The King Of Arsenal

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For Francesco, the match was a milestone—a reminder of what he could achieve with hard work and determination as he got another MOTM award again after his performance of getting 1 goal and 1 assist that made Arsenal win againts Manchester City. As he boarded the team bus that evening, he allowed himself a moment to reflect, the roar of the Arsenal fans still ringing in his ears. This was just the beginning, and he was ready for whatever came next.

The mood among the Arsenal players was electric as they disembarked the team bus at Manchester Airport. The crisp evening air did little to dampen their spirits; if anything, it invigorated them. The 3-0 victory over Manchester City had been more than just a triumph—it was a statement, a validation of their hard work and tactical discipline. Laughter and chatter filled the air as the team followed Arsène Wenger and the coaching staff toward the sleek Emirates plane waiting for them on the tarmac.

Francesco walked alongside Olivier Giroud and Santi Cazorla, his duffel bag slung casually over his shoulder. The glow of the floodlights above the runway reflected off the aircraft's polished exterior, emblazoned with the club's crest and the Emirates logo. It wasn't just a mode of transportation; it was a symbol of the team's identity and ambition.

"Still buzzing from that cross, Francesco?" Giroud teased, nudging the young winger playfully.

Francesco grinned, adjusting the strap of his bag. "You're not going to let me hear the end of it, are you?"

"Not a chance," Cazorla interjected, his trademark smile lighting up his face. "You made it look too easy. That's the problem."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Francesco replied, his tone light but his pride evident.

As they climbed the stairs to board the plane, Wenger stood at the entrance, greeting each player with a handshake or a pat on the back. When Francesco reached him, the manager's expression softened into a rare smile.

"Well done today," Wenger said, his voice low but warm. "You're showing everyone what you're capable of."

"Thank you, boss," Francesco replied, his chest swelling with pride. Compliments from Wenger were like rare gems—earned, not given.

Inside the plane, the players settled into their seats, the atmosphere still buzzing with the adrenaline of the match. Some of the younger players huddled around tablets, watching highlights of the game, while others reclined in their seats, earbuds in, enjoying some well-deserved downtime.

Francesco took a seat by the window, the city lights of Manchester twinkling in the distance as the plane's engines hummed to life. He was joined by Héctor Bellerín, who dropped into the seat next to him with a satisfied sigh.

"Long day, huh?" Bellerín said, leaning back and closing his eyes for a moment.

"Yeah," Francesco replied, looking out the window. "But worth it. Games like this… they remind you why you love football."

Bellerín opened one eye and glanced at him. "Spoken like a true veteran. You're what, 20? Don't get too philosophical on me now."

Francesco chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm serious. Tonight felt special. Not just for me, but for the whole team."

Bellerín nodded thoughtfully. "You're right. Performances like that… they're what people remember."

As the plane took off, climbing smoothly into the night sky, Francesco allowed himself a moment to reflect. The roar of the crowd, the precision of Cazorla's pass, the weight of the cross he delivered to Giroud—all of it played back in his mind like a highlight reel. This was his dream, playing at the highest level, contributing to moments that defined matches.

The flight itself was uneventful, the players slipping into various states of relaxation. Giroud and Laurent Koscielny engaged in a heated game of cards, while Aaron Ramsey and Mesut Özil debated the finer points of the match. Francesco stayed quiet for the most part, his thoughts alternating between the game and the future.

As the plane began its descent into London, Wenger stood and addressed the team. His voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of pride.

"Well done today, everyone," he began, his eyes sweeping over the group. "You showed discipline, creativity, and, most importantly, the ability to seize opportunities. But remember, this is just one match. We need to carry this momentum forward."

The players nodded, their expressions serious. Wenger's words always carried weight, and the team knew he was right. The Premier League was a marathon, not a sprint.

When they landed at Heathrow, the team disembarked quickly, their pace brisk despite the late hour. The terminal was quiet, save for the occasional traveler, and the Arsenal contingent moved efficiently through the airport. Francesco stuck close to the group, his duffel bag feeling lighter now, as if the night's victory had lifted more than just the team's spirits.

Outside, the team bus waited to take them back to their training ground. Francesco settled into his seat, the hum of the engine soothing as they began the journey back to London Colney. The conversations around him were a mix of lighthearted banter and tactical analysis, the players already dissecting what had worked and what could be improved.

As they neared the training ground, Wenger stood again, his expression as measured as ever. "Rest well tonight," he said, his voice carrying over the low murmur of the bus. "We'll review the match tomorrow and prepare for what's next. This season is ours to fight for, but it will take everything we have."

The Arsenal Training Centre came into view, its well-lit facilities standing like a beacon of familiarity in the quiet night. As the team bus rolled into the complex, the players began gathering their belongings, their exhaustion finally catching up with them. For all the energy and adrenaline of the match, the journey home had brought a calm that hinted at the need for rest.

Francesco slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and stood, stretching his legs. As the bus doors hissed open, he joined the line of players stepping off, exchanging tired but content goodbyes with his teammates.

"See you tomorrow, mate," Héctor Bellerín said with a small wave as he headed toward his car.

"Yeah, see you," Francesco replied, offering a fist bump to Olivier Giroud as he passed. The camaraderie among the team was strong tonight; victories like this had a way of binding them even closer together.

Francesco walked to the small bike rack where he'd left his bicycle earlier that morning. He unlocked it and swung his leg over, ready to make the short ride back home. Cycling through the quiet London streets had always been a ritual for him. Even before his professional career took off, he'd found solace in the rhythmic motion of pedaling, the cool night air clearing his mind after a long day.

The streets were nearly empty, the faint hum of streetlights accompanying the whir of his bike's tires. Francesco's thoughts drifted to the game once more. The precision of his assist to Giroud replayed in his mind, a moment he knew he'd never forget. But his focus wasn't only on what had happened. His mind was already turning toward the next challenge, the next match where he'd need to perform even better.

As he turned the corner onto his street, the warm yellow glow of his house came into view. He noticed immediately that his father's car wasn't in the driveway. Still at work, Francesco thought, a twinge of disappointment mixing with understanding. His dad, Michael, was a diligent man, often staying late at the office to provide for their family.

Francesco parked his bike in its usual spot by the side of the house, carefully securing it before heading to the front door. As he stepped inside, the familiar scent of home wrapped around him—a comforting mix of freshly cleaned laundry and the faint remnants of dinner.

"Francesco?" His mother's voice came from the living room, warm and slightly surprised.

"Yeah, Mom, it's me," he called back, slipping off his shoes and dropping his duffel bag near the stairs.

He walked into the living room to find his mom, Sarah, curled up on the couch with a blanket, the TV glowing softly in front of her. She looked up from her program with a smile, her features lighting up as they always did when she saw him.

"Late night?" she asked, patting the seat next to her.

Francesco plopped down beside her, sinking into the plush cushions with a contented sigh. "Just got back from Manchester. We won 3-0."

Her smile widened, pride evident in her eyes. "I saw the updates. You were amazing, as always."

He laughed softly, leaning his head back against the couch. "Thanks, Mom. It felt good out there. The whole team played well."

She reached over and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, her touch gentle. "You looked tired. Did you eat?"

"Yeah, we had food on the plane," he assured her. "How was your day?"

"Oh, the usual," she replied, settling back into the couch. "Work was busy, but nothing too stressful. I made spaghetti for dinner if you're still hungry."

Francesco shook his head, though the thought of his mom's cooking was always tempting. "I'm good, thanks."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the TV playing quietly in the background. It was moments like these that Francesco cherished—small, quiet pockets of normalcy that grounded him amidst the whirlwind of his football career.

After a while, his mom glanced at the clock and then back at him. "Your dad's still at the office. He said he'd be late tonight."

Francesco nodded, not surprised. His father's dedication was something he admired, though he often wished his dad didn't have to work so hard. "I'll see him in the morning," he said, standing and stretching. "I'm gonna head up and shower. Long day."

Sarah nodded, her smile soft and understanding. "Get some rest, sweetheart. You've earned it."

Francesco climbed the stairs to his room, the familiar creak of the third step beneath his weight making him smile faintly. His room was a blend of his old life and his new one—posters of his favorite players hung alongside awards and jerseys from his growing career. It was a space that reminded him of where he came from and where he was going.

He dropped his bag in the corner and headed to the bathroom, the hot water from the shower a welcome relief for his tired muscles. As the steam filled the room, he allowed himself a moment to unwind, the tension of the day washing away.

After drying off and changing into a comfortable t-shirt and shorts, Francesco returned to his room. He sat on the edge of his bed, scrolling through his phone. Messages from friends, fans, and teammates filled his notifications, all congratulating him on the win. He replied to a few before setting the phone down and leaning back against the headboard.

The day had been long and exhausting, but it had also been rewarding. Sleep came quickly, his body and mind finally succumbing to the pull of rest.

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the curtains of Francesco's room, casting a warm glow on the walls. A faint vibration roused him from his sleep—the soft buzz of his phone on the bedside table. Groaning, he reached out to grab it, squinting at the screen.

07:13.

With a deep sigh, Francesco swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Despite the ache in his muscles from the previous day, he felt a sense of accomplishment and renewed determination. He stretched his arms over his head, loosening the stiffness in his shoulders before pulling open the drawer to retrieve his training suit.

Changing into his familiar joggers and a light athletic top, Francesco looked at himself in the mirror. His messy hair and slightly puffy eyes bore evidence of the late night, but there was a spark in his gaze—a reflection of his drive to keep improving.

As he descended the stairs, the aroma of coffee and freshly toasted bread greeted him. The comforting sounds of breakfast—a kettle whistling, utensils clinking—filled the air, blending seamlessly with the soft hum of a radio in the kitchen.

"Morning, sweetheart," his mom called from the dining table as she saw him enter the room. Her cheerful demeanor was a constant source of comfort. She was seated across from his dad, who was meticulously buttering a piece of toast, a cup of coffee steaming by his side.

"Morning, Mom. Morning, Dad," Francesco replied, his voice still a little groggy. He gave them both a small smile as he walked toward the counter to grab a glass of water.

"Look who finally decided to join the land of the living," his dad teased, glancing up with a grin.

Francesco chuckled. "Late night, remember?"

"I know, I know," Mike said, nodding. "Still, 7 a.m. feels late for you."

Francesco took a sip of water before leaning against the counter. His mom, noticing him standing there, gestured toward the spread on the table. "I made scrambled eggs and toast. There's some fruit, too. Sit down and eat before you head out."

He shook his head lightly, setting the glass down. "Thanks, Mom, but I'll eat after I finish jogging. I'm not too hungry right now."

Sarah frowned slightly, her protective instincts kicking in. "You sure? You need your energy, especially after yesterday."

"I'm sure," he reassured her with a grin. "I'll keep it short today, just enough to get moving. I'll be back before you know it."

His dad raised an eyebrow as he reached for his coffee. "Don't push yourself too hard, son. You've got training later. The last thing you need is to overdo it."

"I know, Dad," Francesco said with a smile, grabbing a small banana from the fruit bowl on the counter. "Just something light. I promise."

Sarah sighed but relented, knowing her son's discipline. "Alright, but don't keep me waiting too long. Breakfast won't stay warm forever."

"Deal," Francesco replied, already heading toward the front door. He slipped on his running shoes, laced them up tightly, and stepped outside. The crisp morning air greeted him, cool and invigorating against his skin. The neighborhood was quiet, with only the occasional birdcall or distant car engine breaking the silence.

Francesco slipped his headphones in, scrolling through his playlist until he found a track that matched his mood—a mix of upbeat and motivational tunes. As the music started, he stretched briefly on the porch, focusing on his legs and lower back. With a deep breath, he set off, his strides measured and purposeful.

The rhythm of his run quickly took over, his body falling into a familiar cadence. The events of the past few days drifted through his mind—yesterday's match, his assist, the post-game ride home, and the conversations with his family. Each memory fueled him, reminding him why he worked so hard.

He looped through the quiet streets of his neighborhood, the occasional passerby giving him a nod or a small wave. Some recognized him, their expressions lighting up in acknowledgment of Arsenal's rising star, but most left him to his solitude. Francesco appreciated the balance—a connection to his roots without the constant pressure of the spotlight.

After about 20 minutes, he began to circle back toward home, his pace steady but not exhausting. The familiar sight of his house came into view, and as he slowed to a walk, the faint strains of his mother's humming reached his ears. It was a sound that always made him smile—evidence of her ever-present warmth.

Stepping inside, he pulled out his earbuds and set them down on the counter, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. Sarah appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips. "Back already?" she teased, though the relief in her voice was evident.

"Didn't want you to have to reheat breakfast," Francesco replied with a grin, slipping his shoes off and padding toward the table.

"Good," she said, motioning for him to sit. "Now, eat up. You've got a busy day ahead."

Francesco slid into his usual chair, the plate in front of him piled with scrambled eggs, toast, and a side of fresh fruit. As he dug in, the conversation flowed easily, his parents asking about his training schedule and how he felt after the match.

Moments like these—simple, grounding, and filled with love—were what Francesco cherished most. They reminded him that no matter how far his career took him, this was home, and this was where he found his strength.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : None

Match Played: 3

Goal: 14

Assist: 4

MOTM: 4