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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Because seasons were never defined by how long you avoided losing, they were defined by what happened after you finally did.
The corridor outside the press room felt quieter than before.
Not calm.
Not peaceful.
Just drained.
The kind of silence that followed disappointment once the cameras stopped rolling and the questions ended.
Francesco walked beside Wenger again through the stadium hallway, both of them moving at the same measured pace while staff members passed carrying equipment cases and rolled-up media backdrops. Somewhere deeper inside Vicarage Road, Watford's celebrations still echoed faintly through the concrete structure.
Every now and then the sound broke through clearly.
A cheer.
A burst of music.
Laughter.
It felt distant now.
But not distant enough.
Wenger kept his hands tucked into his coat pockets as they walked.
"You handled that well," he said quietly.
Francesco exhaled through his nose.
"I'd rather not do press conferences after losses."
"No one enjoys them."
"You do not seem bothered."
Wenger glanced sideways briefly.
"That is because I have done too many of them."
Francesco laughed softly despite himself.
Fair answer.
They reached the dressing room door again. For a second Wenger paused before opening it.
"One match," he said calmly.
Francesco nodded once.
"One match."
The manager gave him a final look before heading toward the staff offices deeper inside the stadium, leaving Francesco to step back into the dressing room alone.
The atmosphere inside had shifted slightly while they were gone.
Still heavy.
Still subdued.
But no longer frozen.
Players were moving again now.
Bags being zipped.
Recovery drinks finished.
Phones checked.
The raw shock had softened into quieter disappointment.
Alexis sat at his locker already dressed in Arsenal travel gear, scrolling through clips on his phone with an expression that suggested he was mentally replaying every missed opportunity again.
Of course he was.
Giroud stood near the center of the room speaking quietly with Koscielny in French while Cech methodically packed his gloves away with the same calm precision he applied to everything else in life.
Walker looked emotionally wounded by defeat and physically wounded by exhaustion.
An impressive combination.
Francesco walked back toward his locker and grabbed his bag slowly.
The room wasn't loud enough for conversations to overlap much. Most exchanges happened quietly now.
Short sentences.
Tired voices.
Ramsey glanced over as Francesco zipped his jacket.
"You still thinking about the second goal?"
"Yes."
"Same."
That was the problem with losses.
Victories faded quickly sometimes.
Defeats replayed themselves over and over.
Every decision.
Every missed clearance.
Every second.
Nearby, Kanté sat quietly pulling on his jacket, still looking frustrated with himself despite probably being one of Arsenal's best players again.
Francesco moved toward him briefly.
"N'Golo."
Kanté looked up.
"It's okay."
The midfielder shook his head faintly.
"We lost."
"Yes."
Francesco rested a hand briefly against the back of the chair beside him.
"But not because of one player."
Kanté looked unconvinced.
Francesco expected that.
Players like him took collective failures personally.
Still, the midfielder nodded quietly.
"We respond next week."
"Exactly."
Across the room, Walker suddenly spoke up while pulling a hoodie over his head.
"I still blame weather."
Ramsey stared at him.
"You are unbelievably committed to this theory."
"Rain changes emotions."
"That is not tactical analysis."
"It is advanced analysis."
Even Alexis smirked faintly at that.
Tiny reactions.
Tiny improvements.
The emotional weight inside the room eased just enough again.
Eventually Cech stood.
"Bus in five minutes."
Of course he knew.
Francesco was beginning to suspect Petr Cech secretly operated on the same internal timing system as an airport departure board.
Players slowly rose after that.
The rhythm returning again.
Not energetic.
Professional.
One by one they grabbed bags and headed toward the exit.
Francesco took one final glance around the dressing room before leaving.
Water bottles scattered.
Tape on the floor.
Steam still drifting faintly from the shower area.
The aftermath of defeat.
Then he followed the team out into the corridor.
Outside, the rain had eased slightly but the air still felt cold and damp against their skin as they walked toward the team bus. Stadium staff moved around them quietly while security guided the squad through the service area.
Watford supporters still lingered nearby behind barriers.
Some applauded respectfully.
Some shouted things less respectful.
That was football too.
Francesco kept walking without reacting, bag slung over one shoulder, hands tucked into his jacket pockets now.
The team bus waited beneath the floodlights.
Engine humming softly.
Windows dark against the rainy night.
Players boarded gradually, slower than usual this time.
Bodies heavier after defeat.
Minds heavier too.
Francesco stepped aboard and moved toward his usual seat near the middle. Gnabry dropped into the seat beside him again, though this time the young winger carried none of the restless energy he'd had after Moscow.
Now he just looked frustrated.
For a while neither of them spoke.
The bus pulled away from Vicarage Road quietly.
And inside, the atmosphere settled into that strange emotional stillness only losing teams understood.
Not anger anymore.
Not even shock.
Just lingering disappointment hanging between conversations.
Francesco looked around the bus slowly.
Most players stared out windows or down at phones without really paying attention to either.
Alexis had headphones in again, but unlike Moscow, there was no visible irritation now. Just silence.
Özil leaned back with his eyes closed, one arm folded across his chest.
Koscielny sat near the front speaking quietly with Cech.
Even Walker had gone mostly quiet.
Which honestly might have been the clearest sign of how heavy the mood still was.
The rain streaked across the windows while London traffic rolled slowly outside.
Finally Gnabry spoke.
"I hate losing away."
Francesco nodded faintly.
"Everyone does."
"It feels worse on the bus back."
"That's because wins make journeys shorter."
Gnabry glanced sideways.
"That's actually true."
"Unfortunately."
The young winger leaned back again.
"We should've finished them after your goal."
"Yes."
"We had momentum."
"We lost it."
Simple truths.
No excuses.
That mattered.
A few rows ahead, Ramsey quietly replayed a sequence from the match on his tablet while Cazorla leaned over occasionally to point at positioning details.
Still analyzing.
Still working.
That was the mentality Wenger always demanded.
Learn quickly.
Move forward quickly.
But even then, the emotional side couldn't be erased immediately.
Francesco felt it himself now that the adrenaline had faded properly.
That hollow frustration in the chest.
Not rage.
Not panic.
Just annoyance at letting control slip away.
The bus moved steadily through the wet London roads while conversations rose and fell quietly around them.
At one point Walker finally spoke again from somewhere near the back.
"I'm starving."
Ramsey looked genuinely offended.
"How are you thinking about food right now?"
"Because sadness burns calories."
"That's medically impossible."
"You don't know that."
A few small laughs moved softly through the bus.
Not loud.
But real.
Francesco leaned his head lightly against the window for a moment, watching blurred streetlights slide across the rain-covered glass.
Losses always revealed things.
About teams.
About mentality.
About leadership.
He thought back briefly to Moscow.
The confidence.
The connection.
The control.
Funny how football could swing emotionally in just a few days.
But maybe that was exactly why Wenger always spoke about balance.
Too much emotion after victories became arrogance.
Too much emotion after losses became panic.
The best teams stayed steady through both.
Eventually the familiar roads around London Colney appeared outside the windows.
Training ground lights glowed faintly through the darkness as the bus turned through the gates.
And slowly, quietly, the journey ended.
The bus came to a stop.
For a second nobody moved immediately.
Then routines took over again.
Seatbelts unclipped.
Bags lifted down.
Phones tucked away.
Players began standing one by one.
Francesco rose slowly, stretching stiffness from his legs before pulling his bag over his shoulder again.
As they stepped off the bus, the cold night air wrapped around them immediately.
Different from Watford now.
Quieter here.
Safer almost.
Colney always felt insulated from the outside world in moments like this.
A place to reset.
To work.
To recover.
Players dispersed gradually across the parking area where their cars waited beneath the floodlights.
No dramatic speeches now.
No meetings.
Just tired teammates saying goodnight before disappearing back into their own lives for a few hours.
Ramsey clasped Francesco briefly on the shoulder.
"See you tomorrow."
"Yeah."
Walker pointed while walking backward toward his car.
"If we win next week, it proves my weather theory."
"That is not how science works," Cazorla called out immediately.
"It should be."
Alexis simply lifted one hand in goodbye before heading toward his own car silently.
Koscielny nodded once.
Cech gave his usual calm "Goodnight."
And slowly the parking lot emptied.
Engines starting.
Headlights cutting through the dark.
One by one, Arsenal disappeared into the London night carrying the same disappointment home with them.
Francesco unlocked his BMW and slid into the driver's seat, finally alone for the first time since the match ended.
The silence inside the car felt strange initially.
No teammates.
No crowd.
No analysis.
Just him.
He rested both hands against the steering wheel for a second before exhaling slowly.
Then he started the engine and pulled away from Colney.
The drive home passed quietly.
London moved around him beneath wet streets and glowing traffic lights while sports radio stations already replayed discussions about the defeat.
He turned them off after less than thirty seconds.
Not tonight.
Rain tapped softly against the windshield during parts of the journey.
The city looked blurred and reflective beneath it.
Francesco drove mostly in silence after that, one hand resting against the wheel while thoughts drifted in fragments.
The goal.
Deeney's equalizer.
Cleverley arriving late into space.
The press conference.
Leadership.
Responsibility.
Footballers never truly left matches behind immediately.
The game stayed with them.
Eventually the gates to his Richmond mansion came into view.
Home.
The car rolled slowly into the driveway before stopping beneath the exterior lights glowing warmly against the damp night.
For a second Francesco stayed seated, hands resting against the steering wheel again.
The exhaustion hit properly now.
Physical.
Mental.
Emotional.
Then finally he grabbed his bag and stepped out into the cool night air.
The house felt warm immediately when he stepped inside.
Quiet too.
Comfortably quiet.
And before he could even properly close the door behind him, Leah appeared from the hallway.
She had clearly been waiting up for him.
Oversized sweater.
Hair loosely tied back.
Soft concern already visible in her eyes the moment she saw him.
Neither of them spoke immediately.
They didn't need to.
Leah crossed the room quickly and wrapped her arms around him without hesitation.
And just like that, something inside his chest loosened slightly for the first time since the final whistle.
Francesco exhaled slowly against her shoulder, one hand settling against her back automatically as he held her close.
"Tough one," she murmured softly.
"Yeah."
She pulled back just enough to look at him properly.
"You okay?"
Francesco gave the smallest shrug.
"I will be."
Leah studied him for another second.
Not pushing.
Not forcing optimism.
She understood football too well for that.
Instead she simply brushed a damp strand of hair away from his forehead gently.
"You still scored."
"We still lost."
"I know."
And somehow the fact that she didn't immediately try to erase the disappointment made him feel better more than false reassurance would have.
He dropped his bag near the entrance finally, shoulders relaxing little by little now that he was home.
Leah took his hand lightly.
"Come sit down," she said softly. "You look exhausted."
"That obvious?"
"Very."
A faint smile finally appeared at the corner of his mouth.
Small.
Tired.
But real.
And as she led him toward the warmth of the living room while rain continued softly outside beyond the windows, as the sting of defeat still remained.
Then morning arrived slowly over Richmond.
Grey skies again.
Rain still clinging lightly to the windows in thin streaks while the city outside moved through another cold London morning.
Inside the mansion, though, everything felt warmer.
Quieter.
Softer than the noise of Vicarage Road.
Francesco woke later than usual.
Not because he wanted to sleep in.
Because emotional exhaustion lingered differently after defeats. Wins left adrenaline behind. Losses left heaviness.
The kind that sat in your body overnight.
For a few seconds after opening his eyes, he simply stared at the ceiling while fragments of the match drifted back naturally.
The goal.
Deeney's header.
Cleverley arriving late.
The final whistle.
Football never disappeared completely after nights like that.
It waited for you in the morning.
Beside him, Leah shifted slightly beneath the blankets before looking over sleepily.
"You're thinking again," she murmured.
Francesco exhaled quietly.
"A little."
"A lot."
"Maybe."
She smiled faintly before reaching over and brushing her fingers lightly through his hair.
"You know you can lose football matches without turning into a philosopher afterward."
"That sounds fake."
"It's very real."
He laughed softly under his breath for the first time that morning.
A small improvement already.
Eventually they got up together, moving through the quiet rhythm of morning without rushing.
Leah made coffee while Francesco stood near the kitchen island in a dark Arsenal training top and grey sweatpants, staring absently out toward the rain-covered garden behind the house.
The smell of toast and coffee slowly filled the kitchen.
Comfortingly normal.
Leah glanced over while setting plates down.
"You going into Colney later?"
"Recovery session this afternoon."
She nodded.
"Wenger will probably already be planning the next five matches."
"He started planning them during the bus ride."
"That sounds accurate."
Francesco smirked faintly before sitting down beside her at the breakfast table.
The television mounted on the far wall was already on low volume, cycling through morning sports coverage while they ate.
Eventually the familiar music of Sky Sports filled the room properly as the program transitioned into football analysis.
Francesco glanced up automatically.
And immediately saw his own face on screen.
A freeze-frame from the celebration after his goal at Vicarage Road.
Leah noticed his expression instantly.
"You can change it if you want."
"No," he said quietly. "It's fine."
The studio appeared.
Bright lights.
Large screens.
The polished atmosphere of modern football coverage.
At the center desk sat the host alongside Gary Neville, Ian Wright, and Jamie Carragher.
A graphic stretched across the screen beneath them:
ARSENAL'S UNBEATEN RUN ENDS
Two years.
That statistic still looked strange somehow.
The host began first.
"Well, Arsenal finally tasted defeat in the Premier League yesterday for the first time since last season, and honestly, it felt like one of those afternoons where you could see the emotional shift happen in real time."
Highlights from the match rolled across the screen again.
Francesco watched silently while taking a sip of coffee.
The buildup to his goal appeared first.
Kanté winning possession.
Cazorla turning under pressure.
Özil receiving between the lines.
Then the movement.
One step deeper.
The spin.
Finish.
Goal.
Even now, objectively, it was a very good goal.
It still didn't matter enough.
Ian Wright leaned forward slightly as the replay paused.
"This part here is brilliant," Wright said, pointing toward the screen. "Look at Francesco's movement before the run. One little drop, drags the defender out, then boom — gone."
Carragher nodded immediately.
"That's coached," he added. "You can see Wenger's fingerprints all over it. They manipulated the centre-back perfectly."
Leah glanced sideways at Francesco.
"You looked fast there."
"I am fast."
"Not emotionally."
"That's unnecessary."
She grinned into her coffee.
On television, Gary Neville sat back in his chair thoughtfully.
"But this is why the Premier League is ruthless," Neville said. "For seventy minutes Arsenal looked mostly in control after the goal. Then emotionally, they lost grip of the match."
The replay switched to Deeney's equalizer.
Cross.
Header.
Crowd exploding.
Neville continued speaking over the footage.
"And once Watford sensed vulnerability, the atmosphere changed completely."
Carragher nodded.
"That stadium became difficult after 1–1. You could feel Arsenal retreat mentally for a few minutes."
Francesco hated how accurate that felt.
Because it was true.
Not tactically first.
Mentally.
The host turned toward Ian Wright.
"You've been in dressing rooms like that before. What happens psychologically when a long unbeaten run ends?"
Wright smiled knowingly.
"Honestly? The first thing is shock."
That word landed immediately.
"Because when you go that long without losing, it almost stops feeling real. You forget how ugly defeats feel emotionally."
Francesco leaned back slightly in his chair.
Exactly.
That was exactly it.
Wright continued.
"But sometimes losing isn't the disaster people think it is. Sometimes it resets your focus."
Leah glanced toward him quietly at that.
Francesco noticed.
He didn't say anything.
On screen, the discussion shifted again toward the final goal.
Tom Cleverley arriving late near the edge of the box.
The strike.
Net.
Vicarage Road erupting.
Carragher pointed toward Arsenal's midfield shape frozen on the analysis screen.
"Look here," he said. "This is emotional football now. Arsenal have lost structure completely chasing the game emotionally instead of controlling it."
Neville agreed.
"They stopped managing moments."
Then the host turned toward another topic.
"What did you make of Francesco after the match?"
A clip from the press conference appeared briefly.
Francesco sitting beside Wenger beneath the premier league-style backdrop, expression calm despite obvious disappointment.
The television replayed one of his answers.
"No team wins forever. What matters now is how we respond."
Back in the studio, Ian Wright nodded approvingly.
"That's leadership."
Francesco looked away from the screen briefly at that.
Leah noticed immediately.
"You don't like compliments either?"
"They feel strange after losing."
"That's because footballers are emotionally complicated."
"Only slightly."
"Extremely."
Gary Neville continued on television.
"What impressed me was that neither Wenger nor Francesco panicked publicly. That matters. After long unbeaten runs end, people overreact."
Carragher pointed toward the screen again.
"And listen, Arsenal still played well in periods. This wasn't a collapse. This was a difficult away match where emotional control slipped for fifteen minutes."
The host nodded.
"So you're not concerned?"
Carragher shrugged.
"Concerned? No. Interested? Yes."
That was classic Carragher.
Neville leaned forward slightly now.
"The important thing now is the response. Great teams aren't defined by avoiding defeats forever because that's impossible. They're defined by what happens after."
Again.
That theme.
Response.
Always response.
The television switched briefly to clips from Arsenal's unbeaten run over the previous years.
Goals.
Victories.
Celebrations.
Francesco watched silently for a few moments while buttering another piece of toast absentmindedly.
It felt strange seeing success compressed into quick highlight packages.
Football seasons never felt quick when you lived them.
They felt exhausting.
Long.
Relentless.
Leah rested her chin lightly against one hand while watching the coverage.
"They really analyze everything."
"Everything."
"That must be exhausting."
"It becomes normal."
"That's slightly terrifying."
He laughed quietly.
Fair point.
On screen, Ian Wright spoke again.
"One thing I'll say though as Arsenal's mentality still looks strong to me. Watch Francesco during the final whistle."
The footage appeared again.
Francesco standing motionless in the rain near midfield.
Disappointed.
Still.
Watching Watford celebrate.
Wright continued softly.
"That's not a player hiding from defeat. That's a player feeling responsibility."
Leah looked over at him again, more gently this time.
"You do that."
"What?"
"Take responsibility for everything."
Francesco shrugged slightly.
"Captain's job."
"Not everything is your fault."
"I know."
But football leaders always carried losses personally anyway.
Especially strikers.
Especially captains.
The discussion on television moved toward Arsenal's title chances now.
The host asked the obvious question.
"Does this result damage Arsenal's momentum in the title race?"
Neville answered first.
"No. Not unless they allow it to."
Simple.
Direct.
"Actually," he continued, "sometimes undefeated runs create strange pressure. Every match becomes about protecting something instead of just winning football matches."
Carragher nodded immediately.
"That's true. Eventually players start talking more about not losing than about playing."
Ian Wright leaned back thoughtfully.
"And now that pressure disappears."
Francesco blinked slightly at that.
Interesting point.
Wright continued.
"Now they just play again."
Leah pointed lightly toward the television.
"I think he's right."
"About what?"
"The pressure."
Francesco considered it for a second.
Maybe.
Maybe there had been something quietly exhausting about constantly protecting the run.
Every away stadium wanting to be the one that ended it.
Every media conversation mentioning it.
Maybe losing removed something too.
Not just confidence.
But tension.
The coverage shifted again toward individual performances.
Kanté received heavy praise.
Özil's assist replayed several times.
Even Cech's early saves were analyzed positively despite the result.
Then, inevitably, the conversation returned to Francesco again.
Carragher smiled slightly.
"I'll say this — Francesco's becoming a proper leader now, not just a great player."
Leah immediately looked pleased by that.
Francesco looked deeply uncomfortable.
She noticed instantly.
"Oh, you hated hearing that."
"I don't hate it."
"You absolutely hated it."
"It's awkward."
"Why?"
"Because leadership isn't something you say about yourself."
Leah studied him for a second.
"That's probably why people believe it when they say it about you."
He didn't really know how to answer that.
So instead he focused on his coffee again.
The television continued rolling through analysis, statistics, tactical breakdowns, and reactions from other former players.
The defeat was everywhere now.
That was football too.
When you won, the world praised you for forty-eight hours.
When you lost, the world dissected you for forty-eight hours.
Eventually the host wrapped up the Arsenal segment.
"Whatever happens," he said, "one thing's certain, Arsenal's response next week suddenly becomes very important."
The program transitioned toward another match analysis afterward, but the atmosphere in the kitchen stayed thoughtful for a few moments longer.
Rain continued tapping softly against the windows.
Coffee steamed gently between them.
Leah reached across the table and took his hand lightly.
"You know something?"
"What?"
"You're still thinking about the Cleverley goal."
Francesco exhaled quietly.
"A little."
"A lot."
He smiled faintly.
"Probably."
She squeezed his hand once.
"You can't replay it forever."
"I know."
"But you will anyway."
"…yes."
"That also sounds accurate."
For a moment neither of them spoke.
The television noise faded into background sound now while the morning settled around them properly.
Eventually Leah stood and carried her plate toward the sink before glancing back over her shoulder.
"You know what the annoying part is?"
"What?"
"You'll probably respond by scoring twice next match."
"That sounds optimistic."
"That sounds predictable."
He laughed softly again.
Longer this time.
Real.
And as the grey London morning continued outside while football analysts debated Arsenal's first league defeat in years, the sting of Watford still remained.
Of course it did.
Losses didn't disappear overnight.
But neither did belief.
Because somewhere underneath the disappointment, beneath the frustration and analysis and endless replayed mistakes, Arsenal still understood something important as one defeat ended a run, but it did not define the team.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 16
Goal: 20
Assist: 1
MOTM: 2
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
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