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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.
The next morning broke quiet and golden over London. Sunlight spilled across the tarmac at the Airport, glinting off the Arsenal team jet as it stood ready with white fuselage gleaming, the red cannon painted proudly near the nose. There was a sharp breeze in the air, carrying the faint smell of jet fuel and coffee. Francesco stepped out of the team coach first, his black Arsenal tracksuit crisp.
It was one of those mornings where the body still carried the weight of the night before, as he could feel the fatigue under his skin, but the heart was light. They were top of the Premier League table, the fans were singing their names again, and now Europe was calling.
Behind him came the familiar chatter of teammates—Bellerín balancing a cup of espresso, Walcott yawning like he hadn't slept in a week, Coquelin humming under his breath. Sánchez was already laughing at something Giroud had said, probably about fashion or food, and Wenger was walking steadily beside Steve Bould, clipboard in hand, voice calm as always.
The sound of rolling suitcases echoed lightly across the boarding stairs as the players made their way up the steps. Francesco paused for a second before climbing—his gaze drifting over the runway toward the horizon where the sun was just breaking through the clouds. Paris awaited beyond that blue stretch of sky. The Champions League. Another test, another stage, another chance to prove that the night against Chelsea wasn't just a statement—it was a beginning.
Inside the plane, the mood was easy. Players picked their seats like students on a school trip. Bellerín and Iwobi sat together by the window, already pulling out their phones to record a story for Instagram. Giroud, naturally, was arguing with Koscielny in rapid French about which restaurant they'd go to after the match.
"Non, non, Oli," Koscielny was saying, shaking his head. "You always want something expensive. The boss will not approve."
Giroud shrugged with mock innocence. "We are in Paris, mon ami. A man must eat with style."
Francesco smiled faintly as he walked past them, sliding into his seat beside Kante near the middle of the cabin. The Frenchmen had a notebook open and was scribbling something that looked like formation notes.
"Still thinking about Chelsea?" Francesco asked, leaning back.
Kante grinned. "Just making notes before PSG. You know how it is—Emery's side will press hard, Verratti will dictate tempo, and Cavani loves that half-space behind our center-backs."
Francesco chuckled. "You sound like the assistant coach."
"Someone has to make sure you know who's marking Di María when he drifts left," Kante teased.
Francesco smirked. "I'll just run until he gives up."
"Right," Kante said dryly, closing the notebook. "And I'll just chase Verratti for ninety minutes."
As the engines began to rumble to life, Wenger's voice came over the cabin mic. "Gentlemen, we take off shortly. Please rest. We will review tactical notes after lunch. Enjoy the quiet while you can."
The players chuckled softly as Wenger never stopped planning, not even at 30,000 feet.
Francesco leaned his head against the window as the plane began to taxi. The hum beneath the cabin deepened, the view outside starting to blur as acceleration pressed him gently into his seat. In seconds, the ground fell away—London shrinking below, clouds swallowing the world in white.
For a few minutes, the cabin was hushed except for the soft hiss of air conditioning and the muted clicks of phone cameras as someone took a selfie. Francesco's mind drifted.
He thought about Paris, but not the city itself, but the weight of it. The lights, the noise, the expectation. The last time Arsenal had been there in Europe, it had ended in heartbreak. Now it was his turn to lead them back into that arena, not as an underdog but as a captain ready to make history.
He closed his eyes, letting the hum of the engines blend with his thoughts. Images flickered behind his eyelids—the red and blue of PSG's kit, the glare of the Parc des Princes floodlights, the deafening echo of the Champions League anthem. He could almost hear it already, that familiar tune that turned even hardened professionals into children again, the music of dreams.
When he opened his eyes again, the flight attendant was moving down the aisle with trays of breakfast. The smell of coffee and croissants filled the cabin. Giroud perked up immediately. "Ah! French breakfast!" he declared, earning a groan from Bellerín.
"It's airplane food, Oli," Hector said, rolling his eyes. "Not Michelin-starred."
"It is still French," Giroud replied proudly, peeling the top off his yogurt. "It counts."
Francesco smiled faintly as he reached for his own tray. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he took a sip of the hot black coffee, feeling it burn pleasantly down his throat. Across from him, Ramsey had fallen asleep, headphones in, notebook resting on his lap.
A few rows ahead, Walcott was watching match highlights on his tablet with replays of last night's goals. The familiar voice of Martin Tyler drifted faintly through the quiet: "Francesco Lee, unstoppable! The captain leads by example once again!"
Francesco shook his head, smiling at the irony. Even when he tried to switch off, football found a way to follow him.
He turned his gaze toward the aisle, where Wenger was sitting near the front, reading over tactical notes. The manager's glasses were perched low on his nose, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Every so often he'd jot something down with his pen, nodding slightly to himself. He looked… peaceful, in that Wenger way. A man at home in his work.
Sitting there, Francesco felt a flicker of something like gratitude. Not everyone got this kind of trust. Wenger had built him, shaped him, believed in him when the headlines had doubted him. Now, he carried that belief onto the biggest stages in the world.
The captain glanced at his phone—one new message. From Leah.
Leah ❤️: "Watched your interview again. You looked like a prince out there. Bring me back a win from Paris, yeah?"
He chuckled softly and typed back: "For you, always." Then he locked the phone and stared out the window again, the sky opening wide beyond the glass.
By the time they began descending into Paris, the cabin had come alive again. Players were stretching, chatting, cracking jokes. Wenger stood and clapped his hands softly. "Alright, gentlemen. Focus. Tomorrow we start our Champions League campaign. PSG are strong with technically sharp, fast, and proud. But remember, so are we. Play with our rhythm, our intelligence, and our heart."
His voice carried just enough authority to cut through the hum. Francesco felt the shift around him—laughs turning into quiet nods, eyes sharpening. The fun was over; now the real work began.
The plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle with a soft thud, the engines whining as they slowed. Out the window, the world gleamed with Parisian autumn—grey skies, wet tarmac, and far in the distance, the faint silhouette of the Eiffel Tower. Cameras were already waiting beyond the fences, flashes ready to capture Arsenal's arrival.
As they disembarked, Francesco tightened the strap on his bag and walked beside Wenger.
"Feeling ready, captain?" the manager asked quietly.
Francesco nodded. "Always."
Wenger smiled. "Paris is a stage that loves bold performances. Make sure we give them one."
The words echoed in his mind as they boarded the team coach waiting outside the terminal. The air in Paris was crisp, tinged with rain and perfume. Through the windows, the city passed in flashes—cafés, narrow streets, the Seine glimmering under overcast light.
The players were quieter now, each locked in his own thoughts. Somewhere near the front, Ramsey was discussing tactical adjustments with Bould. In the back, Sánchez was softly singing a Spanish tune under his breath.
Francesco sat by the window, watching the rain begin to bead and trail down the glass. His reflection looked calm, but inside, he could already feel the tension building—the anticipation that came before every big European night.
He thought of all the great Arsenal players who'd come before him and walked this same road: Henry, Vieira, Bergkamp.
As the coach rolled past the gates of the team hotel—a sleek glass building overlooking the Seine—the sky had turned the color of dusk. Reporters were waiting outside, cameras flashing, shouting questions in English and French.
"Francesco! Francesco! What's your prediction for tomorrow?"
He smiled politely but didn't answer, just lifted a hand in greeting and followed the team inside.
The lobby was quiet, the kind of luxury that whispered instead of shouting. Marble floors, soft yellow lights, the faint smell of cologne. Players grabbed their room keys and disappeared one by one. Francesco took his and glanced up, room 409.
When he reached it, he dropped his bag on the bed and stepped to the window. The Eiffel Tower was visible in the distance, glittering faintly through the rain. For a long moment, he just stood there, staring out at the city. The hum of traffic below was steady, alive.
The hotel corridor was quiet, echoing with the soft slap of trainers against the polished floor as players returned from unpacking. Some carried their belongings back from the coach, others had already dropped their bags in their rooms and were wandering the hallways like predators scenting the territory. Francesco made his way toward the large, understated meeting room at the far end of the floor. The door was already ajar, and through the glass panel, he could see Wenger standing at the head of the table, his posture perfectly upright, hands clasped in front of him. The air smelled faintly of fresh paper and coffee—a combination that somehow made tactical meetings feel heavier, more serious, more alive.
Francesco entered quietly, nodding to Steve Bould who was adjusting a laptop at the side of the table. The room had that familiar hush of anticipation, the kind that only comes when men who live and breathe the sport know that the next hour could shape the coming battle. He chose a seat near the middle, between Sánchez on his left and Özil on his right. Sánchez gave him a quick grin, the sort of look that spoke volumes without words: we're ready. Özil, eyes half-closed in that relaxed intensity he always carried, gave a small nod, tapping his fingers against the table as if drumming out the tempo of their plan already.
Wenger cleared his throat softly, the sound carrying with authority even without raising his voice. "Gentlemen," he began, his accent gentle yet firm, "tomorrow, we face a side that is not just strong individually but cohesive as a unit. PSG is fast, creative, and disciplined. Every player has a role, and they stick to it with intelligence and pride." His eyes swept the room, lingering briefly on each man, gauging focus, measuring readiness. "Our job is to disrupt that rhythm without losing our own. We defend as one, we attack as one, and we control our tempo."
He moved to the whiteboard, marker in hand, and began sketching formations with precise, almost artistic strokes. The 4-2-3-1 Arsenal shape he drew was familiar, yet Wenger emphasized the subtle adjustments they'd need for the Parisian pitch. "Di María will drift inwards often," Wenger explained, circling a small dot representing the Argentine. "Cavani will attempt to exploit space behind our center-backs. Verratti will central, controlling. If he gets rhythm, he dictates everything. Kanté and Xhaka, you two will have to deny him space without leaving gaps behind."
They nodded, with their hands on the table. He could feel Sánchez leaned closer to him, whispering, "Verratti… always so slippery. But we have the speed." Francesco smirked faintly. "And we have the brains," he replied, his tone light but edged with the seriousness of a man who understood the stakes.
Wenger moved to the defensive line next. "Virgil, Koscielny," he said, pointing to the center-back pairing on the board. "Tomorrow, it's crucial that your communication is flawless. Cavani will test you constantly. Don't just react—anticipate. Listen to each other. Support each other. The channels we leave open will be exploited instantly if even one man hesitates."
The room was silent except for the faint scratching of pens against notebooks, the occasional murmur of agreement. Wenger turned to the full-backs. "Bellerín, Monreal," he continued. "You have the width. You will press high when possible, but remember: the moment we lose possession, retreat as a unit. Do not overcommit. PSG's wingers are quick, clever—they will punish overzealousness. Move as one."
He pivoted back toward the midfield. "Özil, Sánchez, I want you to control the spaces between their lines. Pull defenders out, create pockets. Let the ball move quickly, but always with purpose. Patience, anticipation, precision. Francesco, you will lead this. You have freedom but also responsibility. The ball moves through you, through the team. Every decision counts."
Francesco absorbed each word, the images Wenger painted with his hands and voice forming in his mind like a living blueprint. He imagined the Parc des Princes in his mind—the terraces rising, the noise, the Parisian fans swarming their sections, the floodlights casting a stark glow over the pitch. He pictured the ball at his feet, the first pass into Sánchez's path, the pressing of Cavani as he tried to turn. Every scenario Wenger described came alive in the quiet of the room, and the anticipation burned hotter inside him with each passing second.
Wenger's voice softened but gained gravity. "We cannot underestimate the importance of discipline. PSG will challenge us, provoke us. Maintain your composure. If we stick to the plan, if we trust in ourselves, we can control the game. Francesco, Sánchez, Özil, your coordination will be key. Communication. Trust. Quick decisions."
He paused, letting it sink in. Francesco felt the weight of the tactical web Wenger had drawn around them, and yet it didn't feel constrictive—it felt like armor, a shield and a map. He knew exactly what his role would be, the rhythm they were trying to impose, the spaces to exploit and the threats to contain. He could feel the electricity of it in his fingertips, the anticipation in his chest.
Wenger finally stepped back from the board. "Any questions?"
A few hands went up. Sánchez asked about pressing triggers on the wings, Özil queried about diagonal runs behind the defense, and Kanté asked about covering Cavani if he dropped deep. Wenger answered with clarity, calm, yet with enough authority that no one left the room uncertain. Francesco remained quiet, observing, absorbing, processing. When Wenger's eyes met his, there was an unspoken understanding: lead, guide, act, but trust your instincts too.
The room settled into a heavier silence, the kind that hangs between anticipation and realization. Francesco felt it in the pit of his stomach, that tight, electrified coil of nerves and readiness that always preceded a big game. Wenger's eyes scanned the room one last time, confirming he had the attention of every man. Then, with a soft click, the laptop on the table came alive, and the projector illuminated the whiteboard with the glow of a muted video.
A video clip of PSG's recent Ligue 1 campaign filled the screen. The footage was crisp, the colors vivid with the Parisian blue and red cutting through the green pitch as the team moved fluidly, almost like a living organism. Wenger let the video play without commentary for a few seconds, allowing the room to absorb the motion. Francesco leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, eyes locked on the screen. He could already feel the familiar thrill—the tactical eye sharpening, instincts flicking on.
The first sequence showed PSG pressing high. Di María sprinted out of the front line, closing a defender down the wing, forcing a hurried pass. Cavani shadowed the space behind, ready to intercept any ball over the top. Verratti's movements were subtle but precise; every touch dictated tempo, shifting pressure, pulling midfielders out of alignment. PSG moved as one. Francesco noticed the nuances immediately—the timing of the press, the coordination of the midfield line, the way the full-backs overlapped to pin wingers back.
"See this," Wenger said softly, pointing with a slender hand, "when Di María initiates the press here, notice how Verratti immediately scans, adjusts, and signals for Marquinhos to cover. They have rehearsed this. It's instinctive for them, and yet it's planned."
Francesco nodded, absorbing it all. He could feel himself already anticipating how to counter it. "We'll need compact passing and quick rotations," he murmured quietly to Sánchez. Sánchez's eyes followed the movement on the screen, lips curling in a half-smile. "Leave the gaps," he whispered back. "They press, we slip through."
Wenger paused the video and rewound to another sequence. This time, PSG was attacking in transition. Matuidi received the ball on the left, a defender closing fast. He dribbled, quick feet, body low, drawing two men, then threaded a diagonal pass toward Cavani at the edge of the box. Cavani controlled it perfectly, the defender lunging to intercept, only for Matuidi to exploit the space he left behind. The goal was a textbook counter, but Wenger froze the frame just before the finish.
"Notice," Wenger said, "the coordination of movement here. Each player knows where to expect the ball. Cavani does not merely react as he anticipates the arrival, positions himself in the pocket, and reads the defender's intentions. Every attacker contributes to the press, every midfielder covers passing lanes. They are fast, yes, but they are also clever. This is the challenge."
Francesco felt a surge of adrenaline. His pulse quickened in the quiet room, the hum of focus replacing chatter. He could almost see the ball at his feet, the shifting lines of PSG pressing, his own teammates moving in silent, coordinated harmony. "They're organized… but we have the rhythm," he whispered, almost to himself, more a mantra than a sentence.
Wenger let the clip continue, showing a sequence where PSG lost possession. The transition was brutal and immediate with Di María and Matuidi pressing the ball carrier, Verratti covering passing lanes, Marquinhos stepping up to intercept. The defenders, even the goalkeeper, were part of the press. Francesco's mind raced, taking mental notes: the triggers for pressing, the moments where PSG over-commits, the gaps left behind in pursuit.
"Here," Wenger interjected, freezing the frame, "look at this moment. Mutuidi has chased the full-back aggressively. Notice the space left behind, this is where your runs, Francesco, can exploit. Sánchez, Özil, move into these channels to receive the ball. Timing will be everything. One misplaced run and they recover, one intelligent move, and we destabilize them."
Francesco leaned back slightly, rubbing his chin. He could feel the patterns emerging in his mind. PSG's pressing wasn't chaotic—it was almost musical, each movement following a rhythm, predictable if you watched closely enough. And that's exactly what he intended to do: read the rhythm, step into the spaces, dictate tempo, and turn pressure into opportunity.
The next clip flashed across the screen. PSG was working in intricate one-touch passing sequences in midfield. Verratti at the center, orchestrating passes, pulling the opposition midfielders wide, Matuidi and Di María drifting inside and out, Cavani lurking behind the lines, ready to pounce. Each player contributed to the attack with precision and speed. The footage moved fast, each frame reinforcing PSG's danger. Wenger let it play for nearly a minute, then stopped abruptly.
"Observe the positioning," Wenger said. "Verratti is the heartbeat. He dictates the rhythm. Kanté, Xhaka—you will need to disrupt that. Pressure, yes, but intelligent pressure. Do not chase shadows. Francesco, your role is to link, to control, to exploit the spaces he opens or leaves. We play our way through awareness, not panic."
Francesco's hand traced a line along the table, imagining the movements of his teammates, seeing the spaces in real time. He pictured Sánchez drifting left, Özil finding the pocket, Bellerín overlapping when necessary, Koscielny and Van Dijk covering gaps, Kanté and Xhaka pressing intelligently. Every detail Wenger emphasized was already playing in his mind like a second game unfolding in parallel to the reality that would soon manifest on the Parc des Princes turf.
The video continued, showing PSG's set pieces—corners, free kicks, throw-ins. Wenger stopped the clip on one corner kick, frozen frame showing Marquinhos rising unmarked for a header. "Marking is crucial," Wenger said, gesturing at the players on the screen. "Do not give them space here. Anticipate runs. Communication, this will save goals. Cavani may drift at the back post; Matuidi and Di María will attempt decoys. Francesco, track intelligently. Move your defenders, read the flight."
Francesco nodded, his mind already planning the positioning, the verbal cues, the subtle shoves, the anticipatory shifts that would guide the defensive line. He could almost feel the thump of the ball into the box, the leap of Marquinhos, the weight of the first header being contested. The Champions League always magnifies every detail; this visualization was necessary, every pixel of movement recorded in his mental replay.
Wenger switched to another clip—PSG in possession deep in their half, methodically moving the ball out, building slowly. The passes were crisp, controlled, the players never panicking even when pressed. Wenger stopped it at a moment where Di María received a pass and instantly flicked it into Matuidi path, who then accelerated down the wing, dragging the full-back with him.
"Transition again," Wenger said. "Notice how quickly they turn possession into attack. This is where concentration and readiness come into play. Francesco, Sánchez, Özil—your awareness of these movements will decide how we counter. Don't simply react; anticipate. Observe first, then move. One second too slow, one second too late, and the moment is gone."
Francesco's fingers flexed on the table. He could already feel the energy rising, the tension building. His heart beat in rhythm with the clip, syncing subconsciously to the movements on the screen, to the timing of passes, to the triggers for pressing. This wasn't fear—it was exhilaration. It was the edge of battle, and he thrived on it.
Wenger continued playing selective highlights, cutting between PSG's pressing, their creative build-up, their transitions, and their set pieces. Each pause was a question, a teaching moment. Each player leaned in, nodding, some scribbling notes, others visualizing their roles. Francesco watched, not just observing—he analyzed, internalized, and translated every frame into action.
By the time the final clip ended with a highlight of Di Maria's dazzling dribble and pass combination, Francesco felt a strange clarity. He could see the match unfolding, a living entity, and his role at its center, guiding, adjusting, dictating rhythm.
Wenger clicked the remote off, letting the room sit in silence for a moment, the weight of strategy lingering like a perfume. "Gentlemen," he said softly, "tomorrow is not just about skill. It is about awareness, intelligence, coordination, and composure. Remember what you have learned here, trust in each other, and trust in yourselves. Francesco, your leadership will be crucial. Lead the rhythm. Make decisions with your head, your heart, and your feet."
Francesco straightened, nodding firmly. "We'll do it, boss."
Sánchez leaned slightly, a grin tugging at his face. "And we'll make them chase shadows all night, yeah?"
"Yes," Francesco replied, quiet but decisive. "And when the moment comes, we strike."
The room exhaled collectively, the tension softening into focus, into readiness. Players gathered their notes, adjusted their kits, and filed out of the meeting room with the quiet hum of purpose. Francesco lingered for a moment, looking at the blank whiteboard, imagining the movements, the runs, the battles to come.
Francesco stepped out of the meeting room and into the corridor, letting the click of his boots on polished tile echo behind him as he followed the quiet hum of the hotel toward the restaurant. The city outside had already dipped into the soft indigo of early evening, Parisian lights reflecting off the slick streets after a light drizzle, tiny puddles catching the glow of traffic signals and the distant Eiffel Tower. The atmosphere outside felt almost cinematic, a perfect backdrop for a night that carried the weight of anticipation.
Inside, the restaurant was warm, a cocoon of muted yellow lighting and low chatter. The aroma of roasted meats, fresh bread, and herbs mingled with the faint hum of the air conditioning. Tables were arranged neatly, the linen crisp, silverware polished to a soft sheen. A few hotel guests lingered at corners, absorbed in their meals, oblivious to the procession of red and white Arsenal tracksuits filtering in.
Francesco found his spot at the long team table, a subtle sense of ritual settling in as each player slotted into a seat. Sánchez immediately pulled out his phone, likely scanning messages from Chile, while Özil scrolled through something with quiet focus. Koscielny, ever the methodical one, sat upright, napkin folded on his lap, eyes scanning the menu but really absorbing the atmosphere, sizing up the room as if he were already reading the pitch.
Francesco took a deep breath, letting the faint scent of garlic and roasted vegetables fill his senses. There was a comfortable silence as players began ordering, the soft clatter of plates and cutlery punctuating the low hum of conversation. Wenger entered a few moments later, moving slowly, surveying the room with his familiar calm, the kind that seemed to infuse order into even the most chaotic of settings. He nodded at a few staff members, murmured soft "bonsoir"s, then took his seat at the head of the table.
The team settled into the rhythm of dinner, small talk bouncing between languages, laughter rising intermittently. Giroud discussed which French desserts were worth trying, Monreal gave a low chuckle at a story Bellerín recounted from a training drill, while Ramsey and Xhaka debated over the merits of French wines versus English ales in a hushed, playful rivalry.
Then, the televisions mounted in the corners flickered to life. The soft murmur of the restaurant quieted as Sky Sports took over the screens. Gary Neville, Jamie Carragher, and Ian Wright were lined up on the broadcast, their voices immediately filling the restaurant with a blend of familiarity and analysis. The trio leaned into their microphones, gesturing animatedly as the screen highlighted PSG's stadium, the Parc des Princes, under floodlights.
"Tomorrow," Gary Neville began, voice crisp and analytical, "we're going to see a true European clash. Arsenal, defending champions, travel to Paris to face a PSG side that's dominating Ligue 1. High tempo, fast wingers, and a striker in Cavani who thrives on half-space. It's a tactical minefield."
Carragher leaned forward, eyebrows raised. "Absolutely, Gary. PSG are incredibly organized, but Arsenal, let's not forget as they've been exceptional in the Premier League. Their rhythm, their pressing, the way they can dominate possession—it's impressive. The question is, can they translate that into Europe, where the margins are so fine?"
Ian Wright, leaned back slightly, arms crossed, the glint of excitement in his eyes. "Let's be honest, lads. Arsenal showed last season they can win under pressure. They're defending champs for a reason. Lee is at the helm, and he's got a team that knows how to follow a plan and adapt. This isn't just about Premier League form, they'll show Europe what they're capable of tomorrow. The rhythm, the intelligence, the finishing as we've seen it, and PSG are going to have their hands full."
Francesco watched their faces on the screen, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The analysis was sharp, but it didn't feel like pressure but it felt like acknowledgment. They weren't underestimating PSG, nor were they doubting Arsenal's capability. Instead, they were painting the stage for the spectacle he and his teammates were about to create.
"Look at this," Neville continued, pointing to footage of Cavani's positioning, "this is where Arsenal's defensive cohesion will be tested. Lee's role will be pivotal as he will be the number nine and false nine. He has to link the forwards and the midfield, helping controlling the tempo, and helping read the spaces, to ensure PSG don't exploit the channels. One mistake, one misread, and we could see Cavani running into pockets."
Sánchez leaned slightly closer to Francesco. "They're talking about you, hermano," he whispered with a grin, his tone half-joking but edged with confidence. Francesco chuckled softly, letting his gaze return to the screen. He felt the familiar electricity, a mix of pressure and anticipation that only Champions League nights could bring.
Carragher switched the focus to PSG's build-up play. "Notice the rotations here, the way they pull defenders out of position," he said, hand gesturing toward the graphic on the screen. "Verratti's control, Cavani's movement, Di Maria's ability to cut inside, it's lethal. Arsenal will need precise tracking, intelligent pressing, and, most importantly, rhythm. That's why their captain's role is crucial. Lee has to orchestrate, anticipate, and distribute with vision."
Francesco nodded to Sánchez and Özil. "This is exactly what we went over in the meeting," he murmured. "It's all about anticipating, controlling, and exploiting the spaces. No surprises if we stick to the plan."
Ian Wright leaned forward, voice rising slightly with enthusiasm. "And let's not forget, Arsenal's speed in transitions can catch PSG off guard. They press, they win the ball, they've got quick outlets. Lee has been phenomenal at orchestrating those moments. If Arsenal keeps their composure and reads the rhythm like they did last season, Europe is in for a show."
The restaurant seemed to quiet around them as the analysis continued, the players' conversation softening into murmurs and nods of agreement. The discussion wasn't just tactical—it was inspirational, a quiet reinforcement that they belonged on this stage. Francesco felt a twinge of pride, a warm ember of energy that radiated through his chest. The team wasn't just defending their crown—they were about to announce themselves again, to show Europe that their Premier League brilliance was not confined to domestic boundaries.
He looked around the table. Sánchez's eyes were sharp, alert, reflecting the glow of the screen. Özil's fingers tapped lightly on the table, following the tempo of the analysis as though he could feel the game in his bones. Kanté sat back, silent but focused, nodding slightly at each tactical point. Bellerín leaned forward, elbows on the table, ready to spring into action. Even Giroud, relaxed but attentive, followed the visuals with a subtle intensity, preparing himself for the defensive and offensive battles alike.
Wenger sat quietly at the head of the table, sipping a glass of water. He wasn't interrupting, wasn't critiquing—he was absorbing the commentary alongside his men, allowing them to internalize the message, letting the television analysts frame the stage, while his players mentally rehearsed their moves and anticipations. Francesco felt the weight of that trust, the quiet understanding that Wenger had placed them here not just to perform, but to master the game at the highest level.
Neville switched to a montage of PSG goals from quick counter-attacks and set-piece sequences, emphasizing the precision, timing, and intelligence of each play. "These are the moments Arsenal have to anticipate," he said. "One lapse in concentration, one missed marking cue, and PSG will punish you instantly."
Francesco leaned back slightly, closing his eyes for a brief second, letting the clip imprint itself into memory. He visualized himself on the pitch, the floodlights above, the roar of the Parc des Princes crowd swelling, Cavani making his runs, Di María drifting inside and pulling defenders out of position. He saw Sánchez sliding into pockets, Özil floating between lines, Bellerín overlapping, the defensive line compact and alert. The images weren't just tactical as they were physical, emotional, a living memory of the challenges they would face.
Carragher continued with the analysis. "But remember Arsenal's strength, which is transitioning from defense to attack quickly, exploiting spaces, reading the rhythm of the game. Lee and Sanchez with sometime Walcott fast attack, Ozil orchestrates, Xhaka and Kanté disrupt, and the defenders that always stable. If they maintain composure and precision, PSG's pressing is neutralized."
Francesco opened his eyes, feeling a fire ignite. The challenge was massive, but it was clear. Awareness, rhythm, trust, exploitation. The Champions League stage demanded perfection, but he felt ready. He could feel it in the way his teammates adjusted in their seats, in the quiet focus settling around the table.
Ian Wright's voice carried over the montage, fervent now, almost like a prelude to battle. "Arsenal can win this. They've done it before. They know how to control games under pressure. Tomorrow isn't just about defending their title, but it's about proving their rhythm, their intelligence, their brilliance on a European stage. If they execute, if Lee leads them with precision, Europe will see Arsenal at their finest. This isn't luck as it's strategy, skill, and heart."
Francesco's jaw tightened slightly, a quiet determination settling over him. He could feel the tension in the room transforming into readiness, anticipation into preparation. The match wasn't tomorrow—it was already alive in their minds, moving, breathing, demanding action.
As the analysts wrapped up, discussing potential lineups and in-game adjustments, Wenger's eyes met Francesco's across the table. No words were needed. The message was clear: lead, anticipate, adapt, execute. Every moment, every pass, every movement mattered.
Francesco exhaled softly, the last tendrils of tension giving way to focus. He took another sip of water, looked around at his teammates, and smiled faintly. Europe awaited—and tomorrow, they would show it exactly who Arsenal were.
The team finished their dinner in relative quiet after the broadcast ended, the conversation now low and practical. Yet beneath the calm surface, the fire of anticipation burned.
________________________________________________
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