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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
But they were ready for it, and that was all that mattered.
The next two days didn't rush past.
They settled.
Like a team locking into rhythm without needing to announce it.
Moscow became familiar in small ways. The route from hotel to training ground. The way the cold air hit your lungs in the morning. The quiet hum of the city outside the windows at night. Little things. Subtle things. But enough to turn away into something slightly more grounded.
Training sessions were sharp. Focused. No wasted effort.
Meetings were precise. Clips reviewed. Movements discussed. Patterns reinforced.
Francesco felt it building.
Not pressure.
Readiness.
By the time matchday arrived, it didn't feel sudden.
It felt earned.
Evening settled over Moscow with a different kind of energy.
Darker.
Colder.
But alive.
Back at the hotel, the squad gathered in the lobby once more. Not like the day they arrived. Not casual. Not exploratory.
This time, it was quiet.
Controlled.
Every player in matchday attire. Tracksuits zipped. Headphones in. Eyes sharper.
This was it.
Francesco stepped out of the elevator, already dressed, already focused. He adjusted his sleeves slightly as he walked across the polished floor, nodding to a few teammates.
Ramsey stood near the entrance, bouncing lightly on his toes.
"Ready?" he asked.
Francesco gave a small nod.
"Always."
Nearby, Gnabry had his headphones on again, head nodding slightly to whatever was playing. Alexis stood still, arms folded, staring ahead like he was already inside the game.
Cech was calm as ever.
Unmoved.
Unshaken.
Wenger stood near the doors.
Watching.
Waiting.
Then "Let's go."
Simple.
The team moved.
Outside, the bus waited.
Engine running.
Lights glowing softly against the Moscow night.
Francesco stepped aboard, taking his usual seat. This time, there was no debate about playlists. No loud conversations.
Even Walker was quieter.
Not silent.
But… contained.
The bus pulled away.
The city passed by again, but it felt different now.
Brighter lights.
More movement.
More noise.
Match night.
Francesco leaned slightly toward the window, watching the streets blur past. His reflection stared back at him faintly in the glass.
Captain.
Striker.
Responsibility.
He didn't shy away from it.
He never had.
Beside him, Gnabry pulled one earbud out.
"You feel it?" he asked.
Francesco didn't look away from the window.
"Yeah."
Gnabry nodded.
"Good."
They didn't need to say more.
The stadium appeared gradually.
First the lights.
Then the structure.
Then the full presence of it.
Lukoil Arena.
Bright against the night sky.
Alive.
Even from a distance, you could feel it.
The noise.
The anticipation.
The atmosphere waiting inside.
The bus slowed.
Turned.
Pulled into the players' entrance.
And stopped.
For a brief second, no one moved.
Then—
The doors opened.
Cold air rushed in.
Louder now.
Sharper.
Real.
Francesco stood, grabbed his bag, and stepped down.
The sound hit immediately.
Fans.
Chants.
A constant wave of noise that wrapped around the stadium and spilled into the arrival area.
Different language.
Same meaning.
Passion.
Pressure.
Welcome to Europe.
Security guided them quickly inside.
Corridors.
Bright lights.
Concrete walls.
The sound of boots echoing again.
Francesco walked with steady steps, not rushing, not slowing.
Just moving forward.
Inside the dressing room, everything was ready.
Red shirts hung neatly.
Shorts folded perfectly.
Boots aligned.
Names above each place.
Francesco stepped to his spot and placed his bag down.
No hesitation.
He began changing immediately.
Training kit first.
Warm-up gear.
Routine.
Around him, the same process unfolded.
Quiet.
Focused.
The kind of silence that wasn't empty as it was full.
Full of concentration.
Of anticipation.
Walker broke it, of course.
"Big night."
No one argued.
Because it was.
Francesco laced his boots slowly, deliberately.
Each movement controlled.
Each second intentional.
When he stood, he rolled his shoulders once, then headed for the door.
Time.
The pitch greeted them with noise.
Loud.
Constant.
Relentless.
Spartak fans filled the stands, red everywhere, voices rising in waves that seemed to never fully drop.
Francesco stepped onto the grass and immediately felt it.
That difference.
European nights didn't just look different.
They felt different.
The air.
The energy.
The stakes.
He exhaled slowly, adjusting to it in an instant.
Warm-ups began.
Passing drills first.
Short.
Sharp.
Clean.
The ball moved quickly between players, each touch measured, controlled.
Then movement drills.
Acceleration.
Finishing.
Francesco took a pass from Özil.
Turned.
Shot.
Net.
Simple.
Repeat.
Again.
Again.
Everything felt right.
Behind him, Cech worked with the goalkeeping coaches, diving, reacting, already locked in.
Across the pitch, Spartak players warmed up too.
Focused.
Determined.
Ready.
This wouldn't be easy.
Francesco knew that before kickoff.
He knew it even more now.
After about twenty minutes, the whistle came.
Warm-up done.
Back inside.
The dressing room felt tighter now.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
The noise from the stadium still faintly echoing through the walls.
Francesco sat down and began changing into the match kit.
Red shirt.
Armband placed carefully on his left arm.
Shorts.
Socks.
Boots retied.
Everything slower now.
More deliberate.
Wenger stepped forward.
Silence fell instantly.
He looked around the room.
Calm.
Composed.
As always.
"We play 4-3-3."
Clear.
Direct.
He began.
"Petr."
Cech gave a small nod.
"In goal."
"The back line is Monreal, Van Dijk, Koscielny, Bellerin."
Each player acknowledged with a glance, a nod.
"Kanté as the defensive midfielder."
Kanté simply nodded once.
"Özil. Cazorla."
Both focused, already thinking ahead.
"Sánchez. Gnabry."
Alexis didn't move.
Gnabry sat upright.
"And Francesco."
Francesco met Wenger's gaze.
Just for a second.
Enough.
"You lead."
Simple.
But it carried weight.
"The bench is Raya, Walker, Mustafi, Xhaka, Ramsey, Walcott, Giroud."
Every name registered.
Every role understood.
Wenger paused.
Then said.
"Play your game."
No theatrics.
No long speech.
Because they didn't need one.
They stood.
One by one.
Energy rising again.
Boots tapping lightly.
Hands flexing.
Focus tightening.
Francesco adjusted the captain's armband once more.
Then turned toward the door.
"Let's go."
The tunnel was alive.
Different kind of noise.
Closer.
More contained.
More intense.
Spartak Moscow players lined up beside them.
Red against red.
Eyes forward.
Some glances exchanged.
Some not.
Francesco stood at the front, armband visible, shoulders relaxed but firm.
Beside him, Spartak's captain.
A brief nod between them.
Respect.
Then the referees signaled.
Time.
They walked.
Out of the tunnel.
Into the stadium.
And the sound exploded.
The Champions League atmosphere wrapped around them instantly.
Bright lights.
Full stands.
Noise everywhere.
They lined up beside the referee.
The anthem began.
That music.
Familiar.
Powerful.
Every time.
Francesco stood still, eyes forward, letting it wash over him.
This.
This was why.
When it ended, movement resumed.
Handshakes.
Referees first.
Then opponents.
Quick grips.
Short eye contact.
Respect.
Photos next.
The starting eleven gathered.
Flash.
Moment captured.
Then the captains met at the center circle.
Coin toss.
Francesco stood opposite Spartak's captain, the referee between them.
Coin flipped.
Caught.
Decision made.
Spartak chose right.
They would kick off.
Francesco nodded.
Simple.
Back to positions.
The whistle blew.
The match began.
And immediately, the intensity.
Spartak didn't wait.
They pressed.
Hard.
Fast.
The ball moved quickly through their midfield, sharp passes cutting into space, testing Arsenal's shape early.
Francesco dropped slightly, tracking the movement, reading it.
A through ball came early.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Their striker latched onto it as he shot it, but Cech saved it.
Strong.
Low.
Immediate reaction.
Francesco exhaled.
Warning.
Clear warning.
Spartak were here to fight.
No doubt about it.
The opening minutes stayed intense.
Battles everywhere.
Midfield tight.
Challenges firm.
Kanté covered ground like it belonged to him, intercepting, pressing, disrupting.
Özil and Cazorla tried to settle things.
Slow the tempo.
Find rhythm.
But Spartak didn't allow it easily.
Every pass contested.
Every movement tracked.
Francesco stayed patient.
He didn't force runs.
Didn't chase lost causes.
He waited.
Watched.
Felt the flow.
Then slowly, Arsenal began to grow into it.
Possession improved.
Passes sharpened.
Movement synced.
Sánchez drove down the left, cutting inside, forcing defenders back.
Gnabry mirrored it on the right, stretching space.
The pressure shifted.
Gradually.
Then clearly.
Minutes passed.
The game balanced.
Still tense.
Still tight.
But controlled.
Then at the 33rd minute.
The moment.
It started with Cazorla.
Of course it did.
He received the ball just outside the box, under pressure, but somehow… not.
Because he created space where there wasn't any.
One touch.
Turn.
Head up.
Francesco saw it instantly.
The gap.
Small.
But enough.
He moved.
Sharp.
Between defenders.
Timing perfect.
Cazorla slipped the pass.
Threaded.
Precise.
Francesco met it in stride.
First touch controlled it.
Second touch—
Finish.
Low.
Driven.
Past the keeper.
Net.
Goal.
Silence.
Then eruption from the away fans.
Francesco turned immediately, arms spreading slightly, not wild, not excessive.
Just acknowledgment.
Job done.
For now.
Teammates surrounded him.
Quick embraces.
Pats on the back.
"Good run."
"Perfect."
"Again."
He nodded.
Focused.
Because the game wasn't finished.
Not even close.
Spartak responded.
Of course they did.
They pushed again.
Harder now.
More direct.
More aggressive.
They wanted a response before halftime.
And they nearly got it.
A cross swung in.
Dangerous.
Header, but just wide.
Francesco tracked back briefly, watching it sail past the post.
Another warning.
Stay sharp.
The minutes ticked down.
The game tightened again.
Battles resumed.
Midfield clashes.
Defensive clearances.
Moments of control.
Moments of chaos.
But no more goals.
The whistle came.
Halftime.
1–0.
Francesco exhaled slowly as he turned toward the tunnel.
Not relief.
Not yet.
Just awareness.
Half the job done.
They walked back together.
No rush.
No celebration.
Because this wasn't finished.
Inside the dressing room, the noise dropped again.
Boots off.
Breathing heavy.
Water bottles opened.
Francesco sat down, towel over his shoulders, listening.
Waiting.
Wenger stepped forward.
And once again, there's silence.
Wenger didn't raise his voice.
He never really needed to.
The dressing room settled into silence almost instinctively, the kind of quiet that came not from fear or tension, but from respect and focus. The air still carried the heat of the first half—sweat, effort, the echo of the crowd outside filtering faintly through the walls.
Francesco sat forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, towel draped loosely around his shoulders. His breathing had steadied, but his mind hadn't slowed.
One–nil.
Good.
Not enough.
Wenger looked around the room, eyes moving from player to player, taking in everything without saying a word for a few seconds.
Then he spoke.
"I want more."
Simple.
Clear.
Direct.
A few heads lifted just slightly.
"We press."
That word landed differently.
Not as instruction.
As intention.
"Full press," Wenger continued, his tone calm but firm. "We don't allow them to breathe. We don't allow them to build."
Francesco felt it immediately.
That shift.
From control to dominance.
"We go for the second goal."
There it was.
Not protect.
Not manage.
Finish.
"You have the quality," Wenger said. "Now you show the authority."
No diagrams.
No long explanation.
Because they understood.
Every single one of them.
Francesco nodded once to himself.
That was exactly what he wanted to hear.
Around him, the reaction was subtle but clear.
Kanté sat upright.
Alexis leaned forward, eyes sharper.
Gnabry cracked his neck slightly, energy building.
Cazorla nodded slowly.
Özil adjusted his sleeves.
Ready.
Wenger stepped back.
"That is all."
No more needed.
The room shifted again.
Quiet turned into movement.
Boots retied.
Water bottles drained.
Shirts adjusted.
Francesco stood, pulling the towel away, letting it fall onto the bench behind him. He rolled his shoulders once, then twice.
Then he spoke.
"Together."
Not loud.
But enough.
The word spread.
"Together."
A few echoed it.
Enough.
They turned toward the tunnel again.
The second half began the way Wenger had demanded.
Not cautious.
Not patient.
Aggressive.
Immediate.
From the first whistle, Arsenal pressed.
High.
Relentless.
Coordinated.
Francesco led it from the front, closing down defenders, forcing rushed passes, cutting angles. Behind him, Alexis mirrored the movement, Gnabry doing the same on the opposite side.
Kanté stepped forward higher than before, snapping into tackles, intercepting passes before they could develop.
Spartak weren't ready for the shift.
They had expected control.
They got pressure.
Immediate.
Suffocating.
A defender tried to play out from the back as Francesco pressed.
Forced him wide.
Ball rushed.
Intercepted by Cazorla.
Quick pass forward, shot blocked.
But the message was clear.
This half would be different.
The crowd responded.
Louder.
Trying to push their team forward.
But Arsenal didn't drop.
Didn't retreat.
They stayed high.
Kept pressing.
Minute by minute, the pressure built.
Spartak struggled to string passes together now. Their earlier confidence had been replaced by urgency.
By hesitation.
And that was exactly what Arsenal wanted.
Francesco felt it.
The game tilting.
Slowly.
Then completely.
57th minute.
The payoff.
It started, fittingly, with Kanté.
A loose touch in midfield.
Spartak tried to recover it, but Kanté was already there.
Of course he was.
He stepped in, clean, precise, took the ball without breaking stride.
Head up instantly.
Forward.
Always forward.
Gnabry had already started the run.
Perfect timing.
Splitting the defensive line.
Kanté released the pass.
Sharp.
Direct.
Weighted perfectly.
Gnabry met it in stride, his first touch pushing it just ahead, creating the angle.
The keeper rushed out as it was too late.
Gnabry struck.
Low.
Across goal.
Net.
Goal.
2–0.
For a split second, there was silence.
Then the away end erupted.
Francesco turned immediately, pointing toward Kanté first.
"Brilliant!"
Then to Gnabry.
"Finish!"
Gnabry sprinted toward the corner, arms wide, pure energy, pure release.
His teammates followed, surrounding him again, the noise of celebration cutting through the Moscow night.
This one felt bigger.
Not just a goal.
Control.
Authority.
Exactly what Wenger had asked for.
Francesco exhaled, a small smile flickering across his face.
That was it.
That was the second goal.
And now, the game had changed.
Spartak responded again.
They had to.
Two goals down at home, the crowd demanding something, anything.
Their manager reacted quickly.
Shouts from the sideline.
Players pushed higher.
More bodies forward.
More risk.
The game opened up.
And with that, more space.
Francesco recognized it instantly.
Moments to exploit.
Transitions to punish.
But also danger.
Always danger.
One ball over the top, but Van Dijk dealt with it.
Calm.
Commanding.
Another cross, Koscielny cleared it.
Clean.
Efficient.
Cech remained composed behind them, organizing, adjusting, always in control.
Still, the intensity didn't drop.
If anything, it increased.
Every tackle heavier.
Every sprint sharper.
Every second mattered more now.
68th minute.
The signal came.
Francesco glanced toward the sideline.
Board up.
Numbers displayed.
He saw it.
His number.
Alexis.
Özil.
Time.
He nodded to himself.
No frustration.
No hesitation.
This was part of it.
Game management.
Fresh legs.
He jogged toward the touchline, Alexis and Özil alongside him.
As he passed Wenger, the manager gave a small nod.
"Well done."
Francesco returned it.
"Not finished."
"Never."
Giroud stepped on.
Walcott followed.
Xhaka behind them.
New energy.
Different profile.
The shape held.
But the approach shifted slightly.
More direct now.
More control in midfield.
Francesco reached the bench, grabbing a jacket, settling into his seat. His breathing slowed quickly, but his focus didn't leave the pitch for a second.
He watched.
Analyzed.
Captain, even off the field.
Spartak made their own changes.
A double substitution.
Fresh attackers.
More intent.
More urgency.
They pushed again.
Throwing numbers forward, trying to find something to bring them back into the game.
But Arsenal held.
Disciplined.
Compact.
Organized.
Kanté remained everywhere.
Xhaka added control.
Cazorla dictated tempo when needed.
Walcott's pace stretched the game on the counter.
Giroud gave them a focal point up front, holding the ball, bringing others into play.
The balance was right.
Still, Spartak came.
Wave after wave.
A shot from distance, Cech saved it.
Comfortable.
A dangerous free-kick.
Over the bar.
A scramble in the box, then it was cleared.
Every moment handled.
Every threat managed.
Francesco leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees now, watching every detail.
"Stay tight," he muttered, almost to himself.
As if they could hear him.
Maybe they didn't need to.
They knew.
The clock ticked toward ninety.
The stadium noise never dropped.
If anything, it grew more desperate.
Spartak threw everything forward now.
Defenders pushing up.
Midfielders committing.
Spaces opening everywhere.
And Arsenal waited.
Patient.
Disciplined.
Ready.
Last minute.
The moment.
It came quickly.
Spartak lost the ball high up the pitch.
Xhaka intercepted.
Immediate.
Forward.
No hesitation.
He found Walcott.
Space ahead.
Open field.
Walcott accelerated instantly, his pace cutting through the tired Spartak defense like it wasn't even there.
One defender tried to recover, but it was too slow.
Walcott pushed the ball forward again.
Keeper advancing.
Shot.
Low.
Precise.
Past him.
Net.
Goal.
3–0.
Game.
Finished.
Francesco stood immediately, clapping hard, a wide grin breaking through for the first time.
"That's it!"
Walcott turned, sliding slightly as he celebrated, arms wide, teammates rushing to him.
The away fans erupted again.
Louder than ever.
Three goals.
Away.
In Europe.
Complete performance.
The whistle came soon after.
Final.
Sharp.
Definitive.
3–0.
Francesco exhaled slowly, standing still for a second before stepping forward onto the pitch.
Players embraced.
Handshakes exchanged.
Relief.
Satisfaction.
But not over-celebration.
Because this was expected.
This was what they came for.
He found Gnabry first.
"Great goal."
"Great press," Gnabry replied.
Kanté next.
"You started it."
Kanté smiled quietly.
"Team effort."
Always.
Francesco nodded.
Always.
Across the pitch, Cech was already shaking hands calmly, composed as ever.
Van Dijk and Koscielny exchanged a few words, both satisfied with the clean sheet.
Walcott jogged past, still smiling.
"Good finish."
"Had to be."
"You always do that."
"I try."
Francesco laughed lightly.
"You do more than try."
As they began walking back toward the tunnel, the noise followed them.
Different now.
Less hostile.
More respectful.
Because performances like that demanded it.
Francesco glanced around one more time.
The stadium.
The pitch.
The night.
Another European away win.
Another step.
And as they disappeared into the tunnel, the cold Moscow air fading behind them, one thing was clear as they hadn't just won but they had controlled.
______________________________________________
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: 15
Goal: 19
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