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In the away corner, Arsenal supporters sang loudly now, voices rising into the cold Welsh night. Songs echoed, scarves waved, fists punched the air.
Francesco felt the weight of the moment, not in pressure, but in awareness. Every goal, every pass, every decision on the work of ninety minutes had brought them here. Arsenal had imposed themselves entirely. Swansea had been dismantled systematically, intelligently, with patience, precision, and ruthlessness. But now the work was over, and there was one final act before leaving the pitch: recognition. Humanity. Respect. Gratitude.
He began walking down the line of Swansea players, their faces weary, drenched in sweat, some tight with frustration, others simply accepting the inevitability of the scoreline. He stopped first at Leroy Fer, patting the midfielder on the shoulder briefly. "Good effort," he said calmly, meeting his eyes. Fer nodded, faintly, almost wryly, appreciating the gesture in the midst of disappointment.
Next came Bastón, Llorente's replacement, younger, green but brave. Francesco smiled briefly, acknowledging the commitment, the courage it took to enter such a hostile scenario, even late in the match.
And then Jack Cork, the captain, whose quiet authority had tried to maintain structure through chaos. Francesco gave him a firm handshake, a nod, and a subtle word: "Respect, always." Cork returned it, brief, tight, but genuine with a silent acknowledgment of shared understanding on the pitch, where battles are both fierce and honorable.
Finally, there was Fabiański. The moment felt heavier, more intimate. Lukasz had been a teammate once, a brother in training, in changing rooms, in routines and routines repeated hundreds of times. Now he stood on the opposite side, the Arsenal goal just surrendered, his gloves still damp with sweat, his gaze guarded but respectful.
Francesco stopped in front of him, extended his hand fully, and looked him in the eye. "You were brilliant," he said sincerely. Not for saves made tonight as they had been few, but for everything that had come before. For the matches they'd shared at Arsenal, the mornings at Colney, the jokes in the dressing room, the camaraderie. "Always respected here."
Fabiański paused, swallowing, then extended his own hand. Their grip was firm, deliberate, a physical echo of years of trust and friendship. For a moment, the noise of Liberty Stadium fell away. Just two men, once teammates, now separated by jerseys and results, acknowledging the thread that bound them. "Thank you," Fabiański murmured. "For everything."
Francesco nodded, clapped him lightly on the shoulder, and moved along the line to finish shaking hands with the remaining Swansea players. Each handshake carried its own weight: respect for effort, acknowledgment of shared commitment, and a subtle message that football, at its core, is never personal, no matter how decisive the outcome.
Once the line was complete, Francesco turned back toward his own team, beckoning them. Alexis, Özil, Koscielny, Ramsey, Giroud, Xhaka, Kanté, Walker, Monreal, Van Dijk, Oxlade-Chamberlain as they followed willingly, stepping as one toward the away end where a section of Arsenal supporters had been unwavering through the cold Welsh night.
Francesco led them, walking with measured steps, head held high. The chants and songs grew louder as they approached, a wall of sound, passion, and loyalty. Fans held scarves aloft, some shaking, others waving, faces glowing from floodlights and anticipation. The familiar roar was intoxicating. It was not just a celebration of victory as it was a shared experience, the culmination of loyalty, patience, and support across miles and months.
He reached the front, turned to face the crowd, and gestured broadly, palms open, inviting, acknowledging, letting the appreciation flow both ways. "Thank you," he said, loud enough for those nearest to hear, though the stadium carried the words further than any voice alone could. "Thank you for being with us tonight. For every mile traveled, for every cheer, for every song."
The players stood behind him, a living wall of red and white, their heads high, bodies relaxed, smiles breaking through the last traces of exertion. Alexis raised both fists in acknowledgment, Ramsey pumped the air once, Giroud nodded at a nearby young fan who had sprinted to the front barrier, Kanté simply smiled, understated but genuine.
The crowd responded immediately, chants swelling, voices intertwining: a mixture of relief, joy, and pride. They cheered each player individually, but there was a collective gratitude, too, for the team as a unit. They had delivered more than a scoreline; they had delivered certainty, dominance, and a sense of shared triumph.
Francesco let his eyes scan the crowd, absorbing it, committing it to memory. The faces, the scarves, the banners—every person who had come out in winter cold to stand behind them. The moments when a goal had rippled through this section, when a pass had inspired applause, when a defense had drawn a collective cheer as all of it flowed through him like a current.
Then he started speaking again, quietly, deliberately. "Every one of you makes this possible. We may be the ones on the pitch, but you are part of this. Tonight, you were part of this. Always."
The supporters roared again, some singing, some waving, some clapping, faces alight. Francesco felt a warmth unlike any goal celebration: not the thrill of scoring, not the elation of a perfect assist, but the deep, resonant pulse of shared identity. The connection between player and supporter, often invisible in the routine of the season, was here in its most tangible form.
Behind him, his teammates began to clap too, some raising their hands in acknowledgment of the fans, some simply standing silently, letting the moment speak. Wenger lingered a few steps back, expression calm, eyes attentive, approving. There was no shouting, no dramatics, just recognition of the team, of the performance, of the unity.
Francesco's gaze returned to the pitch for a moment, seeing Swansea players retreating to the tunnel, heads down but upright. Respect still lingered in the handshakes, but the acknowledgment of the fans reminded him of a larger truth: football belongs not only to those who play it but also to those who support it relentlessly, in sunshine or rain, in victory or defeat.
He began leading his teammates back down the steps, slowly this time, letting the applause and chants wash over them. Even Giroud, who usually reserved his emotions for the game itself, raised both arms to the crowd, embracing the sound and the recognition. Ramsey, always energetic, waved frantically, a grin splitting his face. Alexis ran along the front, clapping hands with a few fans who had managed to get close to the barrier, laughing as they cheered back.
Koscielny, now captain, stayed slightly behind Francesco, keeping a watchful eye on the group but nodding at the fans, acknowledging them. Van Dijk and Monreal exchanged smiles, casual, professional, but their gestures toward the supporters carried warmth. Walker patted a few fans on the shoulder, Oxlade-Chamberlain punched the air once, modestly, still energized from the game. Kanté, understated as ever, just nodded, letting his presence speak, while Xhaka raised his arms briefly, allowing his teammates' energy to amplify his acknowledgment.
Francesco finally stopped at the bottom of the steps, looking at the away end once more. "Tonight, you've been amazing," he said, louder this time, letting it ring. "Every moment, every cheer, every voice as it makes a difference. Thank you."
And then, for a few moments, there was only the sound of the crowd, a wave of energy that carried through the stadium, bouncing from seats to pitch, intertwining with the cold night air. It wasn't just celebration. It was communion, the invisible thread that ties the performance on the field to the hearts in the stands.
His teammates lingered around him, some chatting quietly, some laughing softly, some soaking in the atmosphere. Francesco allowed himself a moment to breathe, shoulders relaxing for the first time since the pre-match briefing. This was the reward beyond the scoreboard, beyond the goals, beyond the clean sheets and the statistics. It was human, it was tangible, and it was unforgettable.
Finally, the team began moving toward the tunnel, leaving the pitch behind, but not the moment. The applause followed them until the echo faded, until the lights of Liberty Stadium reflected quietly off the night sky. Francesco cast one last glance back at the fans who had stood, cheered, and supported them relentlessly.
Francesco's eyes had barely left the crowd when a voice broke through the calm with a measured, professional call that snapped him back to the immediate obligations of the evening.
"Francesco! Premier League interview! Sideline, please!"
It wasn't loud, just precise, and it carried a certain urgency: even in victory, the machinery of football moved forward. He nodded almost automatically, acknowledging the call, and without hesitation, turned back toward the staff member who had spoken. A young man, clipboard in hand, gestures guiding him with practiced efficiency.
"Right this way, sir," the staffer said, voice low, guiding Francesco down the side of the pitch. Francesco followed, boots clicking against the concrete, the warmth of exertion still in his legs but mixed now with the awareness of yet another spotlight. The moment was different from the celebrations, the handshakes, the applause. Here, the focus would be entirely on him. His words, his demeanor, his presence.
As they approached the sideline, the familiar floodlights of Liberty Stadium threw long, sharp shadows across the grass. Francesco slowed slightly, taking in the scene: the cameras already positioned, camera men crouched and adjusting lenses, lighting rigs set to capture every detail. Microphones bobbed gently on their stands, picking up the ambient roar of the stadium as it faded into a background hum. The interviewer, clipboard in hand, was already standing at the ready, bright smile visible even from a distance, a pen poised as though to catch every word.
The staff member gave him a gentle nod. "They're ready for you. Just follow their cues. Take a deep breath. You'll be fine."
Francesco exhaled slowly, a ritual more than anything, allowing the tension in his shoulders to release, letting his thoughts settle. He had played the game. He had led his teammates. He had acknowledged the fans. Now he would speak that not as captain of a team that had just routed their opposition but as Francesco, as a player whose performance and presence had guided the night.
He walked the final steps onto the sideline, boots soft against the artificial turf edging the pitch. The interview set felt intimate, almost out of place against the vast backdrop of emptying stands and scattered fans still lingering near the barriers, craning for a glimpse. The bright cameras glinted back at him, but he didn't flinch.
"Evening, Francesco!" the interviewer said, voice clear, warm, professional. "Congratulations on the victory tonight. Six goals, incredible performance. How are you feeling?"
Francesco offered a small, composed smile, one that carried neither arrogance nor fatigue but a quiet satisfaction. "Thank you," he said. His voice was measured, confident, but relaxed. "It's always good to get three points, and to play well as a team. Tonight we worked hard together. Everyone contributed, from the first whistle to the last."
The interviewer nodded, scribbling something on the clipboard, then glanced up. "You opened the scoring, assisted another, then scored your second. It must feel incredible to influence the game so completely. How do you approach a match like tonight?"
Francesco's gaze drifted slightly toward the pitch, where the last few Swansea players were heading into the tunnel, their figures small under the floodlights. "I try to stay focused on the game, on reading the spaces, helping my teammates, and making the right decisions," he said. "Goals are a bonus, of course, but it's never just about me. It's about the team. Tonight, we moved the ball well, supported each other, and stayed disciplined. That's what allowed us to control the game."
The camera angle shifted slightly, zooming in to capture the intensity in his eyes. The interviewer leaned forward, voice lightening. "And yet, you seemed so calm, so in control throughout. Was that always your mindset, even as the goals started to pile up?"
Francesco chuckled softly, a sound that carried a hint of humility. "Calm comes from preparation," he said. "If you've trained, if you know your teammates, if you've studied your opponents, then you can stay composed. Even when the scoreline goes in your favor, the focus never leaves the game. That's what makes victories complete, not just the numbers on the board."
The interviewer nodded appreciatively, clearly impressed with the response. "And of course, there was a lot of support from the away end tonight. You even led the team to acknowledge the fans. How important is that connection with the supporters for you personally?"
Francesco's eyes softened slightly as he looked out across the pitch, imagining the pockets of Arsenal fans who had braved the winter cold to cheer them on. "It's huge," he said. "Football isn't just about what happens on the pitch. The fans are part of every moment, part of every goal, part of the energy that drives us. To take a moment and say thank you is really important. They give us so much. We can't forget that."
A slight pause, a quiet acknowledgment from the camera crew, and the interviewer leaned forward again. "So, looking ahead, what does this victory mean for the rest of the season? Confidence? Momentum?"
Francesco shifted slightly, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Every win is important, of course. But it's not just the scoreline, it's the way we play, the way we stick to our principles, the way we keep improving. Tonight shows that we can execute our plan, but we also know there's more to come. Every game is a new challenge. We celebrate, but we move forward. That's how you keep momentum."
A camera zoomed in further, capturing the sheen of sweat still on his forehead, the sharp focus in his eyes. The interviewer smiled, leaning back slightly. "One last question: what stands out most to you from tonight? The goals? The team's performance? A personal moment?"
Francesco exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the match, the victory, and the evening settle. "It's never one moment," he said finally. "It's everything together. The way we defended, how the midfield controlled the game, the wingers and forwards timing their runs. And the fans, they make it real. So if I have to pick one thing, it's the connection. Between the players, between the team, and the supporters. That's what makes nights like this special."
The interviewer nodded, clearly satisfied. "Thank you, Francesco. Brilliant performance, and thank you for taking the time."
Francesco smiled, nodded, and took a small step back, allowing the camera crew to adjust their angles for a final shot. The microphones captured the faint echoes of the emptying stadium, but the energy of the match, the rhythm, the pulse of the game, still lingered in the air.
As he stepped away from the set, the staff member who had guided him came closer again. "All done," he said softly. "You handled it perfectly."
Francesco nodded, shoulders relaxing further. He glanced back at the pitch one last time, empty now except for scattered equipment and staff tidying the area. The lights gleamed off the wet grass, the marks of the game still visible: scuff lines, boot prints, the subtle dents of tackles and sprints. It had all happened here. Every calculated pass, every goal, every run and movement as the traces of effort were still etched into the field.
He took a deep breath, savoring it. The interview, the handshakes, the acknowledgment of fans, they were all part of the fabric of a single night. A night where preparation, focus, teamwork, and respect had created something larger than himself, larger than the scoreline.
Francesco allowed himself a small smile, quiet, private. The energy from the pitch still hummed beneath his skin, the adrenaline of the game settling slowly into a calm awareness. He had led, he had played, he had connected. And now, as he walked back toward the players' area, he felt that rare combination of exhaustion and fulfillment with the kind that only comes after a night where everything, somehow, went right.
The Premier League staff followed at a respectful distance, giving him space but ensuring guidance, ready to shepherd him toward the locker room. Around him, the stadium lights began to dim slightly, the last chants from the away supporters echoing off the stands. Francesco paused for a moment, looking up, letting the sound of the fans' appreciation linger in his ears, a reminder of why every detail mattered from the first whistle to the last handshake to the quiet words in front of cameras.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he continued walking, fully aware that while the game had ended, the memory of this night, the statement of the performance, and the connection with fans and teammates alike would linger far longer than any broadcast or headline could capture.
Francesco's steps echoed softly as he moved through the tunnel leading from the pitch toward the dressing room. The smell of wet grass still clung faintly to his boots, mingling with the sharp scent of sweat, effort, and stadium air. It was a familiar path, one he had walked countless times, but tonight it felt different. Tonight, the victory wasn't just another result. It was comprehensive, it was decisive, and it carried a weight of satisfaction that was rare in football with a kind of fulfillment that seeped into the bones.
As he entered the dressing room, the atmosphere hit him immediately. Music pulsed faintly from one corner, a celebratory track chosen perhaps by one of the younger players, the beat carrying through the air, syncing with the residual adrenaline that still coursed through his veins. Laughter and chatter filled the space, punctuated by shouts and claps. There were jokes about missed chances, ribbing over who had slipped in training exercises, playful banter about Fabiański's presence in goal and the challenges of facing him when he had been a teammate. The room was alive, warm, chaotic in the best way from a stark contrast to the precise, controlled flow of the game they had just dominated.
Francesco paused for a moment at the doorway, allowing himself a slow, quiet smile. Seeing his teammates in that state that laughing freely, unburdened by the expectations of the outside world was a reminder of why he loved the game so much. It wasn't only the tactical mastery or the goals scored; it was these moments of humanity afterward, these private celebrations that felt as real and important as the public ones.
He moved to the showers, undressing methodically, peeling off the soaked jersey and shorts. Steam rose faintly from the warm water as he stepped in, the droplets soaking him in minutes. The sensation of water cascading down his skin was almost meditative, washing away the grit of the pitch, the weight of exertion, the heat of the floodlights. Every muscle felt the release, the tension melting slowly, a kind of reset both physical and mental.
Once clean, Francesco reached for his Arsenal tracksuit, pulling it over damp skin. The fabric was familiar, comforting with a uniform that symbolized more than the club, more than the badge; it symbolized preparation, discipline, history, and now, triumph. He adjusted the jacket over his shoulders, tied the laces of his trainers loosely, and finally took a slow breath, letting himself sink into the comfort of routine after the extraordinary intensity of the evening.
The dressing room buzzed around him, but Francesco walked deliberately to a small cluster of teammates still gathered near their lockers. Alexis Sánchez was recounting one of his runs, hands animated, eyes alight with mischief and satisfaction. Ramsey and Oxlade-Chamberlain were ribbing each other over some play in the final third, laughing like schoolboys. Giroud, leaning casually against a bench, simply smiled, quiet satisfaction radiating from him as he nursed a towel over his shoulders.
"Unbelievable," Ramsey said, looking at Francesco with a grin. "That first goal… you made it look so easy, mate. Honestly, I thought Swansea would just fold instantly after that."
Francesco smiled, shaking his head, humbling the praise. "It wasn't just me," he said. "Every touch, every pass, every run as every one of you made it happen. We made it look easy because we moved as one. That's the difference."
Alexis clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Fair enough, captain," he said, half-teasing, half-respectful. "But don't get too modest. You put it on the scoreboard and set the tone. That's on you."
Francesco let the banter flow around him. He engaged, laughed quietly, offered a remark here or there, but mostly he listened, letting the camaraderie fill him as much as the physical exertion had moments before. There was a satisfaction in this, too with the shared recognition of effort, the laughter that came from genuine enjoyment rather than relief. The team was cohesive, united in its energy, and the position at the top of the Premier League was a tangible backdrop to their collective mood.
The door opened quietly behind them, and Wenger stepped in. The manager's presence alone brought a subtle stillness, not of fear, but of attention, respect, and focus. Even in celebration, the players instinctively tuned to his voice.
"Gentlemen," Wenger said, calm and deliberate, his tone carrying both warmth and authority. "Excellent performance tonight. But the evening is not over. The team bus awaits. We travel back to London. I expect everyone prepared and ready shortly."
There was a moment of acknowledgment from the group, nods and quiet murmurs. Francesco exchanged a look with Koscielny, the newly appointed captain on his arm tonight, a silent understanding passing between them. Discipline and enjoyment could coexist, and Wenger's words reminded them that while the moment was theirs, responsibilities remained.
Francesco stood, adjusting his tracksuit jacket one last time, running his fingers briefly through his damp hair. "Let's get ready, boys," he said to the group nearby, voice calm but carrying the weight of leadership. "The bus is waiting, and we've got a journey ahead."
The players began gathering their belongings, towels tossed onto benches, boots pulled on, training bags slung over shoulders. The energy remained vibrant as no one was subdued, but there was a sense of order now, a gentle, controlled rhythm replacing the chaotic celebration from moments before. They moved with purpose, laughter still echoing lightly as they joked about certain plays, shared brief recollections of the goals, and teased one another with ease.
Francesco took a final glance around the dressing room. Every corner held traces of the match from the damp towels, the scuff marks on benches, a stray boot left by someone too caught up in post-game reflection to pick it up. It was the residue of hard work, a physical reminder that their triumph was earned, not gifted.
He followed the others toward the exit, the collective movement forming a quiet procession through the corridors of Liberty Stadium. The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly, casting long, sharp shadows along the walls. Francesco's steps were steady, measured, a reflection of the same calm composure he had maintained on the pitch.
Outside the tunnel, the team bus was waiting, engines humming softly, heated seats glowing faintly in anticipation. Wenger's eyes scanned the group once more, and Francesco took a brief moment to absorb the sight of his teammates that smiling, talking, stretching lightly, all aware of their shared victory but also of the journey ahead.
"Into the bus, please," Wenger said, his voice carrying a gentle finality. "We have a flight to catch, and I expect everyone accounted for."
Francesco helped guide a few players who had wandered near the front, ensuring the group moved efficiently while still laughing quietly. He himself stepped aboard last, taking a seat near the middle where he could see the team, the aisle alive with energy and chatter. Ramsey was already talking about rewatching the goals, Alexis recounting a near-miss, Oxlade-Chamberlain stretching his legs. Giroud simply leaned back, letting the scene wash over him with quiet satisfaction.
Francesco leaned slightly against the seat, closed his eyes for a moment, and allowed himself to feel it fully: the warmth of the locker room, the pride in performance, the satisfaction of control and mastery, the resonance of leadership both on and off the pitch. Every interaction, every goal, every moment of communication a thay verbal, nonverbal, or instinctive had contributed to the night.
The bus rumbled gently as it departed the stadium, headlights cutting through the dark, cold Welsh night. Conversation flowed around him from tactical reflections, laughter, anticipation for the flight, but Francesco remained observant, present, grounded. He didn't need to dominate the dialogue. Leadership, he knew, was sometimes about listening, about observing, about allowing others their space to celebrate while maintaining the awareness that the journey didn't end at the final whistle.
As the city lights of Swansea receded behind them, the team's energy continued to hum quietly, a low, vibrant undertone to the night. Wenger sat near the front, reviewing papers quietly, his presence calm yet unmistakable, a reminder that structure and planning were ever-present even amid victory. Francesco watched him, then turned briefly toward his teammates, catching snippets of conversation, moments of genuine connection, laughter shared between players whose trust in one another had been proven on the pitch.
Minutes passed, and Francesco finally allowed himself a longer exhale, leaning back fully in the seat. The adrenaline had ebbed, replaced by the warmth of contentment and camaraderie. Tonight had been more than a match; it had been a demonstration of preparation, intelligence, discipline, and heart.
They had played for each other, for the club, for the fans, and they had triumphed decisively. And now, as the bus hummed steadily toward the airport, Francesco could let himself exist fully in that satisfaction, knowing the evening's work had been done, and done exceptionally.
The hum of conversation, laughter, and quiet reflection filled the bus as they continued on, each player lost briefly in thought or in discussion, each enjoying the private joys of their collective victory. Francesco closed his eyes for a moment, letting the rhythm of the bus and the resonance of the night merge, creating a memory that would endure far beyond the stadium, beyond the goals, and beyond the final whistle.
This was what football gave them that is the victories, yes, but also the human moments that carried meaning, that cemented bonds, that left them knowing, for a few hours at least, that everything they had worked for, everything they had sacrificed, had been worth it.
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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