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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Francesco parked, killed the engine, and reached for the door as it's time to collect his favorite passenger.
The evening air outside The Ivy carried that perfect Richmond balance that cool enough to feel refreshing, warm enough that nobody regretted leaving their jacket at home.
Francesco stepped out of the BMW, locked it with a soft chirp, and adjusted the sleeves of his black Arsenal training top. The glow from the restaurant windows spilled across the pavement, golden and inviting, the sort of light that made everyone inside look happier than they probably were.
Not that Leah needed help in that department.
Through the glass, he spotted her immediately.
She was impossible to miss.
Not because she was loud as she certainly could be, but because she naturally became the center of any room she entered. She sat at the table surrounded by teammates, laughing so hard at something that her shoulders shook. One hand rested against her cheek. Her eyes were bright.
Francesco paused for half a second just to watch.
A dangerous habit.
She looked up.
Saw him through the window.
And her entire expression changed.
It always did.
That little smile.
The one reserved solely for him.
The one that could have convinced nations to surrender.
Leah pointed toward the door, said something to the women around her, and immediately several heads turned.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Grins.
Raised eyebrows.
One exaggerated wolf whistle from someone near the back.
Francesco sighed.
Footballers, regardless of gender, truly were incapable of behaving normally.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The warm scent of expensive food and polished wood hit him immediately.
And then the ambush began.
"Well, well."
It was Jordan Nobbs, naturally.
"Look who finally decided to show up."
"I had to finish beating Chelsea first."
"That seems reasonable."
Leah stood and crossed the short distance between them.
She didn't hesitate.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him softly, briefly, but with enough affection to make several of her teammates groan theatrically.
"Oh, for God's sake," one of them muttered.
"Get a room."
"We have one," Leah replied without missing a beat.
That earned a chorus of laughter.
Francesco shook his head.
"You lot are somehow worse than ours."
"Impossible," Leah said.
"Walker exists."
A very fair point.
He greeted the table properly after that, shaking hands, exchanging jokes, enduring several entirely fabricated stories about Leah's behavior during training.
Apparently, she had committed the grave offense of nutmegging two teammates and then reminding them about it for forty-five consecutive minutes.
Entirely believable.
"You were excellent tonight," Leah said, slipping her hand into his.
"You watched?"
"Obviously."
"Even the boring defensive parts?"
"I fast-forwarded Walker."
"Smart."
Leah grinned.
One of her teammates leaned back in her chair.
"He's annoyingly charming in person."
"It's a carefully cultivated illusion," Leah said.
Francesco placed a hand over his heart.
"That hurts."
"It should."
After a few more minutes of conversation, and after Leah had collected her coat, bag, and somehow three separate leftovers containers, the goodbyes began.
Football goodbyes were never quick.
There were hugs.
Promises.
Arguments about tomorrow's recovery sessions.
A brief and completely unnecessary debate about whether Francesco would survive a full training session with the women's squad.
"I'd dominate," he claimed.
"You'd cry," Leah countered.
"Possibly both."
Eventually, they escaped.
The cool night welcomed them back.
Leah immediately slid her arm through his.
"You took your time."
"I had to be sure you weren't signing for Chelsea."
"They offered excellent dessert."
"I can provide dessert."
"That sounded more confident than specific."
"Confidence is important."
They reached the BMW.
Francesco opened the passenger door for her.
Leah raised an eyebrow.
"Such a gentleman."
"Occasionally."
She climbed in.
He circled to the driver's side, settled behind the wheel, and started the engine.
The familiar hum filled the cabin.
Leah placed one of the takeaway containers carefully in the center console like it contained nuclear material.
"It has cheesecake."
"Then it is our most valuable possession."
They pulled away from the curb and into Richmond's evening streets.
For a while, neither of them said much.
They didn't need to.
That was one of the things Francesco loved most about her.
Silence never felt awkward.
It felt comfortable.
Like home.
Leah eventually reached over and laced her fingers through his.
"You looked good tonight."
"Football-wise or generally?"
"Yes."
He smiled.
"The goal was decent."
"Decent?"
"I've scored better."
"Modesty has never suited you."
"It clashes with my eyes."
She laughed, leaning her head against the seat.
Traffic was light, the roads winding gently toward Richmond. Streetlamps passed overhead in rhythmic intervals.
Leah watched him for a moment.
"You're tired."
"A little."
"You still drove all the way here."
"You were threatening to leave with a rugby player."
"A serious concern."
"Those men are enormous."
"They really are."
The mansion came into view a short while later, standing proudly behind its gates, illuminated softly against the dark.
Home.
Francesco pressed the remote.
The gates swung open.
Leah always loved that part.
"Still feels ridiculously cool."
"It is ridiculously cool."
The BMW rolled up the drive and into the garage.
The engine died.
Silence settled around them.
For a second, neither moved.
Then Leah turned toward him.
"Kiss first. Cheesecake second."
"An excellent order of operations."
He obliged.
Thoroughly.
Cheddar greeted them at the front door with the enthusiasm of a small furry missile.
His entire back half wagged independently from the front.
Leah knelt immediately.
"Hello, handsome."
Betrayal.
Francesco closed the door behind them.
"I live here too."
Cheddar glanced at him briefly.
Acknowledged his existence.
Returned to Leah.
Fair enough.
The rest of the evening unfolded exactly as the best evenings always did.
Shoes kicked off.
Jackets discarded.
Cheesecake consumed directly from the container while sitting on the kitchen counter.
Leah stole his fork.
Francesco retaliated by stealing a bite.
Cheddar campaigned aggressively for crumbs.
Later, they curled up on the sofa.
Leah tucked beneath his arm.
Cheddar across both their legs, because boundaries were for other households.
The post-match analysis played quietly in the background, though neither paid much attention.
At one point, a replay of Francesco's goal appeared.
Leah pointed at the screen.
"Handsome."
"You've mentioned."
"Worth repeating."
He kissed her forehead.
The night ended upstairs, far away from television pundits, tactical breakdowns, and Kyle Walker's inevitable group chat messages.
Just the two of them.
And Cheddar, briefly, until he was removed for excessive supervision.
The next few days passed in the steady, familiar rhythm of professional football.
Training.
Recovery.
Meetings.
More training.
London Colney buzzed with energy every morning. The squad was sharp after the Chelsea victory, confidence flowing naturally through every drill and rondo.
Francesco thrived in those environments.
The competitiveness.
The laughter.
The relentless pursuit of tiny improvements.
Walker remained loud.
Alexis remained intense.
Kante remained, somehow, superhuman.
On Tuesday, Francesco scored twice in a finishing exercise and immediately informed everyone within fifty yards.
By Wednesday, Gnabry had nutmegged him in training and informed everyone within a hundred.
Balance was restored.
Wenger, meanwhile, was already planning ahead.
Squad rotation.
Fixture management.
The Carabao Cup third round against Doncaster loomed.
An important match, but also an opportunity.
The sort of night where young players could shine and tired legs could recover.
Francesco suspected his name might not be on the teamsheet.
He was right.
Wenger informed him after Thursday's session.
"You will rest."
Francesco nodded.
"No complaints."
"Good. Because I was not asking."
Classic Arsène.
"Enjoy watching."
"I'll try not to coach through the television."
"That would be appreciated."
Recovery day arrived with the rare luxury of no early departure to Colney.
Francesco woke naturally, sunlight spilling across the bedroom.
Leah was still asleep, cocooned beneath the duvet.
Cheddar had somehow positioned himself directly between them like an overprotective security guard.
Francesco carefully slipped out of bed.
The house was quiet.
Peaceful.
He padded downstairs barefoot, wearing grey joggers and an old Arsenal training shirt.
Coffee came first.
Again, civilizations and priorities.
Then breakfast.
If he was spending the evening watching football from his own sofa, he intended to do it properly.
He opened the fridge.
Eggs.
Bacon.
Avocados.
Fresh sourdough.
Tomatoes.
A strong lineup.
Cheddar sat nearby, monitoring proceedings with the concentration of a man reviewing legal contracts.
"No."
Cheddar tilted his head.
A compelling argument, honestly.
Francesco got to work.
Bacon crisped in the pan.
Eggs scrambled slowly with butter.
Sourdough toasted.
Avocados smashed with lemon, salt, pepper, and just enough chili to make life interesting.
The smell drifted upstairs.
A few minutes later, Leah appeared in the kitchen wearing one of his hoodies and absolutely no concern for fashion coordination.
Her hair was a glorious disaster.
She looked perfect.
"That smells illegal."
"High praise."
She kissed his cheek on the way to the coffee machine.
"Are we celebrating something?"
"Rest day."
"The greatest of holidays."
They ate at the kitchen island.
Sunlight poured through the windows.
Cheddar received exactly one tiny piece of bacon after prolonged negotiations.
Leah stole half of Francesco's avocado.
He protested.
Weakly.
"Big night tonight," she said.
"Doncaster should be interesting."
"Any jealousy?"
"Only because the lads get free snacks."
She laughed.
"You're impossible."
"No, just hungry."
The day unfolded lazily.
A gym session in the home setup.
A walk with Cheddar through Richmond Park.
Lunch on the terrace.
Leah teasing him about overanalyzing youth-team prospects he'd barely met.
By the afternoon, anticipation had begun to build.
Matchday habits were hard to break, even when you weren't playing.
Francesco showered.
Changed into comfortable black joggers and an Arsenal quarter-zip.
Leah chose leggings, a sweater, and socks fluffy enough to qualify as winter equipment.
The living room became command central.
Blankets.
Snacks.
Tea for Leah.
Protein shake for Francesco.
Cheddar stationed himself between them, fully aware that football viewing significantly increased snack-dropping percentages.
Francesco turned on the television.
The familiar pre-match graphics filled the screen.
The Emirates under the lights.
A rotated Arsenal lineup warming up on the pitch.
Young faces mixed with experienced professionals.
Perfect Carabao Cup territory.
"There they are," Leah said.
Francesco leaned forward instinctively, elbows on knees.
The captain in him never really switched off.
"Good lineup."
"Already scouting replacements?"
"Always."
The commentators discussed Wenger's decision to rotate heavily.
They mentioned Francesco being rested.
Leah smirked.
"Listen carefully. They're praising your intelligence."
"They've clearly confused me with Koscielny."
Kickoff approached.
The Emirates glowed.
Crowds filtered into the stands.
That unique cup-night atmosphere settled over everything with less pressure than the league, but no less excitement.
Francesco felt the familiar tingle anyway.
Football was football.
Whether from the pitch or the sofa, it still mattered.
Leah tucked her legs beneath her and leaned against him.
"Ready, captain?"
"Always."
The referee's whistle cut through the television speakers, but before the ball even rolled, the broadcast shifted to the team graphics.
Francesco instinctively sat a little straighter.
Old habit.
Leah tucked herself against his side, Cheddar sprawled shamelessly across both their laps like a furry paperweight, utterly convinced he was the tactical centerpiece of the evening.
The Emirates glowed under the floodlights.
That deep, electric kind of light that only existed on football nights.
Then the lineup appeared.
Francesco nodded approvingly.
"There he is."
On screen, David Raya's face appeared first.
A little serious.
A little nervous.
A lot excited.
The young Spanish goalkeeper was making his Arsenal debut.
A moment every player remembered forever.
Leah smiled.
"Big night for him."
"Massive."
Francesco knew that feeling.
The butterflies.
The adrenaline.
The strange mixture of wanting the game to start immediately while also wishing time would slow down just a little.
The defenders followed.
Nacho Monreal at left-back.
Reliable as sunrise.
Mustafi and Rob Holding in central defense.
A pairing built on communication, aggression, and the occasional mutual panic.
Héctor Bellerín on the right, looking impossibly stylish even in a static lineup graphic.
"Fastest man in North London," Leah said.
"Second fastest."
She looked at him.
"Confidence."
"Accuracy."
Midfield came next.
Mohamed Elneny sitting deepest.
The human metronome.
Aaron Ramsey and Santi Cazorla ahead of him, with Santi wearing the captain's armband.
That alone made Francesco smile.
No one deserved it more.
Cazorla had the rare ability to make football look less like work and more like jazz.
Then the front three.
Alex Iwobi on the left.
Theo Walcott on the right.
Olivier Giroud through the middle.
A lineup full of pace, movement, and enough hair product to destabilize atmospheric conditions.
The bench appeared next.
Macey.
Robertson.
Wilshere.
Joe Willock.
Ainsley Maitland-Niles.
Reiss Nelson.
Eddie Nketiah.
A proper cup squad.
Youth mixed with experience.
Exactly what these nights were for.
Leah pointed at the screen when Nketiah appeared.
"He looks about twelve."
"He's nineteen."
"Same thing."
Francesco laughed.
"Fair."
The camera panned across the Emirates crowd.
Scarves.
Flags.
Floodlights reflecting off thousands of hopeful faces.
Cup nights always had a different flavor.
Slightly looser.
Slightly louder.
The possibility of seeing something new.
A debut.
A breakthrough.
A goal no one expected.
The players emerged from the tunnel.
Raya walked out last among the starting eleven, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Francesco noticed the tiny signs immediately.
The slightly deeper breathing.
The way he flexed his gloves.
Every debutant did it.
Every single one.
"Relax, kid," Francesco murmured, though obviously the television could not hear him.
Leah patted his arm.
"Very effective coaching."
"I do what I can."
The whistle blew.
And Arsenal were underway.
From the opening minutes, the difference in quality was obvious.
Doncaster were organized.
Committed.
Willing to run themselves into the ground.
But Arsenal controlled possession almost immediately.
Elneny dropped between the center-backs to collect the ball.
Ramsey surged forward in those trademark bursts that somehow looked both chaotic and elegant.
Cazorla orchestrated everything, conducting the midfield with the effortless authority of a man playing five moves ahead.
"He's ridiculous," Leah said.
"He sees passes before physics does."
Monreal overlapped constantly.
Bellerín attacked the right flank like he'd been personally insulted by the concept of defensive shape.
Walcott stretched the line.
Iwobi drifted inside.
Giroud occupied both center-backs with the kind of physical presence that made life deeply unpleasant.
The pressure built.
Minute after minute.
Arsenal knocking.
Probing.
Waiting.
Then came Doncaster's first real chance.
A quick counter.
One pass through midfield.
Another slipped into the right channel.
The striker hit it early.
Low.
Skidding.
Dangerous.
Raya reacted beautifully.
Down quickly.
Strong hand.
Parried wide.
Francesco nodded immediately.
"Excellent."
Leah grinned.
"Proud father energy."
"He set his feet well."
"He also prevented a goal."
"That helped."
Cheddar barked once.
Presumably in agreement.
Arsenal responded exactly as good teams should.
They squeezed harder.
Pressed higher.
Moved the ball quicker.
Then the breakthrough arrived.
Twenty-three minutes.
Ramsey received possession just outside the box.
Quick glance.
Perfect chipped delivery.
Giroud peeled away from his marker.
Rose.
Leapt.
Met it cleanly.
Header.
Bottom corner.
The net rippled.
The Emirates erupted.
Francesco punched the air.
"There it is!"
Leah laughed as Cheddar nearly launched himself off the sofa in alarm.
"Sorry, mate."
Cheddar was unconvinced.
On screen, Giroud celebrated with that familiar combination of elegance and mild smugness.
Entirely deserved.
"A textbook center-forward goal," Francesco said.
"Try not to sound too jealous."
"I could score that."
"Eventually."
"Cruel."
Arsenal smelled blood after that.
Their passing sharpened further.
Confidence flooded through every touch.
Cazorla was magnificent.
A tiny magician in red and white.
Every turn sent Doncaster midfielders in the wrong direction.
Every pass found its target.
Even Leah shook her head.
"How is he this good with both feet?"
"Witchcraft."
Probably accurate.
Then came Raya's second big moment.
Thirty-four minutes.
Doncaster broke again, this time through the middle.
A powerful strike from twenty yards.
Swerving.
Rising.
The sort of shot goalkeepers hated.
Raya flew.
Full extension.
Strong wrist.
Tipped it over.
A brilliant save.
Francesco actually applauded.
"That is outstanding."
Leah joined him.
"Not bad for someone you've never shouted at in training."
"Yet."
The replay looked even better.
Perfect positioning.
Quick read.
Excellent technique.
Wenger, shown on the touchline, gave the slightest nod.
High praise from a man whose emotional range was famously minimalist.
Arsenal doubled their lead just before halftime.
And it was lovely.
Bellerín surged forward down the right.
Walcott timed his run perfectly.
The pass split the defense.
One touch to settle.
Second touch to finish.
Clinical.
Low into the far corner.
2-0.
Game control.
Francesco smiled broadly.
"Theo loves cup nights."
"He loves running."
"He really does."
Walcott's celebration was pure joy.
Arms wide.
Huge grin.
Teammates piling in.
The Emirates bouncing.
Halftime arrived shortly afterward.
Arsenal two goals to the good.
Comfortable.
Professional.
Raya impressive.
Cazorla dictating.
Giroud excellent.
Leah reached for the crisps.
"Any notes, captain?"
"Walker's positioning remains unacceptable."
"He isn't even playing."
"Still."
The halftime analysis rolled.
Francesco offered his own, naturally.
Raya's starting positions.
Ramsey's late runs.
Bellerín's aggressive width.
Leah listened with the patience of someone deeply in love and only mildly concerned.
"You should become a pundit one day."
"I'd be banned in a week."
"Worth watching."
The second half began with Arsenal immediately back on the front foot.
No complacency.
No drop in intensity.
Exactly what Wenger would have demanded.
Doncaster tried to press higher, but that simply created more space.
A dangerous idea against technically superior opponents.
Raya continued to look composed.
His distribution was especially impressive.
Sharp.
Confident.
Always available.
Francesco noticed that too.
"He's brave."
"You like that."
"I do."
"Because you're reckless."
"Selective bravery."
"Reckless."
Fair.
Just after the hour mark, the camera cut to the Arsenal bench.
Wenger was preparing changes.
Francesco leaned forward.
"Here we go."
The board went up.
Giroud off.
Nketiah on.
Walcott off.
Reiss Nelson on.
Cazorla off.
Wilshere on.
The Emirates applauded warmly.
Three excellent substitutions.
Fresh legs.
Young talent.
A returning fan favorite.
Leah smiled when Nketiah entered.
"He still looks twelve."
"Now maybe thirteen."
Giroud embraced the youngster before leaving the pitch.
A veteran passing responsibility to the next generation.
Football loved moments like that.
Wilshere's introduction drew one of the loudest cheers of the night.
The connection between Jack and Arsenal supporters had always been special.
Complicated at times.
But special.
"Still emotional," Leah admitted.
"Always will be."
The substitutions changed Arsenal's rhythm slightly.
More direct.
More vertical.
Nelson immediately attacked his full-back with the reckless courage only teenagers truly possessed.
Nketiah pressed everything.
Even lost causes.
Especially lost causes.
Francesco loved that.
Then came the third goal.
And it belonged to Iwobi.
Seventy-two minutes.
Wilshere carried the ball through midfield, gliding past one challenge.
Fed Ramsey.
Ramsey slipped it wide.
Iwobi cut inside onto his stronger foot.
One touch.
Curl.
Top corner.
Outstanding finish.
Leah actually whistled.
"Oh, that's gorgeous."
Francesco grinned.
"He's been threatening that all night."
Iwobi celebrated with pure delight, mobbed instantly by Nelson and Nketiah.
Youth overflowing.
The Emirates roared approval.
3-0.
Tie finished.
But Arsenal weren't done.
Not remotely.
Ramsey, having covered roughly seven thousand kilometers already, decided he deserved a goal.
He was correct.
Eighty-four minutes.
Wilshere again involved.
Nelson drove at the defense.
Laid it off.
Ramsey arrived late and side-footed calmly beyond the goalkeeper.
A classic Aaron Ramsey goal.
Timed run.
Composed finish.
Maximum hair movement during celebration.
Francesco clapped.
"Vintage."
Leah laughed.
"He really does only score attractive goals."
"It's contractual."
The final minutes drifted by with the comfortable ease of a match long decided.
Nketiah nearly scored, denied by a smart save.
Nelson hit the side netting.
Wilshere sprayed passes like a man making up for lost time.
Raya claimed a late cross confidently, earning another approving nod from Wenger.
And then the whistle.
Full time.
Arsenal 4.
Doncaster Rovers 0.
Professional.
Dominant.
Exactly the kind of evening managers adored.
The Emirates rose to applaud.
Players exchanged handshakes.
Youngsters waved to the crowd.
Raya looked absolutely delighted.
As he should.
A clean sheet on debut.
Two excellent saves.
No better start.
Francesco stood from the sofa and applauded the television.
Leah joined him.
Cheddar, startled by the sudden movement, abandoned ship entirely and retreated to safer territory near the coffee table.
"A successful evening," Leah declared.
"Very."
The post-match coverage began immediately.
Highlights.
Replays.
Pundits praising Raya's debut.
Francesco nodded along.
"They're right."
"Mark the calendar."
"Don't ruin this."
The camera showed Wenger embracing Raya as the players left the pitch.
A brief word.
A hand on the shoulder.
Those moments mattered.
Probably more than most people realized.
Francesco remembered his own.
You never forgot the first time a manager truly made you feel you belonged.
Leah rested her head against his shoulder.
"Happy?"
"Very."
"Missing it?"
He considered the question honestly.
"A little."
"But?"
"But nights like this are good for the squad."
"And your legs."
"My legs are grateful."
She smiled.
The draw for the fourth round would come later, but that could wait.
For now, Arsenal were through.
No injuries.
Youth impressed.
Senior players sharp.
A perfect cup night.
Francesco reached for the remote and lowered the volume.
The room settled into that lovely post-match calm.
Cheddar cautiously returned, clearly satisfied that no further sudden celebrations were imminent.
He curled back up between them.
Leah stole one of Francesco's crisps.
A familiar crime.
He allowed it.
Temporarily.
"You know," she said, "you were unbearable during Raya's saves."
"I was supportive."
"You nearly stood on the sofa."
"Technical encouragement."
"You shouted 'set your feet' at the television."
"He did."
Leah laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea.
"God, you're such a footballer."
"Occupational hazard."
Outside, Richmond had settled into quiet darkness.
Inside, the house felt warm.
Safe.
Complete.
Arsenal had won.
The squad would be in excellent spirits tomorrow.
Walker would undoubtedly take credit for something he hadn't done.
Standard procedure.
Francesco leaned back, one arm around Leah, the other scratching Cheddar behind the ears.
The television replayed Ramsey's goal.
Again.
Still excellent.
Cup football had a charm all its own.
And while he would always rather be on the pitch, evenings like this had their own rewards.
No tackles.
No bruises.
No ice baths.
Just football, the people he loved, and the simple satisfaction of watching Arsenal do exactly what Arsenal should.
Leah glanced up at him.
"Same again next round?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether Wenger decides my legs deserve another holiday."
She kissed his cheek.
"I support this policy."
"Of course you do."
The night stretched comfortably ahead.
Recovery tomorrow.
Training after that.
Another match on the horizon.
Football never stopped.
And honestly, Francesco wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
______________________________________________
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: 14
Goal: 18
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