If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
A night where they proved that football was about more than tactics and statistics—it was about heart. And Arsenal had shown they had more heart than anyone.
The moment the final whistle blew, pure euphoria erupted among the Arsenal players. They had done it. Against all odds, against all expectations, they had overturned the deficit and secured their place in the Champions League quarter-finals. The weight of the moment settled in as they embraced one another, still breathless from the grueling battle they had just endured.
But there was one more thing they had to do.
Francesco was the first to turn toward the Arsenal supporters in the stands, his heart swelling with gratitude. They had traveled all the way to Stade Louis II, packed into the away section, their voices echoing through the stadium from the first minute to the last. Even when Arsenal had been trailing, even when hope seemed to be slipping away, they had never stopped believing.
And now, it was time to thank them.
He nudged Giroud, who was still celebrating with Ramsey. "Come on," he said, gesturing toward the away end. "We owe them this."
One by one, the Arsenal players followed, making their way toward the traveling supporters. As they neared the stand, the Arsenal fans erupted into song.
"We love you Arsenal, we do! We love you Arsenal, we do! We love you Arsenal, we do! Oh, Arsenal, we love you!"
The sound sent shivers down Francesco's spine. He had always dreamed of moments like this—moments where the bond between the players and the fans was unbreakable, moments where the love for the club felt tangible.
Giroud, still beaming from his match-winning goal, raised his arms and clapped toward the supporters. Ramsey did the same. Wenger, ever the gentleman, stood a few steps back, watching his players soak it all in with a proud smile on his face.
Then, out of nowhere, the chant changed.
"Francesco! Francesco! Francesco!"
Francesco felt his chest tighten. The Arsenal fans were singing his name.
He couldn't stop himself from grinning as he raised his hands in gratitude.
The night had been full of emotions—frustration, desperation, hope, and finally, triumph. And now, standing before the fans who had traveled hundreds of miles just to cheer them on, it all felt worth it.
A chant for Giroud followed. Then for Ramsey. Then for Özil. One by one, the fans sang for every player who had given their all on that pitch.
Someone threw a scarf down from the stands. Francesco caught it, smiling as he wrapped it around his neck. The red and white colors of Arsenal had never felt more vibrant, more alive.
Then came the moment that made it all even more special.
Wenger stepped forward, nodding toward the fans before giving them a small wave.
And just like that, the chant changed again.
"Arsène Wenger's red and white army!"
The Arsenal manager, who had endured so much criticism in recent years, who had been doubted time and time again, stood there with an expression that was hard to describe. There was pride, yes. But there was also something else—perhaps a touch of vindication.
Francesco turned to look at him. "They believe in you, boss," he said softly.
Wenger exhaled, almost as if he had been holding his breath all this time. "It's not about me," he replied. "It's about them. It's about you. It's about all of us."
And Francesco understood.
Because tonight was about Arsenal.
It was about defying expectations.
It was about standing together, players and fans alike, and proving that football isn't just about tactics and statistics. It's about heart. It's about resilience. It's about never giving up.
As the players finally began making their way toward the tunnel, the Arsenal fans kept singing, their voices carrying into the night.
As the Arsenal players finally stepped off the pitch and into the tunnel, the celebrations still hadn't died down. The echoes of the traveling fans singing their hearts out followed them all the way inside, and the players—grinning, laughing, still barely believing what they had just accomplished—fed off that energy.
The moment they entered the locker room, an explosion of pure joy erupted.
Bottles of water were grabbed and shaken like champagne, spraying across the room. Shirts were tossed aside as players shouted, hugged, and let loose after one of the most emotionally draining matches of their careers. Francesco barely had time to register what was happening before a bottle of water was emptied over his head, soaking his hair and shirt.
He turned to see Ramsey, grinning mischievously.
"That's for dragging us through that second half!"
Francesco laughed, wiping his face. "Oh, come on! You saw what Subašić was doing! That guy had a force field in front of his goal!"
The entire squad erupted in agreement.
"That was ridiculous, mate," Walcott chimed in, shaking his head. "I swear, I thought I had him beat, and then—bam!—he just comes out of nowhere."
"He saved my volley, too," Francesco muttered. "That one was going top corner, I swear."
Giroud, still glowing from his match-winning goal, smirked. "Well, he couldn't stop the most important shot of the night."
There was a beat of silence. Then, the room exploded again.
Players pounded on Giroud's back, cheering him on as if he had just won them the World Cup.
"You absolute legend," Koscielny said, wrapping an arm around his French teammate.
Welbeck, grinning ear to ear, clapped his hands together. "We should have scored five more, but Subašić played like a man possessed."
"Yeah, but he couldn't keep us out forever," Özil added, his voice calm but full of satisfaction. "We were relentless. We deserved this."
Wenger stepped into the locker room then, and immediately, the atmosphere shifted.
Not because anyone was nervous—far from it. But there was a deep respect for the man who had just guided them through one of their greatest European nights.
The players turned to face him, still catching their breath, still buzzing with adrenaline.
Wenger's face, which had been tense with focus throughout the match, finally broke into a proud smile.
"You showed character," he said simply. "You never gave up."
That was all he needed to say.
The players clapped, some whistling in approval, others simply nodding.
Francesco watched as Wenger took a deep breath, his gaze moving from one player to another.
"This is what it means to be Arsenal," Wenger continued. "When they count us out, when they say it's over, we keep fighting. Tonight, you showed the world who we are."
That set off another round of cheers.
And then someone—no one could quite remember who—shouted, "Get the music on!"
In an instant, the locker room was filled with the sound of booming bass and fast-paced beats. The Arsenal players jumped, danced, and celebrated like kids who had just won a championship.
Giroud grabbed Francesco and pulled him into a dance, much to the younger player's embarrassment.
"Come on, you scored tonight!" Giroud laughed. "That deserves at least one dance."
Francesco groaned but relented, laughing as the entire team got swept up in the energy.
Meanwhile, Walcott and Oxlade-Chamberlain had found their way to the center of the room, doing ridiculous dance moves that had everyone howling with laughter.
At one point, Per Mertesacker, the towering center-back, got caught up in the madness and started moving stiffly to the music, prompting Özil to shake his head. "Please, never do that again."
The players were still high on adrenaline, still reliving every moment of the match in between celebrations.
Ramsey, sitting on the bench, turned to Francesco. "You know, when Wallace took you out in the second half, I thought you were done for."
Francesco rubbed his leg, which was still sore from that tackle. "Yeah, I felt that one. But there was no way I was coming off. Not in a match like this."
"Damn right," Welbeck said from across the room.
They kept talking, replaying every near-miss, every crunching tackle, every heart-stopping save from Subašić.
But the one moment that kept coming up?
That final goal.
"How did you even see that gap, Oli?" Francesco asked, shaking his head. "That shot was perfect."
Giroud leaned back, arms behind his head, wearing a smug grin. "Instinct, my friend."
"Instinct, my ass," Koscielny laughed. "You hit that like your life depended on it."
The room erupted again.
The celebrations lasted well into the night.
Phones were pulled out to check the reactions from fans back in London. Twitter was already exploding with praise. Fans were calling it one of Arsenal's greatest European nights.
And in the middle of it all, Francesco took a deep breath and let it all sink in.
He had dreamed of nights like this.
And now, he was living it.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Wenger clapped his hands together.
"Alright, boys. Enjoy this. You've earned it."
The players knew what he meant. They still had a long way to go. This was just one step on their journey.
The energy in the Arsenal locker room was still buzzing, the excitement refusing to die down. Laughter, cheers, and playful teasing filled the space as the players gradually started coming down from the high of their hard-fought victory. Some were still reveling in the moment, reliving key plays, while others sat back, exhausted but satisfied.
Wenger, always composed but clearly pleased, stepped forward, clapping his hands twice to get their attention.
"Mertesacker, Giroud," he called out. "Go wash up. You're coming with me to the post-match press conference."
Mertesacker, who had been in the middle of recounting a particularly intense defensive moment to Koscielny, raised an eyebrow but nodded. Giroud, still grinning from ear to ear, didn't seem the least bit surprised.
"Guess they want to hear from the match-winner," Giroud said with a smug smirk, winking at Francesco.
"Oh, here we go," Ramsey groaned, rolling his eyes. "We're never going to hear the end of this."
The room erupted into laughter again as Giroud chuckled, grabbing a towel and heading toward the showers. Mertesacker followed, shaking his head.
Wenger turned his attention back to the rest of the squad. "The rest of you, get cleaned up, pack your things, and wait on the bus. We leave as soon as the press conference is over."
The players murmured their acknowledgments, though some were clearly reluctant to bring the celebrations to an end. Nevertheless, they began moving toward the showers, stripping off their sweat-soaked jerseys and grabbing their towels.
Francesco, still buzzing with energy, was among the last to head for the showers. As he stepped under the warm water, letting it wash away the sweat and exhaustion of the match, he allowed himself to truly absorb everything that had happened. The intensity of the game, the overwhelming emotions, the moment when he had heard the fans chanting his name—it all felt surreal.
He had always dreamed of nights like this, but to actually experience it? It was something else entirely.
By the time he stepped out, towel wrapped around his waist, most of the players had already finished up and were packing their bags. Özil sat on the bench, quietly scrolling through his phone, while Ramsey and Wilshere were still chatting animatedly about the match. Walcott, always full of energy, was joking around with Oxlade-Chamberlain, pretending to reenact Giroud's goal in slow motion.
Francesco found his locker, pulled on a fresh set of clothes, and started packing up his things. As he zipped up his bag, he glanced toward the showers, hearing the sound of water still running. Mertesacker and Giroud were taking their time.
"Oi, Giroud!" Welbeck called out, grinning. "Don't spend too much time fixing your hair, mate. The press is waiting."
A muffled laugh echoed from the showers. "Perfection takes time," Giroud shot back.
More laughter rippled through the room.
Francesco shook his head, amused. He slung his bag over his shoulder and took one last look around the locker room. This space, this group of players—it was more than just a team. It was a family.
Wenger stood near the entrance, watching his players with a small, satisfied smile. He caught Francesco's eye and gave him a nod.
"Good performance tonight," Wenger said quietly.
Francesco felt a surge of pride. "Thanks, boss."
Wenger studied him for a moment before adding, "Keep working. There's more to come."
Francesco nodded, understanding the message beneath the words. This was just the beginning.
***
Out in the team bus, the atmosphere was more subdued than the locker room, but there was still an undeniable energy in the air. The players were scattered throughout the seats, some listening to music, others chatting, a few already scrolling through social media to see the reactions from fans and pundits.
Francesco sat near the window, staring out at the night sky over Monaco. The adrenaline was still coursing through his veins, making it impossible to relax.
Ramsey plopped down next to him with a satisfied sigh. "Crazy night, huh?"
Francesco let out a soft chuckle. "Yeah. Feels unreal."
"You better get used to it," Ramsey said, grinning. "Big European nights like this? They're addictive."
Francesco nodded, knowing he'd chase this feeling again and again.
A few seats ahead, Özil and Koscielny were quietly discussing the match, while Wilshere was watching highlights on his phone, occasionally nudging Walcott to show him a replay. Welbeck had his feet up, earphones in, lost in whatever song was blasting through his headphones.
As they waited for Wenger, Mertesacker, and Giroud to finish up at the press conference, the team bus was filled with a quiet contentment. They had done it. They had fought, clawed, and earned their place in the Champions League quarter-finals.
Francesco leaned his head back against the seat, finally allowing himself to breathe. Tonight was special. And he had a feeling there were even bigger nights ahead.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 22
Goal: 27
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8