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And for the first time since he'd woken up feverish days ago, Francesco went to bed not thinking about what he was missing, but about how close he was to coming back whole.
Morning arrived without ceremony.
No fever haze. No heaviness pinning him to the mattress. No dull throb behind his eyes reminding him that his body was still negotiating terms with itself.
Francesco woke up slowly, the way you did when sleep had actually done its job.
For a moment, he stayed still, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as light filtered in through the curtains. The room felt different today. Not brighter exactly, just clearer. Sharper around the edges. Like the world had come back into focus.
He took a breath.
Deep.
Full.
It didn't hitch. Didn't scrape. Didn't come with that lingering tightness in his chest he'd grown used to over the last few days.
His body answered him easily.
That was new.
He shifted slightly, testing it. Rolled his shoulders. Flexed his fingers. Drew one knee up and then the other.
There it was.
That familiar awareness.
Not exhaustion. Not weakness.
Readiness.
It wasn't loud or demanding, but it was there with quiet confidence humming just beneath his skin. The sense that his body was his again, responding instead of resisting.
He smiled faintly to himself.
Leah was still asleep beside him, turned slightly away, hair fanned across the pillow. Her breathing was slow and even, the steady rhythm of someone who hadn't spent the night worrying this time.
Francesco moved carefully, slipping out of bed without waking her. He pulled on a light training top and shorts that nothing heavy, nothing ambitious. Just enough to feel like himself again.
Downstairs, the house was still quiet.
Early-morning quiet.
The kind that belonged to athletes and early risers and people who found peace before the world started asking for things.
He stepped into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, drinking it slowly, deliberately. His reflection stared back at him from the darkened window.
He looked… normal.
A little tired, yes. A little leaner than he remembered. But his eyes were clear. His posture easy.
He grabbed a light jacket and slipped out the back door.
The backyard greeted him with cool air and damp grass, dew still clinging to the blades. The sky was pale, streaked with soft blues and faint golds as the sun began its climb.
Francesco stood there for a moment, just breathing.
Listening.
Birds. Distant traffic. The faint rustle of leaves.
Then, almost without thinking, he started jogging.
Slow at first.
Measured.
He stayed close to the edges of the yard, letting his body set the pace instead of his mind. His feet sank lightly into the grass, the ground cool beneath his shoes.
He waited for something to protest.
His lungs.
His legs.
His head.
Nothing did.
His breathing settled into an easy rhythm, familiar and comforting. His stride loosened naturally, muscle memory taking over without effort. He wasn't pushing. Wasn't testing limits.
He was just moving.
And it felt incredible.
A quiet laugh escaped him as he rounded the far edge of the garden, the sound carried away by the morning air. He felt alive in a way that went beyond relief. It was joy which not the explosive, roaring kind of a goal celebration, but something deeper. Quieter. More personal.
After a few minutes, he slowed to a walk, hands resting on his hips as he breathed deeply. Still fine. Still steady.
No dizziness.
No tightness.
No warning signs.
Just a body that felt like it remembered who it was.
He stretched lightly from his calves, hamstrings, shoulders with careful not to overdo it. Then he jogged again, another slow lap, enjoying the way the movement stitched him back together.
When he finally stopped for good, a light sheen of sweat clung to his skin, cooling quickly in the air.
He stood there for a moment, heart beating calmly, and smiled.
"I'm back," he murmured to no one in particular.
Inside, the house was beginning to wake.
Leah was in the kitchen when he came back in, hair still messy from sleep, oversized hoodie pulled on over her pyjamas. She looked up just as he stepped through the door.
Her eyes widened instantly.
"Francesco," she said. "What are you doing?"
"Jogging," he replied simply.
Her expression flickered with concern, instinctive worry before she really looked at him.
He wasn't flushed. Wasn't unsteady. Wasn't breathing hard.
He looked… good.
"You okay?" she asked, still cautious.
"Better than okay," he said. "I took it slow. Promise."
She studied him for another moment, then sighed, the tension easing out of her shoulders.
"You're impossible," she muttered.
He grinned. "You love me."
"That's the problem."
She turned back to the counter and started plating breakfast, movements smooth and practiced. The smell filled the kitchen quickly with eggs, toast, something warm and comforting.
"Sit," she said without looking at him. "Before you decide to run a marathon."
He obeyed, settling onto the stool at the island.
Breakfast appeared in front of him moments later.
Scrambled eggs again, but this time with avocado. Toast. A bowl of yogurt with fruit. A glass of water.
And beside it, a small handful of vitamins.
"These," Leah said, sliding them closer, "are not optional."
He picked one up, examining it. "You've become very authoritative."
"Someone has to," she replied. "Your immune system just fought a war."
He swallowed them without complaint, washing them down with water.
"Feel good?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said honestly. "Really good."
She smiled at that, a real one this time.
They ate together, the kitchen bright with morning light. Francesco finished everything easily, appetite fully back now. Each bite felt like fuel instead of obligation.
As he was finishing, the doorbell rang.
Leah glanced at the clock. "That'll be him."
Francesco nodded. "Last check."
The club doctor arrived moments later, expression familiar and relaxed. He took one look at Francesco that upright posture, alert eyes, relaxed movements and smiled.
"You look different today," he said.
"Good different?" Francesco asked.
"Very."
They went through the routine one final time. Temperature normal. Heart rate steady. Blood pressure perfect.
The doctor asked questions as he worked.
"Any dizziness this morning?"
"No."
"Headache?"
"Gone."
"Fatigue?"
"Still a bit," Francesco admitted. "But… normal."
The doctor nodded approvingly.
"Did you do any activity?"
Francesco hesitated, glancing at Leah.
"Light jogging," Leah said before he could. "Very light."
The doctor raised an eyebrow, then smiled. "And how did that feel?"
"Easy," Francesco said. "Controlled."
"Good," the doctor replied. "That's what I wanted to hear."
He stepped back, folding his clipboard under his arm.
"Alright," he said. "I'm comfortable giving you the green light."
Francesco's chest tightened which not with anxiety, but with excitement.
"Training?" he asked.
"Yes," the doctor confirmed. "You can rejoin the team."
Leah smiled automatically.
"But," the doctor added, raising a finger, "with conditions."
Francesco nodded. "Of course."
"For the next two days," the doctor said, "you train normally, but not harshly. No pushing to prove anything. No extra reps. No finishing drills just because you feel good."
Francesco listened carefully.
"Your fitness is coming back," the doctor continued. "But your immune system is still settling. Training is fine. Overloading is not."
"I understand," Francesco said. "Two days."
"Good," the doctor said. "After that, we reassess. If everything stays normal, you're fully cleared."
He extended his hand.
Francesco shook it, grip firm.
"Welcome back," the doctor said.
After he left, the house felt different.
Lighter.
Charged.
Leah leaned against the counter, watching Francesco with a small, proud smile.
"You look happy," she said.
"I am," he replied. "But I'll be careful. Promise."
She nodded. "I know."
He grabbed his phone, already buzzing with messages.
A text from Wenger.
Doctor just called me. We see you today.
Francesco smiled and typed back.
Looking forward to it. I'll behave.
He set the phone down and looked around the kitchen with the sunlight, the quiet, Leah standing there with her arms crossed, watching him like she had for days now.
"Thank you," he said suddenly.
"For what?" she asked.
"For making me stop," he replied. "I didn't know I needed it."
She softened. "Sometimes the body knows before the mind does."
He stood, stepping closer, resting his forehead briefly against hers.
"I'm glad I listened," he murmured.
"So am I," she replied.
Outside, the day was already moving forward.
Outside, the day was already moving forward.
Francesco felt it the moment he stepped upstairs again. That subtle shift inside him with the mental click from recovery to routine, from waiting to doing. It wasn't frantic. It wasn't rushed. It was steady, like slipping back into a rhythm he'd known his whole life.
He showered first, warm water loosening his muscles further, steam fogging the mirror as he stood under it longer than usual. Not because he needed it, but because he could. Every movement felt earned. Every breath came easily.
When he dressed, it was instinctive. Training kit laid out clean and familiar. Socks folded just so. Shorts pulled on without thought. The red top followed, snug but comfortable against his skin. He paused briefly as he pulled it over his head, the crest settling over his chest.
Still here.
Still mine.
Down in the spare room, his duffle bag sat open on the bed like it always had on training days. Francesco moved through the ritual with quiet precision.
Boots first.
He picked them up carefully, turning them over in his hands. They were freshly cleaned, studs still sharp, leather soft from use but not worn down. He ran his thumb along the edge absentmindedly, then placed them into the bag heel to toe, wrapped lightly in a towel.
Shin pads followed.
Tape.
Spare socks.
Training shorts.
A fresh shirt.
Water bottle.
Small things from wrist tape, ankle brace he rarely used but always carried anyway, the old habit of preparation ingrained too deep to ignore.
As he zipped the bag closed, there was a sense of finality to it. Not dramatic. Just solid.
He slung it over his shoulder and headed back downstairs.
Leah was by the front door, already dressed now, hair tied back, mug of coffee in her hands. She watched him approach, eyes flicking briefly to the bag and then back to his face.
"So," she said softly. "This is really happening."
He nodded. "Just training. Nothing heroic."
She smiled. "That's what worries me."
He laughed quietly, setting the bag down for a moment. "I'll be good. Two days. Light. You heard him."
"I did," she replied. "And I'll be reminding you."
He stepped closer and pulled her into a hug, holding her there longer than usual. She fit against him easily, like she always had. Familiar. Grounding.
"Thank you," he said again, voice low.
"For letting you go?" she teased.
"For making sure I could," he answered.
She pulled back slightly, looking up at him. "Text me when you get there."
"I will."
"And if you feel anything, you stop."
"I know."
She rose onto her toes and kissed him once, quick but full of meaning. "Go on, then. Before you start pacing."
He grinned, slinging the bag back over his shoulder. "I'll see you later."
"Go remind them who you are," she said, then added quickly, "but gently."
He laughed as he opened the door.
The BMW X5 waited in the driveway, gleaming softly under the morning light. Francesco tossed the bag into the back, climbed in, and sat there for a moment with his hands on the steering wheel.
Then he started the engine.
The drive to London Colney felt almost surreal.
Traffic moved as it always did. Roads curved and stretched out ahead of him, familiar landmarks passing by like old friends. But everything felt sharper now. More vivid. The music on the radio sounded clearer. The steering wheel felt more responsive under his hands.
He wasn't thinking about tactics.
Wasn't thinking about drills.
Wasn't thinking about fitness tests or minutes played.
He was just… present.
When Colney came into view, that low, modern sprawl of buildings set against green pitches, something stirred in his chest. Not nerves. Not pressure.
Belonging.
He pulled into the parking lot and eased the car into his usual space. Turned off the engine. Sat for a second longer.
Then he stepped out.
The air smelled like cut grass and damp earth. Somewhere in the distance, a whistle blew. Laughter drifted faintly from one of the pitches.
Francesco hoisted the duffle bag over his shoulder and started walking.
The first person he saw was one of the kit staff near the entrance, pushing a cart of cones.
The man looked up, did a double take and broke into a grin.
"Look who's alive," he said.
Francesco laughed. "Barely."
"Good to have you back, mate," the staff member replied, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed. "We've missed you."
"Missed you too," Francesco said sincerely.
Inside the building, it was the same story.
A physio nodded at him from the hallway, smile wide. "About time."
A fitness coach gave him a thumbs-up. "No running today, yeah?"
Francesco raised his hands. "Doctor's orders."
Each greeting chipped away at the distance of the last few days. Each smile pulled him further back into the fold.
By the time he reached the dressing room door, his chest felt full.
He pushed it open.
The room went quiet.
Not slowly. Not awkwardly.
Instantly.
Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Laughter died in throats. Heads turned.
For half a second, no one moved.
Francesco stopped just inside the doorway, bag still slung over his shoulder, caught by the sudden stillness.
Then Aaron Ramsey's face split into a grin.
"Well I'll be fucked," Ramsey said loudly.
The room erupted.
"FRANCESCO!"
"ABOUT TIME!"
"LOOK AT HIM!"
Chairs scraped back. Lockers slammed shut. Boots were kicked aside as players surged toward him.
Before Francesco could even react, arms wrapped around him from every direction.
"Careful," he laughed, staggering slightly. "I've been medically cleared, not immortal."
Too late.
Ramsey grabbed him from the front. Oxlade-Chamberlain from the side. Bellerín and Sánchez joined in, laughing, shouting over each other.
"Back already?" Ox said. "Doctor get bored of you?"
Sánchez was grinning ear to ear, clapping Francesco on the back. "We play better when you breathe," he said simply.
Francesco shook his head, smiling. "Good to see you too."
They didn't let him finish the sentence.
With a sudden burst of coordination that only footballers had, they lifted him off the ground.
"Oi—!" Francesco protested, laughter spilling out as his feet left the floor.
"One," Ramsey counted.
They tossed him up, not high, just enough to make the point.
He landed safely back in their arms.
"Two," Oxlade-Chamberlain said.
Up he went again, higher this time.
When they set him down, the room was roaring with laughter and applause. Someone whistled. Someone else pounded on a locker.
Francesco bent forward slightly, hands on his knees, laughing hard now. "Alright, alright," he said. "I'm back. You don't have to kill me."
Sánchez gripped his shoulder. "We might later. In training."
"Doctor said light," Francesco replied.
Ramsey smirked. "We'll see."
One by one, the rest of the team came over. Handshakes turned into hugs. Nods turned into smiles. Even the quieter ones from Monreal, Koscielny offered brief words of welcome, claps on the back, looks that said more than they needed to.
"You good?" Koscielny asked quietly.
"Yeah," Francesco said. "Really."
"Good," Laurent replied. "We need you."
Francesco moved to his locker, the familiar nameplate waiting for him like it always had. He set his bag down, unzipped it, and began unpacking slowly.
Boots out.
Shin pads lined neatly.
Everything exactly where it belonged.
Around him, the room buzzed with energy. Music came on. Someone cracked a joke. The sound of studs tapping against the floor echoed as players moved around, preparing for the session.
Wenger appeared briefly in the doorway, taking in the scene.
His eyes found Francesco.
He nodded once.
A small smile touched his lips.
Francesco met his gaze and nodded back.
Nothing else needed to be said.
Nothing else needed to be said.
But the moment didn't end there. It never really did. It simply folded into the next movement, the next routine, the next shared breath that made this place what it was.
Francesco finished unpacking and straightened, rolling his shoulders once more, feeling the weight of the room around him. The music grew louder now with someone had connected their phone to the speakers, a bassline pulsing through the dressing room. Boots thudded against the floor. Zippers buzzed. Laughter bounced off the walls.
He moved with the others, shedding his top, pulling on the full training kit piece by piece. The fabric felt familiar against his skin, almost reassuring. It fit the way it always had, like it belonged there because it did.
Ramsey nudged him with an elbow as he tied his laces. "Don't try and impress anyone today."
Francesco glanced up, amused. "I don't need to."
Ramsey snorted. "That's what worries us."
Ox dropped onto the bench opposite him, already bouncing one knee. "Bet he scores five in the scrimmage and pretends it was 'light'."
"I heard that," Francesco said.
"Good."
Bellerín stretched nearby, long legs extended, rotating his ankles methodically. "Just don't disappear again," he said, half-joking but not entirely.
"I'm planning on sticking around," Francesco replied.
Sánchez, already changed and pacing like a coiled spring, stopped briefly in front of him. He tapped Francesco's chest twice with his fingers. "You run, I run," he said. "Simple."
Francesco smiled. "Then we'll both run."
When they were ready, the room began to empty, players filing out in loose clusters toward the pitches. Francesco followed, stepping out into the open air with the rest of them, the sky now fully awake above Colney. The grass stretched out in perfect green lanes, lines freshly painted, cones already arranged with almost military precision.
Wenger stood near the touchline, hands clasped behind his back, jacket zipped halfway, eyes sharp and observant as ever. He watched them approach without speaking, letting the group settle, letting the noise die down naturally.
When everyone had gathered, he stepped forward.
"Good," he said simply. "We train."
No speech. No fuss.
Just work.
They began with fitness.
Light, controlled, exactly as promised.
Jogging first, laps around the pitch at an easy pace. Francesco stayed central in the pack, letting the rhythm carry him. His breathing was calm, measured, falling into sync with his stride. Each footfall felt grounded. Each turn felt smooth.
He was aware of his body in a way that felt healthy, not anxious. He noticed the stretch in his calves, the warmth building in his thighs, the gentle thud of his heart, but nothing screamed for attention. Nothing felt wrong.
Wenger watched closely, eyes flicking to Francesco often, not intrusive but attentive. A silent check-in with every lap.
After jogging came dynamic stretches. Lunges. High knees. Heel flicks. Side shuffles. Francesco moved through them easily, muscles responding without hesitation. He caught the eye of one of the fitness coaches, who gave him a subtle nod.
So far, so good.
They transitioned into short sprints next. Not full throttle with controlled bursts over ten, then twenty meters. Francesco leaned into them carefully, pushing just enough to feel the acceleration without forcing it.
The first sprint felt like waking up an old engine.
The second felt smoother.
By the third, his legs remembered exactly how to do this.
He slowed at the line, hands on hips, breathing steady. No dizziness. No tight chest. Just heat and focus.
"Easy," Wenger called out. "Control."
Francesco nodded, even though Wenger wasn't speaking directly to him. The message applied anyway.
Next came dribbling.
Cones were set in staggered lines, forcing quick touches, changes of direction, close control. Balls rolled out across the grass, and the sound of boots against leather filled the air.
Francesco took his first touch cautiously, then another, and another. The ball stayed glued to his foot, instinct guiding him more than conscious thought. He weaved through the cones, hips swiveling, feet dancing lightly over the turf.
The joy of it hit him then.
Not dramatic.
Just pure.
This was what he'd missed. The conversation between foot and ball. The quiet satisfaction of control. The way the world narrowed to movement and timing and feel.
Sánchez finished his run beside him and glanced over. "Still smooth," he said approvingly.
"Always," Francesco replied, though there was a humility in it now. Gratitude, even.
They rotated through drills, each repetition building confidence. Wenger moved among them, adjusting positions, offering brief instructions, occasionally stopping a player to demonstrate a movement himself, still precise despite the years.
Then came passing.
Short, sharp exchanges first. One-touch passes in triangles, the ball snapping back and forth with increasing speed. Francesco slotted in seamlessly, opening his body, cushioning the ball, releasing it without breaking stride.
Ramsey zipped a pass into him. Francesco flicked it back around the corner without looking.
"Cheeky," Ramsey muttered, but he was smiling.
Longer passes followed. Switching play. Driven balls. Weighted through passes that demanded touch and vision.
Francesco felt his timing sharpen with each one. He didn't force creativity; he let it come naturally. A slide-rule pass here. A lofted ball there. Nothing extravagant, but everything effective.
Wenger watched, arms folded now, expression unreadable but intent.
Shooting came next.
That familiar tension returned that not fear, but anticipation.
Balls were lined up at the edge of the box. One by one, players stepped up, receiving passes, striking on the move. The thud of shots echoed across the training ground.
Francesco waited his turn.
When it came, he took the ball cleanly on his right foot, set it with a single touch, and struck.
The ball flew low and true, skimming the grass and kissing the inside of the post before settling in the net.
The sound was unmistakable.
A few players glanced over instinctively.
Francesco jogged back to the line, face calm, but something warm flickered behind his eyes.
Again.
Another pass.
Another shot.
This time he opened his body and curled it toward the far corner, the ball bending obediently.
He didn't celebrate. Didn't need to.
Wenger made a note on his pad.
Defensive drills followed, grounding the session again. Pressing patterns. Tracking runs. Compact shape. Francesco worked through them with discipline, staying aware of spacing, communication, movement off the ball.
"Left shoulder," Koscielny called at one point.
"I see him," Francesco replied, adjusting his position instinctively.
They moved as a unit now, the session flowing smoothly, intensity rising but never tipping over the line Wenger had set.
Finally, Wenger clapped his hands once.
"Scrimmage."
That word alone lifted the energy another notch.
Bibs were handed out. Teams divided quickly. Francesco pulled on his, rolling his shoulders again as he stepped onto the smaller pitch marked out for the game.
This was it.
Not a match.
Not a test.
Just football.
The whistle blew.
From the first touch, it was clear Francesco wasn't holding back, but he wasn't forcing it either. He played within himself, letting the game come to him. A simple pass here. A clever movement there. Dropping deep to collect the ball, then surging forward when space opened.
Sánchez found him with a quick give-and-go, and Francesco burst into the box, checking his run at the last second before squaring the ball across goal.
"Too generous!" someone shouted.
He shrugged. "It's training."
Minutes passed in a blur of movement and sound. Shouts of instruction. The slap of boots. The occasional laugh when someone nutmegged another and paid for it moments later.
Francesco scored once that not spectacular, just a calm finish after a scramble in the box. He jogged back into position without fuss, heart pounding but steady.
Wenger watched closely throughout, eyes following Francesco more often than not.
When the final whistle sounded, the players slowed, hands on hips, sweat-soaked, smiling, spent.
Francesco bent forward slightly, breathing deeply.
Still fine.
Still steady.
Wenger approached, stopping in front of him.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
Francesco straightened. "Good," he said honestly. "Strong."
Wenger studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Good. That is enough for today."
Relief and satisfaction washed over Francesco in equal measure.
As they walked back toward the building together, sun high now, grass shimmering beneath their boots.
Relief and satisfaction washed over Francesco in equal measure.
The session didn't end with a roar or a rush. It ended the way it had begun with controlled, measured, intentional. Wenger turned and walked back toward the building, already speaking quietly with one of the coaches, the rest of the staff following in a loose line. The players drifted after them, laughter and chatter returning now that the work was done.
Francesco walked among them, boots crunching softly against the gravel path that led back to the changing rooms. Sweat clung to his skin, his shirt darkened across the chest and back, but it felt earned. Good sweat. The kind that came from movement, not from fever or weakness.
Ramsey walked beside him, towel already slung over his shoulder.
"You didn't die," Ramsey said conversationally.
"High bar," Francesco replied.
"Doctor will be thrilled."
"I think he already is," Francesco said. "I didn't even scare him."
They reached the building, pushing through the doors into the familiar hum of the interior. The smell hit him immediately from liniment, damp kit, soap, that faint metallic tang that belonged only to football facilities. It wrapped around him like a memory.
Inside the dressing room, the energy shifted again. Training mode switched off. Recovery mode clicked on.
Players moved automatically to their lockers, peeling off bibs, tugging sweaty shirts over their heads, dropping boots with dull thuds onto the floor. Someone turned the music down, the bass fading into something quieter, more relaxed.
Francesco stood at his locker for a moment, just breathing it in.
Still here.
He reached up and pulled his shirt off, fabric sticking briefly to his skin before coming free. Cool air brushed over him, goosebumps rising along his arms. He grabbed his towel and a clean change of clothes, stuffing them under his arm.
"Shower before or after me?" Ox asked, already halfway out of his boots.
"You go," Francesco said. "I'm not racing anyone today."
Ox smirked. "Miracles do happen."
They filed toward the shower room together, a loose procession of tired bodies and easy smiles. The tiled space echoed with voices, laughter bouncing off the walls as showers roared to life one by one.
Steam rose quickly, fogging the mirrors, softening the edges of everything.
Francesco stepped under a free showerhead and twisted the handle, letting warm water cascade over him. He tilted his head back, eyes closing as the heat sank into his muscles.
This was when it really hit him.
Not during the sprints.
Not during the scrimmage.
Here.
Standing under running water, heart rate slowing, body unwinding.
He was back.
The water washed sweat and grass and effort down the drain. His breathing evened out naturally, no conscious control needed. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck, fingers scrubbing through his hair.
Around him, the room buzzed with low conversation.
"Thought you were going to curl that one top corner," someone said.
"I was," came the reply. "Keeper ruined it."
Laughter.
A slap of water.
Sánchez stepped into the shower beside him, already humming under his breath.
"You look alive," Sánchez said.
"I feel it," Francesco replied.
Sánchez nodded once, satisfied. "Good."
There was something unspoken there. Respect. Relief. A shared understanding that went beyond words.
They showered without hurry, letting the warmth do its work. When Francesco finally stepped out, skin flushed, muscles loose, he felt lighter than he had in days.
He dried off slowly, wrapping the towel around his waist before returning to his locker. Clean clothes waited there, folded neatly. He pulled them on piece by piece from fresh shirt, comfortable trousers, trainers.
As he dressed, his phone buzzed.
A message from Leah.
How did it go?
He smiled and typed back.
Good. Really good. I behaved.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Proud of you.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, warmth settling in his chest that had nothing to do with training.
Around him, the dressing room had settled into a calmer rhythm. Players lounged on benches, scrolling through phones, chatting quietly, sipping water or protein shakes. The intensity of the session had drained away, replaced by that shared post-training ease.
Wenger passed through again briefly, offering a word here, a nod there, already mentally moving on to the next session, the next match. When his eyes met Francesco's again, he gave a small approving nod.
Francesco returned it.
Enough said.
When everyone was dressed, the group began to drift toward the cafeteria. The walk there was slower, more relaxed. No rush now. Just routine.
The cafeteria doors opened onto warmth and the smell of food that clean, nourishing, carefully planned. Long counters displayed trays of grilled chicken, fish, roasted vegetables, rice, quinoa, salads bursting with colour. Everything measured. Everything intentional.
The club didn't leave nutrition to chance.
Francesco grabbed a tray and moved along the line, selecting thoughtfully. Protein first. Carbs. Greens. He listened as the nutritionist offered quiet suggestions to players, adjusting portions here, recommending additions there.
"Easy today," she said to Francesco with a smile. "But don't skip anything."
"I wouldn't dare," he replied.
He filled his plate and grabbed a bottle of electrolyte drink, then joined the others at a long table near the windows. Sunlight streamed in, casting warm patches across the room.
They sat wherever they landed, no hierarchy, no assigned seats. Boots replaced by trainers. Sweat replaced by comfort.
Ramsey dug in immediately. "I was starving."
"You always are," Ox said, already halfway through his meal.
Francesco ate steadily, appreciating every bite. The food tasted better than he remembered, or maybe his body was just grateful for it. Each mouthful felt purposeful, rebuilding what had been spent.
Conversation flowed easily.
Training moments were dissected lightly. Jokes flew. Someone teased someone else about getting turned inside out during the scrimmage. Laughter rolled across the table.
At one point, Bellerín leaned back in his chair, stretching. "You know," he said, nodding toward Francesco, "it felt normal again today."
Francesco looked up. "Normal?"
"Yeah," Bellerín said. "You being there. Everything clicked back into place."
Francesco didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't rush to fill the space. He just nodded slowly.
"That means a lot," he said eventually.
Sánchez raised his bottle slightly. "To normal," he said.
They clinked bottles lightly, not ceremonial, just shared.
As the meal wound down, players began to peel away in ones and twos, some heading for physio, others for meetings, some straight home. Francesco stayed seated a little longer, finishing his food, sipping his drink.
He felt full.
Not just fed.
Complete.
When he finally stood, slinging his bag back over his shoulder, there was no heaviness in his limbs, no warning signal from his body. Just the pleasant fatigue of a day well spent.
As he walked back through the building toward the exit, he caught his reflection briefly in a glass panel.
He looked like himself again.
Outside, the afternoon sun hung high, casting long shadows across the training ground. Francesco paused for a moment before heading to the car, breathing in the air, listening to the distant sounds of balls being kicked, voices calling out.
______________________________________________
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: 37
Goal: 59
Assist: 3
MOTM: 8
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