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Behind the advertising boards, he could already see Alexis and Mesut leaning on the railing, waiting, as though they knew he'd need company the moment the cameras turned off.
The morning air was crisp, faintly tinged with the metallic scent of rain lingering from the night before. Francesco's BMW X5 purred along the quiet roads of north London, the engine's low rumble a familiar companion in the stillness. Colney lay ahead, the training ground's familiar sprawl of pitches, gyms, and office buildings waiting to absorb him back into the rhythm of preparation. The roads were empty at this hour, the city still stirring, yet the weight of what lay ahead as tomorrow's match against Manchester United at Old Trafford was pressed like a silent shadow in his mind.
Francesco's hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, fingers tapping almost imperceptibly against the leather, a rhythm that mirrored his thoughts. The Champions League match earlier in the week still lingered in his head—a 4–2 win away at Ludogorets Razgrad, a victory that had felt both hard-won and illuminating. Even in triumph, there was a lesson to extract.
The first half of that match had been turbulent, chaotic even. Ludogorets had struck twice, both goals from Jonathan Cafu and Claudiu Keseru, moments of brilliance paired with Arsenal's defensive lapses. Francesco could still recall the sharp sting of frustration as the second goal went in an ugly, twisting moment that made him grind his teeth and wish for more focus, more anticipation, more control. But that's where Champions League nights demanded everything from you. And Arsenal had delivered in the second half, a mixture of calm, audacity, and precision.
Xhaka's goal had lifted the team's spirits, a grounding point that reminded them all of the importance of composure under pressure. Then Francesco had stepped up, finding space, timing his runs, and finishing a cross with that combination of instinct and decisiveness that he prided himself on. Mesut had orchestrated the tempo beautifully, curling a pass that seemed impossible until it wasn't. Giroud's header sealed the game, a final exclamation mark on a performance that had tested nerves and resilience.
It had been a win, yes, but not a perfect one. And it had been a reminder that no matter the victories, the work never paused.
Now, driving north, the hum of the tires on wet asphalt, the occasional flash of headlights, and the muted chatter from the radio as all of it seemed secondary to the thoughts looping in his mind. Tomorrow would demand the same intensity. Manchester United were a force, especially at Old Trafford, and Francesco knew every mistake could be magnified. Every touch mattered. Every run, every pass, every challenge was scrutinized under the stadium's lights, and by millions at home.
Colney approached gradually, the familiar silhouette of the training ground emerging through the fog. The sun, barely climbing above the horizon, cast long shadows across the lawns and pitches, giving everything an almost surreal, almost sacred quality. The main building, with its glass facade reflecting the early light, seemed to pulse with a quiet energy as early arrivals moving methodically, staff prepping pitches, physiotherapists consulting quietly in corners, the smell of freshly cut grass mingling with the faint aroma of coffee from the café inside.
Francesco pulled into the parking lot, his BMW settling into a space near the other players' cars. He took a deep breath, adjusting the Man of the Match trophy he'd placed on the passenger seat, a subtle reminder of the previous weekend's triumph. He ran a hand over the steering wheel one last time before opening the door, stepping out into the chill morning air. The breeze hit his face, brisk and invigorating, shaking off the last threads of sleep.
As he walked toward the building, he saw the team already gathering as some stretching, some kicking balls lightly back and forth, others in quiet conversation. The energy here was different from match day, quieter yet no less intense. This was where preparation took root, where instincts were sharpened, and where focus transformed into action.
"Morning, Francesco!" A familiar voice called out. It was Alexis, already in training kit, a mischievous grin plastered across his face despite the early hour. "Back from Bulgaria, huh? Survived the Ludogorets storm?"
Francesco laughed softly, shaking his head. "Barely," he replied, approaching the group. "They made it interesting. Two goals in the first half… had us sweating."
Mesut Ozil, standing beside the stretching cones, gave him a nod, subtle yet approving. "Good recovery," he said calmly. "And you? You scored, didn't you?"
Francesco smirked, shrugging. "Yes, I did. But it wasn't enough to feel completely comfortable until the fourth went in." His eyes flicked briefly toward Giroud, who laughed quietly at the corner of his mouth, clearly amused by the faintly theatrical stress of Francesco's recounting.
Training began in earnest shortly after, the warm-up a careful blend of stretching, light jogging, and tactical drills. Francesco could feel his muscles awakening, each stretch a reminder that the body had its own rhythm, its own voice. He focused on loosening his hamstrings, feeling the elasticity return, the tension slowly melting away.
Coach Wenger joined them on the pitch, clipboard in hand, observing with that familiar mix of meticulous attention and quiet encouragement. Francesco noted every nuance as the way the manager shifted his weight, the tilt of his head as he assessed positioning, the slight crease in his brow when something wasn't aligning perfectly. Even after years together, Wenger's gaze could still unsettle and inspire simultaneously.
Drills intensified. Passing sequences grew sharper, the ball moving with increasing speed, players calling, moving, adjusting instinctively. Francesco's mind alternated between the technical from angles, spacing, pressing cues and the mental of Old Trafford, United, tomorrow. The blend was intoxicating, demanding, relentless.
By mid-morning, they moved into small-sided games. Francesco took up his usual positions, rotating through midfield and attack, always scanning, always anticipating. His legs burned pleasantly, a signal of readiness. He pushed himself through a series of sprints, weaving past markers, chasing second balls, testing defensive reactions. Every touch mattered. Every pass carried intent.
And yet, beneath the exertion, his mind replayed moments from Ludogorets as the early panic, the recovery, the flow of passes that led to his goal. He analyzed each, critiqued each, learned. Football, he reminded himself, was a constant conversation with mistakes, victories, instincts, and refinement.
As training wound down, they regrouped near the sidelines. Wenger addressed the team, his voice calm but piercing, words weighted with strategy and expectation. Francesco listened intently, eyes scanning teammates, noting subtle gestures, tension in shoulders, brief exchanges of eye contact. Leadership, he thought, wasn't just about goals. It was about presence, about awareness, about carrying the team when they needed it most.
After the session, while others cooled down and headed to the physiotherapy rooms, Francesco lingered for a moment. He crouched near a pitch marker, taking in the morning sun, the quiet hum of activity, the faint echo of the Emirates and Ludogorets still whispering in his mind. He adjusted his training kit, tucked a strand of hair from his forehead, and allowed himself a small smile.
Francesco finally rose from the pitch, muscles pleasantly fatigued, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead catching the morning sun. He walked slowly toward the locker rooms, allowing himself the quiet satisfaction that came from knowing today's work wasn't just routine as it was preparation for the storm that awaited them at Old Trafford. Even in the gentle hum of Colney, away from the glare of matchday lights, the intensity of Premier League football was palpable.
The players moved in clusters, some already chatting about the Ludogorets win, their voices punctuated by laughter and groans as they recounted mistakes or impressive touches. Francesco walked past Granit Xhaka, who was dabbing at his sweat with a towel, and shot him a brief nod. Xhaka smiled faintly, the kind of acknowledgment that needed no words. They had been through enough matches, enough tense moments together that a glance often said more than a thousand sentences.
In the hallway leading to the briefing room, Alexis Sanchez bounded ahead, his energy infectious, even this early in the day. "Francesco!" he called over his shoulder, grinning widely. "Old Trafford is waiting! You feel it? The Red Devils are going to be in for a treat or in for a nightmare!"
Francesco allowed himself a small laugh, shaking his head. "Let's hope for the first option," he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. "But don't get ahead of yourself. Mourinho is not the type to be taken lightly. They'll be ready for everything."
Mesut Ozil walked beside him, calm and measured, hands tucked in the pockets of his tracksuit. "We have to be smart," Mesut said softly. "Not just fast. Not just aggressive. They study us. They'll try to disrupt our rhythm. We need to anticipate, control the spaces, and make sure we communicate constantly."
Francesco nodded, feeling a quiet reassurance in Mesut's calm presence. There was a reason the German midfielder had been so effective all season as he didn't just see the ball, he saw the game itself, like it was a moving diagram of probabilities and openings. "I know," Francesco said, "and we will. Everyone knows what's coming. Everyone's focused."
By the time they reached the briefing room, most of the squad had already gathered. Wenger was at the head of the table, clipboard in hand, scanning a folder with detailed notes and diagrams. The morning light streamed through the tall windows, casting long stripes across the polished floor, illuminating the faces of the players as they took their seats. Each one carried the faint sheen of sweat from training, but also a quiet intensity that spoke louder than any words.
Wenger looked up as Francesco entered, his eyes calm but sharp. He gestured toward the empty seat next to Granit Xhaka. "Sit," he said gently, his French accent subtle but present, carrying a kind of authority that never needed to be raised. "We have work to do. Manchester United is not an opponent to underestimate."
The room settled into a hush, a mixture of anticipation and attentiveness. Wenger placed his folder on the table and tapped it lightly. "Jose Mourinho is a strategist," he began, voice even and deliberate. "He does not leave things to chance. Every movement, every pass, every transition you make will be analyzed. They will try to predict our patterns. Our weaknesses will be exploited if we allow them. But, as we know, they are beatable. They are strong, but not infallible."
Francesco listened, absorbing each word with that subtle, unspoken intensity that had become second nature over years of elite football. He could feel the muscles from training still buzzing faintly, a reminder that preparation was ongoing as every word from Wenger now was another layer of mental conditioning.
Wenger's gaze swept across the table, landing briefly on Alexis, who had his arms folded, leaning slightly forward, a spark of impatience in his eyes. "Alexis, you will need to time your runs carefully. Mourinho's defenders, particularly Valencia and Smalling, will track aggressively. They do not allow space. We must create it through movement and by drawing them out of position."
Alexis nodded quickly, biting his lip as he considered the tactical adjustment. Francesco, sitting across from him, could see the cogs turning in his mind, already thinking through angles, anticipating counters, imagining himself in those spaces.
"Francesco," Wenger continued, turning his attention to him, "your movement will be crucial. United's defensive line is disciplined, structured. They will try to cut the channels, block your runs. But if you time your bursts correctly, exploiting the spaces left when they shift laterally, you can create chances not just for yourself but for those supporting you. Kante , Mesut, Granit they will need your awareness to coordinate the attacks."
Francesco inclined his head slightly, feeling the familiar thrill of tactical clarity. "Understood," he said calmly, the kind of quiet certainty that often set the tone for those around him. "I'll watch the lines, anticipate their shifts, and coordinate with the midfield. Keep the ball moving, stay unpredictable."
Mesut, sitting beside him, added, "And we'll adjust in real time. We don't need to force the game; we need to respond intelligently." His eyes flicked toward the whiteboard where Wenger had drawn a rudimentary pitch diagram with defensive and attacking zones marked. "Observe their pressing triggers. Find the gaps when they overcommit. That's how we create danger."
Wenger gave a small nod, pleased with the dialogue. "Exactly. And now, let's address their attack. United's counter-attacks are rapid. Rashford and Martial will exploit any hesitation. Your defensive line must remain compact when they turn quickly. Communication between center-backs and full-backs is essential."
Francesco's thoughts shifted slightly as he mentally replayed Ludogorets' fast breaks from earlier in the week. The panic, the scramble, the need for composure under pressure. "We need to anticipate, yes, but also trust each other's positioning," he said. "They won't always beat us if we cover intelligently and maintain the structure Wenger wants."
Xhaka chimed in, "And pressing too high can be dangerous. If they bypass our midfield, we must fall back quickly, close the space, force them wide. Patience and positioning will be more important than aggression at times."
Wenger's lips curved in a subtle smile. "You understand the principles well. That is what preparation looks like. Knowledge, anticipation, discipline. Tomorrow, the game will test us physically and mentally. But we are ready."
Alexis, unable to contain his energy, leaned forward with a half-smile. "Mentally ready is one thing. Physically… they will run us into the ground, I promise you. Old Trafford is brutal."
Francesco chuckled softly. "We survived Ludogorets, Alexis. We can survive a Premier League giant with discipline and strategy." He allowed a small grin. "But yes, their stadium will make every pass feel heavier. Every tackle will count twice."
Wenger's voice cut through the murmured agreement. "Remember, the smallest details often determine the outcome. Awareness of space, timing, movement, communication. And most importantly, control the emotional tempo of the game. You cannot allow the atmosphere to dictate your decisions. Calmness, clarity, and execution are paramount."
Francesco felt a familiar tightening in his chest—the kind that wasn't nervousness, but the electric thrill of challenge. Old Trafford had a reputation. The fans, the noise, the energy as it was formidable. But within that, there was also opportunity, and preparation like this gave him a measure of confidence.
The briefing continued, Wenger pointing out patterns United had used in their recent matches: how their midfield transitioned under pressure, how their full-backs pushed aggressively to support wingers, and where their defensive vulnerabilities might emerge. Every example was paired with a practical instruction, with Francesco picturing himself and his teammates executing the maneuvers. He imagined bursts into channels, one-touch passes threading between defenders, rotations that would unbalance Mourinho's formation.
"Set pieces," Wenger added finally, shifting the focus. "Corners, free-kicks—both defensive and attacking—are moments of opportunity. United are vulnerable to clever routines. Pay attention. Timing is everything."
Francesco leaned back slightly, closing his eyes briefly, replaying corner routines they had practiced countless times in training. His mind ran through options, calculating which variations would work against United's aerial defenders, how to draw out the keeper, how to coordinate with Giroud for maximum effectiveness.
The session concluded with Wenger offering a few final words, the calm authority in his tone impressing itself upon everyone in the room. "Tomorrow is a test of intelligence, courage, and composure. Remember: play with belief, play as a team, and respect the opponent, but never fear them. That is the Arsenal way."
As the players filed out, Francesco lingered a moment, letting the weight of the briefing sink in. Strategy wasn't just about diagrams or drills—it was about anticipation, instinct, and the quiet, relentless focus that allowed the body and mind to move as one. He picked up his water bottle, feeling the cool condensation against his palm, and glanced at the whiteboard one last time, absorbing the layers of instruction like a mental warm-up for tomorrow.
Walking toward the locker room, he met Alexis and Mesut again near the door. Alexis was shaking his head with a grin. "Old Trafford. You feel that buzz already? I swear the stadium is alive even from here."
Francesco smiled, nodding. "I feel it. And I feel ready. We know what to do. Now it's about execution."
Mesut added softly, "Stay focused. Stick to the plan. And remember, team first. Always."
Francesco's smile widened, the weight of responsibility mingling with excitement. "Always."
The locker room buzzed with the familiar hum of post-briefing energy. Players laced boots, adjusted socks, and double-checked their kits, the air thick with anticipation and the subtle smell of freshly laundered training wear mingling with sweat and the faint tang of leather. Francesco leaned against a locker for a moment, letting his thoughts drift over the briefing one more time. He could still feel Wenger's presence in the room, the calm authority, the insistence on anticipation and structure, and he let it sink in fully.
Alexis was already bouncing lightly on his heels, stretching again, muttering half to himself, half to anyone who would listen. "Old Trafford," he said, grinning. "Do you know how many people are going to watch us tomorrow? Millions. The noise, the chaos… it's going to be insane."
Francesco shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "We've played in packed stadiums before. Focus on your movements, Alexis. The noise is part of the atmosphere, not the decision-making."
Mesut, quietly adjusting the laces of his boots, glanced up with that faint, analytical smile. "The crowd is always there," he said softly. "It's our job to see beyond it. The game is between the lines, not in the stands."
Francesco nodded. That was the truth. A stadium like Old Trafford could intimidate, but it couldn't dictate their passes or runs. Awareness, timing, and trust in each other would decide the match more than anything else.
By mid-afternoon, the squad had gathered in the lobby of Colney with their luggage neatly stacked nearby. The hum of conversation was low, a mixture of laughter and focused discussion. Some players were reviewing tactical sheets, others were quietly stretching or rolling calves with foam rollers. Francesco kept his own bag close.
The team bus waited just outside, its engine idling, a low rumble that seemed almost impatient to get moving. Wenger and the coaching staff followed shortly after, carrying clipboards, tablets, and the familiar aura of quiet authority that accompanied them everywhere. Francesco climbed aboard, nodding to the driver as he found a seat near the middle, just behind the midfielders, allowing him to survey the room comfortably. Around him, laughter and conversation rose and fell in waves, teammates discussing small victories from training, joking quietly, their voices a comforting rhythm against the bus's idle hum.
Alexis, true to form, plopped down beside him with a grin that made Francesco shake his head. "You ready?" Alexis asked, nudging him lightly. "We're heading to the theater tomorrow. You can feel it already, can't you? The Red Devils are going to be shaking in their boots."
Francesco allowed himself a soft laugh, but there was no trace of arrogance in it. "It's just another game, Alexis. Respect them, yes. Anticipate them, yes. But don't get caught up in the theater. The pitch is where the real work happens."
Mesut, sitting a few seats away, gave a subtle nod of agreement. "Preparation is everything," he said quietly, almost to himself. "The atmosphere, the crowd… it's secondary to the execution."
The bus pulled away from the training ground, the early evening light painting long shadows across the roads. The quiet hum of tires on asphalt mingled with soft chatter as the city began to move around them, commuters heading home, streetlights flickering on as dusk settled. Francesco leaned back, allowing himself a moment to visualize the game tomorrow. Every movement mattered. Every pass, every defensive adjustment, every counter-attack could make the difference. His mind ran through scenarios, tactical setups Wenger had outlined, and instinctive runs he might need to make.
The journey to the airport was calm but purposeful. Wenger occasionally spoke quietly with his assistant coaches, discussing last-minute adjustments, player readiness, and logistics. The players listened politely, but most were immersed in their own mental preparation. Francesco kept his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, watching the streetlights blur into streaks, letting his thoughts run through timing, spacing, and positioning. He felt a quiet satisfaction in the routine as this was the rhythm of elite football, the movement from preparation to execution, from Colney to the stage of Old Trafford.
When the bus arrived at the airport, the team filed out, the rolling luggage wheels echoing faintly against the terminal floor. The air inside was cool and conditioned, a stark contrast to the fading warmth of the evening outside. Francesco felt the familiar mixture of anticipation and focus tighten in his chest as he followed the group toward the boarding gate. Airport staff nodded politely as the team passed, the occasional glance from curious travelers reminding them that even on the road, their presence carried weight.
Once they reached the plane, the players found their seats, settling in for the flight to Manchester. The cabin hummed with the low noise of engines and air circulation, punctuated by the occasional shuffle of a bag or quiet conversation. Francesco stowed his luggage in the overhead compartment and lowered himself into his seat, feeling the familiar embrace of leather and the slight incline that allowed him to stretch legs just enough to avoid stiffness.
Alexis immediately started flipping through a magazine, muttering commentary on unrelated sports events, while Mesut quietly pulled out his tablet, reviewing tactical notes and previous United matches. Francesco opened his own notebook, jotting down points from Wenger's briefing, adding his own observations, and running through potential attacking sequences. Each scenario was paired with defensive countermeasures, positioning cues, and timing for runs into the channels.
The plane taxied to the runway, and Francesco felt that subtle, electric tension that always accompanied takeoff. The engines roared, the wheels lifted, and the ground fell away as the aircraft climbed into the evening sky. Outside, the city lights stretched beneath them, fading gradually as they soared higher. Francesco let his mind wander over the horizon, picturing the pitch at Old Trafford, the layout of defenders, the movements of Rashford and Martial, the pressing triggers of United's midfield. Every thought was preparation. Every imagined sequence was a mental rehearsal.
Hours passed quietly as the plane cruised toward Manchester. Conversations ebbed and flowed, soft laughter mixing with the tapping of fingers against tablets and notebooks. Francesco occasionally exchanged a few words with Xhaka, discussing timing for midfield link-up or defensive rotations, but mostly, the cabin remained a cocoon of focus and calm anticipation.
When the plane finally touched down, the landing was smooth, and the tires met the tarmac with a muted thrum that resonated through the cabin. The players unbuckled their seatbelts, the subtle shift from airborne suspension to grounded reality bringing a renewed sense of purpose. They gathered their luggage, moving through the terminal with quiet efficiency. Airport staff and onlookers glanced at them, whispers and curious stares trailing behind the group, a reminder that even on the road, they carried the attention and expectation of thousands.
The team bus awaited just outside the terminal. Francesco loaded his own bag into the storage compartment and climbed aboard, taking a seat near the middle. The vehicle hummed to life, pulling onto the road with a quiet precision that mirrored their own professional rhythm. Through the windows, the city of Manchester unfurled, lights reflecting on slick streets, buildings casting faint shadows on the damp asphalt.
Francesco leaned back, feeling the steady motion of the bus as it carried them toward the hotel. The hum of conversation rose softly around him as players discussing meals, small tactical points, and the upcoming match, interspersed with quiet moments of reflection. Alexis bounced slightly in his seat, unable to contain a restless energy, while Mesut and Xhaka sat in calm concentration, reviewing notes or gazing out the window, absorbing the urban landscape as much as the mental preparation.
Francesco's mind, however, remained focused on the pitch. He ran through movements in his head from the first touch, the angle of a run, the subtle cues from teammates. He imagined himself breaking through defensive lines, anticipating passes from Kante or Mesut, creating spaces for Alexis or Walcott. Each scenario was precise, measured, rehearsed. The stadium, the fans, the atmosphere as all of it existed in the periphery, a pressure cooker waiting to ignite tomorrow.
As the bus neared the hotel, the cityscape softened into the quieter streets near their accommodation. The team unloaded their luggage, greeted briefly by the hotel staff, and moved into the lobby. Francesco followed the group, feeling the weight of the day's preparation settle into a composed readiness. The hotel was calm, a neutral zone where they could rest, recharge, and focus.
He walked to his room, the faint scent of fresh linens and polished wood greeting him, a small comfort amidst the tension of anticipation. Placing his bag down, he allowed himself a few moments of quiet reflection. The flight, the briefing, the training, the discussions as all of it had led to this. Tomorrow was where preparation met reality, where instinct met structure, where determination met opportunity.
The first light of Manchester's afternoon sun filtered softly through the hotel lobby windows, casting a warm glow over the quiet carpet and polished surfaces. By 13 PM, the Arsenal squad had gathered, each player in casual tracksuits, some already sipping bottled water or quietly stretching their legs. The hum of low chatter filled the space with a mixture of nerves, excitement, and the shared focus that only an impending match could bring. Francesco leaned against a polished column, glancing around at his teammates. There was a tangible electricity in the air, subtle but insistent, like the low hum of tension before a storm breaks.
Alexis Sanchez was pacing, a grin plastered on his face, hands moving in expressive gestures as he muttered to anyone within earshot. "You can feel it, Francesco! Old Trafford… it's not just a stadium, it's alive. You'll see. The fans, the noise, the smell of the pitch… it's something else."
Francesco allowed himself a small smile, shaking his head. "I've been there before, Alexis," he said, the quiet steadiness in his voice a natural counterpoint to the Chilean's bubbling energy. "Respect the atmosphere, but don't let it control you. The pitch is where everything matters. That's where we do the work."
Mesut Ozil, sitting on a nearby bench with his tablet, offered a faint nod. "He's right. Focus, observation, timing. Everything else is secondary." His eyes flicked toward the lobby clock. "And timing is everything today as every run, every touch, every pass. That is what wins matches at stadiums like Old Trafford."
Francesco ran his hands over his bag, adjusting the strap across his shoulder. Today wasn't just another fixture as it was a test of preparation, intelligence, and composure. Each teammate seemed to exude their own rhythm: Alexis buzzing with energy, Walcott quietly stretching in a corner, Xhaka running through mental notes aloud, checking defensive rotations. It was a symphony of readiness.
The team bus awaited outside, sleek and dark, ready to ferry them through the city toward the theater of Premier League drama. Players moved in small clusters, carrying their bags, chatting lightly, occasionally checking phones or reviewing brief tactical notes. Wenger followed last, clipboard tucked under his arm, walking with the calm authority that seemed to anchor the group. His presence was a reminder that preparation wasn't just mental or physical, it was philosophical, a mindset honed over decades.
Once aboard the bus, the familiar hum of the engine filled the cabin, blending with the low murmur of voices. Francesco chose a seat near the middle, close enough to survey the group, distant enough to reflect. Around him, teammates readied themselves: Alexis flipped through a magazine and muttered commentary, Walcott stretched, and Xhaka quietly rehearsed passing sequences in his mind. Even on the bus, there was a rhythm, a quiet discipline beneath the casual surface.
The streets of Manchester passed slowly as the bus moved toward Old Trafford, the city's rhythm building around them. Rain-slicked pavements reflected the afternoon light, creating fleeting streaks of gold and silver against the dark asphalt. Francesco leaned back, eyes tracing the lines of the buildings, but his mind traced the lines of the pitch. He imagined the shape of the defensive line, the angles of runs, the subtle timing of breaks into space. Every thought was a rehearsal, every imagined pass a mental exercise in anticipation.
Arriving at the stadium, the team filed off the bus, the occasional whir of cameras in the distance reminding them that they were always observed, always scrutinized. The scale of Old Trafford was immediately imposing with the stands towering above, seats seemingly stretching endlessly, the pitch gleaming under the afternoon light. The wind carried a chill, brushing against faces, tugging slightly at training jackets, hinting at the endurance that would be demanded tomorrow.
They entered the dressing room, the familiar scent of linoleum, faint leather, and freshly cut grass mixing with the crispness of new kits laid out in preparation. Francesco exhaled, letting a small sense of calm wash over him. Rituals mattered with lacing boots in a particular way, taping wrists, adjusting socks, checking shin guards. It was the prelude to a performance, a grounding in both physical readiness and mental clarity.
Once ready, the squad moved toward the pitch for warm-ups. The grass was immaculate, the faint dew catching in the fading sunlight, each blade reflecting their intent to dominate space. Francesco led subtle dynamic stretches, his muscles recalling yesterday's training, but now tuned for game intensity. He ran lightly through footwork drills, weaving between markers, testing bursts of acceleration, practicing first touches. Around him, the team mirrored the same energy as Alexis darting sharply between cones, Walcott sprinting along the sidelines, Xhaka and Kante executing controlled passes to maintain rhythm and sharpen focus.
As the warm-up concluded, the squad returned to the dressing room. The energy now shifted from physical preparation to mental alignment. Wenger stood at the head of the room, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the team. His voice was calm but edged with authority, each word carrying weight. "Today," he began, "we face Manchester United. They are organized, aggressive, and experienced. But so are we. Discipline, focus, and execution will define this game. We will play our style, our structure, our way."
Francesco's eyes traced Wenger's gestures as he spoke, absorbing every nuance. He could see the pitch in his mind, the positioning, the movements of each teammate, the anticipated shifts of the opponent. Wenger continued, outlining the formation, the roles, and the responsibilities with precision:
"We will use a 4-2-3-1 formation," Wenger said, voice deliberate. "Petr Cech will start in goal. Our defensive line from left to right will be Nacho Monreal, Virgil Van Dijk, Laurent Koscielny, and Hector Bellerin. N'Golo Kante and Granit Xhaka will anchor the midfield, providing both defensive solidity and transitional support. Mesut Ozil will operate as the central attacking midfielder, orchestrating play and linking the lines. On the wings, Alexis Sanchez and Theo Walcott will provide width, pace, and direct threat. Francesco Lee, you will lead as striker and captain, coordinating the attack and setting the tempo."
Francesco absorbed each name, each position, as though etching them into a mental map of the pitch. He nodded subtly, the weight of responsibility settling into his chest as it was not a burden, but a steadying focus. Around him, the squad listened intently, some quietly reviewing their roles, others nodding at the clarity of the instructions. Wenger continued, turning to the substitutes with equal care.
"Our substitutes will be: Ospina, Mustafi, Gibbs, Coquelin, Ramsey, Oxlade-Chamberlain, and Giroud. Each is prepared to enter seamlessly, maintaining intensity, composure, and execution. Remember, substitutions are not interruptions as they are reinforcements. Every player here is vital."
Francesco glanced at the substitutes' kit neatly laid out on the benches. He could imagine the transitions, the timing of rotations, the mental adjustment required for a substitute to enter seamlessly into the flow. He allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible exhale with a rhythm of confidence, a quiet grounding before the storm of the match.
Wenger's voice softened slightly, yet remained piercing in focus. "We will move as a unit. Attack intelligently, defend collectively. Awareness, communication, and timing will carry us through. Every decision must be deliberate. Do not allow emotion or pressure to dictate action. Maintain control. Be calm, be precise, be decisive. That is the Arsenal way."
Francesco ran his fingers over his match kit, adjusting gloves, tightening laces one final time. He felt the familiar energy in his legs, the subtle buzz in his chest, a combination of readiness, adrenaline, and mental focus. He could hear his teammates around him, quiet murmurs of affirmation, the soft rustle of kits being adjusted, the tap of boots against the floor as players shifted into position.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
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, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 17
Goal: 22
Assist: 0
MOTM: 4
POTM: 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