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Francesco didn't let any of it bother him. If anything, it fueled his determination.
Francesco who now sat on his couch, scrolling through the various headlines on his phone. His name was everywhere, his words dissected in every possible way. Some articles praised his confidence, while others questioned if he was putting unnecessary pressure on himself.
Then his phone buzzed. An incoming call from his agent, Jorge Mendes.
Francesco smirked. He had expected this. He answered.
"Jorge."
"Francesco," came the smooth Portuguese accent of the super-agent. "I just saw your press conference. So… you really want the Golden Boot?"
"Yeah," Francesco replied without hesitation. "Why wouldn't I? I've played 15 games in the league and scored 21 goals. If that doesn't prove I'm capable, what does?"
Jorge chuckled. "I love the confidence, kid. But you know how this works—the more you achieve, the more pressure you invite. The media will watch your every move now. Every goal, every missed chance, every dip in form, they'll scrutinize it."
"Let them," Francesco said firmly. "Pressure doesn't scare me. I want this. I want to prove I belong at the very top."
There was a pause on the other end. Then Jorge spoke again, his tone slightly more serious.
"You know, clubs are watching, Francesco. Your performances aren't going unnoticed. We've had inquiries. Big ones."
Francesco leaned forward. "From who?"
"Let's just say, the biggest clubs in Europe are paying close attention. Real Madrid, Barcelona, Bayern Munich, even Manchester City. They're all seeing what you're doing."
Francesco exhaled slowly. He had always dreamed of playing at the highest level, but right now, his focus was on Arsenal.
"That's good to know, Jorge. But right now, I just want to win games, win trophies, and win that Golden Boot. We can talk about the future later."
Jorge chuckled again. "Smart answer. Alright, kid, keep doing what you're doing. Just don't let the noise distract you. I'll be in London soon—we'll talk more then."
As the call ended, Francesco sat back, his mind racing.
The biggest clubs in the world were watching him. He was on the verge of something historic.
But there was no time to get lost in thoughts of the future. There was only one goal in his mind right now—to finish the season as the Premier League's top scorer.
Francesco leaned back on his couch, staring at the ceiling for a few moments after hanging up with Jorge Mendes. He had expected the call, and he had expected the questions about his ambition.
He wasn't naive—he knew that by openly declaring his desire to win the Golden Boot, he had painted a massive target on his back. But that didn't bother him. If anything, it motivated him even more.
Reaching for the remote, he turned on the TV, flipping through channels absentmindedly until he landed on Sky Sports. It was a post-match discussion, and his face was plastered across the screen. The words "Francesco Lee: Confidence or Arrogance?" flashed at the bottom.
Seated in the studio were former Premier League greats Ian Wright and Gary Neville, engaged in a heated discussion about his comments.
Ian Wright, an Arsenal legend, leaned forward, clearly amused.
"I love it! I absolutely love it. Listen, if you're leading the Golden Boot race at 16 years old, why wouldn't you believe you can win it? The kid's got 21 goals in 15 games—those are outrageous numbers! What's he supposed to say? 'Oh, I don't know if I can win it?' Come on!"
Gary Neville, always the pragmatist, wasn't as convinced.
"Confidence is great, but there's a fine line between confidence and putting unnecessary pressure on yourself. Football is ruthless. A couple of bad games, a dry spell, and suddenly the same people praising him will be tearing him down. He's got to be careful."
Ian Wright shook his head.
"Gary, we've both played the game. You know as well as I do that strikers live on confidence. If Francesco starts doubting himself now, he'll be finished. He's got that killer instinct, that arrogance you need to be a top striker. Look at Thierry Henry, look at Shearer, look at Cristiano Ronaldo—did they ever doubt themselves?"
Gary sighed.
"I get that, Ian, but the Premier League is brutal. Every young player hits a wall at some point. He's never played a full Premier League season before. Can he maintain this for 38 games? That's my question."
The host of the show turned to the screen, showing Francesco's goal stats.
"Let's be real—what Francesco is doing right now is historic. No teenager has ever had this kind of goal record in the Premier League. If he does win the Golden Boot, he'll be the youngest in history to do it."
Ian Wright grinned.
"And that's why I'm backing him. Mark my words—if he stays fit, he's winning it."
Gary still looked skeptical but conceded.
"We'll see. If he keeps this form up, I'll be the first to say I was wrong."
Francesco's Reaction
Francesco smirked as he watched the debate unfold. Ian Wright had always been supportive of him, and it felt good to have an Arsenal legend backing him.
Gary Neville, though? He didn't take it personally. Neville had always been critical of young players, and in some ways, he had a point. The season was long, and maintaining this level would be a challenge.
But Francesco wasn't worried. He had come too far to start doubting himself now.
His phone buzzed again—this time, a WhatsApp message from Theo Walcott in the team's group chat.
Theo Walcott: "Francesco, you seeing Sky Sports? Ian Wright wants you to win the Golden Boot. Gary thinks you'll crumble. You gonna prove him wrong?"
Francesco chuckled and typed back.
Francesco: "Of course. I'll send him my Golden Boot in May."
Laughter emojis flooded the chat from teammates like Santi Cazorla, Héctor Bellerín, and Mesut Özil.
Then, a message from Per Mertesacker:
Per Mertesacker: "One game at a time, kid. Stay humble."
Francesco nodded to himself. Per was right. Ambition was important, but so was focus.
Francesco settled deeper into the couch, a smirk still playing on his lips as he watched the debate continue. Ian Wright, ever the Arsenal man, wasn't done defending him.
"You know what else people aren't talking about enough?" Ian leaned forward, gesturing toward the screen. "This kid isn't just about goals. He's got seven assists in the Premier League and twelve in all competitions. That tells me he's not selfish. He's not just obsessed with scoring—he wants to help his team win in any way he can. That's the kind of mentality you want in a young player."
The screen shifted to show some of Francesco's best assists of the season so far—perfectly weighted through balls, clever flicks, and unselfish passes inside the box. A highlight of his assist against Manchester City played, where he had a clear chance to shoot but instead squared the ball for Alexis Sánchez to tap into an empty net.
"That's a great point, Ian," the host nodded. "It's easy to get caught up in the goal tally, but Francesco is proving he's more than just a poacher. He's a complete forward."
Gary Neville crossed his arms, still looking unconvinced.
"Alright, I'll give him credit for that," Neville admitted. "It's rare to see a striker at that age with such awareness. Usually, young forwards are obsessed with scoring, but he clearly understands the game at a high level."
Ian Wright grinned. "Exactly! That's why I believe in him. He's got the goals, the assists, the confidence—what more do people want? If he keeps this up, he's walking away with that Golden Boot, and I'll be here reminding everyone I called it first."
Francesco chuckled to himself. Ian Wright was always passionate, and it was nice to have such vocal support. But he knew words wouldn't mean anything if he didn't keep delivering on the pitch.
His phone buzzed again.
Aaron Ramsey: "Wrighty's got your back, bro! You better not let him down!"
Francesco: "Never."
More messages came in.
Alexis Sánchez: "If you keep assisting me like that, I'll make sure you win that Golden Boot too. Just keep feeding me the ball!"
Francesco: "Deal, as long as you return the favor!"
The banter in the team's WhatsApp chat was lighthearted, but Francesco knew there was truth to what Ian Wright had said. He wasn't just a goal scorer—he prided himself on being a complete forward. He admired players like Thierry Henry, Ronaldo Nazário, and Karim Benzema, all of whom could score goals but also elevate their teammates.
As the debate on Sky Sports moved on to other topics, Francesco turned off the TV.
The next day, Francesco arrived at Arsenal's training ground, London Colney, with a renewed sense of determination. The media noise was just that—noise. His job was to keep scoring.
As he walked into the dressing room, he was immediately met with friendly banter.
Theo Walcott grinned. "Morning, Golden Boot leader."
Alexis Sánchez smirked. "Pressure's on now, hermano. You better score in the next match or Gary Neville will be celebrating."
Francesco rolled his eyes. "Don't worry. I'll keep scoring. You guys just keep giving me the ball."
Laughter rippled through the room.
Arsène Wenger soon entered, signaling the start of the training session. Despite his calm demeanor, Francesco could tell that the manager was pleased with him.
During the session, Wenger pulled him aside for a brief chat.
"Francesco, I know you are confident, and I like that. But do not let the media dictate your mindset. Focus on the team, focus on the next game, and everything else will follow."
Francesco nodded. "I understand, boss. My focus is on the pitch."
Wenger patted his shoulder. "Good. Now go and show me why you will win that Golden Boot."
Francesco took a deep breath and stepped onto the training pitch, the crisp morning air sharpening his focus. The chatter from his teammates faded into the background as he tied his laces tighter, rolling his shoulders. This was his sanctuary—the pitch. The noise from pundits, the pressure of expectations, the debates on Sky Sports—none of it mattered here. What mattered was the ball at his feet.
The training session started with the usual warm-up drills. Jogging around the pitch, dynamic stretches, and quick footwork routines. Francesco moved effortlessly, his muscles loosening as he mentally prepared himself for what was to come.
The first technical session of the day was dribbling. The players were separated into small groups, weaving in and out of cones at increasing speeds. For Francesco, this was second nature. His low center of gravity and quick feet made him a nightmare for defenders.
As he glided through the cones, Per Mertesacker, watching from the side, chuckled. "I feel sorry for the defenders who have to deal with that."
Héctor Bellerín, one of the fastest players at the club, smirked. "He's quick, but let's see if he can do it at full speed."
Wenger, observing closely, nodded toward Francesco. "Alright, Francesco. Ball at your feet. I want you to dribble at full speed and beat the defenders one-on-one."
Francesco stepped up, the ball at his feet. Standing in his way was Laurent Koscielny, one of Arsenal's most experienced and toughest defenders.
Koscielny grinned. "Let's see what you've got, kid."
Francesco didn't hesitate. With a quick shift of his weight, he feinted to the right before exploding to the left, his acceleration leaving Koscielny flat-footed. The veteran center-back reached out, trying to recover, but Francesco was already past him. He carried the ball toward the small goal and slotted it into the bottom corner with ease.
A few of his teammates whistled in appreciation.
Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain shook his head. "That was filthy."
Even Koscielny, ever the competitor, patted Francesco on the back. "I won't let that happen in a real game."
Francesco grinned. "We'll see."
Next came shooting drills. Wenger set up a variety of finishing exercises—one-touch shots, volleys, curling efforts, and instinctive finishes inside the box.
Francesco thrived in these drills. Every shot he took was crisp, powerful, and precise. Whether it was a driven shot into the bottom corner, a finesse finish past the keeper, or a thunderous volley, he made it look effortless.
David Ospina, the goalkeeper, groaned after Francesco rifled a shot past him.
"Can you miss just once?" Ospina grumbled, shaking his head.
Francesco smirked. "Not when I'm in this form."
Even Wojciech Szczesny, standing on the sidelines, nodded approvingly. "That's the kind of finishing that wins Golden Boots."
Wenger, who rarely showed much emotion in training, turned to Steve Bould and murmured, "His finishing is getting sharper. He doesn't just shoot—he picks his spots."
As if to emphasize that point, the next drill involved a scenario where Francesco had to receive a pass inside the box, turn under pressure, and finish. The ball was played into him at pace, with Gabriel Paulista closing in quickly. Without panicking, Francesco let the ball roll across his body before taking a deft touch to create space. Then, with a composed side-foot finish, he buried it in the top corner.
Alexis Sánchez clapped from the side. "That's how a Golden Boot winner finishes."
Francesco shrugged playfully. "You keep setting me up, and I'll keep scoring."
Despite his natural striker's instinct, Francesco prided himself on being more than just a goal scorer. The passing drills that followed gave him a chance to show his vision and awareness.
During one exercise, he dropped deep to receive the ball before spraying a perfectly timed pass out wide to Nacho Monreal. Then, as the ball was whipped into the box, Francesco made a darting run between the center-backs and met the cross with a powerful header—goal.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Ian Wright's voice echoed in Francesco's mind.
Wenger noticed, nodding to Bould again. "He's got intelligence beyond his years. He doesn't just wait for chances—he creates them."
The final drill before scrimmage was a rondo—quick, one-touch passing in tight spaces. Francesco, despite being a forward, was among the sharpest in the drill. His touches were precise, his movement fluid. He played a cheeky nutmeg on Theo Walcott, drawing a roar of laughter from the team.
"Oi! That's disrespectful!" Walcott laughed, chasing after him.
After the technical drills, it was time for an 11v11 scrimmage—full intensity, full competition. This was where Francesco truly thrived.
The game kicked off with Francesco's team in possession. He immediately got involved, dropping deep to receive the ball, linking up with Özil, and driving forward with intent. His movement was electric, his awareness sharp.
Then came the first big moment.
Özil, as graceful as ever, threaded a perfect pass into Francesco's path. With one quick touch, Francesco shifted the ball past the onrushing defender and was through on goal.
One-on-one with Ospina.
A quick glance up. A slight pause to send the keeper off balance.
Then—calmly, effortlessly—he dinked the ball over Ospina's shoulder and into the net.
Walcott whistled. "Cold-blooded."
Alexis ran up and playfully ruffled Francesco's hair. "If you keep doing that, we'll have to carry you off the pitch."
But Francesco wasn't done.
Later in the scrimmage, his team was under pressure, forced to play out from the back. Francesco didn't just wait up front—he dropped into midfield, collected the ball under pressure, and turned sharply past his marker. Then, with a sweeping pass, he sent Bellerín flying down the right wing.
Seconds later, as the cross came in, Francesco ghosted between the defenders and met the ball with a first-time finish into the bottom corner.
Two goals.
But he wasn't just about scoring.
A few minutes later, he received the ball at the edge of the box. Instead of shooting, he spotted Ramsey making a late run and flicked a delicate backheel into his path. Ramsey finished with ease.
"Seven assists in the league, twelve in all competitions," Francesco thought to himself. "And counting."
As the scrimmage wound down, Francesco found himself with one final chance. The ball landed at Francesco's feet just outside the box, his instincts taking over before he even had time to think. Koscielny was closing in fast, but Francesco had already pictured his next move. With a quick feint, he shifted the ball onto his right foot, sending the defender the wrong way. The opening was small, but that was all he needed.
He struck the ball cleanly, his technique flawless. It curled away from Ospina's outstretched hands and nestled into the top corner.
The pitch went silent for a moment before the celebration erupted.
"Hat-trick hero!" Walcott shouted, jogging over to give Francesco a playful shove.
Alexis laughed. "At this rate, we'll just let you shoot every time we get the ball."
Even Koscielny, always the fierce competitor, shook his head in admiration. "Alright, alright, we get it. You're on fire."
Before the scrimmage could restart, Wenger raised his hand, signaling for it to stop.
"That's enough for today," he called out, his tone firm but laced with satisfaction. "I've seen what I needed to see."
The players groaned in mock disappointment, but Francesco could tell they were all drained. The intensity had been sky-high, and he had pushed himself to the limit.
Wenger approached him as they walked off the pitch. "You played well today, Francesco," he said, a small smile forming. "Keep this level up, and the Golden Boot will not be just a dream—it will be a reality."
Francesco simply nodded, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He didn't need to say anything. He already knew—this season was his for the taking.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 21
Goal: 26
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8