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The night was early, but the players turned in soon. Lights out by 10:30. Francesco lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow game then the music and the anthem, with the whole world watching. He turned over and closed his eyes.
The next morning in Zagreb came quietly, sunlight filtering through the gauzy hotel curtains and casting golden strips across the plush carpet of Francesco's room. His phone buzzed softly on the nightstand—7:30 AM. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and sat up slowly, shoulders rolling as he stretched. For a moment, he let the silence hang in the air, then rose to his feet and padded over to the window.
Zagreb was just beginning to stir. From the hotel's high floor, he could see rooftops catching the light, cars edging through narrow streets, trees swaying in the early breeze. It looked peaceful—normal. It always amazed him how a city could seem so calm while preparing to host a storm inside its stadium.
By 8:00, Francesco was dressed in Arsenal's travel tracksuit, hoodie zipped up, and down in the hotel restaurant with the rest of the squad. The breakfast buffet was laid out with military precision: eggs, porridge, granola, fruit, yoghurt, grilled vegetables, toast, and pastries that none of the players would touch.
The room buzzed quietly—soft voices, clinks of cutlery, the occasional scrape of a chair. Francesco filled his plate with scrambled eggs, grilled mushrooms, and a bowl of fruit. He sat with Theo Walcott, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, and Kieran Gibbs, who were already halfway through their meals.
"Mornin', Skip," Theo said around a bite of toast.
Francesco grinned. "Morning. You sleep alright?"
"Like a log," Gibbs muttered. "Except someone was snoring like a freight train."
"Wasn't me," Ox protested, then pointed a fork at Theo. "It was him. Same pitch as a motorbike."
"I do not snore."
"You do," Francesco chimed in with a laugh. "Woke me up on the plane."
"Traitors," Theo muttered, then passed Francesco a small bottle of electrolyte tablets. "You'll need these later."
Francesco nodded his thanks. Around the room, players trickled in: Alexis, silent as ever in the mornings, his headphones looped around his neck. Mertesacker in slippers, towering over the toaster. Özil arrived last, hair slightly messy, blinking like he'd only just opened his eyes.
"Late night?" Cazorla teased as he passed, piling his plate with fruit.
Özil made a face. "Couldn't sleep. Croatian beds are too soft."
"You're too soft," Alexis said in English, surprising everyone. Then, deadpan, he sipped his coffee.
Laughter rolled through the table. The mood was light, but underneath it there was that unmistakable buzz—a quiet current of nervous energy. A Champions League matchday. Everyone felt it, even if no one said it aloud.
After breakfast, they moved as a group to the hotel's private gym facility. It wasn't as spacious as Colney's, but it was well-equipped. The session was low-impact—just enough to wake up the muscles and stimulate blood flow without draining energy. Bikes, resistance bands, TRX work.
Francesco climbed onto a treadmill for a ten-minute jog, flanked by Alexis on one side and Bellerín on the other. They ran in silence, focused, headphones in. Shad Forsythe moved between them, checking postures, correcting form, handing out towels. Wenger and Bould stood at the far end of the room, watching. Observing.
"Look relaxed," Shad said as he passed Francesco.
"I am," Francesco replied, breathing evenly.
His mind wasn't on the run, though. It was already on the pitch—imagining his first touch of the ball, the angle of his runs, how quickly Dinamo's defenders closed down space.
After the jog, he moved into a stretching zone, where Cazorla and Özil were already seated on mats, legs extended, foam rollers beneath their thighs.
"This the worst part," Francesco muttered, rolling slowly along his IT band.
"Speak for yourself," Cazorla said, eyes closed, face serene. "This is the good life."
Özil grunted in agreement. "No tackles. No chasing. Just stretching and peace."
"Peace before war," Francesco replied.
The rest of the session went by smoothly. A few sets of band-resisted sprints, planks, core activation, some medicine ball work. Nothing intense. The staff didn't want to overcook them.
By midday, they were back in their rooms. Lunch was served in the conference room—grilled chicken, quinoa, steamed greens, water by the gallon. No sauces, no excess salt, no distractions. The routine was clinical by now, drilled into their bones.
Francesco barely spoke during the meal. He was already halfway into his mental preparation, running through the likely formations, possible scenarios. How Dinamo might press. How he'd drag the center-back wide. Whether he could find space between the lines for a quick one-two with Özil or Cazorla.
When the clock struck 5:30 PM, the squad assembled in the lobby. Team suits on. Luggage pre-packed. The bus was waiting outside, sleek and black with the Arsenal badge printed subtly along the side.
Francesco stepped onto it behind Mertesacker, headphones slung around his neck now. The sky was starting to darken, clouds rolling in with the dusk. Streetlights flickered on. Zagreb was cooling quickly.
Inside the bus, it was quiet again. Some players watched videos on tablets. Others closed their eyes, resting. Francesco sat by a window and stared out, watching the city pass by in blurs of white headlights and amber lamps.
The stadium approached slowly, rising in the distance like a cold monument of steel and glass—Stadion Maksimir. Home of Dinamo Zagreb.
Francesco sat up straighter.
They pulled through the gates, flanked by light security and the growing noise of fans clustered behind barricades. Chants echoed faintly. Flags waved in the gloom.
Inside the tunnel, they were greeted by UEFA officials. Lanyards handed out. IDs checked. Cameras clicked. Francesco caught sight of himself in a mirrored surface as they passed through—suit sharp, face calm, but eyes burning.
They entered the away dressing room together. Jerseys hung in a clean row: dark navy kits with red trim. Francesco's number 9 waited for him, his armband neatly looped and pinned beneath it.
He changed in silence, pulling on his compression top, his socks, his base layers. The boots came last—Nike, custom-molded, white with gold accents.
When Wenger entered, everyone fell silent. The manager stepped to the front and looked around slowly.
"You've all done this before," he said. "Some of you more than others. But it is always special. Because there is no match like this. Not the Premier League. Not the FA Cup. This is the Champions League. The music, the lights. Everyone is watching."
Wenger's words settled over the room like a final breath before a plunge. The players sat motionless for a moment after he finished speaking, the weight of the Champions League anthem still echoing in their minds. Then, with a soft clap of his hands, the manager's tone shifted.
"Alright, change into your training kits. Warm-up starts in five minutes."
The players rose in unison. No panic. No fuss. Just the sound of zippers, rustling fabric, and boots thudding softly against the tiled floor. Francesco peeled off his suit jacket and shirt, folding them neatly into his travel bag before slipping into Arsenal's warm-up top—dark navy with red stripes down the sleeves. The training shirt clung comfortably to his body, light and breathable. He pulled on his shorts, adjusted his socks, and slid into his secondary pair of boots—meant for drills and movement before the real test.
Around him, the dressing room shifted into that strange transitional hum—half concentration, half muscle memory. Ox stretched his legs with lazy focus, Özil yawned into his fist while retying his boots, and Alexis, headphones now on, punched gently at the air in his own ritual of readiness.
They filed out together.
The tunnel smelled faintly of disinfectant and cut grass. A local steward held the door open to the pitch, and a gust of night air rushed in—cool, brisk, carrying the scent of dew and the faint, nervous energy of fans trickling into their seats.
Under the floodlights, Stadion Maksimir looked like a cauldron waiting to boil.
Their boots hit the turf in staggered rhythm. Across the stadium, Dinamo's players were already warming up in blue. The stadium buzzed now—not deafening, but growing. Zagreb's ultras gathered behind one goal, flags waving, drums already pounding. The sound climbed slowly, building pressure like the prelude to thunder.
The warm-up was a carefully choreographed routine: dynamic stretches first, led by Shad Forsythe and Tony Colbert. Then mobility work—lunges, rotations, bounds. Pass-and-move drills in small triangles. Keep-away games that snapped with fast touches and shouts of encouragement.
Francesco felt the rhythm enter his legs like a remembered song. Every pass and sprint calibrated his body closer to that perfect pitch of readiness. He worked closely with Özil during tight-space drills, exchanging slick one-twos, both players moving in sync like gears in an engine.
After twenty minutes, they moved into shooting drills. Ox curled in crosses from the right flank, and Francesco attacked them with intent—timing his runs, varying his finishes. One off the head, one stabbed low with the left foot, another rifled in first-time with his right. No celebration. Just focus.
He noticed Alexis in the far corner, hammering low shots past one of the keepers with relentless, surgical efficiency. Meanwhile, Arteta and Kante stayed locked in a rhythm of short passes and positional work, orchestrated by Bould's quiet instructions. Van Dijk barked something in Dutch at Debuchy, who nodded and repositioned a few steps closer to the line.
Wenger stood near the halfway line, arms crossed, eyes sweeping over them all.
At the forty-five-minute mark, Shad blew his whistle and gestured them in. Warm-up over.
As they jogged off the pitch, the stands began to fill rapidly. Dinamo's end roared louder now—chants in Croatian reverberating across the stadium like distant cannon fire. The anticipation had become a living thing.
Back in the dressing room, the air had changed.
Gone was the relaxed banter of breakfast, the half-smiles of warm-up. This was a different silence now—tight and loaded. The kind of silence that only came before combat.
One by one, they peeled off the training gear and reached for their match kits.
Francesco moved deliberately, each motion measured. Compression top. Socks. Shin guards secured with surgical tape. Navy-blue match jersey slipped over his shoulders, the weight of the captain's armband resting against his palm. He slid it up over his forearm and fastened it tight.
Across the room, Koscielny was already dressed, checking the studs on his boots. Van Dijk laced his with precise movements, every inch the calm tower in defense. Alexis sat silently, rolling his shoulders, eyes closed as if conjuring something. Özil leaned forward on the bench, staring at the floor, lips moving in quiet repetition—perhaps a prayer, perhaps a plan.
Wenger re-entered, and this time, no one needed to be asked to listen.
"We'll go with the four-two-three-one tonight," he said, moving to the magnetic board on the wall. The pieces were already arranged, but he traced each one with his hand, making it real.
"Ospina in goal."
Francesco nodded. He trusted Ospina. The Colombian was quieter than Cech, less commanding vocally, but incredibly agile and fearless in one-on-ones.
"Back four—Gibbs at left back. Virgil and Laurent at center-back. Mathieu Debuchy on the right."
Francesco's eyes lingered briefly on Van Dijk. The Dutchman had been immense since joining—calm under pressure, good with the ball, and unafraid of physical duels. He and Koscielny had gelled surprisingly fast.
"Midfield pairing—Mikel and N'Golo."
He glanced at Arteta, the elder statesman. Tonight, he wasn't captain, but he was still the anchor—the mind who would read the tempo. Kante, meanwhile, was the legs. The engine.
"Mesut as our number ten. Alexis on the left, Alex on the right."
Özil lifted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with focus. Sanchez gave a subtle nod.
"And up front…" Wenger's gaze found Francesco. "Our captain."
A few heads turned toward him—nothing dramatic. Just that moment of silent acknowledgement. The pressure. The responsibility. He felt it settle across his shoulders like the weight of the badge itself.
"Francesco leads the line," Wenger said, his voice gentler now. "This is your match to set the tone. Not just as a striker—but as a captain."
Francesco met his gaze and nodded once.
"On the bench," Wenger continued. "Petr, Gabriel, Nacho, Francis, Flamini, Olivier, and Theo."
The substitutions were solid. Experience, versatility, and pace if they needed it late.
Wenger stepped back from the board.
"Dinamo will press early. They'll try to take the momentum and ride the crowd. But we've prepared for this. Control the middle. Trust your movement. Be patient, and then strike with purpose."
He walked slowly across the room, eyes sweeping over them all.
"You've played in the Premier League. You've played at Wembley. But the Champions League… it's something else. It's your passport to immortality."
He turned toward Francesco.
"You lead them out."
Francesco exhaled slowly and stood.
He could feel the pulse of his heartbeat in his wrists now, steady but climbing. He led the team toward the tunnel, Ospina just behind, followed by Koscielny and Van Dijk, then the midfield, then the bench.
UEFA officials lined the hallway, clipboards in hand. The match ball waited atop a pedestal. Just beyond the final gate, the roar of Maksimir swelled to a fever pitch.
The Champions League anthem began.
Booming. Regal. Unmistakable.
They stepped out onto the pitch.
Francesco's boots hit the grass, and he felt it all at once—the cold wind, the floodlights blazing overhead, the noise washing over them in waves. Dinamo Zagreb stood across the line, blue shirts ready, jaws clenched.
The anthem rose.
He looked up into the stands. Arsenal's traveling fans had carved a red wedge into one corner, scarves raised high. Thousands of them, singing, chanting, holding the line against the blue.
Francesco glanced down at the badge on his chest. He placed his hand over it.
For club. For teammates. For London.
The anthem ended.
He turned to his right and shook the referee's hand, then the opposing captain's. They exchanged pennants and words—brief, respectful, then nothing more.
Francesco moved to the center circle, bouncing on his toes.
He looked left. Özil met his eyes, ready.
He looked right. Ox nodded once.
Behind him, Alexis flexed his fingers. Arteta barked a short instruction. Kante crouched slightly, already like a spring.
And behind them all—Ospina, in neon green, arms wide, calling out.
As the referee checked his watch, Francesco rolled the ball beneath his sole once, twice. Then the whistle blew.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 7
Goal: 12
Assist: 1
MOTM: 0
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9