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Players dropped to the turf, some laughing, some exhausted, some simply staring up at the floodlights. Francesco stepped onto the pitch, pulling teammates into embraces, clapping the crowd, heart pounding with a deep, satisfied rhythm.
The whistle faded, but the night didn't end with it.
Not really.
It lingered.
It stayed suspended in the air above the Emirates like the last vibration of a struck chord, humming softly, refusing to disappear.
Francesco stood for a moment near the centre circle, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling. Sweat clung to his hair, to his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. Around him, bodies moved in slow, exhausted arcs as players bending over, some dropping to a knee, others laughing into the crook of an arm as if disbelief still hadn't quite loosened its grip.
Five–two.
The scoreboard glowed like a promise kept.
The crowd was still there too, refusing to leave, chanting names, clapping rhythmically, soaking in every last second. This wasn't just appreciation. It was communion. A shared understanding that something special had unfolded, something worth carrying home and replaying in memory long after the lights went out.
Francesco turned, scanning his teammates.
Van Dijk stood near the box, hands on his thighs, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Kanté bounced lightly on his toes, energy seemingly endless, smiling shyly as fans sang his name. Cazorla leaned against Xhaka, saying something that made both of them laugh. Giroud wiped his face with his shirt, grin wide, chest still puffed with pride. Gnabry looked almost dazed, as if he hadn't yet fully accepted that his name was now etched into the story of the night.
Francesco clapped his hands once.
Sharp. Clear.
It cut through the haze.
"Come on," he called, voice hoarse but warm. "Together."
They knew what he meant.
This wasn't about tactics anymore. Or goals. Or the table.
This was about respect.
He began walking toward the Manchester City players, slow but deliberate, extending his hand. Not rushing. Not posturing. Just leading.
The others followed instinctively.
Agüero was the first City player he reached.
The Argentine stood near the centre circle, hands on his hips, sweat matting his hair, expression caught somewhere between frustration and resignation. He looked up as Francesco approached.
For a split second, there was nothing.
Then Agüero nodded.
They shook hands firmly, eyes meeting. There was no bitterness there. Just the quiet recognition that this game, tonight, had belonged to someone else.
"Well played," Agüero said, accent thick, voice low.
Francesco smiled. "You too. Always dangerous."
Agüero exhaled, then surprised him by tugging at the hem of his own shirt.
"Swap?" he asked, already half-smiling.
Francesco laughed softly. "I was hoping you'd ask."
They turned slightly away from the crowd, the ritual almost intimate despite the thousands watching. Shirts came off, exchanged hand to hand. Agüero pulled the Arsenal shirt on immediately, tugging it down, glancing at the crest for a moment longer than necessary before nodding to himself.
Francesco held the City shirt in his hands for a second, feeling the weight of it, the night stitched into the fabric, before draping it over his shoulder.
A moment passed.
Then they shook hands again, this time pulling each other into a brief embrace that quick, honest, respectful.
Around them, the handshake line continued.
Walker clasped hands with Sterling, both laughing tiredly. Van Dijk exchanged words with Stones, both nodding, already dissecting moments in their heads. Cazorla hugged Silva, the two Spaniards speaking rapidly, hands gesturing, smiles breaking through exhaustion. Kanté shook hands with Fernandinho, the Brazilian giving him an appreciative tap on the chest.
Football, stripped of everything else, looked like this.
Francesco moved on.
De Bruyne stood a few steps away, hands resting on his hips, face flushed, hair damp, eyes still sharp despite the disappointment. He looked up as Francesco approached, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Long night," Francesco said, extending his hand.
De Bruyne took it, grip firm. "You could say that."
They held the handshake a beat longer than usual, eyes locked with mutual respect. Battles fought and settled.
Francesco tilted his head slightly, grin forming. "You know," he said, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, "you'd look good in red."
De Bruyne laughed, genuinely, shaking his head. "You're starting early, yeah?"
"Just planting ideas," Francesco replied lightly.
De Bruyne leaned closer, smirk widening. "Careful. I might return the favor."
"Oh?" Francesco raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah," De Bruyne said. "You'd do well in blue. Manchester's not so bad."
Francesco chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind."
They clapped each other on the shoulder before moving on, the exchange light but loaded with mutual acknowledgment. Two players who understood exactly what the other brought to a pitch. Two minds cut from the same competitive cloth.
As the line continued, the noise around them shifted.
The chants softened into applause. Names were called. Songs drifted, overlapping, blending into something warm and almost tender. This was the sound of a crowd savoring a victory rather than screaming it into existence.
Francesco reached the end of the line and turned back toward his own half.
Wenger stood near the touchline, hands in his coat pockets, posture relaxed but eyes bright. As Francesco approached, the manager gave him a small nod, the kind that carried far more meaning than words ever could.
"Well led," Wenger said simply.
Francesco inclined his head. "They fought hard."
"They always do," Wenger replied. "Tonight, so did we."
Behind them, cameras flashed. Reporters gathered. Microphones hovered, eager, hungry.
But for a moment, Francesco ignored it all.
He turned back toward the stands.
The Emirates was still alive, still breathing.
Scarves were held aloft. Arms waved. Faces glowed with joy, pride, something close to affection. He raised his hand slowly, deliberately, acknowledging them not as an obligation but as a shared celebration.
The roar returned that not explosive this time, but deep, rolling, like a tide coming in.
He clapped, once, twice, three times, rhythmically.
The players joined him.
A circle formed near the centre circle, arms over shoulders, heads bowed together for a brief second. No words were spoken. None were needed.
Then they broke apart, heading toward the tunnel.
As Francesco walked, the weight of the night settled over him which not heavy, not burdensome, but real. His legs ached now that the adrenaline was fading. His lungs burned softly. His body reminded him of every sprint, every challenge, every moment of focus.
The walk toward the tunnel slowed.
Not because Francesco wanted it to end, but because his body was finally beginning to remind him that it had limits.
Each step sent a dull echo up through his calves. His boots felt heavier now, the studs no longer buoyed by adrenaline alone. Sweat cooled against his skin, the night air slipping into places that had been too hot to notice during the match. His lungs still worked steadily, but there was a soft burn there now, a reminder of the sprints, the presses, the moments when instinct had overridden fatigue.
This was the part no one ever saw on highlight reels.
The aftermath.
Around him, his teammates moved with similar rhythms as some loose and buoyant, others stiff and measured. A few laughed loudly, the sound ricocheting off the concrete of the tunnel entrance. Others spoke quietly, voices low, replaying moments only they would ever fully understand.
Just before the tunnel swallowed them, a voice cut through the noise.
"Francesco!"
He turned instinctively.
An FA staff member stood a few yards away near the sideline, headset clipped over one ear, lanyard bouncing lightly against his chest as he jogged closer. He raised a hand apologetically, already half-smiling.
"Pitch-side interview," the staffer said. "If you don't mind."
Francesco exhaled, glanced briefly toward the tunnel where Wenger and the rest of the squad were disappearing, then nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "No problem."
The staffer gestured back toward the touchline. "This way."
As Francesco followed him, the environment shifted again.
The relative calm near the tunnel gave way to organized chaos with camera operators adjusting tripods, sound technicians untangling cables, production assistants murmuring into headsets. The pitch-side lights felt brighter from here, harsher, reflecting off sweat and fabric, turning every movement into something slightly theatrical.
He spotted them almost immediately.
The interviewer stood a few steps back from the touchline, microphone in hand, posture relaxed but alert. Beside him, a cameraman adjusted his lens, peering through the viewfinder, making small, precise tweaks until Francesco's frame sat exactly where it needed to be.
They were already waiting.
Francesco slowed, straightened slightly, rolled his shoulders once to loosen the stiffness. He wiped his face with the inside of his sleeve, ran a hand briefly through his damp hair, then stepped into position where the staffer indicated.
The interviewer smiled warmly as he approached.
"Francesco," he said, extending a hand. "Congratulations."
Francesco shook it. "Thank you."
The cameraman raised a finger, signaling a final adjustment. The red light flicked on.
Live.
The interviewer turned slightly toward the camera, professional ease settling over him like a second skin.
"I'm joined here pitch-side by Francesco," he began, voice smooth and practiced, "after a remarkable night at the Emirates. Francesco, congratulations on Arsenal's 5–2 victory over Manchester City."
Francesco nodded, eyes briefly flicking toward the stands where pockets of fans still lingered, then back to the interviewer.
"Thank you," he said again, this time with more weight behind it. "It means a lot."
The interviewer angled the microphone closer. "Let's start with the performance itself. Manchester City came into this match in strong form, especially under Pep Guardiola. How did you assess their strength tonight?"
Francesco took a breath.
Not a rehearsed one. A real one.
His gaze drifted momentarily toward the pitch, where the grass still bore the scars of the match from divots torn loose, darker patches where players had slid and fallen. Then he looked back, expression thoughtful rather than triumphant.
"They're very strong," he said. "There's no doubt about that. You can see Pep's influence clearly from how they move the ball, how they press, how comfortable they are even under pressure."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"Manchester City are a different team under him. More aggressive. More intelligent in their positioning. They force you to think constantly, because if you switch off for even a second, they punish you."
The interviewer nodded, encouraging him to continue.
"But," Francesco added, a faint smile touching his lips, "tonight, it wasn't enough."
A ripple of sound came from the nearby crowd as cheers from fans who had edged closer, eager to hear every word.
"We respected them," Francesco went on, voice steady. "But we believed in ourselves more. We trusted our structure, our discipline, and when the moments came, we were ruthless. That's the difference at this level."
The interviewer leaned in slightly. "Despite the scoreline, do you see Manchester City as a potential rival going forward? Especially in the title race?"
Francesco didn't hesitate this time.
"Yes," he said. "Absolutely."
His tone shifted that not colder, but sharper. Honest.
"Even with us sitting first right now, even with the points gap, they are a team you never ignore. Not for one second."
He gestured subtly with his hand, as if outlining the shape of the league in the air.
"They have quality everywhere. Depth. A coach who demands more every week. If they keep improving the way they are, they can be our biggest rivals for the title."
Another pause.
"But," he added, meeting the camera directly now, "we're not afraid of that."
The interviewer smiled. "Confident words."
Francesco shrugged lightly. "They have to be. If you want to win something, you can't look over your shoulder all the time. You focus on what you do. And tonight, we did it very well."
Behind the camera, the cameraman shifted slightly, adjusting focus as Francesco spoke more animatedly now, hands moving in small, expressive gestures.
The interviewer followed up quickly. "You personally seemed to thrive in the big moments tonight. How satisfying was it to deliver against a side like City?"
Francesco exhaled through his nose, half-laughing.
"It's always satisfying," he admitted. "But more than that, it's about the team. Nights like this don't happen because of one player. They happen because everyone does their job."
He glanced briefly toward the tunnel again, where muffled laughter still echoed.
"The defenders were immense. The midfield worked tirelessly. The forwards took their chances. When you beat a team like City, it's because eleven players commit to the same idea."
The interviewer nodded appreciatively. "Finally, what does a win like this do for Arsenal's momentum moving forward?"
Francesco's expression softened.
"It reinforces belief," he said. "Not just for us, but for the fans. For the club. For everyone who's been building toward something."
He looked up at the stands once more, voice dropping slightly.
"We know where we are. We know what we want. And nights like this tell us we're capable of getting there."
The interviewer let the silence breathe for a second after Francesco's final answer.
Not the awkward kind.
The good kind. The kind that lets words settle instead of rushing past them.
He nodded slowly, appreciation clear in his eyes, then turned slightly toward the production crew. A subtle signal passed between them. The cameraman adjusted his stance. A producer off to the side gave a small thumbs-up.
The interviewer smiled again, this time broader.
"Well," he said, shifting his grip on the microphone, "there's one more thing before we let you go."
Francesco raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity cutting through the fatigue.
From just out of frame, another FA staff member stepped forward holding a small black presentation case. The gold lettering on the front caught the pitch-side lights as it was opened carefully, deliberately.
Inside sat the Man of the Match award.
Clean. Polished. Heavy enough to matter.
The interviewer took it from the case and turned back toward Francesco, angling it slightly so the camera could catch the engraving.
"Francesco," he said, voice lifting just a little, "for your two goal performance tonight, and for the leadership you showed before being substituted, you've been voted Man of the Match."
For a moment, Francesco didn't move.
Not because he was surprised.
But because it landed.
The night, the work, the responsibility as all of it condensed into a single object now resting between them.
Then he smiled.
Not wide. Not flashy.
Just real.
"Thank you," he said, reaching out to accept the award.
The interviewer placed it in his hands. It had weight to it, cool against his palms. Francesco adjusted his grip instinctively, fingers tracing the edge before settling.
The nearby fans noticed immediately.
A cheer swelled from the corner of the stands closest to the touchline, rolling outward like a wave finding new momentum. Someone shouted his name. Someone else whistled sharply. Scarves lifted again, even now, even this late.
Francesco lifted the award slightly that not in triumph, but in acknowledgment.
"This belongs to the team," he said, looking straight into the camera. "Always."
The interviewer nodded, satisfied. "Congratulations again."
They shook hands once more.
The red light flicked off for good.
As the crew began to disperse, Francesco stood there for a second longer, the award still in his hands. He looked down at it, then back up at the pitch, emptying slowly now as stewards guided fans toward the exits.
Moments like this were strange.
They didn't feel like peaks.
They felt like punctuation.
A full stop at the end of a long, demanding sentence.
He handed the award carefully to the FA staff member to be taken ahead, trusting it would find its way safely to the dressing room. Then, finally, he turned toward the tunnel again.
This time, nothing stopped him.
The tunnel swallowed him whole.
The roar of the stadium faded into a muffled hum, replaced by the sharper sounds of concrete and echoing footsteps. The air changed instantly that cooler, heavier, tinged with disinfectant and damp kit.
Inside, the dressing room was already alive.
Music thumped softly from a speaker someone had claimed early. Laughter bounced off tiled walls. The unmistakable hiss of the showers filled the background, steam already beginning to fog the mirrors.
Francesco stepped inside and was immediately greeted by noise.
"There he is!"
"Man of the Match!"
"Oi, don't let it go to your head!"
Hands clapped his shoulders. Someone shoved a towel at his chest. Someone else tried to grab his boots jokingly.
He laughed, genuinely, the sound breaking free now that the cameras were gone.
Van Dijk caught his eye from across the room and gave him a slow, approving nod.
Kanté grinned like a kid who'd just been let loose in a playground.
Giroud raised an imaginary glass in his direction.
Wenger stood near his locker, arms folded, observing it all with quiet satisfaction. When Francesco met his gaze, the manager simply inclined his head.
That was enough.
Francesco moved toward his locker, finally allowing himself to sit.
The bench was cold beneath him. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and reached down to untie his boots. His fingers felt thick, clumsy now, the fine motor control dulled by exhaustion.
One boot came off. Then the other.
He peeled his socks down slowly, rolling them over sore ankles, wincing slightly as the fabric brushed against tender skin. His calves were tight that knotted like coiled rope beneath the surface. Tomorrow would hurt.
He straightened, pulled his shirt up and over his head, letting it drop into his kit bag. The fabric was heavy with sweat, darkened in places where the match had pressed hardest against him.
For a moment, he sat there bare-chested, breathing.
Then he stood and headed for the showers.
Steam rolled toward him as he pushed the door open, the heat immediately wrapping around his skin. Several of the showers were already occupied with silhouettes blurred behind glass, voices echoing, laughter punctuated by the steady rush of water.
He stepped under an open nozzle and twisted the handle.
Water cascaded down over him.
Hot at first. Almost too hot.
He tilted his head forward, letting it pour over his hair, down his neck, across his shoulders. Sweat, grass, tension as all of it washed away in slow layers.
He rested his palms against the tiled wall and closed his eyes.
The match replayed itself uninvited.
The first goal with the space opening, the ball arriving exactly where it needed to, the strike clean and true.
The second with the timing, the awareness, the roar that followed.
The substitution while jogging off, clapping the crowd, handing the armband over, trusting the rest.
Leadership wasn't always about staying on the pitch.
Sometimes it was knowing when your job was done.
He shifted, turning slightly so the water hit his back, then his legs. He bent one knee at a time, stretching gently under the stream, coaxing life back into muscles that had given everything.
Around him, conversations drifted.
Someone joked about a missed chance.
Someone else argued playfully about whose goal was better.
The sound of a bottle popping open somewhere.
Normal things.
Grounding things.
After a few minutes, Francesco reached for the soap, working it into his hands before running it over his arms, his chest, his shoulders. The scent was sharp and clean, cutting through the lingering smell of effort.
He took his time.
There was no rush now.
Eventually, he stepped back, turned the water off, and reached for a towel. He wrapped it around his waist, patting his hair dry as he moved back toward his locker.
The dressing room felt warmer now, fuller.
Energy lingered in the air that not frantic, not wild, but satisfied.
He dressed slowly.
First the dry underlayer, clean and soft against skin that still buzzed faintly. Then the Arsenal tracksuit with zippered jacket pulled on, the familiar crest settling over his heart. The fabric was light but insulating, a quiet comfort after ninety minutes of intensity.
He zipped it up halfway, then paused, fingers resting against the pull.
For a second, he just sat there again.
Breathing.
Listening.
Feeling the weight of the night settle into memory rather than muscle.
The zip stopped halfway up.
Francesco's fingers lingered there, thumb resting against the cool metal pull as the room around him continued to hum with voices overlapping, lockers slamming shut, the low thud of music that had shifted to something slower now, less celebratory and more content. The kind of playlist that only came on when the work was done.
He exhaled, long and steady, then finished zipping the jacket.
The Arsenal crest settled flat against his chest.
Before he could fully lean back again, a familiar voice cut through the dressing room that not loud, not demanding, but carrying authority without ever needing to raise its volume.
"Francesco."
He looked up.
Arsène Wenger stood just inside the doorway that led back toward the inner corridor, one hand resting lightly on the frame. He was already out of his coat now, tie loosened slightly, glasses perched lower on his nose than usual. His expression was calm, but there was something alert behind it, a quiet readiness.
"Can you join me for the press conference?" Wenger asked. "If you're ready."
Francesco nodded almost immediately.
"Yes, boss."
Wenger offered a small, approving smile. "Take your time. We'll go together."
As Wenger stepped aside to speak briefly with a staff member, Francesco glanced around the room once more. A few teammates caught his eye and gave him knowing looks with thumbs up, nods, exaggerated bows. Someone mouthed, Don't say anything stupid.
He smirked, shook his head, and stood.
The walk out of the dressing room felt different than the one in.
Less weight on his shoulders now. More clarity.
The corridor toward the media area was quieter, the chaos of the mixed zone still sealed off behind closed doors. The walls here were stark with white, functional, lined with framed photographs of Arsenal moments past. Invincibles. European nights. Captains lifting trophies.
Wenger walked beside him, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
"You spoke well out there," the manager said after a moment, eyes forward. "Very measured."
Francesco shrugged lightly. "I just said what I felt."
"That's usually the best approach," Wenger replied. Then, after a beat, "Pep was… complimentary."
Francesco glanced at him. "I heard."
Wenger smiled faintly. "He does not offer praise lightly."
They reached the press conference antechamber, where a media officer waited. The muffled sound of voices filtered through the door ahead with journalists settling in, chairs shifting, the low murmur of anticipation.
The officer gestured politely. "City are just finishing up. You'll be next."
Wenger nodded and took a seat along the wall. Francesco followed, lowering himself into the chair beside him. He rested his forearms on his thighs, fingers interlaced loosely, feeling the faint stiffness still lingering in his legs.
The door to the main press room was slightly ajar.
Through it, they could see the setup clearly.
Pep Guardiola sat behind the desk, posture upright but relaxed, hands folded loosely in front of him. His blazer was off now, shirt sleeves rolled just enough to suggest the intensity had taken something out of him too. Beside him sat David Silva, composed as ever, expression calm, eyes thoughtful.
The City crest loomed behind them on the backdrop, flanked by sponsor logos.
A journalist's voice carried clearly.
"Pep, given the scoreline tonight, what was your assessment of the match?"
Guardiola leaned forward slightly, fingers steepling as he spoke.
"First, congratulations to Arsenal," he said, voice even, precise. "They were the better team today. From the first minute, they were more aggressive, more clinical. When you play at this level, against a team in this kind of form, you must be perfect. We were not."
He glanced briefly toward Silva, then back to the room.
"We had moments. We always have moments. But Arsenal punished our mistakes. They deserve the result."
Another hand went up.
"Pep, can you speak specifically about Francesco's performance tonight?"
There was the slightest pause.
Not hesitation.
Consideration.
Guardiola nodded slowly.
"He was decisive," he said. "Very decisive. Two goals, yes, but also his movement, his understanding of space, his leadership when the team needed control. He knows when to accelerate the game and when to slow it."
Francesco felt Wenger shift subtly beside him.
Guardiola continued, eyes sharp now.
"In football, you always look for players who can change a match without needing chaos. Francesco does that. For me, right now, he is maybe the best player in the world beside Messi."
The room reacted instantly.
A ripple of murmurs. Pens scratched faster. Someone let out a quiet, surprised laugh.
Guardiola didn't flinch.
"This is not about hype," he added calmly. "It is about influence. He has it."
Silva nodded beside him, then leaned forward when prompted.
"They were stronger," Silva said simply. "We tried to control the ball, but Arsenal pressed very well. Francesco found space between the lines constantly. When a player is in that form, it is very difficult to stop."
The questions continued.
About City's defensive structure. About tactical adjustments. About the title race.
Guardiola answered them all with his usual clarity that never deflecting blame, never sugarcoating reality.
Eventually, the moderator thanked them, and both men stood.
As Guardiola stepped away from the desk, his eyes flicked toward the door.
For a brief second, his gaze met Francesco's.
There was no smile.
Just acknowledgment.
A nod.
Francesco returned it instinctively.
Then they were gone.
The media officer opened the door wider. "Alright, Arsène, Francesco, your turn."
Wenger stood first, adjusting his jacket, then gestured for Francesco to follow.
As they walked into the press room, the noise swelled immediately.
Cameras clicked. Voices called out. Chairs scraped back as journalists leaned forward.
They took their seats behind the desk, the Arsenal crest now filling the backdrop behind them. Wenger settled into the center chair, folding his hands neatly on the table. Francesco sat to his right, posture straight but relaxed, hands resting loosely in front of him.
Microphones were adjusted. A final check.
Then silence.
The moderator began. "Good evening. We'll start with questions for Arsène."
A familiar voice rang out.
"Arsène, congratulations on the win. A commanding performance against a strong Manchester City side. What pleased you most about tonight?"
Wenger leaned forward slightly, glasses catching the light.
"The efficiency," he said. "At this level, you must take your chances. We did that. We were focused, disciplined, and when the opportunities came, we were sharp."
He paused, then added, "It was also a performance of maturity. We controlled the game emotionally."
Another question followed quickly.
"Does this result send a message to the rest of the league?"
Wenger smiled faintly.
"We do not send messages," he said. "We play football. But yes, when you perform like this against a top team, it reinforces belief. For us and for others."
The questions shifted toward Francesco soon enough.
"Francesco, Pep Guardiola just described you as possibly the best player in the world right now besides Lionel Messi. How do you react to that kind of praise?"
Francesco felt the room lean in.
He took a breath.
"I have a lot of respect for Pep," he said. "He's one of the greatest managers in the game. To hear that from him is an honor."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"But I don't think in those terms. Football isn't about comparisons. It's about consistency. About helping your team win. That's all I focus on."
Another journalist raised a hand.
"You scored twice and led the team before being substituted. How do you personally assess your performance?"
Francesco smiled slightly.
"I assess it as part of the team's performance," he said. "The goals come from collective work. The movement, the passes, the pressing as it all starts before the ball reaches me."
He glanced briefly toward Wenger, then back to the room.
"And sometimes leadership means stepping off and trusting your teammates to finish the job."
There was a murmur of approval at that.
"Do you feel this Arsenal side is ready to go all the way this season?" another voice asked.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Yes," he said simply.
No qualifiers. No hedging.
Wenger glanced sideways at him, just briefly, then returned his gaze forward.
The questions continued for several minutes that about tactics, about fitness, about upcoming fixtures. Wenger handled most of them with his usual composure, stepping in when needed, deflecting pressure away from his players without ever sounding evasive.
Finally, the moderator raised a hand.
"Last question."
It came from the back of the room.
"Francesco, what does a night like this mean to you personally?"
He leaned back slightly, considering.
"It's a reminder," he said slowly, "of why you put in the work. Why you push through the hard days. Nights like this don't define a career, but they confirm that you're on the right path."
He smiled faintly.
"And tomorrow, it starts again."
The moderator nodded. "Thank you."
The microphones were turned off. The tension dissolved.
Wenger stood, offering a polite nod to the room. Francesco followed suit, giving a brief wave before stepping away from the desk.
As they exited through the side door, the noise faded once more.
In the corridor, Wenger placed a hand briefly on Francesco's shoulder.
"Well handled," he said.
"Thank you, boss."
They walked on, the stadium quieter now, the night deeper.
Outside, London waited.
And the season was still long, still demanding that stretched ahead of them, filled with possibilities that felt just a little more real after a night like this.
______________________________________________
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: 40
Goal: 63
Assist: 3
MOTM: 8
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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