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The noise fractured from boos from home supporters, thunderous celebration from the away end. Arsenal players embraced, hands on heads, some laughing, some simply standing still, absorbing what they had done.
The celebrations did not end with the whistle.
At Stamford Bridge, they never really did.
The noise fractured into layers from boos raining down from the Matthew Harding Stand, whistles cutting through the night air, while the away end bounced in pure, defiant joy, voices hoarse, bodies pressed together, scarves lifted high. Arsenal's players stood scattered across the pitch, some laughing openly now, others bent double with hands on knees, exhaustion finally allowed to surface.
Five goals.
Away.
Against Chelsea.
It felt unreal even as it happened.
Francesco remained still for a moment near the center circle, the captain's armband snug around his arm, chest rising and falling as he forced his breathing back under control. Sweat ran down his temples, the chill of the London night starting to bite through his damp shirt. He looked around slowly, taking it in that not just the scoreboard glowing 5–2, but the body language everywhere.
Chelsea players moved differently now.
Shoulders slumped.
Eyes avoided contact.
Some stared at the turf as if the grass had personally betrayed them.
Others ripped their gloves off in frustration, tossed them aside, kicked at nothing.
This wasn't just a defeat.
It was a humiliation.
Francesco exhaled, then started walking.
The ritual began automatically, ingrained since childhood, drilled into muscle memory long before stadiums this big had ever felt real.
Post-match handshakes.
Respect.
Closure.
He approached Costa first.
The striker looked drained, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead, anger still simmering behind his eyes. But he extended his hand anyway.
Francesco took it.
A firm shake.
A nod.
"Good battle," Costa muttered.
Francesco gave a half-smile. "Always."
Pedro came next, then Azpilicueta. Short exchanges. Polite. Professional. Courtois followed, clapping his gloves together once before offering his hand, expression neutral.
Then came David Luiz.
The Brazilian hesitated for a fraction of a second, then stepped forward. They shook hands, Luiz offering a tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Well played," he said.
Francesco nodded. "You too."
He moved on.
Cahill. A brief shake. A sigh from the Chelsea captain, resigned.
Zouma. A nod, nothing more.
And then Fabregas.
He stood a few steps away, arms loose at his sides, eyes locked on Francesco with a look that was anything but neutral. There was something sharp there. Old. Unresolved. Not just about tonight.
Francesco didn't slow.
He didn't break stride.
He didn't extend his hand.
He simply walked past.
It wasn't dramatic.
There was no gesture.
No glare.
Just absence.
And in that absence, everything burned.
Fabregas' head snapped around.
"Hey."
Francesco kept walking.
"Hey!" Fabregas called again, louder now, incredulous.
Still nothing.
Around them, a few players noticed. Xhaka glanced back, read the situation instantly, and without a word, mirrored Francesco as he passing Fabregas without acknowledgment. Van Dijk followed. Then Kanté. Then Giroud, who paused only long enough to give Fabregas a flat look before turning away.
It spread quietly.
Deliberately.
Arsenal players moved down the line, shaking hands with everyone else, skipping one man.
Fabregas' jaw tightened.
His fists clenched.
This wasn't new.
That was what made it worse.
Francesco had done this before.
The first time they'd faced each other, it had happened as Francesco walking past him, eyes forward, no handshake, no word. Back then, Fabregas had laughed it off publicly, joked about it in interviews, called it "competitive nonsense."
But it had stuck.
Every match since, the same.
No handshake.
No acknowledgment.
A small thing, maybe.
But small things cut deep when pride was involved.
Especially here.
Especially after this.
"Still doing this?" Fabregas snapped, stepping toward Francesco now, voice sharp, carrying.
Francesco stopped.
Slowly.
He turned.
Their eyes met.
For a second, the stadium noise seemed to dull around them.
"I don't owe you anything," Francesco said quietly.
Not shouted.
Not theatrical.
Just truth, delivered without decoration.
Fabregas scoffed. "You think you're bigger than this club now?"
Francesco tilted his head slightly. "I think tonight speaks for itself."
That did it.
The shove came fast.
Too fast.
Fabregas stepped in and drove both hands into Francesco's chest, hard, aggressive, fueled by frustration and humiliation and something older that had never healed.
Francesco wasn't braced.
He didn't see it coming.
He went down.
Not dramatically, not rolling, just knocked off balance, boots slipping on the turf as he fell backward, catching himself with one hand as the wind was punched from his lungs.
The reaction was instant.
Xhaka was there first, shoving Fabregas back with both hands, shouting in his face. "What's wrong with you?"
Van Dijk moved in from the side, body between them, arms out wide. Giroud arrived a heartbeat later, towering over the scene, voice booming, eyes blazing.
Chelsea players surged in too as Costa, Cahill, Zouma voices overlapping, hands pushing, tempers flaring.
It teetered on the edge.
One shove away from chaos.
The referee sprinted in, whistle blasting sharply, repeatedly, his assistants following, arms raised. Coaching staff spilled onto the pitch now as Wenger moving with surprising speed for a man his age, Conte charging in from the opposite side, shouting furiously in Italian.
"Enough!" the referee barked, forcing his way between bodies.
Francesco had already been helped to his feet by Kanté, who kept a hand on his arm, steadying him, eyes scanning the scene with concern.
"You okay?" Kanté asked quietly.
Francesco nodded, jaw tight. "Yeah."
Fabregas was still shouting, gesturing wildly, pointing at Francesco. "He disrespects me every time! Every time!"
Wenger stepped in front of Francesco now, calm but firm, one hand raised protectively.
"Back away," Wenger said, eyes fixed on Fabregas. "This is finished."
Conte was having his own heated exchange with the fourth official, gesturing back toward Fabregas, clearly aware of what was coming.
The referee didn't hesitate.
He reached into his pocket.
Red.
Straight red.
He held it aloft, arm extended, the decision clear and final.
Fabregas froze.
For a moment, he seemed genuinely stunned, eyes wide, mouth open in disbelief.
"What? After the whistle?" he protested. "Are you serious?"
The referee didn't budge.
"Violent conduct," he said flatly. "You're off."
Fabregas exploded.
"This is ridiculous!" he shouted, throwing his arms wide, looking toward the stands, toward anyone who might validate him. "He provoked me!"
The referee turned again, already writing.
Yellow cards followed with Xhaka for the shove. Costa for dissent. One more flashed in Giroud's direction after some choice words.
The scene slowly began to unwind, the tension draining in reluctant trickles as players were ushered away, arms gently but firmly guiding bodies apart.
Fabregas was escorted toward the tunnel, still fuming, still talking, still shaking his head. As he passed Francesco, their eyes met one last time.
There was no triumph in Francesco's expression.
No satisfaction.
Just something cold.
Something final.
Fabregas spat a word under his breath that inaudible, but venomous before disappearing down the tunnel, red card held aloft in the referee's hand behind him like punctuation.
The stadium buzzed with it now.
The incident would be replayed.
Analyzed.
Argued over.
But on the pitch, Arsenal regrouped.
Wenger placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder. "Well done for not reacting," he said quietly.
Francesco nodded. "I didn't need to."
The Arsenal players formed up again, heading toward the away end together. This time, the applause was thunderous, unbroken, pure. The fans had seen it all from the goals, the dominance, the fire, the refusal to bow.
And they sang his name.
Francesco looked up, finally allowing a small smile to form.
Not smug.
Not arrogant.
Just satisfied.
Tonight wasn't about grudges.
Or handshakes.
Or red cards after the whistle.
It was about a team walking into Stamford Bridge and tearing the place open.
Francesco didn't head for the tunnel straight away.
He slowed his steps deliberately, letting the moment stretch, letting the noise wash over him again. The away end was still in full voice now, long after the final whistle, arms raised, bodies swaying, scarves held high like banners of defiance. Red and white against a sea of blue seats that were already beginning to empty.
He turned back toward his teammates and lifted a hand.
Not shouting.
Not demanding.
Just a simple, unmistakable gesture.
Come.
Xhaka was the first to read it. He nodded once and clapped his hands, calling others over. Van Dijk followed, then Kanté, then Giroud, Gnabry, Cazorla, Walker, Monreal. One by one, the group gathered, fatigue written across their faces but pride shining through it.
They formed up loosely behind Francesco, no rigid line, no forced symmetry. This wasn't ceremony. This was gratitude.
Francesco adjusted the armband on his sleeve and began walking toward the away end.
The reaction was immediate.
The noise swelled again, louder than it had been during the goals, louder even than at full time. Chants rolled down from the upper tier, his name woven into songs that felt older than this match, older than this season. Some fans pounded the hoardings, others simply stood there, hands on heads, laughing in disbelief at what they had just witnessed.
Five goals.
At Stamford Bridge.
He stopped a few meters short of the advertising boards and turned to face them.
For a second, he just stood there.
Taking it in.
The faces. Red cheeks from the cold. Scarves wrapped tight. Eyes shining. Some fans held phones aloft, trying desperately to capture something that could never really be captured.
Then Francesco raised both hands.
Applause.
Not for himself.
For them.
The players followed his lead instantly. Clapping above their heads, nodding, pointing into the crowd. Giroud bowed theatrically, earning laughter and cheers. Gnabry bounced on his heels, grinning like a kid who had just lived out a dream. Cazorla smiled softly, eyes scanning the stands with something like quiet affection.
Francesco stepped closer to the boards now.
"Thank you!" he shouted, though his voice was almost lost in the roar.
He placed a hand over his heart and held it there for a moment.
This was the exchange. This was the unspoken contract. They traveled. They believed. And nights like this were the return.
The chant changed rhythm.
Slower.
Deeper.
A song about Arsenal away days. About never being alone. About standing tall in enemy territory.
Francesco closed his eyes briefly.
This was why he played.
Not the numbers.
Not the headlines.
This.
After a while, Wenger gestured from a distance, subtle but firm. Media duties waited. The machine never stopped, no matter how complete the moment felt.
Francesco lowered his hands and turned back to his teammates.
"Tunnel," he said, voice calm but warm.
They began to drift away, some lingering a second longer to wave, to clap once more. Francesco was the last to turn.
As he walked away, the chant followed him, echoing down the pitch, wrapping around his shoulders like something solid.
Halfway toward the sideline, a man in a Premier League jacket approached him, lanyard bouncing lightly against his chest.
"Francesco," he said, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the noise. "Pitch-side interview."
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
He followed the staff member toward the touchline, boots crunching softly against the turf, legs heavy now that the adrenaline had begun to ebb. His breathing was steady, controlled, but he could feel the match settling into his muscles, the dull ache already forming.
As they approached the designated area, the scene shifted again.
Bright lights.
A camera already mounted, red tally light glowing.
A cameraman adjusting focus.
A presenter standing just off to the side, microphone in hand, earpiece pressed gently as someone spoke into it.
Francesco recognized him immediately.
Premier League broadcast. Familiar face. Calm demeanor.
The presenter turned as Francesco approached and smiled, professional but genuine.
"Big night," he said, extending a hand.
Francesco shook it. "Yeah. Massive."
The cameraman gave a thumbs-up. The producer's voice crackled faintly through the presenter's earpiece.
"Thirty seconds," the presenter said.
Francesco took a step back, rolled his shoulders once, exhaled slowly.
This was another transition.
From player to voice.
From instinct to articulation.
The presenter adjusted his stance, turning slightly so they would both face the camera at a clean angle. The microphone was clipped to Francesco's collar quickly and efficiently.
"You good?" the presenter asked quietly.
Francesco nodded. "Always."
The noise from the stadium still pulsed around them, though it felt more distant here, as if the lights and camera carved out a small bubble of focus amid the chaos.
The presenter listened to his earpiece again.
"Okay," he said. "We're live in five."
Francesco fixed his gaze somewhere just beyond the lens, not staring directly into it, but close enough.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
The red light blinked brighter.
The presenter's expression shifted instantly into broadcast mode, voice smooth and measured.
"Francesco, congratulations. A statement win tonight. Five goals, away from home, against Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. How does that feel right now?"
Francesco let the question breathe for a second.
He didn't rush.
"It feels… earned," he said. "Not just tonight. From the work. From the trust. From the way we stayed calm when the game tried to turn."
The presenter nodded. "Chelsea came back twice. Made it uncomfortable. What was the key to responding the way you did?"
Francesco glanced briefly back toward the pitch, where some of his teammates were still talking, laughing, slowly heading toward the tunnel.
"Belief," he said. "And discipline. When they scored, we didn't panic. We stuck to what we prepared. We trusted each other. That's the difference."
The presenter shifted slightly. "You personally with two goals, an assist, and then you come off while the team finishes the job. How do you view your role in a performance like this?"
Francesco smiled faintly.
"My role is whatever the team needs," he said. "Tonight, that meant scoring early, helping control the game, then letting fresh legs finish it. Giroud, Gnabry, Santi as they were brilliant. That's football. It's collective."
The presenter hesitated for a fraction of a second, then continued, voice careful but pointed.
"There was an incident after the final whistle involving Cesc Fabregas. Emotions clearly ran high. What's your perspective on that moment?"
Francesco's jaw tightened just a touch.
He didn't look away.
"I think the game speaks for itself," he said calmly. "We respect the competition. But we also respect ourselves. I won't say more than that."
The presenter accepted the answer with a nod, not pushing further.
The presenter glanced briefly toward the camera, then back at Francesco, the faintest smile touching his lips as he shifted his weight.
"One more thing before we let you go," he said.
A production assistant stepped into frame, holding a small, familiar trophy that sleek, metallic, understated. The Premier League lion caught the light, gleaming beneath the floodlights.
"Tonight's Man of the Match," the presenter continued, voice lifting slightly for emphasis, "goes to you, Francesco. Two goals, an assist, leadership from the first minute to the last. A huge performance."
The cameraman subtly zoomed in as the award was placed into Francesco's hands.
For a moment, he just looked at it.
Not because it surprised him that he knew he'd played well, but because awards like this always landed strangely. They were tangible proof of something that, to him, had always been intangible. Movement. Timing. Trust. Connection.
He nodded once, lifting the trophy slightly.
"Thank you," he said. "But honestly, this belongs to the team. Without them, none of this happens."
The presenter smiled. "Enjoy it. Nights like this don't come around often."
Francesco gave a final nod toward the camera, handed the trophy off to a staff member, and stepped away as the red light faded.
The bubble dissolved again.
Noise rushed back in.
The cold crept up through his boots.
He turned toward the tunnel, finally ready to disappear into the quieter, harsher reality of post-match recovery.
The walk down the touchline felt longer now. The adrenaline was draining, leaving behind a deep, heavy fatigue that settled into his bones. His thighs burned. His calves tightened with every step. Sweat cooled rapidly beneath his shirt.
As he approached the mouth of the tunnel, the world narrowed.
The roar of the crowd became muffled.
The floodlights gave way to fluorescent glare.
And then.
"Francesco."
The voice stopped him mid-step.
He recognized it instantly.
He turned slowly.
Cesc Fàbregas stood there, half-shadowed by the tunnel lights, arms crossed tight across his chest. Diego Costa loomed just behind him, broad shoulders filling the space, jaw clenched, eyes dark. Kurt Zouma stood slightly to the side, arms loose but posture alert, like a door that had quietly closed.
The air shifted.
Francesco's grip tightened around the towel draped over his shoulders.
"What is it?" he asked evenly.
Fàbregas took a step forward.
"You owe me an apology," he said, voice low but sharp. "And you owe me respect."
Francesco blinked once.
"I don't owe you anything," he replied. "The match is over. Move."
Fàbregas laughed bitterly. "Still acting like this? You think because you score a couple of goals, you can ignore me? You're still a rookie in this league."
Costa snorted behind him, folding his arms. "He's got a point."
Francesco's eyes flicked briefly toward Costa, then back to Fàbregas.
"A rookie?" Francesco said quietly. "I've won a treble. I've won the Euros. I've won the Ballon d'Or."
He took a step forward, closing the distance.
"And tonight," he added, voice steady but edged with steel, "I won here. Against you."
Fàbregas' face hardened.
"That doesn't change respect," he snapped. "You don't walk past me. Not here. Not ever."
Francesco exhaled slowly.
"This is over," he said. "I'm not doing this."
He tried to step around them, angling toward the Arsenal dressing room door further down the corridor.
Costa shifted instantly.
He stepped sideways, blocking the path.
"Not so fast," Costa said, lips curling. "You don't just walk away."
Zouma moved as well, closing the gap from the other side.
The corridor felt suddenly smaller.
Hotter.
Voices echoed faintly off the concrete walls.
Francesco stopped.
His shoulders squared.
"Get out of my way," he said.
Fàbregas leaned in now, close enough that Francesco could smell the sweat, the frustration, the anger.
"You think you're untouchable," Fàbregas hissed. "You think the club protects you. You think your trophies make you bigger than me."
Francesco met his gaze without blinking.
"I don't think about you at all," he said.
That was the spark.
Costa shoved Francesco lightly in the shoulder, not enough to knock him down, but enough to make the intent clear.
"Watch your mouth," Costa growled.
Francesco took a half-step back, not from fear, but from disbelief.
"This is pathetic," he said. "Move."
Voices began to rise.
Sharp.
Echoing.
"Say sorry," Fàbregas demanded.
"No."
"Say it."
"No."
Costa stepped closer again. "You hear him. Show some respect."
"I respect the game," Francesco snapped now, irritation finally breaking through. "I respect my team. I don't respect this."
Zouma raised a hand, not calming, but assertive. "You don't walk past captains like that."
Francesco laughed once, short and humorless.
"Captain?" he said. "You were invisible tonight."
That was when shouting spilled over.
Louder.
Angrier.
And it carried.
Down the corridor.
Through the walls.
Into the Arsenal dressing room.
Inside, boots were being untied. Tape peeled away. Laughter and relief still hung in the air.
Then voices cut through it.
Sharp.
Hostile.
Xhaka looked up first.
"What's that?" he asked.
Van Dijk was already on his feet.
Kanté frowned.
Giroud's smile vanished.
They didn't need to ask twice.
The door swung open.
Arsenal players poured into the corridor in ones and twos, then more. Xhaka led, eyes scanning, jaw clenched. Van Dijk followed, shoulders squared. Giroud loomed behind them, towel still around his neck, eyes blazing. Walker, Monreal, Gnabry, Cazorla all appeared, concern etched across their faces.
They saw it instantly.
Francesco.
Blocked.
Fàbregas in front of him.
Costa and Zouma flanking.
Xhaka's voice cracked through the air.
"What the hell is going on?"
Fàbregas turned, sneer already forming. "This doesn't concern you."
Van Dijk stepped forward, his presence alone shifting the balance of the space.
"It concerns us," he said calmly. "That's our captain."
Costa scoffed. "He started it."
Francesco raised a hand slightly, not to calm things, but to signal awareness.
"I'm trying to leave," he said. "They won't let me."
Giroud stepped up now, towering over Costa, eyes dark.
"Move," he said simply.
Zouma bristled. "Or what?"
Xhaka laughed sharply. "Or you'll find out."
The corridor buzzed with tension now, bodies pressing closer, voices overlapping, security staff beginning to stir further down the hall.
Fàbregas threw his hands up theatrically.
"See?" he said. "This is what he does. Disrespect. Always."
Cazorla stepped in beside Francesco, small but unshakeable.
"Enough," he said quietly. "This is embarrassing."
For a moment, it felt like the situation might tip again.
Like the pitch incident all over.
But this time, Francesco did something different.
He stepped forward.
Not aggressively.
Not defensively.
Just enough to reclaim the space.
"I'm not apologizing," he said, voice clear, carrying down the corridor. "Not tonight. Not ever. If that's what you need to sleep, that's your problem."
He turned slightly toward his teammates.
"Let's go."
Van Dijk shifted first, stepping between Francesco and Costa. Giroud mirrored him. Xhaka placed a hand lightly on Francesco's back, guiding him away.
Security finally arrived then, arms out, separating bodies, ushering Chelsea players back toward their own area.
Fàbregas was still talking, still pointing, still burning.
But Francesco didn't look back.
He walked.
Surrounded.
Protected.
As they disappeared into the Arsenal dressing room, the door closed behind them with a dull, final thud.
Inside, the noise dropped away.
The room felt smaller now.
Quieter.
Francesco leaned forward slightly, hands on his knees, breathing out.
Xhaka clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"
Francesco nodded. "Yeah."
Giroud shook his head. "Unbelievable."
Van Dijk's voice was calm, steady. "You handled it."
Francesco straightened slowly.
"They wanted a reaction," he said. "I'm done giving them that."
Wenger appeared then, having been alerted, eyes sharp behind his glasses.
He took in the scene in a heartbeat.
"Everyone sit," he said. "Now."
The team obeyed.
Wenger turned to Francesco last.
He looked at him for a long moment.
Then nodded.
"You led," he said. "On the pitch. And off it."
Francesco sank onto the bench, exhaustion finally catching up to him, the weight of the night settling fully at last.
The morning after didn't arrive gently.
It crept in through the curtains in thin, grey lines, London still half-asleep, the city quiet in that strange, suspended way it only ever felt after a night match. Francesco woke before the alarm, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, his body still humming faintly with the residue of adrenaline and confrontation.
His legs ached deeply now. Not the sharp pain of a knock, but the heavy, dull soreness that came from ninety minutes of intensity finally settling where it belonged. His throat felt dry. His shoulders were stiff. Somewhere in the back of his mind, fragments of the night replayed themselves in no particular order: the roar of the away end, the weight of the Man of the Match trophy in his hands, Fàbregas' face half-lit by tunnel lights, Costa's shove, Xhaka's voice cutting through the noise.
He exhaled slowly.
Beside him, Leah shifted, one arm draped loosely across his chest. She hadn't woken yet. Her breathing was steady, calm, the complete opposite of the restless energy that still lingered inside him. Francesco turned his head slightly, watching her for a moment, grounding himself in the normality of it.
Home.
He carefully slid out from under her arm, moving slowly so as not to wake her, and padded toward the kitchen. The flat was quiet, bathed in the soft light of a cloudy morning. He filled the kettle, set it on, and leaned back against the counter, stretching his neck from side to side.
The kettle clicked off.
He poured water over coffee grounds, the familiar smell rising, comforting. Just as he took his first sip, the bedroom door opened.
Leah stood there, hair loose and messy, wearing one of his old Arsenal hoodies, sleeves too long for her arms.
"You're up early," she said softly.
"Didn't really sleep," Francesco admitted.
She nodded, unsurprised. "Big night."
She crossed the room and leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. Francesco wrapped an arm around her instinctively, pressing a kiss into her hair.
"Sky Sports will be talking about you all day," she said. "You know that, right?"
He gave a small, humorless smile. "I figured."
As if summoned by the thought, Leah tilted her head toward the living room.
"They're already on," she said. "Pre-match build-up, but they're replaying last night."
Francesco sighed once, then nodded. "Alright. Let's see what version of it they tell."
They moved to the sofa together, Leah tucking her legs up beneath her, Francesco sitting back carefully, easing his sore muscles into the cushions. She grabbed the remote and turned up the volume slightly.
The Sky Sports logo filled the screen.
Footage rolled immediately.
Stamford Bridge under lights. Arsenal goals replayed from three different angles. Francesco's first finish, clean and ruthless. His second, composure personified. His assist, threaded perfectly. The away end erupting.
Then, inevitably, the tone shifted.
The screen cut to the tunnel.
A freeze-frame caught Francesco mid-turn, Fàbregas in the background, Costa's broad frame unmistakable.
The headline appeared at the bottom of the screen:
POST-MATCH TUNNEL TENSION: FÀBREGAS & FRANCESCO CLASH
Leah glanced sideways at Francesco. "Here we go."
The presenter's voice filled the room.
"Now, alongside Arsenal's emphatic 5–2 win at Stamford Bridge, there was also an incident after the final whistle involving Arsenal captain Francesco and former Arsenal captain Cesc Fàbregas. Sky Sports understands that words were exchanged both on the pitch and later in the tunnel area."
The footage switched again, grainier now, clearly shot from a distance. Shapes moving. Arms gesturing. Security stepping in.
Francesco leaned back, jaw tightening.
Then the presenter continued.
"We've also received information from an inside source that after Francesco completed his post-match interview, Fàbregas, along with Diego Costa and Kurt Zouma, were waiting near the Arsenal dressing room area. That confrontation was quickly defused before it escalated further."
Leah let out a quiet breath. "So they were waiting for you."
Francesco nodded slowly. "Yeah."
She studied him for a moment. "You didn't tell me that part."
"I didn't want to," he said honestly. "It was already done."
On screen, the studio cut to the familiar desk.
Ian Wright sat front and center, posture forward, hands clasped, eyes sharp with that mix of passion and protectiveness he never hid when Arsenal were involved. Gary Neville sat to his right, composed but clearly engaged. Jamie Carragher leaned back slightly, arms folded, expression thoughtful.
The presenter threw to Wright first.
"Ian, you know this club, you know the history. What did you make of what happened?"
Wright didn't hesitate.
"Look," he said, voice firm, unmistakably Arsenal. "This didn't start last night. This has been brewing since Francesco's first match against Chelsea. He's been very open or very clear that he doesn't like Cesc Fàbregas. And that's because, in his eyes, Cesc left Arsenal in a way that damaged the club deeply."
The clip cut briefly to an older interview, Francesco younger, sharper-faced, saying plainly: "I don't respect the way he left. Arsenal deserved better."
Back to the studio.
Wright leaned forward further. "When you're a captain, when you're a symbol, and you force a move like that even if it's for personal reasons, even if it's about Barcelona, you leave a scar. Fans don't forget it. Players don't forget it. Francesco represents a generation that felt that loss."
Leah shifted beside Francesco. "That's exactly how you've always said it."
Francesco didn't respond immediately. His eyes stayed on the screen.
Neville spoke next, measured as ever.
"I understand that perspective," he said. "I really do. And from Francesco's point of view, I get why emotions run high. He's a competitor, he's a leader, and he's fiercely loyal to his club."
Carragher nodded in agreement. "Yeah. He plays with that edge. That's part of what makes him so effective."
"But," Neville continued, holding up a finger slightly, "there's another side to this. Cesc Fàbregas is a Premier League legend. He's won titles, he's been a captain, he's done it at the highest level. Even if what he did hurt Arsenal, there's still a baseline of respect that has to be there."
Carragher leaned forward now. "I agree. Francesco doesn't have to like him. He doesn't have to forgive him. But moments like this? You have to be careful. Because the spotlight's on you. You're the Ballon d'Or winner. You're the one kids are watching."
Leah glanced at Francesco again. "That's fair."
Francesco exhaled through his nose. "Maybe."
On screen, Wright shook his head slightly, though not dismissively.
"I hear that," he said. "But let me flip this around. What if this was Steven Gerrard? Or Wayne Rooney? At their prime. As captains. Imagine if they were forced out because another club wanted them, even though their heart was somewhere else."
He paused deliberately, letting the question hang.
"Do we think they'd get the same treatment? Do we think fans would just shrug and say, 'Fair enough'?"
Neville tilted his head, considering it. Carragher's lips pressed together.
"Gerrard staying at Liverpool is exactly why he's revered the way he is," Carragher admitted. "And Rooney… when he flirted with leaving United, it caused chaos. Massive backlash."
Wright nodded. "Exactly. Cesc's case was complicated, sure. Barcelona was his boyhood club. But he didn't just leave. He forced it. And then he came back… to Chelsea."
Leah winced. "That still stings."
Wright's voice softened slightly, but the conviction remained.
"So when Francesco says he doesn't like him? When he refuses to apologize? I'm not shocked. This is raw loyalty. This is someone who believes captains should bleed for the badge."
Neville sighed. "I just don't want this to turn into something bigger than it needs to be."
Carragher added, "Because Francesco's football is speaking loud enough already."
The segment wrapped, the presenter thanking the panel and moving on.
Leah reached for the remote and muted the TV.
The silence felt heavy for a moment.
"So," she said gently. "How do you feel about all that?"
Francesco leaned back, staring at the ceiling again, the echoes of last night and this morning overlapping.
"I don't regret what I said," he said slowly. "Or what I didn't say."
She nodded. "But?"
"But I know what they mean," he admitted. "About responsibility. About being watched."
Leah shifted closer, resting her head against his shoulder again. "You can be respected without apologizing."
He smiled faintly. "That's what I believe."
She tilted her head up to look at him. "You know Fàbregas is probably watching this too."
"Good," Francesco said quietly. "Then he knows exactly where I stand."
Leah studied his face, searching for any sign of lingering anger. What she found instead was something steadier. Resolved. Grounded.
"You didn't lose control," she said. "That matters."
"I almost did," he admitted. "In the tunnel."
"But you didn't."
He nodded.
Outside, the city continued waking up. Cars passed. Somewhere, a siren wailed briefly, then faded. The world moved on, as it always did.
Francesco reached for his phone on the coffee table. Messages flooded the screen. Teammates. Friends. Former coaches. Even a few numbers he didn't recognize.
One message stood out.
Xhaka: Proud of you. Always.
He smiled.
Whatever narrative the media spun, whatever debates filled studios and social feeds, the truth felt simple to him.
He had led.
He had stood by his principles.
And he had walked away when it mattered.
Francesco turned the TV off completely, the screen going black.
"Come on," he said to Leah, standing slowly. "Let's get out of here. Breakfast somewhere quiet."
She grinned. "Finally. A normal morning."
As they headed for the door, Francesco paused for just a second, glancing back at the silent television. Last night was done, as next challenge was already waiting and he was ready for it.
______________________________________________
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: 32
Goal: 52
Assist: 2
MOTM: 7
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