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Francesco sat up a little straighter. He felt it too—that hunger, that fire inside him. This wasn't over, not yet.
The meeting had done its job. The sting of defeat still lingered, but there was a shift in the air—an unspoken agreement among the players that they weren't done yet. The second leg at the Emirates was still to come, and despite everything that had gone wrong last night, there was still a chance to set things right.
Wenger gave them a final nod, his expression calm yet resolute. "Alright, that's all for now. Head back to your rooms, pack your things. We leave for the airport in an hour."
No one argued. There was nothing left to say.
Slowly, the players pushed back their chairs and filed out of the conference room. Some walked in silence, their thoughts still occupied by the match, while others exchanged quiet words about the return leg.
Francesco walked alongside Özil and Ramsey as they made their way to the elevator. "Long flight home," Ramsey muttered, rubbing his face. "Not looking forward to it."
Özil smirked slightly. "At least we don't have to play right after we land. Small blessings."
Francesco exhaled through his nose, barely listening. His mind was elsewhere—already thinking about training, about what he could do to be better. He wasn't the type to dwell on losses for too long, but this one hurt. Juventus was beatable. He had felt it. If not for Buffon's brilliance and those last-ditch blocks, they could have walked away with a result. But almost wasn't good enough at this level.
When the elevator doors slid open, they stepped out onto their floor. The hallway was quiet except for the occasional shuffle of feet and the faint sound of zippers as some of their teammates had already started packing. Francesco unlocked his room and pushed the door open, greeted by the familiar sight of his half-unpacked suitcase and the bed he had barely slept in.
He sighed and rolled his shoulders, his muscles still sore from the match. Without wasting time, he grabbed his duffel bag from the chair and began stuffing his clothes inside. He wasn't the most organized packer, but it didn't matter—he just wanted to get it over with.
As he zipped up his bag, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He grabbed it, expecting it to be a message from a teammate, but his brows lifted slightly when he saw Leah's name on the screen.
Leah: Hey, remember to call me when you arrive at London. Don't forget, dinner's on me. Safe travels back to London.
Francesco felt a small smile tug at the corner of his lips. Leah had always known the right thing to say.
Francesco: okay. I want to eat some italian food, if I can choose.
A few seconds later, his phone buzzed again.
Leah: Hehehe, okay. I will reserve us a at a fancy Italian restaurant.
Shaking his head slightly, he tossed his phone onto his bag and grabbed his jacket from the closet. As much as he hated losing, he appreciated messages like that—little reminders that football wasn't everything, even if it felt like it sometimes.
A knock on his door pulled him from his thoughts. "You ready?" Özil's voice called from outside.
"Yeah, coming." Francesco slung his bag over his shoulder and took one last glance around the room before heading out.
The hallway was busier now, players emerging from their rooms, carrying their luggage. There wasn't much talking—just the occasional sigh or quiet exchange of words as they made their way downstairs. The mood wasn't miserable, just subdued.
The hotel lobby was waiting for them, Wenger standing near the exit with Steve Bould, making sure everyone was ready. The hotel staff were polite as ever, offering small smiles and respectful nods as the team gathered near the entrance.
Outside, the team bus was already parked, the driver standing nearby as he loaded the players' luggage into the storage compartment.
Francesco adjusted the strap on his shoulder as he stepped outside. The morning air in Turin was crisp, carrying a slight chill. A few journalists were waiting by the barriers, cameras ready, but none of the players stopped to talk. This wasn't the time. They just wanted to go home.
One by one, they boarded the bus, taking their usual seats. Francesco slid into a window seat toward the middle, setting his bag down by his feet. Özil sat beside him, while Sánchez and Giroud took the row behind them.
The bus rumbled to life, and within minutes, they were pulling away from the hotel, leaving the city behind.
Francesco leaned his head against the window, watching the streets blur past. He thought about the match again—about Buffon's saves, about Koscielny's unlucky penalty, about the goal he had scored.
It wasn't enough.
He knew he had done well individually, but that didn't matter when the team lost. He needed to be better.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the hum of the bus engine lull him into a light rest.
By the time they reached the airport, the sun had climbed higher in the sky. The team moved through security quickly, avoiding unnecessary attention, and before long, they were settled in the private lounge, waiting to board.
Francesco sat in one of the lounge chairs, a bottle of water in his hand, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly. The internet was flooded with match reports and analysis, most of them talking about how Juventus' experience had given them the edge.
Experience, Francesco thought to himself.
It was true. Juventus had been in these situations so many times before, and they knew how to manage a game. Arsenal, on the other hand, still had a tendency to let moments slip away.
He exhaled and locked his phone, deciding he'd had enough of the media's opinions for now.
Across the room, Wenger sat with the coaching staff, speaking quietly. The players were scattered around, some stretching out on the lounge chairs, others grabbing coffee from the refreshments table.
Koscielny sat a few seats away, staring blankly ahead, lost in his own world. Francesco thought about saying something, but he knew Koscielny. He needed time to process things on his own.
Soon, an announcement came over the intercom. Their flight was ready for boarding.
Francesco grabbed his bag and followed the team through the terminal. They moved in a quiet group, boarding the plane without any fuss.
As he settled into his seat, he glanced out the window. Turin had been a disappointment, but London awaited.
The second leg would come soon enough.
The flight back to London was quiet. The mood on the plane mirrored the atmosphere from the hotel—subdued, contemplative. Some players dozed off, trying to get some rest after the exhausting match. Others had their headphones in, watching movies or listening to music, anything to pass the time.
Francesco sat near the window, arms crossed, staring out at the clouds. He wasn't tired enough to sleep, but he also didn't feel like watching anything. His mind was still replaying the match, thinking of the moments where things could have gone differently.
Beside him, Özil had fallen asleep, his head tilted slightly to the side. Ramsey, a row ahead, was flipping through a magazine, though Francesco doubted he was actually paying attention to it. Across the aisle, Alexis Sánchez sat with his arms folded, eyes closed, but his leg bounced slightly—a restless energy still lingering within him.
Francesco sighed and pulled out his phone. There wasn't much to do, but he scrolled through his messages anyway. Leah's text from earlier still sat there, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
He checked the time. They still had a couple of hours left in the air.
Wenger, sitting a few rows ahead, was reading through a small notebook, his ever-present focus unshaken. The man never stopped thinking about football, never stopped planning. Francesco admired that about him.
After what felt like forever, the captain's voice came over the intercom, announcing their descent into London. The players stirred, stretching, rubbing their faces, preparing themselves for the dreary weather that likely awaited them outside.
Francesco peered out the window as they broke through the clouds, the familiar sight of London coming into view. Even with the gray sky overhead, there was a strange comfort in being back.
The plane landed smoothly at Heathrow, and after taxiing to the gate, they were allowed to disembark. As soon as the cabin doors opened, the cool London air seeped in, a stark contrast to the chill of Turin.
One by one, the players grabbed their belongings and stepped off the plane. Francesco slung his bag over his shoulder and followed the others down the jet bridge, the exhaustion from travel finally starting to settle in.
The airport was as busy as ever, but Arsenal had their own way of moving through it efficiently. Staff members guided them toward the baggage claim area, where their suitcases were already waiting.
Francesco spotted his and hoisted it onto its wheels, rolling it alongside him as they moved toward the exit.
Outside, the team bus was already parked, the driver standing beside it, ready to load their bags into the compartment. Francesco handed his over and climbed aboard, sliding into a seat near the back.
The bus pulled away from the airport, merging onto the familiar London roads.
Francesco pulled out his phone again, fingers tapping out a quick message to Leah.
Francesco: Just landed in London. I'll pick you up at 7 tonight.
A moment later, a reply came in.
Leah: Good! I'll be ready. Hope you're hungry.
Francesco smirked slightly. After the last 24 hours, he could definitely use a good meal.
He locked his phone and leaned back against the seat, letting his eyes drift to the window.
The drive to Colney wasn't long, but it was quiet. Some players had already fallen asleep, while others stared out at the passing scenery. No one talked much, but that was normal after a tough loss.
As they neared the training ground, Wenger finally spoke.
"Take today to rest," he said, his voice carrying through the bus. "Tomorrow, we refocus. We have the Premier League to think about, and then the second leg against Juventus. Keep your heads up."
There were small nods from some of the players, though no one said much.
When they arrived at Colney, most of the team gathered their things and headed straight for their cars. Francesco grabbed his bag, adjusted the strap over his shoulder, and made his way to his own car in the parking lot.
He unlocked it, tossed his bag in the backseat, and slid into the driver's seat. Before starting the engine, he checked his phone one more time.
7 PM. He had time to shower, rest a bit, and then pick up Leah.
He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, heading home, already looking forward to dinner.
Francesco pulled into the basement parking of his apartment building, turning off the engine with a tired sigh. The journey from Turin to London had been long, and though exhaustion sat heavy in his bones, there was still a part of him that remained restless. Maybe it was the match still lingering in his mind, or maybe it was the quiet anticipation of dinner with Leah. Either way, sleep could wait.
He grabbed his duffel bag from the passenger seat and stepped out of the car, the underground lot dimly lit and nearly silent except for the occasional hum of an elevator in the distance. He made his way to the elevator, pressing the button and leaning back slightly as he waited. When the doors slid open, he stepped inside and hit the button for his floor.
The ride up was quiet, his reflection staring back at him from the polished steel walls. His mind drifted again—flashes of Buffon's saves, Juventus' defense, the weight of the second leg still ahead. He exhaled slowly, shaking off the thoughts as the elevator dinged, signaling his arrival.
Stepping into the hallway, he moved toward his apartment, unlocking the door and pushing it open. The familiar space greeted him—modern but comfortable, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. He dropped his bag near the door and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch as he made his way toward the bedroom.
His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. 5:30 PM.
Good. He had time.
Without wasting a second, he walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the water heat up before stepping in. The warm stream cascaded over his sore muscles, washing away the stiffness from the long flight. He stood under the spray for a moment, letting it soothe him before reaching for the soap.
As he lathered up, his thoughts drifted to Leah again. She had always been a steady presence in his life, someone who never got caught up in the chaos of his football career. She was one of the few people who didn't see him as just *Francesco Lee, Arsenal's rising star*, but simply as *Francesco*. That meant something.
Rinsing off, he turned off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel from the rack. He dried off quickly, running a hand through his damp hair as he walked back into the bedroom. Opening his closet, he scanned his options, debating what to wear.
He didn't want to be too formal, but he still wanted to look good.
After a moment of consideration, he settled on a fitted black button-up and a pair of dark jeans—simple, but stylish enough for a nice dinner. He rolled up the sleeves slightly, then slipped on a sleek pair of Chelsea boots to complete the look. Checking himself in the mirror, he gave a slight nod of approval.
Casual, but fancy enough. Perfect.
With some time to spare, he grabbed his phone and checked his messages. A few texts from teammates, some notifications from social media, but nothing urgent. He scrolled through his feed absentmindedly before finally setting the phone down.
6:15 PM.
He still had about 45 minutes before he needed to leave.
Not wanting to sit in silence, he walked over to the living room and turned on the TV, flipping through channels before settling on a Premier League highlights show. He leaned back into the couch, watching as the analysts dissected the latest fixtures, though he wasn't really paying attention. His mind was still running through everything—dinner, training tomorrow, the second leg against Juventus.
But for tonight, at least, he could allow himself to enjoy something outside of football.
At exactly 6:50 PM, Francesco grabbed his keys and phone, giving himself one last glance in the mirror before heading out the door.
Francesco stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the basement. As the doors slid shut, he let out a small breath, rolling his shoulders to shake off any lingering stiffness. The soft hum of the elevator filled the silence, and he found himself checking his phone again, even though he knew there were no new messages.
Leah was waiting.
The doors opened with a soft chime, and he stepped out into the dimly lit parking garage. His footsteps echoed slightly as he made his way toward his car—a sleek Honda Civic, nothing too flashy but reliable, just how he liked it. He unlocked it with a quick press of his key fob, the headlights flashing briefly as he pulled open the door and slid inside.
Starting the engine, he let the low hum of the car settle over him, taking a moment before shifting into gear and pulling out of the lot. The drive to Leah's wasn't long, but with the evening traffic, he knew it could take a little longer than expected. That was fine. He wasn't in a rush—if anything, he enjoyed these quiet moments before seeing her.
The streets of London stretched out before him, headlights glowing against the wet pavement from an earlier drizzle. The sky was a deep navy, the last traces of daylight barely clinging to the horizon. As he navigated through the city, he turned on the radio, letting the soft buzz of music fill the car.
His mind drifted.
Despite the exhaustion from the trip, there was an undeniable sense of calm now. Maybe it was the fact that he was back in London, or maybe it was just knowing that he had something to look forward to tonight. Leah had always been a steady presence in his life, someone who didn't get caught up in the chaos that surrounded his career. She wasn't impressed by the fame, the money, or the footballing world—she cared about him, the person behind all of it.
That was rare.
He tapped his fingers lightly against the steering wheel as he hit a red light, his gaze flicking to the rearview mirror before glancing out at the cityscape. The roads were still lively—London never really slept—but there was something peaceful about driving at this time of night.
The light turned green, and he pressed on the gas, weaving through familiar streets. He knew the way to Leah's place by heart.
Fifteen minutes later, he turned onto her street, the car rolling to a slow stop outside her building. He pulled out his phone, shooting her a quick text.
Francesco: Outside.
A minute later, the front door of the building opened, and there she was.
Leah stepped out, dressed elegantly but effortlessly, a small smile tugging at her lips as she spotted him. Francesco felt that familiar warmth in his chest, the kind that only seemed to appear when she was around.
She walked over, pulling open the passenger door and sliding in.
"You're right on time," she teased, fastening her seatbelt.
He smirked, shifting the car back into drive. "Of course. Wouldn't want to keep you waiting."
As he pulled away from the curb, the night stretched out before them—just the two of them, the city lights, and the promise of a good evening ahead.
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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