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(A/N: my Skyrim have been unblocked so everyone can go read it now, thanks for the patience and sorry for the inconveniences!)
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Francesco removed the armband slowly, pressing it briefly against his chest before handing it to the kit man. He stood near the center circle for a moment, looking around the Emirates at the stands, the lights, the pitch still marked by the violence of ninety minutes.
Gabi approached him again.
This time, his smile was tight.
Respectful.
But unmistakably edged with warning.
The kind of smile shared between competitors who understood each other not through conversation, but through ninety minutes of shared violence and discipline. Sweat still dripped from his hairline, darkening the red-and-white stripes of his shirt. His chest rose and fell slowly, deliberately, like he was forcing his breathing back under control one measured inhale at a time.
"At Madrid will be different," he said.
His voice wasn't hostile.
It wasn't bitter.
It was honest.
Francesco met his eyes without hesitation. The roar of the Emirates still thundered around them, but in that small circle of grass, it felt oddly quiet. Just two captains standing in the aftermath of something heavy, something unfinished.
"We know," Francesco replied.
And he meant it.
There was no bravado in his voice. No arrogance. Arsenal had won convincingly, yes, but Atlético Madrid were not a team you dismissed. Not under Simeone. Not in their own stadium. Not in front of a crowd that could turn ninety minutes into a war of attrition.
For a moment, neither man moved.
Then Gabi reached for the hem of his shirt.
Francesco did the same.
The ritual unfolded naturally, wordlessly, as it had between footballers for generations. Sweat-soaked fabric peeled away, the cool London air brushing against skin still burning from effort. They handed the jerseys to one another with a small nod, fingers gripping cloth that still carried the warmth of competition.
Gabi ran his hand briefly across the Arsenal crest, studying it with quiet acknowledgment.
Francesco glanced down at the Atlético badge now resting in his own hands, tracing the stitched emblem with his thumb. Respect, mutual and unspoken, passed between them.
They shook hands again.
Firm.
Direct.
Then they separated, each turning back toward their teams, toward the next duties that football demanded long after the final whistle.
Around them, Arsenal players had already begun their slow lap of appreciation. It wasn't choreographed. It wasn't rushed. It was instinctive, collective, something that came naturally after nights like this.
Van Dijk clapped above his head as he walked toward the North Bank, nodding toward supporters who answered him with deafening chants. Koscielny lifted both hands, rotating slowly, acknowledging every corner of the stadium like a man memorizing the moment. Monreal tossed his match shirt into the crowd, smiling as a young fan caught it and immediately burst into tears of disbelief.
Giroud waved both arms dramatically, soaking in the applause with theatrical warmth that felt entirely genuine. Gnabry jogged in short bursts, grinning wildly, pointing toward sections of supporters who chanted his name with youthful excitement.
Kanté, ever understated, simply clapped softly, head bowed slightly, expression shy but glowing with quiet pride.
Francesco lingered near the center circle for just a few seconds longer before joining them.
The Atlético shirt hung loosely in his hand, forgotten for a moment as he turned slowly, absorbing everything around him. The Emirates shimmered under floodlights, scarves waving like crimson waves across the stands. The noise wasn't chaotic now as it was rhythmic, united, purposeful.
He raised his hand.
The reaction came instantly.
"FRANCESCO! FRANCESCO! FRANCESCO!"
The chant rolled like thunder, bouncing off steel and glass, folding back onto itself in a loop that felt endless.
He nodded once.
Then began walking.
Every step felt heavier now that adrenaline was fading. The ache in his calves sharpened. His shoulders sagged slightly beneath exhaustion he hadn't allowed himself to feel until now. But he kept moving, clapping toward each stand, making eye contact when he could, offering small gestures that pointing, nodding, raising a thumb.
This wasn't performance.
This was gratitude.
Near the touchline, Wenger joined them.
The manager's posture was relaxed in a way that only happened after victories of true magnitude. His jacket was unbuttoned, tie loosened, glasses reflecting stadium lights as he clapped above his head, turning slowly, acknowledging the supporters who had carried Arsenal through the night.
His eyes caught Francesco's.
For a brief second, Wenger lowered his hands and gave him a small, proud nod.
It carried more weight than any speech.
Francesco nodded back.
Then continued walking.
Players began peeling away gradually, some heading toward the tunnel, others lingering longer, signing shirts tossed down from the stands, exchanging brief moments with ball boys or staff members who had shared the journey behind the scenes.
Francesco finally slowed near the sideline, bending slightly, hands resting on his thighs as he caught his breath. The noise washed over him like surf, steady and constant.
He felt someone approach before he saw them.
"Francesco."
He looked up.
A UEFA staff member stood beside him, professional but warm, headset resting against one ear, accreditation badge swinging lightly against their chest.
"Congratulations," they said. "They'd like you for the post-match interview. Pitch side."
Francesco blinked once, pulling himself upright. The reality of obligations returning after the emotional flood felt almost surreal.
"Now?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Yes," the staff member replied gently. "They're setting up."
Francesco nodded.
"Alright."
He took one last glance toward the stands, then jogged lightly toward the designated broadcast area near the sideline where cameras were already being positioned beneath portable floodlights.
The shift from player to public figure happened quickly, almost violently in its contrast.
A production assistant handed him a clean towel. Another gestured toward a mark taped on the grass. Microphones were adjusted. Cables snaked across the turf like quiet reminders of the spectacle football had become.
Francesco wiped sweat from his face, running the towel through his hair before draping it loosely around his shoulders. He still wore only his undershirt now, Arsenal crest pressed against his chest, breathing finally steadying into something manageable.
He glanced down briefly at the Atlético jersey still in his hand.
For a second, he considered handing it to someone for safekeeping.
Instead, he folded it carefully and tucked it beneath his arm.
The interviewer stepped forward with a familiar face from UEFA's broadcast rotation, smile professional but clearly impressed.
"Francesco," he said, offering a handshake. "Congratulations. That was quite a performance."
Francesco accepted the handshake, firm but relaxed.
"Thank you."
The cameraman adjusted angles, signaling silently. The overhead floodlight brightened slightly, casting sharp shadows across the grass. The noise from the crowd dimmed behind them that not because it had lessened, but because the focus had narrowed to the moment.
The interviewer waited for confirmation through his earpiece.
Francesco shifted his weight slightly, exhaling slowly through his nose. He wasn't nervous. He never was during interviews. But there was always a small transition, a moment where the emotional storm of the match had to be folded neatly into words.
A red light blinked on.
They were live.
"Francesco," the interviewer began, voice projecting clearly despite the roar still echoing around them. "A huge result tonight. A 4–1 victory against Atlético Madrid in a Champions League semi-final first leg. What does this performance mean to you and to this team?"
Francesco paused that not for drama, but because he always chose his words carefully. His gaze drifted briefly toward the stands, then back to the interviewer.
"It means we did our job tonight," he said. "Nothing more, nothing less. Atlético are one of the hardest teams in Europe to play against. Everyone knows that. They punish mistakes, they fight for every ball, and they never stop believing. So for us, the most important thing was discipline. Staying calm. Staying together."
The interviewer nodded. "You scored two goals yourself. Walk us through that first one especially with the movement, the timing. It looked almost instinctive."
Francesco smiled faintly.
"It is instinct," he admitted. "But it's also trust. Mesut sees things before most players even think about them. I just tried to create space, give him an option. When the pass came, it was perfect. After that, it's about staying calm in front of goal."
"And the third goal, the counterattack. That felt like a turning point in the match."
Francesco nodded again, this time more firmly.
"Yes. When they pushed higher in the second half, we knew there would be moments if we stayed patient. Theo made an incredible run. The pass was perfect. I just had to finish it."
The interviewer glanced briefly toward the camera, then back.
"Atlético pulled one back through Griezmann, and for a moment it felt like momentum might shift. What was said among the players during that period?"
Francesco exhaled slowly.
"We didn't panic. That's the difference in matches like this. You cannot lose control emotionally. We spoke to each other. Reminded each other of the plan. We knew if we stayed organized, opportunities would come again."
"And they did, with Giroud's goal."
Francesco smiled slightly wider now.
"Olivier is… Olivier," he said, almost laughing softly. "When crosses come like that, you know he will attack them with everything. Serge made a brilliant delivery."
The interviewer leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice just enough to give the next question weight.
"It's only the first leg. You exchanged shirts with Gabi afterward. He said Madrid will be different. Do you agree?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Of course," he said. "Madrid will be very different. Atlético are strongest at home. Their crowd, their energy as it will be intense. We respect that. But we go there with confidence. Not arrogance. Confidence. We know what we are capable of if we stay focused."
The interviewer smiled, clearly satisfied with the answer.
"One final question," he said. "Nights like this… do they remind you why you play football?"
For the first time, Francesco's expression softened completely.
He looked out across the Emirates again with the lights, the supporters still singing despite the late hour, the red scarves waving like banners of shared memory.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Always."
The words lingered in the air between them, simple and honest, cutting through the noise and spectacle of the night with something that felt grounded, almost intimate. The interviewer nodded slowly, clearly sensing the sincerity behind it, before glancing toward someone just off camera.
A production assistant stepped forward, carrying a small velvet tray.
On it rested the UEFA Man of the Match award that is sleek, crystal-edged plaque mounted onto a polished base, the Champions League starball etched sharply into its surface, reflecting the floodlights like fragments of broken glass.
The interviewer turned back toward Francesco, his professional smile widening slightly, but there was genuine admiration in his eyes now.
"Francesco," he said, voice lifting slightly to match the significance of the moment. "Tonight, you didn't just score two crucial goals. You led from the front, dictated tempo when the match threatened to shift, and set the tone for your team both tactically and emotionally."
He gestured toward the tray.
"It's my honor to present you with the UEFA Champions League Man of the Match award."
For the first time that evening, Francesco looked momentarily caught off guard.
Not dramatically.
Just a brief blink, a flicker of surprise crossing his usually controlled expression.
He stepped forward, accepting the plaque with both hands, fingers wrapping carefully around the edges as if the weight of it carried something more than glass and engraving.
"Thank you," he said, voice quieter now, almost reflective.
Behind the broadcast area, a section of Arsenal supporters noticed the presentation and erupted again, chanting his name with renewed energy.
"FRANCESCO! FRANCESCO! FRANCESCO!"
The sound rolled across the pitch like another wave crashing against the night.
Francesco raised the award slightly toward the stands in acknowledgment, offering a small nod. He didn't hold it up triumphantly. He didn't pump his fist or shout. Instead, he simply lifted it chest-high with a gesture of recognition rather than celebration.
The interviewer extended his hand once more.
"Congratulations again," he said warmly.
Francesco shook it firmly.
"Thank you."
The red light above the primary camera flickered off again, signaling the end of the broadcast segment. Instantly, the tightly controlled energy around them loosened. Crew members began moving equipment. Assistants coiled cables. The organized theatre of football production shifted into quiet efficiency.
Francesco stood still for a moment longer, the award resting against his palm, the Atlético jersey still tucked under his arm. The contrast between them which is the symbol of victory and the symbol of respect are felt oddly fitting.
Then he exhaled.
And turned toward the tunnel.
The Emirates was still alive.
Not with the fever pitch of the final whistle, but with something warmer now. Fans lingered, singing, clapping, taking photos, unwilling to let the night end too quickly. Security stewards stood along the barriers, smiling despite their attempts to maintain professional composure.
As Francesco jogged lightly toward the tunnel entrance, several staff members congratulated him in passing.
"Brilliant performance, skipper."
"Two massive goals."
"Incredible leadership tonight."
He acknowledged each one with small nods, brief smiles, quiet thanks. The Man of the Match award felt heavier with each step, not physically, but symbolically with a reminder of responsibility rather than individual glory.
Near the tunnel mouth, he paused.
Just for a second.
He turned back, looking one last time across the pitch, the stands, the floodlights casting long shadows across the grass that still carried the scars of sliding tackles and desperate blocks.
Three-goal advantage.
It sounded comfortable.
It wasn't.
Not against Atlético Madrid.
Not at the Wanda Metropolitano.
He tightened his grip slightly on the award, then stepped into the tunnel.
The moment he crossed into the concrete corridor, the sound changed completely. The roar of thousands faded into echoes with boots against tile, laughter, the distant hum of equipment being wheeled away, voices overlapping in multiple languages.
The air smelled different too.
Sweat.
Liniment oil.
Wet grass.
Energy drinks.
Adrenaline still clinging to everything.
An Arsenal staff member clapped him on the shoulder as he passed.
"Media loved it," he said.
Francesco smiled faintly but didn't respond. His mind had already begun shifting into the next phase that is recovery, analysis, preparation.
As he approached the dressing room door, he could already hear it.
Laughter.
Loud.
Unfiltered.
Celebratory.
He paused again.
Not because he was upset.
But because he was thinking.
Then he pushed the door open.
The atmosphere hit him immediately.
Music played from someone's speaker with upbeat, energetic, bass vibrating faintly through the wooden benches and tiled floors. Towels were scattered everywhere. Boots lay abandoned beside open kit bags. Water bottles and energy gels littered surfaces like evidence of the battle that had just ended.
And his teammates as they were glowing.
Giroud stood near the center of the room, still shirtless, reenacting his header for anyone willing to watch, using an imaginary cross and leaping dramatically while Gnabry laughed so hard he nearly fell backward onto a bench.
"Like this!" Giroud shouted, thrusting his neck forward theatrically. "Boom! Impossible to stop!"
Gnabry clapped mockingly. "You nearly hit the ceiling, man!"
Van Dijk sat quietly but smiling, legs stretched out, ice pack resting against his knee while Koscielny leaned beside him, replaying defensive moments with animated gestures.
Kanté sat in his usual corner, towel draped over his shoulders, smiling shyly as Bellerín teased him about one particular interception where he had seemingly appeared from nowhere.
Cazorla laughed with Monreal in rapid Spanish, both still buzzing with adrenaline and relief.
Even Wenger stood near his office door, watching the room with a softened expression, arms folded loosely, clearly allowing the moment to breathe before stepping in with structure or analysis.
It was happiness.
Pure.
Earned.
And for a brief second, Francesco allowed himself to feel it too.
Then his gaze drifted toward the tactical board mounted near the lockers. The magnetic markers still showed Atlético's shape from pre-match planning. The red markers that represented Arsenal sat layered on top, some slightly displaced from where they had been during halftime discussions.
He inhaled slowly.
Three-goal advantage.
Not victory.
Not yet.
He stepped forward into the center of the room.
No one noticed at first.
Then he clapped his hands.
Once.
Sharp.
Loud.
The sound cut through the laughter like a referee's whistle.
The room fell silent almost instantly.
Not out of fear.
Out of respect.
Every head turned toward him.
Giroud lowered his arms mid-demonstration. Gnabry straightened. Van Dijk shifted upright, removing the ice pack. Wenger watched closely now, expression thoughtful.
Francesco stood there, still holding the Man of the Match award loosely at his side.
His voice, when he spoke, wasn't angry.
But it was firm.
Grounded.
"Listen," he said.
The music had already been turned down by someone near the speaker.
"I'm proud of all of you," he continued. "Tonight was incredible. We worked. We stayed disciplined. We earned this result."
Several players nodded instinctively.
"But…" he added, letting the word settle into the silence.
"We cannot celebrate like the job is done."
The room remained quiet.
Francesco stepped closer to the tactical board, glancing at Atlético's formation magnets.
"Atlético Madrid are one of the strongest teams in Europe for a reason," he said. "You all felt it tonight. You know how they play. You know how they fight."
He looked around the room, making eye contact with as many teammates as possible.
"At their stadium… they are different."
No one interrupted.
"They will press harder. Their crowd will push them harder. Simeone will change things. They will come at us with everything."
Giroud folded his arms slowly, listening.
Gnabry's grin had faded into focused attention.
Van Dijk nodded once, subtly.
Francesco lifted the Man of the Match plaque slightly, glancing at it briefly before lowering it again.
"This," he said quietly, "means nothing if we lose focus now."
The statement hung heavy.
He stepped forward again.
"We have a three-goal advantage. That's good. But against Atlético… it is not safe."
He paused, letting that truth settle deeper.
"We respect them. We prepare for them. And we go to Madrid ready for war."
The word wasn't shouted.
It didn't need to be.
It landed exactly as intended.
Silence lingered for two long seconds.
Then Van Dijk spoke first.
"He's right," he said simply.
Koscielny nodded beside him. "They will come flying at us from the first whistle."
Cazorla added quietly, "Their stadium… it changes everything."
Giroud exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair.
"Alright," he said, nodding toward Francesco. "No early celebrations."
Gnabry smirked faintly but nodded as well.
Kanté smiled gently, already fully aligned.
Wenger finally stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying authority.
"Francesco speaks the truth," he said. "Tonight we celebrate the performance… not the outcome. The tie is not finished."
He placed a hand briefly on Francesco's shoulder.
"Well said."
Francesco nodded once in acknowledgment, then stepped back, allowing the room to breathe again, but the atmosphere had changed.
The joy remained.
But it had sharpened.
Focused.
Matured into something more dangerous.
Players resumed talking, but the tone was different now. Conversations drifted toward tactical adjustments, recovery schedules, travel logistics. The laughter returned in smaller bursts, layered with purpose rather than pure release.
Francesco moved toward his locker quietly, setting the Man of the Match award carefully inside before sitting down heavily, elbows resting on his knees.
His body finally began to register the full weight of ninety minutes.
Muscles trembled slightly.
Breathing deepened.
Adrenaline ebbed.
Across the room, Wenger watched him for a moment longer before turning toward his coaching staff, already beginning quiet discussions about Madrid.
The battle wasn't over.
Not even close.
And as the dressing room slowly transitioned from celebration into preparation, Francesco leaned back against the locker, closing his eyes to rest for a moment.
The cool metal of the locker pressed gently against Francesco's back as he leaned into it, eyes closed, letting the final remnants of adrenaline drain slowly from his bloodstream. Around him, the dressing room hummed with a new kind of rhythm now that no longer wild, no longer explosive, but steady. Conversations blended into low murmurs. Ice packs were reapplied. Recovery shakes were opened. Boots were cleaned. Physios moved quietly between players, checking ankles, knees, shoulders, muscles that had been stretched to their limit under the Emirates floodlights.
Francesco inhaled deeply.
The scent of damp grass still clung to his skin, mixing with sweat and the faint sterile smell of antiseptic spray drifting through the room. The weight of the Man of the Match plaque rested safely inside his locker, but the real weight with the responsibility are still sat heavily across his shoulders.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The room looked calmer now. Giroud was already seated, speaking animatedly with a physio while getting treatment on his neck and upper back from the violent header that had sealed the fourth goal. Gnabry sat nearby scrolling through messages on his phone, occasionally shaking his head in disbelief, clearly reading congratulatory floods from friends, family, and teammates from other clubs.
Van Dijk and Koscielny were deep in quiet tactical conversation, using water bottles to represent defensive spacing, replaying moments where Atlético had nearly broken through. Kanté had changed into recovery slides and was sipping quietly from a protein shake, listening to music through one earbud, head nodding faintly to a rhythm only he could hear.
Wenger had retreated briefly into his office area, likely preparing for the media responsibilities still waiting outside these walls.
Francesco rubbed his hands across his face slowly, grounding himself, then pushed himself upright from the bench.
His muscles protested immediately.
Fatigue settled in properly now, no longer hidden behind match intensity. His calves tightened as he stood. His shoulders felt heavy, almost bruised from constant physical battles with Atlético's defenders. His lower back throbbed faintly from sprints, twists, collisions, and awkward landings.
Good pain.
Earned pain.
He grabbed his towel and shower kit, slinging it casually over his shoulder before heading toward the shower area at the far end of the dressing room.
The tiled corridor leading toward the showers felt quieter than the main dressing area. Steam already fogged the glass panels, and the steady sound of running water echoed off the walls in a strangely calming rhythm.
Francesco stepped inside, dropping his kit bag onto the bench before turning on one of the shower heads. The water burst out cold at first, splashing sharply against the white tile floor, before gradually warming as he adjusted the dial.
He stepped under it slowly.
The first contact made him exhale sharply.
Heat spread across his shoulders, loosening muscles that had tightened like wire during the match. Sweat washed away instantly, streaking down his arms and torso, carrying with it the residue of ninety relentless minutes.
He tilted his head forward, letting the water run through his hair, over his neck, down his spine.
For the first time all evening, there was silence inside his head.
No tactical calculations.
No crowd noise.
No scoreboard pressure.
Just water.
Just breath.
He leaned one hand against the tiled wall, eyes closing again as memories from the match replayed instinctively with Özil's perfect assist, Walcott's explosive sprint, the calm finish past Oblak, Giroud's thunderous header, Čech's crucial saves, Van Dijk's towering defensive presence.
And beneath it all…
Madrid.
Always Madrid.
Atlético's stadium would be louder.
More hostile.
More unforgiving.
He knew that.
Gabi's warning lingered like a quiet echo.
Madrid will be different.
Francesco reached for the shampoo bottle, working foam slowly through his hair, methodical, unhurried. Recovery wasn't just physical. It was mental. He allowed himself to relive small details with the way Atlético's midfield shifted, the patterns in their pressing, the spaces that had opened only for seconds before snapping shut again.
The tie wasn't won.
Not even close.
He rinsed the foam away, letting the water run for another minute before finally stepping back, turning the shower off with a soft click.
The sudden quiet felt heavier than the running water had.
He grabbed his towel, drying himself deliberately, patting rather than rubbing, mindful of sore muscles. Then he reached into his kit bag and pulled out his clean Arsenal tracksuit with deep navy with crimson accents, the club crest stitched proudly over the chest.
He pulled the top over his head first, the soft fabric cool against his still-warm skin, followed by the track pants. He slid his feet into clean trainers, tying the laces slowly, each movement grounding him further into post-match reality.
When he finally stepped back into the dressing room, the atmosphere had shifted again.
Players were dressed.
Gear was being packed.
Staff were moving with structured efficiency now.
The night was transitioning from performance to logistics.
Francesco had barely reached his locker when he heard Wenger's voice.
"Francesco."
He looked up.
The manager stood near the office doorway, jacket back on, tie straightened again, glasses perched low on his nose as he studied a tablet briefly before lowering it.
"Join me," Wenger said calmly. "Press conference."
Francesco nodded immediately.
"Of course, boss."
He grabbed his phone, slipped it into his tracksuit pocket, then followed Wenger out of the dressing room and down another corridor lined with UEFA branding banners and directional signage pointing toward media zones.
As they walked side by side, neither spoke for several seconds.
It wasn't awkward.
It was comfortable.
Finally, Wenger spoke quietly.
"You handled the dressing room well."
Francesco glanced toward him.
"They needed reminding," he replied simply.
Wenger nodded.
"Yes. They listen to you."
That meant more than praise.
That meant trust.
They reached the press conference entrance where UEFA media officers stood coordinating entry times and journalist seating arrangements. Flashbulbs popped as soon as Wenger and Francesco appeared at the corridor opening. Cameras lifted instantly. Microphones extended forward like curious birds.
They stepped inside.
The press conference room buzzed with energy. Journalists from across Europe filled the seats with the Spanish reporters scribbling notes, British journalists adjusting recorders, international correspondents whispering quick translations into headsets.
UEFA branding covered the backdrop behind the podium. Two microphones waited atop the table where Wenger and Francesco took their seats.
The room quieted as they settled.
A moderator spoke briefly into a microphone, confirming the start of the session and opening the floor for questions.
Hands shot up immediately.
The first questions went to Wenger from tactical structure, defensive discipline, substitutions, managing momentum after Atlético's goal. Wenger answered calmly, thoughtfully, weaving strategic detail with measured diplomacy.
Then came the shift.
A Spanish journalist raised his hand, voice carrying a Madrid accent, sharp but respectful.
"Francesco," he began, "after tonight's 4–1 result, many believe Arsenal already have one foot in the Champions League final. Are you and the team already starting to think about the final?"
The room leaned forward slightly.
It was the question everyone wanted answered.
Francesco didn't rush.
He adjusted the microphone slightly closer, fingers resting loosely against the table before speaking.
"No," he said simply.
The directness created a ripple of quiet murmurs.
He continued.
"Football is round," he said, voice calm but firm. "Anything can happen. Atlético Madrid are a very strong team. Everyone in this room knows what they are capable of, especially at home."
Several journalists nodded subtly.
"We have a good advantage," Francesco admitted. "Yes. But it is only an advantage. It is not qualification. Not yet."
His eyes moved slowly across the room, making contact with reporters from Spain, England, Germany, Italy that deliberate, controlled.
"I respect Atlético too much to think about the final now," he continued. "And I will make sure our team never underestimates them. Not until the final moment of the second leg."
His words landed with weight, not arrogance, not rehearsed bravado, just conviction.
Another journalist raised a hand.
"Does that pressure you as captain?" they asked. "Carrying responsibility to maintain focus?"
Francesco shook his head slightly.
"No," he replied. "It motivates me."
Wenger allowed himself the faintest smile beside him.
The press conference continued for several more questions from fitness updates, tactical flexibility, player partnerships, psychological preparation for Madrid. Francesco answered each carefully, never dismissive, never overly confident, always grounded in respect and discipline.
Finally, the moderator signaled the final question.
It came from a French reporter.
"Francesco, two goals, Man of the Match, leadership… do you believe this is your best Champions League performance?"
Francesco paused briefly.
"No," he said.
The room reacted with surprised laughter.
"My best performance," he added, "is always the next one."
Even Wenger chuckled quietly beside him.
The moderator closed the session.
Flashbulbs erupted again as both men stood, shaking hands with UEFA officials before exiting the room through a side corridor.
The stadium interior had grown quieter now. Most fans had already left. Cleaning crews worked methodically across concourses. Security teams coordinated exits. Equipment staff rolled crates toward loading docks.
Francesco and Wenger walked side by side again, heading toward the team bus area beneath the stadium.
"You answered well," Wenger said calmly.
Francesco shrugged slightly.
"I answered honestly."
"That is why it worked," Wenger replied.
They reached the underground parking section where Arsenal's team bus waited with sleek, club crest shining under fluorescent lighting.
Inside, players were already seated.
Music played softly from someone's portable speaker. Some players wore headphones. Others chatted quietly. Recovery drinks and snack packs were being passed around by staff.
Giroud sat near the back, recounting his goal again as this time with slightly less theatrical flair but equal enthusiasm. Gnabry leaned across the aisle listening eagerly. Kanté sat near the window, staring outside with quiet contentment.
Van Dijk and Koscielny reviewed footage already playing on a tablet between them.
As Wenger and Francesco boarded, several players nodded respectfully.
Francesco moved toward his usual seat, dropping into it with a controlled sigh as fatigue finally wrapped around him fully. Wenger sat near the front, already speaking quietly with assistant coaches.
The bus engine rumbled to life moments later.
Slowly, it pulled away from the stadium loading bay.
London's night streets rolled past the windows with streetlights stretching into glowing lines across the glass. Traffic hummed steadily. The stadium lights faded gradually behind them, shrinking into the skyline.
Inside the bus, the mood was calm.
Satisfied.
Focused.
Not celebratory.
Exactly how Francesco wanted it.
He leaned his head gently against the seat, staring out into the moving city lights, replaying moments from the match again that not emotionally now, but analytically.
Press triggers.
Defensive spacing.
Counterattack timing.
Atlético's midfield rotations.
The road to Madrid had already begun.
Morning arrived quietly over London Colney, but inside the Arsenal Training Centre, the day had already begun long before the sun fully climbed through the grey English winter sky.
Recovery days always carried a different rhythm.
Not slower.
Not easier.
Just… controlled.
The faint mist still hovered above the manicured training pitches, thin layers of frost clinging stubbornly to the edges of the grass where sunlight hadn't yet touched. The training ground looked deceptively peaceful, almost serene, but beneath that calm surface lived a meticulously structured operation designed to rebuild bodies that had been pushed to their limits less than twelve hours earlier.
Inside the medical and recovery wing, the lights glowed bright and clinical. The faint scent of antiseptic mixed with fresh coffee drifting from the staff kitchen area. Screens glowed with biometric data. Clipboards moved between hands. Tablets displayed muscle load charts, heart rate variability statistics, and sprint exertion graphs gathered during the match against Atlético Madrid.
Francesco arrived just after 8:15 a.m.
Earlier than most.
He stepped out of his BMW X5 into the cold air, the chill brushing against his face instantly, helping wake the final remnants of sleep still lingering behind his eyes. He locked the car with a quiet beep and adjusted the strap of his small kit bag over his shoulder.
The training complex stood ahead of him, sleek glass panels reflecting the pale morning sky. He paused briefly, stretching his shoulders back, rolling his neck slowly from side to side. The stiffness had settled deeper overnight. Not painful. But present. Like a reminder carved into muscle memory.
Good reminders.
He stepped inside.
The reception staff greeted him warmly as usual, but their tone carried subtle admiration that hadn't been there months ago. Success changed how people spoke to you, even when they tried not to.
"Morning, Francesco."
"Morning," he replied with a soft nod and a faint smile.
He swiped his access card and walked down the corridor toward the recovery suite. The hallway walls were lined with framed photos from historic Arsenal moments from Invincibles celebrations, FA Cup triumphs, Thierry Henry's iconic Highbury slide, Dennis Bergkamp's artistry frozen in black and white, Francesco and the treble squad. Francesco's eyes brushed over them as he walked.
Not admiration.
Motivation.
He pushed through the recovery suite doors.
Inside, the controlled chaos of elite recovery was already alive.
Physiotherapists moved with efficient purpose between treatment tables. Ice baths hummed quietly along one wall, steam rising gently from adjacent hydrotherapy pools. Stationary bikes lined another section where players pedaled slowly at low resistance, designed to flush lactic acid from exhausted muscles. Soft instrumental music played faintly through overhead speakers, intentionally calming, carefully chosen.
Kanté was already there.
Of course he was.
He sat on one of the bikes, pedaling steadily, posture perfect, face relaxed, sweat barely forming along his hairline. A physiotherapist stood beside him reviewing data on a tablet.
"Morning, N'Golo," Francesco said as he approached.
Kanté glanced up, instantly smiling with that same gentle warmth he carried everywhere.
"Morning, Francesco. How are the legs?"
"Still attached," Francesco replied dryly.
Kanté laughed quietly.
"Good sign."
Nearby, Walcott stretched with resistance bands, his face slightly tightened as he worked through hip mobility exercises under supervision. Giroud lay on a treatment table receiving deep tissue massage along his upper back and neck, occasionally wincing but still managing to hold a conversation with the physio about last night's header.
"You see?" Giroud was saying in his thick French accent. "Perfect timing. Perfect contact. Pure technique."
"Pure collision," the physio corrected calmly, pressing into a tight muscle knot that made Giroud grunt dramatically.
Gnabry entered moments later, hood pulled loosely over his head, phone still in hand as he typed out a message before stuffing it into his pocket.
Van Dijk and Koscielny walked in together, already discussing defensive positioning again, their conversation low but intense, replaying moments Atlético had almost exploited in the second half.
Francesco moved toward the physiotherapy assessment area where a familiar voice called out.
"Captain. Over here."
It was Neal Reynolds, one of Arsenal's senior football physiotherapists. Calm, observant, and famously meticulous, Neal had built a reputation among players for spotting potential injury risks before symptoms even surfaced.
Francesco sat on the edge of the assessment table as Neal approached with a tablet.
"Scale of one to ten," Neal said without preamble. "Overall muscle soreness?"
"Six," Francesco replied honestly.
Neal nodded, tapping the number into his system.
"Localized pain?"
"Calves, both sides. Slight lower back tightness. Shoulders heavy but manageable."
Neal gestured toward the examination mat.
"Lie down. Let's check range of motion."
Francesco obeyed, stretching out flat while Neal began working methodically through mobility tests. He lifted Francesco's leg slowly, rotating the hip joint carefully, watching not just flexibility but resistance patterns, muscle reaction timing, micro-compensations players often didn't even feel themselves.
"Hamstrings tight," Neal noted quietly. "Expected after those sprint loads. You hit peak acceleration twenty-two times last night."
Francesco raised an eyebrow slightly.
"That many?"
"More than your season average," Neal replied, scrolling through data. "Also recorded your highest top-speed sprint of the campaign in the 63rd minute."
Francesco remembered it instantly. The breakaway run that had stretched Atlético's defensive line seconds before Giroud's goal sequence.
Neal moved to calf palpation, pressing gently but firmly along muscle fibers.
Francesco exhaled sharply when Neal found a particularly tight knot.
"There it is," Neal murmured. "Nothing alarming. But this is exactly why recovery days matter. We're not just healing, we're preventing."
He stepped back slightly.
"You'll do hydrotherapy first. Then guided mobility. After that, soft tissue release session. No pitch work today beyond low-impact ball circulation if the sports science team clears it."
Francesco nodded.
"Understood."
"Also," Neal added, tapping his tablet again, "your workload index is climbing slightly above your seasonal baseline. Not dangerous, but we'll monitor it closely heading into Madrid."
Madrid.
The word landed quietly but heavily.
Francesco sat up slowly.
"Good," he said simply. "I want to be monitored."
Neal gave him a knowing look.
"We know."
Francesco moved toward the hydrotherapy section where large stainless-steel recovery pools sat side by side with one filled with ice-cold water, the other maintained at controlled warm temperatures. Contrast therapy. Brutal but effective.
Walcott was already climbing into the cold pool, face braced like a man preparing for battle.
"Never gets easier," Walcott muttered.
"It's not supposed to," Francesco replied as he stepped in beside him.
The cold hit like electricity.
Muscles seized instinctively. Breath shortened sharply. His skin prickled instantly as blood vessels constricted under the temperature shock. He gripped the pool railing, forcing slow, controlled breathing until his body adapted.
Across the room, Giroud emerged from his massage session, hair slightly damp from treatment oils, walking carefully toward the warm pool while muttering something about French spas being significantly more civilized than English recovery methods.
Van Dijk submerged almost completely in another ice bath, jaw clenched but eyes closed, mentally riding out the shock with stoic calm.
Koscielny followed seconds later, hissing through his teeth but refusing to step back out.
The room filled with the subtle, shared suffering of elite athletes rebuilding themselves piece by piece.
After several contrast cycles, Francesco stepped out, his skin flushed red from rapid blood flow changes. He wrapped a towel around his shoulders and moved toward the guided mobility zone where yoga mats were arranged in neat rows.
A sports therapist named Elena gestured for him to join.
"Captain, we'll focus on spinal decompression and hip mobility first."
Francesco nodded, lowering himself onto the mat.
The exercises were slow. Precise. Almost meditative. Controlled stretches designed not to push limits but to restore them. Each movement demanded concentration from breathing patterns, posture alignment, muscle activation sequences.
Around him, teammates moved through similar routines. The room remained quiet except for occasional instruction cues and the soft sound of stretching fabric and controlled exhalations.
Halfway through the session, Wenger entered the recovery suite.
He didn't interrupt.
He never did.
He simply observed, hands clasped behind his back, eyes moving thoughtfully across his squad. He spoke briefly with the medical team, reviewing data, asking quiet questions, absorbing information like a strategist mapping battlefield resources.
When his gaze landed briefly on Francesco, there was a subtle nod.
Approval.
Expectation.
Both at once.
After mobility came soft tissue release. Foam rollers. Targeted massage guns. Manual fascial stretching. It was uncomfortable work, often more painful than match collisions, but it restored fluid movement patterns essential for long-term performance.
By late morning, players transitioned toward the low-intensity pitch area.
Not training.
Just activation.
The frost had fully melted now, leaving the grass slick and glistening under pale sunlight. Cones were arranged loosely. Small rondo circles were marked. Passing drills designed to maintain technical sharpness without physical strain were already underway.
Francesco stepped onto the pitch, feeling the familiar give of grass under his boots. The sensation instantly grounded him. Even on recovery days, the pitch felt like home.
He joined a small passing circle with Kanté, Özil, Gnabry, and Ramsey.
The tempo was relaxed but precise.
One-touch passes.
Two-touch control.
Movement without sprinting.
Özil, as always, made it look effortless. His touches remained silky, his vision sharp even at half intensity.
"You're trending everywhere," Özil said casually while cushioning a pass into Francesco's path.
"I hope trending includes winning in Madrid," Francesco replied.
Özil smirked faintly.
"Trending never wins matches. Discipline does."
Ramsey chuckled.
"Listen to Professor Özil."
But the tone stayed light.
Comfortable.
Confident.
Not complacent.
After thirty minutes, sports science staff signaled the end of pitch activation. Players gathered water bottles, chatting quietly as they walked back toward the facility entrance.
Inside, recovery shakes were distributed. Nutritionists monitored intake carefully, ensuring optimal protein and carbohydrate balance tailored to each player's exertion data from the previous night.
Francesco sat beside Van Dijk at one of the long cafeteria tables.
"Your sprint to block Griezmann in the 62nd minute," Van Dijk said suddenly. "Saved us."
Francesco shrugged slightly.
"You blocked him twice earlier."
Van Dijk shook his head.
"That second one mattered more."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Shared respect.
Unspoken understanding between leaders at opposite ends of the pitch.
Across the room, laughter erupted as Giroud reenacted his header again as this time using a bread roll as a demonstration prop, sending crumbs flying across the table while teammates groaned and laughed.
The atmosphere felt healthy.
Balanced.
Focused.
Not distracted by victory.
Exactly how elite teams sustained momentum across brutal European schedules.
Later in the afternoon, players rotated through final medical check stations. Blood oxygen saturation. Hydration levels. Neuromuscular reaction testing. Each player's data was logged meticulously, feeding into individualized training loads for the coming days.
Francesco finished his final assessment just as Neal handed him a printed summary sheet.
"Green status," Neal said. "With caution flags on calf fatigue and lumbar stiffness. You'll follow modified intensity tomorrow before returning to full tactical sessions."
Francesco studied the sheet briefly, then folded it carefully.
"Thank you."
Neal smiled slightly.
"You take recovery seriously. That's why you stay available."
Availability.
In elite football, sometimes more valuable than brilliance.
As Francesco prepared to leave the facility that afternoon, he paused briefly at the large viewing window overlooking the training pitches. The winter sun hung low now, casting long shadows across the grass where youth academy players had begun their own sessions, sprinting with youthful fearlessness, chasing balls without thinking about muscle load charts or recovery data.
He watched them for a moment.
Then he turned, grabbing his bag, shoulders still heavy but body already rebuilding itself, step by step, repetition by repetition.
______________________________________________
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