The King Of Arsenal

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(A/N: I have created a new novel called Red Dead Redemption 2: From Gaming To Cowboy, come and read give me your suggestions! I know I know I have to many novels but I just can't stop my head from bursting with ideas!)

As Francesco and Mertesacker followed Wenger out of the press room, the energy of the moment still buzzed through his veins. He had made a statement tonight—on the pitch and off it.

As they exited the press room, Francesco could still feel the buzz of adrenaline coursing through him. The weight of his words, the intensity of the moment—it all lingered in the air. He had made a statement, and now, the real challenge lay ahead: proving he meant every word.

Wenger led the way, his hands tucked behind his back in his usual composed manner. Mertesacker walked beside Francesco, casting him a glance filled with a mix of amusement and approval.

"You really don't hold back, do you?" Mertesacker chuckled as they made their way down the tunnel toward the locker room.

Francesco smirked. "What's the point? If you believe in yourself, you might as well let the world know."

Mertesacker shook his head, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. "Confidence is good. Just make sure you back it up every time."

Francesco nodded. He knew that confidence without substance meant nothing. He had put himself in the spotlight, and now, expectations would follow. He had to deliver—again and again.

When they reached the locker room, the atmosphere was lighter than before. The celebrations had died down, replaced by the usual post-match exhaustion. Some players were still in their jerseys, while others had already begun changing into their travel gear. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, muscle spray, and the lingering tension of a hard-fought match.

Wenger clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention. "Alright, gentlemen, good work tonight. Enjoy the win, but remember—we are not done. The season is long, and consistency is key."

The players nodded, listening intently. Even after a victory, Wenger always kept them grounded.

"I want everyone to get their things together. The bus is waiting. We'll head back to the hotel, rest, and recover properly," Wenger continued. "No unnecessary distractions. We need to focus on what's next."

As the players moved to gather their belongings, Francesco sat on the bench, untying his boots with steady hands. The locker room was filled with chatter, the sound of zippers, the rustling of bags being packed.

Hector Bellerín walked past him, nudging Francesco lightly on the shoulder. "You really made some headlines in there," he said with a grin. "Sky Sports will be talking about you all week."

Francesco chuckled. "Good. Let them talk."

Bellerín laughed. "Man, you've got the mindset of a top player already. Keep that energy."

As Francesco finished packing up, he glanced across the room and noticed Alexis Sánchez deep in conversation with Santi Cazorla. The two senior players had been instrumental in the match, and Francesco respected them immensely. Alexis caught his gaze and gave him a small nod of approval. Francesco returned the gesture.

Mertesacker, always the responsible veteran, did a quick sweep of the locker room, making sure no one had left anything behind. "Alright, let's move," he called out.

The team filed out of the locker room, making their way through the stadium's back corridors toward the bus. The halls were quieter now, the noise of the match and the press conference fading into the background. Francesco walked alongside his teammates, feeling a sense of unity among them.

When they reached the team bus, Wenger was already at the front, ensuring everything was in order. One by one, the players climbed in, settling into their usual spots. Francesco found a seat near the middle, next to Mertesacker, while Bellerín and Oxlade-Chamberlain sat across from them.

As the bus pulled away from Old Trafford, the city lights flickered past the windows. The hum of the engine mixed with the low murmurs of conversation among the players. Some were scrolling through their phones, checking social media and reading match reports, while others leaned back, eyes closed, letting exhaustion take over.

Francesco pulled out his phone and saw the notifications flooding in. His name was trending on Twitter, articles were already being published dissecting his post-match comments, and clips of the press conference were circulating online.

One headline caught his eye:

"Arsenal's Rising Star: Francesco Lee's Confidence Reminiscent of Cristiano Ronaldo"

He smirked, shaking his head. The comparisons were inevitable, but he wasn't focused on that. He wasn't trying to be the next Ronaldo—he was trying to be the first Francesco Lee.

Mertesacker glanced over. "Reading the headlines already?"

Francesco shrugged. "Can't help it. They move fast."

Mertesacker chuckled. "Just don't let it get to your head. One great game, one strong press conference—it's a good start, but football is relentless. The moment you slip up, they'll turn just as fast."

"I know," Francesco said. "That's why I have to keep proving myself."

Mertesacker nodded approvingly. "Good mindset."

As the bus continued its journey back to the hotel, Francesco leaned back in his seat, staring out the window. He replayed the match in his mind—the goal, the buildup, the moments of pressure. He thought about what Rooney had said, about the comparisons to Ronaldo.

It was surreal. Just a few years ago, he had dreamed of moments like this. Now, he was living them.

His thoughts were interrupted when Bellerín nudged him. "By the way, did you see what Rooney said about you on TV just now?"

Francesco raised an eyebrow. "What did he say?"

Bellerín held up his phone, showing a video clip from a post-match analysis on Sky Sports. Rooney was on the panel, discussing the game.

In the clip, Rooney was saying, "Francesco reminds me a lot of a young Cristiano Ronaldo. Not just because of his talent, but his mentality. He doesn't shy away from big moments. He embraces them. That's rare for a young player."

Francesco exhaled slowly, absorbing the words. Coming from Rooney, that was high praise.

Bellerín grinned. "No pressure, right?"

Francesco smirked. "None at all."

The bus continued rolling through the Manchester streets, heading toward the team hotel. The night was far from over, but Francesco knew one thing for certain—this was just the beginning.

As the team bus pulled up to the hotel entrance, the players stirred from their quiet conversations and scrolling through their phones. The night air was cool as they stepped off one by one, their bodies still feeling the fatigue from the match. The bright hotel lights illuminated the pavement as Francesco adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

Wenger stood by the entrance, waiting for the last few players to get off before addressing the team. His calm but authoritative presence ensured that everyone was paying attention.

"Before you all head to your rooms, I want everyone to go to the restaurant for dinner," Wenger instructed, his voice carrying just enough weight to make it clear this wasn't a suggestion. "Proper recovery is crucial. I don't want anyone skipping a meal, understood?"

A collective nod came from the group, though some groaned playfully.

Francesco followed the others inside, walking alongside Mertesacker. The hotel lobby was quiet at this late hour, save for a few staff members waiting to assist the team. A few Arsenal fans who had been waiting outside tried to call out for photos and autographs, but the hotel security gently ushered them away, promising that the players needed rest.

The team made their way toward the restaurant, where a buffet had been set up for them. Francesco could already smell the warm aroma of roasted chicken, pasta, and various other high-protein, nutrient-rich dishes designed for post-match recovery.

"Finally," Bellerín sighed as he grabbed a plate. "I thought we'd never eat."

Francesco chuckled, grabbing a plate for himself. "Same. I didn't realize how hungry I was until now."

As he moved down the line, selecting grilled chicken, pasta, and some steamed vegetables, he felt someone nudge his side lightly. Turning, he saw Olivier Giroud grinning at him.

"Nice game, kid," Giroud said, placing a piece of salmon on his plate. "And nice interview. You've got that big-game attitude."

Francesco smirked. "Just saying what I believe."

Giroud nodded approvingly. "Confidence is good. Just don't let it turn into arrogance. Football humbles even the best of us."

Francesco appreciated the advice, even if he already knew it. He had seen enough careers derailed by ego and complacency.

The team settled into their seats, and the clinking of cutlery soon filled the restaurant. Conversations flowed around the table, mostly lighthearted banter about the match, jokes about who misplaced the most passes, and debates over who had the best goal of the season so far.

At one point, Aaron Ramsey looked across the table at Francesco. "So, what's it like having Rooney compare you to Ronaldo?"

All eyes turned toward Francesco, curious about his answer. He took a sip of water before replying.

"It's flattering, of course," Francesco admitted. "But I don't want to be the next Ronaldo. I want to be the first Francesco Lee."

A few nods of approval came from the table, while Oxlade-Chamberlain grinned. "That sounds like something Ronaldo himself would say."

Francesco laughed. "Maybe. But it's the truth."

Wenger, who had been eating quietly at the head of the table, glanced up with a small smile. "Good mentality," he remarked simply before returning to his meal.

The dinner continued, and as the players finished eating, some lingered at the table, while others began making their way toward the elevators. Francesco stayed for a bit, chatting with a few teammates before finally deciding to call it a night.

As he made his way toward the elevator, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Mertesacker looking at him with a knowing expression.

"Get some rest," Mertesacker said. "You've had a big night. But remember, this is just one step. The real challenge is maintaining this level every week."

Francesco nodded. "I know. I'm ready for it."

Mertesacker gave him a pat on the back before heading to his own room. Francesco exhaled, stepping into the elevator. As the doors closed, he leaned back against the wall, finally allowing himself a moment to process everything.

The goal, the victory, the press conference, Rooney's words—it was a lot to take in. But deep down, he knew this was where he belonged. He had dreamed of nights like this, and now that he was here, he had no intention of slowing down.

As the elevator arrived at his floor, he stepped out, walking down the quiet hallway toward his room. The weight of the day was finally settling in, his body craving sleep.

He slid his keycard into the door, stepping inside. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. Dropping his bag onto the chair, he kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto one of the bed, staring at the ceiling.

His phone buzzed beside him. Picking it up, he saw a message from his agent Jorge Mendes.

"Big night for you. We need to talk soon. Lots of interest coming in. Enjoy the win, but stay sharp."

Francesco exhaled, placing the phone on the nightstand. He had expected this. The football world moved fast, and one great performance could change everything.

Francesco lay on the bed, his mind still racing despite the exhaustion settling into his body. The adrenaline from the match, the press conference, and the dinner was slowly wearing off, leaving behind a quiet hum of excitement and anticipation. His eyes lingered on the ceiling as he replayed every moment of the night—the goal, the way he had celebrated, the way Rooney's words had resonated in his mind.

Just as he was beginning to drift into that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep, he heard the door open. The quiet click of the handle was followed by the soft rustling of a bag being dropped onto the floor.

Francesco turned his head slightly and saw Hector Bellerín, his roommate for the night, stepping inside with a tired grin.

"Finally," Bellerín sighed, kicking off his sneakers and stretching his arms. "I swear, these away trips drain more energy than the actual match."

Francesco smirked. "You didn't even play the full ninety."

Bellerín shot him a look. "Doesn't matter. The stress of watching you do all those flicks and tricks takes years off my life."

Francesco laughed, sitting up slightly as Bellerín flopped onto his own bed. The Spaniard let out a deep sigh, staring at the ceiling for a moment before turning to Francesco.

"You still buzzing?" Bellerín asked knowingly.

Francesco exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Hard to switch off after a night like this."

"I get that." Bellerín nodded. "First big night like this in your career, it's normal. You just made a statement, bro. And you know what that means?"

Francesco tilted his head. "What?"

"It means the pressure only gets bigger." Bellerín smirked. "Enjoy the moment, but tomorrow, the expectations will double."

Francesco chuckled. "Mertesacker already gave me that lecture."

Bellerín laughed. "Of course he did. He's like a big German father to the whole squad."

There was a brief silence as both players relaxed into the quiet of the room. Outside, the distant hum of traffic in Manchester could still be heard, a reminder that the world was still moving even as their night wound down.

Then, Bellerín suddenly sat up, grabbing his phone. "Speaking of pressure, let's see what Twitter is saying about you."

Francesco groaned. "I already checked."

Bellerín scrolled through his feed, smirking. "Oh yeah? Well, you're trending. 'Francesco Lee Masterclass' is all over the place."

Francesco shook his head, amused. "People love a good hype train."

Bellerín glanced up. "Okay, but look at this. Even Thierry Henry tweeted about you."

Francesco's eyes widened. "What?"

Bellerín turned the screen so he could see the tweet. It read:

"Francesco Lee—big mentality, big performance. Arsenal have a real talent here. Keep your head down and keep working, young man."

Francesco read it twice, taking a moment to process it. Thierry Henry. A club legend. One of the greatest players of all time. And he had just publicly backed him.

Bellerín grinned. "No pressure, eh?"

Francesco let out a slow breath. "None at all."

They both laughed, but deep down, Francesco knew what this meant. His rise wasn't going unnoticed. He wasn't just another academy talent breaking into the first team—people were already looking at him as something more.

After a few more minutes of scrolling through reactions, Bellerín tossed his phone aside and stretched. "Alright, man. I'm out. I need sleep."

Francesco nodded, switching off his own phone. The room dimmed into darkness, the soft glow of the city lights casting faint shadows on the walls.

As he lay back down, he could still hear Bellerín shifting slightly in his bed before he muttered, "Hey, Francesco?"

"Yeah?"

"You're gonna be a star. Just don't let the hype mess with your head."

Francesco smiled in the dark. "I won't."

A few moments later, he heard Bellerín's breathing even out, signaling that he had already dozed off. Francesco, however, remained awake for a little longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything settle onto his shoulders. Tomorrow, training would resume. The media would continue talking. The expectations would grow.

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Name : 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