234. Mendes Ambush Meeting

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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.

A low trill broke the quiet, vibrating faintly against the sheets beside him.

Francesco opened his eyes slowly, the corners still crusted with sleep. He'd only just dozed off—barely more than a blink in the long, thoughtful haze of midday—but the ringtone persisted, sharp and distinct, like the cry of something urgent in the distance.

He reached for the phone, blinking as the name flashed across the screen.

JORGE MENDES.

Francesco frowned, swiping to answer as he brought the phone to his ear. "What is it, Jorge?"

"Francesco," came the smooth, slightly accented voice on the other end, warm but clipped with purpose. "I need you to come into town this evening."

Francesco sat up slightly, rubbing his temple. "What for?"

"There's someone who wants to meet you," Jorge said, the line humming with that peculiar tension that always seemed to linger just behind the agent's voice. "Important. Very."

Francesco glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Just past noon.

"Who is it?" he asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "A sponsor?"

"No, not a sponsor. Not exactly," Jorge replied. "Think bigger."

That made Francesco pause. He stood now, walking toward the window, phone pressed to his cheek. "Then tell me who it is."

"You'll know when you meet him," Jorge said.

Francesco sighed, the kind of sigh that came from knowing Jorge would never give a straight answer if he didn't want to. "Where?"

"Italia Ristorante. Henrietta Street. Seven sharp," Jorge replied without missing a beat. "Private room in the back. Wear something proper. No track suits. I don't care how good you look in them."

Francesco chuckled in spite of himself, rubbing at his jaw. "So I'm dressing up for a mystery dinner."

"Yes," Jorge said simply. "And trust me, you'll thank me after."

The line went dead before Francesco could press further.

He lowered the phone and stared at it for a moment, then set it on the dresser with a soft clink and looked out the window again. The day hadn't changed—still overcast, still draped in that gentle English hush—but suddenly the air seemed more charged.

He had a few hours.

Francesco turned, moving with quiet purpose. He gathered the plates from breakfast still resting on the counter, rinsed them, stacked the dishwasher, and wiped the counters clean until the kitchen looked as untouched as it had at dawn.

Then he headed upstairs again and stood in front of his wardrobe.

His collection of suits hung at the far end—tailored, sharp, untouched for weeks. He hadn't needed them. Not for training. Not for press. But now, something sleek and dark seemed to call to him. He chose a charcoal grey Italian-cut suit, single-breasted, paired with a black dress shirt and no tie. Clean. Elegant. Unassuming, but never forgettable.

He shaved, ran a comb through his hair, and slid into the outfit like slipping into armor.

When he looked at himself in the mirror, he barely recognized the man staring back.

This wasn't the Francesco who danced between defenders or poured scrambled eggs onto a plate with one hand. This was someone older, sharper, still young but chiseled by decisions—someone who'd walked through headlines and come out on the other side with more than just goals to show for it.

By half past six, he was in his BMW X5, cruising through the London evening traffic.

The city pulsed with its usual rhythm—double-deckers sighing to a stop, people huddled outside cafés with scarves and cigarettes, the Thames reflecting dull streaks of grey light. London didn't dazzle. It didn't need to. It endured. And in that, Francesco found a strange kind of kinship.

Henrietta Street came into view just before seven. A discreet valet met him outside the restaurant, eyes widening slightly when Francesco stepped out. Not because of fame, but because of the way he carried himself.

Italia Ristorante was tucked into a beautiful old building, stone facade glinting beneath soft golden sconces. Inside, it was all amber lighting and murmured conversation, the kind of place where every clink of glass seemed curated.

"Mr. Lee?" the host asked as soon as he stepped through the door.

Francesco nodded.

"This way."

They walked past couples in candlelit booths, the smell of basil and truffle butter thick in the air. At the back, through a narrow corridor and a velvet curtain, the private room waited.

Jorge was already there.

He stood when Francesco entered, dressed immaculately in a navy suit with a dark red pocket square, his ever-present Rolex gleaming under the table light.

"You clean up well," Jorge said with a small smile.

Francesco sank into the seat across from him. "Now tell me what this is about."

Before Jorge could answer, the curtain behind Francesco shifted.

Footsteps. Leather shoes. Slow. Purposeful.

Francesco turned.

Francesco turned as the curtain shifted, expecting maybe a club director or an old Premier League face. Instead, what he saw made his spine stiffen slightly.

Zinedine Zidane.

Dressed in a charcoal suit without a tie, calm as ever, eyes gleaming with something beyond mere politeness. A presence—quiet, yet unmistakably magnetic. Time slowed for a moment, just enough for the surreal weight of it to register. Francesco's face remained composed, but his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. His jaw tensed as he looked back at Jorge Mendes, a sharp, silent glance laden with meaning: What the hell is this?

Jorge met his gaze with that unreadable half-smile he wore like armor.

Zidane extended a hand as he stepped into the room. "Francesco," he said, voice rich and measured, unmistakably French but softened by years of travel. "It's good to finally meet you."

Francesco rose, grasped Zidane's hand in a firm shake—out of instinct, respect, muscle memory. "The pleasure's mine," he replied, though his tone hinted that he didn't mean it the way he usually did.

Zidane gestured for him to sit. "Please. Let's eat, then talk."

Jorge resumed his seat beside Francesco, his posture relaxed. Zidane sat across from them, signalling discreetly to a server. A few moments later, menus arrived, but Zidane barely glanced at his.

"Bring us the specials," he said in effortless Italian. "Antipasti, veal ossobuco, and a bottle of Barolo."

Francesco said nothing as the waiter nodded and disappeared. The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was thick, coiled, a roomful of professionals feeling each other out without revealing too much.

Then Zidane leaned forward, arms resting lightly on the table, and looked Francesco in the eye.

"I won't waste your time," he began. "I know who you are. I know what you're doing at Arsenal. And I know what you could become."

Francesco blinked slowly, waiting.

"I'm not here just as Zinedine Zidane," he said. "I'm here because Mr. Florentino Pérez sent me. Real Madrid wants you next season."

Francesco's expression didn't change, but his body did—his shoulder tightened slightly, his eyes hardened by a millimeter.

Zidane continued, unfazed. "He didn't send a scout. He didn't send a sporting director. He sent me. Because we don't just want to sign a talent. We want a galáctico. You."

Silence followed. Not because Francesco didn't know what to say. But because he couldn't believe this was happening—like this. No call. No warning. Just Jorge, pulling strings like always, dropping him into the center of a meeting that had more stakes than a Champions League final.

Zidane didn't push. He merely studied him, composed, like a chess grandmaster assessing the board.

"You're loyal," he said, gently now. "I respect that. Arsenal's your boyhood club. You've made that clear."

Francesco exhaled, leaning back. His voice was low, controlled, but the irritation laced every word. "That's not something I say for PR, Zizou. I mean it. I told Jorge—many times—I'm not looking to leave. I owe Arsenal. And I'm not done here."

Mendes began to speak, but Francesco cut in without looking at him. "And ambushing me like this? That's not how you convince me."

Zidane nodded, unoffended. "I understand. But let me ask you something."

Francesco didn't reply.

Zidane leaned forward slightly. "Do you want to win the Champions League?"

Francesco's lips parted, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth again.

"Do you want the Ballon d'Or?" Zidane asked next. "Do you want to be remembered as the best of your generation, not just in England, but across the world?"

Zidane held his gaze, voice calm but firm. "Because if you do, then eventually, you have to come to Madrid. That's where legacies are cemented."

Francesco's jaw twitched. "You already have Ronaldo."

Zidane smiled faintly. "We do. And he's not getting younger. But that's not the point. When he arrived, he wasn't the Ronaldo. He became that here. Same with Zidane. Figo. Kaká. Modrić. You wouldn't be just a player. You'd be a symbol."

Francesco swallowed, the weight of the pitch beginning to press down.

"But I don't want to be a symbol if it means betraying what I've built," he said. "I'm Arsenal's captain. I'm not done writing that story."

Zidane nodded slowly. "And maybe that story ends with a statue. But I came here because I believe there's more to you than that. I watched your goals against Chelsea. Your performances in Europe. You're not just a Premier League star. You're a world-class player—already. But the world doesn't always notice from England. You know that."

The food arrived, steaming and fragrant. No one reached for it.

Zidane kept his gaze on Francesco. "I'm not here to demand a yes. I'm here to open a door. Because doors like this don't stay open forever. And Madrid won't wait for long."

Jorge finally spoke, his voice soft and deliberate. "He's right, Francesco. And I didn't tell you in advance because I knew you'd say no before hearing the offer. But this—this is history knocking."

Francesco shook his head, frustration leaking into his voice now. "You should've told me, Jorge. This isn't some shirt sponsor. This is a career-changing moment. You don't ambush people with that."

"I wanted you to see the weight of it in person," Jorge said quietly. "Not over a call. Not filtered through headlines. From Zidane's mouth. From the club that shaped legends."

Francesco sat in silence for a long moment.

The waiter returned with wine, pouring it carefully. Francesco didn't touch his glass.

Finally, he spoke.

"I'm not leaving Arsenal," he said. "Not now. Not next summer. Not unless they don't need me anymore."

Zidane gave the smallest nod. "I respect that."

"But if that day ever comes," Francesco added, voice softer now, eyes fixed on Zidane's, "I'll remember this night."

The room fell still, tension shifting—not vanished, but changed. Like two swords lowered, but not sheathed.

Zidane raised his glass. "Then let's eat."

They ate in silence for the first few minutes, the ossobuco rich and tender, the Barolo velvety and deep. Francesco barely tasted it. His mind churned, despite everything he'd said. Madrid. Champions League. Ballon d'Or.

Zidane.

It was a lot to turn down.

After the plates were cleared, the conversation drifted into more neutral territory—training routines, French wine, Zidane's time as Castilla coach. Francesco laughed once or twice, genuinely. Zidane could disarm you like that—he wasn't just a legend, he was human, and that made him harder to ignore.

When the evening finally ended, and they stepped back onto Henrietta Street under the grey London night, Zidane shook Francesco's hand with genuine warmth.

"Keep doing what you're doing," he said. "And remember—doors don't close all at once. Sometimes they stay open just a little."

Francesco nodded. "Goodnight, coach."

Zidane turned and vanished into a waiting car.

Jorge lingered beside him. "You handled that well."

Francesco didn't respond.

"I know you're mad at me," Jorge added.

"Damn right I am," Francesco muttered.

"But one day," Jorge said, opening the passenger door for him, "you'll thank me."

Francesco looked at Mendes, the faint shine of the streetlight catching his eyes—hardened now, but not with anger. Something deeper sat behind them: a fierce, unyielding belief in his own path.

"I'll say thank you to you," he said quietly, "if you believe me when I say I'll make Arsenal win the Champions League. Four or five times if necessary—whatever it takes to make you believe me."

Jorge opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The conviction in Francesco's voice didn't leave room for persuasion or rebuttal. For once, Mendes didn't reach for another angle. He just stood there, silent on the curb of Henrietta Street, as Francesco gave him one last glance, then turned and opened the door to his black BMW X5.

The engine purred to life beneath his hands, steady and deep. Francesco didn't speed off. He eased into the street, his jaw clenched, his mind noisier than the London traffic around him.

The city blurred past his windows—the Soho crowds, the flickering amber of night buses, the occasional shout from a distant pub corner. He didn't turn on the radio. He didn't need more voices. His head was full of Zidane's:

Do you want to be remembered as the best of your generation? Do you want the Ballon d'Or?

And his own, biting back:

Not if it means betraying what I've built.

By the time he pulled onto the quiet, tree-lined street in Richmond, where the streetlamps cast long, gentle shadows across the road, he felt the air shift—less adrenaline, more clarity. The gates to his modernist mansion opened with a smooth hum. The X5 glided to a stop in the circular driveway, tires crunching softly over the stone.

The house was warm, its floor-to-ceiling windows glowing gold against the evening dark. Light spilled through from the kitchen and the living room beyond, where he could already make out a familiar silhouette.

Leah.

She was back from training, hair up in a loose bun, a simple hoodie hanging off one shoulder as she moved barefoot through the open-plan space. Her posture was easy, unguarded—so unlike the tension that had been coiled in every body at that restaurant.

Francesco stepped inside, the front door closing behind him with a soft hiss.

Leah turned, eyes lighting up as she spotted him. "Hey."

He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, exhaled, then managed a tired smile. "Hey."

"You're late," she said, crossing the room. "Was Mendes trying to marry you off to Adidas again?"

He laughed softly and shook his head. "Not Adidas. Something worse."

Leah raised an eyebrow. "Worse than Nike?"

Francesco looked at her for a long second. "Zidane."

She blinked, caught off guard, laughter immediately forgotten. "Zidane? As in… Zidane Zidane?"

"Yeah," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "That one."

He walked past her into the kitchen, opened the fridge more for something to do than actual hunger, and stared inside blankly. Leah followed, leaning against the counter.

"You gonna explain?" she asked gently.

He grabbed a cold bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, then finally leaned back against the fridge, facing her. "He was at dinner. Mendes set it up. Didn't tell me. Just… dropped it on me."

Leah's lips parted slightly. "Real Madrid?"

Francesco nodded once.

"What did they say?"

Francesco's jaw tightened. "Everything you'd expect. Champions League. Ballon d'Or. Legacy. 'Come be a galáctico.' You know. No big deal."

There was a long silence.

"And what did you say?"

He looked at her. "I said no."

Leah studied him, her arms crossing slowly. "You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," he said. "I'm not leaving Arsenal. Not now. Not when it finally feels like we're building something real. Not when I'm captain. Not when we've got Kanté behind us, Alexis firing again, Virgil locking things down, Mesut looking like himself again. And not when I've scored nine in six."

She stepped forward, gently placing a hand on his chest. "I'm not doubting you, Cesco. I just… want to make sure you're not saying it because you feel like you have to. Or because of pride. Because Real Madrid doesn't knock twice."

He looked down at her hand, then back at her. "It's not pride. It's purpose. I chose this. I've known since I was a kid in Hale End—I wanted to win the biggest things with Arsenal. That hasn't changed."

She gave him a long look, then nodded. "Okay."

They stood in silence for a moment, the kind that doesn't need to be filled. Then she squeezed his shirt softly, a smile tugging at her lips. "But four or five Champions Leagues, yeah?"

He gave a low chuckle. "Yeah. I may have said something stupid like that."

"No such thing as stupid when you mean it," she said, then reached up and kissed him, slow and grounding.

Later, they were curled up on the leather sectional in the den, the fireplace flickering, a movie playing half-forgotten on the screen. Francesco had changed into a hoodie and joggers; Leah wore one of his old training shirts.

She was resting her head on his chest, absently tracing circles on his stomach. He wasn't really watching the screen—his thoughts kept drifting back to that table, that pitch, those eyes.

"I keep thinking about something Zidane said," he murmured eventually. "He said the world doesn't always notice from England."

Leah didn't move. "Do you believe that?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I used to think it didn't matter. That if you were good enough, people would see. But now…"

"You want them to see."

"I guess I do."

She sat up, looking him in the eye now. "They already do. You think no one notices what you're doing at Arsenal? You think Messi didn't see that goal against Chelsea? You think Pirlo didn't text me the next morning?"

Francesco blinked. "Pirlo texted you?"

Leah shrugged with a grin. "I've got connections."

He smiled, genuinely this time, and shook his head. "Of course you do."

"Look," she said, serious now, "you're already world-class. And if you want the world to notice, don't run to Madrid. Drag them to London. Make Arsenal the center of gravity. That's real legacy."

He looked at her, the words hitting deeper than he expected. Not because they were new, but because they sounded like truth from her mouth.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah."

They didn't say anything else for a while.

The next morning, Francesco was up early.

The sky outside was still a pre-dawn blue when he laced up his boots and stepped into the cold morning air of his private garden, ball in hand. The grass was slick with dew, the kind that sticks to your shins and soaks into your socks. But he didn't care.

He started juggling, slow at first, then faster—left foot, right foot, thigh, shoulder, head. Over and over. His breath came out in little clouds, his heartbeat steady but climbing. Every touch reminded him why he'd said no, Real Madrid does had statues and silverware. But Arsenal had soul, and he wanted to give that soul a crown.

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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