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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And as the first press conference of 2018 continued beneath the bright lights of the Emirates media room, both Wenger and his captain represented Arsenal exactly as they had represented the club all afternoon.
The press conference eventually reached its natural conclusion.
Not because the journalists had run out of questions.
That never happened.
Journalists could probably keep asking questions until sunrise if given the opportunity.
But schedules existed.
Deadlines existed.
And even football reporters eventually needed to write their articles.
The media officer glanced around the room before offering a polite smile.
"Last question."
A collective groan immediately followed.
Mostly from reporters who still had their hands raised.
Wenger looked mildly amused.
Francesco looked relieved.
The final question came and went.
A short discussion about squad fitness.
A brief answer from Wenger.
A final thank you.
And then it was over.
The microphones switched off.
The cameras stopped recording.
The room instantly relaxed.
Journalists gathered their notes.
Television crews began packing equipment.
Conversations resumed throughout the media room.
The formal atmosphere disappeared almost immediately.
Wenger stood first.
"Good work."
Francesco smiled.
"Talking to reporters?"
The Frenchman shrugged.
"Winning first."
"Talking second."
"A fair order."
Wenger nodded.
"The best order."
A few final handshakes followed.
Several journalists offered New Year's greetings once more.
Others congratulated them on the victory.
Then gradually everyone went their separate ways.
The day was finally ending.
At least professionally.
By the time Francesco left the Emirates that evening, London had settled beneath another cold January night.
The city lights reflected across damp streets.
Traffic moved steadily through North London.
And somewhere across the capital, Arsenal supporters were still celebrating.
The thought made him smile.
It had been a good day.
A very good day.
A goal.
An assist.
Three points.
Man of the Match.
And most importantly?
A winning start to 2018.
Sometimes football gave you days like that.
Days where everything seemed to fit together perfectly.
Days worth enjoying.
Even if only briefly.
Because tomorrow always arrived.
And tomorrow always brought more work.
The next morning arrived quietly.
No roaring crowd.
No floodlights.
No television cameras.
No reporters.
Just winter sunlight filtering gently through the curtains.
The sort of peaceful morning that felt completely different from matchday.
Francesco woke gradually.
Not because an alarm forced him awake.
Because his body had spent years learning its own routine.
Professional athletes rarely slept late for very long.
Even after victories.
Even after celebrations.
Even after exhausting matches.
Years of training created habits that never truly disappeared.
He remained beneath the blankets for a few moments.
Listening.
The mansion felt calm.
Peaceful.
Comfortable.
Then another familiar scent drifted through the air.
Breakfast.
A smile immediately appeared.
Some things never changed.
And breakfast in this house was one of them.
After pulling on comfortable clothes, Francesco made his way downstairs.
The wooden staircase creaked softly beneath his footsteps.
Morning sunlight spilled through the large windows overlooking the gardens.
The Christmas decorations were mostly gone now.
A few remained.
Small reminders of the holiday season.
But January had firmly arrived.
The house already felt different.
Less festive.
More normal.
Yet still warm.
Still welcoming.
As he entered the kitchen, he immediately spotted Leah.
She was standing near the counter placing the finishing touches on breakfast.
Nothing extravagant this morning.
No giant family feast.
No enough-food-to-feed-an-entire-football-team situation.
Just something light.
Something practical.
Something appropriate after yesterday's match.
Fresh fruit.
Toast.
Eggs.
Coffee.
Simple.
Perfect.
Leah looked up as he entered.
Her face brightened instantly.
"Morning."
"Morning."
Francesco walked over and kissed her cheek.
"You've been busy."
"A little."
"A little?"
He looked at the neatly arranged breakfast.
"You call this a little?"
Leah laughed.
"You should see what your mother calls a little."
"That isn't a fair comparison."
"Exactly."
The kitchen quickly filled with comfortable conversation.
The kind couples developed naturally over time.
Small topics.
Random observations.
Plans for the day.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing urgent.
Just life.
Leah poured herself another coffee.
"You sore?"
Francesco considered the question.
"A bit."
"A bit?"
"Fine."
Leah immediately raised an eyebrow.
The famous eyebrow.
The one that clearly indicated she didn't believe him.
"At least tell a believable lie."
"I am telling the truth."
"You walked down the stairs like an eighty-year-old man."
"That was one step."
"It was twelve steps."
"Details."
Leah laughed.
"You scored yesterday."
"I know."
"You got Man of the Match."
"I know."
"You also got kicked by Chelsea defenders for ninety minutes."
"Also true."
"There we go."
The mystery solved.
Professional football came with consequences.
Most victories were accompanied by aches and bruises.
Occupational hazards.
Eventually breakfast finished.
The two ate together at the kitchen island while morning sunlight continued filling the room.
Outside, the neighborhood remained quiet.
A typical January morning.
Cold.
Crisp.
Peaceful.
The kind of morning that invited people outdoors.
At least briefly.
After finishing her coffee, Leah glanced at the clock.
"Time for me to go."
Reality returning.
Training.
Schedules.
Responsibilities.
The holiday period was truly over now.
Francesco nodded.
"Big session today?"
"Always."
"Fair."
Leah stood and gathered her things.
Training bag.
Keys.
Phone.
The routine of a professional footballer.
Only this time wearing Arsenal Women's training gear instead of Arsenal Men's.
The distinction mattered.
The dedication didn't.
A few minutes later they found themselves near the front door.
Leah slipped on her coat.
"Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone."
Francesco looked offended.
"I never do anything stupid."
The look she gave him was extraordinary.
Years of accumulated evidence condensed into a single expression.
"You once attempted to cook vegetables."
"Still bringing that up?"
"Yes."
"Forever?"
"Forever."
He laughed.
"Fair enough."
A quick kiss followed.
A quiet goodbye.
The ordinary moments that somehow mattered most.
Then together they stepped outside.
The winter air greeted them immediately.
Cool.
Fresh.
Bright.
Parked in the driveway sat the familiar BMW X5.
Still remarkably clean considering London weather.
Francesco watched as Leah loaded her training bag into the back.
"Have a good session."
"You too."
"I don't have training."
"You'll find something."
The confidence in her voice was concerning.
Mostly because she was probably right.
Leah climbed into the driver's seat.
Started the engine.
Lowered the window one final time.
"See you later."
"See you later."
A final smile.
Then the BMW rolled smoothly down the driveway and disappeared toward London Colney.
Toward training.
Toward another day of professional football.
Francesco remained standing there for a few moments after she left.
The neighborhood felt unusually quiet.
No matchday traffic.
No crowds.
No noise.
Just the peaceful sounds of an ordinary winter morning.
Birds somewhere nearby.
A distant car.
The gentle rustling of bare tree branches.
For a moment he simply enjoyed it.
Then another idea formed.
Not a dangerous football-shaped idea this time.
A running-shaped idea.
Recovery.
Fresh air.
Light exercise.
Exactly what his body needed after yesterday's match.
Within half an hour he had changed into jogging clothes.
Comfortable running gear.
Training jacket.
Gloves.
Running shoes.
Nothing complicated.
Just enough to stay warm.
The neighborhood around Richmond looked beautiful beneath the pale January sunlight.
Frost still lingered in shaded areas.
The roads remained quiet.
Gardens sparkled faintly beneath traces of morning ice.
The entire area possessed that peaceful winter atmosphere that only existed during the first few hours of daylight.
Francesco began jogging at an easy pace.
Nothing intense.
Nothing resembling football training.
Just movement.
Recovery.
Fresh air.
His muscles appreciated it immediately.
The first few minutes always felt slightly awkward after a match.
Legs reminding him exactly how much work they had done.
But gradually everything loosened.
His breathing settled.
His rhythm returned.
The familiar comfort of running took over.
One foot after another.
Simple.
Steady.
Relaxing.
Of course, there was one small complication.
Being Francesco Lee.
The complication appeared about fifteen minutes into the run.
"Francesco!"
He turned slightly.
A young boy stood near a front garden clutching an Arsenal scarf.
The child couldn't have been older than ten.
His eyes were enormous.
The sort of expression football supporters only developed when unexpectedly spotting their heroes.
Francesco slowed immediately.
"Morning."
The boy looked completely stunned that he'd actually stopped.
"Morning."
"Everything alright?"
The child nodded so aggressively it was almost impressive.
"Can I get a photo?"
"Of course."
The answer arrived instantly.
A few moments later the boy's father was taking approximately twelve photographs despite only needing one.
Standard parent behavior.
"Thank you so much."
"No problem."
The boy grinned.
"Great goal yesterday."
Francesco laughed.
"Thank you."
Then after another quick goodbye, he resumed jogging.
Only to make it another ten minutes before being recognized again.
This time by two teenagers walking toward school.
Then by a delivery driver.
Then by a family out walking their dog.
The pattern continued.
Not constantly.
But often enough.
Because Arsenal supporters lived everywhere.
Especially around North London and Richmond.
And yesterday's performance remained fresh in everyone's mind.
One elderly gentleman stopped him simply to shake his hand.
"Excellent pass for the second goal."
Francesco blinked.
"Most people mention the goal."
The man pointed firmly.
"Pass was better."
Then walked away before elaborating.
The interaction somehow felt perfectly English.
A little later a group of children spotted him from a local park.
The reaction was immediate.
"It's Francesco!"
Suddenly he found himself surrounded by excited young football fans carrying footballs, Arsenal shirts, notebooks, and whatever else children considered autograph-worthy.
One boy handed him a goalkeeper glove.
Another presented a math workbook.
Nobody questioned it.
Autographs appeared on everything.
Photos followed.
Questions followed the photos.
"What's Mesut Özil like?"
"Really nice."
"Who's the funniest player?"
"Kyle Walker."
"Who's the worst loser?"
"That information is classified."
The children laughed.
One little girl proudly informed him she had celebrated his goal yesterday by jumping off a sofa.
Francesco decided not to encourage that behavior.
Though secretly he found it adorable.
Eventually the group let him continue.
Not before several promises to attend future Arsenal matches.
And at least three reminders that Arsenal absolutely needed to win the league again.
No pressure.
None at all.
As he resumed jogging once more, a smile remained on his face.
Because moments like that never got old.
The trophies mattered.
The goals mattered.
The victories mattered.
But seeing what football meant to people?
That mattered too.
Perhaps even more.
A child asking for a photograph.
A supporter remembering a pass.
A family celebrating a goal together.
Those moments reminded players why the sport mattered beyond the stadium.
Why people cared so deeply.
Why football connected complete strangers.
The morning continued peacefully.
The winter sun climbed slightly higher.
The neighborhood gradually became busier.
The morning continued peacefully.
The winter sun climbed slightly higher.
The neighborhood gradually became busier.
Cars appeared more frequently along the roads.
Parents walked younger children toward schools.
Dog walkers crossed paths along Richmond's quiet streets.
The city was waking up.
And after nearly an hour of easy recovery jogging, Francesco finally felt his body settling into that comfortable post-exercise rhythm.
His legs felt looser now.
The stiffness from the Chelsea match had faded considerably.
Not completely.
That never happened in a single morning.
But enough.
Enough to remind him why recovery sessions mattered.
Enough to remind him why elite footballers spent almost as much time recovering as they did training.
Eventually he glanced at his watch.
The run had lasted longer than he originally intended.
Not because he had pushed himself.
Because he had spent half the morning talking to supporters.
A professional athlete's version of interval training.
Run.
Stop for photographs.
Run again.
Sign autographs.
Run some more.
Answer questions about football.
Repeat.
The thought made him laugh quietly to himself.
Then he turned back toward home.
The familiar roads leading toward his Richmond mansion appeared ahead.
The large property sat peacefully behind its gates.
Quiet.
Private.
Comfortable.
Home.
As he approached the driveway, he noticed Cheddar standing inside the front garden.
The dog had somehow positioned himself near the fence as if conducting security operations.
Very important security operations.
His tail immediately began wagging the moment he spotted Francesco.
Then, apparently deciding security could wait, Cheddar sprinted toward the gate.
Francesco laughed.
"Good morning to you too."
Cheddar barked once.
A short bark.
A greeting bark.
Then immediately began demanding attention.
Which, in fairness, was also standard procedure.
Several moments later they headed inside together.
Cheddar trotting proudly alongside him as though he had personally completed the jogging session.
The warmth of the mansion felt wonderful after being outside.
Not freezing.
But cold enough.
The contrast immediately relaxed his muscles.
For a few moments he simply stood inside the entrance hall removing his gloves and jacket.
The house felt empty compared to the chaos of Christmas and New Year's.
Not lonely.
Just quieter.
Family had returned home.
Life had resumed.
Training schedules had returned.
Reality had returned.
The holiday season was officially over.
And somehow that felt okay.
Because good holidays weren't supposed to last forever.
They were supposed to leave good memories behind.
Then make room for whatever came next.
⸻
A short while later Francesco found himself heading toward another familiar part of the mansion.
The private gym.
Not because he needed a full training session.
Absolutely not.
Arsenal's conditioning staff would probably stage an intervention if he tried conducting an intense workout the day after a league match.
Recovery remained the priority.
Always.
Still.
Light work never hurt.
Especially for someone who genuinely enjoyed training.
The home gym occupied a large section of the mansion.
Modern.
Well-equipped.
Organized.
Everything a professional footballer might need.
Weights.
Cardio equipment.
Recovery stations.
Stretching areas.
Enough equipment to make most commercial gyms jealous.
Francesco stepped inside and immediately switched on the television mounted near one wall.
Not for entertainment.
Background noise.
The same thing countless athletes did every day.
Then he began.
Nothing complicated.
A recovery-focused session.
Mobility work.
Core exercises.
Light resistance training.
Stretching.
The kind of workout designed to help the body rather than challenge it.
The sort of session sports scientists loved.
And footballers occasionally complained about.
Though secretly appreciated.
The work felt good.
Not exciting.
Not dramatic.
But good.
His body responded well.
The movement loosened remaining stiffness.
Improved circulation.
Helped recovery.
Exactly as intended.
For nearly forty-five minutes he moved through the routine methodically.
No pressure.
No stopwatch.
No competition.
Just steady work.
By the time he finished, a thin layer of sweat covered his forehead.
Enough to justify a shower.
Not enough to qualify as real suffering.
The ideal balance.
Cheddar, meanwhile, had spent most of the session supervising from a nearby corner.
Or sleeping.
The distinction remained unclear.
At one point the dog opened one eye.
Verified that Francesco was still exercising.
Then returned to sleep.
Satisfied.
Security operations complete.
The shower afterward felt wonderful.
Warm water washing away sweat.
Muscles gradually relaxing.
The familiar feeling of recovery continuing.
Footballers often joked that half their careers were spent either training, recovering from training, or preparing to train again.
Days like this supported the argument.
Twenty minutes later he emerged feeling refreshed.
Fresh clothes.
Clean hair.
Comfortable.
Hungry.
Very hungry.
Which wasn't surprising.
A morning jog and gym session tended to create that effect.
Normally that might have led him toward less sensible decisions.
The kitchen contained plenty of temptations.
Unfortunately.
Or fortunately.
Depending on perspective.
His nutritionist had prepared a very specific meal plan.
A detailed one.
A professional one.
A plan created by someone whose entire career revolved around preventing footballers from making questionable dietary choices.
And today's lunch sat clearly listed.
Salad.
A very particular salad.
Not just lettuce thrown into a bowl.
A carefully designed athlete's meal.
Balanced.
Nutritious.
Calculated.
The sort of meal nutritionists described as optimal.
The sort of meal footballers described as healthy enough to make them miss cheeseburgers.
Francesco opened the refrigerator and gathered ingredients.
Spinach.
Mixed greens.
Avocado.
Cherry tomatoes.
Chicken.
Nuts.
Several other carefully selected components.
Everything measured.
Everything planned.
Everything designed to help performance.
The recipe sat neatly printed nearby.
Because apparently even Ballon d'Or winners required instructions.
The preparation process went surprisingly well.
No disasters.
No vegetable incidents.
No accidental kitchen emergencies.
Progress.
Real progress.
Though if Leah had been present, she probably would've insisted on supervision anyway.
Just to be safe.
Twenty minutes later he stood back and admired the finished product.
It actually looked good.
Healthy.
Colorful.
Professional.
Most importantly?
Edible.
A significant achievement.
"See?" he told the empty kitchen.
"I can cook."
The kitchen offered no opinion.
Probably wisely.
Lunch eventually migrated into the living room.
A large bowl of salad.
A bottle of water.
Television remote.
A rare afternoon without obligations.
The perfect combination.
Francesco settled comfortably onto the sofa while Cheddar immediately claimed a position nearby.
Naturally.
The dog possessed an almost supernatural ability to appear whenever food entered a room.
The television flickered through channels.
Sports coverage dominated several networks.
Unsurprisingly.
Yesterday's Arsenal victory remained a major talking point.
Highlights appeared repeatedly.
Analysis followed.
Pundits discussed tactics.
Former players debated performances.
One segment spent nearly five minutes discussing Hazard's goal.
Another focused on Arsenal's second-half adjustments.
Francesco quickly changed channels.
Watching yourself discuss football was strange.
Watching other people discuss you discussing football was even stranger.
Eventually he settled on a movie.
An action film.
Nothing particularly profound.
Nothing requiring intense concentration.
Exactly what he wanted.
For a while the afternoon became wonderfully ordinary.
Lunch.
Movie.
Comfortable sofa.
Dog sleeping nearby.
Winter sunlight streaming through the windows.
A rare moment of calm inside a life that usually moved at incredible speed.
The sort of afternoon most professional athletes rarely experienced during the season.
And he was enjoying every minute of it.
Then his phone rang.
The sound immediately interrupted both the movie and Cheddar's nap.
The dog looked personally offended.
Francesco glanced toward the screen.
A familiar name appeared.
Mendes.
His agent.
That usually meant one of two things.
Business.
Or something strange.
Sometimes both.
He answered.
"Hello?"
"Enjoying your day off?"
The Portuguese agent sounded cheerful.
Which was rarely a neutral sign.
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Why you're calling."
Mendes laughed immediately.
"Fair."
"What's happened?"
"Nothing bad."
"That's encouraging."
"It's actually good news."
Francesco leaned back into the sofa.
Now he was curious.
"Alright."
"I'm listening."
There was a brief pause.
The sort of pause agents used when they knew information would get a reaction.
Then Mendes spoke.
"Remember your Ballon d'Or ceremony?"
Francesco blinked.
"Which part?"
"You winning it."
"That narrows it down."
The agent ignored him.
"As it turns out, somebody was very impressed."
"Who?"
"BMW."
Now Francesco sat up slightly.
"BMW?"
"BMW."
A grin was already forming.
This sounded interesting.
Mendes continued.
"They've decided to send you a gift."
"A gift?"
"A very expensive gift."
That definitely sounded like BMW.
Francesco laughed.
"What kind of gift are we talking about?"
Another pause.
Purely for dramatic effect.
Mendes enjoyed these moments far too much.
Then finally:
"A BMW M2."
Silence.
Brief silence.
The kind created when information takes a second to fully process.
"A BMW M2?"
"Brand new."
"For me?"
"Unless they suddenly became interested in me."
Francesco laughed.
"I assume that's unlikely."
"Very unlikely."
The agent sounded offended.
"I could be charming."
"You could."
"Thank you."
"But not free-car charming."
"That's fair."
More laughter followed.
Then Mendes explained further.
Apparently BMW wanted to congratulate him for winning the Ballon d'Or for the second consecutive year.
Back-to-back victories.
Back-to-back history.
Back-to-back recognition.
The company had decided the achievement deserved something special.
And apparently their definition of special involved German engineering.
Francesco shook his head.
Football remained ridiculous sometimes.
Wonderful.
But ridiculous.
"Where is it?"
"That's the best part."
The excitement in Mendes' voice immediately returned.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
"It's already being delivered."
Francesco laughed.
"Of course it is."
"In fact…"
Mendes checked something.
Papers perhaps.
Or messages.
"Last update says it should arrive very soon."
"Very soon?"
"Very soon."
As if on cue, movement outside the front window caught Francesco's attention.
Large movement.
Very large movement.
A transport truck slowly entering the driveway.
He stared.
Then started laughing.
"No."
"What?"
"You planned this."
"I absolutely planned this."
The agent sounded far too proud.
Outside, the truck continued rolling toward the mansion.
Professional.
Careful.
Deliberate.
Car delivery.
The kind normally reserved for extremely valuable vehicles.
Which this certainly was.
Mendes laughed through the phone.
"Go look."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"Maybe a little."
"You'll get over it."
Probably.
Especially if there was a brand-new BMW M2 waiting outside.
And judging by the transport truck currently pulling into the driveway beneath the pale January afternoon sun, there almost certainly was.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 19 (2017)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 31
Goal: 38
Assist: 2
MOTM: 5
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