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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And honestly, Francesco couldn't think of a better way to spend it.
The week moved quickly after Sevilla.
Training returned.
Recovery sessions returned.
Kyle Walker's volume, tragically, had never left.
Football had a way of compressing time. One moment you were celebrating a Champions League win under floodlights, the next you were already studying the next opponent, the next tactical battle, the next ninety minutes that would somehow become the most important match in the world until the one after that.
And now, five league matches into the new Premier League season, Arsenal were heading west across London.
Destination: Stamford Bridge.
There were few grounds in England that demanded immediate respect the way Chelsea's did.
Francesco had learned that quickly.
It wasn't the prettiest stadium.
It wasn't the biggest.
But it had teeth.
It always had.
Especially under Antonio Conte.
The Italian had Chelsea drilled like a military unit, his 3-4-3 operating with the kind of precision that made analysts giddy and opposing managers mildly unwell.
The Arsenal team bus rolled through London traffic beneath grey autumn skies, police escort cutting through the city with practiced efficiency.
Inside, the usual pre-match atmosphere settled over the squad.
Focused.
Relaxed.
Quiet, mostly.
Except for Walker, who was physically incapable of whispering.
"I'm telling you," he announced to absolutely no one who had asked, "if I score today, I am sliding directly in front of their bench."
"You said that last week," Koscielny replied.
"And I meant it then too."
Francesco, sitting a few rows ahead, shook his head with a smile.
Some things in life were constant.
Taxes.
Gravity.
Kyle Walker threatening celebrations that would almost certainly earn him a fine.
Beside him, Alexis Sanchez scrolled through tactical clips on his tablet, jaw set, eyes sharp.
Across the aisle, Mesut Özil looked half asleep, which usually meant he was either conserving energy or plotting the complete destruction of Chelsea's midfield.
Possibly both.
Kanté, meanwhile, sat with headphones on, looking so polite that it remained genuinely difficult to believe he regularly robbed professional footballers for a living.
Francesco adjusted the captain's armband resting in his bag.
It still felt special.
Always would.
Leading Arsenal at Stamford Bridge.
The kid from Italy would never quite stop appreciating that.
As the bus turned into Fulham Road, the atmosphere changed immediately.
Chelsea supporters lined the streets, scarves raised, voices echoing against the surrounding buildings.
Arsenal fans answered in kind.
The familiar tribal symphony of English football.
Stamford Bridge loomed ahead.
Compact.
Hostile.
Magnificent.
"Here we go," Walker muttered.
No jokes now.
No theatrics.
Match mode.
The bus came to a stop.
The doors opened.
And instantly the noise surged.
Francesco stepped down into the London afternoon, headphones around his neck, suit immaculate, expression calm.
Cameras flashed.
Supporters shouted.
The usual chaos.
He barely noticed anymore.
Inside, the stadium corridors hummed with controlled urgency.
Staff moved quickly.
Security directed traffic.
The scent of freshly cut grass drifted through the concrete tunnels.
Nothing quite smelled like matchday.
The dressing room was already prepared.
Shirts hung perfectly.
Boots lined up.
Each player's space immaculate.
Francesco's number nine sat in the center, captain's armband folded neatly beside it.
He ran a hand across the fabric as he always did.
A small ritual.
Then it was time.
Training kits on first.
Layers adjusted.
Tape wrapped.
Boots laced.
The transition from arrival to readiness was automatic now, every movement repeated thousands of times.
Wenger entered briefly, offering only a few words.
"Warm up properly. Be sharp. Enjoy it."
Classic Wenger.
Simple.
Elegant.
Terrifyingly effective.
The players filed out of the tunnel.
The pitch opened before them in brilliant green.
Stamford Bridge was already filling, blue shirts gathering in every stand.
The away section, tucked high and loud, erupted the moment Arsenal emerged.
Francesco looked up and applauded them.
They responded with a roar.
Warm-ups at Chelsea always felt intense.
Even the simple passing drills carried edge.
The ball zipped crisply across the grass.
Kanté and Xhaka dictated the rhythm.
Özil's first touch drew appreciative whistles from the traveling support.
Walker, naturally, attempted a rabona in the middle of a rondo.
It failed spectacularly.
"Stick to running," Robertson shouted.
"I am an artist!"
"You're a liability!"
Laughter broke the tension.
For a moment.
Then the focus returned.
Sprints.
Finishing drills.
Sharp movements.
Francesco buried three consecutive finishes past the backup keepers, each one struck cleanly.
Confidence was a beautiful thing.
After twenty-five minutes, Wenger called them in.
Back through the tunnel.
Back to the dressing room.
The real preparation began.
Training kits came off.
Match kits replaced them.
Red shirts.
White sleeves.
White shorts.
The crest over the heart.
No matter how many times Francesco pulled on an Arsenal shirt, it never lost its magic.
Wenger stood at the front as the room settled.
He read the lineup, though everyone already knew.
Still, hearing it out loud mattered.
"Petr."
Cech nodded.
"Robertson. Virgil. Laurent. Kyle."
Each defender acknowledged him.
"N'Golo. Granit."
Kanté smiled softly. Xhaka cracked his knuckles.
"Mesut."
Özil opened one eye.
"Alexis. Serge."
Both wingers leaned forward.
"And Francesco."
Wenger's eyes found his captain.
"You lead us."
Francesco nodded once.
The bench followed.
"David Raya. Shkodran Mustafi. Héctor Bellerín. Santi Cazorla. Theo Walcott. Alex Iwobi. Olivier Giroud."
A formidable group.
Options everywhere.
Wenger moved to the tactics board.
"Chelsea will play their three-four-three. Conte trusts structure. They will look for width through Alonso and Moses, and combinations around Morata."
He tapped the magnetic pieces.
"N'Golo and Granit, control the middle."
Both midfielders nodded.
"Mesut, find space behind Bakayoko and Fàbregas."
Mesut gave a lazy thumbs up.
"Alexis, Serge—attack the channels. Force their wide centre-backs to defend."
Then Wenger looked directly at Francesco.
"David Luiz will follow you. Make him regret it."
A few grins spread across the room.
That was a mission everyone could support.
The final moments before kickoff were always the strangest.
Noise outside.
Silence inside.
Each player retreating into his own thoughts.
Francesco wrapped the captain's armband around his left arm.
Tight.
Secure.
He stood.
"So," he said, voice carrying easily. "They're Chelsea."
A few chuckles.
"They're at home. They'll come hard early. Good. Let them."
He looked around the room.
At teammates.
At brothers.
"We stay calm. We trust each other. We play our football."
He paused.
"And if Walker scores, we all pretend not to know him."
The room erupted.
Even Wenger smiled.
Then it was time.
The tunnel awaited.
Chelsea were already there.
Blue shirts.
Focused faces.
Antonio Conte prowled near the entrance like a caffeinated panther.
Francesco took his place at the front of Arsenal's line.
Beside him stood Gary Cahill, Chelsea captain for the afternoon.
A proper professional.
They exchanged a firm handshake.
"Good luck."
"You too."
Neither meant it.
Behind Cahill, Courtois bounced lightly on his toes.
David Luiz looked like a philosopher who had accidentally become a defender.
Fàbregas offered Francesco a quick nod.
Football had a long memory.
The tunnel tightened around them.
The roar above intensified.
That sound.
No matter how many matches you played, it never became ordinary.
The referee checked both captains.
Coin.
Cards.
Formalities.
Then the teams walked.
Out into Stamford Bridge.
The noise hit like weather.
Blue everywhere.
Arsenal supporters answering from their corner.
Television cameras tracked every step.
Francesco led his team onto the pitch, the captain's armband bright against his sleeve.
This was why they played.
Handshakes came first.
Referees.
Opponents.
Quick, professional.
Francesco shook hands with Michael Oliver, then with every Chelsea starter.
Morata grinned.
"Try not to score too many."
"No promises."
Next came the starting eleven photograph.
Arsenal crouched and stood in practiced formation.
Walker, predictably, attempted to look intimidating.
He resembled a man trying to solve tax paperwork.
Then the coin toss.
Francesco and Cahill met at the center circle.
The coin spun.
Dropped.
Chelsea won.
Cahill chose to kick off.
Francesco nodded and jogged back.
As he took his position on the center spot, he studied Chelsea's setup.
Conte had gone exactly as expected.
Thibaut Courtois in goal.
The back three: Gary Cahill, César Azpilicueta, David Luiz.
Wing-backs Marcos Alonso and Victor Moses stationed aggressively high.
In midfield, Cesc Fàbregas alongside Tiemoué Bakayoko.
Ahead of them, Pedro and Willian flanked Álvaro Morata.
A dangerous side.
Balanced.
Fast.
Technically excellent.
The whistle blew.
Chelsea kicked off.
And immediately the match exploded into life.
There was no easing into it.
No gentle opening exchanges.
Chelsea pressed high, Morata chasing Van Dijk, Pedro closing Robertson, Willian hounding Walker.
Arsenal responded in kind.
Kanté snapped into tackles.
Xhaka sprayed passes wide.
Özil drifted into pockets too small for most human beings to recognize.
The first ten minutes were breathless.
Chelsea sought width early.
Moses drove forward down the right, only for Robertson to meet him with a perfectly timed challenge that sent the away fans into delighted applause.
Moments later, Alonso surged on the opposite flank, curling a dangerous cross toward Morata.
Van Dijk rose magnificently.
Headed clear.
Business as usual.
Francesco worked relentlessly up front.
David Luiz tracked him tightly, often stepping into midfield to follow.
Exactly as Wenger predicted.
That created space.
Özil immediately exploited it.
In the twelfth minute, Mesut slipped a gorgeous pass between Cahill and Azpilicueta, releasing Alexis down the left.
Alexis cut inside, bent one toward the far corner.
Courtois flew.
An excellent save.
Stamford Bridge exhaled.
Chelsea responded instantly.
Fàbregas clipped a beautiful ball over the top for Morata.
The Spaniard brought it down expertly, spun Koscielny, and fired low.
Cech saved brilliantly with his right boot.
The veteran barely celebrated.
He simply stood, adjusted his gloves, and looked mildly annoyed that anyone had inconvenienced him.
The match settled into a fierce rhythm.
Tackles flew.
Second balls mattered.
Every inch of grass had to be earned.
Bakayoko and Xhaka exchanged several uncompromising challenges that would almost certainly require ice later.
Walker and Pedro raced each other relentlessly down Arsenal's right flank.
Neither appeared interested in conserving energy.
In the twenty-third minute, Francesco nearly broke through.
Özil collected possession between the lines and, without looking, threaded a pass into the channel.
Francesco spun away from David Luiz beautifully.
For one glorious second, he was in.
Cahill recovered brilliantly, stretching just enough to divert the shot wide.
Corner.
The away end rose.
Xhaka delivered.
Van Dijk met it.
Over.
Close.
Very close.
Conte prowled his technical area, barking instructions in rapid-fire Italian.
Wenger stood calmer, hands in pockets, expression unreadable.
The contrast was almost comedic.
Almost.
By the half-hour mark, neither side had yielded an inch.
Chelsea's 3-4-3 was causing problems in transition.
Pedro and Willian drifted intelligently between Arsenal's full-backs and centre-backs.
Morata's movement remained constant, always searching for gaps.
But Arsenal were matching them.
Kanté, facing his former club, seemed particularly motivated.
Which was deeply unfortunate for Chelsea.
He intercepted everything.
Passes.
Loose touches.
Possibly private thoughts.
In the twenty-eighth minute, Stamford Bridge held its breath.
Fàbregas lofted a perfect diagonal toward Alonso.
The Spaniard brought it down instantly and whipped a low ball across goal.
Morata lunged.
Koscielny slid.
The ball ricocheted loose.
Willian arrived.
Cech threw himself forward and smothered at the Brazilian's feet.
Outstanding goalkeeping.
Francesco clapped vigorously from halfway.
That was why Petr Cech still mattered.
Why he still started these matches.
Why great goalkeepers aged differently from everyone else.
Arsenal countered immediately.
Kanté won possession and found Özil.
Özil turned away from Bakayoko with insulting ease.
One touch.
Two.
Then a perfectly weighted pass into Francesco's stride.
He drove at David Luiz, cut inside, then outside.
The Brazilian bit.
Shot.
Blocked by Azpilicueta at the last possible moment.
The Spanish defender celebrated like he'd scored himself.
Fair enough.
It was that kind of tackle.
The opening thirty minutes had delivered everything expected.
Intensity.
Tactical chess.
Physical battles.
Moments of brilliance.
Moments of chaos.
Chelsea and Arsenal, two elite sides, neither willing to blink first.
Francesco wiped sweat from his forehead and glanced toward the clock.
Still plenty left.
Plenty of opportunities.
The opening half-hour had been everything a London derby should be.
Fast.
Sharp.
Unforgiving.
Chelsea had come exactly as expected with organized, aggressive, endlessly dangerous in transition. Arsenal had matched them stride for stride. Every tackle carried weight. Every pass mattered. Every loose ball felt like a minor political election.
Francesco could feel the match beginning to tilt.
Not dramatically.
Not obviously.
But enough.
The spaces between Chelsea's lines were growing.
Bakayoko was starting to tire from chasing shadows, most of them wearing Mesut Özil's boots. David Luiz had followed Francesco into midfield one too many times, and each step left little fractures in Chelsea's structure.
Football was often decided by inches.
But first, it was shaped by patterns.
And Arsenal could see the pattern now.
The clock ticked toward the thirty-ninth minute.
Cech rolled the ball short to Van Dijk, who immediately fed Xhaka.
Chelsea retreated into their defensive shape, Pedro dropping alongside Fàbregas, Moses and Alonso tucking just enough to deny the easy pass wide.
Francesco drifted deeper.
David Luiz followed.
Exactly as Wenger had hoped.
Xhaka spotted it instantly.
He fizzed the ball into Özil between the lines.
Mesut took one touch, because he considered two a sign of inefficiency and turned elegantly away from Bakayoko.
Azpilicueta stepped forward.
That was the trigger.
Özil slid the ball right to Walker, who had already surged beyond Pedro.
Walker took off down the flank, all speed and determination and absolutely no concern for human braking distances.
Moses scrambled across.
Walker, to his credit, did not attempt a rabona.
Growth.
Instead, he slipped a clever pass inside to Gnabry.
Serge received it near the corner of the box, body angled toward goal, Alonso backing away just enough to avoid being skinned on live television.
Francesco was already moving.
A quick dart across Cahill.
Then a sharp check back.
David Luiz hesitated.
Just half a second.
At this level, half a second was practically an invitation.
Gnabry saw it.
The German whipped a low, vicious ball across the six-yard area.
Francesco attacked it like a man arriving late for free food.
One touch.
Right foot.
Guided, not blasted.
Precision over violence.
Courtois dove.
Too late.
The ball kissed the inside of the far post and nestled into the net.
For one split second, everything stopped.
Then the away end detonated.
Francesco wheeled away toward the Arsenal supporters, arms spread wide, a grin breaking across his face before he could stop it.
Stamford Bridge fell silent except for the corner packed with traveling Gunners losing their collective minds.
Gnabry reached him first, launching himself onto Francesco's back.
Alexis arrived next, followed by Özil, Walker, Xhaka, and approximately everyone else in red.
Walker screamed something unintelligible directly into Francesco's ear.
It was probably supportive.
Possibly a restaurant recommendation.
Hard to say.
"Great ball!" Francesco shouted at Gnabry.
"I know!" Serge shouted back, which was technically accurate.
He pointed toward the away section.
Francesco thumped the badge over his chest.
Captain.
Striker.
Arsenal's number nine.
At Stamford Bridge.
It didn't get much better.
The scoreboard confirmed it.
Chelsea 0-1 Arsenal.
39 minutes.
Francesco.
Assist: Gnabry.
Conte reacted immediately, waving his players forward with the intensity of a man trying to direct air traffic using only rage.
Chelsea pushed.
Naturally.
They were too good not to.
Fàbregas began dictating possession with greater urgency, switching play beautifully from flank to flank. Alonso delivered two dangerous crosses in quick succession, one cleared by Van Dijk, the other claimed confidently by Cech.
Hazard was already warming up along the touchline.
A deeply unwelcome sight.
The final minutes of the half carried that familiar sense of instability.
One goal was never safe at Stamford Bridge.
Morata nearly equalized in the forty-third minute, peeling away from Koscielny to meet Moses' cross.
His header flashed narrowly wide.
Cech had it covered.
Probably.
Possibly.
He certainly acted like he did.
Arsenal responded with a counterattack that nearly doubled the lead. Alexis danced past Azpilicueta and found Özil, whose clipped pass sent Francesco through again.
This time Courtois was quicker, racing off his line to smother bravely at Francesco's feet.
The Belgian spread himself magnificently.
Francesco nearly tripped over him.
"Rude," he muttered.
Courtois grinned.
The referee checked his watch.
One minute of added time.
Chelsea threw bodies forward one last time, but Kante—Arsenal's Kante, not Chelsea's lingering memory—intercepted yet another pass and calmly carried possession into safer territory.
Then came the whistle.
Half-time.
Chelsea nil.
Arsenal one.
The players headed down the tunnel, breathing hard, shirts clinging, adrenaline still buzzing through their systems.
Francesco walked beside Van Dijk.
"Good half."
"We can hurt them more."
Virgil was right.
Chelsea were dangerous.
But vulnerable.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere was focused rather than celebratory.
Experienced teams understood halftime leads.
They were temporary things.
Useful, but fragile.
Water bottles hissed open.
Boots were adjusted.
Shin pads checked.
Walker was still talking.
Wenger entered with his usual controlled calm.
He waited until the room settled completely.
Then he began.
"Excellent first half."
Simple.
Effective.
"But we are not finished."
He pointed toward the tactics board.
"They will react. Conte always reacts."
No one doubted that.
"They will push their wing-backs even higher. Their distances will shorten. We must be disciplined."
He looked directly at Robertson and Walker.
"Do not get caught too high together."
Both nodded.
"N'Golo and Granit, continue winning second balls."
Again, nods.
Then Wenger turned to Francesco, Özil, and Gnabry.
"The space behind David Luiz and Cahill will increase. Attack it."
Francesco leaned forward.
Wenger's eyes sharpened.
"The second goal kills the game."
That was the mission.
Kill the game.
As the players rose, Wenger added one final thought.
"Be brave."
He never needed many words.
The teams emerged for the second half.
And immediately, Chelsea unveiled their first adjustment.
Eden Hazard replaced Willian.
The home crowd roared.
Francesco exhaled slowly.
"Well," Walker muttered, "that's annoying."
That was one word for it.
Hazard changed matches simply by existing in them.
His first touch drew applause.
His second drew panic.
Chelsea attacked with renewed urgency.
Hazard drifted centrally, forcing Arsenal's midfield to constantly adjust. Pedro moved wider, Alonso overlapped relentlessly, and suddenly Stamford Bridge was alive again.
In the fiftieth minute, Hazard glided past Xhaka and slipped Morata through.
Cech rushed out, narrowing the angle brilliantly.
Morata shot.
Wide.
Very wide.
The Spaniard slapped the turf in frustration.
Francesco applauded Cech.
The veteran merely nodded.
Business.
Arsenal weathered the storm.
Kante was immense, covering impossible distances with the serene efficiency of a man vacuuming a cathedral. Xhaka snapped into challenges. Van Dijk dominated aerially. Koscielny anticipated danger before it fully existed.
And slowly, Arsenal regained control.
By the hour mark, the match had settled again into that wonderful state where both sides looked capable of scoring and neither trusted the other an inch.
Francesco felt strong.
David Luiz, less so.
The Brazilian had spent over an hour chasing him into awkward spaces, and the strain was beginning to show.
One heavy touch.
One late recovery run.
One extra breath.
Tiny signs.
But signs nonetheless.
Then came the sixty-seventh minute.
The moment Arsenal truly seized Stamford Bridge.
It started, fittingly, with Kante.
Fàbregas attempted a forward pass into Hazard.
Kante stepped in.
Of course he did.
He intercepted so cleanly it almost felt rude.
The Frenchman immediately fed Xhaka, who turned away from Bakayoko and surged through midfield.
Chelsea scrambled.
Francesco peeled wide, dragging David Luiz with him.
Again.
Always.
That opened the central lane.
Özil drifted into it like smoke.
Xhaka found him.
Mesut, without even glancing, flicked a delightful first-time pass into the right channel.
Gnabry exploded onto it.
Cahill turned.
Too slowly.
Serge was gone.
He drove into the box, Moses desperately tracking back, Azpilicueta sliding across to cover.
Courtois set himself.
Gnabry shaped to cross.
Cahill committed.
That was the mistake.
In one fluid motion, Gnabry chopped inside onto his left foot.
The angle narrowed.
The crowd inhaled.
Then he fired.
Low.
Hard.
Across Courtois.
Into the far corner.
Net.
Silence.
Absolute, glorious silence.
Then came the eruption from the away section.
Gnabry sprinted toward the corner flag, fists pumping wildly, pure joy spilling out of him.
Francesco caught him first this time, wrapping him in a fierce embrace.
"What a finish!"
Serge was laughing too hard to answer properly.
Walker arrived seconds later, nearly tackling both of them into the advertising boards.
Two nil.
At Stamford Bridge.
Against Chelsea.
Arsenal's bench exploded.
Wenger allowed himself a small, deeply satisfied clap.
Conte looked like he was considering a strongly worded letter to several people at once.
Chelsea 0-2 Arsenal.
67 minutes.
Gnabry.
Assist: Özil.
Though Kante, Xhaka, and Francesco had all played their part.
Goals were communal things.
The next ten minutes were predictably chaotic.
Chelsea threw numbers forward.
Hazard became increasingly central, seeking gaps between Arsenal's lines. Pedro darted relentlessly. Morata battled for every cross.
Cech made another excellent save from Alonso's curling effort.
Van Dijk produced a towering clearance under pressure.
Walker somehow outran Hazard over forty yards, which felt unfair to everyone involved.
Francesco continued pressing tirelessly, even as his legs began filing increasingly formal complaints.
He glanced toward Wenger.
The manager was already thinking ahead.
And in the seventy-seventh minute, the changes came.
The fourth official raised the board.
Number 9 off.
Number 11 off.
Number 7 off.
Francesco, Özil, and Alexis made their way toward the touchline.
On came Olivier Giroud, Santi Cazorla, and Theo Walcott.
Fresh legs.
Fresh ideas.
A standing ovation came from the away supporters.
Francesco applauded them as he jogged off, sweat dripping, lungs burning.
Wenger met him at the sideline.
"Excellent, captain."
"Thank you, boss."
A quick handshake.
A brief squeeze on the shoulder.
Then Francesco embraced Giroud.
"Finish them."
Olivier grinned.
"With pleasure."
At the same stoppage, Conte made his own changes.
Morata departed, replaced by Michy Batshuayi.
Pedro followed, Andreas Christensen entering as Chelsea shifted shape, David Luiz stepping further into midfield when possession allowed.
Conte was throwing tactical darts now.
Sometimes that worked.
Today, Arsenal had answers.
Francesco dropped onto the bench, breathing deeply as a staff member handed him water.
Beside him, Özil looked mildly inconvenienced by perspiration.
Alexis was still furious about being substituted, which for Alexis meant he was having a normal emotional experience.
"Good assist," Francesco told Mesut.
"Two, actually."
"Show-off."
Santi entered the match like a man returning to his favorite restaurant.
Instant composure.
Instant control.
His first touch evaded Bakayoko so completely that the Chelsea midfielder briefly appeared to question his own eyesight.
Walcott immediately stretched the game vertically.
Giroud, meanwhile, began bullying Chelsea's center-backs in that wonderfully French way of his.
Chelsea pushed desperately.
Hazard forced Cech into another sharp save in the eighty-second minute, curling one toward the top corner.
The Czech goalkeeper tipped it over magnificently.
Even the home crowd applauded.
Respect recognized excellence.
Arsenal remained compact.
Disciplined.
Ruthless.
Kante was still running.
Scientists would one day need to study him.
Robertson threw himself into tackles.
Van Dijk headed away everything.
Koscielny snarled through the final minutes like a man personally offended by Chelsea's continued existence.
The clock wound down.
Eighty-five.
Eighty-seven.
Eighty-nine.
Chelsea's urgency turned frantic.
Arsenal's confidence turned serene.
The away fans could taste it now.
They sang louder.
Longer.
Prouder.
Four minutes of added time appeared.
Walker looked personally insulted.
"Four? For what?"
"For your rabona attempt," Cazorla suggested.
Fair.
Batshuayi fired over from distance.
Hazard wriggled free only for Kante to dispossess him with almost supernatural timing.
Giroud won a foul near the corner and used approximately three business days shielding the ball.
A master craftsman.
Then, finally, Michael Oliver raised the whistle.
Full-time.
Chelsea nil.
Arsenal two.
Stamford Bridge belonged to Arsenal.
For one perfect afternoon, at least.
Francesco leapt from the bench immediately, sprinting onto the pitch to embrace teammates.
Gnabry was mobbed first.
Naturally.
Kante smiled in that understated way that somehow felt more impressive than most goal celebrations.
Van Dijk exchanged shirts with Morata.
Walker celebrated like he'd personally conquered western Europe.
The away end was magnificent.
Scarves raised.
Voices hoarse.
Thousands of supporters savoring a huge away victory.
Francesco walked over and applauded them, the rest of the squad joining him.
They deserved this.
These were the days fans remembered.
Big wins.
Big grounds.
Big statements.
Chelsea's players trudged off, disappointed but professional.
Cahill shook Francesco's hand once more.
"Well played."
"You too."
Again, only one of them fully meant it.
Conte offered a curt handshake to Wenger, the universal language of managers who would both rather be elsewhere right now.
As Arsenal headed down the tunnel, the dressing room energy was already building.
Walker was first through the door.
"I TOLD YOU WE'D HAVE THEM!"
"You did not," Xhaka said.
"I implied it aggressively."
Music started.
Boots came off.
Laughter filled the room.
Wenger entered several minutes later.
He allowed the celebration to breathe before speaking.
Then the room quieted.
"That," he said, "was a serious performance."
Praise from Wenger always landed harder because he distributed it sparingly.
"You defended with intelligence."
He looked toward the back line.
"You controlled midfield."
A nod to Kante and Xhaka.
"And when the opportunities came…"
His gaze found Francesco and Gnabry.
"You were clinical."
He smiled.
Just slightly.
"Enjoy tonight. Tomorrow, recovery."
A collective groan.
Wenger, entirely unmoved, turned and left.
Walker pointed accusingly at the closed door.
"He enjoys that."
"He absolutely does," Cazorla agreed.
Francesco sat back at his locker, towel around his shoulders, shirt still damp, body exhausted in the most satisfying way possible.
A goal.
A captain's performance.
Three points at Stamford Bridge.
He checked his phone.
Leah had already messaged.
Proud of you, captain. Gnabry owes you dinner for stealing your celebration.
He smiled immediately.
Walker, naturally, leaned over.
"Is that Leah?"
"Mind your business."
"It is Leah."
"Definitely Leah."
Alexis appeared over Walker's shoulder like an unusually aggressive gargoyle.
"Ask if Cheddar misses me."
Francesco laughed.
He typed back quickly.
Miss you too. Tell Cheddar his tactical support was invaluable.
Another away win.
Another statement.
Another reminder that this Arsenal side was becoming something special.
Not just talented.
Not just exciting.
Resilient.
Connected.
Dangerous.
And as the celebrations rolled on, Francesco allowed himself one quiet moment.
He looked around the room.
At teammates laughing.
At boots scattered everywhere.
At Walker attempting to recreate Gnabry's finish using a water bottle and extremely poor judgment.
This.
This was football too.
Not just the noise.
Not just the goals.
But the people.
The moments afterward.
The shared joy.
Stamford Bridge had been conquered. And Arsenal, very much, were only getting started.
______________________________________________
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: 14
Goal: 18
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