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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And as Gary Neville resumed explaining precisely why Arsenal looked like a side determined to win everything again, Francesco leaned back, one arm around Leah, the other absentmindedly rubbing Cheddar's head.
The days passed in the way only footballing weeks ever did which far too quickly, yet somehow filled to the brim.
Video sessions on Tuesday.
Intensity on Wednesday.
By Thursday, London Colney was already vibrating with that unmistakable European energy.
Champions League weeks always felt different.
The air itself seemed sharper.
Training carried a little more edge.
Every pass mattered a little more.
Every finish was struck just a little cleaner.
Even the jokes in the dressing room somehow became more elite.
Francesco loved it.
Absolutely loved it.
Domestic football was home.
The Champions League was theatre.
And Arsenal, after everything they had built over the last two seasons, intended to own that stage.
Friday arrived under clear North London skies.
European nights at the Emirates had a magic all their own, but the hours leading into them were special too.
Quiet.
Focused.
Anticipatory.
Francesco arrived at London Colney earlier than usual.
He always did on Champions League days.
Cheddar had not appreciated the early departure, expressing his displeasure by refusing to surrender one of Francesco's socks for nearly three minutes.
Leah found this deeply amusing.
"You are being held hostage by a dog."
"He negotiates aggressively."
"He learned from you."
"That's concerning."
Eventually, diplomacy prevailed.
Cheddar accepted a biscuit.
Francesco reclaimed his sock.
Civilization endured.
Now, seated on the team bus outside Colney, he watched teammates filter aboard one by one.
The familiar routine.
The familiar faces.
Yet there was always an extra spark on European nights.
Walker was the first to make his presence known.
Not the first to board.
The first to make his presence known.
Those were entirely different achievements.
"Champions League music should play every time I enter a room."
"It would get exhausting," Xhaka replied.
"It would get iconic."
"It would get you removed from restaurants."
Alexis climbed aboard carrying enough pre-match snacks to survive a small famine.
Mesut followed, headphones around his neck, coffee in hand, expression unreadable as ever.
Gnabry looked relaxed.
Virgil looked impossibly composed.
Kanté looked like a man on his way to a light jog rather than a European football match.
Francesco sat near the middle, captain's blazer neatly buttoned, phone buzzing constantly.
Messages from family.
Messages from England teammates.
A text from Leah.
Score one. Preferably several.
He smiled.
A second text arrived immediately.
And don't let Kyle race anyone again.
Too late.
Walker was already challenging the bus driver to "an honourable rolling start."
The driver declined.
Probably wise.
The journey to the Emirates was filled with the usual mixture of music, tactical reminders, and thinly disguised nervous energy.
European football did that.
No matter how many matches you played, the Champions League anthem could still make your pulse quicken.
Francesco sat beside Mesut.
Neither spoke much.
They rarely needed to.
There was comfort in shared silence.
Outside, North London rolled by in familiar shades of grey, red, and gold.
Supporters had already begun gathering near the stadium.
Scarves draped over shoulders.
Flags tucked beneath arms.
Children pressing faces against barriers.
Dreaming.
Always dreaming.
That was what Europe did.
It made dreamers of everyone.
Walker leaned across the aisle.
"How many tonight?"
Francesco didn't look up from his phone.
"How many what?"
"Goals."
"For Arsenal?"
"For you."
"At least one more than you."
Walker considered this.
"Reasonable."
The Emirates appeared ahead like a monument.
Floodlights rising against the evening sky.
Red banners hanging proudly.
The glass exterior reflected the gathering twilight.
No matter how many times Francesco arrived here, that first sight still hit him.
Still made something tighten pleasantly in his chest.
Home.
The bus rolled into the secured entrance.
Supporters clustered outside, roaring as the players stepped off.
The sound was immediate.
Powerful.
Warm.
Francesco descended carrying his bag over one shoulder.
The cheers intensified.
His name echoed across the forecourt.
He raised a hand in acknowledgment.
Not a grand gesture.
It didn't need to be.
Alexis followed behind him, grinning at the noise.
"Champions League," he said.
"The proper stuff."
"The best stuff."
They headed inside.
Down familiar corridors.
Past club staff offering final greetings.
Past framed photographs of Arsenal's greatest European nights.
Francesco always glanced at those.
A quiet reminder.
History wasn't inherited.
It was built.
The dressing room was immaculate.
Red shirts hung perfectly in each locker.
Boots lined precisely beneath benches.
Recovery drinks already waiting.
Everything prepared.
Everything ready.
Francesco placed his bag down, loosening his tie.
One by one, the players changed into training gear.
Conversation flowed easily.
Light.
Loose.
The way Wenger liked it.
Giroud, not starting tonight, still spent an alarming amount of time arranging his hair.
"It is warm-up," Mustafi said.
"It is presentation."
"To whom?"
"Europe."
No one had an answer to that.
Francesco pulled on his training top, adjusted his boots, and glanced around the room.
These were his people.
His brothers.
Men he trusted absolutely.
There was power in that.
They emerged onto the pitch to thunderous applause.
The Emirates was already filling rapidly.
Red and white everywhere.
Champions League branding wrapped around the stadium.
The giant starball spread across the centre circle.
The sight never got old.
Francesco jogged out first among the starters.
A wave of noise washed over him.
He breathed it in.
Held it.
Loved it.
The pitch looked immaculate.
Perfectly cut.
Perfectly watered.
European grass.
Mesut tapped the ball lightly to him during rondos.
Crisp.
Precise.
Xhaka pinged forty-yard diagonals as though it required no effort whatsoever.
Kanté covered enough ground during warm-up to concern several medical professionals.
Walker attempted a rabona cross.
It did not go well.
Robertson applauded sarcastically.
"Stunning, mate."
"Visionary."
"It went out for a throw."
"Progress isn't linear."
Francesco laughed.
This was the balance.
Nerves and joy.
Pressure and freedom.
After warm-up, they returned to the dressing room.
The atmosphere shifted immediately.
Music lowered.
Voices softened.
Focus sharpened.
Training gear came off.
Match kits replaced them.
Red shirts.
White sleeves.
White shorts.
Red socks.
Arsenal.
European Arsenal.
Francesco slid the captain's armband onto his left arm.
It never felt ordinary.
It never should.
Wenger entered.
The room fell silent.
Not because it had to.
Because everyone wanted to listen.
The manager stood at the front, hands clasped lightly behind his back.
Calm.
Measured.
Certain.
He began with the lineup.
"Petr."
Cech nodded.
"Robertson, Van Dijk, Koscielny, Walker."
Each defender looked up.
"Kanté, Xhaka."
A pairing Wenger trusted immensely.
"Mesut."
Özil barely moved.
"Sanchez, Gnabry."
Both wide men leaned forward.
"And Francesco."
Francesco met Wenger's eyes and nodded once.
Captain.
Striker.
Leader.
"The substitutes: Raya, Bellerin, Mustafi, Cazorla, Iwobi, Walcott, Giroud."
Wenger allowed the information to settle.
Then came the message.
The important part.
"Sevilla are a very good side."
No one doubted that.
"They will press. They will attack. They will test our discipline."
He looked around the room.
"But this is our home."
A pause.
"Our competition."
Another pause.
"And our responsibility."
The room was utterly still now.
"When teams come to the Emirates, they must feel our quality immediately. They must understand immediately that nothing will be given."
Francesco could feel the tension rising.
The good kind.
The useful kind.
"Play with courage. Play with intelligence. Play together."
Wenger's gaze settled briefly on Francesco.
"Set the tone."
Francesco stood.
No speech prepared.
He never liked rehearsed leadership.
It always sounded fake.
"First game. First statement."
He looked around at each teammate.
"We've earned this stage. Tonight, we remind everyone why."
A few nods.
A few clenched fists.
Walker slapped the bench.
Alexis grinned like a man preparing for legal combat.
"From the first whistle," Francesco said, voice steady, "we play our football. Aggressive. Fast. Ruthless."
He extended a hand.
The team surged inward.
Hands stacked.
Voices joined.
"One!"
"Two!"
"Three!"
"ARSENAL!"
The tunnel was alive.
Officials moving with practiced efficiency.
Mascots bouncing with barely controlled excitement.
Cameras everywhere.
Francesco stood at the front, the captain's armband tight around his sleeve.
Beside him stood Sevilla captain Nicolás Pareja.
Experienced.
Composed.
He offered a respectful nod.
"Big night."
"The best kind."
Pareja smiled.
"Good luck."
"After ninety minutes."
"Fair enough."
Behind Francesco, Walker bounced lightly on his toes.
Alexis stared straight ahead.
Mesut looked almost sleepy.
He never was.
Then the anthem began.
That anthem.
The tunnel fell silent.
Every single time, it sent something electric through Francesco's chest.
Childhood dreams compressed into a single piece of music.
He glanced back once.
At his teammates.
At Arsenal.
Then forward again.
Time.
They emerged into light.
Brilliant, blinding light.
The Emirates erupted.
The roar was colossal.
Champions League nights had a volume all their own.
Red scarves waved.
Flags rippled.
Cameras flashed.
The pitch gleamed beneath the floodlights.
Francesco walked out with Pareja, both leading their sides toward the centre.
For a brief moment, everything slowed.
This was why.
This was always why.
They lined up beside the referees.
Handshakes followed.
Formalities.
Respect before violence.
Team photographs came next.
Arsenal crouched, arms across shoulders, determination written across every face.
Then the coin toss.
Pareja called correctly.
Sevilla chose possession.
Walker muttered behind Francesco.
"Rude."
Francesco smirked.
"We'll take the goals instead."
The whistle blew.
Champions League football returned to the Emirates.
And Arsenal started like a storm.
From the very first touch, the intent was obvious.
High press.
Sharp passing.
Immediate aggression.
Sevilla barely had time to breathe.
Kanté snapped into tackles.
Xhaka sprayed passes wide.
Mesut drifted between red shirts like smoke.
Gnabry attacked space with fearless energy.
Alexis, naturally, pressed as if personally insulted by Sevilla's existence.
Francesco led from the front.
Every run mattered.
Every press had purpose.
The Emirates sensed it immediately.
The volume rose.
Then, in the ninth minute, the breakthrough came.
Walker received the ball high on the right after a slick passing sequence.
He drove forward, powerful and direct.
One touch.
Second touch.
A glance up.
Perfect delivery.
The cross fizzed low and vicious across the six-yard box.
Francesco had already moved.
Of course he had.
Splitting the centre-backs.
Reading the gap half a second before it appeared.
He met the ball first time.
Right foot.
Controlled violence.
Net.
The Emirates exploded.
Absolute eruption.
Francesco wheeled away, arms spread wide, roaring into the North Bank.
Champions League.
Again.
His teammates swarmed him.
Walker arrived first.
"I told you I'd assist!"
"You told everyone."
"Because I believed."
"Because you shouted it."
Both were true.
The stadium announcer boomed his name.
The supporters answered.
Louder.
Longer.
Francesco Lee.
European nights and goals, an old friendship.
Sevilla responded exactly as expected.
Aggressively.
Proudly.
Ben Yedder began dropping between the lines.
Correa drifted dangerously.
Banega controlled tempo.
Navas surged down the right with frightening pace.
For ten intense minutes, Arsenal had to defend.
Really defend.
Van Dijk dominated the air.
Koscielny stepped in front of Ben Yedder twice.
Robertson matched Navas stride for stride.
Cech punched away a wicked cross under pressure.
Kanté seemed to be occupying three positions simultaneously.
Francesco tracked back to help Xhaka, then immediately spun forward on the counter.
European football offered no rest.
None whatsoever.
Sevilla were too good for that.
Arsenal weathered the pressure.
Then punished it.
Twenty-seven minutes.
A moment of devastating transition.
Xhaka won possession deep.
One touch into Mesut.
Mesut, naturally, took one touch too few for most human beings to comprehend.
He slipped the ball wide right to Gnabry.
Serge drove forward at pace.
Head up.
Alexis sprinting through the middle.
Francesco dragging defenders away.
Gnabry delivered perfectly.
Alexis met it first time.
Low.
Precise.
Inside the far post.
2-0.
The Chilean celebrated with the intensity of a man avenging a centuries-old insult.
He pointed at Gnabry.
Then at Francesco.
Then seemingly at Europe itself.
The Emirates loved every second.
Francesco grabbed Alexis around the shoulders.
"Still angry?"
"Always."
"Good."
Sevilla refused to fold.
That was the thing about good European sides.
They didn't panic.
They adapted.
Banega began finding pockets.
Correa grew more influential.
Ben Yedder tested the line relentlessly.
The game opened beautifully.
Chances at both ends.
Francesco forced Rico into a sharp save.
Gnabry curled narrowly wide.
At the other end, Cech denied Ben Yedder brilliantly.
Koscielny blocked a goal-bound strike with his thigh.
Walker recovered superbly after Navas momentarily escaped.
It was proper Champions League football now.
End to end.
High quality.
High speed.
Relentless.
Then, just before halftime, Sevilla struck.
Forty-second minute.
Banega found Correa between the lines.
A quick exchange.
A clever run.
Correa darted into the box and fired low beyond Cech.
2-1.
A quality goal.
The away end erupted.
Sevilla's players celebrated together.
Francesco immediately gathered his teammates.
"No heads."
None dropped anyway.
This Arsenal side had seen too much, won too much, to rattle easily.
Still, the goal mattered.
It changed the feel.
It reminded everyone that European football punished complacency.
The remaining minutes of the half were fiercely contested.
Sevilla pushed.
Arsenal responded.
Kanté intercepted everything.
Mesut nearly sent Francesco through again with an outrageous outside-of-the-boot pass.
Walker recovered from another Navas surge.
Robertson thundered into a tackle that drew huge applause.
Then the whistle came.
Halftime.
Arsenal 2-1 Sevilla.
A strong start.
A warning attached.
Exactly the sort of European match Wenger had predicted.
Francesco walked down the tunnel breathing hard, sweat cooling rapidly against his skin.
The noise of the Emirates followed them all the way inside.
The dressing room was intense but controlled.
Water bottles opened.
Shin pads adjusted.
Breathing steadied.
Wenger entered after giving them a moment.
He looked calm.
Which usually meant he had approximately fourteen excellent points ready.
"Good first half," he began.
"Excellent in possession. Dangerous in transition."
He nodded toward Walker and Gnabry.
"Very effective on the right."
Then came the important part.
"But."
There was always a but.
"We gave them too much space between our midfield and defence in the final fifteen minutes."
Xhaka nodded immediately.
Kanté already knew.
"Correa must not receive so freely. Banega must be closed faster."
Wenger pointed at the tactical board.
"When we lose the ball, recover shape immediately. No shortcuts."
Francesco leaned forward, listening.
"We can hurt them again," Wenger continued. "Their full-backs are vulnerable when they commit forward."
He looked directly at Alexis and Gnabry.
"Attack those spaces."
Then to Francesco.
"Keep occupying both centre-backs. They are uncomfortable."
Walker grinned.
"They're not alone."
A few chuckles broke the tension.
Even Wenger allowed a tiny smile.
"Most importantly, remain patient."
He scanned the room.
"The third goal is there if we play correctly."
Francesco stood again, heart still hammering.
"We've got them."
Simple.
True.
"Stay aggressive. Stay smart. First fifteen minutes is ours."
He looked around.
"European nights. Emirates. Finish the job."
The response was immediate.
Confident.
United.
The response inside the dressing room was immediate.
Not loud.
Not theatrical.
This team had moved beyond needing theatrics.
It was simply belief, shared between men who trusted one another completely.
A few nods.
A few clenched fists.
Kanté bounced lightly on his toes.
Walker slapped Francesco on the shoulder hard enough to qualify as minor assault.
"First fifteen," he said.
"Ours," Francesco replied.
Wenger gave one final nod.
"Good."
Then he stepped back.
The signal.
Time to work.
The tunnel welcomed them again with that familiar rush of noise and anticipation.
The Emirates was already roaring.
No halftime lull on a Champions League night.
Not here.
Not when Arsenal were leading.
Francesco jogged out first, the captain's armband tight around his sleeve, the floodlights blazing overhead.
He took a deep breath.
The pitch still smelled fresh.
Grass, sweat, possibility.
Mesut drifted alongside him.
"You owe me an assist."
"I owe you several."
"Start with one."
"Reasonable."
The referee checked both sides.
A glance.
A whistle.
The second half began.
And Arsenal wasted absolutely no time.
Sevilla tried to settle into possession immediately.
Banega dropped deep.
Pareja spread the play.
But Arsenal's press arrived like a red wave.
Francesco closed down the centre-back.
Gnabry hunted the passing lane.
Alexis pounced on the full-back.
Mesut floated behind them, cutting off angles with maddening intelligence.
The Emirates sensed blood.
The volume rose.
Again.
And in the forty-ninth minute, Arsenal struck.
Beautifully.
Inevitably.
Xhaka won the ball near midfield, shoulder-to-shoulder with Correa, emerging with possession as though he had simply decided the ball belonged to him.
One touch.
Forward to Francesco.
Francesco held off Mercado, feeling the defender tight against his back.
He waited.
Just long enough.
Then rolled the ball first time into Mesut's path.
Özil never broke stride.
Not even slightly.
He glided into the penalty area with that impossible elegance of his, shaped to pass, sent Rico leaning, and then almost insultingly slotted the ball low into the far corner.
Silence from Sevilla.
Pandemonium everywhere else.
The Emirates erupted.
Mesut turned away, arms stretched wide, a grin finally breaking through that usual calm.
Francesco sprinted toward him, laughing.
"You did pass."
"I changed my mind."
"Selfish."
"Efficient."
Alexis leapt onto Mesut's back.
Walker arrived sliding in from somewhere entirely unnecessary.
The crowd sang.
Loud.
Long.
3-1.
Exactly the response Wenger had demanded.
Exactly the response champions produced.
Sevilla tried to answer.
They had to.
A two-goal deficit away from home in Europe was dangerous enough.
Three would have been fatal.
Berizzo barked instructions from the touchline, arms slicing through the air with the urgency of a man attempting to redirect weather.
His players responded with admirable determination.
Banega increased the tempo.
Correa drifted inside more often.
Ben Yedder looked for space between Van Dijk and Koscielny.
But Arsenal had found their rhythm now.
The sort of rhythm that suffocated opponents.
Kanté intercepted everything.
Everything.
At one point he dispossessed Banega, tracked Correa, recovered a loose ball, and still somehow arrived first to press the goalkeeper.
Walker turned to Francesco afterward, genuinely confused.
"There's only one of him, right?"
"As far as science can determine."
"Unsettling."
Arsenal dominated the next twenty minutes.
Utterly.
Mesut orchestrated.
Xhaka controlled.
Gnabry terrorized the left side.
Alexis, naturally, continued pressing like a man seeking personal closure.
Francesco nearly scored a fourth on fifty-eight minutes.
Robertson whipped in a gorgeous cross from deep.
Francesco rose between two defenders, meeting it with a thumping header.
Rico somehow clawed it away.
The Emirates gasped.
Francesco applauded the cross.
Robertson pointed back.
"Next one."
"There will be one."
There usually was.
By the hour mark, Sevilla looked stretched.
Not beaten.
Good teams rarely look beaten before they are.
But stretched.
Spaces began to appear.
The kind Mesut treated as personal invitations.
Cazorla, Walcott, and Iwobi were already warming up along the touchline.
Giroud, too, meticulously ensuring his hair remained compatible with European competition.
Francesco noticed and shook his head.
Some men prepared with tactical visualization.
Others with conditioner.
Then came the changes.
Sixty-seven minutes.
Wenger stood.
The Emirates applauded before the board even went up.
Everyone knew.
Fresh legs.
Control the game.
Finish the night.
The fourth official raised the electronic board.
Number 9.
Number 7.
Number 11.
Francesco.
Alexis.
Mesut.
Off.
Giroud.
Iwobi.
Cazorla.
On.
Francesco jogged toward the sideline to a standing ovation.
The Emirates rose as one.
He applauded every side of the stadium.
Champions League goals always made the walk sweeter.
Alexis left to his own thunderous reception, still looking annoyed that he had been denied another hour of violence.
Mesut, naturally, acknowledged the applause with a subtle wave that somehow still looked elegant.
As Francesco crossed the touchline, Wenger met him.
"Excellent."
"We're in control."
"Exactly."
A brief handshake.
Mutual understanding.
Francesco wrapped himself in a training jacket and took his seat.
Beside him, Mesut immediately requested water.
Alexis requested another goal from the substitutes.
Neither request was unreasonable.
At the same moment, Sevilla responded.
Eduardo Berizzo made a triple change of his own.
Off came Pizarro, Ben Yedder, and Navas.
On came Sarabia, Muriel, and Corchia.
Fresh energy.
Fresh problems.
At least in theory.
From the bench, football always looked slightly stranger.
Faster in some moments.
Slower in others.
Francesco watched intently.
Giroud immediately gave Arsenal a different focal point.
His hold-up play was excellent.
Cazorla slipped into midfield like a man returning to his favorite chair.
Iwobi brought directness.
Fearlessness.
That delightful unpredictability of youth.
Walker sat beside Francesco briefly during a stoppage to grab water.
"Nice goal."
"Thank you."
"My assist was elite."
"It was a five-yard cross."
"It was emotionally complex."
Francesco laughed.
"How are you still running?"
"I don't know. At this point, I'm mostly powered by applause."
Entirely believable.
Sevilla pushed forward.
They had no choice.
Muriel offered pace in behind.
Sarabia drifted cleverly between the lines.
For ten minutes, Arsenal had to defend properly again.
Van Dijk headed everything.
Koscielny anticipated everything else.
Robertson won a superb one-on-one against Corchia.
Cech commanded his area with that familiar, reassuring authority.
Kanté still somehow accelerating, as he broke up attack after attack.
Francesco found himself leaning forward unconsciously, every muscle still engaged.
Footballers never truly relaxed during matches.
Even substituted, part of you remained out there.
Then came the killer.
Seventy-seven minutes.
The move began, fittingly, with Cazorla.
A little shimmy in midfield.
A turn that sent Sarabia the wrong way.
Then a perfectly weighted pass into Giroud's feet.
Olivier held off Pareja superbly.
Chest high, back to goal, body between man and ball.
He waited.
Just long enough.
Then slipped a beautiful reverse pass into the path of Alex Iwobi.
The youngster burst into the area.
Rico rushed out.
Iwobi stayed calm.
Really calm.
He opened his body and passed the ball into the far corner.
4-1.
The Emirates erupted again.
Iwobi sprinted toward the corner flag, joy written all over his face.
Giroud chased after him, pointing triumphantly.
"I told you!"
"Told him what?" Walcott asked from the bench.
"That he would score."
"When?"
"Just now."
"Convenient."
Francesco was already on his feet, applauding wildly.
Cazorla embraced Iwobi.
Kanté smiled, which somehow still looked slightly surprising.
Wenger clapped once, sharply.
Satisfied.
Very satisfied.
That goal ended the contest.
Not mathematically.
Emotionally.
Sevilla knew it.
Arsenal knew it.
The Emirates absolutely knew it.
Still, Sevilla kept attacking.
Pride demanded it.
Muriel forced Cech into a sharp save low to his right.
Sarabia flashed a shot wide.
Correa continued probing.
But Arsenal defended with the maturity of a team that understood European football.
No panic.
No chaos.
Just structure.
Discipline.
Experience.
And whenever space appeared, Arsenal countered with terrifying speed.
Iwobi nearly added another after Giroud flicked on a long clearance.
Walcott, warming up but never introduced, celebrated the near-miss as enthusiastically as if he'd scored it himself.
Classic Theo.
The final ten minutes felt like a statement.
Not merely a victory.
A declaration.
Possession circulated calmly.
Cazorla dictated tempo.
Xhaka continued snapping into challenges.
Kanté, somehow, still covered every blade of grass.
Francesco glanced down the bench.
Alexis was leaning forward like a man physically willing the team to score a fifth.
Mesut looked serene.
Giroud was still complimenting Iwobi's finish from fifty yards away.
Wenger remained composed, though the tiny satisfaction around his eyes betrayed him.
He had seen exactly what he wanted.
Intensity.
Control.
Ruthlessness.
The Emirates crowd sensed the finish approaching.
The noise swelled.
Songs rolled down from the stands.
European songs.
Old songs.
New songs.
Francesco's name rang out repeatedly.
He acknowledged them with a raised hand.
That connection never dulled.
Not ever.
He looked around the stadium.
The floodlights.
The scarves.
The red sea of supporters.
Nights like this reminded him exactly where he was.
Exactly what they were building.
Sevilla threw one last attack forward in stoppage time.
Muriel broke into the box.
Van Dijk matched him stride for stride.
A shoulder.
A tackle.
Ball won cleanly.
The Emirates roared its approval.
Virgil simply stood, adjusted his sleeves, and passed the ball calmly to Cazorla.
Business as usual.
Moments later, the referee checked his watch.
Raised the whistle.
Blew.
Full time.
Arsenal 4.
Sevilla 1.
A perfect beginning.
The roar that followed felt enormous.
Not just celebration.
Confirmation.
Francesco stepped from the bench immediately, embracing teammates as they walked off.
Kanté looked like he could happily play another ninety.
Xhaka looked like he might happily tackle another ninety.
Iwobi was grinning so hard it seemed medically significant.
Giroud accepted congratulations as though he had personally discovered the concept of assists.
"It was exquisite."
"It was a reverse pass."
"It was art."
"It was six yards."
"Art can be compact."
Fair point.
⸻
Francesco found Mesut near the centre circle.
"Goal and assist."
Mesut shrugged.
"Acceptable."
"Generous self-assessment."
"I am improving."
Alexis joined them.
"Should have been six."
"Of course."
"Maybe seven."
"Naturally."
Alexis nodded.
Satisfied that everyone understood the appropriate standard.
They made their way around the pitch, applauding all four corners.
Supporters stayed long after the final whistle.
European nights encouraged lingering.
Nobody wanted to leave too quickly.
Francesco tossed his match shirt to a young supporter near the front row.
The boy reacted as though handed the moon.
That never got old.
Not even slightly.
In the tunnel, the adrenaline began to ease.
Sweat cooled.
Legs stiffened.
Voices rose.
Walker appeared beside Francesco, still somehow energetic.
"My assist was the best one."
"Giroud's was better."
"That feels unnecessary."
"It was also true."
"I reject your reality."
"You don't have that authority."
"I should."
The dressing room afterward was glorious.
Music blared.
Ice baths were ignored temporarily.
Boots were kicked off.
Someone had already found the post-match statistics.
Kanté had covered enough distance to concern several transport authorities.
Walker demanded official recognition for "crossing excellence."
Giroud was reenacting his assist using three water bottles and a towel.
Iwobi looked simultaneously thrilled and slightly overwhelmed.
Francesco wrapped an arm around the youngster.
"First Champions League goal."
"At the Emirates."
"Not bad."
"Not bad at all."
Wenger entered to thunderous applause.
He waited, smiling faintly.
A dangerous sign.
When Arsène Wenger smiled like that, he was pleased.
Very pleased.
"Excellent."
Simple.
Powerful.
"You respected the game. You respected the opponent. And you showed your quality."
He looked toward Iwobi.
"A very good finish."
Toward Giroud.
"Excellent contribution."
Toward the room.
"This is how European campaigns begin."
The applause returned.
Francesco caught Wenger's eye.
The manager gave the smallest nod.
Captain to manager.
Job done.
For tonight.
Later, as the stadium slowly emptied and London settled into another cool autumn night, Francesco walked back toward the team bus.
His body ached pleasantly.
The good kind of tired.
The earned kind.
Supporters still waited outside barriers, hoping for one final glimpse.
He signed shirts.
Posed for photographs.
Accepted shouted requests to "win the whole thing."
That was the plan.
Leah had already texted.
Only one? I specifically requested several.
He smiled and typed back.
Team player.
A reply arrived instantly.
Debatable.
Fair.
Very fair.
Francesco climbed aboard, taking one last glance at the illuminated Emirates.
Champions League.
Four-one.
A statement made.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the satisfaction and the exhaustion, another feeling stirred.
Hunger.
Because this was only the beginning.
And Arsenal, as Europe had just been reminded, were nowhere near finished.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 13
Goal: 17
Assist: 1
MOTM: 2
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
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