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Francesco simply nodded. In two days at night, under the bright lights of the Emirates, with thousands of fans roaring in support, they would fight. And he would do everything in his power to make sure they came out victorious.
Then the days pass, and now Francesco drove toward London Colney on the morning of April 22, 2015, his fingers tapped idly against the steering wheel. The sky was clear, the early spring sun casting a warm glow over the city. It was match day. Not just any match day—Champions League quarter-final, second leg. Arsenal vs. Juventus at the Emirates.
His phone vibrated on the passenger seat. At a red light, he glanced down and saw a message from Leah.
Leah: I'll be there tonight. Don't make me regret coming.
A smirk tugged at his lips. Before he could type a reply, another notification popped up.
Mom: Dad and I are coming to watch you tonight. Can't miss this one. Proud of you no matter what happens.
His chest warmed at the message. As much as he thrived under pressure, knowing his parents would be in the stands always made the occasion feel even more significant. He quickly replied to both of them.
Francesco: I'll ask the club to set up a VIP box for you all.
He placed his phone back down and exhaled, rolling his shoulders to release the tension creeping in. No distractions. Tonight was about one thing—winning.
London Colney was buzzing with energy when Francesco arrived. The players were locked in, the weight of the night ahead pressing down on everyone. He greeted his teammates with nods and brief handshakes, no time for jokes today.
As soon as they stepped onto the training pitch, Wenger gathered them around.
"This morning is about sharpness," he said, his voice calm but authoritative. "Short, intense session. We want you physically ready, but mentally even more so."
The team ran through tactical drills, set-piece routines, and light ball work. Francesco moved with purpose, feeling the familiar rhythm of training take over. His passes were sharp, his dribbles smooth, his finishing precise. The fire in his chest burned hotter with each touch.
After training, the squad moved inside for lunch, followed by a tactical briefing. Francesco sat next to Alexis Sánchez and Mesut Özil as Wenger pulled up clips from Juventus' first-leg performance.
"They'll sit deep," Wenger reiterated. "They'll absorb pressure and look to hit us on the counter. We cannot afford to lose concentration. Francesco, Mesut—your creativity will be crucial tonight. You must be decisive in the final third."
Francesco nodded, absorbing every word.
As the meeting wrapped up, Wenger's final words rang in his ears.
"Ninety minutes. That's all it takes to for us to go through to the semi final."
Evening had arrived, and the Arsenal squad was gathered at London Colney, waiting for departure to the Emirates. The sun had started to dip below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the training facility. A quiet tension hung in the air—anticipation, nerves, and excitement mixing together.
Francesco sat on one of the benches in the lounge area, his boots tapping lightly against the floor. He glanced around the room, taking in the scene. Some players had their headphones on, eyes closed, lost in their pre-match rituals. Others, like Mertesacker and Koscielny, were engaged in quiet discussions about defensive strategies.
Santi Cazorla and Hector Bellerín were in their usual animated conversation, the young right-back nodding enthusiastically as the experienced midfielder gave him some last-minute advice. Meanwhile, Olivier Giroud leaned back in his seat, stretching his long legs out in front of him, looking calm as ever.
Across the room, Alexis Sánchez was tying his boots, his usual pre-match energy radiating off him. He looked up and caught Francesco's gaze.
"You ready for this?" Alexis asked, his voice steady but intense.
Francesco smirked. "More than ready. This is the kind of night I live for."
Alexis chuckled. "Good. Because we'll need you at your best tonight."
At that moment, Mesut Özil joined them, settling into a chair next to Francesco. The German playmaker, usually quiet, looked more serious than usual.
"This game," Özil said, exhaling, "is everything. We win, and we're in the semi-finals. Lose… and it's another year of 'almost.'"
Francesco nodded. He knew exactly what Özil meant. Arsenal had built a reputation for getting close but not quite making it over the final hurdle. Tonight was a chance to change that.
Mertesacker, ever the leader, clapped his hands together to get everyone's attention. "Lads, listen," he said, his voice carrying through the room. "We all know what's at stake. But don't let it weigh you down. Play our football, stay disciplined, and fight for every ball."
There were nods and murmurs of agreement. The tension in the room eased slightly.
Just then, the team staff signaled that it was time to leave. One by one, the players grabbed their bags and headed toward the team bus.
Francesco pulled out his phone for a quick final check. A message from Leah popped up.
Leah: "Good luck tonight, superstar. No pressure, but I expect a goal."
He grinned, shaking his head, and typed a quick reply.
Francesco: "I'll see what I can do. Just make sure you're watching."
His mother had also messaged again.
Mom: "No matter what happens, we're proud of you."
That one hit differently. He felt a warmth spread through his chest as he typed back a simple, "Thanks, Mom. Love you."
With that, he slid his phone into his bag, took a deep breath, and followed his teammates onto the bus.
The team bus rumbled through the London streets, escorted by police motorcycles to clear the way. Francesco sat by the window, watching the familiar sights of the city blur past. The streets were alive with Arsenal fans, scarves raised, flags waving.
As they got closer to the stadium, the energy intensified. Hundreds of fans had gathered outside, chanting, singing, waiting to catch a glimpse of the players. Francesco saw banners with his name, shirts with his number. It was surreal.
Sitting next to him, Aaron Ramsey nudged his shoulder. "You see that?"
Francesco nodded. "Yeah. Crazy, isn't it?"
Ramsey grinned. "They believe in us. We can't let them down."
The bus pulled into the underground parking area of the Emirates. The moment the doors opened, the energy shifted. Cameras flashed. Security moved into position. The players stepped off the bus one by one, each of them locked in, mentally preparing for battle.
Francesco adjusted the strap of his bag and walked toward the dressing room with the others.
The Arsenal squad walked into the dressing room, the air thick with tension and anticipation. The room smelled of fresh kits, leather boots, and the faint trace of sweat from past battles. Each player's designated locker had their jersey neatly folded, their name and number printed boldly on the back.
Francesco walked to his spot and sat down, exhaling deeply as he unzipped his bag. Around him, the squad was settling into their usual pre-match routines.
Alexis Sánchez was already stripping out of his travel clothes, wasting no time in getting into his training kit. Mesut Özil sat quietly, adjusting his socks, deep in thought. Santi Cazorla was tying his boots while sharing a quiet joke with Nacho Monreal, easing some of the tension.
Francesco grabbed his training shirt and slipped it over his head, the fabric cool against his skin. His body was ready. His mind was locked in.
Just as he was about to start stretching, his phone vibrated on the bench beside him.
Curious, he picked it up and glanced at the screen. A message from Leah.
Leah: "HEY!!! YOU DIDN'T TELL ME THAT I'M SHARING A BOX WITH YOUR PARENTS!!! 😤"
Francesco blinked, reading the message twice before chuckling under his breath.
Alexis, who was sitting nearby, raised an eyebrow. "What's so funny?"
Francesco turned his phone so Alexis could see the message.
The Chilean laughed. "You're in trouble, hermano."
Still smirking, Francesco quickly typed a response.
Francesco: "Relax. They don't bite. Besides, my mom will probably love you."
Almost instantly, Leah replied.
Leah: "THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT I'M WORRIED ABOUT!!!"
Francesco shook his head, amused. His mom had always been observant when it came to his relationships. The fact that Leah was sitting in the same box as his parents meant she was about to face some serious questioning.
Francesco: "Just be yourself. You'll survive."
He placed his phone back down and stretched his legs out in front of him. As entertaining as Leah's minor panic was, he had to shift his focus back to the game.
With their training kits on, the Arsenal players made their way out of the dressing room and into the tunnel leading to the pitch. The Emirates was already filling up, the distant roar of fans filtering through the walls.
The moment they stepped onto the field for warm-ups, a fresh wave of adrenaline hit Francesco. The grass was pristine, the floodlights beaming down onto the pitch. The Champions League anthem would be playing in less than an hour, but for now, it was about getting their bodies loose, their minds locked in.
Francesco jogged onto the field alongside Ramsey and Bellerín, feeling the energy of the crowd. Arsenal fans cheered as the players emerged, waving scarves and singing chants.
They started with light jogging, moving in formation, before transitioning into passing drills. Francesco and Özil worked in tandem, exchanging crisp one-touch passes as they navigated around cones. The chemistry between them was electric.
Alexis, practiced his finishing, taking shot after shot at goal. Giroud joined him, and soon the rest of the attacking players followed, each taking turns testing the keeper.
Francesco took his place in line, waiting for his turn. When the ball rolled toward him, he took a sharp first touch, shifted his body, and rifled a shot into the top corner.
The Emirates crowd reacted with applause. Even though it was just a warm-up, every action felt like a preview of what was to come.
After finishing their drills, the squad jogged back into the tunnel. By now, the stadium was almost full. The noise level had risen significantly.
Inside the dressing room, Wenger stood in the center, waiting for his players. His face was calm, but his eyes burned with determination.
"Sit down," he instructed.
The players did as told, taking their places around the room. Francesco ran a towel over his face, wiping off the light sweat from warm-ups. His heartbeat had settled, but the anticipation was still there.
Wenger stepped forward. "Tonight is about more than just football," he began. His voice was low but commanding, making everyone lean in. "It's about pride. It's about proving that this club belongs among the best in Europe. You've worked too hard to let this slip away."
His gaze swept across the room, looking on each players. Özil. Alexis. Ramsey. Giroud. Then, finally, Francesco.
"Francesco," Wenger said, his expression serious. "You are one of our most dangerous players in the final third. Do not hesitate. Be decisive. This is your moment."
Francesco nodded firmly. He had been waiting for this moment his entire career.
Wenger turned to the entire squad. "We are Arsenal. We do not play with fear. We play with belief. We play with fire."
Wenger paused for a moment, letting his words sink in before shifting his focus to the tactical board at the front of the dressing room. He picked up a marker and quickly sketched out the team's formation—a familiar 4-3-3 setup.
"This is how we line up," he said, tapping the board with conviction. "Wojciech in goal. Our back four—Nacho on the left, Hector on the right, with Laurent and Per in the center. Per, you wear the armband tonight."
Mertesacker gave a firm nod. He was always a composed leader, and his towering presence would be crucial in keeping the defensive line disciplined.
Wenger continued, drawing the midfield trio. "Francis, Santi—you two will anchor the midfield. Santi, you dictate the tempo. Francis, I want you breaking up their attacks before they start."
Both midfielders nodded, their roles clear.
"Mesut, you have the freedom to create," Wenger added, turning to Özil. "Find the spaces, keep the ball moving, and link up with the front three."
Özil gave a small nod, his expression unreadable but focused.
Wenger then moved to the attacking trio. "Alexis, Francesco—you will be our threats on the wings. I need you stretching their defense, cutting inside when the opportunity arises. Take them on. Be aggressive. Francesco, if you see space, attack it."
Francesco felt a surge of adrenaline at Wenger's words. This was it. This was the stage he lived for.
"Olivier," Wenger said, looking at Giroud. "Hold up the play, bring others into the game, and be ruthless when you get your chances."
Giroud smirked, rolling his shoulders as if to loosen up. "Always, boss."
Wenger then turned to the substitutes' list. "David, Gabriel, Kieran, Aaron, Jack, Theo, Danny—you all need to be ready. This is a squad effort. If you come on, you make an impact."
The substitutes nodded, knowing they might be called upon at any moment.
Wenger took a step back, scanning the room, making sure every player understood their role. The tension was thick, but it wasn't the nervous kind—it was the kind that fueled champions.
He took a deep breath before delivering his final words. "Gentlemen, this is the quarter-final of the Champions League. We are 90 minutes away from a place in the last four. Play with intelligence. Play with heart. And above all—play like Arsenal."
There was a brief silence, then Mertesacker stood up, clapping his hands together. "Come on, boys! Let's show them who we are!"
The squad roared in response, fists pumping, the energy in the room now electric.
Francesco pulled his jersey over his head, feeling the familiar weight of the Arsenal crest on his chest. He glanced at his phone one last time before putting it away. Then no more distractions, It was time for war as they walk to the tunnel.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 27
Goal: 32
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8