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They gathered briefly near the centre circle, a loose huddle of red and white, soaking it in before the routine of recovery and interviews and travel took over again.
They didn't rush it.
That was the thing.
After a scoreline like that, after ninety minutes where everything had gone right, the instinct for many teams was to peel off quickly and went down the tunnel, into the warmth, into the noise of the dressing room. But Francesco didn't turn toward the tunnel. Not yet.
He stood near the centre circle for a moment longer, breathing deeply, letting the air fill his lungs properly now that the tension had gone. The floodlights hummed above them. The rainwater on the pitch reflected white and silver under his boots. Somewhere behind him, a steward was already ushering Bournemouth players toward their side, quiet, respectful, subdued.
Francesco clapped his hands once.
Not loud. Not sharp.
Just enough.
Heads turned toward him instinctively.
"Come," he said, lifting his arm and gesturing toward the corner where the away end sat, still alive, still singing, still bouncing as if the night were only just beginning.
There was no argument. No hesitation.
They followed.
Van Dijk fell in beside him, tall frame relaxed now, shoulders finally loose. Giroud ambled a step behind, wiping his face with his shirt. Kanté trotted lightly, as if he could still play another ninety if asked. Oxlade-Chamberlain jogged backward for a few steps, grinning at the fans, soaking in their noise.
Francesco led them deliberately, the captain's armband still snug on his sleeve even though his boots were already caked with mud and his legs were beginning to stiffen. He raised both hands as they approached the stand, palms open, encouraging more noise that not because he needed it, but because they deserved it.
The response was immediate.
The Arsenal supporters surged forward as much as the barriers allowed, scarves raised high, voices rolling down in waves.
"Ar-sen-al! Ar-sen-al!"
Francesco stopped a few metres from the advertising boards and turned to face them fully. He clapped slowly at first, deliberately, eyes scanning the faces from young, old, soaked through, hoarse, grinning, emotional. People who had travelled hundreds of miles on a weeknight. People who would go home tired tomorrow but happy.
He bowed his head slightly.
Thank you.
Then he turned, just a fraction, and lifted his right arm again but this time, he didn't point to himself.
He pointed to Andy Robertson.
Robertson blinked, startled at first.
Then he realised.
Francesco pointed again, firmer now, nodding toward the left-back.
The fans followed his gesture, a ripple of recognition moving through the stand.
Robertson raised his hands instinctively, palms up in a half-embarrassed, half-delighted shrug.
And then the noise changed.
Not louder, but different.
A chant rose, uneven at first, then stronger.
Robertson's name.
He laughed, genuinely laughed, rubbing the back of his neck as if he didn't quite know where to look. He glanced at Francesco, who simply nodded once, approving, proud.
"You earned it," Francesco said quietly.
Robertson clapped back at the supporters, eyes shining, chest rising and falling faster than it had even after his longest sprint of the night.
Francesco didn't let the moment linger too long.
He turned again.
This time, his finger pointed to the right.
To Kyle Walker.
Walker froze.
Not dramatically, but there was a pause there, a fraction of a second where his body didn't quite know how to respond. Then the sound hit him.
Another roar.
Another chant.
Walker's jaw tightened, just for a moment. He looked down at the grass, then up at the stand, then back at Francesco.
Francesco met his eyes and gave him the smallest of smiles. Not reassuring. Not patronising.
Proud.
Walker exhaled and stepped forward a half pace, raising a hand. He didn't grin like Robertson had. His reaction was quieter. More contained. But the appreciation landed all the same, and everyone could see it.
He clapped back, slow and steady, eyes fixed on the supporters.
Behind them, Van Dijk leaned slightly toward Koscielny. "Good leaders do that," he said.
Koscielny nodded. "He knows."
Francesco waited until the noise settled into something steady again before lifting both arms and drawing them all together from new players, old players, starters, substitutes into one loose line facing the away end.
They applauded together now.
Not rushed.
Not polite.
Real.
For a long moment, it felt less like a football match and more like a shared agreement between people who believed in the same thing.
They stayed there a little longer after that.
Not because anyone told them to. Not because it was protocol. But because moments like this didn't come often, and when they did, you didn't rush them away.
The applause slowly softened, the chants easing into scattered cheers and final songs as the players began to drift apart again. Some turned toward the tunnel at last. Others lingered, stretching, talking, soaking in the last drops of the night.
Francesco was just about to follow when he felt a light tap on his arm.
He turned.
A Premier League staff member stood there, headset tucked behind one ear, accreditation badge swinging slightly against his chest. He smiled politely, professional but clearly aware of the moment he was stepping into.
"Francesco," he said, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the noise. "When you're ready, we'd like you for a quick pitchside interview."
Francesco nodded instinctively. Interviews were part of the job. He'd done enough of them that the rhythm was familiar, almost automatic.
But the staff member wasn't finished.
"And," he added, glancing past Francesco, "we'd like Andy and Kyle with you."
Francesco turned immediately.
Robertson was still a few steps away, talking animatedly with Oxlade-Chamberlain, while Walker stood nearer the centre circle, hands on hips, taking one last look around the stadium.
Francesco lifted his hand and gestured toward them.
"Andy. Kyle."
Robertson looked up first, eyebrows lifting. "Me?"
Walker followed, already guessing the answer from the staff member's presence.
"Interview," Francesco said simply.
Robertson laughed under his breath, half-disbelieving. "Right. Okay."
Walker exhaled, rolled his shoulders once, then nodded. "Alright."
They fell into step together, following the Premier League staff member toward the sideline. As they walked, the atmosphere shifted subtly again from the raw openness of post-match celebration to something more focused, more deliberate.
The camera rig was already set up near the touchline, angled perfectly to catch the pitch behind them. A cameraman adjusted his lens, checking focus. Another staff member smoothed out the grass where they'd stand, brushing aside loose divots.
The interviewer waited a few feet away, microphone in hand, earpiece snug, posture relaxed but attentive. He smiled when he saw them approach, offering a brief nod of greeting.
"Gentlemen," he said warmly. "Whenever you're ready."
Francesco took the central position without thinking. Old habit. Captain's instinct. Robertson stood to his left, still slightly flushed, hair damp and curling at the edges. Walker took the right, composed, expression neutral but alert.
The staff member gave a thumbs-up.
The cameraman raised his hand.
The red light blinked on.
And just like that, the noise of the stadium faded into something distant and indistinct, replaced by the quiet intensity of the lens.
The interviewer smiled into the camera first.
"Well, a comprehensive night for Arsenal here at the Vitality Stadium," he began, voice smooth, measured. "A 6–0 win away from home, total control from start to finish."
He turned slightly toward Francesco.
"Francesco, I'll start with you. As captain, how proud are you of that performance—not just the scoreline, but the way the team managed the game?"
Francesco took a breath.
Not because he was nervous. Because he wanted to get it right.
"Very proud," he said, calmly, clearly. "Not just of the result, but of the mentality. From the first minute, we respected Bournemouth, respected the game. We pressed with intelligence, not emotion. We stayed patient."
He glanced briefly toward Robertson and Walker before looking back at the interviewer.
"When you play like that, as a unit, the scoreline takes care of itself."
The interviewer nodded, listening.
"You mentioned the unit," he said. "Tonight also marked the debut of two new faces in this side. Andy Robertson on the left, Kyle Walker on the right. Both looked like they'd been here for years. How important were they to that performance?"
Francesco smiled slightly at that.
"They were very important," he said. "But more than that, they were brave. Coming into a new team, away from home, in a match where expectations are high, it's not easy."
He turned his head slightly toward Robertson first.
"Andy gave us energy, discipline, intelligence. He understood when to go, when to stay. That's not something you teach in a week."
Then he shifted toward Walker.
"And Kyle, he gave us balance. He defended well, he chose his moments, and he contributed directly to goals. That's what we ask from our fullbacks."
The interviewer followed his gaze and turned toward Robertson.
"Andy," he said, smiling, "your first competitive match for Arsenal, away from home, and a clean sheet in a six-goal win. What was that experience like for you?"
Robertson let out a small laugh, shaking his head slightly.
"It was… intense," he admitted. "In a good way."
He glanced briefly toward Francesco, then back to the interviewer.
"When you come into a team like this, you don't want to be the weak link. The lads made it easy for me. Communication was constant. If I was unsure, there was always someone talking from Virgil behind me, Granit inside, Francesco ahead."
He shrugged, modest but clearly pleased.
"And when you play with players of that quality, your job becomes about doing the simple things right."
The interviewer nodded appreciatively.
"You also got quite the reception from the away end at full time," he added. "How did that feel?"
Robertson smiled wider now.
"Special," he said honestly. "You don't forget moments like that. You want to give the fans something back straight away. Hopefully that's just the start."
The interviewer turned next to Walker.
"Kyle, a lot of attention has followed you this week. New club, big expectations. Tonight, you looked composed, assured and you provided the assist for Francesco's second goal. How satisfying was that performance for you personally?"
Walker took a moment longer before answering.
His voice, when he spoke, was calm.
"Very," he said. "But more than anything, I was happy with how we played as a team."
He shifted his weight slightly, eyes steady.
"When you join a club like Arsenal, you don't come to make noise. You come to do your job. Tonight, I felt comfortable. The structure helped me. The communication helped me."
He glanced toward Francesco briefly.
"And when you have players making the right runs, your decisions become easier."
The interviewer smiled.
"There was a noticeable moment at full time when Francesco pointed you and Andy out to the supporters," he said. "What did that mean to you?"
Walker's jaw tightened just slightly again, but this time there was a softness to it.
"It meant a lot," he said quietly. "That's leadership. You don't always need words."
Francesco looked at him then, nodding once.
The interviewer turned back toward the camera, summing up.
"A dominant win for Arsenal tonight, six different goal involvements, a clean sheet, and a glimpse of how this squad is coming together."
He looked back to them.
"Final question, Francesco. Performances like this, does it feel like something is building here?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Yes," he said. "But building doesn't mean finished. We stay humble. We recover. And we work again."
He paused, then added softly.
"That's how you respect nights like this."
The interviewer let the silence sit for half a second after Francesco's last words.
It was deliberate.
Moments like this needed space to breathe.
Then he smiled, stepping slightly out of the camera's frame before turning back in, his tone shifting just enough to signal something more ceremonial.
"One more thing before we let you go," he said.
Francesco tilted his head slightly, curious but composed. Robertson glanced sideways. Walker straightened almost imperceptibly.
The interviewer reached down to his side and lifted a small, familiar object into view.
The Premier League Man of the Match trophy.
It caught the floodlights immediately, the clear acrylic edges glowing softly, the Premier League lion etched into the face. It wasn't large. It never was. But it carried weight all the same.
"Francesco," the interviewer said, holding it out now, "two goals, one assist, and leadership from the first minute to the last. The Man of the Match award goes to you tonight."
There was a ripple of noise from the stands that had remained open for the broadcast. A few Arsenal supporters who hadn't yet left spotted the moment and let out cheers, clapping and shouting his name again.
Francesco blinked once.
Just once.
Then he smiled.
Not wide. Not theatrical.
Real.
"Thank you," he said, stepping forward and taking the trophy with both hands.
He didn't lift it immediately. He looked at it first, thumb brushing lightly along the edge, as if grounding himself in the moment. Then, almost instinctively, he turned slightly and angled it outward, toward the pitch, toward the away end.
The interviewer noticed.
"You've been keen to share the credit tonight," he said. "Is that important to you?"
Francesco nodded.
"Always," he replied. "Individual awards come from collective work. I don't score those goals without the passes, without the movement, without the structure."
He glanced briefly toward Robertson and Walker again.
"And without trust."
The interviewer smiled, clearly satisfied.
"Well deserved," he said. "Gentlemen, thank you again."
The cameraman held the shot for a few more seconds with Francesco centered, trophy in hand, Robertson and Walker flanking him, the pitch stretching out behind them like a quiet canvas after a masterpiece had already been painted.
Then the red light flicked off.
Just like that, the intensity dissolved.
Robertson let out a long breath. "That's it then?"
"That's it," the interviewer confirmed, already stepping away. "Enjoy it."
They exchanged handshakes, quick and polite, and the Premier League staff member who had first approached them gestured toward the tunnel.
"This way."
Francesco tucked the Man of the Match trophy under his arm without ceremony and fell into step between Robertson and Walker as they walked off the pitch.
The stadium felt different now.
Quieter.
The echoes of celebration lingered, bouncing faintly off concrete and steel, but the immediacy had gone. Grounds staff were already moving along the touchlines, gathering equipment, resetting the space. A few Bournemouth players passed them on the way out, tired, disappointed, but respectful. There were nods. A brief handshake here and there.
"Good game," one of them muttered.
Walker replied automatically. "Cheers."
The tunnel swallowed them in familiar fashion, the air cooler inside, the sound sharper as studs clicked against the hard floor.
Robertson glanced at the trophy under Francesco's arm and shook his head. "You make it look easy."
Francesco snorted softly. "It never is."
Walker smiled faintly. "Doesn't look bad in your hands, though."
They reached the dressing room door.
The muffled noise inside told its own story.
Laughter. Shouting. Music already starting to thump faintly from a speaker someone had connected far too early.
Francesco pushed the door open.
The noise exploded outward.
"AYYY!"
"CAPTAIN!"
"ABOUT TIME!"
Someone whistled sharply. Someone else clapped rhythmically. The room was alive now, steam rising from damp kits, the sharp scent of liniment mixing with sweat and energy drinks and victory.
Francesco barely had time to step inside before a chorus of voices rose again.
"MOTM! MOTM!"
Giroud was the first to spot the trophy. "Ahh," he said loudly, pointing. "Of course."
Özil looked up from his seat, towel around his neck, and smiled. "Two goals, one assist," he said. "Not bad."
Xhaka leaned back against his locker. "Next time, I'll take the corner faster so you score three."
Francesco laughed, setting the trophy down carefully on the bench near his locker.
"Everyone calm," he said, raising a hand. "Plenty of football left this season."
That only made them louder.
Walker and Robertson stepped further in, still carrying the quiet satisfaction of men who had just passed a test they'd been waiting for.
They barely saw it coming.
Van Dijk caught Robertson first, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and steering him a step to the left.
"Welcome," he said, grinning.
Walker turned just in time to see Kanté and Oxlade-Chamberlain moving toward him with suspicious coordination.
"Oi," Walker said, narrowing his eyes. "Don't—"
Too late.
Someone shouted, "NOW!"
And suddenly, chaos.
A large orange drum from left over from the hydration setup was hoisted up by at least three players. Kanté grabbed one side, Oxlade-Chamberlain another. Giroud helped steady it, laughing openly now.
Robertson realised what was happening half a second before it happened.
"No no no—"
The drum tipped.
A wave of ice-cold Gatorade cascaded down over both him and Walker in a spectacular splash, soaking them from head to toe. The liquid slammed into their shoulders, ran down their backs, splattered across the floor in bright orange rivulets.
The room erupted.
Walker stood frozen for a beat, drenched, blinking.
Then he laughed.
A full, unguarded laugh that echoed off the walls.
Robertson yelped, hopping backward, hair plastered to his forehead. "That's freezing!"
"Smooth debut!" Oxlade-Chamberlain shouted.
"Assist!" someone else yelled.
"Clean sheet!" another added.
Francesco leaned against his locker, arms folded, watching it unfold with a broad grin.
"Ritual," he said simply.
Walker wiped his face with both hands, still laughing. "Is this what I signed up for?"
Van Dijk clapped him on the back. "Only the beginning."
Robertson shook water from his sleeves like a dog, then pointed accusingly at Kanté. "You enjoyed that too much."
Kanté smiled, innocent as ever. "Maybe a little."
Gradually, the chaos settled.
Players peeled off wet kits. Towels were grabbed. Music got louder. Someone turned the speaker up another notch, bass vibrating through the benches.
Francesco finally moved toward his locker, sitting down heavily now that the adrenaline was wearing off. His legs felt it suddenly with the dull ache, the heaviness that only came after a full ninety played at intensity.
He picked up the Man of the Match trophy again, turning it once in his hands.
Walker noticed.
"You earned it," he said, towel draped over his shoulders now.
Francesco looked up. "We earned it."
Robertson nodded, serious now beneath the humour. "That performance… that's the standard, yeah?"
Francesco met his eyes.
"That's the expectation," he said. "Every week."
There was no pressure in his tone.
There was a quiet that settled after that.
Not immediately. Not while the music was still thumping and the jokes were still flying and the smell of victory still clung to the walls of the dressing room. But later, when the showers had been turned off, when the last pair of boots had been shoved into a bag, when laughter softened into tired smiles and nods.
Francesco felt it then.
That familiar post-match stillness.
The kind that didn't belong to the stadium, or the cameras, or the noise. It belonged to the body. To the mind. To the space where exhaustion and satisfaction met and decided, for one night at least, not to fight.
He stayed behind a little longer than most.
Sitting at his locker, towel draped loosely over his shoulders, the Man of the Match trophy resting beside his bag. He didn't look at it anymore. He didn't need to. The feeling of the match of the way the game had flowed, of how the team had moved together was far more present than any object could be.
One by one, the room emptied.
Walker left with a quiet handshake and a nod, still smiling faintly, still dripping confidence rather than Gatorade now. Robertson followed not long after, laughing as someone shouted something about "next time, bigger drum."
Eventually, it was just Francesco, a kit man, and the low hum of the fluorescent lights.
He stood, stretched slowly, feeling the tightness in his calves, his lower back. Ninety minutes well spent.
Outside, the night air was cool.
The drive home was quiet. No music. Just the hum of the engine and the city lights sliding past the windows. His phone buzzed a few times messages from teammates, family, friends, but he didn't answer them yet. That could wait until morning.
When he finally reached home, he moved through the space almost automatically. Shoes off. Keys down. A glass of water. A quick glance at the clock.
Late.
He slept deeply.
Morning arrived gently.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, pale and warm, touching the edges of the room before reaching him. Francesco stirred, groaning softly as his body reminded him of everything it had done the night before.
He opened one eye.
Then the other.
And smiled.
Because for once, the morning after didn't bring anxiety. No replay of missed chances. No lingering frustration. Just the quiet satisfaction of work done well.
The smell of coffee reached him before the sound.
He rolled onto his side and looked toward the doorway.
Leah stood in the kitchen, hair pulled back loosely, still in one of his Arsenal hoodies that oversized on her, sleeves pushed up. She moved easily, comfortably, as if the space already belonged to her as much as it did to him.
"Morning, captain," she called without turning around.
"Morning," he replied, voice rough but warm.
He dragged himself out of bed, stretching again, and padded into the kitchen. The table was already set from toast, eggs, fruit, two mugs of coffee steaming gently.
Sky Sports was on the television, volume low.
Francesco sat down heavily, exhaling as he did.
Leah slid a plate toward him. "Eat," she said. "Before you complain about your legs."
He chuckled. "Too late."
They ate in companionable silence for a few moments, the kind that didn't need filling. Outside, the city was waking up. Cars passed. Somewhere, a neighbour's radio played faintly.
On the television, the Sky Sports studio came into focus.
A replay of last night's match rolled silently across the screen with Francesco's second goal, slowed down, Walker's assist highlighted by a sweeping yellow line.
Leah glanced up, fork paused halfway to her mouth.
"They're starting the analysis," she said.
Francesco followed her gaze.
The volume was still low, but the captions told the story well enough.
"A New Look Arsenal Back Line?"
"Walker & Robertson: Immediate Impact"
He leaned back slightly in his chair, interest piqued despite himself.
Leah reached for the remote and turned the volume up a notch.
In the studio, the familiar Sky Sports panel sat around the desk. The host leaned forward, hands clasped.
"Let's talk about Arsenal's fullbacks," he said. "Because last night, we saw something different."
The screen split, showing side by side clips.
On the left: Walker's overlapping run, timing perfect, ball squared cleanly for Francesco's goal.
On the right: Robertson tracking back relentlessly, then bursting forward again minutes later.
One of the pundits nodded emphatically.
"Look," he said, pointing at the screen. "Kyle Walker gives you power. He gives you strength. It's not just the sprinting which we all know about, but the way he uses his body. He wins duels. He recovers ground. He doesn't panic."
The clip slowed further, freezing just as Walker shrugged off a Bournemouth winger.
"He's much stronger than Bellerín in those situations," the pundit continued. "Héctor is quick, very quick, but Walker gives you that physical dominance. That changes how Arsenal can defend transitions."
Francesco took a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving the screen.
Leah smiled faintly. "They're not wrong."
He nodded. "Kyle's timing is different. He doesn't rush it."
The host turned to another analyst.
"And on the left?"
The analyst leaned forward, hands spread.
"Andy Robertson," he said. "Stamina. Intelligence. Consistency. He doesn't stop. Watch this."
The screen shifted again, showing Robertson in the 85th minute still sprinting back to close down space.
"He becomes an excellent rotation option for Monreal," the analyst continued. "Nacho gives you experience, positional sense. Robertson gives you energy, aggression, and he's tactically disciplined. That's huge over a long season."
Leah glanced at Francesco. "That rotation's going to matter."
"It already does," he replied quietly.
On screen, graphics appeared from the heat maps, sprint distances, duel success rates.
Robertson's numbers glowed red across the left flank.
Walker's defensive recoveries stood out on the right.
The host smiled.
"This is what squad evolution looks like," he said. "Arsenal aren't just adding names. They're adding profiles. And when you have a captain like Francesco in front of them, making those runs, demanding those passes, it all connects."
The screen briefly cut to a still of Francesco celebrating, arms raised.
Leah nudged him gently with her foot under the table. "They like you."
He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth. "They like winning."
She studied him for a moment longer than necessary.
"You okay?" she asked.
He met her gaze.
"Yeah," he said. "I am."
And he meant it.
They finished breakfast slowly, talking about small things with the weather, her next training session, whether they needed to restock the fridge. The normality of it grounded him more than any analysis ever could.
Sky Sports continued in the background.
Another pundit spoke now, voice thoughtful.
"What impressed me most," he said, "was how quickly Robertson and Walker integrated. That doesn't happen without leadership on the pitch. Francesco constantly checked his shoulders, pulled defenders, created lanes. That makes life easier for new fullbacks."
Leah smiled into her mug. "You hear that? You're helpful."
He laughed. "High praise."
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand briefly.
"You set the tone," she said quietly. "They follow it."
He didn't reply immediately.
Instead, he looked back at the screen, where another replay rolled with this time, a wide shot. The whole team moving together. Lines compact. Spacing right.
It looked… right.
Not perfect.
But right.
"That's the expectation," he had said in the dressing room.
Now, watching it from the outside, he felt the weight of that sentence settle again.
The season was long.
There would be harder nights. Louder stadiums. Worse pitches. Moments when legs felt heavier and confidence wavered.
But mornings like this that quiet, honest, reflective reminded him why he carried that expectation in the first place.
Leah stood and began clearing the table.
"Training later?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Recovery first."
She nodded. "Good."
Before she turned away, he reached out and pulled her gently back toward him, resting his forehead briefly against her shoulder.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For being here," he replied simply.
She kissed the top of his head, quick and affectionate. "Always."
On the television, the Sky Sports host wrapped up the segment.
"Arsenal looked balanced. Confident. And if this is what their new fullback rotation brings, the rest of the league should take note."
Francesco watched the screen fade to another topic. Then he stood, feeling the dull ache in his legs again, but this time, it came with clarity.
______________________________________________
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: 28
Goal: 45
Assist: 1
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