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The bus rolled on, carrying them away from White Hart Lane, away from the noise, away from the ghosts of old decisions and old loyalties.
The bus didn't rush.
It never did after nights like this.
It rolled through North London with a steady, deliberate pace, police bikes still flanking them for the first stretch before peeling away one by one, blue lights disappearing into side streets. Inside, the singing rose and fell in waves. Someone started an old chant, half the squad joined in, then it dissolved into laughter when the lyrics went wrong. Music played from a phone speaker near the back that too loud, distorted, perfect for the moment.
Francesco stayed quiet.
Not withdrawn. Just present.
He watched the reflections slide across the windows from streetlamps, passing cars, the occasional knot of fans still lingering outside pubs, scarves draped over shoulders. Every so often, someone on the bus would glance at Walker, then at him, then think better of saying anything. Not yet. Not while adrenaline was still humming under the skin.
Walker leaned back in his seat, head tipped against the window, eyes half-closed. The tightness in his shoulders had eased, but the night was still sitting on him. You could see it in the way his fingers tapped absently against his thigh, in how his jaw clenched whenever the bus slowed near clusters of people outside.
"You hungry?" Xhaka called from two rows up, twisting around in his seat. "Because I'm starving."
"You're always starving," Giroud replied. "You play like you're angry at food."
Laughter rippled again.
Walker smiled faintly at that, then glanced sideways. "You think it'll be bad tomorrow?"
Francesco didn't pretend not to know what he meant.
"It'll be loud," he said. "But loud doesn't mean wrong."
Walker nodded, absorbing that.
The bus finally left the city behind, the streets giving way to darker roads, trees lining the route, the hum of the engine becoming the dominant sound. One by one, the players' energy softened. Heads rested against seats. Conversations dropped into quieter tones. Someone near the front snored lightly, earning a few muted chuckles.
Colney appeared almost suddenly.
The familiar gates slid open, security lights washing the bus in white as it pulled into the parking lot. The engine idled for a moment before cutting out, leaving a sudden, ringing quiet in its wake.
The door hissed open.
Cool night air rushed in, sharp and clean after hours of recycled warmth. One by one, the players stood, stretching stiff limbs, grabbing bags from overhead racks. Boots thudded against the steps as they disembarked, shoulders brushing, voices overlapping again now that the night had truly loosened its grip.
The parking lot was mostly empty with staff cars, a few security vehicles, the training complex looming dark and quiet behind them. It felt private. Safe.
A few players lingered instead of heading straight to their cars.
Xhaka stopped near the rear of the bus, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "So," he said, glancing between Walker and Francesco. "That press conference."
Walker exhaled through his nose. "Yeah."
"That's going to be everywhere," Cazorla added, rubbing his hands together against the cold. "Front pages."
"Hot news," Giroud said with mock seriousness. "Very hot."
Francesco stepped forward then, dropping his bag at his feet, hands on his hips. He waited until the small cluster naturally tightened around him with Walker, Xhaka, Giroud, Kanté, Koscielny, a few others drifting closer without being called.
"Yeah," Francesco said. "It will be."
They all looked at him.
"Tomorrow," he continued, voice calm but firm, "that's all anyone's going to talk about. Not the goal. Not the win. That."
Walker shifted, uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to—"
Francesco lifted a hand gently. "I know."
He glanced around the circle. "And it's fine. He told the truth."
Koscielny nodded immediately. "He did."
"But," Francesco went on, "the truth doesn't always get told cleanly in the headlines."
A murmur of agreement.
"They'll twist it," Xhaka said. "They always do."
"Exactly," Francesco replied. "So we don't let them do it alone."
Walker frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
Francesco met his eyes. "I mean tomorrow, we show them who we are."
He let the words settle.
"Social media," he said. "Posts. Photos. Messages. Doesn't have to be essays. Doesn't have to mention Tottenham at all."
Giroud smiled slowly, catching on. "Just support."
"Just unity," Francesco confirmed. "We're Arsenal. We protect each other."
Kanté nodded earnestly. "Together," he said quietly.
Walker swallowed, looking around the group now. "You don't have to do that," he said. "This is my mess."
"It's not a mess," Xhaka shot back. "It's your story."
"And you're one of us," Koscielny added, hand settling briefly on Walker's shoulder. "That makes it our story too."
Walker's throat worked. He looked down at the concrete for a moment, then back up, eyes glistening just enough to be noticeable if you were paying attention.
"Thanks," he said. "All of you."
Francesco clapped his hands once, softly. "Good. Then that's settled."
The group began to break apart then, conversations splintering into smaller threads. Giroud headed for his car, still talking animatedly about dinner plans. Xhaka lingered to argue with someone about whose assist had really mattered more. Kanté slipped away quietly, already halfway to his vehicle before anyone noticed.
Walker stayed.
So did Francesco.
They stood side by side for a moment, the night stretching out around them, quiet and still.
"You okay?" Francesco asked again, more gently this time.
Walker nodded. "Yeah. I think… yeah."
He hesitated. "I didn't think anyone would have my back like that."
Francesco smiled faintly. "You're wearing the wrong badge if you think we wouldn't."
That earned a real smile this time.
They headed toward their cars, engines starting one by one, headlights cutting through the dark. Francesco paused before getting in, phone already buzzing in his hand. Notifications stacked on notifications from mentions, messages, headlines forming in real time.
He sighed softly.
Tomorrow was going to be loud.
But tonight?
Tonight they were together.
He typed a message quickly into the team group chat.
Tomorrow, let's show it. One club. One group.
Replies came back almost instantly. Thumbs up emojis. Short affirmations. A photo someone had already taken on the bus, grainy and imperfect, but full of laughter and light.
Francesco smiled to himself, slid his phone into his pocket, and got into his car.
Then the drive back to Richmond felt different.
Not lighter exactly as nights like that never truly left you. The roads were mostly empty now, London finally exhaling after the late rush. Streetlights stretched into long amber ribbons across the windshield as Francesco guided the car through familiar turns, muscle memory doing most of the work while his mind replayed fragments of the evening.
The chant in the away end.
Walker's voice in the press room.
The way Alli's smirk had vanished, just for a second, when the words landed.
His phone buzzed again on the passenger seat. He ignored it this time.
Tonight could wait.
Richmond rose gently around him, tree-lined streets and tall gates, the city's noise replaced by a deep, expensive stillness. When he turned into his driveway, the sensors triggered softly, lights blooming to life along the path as the gates slid open.
Home.
He pulled into the garage, the engine ticking as it cooled, and sat there for a moment longer than necessary, hands resting on the steering wheel. The adrenaline had finally drained away, leaving behind that familiar post-match hollowness that satisfied, sore, reflective.
Then he smelled it.
Garlic.
Olive oil.
Something simmering, warm and unmistakably alive.
A smile tugged at his mouth before he even stepped out of the car.
Inside, the house glowed softly, lights low and golden. The quiet here was different from Colney's that less institutional, more intimate. Shoes by the door. A jacket draped carelessly over a chair. Music playing faintly from the kitchen, something mellow and rhythmic.
"Leah?" he called out, voice carrying easily through the open space.
"In the kitchen," she replied, her voice warm, casual, threaded with a smile he could hear even before he saw her.
He followed the sound.
She was standing at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair tied loosely back, moving with the kind of effortless confidence that came from knowing exactly what you were doing. A pan hissed softly under her attention. The air was rich with herbs and heat.
She turned when she sensed him, eyes lighting up.
"There you are," she said.
Francesco crossed the space between them without thinking, leaning in to kiss her cheek. She met him halfway, pressing a kiss to his jaw in return, lingering just long enough to make it feel grounding.
"You smell amazing," he murmured.
She laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment to the food, not me being sweaty from cooking."
"Both," he said easily.
She pointed a wooden spoon at him. "Table. Now. Food's almost ready."
"Yes, boss," he replied, hands up in mock surrender.
He moved into the dining area, shrugging off his jacket, rolling his shoulders as the stiffness reminded him that he'd been in a derby not even two hours ago. He set the table carefully, the motions familiar, almost meditative. Plates. Cutlery. Glasses. He poured water, straightened a napkin that didn't really need it.
Behind him, Leah plated the food with quiet efficiency, the clink of ceramic against the counter punctuating the music.
When she joined him, carrying the dishes, he took them from her automatically, setting them down with care.
"Looks incredible," he said.
"Good," she replied, sliding into her chair. "Because I'm starving."
They began to eat.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Just the gentle sounds of cutlery, the soft hum of the house, the unspoken comfort of being together after a long day. Francesco felt himself settle fully for the first time since the final whistle. This was where the noise finally stopped.
Leah broke the silence first.
"So," she said lightly, though her eyes were sharp with curiosity. "Walker."
Francesco chuckled under his breath. "Straight to it, huh?"
She tilted her head. "I watched the match here. All of it. And the aftermath."
He nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Yeah?"
"I saw the moment after the whistle," she continued. "When things got… tense."
"That's one word for it."
She set her fork down. "They almost went at each other."
Francesco leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling. "Yeah. They did."
"What happened?" she asked. Not accusatory. Just genuinely wanting to understand.
He told her.
Not in a rush. Not dramatized. Just the way it had unfolded with the chants, the words thrown, Alli stepping closer, Dembele and Wanyama arriving like reinforcements, the line blurring between banter and something uglier.
"How close was it?" Leah asked quietly.
"Too close," Francesco admitted. "Another second or two, and it could've been a full brawl."
She shook her head slowly. "Derbies."
"Derbies," he agreed.
"And Walker?" she pressed. "He looked… shaken. Even on camera."
Francesco's expression softened. "He was. Not scared. Just… tired of carrying it."
She nodded, understanding more than he'd said aloud. "People forget players are human."
"Especially when it suits them to," he replied.
They ate a little more, the food grounding them again.
"And the press conference?" Leah asked. "I saw the clips already starting to circulate."
Francesco grimaced. "Of course you did."
She smiled apologetically. "Occupational hazard."
"He told the truth," Francesco said. "About everything. Why he left. Who wanted him to stay. Who didn't."
"And now?" she asked.
"And now it's going to be everywhere tomorrow," he said. "Twisted, amplified, reduced to headlines."
Leah reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. "You handled it."
He shrugged. "We handled it."
She smiled at that. "I liked what you said. About protecting your players."
He met her gaze. "That part wasn't for the cameras."
"I know."
They finished dinner slowly, savoring it. When they were done, Leah stood to clear the plates, but Francesco beat her to it.
"Sit," he said. "I've got this."
She raised an eyebrow. "Captain's orders?"
"Something like that."
In the kitchen, he rinsed dishes, stacking them neatly, the routine simple and grounding. Leah leaned against the counter nearby, arms folded, watching him with an expression that was equal parts fondness and concern.
"You okay?" she asked again, softer this time.
He nodded. "Yeah. I am."
She studied him for a moment longer, then stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek against his back.
"You don't always have to carry everything," she said quietly.
He reached back, covering her hands with his own. "I know."
They stood there like that for a while, the night settling fully around the house, the echoes of the stadium finally distant enough to feel unreal.
Tomorrow would be loud.
But tonight?
Tonight was home.
Morning came softly at first.
Not with alarms or urgency, but with pale light slipping through tall windows and the quiet hum of a house waking up. Richmond was still half-asleep, the streets outside wrapped in that calm, expensive hush that only existed before the city remembered itself.
Francesco woke before the noise did.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to Leah's steady breathing beside him. The warmth of the bed, the faint scent of her shampoo on the pillow, the weight of the night still lingering in his muscles as it all anchored him in a way no victory ever quite could.
For a few seconds, everything was simple.
Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Once.
Twice.
Then again, insistent.
He sighed quietly, careful not to wake her, and reached for it.
The screen lit up immediately.
Missed calls.
Messages.
Notifications stacked so tightly they blurred into one another.
BBC Sport. Sky Sports. The Guardian. Marca. L'Équipe. ESPN.
Club group chat. Agent. PR manager. Teammates. Old friends.
He didn't open anything yet.
He already knew.
Yesterday, they'd predicted it standing in the cold outside Colney, boots on concrete, breath fogging the air. Loud. Twisted. Reduced. Turned into something sharp and clickable.
Still, knowing it intellectually didn't stop the familiar tightening in his chest.
Beside him, Leah shifted, blinking awake as the light from his phone flickered across the room.
"Morning," she murmured, voice thick with sleep.
"Morning," he replied softly.
She glanced at his phone, then back at his face. She didn't need to ask what it was.
"It started?" she said.
He nodded once. "It started."
She reached out, fingers brushing his arm. "Come back to bed for a minute."
He hesitated, then set the phone down again and turned toward her. She tucked herself into his chest easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and he wrapped an arm around her, pressing his lips briefly to her hair.
For a few stolen minutes, they let the world wait.
But it never waited for long.
Eventually, they rose together, the day creeping in through the windows as Richmond fully woke. Coffee brewed. Toast popped. The house filled with quiet movement and the low murmur of a television Leah turned on in the kitchen that not loud, just enough to hear.
Francesco leaned against the counter, mug in hand, as the first headline scrolled across the screen.
WALKER BREAKS SILENCE ON SPURS EXIT AFTER HEATED DERBY CLASH
The footage rolled beneath it.
Walker, post-match. Calm. Honest. Tired.
Then cutaways.
Tottenham fans chanting. Close-ups of mouths twisted with words they'd never have to answer for. Alli's face, sharp with provocation. A freeze-frame of bodies pushing together after the whistle, red shirts and white shirts tangled in a moment that had hovered on the edge of violence.
Leah exhaled slowly. "They're framing it like he snapped."
Francesco took a sip of coffee, jaw tightening. "He didn't."
"I know," she said. "But look at the captions."
They watched in silence as pundits began dissecting it all with surgical detachment.
"Walker let his emotions get the better of him—"
"—provoked or not, professionalism has to prevail—"
"—questions will be asked about his mentality—"
Francesco set the mug down harder than necessary.
"They're already doing it," he muttered.
Leah turned to him. "You're going to respond."
It wasn't a question.
He nodded. "We all are."
As if summoned by the thought, his phone buzzed again. This time he answered it.
Xhaka.
"Morning, captain," Xhaka said, voice dry. "You seen the circus yet?"
"Just started," Francesco replied.
"Good," Xhaka said. "Because it's getting worse."
Francesco pinched the bridge of his nose. "How bad?"
"They've got former Spurs players on every channel talking like Walker committed a crime by telling the truth."
Leah caught his eye and mouthed: Told you.
"And the chants?" Francesco asked.
"They're downplaying them," Xhaka said. "Calling them 'hostile atmosphere.'"
Francesco let out a sharp breath. "Of course they are."
There was a pause on the line. Then Xhaka added, "Team chat's active. Everyone's in."
"Good," Francesco said. "I'll post soon."
When he hung up, Leah was already sliding his phone back toward him.
"Eat first," she said gently. "Then deal with it."
He smiled faintly. "Always the strategist."
"Someone has to be," she replied.
By the time he finished breakfast, the media storm had fully matured.
Social media was a warzone.
Clips looped endlessly with Walker's words clipped into ten-second soundbites, stripped of context. Photos frozen at just the right angle to make aggression look one-sided. Hashtags trending in opposite directions, each side convinced they were the righteous ones.
#WalkerOutOfLine
#SayItLouder
#DerbyDisgrace
#TruthHurts
Francesco scrolled slowly, deliberately, the way he always did when he needed to understand the shape of a narrative before stepping into it.
Tottenham fans flooded comment sections, calling Walker disloyal, weak, ungrateful. Some went further, uglier. The chants from the night before reappeared in text form, recycled with the same venom.
Pundits debated "tone" and "timing" as if honesty required a permit.
A former Spurs midfielder went on record saying, "There's no excuse for letting things escalate like that, regardless of provocation."
Francesco laughed humorlessly at that. "Easy to say from a studio."
Leah perched on the arm of the sofa beside him. "You can't fight all of it."
"I don't need to," he replied. "Just enough."
He opened Instagram.
The photo from the bus was already there in the team group chat with the one someone had snapped without thinking. Grainy. Crooked. Players mid-laugh, heads thrown back, shoulders slumped with exhaustion and joy. Walker sat near the middle, not smiling wide, but relaxed. Safe.
Francesco saved it.
He didn't rush the caption.
He never did.
Words mattered. Timing mattered. And right now, clarity mattered more than cleverness.
Across London, microphones were being clipped onto lapels. Producers whispered into earpieces. Studio lights warmed up.
At Tottenham's training ground, reporters gathered early, hoping for reactions, soundbites, cracks.
At Colney, Arsenal's media team prepared for the same storm, briefing players, tightening schedules.
Walker arrived later than usual.
Not because he was avoiding anything, but because he'd barely slept.
He'd spent the night watching the world argue about his life like it was a panel show topic. Messages poured in from people he hadn't spoken to in years. Some supportive. Some disappointed. Some asking him to explain himself, as if he owed them clarity.
When he walked into the dressing room, conversations dipped that not awkwardly, just instinctively.
Then Xhaka clapped him on the shoulder. "Morning."
Kanté smiled. "Bonjour."
Giroud gave him a nod. "Coffee?"
The normalcy hit him harder than any headline had.
Francesco arrived shortly after, phone in hand, expression calm but alert.
He didn't make a speech.
He didn't need to.
He simply met Walker's eyes and nodded once.
You're not alone.
That was enough.
The first post went up at 9:17 a.m.
It was Francesco's.
The photo filled the screen with laughter frozen mid-motion, arms draped over shoulders, red shirts blending into one another.
The caption was simple.
No hashtags. No clubs mentioned by name.
Just words.
One group. One dressing room.
We protect our own, on and off the pitch.
Proud of this team. Always.
Within minutes, it exploded.
Likes climbed by the thousands. Comments flooded in with fans reading between the lines, journalists screenshotting it for articles, pundits already speculating about "subtle statements."
Then came the others.
Xhaka posted a black-and-white shot of boots lined up in the tunnel.
Together.
Koscielny shared an old training photo, arms linked, captioned: Respect isn't negotiable.
Kanté simply posted a heart emoji and a red circle.
Giroud added a selfie with Walker from the gym, both of them grinning, caption: Famille.
Walker stared at his phone in the locker room, throat tight, eyes burning in a way he hadn't expected.
He typed and deleted a reply three times before finally posting his own.
No long explanation.
No defense.
Just a photo Francesco had sent him privately with one from earlier in the season, arms around each other after a win, sweat-soaked and smiling.
Grateful. That's all I'll say.
The media noticed.
They always did.
By midday, the tone shifted.
Slightly. Subtly.
Articles began reframing the story that not as a lone outburst, but as part of a wider issue. Discussions about fan behavior crept back in. Clips of the chants resurfaced, this time with captions that didn't soften them.
One pundit said, on air, "When an entire dressing room rallies behind a player, maybe it's worth asking why."
Tottenham released a short, carefully worded statement expressing disappointment at the scenes after the match and reaffirming their stance on player welfare.
It satisfied no one.
And somehow, that mattered.
Francesco watched it all unfold from the training ground gym, earbuds in, lifting slowly, deliberately, the physical strain a welcome distraction.
Leah texted him around noon.
You okay?
He replied a minute later.
Yeah. It's loud. But it's settling.
She sent back a single message.
Proud of you.
That stuck with him more than any headline.
By the afternoon, the story had matured into something heavier but less chaotic. The initial outrage gave way to analysis. The hot takes cooled into debates. People began asking harder questions about January transfers, about loyalty myths, about the way players were expected to absorb abuse silently.
Walker gave no further interviews.
He didn't need to.
The truth was already out there, standing on its own legs now, imperfect but undeniable.
Training ended the way it usually did after a stormy matchday aftermath that not with whistles or speeches, but with a collective understanding that the work had been done properly. Legs were heavy, lungs burned in that dull, familiar way, and the session had been sharp without being punitive. Wenger had seen this cycle too many times to overreact. He trusted rhythm. He trusted routine.
By the time Francesco stepped into the showers, the day had finally caught up to him.
Hot water hit his shoulders and rolled down his back, carrying sweat, grass, and the last remnants of tension with it. He rested his forehead briefly against the cool tile, eyes closed, letting the sound of water drown out everything else. The noise of the media storm felt distant here, muffled, like something happening in another life.
Around him, the dressing room was alive in its own way.
The hiss of other showers.
Muted laughter echoing off tiled walls.
Someone humming tunelessly.
A bottle of shampoo clattering to the floor and a chorus of groans following it.
Normal.
That mattered.
Walker stood a few showers down, water running over his head, shoulders slumped slightly forward. Not defeated, just tired. Francesco glanced his way once, caught his eye through the steam. Walker gave a small nod.
Still here.
Still standing.
They finished up without ceremony, wrapping towels around their waists, moving back into the dressing area where the mirrors were fogged and the air smelled of soap and muscle balm. Francesco pulled on the Arsenal tracksuit slowly, savoring the way the fabric felt clean and warm against his skin. Red and white, zipped up, familiar. Armor of a different kind.
By the time he stepped into the players' lounge, the mood had shifted.
The lounge sat at the heart of Colney, a wide, open space softened by low couches, armchairs, and long tables scarred with years of coffee cups, card games, and boots kicked off without care. Floor-to-ceiling windows let the grey London afternoon spill in, diffused and calm. A television dominated one wall, already switched on, volume low for now.
Players filtered in gradually, towels draped over shoulders, tracksuits half-zipped, hair still damp. Someone grabbed a protein shake from the fridge. Someone else sank into a couch with a groan that earned a few laughs.
"Oi, put Sky on," Giroud said, nodding toward the screen.
"It's already there," Xhaka replied, remote in hand. "Pre-show."
Francesco took a seat near the center, not claiming it, just naturally ending up there the way captains often did. Walker hesitated for half a second, then sat two seats away. No one made a thing of it. That was important too.
The Sky Sports intro music rolled, polished and familiar.
The screen cut to the studio.
Gary Neville.
Jamie Carragher.
Ian Wright.
The trio sat behind the desk, jackets sharp, expressions serious but not severe. The graphic beneath them read:
DERBY FALL-OUT: WALKER INCIDENT & TRANSFER TRUTH
The volume went up a notch.
"Alright," Neville was saying, leaning slightly forward, fingers interlaced. "Let's get straight into this because it's dominated the conversation since last night."
Carragher nodded. "It has, Gary. And I think for once, we actually need to slow it down instead of piling on."
Ian Wright, Arsenal through and through but respected enough that even Spurs fans listened when he spoke, crossed his arms loosely. His expression wasn't angry. It was disappointed.
The lounge grew quieter.
Someone muted their phone.
Someone else leaned forward, elbows on knees.
Neville continued. "Kyle Walker's comments after the match that about the January transfer, about how he felt at Tottenham have been framed in some quarters as him 'losing control.' I don't see it that way."
Carragher shook his head. "Neither do I."
Francesco felt a subtle shift ripple through the room.
On screen, Carragher turned slightly toward Neville. "Look, I've been in derbies where things get said. Nasty things. Personal things. But what we saw last night, that wasn't just heat-of-the-moment banter from fans. That crossed a line."
They cut to a clip.
Muted now, but unmistakable.
Tottenham fans in full voice, mouths wide, faces contorted, words scrolling across the bottom of the screen in censored form. The implication was clear even without sound.
Ian Wright exhaled through his nose. "That's abuse," he said flatly. "Let's stop dancing around it."
A few players in the lounge nodded.
"Players are told to be role models," Wright continued, voice steady but edged with feeling. "But what about the environment they're asked to perform in? Kyle Walker didn't wake up yesterday wanting to 'cause drama.' He reacted to sustained provocation from his own supporters."
Neville leaned back slightly. "And that's the key point. These weren't opposition fans. This wasn't white noise. This was supposed to be his own."
Walker stared at the screen, jaw tight, hands clasped together.
Carragher jumped back in. "And then there's the club side of it. Because Kyle didn't just talk about the chants as he talked about January. About feeling pushed out. About promises not being kept."
The graphic shifted.
JANUARY TRANSFER: ARSENAL INTEREST CONFIRMED
Carragher gestured toward it. "We all heard the rumors early in the season. Arsenal were interested. That's not news. What is news is how Tottenham handled it."
Neville nodded. "From what Kyle said, and from what we've heard behind the scenes for months, there was a breakdown in trust. He felt the club hierarchy treated him like an asset, not a person."
Ian Wright leaned forward now. "And when you combine that with fans turning on you? That's when players check out emotionally. I don't blame him for leaving. I don't."
That landed.
In the lounge, Giroud let out a low whistle. "There it is."
Xhaka glanced at Walker. "They're saying it."
Neville continued, measured but firm. "Tottenham have to look at themselves here. The fans' behavior last night was unacceptable, and the club's management handle the situation since the early season and leading up to it played a big part in Kyle's decision to join Arsenal."
Carragher nodded emphatically. "This wasn't a snap decision. This had been brewing. And Arsenal didn't just swoop in ae they offered him something Tottenham failed to."
The camera cut to Wright again.
"Respect," he said simply. "And protection."
That word hung in the air.
Francesco felt it settle in his chest.
Protection.
He glanced sideways. Walker's eyes were glassy now, fixed on the screen but not really seeing it anymore. He swallowed, hard.
On screen, Neville wrapped it up. "So for me, yes, emotions ran high last night. But if we're assigning responsibility? It starts with the abuse from Tottenham fans and continues with a club that didn't handle one of their senior players properly."
Carragher added, "Kyle Walker told the truth. People might not like it, but that doesn't make it wrong."
Ian Wright finished it quietly. "And if you're wondering why Arsenal players are rallying around him today? That's why."
The segment faded out.
For a moment, the lounge was completely silent.
Then someone exhaled loudly.
"Well," Giroud said, breaking it with a crooked smile. "That was… validating."
Kanté nodded. "They listened."
Walker scrubbed a hand over his face, then dropped it to his lap. His voice, when it came, was rough. "Didn't expect that."
Francesco leaned back slightly, arms resting on his thighs. "They're not idiots," he said. "They saw it."
Walker let out a shaky laugh. "Could've used that support a few months ago."
Xhaka snorted. "Yeah, well. You've got it now."
From across the room, Koscielny spoke up. "What matters is this," he said, tapping his chest once. "You're here."
Walker looked around then.
Really looked.
At the red tracksuits.
At the familiar faces.
At the easy way no one was staring at him like he was fragile or controversial.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I am."
Francesco stood then, not dramatically, just rising like he had somewhere to be. The movement drew eyes instinctively.
He didn't raise his voice.
Didn't posture.
He simply spoke.
"Look," he said. "This thing, it's going to keep running for a bit. More clips. More takes. Some fair. Some stupid."
A few chuckles.
"But none of that changes what we do here," he continued. "We train. We play. We look after each other. That's it."
He met Walker's eyes directly. "You told your truth. That's done. You don't owe anyone anything else."
Walker nodded, once. "Thanks."
Francesco shrugged. "Any time."
The tension in the room finally loosened.
Someone reached for the remote again, flipping the channel.
Someone else cracked a joke about pundits finally getting something right.
Laughter crept back in, tentative at first, then easier.
The storm hadn't passed.
Not completely.
But inside those walls, in that lounge, something had settled.
Outside, headlines would keep spinning. Debates would rage. Tottenham fans would argue. Arsenal fans would defend. Pundits would replay the same clips with slightly different words.
But in here?
The line was clear.
Walker leaned back into the couch, exhaling slowly, feeling thar for the first time since January that he hadn't just changed clubs.
He'd changed rooms.
And that, more than anything Sky Sports could say, told him he'd made the right decision.
______________________________________________
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: 47
Goal: 75
Assist: 3
MOTM: 12
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