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As the celebrations continued and the evening began to stretch forward that toward recovery sessions, media obligations, quiet dinners, and eventually sleep as one thing was certain that this day would be remembered.
The celebrations didn't end all at once.
They softened, shifted shape, stretched themselves into something slower and warmer as the initial rush faded. Laughter became steadier. Voices dropped from shouts to conversations. The music stayed on, but someone turned it down just enough that it no longer demanded attention, instead filling the gaps between words.
Steam rolled out from the showers now, curling along the ceiling. Boots lay abandoned near lockers. Ice packs were passed around, pressed to thighs and calves, forgotten, picked up again. It was the familiar post-match rhythm, only amplified by what they'd just done.
Francesco stayed where he was for a while longer, seated on the bench, shoulders finally loosening. The adrenaline had drained from his body, leaving behind a pleasant heaviness. The kind that reminded you you'd given everything.
Alexis wandered past, towel slung low around his waist, hair still wet.
"You alive?" he asked.
Francesco smiled faintly. "Barely."
Alexis chuckled and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder before moving on.
Across the room, Wenger spoke quietly with Steve Bould and one of the physios, nodding, listening, hands folded in front of him. He looked relaxed in a way that only came after jobs well done. Not celebratory, exactly. Satisfied.
Francesco watched him for a moment.
There was something he'd been thinking about since he'd sat down again, since the photo, since Messi's comment, since the rush had finally begun to ebb. It had started as a passing thought, half-formed, but now it felt clearer.
He stood.
His legs protested slightly as he straightened, but he ignored it and picked his way across the room, stepping around scattered kit and half-open lockers. Wenger noticed him approach and turned, expression neutral but attentive.
"Yes?" Wenger asked softly.
Francesco hesitated that not out of doubt, but out of respect. Then he spoke.
"Boss," he said, lowering his voice so only Wenger could hear, "I was wondering if it's possible."
Wenger tilted his head slightly. "Go on."
Francesco glanced around the room, at his teammates, at the staff laughing near the showers, at the sense of shared ease that filled the space.
"I want to do something," he said. "For everyone."
Wenger's eyes flicked back to him, curious now. "What kind of something?"
Francesco inhaled, then let it out slowly.
"I want the bus to stop," he said. "Somewhere nearby. A restaurant. Nothing fancy. I want to treat the team. All of them. Staff too."
Wenger studied him for a moment.
"For what?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
Francesco gave a small, almost embarrassed smile.
"For… this," he said. "For the season. For today. Ninety-six goals doesn't happen without them. I want to celebrate with them properly. Together. Away from cameras. Just us."
There it was.
Not a gesture for headlines.
Not a performance.
Just a thank-you.
Wenger's expression softened, something warm flickering behind his eyes. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked past Francesco again, taking in the room with the way players drifted in and out of conversations, the easy familiarity between staff and squad.
Finally, he nodded.
"I think," Wenger said quietly, "that is a very good idea."
Relief flickered across Francesco's face.
"Yes?"
"Yes," Wenger confirmed. "I'll speak to the driver. We'll make it happen."
Francesco let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Thank you, boss."
Wenger allowed himself a small smile. "Congratulations, Francesco. Not just for the goals, but for this."
He gestured lightly between them, at the idea, at the intent behind it.
Francesco dipped his head, almost shy.
As Wenger turned away to make arrangements, Francesco headed back toward the bench. Word spread quickly, because it always did in football dressing rooms.
"What's this I hear about food?" Ramsey asked, appearing out of nowhere.
Alexis raised an eyebrow. "Food?"
Bellerín perked up immediately. "Food where?"
Francesco laughed, holding up his hands. "Relax. I just asked if we could stop somewhere. That's all."
Alexis squinted at him. "Stop somewhere, because?"
"Because," Francesco said simply, "I want to treat you."
There was a half-second of silence.
Then the room reacted.
"OOOOH."
"YES."
"NOW THAT'S A RECORD BONUS."
Ramsey clapped him on the back. "You score ninety-six goals and suddenly you're buying dinner?"
Özil smirked. "I assume this includes dessert."
"It includes everything," Francesco replied. "Eat whatever you want."
Alexis threw an arm around his shoulders. "I knew I liked you."
The bus ride that followed felt different from the ones before it.
The stadium fell away behind them, lights shrinking in the windows as the bus rolled through the city streets. Normally, this part of the night was quieter as the phones out, headphones on, players retreating into themselves.
Not tonight.
Music played softly through the bus speakers, someone's playlist taking turns with another's. Conversations flowed across rows. Laughter bounced off the ceiling.
Francesco sat near the middle, flanked by Alexis and Özil. The match ball rested on the floor near his feet, nudged occasionally as the bus turned. He didn't mind. It felt grounding, like a reminder that the day was still real.
When the bus slowed and pulled in near the restaurant with an understated place tucked away from the main road, warm light glowing through wide windows, the reaction was immediate.
"Oh this is nice," Bellerín said, peering out.
"Good choice," Giroud added approvingly.
The staff had clearly been alerted in advance. As the team filed in, still in tracksuits, still flushed from the match, there was no chaos that just quiet recognition, respectful nods, tables already arranged.
They filled the space quickly.
Long tables.
Shared plates.
Laughter spilling over glasses and cutlery.
Francesco insisted on sitting in the middle, not at the head. He wanted no distance. Plates were passed, stories retold. Someone reenacted one of the goals using bread rolls and cutlery. Someone else argued about who'd celebrated the worst.
At one point, Alexis stood and raised his glass.
"To Francesco," he said. "Ninety-six goals. But more importantly—" he glanced around the table, "—to a teammate who remembers who helped him get there."
Glasses clinked.
Francesco felt his throat tighten, but he smiled through it.
"To all of you," he replied. "I don't do this without you."
The night didn't end abruptly.
It never did after matches like this.
It tapered off slowly, naturally, the way a good song fades rather than stops. Plates were cleared one by one. Glasses emptied. Conversations drifted from football to families, to jokes that only made sense to people who'd spent months sharing changing rooms, flights, disappointments, and small victories together.
Francesco stayed seated even when he'd finished eating, elbows resting lightly on the table, listening more than talking now. He watched faces instead. The way Ramsey leaned back, laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes. The way Özil spoke quietly with the physio, hands moving as if he was still diagramming passes. The way Kanté smiled at almost everything, a soft presence that anchored the noise.
This was the part that stayed with you.
Not the headlines.
Not the numbers.
This.
Eventually, Wenger rose from his chair. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
The room naturally quieted.
"Gentlemen," he said, "we should head back. Recovery begins now, whether we like it or not."
A collective groan followed, half-serious, half-playful.
"Tomorrow," Alexis muttered.
Wenger allowed himself a small smile. "Tomorrow arrives sooner than you think."
They filtered out of the restaurant in small clusters, jackets pulled on, hands shoved into pockets against the cool night air. The street was quiet, unassuming, nothing to suggest what had just happened inside. No fans waiting. No cameras. Just a team stepping back into anonymity for a few hours.
The bus door hissed open.
One by one, they climbed aboard.
The atmosphere had shifted again, settling into something calmer. The earlier energy was still there, but muted now by full stomachs and tired bodies. Seats filled. Conversations softened. A few players leaned their heads back against the windows, eyes closed, lights from passing cars streaking across their faces.
Francesco sat in the same place as before, near the middle. The match ball was gone now, left safely with the kit staff, but the feeling of it still lingered, phantom weight under his arm.
Alexis slumped beside him.
"You realize," he said lazily, staring at the ceiling, "you've ruined normal celebrations forever."
Francesco chuckled. "How's that?"
"Ninety-six goals," Alexis said. "Now every time someone scores one, we'll think, 'Yes, but did you buy dinner?'"
Francesco laughed quietly. "Fair."
The bus pulled away from the curb and rolled back into the city, heading north. The streets grew darker, emptier. Conversation faded into murmurs, then into silence broken only by the low hum of the engine.
Francesco watched the reflections in the window.
The night felt heavy in a good way. Complete.
When the gates of Colney finally came into view, it felt almost surreal. Training ground lights glowed softly in the distance, familiar shapes cutting through the darkness. The bus slowed, turned, and came to a gentle stop.
People stirred.
Phones came out again briefly, messages sent, rides coordinated. Goodnights were exchanged, some louder than others. A few quick hugs. A few jokes promised to continue tomorrow.
Francesco stood near the door for a moment, letting others pass, then stepped down onto the pavement. The air smelled faintly of grass and rain.
Wenger paused beside him.
"Rest," the manager said simply.
"I will," Francesco replied.
Wenger nodded once and walked away.
Francesco lingered just long enough to watch the last of his teammates disappear into the building, then turned toward his car. His body felt heavy now, the pleasant ache deepening into something that would no doubt complain in the morning.
But his mind was calm.
He slept deeply that night.
Not the restless sleep of anticipation.
Not the shallow sleep of nerves.
The kind that comes only after giving everything and being at peace with it.
Morning arrived quietly.
Light filtered through the curtains in soft bands, creeping across the bedroom wall. The city outside was already awake, but here, everything felt slower.
Francesco stirred, groaning softly as he rolled onto his back. His body protested immediately fromthighs tight, calves stiff, shoulders heavy. He blinked a few times, orienting himself, the events of the night before rushing back not in fragments, but as a whole.
Six goals.
The ball.
The award.
The dinner.
Messi's comment.
He exhaled and rubbed his face.
From the kitchen came the faint sound of movement. The clink of a pan. The low hiss of something cooking.
Leah.
He smiled before he even swung his legs out of bed.
Pulling on a loose t-shirt and shorts, he padded downstairs and went to the hall, joints still warming with each step. The living room was washed in morning light, television already on, volume low.
Leah stood at the stove, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, completely at ease. She glanced over her shoulder when she heard him.
"Morning, superstar," she said, smiling.
He leaned against the counter. "Morning."
She studied him for a second. "You look like you got hit by a bus."
"I feel like it," he replied honestly.
She laughed and turned back to the pan. "Sit. Breakfast is almost ready."
He did, dropping onto the sofa and pulling a cushion behind his lower back. His eyes drifted to the television almost automatically.
Every channel was the same.
Highlights.
Graphics.
Numbers.
"—and there you see it again," a presenter was saying, Francesco's fourth goal replayed in slow motion. "Ninety-six goals in a calendar year."
The screen cut to a panel of pundits.
One of them leaned forward, hands clasped. "We need to be clear here. What we're witnessing is unprecedented. Lionel Messi, ninety-one goals in 2012. Now Francesco Lee, ninety-six. There is no one else in this conversation."
Another nodded. "And that's the point. These are not just prolific seasons. These are once in a generation outliers. There will not be many players like Francesco and Messi."
A graphic appeared on screen:
Players with 90+ goals in a calendar year
– Lionel Messi (91)
– Francesco Lee (96)
The room felt suddenly smaller.
Francesco leaned back, exhaling slowly.
Leah glanced over again, this time lingering, watching his reaction.
"They're saying it everywhere," she said. "You've been on since six."
He smiled faintly. "Yeah?"
She brought over two plates and set one in front of him—eggs, toast, fruit. Simple. Comforting.
"They're calling you historic," she added casually. "One guy said football might never see another year like this."
Francesco snorted softly. "That's dramatic."
She shrugged. "So was ninety six goals."
He laughed, shaking his head, and picked up his fork. He ate slowly, listening as the coverage continued.
A former striker spoke next. "What separates him isn't just the finishing. It's the consistency. The mental side. The ability to deliver week after week, in different competitions, under different pressures."
Another voice cut in. "And let's not forget, this isn't just club football. He's done this across all competitions. The physical and psychological load is enormous."
The screen shifted to footage of him celebrating with his teammates, the photo from the dressing room flashing briefly before cutting to the Instagram post.
"Look at that," the presenter said. "Simple caption. Ninety six goals. That's all he needed."
Leah smiled at that. "That part I liked."
"Yeah?" Francesco asked.
"Yeah," she said. "It felt you."
He looked at her then, really looked. The ease of the morning. The normality of it. The contrast between this quiet kitchen and the noise of the world outside.
On screen, another pundit leaned back in his chair.
"I don't think we'll see another player score more than ninety goals in a year anytime soon," he said. "Messi did it. Now Francesco. That's it. Different level. Different air."
The words landed heavier than the others.
Francesco swallowed, set his fork down, and leaned back again.
It was strange hearing people speak about you like a completed story when you were still living inside it. When your body still ached from yesterday. When you still had training tomorrow.
Leah sat beside him, nudging his knee gently with hers.
"You okay?" she asked.
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just taking it in."
She smiled and rested her head briefly against his shoulder. "You should."
On screen, the segment wrapped up with a simple line.
"Whatever happens next," the presenter said, "this year will be remembered. Two names. One standard. Messi and Francesco. That's it."
The television droned on in the background, looping highlights and measured voices, but Francesco barely registered it anymore.
He was still leaning back against the sofa, Leah's head resting lightly on his shoulder, when the sound cut through everything else.
His phone.
Not a vibration.
Not a notification buzz.
A proper ring.
Sharp. Insistent.
Francesco frowned slightly and shifted, careful not to disturb Leah, then reached into the pocket of the shorts he'd thrown on that morning. The screen lit up as soon as he pulled it free.
Jorge Mendes.
He stared at the name for a second longer than usual.
Jorge didn't call for nothing.
And he especially didn't call this early unless it mattered.
Leah noticed the change in his expression.
"Who is it?" she asked softly.
"Jorge," Francesco replied, already sitting up straighter. "That's not normal."
She lifted her head from his shoulder and smiled knowingly. "Go on then."
Francesco swiped to answer and lifted the phone to his ear.
"Jorge," he said. "Morning."
The voice on the other end was warm, unmistakably animated, carrying a smile even through the speaker.
"Francesco, my friend," Jorge Mendes said, not bothering with pleasantries. "First of all, congratulations."
Francesco let out a quiet breath, half a laugh. "Thank you. I figured you'd call at some point."
"At some point?" Jorge repeated, mock-offended. "After this? I would have called sooner if I thought you'd be awake."
Francesco glanced at the clock on the wall.
"Barely," he admitted.
Jorge chuckled. "Good. Because I have news. Proper news."
Something in his tone made Francesco sit up fully now, back straightening, attention sharpening.
"Okay," Francesco said slowly. "Go on."
There was a brief pause on the line, just long enough to build anticipation, something Jorge had always been good at.
"Guinness World Records contacted me this morning," Jorge said.
The words landed, but not all at once.
Francesco blinked. "Guinness?"
"Yes," Jorge confirmed. "Officially. Not media speculation, not pundits talking nonsense. The organization."
Francesco felt his pulse tick up a notch.
"And?" he asked, voice quieter now.
"And they've reviewed everything," Jorge continued. "The data. The competitions. The timeline. Every goal. Every minute."
Francesco's grip on the phone tightened slightly.
"They've confirmed," Jorge said, his voice carrying a note of genuine satisfaction now, "that your ninety-six goals officially surpass Lionel Messi's ninety-one goals from 2012."
The room went very still.
The television kept playing, oblivious.
A presenter gestured animatedly on screen.
Some highlight package rolled on.
But Francesco barely saw any of it.
"Officially?" he repeated, as if testing the word.
"Officially," Jorge said. "They are recognizing it as a Guinness World Record."
For a moment, Francesco didn't speak.
Not because he didn't understand.
But because his mind needed time to catch up.
Guinness World Record.
Not a stat.
Not a headline.
A record.
Leah watched him closely now, reading his face, sensing the shift before she heard any words. She mouthed silently:
What?
Francesco lifted a finger gently, asking for a second, eyes still unfocused.
Jorge filled the silence.
"They'll be in touch directly as well," he said. "There will be documentation, verification, the whole process. Ceremony later, if you agree. But the recognition itself, Francesco, it's done."
Francesco swallowed.
"That's…" His voice trailed off.
He searched for the right word and couldn't find one.
"Historic?" Jorge offered lightly.
Francesco huffed out a breath. "Yeah. That."
Jorge's tone softened then, losing some of its professional edge.
"I've been doing this a long time," he said. "I've represented some of the greatest players this sport has ever seen. I don't say this lightly, what you've done puts you in a very small room."
Francesco closed his eyes briefly.
A room with Messi.
A room with numbers that didn't feel real.
"Lionel's record stood untouched for 4 years," Jorge continued. "People said it was untouchable. And now… here we are."
Francesco shook his head slowly, even though Jorge couldn't see it.
"I never chased that," he said quietly. "I swear to you, Jorge. I never thought—"
"I know," Jorge interrupted gently. "That's why it means more."
There was silence again, this time comfortable.
Finally, Francesco spoke.
"When do they announce it?" he asked.
"Soon," Jorge replied. "They'll coordinate with the league and the club. But make no mistake, the call I got wasn't a question. It was confirmation."
Francesco nodded slowly, even though his throat felt tight.
"Thank you for calling me," he said. "Really."
Jorge smiled through the phone. He always did, even when you couldn't see it.
"Enjoy the moment," he said. "You've earned it. And Francesco?"
"Yeah?"
"Get some rest," Jorge said. "The world will still be there when you wake up again."
The line clicked dead.
Francesco lowered the phone slowly, staring at the screen long after it had gone dark.
Leah was already sitting upright now, her expression a mix of curiosity and something softer, more emotional.
"Well?" she asked.
Francesco looked at her.
For a second, he couldn't speak.
Then he exhaled.
"Guinness," he said.
Her eyebrows lifted. "Guinness?"
"They called," he continued. "They've recognized it. Officially."
Her mouth fell open slightly.
"Recognized what?" she asked, even though part of her already knew.
"The record," Francesco said. "Ninety-six goals. It officially surpasses Messi's ninety-one from 2012."
The words sounded strange even as he said them out loud.
Leah stared at him for a heartbeat.
Then she smiled.
Not the polite smile.
Not the impressed one.
The kind that comes when you feel something deeply for someone else.
She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly.
"That's incredible," she whispered. "Do you realize what that means?"
Francesco laughed quietly into her shoulder.
"I think I'm starting to," he said.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, hands resting on his arms.
"History," she said simply. "You're part of football history now."
Francesco glanced back toward the television instinctively, where his face was frozen mid-celebration in a replay.
History.
It still felt too big.
Too final.
"I don't feel finished," he admitted.
Leah smiled again. "Good. Then you're doing it right."
The television shifted segments again, and as if on cue, a breaking banner slid across the bottom of the screen.
BREAKING: SOURCES CONFIRM GUINNESS WORLD RECORD RECOGNITION FOR FRANCESCO LEE'S 96 GOALS
Francesco let out a quiet laugh.
"So much for subtle," he muttered.
Leah nudged his knee. "Guess the world didn't want to wait."
On screen, the discussion grew louder, more animated.
"This is now official," a presenter said. "Guinness World Records have recognized Francesco Lee's ninety-six goals in a calendar year as the new benchmark, surpassing Lionel Messi's iconic ninety-one from 2012."
Another pundit leaned forward, eyes wide.
"We are witnessing the rewriting of football history in real time."
Francesco leaned back against the sofa again, phone resting loosely in his hand.
Francesco leaned back against the sofa again, phone resting loosely in his palm, the screen still glowing faintly from the call that had just ended. The room felt different now.
Not louder.
Not brighter.
Heavier.
As if the air itself had gained weight.
On television, the Sky Sports studio buzzed with urgency, producers clearly scrambling to reshape their morning schedule around the breaking news banner still crawling across the bottom of the screen. Francesco watched his own name scroll by again, then again, each repetition chipping away at the unreality of it.
BREAKING: GUINNESS WORLD RECORD RECOGNITION FOR FRANCESCO LEE — 96 GOALS
Leah exhaled slowly beside him, shaking her head with a half-laugh.
"Well," she said, "that escalated quickly."
Francesco smiled faintly but didn't answer right away. Instead, he unlocked his phone again, thumb hovering for a moment before instinct took over.
Safari.
Google.
He typed his name.
The page loaded.
And loaded.
And kept loading.
News articles stacked on top of each other, headline after headline, each one more emphatic than the last.
"FRANCESCO LEE OFFICIALLY BREAKS MESSI'S RECORD — GUINNESS CONFIRMS"
"96 GOALS: THE YEAR FOOTBALL CHANGED"
"FROM DEBUT TO HISTORY: FRANCESCO LEE'S UNPRECEDENTED RISE IN JUST 2 AND A HALF YEAR"
"GUINNESS WORLD RECORD: FRANCESCO LEE SETS NEW STANDARD"
He scrolled.
Different outlets.
Different countries.
Different languages.
Spanish headlines calling it "una locura."
Italian papers referring to him as "il nuovo parametro."
English tabloids doing what tabloids always did, amplifying everything to eleven.
Francesco felt a strange tightness in his chest.
Not pride.
Not fear.
Something quieter.
"I think the internet noticed," he murmured.
Leah leaned over his shoulder, eyes widening slightly as she took in the endless stream of articles.
"Just a bit," she said dryly.
He clicked one at random. Stats. Graphs. Comparisons. Side-by-side images of him and Messi, years apart, frozen in moments of celebration that now felt permanently linked.
Messi, 2012 — 91 goals.
Francesco, 2016 — 96 goals.
Five goals.
Five goals that somehow carried the weight of history.
He locked the phone again and rested it on his thigh, letting out a slow breath.
"It's weird," he said quietly.
Leah glanced at him. "What is?"
"They're talking about it like it's done," he replied. "Like this year is finished. Wrapped."
She tilted her head. "But it is, in a way."
"Yeah," he agreed. "I just don't feel done."
She smiled softly. "Good."
There was a brief pause, and then his phone buzzed again.
Not a call this time.
A notification.
Then another.
And another.
Francesco frowned slightly, unlocked the phone, and immediately understood.
Instagram.
His last post with his teamnate and coaching staff and the caption of "96 goals🔥🔥🔥." was still exploding.
He tapped into it.
The comment count refreshed.
Hundred of thousands.
Then more.
The screen filled with movement as new messages appeared faster than he could read them.
"GOAT 🐐"
"History made. Congratulations, king."
"I watched Messi in 2012. Now I'm watching you. Thank you."
"This is unreal."
"You did what we were told couldn't be done."
"From London to the world. Respect."
"96 reasons to believe in miracles."
"My son wants to be you."
"Messi was my hero. Now you are too."
Francesco swallowed.
He scrolled slowly, deliberately, letting individual comments register instead of letting them blur together.
Some were simple.
Some emotional.
Some long paragraphs from fans explaining where they were when they'd watched his goals, who they were with, why it mattered to them.
There were comments from players too.
Current teammates.
Former opponents.
Names he'd grown up watching.
A short message from Thierry Henry himself caught his eye:
"Records exist to be broken, but not like this. Congratulations."
Francesco stared at that one for a long moment.
Henry.
The man whose posters had once lined his childhood walls.
The man whose legacy at Arsenal still loomed over everything.
"Hey," Leah said gently, noticing his stillness. "You okay?"
He nodded, throat tight. "Yeah. Just reading."
She leaned closer, reading over his shoulder again.
"People really love you," she said quietly.
Francesco huffed out a breath. "They love the goals."
"They love the person too," she replied, nudging him lightly. "Don't sell yourself short."
He smiled at that, then locked the phone and set it down on the coffee table face-down, as if to give himself permission to step away from the noise.
"Food's getting cold," Leah said, nodding toward the plates she'd set out earlier.
"Right," Francesco said. "Yeah."
They shifted positions, pulling the small breakfast table closer to the sofa, settling into a comfortable domestic rhythm that felt almost defiant against the chaos outside. Leah passed him his plate again, and he picked up his fork, realizing only now how hungry he actually was.
They ate in companionable silence for a few moments.
Eggs soft and warm.
Toast crisp.
Fruit fresh.
Normal food.
Normal morning.
Sky Sports continued murmuring in the background, but Francesco wasn't really listening until a familiar voice cut through.
"Let's bring in a special guest now."
He glanced up.
Jamie Carragher sat forward in his chair, animated as ever, while Gary Neville leaned back beside him, arms crossed, a thoughtful expression on his face.
And between them, on the screen, Thierry Henry.
Older now.
Sharper in some ways.
Still unmistakably him.
Francesco froze mid-bite.
Leah noticed immediately. "Oh."
He slowly set his fork down.
On screen, Carragher was already talking.
"Thierry, first of all, thanks for joining us," he said. "We had to get you on this morning."
Henry smiled politely. "I figured this wasn't a normal call."
Neville jumped in. "It's not every day we're talking about someone breaking a record like this."
The graphic appeared beneath Henry's image:
SPECIAL GUEST: THIERRY HENRY
Carragher leaned forward, hands clasped.
"You know better than most how difficult it is to score consistently," he said. "Across competitions. Across seasons. But what Francesco's done with ninety-six goals in a calendar year, all competitions. How hard is that, really?"
Henry exhaled slowly, nodding.
"Very hard," he said simply.
Francesco felt his shoulders tense slightly.
Henry continued.
"People see the number," he said. "They see ninety-six, and they think it's about talent. And yes, talent matters. But that number isn't talent alone."
Neville nodded. "Go on."
"It's repetition," Henry said. "It's doing the same thing again and again when defenders know what you're going to do. It's scoring in the league, then doing it in Europe, then doing it in cups, then coming back and doing it again three days later when your legs are gone."
Carragher gestured animatedly. "And doing it against different styles, different teams—"
"Exactly," Henry agreed. "Different weather. Different pitches. Different pressure. One week you're playing a relegation side sitting deep. Next week it's Real Madrid away."
Francesco's jaw tightened slightly at the mention of Real Madrid.
Henry's gaze sharpened.
"Scoring goals is easy on a good day," he continued. "Scoring goals when your body is tired, when your mind is tired, when everyone expects you to, that's the hard part."
Neville leaned forward now. "Ninety six goals," he repeated. "In one year. That's not form. That's something else."
Henry nodded. "That's mentality."
The word hung in the air.
Francesco felt Leah's hand slide over his, squeezing gently.
On screen, Carragher asked the question Francesco had half-expected, half-dreaded.
"You broke records at this club," Carragher said. "You were the benchmark. When you see Francesco now, what do you see?"
Henry paused.
Really paused.
Not the television pause.
A real one.
"I see someone who doesn't look satisfied," Henry said finally.
Francesco's breath caught.
Henry continued.
"And that's dangerous," he added with a small smile. "For everyone else."
Neville chuckled. "In a good way."
"In the best way," Henry said. "The moment you feel full is the moment you stop scoring. Francesco doesn't look full."
The camera cut briefly to footage of Francesco celebrating, then to him walking off the pitch, expression focused rather than euphoric.
"That tells me," Henry said, "that ninety-six is not the end of the story. It's a chapter."
Francesco leaned back slowly, eyes never leaving the screen.
Carragher nodded emphatically. "Do you think we'll see this again? Someone breaking ninety goals in a year?"
Henry shook his head slowly. "Not soon."
Neville raised an eyebrow. "Ever?"
Henry smiled faintly. "Football always surprises you. But you don't plan for years like this. They happen when everything aligns from the player, the team, the moment."
He looked straight into the camera.
"And even then," he added, "it takes someone special to take advantage of it."
The segment ended soon after, the studio returning to debate and speculation, but Francesco barely noticed the transition.
He was still staring at the blank space where Henry's face had been.
Leah nudged him gently. "You didn't blink once."
He laughed softly. "Didn't want to miss it."
She tilted her head. "What did you think?"
He considered the question.
"I think," he said slowly, "he understands."
She smiled. "Of course he does."
Francesco picked up his fork again, appetite returning in a rush now that the tension had eased slightly.
They finished breakfast at an unhurried pace, Sky Sports still playing in the background, occasionally cutting to new updates, new reactions, new graphics that all circled back to the same thing.
History.
Record.
Unprecedented.
By the time the plates were empty, Francesco felt grounded again.
Not untouched by it all.
But steadied.
He stood, stretching carefully, body reminding him again of the price it had paid over the year.
"I should probably check messages," he said, glancing toward his phone.
Leah smirked. "Good luck."
He picked it up again, unlocking it to a fresh wave of notifications.
Texts from teammates.
Family.
Former coaches.
Even a few unknown numbers that he knew would eventually become part of his life now.
One message stood out.
From his mother.
"So proud of you. But remember to eat properly and rest."
He smiled, shaking his head.
Some things never changed.
He typed back quickly, promising both, then set the phone down again.
Leah was already clearing plates, humming softly to herself.
He watched her for a moment, the ordinariness of the scene anchoring him more than any headline ever could.
"Hey," he said.
She looked up. "Yeah?"
"Thank you," he said simply.
She frowned playfully. "For breakfast?"
"For this," he said, gesturing vaguely at the room. "For keeping it normal."
She walked back over, resting her hands on his shoulders.
"Normal is important," she said. "Especially on days like this."
He nodded.
Outside, the world was already rewriting narratives, updating record books, arguing about legacies. Inside, the kettle clicked off with the sunlight shifted across the floor and two plates sat drying on the counter. Francesco leaned back into the sofa again, phone finally quiet for the moment, and let himself breathe.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 25
Goal: 41
Assist: 0
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9