If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
_____________________________
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And honestly, Francesco wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Morning at London Colney always carried a different kind of energy after a win.
Not louder.
Not necessarily more intense.
Just…lighter.
Even the air felt easier to breathe.
Francesco noticed it the moment he stepped out of his BMW and into the crisp Hertfordshire morning. The sky was clear, pale blue stretching endlessly above the training pitches, sunlight catching the dew on the grass so it shimmered faintly like the whole place had been dusted with glass.
A good morning.
The kind players appreciated more than they ever admitted out loud.
He slung his training bag over his shoulder and made his way toward the main building, the familiar rhythm of footsteps on concrete grounding him immediately back into routine.
Recovery day.
Light session.
But still a session.
Inside, the changing room was already alive.
Not chaotic.
Not loud in the matchday sense.
But buzzing.
Different conversations layered over each other, laughter breaking out in pockets, boots thudding lightly against the floor as players moved around getting ready.
Walker, unsurprisingly, was at the center of one of those pockets.
"I'm just saying," he was mid-sentence as Francesco walked in, "if I had played, it's five."
"Five what?" Ramsey asked.
"Goals."
"You think you would've scored a hat-trick?"
"I didn't say for who."
That earned a round of laughter.
Francesco shook his head, dropping his bag by his locker.
"Morning."
A chorus of replies followed.
"Morning, captain."
"Morning."
"Look who decided to work today," Alexis added, tying his boots with unnecessary aggression.
"I had a tough evening," Francesco replied.
"Watching television?"
"Very demanding."
Leah would've agreed, at least in theory.
He changed quickly, slipping into training gear, the familiar weight of routine settling over him like a second skin. Boots on. Tape wrapped. Shirt adjusted.
Normal.
After the rhythm of matchdays, training days always felt almost…quiet.
But not less important.
Never less important.
Out on the pitch, the squad began to gather.
The grass was perfect.
It always was.
Colney didn't do "almost."
Francesco stepped out into the sunlight and scanned the group.
There they were.
The starters that played againts Doncaster.
Giroud laughing with Walcott.
Iwobi stretching lazily.
Ramsey already moving like he'd had three coffees.
And then, Raya.
Standing just slightly off to the side, gloves tucked under one arm, talking quietly with one of the goalkeeper coaches.
There it was again.
That look.
Different from yesterday.
The nerves had gone.
What remained was something better.
Belonging.
Francesco walked over without hesitation.
"Morning."
Raya looked up immediately.
"Morning, captain."
There was still a hint of that respectful edge in his voice, the kind young players carried when speaking to senior figures.
Francesco clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"Good debut."
Simple.
Direct.
Raya's expression shifted instantly.
Pride.
Relief.
Gratitude.
"Thank you."
"Two big saves."
"I tried to stay ready."
"You did more than that," Francesco said. "Positioning was excellent. Especially the second one."
Raya blinked, slightly surprised.
"You noticed that?"
Francesco smirked.
"I shouted at the television about it."
From behind them, Ramsey chimed in.
"He actually did, apparently."
Leah had clearly shared that story already.
Dangerous.
Raya laughed, shoulders relaxing.
"That helps."
"It does," Francesco said. "Confidence comes from moments like that. You don't need ten games. Sometimes one is enough."
That mattered.
Francesco knew it did.
He remembered his own debut conversations.
The small words.
The quick acknowledgments.
They stayed with you longer than goals sometimes.
Raya nodded.
"I just wanted to do my job."
"You did it well."
Francesco gave him one more firm pat on the shoulder before moving on.
No need to overdo it.
Encouragement worked best when it felt natural.
Across the pitch, the outfield players who had featured last night were going through light recovery drills.
Short passing.
Mobility work.
Nothing too intense.
Just enough to keep the legs moving and the body loose.
Francesco jogged over to them.
"Nice win," he said.
Giroud spread his arms.
"Four goals. I leave you for one match and suddenly everyone scores."
"You started it."
"Of course I did."
Walcott grinned.
"I've still got it, by the way."
"You've always had it," Francesco said.
"Say that louder."
"No."
Iwobi, lying on his back mid-stretch, raised a hand.
"That finish was top corner, by the way."
"It was," Francesco admitted. "Very clean."
Iwobi nodded with exaggerated seriousness.
"I practice that."
"You should."
Ramsey jogged past them, barely slowing down.
"I expect a similar review of my goal."
"Yours was predictable," Francesco replied.
Ramsey stopped.
"Predictable?"
"Yes."
He pointed toward the goal.
"Late run. Perfect timing. Clean finish. You've scored that goal about fifty times."
Ramsey considered that.
"…Fair."
They all laughed.
There was something about these mornings.
The absence of pressure.
The presence of satisfaction.
It let personalities breathe a little more.
Then came Santi.
Cazorla approached with that familiar easy smile, captain's energy still lingering from the night before.
"Did you enjoy the show?"
"Very much," Francesco said. "You made it look unfair."
Santi shrugged.
"I had space."
"You always have space."
"That's because everyone else is too slow."
Technically true.
Francesco shook his head, smiling.
"You deserved the armband."
Santi's expression softened just slightly.
"Thank you."
That one landed.
Different kind of compliment.
The kind that meant something deeper than performance.
Nearby, Wilshere was already in conversation with a group of younger players which is Nketiah, Nelson, and Willock that clearly reliving moments from the match.
Francesco drifted over.
"…and when you make that run," Wilshere was saying, "don't hesitate. Even if you don't get the ball, you move the defender."
Nketiah nodded intently.
"Yeah."
Francesco stepped in.
"You pressed well."
Nketiah straightened immediately.
"Thanks."
"You don't stop running."
"I try not to."
"Don't lose that," Francesco said. "Strikers who press like that are a nightmare."
Nelson chimed in.
"He nearly got me booked for not pressing once."
"Good," Francesco replied. "He should."
The young winger grinned.
"I'll remember that."
"You better."
Moments like these were subtle.
Easy to overlook.
But they mattered.
Young players didn't just need minutes.
They needed voices.
Guidance.
Reassurance.
Sometimes just acknowledgment.
Francesco moved through the group naturally, offering a word here, a joke there, a nod of approval where it was deserved.
Nothing forced.
Nothing dramatic.
Just presence.
That was part of being captain too.
Not speeches.
Not always.
Just showing up.
Training officially began a few minutes later.
Wenger stepped out onto the pitch, hands in pockets as always, expression calm, eyes sharp.
The whistle blew.
The session started.
Recovery work first.
Light rondos.
Short passing drills.
The tempo was relaxed, but the quality wasn't.
It never was.
Even in recovery, Arsenal trained properly.
Francesco found himself in a rondo with Ramsey, Iwobi, Wilshere, and unfortunately Walker.
"Don't lose it," Walker said immediately.
"You will absolutely lose it," Ramsey added.
"I won't."
Francesco took one touch.
Clean.
Second touch.
Sharp.
Walker lunged.
Missed completely.
"Sit down," Iwobi said.
"I slipped."
"There's no water," Wilshere pointed out.
"Emotional slip."
Acceptable, apparently.
The ball zipped around.
Quick passes.
One-touch combinations.
Little bursts of laughter when someone got caught in the middle.
Even Raya joined a separate group with the other goalkeepers, his distribution already being tested under light pressure.
Francesco noticed that too.
Always scanning.
Always observing.
The young keeper looked confident.
Not overconfident.
Just settled.
That was the best sign.
After twenty minutes, the session shifted slightly.
Small-sided games.
Nothing too intense, but competitive enough to keep everyone engaged.
Francesco's team included Alexis, Robertson, and unfortunately again, Walker.
Opposite them were Ramsey, Iwobi, and Bellerín.
"Easy win," Walker declared.
"Based on what?" Robertson asked.
"Belief."
"Ah. No evidence."
The game started.
Immediate chaos.
Short pitch.
Quick touches.
No space.
Exactly the kind of environment where Alexis thrived.
He stole the ball within seconds and drove forward.
Shot.
Goal.
"1-0," he announced.
"No one asked," Walker replied.
Francesco dropped deeper, linking play, moving the ball quickly, letting the younger players take risks.
That was part of it too.
Knowing when to lead.
Knowing when to step back.
At one point, he slipped a neat pass into Robertson, who finished cleanly.
"Good ball," Robertson said.
"Good finish."
Walker immediately demanded credit.
"I created that."
"You were on the other side of the pitch."
"Exactly. Confusion."
The game ended eventually as no one entirely sure of the score, which was probably for the best.
Players drifted back toward the center.
Breathing lightly.
Sweat minimal.
Work done.
Wenger gathered them briefly.
"Good," he said simply.
Another one of his understated approvals.
He looked toward the group that had played the night before.
"Very professional performance."
A few nods.
Satisfied.
"Now we prepare for the next match."
Always forward.
Never lingering too long.
That was football.
Francesco glanced around the group one more time.
Raya laughing with the other goalkeepers.
Nketiah still buzzing.
Santi relaxed, content.
Ramsey already talking about the next game.
This team.
It was building something.
Not just results.
Something deeper.
Connection.
Understanding.
Belief.
He wiped his face with a towel and exhaled slowly.
Chelsea beaten.
Doncaster handled.
Momentum building.
And as the players began heading back toward the dressing room, Walker's voice rose above everything once again.
"I'm just saying, if I played yesterday—"
Francesco didn't even turn around.
"Five goals, we know."
"Exactly."
The laughter didn't really fade as they made their way back toward the dressing room.
It just shifted again.
Training had that effect.
It burned off the sharp edges of competitiveness and left behind something looser, something easier.
Boots thudded against the concrete floor as players stepped inside, the familiar hum of post-session routine taking over almost instantly.
Showers started running.
Lockers opened.
Music, inevitably, returned.
Walker was already halfway through retelling a moment from the small-sided game in which he claimed to have controlled the tempo, which was an ambitious interpretation of events.
"You lost the ball twice in ten seconds," Robertson pointed out, pulling his shirt over his head.
"That was tactical."
"Everything is tactical with you."
"Because I think ahead."
"You don't think at all."
Fair.
Francesco dropped onto the bench in front of his locker, peeling off his training top, sweat cooling against his skin. It wasn't a hard session, not physically, but there was always something satisfying about the feeling afterward.
Work done.
Progress made.
Another step forward.
Across the room, Raya was laughing at something one of the goalkeeper coaches had said, his gloves tossed carelessly into his bag now instead of being handled like fragile glass.
That was already a difference.
Yesterday, everything had probably felt delicate.
Today, it looked like it belonged to him.
Good.
That mattered.
Francesco stood, grabbing a towel, and made his way toward the showers along with the rest of the squad.
Steam filled the room quickly, the mirrors fogging over, voices echoing off tile walls.
The water hit his shoulders, hot and steady, washing away the last traces of training.
Nearby, Alexis was still arguing about something that no one else seemed to fully understand.
"It is about principle," he insisted.
"There is no principle," Ramsey replied. "It's just lunch."
"It matters."
"It doesn't."
"It does."
Francesco closed his eyes briefly, letting the noise blend into the background.
This was normal.
This was home.
A few minutes later, the showers began to empty.
Towels wrapped around waists.
Flip-flops slapping against the floor.
The dressing room slowly reassembled itself.
Clothes replaced kits.
Phones reappeared.
The modern world crept back in.
Francesco dressed quickly, pulling on a clean black t-shirt, dark jeans, and a light jacket. Casual. Comfortable. The kind of outfit that didn't require thinking.
Around him, the same transformation was happening.
Gnabry carefully choosing between two nearly identical jackets.
Iwobi checking his reflection like he was preparing for a photoshoot.
Ramsey already dressed and somehow still moving at the pace of a man late for something.
Walker, of course, was still talking.
"I'm just saying, if we combine my speed with your finishing—"
"You mean his finishing with your running," Alexis corrected.
"That's what I said."
"That is not what you said."
Francesco shook his head, smiling as he slipped his watch back onto his wrist.
Then, almost casually, he spoke.
"Dinner."
It wasn't loud.
Didn't need to be.
The word carried.
A few heads turned.
"What about it?" Robertson asked.
Francesco zipped his jacket.
"My treat. Nearby. We go now."
There was a brief pause.
Half a second.
Then.
"What?"
"Seriously?"
"Free food?"
"Now you have my attention," Ramsey said.
Walker froze mid-sentence, which was a rare and slightly concerning development.
"You're paying?"
"Yes."
Walker pointed at him.
"I love you."
"Don't make it weird."
Too late.
The reaction spread through the room like wildfire.
Cheers.
Whistles.
Immediate approval.
Even Alexis cracked a small smile, which was roughly equivalent to a full celebration.
"That is a very good idea," Cazorla said warmly.
"It is an excellent idea," Elneny added.
Gnabry was already grabbing his bag.
"I'm coming even if I wasn't invited."
"You were invited."
"Good."
Francesco shrugged slightly.
"Thought we deserved it."
Simple as that.
A good win.
A strong training session.
Momentum building.
Sometimes, you didn't need a special occasion.
Sometimes, you just needed a reason to sit together away from the pitch.
"Where are we going?" Iwobi asked.
"Somewhere close," Francesco replied. "Nothing complicated."
"Expensive?" Walker asked.
"Now it is."
"Even better."
Within minutes, the room shifted again.
Bags zipped.
Phones pocketed.
Shoes on.
The squad began filtering out, energy rising all over again at the promise of food and no tactical instructions.
Outside, the parking area buzzed with life.
Engines starting.
Doors opening and closing.
The usual collection of cars waited under the afternoon light.
Francesco's BMW X5 sat quietly among them, familiar and reliable.
He tossed his bag into the back just as Gnabry appeared beside him.
"I call shotgun."
"You didn't even ask."
"I'm asking now."
"…Fine."
Across the lot, similar negotiations were happening.
Young players instinctively gravitated toward the senior ones.
Partly for convenience.
Partly because no one really wanted to show up alone.
Nketiah ended up with Ramsey and Wilshere, squeezed into the back seat while trying to pretend he wasn't slightly excited about it.
Nelson slid into Bellerín's car, immediately commenting on the interior like a man reviewing luxury real estate.
Maitland-Niles somehow ended up with Alexis, which was either a privilege or a test of character.
Raya hesitated for half a second near his car before Cech gestured calmly.
"Come."
Simple.
Authoritative.
Raya didn't argue.
He climbed into the passenger seat like a student being invited into a masterclass.
Francesco noticed that.
Of course he did.
He slid into the driver's seat, Gnabry already adjusting the music with alarming confidence.
"You don't get to control the playlist," Francesco said.
"I absolutely do."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
Gnabry paused.
"…Fine. But I'm judging you."
"That seems fair."
The engine started.
The convoy slowly pulled out of London Colney, a loose procession of Arsenal players heading toward food, laughter, and the kind of evening that had nothing to do with tactics.
The drive wasn't long.
Just enough time for music, half-finished conversations, and the occasional message lighting up phones across dashboards.
Walker somehow managed to call Francesco while driving.
"You picked a good place, yeah?"
"I'm driving."
"So am I."
"Then focus."
"I am focused. On food."
"Goodbye, Walker."
He hung up.
Gnabry laughed.
"He's unbelievable."
"He's consistent."
They pulled into the restaurant not long after.
Nothing overly extravagant.
Just a well-known local spot.
Warm lighting.
Outdoor seating.
The kind of place that handled groups well and didn't panic when twenty professional footballers walked in at once.
As the cars arrived one by one, the group reassembled naturally.
Laughter returned immediately.
The energy picked up right where it had left off.
Walker stepped out of his car and stretched dramatically.
"I'm starving."
"You're always starving," Robertson said.
"That's because I burn more calories."
"Talking doesn't count."
Raya stepped out more quietly, glancing around, still adjusting to being part of something like this.
Francesco noticed again.
He always noticed.
"Come on," he said, nodding toward the entrance.
"No thinking. Just eating."
Raya smiled slightly.
"Okay."
Inside, tables were pushed together quickly, staff moving with practiced efficiency.
Water appeared.
Menus followed.
The noise built again.
Orders were debated loudly.
Opinions were shared aggressively.
Gnabry attempted to order enough food for three people.
Alexis scrutinized the menu like it contained tactical errors.
Walker claimed he needed protein for recovery, which translated roughly to ordering everything.
Francesco leaned back in his chair for a moment, taking it all in.
This.
This was important.
Not the headlines.
Not the interviews.
This.
The team.
The connection.
The moments no one saw.
Across the table, Raya was laughing now, properly, fully part of the conversation.
Nketiah was listening intently to Wilshere again.
Cazorla was telling a story.
Ramsey was interrupting it.
Naturally.
Francesco smiled to himself.
Then reached for the menu.
"Order whatever you want," he said.
A dangerous sentence.
One that was immediately taken very seriously.
"Are you sure?" Robertson asked.
"No regrets."
Walker leaned forward.
"I'm about to financially ruin you."
"I look forward to it."
The table erupted again.
And just like that, another memory began to form.
Not on the pitch.
But just as meaningful.
Because teams weren't only built in matches.
They were built here.
In laughter.
In shared meals.
In moments like this, where football stepped back just enough to let people simply be people.
______________________________________________
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