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The Emirates roared one last time, a standing ovation rolling across the stadium. Players embraced, hands on heads, arms around shoulders. Respect was shown to Lincoln's players too with handshakes, nods, as words exchanged quietly.
The whistle didn't just end the match.
It released something.
For a heartbeat after the sound cut through the air, everything felt suspended with players frozen mid-step, arms half-raised, lungs still drawing in breath that no longer needed urgency. Then the Emirates exhaled. A roar rolled down from the stands, not sharp or frantic, but wide and full, the sound of satisfaction settling in.
Francesco stood near the centre circle, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling as he looked around him.
Seven goals.
A clean sheet.
An FA Cup semi-final.
But what he felt most strongly wasn't triumph. It was clarity. A sense that everything, from the illness he'd shaken off earlier in the week to the quiet work on the training pitch, to the patience he'd shown waiting for the right moment tonight, had aligned.
Around him, red shirts converged. Ramsey clapped his hands above his head, turning slowly to acknowledge all four sides of the stadium. Xhaka exchanged a long embrace with Holding, both laughing, still riding the disbelief of that strike. Bellerín bent forward with hands on his knees, then straightened and smiled up at the stands.
And then Francesco noticed the Lincoln players.
They stood scattered across the pitch, some hands on hips, some bent over, some staring blankly at the grass. A few glanced toward the scoreboard as if it might change if they looked again.
7–0.
It was brutal on paper.
Francesco felt something settle in his chest.
He jogged toward the nearest Lincoln player first, a centre-back who had battled Giroud all night, shirt damp with sweat, face drawn but composed. Francesco extended his hand without hesitation.
"Well played," he said quietly.
The defender looked up, surprised for a moment, then took the hand firmly. "Congratulations," he replied, voice tired but sincere.
That was enough.
Francesco turned and raised his arm slightly, a small, unmistakable gesture toward his teammates.
Come on.
One by one, Arsenal players followed him.
They didn't rush. They didn't make a show of it. They moved with intention, forming a loose line as they crossed the pitch together. Hands were extended. Heads nodded. Words were exchanged in low tones, audible only to those standing close enough to feel the weight of them.
"Keep your heads up."
"You didn't stop running."
"Good luck for the rest of the season."
Some Lincoln players met those words with faint smiles. Others simply nodded, eyes downcast. A goalkeeper, gloves still on, shook Francesco's hand and held it for half a second longer than necessary.
"Fair play," he said. "You lot were… different."
Francesco inclined his head. "Respect."
It mattered.
He remembered what it felt like to be on the other side of nights like this. To know you'd given everything and still been overwhelmed. To walk off the pitch feeling exposed, reduced to a scoreline that would live longer than the effort behind it.
This was football, yes. Ruthless at times. But it was still human.
They reached the far side of the pitch, near the corner flag where Lincoln's substitutes had stood. More handshakes followed. A manager, shoulders slumped, met Francesco's eye and gave a short nod. Francesco returned it, no words needed.
When the last handshake was done, Francesco slowed to a stop.
He looked around again.
The Emirates was still on its feet.
Scarves were raised. Flags waved lazily in the air. Applause rolled and rolled, not fading, not demanding anything more than presence.
This was the other responsibility.
Francesco turned back toward his teammates, clapped his hands once, loud and sharp.
"Come on," he said. "Together."
There was no argument. No hesitation.
They fell in around him naturally, a loose arc of red shirts, some with arms around each other's shoulders, some clapping, some pointing toward sections of the crowd. Wenger watched from the technical area, hands in his coat pockets, eyes soft with approval.
Francesco led them toward the North Bank first.
As they walked, the applause intensified, swelling as the distance closed. The noise wasn't directed at any one player now; it was collective, reciprocal. This was the moment where the boundary between pitch and stand dissolved into shared understanding.
Francesco stopped about ten yards from the advertising boards and turned fully toward the supporters.
He raised both arms.
The response was immediate.
A roar surged upward, chants colliding, names shouted, voices cracking with emotion. Francesco felt it vibrate through his ribs, into his spine. He clapped slowly, deliberately, eyes scanning the faces in front of him with young kids perched on shoulders, older supporters with scarves wrapped tight around their necks, hands red from applauding all night.
He mouthed two words, clearly.
Thank you.
Ramsey stepped beside him, clapping overhead. Xhaka followed, then Holding, then Bellerín, then the rest, until the entire team stood facing the stands, applauding back.
The applause didn't fade when the clapping slowed.
It lingered.
It hung in the air like warmth after fire, wrapping itself around the players as they stood facing the North Bank, red shirts glowing beneath the floodlights. For a moment, no one moved. No one wanted to be the first to turn away from something that felt earned in the deepest sense.
Francesco lowered his arms slowly, still clapping, still scanning the crowd. He caught eyes with people who looked like they'd been coming to this stadium for decades, and with children who could barely see over the barrier but were screaming his name anyway, faces flushed with joy. He nodded to them instinctively, a small acknowledgement that felt oddly intimate despite the scale of it all.
Then he felt a tug at his sleeve.
Gnabry.
The younger winger leaned in, voice raised slightly over the noise. "Shirts?"
Francesco smiled.
"Yeah," he said. "Let's do it."
The group broke formation gently, the arc loosening as players drifted closer to the stands. It wasn't chaotic. It never was with this team. There was an unspoken understanding about how to do these things properly.
Bellerín was the first to pull his shirt up over his head, hair springing free as he laughed and pointed toward a group of fans who'd been chanting his name relentlessly all night. He tossed it cleanly, the shirt arcing through the air before disappearing into a tangle of reaching hands.
Ramsey followed, handing his shirt directly to a supporter at the front row, leaning over the boards to make sure it reached the right person. Xhaka took his time, scanning, then nodded toward a group of supporters waving a Swiss flag, peeling his shirt off and throwing it with a grin that suggested he already knew how that story would be told back home.
Francesco hadn't moved yet.
He stood with his hands resting briefly on the hem of his shirt, breathing in, grounding himself. This was the part that always hit him unexpectedly. Goals, matches, pressure as those were familiar. This, the direct exchange, the human closeness, always landed heavier.
He stepped closer to the advertising boards.
Immediately, hands shot up.
Scarves, programs, phones, signs with his name written in thick marker. He smiled, lifted a hand to signal patience, then his eyes settled on two figures near the front.
Two kids.
They couldn't have been older than ten or eleven. Both in Arsenal shirts that were slightly too big for them, sleeves rolled up, collars stretched. One clutched a homemade sign that said FRANCESCO MY HERO as the letters uneven but earnest. The other had his hands clasped together, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes wide.
Francesco pointed.
"You," he said, voice calm but clear.
The kid with the sign froze, eyes darting around as if to confirm he'd been chosen. Francesco nodded again, encouraging.
He pulled his shirt up and over his head, the cool night air biting briefly at his skin. He folded it once, then leaned forward carefully, reaching over the barrier.
The kid took it with both hands, reverently, like it might dissolve if he held it wrong.
Francesco smiled warmly. "Take care of it."
The kid nodded furiously, unable to speak.
Francesco turned slightly and caught the other boy's eye. Without hesitation, he gestured to one of the spare shirts a teammate had already draped over the barrier with Gnabry's, still warm, name clear on the back.
"Here," Francesco said, passing it down himself.
The second boy's mouth fell open.
"Thank you," he managed, voice cracking.
Francesco straightened, chest bare now beneath the floodlights, heart lighter than it had been all night.
Around him, similar moments unfolded. Shirts changed hands. Gloves were tossed. A pair of boots landed somewhere in the lower tier to wild cheers. This was the quiet coda to the violence of competition, the soft landing after impact.
Eventually, stewards began gently encouraging movement. The night had to progress. Broadcast schedules waited for no one.
Francesco felt a light tap on his arm.
He turned.
An FA staff member stood beside him, headset looped around his neck, clipboard tucked under one arm.
"Francesco," the man said politely. "When you're ready, we need you for a pitchside interview."
Francesco nodded. "Yeah. Give me a second."
He glanced back toward his teammates, many of whom were still finishing their own rounds of appreciation. Wenger remained near the technical area, speaking quietly with an assistant, eyes occasionally lifting to take in the scene.
Francesco took one last look at the stands.
Then he followed the staff member.
They walked along the edge of the pitch, the noise still surrounding them but beginning to diffuse as fans settled back into their seats, phones buzzing with messages already sent. The grass beneath his boots felt different now that not a battlefield, but something calmer, almost gentle.
Near the sideline, the setup was already waiting.
A camera on a shoulder rig, red light glowing.
A boom mic hovering just out of frame.
And the interviewer, smartly dressed despite the cold, notes in hand, smiling as Francesco approached.
"Francesco," the interviewer said, extending a hand. "Congratulations."
Francesco shook it firmly. "Thank you."
They positioned him just off the touchline, the pitch stretching out behind him, the scoreboard still glowing 7–0 in the background. The cameraman adjusted his angle, nodded once, then settled.
The interviewer waited until the producer's signal came through his earpiece.
"Alright," he said. "We're live in three… two…"
The red light intensified.
The interviewer turned fully toward Francesco, smile professional but warm.
"Francesco, congratulations," he began. "A dominant performance tonight with seven goals, a clean sheet, and Arsenal are through to the FA Cup semi-final. First of all, how does that feel?"
Francesco took a breath.
He didn't rush.
"It feels… right," he said slowly. "I think that's the best word for it. We respected the competition, respected Lincoln, and we did our job properly. Everyone played their part. Nights like this don't happen unless the whole team is connected."
The interviewer nodded. "You came off the bench and still made a big impact with a goal involved in the flow of the game. But I want to ask about something else, there was some concern earlier in the week. You'd been dealing with a fever just a few days ago. How does your body feel now, after that performance?"
Francesco smiled faintly, the question landing exactly where the truth lived.
"Honestly?" he said. "Better than I expected. A few days ago, I wasn't sure I'd even be in the squad tonight. Fever knocks you around as you feel heavy, disconnected. But the medical staff were brilliant, the manager trusted me, and I listened to my body. Tonight, once I stepped onto the pitch, everything felt clear again. Light. That's when you know you're ready."
The interviewer leaned in slightly. "Was there ever a doubt in your mind that you wouldn't be able to contribute the way you did tonight?"
Francesco considered it.
"There's always doubt," he said. "If there isn't, you're lying to yourself. But doubt isn't a bad thing. It makes you patient. It makes you focus on the small things from movement, timing, decision-making. I didn't come on thinking I needed to score. I just wanted to be connected. The goal came because of that."
Behind the camera, the Emirates continued to hum, a living thing winding down slowly but still alive with energy. Somewhere in the distance, a chant started again that muted now, but unmistakable.
The interviewer smiled. "You were also seen leading the team in shaking hands with the Lincoln players and then leading the applause for the fans. Is that something you take responsibility for naturally, or is it something the manager encourages?"
Francesco glanced briefly toward the pitch, then back.
"It's natural," he said. "This game gives us a lot. Tonight went our way, but it doesn't always. Lincoln came here and didn't stop running, even when it got difficult. That deserves respect. And the fans as without them, this is just training. We owe them everything."
The interviewer nodded appreciatively.
Then he said. "With the semi-final now ahead, do nights like this give the team momentum? A sense that something special could be building?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Yes," he said simply. "But momentum only matters if you treat it properly. Tonight is something to enjoy, to remember. Tomorrow, it's back to work. That's how you build something real."
The interviewer let the moment breathe.
There was a subtle shift in his posture, a glance toward the producer's side of the camera, then back to Francesco. The easy questions had passed. This was the one that lingered. The one that always did.
He smiled, just slightly.
"One last question," he said. "There's been a lot of talk already that maybe too early, some would say, but nights like this always stir it up. Arsenal are into the FA Cup semi-final, still competing on multiple fronts. Is there an intent in this squad to defend and win again… another treble?"
The word hung there.
Treble.
It carried weight. History. Expectation. The echo of something that never truly faded at this club, no matter how many seasons passed.
Francesco didn't answer immediately.
He went quiet.
Not awkwardly. Not evasively. Just still.
For a few seconds, the only sound was the low hum of the stadium behind them, the distant clatter of stewards, the faint echo of a chant dissolving into laughter somewhere high in the stands. The red light on the camera remained steady, unblinking.
Francesco's eyes dropped briefly to the turf at his feet. The grass was torn up in places now, scuffed by ninety minutes of movement and collisions, marked by the evidence of work done.
He inhaled slowly.
Then he looked back up.
"Yes," he said.
Just that at first.
Then, seeing the interviewer's eyebrows lift slightly, he continued.
"Yes," he repeated, a little more warmth in his voice now. "Because… who doesn't want that? Who doesn't want another trophy, another piece of history, especially something like a treble in their career? You don't play this game hoping to stop short of the biggest things. You play to chase them."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"But wanting it isn't enough," he added. "You don't talk your way into trophies. You earn them. Match by match. Training session by training session. We've got the quality, we've got the hunger, but it only means something if we stay humble and disciplined. Tonight was one step. Nothing more."
The interviewer nodded, clearly satisfied.
"Well said," he replied. "Francesco, thank you for your time. Congratulations again on a fantastic night."
"Thank you," Francesco said.
The red light dimmed.
The cameraman lowered his rig, stretching his shoulder with a soft groan. The boom mic lifted away. The interviewer shook Francesco's hand once more, this time without ceremony.
"Good luck," he said. "Enjoy it."
Francesco gave a small nod, then turned away.
As he walked back toward the tunnel, the stadium felt different again. Not electric now. Not roaring. Just warm. Content. The kind of atmosphere that lingered after something had gone right.
The tunnel swallowed him in shadow and concrete, the sounds of the Emirates fading behind each step. His boots echoed softly as he walked, shoulders finally dropping, the tension of performance draining away in slow degrees.
Inside the dressing room, the energy was relaxed but alive.
Music played from a speaker near one corner with nothing too loud, just enough to fill the space. Laughter bubbled up in pockets. Someone replayed Xhaka's goal on their phone, holding it up so others could groan and laugh all over again.
"Hit that again, I dare you," someone joked.
Xhaka only shrugged, smiling. "I might."
Francesco moved to his locker, peeling off the rest of his kit methodically. Sweat cooled on his skin now, the fatigue settling in properly for the first time since the final whistle.
He grabbed his towel.
The showers were already running, steam curling into the air, the tiled room echoing with conversation and the steady hiss of water. Francesco stepped under a free stream and let the warmth pour over him, head tilted forward, eyes closed.
The night replayed itself in fragments.
The pass from Ramsey.
The feel of the ball leaving his foot.
The roar.
The kids' faces when he handed over the shirts.
The treble question.
He smiled to himself, water running down his face.
Football had a way of compressing life into moments like this. Ninety minutes could hold joy, pressure, humility, ambition, exhaustion, pride as all of it layered on top of each other until you stepped away and let the water wash it back into perspective.
When he finished, he dried off slowly, changed into the Arsenal tracksuit laid out neatly in his locker. Red and navy, familiar, comfortable. He pulled the jacket on, zipped it halfway, then laced up his trainers.
By the time he stepped back into the main dressing area, players were already gathering their things. Phones buzzed with messages from family, friends, people who'd watched from afar. Someone slapped Francesco lightly on the shoulder as they passed.
"Good night," Ramsey said, clapping him on the back. "Rest up."
"You too," Francesco replied.
They filed out together, down the corridor and toward the bus waiting outside. The night air was colder now, biting at exposed skin, but it felt refreshing after the heat of the stadium.
The team bus loomed large and familiar, engine idling softly. Players climbed aboard in ones and twos, settling into their usual seats. Francesco took his place near the middle, leaning back, head resting briefly against the window as the door hissed shut.
As the bus pulled away, the Emirates disappeared behind them, lights receding into the dark.
The ride back to London Colney was quiet in a good way.
Some players slept, hoodies pulled up, headphones in. Others scrolled through their phones, replaying moments, reading messages. A few chatted softly, voices low and relaxed.
Francesco watched the city slide past through the glass, streetlights streaking into lines as the bus moved. His body felt heavy now, pleasantly so, the kind of tired that came from effort rewarded.
When they arrived at Colney, the bus rolled to a stop and the lights flicked on. One by one, players stood, stretching, gathering bags.
"See you tomorrow," someone said.
"Recovery session," another groaned.
There were hugs. Handshakes. Quiet goodbyes.
Francesco stepped off last, breathing in the cool night air. The training ground was still and dark, a stark contrast to the noise they'd left behind.
He walked to his car, unlocked it, and slid into the driver's seat. The engine purred to life.
The drive to Richmond was calm.
The roads were mostly empty now, the city settling into sleep. Francesco let the silence sit with him, radio off, thoughts unhurried. His hands rested lightly on the wheel, muscle memory guiding him home.
When he pulled into the driveway of his mansion, the lights were already on.
That small detail made him smile.
He shut off the engine and stepped out, keys jingling softly as he crossed the threshold and opened the door.
Warmth greeted him immediately. Light. Familiarity.
"Fran?"
Leah's voice came from inside.
"In here," he called back.
She appeared a moment later, already changed into something comfortable, hair loose, a smile spreading across her face the second she saw him.
"There he is," she said, stepping into his arms without hesitation.
He wrapped her up, forehead resting briefly against hers, the tension of the night finally releasing completely.
"Congratulations," she murmured. "I watched the whole thing."
He laughed softly. "All of it?"
"All of it," she said. "Including that ridiculous shot."
"Not mine," he said.
She pulled back just enough to look at him. "Yours was better."
He shook his head, smiling, and followed her inside as the door closed behind them.
Morning arrived gently.
Not with an alarm or urgency, not with the dull throb of a matchday hangover, but with quiet light slipping through the tall windows of the house in Richmond. The curtains shifted slightly in the breeze, sunlight stretching across the wooden floor in long, pale stripes.
Francesco woke slowly, awareness returning piece by piece.
The softness of the bed.
The faint scent of coffee already drifting up from downstairs.
The steady, familiar rhythm of Leah's breathing beside him.
His body felt tired, yes but it was the good kind. The earned kind. Muscles heavy but calm, no sharp pains, no warning signals. Just the echo of effort.
He lay there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, letting the previous night replay in fragments again. Not the goals now, not the noise. Instead, the quieter moments: the handshake with the Lincoln defender, the kid clutching his shirt like it was made of gold, the word treble hanging in the cold air during the interview.
Eventually, Leah stirred.
She turned onto her side, eyes still half-closed, hair falling across her face. "You're awake," she murmured.
"Barely," he replied, voice low, smiling.
She smiled too, reached out and brushed her thumb along his jaw. "Recovery day."
"Best kind," he said.
They didn't rush.
That was the luxury mornings like this offered some space. No travel. No kickoff countdown. No cameras. Just time easing forward at its own pace.
By the time they made their way downstairs, the house felt properly awake. Sunlight filled the kitchen now, bouncing off the marble counters. Leah moved easily through the space, already in her routine, pouring coffee, setting plates.
Francesco leaned against the counter, watching her for a moment longer than necessary.
"Sky Sports is on," she said casually, nodding toward the living area.
He followed her gaze.
The television was already running, muted for now. The familiar Sky Sports studio filled the screen, graphics scrolling along the bottom. Headlines. Fixtures. Analysis.
He raised an eyebrow. "You turned that on?"
She smirked. "I had a feeling you'd want to see it."
He laughed softly. "You know me too well."
They sat down together at the kitchen island. Eggs, toast, fruit. Simple. Fuel more than indulgence. Francesco took his first sip of coffee and felt it settle pleasantly in his chest.
Leah reached for the remote and turned the volume up.
The studio came alive.
Gary Neville sat on the left, arms folded loosely, expression thoughtful. Jamie Carragher leaned back in his chair, one hand gesturing as he spoke. And between them was a person who is beaming, animated, and unmistakably proud Ian Wright.
"…because right now," Carragher was saying, voice carrying that familiar edge of disbelief mixed with admiration, "you look at Arsenal and you're thinking, this isn't just form. This is intent."
The graphic behind them shifted.
ARSENAL: LAST 6 MATCHES
Wins. Goals. Clean sheets.
Francesco took a bite of toast, eyes fixed on the screen.
Neville nodded slowly. "I agree. And that's the key word for me, intent. They're not scraping through games. They're not surviving moments. They're imposing themselves. Even with rotation. Even with players coming off the bench."
Ian Wright leaned forward, hands clasped, barely containing his energy.
"And that's what I've been waiting for," Wright said. "That edge. That belief. Because Arsenal have always had quality, always. But now? Now they look like they expect to win."
The screen cut briefly to highlights from the night before.
Gnabry's opener.
Giroud's header.
Cazorla's free kick bending into the top corner.
Elneny's thunderbolt.
Francesco's composed finish.
Xhaka's outrageous strike.
Leah glanced at him sideways. "That one still doesn't look real."
Francesco smiled, shook his head. "I know."
Back in the studio, Carragher exhaled a laugh as Xhaka's goal replayed again. "Honestly, at that point you're just laughing if you're the opposition."
Neville's expression tightened slightly. "But what impressed me and this is where I want to focus is how they managed Francesco last night."
The mention of his name landed softly, but distinctly.
Francesco paused mid-sip.
"They didn't rush him," Neville continued. "He'd been ill. Fever earlier in the week. There was talk about whether he'd even be involved. Wenger puts him on the bench, brings him in at the right moment, and what does he do? He doesn't chase the game. He doesn't force anything. He scores, leads the team, sets the tone."
Ian Wright smiled broadly. "That's maturity."
Carragher nodded. "Exactly. And this is where the treble conversation comes in, because I know people roll their eyes at it, especially this early but listen to his interview last night."
The screen cut to a clip.
"Yes… because who doesn't want that? Who doesn't want another trophy, especially something like another treble in their career?"
Francesco watched himself on screen, calm, measured, eyes steady.
It felt strange. Like watching a version of himself that existed slightly outside his body.
Leah rested her elbow on the counter, chin in her hand, watching him watch himself.
"He didn't dodge it," Wright said proudly. "And that matters. He didn't say 'we'll see' or 'one game at a time' like a robot. He owned the ambition, but he balanced it. That's leadership."
Neville tilted his head. "There's something else too. Arsenal look like they believe him. You watch the way the players respond to him on the pitch, after the match, even in how they talk about him. That belief spreads."
Carragher leaned forward. "And let's not forget as this is a team that's already tasted it. They know what it takes. Francesco saying 'yes' doesn't put pressure on them. It reminds them of who they are."
The camera cut back to Wright, who was almost glowing now.
"I've said it before and I'll say it again," he said. "This lad hasn't just added goals. He's added edge. You don't walk around the pitch shaking hands, giving your shirt to kids, then turn around and say 'yes, we want a treble' unless you understand both sides of this game. And that's why Arsenal are on fire right now."
The segment wrapped up with more statistics, more discussion, but Francesco barely heard it anymore.
He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.
Leah studied him quietly. "How does that feel?" she asked.
He thought about it.
"Strange," he admitted. "Good. But strange."
"Pressure?"
He shook his head slowly. "Not pressure. Responsibility."
She nodded, understanding instantly.
They finished breakfast in companionable silence, the television still murmuring in the background. Outside, the day stretched open, calm and unthreatening.
Recovery awaited. Ice baths. Stretching. Light movement. Meetings. Preparation.
But for now, there was this.
A moment of reflection. Of recognition.
Francesco stood and carried his plate to the sink, rinsed it absently, then returned to the counter. He looked once more at the paused screen as Arsenal crest in the corner, pundits frozen mid-gesture.
Treble.
The word no longer felt heavy.
It felt like a direction.
He turned to Leah, a quiet smile settling on his face.
"Back to work tomorrow," he said.
She smiled back. "As always."
And somewhere beneath the calm of the morning, beneath the praise and the highlights and the talk, something deeper continued to build which is not noise, not hype, but intent.
______________________________________________
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: 38
Goal: 60
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