Bab 62: 59. Got Sick
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He lay back, staring at the ceiling, his heart full. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities to grow. But for now, Francesco let himself savor the moment, a smile tugging at his lips as he drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, sunlight peeked through the curtains of Francesco's room, casting a warm glow on the walls lined with posters of football legends and personal achievements. Yet, despite the brightness, Francesco didn't feel his usual energy. His alarm had gone off earlier, but he had snoozed it, letting the repetitive chime echo through the room until it silenced itself. He lay on his bed, his limbs heavy, his mind foggy. Something felt off.
When he finally sat up, he immediately regretted it. A wave of dizziness hit him, and his body protested with an ache that spread from his shoulders to his legs. His head throbbed faintly, and his throat felt raw, as though he'd been shouting for hours. Francesco placed a hand on his forehead, and though he couldn't quite tell if it was his imagination, it felt warmer than usual. He groaned softly, leaning back against the headboard.
"This isn't good," he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.
He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Training would start in a couple of hours, and by now, his teammates were probably getting ready, stretching, and preparing to head out to the Arsenal Training Centre. Normally, Francesco would already be out of bed, going through his morning routine with the same discipline that had carried him to this stage in his career. But today, even the thought of brushing his teeth felt like a monumental task.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and he reached for it, his movements sluggish. A message from Theo popped up in the group chat:
**Theo:** *Morning, lads! Who's ready to dominate today's training? Francesco, don't let last night's goal get to your head!*
Francesco managed a weak chuckle before typing a response. His fingers hesitated over the keyboard, debating whether to share how he was feeling. Instead, he simply typed:
**Francesco:** *Might sit this one out, lads. Feeling a bit under the weather.*
Almost immediately, the group chat exploded with responses.
**Aaron Ramsey:** *You okay, mate? Want me to swing by with some tea?*
**Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain:** *You can't get sick! We need you, man!*
**Theo:** *Stay in bed and rest. Don't want to spread it around. Get well soon, bro.*
Their messages brought a small smile to Francesco's face, but he knew he couldn't just let his teammates speculate. He scrolled through his contacts until he found Arsène Wenger's number. Pressing the call button, he waited as the line rang.
"Francesco," Wenger's calm voice came through, always measured, always reassuring. "Good morning. How are you?"
"Morning, boss," Francesco said, his voice hoarse. "I don't think I can make it to training today. I woke up feeling pretty awful—body aches, fever, the works."
There was a brief pause before Wenger replied, "I see. Don't worry about training today. Rest is important. Have you taken anything for the fever?"
"Not yet," Francesco admitted. "I'll take something soon."
"Good," Wenger said. "Take care of yourself, Francesco. If it gets worse, let the medical team know. We'll manage without you today, but we'll need you back healthy."
"Thanks, boss. I'll keep you updated," Francesco said, grateful for the understanding tone.
After ending the call, he set the phone down and swung his legs over the side of the bed, trying to muster enough energy to get to the bathroom. Each step felt like wading through thick mud, but he managed to wash his face and brush his teeth before heading downstairs.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted him as he entered the kitchen, where Sarah was bustling about, her back to him as she prepared breakfast. She turned when she heard his footsteps, her cheerful expression quickly replaced with concern.
"Francesco, you look terrible!" she exclaimed, rushing to his side. "What's wrong?"
"I think I've got a fever," Francesco said, slumping into a chair at the dining table. "Didn't feel right when I woke up."
Sarah placed a hand on his forehead, frowning. "You're burning up. Why didn't you say anything sooner?"
"I just realized how bad it was," he admitted, leaning his head on the cool surface of the table.
Sarah moved quickly, grabbing the thermometer from a nearby drawer and handing it to him. Francesco dutifully placed it under his tongue, waiting until it beeped. When he checked the reading, it confirmed what he already suspected—he had a fever.
"You're staying in bed today," Sarah said firmly, already pulling out ingredients to make him something light to eat. "No arguments."
"Don't worry, Mom. I've already called Wenger and told him I'm not going to training," Francesco said, his voice muffled against the table.
Mike entered the kitchen just then, already dressed for work. His usual cheerful demeanor shifted when he saw Francesco slumped at the table. "What's wrong with the superstar?" he asked, though the concern in his voice was evident.
"He's sick," Sarah said, pouring a glass of water and setting it in front of Francesco. "Fever, body aches, the whole package."
Mike walked over and patted Francesco on the back. "You've been pushing yourself too hard, kid. Your body's telling you to slow down."
Francesco nodded weakly, sipping the water. "I just hate missing training. Feels like I'm letting everyone down."
"Nonsense," Mike said. "You're human, Francesco. Even the best need to rest sometimes."
Sarah placed a bowl of chicken soup in front of him, the warm aroma comforting. "Eat this, then go back to bed. I'll check on you later."
As he ate, Francesco felt a pang of guilt. He hated being sidelined, even if it was just for a day. But as he finished his soup and trudged back to his room, he realized that taking care of himself now was the only way to ensure he could return to the pitch stronger. Curling up under his blankets, he closed his eyes and let sleep take over, trusting that resting would bring a new chance to get back to what he loved most.
The next time Francesco woke up, the sun had shifted to a higher position, casting a golden hue across his room. He blinked a few times, trying to shake the heaviness from his eyelids. The rest had done him some good; the pounding headache from earlier had dulled to a faint throb, and the aches in his limbs were slightly less intense. However, his body still felt heavy, and the fever hadn't entirely subsided. He could tell by the way his skin felt warm and clammy.
Groaning softly, he reached for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up, displaying a flood of notifications that made him squint. First, there were several missed messages from his teammates. Then, a couple of missed calls from Theo, who had apparently decided to check in on him directly. But what caught his attention most was a notification from the Arsenal official app. Curious, Francesco tapped it, and the headline at the top of the page caught his eye:
**"Francesco Lee Out Due to Illness, Recovery Timeline TBD"**
His stomach twisted slightly at the sight of it. Even though it was the truth and completely out of his control, seeing it in black and white made it feel more official—like he was letting the team down. He scrolled through the brief article, which included a statement from the club wishing him a speedy recovery. There were no mentions of how long he'd be out, just that his return would depend on when he felt fit enough to play again.
After reading the update, Francesco opened Instagram, his fingers moving automatically to check his latest post. He wasn't expecting much beyond the usual mix of likes and comments, but as soon as he opened the app, he saw hundreds of new notifications. His most recent photo—a picture of him celebrating on the pitch after last night's match—had become a magnet for fans' well-wishes.
**@EmilyAFC:** *Rest up, Francesco! We need you back on the pitch soon! ❤️*
**@Gunner4Life:** *Get well soon, Lee! The team isn't the same without you.*
**@TheoTheGreat:** *Bet Theo's trying to take your spot, haha. But seriously, take care of yourself, mate.*
The outpouring of support brought a faint smile to Francesco's face. It wasn't just his teammates or family who cared; the fans, who lived and breathed every moment of Arsenal's journey, had his back too. Feeling touched, he decided to post something to let everyone know he appreciated their support.
Propping himself up in bed, Francesco adjusted his hair, making sure he looked halfway decent despite the lingering fever. He snapped a quick selfie, his expression a mix of gratitude and determination. He added a caption before hitting post:
**"Thanks for the support!!! Will be back soon after the fever's gone 🙌🏻 #COYG"**
Almost instantly, the likes and comments started rolling in. Fans from all over the world chimed in with messages of encouragement, some adding humor to lighten the mood, while others shared how much they looked forward to seeing him return. Francesco spent a few minutes scrolling through the responses, feeling a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the fever. Even though he couldn't be on the pitch, he still felt connected to the people who supported him.
His phone buzzed with a call, and he saw Theo's name flashing on the screen. Francesco answered, his voice still hoarse but tinged with amusement. "Theo, if this is about me missing training, I already feel bad enough."
"Relax, mate. I'm not here to guilt-trip you," Theo said, his tone light. "Just wanted to check in. How are you feeling?"
"Better than this morning, but not by much," Francesco admitted, leaning back against the pillows. "I think the fever's going down, though."
"Good. You need to take it easy, yeah? No one's expecting you to play through a fever. We've got enough depth in the squad to handle things until you're back."
Francesco chuckled softly. "Depth, huh? Are you saying you're ready to replace me?"
"Absolutely not," Theo replied with mock indignation. "I don't want that kind of pressure. You're the golden boy, not me."
The banter brought some much-needed levity to Francesco's day. After a few more minutes of conversation, Theo hung up, leaving Francesco to rest. He spent the next hour replying to a few more messages from friends and teammates before his mom appeared in the doorway, holding a tray with tea and some toast.
"Thought you could use a little something," Sarah said, setting the tray down on his bedside table. She glanced at the phone in his hand and raised an eyebrow. "Still working, even when you're sick?"
"Just replying to some messages," Francesco said, setting the phone aside. "The fans have been really nice. It helps."
Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a hand through his hair like she used to when he was a kid. "You've always had a way of connecting with people, Francesco. It's one of the things I love most about you."
"Thanks, Mom," he said softly, sipping the tea she'd brought. The warmth of the drink soothed his sore throat, and for a moment, he felt a little more like himself.
As the afternoon wore on, Francesco alternated between resting and scrolling through updates about the team. Even though he wasn't there physically, he wanted to stay in the loop. Wenger's decision to give him time to recover without pressure only reinforced how much he respected the manager. It wasn't just about winning games; Wenger genuinely cared about his players as people.
Later that evening, Francesco managed to muster enough energy to join his parents downstairs for dinner. The meal was simple—roast chicken and vegetables—but it was exactly what he needed. His dad kept the conversation light, steering clear of football talk, while his mom doted on him, making sure he ate enough. By the time he went back to bed, Francesco felt more grounded, ready to face another day of recovery.
As he lay in bed, staring at the soft glow of the streetlights outside his window, Francesco reflected on the day. It wasn't easy being sidelined, especially when the team was gearing up for another crucial match. But the love and support he'd received—from his family, his teammates, and the fans—reminded him that he wasn't alone. He didn't need to carry the weight of his career by himself.
As Francesco lay back against the pillows, his thoughts drifted to Arsenal's next game. In just two days, the team would face West Ham at Upton Park, an away match that was always a challenge. He had played there before and knew firsthand how hostile the atmosphere could be, with West Ham's fans cheering relentlessly for their team. The thought of not being there to help his teammates stung. Francesco prided himself on being dependable, the kind of player the team could count on in crucial moments. Yet here he was, sidelined with a fever, unable to do anything but rest and recover.
Francesco sighed, pulling his phone closer. He opened the calendar app and stared at the date of the West Ham game. Two days. He wasn't naïve enough to think he'd recover in time to play, but he resolved to do the next best thing: support his team from home. "If I can't be there in person," he thought, "I'll be watching from start to finish, cheering them on like the fans cheer for us."
The idea brought a faint smile to his face. He pictured himself sprawled on the living room couch, wrapped in a blanket, with a mug of tea in hand. His parents would probably join him, his dad commenting on every tactical move and his mom asking why the players didn't just "kick the ball into the goal faster." It wasn't the same as being on the field, but it was something. Francesco decided then and there that he would make the best of the situation. Even sick, he could still be a fan.
"Besides," he muttered to himself, his voice still raspy, "I might learn a thing or two by watching."
He opened Instagram again, scrolling through the comments on his latest post. Fans had already started speculating about the upcoming match, debating lineups and predicting scores. Most of them expressed how much they'd miss him on the pitch, and some joked that his absence gave West Ham a better chance. Francesco chuckled at one particular comment:
@HammersFan1987: Finally, no Francesco Lee. Maybe we can win this time!
"Don't get too comfortable," he thought with a smirk, typing a quick reply: "We'll see about that. Arsenal's got this!"
After posting, he leaned back and closed his eyes, imagining how the match might play out. Theo would probably start in his place, and while Theo didn't have the same flair, he had a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Aaron would control the midfield, dictating the tempo, and the backline would have to hold firm against West Ham's counterattacks. Wenger's strategies were always meticulous, and Francesco trusted the manager to set the team up for success.
He suddenly felt a pang of envy. Watching the game from the sidelines—or in this case, from his living room—wasn't something he was used to. But as much as he hated missing out, he knew it was for the best. "Better to sit out one game than risk making this fever worse," he reminded himself, though it didn't completely ease his frustration.
The thought of his teammates, their camaraderie, and the energy of the locker room filled his mind. He missed the buzz before a match, the shared excitement and nerves as they laced up their boots and pulled on their jerseys. Most of all, he missed the feeling of stepping onto the pitch, hearing the roar of the crowd, and knowing he was part of something bigger than himself.
As the evening wore on, Francesco forced himself to focus on the positives. This fever wouldn't last forever, and once he was back, he'd return stronger and more determined than ever. The team could handle this match without him. And he had no doubt they'd deliver. Arsenal had proven time and time again that they were a team built on resilience, and Francesco trusted his teammates to rise to the occasion.
The next two days, he decided, would be about recovery. He'd rest, eat well, and regain his strength. When game day arrived, he'd be ready—ready to cheer, ready to analyze, and most importantly, ready to support his team, even if it was from the couch. "West Ham better be prepared," he thought with a faint grin. "Because Arsenal's coming for them, with or without me."
Satisfied with his plan, Francesco closed his eyes, letting the hum of the night settle around him. The match was still two days away, but his heart was already with his team, imagining every pass, tackle, and goal. For now, rest was his priority. But when the whistle blew at Upton Park, Francesco Lee would be watching, cheering for the red and white with everything he had.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 3
Goal: 8
Assist: 2
MOTM: 3
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