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Francesco rose from the bench and stepped onto the pitch, clapping steadily, a deep, satisfied calm settling in his chest.
The noise didn't disappear when the whistle went.
It transformed.
What had been sharp, hostile, weaponized for ninety minutes softened into something messier from anger, pride, bitterness, relief as all bleeding together under the night sky. White Hart Lane didn't empty all at once. Not this fixture. Not after this result. Spurs supporters lingered, some frozen in their seats, others standing with arms folded, watching red shirts celebrate on their ground.
Francesco stood near the center circle for a moment, just breathing.
The air felt different now.
Lighter.
The tension that had been coiled tight around his chest for the last hour slowly unwound, replaced by a deep, satisfying heaviness in his legs. The kind you only felt after games like this with the ones that mattered, the ones that hurt, the ones you remembered.
He glanced around at his teammates.
Faces flushed.
Smiles breaking through exhaustion.
Koscielny already had the captain's armband snug around his sleeve, barking something toward the back line out of habit, even though the job was done. Kanté laughed softly as Cazorla said something in his ear, shaking his head in disbelief. Giroud pumped both fists toward the away end again, soaking it in.
Francesco clapped once, loud.
Then again.
The sound cut through the din just enough.
"Come on," he called. "Together."
It wasn't shouted.
It didn't need to be.
The team responded instinctively, drifting toward him, falling into a loose cluster. This was muscle memory now. Ritual. Respect.
Francesco turned and started walking toward the away end.
The Arsenal supporters were still going, still bouncing, still singing as if their lungs hadn't already been emptied a dozen times over. Scarves were raised high, flags waved, faces red and shining under the floodlights. They had been outnumbered all night, drowned out for long stretches, abused without mercy.
And they had never stopped.
As Francesco approached, the noise changed again.
This time, it swelled with recognition.
With gratitude.
With something shared.
He reached the edge of the pitch, stopped, and turned to face them. One by one, his teammates lined up beside him, shoulders touching, arms draped casually over backs and necks.
Francesco raised both hands.
The singing dipped.
Just slightly.
He clapped above his head, slow and deliberate, eyes scanning the crowd, meeting faces, taking it in.
"Thank you," he mouthed, even though they couldn't hear it.
The fans responded anyway.
Louder.
Songs rolled down over the barrier, names chanted from Sánchez, Kanté, Cazorla, Giroud but when they reached Francesco's, the sound sharpened, focused, the chant catching like a spark.
He felt it in his chest.
Not pride exactly.
Connection.
He nodded once, pressed his hand to his heart briefly, then lifted it again in acknowledgment. Around him, teammates did the same in their own ways with Giroud blowing a kiss, Cazorla waving both arms, Kanté clapping shyly, almost embarrassed by the attention.
They stayed there longer than usual.
No rush.
No official shooing them away yet.
Just players and supporters, separated by a barrier, united by ninety minutes of shared stress and release.
Eventually, Koscielny leaned toward Francesco.
"Tunnel," he said quietly.
Francesco nodded.
He gave one last clap, then turned, leading them away.
The walk back toward the tunnel was slower now.
Measured.
The adrenaline was fading, replaced by awareness of aching calves, of tight hamstrings, of the weight of the shirt clinging damply to skin. Francesco rolled his shoulders as he walked, eyes forward, posture relaxed but alert.
That was when the noise shifted again.
Not the collective roar.
Individual voices now.
Sharper.
Closer.
From the Tottenham stands that still held pockets of supporters who hadn't left.
And the word came again.
"JUDAS!"
It was thrown, not sung.
Spat more than shouted.
Francesco felt it before he heard it fully that saw Walker's shoulders stiffen a fraction ahead of him, saw his jaw set.
Then it came again.
Louder.
"JUDAS! JUDAS!"
Walker didn't turn.
Not immediately.
He kept walking, head up, eyes fixed ahead, but Francesco could see it in the tightness of his stride. The way his hands flexed once at his sides.
They were closer to the tunnel now.
Almost there.
But Tottenham weren't done.
A few white shirts peeled away from their own cluster, with players who hadn't gone straight down the tunnel yet. Alli was among them. So was Dier. Janssen lingered just behind, expression unreadable.
They drifted toward Walker's path.
Casual.
Deliberate.
Too deliberate.
Francesco clocked it instantly.
He slowed.
Just enough.
Walker heard it then another shout, closer, more personal this time. He turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge the sound, and Alli seized the moment.
A smirk.
A comment thrown low, meant only for Walker to hear.
Walker stopped.
Not abruptly.
Just enough.
And that was all it took.
Alli stepped closer, chest out, grin widening. Dier followed, saying something over his shoulder toward the stands, playing to the crowd still baying behind them.
Francesco moved.
Fast.
He stepped across Walker's path and planted himself squarely between them, body language changing in an instant. The exhaustion vanished from his posture, replaced by something colder, harder.
"Back to the tunnel," Francesco said.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
But unmistakable.
Alli laughed. "Touchy," he said. "Just saying hello to an old friend."
Francesco didn't blink.
"Game's over," he replied. "So is this."
Dier snorted. "You don't get to decide that."
Koscielny was there now, armband visible, presence heavy. Van Dijk loomed just behind, arms folded, expression unreadable but uninviting. Kanté hovered to one side, quiet but ready.
Walker said nothing.
He stood behind Francesco, shoulders squared now, breathing controlled.
Alli leaned in again, trying to angle around Francesco's shoulder.
"Crowd still remembers," he said, nodding back toward the stands. "Some things don't wash off."
Francesco stepped forward.
Just one step.
Enough to collapse the space entirely.
"You lost," he said calmly. "At home. That's what they'll remember."
The words landed.
Alli's grin faltered that just a flicker, but Francesco caught it.
Alli's grin didn't fully return.
But it didn't disappear either.
If anything, it hardened.
For a second, the space between them felt suspended, like the air before a storm breaks. Francesco held his ground, shoulders squared, eyes steady. Walker stayed just behind him, jaw clenched, breathing measured, refusing to give the crowd or the white shirts in front of him the reaction they wanted.
It should have ended there.
It didn't.
A voice came from the side.
Low. Cutting.
"Oh come on," Mousa Dembélé said as he stepped closer, palms out in mock innocence. "He can hear them anyway. Might as well listen properly."
Victor Wanyama followed, larger frame filling space with ease, eyes flicking briefly to Walker before settling on Francesco. Ben Davies drifted in from the left, less confrontational in posture but no less deliberate in presence.
Four white shirts now.
Too many.
The Tottenham supporters who remained sensed it instantly. The noise surged again, ugly and excited, a crowd sniffing the possibility of chaos.
"Judas," someone screamed again, closer than before.
This time, Walker reacted.
Not with words.
With a step.
He moved forward half a pace, shoulders rolling back, chin lifting. It wasn't aggressive. It was defiant. And in a place like this, after a night like this, defiance was enough to light a fuse.
Wanyama smirked.
"Touchy bunch, aren't you?" he said. "Guess the badge still matters."
That did it.
Francesco felt it ripple through his team before anyone actually moved. He saw it in Van Dijk's eyes narrowing. In Xhaka's jaw tightening as he stepped closer. In Giroud turning sharply, fists already clenching at his sides. In Kanté's posture changing that not aggressive, but alert, coiled, ready to intervene if things tipped.
Davies muttered something under his breath, aimed at Walker, crude and unmistakable.
Walker snapped his head around.
"What did you say?"
Alli laughed again, louder this time, feeding off it. "Relax. He's just saying what everyone thinks."
Francesco stepped forward again, chest nearly touching Alli's now.
"That's enough," he said, voice firm, carrying. "Walk away."
Alli tilted his head. "Or what?"
The question hung there.
And then Dembélé shoved Walker.
Not hard.
Not enough to send him sprawling.
But enough.
Enough to cross the line.
Everything exploded at once.
Walker surged forward, hands coming up instinctively, shouting something lost in the noise. Giroud was there in a heartbeat, wrapping an arm around Walker's chest, hauling him back with surprising force, shouting in French, half command, half plea.
Van Dijk stepped into Dembélé's space, towering over him, one hand outstretched, palm open but firm against his chest.
"Back up," Van Dijk said, voice low and dangerous.
Wanyama pushed back.
Xhaka reacted immediately, stepping in, shoulder to shoulder with Van Dijk, eyes blazing. "Don't touch him."
Alli tried to slip around Francesco again, jabbing a finger toward Walker, mouth running, but Koscielny was suddenly there, captain's armband bright against his sleeve, both hands planted firmly on Alli's chest.
"Enough," Koscielny barked. "You've done enough."
Alli shoved him.
That was the moment it nearly became a full brawl.
Arsenal shirts surged forward instinctively. Tottenham players responded in kind. Arms tangled. Shouts overlapped. Someone stumbled. Someone else went to ground. The tunnel entrance became a knot of bodies, anger and adrenaline and unfinished business colliding in a narrow space.
Francesco felt hands grab at his shirt from behind with Kanté, pulling him back just enough to keep him from lunging again.
"Fran," Kanté said urgently. "Stop."
Francesco exhaled hard, forcing himself to still, even as his pulse hammered in his ears. He raised both arms, palms out, turning slightly to face his own players.
"Enough!" he shouted now. "Enough!"
His voice cut through.
Not all of it.
But enough.
Security was already pouring in with high-visibility jackets flooding the edges of the scene, arms extended, forming human barriers between the clusters of players. Officials rushed forward too, the fourth official shouting, assistant referees waving arms frantically.
The main referee pushed his way into the center, whistle shrieking again and again, shrill and angry.
"Back! Back away!" he yelled. "Everyone back!"
It took effort.
Real effort.
But slowly, the mass began to separate.
Giroud still had Walker in a firm hold, murmuring something into his ear, grounding him. Walker's chest heaved, eyes still locked on the Tottenham players, but he didn't break free.
Van Dijk released Dembélé and stepped back, hands raised, expression controlled but eyes still burning. Xhaka followed suit, though he shot Wanyama a final glare that promised memory.
Alli, however, was still talking.
Still smirking.
Still pointing.
Even as Koscielny held him at arm's length.
The referee turned on him sharply.
"That's enough," he snapped. "You're done."
Alli laughed, incredulous. "Me? Look at them!"
The referee didn't hesitate.
He reached into his pocket.
Red.
The card came out clean and unmistakable under the floodlights.
A collective gasp rippled through what remained of the crowd.
Alli froze.
For the first time all night, genuinely stunned.
"You're sending me off?" he said, disbelief giving way to anger. "The game's over!"
"Doesn't matter," the referee replied coldly. "You started it. You continued it. Off."
Alli exploded then, arms thrown wide, shouting toward the stands, toward his teammates, toward anyone who would look. Davies tried to pull him away, murmuring urgently, but Alli shrugged him off.
Security closed in.
"Unbelievable," Alli spat, finally allowing himself to be guided toward the tunnel. As he passed Francesco, he leaned in, muttering something sharp and bitter.
Francesco didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
The referee wasn't finished.
He turned next to Wanyama, then Dembélé.
Yellow cards followed in quick succession.
Then Xhaka.
Then Van Dijk.
Warnings delivered sharply, eyes locking with each player to make the message clear: one more step, one more word, and there would be consequences.
Koscielny nodded once in acknowledgment, hand still steady on his captain's armband. Tottenham's captain that is Lloris, who had arrived late to the fray are stood nearby now, palms raised apologetically, speaking quickly to the referee, to his teammates, trying to restore some dignity.
Slowly, painfully, order returned.
The players separated fully this time, Arsenal drifting toward their dressing room entrance, Tottenham corralled the other way. The crowd noise dulled again, confusion and frustration replacing anticipation.
Walker finally pulled free of Giroud's hold.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
Francesco stepped beside him.
"You good?" he asked quietly.
Walker nodded. "Yeah."
A pause.
"Thanks," he added, voice rough.
Francesco clapped him once on the shoulder. "They wanted a reaction," he said. "You didn't give them what they wanted."
Walker huffed a short laugh. "Still feels like I did."
"Winning does that," Francesco replied. "They hate it."
That earned Walker a small smile.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, boots echoing in the tunnel, adrenaline still humming under skin. Behind them, Alli's protests faded, swallowed by concrete and distance.
Inside the dressing room, the door shut with a heavy thud.
And just like that, the night finally exhaled.
The noise outside became muffled. The chaos receded. Steam rose from bodies as players peeled off shirts, dropped onto benches, laughter and incredulous chatter slowly replacing tension.
"Mad," Giroud said, shaking his head as he unlaced his boots. "Absolutely mad."
Xhaka snorted. "They couldn't handle it."
Kanté sat quietly, sipping water, eyes thoughtful. "Derby," he said simply.
Francesco lowered himself onto the bench, muscles finally protesting now that everything was over. He leaned back, eyes closing briefly, letting the exhaustion wash through him.
The dressing room didn't explode the way it sometimes did after big wins.
Not immediately.
At first, it was subdued with heavy breathing, the hiss of showers turning on, boots thudding to the floor, tape being peeled away with sharp little sounds that made a few players wince. Steam began to rise, fogging the mirrors, blurring the sharp edges of the night that had just passed.
Francesco sat there for a moment longer than the others.
Back against the bench.
Head tipped back.
Eyes closed.
The adrenaline had finally loosened its grip, and now his body was collecting payment. His calves throbbed. His lower back ached. There was a dull pulse behind his eyes that would probably turn into something nastier by morning.
But beneath it all was that deep, steady satisfaction.
They'd gone into White Hart Lane.
They'd taken the noise, the hostility, the pressure.
And they'd won.
He opened his eyes as Giroud limped past him toward the showers, towel slung over one shoulder.
"Still standing, captain?" Giroud teased.
Francesco snorted softly. "Barely."
Around them, the room filled with more sound now with laughter breaking out in pockets, Xhaka and Cazorla arguing animatedly about the goal sequence, Kanté listening more than speaking, smiling to himself. Someone cranked the radio on low, the presenter already dissecting the match, voices overlapping with post-match analysis.
Francesco pushed himself up to his feet and clapped his hands once, sharp enough to cut through the chatter.
"Alright," he said. "Quick turnaround."
A few heads turned.
"Shower, change, tracksuits on. No hanging around."
Xhaka raised an eyebrow. "What's the rush?"
Francesco jerked his chin vaguely toward the concrete ceiling, toward the stands above them. "Because half of them are still out there, and if they decide to block the bus, we're sitting here all night."
That got their attention.
Giroud grimaced. "Ah. English hospitality."
"Exactly," Francesco said. "So let's not give them the chance. Ten minutes."
Koscielny nodded immediately. "You heard him. Move."
That was all it took.
The dressing room shifted into efficient chaos. Showers roared to life at full blast now. Players stripped quickly, shuffling barefoot across the tiled floor, steam thickening the air until it clung to skin and hair. Conversation became louder, looser, the edge of confrontation replaced by gallows humor and relief.
Walker lingered near his locker for a moment, slower than the others.
Francesco noticed.
He didn't say anything at first. Just moved closer, leaned against the adjacent locker, casual.
"You alright?" he asked quietly, so only Walker could hear.
Walker shrugged, tugging his shirt over his head. "Yeah. Just… lot of noise out there tonight."
"Always is," Francesco replied.
Walker let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else. "This one hits different."
Francesco studied him for a second, then nodded. "I know."
They didn't need to say more right then.
The showers did their work quickly. Hot water pounded sore muscles. Soap and steam washed away sweat, grass, the last physical traces of the derby. Laughter echoed off the tiled walls as someone that probably Cazorla nearly slipped, catching himself with a yelp that drew applause.
Ten minutes later, Arsenal red had been replaced by black and navy.
Tracksuits zipped up.
Hoods pulled on.
Headphones slung around necks.
The players filtered back into the main dressing area, towels now around shoulders, hair damp, skin still flushed from heat. Francesco stood near the door, ticking names off subconsciously as they passed.
"Bus," he reminded them. "Straight there."
A few minutes later, the door swung open again.
Arsène Wenger stepped in.
The room quieted instantly.
Not because he demanded it.
Because he'd earned it.
He looked tired, too with lines deeper around his eyes, posture slightly slouched now that the ninety minutes of tension were over. But there was satisfaction there as well, understated and unmistakable.
"Good," he said, taking in the sight of them ready to leave. "Very good."
A murmur of appreciation rippled through the room.
Wenger's gaze found Francesco.
Then Walker.
He gestured them over with two fingers.
"Francesco. Kyle. A word."
The rest of the squad immediately started moving again, grabbing bags, filing toward the exit. Koscielny paused long enough to clap Francesco on the shoulder.
"See you on the bus," he said.
Francesco nodded. "Don't let them start singing without me."
Koscielny smirked and followed the others out.
The room emptied until it was just the three of them.
Wenger folded his arms loosely, considering them both.
"You will join me for the press conference," he said. "Both of you."
Walker blinked. "Me too?"
"Yes," Wenger replied calmly. "This match was not only football."
Francesco glanced at Walker, then back at Wenger. "The incident?"
Wenger nodded once. "That, yes. And what it represents."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly.
"I will not tell either of you what to say," he continued. "You are men. You speak for yourselves."
Walker shifted his weight, jaw tightening.
"But," Wenger added gently, "if you wish to explain… now is the moment."
Silence settled between them.
Not awkward.
Just heavy.
They left the dressing room together a minute later, footsteps echoing down the concrete corridor. The noise from outside was distant now, muffled through layers of walls, but still present with a restless hum that followed them like a shadow.
The walk to the press room wasn't long, but it felt longer.
Walker's hands were shoved deep into his tracksuit pockets. Francesco walked beside him, relaxed on the surface, alert underneath.
Wenger broke the silence first.
"Kyle," he said, tone even, almost conversational. "You do not owe anyone a performance."
Walker nodded faintly. "I know."
"But," Wenger continued, "you owe yourself honesty."
Walker let out a slow breath. "That's the problem, boss. Honesty makes people uncomfortable."
Wenger's mouth twitched. "It always has."
They rounded a corner, passing security staff and club officials, the signs for MEDIA clearly marked ahead. Camera flashes flickered already at the end of the corridor, journalists gathering like birds sensing food.
Walker slowed slightly.
Francesco noticed immediately.
He leaned in just enough to murmur, "Say what you want to say. No one here will stop you."
Walker looked at him and nodded.
"I didn't want to leave," Walker said quietly, almost to himself. "Not at first."
Wenger stopped walking.
So did Francesco.
Walker continued, words coming more steadily now, like something long held back had finally found a crack.
"When the rumors started, I shut them down. I told them I was happy. I told the club I wanted to stay. I told the fans the same."
He swallowed.
"But it didn't matter."
Francesco said nothing.
Wenger listened.
"They didn't believe me," Walker went on. "The club started treating me like I'd already gone. Contract talks stalled. Promises changed. And the fans… every mistake, every bad game, it was 'he's off anyway.'"
His jaw tightened. "They decided my story for me."
Wenger placed a hand lightly on Walker's shoulder. "And tonight?"
Walker exhaled. "Tonight just reminded me."
They resumed walking.
The press room doors loomed ahead now, staff ushering them forward, microphones being tested, flashes popping brighter.
Wenger stopped again, just before the entrance.
"Say it plainly," he said. "Without anger. Without bitterness."
He looked at Francesco. "And you—"
"I'll back him," Francesco said immediately.
Wenger nodded once. Satisfied.
The doors opened.
The room buzzed instantly.
Dozens of journalists turned in unison, pens poised, cameras snapping, the low murmur swelling as Wenger stepped up to the table. Francesco and Walker followed, taking their seats to either side.
They sat.
Microphones adjusted.
Water bottles placed.
The room quieted.
Wenger leaned forward.
"Good evening," he said. "We will take your questions."
Hands shot up immediately.
The first few were predictable with tactical questions, Sánchez's goal, Gnabry's assist, the title race. Wenger answered calmly, thoughtfully. Francesco chipped in when asked, measured but confident.
Then it came.
A journalist near the front leaned forward.
"Question for Kyle Walker," he said. "There was a confrontation after the final whistle involving yourself and several Tottenham players. Can you explain what happened?"
The room stilled.
Walker glanced sideways once.
At Francesco.
Francesco gave a barely perceptible nod.
Walker turned back to the microphones.
"Yes," he said. "I can."
He paused.
Then spoke.
"I moved because I was pushed out," Walker said evenly. "Not officially. Not in a press release. But in every other way that matters."
A ripple went through the room.
"I didn't want to leave Tottenham at first," he continued. "I made that clear. But when the club stopped backing me, when the fans stopped believing me, when every week became about when I'd go… it changed things."
He looked up, eyes steady.
"I joined Arsenal because they wanted me. Because they trusted me. And because they treated me like a player, not a headline."
Silence.
The silence didn't last.
It never did in rooms like this.
It cracked first with the scrape of a chair, then the rustle of notebooks being adjusted, then the unmistakable click-click-click of pens moving faster, greedier. A dozen hands shot up again, journalists leaning forward in their seats, sensing blood, sensing a narrative that went far beyond ninety minutes of football.
Walker had opened a door.
They were going to try to tear it off its hinges.
" Kyle," another reporter called immediately, not waiting to be acknowledged. "You say you were pushed out. Are you saying Tottenham wanted you gone?"
Walker didn't flinch. He reached for the water bottle, took a slow sip, buying himself a breath. Francesco watched him from the corner of his eye, said nothing, simply there. A presence. A reminder that he wasn't alone on that table.
"I'm saying," Walker replied carefully, "that football clubs aren't just one voice."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"There are people inside a club who want different things," Walker continued. "Players. Coaches. Directors. Owners. Sometimes those things line up. Sometimes they don't."
Another hand shot up.
"Can you be more specific?" a journalist pressed. "Did the manager want you to leave?"
Walker shook his head immediately. "No."
That answer landed heavier than any accusation.
"No," he repeated. "Mauricio didn't want me to leave."
The room stirred again, louder now.
"He spoke to me," Walker said. "More than once. He told me I was important. That he wanted me to stay. That he saw me as part of what he was building."
A reporter near the aisle leaned forward. "Then why did you go?"
Walker glanced down for half a second, then back up. "Because wanting something doesn't always mean you can make it happen."
Wenger remained still beside him, hands folded, expression neutral but attentive. Francesco shifted slightly in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other, eyes sweeping the room as if daring someone to turn this hostile.
"Kane?" another journalist asked suddenly. "Did he try to convince you to stay?"
Walker's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. More like something bittersweet.
"Yeah," he said. "Harry did."
Pens scratched harder now.
"He was one of the first to call me when things started getting noisy," Walker went on. "He told me not to listen to the outside stuff. Told me the dressing room wanted me there."
"And Hugo?" someone else shouted.
Walker nodded. "Hugo too."
That drew a few raised eyebrows.
"Our captain," Walker said, voice steady. "He pulled me aside. Said the club needed continuity. Leaders. Said he'd spoken to the manager, tried to speak upstairs as well."
Upstairs.
Everyone understood what that meant.
"And did that change anything?" a reporter asked.
Walker shook his head slowly. "No."
The word hung in the air, blunt and final.
"Because at some point," he continued, "it stopped being about football."
That got a reaction. Chairs shifted. A few journalists exchanged glances.
"When contract talks stall without explanation," Walker said. "When you stop getting clarity. When decisions are made without you being part of them… you start to understand where you stand."
Francesco leaned forward then, elbows resting lightly on the table, fingers interlaced. He didn't speak, but his body language said plenty. He wasn't here to deflect. He was here to witness.
"So you're saying Tottenham forced you out?" the same journalist pressed again, sharper now.
Walker met his gaze. "I'm saying they made staying impossible."
The room buzzed.
Questions came faster now, overlapping, shouted from different corners.
"Did you feel betrayed?"
"Was money a factor?"
"Did Arsenal approach you first?"
"Do you regret it?"
Wenger lifted a hand slightly, a subtle attempt to slow the tempo, but Walker answered the last one before it could spiral further.
"No," he said. "I don't regret it."
That one came easy.
"I respect the players there," Walker continued. "A lot of them are my friends. Some of them didn't want me to leave. That's the truth."
He glanced briefly toward Francesco again, then back to the room.
"But I had to make a decision for myself," he said. "For my career. For my peace of mind."
A journalist near the back raised his voice. "What about tonight? The confrontation. Was that personal?"
Walker's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away.
"Some of it," he admitted. "Yeah."
A few pens paused.
"When you leave a club like that," he said, "there are people who understand. And there are people who decide you're a villain because it's easier."
He shrugged slightly. "That's football."
Francesco finally spoke then, his voice calm but firm, cutting cleanly through the noise.
"Next question," he said, eyes fixed on the room.
It wasn't his place to moderate.
But somehow, it worked.
A different reporter took the cue.
"Francesco," he said. "As captain, how did you view the incident? And Walker's comments just now?"
Francesco nodded once, acknowledging the shift.
"As a captain," he said, "my job is to protect my players."
Simple.
"When emotions run high, especially in a derby," he continued, "things can spill over. That's what happened."
He glanced briefly toward Walker, then back.
"But I'm proud of how we handled it," Francesco said. "No one lost control. No one crossed a line they couldn't come back from."
A few journalists scribbled that down, clearly less interested but dutiful.
"And Kyle?" the reporter pressed. "What does he bring to Arsenal?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Honesty," he said. "Work. Loyalty."
That one landed.
Walker's shoulders relaxed just a fraction.
The questions kept coming.
About the title race.
About momentum.
About whether this win changed the balance of power in North London.
Wenger answered most of those, measured as ever, redirecting when needed, deflecting when necessary. He spoke about unity, about focus, about the next match always being the most important one.
But the room kept circling back.
To Walker.
To Tottenham.
To the fracture that had been exposed.
Eventually, Wenger had had enough.
He glanced at the press officer at the side of the room, then back at the journalists, and raised his hand decisively.
"That is enough," he said.
The room stilled again, this time out of habit more than respect.
"We have answered your questions," Wenger continued. "This match is finished. This press conference is finished."
A few reporters tried anyway.
"One last—"
"No," Wenger said firmly, standing up.
Francesco and Walker followed suit immediately, chairs scraping back.
"Thank you," Wenger added, already turning away.
The flashbulbs went wild as they stepped away from the table, reporters calling out questions even as they knew they wouldn't be answered.
"Kyle! Kyle, over here!"
"Francesco, one more—"
They didn't look back.
The door closed behind them with a dull, satisfying thud.
The corridor outside felt quieter by comparison, the hum of the stadium now distant, almost unreal. Wenger exhaled slowly, adjusting his coat.
"Well done," he said simply.
Walker let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "That was… a lot."
"You spoke your truth," Wenger replied. "That is enough."
They walked on, footsteps echoing, security parting ahead of them. The closer they got to the exit, the more the air changed, cooler now, night seeping in through the open service doors.
The team bus waited outside, engine already running, lights glowing softly in the dark. A few players were visible through the tinted windows, faces pressed close, watching them approach.
The door hissed open as they climbed aboard.
And then the noise hit them.
Cheers.
Applause.
Someone whistled.
"About time!" Giroud called from the back. "We were about to leave without you."
"Liar," Xhaka added. "You just wanted the window seat."
Francesco grinned as he dropped into his seat, exhaustion finally catching up with him in full now that the night was truly winding down. Walker sat beside him, shoulders slumping, a tired smile tugging at his mouth.
The bus pulled away slowly, police escort easing them out into the London night.
Outside, the stadium receded.
Inside, the tension finally broke.
Someone started humming, then singing. It spread quickly, low and rhythmic at first, then louder, voices overlapping, laughter mixing in. Francesco leaned his head back against the seat, eyes half-closed, listening.
This was the part he loved.
Not the noise.
Not the headlines.
This.
The quiet aftermath.
The shared exhaustion.
The sense that, for all the chaos outside, inside this moving bubble of light and sound, they were aligned.
He glanced sideways at Walker.
"You alright now?" he asked softly.
Walker nodded. "Yeah."
A pause.
"Thanks," Walker added. "For backing me."
Francesco shrugged lightly. "Easy."
The bus rolled on, carrying them away from White Hart Lane, away from the noise, away from the ghosts of old decisions and old loyalties.
______________________________________________
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: 47
Goal: 75
Assist: 3
MOTM: 12
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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