The King Of Arsenal

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They both laughed. And inside, behind the front door, the fire had died. But the warmth remained.

The morning after their families departed, Francesco woke up to silence—but not the kind that weighed. It was gentle. Still. The kind of quiet that follows a weekend overflowing with noise, laughter, clinking glasses, and distant fireworks. The world outside his window looked muted, painted in soft grey-blue tones, with frost still clinging stubbornly to the windowpanes. Sunday had arrived slowly, with a sleepy breath and soft light.

He blinked blearily at the alarm clock on the nightstand.

10:03 AM.

He stretched his arm across the bed instinctively, but it met only sheets. Cool, empty fabric where Leah's warmth had been the night before. He sighed softly, not with worry but with understanding. Today was match day—for her, not him.

Francesco sank into the pillows for a second longer, then sat up, ruffling his hair with one hand. The scent of her shampoo lingered faintly on the pillow beside him. His mind clicked immediately to the calendar.

Saturday, January 2nd.

Arsenal Women vs. Tottenham Hotspur Women. Kickoff at 2 PM.

Leah had mentioned it yesterday before bed, in that half-teasing way she did when she didn't want to make a big deal about something but secretly hoped he'd come. Of course he would come. How could he not? It was Spurs. And it was Leah.

He pulled himself from bed, feet touching the chilled floorboards with a reluctant wince. Tugging on a hoodie, he padded downstairs, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

The house was quiet, save for the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak from the heating pipes. But the second he entered the kitchen and saw the dining table, a smile crept across his face.

There it was. Breakfast.

A plate set carefully in the center: two slices of warm toast, a neatly folded omelet, avocado slices fanned out with almost professional precision, and a small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice beside it. A Post-it note leaned up against the plate, scrawled in Leah's handwriting:

"Go easy on the coffee. I made this to bribe you into cheering louder today. ❤️ —L"

Francesco chuckled softly and picked up the note, holding it between his fingers for a moment before sliding it into the little ceramic bowl where they kept match tickets and movie stubs. He pulled out a chair and sat down, taking a bite of the omelet. Still warm. She must've only just left an hour ago.

As he ate, his eyes occasionally wandered toward the large kitchen window, where bare trees swayed in the morning wind and patches of sun threatened to push through the January cloud cover. A good day for football, cold or not. Crisp, fresh, full of energy.

By 11:30 AM, he'd showered and dressed: dark jeans, clean black trainers, a thick charcoal overcoat, and a red scarf Leah had given him for Christmas. He took extra time with his hair—half out of habit, half because he knew the women's team would all recognize him. And maybe, just maybe, Leah would look up into the stands and catch him at just the right moment.

He made himself a final espresso (against Leah's warning), slipped it into a travel cup, and then grabbed his keys and phone.

The drive to Meadow Park from Richmond wasn't too long—just under an hour if traffic was kind. Francesco didn't mind the time alone in the car. He liked the ritual of it—the way his mind settled when the engine hummed beneath him and the world moved just a little faster outside the windows.

As he pulled out of the driveway and onto the road, he opened the Arsenal app to check the official match preview. The headline caught his eye:

"North London Derby Returns: Arsenal Women Look to Extend Dominance over Spurs"

He grinned. He couldn't wait.

By 1:15 PM, the streets around Borehamwood were buzzing. Fans in red and white scarves poured from side streets, arms linked, heads bowed against the breeze, some already chanting softly. Francesco parked in the private players' family lot near the back entrance, nodding at the security staff who clearly recognized him. He tucked his scarf tighter around his neck and made his way to the main entrance, flashing his pass.

Inside, Meadow Park felt alive.

The atmosphere was smaller and more intimate than the Emirates, but that gave it a charm Francesco had come to love. You could hear the heartbeat of the crowd here—closer, more immediate. Kids in oversized jerseys waved at players warming up. Parents snapped photos on their phones. The flags waved with a rawer kind of pride.

He made his way up to the reserved family section, settled into his seat, and scanned the pitch.

And there she was.

Leah.

Warming up near the halfway line, a focused expression on her face, hair tied tightly in her usual matchday ponytail. She moved like someone who belonged on that grass—fluid, confident, poised. She glanced toward the stand, just once, her eyes passing quickly over the seats—and for the briefest moment, they locked onto his.

Francesco raised a hand, gave her a small smile, and she returned it—barely, just the ghost of one at the corner of her lips. But it was there. Then she turned back to her team, stretching with her usual laser focus.

His heart lifted in his chest.

Kickoff was just minutes away.

As Francesco stepped closer to the front row of the family section, several heads began to turn.

Not all at once—just a ripple at first, like the breeze catching the corner of a flag. But then came the widening eyes, the nudging elbows, the discreet whispers that weren't so discreet.

"Wait—"

"Is that Francesco Lee?"

"Oh my God, it is!"

Francesco barely had time to blink before a cluster of young fans—mostly kids in red-and-white kits, many of them wearing shirts emblazoned with Smith, Losada, or Williamson—turned their full attention on him.

A girl of about ten, her cheeks rosy from the cold and her beanie pulled low over her forehead, tugged her father's sleeve and pointed. "Daddy! That's him! That's Francesco from the men's team!"

The father chuckled and gave Francesco a respectful nod, but the little girl wasn't so restrained.

She marched straight over.

"Are you here to watch Leah play?" she asked, chin tilted up with the kind of earnestness that only kids possessed.

Francesco smiled warmly, crouching slightly to meet her eye. "I am," he said. "She's my favorite player."

The girl squealed in delight, then turned around and yelled to her friends in the row behind her, "He said Leah's his favorite!"

Before long, a few other fans made their way over—some shy, some bold. Young boys in miniature Arsenal kits, older supporters with scarves wrapped around their faces, even a couple of teenage girls who fumbled with their phones while trying to look casual.

"Hey, mate—could we grab a quick selfie?" one asked.

"Course," Francesco said easily, slipping into the rhythm with practiced grace.

One by one, he took pictures with them, signed a few matchday programs, and even posed next to a cardboard cutout of Leah someone had brought—complete with a Santa hat still taped to its head.

An older woman in her sixties wearing a red puffer coat stepped forward with a twinkle in her eye. "We don't usually get superstars in the stands. It's lovely to see you supporting the women."

Francesco grinned. "They've been playing brilliant football. Worth every minute."

"And your Leah—she's quick, that one," the woman said, winking. "Don't let her outrun you in the relationship."

He laughed. "Too late for that."

Eventually, one of the stewards came by to gently usher him toward his designated seat, but Francesco waved back at the crowd as he went, grateful, a little amused, and honestly? Proud. It wasn't like the Emirates, with its towering chants and flares of media attention—but it was real. Personal.

He found his seat about four rows up from the touchline, perfectly positioned near the halfway line. The red stadium seats still held the chill of the air, but the atmosphere was warming up fast. You could feel it building—a kind of pressure that came not from media cameras or high-stakes titles, but from pride. From love. From rivalry.

Because today, it wasn't just a match.

It was a North London Derby.

The Arsenal Women's bench was buzzing with last-minute prep—coaches adjusting earpieces, players sipping from water bottles, boots being tightened one last time.

Out on the pitch, Leah was now in full focus-mode, lined up with the rest of the starters near the center circle. Her expression had sharpened into that calm intensity he'd come to admire so much. Her hands were tucked behind her back, jaw set, her eyes fixed forward. A leader without needing to shout.

The Spurs women were clustered on the far side, bouncing on their toes, some of them scanning the Arsenal side with cautious confidence. Francesco had seen enough derbies to know the look. Everyone talks tough before kickoff. The truth shows up in the tackles.

The whistle blew.

Francesco sat forward.

And the match began.

The next ninety minutes, Francesco hardly sat still.

Every touch from Leah made his heart kick slightly harder in his chest. Not just because he loved her, but because she played beautifully. Composed under pressure. Quick in the turn. Smart with her passes. Her movement on and off the ball was intelligent, fluid—always two seconds ahead of her marker.

By the 12th minute, she had already threaded a pass through two defenders that led to a near miss. In the 28th, she cut inside from the left, danced past her opposite number, and cracked a shot just inches over the crossbar.

The stadium oohed.

Francesco couldn't help himself—he stood, clapping above his head, scarf swinging from one wrist.

"Come on, Leah!" he called, voice full and warm.

Some of the nearby fans joined him in the cheer, nodding with admiration. One lad behind him chuckled and said, "She's playing like you, mate."

Francesco turned and winked. "No—she's better."

Then, just before halftime, it happened.

Arsenal won a corner on the right. Leah jogged over to take it, hand raised. Francesco held his breath. The crowd grew quieter for a beat. The corner curled in—a perfect arc, low and quick.

And boom—one of the center-backs rose high and powered it home with a clean header.

GOAL.

The stands erupted. Arms flew up. Drums pounded from the back rows. The bench leapt to its feet.

Francesco jumped up too, cheering with everything in him. Leah ran back toward midfield, teammates swarming her for the assist, and just for a moment—just half a second—she glanced back toward the stands again.

Caught his eyes.

And smiled.

The kind of smile that made all the cold vanish from his coat, the kind of smile that said: Did you see that?

Francesco nodded, grinning back like an idiot. He saw it. All of it.

The air around Meadow Park crackled with energy.

Even though it was just the Women's Super League and not a European final, you wouldn't have known it from the way the stands vibrated with every pass, every tackle, every buildup. The atmosphere was thick—not tense, but alive. The kind of football air that made you sit forward in your seat without realizing it, your hand resting over your scarf like a nervous twitch.

Francesco was already standing again, arms crossed now, his eyes fixed on Leah.

She'd been phenomenal all game. Sharp. Disciplined. Creative. The way she moved down the left channel wasn't just effective—it was surgical. Spurs' right-back had started the game trying to go shoulder-to-shoulder with her, but by the 20th minute, she had switched from aggression to just trying to keep up.

And now, in the 34th minute, Arsenal were building again.

The move started from deep.

Leah's teammate Vicky Losada won the ball in midfield after a clumsy Spurs giveaway and immediately sent it wide to the right. A couple of quick passes down the line dragged Tottenham's backline out of shape. Then came the switch. A clever, diagonal ball over the top—a soft arc curling toward the opposite flank.

Francesco saw it before the crowd did.

"Go on, Leah," he whispered under his breath.

She timed it perfectly—her run breaking in behind just as the right-back hesitated a split second too long. The ball dropped neatly at her feet, and she controlled it on the run without breaking stride. One touch. Then another. She cut inside just enough to open the angle.

And then, without overthinking it, she delivered.

A low, driven cross across the box. Not aimless, not hopeful—picked. Chosen. Like a pass in training. Like she knew exactly where her teammate would be.

And she did.

Natalia Pablos flew in at the back post.

The Spanish striker's timing was impeccable—like a dancer hitting the beat right as the music peaks. She slid, cleats grazing the turf, and struck the ball with her outstep just before the keeper could react.

The net rippled.

2–0.

The stadium roared.

Francesco let out a shout that was half-cheer, half-laugh, pumping both fists into the cold air. A kid two rows behind him screamed, "Let's gooooo!" while someone farther back banged a plastic drum three times in a triumphant rhythm.

On the pitch, Leah turned immediately to chase Natalia down, arms wide, her face breaking into a radiant grin as her teammate leapt into her arms.

Francesco couldn't stop smiling. It wasn't the kind of professional, performance-evaluator grin he wore when watching a teammate. No—this was different. This was joy. Pride. The genuine, swelling kind that starts somewhere near your chest and pushes upward until your face can't help but show it.

He looked around and saw other fans reacting the same way. Not just because it was a goal. But because it was a good goal. A smart goal. Football the Arsenal way.

And his girl—his Leah—was at the center of it.

The commentator from the nearby media box could be heard faintly through the speakers: "Another brilliant assist from Leah Williamson—she's pulling the strings in this first half. Absolute class from the Arsenal number fourteen."

Francesco sat back down, shaking his head in admiration. "She's got this game on a string," he murmured.

The rest of the first half played out with a rhythm that favored the home side. Spurs tried to push forward, but Arsenal were in control now—composed, balanced, and dangerous on every counter.

Leah didn't slow down, even after her two assists. She was backtracking, covering ground, calling out to her backline with the authority of a seasoned veteran. She didn't bark—she directed. Controlled. Her presence on the pitch was magnetic. She pulled the shape around her like gravity.

By the 42nd minute, Spurs had managed to settle slightly, gaining a bit more possession, but their attacks never felt threatening. Arsenal's backline, anchored by Williamson and her fellow defenders, absorbed the pressure calmly.

As the clock ticked toward 45, Francesco leaned back slightly and glanced up at the scoreboard: 2–0. Still early, but commanding. He could already hear the analysts forming their halftime thoughts.

"Leah's having a blinder."

"Spurs outclassed on both flanks."

"Two assists from the vice-captain—what a statement in a derby match."

Then, just before the whistle, Leah intercepted a loose ball near the halfway line and kept possession despite a clumsy challenge from a Spurs midfielder. She dusted herself off, gave her teammate a thumbs-up, and jogged calmly back into position as the referee blew for halftime.

The players began filing toward the tunnel. Cheers echoed from the stands. Some fans stood to applaud—not just the scoreline, but the performance. The style.

Francesco clapped, slowly and proudly. His scarf had slipped loose from his neck during the celebration, but he didn't fix it yet. He watched as Leah disappeared into the tunnel, still chatting with Natalia as they exchanged high fives.

The stadium buzzed with halftime energy.

People began getting up for tea, queueing at the snack bars, checking scores on their phones. Kids with Arsenal flags waved them absentmindedly as they skipped toward the restrooms.

Francesco stayed put.

He didn't want to miss a second. Not today.

He pulled out his phone and quickly typed a message in the team group chat, smiling as he did:

Francesco:

Watching Leah's match. She's already got two assists. Hope you lot are taking notes. 😏

A few responses came back almost instantly.

Oxlade-Chamberlain:

Tell her to save some for us next matchday!

Bellerín:

Captain material 🔥🔥

Ramsey:

Might be our best passer in the club at this rate 😳

Francesco chuckled and slipped the phone away again.

The wind picked up slightly, fluttering the corner flags.

The second half was coming.

But for now, at halftime, Francesco just leaned back in his seat, eyes still bright, heart full. He had played in countless stadiums, scored at the Emirates, lifted trophies in front of fifty thousand fans. But today, here, in this modest ground with 4,000 loyal voices and a woman who commanded the pitch with pure class—this felt just as good.

The second half began not with fireworks but with a reset—a careful dance of recalibrated strategies and fresh legs. Both teams had returned to the pitch sharper, leaner, focused. Spurs, down two goals and facing a second-half mountain, came out with something to prove. Their pressing was tighter. Their fullbacks pushed higher. The urgency in their movement spoke volumes. Arsenal, on the other hand, played with control. Not passive, not cautious—just… assured. A team that knew the match was theirs to lose, and didn't plan on letting that happen.

Francesco leaned forward again in his seat, scarf tucked back around his neck now as the January air nipped at the base of his throat. The hot coffee he'd grabbed from the concession stand during halftime steamed between his gloved fingers. His eyes, though, never left the field. Especially not Leah.

She had come out even more locked in than she'd been in the first half. It wasn't a flamboyant intensity—no dramatic gestures, no raised voices. Just focus. Her positioning was flawless, her touches crisp. She anticipated passes like she was reading sheet music. The way she held the team's shape on that left side—pulling the line when needed, tucking inside during buildup, offering herself as an outlet on the counter—was textbook.

But for all that brilliance, the second half refused to yield.

By the 60th minute, the tempo had dipped into something tense and tight. Spurs had managed to close the gaps they were leaving wide open before halftime. They had adapted—dropping into a mid-block, sitting more compact between the lines, forcing Arsenal to think rather than flow.

Francesco's knee bounced with the rhythm of the match. He watched as Leah checked her shoulder for the seventh time before receiving a pass from Losada, spun around one defender with a smooth half-turn, then played a crisp one-two with Nobbs down the left.

Beautiful football. Still no goal.

In the 67th minute, Spurs nearly clawed one back.

A long ball from their center-back was misjudged by Arsenal's right fullback, and for a moment—just a moment—it looked like Spurs' striker had slipped in behind. The crowd collectively inhaled. Even Francesco straightened in his seat. But Leah—of course it was Leah—came sliding across like a seasoned center-half, intercepting the pass and clearing the ball out wide before the striker could get a proper touch.

Applause erupted from the stands. The kind of applause reserved not for goals, but for moments that preserve them.

The game dragged forward, minute by minute. Spurs still had nothing to show on the scoreboard, but their resolve was impressive. Their midfield fought tooth and nail, swarming Arsenal's creators every time the ball crossed the halfway line. The Gunners probed, circled, tested—but the third goal proved elusive.

Francesco checked the scoreboard.

85:12.

Still 2–0.

He could see it in the players' movements now—the slight hesitations, the way glances darted toward the clock more often. It wasn't panic. But it was impatience. Arsenal knew a third would finish it for good. Spurs knew a single goal could still flip the emotional tide. Both teams were playing like it was still 0–0.

The ball came out to Leah again.

And this time… she didn't look to pass.

She took a touch forward—firm, intentional—and carried it. Spurs' right midfielder came pressing hard, clearly instructed to double the wings. Leah feinted inside, dragged her foot over the ball, then popped it with her left to skip past the challenge.

Francesco sat forward.

She was near the top corner of the penalty box now, maybe twenty-five yards out. A Spurs defender stepped toward her, expecting another pass.

Leah didn't pass.

She glanced up—just once. Spotted the keeper off her line.

Then she let it fly.

The ball left her right foot like it had been waiting all game. It sliced the air like silk, curling ever so slightly toward the top-right corner. The crowd went silent for a fraction of a second—the kind of breathless pause that only comes when the impossible looks possible.

Francesco didn't breathe.

The keeper leapt.

She wasn't getting there.

The net rippled.

3–0.

Meadow Park exploded.

Not a roar, not just a cheer—a moment. Arms thrown in the air. Kids jumping so hard they nearly lost their foam fingers. Drums pounding, scarves waving, chants rising in unison. From the bench, even Arsenal's head coach stood and clapped with an awed smile.

And Francesco?

He was on his feet, laughing. Laughing in that stunned, breathless way that came from pure joy. Hands in the air, heart pounding. Because he'd seen a lot of goals. He'd scored a lot of goals. But this one—this one meant something else.

On the pitch, Leah stood frozen for a half-second after it went in—like she had to register that it happened. Then, her teammates rushed her from every angle. Pablos first, arms around her neck. Then Williamson and Nobbs, followed by even the left-back from her own half.

Leah was beaming.

She pointed skyward, then toward the family section—just once.

Francesco saw it. And he clapped so hard his hands stung through his gloves.

Fans near him turned with wide eyes.

"Mate, what a goal!"

"Is she your girlfriend?!"

"Tell her to play for the men's team!"

He laughed, hands over his head, then tapped his chest proudly. "That's my girl."

It was the kind of goal that wrote its own match report. The kind that would play on highlight reels for weeks, get GIFed and Tweeted and analyzed. But for Francesco, it didn't matter who reposted it. What mattered was that he had seen it, live. That he had seen the way she shaped her body, the way her foot struck through the laces, the exact arc the ball took as it kissed the air.

The players reset at the halfway line. Spurs were defeated—not just on the scoresheet, but in spirit. The third goal had broken them in a way the first two hadn't. Arsenal kept possession comfortably in the remaining minutes. No more risks. No more chasing.

Just grace.

The whistle blew at 90+2.

Full time.

3–0.

Francesco stood and applauded. He didn't rush down to the tunnel. He didn't shout her name. He just stood in the cold, clapping slowly and smiling like someone who had watched a painting being finished.

The announcer's voice echoed over the loudspeakers:

"Full-time here at Meadow Park—Arsenal Women 3, Tottenham Hotspur Women 0. Two assists and a goal for number fourteen—Leah Williamson. A true derby performance."

Francesco let out a long breath.

His phone buzzed in his coat pocket. A text from Bellerín.

"Tell her I'm getting that screamer tattooed on my leg. Unreal."

He grinned, then sent one back.

"She's a magician."

He stayed in the stands until the players began their lap—clapping toward the fans, signing the odd program, waving at young girls hanging over the railings. Leah spotted him just as she rounded the halfway line. She smiled, lifted three fingers for the score, then made a small heart gesture with her hand before jogging back to the tunnel.

Francesco watched her go, heart full.

There were games you played in and games you remembered.

Today, he didn't wear boots. He wasn't on the pitch. But he would remember this one forever.

And later, when she came out of the locker room—hair damp, kit changed, cheeks still flushed from the cold—he'd be there, scarf still around his neck, waiting with a smile and arms wide open.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 17 (2015)

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: 28

Goal: 40

Assist: 6

MOTM: 4

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9