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He exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling in the still night. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a deeper satisfaction. The first victory of 2017 was theirs, and he had lived every moment fully from the pitch, to the fans, to the team bus, and finally here, in this quiet, intimate space with Leah.
The night eventually softened around them, the television volume lowering as the pundits' voices blurred into background noise. The house settled into its familiar quiet, the kind that only came after a long day fully lived. Francesco and Leah stayed on the couch longer than either of them realized, sharing small comments about the match, moments that stood out, things that only two people who truly understood football and each other would notice.
Eventually, fatigue won.
The next morning arrived gently.
Soft light filtered through the tall windows of the Richmond mansion, pale gold slipping across the hardwood floors and climbing the walls inch by inch. Outside, the world felt calm, almost deceptively normal, as if the roar of the Emirates the night before had been a dream rather than reality.
Francesco woke slowly, the kind of waking that comes after a deep, restorative sleep. His body still carried traces of the match with pleasant aches in his legs, a slight stiffness in his shoulders, but his mind felt clear. Purposeful. Grounded.
He lay still for a moment, listening.
The house was quiet except for the faint hum of distant traffic and the soft clink of something downstairs—plates, maybe cutlery. Leah was already up.
He rolled onto his side, ran a hand through his hair, and sat up. The events of the night before came back in flashes: the goals, the speech on the bus, Leah's voice beside him on the couch. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
After pulling on a simple T-shirt and training shorts, Francesco padded toward the bathroom. The marble floor was cool beneath his feet. He turned on the light, blinking once as it illuminated his reflection in the mirror with slightly tousled hair, relaxed eyes, the faint trace of a smile that hadn't quite faded.
He brushed his teeth slowly, methodically, watching himself in the mirror. Not the footballer the world saw, not the captain lifting his voice on the bus, but just Francesco. A man who had woken up in his own home, after a win, with people he cared about nearby.
As he rinsed and leaned closer to the sink, something caught his attention.
A soft chime from the house's security system.
Francesco glanced toward the small monitor mounted near the bathroom doorway, the one connected to the CCTV feeds. He wiped his mouth with a towel and stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly as he focused on the screen.
The front driveway camera was active.
A familiar tall figure stood just outside the gate, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark coat, posture relaxed but unmistakable. Broad shoulders. Calm presence. That unmistakable frame.
Francesco's eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Per?" he murmured to himself.
Sure enough, the camera angle shifted slightly as the man adjusted his stance, revealing Per Mertesacker in full former Arsenal captain, defensive anchor, quiet leader, and someone Francesco respected deeply.
He chuckled softly under his breath.
"Well… that explains the early morning," he muttered.
Francesco left the bathroom and headed downstairs, the smell of coffee growing stronger with every step. As he entered the kitchen, Leah was already there, standing at the counter in a loose sweater, hair tied back casually. Plates of toast, fruit, and eggs were laid out neatly, steam rising gently from mugs.
She looked up as he entered.
"Morning," she said warmly, smiling. "You sleep okay?"
"Like a rock," he replied, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "You?"
"Same," she said, then tilted her head slightly, noticing the amused look on his face. "Why do you look like that?"
Francesco gestured subtly toward the hallway. "We've got a guest."
Leah raised an eyebrow. "Already? Who?"
He grinned. "Per Mertesacker."
Her eyes widened just a touch. "Per? This early?"
"Apparently," Francesco said, already moving toward the front door. "I'll get it."
Leah followed him halfway, curious but giving him space as he reached the door. Francesco took a breath, opened it, and was immediately met with the familiar calm presence of the towering German defender.
"Per," Francesco said, smiling openly. "Good morning."
"Morning, Francesco," Per replied, his voice deep and steady, a gentle smile appearing beneath his beard. "I hope I'm not too early."
Francesco shook his head. "Not at all. Come in."
He stepped aside, gesturing him inside. Per entered, taking a moment to glance around the house with quiet appreciation before slipping off his coat.
"It's good to see you," Per said. "Congratulations on last night. Strong performance."
"Thank you," Francesco replied sincerely. "It means a lot."
Leah stepped forward then, offering her hand. "Hi, Per. I'm Leah."
Per smiled warmly as he shook her hand. "Nice to meet you, Leah. I've heard a lot about you."
"Hopefully good things," she said with a light laugh.
"Only good," Per replied easily.
Francesco gestured toward the kitchen. "We were just about to have breakfast. Join us?"
Per nodded. "I'd like that."
They moved into the kitchen together, the morning light filling the space as they settled around the table. Leah poured Per a cup of coffee without needing to ask, instinctively slipping into the role of host. Francesco watched the interaction with quiet appreciation.
Once seated, there was a brief, comfortable silence, with the kind that didn't need filling immediately.
Per broke it first.
"I didn't come just to congratulate you," he said calmly, setting his mug down. "Though you deserve that too."
Francesco leaned back slightly, attentive. "I figured as much."
Per nodded. "I wanted to talk. Captain to captain."
That phrase carried weight.
Francesco straightened just a little. "I'm listening."
Per folded his hands together, eyes thoughtful. "I've been watching the team closely this season. Not just from a tactical perspective , but from a leadership one. And I wanted to tell you something directly."
Leah glanced between them, sensing the gravity, then quietly excused herself to give them space, though she stayed close enough to listen if needed.
Per continued.
"You remind me of something Arsenal has always needed," he said. "Not just a great player, but a leader who understands responsibility without letting it become a burden. You carry authority naturally. You don't demand it. That's rare."
Francesco absorbed the words in silence, nodding once.
"I learned from watching people like you," he said after a moment. "From how you led calmly. With presence, not noise."
Per smiled faintly. "That's why I'm here. Leadership passes on whether we intend it to or not. And right now, the team looks aligned. Focused. Dangerous, in the best way."
He paused, then added, "But that also paints a target on your back."
Francesco exhaled softly. "I told the team the same thing last night. Everyone wants to stop us."
"Exactly," Per said. "And that's where your role becomes even more important. Talent wins matches. Leadership sustains eras."
The word lingered.
Eras.
Francesco looked down at his hands briefly, then back up. "I don't want us to be remembered as just a great season," he said quietly. "I want us to be remembered as a standard."
Per's eyes lit with recognition. "That's the right mindset."
Leah rejoined them then, placing a plate in front of Francesco. "Eat before it gets cold," she said gently, squeezing his shoulder.
He smiled up at her. "Always keeping me grounded."
She smiled back, then sat beside him.
Breakfast continued with a calmer tone, but the conversation stayed meaningful. Per spoke about the importance of maintaining humility during dominance, about how the smallest shifts in attitude could decide seasons. He referenced past teams that faltered not because of lack of skill, but because focus slipped by inches.
Francesco listened intently, occasionally responding, sometimes asking questions. This wasn't a lecture; it was a dialogue between leaders, grounded in mutual respect.
At one point, Per glanced toward Leah.
"You see him differently than most," he said. "That matters. Players like Francesco need that balance."
Leah nodded. "He's incredible on the pitch. But at home, he's still human. That's what keeps him sharp."
Francesco chuckled. "She keeps me honest."
Francesco noticed it that not in anything Per had said, but in what he hadn't.
The conversation had flowed naturally, comfortably, yet beneath it all there was a restraint in Per's tone, a careful pacing, as though he were circling something without quite stepping into it. Francesco had felt it from the moment Per stood at the gate: this wasn't just a friendly visit, not just a congratulatory call or a casual check-in between captains past and present.
So when there was a pause, one of those quiet gaps where the clink of cutlery and the low hum of the coffee machine filled the space that Francesco set his fork down gently and leaned back in his chair.
"Per," he said calmly, meeting his eyes. "Why did you really come this morning?"
The question wasn't accusatory. It wasn't pressing. It was simply honest.
Leah, sensing the shift immediately, stayed silent, her hands resting loosely around her mug. The room seemed to still, the morning light catching dust motes in the air, turning them into slow-moving sparks.
Per didn't answer right away.
He looked down at his hands, large and steady, fingers interlaced as they rested on the table. For a moment, he seemed far away that not physically, but inwardly, as though he were walking through memories only he could see. His jaw tightened slightly, then relaxed. He took a breath, long and deliberate.
For the first time since he'd arrived, the quiet leader looked… human in a different way. Not just calm. Vulnerable.
"I didn't plan to say it immediately," Per admitted quietly. "I thought… maybe I could just talk first. Feel the moment. See if it was right."
Francesco didn't interrupt. He felt something settle in his chest, an instinctive understanding that whatever was coming mattered deeply.
Per lifted his gaze again, eyes steady but reflective. "I've made a decision."
Another pause.
"I'm going to retire at the end of this season."
The words landed softly, but their weight was immense.
Francesco froze.
Not outwardly. His expression remained composed, his posture unchanged. But inside, something shifted sharply, like a gear catching unexpectedly. His breath caught for just half a second before he consciously steadied it.
"Retire?" he repeated quietly.
Per nodded once.
"Yes."
Leah's eyes widened slightly, her lips parting in surprise. Even she who wasn't immersed in the day-to-day rhythms of the club like Francesco, knew what Per Mertesacker represented. To Arsenal. To the league. To leadership itself.
Francesco leaned forward slowly, forearms resting on the table now. "That's… earlier than I expected," he said carefully.
And it was.
Deep inside him, beyond logic, beyond what anyone else in the room could possibly know, something else stirred.
A flicker.
A memory that wasn't quite a memory.
From another life.
From another timeline.
Francesco had always carried it quietly, this strange sense of foresight that surfaced now and then an awareness that certain events were supposed to unfold in a particular way. He had learned not to speak of it, not even to himself most of the time. But in this moment, it rose unbidden.
In that other knowing, Per Mertesacker retired next season.
Not this one.
Yet here he was, sitting across the table, calm and resolute, saying goodbye early.
Francesco felt the weight of it settle over him that not confusion, but understanding.
He had changed something.
They all had.
Per exhaled slowly, as if releasing something he'd been carrying for a long time. "I know it might surprise people. It surprised me too, when I finally accepted it."
Francesco studied him closely now that not as a captain assessing a teammate, but as a man listening to another man standing at the edge of a chapter.
"Can I ask why?" Francesco said gently.
Per nodded. "Of course."
He leaned back slightly, eyes drifting toward the window, where the morning light spilled across the garden outside. "I've given football everything," he said. "My body. My time. My focus. I don't regret a second of it. But I've also learned to listen to myself, to my limits."
He glanced back at Francesco. "And to the team."
Francesco's brow furrowed faintly.
"The truth is," Per continued, "this is the first time in a long while that I feel complete. At peace with what Arsenal is becoming."
Leah shifted subtly beside Francesco, sensing the depth of what was being said.
"I look at this squad," Per went on, "and I don't see uncertainty anymore. I see structure. Identity. Leadership. I see players who know who they are, and a captain who understands how to carry responsibility without letting it crush him."
His gaze settled fully on Francesco now.
"You."
Francesco felt a tightness in his chest that not pride, but something heavier. Something humbler.
"You've stepped into this role in a way that allowed people like me to finally let go," Per said softly. "Not because we're irrelevant. But because we're no longer needed in the same way."
The room was silent again.
Francesco swallowed.
In that instant, the strange echo of his past-life memory clicked into place. Per wasn't retiring early because he was tired. Or because he couldn't continue.
He was retiring because he could.
Because the burden had shifted.
Because Francesco had become the kind of captain who allowed others to rest.
"I never wanted to be the reason you step away," Francesco said quietly.
Per smiled that not sadly, but warmly. "You're not the reason I'm stepping away. You're the reason I can."
That distinction mattered.
Francesco looked down at the table again, hands clasped tightly now. He felt the weight of leadership in a new way—not as something he carried forward, but as something that reached backward too, touching the people who had come before him.
"I always thought I'd play one more year," Per admitted. "That I'd need that extra season to feel finished. But watching this team or watching you, made me realize something."
He paused.
"Sometimes, the greatest leadership moment isn't staying longer. It's knowing when your presence has done its job."
Leah reached over then, resting her hand gently on Francesco's arm. The simple touch grounded him, pulled him fully back into the room.
"I'm honoured," Francesco said at last. His voice was steady, but low. "Truly."
Per nodded. "I hoped you would understand."
"I do," Francesco replied. "More than you know."
And he did.
In some quiet, impossible way, he understood that the path had shifted that the future he remembered was no longer fixed. The team was evolving faster. Stronger. More unified.
He had accelerated something.
Per leaned forward slightly. "There's another reason I wanted to tell you privately. Before anyone else."
Francesco looked up. "Go on."
"When the announcement comes," Per said, "people will talk. They'll speculate. They'll ask whether I was pushed, or whether the club wanted to move on."
His eyes hardened just a touch that not defensively, but resolutely. "I want you to know and I want you to remind the team, that this is my decision. A peaceful one."
Francesco nodded firmly. "I will."
"And," Per added, a faint smile returning, "I wanted you to hear it from me first. Captain to captain."
Francesco stood then, slowly, and Per followed suit. They faced each other in the quiet kitchen, sunlight framing them both that one leader nearing the end of his playing journey, the other firmly in the ascent of his.
Francesco extended his hand, but Per didn't take it immediately.
Instead, he pulled Francesco into a brief, firm embrace.
The kind that carried respect. Gratitude. Closure.
"You're ready," Per said quietly near his ear. "And the club is in good hands."
Francesco closed his eyes briefly, returning the embrace. "Everything you helped build, I'll protect it."
When they stepped apart, Leah watched them with a soft expression, fully aware that she had just witnessed a passing of something intangible but powerful.
Per collected his coat a few minutes later, the conversation easing into lighter territory as they walked toward the door. But beneath it all, the gravity remained.
Per paused at the doorway, one hand already slipping into the sleeve of his coat. The morning had moved on almost without them noticing with the light brighter now, the kitchen warmer, the quiet no longer tentative but settled. That strange in-between moment, when something important has been said and yet life insists on continuing around it.
Francesco watched him for a second longer than necessary.
There was something about endings that always did this to him. They never arrived loudly. They came softly, disguised as ordinary moments from coffee cups emptied, coats picked up, polite smiles exchanged. And yet, once they passed, everything felt subtly rearranged.
"Per," Francesco said before he could stop himself.
Per turned back, eyebrows lifting slightly in question.
"Yes?"
Francesco hesitated that not because he didn't know what he wanted to ask, but because he wanted to ask it the right way. Leadership, he'd learned, wasn't just about asking questions. It was about knowing which ones mattered.
"What comes next for you?" Francesco asked. "After the season."
Per's expression shifted which not dramatically, but enough for Francesco to notice. There was a flicker of something like relief there. As if he'd been expecting the question. Or maybe hoping for it.
He leaned one shoulder lightly against the doorframe instead of leaving immediately, grounding himself in the space again.
"I wondered if you'd ask that," Per said.
Francesco smiled faintly. "I'd be surprised if you didn't already have an answer."
Per chuckled softly, a sound that carried more warmth than humour. "You know me too well."
Leah remained by the table, giving them space but listening closely, her presence steady and supportive. She sensed, as Francesco did, that this part of the conversation mattered just as much as the announcement itself.
Per exhaled slowly, then nodded once, as if confirming something to himself.
"I've already spoken to Arsène," he said.
Francesco's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You told him already?"
"Yes," Per replied. "I wanted him to hear it from me first. Before the club, before the media, before anyone else."
That felt right. Very Per. Very Wenger, too.
"And?" Francesco asked.
Per's lips curved into a small, thoughtful smile. "He listened. As he always does. Didn't interrupt. Didn't try to convince me otherwise."
Francesco could picture it perfectly with Wenger sitting back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes sharp and reflective, taking everything in without judgment.
"After I explained my reasons," Per continued, "he asked me one question."
"What was that?" Leah asked gently.
Per glanced at her, then back to Francesco. "He asked whether I was done with football or just done playing it."
Francesco felt something stir at that.
"And your answer?" he asked.
Per didn't respond immediately. Instead, he straightened slightly, his posture shifting that not into that of a defender bracing for impact, but into something calmer. More reflective.
"I told him the truth," Per said. "That football has been my language my entire adult life. I don't think I could ever walk away from it completely."
He paused.
"I just don't need to speak it from the pitch anymore."
The words settled into the room with quiet clarity.
"And that's when he suggested the academy," Per added.
Francesco felt a slow smile spread across his face with not surprised, but deeply satisfied.
"The youth academy?" he said.
Per nodded. "A role there. Not immediately full-time, not rushed. Just guidance. Presence. Teaching the things you don't always see on the training ground."
Leah's expression softened. "That sounds perfect for you."
Per smiled at her, appreciative. "I think so too."
Francesco leaned back against the kitchen counter now, arms folded loosely, absorbing the idea. Per Mertesacker will teaching, mentoring, shaping the next generation of Arsenal players. Of Arsenal leaders.
It felt right in a way that was hard to explain.
"What did you say to him?" Francesco asked.
"I told him I needed time to think," Per replied honestly. "Not because I didn't like the idea. But because I wanted to make sure I wasn't clinging to football just because it's familiar."
He met Francesco's eyes again. "But the more I sit with it, the clearer it becomes."
"Clearer how?"
Per's voice softened. "That the academy is where foundations are built. Not just tactical ones, but mental ones. Identity. Discipline. Humility."
He gestured vaguely with one hand. "Everything we've been talking about this morning."
Francesco nodded slowly. He understood that instinctively. The academy wasn't about trophies or headlines. It was about continuity. About ensuring the club's values survived long after individual careers ended.
"I think the kids would be lucky to have you," Francesco said.
Per smiled, but there was no false modesty in his response. "I think I would be lucky to have them."
There was a brief pause, then Per added quietly, "Arsène said something else too."
Francesco waited.
"He said leadership like mine and like yours doesn't disappear when the boots come off. It just changes its shape."
Francesco felt the weight of that settle somewhere deep.
"That sounds like him," he said.
"Yes," Per agreed. "It does."
They stood there for a moment longer, the three of them, suspended in that rare space where past, present, and future overlapped.
Then Per finally straightened fully, slipping his coat on at last.
"I should go," he said. "Training waits for you. And I've taken enough of your morning."
"You're always welcome," Francesco replied immediately.
Per smiled. "I know."
At the door, he paused again then turned back to Francesco one last time.
"Whatever happens this season," Per said, "remember this: you didn't just step into a role. You gave others permission to move on."
Francesco held his gaze. "I won't forget that."
Per nodded once, satisfied.
Then he was gone.
The door closed softly behind him, the click of the latch echoing faintly through the house.
For a long moment, neither Francesco nor Leah spoke.
It was Leah who broke the silence first.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
Francesco let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Yeah," he said. "I just didn't expect to feel this much from it."
She stepped closer, resting her forehead briefly against his shoulder. "That's because it meant something."
He wrapped an arm around her instinctively.
"I keep thinking about what he said," Francesco murmured. "About letting others rest."
Leah looked up at him. "You don't have to carry that alone, you know."
"I know," he said. "I just want to carry it properly."
Francesco stayed where he was for a moment longer, Leah's forehead resting against his shoulder, the quiet of the house settling back into place around them. The conversation with Per lingered in the air like a held note, something that didn't fade just because the door had closed.
"I just want to carry it properly," he repeated, softer now, almost to himself.
Leah shifted slightly, looking up at him. "You already are," she said. "You don't rush it. You don't ignore it. That's carrying it properly."
He smiled faintly, appreciative, then leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her hair. For all the weight he carried as captain, moments like this reminded him that he didn't have to be alone with it. Not here. Not at home.
The rest of the morning unfolded quietly. Breakfast plates were cleared, coffee cups rinsed and set beside the sink. Francesco moved through the house with a calmer rhythm than usual, his thoughts still drifting back to Per's words, to Wenger's question, to the idea of leadership changing shape rather than ending.
By the time he headed upstairs to change for training, the house was fully awake, sunlight flooding through the windows, the Richmond neighbourhood moving on with its own ordinary pace. Life insisting, as it always did, on continuing.
The next day came with a different kind of quiet.
Francesco slid into the driver's seat of his BMW X5 just after seven, the leather cool beneath his hands as he adjusted the mirrors and started the engine. The sky was overcast, a soft grey stretching over London, the kind of morning that felt heavy without being oppressive.
As he pulled out of the driveway and onto the road, he turned on the radio more out of habit than intention. The familiar voice of a sports radio host filled the cabin, cutting cleanly through the hum of the engine.
"…and if you're just joining us this morning, the big shock overnight as Per Mertesacker has announced via social media that he will retire at the end of this season…"
Francesco's grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly.
"…a decision that has stunned many Arsenal supporters," the host continued, "given Mertesacker's continued influence in the dressing room and his role as one of the stabilizing figures alongside current captain Francesco Lee…"
Francesco exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"…sources say the decision was made after careful consideration, with the club fully supportive. Still, for many fans, this feels sudden. Mertesacker has long been considered one of the emotional anchors of the squad…"
The radio buzzed softly as callers were introduced, voices overlapping in disbelief, speculation, admiration.
"I can't believe it," one caller said. "I thought he'd go at least another year."
"He's still so important behind the scenes," another added. "Who keeps the dressing room calm now?"
Francesco switched lanes smoothly, the city passing by in muted tones. He didn't turn the radio off. He let it play.
"…and of course, there's the question of what comes next," the host continued. "With Lee firmly established as captain and Arsenal flying this season, some see this as a passing of the torch…"
Francesco's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Passing of the torch.
He'd heard that phrase before. It always sounded so clean, so simple. As if leadership were an object you could hand over, rather than a responsibility that settled gradually, invisibly, into your bones.
He reached Colney just as the radio segment ended, the familiar gates sliding open as he pulled into the training ground. The complex looked the same as it always did—neatly kept pitches, quiet buildings, staff moving with practiced efficiency, but something felt different in the air.
News travelled fast here.
Francesco parked, turned off the engine, and sat for a moment before getting out. He rested his hands on the steering wheel, feeling the faint vibration fade beneath his palms.
This was the day it became real for everyone else.
He stepped out of the car, slung his bag over his shoulder, and headed inside. The corridors of Colney greeted him with their usual sterile calm, but the sound of voices grew louder as he neared the dressing room.
Not laughter.
Discussion.
Shock.
He pushed the door open.
The room buzzed instantly.
"Cap!" someone called out.
Francesco stepped inside, scanning the room as he moved toward his locker. Players were already half-changed, pulling on training tops, boots scattered across the floor. Conversations overlapped, energy crackling in a way that felt less focused than usual.
"Did you see it?" Bellerín asked, eyes wide as he laced his boots.
"I woke up to it," Oxlade-Chamberlain said, shaking his head. "Didn't expect that."
"Per?" Giroud added, incredulous. "This season?"
Cazorla sat quietly on the bench, phone in hand, reading through the announcement again as if trying to extract something he'd missed.
Francesco set his bag down, unzipping it calmly, deliberately. He could feel the eyes drifting toward him, the unspoken question hanging thick in the air.
Kanté approached first, as always with a certain quiet respect.
"Did you know?" he asked softly.
Francesco looked up at him, met his gaze, and nodded once. "Yes."
That was all it took.
The room fell noticeably quieter.
Alexis turned around from his locker. "You knew?"
"Yes," Francesco said again, voice even. "He told me yesterday."
A few players exchanged glances. No anger. No resentment. Just surprise, layered with curiosity.
"Why didn't he tell the team first?" someone muttered.
Francesco straightened, turning fully now, letting his presence settle the room without raising his voice.
"Because it was his decision," he said calmly. "And he wanted to make it when he was ready."
That shut the murmuring down.
He pulled his training top over his head, movements unhurried. The simple act of changing felt grounding, familiar, something he could control amid the swirl of reactions.
"He didn't want it to be a distraction," Francesco continued. "And he didn't want speculation before he spoke publicly."
Giroud leaned back against the bench, arms folded. "Still… it's strange. He's always been there."
Francesco nodded. "I know."
There was a pause, then Bellerín asked the question everyone was circling.
"What does this mean for us?"
Francesco finished tying his boots, then stood.
"It means nothing changes today," he said. "We train. We prepare. We focus on the next match."
He let his gaze move around the room, meeting eyes one by one.
"And it means we respect his decision."
The words weren't sharp. They didn't need to be.
"He didn't leave because he had to," Francesco added. "He left because he believed this team is ready."
Silence followed that that not awkward, but thoughtful.
Alexis nodded slowly. "That sounds like him."
Cazorla finally looked up from his phone. "He gave everything," he said quietly.
"Yes," Francesco agreed. "He did."
The door at the far end opened, and Wenger stepped inside, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere again. Conversations tapered off as he surveyed the room, eyes sharp, posture composed.
"I see the news has reached you all," Wenger said calmly.
A few nods.
He looked at Francesco briefly, a subtle acknowledgment passing between them, then addressed the group.
"Per's decision was not made lightly," Wenger continued. "He spoke to me at length. He has my full respect and support."
Francesco watched his teammates as Wenger spoke. The shock was still there, but it was being reshaped into understanding, into acceptance.
"Today," Wenger concluded, "we train as planned. Tomorrow, we continue as planned. And when the time comes, we honour him properly."
The session that followed was intense, focused, purposeful. If anything, the announcement seemed to sharpen everyone's edge. Tackles were firmer. Passes crisper. Movements more deliberate.
Francesco felt it on the pitch as this collective unspoken resolve. A desire to prove that Per's faith hadn't been misplaced.
As they jogged through drills, he caught glimpses of Per's influence everywhere in how Mustafi positioned himself, in how Holding communicated, in the calm with which the back line reorganized under pressure.
Leadership didn't disappear.
It echoed.
During a water break, Oxlade jogged up beside him.
"Must be weird for you," he said.
Francesco wiped his face with his shirt. "Why?"
"Being the one everyone looks to now. Fully."
Francesco considered that. "It's been like that for a while."
Ox nodded. "Yeah. Guess it just feels official now."
Francesco glanced toward the training pitch, where Wenger spoke quietly with the coaches.
"Official doesn't change responsibility," he said. "It just removes excuses."
The session ended with players bent over, hands on knees, catching their breath. As they headed back inside, the earlier shock had settled into something steadier.
In the dressing room, as boots were unlaced and shirts peeled off, conversations resumed but softer now, more reflective.
"I'm going to miss him," Bellerín said.
"We all will," Francesco replied.
The dressing room had settled into that post-training quiet with boots thudding softly against tiled floors, the hiss of showers starting up, the low murmur of conversations that no longer needed to be loud. Sweat and liniment hung in the air, familiar and grounding. It was the kind of moment where the intensity of the session drained out of the body and left behind reflection.
Francesco sat on the bench in front of his locker, towel draped loosely around his neck, staring down at the floor as he unlaced his boots. The conversation from earlier replayed in fragments in his mind from Per's decision, the looks on his teammates' faces, Wenger's calm authority. The day had carried weight, and it hadn't fully settled yet.
Then the door opened.
At first, no one looked up. The sound blended into the background as the staff coming and going was normal. But the footsteps were heavy. Deliberate. Familiar.
Francesco was the first to lift his head.
Per Mertesacker stood in the doorway.
For a heartbeat, the room froze.
Conversations died mid-sentence. A boot dropped to the floor with a dull thud. Someone's laugh cut off awkwardly. Heads turned one by one, disbelief flickering across faces that had already spent the morning processing his absence.
Per stepped inside slowly, closing the door behind him.
He wasn't in training kit. He wore a simple Arsenal tracksuit top, zipped halfway up, sleeves pushed slightly back. His posture was relaxed, but his presence filled the room in a way few ever could. Not because he demanded attention, but because he'd earned it.
"Well," he said, voice calm, steady. "I see the news reached you."
A few nervous chuckles rippled through the room, quickly fading.
Giroud was the first to speak. "You could say that."
Per smiled faintly, then let his gaze move around the room, across familiar faces, players he'd trained with, defended beside, guided through difficult moments. When his eyes reached Francesco, they lingered for a fraction longer. A quiet acknowledgment passed between them.
"I thought it would be better if you heard the rest from me," Per continued. "Not headlines. Not rumours."
He stepped forward, stopping near the center of the room.
"I know my decision shocked some of you," he said. "That's fair. I expected it to."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"But I want to be very clear about something."
The room leaned in, unconsciously.
"I am still part of this squad."
A collective breath released.
"I'm not disappearing," Per said. "I'm not walking away mid-season. I'm here. I train. I prepare. I support."
Bellerín frowned slightly. "But you're retiring."
"Yes," Per replied simply. "At the end of the season."
He nodded once, acknowledging the confusion he could see written across faces.
"That doesn't mean I stop caring. Or leading. Or being ready."
He glanced briefly toward the lockers, then back to the group.
"I won't be playing regularly anymore," he said plainly. "That part is true. I don't see myself starting matches week in, week out."
The room was silent now.
"But," he continued, "football isn't predictable. Injuries happen. Rotations are needed. Big matches demand experience."
His voice firmed slightly.
"If this team needs me or truly needs me, I will be ready."
Somewhere near the back, Mustafi let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"So you're not done," Oxlade-Chamberlain said carefully.
Per shook his head. "No. I'm transitioning."
That word hung in the air.
"I've spoken with the manager," Per went on. "We agreed that my role changes, not my commitment. I'll be available when necessary. Important matches. Moments where calm matters more than legs."
He allowed a small smile. "And you all know I've never been the fastest anyway."
A ripple of soft laughter moved through the room, easing some of the tension.
Francesco watched closely, his chest tightening that not with worry, but with respect. This was leadership, too. Not disappearing quietly. Not clinging desperately. But standing in the middle of the room and telling the truth.
"There's something else," Per said, raising a hand slightly to keep the room focused. "When I retire, I won't be leaving Arsenal."
A few eyebrows lifted.
"I'll be staying on," he said. "As part of the youth academy staff."
That landed differently.
It wasn't shock this time. It was recognition.
"I'll be working with the next generation," Per continued. "Teaching them how to defend, yes, but more importantly, how to carry themselves. How to represent this club."
He looked around again, eyes thoughtful.
"This isn't an ending," he said. "It's a handover."
Francesco felt a subtle shift ripple through the room. Something steadier replacing uncertainty.
Cazorla spoke up softly. "So you're still watching us."
Per smiled at him. "Always."
Alexis crossed his arms, nodding slowly. "Good. We need that."
Per's gaze moved to Francesco then, intentionally.
"And you already have a captain who understands what this means," Per said. "So I'm not worried."
All eyes followed his.
Francesco stood up.
Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just enough to meet the moment.
"He's right," Francesco said. His voice wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. "Nothing changes in how we work. Nothing changes in how we prepare."
He looked around the room.
"And nothing changes in how we respect what came before us."
Per inclined his head slightly in thanks.
"This season," Francesco continued, "is about finishing what we start. Together."
Giroud nodded. "Then let's make it one worth remembering."
A chorus of agreement followed that not shouted, not forced. Just shared.
Per stepped back then, sensing the moment had reached its natural end.
"I won't take more of your time," he said. "You've got work to do."
He paused at the door, turning back once more.
"And for what it's worth," he added, "I'm proud of this group."
Then he was gone.
The door closed softly behind him, and the room exhaled again.
For a few seconds, no one spoke.
Then Bellerín broke the silence. "That actually makes sense."
Ox nodded. "Yeah. It does."
Kanté glanced toward Francesco. "It helps. Knowing he's still here."
Francesco sat back down, rolling his shoulders slightly. "He always will be."
As the players began to talk again as this time with more ease, more clarity that Francesco felt something settle inside him.
The uncertainty had passed.
What remained was responsibility. Shared responsibility.
Later, as the dressing room emptied and Francesco gathered his things, he caught his reflection in the mirror again. Captain's armband folded neatly in his locker. Sweat still drying on his skin. Eyes steady.
________________________________________________
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: 26
Goal: 42
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