The King Of Arsenal

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As the bus rolled into the Arsenal Training Center, Francesco exhaled and stretched. This was just the beginning. The real challenge was yet to come.

As the team bus rolled to a stop inside the Arsenal Training Center, a few players let out tired groans, stretching their legs before standing up. The long ride back had given their bodies time to stiffen, and the exhaustion from the match was fully setting in.

Francesco pulled his bag over his shoulder, glancing around at his teammates as they gathered their things. He caught a glimpse of Cazorla laughing at something Giroud had said, while Özil was already scrolling through his phone, probably checking match highlights or responding to messages.

"Alright, see you guys at training," Francesco said as he stepped off the bus.

A few of the lads responded in kind. "Take it easy, mate," Oxlade-Chamberlain called out, still grinning from their earlier banter.

"Try not to get into another headline before training, yeah?" Walcott added with a smirk.

Francesco chuckled. "No promises."

With that, he waved them off and headed toward his car. Unlike some of the other players, who had personal drivers or fancy sports cars waiting for them, Francesco preferred to keep things simple. His black Honda Civic sat quietly in the parking lot, understated compared to the Ferraris and Range Rovers surrounding it. He didn't care—flash wasn't his thing. Performance was.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he let out a long breath and turned the key. The engine hummed to life, the soft purr of the car a familiar comfort. He adjusted his rearview mirror and pulled out of the lot, heading toward his apartment.

The roads were mostly quiet this late at night, the streetlights casting long shadows over the pavement. The thrill of the match was beginning to wear off, replaced by the steady hum of his thoughts.

Wenger's words replayed in his mind.

"If you ever say something you cannot back up, if you let your words become bigger than your performances, I will pull you from the next few press conferences. And if it happens more than once, I will start you from the bench."

It was a challenge. A warning.

Francesco understood the message clearly: talk was cheap if you couldn't deliver. He had always been confident in his abilities—he knew what he could do. But now, every match, every press conference, every moment in the spotlight would be scrutinized. The media would be watching. The fans would be watching.

He smirked to himself. Good.

Let them watch. Let them doubt. He'd silence them the same way he always had—on the pitch.

As he drove through the streets of London, he passed a few familiar landmarks—the Emirates in the distance, glowing under the floodlights, a reminder of where he had just made his mark. This city had already begun to embrace him, but he wasn't satisfied yet. He wanted more.

His mind shifted to the next game. He needed to keep his form sharp, to stay ahead of defenders, to make sure his name wasn't just in the papers for his press conference antics, but for his performances on the field.

His foot pressed slightly on the accelerator as he turned onto the quieter streets leading to his apartment. He had a plan. More training, more study—more work. This was just the beginning, and he wasn't about to let the momentum slip away.

As he pulled into the parking garage beneath his building, he killed the engine and leaned back in his seat for a moment, exhaling.

Another step forward.

He grabbed his bag and stepped out, the cool night air hitting his skin as he made his way to his apartment. There was no time to celebrate too much. Tomorrow was another day. Another chance to prove himself.

Francesco stepped into the lobby of his apartment building, the soft hum of the elevator waiting ahead. He tapped the call button and shifted his bag higher onto his shoulder, his body still feeling the weight of the match. The doors slid open with a soft chime, and he stepped inside, pressing the button for his floor.

As the elevator ascended, he leaned back against the wall, staring at his reflection in the polished metal doors. His hair was slightly damp from sweat, his shirt sticking to his skin from the effort he had put in during the game. He could feel the dull ache settling into his legs—a good kind of exhaustion, the type that reminded him of the work he had done.

The doors opened with another chime, and he stepped into the quiet hallway. The building was mostly silent at this hour, save for the faint murmur of a television coming from one of the apartments down the hall. He unlocked his door and entered, letting out a breath as he shut it behind him.

The familiar space welcomed him back—a sleek but simple apartment, not overly extravagant like some of his teammates' places, but comfortable. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the London skyline, the distant city lights twinkling against the night. A black leather couch sat in front of a mounted flat-screen, and an open-concept kitchen was tucked neatly to the side.

Dropping his bag by the door, he sighed and rolled his shoulders. The first thing he needed was a shower.

Francesco made his way to the bathroom, peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt as he went. He turned on the shower, letting the water heat up before stepping under the stream. The hot water hit his skin, and he let out a sigh as the warmth spread through his tired muscles.

He leaned forward, resting his hands against the cool tiles as the water ran over him, washing away the remnants of the match—the sweat, the dirt, the tension. Closing his eyes, he let himself relax for a moment, his mind drifting back to the game. The roar of the crowd, the feeling of the ball at his feet, the adrenaline of scoring—it all replayed in his head like a highlight reel.

But then, Wenger's words echoed again.

"Confidence without results is arrogance. And arrogance without discipline leads to failure."

He knew his coach was right. He had the talent, but talent alone wasn't enough. He had to keep proving himself, game after game. No complacency. No distractions.

After a few more minutes, he turned off the water and grabbed a towel, running it through his damp hair as he stepped out. The mirror was fogged up from the steam, and he wiped a hand across it, staring at his reflection. His jaw was set, his expression serious.

Stay hungry.

Tying the towel around his waist, Francesco made his way to the kitchen. He wasn't the type to rely on takeout every night—he liked cooking for himself when he had the time. It was something that grounded him, gave him a sense of routine outside of football.

Opening the fridge, he scanned the contents before pulling out some ingredients—chicken breast, eggs, some vegetables. Nothing fancy, but enough for a solid post-match meal. He grabbed a pan and set it on the stove, drizzling a bit of olive oil before tossing in the chicken. The sizzle filled the quiet apartment, the smell of cooking meat mixing with the faint scent of his body wash.

As he moved around the kitchen, chopping vegetables and cracking eggs, his mind kept working.

The next match was coming fast. He needed to analyze the opposing team, understand their weaknesses, and figure out where he could exploit them. Should he watch match footage tonight, or leave it for the morning?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the chicken crisping up. He flipped it over, letting the other side cook as he reached for his phone, checking messages. A few congratulatory texts from friends and family, some social media notifications—nothing urgent.

Then, a message from his agent.

"Great game tonight. We need to talk tomorrow—some new opportunities have come up."

Francesco raised an eyebrow. He wasn't sure what kind of opportunities his agent meant—endorsements? Contract negotiations? Something else? He'd find out soon enough.

For now, he focused on finishing his meal. Once everything was cooked, he plated the food and sat down at the counter, digging in. The warm bite of chicken mixed with the crunch of vegetables and the fluffiness of the eggs—it was simple but satisfying.

As he ate, his eyes drifted to the window again, the city stretching out before him. London had already given him so much, but he was only getting started. There was still so much more to achieve.

After finishing his meal, Francesco leaned back in his chair, letting out a small sigh. His body still felt heavy from the match, but the food had given him some much-needed energy. He glanced at the empty plate in front of him before standing up and taking it to the sink. He rinsed it off, then wiped his hands on a kitchen towel before heading to the living room.

With nothing else pressing to do, he decided to unwind for a bit. He grabbed the remote from the coffee table and collapsed onto the black leather couch, his muscles thanking him for the moment of rest. The soft glow of the television lit up the dimly lit apartment as he flicked through channels absentmindedly.

It wasn't until he landed on Sky Sports that his thumb hovered over the remote.

The post-match analysis was still going on, and on the screen, Ian Wright and Roy Keane sat in the studio, deep in discussion. Francesco immediately recognized the topic of conversation. His own face appeared on the screen—a still from the post-match press conference where he had confidently answered questions, his expression showing not an ounce of hesitation.

"Listen," Ian Wright was saying, leaning forward in his seat. "I love the confidence, I really do. I mean, Francesco had a brilliant game. He backed it up today—goal, assist, strong performance. That's what you want to see from a young player coming into this league. You want to see belief in yourself, and he's got that."

Roy Keane, sitting beside him, wasn't as convinced. He let out a small scoff before shaking his head. "Confidence is one thing. Arrogance is another," he said, his voice sharp. "I've seen plenty of young players come in, thinking they're the next big thing. They talk a big game, and then? They can't handle the pressure. One good match doesn't make you a star. One season doesn't make you a legend. This is the Premier League. It'll humble you real quick if you're not careful."

Francesco exhaled, resting his arm against the back of the couch. He expected this. He had been around long enough to know that confidence would always rub some people the wrong way.

Wright countered, "But Keano, you have to admit—he's got something. He's got that hunger, that spark. And he delivered tonight. Would you rather he stood there and said nothing? You always say you want players with fire, with passion. That's what he's showing."

Keane shrugged. "Fire is fine. But let's see if he keeps it up. Let's see what he does when things don't go his way. Because they won't always go his way. If he keeps performing, great. But the moment he slips up, the media will be all over him. And let's be honest—his comments tonight? They're painting a target on his back. Every defender in the league will want to shut him up next match."

Francesco smirked. He wasn't naïve. He knew exactly what he was doing when he spoke with confidence. He wasn't afraid of the extra pressure—it fueled him. Let them come for him. Let them try to shut him down.

That's what made football exciting.

The discussion shifted to another topic, and Francesco turned off the TV. He sat in the dark for a moment, staring at his own reflection in the window.

They were right about one thing.

It was up to him to keep proving himself.

He ran a hand through his hair and stood up, stretching slightly before heading back toward his bedroom. He needed rest, but his mind was still active, still processing everything.

He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and opened up his notes app. He had a habit of jotting down things he wanted to improve on after each game.

- Movement off the ball → Need to find better pockets of space.

- First touch under pressure → Good today, but can always be better.

- Defensive contribution → Work harder on tracking back.

He scrolled further down to his long-term goals.

- Become the best player in the league.

- Win the Premier League.

- Play for my country.

Francesco exhaled slowly. He wasn't in this for the fame, the interviews, or the sponsorships. He was in this because he wanted to be great. And greatness required obsession.

After a few more minutes, he finally set his phone aside and lay back against the pillows. The city lights outside flickered softly, and for the first time that night, his body finally allowed itself to relax.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : None

Match Played: 17

Goal: 22

Assist: 11

MOTM: 7