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...
Francesco looked out across the darkened grounds and felt the satisfying weight of a life well-built.
The week between international duty and club football always seemed shorter than it should have been.
One moment Francesco was walking through the front door in Richmond with Cheddar trying to eat his shoelaces, and the next he was turning into London Colney beneath an overcast Hertfordshire sky, coffee in hand, Arsenal training kit folded neatly in the passenger seat.
Football rarely allowed much time for nostalgia.
Not that Francesco minded.
He had never been particularly good at standing still.
Training resumed exactly as Arsenal training always did.
Intense.
Precise.
And with an underlying level of competitive chaos that no amount of tactical sophistication could ever fully eliminate.
By nine-thirty on Monday morning, the first-team squad was already deep into possession drills.
Wenger stood at the center circle, arms folded inside his padded jacket, observing with that familiar expression of mild concentration that somehow managed to convey both complete calm and absolute scrutiny.
Nothing escaped him.
Not a lazy touch.
Not a mistimed run.
Not even Theo Walcott attempting to subtly shorten the sprinting lane during conditioning.
Unfortunately for Theo, Francesco noticed.
"You're cheating."
"I'm optimizing."
"You cut five yards."
"Strategic conservation."
"That's just a fancy phrase for cheating."
Walcott looked offended.
"It's experience."
"It's cowardice."
"It's longevity."
Alexis Sánchez, overhearing as usual, grinned.
"Theo only runs full speed when there is food."
"Or when Arsène is angry," Özil added.
Theo pointed accusingly.
"You two are terrible friends."
"We're teammates," Alexis corrected.
"Important difference."
Laughter rolled across the training pitch.
That was Colney.
Hard work wrapped in constant banter.
Virgil van Dijk, recently returned from his own international commitments, was as imposing in training as he was on matchday. He made defending look unfairly easy.
One moment Olivier Giroud would be backing into him confidently.
The next, Virgil had taken the ball and started a passing sequence twenty yards upfield.
"Do you ever lose headers?" Francesco asked during a water break.
Virgil considered the question.
"Occasionally."
"When?"
"When gravity malfunctions."
"That seems unlikely."
"Exactly."
Nearby, N'Golo Kanté had somehow already covered roughly the same distance as most small delivery vans.
Francesco was reasonably certain Kanté could play three positions simultaneously if given enough encouragement.
Or enough coffee.
Robertson, meanwhile, had settled into Arsenal life with the ease of a man who considered relentless sprinting a leisure activity.
His voice carried across the training ground constantly.
"Serge, if ye nutmeg me again, I'm reporting ye to the authorities."
Gnabry laughed.
"You have no evidence."
"I have trauma."
"You're Scottish. You're built for trauma."
Even Wenger smiled at that one.
The days passed in their usual rhythm.
Recovery.
Tactical work.
Set pieces.
Video analysis.
Short, sharp matches on reduced pitches where nobody ever accepted defeat gracefully.
Francesco thrived in it.
International football was special, but Arsenal was home in a different way.
These were the men he battled alongside every week.
The rhythms were instinctive.
The relationships effortless.
On Thursday, Wenger gathered the attacking players for specific movement drills.
Quick combinations around the box.
Third-man runs.
Timing.
Precision.
Özil floated passes through impossibly narrow corridors as though the ball had personally promised to obey him.
Alexis attacked every drill like it was the final minute of a cup final.
Gnabry, increasingly confident, glided across the grass with that smooth acceleration that made defenders deeply uncomfortable.
And Francesco finished.
Again.
And again.
And again.
"Not bad," Wenger said after one particularly clean sequence involving six one-touch passes and a first-time finish.
"Not bad?" Francesco repeated.
"High praise."
"It was excellent."
Wenger adjusted his glasses.
"Then do it again on Saturday."
Fair enough.
Friday brought final preparations.
The mood sharpened.
Less laughter.
More focus.
Bournemouth were not a side anyone could afford to underestimate.
Well organized.
Dangerous on the break.
Disciplined.
Wenger drilled that point repeatedly during the pre-match meeting.
"They will defend compactly," he said, pointer tapping the tactical board. "Patience will be essential. Move them. Stretch them. Force the spaces to appear."
Francesco nodded.
He had played enough Premier League football to know that supposed easy games rarely existed.
Especially after international breaks.
Those fixtures had a nasty habit of becoming awkward.
Still, Arsenal were at home.
And Arsenal, at home, expected to win.
Matchday arrived beneath clear autumn skies.
The Emirates always felt different on a Saturday.
The roads busier.
The air charged.
Even hours before kickoff, supporters already lined the streets, shirts and scarves bright against the London morning.
The team bus rolled north from Colney under police escort, players scattered through their usual seats.
Walker had spent the first ten minutes explaining why right-backs were football's most underappreciated artists.
Robertson had spent the next ten dismantling that argument with gleeful enthusiasm.
"Artists? Ye overlap and shout."
"There's nuance."
"There's cardio."
"There's both."
"There's mainly cardio."
Francesco sat nearby, headphones around his neck, smiling as the debate escalated into increasingly ridiculous territory.
Van Dijk eventually intervened.
"You are both defenders."
That ended it.
Mostly.
As the Emirates came into view, the familiar excitement settled in Francesco's chest.
The red-and-white banners.
The crowds gathered outside.
The sea of supporters pressing close as the bus turned into the stadium.
Home.
The bus slowed.
Phones rose.
Scarves waved.
Children shouted names.
Adults did too, though often with slightly less dignity.
Francesco glanced out the window and saw his own face staring back from a giant mural on the stadium exterior.
Still surreal.
No matter how often it happened.
The bus pulled to a halt.
"Showtime," Walker said.
"Please try not to describe your warm-up as performance art," Robertson replied.
"No promises."
The doors opened.
Sound rushed in instantly.
Supporters pressed against the barriers, chanting, waving, calling for autographs.
Francesco stepped off first, captain as always, dressed in a tailored black suit and carrying his wash bag.
The reception hit him like a wave.
"Francesco!"
"Come on, Arsenal!"
"Captain!"
He acknowledged them with a wave, pausing briefly to sign a shirt for a young supporter before security gently moved the line along.
Inside, the noise softened.
Concrete corridors.
Familiar staff.
The scent of fresh-cut grass drifting in from somewhere nearby.
Football cathedrals all had their own smell.
The Emirates smelled like possibility.
The dressing room was immaculate.
Red shirts hung neatly in each locker.
Boots lined beneath benches.
Every detail perfect.
Francesco took his usual seat, directly beneath his name and number.
Captain's armband already folded beside his kit.
He ran a hand over the fabric instinctively.
Routine.
Important.
Around him, the squad changed into training gear.
Music played softly from someone's speaker which is Alexis's choice, predictably energetic.
Cech sat calmly taping his wrists.
Kanté bounced lightly on his toes.
Walker somehow managed to talk while lacing both boots simultaneously.
A genuine skill.
"Anyone know Bournemouth's pressing triggers?"
"Ball enters your orbit," Xhaka replied.
"That's unfair."
"It's accurate."
Francesco grinned.
Then Wenger entered.
Conversation dropped immediately.
The manager gave them a brief nod.
"Warm-up. Sharp. Focused. Then we finish the work."
Simple.
Clear.
Very Arsène Wenger.
Stepping onto the Emirates pitch never got old.
The stadium was already filling, red seats disappearing beneath thousands of supporters.
A roar greeted the players as they emerged.
Not full volume yet.
More anticipation than explosion.
But enough.
Always enough.
Francesco jogged toward the center circle, rolling his shoulders loose.
The grass felt perfect underfoot.
It always did.
Warm-up began.
Passing drills first.
Short and crisp.
Then finishing exercises.
Özil fed him a pass just inside the box.
One touch.
Finish.
Net.
Another from Gnabry.
Another goal.
Cech made a spectacular save from Alexis and immediately pointed out three things Alexis should have done differently.
Alexis disagreed with all three.
Robertson and Walker exchanged crossing practice from opposite flanks, each determined to prove their side superior.
Neither accepted any evidence to the contrary.
The crowd responded warmly to every sharp finish, every clever flick, every save.
By the end, the stadium hummed with readiness.
Francesco jogged back toward the tunnel, applauding the supporters.
Time to work.
Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere changed.
Warm-up chatter faded.
Match focus took over.
Training tops came off.
Match shirts replaced them.
Red and white.
The weight of expectation stitched into every thread.
Francesco pulled on his jersey, fastening the captain's armband around his left arm.
A small ritual.
One he never rushed.
Boots laced.
Tape adjusted.
Mind sharpened.
Wenger stood once more at the front.
The tactical board displayed the team.
"Petr in goal."
Cech nodded.
"Back four: Robertson, Van Dijk, Koscielny, Walker."
Each acknowledged with a quiet nod.
"Kanté and Xhaka."
Reliable.
Relentless.
"Mesut ahead of them."
Özil barely looked up, though his faint smile suggested approval.
"Alexis left. Serge right."
Both looked ready to sprint through walls.
"And Francesco leading the line."
Wenger met his captain's eyes.
"Lead well."
Francesco nodded.
The substitutes were announced next.
Raya.
Mustafi.
Bellerin.
Cazorla.
Iwobi.
Walcott.
Giroud.
An embarrassment of options.
Wenger placed the marker down.
"Move the ball quickly. Use the width. Be patient, but be ruthless when the spaces appear. They will defend deep. Break them with intelligence."
He paused.
Then, quietly:
"Enjoy yourselves."
That, more than any tactical instruction, always landed.
The tunnel carried its own electricity.
Boots clacked against concrete.
Mascots fidgeted excitedly.
Referees checked watches and communication systems.
Bournemouth lined up opposite.
Steve Cook stood beside Francesco at the front, captain to captain.
They exchanged a handshake.
"Good luck."
"You too."
"Preferably less than us."
Cook laughed.
"Worth asking."
Francesco glanced down the line.
Focused faces.
Professionals.
No fear.
No underestimation.
Just another Premier League battle.
The stadium announcer's voice thundered overhead.
The roar intensified.
Time.
They emerged behind the officials into a wall of sound.
The Emirates rose around them, alive and magnificent.
Red scarves.
Flags.
Chants cascading from every stand.
Francesco always felt it in his chest first.
That vibration.
That connection.
Home supporters singing his name before kickoff.
There were worse ways to spend a Saturday.
Handshakes followed.
Coin toss.
Team photos.
One final glance around the stadium.
Then Francesco gathered the players briefly.
"Fast start. Control it. Enjoy it."
Simple.
Effective.
The whistle blew.
Arsenal kicked off.
From the opening seconds, Arsenal imposed themselves.
Possession moved swiftly through the lines.
Xhaka sprayed passes left and right.
Kanté hunted every loose touch.
Özil drifted between Bournemouth's midfield and defensive lines like a ghost they couldn't quite track.
Walker and Robertson pushed high immediately, pinning Bournemouth deeper.
Francesco pressed relentlessly from the front.
The first ten minutes belonged entirely to Arsenal.
Alexis forced an early save after cutting inside.
Gnabry flashed a shot wide after a lovely exchange with Walker.
Van Dijk nearly scored from a corner, his header rattling the crossbar before bouncing over.
The Emirates sensed it coming.
So did Bournemouth.
It was only a matter of time.
That time arrived in the seventeenth minute.
The move began with Kanté, because so many Arsenal moves did.
He intercepted a Bournemouth clearance thirty yards from goal and immediately fed Xhaka.
Xhaka found Özil.
And once Özil turned, the danger became obvious.
Francesco saw the space open between Cook and Aké half a second before anyone else.
He darted.
Özil, naturally, had seen it even earlier.
The pass was exquisite.
Weighted perfectly, threaded between defenders with mathematical precision.
Francesco met it in stride.
One touch to settle.
Second touch to finish.
Low.
Across the keeper.
Inside the far post.
Goal.
The Emirates erupted.
Francesco wheeled away, fists clenched, the roar washing over him in glorious waves.
He slid toward the corner flag as teammates descended.
Alexis leapt onto his back.
Gnabry nearly tackled him in celebration.
Özil arrived last, expression calm except for the unmistakable glint in his eyes.
"That pass," Francesco said.
"I know."
"You show-off."
Özil shrugged.
"A little."
The scoreboard flashed:
ARSENAL 1–0 BOURNEMOUTH
Captain delivering again.
Bournemouth tried to respond.
To their credit, they pushed forward more boldly after conceding.
Cech was called into action once, comfortably gathering a curling effort from the edge of the box.
Van Dijk and Koscielny snuffed out anything more ambitious.
Arsenal quickly regained control.
Robertson was magnificent down the left, combining defensive steel with constant attacking intent.
His delivery grew increasingly dangerous.
And in the thirty-fourth minute, it paid off.
The move started with a switch from Xhaka, forty yards diagonally to Robertson.
The Scot took it beautifully in stride.
He surged past his marker, head up.
Alexis had already ghosted into the half-space.
The cross came fast and low.
Perfect.
Alexis met it first time, guiding the ball beyond the helpless goalkeeper.
Two-nil.
The Chilean sprinted toward the North Bank, pounding the badge.
Robertson followed, screaming something incomprehensible but undoubtedly joyful.
Francesco caught up moments later.
"What did you shout?"
"I've no idea!"
"Reasonable."
The Emirates was bouncing now.
Bournemouth looked rattled.
Arsenal smelled blood.
The remainder of the first half unfolded exactly as Wenger would have wanted.
Control.
Authority.
Patience.
Francesco nearly added a second, forcing a fine save after dancing between two defenders.
Gnabry tormented Bournemouth's left side with his pace.
Walker, naturally, informed everyone within hearing distance that his overlapping runs were "absolutely devastating."
Nobody disputed him, largely because he was temporarily correct.
Cech remained mostly untroubled.
Van Dijk headed away everything airborne.
Kanté continued covering approximately twelve square miles.
As halftime approached, Arsenal slowed the tempo intelligently.
No need to force it.
No need to overcommit.
Just control.
The whistle arrived to warm applause.
Arsenal two goals to the good.
Professional.
Convincing.
Not finished.
The dressing room at halftime carried an air of satisfaction tempered by discipline.
Players took their seats.
Water bottles hissed open.
Shin pads were adjusted.
Francesco sat beside Özil, both breathing steadily rather than heavily.
A good sign.
Wenger entered after giving them a minute.
He waited until the room settled completely.
"Very good," he began.
Praise first.
Always appreciated.
"You have controlled the match. Your movement has been excellent. Your discipline even better."
He pointed toward the tactical board.
"They will have to open up now. That creates opportunities, but only if we remain intelligent."
His finger tapped the left flank.
"Andrew, continue to attack the space. Alexis, combine quickly."
A nod.
Then the right.
"Kyle, Serge do the same principle. Stretch them."
He turned toward the midfield.
"Granit, N'Golo, do not allow transitions."
No one was volunteering to argue with that.
Finally, Wenger looked directly at Francesco.
"Keep pressing their center-backs. They are uncomfortable."
"Understood."
Wenger folded his arms.
"The third goal kills the game. Go and find it."
Simple.
Clinical.
Effective.
Francesco glanced around the room.
Focused faces.
Hungry faces.
Exactly what he wanted.
He stood.
"Forty-five more. Same intensity."
A chorus of agreement answered.
Boots hit the floor.
The team rose together.
The walk back down the tunnel lasted only seconds, but it carried the unmistakable shift from preparation to execution.
Halftime was over.
Now came the part Francesco loved most.
Finishing the job.
He emerged from the tunnel to another swell of noise, the Emirates rising to greet Arsenal once more. The floodlights shone brilliantly against the late afternoon sky, casting the pitch in that perfect green that somehow always looked even better under stadium lights.
Bournemouth were already in position.
A few of their players spoke quietly among themselves, their expressions somewhere between determination and resignation.
Two goals down at the Emirates was a difficult mountain to climb.
Against this Arsenal side, it bordered on mountaineering without ropes.
Francesco bounced lightly on his toes near the center circle, rolling his neck loose. Beside him, Özil adjusted his sleeves with the meticulous care of a man preparing for a symphony rather than a football match.
"Third goal," Mesut said quietly.
"Agreed."
"You score it."
"Very generous."
"I like assists."
"Of course you do."
The referee glanced at both teams, checked his watch, and blew the whistle.
The second half began.
And Arsenal picked up exactly where they had left off.
There was no lull.
No tentative opening.
No invitation for Bournemouth to settle.
Arsenal simply resumed control as if the halftime break had been a brief inconvenience.
Xhaka dictated the rhythm from deep, spraying passes with that effortless left foot. Kanté, meanwhile, continued doing the work of three men and somehow looking cheerful about it.
Robertson and Walker pushed high once more, pinning Bournemouth's full-backs deeper and deeper.
Gnabry's movement dragged defenders into uncomfortable places.
Alexis, naturally, was everywhere at once.
Francesco pressed relentlessly, never allowing Bournemouth's center-backs a moment of peace.
Steve Cook, to his credit, kept battling.
But he was having a deeply unpleasant afternoon.
The Emirates sensed blood.
Every successful tackle brought a roar.
Every slick passing move drew appreciative applause.
Every time Francesco touched the ball near the box, thousands of supporters collectively leaned forward.
Something was coming.
Again.
The warning signs arrived first.
In the fifty-first minute, Alexis drove inside from the left and curled narrowly wide.
A minute later, Gnabry burst down the right and forced a sharp save at the near post.
Then Robertson thundered a low cross through the six-yard box that somehow evaded everyone.
Bournemouth were clinging on.
Francesco could feel it.
The spaces were growing.
The legs were tiring.
And then, in the fifty-sixth minute, the opportunity arrived.
Walker intercepted a loose Bournemouth clearance and immediately fed Kanté.
Kanté carried the ball forward with those deceptively quick strides before slipping it into Francesco's feet just outside the penalty area.
Francesco turned.
Cook stepped in.
Too late.
A clumsy clip caught Francesco's ankle.
The whistle sounded instantly.
Free kick.
Twenty-three yards out.
Central.
Ideal.
The Emirates buzzed.
Francesco picked up the ball without hesitation.
This one was his.
Alexis wandered over, more out of tradition than genuine intention.
"You sure?"
"No."
"Excellent."
Özil joined them, hands on hips.
"Top corner."
"Which one?"
"The expensive one."
Francesco grinned.
The Bournemouth wall shuffled nervously into place.
Their goalkeeper barked instructions, adjusting bodies by inches.
Cech, all the way down at the other end, leaned casually against his post like a man enjoying premium entertainment.
The referee blew his whistle.
Francesco took three steps back.
One glance.
One breath.
Then he moved.
His right foot wrapped around the ball beautifully.
Clean.
Perfect.
It rose over the wall, dipping viciously before swerving toward the top-left corner.
The goalkeeper launched himself full stretch.
Pointless.
The ball kissed the underside of the bar and crashed into the net.
For half a second, there was silence with the collective intake of breath before recognition.
Then the Emirates exploded.
Absolutely exploded.
Francesco wheeled away, arms outstretched, the roar pouring over him like a tidal wave.
His teammates engulfed him near the corner flag.
Walker nearly lifted him off the ground.
Robertson was shouting something in Scottish that sounded celebratory but could easily have been a recipe.
Alexis grabbed Francesco by the shoulders.
"That was ridiculous."
"Good ridiculous?"
"The best kind."
Özil merely nodded once.
"I told you. Expensive corner."
The scoreboard flashed brilliantly above them.
ARSENAL 3–0 BOURNEMOUTH
Francesco Lee.
Again.
And again.
For Bournemouth, the goal felt terminal.
For Arsenal, it felt liberating.
The match loosened.
The football became even sharper.
One-touch combinations zipped across the pitch.
Gnabry nutmegged a defender to widespread approval.
Alexis attempted an overhead kick from an angle that defied both geometry and common sense.
It nearly worked.
Wenger, standing in his technical area, allowed himself the smallest hint of satisfaction.
Three goals.
Complete control.
Time to think ahead.
The board went up in the sixty-seventh minute.
Number 9.
Number 11.
Number 10.
Francesco.
Alexis.
Özil.
A standing ovation erupted instantly.
The Emirates rose as one.
Francesco looked around for a brief second, taking it in.
That applause never became ordinary.
It shouldn't.
He clapped back to the supporters, then embraced Alexis first.
"Good shift."
"Could've had two."
"You always say that."
"Because it's usually true."
Özil approached next.
"Nice free kick."
"Nice first assist."
"Obviously."
Then came Olivier Giroud, already grinning.
"Leave one for me."
"No promises."
"You're very selfish."
"Captain's privilege."
Santi Cazorla replaced Özil, Theo Walcott came on for Alexis, and Giroud took Francesco's place through the middle.
As Francesco crossed the touchline, Wenger met him with a firm handshake.
"Excellent."
"Thank you, boss."
"Rest now. More goals later."
"I can live with that."
He took his seat on the bench, still breathing hard, heart still racing, body humming with that familiar post-performance buzz.
Beside him, Özil accepted a bottle of water and immediately looked as though he'd barely broken a sweat.
Unfair, really.
Across the pitch, Bournemouth made a double substitution of their own, fresh legs entering a game that already felt beyond rescue.
Professional necessity more than tactical salvation.
Still, credit to them as they kept fighting.
Premier League players always did.
From the bench, football looked different.
Slower.
Wider.
Patterns more obvious.
Francesco enjoyed that perspective.
Santi immediately injected his own rhythm, darting into pockets and demanding the ball at every opportunity.
Walcott's pace stretched Bournemouth vertically.
Giroud, naturally, began wrestling with defenders like a particularly elegant heavyweight boxer.
"Think Ollie scores?" Walker asked from farther down the bench, having apparently forgotten he wasn't currently on it.
"You're still playing," Mustafi reminded him.
"Oh. Right."
The match settled into Arsenal's control once again.
Xhaka and Kanté remained immaculate.
Van Dijk seemed personally offended by the concept of Bournemouth entering Arsenal's half.
Koscielny cleaned up anything Virgil somehow missed, which wasn't much.
Robertson continued bombing forward with the enthusiasm of a man entirely unaware that human lungs had limits.
The crowd relaxed into that contented rhythm unique to comfortable victories.
Ole after ole echoed around the stadium as Arsenal strung together long passing sequences.
Every touch felt cheered.
Every interception appreciated.
This was football as performance.
As celebration.
As art.
Walker would have loved that description.
Probably too much.
Then came the seventy-ninth minute.
And another masterpiece.
The move started innocently enough.
Cazorla collected possession deep in midfield, turned elegantly away from pressure, and accelerated into space.
Even after all his injuries, Santi still moved like football was his native language.
Walcott sprinted ahead to the right, dragging defenders with him.
Giroud held his position between Bournemouth's center-backs, timing his movement carefully.
Cazorla glanced up.
And delivered.
The cross was exquisite.
Arcing.
Tempting.
Absolutely begging to be attacked.
Giroud accepted the invitation.
He rose magnificently, hanging in the air with that peculiar blend of power and grace that made his heading so devastating.
The contact was thunderous.
Downward.
Across goal.
Unstoppable.
The net bulged.
The Emirates erupted once more.
Giroud sprinted toward the corner, arms spread wide, beard glistening with heroic intent.
Walcott chased him, laughing.
Cazorla wore the deeply satisfied expression of a craftsman admiring his work.
From the bench, Francesco leapt up alongside the substitutes.
"That is a proper striker's goal," he said.
Giroud, hearing absolutely nothing but choosing to assume universal praise, pointed toward the bench anyway.
The scoreboard now read:
ARSENAL 4–0 BOURNEMOUTH
Clinical.
Merciless.
Complete.
The final ten minutes unfolded in a haze of confidence.
Bournemouth continued to compete, but their resistance had long since been broken.
Cech made one excellent late save, diving low to preserve his clean sheet.
He rose immediately, pointing at his defense as if personally offended they had forced him into action.
Van Dijk raised an apologetic hand.
Koscielny looked mildly embarrassed.
Kanté probably recovered the rebound before anyone else had even registered the shot.
Standard procedure.
Francesco watched from the bench, towel draped around his shoulders, feeling the pleasant ache in his legs.
Two goals.
A captain's performance.
Three points within touching distance.
There were far worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon.
Beside him, Alexis leaned forward intensely despite being substituted.
"He should've passed earlier."
"Who?"
"Everyone."
"Helpful analysis."
"I am a detailed man."
"You are many things."
"Mostly correct."
"Debatable."
Özil, seated on Francesco's other side, simply smiled.
"Alexis would critique gravity if it dropped too slowly."
"Sometimes it does."
That nearly made Santi laugh while actively playing.
An impressive achievement.
The Emirates had shifted from excitement to celebration.
Songs rolled down from every stand.
Francesco's name echoed repeatedly.
So did Giroud's.
And, inevitably, one or two less printable songs about Tottenham.
Tradition mattered.
Even when Bournemouth were the visitors.
Families smiled.
Children waved scarves.
Supporters began discussing the title race with increasing confidence.
Arsenal had that effect when they played like this.
They made belief feel rational.
Ninety minutes approached.
Then ninety-two.
The referee checked his watch.
One final Bournemouth attack fizzled harmlessly against the twin fortresses of Van Dijk and Koscielny.
The whistle blew.
Full time.
Arsenal 4.
Bournemouth 0.
The Emirates rose to salute.
Francesco stood immediately, applauding the crowd before embracing teammates as they walked off.
Giroud arrived first.
"See? I left one for you."
"Very kind."
"My generosity is unmatched."
"Your hair certainly is."
"Jealousy is ugly."
Santi wrapped an arm around both of them.
"The cross was better than the finish."
Giroud placed a hand over his heart.
"Cruel."
"Accurate."
Walker bounded over, somehow still full of energy.
"Did you see my recovery run in the eighty-fifth minute?"
"No."
"It was excellent."
"I believe you."
"You should."
Robertson joined them.
"He's been talking about it since the seventy-ninth."
"Of course he has."
They made the customary lap of appreciation.
Francesco led it, captain's armband still secure, applauding every stand.
The supporters responded in kind.
A chant began in the North Bank and quickly spread around the ground.
His song.
Loud.
Proud.
Impossible to ignore.
He glanced toward the directors' box and spotted Leah watching, smiling warmly.
Cheddar, thankfully, had not been granted a seat.
Insurance reasons, presumably.
Francesco pointed discreetly in her direction.
She blew him a kiss.
Alexis saw.
"Oh no."
"What?"
"You're being romantic in public again."
"Terrible habit."
"Control yourself."
"I'll try harder."
"You won't."
"No."
Back in the dressing room, the mood was exactly what you'd expect after a four-goal home win.
Music.
Laughter.
The hiss of showers.
Walker reenacting his aforementioned recovery run for anyone unfortunate enough to make eye contact.
Robertson pretending to provide commentary.
"Notice the stride length. Magnificent. Like an overexcited deer."
"That's elite athleticism."
"That's cardio and ego."
"Mostly elite."
Cech sat calmly removing tape, the embodiment of post-match serenity.
Kanté smiled quietly while accepting congratulations from everyone.
Virgil, unsurprisingly, looked like he could comfortably play another ninety minutes.
Wenger entered to warm applause.
He waited until Walker stopped demonstrating his sprint mechanics.
This took longer than ideal.
"Excellent performance," Wenger said.
"You controlled the game from the first minute until the last. Four goals. Clean sheet. Professional."
He looked around the room.
"This is the standard."
No over-the-top celebration.
No unnecessary theatrics.
Just expectation.
At Arsenal, excellence was never supposed to feel surprising.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 12
Goal: 16
Assist: 1
MOTM: 1
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
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