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As they walked toward the tunnel, Wenger's handshake was firm but his smile was measured — the smile of a man who was proud, but also already thinking of what could be improved. Steve Bould gave Giroud a playful slap on the back, Ramsey exchanged a word with Özil, and the air in the tunnel buzzed with the low hum of a team who'd fought, stumbled, and then fought again to take all three points.
The days after the West Ham match passed in a kind of muted blur. The adrenaline of that 4–3 was still fizzing in everyone's veins, but there wasn't much time to dwell on it — not when the Champions League loomed on the calendar like a mountain waiting to be climbed.
Tuesday, 12 April 2016.
The morning air at London Colney was cool and pale, the kind that clings to your breath and makes your hands find the pockets of your jacket. One by one, the players filtered into the training ground car park, wheeling their small suitcases behind them. There was an unspoken shift in atmosphere from the domestic grind of the Premier League to the sharp, electric focus of Europe.
Francesco stepped out of his car, bag slung over his shoulder, and spotted Giroud already leaning against the side of the team bus, coffee cup in hand, chatting quietly with Koscielny. Nearby, Walcott was laughing about something with Bellerín, the two of them looking far too relaxed for men about to fly into the lion's den of Madrid.
Inside the bus, the mood was calm but charged. Özil had claimed one of the front seats, earphones in, gaze fixed out the window. Ramsey was scrolling through his phone, while Mertesacker sat further back, reading over a sheet of tactical notes. Steve Bould moved down the aisle with a clipboard, ticking off names as everyone climbed aboard.
Once everyone was on, bags stowed in the hold beneath, the doors hissed shut and the engine gave a deep, steady rumble. The bus pulled out of the Colney gates, rolling through the Hertfordshire countryside toward Heathrow.
The ride wasn't noisy — a few bursts of conversation, the occasional laugh from the card game going on between Flamini and Coquelin, but most players seemed content to let their thoughts wander. Francesco sat halfway down on the left, watching the landscape change from open fields to suburban sprawl. He could feel that restless hum inside him — not nerves exactly, but the anticipation of knowing the next ninety minutes of football could define a season.
At the airport, the squad moved as one, the kind of tight unit used to the strange choreography of travel: check-in counters, passports handed over in quick succession, boarding passes passed back. A few fans had gathered near the terminal entrance, holding shirts and camera phones. The players stopped for a handful of quick signatures and photos before security swallowed them up.
Once through, there was time to kill in the departure lounge. Some headed straight for coffee; others found quiet corners. Wenger sat with the coaching staff, speaking in low tones over a folder of papers. Giroud and Walcott grabbed seats near the big windows, pointing out planes like kids on a school trip. Francesco drifted toward the glass too, watching as a massive aircraft taxied in slow motion across the tarmac.
When boarding was called, the process was smooth — it always was with the team's travel coordinators. Business class seats in neat rows, players settling in with their preferred routines: headphones on, books open, neck pillows adjusted.
The engines built from a low whine to a deep roar, and with that slight, familiar lurch, the plane lifted off, climbing into a blanket of pale blue. London fell away beneath them, patchwork rooftops and ribbons of road shrinking to nothing.
The flight to Madrid wasn't long enough to feel endless, but it was just long enough for the weight of the occasion to settle in. Some dozed, some watched films on the little screens, others quietly scrolled through their phones. Francesco sat with one earbud in, music playing low, replaying mental images of Atletico Madrid's defensive shape from the first leg — the way Godín and Giménez moved in tandem, the way their midfield collapsed into a block like a drawbridge being raised.
When the announcement crackled over the PA about beginning their descent, players began gathering their things, tucking away headphones, finishing drinks. Outside the window, the land was drier, more sun-bleached than home, dotted with terracotta rooftops and winding streets.
Touchdown was smooth. The cabin filled with that low murmur of people unclipping seatbelts, stretching, swapping comments about the heat they could already see blazing off the runway.
Madrid's terminal was busy, the kind of busy where voices echo off high ceilings and rolling suitcases click in constant rhythm. The squad moved through the arrivals hall together, retrieving luggage from the carousel with the efficiency of a well-rehearsed drill. Giroud struggled briefly to free his bag, wedged between two others, earning a few laughs.
Outside, the team bus was waiting, gleaming in the sun, its tinted windows hiding the rows of seats inside. They loaded up quickly, staff making sure every kit bag and piece of luggage was accounted for before climbing aboard.
As the bus pulled away from the airport, the city began to unfold — long, tree-lined avenues, plazas dotted with fountains, cafes spilling tables onto the pavement. Some players stared out at the sights; others kept their heads down, scrolling or talking quietly.
The hotel wasn't far, a tall modern building with glass doors that slid open at their approach. Staff were ready with keys, and the players drifted toward the lifts in small groups, each clutching the little envelopes with their room numbers.
The bus eased to a halt in front of the hotel, its tinted windows catching the golden wash of the late afternoon sun. For a moment, no one moved — players were gathering phones, water bottles, jackets from the seats beside them, exchanging small nods as if to confirm to themselves that they were, in fact, here. The air outside shimmered faintly with the heat, even at this hour, and the faint hum of traffic drifted through the glass.
Arsène Wenger was the first down the steps, tall frame unfolding, suit jacket catching the light. He stepped into the hotel lobby with that steady, deliberate gait of his — neither hurried nor languid — a man who had made entrances into countless hotels across Europe but still carried himself as though the moment mattered. Steve Bould and the rest of the coaching staff followed in, wheeling small black suitcases, clipboards tucked under their arms.
At the front desk, Wenger leaned slightly toward the receptionist, speaking in that measured, calm tone — polite French-accented English layered with just enough Spanish to smooth over the exchange. The receptionist nodded briskly, fingers tapping over a keyboard, the printer humming as a neat row of key cards began sliding out one after another. Each card came tucked into a slim white paper sleeve with a room number inked in tidy blue handwriting.
Wenger turned, cards in hand, and began passing them out.
"Kanté, Francesco," he called, and the two stepped forward together.
Francesco took his card with a quick "Merci, boss," and glanced at the number. Eighth floor. Not bad. Beside him, N'Golo Kanté gave his usual quiet smile, tucking the card into his pocket without even looking at the number. That was Kanté all over — unbothered by the little details most people lingered on.
They joined the small stream of players heading toward the lifts. The mirrored doors slid open with a soft chime, and the two stepped in along with a couple of the physios. Francesco leaned back against the cool glass panel, feeling the faint jolt as the lift began its climb. Kanté was already checking his phone — probably a message from family — but his expression was calm, unreadable.
On their floor, the carpet was thick and muffled their steps. The hallway smelled faintly of polished wood and something citrusy from the cleaners. Their room was at the far end — a quiet spot, away from the elevator's noise. Francesco slid the key card into the slot, and the light clicked green.
Inside, the room was all soft neutrals and sleek lines — twin beds, white duvets, a desk with a small reading lamp, a flat-screen mounted opposite. One wall was dominated by a window that opened to a view of the city's rooftops, terracotta and cream fading into the dusk.
"Nice," Francesco murmured, wheeling his bag inside. Kanté gave a small approving nod, already dropping his backpack onto the bed nearest the door.
Neither man lingered on unpacking. They knew the drill — kit bags stayed mostly untouched until matchday. Francesco kicked off his trainers, stretched out on the bed, and let himself sink into the mattress. The hum of the air conditioning was almost hypnotic. Within minutes, he was half-dozing, mind drifting between the image of a packed Calderón and the rhythm of his own breathing.
The next morning came early, though not rudely so. Francesco woke to a faint strip of sunlight cutting across the carpet, the city outside already stirring. Kanté was up before him — no surprise there — lacing his running shoes with his usual quiet precision.
"You going for a run?" Francesco asked, voice still scratchy with sleep.
Kanté just grinned faintly. "Breakfast first."
They headed down to the restaurant, the low hum of conversation greeting them before they even reached the door. The scent hit next — fresh coffee, warm bread, a faint hint of eggs on the griddle. The dining area had big windows spilling light over white tablecloths and neat rows of plates.
Players were scattered across the room in loose clusters. Özil sat with Mertesacker and Cech, sipping coffee with the kind of slow deliberation that suggested he was still waking up. Walcott and Bellerín were halfway through plates piled with toast and fruit, deep in some animated conversation.
Francesco and Kanté loaded their plates with a mix of eggs, fruit, and a few slices of toast. Francesco poured himself a coffee — dark, steaming — and they found a quiet table near the windows. They ate without much chatter, the occasional glance up to acknowledge teammates drifting in and out.
After breakfast, the schedule flowed the way it always did before a big European night. First stop was the gym. Not the kind of all-out session that left you wrung out, but the deliberate, precise warm-up work that kept bodies loose and minds sharp.
Inside, the space was bright with mirrors and rows of gleaming machines. A speaker in the corner played low-volume music — indistinct enough to fade into the background.
Francesco went through his usual sequence: dynamic stretches, a slow jog on the treadmill, some resistance work with bands to loosen the hips and shoulders. Across the room, Giroud was working with a medicine ball, tossing it back and forth with a trainer. Alexis Sánchez, sweat already beading his forehead, was mid-way through a set of short sprints, the slap of his trainers sharp against the floor.
Kanté, as always, worked quietly and efficiently — no wasted motion, no unnecessary noise.
By mid-morning, they'd showered and changed, heading into the meeting room. Wenger was already at the front, a projector casting the Atlético Madrid crest onto the screen behind him. The smell of marker ink clung faintly to the air — the whiteboard to his side was covered in neat diagrams from an earlier prep session.
The players settled into chairs arranged in a wide U-shape, notebooks and water bottles at hand. Steve Bould clicked a button, and the first slide flicked onto the screen — a freeze-frame of Atlético's defensive block from the first leg.
Wenger's voice was steady, deliberate.
"They will not change their structure," he said, pointer in hand. "Two banks — four, then five when they need. Godín is the organiser. He speaks, everyone listens. Our patience is our weapon."
Clips rolled — Griezmann's movement on the counter, Koke's angled passes into space, Juanfran's overlaps. Wenger broke each down, pausing to point at small details — the way a midfielder shaded his body to close a passing lane, the way Atlético's wingers would track back until they were practically full-backs.
Francesco took it all in, committing the patterns to memory. He could already feel his mind running through potential movements — where to drift, when to hold, when to drop deeper to drag a marker.
The briefing wrapped with Wenger's voice softening, almost as if he wanted the last words to sink deeper.
"Patience. And when the chance comes, we take it."
The hours slipped past after that. Some players retreated to their rooms, others to quiet corners of the hotel lounge. Francesco dozed for a while, then spent part of the afternoon watching an old Champions League highlights reel on his tablet, letting the noise of past crowds soak into him.
By 6 PM, the squad was gathered in the lobby, bags in hand, dressed in their travel tracksuits. The late sun slanted through the glass, painting the floor in long shadows. Outside, the team bus idled at the curb, driver leaning against the door.
They boarded in near silence this time — not tense, exactly, but with that sharpened quiet that comes when everyone's mind is fixed forward. The bus pulled away from the hotel, winding through the evening streets of Madrid. Cafés were full, their outdoor tables spilling over with locals enjoying the last warmth of the day. A few heads turned as the bus rolled past, double takes as people realised who was inside.
Then the streets narrowed, the air thickening with anticipation. A few blocks away, you could already hear it — the low, rolling chant of Atlético supporters, building like a distant drumbeat.
The Calderón Stadium rose ahead, its curves and angles catching the last light. Police stood in loose lines along the approach, their presence calm but unmistakable. Outside the gates, clusters of red-and-white shirts waved flags and scarves, voices hoarse from the constant singing.
The bus pulled into the players' entrance, bypassing the crowds. Inside, the corridors were cool and lit with that faint yellow stadium light. A few stadium staff nodded as the Arsenal squad filed past, their footsteps echoing off concrete walls.
In the dressing room, the air smelled faintly of fresh laundry and the sharp tang of liniment. Each player's spot was marked — shirts hanging neatly, shorts folded, socks and boots laid out with military precision. Francesco's own shirt hung there — number clear, badge bright in the overhead lights.
The training kit was already waiting, and soon the room was filled with the muted rustle of fabric, the thud of boots being pulled on, the hiss of zippers. Someone laughed at a small joke — Walcott, probably — but it was brief, fading back into the calm.
When everyone was ready, they filed down the short tunnel toward the pitch. The sound grew with each step — the roar of the crowd spilling in, the pounding bass from the stadium PA.
Then they emerged into the open, and the noise hit like a wave. The stands were already packed, the red-and-white of Atlético blending into one surging mass. Flags rippled, drums pounded, and somewhere in that sea of colour and sound, the away section of Arsenal fans made themselves heard.
The floodlights blazed down, sharp against the growing dusk, and the grass stretched before them, perfect and impossibly green. Francesco took a deep breath, letting the air — the noise, the energy, the smell of the pitch — settle into him.
It was time to warm up.
The warm-up was sharp but measured — passes zipping between cones, stretches done with the kind of attention you give when the temperature's dropping toward night and the body needs to be coaxed into peak readiness. Francesco felt the rhythm come into his legs, that subtle shift where every muscle seemed to remember what it was for. Kanté barely broke a sweat, quietly shuttling from drill to drill like a man checking items off a list. Alexis, in contrast, was pure energy — sprinting through short bursts as if trying to outrun the noise itself.
When the whistle from the staff came, they jogged back toward the tunnel. The moment they stepped inside, the stadium's roar dulled, replaced by the lower, echoing murmur of voices in the concrete corridors. Back in the dressing room, the air was warmer now, bodies giving off a faint steam after the exertion.
The training tops came off, dropped onto benches. Boots were unlaced and swapped for match pairs — studs longer, leather gleaming under the lights. One by one, the red-and-white kits went on. Francesco pulled his over his head, the fabric cool against his skin, then tugged at the captain's armband waiting on the bench beside him.
Wenger stood near the whiteboard, arms folded until the last player settled. His expression was calm but focused — the look of a man who had already played the match in his head a dozen times.
"Alright," he began, voice cutting cleanly through the rustle of shirts and tape. "We go with 4-2-3-1 tonight. Petr in goal." He glanced toward Cech, who gave the faintest nod.
He tapped the left side of the board. "Nacho, Virgil, Laurent, Hector — the back four. Solid, organised, talk to each other." His pointer moved up. "Aaron, N'Golo — you hold. Win it, keep it, feed the front."
Then, to the space above: "Mesut, central. Eyes always open. Alexis left, Theo right."
Finally, Wenger's gaze found Francesco. "Francesco up top. Captain tonight." A pause, letting the weight of the word settle. "Lead them."
Beside the board, a list of substitutes was written in neat block letters: Ospina, Mertesacker, Gibbs, Coquelin, Iwobi, Welbeck, Giroud. Wenger glanced over it as if committing the order to memory.
"This is not just about one moment," he said, softer now. "It's about ninety minutes of discipline. Trust the plan. Trust each other."
There was no dramatic speech, no raised voice. Just the quiet authority of a man who knew they'd listened.
When they left the dressing room again, the corridor seemed narrower, the air heavier. The players lined up in the tunnel — Arsenal to the left, Atlético to the right. Francesco could feel the presence of Diego Godín a step away, the Uruguayan's gaze fixed ahead. Griezmann was further up, bouncing lightly on his toes.
The Champions League anthem began, swelling from the stadium speakers. Even after hearing it so many times, Francesco felt the hairs on his arms lift. The tunnel opened into the vast light and noise of the pitch, and together, the two teams walked out, the anthem rolling over them like a tide.
Under the floodlights, the grass looked almost unreal — each blade standing at perfect attention. Cameras tracked their every step, the flash of lenses cutting through the night air. Francesco led the line to the halfway mark, shook hands, exchanged a few brief words with the referee.
The coin toss was quick. Godín won it, chose ends, and within seconds, the ball was set in the centre circle.
The whistle blew.
The opening twenty minutes were a blur of speed and steel. Atlético's press was immediate, snapping at ankles, forcing early passes. Arsenal's response was just as sharp — short triangles in midfield, Ramsey and Kanté breaking up play, Özil drifting into pockets of space.
Then the chances started coming. First it was Arsenal — Walcott burning down the right, cutting inside past Filipe Luís, firing low toward the near post. Oblak got down fast, palms firm, parrying it away.
Minutes later, Atlético hit back — Griezmann peeling off Van Dijk's shoulder, meeting a diagonal ball with a volley that Cech clawed out of the top corner. The crowd roared approval, red-and-white scarves snapping in the night air.
It became an exchange — each side throwing punches, each goalkeeper answering. Oblak smothered a Sánchez effort from twelve yards. Cech tipped a thunderous drive from Koke over the bar.
By the twentieth minute, both keepers had made four saves apiece, each one a reminder that this match was balanced on a knife-edge. The noise inside the Calderón was relentless, but in the spaces between the chants, Francesco could hear his own breath, feel the pounding of his pulse in his ears.
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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: 48
Goal: 68
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