233. Rest Day

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He turned, disappeared down the tunnel, and into the night. A leader walking off a battlefield—not bloodied, not bruised, but triumphant. The Premier League had taken notice, as Arsenal weren't just a defending champs, they here to dominate Premier League.

The moment Francesco stepped back into the dressing room, the noise hit him like a wall. Laughter, music, boots scraping against the tiled floor, bottles of water being cracked open, the low hum of voices still vibrating with post-match adrenaline. The air was thick with sweat, liniment, and euphoria.

Alexis was still holding the match ball, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, showing off the signatures sprawled across its panels. Özil was perched near the locker room speakers, DJ duties unofficially assigned, nodding along to the deep rhythm of some German house track. Giroud was shirtless, flexing for no one in particular, finally free of the weight that had hung around his neck for weeks.

As Francesco walked in, the noise seemed to dial down just slightly—not because of his status, but because there was something unspoken in the way he carried himself. A presence. Not arrogant. Not showy. Just… anchoring. And in the midst of the jubilance, that presence steadied the room.

A few claps greeted him. A couple of handshakes. Bellerín tossed him a water bottle as he walked past, and he caught it without looking, giving a quiet thanks. He didn't need to say much. The scoreboard had spoken loud enough for all of them.

Then came the sound of someone clearing their throat—purposefully. Firmly.

Arsène Wenger stood near the entrance, arms behind his back, his voice enough to still the room.

"Alright, lads," he said, not shouting, but with that teacher's cadence that always commanded attention. "If you're done celebrating… I'd like to say a few words."

The room fell respectfully quiet. Even Alexis tucked the ball behind his boots.

Francesco moved to his spot—second locker from the left, near the physio table—and took his seat. Everyone followed.

Wenger looked around the room, his gaze sweeping over the players not just with pride, but a measure of calculation. Always planning. Always three steps ahead.

"I won't speak long," he began. "Tonight, you did everything I asked—and more. You were brave. Ruthless. Intelligent. From front to back, every man played with courage."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the squad.

"But," he continued, holding up a hand, "the season is long. This is only September. You are not champions for beating Leicester six–one."

Some smiles faded. Not all. But they were listening.

"What you are," Wenger said, stepping closer now, "is a team that can become champions. That can dominate not just matches, but months. That can play this way… every week. If we keep our minds sharp. If we respect the process."

Francesco nodded slightly to himself. This was what Wenger did better than anyone—he reminded you of the mountain, even while you stood on the summit.

"Tomorrow," Wenger said now, softening, "is yours. Day off. Recover. Rest."

Cheers and a few whoops broke out immediately.

"But," Wenger added, louder now, "remember—three days from now, we host Olympiacos."

Silence again.

"Champions League football is unforgiving. You know this. Even though we win the opener in Zagreb. We cannot afford a mistake, especially at our home."

The mood shifted subtly—focus creeping back in like a cool breeze through the steam.

"So," Wenger said, folding his arms, "the day after tomorrow, we're back at Colney. Light session. Recovery. Ball work. Nothing heavy. But after that—we begin our tactical prep."

His eyes passed across the room, catching Francesco's.

"They're strong in midfield. They play narrow. They'll look to frustrate us and counter. We'll need to be sharp. Disciplined."

He let that hang in the air for a moment.

"Alright. That's it."

A pause. Then a half-smile.

"Go shower. Go celebrate. But come back ready."

The players stood, some clapping, some bumping fists. Wenger gave Francesco a small nod before turning toward the hallway, leaving them to the chaos again.

Francesco exhaled, leaned back slightly, and sipped from his water bottle. His body was beginning to ache now—the dull buzz of adrenaline fading into soreness—but it was the good kind. The kind you could carry like a trophy.

"Man," Theo Walcott said, dropping into the bench beside him, towel around his neck. "You see Alexis? Like a damn hurricane."

Francesco smiled. "You weren't bad yourself."

Theo chuckled, kicking off his boots. "Still can't believe we hit six. Against them."

Giroud came over next, towel slung low, still catching his breath. "Fratello," he said, ruffling Francesco's hair, "you have to admit… that was football from the gods."

"It was," Francesco agreed. "But we need to make it our standard. Not our peak."

Giroud grinned. "Listen to this guy. Always the captain."

"Always the grump," Theo added, laughing.

Francesco rolled his eyes, stood, and peeled off his shirt. His ribs were sore from an awkward landing in the second half, and a purple bruise was forming just beneath the skin. He touched it, winced, then shrugged it off.

He glanced around the room—at Alexis still glowing from his hat-trick, at Cazorla icing his knees while cracking jokes in Spanish, at young Chambers nodding along to something Bellerín was explaining in animated hand motions.

They were all in different places in their careers. Different languages, backgrounds, journeys. But tonight, they'd played like one.

He grabbed his kit bag and made his way toward the showers. The water hit like heaven—hot, cleansing, washing away sweat and mud and tension. As he stood there, eyes closed, he found his mind already drifting forward. Not to celebrations. Not to headlines. But to Tuesday.

Olympiacos.

They would come hard. Greek sides always did. Physical. Disciplined. Dangerous if underestimated.

He'd need to review tape tomorrow night. Study their shape, their patterns. Especially their full-backs—they tended to overload the flanks in possession.

But for now, he'd enjoy the quiet.

As he stepped out, wrapped in a towel, Francesco passed Özil at the mirror, fixing his hair like a man going to a gala, not just finishing a war.

"You think they'll write about us?" Özil asked, meeting his reflection.

"They'd be fools not to," Francesco replied, half-smirking.

"And us?" Özil asked, finally turning to him. "You think this team… this season… will win the Premier League again? Or the Champions League?"

Francesco didn't answer right away.

Then, simply: "I know it is."

They held the moment in silence before parting ways, heading to their lockers to change into street clothes—track pants, hoodies, high-tops. Normal gear for the most elite performers in the sport.

As they filtered out of the dressing room and into the crisp Leicester night, media lined the hallway. Lights. Microphones. Questions. Always questions.

Francesco gave a few short answers—praising the team, lauding Alexis, emphasizing focus ahead of Olympiacos. He didn't say anything flashy. He didn't need to. The pitch had done his talking.

When the team bus pulled away to the airport as they will take plane back to London, the lights of King Power Stadium fading into the distance, Francesco sat by the window, headphones on, staring out into the night.

The soft light of morning crept through the gauzy curtains, painting warm stripes across the white linen sheets. Outside the windows, the sky was pale grey but calm, the kind of gentle overcast that England seemed to do best—neither bleak nor bright, just there, holding the morning like a secret.

Francesco stirred slowly. His body ached in familiar ways—thighs tight from long sprints, ribs sore from the awkward fall in the second half, calves twitching faintly from the workload. But none of it was unpleasant. It was the ache of victory, of purpose. He welcomed it.

He turned slightly and felt the warmth still beside him.

Leah was curled on her side, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, hair splayed in a quiet halo across the bed. She breathed evenly, her brow soft, her mouth just barely parted in sleep. Peaceful. Vulnerable in a way she rarely showed when awake—when she was fierce, commanding, radiant. On the pitch, she was fire. In sleep, she was all water.

Francesco let himself smile.

He shifted quietly out of bed, careful not to wake her, and padded across the room on bare feet. His bedroom was wide and spare—dark hardwood floors, crisp white walls, a few framed photos of Rome, London, and one candid shot of his old youth squad lifting a trophy together in rain-slicked kits. A place of balance. Nothing excessive. Just enough.

He moved into the ensuite bathroom, splashed some water on his face, ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, then tugged on a soft cotton t-shirt and track pants before heading downstairs.

The kitchen opened directly into the dining space—one of those modern, open-plan designs with dark counters and matte black fixtures, sunlight bouncing off steel appliances and the deep blue subway tile behind the stove. Everything was clean, ordered, curated. Francesco liked structure. It helped him breathe.

He moved on instinct—cracking eggs, slicing bread, boiling water for coffee. The gentle rhythm of domesticity was its own kind of therapy. After weeks of travel, away matches, and regimented schedules, it felt good to cook for someone. For them.

He reached for the remote and flicked on the small flatscreen mounted in the corner of the kitchen. The volume was low, but the visuals came clearly—Sky Sports News, the familiar ticker rolling along the bottom, the headlines in bold white and red.

"Arsenal Run Riot at King Power — Sánchez Hat-Trick, Francesco Masterclass."

He glanced up from the pan and watched the segment play out. Clips of the goals rolled across the screen: Alexis's first, where he'd followed Francesco's near-post flick. Then the second, when Mesut picked the lock with that deadly pass into space. The third—pure Alexis, that fiery low drive that left the keeper scrambling.

And then his own. Francesco's first goal of the night—a slicing left-footed rocket into the top corner. The kind only a few dared to even attempt, much less pull off.

"Arsenal have now scored nineteen goals in their first seven league matches," the anchor was saying. "And if anyone had doubts about Francesco Lee, I think last night's performance puts them to bed. That's 15 goals and 2 assists in all competitions already. He's not just leading the line—he's leading the team."

Francesco stirred the eggs with a small shrug. Praise was nice. But it was fleeting.

He'd learned early on that form was currency in football. And currency ran out faster than it came. You had to stay sharp. Stay hungry.

Still, it was nice hearing it while cooking breakfast for someone he loved.

Behind him, soft footsteps descended the staircase.

"Something smells amazing," Leah's voice croaked softly, still dusted with sleep.

He turned, finding her standing at the edge of the kitchen—his hoodie draped over her like a blanket, hair pulled into a messy bun, eyes puffy but bright.

"You're up early," he said, grinning.

"I smelled eggs," she replied, rubbing her eyes and walking over to him. "And I was cold."

Francesco leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Well, the kitchen's warm. And breakfast is almost ready."

She wrapped her arms around his middle from behind and rested her cheek on his back.

"You know you looked like a god last night, right?" she mumbled. "Captain. Maestro. Fox in the box."

He chuckled, flipping the eggs with practiced ease. "You're only saying that because we won."

"No, I'm saying it because it's true. I screamed when you scored that second one. Nearly dropped my wine."

"That's dedication," he said, smiling.

They sat down at the counter together—him plating eggs, toast, and grilled tomatoes, her pouring two mugs of strong black coffee.

On screen now, the segment had shifted to Olympiacos.

"Tuesday's match at the Emirates is a crucial one," the analyst was saying. "Olympiacos are top of the Greek Super League, unbeaten, and while they don't travel well historically, they've always made life difficult for English sides."

A montage of their recent games played—tight midfield blocks, aggressive pressing, counterattacks with speed.

Francesco sipped his coffee. "They'll be annoying."

Leah nodded. "Like a team of jackhammers."

"They play narrow, try to funnel us inside. We'll need width."

She looked at him over her mug. "You're already game-planning?"

He smiled. "Of course. That's what days off are for."

"You're unbelievable."

"You've said that before."

She laughed, then reached for her phone. "Mmm, I should go soon. Training at 11."

"You're not skipping? Not even for me?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You are the romantic type, huh?"

"I try."

Leah slid off the stool, kissed him deeply, then leaned her forehead to his. "How about watch some movie tonight?"

"Only if you don't make me watch more trash movie."

"No promises."

Francesco tilted his head slightly, eyes still on Leah, his fingers lazily stirring the last of the eggs in the pan.

"You should go wash up and get your stuff ready," he said softly. "Breakfast'll be ready in ten."

Leah groaned dramatically, stretching her arms above her head before letting them fall in defeat. "You're lucky you're cute."

She kissed him on the cheek, snagged a grape tomato from the counter with a mischievous grin, and padded back upstairs, her bare feet making soft thuds against the hardwood steps. He watched her go with a faint smile before turning his full attention back to the stove.

He plated the food carefully—two plates, both with perfectly scrambled eggs, toast golden and just crispy enough, sautéed mushrooms, and those grilled tomatoes she always loved. It wasn't fancy, but it was real. And it was enough.

By the time Leah came back down—clean-faced, hair brushed back into a high ponytail, now wearing track pants and her England training top—he was already seated at the kitchen island, two plates and two steaming mugs of fresh coffee waiting between them.

She plopped down with a content sigh, eyes lighting up at the sight of breakfast.

"You're going to make someone a very smug husband one day," she said, picking up her fork.

Francesco gave her a sideways glance. "Only if she makes better coffee than me."

They ate in companionable quiet for a while, exchanging small smiles over bites, the kind that didn't need words to carry meaning. Leah tapped her foot occasionally, humming under her breath between sips of coffee, always subconsciously moving—always in motion, even when sitting still. That was just who she was.

Eventually, her phone buzzed with a reminder. She glanced at it, then downed the last of her coffee in a few swift gulps.

"That's me," she said, standing up and brushing crumbs from her top. "If I'm late again, Phil's gonna pretend it's not personal and then make me do sprints until I regret my life choices."

Francesco followed her to the door, keys already in his hand.

"You taking the Civic?" he asked.

"Yeah. Easier to park near St. George's anyway."

He dangled the keys at her. The black Honda Civic was his old car, the one he'd driven to and from training when he first joined Arsenal. It was beat up in places, the stereo crackled if you turned it too loud, but it was reliable—and more importantly, Leah loved it.

She took the keys, then stood on her toes to kiss him again, lingering a little longer this time. A soft goodbye that didn't need saying.

"Good luck with the film study," she said as she pulled away, smirking. "Try not to get too angry when they do that thing where five defenders collapse onto the ball like toddlers chasing a balloon."

Francesco chuckled. "No promises."

And just like that, she was out the door, the Civic's familiar engine coughing to life a moment later. He watched it pull out of the drive, disappear past the hedges at the end of the quiet street, then closed the door gently behind him.

The house fell silent again.

He stood there for a beat, breathing in the last trace of her perfume still lingering in the air, then turned and made his way back upstairs.

His bedroom, still bathed in that soft London grey light, welcomed him like an old friend. He grabbed his laptop from the desk, kicked off his slippers, and settled onto the bed, propping himself against the headboard with pillows. A bottle of water on the nightstand. Notebook and pen nearby.

He opened up the file of Olympiacos matches he'd downloaded the night before and hit play.

Their last four matches began rolling, one after another—grainy stadium footage, Greek commentary humming beneath the images. He muted the audio and leaned in.

His eyes narrowed as he watched.

They pressed high when possible but weren't reckless. Their shape in midfield was tight—two holding midfielders who screened the center backs and clogged the half-spaces. It made it hard for creative playmakers to find time. Francesco noted the number of fouls they gave away in those areas—nothing brutal, but tactical. Controlled aggression.

But the defenders—there was something there.

He paused the video and rewound. Again. Slower.

Their right center-back. Tall, strong in the air, but sluggish on the turn. Every time a fast attacker pulled slightly wide and ran diagonally in behind, he struggled. The full-back had pace, but he often committed forward and didn't recover well. There was a gap that opened in transition, especially if the ball was played quickly out of midfield.

Francesco scribbled a few lines in his notebook.

• Right CB slow on turn. Vulnerable to diagonal runs.

• LB too attacking. Space behind him on counter.

• DM presses high. Need to exploit space behind.

He clicked to the next match. This time Olympiacos were playing away in a more hostile environment. He watched their defense drop deeper, much less willing to engage high up the pitch. It gave them more solidity, but the midfield line became stretched.

That could be a problem for them.

If he dropped deep and pulled one of the defenders out, Alexis or Theo could burst into that space. Or Mesut could slip into the blind spots, drifting where no one tracked him.

The key would be movement. Timing.

He sat back, eyes scanning the screen as he let the ideas build.

Football was puzzles. Constantly evolving ones. And Francesco loved puzzles.

He watched two more matches, noting tendencies—who switched off at set pieces, who ball-watched under pressure, who was likely to lunge into a challenge when baited.

By noon, he had two full pages of notes. Not tactics the coaches would draw up, not broad shapes or pressing cues, but the small things—the tells. The cracks.

He ran a hand through his hair, satisfied, then looked out the window. The sky was still pale, calm. The kind of day you could easily lose to thought. He set his notebook aside, stretched out fully on the bed, and closed his eyes for just a moment.

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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:

Arsenal:

Match Played: 9

Goal: 15

Assist: 2

MOTM: 0

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9