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They ate at the table, talking about small things again from Leah's training schedule, a film they wanted to watch, a place they'd talked about visiting someday when the season allowed.
The next morning came with a soft chill in the air, the kind of crispness that makes you notice the texture of the clouds, the way the light cuts across the road, the subtle smell of frost lingering in the grass along the edges of the pavement. Francesco woke to the faint hum of his alarm clock, but this time, unlike the chaos of yesterday, there was no need for him to check the phone first. The world outside had been shouting enough. Today, he had a job to do with the one that mattered in the short term: training.
He slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb Leah, who was still curled up, half-asleep, the morning sun casting a warm glow over her shoulders. Francesco smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. She stirred slightly but didn't wake. The familiar weight of responsibility, expectation, and scrutiny was still there in his chest, but now it was tempered by purpose.
The drive to Colney was calm, almost meditative. The roads were wet from a lingering drizzle, lights reflecting on asphalt like scattered jewels. Francesco let the engine purr beneath him, his mind quieting from the endless headlines and social media noise of the previous day. For a moment, he imagined the frenzy of calls, the impossible sums of money, the relentless speculation about him. And then he let it go. None of it mattered here, not on this stretch of road that led him back to the pitch, to his team, to what he could control.
By the time he arrived, the sky was beginning to brighten behind the low clouds. He parked, grabbed his kit bag, and stepped out, letting the cool morning air hit his face. There was a smell of wet grass, of earth that had soaked up the overnight rain. He drew it in and exhaled slowly.
Inside the training facility, the familiar sounds greeted him: the low thrum of balls bouncing in the indoor area, the distant laughter of staff, the muted clank of lockers. He moved through the hallway methodically, almost ritualistically, heading for the dressing room.
The room was empty when he arrived. Rows of lockers, benches in the center, a faint scent of liniment lingering in the air. He dropped his bag on the bench and began to change into his training kit, peeling off the casual clothes from yesterday like shedding another layer of public expectation. The soft fabric of his Arsenal training shirt felt grounding against his skin, a reminder that, whatever headlines were being written, this was home.
One by one, his teammates began to trickle in. At first, it was just familiar nods, smiles exchanged quietly across the room. But it didn't take long before the conversation picked up, fueled inevitably by the chaos outside.
"Mate," Xhaka said first, plopping down on the bench next to him, grinning. "You seeing what's happening out there? Your name's everywhere. I woke up to ten notifications before breakfast."
Francesco shrugged lightly, tightening the laces on his boots. "I've seen it. It's loud, isn't it?"
Xhaka laughed. "Loud? It's insane! I mean, half of Europe is apparently willing to pay enough to buy a small country for you. How are we supposed to focus with this going on?"
Francesco leaned back on the bench, folding his arms. "We focus by ignoring it. Like always."
Van Dijk appeared then, changing quickly, the chatter of laces and zippers punctuating the room. He leaned against the lockers, arms crossed. "Seriously, though. The transfer market has lost its mind. PSG, Madrid, Barcelona… they're all calling. And it's just you. Can you imagine what they'll do to the rest of us once they realize the spine of this team isn't for sale?"
Xhaka laughed again. "Good luck with that. I mean, I knew Kante had his own admirers, but yesterday was wild. Alexis getting calls already too. This is unreal."
Francesco gave a small smile. "I've been through some attention before. It's just… amplified."
Sánchez entered next, tossing his bag onto the bench with a thunk. "Amplified is one word. Crazy is another." He looked at Francesco and smirked. "They think just because you're the youngest Ballon d'Or, you're up for grabs. They forgot something, your loyalty."
"Exactly," Francesco said. "I'm not going anywhere."
Kanté came in silently, sitting down on a bench across from them, eyes flicking up at Francesco. "Agents called. Lots of them. But the message is clear. Arsenal is home." His voice was calm, almost understated, but there was a quiet confidence in it.
"See?" Alexis said. "We're not alone. Everyone knows it."
Van Dijk shook his head, still smiling faintly. "It's going to be interesting watching the media try to spin this. Half of them probably think you're already packing."
"Or that someone can make me pack," Francesco added, smirking. He looked around at his teammates. "Let's be honest, some people just don't get loyalty."
They all laughed lightly, a brief release, a shared moment before the work ahead.
Xhaka leaned back against the bench, watching him carefully. "So, Jorge got back to you?"
Francesco nodded. "He did. Told me everything's trying to happen. Clubs not listening. Offers, bonuses, the whole circus. But I told him the same thing I've said before. I'm staying. I'll stay. Until I retire, if I can."
Sánchez whistled softly. "Bold. I like that. Makes all the noise outside… meaningless."
Francesco leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "It is meaningless. Only what we do here, together, matters. That's what counts."
Van Dijk nodded. "It's why we trust you. You're not reacting to headlines. You're reacting to what matters."
Kanté gave a small, approving nod. "Exactly. Let them make all the noise they want. It won't change what we do on the pitch."
The room grew quieter as they each finished getting ready. The sounds of shuffling kits, tightening boots, the subtle thump of training balls being moved around with the mundane, grounding rituals of preparation filled the space. Francesco felt a calm determination settle over him.
He looked at the group, all familiar faces, all people who had been there through challenges, wins, losses, and relentless attention. And he realized that, in this room, no headline mattered. No bonus. No speculative call. No threat of a club throwing unimaginable sums his way. Loyalty wasn't a declaration to the world; it was something lived, day after day, in every pass, every run, every moment on the pitch.
The first whistle blew from the training staff, signaling the start of warm-ups. Francesco rose, stretching, feeling the familiar ache in his muscles, remnants of the last match, reminders that his body was his instrument and his responsibility.
He jogged lightly, following the warm-up routine. His teammates flanked him, voices overlapping in light-hearted chatter, comments on yesterday's matches, on their own recent form. Yet under all the levity, there was a shared understanding: what was happening outside could be noisy, even overwhelming, but it didn't change them.
A ball rolled toward him, and he kicked it back instinctively. Another pass came. He caught it, eyes scanning, instincts kicking in. Training wasn't just practice; it was clarity. Focus. Control.
Xhaka jogged past, laughing, glancing at him. "So, superstar, ready for another week of being hunted by Europe?"
Francesco smiled faintly. "I'm ready to play football."
"And that's all that matters," Sánchez added, clapping him on the shoulder.
As the team began their drills, Francesco moved with purpose, each touch, each pass a quiet declaration. He was here. He was part of this team. Arsenal wasn't just a club; it was home, and he would prove it with every sprint, every goal, every moment of dedication.
Francesco pushed himself through the last set of drills with the familiar, almost meditative focus that had carried him through every session since joining Arsenal. Each sprint, each pass, each controlled touch of the ball was measured, deliberate, a quiet resistance to the noise that had dominated the last two days. Around him, the team moved in tandem with Kanté intercepting and feeding, Van Dijk commanding the back, Sánchez running angles, Xhaka driving the ball forward. It was a choreography built on trust, instinct, and shared understanding.
When the final whistle blew, signaling the end of the formal session, a collective sigh of relief went around the field. Not that the drills were easy as they were exhausting, but relief too, was a matter of timing. Training here, at Arsenal, wasn't just about fitness or tactics; it was about grounding, about asserting that control in a world that often tried to wrest it from them.
Francesco jogged alongside Van Dijk, the conversation light but easy. "You feel that?" Van Dijk asked, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Even with all the madness outside, this feels normal again."
"Normal enough," Francesco replied, adjusting the strap of his bag. "At least until someone leaks another rumor." He grinned faintly.
Sánchez laughed, slapping his back. "Let them leak. Doesn't change what we do in here. Don't give the press more power than it deserves."
Xhaka nodded. "Amen to that."
The team filed into the massage room next. The faint scent of oils, coupled with the hum of the massage chairs and soft instrumental music, was almost hypnotic. Francesco eased onto the table, letting the masseur's hands work deliberately on his calves and shoulders. The tension from the previous match, the sprints, the repeated stops and pivots of training, slowly melted under the skilled pressure.
"You're taking this transfer frenzy well," the masseur commented idly, running over his quads.
Francesco shrugged, eyes closed. "I have to. Nothing changes here. That's what matters."
"Fair enough," the masseur said with a chuckle, moving up to his shoulders. "Better to control what you can than worry about what you can't."
Francesco let the words settle with him, nodding slightly, almost in agreement with his own thoughts. Around him, his teammates murmured similarly, trading small anecdotes about soreness, training highs, and the quiet relief of being able to focus entirely on the physicality of the sport instead of the chaos outside.
Once the massages were complete, the team gathered their towels and made their way to the dressing room. The chatter continued with less about football, more about trivialities, the kind of conversations that grounded them in normalcy. Francesco hung his kit carefully, retrieved his towel, and made his way to the showers.
The water was warm, enveloping him in a cocoon that rinsed away the sweat, tension, and mental residue of the last two days. Steam coiled around him, the smell of soap mingling with the faintly metallic scent of the locker room. He let the water run over his shoulders, over his calves, closing his eyes and simply existing in the moment.
Afterward, he toweled off and pulled on his regular clothes that comfortable, casual, nothing flashy. The world outside could scream its headlines; inside, he could dress and feel like himself. The simple act of changing felt grounding, reminding him that he was still Francesco, not just a name on a ticker tape or a highlight reel.
As he zipped his jacket and slung his bag over his shoulder, a voice came from the doorway.
"Francesco? Wenger would like to see you in his office."
He froze for a fraction of a second, then nodded, acknowledging the assistant coach. "Of course," he said, and headed down the hallway. Each step carried the faint echo of his boots against the polished floor. The corridors were quieter than the pitch, the hum of fluorescent lights above replacing the distant chatter.
The office door loomed ahead. He paused for a moment, taking a breath, before stepping in. Wenger was seated behind his desk, calm and composed as always, a cup of tea resting beside him. The office smelled faintly of polished wood, leather, and the slight tang of paperwork.
"Come in, Francesco," Wenger said warmly, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. "Have a seat."
Francesco settled into the chair, posture relaxed but attentive. Wenger regarded him for a moment, thoughtful, then spoke.
"The media storm," Wenger began, choosing words carefully, "it is… unprecedented. But it is not unfamiliar to us, or to you. I've watched these things unfold over many years. But this… this is significant."
Francesco nodded, keeping his expression steady. "I know, sir. I've seen it. It's… loud."
Wenger smiled faintly. "Loud, indeed. But your response, Francesco… it speaks volumes. Not just to the press or the clubs calling, but to this club, to your teammates, and to yourself."
"I want to be clear," Francesco said, leaning slightly forward, voice calm but firm. "No matter what the headlines, no matter the offers, I remain loyal to Arsenal. Like I've always said, I won't push for a transfer, I won't entertain it, I won't even consider moving. This club… it's where I belong. Until I retire."
Wenger nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. "I believe you. I always have. It is easy to say these things in quiet moments like this, but far more difficult when the world is shouting, when agents and clubs try to tempt you. You have held firm."
Francesco exhaled, feeling a weight lift slightly. "It isn't about the money. Or the clubs. Or the fame. This is home. And I know what's at stake if I let it distract me. I won't."
Wenger leaned back, fingers steepled, gaze steady. "You understand, of course, the magnitude of what is happening. Clubs of immense power, wealth, and influence… they will not stop. They will call, they will offer, they will try to persuade. And still, you are certain?"
"I am," Francesco said without hesitation. "Completely certain."
A faint smile played at Wenger's lips. "Good. Because certainty is as important as skill. Loyalty, courage, and judgment, these define you more than any goal tally, any record, any award."
Francesco felt the weight of the moment that not pride, not arrogance, just grounding, understanding. He had faced pressure before, scrutiny, expectations. But this… this was different. The world wanted to define him by a price tag, by speculation, by the fear of losing him. And he had chosen, unwaveringly, to define himself by what he knew mattered most.
"You are still young," Wenger continued, "but you show a maturity beyond your years. To resist temptation in such a moment… it is remarkable. And it reassures me, as a manager, as someone who has watched your growth, that this club remains in safe hands."
Francesco nodded. "I couldn't do it alone, sir. The team… the club… they've given me everything. It's about more than me."
"Yes," Wenger agreed. "And that is why we are strong. Remember this, Francesco: loyalty is not weakness. It is strength. And your strength has just shown itself clearly. The market will calm eventually. The noise will fade. But what you have done, what you continue to do will matters far longer than headlines ever will."
Francesco leaned back in his chair, letting the words settle. He felt the familiar tightness in his chest relax, replaced by a steady resolve. Outside, the world could continue its frenzy. Inside, here, in this office, in this club, he had made his choice. The world could scream. The offers could pile up. The bonuses, the promises, the threats as they were meaningless. He had decided what mattered.
Wenger nodded once, decisively. "Good. You understand, yes?"
"I do," Francesco said. "Completely."
Wenger leaned back further, a faint smile crossing his face. "Then return to your work. To your teammates. To the pitch. Let the football speak louder than anything else. That is where you belong."
Francesco stood, feeling a quiet satisfaction settle into his bones. "Thank you, sir. For everything. For trusting me to make the right decision."
"Always," Wenger said simply.
Francesco lingered for a moment by Wenger's desk, the weight of the conversation settling into a quiet confidence that felt almost foreign after the storm of the last two days. He straightened his jacket, hands resting lightly on the polished wood, then paused. There was something he had been meaning to ask, a curiosity tempered by the awareness that Wenger rarely gave details unless necessary.
"Sir," Francesco began carefully, "if I may…"
Wenger looked up, attentive. "Yes?"
He hesitated, thinking of the way the conversation had flowed from the trust, the clarity but also the reality that football was always in motion. "Do you think the club will be active in the winter transfer market? I mean… bringing in new players?"
Wenger considered this for a moment, fingers lightly tapping the desk. "Maybe," he said finally, choosing each word deliberately. "It is always a possibility. We assess, we observe, and if there are opportunities that make sense, we act. But it is not guaranteed."
Francesco nodded, absorbing the cautious optimism in the response. "I understand, sir. Of course. I just thought with the schedule, for the rotation, maybe there's room for reinforcement. Particularly in defense."
Wenger raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly. "Go on."
"Well," Francesco said, lowering his voice slightly as if the words carried weight even here, "I've been watching some players. Not for speculation, but… observation. Andrew Robertson at Hull. He's a left back, energetic, disciplined, strong defensively but willing to push forward. Monreal has been incredible, of course, but having someone like Robertson could give him a chance to rest, recover fully. Rotate, without losing stability."
Wenger nodded slowly, steepling his fingers. "Robertson… yes, I am aware of him. A hardworking, reliable player. Good sense of positioning. Could indeed provide cover."
"And on the right," Francesco continued, encouraged by the subtle engagement, "Kyle Walker at Tottenham. He's fast, aggressive, competitive. If we could bring him in, even as competition for Bellerin, it might sharpen our fullbacks, add depth, and push the starting eleven to maintain their level week in, week out."
Wenger's eyes met his, steady and precise, reading not just the suggestion but the reasoning behind it. "You've given this thought," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "And you are considering not just the squad, but the balance, the rotation, the long-term fitness. That is the right approach. Insightful."
Francesco shrugged lightly, almost humbly. "I just think about what keeps the team strong, sir. Not headlines, not speculation. Just… us on the pitch, week after week. If these players can help, I thought it was worth mentioning."
Wenger leaned back in his chair, allowing a small, approving nod to settle over the moment. "Very well, Francesco. We will review options. Winter market is always unpredictable. Injuries, form, opportunity… it can change in a matter of hours. But your suggestions are noted. Your observation… sound."
Francesco felt a subtle sense of satisfaction,not for personal praise, but for knowing his thoughts were considered seriously. "Thank you, sir. That's all I wanted, to help in any way I can."
"Good," Wenger said firmly. "Always remember, this club is about collective strength. Individual talent is important, yes, but it is the harmony, the unity, the preparation that wins matches. And your loyalty, your focus… it reinforces that unity."
Francesco nodded once, feeling the gravity of Wenger's words sink. Outside, the world could scream about million-pound offers, headlines, and transfers that would never happen. Inside, here, in this office, it was about preparation, insight, and ensuring the club was ready for the challenges ahead.
He stood fully, straightening his jacket. "I understand, sir. And I'll continue to do my part, on and off the pitch."
Wenger smiled faintly, a rare warmth in the dimly lit office. "I have no doubt of that, Francesco. Return to the team. Finish the day as you began it: with focus, with discipline, with the awareness that football is what matters. Not the noise."
Francesco paused at the door, a final thought rising naturally. "Sir… thank you. For trusting me to make my own decisions over the past few days. For letting me stay focused. For showing me that loyalty matters, not just in words, but in action."
Wenger's gaze softened. "Francesco, you have always understood that. And that is why you are here. That is why you belong here. Never forget that, even when the world insists otherwise."
Francesco gave a small, respectful nod and stepped out of the office, the echoes of his boots on the polished floor marking each moment of transition from conversation back to action, from reflection back to movement.
As he returned to the locker room, the team was winding down. Kanté was quietly tying his laces, Xhaka had already thrown his towel over his shoulder, Sánchez was laughing at something Van Dijk had said. The atmosphere was light, grounded in routine, but Francesco felt a renewed clarity threading through it.
He caught their eyes, offering a small smile. "Good session," he said. "Let's keep this focus, not just for today, but for every match to come."
Sánchez clapped him on the shoulder. "Always with you, mate. Focused, sharp, untouchable."
Van Dijk nodded, resting a hand on Francesco's back. "The team sees it too. The market can yell. We know what matters. And you've reminded us again."
Xhaka, always observant, added with a grin, "And now we know the boss upstairs listens too. Wenger's impressed. That counts for something."
Francesco chuckled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing further. "It counts. But it's not about praise. It's about the team, about the football. Always."
By the time they had gathered their bags and stepped out into the cool afternoon air, there was a quiet sense of momentum. Even as the world outside buzzed with speculation, rumours, and sensationalism, the team moved in unison, grounded in what they could control from their own preparation, their own cohesion, their own game.
Walking alongside Kanté and Sánchez toward the training exit, Francesco felt a subtle pride that not a pride that sought recognition, but a pride in certainty, in having made a choice that mattered, in knowing his focus and loyalty were not just words, but actions.
The winter market would come, new names would circulate, speculation would flare, but Francesco had already drawn his line in the sand. Arsenal was home. Wenger's ear, the trust of the team, and his own clarity of purpose would carry him through the noise.
The next morning arrived with the same crispness in the air, a subtle frost clinging to the edges of the grass and the soft hum of distant traffic barely audible under the gentle light of dawn. Francesco woke with a quiet sense of purpose. Yesterday had been about clarity, loyalty, and trust as today would be about observing, understanding, and preparing for the reality of the football world that never truly slept.
As he sipped his coffee, the phone on the table buzzed lightly. Social media and news alerts had already begun to flare again. The transfer market, it seemed, had not cooled overnight. Francesco scrolled briefly, eyes narrowing slightly as the headlines came into focus.
"ARSENAL MAKES WINTER INQUIRY FOR ROBERTSON AND WALKER."
The first mention was Andrew Robertson. Hull City, a club known for nurturing young talent but rarely for resisting lucrative offers, was apparently open to talks. Francesco felt a flicker of satisfaction. Not because the market was chaotic, but because the club was acting intelligently, trying to reinforce the squad for rotation and future matches. Robertson was exactly what he had envisioned on a hardworking, versatile left back who could allow Monreal to breathe without compromising quality.
Next was Kyle Walker. Tottenham Hotspur's right back, fast, aggressive, and promising, suddenly in the headlines for potential interest from Arsenal. Francesco read through the reports carefully, noticing the subtle shifts in tone. Hull City fans, predictably pragmatic, seemed almost understanding in the media: they recognized that keeping Robertson indefinitely might not be feasible, and that a transfer could benefit both the player and the club.
But Tottenham fans were a different story entirely. Furious, they saw Arsenal's inquiry as a direct provocation, a deliberate attempt to unsettle a rival. Headlines screamed with accusations, online forums erupted with invective, and chants of betrayal began circulating. They labeled Walker a potential "Judas," comparing him to infamous incidents like Sol Campbell's move years prior.
Francesco felt a pang of unease that not for himself, but for the players caught in the crossfire. Kyle Walker, he knew, had been someone he respected as a competitor but also a professional with integrity. The fan reaction, so visceral, so personal, must have felt suffocating to a young player.
Even without hearing it directly, Francesco could imagine the waver of doubt that might creep into Walker's mind with the whispers of temptation versus loyalty. But then he considered Walker's character, the way he carried himself on the pitch, the principles he'd shown over the past seasons. Francesco allowed himself a quiet confidence that Walker would not bend to external pressure. The fans' anger, the media storm, and even the tactical allure of a move to Arsenal could not define his loyalty.
And yet, the club's approach had left a chill. Tottenham's management had not publicly defended Walker against the backlash; if anything, the silence hinted at either detachment or unwillingness to confront their own supporters. That lack of visible support, the implicit disregard for a player's wellbeing in the face of fan outrage, spoke volumes to Francesco. He understood how easily trust could be shaken, even when intentions were honorable.
As he drove toward London Colney, the frost glinting on the pavement in the early morning light, Francesco's mind turned naturally toward preparation. This wasn't speculation for its own sake. It was about understanding dynamics, about seeing the environment around players and club management, and about protecting the integrity of his own team. He parked, feeling the bite of cold air as he stepped out of the car, the crunch of frost under his boots grounding him in the present.
Inside, the familiar rhythm of Arsenal's training facility greeted him: the echo of balls bouncing, the muted conversations of staff, the low hum of distant machinery. Francesco moved through the hallways with a quiet efficiency, passing the locker rooms and heading straight to the training area.
Before warm-ups even began, conversation bubbled among the team. Xhaka, already lacing his boots, grinned knowingly. "Morning, superstar. Did you see the headlines today? Arsenal moving on Robertson and Walker."
Francesco allowed a small smile. "I saw. The club's thinking ahead. Makes sense for the squad, rotation, coverage. Smart moves."
Sánchez, tossing a towel over his shoulder, shook his head, laughter in his voice. "Walker? Tottenham fans are losing it. Calling him a Judas, threatening him online. Absolute chaos."
Francesco nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I can understand their reaction. Rivalry is intense, emotion runs high. But fans don't always know the full picture. They rarely see the human side. Walker's decisions are his own. His loyalty isn't dictated by noise."
Van Dijk, adjusting his shin guards, added, "It's messy. But that's the game. Not just what happens on the pitch, but the politics around it. Still, Walker's a professional. I doubt this will make him waver."
Kanté, quiet as ever, finally spoke, his voice calm and deliberate. "Fans react quickly, and clubs don't always protect their players. That's what hurts. It's not just about money or titles as it's about respect, feeling safe to do your job. Walker will know that. And he will act rightly."
Francesco nodded again. He thought of himself two days ago, the offers, the calls, the relentless pressure. And he realized that the contrast here was stark: while he had loyalty rooted in trust and years of shared growth, Walker faced a moment where loyalty, principle, and external fury collided all at once. That would test any player, regardless of talent.
The warm-up whistle blew, cutting through the conversation. Training began, but the undercurrent of awareness remained. Passes were exchanged, drills executed, but the team talked in smaller moments between movements, quietly acknowledging the swirling world outside while focusing on the work at hand.
During a break, Francesco pulled Sánchez aside. "Do you think Hull City will let Robertson go easily?"
Sánchez shrugged, leaning against the wall. "Hull's pragmatic. They know Robertson's good. They know if he stays too long, someone will come calling anyway. They're smart, not sentimental. He'll probably go if it makes sense for them and him. Fans will grumble, but they'll understand eventually."
"And Tottenham?" Francesco asked quietly, his brow furrowed. "Walker… the fans, the club's reaction. That could get messy."
Sánchez nodded slowly. "It's ugly, I won't lie. Fans are pissed. Club's… silent. That leaves him exposed. But Walker isn't stupid. He won't let noise like that dictate his loyalty. He knows what's right."
Francesco felt the tension in his chest ease slightly, comforted by the recognition that principles often outweighed emotion. Loyalty wasn't just about doing the easiest thing as it was about doing the right thing, even when it hurt, even when the world tried to push against you.
The drills resumed, stretching into tactical exercises, finishing work, and controlled scrimmages. Each movement was precise, each decision calculated, but Francesco's mind drifted momentarily to the players outside his own team. He imagined Robertson taking a chance, a confident stride forward, knowing the opportunity was right. He imagined Walker, stiffened by the vitriol of fans yet resolute, drawing on inner strength to remain loyal to Tottenham despite the provocation.
He returned the ball to Sánchez in a crisp pass, eyes meeting Van Dijk's as they orchestrated a defensive shape. In that instant, all external noise from transfers, headlines, speculation was nothing more than a background hum. On the pitch, principles were lived, not just declared.
After the session ended, the team moved to the massage room, the quiet ritual of recovery grounding them once more. Francesco eased into the chair, feeling the tension from drills and matches melt under the practiced hands of the masseur. Around him, players murmured about minor aches, shared small jokes, and briefly speculated on how the media might spin the day's news, but the undertone was always clear: focus on your own body, your own preparation.
In the shower afterward, Francesco let the warm water wash away sweat and lingering stress. Steam curled into the air, fogging mirrors, and the faint scent of soap mingled with the lingering aroma of liniment from the massage room. He thought about the chaos of headlines, the fury of fans, and the professionalism required to navigate such moments.
Wrapped in his towel, pulling on casual clothes, he felt a sense of quiet satisfaction. The world could scream outside, but inside, he was grounded in purpose, clarity, and loyalty.
As the team trickled out toward the exit, the transfer market's ripple continued. Robertson's potential move felt logical, necessary. Walker's situation was more fragile, shaped not by ambition but by loyalty and by how the club and fans reacted to him. Francesco understood, perhaps better than anyone, that football wasn't just about goals and tactics as it was about human resilience under pressure, about staying true to principles when the world attempted to pull you elsewhere.
He walked alongside Sánchez and Kanté toward the car park, absorbing the crisp afternoon air, the quiet promise of the evening ahead. Headlines would continue, speculation would never cease, but Francesco felt a deep, settling certainty: loyalty, integrity, and preparation mattered far more than any sum of money, any chant, any sensationalist article.
He exhaled slowly, letting the frost-bitten air fill his lungs, and whispered under his breath, almost to himself, "This… is how you stay grounded. This… is how you stay true."
Outside, the world buzzed and roared. Inside, Arsenal's players with each with their own battles, their own loyalties, their own principles as they continued quietly, deliberately, and resolutely. And Francesco, as always, led by example, letting the pitch, the team, and the work speak louder than any rumor, any headline, or any storm of transfer market frenzy.
________________________________________________
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