As the players headed down the tunnel, Francesco felt the familiar cocktail of exhaustion and adrenaline. They had fought for every inch tonight. They had been kicked, shoved, and tested. But they had also scored three, defended as a unit, and given themselves something precious: belief.
The dressing room was a cocktail of steam, laughter, and that sweet sting of wintergreen liniment. Kit men bustled between benches, scooping up piles of sweat-soaked shirts, dropping fresh towels into waiting hands. Giroud sat with both boots off, one ankle already wrapped in ice, while Coquelin was half-standing, half-dancing to some French rap blaring from the portable speaker in the corner.
Francesco had just tugged his jersey over his head when a tap came on his shoulder. He turned to find a UEFA staffer in a navy blazer — clipboard in one hand, headset slightly askew.
"Francesco, Alexis," she said, voice clipped but polite. "We need you both for the post-match flash interview. And—" she glanced at the clipboard, "—Francesco, you'll be presenting Alexis with the Man of the Match award on camera."
Francesco blinked, caught between surprise and a slow-spreading grin. "Me?"
"Yes, you. Congratulations," she added, though her tone suggested she'd already moved mentally to her next task.
Alexis, still toweling the sweat from his hair, looked up with that fox-like smirk of his. "Ah, so you get to give me a trophy. Make sure you don't drop it, eh?"
Francesco shook his head, laughing. "Don't tempt me. I could 'accidentally' keep it for myself."
"Not after tonight, hermano," Alexis said, slinging the towel over his shoulder. "That cross for Giroud? Bellísimo."
They followed the UEFA rep out of the dressing room and into the narrow corridor that led toward the media zone. The air here was cooler, tinged with the faint scent of coffee from some unseen hospitality room. The distant hum of the crowd still drifted in from above, muted now but still alive with post-match chatter. Every so often, a cheer would erupt from somewhere outside — probably fans catching replays on the concourse screens.
The media zone itself was a small, brightly lit corner of the stadium dressed up with sponsor boards. Cameras on tripods stood in a neat row, red tally lights winking as operators made last-second adjustments. The interviewer, a woman in a crisp grey suit with a wireless mic, greeted them with a professional smile.
"Gentlemen, fantastic result tonight," she began, her eyes flicking from Alexis to Francesco. "We'll keep it short — live feed's ready. Francesco, if you could hold the award for now, we'll cue you when to present it."
A production assistant handed him a small, sleek glass trophy mounted on a black base. The etching caught the light — UEFA Europa League – Player of the Match. It wasn't heavy, but it carried a certain weight in his hands all the same.
The red tally light on the nearest camera blinked steady.
"Alexis, congratulations — a goal, an assist, tireless work rate. What does it mean to take a two-goal lead into the second leg?" the interviewer asked.
Alexis answered with his usual blend of calm and confidence. "It's a good advantage, but we know Atlético — they fight until the last second. Tonight we played with heart, with discipline, and we took our chances. But in Madrid, we need to be even better."
The interviewer turned to Francesco. "You were involved all night, both attacking and tracking back. How did you find the shift to the right wing in the second half?"
Francesco gave a small nod. "It was about adapting. On the left I had more space to cut inside, but on the right, it was about helping the team defensively and trying to make runs when Giroud dropped deep. It's not about where you play — it's about making the role work for the team."
"Beautifully said," the interviewer replied, then smiled wider. "And now, Francesco, you have the honour of presenting Alexis with the Man of the Match award."
He turned to Alexis with a mock-serious expression, holding the trophy in both hands as if it were some sacred relic. "Alexis Sánchez, for services rendered to Arsenal Football Club tonight, I hereby present you this… very shiny piece of glass."
Alexis laughed — a real, teeth-baring laugh — and took the award, holding it up for the cameras. "Gracias, hermano. But remember — football is about the team. I could not do this without everyone."
The interviewer, still smiling but clearly sensing the warm chemistry between them, leaned forward just slightly — enough to signal the next question was one meant to dig a bit deeper.
"Now, both of you," she began, glancing first at Alexis, then at Francesco, "what does winning this first leg mean for you going into the second leg? And beyond that… what's your target in the Champions League this season?"
Alexis adjusted the award in his hands, its glass surface still catching the studio lights. His face softened for a moment, as if the answer wasn't rehearsed but came from somewhere instinctive.
"Winning the first leg," he said, his Chilean accent adding that musical edge to the English, "gives us a little breathing room. Not much — you can't relax against Atlético — but it changes how we can play in Madrid. They'll have to attack more, take more risks, and we can use that. But it's also dangerous, because they are… how you say… relentless."
He paused, letting the word sit there. You could almost see the mental pictures behind his eyes — Simeone pacing the touchline, Torres chasing lost causes, Godín throwing himself into every tackle like it's the last one he'll ever make.
"It's a good start," Alexis continued, "but the tie is not finished. We know the second leg will be like a final."
The interviewer nodded, then turned her focus to Francesco, her eyebrows raising slightly in that your turn kind of way.
Francesco tilted his head, his expression thoughtful, but there was a flicker of a smile — that kind of smile that comes when you're about to say something that both states the obvious and challenges the listener.
"Our target?" he repeated, as if tasting the words. "Of course, it's winning the Champions League. Always."
He let that hang for a beat, then added, "Last season we went out in the semi-final against Juventus. It… stayed with us, you know? You work all season, you fight through all these nights, and then it stops just before the final. It's like you can see the trophy, but it's on the other side of the glass."
His voice carried no bitterness — just the plain, lingering truth of a memory that still burned.
"This year," Francesco went on, glancing briefly toward Alexis, "we want to go further. We want to finish it. That means winning nights like this, yes, but also keeping our focus when the noise is loud, when the pressure is higher. We can't let one good result make us think the job is done."
The interviewer's mic hand dropped slightly — the subtle sign of someone who knows they've gotten the answer they were hoping for. "Beautifully put, both of you," she said, smiling as she glanced toward the nearest camera. "That's all for now — congratulations again on the win. And Alexis, on your Man of the Match."
The red tally light blinked off.
Almost immediately, the atmosphere shifted. The high-gloss professionalism of the "live" moment melted into the more casual, human space between. A sound tech unclipped the tiny mic pack from the back of Francesco's shorts; another crew member gave Alexis a friendly pat on the shoulder before whisking away the branded backdrop panel.
Alexis rolled the glass award in his hands, then grinned at Francesco. "So… you think we can win the Champions League, eh?"
Francesco smirked. "I didn't say think. I said want."
Alexis laughed. "Big difference, hermano."
They started walking back toward the tunnel, passing other players finishing their own interviews. Koscielny was speaking to a French channel, gesturing with both hands as he described one of his sliding tackles. Off to the side, Iwobi was smiling nervously at a knot of journalists, probably answering the same question about what it's like to play in front of the Emirates on a European night.
As they moved, the energy of the match still clung to everything — the faint rumble of distant fans, the smell of damp turf rising from boots, the almost tangible hum of adrenaline that hadn't quite dissipated yet.
When they reached the dressing room again, the noise hit them like a warm wave. Giroud was now leaning back with both feet up, looking far too pleased with himself, while Bellerín was showing Monreal something on his phone — a replay of Giroud's header, paused at the exact frame where Oblak's hand was nowhere near the ball.
"Ah, the heroes return!" Coquelin shouted, holding his arms wide. "Did they ask you who's the best dancer in the team?"
"No," Francesco shot back, "but I told them it's definitely not you."
The room erupted in laughter.
The dressing room was still buzzing when the kitman came in with a crate of towels, his voice cutting through the chatter.
"Right, lads — showers, quick. Bus leaves in twenty."
A few groans rippled around the room, more out of habit than actual complaint. Alexis gave Francesco a little nudge with his elbow, still grinning from their earlier exchange.
"You first, or me?"
"You," Francesco said without hesitation. "You stink."
Alexis laughed, grabbed a towel, and disappeared into the steam-filled corridor toward the showers. Francesco took a moment to sink down onto the bench, his body reminding him of every duel, sprint, and stretch from the last ninety minutes. His socks were still clinging to his calves, damp and stubborn, so he tugged them off one by one, wincing slightly as his feet finally felt free.
Around him, the noise shifted — boots clattering into crates, velcro being ripped open, the hiss of running water from the adjacent room. Giroud sauntered past shirtless, humming some French pop tune under his breath, before tossing his shorts into the laundry bin with theatrical precision.
Francesco finally stood, peeling off his shirt, and wandered into the showers himself. The hot water hit like a small miracle, running over his shoulders and down his back, washing away the lingering sweat and that faint tang of adrenaline that clung to his skin. A couple of the lads were joking at the far end — Oxlade-Chamberlain pretending to sing opera, Cazorla mock-commentating on it in rapid Spanish — and the sound mixed with the slap of water on tile.
For a few minutes, Francesco let it all fade into background noise. His muscles loosened, his breathing slowed, and for the first time since the final whistle, his mind started to drift beyond the game. There was tomorrow's recovery session, sure, but right now there was also the warm thought of home — of Leah — waiting somewhere in the night.
By the time he stepped out, towel slung around his waist, the others were already half-dressed in the fresh red-and-white Arsenal tracksuits laid out by the staff. He pulled his on — soft, clean, and a small but welcome signal that the work of the night was done.
The corridor outside the dressing room smelled faintly of grass and that unmistakable blend of muscle rub and shampoo. One by one, they filed out toward the players' exit, where the team bus waited with its headlights cutting through the cool London air. Security kept the small crowd of lingering fans at a respectful distance, though a few still called out names and waved shirts for signatures.
Francesco gave a quick wave before climbing the steps onto the bus. Inside, the mood was loose. Some players immediately plugged in their headphones; others — like Flamini and Mertesacker — began an animated discussion about one particular refereeing decision.
Francesco took his usual seat a few rows back, by the window. Alexis slid in beside him, a protein bar already unwrapped in his hand.
"You eat like you didn't just run ten kilometers," Francesco said with a faint smirk.
Alexis shrugged. "Metabolism, amigo. It's a gift."
The bus pulled away from the stadium, rolling through the softly lit streets. Outside, London moved at its own pace — people spilling out of late-night cafés, taxis gliding past, the occasional double-decker rumbling by. Inside, the hum of quiet conversations mixed with the muted clatter of kit bags being stowed.
At one point, Bellerín turned in his seat to show someone the clip of Giroud's header again, this time slowed down with some ridiculous commentary he'd added on his phone. Laughter rippled down the aisle, and even Wenger, seated near the front, allowed himself the faintest smile before returning to whatever notes he was scribbling.
The ride back to Colney wasn't long, but it carried that pleasant weight of a job well done. The kind of night where the legs are heavy, but the spirit is light.
The bus rolled into the familiar training ground, its wheels crunching softly over the gravel as it pulled into the lot. The floodlights outside the main building cast long shadows across the pavement. One by one, the players gathered their things, stretching a little as they stood, exchanging quick goodnights.
Francesco slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped down onto the cool ground. The night air felt fresher out here, away from the hum of the city. He turned to give Alexis a parting pat on the back.
"Rest well, hermano," Alexis said.
"You too," Francesco replied.
The squad dispersed quickly — some heading toward their own cars parked nearby, others climbing into waiting rides. Francesco made his way to his BMW X5, the faint click of the key fob unlocking it in the stillness.
The engine purred to life, and with it came a quiet sense of solitude. The roads this time of night were mostly empty, just the occasional blur of headlights passing in the opposite direction. Streetlamps painted the asphalt in warm pools of light as he eased through the familiar route toward Richmond.
With the adrenaline ebbing away, his mind wandered — replaying small flashes of the match, the look on Alexis's face after his goal, the roar of the crowd, the post-match banter. And beneath all that, another thought warmed its way into focus: home.
It was almost half an hour later when he turned onto the long, tree-lined drive leading to his mansion. The gravel crunched softly beneath the tires, and as the house came into view, his eyes caught the telltale sign immediately — two extra cars parked neatly in front.
One was Leah's parents' sedan, the other unmistakably his own parents' SUV.
Francesco's brow lifted slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
So… they'd all come here tonight.
He parked beside them, the house lights spilling a warm glow across the driveway. As he stepped out, the muffled sounds of voices and laughter drifted faintly through the front windows. The chill in the air seemed less noticeable now, replaced by a growing sense of anticipation.
The door opened before he even reached it. Leah stood there, her hair falling softly over her shoulder, still in casual clothes but with that glow she always had after watching one of his games — a mix of pride and something gentler.
"You're late," she teased, though the warmth in her voice gave her away immediately.
"Showers, interviews, you know the drill," he replied, stepping inside.
The hallway smelled faintly of her cooking — something rich and comforting, though he couldn't yet place it. From the living room came the sound of more voices.
"They're all here," Leah said, as if reading his thoughts. "Mum and Dad came straight from the stadium. Your parents got here about half an hour ago."
Francesco toed off his shoes, feeling the familiar softness of the carpet beneath his feet. "You could've warned me," he said, though the grin on his face made it clear he wasn't actually complaining.
"You love it," she shot back, taking his bag from his shoulder and setting it by the stairs.
When they stepped into the living room, the space felt almost too full in the best possible way. His mum was perched on the edge of the sofa, mid-story, while Leah's dad leaned forward in his chair, clearly hooked. His dad had a glass of wine in hand, looking relaxed, while Leah's mum was scrolling through something on her phone — probably photos from the match.
The moment they saw him, the conversation shifted.
"There he is!" his dad said, standing to clap him on the back. "Our man of the match."
"Alexis was man of the match," Francesco said automatically, though his mum waved it away.
"Pfft, they don't always get it right," she said, standing to hug him. "We were so proud tonight. And that assist — I nearly spilled my drink."
Leah's mum stood as well, giving him a warm hug. "You were brilliant. The whole team was, but… you shone tonight."
Leah's dad grinned. "And I think Simeone's still fuming."
That got a laugh from everyone, even Francesco, who shook his head. "Probably."
They settled back into the rhythm of conversation, the match replaying in little snippets — someone mentioning the roar after the second goal, someone else marveling at the defensive work late on. Leah brought in a tray of tea for those who wanted it, along with a plate of still-warm pastries.
Francesco found himself sinking into the armchair, the tension in his body finally unwinding. Here, the noise of the crowd was replaced by the soft murmur of family voices, the clink of mugs against saucers, and the occasional burst of laughter.
At one point, Leah's mum leaned toward his own mother. "You must be so proud of him. All those years driving him to training…"
His mum smiled, eyes soft. "Worth every mile."
Jacob had been quiet for most of the evening, leaning back in the armchair opposite Francesco with his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. He'd chipped in with a few comments about the match here and there, usually when someone mentioned a big save or a tricky bit of footwork, but now his eyes had that intent, slightly mischievous glint.
"So," Jacob said suddenly, tilting his head in a way that suggested he'd been waiting for the right moment, "what do you reckon the probability is that you beat Atlético at the Vicente Calderón?"
The room's gentle chatter paused just enough for Francesco to know he had everyone's attention. He could feel Leah's eyes on him from where she was perched on the arm of the sofa, her hand resting lightly on the back of his chair.
He didn't answer right away — partly for effect, partly because he wanted to frame it exactly how he felt. He set his mug down, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.
"Probability?" he said, repeating the word with a little smirk. "I don't do probabilities, Jacob. I do certainty."
Jacob raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the drama.
"Of course," Francesco continued, his grin widening, "we'll beat them there."
There was a brief murmur of amusement from Leah's mum, but Francesco wasn't done. He leaned back now, letting the words come out casually, like they weren't meant to stir trouble — which, of course, meant they definitely would.
"We're not an easy team to beat," he added, pausing for just a heartbeat before the final jab, "like Spurs."
He let the last two words hang in the air, deliberately slow, before chuckling under his breath.
The reaction was immediate. Leah's dad, David, who had been mid-sip of his tea, froze with the cup halfway to his lips and shot him a pointed look over the rim. Jacob's expression shifted into an exaggerated glare, though there was the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
"You what?" Jacob said, mock-offended but with enough real heat in his tone to make Leah bite back a grin.
David set his cup down with deliberate care. "Careful, son," he said, in that quiet, fatherly voice that carried more weight than volume. "You're treading on holy ground in this house."
Francesco laughed, holding up both hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm just stating facts. North London derby… last one we played… who won again?"
Jacob groaned, leaning back into his chair like he'd been physically wounded. "You're unbearable."
"Only when it comes to Spurs," Francesco replied smoothly. "Otherwise, I'm a delight."
Leah, sitting between the camps like Switzerland, shook her head with a smile. "You two are impossible. Jacob, you baited him with that question. You knew exactly what you were doing."
"I just wanted an answer," Jacob protested, though his eyes were still locked on Francesco. "Didn't think I'd get a history lecture."
David leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "You'll have to forgive him," he said to Leah's mum with mock seriousness. "Francesco's spent too long breathing in Arsenal air. It clouds the judgment."
"Oh, I think his judgment's fine," Leah's mum said with a grin. "He's just confident. And I like that in a player."
Francesco shot her a grateful smile. "See? Someone gets it."
The conversation shifted into a more playful rhythm now, everyone throwing in their own little digs and counterpoints. Francesco admitted, with just enough faux reluctance, that Atlético at home was always a different beast, while Jacob pointed out that the Calderón crowd could be "basically a twelfth man."
"They'll be loud, sure," Francesco said, leaning back comfortably in his chair, "but so are we. And besides, pressure's on them now. We've got the lead. If they slip up early, that stadium can turn just as quick."
David raised an eyebrow. "And if you slip up early?"
"Then we score two more," Francesco said without missing a beat, grinning like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Jacob rolled his eyes. "Man's got an answer for everything."
Leah, who had been quietly watching this back-and-forth, finally nudged Francesco in the side. "Maybe don't compare them to Spurs when my dad's in the room next time?" she whispered, though her smile betrayed she wasn't that bothered.
"What?" Francesco whispered back, feigning innocence. "It's character building."
David caught the whisper and shook his head with a smile he tried to hide. "You're lucky you've got talent, lad. Otherwise you'd be getting an earful right now."
The laughter eventually softened into a more reflective tone. Leah's mum asked about the travel schedule for Madrid, and Francesco explained they'd fly out two days before the match to get acclimated. His own mum, ever practical, reminded him to pack warm layers for the Spanish nights this time of year.
"I'll be fine, Mum," he said, though he knew she'd probably sneak an extra jacket into his bag if she had the chance.
Jacob, still nursing the mild sting of the Spurs comment, leaned forward again. "Seriously though," he said, his tone more curious now than combative, "what's it actually like going into a place like the Calderón? You've played there before, right?"
Francesco nodded. "Yeah, once. It's… intense. You feel the noise before you even get on the pitch. The tunnel's short, so you hear them the moment you line up. And they don't just cheer for their team — they make sure you know they're against you. But honestly…" He paused, searching for the right words. "That's the kind of atmosphere that makes you sharper. You can't hide in those games. You either step up or you get swallowed."
Jacob gave a slow nod, clearly impressed despite himself. "Fair enough."
David glanced over at him. "Don't let him talk you into switching allegiances now."
Jacob smirked. "Don't worry, Dad. I'm not that far gone."
The talk drifted into other topics — Leah's upcoming training camp, Francesco's parents discussing their recent holiday plans, Jacob showing off a new pair of boots he'd bought "just in case Spurs call him up." That one earned a hearty laugh from the whole room, including David.
Eventually, the clock crept past midnight, and the familiar rhythm of departure began. Coats were fetched, goodbyes exchanged. David gave Francesco a firm handshake that lingered just long enough to convey the unspoken "take care of her" every protective father feels.
"You know I was only half serious about the Spurs thing," David said with a small grin. "The other half, though… watch yourself."
Francesco chuckled. "Noted."
Jacob, for his part, gave him a quick nod. "Good luck in Madrid, man. I still think you're underestimating them, but… hope you're right."
Francesco grinned. "Hope? You'll see."
Once the door closed behind them and the quiet settled in, Leah turned to him with that knowing look. "You really couldn't help yourself, could you?"
"Not even a little," he admitted, pulling her into his arms. "But admit it — it was worth it for that glare Jacob gave me."
She laughed softly against his chest. "Maybe. Just… try not to start an actual civil war next time."
"No promises," he said, but the warmth in his voice made it clear the night had ended exactly how he liked it — surrounded by family, laughter, and just the right amount of football-fueled fire
________________________________________________
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: 47
Goal: 67
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