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Francesco parked, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the car, the folded Arsenal shirt still in his hand. This was more than a contract, this was his promise.
Francesco walked toward Jorge with steady strides, the Arsenal shirt still tucked neatly under his arm. His heart was racing, but his face was calm, set with quiet determination. Jorge stood by the entrance of the Colney offices, dressed immaculately in a dark grey suit, sunglasses perched on his nose, arms crossed in that effortlessly confident way only Jorge Mendes could pull off. He saw Francesco coming and offered a nod, followed by a smile that was half pride, half strategy.
"You made the right decision," Jorge said, stepping forward to meet him. "Trust me, this is the best place for you to grow. Arsenal will give you the stage, the minutes, the spotlight. When you're more mature—say, 23, 24—you'll be ready for a team like Real Madrid."
Francesco stopped just a step away from him, absorbing the words. They sounded well-rehearsed. Like something Jorge had told a hundred prodigies before him.
But Francesco didn't flinch. He didn't nod, either.
He looked his agent in the eyes and said, quietly but clearly, "That's not what I want, Jorge."
Jorge arched an eyebrow, momentarily taken aback. "What do you mean?"
"I want to stay at Arsenal," Francesco said. "Not until I'm good enough to move. Not as a stepping stone. I want to stay here… forever."
There was a pause. Not tense, not hostile—just heavy with the weight of something real.
Jorge lowered his sunglasses slightly, just enough to look Francesco in the eyes.
"You want to be a one-club man?" he asked, as if testing the waters.
Francesco nodded. "I grew up dreaming about wearing this shirt. Now I'm in it. I've seen what happens when players leave—sometimes for trophies, sometimes for money. I'm not judging them. But that's not me. I don't want to be another star that shines here and explodes somewhere else. I want to bring the glory back here. I want to lead this club. I want to win in red and white."
Jorge let out a breath, part surprised, part amused. "You know you might be turning down Champions Leagues, Ballon d'Or campaigns, brand deals worth millions."
"I know," Francesco said. "But I'm not turning down trophies. I'm just saying I want to win them here."
Jorge gave a small smile and put a hand on Francesco's shoulder. "You're rare, kid. Really rare. I've worked with the best—Cristiano, Figo, James, Bernardo Silva—and you've got that same fire. But this?" He tapped Francesco's chest lightly. "This is something different. Alright. Let's make it happen your way."
The doors to Colney opened with a soft hiss, and the familiar scent of freshly mowed grass and old wood hit Francesco as he stepped inside. He had spent so much of his life here—hours after school, weekends, holidays—all building toward this moment. Today wasn't just about signing papers. It was about cementing his place in the club's story.
Jorge led the way through the corridor. Staff members nodded at Francesco as he passed—some smiled knowingly, others just offered a polite "Morning, mate." But there was a kind of unspoken energy in the air. Word traveled fast in football circles, and it seemed like people already knew something important was about to go down.
They reached the office. The heavy wooden door was slightly ajar. Jorge knocked once and pushed it open.
Inside, Ivan Gazidis stood from behind his desk, suit impeccable, expression warm but businesslike. And beside him, leaning back in a chair with his arms crossed, was Arsène Wenger.
The Boss.
Francesco had to steady himself at the sight. Even now, after all these years, Wenger had an aura about him—like a man who had seen too much, lost too much, but still believed. Still loved the game. Francesco swallowed hard and stepped in.
"Francesco," Ivan said with a smile. "Come in. We've been waiting."
Wenger stood as well, offering his hand. Francesco shook it firmly.
Wenger offered a firm handshake, his gaze steady, warm—but as always, searching. There was something fatherly in the way he looked at Francesco, like a man who had watched many talents bloom and wither, and still held out hope that this one—this one—might be different.
"How's your body after yesterday's match?" Wenger asked, slipping into that familiar role of mentor and manager in the same breath.
Francesco nodded, standing straight. "It's good, Boss. A bit sore, but nothing serious."
Wenger gave a short, approving nod. "Good. We need you at your top for the last three games of the Premier League. We're in the final stretch now. Everything matters."
Francesco's chest swelled a little with pride. Wenger wasn't the type to shower players with praise just for showing up. If he said Francesco was important, it meant something.
Ivan gestured toward the seats at the small round table by the window, where a neat stack of papers sat. "Let's sit. We've got some things to go over."
Francesco, Jorge, and Wenger took their places. Ivan remained standing for a moment, hands on the back of his chair, eyes flicking between them like a conductor about to cue an orchestra.
"This isn't just a contract," he began. "We know that. You're not just another player. After what you did against Chelsea, after what we've seen you grow into these past years from the youth team and debut at the first team until now—this is a statement. For you. For us. For the fans. You're not just Arsenal's future anymore, Francesco. You're Arsenal's present."
Francesco felt something stir deep inside him. Pressure, maybe—but the good kind. The kind that reminded you that you were alive, that you were playing for something bigger than yourself.
Jorge leaned back in his chair with the ease of a man who had delivered this kind of news before, but even he couldn't hide a flicker of amusement as he placed his phone on the table and looked at Ivan and Wenger.
"So," he began casually, tapping the stack of papers, "Francesco's current deal was set to run out in 2018. But that's no longer good enough. Not after everything that's happened. The new deal—we've drafted the terms."
Ivan raised an eyebrow, already anticipating something serious.
Jorge continued, ticking off points with calm precision. "The new deal will run out at 2020. Wage will be bumped to £125,000 per week. £5,000 bonus per goal. Image rights split 50/50 between club and player. And—" he paused, letting the moment hang in the air for effect, "—no release clause."
The words hit the room like a silent thunderclap. Ivan and Wenger both froze, their expressions suddenly unreadable.
Then Jorge, with a faint smirk, added, "Oh—and one more thing. Francesco's not asking for this deal because he wants to extend a year and then move next summer. He's not trying to keep his options open. He's… committed."
Wenger's brow furrowed slightly. Ivan blinked, slowly. You could see the gears turning in both of their minds—calculating, adjusting expectations, processing the sharp turn in direction.
"It's shocking, right?" Jorge said, glancing between them. "Not what you expected."
Wenger said nothing at first. He turned his head slowly toward Francesco, his gaze steady. Not stern—but deep. Like he was looking for something underneath the surface of the boy he'd watched grow into a man. His eyes asked the question before his voice did.
"Why?" Wenger said softly, barely above a whisper. "Why would you do this?"
Francesco took a breath.
He knew this moment would come. He'd rehearsed it in his mind the night before. But now, with the two most powerful men at the club watching him, the weight of the shirt still folded under his arm, it felt more real than he'd imagined.
"Because this is home," he said.
The silence in the room was complete. Even Jorge looked a little surprised by the directness of it.
"I know what people expected," Francesco continued, voice calm but firm. "I've heard the talk. That this is a stepping stone. That I'd show what I could do, get my name out there, then jump to Madrid or PSG or wherever. And I could. With Jorge, with what happened against Chelsea, with how fast everything's moving… yeah, I could."
He looked down for a moment, then back up.
"But I don't want to."
His voice had lost the nervous edge now. It was steady, full of quiet certainty.
"I love this club. I've loved it since I was a kid watching Henry tear through defences at Highbury. I cried when we lost to Barcelona in '06. I still remember how it felt when Fabregas left. When Van Persie went to United. It hurt. It always felt like we were building something just to lose it again."
He turned to Wenger, his voice softening.
"You taught me to believe in more than just moments. You taught me to believe in identity. In loyalty. I don't want to be another name that came through here and moved on. I want to be the name people remember for staying."
Wenger's eyes glistened, just a little. Ivan leaned back in his chair, lips slightly parted, like he wasn't sure whether to speak or just listen.
"I want to be the guy who lifts the title here. Who wins the Champions League here. Who stays when it's hard, not just when it's good. I want to be Arsenal's man. From start to finish."
Jorge watched with a faint smile, folding his arms.
"See?" he said, nodding at the two stunned men across the table. "Told you. He's not like the others."
For a long moment, Wenger said nothing. He just stared at Francesco with an intensity that made the younger man straighten his posture a little more.
Then Wenger gave a nod. Slow. Deliberate. Filled with emotion he didn't voice, because he didn't need to.
"You remind me of someone," Wenger said quietly. "Someone who stayed. Who believed. Who gave his career to one badge, even when people said he shouldn't."
Francesco knew who he was talking about.
Tony Adams.
"I believe in you," Wenger added. "And now… it's time to put it on paper."
Ivan cleared his throat, finally regaining his footing in the moment. "Right," he said, nodding at the stack of documents. "Let's make it official."
Francesco leaned forward. He looked down at the papers—his future laid out in black ink—and picked up the pen. Jorge gave a small nod. Ivan passed over the first page.
And with a steady hand, Francesco Lee signed.
One signature. Then another. And another.
By the time he was done, the silence in the room had shifted from shock to something else entirely. Reverence. It wasn't often you saw a player turn down everything modern football offered—the fame, the fortune, the easier route—for something as old-fashioned as loyalty.
When he finished, Wenger rose and walked around the table. He extended a hand once more—but this time, when Francesco stood to meet it, Wenger pulled him in for a brief hug.
"Welcome home," the Boss said.
Ivan clapped his hands together. "Alright, gentlemen. We'll call the press team. I think this deserves a proper announcement."
Wenger then said, "Let's do an open press conference to the fans and to the media tomorrow. In front of Colney."
Francesco blinked, surprised. He'd expected something more low-key—maybe a club statement, a few photos, a quiet interview uploaded to the website. But an open press conference? That was different.
Wenger caught the flicker of hesitation in his expression and gave him a gentle smile.
"You've earned this, Francesco. This is your moment. The fans deserve to hear it from you. Not from some article or leak. From you."
Jorge looked intrigued now, folding his arms again. "That's… bold," he said, glancing at Ivan. "But I have to admit, it might just work. Show the world he's serious. Let them feel it."
Ivan nodded slowly. "We'll set it up. Outdoor stage, Arsenal crest behind him, mic in front of him. Simple. Raw. Honest. No filters."
Wenger stepped closer to Francesco and put a hand on his shoulder. "You say you want to be the one who stays. The one who leads this club into the future. Then this is your first step. Not just as a player. But as a leader."
Francesco's gaze dropped for a moment, heart pounding. The weight of it all was starting to hit him—not the pressure, exactly, but the responsibility. This wasn't just about football anymore. It was about legacy.
He gave a small nod. "Alright. Let's do it."
The next morning, Colney buzzed with a quiet kind of anticipation. Groundskeepers tidied up hedges that didn't need tidying. Staff moved with unusual energy. A makeshift stage had been set up on the grass near the training pitch, a backdrop of red and white with the Arsenal crest standing tall behind a long table with three microphones. Media personnel were being ushered in through the gates, murmuring amongst themselves—half-expecting to hear about a new signing, or maybe a surprise departure.
But none of them were ready for what came next.
At precisely 11:00 AM, Francesco stepped out from the main building wearing a red Arsenal polo and black trousers. Clean, simple. No flash. Just the club crest over his heart.
The cameras clicked immediately. Reporters began whispering frantically. Everyone knew who he was—the kid who'd can take the pressure and turned a game against Chelsea on its head on the most important match in his career. The wonderboy with the £40 million release clause. The one being courted by Madrid, PSG, and everyone else with a chequebook.
He walked calmly to the stage, followed by Wenger and Ivan. Jorge Mendes remained just behind, his usual confidence now tinged with quiet pride.
Wenger took the mic first. "Thank you all for coming. Today's announcement is not about a new arrival. It's about something rarer in football these days—loyalty."
He turned to Francesco, who sat between him and Ivan.
"This young man beside me has just signed a new contract. One that keeps him at Arsenal until 2020. But more than that—he's made a statement. A promise. To all of us."
He gestured to Francesco. "Go on. Tell them."
Francesco leaned forward, the wind ruffling his hair just slightly, the sun breaking through the clouds above. He looked out at the rows of reporters, fans who'd gathered beyond the barriers, and somewhere in the middle, a kid wearing his shirt—number 35.
"I'm not going anywhere," he began. "Not this summer. Not next year. Not for a bigger club or a bigger paycheck."
The murmurs started, reporters scribbling madly, cameras zooming in.
"I've just signed a new deal with Arsenal. No release clause. No back doors. I'm here because I want to be here. Because this club… is my home."
He paused, letting it sink in.
"I grew up watching this team. I was at Highbury when we were the Invincibles. I cried when we lost to Barcelona in 2006. I've worn this badge as a fan. And now, I wear it as a player."
More than a few fans behind the press barriers were tearing up. A chant started softly: "One of our own! One of our own!"
Francesco smiled. "I know the rumours. I know what people expect. Young players come through, do well, and move on. But I'm not interested in being a headline. I want to be history."
He looked toward Wenger.
"The Boss believed in me when nobody else did. The club trusted me. And now I'm returning that trust."
The press conference continued, questions flying in—Madrid? PSG? Why no clause? Why now?
And Francesco answered every one with calm confidence. No media training fluff. Just honesty.
When it was done, Wenger stood again. "Ladies and gentlemen… Francesco Lee. Arsenal's present. And Arsenal's future."
And as applause broke out across Colney, Francesco stood, turned to the fans behind the barriers, and raised a fist. Not in arrogance. In solidarity.
Later that day, the media world lit up like a flare over North London. From Sky Sports to The Guardian, from local fan blogs to international outlets in Spain, France, German, Netherlands, Portugal, Italy, and around the world, the story spread like wildfire. Not just the story of a contract extension—but something deeper. Something rarer.
"Arsenal Wonderkid Pledges Career to Boyhood Club," read one headline. "16-Year-Old Francesco Lee Turns Down Europe's Giants to Stay a Gunner," read another. Pundits on every major football talk show couldn't stop talking about it. Some were skeptical, others were deeply moved, but all agreed on one thing: something extraordinary had just happened at Colney.
Clips of Francesco's speech circulated everywhere. On Twitter, the moment he said "I'm not going anywhere" went viral within the hour. On Instagram, the image of him standing under the Arsenal crest, wind in his hair, hand on the mic, was reshared by current players, legends of the club, he fans, and even rival fans who couldn't help but respect it. Thierry Henry posted a photo of Francesco in an Arsenal shirt as a kid with the caption: "This is how it starts. With love, with loyalty. Proud of you, young man."
Even Roy Keane, rarely impressed, muttered on TV: "I don't care if he's 16 or 26. That's a proper footballer's mentality."
In newsrooms and online forums, analysts dug into every detail of the deal—no release clause, a five-year contract, £125,000 per week with performance bonuses, and the 50/50 image rights split that showed just how valuable Francesco had become. But what truly caught fire wasn't the money. It was the message.
In a football world driven by transfers, agents, and eye-watering buyout clauses, a 16-year-old had just stood in front of the world and said: "I choose loyalty."
On Arsenal Fan TV, the hosts couldn't contain their excitement. Robbie sat at the desk grinning like a proud uncle. "You see that? That's our boy. He could've gone to Madrid, to PSG, or the dup Manchester—but nah. He wants to make history here. You don't see that anymore."
Claude, emotional as always, shook his head. "I've waited years to hear a player say that. Years. This kid's got it."
By nightfall, Francesco's name trended worldwide. Journalists dug into his story: the boyhood fan who watched Henry from the stands, who never forgot the heartbreak of the 2006 Champions League final, who felt betrayed when Fabregas and Van Persie left, who vowed to be different. Articles described how he rejected the allure of Real Madrid's Galácticos, PSG's riches, and the promises from Manchester clubs. They painted the picture of a teenager wise beyond his years, choosing legacy over luxury.
Even within the Arsenal dressing room, the mood was different. All Arsenal players messaged him privately—"Proud of you, kid," "Big move, respect," "That's real Arsenal spirit." Mertesacker texted him a simple message: "Now you're not just part of the team. You're part of the club and our family."
The club's official account dropped a behind-the-scenes video the next day—clips of Francesco arriving at Colney, signing the deal, sharing a quiet laugh with Wenger, shaking hands with Ivan, and hugging a young fan after the press conference. The video was called "Forever Arsenal: The Francesco Lee Story", and it racked up over two million views in 24 hours.
That night, alone in his apartment, Francesco sat on the couch with his phone lighting up every few seconds. Messages, mentions, tags. He didn't respond to most of them. He didn't need to. The statement had been made. Not just in ink on paper, but out loud, in front of everyone who mattered.
He looked at his phone one last time before setting it aside. He didn't care about the praise or the headlines. What mattered was the shirt in his closet. Red and white. Number 35. His shirt.
And tomorrow, he'd wear it again—back on the training pitch, back to work. Because loyalty wasn't just a press conference. It was every single day after.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 31
Goal: 37
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8