The King Of Arsenal

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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.

The crowd had begun to thin just slightly, some fans shuffling toward the exits, still riding the high of the 3–0 victory. Kids held their parents' hands while bouncing with leftover energy; teenagers in Arsenal scarves buzzed excitedly, replaying the match aloud between them like they'd witnessed a cup final; and even the security staff were caught smiling to themselves as they watched the last of the players complete their walk around the pitch.

But then a voice returned to the stadium speakers, sharp and clear over the hum of dispersing chatter.

"Ladies and gentlemen, before we officially wrap up this unforgettable North London Derby, we'd like to present the Barclays Player of the Match award…"

Francesco froze mid-step as he was making his way down toward the barrier, drawn immediately back toward the pitch by the announcement. A few of the lingering fans did the same, turning on the spot.

The announcer continued: "With two assists and a thunderbolt from outside the box that sealed the game in the 87th minute, please give a massive round of applause for your Player of the Match—number fourteen… Leah Williamson!"

The cheer that followed wasn't the kind that came from polite acknowledgment. It was loud. Rowdy. Earnest.

Every fan left in the stadium—young, old, lifelong season ticket holders or first-time derby attendees—stood up again. They clapped, whistled, shouted, and in some cases, outright chanted her name.

"Le-ah! Le-ah! Le-ah!"

Francesco's heart beat harder in his chest. Not from surprise—he had seen it coming. She had been electric all match—but from pride, that specific swelling kind that sits behind the ribs and spreads outward like heat in the winter. His fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the barrier, eyes glued to the far touchline as Leah jogged forward toward the makeshift presentation setup near the tunnel.

She looked surprised, in that quiet, composed Leah way. Not with wide eyes or gasps, but with that little breath in through the nose, a half-step of hesitation, the lift of her eyebrows as if to say, "Really? Me?"

But there was no one else it could have been.

The WSL rep, a middle-aged man in a navy peacoat and a press lanyard flapping in the wind, greeted her with a warm smile and handed over the small, black rectangular trophy. Not flashy. Not glittering. But meaningful. Clear white text on the front read:

Player of the Match – Arsenal vs Tottenham – 2 Jan 2016

Leah held it in both hands, almost carefully. She looked down at it for a second, as if reading it again just to make sure it was real. Then she turned back toward the fans still applauding.

Francesco saw her eyes scan the crowd. He knew exactly what she was searching for.

And then—just like earlier during the game—their eyes met again.

She didn't need to smile this time.

Her expression already said everything: I did it. We did it. This moment—it's ours.

Francesco raised his hand again, one arm up in the cold afternoon light. No need for words. Not yet. Just presence.

Leah tucked the award under her arm and gave a short, respectful wave to the fans, then ducked through the tunnel archway and disappeared into the belly of Meadow Park.

Francesco let out a long breath, like he'd been holding it the entire second half. A few fans gave him knowing smiles as they passed him by on their way out—some nods of respect, a few friendly congratulations like he'd been the one who scored the screamer. He offered smiles in return, but his focus had already shifted.

He knew where to go.

He made his way around the perimeter and into the players' lounge entrance through the side door, where he was well-recognized by the Arsenal security team. One of them—Dave, a stocky former Marine with a lifelong love for the club—held the door open for him.

"She's in the press area for a quick one-on-one," Dave said. "Shouldn't be long."

Francesco nodded and stepped into the warmth of the corridor. The contrast from outside was striking—he could still feel the cold in his fingertips and cheeks, but the familiar scent of liniment, shampoo, and rubber turf inside the stadium wrapped around him like a blanket. He leaned against the wall across from the changing rooms, listening faintly as the click of studs on tile echoed somewhere deeper in the hallway.

It wasn't long before Leah appeared.

Still in her kit, jersey untucked now, socks rolled halfway down her calves, hair wet and messy from the shower and sweat. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat and exertion. The Player of the Match award was still tucked under her arm. A WSL press officer trailed behind her, clipboard in hand, thanking her for the interview.

Francesco straightened up, hands in his coat pockets.

Leah spotted him immediately and broke into a grin that made his heart skip like a missed beat.

She walked up to him, not rushed, not breathless—just steady. Grounded.

And before either of them said anything, she opened her arms and let the award clatter gently against her hip as she pulled him into a full, slow hug.

"Hey," she murmured into his coat.

Francesco rested his chin gently against the top of her head, his arms wrapping around her completely. "Hey yourself."

They stood there for a moment, in the hallway hum of post-match logistics and press staff footsteps and faint laughter from the locker room, like the rest of the world could wait.

Finally, she pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him.

"You saw the goal?" she asked, almost sheepishly.

Francesco let out a quiet laugh, brushing a strand of damp hair from her forehead. "Saw it? Babe, I almost jumped out of the stands. That was insane."

Leah chuckled, her shoulders relaxing. "I didn't even mean to hit it that clean. It just… opened up. You know how that is."

"I do," he said. "And you meant to hit it that clean. Don't be humble."

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

"I heard people chanting my name," she said softly, almost in disbelief. "That's never happened before. Not like that."

Francesco's voice turned serious, but gentle. "You earned every syllable of it."

She held up the trophy between them. "Want to hold it?"

He blinked. "Me?"

Leah smirked. "You looked like you wanted to storm the pitch when I scored. I figured I'd share the victory."

He took it from her hands, turning it slowly in his grip. It was heavier than it looked. Weighted. Real. "Not gonna lie, I might get jealous if you keep scoring goals like that."

She nudged him playfully. "Then score one yourself next week. We'll call it even."

He leaned in closer. "Can I be honest?"

"Always."

"That might've been the best goal I've seen this season. Men's or women's."

She raised an eyebrow. "Including yours?"

He grinned. "Especially mine."

Her cheeks flushed deeper, though he couldn't tell if it was from the compliment or the post-match glow still wearing off.

Leah was still smiling when the hallway behind her erupted in noise.

A sudden burst of laughter, footsteps scuffing across tile, voices overlapping in chaotic glee—the unmistakable sound of a victorious team flooding out of a changing room. Before either of them could turn, the moment was cut through by a familiar voice, half-shouting with the gleeful menace only a teammate could summon.

"There she is! Miss North London herself!"

Leah barely had time to react before Jordan Nobbs and Vicky Losada came barreling around the corner, still half in kit, towels slung over their shoulders, energy high and unfiltered.

"Leah! We were wondering where you'd gone!" Vicky grinned, nudging her shoulder.

"We thought you'd been kidnapped by the BBC!" Jordan teased, eyes flicking to Francesco with all the mischievous understanding in the world. "Or maybe just having a little celebratory moment with a certain someone?"

The rest of the squad wasn't far behind. One by one, more of the Arsenal women came trailing out in various stages of undress and giddiness—joggers pulled over compression shorts, tops half-zipped, one girl still toweling off her hair. They descended on Leah like a storm.

Jade Bailey chimed in, her voice ringing through the corridor: "Oi, you saving all the assists for yourself now, huh? What happened to sharing?"

Leah rolled her eyes, trying to fend off the good-natured ambush, but her blush betrayed her. "It's not like that—"

"You should've seen her, Fran!" Nobbs cut in, throwing a mock-arm around Leah's shoulders. "Two assists, a screamer, and then walks off with Player of the Match like it's just another match."

Francesco chuckled, taking a half-step back as Leah was slowly swallowed by the crowd of her teammates. "I did see. I was up there losing my voice."

"Oh, don't worry, we heard you!" Losada grinned. "You've got lungs like a drumline!"

Francesco raised his hands in surrender. "What can I say? She makes it easy to cheer for her."

More laughter followed, and Leah looked over her shoulder toward him, eyes warm, a little apologetic beneath the humor. "Sorry," she mouthed, though the smile that followed said she wasn't entirely.

Nobbs saw the exchange and pointed at the pair of them with dramatic flair. "Look at this! Power couple energy! One wins the Golden Boot, the other wins the derby. Arsenal's royal family!"

"Oh, please," Leah muttered, half-laughing as she tried to steer them back toward the dressing room. "Let me breathe."

But the girls had no intention of letting her off the hook just yet. Someone grabbed the back of her collar. Another pulled gently at her arm. The tide had turned, and she was caught in it.

"C'mon, Leah!" Beth called. "We've still got music, pizza, and Karaoke night in the showers!"

"I swear to God, if you don't come sing 'Sweet Caroline,' I'll never pass you the ball again," Nobbs threatened, only half-joking.

Leah groaned, but she was laughing too now, fully enveloped in the chaos. She took one step backward, then turned to Francesco, hands slightly out as if to say, what can you do?

He understood.

"I'll wait for you in the parking lot," he called out, stepping slightly back down the hallway. "Take your time."

"You sure?"

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, grinning. "Celebrate. You deserve it."

She gave him a soft, grateful look before she was tugged away, disappearing again around the bend with the rest of her squad, the sounds of laughter, singing, and door hinges swinging echoing behind her.

Francesco stood still for a second in the now-quieted corridor.

It was funny, in a way—he had just watched her dominate a match in front of thousands, had seen her light up the pitch like she was born for it, and yet here she was, being playfully dragged into karaoke in a cramped dressing room by the same girls she had just assisted. It made him love her even more.

This was her world, and he was just lucky enough to witness it from the inside.

He made his way back down the hall, nodding again to Dave as he stepped into the cool air of the parking area. The sun had started to dip, a pale orange haze washing over the rooftops beyond the stadium walls. His breath fogged slightly in the air as he walked toward his car, parked neatly in the players' family section.

Francesco leaned against the hood for a moment, hands in his pockets, eyes soft, just… waiting.

Waiting for Leah.

The cold in the Meadow Park parking area had shifted from sharp to settled, the kind of late-afternoon chill that whispered of January nights waiting just beyond the horizon. Francesco stood with his back against the car door, arms loosely folded, scarf curled up to his chin. A couple of stray fans were still lingering in the distance, taking photos with the Arsenal Women's matchday banners, but for the most part, the lot was quiet—peaceful in a way that only followed a dominant win.

He tapped his fingers against the fabric of his coat pocket absently, eyes drifting every few seconds toward the double doors leading out from the player tunnel.

Then, finally, the door creaked open.

At first it was just one or two of them. Jade Bailey came out first, hair still damp, laughing at something as she slung her kit bag over one shoulder. Chloe Kelly followed right behind, pulling her coat tightly around her shoulders. But then, like a wave, the rest of the squad began filing out. Arms linked. Trainers squeaking lightly on the concrete. Their chatter carried in bursts—half-finished sentences, a few poorly sung lines from something that was probably meant to be Sweet Caroline, and the kind of post-match giddiness only a clean derby win could bring.

Francesco spotted Leah near the middle of the group, tucked in between Jordan Nobbs and Natalia Pablos She had swapped her matchday kit for a long Arsenal parka, zipped up to her throat, and a thick gray beanie tugged low over her ears. The Player of the Match trophy was peeking out from the top of her tote bag, but she didn't seem to be flaunting it.

If anything, she looked like she was trying to be invisible.

Which, of course, wasn't going to happen.

"Oi, is he still here?" Jordan asked loudly, craning her neck toward the parking lot like someone mocking a scene from a romance film.

Jade gave an exaggerated gasp. "He waited! Someone get Netflix on the phone, we've got a bloody rom-com happening!"

The girls collapsed into laughter.

Leah slowed slightly, her shoulders curling with that mix of bashfulness and playful annoyance that only came when your teammates just wouldn't let up. Her eyes darted quickly toward Francesco.

Francesco gave her a subtle wave and smiled, already biting back his own laughter.

"Go on then," said Chloe Kelly, nudging her with an elbow. "Go ride off into the sunset with your Golden Boot boyfriend."

"Shut up," Leah muttered, laughing under her breath as she picked up her pace.

Francesco could see that her cheeks had gone red again—not the post-match flush, but the you're all being ridiculous kind of red. Still, she didn't break stride as she made her way up to her coach, who had just emerged from the tunnel behind them.

"Hey, Pedro?" she asked casually, pulling the beanie down a bit further over her ears.

Pedro Martinez Losa, clipboard under one arm and coat unzipped despite the cold, turned to her with a curious smile. "Yes?"

Leah glanced back toward the team bus, then toward the car park. "Would it be okay if I… didn't ride with the team tonight?"

His brow lifted, but his smile only widened. "Going with your supporter of the match, I assume?"

Leah exhaled a tiny laugh. "Yeah. I figured it's not that far back to Richmond, and—"

Pedro held up a hand before she could finish. "As long as you rest tomorrow, stay warm, and report to training fresh on Monday morning, you can ride off with whoever you like."

"Thanks, boss."

He gave her a quick wink and moved off toward the coaching staff gathering by the bus. "Don't let him make you carry his bags!"

Behind her, the teasing started all over again.

"Ohh, she asked permission! How polite!"

"She's blushing again!"

"Take the award with you and hit him with it if he gets too smug!"

Francesco was chuckling now, leaning casually against the passenger side of his car as Leah began walking toward him. It was clear she was doing her best to ignore them, but even from here, he could see the tips of her ears had gone scarlet.

The girls were all lined up outside the bus now, some waving goodbye, others faking dramatic sobs as though they were sending her off to war.

"Don't forget us when you're famous!"

"Send postcards from Richmond!"

"Invite us to the wedding!"

Leah turned around mid-step and gave them a mock glare. "You're all insufferable."

"We love you too!" Jordan hollered back.

Francesco stepped forward just as Leah reached him.

"You look like you barely made it out alive," he teased gently, taking her bag without asking.

Leah groaned, exasperated. "They're monsters."

"They're your monsters."

"Yeah, unfortunately."

He opened the car door for her, still grinning. "You want me to drive us straight home, or do you need to swing by the training center first?"

"Nope," she said, climbing in. "Just… out of here. Far away. Preferably somewhere where Nobbs doesn't have karaoke access."

He shut the door behind her and rounded the car. As he slid into the driver's seat, Leah looked over at him, brushing some of her damp hair out of her face.

"They wouldn't stop teasing me," she said quietly, but there was a warmth in her voice that belied any frustration. "Like I'm not allowed to have a normal human moment."

Francesco turned the key and smiled as the engine purred to life. "It wasn't a normal human moment. It was a derby win, a wonder goal, two assists, a Player of the Match award, and the entire team acting like you've just gotten engaged."

She laughed, leaning her head against the window. "Fair."

He shifted into gear and pulled out of the lot, the late afternoon sky blushing a little more orange now as the sun made its slow winter descent. Silence settled in the car for a few moments, comfortable and shared.

"Y'know," Leah said after a minute, "you didn't have to wait around. I mean, I would've come back eventually."

Francesco glanced over. "I didn't wait because I had to."

She turned her head to look at him.

"I waited," he said, eyes still on the road, "because I didn't want to miss this."

She didn't say anything for a second. Just watched him. Then:

"Okay. That was annoyingly sweet."

"I try."

"You succeed too often."

He reached over at the next red light and gently took her hand.

And Leah, still in her beanie and oversized coat, fingers cold but threading perfectly into his, just squeezed back. She didn't need words. The day had spoken plenty. They drove on. Richmond wasn't far. The stars would be out by the time they got home.

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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