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Francesco stepped back onto the pitch to congratulate his teammates, exchanging hugs, handshakes, words of praise. The armband was passed back to him briefly as he led the team in applauding the fans, circling the pitch slowly.
Francesco's boots crunched against the grass one final time as the referee's whistle faded into the chaos of the crowd. He slowed his pace, letting the moment wash over him with the heat still in his legs, sweat cooling on his skin, adrenaline lingering in every sinew. The scoreboard glared 4–0, but for him, it was never just numbers. It was rhythm. Control. Precision. Leadership. Every pass, every movement, every goal had been a conversation with his teammates, and now, the conversation had ended beautifully.
He walked over to Alexis first, clapping him on the back and exchanging a few words, their laughter soft against the roar of the Emirates. Then he moved to Gnabry, Oxlade-Chamberlain, Xhaka, Kanté, and Cazorla, shaking hands, ruffling hair, exchanging short congratulations that carried the weight of shared effort and satisfaction. Their eyes met his, tired but alight with pride, and he gave the smallest nod with the silent acknowledgment of work well done.
"Outstanding today," he said to Kanté, voice low but firm. "You ran every blade of grass. Every pass we made went through you."
Kanté smiled shyly, brushing the sweat from his brow. "We made it easy," he replied.
"No," Francesco corrected gently, still smiling. "We made it unstoppable."
Next came the more formal steps, the handshakes with the Crystal Palace players. Francesco walked over to the visiting side slowly, arms extended. Scott Dann's handshake was firm; Kelly's brief, almost apologetic. Ward nodded, face neutral but respectful. Benteke, replaced earlier, clapped him on the shoulder, a faint grin betraying the pride in surviving the match without letting it turn into a humiliation. Zaha avoided eye contact initially, glancing toward his bench, but eventually offered a small handshake, one that was more acknowledgment than enthusiasm.
Finally, Francesco approached Sam Allardyce. The Palace manager met him with the same mixture of professional courtesy and quiet resignation that had characterized the match itself. They shook hands firmly, a tacit understanding passing between them: it had been a masterclass in control, an exercise in team superiority, and Allardyce's players had simply been caught in the current.
"Good luck the rest of the season," Francesco said sincerely. "Keep pushing. You'll get there."
Allardyce nodded. "Well-played. They were clinical. Nothing you can say about that."
Francesco gave a small smile and stepped back, letting the Crystal Palace group move toward the tunnel, the applause of the remaining Palace fans faint against the dominant cheers of the home crowd. He glanced over his shoulder at his own team, calling them together.
"North Bank," he said, voice carrying. "Let's go thank our fans."
The players responded immediately, jogging toward him as a unit. Alexis, Cazorla, Giroud, Oxlade-Chamberlain, Gnabry as they fell into place naturally around him. Wenger lingered a few steps back, hands on his hips, watching with quiet satisfaction.
As they reached the north bank, the sound hit them again with a wave, a tidal force, made up of thousands of voices chanting, clapping, singing. Francesco paused for a heartbeat, letting it wash over him. He raised both arms, and the cheers intensified. His chest tightened, a mix of pride, relief, and pure joy.
"Thank you!" he shouted, voice hoarse from the match but carrying effortlessly over the roar. "Thank you for being here, for believing, for supporting us! This is for you!"
Fans waved scarves, shouted names, held banners high. Small flags fluttered like a storm across the upper tiers. Francesco crouched slightly, gesturing toward the front row where young fans pressed against the barrier, eyes wide, faces glowing with awe.
He walked slowly toward a boy, no older than ten or eleven, gripping the rail. The boy's hands trembled slightly as Francesco reached him. Without hesitation, Francesco unzipped the front of his jersey and tugged it off, holding it up.
"For you," he said, handing it carefully over the barrier.
The boy's eyes widened impossibly. He barely had time to form words before Francesco crouched slightly and pulled out his phone.
"Let's take a picture," Francesco said warmly. "Smile."
The boy grinned, the jersey draped over his small shoulders, and they snapped the photo together, Francesco's arm around him, the boy holding up the phone for a selfie angle. The image captured the joy, the awe, the simple human connection that transcended the game itself. Around them, the fans erupted in cheers, clapping and shouting encouragement, some pointing, some waving scarves, some jumping up and down with pure exhilaration.
Francesco lingered for a moment longer, letting the boy savor it. "Wear it proud," he said softly. "Make sure you run fast with it when you play in the garden, okay?"
"Okay!" the boy shouted back, eyes sparkling.
He waved once more, then stepped back, letting the rest of the team join him. Alexis clapped the boy on the shoulder, Giroud ruffled another young fan's hair, and Cazorla waved, his fingers forming a small heart as he leaned toward another group of kids. The interaction felt effortless but deeply human with an extension of what football at this level could be: joy, mentorship, inspiration.
The team continued their lap along the north bank, Francesco leading, clapping hands above his head, eyes scanning the stands, acknowledging every group of fans he could. He nodded at older fans, winked at teenagers, smiled warmly at mothers holding infants above the rail. Every gesture was measured but genuine, a humanization of leadership, the bridge between elite performance and everyday passion.
As they approached the corner of the stand, Francesco slowed slightly, letting the group pause, letting the energy of the fans wash over them one more time. He raised his hands in a final salute, the noise reaching an almost unbearable crescendo. Red and white scarves waved like waves in the wind, voices shouting, singing, living in a collective joy that only sport could conjure.
The players followed his lead, clapping, waving, embracing the experience. Giroud raised both arms, signaling triumph. Alexis shouted a quick "Come on!" in unison with the crowd. Oxlade-Chamberlain spun toward the upper tiers, hands outstretched, laughter escaping him in pure delight.
Francesco caught a glimpse of Wenger from the touchline, eyes warm, head nodding slightly. It was the coach's acknowledgment of everything with the preparation, the discipline, the leadership, the execution. Francesco smiled back, knowing the nod carried a weight that no amount of applause could quantify.
By the time they completed the lap, the team had returned to the center of the pitch, still clapping, still acknowledging, still absorbing. The north bank was a sea of red, but it had become a mirror of the unity on the pitch: deliberate, intense, connected.
Francesco finally let himself exhale fully. His chest rose and fell, lungs filling with the crisp London evening air, sweat still drying, hair plastered in damp strands to his forehead. He looked around at his teammates, catching Alexis' eye. Alexis gave a small nod, a silent "We did it." He met Giroud's gaze as Giroud's smile was wide, unrestrained. Kanté, humble as always, just shrugged with that quiet satisfaction of someone who had done his job perfectly. Xhaka adjusted his sleeves, appearing composed, but Francesco could see the slight curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
"First win," Francesco said softly, almost to himself. Then louder, "But it's just the start."
The team gathered toward the tunnel finally, Wenger leading the way. Francesco lingered a second longer, looking back at the north bank. Fans were slowly filing out, many still waving scarves, some lingering, still cheering, still clapping, holding onto the night's memory. He could hear the faint echoes of chants being carried down toward the streets, a resonance that would last long after they left.
Francesco thought back to the first minutes of the game, to the early pressure, the patient build-ups, the precise finishes. He remembered the way Özil had floated between lines, Alexis had darted and cut, Gnabry had raced and scored, Kanté had intercepted and passed. He remembered his own first goal, the way the ball had kissed the net past Hennessey, the collective roar of thousands of voices folding into a single energy. Every step, every movement had been part of a narrative, a story of a team working together, of leadership, of execution.
Francesco lingered in the tunnel for a moment longer, letting the adrenaline fade into something warmer, more reflective. His breaths were slower now, lungs drawing in the crisp night air that still seeped in through the open doors. He could hear the muffled shouts of the last lingering fans, the rustle of scarves, the clink of concession cups being cleared. It was quiet compared to the storm that had just passed across the pitch, but it carried its own weight with a residue of the chaos, a sense of fulfillment.
A tap on his shoulder drew him from his thoughts. He turned to see a Premier League staff member, clipboard in hand, a professional smile on his face. "Francesco, sorry to pull you, but we need you for a quick interview on the sideline. Just a few questions, nothing long."
Francesco nodded, giving a brief smile to Wenger and his teammates as he started toward the pitch once more. "Sure, let's do it," he said. The coach gave him a small nod, arms folding across his chest. "Well done," Wenger said quietly, the words carrying more meaning than any headline.
The staff led him back onto the edge of the field, the sidelines now quieter but still lined with a few staff members, camera operators, and journalists capturing the immediate post-match reactions. The stands behind him still held pockets of fans lingering, some clapping, some waving scarves, a few shouting his name, with the echo of the victory, amplified now by the lens of the cameras.
The interviewer stepped forward, mic in hand, eyes bright. "Francesco! Congratulations! What a way to start 2017 as Arsenal score four goals, complete control, and a first win for Arsenal this year. How does that feel?"
Francesco adjusted the microphone slightly, leaning into it, his expression a mixture of calm pride and lingering adrenaline. He allowed himself a slow exhale before speaking, thinking carefully about his words. "Thank you. It feels good. Of course, it's never about just one player, it's about the team. Today, every single member contributed. From the way we pressed, to the movement in midfield, to the way Alexis and Gnabry finished as we were connected. We were disciplined. And, of course, the fans… they were incredible. Their support carried us."
The interviewer smiled, nodding. "You led the team brilliantly, Francesco. You scored the first goal, set the tempo, and orchestrated so many moves. How important is it for you to start the year with such a performance?"
Francesco glanced toward the pitch briefly, taking in the fading lines of white paint, the grass still glistening from wear, the empty goalposts. "It's very important," he admitted. "A good start sets the tone, not just for the team, but for the confidence of everyone involved. Wins like this are about rhythm and belief. We've worked hard in training, and it's rewarding to see it executed on the pitch. But like I said, it's a team effort. Every pass, every run, every tackle mattered today."
The interviewer leaned forward slightly. "Arsenal seemed to dominate from the first whistle. You scored early, Gnabry added the second, and Alexis the third. How do you feel the team maintained such control throughout the match?"
Francesco smiled, shaking his head slightly. "It comes down to preparation and awareness. We knew Crystal Palace would try to react, push higher, maybe catch us on transition. But our positioning, our pressing, our patience with the ball, that made the difference. Kanté and Xhaka were phenomenal in controlling the midfield, intercepting passes, recycling possession. Özil's movement created spaces that even I could exploit. And Alexis… well, he finished brilliantly. The connection between the players was natural, instinctive almost. That's why we could keep control without forcing it, without rushing."
The interviewer chuckled. "And the fans, Francesco, they must have been thrilled with the performance tonight. How much does that energy drive the team during a match?"
Francesco's eyes softened as he thought back to the north bank, to the moments before and after he had handed his jersey to the young fan, to the sea of scarves waving in unison, the hands reaching, the voices shouting in unison. "It's everything," he said quietly. "We play for them as much as for ourselves. The fans' energy is contagious. It lifts you, pushes you further, and reminds you why you do this. Giving a jersey to a young fan, taking a picture with him, that's a moment I'll remember long after the match. Those moments are bigger than any goal."
The interviewer nodded, scribbling a note. "You were substituted in the second half, giving way to Giroud, Oxlade-Chamberlain, and Cazorla, while Palace also made changes. From the sidelines, how did it feel to watch the team continue to dominate and eventually secure the fourth goal?"
Francesco leaned against the barrier slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It's a strange feeling, being on the bench after playing the first 60 minutes. You feel every touch, every run, every defensive action from your teammates. But seeing them maintain control, seeing Giroud score the fourth goal from Cazorla's pass… that's pure satisfaction. It's the reward for collective effort. You're proud, you're relieved, and you're already thinking about the next challenge. That's football. Even from the sidelines, the connection to the pitch never fades."
The interviewer glanced at the cameras, gesturing slightly. "So, a perfect start to 2017. Four goals, a clean sheet. How do you and the team carry this momentum forward into the next match?"
Francesco's eyes flicked toward the emptying stands, his hands resting lightly on the rail. "With focus," he said firmly. "With discipline. We can celebrate tonight, we can enjoy this victory, but tomorrow we return to work. We analyze, we improve, we prepare. Every game is a test. Starting well is important, but consistency is key. That's the challenge: to take today's performance and make it the standard."
The interviewer smiled, a flicker of admiration in his expression. "Final question, Francesco. You mentioned the fans, the team, the effort. For the young ones watching at home, those dreaming of following in your footsteps, what message would you give them?"
Francesco's gaze softened, a hint of warmth in his eyes. "Never stop working," he said simply. "Talent is important, but dedication, discipline, and passion are what carry you through. Every training session, every match, every challenge is an opportunity. And always remember, the joy of the game, the connection with your teammates, the energy of the fans… those moments are priceless. Chase them. Respect them. And give everything you have."
The interviewer nodded, clearly moved, lowering the mic slightly. "Thank you, Francesco. Incredible performance tonight, and thank you for sharing your thoughts."
Francesco gave a final, humble nod. "Thank you. It was a team effort. Everyone played their part."
As the cameras pulled back and the staff began to guide him away, Francesco lingered for a brief second, glancing at the pitch one last time. The Emirates was quiet now, the field marked by the traces of a commanding victory, the lights reflecting off the wet grass. The north bank had emptied gradually, but in his mind, he could still see the fans waving scarves, hear their chants, feel the energy that had carried the team through ninety minutes of dominance.
Walking slowly toward the tunnel again, Francesco felt a deep sense of satisfaction, tempered with anticipation. This win was this first triumph of 2017 was a foundation, but he knew it was only the beginning. Matches would come, challenges would rise, and the demands of a Premier League season would test them all. Yet tonight, the team had shown precision, patience, and power. They had demonstrated leadership, unity, and the kind of human connection that made football more than a game.
And Francesco, standing there on the sideline just moments ago, had been at the heart of it. As he returned to the dressing room, the quiet triumph in his chest was punctuated by a smile. The first victory of 2017 was theirs. And he had lived every exhilarating, human, unforgettable moment of it.
The evening would fade, the stadium would empty, the lights would dim, but the memory of this night, the victory, the fans, the teamwork, the goals, the smiles as it would linger far longer. Francesco knew it would carry into the next match, the next challenge, the next victory, because that was the rhythm of football: relentless, beautiful, and human.
He stepped into the dressing room, greeted briefly by his teammates, and allowed himself to finally loosen, to remove the boots that had carried him through ninety minutes of intensity, to savor the quiet satisfaction that comes from leading, performing, and connecting. Tonight, he thought, was everything a footballer could hope for. And tomorrow, he would wake ready to do it all again.
Francesco moved through the dressing room with a calm rhythm, each movement measured but unhurried. The sweat still clung to his skin, the damp fabric of his shirt sticking slightly as he reached his locker. Around him, the team shared quiet conversations, laughter punctuating moments of reflection. The win had been commanding, but in the room, there was no overblown celebration, no sense of finality. It was a moment to acknowledge, yes, but also a moment to internalize, to learn from, to respect.
He dropped his jersey into his locker carefully, almost reverently, the leather of his boots still warm against the tile floor as he knelt briefly to loosen the laces. Alexis was chatting quietly with Giroud about a move earlier in the match, Gnabry was grinning while recounting a moment where he'd cut inside past Kelly, and Cazorla adjusted the sleeves of his training jacket, exhaling in contentment. Kanté, as always, was quiet, methodical, taking a slow sip from his water bottle, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as if he were already processing the game in a meticulous mental replay.
The showers were a symphony of warm water and faint chatter. Steam curled into the air, the scent of soap and mint filling the space. Francesco stepped under the spray, letting the water wash away the physical strain, but not the satisfaction with the adrenaline of the game lingered stubbornly in his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of water and laughter, to the subtle mix of triumph and exhaustion. It was grounding, intimate, a private interlude after a very public victory.
When the team emerged, towels around their necks or slung over shoulders, there was a sense of order even in the casual chatter. Bags were packed, jackets adjusted, phones checked briefly for messages from loved ones or glimpses of highlights already circulating. The camaraderie was understated with nods, smiles, a few hand slaps as human connections layered over professional pride.
The walk toward the team bus carried the energy forward. The stadium had begun to empty completely, the floodlights cutting a silvery path on the wet pavement. The group moved together, Wenger walking just behind them, a quiet presence of authority and wisdom. Francesco fell naturally into the center, a subtle gravitational pull for the group, the captain who had led them tonight, not just in play but in attitude.
Once inside the bus, the hum of the engine settling into a steady vibration, Francesco remained standing near the front, gripping a rail lightly, feeling the bus rock gently as it began its journey back to Colney. The city lights blurred past the windows, and for a few moments, there was a hush among the players, a reflective calm after the storm of action on the pitch.
Then Francesco took a breath, letting his presence settle over the group like a quiet command. His voice was low at first, careful, measured, then growing with deliberate authority.
"Tonight was exceptional," he began, scanning the faces of his teammates, reading the mixture of tiredness and pride. "We controlled the game, we dominated, we scored four goals without conceding. But I want you all to hear me clearly: this isn't a finish line. This is a stepping stone."
The players leaned in slightly, some sitting forward, elbows resting on knees, eyes attentive. Even Wenger, from his seat a few rows back, nodded subtly, knowing the words carried weight.
"We played with rhythm, with patience, with precision. That's who we are. But there are teams out there with clubs across the world who want to beat us, who want to stop what we are building here. And if we become complacent, if we start thinking dominance alone is enough, they will find a way. We cannot allow that. Not ever."
Alexis adjusted his towel over his shoulder, nodding subtly, while Giroud shifted in his seat, fingers laced together, listening intently. Even Kanté, silent as always, gave a barely perceptible nod, aware of the seriousness behind Francesco's tone.
"We have the tools, we have the talent, we have the team. But we must use it every game, every training, every touch, every pass. We have to play like the team that will be remembered. Not just a team that wins once or twice, but the team that is feared, respected, and admired. The team that dominates because of our skill, our discipline, and our unity."
Francesco paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. The bus rumbled along the quiet streets, the lights casting shadows across determined faces. He continued, his tone firm but infused with warmth, the kind of leadership that doesn't command through fear but through inspiration.
"Think about the treble. Think about what it would mean to carry this season as champions, as leaders in every competition. Every club we face will bring everything they have against us. Every single match is a challenge. And we need to meet it with the same intensity, focus, and composure we showed tonight. The world wants to stop us, but we will not give them that opportunity. We will keep winning. We will keep dominating. And we will do it together."
Oxlade-Chamberlain leaned slightly toward the aisle, eyes glinting with energy, a faint smile forming. "I like the sound of that," he muttered softly, earning a quiet chuckle from Gnabry, who nodded enthusiastically.
Francesco's gaze moved slowly around the bus, landing on each player briefly. "Remember this feeling tonight with the calm confidence, the rhythm of our play, the connection we have with each other and the fans. We have to carry that into every match, whether it's at the Emirates, away, or in training. Consistency. Focus. Respect for the game. Respect for the opponent. And respect for what we are building together."
He leaned slightly against the rail, the energy in the bus subtly shifting as his words settled. "We don't just want to win. We want to dominate. We want to be remembered as one of the greatest teams in the world. That's the standard. That's the expectation. Not just for this season, not just for the league, but for our legacy."
Giroud, who had been leaning back, now sat forward, nodding earnestly. Cazorla's fingers drummed lightly against his knee, a smile of agreement crossing his face. Alexis' eyes glimmered, intense, focused, as if already replaying the movements on the pitch, imagining the next match, the next opportunity to assert dominance.
"Tonight was just the first step," Francesco said, his voice firm, carrying over the hum of the bus. "Enjoy it, but only briefly. Tomorrow, it's back to work. Training, tactics, focus. Because every club in the world right now is looking at us and thinking they can stop Arsenal. And we can't let them. Not one game. Not one moment. We set the tone. We lead. We dominate."
He let his words hang for a moment, the quiet settling like a tangible presence, the only sound the gentle rumble of the engine and the occasional clink of a water bottle. Then he softened, a small, warm smile breaking through, just enough to remind them that leadership carried care as well as authority.
"And," he added quietly but firmly, "we do this together. Every game, every minute, every challenge. We lift each other. We trust each other. We work as one. That's what makes us unstoppable. That's what makes us Arsenal."
There was a beat of silence, a collective inhalation, and then small murmurs of agreement, nods, smiles. The mood on the bus had shifted subtly from reflection on the victory to determination for what lay ahead. This was no longer just a win; it was a standard, a reminder, a challenge they all accepted without needing to voice it aloud.
Francesco allowed himself a slow breath, eyes drifting briefly to the window. The streets blurred past in streaks of light, the quiet London night a stark contrast to the roar of the Emirates just an hour before. Yet within that contrast, he felt the clarity of his role, the weight of responsibility, the subtle thrill of leadership.
"Alright," he said finally, straightening, voice carrying just enough to draw attention. "Get some rest when you can, recover properly, and keep that focus sharp. This is just the beginning. Let's make sure the world knows we are ready for everything."
The players exchanged quiet, determined nods. Kanté gave a soft, almost imperceptible thumbs-up. Giroud leaned back but exhaled with a small smile. Alexis' fingers drummed lightly against his leg, energy simmering beneath composure. Even Wenger, quietly observing, allowed a faint smile, a subtle recognition that Francesco had harnessed the post-match energy, channeling it into a moment of reflection, focus, and inspiration.
The bus continued its journey toward Colney, each street bringing them closer to training grounds, to the routines that would prepare them for the next battle. But tonight, the memory of the victory, the message from their captain, the sense of purpose and connection, lingered like a living pulse among the team.
Francesco, seated now after finishing his speech, felt a quiet satisfaction. Not just in the win itself, not just in the goals, but in the way he had been able to connect with his teammates, to remind them and himself what it meant to be part of something greater than the sum of its parts. To be Arsenal. To be relentless. To be remembered.
Francesco felt the familiar jolt of anticipation as the bus rolled through the final stretch of road toward Colney. The city's lights had thinned out now, giving way to quieter streets, the occasional lamp casting long, lazy shadows over the asphalt. Inside the bus, the atmosphere had shifted from the charged reflection of his speech to a softer, more introspective energy. Some players stared out of the windows, watching the passing scenery blur, while others quietly scrolled through phones, re-watching highlights, replaying their own contributions in muted satisfaction. A subtle hum of conversation, low laughter, and the occasional clink of water bottles filled the space.
Francesco leaned back slightly, the seat supporting the tired muscles from the match, and allowed himself a deep breath. The night air on the field had been electric, but the calm hum of the bus was different that intimate, almost meditative. He watched Alexis, whose fingers drummed lightly against the leather seat, still restless even now. Giroud leaned forward, chin on his hands, eyes distant yet alert, probably reviewing moves in his mind. Cazorla fiddled with the collar of his training top, his fingers tracing the stitching, a small ritual he always seemed to perform after games. Even Kanté, always composed, was unusually still, sipping water as though every drop were a methodical collection of thought, a meditation on his work.
Francesco let the rhythm of the bus ride seep into him, feeling the steady vibration beneath his feet, the soft sway as it negotiated a curve, the quiet murmur of his teammates' movements. And then, slowly, he felt the stirrings of reflection on the goals, the passes, the defensive structure, the relentless energy that had carried them to a four-goal victory without conceding. But intertwined with that professional reflection was something warmer: pride, not arrogance, but the satisfaction that comes from leading, inspiring, and connecting.
As the bus slowed and the familiar Colney grounds appeared, illuminated under the floodlights, Francesco straightened in his seat. The hum of the engine quieted as the driver brought them to a smooth stop. The team began to stir, stretching limbs, loosening shoulders, pulling jackets around themselves against the night chill. Francesco swung his legs out, feeling the familiar firmness of the floor beneath his boots.
"Alright," he said quietly, letting his voice carry just enough to gather attention. "Everyone, take your time, collect your stuff. We'll meet outside."
The players nodded, moving toward their lockers tucked neatly into the rear compartments of the bus, or to the seats where their bags and jackets were stored. Wenger lingered in his own contemplative space, quiet, composed, a faint smile tracing his lips as he watched Francesco manage the team's post-match decompression with subtle authority.
As the players filed off the bus, the quiet chatter was interspersed with small bursts of laughter and handshakes, the gestures intimate and human, far removed from the spotlight, far removed from the roar of the Emirates, yet connected to it by memory. Francesco took a last look at the bus interior, ensuring no one was left behind, and then followed the group onto the parking area. The night air kissed his skin, cool and sharp, a gentle contrast to the lingering warmth of exertion.
The group began to disperse toward their individual cars. Handshakes and casual nods marked their parting. Gnabry clapped Oxlade-Chamberlain on the back, sharing a quiet joke about a dribble earlier in the game. Cazorla exchanged a warm smile and a small wave with Giroud. Kanté offered a brief nod to Francesco, his usual understated way of acknowledging both the captain and the victory. Alexis lingered a moment, brushing back damp hair, and smiled knowingly at Francesco with a silent "We did it," conveyed without words.
Francesco finally approached his own car, the familiar contours of his BMW X5 waiting patiently under the pale glow of the Colney lights. He slid into the driver's seat, the leather cool under his hands, and took a moment to adjust the mirrors and settle into the familiar space. As he turned the key, the engine purred to life, a deep, contented vibration that echoed the night's satisfaction.
Driving away, the streets were quiet, the hum of the tires against wet asphalt forming a steady background to his thoughts. He allowed himself a slow exhale, letting the adrenaline of the evening fade into something deeper with a reflective warmth. He thought of the game, the goals, the rhythm of the team, the fans' unwavering support, the careful balance of leadership and camaraderie. But above all, he thought of the connection: to his teammates, to the supporters, to the larger mission of Arsenal itself.
The drive to Richmond was a familiar path now, lined with quiet streets and occasional streetlights that cast amber reflections across the windshield. Francesco's mind traced over the highlights again: the early press, the first goal, Alexis' third, the movement of the midfield, the decisive passes from Xhaka and Özil. And then there was the human side from the smiles, the brief laughter, the exchanges with young fans, the satisfaction that went beyond statistics.
When he finally arrived at his mansion, the driveway glistening faintly under the overhead lights, Francesco noticed immediately that both his parents' car and Leah's family car were gone. A small smile tugged at his lips; they had likely returned home, leaving him with a quiet house to unwind. He parked carefully, shifting the X5 into gear, the soft click of the locks echoing in the still night. The driveway was empty except for his car, yet the house felt alive, as if it anticipated his return.
He stepped out, stretching briefly, the cool night air brushing against his damp hair, then entered through the front door. The familiar warmth of the living room greeted him. The faint glow of the television illuminated the space, casting shadows along the furniture. Leah sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, eyes fixed on Sky Sports, watching the post-match analysis of Arsenal's commanding victory over Crystal Palace.
Her face lit up as she noticed him. "Francesco!" she called softly, standing to meet him halfway. Her smile was wide, warm, filled with the same mixture of pride and affection that had become familiar to him over their time together. She reached him just as he set down his bag, her hands brushing his arms in a comforting, grounding gesture.
"You played brilliantly tonight," she said, her eyes reflecting the faint glow of the screen and the deeper warmth in her expression. "I saw the goals, the passes… everything. You led them beautifully."
Francesco smiled, feeling the tension of the match begin to melt away. "It was a good night," he admitted, voice low but relaxed. "A start to the year we can be proud of. But, as I said to the team, it's only the beginning."
Leah gestured toward the couch. "Come sit with me. Let's watch the highlights together. I want to see your first goal again, the one that started it all. I saw it on the tv, but I want to relive it with you here."
Francesco followed her, removing his jacket and loosening the tie of his kit under the soft lighting. The living room was quiet now, apart from the commentary on the screen and the distant hum of the refrigerator. He sank into the couch beside Leah, letting her warmth and presence settle around him.
They watched the replay, and Francesco's mind traced over every moment with the control, the precision, the connection with his teammates, the roar of the fans. He felt the familiar thrill, the same that had propelled him across the pitch and carried him through the night. Leah reached over, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead.
"You were calm, even when the goals were happening," she observed. "I could feel your focus, even from here."
Francesco chuckled softly, leaning into the comfort of her presence. "It wasn't about me. It never is. It's about the team, the rhythm, the connection. That's what makes a win like tonight… real. Every pass, every run, every finish as it's all part of something bigger."
Leah nodded, her gaze returning to the screen as the commentary analyzed the team's movements. "I love that you lead them like that, Francesco. Not just on the pitch, but the way you connect with them. The way you make them feel part of something bigger."
He smiled softly, feeling the quiet pride in her voice. "It's what being captain is," he said. "Not just about scoring or making passes. It's about making sure everyone knows they matter, that we're stronger together. Tonight we proved that. But tomorrow, we start again."
Leah leaned her head against his shoulder, her warmth grounding him further. "I know," she said, voice soft. "But tonight enjoy it. You deserve it."
Francesco let himself sink into the moment, the quiet after the storm, the warmth after the intensity, the presence of someone who had witnessed it all and shared in the pride. The television played on, the post-match pundits replaying every highlight, but the room felt intimate, removed from the stadium, the roar of fans, the strategic maneuvers, yet somehow carrying the memory of it all perfectly.
He exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling in the still night. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a deeper satisfaction. The first victory of 2017 was theirs, and he had lived every moment fully from the pitch, to the fans, to the team bus, and finally here, in this quiet, intimate space with Leah.
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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: 26
Goal: 42
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