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Mertesacker clapped his hands, pulling them together, saying a few words that didn't need to be loud to carry weight as head nodded and shoulder straightened.
Francesco took a few slow steps forward from the edge of the center circle, letting the moment settle rather than rush past it.
Six–nil away from home didn't happen often. Not here. Not in this stadium. And certainly not with this level of composure from start to finish. He felt it in his chest now that not adrenaline, not relief, but something deeper. A calm pride. The kind that only came when preparation met execution perfectly.
Per Mertesacker moved alongside him, tall frame unmistakable, captain's armband sitting firmly on his sleeve now. He clapped his hands once more, loud enough to cut through the residual noise, gathering the group together.
"Come," Per said simply, gesturing toward the away end.
Francesco nodded and stepped up beside him.
Together, they turned.
The Arsenal players began walking as a unit toward the corner of the stadium where the traveling supporters were gathered. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't theatrical. Just purposeful, respectful steps across the grass that still glistened faintly under the floodlights.
The away end came alive the moment they moved.
Arms rose.
Scarves lifted.
Voices surged again, louder than they had been all match.
"Ar-se-nal! Ar-se-nal!"
The chant rolled down in waves, bouncing off the emptying stands, filling the bowl with a sound that felt fuller than the number of people producing it.
Francesco felt a lump rise unexpectedly in his throat.
These were the ones who had traveled early. Who had spent money, time, energy. Who sang even when matches turned ugly. Who believed even when belief was tested.
He slowed his pace slightly, letting the rest of the team fan out beside him and Per. Alexis jogged ahead, clapping above his head, still buzzing from his hat-trick. Kanté followed, smiling shyly, waving almost apologetically. Özil walked calmly, nodding, eyes scanning faces rather than cameras.
Giroud blew a kiss toward the crowd, drawing cheers and laughter.
Gnabry looked almost overwhelmed, eyes wide, taking it all in like he was afraid it might disappear if he blinked.
They reached the barrier.
Per stepped forward first, raising both hands in acknowledgment. The chant grew louder, more unified.
Francesco moved beside him, clapping steadily, meeting eyes, pointing occasionally toward the badge on his chest.
"Thank you!" someone shouted from the front row, voice cracking.
Another fan leaned over the barrier, red and white scarf wrapped around his neck despite the cold. "That was perfect, Francesco!"
He smiled and nodded in return.
Alexis pulled his shirt up over his head suddenly, peeling it off in one sharp movement. The crowd roared instantly, sensing what was coming. He walked forward and handed it directly to a young fan who looked frozen in disbelief, mouth open, eyes wide.
The boy clutched it to his chest like it was fragile.
Francesco watched that moment quietly.
Then he made his decision.
He tugged at the hem of his own shirt, pulling it up and over his head slowly. The roar doubled, surged, spilled into a scream that felt almost physical.
He folded the shirt once, carefully.
A young girl stood near the barrier, no older than ten or eleven, Arsenal hat pulled low over her ears, cheeks red from the cold. She held up a handmade sign, the edges bent and worn:
"FRANCESCO 9 — MY HERO."
He stepped closer.
Her hands shook as she reached out.
He passed the shirt to her gently.
Her eyes filled instantly.
"Oh my God," she whispered, like she couldn't quite believe sound was allowed in that moment.
Francesco leaned down slightly. "Thank you for coming," he said softly.
She nodded furiously, clutching the shirt like a lifeline.
Behind him, more shirts came off.
Bellerín handed his to a fan draped in a Catalan flag. Monreal passed his to an older supporter who looked like he'd been following Arsenal longer than Monreal had been alive. Giroud gave his away with a wink and a bow. Gnabry hesitated only a second before pulling his off too, grinning as he tossed it gently into the crowd.
Per remained shirted, captain's armband still on his arm. He stood tall at the center, applauding the fans with measured respect, eyes shining just slightly.
Francesco stepped back beside him, now in just his undershirt, chest rising and falling steadily.
Per leaned slightly toward him. "Good performance."
Francesco smiled. "From everyone."
Per nodded. "Exactly."
The chant changed.
"WE'VE GOT OUR ARSENAL BACK."
The words hit harder than any tackle.
Francesco closed his eyes for a second, letting it wash over him. He thought about the pressure. The expectations. The headlines. The comparisons. The endless questions about leadership and legacy.
And here it was that at this moment, stripped of all that noise.
Just players and supporters.
Together.
Acknowledging something shared.
When the applause finally softened, Per raised one arm again, signaling gently that it was time. The players took a few steps back, still clapping, still nodding, still acknowledging.
As they turned away, the fans sang even louder, as if trying to carry them off the pitch on sound alone.
The walk back felt different.
Lighter.
Alexis slung an arm around Francesco's shoulders. "That felt good," he said, breathless but satisfied.
Francesco nodded. "It always does."
Kanté laughed softly. "They were very happy."
Özil smiled. "As they should be."
A voice cut through the afterglow just as they reached the edge of the pitch.
"Francesco! Alexis! Per!"
The call came from the side, firm but polite, carrying the clipped authority of someone used to being obeyed without raising their tone. Francesco slowed instinctively, Alexis' arm slipping from his shoulders as they both turned.
A Premier League staff member stood a few meters away, headset around his neck, clipboard tucked under his arm. He raised a hand slightly, already half-smiling.
"Pitchside interviews," he said. "If you're ready."
Alexis groaned theatrically. "Now?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
The staffer chuckled. "Now."
Per glanced at Francesco, one eyebrow lifting just a fraction. Francesco nodded once.
"Let's do it."
They broke away from the rest of the squad, who continued toward the tunnel amid more applause and chants. Giroud gave Alexis a thumbs-up. Kanté offered a shy wave. Wenger, standing near the technical area, caught Francesco's eye and gave a small, approving nod.
The three of them followed the staff member along the touchline.
As they walked, the stadium felt different again. Quieter now, emptier, the chaos drained away and replaced by the low hum of dismantling spectacle. Stewards guided remaining fans toward exits. Grounds staff waited near the corners, ready to begin their work the moment cameras moved on.
Floodlights still burned bright, washing the pitch in white.
The interview area had already been set.
A small cluster of equipment stood near the sideline: camera mounted on a tripod, cables taped carefully along the ground, a handheld microphone with the Premier League logo resting against the interviewer's chest. A cameraman adjusted focus, rolling his shoulders like a boxer loosening up before a bout.
The interviewer turned as they approached, a practiced smile settling into place.
"Gentlemen," he said warmly. "Congratulations."
Alexis grinned. Per nodded politely. Francesco offered a calm smile, hands resting loosely at his sides.
They took their places instinctively as Francesco in the center, Per to his right, Alexis to his left. The staffer stepped back, giving them space.
The cameraman raised a finger. "Sound check."
A brief pause.
"Rolling in three," the interviewer said softly.
"Two."
"One."
The red light blinked on.
The interviewer's posture shifted immediately with his shoulders back, voice steady, eyes straight into the lens.
"We're here pitchside at London Stadium after a remarkable night for Arsenal," he began. "A six–nil victory away from home, one of the most dominant performances we've seen this season."
He turned slightly toward Francesco.
"Francesco, I'll start with you. Captain, striker, and once again on the scoresheet. How complete was that performance from your perspective?"
Francesco exhaled slowly before answering, not out of nerves, but habit. He glanced briefly toward the pitch behind the cameras, then back.
"It was very complete," he said. "Not just because of the scoreline, but because of how we managed the game. From the first minute, we stayed calm. We controlled the midfield, we defended together, and when the chances came, we took them."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"But more than anything, it was about discipline. Even at three–nil, even at four–nil, we didn't stop doing the right things."
The interviewer nodded. "You could see that intensity continue into the second half. Alexis, two goals in the first hour, a hat-trick by the eighty-fifth minute. You looked unplayable tonight."
Alexis laughed softly, running a hand through his damp hair.
"I felt good," he said simply. "When the team plays like that, everything becomes easier. Mesut finds you, N'Golo wins the ball, Granit plays forward… you just have to attack the space."
He shrugged, eyes bright.
"And tonight, the space was there."
The interviewer smiled, then turned to Per.
"Per, you came on in the second half wearing the captain's armband, helped keep a clean sheet, and led the team through a very professional finish. What does a night like this mean, especially given everything surrounding the squad this week?"
Per took a moment before answering. His voice, when it came, was calm and grounded.
"It means we're together," he said. "That's the most important thing. There has been a lot of talk, a lot of noise, but inside the group, we're very clear about who we are and what we want."
He glanced briefly toward Francesco.
"We have leaders in different roles. Some on the pitch for ninety minutes, some for thirty, some from the bench. Tonight showed that."
The interviewer nodded appreciatively.
"Francesco, we saw a moment at sixty-two minutes where you handed the armband to Per as you came off. Can you talk us through that moment?"
Francesco smiled faintly.
"That's not a symbolic thing," he said. "That's respect. Per has been a leader at this club for a long time. When he's on the pitch, he deserves that responsibility."
He added, quieter but firm, "Leadership isn't about holding onto something. It's about trusting the people around you."
Per inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.
The interviewer let the silence breathe for half a second before continuing.
"This win sends a strong message to the rest of the league. Do you feel like this performance makes a statement?"
Alexis answered first, leaning slightly toward the microphone.
"We don't think about statements," he said. "We think about the next match."
Francesco nodded. "Exactly. Every week is different. What matters is consistency."
Per added, "And humility."
The interviewer smiled, clearly pleased with that.
The interviewer shifted his weight slightly, letting the moment settle before moving on. The stadium noise had faded into a low, distant murmur now, but the red light on the camera kept everything sharp, focused, immediate.
He turned his body a little toward Alexis, angling the microphone in his direction.
"Alexis," he said, voice warm, inviting rather than probing, "three goals tonight. A hat-trick away from home in a match like this. How does that feel for you, personally?"
Alexis let out a small breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the grass for a second before lifting again. For all his fire during matches, moments like this always drew something quieter out of him.
"It feels good," he said at first, then shook his head slightly, as if the word didn't quite do it justice. "Very good."
He glanced sideways at Francesco, then at Per.
"But it's not only about me," he continued. "A hat-trick is never just one player. The passes, the movement, the pressing before the goal as everything matters. Tonight, I felt trusted. The ball kept coming, and when that happens, you play with freedom."
He paused, eyes flicking briefly toward the away end, now mostly empty.
"And to score like that, away from home, with our fans there… it gives you energy. You want to give something back."
The interviewer nodded, clearly satisfied, but he didn't rush on. He let Alexis finish fully, let the silence breathe.
Then he turned toward Per.
"Per," he said, tone shifting slightly, becoming more reflective, "there's been a lot of discussion this season about your future. You've already confirmed that you'll be retiring at the end of the campaign. Standing here tonight, after a performance like that, after coming on and helping see the game out, how do you reflect on that decision?"
Per's expression changed subtly. Not dramatically, not emotionally on the surface, but there was a depth there now, something heavier than tactics or scorelines.
He took a moment.
When he spoke, his voice was steady, but thoughtful.
"It's never an easy decision," he said. "Especially when football has been your life for so long."
He looked out across the pitch, eyes scanning the empty seats, the floodlights, the grass marked by studs and slides.
"But I've always believed that you should leave the game with clarity," he continued. "Not because you're forced to, not because you can't give anymore, but because you choose the moment when you know you've given everything you have."
He glanced briefly at Francesco again, then back to the interviewer.
"I still love the game. I love this club. I love being part of this group. And nights like this remind you why. But for me, this season is about finishing well. Helping the team. Passing things on."
He tapped the armband lightly on his sleeve.
"That's part of it too."
The interviewer listened closely, nodding slowly.
"Do you feel at peace with it?" he asked.
Per smiled then. Not broadly, but genuinely.
"Yes," he said. "Very much."
The answer hung in the air, solid and unforced.
The interviewer took a small step back, adjusting his grip on the microphone.
"Well," he said, a hint of brightness returning to his tone, "there's one more thing to do."
He turned slightly out of frame, gesturing with his free hand.
A Premier League staff member stepped forward, holding a small, sleek presentation case. The camera tightened subtly, zooming in just enough.
The interviewer smiled.
"Alexis Sánchez," he said, "for your performance tonight with three goals, relentless work rate, and a decisive influence throughout, you've been voted Man of the Match."
He opened the case and lifted out the award, a clean, modern plaque bearing the Premier League crest.
Alexis' eyebrows rose in genuine surprise.
"Ah," he said softly, then laughed. "Thank you."
The interviewer handed it to him carefully.
The moment the award transferred into Alexis' hands, the nearby Arsenal supporters who had lingered erupted again, a final surge of noise cutting through the quiet stadium.
Alexis held the plaque up slightly, then instinctively turned and pointed toward Francesco, then toward Per.
"This is for the team," he said immediately. "Always."
Francesco smiled, clapping once, firmly.
Per nodded approvingly.
The interviewer gave them a moment, then turned back to the camera.
"Alexis Sánchez, our Man of the Match. Gentlemen, thank you and congratulations once again on a remarkable night."
The cameraman held the shot for a few seconds longer, capturing the three of them standing together: Alexis gripping the award, Per tall and composed, Francesco calm at the center, eyes steady.
Then the red light blinked off.
The tension released instantly.
Alexis exhaled loudly. "Okay," he said, shifting the award under his arm. "Now we can go."
Per laughed quietly. "Now you feel it, eh?"
Francesco rolled his shoulders, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Good answers," he said to both of them.
Alexis grinned. "You always say the right things."
Francesco shrugged. "I just say what's true."
They shook hands with the interviewer and cameraman, murmured their thanks, and turned toward the tunnel.
The walk back felt slower, unhurried.
Alexis glanced down at the plaque again. "I'll give this to my dogs," he joked. "They like trophies."
Per chuckled. "They'll deserve it."
As they reached the mouth of the tunnel, the sounds of the dressing room spilled out to meet them with laughter, music starting up, boots hitting the floor, the release of a job well done.
The tunnel swallowed them whole the moment they stepped inside.
The air changed instantly with cooler, heavier, carrying that familiar mix of damp concrete, disinfectant, sweat, and rubber. The roar of the stadium was cut off as if someone had closed a door on it, replaced instead by the muffled echoes of boots on the floor and distant laughter bouncing from the dressing room ahead.
Alexis was still half-smiling to himself, the Man of the Match plaque tucked under his arm like an afterthought. Per's long strides were relaxed now, the tension of competition finally easing out of his shoulders. Francesco walked between them, quiet again, letting the night settle where it belonged.
As they rounded the final corner, the sound hit them properly.
Music.
Loud. Bass-heavy. Something with a relentless rhythm that vibrated through the walls.
The away dressing room was already alive.
The door stood open, and inside it was chaos in the best possible way.
Theo Walcott was sitting on a bench with his headphones half-on, half-off, nodding his head to whatever track he had playing while scrolling through his phone. Granit Xhaka leaned back against his locker, laughing openly at something Hector Bellerín was showing him on his screen. Mesut Özil sat cross-legged on the floor, boots still on, quietly tapping out a message on his phone, a faint smile playing on his lips like he was replaying something in his head.
Kanté stood near the middle of the room, still in his kit, speaking animatedly to Nacho Monreal in a way that suggested he was reenacting a moment from the match, hands moving faster than his words.
Giroud was already shirtless, towel draped over his shoulders, holding court with Gnabry and Ramsey, who were both listening like disciples as he exaggerated the story of his goal, arms wide, grin impossible to miss.
Someone spotted them.
"Oi! Here they are!" Bellerín shouted.
The reaction was immediate.
Cheers.
Claps.
A few playful whistles.
Alexis lifted the plaque instinctively as he stepped inside, and the room erupted again.
"Hat-trick hero!" Walcott yelled.
"Man of the Match!" Ramsey added, pointing dramatically.
Alexis shook his head, laughing, cheeks flushed. "Stop, stop," he said, but he was enjoying it, even if he'd never fully admit that.
Francesco stepped fully into the room, the sound washing over him like a wave. This was the part people didn't always see. The release. The shared joy. The way a group of grown men, hardened by pressure and expectation, could turn back into something lighter for a few precious minutes.
He exchanged nods, handshakes, quick shoulder bumps.
"Captain," Xhaka said, lifting his chin slightly.
"Good shift," Francesco replied.
Per came in last, ducking slightly under the doorframe out of habit, the armband still on his arm, his presence steady and grounding even now. He barely had time to take three steps inside before someone started clapping rhythmically.
Slow at first.
Then louder.
Someone started it as no one was entirely sure who, but within seconds the room had fallen into sync.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
Per turned, confused, eyebrows knitting together.
"What is this?" he asked, half-smiling, half-suspicious.
"Speech!" someone shouted.
"No speeches!" Per replied quickly, raising a hand. "Absolutely not."
Laughter rippled through the room.
He shook his head, amused, and began walking toward his locker, unaware of the silent coordination happening behind him.
Francesco noticed first.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Giroud slowly backing away from the center of the room, his grin widening to something unmistakably mischievous. Bellerín and Walcott exchanged looks, then subtly moved aside. Even Kanté, usually innocent to the point of obliviousness, seemed to understand something was coming as his eyes widened slightly, a small, excited smile forming.
Behind Per, just out of his line of sight, stood a massive blue cooler.
A full gallon of Gatorade.
Orange.
Ice still floating at the top.
Francesco's lips twitched.
Per reached his locker, turned slightly to unstrap his boots and that was when it happened.
The cooler tipped.
The world slowed.
For half a second, Per sensed movement behind him. He began to turn, confusion just starting to register.
Too late.
The Gatorade came down in a single, cascading wave.
Cold.
Relentless.
Orange.
It drenched him from the shoulders down, soaking his shirt, his shorts, his socks, dripping instantly onto the floor in a splattering mess. Ice cubes bounced off his back and skidded across the tiles.
The room exploded.
Laughter.
Shouts.
Whistles.
Applause.
Per froze for a beat, standing there like a statue, arms slightly out, orange liquid streaming down his frame, pooling at his feet.
Then he looked down.
Then back up.
And then he laughed.
A deep, genuine laugh that cut through the noise.
"You idiots," he said, shaking his head as more laughter followed.
Giroud nearly collapsed against a locker, clutching his ribs. "Final season!" he shouted between laughs. "Tradition!"
"Tradition?" Per repeated incredulously, wiping his face with both hands. "Since when is this tradition?"
"Since now!" Bellerín replied, filming the whole thing on his phone.
Francesco stepped forward, clapping once, then pointing lightly at Per. "You earned it."
Per looked at him, orange dripping from his hairline, armband darkened and heavy with liquid.
"You're enjoying this far too much," Per said.
Francesco smiled openly now. "Maybe a little."
Alexis laughed harder than anyone, bending forward, plaque nearly slipping from under his arm. "You look… refreshed," he said.
Per glanced down at himself again, then shrugged. "I suppose this means I can't avoid the shower."
"Definitely not," Ramsey said. "You smell like a sports drink factory."
The laughter softened into something warmer as Per finally reached for a towel, patting himself dry as best he could before giving up.
"Alright," he said, still smiling. "Alright. I see how it is."
He turned toward the room, expression shifting just slightly.
"Thank you," he added, quieter but clear. "All of you."
The noise faded instinctively.
Not silence, but something close.
Francesco felt it then with that collective understanding. This wasn't just a joke. It was a gesture. Appreciation, wrapped in humor, because that was how footballers said things they didn't always know how to articulate.
"You've been massive," Xhaka said simply.
Kanté nodded vigorously. "Very, very massive."
Per laughed again, shaking his head. "Careful. I'll start believing it."
Music crept back in as someone turned the volume up again, easing the moment back into celebration.
Players began peeling off kit, boots hitting the floor with dull thuds. Tape was ripped away, shin pads tossed aside. Steam began to rise faintly as showers were turned on down the corridor.
Francesco sat down at his locker, untying his boots slowly. His body felt heavy now, fatigue settling in properly for the first time. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, breathing deep.
Alexis dropped onto the bench beside him, setting the Man of the Match plaque carefully on the floor between his feet.
"You played well," Alexis said, casual but sincere.
"So did you," Francesco replied.
Alexis shrugged. "Easy when the team plays like that."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the room.
Across from them, Per was still drying off, towel now draped over his shoulders, orange stains visible everywhere.
Gnabry approached him hesitantly, shirt folded neatly in his hands.
"Per," he said. "I just wanted to say… thank you. For everything this season. And before."
Per looked at him, surprised, then smiled warmly.
"You're doing just fine," he said. "Keep working. And enjoy it. It goes fast."
Gnabry nodded, absorbing every word like it mattered deeply, because it did.
Francesco watched that exchange quietly.
Leadership wasn't loud. It wasn't always visible. Sometimes it was just moments like that, shared in a noisy dressing room after a long night.
Wenger appeared briefly at the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, observing with a small, satisfied smile. He caught Francesco's eye, nodded once, then disappeared again, leaving them to it.
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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: 27
Goal: 43
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