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He got into his BMW X5, closed the door, and pulled away as cameras continued to click behind him. As he drove off, the reporters already began dissecting his words, but Francesco didn't look back.
Then 14 January 2017 arrived without ceremony.
No headlines screamed it into existence. No controversy marked the date. It came the way matchdays often did with quietly, inevitably, carrying with it a sense of purpose that sat deep in the chest rather than loudly in the mind.
Matchday.
Away.
Swansea City.
Liberty Stadium.
The team bus idled outside London Colney just after midday, engine humming steadily as players filtered out of the building in ones and twos. There was a different energy now compared to earlier in the week. The tension that had once hovered around Francesco had dissolved into something sharper, more focused. Football had reclaimed the space it always did when a game loomed.
Francesco stepped onto the bus last, captain's armband already looped around his wrist, bag slung over one shoulder. He nodded to the driver out of habit, then moved down the aisle, exchanging quiet greetings as he passed.
"Ready?" Alexis asked, earbuds dangling around his neck.
"Always," Francesco replied.
He dropped into his seat near the front, beside Xhaka, who was staring out the window, jaw set, already locked in.
"Big one," Xhaka muttered.
"They're all big," Francesco said.
The bus pulled away, London slowly giving way to the grey sweep of the motorway. Outside, the winter sky hung low and heavy, clouds pressing down like a lid. Inside, the atmosphere was calm but coiled. Conversations came and went. Laughter surfaced briefly, then faded. Music leaked from headphones. Phones were checked, then put away.
No one mentioned Spain.
No one mentioned headlines.
No one mentioned anything except the game ahead.
That was the rule.
By the time the bus rolled into Swansea, the light had begun to thin, afternoon already sliding toward evening. The Liberty Stadium emerged from the landscape in stages as first the floodlight pylons, then the curve of the stands, steel and concrete rising against the grey.
The bus slowed.
Turned.
Stopped.
The doors opened, and the cold Welsh air rushed in, sharp and bracing.
"Alright lads," a staff member called. "Let's go."
They stepped out into a controlled chaos. Security lined the pathway. A small cluster of fans pressed against barriers, scarves raised, phones out. Some cheers. Some jeers. Mostly noise.
Francesco kept his gaze forward.
Inside, the stadium swallowed them whole.
The dressing room was already prepared. Shirts hung neatly in order, boots laid out beneath benches, names printed clean and sharp across the backs. Francesco's shirt with number centered, captain's armband waiting that hung where it always did.
He paused for a second in front of it.
Not out of superstition.
Out of appreciation.
Then he started changing.
Training kit on first. Top zipped halfway. Gloves tugged tight. He tied his boots with practiced ease, fingers moving without thought.
Around him, the room filled with sound.
Zips.
Velcro.
Studs clacking against the floor.
Muted chatter.
Kyle Walker rolled his shoulders, bouncing lightly on his toes. "Pitch looks slick," he said.
"Good for us," Özil replied quietly, already lacing his boots with meticulous care.
Kanté smiled to himself, adjusting his socks, as if the thought of extra ground to cover delighted him.
Once everyone was ready, they filed out toward the tunnel that led to the pitch for warm-up. The roar of the crowd grew louder with every step, swelling as they emerged into the open.
Liberty Stadium greeted them with sound.
Not hostility.
Not warmth.
Just noise.
A living thing.
The pitch glistened slightly under the floodlights, grass cut tight and even. Breath fogged in the cold air as they jogged out, spreading into familiar warm-up patterns.
Francesco moved easily, body loose, mind already attuned to the space around him. He exchanged passes with Alexis, then with Özil, the ball snapping between them, sharp and clean.
"Sharp today," Alexis said, grinning.
"Have to be," Francesco replied.
Swansea players warmed up on the other half, glancing over occasionally. No animosity. Just professional appraisal. Jack Cork stood near the center, captain's armband snug on his sleeve, organizing his teammates with quiet authority.
The warm-up passed quickly.
Sprints.
Touches.
Shots.
Cech worked at the far end, diving low, gloves slapping against the turf, calm as ever. Van Dijk and Koscielny moved together, rehearsing spacing, subtle gestures exchanged without words. Monreal and Walker alternated overlapping runs, timing already in sync.
When the whistle blew to signal the end of warm-up, Francesco felt it settle in.
That shift.
From preparation to execution.
They jogged back down the tunnel, boots echoing, steam rising from bodies now fully awake. Back in the dressing room, training kits came off, replaced by the match strip.
Red.
White.
Meaning.
Francesco pulled the shirt over his head slowly, adjusting it, smoothing the fabric. He slid the armband into place and fastened it securely.
This was his role.
Wenger entered last.
The room fell quiet almost immediately.
He stood at the front, hands clasped lightly, eyes moving across the squad. He didn't rush. He never did.
"Gentlemen," he said calmly, "we are prepared."
He tapped the board behind him, where the formation was already drawn.
"Today, we play 4-2-3-1."
No surprise there.
He pointed to the back line first.
"Petr," he said. "You start."
Cech nodded once.
"Defence," Wenger continued, finger moving from left to right. "Nacho Monreal. Virgil van Dijk. Laurent Koscielny. Kyle Walker."
Each name landed with certainty.
"Midfield," Wenger said. "N'Golo Kanté and Granit Xhaka as the double pivot. Control the transitions. Protect the centre."
Both men nodded.
"Mesut," Wenger said softly, "you operate ahead of them. Find space. Make us breathe."
Özil glanced up briefly, then back down, calm as ever.
"Wide," Wenger continued. "Alexis on the left. Serge on the right. Stretch them. Attack the space behind."
Alexis cracked his neck. Gnabry adjusted his sleeves, eyes focused.
"And up front," Wenger said, turning slightly, "Francesco."
Francesco met his gaze.
"Lead the line. Be decisive. Be patient."
"Yes, boss," Francesco replied.
Wenger gestured to the bench next.
"Ospina. Mustafi. Robertson. Bellerín. Oxlade-Chamberlain. Ramsey. Giroud."
He stepped back, letting the information settle.
"This is an away match," Wenger said. "They will press. They will fight. We respond with intelligence, not emotion."
His eyes found Francesco again.
"Play your game," Wenger added. "The rest will follow."
That was it.
No long speeches.
No theatrics.
Just trust.
They stood together, hands briefly meeting in the center, a quiet ritual.
"Together," Francesco said.
"Together," the room echoed.
Then they moved.
The tunnel felt tighter now, narrower with anticipation. Swansea players stood opposite, red giving way to white and black. Francesco took his place at the front, captain's armband visible, shoulders relaxed.
Jack Cork stood beside him, close enough that Francesco could hear his breathing.
"Big one," Cork said quietly.
"Always is," Francesco replied.
They exchanged a brief nod. Mutual respect. Nothing more, nothing less.
The referee stepped forward, checking watches, glancing at both captains.
"Alright, lads," he said. "We're good."
The signal came.
They walked out together.
The roar hit them fully now, swelling as the players emerged into the stadium lights. Scarves waved. Flags rippled. The pitch waited, pristine and unforgiving.
They lined up for the handshakes, moving down the line with practiced ease. Hands clasped briefly. Eyes met. Professional courtesy exchanged.
Then the photo.
The Arsenal starting eleven assembled, arms linked, faces set. Francesco stood front and center, armband prominent, eyes fixed forward.
Cameras flashed.
A moment captured.
Then it was time.
Francesco and Jack Cork walked toward the center circle, referee waiting between them. The coin rested in the official's palm.
"Call it," the referee said.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Right," he said.
The coin spun, flashed under the lights, landed.
Arsenal won.
"We'll kick off," Francesco said calmly.
The referee nodded.
They shook hands, brief and firm, then turned back toward their teams.
As Francesco jogged into position, he felt it fully now.
The calm.
The clarity.
The reason.
This was where everything else fell away.
The whistle hovered, breath held across the stadium.
The whistle came.
Sharp. Clean. Unmistakable.
And with it, the game began.
For a split second after the sound cut through Liberty Stadium, everything seemed to accelerate at once with the noise from the stands swelling, boots scraping against turf, bodies shifting from stillness into motion. Francesco took his first steps forward, eyes already scanning, mind slipping fully into that familiar, narrowed focus where nothing existed beyond the ball, the space, the next decision.
Arsenal kicked off.
The ball rolled back from him to Özil, then out wide, the first few passes simple and deliberate. No rush. No statement needed yet. Just rhythm.
Swansea reacted immediately.
They didn't sit back. They stepped up, compact and aggressive, exactly as Wenger had warned. Jack Cork barked instructions, pointing, shuffling laterally as he tried to keep his midfield line tight. Ki Sung-yueng hovered nearby, reading the angles, while Gylfi Sigurdsson drifted between lines, already looking for pockets of space to exploit.
Francesco felt it instantly—the pressure, the intent.
Good.
This was a game.
He drifted slightly left, dragging Alfie Mawson with him, then checked back sharply, pulling Kingsley Fernández out of position. Gnabry, quick to read it, darted inside from the right, offering a vertical option. Sanchez stayed wide, hugging the touchline, daring Naughton to step out.
The early exchanges were tense but controlled.
Arsenal tried to impose their structure.
Swansea tried to disrupt it.
In midfield, the battle was immediate and physical. Kanté buzzed relentlessly, snapping into challenges, never still, his presence felt everywhere at once. Xhaka sat deeper, directing traffic, pointing Walker forward, telling Monreal when to tuck in. Özil floated just ahead of them, drifting in and out of Swansea's shape, sometimes invisible, sometimes suddenly dangerous.
Sigurdsson tried to dictate early, dropping deep to get touches, but Kanté shadowed him closely, denying time, forcing him sideways. Ki attempted to switch play, but Arsenal's press closed quickly, cutting off lanes.
Out wide, Swansea tested Arsenal's back line. Nathan Dyer tried to isolate Monreal, pushing the ball past him and attempting to use his pace, but Van Dijk slid across seamlessly, timing his interventions perfectly. Routledge probed on the opposite side, but Walker matched him stride for stride, strength and speed combining to snuff out the threat.
Llorente remained central, looming, backing into Koscielny, trying to pin him. But Koscielny held firm, communicating constantly with Van Dijk, the two center-backs moving like they'd played together for years rather than months.
Francesco dropped deeper again, linking play, drawing fouls, relieving pressure. He took a knock early with Fernández late into a challenge but waved away concern, popping back up without complaint.
The crowd buzzed.
Every tackle earned a roar.
Every misplaced pass drew a groan.
Fifteen minutes in, the game had settled into a pattern. Arsenal dominated possession but Swansea remained dangerous, pressing in waves, refusing to be overawed.
Francesco clapped his hands once, sharp and loud.
"Keep it moving," he called. "They'll tire."
Alexis glanced over, eyes bright, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You first," he said.
It happened at the 21st minute.
Not suddenly.
Not out of nowhere.
But like something that had been quietly building.
It started with Kanté.
A loose touch from Ki, barely noticeable to most, but enough. Kanté pounced, toeing the ball away and immediately releasing it to Xhaka before Swansea could react. Xhaka didn't dwell. One touch. Then a crisp pass forward into Özil's path.
Özil received it on the half-turn, body already opening as he scanned the field.
Francesco was moving.
He'd checked toward the ball, dragging Mawson with him, then spun away at the last second, sprinting into the space left behind. Sánchez saw it at the same time. He surged forward on the left, accelerating past Naughton with that familiar explosive stride.
Özil slipped the ball wide to Sánchez.
Everything slowed.
Sánchez took one touch to set himself, head up, eyes locked on the movement in the box. Francesco timed his run perfectly, splitting Fernández and Mawson, angling his body to stay onside by inches.
The cross came in low and hard.
Francesco met it in stride.
One touch.
Right foot.
Clean.
Fabiański reacted late, diving full stretch, fingertips grazing air, but the ball was already past him, skimming inside the far post.
Net.
For a split second, there was silence.
Then it exploded.
Francesco didn't wheel away wildly. He slowed, arms out slightly, chest heaving, eyes closed for just a heartbeat. Then he turned toward Sánchez, pointing at him, a smile breaking through.
"Perfect," he mouthed.
Sánchez laughed, sprinting toward him, leaping onto his back as teammates swarmed. Özil arrived next, arms raised, Kanté grinning behind him like he'd just won something deeply personal.
1–0 Arsenal.
Francesco jogged back toward the center circle, nodding once toward the away end, where a pocket of Arsenal supporters bounced and sang, scarves held aloft.
He felt calm.
Grounded.
This was why he played.
Swansea restarted quickly, stung but not broken. Cork gathered his teammates, clapping, urging them forward. The home crowd responded, volume rising again, willing their side back into it.
They pushed harder now.
Sigurdsson drifted wider, trying to pull Kanté away from the center. Routledge and Dyer swapped flanks, attempting to create mismatches. Llorente dropped deeper, linking play, trying to draw Arsenal's center-backs out.
For a brief spell, Swansea enjoyed their best possession of the half.
A cross came in from the right that dangerous but Van Dijk rose above everyone, heading it clear with authority. Another ball followed moments later, curling toward the near post, but Cech stepped out confidently, fists punching it away.
Arsenal absorbed the pressure.
Then they struck again.
The second goal came at the 32nd minute, and this one felt like a statement.
It began with patience.
Arsenal circulated the ball across the back, side to side, forcing Swansea to chase. Walker carried it forward, drawing Dyer toward him, then slipped it inside to Xhaka. Xhaka switched play quickly, a long diagonal arcing toward Monreal.
Monreal controlled it cleanly, waited, then fed Özil just inside the left channel.
Özil paused.
Just a fraction.
Enough to pull Cork toward him.
Enough to freeze the defense.
Then he slid the pass through.
Not hard.
Not fast.
Perfectly weighted.
Serge Gnabry was already sprinting, cutting inside from the right, ghosting between Fernández and Naughton. The ball met him in stride, and without breaking rhythm, he struck it first time with his left foot.
Low.
Across goal.
Inside the far corner.
Fabiański dived again, but again it wasn't enough.
2–0.
This time, the celebration was louder.
Gnabry slid on his knees toward the corner, fists clenched, eyes wide. Francesco sprinted toward him, pulling him up into a hug, shouting something lost in the noise.
"Keep going!" Francesco yelled. "Don't stop!"
The scoreboard glowed.
Swansea 0 – 2 Arsenal.
The home crowd fell quiet for a moment, stunned.
Then the murmurs started.
Arsenal, sensing blood, pressed higher. Kanté and Xhaka stepped up, compressing the midfield, forcing Swansea into rushed passes. Özil drifted freely now, confidence flowing, touches growing more audacious.
Francesco nearly had a second moments later, latching onto a loose ball in the box after a Sanchez shot was blocked, but Fabiański reacted quickly, smothering it at his feet.
"Unlucky," Sánchez said, patting Francesco on the back.
"We'll get another," Francesco replied.
Swansea tried to regroup before halftime. Cork dropped deeper, essentially forming a temporary back five when Arsenal attacked. Ki pushed higher, attempting to support Llorente. Sigurdsson began to shoot from distance, testing Cech, but the keeper remained untroubled, parrying cleanly, commanding his area.
Arsenal stayed disciplined.
Walker and Monreal resisted the urge to bomb forward recklessly. Van Dijk and Koscielny held their line, communicating constantly, stepping together, catching Swansea attackers offside twice in quick succession.
As the half wound down, the tempo dipped slightly. Arsenal were happy to see out the remaining minutes, controlling possession, drawing fouls, slowing the game where needed.
The whistle for halftime came almost unexpectedly.
Relief.
Reset.
The players jogged toward the tunnel, heads up, bodies warm, scoreline favorable.
Inside the dressing room, the mood was composed but energized. Shirts were tugged off, water bottles grabbed, breath regained. Francesco sat on the bench, towel over his shoulders, listening as Wenger stepped forward once more.
"Good," Wenger said simply. "Very good."
He gestured toward the board again.
"We have control," he continued. "But do not give them belief."
He looked at Kanté and Xhaka.
"Stay compact. Do not chase shadows."
He turned to the wide players.
"Alexis, Serge, be patient. The spaces will come again."
Then his eyes found Francesco.
"You are doing well," Wenger said. "But remember, lead with calm. They will try to provoke."
Francesco nodded. "I know."
Wenger straightened.
"The second half," he said, "is about intelligence."
The players listened, absorbing it all.
Outside, the noise of the crowd filtered faintly through the walls.
The second half began without drama.
No sudden surge.
No reckless charge.
Just Arsenal stepping back onto the pitch with the same quiet authority they had carried down the tunnel.
The whistle blew again, and this time it didn't feel like ignition.
It felt like continuation.
Swansea kicked off, but from the first few touches it was clear something had shifted. The urgency they'd shown in brief spells during the first half was still there, but it was dulled now, blunted by the scoreline and by the sense that Arsenal had solved them.
Francesco felt it immediately.
That subtle loosening in the opposition, that fraction of hesitation. That awareness creeping in like we're chasing shadows.
Arsenal pressed high, but not recklessly. Kanté and Xhaka moved like twin anchors, stepping forward in unison, cutting passing lanes before they opened. Özil positioned himself perfectly between lines, never static, always just inconvenient enough to disrupt Swansea's shape.
Swansea tried to build from the back, but Arsenal refused to let them breathe.
Van Dijk stepped up confidently, intercepting an early forward pass meant for Llorente. He didn't clear it blindly as he slid it calmly into Xhaka's feet, already turning away to reset the line.
Walker surged forward on the right, not overlapping wildly, but offering just enough width to stretch Dyer backward. Monreal mirrored him on the left, disciplined, selective, never exposing space behind him.
The ball moved.
Quick.
Clean.
Purposeful.
Francesco dropped into the pocket again, receiving on the half-turn, drawing Cork toward him. He laid it off first-time to Özil, then spun and ran, pulling defenders with him even when he didn't receive it back.
This was control.
Not domination by force.
Domination by understanding.
Swansea attempted to respond. Sigurdsson tried to dictate again, but every time he received the ball, Kanté was there with sometimes in front, sometimes from behind, sometimes seemingly from nowhere. Ki's passes became safer, wider, less ambitious. Cork shouted, gestured, urged his teammates to push up, but the lines kept stretching, gaps appearing where none had existed before.
The Liberty Stadium grew restless.
Murmurs replaced chants.
Sighs replaced roars.
Arsenal smelled it.
By the 50th minute, Swansea were pinned back almost entirely. Fabiański was already working, passing short under pressure, forced into hurried clearances that Van Dijk and Koscielny dealt with comfortably.
Francesco glanced at the clock briefly.
Not because he was waiting.
Because he knew.
It came at the 53rd minute.
And this one, this one felt inevitable.
The move began innocuously enough, with Cech rolling the ball out to Koscielny. Swansea tried to press, but too late. Koscielny slid it to Van Dijk, who carried it forward, calm as ever, drawing Llorente toward him.
At the right moment, Van Dijk released it into Xhaka.
Xhaka turned, scanning.
Özil was already drifting into space, pulling Sigurdsson with him. Gnabry stayed wide, hugging the touchline, stretching Naughton. Sanchez did the same on the left, pinning Fernández back.
And Francesco?
Francesco hovered.
Right on the edge of the defensive line.
Onside.
Waiting.
Xhaka slipped the ball into Özil's feet.
Özil didn't even look.
He didn't need to.
One touch to set.
One touch to release.
The pass slid through the heart of Swansea's defence, splitting Mawson and Fernández like they were never there. It wasn't fast. It wasn't flashy.
It was devastating.
Francesco exploded into the space.
His first touch took him away from Fabiański, opening his body just enough to see the far corner. The keeper rushed out, arms wide, trying to close the angle.
Francesco didn't rush.
He never did.
He opened his foot and guided the ball calmly past Fabiański, rolling it into the empty net with a composure that felt almost cruel.
3–0.
He slowed to a stop, hands on his hips for a second, breathing deeply. Then he turned toward Özil, pointing again, nodding in appreciation.
Özil smiled faintly, almost shyly, as teammates swarmed.
Kanté jumped into the celebration, laughing.
Xhaka clapped hard, shouting something in German.
Gnabry sprinted over, arms wide.
Francesco raised a single finger to the away end.
Not boastful.
Just acknowledgment.
The Liberty Stadium fell silent.
Not stunned silence.
Resigned silence.
Swansea restarted, but now it felt different. The belief had gone. The passes were slower. The movement was hesitant. Where there had been resistance before, now there was survival.
Cork tried to rally them again, clapping, shouting, but even his voice carried less conviction.
Arsenal didn't relent.
They didn't need to press harder.
They didn't need to attack recklessly.
They simply kept the ball.
Özil orchestrated, moving like a conductor, dictating tempo. Kanté mopped up everything loose. Xhaka sprayed passes with confidence now, switching play at will, forcing Swansea to chase endlessly.
Francesco dropped deeper again, linking play, occasionally pulling wide to combine with Sanchez. Every movement he made dragged defenders with him, opening lanes for others.
Swansea tried to attack through the wings once more, but Arsenal's back line was immovable. Van Dijk won aerial duel after aerial duel. Koscielny timed his tackles perfectly. Walker bullied Dyer off the ball twice in quick succession, drawing cheers from the Arsenal supporters.
At the 60th minute, Arsenal began to toy with them that not arrogantly, but clinically.
Pass.
Move.
Recycle.
Probe.
The fourth goal came at the 62nd minute.
And this one belonged as much to Francesco's leadership as it did to Sanchez's brilliance.
The move began with Kanté intercepting yet another hopeful ball from Ki. He drove forward this time, carrying it ten yards before releasing it to Francesco, who had dropped into space between the lines.
Francesco received it under pressure from Cork.
He felt the contact.
Absorbed it.
Held the ball.
Alexis was already running.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
He slipped the ball into Sanchez's path with the outside of his boot, perfectly weighted, splitting the defence before it could adjust.
Sanchez took it in stride.
One touch to control.
Second to shift.
Third to finish.
He smashed it past Fabiański at the near post, power and precision combined. The net rippled violently.
4–0.
Alexis wheeled away, screaming in celebration, fists clenched, sliding toward the corner flag. Francesco jogged after him, a grin breaking across his face as he pulled Sanchez up into an embrace.
"That's it," Francesco said, breathless. "That's it."
The scoreboard told the story now.
Swansea City 0 – 4 Arsenal.
The home crowd was quiet. Not angry. Not hostile.
Just beaten.
Arsenal players drifted back into their positions with calm assurance. Wenger stood on the touchline, arms folded, expression composed, though the slightest nod betrayed his satisfaction.
Francesco glanced around the stadium as he jogged back.
This wasn't just a win unfolding.
It was a statement.
The statement didn't end at four.
It deepened.
It settled in.
And then it kept going.
By the time the clock ticked past the hour mark, the rhythm of the match had changed completely. Swansea were no longer trying to wrestle control back. They were trying to endure. Arsenal, meanwhile, played with the calm confidence of a side that knew the job was already done, but also knew that professionalism demanded more.
Francesco felt it in his legs.
Not fatigue, exactly. More like the quiet awareness that his work for the night was nearing its natural end. He had scored twice, assisted once, led from the front, absorbed fouls, dragged defenders out of position, and most importantly to set the tone. His breathing was steady, his touch still sharp, but he could sense the shift from Wenger on the touchline.
At the 66th minute, the board went up.
Three numbers.
Three changes.
Francesco glanced over his shoulder first, just as he saw Wenger lift his hand and call his name.
"Francesco," Wenger said calmly. "Come."
No urgency.
No emotion.
Just trust.
Francesco nodded once.
He raised his arm slightly to signal he'd seen it, then turned toward his teammates. Before jogging toward the touchline, he slowed near the defensive line, where Laurent Koscielny was positioned.
Without ceremony, Francesco pulled the captain's armband from his arm.
He held it out.
Koscielny met his eyes for a brief second, understanding everything that didn't need to be said. He took the armband, slid it onto his sleeve, and gave Francesco a short nod.
"Well done," Koscielny said quietly.
Francesco tapped his chest once. "Finish it."
At the same moment, Serge Gnabry and Mesut Özil were also making their way toward the sideline. Gnabry jogged with a bounce still in his step, youthful energy undimmed. Özil walked more slowly, wiping sweat from his brow, eyes calm, as if he'd just finished a light training session rather than dictated a Premier League match.
The substitutions were made together.
Francesco off.
Gnabry off.
Özil off.
On came:
Olivier Giroud.
Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain.
Aaron Ramsey.
The crowd reacted in layers.
The away end rose as one, applauding loudly as Francesco left the pitch. He didn't wave extravagantly. He didn't thump his chest. He simply lifted a hand, palm open, acknowledging the noise, acknowledging the connection.
This wasn't about him anymore.
It was about Arsenal.
As he stepped over the white line, Wenger met him with a brief handshake and a nod.
"Excellent," Wenger said.
Francesco exhaled. "Good game."
He took a seat on the bench, towel draped over his shoulders, water bottle handed to him by a staff member. From there, he could see the pitch clearly. See the shape. See the flow.
And he could see something else too.
Swansea were changing.
Paul Clement had no choice now. The body language of his players told the story with legs heavy, heads down, frustration simmering beneath forced discipline.
At the same moment Arsenal made their triple change, Swansea responded with three of their own.
Nathan Dyer was replaced by Leroy Fer.
Fernando Llorente made way for Borja Bastón.
And Jack Cork as their captain, their organiser, their voice was substituted for young Oli McBurnie.
Cork removed his armband as he left the pitch, face tight, jaw clenched. He didn't argue. He didn't complain.
But the symbolism was impossible to miss.
Swansea were conceding more than goals now.
They were conceding structure.
From the bench, Francesco leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, eyes sharp.
He watched how Arsenal adapted instantly.
Giroud slotted in up top, offering a completely different profile. Where Francesco had stretched and dragged, Giroud anchored and pinned. Oxlade-Chamberlain brought directness on the wing, willing to drive at tired legs. Ramsey took Özil's place centrally, his movement more vertical, more aggressive.
And still, the control didn't waver.
If anything, it intensified.
Swansea tried to regroup with Fer's physicality and McBurnie's energy, but it only created more space elsewhere. Kanté adjusted immediately, sitting slightly deeper, sweeping across the midfield with tireless precision. Xhaka pushed higher, now afforded more time, more freedom, more daring.
The match drifted into a new phase.
Not frantic.
Not cruel.
Just clinical.
At the 70th minute, Arsenal passed Swansea into exhaustion. The ball zipped from Walker to Xhaka, to Ramsey, to Oxlade-Chamberlain, back to Walker again. Swansea chased in vain, pressing shadows, their shape stretching thinner with every pass.
From the bench, Francesco caught Alexis glancing over.
Alexis raised an eyebrow.
Francesco smiled faintly and gave a small nod.
They're done.
The fifth goal came at the 75th minute.
And it came from movement.
Pure, intelligent, ruthless movement.
Ramsey picked the ball up near the center circle, head up, scanning. Fer stepped toward him, hesitating for half a second too long. Ramsey surged forward, gliding past him with that familiar long stride, eating up ground effortlessly.
Giroud immediately read it.
He peeled away from Mawson, drifting toward the near post, dragging Fernández with him. Oxlade-Chamberlain sprinted down the right, pulling Naughton wide. Sanchez stayed left, occupying defenders without even touching the ball.
Ramsey drove into the final third.
Then he slipped the pass.
Low.
Precise.
Perfectly timed.
Giroud met it just inside the box.
One touch to set.
Second touch to strike.
Left foot.
Low into the corner.
Fabiański didn't even dive.
5–0.
Giroud turned toward the bench, fists clenched, chest puffed, letting out a roar that carried across the quiet stadium. Ramsey sprinted toward him, arms wide, crashing into him in celebration.
On the bench, Francesco stood up and clapped.
Not politely.
Hard.
Deliberately.
That was the mark of a team in sync.
The Liberty Stadium was almost eerily quiet now. A few home fans filtered toward the exits, scarves wrapped tight around their necks, heads bowed. Those who remained sat in stunned silence, watching Arsenal dismantle their side with professionalism bordering on cold.
But Arsenal weren't finished.
At the 83rd minute, they delivered the final blow.
And this one was pure expression.
It began with, inevitably from Kanté.
McBurnie tried to hold the ball up near the halfway line, but Kanté read him perfectly, stepping in front, nicking the ball cleanly, and immediately driving forward. He didn't slow. He didn't hesitate.
He passed to Xhaka.
And Xhaka didn't pass it back.
He took one touch.
Then another.
Space opened in front of him like an invitation.
Swansea's midfield hesitated was too far to close him down properly, too deep to step out aggressively.
That was all Xhaka needed.
He set his body.
Drew back his left foot.
And struck.
The ball rocketed off his boot, rising, swerving slightly, knuckling through the cold night air. Fabiański reacted late, scrambling backward, fingertips stretching desperately.
It didn't matter.
The ball smashed into the top corner, rippling the net violently before dropping back out.
6–0.
Xhaka didn't celebrate wildly. He turned, fists clenched, jaw tight, letting out a shout that sounded more like release than joy. Kanté sprinted toward him, leaping into his arms, laughing uncontrollably.
On the bench, Francesco shook his head slowly.
Not disbelief.
Appreciation.
That was a midfielder's goal.
A statement goal.
The kind that said this is our night.
The scoreboard glowed mercilessly now.
Swansea City 0 – 6 Arsenal.
The final minutes passed in near silence.
Swansea no longer pressed. Arsenal no longer needed to push. The ball moved slowly now, conservatively, possession recycled safely between the back line and midfield.
Van Dijk and Koscielny exchanged calm passes.
Walker jogged lightly, conserving energy.
Monreal tucked in, disciplined as ever.
The referee glanced at his watch more than once.
The stadium waited.
When the final whistle came, it didn't bring relief.
It brought closure.
Arsenal players raised their arms briefly, acknowledging the away end. No wild celebrations. No chest-beating.
Just satisfaction.
Francesco stepped back onto the pitch, joining his teammates as they exchanged handshakes with the opposition. He found Jack Cork near the tunnel.
"Good luck," Francesco said quietly.
Cork nodded. "You were ruthless."
Francesco didn't deny it.
In the away corner, Arsenal supporters sang loudly now, voices rising into the cold Welsh night. Songs echoed, scarves waved, fists punched the air.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (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: 29
Goal: 47
Assist: 2
MOTM: 6
POTM: 1
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