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On the pitch, Francesco walked back out to join the celebration, still in his training top now, clapping toward the fans as teammates embraced one another. Özil and Sánchez hugged near midfield; Walcott and Bellerín exchanged laughs near the corner flag; Gnabry was mobbed by substitutes with the young star of the night.
The Emirates was still trembling from the chants, a sea of red scarves swaying like waves under the London night. The noise was deafening with pure joy, relief, pride, all blending into one beautiful chaos that only football could create. The smell of the grass and smoke from flares hung in the air, and flashes from cameras dotted the stands as if the stars themselves had come down to witness Arsenal's triumph.
Francesco walked slowly across the pitch, head high, lungs still burning from effort. Sweat rolled down his temples, soaking his hair into dark curls that clung to his forehead. His heart was pounding not from exhaustion, but from that strange, electric satisfaction that came when hard work met victory.
He turned once to the stands and waved, giving the supporters a thumbs-up. The fans chanted his name, rhythmically, lovingly:
"♪ Ohhh, Francesco Lee! Ohhh, Francesco Lee! He leads the Arsenal to glory! ♪"
He smiled, the corners of his mouth trembling with exhaustion and pride. For a brief moment, everything was perfect.
Then came the moment of sportsmanship, the traditional line of handshakes that followed every game.
Chelsea's players stood in a rough line near the halfway mark, their faces pale and tight with defeat. Conte stood behind them, clapping stiffly, his jaw locked in frustration. Arsenal's players approached one by one, exchanging brief, respectful grips with the opponents they had just dismantled.
Van Dijk shook hands with Costa was firm, silent, the kind of handshake that said "next time." Kanté, always humble, smiled faintly at Matic and gave him a pat on the shoulder. While Özil and Hazard shared a quick embrace; mutual respect between two artists who spoke the same footballing language.
Then came Francesco.
He moved slowly down the line, offering his hand, nodding once to each player he met.
"Good game," he murmured to Pedro.
"Well played," he said to Ivanović.
To Courtois, he offered a quiet, "Great saves today."
But when he reached him, Cesc Fàbregas the air seemed to thicken.
For a heartbeat, the stadium noise dimmed in his mind, replaced by an echo of old memories:
The day Fàbregas lifted the Arsenal armband for the first time, the boy captain who carried their hopes.
The day he left for Barcelona, tears on his face, promises half-kept.
And then the day he returned which to Chelsea of all clubs, the wound still raw among fans who had once adored him.
Fàbregas looked up, his face still flushed from the game, hair damp with sweat. His eyes met Francesco's, an unreadable mix of pride, bitterness, and perhaps deep down that he regret. He extended his hand.
"Good game," Cesc said, his voice clipped but polite.
Francesco paused. The gesture hung in the air between them, a thin thread of civility stretched over a chasm of history.
Then he stepped past him.
No handshake. No word.
Just silence.
It was deliberate. Calm, cold, clear. And everyone saw it.
Fàbregas's eyes widened slightly. His jaw tensed. He spun around as Francesco kept walking, that calm stride infuriating him more than any insult. "Oi!" Cesc shouted, voice sharp. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Francesco didn't turn immediately. He stopped, half-glanced over his shoulder. "You know exactly what it means."
The players nearby from Koscielny, Özil, and Pedro that looked between them, tension suddenly flaring again.
Fàbregas took a few steps closer, his tone rising. "You think you're better than me? You think walking past me makes you a bigger man?"
Francesco turned fully now, eyes cold, voice low but steady. "No," he said. "But I remember what loyalty means."
The words hit like a slap.
Cesc blinked, taken aback. His voice cracked with anger. "Don't talk to me about loyalty. You weren't even here when I gave everything for this club!"
Francesco's jaw tightened. "You left it broken," he snapped, stepping forward, face inches from the Spaniard's. "You walked away when the club needed its captain most. And then—" his tone deepened, bitter."you came back wearing their badge."
"Because Arsenal didn't want me back!" Cesc shot back, voice shaking with emotion. "Because your manager, your precious Arsène that didn't want me!"
"You think we had a choice?" Francesco's voice cut sharper now, his frustration finally spilling out. "You put the club in a corner. You wanted out so badly that we had to sell you for half your worth just to stop the bleeding. You forced their hand, Cesc. You forced his hand."
Cesc's nostrils flared, color rising in his face. "You don't know what happened—"
"I know enough," Francesco interrupted, his voice quiet but deadly calm now. "I know what your decision cost us. I was a kid watching you leave. You were supposed to lead us into the future, not hand us over to the fire."
The crowd closest to the pitch had gone silent, watching the two men from past and present that standing toe to toe under the floodlights, their history laid bare.
Fàbregas took another step forward, fists clenching. "You don't get to judge me. You've never had to make those choices."
"Maybe not," Francesco said, his tone softer now but no less firm. "But I learned from your mistake."
It was a line drawn, clear and cold.
And then, before anyone could stop it, Fàbregas shoved him.
Not hard, but enough to break the thin layer of control that still hung between them. Francesco stumbled a step back, eyes blazing. He moved forward again, chest to chest, voice like thunder.
"Don't touch me."
Players rushed in instantly. Koscielny grabbed Francesco's arm, dragging him back, while Pedro and Ivanović caught Fàbregas from behind. The referee sprinted over, blowing his whistle even though the match was long over, shouting, "Enough! Enough!"
The tension was so thick you could feel it humming in the air. Fans near the touchline shouted, some booing, others trying to calm it down. Cameras zoomed in as Sky Sports capturing every second of the confrontation, commentators murmuring in disbelief.
Gary Neville's voice crackled through the broadcast:
"Well, you can tell there's still history there between Fàbregas and this club. Francesco Lee clearly wasn't having it. That handshake snub says it all."
Francesco was breathing heavily, chest heaving, but he didn't swing back. He didn't need to. The look in his eyes said everything. He stared at Fàbregas, and for the first time, the Spaniard looked away.
Ivanović pulled his teammate aside, muttering in Serbian under his breath, trying to defuse the situation. "Enough, Cesc. Not tonight. Leave it."
Wenger, who had been on his way toward the tunnel, turned back, his expression tight but composed. He motioned toward Francesco, gesturing for him to calm down. "Let it go," the old man mouthed from the sideline.
Francesco exhaled slowly, nodded, and stepped back.
"Go on," Koscielny whispered to him. "Walk away. You've won tonight. Don't let him take that from you."
So Francesco did.
He turned, walked off to the fans, the noise of the crowd rising again around him. Behind him, Fàbregas stood still, breathing hard, frustration and regret warring in his expression.
Deep down, Cesc knew Francesco was right. He'd spent years trying to make peace with his decision, convincing himself it was all circumstance—that he had to leave, that it wasn't betrayal. But standing there on the Emirates pitch again, watching the new captain lead a new generation to victory, something inside him twisted.
He was seeing the Arsenal that could have been—the one he was meant to lead.
The air inside the Emirates still throbbed with that post-match electricity with the kind that hummed in the ribs and made the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. Smoke from red flares lingered near the North Bank, wrapping itself in the glow of the floodlights so the whole end shimmered in a crimson haze. The fans were still singing even though the final whistle had long gone; voices cracked, scarves waving, palms slapping the barriers in rhythm. The night belonged to Arsenal.
Francesco inhaled deeply, his chest expanding as he turned away from the now-cooled confrontation. His pulse was still high, not from anger anymore but from the sheer magnitude of what they'd done with winning 4–0 against Chelsea, one of those perfect performances that lived longer than the ninety minutes that birthed it. Sweat clung to him like armor, his shirt clinging to the sharp lines of his shoulders and chest. His hands trembled a little, the adrenaline still trickling through.
Koscielny caught up beside him, the new temporary armband flashing under the lights. "North Bank?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
Francesco nodded, breath still coming in slow, controlled waves. "North Bank."
Together, he and Koscielny waved the rest of the team forward. Sánchez, still grinning from ear to ear; Özil, calm but radiant; Walcott jogging back onto the pitch in a training top, clapping toward the stands; even the substitutes from Gnabry, Oxlade-Chamberlain, Xhaka are all coming to join in the moment.
As the group approached, the North Bank saw them coming and roared louder. The chants shifted again, the name "Francesco" spilling through the air like an anthem of its own.
"♪ Francesco Lee! Francesco Lee! He leads the Arsenal to glory! ♪"
The chant swelled, thousands of voices calling in unison, stamping their feet, hammering the air with the power of belonging. Francesco raised both arms, palms open, not in triumph but in thanks. His eyes scanned the crowd who's faces red with joy, flags waving, children on their parents' shoulders shouting his name. He had dreamt of this when he was a boy: the captaincy, the roar, the connection. But standing there now, it wasn't the dream that struck him—it was the weight of love that these people carried for their club.
He gestured for the others to join him, motioning toward the sea of fans. "Come on," he called over the noise, voice hoarse but bright. "They're the reason we're here."
The team formed a line behind him, linking arms—Sánchez next to him, then Özil, Koscielny, Van Dijk, Bellerín, and the rest, shoulder to shoulder in a show of unity. Together they began to clap in rhythm with the fans, slow at first, then faster, matching the beat from the stands.
"♪ Arsenal! Arsenal! Arsenal! ♪"
The chant rolled across the stadium like thunder meeting the shore. Francesco stepped forward a little, clapping above his head, and shouted toward the crowd, "We hear you! Every single one of you, we hear you!"
A rush of applause and cheers answered him, swelling the sound until it felt like the ground itself was shaking. From the front rows, you could see tears in some eyes, older supporters who had seen decades of struggle, of near-misses, of heartbreak—and now they were seeing hope again, embodied in this young captain with fire in his heart and steel in his eyes.
Alexis leaned closer, shouting over the noise, "They love you, hermano!"
Francesco grinned. "They love us!"
Behind him, Xhaka threw his arms around Gnabry's shoulders, laughing. "Feels like we just won the league!"
Gnabry, still buzzing from his assist, laughed back. "We will—if we keep this!"
Özil smiled faintly, eyes drifting up to the crowd. "Listen to them… they believe again."
And he was right. That belief with the fragile, beautiful thing that had waned in recent years was back, echoing through the rafters.
Francesco turned again to face the North Bank and lifted both fists high. The noise doubled. For a second, the floodlights caught the glint of the captain's armband on his left bicep, and every camera in the stadium zoomed in. Sky Sports replayed the scene live, their commentators half-drowned by the volume of the chants.
"There he is," Martin Tyler said with reverence. "Francesco Lee, Arsenal's heartbeat tonight. You can feel it, can't you? The fans aren't just celebrating a win; they're celebrating the return of something they've missed for years."
Gary Neville nodded beside him. "He's leading like he's been doing it forever. Look at how he brings them all together, not just the team, but the whole stadium. That's the mark of a captain."
Francesco began walking along the edge of the pitch, still clapping, still waving, shaking hands with the ball boys and stewards who had stood in the rain hours before. When he reached the corner where the North Bank met the East Stand, he stopped and pressed his hand against the Arsenal crest on his chest. The gesture was simple, but it carried the weight of a promise.
The fans responded in kind. From the front rows came a surge of shouts:
"We've got your back, captain!"
"We'll always stand with you, Francesco!"
"You're one of us!"
He smiled, his throat tightening. Those words sank deeper than any trophy ever could. He turned back to his teammates, gesturing for them to take a bow toward the fans. Together, they leaned forward in thanks—a team and a family united in one gesture of gratitude.
For a moment, the Emirates was no longer just a stadium. It was a living, breathing heartbeat of red and white.
While the players continued their lap of appreciation, Francesco's gaze drifted toward the far touchline. Amid the movement of staff and photographers, he saw a figure in blue lingering near the halfway mark, Cesc Fàbregas.
The Spaniard stood alone now, hands on his hips, his head bowed slightly. His teammates had already disappeared down the tunnel; Conte was gesturing impatiently for him to follow, but Cesc didn't move. His eyes were fixed on Wenger, who was standing near the technical area, speaking quietly with Steve Bould.
After a long hesitation, Fàbregas began to walk toward him.
The crowd's noise dulled slightly, the cameras shifting direction as if sensing the tension that was about to spark again. Francesco saw it too, his jaw tightening slightly, though he didn't move from where he stood. He knew this wasn't his fight anymore.
Fàbregas reached Wenger, stopping a few feet away. His voice was low, but in the relative quiet of the moment, the microphones caught fragments.
"Boss…" he began, hesitant. "I just wanted to say—"
But Wenger didn't let him finish. The old manager turned his head just slightly, eyes soft but distant. His face was calm, yet there was something pained in his expression, something that looked like weariness and sorrow rolled together. He gave the briefest nod with half acknowledgment, half farewell and then stepped past him without a word.
The brush of his coat sleeve against Fàbregas's arm was the only contact between them. Silent. Final.
Cesc froze for a second, disbelief flickering in his eyes. He looked after Wenger as the manager walked away down the tunnel, his thin frame moving slowly but purposefully, shoulders stiff. For a split second, under the floodlights, you could see that there was sadness there was hidden, restrained, but real. Wenger's eyes, normally full of that quiet wisdom, now glistened with something that almost looked like regret.
He didn't hate Fàbregas. He never could. But time had drawn its line. Some wounds, even when they heal, leave scars that you learn not to touch.
Behind him, Bould said softly, "Boss…"
Wenger didn't answer. He just kept walking, the echo of his footsteps fading into the tunnel's hollow silence.
Back on the pitch, Francesco watched that small, silent exchange from afar. He didn't need to hear the words. He could read the story in the way Wenger carried himself in the slight hunch of his shoulders, the heavy way he exhaled. That sadness was the mark of a man who had once believed in someone, only to watch that belief shatter. And maybe, deep down, he felt sorry for Fàbregas too.
Alexis noticed Francesco's eyes following Wenger and asked quietly, "Something wrong?"
Francesco shook his head slowly, eyes still fixed on the tunnel. "No," he said at last, voice soft but steady. "Just thinking about what football takes from people… and what it gives back."
Alexis followed his gaze for a moment, then nodded, understanding more than words could say.
The team began to head toward the tunnel now, the crowd still singing, though softer, fading into a hum of satisfaction and love. A few fans lingered, waving until the last of the players disappeared from view.
The call came just as Francesco was about to follow his teammates down the tunnel. He'd been the last one lingering on the pitch, hands on his hips, the lights of the Emirates burning like a constellation around him. The pitch was littered with the soft remnants of celebration—confetti here and there, a few plastic cups rolling near the sideline, and the faint hum of the fans still singing somewhere up in the stands. It felt holy in a way, that sacred calm that followed chaos.
Then a voice broke through from behind him.
"Francesco! Sorry, mate. The Premier League staff needs you for the post-match interview. Sky Sports are ready."
He turned. One of the officials in a navy jacket was jogging toward him, headset slightly askew, clipboard in hand. The man looked both apologetic and a bit breathless, as if he'd had to chase down more than one runaway player tonight.
Francesco blinked, still half in the glow of victory. "Right now?"
"Yes, right on the pitch-side. Geoff Shreeves is set up already. Just a quick one like the usual, man of the match, captain's thoughts, the usual." The staffer smiled, gesturing toward the small camera setup near the halfway line where the familiar figure of Geoff Shreeves stood with a Sky Sports microphone in hand.
Francesco gave a small nod, rolling his shoulders as he exhaled. "Alright. Let's do it."
The staffer smiled with relief and led him across the pitch. Francesco followed, boots sinking slightly into the soft turf, his shadow stretching long under the floodlights. As he walked, applause broke out from the few fans still seated in the lower tier. They hadn't left, they never did when Francesco was still out there. He turned, lifted a hand in acknowledgment, and a ripple of cheers followed.
"Francesco! Captain fantastic!" one shouted.
He laughed lightly, shaking his head, the fatigue of ninety minutes starting to set in now that the adrenaline was ebbing away. But even tired, his movements had that quiet authority with the grace of someone who knew this was where he belonged.
When he reached Geoff Shreeves, the veteran reporter gave him that familiar half-smile that balanced professionalism with warmth. "Francesco, my man of the match tonight," Geoff said, holding out a hand. "Congratulations on what was a truly remarkable performance."
Francesco shook it firmly. "Thank you, Geoff."
"Let's start with the obvious," Geoff began as the red light blinked on above the camera. "A 4–0 win over Chelsea. Dominant, relentless, controlled. As captain, how proud are you of your team tonight?"
Francesco took a breath, the kind that gave him a second to gather his thoughts. He looked toward the stands—the banners, the scarves, the people who were still chanting softly even now. Then back to Geoff. "I'm incredibly proud," he said, voice low but full of sincerity. "The lads gave everything. From the first whistle to the last, we pressed, we fought, we stayed together. Everyone knew what this meant—not just three points, but what it means to our fans, to our identity as a club."
Geoff nodded. "There was real intensity about the performance. We could see it from minute one—you set the tone early. Was that part of the plan, or something that came from within?"
Francesco smiled faintly, the kind that came from a deep place. "Both, I think. The boss told us before kickoff—'play with your heart, but use your head.' We wanted to show we could dominate a big team like Chelsea not just with passion, but with intelligence. And honestly…" he let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, "we just wanted to make a statement. After the last few matches, people were questioning our mentality. Tonight we answered that."
Geoff chuckled softly. "You certainly did. You personally had a standout performance with a goal, and that relentless drive through out the match. But I have to ask, there was a moment at the game and after the full-time, between you and Cesc Fàbregas. Cameras caught a bit of tension there. Can you tell us what happened?"
Francesco's expression didn't change immediately. He looked down for a second, his breath misting faintly in the cool air. When he looked back up, his gaze was steady. "Football is full of emotion," he said slowly. "Sometimes those emotions boil over. Cesc and I… we have history, in different ways. I grew up watching him lead this club. I respected him then, and I still do. But tonight, I was here to defend my team and my badge. That's all I'll say."
It was diplomatic, but there was weight beneath the words. Geoff sensed it, his journalistic instinct flickering, but he respected the boundary. He gave a small nod, moving on.
"Well said," he replied. "Let's talk about Arsène Wenger. We saw that moment between him and Cesc as well—a quiet one, but it looked emotional. You've known the boss a few years now, you've worked closely under him. What does he mean to you, especially on nights like this?"
Francesco's eyes softened. The floodlights glinted off the sheen of sweat on his brow as he turned slightly toward the tunnel where Wenger had disappeared minutes earlier. "He means everything to me," he said quietly. "He's the reason I'm standing here right now, the reason I believe in this club the way I do. The man's given his life to Arsenal with his time, his soul. Nights like this aren't just for the players; they're for him too."
There was a pause—one of those pauses that said more than words could. Geoff nodded again, letting the silence breathe before continuing.
"And now, with this win, Arsenal are sitting top of the table. The fans are singing your name, the pundits are calling you the new heartbeat of this side. How do you handle that kind of pressure, that kind of expectation?"
Francesco gave a small, knowing smile. "Pressure's part of it, Geoff. If you can't carry it, you don't deserve it. I don't think about being the 'new' anything, I just think about being myself. This club doesn't need another legend to imitate; it needs leaders who'll fight for today. That's what I try to do. Every training session, every match."
"Well put," Geoff said, glancing briefly toward the camera. "Before I let you go, Francesco. What would you like to say to the supporters tonight? They've been absolutely magnificent."
Francesco looked up at the stands again. The North Bank, still a sea of red. He raised his hand slightly, almost instinctively, as if he were addressing them directly.
"I want to say thank you," he said, voice thickening just slightly. "For every chant, every banner, every voice that kept us going when things weren't easy. We feel it out there—we really do. You're not just supporters; you're part of us. We'll keep fighting, for all of you."
It was honest. It wasn't rehearsed. And you could tell because even Geoff, seasoned and unshakable, gave a small, approving smile that reached his eyes. "Beautifully said. Francesco Lee, congratulations again—captain, leader, man of the match. Go and enjoy the win."
Francesco smiled, nodded once, and shook Geoff's hand again before stepping away from the microphone. The Sky Sports red light blinked off, and the cameraman dropped his shoulder slightly, exhaling as though he'd just witnessed something quietly special.
The Premier League staffer approached again, handing Francesco a small black box with the silver Premier League logo embossed on top with the man of the match award. Francesco turned it in his hands for a moment, the polished edges reflecting the glow of the floodlights.
He tucked the award under his arm and looked up toward the big screen above the Emirates, where Sky Sports were replaying clips from the match: his curling finish into the top corner, the assist for Sánchez, the crowd's eruption. And then, for a fleeting second, the moment of confrontation with Fàbregas flashed on screen from the refusal, the words, the push. He frowned slightly, then shook his head. Let the cameras show what they want. He knew the truth of it.
As he started back toward the tunnel, the air grew cooler, calmer. The shouts of fans were fading into the London night, replaced by the low hum of the stadium's maintenance crews starting their late shift. He passed one of the stewards who smiled at him, old enough to have seen the Invincibles in their prime.
"Great game, son," the man said warmly. "Reminded me of the old days."
Francesco smiled. "That's what we're trying to bring back."
He reached the mouth of the tunnel, and there, waiting with a towel draped around his neck, was Arsène Wenger. The old manager wasn't saying anything at first, he just stood there, watching his captain approach, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Well done," Wenger said quietly.
"Merci, boss," Francesco replied, meeting his eyes.
Wenger's gaze softened. "You led like a true Arsenal man tonight."
For a heartbeat, Francesco thought he saw that same sadness flicker in Wenger's eyes again at the one from when he brushed past Fàbregas, but now it was tempered with pride. Maybe it was because he saw something in Francesco that reminded him why he'd spent his life building this club; that in the ashes of past heartbreak, new fire had been born.
"Thank you," Francesco said simply.
Wenger nodded. "Go and rest. The season is long, but nights like this, they're worth remembering."
Francesco smiled faintly, tucking the man of the match award under his arm as he walked down the tunnel, the sounds of laughter and music drifting from the dressing room ahead.
Then Francesco entered the dressing room with the heat hit him first. That familiar cocktail of steam, sweat, and victory that only footballers could love. The room was alive, absolutely alive. Music was thumping from the corner, Theo Walcott was dancing near the benches with a towel around his neck, and Coquelin and Elneny were arguing good-naturedly about whose tackle had been cleaner. The smell of liniment and shampoo mingled with laughter.
The moment he stepped through the door, a cheer went up.
"Capitanooo!" shouted Héctor Bellerín, springing from his seat and waving a red towel in the air like a flag.
Francesco grinned, raising his hand in mock salute as laughter rippled through the room. Sánchez came over, still in half his kit, socks rolled down and shirt untucked, and wrapped an arm around him. "Mi hermano!" he said, beaming. "You were fire tonight, fuego!"
Francesco laughed, patting him on the back. "You weren't bad yourself, Alex. That second goal was all you."
Sánchez smirked. "Nah, you dragged those defenders like cattle. I just walked through the door you opened."
In the corner, Petr Čech was peeling off his gloves, methodical as ever. He gave Francesco a small nod with the keeper's version of applause.
"Another clean sheet," Francesco said, walking over and bumping his fist against Čech's shoulder.
"Another night where you did most of my job," Čech replied with dry humor, and even he cracked a rare smile.
The atmosphere was thick with joy and relief. A derby win was one thing, but a four-nil over Chelsea as that was something else entirely. It wasn't just three points. It was a statement, and everyone in that room knew it.
Giroud was sitting on the massage table with ice on his knees, humming along to the music. Ramsey had his boots off and was checking his phone as the messages were coming in, family, friends, pundits, journalists. The world was reacting.
Kanté, quiet as ever, was tidying up his area, folding his shirt neatly before tossing it into the laundry bin. Even in celebration, his discipline showed. Francesco noticed, smiled, and clapped him on the back. "You're a machine, N'Golo."
Kanté just laughed softly. "Machines don't get tired," he said.
"Exactly," Francesco replied. "That's why you scare everyone."
Walcott turned up the speaker volume just then, and the bass shook the benches. Someone yelled, "Turn it down!" but nobody really meant it. Wenger wasn't there — not yet — and for the moment, the players had the room to themselves. Champagne bottles were being passed around, half-emptied, half-spilled. A bit of the cork foam hit the ceiling. It didn't matter. They'd earned this.
Francesco sank onto the bench, unlacing his boots. The sweat on his neck was cooling now, his pulse finally steadying. For a second, he just sat there, staring at the ground between his cleats with the faint smear of grass, the red socks streaked with mud. The sound around him faded slightly, as though his mind had turned down the world's volume.
He thought of the night outside — the fans singing his name, the lights, Geoff Shreeves' questions. It was all still echoing in his head.
Then someone nudged him.
"You're thinking too much, mate," said Chamberlain, sliding onto the bench beside him, still half-wet from the shower, towel around his waist. Francesco chuckled. "Just catching my breath." "Yeah, well, you've earned it. You ran that back line ragged. Cahill looked like he was searching for his lungs out there."
Francesco laughed. "He'll find them by Tuesday." "Doubt it," Chamberlain said with a smirk. "Not after you sent him for a sandwich."
Francesco tilted his head back and laughed, really laughed. It was one of those small moments that reminded him what made football special — not the cameras, not the money, not the press. This. The jokes, the shared exhaustion, the feeling that they'd fought something together and come out the other side.
"Alright lads, enough vanity," came a voice, it was Per Mertesacker, towel slung over his shoulder, mock-stern expression. "Bus leaves in fifteen. You want to shower or sleep in your kits?"
Groans and laughter followed, but everyone started moving.
Francesco grabbed his towel and headed toward the showers. The hot water hit him like therapy. Steam filled the air, mixing with echoes of conversation bouncing off the tiles — voices about goals, tactics, girlfriends, and upcoming fixtures. Someone was humming again which probably Theo and someone else was arguing about FIFA ratings. It was normal. Beautifully, perfectly normal.
As he leaned against the wall under the water, Francesco closed his eyes. For a moment, it wasn't noise he heard but memory with Wenger's words before the match, the look on Cesc Fàbregas' face when they'd locked eyes, the quiet sadness behind it.
You led like a true Arsenal man tonight.
That line from Wenger still lingered. It wasn't just praise. It felt like something passed down — a torch, maybe. Something sacred.
When he stepped out, towel around his waist, the room had mostly settled. Players were dressed in their travel tracksuits, some fixing hair, others already packing up. The music was softer now, replaced by the low murmur of tired contentment.
Alex Iwobi was talking animatedly with Bellerín about the next match, while Elneny was joking with Coquelin. Sánchez was scrolling through his phone, smiling — probably a message from Chile. Walcott looked up as Francesco came out. "Oi, captain! Sky Sports are replaying your interview already," he said, nodding toward the small wall-mounted TV above the lockers.
Francesco followed his gaze. There it was with the clip from just ten minutes ago, his face filling the screen, his voice playing through the speakers. Geoff's question, his answer about Wenger. The camera caught that moment where he looked up to the stands.
Then came the footage of the goal with that curling shot that bent just past Courtois' fingertips showing slow motion, framed by the roar of the Emirates.
The room fell quiet for a few seconds as everyone watched. Then laughter erupted when Walcott stood and clapped mockingly. "Look at that face! Look at our captain, ladies and gentlemen — man of the match, model, philosopher!"
"Pipe down, Theo," Francesco said, laughing, tossing a towel at him.
"You love it," Theo shot back, grinning.
Just then, the door creaked open and in walked Arsène Wenger. Instantly, the room straightened. Not stiff, not nervous, just… respectful. Even in victory, Wenger's presence carried gravity.
He looked around at his players, hands clasped behind his back, his expression one of quiet pride. "Gentlemen," he began, his French accent soft but commanding. "Congratulations. You played with courage, intelligence, and unity. That is what Arsenal football should look like."
A chorus of "Thanks, boss" and "Merci" murmured around the room. Wenger's eyes landed on Francesco. "And you, captain," he said with a small smile, "you reminded everyone tonight why this club still has a soul."
Francesco didn't say anything, he just nodded. Sometimes words weren't needed.
Wenger turned slightly. "Alright. Go and rest. We train light tomorrow. And please, no celebrations until we have something worth celebrating."
That drew a round of laughter. Sánchez raised a bottle of water. "But tonight we can enjoy, yes?"
Wenger chuckled, shaking his head. "Tonight, you may smile."
As he left, the tension melted again. The music came back up, though softer now. Francesco packed his things — fresh clothes, his phone, the small man of the match box still under his arm. As he zipped his bag, he felt that gentle tiredness wash through him — the good kind, the kind that came only after you'd given everything.
When the staff finally ushered them out, the corridors of the Emirates were quiet except for the distant hum of cleaners and security guards. The players filed through, joking, yawning, still glowing from the win. The tunnel smelled faintly of turf and champagne.
Outside, the night air was cool. The team bus was waiting, its engine rumbling softly. A few fans were still gathered behind the barriers, waving scarves and calling names.
"Francesco! Over here!"
He waved back, smiling, and one kid that maybe twelve or thirteen, held up a homemade sign: Captain Lee, Our Future!
Francesco paused. He walked over, signed the boy's shirt, and ruffled his hair. "Keep believing, yeah?"
The boy nodded, eyes wide as if he'd just met a superhero.
As Francesco turned away, he heard the kid whisper to his father, "That's him. That's our new Henry."
The words hit him softly. He didn't want to be Henry — he wanted to be himself. But maybe… maybe that was what Arsenal needed. A new story, not a shadow.
He climbed the steps onto the bus. The seats were half-filled already. Ramsey was near the front, headphones in; Coquelin was showing something funny on his phone to Elneny; Giroud was already asleep with his hoodie pulled over his head. The low chatter filled the air like a lullaby of camaraderie.
Francesco slid into his seat near the middle, next to Bellerín. The bus hissed as the doors closed, and they began rolling out into the North London streets, blue lights flashing past as police bikes escorted them away from the stadium.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (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: 7
Goal: 9
Assist: 0
MOTM: 2
POTM: 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