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In the post-match handshake with Guardiola, there was respect, mutual acknowledgment of a tactical battle fought and a victory hard-earned. The players began to exit the pitch, some celebrating quietly, others catching their breath, all of them aware that this match, in its intensity and complexity, would linger in memory. Francesco exchanged nods and brief words with Kante, Xhaka, Ozil, and Giroud, each recognition silent but loaded with meaning. They had survived and triumphed, together.
The chill of the Manchester evening clung to Francesco's skin as the last echoes of the referee's whistle dissolved into the noise of the stadium. For a heartbeat, everything felt suspended with the roar of frustrated City fans, the elated shouts of the traveling Arsenal supporters, the thudding bass of the stadium music starting to creep in. His lungs still burned from the relentless pace of the match, but the adrenaline humming under his skin softened the fatigue, turning the exhaustion into a quiet, simmering satisfaction.
He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and exhaled slowly before turning toward the nearest City player that is Kevin De Bruyne, who was kneeling with hands on his thighs, staring at the grass as if searching for answers hidden beneath the pitch markings.
Francesco approached slowly, giving the Belgian a moment before speaking.
"Kev," he called gently.
De Bruyne lifted his head, strands of damp hair sticking to his forehead, his breath visible in the cold. There was frustration in his eyes, but also that unmistakable competitive respect, the kind elite players reserved only for each other.
Francesco offered his hand. "Good game, mate. Really."
De Bruyne took the hand and pulled himself up with a huff that was half laugh, half resignation.
"You lot were disciplined today," he said, shaking his head slightly. "You closed every passing lane. Nothing came easy."
"That's the plan," Francesco replied with a smile. "You made us work for it."
De Bruyne snorted. "Clearly not enough."
There was a brief silence that not awkward, but mutual acknowledgment of a hard battle shared.
Then Francesco nodded toward De Bruyne's shirt. "Hey, you up for a swap?"
The Belgian blinked, surprised for a second before a small smile creased his face. "You want mine?"
"Yeah," Francesco shrugged. "We've had a few good duels today. Thought I'd keep one."
Kevin chuckled and nodded. "Alright. Fair trade."
Both players peeled off their shirts with De Bruyne's clinging from sweat, Francesco's carrying the faint blue smudge of where Otamendi had grabbed him during a tussle. They exchanged jerseys with a small slap on each other's backs.
"Keep going," De Bruyne said quietly. "You're on another level this season."
Francesco didn't hide his grin. "You too. As always."
But the moment passed quickly, threaded with the professionalism of two players who understood there was still more to say to others before leaving the pitch.
He scanned the area and spotted David Silva walking toward the tunnel. The Spaniard's expression was calm, as always that almost emotionless, but anyone who knew the game could sense the disappointment simmering beneath the surface.
"David!" Francesco called out.
Silva turned, and his expression softened the moment he recognized him.
Francesco approached and met him with a small embrace that short, chest to shoulder touch common between players who had shared years of battles on opposite sides.
"You okay?" Francesco asked.
Silva gave a faint, tired smile. "These games…" He shook his head. "Sometimes you do everything right, and it still isn't enough."
"You played well. City always threaten when you're on the ball."
"Not enough today," Silva replied, placing a hand briefly on Francesco's shoulder. "But you… you're growing into something special. I mean that genuinely."
The words hit deeper than Silva realized. Compliments carried by legends had weight to them. Francesco bowed his head slightly.
"Thanks," he murmured. "Coming from you, that means a lot."
Silva nodded once more, then added quietly, "Enjoy this win. It's not easy to come here and take three points. Few teams manage it."
He squeezed Francesco's shoulder before heading toward the tunnel.
Francesco watched him go, then turned in search of one more person. He found Raheem Sterling near the center circle, frustration plain on the winger's face as he spoke briefly with John Stones and Yaya Touré.
Francesco jogged over.
"Raheem," he said.
Sterling turned, eyebrows raised slightly, then softened the moment he recognized who had called him.
"Hey," he exhaled. "You guys were something else today."
"You caused us a lot of trouble," Francesco countered. "Especially first half. You were electric."
Sterling let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his head. "Yeah but…" He shrugged. "Doesn't matter if it doesn't end with a result."
Francesco nudged him lightly with an elbow. "You're one of the toughest wingers I've ever faced. Don't let one match shake you."
Sterling huffed a small laugh. "You're annoyingly persistent, you know that? Like I'd think I beat you, then you're just there again."
"Part of the job description," Francesco grinned.
Sterling shook his head but smiled anyway. "Congrats. Seriously. You're making this league yours."
The compliment settled warmly in Francesco's chest. The mutual respect mattered as they had battled all match long, and those duels forged a strange kind of bond.
The atmosphere around them was shifting with City players gradually retreating toward the tunnel, heads low, disappointment radiating from them, while Arsenal players gathered in small clusters, exchanging tired but joyful words.
Francesco turned toward his teammates. Koscielny clapped Giroud on the back. Kante and Xhaka shared a laugh about something only they understood. Ozil adjusted his gloves, still looking like he was analyzing the match in his head. Gnabry was catching his breath, hands on hips, nodding as Bellerin animatedly described a moment from the match.
"Hey!" Francesco called out, clapping his hands together once, loud enough to gather attention.
The voices died down subtly, not dramatically that just a natural response to their captain's presence.
He jerked his head toward the far corner of the Etihad that is the away stand.
It was small, tucked into the stadium's architecture, but the Arsenal supporters inside were a sea of red and white, scarves up, flags waving, voices echoing across the pitch. They hadn't stopped chanting since the whistle as the distant rhythm of "Arsenal! Arsenal! Arsenal!" bouncing in the cold air.
"Let's go thank them," Francesco said simply.
There was no need for a speech. No theatrics. The team understood.
Ozil draped an arm briefly around Iwobi's shoulders. Monreal jogged to catch up with Giroud. Cech, still in his dark keeper's kit, adjusted his gloves and followed with a calm smile. Kante walked beside Xhaka, heads close together in a conversation that dissolved the tension from the match.
Francesco led the way that not from ego, but instinct. The captain walked ahead, his strides measured, his breath finally beginning to settle. As he approached the away section, the noise swelled.
The Arsenal supporters saw him first.
A wave of cheers erupted, hands shooting up, scarves swirling, voices roaring his name.
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
He felt the sound vibrate through him which is not pride, not arrogance, but a deep, grounding gratitude. These were the people who traveled hours, braved traffic, cold, and frustration just to be here. They had drowned out the Etihad's roar at times. They had given Arsenal a voice even in enemy territory.
Francesco slowed to a stop right in front of them and raised both hands in gratitude.
He applauded that steady, sincere, long enough to make clear that this wasn't routine, this wasn't habit. This was respect returned.
The team lined up beside and slightly behind him in that unspoken formation footballers take when honoring fans. Together, they clapped, nodding, smiling. Iwobi pointed to a kid waving his shirt. Giroud blew a kiss toward the crowd. Bellerin held up an imaginary camera, pretending to capture the away end.
The supporters responded in kind. They sang. They chanted players' names one by one. They waved giant Arsenal flags. They held up banners that one with Francesco's silhouette after his derby hat-trick, another with Wenger's face framed by the words "IN ARSÈNE WE TRUST."
Francesco's heart warmed at that one as Wenger deserved it. Nights like this validated years of belief, loyalty, patience, and an almost paternal commitment to the club.
Koscielny leaned in slightly toward him. "They love you, captain."
Francesco didn't look away from the crowd as he answered.
"They love all of us," he murmured. "We just have to keep giving them nights like this."
The players stayed for nearly a full minute, taking in the appreciation, giving it back, letting the emotion settle. When Francesco finally lowered his hands, the fans did too and not because the moment ended, but because they knew the ritual had been honored.
He gave one last nod, mouthed a soft thank you, and turned back toward the pitch.
Francesco had barely taken three steps away from the away end when he heard someone call out from behind him.
"Francesco! Over here!"
He turned and saw a Premier League staff member in the familiar black jacket jogging toward him, clutching a clipboard and microphone pack. The man looked a little out of breath that either from rushing across the grass or from the cold cutting deep enough to shorten every breath.
"Sorry to grab you so quick," the staffer said, offering an apologetic smile. "We need you for the post match pitchside interview. Sky already set up on the touchline."
Francesco nodded. "Yeah, of course."
The staffer motioned for him to follow, and they began walking together toward the sideline area, boots thudding softly against the damp turf. The lights from the stadium beamed down harsh and bright, cutting through the evening chill and casting long shadows behind the pair as they crossed the grass.
The adrenaline that had carried Francesco through the match was tapering off now, leaving behind a subtle fatigue in his legs, the kind that didn't feel heavy as it was just satisfyingly used. He rolled his shoulders back and adjusted De Bruyne's jersey draped loosely in his hand. The fabric was still warm.
As they got closer to the interview zone, he heard voices from reporters, staff, equipment techs. A cluster of mic stands and cameras stood under a canopy of lights. And right there, stepping away from the interviewer with a polite nod, was Pep Guardiola.
Pep finished speaking into the Sky microphone, offered the reporter a brief smile, then turned and spotted Francesco.
Something softened in Pep's expression instantly. The exhaustion, the frustration simmering from the 3–1 defeat as it all flickered aside as recognition washed over him.
He stepped forward with that familiar purposeful stride of his, one hand already lifted.
"Francesco," Pep said warmly.
"Coach." Francesco smiled.
They shook hands, but Pep pulled him in for a quick hug, the kind he gave to players he admired deeply that firm, brief, but meaningful. Francesco returned the gesture, his forehead pressing lightly against Pep's shoulder for a moment as the stadium noise faded into a dull, distant hum.
That was when Pep leaned in just slightly closer.
His voice dropped to a whisper, quiet enough that only Francesco could hear it under the crackling stadium speakers and chatter from nearby reporters.
"If you want," Pep murmured, "I'll ask the board to buy you. Come to Manchester City."
The words came soft, but with the weight of real intent as it was not a joke or flattery. Pep's tone carried the sincerity of a man who meant what he said, who saw talent and wanted it woven into his team's philosophy. It wasn't a formal offer, not yet, but the implication was unmistakable.
Francesco exhaled through his nose that not nervously or startled, but almost amused by the boldness of it.
Pep tightened the hug just a fraction more, emphasizing his sincerity.
"Players like you are fit perfectly in my system," he continued quietly. "If you want this move, I'll make sure it happens. I'll tell the board tomorrow."
A lesser player might have been tempted. Anyone else, maybe. Someone whose loyalty wavered, who saw trophies as the ultimate currency, who yearned to be under Pep's coaching umbrella. A player who dreamed of dominating Europe under the most meticulous tactician of the era.
But Francesco?
He smiled before Pep even finished the sentence.
When they separated from the hug, Francesco kept his hand on Pep's arm for a second, that warm, respectful gesture shared between people who genuinely admire each other, but know the boundary that will not be crossed.
He shook his head gently, almost fondly.
"I appreciate it, truly," he said quietly. "But I'll always remain loyal to Arsenal."
Pep exhaled through a soft laugh that not offended or disappointed. If anything, he seemed to admire Francesco even more in that moment. There was something in Pep's eyes, a spark of understanding, even respect, that stretched beyond football.
"Loyalty," Pep murmured, giving a small nod, "not many players have that anymore."
Francesco shrugged lightly, smiling. "Arsenal believed in me first. They trusted me. They made me captain. I owe them everything."
Pep held his gaze for a few seconds, then squeezed his shoulder with a slow, approving nod.
"I respect that," he said. "Truly. But know this, if you ever change your mind, I'll always want you."
Francesco chuckled. "Maybe in another life."
Pep laughed at that a genuine one with a hearty laugh that softened the tension of the loss. "Yes, maybe."
The Premier League staff member cleared his throat gently, reminding them that Francesco still had an interview to attend.
Pep stepped back, offering one last handshake that firm and warm.
"Congratulations on the win," Pep said. "You were outstanding today."
Francesco dipped his head in gratitude. "Thank you, coach."
As Pep walked toward the tunnel, hands in pockets, head slightly bowed, Francesco watched him for a moment. He had always admired Pep of his philosophy, his intelligence, his respect for the game. And knowing that a manager of that magnitude wanted him, it meant something. It meant a lot.
But Arsenal was more than a club to him. It was home. And no whispered offer, no trophy promise, no Premier League giant could break the thread that tied him to it.
The staffer gently directed him toward the interview stand.
Camera lights flared to life.
A microphone was clipped to his collar.
A Sky Sports reporter turned with a practiced smile, already mid-sentence into the broadcast.
"…and joining us now is Arsenal captain Francesco Lee. Two goals tonight, a 3–1 victory over Manchester City, and a performance that the pundits are already calling one of the best of the season."
The reporter turned fully toward him.
"Francesco, thank you for joining us."
Francesco inhaled, composed, the weight of the moment of the win, the respect from rivals, Pep's whisper still lingering are settling into something steady in his chest.
He smiled.
"Happy to be here."
The interviewer lifted his microphone, adjusting the earpiece tucked beneath his headset. The red recording light blinked to life, bathing Francesco in that familiar glow that never truly felt normal, no matter how many times he'd been in front of a camera.
"Francesco," the reporter began, voice warm but polished, "first of all, congratulations on the win. A 3–1 victory here at the Etihad is never easy. Let me start with the obvious question: how does it feel to defeat one of your biggest contenders for the Premier League title this season?"
Francesco let out a slow breath as the question settled. Not because he didn't know what to say, but because the weight of the match, the atmosphere, the duels, the adrenaline still buzzing through his muscles as all of it came rushing back in a single wave.
He looked down for half a second, then lifted his eyes to meet the interviewer's.
"It feels massive," he said honestly. "Look, coming here, playing coach Pep's side, the intensity, the pressure, the way they push you for ninety minutes, this is one of the hardest places to get a result. You can't switch off for even a second. And we knew that. We prepared for that all week."
He paused, rubbing his thumb lightly against the De Bruyne jersey still draped over his fingers.
"But tonight was about showing who we are. Not just as individuals, but as a team. As Arsenal. People talk about contenders, about who can win the league, who can keep up with us but for us, it's simple: every match is a test of character. And today we showed ours."
The reporter nodded, clearly satisfied with the answer but hungry for more.
"And, of course," he continued, "this win keeps your incredible run going. Arsenal remain unbeaten since opening day. Not a single defeat in the league since August. How does that feel? And how do you keep that momentum, that mentality, alive?"
Francesco laughed softly that not boastful, but almost disbelieving in the way athletes sometimes marvel at their own team's journey.
"It feels surreal, honestly," he admitted. "You try not to think about it during the season. The moment you start obsessing over unbeaten runs or records, that's when you slip. But yes, it feels good. Really good."
He shifted his weight slightly, crossing his arms out of instinct, the interview mic brushing his forearm.
"But it's not luck. People see the goals and the wins, but they don't see what happens behind closed doors. The training sessions where Kante runs like it's his last day on earth. Xhaka firing everyone up. Ozil staying behind to practice vision drills. Bellerin working on his recovery sprints. Cech guiding the backline like a general. Everyone sacrifices something."
He smiled, soft but proud.
"That's why we're unbeaten. Because nobody here wants to be the reason it ends."
The reporter leaned closer, energized by the passion in Francesco's voice.
"And it's interesting you mention that, because a lot has been said about Arsenal's treble last season. The league, the FA Cup, and the Champions League are a historic achievement. So let me ask the question every fan wants the answer to."
He angled the microphone a little higher, the cameras capturing every flicker of Francesco's expression.
"Are Arsenal trying to defend their treble? Is the goal this season to win another one?"
That question hit with the force of a stadium roar.
Francesco pressed his lips together, exhaling through his nose before responding. Not because he was nervous, but because the weight of expectation was something he had learned to treat with careful respect.
"Well…" he started slowly, "we're Arsenal. And when you're Arsenal, you don't aim small."
A small laugh escaped the reporter.
"But," Francesco continued, lifting a hand slightly, "we're also realistic. A treble isn't something you plan at the start of a season like saying, 'Oh yeah, let's just go win three trophies.' It doesn't work that way. A treble is lightning. Everything has to click from health, form, timing, luck, mentality. It's football at its most demanding."
He paused and looked directly into the camera, as if speaking to every Arsenal supporter watching from home.
"What I'll say is this: we're hungry. Hungrier than last season, even. We're not satisfied. We want to compete in every competition. We want to fight for everything. If that leads to another treble, then that's the dream, isn't it?"
A warm smile tugged at his mouth.
"But we don't chase the treble. We chase every game. Every week. Every challenge. And if we keep that mentality? Then anything is possible."
The reporter grinned, clearly delighted with the answer.
"Beautifully said."
For a moment, the noise of the stadium returned as the footsteps of players heading down the tunnel, the PA system echoing post-match announcements, the steady hum of cameras swiveling to capture reactions. Francesco felt the cold tightening across his skin, but inside, there was warmth with the warmth that came from unity, hard work, belief.
The interviewer wasn't done.
"Your own form," he continued, "has been remarkable this season. Goals, leadership as the pundits have you in the conversation for Player of the Year already. Tonight you scored two brilliant goals against Manchester City of all teams. How do you feel about your individual performances? And where does that hunger come from?"
Francesco dropped his gaze briefly and shook his head with a humble smile.
"I appreciate the praise, I really do," he said. "But everything I do, every goal, every performance as it comes from them."
He pointed subtly toward the pitch, toward the players still milling around.
"Kante winning second balls. Xhaka giving me space. Ozil threading passes nobody else sees. Virgil and Kos locking down the defence so I can push forward. Hector and Nacho running themselves into the ground. Without them, I'm nothing. Without this team, I'm not even half the player people think I am."
His voice softened.
"As for hunger, it comes from the badge. Every time I wear it, I remember what it means. The history. The fans. The responsibility. That's where the fire comes from."
The reporter nodded, visibly moved by the sincerity.
"One last question before we let you go," he said, glancing once toward the studio camera to build the anticipation. "Tonight, after the match, we saw you exchanging words and shirts with Kevin De Bruyne, David Silva, Raheem Sterling, and even had a moment with Pep Guardiola. You seem to have earned immense respect from your rivals. How does that feel? And what does it mean to you?"
Francesco inhaled slowly. This one he answered from somewhere deeper.
"It means everything," he said quietly. "Because those are players and managers I've admired for how they play. People I watched growing up, people I studied. And to stand on the same pitch as them, to battle them, to have them respect me back, well it's humbling."
A breeze cut through the sideline, lifting a corner of the shirt in his hand.
"But I think it also shows what football really is," he continued. "We fight for ninety minutes, we push each other, we tackle, we argue, we sprint until our lungs burn, but after the whistle? We're just people who love the same sport. And the respect, that's what lasts longer than any result."
The reporter lowered the microphone slightly, signaling the end.
"Well, Francesco, thank you for your time. And again, congratulations on the win. Arsenal remain unbeaten, still pushing for more, and you're giving the Premier League one hell of a season again."
Francesco smiled, offering a polite nod.
"Thank you mate. Appreciate it."
The cameras cut. The lights dimmed slightly. A tech assistant unclipped the mic from his collar, murmuring a quick "Good interview, mate." Francesco flashed him a small smile.
He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck lightly, and let the moment settle.
The cold air hit him again, sharper now without the distraction of questions.
Behind him, he heard the faint echo of footsteps from teammates heading to the tunnel, laughing, shouting, calling out jokes in multiple languages.
The match was done.
The interview was done.
But the night? The night was far from over.
Francesco let the cold Manchester air sink into his lungs one last time before he turned toward the tunnel. The stadium was mostly empty now, only stadium staff clearing adverts, a few cameramen packing their equipment, and scattered security still stationed at the barriers. He could still hear the echo of fans chanting as they exited as some singing joyfully, some complaining loudly, some mumbling about referees or lineups or bad luck.
He slipped into the tunnel, where the warm air immediately washed over him, melting the chilled tension on his skin. The familiar scent of turf, sweat, and deep-heat muscle rub drifted through the corridor. He walked with an easy stride now, his adrenaline fading, leaving that satisfied heaviness in his limbs, the kind players always described as the good kind of exhaustion.
Ahead, he could hear voices from his teammates.
Laughter, shouts, someone slamming a locker door shut, music playing faintly from someone's speaker. A blend of Spanish, French, English, German, and the universal language of tired joy.
As Francesco pushed the door open to the away dressing room, a wave of warmth and noise hit him instantly.
"CAPTAIN!"
"Killer!"
"Man of the match again, eh?"
"You owe me dinner for that assist!"
Voices erupted from everywhere.
Kanté pointed at him with a grin so wide it almost looked unnatural on his usually calm face.
Sánchez, shirtless and still dripping with water from the sink, clapped loudly.
Xhaka slapped the top of a bench as if summoning thunder.
Ozil gave him that sly smirk, the one that always said: "I told you I'd find you with that pass."
Giroud blew him a dramatic kiss.
And Bellerin, of course was dancing.
Francesco laughed and shook his head, placing De Bruyne's shirt carefully in his locker before pulling his own sweaty jersey off. His body steamed under the warm air, his muscles humming with fatigue.
He headed to the shower area where most of the lads were already gathering. The water hissed loudly over the tiled floor. Laughter echoed off the walls.
"Big man!" Virgil called, spraying water at Francesco with his hand. "Two goals. AGAIN."
"You're not human," Monreal added. "I'm convinced."
"Robots don't score chips, Nacho," Francesco shot back.
"Maybe advanced robots do," Ozil chimed in, deadpan.
A roar of laughter filled the shower room.
Steam thickened in the air as they all washed off the dirt, the sweat, the bruises of ninety minutes against Pep Guardiola's relentless machine. Someone started singing one of the Arsenal chants. Someone else joined. Then someone threw a shampoo bottle at Giroud for hitting a wrong note.
It was chaos, but the good kind.
The kind that came only from winning together.
After ten minutes, players began drifting out of the shower, grabbing towels, drying hair, chatting in small groups. The dressing room settled into that comfortable post match hum.
One by one, the players changed into their Arsenal tracksuits that is navy blue with red trim, embroidered crest still warm with pride after a win like this. Francesco pulled his on, zipping it up halfway.
He was sitting on the bench tying his laces when.
"AAAAAHHHHHHH!"
Bellerin's scream tore through the room like a bomb blast.
Every player froze.
A bottle fell from Van Dijk's hand.
Sánchez flinched so hard he dropped his phone into his open gym bag.
Koscielny nearly punched the air on instinct.
"¡HOSTIA!" Monreal yelled. "What the hell was that!?"
Even the physio outside the room peeked in.
Before anyone could react further, Sánchez marched straight to Bellerin and smacked him on the head with the flat of his hand.
"WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING!?" Sánchez barked, eyes wide.
"OW ow ow ow. ALE, STOP… STOP!" Bellerin yelped, rubbing his head. "Listen! LISTEN! You won't believe this!"
"You scream like someone stabbed you," Xhaka muttered. "Start talking before I actually do."
"No seriously listen to me bro, this is crazy!" Bellerin said breathlessly, waving his phone like it was a live grenade. "A fan on Twitter, one of those stat crazy guys posted something. He… he calculated Francesco's total goals for the whole of 2016."
Every head turned.
The room went dead silent.
Even the shower water in the back stopped dripping, as if the pipes themselves didn't want to interrupt.
"And?" Özil asked quietly, eyebrow raised.
Bellerin swallowed dramatically.
"With tonight's game…" he said slowly, "…the total is ninety-two."
The room didn't react.
Not at first.
It was like they all heard the words but their brains refused to process them.
Then.
"What!?"
"No way."
"You're joking."
"That's impossible."
"Bro… what!?"
And then the explosion happened.
Players shot up from benches.
Giroud nearly tripped over his own tracksuit bottoms.
Cech stood from the corner, eyes wide behind his cap.
Ozil grabbed Bellerin's phone.
Xhaka shouted something in Swiss with German.
Sánchez yelled, "LET ME SEE! LET ME SEE!"
Bellerin held the phone above his head like Rafiki presenting Simba.
"I'm not lying! Look! This kid tracked every game from January first to tonight. Premier League, FA Cup, League Cup, Champions League, Euro 2016, everything. All goals scored in the 2016 calendar year."
Francesco blinked, stunned.
He hadn't been counting. He never counted. He always told himself goals were for the team, not for personal records.
But ninety two?
That was higher than he'd even imagined.
"That… that can't be right," he said quietly.
"Hold on," Özil said, scrolling fast. "He put the breakdown. Month by month. Match by match."
Ozil's eyes widened.
"Bruh," he whispered. "It might be real."
"HEY GUYS!" Xhaka suddenly bellowed, voice echoing off the walls. "WE NEED A STATISTICIAN! NOW!"
The staff outside from kit men, analysts, physios that looked in like Xhaka had just declared a medical emergency.
"What's going on?" one of the analysts asked.
"COUNT HIS GOALS!" Gnabry said, pointing at Francesco like accusing someone in a courtroom.
"BEGINNING OF 2016 UNTIL TONIGHT!" Koscielny added.
"We need confirmation," Cech said calmly, but even his voice betrayed excitement.
"Because apparently…" Giroud said, lifting a hand dramatically, "…our captain has just broken Messi's 2012 world record."
That did it.
Even the coaches who were packing equipment in the hallway poked their heads into the room.
Wenger himself walked in.
Arms folded.
Calm face.
Sharp eyes.
"Mesut," Wenger said, "what is happening?"
Ozil held up the phone.
"Boss apparently Francesco scored ninety two goals in the 2016 calendar year."
Silence.
Wenger blinked once.
Twice.
Then he pushed his glasses higher on his nose.
"Get the analytics laptop," he said to the nearest staff member. "We're verifying this."
The analytics team rushed in with a laptop, setting it on the massage table. They opened two data sheets from official club stats and league stats.
Every player crowded around behind them.
Some stood on benches.
Others leaned over shoulders.
Cazorla climbed on top of a storage box for a better view.
Francesco sat down slowly on the bench, heart thudding—not out of excitement but disbelief.
The first analyst cracked his knuckles.
"Alright," he said. "Let's begin. January first, 2016."
The room fell into an intense silence, the kind that felt like a Champions League knockout match.
One by one, month by month, match by match, they counted.
Every competition.
Every goal.
Every hat-trick.
Every brace.
Every big moment.
The players reacted at every line.
"OH YEAH I REMEMBER THAT MATCH!"
"BRO YOU SCORED A HATTRICK THAT DAY!"
"That volley against Chelsea was madness."
"Wait, he scored how many in March!?"
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE SCORED 11 IN APRIL!?"
Wenger stood behind them, arms still folded, expression unreadable but eyes shining with something between pride and awe.
After twenty minutes of cross-checking, double-checking, then triple-checking.
"Boss…" the analyst said finally, voice trembling with shock, "…it's true."
The room held its breath.
The analyst turned the laptop toward Wenger.
"Ninety two goals."
A beat of silence.
"Francesco," Wenger said softly, looking at him with a slow, genuinely stunned smile forming on his face, "you have broken Lionel Messi's world record."
The room detonated.
"NO WAYYYYYY!"
"CAPTAINNNNNNN!"
"YOU LEGEND!"
"MESSI'S RECORD, BRO! MESSI!"
"THIS IS HISTORY!"
"SOMEONE CALL FIFA!"
"WE NEED A DOCUMENTARY!"
"YOU'RE NOT HUMAN!"
Virgil bear hugged him from behind.
Xhaka tackled him onto the bench.
Sánchez jumped on top of both of them.
Bellerin yelled "I TOLD YOU I WASN'T LYING!"
Ozil started chanting "GOAT! GOAT! GOAT!"
Someone popped a water bottle like champagne.
Gnabry and Iwobi started dancing.
Giroud tried to climb onto a table and slipped.
It was chaos.
Beautiful, ridiculous, unbelievable chaos.
And Francesco?
He just sat there, overwhelmed.
Not with ego.
Not with the need to brag.
But with a deep, shaking disbelief that felt like standing in a dream.
Messi's record had been something untouchable.
Something mythical.
Something players didn't even try to chase.
And yet.
Here he was.
Wenger approached him through the madness.
He placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder with a silent, steady gesture full of warmth.
"You have done something extraordinary," Wenger said softly. "Something the world will remember for a very long time."
Francesco swallowed hard.
"I… I didn't even know."
Wenger nodded gently.
"That," he said, "is exactly why you achieved it."
The whole room erupted again with chants of:
"FRAN-CES-CO!
FRAN-CES-CO!
FRAN-CES-CO!"
The noise shook the walls.
The night had already been incredible.
But now?
Now it had become legendary.
A moment no one in that dressing room would ever forget.
A moment football would never forget.
And as Francesco sat beneath the thunder of his teammates' voices, with steam still drifting off his skin, boots drying near his locker, and the weight of ninety two goals suddenly settling into the reality of history.
________________________________________________
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: 24
Goal: 37
Assist: 0
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9