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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And as the bus rolled through the gates of Colney once again, Arsenal returned not just with three points but with belief growing stronger every step forward.
The days after Moscow moved quickly.
Not chaotically.
Just relentlessly.
That was football at the highest level.
One moment you were stepping off a plane after a European away win, the next you were already back on the training pitch preparing for the next problem waiting in front of you.
And there was always another problem.
That was what made the season long.
Not the matches themselves.
The accumulation.
The emotional shifts.
The constant demand to reset.
By the time Arsenal prepared for Watford away at Vicarage Road, the glow of Moscow had already faded into routine.
The win still mattered.
Confidence still existed.
But football didn't allow anyone to live inside old results for very long.
Training at London Colney carried a slightly different edge that week.
Sharper physically.
Less celebratory.
Wenger had made sure of that immediately.
Recovery first.
Then focus.
Always focus.
Francesco noticed it in small ways.
Meetings became shorter.
More direct.
Training drills more intense.
Less laughter between repetitions.
Not because morale had dropped.
Because standards had risen.
Winning did that too.
The morning before the Watford match, London wore that familiar grey autumn sky that never fully brightened. Thin rain tapped softly against the windows of the training ground while players moved through their routines inside.
Boots being laced.
Tape wrapped.
Music low in the background.
Francesco sat quietly at his locker adjusting the sleeves of his training top when Ramsey dropped into the seat beside him.
"You know what this feels like?" Ramsey asked.
"What?"
"A trap game."
Francesco glanced sideways.
"You say that about every away match."
"Because every away match is a trap game."
"That's not how traps work."
"It is in football."
There was some truth in it, though.
Everyone felt it.
Watford away wasn't glamorous.
It wasn't Europe.
There would be no anthem.
No worldwide spotlight.
Just intensity.
Physical battles.
Tight spaces.
Noise close to the pitch.
The kind of match that tested concentration more than excitement.
Wenger addressed it clearly during meetings.
"They will make the game emotional," he warned calmly while clips rolled across the analysis screen. "Do not lose structure."
Players watched carefully.
Watford pressed aggressively at home.
Direct football.
Second balls.
Crosses.
Pressure.
The sort of match where rhythm disappeared if you allowed it to.
Francesco understood that immediately.
Matches like these were rarely about beauty.
They were about control.
And control was harder than people thought.
Matchday arrived cold and damp.
Very English.
The kind of weather where the air felt heavy before kickoff even started.
The journey to Vicarage Road lacked the European glamour of Moscow completely, but there was still focus inside the Arsenal bus.
Headphones.
Quiet conversations.
Players locked into their own routines.
Francesco sat near the window again, watching rain slide slowly across the glass while traffic moved steadily outside.
Beside him, Gnabry scrolled through his phone before glancing up.
"You think they'll sit deep?"
"Not at home," Francesco replied.
"They'll fight."
"Good."
"You enjoy difficult matches too much."
Francesco smirked faintly.
"Maybe."
When the stadium finally appeared through the rain-streaked windows, it felt smaller than Moscow.
Tighter.
Closer.
But no less hostile.
Vicarage Road had its own energy.
Compact stands.
Fans almost on top of the pitch.
The kind of stadium where noise didn't rise upward.
It crashed forward.
The Arsenal players stepped off the bus into a wall of sound immediately.
Watford supporters already loud despite the weather.
Stewards guiding players quickly inside.
Francesco adjusted his jacket slightly as he walked through the tunnel corridor, eyes forward.
Different challenge now.
Different atmosphere.
Same responsibility.
Inside the dressing room, the energy felt calm.
Not relaxed.
Prepared.
Players changed quietly into warm-up gear while staff finalized details around them.
Wenger moved through the room speaking individually at times.
Short conversations.
Specific instructions.
Nothing dramatic.
Francesco sat pulling tape around his wrist carefully when Özil dropped into the locker beside him.
"They'll press your first touch quickly today," Mesut said casually.
"I know."
"You'll need quicker combinations."
Francesco nodded.
"We'll find spaces."
Özil leaned back slightly.
"We always do eventually."
Eventually.
That word mattered more than people realized.
Not every game opened immediately.
Some had to be forced open slowly.
Warm-ups out on the pitch confirmed everything.
The crowd loud.
The grass slick from rain.
Challenges flying even during rondos.
Watford players warmed up with visible aggression already, feeding off the home atmosphere.
Francesco felt it immediately.
This would not be clean football.
This would be survival mixed with quality.
The match began exactly that way.
Fast.
Messy.
Aggressive.
Watford pressed Arsenal hard from the opening whistle, forcing rushed touches and disrupting rhythm before it could settle.
Troy Deeney led everything from the front.
Physical.
Relentless.
Constantly talking.
Constantly battling.
Kanté got clipped early in midfield.
Bellerín was shoved into the advertising boards during a challenge.
Every second ball became a fight.
Francesco dropped deeper several times in the opening fifteen minutes trying to connect play, but Watford's midfield stayed compact, collapsing around every central pass immediately.
The rain made everything quicker too.
Touches skidded.
Passes accelerated unexpectedly.
Control became harder.
The crowd sensed Arsenal's discomfort early and grew louder because of it.
Every tackle celebrated.
Every interception amplified.
Every misplaced Arsenal pass greeted with noise.
On the touchline Wenger remained composed, but Francesco could see the small details.
The tighter posture.
The folded arms.
The constant observation.
Arsenal created moments.
Small ones.
Alexis cut inside and forced a save from distance.
Özil slipped one dangerous pass toward Francesco that was intercepted at the last second.
Gnabry nearly broke through down the right before being crowded out by two defenders.
But nothing flowed properly.
Not naturally.
Everything felt interrupted.
Disjointed.
At one point near the half-hour mark, Ramsey looked visibly frustrated after another attack broke down.
"They're everywhere," he muttered.
"No," Cazorla replied calmly beside him. "We're rushing."
That was the difference.
Watford wanted chaos.
Arsenal were feeding it.
The minutes dragged strangely after that.
Not boring.
Tense.
Every attack felt heavy with effort.
Every movement contested.
And slowly, an unfamiliar realization crept across the Arsenal players.
They hadn't scored.
Not yet.
That mattered because Arsenal scoring in the first half had become almost expected in the Premier League. It had been two years since they'd gone into halftime without a first-half goal in league play.
Two years.
The commentators mentioned it.
The crowd sensed it.
And Arsenal themselves felt it too, even if nobody said it aloud.
When the halftime whistle finally came, the atmosphere around Vicarage Road carried satisfaction from the home supporters.
Not celebration.
Belief.
They were in the match.
Very much in the match.
Francesco walked back toward the tunnel breathing harder than usual, rainwater dripping from his sleeves.
Beside him, Alexis looked irritated.
"We're playing too fast."
"We're forcing it," Özil agreed quietly.
Watford players disappeared down their tunnel energized by the first half.
Arsenal disappeared into theirs frustrated.
Inside the dressing room, the silence felt heavier than Moscow's halftime silence had.
Not panic.
But irritation.
Players dropped into seats.
Water bottles opened.
Towels dragged across faces.
Francesco sat forward again, elbows on knees, staring briefly at the floor while his breathing steadied.
Still nil-nil.
Still recoverable.
But something needed changing.
Wenger entered calmly.
Always calmly.
That mattered now more than ever.
He waited until the room settled fully before speaking.
"They want disorder," he said.
Simple.
Direct.
"And right now we are giving it to them."
Nobody argued.
Because he was right.
Wenger moved toward the tactical board.
"Too many touches here," he said, pointing toward midfield areas. "Too rushed in the final third."
He looked toward Özil and Cazorla.
"You must slow the game before you accelerate it."
Both nodded immediately.
Then toward Francesco.
"They are following you aggressively. Use that."
Francesco listened carefully.
"Drop slightly deeper sometimes," Wenger continued. "Pull the defender out. The space will appear behind him."
That clicked instantly.
Watford's center-backs had been tight all half.
Aggressive.
Following movement early.
If Francesco dragged one of them higher, gaps would open eventually.
Wenger kept going.
"No frustration. Stay patient."
Then firmer:
"But move the ball quicker once the opening comes."
Around the room, focus sharpened again.
Not emotional.
Clearer.
Kanté sat upright already mentally resetting.
Alexis tightened the tape around his wrist again.
Gnabry bounced lightly on his heels near his locker.
Francesco stood slowly.
One goal changes everything, he thought.
That was football sometimes.
Hours of tension waiting for one clean moment.
As the players prepared to head back out, Wenger gave one final instruction.
"Play with authority."
Then they returned to the tunnel.
The second half began differently immediately.
Not wildly.
Subtly.
Arsenal slowed themselves down first.
More controlled possession.
Fewer rushed forward passes.
Özil and Cazorla touched the ball more often now, dictating rhythm instead of chasing it.
Watford still pressed.
Still battled.
But Arsenal looked calmer inside the pressure.
Francesco started dropping deeper exactly as Wenger had instructed.
The center-backs followed him at first.
Then hesitated.
That hesitation mattered.
In the 56th minute, the opening finally came.
It started quietly.
A recycled possession near midfield.
Kanté won the ball back after another challenge and fed it quickly into Cazorla.
Cazorla turned smoothly despite pressure and found Özil between the lines.
And suddenly everything opened.
Mesut received the ball on the half-turn, head already up before the touch had fully settled.
Francesco saw it instantly.
The defender stepped toward him.
Exactly what Wenger wanted.
So instead of staying high, he dropped one step deeper first.
Just one.
The defender followed.
Space appeared behind.
Then Francesco spun sharply.
Özil released the pass immediately.
Perfect weight.
Perfect timing.
The entire move happened in seconds.
Francesco burst through the gap, one touch carrying the ball across his body as the goalkeeper rushed forward.
The angle tightened.
The crowd rose.
And Francesco finished low into the far corner.
Net.
Goal.
For one brief second, the away end exploded loud enough to swallow everything else.
Francesco turned sharply, fists clenched once as adrenaline surged through him.
Relief mixed with triumph instantly.
Teammates rushed toward him.
Özil arrived first.
"Exactly like he said," Mesut muttered with a faint smile.
Francesco nodded.
Exactly.
Wenger stood near the touchline with arms folded, but there was satisfaction in his expression now.
The plan had worked.
Arsenal led.
And for a few minutes afterward, it felt like control had finally arrived.
Watford looked shaken briefly.
Arsenal circulated possession better.
The rhythm belonged to them now.
But football had its own plans.
Always.
Watford didn't collapse.
They reacted.
The home crowd responded immediately too, growing louder again instead of quieter.
Troy Deeney especially.
He refused to let the match drift away.
Every challenge became heavier now.
Every duel more emotional.
Francesco felt the shift around the 70th minute.
The match stopped being tactical.
It became raw.
Crosses came quicker.
Second balls turned chaotic.
The stadium noise became relentless.
Then came the equalizer.
A cross swung into the box after sustained pressure.
Bodies collided.
Chaos for half a second.
And Troy Deeney rose highest.
Header.
Goal.
1–1.
Vicarage Road erupted.
Not polite noise.
Explosion.
Pure release.
Francesco stood frozen for a moment near midfield, hands on hips as Watford celebrated wildly near the corner flag.
One mistake.
One moment.
Everything reset.
Koscielny cursed quietly under his breath.
Cech immediately shouted instructions, trying to reorganize everyone before emotion fully took over.
But Watford believed now.
That was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
The remaining minutes became frantic.
Not controlled football anymore.
Emotion everywhere.
Watford pressed harder.
Arsenal tried to respond.
Alexis forced a save.
Gnabry sent a dangerous cross through the six-yard box.
Half chances emerged and disappeared instantly.
The rain intensified again too, making the pitch slicker under the floodlights.
Every tackle felt faster.
Every bounce less predictable.
Wenger made changes from the sideline, trying to regain structure.
Ramsey on.
Giroud on later.
Fresh legs.
Fresh presence.
But the game refused to calm.
And then came the final moment.
Late.
Painfully late.
89th minute.
Watford broke forward after Arsenal lost possession high up the pitch.
One pass.
Then another.
Suddenly Tom Cleverley arrived late into space near the edge of the box.
Francesco saw it unfolding from too far away to stop it.
The shot came quickly.
Low.
Driven.
Past Cech.
Net.
For a second, the stadium seemed to physically shake.
Noise crashed down from every stand.
Players in yellow sprinted toward the corner in complete disbelief.
Tom Cleverley screaming into the night.
Watford players piling onto each other.
Vicarage Road losing its mind.
And Arsenal stood still.
Just for a second.
That terrible second where defeat suddenly became real.
Francesco stared toward the goalmouth, chest tightening hard.
Not anger first.
Disbelief.
After everything.
After leading.
After controlling parts of the second half.
Now this.
Walker buried his face briefly in his hands on the bench.
Wenger remained standing near the technical area, expression controlled but unreadable.
The final minutes after restart felt desperate.
Arsenal threw bodies forward.
One last cross.
One last scramble.
Giroud nearly reached a flick-on.
Alexis fired wide under pressure.
Then the whistle came.
Full time.
Watford 2.
Arsenal 1.
And for the first time since the previous season, Arsenal had lost in the Premier League.
The home crowd celebrated like they had conquered something enormous.
Because maybe they had.
Francesco stood motionless for a moment in the rain while Watford players celebrated around him.
The cold suddenly felt sharper now.
Different.
Victory made weather disappear.
Defeat brought it back immediately.
Slowly, he turned toward his teammates.
Exhaustion everywhere.
Frustration too.
Not shouting.
Not collapse.
Just that hollow feeling good teams carried after letting something slip away.
Özil walked past quietly, head lowered.
Kanté looked devastated despite another immense performance.
Cech stared toward the pitch for a long moment before finally beginning the walk toward the tunnel.
Francesco stayed behind for one extra second.
Listening to the noise around him.
Feeling it.
Because losses mattered too.
Maybe more than wins sometimes.
Then finally, with rain still falling across Vicarage Road, Arsenal walked back toward the tunnel carrying something they hadn't felt in a very long time, which is defeat.
The walk back to the dressing room felt longer than it actually was.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Every step through the tunnel carried the weight of something Arsenal hadn't experienced in the league for a very long time. The noise from Vicarage Road still thundered behind them, muffled now by concrete walls and distance, but still present enough to remind them exactly what had happened.
Watford were celebrating.
Arsenal were not.
Francesco walked near the front of the group, rainwater still clinging to his sleeves, his hair damp, his chest still rising heavier than usual from those frantic final minutes. No one spoke much.
There wasn't much to say yet.
Koscielny stared straight ahead.
Alexis looked furious in that quiet, dangerous way he always did after losing.
Özil's expression was unreadable, but his frustration showed in the way he pulled his gloves off sharply as they walked.
Cech remained composed externally, though Francesco knew him well enough now to recognize disappointment hidden beneath the calm.
Behind them, the sound of Watford's celebrations erupted again somewhere above the tunnel.
A reminder.
Another one.
The dressing room door opened.
Warm air rushed outward.
And for the first time all afternoon, Arsenal fully stepped into the reality of defeat.
The room was quiet immediately.
Not tense in an explosive way.
Heavy.
That was the word.
Heavy.
Players dropped into seats slowly, movements lacking the normal rhythm that usually followed matches. Boots came off without conversation. Tape peeled away quietly. Water bottles opened but barely touched.
Nobody looked angry yet.
Shock came first.
That strange disbelief good teams carried after losing matches they felt they should not have lost.
Francesco sat down at his locker and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His breathing had steadied now, but the frustration still sat in his chest like pressure that hadn't found release.
Across the room, Ramsey shook his head once under his breath.
"We had control."
No one answered.
Because everyone knew.
For stretches of the second half, they had.
Alexis slammed a towel lightly onto the bench beside him.
"One cross," he muttered.
"One second."
Still nobody answered.
Not because they disagreed.
Because there was nothing useful in replaying it immediately.
Kanté sat quietly near the center of the room, staring down at the floor. The disappointment on his face somehow made the atmosphere worse. Players like him rarely looked defeated emotionally.
Today he did.
Francesco looked around slowly.
Young players frustrated.
Senior players exhausted.
Confidence dented for the first time in months.
And in that moment, he understood something clearly.
This was where leadership actually mattered.
Not during celebrations.
Not after goals.
Now.
He stood slowly.
The movement alone shifted attention toward him.
Not dramatically.
Naturally.
Captain.
Francesco looked around the room for a second before speaking.
"Listen."
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
The room quieted fully almost immediately anyway.
He rested one hand lightly against the back of his chair.
"Defeat is part of football."
Simple.
Direct.
A few players lifted their heads slightly.
"There's no team that wins forever," Francesco continued calmly. "No player either."
Alexis leaned back against his locker now, listening.
"We lost today," Francesco said. "It happens."
The words sounded strange even to him.
It happens.
Because Arsenal had gone so long without tasting this feeling in the league that it almost felt unfamiliar again.
But that was exactly why it needed saying.
Francesco continued.
"What matters now is what we do next."
His eyes moved across the room.
"To lose one match is normal."
Then firmer:
"To let one defeat become more than one? That's the danger."
That landed.
Koscielny nodded faintly.
Ramsey sat back slightly, frustration easing into focus instead.
Francesco exhaled once before continuing.
"We know we should've handled parts of that match better. Fine. We'll look at it. We'll fix it."
Then he pointed lightly toward the floor.
"But right now, nobody here forgets who we are because of one result."
The room stayed silent.
But the silence felt different now.
Less hollow.
More attentive.
Francesco looked toward the younger players specifically.
"Winning streaks end," he said. "That's football. You respond by working again tomorrow."
Then finally:
"We move forward together."
There was no dramatic speech after that.
No shouting.
No pounding lockers.
Just understanding.
Sometimes the simplest truths mattered most after defeat.
For a few seconds, the room stayed still.
Then Wenger entered.
And instantly, attention shifted again.
The manager closed the dressing room door behind him quietly before walking toward the center of the room. His expression remained composed, though there was disappointment there too.
Of course there was.
He looked around at the players briefly.
Then toward Francesco.
A small nod.
He'd heard enough of the captain's speech walking in to understand the message.
Wenger folded his arms lightly.
"Francesco is correct."
The room remained silent.
"We lost a football match," Wenger continued calmly. "Not our identity. Not our quality."
Simple.
Measured.
Exactly what they needed.
"We made mistakes today," he admitted. "Collectively."
He never singled players out after defeats publicly. Never emotionally.
That was one of the reasons the dressing room trusted him so deeply.
Wenger stepped closer toward the tactical board but didn't touch it yet.
"Watford made the game emotional," he said. "And in key moments, we allowed ourselves to lose control of details."
He paused.
"But this is why consistency is difficult. Because every team in this league can punish you."
Around the room, players listened carefully now.
The frustration hadn't disappeared.
But it was becoming manageable.
Structured.
Wenger glanced toward Cech briefly.
Then Koscielny.
Then the midfield.
Then Francesco again.
"We recover. We analyze. Then we prepare for the next match."
Always forward.
Always the next thing.
That was elite football.
No time to drown inside disappointment.
Then Wenger's expression softened slightly.
"One defeat changes nothing if the response is correct."
That mattered too.
Very much.
The room remained quiet for another moment before Wenger clapped his hands together lightly once.
"Now," he said calmly, "recover properly."
Players slowly began moving again after that.
Not suddenly energized.
But steadier.
The emotional fog had started clearing.
Boots continued coming off.
Shin pads discarded.
Towels grabbed.
Francesco sat back down again, rolling tension out of his shoulders slowly.
Beside him, Özil spoke quietly.
"You were right."
Francesco glanced over.
"About what?"
"One loss."
Mesut leaned back against his locker.
"It feels worse because it's unfamiliar."
Francesco nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
"That's probably not a bad thing."
No.
It probably wasn't.
Across the room, Walker tried to lighten the atmosphere slightly.
"I blame the rain."
Ramsey immediately pointed at him.
"You always blame weather."
"Because weather is suspicious."
"That's not science."
"It's instinct."
A few small laughs broke through the room finally.
Not loud.
Not complete relief.
But enough.
Enough to remind them they were still themselves.
Wenger began stepping back toward the exit before pausing again near Francesco.
"Shower," he said calmly. "Then join me for the press conference."
Francesco nodded immediately.
"Okay."
The manager left the room quietly after that.
And once again, reality settled back into routine.
Players rose gradually and headed toward the showers, exhaustion finally beginning to overtake adrenaline now that the emotional edge had softened slightly.
Francesco grabbed a towel and clean clothes before walking into the shower room.
Steam filled the air quickly.
Hot water hit tired muscles hard.
Relief mixed with lingering frustration instantly.
For a while, nobody spoke much.
Just the sound of water against tile.
Then eventually Giroud broke the silence softly.
"We stopped playing our football after the equalizer."
Koscielny nodded nearby.
"Too rushed."
"Too emotional," Cech added calmly.
Francesco stood quietly beneath the water listening.
They weren't wrong.
The match had slipped away mentally before it slipped tactically.
That was the painful part.
Eventually, conversations picked up slightly.
Not cheerful.
Reflective.
Players replaying moments in fragments.
What could've been done differently.
Where positioning broke down.
Which decisions should've come sooner.
Footballers always did this after losses.
Searching for control inside chaos.
By the time Francesco returned to the dressing room afterward, most players had already changed into Arsenal jumpsuits and travel gear again.
The atmosphere remained subdued, but no longer broken.
Important difference.
Francesco dressed quietly.
Black compression shirt underneath.
Club jacket zipped halfway.
Captain's mindset settling back into place again.
He checked his phone briefly.
Messages everywhere.
Supportive.
Critical.
Predictable.
One from Leah sat near the top.
Tough one. Proud of you anyway ❤️
He stared at it for a second longer than usual before typing back.
Thank you. We move forward.
Simple.
Because that was the truth.
Nearby, Alexis sat staring at tactical clips already replaying on a tablet.
Of course he was.
"We should've killed the game at one-nil," the Chilean muttered.
"Probably," Francesco admitted.
Alexis glanced up.
"I hate losing."
"So does everyone here."
"Not like me."
That earned the faintest smile from Francesco.
"No," he admitted. "Probably not."
Eventually Francesco stood again, grabbing his jacket.
"Press conference," he said quietly.
Walker pointed dramatically from across the room.
"Tell them it was definitely the rain."
"It wasn't the rain."
"You can't prove that."
"You are exhausting."
"Correct."
Another tiny ripple of laughter moved through the room.
Better.
Much better than silence.
Francesco headed out into the corridor again, where Wenger already waited near the media area.
The manager looked composed as always, though Francesco could recognize fatigue around his eyes now.
Defeats drained managers differently.
More quietly.
"You ready?" Wenger asked.
"Yes."
They walked together toward the press room through corridors that suddenly felt colder than they had after Moscow.
Funny how results changed environments.
The closer they got, the louder the media presence became.
Voices.
Movement.
Questions already forming before anyone sat down.
Because defeats attracted attention differently than victories did.
Victories created praise.
Losses created narratives.
The press room doors opened.
Flashes hit immediately.
Cameras lifted.
Journalists leaned forward.
The atmosphere sharper tonight.
More aggressive.
More curious.
Wenger sat calmly at the front table.
Francesco beside him again.
Microphones lined neatly in front of them.
The press officer spoke first.
"We begin."
Hands went up instantly.
The first question came quickly.
"Arsène, how disappointing is this defeat considering Arsenal's recent form?"
Wenger folded his hands together lightly.
"Very disappointing," he admitted calmly. "Because we controlled important parts of the match and still lost."
Pens moved quickly.
Keyboards clicked.
Another reporter immediately followed.
"Do you believe your team underestimated Watford today?"
Wenger shook his head.
"No. Watford played with intensity and quality. Sometimes people look for psychological explanations after defeats, but football is often about moments. Today they handled key moments better than we did."
Another question.
"Was the team emotionally affected after conceding the equalizer?"
Wenger paused briefly before answering.
"For a few minutes, yes. We lost some calmness. That can happen in difficult away matches."
Then another voice.
"Francesco, how difficult is it to accept losing after leading in the second half?"
The room shifted toward him now.
Francesco rested his hands lightly together before answering.
"It's difficult because we know we had opportunities to control the game better," he admitted honestly. "But defeat is part of football."
A few journalists glanced up immediately at that phrasing.
He continued.
"No team wins forever. No player either."
That line carried through the room quietly.
"What matters now is how we respond."
Another reporter leaned forward.
"So you're not concerned by the result?"
Francesco shook his head slightly.
"I didn't say that. We're disappointed. We should be disappointed."
Then calmly:
"But panic after one defeat is useless."
Wenger glanced sideways briefly.
Approval again.
Another question arrived immediately.
"Arsène, do you take responsibility for the tactical approach after going one goal ahead?"
Wenger answered without hesitation.
"Yes."
The room quieted slightly.
"I am the manager," he continued calmly. "Responsibility belongs to me first."
That was Wenger.
Always protecting his players publicly.
Always.
"We could have managed certain moments better," he added. "That begins with me."
Another reporter quickly turned toward Francesco.
"As captain, do you feel responsible as well?"
Francesco nodded immediately.
"Yes."
No hesitation.
"No hiding from that."
The room became quieter again.
"As captain and striker, I have responsibility to help the team win matches," he continued. "Today I didn't do enough to help us finish the game."
A reporter interrupted slightly.
"But you scored."
"That's not enough if we lose."
Simple.
Honest.
No performance mattered fully in defeat.
Another journalist raised his voice from the back.
"Do defeats like this damage belief inside the squad?"
Francesco answered first this time.
"No."
Firm.
Then softer:
"They hurt. That's different."
That line stayed hanging in the room for a second.
He continued.
"If losing stops your belief, then your belief was weak in the first place."
Several reporters immediately wrote that down.
Nearby, Wenger remained calm, letting Francesco speak.
Because he agreed.
Another question came toward Wenger.
"Were you disappointed with the defending on the equalizer?"
Wenger protected immediately.
"We defend together and we attack together," he said firmly. "I will not isolate players after one difficult result."
Again.
Protection.
Leadership.
A reporter from another outlet turned toward Francesco again.
"You seemed composed in the dressing room afterward. Is that difficult after such a frustrating loss?"
Francesco thought for a second before answering.
"Inside, everyone is frustrated," he admitted. "But part of leadership is helping the team stay balanced."
Then honestly:
"If you lose control emotionally after every defeat, the season becomes impossible."
Another question followed quickly.
"Did you say something specific to the players?"
Francesco gave a faint smile.
"I told them the truth."
"And what was that?"
"That football doesn't allow permanent winning runs."
The room stayed attentive now.
"Losses happen," he continued. "What defines strong teams is what comes next."
More notes.
More typing.
The narratives were already being built.
Another reporter asked Wenger:
"What was your biggest frustration today?"
Wenger answered immediately.
"That we lost emotional control after the equalizer."
Exactly the same conclusion the players themselves had reached.
"We stopped imposing ourselves for a period," he said. "Against teams like Watford, that is dangerous."
Another question.
"Can this defeat become useful?"
Wenger nodded slowly.
"Yes. If you learn correctly from it."
Then one final question came near the end.
"For both of you, what is the message tonight to Arsenal supporters?"
Wenger answered first.
"We remain ambitious. One defeat changes nothing about our objectives."
Then Francesco spoke.
"The supporters should know we hurt from this too," he said quietly. "Nobody in that dressing room accepts losing lightly."
He paused briefly.
"But they should also know we will respond together."
The press officer stood.
"Last question."
A journalist near the front asked softly:
"Francesco, personally, does losing hurt more now because it's become unfamiliar?"
For the first time all night, Francesco smiled faintly.
"Maybe," he admitted honestly.
Then he leaned back slightly.
"But maybe that's a good reminder that football never lets you relax."
That earned a few quiet nods around the room.
The press officer closed the conference.
"Thank you."
Chairs shifted.
Cameras lowered.
Voices rose again.
And as Francesco stood beside Wenger once more, the sting of defeat still remained.
Of course it did.
It would remain for a while.
But underneath it now sat something steadier.
Perspective.
Because seasons were never defined by how long you avoided losing, they were defined by what happened after you finally did.
______________________________________________
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