If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
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.
Francesco wiped the remaining water from his face with a towel before stepping out of the bathroom. As he walked toward the bed, his phone buzzed again, vibrating against the wooden surface of the table. He glanced at the screen and saw the name flashing—Leah Williamson.
He exhaled softly, running a hand through his hair. Leah. She must have been watching the game. She always did when she had the chance. He hesitated for a moment before answering, pressing the phone to his ear as he sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Hey," he said, his voice slightly hoarse from the exhaustion of the night.
"Hey yourself," Leah's voice came through, gentle yet firm, the way it always was when she knew he wasn't in the best headspace. "How are you holding up?"
Francesco let out a small chuckle, leaning back against the headboard. "You know how it is. Long night. Tough result."
"I know," she said softly. "I saw the game. You were brilliant, by the way."
He shook his head even though she couldn't see him. "Doesn't feel like it. A goal doesn't mean much when you don't win."
"That's not true, and you know it," she countered. "You were one of the best players on the pitch. You kept Arsenal in the game. If anything, you deserved to win more than anyone."
He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Tell that to the scoreboard."
There was a brief pause before Leah spoke again, her voice laced with understanding. "I know this loss stings, but you can't carry it alone, Francy."
Francesco smiled faintly at the nickname. Leah had called him that for as long as he could remember, even before they both became professional footballers. It was just their thing.
"I'm not carrying it alone," he said after a moment. "The whole team feels it."
"I'm sure they do. But I also know you," she pressed. "You're probably sitting there blaming yourself for not scoring that header, or for not creating more chances, or for not doing something impossible to stop Juve's goal, even though none of that is on you."
He exhaled sharply, staring at the ceiling. She wasn't wrong. He was thinking about that header. The one moment where he could've changed everything.
"Francy," she continued, her voice softer now. "You're human. You're not a machine, no matter how much you play like one sometimes. You can't control everything. All you can do is focus on what's next."
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting her words sink in. Leah had always had this way of grounding him, of making him see beyond the frustration in the moment.
"You sound like my dad," he finally said, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Leah laughed. "Your dad's a smart man. Maybe you should listen to him more."
"I do," he admitted. "And to you."
"Good," she said. "Because I need you to listen to this: the tie isn't over. Not even close. You guys are going back to the Emirates, and if there's one thing I know about you, it's that you thrive in moments like this."
Francesco let out a breath, a flicker of something stirring in his chest—determination, resolve. "You really believe that?"
"I know that," she corrected him. "You've done it before. You'll do it again."
He nodded to himself. "Yeah. Yeah, we will."
"That's more like it," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "Now, do me a favor and get some rest. You're no good to anyone if you're running on fumes."
He chuckled. "Yes, ma'am."
Leah's voice softened even more, a warmth in her tone that made Francesco feel just a little lighter. "Tell you what, when you're back in London, dinner's on me. My way of making sure you don't spend the whole week brooding over this result."
Francesco chuckled, shaking his head. "You don't have to do that."
"I know," she replied easily. "But I want to. Besides, I can't have my favorite footballer walking around looking like he's carrying the weight of the world. Consider it my way of soothing your pain."
There was a teasing lilt to her voice, but Francesco knew she meant it. Leah had always been like that—reliable, steady, always knowing when to offer support and when to push him to be better.
"Alright," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "Dinner sounds good."
"Good," she said. "That's settled, then."
Francesco sighed, letting his head rest back against the headboard. "Thanks, Leah. For calling, for talking some sense into me. I think this defeat really got to me."
She hummed in understanding. "Of course it did. You've been on an incredible run since your debut, Francy. Arsenal's been flying. You haven't had to deal with a loss like this yet, not on this stage. It's only natural to feel it."
He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face. "Yeah… maybe. It just feels weird. Since my debut in November, we've been winning. Every single game. Even in the tough ones, we always found a way. And now…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Now, we've lost. And it's the Champions League. It just stings more."
Leah was quiet for a moment before she spoke, her voice thoughtful. "You know, Francy, I think that's why this loss feels so heavy. Because you care so much. Because you expect nothing but the best from yourself and from the team. That's what makes you special."
Francesco let her words sink in. She was right—he had always demanded the absolute best from himself. It was why he had worked so hard, why he pushed himself beyond his limits. But that also meant when setbacks happened, they hit harder.
"But listen," she continued, her voice unwavering, "every great player, every great team, has to go through losses like this. You think Henry and Bergkamp never had nights like this? That they never had to bounce back from tough defeats? Of course they did. And you will, too."
Francesco felt his grip on the phone tighten slightly. "I just hate losing."
"I know," she said simply. "But it's not about the loss. It's about what you do next. And I have no doubt you're going to come back stronger."
Francesco inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly. The frustration, the disappointment—it was still there. But so was something else. A flicker of determination. A fire reigniting inside him.
"Yeah," he murmured. "You're right."
"I usually am," Leah teased, and he could hear the smile in her voice.
Francesco let out a small laugh. "Alright, alright. Don't let it go to your head."
"Oh, I absolutely will," she said lightly. "Now, get some sleep. You need it."
"Yeah, I will," he said, feeling the exhaustion creeping in. "Goodnight, Leah."
"Goodnight, Francy."
The line went dead, and Francesco set his phone down on the nightstand. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting the silence settle around him.
Leah was right. His father was right. Thierry Henry was right. This tie wasn't over.
With a deep breath, he pulled the blankets over himself and shut his eyes. He needed rest. Because when he stepped onto the pitch at the Emirates for the second leg, he would be ready.
The next morning, Francesco woke up to the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the hotel room curtains. His body still felt heavy from the match, a dull soreness lingering in his legs, but the real weight pressing on him was the defeat from the night before. He lay still for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, letting the echoes of the game play in his mind again—the goal he scored, the chances they missed, the penalty that sealed their fate. He let out a deep sigh before finally pushing himself up.
Shaking off the grogginess, he grabbed his towel and headed into the bathroom. The shower was quick, the warm water loosening the tightness in his muscles. As he stood under the stream, he thought about what Leah had said last night. About bouncing back. About not letting this loss define him.
By the time he was dressed and heading down to the hotel restaurant, he felt a little lighter, though the sting of the result still lingered.
The restaurant was already lively when he walked in. A few of his teammates were seated at different tables, some engaged in quiet conversations while others were focused on their food. There was an unspoken air of disappointment hanging over them, but at least no one seemed completely dejected.
Francesco grabbed a plate and helped himself to an omelet and some ham, keeping it simple. His appetite wasn't quite back yet, but he knew he needed to eat. As he scanned the room, he spotted Olivier Giroud, Mesut Özil, and Alexis Sánchez sitting together. They looked much better than they did last night—less tense, more resigned to the reality of the loss.
He walked over and pulled out a chair.
"Morning," he said, setting his plate down.
"Morning," Özil greeted, sipping his coffee. "Sleep well?"
Francesco shrugged, cutting into his omelet. "Could've been better."
Giroud chuckled, shaking his head. "You and me both, my friend."
Sánchez smirked slightly as he bit into his toast. "You mean all of us."
They all let out small, knowing laughs. It was a shared feeling—none of them had slept perfectly after a loss like that. But at least now, with a new day, the sharp edge of the disappointment had dulled just a little.
As they ate, the conversation drifted from the match to lighter topics—things like family, upcoming league fixtures, and funny moments from training. It was their way of easing the tension, of reminding themselves that one defeat didn't erase everything they had achieved so far.
Slowly, more players began trickling into the restaurant. Per Mertesacker and Laurent Koscielny came in together, chatting quietly. Héctor Bellerín and Aaron Ramsey joined another table, and eventually, most of the squad had gathered, plates in front of them, engaging in hushed conversations.
Francesco noticed how Koscielny carried himself a little differently—shoulders slightly hunched, face more serious than usual. He knew why. That penalty call still weighed heavily on him.
Soon, Arsène Wenger and the coaching staff arrived, grabbing their own breakfasts and joining in on the subdued atmosphere. It wasn't an unfamiliar sight—post-match mornings were always like this after a loss, especially in a big competition like the Champions League. But Wenger was never the type to dwell on the negatives for too long. He believed in learning from mistakes, in moving forward.
Once breakfast was finished, Wenger stood up, pushing his chair back slightly. His presence immediately commanded attention, and the restaurant quieted.
"Alright, everyone," he said, his voice even but firm. "Meeting in the conference room in thirty minutes. We have things to discuss."
There was no need for further explanation. Everyone knew what he meant.
Koscielny barely reacted, simply nodding as he took another sip of his coffee. Francesco exchanged glances with Özil, who gave him a knowing look—this was going to be one of those meetings.
They finished up their food, and slowly, one by one, the players began making their way toward the conference room, mentally preparing themselves for what was about to come.
The players filed into the conference room in silence, each lost in their own thoughts about the previous night's match. The room was bright, the blinds partially open to let in the early morning light, but the atmosphere remained heavy. No one wanted to be here talking about a loss, especially not a Champions League defeat, but they knew it was necessary.
Francesco took a seat near the front, alongside Özil and Ramsey. Across from him, Koscielny sat with his arms crossed, staring at the table. Giroud, Sánchez, and Bellerín sat nearby, their expressions serious. Per Mertesacker, as always, was composed, but even he looked troubled.
Wenger entered the room last, carrying a notebook and a few sheets of paper. Behind him, Steve Bould and the rest of the coaching staff followed, taking their usual seats at the side of the room. The murmurs in the room died down as soon as Wenger set his papers on the table and straightened up.
He let his gaze sweep across the team before speaking.
"Let yesterday's match not bother you too much," Wenger said, his voice calm yet firm. "What's done is done. But we must learn from it. We must understand *why* we lost and *why* we weren't able to take our chances in crucial moments."
He took a step forward, hands clasped behind his back.
"This is not about blame. This is about improving."
The room remained silent, but the tension was unmistakable. Some players shifted in their seats, while others kept their eyes down. Koscielny, however, sat still, almost bracing himself.
Wenger exhaled softly before continuing.
"We had opportunities," he said. "But Juventus defended exceptionally well. Their backline was disciplined, well-organized. We knew this coming into the game. And yet, we struggled to break them down."
He glanced toward the coaching staff, giving a subtle nod. In response, one of the analysts stood up and walked to the projector at the front of the room. A moment later, the screen lit up, displaying footage from the match.
The first clip showed an attacking move from Arsenal—Francesco, Özil, and Sánchez linking up on the edge of the box, moving the ball quickly. Francesco recognized this moment instantly. He had received the ball just inside the penalty area, turned sharply, and fired a shot toward the far post. It had looked destined for the net—until Buffon, with his seemingly inhuman reflexes, got a hand to it and pushed it away.
Wenger gestured toward the screen.
"Here, Francesco does well to create space and get his shot off. The movement was good, the decision was right. But Buffon…" He paused, shaking his head slightly. "Buffon is Buffon. This is what world-class goalkeepers do."
Francesco leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. He had replayed that moment in his mind so many times last night, wondering if he could've done something differently. A bit more power? A slight change in direction? But in the end, he knew the truth—Buffon had simply been brilliant.
The next clip showed another missed chance. Giroud had risen for a header inside the box, connecting cleanly, only for Leonardo Bonucci to block it with his body just before it could reach the goal.
"Juventus' defenders put their bodies on the line," Wenger continued. "They anticipated our movements well, and when we did find space, they reacted quickly."
Another clip played, this time showing a counterattack where Sánchez found himself through on goal, only for Andrea Barzagli to make a last-ditch tackle that sent the ball out for a corner.
"We were not clinical enough," Wenger said, his tone measured. "We created enough chances, but we did not take them. And against a team like Juventus, with their experience, that is a costly mistake."
A murmur went through the room. The players knew it was true. They had seen it unfold in real-time, felt the frustration of coming so close, only for Juventus to shut the door on them time and time again.
Then, the next clip appeared on the screen. The penalty.
The room tensed instantly. Francesco saw Koscielny's jaw tighten.
In the footage, Carloz Tevez sprinted into the box, with Koscielny right on his heels. Tevez shifted his body just as Koscielny attempted to win the ball, and the slightest contact sent the Juventus striker tumbling forward. The referee blew his whistle immediately.
A collective silence filled the room as the video paused on the moment Koscielny's foot brushed against Tevez's. It was minimal contact—almost nothing—but enough for the referee to give the penalty.
Wenger turned to Koscielny, his voice softer now. "Laurent, what are your thoughts?"
Koscielny inhaled deeply before answering, his voice quiet but firm. "I shouldn't have gone in like that. I thought I could get the ball, but Tevez was clever. He knew what he was doing."
Wenger nodded. "You were aggressive, which is good. But in that moment, we needed composure. Morata was running out of space. If we had stayed patient, perhaps he wouldn't have had an option."
Koscielny looked down, his expression unreadable. Francesco knew he was taking this hard. No one blamed him—at least, no one in the room did. But Koscielny was the type to hold himself accountable, and this mistake weighed on him more than anyone else.
Wenger shifted his attention back to the room.
"This is football," he said simply. "These moments happen. Mistakes happen. What matters now is how we respond."
He took a step forward, letting his gaze meet each player's.
"We have a second leg at the Emirates," he reminded them. "This tie is not over. If we let this defeat control us, we've already lost. But if we learn from it, if we come back stronger, we still have everything to play for."
A quiet determination began to settle in the room. The disappointment wasn't gone—it wouldn't disappear that easily—but there was something else now. A flicker of defiance. A sense that they *could* turn this around.
Wenger's expression softened slightly. "You are all top players. I have no doubt in your ability. But ability alone does not win games. Mentality does. And I believe in this team."
Francesco sat up a little straighter. He felt it too—that hunger, that fire inside him. This wasn't over, not yet.
________________________________________________
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