If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
Francesco stepped back into the corridor, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The noise of the room faded, leaving only the echo of his footsteps and the lingering satisfaction of accomplishment. As Wenger, Özil, and Francesco walked back toward the dressing room, the quiet hum of the stadium beyond the walls reminded them that the night's work was done, but the journey was far from over.
Francesco stepped out of the press conference room, the door closing softly behind him, leaving the blinding flashes, the rising hum of chatter, and the frantic rustling of journalists on the other side. The corridor felt strangely quiet after the intensity inside with a muted, almost peaceful stretch of dimly lit hallway where the echoes of footsteps seemed to fade before they even had a chance to form. The adrenaline that had kept him sharp through ninety minutes, the interviews, and the press conference now dissolved into a gentler, grounding calm.
Beside him, Özil moved with that familiar soft-footed grace, silent but not distant, but more like someone who preferred to let thoughts simmer before offering them. Wenger walked just ahead of them, hands clasped behind his back, his pace slow, contemplative, like a man who had lived through thousands of victories and defeats but still cherished the simple walk back to the dressing room after a job well done.
Francesco felt the weight of the Man of the Match award tucked under his arm, but more than its physical heaviness, it was the emotional weight of the night that lingered: the goals, the tactical discipline, the unity, the press conference, the faces of fans chanting in the Parisian night. It all melded together like a single breath held inside his chest.
The three of them turned the final corner, and the soft buzz of voices filtered through the air with a familiar, friendly, tinged with celebration. As they stepped inside, the dressing room greeted them with warmth.
The atmosphere was calmer now than earlier. Some players were already half-changed; others sat wrapped in towels or sweaters, talking quietly among themselves. Kanté was leaning forward, elbows on knees, still processing the match in that introspective way of his. Bellerín was laughing at something Chamberlain said, while Koscielny and Virgil reviewed a moment from the game on a small tablet, the screen casting a faint blue light across their tired faces.
When Francesco entered, a few heads turned in acknowledgement.
"Captain!" Sánchez called from across the room, lifting a bottle of water in salute. "Don't forget to clean that MOTM trophy, you look too proud holding it."
Francesco chuckled, shaking his head. "Proud of the team, Alexis. The trophy is just the decoration."
Özil dropped onto the bench beside his own locker, releasing a small sigh that content, exhausted, peaceful, and nodded toward Francesco's award. "A decoration that many players would love to carry after a night like this," he said softly.
Francesco gave him a playful nudge. "Could've been yours. You ran the game."
Özil smiled with modest denial. "Today was yours to take. And you took it."
Wenger's gentle voice rose from behind them. "Good performances do not belong to individuals, they belong to the collective. But leadership? Leadership is different. That is what Francesco showed tonight."
Francesco lowered his gaze for a brief second, humbled by the words, but there wasn't time to dwell on it. Wenger motioned with a quiet wave of his hand.
"Now, both of you refresh yourselves. We travel back to London tonight."
The reminder washed through the room like a collective exhale. The night was far from over.
Francesco set the MOTM award safely inside his locker and peeled off his damp shirt, the fabric heavy with the scent of sweat, turf, and effort. He tossed it into a bag designated for kit staff and grabbed a towel from the stack near the showers. The tile under his feet was cool, grounding him even more as he made his way into the shower area with Özil following shortly behind.
The moment the hot water cascaded onto his skin, Francesco closed his eyes, letting it wash over him like a reset button. The heat soothed the soreness in his muscles, peeling away the physical strains of the game. The echoes of the crowd, the sound of his boots striking the ball, the roar when he scored as all of it softened underneath the steady rhythm of water beating down on him.
For a few minutes, he allowed himself to disappear into the warmth, into the privacy of the moment. Next to him, Özil showered quietly, the two sharing a comfortable silence that only arises between teammates who have been through the fire together.
Eventually, Özil spoke in his low, thoughtful tone. "Tonight felt… different," he said. "Not just the win. The feeling. It felt like something bigger."
Francesco didn't open his eyes, but he nodded, letting the water roll down his face. "It felt like a beginning," he murmured. "Like we proved something. Not just to the fans, not to the press—to ourselves."
Özil hummed in agreement. "And we needed that."
They showered in silence after that, not out of awkwardness but from mutual understanding. When both finished, the dressing room had grown quieter. Some players had already changed into travel gear, while others were slipping into their tracksuits, brushing their hair, tying shoelaces, packing personal items into small travel bags.
Francesco towel-dried his hair, the lingering warmth of the shower still hugging his skin. He pulled on the club's official travel kit with navy joggers, a crisp training shirt, a light jacket with the Arsenal crest embroidered neatly over the chest. He zipped it up slowly, as if anchoring himself back into reality.
He grabbed the Man of the Match trophy from his locker, feeling its smooth, cool surface beneath his fingers. The way it caught the fluorescent lights made it shimmer, but not in a way that demanded attention. It was quiet. Elegant. A symbol of the night's triumph without shouting it.
Around him, players were gathering their belongings, the dressing room gradually shifting from post-match sanctuary to transition point. Wenger entered once more, his steps measured, carrying the same calm he always did after big European nights.
"Everyone ready?" he asked, eyes scanning the room.
A few nods. Some tired murmurs of yeah, boss. Sánchez yawned loudly, stretching his arms over his head. Even Koscielny cracked a faint tired smile.
Wenger nodded approvingly. "Good. The bus is waiting. We have a flight to catch, and rest will be important. Enjoy the quiet. You've earned it."
The squad began filing out of the dressing room, bags slung over shoulders, conversations faint and warm, boots tapping softly against the concrete floor as they made their way through the service corridors beneath the stadium.
Francesco walked alongside Özil, the two moving in rhythm without needing words. As they emerged into the cool Parisian night air, the sudden change in temperature brushed against their still-warm skin. The stadium lights glowed in the distance, illuminating the emptying grounds. A handful of staff stood by the team bus, guiding players in.
The bus itself was warm and softly lit on the inside, a calm contrast to the cold outside. The players filed in, some taking window seats to rest their heads, others sinking into rows where they could stretch their legs. The faint hum of the engine settled into the background as the last few boarded.
Francesco found a seat near the middle, setting his bag beside him and placing the MOTM award carefully on the small tray table. Özil took the seat directly across the aisle, leaning back with a soft sigh, arms folded over his chest as he settled in.
Sánchez walked past them, patting Francesco's shoulder on the way. "Sleep on the plane, amigo. Or don't, you might start dreaming of more goals."
Francesco smirked. "If I do, they'll be passes from you."
Sánchez grinned and moved on, sliding into a seat near the back with Chamberlain and Gnabry.
The bus began to move, pulling away from the stadium, its headlights carving a smooth path through the dark Paris streets. Outside, the last lingering fans waved from behind barriers, bundled in scarves and jackets, their breath rising in white clouds under the streetlamps. Some held phones aloft, recording the departure. Others simply lifted their arms in quiet celebration.
Francesco lifted his hand slightly in return with a small gesture, but a sincere one.
The Paris night blurred past the windows, reflections of streetlights streaking across the glass like long, luminous threads. Inside the bus, the atmosphere was calm, almost serene. Some players spoke in low voices; others had already put in earbuds, drifting into music-filled pockets of solitude. Wenger sat near the front, quietly tapping on his tablet, likely reviewing statistics even now.
Francesco leaned back, feeling the gentle vibration of the bus beneath him, the warmth of the jacket against his skin, the faint buzz of lingering adrenaline slowly being replaced by an unfamiliar peace.
"Good game," Özil murmured across the aisle.
Francesco tilted his head toward him. "You too."
Özil smiled softly, head leaning against the headrest, eyes half-closed. "London will feel good tonight."
Francesco nodded. "And tomorrow."
The bus continued toward the airport, the city lights gradually thinning as they entered the quieter outskirts of Paris. The hum of the engine, the faint whispers of teammates, the muted breathing of tired bodies—it all mixed into a calming lullaby.
Francesco allowed his gaze to drift out the window, watching the landscape slide by. He thought of the match. The goals. The fans. Wenger's approval. The press conference. The journey ahead. And somewhere beneath all of it, the quiet promise he carried within himself: to lead, to inspire, to fight for every inch of the season.
Soon the bus turned into the private airport entrance. The floodlights bathed the tarmac in a pale glow. Beyond the windows, the Arsenal-chartered plane waited, engines off, stairs lowered, crew members standing ready to greet them.
As the bus rolled to a stop, the players stirred, gathering their bags, stretching legs stiffened by the short ride.
Francesco stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder and holding the Man of the Match trophy with a steady hand. Özil rose beside him, offering a small nod, his expression calm and knowing.
Together, they stepped off the bus onto the tarmac.
The air was colder here as it was sharp, brisk, carrying the faint scent of aviation fuel. The ground lights reflected off puddles scattered across the concrete. The sky above was dark and endless, dotted faintly with distant stars.
Players climbed the stairs one by one, their figures illuminated by the soft glow of the plane's cabin lights spilling onto the metal steps. The atmosphere was quiet, a shared fatigue settling into bone and muscle, mingling with the satisfaction of a victorious night.
Francesco followed, hand steady on the railing, feeling the cold metal under his fingers. At the top of the stairs, he paused briefly but not long enough to slow the line, but long enough to capture the moment.
The Paris runway stretched behind him.
The plane hummed softly with idle power.
The night wind whispered across the tarmac.
A victory in Paris.
A journey back to London.
A new beginning.
He stepped into the plane, into the warm light and familiar scent of leather seats and cabin air, joining his brothers in arms as they prepared to take flight home.
The hum of the engines had long since faded into a soft, steady rhythm, the kind that lulled even the most restless minds into a drifting calm. But Francesco didn't sleep. Not really. He rested with eyes half-closed, body still, but his mind floated somewhere between the quiet pitch of memory and the gentle sway of the aircraft. The victory still sat warm in his chest, glowing softly like embers refusing to die down.
Outside the small oval window, the world was nothing but darkness and the scattered glow of distant city lights far, far below. England was somewhere beneath that black canvas, waiting for them. Waiting for a team that had fought like wolves tonight.
An hour and a half passed. Then came the subtle shift as the lowering of the plane's nose, the faint adjustment in gravity, the rustle of seatbelts tightening around shoulders.
A gentle voice spoke over the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into London. Please remain seated…"
Around the cabin, players stirred awake.
Sánchez rubbed his face with both hands, hair sticking in every direction.
Kanté blinked like someone emerging from a dream he didn't know he had.
Cazorla yawned so wide even Gnabry laughed at him.
Özil exhaled softly and sat up straighter, his expression peaceful, always contemplative.
Francesco sat forward, folding his arms loosely as the familiar lights of London gradually appeared through the window as the clusters of gold freckles glowing beneath the clouds, roads illuminated like veins running across the city.
Home.
The landing gear dropped with a muffled thump.
A minute later, the wheels touched down with one soft bounce, then a smooth, rolling glide across the runway.
London embraced them with its cold, damp air.
When the plane finally slowed to a stop, there was a collective unbuckling of seatbelts, the soft rustle of jackets, travel bags pulling free from overhead compartments, the scraping of shoes on the carpeted aisle. Francesco rose with a slow stretch, muscles subtly protesting after the long flight.
He grabbed his bag from the overhead compartment, slung it over his shoulder, and tucked the Man of the Match award under his arm for a moment before rearranging it more comfortably.
"Finally," Alexis muttered behind him. "I'm dying for a real bed."
"You slept the whole flight," Chamberlain teased.
"I need another eight hours."
Their quiet bickering brought a tired smile to Francesco's face.
The cabin door opened, and a chill drifted in as the familiar, biting, unmistakably London. The team stepped down the narrow staircase and onto the pavement, their breaths turning white in the air. The night was still. Most of the airport staff had gone home. Only a few floodlights illuminated the tarmac, casting long shadows behind every footstep.
The players walked together toward the waiting team bus, wheels wet from the dew collecting on the ground.
Inside, the bus was warm again, lights soft and low. Everyone fell into the same or similar seats as before, too tired to think about arrangement or routine.
The engine rumbled to life.
The Arsenal bus began rolling out of the airport, slicing through the quiet predawn air, heading toward Colney.
Nobody talked much at first.
Some players leaned against the window, watching streaks of streetlight drift across the glass like slow-moving stars.
Others scrolled through their phones with checking messages from family, partners, agents, friends, teammates from other clubs congratulating them.
A few drifted back into shallow sleep.
Francesco sat quietly, fingers idly brushing the smooth edges of the MOTM trophy sitting on his lap. It felt different now, less like an object and more like a memory made tangible. A chapter semisolid. A reminder.
Özil looked over from across the aisle, offering him a small smile.
"Long night," he said softly.
"A good one," Francesco replied.
"A very good one," Özil murmured, letting his head fall back.
The bus moved through the London outskirts, street by street, empty road by empty road. The city slept as Arsenal's heroes returned home, carrying victory on their backs like a hidden warmth beneath their travel jackets.
Lights began to appear more frequently as the suburbs grew familiar as the roundabouts, quiet shops, parked cars lined like soldiers asleep in their posts.
By the time the bus turned toward London Colney, the sky had begun to shift as it was still dark, but with a faint bluish tint brushing the edges of the horizon. The earliest whisper of morning.
The bus slowed, rolled through the gates, and finally came to a stop in the training ground parking area.
Players rose, stretching limbs stiffened by travel.
Some groaned dramatically.
Some laughed.
Others simply exhaled with relief.
Francesco stood, slinging his travel bag over his shoulder one last time and lifting the MOTM trophy carefully. He followed the stream of players out of the bus.
The cold air of Colney wrapped around them that sharper than Paris, cleaner, familiar.
Their breaths misted softly in front of them.
Boots clicked on the pavement.
They gathered loosely near the entrance for a moment, where the glow of the lamppost cast them all in a pale circle of light.
"Goodnight, boys," Giroud said, voice heavy with exhaustion.
"Good morning," Cazorla corrected with a sleepy grin.
"Oh shut up," Alexis laughed.
They chuckled, some patting each other's backs, some giving small nods before turning toward their own cars scattered across the parking area.
Francesco waved to a few teammates, offering quiet goodbyes. Then he made his way toward his BMW X5, the familiar silhouette waiting patiently under the lamplight.
He clicked the key fob.
The headlights blinked awake.
A welcoming glow.
He opened the trunk first, gently setting the MOTM trophy inside, tucking it beside his travel bag. He closed it carefully, as though afraid to disturb the peaceful air of the night.
A soft breath escaped him with relief, pride, fatigue, everything blending into one quiet exhale.
He got into the driver's seat.
The interior smelled faintly of leather and the subtle lingering scent of Leah's perfume from earlier days.
Warm. Comforting. Home.
He turned the ignition. The engine hummed to life, smooth and steady.
Francesco pulled out of the parking lot, waving once more toward a few lingering teammates climbing into their own vehicles, and then he began the drive home.
The road from Colney to Richmond was calm at this hour. Almost empty. London slept still, cradled in the quiet just before dawn. Streetlights washed the asphalt in amber tones. The city never truly slept, but it rested, and tonight, Francesco felt like the city breathed with him.
His hands relaxed around the steering wheel, the road stretching ahead in long, gentle curves.
He let the silence fill the car, only the occasional soft thrum of tires rolling across smooth asphalt breaking it.
He thought of the match again with the movement, the goals, the roar of the away end, the weight of praise on his shoulders, the trust Wenger placed in him, Özil's quiet support, Sánchez's relentless fire.
Then he thought of home.
Of Leah.
Her smile whenever he returned from an away match, the quiet comfort she offered just by being there, the warmth of her arms around him when the world felt too heavy.
He didn't turn on the radio.
He didn't need music.
The night itself was enough.
When he finally pulled into Richmond, the sky was brushing the faintest shade of early blue, still mixed with dark. His neighborhood was silent as the large houses resting behind trimmed hedges, gates closed, lights off in nearly every window except a few porch lamps.
He drove into the familiar driveway of his mansion, the tires crunching lightly over the pebbled path. The automatic garage door lifted slowly, revealing the interior with a tidy space, the BMW's usual resting place beside the covered silhouette of his old Honda Civic, a piece of his more humble past he never discarded.
He eased the X5 into the garage, turned the engine off, and just sat for a moment.
A long, slow breath.
Then he opened the door, stepping into the cool air, grabbing his travel bag from the back seat and retrieving the MOTM trophy from the trunk with gentle fingers.
He closed the trunk softly, not to disturb the quiet of the dawn.
Inside the house, everything was still.
Warm lighting glowed faintly along the hallway, motion sensors picking up his steps.
The walls were familiar, the scent of the house subtle and welcoming.
He moved quietly, mindful of the hour, mindful of Leah sleeping upstairs.
He walked through the living room, passing the large windows that reflected the final remnants of night. His footsteps were soft as he climbed the stairs, one hand brushing lightly along the railing.
When he reached the bedroom door, he opened it silently.
The room was dark except for a soft bedside lamp left dimmed on Leah's side.
She was curled under the blanket, hair cascading lightly across the pillow, her breathing slow and even.
Her presence alone softened the exhaustion in his bones.
Francesco placed his bag gently near the wardrobe, setting the MOTM trophy beside it. Then he peeled off his travel jacket, rolled his shoulders as the tension eased, and changed into comfortable clothes—a simple shirt and soft joggers.
He moved carefully, each motion quiet, deliberate, respectful of the peace she was wrapped in.
Then he lifted the blanket and slipped into bed beside her.
Leah shifted slightly at the warmth of his body, instinctively moving closer, her hand brushing his chest in a sleepy, unconscious gesture.
He smiled softly.
He wrapped an arm around her, letting his body sink into the mattress, letting the weight of the day melt away. The scent of her hair filled the air between them with a faint lavender, comforting, home.
He exhaled slowly.
After a night like this, after a performance like that, after the noise, the lights, the adrenaline, the scrutiny, the roar of the Parisian crowd and the endless interviews… this was the only place that ever quieted his mind.
The next fourteen days moved quickly. Not in a chaotic sense, but in that strange, blurred way time moves when life is full, structured, rhythmic, and relentless. Footballers didn't count days the same way most people did; they counted matches, recovery cycles, tactical sessions, flights, the number of massages required to keep legs fresh, the number of ice baths they reluctantly stepped into, and the amount of sleep they were able to squeeze in between.
For Francesco, the next two weeks felt like a controlled storm running tireless, but somehow steady. His life oscillated between the quiet sanctuary of Richmond and the unending heartbeat of London Colney, where Arsenal chased momentum with teeth bared and lungs burning.
And they didn't just chase it.
They seized it.
The first match came three days after returning from Paris: a trip north to Turf Moor, a place known less for glamour and more for grit, wind, and aggressively loud supporters who made sure every visiting team felt their presence.
It was the kind of stadium where the cold bit harder and the grass somehow felt heavier. Wenger, as usual, didn't allow complacency to breathe.
"Burnley will fight," he warned during the team talk. His voice calm but sharp, the type of calm that meant danger. "They will sit back, they will defend with numbers, and they will not give us space unless we force them to."
Francesco nodded along with the others.
His muscles still remembered Paris, but his mind was already here on this grind, on this cold afternoon where points mattered just as much as glamour.
Kick-off came with a burst of noise from the home stands.
Burnley pressed early, tried to bully Arsenal off the ball, but the Gunners were composed. Fluid. Mature. And steel required patience.
The first half dragged, chances coming and going with growing frustration. Sánchez hit the post. Özil threaded passes Burnley players barely cut out in time. Ramsey made late runs that nearly connected.
But in the 41st minute, something sparked. A pass from Xhaka broke the lines, slipping into a tight pocket where Francesco spun away from his defender. His shoulder brushed the Burnley centre-half aside by inches with a perfectly timed physicality and he surged forward.
The finish was instinctive.
Low.
Driven.
Precise.
Into the far corner.
Arsenal led 1–0.
Francesco jogged toward the away corner, kissed the badge, and pointed at the small section of traveling supporters that frozen by the cold but roaring like a hundred thousand.
In the second half, Burnley resisted again, but they couldn't stop everything.
From a corner in the 71st minute, Koscielny rose highest, powerful as ever, and nodded the ball into the net. A captain's goal. A simple, ruthless reminder that Arsenal had more than one weapon.
Full-time: Burnley 0–2 Arsenal.
Three points secured.
Momentum growing.
Four days later, the Emirates shimmered under the London night, lights glowing off the damp pavement after a short evening drizzle. Champions League nights felt different—electrical, charged, almost ceremonial. The stadium filled early, red scarves lifted in unison, the anthem pouring through the speakers like a hymn of promise.
Wenger looked at his squad before they walked down the tunnel, eyes lingering on Francesco for a moment longer.
"You have the confidence," he told him quietly. "Now play with freedom."
And freedom was exactly what followed.
The match opened with fluidity with Arsenal slicing through Basel's lines with quick passing, clever movement, and full-throttle energy. Sánchez tracked back ferociously. Bellerín bombed down the right flank with fire in his boots. Özil glided through midfield like he carried the ball on a string.
The first goal came from Francesco in the 14th minute.
Oxlade-Chamberlain zipped a low ball toward him at the edge of the box. Francesco took one touch to shift it, another to open his body, and then curled the ball elegantly into the top corner.
A striker's finish.
A Champions League finish.
The stadium erupted.
Sky Sports commentators barely had time to finish praising him before Walcott added a second.
Theo was electric with one of those nights where every sprint felt dangerous, every touch purposeful. In the 37th minute, Sánchez threaded a perfect ball behind Basel's defense.
Theo outran everyone. Naturally.
Then he slotted it calmly past the keeper.
2–0.
At halftime, fans were buzzing. There was a collective sense that Arsenal were building something real—something sharp, confident, and untamed.
In the 63rd minute, Walcott delivered again.
Özil slipped him through with a gorgeous reverse pass, and Theo finished with a touch of composure that made the Emirates shake.
3–0.
Game over.
Another night of dominance.
The final whistle blew with Basel barely having created a chance.
And Francesco?
He walked off the pitch with another goal, another complete performance, and another reminder that he wasn't just in form.
The next league game arrived quickly with a home match, bright autumn sun above North London, leaves scattered across pathways around the stadium. The Emirates was packed early again. Arsenal fans had begun to believe. Not hope quietly like in previous seasons.
Believe.
And Swansea felt the pressure immediately.
Arsenal attacked like a tide of wave after wave, coordinated and merciless. The midfield trio pulsed with rhythm, and the front line overflowed with confidence.
Francesco opened the scoring in the 19th minute.
A quick one-two with Özil, a burst past the Swansea centre-back, and a right-footed finish drilled low and clean. Simple. Efficient. Deadly.
The kind of finish that defenders dread.
Özil himself scored the second.
It was the product of beautiful build-up: Cazorla weaving his way forward, Sánchez dragging defenders out of position, and then a final delicate pass slipping into Özil's stride. Mesut finished it with his classic calm with side foot, bottom corner, minimal celebration. Pure elegance.
Walcott then took over the second half.
His first goal came from a rebounded shot as Sánchez's powerful attempt parried by the keeper, Theo pouncing instantly.
The second was a masterclass in movement. He darted between Swansea's centre-backs, received a long pass from Xhaka, and chipped the keeper with perfect timing.
4–0.
Clinical.
Beautiful.
Another statement.
At full time, Francesco left the pitch to a standing ovation, Sky Sports pundits praising his consistency, his composure, his influence.
"Arsenal look unstoppable when he's in this form," one of them said.
He didn't disagree.
The third Champions League match was a spectacle before kick-off even arrived. London's night sky was clear, stars faint but visible above the glowing halo of the Emirates. The Champions League anthem echoed, flags waved, camera flashes erupted like tiny lightning strikes.
Arsenal were in rhythm.
And Ludogorets…
They were unfortunate enough to walk straight into that rhythm.
From the very beginning, it was domination.
Sánchez opened the scoring in the 12th minute with a trademark finish with a beautifull cut inside, dip the shoulder, curl into the far corner. A painting in motion.
Walcott added the second from a powerful strike at the edge of the box.
Chamberlain made it 3–0 shortly after halftime, sliding in to finish a cross from Monreal. The Emirates roared louder each time, sensing the onslaught wasn't over.
And it wasn't.
Francesco scored twice, with two goals that dripping with confidence.
The first: a fierce half-volley from the top of the box.
The second: a clinical run behind the defense, finishing calmly past the keeper.
He celebrated with fists raised, teammates swarming him in pure joy.
But the highlight of the night belonged to Mesut Özil.
The maestro produced a hattrick with three goals of such finesse and composure that even Ludogorets players applauded one of them.
His first came from a counterattack where he gently cushioned a volleyed finish.
His second, a perfect near-post strike from a cross by Sánchez.
The third…
A gentle lob over the keeper after a stunning through ball from Xhaka.
8–0.
A demolition.
A showcase.
A message to Europe.
When the final whistle blew, the Emirates was glowing. Fans stayed long after, cheering, singing, chanting player names like a hymn of gratitude.
Francesco walked off with two goals, two assists, and a grin he didn't even try to hide.
Wenger placed a hand on his shoulder as he entered the tunnel.
"You are becoming everything I hoped you would be," the manager said quietly.
Francesco didn't speak at first. He didn't need to. Something in his chest tightened that not painfully, but like a knot of emotion pulling inward. Gratitude. Pride. A sense of growing expectation. A weight that didn't feel heavy, but guiding.
Wenger gave his shoulder a gentle pat before walking ahead toward the dressing room, leaving Francesco to take one more slow breath in the tunnel, feeling the cold bricks at his back and the warmth of the moment lingering on his skin.
He exhaled softly.
The game had ended hours ago, yet the roar of the Emirates still echoed faintly in his bones.
The next day, as Wenger yesterday had promised the squad a holiday if they handled their European duties with maturity, and Arsenal had done far more than that. An eight-goal statement had given the players a full day off—rare, precious, and badly needed.
For many of them, it meant sleep. Deep sleep.
For some, family time.
For others, disappearing into London for a quiet brunch or a shopping trip.
For Francesco, it meant something else entirely: stillness.
By late morning, the sun hung shyly behind thin clouds over Richmond, letting pale, diffused light slip into the wide windows of his mansion. The house felt quiet that calm in a way that only large, lived-in spaces could feel when breathing softly in the morning.
He sat on the couch in his living room, legs stretched out on the soft rug, a mug of warm tea in hand. The room smelled faintly of cedar and the morning brew, comforting and grounding. Leah wasn't home, she had a late training session with Arsenal Women, preparing for their own league fixtures. She had kissed him goodbye earlier, slipping out in her soft training hoodie with a sleepy grin, telling him to rest.
Now, he rested.
Or, at least, he tried to.
The large flat-screen television glowed quietly across the room, tuned to Sky Sports News. The host's crisp voice filled the space.
"…and Arsenal's winning run continues, making headlines across Europe."
The screen shifted to highlights: Francesco's goals, Özil's hattrick, Walcott's blistering form, Sánchez's artistry. Clips rolled one after another, accompanied by dramatic commentary and bold graphic overlays.
A bold headline stretched across the bottom:
ARSENAL: 11 WINS IN THE PREMIER LEAGUE, 3 IN THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE, 1 IN THE EFL CUP — UNSTOPPABLE FORM
Francesco watched himself sprint through defenders, watched clips of his curled finishes, his volleys, his celebrations, the embraces with teammates. It felt surreal—even now. To see his own image replayed across the world, to watch pundits dissect every angle of his movement, to hear the roar of the Emirates broadcast into his otherwise quiet living room.
Sky Sports cut to a studio panel.
Three pundits sat around the desk:
A retired Arsenal legend, a former rival, and a younger journalist specializing in Premier League analysis.
"Eleven Premier League wins from the opening fixtures," the host began. "Three Champions League wins. One EFL cup victory. Sixteen consecutive victories in all competitions. This is the best start Arsenal have had in years, possibly decades."
The former Gunner leaned in with a grin.
"And it's the balance," he said. "They're not just attacking well as they're defending, controlling games, adapting tactically. And you look at players like Francesco Lee—he's becoming the heartbeat of that front line."
The rival pundit nodded reluctantly.
"I'll be honest," he said. "When Arsenal debut him a one and half year ago, I thought he was promising, sure, but raw. But right now? He's one of the most complete forwards in the league. He's strong, quick, clinical, intelligent. And most importantly, he steps up when needed."
They played the Burnley goal again.
Then the Basel one.
Then his Swansea finish.
Then both goals against Ludogorets.
Clip after clip.
Every time the ball left his foot, the commentators surged with excitement.
Francesco took another sip of tea, the warmth settling into his chest. Watching himself from the outside always felt strange, like observing a different person wearing the same skin.
He leaned back deeper into the sofa.
The montage shifted again, now Sky Sports showed all the goal scorers across the season, a graphic comparing golden boot contenders.
Premier League Top Scorers — Current Table
1. Francesco Lee (Arsenal)
2. Diego Costa
3. Sergio Agüero
4. Romelu Lukaku
5. Alexis Sánchez
The journalist spoke next.
"He looks like a player who's found the perfect environment. Wenger trusts him, the midfield supplies him relentlessly, and he has a chemistry with Özil and Sánchez that's becoming frightening."
"And let's not ignore his work rate," the Arsenal legend continued. "He doesn't just score. He presses, he tracks, he links play, he does everything. You can't teach that desire."
Francesco felt a subtle tug in his chest, pride mixed with humility.
But before he could sink too much into thought, the broadcast shifted to a different graphic.
Arsenal's Winning Run — Match by Match
• Premier League: 11 wins
• Champions League: 3 wins
• EFL Cup: 1 win
• Goals scored: unbelievable
• Goals conceded: few
Highlights of every match began rolling from fast cuts, dramatic narration, slow-motion shots of key plays, celebrations, defensive blocks, and Wenger's calm reactions on the touchline.
Francesco watched them all replay like chapters in a story he was still living.
Burnley.
Basel.
Swansea.
Ludogorets.
And many before.
The pundits continued speaking.
"Arsenal show their strenght as the defending champions ," the rival analyst admitted. "As they show continue show their strenght to the other teams in the Premier League."
The legend smirked.
"They don't just look like ordinsry defending champions, they look like the team to beat."
Another clip flashed on screen with Wenger in a post-match interview, smiling in that modest, restrained way he always did.
"I am proud of my players," he said. "They show consistency, strength, intelligence. Francesco, Mesut, Theo as everyone is contributing. But we must stay focused. The season is long."
The journalist spoke again.
"But you sense something different this year. It's not fragile. It's not luck. They're building each match, growing stronger. It feels… real."
Francesco exhaled slowly.
Not from exhaustion.
Not from doubt.
But from the strange weight of hearing the world talk about him like that.
The praise felt good.
Very good.
But it also felt dangerous.
A knock on the doorframe pulled him out of his thoughts.
He turned.
Leah stood there in her training jacket, damp hair from a late shower, cheeks flushed lightly from practice. She had returned more quietly than he realized.
"You're watching Sky Sports again?" she teased softly, stepping into the room.
He smirked. "It was already on."
"Oh, sure," she said sarcastically. "You totally didn't rewind the highlights three times."
He rolled his eyes with a laugh. "I did not rewind anything."
Leah walked over, sitting beside him on the couch and pulling her legs up underneath her body. Without asking, she rested her head lightly on his shoulder and looked toward the television.
The pundits were replaying Özil's hattrick now with one of the goals from a dramatic low angle, slow motion, capturing Mesut's calm expression and perfect technique.
"That was a beautiful night," Leah said quietly.
Francesco nodded. "One of the best."
He shrugged modestly, though a proud smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Everyone played well."
"Everyone did," she agreed. "But you… you're really doing something special this season."
He didn't reply at first.
Not because he disagreed, but because hearing it from her as someone who saw him at his most raw, unfiltered, exhausted, unglamorous that meant something different. Deeper.
Sky Sports shifted again, now showing fans outside the Emirates after last night's match. Supporters waving scarves, chanting songs, praising players by name. A few young kids held shirts with FRANCESCO 9 on the back. Others wore painted stripes of red and white.
Leah glanced at him with a playful grin.
"Look at you," she said softly. "Kids are wearing your name."
He leaned his head back against the couch and let out a breath that sounded half like disbelief.
"It's surreal," he admitted.
She squeezed his hand.
"It's deserved."
Silence settled between them.
Outside the large windows, Richmond was quiet. Trees swayed slowly. Leaves drifted across the yard. The world felt peaceful, miles away from stadium noise, cameras, and tension.
"Wenger gave us a day off," he murmured.
"And you're spending it watching football?" she teased again.
He laughed. "Well, I'm also spending it with you."
"That's better," she said, leaning closer.
The Sky Sports host's voice cut back in.
"And coming up after the break, can Arsenal maintain their remarkable run? And is Francesco Lee will win the Ballon d'Or? We break down his statistics, his influence, and compare him to the top forwards."
Leah turned off the TV with the remote.
"No more football analysis for you," she declared. "You're supposed to be relaxing."
He raised a brow. "Relaxing is watching football."
"No," she countered, eyes narrowing in mock sternness. "Relaxing is not thinking about football."
He chuckled softly.
She wasn't wrong.
Leah tugged gently at his arm. "Come on. You owe yourself a break. Let's make lunch, sit outside in the garden, and pretend we're normal people for a day."
He placed the mug on the table and stood.
"Normal people?" he echoed playfully. "What's that?"
"People," she said, rising with him, "who don't score hattricks and get analyzed on live TV every day."
"I've never scored a hattrick," he corrected with a smirk.
"You will," she said, smiling with quiet certainty. "Soon."
Her confidence warmed him deeper than the tea had.
As they walked toward the kitchen, sunlight spilled through the tall windows, painting them in soft gold. Outside, the wind brushed gently against the trees. Birds hopped along the stone path. Richmond was peaceful in a way that felt perfect for today.
________________________________________________
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: 12
Goal: 16
Assist: 0
MOTM: 3
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