

Cheddar pulled again.

"Where are you going?"

Leah laughed.

"He's seen the other dogs."

Francesco followed Cheddar's gaze.

Several dogs were running around farther across the grass.

Cheddar was completely fascinated.

His little legs began moving faster.

Francesco looked down at him.

"You want to go?"

Cheddar looked back.

His tail was already going.

Francesco sighed.

"All right."

He unclipped the lead.

Cheddar shot forward.

"Cheddar!"

The corgi raced across the grass, immediately joining the other dogs as though he had been invited personally.

Francesco watched him go.

Leah shook her head.

"He didn't even say goodbye."

"He never does."

They walked toward a quieter part of the park.

There was a bench overlooking a wide stretch of grass and a few trees that provided enough shade to keep the summer heat comfortable.

Francesco sat down.

Leah settled beside him.

For several minutes, neither said anything.

They simply watched Cheddar run.

He chased one dog.

Then another.

Then suddenly changed direction for no apparent reason.

Francesco laughed.

"Look at him."

Leah smiled.

"He's having the time of his life."

"He's going to sleep for two days when we get home."

"I doubt it."

Francesco leaned back.

The warmth of the sun felt good.

There was something almost therapeutic about sitting there.

No stadium.

No chanting.

No cameras.

No television replaying his goals.

Just trees moving gently in the breeze.

Children playing.

Dogs running.

People talking.

A completely normal summer morning.

Francesco closed his eyes briefly.

"This is nice."

Leah leaned against him.

"Very."

For a while, it stayed that way.

Then something changed.

A couple walking along the path slowed down.

One of them looked toward Francesco.

Then looked again.

The woman whispered something to her companion.

He turned.

Their eyes met.

Francesco smiled politely.

The man immediately smiled back.

Then whispered something to her.

They continued walking.

A few minutes later, another group passed.

This time, one person stopped.

"Is that…?"

Her friend looked.

Then both turned toward Francesco.

Leah noticed.

She glanced at him.

Francesco gave a small shrug.

"Here we go."

The whispers began spreading.

Not loudly.

Not aggressively.

Just little conversations between people who had suddenly realized who was sitting on the bench.

"That's him."

"The England captain."

"Francesco."

"He won the World Cup."

"I saw him at Trafalgar Square."

Some people took photographs from a distance.

Others simply smiled.

One older man raised a hand in greeting.

Francesco waved back.

Leah smiled.

"You can't hide anymore."

Francesco laughed quietly.

"I was hoping the sunglasses would help."

"They're not working."

Apparently they weren't.

Another family walked past.

A father pointed discreetly toward Francesco.

His children immediately looked.

One of them recognized him.

The boy's face lit up.

He whispered excitedly to his father.

Francesco could read the words even from a distance.

"That's him."

The father nodded.

The boy looked toward Francesco again.

Then at the Arsenal jersey he was wearing.

Francesco smiled.

A few minutes later, the family walked away.

But the boy kept looking back.

Eventually, a small group of children began approaching.

They were cautious.

Almost hesitant.

Some wore England shirts.

Others carried Arsenal jerseys.

One little boy held his shirt tightly in both hands.

Francesco noticed them.

He sat forward.

"Hi."

The children stopped.

The boy in front looked nervous.

"Are you Francesco?"

Francesco smiled.

"I am."

The boy's face immediately broke into a grin.

"Can I get a picture with you?"

"Of course."

Francesco stood.

The boy's parents smiled apologetically.

"Sorry to bother you."

"You're not bothering me."

Francesco crouched down so he was closer to the children's height.

"What are your names?"

They introduced themselves one by one.

Francesco listened carefully.

Then another boy held up his Arsenal shirt.

"Will you sign this?"

"Absolutely."

Francesco took the shirt and a pen.

He signed it carefully.

The boy stared at the signature as though he'd just been handed something priceless.

"Thank you!"

"You're welcome."

Then came the photographs.

One child stood beside him.

Another wanted Francesco to hold the Arsenal jersey.

Another wanted an England photograph.

Francesco smiled for every one.

No rushing.

No impatience.

He had spent enough time around children to know how much moments like this could mean.

One little girl was wearing an England shirt that looked slightly too big for her.

She stood beside Francesco and smiled nervously at the camera.

Francesco crouched beside her.

"Ready?"

She nodded.

The photograph was taken.

Her mother looked at the screen.

"That's lovely."

Francesco smiled.

"I'm glad."

The children gathered together again.

One of them held up the signed shirt.

"Look!"

His family immediately gathered around him.

The boy was beaming.

Francesco waved.

"Enjoy the rest of your day."

"Thank you!"

"Bye, Francesco!"

"Bye."

They ran back toward their families.

Francesco watched them go.

Leah was still sitting on the bench.

She had been watching everything with an amused smile.

When Francesco returned, she moved slightly to make room.

"You're very good at that."

"At what?"

"Being famous."

Francesco laughed.

"I don't think I'm very good at it."

"You didn't even hesitate."

"They're kids."

"I know."

Leah smiled.

"That makes it even nicer."

Francesco sat beside her.

He looked across the grass.

Cheddar was still running.

At this point, the corgi appeared to have made several new friends.

Francesco shook his head.

"He's having more fun than we are."

"Probably."

They watched him for a moment.

Then Francesco leaned back.

There was something strange about the morning.

Only a few days earlier, he had been standing in front of tens of thousands of people in Trafalgar Square.

Now he was sitting on a park bench watching his dog chase other dogs.

Yet even here, people knew him.

The World Cup had changed that.

Before Russia, he had been a famous footballer.

A young Arsenal striker.

England's captain.

But now there was something different attached to his name.

World Champion.

The title followed him everywhere.

Francesco looked around the park.

He could already imagine what the rest of the summer would be like.

People recognizing him in restaurants.

Supporters asking for photographs.

Children wanting autographs.

Fans calling his name.

He smiled.

It wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

If anything, it was something he would have to learn to live with.

And he didn't want fame to take away the ordinary moments.

He wanted mornings like this.

Walks with Leah.

Time with Cheddar.

Quiet breakfasts.

Lazy afternoons.

Simple things.

The kind of things that had become incredibly valuable after the chaos of the previous week.

Francesco looked toward Leah.

"We need to figure out where we're going."

She turned toward him.

"Going?"

"For the holiday."

"Oh."

"We've got three weeks."

Leah nodded.

"That's true."

"Three weeks before Arsenal."

"And before I have to get back to football too."

Francesco smiled.

"Exactly."

He looked out across the park.

"So we should actually do something with them."

Leah laughed.

"That's a very complicated way of saying you want a holiday."

"I've just won the World Cup."

"I noticed."

"I think I've earned one."

"You definitely have."

Francesco smiled.

"Where do you want to go?"

Leah didn't answer immediately.

She looked toward Cheddar.

Then at Francesco.

She seemed to think about it.

"There's somewhere I've always wanted to visit."

Francesco raised an eyebrow.

"Where?"

She smiled.

"Santorini."

Francesco's expression changed immediately.

"Santorini?"

"Yeah."

He grinned.

"Greece?"

Leah nodded.

"Greece."

Francesco leaned back.

"That actually sounds perfect."

Leah smiled.

"I thought you'd like it."

He began imagining it.

White buildings stacked along the hillsides.

Blue rooftops.

Bright sunshine.

The deep blue sea stretching toward the horizon.

Quiet evenings.

Warm air.

No training.

No matches.

No tactical meetings.

No media conferences.

Just the two of them.

Maybe long walks.

Maybe sitting beside the water.

Maybe finding somewhere quiet to watch the sunset.

Francesco looked at Leah.

"When?"

She laughed.

"You're already planning it?"

"We've only got three weeks."

"Then we should probably start."

Francesco smiled.

"I agree."

They both looked across the grass.

Cheddar came sprinting toward them for a moment, stopped several feet away, looked at them, and then immediately turned around and ran back toward the other dogs.

Francesco stared.

"He heard us talking about holidays and decided he wasn't invited."

Leah laughed.

"Maybe he wants to stay here."

"He's loyal."

"Very."

Francesco watched the corgi disappear into the grass.

Then he looked back at Leah.

"Santorini."

She smiled.

"Santorini."

For the first time that morning, Francesco felt genuinely excited about something that had nothing to do with football.

Russia had been extraordinary.

The final.

The trophy.

The parade.

Trafalgar Square.

The celebrations.

All of it would remain with him forever.

But now there was another chapter waiting.

Three weeks of freedom.

Three weeks before the familiar rhythm of football returned.

And perhaps a few days somewhere beautiful with the person he loved.

Francesco smiled.

"I think we should do it."

Leah rested her head against his shoulder.

"I think we should too."

They remained there for a while.

The park continued around them.

Children laughed.

Dogs ran.

The summer sun warmed the grass.

A few people still recognized Francesco as they passed.

Some smiled.

Some waved.

One person quietly called his name.

Francesco raised a hand in greeting.

Then he returned his attention to Leah.

For once, he didn't mind being recognized.

He wasn't thinking about the World Cup.

He wasn't thinking about Arsenal.

He wasn't thinking about England.

He was thinking about Santorini.

White buildings.

Blue roofs.

The sea.

Sunshine.

Three weeks.

And Leah beside him.

Cheddar finally returned, panting heavily, and dropped himself directly at Francesco's feet.

Francesco looked down.

"Finished?"

Cheddar looked up.

Francesco smiled.

"Good."

He reached down and scratched behind the corgi's ears.

Leah laughed.

"You know he's going to expect to come to Santorini now."

Francesco looked at Cheddar.

Cheddar stared back.

Francesco sighed.

"We'll figure something out."

Leah smiled.

"Good luck."

Francesco laughed.

The three of them sat together beneath the summer sun.

The World Cup was still waiting back at the mansion.

The medals were still there.

The awards were still there.

The photographs were still filling his phone.

The world still knew him as England's young World Cup-winning captain.

But for this moment, none of that mattered.

He was simply Francesco.

Leah was beside him.

Cheddar was exhausted at his feet.

And somewhere ahead of them, beyond the football, beyond the celebrations, beyond the noise, a holiday in Santorini was beginning to take shape.

__________________________________________________

Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 19 (2017)

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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, FA Cup 2016/2017, 2016/2017 Champions League, 2017/2018 Carabao Cup, Premier League 2017/2018, FA Cup 2017/2018, Champions League 2017/2018, and 2018 World Cup.

Season 17/18 stats:

Arsenal:

Match: 59

Goal: 76

Assist: 6

MOTM: 7

POTM: 0

England:

Match: 11

Goal: 14

Assist: 1

MOTM: 7

Season 16/17 stats:

Arsenal:

Match: 55

Goal: 87

Assist: 5

MOTM: 14

POTM: 1

England:

Match: 1

Goal: 1

Assist: 0

MOTM: 0

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