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The players, breathing heavily, stood together in the center of the pitch. Francesco, lifting his gaze to the stands, acknowledged the fans with a slow, deliberate nod. Kanté and Sánchez exchanged a quiet embrace, celebrating not just the goal but the teamwork, the discipline, the collective triumph. Gnabry, Giroud, and others shared smiles and high-fives, a mixture of joy and exhaustion evident in every gesture.
The noise of the Emirates after full-time wasn't the usual triumphant roar of a comfortable Champions League win. It was fuller, deeper, textured with emotion. The applause felt heavier, like the fans were acknowledging not just a victory but a night that had carried weight from moral, tactical, psychological. It was a night where football had become larger than football.
Francesco felt every beat of it as he stood in the center circle, hands on his hips, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. His chest rose and fell with the steady aftershock of ninety relentless minutes. Around him, teammates exchanged embraces and laughter, but Francesco's eyes moved quickly to past the red shirts, toward the navy-blue figures still catching their breath near the PSG half.
They looked deflated, but not defeated.
Wounded pride more than anything.
Edinson Cavani knelt, both palms pressed against the grass. Di María tugged his shirt over his mouth, breathing through the cotton. Ben Arfa had his hands on his knees, staring at the ground like it might offer answers to the night's failures. Lucas Moura wiped sweat from his face then immediately wiped it again, lost in his own whirlpool of frustration. And Thiago Silva that calm, dignified, chest rising steadily had that look of a captain who carried his team's emotions on his shoulders.
Francesco exhaled and started walking toward them.
Not because protocol demanded it.
Not because captains were supposed to do it.
But because he wanted to.
Because he respected them.
Because he knew exactly what these nights felt like from the other side.
At first, a few fans weren't sure what he was doing. But when he clapped in the direction of the PSG players, the Emirates understood with the applause changed tone, became appreciative, even compassionate. A wave of respectful noise rolled across the stadium as their captain crossed the halfway line.
The first player he reached was Di María.
Francesco placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Ángel," he said gently. "You played well, hermano. Tough match… but you were brilliant."
Di María looked up, tired, brow furrowed but he managed a faint smile.
"You too," he said. "You're… different this season. Stronger."
Francesco squeezed his shoulder once, then moved on.
He embraced Ben Arfa next, pulling him into a firm hug. Ben Arfa chuckled lightly, shaking his head.
"You didn't have to run like that all match, you know," Ben Arfa joked, exhausted but appreciative.
Francesco grinned. "Of course I did. It's you."
Then he hugged Lucas Moura, who was still frustrated.
"You were dangerous tonight," Francesco told him. "Every time you ran at us, we felt it."
Lucas's frustration softened.
"Obrigado," he said quietly. "Really."
Cavani received a respectful handshake and a pat on the chest.
Marquinhos got a sportsman-like nod, firm and sincere.
And then Francesco turned to Thiago Silva.
The PSG captain was walking toward him at the same time, their paths converging naturally as the two leaders drawn together by mutual respect.
Thiago offered his hand first, but Francesco ignored the hand and wrapped him in a full embrace. The kind of hug footballers shared after wars, not matches. A long clap on the back, the shared tension of what they had put their bodies through.
"You were a wall tonight," Francesco said, stepping back slightly but keeping his hands on Thiago's shoulders. "Every duel with you… I felt it."
Thiago Silva smiled, the lines on his face deepening with fatigue but also pride.
"And you," Thiago replied, "you've grown. You aren't just scoring now, you command your team. You're becoming a true leader."
Francesco's cheeks heated slightly. Compliments from someone like Thiago Silva always hit differently.
Then Thiago tapped the Arsenal badge on Francesco's shirt.
"You carry this with responsibility," he said.
Francesco nodded. "I try."
There was a heartbeat of silence.
Not awkward, just reflective.
Then Thiago lifted his shirt slightly.
"You want to exchange?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Of course."
The two captains pulled their shirts over their heads. The cold air hit their sweat-soaked skin, and for a moment they stood bare-chested in the floodlights, exchanging not just fabric but memory, respect, battle scars.
Francesco held the PSG shirt in both hands, running his thumb across the name "THIAGO SILVA" printed boldly across the back.
Thiago raised the Arsenal shirt with Francesco's name on it and smiled.
"This one," he said, "I keep in a special place."
Francesco grinned and thumped his right fist lightly against Thiago's chest.
"And yours," Francesco said, "goes in my training room. First thing I see every morning."
Thiago laughed softly, shook his hand again, and turned to join his teammates.
But Francesco wasn't done.
Because as he scanned the pitch again, he saw Matuidi who standing alone near the PSG bench, hands on his hips, gazing up at the stands. The French midfielder looked drained, but more than physically. Something heavier sat on his shoulders.
And Sico who still wearing his captain's armband, still breathing hard and walked straight toward him.
Francesco had seen Matuidi targeted by the referee. As the main referee was racist to him, but they manage to stand their ground and kick out the main referee. Though Blaise always held his head high after that, carried himself with dignity, even warriors grew tired of fighting battles no one should have to fight.
Sico slowed as he approached.
Matuidi didn't notice him at first.
When he did, he blinked, but not surprised.
Francesco placed a hand on Matuidi's shoulder with gently, not like a captain greeting an opponent, but like a friend reaching out.
"Blaise," Francesco said softly, "look at me."
Matuidi did.
Under the floodlights, his eyes reflected fatigue and something deeper. Something human.
Francesco didn't mince words.
"We know what happen from the referee racism to you," he said. "And we has give you our solidarity, but if you need more, you can ask us."
Matuidi's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't look away.
"I'm fine," Matuidi said automatically, but the way he said it was the way someone said it after years of being forced to be fine.
Francesco shook his head slowly.
"No. You don't have to be fine. Not today."
Matuidi exhaled, long and tired.
Sico stepped closer. "Listen. If you ever need support, if you ever feel alone in this… you only have to say the word. I stand with you. Always."
Matuidi's expression changed were subtle, but unmistakable.
A mixture of gratitude… and relief.
"Merci," Matuidi said quietly. His voice thickened. "Really. That means more than you know."
Francesco squeezed the back of his neck.
"I mean it. Football is for everyone. And anyone who tries to take that away from you? They face me first."
Matuidi chuckled with an exhausted, emotional laugh.
"You talk like a politician," he said.
"No," Francesco replied. "I talk like someone who's tired of seeing good people treated like this."
Matuidi shook his head, smiling now, but with a damp shine in his eyes.
"Thank you… frère."
They pulled each other into a hug that not a sports hug, not a quick pat, but a long, heavy, silent embrace between two players who understood the weight of the world far beyond the pitch.
When they separated, Matuidi whispered:
"Never change."
Francesco grinned. "I won't."
Then he turned, beginning the walk back toward the Arsenal half, Thiago Silva's jersey draped over his shoulder and the weight of earned respect surrounding him like a cloak.
The Emirates crowd had witnessed everything from
the goals, the tactics, the leadership, the sportsmanship, the humanity and a different kind of applause rose now. Not the explosive cheer of victory. Not the roar of dominance.
But applause for character.
An acknowledgment of what made their captain special.
Not just his goals.
Not just his playmaking.
But his heart.
As he neared the Arsenal group, Sánchez nudged Gnabry and gestured toward Francesco.
"Look at him," Sánchez said with a soft grin. "He can't finish a match without saving someone's soul."
Gnabry laughed. "That's why he's captain."
Kanté crossed his arms, smiling warmly.
"He sees people," Kanté said simply.
Wenger, watching from the touchline, said nothing, but inside, he felt something tighten in his chest. Pride. Pure and overwhelming pride.
This, Wenger thought, is what I saw in him from the beginning.
Laurent Koscielny approached Francesco first, patting him on the back.
"You did well," Koscielny said. "On and off the pitch."
Virgil van Dijk nodded in agreement.
"Really well."
Even Cech approached, offering a rare smile.
"You remind me," Cech said, "of the captains who change clubs, not just teams."
Francesco smirked. "You mean like John Terry?"
Cech shook his head.
"No," he said. "Better."
The words hit Francesco harder than any tackle tonight.
He looked around at his teammates, at the fans, at the pitch glowing under the lights and he felt something powerful settle inside him. Not arrogance, not pride, not ego.
Purpose.
Responsibility.
The knowledge that leadership wasn't about shouting instructions or scoring goals. It was about moments like tonight, when the match ended but the heart of football continued beating through the actions of the players who carried the game forward.
But the moment of reflection didn't last long.
Before he could take another breath, Francesco saw a man in a navy UEFA windbreaker jogging toward him from the sideline. The staff member wore an apologetic smile, the kind that said I'm sorry to interrupt this moment, but I have no choice.
"Francesco!" he called, waving slightly so as not to startle the cluster of Arsenal players still milling around.
Francesco turned, nodding. "Yeah?"
The staff member reached him, slightly out of breath but not from running, but from the tension of the night.
"Captain, you're needed," the man said politely. "Post-match media duties. Sky Sports first, then UEFA rights-holders. They're already waiting on the sideline."
Francesco gave a small exhale through his nose and smiled faintly. "Of course. Let's go."
But the staff member didn't move immediately.
He lowered his voice.
A little glance sideways.
A subtle clearing of the throat.
"There is one thing," he murmured, cautious. "President Ceferin asked us… to remind you not to escalate the matter of the referee."
Francesco paused mid-step.
The stadium lights reflected off the sweat on his jawline as he slowly turned his head to look at the staff member more directly.
"He hopes," the man continued carefully, "that you'll keep the situation controlled. You know, don't make the racism incident bigger in your interview. We've already removed the referee, we've begun internal action. UEFA doesn't want the narrative to overshadow the match."
Francesco stared at him for a second.
Not angry.
Not shocked.
Just… evaluating.
A long breath escaped him.
"I'm going to tell the truth," he said calmly.
The staff member swallowed nervously.
"And," Francesco added, his tone firm but not confrontational, "I'll also say UEFA supported us on the pitch. That you removed him. That you acted."
Relief washed visibly over the man's face.
"Oh, good! Good, that's… that's perfect." He smiled awkwardly. "Thank you. Truly."
Francesco nodded once. "Truth never hurts the right people."
The staff member blinked at that, unsure how to respond but liking the sentiment, and gestured for Francesco to follow him toward the sideline.
As they walked, the grass under Francesco's boots felt different now as it was no longer the battlefield he'd been sprinting across minutes earlier, but the long carpet toward his next responsibility. The crowd's roar had calmed into a murmur, like waves pulling back after crashing against rocks. Some fans were still applauding, others were chanting his name, and a few held up their phones, capturing the moment as he neared the touchline.
"Sky Sports is up first," the UEFA staff member said, gesturing toward a group of broadcasters, cameras, and lighting panels arranged neatly by the dugout. "They're expecting you."
Francesco nodded. "Okay."
The staffer tapped his earpiece, giving producers the signal, and murmured, "Lee incoming."
A Sky Sports microphone, wrapped in its familiar red foam, was already waiting.
And behind it stood Geoff Shreeves, the veteran touchline interviewer whose voice had narrated English football's most dramatic nights for decades.
Geoff spotted Francesco approaching and gave an encouraging smile, adjusting his notes and his earpiece. There was always something warm about him—professional, yes, but with the kind of empathy you only got from years of listening to footballers speak after heartbreaks, triumphs, and everything in between.
"Francesco," Geoff greeted, raising a hand. "Hell of a performance. Ready?"
"As ready as I can be," Francesco replied, offering a small laugh that revealed a sliver of fatigue behind his composure.
The Sky Sports camera operator lifted his hand.
"Rolling in five… four… three…"
The little red light blinked to life.
The interview began.
The floodlights reflected in Geoff's eyes as he leaned slightly forward, microphone angled toward Francesco.
"Francesco," Geoff said with his classic measured calm, "first of all, congratulations. A massive 3–1 win over PSG. A team performance with real character. How do you feel right now?"
Francesco drew a breath, still holding Thiago Silva's shirt draped over his shoulder.
"Proud," he said. "Very proud. We showed maturity tonight. We stayed focused. We didn't panic. Everyone stuck to the plan. Honestly, this is the kind of match that shows what Arsenal can be."
Geoff nodded. "It was a complete performance. But let's talk about the moment after the whistle. You went straight to the PSG players. To every one of them. Then the hug with Thiago Silva. And then, of course, speaking with Matuidi. It was emotional. Can you tell us what was behind that?"
Francesco looked down for a moment.
Not out of discomfort, out of sincerity.
"I've been on the other side of nights like this," he said. "When you give everything and still walk off defeated. It hurts. It's lonely. And those players, they're professionals, they're warriors, and they played a tough match tonight."
He paused, then continued:
"And with Blaise… after what happened with the referee earlier, after what he's had to hear but not just tonight, but over years… I just felt I had to say something. To show support. To let him know he's not alone."
Geoff inhaled deeply, acknowledging the weight of the moment.
"Since you brought it up," Geoff said gently, "let's address it. There was an incident with the referee, racist language toward Matuidi. UEFA removed him during the match. Can you tell us what you saw or felt in that moment?"
The cameras zoomed in slightly.
The Emirates crowd noise faded into a distant hum.
Francesco stood a little straighter.
"I saw a man disrespected," he said plainly. "And I saw a teammate, an opponent, but a teammate in football was hurt."
There was no anger in his voice.
Just truth.
"And I saw our team react the right way. We didn't attack. We didn't escalate. We united. We backed Blaise. And we made sure that referee left the pitch."
Geoff hesitated before asking the next question.
"And what would you say," he continued, "about UEFA's handling of it?"
Francesco's gaze flicked toward the UEFA staff member standing off-camera, who instantly stiffened.
He faced Geoff again.
"To be fair to UEFA," Francesco said, "they acted fast. They removed the referee immediately. They listened to us. They protected the match."
Then he added carefully, but firmly:
"I'll always tell the truth. And the truth is that tonight, they showed support. That matters."
Off-camera, the UEFA staff member nearly sighed in relief.
But Francesco wasn't finished.
"I hope they continue," he said. "This can't be a one-night thing. This needs to be normal. Expected. Non-negotiable."
Geoff nodded. "Strong words, but important ones."
Francesco shrugged lightly.
"Football is for everyone. If we can't say that out loud, what are we even doing?"
There was a moment of silence.
Not empty, but full.
Then Geoff shifted gears, smiling again.
"Let's talk football, then. You moved to striker late in the second half. Sánchez scores. The team takes the match. How did that tactical switch feel?"
A slow grin formed across Francesco's face.
"Wenger saw something," he said. "He told me to push up, stretch PSG's back line, force mistakes. I trusted him. I trust my teammates."
"Looked like you were everywhere tonight."
Francesco laughed. "I had to be. PSG are too good to give them time."
Behind the camera, the Sky Sports crew nodded, some smiling. The interview was going smoothly that was honest, emotional, authentic.
But Geoff wasn't finished.
"One last question," he said. "The fans applauded you when you went to the PSG players. It wasn't applause for goals. It was applause for character. Do you feel the responsibility of being Arsenal's captain in moments like this?"
Francesco inhaled slowly.
"Yes," he said, voice low but steady. "I do."
He looked out toward the fans still lingering in the stands.
"And I'm grateful for it. Because leadership isn't just shouting instructions. It's being there for your team, for your opponents, for the game. It's showing respect when it matters most."
Then he looked straight into the camera that were direct, sincere.
"And I'll always do that. Always."
Geoff smiled warmly.
"Francesco Lee, thank you."
Francesco nodded. "Thank you, Geoff."
"Sky Sports," Geoff said, turning to camera, "with Arsenal captain Francesco Lee after a remarkable night at the Emirates on and off the pitch."
The camera light blinked off.
For a second, everything was still.
Then Geoff Shreeves placed a hand on Francesco's arm.
"That was perfect," Geoff said quietly. "Honest. Mature. Powerful. You spoke like a leader."
Francesco smiled. "Just told the truth."
Geoff chuckled. "Football needs more people who do."
The UEFA staff member approached hurriedly, relief practically radiating off him.
"Thank you," he said. "That was… exactly what we hoped."
Francesco raised a brow. "I didn't say anything untrue."
"No, you said everything fairly," the staffer replied quickly. "That's all we wanted."
Francesco nodded, adjusting Thiago Silva's jersey on his shoulder.
Francesco gave the UEFA staffer a polite nod, then tucked Thiago Silva's shirt more securely over his shoulder that almost like a trophy, but not of conquest; a trophy of respect. The stadium lights were dimming one by one as the post-match machinery began to crumble into quiet, the Emirates shifting into its softer, gentler night mode. The chants were fading. The crowd thinning. Yet the pulse of what happened tonight still throbbed faintly through the walls.
As he crossed the touchline to head back toward the tunnel, a few fans leaned over the rail to clap for him was slow, appreciative, almost grateful. He waved, subtle and understated, because he didn't feel like a hero tonight. He felt like a man who had simply done what was right.
When he finally pushed into the tunnel, the sudden drop in temperature hit him like a wave. Cooler air. Concrete walls. The echo of footsteps. A few staff members hurried by, offering quick congratulations.
"Captain."
"Well done tonight."
"Incredible game."
Someone even said, "You handled that situation… beautifully."
He didn't respond, just nodded. Words weren't necessary.
As he stepped into the dressing room corridor, the familiar mix of steam, sweat, shower mist, and victorious energy drifted through the open door. The Arsenal dressing room was loud with voices bouncing everywhere, boots clattering on the floor, the slap of towels, laughter rising in bursts like fireworks.
Inside, the vibe was pure celebration.
Bellerín had music playing already with something upbeat, Spanish, rhythmic. Xhaka and Sánchez were arguing humorously about who had run more. Giroud had his shirt off and was flexing in the mirror to annoy Koscielny. Virgil van Dijk was reenacting a tackle he made, arms swinging wide like a giant explaining a small detail of the universe.
When they saw Francesco enter, several players cheered.
"CAPITAN!"
"Francesco!"
"Leader of men!" Gnabry shouted, which earned him playful applause from Theo Walcott.
Sánchez threw an arm around him. "You survived Shreeves, eh?" he teased.
"Barely," Francesco said, smiling.
The camaraderie was alive, warm, buzzing. But beneath it, he felt a small undercurrent, like everyone was still processing what happened with Matuidi. Still thinking, still weighing the night.
He placed Thiago Silva's shirt gently inside his locker, folded with more care than he gave his own clothes sometimes. Then he peeled off his sweat-soaked kit with a satisfied sigh.
Showers hissed in the corner. Cech's deep voice hummed softly from behind the steam. Monreal was telling Kanté about the exact moment he felt the shift in the game's momentum. Someone, probably Oxlade-Chamberlain was singing off-key with full confidence.
Francesco stripped down and grabbed a towel, walking into the shower area.
The hot water hit him hard that scalding at first, then soothing, melting the ache out of his muscles. He braced his palms against the wall and let the steam rise around him, eyes closing.
This.
This was the moment only players understood from the aftermath, the decompression, the quietness after the storm.
He replayed moments in his mind.
The way Cavani had pressed him in the first half.
The diagonal pass from Özil that almost split PSG apart.
The roar when Sánchez scored.
The freeze-frame clarity of Matuidi's face when the racist remark landed.
How everyone instinctively turned toward the referee in disbelief.
The unity that followed.
The slow-burn anger that transformed into strength.
And then, afterward, the hug.
Matuidi's weight in his arms. The exhaustion, the gratitude.
Francesco pressed his forehead to the wall.
Football was supposed to be an escape.
A joy.
A sanctuary.
But too often, it became a stage for people's ugliness.
Tonight, though… tonight the players had rewritten the script.
When he stepped out of the shower, steam rolling off his shoulders, he wrapped a towel around his waist and walked back into the dressing room. Someone tossed him a fresh Arsenal tracksuit that dark navy with red detailing and he pulled it on, the soft fabric warm against his still-heated skin.
He was just tying the drawstring when the dressing room door swung open.
Arsène Wenger stepped inside.
Instantly, the room settled. The noise didn't stop entirely, but the volume dipped with respect flowing through the air like gravity.
Wenger's eyes found him almost immediately.
"Francesco," he said gently, "could I have you for a moment?"
Francesco straightened. "Of course, boss."
"And Petr," Wenger added, turning toward Cech, who was drying his hair with a towel.
"Me?" Cech asked with a mild chuckle. "I assume this is about the press conference, then."
Wenger smiled. "You are correct."
Cech hung the towel over his shoulder, zipped up his tracksuit halfway, and joined them. As the three stepped into the hallway, the door closing behind them, the noise of the dressing room faded again into muffled vibrations.
The corridor was quieter, lit by soft fluorescent lights. Staff members walked behind them carrying crates of equipment. A physio pushed a cart of ice-packs. Wenger led the way with his usual calm, hands clasped behind his back in that deceptively modest professorial stance.
As they walked, Wenger spoke in a low voice.
"They will ask," he said simply.
Francesco and Cech both looked at him.
"About the referee," Wenger clarified. "About the incident. About Matuidi."
Cech nodded. "Of course."
"And…" Wenger's voice softened, "I want you both to answer the way you answered down there" as he gestured to the pitch. "with truth. With respect. With maturity. Without making it a circus, but also not hiding from it."
Francesco absorbed that.
"I told the UEFA staffer I would be honest," he said quietly. "I meant it."
Wenger gave him a faint smile. "I expected nothing less."
They continued walking.
"You handled it well," Wenger said. "Better than many would. You kept the focus on humanity, not outrage. That matters. That's leadership."
Cech glanced at Francesco, smiling with the quiet approval of a veteran who had seen many captains in his long career.
"You did very well," Cech said. "It's not easy to balance emotion and professionalism on nights like this."
Francesco shrugged modestly. "Just trying to do the right thing."
"That," Wenger said softly, "is why you are wearing the armband."
As they reached the double doors leading to the media theater, Wenger paused and turned toward both of them with that familiar arch of his brow.
"They will push," Wenger warned. "Some will push gently. Some will push aggressively. Stay calm. Speak truth. Speak as you did on the pitch. And remember" He tapped his temple. "you represent not only yourselves, but the club."
Francesco nodded.
Cech nodded.
Wenger inhaled deeply and pushed open the door.
Bright light washed over them instantly as it was white, clinical, almost blinding. The press room was buzzing with activity: journalists rustling papers, cameras adjusting their focus, microphones lined up like small curious soldiers across the long table.
The big Arsenal crest stood behind the podium wall, elegant and imposing.
As soon as Wenger entered, the murmurs grew louder.
"There he is—"
"Wenger's here—"
"Francesco's with him—"
"Good, good, we'll get answers—"
The room filled quickly with anticipation.
The three of them took their seats: Wenger in the center, Francesco to his right, Cech to his left. Photographers snapped pictures before the conference even officially started.
Then Arsenal's media officer stepped forward.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, "thank you for joining us. We'll begin the post-match press conference now. First, questions on the match. Later, we'll open the floor for broader topics."
A hand shot up instantly.
"Paul Jennings, BBC Sport," the journalist said. "Congratulations on the win. Arsène, what did you make of the team's control in midfield tonight?"
Wenger responded calmly, tactical explanations flowing effortlessly from him. Cech added a remark about communication in the back line. Francesco spoke about composure in key moments.
Another question.
"How important was Sánchez's goal?"
"Massive," Wenger said. "A turning point."
"Francesco," another journalist said, "you dropped deeper than usual. Was that planned or improvised?"
"It was part of Wenger's adjustments," Francesco said. "He wanted me to help in build-up and pull PSG's midfield apart. It worked."
Laughter filled the room when Wenger added, "He sometimes listens to me."
The early part of the press conference was warm, lively, football-focused.
Then it shifted.
A man in the second row raised his hand slowly. His voice was calm but carried weight.
"Arsène," he began, "we cannot avoid the other major incident tonight. The referee. The racist remark toward Blaise Matuidi. What can you tell us about what happened?"
The room tensed.
Dozens of microphones leaned forward.
Wenger's expression sobered immediately.
"Racism," Wenger said, "is unacceptable. In football, in life, anywhere. My players reacted with unity and dignity. Both teams did."
Another journalist jumped in quickly.
"Francesco, you were closest to Matuidi when it happened. What did you feel in that moment?"
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"I felt anger," he said simply. "And disappointment. And I felt protective of Blaise."
Cameras clicked rapidly.
"As players," Francesco continued, "we have a responsibility to support each other. Opponents or not. Tonight, everyone did that from Arsenal players, PSG players. We showed solidarity. That's how it should be."
A third journalist addressed him.
"You helped get the referee removed from the match. Can you describe how that unfolded?"
"It wasn't just me," Francesco said. "It was everyone. When someone crosses a line that's not just professional but human… we cannot allow them to continue. We informed the officials, we stood united, and UEFA acted quickly. I give them credit for that."
Another hand rose.
"Do you think UEFA did enough?"
The room went very still.
Francesco glanced at Wenger, who gave him the smallest nod showing permission, trust, support.
"I think," Francesco said slowly, "that tonight, UEFA made the right move. They removed the referee immediately. They listened. They didn't try to protect him or hide the situation."
He leaned forward slightly toward the microphone.
"But what matters is what happens next. Will this be a one-time reaction? Or will this be the standard moving forward?"
Murmurs spread across the room.
Cech added calmly, "We expect consistency. Every player does."
A journalist turned toward Wenger again.
"Arsène, what do you say about your captain's involvement tonight? Both tactically and in the situation with Matuidi?"
Wenger folded his hands.
"I say," he answered, "that he behaved like a leader. On the pitch and off it. He brought people together. He showed respect. He showed courage. And he reminded us what football should stand for."
Another journalist asked:
"Francesco, the fans applauded you for your actions with PSG players. What does that mean to you?"
Francesco exhaled softly.
"It means… they understand," he said. "They see what football is supposed to be. Not just goals. Not just wins. But the human side. And I'm grateful for that."
Then the final question came.
"Do you have a message," a journalist asked, "for Matuidi directly? In case he sees this?"
Francesco didn't look at Wenger.
Didn't look at Cech.
He looked straight at the cameras.
"Yes," he said quietly.
A pause.
Then:
"You're not alone. Not tonight. Not ever. Football stands with you."
The press room fell silent that not awkward, not tense.
Just moved.
Wenger closed the conference with a nod to the media officer, who declared:
"That's all for tonight. Thank you."
Flashes continued as the three stood up. Journalists murmured among themselves—some emotional, some impressed, some simply contemplating the honesty they had just witnessed.
As Francesco walked out of the press room with Cech and Wenger, he felt lighter, as though some of the weight from earlier had been released, dispersed into truth.
The corridor outside was quiet.
Cech pat him gently on the back.
"Well spoken," the keeper said.
Wenger turned, his eyes soft.
"You handled tonight," Wenger said, "like a captain in every sense."
Francesco smiled faintly.
"Just trying to do what's right."
Wenger shook his head.
"No," he said gently. "You're doing more than that."
They continued walking back toward the dressing room where the music, laughter, and warmth waited. Teammates would embrace him. Someone would shove a Gatorade into his hand. Someone else would start teasing him again.
Sleep came late for Francesco.
Even when he finally drifted off sometime past 1 a.m., his mind still replayed everything the match, the goals, the unity, the moment of ugliness, the moment of solidarity. His body was exhausted, but his thoughts were still sprinting.
So when his eyes finally opened the next morning, it was to the soft London light spilling through the curtains of his Richmond mansion bedroom.
Warm. Gentle. The kind of light that didn't intrude, but invited him back into the world.
For a moment, he lay still.
He listened.
And what he heard made him smile.
Not birds.
Not cars.
Not wind or rain.
But the unmistakable sound of someone clattering lightly around the kitchen downstairs, paired with an aroma floating through the house—a warm, buttery, slightly sweet smell that could only belong to someone who actually knew how to cook.
And that someone was Leah Williamson.
He blinked again, letting the realization settle.
Leah was up early. Earlier than him. Which almost never happened unless she had training or had decided without warning, that today was the day she would "beat the sun up" just to prove she could.
He sat up, stretching lazily, a groan slipping from his throat as the stiffness of last night's battle crept across his shoulders. The good kind of soreness. The kind earned, not suffered.
The smell grew stronger as it was scrambled eggs, maybe? Toast? Perhaps something more elaborate, knowing Leah's habit of making breakfasts like she was auditioning for a cooking show.
He swung his legs from the bed and rubbed his face.
Leah's voice drifted faintly upward that is singing. Not beautifully (and she would admit that herself), but cheerfully, which made it its own kind of beautiful.
He couldn't help but smile.
He stood, pulled on a hoodie and comfortable joggers, and padded toward the stairs. The polished wooden steps were cool under his feet as he descended, the smell becoming richer, clearer, wrapping around him like a welcome.
Halfway down the staircase, he saw her.
Leah was in the open-plan kitchen, wearing one of his Arsenal training hoodies that oversized on her shoulders and a pair of leggings. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she had one AirPod in, bobbing her head to whatever she was listening to while plating something that looked far too good for a simple morning.
"Morning," Francesco said, voice still husky with sleep.
Leah turned, lit up instantly, and grinned.
"Well, look who's alive," she teased. "The hero returns."
He snorted. "I'm no hero."
"You're right," she said. "You're my hero. That's better."
She stepped forward, rose onto her toes, and kissed him with a warm, soft, smelling faintly of vanilla and toast.
"You slept like a corpse," she added. "Understandably."
"Long night," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Wanna talk about it?"
"Not yet."
She nodded. Not pressed. She knew him too well.
"Breakfast first," she said. "Sit."
He followed her into the living room where she'd already set up plates on the coffee table near the couch. Eggs, toast, sliced avocado, grilled tomatoes, sausages, even a little bowl of fruit as she'd gone all out. She wasn't the kind of person who did anything halfway.
Francesco sat down, and Leah joined him, folding her legs beneath herself as she handed him a fork.
The TV was already on—Sky Sports, volume low.
On the screen sat Jamie Carragher, Gary Neville, and Ian Wright, their expressions serious. A headline banner ran along the bottom:
"UEFA BANS REFEREE FOR RACIST INCIDENT: 2-YEAR SUSPENSION + €25K FINE."
Leah's fork paused mid-air.
Francesco breathed out slowly.
Sky Sports had clearly been covering it for a while, but now Wright was speaking. He looked emotional that look frustrated, disappointed, protective because Wrighty was always protective of players, of the game, of the people who gave their all to it.
Carragher leaned forward slightly as the host asked, "So, gentlemen, reaction to the breaking update: UEFA has banned the referee involved in last night's match for two years and issued a €25,000 fine after confirming he used racist language toward Blaise Matuidi."
Carragher shook his head.
"Look, banning is correct," he said. "It's the minimum. But it shouldn't take players confronting the referee for action to happen."
Gary Neville nodded. "Exactly. And credit to them from Arsenal, PSG, every player on that pitch as they handled it better than most people in suits would've. They held the referee accountable on the spot."
Wright exhaled, eyes narrowing with emotion.
"And Francesco Lee," he said, tapping his pen against the table, "that boy, he showed leadership beyond his years. I'm telling you, some captains go entire careers without having to deal with something like that. He stepped in. He protected Matuidi. That's what football should look like. That's what humanity should look like."
Leah looked at Francesco.
Francesco looked at the screen, quiet.
"Ian's right," Carragher said, nodding. "Fran didn't make the moment about himself. He didn't try to score PR points. He did what was right. And honestly? If he hadn't stepped in the way he did, I'm not sure the referee would've been removed so quickly."
Neville added, "And UEFA taking action today, good. But the fine? Twenty-five thousand euros? For racism? It's pathetic. A slap on the wrist."
Wright frowned deeply. "Matches get that much in goal bonus money. Come on."
They continued discussing the matter, the seriousness, the precedent, the future implications.
Leah muted the TV.
"Hey," she said softly, "you okay?"
Francesco leaned back on the couch, rubbing his jawline.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Leah placed her hand on his thigh, grounding him.
"It was a lot," she said. "More than most people will ever have to handle."
He looked at her.
"You know," he murmured, "I didn't think last night would go the way it did. Football's supposed to be… simple. Beautiful. Just the game."
"Sometimes," she said, "life sneaks into the match."
He nodded.
They both fell quiet for a moment.
Then Leah nudged him.
"But you handled it," she said firmly. "Not perfectly. Not flawlessly. Just right. And that's what matters."
He smiled faintly.
"You're biased."
"Completely," she said proudly. "As your girlfriend, it's my job."
He laughed, shaking his head.
Leah glanced at the screen again, the muted image of Sky Sports still showing the panel.
"Wrighty loves you," she said. "I think he might adopt you if he could."
"Carragher would block the adoption," Francesco joked.
"And Gary Neville would question the legal structure," Leah added.
They both laughed, the heaviness easing.
Francesco took a bite of his breakfast with the food warm, comforting. Leah watched him with a soft satisfaction, the kind of look that said she enjoyed taking care of him, not because he needed it, but because she wanted to.
"Do you think Matuidi's seen the punishment?" she asked.
"Probably," he said. "Or someone's told him."
She hesitated, eyes flicking to the TV again.
"And do you think it's enough?" she asked.
Francesco didn't speak for a moment.
Then:
"No," he said honestly. "But it's a start."
Leah leaned into his shoulder.
"You did good," she whispered.
He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer.
As they ate, the panel shifted topics—but not entirely away from the incident. The screen now displayed a montage of the night before: Francesco hugging Matuidi, the players surrounding the referee, the moment the official was escorted off the pitch, the scoreboard reading 3–1.
Sky Sports played the clip of Francesco's interview with Geoff Shreeves from last night.
His own voice filled the room.
And Francesco—despite bracing for it—felt something twist in his chest hearing himself say:
"Truth never hurts the right people."
Leah smiled softly.
"That line," she said, "was perfect."
"It wasn't meant to be a line."
"Exactly," she said. "That's why it landed."
They finished eating slowly, the conversation easy, natural, intimate. Leah reached for the remote, unmuting the TV as Jamie Carragher spoke again.
"Look, amid everything else, we can't forget this—Arsenal played brilliantly last night. It was one of their best European performances in years."
Neville nodded. "I agree. And Francesco—what a game. Controlled the tempo, led the press, guided the midfield, moved to striker when needed. A captain's performance."
Wright grinned widely.
"And listen, if Arsenal go on a proper Champions League run this year, we'll look back at last night as the night the whole thing changed."
Leah gently elbowed Francesco.
"Did you hear that?" she teased. "They're already building you a statue."
He rolled his eyes. "Please don't."
"I'll design it," she joked. "Maybe shirtless. For the fans."
"I hate you sometimes."
"No, you don't."
And he didn't.
He kissed the side of her head.
She curled closer into him.
And the morning sunlight, soft and quiet, poured gently into the living room with the world outside already buzzing with opinions, headlines, debates.
________________________________________________
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: 15
Goal: 19
Assist: 0
MOTM: 3
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