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Outside, the world continued to react. Social media surged. Headlines buzzed. Fans debated and raged. But within Colney, amidst the hum of lights, the faint scent of wet grass, and the quiet focus of staff and players, a different kind of energy thrummed: one of clarity, of opportunity, and of the knowledge that loyalty, integrity, and perseverance were not always measured by applause, but by the strength to act decisively when circumstances demanded it.
Two days later, the rhythm of the week shifted again.
The early morning at London Colney was quieter than the signing day, but no less purposeful. The rain had eased overnight, leaving the training ground damp and cool, the air sharp enough to wake even the most exhausted body. This was no longer about contracts, photos, or announcements. This was about football again. About preparation. About the simple, grounding routine that players trusted when everything else felt loud.
The Arsenal squad gathered in the main car park just after breakfast, kit bags slung over shoulders, headphones in, conversations low and casual. The team bus waited with its engine idling softly, steam drifting from the exhaust into the cold air.
Andrew Robertson climbed aboard early, choosing a seat near the middle. He rested his head back for a moment, eyes closing briefly as the bus door hissed shut behind him. Two days. That was all it had been since he officially became an Arsenal player, and yet it already felt like he'd been living inside a whirlwind. The badge still felt slightly unreal on his chest, but the structure of the club, the clarity of expectations, and the calm professionalism around him had begun to settle his nerves.
Across the aisle, Virgil van Dijk dropped into a seat, long legs stretching out easily.
"You good?" Van Dijk asked, voice calm, carrying that natural authority he never seemed to force.
Robertson smiled. "Aye. Bit surreal, but good."
Van Dijk nodded knowingly. "First away day with a new club always feels like that. Just remember, once the whistle goes, it's the same pitch, same ball."
That helped. Robertson nodded, absorbing the words.
At the back of the bus, Kyle Walker sat by the window, headphones on but no music playing. He watched the training ground slide away as the bus pulled out, London Colney disappearing behind them. His phone buzzed in his pocket again. He ignored it. He had decided something the night before: match day would be sacred. No noise. No headlines. Just football.
Francesco Lee sat a few rows ahead, captain's armband folded neatly in his bag. He glanced back briefly, catching Walker's eye through the reflection in the window. They exchanged a small nod. No words were needed. There was an unspoken understanding between them now—both knew what it meant to carry weight into a match, even if the sources of that weight were different.
The drive south toward Bournemouth was long enough for thoughts to wander, but short enough to keep focus intact. Outside, the scenery changed gradually—urban sprawl giving way to open roads, bare winter trees lining the motorway, grey skies hanging low.
Alexis Sánchez broke the quiet at one point, leaning across the aisle toward Gnabry.
"First game starting for the new boys," he said, grin flashing. "No pressure, eh?"
Gnabry laughed. "That's what you say before you demand goals."
Sánchez shrugged. "Always."
Robertson listened, smiling quietly. He appreciated how normal everything felt. No special treatment. No fuss. Just another match, another job to do.
As the bus finally turned off toward the Vitality Stadium, the atmosphere shifted subtly. Phones went away. Headphones came off. Conversations faded. Focus tightened.
The stadium appeared suddenly, compact and close to the road, its stands rising sharply, almost intimate compared to the vast arenas Arsenal were used to. There was something about the Vitality Stadium that always felt claustrophobic—crowds close, noise immediate, no space to hide.
The bus rolled to a stop.
The doors opened.
One by one, Arsenal players stepped down onto the wet pavement, jackets zipped up, faces composed. A small cluster of fans stood behind barriers, cameras raised, shouting names. A few boos filtered through as well, inevitable, especially when Walker stepped off the bus. He kept his head up, eyes forward, expression unreadable.
Inside, the dressing room was already prepared. Red shirts hung neatly in rows, boots lined beneath each locker. The scent of fresh kit, liniment, and damp concrete filled the air. It was familiar. Comforting.
Players changed into training gear quickly, slipping into muscle memory. Robertson sat at his locker, pulling on his socks, glancing around. His name was printed cleanly above the number 27. Seeing it there, in that room, before an away match, sent a small jolt through him.
Walker, a few lockers down, methodically taped his ankles, movements precise. He didn't speak much, but when Koscielny walked past and gave him a brief pat on the shoulder, he nodded in acknowledgment. Small gestures mattered.
The call came.
Warm-up time.
They jogged out onto the pitch together, boots biting into the slightly slick grass. The Vitality Stadium was already filling up, Bournemouth supporters filtering into their seats, red and black scarves wrapped tight against the cold.
As Arsenal emerged, a mixed reaction greeted them. Applause from the traveling away fans tucked into the corner. A smattering of boos. Curiosity. Energy.
Robertson took a moment to look around as he jogged. This was it. His first warm-up as an Arsenal starter. Away from home. No easing in.
He passed the ball with Kanté during early drills, immediately struck by the Frenchman's economy of movement. Kanté smiled briefly, encouraging.
"Relax," he said softly. "You are here for a reason."
Walker joined in defensive drills with Van Dijk and Koscielny, their communication already crisp. "Hold," Van Dijk called. "Now step." Walker responded instinctively, his pace covering ground effortlessly. Whatever was happening off the pitch, on it he was still himself that sharp, disciplined, reliable.
Francesco led the attacking patterns, barking instructions gently, pulling Ozil into space, exchanging quick passes with Sánchez. He felt good. Grounded. There was something reassuring about seeing new pieces fit so naturally into the shape.
After twenty minutes, the warm-up wound down. Players jogged back toward the tunnel, breath visible in the cool air.
Back in the dressing room, the mood shifted again with lighter chatter fell away, replaced by quiet intensity as players changed into match kits. Red shirts replaced training tops. Shin guards were adjusted. Boots were tightened one final time.
Wenger entered, closing the door behind him.
The room fell silent.
He stood at the front, eyes moving calmly across the faces in front of him as some familiar, some newly arrived, all attentive.
"Gentlemen," he began, voice steady, measured. "Today is about discipline and intelligence. Bournemouth are strong at home. They press, they believe. We respect that. But we impose our game."
He gestured to the tactical board.
"We play 4-2-3-1."
No surprise there, but every detail mattered.
"Petr," he said, nodding toward Čech, "you organize. You lead from behind."
He moved his finger along the back line.
"Andrew, left back," Wenger said, meeting Robertson's eyes briefly. "Be brave. Trust your instincts. Do not overthink."
Robertson nodded, jaw set.
"Virgil. Laurent. Control the center. Communicate."
They both acknowledged with quiet confidence.
"Kyle," Wenger continued, "on the right. Balance your runs. Choose your moments."
Walker met his gaze, nodding once. No hesitation.
"In midfield," Wenger went on, "N'Golo and Granit. You are the foundation. Break their rhythm. Protect us."
Kanté and Xhaka exchanged a glance, already aligned.
"Mesut," Wenger said softly, "you find the spaces. You dictate."
Ozil smiled faintly.
"Alexis. Serge," Wenger added, "stretch them. Attack their fullbacks. Be fearless."
Finally, Wenger looked directly at Francesco.
"Francesco," he said, voice firm but warm. "You lead us. Captain. Striker. Be the reference."
Francesco straightened slightly. "Always."
Wenger paused, letting the formation sink in.
"On the bench," he continued, "we have options. Ospina. Mustafi. Bellerin. Monreal. Coquelin. Oxlade-Chamberlain. Giroud. Stay ready. Every moment matters."
He closed the board.
"This is football," Wenger finished. "Nothing more complicated than that. Play together. Trust each other."
The silence lingered for a heartbeat longer.
Then Francesco stood, clapping once sharply.
"Alright," he said. "Let's do our jobs."
They rose together.
The tunnel was narrow, walls close, sound bouncing strangely. Bournemouth players lined up opposite, red and black shirts sharp under the fluorescent lights. Francesco stood at the front, captain's armband snug around his arm.
Beside him stood Simon Francis, Bournemouth's captain. They exchanged a nod with mutual respect, nothing more.
The referee stepped forward, checked watches, spoke briefly to both captains.
"Ready?" he asked.
Francesco nodded. Francis did the same.
"Let's go."
The tunnel doors opened.
Light flooded in, followed by sound with crowd noise swelling, cheers, whistles, anticipation crackling through the air.
They walked out together.
On the pitch, the pre-match rituals unfolded with practiced precision. Handshakes with referees. Brief nods to opponents. The Arsenal starting eleven lined up for the official photo, arms over shoulders, expressions composed.
Robertson stood on the far left of the line, chest rising with slow, controlled breaths. Walker stood on the right, eyes forward, jaw set. Van Dijk and Koscielny between them, immovable.
When the photo was taken, it felt like a moment frozen in time with a snapshot of transition, of intent.
Then it was time for the coin toss.
Francesco and Simon Francis walked to the center circle with the referee. The grass there was pristine, damp but perfect.
The referee held up the coin.
"Heads or tails?" he asked.
Francis answered quickly. "Right."
The coin spun, glinting briefly before landing.
Francis had won.
"We'll kick off," he said.
Francesco nodded, unfazed.
They shook hands.
As Francesco jogged back toward his position, he glanced once toward the away end, where Arsenal fans were already singing, voices cutting through the Bournemouth chants.
The whistle cut sharply through the noise, clean and unmistakable.
Bournemouth kicked off.
For a brief second, the ball rolled backward into their half, the home crowd rising in expectation, voices swelling with belief that this would be their afternoon. But almost immediately, that belief met resistance.
Arsenal pressed.
It wasn't frantic. It wasn't reckless. It was measured, deliberate, intelligent like a net tightening inch by inch.
Granit Xhaka stepped forward first, reading the pass before it even reached its target. His body shape was perfect, angling Gosling away from the center. Kanté followed a half-second later, ghosting in from the blind side, toeing the ball loose with that uncanny timing that made it look effortless.
Suddenly, Arsenal had it.
And just like that, the tone of the match shifted.
Mesut Özil dropped into a pocket of space, turning on the half-volley, head already up. One touch. Two. Bournemouth's midfield line of Gosling and Arter reacted late, scrambling to close him down. Fraser and Stanislas tucked inside instinctively, trying to compress the space, but Arsenal had already anticipated that response.
Robertson and Walker advanced simultaneously.
Not recklessly. Not overlapping for the sake of it. They stepped just high enough, just wide enough, to pin Bournemouth's wingers in place.
Fraser hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at Robertson. Stanislas did the same with Walker. Neither could fully commit to tracking inside, not with the fullbacks threatening to surge past them. That hesitation was all Arsenal needed.
Kanté took the ball from Özil, recycled it calmly to Xhaka, who sprayed it wide to Gnabry with a single, crisp pass that cut through two red and black shirts.
The away end roared.
Francesco, already drifting between Cook and Aké, felt it immediately with the rhythm, the flow, the sense that Bournemouth were reacting rather than dictating. He dropped a shoulder, dragged Cook half a step out of position, and opened a channel for Sánchez to dart into.
Daniels shouted. Francis gestured. But it was already happening too fast.
Arsenal weren't rushing. They were suffocating.
Within the first ten minutes, the pattern was clear.
Every time Bournemouth tried to build, Arsenal's midfield triangle collapsed the space. Gosling would receive with his back to goal only to find Kanté at his hip, Xhaka blocking the forward lane, Özil hovering just close enough to intercept the return pass.
Arter fared no better. Each attempt to switch play was delayed just long enough for Robertson or Walker to step up, freezing Fraser and Stanislas in place. Bournemouth's wingers became hesitant shadows of themselves as caught between helping their midfield and tracking Arsenal's fullbacks.
Up top, Callum Wilson and Joshua King grew increasingly isolated.
The ball simply wasn't reaching them.
When it did, it was hurried, hopeful, or forced wide. And when that happened, Virgil van Dijk and Laurent Koscielny were there that calm, unflinching, dominant.
Van Dijk won the first aerial duel with Wilson so cleanly it felt almost unfair. He rose, neck muscles tightening, and powered the header straight back into midfield. Koscielny swept up the second ball without fuss, carrying it forward before slipping it into Kanté's path.
It was football stripped of drama and rebuilt with precision.
Francesco felt himself growing into the game with every touch. He didn't need to drop deep constantly as Arsenal's midfield was already controlling the tempo, but when he did, it was purposeful. A touch here. A wall pass there. A subtle run to pull a defender just out of position.
Daniels struggled to read him. Cook grew visibly frustrated, shouting instructions that came a second too late.
By the fifteenth minute, Bournemouth's back line was already retreating instinctively whenever Arsenal crossed the halfway line.
The Vitality Stadium, so compact and hostile at kickoff, had quieted into an uneasy murmur.
Then came the warning signs.
At seventeen minutes, Özil slid a pass between Aké and Francis that split them clean open. Gnabry raced onto it, cut inside, and forced a sharp save from the Bournemouth keeper at the near post.
Three minutes later, Sánchez wriggled free on the left, twisted Daniels inside out, and whipped a ball across the six-yard box. Francesco arrived a fraction late, sliding just wide of contact.
He slapped the turf once, frustration brief and controlled, then pushed himself back to his feet.
"Next one," Sánchez said, clapping him on the back as they jogged back into position.
Francesco nodded. He could feel it coming.
Bournemouth tried to respond by pushing their midfield slightly higher, asking Fraser and Stanislas to engage earlier. But that only widened the spaces behind them.
At the twenty-third minute, Arsenal punished them.
It began innocently enough.
Koscielny stepped out of defense with the ball, unchallenged. Wilson hesitated, unsure whether to press. That hesitation was fatal.
Koscielny slid the ball into Xhaka, who turned first time and fed Özil between the lines. The German midfielder took one touch to kill the ball, another to shape his body.
Cook stepped forward too late.
Francesco had already made the run.
It was subtle with a curved movement, drifting away from Aké, then accelerating into the gap between him and Francis. Özil saw it instantly. He always did.
The pass was perfect.
Threaded, weighted, timed to the millisecond.
Francesco met it in stride.
One touch to set himself. The keeper rushed out, narrowing the angle, arms spread wide. Francesco didn't panic. He opened his body, shaping as if to go far post.
Then he slid it low, calmly, into the near corner.
Net.
For a split second, there was silence.
Then the away end exploded.
Francesco turned, arms spread, jaw clenched, letting the release surge through him. Sánchez sprinted over first, leaping onto his back. Gnabry followed, shouting something unintelligible in joy. Özil arrived last, smiling softly, placing a hand on Francesco's head.
1–0 Arsenal.
Robertson punched the air near the halfway line, a wide grin breaking across his face. Walker clapped sharply, nodding once, satisfaction flickering briefly across his expression.
On the Bournemouth side, heads dropped. Cook slapped his thigh in frustration. Francis shouted, trying to rally his line.
But the damage was done.
Arsenal didn't retreat after the goal.
They tightened.
Possession became suffocating. Passes came faster. Movements sharper. Bournemouth chased shadows, their energy draining with every failed press.
Kanté intercepted another pass meant for King and immediately released it to Özil. The ball moved through Arsenal's midfield like it was magnetized as each player knowing instinctively where the next touch would be.
Francesco drifted wide this time, dragging Aké with him. Sánchez took advantage, darting into the vacated central channel. Robertson overlapped aggressively, forcing Fraser backward, pinning him near his own box.
At the thirty-second minute, Arsenal struck again.
This time, the move unfolded on the right.
Walker surged forward, timing his run perfectly as Xhaka switched play with a diagonal that kissed the wet grass before reaching him. Stanislas scrambled to recover, but Walker had already taken his first touch inside, drawing Daniels toward him.
That was the trigger.
Francesco dropped deep, pulling Cook with him. Gnabry cut inside, occupying Aké. Suddenly, there was space, just enough.
Walker slid the ball into Francesco's feet. One touch. Shield. Turn.
Francis stepped out to close him down.
Too late.
Francesco slipped a pass into the channel Sánchez was already attacking, threading it between Francis and Cook like a blade.
Sánchez didn't hesitate.
He took one touch and smashed it low across the keeper, the ball skidding off the slick surface and into the far corner.
2–0.
This time, there was no silence.
The Vitality Stadium buzzed with frustration, murmurs of disbelief rippling through the home crowd. The away end, by contrast, sang louder, voices sharp and relentless.
Francesco jogged over to Sánchez, embracing him briefly. There was no over the top celebration. Just a shared look of understanding.
Job not done.
From the restart, Bournemouth tried desperately to regain composure. They pushed Wilson and King higher, attempting to force mistakes. But Arsenal's structure held firm.
Van Dijk won another header. Koscielny cleared decisively. Kanté snapped into tackles without fouling, his timing impeccable. Xhaka dictated tempo, slowing the game when needed, accelerating it when Bournemouth overcommitted.
Robertson impressed with his discipline, tracking back when required, stepping forward with confidence when space opened. Walker, too, looked liberated that focused, sharp, unburdened by the noise that had surrounded him all week.
As the half wore on, Arsenal looked increasingly comfortable.
Francesco nearly added a third just before halftime, latching onto a loose ball in the box after a corner, only for his shot to be blocked at the last second by Aké's outstretched leg.
He exhaled sharply, hands on hips, then jogged back into position.
The referee checked his watch.
One minute of added time.
Bournemouth attempted one final push, but it fizzled out quickly, a hopeful ball cleared easily by Van Dijk.
Then came the whistle.
Half-time.
Arsenal players walked toward the tunnel together, composed, focused, aware that the job was only half finished. Francesco glanced once more toward the away end, acknowledging the supporters with a brief nod.
Inside the dressing room, the door closed, muting the noise outside.
Wenger stood waiting.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
"Good," he said simply. "Very good."
He gestured for them to sit.
"But do not confuse control with completion," he continued, eyes sharp. "Bournemouth will react. They will press harder. They will try to disrupt our rhythm."
He pointed to the board, marking adjustments.
"Fullbacks, be aware of the space behind you. Midfield, do not drop too deep. Keep our distances compact."
His gaze lingered briefly on Robertson and Walker, not as a test, but as reassurance.
"You are doing well," he said calmly. "Trust yourselves. Trust the structure."
Francesco met his eyes, nodding once.
"We keep doing what we're doing," Wenger concluded. "With intelligence. With patience. With respect for the game."
The players sat quietly, absorbing it.
The players rose from the benches slowly, methodically, the way professionals do when they know the work is not finished but the foundation is already strong.
Boots were retied. Shin pads adjusted. Shoulders rolled loose again.
Francesco stood near the doorway, captain's armband still snug on his arm, breathing steady. He felt good, not the reckless kind of good that came from adrenaline alone, but the grounded certainty that comes when everything on the pitch makes sense. The structure. The movement. The trust.
Around him, Robertson listened quietly as Van Dijk murmured a few words about positioning on defensive transitions. Walker leaned back against the wall for a second, eyes closed, then opened them and nodded once, mentally resetting. Kanté bounced lightly on his toes, already switched back on, already ready.
Wenger clapped his hands once.
"Alright," he said. "Let's go."
They filed back down the tunnel together, the noise swelling again as the second half approached. The rain had picked up slightly now, misting the air, the floodlights reflecting off the slick grass. The Vitality Stadium hummed with renewed urgency from the home crowd, Bournemouth supporters trying to will something back into the game.
The referee checked his watch.
The whistle blew.
Second half.
Bournemouth kicked off again, and immediately their intent was clear. They pushed higher. The lines were tighter. Gosling and Arter stepped up aggressively on Özil and Xhaka. Fraser and Stanislas that still on at this point are pressed Robertson and Walker earlier, trying to disrupt Arsenal's rhythm before it could settle.
For the first five minutes, Bournemouth had more of the ball than they had all game.
But possession, Arsenal knew, meant nothing without purpose.
Van Dijk stayed calm, recycling the ball sideways when needed, refusing to be rushed. Koscielny stepped in confidently, intercepting an early through-ball aimed for Wilson. Kanté absorbed pressure, turning away from challenges with those impossibly quick adjustments of his feet.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Arsenal reasserted themselves.
The ball began to move again. Triangles reformed. Bournemouth's press lost its edge as fatigue crept in.
Francesco dropped deeper a few times, not because he needed to, but because he sensed the moment that drawing Cook forward, creating pockets for Özil to exploit. Every movement was deliberate now. Arsenal weren't chasing goals. They were letting them come.
At the fifty-fifth minute, Bournemouth nearly found something as Wilson managed to slip behind Robertson on the left and whipped in a cross that flashed dangerously across the face of goal. But Walker had already tracked back, sprinting across the box to clear decisively before King could react.
He didn't celebrate. He simply jogged back into position, jaw set, eyes focused.
Francesco caught his eye and nodded.
Two minutes later, that nod turned into something more.
The move started deep again, as so many Arsenal moves did.
Xhaka collected the ball just inside his own half, glanced up, and paused that not hesitating, but waiting for the shape to form. Bournemouth's midfield line stepped forward, trying to close him down.
That was the opening.
Xhaka slid the ball to Kanté, who returned it instantly, drawing Arter out of position. Xhaka then played it wide to Walker, who was already accelerating into space on the right.
Stanislas tried to recover. He couldn't.
Walker's pace carried him beyond the winger, and as he approached the final third, he lifted his head. This time, he didn't cut inside. He stayed wide, forcing Daniels to step out toward him.
That left a channel.
Francesco saw it before anyone else.
He curved his run between Cook and Aké, accelerating just as Walker shaped his body. The timing was exquisite as no offside, no hesitation.
Walker delivered the ball low and hard, angled perfectly between defenders and goalkeeper.
Francesco met it first time.
No extra touch. No flourish.
Just precision.
The ball slammed into the net.
3–0 Arsenal.
For a moment, the stadium seemed stunned into silence, the Bournemouth supporters slumping back into their seats as the away end erupted once more.
Francesco didn't sprint away this time. He turned toward Walker, pointing at him with both hands, a grin breaking across his face. Walker jogged over, and for a split second the weight he'd been carrying all week lifted were just a fraction, but enough to feel it.
They embraced briefly.
"Perfect ball," Francesco said.
Walker nodded. "Perfect run."
Around them, teammates joined in. Kanté clapped enthusiastically. Özil smiled, shaking his head slightly as if to say of course. Robertson punched the air again, chest heaving, eyes bright.
On the touchline, Wenger allowed himself the smallest of nods.
The game, now, was firmly Arsenal's.
Bournemouth tried to rally, but their energy was draining visibly. Eddie Howe barked instructions from the sideline, urging his players to stay compact, to keep belief, but the body language on the pitch told a different story. Legs were heavier. Passes were slower. Decisions came a half-second too late.
At the sixty-fourth minute, Arsenal struck again.
This time, it was almost surgical.
Kanté won the ball near the center circle, snapping into a challenge on Gosling and emerging with possession. He immediately fed Xhaka, who had drifted into space slightly left of center.
Xhaka didn't rush.
He looked up.
Gnabry was already moving, darting diagonally from the right wing toward the edge of the box, dragging Aké with him. That movement opened the lane Xhaka had been waiting for.
With one smooth motion, Xhaka slid a perfectly weighted pass through the gap.
Gnabry took it in stride.
The Bournemouth keeper rushed out, trying to narrow the angle, but Gnabry kept his composure. He opened his body and guided the ball past him with the inside of his foot, sending it rolling calmly into the far corner.
4–0.
This time, even the home crowd couldn't muster anger. There was only resignation.
Gnabry ran toward the corner flag, arms wide, face lit with joy. Xhaka followed, clapping him on the back, shouting something in German that only they understood.
Francesco jogged over, smiling broadly now, breathing hard but feeling light. He looked around at his teammates—at Robertson, still bombing up and down the left; at Walker, steady and assured; at Van Dijk and Koscielny, untroubled sentinels at the back.
This was control. This was cohesion.
Two minutes later, Wenger made his move.
The fourth official raised the board.
Francesco Lee, number off.
Serge Gnabry, number off.
On came Olivier Giroud and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain.
Francesco felt the armband loosen slightly as he jogged toward the touchline, passing it to Giroud with a brief nod.
"Finish it properly," Francesco said quietly.
Giroud nodded. "Always."
As Francesco stepped off the pitch, the away end rose to applaud him. He raised a hand in acknowledgment, not dramatic, not lingering but just respectful.
On the Bournemouth side, Eddie Howe responded with changes of his own.
Joshua King was withdrawn. Ryan Fraser followed.
Andrew Surman and Adam Smith came on, fresh legs sent out to restore some pride, some stability.
But the rhythm of the match had already been set.
Oxlade-Chamberlain immediately injected fresh energy down the left, his pace stretching Bournemouth even further. Giroud provided a focal point up top, holding the ball up, allowing Arsenal to keep possession comfortably in advanced areas.
The rest of the half unfolded with a sense of inevitability.
Arsenal slowed the game when needed, keeping the ball, drawing fouls, forcing Bournemouth to chase. Kanté and Xhaka continued to patrol midfield tirelessly, intercepting, recycling, dictating.
Robertson looked increasingly confident, stepping into midfield at times, linking play with Oxlade-Chamberlain, never once overextending. Walker, liberated and focused, chose his moments perfectly that solid defensively, efficient going forward.
Van Dijk and Koscielny barely broke a sweat.
As the minutes ticked away, the rain eased, leaving the pitch glistening under the lights. The Vitality Stadium had grown quieter still, pockets of Bournemouth fans already heading toward the exits, while the Arsenal supporters sang with unrestrained joy.
Francesco watched from the bench now, jacket zipped up, towel draped over his shoulders. He leaned back slightly, allowing himself to breathe it in, not the scoreline, not the headlines, but the feeling of a team functioning as one.
Walker glanced toward the bench at one point, catching Francesco's eye again. This time, there was no nod just a brief smile.
The smile lingered between them for a heartbeat longer than it needed to.
Walker turned back to the pitch, resetting, but Francesco stayed leaned into the bench for a moment, hands clasped loosely in front of him, eyes tracking the movement of the ball. From here, the game looked slower. Wider. You could see the patterns more clearly, the spaces opening before anyone else reacted to them. It was a strange feeling that being removed from the intensity yet still completely inside it.
On the pitch, Arsenal kept circulating possession with patience that bordered on indulgence. Giroud dropped deep to receive, rolling his defender with practiced ease, laying the ball off to Kanté or Xhaka before repositioning himself between the centre-backs. Oxlade-Chamberlain hugged the left touchline at first, daring Bournemouth to step out, then suddenly burst inside with a diagonal run that forced panic into their back line.
You could feel it building again.
The Bournemouth players were still running, still trying, but there was a looseness now with a half-yard lost here, a delayed press there. Confidence doesn't disappear all at once. It leaks away, slowly, through moments where nothing goes right and every chase feels heavier than the last.
The seventy-fourth minute arrived quietly.
It started with something simple.
Koscielny intercepted a hopeful ball into the channel and cushioned it calmly to Van Dijk. The Dutchman took a touch, head up, scanning, before rolling it across to Walker. Bournemouth tried to push up as a unit, but it lacked conviction. Walker passed inside to Kanté, who turned away from pressure and fed Xhaka with a short, sharp pass.
Xhaka lifted his head.
Oxlade-Chamberlain was already on the move.
He exploded forward down the left, skinning Smith with a burst of acceleration that drew an audible intake of breath from the crowd. The pitch opened up in front of him. Aké hesitated, unsure whether to step out or hold his line.
That hesitation was fatal.
Oxlade-Chamberlain drove into the box, not blindly, but with purpose. He slowed just enough to let the angle form, then whipped a low ball across the six-yard box with his left foot.
Giroud had timed it perfectly.
He didn't sprint. He glided, reading the defender's body shape, positioning himself between Cook and Aké with the subtlety of someone who had made a career out of moments like this. As the ball zipped across the turf, he adjusted his stride and met it with the inside of his boot, guiding it first time past the keeper and into the net.
5–0.
The away end exploded again, a wall of sound crashing down into the small stadium. Giroud wheeled away, arms spread wide, chest out, face lifted toward the travelling supporters. Oxlade-Chamberlain followed him, punching the air, shouting something that was swallowed by the noise.
On the bench, Francesco rose to his feet instinctively, clapping hard, a grin breaking through despite himself.
"That's football," he muttered.
Wenger stood on the touchline, arms folded, but even he couldn't hide the satisfaction now. There was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as Giroud jogged back into position, exchanging brief nods with teammates as if to say: job done, but stay sharp.
The Bournemouth players regrouped near the centre circle, hands on hips, heads bowed slightly. Eddie Howe clapped his hands loudly from the sideline, urging them to keep going, to show something for the supporters still watching. To his credit, there was no anger in his expression that only determination, and perhaps a trace of frustration at how thoroughly his team had been dismantled.
The game restarted, but it had shifted into a different phase now.
Arsenal played with the confidence of a team that knew the result but respected the process. They didn't slow to a crawl. They didn't showboat. They simply kept doing the right things with closing angles, offering support, moving the ball intelligently.
At the eighty-first minute, Wenger made another adjustment.
The fourth official's board went up again.
Mesut Özil, number off.
Francis Coquelin, number on.
Özil jogged toward the touchline, hair damp with rain, face composed but thoughtful. He glanced briefly toward the bench, then toward the away supporters, lifting a hand in acknowledgment. Francesco clapped as he passed, offering a few quiet words that were lost to the noise but understood all the same.
"Good work," he said.
Özil nodded. "Always."
As Coquelin stepped onto the pitch, the shape shifted subtly. Kanté sat a little deeper. Xhaka had more freedom to step forward. The message was clear: control the centre, close the game, leave nothing open.
Eddie Howe responded almost immediately.
Callum Wilson was withdrawn, his evening cut short after chasing shadows for much of the half. Brad Smith came on in his place, offering fresh legs and a bit of width, a gesture toward salvaging something from the final minutes.
But the match no longer belonged to Bournemouth.
It belonged to the rhythm Arsenal had established, the authority they carried in every touch.
Van Dijk began to step forward more confidently now, breaking lines with passes that sliced through midfield. Koscielny mirrored him, the pair communicating with glances and gestures that spoke of trust built over countless training sessions and shared battles.
From the bench, Francesco watched it all with a calm satisfaction. This was what leadership looked like when it wasn't loud. When it didn't need to be.
The rain had fully stopped now, leaving the air cool and clear. The pitch gleamed under the floodlights, scuffed and scarred but still pristine in its own way. The Bournemouth crowd had thinned further, rows of empty red seats standing out starkly against the remaining clusters of supporters who stayed out of loyalty rather than hope.
Then came the eighty-seventh minute.
Another corner.
Xhaka stood over the ball on the right side this time, adjusting his socks, glancing into the box. The Arsenal players gathered, some crowding the near post, others drifting toward the far, movement choreographed and deliberate.
Van Dijk lingered just outside the area, hands on hips, expression unreadable.
The referee blew his whistle.
Xhaka whipped the corner in with pace and precision, the ball curling toward the penalty spot.
Van Dijk surged forward.
He rose above everyone from above Cook, above Aké, above the flailing arms of the keeper with timing his jump to perfection. His forehead met the ball with a solid crack, directing it down and into the corner of the net before anyone could react.
6–0.
For a split second, there was disbelief. Then the away end erupted yet again, laughter and cheers blending into a kind of joyous disbelief at how complete the performance had been.
Van Dijk landed, fists clenched, letting out a roar that had been building all night. His teammates swarmed him that Koscielny first, then Walker, then Kanté, smiling broadly as he wrapped his arms around the towering defender.
On the bench, Francesco laughed openly now, shaking his head.
"Centre-back goals," he said to no one in particular. "That's how you know it's your night."
Wenger applauded calmly from the sideline, composed as ever, but his eyes betrayed his pride. This wasn't just a win. It was a statement.
The final minutes ticked away with an almost surreal calm.
Bournemouth tried to muster something with one last attack, one moment to cling to but Arsenal closed every door. Coquelin snapped into a tackle near the halfway line. Kanté intercepted a loose pass and immediately recycled possession. Giroud held the ball up near the corner flag, drawing fouls, wasting time without ever looking cynical.
The referee checked his watch.
One minute of added time.
The Arsenal supporters sang louder now, voices hoarse but unwavering. Songs rolled through the stands, echoing against the low roof of the Vitality Stadium, reminders of who they were and what this team could be.
Francesco stood again as the clock wound down, eyes fixed on the pitch, hands resting on the barrier in front of the bench. He felt that familiar tightening in his chest that not nerves, but something closer to gratitude.
The whistle blew.
Full time.
Arsenal 6. Bournemouth 0.
The players slowed to a walk, then stopped altogether, exchanging handshakes and embraces. Some dropped to their knees briefly, stretching out tired legs. Others looked toward the away end, applauding the supporters who had followed them across the country on a wet evening for a match that had turned into a celebration.
Francesco stepped onto the pitch, joining them now, clapping above his head as he turned toward the travelling fans. Their response was immediate, thunderous.
Walker jogged over, breathless, eyes bright. "That was… yeah."
Francesco laughed. "Yeah."
Giroud passed by, still smiling, hair plastered to his forehead. "Good night, eh?"
"The best kind," Francesco replied.
Van Dijk approached next, still buzzing, sweat streaking down his face. "Corner was perfect," he said, nodding toward Xhaka.
Xhaka raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'll take it."
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.
______________________________________________
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