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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And sowhere behind them, the headlines were already being written.
The corridor outside the press room felt almost too quiet after everything.
The flashes.
The voices.
The questions.
It all faded the mont the door closed behind them.
Arsène Wenger walked ahead as usual, hands folded behind his back, already sowhere between reflection and the next plan. Beside him, Petr Čech moved with that sa composed rhythm he carried everywhere with no rush, no wasted movent.
Francesco followed just half a step behind.
The noise of the stadium was still there, but now it felt distant. Softer. Like an echo of sothing already completed.
For a few seconds, none of them spoke.
Then Čech glanced sideways.
"You handled that well," he said quietly.
Francesco shrugged.
"It's just talking."
Čech smiled faintly.
"It's not always 'just talking.'"
Francesco didn't respond to that. He understood what Čech ant. On the pitch, everything ca instinctively. Off it, words carried their own kind of weight.
Wenger slowed slightly as they reached another turn in the corridor.
"Good answers," he said without looking back.
Simple.
Direct.
Francesco nodded once.
"Thank you."
And that was it.
No long praise.
No extended analysis.
Just acknowledgnt.
They reached the tunnel area again, where staff mbers moved around with quiet efficiency from packing equipnt, organizing kits, guiding the final movents of players and personnel as the stadium slowly emptied above.
From sowhere deeper inside, faint music still leaked through.
The dressing room.
Still alive.
Still celebrating.
But their path turned the other way.
Toward the exit.
Toward the team bus.
Outside, the air felt different.
Cooler.
Night had begun to settle over North London, the sky shifting into darker shades of blue and grey. Stadium lights still burned bright behind them, casting long shadows across the pavent.
The team bus waited where it always did.
Engine humming softly.
Doors open.
A few players were already inside—so still in conversation, others leaning back into their seats, letting the fatigue finally settle in.
Walker stood near the entrance, of course.
"Press conference hero!" he called out the mont he saw Francesco.
Francesco shook his head slightly.
"You don't stop, do you?"
Walker grinned.
"Never."
He stepped aside to let him through.
"Co on, captain. Bus is waiting."
Francesco stepped inside.
The familiar interior greeted him again.
Leather seats.
Soft lighting.
The faint mix of sweat, fabric cleaner, and sothing tallic from the equipnt crates.
He dropped into his usual seat.
This ti, though, everything felt slower.
Heavier in a different way.
Not pressure.
Not tension.
Just the natural weight that ca after full effort.
Walker slid in beside him again.
"Alright," he said, stretching his legs out. "Now you can relax."
Francesco leaned his head back slightly.
"For a bit."
The bus door closed with a soft hiss.
And slowly, it began to move.
Away from the stadium.
Away from the noise.
Away from the mont.
Outside the window, the streets still carried traces of the match.
Fans walking in groups.
Scarves still around their necks.
So still singing.
Others replaying monts on their phones, voices rising with excitent.
Francesco watched quietly.
A man outside lifted his phone and pointed it toward the bus.
Another waved.
A group of young fans jumped slightly as the bus passed, shouting sothing that didn't quite make it through the glass.
Walker leaned over slightly.
"Still your fans out there."
Francesco gave a small smile.
"They're our fans."
Walker nudged him lightly.
"Yeah, yeah. Team player."
The bus moved deeper into the city.
The noise faded gradually.
The lights changed.
From stadium glow…
…to street lamps.
From crowds…
…to quieter roads.
Inside the bus, conversations slowed.
So players talked quietly.
Others rested.
Sánchez sat a few rows ahead, headphones back on, head slightly tilted, eyes closed.
Gnabry leaned against the window, scrolling through his phone.
Giroud laughed loudly at sothing Ramsey said from across the aisle.
Čech sat still, composed, looking out into the night.
Wenger remained near the front, speaking quietly with one of the staff mbers.
Francesco didn't say much.
He just sat there.
Thinking.
Replaying monts.
The first goal.
The second.
The third.
The roar.
The silence before the roar.
The feeling of the ball leaving his foot.
The weight of the armband.
Everything.
It didn't feel overwhelming.
It felt… clear.
Like sothing that had been building for a long ti and had finally found its shape.
The bus rolled on.
Back toward Colney.
Return to Colney
By the ti they reached the training ground, the night had fully settled.
The gates opened slowly.
Security waved them through.
The bus pulled in.
And for a mont, everything was quiet again.
No crowds.
No caras.
No noise.
Just the soft hum of the engine and the distant rustle of trees.
The bus stopped.
Players stood one by one.
Stretching.
Grabbing their bags.
Walker stood up with a groan.
"Alright… now I feel it."
Francesco smirked slightly.
"Sa."
They stepped off the bus.
Cool air hit imdiately.
Fresh.
Grounding.
The kind of air that reminded you the day was actually over.
Players began heading toward their cars.
So still talking.
So already quiet.
Giroud clapped Francesco on the shoulder as he passed.
"Rest well."
Francesco nodded.
"You too."
Sánchez gave him a quick nod.
No words.
But enough.
Čech raised a hand slightly.
Then moved on.
Wenger spoke briefly with a staff mber before disappearing back inside the main building.
And just like that the group began to disperse.
Francesco walked across the parking lot.
His footsteps slow.
asured.
His car waited where he had left it that morning.
He opened the door.
Paused for a second.
Then looked back.
At the training ground.
At the quiet.
At the place where it all started again tomorrow.
Then he got in.
The engine started.
And he drove.
The roads were quieter now.
Streetlights casting long lines across the asphalt.
The city had settled.
But not completely.
London never fully slept.
Francesco drove calmly.
No music.
Just the sound of the engine and the faint hum of tires against the road.
His mind wandered.
Not aimlessly.
But naturally.
From the match to the press conference, then to the bus ride as what to ca next.
Because there was always sothing next.
Always another ga.
Another challenge.
Another expectation.
He pulled into the long driveway of his ho.
The mansion stood quietly in the night.
Lights on inside.
Still.
Waiting.
He parked.
Turned off the engine.
Sat there for a mont.
Hands resting lightly on the wheel.
Then exhaled.
And stepped out.
Days passed.
Not slowly.
Not quickly.
Just… steadily.
Training resud almost imdiately.
Recovery sessions.
Light drills.
Tactical adjustnts.
Then intensity again.
The rhythm returned.
Because that's what football did.
It never paused for long.
The next match ca quickly.
A familiar opponent.
Leicester City again.
Different stage.
FA Community Shield.
A chance to add another piece of silverware.
The atmosphere was different.
Less pressure.
But still competitive.
Still important.
Francesco felt it again.
That sa focus.
That sa readiness.
The match unfolded with more control this ti.
Leicester tried to respond.
To adjust.
But Arsenal had already learned.
Already adapted.
Francesco found the net again.
Clinical.
Precise.
Sánchez followed.
Relentless as always.
Gnabry added another.
Sharp.
Direct.
3–1.
Another win.
Another statent.
Another step forward.
Then ca the next test.
Stoke City.
Away.
Different environnt.
Different challenge.
Cold.
Physical.
Unforgiving.
The stadium felt tighter.
The crowd closer.
More intense in a different way.
But Arsenal didn't change.
They stayed true to their rhythm.
Their structure.
Their identity.
Francesco scored again.
Of course he did.
Timing.
Movent.
Precision.
Özil added another.
Calm as ever.
Van Dijk powered in a goal as well.
Dominant.
Unstoppable in the air.
3–0.
Clean.
Controlled.
Professional.
Another win.
Another clean sheet.
Montum building.
And now for the next challenge.
Liverpool FC.
Away.
At Anfield.
Different level.
Different atmosphere.
Because Anfield wasn't just a stadium.
It was an experience.
The noise.
The history.
The pressure.
Everything amplified.
Back at London Colney, preparation began again.
Training sessions sharper.
More focused.
Wenger's voice steady.
Precise.
Tactical boards filled with movent patterns.
Pressing triggers.
Defensive shapes.
Walker leaned over to Francesco during one drill.
"This one's going to be loud."
Francesco didn't look at him.
"I know."
Walker grinned.
"Good."
Because those were the matches that mattered.
The ones where everything was tested.
The ones where performances turned into statents.
Francesco stood on the training pitch, ball at his feet.
The sun low in the sky.
The air carrying that familiar mix of calm and anticipation.
He looked up.
Across the field.
At his teammates.
At the system.
At the rhythm they were building.
Then he pushed the ball forward.
The ball rolled forward across the grass.
Simple.
Controlled.
Francesco followed it with a few light steps, then stopped it under his boot as the training whistle echoed across London Colney.
Session done.
The energy on the pitch shifted almost instantly.
Not gone.
Just released.
Players slowed their movents, so bending forward with hands on their knees, others stretching out their legs, shaking off the last bits of fatigue.
Walker dropped onto the grass dramatically.
"I'm finished," he declared, staring up at the sky.
"You say that every day," Francesco replied, nudging the ball lightly toward him.
Walker didn't even move.
"Today I an it."
From nearby, Alexis Sánchez smirked faintly, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"You'll be talking again in five minutes."
Walker raised a hand lazily.
"No promises."
A few laughs drifted across the pitch.
sut Özil rolled the ball between his feet absentmindedly, already ntally sowhere else which probably replaying movents, positioning, spaces.
N'Golo Kanté jogged lightly even after the whistle, as if his body didn't quite understand the concept of stopping.
Francesco glanced around.
The rhythm was there.
Stronger than before.
Sharpened.
Every session adding sothing.
Every movent becoming more natural.
Anfield was coming.
And everyone felt it.
Walker finally pushed himself up with a groan.
"Alright… now I'm really done."
Francesco smirked.
"Until tomorrow."
Walker pointed at him.
"Don't remind ."
They began walking back toward the dressing room together, boots crunching lightly against the grass.
The sun hung low now, casting long shadows across the training ground.
That late-afternoon calm.
The kind that made everything feel slower for a mont.
But only for a mont.
Because even in that calm, preparation never really stopped.
Inside, the dressing room carried a quieter energy than match day.
No music blasting this ti.
Just conversation.
Water bottles opening.
Boots being unlaced.
Recovery routines beginning.
Francesco sat at his locker, removing his boots slowly.
The familiar routine.
Tape off.
Socks off.
Towel over his shoulders.
Walker sat beside him again.
Of course.
"You heading straight ho?" Walker asked.
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
Walker stretched his arms out.
"Sa. Need food. Lots of food."
Francesco glanced at him.
"You always need food."
Walker grinned.
"Exactly."
Across the room, Olivier Giroud was talking animatedly again, hands moving as he described sothing that probably a missed chance during training.
Granit Xhaka listened with a half-smile, occasionally shaking his head.
Virgil van Dijk sat quietly, focused, always composed.
The team felt settled.
Connected.
And that mattered.
Francesco stood, grabbed his bag, and slung it over his shoulder.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
Walker gave him a lazy salute.
"Don't be late, captain."
Francesco didn't even respond.
Just walked out.
The drive ho felt different from match day.
No adrenaline.
No noise echoing in his ears.
Just a steady calm.
The roads were busier than the night before.
Late afternoon traffic.
Cars moving in steady lines.
People finishing their workdays.
Francesco drove quietly, one hand resting lightly on the wheel.
This was one of the few monts where everything slowed down.
Where football stepped back just slightly.
Not completely.
Never completely.
But enough.
His mind wandered.
Training drills.
Movent patterns.
Wenger's instructions.
Liverpool.
Anfield.
Then sothing else.
A different kind of anticipation.
Not about football.
About ho.
The gates opened smoothly as his car approached.
The driveway stretched out ahead, lined with trees that swayed gently in the breeze.
The mansion stood at the end.
Calm.
Familiar.
His space.
He parked.
Turned off the engine.
And before he even stepped out—
He heard it.
Barking.
Fast.
Excited.
The door opened before he could reach it.
And there she was.
Leah.
Smiling.
Bright.
Real.
"Hey," she said.
And before Francesco could even respond.
A blur of movent shot past her.
Cheddar.
Their dog.
Small.
Energetic.
Completely unstoppable.
"Hey—!"
Francesco barely had ti to react before Cheddar jumped up against him, paws landing against his legs, tail wagging like it had a mind of its own.
"Alright, alright," Francesco laughed, crouching slightly as Cheddar bounced around him.
"Missed that much?"
Cheddar barked again.
As if answering.
Leah leaned against the doorfra, watching with a soft smile.
"He's been waiting," she said.
Francesco looked up briefly.
"Or you told him I was coming."
Leah shrugged.
"Maybe."
Cheddar circled him again, then finally settled just enough for Francesco to reach down and scratch behind his ears.
"Yeah, I missed you too."
The words ca naturally.
Simple.
Honest.
He stood up, stepping inside as Leah moved aside.
The house felt warm.
Lived in.
Comfortable.
A different kind of energy compared to everything else in his life.
He dropped his bag near the entrance.
Kicked off his shoes.
And exhaled.
A deeper one this ti.
Leah closed the door behind them.
"How was training?" she asked.
Francesco rolled his shoulders slightly.
"Good."
A small pause.
"Sharp."
She nodded.
"Getting ready for Anfield."
"Yeah."
Cheddar trotted between them, still full of energy, occasionally bumping into Francesco's leg like he wasn't quite done greeting him yet.
Francesco glanced down.
"You're not tired, are you?"
Cheddar barked once.
Leah laughed.
"He never is."
Francesco smirked.
"Figures."
They moved into the living area together.
The space opened up.
Soft lighting.
Comfortable furniture.
A place that didn't feel like football.
Even though it was always there in the background.
Francesco sat down on the couch, leaning back slightly.
Cheddar imdiately jumped up beside him.
Of course.
Claiming his spot.
Leah sat down next to him, tucking one leg under herself.
For a mont, neither of them spoke.
Just presence.
Just quiet.
Then Francesco turned slightly toward her.
"How was your training?"
Leah exhaled softly.
"Intense."
He raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Yeah?"
She nodded.
"Coach's pushing us hard this week."
She leaned back slightly, mirroring his posture.
"Lots of pressing drills."
"Positioning work."
"Finishing."
Francesco nodded slowly.
"Sa here."
Leah glanced at him.
"Of course it is."
A small smile.
"Big match coming up."
"Yeah."
She studied him for a second.
"You look tired."
Francesco shook his head lightly.
"Just normal."
She didn't look convinced.
But she didn't push.
Instead, she leaned her head lightly against his shoulder.
"You scored again in training?" she asked casually.
Francesco smirked slightly.
"Maybe."
Leah nudged him.
"Don't 'maybe' ."
"Yeah," he admitted.
"A couple."
She smiled.
"Good."
Cheddar shifted slightly between them, settling more comfortably, clearly satisfied now that both of them were in the sa place.
Leah reached down and scratched his head absentmindedly.
"He's spoiled," she said.
Francesco glanced down.
"Not more than you."
Leah looked up at him.
"Excuse ?"
He smirked.
"You heard ."
She shook her head, laughing softly.
"Unbelievable."
The conversation drifted naturally after that.
Not forced.
Not structured.
Just… real.
Leah talked more about her session.
About the intensity.
The small frustrations.
The improvents.
Francesco listened.
Really listened.
Because this part mattered too.
Not just his ga.
But hers.
Their worlds overlapped.
But they weren't identical.
Different pressures.
Different expectations.
Sa love for the ga.
"Had a tough finishing drill," Leah admitted at one point.
"Missed a couple I shouldn't have."
Francesco tilted his head slightly.
"Still thinking about it?"
She sighed.
"A little."
He nodded.
"That's normal."
She glanced at him.
"You don't think about misses?"
Francesco shrugged.
"Of course I do."
A small pause.
"But not for long."
Leah studied him.
"How?"
He leaned back slightly.
"Because there's always another chance."
He looked at her.
"Next one."
"Next mont."
Leah held his gaze for a second.
Then nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
Cheddar shifted again, stretching out across both of them now, fully relaxed.
Francesco reached down, absentmindedly running his hand along his back.
The room stayed quiet for a mont.
Comfortable.
Not empty.
Just still.
Ti slowed in a different way here.
Not like the pitch.
Not like training.
This was sothing else.
A balance.
Francesco glanced toward the window.
The sky had shifted again.
Evening settling in.
Another day moving forward.
Another step closer to the next match.
But for now, he didn't think about Anfield.
Not fully.
Not yet.
Leah nudged him lightly.
"You're thinking again."
He glanced at her.
"Always."
She smiled.
"Try not to."
He smirked.
"Impossible."
She leaned back again, closing her eyes for a second.
"Then at least relax a bit."
Francesco didn't respond.
But he didn't argue either.
Instead, he let himself sink slightly deeper into the couch.
Cheddar let out a soft sigh.
Completely content.
Leah's head rested lightly against his shoulder again.
Cheddar stretched across both of them like he owned the place, paws twitching occasionally as if he were chasing sothing in a dream.
For a while, nothing moved.
No rush.
No urgency.
Just quiet.
The kind of quiet that didn't feel empty, but full in a different way.
Francesco let his head tilt back slightly against the couch, eyes half-lidded, not asleep, but not fully alert either.
Sowhere in the back of his mind, he could still feel the rhythm of training.
The weight of the ball at his feet.
The movent patterns.
The anticipation of what was coming next.
But here…
It softened.
Leah shifted slightly, her voice low.
"You're thinking about it again, aren't you?"
Francesco exhaled quietly.
"Yeah."
She didn't open her eyes.
"Liverpool."
"Yeah."
A small pause.
"Anfield."
Leah smiled faintly without moving.
"That one's different."
Francesco nodded, even though she couldn't see it.
"I know."
They both knew.
Everyone did.
Anfield wasn't just another away ground.
It was sothing else entirely.
The noise.
The pressure.
The history.
It didn't intimidate him.
But it demanded respect.
Leah finally opened her eyes, lifting her head slightly.
"You'll be fine."
Francesco glanced at her.
"Yeah."
She studied him for a second.
"You always are."
He didn't respond to that.
Not because he disagreed.
But because he didn't need to say anything.
Instead, he reached down and scratched Cheddar behind the ears again.
"Big ga tomorrow," he murmured.
Cheddar didn't care.
Didn't understand.
And maybe that was the point.
Leah stood slowly, stretching her arms above her head.
"You should get so rest."
Francesco nodded.
"In a bit."
She leaned down slightly, pressing a quick kiss against his cheek.
"Don't stay up thinking all night."
He smirked faintly.
"No promises."
She shook her head, smiling as she walked toward the kitchen.
"Unbelievable."
Francesco stayed where he was for another minute.
Maybe two.
Just sitting.
Just breathing.
Then finally, he leaned forward, nudging Cheddar gently.
"Alright, move."
Cheddar groaned dramatically but eventually slid off the couch.
Francesco stood.
Another day was done.
And the next one was already waiting.
Morning ca early.
It always did before travel.
Francesco woke up before his alarm.
Not because he had to.
Because he was used to it.
The room was still dim, sunlight only just beginning to push through the curtains.
He lay there for a second.
Still.
Listening.
The quiet of the house.
The faint sound of movent sowhere else, probably Leah already up.
Then he sat up.
No hesitation.
No delay.
Routine kicked in imdiately.
Shower.
Change.
Bag checked twice.
Boots packed.
Everything in place.
When he stepped downstairs, the sll of coffee filled the air.
Leah stood in the kitchen, leaning slightly against the counter.
"You're up early," she said without turning.
Francesco smirked faintly.
"Always."
She glanced over her shoulder.
"Travel day."
"Yeah."
Cheddar trotted in from sowhere, tail already wagging.
Of course.
Francesco crouched slightly.
"Hey."
Cheddar jumped up again.
Less frantic than yesterday.
Still excited.
Always excited.
Leah handed him a cup.
"Drink."
Francesco took it.
"Thanks."
They stood there for a mont.
Not much to say.
Not much needed.
Then Leah spoke again.
"When do you get back?"
"After the match."
She nodded.
"Win."
Francesco smirked.
"Plan is to."
She smiled.
"Good."
A small pause.
Then she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him briefly.
"Take care."
He returned it.
"Always."
Cheddar barked once.
As if reminding him not to forget.
Francesco reached down, giving him one last scratch.
"I'll be back."
Then he grabbed his bag.
And stepped out.
The training ground was already alive when he arrived.
Not loud.
But active.
Staff moving.
Players arriving one by one.
The team bus parked and waiting.
Francesco stepped out of his car, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
The air felt crisp.
Fresh.
Different from the day before.
More focused.
More purposeful.
Walker was already there.
Of course.
Leaning against the bus, scrolling through his phone.
He looked up imdiately.
"There he is."
Francesco walked over.
"You sleep?"
Walker shrugged.
"Enough."
A pause.
"You?"
"Sa."
Walker grinned.
"Ready for Anfield?"
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
Walker pushed himself off the bus.
"Good. Because it's going to be loud."
From behind them, sut Özil walked past quietly, headphones already on.
Alexis Sánchez followed shortly after, focused, eyes forward.
Olivier Giroud arrived with a relaxed stride, greeting a staff mber with a quick handshake.
N'Golo Kanté jogged lightly as he approached, as if even walking normally wasn't enough.
Francesco glanced around.
Everyone was there.
Focused.
Locked in.
Wenger stood near the front of the bus, speaking briefly with a staff mber before turning toward the players.
"Alright," he said calmly.
"We leave in two minutes."
Simple.
Clear.
The players began boarding.
Francesco stepped onto the bus, taking his usual seat.
Walker dropped in beside him again.
"Sa seat every ti," Walker muttered.
Francesco shrugged.
"Routine."
Walker nodded.
"Fair."
The bus doors closed.
And slowly, it pulled away from London Colney.
The ride wasn't long.
But it carried a different kind of silence.
Not empty.
Focused.
So players talked quietly.
Others listened to music.
So stared out the window.
Francesco leaned back slightly, watching the scenery pass.
London moving around them.
Busy.
Alive.
But distant.
Because their focus wasn't here anymore.
It was ahead.
Walker nudged him lightly.
"You ever get bored of this?"
Francesco glanced at him.
"What?"
"Travel. Sa routine. Bus, plane, hotel, match."
Francesco thought for a second.
Then shook his head.
"No."
Walker raised an eyebrow.
"Why not?"
Francesco looked out the window again.
"Because of what cos after."
Walker followed his gaze.
Then nodded slowly.
"Yeah… fair."
The bus turned.
Then slowed.
Then finally.
The airport.
Security moved quickly.
Efficient.
Professional.
The team was ushered through a private section, away from the main crowds.
Still, a few people noticed.
Phones lifted.
Whispers spread.
"Arsenal…"
"Francesco…"
But it wasn't chaos.
Just recognition.
Francesco walked with the group, bag over his shoulder, expression calm.
Walker leaned slightly toward him.
"You're getting spotted again."
Francesco didn't react.
"Always happens."
Walker smirked.
"Fa."
Francesco shook his head lightly.
"Focus."
They reached the boarding area.
The plane waited.
Clean.
Ready.
The Arsenal crest visible near the entrance.
One by one, the players boarded.
Francesco stepped inside.
The familiar interior greeted him.
Comfortable seats.
Soft lighting.
The quiet hum of preparation.
He took his seat.
Window side.
Walker beside him.
Of course.
"You picking window every ti now?" Walker asked.
Francesco shrugged.
"Easier to think."
Walker laughed.
"Dangerous."
Francesco smirked faintly.
The plane door closed.
Safety checks completed.
Engines humd louder.
Then movent.
The plane began to taxi.
Francesco looked out the window.
Runway stretching ahead.
Clear.
Focused.
Then takeoff.
The ground pulled away.
London shrinking beneath them.
The city turning into patterns of light and structure.
Walker leaned back.
"Alright… now we relax."
Francesco didn't respond.
He just watched.
Clouds drifting past.
Sky opening up.
Sowhere between departure and arrival.
The flight didn't last long.
But it gave space.
Ti to think.
Ti to reset.
So players slept.
Others talked quietly.
Petr Čech sat calmly a few rows ahead, reading.
Granit Xhaka leaned back, eyes closed.
Virgil van Dijk sat still, focused, as always.
Francesco rested his head lightly against the seat.
Not sleeping.
Just… still.
Anfield.
The image ford again.
The pitch.
The stands.
The noise.
Then it faded.
Replaced by calm.
The plane began its descent.
The landing was smooth.
Controlled.
The wheels touched down.
And just like that, they were there.
Liverpool.
Different air.
Different feeling.
The players stood, grabbing their bags.
Walker stretched again.
"Alright… here we go."
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
They stepped off the plane.
Cool air greeted them imdiately.
Sharper than London.
Fresh.
The airport process moved quickly again.
Staff guiding them through.
Minimal delay.
Then outside.
The team bus waited.
The bus ride felt shorter.
Maybe because everything was closer now.
Maybe because the focus was sharper.
Liverpool moved around them.
Different streets.
Different energy.
Football city.
You could feel it.
Walker looked out the window.
"You can feel it already."
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
The bus moved steadily.
Closer.
Closer.
Then finally they arrive at the hotel.
Clean.
Professional.
Prepared.
The bus stopped.
Players stepped off one by one.
Francesco followed, adjusting his bag slightly.
The entrance opened.
Staff greeted them.
Rooms assigned.
Keys handed out.
Routine.
But underneath it was anticipation for tomorrow.
Anfield.
Liverpool.
Francesco stepped into the hotel lobby.
Paused for just a second.
Then continued forward.
Because everything now, was leading to the next match.
______________________________________________
Na : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 10
Goal: 13
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 0
Goal: 0
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9
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