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The snow fell gently outside. The fire dimmed to embers. And the house—finally, blissfully quiet—breathed with the kind of peace that could only come after a night filled with life.
The next morning arrived wrapped in a dull silver haze, the kind of grey that blanketed the sky in silence and pressed against the earth with the weight of Boxing Day. Richmond was still sleepy when Francesco eased out of the driveway in his BMW X5, the engine humming smoothly as the big SUV rolled past the frost-dusted hedges lining his private road.
The mansion behind him—warm, golden, and quiet—had finally settled. Leah was still asleep upstairs when he slipped out with a soft kiss to her forehead, whispering a promise to call her before the match. Atom and Humber hadn't even stirred when the front door clicked shut. After a night filled with running, chasing, barking, and stealing meatballs from under the dining table, they were more than entitled to a long lie-in.
Francesco, meanwhile, had a job to do.
He gripped the steering wheel with one hand and sipped from a takeaway cup of black coffee with the other. The roads were nearly empty—just the occasional delivery van or bundled-up pedestrian shuffling along the pavement. Christmas decorations still blinked in front gardens and on shopfronts, but they seemed quieter now, as if even the lights were resting.
The X5's heated seats made the cabin almost too comfortable, and for a brief moment at a red light, Francesco let his head lean back, watching the sky through the windshield.
He was tired, sure—but in the good way. The soreness in his legs wasn't from training, but from chasing children and golden retrievers through snow. His shoulders ached from carrying too many trays of food and hugs. His mind still echoed with laughter, with Leah's voice teasing him from the kitchen, with the rhythmic thump of music and billiard balls and falling snow.
But all that belonged to last night.
Today was for business.
Southampton awaited.
As he turned off the main road and onto the long, private lane that led to Arsenal's Colney training ground, a familiar feeling started to settle into him. Focus. Readiness. The gears shifting—not in the car, but in his mind.
The entrance to Colney was already partially open, a security guard bundled in his coat stepping forward to wave him through. Francesco gave a polite nod and eased the car into the players' parking area, pulling into his usual spot next to Özil's matte black Mercedes.
The lot was already filling. He spotted Cech's distinctive Audi down the row, Theo's silver Range Rover, and a few staff cars marked with club decals.
He turned off the engine, grabbed his duffel bag from the passenger seat, and stepped out into the cold.
The air hit sharp and immediate, the kind that pulled your breath short and made your skin sting just enough to wake you properly. Francesco zipped his padded Arsenal jacket up to his chin and made his way toward the entrance, boots crunching on salt grit scattered across the pathway.
Inside, the warmth of the facility greeted him like an old friend.
A hum of morning voices and movement rolled through the main corridor. Staff in tracksuits and puffers moved briskly from room to room. The aroma of espresso and protein powder mixed in the air, and somewhere deeper down the hall, someone had put on light music—probably one of the physios.
Francesco made his way toward the changing room first.
"Morning," said a voice behind him as he passed the fitness office.
He turned to see Shad Forsythe, Arsenal's performance coach, clipboard in hand.
"Sleep well?" Shad asked, raising an eyebrow.
Francesco smirked. "Define 'well.' I hosted ten footballers, fifteen kids, and two hyperactive retrievers."
Shad laughed. "Recovery day, then."
"Southampton won't care."
"No, they won't," Shad said with a grin, then waved him on. "Don't worry. You're still one of the freshest in the squad."
Francesco entered the changing room to find Cech already half-dressed, pulling on his compression top. Ramsey sat nearby tying his boots, and Walcott was at his locker, yawning deeply.
"You look surprisingly human," Theo said, glancing at Francesco. "Didn't expect you to show your face this early."
"Couldn't let Flamini get here before me," Francesco replied.
"You don't have to worry about that," said Ramsey. "He was lecturing the kitman about synthetic laundry detergent when I arrived."
"Of course he was."
The rest of the squad trickled in over the next thirty minutes.
Van Dijk sauntered in with a travel pillow around his neck and a Starbucks cup in hand. Özil arrived bundled up like he'd just left the Arctic, grumbling about the temperature difference between his bed and everywhere else in the world.
Once everyone was changed, they gathered in the meeting room.
Arsène Wenger stood at the front, wearing his usual calm but focused expression. He greeted them all with a nod, then gestured toward the screen behind him where Southampton's lineup and heat maps flickered to life.
"No hangovers," he began, "emotional or otherwise. Today is Boxing Day. The league doesn't rest, and neither do we. Southampton will not care that you had a lovely Christmas. They will come at us from the first whistle."
He paced slowly, hands behind his back.
"But we are ready. We are top of the table. We are confident. Let us play like we know how. Structured. Aggressive. Calm in possession. Ruthless in transition."
Then, his eyes settled briefly on Francesco.
"And composed in the final third."
Francesco nodded, feeling the weight and pride of that moment settle in his chest.
After the briefing, they returned to the changing room to grab their travel gear. Track suits zipped. Travel bags slung over shoulders. Francesco tossed his boots into his duffel, then pulled on his heavy club coat and checked his phone. A message from Leah lit up the screen:
"Good luck, Gunnersmas King. I'll be watching. ❤️"
He smiled, tucked it away, and followed the others out to the bus.
The coach was already idling outside the facility, its sleek black body wrapped in subtle Arsenal branding. A staff member stood beside it with a clipboard, ticking off names as players climbed aboard.
Francesco took his usual window seat midway down the aisle. He slid his bag beneath his feet, pulled his headphones on, and settled in.
Outside, the trees swayed gently in the cold wind. A few fans waved from across the car park—diehards who somehow always knew when the squad was departing.
Soon enough, the coach began to roll, pulling away from Colney and heading for the airport. The drive was smooth, the energy inside the bus a quiet mix of focus and routine. Some players listened to music, others napped. A few chatted softly—Giroud cracking a quiet joke that had Monreal shaking his head in mock shame.
Francesco leaned against the window, watching the countryside blur past.
The bus pulled gently to a stop outside the private terminal at Luton Airport, the engine humming low as the Arsenal squad began to stir from their quiet morning lull. Francesco glanced up from his phone, where he'd just finished reading another message from Leah—this one a cheeky selfie with Atom curled at her feet and a caption that read, "We miss our striker."
He smiled to himself, tucked the phone into his pocket, and stood with a stretch. Around him, teammates did the same—some groaning softly, others yawning or rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Ramsey tapped the overhead compartment open, pulled out his travel bag, and slung it over his shoulder with practiced ease.
"Right then," he muttered to no one in particular. "Time to fly."
Outside, the crisp morning air swept across the tarmac. Staff in heavy jackets and fluorescent vests waited beside the terminal doors as Wenger led the squad off the bus. Francesco zipped his padded jacket higher around his chin and followed in line, boots crunching on the salted path beneath his feet.
The private terminal was minimal and efficient—check-in took only a few minutes, as they were flying charter with the club's usual crew. No commercial lines, no paparazzi, no chaos. Just business. Francesco handed over his ID and boarding pass, received a brief smile and nod from the flight attendant, and passed through security with the fluidity of a man who'd done it hundreds of times before.
Within twenty minutes, they were boarding the aircraft.
It was sleek and quiet, the cabin interior lined with leather seats, overheads mostly empty, the faint smell of disinfectant and cabin coffee already lingering in the air. Francesco found his seat near the wing—second row, window again, as always. Van Dijk plopped down beside him with a loud exhale, tugging off his beanie and tossing his bag under the seat.
"You nap on these, or stay up?" Virgil asked, leaning back.
Francesco shrugged. "Depends. Sometimes I close my eyes, but I don't think I actually sleep."
"Same."
Across the aisle, Bellerín was flipping through a fashion magazine. In the row behind, Mesut had already pulled his hood over his face and leaned against the window like a cat.
A quiet announcement came through the intercom. The usual safety reminders. Wenger murmured something to Steve Bould up front. Then the engines roared gently to life, and the plane began its slow taxi toward the runway.
Francesco pressed his forehead lightly to the window as the wheels lifted. For a moment, the ground fell away beneath them, Richmond and London shrinking into a sprawl of rooftops, roads, and curling grey fog. The sun tried to break through the clouds overhead, casting a soft silver glow across the wing.
Once they hit cruising altitude, the cabin settled.
Some players slept. Others watched film on tablets—usually match footage. Sánchez, as always, was watching motivational videos on his phone, headphones on, brows furrowed in full intensity even mid-flight.
Francesco closed his eyes for a bit but didn't sleep. He just listened—to the soft murmur of teammates talking, the hiss of air vents, the occasional beep of a seatbelt light. It was a rhythm he'd grown familiar with. Almost soothing.
An hour passed in what felt like half that.
Then came the descent.
The plane dipped gently toward Southampton, the landscape of the southern coast spreading out beneath them in slow motion—fields glazed in frost, winding country roads, clusters of red-bricked houses, and finally the small city itself, tucked near the sea.
Touchdown was smooth. The tires kissed the tarmac with barely a bump, and the squad sat up a little straighter. Game mode.
They disembarked swiftly, stepping down the stairs and into the cold morning air. Their breath fogged in front of them. A private shuttle awaited nearby, engines humming and ready to move.
Within minutes, bags were collected and tossed into the undercarriage. Francesco grabbed his small roller bag and backpack and climbed aboard the waiting team bus, joining the others in silent anticipation.
The drive to St. Mary's Stadium wasn't long—maybe twenty-five minutes. Along the way, Francesco sat with his headphones in, music low, eyes flicking between the grey city streets and the stream of Arsenal fans beginning to appear near the ground. A kid in a red and white scarf saw the bus and raised a homemade sign that read "COYG!" in big glitter letters.
That always hit different.
As they turned down Britannia Road and the stadium came into view, the atmosphere inside the bus shifted again. Everyone sat up straighter. Conversations stopped. Headphones were removed.
St. Mary's wasn't massive, but it had presence. Clean lines, sharp stands, and today—cold and steel-edged. Perfect for a gritty winter battle.
The bus pulled around to the players' entrance, and within moments they were unloading. Francesco hauled his bag over his shoulder and followed Ramsey and Koscielny down the short tunnel that led into the bowels of the stadium.
Inside, the halls were brightly lit, the hum of pre-match energy already in the air. Staff in Southampton jackets passed briskly with equipment bags, and the faint echo of a groundkeeper's radio buzzed from somewhere near the pitch tunnel.
They reached the away dressing room.
It was utilitarian—white tile walls, red benches, clean but no frills. The Arsenal crest had been discreetly affixed to the center table, part of a long-standing courtesy agreement between clubs. Francesco found his spot—shirt neatly hung, boots polished, everything laid out with military precision.
"Alright, lads," said Steve Bould, stepping inside. "Training kit first. Warm-up in fifteen."
Francesco stripped off his coat and joggers, pulling on his red Arsenal thermal base layer and training top. The material was cold at first but quickly adjusted to his body heat. He sat on the bench, pulled on his socks and boots, and tied them tight.
He looked up to see Sánchez across the room shadow-boxing in place, earbuds in.
Mesut sat next to him, quietly lacing his boots.
Ramsey stood and stretched his back with a loud crack. "Here we go."
Francesco stood too.
He bounced once on the balls of his feet, cracked his neck, and rolled his shoulders.
It was time.
The warm-up awaited. The pitch. The lights. The fans. And ninety minutes that could make or break the league's midseason narrative.
The sharp scent of fresh-cut grass and chalk lingered in Francesco's nose as he walked off the pitch alongside his teammates, boots softly tapping the cement floor of the players' tunnel. Behind him, the distant hum of the crowd buzzed faintly, growing in volume with every step closer to the dressing room. The 45-minute warm-up had gone by in a flash, all high knees, passing drills, short sprints, and that final set-piece sequence where Özil's cross had curled perfectly into Francesco's path—just a touch too high for a real strike, but enough to feel the rhythm returning.
He felt good. His legs were alive now, not heavy. His lungs had caught up. His hands were still cold, but that didn't matter.
Inside the dressing room, the air was heavier—warmer, thicker with the smell of menthol rubs, liniment, and pre-match anticipation. Some players peeled off their training tops immediately. Others sat for a second longer, staring at the floor or unwrapping sports tape from their fingers.
Francesco took his usual spot at his locker and began the change. Training gear off. Matchday gear on.
His maroon-and-gold Arsenal shirt was already laid out, number 9 shining on the back like it had been waiting for this exact moment. Below it, neatly folded: his shorts, socks, shin pads. His boots—soft, custom-stitched, still laced loosely—sat at the base like loyal companions.
He slid into it all with methodical ease, his body falling into routine like a soldier prepping armor. Sock tape. Shin guards. Double knot the right boot. Triple knot the left. Tug the sleeves down. Tuck, adjust, breathe.
Wenger's voice entered calmly from the far side of the room. No shouting. No panic. Just measured authority. The players quieted as the manager moved to the center.
He stood beside the small tactics board, still wearing his long grey trench coat, arms folded behind his back, glasses slightly lower on the bridge of his nose.
"We'll go with our familiar structure today," he began, drawing eyes from all corners of the room.
"Cech in goal," Wenger said, nodding toward the Czech keeper, who was calmly slipping on his gloves.
"Monreal at left back. Van Dijk and Koscielny in the center. Bellerín on the right."
Francesco exchanged a brief glance with Virgil, who simply gave the smallest of nods. They'd worked well together during the last match. No need for words now.
"In midfield—two holding," Wenger continued. "Ramsey and Kanté."
N'Golo was already bouncing on the balls of his feet. Next to him, Ramsey grunted a quiet "Let's go" under his breath and adjusted the strapping on his knee.
"Özil just ahead in the middle. Francesco on the left, Walcott on the right. And Giroud leading the line."
Olivier looked up and cracked his neck slowly. "Time to ruin some center backs."
There were faint chuckles. The mood was tense, but loose enough to keep energy flowing.
"For the bench," Wenger added, "we have Ospina, Mertesacker, Gabriel, Flamini, Oxlade-Chamberlain, Campbell, and Iwobi."
Francesco could feel the bench crew nodding quietly behind him—ready, sharp, professional. Always ready to jump in when called.
Wenger stepped away from the board now and paced the center of the room slowly.
"This match is not about Christmas. It's not about who ate too many pies, or who ran with the kids, or who opened presents last."
A few chuckles again—Walcott was caught mid-smile.
"It's about focus," Wenger said. "It's about proving that we are not just top of the table, but top of mentality. Southampton will test us. Press us. Try to rattle our shape and speed."
He looked directly at Francesco for a second.
"But we have balance. Technique. Calm. We press back. We control. We keep our heads when they lose theirs."
Then he looked around at everyone. "And when the moment comes—when it falls to your feet in the box, or when your man hesitates for just a breath—that's when we strike."
No applause followed. No forced cheering. Just that quiet, bristling tension of a room full of men who knew what was coming.
Wenger finished simply: "Play for each other. Play for the badge. Play like this table is yours to own."
And with that, he stepped aside.
The staff began moving around with water bottles, Vaseline, extra tape. The final touches.
Francesco finished tying his boots and rolled his neck slowly, exhaling. He felt his pulse picking up now—but it was clean. Controlled. No jitters. Just fuel.
Across from him, Theo slapped both hands on his thighs, let out a breath, and stood. "Let's f—ing go, boys."
Cech stood calmly, pulling on his black protective headgear. Ramsey was pacing now, half-muttering to himself. Özil pulled his sleeves down just so, like he always did before every match. Walcott knelt for a second and crossed himself. Van Dijk grinned without smiling—just a steely, unreadable thing behind the eyes.
Francesco rose and buttoned the cuff of his sleeve. His badge caught the light as he moved—gold against maroon, his name arched above his number on the back.
He looked down at his boots, then up at the room.
This was it.
The hallway outside echoed with distant crowd noise—Southampton fans singing already, muffled by concrete and distance.
A staff member opened the door. "Two minutes."
Francesco stepped toward the tunnel, chest rising with each breath, fingertips brushing lightly along the dressing room wall as he passed.
He heard Ramsey behind him: "Here we go."
Özil: "Let's start fast."
And then Cech, with that same calm voice he used in every tunnel before every war: "One team."
"One badge," Walcott added.
"One job," Francesco finished.
The team gathered tightly near the tunnel mouth. The Southampton players lined up just beyond the wall, already bouncing in place. Their captain, José Fonte, was adjusting his armband. Bertrand, Mané, Wanyama—ready, alert.
Then the match officials stepped into place.
Francesco rolled his shoulders once more and looked down the tunnel. It yawned ahead like a portal to something larger—noise, light, pressure, history.
Then the whistle blew.
And they walked out—eleven strong, boots thudding on concrete, banners waving in the distance, cameras flashing, fans roaring to life.
St. Mary's was alive now, the stands full, the chants rising into the winter sky.
Francesco crossed the white touchline, inhaled the cold air deeply, and exhaled into the wind.
He looked to his left—Monreal jogging to position. To his right—Walcott bouncing on the balls of his feet. Özil adjusting his armband. Ramsey giving instructions. Van Dijk steadying the back line with a single wave.
He took his spot on the left wing, scanning the field, breathing it in.
Boxing Day football. Premier League title race. Lights. Cold. Tension.
And somewhere far away in Richmond, Leah were watching, hot tea on the table, eyes locked on the screen.
The whistle came sharp and fast.
Kickoff.
Then the game started.
The first fifteen minutes burst open like a shaken bottle. No tentative pacing, no settling in—just straight into the grind, full throttle, both teams pressing high, slicing passes into tight pockets, and leaving no room for breath.
Southampton, to their credit, didn't blink. They weren't awed by Arsenal's league position, or their silky movement. They pressed like a unit possessed, led by Wanyama in midfield—an immovable wall of a man—closing Ramsey down hard every time the Welshman looked up. Mané was already looking dangerous too, buzzing in from the right with that unpredictable rhythm he had—too fast to track, too clever to corner.
In the sixth minute, Southampton nearly caught Arsenal cold.
Davis broke inside with a lovely drop of the shoulder to slip past Bellerín. He fed a quick reverse pass into Long, who'd peeled off Koscielny's shoulder and let it run into stride before lashing it low. But Cech was equal to it—down fast, body behind it, arms wide like a parachute catching air. The slap of his gloves echoed even over the home fans' roar.
Francesco had barely caught his breath before they were sprinting the other way.
Özil found space in the middle—of course he did—and spun a pass in behind for Walcott. Theo burned down the right, dragging Bertrand with him. Francesco sprinted to the far post, checking his run once, then again as Giroud hovered near the penalty spot.
The cross came in, flat and dangerous. Francesco leapt, but Yoshida got there first with a full-body dive and headed it out for a corner.
From the set piece, Arsenal nearly nicked one.
Özil's delivery was world-class, curling in toward the six-yard line. Giroud rose, muscled between two defenders, and got his head to it—but it was too central. Stekelenburg punched clear.
The ball dropped just outside the box. Francesco took a step forward, teed it up on the half-volley—and struck it sweet. It fizzed through the air, arrowing toward the far top corner.
But Stekelenburg had seen it. A full-stretch dive, fingers just tipping it over.
"Unlucky, Franny!" Ramsey shouted, jogging over for the corner reset.
Francesco blew air through his lips and nodded, already resetting.
By the tenth minute, it was still 0-0, but not for lack of trying. Cech had made two more saves—one again from Long, another from a deflected Mané effort that had everyone leaning the wrong way. On the other end, Stekelenburg had denied Walcott after a blazing cut inside, and punched away a second Francesco effort after a diagonal switch from Monreal.
Wenger's prediction had been dead on.
Southampton weren't sitting. They were swinging.
Francesco felt it in his lungs. In his thighs. The intensity was unrelenting, like a track meet disguised as a chess match.
Fifteen minutes in, sweat already soaked the back of his collar. But he felt alive. Sharp. Engaged.
"Keep it moving!" Van Dijk called from the back. "Play quicker!"
Monreal passed short into Francesco, who had dropped deeper now, halfway between the halfway line and the final third. He felt the press before he saw it Ward-Prowse closing down from one angle, Mané doubling from the flank.
He twisted once, then again, back to Monreal, and then suddenly burst forward past both with a cheeky backheel flick as Özil arrived to collect.
Mesut didn't need a second touch. A first-time flick through to Giroud, who spun to hold.
Francesco sprinted down the line, hand up.
Giroud saw him—slipped the ball wide.
Francesco took the first touch tight to his foot, then looked up. Edge of the box. Walcott arriving far post. Özil ghosting central. Ramsey charging.
He whipped in a left-footed ball, curling just beyond the defender's reach—but again, Stekelenburg was there. He plucked it mid-air, light on his feet like a dancer.
Groans from the away end.
"Close, Lee! Keep feeding it!" Wenger called from the touchline.
The next few minutes passed in waves.
Every time Arsenal thought they had control, Southampton stole it back. Wanyama was a nuisance. Not dirty—just relentless. He pressed Özil and Kanté like he had a personal vendetta.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 26
Goal: 35
Assist: 5
MOTM: 2
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9