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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.
The days that followed drifted by with a strange blend of calm and momentum, like being carried by a current that flowed steadily but never violently. October deepened around London with chillier mornings, earlier sunsets, leaves shifting from gold to copper across the streets of Richmond. For most people, the end of the month meant pumpkins, scarves, and the approach of winter.
For Arsenal, it meant fixtures.
Endless, demanding, defining fixtures.
31 October 2016 approached slowly, but the football didn't.
Between that quiet morning in Richmond and the date circled on the calendar, three matches came and went, each revealing another layer of the team Arsenal were becoming, another chapter in the rhythm of a season that felt increasingly special.
And for Francesco, each game felt like tightening a thread that connected him deeper to the club, to the supporters, to the heartbeat of the Emirates itself.
The first match has come, as the build-up felt calm, almost serene, yet every player knew what matches like this meant. Middlesbrough weren't glamorous opponents. They weren't rivals. They weren't leaders. They were the type of team that loved nothing more than frustrating bigger clubs — the type that parked two buses, closed every channel, defended every blade of grass with fists clenched.
Wenger understood this perfectly.
He always did.
In the dressing room, he reminded them with that soft yet razor-sharp tone:
"Patience. Do not force the goal. Make them run. When they tire, you will find the space."
The Emirates was full, as it always was during this long winning streak and the energy pulsed, full of expectation, not anxiety. Fans wanted fireworks. They wanted a statement.
But Middlesbrough didn't come to participate in anyone's fireworks.
They sat deep.
Then deeper.
Ten men behind the ball.
Lines compressed tighter than a coiled spring.
Arsenal kept the ball, circulated it, probed, pushed.
Özil drifted between lines.
Cazorla turned past markers.
Sánchez tried to inject tempo with sharp cuts and short bursts.
But the goal refused to come.
Minutes ticked.
Tension grew.
Frustration threatened.
Francesco felt it too, that itch, that hunger, that burning need to make something break. But he didn't rush. His movement remained patient, clever, constantly pulling defenders apart, even if by inches.
Then the moment finally arrived.
88th minute.
The Emirates held its breath.
Xhaka clipped a perfect pass between the full-back and centre-back — the kind of pass only a player with his vision could attempt in a crowded match like this.
Francesco darted into the gap.
The defender tugged him.
He stayed up.
He took one touch to angle the ball across his body.
The goalkeeper rushed out.
Francesco slotted it into the far corner with the calm of a man born for moments like this.
The stadium exploded.
A release of noise.
Relief.
Joy.
Belief.
He slid on his knees toward the corner, punching the air, teammates swarming him.
Wenger didn't celebrate wildly — he never did — but even he allowed himself a rare, wide smile.
Full time:
Arsenal 1 – 0 Middlesbrough
Francesco 88'
Another win.
Another three points.
Another night where he saved the moment.
The second match was EFL League cup, which Wenger rotated heavily.
It was one of those matches where the changing room felt different that a little less tense, a little more open, younger players buzzing, fringe players sensing opportunity, squad members eager to prove something.
Giroud returned to the lineup.
Chamberlain and Iwobi played with urgency.
Gnabry who still so young, still hungry waited on the bench like a loaded spring.
Wenger spoke to them with simplicity.
"This competition is important. Not because of its prestige, but because it tests your character. Show me that you belong."
From kickoff, Arsenal dictated everything.
Reading barely touched the ball for the first fifteen minutes.
Chamberlain struck first with a forceful run down the right, a shifted touch onto his left, and a clean strike low past the keeper.
1–0.
Simple.
Sharp.
Deserved.
Giroud scored next with a classical centre-forward's finish — a towering header from a cross delivered by Iwobi. The Emirates roared because everyone loved an Olivier Giroud goal. There was grace in them. Precision. A certain beauty no matter how they came.
2–0.
Then, in the second half, it became Gnabry's moment.
He came on with fire in his boots as he was direct, fearless, eager.
Minutes later, he cut inside, drove into the box, and drilled a low shot into the corner.
3–0.
The celebration was joyous, pure, filled with teammates hugging him, shouting in his ears, Wenger clapping from the touchline with satisfaction.
The night felt light, comfortable, confident.
Another victory added to the streak.
Full time:
Arsenal 3 – 0 Reading
Chamberlain
Giroud
Gnabry
The third match was Premier League match with one of those tough away days where the atmosphere was hostile and the weather unforgiving.
Wenger's message was clear:
"Start fast. Take control early. Do not give them belief."
The stadium felt tight, the pitch looked heavy, and Sunderland's fans were loud from the first whistle. They expected a fight. They wanted Arsenal's streak to break here, far from London, far from comfort.
But Arsenal looked ruthless from the first touch.
And Francesco…
He looked unstoppable.
14th minute, GOAL.
Sánchez fed him a through ball, and with a burst of acceleration, he outran the defender and slipped the ball beneath the keeper.
Sunderland 0 – 1 Arsenal.
No panic.
No struggle.
Just control.
Then came Alexis.
Sánchez, twice.
His first was a rifled shot after pressing high and winning the ball.
His second came from a low cross by Bellerín — clinical, sudden, punishing.
0–3.
Silence in the stands.
But Arsenal weren't done.
Giroud came on as a substitute in the second half, his presence immediately causing panic in Sunderland's defence. He scored with a near-post header with vintage, elegant, unstoppable.
Then minutes later…
Another.
This time a poacher's finish after a scramble in the box.
5–0.
Arsenal fans chanted loudly from the away end, their voices echoing across the stadium, drowning out the home crowd.
Full time:
Sunderland 0 – 5 Arsenal
Francesco ⚽
Sánchez ⚽⚽
Giroud ⚽⚽
Another ruthless win.
Another statement.
Another step toward something historic.
And so, the days passed.
Three matches.
Three victories.
Goals.
Momentum.
Confidence building like steam in a boiler.
By the time the calendar flipped to 31 October 2016, Arsenal were not just in good form as they were unstoppable.
The morning of 31 October 2016 didn't feel like any ordinary London morning — not for Francesco, not for anyone inside Arsenal Football Club. A thin mist lingered over Richmond like a blanket rolling lazily across the sleepy rooftops, while the distant hum of traffic drifted through the quiet suburban air. The sky carried that pale grey wash that only late October could conjure — colourless, cold, but beautifully still.
Francesco stepped out of his front door with a thermos in hand, steam slipping out each time he cracked the cap for a sip. His BMW X5 waited at the curb, its sleek frame glistening faintly with dew. He glanced down the street, drawing in a breath of cold morning air, steadying himself for what the day represented.
It wasn't a match day.
But sometimes the day before felt even heavier.
Because tomorrow wasn't just any fixture.
It was Paris Saint-Germain.
Champions League.
Group stage, matchday four.
The second meeting.
And the one that could define the group.
A win meant control.
A draw meant pressure.
A loss meant vulnerability.
And Arsenal, in this form, in this rhythm, in this season where everything felt like it was slowly threading itself into something historic… they couldn't afford vulnerability.
Francesco took one more sip of his coffee and slid into the driver's seat. As he turned the engine on, music filled the interior with low volume, just enough to accompany the quiet thoughts running laps inside his head.
He wasn't anxious.
But he wasn't numb either.
It was the feeling of standing at the edge of something meaningful.
The drive to Colney was mostly silent roads and sleepy commuters. The countryside stretched out as he left the city, wide open fields dusted with the soft morning chill. The sun finally began to push through clouds in thin streaks of gold.
Colney wasn't far, but long enough for a man to think.
And Francesco thought of one thing.
PSG.
Their midfield aggression.
Their physicality.
Their ruthlessness on the counter.
Cavani's movement.
Di Maria's explosiveness.
Verratti's dictation.
Thiago Silva's command.
Arsenal had beaten great teams before from Barcelona, Bayern, City, United, but PSG had a certain aura about them. They were not chaotic like Premier League sides, not overwhelmingly technical like Spanish sides. They were something in between with sharp, structured, relentless.
He could already picture it:
The Emirates full.
Floodlights buzzing.
Champions League anthem rising like electricity.
A clash of two unbeaten giants in the group.
A test.
A statement.
Tomorrow mattered.
He turned into the road leading to London Colney, the giant Arsenal Training Centre sign becoming visible through the morning haze. Security waved him through without hesitation and the gate slid open.
The moment his tyres crossed onto club ground, something shifted inside him.
That familiar spark.
That belonging.
That invisible thread that tied him to every blade of grass here.
He parked beside the usual cluster of first-team cars from Alexis' black Range Rover, Özil's sleek Mercedes, Koscielny's understated Audi and stepped out, hoodie up, bag slung over his shoulder.
The crisp air bit into his cheeks.
He loved it.
Being reminded he was alive.
Being reminded he was a footballer.
Being reminded he was living the dream millions wanted.
As he walked toward the entrance, he saw someone leaning against the wall near the door that was tall, familiar stance, unmistakable silhouette.
"Morning, capi," Héctor Bellerín called with a grin, pushing himself upright.
Francesco smiled slightly. "Morning. Early today."
"So are you," Bellerín replied, nudging him with an elbow. "You barely sleep, do you?"
"Before Champions League?" Francesco shrugged. "You know."
"Big game tomorrow," Héctor nodded as they walked inside together. "They'll come hard. PSG don't like losing face."
"They did lose," Francesco reminded him. "First match was a win for us."
"Yeah," Bellerín smirked. "And they hated it."
Inside, the warm rush of indoor heating wrapped around them. The building hummed with a lively chaos with physios moving between rooms, staff setting equipment in the gym, the muffled sounds of football boots being dropped or tied somewhere down the corridor.
Players were already gathering in the main training hall.
Özil, leaning back on a massage table, scrolling on his phone.
Cazorla laughing with Monreal about something.
Alexis doing small jump stretches, because of course he was already warming up.
Ramsey filling a bottle from the hydration station.
Giroud fixing his hair with more dedication than most men fix their lives.
Everyone greeted Francesco when he walked in.
Not out of obligation.
Out of admiration.
He was their captain now.
Their leader.
Wenger's choice.
The one who wore the armband with quiet authority.
"Morning, skipper," Koscielny said, tapping his shoulder as he passed.
"Captain," Kante added with a grin.
Francesco gave them each a small nod. He wasn't a loud leader. Not a chest-thumping one. He led in action, in calm, in the way the team steadied when he was composed. The dressing room respected that.
Wenger entered the hall moments later, wearing a long coat and holding a notepad. Even in his seventies, his presence still carried this incredible gravitational pull — gentle, wise, but commanding.
"Good morning," he said, voice warm yet firm. "Gather in."
The squad formed a semi-circle around him.
Wenger looked around, meeting each player's eyes before he spoke.
"This is our final preparation before PSG. I do not need to tell you how important tomorrow is. You already know. You feel it."
He clasped his hands behind his back.
"What matters today is focus. Detail. Intelligence. We will work on transitions with defensive and attacking, because PSG are a team that punish hesitation."
He paused, letting that settle.
Then, his eyes drifted briefly toward Francesco — just a moment, a fraction, but enough for everyone to see.
"This match will be won in the mind before it is won on the pitch."
His words carried weight.
"That is why I trust this group. You have grown. You have matured. You have learned to suffer without breaking and to attack without losing patience. That is the mark of a great team."
A quiet, collective exhale passed through the players.
Wenger closed his notepad.
"Warm up. Then rondos. Then pressing drills."
Players began moving immediately — stretching bands snapping, physios assisting, boots tightening. The training ground buzzed into organized chaos.
Francesco stepped aside to tie his laces when someone placed a hand on his shoulder.
He didn't need to look to know who it was.
The hand was light, steady, familiar.
Wenger.
"Walk with me," the manager murmured.
Francesco stood and followed him through the tunnel toward Pitch One as the main training pitch where most tactical sessions took place. The grass was pristine, morning dew glistening across its surface. The cold air felt sharper out here, but refreshing.
They stopped at the sideline.
Wenger turned toward him with a thoughtful expression.
"Francesco," he began softly, "tomorrow is important, but not because of PSG."
Francesco tilted his head slightly.
"It is important," Wenger continued, "because you are ready to show the world what I already know."
He paused, eyes warm with that gentle wisdom that only Arsène seemed to possess.
"You have become the centre of this team. Their calm. Their spark. Their balance."
Francesco didn't speak, as he didn't need to. Wenger wasn't asking for words.
"You must play with freedom tomorrow," Wenger said, "but also with awareness. You will set the rhythm. You will direct the press. And—"
He stopped, a small smile forming.
"—you will show them what the captain of Arsenal looks like."
Francesco inhaled slowly.
This wasn't pressure.
This was belief.
Real, quiet, unwavering belief.
Wenger gently squeezed his shoulder.
"You are doing beautifully," he said softly. "Now go lead them."
Then he turned, walking back toward the others, coat fluttering behind him.
Francesco watched him for a moment, feeling the weight of responsibility settle in his chest, not as a burden, but as a fire.
He was ready.
And PSG would feel it.
Warm-ups were brisk, intense. Francesco felt alive in every movement — the stretch of his hamstrings, the tightening of his core during stability drills, the clacking rhythm of studs on the grass.
Rondos broke out in multiple circles as laughter, shouts, playful arguments about who touched the ball last.
In Francesco's group were Özil, Ramsey, Kante, Bellerín, and Sánchez.
It was chaos.
Özil played like he had invisible wings on his boots, slipping passes through impossible gaps.
Sánchez pressed like a man possessed.
Ramsey overcommitted twice and earned groans and banter.
Kante intercepting a pass like he'd scored in the derby.
Bellerín ran circles around everyone.
Francesco threaded every pass with teasing precision.
Then came pressing drills.
This was war.
Two teams.
Full speed.
Seven seconds to win the ball back.
Absolute commitment.
Wenger's voice echoed across the pitch:
"Closer! Faster! Anticipate! Do not react — read!"
Francesco led by example.
He pressed Verratti's hypothetical position.
He cut passing lanes.
He signaled switches.
He kept the shape intact with hand gestures and quick calls.
Every successful recovery made the team buzz louder.
Every mistake brought immediate correction.
Then came tactical shape work.
This was where tomorrow's game would truly be decided.
4-2-3-1 shifting to 4-3-3 when pressing.
Özil drifting inside.
Sánchez tucking wide.
Bellerín overlapping with pace.
Xhaka dropping deep to build from the back.
Koscielny tracking Cavani-like movements.
Kante shadowing PSG's midfield transitions.
Giroud practicing hold-up play.
And Francesco…
Francesco acting as the pivot point.
The connector.
The conductor.
Wenger watched him intently.
Every touch.
Every run.
Every decision.
And with each minute, Francesco felt more prepared.
More certain.
More wired into the rhythm of what tomorrow would demand.
Wenger loved ending pre-match training with an intense internal scrimmage with half-pitch, real tempo, controlled contact but genuine competition.
Two teams were formed:
Red bibs:
Francesco, Sánchez, Özil, Xhaka, Bellerín, Koscielny, Cazorla, Gibbs
Yellow bibs:
Giroud, Ramsey, Walcott, Kante, Coquelin, Mustafi, Monreal, Iwobi
From the first whistle, it felt like a real match.
The yellows pressed aggressively.
The reds moved with fluidity.
Touches were sharp.
Passes crisp.
Voices loud.
Ten minutes in, Sánchez stole the ball high up the pitch, darted inside, and fed Francesco.
Two touches.
One feint.
A curling shot to the far corner.
Goal.
Wenger nodded, jotting something down.
Minutes later, Özil slid a disguised pass between defenders.
Francesco took it on the half-turn.
He could've shot.
He didn't.
He squared it to Cazorla, who tapped it in.
Unselfish.
Calculated.
Captain's choice.
The scrimmage continued until Wenger finally raised a hand.
"Enough!"
Players gathered, breathing hard, shirts drenched.
"That," Wenger said, "is the intensity I want tomorrow. That is the hunger."
He turned toward them all.
"You are ready."
Training concluded with cooldown stretches, hydration, and final instructions. Staff collected equipment as players drifted back toward the facility.
The players gathered in the dining hall for a post-training meal with chicken, vegetables, pasta, fruit, hydration drinks. The room buzzed with conversation.
Giroud sipped soup like it was haute cuisine.
Sánchez ate with furious efficiency.
Özil slowly mixed everything together like he was making an art piece.
Cazorla laughed at something Gibbs said.
Gnabry was arguing about video games with Iwobi.
Normal.
Warm.
Family.
Wenger sat alone at a corner table, sipping tea, watching them with quiet affection.
Wenger rose slowly from his seat, placing his empty cup of tea onto the tray with the same calm precision he used when placing a football down for a free-kick demonstration. He scanned the dining hall as the players mid-conversation, plates half-finished, laughter weaving through the room like soft threads of camaraderie.
Then he tapped the wooden side of the doorframe lightly with his knuckles.
A small sound.
Not loud.
Not commanding.
But the entire room shifted instantly.
Because everyone recognized that gesture. It was Wenger's quiet signal with the one that said we are moving to the next phase now.
The conversations thinned, forks lowered, chairs scraped back slowly.
"Gentlemen," Wenger said, tone warm but focused, "finish up. We go to the tactical briefing room."
A pause.
A shift in atmosphere.
The collective inhalation of players transitioning from warmth into sharp professionalism.
"We will break down Paris Saint-Germain," he continued. "Unai Emery's structure demands your full attention."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
In a team built on intelligence and mutual respect, quiet words carried more force than shouted ones.
The room slowly emptied as the players filed out in small groups, still finishing bites of food or draining bottles of hydration mix. Francesco rose with them, slinging his training bag over his shoulder, following the flow toward the long corridor leading to the tactical wing.
Colney's hallways always seemed colder this time of year, maybe it was the concrete, maybe the steel frames, maybe the sense that important things always happened behind these doors. The faint hum of projectors, the distant echoes of previous seasons' tactical briefings, the memories of matches prepared here.
Francesco walked beside Kante and Bellerín, hearing their low conversation about PSG's midfield press.
"Verratti doesn't stop moving," Kante murmured. "He presses, he drops, he covers. He plays like three players."
"That's why he's annoying," Bellerín replied dramatically. "So small, so fast. Like a mosquito with world-class passing."
Francesco smirked at the analogy.
Mosquito or not, Verratti was dangerous, not the physical type, but the kind who controlled the tempo of games with rhythm and sharpness.
They reached the tactical briefing room — a dim, theatre-like space with tiered seating, a massive digital screen dominating the front wall. Rows of seats curved downward like an amphitheater built not for performances, but for revelations.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of coffee, carpet, and the subtle metallic tang of electronics warming under use. Wenger stood at the podium near the front, tablet in hand, glasses sliding halfway down his nose.
Steve Bould sat on the left, flipping through sheets of printed analysis.
Shad Forsythe leaned against the wall near the entrance, arms crossed, still carrying the aura of the performance team.
Freddie Ljungberg was present too, even if primarily a youth coach, he liked absorbing tactical discussions.
One by one, players settled into their usual seats.
Özil sank into the second row, hoodie up, legs stretched out.
Cazorla sat beside him, legs swinging like a child's, always cheerful.
Giroud took the far left seat, combing his hair with his fingers yet again.
Alexis chose the front row — of course he did — leaning forward before anything was even displayed on the screen.
Koscielny and Mustafi sat together, center-back union.
Kante chose a seat slightly behind Francesco, the humble shadow ready to absorb everything.
Bellerín, Monreal, Gibbs, Walcott, Ramsey, all filled in naturally.
Francesco sat near the center which captain's position, where Wenger preferred him. Not too close to intimidate, not too far to feel detached. Just central enough to show presence.
When the room quieted, Wenger clicked a remote.
The lights dimmed slowly.
The giant screen flickered.
A large PSG crest appeared.
Wenger looked around the room, eyes calm, tone measured.
"Tomorrow, you face a team with structure," he began. "Unai Emery has built a side that is disciplined, compact, and reactive."
With another click, the screen shifted to a freeze-frame image of PSG's formation.
4-3-3.
Thiago Silva — Marquinhos.
Aurier — Maxwell.
Verratti — Motta — Matuidi.
Di Maria — Cavani — Lucas Moura.
"It is a system of stability," Wenger said, walking to the center of the room, "but also one of tremendous risk if you can force them to stretch."
He paced slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
"Let us begin."
The screen expanded to a video clip from PSG's recent Ligue 1 match. Verratti dropped almost between the center-backs, receiving with a spin, evading two pressing players effortlessly.
Wenger froze the frame.
"This," he tapped the screen near Verratti, "is your most important target tomorrow. He is not tall, not physically imposing but yet he controls their matches."
Kante leaned forward instantly, this was his department.
Wenger continued.
"Verratti dictates the tempo. When he is comfortable, PSG flow. When he is harassed, they crack."
He looked toward Kante.
"N'Golo, your job will be to shadow him in our defensive phases. Not tight marking — intelligent marking. Cut his angles. Make him play sideways."
Kante nodded once, small but resolute.
Wenger turned his eyes to Francesco.
"And Francesco, when we press high, you and Alexis must close his receiving lanes. Together. If Verratti turns, he can play Cavani in immediately."
The clip resumed with PSG launching a vertical pass into Cavani.
"Which brings us," Wenger added, "to the next threat."
A new video loaded with Cavani drifting between defenders before darting abruptly behind the line.
Wenger paused it.
"Cavani is not a dribbler. He is not a creator. He is a finisher, a superb one. He lives on shoulder movement."
He pointed at Koscielny and Mustafi.
"You must talk non-stop. Do not give him blind space. He runs off your back shoulder. He gambles. He anticipates. And if he receives between you…"
He clicked again.
A goal appeared. Cavani finishing instantly.
"…he does not miss."
Koscielny nodded with full concentration, Mustafi already murmuring something about stepping timing.
Another clip rolled — Di Maria receiving out wide, cutting in, delivering whipping crosses or sharp combination plays.
Wenger tapped the screen.
"Di Maria prefers inside channels. He does not stay wide. He drifts into the half-spaces behind the midfield line and looks for Cavani's run."
Alexis, Özil, and Bellerín leaned forward — this was their defensive responsibility.
"Forced weak foot," Bellerín muttered under his breath.
Wenger overheard.
"Correct, Héctor. Shade him to the line. Show him to his weaker areas. Do not let him cut inside with freedom."
Another clip rolled of Lucas Moura's pace causing havoc.
"And Lucas Moura," Wenger added, "will test your recovery speed. He runs at you. Constantly. With or without the ball."
Monreal breathed out in mild annoyance. Lucas was a nightmare.
The video shifted to PSG dropping into a mid-block 4-5-1.
"This is where many teams struggle," Wenger said. "Paris are patient. They do not press wildly. They close the middle. They invite you wide."
He paced.
"What they do not expect," his voice lowered slightly, "is intelligence."
The screen flicked to Arsenal's expected formation overlaying PSG's shape.
4-2-3-1 morphing into 4-3-3.
Özil drifting inside.
Sánchez wide left.
Bellerín overlapping.
Xhaka deep.
Ozil floating.
Francesco…
Wenger looked at him.
"…connecting everything."
A soft murmur rolled through the room that's not surprise, but acknowledgment.
Francesco had become the conductor of this attack.
"This is where Paris break," Wenger said, "when you find the pockets behind their midfield."
He pointed to the frozen diagram.
"This space."
The space between the defensive midfielder and the center-backs.
The space Francesco loved.
"Francesco," Wenger continued, "you will operate here. Receive between the lines. Turn. Feed Alexis. Combine with Mesut. Or shoot."
He paused.
"You have the freedom. Use it."
Francesco inhaled slowly. He felt the responsibility like a warm weight across his shoulders.
A clip loaded from PSG's recent Champions League match.
Verratti pushed too high.
Matuidi was dragged wide.
Aurier overcommitted.
Suddenly the center-back line was exposed.
Arsenal-style counterattack simulation unfolded on screen.
"This," Wenger said, "is where we hurt them."
He pointed at the moment where the opposing striker drove through empty midfield.
"When we win the ball… we go. Fast. With purpose. With support."
He looked directly at Alexis, then at Özil, then at Francesco.
"This is your trio. Attack with three, finish with seven."
He emphasized:
"Do not hesitate. If there is a gap, punish it."
Then He shut off the screen.
Darkness for a breath.
Then lights brightened.
Wenger stepped toward the center, closer to the players.
"Gentlemen… tomorrow is not about fear. It is about opportunity."
He scanned the room slowly.
"You have earned belief. Every victory, every movement, every sacrifice has brought you here. Paris are strong, yes. Disciplined, yes. But so are you."
"And you," he said quietly, "are the one who will set the tone. Your calm will be their calm. Your courage will be their courage."
Francesco felt something shift inside him but not with pressure, not nerves, but a kind of warm clarity.
Wenger nodded once.
"You are ready. All of you."
He stepped back.
"Now go. Recover. Hydrate. Prepare. Tomorrow… we show Europe who we are."
The next day, at Colney, the sun had already dipped low behind the clouds, leaving a chill that crept into the bones even through thick training jackets. By 17:30, the first-team players were gathering in the main hall, some arriving in silence, headphones over ears, focused, lost in their private pre-match routines; others joked lightly, trying to defuse the quiet tension that naturally filled the hours before a Champions League evening.
Francesco arrived in his black hoodie and tracksuit, the armband snug on his bicep, a subtle weight that he wore like a second skin. He was calm, collected, but beneath the surface, every muscle, every synapse, seemed to hum with anticipation.
Koscielny was already there, arms crossed, nodding at a few familiar faces, while Alexis stretched against the wall, his body coiled, ready to explode into action. Özil arrived a few moments later, adjusting his scarf and muttering under his breath, counting something in a rhythm that only he seemed to understand. Ramsey, Bellerín, Monreal, and the others trickled in, each carrying the familiar aura of professionalism mixed with the energy of expectation.
Even the younger players like Gnabry and Iwobi seemed to radiate the same hunger that had become a defining quality of this squad.
Wenger appeared shortly after, quietly moving down the rows, giving each player a brief nod or soft word of encouragement. His presence had that strange ability to fill a room without filling it too loudly with a gravity that made even casual chatter fall into attentive silence. The coaching staff followed behind him: Bould, Forsythe, Ljungberg a team that had become a seamless extension of Wenger's vision.
Today, as every Champions League match day, the atmosphere was a careful balance between focus, energy, and calm discipline.
Within minutes, the players were shepherded toward the buses lined up neatly outside, their engines thrumming low in anticipation. Wenger and the coaching staff led the way, walking together, their long coats flaring lightly in the evening breeze. Francesco and the others climbed aboard the first bus, the smell of leather, faint cologne, and pre-match nerves mingling in the air.
He found his usual seat, sliding in beside Özil, who gave him a brief nod, their hands meeting in a subtle, knowing handshake. Kante sat a few rows behind, quietly observing, adjusting his bag on his lap, muscles already tensing for what lay ahead.
The bus started smoothly, leaving Colney behind as it curved into the main roads toward north London. The streets seemed unusually quiet; London itself seemed to pause in recognition of the occasion. Lights glinted off the wet tarmac, and for a few moments, Francesco let his eyes wander out the window. The world beyond the glass blurred from cars passing, people walking, the occasional dog leash swinging through the darkness and for a fleeting second, everything felt distant, almost unreal.
But inside, he felt entirely present. Every heartbeat was aligned with the rhythm of the team, the bus, the approaching stadium. Every thought hummed with preparation: movements, timing, positioning, press, counter-press, spaces to exploit, threats to neutralize. PSG was formidable, yes. But they had been studied. They had been anticipated. And Arsenal had Francesco.
Conversations inside the bus were minimal but lively in their own way. Bellerín leaned across to Monreal, talking quietly about the positioning of Lucas Moura on the right, while Giroud murmured something to Ramsey about staying compact in transitions. Alexis, as always, was warming up mentally, stretching lightly in his seat, muttering sequences of movements he intended to execute.
Wenger had instructed earlier: no distractions, no over-analysis for clarity, presence, and attention to detail. The bus was a bubble of concentration, a mobile locker room where small gestures, brief looks, and half-whispered plans carried more weight than words shouted in the open.
As the bus approached the Emirates, the floodlights became visible first, cutting through the deepening twilight like beacons. The stadium loomed, massive and imposing, yet inviting as the home of Arsenal, the stage for tomorrow's decisive encounter.
Francesco felt a familiar pull in his chest: a mixture of adrenaline, responsibility, and anticipation. He shifted slightly in his seat, checking the armband, making sure it was perfectly aligned, a symbolic but essential ritual. Around him, teammates were doing similar small acts: lacing boots, adjusting socks, running mental sequences of play, reviewing cues from Wenger's briefing.
The bus slowed, tires crunching over gravel as it turned into the service road leading to the player entrance. Arsenal staff and security waved them through efficiently, the doors opening as if on cue, allowing the team to step directly into the corridors that had become a second home to them. The smell of freshly cut grass from the pitch beyond seeped faintly into the air, mingled with the cleaner scent of the stadium interior: polished floors, faint metallic tangs, and the subtle aroma of washing detergent from the locker rooms. The players walked single file, equipment in hand, voices low, laughter muted.
Once inside the changing area, the familiar layout greeted them like an old friend. Rows of lockers, perfectly aligned, each one personalized with names and numbers. A mix of personal touches: photographs, notes, protective tape, gloves, shin guards. The ritual of pre-match preparation had begun.
Francesco moved toward his locker, setting down his bag carefully, opening it to reveal neatly folded training gear. He checked each item, shirt, shorts, socks, boots — everything needed to be right. There was a meditation in this ritual, a grounding in routine that made the mental preparation as much physical as spiritual.
He slipped into his training kit with shorts tight, shirt crisp and slightly damp from the moisture in the air. Socks pulled high, boots snug. He ran a hand along the arch of his foot, checking the studs, making sure everything was perfect. Around him, the team mirrored these gestures. Sánchez adjusted his laces with surgical precision, Özil smoothed down his training top and did a few discreet stretches, while Koscielny and Mustafi exchanged a glance, shoulders tensing, elbows brushing as they warmed their upper bodies. Even in these small movements, there was an unspoken communication.
When everyone was ready, Wenger motioned for them to head to the pitch. The players followed in clusters, the low hum of anticipation swelling as they approached the edge of the grass. The floodlights bathed the field in stark, white brilliance, glinting off the freshly painted lines. The pitch looked immaculate, every blade of grass precisely in place, dew faintly visible under the lights. This was their canvas, and tonight, it would become the stage for execution of all the plans meticulously studied the day before.
Warm-up began with a slow jog around the perimeter, muscles waking under the cooling evening air. Francesco felt each stride anchor him further into readiness. Breathing even, heart rate climbing gently, he sensed his body loosening, aligning with the movements to come. Bellerín sprinted ahead, laughing softly, his energy light yet sharp, while Ramsey and Kante moved in rhythmic synchrony, arms pumping, legs high, bodies in tune. Alexis drifted across the pitch, bursts of acceleration mixing with stretches, weaving imaginary defenders, already in the mental chess game he would play.
Dynamic stretches followed: lunges, high knees, leg swings, twists, rotations. Each movement precise, deliberate, a preparation for explosive speed and agility. Wenger circled, observing, offering corrections with subtle, almost imperceptible adjustments: shoulder angle, core tension, head positioning. His notes occasionally flashed in his mind's eye as he observed.
Francesco felt the weight of the armband settle across his shoulder again, an almost comforting pressure, a reminder that he carried responsibility not just for his own performance, but for the orchestration of the team.
Passing drills followed. Quick, precise, one-touch movements with a ballet of timing and accuracy. Özil threaded balls between defenders in the mini setup, Sánchez and Francesco combined instinctively, first-touch flicks and return passes. Kante intercepted, read, and recycled the ball instantly.
Bellerín overlapped at exactly the right angle, Monreal adjusting to maintain balance. The drill was less about fatigue and more about cohesion, about ensuring each player understood not just his movements, but the interactions of the entire unit.
Finishing exercises came next, with small goals, low posts, and quick transitions. Francesco ran patterns that mirrored what he would do tomorrow: bursts into the box, checks back, finds the pocket between midfield and defense. Sánchez received and released under pressure, Özil floated into channels, Giroud moved strategically to draw attention and create space. Shots were crisp, purposeful.
Every kick, pass, and feint carried the weight of expectation and intent. Wenger watched silently, noting subtleties, occasionally nodding, sometimes stepping in to demonstrate angles or positioning himself.
After roughly an hour, the warm-up concluded. Breathing heavier now, sweat lightly dotting brows, players began a light cooldown jog back toward the changing room. Conversations were muted, small, tactical in nature: reminders of pressing angles, channels to exploit, defensive transitions. Nothing frivolous.
The mental preparation had to remain sharp, attuned to the impending intensity. Francesco felt a subtle satisfaction in the smoothness of the session with bodies aligned, minds alert, the team vibrating with readiness.
Back in the dressing room, the transformation from training to match mode began. Training kits were shed, damp shirts and shorts folded neatly, socks removed, boots loosened. Physiotherapists moved efficiently, checking joints, taping ankles, massaging shoulders, administering final hydration.
Players moved with practiced rhythm, confidence evident in each gesture. Francesco took his time with the process, sliding on his match kit carefully: shirt crisp and numbered, shorts perfectly aligned, socks high, boots locked in. The armband followed last, placed on his left bicep with a subtle twist to ensure it would remain snug yet unrestrictive during play. He exhaled softly, letting the familiar weight and responsibility settle comfortably, like armor shaped to his body.
Others followed similar rituals. Alexis adjusted his sleeves, running a hand along the seams, checking the number. Özil smoothed his hair, a final glance in the mirror before kneeling to tie laces. Koscielny and Mustafi conferred quietly, checking positioning instructions and confirming signals for set pieces. Ramsey stretched lightly, sensing the need for limber precision, while Bellerín and Monreal exchanged a brief, firm nod with a signal of understanding, of defensive cohesion. Giroud flexed his fingers, his expression calm yet focused, a coiled predator waiting for the whistle.
Wenger observed, circling with a quiet intensity, making minor adjustments: a sleeve straightened, a lace tucked, a posture corrected. He didn't speak loudly, but every glance, every nod conveyed the gravity and clarity of expectation. The room was alive with anticipation, silent except for subtle shuffles and small affirmations. Here, in this space, the final layer of preparation took form.
The players were no longer just individuals; they were a unit, aligned physically, mentally, and emotionally. The team, led by Francesco in his armband, radiated cohesion, readiness, and unspoken determination.
By the time the last piece of kit was adjusted, the room exhaled collectively with a quiet, contained energy. Francesco stood, armband snug, boots tied with precision, muscles warmed, nerves sharpened, mind entirely focused. The team was ready. The last ritual was complete. The final act before stepping onto the Emirates pitch tomorrow: fully clad in match kit, aligned, and awaiting the roar of the home crowd.
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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: 14
Goal: 18
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