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Francesco simply nodded, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He didn't need to say anything. He already knew—this season was his for the taking.
Francesco woke up before his alarm even had the chance to go off. The anticipation coursing through his veins made sleep nearly impossible. He had spent the last few years dreaming of nights like these—Champions League knockout ties, the kind of matches that could define a player's career. And now, he was right in the middle of it all.
March 16, 2015. The day before Arsenal's crucial second-leg clash against AS Monaco.
He swung his legs off the bed, rubbing his face as he sat on the edge for a moment. Through the small gap in his curtains, he could see the London sky, still dark but beginning to lighten as dawn approached. The crisp morning air seeped through the slight opening in the window, but Francesco barely felt it. His mind was elsewhere.
After a quick shower and breakfast, he grabbed his already-packed bag and headed outside, where his car was waiting. The streets were quiet, the city not yet fully awake, but Francesco loved these early morning drives. It gave him time to focus, to visualize the game ahead.
As he pulled into the Arsenal Training Center at London Colney, the familiar sight of his teammates arriving one by one greeted him. Some looked groggy, still waking up, while others were already full of energy. Theo Walcott and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain were messing around near the entrance, while Olivier Giroud and Laurent Koscielny stood nearby, engaged in conversation.
Francesco parked and stepped out, slinging his bag over his shoulder. As he approached the entrance, he was met by Héctor Bellerín, who clapped him on the back.
"Ready for Monaco?" Bellerín asked with a grin.
Francesco smirked. "Born ready."
They walked inside together, where the rest of the team was gathering in the lounge area. Arsène Wenger was already there, talking quietly with Steve Bould while scanning a sheet of paper—probably the itinerary for the trip.
The atmosphere was light but focused. Players greeted each other with handshakes and jokes, but there was an underlying tension, the kind that only came before a massive match.
Wenger eventually called for everyone's attention.
"Alright, everyone, listen up." His calm but commanding voice silenced the chatter. "We'll be leaving in twenty minutes. Make sure you have everything you need. When we land in Monaco, we'll head straight to the hotel. Rest is important. Tomorrow, we have a job to do."
Francesco listened intently, his focus laser-sharp. This was it. The Champions League Round of 16. Arsenal had won the first leg 4-3 at the Emirates, but it had been a chaotic game, one that left the tie wide open. Now, they had to go to Monaco and finish the job at Stade Louis II.
After a quick team meeting, the players grabbed their bags and made their way outside to the team bus. The ride to the airport was filled with quiet conversations, some players lost in their own thoughts, others listening to music. Francesco sat next to Mesut Özil, who was scrolling through his phone, headphones in.
"You feeling good?" Özil asked, looking over at him.
Francesco nodded. "Yeah. Can't wait for the game."
Özil smiled knowingly. "These are the nights that matter."
The team arrived at the airport, and after the usual security checks and procedures, they boarded their private jet. Francesco took a window seat, staring out as the plane prepared for takeoff. He put in his earphones and leaned back, closing his eyes.
The flight to Monaco was smooth, with players alternating between sleeping, chatting, and watching movies. Francesco, however, spent most of the flight thinking about the game. He visualized himself on the pitch, making runs, scoring goals, helping the team.
By the time they landed in Monaco, the sun was shining brightly, casting a warm glow over the city. The team bus was waiting for them, ready to take them to the hotel. As they drove through the streets of Monte Carlo, Francesco gazed out the window, taking in the stunning views—the yachts in the harbor, the luxurious buildings, the winding roads of the famous Grand Prix circuit.
But his mind quickly returned to football.
They arrived at the hotel, and after checking in, Wenger gave them a few hours to rest before a light training session in the evening. Francesco headed to his room, unpacked a few things, and lay down on the bed. He knew he needed to conserve energy, but the excitement made it hard to relax.
Later that evening, the team gathered for a brief training session at a nearby pitch. It wasn't anything too intense—just some light drills, stretching, and tactical discussions. Wenger and Bould went over the game plan, reminding the players of Monaco's strengths and weaknesses.
"Discipline," Wenger emphasized. "We are ahead, but we cannot afford to be careless. Stay compact, control possession, and take your chances when they come."
The training session wrapped up quickly, and the team returned to the hotel for dinner. The atmosphere was calm but focused. Some players cracked jokes to lighten the mood, while others ate in quiet contemplation. Francesco sat with Alexis Sánchez and Santi Cazorla, discussing different possible scenarios for the game.
By the time he returned to his room, it was nearly midnight. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind running through every possible moment of the match ahead.
Eventually, sleep found him.
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Francesco woke up with a sharp inhale, his body already buzzing with energy. He checked his phone—messages from friends and family wishing him luck. He replied briefly before getting up.
The pre-match routine was a familiar rhythm—team breakfast, a tactical meeting with Wenger, light stretching, and final preparations. The hours passed in a blur.
Before he knew it, they were on the bus, heading to Stade Louis II.
The stadium was already filling up when they arrived, the noise growing as they stepped off the bus. Francesco could feel the electricity in the air. The Champions League anthem, the floodlights, the high stakes—this was where legends were made.
The moment Francesco stepped off the team bus, he felt the energy of the night settle over him. The atmosphere outside the stadium was electric—Arsenal fans had made the trip, their voices loud and confident despite the tension of the tie. Monaco supporters, equally passionate, filled the air with chants and drums. This was the Champions League, and everything about it felt different.
As they entered the tunnel leading to the locker room, Francesco could hear the low hum of conversation between his teammates, the occasional joke breaking through the otherwise focused silence. He adjusted the strap of his bag and followed Mesut Özil inside.
Once in the locker room, the players moved with routine efficiency. Each man knew what needed to be done. They all headed to their designated spots, where their training kits were already laid out.
"Alright, lads, let's get moving," shouted Steve Bould, clapping his hands to get everyone's attention. "Forty-five minutes to get the body sharp."
Francesco pulled off his hoodie and grabbed his training jersey, quickly changing into the warm-up kit. Around him, the others did the same. Laurent Koscielny and Per Mertesacker exchanged a few words about defensive positioning. Olivier Giroud stretched his legs, rolling his neck as if preparing to wrestle a defender.
Once everyone was dressed, they moved out onto the pitch, greeted by the stadium's growing noise. The floodlights blazed down, making the lush green grass glow. Francesco took a deep breath, inhaling the distinct scent of a freshly watered pitch.
Warm-up started with light jogging around the field, gradually increasing in intensity. Francesco ran alongside Alexis Sánchez, the two exchanging a few words about the game ahead.
"Feeling ready?" Alexis asked.
Francesco smirked. "Always."
After the jogging, they shifted into dynamic stretching—lunges, high knees, heel flicks. Then, they moved into agility drills, short sprints, and lateral movements to wake up the muscles. Wenger and Bould stood at the halfway line, watching closely, their hands tucked into their coats.
The next phase was ball work. The players split into groups for passing drills—one-touch, quick exchanges, moving the ball with precision. Francesco partnered with Özil, their chemistry evident as they seamlessly shifted the ball between them.
Then came shooting practice. Francesco, Alexis, Özil, and Giroud lined up outside the box, taking turns receiving passes from Santi Cazorla before firing shots at David Ospina. Francesco's first attempt was a curling shot to the far post—Ospina got a fingertip to it but couldn't keep it out.
"On fire already, huh?" Walcott joked from the side.
Francesco simply grinned.
The last phase of the warm-up was dribbling. Cones were set up in a zigzag pattern, and each player took turns weaving through them before delivering a pass. Francesco moved effortlessly, his footwork smooth and controlled.
After 45 minutes, Wenger whistled from the sidelines. "That's enough. Back inside."
The team jogged back toward the tunnel, sweat glistening on their foreheads but their minds sharp. Inside the locker room, the atmosphere was serious now.
Francesco walked to his locker, where his match kit hung, crisp and ready. The red and white Arsenal jersey with the number 35 on the back felt heavier in his hands—not in weight, but in meaning. He had worn it countless times before, but the Champions League always made it feel special.
As he pulled the shirt over his head and adjusted it, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Focused. Ready.
When everyone was dressed, Wenger stood in the middle of the room, waiting for silence before delivering his final words.
"This is a big night," he began, his voice calm but powerful. "We have the advantage, but make no mistake—Monaco will fight. They will press. They will look for any weakness. Our job is simple. Stay disciplined, play our football, and take our chances."
He turned to Giroud. "Hold the ball up, bring the midfield into play." Then to Özil: "Find the gaps, dictate the tempo." His eyes scanned the room, finally landing on Francesco. "And you," Wenger said with a small smile, "keep doing what you do best."
Francesco nodded, feeling the trust in his manager's words.
Wenger then laid out the starting XI, though everyone already knew it:
Formation: 4-2-3-1
Goalkeeper: David Ospina
Defenders: Nacho Monreal (LB), Laurent Koscielny (CB), Per Mertesacker (CB, Captain), Hector Bellerín (RB)
Midfielders: Francis Coquelin (CDM), Santi Cazorla (CDM)
Attacking Midfielders: Mesut Özil (CAM), Alexis Sánchez (LW), Francesco Lee (RW)
Striker: Olivier Giroud
Substitutes: Wojciech Szczęsny, Gabriel Paulista, Kieran Gibbs, Mathieu Flamini, Aaron Ramsey, Danny Welbeck, Theo Walcott.
Wenger shifted his stance slightly, his sharp gaze moving across the room as he continued his tactical briefing.
"Monaco will mirror our formation, playing in a 4-2-3-1," he stated, his voice calm but firm. "Their lineup was just released."
The players listened intently as Wenger read through Monaco's starting eleven:
Formation: 4-2-3-1
Goalkeeper: Danijel Subašić
Defenders: Layvin Kurzawa (LB), Aymen Abdennour (CB), Wallace (CB), Fabinho (RB)
Defensive Midfielders: Jérémy Toulalan (CDM), Geoffrey Kondogbia (CDM)
Attacking Midfielders: João Moutinho (CAM), Nabil Dirar (RW), Anthony Martial (LW)
Striker: Dimitar Berbatov
A murmur passed through the squad, mostly at the mention of Berbatov and Martial. Francesco leaned forward slightly, taking in every detail. He knew this was where the real battle would be decided—before a ball was even kicked.
Wenger folded his arms. "From what we've analyzed, Monaco will rely heavily on João Moutinho to dictate their tempo. He's their most composed passer, their brain in midfield. He will look for Martial and Berbatov constantly, so we need to cut him off."
Santi Cazorla nodded. "Press him early?"
"Yes," Wenger confirmed. "Coquelin, Santi—don't let him settle. Force him to go backward."
He turned his attention to the attacking players. "Anthony Martial is their biggest threat on the left. He has pace, skill, and confidence, and he will run at our defense. Don't give him space. Bellerín, you need to be sharp tonight—stay close to him."
Bellerín gave a small nod, rolling his shoulders in preparation.
"As for Berbatov…" Wenger exhaled briefly. "He's not the quickest anymore, but his touch and intelligence make him dangerous. He doesn't need speed—he just needs a second. Koscielny, Mertesacker—you two must stay tight to him. Don't allow him time to turn."
Mertesacker, the captain, spoke up. "We keep the line disciplined."
"Exactly."
Wenger then looked to Francesco and Alexis. "Our wingers will be crucial tonight. We need you both to stretch their defense. Attack their full-backs—make them uncomfortable. Francesco, you'll be up against Kurzawa. He's aggressive and likes to push forward, but that leaves space behind him. Exploit it."
Francesco nodded. He had studied Kurzawa. A talented full-back, but prone to overcommitting.
"Alexis, same for you against Fabinho," Wenger continued. "You two will need to track back when necessary, but when we attack, I want you driving at them."
Then, Wenger's eyes fell on Mesut Özil.
"Mesut, this is your game. If we control the ball, you will find the gaps. They'll try to put pressure on you, but trust yourself. Be patient, wait for the right moment."
Özil gave a small smirk, exuding quiet confidence.
Wenger stepped back, scanning the room. "We are not here to defend a one-goal lead. We are here to win. Play smart, play fast, and play as a team. If we do that, we'll be in the quarter-finals."
A tense silence filled the locker room as the players absorbed every word. Then, Mertesacker clapped his hands together.
"Alright, boys. Let's do this."
With that, the team rose from their seats, the tension turning into pure focus. Some players exchanged handshakes, others simply took deep breaths. Francesco tightened his boots one last time, then stood and followed his teammates out of the room.
The tunnel leading to the pitch was filled with an almost eerie quiet, broken only by the muffled sounds of the stadium beyond. Francesco took his spot in line behind Giroud, his heart pounding but steady.
He looked across and saw Monaco's players waiting on the other side. Anthony Martial bounced on his toes, looking eager. João Moutinho had his hands on his hips, already deep in concentration. And Berbatov… the veteran striker stood still, his expression unreadable.
The referee signaled.
Then came the moment Francesco had dreamed of since he was a kid—the walk onto the Champions League pitch.
The stadium roared as the players stepped out. The iconic Champions League anthem played, echoing through Stade Louis II. Francesco's gaze flickered up to the Arsenal fans in the away section, their red-and-white scarves waving in the night air.
They lined up for the pre-match formalities. Shaking hands with the Monaco players, Francesco briefly locked eyes with Kurzawa. A silent message passed between them—this would be a battle.
As the captains, Mertesacker and Toulalan, exchanged pennants and spoke with the referee, Francesco took one final deep breath.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 21
Goal: 26
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8