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He decided to switch gears for the evening. No more analysis, no more pressure — at least not for a few hours. He grabbed a shower, changed into a loose hoodie and joggers, then drove into the city to pick up dinner from one of Leah's favorite Japanese places.
The days passed in a blur. Training sessions stacked one after the other, fast and demanding — just how he liked it. Each one sharpened Francesco further, honed him like a blade being whetted for war. Every sprint, every finish, every tactic meeting felt more real now, more urgent, as the Community Shield loomed closer. He started sleeping earlier, eating cleaner, barely even touched the PlayStation. It wasn't about nerves; it was something else — a sense of clarity, of purpose.
Leah noticed it too. Some nights, after dinner, they would sit on the couch, the telly playing quietly in the background, and she'd just watch him — not in awe, not with worry, but with that quiet kind of admiration that didn't need to be spoken aloud. He appreciated that. She never asked if he was okay. She just knew he was locked in.
Now it was here.
13 August.
Francesco was up before the sun cracked the skyline. There was a soft mist rolling through Richmond, painting the streets in silver-grey as he pulled out of the driveway in his BMW X5. The roads were empty, still yawning with the slow quiet of early morning. He liked that. Gave him time to think.
He had his training kit in a duffel bag on the passenger seat, earbuds in, music low — a mellow playlist of soul and lo-fi beats, nothing too intense. Just enough to keep his mind moving, eyes scanning the road ahead as he cut through South London and onto the motorway.
The nerves were there — not crushing, but present, fluttering just beneath his ribs. Like something coiled and waiting. Today wasn't a match day, but it felt close. Colney always had that aura in the final stretch before a big game. It wasn't just training anymore; it was fine-tuning.
The sky was turning gold as he turned into the familiar entrance of Arsenal's London Colney Training Centre. Security waved him through with the usual polite nods, but this time with a bit more… warmth, maybe? Respect? He wasn't just the promising academy boy anymore. He was the number 9.
He parked up, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment. Exhaled. Stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror. No second-guessing. Just focus.
As he walked through the quiet halls toward the players' lounge, he passed by framed photographs of club legends — Henry, Bergkamp, Adams. His footsteps echoed softly off the polished floors. One of the physios nodded to him in the hallway. "Morning, Lee."
"Morning," he replied with a smile, voice still scratchy from the early hour.
The players' lounge was empty when he entered. The space was warm, clean, familiar. A few mugs stacked beside the espresso machine, a basket of fresh fruit on the counter, and the ever-present flat screen tuned to Sky Sports News on mute. He dropped his bag near the sofa and sat down, letting his shoulders sag back into the cushions.
The hum of the vending machine in the corner was the only sound.
Francesco took out his phone, checking the time. 7:36 a.m. They weren't due to start until eight. He liked being early. Not just for the routine, but for the peace of it — the calm before the others rolled in with their banter and music and stories from the night before.
He scrolled through his notifications — a few texts from Leah, one from his agent Jorge Mendes reminding him about post-match interviews if he scored on Thursday, and a video from his mum. She'd filmed his dad trying to juggle a football in the garden, then missing and falling backwards into the flower bed. Francesco chuckled, saving it to show the boys later.
The door opened softly behind him, and in walked Hector Bellerín, hair pulled back, fashionably late in his PSG hoodie even though he'd never played there.
"Ey, number nine's early," Hector grinned, dropping his backpack on the floor and reaching for a banana. "What happened, couldn't sleep?"
Francesco smirked. "Been up since five."
Hector shook his head. "Man's locked in."
One by one, the rest of the squad began filtering in. Oxlade-Chamberlain, always with some wild story about a new restaurant he'd tried. Koscielny with his calm, quiet nods. Alexis bouncing a ball off the wall while sipping his mate, always buzzing with energy. Theo Walcott walked in with two coffees in hand and tossed one to Francesco with a wink. "Big week, mate. Drink up."
Then came Wenger.
He didn't say much at first. Just entered the lounge with his usual elegant posture and observant eyes. But when his gaze landed on Francesco, he gave a small nod — the kind of nod that said, "You ready?"
Francesco nodded back.
The manager looked pleased. "Good," he said quietly. "Because I'm counting on you."
Wenger glanced at the clock, then at the boys beginning to gather around the lounge — chatting, joking, a few still rubbing sleep from their eyes — and cleared his throat. It wasn't loud, not forceful. But when Wenger cleared his throat, people listened.
"Alright," he said, hands lightly clasped behind his back, voice calm but firm. "Finish up your coffees. Get yourselves ready. At eleven sharp, the bus leaves for Wembley."
A pause. Not dramatic — just enough time for the sentence to settle into the room.
"Let's go through the routine as normal. You all know the drill. Light session first. Then food. Then bus. No distractions."
Heads nodded around the room. There were no protests. No sluggishness. Everyone was already keyed into the rhythm — they'd felt the week's intensity rising day by day. The atmosphere now wasn't playful. It wasn't serious either. It was something in between — a focused quiet, like soldiers prepping for the first skirmish of a long campaign.
Francesco stood up, stretching his arms overhead with a yawn that didn't quite feel genuine. He wasn't tired. If anything, he was too alert. That morning mist that greeted him in Richmond might as well have been a dream — this now, this was reality. The first big step. Wembley was calling.
He grabbed his duffel and headed toward the changing room with the others, Hector falling into step beside him.
"Wembley, huh," Hector said, glancing at him sideways with that same grin he always had, like he knew something you didn't. "You've been before?"
Francesco shook his head. "Only watched from the stands."
"You'll love it," Hector said. "Massive pitch. Grass feels different under your boots. Sound hits you different too. Like… you feel it in your chest."
Francesco smiled, trying to picture it. But even in his imagination, it didn't seem quite real.
—
In the changing room, the energy picked up a bit. Not rowdy, but you could feel the current moving. Players laced boots, slipped into training kits, and shared quiet nods or small jokes. Every now and then someone would playfully nudge the guy next to him, or let out a short laugh, but most of them — even the older ones — were keeping it tight. Eyes forward. Game faces slowly emerging.
Francesco sat at his locker, pulling on his socks, taping his ankles. Everything felt methodical. He didn't need to think. His body moved like it remembered what to do better than his brain did. He liked it that way.
A knock at the door. One of the staff poked his head in. "Warm-up pitch in five."
The hum of motion rose again. Zippers zipped. Drawstrings pulled tight. And one by one, they filed out into the morning light.
The training pitch at Colney was bathed in a golden glow now, the last hints of morning fog burning off beneath a sky that looked like brushed copper. The air was cool but promising warmth later. Perfect weather for football.
The session wasn't long. Wenger kept it crisp. Ball movement drills, sharp passing triangles, finishing touches around the box. It wasn't about building stamina now — they already had that. It was about refining the sharpness, like a pianist practicing scales before a concert.
Francesco's legs felt good. Light. His touch was clean, confident. He finished three of four shots into the top corner during the striker drills. Not bad. Not perfect either. But good. And today, good was enough.
Wenger watched from the sidelines, arms folded, speaking occasionally to Bould or the goalkeeping coach. But he didn't interrupt much. He didn't need to. The system was ticking. The players were tuned in.
When the whistle blew to end the session, there wasn't much chatter. A few pats on the back, a couple of "see you on the bus," but mostly everyone moved with that same quiet sense of purpose that had defined the week.
Inside again, Francesco peeled off his kit and hit the showers, steam curling around him as the hot water soaked his hair and shoulders. He didn't linger. Just enough to relax the muscles, reset the head.
Then it was on to the dining hall.
—
Lunch was light. Chicken. Brown rice. Steamed vegetables. Hydration drinks. No one complained. It was the kind of food you got used to when your body was your job. Francesco ate quickly, methodically, not too fast. Just enough to fuel. Not enough to feel heavy.
Across the table, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain was talking about his new car — a matte black Audi R8 with custom leather seats. Hector chimed in with a sarcastic "Oh no, not the leather seats," and everyone chuckled. Francesco smiled but stayed mostly quiet. He wasn't withdrawn. Just focused.
When he finished eating, he wiped his mouth, stood, and nodded to the staff. "Cheers."
The kitmen had already laid out travel gear for the squad — full Arsenal tracksuits, all matching, black and red with the white cannon embroidered over the heart. Francesco changed into his, zipped it up to the collar, and laced up his clean white trainers.
At 10:55, they were all ready.
—
The team bus sat idling outside the facility, the sleek black coach wrapped in Arsenal branding and polished to a mirror shine. The driver gave a short nod as Wenger stepped on first, then one by one the squad followed.
Francesco took his usual seat — second row, window side, same place he'd sat during most away days last season. Superstition? Maybe. But he liked watching the world go by as they drove. Helped him stay calm.
He pulled out his headphones again — same playlist as the morning. Nothing heavy. Just a steady rhythm. He stared out the window as the bus began to roll, trees sliding past, houses giving way to the wider roads of North London.
Wembley wasn't far. But the ride still felt significant. Like a small ritual. The silence of departure. The slow build of anticipation.
Behind him, Theo and Ox were cracking jokes again, trying to one-up each other on impressions. Alexis had his headphones in, eyes closed. Koscielny was reading something on his tablet — French novel maybe. And Wenger sat near the front, speaking softly to Bould, occasionally glancing back at his squad.
Francesco leaned his head against the glass and watched as the streets of London passed by. He spotted a few kids in Arsenal kits on the pavement, kicking a ball against a brick wall. He smiled to himself.
Wembley loomed ahead like a cathedral. You didn't just see it — you felt it. The arch, towering into the sky, was visible from miles out. And as the bus made the final turns into the stadium grounds, the mood inside shifted again.
No more jokes. No more chatter.
The team moved like a unit now, bags in hand, expressions locked in. Security guided them through, and soon they were in the underground tunnels, then through the bowels of the stadium toward the dressing rooms.
Francesco walked slower now, eyes drinking in every detail. The walls. The air. The signs pointing toward the pitch.
Their dressing room was massive. Too clean. Too white. But the kits — hanging perfectly on the pegs — brought the room to life. His shirt was there. Number 9. "LEE" in block letters. Right between Alexis and Theo.
The dressing room hummed with a steady, low energy — a mixture of anticipation, adrenaline, and that particular stillness that always comes before the storm. Francesco stood there for a moment, gazing at his shirt again. Number 9. "LEE." The material seemed to glow under the room's lighting, almost daring him to put it on and step into the story he'd been dreaming about since he was a kid.
But before that — the warm-up.
Wenger gave a nod, and the players started pulling off their tracksuits, revealing the red Arsenal training tops underneath. Francesco changed quickly, muscle memory doing most of the work. Shorts on, socks up, boots tied. A few of the others cracked their knuckles or rolled their shoulders, loosening up. Some laughed lightly. Not nervous laughter — just the kind that fills empty space so nerves don't creep in.
Francesco followed them out through the tunnel, emerging into the sunlight that now beamed fully down onto the immaculate Wembley turf. It was everything Hector said it would be — the pitch did look massive from ground level, greener than green, trimmed and patterned like velvet. The stadium itself stretched high around them, vast rows of red and white seats that would soon be filled with thousands of voices. For now, it was quiet. Echoing. Majestic.
They took their positions for warm-ups: dynamic stretches first, then passing drills. Francesco's legs felt elastic, like they'd been waiting days just to run. His boots kissed the grass with each touch, clean and sharp. The strikers went through shooting routines next — balls fed in from the flanks, one-touch finishes, headers, volleys. Francesco knocked a few into the corners, not trying to do too much. Just getting the feel. Letting the game come to him.
Wenger and Bould watched from the side again, talking occasionally, pointing here or there but not interrupting the flow. Francesco could feel their eyes on him every now and then, and he welcomed it. Not pressure — not now. Just trust. He could sense it. He was part of this.
After 45 minutes, one of the staff gave a signal. Time to wrap up.
They jogged off the pitch in unison, the applause from the early-arriving fans already starting to trickle in from the stands. Francesco glanced up at the sea of slowly filling seats and took a mental picture. Wembley. First step.
Back in the dressing room, the energy shifted again. The training kits came off, replaced now by the real thing — the match shirts, the ones that would be captured in photos, remembered in stories. Francesco ran his fingers across the Arsenal crest before slipping the jersey on. The fabric clung to him like armor.
Wenger stepped forward, looking around at the group. No clipboard in hand. No notes. Just his presence. The room fell still.
"Alright," he began, his voice calm but resonant. "We go with the 4-1-4-1."
He looked toward the board on the wall where the formation had been sketched out in magnetic name tags earlier, and now he called it out, slow and deliberate, letting each name linger just a beat longer.
"In goal — Petr Čech."
A nod from the big Czech as he pulled his gloves tighter.
"Back four — Nacho at left-back. Laurent and Per at centre-back. Hector on the right."
Monreal gave a little fist bump to Koscielny beside him. Per Mertesacker, already dressed, adjusted the armband on his bicep with quiet pride.
"Holding midfield — Francis Coquelin."
Coquelin nodded, rolling his neck and bouncing on his toes.
"Central midfield — Özil and Santi."
Mesut looked up, face calm as ever, and Santi gave a quiet smile, lacing up his boots with practiced hands.
"On the wings — Alexis on the left, Ox on the right."
Sanchez was already pacing a little in his corner, headphones off now, all fire and twitching energy. Oxlade-Chamberlain threw him a quick thumbs-up.
"And up front — Francesco."
Francesco exhaled, nodded once. No shout. No fist pump. Just a quiet "let's go" under his breath.
Wenger paused, then continued.
"On the bench — Emi Martínez, Virgil, Gibbs, Kanté, Arteta, Ramsey, Giroud."
Each man acknowledged the call. Some gave nods. Some clapped shoulders. Everyone understood their role. Today might not start with them, but it might end with them.
Then Wenger stepped forward, letting his gaze sweep across the room. He clasped his hands behind his back, took a breath, and delivered what he always did best — not orders, not strategy. Just belief.
"This is the first step," he said. "The beginning of a new season. And already — already — you've shown that we are stronger, faster, sharper than before. Today isn't just about a trophy, though that matters. It's about setting the tone. About telling every other team in England — we are here. And we are ready."
The players didn't move. They just listened. Eyes locked on him.
"I see a team here that trusts each other," Wenger continued, his voice gaining a quiet intensity. "I see intelligence. I see courage. And I see hunger. Real hunger. The kind that wins leagues. The kind that wins Europe."
A beat of silence. You could hear breathing in the room.
"Now go out there," Wenger finished, "and remind them what it means to face Arsenal."
There was no roar. No huddle. Just a rising tide of motion — players rising to their feet, final boots tied, armbands adjusted. Cazorla clapped Özil on the back. Theo gave Francesco a light tap on the shoulder. Mertesacker stood in the middle, voice low, calling the starters toward the tunnel.
They were ready.
The tunnel at Wembley is long — a wide, echoing corridor that seems to stretch for miles when you're walking it for the first time. The sound of the crowd was growing now, turning from a low murmur into a rising roar. Francesco stepped into line behind Mertesacker, in front of Alexis, and glanced to his left.
Chelsea were lining up too.
Blue shirts. Familiar faces. Courtois. Terry. Azpilicueta. Fabregas. Hazard. Costa.
No words were exchanged. Just glances. Nods. The unspoken weight of battle building.
Then — the call.
The music started. The officials began to move. And the two teams marched forward, out of the tunnel, into the light, into the deafening roar of the Community Shield.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League and 2014/2015 FA Cup
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9