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Players collapsed to the turf, arms spread, faces turned skyward. Others embraced fiercely, shouting into each other's shoulders. Wenger hugged his staff, composure finally cracking.
The noise didn't stop when the whistle went.
If anything, it grew.
It rolled and folded over itself, a living thing made of voices and belief and release, pouring down from the stands and settling onto the pitch like a physical weight. Red and white scarves blurred together, flags snapping and waving, people jumping, hugging strangers, shouting names until their throats burned.
Arsenal were through.
Not by surviving.
But by standing tall.
Francesco stood for a moment just inside Bayern's half, hands resting on his hips, chest still heaving from the last surge of adrenaline. Sweat ran down the bridge of his nose, soaked the collar of his shirt. His legs felt heavy now, like the ground had finally remembered gravity.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Listened.
The sound wasn't just celebration. It was recognition. It was the Emirates acknowledging something real, something earned.
When he opened his eyes again, Bayern's players were already drifting toward the centre circle, some with hands on hips, others with heads bowed. The red of their shirts looked darker now, weighed down by disappointment.
Francesco moved first.
He always did.
He walked toward Manuel Neuer, who stood staring into the middle distance, jaw tight, gloves still on. Francesco extended a hand.
Neuer looked up, met his eyes, then took it firmly.
"Well played," Neuer said again, quieter this time.
Francesco nodded. "You never stopped coming. Respect."
Neuer exhaled through his nose, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "That's Bayern."
They released hands, and Francesco moved on without hesitation.
To Mats Hummels next, who stood with hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his beard. Francesco clasped his shoulder, pulled him up into a brief embrace.
"Tough night," Francesco said.
Hummels shook his head slowly. "You deserved it."
Joshua Kimmich came next, frustration written all over his young face. Francesco squeezed his forearm, leaned in close so his words weren't lost in the noise.
"Keep going," he said. "You're going to win plenty."
Kimmich nodded stiffly, swallowing.
Arturo Vidal was harder.
The Chilean stood rigid, jaw clenched, eyes blazing with anger more than sadness. Francesco approached him carefully, offering a hand. Vidal hesitated for half a second, then took it, grip crushing.
"You never stop," Vidal muttered.
Francesco met his stare evenly. "Neither do you."
That seemed to take the edge off. Vidal released a sharp breath and nodded once before turning away.
Thiago lingered nearby, disappointment softening his features. Francesco embraced him longer, speaking briefly in Spanish, words of respect, of shared understanding. Thiago smiled sadly and patted Francesco's back.
Then there was Lewandowski.
The striker stood alone near the centre circle, hands on hips, eyes fixed on the turf where the game had slipped away. His goal had mattered. His movement had been constant. And yet, it hadn't been enough.
Francesco approached him slowly.
"Robert," he said.
Lewandowski looked up.
They shook hands firmly, both strikers, both knowing what it meant to carry expectation like armour and burden all at once.
"You punished us when you had the chance," Francesco said. "That's what great forwards do."
Lewandowski's mouth twitched into a faint, humourless smile. "You did it more."
"Tonight," Francesco replied.
They released hands. Lewandowski gave a small nod and turned toward his teammates.
Francesco continued.
Rafinha. Alaba. Martinez. Alonso.
Each handshake deliberate.
Each word chosen.
He didn't rush. He didn't perform it for cameras. This was part of the job. Part of the responsibility of wearing the armband, even if it was no longer on his arm.
He reached Arjen Robben last.
Robben stood near the touchline, hands resting on his hips, chest rising and falling sharply. Sweat slicked his shaved head, and his eyes held that familiar mixture of frustration and pride. He'd scored. He'd threatened. He'd refused to fade quietly.
Francesco approached with a smile.
Robben saw him coming and shook his head softly. "You again," he said, half-laughing, half-exhausted.
Francesco chuckled. "You scared us."
Robben snorted. "That was the idea."
They shook hands, firm, respectful. Francesco didn't let go immediately.
"Arjen," he said. "Your shirt."
Robben raised an eyebrow.
"Exchange?" Francesco added, gesturing lightly to his own jersey.
For a moment, Robben just looked at him. Then his expression softened, the competitive edge easing into something warmer.
"Of course," he said. "I was hoping you'd ask."
They stepped slightly aside, out of the flow of players, and pulled their shirts over their heads. Francesco felt the cool air hit his skin as he slipped into Bayern red, the fabric heavy with Robben's sweat, history, and countless battles.
Robben pulled on Francesco's Arsenal shirt carefully, smoothing it down, glancing at the name on the back.
"Keep leading," Robben said quietly.
Francesco smiled. "You too. Even when you don't want to."
They clasped hands one more time, then separated, each carrying a piece of the other's night.
Around them, the pitch was alive with movement now.
Arsenal players were spreading out, some collapsing again in exhaustion, others running toward the stands, arms raised. Wenger was making his way slowly onto the pitch, shaking hands with Bayern staff, his face composed but eyes bright.
Francesco turned back toward his teammates.
Koscielny spotted him immediately and lifted the captain's armband slightly again, as if to offer it back. Francesco shook his head, smiling, and gestured outward instead.
"Come," he said. "All of us."
It didn't need explanation.
Arsenal began to gather.
Giroud, still flushed from his late heroics, grin wide as ever. Sánchez, hands on his hips now, chest still pumping, eyes scanning the stands. Kanté, smiling shyly, almost overwhelmed by the noise. Van Dijk towering above them all, clapping slowly, deliberately. Cazorla bouncing lightly, energy seemingly endless even now.
Francesco moved to the front instinctively.
Not because he demanded it.
Because everyone expected it.
He raised an arm and began walking toward the Clock End, where the noise was thickest, where scarves spun above heads like banners of devotion. The players followed, forming a loose arc behind him.
The applause swelled again as the fans realized what was happening.
A lap of gratitude.
Francesco slowed his pace, making sure no one was left behind. He turned occasionally, checking that the line held, that everyone was part of it. This wasn't about one man. It never was.
They reached the first stand and stopped.
Francesco turned to face the crowd.
For a moment, he simply stood there, Bayern's red shirt still on his back, Arsenal shorts below, a strange but fitting symbol of the night. Then he began to clap.
Slowly at first.
Then harder.
The players joined in.
And the Emirates answered.
The sound was overwhelming.
Fans leaned over barriers, faces flushed, eyes shining, voices raw from ninety minutes of belief. Some held up signs with names scrawled in marker. Others simply shouted until their voices cracked.
Francesco pointed toward the badge on Giroud's chest.
Toward Kanté.
Toward the back line.
Toward the bench.
Then finally, toward the stands themselves.
This was shared.
They moved on together, step by step, clapping, acknowledging every corner of the stadium. Francesco made sure they didn't rush. This wasn't something you hurried through.
At the North Bank, the noise took on a different texture. Songs rolled down in waves, old and new, voices blending into something ancient and alive.
Francesco felt a lump rise in his throat.
He thought briefly of the television earlier. Of Leah's steady breathing against his chest. Of the quiet moments that grounded him so he could be here now, present in the chaos.
He scanned the stands until he found her.
Leah stood near the front, scarf wrapped around her neck, applauding hard, eyes locked on him. When their gazes met, she smiled with wide, proud, unguarded.
Francesco tapped his chest once, then pointed to her.
She laughed, shaking her head, clapping harder.
They continued.
Past the halfway line.
Toward the East Stand.
Everywhere the same reaction.
Gratitude.
Belief.
Connection.
By the time they reached the final corner, the players were visibly spent, legs heavy, arms tired from clapping. But no one complained. No one tried to slip away early.
When they finally stopped near the tunnel, Francesco turned back to his teammates.
"Together," he said again, softly.
They huddled briefly, arms around shoulders, heads close.
No speech.
No shouting.
Just shared breath.
Then they broke apart, some heading toward the tunnel, others lingering a moment longer, soaking it in.
Francesco lingered for a heartbeat longer than most.
The huddle broke, bodies peeling away toward the tunnel, toward recovery rooms and ice baths and the quiet that always followed nights like this. But he stayed where he was, just inside the white line, boots planted on turf that still seemed to hum beneath him.
The Emirates hadn't emptied.
Not even close.
Thousands of supporters remained in their seats, many standing, many still singing, voices hoarse but determined, as if letting the night end too quickly would somehow diminish what they'd just witnessed. Flags still waved. Scarves were still held aloft. Phones were still raised, desperate to capture moments that already felt like memory.
Francesco turned slowly, taking it all in.
The lights were harsh now, brighter without the movement of play to soften them. The pitch bore the marks of battle with divots torn up near the touchlines, scuffed grass in the box where Giroud had risen, darker patches where bodies had slid and collided. It looked lived in. Earned.
He exhaled.
Then he heard his name.
"Francesco."
He turned to see a UEFA staff member approaching from near the technical area, credentials swinging lightly against a navy jacket. The man smiled politely, professional but clearly aware of the moment he was interrupting.
"Sorry," the staffer said, raising his voice slightly to cut through the noise. "We'll need you for a pitch-side interview."
Francesco nodded immediately.
"Of course."
As he started walking, the reaction was instant.
The fans nearest the touchline spotted him first, voices rising, fingers pointing. Then the recognition spread like a ripple across the stands.
"FRAN-CES-CO!"
The chant rolled out, uneven at first, then gathering rhythm and volume as more voices joined. It echoed off the upper tiers, bouncing back down onto the pitch.
Francesco lifted a hand instinctively, acknowledging them, but he didn't stop walking. The staffer gestured gently, guiding him toward the sideline where a small media area had already been set up.
Every step felt heavier now.
Not with fatigue though that was there, but with awareness.
This was the part of the night that turned moments into narrative.
As he walked, players and staff passed him going the opposite direction. Giroud clapped him on the shoulder. Kanté grinned and gave a thumbs-up. Wenger caught his eye from a distance and nodded once, a subtle gesture that said everything.
Francesco reached the sideline, where the grass met the track that circled the pitch. A cameraman was already in position, shoulder-mounted camera aimed toward the empty space he was meant to occupy. The interviewer stood beside him, microphone in hand, earpiece in, scanning notes one last time.
They looked up as Francesco approached.
"Francesco," the interviewer said, smiling broadly. "Congratulations."
"Thank you," Francesco replied, breath still slightly uneven, voice rough but steady.
The staffer stepped away, and the cameraman signaled that they'd be rolling in a few seconds.
Francesco adjusted his posture automatically. Shoulders back. Chin up. He was still wearing Robben's Bayern shirt, red darker than Arsenal's shade, and it felt strange now, like borrowed skin.
The interviewer noticed it too and smiled.
"Quite a souvenir," he said lightly.
Francesco glanced down, then back up. "From a great player."
The cameraman gave a thumbs-up.
The red light flicked on.
They were live.
"Francesco," the interviewer began, voice calm but energized, "another incredible European night here at the Emirates. A 4–3 win against Bayern Munich, nine–five on aggregate. How does it feel right now?"
Francesco took a second.
Not to think.
But to feel.
"It feels earned," he said finally. "Bayern pushed us all the way. Even with the aggregate score, they never stopped coming. Nights like this, you can't fake anything. You have to be brave, you have to suffer, and you have to take your moments. I'm proud of the team."
Behind the camera, the crowd reacted audibly, cheers rising at the word team.
The interviewer nodded. "You mentioned suffering. Bayern scored three times tonight and kept the pressure on until the end. What was going through your mind when they made it three–three?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"That this is exactly why we respect them," he said. "They punish you if you switch off for even a second. But we didn't panic. That was the key. We stayed together. We trusted the structure. And when the chance came, we took it."
The interviewer glanced briefly at his notes.
"Let's talk about your performance specifically. Two goals tonight, including that solo run in the second half that seemed to change the momentum. Walk us through it."
Francesco exhaled slowly through his nose, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"That one…" he said. "That was instinct. The ball broke loose, and I just felt space. Sometimes you don't think about the defenders, or the keeper, or even the score. You just run. You trust your legs, your touch. When I saw Manuel commit, I knew I had to be calm."
He paused, then added, "Those moments come from the work everyone else does. Kanté winning the ball, the back line holding shape. It's never just one player."
The interviewer smiled, clearly appreciative of the answer.
"You were substituted late on, handed the armband over, and then watched from the bench as Giroud scored that decisive header. What was that moment like for you?"
Francesco's eyes flicked briefly toward the pitch, as if he could still see it happening.
"It was torture," he said honestly, prompting laughter from the crowd still close enough to hear. "But also relief. Olivier gives us something different. Presence. Strength. And Serge's cross that perfect. That goal was about understanding roles. Everyone accepting what the game needed."
The interviewer nodded, then shifted slightly.
"There was a moment after the final whistle that stood out as seeing you console the Bayern players, and then exchanging shirts with Arjen Robben. What does that say about nights like this?"
Francesco glanced down again at the Bayern shirt, fingers brushing the badge absentmindedly.
"It says that football is bigger than rivalry," he said quietly. "We compete, we fight, we want to win more than anything. But respect doesn't disappear because of that. Arjen's a legend. Playing against players like him, that's why you dream of Champions League nights."
The noise from the stands swelled again, approving.
The interviewer smiled, sensing they were nearing the end.
"One final question," he said. "Arsenal are through to the quarter-finals. After everything this club has been through in Europe, what message does tonight send?"
Francesco looked straight into the camera now.
Not intense.
Just honest.
"That we belong here," he said. "That we're not satisfied with memories anymore. We want to write something new."
There was a brief pause.
Then the interviewer reached slightly out of frame.
"Well," he said, voice brightening, "on that note… Francesco, for your two-goal contribution and your leadership on the pitch tonight, you've been voted UEFA Man of the Match."
He turned, holding out a sleek, dark-blue trophy, the UEFA starball etched into its surface.
For a moment, Francesco didn't move.
The crowd reacted first.
A roar tore through the Emirates, louder than anything since Giroud's header, rolling and crashing like a wave. The cameraman adjusted instinctively, trying to capture both Francesco's expression and the explosion behind him.
Francesco blinked once.
Then smiled.
Not the wide, defiant grin from his goals.
But something softer.
He accepted the award with both hands, nodding slightly.
"Thank you," he said, voice low but clear. "This belongs to the team."
The interviewer laughed lightly. "That seems to be a theme."
Francesco chuckled, lifting the trophy just slightly, acknowledging the stands again. The reaction was immediate with more chanting, more applause, scarves swirling like constellations under the floodlights.
The red light on the camera clicked off.
The interviewer extended a hand.
"Congratulations again," he said.
"Thank you," Francesco replied, shaking it firmly.
As the cameraman stepped away, packing up, Francesco stood there for a moment longer, trophy tucked under his arm, Bayern shirt clinging to his back.
He turned toward the stands one last time.
Raised the award.
The Emirates answered him in kind.
Only then did he begin the walk back toward the tunnel, legs heavy, heart full, night etched permanently into the fabric of who he was becoming.
Francesco didn't rush the walk back.
He never did on nights like this.
The tunnel yawned open ahead of him, a concrete mouth swallowing sound and light in uneven gulps. Each step toward it felt like crossing a threshold, moving from one world into another. Behind him, the Emirates still roared, still alive, still unwilling to let go. Ahead, the quieter chaos of the dressing room waited with steam, laughter, exhaustion, relief.
He passed beneath the overhang and the noise shifted instantly.
The roar of the crowd dulled, replaced by echoes: boots scraping on concrete, distant shouts, the clatter of equipment, laughter bouncing off walls. The air felt warmer here, heavier, thick with sweat and adrenaline and the faint metallic tang of liniment.
Someone shouted from deeper inside.
"FRAN!"
Then another voice, louder, unmistakable.
"MAN OF THE MATCH!"
A cheer went up before he'd even fully entered.
Francesco smiled despite himself.
The dressing room doors were already open, propped wide as if the team couldn't contain itself inside four walls. Music blared from a speaker near the lockers with something loud, bass-heavy, triumphant. Shirts were already coming off, boots kicked aside. Towels snapped through the air. Bottles sprayed water everywhere.
They were celebrating.
Properly.
Giroud was at the center of it, bare-chested, hair still somehow perfect despite ninety minutes of chaos. He had one arm slung around Sánchez, who looked half-amused, half-exhausted, his grin sharp and wild. Kanté stood nearby, laughing so hard he'd bent over at the waist, hands braced on his knees, shoulders shaking.
Van Dijk leaned against a locker, arms crossed, smiling quietly as he watched the scene unfold like a proud older brother. Cazorla danced or actually danced on top of a bench, boots still on, socks soaked, arms raised as teammates shouted encouragement and mock applause.
"HEY!" Giroud called when he spotted Francesco. "LOOK WHO FINALLY DECIDED TO JOIN US!"
The room erupted again.
Francesco stepped inside fully now, the sound swallowing him whole. Someone clapped him on the back hard enough to jolt his trophy slightly under his arm. Someone else tried to grab it, laughing, but he held it just out of reach.
"Careful," he said, grinning. "That's heavy."
"That's your ego," Sánchez shot back, eyes sparkling.
Francesco laughed, finally letting the trophy be taken from him as it was passed around the room, lifted overhead, knocked lightly against lockers, admired like a shared prize rather than an individual one.
The Bayern shirt finally came off his back, peeled away and tossed toward his locker. The cool air hit his skin again, goosebumps rising despite the warmth of the room. He sank down onto the bench for a moment, elbows on knees, head tilted forward as he just listened.
This sound.
This chaos.
It was different from the pitch.
Out there, everything was sharp. Defined. Focused.
In here, it was release.
Wenger entered quietly a moment later, flanked by a couple of staff members. He didn't say anything at first. He just stood near the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, watching his players celebrate. There was a smile on his face that not wide, not showy but deep. The kind that came from vindication rather than excitement.
Eventually, the players noticed him.
The music dipped slightly.
The cheers softened.
Wenger raised a hand, chuckling.
"No, no," he said. "Enjoy it. You earned this."
That was all he needed to say.
The volume rose again, if anything louder than before.
Francesco stood up slowly.
He let the moment breathe.
Then he clapped his hands together once.
Sharp.
Clear.
The sound cut through the noise better than shouting ever could.
"Alright," he said, voice calm but firm. "Hey."
It took a few seconds.
Another clap.
"Hey. Focus on me for a moment."
The music lowered. Not off, but lower.
Players turned. Some still grinning. Some mid-laugh. Some already catching their breath.
Francesco stood in the center of the room now, barefoot, socks damp, hair plastered to his forehead. He didn't need to raise his voice. He never did.
"I won't take long," he said. "I promise."
Giroud dropped onto the bench, still smiling but attentive. Sánchez leaned against a locker, arms crossed, eyes locked on him. Kanté straightened, hands clasped in front of him. Van Dijk nodded once, already focused.
Francesco looked around the room.
Really looked.
"These nights," he said, gesturing vaguely, "they're special. Beating Bayern. Doing it here. Going through to the quarter-finals."
A few nods.
A couple of quiet murmurs of agreement.
"But this," he continued, tapping his chest lightly, "this feeling? It doesn't last forever."
The room stilled a little more.
"We've all been on teams that had one great night," he said. "One run. One moment people talk about for years. And then… it fades. Because football doesn't wait for you to catch up."
He paused, letting that settle.
"We're still in everything," he went on. "League. Europe. Cups. We're chasing something rare. Something people spend their whole careers talking about but never touching."
He smiled faintly.
"Another treble."
That word landed differently.
You could feel it.
Spines straightened. Expressions sharpened. Smiles softened into something more deliberate.
"I'm not saying don't celebrate," Francesco said quickly. "Do it. Tonight, especially. Enjoy the hell out of it. Nights like this are why we started playing in the first place."
A few quiet laughs.
"But tomorrow," he said, voice firming, "it starts again."
He pointed toward the floor.
"This dressing room? It doesn't remember Bayern. It remembers the next training session. The next opponent. The next ninety minutes where everything we did tonight counts for nothing if we don't bring it again."
He turned slightly, meeting eyes one by one.
"Kosc," he said, nodding to the defender. "How many games do people remember you for?"
Koscielny shrugged lightly. "Not enough."
"Exactly," Francesco replied. "They remember trophies."
He looked at Kanté.
"N'Golo," he said. "You run like someone who's still hungry."
Kanté smiled shyly.
"Good," Francesco said. "Stay that way."
To Giroud.
"Olivier. You could've sulked on the bench. You didn't. You waited. You delivered."
Giroud lifted his hands modestly. "For the team."
"That's the point," Francesco said.
He turned to Sánchez last.
"Alexis," he said. "You never stop demanding."
Sánchez's grin turned sharp again. "Why would I?"
"Don't," Francesco replied simply.
Then he looked at all of them.
"Because one day," he said quietly, "we'll all be retired. We'll sit somewhere at home, café, studio, wherever and people will ask what we won."
The room was silent now.
"No one asks how many quarter-finals you reached," Francesco said. "They ask what you lifted. What you earned. What you left behind."
He paused, then added softly, almost casually:
"And who doesn't want another trophy under their CV when that day comes?"
A ripple of laughter ran through the room.
But it wasn't dismissive.
It was knowing.
"So celebrate tonight," Francesco finished. "But keep the hunger. Stay focused. Because this," he gestured around again, "this group? We're capable of more than one great night."
He spread his hands slightly.
"Let's make sure this isn't the peak."
For a second, no one spoke.
Then Van Dijk stepped forward.
"Agreed," he said simply.
Giroud nodded. "One night doesn't define us."
Sánchez clapped once. "We go again."
Kanté smiled. "Together."
The tension broke.
Music surged back to full volume.
The celebration resumed, louder, freer but different now.
Sharper.
Francesco exhaled and stepped back toward his locker as players surged around him again, slapping his back, laughing, shouting. Someone shoved a bottle of water into his hand. He drank deeply, the cold biting pleasantly.
Wenger caught his eye from across the room.
Just for a moment.
He gave a small nod.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Francesco sat down, finally allowing the exhaustion to settle fully into his bones. His legs ached now, deeply, honestly. Tomorrow, they would ache more.
But tonight?
Tonight was theirs.
He leaned back against the locker, closed his eyes briefly, and let the sound of his teammates celebrating wash over him.
The noise didn't die all at once.
It never did.
It softened at the edges first, laughter blending into lower tones, music dipping and rising again as the adrenaline slowly loosened its grip. The dressing room settled into that familiar post-battle rhythm: celebration giving way to routine, chaos reorganising itself into something manageable.
Francesco stayed where he was for a while longer, leaning back against the cold metal of the locker, eyes half-closed. The sounds washed over him with Giroud arguing playfully with Cazorla about whose goal had been more important, Sánchez laughing too loudly at something Van Dijk had said, Kanté still smiling like he couldn't quite believe any of this was real.
Eventually, the practicalities returned.
Someone shouted that the showers were free.
Another voice complained about cold water.
A towel flew across the room and smacked into a laughing substitute's face.
Francesco pushed himself upright with a quiet grunt, muscles protesting now that the night had slowed down enough to feel them. He peeled off the rest of his kit piece by piece, movements unhurried, methodical. Boots first, then socks, shin pads tossed into his locker. His shirt followed, damp and heavy, folded loosely rather than flung aside.
As he stood, bare-chested, he caught his reflection briefly in the mirror bolted to the locker door.
Sweat-slick skin.
A faint red mark on his ribs where a Bayern elbow had caught him late in the second half.
Scratches along his forearm.
Tired eyes.
But clear.
Satisfied.
He grabbed a towel and headed toward the showers with the others, the tiled corridor echoing with footsteps and voices. Steam already curled out through the open doors, warm and inviting.
The moment he stepped under the spray, the world narrowed.
Hot water hit his shoulders, ran down his back, loosened muscles that had been locked tight for hours. He tilted his head forward, letting it pour over his hair, down his face, washing away sweat, grass, and the lingering tension of the match.
Around him, conversations overlapped.
"Did you see Neuer's face?"
"I swear I thought that third goal killed us."
"That tackle from Kosc in the first half was unreal."
Someone started singing again, off-key and loud, prompting groans and laughter.
Francesco smiled quietly to himself.
He scrubbed his arms, his legs, feeling the sting where contact had left its mark. Every ache felt earned. Every bruise would be a reminder tomorrow morning that this night had been real.
At some point, Giroud leaned his head into the stream next to him.
"Good speech," he said casually, water running down his face.
Francesco glanced sideways. "You still scored the winner."
Giroud grinned. "Doesn't mean I don't listen."
They stood there in companionable silence for a moment, water roaring around them, steam fogging the mirrors beyond.
When Francesco finally stepped out, towel slung low around his waist, the dressing room felt calmer. Still lively, but grounded now. The music was gone, replaced by the steady hum of conversation, the hiss of showers, the clink of lockers opening and closing.
He dried off slowly, deliberately, then pulled on the Arsenal tracksuit laid out neatly at his place. Red jacket zipped up, crest resting over his heart. Training bottoms tugged on over tired legs.
It felt good.
Comfortable.
Like slipping back into himself.
He sat again briefly to lace up a fresh pair of trainers when the door to the dressing room opened once more.
This time, it was Wenger.
He didn't need to raise his voice.
The room seemed to sense him automatically.
"Francesco," Wenger said, tone gentle but purposeful. "Laurent."
Koscielny, already half-changed, looked up immediately.
"Yes, boss?"
Wenger smiled faintly. "Post-match press conference. Five minutes."
Francesco nodded. "Of course."
Koscielny rolled his shoulders once, exhaling. "Let's do it."
They grabbed their jackets, exchanged quick nods with teammates as they passed. A few claps on the back. A couple of jokes shouted after them.
"Behave in front of the cameras!"
"Don't give them all our secrets!"
Francesco chuckled as they stepped back into the corridor, the door closing softly behind them.
The walk to the press area felt longer now.
The adrenaline was gone, replaced by that deep, pleasant fatigue that settled into your bones after a job well done. The corridor lights were bright, almost harsh after the steam-softened glow of the dressing room.
They passed staff members, security, UEFA officials. A few congratulatory nods. A couple of quick handshakes.
Wenger walked between them, hands clasped in front of him, expression composed. But Francesco had been around him long enough to notice the details: the way his eyes still held a spark, the faint satisfaction beneath the professionalism.
They reached the media room and paused just outside.
Muffled voices leaked through the door. The low hum of cameras being adjusted. Papers rustling. Journalists settling into their seats.
Wenger glanced at both of them.
"Be yourselves," he said simply. "That is enough."
Then he opened the door.
The flash was immediate.
Lights flared. Cameras lifted. The murmur of the room sharpened into attention.
They took their seats behind the desk with Wenger in the middle, Francesco to his right, Koscielny to his left. Bottles of water waited in front of them, labels already peeled off.
Wenger folded his hands and waited.
The press officer nodded.
"Okay," he said. "We're live."
Questions came quickly.
About the match.
About Bayern.
About the goals.
About the aggregate score.
Wenger answered first, measured and thoughtful, praising the team's character, acknowledging Bayern's quality, emphasizing balance and belief.
Then Francesco.
"How important was it to score early tonight?"
He answered calmly, explaining momentum, composure, the need to take chances when they came.
"Did you feel this was a statement performance from Arsenal in Europe?"
He shrugged lightly. "It's a step," he said. "Statements are made over seasons, not nights."
"Your partnership with Sánchez seemed especially fluid tonight."
A faint smile. "We trust each other. When you trust, football becomes simpler."
Koscielny was asked about defending under pressure, about leadership, about belief.
He answered honestly, admitting fear, acknowledging mistakes, but stressing unity.
Then the inevitable question.
"The treble," a journalist said, leaning forward. "Is that now a real objective for this group?"
There it was.
Francesco felt the familiar tightening in his chest that not nerves, but responsibility.
Wenger answered first, carefully. "We take it game by game," he said. "Ambition must be balanced with focus."
Then Francesco spoke.
"We're aware of what's possible," he said. "But we're more aware of how fragile it is. Nothing is given. Everything has to be earned again and again."
He paused, then added, "That's what excites us."
The room buzzed softly at that.
More questions followed, but eventually, the press officer raised a hand.
"Last one."
A journalist near the back stood.
"Francesco," he said. "Man of the Match tonight, two goals, leadership on and off the pitch. Do nights like this define your career?"
Francesco thought for a moment.
Then shook his head.
"No," he said. "They contribute to it. But they don't define it."
He glanced briefly toward Wenger, then back at the room.
"What defines a career is consistency. Commitment. And what you win with the people beside you."
The press officer nodded.
"That's all we have time for. Thank you."
The lights dimmed slightly. Cameras lowered. The tension eased.
Wenger stood first, buttoning his jacket.
"Well done," he said quietly to both of them.
They walked back through the corridor together, conversation light now, reflective rather than intense.
By the time Francesco returned to the dressing room, it had thinned out. Some players were already gone. Others lounged on benches, scrolling through phones, reading messages from family, from friends, from people who'd watched from afar.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 37
Goal: 59
Assist: 3
MOTM: 8
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9