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He slipped into bed beside Leah, her head resting against his shoulder. The rhythm of her breathing lulled him slowly toward sleep, his mind still replaying the soft thud of the ball hitting net, the glint of floodlights on grass, and Wenger's approving smile when he'd left the office earlier.
The next morning, the early mist rolled softly over the training grounds at London Colney, wrapping the pitches in a pale, silvery calm. The air was cool, damp enough that every breath came out visible in the soft sunlight that crept over the horizon. The hum of the facility was just beginning to rise as doors opening, voices echoing faintly in the corridors, the faint metallic rattle of boot studs against the concrete walkways.
Francesco was already there before most. He liked arriving early, before the chaos of the day, before the coaches' whistles and the chatter of teammates filled the air. It gave him space to think, to focus. He'd always believed that leadership wasn't about what you did in front of people — it was about the things you did when no one was watching.
This morning, though, there was an extra spark to his routine. He wasn't alone for long.
"Morning, captain," came a cheerful voice behind him.
Francesco turned, smiling faintly as Serge Gnabry jogged up, a training bib slung over his shoulder, a ball tucked under his arm. "Morning, Serge. You're early."
The younger winger grinned, slightly breathless from the jog. "Trying to match your timing. Thought I'd get some extra touches in before the others come."
Francesco nodded approvingly. "That's how it starts. Consistency. Day after day, that's how you build the edge."
He gestured toward the pitch. The dew still glistened on the grass, the air filled with that crisp, green scent that every footballer secretly loved. The world was quiet enough that you could hear the sound of the ball rolling.
They began with the basics with touch and turn drills, quick transitions, one-twos, tight control. Francesco pushed Gnabry to think faster, move sharper, to trust his instincts. Every time the young winger hesitated, Francesco was there but not with anger, but with patience.
"Don't think, Serge. Feel it. You've got that natural rhythm, use it."
Gnabry nodded, wiping sweat from his brow, his breathing growing heavier as they kept going. The repetition was relentless, exactly as Francesco intended. Every touch was deliberate, every movement had purpose.
After a solid thirty minutes, other players began trickling in with laughter and chatter filling the morning quiet. Theo Walcott and Alexis Sánchez arrived together, deep in conversation, boots dangling from their hands. Coquelin and Elneny followed, ribbing each other about who'd lift more in the gym. Even Wenger's assistants had begun setting up cones and poles for the session.
Sánchez spotted Francesco and jogged over, grinning. "You don't stop, do you?"
Francesco smirked. "The game doesn't either."
Alexis nodded toward Gnabry, who was catching his breath nearby. "You training him?"
"Trying to," Francesco replied. "He's got something special, but it needs sharpening. You should join us later. Help him with that explosive drive, he could learn a lot from you."
Alexis's grin widened. "Happy to. He's got potential — strong legs, quick balance. Reminds me a bit of myself when I was younger."
"Then it's settled," Francesco said. "After team training, the three of us will work together."
By now, Wenger's whistle echoed across the pitch, sharp and clear. The main session was about to start.
"Alright, lads!" Steve Bould's voice carried across the field. "Warm-up first! Let's go!"
The team gathered in a semi-circle, passing drills and dynamic stretches filling the next ten minutes. The laughter and competitive energy built quickly, the air alive with that familiar buzz that came before every hard session.
Wenger's plan for the day was focused on tactical shape — defensive transitions, compactness, and pressing triggers. The kind of meticulous detail work that often went unnoticed by fans but made the difference in title races.
"Compact when out of possession!" Wenger reminded, his accent thick as he gestured toward the midfielders. "Francesco, keep the line tight with no space between you and the front!"
"Yes, boss!" Francesco called, voice firm.
The drills flowed like a metronome — fast, structured, demanding. Francesco, as always, was everywhere — shouting instructions, correcting positioning, timing his passes to perfection. Every touch from him seemed to carry authority, not because of arrogance, but because of clarity. When he moved, the team followed.
Beside him, Walcott's pace was electric, darting down the wings, pulling defenders wide. Sánchez, as fiery as ever, was in full force — pressing hard, tracking back, shouting encouragement in that fierce, passionate way of his. Gnabry, meanwhile, was rotating into the wide drills, showing flashes of that same hunger from last night — tight control, sharp turns, confidence blooming under Francesco's watchful gaze.
Walcott noticed it, though. He saw the little details — the way Francesco's eyes followed Gnabry's movement, the extra seconds of advice between drills, the nods of encouragement. And for the first time, a small thought flickered through his mind.
He's grooming him.
It wasn't jealousy, not yet. Walcott was too experienced for that. He'd been at Arsenal long enough to understand that competition was part of survival. But still, the sight of his captain mentoring someone who played his position stirred something inside him. A quiet, instinctive awareness.
Still, Walcott brushed it off. He was in his prime — fit, fast, confident. Francesco might be planning for the future, but Walcott wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot.
After the session, the players trickled off toward the gym and recovery rooms. Wenger dismissed them with a few final tactical notes, and the hum of conversation filled the changing area.
But Francesco stayed behind, as he often did.
He gave Gnabry a nod across the room. "Grab a drink, then meet me back on the pitch in five."
The young winger's face brightened instantly. "Yes, captain!"
Sánchez, toweling sweat from his neck, caught the exchange and grinned. "I'll come too. I'm in the mood for some shooting practice."
"Perfect," Francesco said. "Let's make it a proper session."
By the time they returned to the training ground, the sun was high and the pitches were almost empty. A few academy players were working off to the side, but otherwise, the space was theirs.
Francesco placed down a set of cones near the edge of the box. "Alright. Serge, today's focus with acceleration into space and finishing under pressure. Alexis, you'll help demonstrate."
Sánchez nodded, rolling the ball under his boot. "You watch, kid," he said to Gnabry with a grin. "This is how we do it in South America."
He took off with three quick touches, a feint, then an explosive strike that rattled the back of the net.
"See?" Francesco said, motioning. "Power through the body, not just the leg. It's about intent."
Gnabry watched closely, his eyes wide. Then it was his turn.
He sprinted forward, quick feet tapping the grass, cutting inside before curling the shot that show decent technique, but the ball flew just wide.
"Closer," Francesco said. "But you slowed down before shooting. You can't hesitate. The defenders won't."
Alexis stepped in, clapping his hands. "Again. This time, faster and don't be afraid to hit it. Trust your strike."
The young winger nodded, determination flashing across his face. He took a breath, then went again — and this time, it was perfect. A sharp cut inside, a clean swing of the boot, and the ball arced beautifully into the top corner.
"¡Eso! That's it!" Sánchez shouted, laughing, slapping Gnabry on the back.
Francesco smiled. "Told you. It's all about rhythm."
They kept going for another hour — alternating drills, mixing power with precision, technique with instinct. Francesco's guidance was constant but measured, always constructive. Sánchez brought the intensity, shouting, laughing, pushing. Together, they were sculpting something real — not just skill, but confidence.
From the gym window, Walcott watched quietly for a while, towel draped over his shoulders. He could see them on the pitch, the easy chemistry between the three, the way Francesco encouraged Gnabry, the way Sánchez roared in approval every time the kid struck cleanly.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at Theo's lips.
He knew what it was — Francesco was preparing for the future. And maybe, just maybe, Gnabry was the next in line. But for now? Walcott was still the man in possession. He wasn't threatened. Not yet. The fire in his chest hadn't dimmed. If anything, it burned brighter.
"Let them train," he muttered under his breath, tossing the towel aside. "They'll still have to catch me first."
Out on the field, Francesco and Sánchez had just finished another round of drills. Gnabry's shirt was soaked, his breath ragged, but his grin was wide — the grin of someone who knew he was improving.
Francesco clapped him on the shoulder. "Good work today. Keep this up, and the boss will start noticing."
Sánchez nodded in agreement. "Sí. Just remember — when you play, don't hold back. Attack like you've got nothing to lose."
Gnabry smiled between breaths. "Thanks… both of you. I'll make it count."
"You will," Francesco said quietly. "Just keep your head down and your heart open. The game rewards those who love it."
The three of them stood there for a moment, the empty pitch around them bathed in soft afternoon light. It was one of those simple, perfect football moments — no cameras, no crowds, just the quiet sound of effort and ambition breathing in rhythm with the wind.
As they finally headed back toward the building, Francesco looked back once at the pitch as the cones, the scattered balls, the faint scuffs in the grass where their boots had marked hours of work.
The days drifted by like pages turning in a story that felt both inevitable and quietly extraordinary. London's September skies had taken on that soft, half-golden hue — the sunlight thinner now, but still warm enough to kiss the Emirates pitch with its late-summer glow. Arsenal's season had found rhythm, not through grand signings or sudden bursts of transfer drama, but through the quiet certainty of a squad that finally seemed to know who they were.
No panic buys, no rushed transfers. Just trust.
And that trust which in the players, in Wenger's belief, in the leadership Francesco now carried and had begun to bloom.
By late September, the training ground at London Colney buzzed differently. The tension that usually followed a stagnant transfer window had melted into something else entirely: a shared, unspoken pride. The message was clear, we are enough. Wenger hadn't added anyone new after Granit Xhaka's early arrival, nor did he seem troubled by it. The old guard like Cazorla, Koscielny, Walcott was still carried the club's heartbeat. The young ones like Gnabry and Iwobi, had thrived in their shadows, learning, growing, waiting.
And at the center of it all was Francesco Lee the captain, talisman, and symbol of the new Arsenal.
The Emirates buzzed under the soft afternoon sun. Scarlet flags rippled along the stands, the air thick with that electric hum only matchdays could conjure. It wasn't a blockbuster fixture as it was not Manchester City, not Chelsea but there was a different kind of anticipation, a hunger to confirm that Arsenal's early promise wasn't just fleeting.
Inside the dressing room, the air smelled faintly of liniment and turf. Players stretched, music pulsed low in the background, and Wenger moved slowly between them, his calm presence steadying the nerves.
"Play with patience," he said, his voice carrying just enough command to still the room. "We move the ball, we create — the goals will come. But remember: we defend together. Compact. Always together."
Francesco sat at the center, armband already around his bicep, head lowered for a moment in silent focus. Then he looked up, eyes scanning the room.
"Let's make it clear," he said, tone low but firm. "We don't just win, we set the tone for the season. Every tackle, every pass, every run matters. This is our house."
Theo Walcott clapped his hands together. "Let's make some noise, boys."
And they did.
From the first whistle, Arsenal moved with intent. Francesco dictated the rhythm as he dropping deep to collect, switching play with the ease of a painter flicking colors across a canvas. Xhaka with Kante hold the midfield, steady and composed, freeing Cazorla to dance forward between the lines.
The first goal came just after the half-hour mark — from a corner, no less. Cazorla's delivery curved perfectly toward the near post where Koscielny, charging through a sea of bodies, rose higher than anyone else. His header thundered past Fraser Forster and kissed the back of the net.
1–0. The Emirates erupted.
Francesco was the first to embrace him, grinning. "That's how you lead from the back!"
Minutes later, it was Francesco's turn.
A slick exchange between Sánchez and Bellerín opened space down the right. Francesco timed his run perfectly, darting into the box just as Sánchez's low cross zipped through the crowd. A single touch, calm and clinical, sent the ball into the far corner.
The roar that followed was almost familiar now — that deep, visceral sound of the Emirates chanting his name:
"LEE! LEE! LEE!"
He didn't celebrate wildly. Just a fist clenched to his chest and a glance skyward. A captain's goal — assured, not showy.
By the final whistle, it was 3–0. Santi Cazorla's late penalty sealed the scoreline, and the stadium bathed in that golden hour light as fans sang long after the players disappeared down the tunnel.
Sky Sports called it "a captain's masterclass", their post-match analysis focusing on how Francesco's control and communication shaped every phase of Arsenal's play. Gary Neville summed it up perfectly:
"You can tell when a team believes in their captain. They move differently as there's confidence in every touch. Francesco's influence is enormous, not just technically, but emotionally."
The mood was buoyant but focused. Arsenal had found flow, and Hull City were next. The bus ride north was quiet, players half-asleep with headphones on, the soft rain streaking the windows. Francesco sat near the front, reviewing clips on his tablet that has Hull's defensive patterns, their zonal setups. His leadership wasn't loud; it was methodical.
Walcott leaned over from the next seat. "You planning to score again?"
Francesco smirked. "Why not?"
The match itself was a spectacle with one of those days where everything Arsenal touched turned to gold.
From kickoff, the Gunners were ruthless. The passing triangles carved Hull open with surgical precision, and the goals came in waves.
Alexis Sánchez opened the scoring after just 13 minutes — a trademark low drive after Ozil's clever through-ball split the defense. Ten minutes later, Walcott added another, darting between two defenders before dinking the ball over the keeper.
Francesco applauded from behind, shouting, "Beautiful, Theo!"
Theo smiled, chest heaving. "Still got it, captain."
By halftime, it was 3–0 as Xhaka with a thunderbolt from 25 yards that rattled the net so hard the away fans were still replaying it on their phones.
The second half was even more merciless. Sánchez grabbed his brace with a curling strike from the edge of the box, and then, as if to complete the story, Francesco joined in again.
Late in the game, Arsenal earned a free-kick near the right flank. Cazorla bent it toward the near post, and Francesco ghosting between defenders, nodded it past the keeper.
5–0. The away end exploded in red and white.
But there was still time for one more, and the irony was rich.
A tired clearance from Hull's defender landed awkwardly in the box and straight at Virgil van Dijk, who, shoot it into toward the net.
6–0. Complete domination.
As the final whistle blew, Francesco jogged toward the traveling fans, applauding with both hands raised high. The chants followed him all the way to the tunnel:
"Arsenal top of the league! Arsenal top of the league!"
In the post-match interview, Sky Sports' Geoff Shreeves caught him outside the dressing room, microphone gleaming under the floodlights.
Shreeves: "Francesco, another big win today. Six goals away from home — what's driving this level of performance?"
Francesco (smiling): "Teamwork. We're playing like a family. Everyone knows their job, everyone's hungry. When we play like this, it's hard to stop us."
Shreeves: "And you're leading that family now as captain, scorer, creator. Feeling the pressure?"
Francesco: "Pressure's part of it. But honestly, I'm enjoying it. I've got great players around me, and the boss trusts us. That's all you can ask for."
Sky's headline later that night read:
"Captain Fantastic: Francesco Lee Inspires 6–0 Rout"
The midweek trip to Nottingham had the kind of chilly autumn air that hinted at rain. The EFL Cup wasn't glamorous as it was not compared to the league or Europe but for Wenger, it was a testing ground.
Rotation. Opportunity.
And for some, redemption.
Olivier Giroud led the line, with Oxlade-Chamberlain on the wing and Santi Cazorla pulling strings in midfield. But what drew the attention that night was the name on the bench, Serge Gnabry.
It was his moment.
From the first whistle, Arsenal played like a well-oiled machine. Cazorla dictated the tempo, his passes slicing through Forest's defensive lines as Giroud bullied defenders with his trademark strength.
It didn't take long for the breakthrough.
Cazorla himself opened the scoring with a clever finish from the edge of the box after an exchange with Elneny. He didn't even celebrate much; just a quick smile and a thumbs-up to Francesco, who was watching from the stands beside Wenger's staff. The captain wasn't starting tonight, but he was there for analyzing, learning, encouraging.
"See that movement?" he murmured to Steve Bould beside him. "That's what Serge needs to study, timing the run after the pass."
When Giroud made it 2–0 before halftime, it was pure Arsenal: one-touch play, overlapping runs, and a finish as graceful as it was lethal. The away fans sang loud enough to echo through the city.
Then came the substitution.
At the 70th minute, Wenger turned to his bench. "Serge, you're on. Replace Chamberlain."
Gnabry's heart raced as he pulled off his tracksuit, the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through him. Francesco caught his eye from the stands and gave a small nod.
The young winger stepped onto the pitch, the cold grass slick under his boots, the floodlights blinding for a moment. His first touch was clean. His first run was bold.
And though he didn't score, he thrilled.
A burst of pace down the left, a clever flick past a defender, a curling shot that whistled just over the bar with each action drew murmurs from the crowd, the kind that said, there's something here.
By the time Giroud added his second and Chamberlain's replacement goal sealed it 4–0, Gnabry had left an impression far bigger than his brief appearance.
After the match, Wenger smiled softly during his interview.
"He's ready," he said of Gnabry. "You can see it in his movement, his confidence. He's been learning from the best — from Francesco, from Alexis. That's how Arsenal grows. From within."
In the dressing room, as players laughed and congratulated each other, Gnabry sat on the bench still breathing heavily, face flushed with pride. Francesco appeared at the doorway, already in his tracksuit, a small grin tugging at his lips.
He clapped the young winger's shoulder. "Not bad, Serge. Not bad at all."
Gnabry looked up, wide-eyed. "Thanks, captain. I was nervous."
Francesco shook his head. "You didn't look it. You played like you belonged. That's what matters."
The kid smiled. "I had good teachers."
Francesco chuckled. "Just make sure you keep listening to them."
As September drew toward its close, Arsenal stood tall — unbeaten since opening day, brimming with confidence, unity, and purpose. The papers began whispering again about "a new era under Lee's captaincy". Sky Sports and BBC alike ran montages of his goals leadership moments, framing him as the face of Arsenal's resurgence.
But for Francesco, the noise didn't matter. What mattered was the feeling in the locker room from the laughter after victories, the quiet nods of respect from veterans like Koscielny, the way younger players like Gnabry hung on his every word.
The morning of the twenty-third dawned clear over Hertfordshire with bright autumn morning that felt cleaner than air should be. The leaves around London Colney had begun their slow turn to amber, the first hints of gold and rust catching the edges of the trees that lined the complex. The wind was cool but not cold, brushing softly over the grass that shimmered with dew.
Inside the Arsenal training ground, there was a different charge in the air. The players could feel it the moment they stepped out from the tunnel into the open. Tomorrow wasn't just another fixture. It was Chelsea, the perennial test of grit and pride. Blue versus red. Stamford Bridge might have been the more notorious battlefield over the years, but the Emirates was ready to roar this time.
Francesco Lee could feel that pulse the moment he parked his BMW X5 in his usual spot and stepped out. He stood for a moment, taking in the crisp morning, the faint breath of mist rising from his lips, and the quiet rumble of the London Colney grounds stirring to life. Staff carried cones and poles, the smell of fresh-cut grass filled the air, and the hum of excitement blended with a subtle edge of nerves.
Big games always had that smell.
He slung his kit bag over his shoulder and walked toward the dressing rooms. The familiar sound of chatter greeted him even before he opened the door and hear laughter, banter, music pulsing from the speakers. Granit Xhaka was arguing with Héctor Bellerín about who had the better haircut. Theo Walcott was pretending to interview Sánchez with a water bottle as a microphone. Koscielny was tying his boots in quiet focus.
Francesco grinned slightly as he entered. "Morning, lads."
A chorus of replies echoed back. "Morning, skip."
He dropped his bag beside his locker, nodding toward the whiteboard where Steve Bould was setting up the day's plan. Today was about sharpness with pressing drills, transition play, defensive shape. Chelsea would come to the Emirates compact and ruthless, just as they always did. Conte's men were hard to break down, deadly on the counter. Arsenal needed more than flair; they needed discipline.
Wenger entered not long after, that familiar calm following him like a soft breeze. His presence alone quieted the room. The players straightened, some still adjusting their boots, others stretching on mats. He placed his hands in his pockets and surveyed them all for a moment, as though weighing something unseen.
"Tomorrow," he began, voice low but deliberate, "we play not just a rival, we play a team that will test our conviction. Chelsea are strong, experienced, and organized. But so are we. The difference will be in how much we trust our football. Play without fear. Move the ball. Defend as one."
He paused, his gaze settling briefly on Francesco. "And lead with the calm that you always show, Francesco. We play with our heads as much as our hearts."
Francesco gave a single nod. "We will, boss."
The training session began with warm-ups with short sprints, agility ladders, rondos. The laughter continued in bursts, but there was focus now beneath the energy. When the ball rolled, the intensity shifted immediately. Passes snapped between feet. Instructions cut through the air.
Francesco found himself in the center of the tempo once again with the pulse of everything Arsenal did.
"Push up N'Golo, don't wait for them to drop!" he called, gesturing with a quick motion.
Kanté reacted instantly, stepping higher to intercept a pass during a pressing drill. The play continued, fluid, sharp. Özil found space, Bellerín overlapped, the ball zipped back toward Francesco, and with one deft flick, he switched it diagonally toward Sánchez, who chested it down and volleyed into the mini net.
Applause and shouts followed.
"Beautiful ball!" Bellerín shouted.
"Good move!" Francesco replied, grinning faintly.
Then came the tactical session. Wenger and Bould gathered them in a semicircle near the halfway line. The manager unfolded a small tactics board, the little red and blue magnets representing tomorrow's battlefield.
"Chelsea will likely use a back three," Wenger said, moving the blue markers. "They'll sit deep, let their wing-backs push high, and look for Diego Costa early. We must anticipate the long balls. Laurent, Virgil stay tight. Granit, N'Golo, shield them."
He tapped Francesco's magnet. "Francesco, your role will be crucial. When we transition, you become the first outlet. If they press, drop between the lines and find Mesut or Alexis. We must move quickly before they reset their shape."
Francesco studied the board, committing every nuance to memory. "Understood, boss. We'll draw them out with short combinations and hit behind their wing-backs. Sánchez and Theo can exploit the space."
Wenger's eyes gleamed slightly, with that rare flicker of pride. "Exactly."
Training resumed with small-sided matches to simulate Chelsea's shape. Wenger stood at the edge, watching, occasionally calling out corrections.
"Compact! Stay compact!"
"Transition faster!"
"Good, Alexis! Yes, like that!"
Francesco was relentless in the drills. His voice guided, commanded, corrected. He wasn't barking as it was rhythm again, that flow the team had come to rely on. When the ball broke loose, he recovered it. When the tempo dropped, he pushed it higher.
And through it all, one young figure caught his attention again which is Serge Gnabry.
The kid had been sharper than ever since his EFL Cup performance. Every training day, his confidence grew; his touches crisper, his runs bolder. That morning, he'd already turned Monreal twice in one sequence, drawing applause from even the senior players.
After a water break, Francesco walked over to him. "Serge," he said, tossing him a fresh ball. "Come on, let's work on those end products again."
Gnabry's eyes lit up. "Now?"
"Now," Francesco said with a grin. "Before the gaffer calls it a day."
They moved to a smaller pitch off to the side, the rest of the squad still working through defensive shape. Francesco rolled up his sleeves, the cool breeze brushing against his forearms.
"Alright," he said. "Same focus as before — first touch, then finish. Don't overthink. Feel the ball."
He set the ball rolling toward Gnabry, who took one touch and fired — good power, but too central. The keeper would've saved it easily. Francesco jogged over and picked up the rebound.
"Better contact, but don't rush the setup," he said. "Look up first. You've got half a second — use it. Watch."
He stepped back, took the same pass himself, a single touch to shift the ball wide, then curled it delicately toward the far corner. The shot kissed the inside of the post and rippled the net.
Gnabry exhaled in disbelief. "You make it look easy."
Francesco laughed softly. "It's never easy. You just get better at hiding the thinking."
They worked for another half-hour. Shot after shot, run after run. Francesco adjusted his technique each time, demonstrating little nuances — how to drop a shoulder to create space, how to disguise a finish with a feint of the eyes, how to strike through the laces without lifting too high.
"You've got power," he said between breaths, "but power's useless if you don't know where it's going. Guide it. Don't just hit it."
By the time they finished, both were sweating, the sun starting to dip slightly in the west. Wenger watched from afar for a few moments, speaking quietly to Bould, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
As Francesco and Gnabry walked back toward the building, the young winger was still buzzing. "Thanks, captain. I can feel the difference. I think I'm finally getting there."
Francesco nodded. "You are. Keep this up and tomorrow, they'll start calling your name from the stands too."
Gnabry chuckled shyly. "One day, maybe."
"Not maybe," Francesco said, looking at him with quiet conviction. "Definitely."
When the training session finally wrapped, the team gathered for cooldowns near the main pitch. Wenger spoke briefly, his voice soft but certain.
"You've worked well today. Rest up, eat well, focus. Tomorrow is for execution. We are ready — I can see it in your eyes."
He turned to Francesco. "Anything to add, captain?"
Francesco looked around at his teammates — sweat-drenched, smiling, breathing heavily, but burning with that unmistakable fire. He took a deep breath.
"Tomorrow isn't just about points," he said. "It's about proving what we already know — that we belong at the top. We've worked too hard to let anyone take that away. So when we step out at the Emirates, remember the feeling right now. The belief. The unity. Keep that in your chest and play with it."
The group nodded, some clapping, others bumping fists.
Koscielny called out, "Let's do it for the badge."
Theo grinned. "And for the noise we'll make when we smash Chelsea."
Laughter broke out, light and genuine, but beneath it was focus — that razor-edge readiness before battle.
As evening fell and the players dispersed, Francesco lingered again. The pitch now empty, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the maintenance crew trimming the grass for tomorrow. He walked across the field slowly, boots crunching softly on the turf.
The next day dawned in a wash of soft grey and gold, as the London morning that held its breath before the storm. The streets outside London Colney were quiet, still slick from the night's drizzle, reflecting pale streaks of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Inside the Arsenal complex, though, the pulse was alive. The matchday hum with staff moving briskly, players murmuring in low tones, kit men rolling out crates of jerseys and boots.
By 9:30 a.m., the red-and-white team bus gleamed by the entrance, its polished paint reflecting the autumn light. The Arsenal crest seemed to glow faintly against the metallic surface, as though the lionhearted spirit of North London itself was watching over them.
Francesco stepped aboard first, his headphones resting around his neck rather than on his ears as he preferred the quiet before matches, the rhythm of thoughts and focus. Behind him came Alexis Sánchez, all kinetic energy and restless movement, bouncing slightly on his heels even as he walked. Granit Xhaka followed, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. Mesut Özil, calm as ever, took his usual window seat near the middle, the world outside drifting by like a painting.
Wenger stood near the front, speaking quietly with Steve Bould. There was something about his demeanor, that steadied the group. Even now, after decades, he carried that same quiet authority that made players want to give everything for him.
As the bus rolled out from the gates of the training ground, Francesco gazed out the window. London blurred past — rows of houses, morning joggers, the occasional fan catching sight of the team bus and waving with a burst of excitement. A few children, in Arsenal shirts far too big for them, jumped and pointed, shouting the players' names.
"Captain!" one boy yelled, running alongside the bus for a few steps before dropping back, breathless.
Francesco smiled faintly and gave a small wave through the glass. Those little moments always hit deeper than he expected. It wasn't just football. It was legacy.
As the bus continued toward the Emirates, the conversations began to flow more freely.
"You think Conte will still go with the back three?" Bellerín asked, twisting in his seat to look at Koscielny and Van Dijk.
"Of course," Virgil replied, his voice calm but confident. "That's his comfort. He won't change it here."
"Good," Alexis interjected. "Then we kill them on the wings."
Laughter broke out, lightening the mood. Wenger turned from his seat with a small smile. "If you're going to kill them, do it gently. We still need the three points, not a crime scene."
The laughter grew louder, and even Bould chuckled under his breath.
But beneath it all, Francesco could feel the rising heartbeat of the day — that tight, silent build-up of energy that every footballer knew before a big match. It wasn't nerves. It was something heavier, more sacred. The weight of expectation. The desire to deliver.
The bus curved through Islington's narrow streets before turning onto Drayton Park. And there it was, the Emirates.
Even from a distance, the stadium looked alive. Fans were already gathering outside, scarves waving, red and white banners fluttering. The air was electric, humming with chants that rose and fell like waves. Security cleared the path as the bus turned into the underground entrance. Cameras flashed. Sky Sports vans lined the perimeter, reporters already in position, microphones in hand.
As the bus rolled to a stop, Wenger stood and clapped his hands once. "Alright, gentlemen. Let's make today worth the effort we've put in all week."
The players filed off one by one, each lost in his own rhythm. The sound of boots tapping against concrete echoed in the tunnel. The air grew heavier, thicker with that scent of the stadium.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere changed completely.
Music played softly from a speaker in the corner — some of Alexis's Latin tracks, rhythmic but calm enough to keep the energy steady. The walls were lined with red jerseys, each hanging perfectly pressed above its designated spot. LEE 9 gleamed in bold white letters beneath the crest.
Francesco sat for a moment before pulling off his jacket and unzipping his bag. He could hear the others talking — Xhaka going over set-piece runs with Özil, Bellerín cracking jokes with Theo, Koscielny quietly tying and retying his laces.
The pre-match ritual began like muscle memory. Change into the training kit, lace up the warm-up boots, stretch, and focus.
"Five minutes till warm-up," one of the staff called out.
Francesco stood and rolled his shoulders, shaking out the tension. "Let's go, boys," he said, voice low but firm.
They stepped out into the tunnel. The noise hit them like a wave as the roar muffled by distance but unmistakable. The crowd was alive already, thousands of voices blending into one massive pulse.
As they emerged onto the pitch for the warm-up, the Emirates gleamed beneath the midday light. The air smelled of grass and rain, fresh and sharp. The fans erupted into cheers as soon as the players appeared, the chant of "Come on you Gunners!" rolling across the stands like thunder.
Francesco jogged toward the center circle, the ball at his feet. He began the usual routine with quick passes with Sánchez, sharp touches, one-twos to get the feel right. His mind locked in completely.
"Faster," Sánchez said with a grin, passing hard.
Francesco returned the ball with equal force. "You'll get it faster tomorrow in training if you miss that!"
They both laughed. The rest of the squad scattered across the pitch — Özil practicing through balls, Walcott working on diagonal runs, Koscielny and Van Dijk rehearsing defensive positioning with Bould watching closely.
The fans loved every bit of it. Every small trick, every shot that curled into the net during warm-ups drew a cheer. Sky Sports cameras zoomed in on Francesco several times — the new captain, the face of Arsenal's resurgence. The commentators' voices could almost be heard echoing faintly over the speakers:
"There's the man of the moment, Francesco Lee. The youngest captain in Arsenal history, and already playing with the authority of a veteran. He's not just leading from the front; he's redefining what leadership looks like at this club."
"You can see the confidence in him, can't you? He's got that balance that calm but hungry. The kind of player that makes everyone around him better."
After nearly half an hour of warm-up drills, finishing practice, and light sprints, Wenger signaled them to come in. The applause from the fans followed them all the way down the tunnel.
Inside the dressing room again, the energy tightened. The music was turned off. The sound of boots tapping against the floor filled the silence. Players began changing into their match kits that is the red shirts, white sleeves, socks pulled up, shin guards strapped tight.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (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: 6
Goal: 8
Assist: 0
MOTM: 1
POTM: 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