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Francesco lingered at the threshold, eyes sweeping over the space that had once felt so new. Now, it felt small. Not in a bad way. Just… not quite big enough for the version of life he was living now.
The next morning, as promised, they started house hunting.
Jorge picked them up in a sleek silver Range Rover, all energy and espresso, his voice already bouncing off the leather interior before Francesco had even shut the passenger door.
"Hampstead. St. John's Wood. Richmond," he was saying, tapping his phone against the dash. "We'll start there. Big trees, big gardens, old money. Privacy, too — no tour buses creeping past your driveway."
Francesco nodded, bleary-eyed, still brushing sleep from the corners of his vision. Leah slid in beside him, her hair tied up in a loose bun, wearing one of his sweatshirts and sipping a smoothie. She looked out the window at the city crawling past — slow for a weekday morning, surprisingly gentle.
Jorge glanced back at them and grinned. "First one's a beauty. Seven beds. Cinema. Pool. The garden's about the size of the Emirates."
"Are we buying a house or a hotel?" Leah asked, smirking.
Jorge spread his arms, deadpan. "Why not both?"
The drive rolled by in a blur of Georgian façades, quiet avenues, and discreet security gates. Francesco recognized a few street names — places he'd only heard of through whispered locker room gossip or Sunday supplements. Footballers lived here. CEOs. Billionaire hedge fund types whose faces no one recognized but whose names bought half the street.
He squeezed Leah's hand. She looked up at him and gave a small, amused shake of her head. Neither of them said it aloud, but the absurdity of it all was thick in the air — only a few years ago they'd been splitting takeaway bills and studying for A-levels in café corners. Now they were touring estates.
The first house was in Hampstead, nestled at the top of a sloping private lane shaded by mature oaks. A tall black gate swung open as the Range Rover approached, and a suited agent stepped out to greet them with a practiced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Mr. Lee, Miss Williamson — welcome. This way."
They followed him into a home that looked like something out of a glossy interior design magazine — marble floors, chandeliers, a staircase that curved like something out of a grand hotel lobby. The kitchen was enormous, all brass fittings and seamless cabinetry. Leah's eyes lingered on the garden — vast and blooming, with wisteria-covered trellises and a koi pond glistening in the morning sun.
Francesco wandered room to room, touching surfaces out of instinct — a polished walnut desk, the cool tile edge of the infinity pool. It felt like a place where you whispered instead of laughed. A place where you posed for photos, not curled up in hoodies on the sofa watching terrible TV.
"It's beautiful," he said finally, as they stood in the upstairs master suite with a view of the skyline framed by floor-to-ceiling windows.
Jorge gave him a look. "But?"
Francesco hesitated. "It feels like someone else's life."
The agent's smile dimmed slightly. Jorge gave a short, knowing nod. "On to the next, then."
The second property, in Richmond, had more warmth.
The second property, nestled in the green heart of Richmond, was a different beast entirely.
As the Range Rover rolled through a wide gate framed by neatly trimmed box hedges, the house revealed itself — sleek lines, floor-to-ceiling glass, dark timber accents, and a low-slung roof that made the whole place feel effortlessly cool. It didn't scream for attention like the Hampstead manor had. Instead, it exhaled confidence. Modern. Minimalist. Built for living, not impressing.
Francesco leaned forward as the car came to a stop on the driveway, taking it in. Leah sat up straighter beside him, one eyebrow raised. She gave him a subtle nudge with her elbow.
"You like it," she murmured, reading him immediately.
He didn't answer right away. He was still watching the way the morning light played off the water feature by the entrance — not some ridiculous marble fountain, just a simple, elegant stone basin, with water trickling down into a small koi pool.
Jorge was already out of the car, phone tucked into his blazer, gesturing toward the glass front door where another estate agent — younger, less polished than the last — waited with a beaming, genuine smile.
"This one," Jorge said, "I think you're going to feel."
The interior was a breath of fresh air. Open plan, clean lines, warm woods, and matte black accents. No chandeliers, no echoing marble hallways. Just comfort and light.
They stepped into a hallway flooded with sunshine. To the left, a sprawling kitchen — all quartz countertops, built-in espresso machines, and hidden appliances. Leah's eyes sparkled as she wandered through, trailing her fingers along the edge of the island.
"There's underfloor heating," the agent offered, "smart lighting throughout, zoned audio in every room, and the kitchen is designed by Poggenpohl."
"I don't know what that means," Francesco admitted.
"It means expensive," Leah muttered with a grin.
He followed her into the living space, where sliding glass doors opened to a wide patio and a long, sparkling swimming pool. Just beyond that: a mini football pitch. Real grass. Nets already in place. Francesco stopped in his tracks.
"No way."
"Built it three years ago for the previous owner's son," the agent explained. "He was trialing with Chelsea. Didn't make it, but the pitch stayed. It's regulation size for under-12s. Could be adjusted."
Francesco walked out onto the grass, fingers brushing the netting. It was soft beneath his shoes, perfectly cut. Something about it made his chest ache — in a good way. Nostalgia, maybe. All those evenings playing pickup games in the park, boots full of mud, dreaming of someday.
He glanced back at Leah, who stood in the doorway watching him with a quiet smile.
Inside, they explored more. Six bedrooms — two on the ground floor, four upstairs. The master had skylights angled to catch sunrise. A walk-in wardrobe big enough for two full careers' worth of press events. Four bathrooms, all clean-lined with rainfall showers and subtle gold accents. Francesco peeked into a tub that looked like it had been carved from stone. Leah ran her hand along a vanity counter and just whispered, "Wow."
Then came the gym — full mirrored wall, weight racks, treadmill, rowing machine, Peloton. The whole place smelled faintly of cedar and eucalyptus, like a spa.
Across the hallway was the gaming room. A ridiculous, soundproofed den with wall-mounted consoles, velvet sectional couches, a full projector setup, and a retro arcade cabinet in the corner. Francesco wandered over to it, blinking.
"They've got Street Fighter II?" he said, half-laughing. "This is my childhood."
Leah reached for a control on the wall and flicked the lights. LED strips pulsed gently in time with the music coming from the surround system — something jazzy and ambient. "This room is dangerous," she said. "You'd never leave."
"And you'd be in the pool all day," he said, smirking. "Or the kitchen."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
Back in the living room, Jorge was talking quietly with the agent, a slight nod of approval on his face as he looked around. He caught Francesco's eye and gave a subtle thumbs-up.
"This feels like us," Leah said quietly, once the two of them were alone on the back patio, away from the chatter.
Francesco looked out at the pitch again, then back at the house. There were no statues, no gold railings, no ego. Just space. Light. Peace.
"Yeah," he said. "It really does."
A few minutes later, Jorge rejoined them. He didn't waste time.
"So?" he asked.
Francesco looked at Leah. She was already smiling.
"We want it."
Jorge clapped his hands. "Now we're talking."
***
The offer was made that afternoon — discreet, fast, and handled entirely by Jorge's team. By dinnertime, the agent was calling back with the news: the owners had accepted.
Francesco stood at the windows of the apartment that night, watching the city lights flicker through the soft April haze. His bags were still half-unpacked from the flight. His boots were by the door. But he knew — already — this place wouldn't be home for much longer.
Leah was stretched across the couch, one arm behind her head, scrolling through Pinterest boards of furniture and garden ideas. Every few minutes she'd murmur something — "Should we get a sauna?" or "How do you feel about outdoor pizza ovens?" — and Francesco would nod or laugh or just smile quietly.
It was surreal. But not in the way Hampstead had been. That had felt like trying on someone else's clothes — too big, too stiff, not quite right. Richmond felt like slipping into something he didn't even know had been made for him.
He grabbed his phone and called his mum. She answered on the second ring, waves crashing gently in the background.
"Francesco?"
"Hey, Mum."
"Oh, love — it's so good to hear your voice! How's London?"
He smiled. "Good. Busy. I think… I think we found a place."
He could hear her grin from thousands of miles away. "Already?"
"Yeah. It's in Richmond. It's not massive, but it's right. It's got this football pitch out back…"
He told her everything — the kitchen, the garden, the gym. She asked a million questions. What colour were the bedroom walls? Could she plant a lemon tree when they visited? Was there a room for her and his dad?
"There's plenty of space," he promised. "You'll have a proper guest room. And a bathroom just for you."
"Well," she said softly, after a pause. "You deserve it. All of it."
When he hung up, he sat beside Leah and watched her for a while, her eyes flicking across her phone screen, lost in a dream she was already designing.
"What if we put a hammock outside?" she asked, not looking up.
"I'm down," he said. "Hammock. Pizza oven. Giant beanbag. Let's do it all."
She finally looked up at him, her expression soft.
"Are you happy?"
He thought about it — really thought.
"I think I'm starting to be."
She leaned into his shoulder, her voice a whisper.
"Good."
Then the following days were a whirlwind. Legal paperwork. Surveyors. Decorators. Jorge moved like a shark in water — always two steps ahead, already emailing architects about minor renovations before Francesco had even thought about curtains.
The next morning, Jorge sent the email.
Francesco was halfway through his second coffee when it landed — subject line in all caps: THE NUMBERS. Just that. No drama. Classic Jorge. He opened it slowly, knowing what was coming but still feeling the weight of it settle across his shoulders like a fresh kit before a final.
The total, bolded at the bottom of the page, stared back at him:
£5,300,000
His eyes drifted up the itemized breakdown.
• Property price: £3,500,000
• Legal and conveyancing fees: £30,000
• Stamp duty: £381,250
• Surveyors and inspections: £12,000
• Interior decorator retainer: £55,000
• Initial renovations + smart home integration: £87,000
• Contingency buffer (Jorge's "just in case" fund): £100,000
• Landscaping and garden design: £40,000
• Furniture package (preliminary): £95,000
Below that, Jorge had written:
"This is turnkey. You walk in, it's yours. No delays, no surprises. Let me know how you want to proceed — we can stagger the decorator and furniture payments if needed, but I'd recommend sealing everything in one go. Leah will want that garden done before summer."
Francesco let out a low whistle. Not that he didn't know it would be high. But seeing it written like that — typed in black on white, digit by digit — made it all very real.
He turned the screen to Leah, who was still wrapped in the duvet on the sofa, munching toast and watching a home reno show with the volume barely audible.
She glanced at it, eyebrows lifting. "Jesus."
"Right?"
She took the laptop, scanning the breakdown with slow interest. "Three and a half for the house. The rest is Jorge being Jorge."
Francesco grinned. "Contingency buffer?"
She snorted. "That's Jorge's 'you'll thank me later' clause. Also known as his second espresso fund."
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw. It wasn't the number that scared him, not exactly. He could afford it now. The sponsorhip alone had changed his financial life overnight. But this wasn't just boots or watches or helping his parents out. This was putting roots down. Making permanence out of something that had always felt temporary.
"You alright?" Leah asked, watching him now instead of the screen.
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's just… big."
"Of course it is. It's supposed to be."
She reached over and took his hand, the way she always did when he got too quiet. "It's our place. Not just some trophy home."
He squeezed her fingers. "I know."
Then he forwarded the email to his accountant and texted Jorge:
"Green light. Let's get it done."
The rest of the week was a blur of motion and decisions.
Francesco signed things he barely understood — digital dotted lines flashing across his tablet while Jorge narrated over the phone like a live-action podcast: "That's just confirming the funds are clear. This one's the land registry. That's a vendor agreement. Yep, that's your name, sign there…"
Leah dove headfirst into interior planning. Their living room slowly filled with swatches of fabric and paint, every surface covered in material samples. She spoke to decorators like she'd done it a hundred times before, asking questions about textures, light reflection, and custom carpentry. Francesco would return from training to find her sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by tiles and sketches.
"This one's for the en-suite," she'd explain, holding up something that looked like polished concrete. "And this wallpaper's for the games room. Not too much, just one feature wall."
He loved watching her that way — in her element, creative, confident. It made the house feel more real with each passing day.
Meanwhile, Jorge kept everything moving like a machine. He arranged meetings with a landscape architect who looked like he belonged in a Vogue editorial, then negotiated down the price of the sauna Leah insisted they didn't need but secretly wanted. He even brought in a security consultant from a firm that used to handle royal residences.
"Discreet cameras," the man had said in a clipped tone, pointing to a diagram of the grounds. "And motion sensors around the perimeter. Not obtrusive, but very effective."
Francesco just blinked. "I'm a footballer, not the Prime Minister."
Jorge laughed. "Mate, you just won the Premier League and FA Cup with Arsenal. You're someone now."
Still, through it all — the spreadsheets, the wiring plans, the endless voice notes from decorators — Francesco felt something shift inside him. A quiet sense of landing. Like he'd been sprinting full-tilt for years and was finally allowed to stop, look around, and plant a flag in the dirt.
They drove out to the Richmond house again the day contracts exchanged — this time in Francesco's black Defender, windows down, music playing low. The sun was soft and golden, early evening settling over the treetops.
As they pulled into the driveway, the front lights of the house flicked on automatically, casting gentle warmth against the timber walls. Leah stepped out and stood in the middle of the garden, arms stretched wide.
"We own this," she said, awed.
Francesco came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.
"Yeah," he said. "We do."
She leaned her head back against his chest. "You scared?"
"A little."
She turned in his arms, smiling. "Me too. But it's the good kind."
They stayed until the stars came out — sitting on the edge of the pool with their shoes off, dipping their feet in the water, dreaming about what they'd fill the place with. Not just furniture, but memories. Sunday mornings with pancakes. Midweek movies in the games room. Hosting their families. Starting something bigger than both of them.
When they finally left, the house stood quiet behind them, waiting. And for the first time, Francesco didn't feel like an outsider peeking in. He felt like the front door was his.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League and 2014/2015 FA Cup
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9