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And as they disappeared down the tunnel, the away fans were still singing — not just for Madrid, but for Munich, and for the chance to make this campaign something truly unforgettable.
The adrenaline still buzzed in Francesco's veins like electricity under the skin, but the sharp edge of it was starting to fade now, giving way to the heaviness in his legs. The Vicente Calderón floodlights were still searing white above them, cutting through the Madrid night, but the pitch had taken on that strange quiet after a storm — the noise was still deafening from the stands, yet for the players, it felt muffled, distant. Like they were moving in a pocket of air all their own.
Francesco and Mesut Özil were halfway toward the tunnel, shirts damp, boots heavy with grass and sweat, when a pair of UEFA staff in navy windbreakers waved them down at the sideline.
"Francesco! Mesut!" one of them called over the din, voice cutting sharp through the chaos. "Quick interview, pitchside, before you head in."
Özil gave Francesco a glance that was half-exasperated, half-amused. "No hiding from the cameras tonight," he murmured, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips.
Francesco chuckled, though it came out more like a breathless rasp. "You're the one with the MOTM award, mate," he said, nodding toward the silver and glass trophy tucked under the arm of the other UEFA official. "I'm just here for moral support."
Özil shook his head. "No, no. You scored one, set up another, pressed like a madman… don't think you're just background noise in this one."
The sideline had been set up with a small backdrop — the Champions League logo plastered all over, sponsors neatly lined up — and a camera crew already in place. The cold breeze coming off the open stands cut through their shirts now that they weren't moving, making the sweat cling even more uncomfortably.
The interviewer, a tall man in a black coat with an earpiece coiled along his neck, stepped forward, smiling the kind of smile you keep ready for live television.
"Mesut, Francesco — congratulations on the win. Mesut, you've just been named Man of the Match. You were instrumental in both attack and controlling the tempo tonight. How do you feel about your performance?"
Özil shifted the MOTM award from one hand to the other, his breath still a little uneven. "It's a good feeling, of course," he said, voice low but steady. "But honestly, this was about the whole team. We knew Atlético would press us, that they'd be aggressive, and… we stayed calm. Even when the penalty went in, we didn't panic. Everyone worked hard, and that's why we're in the semifinals now."
The interviewer nodded, then turned to Francesco. "And Francesco — another goal in a massive Champions League night. You seem to be making a habit of delivering in the big games. How do you keep finding that level?"
Francesco let out a short laugh, shaking his head slightly. "Honestly? You don't think about the size of the game when you're out there. You think about your runs, about where your teammates are, about the space. Tonight, we knew Atlético would commit men forward, and I just tried to make sure I was in the right places when we turned the ball over. Mesut found me perfectly for the goal — all I had to do was finish it."
"Speaking of finishing," the interviewer said, "this was a tough match, physically and mentally. That late penalty could have shifted the momentum. What was the message from the bench in those last minutes?"
"It was simple," Francesco replied. "Stay together. Don't get drawn out. We've worked on these situations — defending as a unit, keeping the shape, making it hard for the opposition to break us down. Everyone dug in, even the forwards. And Petr… what can you say? He was massive for us."
Özil nodded in agreement. "We've played enough big games to know that the last five minutes are never comfortable," he added. "You just have to suffer together."
The interviewer smiled. "And now it's Bayern Munich in the semifinals — a huge challenge. How do you both feel about that?"
"Excited," Francesco said immediately, a glint in his eye despite the fatigue. "They're one of the best in the world, but that's why you play in the Champions League — to face teams like that. We'll prepare, we'll respect them, but we're not afraid."
Özil's smile was small but certain. "It's another mountain to climb," he said, echoing what Francesco had told him on the way off the pitch. "But we've shown tonight we can handle the pressure."
The interviewer's smile lingered, but the way he shifted his weight onto one foot told Francesco that the last question was coming — the one that would carry them into the headlines by tomorrow morning. Behind him, a producer gave a subtle signal with two fingers, a kind of "wrap it up" gesture that the camera operator caught out of the corner of his eye.
He glanced between the two Arsenal men, his tone sharpening just a touch — not hostile, but leaning forward into the drama.
"Before we let you go," he said, voice riding the hum of the Calderón crowd, "I have to ask. Your next opponents — Bayern Munich. Pep Guardiola's Bayern. They've been ruthless this season, sweeping aside teams with that relentless possession game. How do you see them? What's your opinion on Bayern Munich as a side, and how do you approach a team of that calibre?"
The question landed heavier than most. Not in a bad way — but it wasn't a throwaway one. Francesco could feel it in the way Özil's head tilted slightly toward him, as if silently saying: You first.
For a moment, Francesco didn't answer. His eyes flicked past the interviewer, over the camera lens, as though trying to picture the Allianz Arena in his mind — the red sea of flags, the deafening chorus of their fans, the way Bayern suffocated opponents until they made a mistake. He knew that pitch. He knew the feel of German grass in April, slick and fast.
He took in a slow breath, letting the Madrid night air — still tinged with the smell of smoke from flares — fill his lungs.
"Bayern," he said finally, his voice steady but low, "are… they're a machine. You can't describe them any other way. Every movement they make is calculated. Every player knows exactly where to be, three passes ahead of time. Lewandowski, Müller, Costa, Robben — they don't just punish you if you make a mistake… they punish you for not making one fast enough."
He gave a small shake of the head, a half-smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "But that's why we play this competition. You don't dream about winning the Champions League by playing easy games. You dream about beating the very best. And for us… Bayern are the best right now. That's the challenge. That's the fight."
Özil, who had been listening with a faint, knowing smirk, finally stepped in. His words came slower, almost like he was weighing each one before letting it out.
"I know them well," he said — and there was a flicker of history there, the kind that only a former Bundesliga player could carry. "They don't stop. If they're two goals up, they'll still come at you like it's 0–0. That's their mentality. That's Germany." His eyes narrowed slightly, not in malice but in respect. "But I also know that every team, no matter how strong, has moments where they can be broken. It's about finding those moments… and making them count."
Francesco nodded beside him, catching Özil's eye for a second — a quiet little exchange that didn't need words. Both of them knew that if Arsenal were going to have any chance, they'd have to be sharper than they'd ever been.
The interviewer seemed satisfied, but he pressed one last time, leaning slightly forward. "So… confident?"
Francesco let the silence hang just long enough for a faint grin to creep onto his face. "Confident enough to step on the pitch with them," he said. "And that's all that matters."
Özil's smirk widened. "We'll see you in Munich."
The interviewer gave a quick, tight smile — the kind you give when you know you've got a soundbite that will run all over the highlight reels — and thanked them both.
As the camera light blinked off and the little pocket of intensity dissolved, Francesco finally exhaled fully. The adrenaline that had been clinging stubbornly to his muscles seemed to loosen just a little more. He handed the mic back, clapped Özil lightly on the shoulder, and together they stepped away from the backdrop, boots still pressing divots into the Madrid turf.
They were walking toward the tunnel again now, the cool night air brushing their faces, the roar of the Atlético crowd still present but fading into something almost comforting. Somewhere in the bowels of the stadium, the team was waiting — Wenger probably with that tight smile he wore when he was happy but didn't want to show too much of it.
They were almost at the bend in the tunnel — the point where the crowd noise dropped off sharply and was replaced by the thrum of generators, the shuffle of security boots, and the murmur of voices bouncing off concrete walls — when a figure stepped into their path.
Francesco almost didn't register him at first, because the floodlights from the pitch had left bright halos in his vision, and everything down here felt dimmer, greyer. But then he saw the familiar outline, the short-cropped hair, the slightly hunched way he carried his shoulders.
Antoine Griezmann.
Still in full Atlético kit, socks rolled down to his ankles, shirt damp with sweat, the Frenchman had that faint half-smile that lived somewhere between shyness and confidence. His hair was plastered slightly to his forehead, and his breathing was still just a touch heavier than normal — the kind that lingers after ninety minutes of running, pressing, chasing.
"Eh… Francesco," Griezmann said, his voice low but carrying just enough over the hum of the corridor. There was no trace of bitterness in his tone — only a kind of quiet admiration. "You have a moment?"
Francesco slowed, glancing at Özil, who gave a slight shrug and drifted a few steps ahead toward the dressing room. The corridor smelled faintly of cut grass and drying laundry, a strange combination that only existed in stadium underbellies.
"Of course," Francesco said, meeting Griezmann halfway.
The Frenchman's grin widened just a little. "I… wanted to ask," he said, hesitating for only a beat, "would you like to exchange jerseys with me?"
Francesco blinked, then let a small smile form. He had been on the other side of that request often enough, but it still caught him in a pleasant way when it came from a player he respected.
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "I'd be honoured."
Griezmann's shoulders loosened slightly, as though relieved by the answer. He reached down, peeling the clinging fabric of his shirt upward. It came off in a soft rippling sound, revealing the faint imprint of his undershirt beneath. Francesco did the same, the cool tunnel air brushing over his skin.
They handed their jerseys over in that universal footballer gesture — a little crumpled from the match, still damp with effort, but carrying the story of the night in every crease and grass stain.
"Good game," Griezmann said, his eyes locking on Francesco's for a moment with an earnestness that didn't need translation. "You were… difficult to stop tonight."
Francesco chuckled softly. "I could say the same about you. That header in the first half — nearly had me worried."
Griezmann laughed at that, shaking his head. "Nearly," he echoed, as if filing the word away for later. Then he gave a small nod toward the dressing rooms. "Good luck against Bayern. They won't like playing against you."
The two clasped hands briefly — not the quick, perfunctory shake, but the firmer, two-handed grip of people who understood the grind of the game and respected each other's place in it.
As Griezmann turned back toward his own side of the stadium, Francesco felt a strange mix of fatigue and satisfaction settle deeper in his chest. It wasn't just about winning. It was about moments like this — mutual respect between competitors, the kind of thing that couldn't be faked or bought.
When Francesco stepped back into Arsenal's dressing room, the atmosphere was exactly what he had imagined in the tunnel: loud, chaotic, and joyfully messy. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, deodorant spray, and that faint tang of energy drinks. Kits were half-off, boots strewn in corners, music thumping faintly from a Bluetooth speaker somewhere near the centre.
Theo Walcott had a towel draped over his head but was still talking animatedly to Hector Bellerín, who was replaying something on his phone screen — probably a clip of one of the goals. Giroud was leaning back against his locker, laughing at something Flamini had just said, while Sánchez sat with one boot still on, both hands gesturing wildly as he told his own version of the game to Coquelin.
Wenger was there too, in his usual place by the doorway, tie loosened, that small but unmistakable upturn at the corner of his lips. He didn't say much at first — he rarely did in moments like this. He just let them bask for a minute, watching them the way a craftsman might look at a finished piece, knowing every flaw but also every hour of work that went into it.
Özil slipped in behind Francesco and went straight for his locker, quietly hanging his shirt and sitting down. Francesco, still holding Griezmann's jersey in one hand, made his way to his own seat. He placed the Frenchman's shirt carefully into his bag, smoothing it once before folding it — a little ritual he'd picked up from his youth, when shirt swaps had been once-in-a-blue-moon treasures.
It took another ten minutes before Wenger finally raised his voice above the chatter.
"Gentlemen," he began, and the noise dimmed almost instantly. "Enjoy this. You have earned it. But remember… it is only one step. The next one will be harder."
The words from Wenger hung in the air for a moment, not as a dampener, but as a reminder. He had that knack for it — never letting you float too far away on the high of a win before anchoring you back to what came next.
"Now," he added, softer, almost with a wry smile, "you smell like you've played ninety minutes. Go shower before the journalists come in here and faint."
That drew a ripple of laughter through the room. Even Sánchez cracked a grin, shaking his head as if to say, fair enough.
Francesco leaned back on the bench for a second, letting the laughter roll around him, then pushed himself up. His body protested — that familiar deep-seated tiredness that went beyond sore muscles. The kind that felt like every sprint, every tackle, every burst of acceleration had left an imprint on his bones. But there was something oddly satisfying about it. A physical reminder of having given everything.
He grabbed a towel from his locker, the thick white cotton still neatly folded, and slung it over his shoulder. The shower area was already beginning to steam up from the first wave of players heading in. As he walked across the dressing room, he caught glimpses of teammates in varying stages of undress, boots being tossed into kit bags, shin pads clattering to the floor, someone spraying deodorant a little too liberally in one corner.
The showers were a sharp contrast to the cool tunnel outside. Warm mist clung to the tiled walls, blurring the outlines of the players in the far stalls. The sound was a constant rush — water hammering against the floor, the occasional metallic clink as someone's bottle slipped, voices echoing in uneven bursts.
Francesco stepped into an empty stall, hanging his towel on the hook outside. The first touch of water made him inhale sharply — too hot at first, then quickly settling into that perfect temperature that eased the ache in his muscles. The sweat, the grime, the faint tackiness of dried grass and dirt all began to wash away, swirling down the drain in thin rivulets.
Somewhere to his left, Walcott was telling a story — his voice cutting through the hiss of water. "…and then I turned around and the ref's just looking at me like I fouled him. I'm thinking, mate, you've got this backwards!"
That got a round of chuckles, followed by Bellerín chiming in with his own version of the same moment, exaggerated for comedic effect.
Francesco let the noise wash over him without joining in just yet. There was something therapeutic about these few minutes — the physical act of rinsing away the game. He leaned forward, resting one hand on the wall, eyes half-closed as the water coursed over his head and down his back.
When he finally stepped out, towel wrapped snugly around his waist, the dressing room had shifted into its next phase: post-shower calm. Players were either already dressed in their travel gear or moving through the familiar ritual of packing up. Kit men moved quietly through the space, collecting match shirts and socks into mesh bags, their efficiency so practiced that you barely noticed them at work.
Francesco reached his locker and began pulling on his black Arsenal tracksuit, the fabric soft and comfortable after the cling of the kit. He sat down to lace up his trainers, feeling the faint stiffness in his calves when he bent forward. Griezmann's jersey was still where he'd placed it earlier, neatly folded. He paused, lifted it, and tucked it carefully into his backpack — away from boots and toiletries, as though it needed to be kept safe from the ordinary mess of life.
By the time he zipped up his bag, the room had thinned out a little. Giroud was standing near the door, chatting with Flamini, while Mertesacker was double-checking his seat assignment on his phone for the bus. Özil, as usual, moved quietly — already packed, earbuds in, his focus somewhere else entirely.
"Francesco," Sánchez called from across the room, holding up a half-empty bottle of an energy drink. "You want this for the bus?"
Francesco shook his head with a smile. "Nah, I'm good. I'll crash if I drink that now."
Sánchez grinned knowingly. "You'll crash anyway."
He wasn't wrong. The adrenaline from the game had started to ebb, leaving behind a heavy drowsiness that came in waves.
Wenger gave a light clap of his hands, a signal that it was time to move. "Let's go, gentlemen. The bus is waiting."
The hallway outside the dressing room was cooler again, the smell of damp turf replaced by a faint metallic tang from the concrete and steel. Their footsteps echoed as they made their way toward the exit, the clatter of wheels from kit bags following behind.
Security staff lined the route, keeping the path clear as they emerged into the open air near the stadium's loading bay. The night air was crisp, cool enough to raise goosebumps along Francesco's forearms, but it was a refreshing contrast to the warmth inside.
The team bus waited, its engine already running, lights glowing softly against the dark. A few photographers lingered behind the barricades, cameras flashing as players filed up the steps. The low murmur of voices mixed with the distant rumble of traffic beyond the stadium perimeter.
Francesco climbed aboard, greeted by the familiar blend of new leather seats, faint cologne, and the ever-present hint of coffee from the front. He made his way down the aisle, bag slung over his shoulder, until he reached his usual seat — third from the back on the left. It had become a habit over the season, part of his own quiet superstition.
He stowed his bag overhead, then dropped into the seat with a low sigh. The cushions welcomed him like an old friend. Outside the window, stadium lights still blazed, casting long shadows across the pavement.
Around him, the rest of the squad settled in. Walcott was already leaning across the aisle to show Bellerín something on his phone. Giroud and Flamini had taken up their usual spots together, the low hum of their French conversation a constant backdrop. Mertesacker sat up front, deep in conversation with the coaching staff, while Sánchez had stretched out across two seats at the very back, hood pulled up, eyes half-closed.
There was a certain peace that came once everyone was on board, the unspoken shift from match mode to wind-down mode. No one needed to talk about the game anymore — at least, not right now. That could wait until the morning analysis. Tonight was about letting the body rest, the mind drift, even if only for the short ride back to the hotel.
The bus gave a gentle lurch as it pulled away from the stadium, the faint hiss of air brakes releasing. Francesco leaned his head against the window, watching the lights of the city slide past in blurred streaks. Somewhere in the background, music played softly from someone's phone — a mix of Spanish and English tracks, the kind of playlist that lived on repeat in football dressing rooms.
He thought about the day in fragments: the pre-match nerves, the roar of the crowd, Griezmann's smile in the tunnel, the spray of water in the shower, the way Wenger's words had somehow cut through everything without needing to be loud.
The hotel wasn't far, maybe twenty minutes away, but it felt like the kind of journey that could stretch forever if you let your mind wander. He felt the gentle vibration of the road through the seat, the steady forward motion a kind of lullaby for tired muscles.
Outside, the city moved on as though nothing had happened — late-night diners still open, traffic lights blinking, a couple walking hand in hand along a side street. Inside the bus, it was its own little world, sealed off from everything except the low hum of the engine and the occasional burst of laughter from the back.
Francesco closed his eyes for a moment, not to sleep, but just to rest them. He could still hear the echoes of the match in his head — the chant of the fans, the whistle of the referee, the sharp thud of boot against ball. Those sounds had a way of lingering long after the final whistle.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 49
Goal: 69
Assist: 10
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9