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Francesco, still catching his breath, patted Giroud on the back, exchanged brief smiles with Ramsey and Gnabry, and nodded toward Kanté and Xhaka. The leadership had been shared, the moments of brilliance intertwined with collective effort, and the victory was a testament not only to skill but to composure, intelligence, and the ability to navigate one of football's most intense rivalries.
The adrenaline still hummed through Francesco's veins even after the final whistle faded into the roar of the Emirates. It wasn't just the victory, it was the weight of the derby, the raw emotional electricity that had filled every minute, the tension that had rolled through the stadium like a living force. The players were embracing, shouting, laughing, shaking hands, collapsing onto the turf in relief or exhilaration. The pitch became a mosaic of red and white, blue and white, triumph and frustration interwoven like threads in a tapestry shaped by rivalry.
Francesco took a moment before rejoining the swirl of bodies. He let his chest rise and fall, inhaling the cool air that carried the scent of grass, sweat, and fireworks. The voices of the fans settled into a warm hum behind him as some still chanting, some still cheering, some still singing his name. Two goals. Solid performance. Tactical discipline. Leadership. It was everything he promised himself he would bring into every derby.
But now came the part he always treated with respect as no matter how heated the match, no matter how fierce the rivalry. The part that reminded him these men he fought against for 90 minutes were also professionals, also warriors, also people carrying dreams, frustrations, expectations, hope.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his glove, then made his way toward the Tottenham players.
They were scattered across the pitch as some slumped, some frustrated, some already forming a line for the traditional handshake. The disappointment in their faces wasn't just about losing a match; it was the sting of losing a derby, the wound that always cut a little deeper.
Francesco approached them slowly, respectfully. First came Jan Vertonghen, hands on hips, staring blankly toward the stands. Francesco extended a hand.
"Jan," he said softly.
Vertonghen blinked out of his daze, looked up, and accepted the handshake. "You were unstoppable today," he muttered, a tinge of forced humor in his voice. "I'm sick of chasing you into channels."
Francesco laughed gently. "I'm sick of you blocking half my shots. Call it even?"
Vertonghen cracked a small smile and shook his head. "Not even close."
They shared a brief hug, a warrior's embrace, filled with mutual respect but softened by exhaustion.
Next was Wanyama, still breathing heavily, his face etched with residual frustration. His tackle on Özil had nearly erupted into chaos, but now that the storm had passed, he looked like a man carrying guilt beneath the surface.
Francesco stepped toward him. "Victor."
Wanyama met his eyes, the tension still lingering. "I went too hard," he admitted quietly, gaze dropping. "Should've controlled that one."
"It's a derby," Francesco replied, placing a hand on his arm. "Happens. Özil's fine. We've all been there."
Wanyama let out a breath that was half sigh, half relief. "Congrats. You deserved it today."
They exchanged a brief, firm embrace before moving on.
Next was Kane, standing near the center circle with that familiar look of frustration, the look of a striker who knew he had done his part but couldn't influence the result enough to change the tide.
Francesco approached with a small smile. "Harry."
Kane looked up with that grudging respect that defined the competitive edge between the two. "Couldn't let me get two today as well, huh?" he said, his tone controlled but tinged with competitive bitterness.
"If you scored two, I would've had to get three," Francesco grinned.
Kane huffed, trying not to laugh. "Still a pain to mark. Always have been."
"Derby brings out the best, mate."
Kane shrugged, exhaling. "Congrats… even though I hate saying it."
Francesco chuckled, pulling Kane into a quick hug that lingered with mutual battle-worn respect.
One by one, he greeted them from Dembele, Dier, Eriksen, Son. Son, despite the loss, managed a smile as bright as always, tapping Francesco on the chest.
"You always pick the worst days for us to be at your best," Son joked.
Francesco laughed. "I'll try to schedule my form better next season."
Son snorted. "Please do."
Then, finally, he spotted Kyle Walker, standing near the right touchline, hands on hips, breathing deeply as if trying to swallow the frustration building in his chest. The disappointment carved into his expression wasn't born solely from the defeat as Walker was a proud player, ambitious, competitive, and deeply emotional about derbies. His shirt clung to him, drenched in sweat, and his jaw tightened as he stared at the grass.
Francesco's steps slowed.
This, this was a moment he hadn't planned. But instinct, intuition, and something deeper in his football heart nudged him forward.
He approached Kyle from the side, not wanting to startle him. "Kyle," he said softly.
Walker turned, surprised at first, then softened slightly. "Hell of a performance from you," he murmured, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.
Francesco didn't respond immediately. He stepped closer, then pulled Walker into a firm, unexpected hug.
Walker stiffened for half a second as he was shocked, but then slowly returned the embrace.
They separated, but Francesco kept a hand on his shoulder.
"You ever think about moving?" Francesco asked quietly.
Walker blinked. "What?"
"You heard me," Francesco said, tone steady. "You ever think about leaving Spurs?"
The curiosity, the disbelief that flickered across Walker's face was immediate.
"What are you asking…?"
Francesco didn't mince words.
"You wanna come to Arsenal?" he asked bluntly.
The world seemed to pause. The stadium noise, the footsteps, the shouts around them as all dissolved under the weight of that question.
Walker stared at him, eyes wide and unsure if this was a joke, a mind game, or a genuine offer.
"You're recruiting me?" Walker whispered, astonished. "Me? Into Arsenal? We're rivals, mate."
Francesco's expression didn't change. "Yeah, we're rivals. But you're a top right-back. One of the best in the league. And you're wasting your peak years here."
Walker swallowed hard, his face shifting with an internal struggle he couldn't hide.
Francesco continued, voice calm but firm. "How long do you wanna play without winning a major trophy?"
Walker flinched slightly, because the truth hit deep. Too deep.
Francesco pressed gently, not mocking, not harsh, just… honest. "Spurs are a good team that solid, structured, better every year." His tone dipped lower, quieter. "But they're not great. Not yet. And you… you deserve better. You deserve something to show for everything you put in."
Walker's gaze dropped to the pitch.
He didn't argue.
He didn't defend Tottenham.
He didn't laugh it off.
He simply stood there thinking.
Contemplating.
Conflict rippled across his expression. Loyalty and ambition pulled at him like opposing magnets. And for the first time, someone had said aloud what he'd been suppressing for years: the fear of finishing his career with nothing meaningful to show for it.
After a long silence, Walker finally exhaled. "I… don't know," he muttered. "I've never thought about leaving. Not seriously."
"I'm not asking for a decision now," Francesco said, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "But think about it. Really think about it. You've only got so many years at the very top. Don't waste them."
Walker slowly lifted his eyes, meeting Francesco's with an exhausted, haunted look, like someone seeing a door open he wasn't sure he should walk through.
"I'll… think about it," Walker said quietly, almost trembling at the weight of the admission.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away—silent, contemplative, the question hanging heavily in his mind, echoing louder than the roar of the fans still bouncing across the Emirates.
The seed had been planted.
The noise of the Emirates still pulsed like a living current behind them as the chants echoing off the stands, the aftertaste of a derby still crackling in the air. Francesco watched Kyle Walker walk away, shoulders tense, steps heavy, the weight of that unexpected conversation still hanging thick between them.
And then, before Francesco could exhale, before he could even fully process what he had just done, he felt two shadows step up beside him.
Mesut Özil.
Alexis Sánchez.
Both with expressions that were far too sharp, far too observant, to pretend they hadn't noticed.
Alexis folded his arms, eyebrows raised in that mixture of curiosity and suspicion that always made him look like he was deciding whether to laugh or interrogate someone. Mesut, meanwhile, stood quieter, more subtle, but his eyes that calm, and deceptively gentle eyes were studying Francesco like he was trying to read the meaning behind every breath.
"What was that?" Alexis asked bluntly, tilting his head toward where Walker had disappeared. "You two looked… serious."
Mesut nodded lightly. "Very serious."
Francesco's stomach tightened.
He hadn't planned on telling anyone. Not this soon. Not right here on the pitch with the cameras still lingering, with the energy of the derby still buzzing through their bodies like electricity.
But hiding things from teammates never worked. They knew him too well. They read him too easily. And the weight sitting on his tongue was too heavy to swallow now anyway.
He let out a slow, quiet breath.
"I asked him."
Alexis blinked, confused. "Asked him what?"
Francesco looked between them, jaw tensing, then finally said it aloud:
"I asked Walker if he wants to come to Arsenal."
For a second, both players just stared at him.
Alexis's eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly hit his hairline. "¿Qué? You tried to recruit Kyle Walker?"
Mesut didn't react as dramatically. Instead, he inhaled softly, eyes widening for only a brief moment, but it was enough to show he was surprised too.
Alexis stepped closer, his voice dropping, laced with disbelief. "You're serious? You really asked him that?"
Francesco nodded.
Alexis let out a low whistle, glancing toward the tunnel as if expecting Walker to still be standing there. "Damn… I didn't see that coming."
Mesut remained quiet, contemplative, waiting, because he knew Francesco well enough to sense there was more beneath the surface.
Alexis was the first to break the silence again. "But… what about Hector?"
There it was.
The question Francesco knew would come.
The question he'd already asked himself, challenged himself with, wrestled with internally for months.
He turned his gaze toward the Arsenal half of the pitch, where Héctor Bellerín was smiling, hugging fans, trading shirts with a young academy player who ran onto the pitch. A good kid. A loyal Gunner. Fast as lightning. Improving.
But improvement had limits.
And Francesco had stopped lying to himself about that.
"If Hector still doesn't improve," Francesco said slowly, honestly, "then I don't think he can help us get where we want to go."
Alexis frowned. "But this season—"
"This season was better," Francesco interrupted gently. "Yeah. It was. He's grown. He's learning."
He rubbed the back of his neck, the adrenaline from the match simmering into something more thoughtful, more serious.
"But he and Walker…" Francesco shook his head. "They're not on the same level. Not yet. Not in terms of pure defending. Not in experience. Not in consistency."
Alexis's mouth twitched, as if torn between defending his teammate and acknowledging the truth.
Francesco continued, voice steady: "Walker is world-class. An actual, complete right-back. Strength, pace, discipline, defensive IQ, physicality, reading of danger as he has it all. He's a level above. And if Hector wants to stay our starter… he needs to reach that level."
Alexis let out a slow exhale, thinking deeply.
Mesut, who had been quiet until now, finally lifted his head, looking directly at Francesco.
"I agree."
Both Francesco and Alexis turned toward him.
Mesut nodded once, thoughtful. "Competition is good. Good for the team. Good for growth. If Walker comes, it would push Hector to improve. Really improve. Not… just play safe."
Francesco felt a small, unexpected sense of relief hearing Mesut say it, because Mesut rarely voiced things bluntly like this. When he did, people listened.
Alexis scratched the back of his head, letting the idea settle. "You really think Walker might come?"
"I think," Francesco said carefully, "that he's thinking about it now. Really thinking about it."
Alexis's lips curled into a slow, mischievous grin. "You clever bastard."
Francesco chuckled, shrugging. "I'm just thinking about our future."
Mesut placed a hand briefly on Francesco's arm, a rare gesture of reassurance. "You're thinking like a captain."
Francesco swallowed, throat tightening for a moment. "Someone has to."
The grin spreading across Alexis Sánchez's face grew wider, sharper, the kind of grin that always meant trouble or mischief, usually both. He nudged Francesco with an elbow, eyes dancing with a mixture of humor and disbelief.
"You do know," Alexis said, lowering his voice as though sharing a scandalous secret, "if Kyle Walker really transfers to Arsenal… all of this—" he gestured vaguely toward the pitch, toward the tunnel, toward the very essence of the derby "—will be like the Sol Campbell incident all over again."
He said the name like it carried a ghost.
A very loud, very controversial, very unforgettable ghost.
For a heartbeat, Francesco tried to maintain a straight face.
He failed.
A laugh burst out of him—sharp, surprised, and almost relieved. "Oh God. Yeah," he muttered, shaking his head. "That would be… that would be exactly like Sol."
Mesut Özil let out a soft snort first, then a real laugh, gentle but impossible to hide. The kind of laugh that slipped out when someone said something they absolutely shouldn't but couldn't resist.
Alexis's grin only grew as he jabbed a finger at both of them. "Imagine the headlines. Imagine the rage. Tottenham fans losing their minds, setting things on fire, blaming Wenger, blaming the universe—"
Francesco waved a hand dramatically. "And blaming me. Don't forget that part."
Mesut tilted his head, still smiling. "Definitely blaming you."
"Obviously blaming me," Francesco sighed with theatrical exaggeration.
Alexis burst into laughter, slapping Francesco lightly on the back. "You would be their new public enemy number one. They'd probably put your face on banners."
"With devil horns," Mesut added dryly.
"With flames in the background," Alexis proposed.
"With the words 'DEVIL OF NORTH LONDON'," Mesut continued, straight-faced, which only made it funnier.
Francesco groaned loudly, rubbing his palms over his face. "Please. No. I already get enough hate."
"All great players do," Mesut said simply, shrugging.
Alexis pointed at him. "And you wouldn't mind it. Don't lie."
Francesco lowered his hands and huffed. "Okay maybe… maybe a tiny bit."
"TINY?" Alexis barked. "Mate, you'd feed off it."
Mesut nodded in agreement, voice soft but mercilessly accurate. "You really would."
Francesco wanted to deny it, to protect his dignity, his image, anything, but even he wasn't that good a liar.
"Fine," he said. "Maybe I would enjoy it a little."
Alexis and Mesut shared an exaggerated "mm-hmm" in perfect unison, like disappointed schoolteachers.
But before Francesco could fire back with a witty comeback, he heard footsteps on the grass. Quick, professional footsteps as it was not a player, not a fan who had run onto the pitch, not staff cleaning up equipment.
He turned.
A Premier League matchday staff member, clipboard in hand, headset around his neck, jogged toward him with an apologetic half-smile, the kind of smile someone wore when they interrupted a private conversation but didn't have a choice.
"Francesco!" the man called out, a little breathless. "Sorry to interrupt, mate."
Alexis nudged Mesut. "Here we go," he murmured.
Francesco straightened up. "Yeah? What's up?"
The staff member stopped a step away, still catching his breath. "You need to head to the sideline interview area. Sky Sports are waiting for you."
"Okay," Francesco said, nodding.
The staff member continued, his smile widening. "And… congratulations. You've been selected Man of the Match."
Mesut smiled proudly. Alexis smirked. Both clapped Francesco on the back in quick succession.
"Told you," Alexis said. "You were everywhere today."
The staff member added, "You'll get the MOTM award at the end of the interview, so don't run off after they finish with the questions."
"Got it," Francesco replied, though his brain was still half in the post-match limbo of adrenaline and exhaustion.
The staffer nodded, giving them all a polite gesture before jogging back toward the technical area.
As soon as he disappeared, Alexis made a dramatic "oooooh" sound. "Man of the Match again. I'm losing count already."
Mesut smiled, hands in pockets, voice quiet but warm. "You deserve it."
Francesco lifted an eyebrow playfully. "You two trying to inflate my ego?"
Alexis scoffed. "Your ego doesn't need our help."
Mesut nodded sage-like behind him. "Very true."
Francesco pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "You're both horrible."
"Go to your interview, captain," Mesut said, giving him a gentle nudge toward the sideline.
Alexis winked. "And don't mention your secret right-back mission."
"No promises," Francesco muttered under his breath.
"FRAN!" Alexis shouted dramatically. "I SWEAR—"
"Relax, relax," Francesco laughed as he backed away. "I won't say anything."
"You better not!" Alexis shouted again, pointing a warning finger.
Mesut just smiled and shook his head. "Go."
Francesco inhaled, regaining his composure, and began walking toward the sideline, boots cutting softly against the grass, the Emirates still glowing around him like a living, breathing organism.
Warm. Full. Joyous.
Behind him, Alexis and Mesut lingered for a moment longer, talking quietly, smiling, glancing occasionally at their star teammate heading toward another interview spotlight.
Francesco didn't turn back, but he didn't need to. He could feel their presence behind him, the trust, the camaraderie, the unity that took years to build and seconds to understand.
He passed a young Arsenal fan near the barrier who shouted his name with a cracking voice. Francesco touched the boy's hand as he walked by.
The kid almost fainted.
He stepped closer to the interview area where the Sky Sports backdrop glowed under stage lights. Camera crews adjusted positions, a microphone boom hovered like a curious bird, and a presenter waited with a bright red tie and a smile reserved only for broadcast charisma.
Just before Francesco reached them, he stole a final glance over his shoulder.
Alexis and Mesut were still there.
Still watching him.
Still smiling.
Still believing.
The warmth in his chest deepened, not the adrenaline of the match, not the fire of rivalry, not the ice of ambition. Something steadier. Something that kept teams from falling apart even when everything else did.
Brotherhood.
He reached the interview area, adjusting his shirt slightly, wiping a bit of sweat from his temple. The presenter stepped forward, extending a hand.
"Francesco! Congratulations on the win. And congratulations on the Man of the Match award."
"Thank you," Francesco replied, shaking his hand firmly.
The presenter gestured to the spot marked on the grass. "Ready to get started?"
Francesco nodded. "Let's do it."
The Sky Sports presenter lifted his cue card, glanced at the camera crew who signaled they were about to roll, and then gave Francesco the kind of bright, polished smile that only lived on television. The floodlights around them hummed with static warmth. The Emirates still echoed faintly, the noise drifting like a fading applause.
"Alright," the presenter murmured under his breath, adjusting his tie. "We'll be live in three… two…"
A raised finger.
"One."
The little red dot on the camera blinked into life.
"Good evening and welcome back to the Emirates Stadium," the presenter began smoothly. "We've just witnessed a pulsating North London derby as Arsenal 3, Tottenham Hotspur 1. And joining us now is the Man of the Match, Francesco."
He turned toward him with the practiced enthusiasm of someone who had done this a thousand times.
"Francesco, first of all congratulations on the win, and on the award."
Francesco gave a modest smile. "Thank you. It means a lot."
"Let's jump straight in," the presenter said. "A brace for you today. Two goals that really set the tone and ultimately contributed massively to Arsenal taking this 3–1 victory. Talk us through them, how did it feel to score those goals in a derby like this?"
Francesco let out a breath, his smile softening into something more grounded, more thoughtful. The crowd noise — distant now — still vibrated faintly through the concrete and metal. He could almost feel the rush again.
"The first one," he said, "you know… it just comes down to instinct. I always try to get into the right spaces. Mesut saw the run early, like he always does. One touch, two touches, and suddenly the ball's right there at my feet. In games like this, you don't have time to overthink. You just trust your body. Trust your training. Trust the moment."
He paused briefly, replaying it in his mind on the movement, the flicker of space, the weight of the pass, the thrum of adrenaline as the net rippled.
"And then when it went in," he continued, "the whole stadium just exploded. It's… hard to describe what that does to you. It's not just a goal. It's the energy. The emotion. The recognition of how much it means to everyone, to us, to the fans, to the club."
The presenter nodded. "And the second goal?"
"That one," Francesco said with a small laugh, "was more… stubbornness than skill. I lost my marker once, then twice, and then finally made the angle I wanted. The pass came in, and I just thought, 'No matter what, I'm getting something on this.' Head, shoulder, face, anything."
The presenter chuckled. "Thankfully it was your foot."
"Yeah," Francesco laughed. "Thankfully. Could've been painful otherwise."
The presenter shifted his weight, leaning slightly closer. "But honestly, two huge goals. A derby brace. These are moments fans remember for years."
Francesco rubbed the back of his neck, humbled but still warm with adrenaline. "It's special. Really special. You grow up watching derbies, feeling the intensity. And when you're out there, actually living it, actually shaping it… it's surreal. Big games bring out something different in you."
He exhaled slowly. "And today… I felt that."
The presenter lifted his cue card again. "Well, you weren't the only one feeling the intensity today. Let's talk about the match as a whole. Tottenham had their momentsl did they give you a real challenge out there?"
A small shift in Francesco's expression, seriousness replacing the relaxed confidence.
"Absolutely," he said. "Derbies always bring out the best in both teams. And Tottenham… they're a strong side. Physically strong, mentally strong, very aggressive in the midfield. You could feel their pressure, especially in the first 20, 25 minutes. They tried to disrupt our rhythm, win second balls, push high."
He pursed his lips slightly. "They didn't make anything easy for us."
The presenter interjected. "Were there any moments where you felt the momentum shifting?"
Francesco nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. Definitely. Especially after they started swinging crosses into the box and forcing us into defensive transitions. And when they finally pull one goal back… it was a real test."
He paused, the memory flashing behind his eyes with the roar of the away end, the sudden dip in atmosphere, the tension tightening like a fist in the air.
"But that's football," he continued. "Momentum changes. Pressure comes. What matters is how you respond."
"And how do you think Arsenal responded?" the presenter asked.
A slow smile tugged at the corner of Francesco's mouth.
"Brilliantly," he said. "Honestly. We regrouped. We didn't panic. We didn't rush. We trusted the plan. And you could feel it, the shift. The calmness coming back. The confidence. That's what you need in big games. You can't collapse emotionally. And we didn't."
The presenter nodded. "A lot of fans will agree with that. It felt like a very mature, disciplined performance from the team."
"That's exactly it," Francesco replied. "Mature. We didn't play like a team hoping for a result. We played like a team controlling our result."
He took a moment, glancing briefly toward the pitch as the grass cut into pristine patterns, still marked with the scuffs and divots left by battle.
"You know," he said, "we've been working really hard in training. Positioning. Pressing triggers. Communication. It doesn't always show in every match, but today… it clicked. Everyone was switched on. Everyone cared. Everyone fought."
He shook his head with admiration. "Alexis was unbelievable. His work rate, his pressing, his movement which honestly, people don't understand how much that changes a game. And Mesut…" Francesco let out a small breath of awe, "he sees things none of us see. His passes today were unreal. And then you've got the back line, they were warriors. Absolute warriors."
The presenter smiled. "It sounds like you're proud of the team."
"Yeah," Francesco said simply. "I am."
The presenter looked down at the next cue card. "Let's talk tactically for a second. Tottenham pressed very high early on. Did that surprise you?"
"No," Francesco said with a shrug. "Not really. They always press in derbies. They try to force you long, try to force mistakes. But we planned for that. We wanted to stay calm, trust our build-up, break their first line, and then attack the spaces behind."
He pointed a thumb behind him toward the tactical area. "And credit to our midfield, they handled it so well. They absorbed pressure, moved the ball quickly, kept their composure. That's what allowed us to get forward."
The presenter adjusted his earpiece as a producer said something in the background. "You mentioned composure, did you think your team showed more composure today than Tottenham?"
Francesco hesitated for a moment without a doubt, but also said something out of fairness.
"I think," he said carefully, "we showed composure at the right moments. And in derbies, timing is everything. They had good spells. Very good spells. But when the match tightened, when emotions flared, when the game got scrappy… we stayed level-headed."
He looked toward the stands again. "Sometimes, experience wins you derbies."
The presenter nodded. "Speaking of derbies, what does this win mean for Arsenal? For the fans? For the dressing room?"
Francesco breathed in slowly, his chest rising with something deeper than the usual post-match adrenaline.
"It means…" He paused, searching for the right words. "It means everything."
He gestured loosely around them. "These fans, they live for this. The derby isn't just a match. It's history. Pride. Identity. It's families arguing. Friends teasing each other for years. It's bragging rights that last a lifetime."
"And for us players," he continued, "you feel that. You want to give them something real. Something they can hold on to. Something that matters."
He tapped his chest lightly. "And today… we did."
The presenter smiled knowingly. "You certainly did."
Another producer signal. Another cue.
"Let's talk about your second half," the presenter said. "Arsenal looked more aggressive, more structured. Was that a tactical decision from the manager, or something the players decided on the pitch?"
"A bit of both," Francesco replied. "The manager told us at halftime to tighten the lines, to press smarter not harder, to force Tottenham wide and then collapse on them. But on the pitch, we also recognized the spaces. We communicated. We adjusted based on their movement."
He grinned slightly. "Football's like jazz sometimes. You follow the rhythm, but you improvise when needed."
The presenter laughed. "I don't think I've ever heard a derby compared to jazz."
Francesco chuckled. "Well, jazz can be violent too."
"Fair enough," the presenter said with a smirk. "Now, one more big question about Tottenham's challenge today. Some people thought coming into this match that Arsenal might struggle physically. Did you feel that?"
"People always say that about us," Francesco said calmly. "That we're technical but not physical enough. That we can't handle tough teams. It's a lazy narrative."
He shrugged. "Look at today. Look at how we battled. Look at how we pressed. How we ran. How we won duels. We've got heart. We've got physicality. And more importantly — we've got belief."
He looked directly at the camera for a brief moment, voice steady.
"And if people still underestimate us after this… that's their mistake."
The presenter seemed satisfied with that answer — genuinely impressed.
"Let's move on to Arsenal's performance overall. From your perspective, how do you think the team played today?"
Francesco's expression softened again, as though reflecting back on the full ninety minutes.
"I think…" He inhaled. "I think today was one of our most complete performances of the season."
The presenter raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yeah," Francesco nodded. "Not because it was perfect — it wasn't. There were mistakes. There were sloppy moments. There were phases where Tottenham pushed us deep."
"But," he continued, raising a finger, "we managed all of that. We didn't fall apart. We didn't get frantic. We didn't lose our shape. We didn't stop playing our football."
He took a step back, hands on his hips as he looked across at the pitch like it was a painting he'd helped create.
"You know," he said, "sometimes playing well isn't about being flashy. It's about being disciplined. Patient. Intelligent. And today… that was us."
The presenter nodded. "What impressed you the most?"
Francesco's eyes warmed.
"The unity," he said. "The connection between every line. Everyone knew their role. Everyone trusted each other. You could feel it — the confidence moving through us like a current."
He smiled as he added: "And when Olivier scored that third goal… you could feel the whole stadium breathe again. Like everyone exhaled at once."
"It was a brilliant finish," the presenter said.
"It was vintage Olivier," Francesco replied with a grin. "Right place, right time, maximum chaos."
They both laughed.
"But seriously," Francesco added, "the team deserves all the credit. Everyone worked. Everyone sacrificed. Everyone showed up. And that's what wins derbies."
The presenter looked off-camera, receiving another note. "Final few questions before we let you get your Man of the Match trophy."
Francesco nodded lightly, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
"Where do you think this performance leaves Arsenal?" the presenter asked. "Confidence-wise? Momentum-wise?"
Francesco's eyes sharpened that was focused, hungry.
"It leaves us exactly where we want to be," he said. "In control of our destiny."
He tilted his head thoughtfully. "We're growing. We're improving. We're evolving. Every match teaches us something. Every mistake. Every win. Every fight."
His voice grew steadier. Firmer.
"And today… today reminded us who we are. What we can be. What this team is capable of when we're together, when we believe."
The presenter smiled. "And where do you think you personally stand right now? Two goals, a MOTM award… you're having an incredible season."
Francesco swallowed softly, thinking.
"I stand where I've always wanted to stand," he said. "At the front. Pushing the team. Carrying my responsibility. Leading by example."
He took in a slow breath.
"I want to help us win. I want to help us grow. I want to make history with this club."
The presenter gave a warm nod. "Well, you're certainly on your way."
From the side, another staff member arrived quietly with the Man of the Match trophy with the familiar transparent sculpture with the Premier League emblem shimmering under the lights.
The presenter reached for it.
"And now," he said, lifting it with both hands, "for your performance today with two goals, relentless work rate, and a massive contribution to Arsenal's 3–1 win, we present you with the Man of the Match award."
He handed it to Francesco.
The moment the trophy touched his hands, Francesco felt something shift inside him that is not pride exactly, not ego, but a quiet satisfaction. A confirmation. A reminder that everything he fought for, everything he worked for, everything he dreamed of… it was all moving somewhere real.
He glanced at the reflection on the trophy's surface, distorted by the curved edges, but unmistakably his.
"Thank you," he said with genuine warmth. "Really. Thank you."
The presenter smiled. "Any last message to the Arsenal fans watching?"
Francesco looked at the camera, not with media polish, not with rehearsed charisma, but with pure sincerity.
"Thank you," he said softly. "For the noise. For the belief. For carrying us when our legs were heavy. For living every minute of this with us."
He paused.
"We play for you. And we'll keep fighting for you."
The presenter nodded. "Beautifully said. Francesco, congratulations again. Fantastic performance."
They shook hands, the cameras cut, the red light faded, and the sound of the stadium washed in again that softer now, but still alive.
The staff gave him a nod. The presenter thanked him again. A couple of camera crew members smiled and congratulated him as they moved equipment.
Francesco, trophy in hand, stepped away from the interview zone.
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.
________________________________________________
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: 16
Goal: 21
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