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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.
The bus rolled to a slow halt in front of the hotel, brakes sighing like a tired old man letting out his last breath of the night. The engine hummed down, and for a moment there was a stillness, as if none of the players quite wanted to move yet. The neon glow of the hotel's sign spilled across the pavement outside, a pale halo in the otherwise quiet city street. A couple of late-night onlookers lingered near the entrance, phones at the ready, but security already had the cordon in place.
"Alright, lads," came the driver's voice from the front, unnecessarily but good-naturedly, "end of the line."
There was the familiar shuffle of movement — bags pulled from overhead compartments, zippers closing, the faint rustle of tracksuits. A yawn echoed somewhere in the back, quickly followed by another, like it was contagious.
Francesco stretched once before standing, his spine clicking in protest. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and joined the slow trickle toward the front. The air outside hit him cool and fresh, lifting away some of the drowsiness that had crept into his muscles on the bus.
The squad gathered loosely by the entrance as hotel staff held the doors open. Inside, the lobby was warmly lit, polished floors reflecting the golden lamps overhead. A chandelier hung above like a frozen burst of light, its crystals catching fragments of movement below. The front desk staff stood at attention, their smiles professional but tinged with the faint awe that often followed a traveling football squad.
Wenger, as always, was the last to step inside. His presence carried a quiet gravity that pulled the group together without him needing to say a word. Once everyone was inside the lobby, he turned to face them, clasping his hands lightly in front of him.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice even but warm, "you have earned your rest tonight." His eyes swept over them, pausing briefly here and there — as if to acknowledge both the heroes of the night and those who had given everything even if the spotlight hadn't touched them. "Tomorrow, we depart for London. The bus will take us to the airport at twelve o'clock sharp."
There was a faint shuffle of nods, some murmurs of understanding.
Wenger allowed the briefest smile. "Until then, you are free. You may gather at the hotel bar, if you wish, or relax by the swimming pool. But," he added, his finger lifting ever so slightly, "I do not want anyone outside this building. We are guests, and we respect that. Understand?"
"Yes, boss," came a low chorus, half-serious, half like schoolboys answering a headmaster.
He gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Good. Now go. Enjoy yourselves — within reason."
With that, he moved toward the reception desk to check in with staff about logistics, leaving the players to disperse like marbles rolling across a polished table.
Francesco lingered for a moment in the lobby, taking in the scene. The place had the quiet grandeur of a hotel built for diplomats and business travelers, not for footballers still buzzing with sweat and adrenaline. The bar off to the right gave off a low golden glow, its shelves lined with neat rows of bottles. Beyond that, he could glimpse the outdoor pool through wide glass doors, the water reflecting the lights strung around the courtyard.
"Bar?" Walcott's voice broke through, already half-grinning as he jerked his thumb in that direction.
"Pool first," Bellerín countered, tugging at the collar of his tracksuit. "I need to cool down, mate. That match was ninety minutes of cardio."
"You need to cool down?" Sánchez scoffed, appearing between them with his hood still up. "You barely broke a sweat."
That earned a round of laughter, Walcott slapping Sánchez's arm while Bellerín rolled his eyes dramatically.
Francesco just shook his head, amused. He wasn't sure what he wanted yet — the thought of a cold dip was tempting, but so was just sinking into one of those soft bar chairs with a drink in hand. For now, he trailed along as the group began to drift toward the bar, curiosity tugging him that way.
The space wasn't crowded — a couple of businessmen with loosened ties sat near the far end, speaking quietly over their glasses, and a small family was finishing dessert at one of the side tables. But mostly, the room felt like it had been waiting for the team.
The barman straightened when he saw them approach, clearly briefed but still visibly impressed. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said, his accent clipped and formal. "What can I get you?"
"Water for me," Giroud said immediately, raising a hand before anyone could tempt him otherwise. "Sparkling."
"Of course."
But others were less restrained. Flamini asked for a glass of red wine, Sánchez for a cola, Walcott for a ginger beer. Someone — probably Chambers — ordered nachos for the table before anyone else could protest.
Francesco hesitated at the counter, then ordered an orange juice. He wanted something cold, something that felt like reward but without the heaviness of alcohol.
They spread out across the plush chairs and sofas, some sinking so deep it looked like they might disappear altogether. The room filled with that easy post-match chatter — not the intensity of the dressing room, but lighter, looser. Stories began to spill, each one colored with exaggeration.
"…and I swear he clipped me," Walcott insisted, reenacting a stumble with arms flailing. "The ref didn't even look!"
"You tripped over your own feet, Theo," Bellerín cut in dryly, earning a burst of laughter from the group.
"Fake news."
Nachos arrived, the smell of melted cheese wafting through the air. Fingers reached instinctively for chips, the arguments about offsides and fouls briefly replaced by crunching.
Francesco leaned back in his chair, sipping his juice, content just to listen. He could feel the fatigue deep in his legs, but here, surrounded by teammates, it softened into something pleasant. A tiredness you could live with, the kind that came with knowing you'd done your part.
At one point, Giroud leaned over toward him, tapping the folded edge of his tracksuit pocket. "You kept Griezmann's shirt, oui?"
Francesco nodded. "Yeah."
"Good choice. One for the collection."
He smiled faintly. "It's safe."
Giroud grinned knowingly and leaned back, satisfied.
Across the table, Flamini had launched into a story from his early days at Arsenal, animated gestures painting scenes from a time half the squad hadn't even been around for. The younger players listened with rapt amusement, though it was hard to tell how much of it was truth and how much was embellishment.
Francesco had been quiet for a while, half-smiling at Flamini's exaggerated storytelling, sipping on his orange juice that was already halfway gone. The laughter in the room was easy, rolling in waves, but something kept nudging at the back of his mind. A thought he'd carried with him since the final whistle earlier in the night, one that had only grown louder as the evening softened into this warm, golden haze of post-match camaraderie.
He waited for a lull — for Flamini to pause long enough to laugh at his own punchline, for Theo to groan and Sánchez to shake his head like he'd heard the story before. And when that small space opened, Francesco leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through easily enough.
"Boys," he said, glancing around at them, "I've been thinking."
That earned him a couple of raised brows and a mock gasp from Walcott. "Careful, mate. Dangerous business."
Francesco smirked but didn't bite at the joke. His eyes flicked to Giroud, then Sánchez, then Bellerín, before settling on the nachos in the middle like he was collecting his words.
"You all know I don't usually talk much off the pitch. But tonight…" He lifted his gaze, the seriousness clear now. "As second captain of this team, I want to say something."
The shift in the room was subtle but undeniable. Jokes died off, shoulders straightened a touch. Even Flamini quieted, leaning back with the faintest smile like he knew what was coming and approved of the timing.
Francesco took a breath. "Look at where we are right now. Semi-finals of the FA Cup. Semi-finals of the Champions League. Top of the Premier League. That's not nothing. That's history waiting for us. And I think… no, I believe… we should go for it. A treble."
The word landed like a dropped glass — sharp, ringing, impossible to ignore.
For a heartbeat, nobody spoke. Then Walcott leaned back, eyes wide. "The treble? Like—" He gestured vaguely in the air. "Like United did?"
"Exactly like United did," Francesco said without hesitation. "But our way. Arsenal's way."
Sánchez's lips tugged into a half-grin, but it wasn't mocking — it was something fiercer, hungrier. "Treble," he repeated, almost tasting the word. "Premier League, FA Cup, Champions League. All three."
Giroud whistled low under his breath, shaking his head in that way that didn't mean disbelief, just the weight of the idea settling in. "That's… ambitious."
"Ambitious is what we're here for," Francesco countered, leaning in a little more. His voice grew steadier, firmer, like the conviction was fueling itself as he spoke. "Think about it. We've come too far to settle for one trophy. We've fought too hard, pushed too much. Why stop halfway? If there was ever a time, this is it. Look at the squad we have. Look at the fight we've shown. Look at tonight."
The memory of the game was still fresh in their legs, still humming in their veins. The resilience, the way they had held together, the way they had dug deep when the pressure was thickest. Francesco could see it on their faces — they knew it too.
Bellerín was the first to nod, his young features lit with something bright. "Why not?" he said, his accent giving the words a rhythm of belief. "We've proven we can go toe-to-toe with anyone."
Flamini chuckled, but it wasn't derisive — it was approving. "I like it. Ambition. Arsène always says, you aim for the moon, maybe you land among the stars."
"Except this time," Francesco said, "I want the moon."
That line sparked a ripple of laughter, but it carried an energy now, not dismissal. Sánchez slapped the table once with his palm, his grin sharp. "The moon, sí. I like that. We take it all."
Theo tilted his head, still half in awe of the audacity. "No pressure then, huh?"
"Pressure's always there," Giroud said thoughtfully, swirling his sparkling water. "But maybe that's the point. Maybe pressure is what makes it worth it."
Francesco leaned back slightly now, his eyes scanning them all. "Look, I know it won't be easy. The schedule will be brutal, the matches even harder. But what's the alternative? Just… hope we win one? No. That's not enough. Not for us. Not for Arsenal. We've got a chance to do something that'll live forever. To write ourselves into history in a way nobody can forget."
The room didn't burst into noise all at once. It started with one voice — Theo, of course, never one to resist a chant — cupping his hands around his mouth and calling out with exaggerated theatre:
"Come on you Gunners!"
It was infectious. The others followed almost instantly, voices overlapping, laughter spilling into the rhythm of the chant. "Come on you Gunners!" over and over, clapping along with it, stamping their feet against the rug like they were in the North Bank, not in a living room full of empty takeaway boxes and half-drunk bottles of water and juice.
Even Flamini, normally the wry observer when things got a bit silly, joined in with a booming version of it, his accent stretching the syllables into something both ridiculous and oddly powerful.
For a few long seconds, Francesco just watched them. It wasn't detachment — not at all. It was more that he was soaking it in, letting the scene carve itself into memory. The unity of it. The raw joy. How often do you get nights like this? A win in Europe, a team whole and together, no splinters, no doubts.
And then his eyes wandered past the circle of his teammates, toward the far corner of the lounge where the low lamplight glinted off polished green felt.
The billiard table.
It looked almost regal sitting there, untouched for the night, the cues leaning against the wall, a half-racked triangle of balls that someone had clearly abandoned earlier in the week. Francesco's lips curled into a grin — an idea sparking, mischievous, playful, and yet perfectly in keeping with the energy in the room.
He raised a hand, cutting through the fading chant. "Alright, alright, lads," he said, voice raised just enough to gather their eyes. "If we're talking about making history, why don't we start small? Why don't we have our own Arsenal Cup?"
For a beat, the words hung there, confusing a few, amusing others. Walcott squinted at him. "Arsenal Cup? Like… a trophy?"
"No, no." Francesco leaned back, gesturing toward the billiard table with his chin. "Right there. Pool. Winner takes the Arsenal Cup. Something for us, right here, right now."
The groans came immediately, theatrical and exaggerated, because this was exactly the sort of thing that could spiral into a night-long saga.
"Ahhh, come on," Sánchez said, dragging his hands down his face but grinning the entire time. "Every time, hermano. You always want competition."
Francesco smirked. "What's the point of being footballers if we don't compete at everything?"
"Alright, but what's the prize then?" Flamini asked, leaning forward with the air of a man already plotting ways to bend the rules.
Francesco didn't miss a beat. "Simple. The winner gets to choose the dressing room song for the next five matches."
That set the room ablaze.
Theo's jaw dropped so dramatically you'd think someone had just told him he was benched for the rest of the season. "FIVE matches? You're insane. Do you know the damage that can do?"
"Exactly," Francesco said, spreading his hands like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "That's why it's worth it."
Giroud was already chuckling, shaking his head. "Mon dieu. Imagine Flamini choosing some old French pop song. We'd all lose our minds."
"I would never," Flamini protested, entirely unconvincing. "Maybe just once or twice. Keep you cultured."
Bellerín sat up straighter, his eyes practically glowing. "No, no, this is brilliant. I'm in. I've already got the playlist ready in my head. Something fresh. Something stylish. You'll thank me."
"Stylish?" Sánchez barked a laugh. "You mean reggaeton, every morning, every warm-up."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Bellerín shot back, already moving toward the billiard table to grab a cue.
The shuffle of bodies was immediate. Theo leapt up to claim his spot, wagging a finger at the others. "I don't care what happens, I'm not letting Olivier win. He'll have us all listening to bloody Edith Piaf."
Giroud put a hand over his heart, feigning offence. "Ah, Walcott. You underestimate my taste. I would choose Céline Dion."
That broke the room into howls of laughter, Theo collapsing dramatically onto the arm of the sofa while Flamini clapped his hands together like an excitable child.
"No, no," Flamini declared. "Forget Céline Dion. Forget reggaeton. Forget all of it. When I win, you know what you'll be hearing? Eye of the Tiger. Every match. Every tunnel walk."
"That's cruel," Sánchez groaned, though the grin stretching across his face said he was very much here for it.
Francesco, still seated, just watched them, the grin fixed to his face. This was exactly what he wanted — that fire, that competitive spark, but wrapped in laughter, in friendship. He pushed himself up, brushing crumbs from his jeans, and moved toward the table.
"Alright," he said firmly, picking up the triangle and starting to rack the balls. "Let's settle this. Arsenal Cup, one night only. Winner chooses the soundtrack for the next five matches. Losers… well, you'll just have to live with it."
Theo groaned again, but he was grinning as he chalked his cue. "This is going to end in tears, I can already tell."
"No tears," Flamini corrected. "Only humiliation."
Bellerín twirled his cue like it was a sword. "Or glory."
The first match was set before anyone even had the chance to negotiate rules. Francesco had finished racking the balls and, with a deliberate casualness, picked up a cue and twirled it in his hand.
"Alright then," he said, eyes sweeping across the room. "Who's brave enough to go first against me?"
There was a beat of hesitation, everyone glancing at each other like schoolboys asked to volunteer for something they weren't sure they wanted. Then, inevitably, the voice came.
"I'll do it," Bellerín said, already on his feet and striding forward like a knight stepping into battle. His grin was wide, his confidence radiating. "Let's make this quick. The sooner I win, the sooner I save the club from Flamini's Eye of the Tiger obsession."
"Bold words," Francesco murmured, lining up his cue for the break.
The room crowded around, some perched on the arms of sofas, some standing with bottles in hand, a makeshift audience for the drama.
Francesco's break was sharp and clean — the crack of the cue ball against the triangle reverberated through the lounge. Balls scattered, two solids sunk immediately. A cheer went up.
"Of course," Theo groaned, already shaking his head. "Of course he starts like that."
"Beginner's luck," Bellerín shot back quickly, stepping forward, though his confidence wavered just slightly when Francesco sank another ball without hesitation.
The game unfolded brutally one-sided. Francesco, sharp-eyed and calm, moved like a man who'd done this a thousand times. Bellerín, for all his flair on the pitch, found himself flustered here. He missed easy shots, overhit a rebound, and once even managed to sink the cue ball, prompting the room to erupt into laughter.
"Stick to fashion week, Héctor," Flamini jeered with a grin.
"Shut up, old man," Bellerín retorted, though his cheeks flushed pink as Francesco cleared the last ball with almost insulting ease.
"And that," Francesco said, straightening up and laying his cue gently on the table, "is why we call it the Arsenal Cup. Not the Bellerín Cup."
The room roared, Theo nearly choking on his drink from laughter.
"Unbelievable," Bellerín muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "You lot are lucky. If I'd won, you'd have had actual music for once, not whatever disaster is about to come."
"You didn't win, though," Francesco said sweetly.
The matches rolled on from there, the tension rising as each player fell. Sánchez put up a decent fight but lost to Giroud, who played with surprising composure, almost poetic in how he lined up his shots. Flamini was a mess of energy, celebrating every sunk ball like he'd scored a goal at Wembley, but he was knocked out quickly too. Theo, despite his earlier theatrics, managed to hold his own for a while but eventually succumbed to Giroud's patience.
And so it built, like any great cup competition, toward its destined final: Francesco versus Giroud.
The room buzzed with it. They leaned forward, voices lowering, jokes quieter now, because everyone knew — both men hated to lose. Giroud, elegant, precise, stylish even in how he chalked his cue. Francesco, sharp, instinctive, carrying the same ruthless edge he brought to the pitch.
"Here it is," Theo muttered, almost like a commentator whispering into a microphone. "The Arsenal Cup final. Winner takes all. Loser suffers eternal shame."
"Don't forget," Flamini added, "winner also ruins our dressing room playlist for a month."
"Which is worse than shame," Sánchez groaned.
Francesco and Giroud circled the table, sizing each other up like boxers before a bell. The first few shots were tight, clean, both men holding their nerves. Giroud pocketed two balls early, prompting a chorus of "Oooooohs" from the peanut gallery. Francesco responded immediately, sinking three in succession and giving a smug little nod toward his opponent.
The game stayed tight. Back and forth, each mistake punished, each ball fought for like it meant more than just a silly wager. By the time they reached the final stretch — just the eight ball and a couple of stragglers left — the room had gone quiet. Every eye was fixed on them.
Giroud bent over the table, lining up the shot that could finish it. He had the angle. He had the skill. One more clean hit and the Arsenal Cup would be his.
That's when Francesco struck.
"Oi, Oli," he said suddenly, voice smooth as silk.
Giroud froze, his cue hovering just above the ball. "What?"
"You know what I just realized?" Francesco tilted his head, smirking. "If you win, you're actually going to make us listen to Céline Dion for five matches straight. That's not funny anymore. That's… terrifying."
The room broke into stifled snickers.
Giroud straightened slowly, narrowing his eyes. "You're trying to distract me."
"Me?" Francesco spread his hands innocently. "Never. I'm just… imagining the lads walking out at Old Trafford while My Heart Will Go On echoes through the tunnel. Think about it. Rooney's face. Van Gaal's face. The headlines."
That did it. Giroud's composure cracked. A laugh escaped his lips despite his best efforts. He shook his head, muttering under his breath, but when he bent down again, the moment of steel focus was gone. His shot clipped the ball just wrong — it missed the pocket by inches.
The explosion of sound in the room was instant.
"He bottled it!" Theo yelled, clutching his head like it was the most dramatic thing he'd ever seen.
"Nooooo!" Flamini cried, throwing himself onto the sofa in mock despair.
Francesco moved in swiftly, calm as ever. One clean shot, then another, and finally — with deliberate flourish — he sank the eight ball.
The room erupted. Shouts, groans, laughter, all mixing together in a wild storm of noise. Giroud dropped his cue and put both hands over his face like he'd just lost a Champions League final.
Francesco raised his arms in triumph, soaking in the chaos. "Ladies and gentlemen," he declared, "the Arsenal Cup champion!"
Bellerín booed loudly. Sánchez threw a cushion at him. Theo shook his head, laughing so hard he was nearly crying.
"Alright, alright," Flamini said, hands raised to calm the storm. "A deal's a deal. What's it going to be then, Francesco? What's our punishment?"
Francesco looked around the room, his grin stretching wider and wider. He let the suspense build, basking in the anticipation, before finally delivering the blow.
"Simple," he said. "For the next five matches, our dressing room soundtrack will be… Taylor Swift. All the time. Every time."
The reaction was chaos.
"WHAT?" Theo nearly fell off the sofa.
"You're kidding," Bellerín gasped, eyes wide.
Giroud's jaw dropped. "Non… non, mon frère, you can't do this to us."
But Francesco only nodded, smug as ever. "Oh, I can. And I will. Shake It Off. Blank Space. Style. Maybe even Love Story if I'm feeling romantic. Five matches. Swift supremacy."
The groans and protests were deafening, but beneath it all was laughter, genuine and uncontrollable. They hated it. They loved it. They couldn't believe it.
"You've doomed us," Sánchez said, shaking his head in disbelief, though he was grinning the entire time.
"You're welcome," Francesco replied, dropping back onto the sofa like a conquering hero.
The Arsenal Cup was over, but its legend — and the promise of Taylor Swift echoing through their next five matches — had only just begun.
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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