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(A/N: I hope everyone give my new novel Skyrim a chance and added it to their library!)
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Then he turned, grabbing his bag, shoulders still heavy but body already rebuilding itself, step by step, repetition by repetition.
Francesco lingered for a final second at the glass, watching the academy boys chase the ball with reckless joy, before turning away. He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked out of the training center, the automatic doors sliding shut behind him with a soft, pneumatic sigh.
Outside, the cold air hit him again, sharper now as the afternoon edged closer to evening. The sky above London Colney was a washed-out grey, the kind that felt heavy but calm, like the city itself was holding its breath between moments. He unlocked his BMW X5, dropped into the driver's seat, and let the door close with a solid, familiar thud.
The engine purred to life.
As he pulled away from the training ground, his body finally began to relax in a way it hadn't allowed itself to all day. Recovery sessions were controlled, deliberate, necessary, but they still kept his mind locked in professional mode. Driving home was different. Driving home was the thin line between footballer and man.
The road stretched ahead, flanked by bare winter trees and low hedges. Traffic was light. The radio played quietly, some low-tempo song he barely registered. His thoughts drifted, as they often did during these drives.
Madrid sat in the distance like a looming shadow.
But closer was something else.
Leah.
The thought crept in gently, unannounced, and with it came a subtle tightening in his chest. He hadn't seen her properly in days. Not really. There had been quick goodbyes, late-night returns, mornings where he'd left before she was fully awake. Messages exchanged between training sessions. A kiss here. A smile there.
Enough to survive.
Not enough to feel present.
The season always did this. As spring approached and trophies came into view, time began to compress. Every hour was accounted for. Every day structured. Every emotion regulated.
Except guilt.
That one always slipped through.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel slightly, exhaling through his nose. Leah understood football better than most. She lived it herself, breathed it in her own career. She never complained. Never pressured him. Never made him feel like he owed her explanations.
Which somehow made the guilt worse.
By the time he reached Richmond, the sky had begun to darken, streetlights flickering on one by one. His mansion stood quietly behind tall gates, elegant but understated, nestled away from the main road. He keyed in the code, waited for the gates to slide open, and drove up the long driveway before parking near the entrance.
Inside, the house was warm and softly lit.
He stepped through the front door, setting his bag down by the hallway bench, toeing off his trainers. The familiar scent of home greeted him that clean, faintly floral, with a hint of whatever Leah had cooked earlier lingering in the air.
He could hear the television before he saw her.
Low volume. Background noise.
He followed the sound into the living room.
Leah was curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, wearing one of his hoodies that black, slightly oversized on her and paired with leggings. Her hair was tied up loosely, a few strands falling free around her face. She held a mug in both hands, eyes focused on the TV screen where some documentary played, images flickering across her face.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Watching.
Something in his chest softened.
Then came the pang.
Sharp. Quiet. Unavoidable.
He realized, suddenly and painfully clearly, how long it had been since he'd just… been here. Fully. No looming match. No travel. No recovery schedule waiting to pull him away.
Leah sensed him before he spoke.
She glanced up, her expression brightening instantly when she saw him.
"Hey," she said, smiling.
That smile did something to him every time. No matter how tired he was. No matter how heavy his legs felt.
"Hey," he replied, voice softer than he expected.
She set the mug down on the coffee table and shifted, sitting up a little. "You're home early."
"Earlier than usual," he admitted, stepping further into the room.
She studied him for a second with the way she always did, reading more than just his words. "Recovery day?"
"Yeah."
She nodded knowingly. "You look exhausted."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "I feel it."
She opened her arms without saying a word.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
He crossed the room and sank down beside her on the couch, letting himself lean into her, his arm sliding around her shoulders as she rested her head against his chest. The contact was immediate and grounding, like something inside him finally clicked back into place.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
The television continued murmuring in the background, forgotten.
Francesco rested his chin lightly against the top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo. His body, still humming faintly with fatigue, seemed to melt into the cushions.
This.
This was what he'd been missing.
He exhaled slowly.
"Leah," he said quietly.
"Mhm?"
"I'm sorry."
She shifted slightly, tilting her head up just enough to look at him. "For what?"
He hesitated. He wasn't used to saying this part out loud.
"For… not being around," he said. "Not like I should be."
Her brows knit together briefly, but not in anger. In concern.
"Francesco," she said gently, "you're in the middle of the season. A Champions League semi-final. You don't need to apologize for that."
"I know," he replied. "And I know you understand. But that doesn't mean I don't feel it."
She studied him for a moment longer, then smiled softly.
"I miss you too," she admitted. "But I also know who you are when you're chasing something important. I fell in love with that part of you as much as the rest."
That didn't erase the guilt, but it eased it.
Still, he shifted slightly, sitting more upright.
"Come with me," he said suddenly.
She blinked. "Where?"
He smiled faintly. "Out."
She laughed quietly. "That's very specific."
"I know," he said. "But hear me out. I've got no meetings. No physio. No analysis sessions tonight. Just… time."
She raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"And?"
"And I realized I've been stealing time from you without meaning to," he continued. "So today, I want to give it back."
She searched his face, trying to gauge whether this was exhaustion talking or something more deliberate.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
"Shopping," he said.
She blinked again, then laughed properly this time. "Shopping?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "Mall. Normal people stuff. Walk around. Buy things we don't need."
She grinned. "You hate malls."
"I know," he said. "That's how you know I'm serious."
She shook her head, amused. "And then?"
"Dinner," he added. "Somewhere nice. Not fancy-for-the-sake-of-it nice. Just… good."
She leaned back into him, clearly considering it.
"You sure you're not going to fall asleep halfway through?"
"Only if you let me," he said dryly.
She laughed again, then nodded.
"Alright," she said. "I'm in."
Relief washed through him, subtle but real.
He pressed a kiss to the side of her head before standing up. "Give me ten minutes. I'll change."
She glanced down at his training gear. "Probably a good idea."
Upstairs, he moved through his bedroom quickly but without rush. He swapped his tracksuit for jeans, a simple black sweater, and clean trainers. Nothing flashy. Nothing football-related. He wanted to feel like just Francesco tonight that not the captain, not the scorer, not the man with cameras always waiting.
When he came back downstairs, Leah was already by the door, slipping on her shoes, jacket draped over one arm.
"You ready?" she asked.
He nodded. "Yeah."
The drive to the mall was easy. Music played softly again, but this time it wasn't background noise as it was shared. Leah reached over at one point, threading her fingers through his, resting their joined hands on the center console.
Neither of them spoke much.
They didn't need to.
The mall was busy but not overwhelming. Evening crowds drifted between stores, laughter echoing faintly under high ceilings. Francesco pulled his hood up instinctively at first, then relaxed when no one seemed to notice him immediately.
They wandered.
Shops came and went. Leah ducked into clothing stores, dragging him along with playful insistence. He leaned against racks, commenting dryly on outfits, occasionally surprising her with genuine opinions.
"You actually care about that?" she teased when he pointed out a jacket.
"I have eyes," he replied. "And taste. Sometimes."
She laughed.
At one point, they stopped for coffee. Another, she convinced him to try on sunglasses indoors, snapping a photo and threatening to post it.
"You wouldn't dare," he warned.
She smirked. "Try me."
He shook his head, smiling despite himself.
Time passed differently when he was with her. Slower. Fuller. The tension he carried all season loosened its grip, replaced by something warmer and lighter.
Dinner came naturally after that.
A quiet restaurant tucked slightly away from the main streets. Soft lighting. Wooden tables. No rush. They sat across from each other, hands brushing occasionally, conversation drifting easily between football, her own training, shared memories, future plans that didn't need dates attached.
At one point, she reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
"I'm proud of you," she said.
He met her gaze. "That means more than any award."
She smiled, eyes soft.
Dinner lingered with them longer than either expected.
Not because the plates stayed full, or because the service was slow, but because neither of them felt any urgency to leave. The restaurant hummed gently around them with cutlery clinking, low conversations drifting between tables, a server laughing quietly near the bar but their corner felt insulated, like the rest of the city had politely stepped back to give them space.
Francesco leaned back slightly in his chair, shoulders finally relaxed, watching Leah as she spoke about a training drill she'd run earlier in the week. The way her hands moved when she talked, the way her eyes lit up when she described something she cared about as he realized he'd missed this more than he'd admitted to himself.
Not the words.
The presence.
"You're smiling," she said suddenly, pausing mid-sentence.
He blinked, caught.
"Am I?"
She nodded, lips curling upward. "You do that when you stop thinking about football."
He laughed quietly. "Then I should do it more often."
She tilted her head. "You should."
They paid the bill without ceremony, slipping back into coats as they stepped out into the cool London night. The air had that crisp edge that came only after sunset, sharp enough to wake you fully, gentle enough not to bite.
Francesco glanced down at her as they walked.
"Cinema?" he asked casually, as if it hadn't already been forming in his head for half an hour.
She looked up, surprised. "You still have energy?"
"Barely," he admitted. "But I want to use what's left properly."
She smiled, that same soft, knowing smile. "Alright."
They walked back toward the car, hands brushing until they naturally intertwined again. The drive was short, passing familiar streets lit with shop windows and traffic lights reflecting off the wet pavement. Francesco parked near the cinema complex, the glow of posters and marquees cutting through the darkness.
Inside, the warmth hit them instantly.
The smell of popcorn.
Butter.
Sweet drinks.
It was loud but cheerful, full of chatter and laughter, people escaping into stories for a couple of hours. Francesco felt a strange comfort in it as this was a world where he wasn't expected to lead, perform, analyze. He was just another guy buying tickets.
At the counter, he turned to Leah.
"You choose," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
"Completely."
She studied the movie listings for a moment, lips pursed in thought, then pointed.
"Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2."
He smiled. "Didn't even hesitate."
"Sometimes you don't need to overthink things," she said, glancing at him knowingly.
He handed over his card, grabbed popcorn and drinks, and followed her toward the theater. As they settled into their seats at the middle row, just far enough from the aisle as he stretched his legs slightly, testing how cooperative his muscles felt.
Leah noticed immediately.
"Hurting?" she asked quietly.
"A bit," he admitted. "But it's fine."
She leaned over, resting her head lightly against his shoulder. "Tell me if it's not."
He nodded, appreciating the simple care behind the words.
The lights dimmed.
The opening credits rolled.
And for the first time in days or maybe weeks that Francesco allowed himself to switch off completely.
The film pulled them in quickly. The humor landed easily, the colors bright and immersive, the soundtrack nostalgic and loud. Leah laughed freely beside him, unrestrained, occasionally nudging him when a joke landed particularly well.
He found himself laughing too. Not politely. Genuinely.
At one point, during a quieter emotional scene, Leah's hand found his again, fingers lacing naturally. He squeezed gently, thumb brushing over her knuckles, grounding himself in the simple reality of her presence.
For two hours, the weight of expectation lifted.
No Madrid.
No training schedules.
No cameras.
Just a story on a screen and the woman he love beside him.
When the credits finally rolled, the theater lights brightened slowly, pulling everyone back into the world. People stood, stretched, chatted animatedly about favorite moments. Francesco exhaled, rolling his shoulders carefully as he stood.
"Good choice," he said.
She grinned. "I know."
Outside, the night felt alive.
They decided to walk.
No destination at first as it's just movement, just air, just the hum of the city around them. Their steps naturally carried them toward Piccadilly Circus, the neon lights growing brighter with each block, the soundscape shifting from quiet streets to buzzing energy.
Piccadilly was exactly what it always was.
Electric.
Screens towered overhead, flashing advertisements and colors that painted everything beneath them in shifting hues of blue, red, and white. Crowds flowed constantly with tourists taking photos, street performers drawing small circles of attention, locals weaving through with practiced ease.
Francesco slowed slightly, instinctively scanning.
Not for danger.
For recognition.
It came quickly.
A teenager glanced at him, then did a double take. Whispered something to a friend. Phones appeared discreetly at first, then less so.
Leah noticed too.
She leaned in, voice low. "You okay?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Always happens here."
They kept walking, but not hurried. Francesco had learned long ago that trying to disappear only drew more attention. Calm, open body language worked better.
Sure enough, a small group approached hesitantly.
"Excuse me," one of them said, a young guy maybe eighteen, Arsenal scarf looped loosely around his neck. "Sorry to bother you… are you Francesco?"
He smiled easily. "Yeah."
The reaction was instant with eyes widening, excitement bubbling over.
"No way," another said, fumbling with his phone. "Can we... uh, can we get a photo?"
Francesco glanced at Leah briefly.
She smiled and nodded. "Go."
He turned back to the group. "Of course."
They gathered quickly, laughter and disbelief mixing as one of them held up a phone. Francesco leaned in, arm around a shoulder, relaxed and natural. The flash popped.
"Thank you," the kid said breathlessly. "You were incredible last night."
"Appreciate it," Francesco replied. "Thanks for the support."
As they stepped away, another fan approached as this time older, maybe mid-thirties, with a child tugging shyly at his hand.
"Would you mind signing?" the man asked, holding out a matchday program, pen already uncapped.
Francesco crouched slightly to be level with the kid.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Elliot," the boy replied quietly.
He smiled, scribbling his signature carefully. "Nice to meet you, Elliot."
The boy beamed like he'd just been handed a trophy.
More fans trickled over that not a swarm, not overwhelming, just enough to remind him who he was and what he represented. He signed shirts, ticket stubs, even someone's phone case. He chatted briefly, thanked them, kept it human.
Leah stood just beside him the whole time, patient, amused, watching him navigate it all with quiet grace. At one point, when a fan glanced at her uncertainly, Francesco slid an arm around her shoulders instinctively.
"This is Leah," he said simply.
She smiled warmly. "Hi."
Respect followed immediately.
No questions.
No prying.
Just nods and smiles.
After a few minutes, the flow eased. Fans drifted away, satisfied, buzzing with stories they'd tell later.
Francesco exhaled slowly once they were walking again.
"Sorry about that," he said.
She shook her head. "Don't be. I like seeing that side of you."
"Which side?"
"The one who remembers what it means to them," she replied.
He glanced at her, thoughtful.
They wandered a little longer, letting the crowd carry them, the city alive around them. Street performers played guitars under the glow of billboards. A group of tourists laughed loudly as they tried to take the perfect photo. A busker's voice echoed faintly, soulful and raw.
Eventually, fatigue began to creep back in that not the sharp exhaustion of a match, but a softer, heavier tiredness.
Leah yawned, covering her mouth.
"Okay," she admitted. "Now I'm tired."
He smiled. "Same."
They headed back toward the car, steps slower now, comfortable. The drive home was quieter, the city lights blurring past as Leah rested her head against the window, eyes half-closed.
When they arrived back at the mansion, the house welcomed them with the same warmth as before, lights automatically flicking on as they stepped inside.
Upstairs, they moved through familiar routines from washing up, changing, the quiet intimacy of shared space without the need for conversation.
As they settled into bed, Francesco lay on his back for a moment, staring at the ceiling, feeling the day finally settle fully into his body.
Leah rolled onto her side, propping herself slightly on one elbow.
"Today was good," she said softly.
He turned his head toward her. "Yeah. It was."
She reached out, tracing a lazy line across his chest. "Thank you for making time."
He caught her hand gently, bringing it to his lips.
"Thank you for being patient with me," he replied.
She smiled, then leaned in, kissing him slowly, unhurried, grounding.
As the lights dimmed and the house fell quiet, Francesco close his eyes and went to sleep.
Morning came softly.
Not with an alarm, not with urgency, but with pale winter light creeping in through the tall bedroom windows, stretching slowly across the ceiling before finding Francesco's closed eyes. His body surfaced from sleep in layers. First awareness. Then weight. Then the familiar ache that low and dull, settled deep in muscle and bone, the quiet aftermath of work well done.
He breathed in.
The space beside him was empty.
That registered before he even opened his eyes.
He turned his head slightly, sheets cool where Leah had been, her pillow indented but already losing warmth. For a brief second, a flicker of disappointment passed through him with an instinctive want to reach for her, to steal another few minutes of shared quiet.
Then reality followed gently behind it.
Training.
Of course.
He opened his eyes fully, blinking once, twice, letting the room come into focus. The bedroom was calm, orderly, bathed in soft grey-blue light. Curtains still half-drawn. The city beyond the windows muted and distant at this hour.
He rolled onto his back, one arm draped over his chest, staring upward.
Last night replayed in fragments.
Her laugh in the cinema.
The glow of Piccadilly lights reflected in her eyes.
The way she'd fallen asleep almost instantly, breath evening out against his shoulder.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Good night.
He pushed himself upright slowly, mindful of his back, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet met the cool floor, grounding him fully now in the new day. He stretched instinctively with neck first, then shoulders, rolling them back until a soft crack released tension.
Recovery day.
Not rest.
Never rest.
He stood, pulling on a loose T-shirt and joggers, then padded barefoot out of the bedroom and down the stairs. The house felt different in the morning that quieter, lighter, almost hollow without Leah's presence filling it.
Downstairs, the dining area was already awake.
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, illuminating the long wooden table where breakfast waited neatly laid out. A plate covered lightly with foil. A bowl of fruit. A glass of freshly squeezed juice. Coffee already poured into his favorite mug, steam long since faded but scent still lingering faintly in the air.
Beside the plate lay a folded note.
He reached for it first.
The handwriting was unmistakably hers as it was slanted slightly to the right, neat but relaxed.
Eat properly.
I've already gone to training.
Don't skip breakfast.
I'll see you later.
❤️
That same pang returned, softer this time.
He exhaled through his nose, unfolding the note fully as if there might be more hidden beneath the words. There wasn't. She never overexplained. She trusted him.
He set the note down carefully beside his plate.
Breakfast was simple, deliberate with scrambled eggs, toast, avocado, a small bowl of oats topped with berries. Exactly the kind of thing she insisted on when both their schedules got heavy. Fuel, not indulgence.
He ate slowly.
Not distracted.
Each bite deliberate, almost ritualistic. Recovery wasn't just physio and ice baths. It was this too. Listening. Respecting the process. Respecting the body that allowed him to do what he did.
He finished the last bite of toast, wiped his hands on a napkin, and sat back briefly, eyes drifting toward the window.
Somewhere across the city, Leah would be on a pitch already. Boots laced. Hair tied back. Focused. Driven.
Parallel lives.
Intersecting paths.
Shared understanding.
He stood, rinsed his plate, set everything neatly by the sink, then grabbed his phone from the counter. A quick message.
Ate everything.
Train well.
See you later.
He hit send, then moved through the house gathering his things from training bag, recovery bands, a change of clothes. He paused briefly in the hallway, slipping the note from the table into his pocket without really thinking about it.
Outside, the morning air was colder than the night before, sharp enough to bite at exposed skin. He climbed into the BMW, started the engine, and let it idle for a moment as he adjusted the seat and mirrors.
As he pulled out of the driveway, Richmond still half-asleep around him, his mind shifted naturally into a different gear.
Focus returned.
Colney awaited.
The drive north was familiar enough that he could have done it blindfolded. Roads blurred into muscle memory. Traffic ebbed and flowed gently, commuters settling into routine. The radio stayed off this time. He preferred the quiet.
Thoughts aligned themselves one by one.
Calf tightness.
Modified load.
Madrid timeline.
Team structure.
But threaded through all of it was something steadier now with a sense of balance he hadn't felt fully in weeks.
He arrived at London Colney just before mid-morning.
The training ground looked different under daylight. Less dramatic than under floodlights. More honest. Frost had melted completely now, leaving the pitches vibrant green and pristine. Groundskeepers moved quietly along the edges, tending to details most people would never notice.
Francesco parked, stepped out, and slung his bag over his shoulder.
Inside, the facility buzzed with controlled energy.
Not intensity.
Preparation.
Players filtered in steadily, greeting staff, nodding to each other, conversations low and casual. Recovery days stripped away hierarchy in some ways. Everyone was vulnerable to soreness. Everyone was rebuilding.
He checked in with the sports science team first, scanning his card, confirming status.
"Morning, Captain," one of the analysts said, glancing at his screen. "How's the body today?"
"Better than last night," Francesco replied honestly.
"That's progress," the analyst smiled. "We'll reassess post-session."
In the locker room, players changed quietly. Some joked. Some stretched. Some sat with headphones in, eyes closed, already mentally working through the day.
Kanté was there again, of course, methodically wrapping his ankles.
"You're always first," Francesco said, amused.
Kanté shrugged. "I like routine."
"Figures."
They headed together toward the recovery wing, where the day's first block was already underway.
Ice baths again.
Hydrotherapy.
Movement screening.
The medical team worked with surgical precision, each player following an individualized plan mapped out from data collected over the previous forty-eight hours.
Francesco's day began with neuromuscular activation with light resistance work designed to wake up stabilizing muscles without adding load. Elastic bands stretched. Core engaged. Controlled balance exercises performed slowly under watchful eyes.
"Don't rush it," Elena reminded him as he held a single-leg balance, arms extended slightly. "Control first. Speed later."
He nodded, jaw set, focusing inward.
After activation came pool work.
Warm water this time, joints loosening as he moved through guided patterns. The difference between cold and heat was immediate as where ice demanded mental strength, warmth invited surrender.
He let his shoulders drop fully for the first time that day.
Next came manual therapy.
Neal again.
"How's the calf today?" the physio asked as he applied pressure.
"Still tight," Francesco admitted. "But less reactive."
Neal nodded approvingly. "That's what we want. Tissue's responding."
He worked systematically, fingers finding tension points, releasing them slowly. Francesco breathed through it, jaw unclenching bit by bit.
"You're on track," Neal said eventually. "As long as you respect the plan."
"I will."
"I know," Neal replied simply.
Late morning transitioned into light pitch work again.
Not drills.
Not tactics.
Just feel.
The ball rolled smoothly under Francesco's foot as he joined a small group near the halfway line. Pass. Receive. Adjust. Move.
Everything done at half-speed, but with full intent.
Özil drifted into space effortlessly, receiving and releasing without breaking rhythm.
"You're moving better today," Özil noted casually.
"Recovery helps," Francesco replied.
Özil smirked. "Who would've thought?"
They played rondos, small and fluid. Laughter surfaced occasionally when someone miscontrolled a pass or overhit a touch.
No pressure.
Just rhythm.
After thirty minutes, whistles signaled the end.
Players drifted off the pitch, hydration bottles in hand, conversation picking up slightly. The day felt productive without being draining, a sign of good management.
Inside again, Francesco changed quickly, towel around his neck, body humming lightly rather than aching. He moved through final recovery stations with compression boots this time, legs elevated as pneumatic pressure cycled rhythmically up and down his calves and thighs.
He leaned back, eyes closing.
Images surfaced unbidden.
Atlético's red and white.
The roar of the Emirates.
Madrid's looming intensity.
But instead of tension, he felt readiness.
By early afternoon, players began to disperse.
Some stayed for analysis sessions.
Others headed home.
Francesco checked his phone as he walked back toward the locker room.
A message from Leah.
Training done.
Legs dead.
Worth it.
He smiled.
Typed back.
Same.
Recovery's brutal but clean.
See you tonight.
He gathered his things, took one last look out across the pitches from the hallway window. Youth players were gone now. The fields empty. Quiet again.
This place took.
But it also gave.
The quiet lingered.
Francesco stood by the hallway window a moment longer than necessary, hands resting loosely at his sides, eyes tracing the empty stretch of grass where boots and shouts and ambition usually filled the air. London Colney always felt different once the players left. Stripped of urgency. Honest. Almost contemplative.
He exhaled slowly and turned away.
The locker room was nearly empty now. A few staff members moved efficiently in the background, collecting equipment, wiping down benches, resetting the space for tomorrow. Francesco changed fully, folding his training gear neatly into his bag, movements unhurried. His body felt good which not light, but aligned.
That mattered.
As he slung the bag over his shoulder and stepped out into the corridor, his phone buzzed in his hand again. He glanced down automatically, expecting maybe another message from Leah, or a team notification.
Nothing new.
Instead of pocketing the phone, he paused.
A thought surfaced.
Simple.
Obvious.
Why hadn't he done it already?
He leaned against the wall, thumb hovering for half a second before pressing her name.
The call rang once.
Twice.
Then—
"Hello?"
Her voice came through bright and slightly breathless, layered with sound behind it from laughter, footsteps, overlapping chatter, the unmistakable energy of a group of teammates still riding the high of a completed session.
He smiled without realizing it.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey you," Leah replied warmly. "You're done already?"
"Just finished," he said. "You sound… alive."
She laughed. "That's one way to put it. We're still in the locker room. Someone just tried to recreate a goal from training and nearly took out a bench."
Francesco could picture it too clearly. The chaos. The noise. The familiarity.
He could hear another voice in the background that is teasing, loud.
"Tell him we're stealing her for dinner if he doesn't hurry!" someone called.
Leah groaned. "Ignore them."
He chuckled softly.
"How was training?" he asked.
"Hard," she said honestly. "Good hard. Legs are cooked, but in the satisfying way."
"Worth it," he echoed.
"Always."
There was a brief lull, just a beat where neither of them spoke. Not awkward. Just… open.
He shifted his weight, leaning more comfortably against the wall.
"Listen," he said, tone casual but intent. "Did you drive today?"
There was a pause.
"No," she said. "I took a cab this morning. Didn't feel like dealing with traffic."
He nodded to himself.
"Do you want me to pick you up?"
Another pause. Slightly longer this time.
Then her voice softened.
"Of course," she said. "That would be really nice."
Relief flickered through him, subtle but real.
"Where are you now?" he asked.
"Still at the women's training ground," she replied. "We're just beside yours, near the youth pitches."
"I know," he said. "I'll head over now."
She smiled into the phone; he could hear it in her voice.
"Okay. I'll wait."
"Good," he replied. Then, quieter, more honest, "I want to spend some time again with you."
The noise behind her seemed to fade for a moment.
"I'd like that," she said simply.
They hung up without ceremony.
Francesco straightened, a renewed energy settling into his limbs that not physical, not the kind tracked by sports science metrics, but something steadier. Purposeful.
He headed outside, the afternoon air crisp and clean, carrying the scent of cut grass and cold earth. The sun sat low now, casting long shadows across the complex. He tossed his bag into the back seat, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine.
The drive from the men's training area to the women's ground took less than two minutes.
He slowed as he approached, instinctively scanning the area. The women's facility mirrored the men's in structure but carried a slightly different rhythm with more laughter, more open conversation, a different but equally fierce intensity.
He parked just beyond the entrance and stepped out, leaning casually against the car.
It didn't take long.
The door swung open, and a group of players spilled out, voices overlapping, energy still buzzing. Training kits half-zipped. Hair damp. Bags slung over shoulders.
Then he saw her.
Leah walked a step behind the others, bag hanging from one shoulder, hair still tied back but loose strands framing her face. She spotted him almost immediately.
Her smile was instant.
Unfiltered.
She broke away from the group, jogging the last few steps toward him.
"You didn't waste time," she said.
"Neither did you," he replied.
She stopped in front of him, eyes flicking briefly over his face, his posture, the subtle signs of fatigue he didn't bother hiding.
"You look… calmer," she noted.
"I feel it," he said. "Recovery helps."
She laughed softly. "You're starting to sound like the physios."
He shrugged. "They're usually right."
Behind her, a couple of teammates slowed, clearly clocking who he was now. One of them nudged another, whispering something with a grin. Leah rolled her eyes affectionately.
"Don't mind them," she said. "They're impossible."
"I'm familiar with the concept," Francesco replied dryly.
She laughed again, then leaned in and kissed him quickly that soft, brief, but grounding.
"Thanks for coming," she said.
"Always," he replied.
They climbed into the car together, Leah stretching her legs slightly as she settled into the passenger seat with a relieved sigh.
"No cab," she said. "Already a win."
He pulled away smoothly, steering them out of the training ground and onto the quiet road beyond.
For a few minutes, they drove in comfortable silence.
The kind that didn't demand filling.
Leah rested her head against the window at first, eyes half-closed, exhaustion finally catching up with her. Francesco kept one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed on his thigh, posture easy.
"How was your session?" she asked eventually, eyes still forward.
"Good," he said. "Light, controlled. Body's responding well."
She nodded. "You're in a good place."
"I think so," he agreed.
The city stretched ahead, traffic light but steady. Sunlight filtered through bare branches, painting patterns across the windshield.
He glanced at her.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
She hummed thoughtfully. "A little. But not starving."
"Good," he said. "I was thinking… nothing fancy. Just food. Maybe somewhere quiet."
Her lips curved upward.
"Lead the way."
They ended up at a small café tucked away on a side street which not the kind of place with reservations or hype, just warm lighting, wooden tables, and the smell of fresh bread. The kind of place where nobody rushed you.
They ordered easily which a soup, sandwiches, something warm and simple.
As they waited, Leah leaned back in her chair, studying him.
"What?" he asked, catching the look.
"You've been… present today," she said. "Not distracted. Not half somewhere else."
He considered that.
"I've been trying," he admitted. "To do things properly. On and off the pitch."
She reached across the table, fingers brushing his.
"You're doing fine," she said gently.
The food arrived, steam rising between them.
They ate slowly, conversation drifting naturally from her training, his recovery, small stories that didn't need to connect to trophies or fixtures. Shared jokes. Quiet moments where they simply existed together.
Time stretched.
Eventually, the café emptied around them, afternoon sliding into early evening.
Back in the car, Leah sighed contentedly.
"Thank you," she said again.
"For what?"
"For today," she replied. "For choosing us."
He glanced at her, expression thoughtful.
"You're not something I have to choose over football," he said. "You're part of what makes it work."
She smiled, eyes soft.
They drove home as the sky deepened into twilight, streetlights flickering on one by one. The city moved around them, unaware, uncaring, and somehow that made the moment feel more private.
At home, the mansion welcomed them back with quiet warmth.
They kicked off shoes by the door, dropped bags in the hallway. Leah stretched, rolling her shoulders with a small groan.
"Shower," she declared.
"Definitely," he agreed.
Upstairs, steam soon filled the bathroom, tension dissolving under hot water. They moved around each other with easy familiarity, no rush, no words needed.
Later, wrapped in comfortable clothes, they settled on the couch, a blanket thrown loosely over their legs. The television played quietly in the background that something neither of them was really watching.
Leah rested her head on his shoulder.
"Tomorrow gets busy again," she murmured.
"I know."
"But today," she said, "was good."
He nodded, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
"It was."
Outside, the city continued on.
Inside, they stayed exactly where they were.
And for Francesco, that balance between ambition and connection, between recovery and presence was felt like the strongest foundation he could possibly have heading into everything that waited ahead.
______________________________________________
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: 48
Goal: 77
Assist: 3
MOTM: 13
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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