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!)
...
In moments like this, where football stepped back just enough to let people simply be people.
The food came quickly.
Not fast in the rushed sense.
Fast in the way good restaurants moved when they understood exactly what they were dealing with a full squad of professional footballers who had just trained, were now hungry, and had collectively decided that subtlety was no longer part of the evening.
Plates arrived in waves.
Grilled chicken.
Pasta.
Steaks.
Salads that existed mostly to make everything else feel justified.
Bread baskets that vanished within seconds.
Gnabry's order alone could have supported a small village.
"No one's touching this," he warned, pulling a plate slightly closer to himself.
"You ordered enough for six people," Iwobi pointed out.
"I'm thinking long-term."
"You're eating short-term."
Across the table, Alexis was still inspecting his food like a man reviewing a tactical lineup.
"This is acceptable," he finally declared.
High praise.
Walker had already started eating before half the table had received their meals, which prompted immediate criticism.
"You couldn't wait?" Robertson asked.
"I'm maintaining energy levels."
"For what?"
"Conversation."
"That explains nothing."
Francesco sat back for a moment, watching it all unfold.
This.
This right here.
This was the part no one saw.
No cameras.
No headlines.
No tactical breakdowns.
Just a group of players sharing food, laughter, and the kind of easy comfort that didn't need explanation.
He picked up his fork and finally joined in, cutting into his meal.
Good.
Very good.
"Worth it?" Ramsey asked from across the table.
"Very."
"Good. Because I ordered dessert already."
"Of course you did."
"Leadership decision."
Walker immediately leaned in.
"I support this leadership."
"You support anything edible."
"Correct."
At the far end of the table, Raya was quieter than the rest, but not withdrawn.
Listening.
Laughing.
Joining in when the moment felt right.
That balance again.
Settling.
Francesco caught his eye briefly and gave a small nod.
No words.
Didn't need them.
Raya nodded back.
That was enough.
Conversations overlapped.
Stories from training.
Debates about goals.
Arguments about who would win in completely hypothetical five-a-side matches that would never actually happen.
Wilshere was deep into explaining something to Nketiah again, hands moving as he spoke, reliving movements from the match.
"You see the space here and if you go early, the defender follows, but if you wait—"
"I get it," Nketiah said, nodding quickly.
"Good."
"Explain it again."
They both laughed.
Cazorla, meanwhile, had somehow become the center of another story, Ramsey interrupting every few seconds to "correct" details that didn't need correcting.
"And then I pass—"
"You lost the ball."
"I did not lose the ball."
"You definitely lost the ball."
"I chose to lose the ball."
"Ah, tactical loss."
"Exactly."
Francesco shook his head, smiling as he took another bite.
Time moved easily.
Naturally.
No one checked the clock.
No one needed to.
Eventually, dessert arrived.
Because of course it did.
Walker looked genuinely emotional.
"I've made excellent life choices."
"You didn't make this decision," Alexis said.
"I supported it."
"Silently."
"Powerfully."
Francesco leaned back again, exhaling softly.
Full.
Relaxed.
Content.
This had been the right call.
No question.
When the bill finally came, there was a moment.
A brief, collective glance.
Then all eyes turned to Francesco.
Walker leaned back in his chair.
"Captain."
Francesco didn't even look at the number.
He handed his card over without hesitation.
"No regrets," he repeated.
The cheer that followed was immediate.
"You're a legend!"
"I take everything back I've ever said about you," Walker added.
"You said nothing bad."
"Exactly."
As they stood, chairs scraping lightly against the floor, the energy didn't drop.
If anything, it lifted again.
Full stomachs.
Light minds.
A team that felt, in that moment, exactly like what it should be.
Together.
Outside, the evening had cooled slightly.
The sky deepened into that soft blue-black of early night.
Cars waited where they'd been left.
The group split naturally again, heading toward their rides.
"Same again next week?" Robertson called out.
"Not if Walker eats like this," Francesco replied.
"I feel attacked."
"You should."
Laughter followed.
Engines started.
Doors closed.
One by one, they pulled away.
Back to homes.
Back to routines.
Back to the quiet moments between matches.
The days that followed carried that same energy forward.
Momentum had a rhythm to it.
And Arsenal were firmly in step.
The Emirates welcomed them back for the next Premier League match with that familiar sense of anticipation.
Bright lights.
Full stands.
The hum of expectation.
West Brom arrived organized, disciplined, and prepared to make things difficult.
They always were.
But Arsenal didn't let the game settle into anything slow.
From the first whistle, the intent was clear.
Move the ball quickly.
Stretch the pitch.
Force openings.
Francesco felt sharp.
Really sharp.
The kind of sharp that came when confidence and rhythm aligned perfectly.
The breakthrough came midway through the first half.
A move that started deep.
Built patiently.
Then accelerated.
Cazorla found space.
Of course he did.
Slipped the ball forward.
Francesco timed his run perfectly.
Between the lines.
Into the gap.
One touch to control.
Second to strike.
Low.
Precise.
Goal.
The Emirates erupted.
He didn't celebrate wildly.
Didn't need to.
A simple turn.
Arms slightly out.
Acknowledgment.
Job started.
Not finished.
Alexis doubled the lead before halftime.
A burst of energy.
A sharp cut inside.
A finish that carried his usual intensity.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
2–0.
Control.
Van Dijk sealed it in the second half.
A set piece.
Delivered perfectly.
Met with authority.
Power.
Precision.
3–0.
Done.
Professional.
Another clean sheet.
Another step forward.
The next match came quickly.
Brighton at home.
Another opportunity.
Another test.
And again, Arsenal didn't hesitate.
The first half saw pressure.
Movement.
Control.
But it was the second half where everything opened up.
Gnabry struck first.
Confidence from the Doncaster match carrying forward.
He picked up the ball wide.
Drove inside.
Shot early.
Caught the keeper off guard.
Goal.
1–0.
He celebrated with that same youthful energy, arms wide, grin impossible to hide.
Francesco pointed at him as he ran past.
"More of that."
Gnabry nodded.
"Always."
Xhaka made it two.
From distance.
Of course.
The kind of strike that didn't ask permission.
Just decided.
Hit.
Net.
2–0.
Francesco added the third.
A different kind of goal this time.
Movement.
Patience.
Right place.
Right moment.
Finish.
3–0.
He allowed himself a little more emotion with that one.
A fist clenched.
A shout.
Because this wasn't just about scoring.
It was about rhythm.
Flow.
Consistency.
Giroud closed it out.
A proper striker's finish.
Inside the box.
Quick.
Decisive.
4–0.
Another dominant performance.
Another statement.
Back at London Colney, the mood was unmistakable.
Not overconfident.
But certain.
The kind of belief that came from doing the work and seeing the results follow.
Francesco could feel it in training.
The passes were sharper.
The movement cleaner.
The communication easier.
Everything just…clicked.
But football didn't allow you to sit in that feeling for long.
There was always another challenge waiting.
And this one came with a different edge.
European nights always did.
Preparation shifted.
Subtly at first.
Then clearly.
The next match loomed.
Away.
Group E.
A different stage.
A different atmosphere.
Spartak Moscow.
Travel plans were discussed.
Training sessions adjusted.
Tactical meetings grew slightly longer.
The tone sharpened.
Francesco felt it immediately.
That shift.
From domestic rhythm to European focus.
It was different.
It demanded more.
He welcomed it.
Always did.
Because nights like that, were the ones players lived for.
The shift toward Europe didn't arrive with noise.
It arrived with structure.
With quiet reminders.
With the subtle tightening of focus that every player recognized instinctively, even if no one said it out loud.
By the next morning, London Colney felt different again.
Still calm.
Still professional.
But sharpened.
Suitcases had replaced gym bags in corners of the dressing room. Travel kits were laid out neatly. Staff moved with that efficient, almost invisible coordination that came with away trips.
Francesco arrived early.
Not because he had to.
Because he liked to.
The car park was quieter than usual, the air carrying that cool edge of a morning that hadn't quite decided whether it wanted to be warm yet.
He stepped out of his BMW, grabbed his travel bag from the back seat, and paused for just a second.
European away day.
There was something about it.
Something different.
Something that always made the game feel bigger.
Inside, the dressing room was already half full.
Ramsey sat tying his boots, though they wouldn't be needed for a few hours.
"Morning," he said without looking up.
"Morning."
"Packed?"
"Always."
"Forgot my charger last time," Ramsey added. "Nearly caused an international incident."
"That explains a lot."
Across the room, Gnabry was double checking his headphones like they were mission-critical equipment.
"They are," he said when Francesco raised an eyebrow. "Long flight."
"Fair."
Walker entered loudly, as expected.
"Who's sitting where on the plane? I'm not sitting near Alexis again."
Alexis, already seated, didn't even look up.
"You talk too much."
"I breathe too much near you, apparently."
"That is also a problem."
Cazorla laughed softly from his locker.
"This will be a long trip."
"It always is," Francesco replied.
Bags were zipped.
Passports checked.
Last-minute items thrown in without much thought.
Routine.
Then came the call.
"Bus in five."
The room shifted immediately.
Chairs scraped.
Players stood.
That smooth, practiced transition from preparation to movement.
Francesco slung his bag over his shoulder and followed the group out.
The team bus waited just outside, engine already running.
Dark windows.
Familiar seats.
A mobile extension of their world.
He climbed aboard, greeting the driver with a nod, and made his way down the aisle.
Same seat.
Window.
Gnabry followed.
Of course he did.
"I'm not letting you sit next to Walker."
"Appreciated."
Walker, unfortunately, sat across from them anyway.
"I heard that."
"You were meant to."
The bus pulled away from Colney smoothly, rolling out into the quiet roads as London slowly woke around them.
Inside, the mood was calm.
Not sleepy.
Not tense.
Just focused.
Some players plugged in headphones immediately.
Others scrolled through their phones.
A few, like Kante, simply sat quietly, watching the world pass by with that same peaceful attentiveness he brought to everything.
Francesco leaned his head back, eyes drifting toward the window.
Trees.
Road signs.
Early traffic.
The routine of departure.
Beside him, Gnabry had already started a playlist.
Low volume.
Good taste, surprisingly.
"You're improving," Francesco said.
"I adapt."
"Finally."
The airport came into view not long after.
Private terminal.
Efficient.
No chaos.
Just smooth transitions.
The bus slowed, turned, and stopped.
Doors opened.
Fresh air hit again.
Cooler this time.
Sharper.
Players stepped off one by one, staff guiding them through quickly.
Security was minimal.
Everything already arranged.
That was the benefit of this level.
No delays.
No unnecessary friction.
Just movement.
Francesco adjusted his bag on his shoulder as they walked toward the aircraft.
It sat waiting.
Clean.
Still.
Ready.
There was always a moment.
Right before boarding.
When you looked at the plane and thought about where it was about to take you.
Another country.
Another stadium.
Another test.
He climbed the steps.
Stepped inside.
The familiar interior welcomed him.
Wide seats.
Soft lighting.
A quiet hum of preparation.
He dropped into his seat, buckled in loosely, and glanced around.
Cech was already reading something.
Ramsey scrolling.
Walker talking again.
Of course.
"Do you think Russian food is good?"
"No idea," Robertson replied.
"I'm prepared to find out."
"You're always prepared to eat."
"Correct."
The final players boarded.
Doors closed.
Safety checks done.
The aircraft began to move.
Taxiing slowly.
Building toward that moment.
Francesco felt it.
That slight tightening in the chest.
Not nerves.
Something else.
Anticipation.
The engines roared.
Acceleration pushed them back into their seats.
Then lift.
London fell away beneath them.
The city shrinking.
Clouds rising.
Sky opening.
And just like that, they were on their way to Moscow.
The flight settled into its rhythm quickly.
Seatbelts loosened.
Conversations resumed.
Food was served.
Simple.
Clean.
Functional.
Francesco ate without much thought, then leaned back, letting the steady hum of the engines fill the background.
Gnabry nudged him.
"Watch this."
He showed him a clip.
His goal against Brighton.
Again.
"Still good," Francesco said.
"It gets better every time."
"That's not how physics works."
"It is for me."
Across the aisle, Walker had somehow started explaining the geography of Russia.
Incorrectly.
"It's basically all snow."
"It's not all snow," Ramsey said.
"Mostly snow."
"You've never been."
"I've seen pictures."
"That doesn't count."
Francesco closed his eyes briefly, letting the noise blend into something comfortable.
Time passed.
Slowly.
Then quickly.
As flights always did.
Eventually, the captain's voice came over the speakers.
Descent.
Seatbelts.
Preparation.
Francesco opened his eyes and looked out the window.
Moscow stretched beneath them.
Vast.
Different.
Buildings layered in a way London wasn't.
Roads cutting through in long, straight lines.
The light was different too.
Colder.
Sharper.
The plane touched down smoothly.
A soft jolt.
Reverse thrust.
Deceleration.
They had arrived.
Inside the cabin, movement resumed immediately.
Phones checked.
Messages sent.
Jackets pulled on.
Francesco stood, grabbing his bag from the overhead compartment.
"Cold?" Gnabry asked.
"Probably."
"I didn't pack for cold."
"You never pack properly."
"That's a bold accusation."
The doors opened.
And the air that greeted them proved the point immediately.
Cold.
Not unbearable.
But noticeable.
A crisp, dry chill that felt completely different from London's softer air.
"Okay," Gnabry said. "This is different."
Francesco exhaled, watching his breath briefly.
"Welcome to Moscow."
They moved quickly across the tarmac and into the terminal.
Everything efficient.
Structured.
Signs in Cyrillic and English guiding them through.
Security again, smooth and controlled.
Then out.
The team bus waited.
Different from theirs.
But familiar in purpose.
They climbed aboard.
Settled in.
The city awaited.
As the bus pulled away from the airport, Moscow unfolded around them.
Wide roads.
Large buildings.
A sense of scale that felt…bigger.
More imposing.
Francesco watched quietly.
New cities always did this to him.
They reset something.
Reminded him how big the world actually was beyond the pitch.
Beside him, Gnabry had his phone out again.
Taking pictures.
"Proof I'm here," he said.
"As if people wouldn't believe you."
"They might think I'm lying."
"No one thinks that."
"They should."
The bus moved steadily through traffic.
Past unfamiliar landmarks.
Past clusters of buildings that carried history in their structure.
The conversation inside remained easy.
Light.
But underneath it all, that European edge remained.
Tomorrow mattered.
It always did.
Eventually, the bus turned off the main road and slowed.
The hotel appeared.
Tall.
Modern.
Glass reflecting the pale Moscow sky.
The bus came to a stop.
Doors opened.
And once again, the squad flowed out.
Into another space.
Another temporary home.
Inside, the lobby was wide and polished.
Marble floors.
Soft lighting.
A quiet hum of luxury that felt almost universal across top-level hotels.
Francesco stepped in, adjusting his jacket slightly, eyes scanning the space automatically.
Habit.
Always aware.
Always observing.
The group gathered naturally near the center.
Bags set down.
Phones out.
Small conversations forming again.
Staff moved to the reception desk, handling the details.
Room assignments.
Keys.
Logistics.
Wenger stood nearby, hands in his pockets, watching calmly.
Always present.
Always observing.
After a moment, he stepped forward slightly.
"Gentlemen."
The noise softened.
Attention shifted.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we train at CSKA Moscow's training ground."
Simple.
Clear.
"We prepare properly."
A few nods.
No speeches needed.
They understood.
"We leave at ten."
Another nod.
That was enough.
Wenger stepped back.
Conversation resumed.
But quieter now.
More focused.
Francesco leaned lightly against one of the pillars, glancing around the group.
Raya stood nearby again, taking it all in.
Different country.
First European away trip.
A lot of firsts.
Francesco walked over.
"You good?"
Raya nodded.
"Yeah. Just…taking it in."
"Do that," Francesco said. "But sleep too."
Raya smiled.
"I'll try."
"You'll play better if you do."
"Good advice."
"Free advice."
"Even better."
Room keys began to arrive.
Names called out.
Players stepping forward to collect them.
Pairs forming naturally.
Gnabry grabbed his.
"Same room?" he asked.
Francesco glanced at his key.
"Looks like it."
"Perfect. I call the good bed."
"There is no good bed."
"There's always a good bed."
Walker overheard.
"I want a good bed."
"You're not in our room."
"I could be."
"You won't be."
"Unfortunate."
Francesco shook his head, smiling faintly as he took his key.
Another trip.
Another match.
Another opportunity.
He looked around the lobby one more time.
The team.
His team.
Laughing.
Talking.
Settling in.
Ready.
Morning in Moscow arrived quietly.
Not with the familiar rhythm of London traffic or the distant hum of a city already awake, but with a softer stillness that felt almost unfamiliar. The light filtered through the hotel curtains differently as it was paler, cooler, carrying that same crisp edge the air had held the night before.
Francesco woke before his alarm.
He usually did on away days.
Not out of nerves.
Just habit.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the silence settle around him. There was something grounding about these early moments before everything started moving again. No noise. No expectations. Just a clear head and the awareness of what the day held.
Training.
Preparation.
Another step toward the match.
Beside him, Gnabry was still asleep, somehow managing to take up more space than seemed physically possible for one human being.
Francesco shook his head slightly, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.
The floor was cool.
The room still.
He stretched briefly, loosening his shoulders, his legs, feeling the small remnants of travel stiffness fade.
Then he moved toward the window.
Moscow stretched out below again.
Wide streets.
Ordered buildings.
A city that felt vast even from this height.
Different.
That word kept coming back.
Different, but not unfamiliar anymore.
Not quite.
He turned away, grabbed his training gear, and headed for the bathroom.
A quick shower.
Nothing long.
Just enough to wake the body fully.
By the time he stepped back into the room, Gnabry had shifted but not woken.
"Breakfast," Francesco said.
No response.
"Food."
That worked.
One eye opened.
"…Now?"
"Yes."
Gnabry groaned, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling for a second.
"Worth it."
"Always."
They didn't rush.
There was no need.
European schedules were structured, but never chaotic.
By the time they made their way down to the hotel restaurant, the squad had already begun to gather.
Small groups formed naturally around tables.
Coffee cups in hands.
Plates filling steadily.
The smell of fresh bread, eggs, fruit, and strong coffee filled the space.
Francesco grabbed a plate.
Simple.
Eggs.
Toast.
Fruit.
Nothing heavy.
Nothing unnecessary.
Fuel.
He slid into a seat beside Ramsey and across from Cazorla.
"Morning," Ramsey said.
"Morning."
"Sleep well?"
"Yeah."
"Same," Ramsey nodded. "Rare for me on away trips."
"You didn't forget your charger this time."
"Prepared."
"Growth."
Cazorla smiled quietly, sipping his coffee.
"You will both still be tired later."
"Probably," Francesco admitted.
"But not during the match."
"Never during the match."
Around them, the room filled with that low, steady noise of a team easing into the day.
Walker was already mid-conversation, gesturing with a piece of toast like it was a tactical diagram.
"I'm telling you, if we press high early—"
"You're not even guaranteed to start," Alexis cut in.
"That doesn't mean I can't contribute."
"It might mean that."
"Negative energy."
Raya sat a few seats down, listening more than speaking, but far more relaxed than he had been the day before.
That was good.
Francesco noticed it again.
Of course he did.
The small changes mattered.
Always.
By the time breakfast wrapped up, the mood had settled into something focused but easy.
No tension.
No overthinking.
Just readiness.
At exactly 10 AM, as promised, the squad gathered in the lobby.
Bags packed.
Training kits ready.
Minimal conversation now.
The shift had happened.
From casual morning to professional preparation.
The team bus waited outside once again.
Engine running.
Doors open.
Francesco climbed aboard, taking his seat, the now-familiar rhythm of movement settling back into place.
This time, the energy was quieter.
More contained.
No loud debates.
No exaggerated stories.
Just players in their own space, mentally preparing in their own ways.
Gnabry sat beside him again, headphones already on.
Walker across the aisle, unusually silent for once.
Even Alexis wasn't arguing.
That alone said everything.
The bus pulled away from the hotel and into the Moscow streets.
Traffic moved steadily.
The city passed by in long stretches of concrete, glass, and history.
Francesco watched through the window, his thoughts shifting naturally toward the match ahead.
Spartak Moscow.
Away.
Different conditions.
Different pressure.
But still football.
Always football.
The drive wasn't long, but it was long enough.
Long enough to settle fully.
Long enough to feel that quiet focus lock in.
Eventually, the bus slowed.
Turned.
And the training ground came into view.
CSKA Moscow's training complex.
Clean.
Professional.
Well-kept.
The kind of place that told you immediately you were in a footballing environment that took itself seriously.
The bus came to a stop.
Doors opened.
Cold air greeted them again, sharper this time in the open space.
Francesco stepped off, adjusting his jacket slightly as he looked around.
New ground.
Same purpose.
They moved together toward the building.
Staff guiding them smoothly.
No confusion.
No wasted time.
Inside, the dressing room waited.
Already prepared.
Kits laid out.
Boots placed neatly.
Names marked.
Professional.
Francesco dropped his bag by his assigned space and immediately began changing.
Training kit on.
Boots laced.
Tape wrapped.
The routine again.
Always the routine.
Around him, the same process unfolded.
Quick.
Efficient.
Focused.
Walker broke the silence first, of course.
"Cold pitch today, yeah?"
"Grass is still grass," Robertson replied.
"Cold grass."
"Still grass."
"I'll slip."
"You always slip."
"That's unfair."
"It's accurate."
A few quiet laughs followed.
Just enough to ease the edge without breaking the focus.
Francesco stood, rolling his shoulders once more, then headed toward the door.
Time to work.
Outside, the training pitch stretched out in front of them.
Green.
Perfectly maintained.
The cold air sat just above it, visible in the slight mist that hovered in the distance.
And there they were.
Arsène Wenger and the coaching staff already waiting.
Watching.
Prepared.
Wenger stood with his usual calm posture, hands resting lightly in his coat pockets, eyes scanning as the players stepped onto the pitch one by one.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing loud.
Just presence.
Francesco jogged out, boots hitting the turf with that familiar, reassuring feel.
Good surface.
Firm.
Clean.
He glanced around.
Teammates spreading out.
Goalkeepers heading toward their own section.
Staff setting up cones, balls, small goals.
Everything in motion before a single instruction was even given.
This was preparation at its highest level.
No wasted seconds.
Wenger stepped forward slightly.
"Gentlemen."
The word carried just enough.
The group gathered naturally.
Loose circle.
Eyes forward.
"We train," he said simply.
No long speech.
No unnecessary detail.
They already knew why they were here.
"We focus."
A few nods.
That was enough.
The whistle blew.
And training began.
It started light.
Always did.
Warm-ups first.
Short jogs.
Dynamic stretches.
The body adjusting to the cold, to the surface, to the rhythm again after travel.
Francesco moved easily, breathing steady, muscles responding well.
No stiffness.
Good.
Very good.
From there, the tempo built.
Passing drills.
Sharp.
Quick.
Clean.
The ball moved faster than the players at first, then the players caught up.
One-touch.
Two-touch.
Movement off the ball.
Angles.
Always angles.
Francesco dropped into position naturally, linking play, setting rhythm.
A quick pass to Ramsey.
Back from Ramsey.
Out wide.
Reset.
Again.
Again.
No wasted touches.
No wasted movement.
The sound of boots on grass mixed with the crisp snap of passes, the occasional shout, the low murmur of coaching instructions drifting across the pitch.
Wenger watched everything.
Always.
Not intervening much.
Just observing.
Adjusting.
Guiding when necessary.
The session shifted.
Small-sided work next.
Tighter spaces.
Faster decisions.
Higher intensity.
Alexis pressed like his life depended on it.
Walker, predictably, talked through the entire drill.
"I'm open!"
"You're not open," Robertson replied.
"I'm conceptually open."
"That's not a thing."
Francesco received the ball under pressure, turned quickly, slipped a pass through to Gnabry.
Finish.
Goal.
"Better," Wenger said quietly from the sideline.
That was approval.
Simple.
But meaningful.
The work continued.
Patterns of play.
Attacking movements.
Defensive shape.
Everything focused toward one thing.
Spartak Moscow.
Every pass.
Every run.
Every instruction.
All building toward tomorrow.
Francesco felt it again.
That edge.
That sharpness.
That awareness that this was no longer preparation in theory.
This was preparation for something real.
The session stretched on, never dragging, never losing purpose.
And as the final drill wound down, players began to slow.
Breathing heavier now.
Sweat visible despite the cold.
Work done.
For now.
Wenger gathered them briefly once more.
"Good," he said.
Again.
Simple.
"We continue."
Always forward.
Never satisfied.
The group broke apart.
Some players heading toward the sidelines.
Others staying on the pitch for a few extra touches.
Francesco stood still for a moment, looking out across the training ground.
Different city.
Different pitch.
Same game.
Same goal.
He exhaled slowly, feeling that calm focus settle fully into place.
Tomorrow would come quickly.
But they were ready for it, and that was all that mattered.
______________________________________________
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