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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Stamford Bridge had been conquered. And Arsenal, very much, were only getting started.
The dressing room remained loud for a while.
Not chaotic.
Not completely.
Just the kind of joyful disorder that followed an important away win.
Music thumped from somewhere near the physio's station. Walker was dancing with the kind of confidence normally reserved for people who had never actually seen themselves dance. Cazorla was encouraging him, which frankly made the situation worse.
Gnabry had somehow acquired a bottle of isotonic drink and was spraying it around like he'd personally won the World Cup.
Alexis objected only when some landed on his hair.
A deeply understandable reaction.
Francesco sat at his locker for another minute, letting the adrenaline slowly drain from his body. The ache was beginning now as that familiar heaviness in the thighs, the slight stiffness settling into his calves, the bruises announcing themselves one by one like uninvited guests.
He loved this part.
Not the pain exactly.
But what it represented.
A match well played always left evidence.
Van Dijk dropped onto the bench beside him, towel draped around his neck.
"David Luiz followed you into midfield so often I thought he was applying for a mortgage there."
Francesco laughed.
"I almost felt bad."
Virgil considered that.
"No, you didn't."
"No, I didn't."
Across the room, Kante was quietly unlacing his boots with the same calm precision he'd shown while dismantling Chelsea's midfield for ninety minutes.
Francesco still wasn't entirely convinced Kante actually got tired.
There was probably a small nuclear reactor hidden somewhere under the shirt.
Walker pointed at Kante.
"I checked. He blinked twice all game. Twice."
Kante smiled politely.
"That seems like enough."
"It absolutely is not."
The room erupted again.
Eventually, one by one, the players began making their way toward the showers.
There was something wonderfully simple about post-match routines. The noise of the stadium faded. The intensity dissolved. What remained were tired footballers washing away grass stains, sweat, and ninety minutes of tactical violence.
Francesco stepped beneath the hot water and closed his eyes.
Steam filled the tiled room.
His shoulders relaxed almost immediately.
The heat worked its way into tired muscles, loosening knots he hadn't even realized were there. Water ran down his face, carrying away sweat, bits of Stamford Bridge turf, and the last lingering traces of battle.
Nearby, Walker was still talking.
The man could probably provide live commentary during surgery.
"And then Hazard thought he'd beat me for pace—"
"No one thought that," Robertson said.
"Hazard might have."
"Hazard is too intelligent."
Gnabry snorted.
Francesco leaned against the tiled wall, smiling despite himself.
These were the moments supporters never saw.
The ordinary pieces inside extraordinary days.
The jokes.
The exhaustion.
The easy comfort of teammates who had been through something together.
After a few minutes, the shower room began emptying. Players headed back to their lockers, steam trailing behind them, towels around their waists, voices still bouncing off the walls.
Francesco dried off, ran a hand through damp hair, and opened his locker.
Arsenal's black travel jumpsuit hung neatly inside.
Clean.
Comfortable.
Professional.
He pulled it on, zipping it halfway before adjusting the collar. The embroidered club crest sat over his heart, and even after all this time, seeing it there still stirred something inside him.
It always would.
Around him, the room gradually transformed.
Match kits disappeared.
Travel gear emerged.
Footballers became, temporarily at least, something resembling normal people.
Cech looked exactly the same as he had before the match, which seemed suspicious.
Somehow, even in a tracksuit, he radiated veteran goalkeeper energy.
Alexis was already dressed and halfway through an aggressively healthy recovery meal. Gnabry was taking approximately seventeen photos for social media. Walker was trying and failing to style wet hair with his fingers.
A noble but doomed effort.
Then the dressing room door opened.
Conversation softened almost instantly.
Arsène Wenger stepped inside.
He was still impeccably dressed, tie loosened only slightly, expression composed in that uniquely Wenger way. Victories never changed his posture. They only sharpened the satisfaction in his eyes.
He let the room settle.
Then he spoke.
"Very good."
Coming from Wenger, that was practically a standing ovation.
The players listened.
"You showed maturity today."
He looked around at each of them.
"Control. Discipline. Intelligence."
A slight nod toward the defenders.
"Against an excellent opponent, away from home."
Another pause.
"You earned this result."
Simple words.
But they landed.
Wenger turned slightly, his gaze finding Francesco.
Then Cech.
"Francesco. Petr."
Both looked up immediately.
"I would like you to join me for the press conference."
Walker let out an exaggerated whistle.
"Ooh, captain and former employee."
Cech didn't even glance at him.
Years of experience.
Francesco stood.
"Of course, boss."
Wenger nodded once.
"We leave in five minutes."
Then, as quickly as he'd arrived, he stepped back out.
The room immediately resumed its buzz.
Walker grinned.
"Try not to reveal all our tactical secrets."
"I was planning to reveal only yours."
"You don't know any of mine."
"Neither do you."
Fair.
Cech zipped his jacket calmly.
He had attended approximately eight million press conferences in his career and looked as relaxed as a man preparing to order coffee.
Francesco, meanwhile, grabbed a bottle of water and took a long drink.
There was always a different kind of pressure after matches.
Not difficult, exactly.
Just different.
Out on the pitch, instinct took over. In front of cameras, every word mattered.
Especially when you were captain.
Especially after beating Chelsea at Stamford Bridge.
Cech adjusted the collar of his jumpsuit.
"You'll be fine."
"I know."
"You are thinking too much."
"I'm really not."
"You are."
Francesco smiled.
"Maybe a little."
Petr gave him one of those small, knowing veteran smiles.
"The trick is simple. Tell the truth. But not all of it."
Goalkeepers were philosophers in gloves.
A club official appeared at the doorway.
"Ready?"
Francesco and Cech followed him down the corridor.
The tunnel beneath Stamford Bridge was quieter now. Most players had already left. Staff hurried between rooms carrying equipment, paperwork, and the assorted mysteries that kept elite football functioning.
The concrete walls still held echoes of the afternoon.
Crowd noise seemed to linger in places like this.
As they walked, Francesco caught sight of a few Chelsea staff members. Professional nods were exchanged.
Respect, even in rivalry.
Cech, of course, received a few warmer greetings. Stamford Bridge had been his home once. Places remembered people like him.
One Chelsea media officer smiled.
"Good to see you, Petr. Just wish it had been under different circumstances."
Cech's expression remained politely neutral.
"I understand completely."
Translation: not remotely.
Francesco tried not to laugh.
They reached the media room entrance.
Even through the closed doors, the murmur of journalists was audible.
Wenger was already there, speaking briefly with Arsenal's press officer.
He looked over as they approached.
"Ready?"
Cech nodded.
Francesco did the same.
"Good."
The press officer opened the door.
The room brightened immediately under camera lights.
Rows of journalists filled the seats, laptops open, phones ready, notebooks poised. Microphones lined the table at the front like a small electronic army.
Flashbulbs popped as Wenger, Francesco, and Cech took their seats.
Wenger in the center.
Captain to his right.
Goalkeeper to his left.
A fitting arrangement.
The moderator welcomed everyone and opened the floor.
First question, naturally, went to Wenger.
"Arsène, how significant is this result?"
Wenger folded his hands.
"It is a very important victory. Chelsea are always difficult here. We played with intelligence, balance, and great commitment."
He glanced briefly toward Francesco and Cech.
"Our defensive organization was excellent, and when opportunities came, we took them well."
A journalist from Sky raised his hand.
"Francesco, another goal in a big match. Did you feel Chelsea were vulnerable in those channels behind David Luiz?"
Francesco smiled slightly.
There it was.
"We knew they would defend aggressively. David likes to step forward, which can create space behind him. Our midfield did an excellent job finding those areas."
He nodded toward Wenger.
"The manager prepared us well."
A diplomatic answer.
Mostly true.
Another hand shot up.
"Petr, returning to Stamford Bridge and keeping a clean sheet—how special was that?"
Cech answered with his usual measured calm.
"It is always emotional to play here. I spent many wonderful years at this club. But when the game starts, emotion must wait."
A few journalists smiled.
"Our performance was excellent. Everyone defended. That is why we kept the clean sheet."
Not glamorous.
Just accurate.
A reporter from the BBC leaned forward.
"Francesco, talk us through your goal."
Now that was a question footballers secretly enjoyed.
"It developed exactly as we wanted. Serge did brilliantly down the right. He delivered a perfect cross."
He glanced toward the cameras.
"I mostly tried not to miss."
Laughter rippled through the room.
"It came quickly, but once the ball arrived, it was instinct."
Wenger allowed himself a faint smile.
A French journalist raised his voice.
"Arsène, Francesco continues to deliver in major games. Has he reached another level?"
Wenger looked at his captain for a brief moment before answering.
"He is improving all the time."
High praise.
"Not only in scoring, but in leadership, movement, decision-making. Today he was outstanding."
Francesco felt that one.
Praise from Wenger was like gold as it was rare, heavy, and never handed out lightly.
The next question came from a Chelsea correspondent.
"Petr, Hazard looked dangerous after coming on. How difficult was he to contain?"
Cech almost smiled.
"Eden is always difficult to contain. That is why he is Eden Hazard."
A fair point.
"But our defenders managed him very well. We limited his space, which is essential."
Another hand.
"Francesco, Gnabry was excellent today. How impressed have you been with his development?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Serge has been brilliant."
He meant every word.
"He works incredibly hard. His confidence is growing every week, and you can see it in his decision-making."
A grin tugged at his lips.
"Also, his finishing today was not terrible."
That earned another round of laughter.
The German reporters particularly appreciated that one.
Questions continued.
About Arsenal's title ambitions.
About Chelsea's struggles.
About Kante's superhuman stamina.
Francesco suspected science would eventually become involved.
One journalist asked whether Arsenal had sent a message to the rest of the league.
Wenger answered first.
"The only message is that we want to compete in every match."
Then he gestured lightly toward Francesco.
The captain picked it up.
"We know our quality. But quality means nothing without consistency."
A line Wenger would undoubtedly approve of.
"It's September, not May. There is a long way to go."
Professional.
Grounded.
Exactly right.
Then came the inevitable personal question.
A tabloid reporter, never knowingly subtle, asked:
"Francesco, you've scored again, captained the side brilliantly, and seem to thrive under pressure. Are you playing the best football of your career?"
Francesco thought about it.
Maybe.
Probably.
But football had a way of punishing arrogance.
"I'm enjoying my football."
Safe.
Honest.
"I feel confident, and the team gives me great support. When the team plays well, individuals usually look better too."
Wenger gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
Good answer.
The final question went to Cech.
"Petr, any advice for Francesco as captain?"
That got everyone's attention.
Cech turned toward Francesco, then back to the reporters.
"He does not need much advice."
A pause.
"He already speaks too much."
The room burst into laughter.
Even Wenger chuckled.
Francesco placed a hand over his heart in mock betrayal.
"From you, that's rich."
Cech's face remained perfectly straight.
"Experience."
Masterful.
The moderator thanked everyone.
Chairs scraped.
Cameras clicked one last time.
Then it was over.
As they stood, Wenger leaned toward Francesco.
"Very good."
Two words.
They carried weight.
Cech gathered his water bottle.
"You survived."
"Barely."
"You will improve."
"That's reassuring."
They walked back through the corridor together, the adrenaline of the match now replaced by that calmer satisfaction unique to complete days.
Outside the media room, Arsenal staff were already preparing departure logistics.
Players would head to the team bus soon.
The evening still awaited.
But for Francesco, there was a small moment of quiet first.
He checked his phone again.
Leah had sent another message.
Post-match interview next? Try not to embarrass yourself.
Too late, he typed back.
She replied almost instantly.
Impossible.
He laughed under his breath.
Cech glanced over.
"Good news?"
"The best kind."
They continued toward the dressing room.
Inside, the atmosphere remained buoyant.
Walker immediately pounced.
"What did you say? Did you mention my defensive masterclass?"
"No."
"Scandalous."
"You were briefly mentioned under 'unexpected athletic achievements.'"
"I'll take it."
Gnabry wanted to know whether his goal had been properly admired. Alexis wanted to know why journalists never asked him about Cheddar. Kante, somehow, had already packed everything.
Efficiency incarnate.
Francesco sat back down at his locker.
The press conference was done.
The victory was secured.
Three points safely earned.
The dressing room slowly began its transformation.
Victory had already been celebrated.
Now came the ritual afterward.
The practical side of professional football.
Tape peeled from ankles. Recovery shakes vanished. Phones, headphones, wallets, watches, and the various essentials of modern life reappeared from lockers and kit bags.
The noise never disappeared entirely.
It merely changed shape.
Walker was still talking, which was reassuring in the same way gravity was reassuring.
Gnabry was reviewing highlights of his goal on his phone despite having scored it less than an hour earlier.
Alexis was arguing with absolutely no one in particular about whether avocado counted as a proper post-match food.
Kante, naturally, had somehow already packed, stretched, recovered, and probably solved several complex mathematical equations.
Francesco slipped his watch back onto his wrist and zipped his overnight bag shut. His boots were tucked away carefully. Shirt folded. Medal-less, because this wasn't a final, but the satisfaction felt substantial enough to weigh something down.
Van Dijk walked past carrying a bag that looked suspiciously too small for a man of his size.
"How do you fit all your stuff in there?"
Virgil shrugged.
"Dutch engineering."
That explained everything and nothing.
Nearby, Petr Cech was speaking quietly with one of Arsenal's goalkeeper coaches. Even out of uniform, even carrying a simple black duffel bag, he looked exactly like a goalkeeper should look.
Composed.
Structured.
As though he'd probably alphabetize his groceries.
Francesco checked his phone.
Three new messages.
One from his mother.
One from an old academy teammate.
And one from Leah, sent a few minutes earlier.
Well done, captain. You looked annoyingly handsome on television.
He smiled despite himself.
A second message followed immediately.
Try not to let it go to your head.
Too late, he typed back.
The typing bubble appeared, vanished, then appeared again.
Walker leaned over at precisely the wrong moment.
"Leah?"
"Personal space is important."
"Not in football."
"Especially in football."
Walker grinned.
"Tell her I was magnificent."
"I'd rather tell her the truth."
Gnabry, overhearing, nearly dropped his phone laughing.
The equipment staff moved efficiently through the room, collecting stray training tops and empty bottles. The last remnants of matchday were disappearing.
Arsène Wenger reappeared briefly.
No grand speech this time.
Those had already been delivered.
Just a reminder.
"Recovery tomorrow at eleven. Please arrive looking as though you slept, even if you did not."
A collective groan followed.
Wenger, predictably, ignored it.
Then he was gone.
The players began filtering out.
One by one.
Then in clusters.
The corridor outside buzzed with club staff, security, and the endless logistical machinery that surrounded Premier League football.
Francesco slung his bag over one shoulder and stepped into the hallway alongside Kante and Robertson.
"You driving home tonight?" Robertson asked.
"Yeah."
"Good. Walker offered me a lift once."
Kante looked up.
"What happened?"
Robertson stared straight ahead.
"We arrived eventually."
That was somehow all the explanation required.
The team bus waited outside Stamford Bridge, gleaming beneath the London evening lights.
Dark blue sky hung over Fulham Road, the city beginning to glow with nightlife and traffic.
Supporters still lingered beyond the barriers.
A few Arsenal fans cheered as the players emerged.
Scarves raised.
Phones out.
Voices hoarse from ninety minutes of singing.
Francesco always made time.
He walked over, signed a couple of shirts, posed for a quick photo with a young supporter whose hands were shaking too much to hold the phone properly.
"Great goal today."
"Thanks."
"My dad says you're better than Henry."
Francesco laughed.
"Your dad is very kind."
And clinically insane, but there was no need to mention that.
He finally climbed aboard the bus.
The familiar smell hit immediately.
Leather seats.
Sports drinks.
Fresh laundry.
And the faint lingering scent of victory mixed with deep heat rub.
The glamorous life.
Francesco dropped into his usual seat halfway down the aisle.
Window side.
Gnabry slid in beside him moments later, still glowing.
Goals did that to young wingers.
Walker claimed the row across from them, despite several people visibly hoping otherwise.
"You know," Walker announced, "I was excellent."
"Stunning revelation," Cazorla replied.
The bus doors hissed shut.
Outside, security escorted them smoothly into London traffic.
Inside, the atmosphere settled into that wonderful post-win calm.
Some players immediately put on headphones.
Others scrolled through social media, reading praise they would publicly claim not to care about.
A few simply leaned back and enjoyed the silence.
Francesco watched the city slide past through tinted glass.
London at night was different.
Softer.
The aggression of daytime traffic mellowed into something almost elegant. Streetlights reflected off wet pavement. Restaurants buzzed. Taxis darted between lanes like caffeinated insects.
Beside him, Gnabry was replaying his goal.
Again.
And again.
And possibly once more for scientific verification.
"Just making sure it still went in?"
"You can never be too careful."
Francesco chuckled.
"It was a brilliant finish."
Serge grinned.
"I know."
Confidence was healthy.
Borderline narcissism, but healthy.
Further up the aisle, Walker had begun giving his own tactical analysis to anyone unlucky enough to be within hearing distance.
"And when Hazard tried to go outside—"
"He beat you once," Alexis interrupted.
"He did not."
"He absolutely did."
"That was strategic."
"What strategy involved losing the ball?"
Walker thought about this.
"Advanced strategy."
Even Cech smiled.
Francesco leaned his head back against the seat.
His body was beginning to cool now, and with that came the deeper fatigue. The kind that settled behind the eyes and into the bones.
A good fatigue.
Earned.
The motorway eventually opened up, carrying them north toward London Colney.
Conversation ebbed and flowed.
Kante somehow remained fully alert.
Virgil watched something on his tablet.
Özil appeared to be asleep with surgical precision.
Francesco checked his phone again.
Leah had posted a photo on Instagram.
A picture of his celebration, arms spread wide in front of the Arsenal supporters.
Caption:
Captain things
He liked it immediately.
Professional obligations could wait.
An incoming text followed moments later.
Dinner with the girls almost done. Miss you.
He smiled.
Miss you too.
Gnabry noticed.
"Definitely Leah."
"You're becoming alarmingly observant."
"I learned from Özil."
That was both impressive and mildly concerning.
The bus rolled into London Colney just after nine.
The training ground looked peaceful at night.
Floodlights glowed softly over empty pitches. The main building stood quiet and familiar, a second home to everyone aboard.
The bus slowed.
Turned.
Finally came to a stop.
The aisle immediately filled with players standing, stretching, grabbing bags from overhead racks.
Walker nearly hit himself in the face with his own backpack.
A fitting end to a solid performance.
Francesco stepped off the bus into the cool Hertfordshire evening.
Fresh air hit his face.
The kind that reminded you summer was fading.
Cars lined the players' parking area, each one gleaming under the lights.
Luxury vehicles, mostly.
Footballers had certain hobbies.
Francesco's BMW X5 sat exactly where he'd left it, black paint reflecting the overhead lamps.
Still immaculate.
Still slightly too clean for English weather.
He unlocked it remotely.
The lights flashed in greeting.
Around him, teammates dispersed.
Robertson headed toward his Range Rover. Van Dijk climbed into a Mercedes that somehow looked even larger than he was. Cech loaded his gear with the precision of a man arranging laboratory equipment.
Walker, naturally, continued talking while trying to unlock the wrong car.
"That's not yours," Cazorla informed him.
"I knew that."
"You absolutely did not."
Francesco laughed.
He tossed his bag into the back seat.
Before getting in, he heard someone call his name.
Gnabry jogged over.
"See you tomorrow, captain."
"Recovery."
Serge made a face.
"Worst word in football."
"Second worst."
"What's the worst?"
"'Double session.'"
Gnabry shuddered theatrically.
Then he headed off.
Francesco finally slid into the driver's seat.
The leather was cool.
Comfortable.
Familiar.
He started the engine, and the BMW purred to life.
A little reward for years of hard work.
He adjusted the mirrors, plugged his phone into the charger, and pulled out of the parking lot.
The roads were quiet.
Night had settled properly now.
Streetlights cast long shadows across empty stretches of pavement. The radio played softly, though he barely registered what song it was.
He was still replaying moments from the match.
The goal.
Gnabry's finish.
The roar from the away end.
Wenger's brief smile.
Some days reminded you exactly why you'd fallen in love with football in the first place.
His phone buzzed through the car's Bluetooth system.
A text notification.
Leah.
He tapped the steering wheel control to hear it read aloud.
"Finished dinner. Any chance my favorite striker can rescue me? We're at The Ivy in Richmond. The girls are abandoning me."
Francesco smiled instantly.
There it was.
A better offer than driving straight home.
He dictated his reply.
"On my way. Try not to sign for another club before I arrive."
The automated voice sent it.
A moment later, her response came back.
"Too late. Chelsea offered dessert."
He laughed out loud.
"Then I definitely need to hurry."
Richmond wasn't far.
And frankly, picking up Leah after a win at Stamford Bridge felt poetically appropriate.
Traffic was mercifully light.
The BMW cruised smoothly through west London, engine humming beneath him. Shopfronts passed in a blur of light and reflection.
His body was tired.
His mind, however, remained wonderfully awake.
Victories did that.
As he drove, he thought about the evening ahead.
Leah.
Probably teasing him about his interview.
Possibly stealing his jacket.
Almost certainly criticizing Walker's haircut despite not having seen it today.
The usual.
His phone buzzed once more.
A photo this time.
Leah and several of her Arsenal teammates gathered around a restaurant table, all smiling, glasses raised.
She'd added a caption.
Hurry up, captain. They're trying to set me up with a rugby player.
Francesco shook his head, grinning.
He sent back a single response.
I'm accelerating irresponsibly.
A typing bubble appeared immediately.
Don't you dare.
He obeyed.
Mostly.
The city gave way to Richmond's quieter, tree-lined streets. Restaurants and pubs still hummed with evening life. Couples strolled beneath streetlamps. Laughter drifted through open doors.
He pulled up outside The Ivy.
The restaurant's warm lights spilled onto the pavement.
Even from the car, he could see Leah through the front window.
She was laughing at something one of her friends had said, dark hair falling over one shoulder, completely unaware he'd already arrived.
And just like that, the exhaustion of the day seemed a little lighter.
Football was extraordinary.
But this, these moments after.
The drives.
The messages.
The people waiting for you when the stadium lights dimmed.
These mattered just as much.
Francesco parked, killed the engine, and reached for the door as it's time to collect his favorite passenger.
______________________________________________
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