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As the away end sang deep into the Liverpool night, one truth settled over the pitch, undeniable and heavy with meaning.
The noise lingered even after the whistle, not roaring now, but echoing like a storm that had passed but left the air humming in its wake. Anfield was still alive, still breathing, but it no longer pressed. It watched.
Francesco stood near the center circle for a moment, hands on his hips again, chest rising and falling heavily. The captain's armband was darkened with sweat, stretched slightly from ninety minutes of tension, leadership, and responsibility. His legs felt hollow now, like they might give way the moment he allowed himself to stop moving.
But he didn't stop.
Not yet.
He looked around the pitch.
Red shirts slumped in disappointment, some with hands on heads, others staring into the distance, trying to process what had just happened. Arsenal players were scattered across the grass as some celebrating softly, some bent double, some lying flat on their backs, eyes closed, letting the floodlights burn away the fatigue.
Francesco clapped his hands together once, sharply.
That was the signal.
"Come on," he called out, voice hoarse but steady. "Together."
One by one, Arsenal players rose. Giroud pushed himself up first, still breathing hard, sweat dripping from his beard. Sánchez wiped his face with his sleeve and nodded. Kanté jogged over immediately, as if he still had energy left to give. Cazorla followed, smiling faintly, eyes bright despite the exhaustion.
Francesco walked toward the nearest Liverpool player.
James Milner.
The Liverpool captain stood a few yards away, hands on his hips, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the turf. When Francesco approached, Milner looked up, disappointment etched deep into his face, but professionalism intact.
They met halfway.
Francesco extended his hand.
Milner took it firmly.
"Well played," Milner said, voice flat but sincere.
"You pushed us to the edge," Francesco replied. "Respect."
They held the handshake for a fraction longer than necessary with two captains acknowledging what the night had demanded of them then released.
And Francesco kept moving.
He made a point of it.
Firmino was next, sweat-soaked, hair plastered to his forehead. Firmino gave a tired smile, shaking Francesco's hand, nodding once in mutual recognition. Coutinho, frustration still visible in the tightness of his expression, accepted the handshake quietly. Mané, still buzzing with energy even in defeat, clasped Francesco's hand with both of his, eyes intense.
"Good game," Mané said, breathless.
Francesco nodded. "You were dangerous all night."
One by one, he went through them.
Wijnaldum. Can. Lucas. Origi. Lovren. Matip. Clyne.
Even Mignolet, standing near his six-yard box, gloves still on, eyes distant. Francesco jogged over to him, extended his hand.
"Hard night," Francesco said.
Mignolet exhaled and nodded. "Yeah. But you were clinical."
At the touchline, Klopp stood with arms folded, watching his players file past. His expression was intense, conflicted with anger, pride, frustration all tangled together. When Francesco approached, Klopp unfolded his arms and stepped forward.
They shook hands.
Klopp's grip was strong.
"You deserved it," Klopp said, voice rough, eyes searching Francesco's face. "Your team showed personality."
Francesco met his gaze evenly. "Your team never stopped. That's Anfield."
Klopp gave a short nod, something like a smile flickering briefly before it disappeared again. "Go enjoy it."
Francesco inclined his head respectfully and moved on.
Behind him, Arsenal players followed his lead.
Koscielny exchanged a long handshake with Firmino. Van Dijk spoke briefly with Lovren, two defenders sharing a moment of mutual understanding. Walker clapped Mané on the shoulder, both of them still buzzing from their duels down the flank. Kanté smiled apologetically at everyone, as if he were personally responsible for the outcome.
It wasn't rushed.
It wasn't performative.
It was football in its most human form as competition ended, respect restored.
Only once every Liverpool player and staff member had been acknowledged did Francesco turn back toward his own team.
He raised his arm.
This time, there was no mistaking the direction.
The away end.
High up, packed tight, a sea of red and white scarves, arms still raised, voices still singing despite the cold, despite the late hour, despite the fact that their throats must have been raw by now. They had never stopped. Not at 2–2. Not at 3–3. Not even when Anfield had threatened to swallow Arsenal whole.
They were still singing.
Francesco began to walk toward them.
Not jog.
Walk.
Deliberate. United.
"Come on," he said again, softer now. "All of us."
The Arsenal players fell in behind him naturally, like a tide pulling inward. No one broke formation. No one wandered off. Even those on the bench from Ospina, Mustafi, Bellerín, Oxlade-Chamberlain are joined in, forming a single, slow-moving line across the pitch.
As they approached the corner beneath the away end, the singing grew louder.
Much louder.
Scarves were lifted higher. Flags waved. Some fans jumped up and down, others simply stood with hands over mouths, eyes shining, overwhelmed by what they had just witnessed.
Francesco stopped a few yards short of the advertising boards and turned to face them.
He stood tall.
Chest out.
Captain.
Then he clapped.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
The players joined in, applause rippling outward, hands stinging, arms heavy but hearts full. Giroud raised both arms overhead. Sánchez thumped his chest, eyes blazing with emotion. Cazorla bowed theatrically, drawing laughter from teammates even now.
Francesco stepped forward, closer to the fans, and raised both hands.
The singing changed.
It wasn't just noise now.
It was a chant.
His name.
Francesco closed his eyes for a brief second and let it wash over him.
He thought of Sutton, cold February nights, discipline and patience. He thought of the bus ride north, quiet and focused. He thought of the free kick curling into the top corner, of Gnabry's calm finish, of Giroud's thunderous strike. He thought of Wenger's hand on his arm, the quiet "You have led."
When he opened his eyes again, he nodded slowly, deliberately, to the away end.
Then he placed his hand over the Arsenal crest on his chest.
The reaction was immediate.
The roar surged upward, louder than anything before, echoing across Anfield, bouncing off steel and concrete, refusing to be contained.
Francesco turned slightly, beckoning his teammates forward.
They stepped up beside him.
Arm in arm.
A line of red and white beneath a wall of belief.
They clapped again, slower this time, in rhythm with the fans. Kanté bounced lightly, smiling uncontrollably. Van Dijk stood with hands on hips, soaking it in. Robertson wiped his face with his sleeve, eyes glassy.
Somewhere behind them, Anfield lights dimmed slightly, the stadium preparing to empty, but the away end refused to quiet. This was their moment, earned mile by mile, minute by minute.
Francesco leaned forward slightly, raising his voice.
"This is for you," he called out, words barely audible beyond the first few rows, but the intent unmistakable.
The fans responded with one final surge of noise, scarves waving, arms pumping, voices cracking.
Eventually, slowly, the applause began to fade that not because the feeling had gone, but because the night demanded its end.
Francesco lowered his arms and turned back to his teammates.
"Alright," he said softly, smiling now, truly smiling. "Let's go."
They walked off together, still united, still buzzing, boots heavy on the turf, hearts light.
Behind them, the away end kept singing.
The singing followed them as they peeled away from the corner, a sound that refused to stay behind, clinging to them as if it wanted to be carried back down the tunnel, onto the bus, all the way to London. It wasn't loud anymore, not thunderous, but steady and warm, like a hand pressed reassuringly between the shoulder blades.
Francesco walked at the front, boots heavy, calves tight, every step sending a dull ache up through his legs. The adrenaline was finally draining, leaving behind the full weight of what ninety minutes at Anfield had taken out of him. His mouth was dry. His throat felt scraped raw. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through, cold now that the running had stopped.
But his spine stayed straight.
Captain until the very last second.
They were only a few yards from the tunnel when a figure in a dark Premier League jacket stepped briskly onto the grass, scanning the players until his eyes landed on Francesco. He raised a hand, polite but insistent.
"Francesco," he called, voice professional, cutting through the lingering noise. "Sorry, media duties. Pitch-side interview."
Francesco slowed and turned.
For a split second, the fatigue flickered across his face. Not irritation. Not reluctance. Just the instinctive calculation of how much energy he had left to give tonight. Then he nodded.
"Okay," he said simply.
He turned back to his teammates, who had already begun to drift slightly toward the tunnel entrance, some exchanging quiet words, some already half-lost in their own thoughts.
"I'll meet you inside," Francesco said, voice calm but firm. "Go get some water. Start cooling down."
Giroud gave him a tired thumbs-up. "Take your time, cap."
Sánchez clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. "Say the right things," he said with a faint grin. "Or at least don't say the wrong ones."
Cazorla laughed softly. "Impossible job."
Kanté just smiled, wide and earnest, before jogging off as if he might still have another sprint left in him.
Francesco watched them disappear down the tunnel, red and white shirts swallowed by shadow and concrete, then turned back to the Premier League staff member.
"Lead the way," he said.
They walked together along the touchline, past photographers packing up lenses, past stewards beginning to shepherd fans toward the exits. The pitch looked different now that emptier, quieter, scuffed and scarred by the battle it had hosted. Divots torn up near the halfway line. Mud smeared in the penalty areas. Evidence everywhere of a match that had demanded honesty.
Near the technical area, a small setup waited.
A camera on a tripod, red light already glowing.
A cameraman adjusting focus, headset on, eyes sharp.
An interviewer standing a few feet away, microphone in hand, cue cards tucked under his arm, posture relaxed but alert. He wore a dark coat against the cold, Premier League logo visible on the sleeve.
He smiled when he saw Francesco approaching.
"Francesco," he said, stepping forward. "Congratulations."
"Thank you," Francesco replied, stopping where he was indicated, just off the pitch, the green still visible behind him, Anfield's vast stands rising in the background.
The cameraman gave a thumbs-up.
The staff member gestured briefly. "We'll go live in a moment."
Francesco nodded again and rolled his shoulders once, loosening the stiffness. He dragged a hand through his damp hair, then wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, smearing sweat across his forearm. His breathing was still heavy, but steadier now.
He glanced up toward the away end one last time.
Some fans were still there, lingering, unwilling to leave just yet. A few noticed him and waved. One lifted a scarf again. Francesco acknowledged them with a small nod.
Then the interviewer stepped into position.
"Alright," he said quietly. "We're on in three… two…"
The red light brightened.
"Francesco," the interviewer began, voice smooth, practiced, carrying easily even over the distant hum of the stadium. "A huge night for Arsenal. Winning 5–3 here at Anfield is no small thing. What's going through your mind right now?"
Francesco exhaled slowly through his nose before answering. He didn't rush. He never did.
"Honestly?" he said, voice hoarse but steady. "Pride. A lot of pride. Coming here is never easy. Everyone knows that. Anfield has a way of testing you from your football, but also your character. And tonight, the boys showed both."
The interviewer nodded, listening.
"You were right at the heart of everything tonight," he continued. "You led the line, you set the tone. How important was it to stay calm, especially when Liverpool kept coming back at you?"
Francesco's eyes flicked briefly toward the pitch, as if replaying moments only he could see now.
"It was vital," he said. "When games like this get wild and they do, especially here you can't let emotion take over completely. You need it, yes. You need the fire. But you also need control. That's what we talked about. Not panicking. Trusting each other. Trusting the work."
He paused, swallowing.
"There were moments where the noise… it tries to pull you under," he added, more quietly. "But that's when leadership matters. Not shouting. Not pointing. Just being there. Showing with your actions."
The interviewer shifted slightly, sensing the weight in the answer.
"Arsenal seemed to find another level in the second half," he said. "Cazorla came on, Gnabry made an impact, Giroud sealed it. How big was the bench tonight?"
Francesco allowed himself a faint smile.
"Huge," he said. "That's football now. It's not just the eleven who start. It's the whole group. Santi came on and gave us rhythm. Serge… that goal, the calm he showed, that's not easy in this stadium. And Olivier when he comes on, defenders feel it immediately."
He glanced briefly toward the tunnel again.
"And everyone who didn't play, everyone on that bench, they were part of it too. You feel that energy."
The interviewer nodded appreciatively, then leaned into the next question.
"As captain, you made a point after the final whistle of leading the team to shake hands with every Liverpool player and with Jürgen Klopp, and then straight to the away end. Why was that important to you?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Because that's the game," he said simply. "We fight for ninety minutes. Sometimes more. We give everything. But when it ends, respect comes first. Liverpool pushed us to the limit tonight. Their players, their manager, their fans as they deserve acknowledgment."
He shifted his weight slightly, boots scraping softly against the concrete edge.
"And our supporters," he continued, voice warming. "They traveled. They sang when it was uncomfortable. When momentum wasn't ours. They gave us belief. The least we can do is give it back."
The interviewer smiled. "They certainly seemed to appreciate it."
Francesco chuckled softly, then winced slightly as a cramp tugged at his calf.
"They always do," he said. "That's Arsenal."
The interviewer glanced briefly at his notes, then back up.
"This result sends a statement," he said. "To the league, to the title race. Do you see it that way?"
Francesco's expression shifted, becoming more measured.
"It's a statement of who we want to be," he said. "But it's one match. A big one, yes, but still one. The league doesn't give you anything for nights like this alone. You have to back it up. Again and again."
He looked directly into the camera now.
"That's the challenge," he added. "And that's what excites us."
The interviewer let a beat pass after Francesco's last words, allowing them to settle, allowing the weight of the night to breathe.
He smiled again, this time a little wider, and shifted the microphone slightly.
"One last thing, Francesco," he said. "And this one might not come as a surprise."
He reached down to his side, where a small plinth had been resting just out of frame. The Premier League lion gleamed under the floodlights, polished metal catching the glow, the words Man of the Match etched clearly beneath the logo.
"For two goals, one assist, and leading your team through one of the toughest away fixtures in the league," the interviewer continued, turning the award toward the camera, "the Premier League Man of the Match goes to you."
For the first time all night, Francesco looked genuinely taken aback.
Not shocked as he understood performances, understood numbers but humbled. His shoulders dropped a fraction, the tension easing in a way it hadn't even after the final whistle. He reached out instinctively, hands still trembling faintly from exhaustion, and accepted the award.
"Thank you," he said quietly at first, then looked up. "Really. But this belongs to the team."
The interviewer nodded, unsurprised.
"Would you like to say anything to the fans watching at home?"
Francesco turned the trophy slightly in his hands, then looked directly into the camera again. His eyes were tired now, rimmed with red, but clear.
"Just… thank you," he said. "To everyone who traveled, everyone who stayed up late, everyone who believes in us. Nights like this don't happen by accident. They happen because of support like that."
He paused, then added with a faint smile, "And we'll keep working. Promise."
The interviewer smiled and stepped back.
"Congratulations again, Francesco. Enjoy the night."
"Thank you," Francesco replied.
The cameraman lowered the camera fully now, red light switching off with a soft click. He gave Francesco a quick nod of respect.
"Hell of a performance," he said.
Francesco smiled politely. "Appreciate it."
He handed the award briefly to the Premier League staff member, who adjusted it so Francesco could carry it more comfortably, then turned back toward the tunnel. As he walked away, the ache in his legs returned in full force, no longer masked by adrenaline or duty. Each step felt heavier than the last, but now there was relief mixed in that deep, satisfying relief.
The tunnel swallowed him again, concrete walls closing in, the noise of the stadium replaced by echoes of laughter, music, voices raised in celebration.
The dressing room door was already open.
The sound hit him before the sight.
Music blasting from a speaker someone had dragged into the center of the room. Shouts. Laughter. Boots thudding against lockers. Someone banging rhythmically on a metal bench. Bottles of water and sports drinks being cracked open, sprayed accidentally or deliberately across the room.
Francesco stepped inside.
And chaos greeted him.
Giroud was at the center of it, towel draped over his shoulders like a cape, reenacting his goal with exaggerated flair, complete with a slow-motion strike that sent an imaginary ball crashing into an imaginary net.
"I told you!" he shouted, pointing at no one in particular. "First touch! Boom!"
Sánchez was laughing openly, head thrown back, a rare unguarded sound, while Cazorla danced nearby, hips swaying, feet light even after ninety minutes, clapping along to the music completely off-beat.
Kanté sat on a bench tying and untying his boots for no apparent reason, smiling like a child who had just been told he could stay up late. Every few seconds someone would clap him on the shoulder as they passed, murmuring words of praise, and he would respond with a shy laugh, shaking his head.
Van Dijk stood near his locker, shirt already off, arms crossed, listening as Koscielny replayed a defensive moment with animated gestures, describing a block, a tackle, a split-second decision that had felt like life or death in the moment.
"—and then I thought, if I miss this, that's it," Koscielny said, spreading his arms wide. "So I didn't miss."
"Good choice," Van Dijk replied dryly, then cracked a smile.
Francesco paused just inside the doorway, the Man of the Match award still in his hands.
For a second, no one noticed him.
Then Giroud did.
"There he is!" Giroud roared, pointing dramatically. "The man himself!"
The room erupted.
Cheers. Whistles. Someone started chanting his name again, this time off-key, half-laughing, half-shouting. A towel flew through the air and smacked Francesco lightly in the chest.
He laughed despite himself.
"Alright, alright," he said, raising one hand. "Relax."
But he was smiling now. Fully. Openly.
He lifted the award slightly, not to boast, but to show it.
"This doesn't leave this room," he said. "Agreed?"
"That's fine," Cazorla said immediately. "We'll just take pictures."
"Already did," Sánchez added, holding up his phone. "Three times."
Francesco shook his head and walked further in, placing the trophy carefully on a table near the center of the room, surrounded instantly by bottles, tape, shin pads, and someone's abandoned boots.
He took a deep breath and clapped his hands together, the sound sharp enough to cut through the noise.
"Listen," he said.
The volume dipped that not completely, but enough. Enough respect still lived in this room.
"That was a hard-fought match," Francesco continued. "One of the hardest we'll play all season. They chased us. Three times. And every time, we responded."
He looked around the room, meeting eyes one by one.
"That's not luck," he said. "That's mentality."
Giroud nodded. Sánchez's expression softened slightly. Kanté stopped fidgeting with his boots.
"You don't win here by accident," Francesco went on. "You win here because you trust the man next to you. Because when the stadium is screaming for you to fail, you don't hide. You ask for the ball. You make the run. You make the tackle."
He paused, swallowing, emotion rising unexpectedly.
"And you did that. Every one of you."
There was a brief silence.
Then someone started clapping.
Then everyone did.
It wasn't wild. It wasn't loud.
It was solid.
Francesco exhaled and finally let himself sit down on the nearest bench, the tension draining from his shoulders as if someone had opened a valve. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, head bowed for a moment.
Giroud plopped down beside him, still grinning.
"Two goals and an assist," he said. "Not bad for a quiet night."
Francesco snorted softly. "You finished it."
Giroud shrugged. "Team effort."
Across the room, the coaching staff filtered in. Wenger entered last, as always, quiet presence filling the space without demanding it. He stood for a moment, taking it all in with the smiles, the noise, the sheer release.
Then he cleared his throat gently.
The room fell silent almost immediately.
"Gentlemen," Wenger said, voice calm, measured. "Enjoy this. Truly. You earned it."
He looked at Francesco briefly, then at the rest.
"But remember," he added, "the season does not pause to admire one result. Recovery tonight. Focus tomorrow."
A few groans followed, mostly joking.
Wenger allowed himself a small smile. "Tonight," he conceded, "you may celebrate."
That was all the permission they needed.
The music went back up. Laughter returned. Someone popped open a bottle of something that definitely wasn't just sports drink. Towels were swung, voices raised, stories retold louder and more exaggerated with every repetition.
Francesco sat back and watched it for a moment.
He thought of the moment Liverpool had made it 3–3, Anfield erupting, pressure closing in. He thought of the way they had steadied themselves, the way Cazorla had demanded the ball, the way Gnabry had finished without fear, the way Giroud had struck like a hammer.
He thought of the handshake with Klopp. The nod from Milner. The singing from the away end.
He looked at the Man of the Match award sitting quietly on the table, already half-hidden beneath tape and gloves.
Then he smiled to himself.
This was why he played.
Not the award.
Not the headlines.
But this room. This feeling. This shared exhaustion and joy after being chased, tested, pushed to the edge and refusing to fall.
Outside, Anfield emptied completely.
Inside, Arsenal celebrated.
Two days later, the world had slowed down.
Not stopped as football never truly stopped but softened, edges rounded off, noise replaced by something gentler. The kind of quiet that only came after a storm had passed and left behind clear air and aching muscles.
Richmond sat under a pale winter afternoon, the sky stretched thin and silver, clouds drifting lazily as if they had nowhere urgent to be. Francesco's mansion rested behind its wrought-iron gates, understated in its elegance, red brick warmed by the weak sun, tall windows reflecting the Thames in fragments of light. Inside, the house felt lived in now, not like a showpiece, but like a place that held breath and laughter and routine.
Francesco was sunk deep into the corner of the sofa, legs stretched out, feet bare, an ice pack resting against his right knee. He wore a simple grey hoodie and black sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, curls looser without product, face free of the sharpness it carried on matchdays. There was still a faint stiffness in his movements as Anfield never left you untouched but the worst of the soreness had faded into a dull reminder rather than a complaint.
Leah lay beside him, curled comfortably against his side, one leg draped lazily across his thighs, head resting on his chest. She wore one of his old Arsenal training shirts, oversized, sleeves too long, the crest sitting just above her heart. Her hair was pulled into a loose knot, strands escaping and brushing against his neck whenever she shifted.
The television murmured in front of them, Sky Sports News filling the room with familiar graphics and calm, authoritative voices. The volume was low, more background than focus, but both of them were listening.
On the screen, highlights rolled.
Arsenal 5 – Liverpool 3.
Again.
Francesco watched his own goal flash up from free kick arcing over the wall, dipping, unstoppable. The camera angle shifted to his celebration, fists clenched, jaw tight, release etched into every line of his body. He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Still doesn't look real," Leah murmured, eyes flicking up toward the screen.
He hummed in agreement. "Feels even stranger."
She tilted her head slightly to look up at him. "You barely slept the night after, you know."
Francesco smirked faintly. "I slept."
"You stared at the ceiling for two hours," she corrected. "Then you replayed the 3–3 goal out loud like you were trying to solve a crime."
He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through her cheek where it rested against his chest. "I was analyzing."
"Of course you were," she said, smiling.
On the television, the studio cut away from highlights to a wider league discussion. The presenter's tone shifted subtly, anticipation creeping in.
"And now," the presenter said, "attention turns to Europe. Arsenal's next fixture comes in the Champions League, where they host Bayern Munich at the Emirates Stadium for the second leg of their Round of 16 tie."
Leah shifted slightly, propping herself up on one elbow now, interest sharpening.
The screen filled with footage from the Allianz Arena.
Arsenal in red and white.
Bayern in their deep crimson.
Goals replayed one after another.
Five of them.
Two for Bayern.
The scoreline flashed bold across the screen:
BAYERN MUNICH 2 – ARSENAL 5
First leg.
Francesco felt Leah's fingers trace absent-mindedly over his chest as she watched, the movement slow and grounding.
"Five-two away in Munich," she said quietly. "That's insane."
He nodded. "It was… a night."
The presenter continued, voice steady but laced with significance.
"Arsenal come into the second leg with a three-goal advantage. On paper, they are in a commanding position. But Bayern Munich are not a club that accepts elimination quietly. They will have to fight hard if they want to overturn the deficit and reach the quarter-finals."
The screen split to show pundits now.
Gary Neville leaned forward, hands clasped. "If any team can make it uncomfortable, it's Bayern. But Arsenal look different. They look composed. Mentally stronger."
Jamie Carragher nodded. "And Francesco, he's central to everything they do. Goals, leadership, big moments. If Arsenal stay disciplined, Bayern have a mountain to climb."
Francesco shifted slightly, the ice pack slipping, and Leah adjusted it for him automatically, practiced now.
"You hear that?" she teased softly. "Mentally stronger."
He snorted. "Took them long enough."
She smiled, then grew quieter, thoughtful. "Does it feel different?"
He didn't answer immediately.
The footage rolled on crowd shots from Munich, Bayern fans stunned into silence, Arsenal players celebrating in front of the away end, arms linked. He watched himself again, clapping toward the stands, face lit with something that went beyond joy.
"Yes," he said finally. "It does."
Leah hummed, satisfied, and settled back against him again. "Good."
They watched in silence for a while.
Outside, the light shifted gradually, afternoon edging toward evening. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock chimed softly. The heating clicked on, low and steady. The world felt… held. Safe, in a way it rarely did during the season.
On screen, the presenter moved on to tactical analysis.
"Bayern will likely push high from the first minute," he said. "They'll need goals early. Arsenal's challenge will be managing the game with knowing when to slow it down, when to hurt them."
Leah glanced up again. "That's your favorite part, isn't it? Managing."
Francesco smiled faintly. "It's not glamorous."
"Neither is winning 5–3 at Anfield," she said dryly.
He laughed again, softer this time, and kissed the top of her head. "True."
The conversation on television shifted to possible lineups, injury news, hypothetical scenarios. Names flashed across the screen from Lewandowski, Müller, Neuer. Threats catalogued, dangers named and analyzed.
But Francesco's mind drifted elsewhere.
To the Emirates under the lights.
To the sound of the Champions League anthem rising into the night air.
To the knowledge that a three-goal advantage was not a guarantee, it was a responsibility.
He felt Leah's breathing slow, steady against him, the quiet confidence she carried, the grounding presence she had become without either of them ever announcing it out loud.
"You nervous?" she asked suddenly, sensing the change.
He considered it.
"No," he said. "Focused."
She smiled into his chest. "Good answer."
He shifted, turning his head to look down at her properly now. "You'll be there."
It wasn't a question.
"Of course," she said. "I wouldn't miss it."
He nodded, satisfied, then turned his attention back to the screen as Sky Sports began rolling a montage with Arsenal's European nights past, triumphs and heartbreak stitched together into a reminder of what the competition demanded.
The presenter's final words lingered.
"Arsenal hold the advantage, but Europe has a way of punishing complacency. Bayern Munich will fight. Arsenal must be ready."
Francesco reached for the remote and lowered the volume further until the television became little more than moving light.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 36
Goal: 57
Assist: 3
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9