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Francesco leaned his head back against the seat, finally allowing himself to breathe. Tonight was special. And he had a feeling there were even bigger nights ahead.
The hum of conversation filled the team bus as the players waited for Wenger, Mertesacker, and Giroud to return from the post-match press conference. Some were still chatting about the game, while others had their eyes glued to their phones, scrolling through social media and checking reactions from fans and pundits.
Francesco was leaning back against his seat, his body still thrumming with adrenaline despite the exhaustion creeping in. His gaze flickered to Ramsey, who had taken the seat beside him and was now casually checking Twitter.
"Check this out," Ramsey said, nudging Francesco and turning his screen toward him.
Francesco leaned in and read the tweet: 'Arsenal's young star Francesco Lee proving once again why he's the real deal. Big performance on a big night. Future legend in the making? #AFC'
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Legend? I've barely started."
Ramsey smirked. "Enjoy it, mate. Nights like these don't come often."
Francesco let that sink in. He had grown up watching Champions League nights like this, dreaming of what it would be like to be in that moment. Now he was living it.
The bus door opened, and Wenger stepped in, followed by Mertesacker and Giroud. The quiet conversations stilled for a moment as the trio made their way inside.
Mertesacker took his usual spot near the front, letting out a deep sigh as he finally sat down. "That press conference was longer than the match itself," he muttered.
Giroud, ever the showman, grinned as he flopped into his seat. "They couldn't get enough of me."
"Oh, we know," Welbeck teased from across the aisle. "You'll be talking about this goal for the next three months."
Giroud shot him a dramatic look. "I'd say six."
That earned a round of laughter from the squad.
Wenger, ever composed, simply took his seat and signaled to the driver. "Let's go."
With that, the bus rumbled to life, pulling away from the stadium and heading back toward the team hotel.
Francesco turned his gaze back to the window, watching the lights of Monaco flicker past. It was a beautiful city, even more so under the glow of victory. The streets were quiet now, a stark contrast to the roaring atmosphere they had just left behind in the stadium. He let out a breath, finally beginning to feel the weariness settle in.
The bus ride was mostly quiet, save for the occasional murmurs of conversation and the low thrum of music playing from someone's phone. The exhaustion of the night was catching up to everyone. Some players had their eyes closed, leaning against the seats, while others were still caught in the afterglow of the match, scrolling through their phones and reacting to the flood of messages from fans and friends.
Francesco glanced at his own phone and saw a stream of notifications. Messages from friends, former teammates, even a few football pundits he had looked up to growing up. He clicked on one message from Arsenal youth team coach back in London:
"Proud of you, son. Keep working hard. This is just the beginning."
A small smile tugged at his lips. He typed back a quick reply, thanking him, before locking his phone and leaning back.
He closed his eyes, letting the gentle vibrations of the moving bus lull him into a peaceful daze.
By the time they arrived at the hotel, it was nearing 2 AM. The team shuffled off the bus, their movements slower now as the weight of the night finally settled in. The adrenaline had faded, leaving only the deep, satisfying ache of a hard-fought victory.
Inside the lobby, Wenger gathered them for one final word.
"Get some rest," he said simply. "Tomorrow, we leave early for the airport. I want everyone ready."
There were a few groans at the mention of an early wake-up, but no one argued. They knew the drill.
The players made their way toward the elevators, dragging their bags behind them. Francesco followed, feeling his limbs grow heavier with every step.
As the doors to the elevator slid open, he found himself standing beside Özil and Koscielny.
"Tired?" Özil asked, his voice low and calm.
Francesco nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Exhausted."
Koscielny chuckled. "Welcome to Champions League nights."
Francesco smiled, stepping into the elevator as the doors closed behind them.
Up in his room, he barely had the energy to do anything except drop his bag by the door and collapse onto the bed. His body ached, his muscles protesting with every movement, but it was the kind of ache he welcomed.
He stared at the ceiling, his mind still replaying moments from the game. The roar of the crowd, the rush of adrenaline, the weight of the Arsenal badge on his chest—it all felt surreal.
He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep just yet.
So, he reached for his phone, scrolling through more messages, more reactions from the night.
There were clips of the goals, praise for Arsenal's resilience, and even a few analysts discussing Francesco's performance. He saw his name trending on Twitter, fans calling him the future of the club.
It was overwhelming.
But it was also everything he had worked for.
He exhaled, setting his phone down, and finally let sleep take over.
The next morning came too soon.
A knock on his door jolted him awake.
"Francesco, let's go! Bus leaves in thirty!"
It was Ramsey's voice, slightly muffled through the door.
Francesco groaned, forcing himself upright. His body still felt heavy, but there was no time to waste. He dragged himself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face before throwing on a fresh set of clothes.
Downstairs, the team was gathering in the lobby, looking as groggy as he felt. Some players were nursing cups of coffee, others were still rubbing sleep from their eyes.
Wenger, as usual, looked unfazed by the early hour.
"Everyone here?" he asked, scanning the group.
Mertesacker did a quick headcount before nodding. "All good, boss."
"Good," Wenger said. "Let's move."
The team filed onto the bus, and soon, they were on their way to the airport.
The ride was quiet, most players too tired to talk. A few dozed off, while others mindlessly scrolled through their phones.
Francesco stared out the window, watching Monaco disappear behind them. It had been a whirlwind 24 hours.
And now, it was time to go home.
London awaited.
The bus rolled smoothly into the airport drop-off zone, the early morning light casting a soft glow over the tarmac. The players stirred from their drowsy silence, shifting in their seats as the realization set in—they were heading home.
Francesco stretched his arms above his head, trying to shake off the lingering exhaustion. His body still ached from the match, but it was the kind of pain he welcomed, the kind that reminded him of the battle they had just won.
The bus came to a slow halt, and Wenger stood up first, turning to face the squad.
"Alright, let's move," he said, his tone calm but firm.
One by one, the players grabbed their bags and filed out of the bus. The crisp morning air was a stark contrast to the warmth of the bus, making Francesco instinctively pull his hoodie up as he stepped onto the pavement.
Inside the airport, the team moved efficiently through check-in, their status as professional footballers ensuring a smooth and expedited process. A few fans and travelers recognized them, offering words of congratulations and snapping quick photos. Francesco smiled and nodded politely when a couple of Arsenal supporters called his name.
"Massive game, mate!" one of them said, clearly still buzzing from the victory.
"Thanks, appreciate it," Francesco replied with a small grin.
As they made their way to security, he fell in step with Ramsey, who was rubbing his eyes sleepily.
"You look dead," Francesco teased.
Ramsey groaned. "Feel like it too. I'm never getting used to these early flights."
"You say that every time."
"And I mean it every time."
They moved through security without much fuss, Wenger keeping an eye on the squad to ensure no one wandered off or delayed the process. Once past the checkpoints, they made their way to the lounge reserved for them.
Some players immediately went for coffee, while others slumped into chairs, trying to catch a few minutes of sleep before boarding.
Francesco grabbed a bottle of water and found a seat near the window. Outside, the runway stretched endlessly, planes taxiing and taking off in the distance.
He glanced at his phone again. More messages, more notifications. He scrolled absentmindedly through them before locking the screen and sighing. As much as he appreciated the attention, he needed to disconnect for a bit.
"Not checking what the world's saying about you?" Wilshere asked, dropping into the seat beside him.
Francesco smirked. "Think I've seen enough for now."
Wilshere chuckled, stretching out his legs. "Get used to it, mate. Big performances bring big expectations."
"Yeah, I figured."
Wilshere studied him for a moment before nodding approvingly. "You'll handle it just fine."
A boarding announcement interrupted their conversation, signaling that it was time to move. The team gathered their belongings and followed Wenger toward the gate.
As they boarded the plane, Francesco felt the weight of fatigue settle deeper into his muscles. He found his seat, threw his bag into the overhead compartment, and slumped down.
Most of the players settled in quickly. Giroud and Koscielny were already talking in hushed tones, while Özil put on his headphones and closed his eyes. Some, like Mertesacker, were flipping through newspapers, reading up on the reactions from last night's game.
Francesco buckled his seatbelt, resting his head against the window as the plane taxied to the runway. The hum of the engines grew louder, the familiar sensation of acceleration pressing him back into his seat.
As the plane lifted off, he let out a slow breath, watching Monaco shrink beneath them.
London was waiting.
The flight was mostly quiet. Some players dozed off, others passed the time watching movies or listening to music. Francesco, despite his exhaustion, found sleep elusive. His mind kept replaying the game—the intensity, the emotions, the weight of the moment.
Eventually, he forced himself to close his eyes, letting the rhythmic hum of the plane lull him into a light sleep.
By the time the pilot announced their descent into London, most of the players were stirring, stretching out their stiff limbs and preparing for the final leg of their journey.
As the plane touched down at Heathrow, Francesco rubbed his face, shaking off the grogginess.
"Back to reality," Ramsey muttered beside him, yawning.
Francesco chuckled. "Feels like we were in a different world last night."
"That's football for you."
Once the plane taxied to the gate, the team disembarked in an orderly fashion, grabbing their carry-ons and heading toward baggage claim.
The air in London was crisp, a stark contrast to the Mediterranean warmth of Monaco. Francesco zipped up his jacket, adjusting to the familiar chill.
As they waited for their luggage, some players checked their phones again, reading updates and responding to messages.
Wenger, ever the professional, took the moment to address them. "Get home, get some rest. Tomorrow is recovery. We meet at Colney in the afternoon."
There were murmurs of acknowledgment as their bags finally arrived. One by one, they grabbed their belongings and followed Wenger out to the waiting team bus.
Francesco sighed as he threw his bag into the storage compartment and climbed aboard.
The ride to London Colney was quiet. The exhaustion had fully set in now, the weight of travel, the emotional highs of the match, all catching up to them.
Francesco leaned his head against the window, watching as the familiar streets of London came into view. The city was still waking up, people going about their day, oblivious to the fact that just hours ago, Arsenal had secured a massive win.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the motion of the bus soothe him.
By the time they arrived at Arsenal Training Center, the sun had fully risen. The squad slowly made their way off the bus, stretching and yawning as they grabbed their bags.
Wenger gave them all a final nod. "Get some rest. See you all tomorrow."
With that, the players began dispersing, some heading toward their cars, others waiting for their personal drivers.
The days that followed their return from Monaco were a whirlwind of recovery, training, and matches. There was little time to dwell on their Champions League triumph, as Arsenal's Premier League campaign continued at full speed.
Their first match after the Monaco victory was an away game against Newcastle United at St. James' Park. It was one of those tricky fixtures, coming just days after their European exertions, and fatigue was a real concern.
Francesco could feel it in his legs during the warm-up. The game against Monaco had taken a toll, but there was no room for excuses. They had a job to do.
Arsenal started brightly, controlling possession and dictating the tempo. Newcastle struggled to cope with the quick passing and movement, and it wasn't long before the Gunners broke the deadlock.
In the 14th minute, Olivier Giroud rose highest to meet a Mesut Özil corner, powering a header past the Newcastle keeper. It was classic Giroud—strength, precision, and clinical finishing.
Ten minutes later, Arsenal doubled their lead. This time, it was Francesco who made the difference. Receiving a pass from Alexis Sanchez just outside the box, he took a quick touch to control before unleashing a powerful right-footed strike into the bottom corner.
The away fans erupted, chanting his name. It was his first Premier League goal since the one against Manchester United in the FA Cup, and it felt just as sweet.
Before halftime, Giroud added his second, tapping in a low cross from Bellerín to make it 3-0. Newcastle pulled one back in the second half, but Arsenal remained composed, seeing out a comfortable 3-1 victory.
As Francesco walked off the pitch, he could feel the confidence flowing through the team. They were hitting their stride at the perfect time.
After the international break, Arsenal faced Liverpool at the Emirates. It was a massive game—both teams fighting for a top-four spot, and Arsenal looking to prove they were serious contenders.
The Emirates was electric, fans in full voice as Arsenal took control early.
Just six minutes in, Héctor Bellerín silenced any nerves with a brilliant goal. Cutting inside from the right, he curled a left-footed shot past the helpless Liverpool goalkeeper.
Then came a moment of pure quality from Mesut Özil. In the 23rd minute, he stepped up for a free kick just outside the box and curled it beautifully into the top corner. The Emirates roared in approval.
Francesco watched in admiration. Özil made it look so effortless.
Before Liverpool could recover, Arsenal struck again. This time, Alexis Sanchez unleashed a thunderous strike from distance, the ball rifling past Simon Mignolet.
3-0 at halftime. Arsenal were flying.
Liverpool pulled one back through a penalty, but Arsenal weren't done.
In the 70th minute, Francesco found himself one-on-one with the keeper after a brilliant through ball from Cazorla. He kept his composure, rounding Mignolet before slotting into the empty net.
As he celebrated in front of the North Bank, the fans erupted.
And just to put the icing on the cake, Giroud added a fifth in stoppage time, curling a shot from the edge of the box into the far corner.
A 5-1 demolition.
Francesco could hear the fans chanting, "Arsenal, Arsenal!" as they walked off the pitch. It was one of those nights where everything clicked.
The final game before the FA Cup semifinal was a trip to Turf Moor to face Burnley.
It wasn't glamorous, but it was vital.
Burnley made life difficult, defending deep and looking to frustrate Arsenal. The pitch was rough, the conditions not ideal, but the Gunners remained patient.
The breakthrough finally came in the 36th minute.
Francesco had been lurking near the edge of the box when the ball deflected kindly into his path. Without hesitation, he took a touch before smashing a low drive into the bottom corner.
He didn't celebrate wildly—just a fist pump and a nod to the traveling fans.
In the second half, Aaron Ramsey doubled Arsenal's lead with a neat finish after a clever pass from Özil.
A professional 2-0 victory. Another three points.
As the final whistle blew, Francesco felt the weight of exhaustion settle in. Three games, three wins, and three goals for himself.
They were in incredible form, and with the Champions League quarter final just 3 days away, Arsenal were peaking at the right time.
The morning after the Burnley game, Francesco arrived at London Colney feeling the strain of the past few weeks. The schedule had been relentless, but the results spoke for themselves.
As he walked into the training ground, he saw Wenger already in conversation with his staff. The boss always looked calm, regardless of how intense things got.
Ramsey greeted him with a grin. "Three in three, eh?"
Francesco smirked. "Not bad, right?"
Wilshere, overhearing, chuckled. "Kid's making it look easy."
Francesco shook his head. "Far from it. My legs feel like they've been through a war."
"Welcome to the Premier League," Wilshere quipped.
Training that day was light—just recovery work, massages, and tactical meetings. The focus was already shifting to the upcoming Champions League quarter final againts Juventus.
As Francesco sat in the physio room, receiving treatment on his legs, he couldn't help but think about how far he had come in just a few months.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 25
Goal: 30
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8