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As he walked toward the team bus with Mertesacker, he clenched his fists. He had ninety minutes at the Emirates to prove them all wrong.
As Francesco stepped onto the team bus, the atmosphere inside was subdued. The sting of the loss still lingered, but it wasn't as heavy as it had been in the locker room. The post-match talk from Wenger and the leaders in the squad—Mertesacker, Cazorla, and Koscielny—had helped ease some of the frustration, turning it into determination instead. Even so, there was an unmistakable quietness that settled over the team, the kind that came after a hard-fought match where they had come so close, only to walk away empty-handed.
Francesco made his way to his seat near the middle of the bus, dropping into it with a sigh. He leaned his head back against the cushioned headrest, staring at the ceiling for a moment before exhaling deeply. Across the aisle, Alexis Sanchez sat with his headphones on, staring out of the window, his expression unreadable. Further up, Olivier Giroud and Mathieu Flamini were having a quiet discussion, their voices barely above a whisper.
Mertesacker slid into the seat next to Francesco, his long legs stretching out in front of him. He wasn't the type to give long speeches after a match, but Francesco knew the German well enough to know when he had something to say.
"You did well in the press conference," Mertesacker finally said, his voice low so that only Francesco could hear.
Francesco turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Did I? Felt like I was getting grilled alive in there."
Mertesacker smirked slightly. "Welcome to being a top player. They'll praise you when you're on top and tear you down when you miss a few chances. You handled it the right way—owned up to it, but didn't let them drag you into their narrative."
Francesco let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Could've done without the last question, though. Like I don't already know I should've scored more."
Mertesacker nudged him lightly with his elbow. "You'll get another chance. And when you do, just make sure they don't get to ask the same question again."
Francesco smiled at that, the weight on his chest lifting slightly.
The bus finally pulled away from the stadium, the soft hum of the engine filling the silence. Outside, the streets of Turin passed by in a blur of streetlights and neon signs. Juventus fans still lingered outside, some celebrating, others shouting at the Arsenal bus as it rolled past.
Francesco shifted his gaze back inside the bus. He could still feel the quiet frustration in the air, but it was different now. It wasn't the defeated kind of silence—it was the kind that simmered, that fueled something deeper.
Across from him, Mesut Özil sat scrolling through his phone, his expression unreadable. Cazorla was rubbing his knee, likely still feeling the effects of a hard challenge from earlier in the match. Koscielny sat near the front, headphones in, deep in thought.
This was a team that had been through setbacks before. They had suffered losses, had moments where things didn't go their way. But they never stayed down for long.
Francesco leaned his head back again, closing his eyes for a moment. The words he had spoken earlier in the press conference echoed in his head. The tie isn't over. We have a second leg at home. I'll be ready.
He wasn't just saying it to convince the reporters. He was saying it because he truly believed it.
The ride back to the hotel was long, but no one really seemed to be paying attention to the passing time. The city lights flickered through the windows, reflecting off the players' tired faces. Some of them had their heads leaned against the seats, trying to switch off for a while, while others scrolled through their phones, checking messages from family or catching up on the inevitable post-match analysis from pundits and fans alike.
Francesco found himself staring out the window, his thoughts running in loops. He wasn't the type to dwell on mistakes, but tonight had been different. He could feel it—the weight of expectations, the sharp edges of disappointment. He had been brought to Arsenal to make a difference, to be the kind of player that turned games in their favor. And while he had scored tonight, he couldn't shake the feeling that he should have done more.
His fingers tapped absently against his knee as he turned his gaze back inside the bus. He wasn't alone in his thoughts. Mertesacker, despite his earlier words of encouragement, had that serious look on his face, the one he always had after a tough result. Cazorla, usually one of the more upbeat personalities in the squad, was uncharacteristically quiet, rubbing his knee absentmindedly. Özil scrolled through his phone, his face a mask of indifference, but Francesco knew better. The German hated losing as much as anyone.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but it carried a weight to it. A collective frustration, a determination bubbling beneath the surface. They had all come to Turin expecting to leave with something, and now they had to face the reality that they had left with nothing but a difficult task ahead in the second leg.
As the bus continued its journey, Wenger sat near the front, speaking in hushed tones with Steve Bould. Every now and then, he glanced back at the players, observing, always calculating. Francesco knew the manager well enough by now to recognize the look—Wenger wasn't just thinking about tonight, he was already planning for what came next.
The minutes passed, and soon, the bright lights of their hotel came into view. A sleek, modern building standing tall in the heart of the city, its entrance lit up with warm yellow lights. The bus pulled to a stop, and one by one, the players began to rise from their seats, stretching out stiff legs before filing toward the exit.
Francesco slung his bag over his shoulder and followed the others down the steps, stepping onto the pavement where a cool night breeze greeted him. He adjusted the collar of his jacket, glancing around at his teammates. The mood was still low, but there was an unspoken understanding between them. They would take the disappointment, digest it, and then turn it into fuel for the next game.
As they entered the hotel lobby, Wenger turned to address them, his voice calm but firm.
"Before you go to your rooms, I want everyone to have dinner," he said, his gaze sweeping across the squad. "Eat well, recover, and get some rest. Tomorrow, we analyze and move forward."
There were nods all around. No one would argue with him—not because they feared his authority, but because they knew he was right. Nutrition and rest were just as important as training, and right now, their bodies needed to recover as much as their minds did.
Francesco walked with the others toward the dining area, the clinking of silverware and quiet murmurs of other hotel guests filling the air. The team was given a private section, away from prying eyes and cameras. Plates of pasta, grilled chicken, salads, and fresh fruit were laid out, a reminder that even in defeat, discipline remained key.
He grabbed a plate, serving himself a portion of pasta and some grilled chicken before taking a seat next to Hector Bellerín, who looked just as exhausted as he felt.
"Tough night," Bellerín muttered, stabbing at his food with his fork.
Francesco nodded, chewing slowly before replying. "Yeah. But we've had tough nights before."
Bellerín exhaled sharply. "Just hate leaving like this. Feels like we could've done more."
"We could have," Francesco admitted. "But we've got another shot. It's not over."
Bellerín gave a small nod, but the frustration was still evident on his face. Francesco understood. The entire team was feeling it. The what-ifs, the near misses, the small moments that could have changed everything.
Across the table, Giroud and Flamini were talking in hushed French, while Alexis remained quiet, focused on his meal. Wenger and the coaching staff sat nearby, keeping an eye on the players but letting them process the evening in their own way.
The meal was mostly quiet, save for the occasional brief conversations here and there. It wasn't the kind of silence that came from division or anger—it was just exhaustion, both mental and physical.
Francesco finished his plate and leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the glass of water in front of him. He thought about the second leg at the Emirates, about what it would take to turn this result around.
They would need to be sharper, more clinical. They would need to be ruthless. Juventus had shown their quality tonight, but they weren't invincible. Arsenal had the weapons to hurt them, but only if they executed properly.
He looked around at his teammates. This was a squad full of quality, of players who had fought through adversity before. He believed in them, in himself. And most importantly, he believed in the work they had put in all season.
One loss wouldn't define them.
Eventually, Wenger stood up from his seat, signaling that dinner was over. The players took that as their cue, pushing back their chairs and making their way toward the elevators.
Francesco walked alongside Mertesacker and Özil, his body aching from the game. He could already feel the stiffness settling in, but he welcomed it. It was a reminder of the battle they had fought tonight.
"Get some rest," Mertesacker said as they reached their floor.
"You too," Francesco replied.
They parted ways, each heading to their respective rooms. Francesco swiped his keycard and stepped inside, the quiet of his hotel room washing over him. He dropped his bag onto the chair by the window and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with both hands.
Francesco sighed as he leaned back against the headboard of his chair, reaching for the remote on the table. His body was still sore from the match, but his mind refused to rest. He needed to unwind, even if it meant listening to pundits tear the team apart for ninety minutes.
With a click, the television screen lit up, and Sky Sports came into focus. The studio setup was familiar—bright lights, the signature blue and red backdrop, and a panel of former players who had seen and done it all.
Seated around the desk were Thierry Henry, Ian Wright, Gary Neville, and Jamie Carragher. The conversation was already heated, and Francesco could tell right away that Koscielny was the main topic of discussion.
"You can't make that kind of mistake in a game like this," Gary Neville was saying, shaking his head. "A last-minute challenge inside the box? Against a team like Juventus? It's schoolboy stuff."
Jamie Carragher chimed in, leaning forward. "I like Koscielny, I really do. He's been a top defender for Arsenal, but tonight, that's a lapse in concentration that's cost them the game. If you're gonna dive in, you better be certain you'll get the ball. He wasn't. And now Arsenal have a mountain to climb."
Francesco exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face. He knew Koscielny would be feeling it worse than anyone. The frenchman was one of the most experienced players in the squad, a leader who had saved them countless times before. But tonight, he'd made a crucial mistake, and there was no escaping the scrutiny.
Ian Wright, ever the Arsenal man, shook his head. "I feel for him. I really do. He's been brilliant for us over the years, but that's the difference between winning and losing at this level. You switch off for a second, and you get punished. Simple as that."
Thierry Henry, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke, his voice measured. "Look, we can sit here and dissect the penalty all night, but Arsenal didn't lose this game because of just that one moment. Yes, Koscielny made a mistake, but let's talk about the bigger picture. Arsenal had chances. Francesco Lee had a great goal, but he could've had two. Alexis had a shot saved that he usually buries. Mesut had a clear chance in the first half. If Arsenal take those chances, we're not even talking about Koscielny's mistake."
Francesco felt a twinge in his chest at that. Henry wasn't wrong. He had scored, but he had also missed a golden opportunity in the second half. That header—he had timed his run perfectly, got up high enough, but just couldn't direct it past Buffon.
Neville, arms crossed, nodded. "That's true. Arsenal weren't outclassed tonight. They went toe-to-toe with Juventus. But at this level, margins are small. You either take your chances, or you don't. That's the difference."
Carragher, ever the defensive critic, circled back. "But at the same time, you need your experienced players to step up. I get that attackers miss chances, but defenders need to stay switched on. That penalty was a gift to Juventus. You can't afford to give gifts in the Champions League."
Francesco shook his head. It was always the same with pundits. If a striker missed a chance, it was unfortunate. If a defender made a mistake, it was inexcusable. But he understood why—it was easier to break down a single moment than to analyze an entire game's worth of missed opportunities.
Henry, perhaps sensing the one-sided criticism, shifted the discussion. "The important thing now is how Arsenal respond. The tie isn't over. They're going back to the Emirates, where they've been excellent this season. If they come out aggressive, if Francesco, Alexis, and Mesut step up, they can turn this around."
That was why Francesco always respected Henry. He wasn't there just to tear players down—he saw the bigger picture. He had been in their shoes before. He knew what it was like to lose, to be criticized, to feel the weight of expectation.
Wright nodded in agreement. "Exactly. If they let this result get in their heads, then they've already lost the second leg before it's even started. But if they use it as fuel, if they go out there with a point to prove, they've got every chance."
The conversation moved on to Juventus' strengths, their defensive solidity, their experience in these kinds of matches. But Francesco had heard enough. He switched off the TV and let the silence of the hotel room settle around him.
He let out a deep breath, staring at the ceiling.
Henry's words stuck with him. If they let this result get in their heads, they've already lost the second leg before it's even started.
No. He wouldn't let that happen.
Francesco sat up, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness. His body might have been exhausted, but his mind was already moving forward.
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and scrolled through his messages. A few from family, a couple from friends, all encouraging him despite the result. But one stood out—his father's.
"Tough result, son. But remember, the great ones don't dwell on losses. They use them. Get some rest. The second leg is yours."
Francesco smiled faintly, typing a quick reply before setting his phone down.
He stood up, stretching, before making his way to the bathroom to freshen up. He needed sleep, but more than that, he needed to reset his mindset.
As he splashed cold water on his face, he looked at himself in the mirror.
This tie isn't over
He had said it in the press conference, but now, in the quiet of his hotel room, he truly believed it. And when the second leg came, he would make sure Juventus knew it too.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 26
Goal: 31
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8