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This wasn't over as everyone knew that, the Bernabéu awaited. But tonight, tonight belonged to Arsenal as Francesco turned toward the stands and lifted his arms.
The noise didn't die when the whistle went.
It changed.
It loosened.
It turned from tension into something warmer, fuller with relief braided with belief, joy threaded with the knowledge that this was only half the story.
Francesco stood still for another second longer than most, chest rising and falling, the pitch stretching out in front of him like a place he'd known his whole life and was still discovering. The lights burned down from above, white and unforgiving, illuminating every blade of grass that had been fought over, slid on, bled onto.
Then he moved.
Not in a sprint.
Not in celebration.
But with purpose.
He clapped his hands once, sharp, and raised his arm.
"Come on," he said, voice hoarse but steady.
It wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be.
The Arsenal players gathered around him instinctively as some still buzzing, some already drained, some wearing expressions caught between smiles and disbelief. Van Dijk rolled his shoulders, Giroud wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, Kanté bounced lightly, still unable to stop moving even now.
Francesco turned toward the halfway line.
Real Madrid were already there.
White shirts scattered in small clusters with some heads bowed, some hands on hips, some staring into the middle distance as if replaying moments they wanted back. Ramos was talking animatedly to Casemiro, gesturing sharply. Marcelo stood a little apart, hands on his knees, breathing hard. James wiped his face with his shirt, frustration clear in the set of his jaw.
Cristiano stood upright.
Always upright.
Hands on hips, chest rising evenly, eyes moving across the stadium with a measured calm that only came from having lived nights like this a hundred times before. There was frustration there, no doubt but also something else.
Respect.
Francesco walked toward him first.
The handshake line formed naturally, organically, without ceremony. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't perfunctory. This was the Champions League quarter-final, not a friendly, and both sides understood what had just passed between them.
Van Dijk clasped Ramos' hand firmly, the two exchanging a few quiet words. Koscielny nodded to Varane. Xhaka shook hands with Kroos, both midfielders offering a brief, mutual look of acknowledgment with professionals recognizing professionals.
Francesco reached Cristiano.
For a split second, they just looked at each other.
Sweat-streaked. Exhausted. Alive.
Cristiano cracked a small smile first.
"Good game," he said, extending his hand.
"Good game," Francesco replied, gripping it firmly.
They didn't let go immediately.
"Two goals," Cristiano added, glancing briefly toward the scoreboard behind them. "You like big nights."
Francesco huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh. "Takes one to know one."
Cristiano's smile widened, sharp and genuine. "You were everywhere."
"So were you," Francesco replied. "You never stop."
Cristiano shrugged lightly. "Why would I?"
They finally released their grip.
Francesco hesitated for a fraction of a second, then followed instinct.
"Can we?" he asked, gesturing toward Cristiano's shirt.
Cristiano didn't even pause.
"Yeah," he said. Then, with a tilt of his head and that familiar spark in his eyes, added, "But don't get too attached."
Francesco raised an eyebrow.
"I'll score more at the Bernabéu."
The words weren't a threat.
They were a promise.
Francesco smiled, slow and unbothered. "I'd expect nothing less."
They laughed with quietly, privately then stepped back and began pulling their shirts over their heads.
The exchange happened smoothly, without fuss. Cameras caught it instantly, flashes popping as the two forwards swapped colors with white for red, red for white. Cristiano held the Arsenal shirt for a moment, weighing it in his hands, then folded it carefully under his arm. Francesco did the same, fingers brushing over the name on the back, the fabric still warm.
"See you in Madrid," Cristiano said.
"See you there," Francesco replied.
They clasped forearms once more, then separated back to their respective worlds.
Francesco moved down the line, shaking hands with Marcelo, with James, with Asensio, with Kovačić. Some exchanges were brief, some lingered just a second longer. Respect passed back and forth without words.
When it was done, he turned back toward his own team.
"Circle," he said, lifting his arm again.
This time, the instruction carried something else with it.
Gratitude.
They spread out, forming a loose arc at first, then tightening into something more deliberate as they began to walk together toward the stands. Francesco led them that not as captain by armband, but as captain by presence.
They went first toward the East Stand, applauding, acknowledging the sea of faces still on their feet, scarves held aloft, voices raw from ninety minutes of belief. The applause rolled back at them in waves, fans chanting names, moments, memories already being formed.
Then they turned.
Toward the North Bank.
The heart.
The noise there was different that rawer, deeper, built from decades of faith and frustration and hope layered on top of one another. Red and white scarves moved like a living thing, banners rippling, flags snapping against the air.
As Arsenal approached, the volume climbed.
Francesco slowed his pace.
He wanted this moment to breathe.
He stopped just short of the advertising boards and turned to face them fully. One by one, his teammates lined up beside him with shoulder to shoulder, arms around backs, sweat-drenched and spent and shining.
Francesco raised his hands.
The noise surged.
He clapped above his head, slow at first, deliberate. The team followed suit, applause echoing back and forth between pitch and stand until it felt like the stadium itself was clapping.
"Thank you," he mouthed, then said it aloud, voice carrying even without a microphone.
"This—" He gestured around him, to the night, the stadium, the shared breath of it all. "—this is for you."
The chant started small.
Then it grew.
"Francesco! Francesco! Francesco!"
He shook his head, smiling, pointing at the rest of the team, trying to redirect it.
They ignored him.
The chant deepened, spread, wrapped itself around the North Bank and spilled outward, carried by adrenaline and joy and the sense that something special was happening here.
Van Dijk leaned over. "They're not listening, mate."
Francesco laughed softly. "Never do."
He lifted his arms again, palms open this time that not claiming, not demanding, just receiving.
Around him, his teammates soaked it in. Kanté grinned so wide it looked like it might split his face. Giroud clapped and bowed slightly toward the stand, theatrical even in exhaustion. Cazorla wiped at his eyes, blinking hard, overwhelmed in that quiet way of his.
Wenger watched from a few steps back, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
He didn't step forward.
He didn't need to.
This wasn't his moment.
It was theirs.
The players began to move again, completing the circuit of the pitch with applause offered to every stand, every corner of belief acknowledged. Francesco stayed at the front, setting the rhythm, setting the tone.
When they finally peeled away toward the tunnel, the noise followed them like an echo that refused to fade.
Inside, the air changed instantly.
Cooler. Heavier. Real.
The concrete swallowed the roar, replacing it with the dull thud of boots, the squeak of studs on floor, the hum of infrastructure behind the spectacle.
Francesco walked a few steps ahead of the group, Cristiano's shirt folded neatly in his hand now, his own draped over his shoulder.
He glanced back once.
At the pitch.
At the lights.
At the memory already solidifying.
This wasn't the end.
He knew that.
Madrid would be different. The Bernabéu would be louder, harsher, less forgiving. Four–two was an advantage, not a guarantee. Every man in red understood that.
Francesco took one more step toward the tunnel.
Just one.
The cool breath of the concrete corridor was already brushing against his skin, already beginning to pull him out of the noise and into the quieter reality beyond the pitch. He could feel the shift coming that familiar transition from spectacle to routine, from emotion to recovery.
Then a voice cut through.
"Francesco!"
He stopped.
Turned.
A UEFA staff member stood a few yards away, headset around his neck, accreditation swinging against his chest. He raised a hand apologetically, already half-smiling, as if he knew exactly how much he was interrupting.
"Pitchside interview," he said. "Just a few minutes."
Francesco exhaled slowly.
Not frustration. Not annoyance.
Acceptance.
This was part of it. This was always part of it.
He glanced back toward the tunnel once more, toward his teammates disappearing one by one into the dressing room, shoulders slapping, laughter echoing faintly. Giroud caught his eye and gave him a thumbs-up. Kanté waved enthusiastically, already towel-draped and grinning like he'd just finished a casual kickabout instead of ninety minutes against Real Madrid.
Francesco nodded back.
"I'll be right there," he mouthed.
Then he turned fully toward the touchline.
"Okay," he said. "Let's do it."
They walked together along the edge of the pitch, the grass still scarred from slides and studs, the white paint scuffed and uneven now. The crowd hadn't thinned much at all. Most were still standing, still buzzing, still desperate to drink in every last second of the night before it ended.
Some spotted him moving toward the sideline.
The noise rose again.
Not a roar this time, but a ripple as applause spreading outward, pockets of chanting restarting, his name carried across the stands like an echo that refused to let go.
Francesco felt it hit him in the chest.
He raised a hand briefly in acknowledgment, not stopping, not breaking stride, but making sure they knew he felt it. That he always did.
Near the halfway line, the interview setup waited.
Simple. Functional.
A small broadcast camera on a shoulder rig, red light glowing steadily. A cameraman standing just behind it, focused and calm, adjusting his stance. A pitchside interviewer in a dark UEFA jacket, notes tucked under one arm, microphone already in hand.
Everything was ready.
They had been waiting.
Francesco stepped into position, just beyond the advertising boards, the pitch stretching out behind him, the Emirates rising in tiers of red and white. The Champions League branding glowed faintly under the floodlights, slick and polished against the rawness of what had just happened.
The staff member gestured where to stand.
"Right there," he said. "Perfect."
Francesco adjusted his footing, rolling his shoulders once, loosening his neck. His breathing was still heavy, his pulse still loud in his ears, but his mind was clear. Sharper now, in a different way.
The interviewer smiled at him.
"Ready?" he asked.
Francesco nodded. "Yeah."
The cameraman lifted his hand.
Three fingers.
Two.
One.
The red light burned brighter.
The interviewer turned slightly toward the camera, professionalism sliding effortlessly into place.
"Francesco, congratulations," he began, voice smooth, measured. "A huge night here at the Emirates. Arsenal take a 4–2 lead against Real Madrid in this Champions League quarter-final first leg. How does that feel right now?"
For a moment, Francesco didn't answer immediately.
He looked past the camera, past the interviewer.
At the stands.
At the fans still there, still singing, still clapping, still unwilling to let the night slip away.
Then he looked back.
"It feels… earned," he said slowly. "Nothing about that was easy. Real Madrid don't give you anything. You have to take it, and even then, they make you fight for every second."
He paused, choosing his words carefully that not rehearsed, not polished, but honest.
"We showed character tonight. Not just quality, but togetherness. When they pushed, we didn't panic. We stayed calm, stayed disciplined, trusted each other."
The interviewer nodded, encouraging him on.
"You personally had another big performance on a big European night," he said. "Two goals, constant threat. But there were questions coming into this match about your fitness. You were dealing with a fever just a few days ago. How did your body feel out there tonight?"
Francesco let out a quiet breath that turned into something like a laugh.
"Yeah," he said, shaking his head slightly. "It wasn't the best week, I'll be honest."
The crowd noise swelled briefly, reacting to the mention of it, as if they'd been waiting to hear him acknowledge it.
"I was pretty rough earlier in the week," he continued. "Fever, no energy, couldn't keep food down properly. There were moments in training where I didn't know if I'd feel like myself by tonight."
He glanced down at his legs, still streaked with grass stains and sweat.
"But the medical staff were unbelievable. The physios, the doctors as they managed it perfectly. And the gaffer trusted me. That means everything. Once the whistle goes, you forget about all of that. You don't think about how you felt three days ago. You just think about the ball, the next run, the next moment."
He lifted his eyes again.
"And when you hear this crowd—" He gestured vaguely toward the stands. "—you find energy you didn't know you had."
The interviewer smiled.
"It certainly looked that way," he said. "That second goal in particular, talk us through it. The movement, the finish, the awareness."
Francesco nodded, replaying it in his head.
"It starts earlier than people think," he said. "Granit—" He smiled at the mention of Xhaka's name. "—he makes that goal happen with his pass. He tried to find me during the counter, as there space's upfront. When the ball comes to me, I already know where I want to go. You don't have time to think too much at this level. You trust your instincts."
He shrugged lightly.
"I saw the gap, took the touch, and hit it. Sometimes it goes in. Tonight, it did."
A ripple of applause rolled through the nearest sections.
The interviewer waited for it to settle, then continued.
"There was also a lot of maturity from the team after going ahead. You didn't just sit back completely. You managed the game. Was that something you spoke about beforehand?"
"Yeah," Francesco said without hesitation. "We knew there would be moments where we had to suffer. You can't play ninety minutes against Madrid without suffering at some point."
He glanced toward the pitch again, remembering the waves of white shirts, the crosses, the shots.
"But we also knew that if we stopped playing completely, they'd punish us. So it was about balance. Knowing when to slow it down, when to press, when to just clear our lines and reset."
He smiled faintly.
"And having players like Kanté, like Virgil, like Petr at the back, it gives you confidence. You trust the structure."
The interviewer shifted slightly, then asked the question everyone was thinking.
"A two-goal lead going into the second leg at the Bernabéu. How do you approach that? Is this tie finished?"
Francesco's expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
"No," he said firmly. "Not even close."
He didn't rush the rest.
"Anyone who thinks that doesn't understand football, and definitely doesn't understand Real Madrid. The Bernabéu is a different world. They'll come at us with everything. We know that."
He looked straight into the camera now.
"But we also know what we're capable of. We didn't get lucky tonight. We played our football. We stayed brave. We stayed united."
A pause.
"We take the confidence, not complacency. That's the key."
The interviewer nodded appreciatively.
"Last one," he said. "You shared a moment with Cristiano Ronaldo at full-time. A lot of respect there between two top players. What does that mean to you?"
Francesco smiled again, softer this time.
"He's one of the best ever," he said simply. "What he's done in this competition speaks for itself. To play against him on nights like this, it pushes you. Makes you better."
He chuckled lightly.
"And yeah, he told me he's going to score more in Madrid. I wouldn't expect him to say anything else."
The crowd laughed, a wave of knowing appreciation washing through the stands.
"But that's what these nights are about," Francesco continued. "Competition. Respect. Big moments. Big personalities."
He finished with a small nod.
"We're looking forward to it."
The interviewer shifted his weight slightly, listening through his earpiece as the director spoke in his ear. He nodded once, then twice, lips pressing together in a brief smile before he turned back toward Francesco.
"There's one more thing," he said.
Francesco raised an eyebrow, breathing still heavy but steady now, sweat cooling on his skin as the night air wrapped around him. He could feel the adrenaline ebbing, leaving that familiar post-match ache behind with the good kind, the earned kind.
The interviewer reached just out of frame.
A UEFA staffer stepped forward, holding something carefully in both hands.
It was small, understated, and unmistakable.
The Man of the Match trophy.
Clear glass, angular and clean, the UEFA Champions League emblem etched into its surface. It caught the floodlights and fractured them into sharp slivers of white that danced across Francesco's forearms.
The interviewer took it, turned slightly back toward the camera, and smiled.
"Francesco," he said, voice brightening, "for your two goals tonight, your performance, and your leadership on the pitch, you've been named Man of the Match."
For a split second, Francesco didn't move.
Not because he was surprised.
But because moments like this still landed quietly with him, settling before they spoke.
Then he smiled.
Not wide.
Not showy.
Just real.
"Thank you," he said, and meant it.
The interviewer placed the trophy into his hands. The glass was cool against his palms, heavier than it looked. Francesco adjusted his grip instinctively, fingers curling around the base, thumbs resting along the etched edge.
The crowd noticed immediately.
The reaction came like a delayed wave with applause building, whistles piercing, chants restarting with fresh energy.
"Francesco! Francesco! Francesco!"
He lifted the trophy slightly, not above his head, not as a declaration, but as acknowledgment. As if to say: I see you. This is ours.
"This is for the team," he said, angling the trophy toward the camera. "Always."
The interviewer nodded, letting the moment breathe.
Then he turned back toward the lens.
"Francesco, congratulations again. A memorable night for Arsenal."
"Thank you," Francesco said.
The red light clicked off.
Just like that, it was done.
The transformation was instant.
The interviewer relaxed his shoulders, the professional edge softening into something warmer. The cameraman lowered the rig, rolling his neck slightly as the weight came off his shoulder.
The interviewer extended his hand.
"Great performance," he said quietly, off-camera. "Really."
Francesco took it, firm grip, eye contact.
"Appreciate it," he replied.
The UEFA staff member stepped back into view, pointing gently toward the tunnel entrance.
"You're free now."
Francesco nodded.
He adjusted the towel that had been draped over his shoulders at some point as he wasn't even sure when and tucked the Man of the Match trophy under his arm. Cristiano's shirt was still folded carefully in his other hand, pressed against his ribs like something fragile, something earned.
Before he turned, he took one more look around.
The pitch lay open and exposed now, stripped of urgency. Grounds staff were already hovering near the edges, waiting for the signal to begin their quiet work. The white lines were scuffed, the grass torn in patches, bearing the marks of ninety minutes that had demanded everything.
The stands were thinning.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
Fans lingered in their seats, some still standing, some sitting back down as if hoping that staying just a little longer might make the night last. Scarves were folded with care. Phones were raised for final photos. Parents leaned down to speak softly to children whose eyes were heavy but shining.
Francesco raised his hand one last time.
A simple gesture.
The response came anyway with applause, cheers, his name rising again like the stadium itself wasn't ready to let him go.
He nodded once in return.
Then he turned.
And walked into the tunnel.
The noise fell away behind him, swallowed by concrete and steel, replaced by the echo of his own footsteps and the low murmur of voices ahead. The air grew cooler, heavier, carrying the familiar scent of liniment, damp kit, and effort.
Inside, the world shifted.
A staff member passed him going the other way, clipboard tucked under his arm. Another called out congratulations as he walked by. Someone clapped him on the back as they crossed paths.
"Monster tonight," a voice said.
"Top class," another added.
Francesco smiled, murmured thanks, kept moving.
The dressing room door was open now.
Sound spilled out from laughter, the hiss of showers, the clatter of boots hitting the floor. Music was already starting somewhere, low at first, then louder as someone cranked the volume up.
As Francesco stepped inside, the reaction was immediate.
"Oi!"
"Here he is!"
"Man of the Match!"
A cheer erupted, bouncing off the walls, raw and joyful. Kanté was the first to reach him, grinning impossibly wide, arms already wrapping around him in a hug that nearly lifted him off the ground.
"You were everywhere!" Kanté laughed. "Everywhere!"
Francesco laughed too, the sound coming easier now, the tension finally releasing.
"Get off me," he said, pushing him away gently. "You didn't stop running either."
Van Dijk clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "Big-game player," he said simply.
Giroud pointed at the trophy tucked under Francesco's arm. "I expect that on the mantelpiece," he said, mock-serious. "Right next to all the others."
Francesco shook his head. "I'll leave it here," he replied. "Belongs to all of us."
He set the trophy down on the central table, where it immediately became the focal point of the room. Someone whistled. Someone else tapped it lightly with a finger, as if to make sure it was real.
Wenger stood near his locker, jacket unbuttoned now, tie loosened. He watched it all with that familiar half-smile, eyes bright behind his glasses.
When Francesco caught his gaze, Wenger nodded once.
Just once.
That was enough.
Francesco moved toward his locker, finally letting the weight of the night settle fully into his bones. He sat down, unlacing his boots slowly, methodically, fingers stiff now that the adrenaline was fading.
As he pulled the first boot off, he glanced down at Cristiano's shirt still folded beside him.
Madrid.
Soon.
But not yet.
For now, there was this.
For a moment, Francesco just sat there.
The dressing room moved around him in fragments with boots thudding against the floor, tape being ripped away, laughter rising and falling in waves, the hiss of the showers growing louder as more players filtered toward them but he stayed still, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed slightly.
This was always the quietest part of the night for him.
Not because the room was quiet, but because his mind finally was.
The match replayed itself in pieces rather than a single blur now. The first touch. The second goal. The way the ball had left his foot and stayed low, true. The sound of the net. The brief, breathless second afterward when the world had narrowed to nothing but red shirts and belief.
He rolled his shoulders once, feeling the stiffness settle in properly now. Tomorrow would hurt. The day after, probably more. That was fine. Pain was just proof something real had happened.
He stood, boots in hand, and made his way toward the showers.
The tiled area was already fogging over, steam hanging thick in the air, the smell of soap and sweat and effort blending into something unmistakably post-match. A couple of players were already under the water with laughing, arguing about moments, replaying decisions, reliving chances that hadn't even been close but felt huge in memory.
Francesco stepped into an empty space, hung his towel on the hook, and turned the water on.
It hit him hard.
Hot at first, almost shocking, then settling into something that loosened muscles he hadn't realized were locked tight. He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced against the wall, letting the water pound against the back of his neck and shoulders.
His eyes closed.
For the first time since the whistle, he let himself fully exhale.
The noise of the stadium was gone now. No chants. No whistles. No roar rising behind every touch. Just the steady rush of water and the low echo of voices bouncing off tile.
Someone nearby laughed loudly.
"Did you see his face when you nutmegged him?" a voice said.
Another responded, "Mate, he's still looking for the ball."
Francesco smiled faintly, water streaming down his face.
He reached for the soap, worked it through his hair, scrubbed at the grass stains on his arms. The marks of the match faded slowly, reluctantly, like the night itself refusing to let go all at once.
As he rinsed off, his thoughts drifted forward, unbidden.
Madrid.
The Bernabéu.
The white wall of noise that would greet them there. The way the pitch always felt slightly different underfoot, firmer, faster. The way every mistake echoed louder.
He didn't dwell on it.
Not yet.
Tonight wasn't about what came next.
It was about what had already been done.
He shut the water off and grabbed his towel, drying off slowly, methodically. When he stepped back into the main dressing area, the room had shifted again.
Some players were already changed, lounging in tracksuits, scrolling through phones, messages pouring in from family, friends, people who had watched from living rooms and bars and crowded streets halfway across the world. Others were still half-dressed, tape hanging loose, ice packs strapped to knees and ankles.
Music played louder now with something bass-heavy, celebratory.
Francesco dressed quickly.
Arsenal tracksuit bottoms first, then the top, zipped halfway. The familiar crest sat over his heart, simple and grounding. He slipped his feet into slides and sat back down for a second, tying the laces loosely on his bag.
He felt lighter now.
Clean.
Reset.
Wenger entered the dressing room quietly.
Not that anyone missed it.
The music dipped slightly as someone noticed him, laughter softening into something more contained, respectful. Wenger didn't raise a hand or ask for attention. He didn't need to.
He stood near the center for a moment, taking it all in from the fatigue, the joy, the mess of it. His eyes lingered on the Man of the Match trophy sitting on the table, then moved on, not dwelling.
"Gentlemen," he said calmly. "Well done."
That was it.
That was all.
And somehow, it was more than enough.
A few players clapped. Someone whooped softly. Wenger waited until the sound settled, then turned slightly, scanning the room.
His gaze found Francesco.
"Francesco," he said, beckoning lightly with two fingers. "Can you come with me, please?"
Francesco stood immediately.
"Yeah," he replied.
They stepped away from the noise together, out into the corridor that led toward the media area. The door closed behind them, muting the music, the laughter, the lingering celebration.
The walk was quiet.
Not awkward.
Comfortable.
Wenger walked with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, tie still loosened. Francesco matched his pace, the soft echo of their footsteps filling the space between them.
"You spoke well out there," Wenger said eventually, voice even. "Measured. Honest."
"Thank you," Francesco replied. "I just said what I felt."
"That is usually the best thing to say," Wenger said, a hint of a smile in his tone.
They reached the media waiting area. Staff moved around them efficiently from headsets, clipboards, phones pressed to ears. The Champions League backdrop was already set up, sponsors aligned perfectly, microphones tested and adjusted.
A press officer approached.
"Two minutes, please," she said.
Wenger nodded.
Francesco rolled his shoulders once, feeling the familiar pre-press conference shift settle in. This was a different kind of performance. Less physical. More precise.
Wenger glanced at him.
"Relax," he said softly. "You've earned this."
Francesco smiled. "I know."
They took their seats behind the desk, nameplates already waiting. Wenger adjusted his glasses. Francesco took a sip of water, set the bottle down carefully.
The room filled quickly.
Journalists took their places, cameras clicking, laptops opening, phones raised. The hum of anticipation buzzed just beneath the surface. This was Arsenal versus Real Madrid. This was Champions League. This was never just another night.
The press officer leaned in.
"We'll begin," she said.
The flashes started immediately.
Wenger spoke first, as always. Calm, composed, praising the team, emphasizing balance, discipline, togetherness. He deflected questions about tactics with elegance, about Madrid with respect.
Then the questions turned toward Francesco.
A reporter from the front row raised his hand.
"Francesco, congratulations. Two goals tonight, Man of the Match. Where does this performance rank for you in your Arsenal career so far?"
Francesco considered it.
"It's up there," he said. "But nights like this are never about ranking things. They're about moments. About how it feels to share it with your teammates, with the fans. That's what stays with you."
Another question followed.
"Did you feel extra responsibility tonight, knowing the importance of the first leg?"
"Yes," Francesco replied simply. "But that's part of the job. If you don't want that responsibility, you shouldn't be here."
There was a murmur of appreciation.
Someone else asked about Ronaldo.
Francesco smiled faintly. "He doesn't need me to talk about him. Everyone knows who he is."
A question about the return leg.
"Difficult," Francesco said. "But that's why we play this competition."
The conference moved smoothly, professionally, questions and answers flowing without friction. Wenger occasionally leaned in to add context, to redirect, to protect his player without shielding him entirely.
After fifteen minutes, it was over.
They stood, nodded politely, and exited together.
Back in the corridor, Wenger slowed slightly.
"Enjoy tonight," he said. "Tomorrow, we prepare again."
Francesco nodded. "Always."
They parted there with Wenger toward his own responsibilities, Francesco back toward the dressing room.
When he pushed the door open again, the music surged, the celebration still alive but mellowed now, settling into something more contented than explosive.
Someone tossed him a bottle of water.
"Press conference superstar," Giroud teased.
Francesco laughed, caught it easily.
"Don't start," he said.
He took a long drink, leaned back against his locker, and let himself simply exist in the moment.
The night wasn't rushing him anymore.
It could wait.
Madrid would come soon enough.
For now, there was warmth, shared effort, and the quiet certainty that something meaningful had been done and that was enough.
______________________________________________
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: 43
Goal: 68
Assist: 3
MOTM: 10
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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