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Francesco exhaled sharply, He hated losing. But he knew Wenger was right. This wasn't the end, there were still more battles to fight.
The mood inside the Arsenal locker room was heavy, suffocating. No one spoke. No one moved with any urgency. The only sounds were the occasional shuffling of boots on the tile floor and the distant cheers of the Juventus fans still celebrating in the Allianz Stadium.
Laurent Koscielny sat on the wooden bench, his elbows resting on his knees, his head buried in his hands. The French defender had made countless crucial tackles in his career, had been a rock at the back for Arsenal time and time again. But tonight, one moment of misjudgment had cost them. One reckless lunge, one split-second decision, and everything had crumbled.
Francesco sat a few seats away, still in his match kit, sweat drying on his skin. He could feel the frustration in the air, the unspoken disappointment. It wasn't just about losing—it was about the way they had lost.
This should have been a draw.
They had fought hard, played with intelligence and bravery, and nearly snatched a late winner themselves. And then, in the dying minutes, it had all slipped away.
Across the room, Theo Walcott leaned back against the lockers, exhaling loudly before shaking his head. "We had them," he muttered, his voice filled with disbelief. "We fucking had them."
No one responded. No one disagreed.
Aaron Ramsey sat with his arms crossed, staring blankly at the floor. Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain was untying his boots, but even that felt half-hearted, as if he didn't have the energy to care. Mesut Özil, normally so composed, had an irritated frown on his face, the frustration evident in his clenched jaw.
But it was Koscielny who was taking it the hardest.
He hadn't moved for minutes now, just sat there in silence, lost in his own thoughts. He was one of Arsenal's leaders, one of their most experienced players, and tonight, he had let the team down. He knew it. Everyone knew it.
No one was blaming him out loud, but the weight of his mistake was suffocating.
Wenger entered the room, his expression unreadable. He wasn't the kind of manager to lash out in anger after a loss—especially not in a game where his team had performed admirably for 90 minutes. But his silence spoke volumes.
He walked to the center of the room, clearing his throat. "It's a tough one to take," he finally said, his voice calm but firm. "We played well. We fought. And we were the better team for large stretches of that match."
He let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
"But football is cruel. One mistake, one moment, and it can undo everything. That is why the small details matter."
His eyes flickered toward Koscielny for a brief second before scanning the rest of the squad.
Koscielny finally lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed. He swallowed hard, and then, barely above a whisper, he said, "I'm sorry."
Nobody answered right away. It wasn't that they didn't accept his apology—it was just that they knew words wouldn't change anything.
Finally, Per Mertesacker, the club's captain, placed a firm hand on Koscielny's shoulder. "We win together, we lose together," he said. "You made a mistake. It happens. We move on."
Koscielny gave him a weak nod, but it was clear he wasn't convinced.
Francesco, who had been quiet until now, leaned forward. "If we get knocked out," he said, his voice serious, "it won't be because of one penalty. We had chances to kill the game. We should've scored earlier. We should've defended better as a team. It's not just on you."
Koscielny looked at him, his expression a mix of gratitude and self-loathing. "Still…" he started, but Francesco cut him off.
"There's still the second leg," Francesco reminded them all. "This isn't over."
Wenger nodded. "Exactly. We have a home game to play. Juventus will come to the Emirates thinking they've already done the hard part, but they haven't faced us at our best yet."
His words carried weight, but the disappointment still lingered.
Eventually, the players began to move again, slowly peeling off their jerseys, grabbing water bottles, cooling down their aching bodies.
Olivier Giroud threw a towel over his head and let out a deep sigh. "We need to be better," he muttered. "And we need to make them pay in London."
His words carried a quiet determination, and Francesco could feel it spreading across the room.
Wenger took a deep breath, looking around the room, reading the expressions on his players' faces. He could see it—the frustration, the disappointment, the anger at how they had let the game slip through their fingers. It was understandable, but it was also dangerous. He knew how quickly one painful loss could spiral into something worse if they let it fester.
He clapped his hands together, drawing everyone's attention. "Listen," he said, his voice firm. "I know this one hurts. I know how much effort you put into this match. But we cannot let this define us."
His words hung in the air, cutting through the thick silence.
"We are still in the race for the Premier League title. We are still in the FA Cup. And this tie against Juventus? It is not over. Not even close."
Some players still looked unconvinced, but Wenger wasn't finished.
"They will come to London thinking they have already won," he continued. "Let them think that. Let them believe it. And when they step onto our pitch, when they hear our fans roaring behind us, we will remind them exactly who we are."
A few nods, a shift in the energy. Small, but noticeable.
Wenger's gaze settled on Koscielny again. "Laurent," he said, softer now, "you have been one of our most reliable defenders for years. One mistake does not erase that. Learn from it, and then forget it."
Koscielny swallowed hard and gave a small nod, though he still looked haunted. It would take time, but the seed was planted.
Wenger turned his attention back to the whole squad. "You have a choice," he said. "You can sit here and dwell on this defeat. Or you can use it. Channel it. Let it fuel you. Because this season is not over. We are Arsenal. And we fight until the end."
The words hit home.
Slowly but surely, the mood in the room began to shift. Walcott sat up a little straighter. Ramsey rolled his shoulders back. Giroud clenched his fists. Even Koscielny, though still subdued, exhaled deeply as if letting go of some of the burden.
Francesco watched it happen, taking it all in. He had seen plenty of tough moments in football, and he knew that how a team responded to them was what really mattered. The game in London was their chance at redemption.
Wenger checked his watch, then turned to Per Mertesacker and Francesco. "You two," he said, "take a quick shower and meet me in the press room. We have a post-match conference to attend."
Francesco sighed inwardly but nodded. He wasn't looking forward to answering questions after a painful loss, but it was part of the job.
Mertesacker, ever the professional, simply gave a short nod before standing up. "Let's get it over with," he muttered as he grabbed his towel and walked toward the showers.
Francesco followed, peeling off his sweat-soaked jersey as he went. As the hot water hit his skin, he closed his eyes for a moment, letting the exhaustion seep out of his muscles.
He replayed the match in his mind—the chances, the moments where they had been on the front foot, the instant everything had fallen apart. It stung, but Wenger was right. This wasn't over.
By the time he was dressed and ready, he felt a little lighter, more focused. He and Mertesacker met Wenger at the door, and together, they headed toward the press room.
It was time to face the questions.
As Francesco, Mertesacker, and Wenger stepped into the press room, they were immediately met with a blinding wall of flashing lights and a barrage of voices calling out their names. The sheer intensity of it was enough to make Francesco wince slightly, his headache from the match only intensifying under the bright lights and relentless noise.
Reporters from all over Europe were packed into the room, their hands raised, eager to get the first question in. The air smelled faintly of coffee and sweat, a strange mix that reminded Francesco of just how exhausting these moments could be. He had been in press conferences before, but this one felt different—heavier, more suffocating.
Wenger led the way, his face calm and composed, the way it always was in these moments. He had been through this countless times before, and nothing seemed to faze him. Mertesacker, ever the leader, squared his shoulders and took his seat next to Wenger, his face unreadable. Francesco followed suit, though he could feel the weight of the match still lingering in his body.
As soon as they sat down, the questions started flying.
"Arsène, was this a missed opportunity for Arsenal? Do you think Juventus deserved the win?"
Wenger adjusted the microphone in front of him, his expression neutral. "We played a strong match, and for large parts, we were the better team. I do not think the result reflects our performance, but this is football. Sometimes, one moment changes everything."
Another reporter quickly jumped in. "Laurent Koscielny's foul in the final moments—do you believe it was the right call for the referee to give the penalty?"
A flicker of frustration crossed Wenger's face, but he remained composed. "I have not had the chance to review the footage properly, so I cannot comment on the decision. But what I can say is that Laurent has been one of our most consistent players, and one moment does not define him or this team. We win together, and we lose together."
Francesco could sense the reporters weren't satisfied with that answer. They wanted controversy, they wanted blame. But Wenger wasn't going to give it to them.
A voice from the back cut through the noise. "Francesco, this was your first Champions League knockout stage loss. How do you feel about the result? And do you believe Arsenal can still turn this around in the second leg?"
Francesco leaned forward slightly, the exhaustion from the match still present in his limbs but his mind sharp. "Of course, we're disappointed. We came here to get a result, and we were close. But football is about moments, and tonight, things didn't go our way in the final minutes." He took a breath before continuing. "But this tie is far from over. We have ninety minutes at the Emirates, and I know this team. I know what we're capable of. We'll be ready."
Next to him, Mertesacker spoke up, his deep voice cutting through the noise. "It's not just about one player or one mistake. We had opportunities as a team, and we didn't capitalize. Now, we have a chance to make it right in London."
Wenger gave Mertesacker a small nod of approval before looking toward the next reporter.
"Per, as the captain, what do you say to the squad after a loss like this? How do you make sure this result doesn't affect the team's confidence?"
Mertesacker took a moment before answering. "We remind ourselves of the bigger picture. This is just one game. We have been in situations like this before, and we have bounced back. We have a lot to fight for this season, and nothing is decided yet. The most important thing is how we respond."
The questions kept coming—some about the match, some about tactics, some about individual performances. Wenger remained composed throughout, choosing his words carefully, making sure not to give the media anything they could twist into controversy.
Francesco, though still new to these high-pressure moments, handled himself well. He didn't shy away from taking responsibility, but he also made it clear that Arsenal were not finished. He knew that the words spoken here mattered. They would set the tone for the days leading up to the second leg.
A journalist in the front row leaned forward. "Arsène, do you believe Arsenal can still win this tie?"
Wenger didn't hesitate. "Absolutely. We have shown this season that we can compete with the best teams in Europe. We will be ready at the Emirates. This is not over."
The press officer, sensing the need to wrap things up, finally stepped in. "Last question," he announced, scanning the room.
Immediately, a reporter from one of the major European sports outlets leaned forward, locking eyes with Francesco. There was a sharpness in his expression, the kind that suggested he wasn't going to hold back.
"Francesco, there's been a lot of talk about your performance tonight. You scored one goal, but you also missed a number of chances that could have changed the outcome. Do you take responsibility for this loss? Do you think Arsenal would have drawn or even won if you had been more clinical?"
The room went silent for a brief moment. The question hung in the air like a blade, waiting to cut.
Francesco felt the heat rise in his chest. He had been expecting something like this, but hearing it out loud still stung. He had already replayed those missed chances in his head a hundred times since the final whistle—how he had struck the ball just a little too high on that first chance, how Buffon had somehow managed to get a hand on his close-range effort, how his volley had skimmed the post instead of nestling into the net.
But there was no point in dwelling on regret. He straightened up, meeting the reporter's gaze with a calm, steady expression.
"As a forward, my job is to score goals. Tonight, I had opportunities, and I didn't take all of them. That's on me," he admitted, his voice steady despite the frustration still lingering inside him. "But football isn't just about one player or one moment. We win as a team, and we lose as a team. We had other chances, and we could have defended better at the end. This isn't about pointing fingers—it's about learning and coming back stronger."
He paused, letting his words settle before continuing.
"I'm disappointed in myself because I hold myself to a high standard. But I can tell you this—I won't let this define me. I'll work harder, and next time, I'll be more clinical. That's the only response I can give. The tie isn't over. We have a second leg at home, and I'll be ready."
The conviction in his voice seemed to catch some of the journalists off guard. Even Wenger, sitting beside him, gave a small, approving nod.
The press officer didn't give the reporters a chance to ask more. "That's all for tonight. Thank you."
As they stood up from their seats, the flashing cameras continued to capture their every move. The murmurs of journalists already typing away at their reports filled the room, but Francesco blocked it all out.
Wenger placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder as they exited. "You handled that well," the manager said.
Francesco gave a small nod, though his jaw was still tight. He knew the headlines would be ruthless. *Francesco's missed chances cost Arsenal.* *Arsenal star wastes golden opportunities in crucial defeat.* He could already imagine the criticism from pundits, the debates about whether he had what it took to perform on the biggest stage.
Let them talk.
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.
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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