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Wenger stood on the touchline, hands in his coat pockets, eyes glistening just enough to notice if you were looking closely.
Wenger stood on the touchline, hands in his coat pockets, eyes glistening just enough to notice if you were looking closely.
He didn't celebrate.
Not yet.
He simply nodded once, slowly, as if confirming something he had believed long before this night but had never dared to say out loud.
On the pitch, the moment continued to unfold in fragments.
Madrid players stood where they were, hands on hips, hands on knees, some staring at the turf as if it might offer an explanation that the scoreboard refused to give them. Others looked up into the stands, searching faces, reading reactions, trying to understand how a night that had felt so alive, so possible, had slipped away.
Francesco rose from his knee, still breathing hard, sweat dripping from his hairline, legs trembling now that the work was finally done. Kanté's arms were still around him, but Francesco gently pushed back, clapping the midfielder once on the shoulder.
"Merci," Kanté said, voice hoarse.
Francesco shook his head. "All of us."
He looked around.
This was his responsibility now.
Not just as the goalscorer.
As the captain.
He raised his arm and made a slow, sweeping gesture toward the center of the pitch.
"Come," he said. "We do this right."
One by one, Arsenal players began to move. Slowly at first, then with more purpose. Red shirts gathered, then walked together toward the halfway line where the Real Madrid players were regrouping.
The Bernabéu watched.
Some fans stayed seated, arms folded, disappointment heavy but respectful. Others applauded, briefly, acknowledging the spectacle even if they hated the outcome. A few whistled, sharp and bitter, unable to hide their frustration.
Francesco approached the first Madrid player in his path, Lucas Vázquez.
Lucas looked exhausted, shoulders slumped, sweat soaking through his white shirt, eyes red-rimmed not from tears but from the effort of chasing a miracle that never quite arrived.
Francesco extended his hand.
"Well played," he said simply.
Lucas hesitated for a heartbeat, then took it.
"You were…" Lucas exhaled, shaking his head. "Unstoppable tonight."
Francesco offered a small, respectful nod. "You kept pushing. That matters."
Lucas gave a thin smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes, and moved on.
Next was Marco Asensio.
The younger Madrid player looked devastated. He stood slightly apart from the others, hands clasped behind his head, staring at nothing in particular. His talent had lit sparks during the second half, but sparks hadn't been enough.
Francesco slowed as he approached him.
"Asensio," he said quietly.
Marco lowered his arms and looked up, surprised.
"You were dangerous," Francesco continued. "Every time you touched it."
Asensio swallowed. "It doesn't feel like it."
"It will," Francesco said gently. "Just not tonight."
There was no condescension in his voice. No performance. Just honesty from someone who knew this feeling would come for everyone eventually.
Asensio nodded once, lips pressed together, then reached out and clasped Francesco's forearm in thanks.
One by one, the line continued.
Carvajal. Marcelo. Casemiro. Modrić.
Modrić lingered for a moment longer than the others, eyes thoughtful.
"You punished us when it mattered," he said. "That's what great players do."
Francesco met his gaze. "You never stopped making it hard."
A mutual nod.
Respect, shared and unspoken.
Then there was Sergio Ramos.
The two captains found each other naturally near the center circle, as if drawn together by gravity.
Ramos looked tired in a deeper way than most that emotionally drained, the edge that usually defined him dulled by the finality of the result. His shirt was untucked, hair plastered to his forehead, captain's armband slightly twisted.
Francesco stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Hell of a fight," he said. "Well played."
Ramos took the hand firmly.
"You earned it," he replied. "Every bit of it."
They stood there for a moment longer than protocol required, exchanging a look that carried an understanding few others on the pitch could fully grasp. Two leaders. Two teams. One night that would be remembered differently by each of them.
Then Ramos clapped Francesco on the shoulder.
"Go on," he said. "Enjoy it."
Francesco turned.
And there he was.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
Ronaldo stood just inside the center circle, hands on hips, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the stadium lights. His hat-trick ball lay near his feet, a quiet symbol of brilliance rendered meaningless by the aggregate score.
Francesco approached him slowly.
Ronaldo looked up as he sensed him coming.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The noise of the stadium seemed distant now, like it was happening in another place entirely.
"You were incredible," Francesco said first. "Three goals. You almost did it alone."
Ronaldo gave a short, humorless laugh. "Almost."
Francesco hesitated, then gestured lightly toward Ronaldo's shirt.
"You want to exchange? Like last time?"
For the first time, Ronaldo's expression shifted that just slightly. Not anger. Not arrogance.
Just disappointment.
He shook his head.
"No," he said quietly. "Not tonight."
Francesco nodded immediately.
"I understand."
Ronaldo looked at him then, really looked, eyes sharp despite the fatigue.
"Enjoy this," Ronaldo said. "Nights like this… they don't come often."
"I know," Francesco replied.
Ronaldo extended his hand.
Francesco took it.
The handshake was firm, respectful, final.
As they separated, the main referee approached, holding two match balls tucked under his arm.
He stopped between them.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice raised slightly to be heard over the lingering noise. "Hat-tricks. Both of you."
He handed one ball to Ronaldo.
Then turned and handed the other to Francesco.
The gesture drew a ripple of reaction from the stands with applause, murmurs, camera flashes snapping rapidly as the moment was captured from every angle.
Francesco accepted the ball with both hands, nodding in thanks.
Ronaldo did the same, tucking it under his arm without ceremony.
For a brief second, they stood side by side, each holding proof of individual excellence on a night defined by collective outcome.
Then they went their separate ways.
Francesco watched Ronaldo walk toward the tunnel, shoulders still square, dignity intact despite the disappointment. He didn't celebrate that moment. He respected it.
Only then did Francesco turn back toward his own team.
Toward the red shirts gathering near the corner flag.
Toward the away end.
He raised his arm again.
This time higher.
"Come," he said. Louder now.
Arsenal moved together, a unified line forming almost instinctively. They walked toward the section of the stadium painted red and white, a small island in a sea of white.
The Arsenal supporters had never stopped singing.
Even during Madrid's surge.
Even during Ronaldo's goals.
And now they were deafening.
Scarves were held aloft. Flags waved wildly. Faces twisted with joy, disbelief, tears. Some fans were hugging strangers. Others had their hands over their mouths, eyes shining, still trying to process what they'd just witnessed.
Francesco reached the barrier first.
He turned to face them.
Lifted both arms.
The noise exploded again.
"Thank you!" he shouted, pointing to the crest on his chest, then to them. "This is for you!"
The players followed suit.
Kanté bounced lightly on his feet, clapping above his head. Cazorla blew kisses into the crowd. Xhaka roared, fists clenched. Van Dijk raised both arms, soaking it in. Mustafi pumped his chest, pride written all over his face.
Wenger joined them from a distance, standing back slightly, allowing his players this moment. His eyes followed Francesco, and there was something deeply satisfied in the way he watched his captain lead.
Francesco climbed onto the barrier carefully, balancing himself with one foot, holding the hat-trick ball under his arm. He pointed it toward the fans, then raised three fingers.
The response was instant.
Chants of his name rolled down from the stands, rhythmic and relentless.
"Fran-ces-co! Fran-ces-co!"
He shook his head, smiling now, genuinely, and gestured back toward the pitch, toward his teammates.
"All of us," he mouthed again.
The celebration wasn't wild.
It was meaningful.
Earned.
After a few minutes, the referee motioned for the teams to clear the pitch. UEFA officials were already moving into position, preparing for interviews, logistics, the next phase of the tournament.
Francesco dropped back down, rejoining his teammates, his body finally beginning to feel the full weight of what he'd just done.
As they turned toward the tunnel, he took one last look at the Bernabéu.
At the lights.
At the history soaked into the concrete.
At the scoreboard still glowing.
Real Madrid 3.
Arsenal 3.
Aggregate 7–5.
He nodded to himself once.
He nodded to himself once.
Then the noise came back that not the roar of competition, not the violence of belief or despair, but the layered, overlapping hum of a match that had ended and was now being digested in real time. Stewards were already guiding players toward the tunnel. UEFA officials moved with practiced efficiency. Cameramen repositioned, hunting for reactions, for faces that could still tell the story even after the final whistle had closed the chapter.
Francesco took a few steps forward with his teammates before a hand touched his arm.
"Francesco."
He turned.
A UEFA staff member stood beside him, headset resting against one ear, accreditation swinging slightly as he moved.
"Pitchside interview," the man said, polite but firm. "Broadcast is waiting."
Francesco exhaled slowly.
This part always felt strange. The shift from war to words. From instinct to articulation.
He nodded. "Okay."
Wenger noticed immediately. He stepped closer, one hand briefly resting on Francesco's back.
"Take your time," Wenger said quietly. "Speak honestly. That's enough."
Francesco met his manager's eyes and nodded again.
"I will."
He handed the match ball to the kit man, adjusted the captain's armband so it sat properly again, and followed the UEFA staff member along the touchline. The Bernabéu looked different from here that less overwhelming, more exposed. The stands rose high but felt farther away now, like a giant exhaling after holding its breath for two hours.
Near the sideline, just beyond the technical area, the setup was already waiting.
A small square of space marked out with tape.
A camera mounted on a stabilizer.
A boom mic hovering just out of frame.
And the interviewer.
He recognized her immediately. Experienced. Calm. Someone who knew how to ask questions without trying to become the story herself.
She smiled as she saw him approach.
"Francesco," she said warmly. "Congratulations."
He returned the smile, tired but genuine.
"Thank you."
The cameraman gave a thumbs-up. The producer's voice crackled faintly through an earpiece.
"Stand by in five… four…"
The interviewer adjusted her stance, microphone angled perfectly.
"…three… two…"
A red light blinked on.
"And we're live."
She turned fully toward him, smile professional now but not cold.
"Francesco, congratulations. Arsenal are through to the Champions League semifinals for the third year in a row. Standing here just minutes after the final whistle, what are you feeling right now?"
Francesco took a second.
Not because he didn't know what to say.
But because he wanted to say it right.
"Relief," he said first, honestly. "Pride. And… respect."
She tilted her head slightly. "Respect?"
"For Madrid," Francesco continued. "For what they did tonight. Coming here, to this stadium, you know nothing is ever finished. They showed why this place is what it is. We had to be perfect when it mattered."
The interviewer nodded, then followed naturally.
"They pushed you very hard in the second half. From your perspective on the pitch, how intense did it feel when they turned the momentum around?"
Francesco let out a short breath, almost a laugh.
"Very," he said. "They came out like the match had just started. No fear. No hesitation. You could feel it immediately with less space, less time, more pressure on every touch. When Cristiano scored those two goals… the whole stadium changed. You feel that as a player. You feel the ground move under you."
She leaned in slightly. "At 3–2, many teams might have panicked. What kept Arsenal composed in that moment?"
Francesco didn't answer right away. His eyes flicked briefly toward the pitch, where a few Madrid players were still making their way off, heads down.
"Experience," he said finally. "And trust. We've been here before. Not this exact situation, but this level of pressure. We trust each other. When it went 3–2, no one shouted. No one blamed. We just looked at each other and said, 'Okay. Next action.'"
The interviewer smiled. "That next action came from you."
She paused deliberately.
"Your third goal. Your hat-trick. Can you talk us through it?"
Francesco's jaw tightened slightly, not with tension, but with memory.
"Santi," he said immediately. "It starts with Santi."
She nodded. "Cazorla."
"He sees the space before it really exists," Francesco continued. "Xhaka plays it into him, and I already know that if I move at the right moment, he'll find me. He always does. The pass was perfect. After that… you don't think. You just hit it."
He shrugged lightly.
"Sometimes football is very complicated. And sometimes it's very simple."
The interviewer let that sit for a beat.
"You and Cristiano Ronaldo both scored hat-tricks tonight," she said. "Two incredible individual performances, but only one team goes through. What was it like facing him in a match like this?"
Francesco smiled faintly.
"It's never comfortable," he said. "He's one of the best to ever do it. You can be winning, you can be defending well, and suddenly he needs half a chance. Tonight he showed that again. Three goals, different moments, different types. He kept them alive."
She followed up gently. "You spoke to him after the match. What did you say to each other?"
Francesco hesitated just long enough to show he was choosing his words carefully.
"I told him he was incredible," he said. "Because it's true. And he told me to enjoy the night. That's respect between players. Nothing more, nothing less."
The interviewer nodded, clearly satisfied with the tone.
"Let's talk about Arsenal for a moment," she continued. "Three semifinals in a row now. What does that say about this team?"
Francesco straightened slightly, shoulders squaring.
"It says we're not here by accident," he said. "This club has history, but also hunger. We're learning how to manage nights like this. How to suffer together. How to respond when things go against us."
He gestured subtly toward the tunnel.
"Look at our bench. Look at the players who came on and immediately understood what was needed. That's growth."
She smiled. "And you, personally? Nights like this often define careers. Does this feel like a defining moment?"
Francesco laughed softly, shaking his head.
"No," he said. "It feels like a step."
"A step?" she echoed.
"Yes," he replied. "If you start thinking in terms of defining moments, you stop moving forward. I'm proud of tonight. Very proud. But we're not finished."
The interviewer raised her eyebrows slightly, intrigued.
"Speaking of not finished," she said, "the semifinals are next. Do you have a preference for who you face?"
Francesco didn't even blink.
"No," he said. "At this stage, everyone is strong. Everyone deserves to be there. If you start choosing, you lose focus."
She smiled again, appreciative of the honesty.
"One last question," she said. "You went over to the away supporters immediately after the match. How important were they tonight?"
Francesco's expression softened.
"Everything," he said without hesitation. "You hear them even when you think you can't. When the stadium is against you, that small section… it feels huge. They travel, they sing, they believe. This is for them."
The interviewer nodded.
"Well said."
The interviewer held the silence for half a second longer than broadcast etiquette required, letting the weight of his answer breathe. Then she shifted her grip on the microphone, her posture changing almost imperceptibly. This wasn't a question anymore.
"Before we let you go," she said, voice warm but deliberate, "there's one more thing."
She gestured just out of frame.
A UEFA staff member stepped forward, holding a small black presentation case emblazoned with the Champions League logo. The interviewer opened it carefully, turning it so the camera could catch the glint of polished metal inside.
"Francesco," she continued, turning back toward him, "you scored a hat-trick tonight, led your team through one of the toughest stadiums in world football, and helped Arsenal reach the Champions League semifinals for the third consecutive season."
She paused, letting the words land.
"For that performance, you've been named Man of the Match."
A ripple of applause rolled through the nearby sections of the stadium, picked up by microphones and amplified by the broadcast feed. Somewhere behind the camera, a few Arsenal substitutes clapped loudly, whistles cutting through the thinning noise of the Bernabéu.
The interviewer lifted the award from the case and held it out to him.
Francesco blinked once.
Then smiled.
Not the sharp, defiant smile he'd worn after his goals.
This one was quieter. Softer. Almost disbelieving.
"Thank you," he said, accepting it with both hands.
She added, "You've taken it from Cristiano Ronaldo tonight, who was also extraordinary. That says something about the level of performance we witnessed."
Francesco nodded, immediately.
"He was," he said. "Completely."
The interviewer turned slightly toward the camera now, professional cadence returning.
"Francesco, thank you. Congratulations again."
"Thank you," he replied.
The red light blinked off.
Just like that, the broadcast world folded itself away.
The cameraman lowered the rig, stretching his shoulders. The boom mic lifted and drifted back. The tight square of attention dissolved into open space again.
For a moment, Francesco just stood there.
The noise felt distant now, muffled, as if his ears were underwater. His legs suddenly felt heavier than they had at any point during the match. The adrenaline that had carried him through ninety-four minutes was finally draining, leaving behind a deep, aching exhaustion that settled into his bones.
The interviewer stepped closer, her voice no longer meant for millions.
"Well done," she said. "That was composed."
He smiled, small and sincere. "Thank you."
She extended her hand. He shook it, firm but relaxed.
As he turned away, clutching the Man of the Match award under his arm, something caught his eye.
Down the touchline, a little further toward the Real Madrid bench, Cristiano Ronaldo stood in front of another camera. His posture was different from Francesco's had been. Straighter. More guarded. His answers were shorter, sharper, carrying the unmistakable weight of disappointment beneath the professionalism.
Different words.
Different tone.
Same exhaustion.
Francesco watched for a second.
Then looked away.
Different journeys.
Same night.
He jogged lightly back toward the tunnel, where his teammates were waiting. Some were already half-changed, jerseys swapped for training tops. Others still wore boots and socks, shin pads hanging loose, faces flushed with the afterglow of survival.
Alexis Sánchez clapped him on the shoulder as he passed.
"Good answers," Alexis said with a grin.
Francesco smirked. "You were listening?"
"Of course," Alexis replied. "You didn't embarrass us."
"That was the goal," Francesco said.
Laughter rippled through the group, easing the tension that still clung to them like static.
They moved together now, funneled by stewards toward the tunnel. The sounds of the Bernabéu faded with every step, replaced by the echoing corridor beneath the stands. Concrete walls. Fluorescent lights. The smell of damp grass, sweat, and liniment.
This was the familiar territory again.
This was home.
The dressing room door swung open, and the atmosphere changed instantly.
Someone whooped.
Someone else clapped loudly.
Alexis was the first to the speaker.
Music exploded into the room that loud, pulsing, unapologetically celebratory. The bass rattled lockers. The lyrics were drowned out by shouting and laughter anyway.
"YES!" Alexis yelled, throwing his arms wide. "THIS is how you win in Madrid!"
Boots came off. Tape was ripped away. Shirts were flung into corners. Kanté danced awkwardly in the middle of the room, shoulders bouncing, smile wide enough to light the place up. Xhaka poured water over Mustafi's head, who responded by chasing him around a bench with a towel.
Van Dijk leaned back against his locker, arms folded, watching it all with a slow, satisfied grin. Koscielny sat down heavily, rubbing his knee, exhaling like a man who had just finished a marathon.
Wenger entered quietly.
No speech.
No grand gesture.
Just a look around the room, eyes lingering on faces, on details, on the energy that pulsed through the space. He nodded once, then stepped aside, letting them have it.
Francesco stood near his locker for a moment, Man of the Match award resting on the bench beside him.
He looked around.
This.
This was what it was for.
Not the cameras.
Not the awards.
This room. These people.
Alexis turned the music up another notch.
"CAPITANO!" he shouted, pointing across the room. "Shower first! Hat-trick privilege!"
Groans and laughter followed.
"Get in there!" someone yelled.
Francesco shook his head, laughing, and raised both hands in surrender.
"Alright, alright," he said. "I'm going."
He grabbed a towel, stripped off his kit, and headed toward the showers, a few teammates following close behind. Steam already hung in the air, fogging the mirrors, the sound of running water filling the tiled space.
The first blast of hot water hit his shoulders, and he let out a long, involuntary sigh.
Only now did the night really catch him.
His muscles ached everywhere from calves tight, thighs burning, lower back stiff. He leaned forward slightly, hands braced against the wall, letting the water run down his spine.
Someone clapped him on the back.
"Three goals," Xhaka said, voice echoing slightly. "In Madrid."
Francesco laughed softly. "I know."
"You don't look like you know," Xhaka replied.
"I will tomorrow."
More laughter.
They stayed there longer than usual, letting the heat do its work, replaying moments out loud with Van Dijk's block, Čech's fingertip save, Koscielny's clearance. Each memory layered onto the next, building something communal, something that would last longer than the soreness.
Eventually, one by one, they peeled away, towels wrapped around waists, steam trailing behind them back into the main room.
Francesco finished last.
He turned the water off, stood there for a second in the sudden quiet, then reached for his towel. As he dried off, he caught his reflection in the mirror.
Eyes tired.
Face flushed.
A faint bruise already blooming on his ribs.
And something else behind it all.
Certainty.
He dressed slowly, pulling on the Arsenal tracksuit, the familiar fabric grounding him again. When he stepped back into the dressing room, the music was still loud, but the energy had softened. More relaxed now. People sat, sprawled, leaned, phones out, messages being sent to family, to friends, to people who had watched from afar.
Alexis had taken over DJ duties completely, scrolling through tracks with the seriousness of a man choosing a final meal.
"This one!" he shouted, pressing play.
Groans.
"NO!"
"CHANGE IT!"
"Alexis!"
He laughed and turned it up anyway.
Francesco dropped into his seat, finally allowing himself to sink into the bench. Someone slid a bottle of water toward him. He drank deeply, then leaned back, eyes closed for just a moment.
Three goals.
Three years in a row in the semifinals.
Madrid conquered.
Outside, the Bernabéu would empty slowly. Headlines would be written. Debates would rage. Highlights would loop endlessly.
But in here, in this room, time stretched comfortably.
Ahead of them lay recovery. Analysis. Preparation.
Another opponent.
Another mountain.
But for now, just for this moment that they had earned the right to breathe.
The dressing room door creaked softly as it opened again.
Not with the chaotic energy of celebration this time, not with music or shouting attached to it but with intention.
Arsène Wenger stepped inside.
The volume didn't drop immediately, but it softened, like a room instinctively adjusting to a familiar presence. He didn't raise his voice. He never needed to. He simply stood there for a moment, hands resting lightly at his sides, glasses catching the overhead light as his eyes moved across the room.
He took it all in.
The scattered boots.
The damp towels.
The laughter still rolling in small pockets.
The Man of the Match trophy sitting quietly near Francesco's locker, reflecting light without asking for it.
Wenger smiled.
Not the tight, professional smile he used in front of cameras, but the one that only appeared in moments like this, when the job was done and the meaning of it could finally be felt.
"Mes amis," he said calmly.
That was enough.
Heads turned. Conversations paused. Alexis lowered the volume slightly, though not all the way, as if testing the room.
Wenger's gaze found Francesco almost immediately.
Then Özil.
"Francesco," Wenger said. "Mesut."
Both looked up.
"I'll need you with me for the press conference."
There was no command in his voice. Just expectation.
Francesco nodded at once. "Of course."
Özil followed with a small smile, already standing. "Okay, boss."
Around them, a few players groaned theatrically.
"Ahhh, unlucky," Xhaka said. "Media jail."
"You'll be there all night," Mustafi added.
Alexis grinned. "Say something interesting this time, Mesut."
Özil rolled his eyes. "I always say interesting things. You just don't understand."
Laughter followed them as they moved.
Francesco stood, stretching his back slightly, feeling the stiffness complain immediately. He grabbed his jacket from the bench and glanced once at the trophy before leaving it behind.
It could stay there.
He didn't need to carry it with him.
Wenger waited until they were both ready, then turned toward the door, opening it and stepping aside to let them pass first. A small gesture. Intentional.
The corridor outside was quieter now.
The noise of celebration faded behind them, replaced by the muted, controlled atmosphere that always lived beneath stadiums like this. Security staff stood at intervals. UEFA officials moved briskly with tablets and folders. Somewhere down the hall, another door opened and closed, voices briefly overlapping before dissolving again.
They walked in a loose line.
Wenger in front.
Francesco just behind, slightly to his right.
Özil beside him, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed in that uniquely Mesut way like football, even at its most intense, never quite reached the part of him that tensed up.
As they walked, Wenger spoke quietly, without turning.
"Be yourselves," he said. "We do not need to prove anything tonight."
Francesco nodded. "Understood."
Özil hummed in agreement. "Yes, boss."
They reached the press room door.
It was already buzzing inside.
You could hear it even before it opened with the low, constant hum of voices layered together. Journalists greeting each other. Chairs scraping lightly against the floor. The click of camera shutters being tested. Microphones being adjusted. The quiet chaos of people preparing to distill ninety-four minutes of football into words, headlines, narratives.
A UEFA media officer opened the door and gestured them in.
The room revealed itself all at once.
Rows of reporters seated behind long tables, laptops open, phones ready, recorders placed carefully in front of them. Cameras lined the back wall, lenses already trained toward the stage. Bright lights hung overhead, angled precisely to eliminate shadow, to expose everything.
The backdrop behind the podium was familiar: Champions League branding, sponsor logos repeating in a neat pattern. Three chairs waited.
Wenger in the center.
Francesco to his right.
Özil to his left.
As they entered, the room reacted.
Shutters fired.
Voices called out.
"Arsène!"
"Francesco!"
"Mesut!"
They took their seats.
Wenger adjusted his glasses, placed his hands together on the table, and waited. He didn't rush. He never did. He let the room settle itself around him.
The media officer nodded once.
"We'll begin," he said.
The first hand shot up immediately.
"Arsène," a journalist began, "another extraordinary night for Arsenal in Europe. How would you summarize this match?"
Wenger leaned forward slightly.
"I would say," he began, voice measured, "that this was a match of courage and control. We knew that coming here, we would have moments where we would suffer. But the players showed mental strength. We did not lose our structure when the pressure came."
Another hand.
"Francesco," a reporter called, "a hat-trick at the Bernabéu. Where does this rank among your performances?"
Francesco adjusted his posture, sitting a little straighter.
"I don't think in rankings," he said honestly. "I think in responsibility. Tonight, the responsibility was to lead, to respond when the game changed. I'm happy with how I did that, but it only works because of the team around me."
More hands.
"Mesut," someone asked, "can you talk about your role in maintaining control when Madrid were pressing?"
Özil smiled faintly.
"It was about calm," he said. "When the stadium is loud, when the opponent is aggressive, you have to slow the game down with the ball. That's my job."
A journalist near the front leaned forward.
"Francesco," he said, "you and Cristiano Ronaldo both scored hat-tricks tonight. What does it mean to outshine him on a night like this?"
Francesco's expression didn't change much, but his eyes sharpened slightly.
"I didn't outshine him," he said calmly. "He was incredible. Three goals in a match like this says everything. Football is not a duel of two players. It's a team game. Tonight, our team advanced."
Wenger nodded subtly beside him.
Another question came quickly.
"Arsène, three semifinals in a row now. Is this Arsenal team the most mature European side you've built?"
Wenger paused, considering.
"They are growing," he said. "Maturity is something you only earn by experience. Nights like this accelerate that process."
A reporter turned toward Francesco again.
"At 3–2, when Madrid took the lead on the night, what was said on the pitch?"
Francesco exhaled slowly.
"Nothing dramatic," he said. "That's important. We didn't shout. We didn't panic. We focused on the next action. That's how you survive here."
Questions continued to come, flowing naturally from one to the next.
About tactics.
About substitutions.
About belief.
About pressure.
Özil answered with his usual quiet clarity, occasionally shrugging as if to say football didn't need over-explaining. Wenger guided the narrative gently, redirecting questions when they drifted too far into individual praise, always pulling it back toward the collective.
Francesco felt the fatigue creeping in, but he stayed present. He met eyes. He listened. He answered carefully, honestly.
At one point, a journalist asked, "Do you believe this could finally be the year Arsenal win the Champions League?"
The room leaned in.
Wenger glanced briefly at Francesco.
Francesco spoke first.
"We believe in the work," he said. "That's all I can say. Belief without work is noise."
Wenger smiled at that.
After nearly thirty minutes, the media officer raised a hand.
"Last question."
A reporter at the back stood.
"Francesco," he said, "what message would you send to the Arsenal supporters after a night like this?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Thank you," he said simply. "For believing before it was easy."
That was enough.
The conference wrapped up.
Wenger stood first, offering a polite nod to the room. Francesco and Özil followed. Cameras clicked again as they left the stage, the room already buzzing with conversation, with quotes being typed, with narratives forming in real time.
Back in the corridor, the air felt cooler.
Quieter.
Özil exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "That was long."
Francesco chuckled softly. "You survived."
"Barely," Özil replied. "Next time you do all the talking."
Wenger glanced back at them, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
"You both did well," he said. "Now, go enjoy your it with your teammates."
They turned back toward the dressing room, footsteps echoing softly as they walked. The night wasn't finished yet, but its shape was clear now and Arsenal were still standing.
______________________________________________
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: 45
Goal: 72
Assist: 3
MOTM: 11
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