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Francesco leaned back in his seat, staring out the window as the bus pulled onto the road. The journey continued, and he was ready for whatever ca next.
The team bus rumbled down the familiar roads leading to Arsenal's training center, the hum of the engine mixing with the quiet conversations and occasional laughter among the players. The exhaustion from the match, the travel, and the early morning was still present, but the thought of heading ho made it easier to push through. Francesco leaned against the window, watching the London streets blur past. It was always a strange feeling returning from an away match—one mont, he was in a different city, battling under the floodlights, and the next, he was back in familiar surroundings as if none of it had happened.
The bus finally pulled into the Arsenal Training Center, the large facility standing as a reminder that their work was never truly done. The players stirred, stretching and grabbing their belongings as the bus ca to a smooth stop.
As they stood up to leave, Wenger got to his feet at the front, looking over the squad. "Alright, gentlen," he said, his voice carrying its usual authority but with a hint of warmth. "Tomorrow is a day off."
The reaction was instant. A few cheers, so satisfied murmurs, and even a dramatic fist pump from Oxlade-Chamberlain.
"Yes! A whole day of doing absolutely nothing," Bellerín muttered beside Francesco, grinning.
Francesco smirked, shaking his head. He wasn't sure if he'd take the entire day off—maybe a light gym session, so film study—but at least it ant no early alarms or intense training drills.
"Enjoy the rest," Wenger added. "You've earned it. But don't forget—this season is far from over."
With that, he stepped aside, allowing the players to file out of the bus. Francesco slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and followed the group outside, taking a deep breath of the cool London air. The sky was overcast, as usual, but it felt good to be back.
"See you, mate," Bellerín said, clapping him on the back before heading toward his car.
"Later," Francesco replied, giving a few nods to other teammates as they split off toward their vehicles.
He made his way to his own car—a sleek Honda Civic parked in its usual spot. It wasn't the flashiest car in the lot, especially compared to the luxury vehicles so of his teammates drove, but he liked it. It was reliable, comfortable, and, most importantly, his.
Opening the back door, he tossed his luggage onto the seat, making sure nothing was in the way before shutting it. He slid into the driver's seat, adjusting his position slightly before turning the key in the ignition. The engine purred to life, and he let out a small breath as he gripped the steering wheel.
For a mont, he just sat there, letting the weight of the last 24 hours sink in. The match, the travel, the attention—it was a lot. But this was what he had signed up for, what he had dread of when he was younger.
Shaking off the thoughts, he put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot, heading toward his apartnt. The drive was smooth, the streets quiet in the mid-afternoon. He didn't bother turning on the radio, instead letting the rhythmic sound of the road beneath his tires fill the silence.
His apartnt wasn't far—about a twenty-minute drive from the training ground. He liked having that bit of separation. It gave him a chance to disconnect from football, even if only for a little while.
As he pulled into his usual parking spot outside the building, he turned off the engine and sat there for a few seconds, his fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. It felt good to be ho.
Grabbing his bag from the back seat, he stepped out, stretching his legs before making his way inside. The lobby was quiet, the familiar scent of coffee from a nearby café lingering in the air. He nodded to the doorman, who gave him a polite smile.
"Welco back, Mr. Lee," the man greeted.
"Thanks, Tom," Francesco replied, shifting his bag on his shoulder as he headed for the elevator.
Once inside, he pressed the button for his floor and leaned against the wall, watching the numbers ascend. He was looking forward to just relaxing for a bit, maybe ordering so food and watching a movie. No tactics, no training, no pressure. Just so peace and quiet.
The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped out, making his way down the hall to his apartnt. He unlocked the door, stepping inside and letting out a breath as he set his bag down. The space was clean, minimalistic but comfortable—just the way he liked it.
He walked over to the couch, flopping down with a satisfied sigh.
Finally.
Ho.
For the first ti since the match ended, he let himself fully relax.
Francesco lay back on the couch, his eyes tracing the ceiling as the exhaustion from the trip settled in. The familiar quiet of his apartnt was comforting, a stark contrast to the energy and noise of the stadium, the plane, and the training center. He closed his eyes for a mont, letting himself just exist in the stillness.
Then his phone buzzed on the coffee table, shattering the silence.
He groaned slightly, debating whether to ignore it for a few more minutes, but when he saw the na flashing on the screen—Jorge ndes—he knew he had to pick up. His agent wouldn't call for no reason, especially not when he knew Francesco had just gotten back.
With a sigh, he grabbed the phone and answered. "Jorge," he greeted, his voice still carrying the weight of travel fatigue.
"Francesco, my boy!" Jorge's smooth, confident voice ca through the line, as lively as ever. "Hope you're back safe and in one piece."
"Yeah, just got ho. What's up?" Francesco asked, rubbing his temple.
"Well, I have sothing for you tomorrow," Jorge said, his tone casual but with a hint of expectation.
Francesco sat up a little. "Tomorrow? I thought it was a day off."
Jorge chuckled. "It is a day off—from football. But this is sothing different. Sothing good."
Francesco arched an eyebrow. "Go on."
"I'm taking you to an orphanage," Jorge said simply. "We're going to do so charity work."
Francesco blinked, caught slightly off guard. "An orphanage?"
"Yes. It's a great opportunity. Spend so ti with the kids, bring them so joy, show them that their favorite footballer actually cares," Jorge explained. "Trust , this kind of thing? It goes a long way—not just for your image, but for the kids too. And honestly, I think you'll enjoy it."
Francesco ran a hand through his hair, considering it. He had no problem with charity work—far from it. But he wasn't sure if he was in the right headspace for it tomorrow.
Sensing his hesitation, Jorge quickly added, "Don't worry about anything. I've already arranged everything—the gifts, donations, all of it. You just need to show up with and spend so ti with the kids. That's all."
Francesco sighed, but a small smile tugged at his lips. "You really don't give a choice, do you?"
Jorge laughed. "Not when it cos to things that matter."
There was a pause before Francesco finally said, "Alright. What ti?"
"I'll pick you up at noon. Get so rest, yeah?"
Francesco nodded to himself. "Got it. See you tomorrow."
They exchanged quick goodbyes, and Francesco set his phone down, leaning back against the couch again.
An orphanage visit.
He had done a few public appearances before—sponsor events, et-and-greets—but this felt different. It wasn't about publicity or networking. It was about doing sothing aningful, giving back in a way that actually mattered.
He exhaled slowly, feeling so of the fatigue leave his body. Maybe this was exactly what he needed.
His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten properly since the al on the flight. He grabbed his phone again, scrolling through food delivery options. Sothing simple—pasta, maybe. He placed the order, then stood up, stretching out his muscles before heading to the bathroom to freshen up.
After a quick shower, he threw on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in again. He barely had ti to get comfortable on the couch before his doorbell rang. His food had arrived.
Grabbing the bag from the delivery driver, he thanked him before shutting the door. He settled back on the couch with his al, turning on the TV. He flicked through the channels for a bit before settling on a docuntary about past World Cups.
As he ate, his mind drifted to tomorrow again. He had no idea what to expect, but he figured Jorge wouldn't steer him wrong.
After finishing his food, he cleaned up and made his way to bed, setting an alarm for mid-morning. No training, no pressure—just a good night's rest before sothing completely different.
Francesco woke up to the soft light filtering through his curtains. For the first ti in a while, there was no urgency to get out of bed—no alarms blaring for an early training session, no imdiate commitnts.
He stretched lazily before checking his phone. A few ssages from teammates, so notifications from social dia, but nothing urgent.
With a yawn, he got up and went through his morning routine, keeping things simple. A quick breakfast, a bit of stretching, and a long shower.
By the ti noon rolled around, he was dressed casually in jeans and a plain sweater, waiting in his apartnt for Jorge to arrive.
Right on ti, his phone buzzed. Jorge: I'm outside.
Francesco grabbed his keys and wallet before heading down.
Jorge was waiting by his car, dressed as sharply as ever. He grinned when he saw Francesco. "Looking fresh, my boy. Ready?"
Francesco smirked. "As ready as I'll ever be."
They got in the car, and as Jorge drove, he started explaining more about the orphanage. "It's a small place, but they do amazing work. The kids? Huge Arsenal fans. When they find out you're coming, it's going to make their whole year."
Francesco listened, nodding along. "How many kids are there?"
"About thirty," Jorge replied. "A mix of ages. So as young as five, so teenagers. They don't get a lot of visitors, so this will an a lot."
Francesco felt a quiet determination settle in. He wasn't just going to show up—he was going to make sure the visit was sothing special.
When they arrived, he saw a modest but well-kept building with a small playground in front. A few kids were outside, kicking a ball around.
As soon as they stepped out of the car, one of the staff mbers approached with a warm smile. "Mr. ndes, Mr. Lee, welco!"
"Thank you for having us," Francesco said sincerely.
The kids quickly noticed their arrival, and within seconds, excited whispers spread through the group. Then, one brave boy—maybe ten years old—pointed at Francesco and shouted, "It's him! It's really him!"
That was all it took.
A rush of kids ran toward him, eyes wide with excitent, their voices overlapping in a flurry of questions.
"Are you really Francesco Lee?"
"Did you really score against United?"
"Can you sign my shirt?"
"Can you teach how to dribble like you?"
Francesco laughed, raising his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright—one at a ti!"
Jorge chuckled beside him. "Told you they'd be excited."
For the next few hours, Francesco did his best to give each kid attention. He played football with them, answering their endless questions, showing them tricks, and even letting a few of them try to score against him.
The staff had set up a small area where he could take photos and sign autographs, and Francesco made sure every kid got sothing.
Francesco settled into a rhythm, moving from one excited child to the next, signing jerseys, notebooks, and even a few footballs. So of the kids were too overwheld to even speak, their hands trembling as they held out whatever they had for him to sign. He made sure to give each of them a warm smile, making eye contact, and saying their nas when possible.
"There you go, buddy," he said, handing back a small Arsenal jersey to a boy nad Adam, who couldn't have been older than seven. The kid stared down at the signature in disbelief before beaming up at him.
"Thank you, Francesco!" Adam squeaked before running off to show his friends.
Francesco chuckled, shaking his head. "They really do love football, huh?"
Jorge, who was standing off to the side snapping photos on his phone, smirked. "Of course. And they love you. You should see your social dia later—this is the kind of stuff people love to see."
Francesco wasn't thinking about social dia, though. He was too caught up in the mont, too focused on making sure each kid got a little bit of his ti. He wasn't just here to sign a few shirts and leave—he wanted to actually connect with them.
After finishing up the autographs, the kids imdiately pulled him toward the small football pitch at the back of the orphanage. It wasn't anything fancy—just a patch of slightly worn grass with two small goals at either end—but to these kids, it might as well have been the Emirates.
"Co on, Francesco! Play with us!" one of the older boys, maybe around thirteen, shouted.
Francesco laughed, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater. "Alright, alright. Who am I playing for?"
The kids quickly divided into teams, and Francesco joined the smaller ones who, judging by their nervous glances, weren't as confident in their football skills.
"Alright, team," Francesco said, crouching down to their level. "What's our strategy?"
The kids giggled, and one of them—an energetic girl with pigtails—said, "Give the ball to you and let you score!"
Francesco shook his head, grinning. "Nah, that's too easy. How about we all work together? Pass, move, and have fun?"
The kids nodded eagerly, and just like that, the ga was on.
At first, Francesco played casually, letting the kids dictate the pace. He passed the ball around, encouraged the shyer ones to take shots, and even exaggerated his reactions when soone nutgged him, making them burst into laughter.
Jorge stood off to the side, snapping pictures and taking short videos. Every now and then, he'd call out, "Francesco, smile!" and Francesco would throw a quick grin in his direction before turning back to the ga.
As the match went on, Francesco let himself get a little more involved—not in a way that overwheld the kids, but enough to challenge them. He let out a dramatic gasp when one of the older boys managed to dribble past him.
"Oh no, he's too good!" Francesco shouted, stumbling backward in mock defeat.
The kids roared with laughter as the boy took a shot and scored, running off in celebration like he'd just won the Premier League.
After about half an hour of nonstop running, passing, and laughing, the ga finally wound down. Francesco collapsed onto the grass, arms spread wide as he caught his breath.
"Alright, alright," he panted. "I give up. You guys win."
The kids cheered, piling onto him in a playful group hug.
Jorge walked over, shaking his head as he checked the photos on his phone. "This is gold, my friend. Absolute gold."
Francesco sat up, looking around at the smiling faces surrounding him. He didn't care about the PR side of it. This mont—the pure, unfiltered joy in these kids' eyes—was worth more than any headline or social dia post.
A staff mber clapped her hands, calling the children over. "Alright, kids! Ti for a little snack break."
The kids groaned, reluctant to leave, but Francesco reassured them. "Go on, eat. You need energy if you want to be future football stars."
As they ran off toward the small dining area, Francesco sat back with a satisfied sigh.
Jorge handed him a bottle of water. "Good work."
Francesco nodded, taking a sip. "This was actually fun."
Jorge smirked. "Told you."
Francesco glanced at the kids, who were still sneaking glances at him even as they ate. He realized then that he wasn't just a footballer to them—he was a symbol of sothing bigger. Hope. Inspiration. Proof that dreams could co true.
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Na : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 20
Goal: 24
Assist: 12
MOTM: 7
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