The King Of Arsenal

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A few moments later, he heard Bellerín's breathing even out, signaling that he had already dozed off. Francesco, however, remained awake for a little longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything settle onto his shoulders. Tomorrow, training would resume. The media would continue talking. The expectations would grow.

Francesco blinked as the morning light seeped through the hotel room's curtains, his body still reluctant to leave the comfort of the bed. His muscles ached slightly from the previous night's match, but it was a satisfying soreness—the kind that reminded him he had given everything on the pitch. Across the room, he could hear Bellerín stirring as well, letting out a groggy groan before sitting up.

"Morning, star boy," Bellerín mumbled, rubbing his face.

Francesco smirked, stretching his arms. "Morning. Sleep well?"

Bellerín yawned. "Not bad. You?"

Francesco sat up, rolling his shoulders. "Took me a while to fall asleep, but yeah."

Bellerín chuckled. "Figured. Big night, all the attention—your brain must've been running laps."

Francesco just shrugged, knowing he wasn't wrong. He swung his legs over the bed and stood up, cracking his neck. "I call the shower first."

"Damn it," Bellerín muttered, flopping back onto the bed.

Francesco grabbed his toiletries and stepped into the bathroom, letting the warm water wake him up fully. As the steam filled the space, he let himself relax for a moment, allowing the events of last night to settle in properly. The goal. The win. The praise. The expectations. He knew football moved fast, and today was another day to prove himself.

After finishing up, he stepped out with a towel around his waist. "Your turn," he said to Bellerín, who groggily got up and shuffled into the bathroom.

Francesco changed into the team's official tracksuit, neatly folding his matchwear into his bag. By the time Bellerín was ready, both of them had their bags packed and slung over their shoulders.

"Let's get breakfast," Bellerín said, rubbing his stomach. "I'm starving."

Francesco laughed. "You're always starving."

They made their way down to the hotel restaurant, the smell of fresh coffee, eggs, and toast filling the air as they entered. The rest of the team was already there, scattered around the tables, digging into their meals. Some were still half-asleep, while others were already deep in conversation. The coaching staff, including Arsène Wenger, was also present, seated together and casually discussing what seemed to be tactical details.

As Francesco and Bellerín walked in, a few of their teammates acknowledged them.

"Morning, lads," Aaron Ramsey greeted, gesturing toward the food spread. "Better get in before Giroud takes everything."

Giroud, seated nearby, scoffed. "I do not eat that much."

"Bro, you eat like a bear preparing for hibernation," Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain teased, earning a chuckle from the table.

Francesco and Bellerín grabbed their plates and moved toward the buffet, loading up with scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit. Francesco made sure to add some protein—he needed proper recovery after last night.

As they sat down, Wenger briefly glanced over at them, giving a small nod of acknowledgment before returning to his discussion with the staff.

"So," Ramsey said, turning to Francesco with a smirk, "still feeling like the next Ronaldo?"

Francesco shook his head, smiling. "I already told you, I'm not trying to be the next Ronaldo. I'm trying to be the first Francesco Lee."

Ramsey chuckled. "Good answer. You might need to trademark that before the media starts running with it."

The table laughed, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics—plans for the international break, debates over who had the best first touch in the squad, and jokes about Granit Xhaka's new haircut.

As they ate, Wenger eventually stood up, tapping his spoon against his coffee cup to get everyone's attention. The room quieted as all eyes turned toward him.

"Gentlemen," Wenger began, his composed voice carrying through the room, "last night was a performance to be proud of. It was not just about the result, but about the way we played. The discipline, the fight, the mentality—it was all there. And that is what makes the difference in big games."

He glanced toward Francesco briefly before continuing. "But one good game does not define a season. Football moves fast. We enjoy the win, but we must always look forward. The next challenge awaits."

There was a collective nod around the room. Everyone knew what he meant. No one could afford to get complacent.

"Enjoy your breakfast," Wenger finished before sitting back down.

Francesco glanced at Bellerín, who gave him a knowing look.

"See?" Bellerín muttered. "Pressure doubles."

Francesco smirked, taking another bite of his food. He wouldn't have it any other way.

After finishing breakfast, Francesco leaned back in his chair, rubbing his stomach in satisfaction. The meal had been exactly what he needed—good food, good company, and the kind of team banter that made these moments feel special. Across the table, Bellerín stretched his arms over his head, letting out a satisfied sigh.

"Alright, I think I'm ready to pass out again," the Spaniard muttered.

Francesco smirked. "You've been awake for like an hour."

"Yeah, and it's been a long hour," Bellerín shot back before pushing his plate away.

Before the conversation could continue, Wenger stood up again, checking his watch before addressing the team.

"Gentlemen, finish up and head to your rooms," he instructed. "We check out at twelve, so make sure your luggage is packed and ready to go. The bus will leave on time."

There were a few nods and murmurs of acknowledgment around the table. Some players immediately stood up, grabbing the last bits of their drinks before heading toward the elevators. Others, like Francesco and Bellerín, took their time.

"You think we got time for a quick nap before checkout?" Bellerín asked as they stood up, carrying their plates to the collection area.

Francesco laughed. "Doubt it. By the time we get upstairs and pack properly, it'll be time to leave."

Bellerín groaned but didn't argue. The two of them made their way back to their room, taking the elevator up with a few other teammates. The energy was calm—some players were chatting quietly, while others leaned against the elevator walls, clearly still waking up.

When they got back to their room, Francesco immediately went to his luggage, making sure everything was packed properly. He checked his phone while folding up the last of his clothes, noticing a few more messages and notifications from last night's game. His social media was still blowing up—praise from pundits, reactions from fans, even some teasing messages from old friends.

"Still trending?" Bellerín asked from his side of the room.

Francesco nodded. "Yeah. Feels weird seeing my name everywhere."

Bellerín grinned. "Get used to it, star boy. This is just the beginning."

Francesco didn't reply, but he knew Bellerín was right. Last night had changed things. His performance wasn't just a good game—it was a statement. People were taking notice.

Once they finished packing, they spent the remaining time scrolling through their phones and chatting. A few knocks came at the door as some teammates stopped by, double-checking that everyone was ready. The usual pre-travel chaos was in full swing—guys realizing they left chargers in their rooms, others making last-minute bathroom trips.

At exactly noon, the entire squad gathered in the lobby, bags lined up and ready for departure. The hotel staff bid them farewell, and the team filed onto the bus, settling into their usual spots. Francesco took his seat next to Bellerín, leaning against the window as the vehicle pulled out of the hotel driveway.

The ride to the airport was quiet at first. Some players put in their headphones, others dozed off. The exhaustion from the match and the early morning travel started to catch up with them. Francesco watched the city blur past the window, his mind drifting as he thought about what was next.

Arsenal had a busy schedule ahead. The Premier League, Champions League, FA Cup—it was all still in play. And now, with his name gaining attention, he knew there would be expectations.

"Thinking too much again?" Bellerín's voice cut through his thoughts.

Francesco turned, shaking his head with a small smile. "Nah. Just… processing everything."

Bellerín gave him a knowing look. "Bro, I've been there. Trust me, don't overthink it. Just keep doing what you do."

Francesco nodded, appreciating the advice. It was something he needed to remind himself of—football wasn't just about pressure. It was about playing, about enjoying the game that he loved.

The bus arrived at the airport, and the squad moved through check-in smoothly, accustomed to the routine. Cameras flashed as they walked through security, journalists and fans catching glimpses of the team. Francesco kept his head down, following the rest of the squad toward their gate.

As they waited to board the flight, Wenger sat down near the group, flipping through a newspaper while occasionally glancing up at the team. He had a way of observing everything without saying much—a quiet presence that commanded respect.

Francesco caught the manager's eye briefly, and Wenger gave him a small nod. It wasn't much, but it was enough to reassure him.

He was on the right path.

As the flight was called for boarding, Francesco took a deep breath. It was time to head home.

The team moved in an orderly but relaxed manner as they boarded the plane, finding their seats with the ease of seasoned travelers. It was a private flight arranged by the club, ensuring they had space to rest and recover properly after the game. Francesco settled into his seat near the window, Bellerín beside him as usual. Across the aisle, Aaron Ramsey and Oxlade-Chamberlain were already making themselves comfortable, while Giroud stretched out in his seat with an exaggerated yawn.

Francesco fastened his seatbelt and leaned back, letting out a slow breath as the flight attendants went through the pre-flight procedures. He wasn't nervous about flying—he had done it countless times—but there was always something about the quiet moments before takeoff that made him reflective.

Bellerín nudged him with his elbow. "You gonna sleep or overthink for two hours straight?"

Francesco smirked. "Depends. You gonna snore?"

"Absolutely not," Bellerín shot back. "I sleep like an angel."

From a few seats away, Ramsey overheard and laughed. "More like a chainsaw."

Oxlade-Chamberlain chimed in, "Mate, you snored so loud last week I thought the team bus had engine trouble."

The team burst into laughter as Bellerín rolled his eyes in mock offense. "I hate you all," he muttered, but he was grinning.

The plane began taxiing down the runway, and Francesco shifted slightly in his seat, feeling the familiar anticipation of takeoff. As the engines roared and the aircraft lifted off the ground, he gazed out the window, watching as the city below shrank away, disappearing into the distance.

For the first part of the flight, the cabin was relatively quiet. Some players plugged in their headphones and closed their eyes, while others flipped through magazines or scrolled through their phones. Francesco checked his notifications again, seeing even more media coverage from last night's match. Articles analyzing his performance, video clips of his goal, and endless comments from fans debating whether he was Arsenal's next big star.

He locked his phone and set it aside. It was flattering, but he knew better than to let it consume him. Football was unpredictable—one great match could make you a hero, but one mistake could turn you into a villain overnight.

After a while, a flight attendant came by with food, and Francesco gladly accepted the meal tray. He wasn't starving, but he knew recovery was just as important as training. He ate at a steady pace, occasionally glancing around at his teammates.

Across the aisle, Giroud was deep in conversation with Laurent Koscielny, speaking in rapid French. Ramsey and Ox were debating something about fantasy football, while a few rows back, Mesut Özil had his hoodie up and was completely knocked out.

Wenger was seated a few rows ahead, quietly reading a book. Even in a casual setting like this, the manager exuded a sense of control and wisdom. Francesco respected that about him—Wenger never said more than was necessary, but when he did speak, everyone listened.

After finishing his meal, Francesco stretched his legs out as much as he could in the limited space and shifted toward the window. The clouds stretched endlessly below them, a calming sight. His mind wandered to the upcoming fixtures. Arsenal had a crucial stretch ahead—Premier League games that could define their season, Champions League knockouts, and the FA Cup still in play.

He knew he had earned his spot in the team, but consistency was key. One good game wasn't enough. He had to keep proving himself.

Bellerín nudged him again. "You're doing it again."

Francesco sighed. "What?"

"Thinking too much."

Francesco chuckled. "Can't help it."

Bellerín shrugged. "You'll get used to it. You played great last night. Just enjoy it."

Francesco nodded, but deep down, he knew he couldn't let himself relax too much. That wasn't how top players operated.

As the flight continued, the atmosphere became more relaxed. Some players napped, others chatted quietly. Francesco eventually closed his eyes, letting himself drift into a light sleep, though his mind never fully shut off.

A couple of hours later, the announcement came that they were beginning their descent into London. The team woke up groggily, adjusting their seats and preparing for landing. Francesco looked out the window again, watching as the familiar sight of London came into view.

As the plane touched down smoothly on the runway, the players let out small sighs of relief. Another trip completed. But the real work was just beginning.

The team exited the plane and moved through the airport swiftly, met by club staff who guided them toward the team bus waiting outside. Cameras flashed as they stepped out, journalists and fans eager to catch a glimpse. Francesco kept his head down, following Wenger and the rest of the squad toward the bus.

As they settled in for the ride back to the training ground, Wenger stood at the front, clearing his throat. The murmurs died down as everyone turned their attention to him.

"Good work, gentlemen," Wenger said, his voice calm but firm. "Enjoy the rest of the day, but remember—we are back in training tomorrow. The season does not wait."

There were nods and murmurs of acknowledgment.

Francesco leaned back in his seat, staring out the window as the bus pulled onto the road. The journey continued, and he was ready for whatever came next.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : None

Match Played: 20

Goal: 24

Assist: 12

MOTM: 7