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Francesco, chest heaving, shirt clinging to his skin, dropped to his knees in the grass, arms raised. Giroud collapsed into him, Sánchez screamed into the sky, and Wenger walked onto the pitch with the calmest of smiles, his players rushing to him, knowing this was one of those rare, precious nights when their faith in him felt fully repaid.
The Emirates was still vibrating, the noise a living thing, an electric current flowing through the steel skeleton of the stadium. Even minutes after the final whistle, the chants hadn't stopped; if anything, they had swelled into something primal, a defiant roar sent out into the London night.
Arsenal 2–0 Bayern Munich.
A scoreline that felt like a dream stitched together by grit, sweat, and stubborn faith.
Francesco could barely hear himself think. His lungs burned, his throat was raw from screaming, but he didn't care. He was hugging anyone within arm's reach — Giroud, still glowing with that sense of vindication after his header, Sánchez, who had sprinted into the chaos with that manic smile stretched across his face, even Van Dijk, whose shirt clung to his towering frame, dark with sweat. They were all in it together. Warriors, survivors, believers.
And then, through the chaos, a hand touched his shoulder. Firm, deliberate.
Francesco turned and found himself staring into the eyes of Robert Lewandowski.
The Pole's expression wasn't sour or bitter, though frustration lingered in the lines of his face. No — this was different. Respect. A predator acknowledging another predator.
"Jersey?" Lewandowski asked, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the noise around them. He was already tugging at his Bayern shirt, his chest still heaving from the relentless battle.
Francesco blinked, surprised, before a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. He nodded and began peeling off his own Arsenal shirt, the fabric clinging stubbornly to his skin. When the swap was done, the Pole gripped Francesco's hand tightly, almost crushing it, and leaned closer.
"You played well," Lewandowski admitted, though his tone carried an edge sharp as glass. "But remember—this is only halftime. In Munich… I will make sure you feel what we felt tonight."
It wasn't a threat. Not exactly. More like a promise. The kind only a striker who lived and breathed goals could make.
Francesco's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't flinch. His chest still heaved, his skin slick with sweat, but his voice came steady, even amused.
"I'll be ready," he said simply.
They held each other's gaze for a heartbeat longer, two gladiators acknowledging that the war wasn't over, before Lewandowski turned and disappeared into the tunnel with his teammates.
Francesco stood there, Bayern's white away jersey in his hand, the number "9" still hot from the man who had worn it. For a moment, he stared at it, the weight of Lewandowski's words echoing in his head. Revenge. The second leg. Munich.
The euphoria around him kept crashing like waves, but somewhere beneath it, a flicker of unease sparked in his chest.
The Arsenal players eventually made their way toward the North Bank, arms linked, clapping in unison as the supporters serenaded them. Francesco could barely hear the words of the chants, his ears ringing, but he didn't need to. He could see it in their faces: belief. For so long, Arsenal fans had carried more doubt than faith, bracing themselves for heartbreak. Tonight, though? Tonight was different. Tonight, they had something real to cling to.
Virgil van Dijk leaned toward him as they clapped the fans. "Lewandowski came for your shirt, eh? That's respect, brother. You must have made him sweat."
Francesco smirked, wiping his brow. "Respect or scouting. Maybe he just wants to sniff me out before Munich."
"Let him try," Virgil chuckled, slapping him on the back hard enough to sting. "We've got him in our pocket."
The tunnel loomed ahead, a yawning mouth of shadows compared to the blazing lights of the Emirates. Francesco walked with his teammates, sweat cooling against his skin now, his pulse still trying to calm after ninety minutes of fury. The smell of grass and fireworks and wet polyester clung to the air. Around him, players muttered, laughed, some still barking half-exhausted jokes to release the tension.
But just before he crossed the threshold into the tunnel, a figure stepped across his path.
Pep Guardiola.
The Bayern manager extended his hand — firm, purposeful, but not hostile. His eyes, sharp and thoughtful, studied Francesco as though he was a puzzle he'd been dissecting all night.
"Congratulations," Guardiola said in that precise, deliberate way of his. His Catalan accent softened the edges of his English, but the tone carried weight. "You played with courage. With personality. Very few do that against us."
Francesco blinked, then accepted the handshake. Pep's grip was steady, lingering a second longer than most managers would allow. Francesco had expected perhaps a nod, maybe a cold acknowledgment, but this… this was something different.
"Thank you, Mister," Francesco replied, his throat still raspy from shouting during the match.
Guardiola tilted his head, studying him like he was filing the memory away. "I admire the way you see space," Pep continued, lowering his voice as other Bayern players shuffled past toward the dressing room. "Not only scoring — the movement, the timing. You make your teammates better. That is the highest compliment I can give."
Francesco felt a flicker of heat in his chest — pride, maybe, or disbelief. Praise from Pep Guardiola, one of the most meticulous minds in football, wasn't given lightly. The man had sculpted teams into art projects; his words carried the weight of someone who demanded perfection.
Pep leaned slightly closer, his expression almost conspiratorial. "I hope, one day, we have the opportunity to work together."
It hung in the air between them — a seed planted, intentional or not. Francesco blinked, caught off guard, then smirked, letting instinct guide him. "Well… maybe if you come to Arsenal," he said, his tone playful, "and if Wenger by then doesn't coach Arsenal anymore."
For a split second, Guardiola's stern mask cracked. His lips twitched, his eyes glimmered, and he let out a small, genuine laugh. It wasn't loud, just a short ripple — but for Pep, that was almost an earthquake.
"You have humor," Guardiola said, shaking his head slightly. "I like that." He patted Francesco's arm once, the gesture half-mentor, half-opponent, then released him. "Enjoy tonight. In Munich, it will be different."
And with that, Pep turned, his coat swaying lightly as he joined his staff deeper down the tunnel.
Francesco stood frozen for a moment, Bayern's jersey still clutched in his hand, his own shirt gone to Lewandowski. He replayed Pep's words in his head, the strange mix of admiration and challenge. He almost laughed to himself. Arsenal had just beaten Bayern 2–0, and yet Guardiola spoke as though this was still only act one. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was.
As Francesco finally stepped into the tunnel, he found himself back among the chaos of his teammates. Shouts echoed off the concrete walls, boots squeaked against the floor, the smell of liniment and sweat heavy in the air. Giroud had his arm around Sánchez, both laughing about something that had probably been unintelligible in the noise of the stadium. Ramsey sat on the bench halfway down, head tilted back, sucking in huge gulps of air as the adrenaline ebbed. Van Dijk peeled off his shirt and flung it toward a kitman, still muttering about tackles that had felt like collisions with trucks.
Wenger stood at the far end, waiting. Not intruding, not shouting. Just standing, his hands behind his back, his eyes glowing in the dim tunnel light. He didn't need to speak; his very presence was enough. But as Francesco caught his eye, Wenger gave the faintest of nods, an acknowledgment deeper than any words could have been.
The dressing room was mayhem. The music started almost instantly — Oxlade-Chamberlain had sprinted to the speaker dock and queued up something loud and bass-heavy that rattled the lockers, which the song that played were Taylor Swift as they abide the billiard competition that Francesco win. Shirts flew into hampers, tape was ripped from shins, boots dropped to the floor with dull thuds. The kitmen darted like surgeons, collecting, organizing, replenishing.
Francesco dropped heavily onto the bench, Bayern's jersey still clutched in one hand. He stared at the name on the back — LEWANDOWSKI — while his chest slowly calmed. It was surreal, holding the shirt of one of Europe's most lethal strikers. And yet, the thought of Munich gnawed at him already. Lewandowski's words, Guardiola's words — they weren't threats, but they were warnings.
Alexis dropped down beside him, his hair damp, his grin manic. "You see Lewa come to you like that?" he said, nudging Francesco in the ribs. "That's big, hermano. He doesn't give his shirt to anyone."
Francesco chuckled softly. "Yeah, but he also told me he's coming for revenge in Munich."
"Good," Alexis grinned wider, tugging off his socks. "Let him come. We'll be ready."
Francesco let himself laugh at that, the weight in his chest loosening slightly.
The pounding bass was still shaking the lockers when the knock came. Sharp, quick — out of place in the middle of the chaos. At first nobody noticed, too busy shouting, laughing, singing. But then the door cracked open, and a head poked through: a UEFA staffer in the crisp navy jacket, badge lanyard bouncing on his chest as he stepped inside.
The music dipped slightly as Ox fiddled with the speaker volume, and the man cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said, voice just loud enough to cut through the haze of sweat and laughter. His English had that official neutrality to it, the kind of voice trained to sound polite but firm in any stadium across Europe. "Francesco Lee is needed for a quick interview at the sideline. Immediate broadcast."
All eyes turned.
For a split second, Francesco froze. He still had Lewandowski's shirt balled in his hand, damp and heavy, as though it weighed a kilo more than his own. The adrenaline hadn't completely drained from his body; his muscles buzzed, his throat still raw, his head still replaying movements from the pitch. He hadn't even had the chance to shower, let alone process the ninety minutes they had just endured.
Beside him, Alexis let out a low whistle and nudged him again. "Go on, superstar," he teased, grinning like a proud older brother. "They want the big man tonight."
The room joined in, a chorus of half-shouts and jokes. "Francesco!" "Golden Boy!" "Mr. Champions League!" Someone at the back even whistled dramatically, and another started tapping the bench like a drumbeat. It was affectionate chaos, the kind that filled the room after a win like this, and Francesco felt his face heating under the attention.
Wenger, still at the far end of the room with his arms folded, raised his voice just enough to cut through. "Go on," he said calmly. His eyes carried that subtle spark of approval, the same look he had given Francesco in the tunnel earlier. "It will be good for you."
Francesco exhaled and nodded, rising slowly to his feet. His legs felt heavier than he expected — not sore, not yet, but carrying the echo of ninety furious minutes against one of the toughest sides in Europe. He placed Lewandowski's shirt carefully in his locker, as though it were some fragile artifact, then grabbed the nearest Arsenal jacket from the hook to throw over his sweat-soaked body.
The UEFA staffer motioned politely toward the door. "This way, please."
As he followed, the noise of the dressing room started to fade behind him, replaced by the muffled hum of the Emirates' corridors. The sudden shift from chaos to quiet was jarring. The concrete walls swallowed sound differently, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above, the occasional voice of a steward or staff member bouncing around the bends.
Francesco walked with the UEFA man at a steady pace, the adrenaline in his body making every detail sharpened: the scuff marks on the wall, the faint chemical smell of cleaning fluid, the way his boots squeaked slightly against the hard floor. He could still hear fragments of music leaking faintly from behind the closed dressing room door, the laughter of his teammates echoing like ghosts now distant.
As they approached the tunnel again, the roar of the stadium seeped back in. It wasn't as deafening as during the match, but the Emirates still buzzed with life. Thousands of fans lingered, unwilling to leave just yet. The North Bank was alive with chanting, echoing songs of victory and pride. The press corridor glowed under floodlights, cameras already stationed like vultures waiting for their moment.
The UEFA staffer pointed him toward a small setup by the sideline — the familiar interview boards plastered with Champions League sponsors, logos glittering under LED panels. A Sky Sports microphone was already waiting. Two cameramen stood ready, headphones on, adjusting their lenses. A reporter, suit slightly rumpled from the night's frenzy, smiled when he saw Francesco approach.
"Ah, perfect," the man said warmly, stepping forward to shake his hand. "Francesco, thank you for coming so quickly. Just a few words for the live broadcast, yes? It'll be quick."
Francesco nodded, swallowing the dryness in his throat. His voice still carried the rasp of shouting instructions and screaming at missed passes, but he managed a small smile. "Of course."
He stepped into position, the bright lights suddenly washing over him. For a moment, he had to squint, blinking against the glare. The pitch stretched out behind him — green, torn, glistening under the floodlights. The Emirates was still alive with chanting, and he could see fans pressed against the stands, holding up scarves, waving flags, some even catching sight of him and shouting his name with wild enthusiasm.
The reporter lifted the microphone, smiling into the camera as the red light blinked on. "We're live here at the Emirates Stadium," he began, voice smooth and practiced, "where Arsenal have stunned Bayern Munich with a 2–0 victory in the Champions League semi final first leg. With me now is one of the man who score the goal — Francesco Lee. Francesco, first of all, congratulations. That was some performance out there tonight."
Francesco adjusted slightly under the lights, his breath still uneven. He forced a chuckle. "Thank you. It was… it was a big night for us. For the whole team. Everyone worked so hard."
The reporter nodded eagerly. "Let's start with the atmosphere. You scored against Bayern Munich, a team with some of the greatest players in Europe. How did it feel when that ball hit the net?"
The memory replayed instantly — the blur of red shirts, the rush of the crowd, the split-second stillness before the eruption. Francesco's chest tightened as he let himself relive it. "Honestly?" he said, shaking his head slowly. "It's hard to describe. When the ball went in… I just felt everything at once. Relief, joy, adrenaline. The Emirates — the way it exploded — I'll never forget that sound. It felt like the whole stadium was lifting me up."
He paused, glancing back at the stands, where pockets of fans still chanted his name. His voice softened, sincerity breaking through the post-match daze. "That moment wasn't just mine. It was for the fans, for my teammates, for everyone who believes in Arsenal."
The reporter gave a knowing smile. "You're being very humble, but you were at the heart of everything tonight. Your movement, your link-up play — even Pep Guardiola singled you out after the match. He told us you played with courage and personality. What does it mean to hear praise like that from someone of his stature?"
Francesco blinked, caught slightly off guard that Pep's words had already reached the reporters. He felt the heat rise in his chest again, that strange mix of pride and disbelief. "It's… surreal," he admitted, his voice softer. "Pep is one of the greatest managers in the world. For him to even notice me, let alone say something like that — it's a huge honor. But I know it doesn't mean I've made it. It means I have to keep working, keep improving. Because if someone like him sees something in me, I don't want to waste it."
The reporter raised his eyebrows slightly at that — the maturity in the response, the balance between pride and hunger. He nodded. "Strong words. Now, looking ahead — Bayern are a team known for their response, especially at the Allianz Arena. Lewandowski said after the game that they will come for revenge. How do you and the team prepare for that challenge?"
Francesco's lips twitched into a half-smile. "We know it's coming. Bayern at home — it's one of the hardest places to play in the world. They'll want to punish us for tonight. But we can't think about revenge. We have to think about ourselves, our game, our discipline. Tonight we showed we can fight, we can defend, we can take our chances. We'll need even more in Munich. But we're not afraid. If anything, this result gives us belief."
The reporter leaned in slightly, sensing the emotion. "And personally? Nights like this — scoring, beating Bayern. Does this feel like a turning point for you in your career?"
The question hung in the air. Francesco hesitated, the floodlights hot on his skin, his heartbeat still heavy. He thought of Pep's words in the tunnel. He thought of Lewandowski's warning. He thought of Wenger's quiet nod, Alexis's grin, the chaos of the dressing room. All of it swirled together into something larger than the night itself.
"I don't know if I'd call it a turning point," he said carefully, his tone steady but his eyes alive. "But it's a step. Football is about moments, yes, but it's also about consistency. If I stop here, then it's just one good night. I don't want to be remembered for one game. I want to build something, keep helping Arsenal, keep proving myself. Tonight was special, but it's just the beginning."
The reporter's face shifted slightly, the kind of subtle smirk you only saw from journalists when they knew they were about to touch on something juicy. He adjusted his grip on the microphone, leaning closer, his voice dropping just a notch — not conspiratorial exactly, but with that tone that begged for honesty.
"Francesco," he said, "one last question before we let you go. Cameras caught Pep Guardiola stopping you in front of the tunnel after the game. The two of you spoke for a moment. Everyone's been buzzing about it already. What did he say to you?"
The question landed heavy.
Francesco blinked, his mouth parting slightly as the moment replayed in his mind. Pep's hand, the shake, the words that had slid into his chest and lingered there like a brand. Praise. Admiration. That strange half-joke about working together someday. Francesco could almost still hear Guardiola's voice, low and deliberate, cutting through the chaos of the tunnel.
Behind the reporter, the Emirates still roared. He could hear his name echoing from somewhere up in the stands, fans chanting long after the whistle. But now, under the harsh glow of the interview lights, the question hung between him and the journalist like a ball waiting to be struck.
For a heartbeat, Francesco considered deflecting — saying something vague, brushing it off with humor. But then, something inside him decided otherwise. Maybe it was the adrenaline still in his blood, maybe it was the raw honesty of the night, maybe it was just the fact that he was still young enough not to calculate every word. He took in a slow breath, let it out, and spoke.
"He congratulated me," Francesco said finally, his voice even but his eyes alive. "He told me I played with courage, with personality. That's not something you hear every day from a manager like Pep. It meant a lot, coming from him."
The reporter tilted his head, intrigued, his smile widening slightly. "And?"
Francesco smirked, caught by the nudge in the man's tone. He rubbed the back of his neck, the floodlights warm against his skin. "And… he said he hopes maybe, one day, we'll get the chance to work together."
That did it. The reporter's eyebrows shot up, his whole body leaning forward like a striker pouncing on a loose ball. "Really? Pep Guardiola said that to you?"
Francesco chuckled softly, shaking his head as if he couldn't quite believe it himself. "Yeah. But I told him—" He hesitated, lips curving into a grin now, the memory of the moment making him laugh. "I told him, 'Well, maybe if you come to Arsenal, and if Wenger doesn't coach Arsenal anymore.'"
The reporter's jaw actually dropped for a second before he burst out laughing. The cameramen glanced at each other, grinning, one of them muttering "bloody hell" under his breath as the red light on the camera kept rolling.
"You actually said that to him?" the reporter asked, half incredulous, half delighted.
"Of course," Francesco said, his grin widening. "What else was I supposed to say? He's Guardiola. But Arsenal is Wenger's team, and Wenger's the one who's believed in me. I had to stand my ground, right?"
The reporter shook his head, still laughing, clearly savoring the headline that was writing itself in his mind. "That's incredible. Francesco Lee, not just fearless on the pitch but fearless in front of Pep Guardiola."
The player raised his hands, almost defensively, though he was smiling the whole time. "Don't get me wrong, I respect him a lot. I admire him. But Arsenal is my family. Tonight proves that. Whatever the future holds, I'm here now, and I want to make this count."
The reporter nodded, his eyes gleaming. He turned back toward the camera, his voice rising back into that practiced broadcast pitch. "There you have it. Francesco Lee — goalscorer, hero of the night, and maybe the only man brave enough to crack a joke at Pep Guardiola. Arsenal 2, Bayern Munich 0. The story continues in Munich."
The cameraman signaled the feed was cut, the little red light flickering off. The atmosphere around them relaxed instantly, the tension of live television evaporating into the cool London night. The reporter exhaled, shaking his head with a grin. "You know, that's going to be everywhere in an hour. Headlines, clips, memes. 'Francesco tells Pep: Come to Arsenal.' You might have just lit up the internet."
Francesco groaned good-naturedly, dragging his hands down his face. "Great. Just what I needed. Wenger's going to see that and raise an eyebrow at me tomorrow."
"Or he'll laugh," the reporter offered. "Either way, brilliant moment. Thank you, Francesco." He extended his hand, which Francesco shook firmly, before stepping away with his team of cameramen.
Now, standing alone by the sponsor board, Francesco let the adrenaline ebb out of him again. The pitch stretched behind him, mostly empty now save for stewards and ground staff tidying up the aftermath of a European night. The floodlights hummed above, the Emirates still humming faintly with the ghosts of chants. He pulled the jacket tighter around himself, the sweat cooling against his skin, and let himself breathe.
He replayed Pep's words once more in his mind. The way he'd said them. Calm. Certain. A seed, planted deliberately. "I hope, one day, we have the opportunity to work together." Francesco had laughed it off in the moment, but the truth was… it stuck. It stayed there, lodged like a pebble in his boot.
Would it ever happen? Could it? The thought was ridiculous, impossible, but… football had a funny way of twisting the impossible into reality.
A shout from down the tunnel snapped him out of it. "Francesco!" It was Virgil, his deep voice booming even from the distance. "Come on, superstar, shower time! Stop giving Sky your life story!" Francesco laughed, shaking his head as he jogged back toward the tunnel.
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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: 52
Goal: 72
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