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He closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking it all in. Tomorrow, under those bright lights, he would step onto the grandest stage.
The next morning, Francesco woke up to the soft chime of his alarm. Blinking against the dim light filtering through the curtains, he exhaled deeply, stretching his limbs before sitting up. Today was the day.
For a brief moment, he sat on the edge of his bed, allowing his mind to wake up fully. The weight of the upcoming match sat heavy on his chest, but it wasn't nerves—it was anticipation, the kind that made his fingers twitch and his legs eager to move.
With a final shake of his head, he pushed himself up and headed to the bathroom. The hot shower helped loosen his muscles, the steam swirling around him as he let the water run over his face. His mind wandered to the game—he imagined himself making runs behind Juventus' defense, linking up with Özil, and finishing with precision. He pictured the Allianz Stadium, the thousands of fans watching, the intensity of the Champions League anthem ringing in his ears.
After drying off and changing into comfortable travel wear—Arsenal's official tracksuit—he grabbed his phone and room key before heading downstairs for breakfast.
As he stepped into the hotel's private restaurant, the aroma of fresh coffee, eggs, and toast filled the air. A few players were already seated, quietly eating their breakfast while scrolling through their phones or chatting in low voices.
Ramsey and Wilshere sat at one of the long tables, engaged in conversation, while Giroud was at the buffet, carefully assembling a plate with his usual precision. Across the room, Wenger was having a quiet discussion with one of his assistant coaches.
Francesco grabbed a plate and moved toward the buffet, selecting a balanced meal—scrambled eggs, whole-grain toast, fruit, and a small bowl of yogurt. As he poured himself a glass of orange juice, a familiar voice spoke beside him.
"Big day, huh?" It was Alexis Sánchez, holding a plate of his own, filled with eggs and avocado.
Francesco nodded, smirking. "Biggest one yet."
Alexis chuckled. "You'll be fine. Play your game."
They both took their seats at the players' table, where the conversations were slowly picking up. Giroud, always the entertainer, was in the middle of an animated story about a previous Champions League away trip.
"I'm telling you, the hotel in Monaco was haunted. I heard noises at night—footsteps, whispering—everything," he said, gesturing wildly with his fork.
Wilshere rolled his eyes. "Or maybe you just forgot to lock your door and one of the staff walked in."
The table laughed, and even Wenger, seated nearby, gave a small amused smile.
As breakfast continued, the atmosphere remained light but focused. Everyone knew what was at stake tonight, but for now, the team was enjoying the calm before the storm.
Once breakfast was finished, Wenger stood up, commanding quiet with his mere presence.
"Rest and recover for the next few hours," he said. "We will have a light training session before lunch, followed by another tactical meeting. Use the time wisely."
Francesco nodded, knowing how crucial those final hours would be. He finished his orange juice before heading back to his room.
After a few hours of relaxation, the squad gathered for a short training session in the hotel's private gym and adjacent outdoor pitch. It wasn't anything strenuous—just light drills, stretching, and ball work to keep their bodies sharp. Francesco went through the motions, his touch precise, his focus unwavering.
Özil and Sanchez were particularly sharp, pinging quick passes between each other, while Giroud's finishing drills were met with approving nods from the coaching staff. Francesco himself worked on quick turns and movement off the ball, knowing Juventus' defensive structure would be tight.
After the session wrapped up, the players showered and changed before heading to the meeting room once more. This time, the energy was different—more serious, more intense. The reality of the match was settling in.
Wenger once again took the lead, detailing the game plan.
"Juventus will not give us space," he reiterated. "We must be intelligent in our approach. They will try to slow the game, control the tempo. We cannot allow that."
He highlighted key defensive responsibilities, emphasizing the need to stay compact when out of possession.
"Francesco, you will need to be patient. They will try to frustrate you, but do not let them dictate your movement."
Francesco nodded, absorbing every word.
By the time the meeting ended, there was nothing left to say.
Now, it was all about execution.
The journey to the Allianz Stadium was quiet, the bus ride filled with the low hum of music playing through players' headphones. Francesco sat by the window, watching the streets of Turin blur past. The city was alive, fans in black and white scarves walking toward the stadium, their voices carrying through the air.
As the bus pulled up to the stadium, security directed them to the underground entrance. Francesco took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. This was it.
Inside the locker room, the atmosphere was electric. Players went through their individual routines—some listened to music, others wrapped their wrists or adjusted their shin pads. Francesco laced up his boots methodically, his mind locked in.
The air inside the Allianz Stadium was thick with tension, even though the stands were only partially filled with early-arriving fans and media personnel. As Francesco stepped onto the pitch alongside his teammates, he took a deep breath, inhaling the cool evening air. The floodlights were already on, casting a brilliant glow over the pristine grass. He had dreamed of playing in a stadium like this, under these lights, in a match that meant everything.
Before the game itself, they had a 45-minute warm-up session to go through. Everyone changed into the club's training kits—light gray shirts with the Arsenal crest, black shorts, and socks. Francesco pulled on his training bib and jogged out onto the field with the rest of the squad, his boots sinking slightly into the well-maintained pitch.
The Juventus players were already warming up on the opposite side, going through their drills with the same level of focus. Chiellini and Bonucci were stretching near the penalty box, their imposing presence a reminder of the challenge ahead. Francesco locked eyes with Bonucci for a brief moment, giving the Italian defender a small nod. The battle was coming.
The session started with light jogging around the field, easing the muscles into action. The coaching staff emphasized dynamic stretches—lunges, high knees, and side shuffles—to make sure everyone was loose and ready. Francesco moved through the motions, his body already feeling the buzz of adrenaline.
After the warm-up jog, they broke into small groups for ball drills. Francesco joined Özil, Ramsey, and Alexis for a rondo session, where two players tried to win the ball back from the circle. The pace started slow but quickly intensified, the ball zipping between them as they tested their touch and vision. Özil, as always, was silky in possession, while Alexis kept flicking the ball past the defenders with cheeky nutmegs. Francesco, determined to stay sharp, focused on quick one-touch passes, keeping his movement fluid.
Next came finishing drills. The strikers and attacking midfielders moved to the edge of the penalty box while the coaches set up a series of passing sequences that led into a shot on goal.
First, a simple pass from the wing into the middle, followed by a first-time strike.
Francesco received a ball from Bellerín on the right flank, took a quick touch to set himself, and fired low into the bottom corner. A satisfying thud echoed as the ball nestled into the net.
The next drill focused on combination play. Giroud played a short layoff, and Francesco burst onto it, curling a shot toward the far post. Buffon, even in warm-ups, wasn't going to make it easy. The legendary keeper dived full stretch, his fingertips pushing the ball wide.
Francesco grinned. Alright, old man. Let's see how many I can get past you later.
The final shooting drill involved cutbacks. The fullbacks overlapped and sent low crosses into the box, where Francesco and the other attackers timed their runs to meet the ball. He found himself in stride, meeting a cross from Monreal with a clean side-footed shot into the roof of the net.
Giroud clapped him on the back. "Looking sharp, mate."
Francesco nodded. "Let's make it count later."
The team then shifted to quick passing and dribbling sequences, simulating tight spaces where Juventus' defense would try to suffocate them. Wenger had stressed patience in possession, and this was their last chance to fine-tune it.
Özil, Ramsey, and Francesco moved through the drill together, exchanging rapid one-touch passes before bursting forward into space. Francesco was particularly focused on keeping his movement unpredictable—dropping deep to receive the ball, then spinning away with a quick turn.
Wilshere, ever the competitor, challenged him in a one-on-one dribbling drill. "Let's see what you got, Francesco."
Francesco smirked. Wilshere lunged in, but with a quick body feint and a delicate flick past his outstretched leg, Francesco was gone.
Wilshere shook his head. "Alright, alright. You win this round."
The final passing drill emphasized quick transitions—turning defense into attack. The backline played the ball into midfield, who had to find the forwards with as few touches as possible. This was crucial; Juventus was disciplined, and Arsenal needed to move the ball before their shape solidified.
The last part of the warm-up focused on short sprints, agility, and reaction work. The fitness coach led them through acceleration drills—quick bursts over 10 to 15 meters to replicate in-game movements. Francesco felt his muscles fully engaged now, his legs responsive, his mind sharp.
As the warm-up wrapped up, Wenger gathered the squad near the touchline.
"Good," he said, scanning the players' faces. "Now, we go back inside, reset our focus, and be ready to fight. We have earned this moment—now let's make it ours."
They jogged back toward the tunnel, sweat glistening on their skin despite the cool evening air. Francesco took one last glance around the stadium before stepping inside. The noise was growing. The atmosphere was building.
The locker room was filled with a charged silence, the only sounds being the rustling of fabric and the soft clatter of studs against the tiled floor. Francesco stepped in, his eyes immediately landing on the neatly arranged Arsenal kits hanging on the walls. His heart gave a small, excited thump when he saw his own shirt—bright red with white sleeves, the number 35 and his name LEE printed boldly on the back.
He reached for it, fingers brushing over the fabric before quickly pulling it over his head. The material felt cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of his body, still buzzing from the warm-up. Around him, the other players were doing the same—Alexis adjusting his socks, Özil tightening his armband, Giroud checking the fit of his shin guards.
Everyone had their own pre-match rituals. Mertesacker sat with his eyes closed, going over defensive scenarios in his head. Cazorla hummed softly to himself, tapping his fingers on his knees. Coquelin kept bouncing his legs, unable to stay still. Francesco took a deep breath, steadying himself. This was it.
As the final bits of preparation wrapped up, Arsène Wenger stepped forward. The room fell silent. The Frenchman scanned his squad, his face calm but filled with intensity. His voice, when he spoke, carried the weight of experience and expectation.
"We have worked for this moment," he began, his gaze sweeping across the room. "We are here because we deserve to be here. Do not forget that."
Francesco listened intently as Wenger continued, outlining their strategy with quiet authority.
"Our formation will be 4-2-1-3." His hand moved to the whiteboard, pointing to the setup. "Ospina in goal. Monreal, Mertesacker as captain, Koscielny, and Bellerín in defense. Coquelin and Cazorla as the pivots in midfield, Özil in front of them to dictate the play."
Wenger's finger moved up to the attacking trio. "Alexis on the left, Francesco on the right, and Giroud leading the line."
Francesco nodded. He knew his role well—stretch the defense, cut inside when needed, and use his speed to exploit any gaps in Juventus' backline.
"For the bench," Wenger continued, "we have Szczęsny, Gabriel, Gibbs, Flamini, Ramsey, Oxlade-Chamberlain, and Walcott. Be ready at all times."
There was a short pause, allowing the players to absorb the setup. Then Wenger's voice softened slightly.
"This will not be easy. Juventus is disciplined, strong, and experienced. They will not gift us space. We must create it. Patience, intelligence, and confidence—these will be key."
He turned his gaze to the attacking players. "Olivier, hold up play when needed. Bring others in. Francesco, Alexis—do not be predictable. Move, create, drag their defenders out of position."
Francesco exchanged a glance with Alexis, who gave him a firm nod. They both understood their task.
Then Wenger's expression hardened. "Defensively, we must be compact. Coquelin, Santi—do not allow them to dictate the tempo. Mertesacker, Laurent—be vocal, be disciplined. And all of you…" he looked at each of them, his voice dropping slightly, "believe."
There was a heavy silence before he finally said, "Alright. Let's go."
The players erupted into movement, final adjustments being made—laces tightened, gloves pulled on, deep breaths taken.
Francesco rolled his shoulders and followed the team toward the tunnel. The moment they stepped outside the locker room, the noise hit them like a wave.
The Allianz Stadium was now fully packed, thousands of Juventus fans roaring in unison. The atmosphere was electric, the air vibrating with chants and anticipation. As they walked through the tunnel, the opposing players were already lined up—Chiellini, Pirlo, Buffon, Tevez, all wearing that familiar black-and-white kit.
Buffon glanced at Francesco and gave a small, knowing smile, one veteran recognizing a rising talent. Francesco returned it briefly before focusing forward.
The players stepped onto the pitch, the bright stadium lights making everything feel surreal. The Champions League anthem boomed through the speakers, a sound that never failed to send shivers down Francesco's spine.
This was it.
As they lined up for the handshakes, Francesco could feel his pulse hammering in his ears. His legs felt light, his mind sharper than ever. The final moments before kickoff were always the same—a mixture of adrenaline, excitement, and an almost overwhelming sense of focus.
The coin toss was completed, and the captains—Mertesacker and Buffon—exchanged a few words before shaking hands. Then, both teams moved into position.
Francesco took his spot on the right wing, glancing across the field. Juventus had their familiar defensive setup—Chiellini and Bonucci standing firm at the back, flanked by Lichtsteiner and Evra. In midfield, Pirlo, Marchisio, and Vidal formed a wall of strength and creativity with Pereyra became the bridge for the strikers Tevez and Morata to receive the ball from the midfielders.
Francesco exhaled, rolling his neck. The referee checked his watch, placed the whistle to his lips, and—
Kickoff.
The game exploded into motion. Juventus pressed high early, trying to set the tone. Arsenal, however, kept their composure, passing the ball with precision, moving it quickly from defense to midfield.
Francesco's first involvement came in the fifth minute. Özil received the ball in midfield, turned elegantly, and spotted Francesco making a darting run down the right flank. The German's pass was perfect, curling behind Evra and into Francesco's path.
Francesco controlled it smoothly, felt the rush of excitement as he squared up against Chiellini. The veteran defender was a wall, but Francesco wasn't afraid. He feinted left, then burst right, accelerating past him and whipping a low cross into the box.
Giroud met it with a strong header—saved by Buffon.
Close.
Juventus responded immediately, Pirlo breaking forward and threading a pass to Tevez. The Argentine twisted past Koscielny and rifled a shot toward the bottom corner—
Ospina dived low, fingertips pushing it wide.
The game was opening up fast. Arsenal maintained possession, dictating play through Özil's elegance and Cazorla's sharp movement. Francesco remained active on the right, constantly looking for openings.
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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