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And he meant it. With every aching muscle and every bit of joy still lodged in his chest, he meant it. The season hadn't even started yet, and already, it felt like the whole world was watching.
Two days later, as the morning broke over London like a slow exhale, clouds shifting in lazy swirls above the city skyline. The suburbs of Richmond were already stirring to life, with joggers passing by hedgerows and the occasional hum of cyclists gliding past. But inside a sleek black BMW X5 cruising quietly along the A316, the mood was focused, sharp — a young man alone with his thoughts, hands firm on the wheel, eyes trained ahead.
Francesco Lee hadn't slept much the night before — not because of anxiety, not even nerves. If anything, it was the opposite. His body had started to vibrate with that pre-season hum, the familiar tension of the calm before battle. It was training day. And not just any training — Arsenal's final session before their Premier League opener against West Ham at the Emirates. Sunday. August 16. Less than 48 hours away.
The traffic flowed smoothly as the BMW eased past the road signs. He tapped the steering wheel lightly with his thumbs, syncing with the rhythm of the music playing low through the speakers — a calm track from The xx. He didn't want lyrics right now. Just ambience. Just space to think.
He glanced briefly at the passenger seat, where his gym bag sat zipped and ready. Boots, shin guards, change of clothes, water bottle. Everything in its right place. He'd left the house with a kiss on Leah's forehead, still half-asleep in their bed, her "Good luck, my love" mumbled against the pillow. The smell of her shampoo still lingered faintly on his hoodie, mixed with the scent of strong morning coffee from the thermos she handed him on the way out.
The roads began to narrow as he approached the familiar drive into Arsenal's London Colney Training Centre. High hedges flanked the entrance, security outposts checking each car in. Francesco rolled down the window and gave a small nod to the guard, who grinned and waved him through like they'd known each other for years.
"Morning, Mr. Lee. All set for Sunday?"
Francesco smiled. "Always."
The BMW rolled down the private lane toward the main facility. The sun had begun to break fully through the clouds now, casting long golden fingers across the perfectly manicured pitches. Other cars were already parked in the players' lot — Audi, Mercedes, a bright yellow Lamborghini that could only belong to Theo Walcott. Francesco pulled into his usual spot, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the morning air.
The scent hit him immediately — fresh grass, early dew, and that distinct mix of leather and rubber from football boots nearby. The place had its own atmosphere. Its own rhythm. And now, after a summer of change, this was no longer the place where Francesco was trying to prove he belonged.
Now, it was his.
Inside the facility, the corridors were buzzing. Players moving in and out of treatment rooms, coaches carrying clipboards, shouts of laughter bouncing off the walls of the canteen. The energy was high. Focused. Everyone knew the season was about to begin.
Francesco walked through the hallway toward the locker room, nodding at familiar faces.
"Hey, superstar!" called Jack Wilshere, grinning as he passed by with a towel slung over his shoulder. "Don't go stealing all the headlines again Sunday, yeah?"
Francesco laughed. "No promises."
As he pushed open the door to the first-team dressing room, the air inside hit him like a wall — the earthy smell of boots, the cool touch of air conditioning, the low thrum of music playing from a speaker someone had left running.
His locker was waiting for him. Fresh kit folded neatly. Boots polished and ready. And above it, in sharp red and white:
LEE
#9
That still made his chest tighten a little. The #9 shirt. Arsenal's legacy number. Wright. Bergkamp. Eduardo. Now it was his. He traced the edge of the nameplate with a fingertip before sitting down and pulling off his trainers. Around him, others began to file in — Laurent Koscielny, Santi Cazorla, Per Mertesacker, and the two new faces he'd grown closest to over the past few weeks: N'Golo Kanté and Virgil van Dijk.
Kanté gave him a short nod as he dropped into the seat beside him, already dressed, lacing up his boots with the kind of quiet intensity that had become his signature.
"You ready for West Ham?" Kanté asked, his French-accented English smooth and soft.
Francesco nodded. "You?"
Kanté just gave the smallest of smiles. "Always."
Virgil arrived next, towering over most of the room, but walking with the ease of someone completely at home. He clapped Francesco on the shoulder as he passed, then dropped into the seat on Francesco's other side.
"Wembley was fun," the Dutchman said with a grin. "Let's make sure Sunday's just as clean, yeah?"
"Definitely," Francesco replied.
A whistle blew outside the corridor. It was time.
The squad filed out in groups, boots clacking on tile, then muffled by grass as they stepped out onto the training ground. The coaches were already waiting — Wenger, as ever, standing tall in his navy tracksuit, arms crossed, eyes scanning everything. Steve Bould barked something to the defenders, clipboard in hand. Andries Jonker was setting up cones with some of the younger reserves.
Francesco jogged to his position as warm-ups began, his muscles beginning to wake up, shake loose the last remnants of sleep. They started with rondos — the usual passing drills — and he found himself in a circle with Özil, Alexis Sánchez, and Bellerín. The ball zipped around, laughter cutting through the air when someone misjudged a pass or got nutmegged.
But after the light work, things got serious. Wenger called the players in.
"Sunday is not about experiments," the manager said, voice low but carrying weight. "It is the first day of a new campaign. A chance to set the tone. West Ham will come looking to frustrate us, sit deep, hit on the break. Be ready for it. Control the game. Make them chase."
He turned toward Francesco.
"You will start."
No surprise, but hearing it said aloud still made him happy.
"You played well at Wembley. I trust you. Play your game."
Francesco gave a short nod. "I will."
The next ninety minutes were a blur of sharp, tactical training — attacking drills, final third movement, set-piece routines. Francesco ran hard, the sun growing hotter above, sweat slicking his back. He worked through one-on-ones with Wenger, refining his positioning, then practiced patterns of play with Özil threading balls through tight spaces.
At one point, during a scrimmage, he and Alexis exchanged a quick one-two that sent him bursting through the mock defense. One touch to control. One to shoot. The ball snapped into the bottom corner. Even Steve Bould nodded in approval.
"Keep doing that Sunday," he muttered. "We'll be flying."
The air in Colney was growing heavier now — not with tension, but the kind of satisfied weight that came after an intense session. As the scrimmage ended and the final whistles blew, players slowed to a jog, then to a walk, shirts clinging to their backs with sweat. Some grabbed bottles from the cooler at the edge of the pitch, tilting their heads back, eyes closed, water spilling slightly down their chins. Others slumped onto the grass, stretching their calves or massaging their thighs.
Francesco stayed standing, chest rising and falling as he tried to bring his breathing back under control. His muscles were burning, but it was a good burn — one that reminded him he was sharpening, tuning. Preparing.
"Alright," called Shad Forsythe, Arsenal's head of performance, clapping his hands twice. "Hydrate, towel down, gym in fifteen. Upper body and core. Let's go."
Francesco nodded to Kante and Van Dijk, then made his way to the nearest cooler for a protein drink and cold towel. The walk back toward the gym took them past the smaller pitches where the youth teams trained, a group of U18s doing dribbling drills under the watchful eye of Per Mertesacker, now head of the academy. A few of them looked up and waved at Francesco as he passed.
He smiled and gave a small wave back, heart warming slightly. He remembered what it felt like to be one of them, staring up at the first-teamers, dreaming of that day when it would be you walking through the doors, boots slung over your shoulder, the badge on your chest not just a promise — but proof.
The gym smelled like rubber mats, chalk, and dedication. Techno hummed softly from ceiling speakers, the beat steady but low enough that instructions could cut through it. Each player had their own designated routine — no wasted motion, no guesswork.
Francesco started at the cable machine, alternating sets of lat pulldowns with medicine ball slams. The repetition felt meditative. Pull. Breathe. Slam. Reset. Around him, players moved with silent intensity — Koscielny on the leg press, Cazorla doing planks on a Bosu ball, Chamberlain rowing like he was trying to outpace a storm.
Virgil spotted him during his bench set, standing just behind the bar, his presence calm but commanding.
"One more," Virgil said as Francesco gritted his teeth and pushed through the final rep. "Good. Keep that energy for Sunday."
Francesco sat up, wiped his forehead, and exhaled sharply. "I want West Ham to feel us. From the first whistle."
"They will," Virgil said simply, tossing him a bottle of water. "Just keep doing what you're doing."
By the time Shad gave the call to wrap up, Francesco's arms were trembling slightly from exertion. He loved it. The ache, the burn — the signals that the work was going in. That he wasn't just riding momentum from Wembley. He was building something.
The squad regrouped briefly, some changing shirts or throwing hoodies on as they filtered into the tactical briefing room — a sleek space with tiered seating, a massive screen at the front, and Arsenal's crest emblazoned on the walls. The hum of conversation faded as Arsène Wenger entered, tablet in hand, his expression calm but unreadable.
"Take your seats, please."
The lights dimmed slightly, and the screen lit up — not with flashy graphics, but simple footage. A frozen frame of West Ham's 4-2-3-1 formation.
"This," Wenger began, "is what we are likely to face. They have not changed much since last season. Slaven Bilić is a disciplined coach. He will come with a plan to frustrate us."
Footage began to roll — West Ham against Manchester City last spring. The Hammers in deep block, two banks of four, with Diafra Sakho and Dimitri Payet hovering in space.
"They are compact. They don't press too high. Their danger comes when you get impatient and give the ball away in the middle third."
A clip played: City trying to force it through the centre, Payet picking up a loose pass, and in three touches, Sakho was clean through.
"They transition quickly," Wenger said, pointing. "Payet looks for early balls into space. Kouyaté arrives late into the box. Discipline is key. Especially for you three—"
He gestured toward Francesco, Kante, and Cazorla.
"Francesco, you must lead the press. Make sure their centre-backs don't have time to pick passes. Force them wide. Don't overcommit."
Francesco nodded, already visualizing it. Press from the front. Angle his runs. Don't bite. Just guide.
"Kanté," Wenger continued, turning to the midfielder, "you are the pivot. Always between their midfield and attack. Always reading. You know this role. Do not chase unless you're sure."
Kante nodded once, calm as ever.
"Cazorla — connect everything. If they sit deep, we need you to find the pockets. Work with Mesut. Unlock them."
Then the screen changed again. Footage of Arsenal's own attacking sequences — particularly those involving Francesco. His goals from the Community Shield. His movement. The way he dragged defenders and opened space.
Wenger paused the frame on the third goal against Chelsea — Francesco curling it past Courtois.
"This was not just a good finish," he said. "This was positioning, anticipation, confidence. This is what we need. And I want more."
He looked around the room.
"This is a new season. We are not defending champions by default. We must earn it again. From day one. You have the quality. You have the hunger. Now you need to show it."
The lights came back on. The players rose quietly, no jokes, no wasted movement now. Focus had settled over the room like a second skin.
As Francesco exited the room, he felt a steady hand clap his back. Wenger, pausing beside him.
"You've come a long way," the manager said. "But the real journey starts now. West Ham, City, United — they will come at you harder this year. You're no longer a surprise. You're a target."
"I know," Francesco said. "I want that."
Wenger smiled faintly. "Good. Then show them why they should be afraid."
That night, after dinner with the team at Colney's private dining suite, Francesco drove back through the dusky roads toward Richmond. The sky had turned purple-blue, the kind of summer dusk that never quite felt dark. Leah was already home, lights glowing in the windows of their house.
He stepped inside quietly, boots in hand, the scent of something warm — tomato, garlic — hanging in the air. Leah was in the kitchen, barefoot, stirring a pot, her playlist humming low in the background.
"There he is," she said, turning with a smile. "Training or a war?"
"A bit of both," he said, dropping his bag and crossing over to kiss her. "We're ready, though."
She handed him a glass of water. "Good. Because I've got tickets for Sunday. Front row. I want to see you destroy them."
He chuckled, taking a sip. "That's the plan."
Later that night, as they lay in bed, Leah tucked into his side and tracing slow patterns on his chest, Francesco stared at the ceiling, the words from earlier echoing in his head:
You're no longer a surprise. You're a target.
He could feel the truth of it deep in his bones — in the way defenders had already started pressing him harder in friendlies, in the way pundits were no longer asking "Who is Francesco Lee?" but instead "Can he do it again?"
And the answer, as far as Francesco was concerned, was simple but he knew that he would rise again. Just like he always had. And this season — this next chapter — was just getting started.
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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:
Match Played: 1
Goal: 3
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9