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...
Arsenal weren't simply the two times defending champions in a row in the Champions League this season, as they intended to made it three time champions.
The celebrations continued all the way down the tunnel.
Not wild celebrations.
Not players sprinting through corridors screaming at the top of their lungs.
This squad had won too much recently for that.
There was joy.
There was satisfaction.
There was pride.
But there was also perspective.
A Champions League group-stage match was important.
Finishing with six wins from six was important.
But the dressing room understood something else too.
The real business hadn't started yet.
The knockout rounds were coming.
And every player knew it.
Still, that didn't stop the smiles.
The atmosphere beneath the Emirates felt lighter than it had all evening.
Staff members exchanged congratulations.
Medical personnel smiled.
Equipment managers nodded approvingly.
Everyone inside the club understood how difficult a perfect group stage truly was.
Six matches.
Six victories.
Maximum points.
No accidents.
No bad nights.
No slip-ups.
Just consistency.
As the Arsenal players finally pushed open the dressing-room doors, applause greeted them from the staff already inside.
Not dramatic applause.
Just genuine appreciation.
The players answered with grins and a few joking bows.
Walker immediately spread his arms.
"Thank you."
Nobody reacted.
He looked offended.
"I said thank you."
Still nothing.
Robertson walked past him.
"They're applauding the people who actually played."
The room erupted.
Walker clutched his chest dramatically.
"A brutal attack."
"A deserved attack," Bellerin replied.
More laughter followed.
The mood was perfect.
Relaxed.
Comfortable.
The kind of atmosphere that only existed when a team genuinely enjoyed each other's company.
Francesco dropped into his seat and exhaled slowly.
Only now, with the noise fading and the adrenaline beginning to leave his system, did he fully appreciate how good the evening had been.
A goal.
A victory.
Top of the group.
Another European night conquered.
His legs felt pleasantly heavy.
The sort of fatigue footballers actually enjoyed.
Proof of a job completed properly.
Nearby, Xhaka was still being harassed about his goal.
Mostly because nobody had found an adequate explanation for it yet.
Giroud walked past shaking his head.
"That wasn't a shot."
Xhaka sighed.
"Not you too."
"It was a missile."
"It went in."
"That doesn't make it legal."
Even Wenger's assistants were laughing.
The Swiss midfielder finally threw his hands into the air.
"I scored."
"Yes."
"A very good goal."
"Yes."
"So why am I being punished?"
Nobody had an answer.
Mostly because it was too funny.
Across the room, Van Dijk sat quietly removing tape from his wrists.
As usual.
Calm.
Unbothered.
The giant defender looked as though he'd just finished a light training session instead of ninety minutes of Champions League football.
Francesco pointed at him.
"You enjoyed that header."
Van Dijk looked up.
A small smile appeared.
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"It was a good cross."
"That is the most Dutch answer I've ever heard."
The defender shrugged.
The room laughed.
Some people celebrated with emotion.
Van Dijk celebrated by acknowledging basic geometry.
Everyone had their own style.
Eventually the familiar post-match migration began.
Players grabbed towels.
Recovery drinks appeared.
Boots disappeared.
The dressing room gradually emptied as people headed toward the shower area.
The noise followed them naturally.
Because footballers never stopped talking.
Ever.
Steam quickly filled the tiled room.
Hot water washed away sweat, grass stains, and the last physical traces of the evening.
Conversations bounced off the walls.
Different groups discussing different things.
Tactics.
Goals.
League fixtures.
Christmas plans.
Video games.
Food.
The usual football dressing-room subjects.
Francesco stood beneath the hot water and let the tension leave his shoulders.
The warmth felt incredible after spending nearly two hours beneath a cold December night.
Around him, teammates continued replaying moments from the match.
Mostly Xhaka's goal.
Again.
And again.
And again.
At this point the strike was rapidly becoming club folklore.
Kanté was trying to explain where he had recovered possession before the goal.
Xhaka insisted the recovery mattered.
Everyone agreed.
Nobody cared.
The goal itself remained the headline.
Even Čech joined the discussion.
"You hit that harder than some people clear the ball."
Xhaka looked genuinely pleased.
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
The room exploded.
Somewhere nearby, Cazorla was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his shampoo.
Again.
Nobody knew exactly what had been said.
Nobody needed to know.
If Santi was laughing, chances were everyone would eventually be laughing too.
The showers gradually emptied.
Steam faded.
Players returned to their lockers.
The familiar transformation began.
Footballers becoming ordinary people again.
At least for a few hours.
Training gear and match kits disappeared.
Jackets emerged.
Winter clothing returned.
Phones reappeared.
Messages flooded in.
Family members.
Friends.
Former teammates.
Congratulations arriving from every direction.
Francesco finished drying his hair and pulled on the Arsenal jumpsuit waiting in his locker.
Dark blue.
Comfortable.
Warm.
Perfect for the freezing London night outside.
He had just finished zipping the jacket when the dressing-room door opened.
One of Wenger's assistants stepped inside.
"Francesco."
The captain looked up.
"Yeah?"
"Wenger would like you to join him for the press conference."
Several teammates immediately reacted.
Walker pointed dramatically.
"My condolences."
The room laughed.
Francesco rolled his eyes.
"It's not that bad."
"That's exactly what victims always say."
"You're impossible."
"I've been told."
The assistant smiled.
"Five minutes."
Francesco nodded.
"No problem."
The assistant disappeared again.
Across the room, Sanchez smirked.
"Good luck."
"With what?"
"The journalists."
Fair point.
That actually might require luck.
⸻
A short while later, Francesco followed Wenger through the familiar corridors beneath the Emirates.
The stadium above remained alive.
Supporters still singing.
Still celebrating.
The echoes filtered faintly through the concrete structure.
European nights always lingered longer.
Perhaps because people wanted them to.
Wenger walked beside him with the relaxed expression of a manager pleased by his team's work.
Not euphoric.
Not emotional.
Simply satisfied.
The Frenchman carried himself the same way he always did.
Win or lose.
Praise or criticism.
There was a steadiness to him that players found reassuring.
As they approached the media room, the noise became louder.
Journalists talking.
Cameras being prepared.
Equipment being adjusted.
The usual controlled chaos of modern football.
A staff member opened the door.
Immediately a wave of flashes greeted them.
Cameras.
Microphones.
Reporters.
Rows of journalists filling seats.
The room was packed.
Not surprising.
A perfect group stage attracted attention.
Especially when it belonged to the two-time defending European champions.
Wenger and Francesco took their places behind the table.
Microphones waited in front of them.
Water bottles sat nearby.
The room settled.
The moderator welcomed everyone.
Then opened the floor.
The first journalist stood almost immediately.
A smile already on his face.
"Arsène, congratulations. Six matches, six wins, top of the group. How pleased are you with tonight's performance and the group stage as a whole?"
Wenger nodded politely.
The manager took a moment before answering.
Very Wenger.
Never rushed.
Never careless.
"I am very pleased."
Simple beginning.
"We played with maturity tonight."
He folded his hands together.
"The first half was excellent. In the second half, we adapted to the circumstances of the game."
Several reporters scribbled notes.
"We finished the group stage with maximum points, which is difficult at this level."
A pause.
"That shows consistency."
The room nodded.
Nobody could really argue with that.
Six victories spoke for themselves.
Another journalist stood.
This time directing the question toward Francesco.
"Congratulations on the goal tonight. Looking at the group stage overall, what are you most proud of?"
Francesco leaned forward slightly.
Honestly, he hadn't spent much time thinking about it yet.
Football moved quickly.
Too quickly sometimes.
But the answer came naturally.
"The consistency."
Several journalists looked up.
He continued.
"In the Champions League, one bad night can create problems."
A few heads nodded.
"We never really had that."
The captain glanced briefly toward Wenger.
"We respected every opponent."
"We prepared properly."
"And we kept improving."
His eyes moved back toward the reporters.
"A perfect group stage doesn't happen by accident."
That generated more note-taking.
Across the room, cameras continued clicking.
The next question came from a Spanish journalist.
One that immediately caught everyone's attention.
Because it focused on the future.
The knockout rounds.
The real beginning of the competition.
"Now that Arsenal have finished first, you will face a second-place team in the Round of 16."
The journalist smiled.
"Do you have a preferred opponent?"
A ripple of interest spread through the room.
Now that was a good question.
The sort of question supporters loved.
The sort of question journalists loved even more.
Wenger smiled faintly.
A dangerous sign.
Because whenever Wenger smiled like that, he was usually deciding how much honesty to reveal.
The Frenchman adjusted slightly in his chair.
"I always prefer a good draw."
Laughter immediately spread through the room.
Classic Wenger.
The journalist smiled.
"But if you could choose?"
The manager thought for a second.
Then answered.
"Perhaps Porto."
A few reporters looked surprised.
Wenger continued calmly.
"They are a good club."
Respectful.
Measured.
Very Wenger.
"But they are organized and technical. I think it would be an interesting tie."
Pens moved quickly across notebooks.
The answer would make headlines.
That much was obvious.
Then another journalist turned toward Francesco.
"And you?"
The room immediately became interested again.
Because Francesco rarely gave boring answers.
The captain noticed several reporters already smiling.
Almost expecting trouble.
He laughed.
"You're all hoping for a controversial answer."
More laughter.
A few journalists didn't even try denying it.
Francesco shook his head.
Then answered honestly.
"If we're asking who I'd like to play?"
The room grew quiet.
He shrugged.
"Real Madrid."
Several eyebrows rose.
The room immediately became more animated.
Before the journalists could fully react, he added another name.
"Or Barcelona."
Now the room erupted with chatter.
Exactly the reaction he expected.
One reporter nearly laughed.
"You want the hardest possible draw?"
Francesco smiled.
"Why not?"
The answer generated another wave of reactions.
The captain leaned back slightly.
"We're Arsenal."
That alone earned applause from a few journalists.
Unofficial applause.
But applause nonetheless.
Francesco continued.
"If our goal is to win the Champions League again, eventually we'll have to play the best teams."
His tone remained calm.
Confident.
Not arrogant.
Just honest.
"I respect both clubs enormously."
He genuinely did.
"But those are the nights players dream about."
The room listened carefully.
"Big stadiums."
"Big pressure."
"Big opponents."
A small smile appeared.
"That's why you play football."
For a moment, even the journalists seemed to appreciate the answer beyond the headline it would generate.
Because every footballer understood that feeling.
The desire to test yourself against the very best.
The desire to see how far you could go.
A reporter from England raised his hand.
"So you don't care about getting an easier draw?"
Francesco laughed.
"I didn't say that."
The room burst into laughter.
"Of course easier draws are nice."
More laughter.
"But if you're asking what sounds exciting?"
He shrugged again.
"Real Madrid."
"Barcelona."
"Those matches make people clear their schedules."
Even Wenger smiled at that.
The manager glanced toward his captain.
"You enjoy difficult challenges."
Francesco looked back.
"I learned from you."
That answer earned another round of laughter.
Wenger shook his head slightly.
But he was smiling.
A genuine smile.
One of those rare moments where the manager allowed himself to enjoy the occasion.
The press conference continued for another twenty minutes.
Questions about squad depth.
Questions about form.
Questions about the knockout stages.
Questions about young players like Saka and Smith Rowe continuing to train with the first team.
Wenger praised their attitude.
Their work ethic.
Their potential.
Francesco echoed the sentiment.
Both spoke warmly about the future.
Eventually the moderator announced the final question.
A journalist stood and offered congratulations one last time.
Then the session ended.
The cameras switched off.
The microphones fell silent.
And slowly the room began emptying.
As Wenger and Francesco rose from their seats, the manager glanced sideways at his captain.
"Real Madrid?"
Francesco grinned.
"Or Barcelona."
Wenger shook his head.
"Most people hope for easier opponents."
"That's why I'm not most people."
The Frenchman laughed quietly.
A rare sound.
One that reminded Francesco how much the manager enjoyed football beneath all the pressure and responsibility.
Together they left the media room and headed back into the corridors beneath the Emirates.
Another victory behind them.
A perfect group stage completed.
And somewhere in the distance, faintly echoing through the concrete structure of the stadium, Arsenal supporters were still singing.
Still celebrating.
Still enjoying another European night.
The kind of night that had become increasingly familiar over the last few seasons.
Not because success had become ordinary.
Success never became ordinary.
But because this Arsenal side had developed something rare.
Consistency.
The sort of consistency that turned good teams into great ones.
The sort of consistency that allowed supporters to walk into big matches believing that not hoping, but believing as their team could win.
As Francesco and Wenger continued through the corridor, club staff offered congratulations.
A few journalists still lingered nearby.
Television crews packed away equipment.
Security personnel guided people toward exits.
The long process of shutting down a Champions League matchday had begun.
The manager eventually stopped near the dressing-room entrance.
"You should go home."
Francesco laughed.
"That sounds like a threat."
"It is advice."
"Same thing sometimes."
Wenger smiled.
"Recover properly."
"I will."
The manager nodded once.
Satisfied.
Then disappeared toward another section of the stadium where more responsibilities undoubtedly waited.
Because being a football manager never truly ended.
Especially not when your team was competing for everything.
Francesco watched him leave for a second.
Then pushed open the dressing-room door once more.
The atmosphere inside had relaxed considerably.
Many players had already left.
Others were gathering final belongings.
Walker was somehow still talking.
Nobody knew how.
The man had already spent several hours speaking.
Yet somehow he still possessed enough energy to continue.
It was almost impressive.
Almost.
"Ah."
Walker pointed dramatically as Francesco entered.
"The celebrity returns."
"How was prison?"
"The press conference wasn't prison."
"That's exactly what someone who's been broken by journalism would say."
Robertson groaned.
"Please stop."
"I physically can't."
That answer was so immediate that even Robertson started laughing.
The evening slowly wound down after that.
Players headed home.
Cars left the stadium.
The Emirates gradually emptied.
The lights remained bright against the cold London sky long after midnight.
But eventually even football surrendered to sleep.
And the city moved on.
As it always did.
⸻
The next morning arrived beneath pale winter sunlight.
Cold.
Quiet.
The sort of December morning where frost clung stubbornly to rooftops and car windows despite the sun trying its best to remove it.
Richmond looked peaceful.
Almost sleepy.
Inside the mansion, however, peace lasted approximately seven seconds.
Because Cheddar existed.
The corgi had apparently decided that sleeping late was a personal insult directed toward him specifically.
Francesco felt a wet nose press against his face.
Then another.
Then a paw.
Persistent.
Determined.
Unrelenting.
He opened one eye.
Immediately regretted it.
Because Cheddar interpreted eye contact as victory.
The dog barked once.
A tiny bark.
An incredibly annoying bark.
The bark of a creature who knew exactly what he was doing.
Francesco groaned into his pillow.
"No."
Cheddar barked again.
"Absolutely not."
Another bark.
From beside him, Leah began laughing.
The kind of laughter people produced when they weren't the victim.
"He's hungry."
"He ate yesterday."
"He'd like you to know that's irrelevant."
The corgi barked again.
Agreement.
Complete agreement.
Traitorous agreement.
Five minutes later Francesco found himself downstairs.
Defeated.
Completely defeated.
Cheddar trotted proudly beside him.
Victorious.
The morning continued peacefully after that.
Coffee.
Breakfast.
Television.
The familiar rhythm of two professional footballers enjoying one of the rare mornings where neither had to rush immediately out the door.
Outside, winter continued wrapping itself around London.
Inside, football dominated the television coverage once again.
As expected.
The sports channels were obsessed.
Not with a single topic.
With Arsenal.
Everywhere.
Every channel.
Every discussion.
Every analysis show.
The reasons were obvious.
The club was flying.
In the Premier League, Arsenal remained first.
Comfortably first.
Not because opponents were weak.
The league was anything but weak.
But because Arsenal kept winning.
Week after week.
Month after month.
The consistency Wenger had spoken about the previous evening wasn't limited to Europe.
It extended everywhere.
League matches.
Cup matches.
European nights.
The team simply kept finding ways to succeed.
On one television screen, a pundit highlighted league statistics.
Most goals.
Fewest goals conceded.
Best goal difference.
The numbers painted a picture supporters already understood.
This Arsenal side wasn't surviving matches.
They were controlling them.
On another channel, analysts discussed the Champions League.
The conversation felt familiar.
Arsenal had finished first.
Six wins from six.
Maximum points.
A statement group-stage campaign.
One pundit described it as the most complete European group performance by any club that season.
Another called Arsenal the favorites.
A third immediately argued with him.
Football television remained football television.
Some things never changed.
Leah sipped her coffee while watching the debate.
"They're talking about you again."
Francesco looked over.
"That narrows it down to every channel."
"Fair."
She smiled.
"Apparently wanting Real Madrid is controversial."
"It shouldn't be."
"It absolutely is."
Francesco shrugged.
The conversation from the press conference had spread rapidly overnight.
Predictably.
Anything involving Real Madrid or Barcelona generated attention.
Anything involving defending European champions generated attention.
Combining both was basically guaranteed to dominate headlines.
On the screen, one presenter read quotes from the previous evening.
Another debated whether Arsenal should prefer a more favorable draw.
A third argued that Francesco's confidence reflected the mentality inside the dressing room.
That part, at least, was accurate.
Because confidence had become one of Arsenal's defining characteristics.
Not arrogance.
There was a difference.
Arrogance assumed victory.
Confidence believed victory was possible.
This squad respected opponents too much to be arrogant.
But they also respected themselves.
And that mattered.
Across social media, the reactions were fascinating.
Arsenal supporters were split.
Not divided in a hostile way.
Just split.
Many wanted a weaker opponent.
Naturally.
Why wouldn't they?
The Champions League knockout rounds were brutal.
Avoiding giants like Real Madrid or Barcelona seemed sensible.
Logical.
Practical.
Others, however, viewed things differently.
They remembered recent years.
They remembered Arsenal's rise.
They remembered who this team had become.
And increasingly, they agreed with Francesco.
Because if Arsenal intended to win the competition again…
Why fear anyone?
Supporters debated endlessly.
Forums.
Radio shows.
Television panels.
Social media.
Everywhere.
One fan insisted Porto would be perfect.
Another argued for Benfica.
A third claimed avoiding Spanish clubs was essential.
Then somebody else immediately responded:
"If we're the champions, why are we scared?"
That sentiment appeared repeatedly.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Not because supporters were reckless.
Because belief had grown.
Over the last several seasons, Arsenal had earned trust.
The squad had beaten elite teams before.
Big stadiums.
Big occasions.
Big opponents.
They had done it repeatedly.
So when Francesco publicly welcomed the possibility of facing Real Madrid or Barcelona, many supporters understood exactly what he meant.
Those clubs were giants.
Nobody denied that.
But Arsenal were no longer outsiders hoping to survive.
They were champions.
Twice.
The badge carried weight now.
The players carried belief now.
And the supporters felt it too.
Later that morning, newspapers arrived.
Physical newspapers still survived despite everything.
Partly because football fans loved headlines.
And today's headlines were everywhere.
One featured a photograph of Francesco celebrating against Spartak Moscow.
Another displayed Xhaka's goal frozen in time.
Several focused on the knockout stages.
Most included some variation of the same quote.
Real Madrid.
Or Barcelona.
Leah picked one up and laughed.
"They've made this sound like a declaration of war."
Francesco glanced over.
"What does it say?"
She cleared her throat dramatically.
"'Francesco challenges European giants.'"
He blinked.
"I said I'd like to play them."
"Apparently that's the same thing."
"Journalists are strange."
"Correct."
They both laughed.
Because honestly?
She wasn't wrong.
As the day continued, the football world increasingly turned its attention toward one thing.
The draw.
Not today.
Not yet.
But soon.
The Round of 16.
The beginning of the true knockout phase.
The stage where dreams either strengthened or shattered.
Across Europe, clubs waited.
Supporters waited.
Managers waited.
Players waited.
Everyone calculating possibilities.
Everyone imagining scenarios.
Everyone wondering who fate would choose.
At London Colney, meanwhile, life continued.
Recovery sessions.
Training plans.
Video analysis.
The normal rhythm of elite football.
Because regardless of future opponents, Arsenal still had matches to play.
The Premier League remained fiercely competitive.
Domestic cups remained important.
The season never paused simply because supporters wanted to discuss hypothetical draws.
Yet beneath everything, there was excitement.
A quiet excitement.
The kind that built naturally.
Because this Arsenal squad had placed itself exactly where every ambitious team wanted to be.
Top of the Premier League.
Top of their Champions League group.
Playing excellent football.
Healthy.
Confident.
United.
And perhaps most importantly…
Hungry.
The previous two Champions League titles had not satisfied them.
If anything, they had created a new problem.
Expectation.
Success changed people.
Success changed clubs.
Success changed ambitions.
The goal was no longer to compete.
The goal was no longer to reach the knockout rounds.
The goal was no longer even to win one Champions League.
Now the goal was something far more difficult.
To do it again.
To become champions for a third consecutive season.
A challenge that would demand everything.
Every ounce of talent.
Every ounce of discipline.
Every ounce of belief.
And as winter sunlight slowly faded beyond the windows of the mansion, one thing felt increasingly clear.
Whether the draw delivered Porto.
Whether it delivered Real Madrid.
Whether it delivered Barcelona.
This Arsenal squad would welcome it.
Because somewhere along the way, something fundamental had changed, the club no longer measured itself against Europe's giants as they had become one of them.
______________________________________________
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: 24
Goal: 31
Assist: 1
MOTM: 4
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