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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And Arsenal, as Europe had just been reminded, were nowhere near finished.
The ride back from the Emirates always felt different after a European win.
Lighter.
Not quieter, exactly as Kyle Walker was physically incapable of allowing true silence to exist within a fifty-meter radius.
The tension that had gripped everyone on the way to the stadium had dissolved into that uniquely satisfying exhaustion only footballers understood. Legs heavy. Shoulders loose. Minds still buzzing.
Champions League victories did that.
Especially opening-night victories.
Especially four-one victories.
Francesco sank into his seat near the middle of the bus, jacket zipped halfway, damp hair still cooling from the shower. His body hummed with that pleasant ache that told him he had worked properly. Worked honestly.
Worked well.
Across from him, Iwobi was still grinning every few minutes for no apparent reason other than life being objectively excellent.
First Champions League goal.
At the Emirates.
That kind of thing tended to stick.
Giroud had made certain absolutely everyone understood the importance of his assist.
"I saw the angle before anyone else."
"You were facing the wrong way," Cazorla pointed out.
"Vision transcends direction."
"Is that French?"
"It is now."
Walker applauded.
"Magnificent. Put it on a t-shirt."
Alexis, somehow still radiating competitive irritation despite a comprehensive victory, leaned forward from two rows behind.
"We should have scored six."
"Five, maybe," Xhaka said.
"Six."
"You personally?"
"Yes."
"Reasonable."
Mesut sat beside Francesco, scrolling through clips already circulating online. Social media moved faster than physics these days.
"They've posted your goal."
"Only mine?"
"And mine."
"As it should be."
Mesut tilted the phone toward him.
The replay was gorgeous.
Walker's cross.
The movement.
That split-second burst.
The finish.
It always looked slower on screen than it felt in real life. Simpler too. Football had a way of making the impossible seem routine when done correctly.
Francesco watched once.
Then twice.
"Good cross."
Mesut glanced up.
"That was not my assist."
"I know. I'm broadening my praise."
"Dangerous habit."
Outside the windows, North London rolled by beneath streetlights and late-evening traffic. Supporters still filled the pavements around Holloway Road, scarves around necks, smiles wide, conversations animated.
A few spotted the bus.
Phones came out immediately.
Hands waved.
Walker stood up and bowed dramatically to the window.
A small child nearly fainted from joy.
"Do you ever get tired of attention?" Francesco asked.
"No."
"Not even once?"
"Absolutely not."
"Fair."
The motorway stretched ahead.
London giving way to darker roads.
The energy aboard slowly shifted.
Not silence.
Never silence.
But calmer.
Music played softly from someone's speaker.
Players checked phones.
Messages poured in.
Family.
Friends.
Teammates from national teams.
Former coaches.
People who always seemed to appear after good nights.
Francesco's own phone buzzed relentlessly.
His mother had sent three messages and a voice note.
His father had simply written:
Good finish. Near post defender was sleeping.
Which, from his father, bordered on effusive praise.
Then there was Leah.
She had sent a selfie from home, Cheddar sprawled upside down across the sofa like a furry crime scene.
Her caption read:
He has consumed half your blanket and all available dignity.
A second message followed.
Also, excellent goal. Mesut's was annoyingly pretty.
Francesco laughed under his breath.
Mesut glanced sideways.
"What?"
"Leah says your goal was annoyingly pretty."
"She understands football."
"I'll let you tell her that."
The bus finally turned into London Colney just after midnight.
The training ground looked almost surreal at that hour with floodlights illuminating the parking areas, glass buildings glowing softly against the darkness.
Home base.
The place where all of it began each week.
As the bus hissed to a stop, players stirred back into motion.
Bags were collected.
Headphones removed.
Final jokes exchanged.
That strange little post-match ritual repeated after every away trip, every late-night return.
A temporary family preparing to scatter back into individual lives.
Walker was first off, naturally.
He bounded down the steps with the energy of a man who had apparently not just played seventy-plus high-intensity minutes.
"How are you still alive?" Robertson asked.
"Natural gifts."
"Caffeine."
"Mostly caffeine."
The night air hit immediately as it was cool, crisp, carrying the faint scent of wet grass from the training pitches.
Perfect.
Francesco stepped down onto the pavement, slinging his duffel over one shoulder.
Around him, engines started.
Doors opened.
Staff unloaded equipment.
A few academy players lingering nearby watched their heroes return, trying desperately to look casual and failing magnificently.
Francesco remembered being that age.
Trying not to stare.
Absolutely staring.
Kanté approached, already dressed in a simple hoodie and trainers, looking like a man who might quietly cycle home despite earning millions.
"Good game," Francesco said.
Kanté smiled that modest, almost bashful smile.
"Good pass for Mesut."
"You stole the ball first."
"A little."
"A lot."
Kanté chuckled.
Still somehow surprising every single time.
One by one, the team dispersed.
Xhaka climbed into his car with the purposeful energy of a man eager to sleep and possibly tackle a mattress.
Mesut offered a quiet nod before sliding into his Mercedes.
Alexis left still discussing missed opportunities with absolutely no one who had asked.
Giroud somehow looked more stylish leaving at midnight than most people did attending weddings.
Walker shouted across the lot.
"Race you home!"
"You live in Cheshire."
"Details!"
"Important details!"
"Coward!"
"Accurate details."
Laughter followed.
Goodbyes always did.
Not dramatic ones.
Not sentimental speeches.
Football dressing rooms had their own language.
A handshake.
A shoulder bump.
A quick joke.
See you tomorrow.
Recovery at ten.
Don't be late.
Bring coffee.
Normal things.
Important things.
Francesco finally reached his BMW X5, the black paint gleaming beneath the overhead lights.
He unlocked it with a click, tossed his bag into the passenger seat, and paused for a moment before climbing in.
These quiet seconds after matches were special.
The adrenaline had faded.
The noise was gone.
Only satisfaction remained.
He started the engine.
The dashboard lit up in soft blue.
A deep, contented hum filled the cabin.
His stomach growled immediately.
Loudly.
Violently.
Francesco blinked.
"Well, hello to you too."
Professional athletes burned an astonishing amount of energy. Post-match hunger often arrived like an armed robbery.
He pulled out of Colney, joining the sparse late-night traffic.
The roads were blessedly clear.
London after midnight possessed a different personality entirely.
Less frantic.
More honest.
Streetlights reflected off damp asphalt.
The city exhaled.
Richmond lay ahead.
Home.
Leah.
Cheddar.
A shower that didn't involve tactical analysis.
But first, his stomach made another compelling argument.
Francesco glanced at the glowing golden arches ahead and smiled.
Elite nutrition could wait approximately fifteen minutes.
McDonald's had entered the chat.
He swung into the drive-thru, joining the single car ahead of him.
The familiar menu board illuminated the interior.
It smelled faintly of salt, grease, and universally questionable decisions.
Perfect.
Before ordering, he grabbed his phone and called Leah.
She answered on the second ring.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"How many did you score after ignoring my tactical instructions?"
"One."
"Disappointing commitment."
"The team scored four."
"Acceptable recovery."
He laughed, easing forward in line.
"You still awake?"
"I've been waiting for my victorious boyfriend to return with snacks."
"Ah, so true love is conditional."
"Entirely."
Cheddar barked somewhere in the background.
"Moral support," Leah explained.
"Or extortion."
"Mostly extortion."
Francesco reached the speaker.
"I'm at McDonald's."
There was a brief pause.
Then, in the tone of someone receiving wonderful news:
"You magnificent man."
"I aim to please. What do you want?"
He could practically hear her sitting upright.
"Medium fries. Six nuggets. Sweet curry sauce. And a McFlurry."
"That's very specific."
"I've had time to prepare."
"Anything else?"
"A Diet Coke, so the meal remains healthy."
"Science checks out."
"Obviously."
Cheddar barked again.
"Does Cheddar want anything?"
"He wants your entire existence."
"Understandable."
Francesco leaned toward the speaker.
The crackling voice greeted him with professional exhaustion.
"Welcome to McDonald's, what can I get for you?"
Francesco ordered his own meal first with two double cheeseburgers, large fries, twenty nuggets, chocolate milkshake.
Recovery nutrition, technically.
Then Leah's carefully curated masterpiece.
The employee remained impressively calm throughout an order substantial enough to feed a small football academy.
"Anything else?"
Francesco considered.
"Actually, can I add a plain cheeseburger for a very manipulative corgi?"
Leah laughed so hard he had to hold the phone away.
"You're weak."
"He negotiates aggressively."
"He learned from you."
"That accusation has been noted."
He pulled forward to the payment window.
The young employee recognized him instantly.
There was always that brief widening of the eyes.
That tiny pause.
The internal battle between professionalism and absolute disbelief.
"Big win tonight," the employee said, trying very hard to remain composed.
"Thank you."
"Amazing goal."
"Appreciate it."
The fan handed over the card reader with hands that were only slightly shaking.
"Could my brother maybe get a quick video?"
Francesco smiled.
"Of course."
Thirty seconds later, somewhere in North London, a very lucky brother was receiving a midnight message from Arsenal's captain congratulating him on surviving school.
Football was weird sometimes.
Wonderful.
But weird.
At the next window, bags were handed over.
Several bags.
Enough bags to suggest either exceptional hunger or a hostage situation.
The smell filled the car instantly.
Salt.
Burger sauce.
Victory.
Francesco checked everything quickly.
Experience had taught him never to trust fate where missing nuggets were concerned.
"All good?"
"All excellent."
He thanked the staff, who collectively looked like they would be discussing this shift forever, and pulled back onto the road.
Leah was still on the phone.
"Did you get extra sauce?"
"I got three."
"Now that's leadership."
"I've learned to anticipate crises."
"How was the dressing room?"
He smiled.
"Good. Really good."
"Alexis angry you only scored four?"
"Furious."
"As he should be."
"Iwobi was buzzing."
"He should be. First Champions League goal."
"Giroud has claimed full parental responsibility."
"That also sounds right."
Traffic thinned further as he crossed west toward Richmond.
The city lights softened.
The roads became quieter.
His body finally started to feel the full weight of the evening.
Not unpleasantly.
Just honestly.
That deep fatigue athletes chased.
The kind that proved something meaningful had happened.
Leah's voice settled into something softer.
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
"Just tired?"
"The good kind."
A brief silence.
Comfortable.
Natural.
The kind built over countless small conversations.
"Cheddar is sitting by the door," she said.
"Has he forgiven me for the sock incident?"
"No."
"Fair."
"He has, however, accepted the possibility of cheeseburger diplomacy."
"A wise statesman."
Francesco turned onto the quieter roads leading toward Richmond.
The city seemed almost asleep now.
Streetlamps glowed through the trees.
Large houses sat behind gates and hedges, quiet and imposing.
He never quite got used to living here.
Not fully.
There were days he still felt like the kid from years ago, staring through windows at lives that seemed impossibly distant.
Then he'd pull into his own driveway.
Life was strange.
Wonderful.
But strange.
"You nearly home?" Leah asked.
"Five minutes."
"I'll alert security."
"You mean Cheddar."
"I mean Cheddar."
He smiled.
"See you soon."
"Hurry up. Your fries have a very limited lifespan."
"True love."
"Entirely conditional."
He ended the call.
The final stretch passed quickly.
Francesco drove through the gates, which swung open with practiced precision, and followed the curved drive toward the mansion.
Lights glowed warmly from the front windows.
Home.
Real home.
Not the stadium.
Not Colney.
This.
He parked beside the garage and cut the engine.
For a moment, he simply sat there.
The quiet wrapped around him.
McDonald's bags rustled on the passenger seat.
His legs ached.
His shoulders ached.
His smile remained.
Arsenal four.
Sevilla one.
Champions League nights.
He gathered the food, his duffel, and somehow managed not to drop either as it was a performance worthy of separate recognition.
The front door opened before he even reached it.
Leah stood there barefoot, wearing one of his hoodies, hair tied back, smiling in a way that immediately made every mile worthwhile.
Cheddar barreled past her like a furry missile.
Tail wagging so violently it seemed structurally unsound.
Francesco barely had time to set the bags down before the dog launched himself against his legs.
"Hello to you too."
Cheddar sniffed aggressively.
Then zeroed in on the cheeseburger bag.
"Ah," Leah said. "He remembers diplomacy."
"An excellent negotiator."
Leah stepped forward and kissed him.
Soft.
Warm.
Perfect.
"How's the hero?"
"Hungry."
"Convenient."
She took two bags from him.
"You smell like football and French fries."
"A distinguished combination."
"Debatable."
Inside, the house felt wonderfully alive despite the late hour.
Lamp light.
Cheddar trotting importantly beside them.
The lingering scent of candles and home.
Francesco kicked off his shoes near the entrance.
His body immediately appreciated the decision.
Leah handed him his milkshake.
"Recovery shake."
"Scientifically validated."
"By whom?"
"Me."
"Robust research."
They headed toward the kitchen, unpacking the feast across the island.
Cheddar sat at military attention, eyes fixed on the cheeseburger that he clearly believed was his by birthright.
Francesco crouched and handed over a carefully portioned piece.
Cheddar accepted it with solemn gratitude before retreating to consume his winnings.
Leah opened her McFlurry and pointed a spoon at him.
"So."
"So."
"Tell me everything."
Then morning arrived slowly.
Not with an alarm.
Not with urgency.
Not with the sharp, immediate demands that usually accompanied a footballer's life.
Instead, it came gently, filtering through the enormous bedroom windows in soft streaks of pale autumn sunlight. The curtains had been left slightly open, just enough for the morning to slip inside and settle across the room.
Francesco woke the way athletes often did after a night match with gradually, surfacing from sleep in stages.
First came awareness.
Then the familiar heaviness in his legs.
Then the realization that every muscle from his neck to his calves had filed a formal complaint overnight.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
His body ached.
Wonderfully.
The kind of soreness that only came after a proper performance.
After sixty-seven minutes, technically of sprinting, battling, pressing, and scoring under European floodlights.
It felt earned.
It felt honest.
It felt good.
Then he turned his head.
And smiled.
Leah was still asleep beside him.
Curled slightly toward his side of the bed, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, dark hair spilling across the sheets in complete disregard for structure or symmetry. The oversized Arsenal training top she'd stolen from him at some point during the night hung loosely over one shoulder.
Cheddar, meanwhile, had somehow managed to occupy a frankly absurd percentage of the mattress.
The corgi lay upside down between them, paws twitching gently, snoring with the self-assurance of a creature who paid absolutely no mortgage and felt no shame about it.
Francesco studied the two of them for a long moment.
This.
This right here.
These quiet mornings.
These ordinary, beautiful moments.
They mattered.
More than headlines.
More than statistics.
More than most people realized.
He reached for his phone on the bedside table, careful not to disturb either sleeping companion.
The screen lit up immediately.
A dozen notifications.
Messages.
Mentions.
Highlights.
One particularly enthusiastic text from Walker at 1:47 a.m. simply reading:
I HAVE DECIDED MY ASSIST WAS WORLD CLASS
A second, three minutes later:
You are welcome
Francesco smiled.
Then his eyes landed on the Arsenal squad group chat.
A new message from Arsène Wenger.
Sent at 7:02 a.m., because Arsène Wenger likely considered seven in the morning practically lunchtime.
The message was brief.
Elegant.
Entirely Wenger.
Recovery session cancelled. Day off. Rest well. Enjoy your families. We begin again tomorrow.
Francesco read it twice just to be certain.
Then once more, because footballers trusted managers about as much as they trusted suspicious hamstrings.
A day off.
A genuine, unexpected day off.
He looked over at Leah again.
Then at Cheddar, whose back leg kicked slightly as he chased something heroic in his dreams.
A plan formed instantly.
Absolutely nothing.
Which, after a Champions League win, sounded perfect.
Francesco placed the phone down and settled back against the pillows.
For once, there was nowhere he needed to be.
No tactical meeting.
No recovery session.
No interviews.
No travel.
Just home.
Leah stirred a few minutes later, eyelashes fluttering as she gradually emerged from sleep.
Her first movement was to pull the blanket higher.
Her second was to squint at him.
"How long have you been awake?"
"Long enough to confirm Cheddar has stolen approximately sixty percent of the bed."
Leah glanced down.
Cheddar remained upside down, entirely unconcerned.
"He negotiated aggressively."
"He learned from you."
"That is becoming your answer to everything."
"Because it keeps being true."
She smiled.
That sleepy, half-awake smile that somehow always made him feel like the luckiest man in England.
Maybe Europe.
Possibly the entire solar system.
"Morning, Champions League hero."
"Morning, professional thief."
"You're still upset about the hoodie?"
"It was a limited edition."
"It looks better on me."
He couldn't even argue.
Mostly because she was right.
Cheddar chose that exact moment to awaken with the theatrical energy of a man late for Parliament.
He rolled upright, stretched each leg individually, yawned with astonishing commitment, then immediately climbed onto Francesco's chest.
No greeting.
No ceremony.
Just forty pounds of determined corgi.
"Oof."
"He missed you."
"I was gone six hours."
"A lifetime."
Cheddar licked his chin once, then stared directly into his soul.
Breakfast, the stare clearly said.
Preferably now.
Francesco scratched behind his ears.
"You are unbelievably demanding."
Cheddar sneezed.
Which, frankly, felt like disagreement.
Leah reached for her phone.
"Any training?"
Francesco grinned.
"Wenger gave us the day off."
That got her full attention.
She pushed herself upright immediately.
"A real day off?"
"A genuine, Arsène-approved day off."
"No hidden fitness sessions?"
"None."
"No tactical reviews disguised as coffee?"
"Not today."
Leah looked appropriately impressed.
"Miracles do happen."
"European victories help."
Cheddar barked.
"Cheddar agrees."
"Cheddar wants breakfast."
"Cheddar always wants breakfast."
"Cheddar has a growth mindset."
That was difficult to dispute.
They eventually surrendered to gravity and the corgi's increasingly forceful lobbying.
Francesco pulled on a pair of grey joggers and a black Arsenal training shirt. Leah emerged from the wardrobe wearing one of his hoodies again, which had apparently become permanent policy.
He was considering filing paperwork.
Downstairs, the kitchen was flooded with morning light.
The kind that made even ordinary countertops look expensive and slightly philosophical.
Coffee went on first.
Civilization depended on it.
Cheddar supervised from his designated position near the island, tail sweeping the floor with relentless optimism.
Francesco prepared the dog's breakfast first.
A strategic decision.
A hungry corgi was an activist.
Cheddar devoured his meal with the focused intensity of a man competing for a Michelin star.
Leah watched, sipping coffee.
"He eats like Alexis presses."
"Violently?"
"Without compromise."
"Accurate."
Francesco made eggs, toast, and avocado for them both.
Athlete breakfast.
Balanced.
Nutritious.
He also quietly retrieved the leftover fries from last night.
Leah noticed immediately.
"Is that medically advisable?"
"It is emotionally essential."
"Fair."
They ate at the kitchen island while morning fully claimed the house.
No television.
No rush.
Just conversation.
The easy kind.
The kind built over countless mornings and late nights.
Leah told him about training plans for the week.
Arsenal Women had a massive fixture coming up.
Francesco listened intently, genuinely interested.
Because her matches mattered just as much to him as his did to her.
Maybe more, depending on who was currently carrying the remote.
"You're coming Sunday?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
"Good answer."
"It was the only answer."
Cheddar finished breakfast and immediately positioned himself between them, hoping someone might accidentally drop food.
Nobody did.
He seemed personally offended.
After breakfast, they migrated to the living room.
Cheddar brought three toys.
Insurance, presumably.
Francesco stretched out on the sofa while Leah curled against his side, coffee mug warm between her hands.
Outside, Richmond wore that perfect early-autumn look.
Golden leaves.
Blue sky.
A slight breeze moving through the trees.
The sort of day that practically demanded to be enjoyed.
Leah tilted her head up.
"So. What's the plan for your glamorous day off?"
Francesco considered carefully.
"Well."
"Mm-hmm."
"I was thinking something incredibly ambitious."
"That sounds dangerous."
"We take Cheddar for a walk."
"Revolutionary."
"Then lunch somewhere."
"Bold."
"Then absolutely nothing."
Leah nodded seriously.
"A packed schedule."
"I may need a nap halfway through."
"Reasonable."
Cheddar, hearing the word walk, transformed instantly.
Ears up.
Body rigid.
Eyes enormous.
The speed with which corgis processed key vocabulary should frankly have been studied by intelligence agencies.
"Did you hear that?"
Cheddar barked.
"Yes, you did."
Within minutes, he had located his leash independently, which felt both helpful and mildly unsettling.
They headed out just before eleven.
Richmond Park was beautiful this time of year.
The leaves had begun to turn, painting the pathways in gold and amber.
Sunlight filtered through ancient trees.
The air felt crisp without being cold.
Perfect walking weather.
Cheddar led the expedition with the confidence of a military commander inspecting newly acquired territory.
Every squirrel was treated as a strategic threat.
Every leaf warranted investigation.
Every other dog was approached with intense diplomatic interest.
Francesco and Leah walked side by side, hands brushing occasionally.
Sometimes linking.
Sometimes not.
They didn't need constant contact.
The comfort was already there.
They talked about everything and nothing.
Football.
Travel.
A documentary Leah wanted him to watch.
Walker's apparent inability to exist at normal volume.
Alexis's belief that every missed chance constituted a moral failing.
"Does he ever relax?"
"No."
"Ever?"
"Once, in 2014. Briefly."
"Historic."
Cheddar made friends with a golden retriever approximately three times his size and twice his intelligence.
They chased each other across the grass while Francesco and Leah watched.
"He thinks he's much bigger than he is."
"He gets that from you."
"I walked straight into that."
"You really did."
They spent nearly two hours there.
No cameras.
No interviews.
A few fans recognized Francesco, but Richmond generally respected boundaries.
A quick wave.
A polite hello.
Then space.
It was one of the reasons he loved living here.
By lunchtime, Cheddar had exhausted himself into temporary cooperation.
They stopped at a small café nearby, grabbing sandwiches and coffee to take away.
Cheddar received exactly one piece of chicken.
Possibly two.
Negotiations were ongoing.
Back home, the afternoon unfolded with glorious lack of structure.
Francesco watched Leah absolutely destroy him at Mario Kart.
Repeatedly.
"Are you letting me win?"
"No."
"That is somehow more insulting."
"Skill issue."
"Cruel."
Cheddar contributed by barking aggressively at the television whenever shells were deployed.
His tactical awareness remained questionable.
Later, Francesco finally answered some messages.
His mother called.
His father offered additional analysis of the Sevilla centre-backs.
Walker sent a video of himself recreating his assist in his kitchen using a loaf of bread.
Francesco wished deeply that he had not.
Leah laughed for approximately three consecutive minutes.
"Why is he like this?"
"No one knows."
As evening approached, they ordered dinner rather than cooking.
A decision rooted in laziness and excellent self-awareness.
Chinese takeaway arrived.
Cheddar campaigned tirelessly for dumplings.
His motion was denied.
He appealed.
The appeal was unsuccessful.
After dinner, they settled back onto the sofa.
A film played.
Neither paid much attention.
Leah rested against him.
Cheddar occupied both their legs with total disregard for circulation.
Francesco looked around the room.
The soft lights.
The quiet.
The people he loved most.
Yesterday had been Europe.
Roaring crowds.
Floodlights.
Pressure.
Tonight was different.
Smaller.
Softer.
No less important.
Maybe more.
Leah glanced up midway through the film.
"You seem thoughtful."
"Just tired."
"The good kind?"
"The best kind."
She smiled and kissed his jaw.
"Good."
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.
Outside, the sun disappeared completely.
Richmond settled into evening.
Inside, the world felt exactly the right size.
Tomorrow would bring training.
Recovery.
Preparation.
The next challenge.
Football never stopped for long.
That was part of loving it.
But today had been theirs.
A full day.
No distractions.
No obligations.
Just Leah.
Just Cheddar.
Just home.
And honestly, Francesco couldn't think of a better way to spend it.
Then morning arrived slowly.
Not with an alarm.
Not with urgency.
Not with the sharp, immediate demands that usually accompanied a footballer's life.
Instead, it came gently, filtering through the enormous bedroom windows in soft streaks of pale autumn sunlight. The curtains had been left slightly open, just enough for the morning to slip inside and settle across the room.
Francesco woke the way athletes often did after a night match with gradually, surfacing from sleep in stages.
First came awareness.
Then the familiar heaviness in his legs.
Then the realization that every muscle from his neck to his calves had filed a formal complaint overnight.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
His body ached.
Wonderfully.
The kind of soreness that only came after a proper performance.
After sixty-seven minutes, technically of sprinting, battling, pressing, and scoring under European floodlights.
It felt earned.
It felt honest.
It felt good.
Then he turned his head.
And smiled.
Leah was still asleep beside him.
Curled slightly toward his side of the bed, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, dark hair spilling across the sheets in complete disregard for structure or symmetry. The oversized Arsenal training top she'd stolen from him at some point during the night hung loosely over one shoulder.
Cheddar, meanwhile, had somehow managed to occupy a frankly absurd percentage of the mattress.
The corgi lay upside down between them, paws twitching gently, snoring with the self-assurance of a creature who paid absolutely no mortgage and felt no shame about it.
Francesco studied the two of them for a long moment.
This.
This right here.
These quiet mornings.
These ordinary, beautiful moments.
They mattered.
More than headlines.
More than statistics.
More than most people realized.
He reached for his phone on the bedside table, careful not to disturb either sleeping companion.
The screen lit up immediately.
A dozen notifications.
Messages.
Mentions.
Highlights.
One particularly enthusiastic text from Walker at 1:47 a.m. simply reading:
I HAVE DECIDED MY ASSIST WAS WORLD CLASS
A second, three minutes later:
You are welcome
Francesco smiled.
Then his eyes landed on the Arsenal squad group chat.
A new message from Arsène Wenger.
Sent at 7:02 a.m., because Arsène Wenger likely considered seven in the morning practically lunchtime.
The message was brief.
Elegant.
Entirely Wenger.
Recovery session cancelled. Day off. Rest well. Enjoy your families. We begin again tomorrow.
Francesco read it twice just to be certain.
Then once more, because footballers trusted managers about as much as they trusted suspicious hamstrings.
A day off.
A genuine, unexpected day off.
He looked over at Leah again.
Then at Cheddar, whose back leg kicked slightly as he chased something heroic in his dreams.
A plan formed instantly.
Absolutely nothing.
Which, after a Champions League win, sounded perfect.
Francesco placed the phone down and settled back against the pillows.
For once, there was nowhere he needed to be.
No tactical meeting.
No recovery session.
No interviews.
No travel.
Just home.
Leah stirred a few minutes later, eyelashes fluttering as she gradually emerged from sleep.
Her first movement was to pull the blanket higher.
Her second was to squint at him.
"How long have you been awake?"
"Long enough to confirm Cheddar has stolen approximately sixty percent of the bed."
Leah glanced down.
Cheddar remained upside down, entirely unconcerned.
"He negotiated aggressively."
"He learned from you."
"That is becoming your answer to everything."
"Because it keeps being true."
She smiled.
That sleepy, half-awake smile that somehow always made him feel like the luckiest man in England.
Maybe Europe.
Possibly the entire solar system.
"Morning, Champions League hero."
"Morning, professional thief."
"You're still upset about the hoodie?"
"It was a limited edition."
"It looks better on me."
He couldn't even argue.
Mostly because she was right.
Cheddar chose that exact moment to awaken with the theatrical energy of a man late for Parliament.
He rolled upright, stretched each leg individually, yawned with astonishing commitment, then immediately climbed onto Francesco's chest.
No greeting.
No ceremony.
Just forty pounds of determined corgi.
"Oof."
"He missed you."
"I was gone six hours."
"A lifetime."
Cheddar licked his chin once, then stared directly into his soul.
Breakfast, the stare clearly said.
Preferably now.
Francesco scratched behind his ears.
"You are unbelievably demanding."
Cheddar sneezed.
Which, frankly, felt like disagreement.
Leah reached for her phone.
"Any training?"
Francesco grinned.
"Wenger gave us the day off."
That got her full attention.
She pushed herself upright immediately.
"A real day off?"
"A genuine, Arsène-approved day off."
"No hidden fitness sessions?"
"None."
"No tactical reviews disguised as coffee?"
"Not today."
Leah looked appropriately impressed.
"Miracles do happen."
"European victories help."
Cheddar barked.
"Cheddar agrees."
"Cheddar wants breakfast."
"Cheddar always wants breakfast."
"Cheddar has a growth mindset."
That was difficult to dispute.
They eventually surrendered to gravity and the corgi's increasingly forceful lobbying.
Francesco pulled on a pair of grey joggers and a black Arsenal training shirt. Leah emerged from the wardrobe wearing one of his hoodies again, which had apparently become permanent policy.
He was considering filing paperwork.
Downstairs, the kitchen was flooded with morning light.
The kind that made even ordinary countertops look expensive and slightly philosophical.
Coffee went on first.
Civilization depended on it.
Cheddar supervised from his designated position near the island, tail sweeping the floor with relentless optimism.
Francesco prepared the dog's breakfast first.
A strategic decision.
A hungry corgi was an activist.
Cheddar devoured his meal with the focused intensity of a man competing for a Michelin star.
Leah watched, sipping coffee.
"He eats like Alexis presses."
"Violently?"
"Without compromise."
"Accurate."
Francesco made eggs, toast, and avocado for them both.
Athlete breakfast.
Balanced.
Nutritious.
He also quietly retrieved the leftover fries from last night.
Leah noticed immediately.
"Is that medically advisable?"
"It is emotionally essential."
"Fair."
They ate at the kitchen island while morning fully claimed the house.
No television.
No rush.
Just conversation.
The easy kind.
The kind built over countless mornings and late nights.
Leah told him about training plans for the week.
Arsenal Women had a massive fixture coming up.
Francesco listened intently, genuinely interested.
Because her matches mattered just as much to him as his did to her.
Maybe more, depending on who was currently carrying the remote.
"You're coming Sunday?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
"Good answer."
"It was the only answer."
Cheddar finished breakfast and immediately positioned himself between them, hoping someone might accidentally drop food.
Nobody did.
He seemed personally offended.
After breakfast, they migrated to the living room.
Cheddar brought three toys.
Insurance, presumably.
Francesco stretched out on the sofa while Leah curled against his side, coffee mug warm between her hands.
Outside, Richmond wore that perfect early-autumn look.
Golden leaves.
Blue sky.
A slight breeze moving through the trees.
The sort of day that practically demanded to be enjoyed.
Leah tilted her head up.
"So. What's the plan for your glamorous day off?"
Francesco considered carefully.
"Well."
"Mm-hmm."
"I was thinking something incredibly ambitious."
"That sounds dangerous."
"We take Cheddar for a walk."
"Revolutionary."
"Then lunch somewhere."
"Bold."
"Then absolutely nothing."
Leah nodded seriously.
"A packed schedule."
"I may need a nap halfway through."
"Reasonable."
Cheddar, hearing the word walk, transformed instantly.
Ears up.
Body rigid.
Eyes enormous.
The speed with which corgis processed key vocabulary should frankly have been studied by intelligence agencies.
"Did you hear that?"
Cheddar barked.
"Yes, you did."
Within minutes, he had located his leash independently, which felt both helpful and mildly unsettling.
They headed out just before eleven.
Richmond Park was beautiful this time of year.
The leaves had begun to turn, painting the pathways in gold and amber.
Sunlight filtered through ancient trees.
The air felt crisp without being cold.
Perfect walking weather.
Cheddar led the expedition with the confidence of a military commander inspecting newly acquired territory.
Every squirrel was treated as a strategic threat.
Every leaf warranted investigation.
Every other dog was approached with intense diplomatic interest.
Francesco and Leah walked side by side, hands brushing occasionally.
Sometimes linking.
Sometimes not.
They didn't need constant contact.
The comfort was already there.
They talked about everything and nothing.
Football.
Travel.
A documentary Leah wanted him to watch.
Walker's apparent inability to exist at normal volume.
Alexis's belief that every missed chance constituted a moral failing.
"Does he ever relax?"
"No."
"Ever?"
"Once, in 2014. Briefly."
"Historic."
Cheddar made friends with a golden retriever approximately three times his size and twice his intelligence.
They chased each other across the grass while Francesco and Leah watched.
"He thinks he's much bigger than he is."
"He gets that from you."
"I walked straight into that."
"You really did."
They spent nearly two hours there.
No cameras.
No interviews.
A few fans recognized Francesco, but Richmond generally respected boundaries.
A quick wave.
A polite hello.
Then space.
It was one of the reasons he loved living here.
By lunchtime, Cheddar had exhausted himself into temporary cooperation.
They stopped at a small café nearby, grabbing sandwiches and coffee to take away.
Cheddar received exactly one piece of chicken.
Possibly two.
Negotiations were ongoing.
Back home, the afternoon unfolded with glorious lack of structure.
Francesco watched Leah absolutely destroy him at Mario Kart.
Repeatedly.
"Are you letting me win?"
"No."
"That is somehow more insulting."
"Skill issue."
"Cruel."
Cheddar contributed by barking aggressively at the television whenever shells were deployed.
His tactical awareness remained questionable.
Later, Francesco finally answered some messages.
His mother called.
His father offered additional analysis of the Sevilla centre-backs.
Walker sent a video of himself recreating his assist in his kitchen using a loaf of bread.
Francesco wished deeply that he had not.
Leah laughed for approximately three consecutive minutes.
"Why is he like this?"
"No one knows."
As evening approached, they ordered dinner rather than cooking.
A decision rooted in laziness and excellent self-awareness.
Chinese takeaway arrived.
Cheddar campaigned tirelessly for dumplings.
His motion was denied.
He appealed.
The appeal was unsuccessful.
After dinner, they settled back onto the sofa.
A film played.
Neither paid much attention.
Leah rested against him.
Cheddar occupied both their legs with total disregard for circulation.
Francesco looked around the room.
The soft lights.
The quiet.
The people he loved most.
Yesterday had been Europe.
Roaring crowds.
Floodlights.
Pressure.
Tonight was different.
Smaller.
Softer.
No less important.
Maybe more.
Leah glanced up midway through the film.
"You seem thoughtful."
"Just tired."
"The good kind?"
"The best kind."
She smiled and kissed his jaw.
"Good."
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.
Outside, the sun disappeared completely.
Richmond settled into evening.
Inside, the world felt exactly the right size.
Tomorrow would bring training.
Recovery.
Preparation.
The next challenge.
Football never stopped for long.
That was part of loving it.
But today had been theirs.
A full day.
No distractions.
No obligations.
Just Leah.
Just Cheddar.
Just home.
And honestly, Francesco couldn't think of a better way to spend it.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
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, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 13
Goal: 17
Assist: 1
MOTM: 2
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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