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Francesco sat down at his locker, finally letting the adrenaline drain. He looked down at his boots — mud-slicked, worn, loved. Then at the captain's armband on his wrist. He smiled, as he thinks this was only the beginning of the new season as the second captain.
The days rolled swiftly into the late summer haze of August, and for Arsenal, the echoes of their thrilling 4–2 victory over West Ham continued to reverberate through press conferences, headlines, and the hearts of supporters. Yet amid the praise and the buzz, Arsène Wenger and his players had little time to bask — the season had only just begun, and challenges lay ahead.
On their second match againts Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park was loud. The compact ground, notorious for its intimidating atmosphere, buzzed with anticipation. Crystal Palace were no strangers to disrupting the rhythm of the big clubs, and Alan Pardew had his men set up to press and harry, hoping to rattle Arsenal out of their fluid rhythm.
But the Gunners came in confident.
Francesco led the line once again, the captain's armband around his bicep, flanked by Alexis and Walcott. Behind him, the midfield of Cazorla, Kanté, and Özil exuded balance and bite, while Van Dijk and Koscielny held the line at the back.
The match started scrappy, Palace refusing to allow Arsenal time to settle, but in the 17th minute, the Gunners found their moment.
A loose clearance by Dann was gobbled up by Kanté, who quickly fed Özil. One touch, then a slide-rule pass between the lines. Francesco surged into the gap, controlled on the spin, and slotted low past Alex McCarthy. Ice cold.
17' – Francesco Lee (Assist: Özil) — Arsenal 1-0
Palace responded ten minutes later with a spell of pressure, and Joel Ward struck low and true after a poor headed clearance by Monreal, bringing the crowd back into the match.
28' – Joel Ward — Crystal Palace 1-1 Arsenal
But Arsenal never panicked. In the second half minute, a whipped cross from Bellerín found Giroud who replace Walcott and Francesco were playing at Walcott position, who met it with a thumping volley that crashed off the underside of the bar and over the line.
56' – Olivier Giroud (Assist: Bellerín) — Arsenal 2-1
The second half was tense. Palace probed. Zaha ran at defenders, and Cabaye tried to dictate tempo. But when pressure mounted, Arsenal's defense — with Van Dijk towering at every aerial duel — held strong.
The decisive blow came in the 81st minute. A deep free kick by Cazorla was headed aimlessly by Delaney — unfortunately, straight into his own net. Francesco had challenged, but never touched it. The ball nestled into the corner, and Arsenal's bench leapt.
81' – Damien Delaney (Own Goal) — Arsenal 3-1
Full-time confirmed a strong away win. Six points from six. Francesco, again, was on the scoresheet.
⸻
Just two days later, Arsenal hosted Liverpool in what was billed as the first major clash of title contenders. Brendan Rodgers brought a spirited, high-pressing Liverpool with Philippe Coutinho, Emre Can, James Milner, Christian Benteke, and new arrival Roberto Firmino.
The Emirates, under the lights, was electric.
Arsenal started cautiously, content to let Liverpool come forward before striking with precision. Kanté again was vital — chasing down Coutinho, intercepting passes, putting out fires before they could ignite.
The winning goal came in the 53rd minute.
It began, fittingly, with Kanté muscling Henderson off the ball near the center circle. He fed Cazorla, who rolled it wide to Alexis. With one touch, Alexis drove forward, beat Clyne, and cut it low across the six-yard box.
Francesco arrived between Skrtel and Lovren like a ghost. One touch, then a flick with his trailing foot — a masterful finish through Mignolet's legs.
53' – Francesco Lee (Assist: Alexis Sánchez) — Arsenal 1-0
Liverpool pushed, threw men forward. Benteke came on. Firmino had a late chance saved by Čech. But Arsenal held, resolute and sharp. Full-time came with a roar. Three wins from three. Nine points.
And Francesco? Five goals in three Premier League games.
⸻
The final fixture before the international break took Arsenal north to Tyneside. Newcastle, winless but combative, hoped their home crowd could shake things up.
It didn't.
From the opening whistle, Arsenal imposed themselves. Newcastle barely strung passes together before Kanté disrupted their flow. Özil orchestrated. Alexis probed.
In the 27th minute, Arsenal's pressure told. A sweeping move saw Cazorla clip a pass behind the defense, where Francesco ghosted in again — this time chipping it over Krul from an angle with audacious composure.
27' – Francesco Lee (Assist: Cazorla) — Arsenal 1-0
In the second half, the Gunners remained dominant. In the 65th minute, Walcott's low cross into the box caused panic. Under pressure from Francesco again, Fabricio Coloccini stuck out a leg to intercept — only to watch the ball skitter into his own net.
65' – Fabricio Coloccini (Own Goal) — Arsenal 2-0
By the time the final whistle blew, the story of the match — and the month — had written itself.
Arsenal, perfect through four games. Francesco, five goals. Kanté and Van Dijk, revelations. The team looked more than just balanced — it looked dangerous. Ruthless. Together.
⸻
Across England, the press was ablaze:
"Francesco Lee: Arsenal's Teenage General Leads Perfect Start" — The Telegraph
"Kanté and Van Dijk: Wenger's Masterstrokes" — BBC Sport
"Arsenal Are Not Just Contenders — They're Setting the Standard" — Sky Sports
Wenger, though characteristically reserved, couldn't hide his contentment.
"We have the foundations," he told reporters. "And now, we build."
Meanwhile, Francesco was named Premier League Player of the Month, becoming the youngest ever to receive the award. In interviews, he deflected the praise, sharing credit with teammates, emphasizing the collective spirit.
But privately, in moments between training and home, he allowed himself quiet smiles. At night, Leah teased him about the chants and his growing stardom. Jorge Mendes called regularly, fielding interest from top brands already lining up endorsements.
The international break had arrived — a brief pause in the relentless cadence of club football — but for Francesco, it was no time to rest.
He was lounging in the living room, the afternoon sun pouring through the tall windows of his Richmond home. A bowl of sliced mango sat untouched on the table beside him, the remote resting loosely in his hand. Sky Sports News droned from the television, showing highlights from Arsenal's perfect August campaign — his goals against Palace, the flick past Mignolet, the chip over Krul. He'd seen the clips a dozen times by now, but today was different.
Today was squad announcement day.
He had tried not to think about it too much. At just sixteen, it still felt surreal enough just being Arsenal's starting striker — and captain, no less. Yet here he was, pulse quietly quickening as he watched Roy Hodgson step to the podium. The FA crest behind him. A familiar formality in the air.
Leah's voice called from the kitchen. "Fran, dinner's ready!"
He didn't answer.
"Francesco?"
Still nothing. His eyes were fixed on the screen.
"…and we're pleased with the balance we've found between experience and youth," Hodgson was saying. "A few new faces, players who've earned their place on form."
The assistant coach, Ray Lewington, sat beside him, flipping through the list.
"The following players are to report to St. George's Park in two days…"
Francesco leaned forward, barely blinking.
"Hart. Butland. Forster…"
"Fran!" Leah called again, a little sharper this time. "The pasta's gonna get cold!"
Still no response.
"…Clyne. Shaw. Stones. Cahill…"
Francesco hardly breathed.
"…Barkley. Henderson. Oxlade-Chamberlain…"
He heard his name then — not from the kitchen, but from the television.
"…and lastly — Francesco Lee from Arsenal."
His jaw fell slightly open.
Leah walked into the room, holding two plates. "Seriously, are you deaf today or wha—?"
She stopped short as she saw his face — dazed, blinking, hand halfway to his mouth. He looked like he'd just been dropped into another world.
"Fran?" she asked, concern softening her voice.
He turned slowly to her, mouth half-open. "They… they called me up."
Leah blinked. "What?"
"For England. I'm in the senior squad." He looked down at the phone in his lap, which had just started vibrating. Unknown number. "I think this is them."
He answered, standing up like he wasn't sure whether to sit, walk, or float.
"Hello?" His voice cracked slightly.
"Francesco, good afternoon," came the calm voice of Ray Lewington. "It's Ray Lewington here — assistant to Roy Hodgson."
"I… yeah — hello."
"We've just announced the squad, as you might've heard. We're calling to confirm: you've been selected for the senior national team. Congratulations. The staff are very impressed with your performances."
There was a pause. Francesco had to sit back down.
"Thank you. I… I don't know what to say."
"Just be ready. We'll see you at St. George's Park the day after tomorrow. Pack for a full camp — two matches. We'll send over the details."
He barely remembered saying goodbye, only that the call ended and he was sitting there again, phone clutched to his chest, still trying to process it.
Leah set the plates down and knelt beside him. "You alright?"
He nodded, slowly.
"I'm gonna play for England."
And suddenly she was laughing — bright, unfiltered joy.
"Oh my God, Fran! You're playing for England!" She hugged him tightly, bouncing with excitement. "I mean, of course you are, but still! England!"
He finally let himself laugh, the sound rolling out of him with a mix of disbelief and elation. His face buried in her shoulder, he whispered, "I think I'm dreaming."
"Nope," she whispered back. "You're just that good."
—
The next two days moved in a blur.
Messages and calls poured in from everywhere — Jorge Mendes, his parents, teammates, even a few players from the Premier League he'd faced and outscored. His dad, voice cracking with pride, had called the moment he saw his name on the screen. "I remember you in the garden with the ball and no shoes. Now you're with the Three Lions."
Arsenal's staff were buzzing too. Wenger shook his hand at London Colney the next morning, his eyes glowing with quiet satisfaction.
"You deserve this," he said simply. "Play your game, don't let the badge weigh you down. You're ready."
Even the senior players clapped him on the back in the dressing room. "Big man!" Walcott grinned. "International duty now, huh? Don't forget us little guys when you win the World Cup!"
"You're older than my uncle," Francesco fired back, and the room burst into laughter.
—
St. George's Park was a world apart.
A sprawling campus of manicured pitches, sleek buildings, and polished professionalism. As Francesco arrived, he could see players stepping off other cars — Sterling, Kane, Henderson, Smalling, Lallana. All names he'd watched on TV only months ago. Now they were teammates.
A staffer greeted him with a smile. "Francesco Lee? Welcome to the England senior squad. You'll be in Suite 14, next to Barkley. Training kit's already in your room."
As he walked through the halls, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the crest on his polo shirt suddenly felt heavier — not with burden, but with purpose.
He met Roy Hodgson properly that evening, just before the welcome team meeting. The manager took him aside.
"You've had a brilliant start, son," he said, voice even, measured. "But remember — this isn't just a reward. It's an opportunity. I've brought you here because I think you can help us. You're young, yes, but football doesn't wait for birthdays. Show me you belong."
Francesco nodded, lips pressed into a determined line. "Yes, sir."
"And relax," Hodgson added, the corners of his mouth lifting. "You don't have to prove anything you haven't already shown."
Training was intense but exhilarating.
Every drill, every rondo, every tactical session — Francesco was sharp. He played like he belonged, because he believed it now. There were moments of nerves — when he had to nutmeg Cahill in a small-sided game and got whoops from the sideline, or when he scored past Hart with a left-footed curler and saw Henderson grin and mutter, "Kid's a joke."
But he earned respect. Fast.
On the third day, as they broke from training, Kane walked up beside him. "How you settling in?"
"Good," Francesco said. "Trying not to stare too much."
Kane chuckled. "Mate, if I'd scored five in my first three games, I'd be the one asking for autographs."
They laughed together. And just like that, the walls between 'new kid' and 'one of us' began to fall.
Francesco also saw his Arsenal teammates that were called — Walcott, Gibbs, and Oxlade-Chamberlain. That helped. A lot more than he expected.
It wasn't that he didn't feel welcome with the others — far from it. But something about seeing familiar faces in the crisp white of England made everything click. In the middle of the first full squad training session, Walcott jogged over, flicked the ball off Francesco's toe with a cheeky grin, and said, "Oi, superstar. You don't get to ghost me just 'cause you've got five goals and a Sky Sports documentary."
Francesco smirked, chased him down, and nudged him in the ribs before catching the return pass. "You'll always be my warm-up act, Theo."
Laughter echoed around them — even Oxlade-Chamberlain joined in. "Man, he's not even been here a week and he's talking like that!"
Kieran Gibbs jogged by and patted Francesco's back. "You're lucky you're good, mate. Otherwise we'd be stuffing you in a kit bag and mailing you back to Richmond."
It was teasing, but it didn't sting. It felt like being invited into a new room in a house he'd already lived in — different view, same walls. Arsenal had raised him, after all. These guys had seen his rise up close. They knew what it meant for him to be here. And maybe more importantly, they weren't shocked that he was.
That night, back in the players' lounge at St. George's, Francesco found himself sitting between Walcott and Ox on one of the long leather sofas, a FIFA match playing on the big screen and empty protein shake cups scattered across the table.
"Seriously though," Ox said, glancing over at him. "I remember you at Hale End, man. Little guy, way too skinny, barely spoke. Now you're out there making Premier League defenders look like training cones."
"Still kinda skinny," Walcott added with a grin.
"Yeah, well, I remember you missing an open goal in training," Francesco fired back, sipping his water.
"Ohhh!" Gibbs shouted from across the room, laughing. "Sixteen and already coming for your legacy, Theo."
Francesco chuckled, leaning back against the couch cushions. The nerves that had clung to him since arriving — the little voice in his head whispering, you're just a kid, this is too soon — had begun to fade. Not because anyone handed him validation on a silver platter, but because he was doing what he always had. Playing football. Making his mark.
Later that night, when things quieted down and most of the squad had filtered off to their rooms, Francesco stepped out onto the terrace outside the lounge. The stars stretched above the pitch-black fields surrounding St. George's Park. Cool night air brushed against his skin, and for a few minutes, he just stood there, breathing it in.
He heard the sliding door open behind him.
"Couldn't sleep either?" It was Walcott, now in sweats and socks, holding a bottle of water.
Francesco shook his head. "Just… thinking."
Theo walked up beside him, leaned on the railing. "First call-up's always a bit surreal. I remember mine. I was seventeen. World Cup year. Eriksson just threw me into the squad out of nowhere. Felt like I was dreaming the whole time."
"Yeah," Francesco said, his voice low. "I keep thinking someone's gonna tap me on the shoulder and say there's been a mistake."
Walcott glanced at him, eyes thoughtful. "Nah. No mistake. You belong here. Everyone sees it. You're not just here for experience. You're here to help us win."
Francesco looked at him. "You really think so?"
"I know so," Walcott replied. "You've got that thing. The calm, the hunger. Doesn't come around often."
They stood in silence for a moment, both gazing out across the dark, empty pitches.
Then Theo nudged him. "Now get some sleep. You'll want fresh legs when Roy lets you loose against San Marino."
Francesco raised a brow. "You think I'll play?"
"I think they'd be crazy not to."
And as Francesco headed back inside, the warmth of that vote of confidence stayed with him. He didn't know if he'd start, come off the bench, or sit the whole match out.
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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: 2
Goal: 6
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9