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As the celebrations continued around him, Francesco felt the weight of the night finally settle that not as exhaustion, but as something heavier, richer as they were going to the final.
As the roar around him softened into something warmer, something almost tender, Francesco felt the night settle properly into his chest.
Not as exhaustion.
As meaning.
Around him, red shirts moved in every direction from embraces, laughter, hands on shoulders, heads tipped back toward the lights as if to confirm this wasn't a dream. Somewhere near the halfway line, Alexis was already sprinting toward the fans, arms wide, urging more noise from a section that needed no encouragement at all. Kanté jogged after him, still smiling like a kid who'd just been told school was cancelled forever.
Francesco took one last look at the pitch.
Every blade of grass felt familiar now. Every shadow cast by the floodlights seemed earned.
Then he turned and followed the others.
They moved together, instinctively, drifting toward the Arsenal end. Toward the wall of red and white that had sung themselves hoarse for ninety-plus minutes. Toward the supporters who had lived every tackle, every clearance, every gasp and scream alongside them.
As they approached, the noise swelled again.
Not the frantic, sharp roar of a goal.
Something deeper.
Gratitude.
Flags waved wildly. Scarves were held aloft. Faces were flushed, eyes bright, mouths forming chants that rolled over the pitch in waves. The players lined up shoulder to shoulder near the advertising boards, boots still on, kits soaked through with sweat, grass stains streaked across thighs and socks.
Francesco stood between Özil and Giroud, hands resting on his hips for a moment as he caught his breath.
Then, as one, they applauded.
Not a token clap.
A long, deliberate one.
Thank you.
The fans answered immediately, volume doubling, chants shifting to his name, stretching the syllables, pulling them long and loud until they echoed under the Wembley roof.
"FRAN-CES-COOOO!"
He swallowed hard.
He raised both hands, palms open, pressing them together once above his head before lowering them again. It felt inadequate compared to what they'd given. Compared to what they'd carried.
He caught sight of a kid in the front row, maybe ten years old, face painted half red, half white, jumping so hard he nearly toppled over the barrier. His dad had one arm wrapped around his shoulders, shouting himself hoarse, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.
That was it.
That was the point.
Francesco pointed toward them, then tapped his chest once, twice.
For you.
Beside him, Özil leaned forward slightly, waving calmly, almost shyly, his smile small but genuine. Giroud blew kisses toward the crowd, drawing laughter and cheers in equal measure. Xhaka thumped his chest and roared, veins standing out in his neck. Kanté clapped endlessly, as if he might never stop.
They stayed there longer than protocol required.
No one rushed them.
Not the stewards.
Not the FA officials hovering at the edges.
Everyone understood that this moment belonged to them.
Eventually, the chant softened, morphing into applause again. Arms lowered. Scarves dipped. The players gave one last collective clap, then turned back toward the center of the pitch.
As Francesco started walking, his legs finally reminded him of everything they'd done.
Every sprint.
Every change of direction.
Every collision.
He rolled his shoulders once, shaking out the stiffness, then took a long pull from a bottle someone pressed into his hand. The water tasted sharp and metallic, but it helped.
"Oi," Giroud said quietly, leaning in as they walked. "You ready?"
"For what?" Francesco asked, still catching his breath.
Giroud tilted his head toward the touchline.
FA staff.
Clipboards.
Cameras already lining up.
Francesco followed his gaze.
Two figures were approaching from the sideline, badges hanging from their necks, purposeful but smiling.
One of them stopped in front of Özil.
The other looked directly at Francesco.
"Francesco," the staff member said, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the din. "Mesut. We'll need you both for the pitch-side interview."
Francesco nodded, instinctively glancing toward Wenger.
The manager stood a few yards away, speaking quietly with Steve Bould, but he looked up at just the right moment. Their eyes met.
Wenger gestured lightly with his hand.
Go.
Francesco exhaled and turned toward the touchline, Özil falling into step beside him.
"You look tired," Özil said, tone light, almost teasing.
"I am tired," Francesco replied. "You look like you've just finished a training session."
Özil smiled faintly. "Experience."
They reached the marked interview area near the sideline, where a small semi-circle of cameras had already formed. Boom mics hovered overhead. A production assistant adjusted Francesco's collar, smoothing the fabric, wiping a smear of grass from his shoulder.
The interviewer which js familiar, composed, impeccably professional that stepped into place with a microphone in hand.
"Gentlemen," she said warmly. "Congratulations."
Francesco nodded, forcing his breathing to slow.
The red light blinked on.
And just like that, Wembley narrowed again.
The interviewer turned first to Özil.
"Mesut, huge performance tonight. You came on at a crucial moment and immediately helped Arsenal regain control. How did you approach the game when you stepped onto the pitch?"
Özil answered smoothly, calmly, speaking about balance, about patience, about trusting the team's structure. Francesco listened with half an ear, still half in the game, adrenaline humming beneath his skin.
Then the microphone shifted.
"Francesco," she said, turning toward him now, "two goals, constant movement, and a decisive contribution when the match was hanging in the balance. How would you describe what this night means for you?"
He paused.
Not for effect.
Because he needed a second.
"It means… a lot," he said finally, voice slightly hoarse. "Not just because we're going to the final, but because of how we did it. We suffered. We adapted. Everyone gave something. This wasn't about one player."
She nodded, but pressed gently, the way good interviewers did.
"Still, you stepped up when the moment came."
Francesco shrugged, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "That's my job."
A ripple of laughter moved through the nearby crew.
She continued, asking about the second goal, about Özil's assist, about the shift to the left wing. Francesco answered honestly, talking about trust, about reading the game, about how playing alongside Giroud changed his movement.
Özil chimed in once or twice, adding context, deflecting praise.
The interview flowed easily, naturally. The tension of the match slowly unwound with each answer, replaced by that strange post-game calm where everything felt distant and close at the same time.
As the final question wrapped up, the interviewer smiled, turning slightly away from the camera.
"Before we let you go," she said, voice softening, "there's one more thing."
Francesco felt it before he saw it.
Movement to his right.
An FA staff member stepping into frame, holding a sleek presentation case that black, understated, official. The FA Cup crest gleamed faintly under the lights.
The interviewer opened it carefully.
Inside, nestled in dark foam, sat the Man of the Match award.
She turned it toward the camera first, then back toward him.
"Francesco," she said, now fully facing him again, "for your two-goal contribution, your leadership on the pitch, and your decisive impact in sending Arsenal to the FA Cup final, you've been named Man of the Match."
For a fraction of a second, he just stared.
Then his eyebrows lifted slightly, and he let out a quiet, surprised laugh.
"Oh," he said. "Wow."
Applause broke out around them from the camera crew, nearby substitutes, even a few City staff members clapping politely from a distance. From the stands, a fresh wave of cheers rolled in as the announcement echoed over the stadium speakers.
Özil nudged him lightly with his elbow.
"Well deserved," he murmured.
Francesco accepted the award with both hands, fingers curling around the cool metal. It felt heavier than he expected.
Or maybe that was just the night finally landing.
"Thank you," he said, looking back at the interviewer. "Really. But this belongs to the team. I don't score without them. I don't get space without them. Tonight was about all of us."
She smiled.
"Congratulations again. Enjoy the moment."
The red light blinked off.
Just like that, the cameras relaxed. The boom mic lifted away. The tight focus dissolved, leaving behind the open sprawl of the pitch and the lingering hum of Wembley.
Francesco stood there for a second longer, the award tucked under his arm now, chest rising and falling steadily.
He looked out toward the stands again.
Toward the Arsenal fans, still singing, still waving, still refusing to let the night end quietly.
FA Cup final.
Man of the Match.
He shook his head slightly, a disbelieving smile creeping back onto his face.
Then Özil clapped him once on the back.
"Come on," he said. "If we stand here any longer, Alexis will start another chant."
Francesco laughed.
"God forbid."
They turned and walked back toward their teammates together, boots scuffing against the grass.
They turned away from the touchline together, the noise of Wembley still rolling behind them like distant thunder, and began the slow walk back toward the tunnel.
The adrenaline didn't vanish all at once. It never did. It lingered in strange ways in the lightness of Francesco's steps despite the ache in his legs, in the warmth that sat just beneath his ribs, in the faint buzzing behind his ears as if the crowd were still shouting directly into his skull. Around him, teammates drifted in loose clusters, some laughing loudly, some quieter now, lost in their own thoughts.
Alexis was still riding the wave completely, jogging backward down the pitch with his arms raised, clapping above his head, urging one final roar from the Arsenal end before disappearing. Xhaka wrapped an arm around Mustafi's shoulders, saying something that made them both laugh. Kanté walked a little apart from everyone else, still smiling to himself, eyes soft, like he was already replaying moments in his head.
Francesco stayed near Özil and Giroud as they approached the tunnel.
The closer they got, the louder it seemed, the sound bouncing and compressing under the concrete, chants echoing in distorted bursts. The smell changed too that less grass now, more sweat, damp fabric, that unmistakable mix of liniment and adrenaline that lived in every stadium tunnel.
A steward clapped as they passed.
"Brilliant match," he said, genuine awe in his voice.
Francesco nodded in thanks, lifting the Man of the Match award slightly in acknowledgement. He still wasn't entirely sure what to do with it, how to carry it without feeling awkward. It felt strange to hold something so solid after ninety minutes of movement, collisions, chaos.
Inside the tunnel, the temperature dropped. The noise dulled, replaced by footsteps, laughter, the clatter of boots against concrete. Someone started singing that off-key, loud, infectious. It took Francesco a moment to realize it was Rob Holding.
The dressing room door swung open.
And then.
Release.
The first thing that hit him was the smell: sweat, grass, rubber, eucalyptus spray. The second was the sound from shouts, whoops, laughter exploding all at once as players spilled inside. Music blasted from a speaker someone had already connected to their phone, bass thumping against the walls.
Alexis jumped onto a bench immediately, arms raised like he'd just scored again.
"FINAL!" he shouted.
The word bounced around the room.
"FINAL!"
Boots were kicked off. Shirts peeled away. Someone tossed a roll of tape across the room. Giroud grabbed a towel and snapped it playfully at Gnabry, who yelped and retaliated instantly. Xhaka danced terribly in the middle of the room, drawing boos and cheers in equal measure.
Francesco stepped inside and just… stood there for a second.
He let it wash over him.
This was the other side of it. The part cameras rarely lingered on long enough. The raw joy. The mess. The shared exhaustion that turned into something communal, almost sacred.
He set the Man of the Match award carefully on his bench, nestling it between his boots, and finally pulled his shirt over his head. The fabric clung stubbornly, soaked through, before coming free. Cool air hit his skin and he exhaled deeply.
"Two goals," someone shouted from across the room. "Left wing, striker, wherever you want, yeah?"
Francesco shook his head, smiling. "One night only."
"Liar," Alexis laughed, tossing him a bottle. "You like it."
Francesco caught it easily, twisted the cap, took a long drink. The liquid burned slightly going down.
A few players kept celebrating with music louder now, arms around shoulders, someone starting a chant again. But others drifted toward the showers almost instinctively, drawn by the promise of hot water and silence.
Francesco was one of them.
His body was starting to talk back now. Knees stiff. Calves tight. A deep ache settling into his lower back. The adrenaline was finally loosening its grip, and with it came the weight.
He grabbed a towel, slung it over his shoulder, and headed toward the showers with Özil, Koscielny, and Monreal. The noise faded behind them, replaced by the echoing drip of water and the hiss of steam.
He stepped under the spray and tilted his head forward.
Hot water crashed over him, instantly soothing, instantly revealing how tired he actually was. He braced one hand against the tiled wall, eyes closed, letting it run down his neck, his shoulders, his back. The sounds of the dressing room softened to a distant hum.
For a few minutes, there was nothing but the water and his breathing.
He replayed the second goal again in his mind that not the strike itself, but the moment before it. Özil's body shape. The space opening. The certainty. That quiet, undeniable pull toward the ball.
When he finished, he shut the water off reluctantly, wrapped the towel around his waist, and stood there a moment longer, grounding himself.
Back at his locker, the room had calmed slightly. The music was still on, but lower now. Some players were dressed already, sitting on benches, phones out, checking messages. Others still joked loudly, energy refusing to dissipate.
Francesco dried off, pulled on fresh underwear, then reached for the Arsenal tracksuit folded neatly on his bench. The fabric felt soft, familiar. He zipped the jacket halfway, the badge resting over his heart.
He glanced down at the Man of the Match award again before picking it up and tucking it under his arm.
Eventually, one of the staff members clapped his hands together, cutting through the chatter.
"Alright, lads," he called. "Bus in about twenty. Gaffer's got press first."
A collective groan rippled through the room.
Wenger.
Press conference.
That meant waiting.
Francesco leaned back against the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him, feeling the stiffness settle deeper now that he'd stopped moving. Around him, conversations drifted with snippets of jokes, analysis, plans for the evening.
Koscielny stood up and adjusted his jacket just then.
"Gaffer wants me with him," he said to no one in particular.
"Good luck," someone muttered. "They'll ask you about Agüero."
Koscielny rolled his eyes and headed out.
Time slowed.
Waiting always did this part weirdly. The match felt finished, but the night wasn't over yet. There were still obligations. Still structure.
After a few minutes, Francesco felt it from the dull pressure, the unmistakable signal his body sent after ninety minutes, water, and adrenaline.
He stood up.
"I'm just going to the toilet," he said casually to no one in particular.
He slipped out of the dressing room and into the quieter corridor beyond. The hum of Wembley at night felt different here that muted, distant, like a city heard through thick glass. The corridor lights cast a pale glow on the walls, shadows stretching long beneath his feet.
He rounded a corner and nearly walked straight into Pep Guardiola.
They both stopped at the same time.
For a split second, there was that awkward pause, that mutual recalibration. Guardiola was dressed immaculately as ever, jacket tailored, hair perfectly in place despite the chaos of the evening. He looked tired, yes, but sharp, eyes still alive with thought.
Then he smiled.
"Francesco," he said, voice warm, accented. "Congratulations."
Francesco straightened slightly. "Thank you, Mister."
Guardiola nodded, genuine admiration clear on his face. "You were excellent tonight. Really excellent. Your movement… your timing." He gestured lightly with his hand, as if sketching invisible lines in the air. "Very intelligent."
Francesco inclined his head, respectful but calm. Praise from Guardiola was no small thing.
They stood there a moment longer than necessary, the silence not uncomfortable, just… weighted.
Then Guardiola's expression shifted that subtly, but unmistakably.
More serious.
He leaned a fraction closer, lowering his voice.
"Listen," he said. "I don't usually do this here. Corridor conversations are not my style." A faint smile flickered. "But players like you… they don't come often."
Francesco felt it coming before the words landed.
"You have something," Guardiola continued. "Understanding. Courage. Personality. You would fit very well with us."
Francesco didn't interrupt. He didn't need to.
Guardiola met his eyes directly now.
"Have you ever thought," he asked carefully, "about joining Manchester City next season?"
The question hung between them.
Not aggressive.
Not casual.
Serious.
Francesco inhaled slowly.
He didn't feel offended. He didn't feel tempted. Mostly, he felt… certain.
"I appreciate that," he said, voice steady. "Really. It means a lot coming from you."
Guardiola watched him closely.
"But no," Francesco continued, shaking his head gently. "I can't."
Guardiola's eyebrows lifted slightly. "No?"
Francesco smiled that not cocky, not apologetic. Just honest.
"I grew up with Arsenal," he said. "This club… it's not just where I play. It's who I am. Nights like this," he gestured vaguely back toward the pitch, the noise, the memory "which is why that I'll always be loyal to Arsenal. It's my boyhood club."
There it was.
Clear.
Unmovable.
Guardiola studied him for a long second longer, then nodded slowly.
"I respect that," he said. "Very much." A pause. "They are lucky to have you."
"Thank you," Francesco replied.
Guardiola offered his hand. Francesco shook it firmly.
"Enjoy the final," Guardiola said. "We will meet again."
"I'm sure," Francesco replied.
Guardiola turned and walked away down the corridor, footsteps measured, already returning to his own world of thoughts and plans.
Francesco stood there for a moment after he'd gone.
Then he exhaled, shook his head once, and let out a quiet laugh to himself.
Football was strange like that.
He finished his trip to the toilet, washed his hands, and stared at his reflection briefly in the mirror. Tired eyes. Damp hair. A faint red mark still visible on his neck from where Otamendi had caught him earlier.
He turned away from the mirror eventually, dried his hands, and let the door swing shut behind him as he stepped back into the corridor. The night hadn't loosened its grip yet. Wembley still hummed, still breathed, like the stadium itself was reluctant to let them go.
By the time he returned to the dressing room, the mood had shifted again.
Not quieter.
Settled.
Most of the players were dressed now, Arsenal tracksuits replacing sweat-soaked kits. Bags were zipped. Phones were tucked away. A few final jokes bounced around, but the sharp edge of celebration had softened into something more content, more inward. The kind of calm that came when a job was done properly.
A member of staff appeared at the doorway, clipboard tucked under one arm.
"Alright, lads. Bus time. Let's go."
There was a collective rustle as players stood, slung bags over shoulders, reached for jackets. Francesco grabbed his own bag, the Man of the Match award tucked carefully inside now, and fell into step with the others as they filed out.
The walk to the bus was quieter than the walk to the tunnel had been earlier. Wembley's exterior loomed large and grey in the night, lights glowing softly overhead. A few fans still lingered beyond the barriers, waving, shouting congratulations as the team passed. Francesco lifted a hand in acknowledgment, smiling tiredly.
The bus doors hissed open.
They climbed aboard one by one, the familiar smell of leather seats and stale coffee greeting them like an old friend. Francesco dropped into his usual seat halfway down, sliding his bag beneath his feet and leaning his head back against the headrest.
As the bus pulled away, Wembley slipped past the windows, receding into the distance.
Someone turned the music back on quietly. Kanté sat a few rows ahead, scrolling through his phone, smiling every few seconds at whatever messages were flooding in. Alexis was animated again, reenacting moments of the match with wild hand gestures for anyone who would listen. Özil sat diagonally across from Francesco, headphones in, eyes closed, already halfway elsewhere.
Francesco watched the city lights blur by.
London at night always felt different after a match like that. Bigger somehow. Fuller. Like the city itself had leaned forward, held its breath, and now exhaled alongside them.
Colney was over an hour away, but no one complained. Some dozed. Some talked quietly. Some stared out into the darkness, replaying ninety minutes again and again in their heads, picking apart moments that would live there forever.
When the bus finally rolled through the gates at London Colney, the sky was beginning to lighten just slightly at the edges. Not dawn yet. But close.
They disembarked slowly, fatigue finally winning out. A few staff members clapped them back in, congratulating them quietly, voices low, respectful of the tiredness etched into every face.
Francesco drove home after, the roads empty, his mind still buzzing despite his body begging for rest. By the time he reached Richmond, the sun was just beginning to creep over the rooftops, painting the sky in soft grey and pale gold.
He slept.
Deeply.
Morning came gently.
Not with an alarm.
With light.
Francesco woke to the soft spill of sunlight across the bedroom floor, the curtains shifting slightly in a breeze he hadn't noticed opening. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. His body felt heavy, pleasantly so, like it had been put back together overnight.
Then memory rushed in.
Wembley.
Goals.
Noise.
Final.
He turned his head.
Leah was already awake, sitting up against the headboard, hair pulled loosely back, wearing one of his Arsenal hoodies. She was scrolling through her phone, smiling to herself.
"Morning, hero," she said without looking up.
He groaned softly, rolling onto his back. "Please don't say it like that."
She laughed, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Too late. You're everywhere."
They headed downstairs together a little while later, moving slowly, comfortably, like there was nowhere else they needed to be. The mansion was quiet, sunlight filling the kitchen through the tall windows that overlooked the garden.
Leah set plates on the counter while Francesco cracked eggs into a pan, movements unhurried. The smell of coffee filled the room.
Sky Sports played softly in the background.
At first, Francesco wasn't really listening. He was focused on the simple things with the warmth of the mug in his hands, the sound of Leah humming quietly to herself, the way his body still buzzed faintly beneath the surface.
Then a familiar voice cut through.
"Let's talk about Arsenal."
Gary Neville.
Francesco glanced up instinctively, eyes flicking toward the television.
On screen, the studio was alive with graphics and highlights. Clips from the match rolled with his goals, Giroud's finish, the celebrations. Gary Neville sat forward in his chair, hands clasped. Jamie Carragher leaned back slightly, arms crossed. Ian Wright was already smiling, barely containing himself.
Neville spoke first.
"What we're seeing from Arsenal right now is… it's not just form. It's belief."
Carragher nodded. "Absolutely. And it's depth. They're winning matches in different ways. Control, chaos, defending leads, chasing games. That's the sign of a side that's ready for something big."
Ian Wright couldn't hold it anymore.
"They're ready now," he said, leaning in. "I'm telling you. This isn't a maybe. This isn't hype. Look at where they are."
The graphic behind them changed.
Premier League table.
Arsenal top.
Points clear.
Comfortably.
Then FA Cup.
Final.
Then Champions League.
Semi-final.
Opposition: Atlético Madrid.
Francesco felt Leah's eyes on him.
"Listen to this," she said softly.
Neville continued, voice measured but emphatic. "If Arsenal maintain this level, if they navigate what's ahead, they could become the first club in the world to defend a treble."
Carragher raised an eyebrow. "And potentially the first to achieve a Champions League treble in three season."
Ian Wright grinned broadly. "At Arsenal."
The words settled into the room.
Treble.
Defend it.
Champions League.
Semi-final.
Atlético Madrid.
Francesco sat back slowly, exhaling.
Leah reached across the counter and squeezed his hand. "That's… big."
He nodded, eyes still on the screen. "It is."
Highlights rolled again with his run inside, the finish across Bravo, the roar of Wembley. Ian Wright was practically bouncing now.
"And players like him," Wright said, pointing toward the screen as Francesco appeared in slow motion, "this is what separates great teams from history-makers. He shows up when it matters."
Francesco shook his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "They're getting carried away."
Leah smiled back at him. "Maybe. Or maybe they see what you're trying not to."
He didn't answer right away.
He looked out through the kitchen window instead, toward the quiet street, the normality of it all. Somewhere inside him, something shifted that not pressure, not fear.
Possibility.
Arsenal.
Top of the league.
FA Cup final.
Champions League semi-final.
Atlético Madrid waiting.
He thought of Wenger's nod. Guardiola's question. The noise of Wembley. The kid in the front row. The weight of the badge over his heart.
Francesco took another sip of coffee, steadying himself. Whatever came next, he knew one thing for certain. He was exactly where he was meant to be.
______________________________________________
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: 46
Goal: 74
Assist: 3
MOTM: 12
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