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Wenger just laughed and walked off. When Francesco saw the back of Wenger as he leave, Francesco knew that this will be a very long day and this will be one of them.
As the last whistle of training blew, Francesco let out a deep breath, relieved that the relentless teasing had finally taken a backseat to actual football. He had expected a bit of teasing from the guys, but they had taken it to another level—constant jokes, dramatic scene of his so-called "romantic" moment with Leah, and even a few impromptu joke in the locker room.
To say it had been a long day was an understatement.
Now, freshly showered and dressed, Francesco stood in front of his locker, methodically packing his bag. He was just about to zip it up when he felt a firm but familiar hand on his shoulder.
Turning around, he found himself face to face with Arsène Wenger.
"What is it, boss?" Francesco asked, instantly switching to a more serious demeanor.
Wenger's expression was calm, yet there was an underlying weight to his words. "Don't forget, Francesco—tomorrow is the FA Cup semi-final at Wembley againts Reading." His gaze was steady, assessing. "I don't want you to overlook it because of your new relationship or the media circus surrounding it."
Francesco exhaled, nodding. "I know, boss. I'm focused."
Wenger studied him for a moment before continuing. "I believe you, but distractions have a way of creeping up when you least expect them. I've seen many great players lose their way because they allowed outside noise to get to them." He paused, his voice firm but not unkind. "Don't let that happen to you."
Francesco met his gaze, understanding the pressure behind those words. Wenger wasn't just concerned about tomorrow's game—he was looking out for him as a player, as a young man navigating the brutal world of professional football.
"I won't," Francesco assured him. "Tomorrow, I'll be ready."
Wenger gave a small nod of approval. "Good. Because we need you at your best." With that, he gave Francesco's shoulder a light pat before walking away.
Francesco watched him go, inhaling deeply. He knew Wenger was right. The FA Cup semi-final was massive—one step away from a chance to lift the trophy at Wembley. He couldn't afford to let his personal life overshadow his performance on the pitch.
Zipping up his bag, he slung it over his shoulder and made his way out of the locker room.
As Francesco drove back to his apartment, he could already feel the exhaustion setting in. Physically, he was drained from training, but mentally, his mind was still buzzing with everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
The media explosion. The endless teasing from his teammates. Wenger's reminder about the importance of tomorrow's match.
And, of course, Leah.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed in the passenger seat. At a red light, he glanced over and saw her name flashing on the screen.
Leah: Survived training? Or did they roast you alive? 😂
Francesco shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips as he quickly typed back.
Francesco: Barely. It was brutal. My teammates are the worst.
Leah: Oh, I'm sure. Must've been a nightmare having a whole squad of world-class footballers hyping you up as a romantic hero. 🥰
Francesco: Stop enjoying this so much.
Leah: Can't help it. Anyway, rest up. Big game tomorrow.
Francesco: Yeah, I know. Wenger gave me the talk.
Leah: Let me guess. "Focus, Francesco. Do not let distractions cloud your mind."
Francesco chuckled at how spot-on she was.
Francesco: Pretty much. With a side of "I've seen many players fail because of off-pitch distractions." No pressure, right?
Leah: You'll be fine. Just play your game. You're one of the best for a reason.
Her words, simple as they were, made something warm settle in his chest.
Francesco: Thanks, Leah.
Leah: Always. Now go get some sleep. No excuses.
Francesco: Bossy.
Leah: Someone has to be.
Shaking his head with a grin, he set his phone down and focused on the road.
As Francesco pulled into the basement parking of his apartment building, he let out a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. The day had been long—physically draining from training, mentally exhausting from the media circus, and emotionally… well, he wasn't sure how to put that into words yet.
He turned off the engine and sat in silence for a moment before grabbing his bag from the passenger seat and stepping out of his car. The underground parking lot was quiet, the occasional hum of a distant car engine echoing through the space. Francesco adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder and made his way to the elevator.
Inside, he leaned against the cool metal wall, watching the numbers ascend. His thoughts drifted back to Wenger's words. The weight of expectation was nothing new to him, but tonight, it felt heavier. The FA Cup semi-final was tomorrow—a chance to bring Arsenal one step closer to silverware. He knew how much this meant to the club, to the fans, to himself.
And yet, no matter how much he tried to push it aside, Leah was still lingering in the back of his mind.
The elevator dinged, snapping him out of his thoughts. He stepped out, making his way down the familiar hallway to his apartment. Unlocking the door, he kicked it shut behind him and dropped his bag onto the sofa with a tired sigh.
Food. That was the next priority.
Walking into the kitchen, he rolled up his sleeves and pulled out ingredients from the fridge. He wasn't in the mood for anything too complicated, just something quick and filling. He set a cutting board on the counter, grabbed a knife, and started chopping.
Just as he was about to turn on the stove, his phone buzzed against the counter. He glanced over, expecting it to be another message from Leah.
But it wasn't.
Mom.
Francesco let out a knowing sigh, already bracing himself for what this call was about. His mom, Sarah, was many things—kind, supportive, endlessly loving—but above all, she was someone who never missed a single detail in his life. And considering that he had called her just yesterday to ask for advice about Leah, there was no way she wasn't calling to talk about what had just exploded all over the news.
He wiped his hands on a towel before picking up.
"Hey, Mom."
"Oh my God, Francesco!" His mother's excited voice filled the room before he could even finish saying hello. "You didn't tell me it was going to happen this fast! One minute you're asking for advice, and the next, you're all over the bloody internet kissing her!"
Francesco rubbed his temple, a tired smile creeping onto his lips. "Nice to hear from you too, Mom."
"Don't 'nice to hear from you' me, young man." He could practically hear her grin. "Do you have any idea how many messages I've gotten today? My friends won't stop asking about you and Leah! And, oh, your aunt is beside herself. She called me three times."
Francesco let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Let me guess. She's planning the wedding already?"
"Obviously," Sarah said, as if it were the most natural conclusion. "She said, and I quote, 'It's about time he settled down with a proper girl, not those models he never takes seriously.'"
Francesco groaned, leaning against the counter. "Mom, please tell her to relax. We've been together for less than twenty-four hours."
"Which is exactly why this is so exciting!" Sarah gushed. "Honestly, though, sweetheart, I am happy for you. I know you wouldn't have taken this step if you weren't serious about her."
He exhaled, a small, warm feeling settling in his chest. "Yeah. She's… she's really something else, Mom."
There was a pause on the other end before Sarah spoke again, softer this time. "I can tell. You like her, don't you?"
Francesco hesitated for a second, then sighed. "I do. A lot."
"Oh, my God," she gasped. "You really do."
"Mom."
"You're smitten."
He groaned. "Mom."
She laughed. "Alright, alright, I'll stop embarrassing you. But really, Francesco, I'm proud of you. You've always been so careful about who you let into your life. It's nice to see you letting someone in."
Francesco didn't say anything for a moment, just letting her words sink in. His mother knew him better than anyone. She knew that relationships, real ones, weren't something he entered into lightly.
"I appreciate that, Mom," he finally said, voice quieter. "But, uh, let's just… keep the wedding talk to a minimum for now, yeah?"
Sarah chuckled. "Fine. No wedding talk. For now. But don't think you're off the hook."
Francesco rolled his eyes but smiled. "Alright, I need to finish cooking before I burn my kitchen down."
"Fine, fine. I'll let you go. But don't forget—I expect updates."
"Goodnight, Mom," he said, shaking his head.
"Goodnight, sweetheart."
As he hung up, Francesco let out a breath, staring at his phone for a moment before setting it down. He glanced at the half-prepared meal in front of him and sighed.
Yeah. He really liked Leah.
The next morning, Francesco woke up feeling more rested than he expected. Maybe it was the exhaustion from training, or maybe it was just the way things had finally settled in his mind, but for the first time in days, he wasn't overthinking.
Today was match day.
And whatever distractions the media threw his way, he wasn't going to let them get to him.
After a quick breakfast, he grabbed his Arsenal duffle bag, threw on his tracksuit, and headed out the door. The drive to the training ground was smooth, the early morning London streets quieter than usual. As he pulled into the parking lot, he could already see a few of his teammates arriving.
The moment he stepped inside, however, it became very clear that the teasing wasn't over.
"Look who it is!" Chamberlain called out, clapping his hands. "Football's most romantic leading man!"
"Oh, fuck off," Francesco groaned, shoving past him with a grin.
Ramsey smirked. "Hope Leah gave you a nice pre-match pep talk."
Francesco shot him a look. "You all need hobbies."
The room erupted in laughter.
Despite the relentless banter, the atmosphere was good—focused but light. Everyone knew how important today's match was. A chance at the FA Cup final was on the line, and they weren't going to let it slip.
Wenger walked in with the rest of the coaching staff, his sharp eyes scanning the room as the noise died down. The lighthearted teasing and laughter faded as everyone shifted into game mode.
"Alright, lads," Wenger started, his voice calm yet firm. "Time to get moving. Get your bags, we're heading to Wembley."
The room instantly went into motion. Francesco grabbed his duffel, slinging it over his shoulder as he followed the team out to the bus. The crisp morning air hit him as they stepped outside, but the adrenaline building in his chest kept him warm.
The bus ride was quiet at first, the hum of the engine and the occasional murmur of conversation filling the space. But as they got closer to Wembley, the atmosphere changed. The streets were lined with fans—both Arsenal and Reading supporters—waving scarves, holding banners, and chanting songs.
Francesco gazed out the window, taking it all in. This was why he played. The passion, the energy, the feeling of knowing that thousands of people cared about what happened today. It was more than just a game; it was history in the making.
As the bus pulled into the stadium parking lot, the tension grew. They filed out, walking through the tunnel toward the locker room. The moment they stepped inside, the routine kicked in. Bags were dropped, kits were laid out, and one by one, they started changing into their training gear.
Francesco tied his laces tightly, rolling his shoulders as he stood up. The warm-up was about to begin. They headed out onto the pristine Wembley pitch, the stadium still mostly empty except for staff and early arrivals. Under the bright floodlights, they stretched, ran drills, passed the ball around, and worked through their usual pre-match routine. The coaches watched closely, barking out instructions and fine-tuning last-minute details.
Forty-five minutes flew by. Francesco felt good—sharp, focused. His touches were crisp, his movement light. He could feel the energy in the squad, the hunger in every player.
When Wenger finally called them back in, they jogged off the pitch, sweat already forming on their foreheads despite the cool April air.
Back in the locker room, the real preparation began. The atmosphere was different now—quieter, more intense. Each player went through their own ritual as they changed into their match kits. Some stayed silent, lost in thought. Others bounced their legs, too filled with nervous energy to sit still.
Francesco pulled his jersey over his head, feeling the familiar weight of the Arsenal crest on his chest. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. This was it.
Wenger stood at the front of the room, waiting for the team to settle before he spoke.
"Alright," he began, his eyes scanning the room. "You all know what's at stake today. This is Wembley. This is an FA Cup semi-final. A chance to play in the final, to win silverware, to make history. We've worked too hard to let this slip away."
Francesco leaned forward slightly, listening intently.
"We'll be playing in our usual 4-2-3-1 formation," Wenger continued. "Wojciech in goal." He nodded toward Szczesny, who gave a small, focused nod in return.
"The back four—Gibbs on the left, Koscielny and Per in the middle, Debuchy on the right. Stay compact, stay disciplined."
Francesco could see Koscielny and Mertesacker exchanging a glance. They were the backbone of the defense, and they knew the responsibility on their shoulders.
"In midfield, we go with Francis and Santi as the double pivot," Wenger said, turning to Coquelin and Cazorla. "Francis, protect the backline. Santi, control the tempo."
Then Wenger's eyes found Özil. "Mesut in the middle. Create. Find the space. Pick them apart."
Özil gave a small nod, his expression unreadable but locked in.
"For the attack—Alexis on the left, Francesco on the right."
Francesco clenched his fists slightly, the nerves kicking in again. This was his biggest game yet.
"Danny leads the line," Wenger finished, looking at Welbeck. "Stretch their defense. Make the runs."
Then Wenger turned toward the bench. "David, Gabriel, Nacho, Mathieu, Jack, Theo, Olivier—you're all important. Stay ready."
Francesco glanced at Wilshere, who smirked slightly. Even if he wasn't starting, he'd be ready to make an impact.
Wenger took a breath, looking around at all of them. "This is your moment. Play with intelligence. Play with heart. And play for each other."
The room was silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Then, slowly, players started to rise, stretching, bouncing on their feet, shaking out their limbs.
Francesco pulled his socks up, adjusting his shin guards. He could feel the electricity in the air, the pressure, the anticipation.
Then, as the team gathered near the tunnel, ready to walk out, Alexis clapped Francesco on the back. "Ready, hermano?"
Francesco exhaled and gave him a small, confident smirk. "Always."
After that the referee told them they can start to walk out of the tunnel, and both team that lining up behind the referee's are start walking out of the tunnel and slowly hear the cheers of the fans at the stadium.
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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