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(A/N: I hope everyone give my new novel Skyrim a chance and added it to their library, also give the power stones on Skyrim!)
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As Francesco looked around the Wanda Metropolitano that still loud, still proud, still defiant as he felt it settle fully inside him.
As the noise continued to roll around the Wanda Metropolitano with boos, applause, songs that colliding into one vast emotional tide as Francesco stayed where he was for a moment longer.
He didn't rush.
Victories like this deserved to be felt, not sprinted past.
Around him, Arsenal players were still embracing, some laughing, some simply standing still with hands on hips, letting the magnitude of it all sink in. A Champions League final. Earned here. In this place. Against this team.
But Francesco's eyes drifted elsewhere.
Toward the red and white.
Toward Atlético Madrid.
Because beneath the noise, beneath the rivalry and the bruises and the ninety minutes of battle, there was something else now was something quieter and heavier.
Loss.
He stepped away from his teammates gently, tapping Koscielny's shoulder once as he passed.
"I'll be right back," he said.
Koscielny nodded, understanding immediately.
Francesco crossed the pitch slowly, boots crunching softly against the grass, head up, shoulders relaxed. He didn't carry triumph in his posture. He carried respect.
The first Atlético player he reached was Saúl.
The midfielder stood near the edge of the center circle, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling hard. Sweat streaked down his face, eyes glassy but fixed somewhere far away. He didn't seem to notice Francesco approach at first.
"Saúl," Francesco said quietly.
Saúl turned, surprised for a brief moment. Then he nodded.
"Hell of a fight," Francesco added.
Saúl let out a slow breath, a half-smile flickering and dying just as quickly. "Not enough."
"Still," Francesco said. "You didn't stop running. Not once."
That landed.
Saúl extended his hand, gripping Francesco's forearm instead of his palm. "Go win it," he said simply.
Francesco nodded. "We'll try."
A few steps away, Koke sat on the grass, legs stretched out in front of him, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. He hadn't even made it to the bench yet after being subbed. His shoulders were hunched inward, the posture of someone who had given everything and still come up short.
Francesco approached and crouched slightly in front of him.
"Koke."
Koke looked up. His eyes were red that not from sweat.
"We kept coming," Koke said, voice rough. "Didn't matter."
"It mattered," Francesco replied without hesitation. "You made it a war."
Koke swallowed, jaw tightening. "That's not always enough in Europe."
"No," Francesco agreed softly. "But it's never nothing."
They sat in silence for a second, the noise of the stadium washing over them like distant surf. Then Koke pushed himself to his feet and nodded once, firmly.
"Good luck," he said. "You earned it."
Nearby, Carrasco stood with his hands on his head, staring up into the stands as if searching for a familiar face among the sea of red and white. His chest heaved, breaths sharp and uneven.
Francesco didn't say anything at first. He just stood beside him.
Carrasco noticed eventually.
"Counterattack," Carrasco muttered, almost to himself. "Always the counterattack."
Francesco gave a small, sympathetic smile. "It hurts when it's perfect."
Carrasco let out a short laugh, bitter but genuine. "Yeah. It does."
They shook hands, brief but sincere.
And then Francesco saw Griezmann.
He was a few yards away, hands resting on his hips, staring toward the Atlético supporters. His expression wasn't anger. It wasn't even disappointment, exactly.
It was emptiness.
The kind that followed nights when you gave everything and watched it slip anyway.
Francesco hesitated for half a second.
Then he walked over.
"Antoine," he said.
Griezmann turned. His eyes sharpened instantly with competitive instinct flaring even now, but it softened just as quickly.
"Francesco," Griezmann replied.
They stood facing each other, two forwards who had shaped the night in different ways, both carrying the physical residue of battle with mud on their socks, grass stains on their shorts, sweat-soaked collars.
"Hell of a goal," Francesco said.
Griezmann shrugged lightly. "Didn't change anything."
"It changed the game," Francesco said. "Just not the ending."
Griezmann exhaled slowly, then nodded. "That's football."
They stood there for another beat, neither rushing the moment.
Then Francesco gestured lightly to his shirt.
"Swap?"
Griezmann didn't hesitate.
"Of course."
They each pulled their shirts over their heads, the fabric clinging slightly before coming free. Griezmann handed his over first with red and white stripes, still warm, name and number bold across the back.
Francesco accepted it with both hands.
In return, he passed over his own Arsenal shirt, red with white sleeves, the captain's armband still faintly creased around the arm.
Griezmann held it for a second longer than necessary, looking down at it thoughtfully.
"Final," he said quietly.
"Yes," Francesco replied.
Griezmann nodded, then finally smiled with a small one, tired but real. "Go win it. Someone should."
"I hope so," Francesco said.
They shook hands, then pulled each other into a brief embrace, mutual respect communicated without words.
Around the stadium, the post-match rituals continued.
Arsenal players completed their lap toward the away end, applause still roaring. Atlético supporters stayed too as some clapping, some booing, some simply watching in silence as their players acknowledged them.
Francesco returned to his teammates eventually, Griezmann's shirt folded carefully in his hands.
Alexis spotted it immediately.
"Swap?" he asked, grinning.
"Yeah," Francesco replied. "Earned it."
Alexis nodded approvingly. "Respect."
They moved together now toward the away end, arms around shoulders again, applauding long and loud. Francesco raised Griezmann's shirt briefly toward the stands, acknowledging the battle that had taken place here.
The crowd responded that not with hostility this time, but with something closer to understanding.
They lingered a little longer in front of the away end.
Long enough for the songs to blur into each other, long enough for individual faces in the crowd to become visible with people with hands on their heads, people crying, people laughing, people pointing phones that shook slightly because their owners couldn't quite keep still.
Francesco felt it all wash over him.
Not like a wave this time, but like warmth.
This was the part he never rushed. Not anymore.
Eventually, though, the stewards began gently herding players toward the tunnel. The officials were already exchanging paperwork. Camera crews drifted closer, predatory but patient, waiting for the right moments.
Francesco tucked Griezmann's shirt more securely under his arm and turned with the rest of the squad, beginning the slow walk toward the tunnel entrance. Boots scraped against the concrete ramp now, the sound echoing faintly as the stadium noise softened behind them, replaced by the hollow acoustics of the structure beneath the stands.
Alexis walked beside him, still buzzing, still vibrating with leftover adrenaline. His hair was damp, curls plastered to his forehead, eyes bright and alive in a way that suggested he wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon.
"You feel that?" Alexis said, low, almost to himself.
Francesco nodded. "Yeah."
"Final again," Alexis added, shaking his head. "People think it gets normal."
"It never does," Francesco replied. "If it does, you're done."
Alexis grinned at that, sharp and approving.
Just before they reached the tunnel mouth, a voice cut through the low hum.
"Francesco! Alexis! One moment, please."
They both turned.
A UEFA staff member stood a few meters away, headset looped around his neck, credentials swinging against his chest. He gestured politely but insistently toward the pitch-side interview area, where a small cluster of lights had already been set up. A camera operator adjusted his shoulder rig. A presenter stood waiting, earpiece in, cards in hand.
Francesco exhaled softly.
Here we go.
He glanced at Alexis, who rolled his shoulders once, loosening up, then nodded.
"Alright," Francesco said. "Let's do it."
They handed their shirts to a kit man and followed the UEFA staffer back out, stepping once more onto the edge of the pitch.
The contrast was immediate.
The lights were harsher here, bright white against the night. The noise of the stadium swelled again, not as intense as before, but focused now, curious. Some fans noticed them and began to cheer. Others booed reflexively. Cameras pivoted.
Francesco positioned himself slightly to the right, Alexis to his left. They stood shoulder to shoulder, sweat-streaked, tired, still very much inside the moment.
The interviewer smiled broadly as the red light on the camera blinked on.
"Gentlemen," she began, voice crisp, practiced, but warm. "First of all, congratulations to both of you. Another incredible night, another Champions League final for Arsenal."
She turned slightly toward Francesco first.
"Francesco, this is now your third consecutive Champions League final. Not many players in history can say that. How does it feel, standing here tonight, knowing you're going back again?"
Francesco didn't answer immediately.
He took a breath.
Not for the cameras, but for himself.
"It feels… heavy," he said finally, voice calm but textured. "In a good way."
The interviewer raised an eyebrow slightly, inviting him to continue.
"Because you remember all of them," Francesco went on. "The first one, you're almost overwhelmed. Everything's new, everything's loud, everything feels unreal. The second one, you understand what it costs. You understand how thin the margins are. And the third…" He paused, eyes flicking briefly toward the stands, then back to the lens. "The third one reminds you that nothing is guaranteed. That you still have to suffer for it."
Alexis nodded beside him, murmuring agreement under his breath.
"We came here tonight knowing exactly what Atlético Madrid would do," Francesco continued. "They never stop. They never make it easy. To come through here, in this stadium, against this team… yeah. It means a lot."
The interviewer smiled, clearly appreciating the depth of the response.
"Alexis," she said, turning toward him, "a goals for you tonight, and an assist as well. You've been decisive all throughout this campaign. How proud are you of this team performance?"
Alexis let out a short laugh, shaking his head slightly.
"Very," he said simply. Then he leaned forward a fraction, energy still buzzing through him. "But not just because of the goals. Because of how we suffered together."
He gestured vaguely behind him, toward the pitch.
"There were moments where they were on top. Where the stadium was pushing them forward. Where it would be easy to lose your head. But we stayed together. The defenders, the midfielders, everyone. That's when you know you are a real team."
The interviewer nodded.
"You mentioned suffering," she said. "This was a high-scoring match, but it never felt comfortable. From the outside, though, some might look at the aggregate score and think it was straightforward. Was it?"
Francesco let out a quiet, almost incredulous breath.
"No," he said immediately. "Not at all."
He glanced at Alexis, then back to the camera.
"Aggregate scores lie," he added. "They don't show momentum. They don't show emotion. They don't show what happens when you concede and the whole stadium believes again."
He tapped his chest lightly.
"When they scored tonight, we felt it. Every time. That's when experience matters. That's when you slow the game, when you talk, when you make the right foul, the right pass. That's not something you see on a highlights reel."
The interviewer smiled knowingly.
"Speaking of experience," she said, "both of you have now played at the very highest level for many years. Francesco, as captain tonight, how important was leadership in moments like this?"
Francesco shifted his weight slightly, boots scraping softly against the turf.
"Leadership isn't shouting," he said. "Not really."
He thought of Koscielny. Of Kanté. Of Van Dijk throwing himself into headers. Of Cazorla slowing everything down.
"It's staying calm when the game wants you to panic," he continued. "It's making sure the young players don't feel alone. It's trusting the plan, even when the noise tells you otherwise."
He smiled faintly.
"And sometimes it's knowing when your job is done, and letting others finish it."
The interviewer caught that.
"You were substituted not long after Arsenal's third goal," she said. "Was that a difficult moment for you, personally?"
Francesco shook his head.
"No," he replied without hesitation. "That was trust."
He glanced toward the bench area instinctively.
"The manager made the right call. Fresh legs, control, experience. Giroud, Gnabry, Santi as they came in and did exactly what was needed. My responsibility was to support them, even from the bench."
Alexis chuckled softly.
"He still shouted like he was on the pitch," Alexis added, drawing a brief laugh from the interviewer.
Francesco smiled. "Old habits."
The interviewer allowed the moment to breathe, then shifted the tone slightly.
"Alexis," she said, "you've played in many big matches across different leagues, different competitions. Where does this one rank for you?"
Alexis thought for a moment, lips pursed.
"This one is special," he said finally. "Because of where we are as a team."
He gestured between himself and Francesco, then outward.
"This group has grown together. We've lost finals. We've won trophies. We've been criticized. We've been doubted. To come back again, to reach another final, it shows something."
His voice hardened slightly.
"And we're not satisfied just to be there."
That landed.
The interviewer nodded, sensing the shift.
"One final question for both of you," she said. "Looking ahead to the final, without giving too much away, of course. What will be the key for Arsenal if you want to lift the trophy for the third time in a row?"
Francesco and Alexis exchanged a brief glance.
Then Francesco spoke.
"Respect," he said.
"For the opponent," he clarified. "For the occasion. For the work it takes to win something like this."
He paused.
"And belief. Not arrogance. Belief."
Alexis nodded emphatically.
"And hunger," he added. "Same hunger we had tonight. Same hunger we had in the first minute."
The interviewer smiled broadly.
"Gentlemen, congratulations again. Best of luck in the final."
"Thank you," Francesco and Alexis said almost in unison.
The red light blinked off.
Just like that, the moment ended.
The interviewer shook their hands, cameras pulled away, lights dimmed slightly. The stadium noise, once again, became background rather than focus.
Francesco let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Alexis rolled his neck, stretching.
"Not bad," he said. "You didn't even swear."
Francesco laughed softly. "I'm growing."
They turned and resumed their walk toward the tunnel.
This time, nothing stopped them.
Inside, the corridor swallowed them whole with the echo of boots, the distant muffled roar of the crowd now sealed behind concrete and steel. The air was cooler here, calmer.
The corridor bent once, then twice, narrowing slightly as it led them deeper into the belly of the stadium.
The roar outside dulled further with every step, transformed into a distant, almost abstract vibration. Here, there was only the sound of boots on concrete, the faint hum of ventilation, the occasional echo of laughter drifting toward them from somewhere ahead.
Alexis nudged Francesco lightly with his elbow.
"Listen," he said.
Francesco tilted his head.
At first it was indistinct, just noise layered on noise. Then it resolved itself.
Music.
Shouts.
Laughter.
Someone singing wildly out of tune.
Francesco smiled before he even realized he was doing it.
"Sounds like they didn't wait for us," he said.
Alexis snorted. "They never do."
They rounded the final corner, the door to the dressing room already ajar, and the sound hit them full force.
Chaos.
Controlled chaos, but chaos all the same.
The room was alive.
Someone had connected a speaker, music thumping loud enough to make the benches vibrate. Empty water bottles littered the floor, some crushed, some still rolling slowly from where they'd been kicked. Towels hung half-fallen from hooks. Ice packs were piled haphazardly in one corner, forgotten in the rush of celebration.
Gnabry was standing on a bench, shirtless, arms raised, leading a chant that had long since lost any coherent lyrics. Bellerín danced near him, hair flying, laughing uncontrollably as Holding tried and failed to clap along in rhythm. Ramsey sat on the floor with his back against a locker, head tilted back, eyes closed, grinning as if he were replaying the night in his mind.
Van Dijk stood near the center of the room, massive arms wrapped around Kanté in a bear hug that lifted him clean off the ground. Kanté laughed helplessly, feet dangling, clapping his hands together in delighted protest.
"Put him down!" Cazorla shouted, laughing. "We still need him for the final!"
Van Dijk complied, gently setting Kanté back on the floor like a priceless artifact.
In the far corner, Wenger stood with a small smile, hands folded behind his back, watching it all unfold. He wasn't participating, but there was unmistakable pride in his eyes. He caught Francesco's gaze as he entered and nodded once, subtly.
You see it too.
Francesco and Alexis stepped fully inside, the door swinging shut behind them with a dull thud.
The reaction was immediate.
"CAPTAIN!"
"FINAAAAAL!"
"THIRD ONE!"
Someone that Francesco wasn't even sure who, grabbed him around the shoulders and pulled him into a spinning embrace. Another pair of arms joined, then another, until he was momentarily swallowed by bodies and laughter and sweat.
Alexis didn't fare any better.
"DOS GOLES!" someone yelled.
Alexis laughed, hands up in mock surrender as water splashed against his back, cold and shocking.
"Hey! Hey! Easy!" he protested, grinning anyway.
Francesco emerged from the tangle, slightly breathless, hair damp now from more than just sweat. He shook his head once, clearing it, then lifted his hands, clapping loudly twice.
"Alright," he called out. "Alright!"
It took a moment, but gradually the noise dipped that not stopped, just lowered enough to hear.
Francesco stood in the middle of the room, Alexis beside him, both still in their kits, socks muddy, legs heavy.
He looked around.
Every face was lit with the same thing.
Joy.
Relief.
Belief.
"Third final in a row," Francesco said, voice carrying easily. "That's not normal. That's not luck."
A few players nodded, sobering slightly, listening.
"But listen," he continued, tone calm, measured. "We celebrate this. We've earned it. Nights like this don't come for free."
He gestured vaguely back toward the pitch, toward the stadium beyond concrete and steel.
"But we also remember why we're here."
The room quieted further now.
"Our target this season hasn't changed," Francesco said. "Defend the treble. Finish what we started."
Alexis grinned, stepping forward slightly.
"That doesn't mean no fun," he added quickly. "It just means… controlled fun."
Laughter rippled through the room.
Francesco smiled, grateful.
"So celebrate," he finished. "Just don't forget what's next."
That was all he needed to say.
The music surged back up, louder now, as if on cue.
Someone turned the volume even higher.
Gnabry resumed his place on the bench, this time dragging Bellerín up with him. They bounced together, arms around each other's shoulders, shouting lyrics that bore no resemblance to the actual song.
Koscielny approached Francesco quietly, offering him a bottle of water.
"Well said," he murmured.
Francesco took it, nodding. "They know."
Koscielny glanced around the room, eyes softening. "They do."
Francesco finally allowed himself to relax.
He sat down on the bench in front of his locker, unlacing his boots slowly, deliberately. His legs ached now that the adrenaline had begun to fade, a deep, satisfying soreness that reminded him just how much he'd given.
Alexis dropped down beside him, towel draped around his shoulders.
"Three finals," Alexis said again, shaking his head. "Sometimes I still can't believe it."
Francesco leaned back slightly, elbows resting on the bench behind him.
"Believe it," he said. "We built this."
Alexis nodded, eyes distant for a moment. "Yeah."
Across the room, Giroud stood with Holding and Ramsey, miming the counterattack goal with exaggerated gestures, laughter bursting out every few seconds. Holding tried to replicate Giroud's chest control and nearly tripped over his own feet, sending the group into hysterics.
Cazorla sat cross-legged on the floor, phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapidly in Spanish, smiling wide as he talked. From the bits Francesco could catch, it was family. Always family.
Van Dijk had finally sat down too, massive frame hunched slightly as he unwrapped tape from his wrists, calm now, composed. Kanté sat nearby, sipping a recovery drink, still smiling quietly, eyes bright.
Wenger eventually stepped forward.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
The room stilled almost instinctively.
"Enjoy this evening," Wenger said, measured, warm. "You deserve it."
He paused, eyes moving slowly from face to face.
"But tomorrow, we recover. And then, we prepare."
A few nods. A few murmurs of agreement.
"We are not done," Wenger added softly.
Then he smiled.
"But tonight... tonight, you were magnificent."
That earned another surge of applause, not wild this time, but deep and sincere.
As Wenger stepped back, Francesco caught Alexis watching him thoughtfully.
"He still has it," Alexis said quietly.
Francesco nodded. "Always did."
Time blurred after that.
Physios moved through the room, working quietly, efficiently, taping, massaging, checking. Ice packs were distributed again, this time actually used. Players rotated in and out of the showers, steam filling the adjoining area, laughter echoing through tiled walls.
Francesco showered last.
He stood under the hot water longer than usual, letting it pound against his shoulders, his back, washing away sweat, grime, and the residue of tension he hadn't realized he was carrying. He closed his eyes briefly, replaying moments from the goals, the roar, Griezmann's face when they swapped shirts, the way the away end had sung long after the final whistle.
When he stepped back into the dressing room, towel wrapped around his waist, the energy had shifted again.
Still celebratory, but calmer now.
More grounded.
Players sat in small groups, talking quietly, laughing softly. Phones buzzed constantly with messages from family, friends, former teammates, people who only surfaced on nights like this.
Francesco dressed slowly, pulling on a clean shirt, then his tracksuit top. He folded Griezmann's shirt carefully once more and placed it into his bag, where it would stay safe.
Alexis sat nearby, scrolling through his phone, occasionally snorting with laughter.
"Social media is insane," he said. "Everyone's an expert."
Francesco smiled faintly. "They always are."
Alexis locked his phone and leaned back.
"You know," he said, tone thoughtful now, "third final… people will expect it now."
Francesco met his gaze.
"Let them," he said. "Expectations mean you're doing something right."
Alexis considered that, then nodded.
Wenger didn't interrupt the room loudly.
He never did.
He waited.
He stood near the doorway, hands folded behind his back again, posture relaxed but eyes sharp, letting the noise crest and fall on its own. Eventually, almost instinctively, conversations softened. Laughter dipped. Heads turned.
"Francesco," Wenger said calmly. "Laurent."
Francesco looked up from tying his trainers. Koscielny, who had just finished pulling on his jacket, straightened as well.
"Yes, boss?" Francesco replied.
Wenger gestured gently toward the door. "Press conference. The two of you."
There was no drama in it. No weight added unnecessarily. Just another responsibility, another moment where leadership extended beyond the pitch.
Francesco nodded. "Of course."
Koscielny glanced at Francesco briefly, then gave a small, wry smile. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be," Francesco said.
They grabbed their jackets, exchanged quick nods with the others, and followed Wenger out of the dressing room.
The corridor felt different now.
Quieter.
The adrenaline had faded into something steadier, heavier. The concrete walls seemed closer, the air cooler. Somewhere behind them, the dressing room noise swelled again as the door closed, sealing celebration behind it.
The walk to the press room was unhurried. UEFA staff guided them through a series of turns, past security checkpoints, past walls plastered with Champions League branding and photographs of past winners with ghosts of triumph staring out from glossy panels.
Francesco caught one in passing.
An Arsenal side from one year ago, lifting the trophy under a cascade of silver confetti.
He didn't slow.
The press room itself was already buzzing.
Rows of journalists filled the seats, laptops open, cameras perched, microphones clustered. The Arsenal crest sat proudly behind the table at the front, flanked by Champions League insignia. Bottles of water were neatly placed, untouched.
Wenger took his seat in the center.
Francesco sat to his right. Koscielny to his left.
The flashbulbs began immediately.
Wenger waited until the room settled before speaking.
"Good evening," he said. "I think you have many questions."
A ripple of restrained laughter passed through the room.
The first question came quickly, directed at Wenger, about the match, about Atlético, about the emotions of the night. Wenger answered calmly, thoughtfully, praising the opponent, acknowledging the difficulty, emphasizing discipline.
Then the focus shifted.
"Francesco," a journalist called. "Three Champions League finals in a row. How do you explain this level of consistency in Europe?"
Francesco leaned slightly forward, hands folded loosely on the table.
"You don't explain it with one thing," he said. "It's not tactics alone. It's not talent alone."
He glanced briefly toward Wenger.
"It's culture. It's standards. Every season, the expectation here isn't to compete. It's to win. And when you fall short, you don't make excuses. You come back sharper."
Another hand shot up.
"Laurent," a reporter said. "Defensively, Arsenal were under pressure for long stretches tonight. How proud are you of the back line's resilience?"
Koscielny nodded once before answering.
"Very proud," he said simply. "Because it's not easy to stay compact here. The crowd pushes. They make you feel like you're always one step late. But we trusted each other."
He paused.
"And when you trust each other, you can suffer together."
Questions flowed steadily after that.
About leadership. About Alexis. About the final. About history.
Eventually, someone asked the question everyone expected.
"Coach," a journalist said, leaning forward, "Arsenal have now reached the Champions League final for the third consecutive season and have won the previous two. If you win again, you would become the first club to win the Champions League three times in a row. Does that add pressure?"
Wenger smiled faintly.
"Pressure," he said, "is a privilege."
He gestured lightly toward Francesco and Koscielny.
"These players understand that. We will prepare as we always do. With respect. With humility. And with ambition."
The conference ended not with a bang, but with a quiet sense of inevitability.
They stood, shook hands, posed briefly for photographs, then were ushered back through the corridors once more.
Outside, the night had deepened.
The team bus waited beneath the stadium lights, engine humming softly. One by one, players climbed aboard, bags slung over shoulders, faces tired now, content.
Francesco stepped on last, nodding to the driver, then made his way down the aisle. He slid into his seat, leaning back, letting the cushion support him fully for the first time in hours.
The doors hissed shut.
The bus pulled away.
Madrid drifted past the windows, lights smearing into soft streaks of gold and white. Inside, the mood was subdued but warm. Conversations were quiet, reflective. A few players slept already, heads tipped against glass.
Alexis sat across the aisle, headphones in, eyes closed, fingers tapping lightly against his thigh in time with unheard music.
Francesco stared out the window.
Three finals.
The thought returned again, heavier now.
When the bus finally rolled into the hotel driveway, it was well past midnight. Staff moved efficiently, unloading bags, guiding players inside. The hotel lobby was quiet, respectfully so, as if aware of the moment passing through it.
Francesco collected his key, exchanged brief goodnights, and rode the elevator up alone.
His room was dark when he entered, curtains drawn, the city beyond muffled. He dropped his bag near the door, kicked off his shoes, and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment longer than usual.
His phone buzzed.
Messages.
So many messages.
He didn't open them.
Not yet.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling, and let sleep claim him without a fight.
Soft light filtered through the curtains, the city waking up beyond glass and concrete. Francesco stirred slowly, muscles stiff, body heavy in that familiar post-match way.
He sat up, rolled his shoulders, exhaled.
Another step closer.
Downstairs, the breakfast room buzzed quietly.
Players sat at long tables, plates filled, coffee cups steaming. The smell of fresh bread and eggs hung in the air. Some talked. Others scrolled silently through their phones, eyes flicking between screens and teammates.
Francesco filled his plate simply with fruit, eggs, toast, then took a seat near Koscielny and Kanté.
"You sleep?" Koscielny asked.
"Eventually," Francesco replied.
Kanté smiled softly. "I dreamed we were still defending corners."
Francesco chuckled. "That means you did your job."
Alexis arrived moments later, tray in hand, eyes already alive again.
"You've seen it, yeah?" he said, dropping into his chair.
"Seen what?" Francesco asked.
Alexis tilted his phone toward him.
Headlines filled the screen.
ARSENAL MAKE HISTORY: THIRD CONSECUTIVE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FINAL
EUROPE'S DYNASTY? ARSENAL ONE GAME AWAY FROM UNPRECEDENTED THREE-PEAT
FROM CONTENDERS TO KINGS: ARSENAL'S ERA CONTINUES
Article after article. Pundits debating. Former players weighing in. Graphics comparing eras, squads, legacies.
Francesco scanned them quietly.
"It's everywhere," Alexis said. "They're already writing the ending."
Francesco handed the phone back.
"Let them write," he said. "We still have to play it."
Around the room, similar scenes played out. Phones buzzed. Conversations drifted inevitably toward the same topic.
Three in a row.
History.
Legacy.
But beneath it all, there was something else too.
Focus.
No one was shouting. No one was gloating. The celebration had already happened.
This was different.
This was understanding what stood in front of them.
Francesco took a sip of coffee, then looked around the room at his teammates.
At the players who had fought beside him.
At the group that had carried Arsenal to the brink of something no one else had ever done.
He felt it settle again in his chest which not a pressure, but a purpose. One more match, one more night. And the chance to do something that would be spoken about long after all of them were gone.
______________________________________________
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: 50
Goal: 80
Assist: 4
MOTM: 14
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