The King Of Arsenal

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Not by outclassing them, but by outlasting them. Blow for blow, minute for minute. Francesco rubbed his hands together, then glanced toward the tunnel. They hadn't lost—but this wasn't a win, but a survival. And it was damn exhausting.

Francesco barely had time to unzip his boots when one of the Premier League staff members stepped into the tunnel entrance, clipboard in hand, headset pressing tight against his ear.

"Francesco Lee?"

He turned, still breathing heavily. His kit clung to him like a second skin—soaked, smeared with streaks of turf, shins dotted with the bruises and brush marks only a full-blooded Premier League match could leave.

"Yeah," he said, brushing a hand through his damp hair.

"You've been named Man of the Match. Two goals, one assist. We need you for post-match, just over here," the staffer said, motioning toward the familiar white and purple MOTM backdrop set up along the wall inside the tunnel.

Francesco blinked once, then nodded. He grabbed a towel off the nearby bench, dabbed the sweat from his neck and chin, then followed with heavy steps.

The camera crew was already in position—two people, one handheld cam, the other setting up the microphone. A reporter with the Premier League badge stitched to her winter coat stepped forward, smiling.

"Alright, rolling in five, four, three…"

A light flipped red. The camera's eye blinked open.

"Francesco Lee, congratulations," the reporter began warmly, voice practiced but friendly. "Another brilliant performance tonight. Two goals, an assist, and a hard-earned point here at St. Mary's. First of all—how does it feel to be named Man of the Match?"

Francesco looked at her, then at the camera. The weight of the night still clung to his shoulders, but he mustered a quiet smile and answered honestly.

"Thank you," he said, voice low and edged with fatigue. "It's always an honor. But honestly… I'd trade this award for three points."

The reporter nodded knowingly. "A tough result, certainly. Southampton really pushed you to the limit out there. What does this draw mean for the team? Especially after such a strong winning run since the start of the season."

Francesco took a moment before answering, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, the towel still resting on his shoulders. His eyes weren't on the reporter—they were somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

"It's a wake-up call," he said finally. "We've been on this incredible run since the start of the season, and I think—maybe without realizing it—we started to believe we were untouchable. When you're winning every week, sometimes you lose that edge… that alertness. That fear."

He paused, drawing in a breath through his nose.

"This result tonight? It reminds us that there are no easy games in the Premier League. None. Doesn't matter if it's first place versus twelfth. Doesn't matter if you've got the better possession stats or more shots on target. Every team here can hurt you if you take your foot off the gas."

The reporter gave him a thoughtful nod. "So, a lesson in humility?"

Francesco nodded firmly. "Exactly. We didn't lose—but the winning run's over. And maybe that's not a bad thing. It forces us to reflect. Refocus. Remember that every single match requires everything."

He shifted the towel off his shoulders now, running it once more across his face, before continuing.

"I think this draw will serve us better than some of the wins we've had. Because it taught us something. About not underestimating your opponent. About staying sharp from minute one to ninety-five. About respect—for the game, for the challenge, and for the fight that every team will bring."

The camera held on him as the crowd noise from inside the stadium still buzzed faintly beyond the tunnel.

The reporter smiled again, this time with a hint more warmth. "You've had an incredible night personally—two well-taken goals and a brilliant assist for Giroud. You seem to be thriving no matter where the manager plays you. Wing, striker—it doesn't matter."

Francesco cracked a small grin. "I just try to be useful. Whether I'm out wide or through the middle, it's about helping the team. I trust the manager. I trust the players around me. If they make the runs, I'll find them. If they feed me, I'll finish."

He glanced off-camera now, where the rest of his teammates were slowly filtering past on their way to the dressing room. Van Dijk gave him a small nod. Iwobi raised a thumb in the air.

"And tonight… Iwobi especially. That assist—perfect weight. Perfect timing. He's only just starting to show what he can do."

The reporter leaned in slightly. "You had a word with him before that goal, didn't you?"

Francesco chuckled, nodding. "Yeah. Told him, 'First touch forward.' He listened."

There was something quiet in the way he said it—not pride, exactly, but something close. A sense of responsibility. A sense of investment.

"And now, the unbeaten run continues," the reporter added. "What's next for Arsenal?"

Francesco gave a small shrug and offered a tired, honest smile.

"Next is recovery. Then training. Then the next match. Simple as that. We've got to stay grounded. Because this league doesn't care how many points you've got or how good you looked last week. You've got to prove yourself all over again every time."

The reporter shifted slightly, sensing the conversation winding to its natural close. But there was still one more question to ask—the one every striker knows is coming when the numbers start stacking up.

She adjusted her grip on the microphone, letting the moment hang just a beat before she asked, almost teasing:

"And finally… do you believe you'll win the Golden Boot again this season, just like you did last year?"

There was a flicker in Francesco's eyes before the words even left her mouth. Something lit up. Not arrogance—no, nothing that shallow. It was sharper than that. Competitive fire. The kind of glint you saw in someone who wasn't just used to pressure, but welcomed it like an old friend.

A slow smirk crept across his face. He didn't rush the answer. Just let the pause hang for a second longer.

Then: "Of course," he said plainly, like he was stating the weather. "And I'll try to win it every season."

The answer landed with that perfect blend of confidence and intent—bold, unapologetic, but not boastful. It was the truth. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The reporter laughed gently, not caught off guard, but pleased with the quote. "Well, there you have it. Francesco Lee—two goals, one assist tonight, and a reminder to the rest of the league that the fire's still burning."

The camera panned in for a final frame as Francesco nodded once, then passed the microphone back to the crew. The red light on the camera blinked off.

The moment ended.

He let out a long, slow breath, and for the first time since stepping off the pitch, he allowed himself to feel how tired he really was. His legs were lead. His shoulders ached. But somewhere in his chest, the pulse was steady, strong.

"Good stuff," the producer said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder before moving on to pack up. "They'll eat that quote up."

Francesco just smiled quietly to himself, already walking back toward the dressing room.

⸻

Inside, the dressing room was a different kind of chaos—quiet, subdued, but full of emotion. Jerseys hung loose on tired bodies. Kitmen moved between benches, collecting socks, handing out protein shakes and fresh towels. The air smelled of sweat, grass, and muscle rub.

Francesco stepped through the doorway just as Flamini and Cech were mid-discussion about the second Southampton goal.

"Bertrand's delivery was sharp, but we should've tracked Fonte's run better," Flamini was saying, gesturing with his hands.

Cech shrugged. "You save what you can. Some headers you just… can't."

Walcott was leaned back against the wall, towel draped over his head. Özil had one boot off and was stretching his calves with a resistance band. Iwobi sat on the floor, legs straight out, water bottle cradled between his knees. He looked up as Francesco walked in and grinned.

"Golden Boot, huh?"

Francesco chuckled, tossing his towel into the bin. "You heard that?"

"Everyone did. It's already on Twitter, mate."

He shook his head, smiling, then dropped onto the bench beside Bellerín with a groan. His body sank into the wood like it might never get back up again.

"You earned it," Bellerín said quietly. "All of it."

"Doesn't feel like it," Francesco replied. "Not when it's still just a draw."

"Yeah," Bellerín agreed after a beat. "But not all draws are equal. That one? It showed something."

Across the room, Wenger finally stepped in, his black overcoat still buttoned, his face unreadable but composed. He didn't call for attention. Didn't raise his voice. He just started walking between players, murmuring brief comments—personal, deliberate.

He stopped beside Francesco.

"Brilliant response tonight," he said. "Especially after the shift."

Francesco looked up. "Still dropped points."

"Yes," Wenger admitted. "But not the belief."

And with that, he moved on.

⸻

The coach ride back was quiet.

Some players dozed. Others scrolled through their phones, half-watching highlights, half-reading analysis. Chamberlain laughed once at something on his feed and showed it to Iwobi. A photo of Francesco mid-turn, mid-strike, with the caption:

"When he said 'first touch forward,' he meant it."

Francesco saw it, smiled faintly, then leaned his head against the cold glass of the window. Outside, the English countryside rolled past in darkness—fields, hedges, motorway lights blurred by condensation.

The hum of the engine beneath the team bus was a low, steady lullaby—the kind that made tired limbs even heavier, made minds drift even if the body refused to sleep.

Francesco sat by the window, his head tilted against the cold glass, watching the lights of passing cars blur across the wet motorway. Every few minutes, a sign whipped past in yellow and black, pointing toward terminals and runways. He didn't read them. He didn't need to.

They were heading home.

The match had ended barely ninety minutes ago, and already it felt like a memory caught between adrenaline and exhaustion. His body ached in ways he couldn't localize—like his muscles were storing every tackle, sprint, and goal in the bones themselves.

He wasn't the only one feeling it.

Across the aisle, Özil had a travel pillow hooked around his neck and was half-asleep already, earbuds in, soft music bleeding faintly through. Bellerín was scrolling on his phone, occasionally letting out a low chuckle when a meme or a post caught his attention. Behind them, Koscielny and Monreal were in murmured conversation about positioning during set pieces, too tired to argue, too proud not to analyze.

At the back, a few younger lads—Campbell, Iwobi, and Chambers—were still riding the buzz. Iwobi in particular kept glancing up at Francesco now and then, like he was still processing the fact that he'd assisted his senior teammate's equalizing goal in the 89th minute of a nationally televised match.

Francesco noticed but didn't say anything. Let the kid enjoy it. He deserved to.

From the front of the bus came a voice—not Wenger, not Bould. It was their logistics manager, Marcus.

"Alright lads," he called back, "we're about fifteen minutes out from the terminal. Everyone's bags are already loaded. You'll be straight through to the jet once we're cleared."

A couple of tired grunts answered him.

Petr Čech leaned forward, stretching his back with a low groan. "Recovery sessions tomorrow, yeah?"

"Colney," Ramsey confirmed. "Early."

"Not too early," muttered Flamini, rubbing his calves. "Boxing Day and all."

Francesco pulled his coat tighter around himself. He could already feel the next match breathing down their necks. Bournemouth in two days. Not the biggest fixture on paper—but after tonight's slip, every point mattered more than ever. Especially if they wanted to stay top.

Wenger hadn't given a full team talk after the match. Just a few direct comments. His usual style after high-drama results. Let the adrenaline settle, speak when the mind is calm.

But Francesco already knew what the message would be tomorrow.

Recover. Refocus. Go again.

11:14 PM – Southampton Airport

The night air stung like needles as they stepped off the coach and into the low light of the private terminal. Security was tight but efficient, their passes pre-cleared, the jet already fueled and ready on the tarmac.

Francesco kept his head down beneath his hood, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold as he climbed the stairs into the small charter aircraft. It wasn't luxury, not by any stretch, but it was functional—two seats on either side, overhead bins, clean white walls lit by soft LEDs.

He took a seat near the middle, by the window again, and sank into the cushioning with a sigh that felt like it came from his soul.

Soon, the rest of the team filed in.

Walcott slumped into the row behind him. "Reckon I'll sleep ten hours straight when I get in," he muttered, already yawning.

"You won't," Özil said from across the aisle. "The adrenaline'll keep you up."

"I'm too tired for adrenaline," Theo replied.

Francesco reached into his backpack, pulled out a protein bar, and unwrapped it slowly. He wasn't hungry, exactly. But he knew better than to skip the post-match feed.

Minutes later, the jet engines hummed to life. The cabin dimmed. A soft chime rang out from the cockpit, and the captain's voice followed.

"Evening, gentlemen. We'll be in the air shortly. Estimated flight time to London Luton is forty minutes. Sit back, relax, and congratulations on a hard-fought draw tonight."

Another chime. Then silence.

As the plane taxied down the runway, Francesco leaned his head back, let his eyes close, and breathed deeply through his nose.

The same words floated through his mind.

No weak teams. No easy games.

And somewhere under that, just beneath the surface: Don't let one draw become two.

12:08 AM – London Luton Airport

The wheels touched down with a muted thump, jolting Francesco awake. His neck ached from the angle, and his shoulder was stiff from the armrest. But they were home.

The terminal staff moved quickly, guiding the players off the plane and onto the waiting bus that would take them back to the Colney complex. It was a quiet ride. Most of them didn't speak. Some didn't even open their eyes.

London at night was always surreal after a matchday. The usual chaos of the capital felt distant. The streets they passed were mostly empty, the city half-asleep.

By the time they rolled into the Colney car park, it was nearing 1:00 AM.

Francesco stepped off the bus last, his bag slung over one shoulder, and gave a small nod to Wenger, who stood outside his own car, coat collar pulled up against the chill.

"Good night, boss."

Wenger nodded. "Rest well, Francesco."

He didn't say See you in the morning. He didn't need to.

They'd all be back here by 10:00 AM sharp.

The sun hadn't properly risen by the time Francesco walked through the training ground gates. The sky was a pale gray, the fields still slick with frost. Most of the lads looked about how he felt—worn out, legs stiff, eyes still carrying the weight of the previous night.

Today wasn't about drills or tactics. It was about repair.

Recovery protocols were already in full swing. Foam rollers. Cryo chambers. Low-resistance cycling. Ice baths. Francesco rotated through them one by one, quiet for most of it. When he wasn't stretching, he was hydrating. When he wasn't in the plunge pool, he was getting a massage.

He barely touched a football all day.

But that was the plan. Keep the engine warm. Let the tires cool.

At lunch, Wenger sat with the senior players—Cech, Koscielny, Flamini, and Francesco among them—and spoke quietly about Bournemouth.

"They're organized. Fast in transition. Don't give them the ball cheaply."

The hallway outside the recovery rooms smelled like eucalyptus and liniment—part spa, part battlefield infirmary. A faint hiss of steam drifted from under the sauna door, mingling with the low hum of industrial-strength massage chairs and the occasional curse from a player dunking himself into a freezing ice barrel.

Francesco padded in slowly, towel around his neck, recovery slides on his feet. His body felt like it had aged a decade overnight. Every joint was a touch slower, every muscle carrying the echo of yesterday's war.

"Take your pick," said Mark, one of the physios, nodding toward the row of stations along the left wall. "You want deep-tissue, ice, swim, sauna, whatever. Just don't sit still too long or you'll tighten up."

Francesco gave him a tired thumbs-up. "Start with massage. End with hypothermia."

Mark chuckled. "Smart man."

1:34 PM – Massage Room 2

The massage table was warm—thank God—and dimmed lighting filtered through the frosted glass window as Francesco lay face-down, cheek resting on the cushioned headrest. A low instrumental track played somewhere overhead. Strings and piano. Almost meditative.

Sam, the club's lead massage therapist, began with the calves. Francesco winced.

"That bad, huh?" she said gently, kneading with practiced thumbs.

"Like someone replaced my tendons with rusted cables."

She smirked, focused. "Lot of torque yesterday. You were turning defenders inside out."

"Still didn't win."

"Still scored twice. Still walked off the pitch."

He let out a breath. "Yeah."

The conversation drifted after that. Francesco allowed his eyes to close, slipping in and out of light rest while Sam worked up from his legs to his lower back, then shoulders. She moved with precision, pausing when he flinched, adjusting pressure with instinct.

By the end of it, he felt lighter. Not fully healed—never that quick—but looser. Less brittle. More like a human being again.

"Thanks," he said softly as he sat up, rolling his shoulders.

Sam handed him a bottle of water. "Don't skip the cold bath."

He grimaced. "Didn't plan on it. Just wish it liked me back."

2:12 PM – Ice Barrel Zone

The room was cold, sterile, brightly lit. Stainless steel basins lined the walls—some filled with warm water, some cold, and three brimming with ice so thick it looked like slush pulled from the Arctic.

Francesco stepped in slowly, one foot first. Then the other.

"Ffffuck me," he hissed through clenched teeth, gripping the edge of the barrel.

Campbell laughed from the tub next to him, submerged up to his chest. "Told you not to pause halfway. Gotta just drop."

"I'm not a lunatic," Francesco muttered.

"Lunatic or not, your quads will thank you."

Inch by inch, Francesco lowered himself until the freezing water bit into his thighs, his waist, then just beneath his ribs. The cold hit like a punch to the lungs. His breath came short, sharp, visible.

Three minutes. That was the mark.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.

One… two… in through the nose. Out through the mouth. In. Out. Let the cold do its work. Flush out the swelling. Force the blood to move. Strip the soreness away.

By the end of the three minutes, he was numb. But oddly clear-headed.

"Alive?" Iwobi called from across the room, shivering in his own barrel.

"Barely," Francesco answered, voice hollow with chill. "But I think my soul is somewhere near room temperature."

2:37 PM – Sauna Room

From one extreme to the other.

He stepped into the sauna and the heat hit him like a wall. Thick, damp, suffocating. But it felt good—like slipping back into your body after being frozen.

A few others were already inside: Flamini, eyes closed, leaned back against the wall with a towel draped over his head. Koscielny sat near the far corner, sipping from a bottle of electrolyte water. Gibbs had his legs stretched out on the bench, tapping gently against the wooden slats with the beat of some imagined rhythm.

Francesco found a seat near the lower bench and leaned forward, elbows on knees. Sweat beaded across his brow in seconds.

"Thirty minutes," Flamini mumbled. "Then pool."

Francesco nodded. "I'll take fifteen."

Koscielny opened one eye. "You looked sharp yesterday. More than most."

"We didn't look sharp enough," Francesco said. "We let them in too easily."

"No arguments here."

There was no bickering. No over-analysis. Just mutual understanding. Shared experience. The way only players who'd bled in the same ninety minutes could truly comprehend.

3:14 PM – Recovery Pool

The pool area at Colney was quiet. No coaches. No staff. Just the hum of overhead lighting and the occasional splash of water.

Francesco moved through the pool slowly, dragging resistance bands behind him as instructed, focusing on gentle motion. Half-laps. Light kicks. Calf stretches along the tiled edge.

He floated for a while on his back, letting the warmth soak into his spine.

Over by the shallow end, Walcott and Cazorla were discussing Bournemouth—how they'd pressed City high in the second half a few weeks back. Nothing intense. Just low murmurs. Tactical observation blended with muscle recovery.

Francesco didn't join the conversation. Not yet. He was still unwinding. Still pulling pieces of himself back from the fire.

For the first time all day, he let his mind go quiet.

No Southampton. No Golden Boot. No upcoming fixture.

Just the slow rhythm of his body slicing gently through water. The burn of yesterday easing away into motionless calm.

4:02 PM – Locker Room

Dried. Changed. Hair still damp but heart lighter.

Francesco zipped up his black team hoodie, slung his bag over his shoulder, and made for the exit.

Outside, the winter sun was beginning to dip, turning the sky into a smear of pastel oranges and pale purples.

As he stepped into the cool air, he spotted Iwobi a few steps ahead—headphones on, bouncing slightly with every step, still riding that high.

Francesco jogged to catch up.

"You still buzzing from last night?" he asked.

Iwobi glanced over, grinned. "A bit."

"You should be. That assist saved us."

The kid laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just did what you told me."

Francesco nudged him with an elbow. "Keep doing it. We've got more work coming."

They walked the rest of the path to the car park together in companionable silence, two players at opposite ends of their careers, both feeling the weight of a season just starting to test them.

________________________________________________

Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield

Season 15/16 stats:

Arsenal:

Match Played: 27

Goal: 37

Assist: 6

MOTM: 3

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9