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...
Several journalists called out congratulations while staff already rushed forward organizing equipment and deadlines.
The media room emptied slowly behind them.
Journalists already typing furiously into phones and laptops while television crews rushed toward editing deadlines before late-night broadcasts. Somewhere down the corridor Francesco could already hear one pundit loudly replaying tactical analysis from the match.
Probably accompanied by dramatic arrows on touchscreen graphics.
Football loved arrows almost as much as it loved overreaction.
Wenger walked beside him calmly through the Emirates corridors while staff members moved around carrying equipment cases and camera tripods.
"You handled that very well," the manager said quietly.
Francesco adjusted the strap of his bag slightly higher on his shoulder.
"You say that now."
"I said it because it is true."
Typical Wenger answer.
No exaggeration.
No unnecessary emotional speech.
Just honest assessment delivered with professor-level calm.
They passed another television screen replaying highlights again. This time it showed the penalty. Francesco watched himself place the ball down beneath roaring floodlights before calmly sending Lloris the wrong way.
Strange feeling honestly.
Watching yourself from the outside after a match like that.
Almost disconnected from it.
Like seeing a version of yourself that existed fully inside instinct and adrenaline.
Wenger noticed him watching the replay.
"You looked lighter today," the older man said.
There was that word again in another form.
Lighter.
Free.
Happy.
Francesco smiled faintly.
"Apparently everyone noticed."
"Because it was obvious."
The manager glanced toward him briefly.
"Football is difficult when fear stays inside your head."
Then softer:
"But today you played without carrying it."
That sentence stayed with Francesco long after they separated later that evening.
Because Wenger was right.
The fear hadn't vanished completely.
Maybe it never would entirely.
But today it stopped controlling space inside him.
And that difference changed everything.
⸻
The next morning Europe woke up talking about Francesco Lee again.
Only this time?
Not with concern.
Not with speculation.
Not with endless debates about emotional fragility or mental pressure.
Now the headlines looked very different.
"FRANCESCO RETURNS WITH DERBY HAT-TRICK."
"CAPTAIN'S PERFORMANCE SILENCES TOTTENHAM."
"ARSENAL STAR RESPONDS IN PERFECT FASHION."
"FROM DOUBT TO DOMINANCE."
Sports channels replayed the goals endlessly across breakfast television.
Pundits analyzed his movement.
Former players praised his mentality.
Newspapers printed photographs of him celebrating beneath Emirates floodlights with both arms spread wide toward the supporters.
Even internationally the performance spread quickly.
Spanish papers praised his composure.
Italian media called it "a statement performance."
French broadcasts focused heavily on his comments afterward about mental health and recovery.
For once the football world sounded almost thoughtful.
Well.
Mostly thoughtful.
A few pundits still attempted outrage farming because football television physically could not survive without dramatic overreaction.
But overall?
The narrative had shifted completely.
And perhaps most importantly, the conversation no longer sounded like people discussing a damaged athlete.
It sounded like people discussing a footballer who survived something difficult and came back stronger.
That difference mattered.
A lot.
London remained cold the next morning.
Grey skies hung low above the training grounds at London Colney while light mist drifted across the pitches surrounding Arsenal's training complex.
Recovery day atmosphere carried a completely different energy after derby wins.
Especially four-nil derby wins.
Especially when Tottenham got humiliated publicly.
The mood inside the training center bordered on illegal levels of confidence.
Francesco arrived wearing black Arsenal training gear beneath a heavy coat while carrying coffee in one hand and his bag over the other shoulder.
The second he stepped inside the building, somebody started clapping dramatically.
Then another person joined.
Then another.
By the time he reached the main corridor, half the recovery staff were applauding sarcastically while laughing.
Francesco stopped walking.
"Oh no."
One of the physios grinned.
"Hat-trick hero has arrived."
"This is already becoming exhausting."
A nutrition staff member pointed toward him accusingly.
"You made us all watch Tottenham fans suffer on live television."
"Correct."
"Fair enough honestly."
Further down the corridor Ramsey physically appeared from nowhere already carrying maximum Welsh chaos energy before 9 a.m.
"Morning superstar."
"Morning."
Ramsey walked beside him immediately.
"You know what my favorite part was?"
"The goals?"
"No."
"The Spurs fans leaving after the third."
Francesco laughed quietly.
"That was pretty good."
"Poetry honestly."
Footballers after derby wins became emotionally unbearable people.
Especially Arsenal players after beating Tottenham.
The locker room area buzzed with noise already when Francesco entered.
Music played softly from someone's speaker while several players stretched lazily after yesterday's exertion.
Recovery sessions today meant lighter work.
Gym movement.
Massage treatment.
Low-intensity drills.
Mostly just keeping bodies functional after emotional warfare disguised as sport.
Walker looked up instantly from the treatment table.
"HE RETURNS AGAIN."
"You saw me twelve hours ago."
"And I still missed you."
"Concerning."
Nearby Sánchez sat scrolling through his phone looking deeply offended about something.
Standard morning behavior honestly.
"What happened now?" Francesco asked.
The Chilean looked up immediately.
"People online saying your second goal better than my goal."
Francesco blinked once.
"That's what upset you?"
"Yes."
"Alexis you scored in a four-nil derby win."
"And still they disrespect me."
Impossible human being.
Kante sat nearby quietly drinking tea while reading something on a tablet.
Probably tactical analysis.
Possibly advanced quantum physics.
Nobody actually knew anymore.
The midfielder glanced up toward Francesco and smiled faintly.
"Good morning."
"Morning."
Then after a second Kante added:
"My cousins in Paris sent me messages about your interview."
That caught Francesco slightly off guard.
"Oh."
"They liked what you said."
Simple sentence.
Still meaningful.
Francesco sat down near his locker quietly afterward while the room continued buzzing around him.
And honestly?
For the first time in weeks, sitting here felt completely normal again.
No invisible tension.
No people carefully checking whether he seemed okay every five seconds.
No strange caution.
Just football environment chaos.
Someone arguing over playlist choices.
Someone complaining about recovery ice baths.
Someone getting mocked for bad defending during training clips.
Beautifully stupid football life.
Bellerín entered moments later dressed like a fashion designer accidentally wandered into a sports facility again.
Long coat.
Designer boots.
Glasses.
Ramsey physically stared at him.
"You look like you own an underground art gallery."
"Thank you."
"That was not entirely complimentary."
Bellerín dropped into the seat beside Francesco before immediately pulling out his phone.
"You're trending in six countries."
"Wonderful."
The Spaniard grinned slightly while scrolling.
"Actually no, some of the reactions are pretty nice."
He tilted the screen briefly.
Posts praising the interview.
Fans discussing mental health openly.
Former athletes sharing clips from the press conference.
One comment read:
"Seeing footballers speak honestly about fear and recovery matters more than people realize."
Francesco stared at it quietly for a second.
Weird feeling.
Because part of him still struggled viewing himself as someone saying anything important publicly.
He was a footballer.
Not a motivational speaker.
Not a politician.
Just someone who happened to survive something frightening and talk honestly afterward.
But maybe honesty itself mattered more than polished speeches ever could.
Bellerín noticed his expression.
"Good weird or bad weird?"
"…good weird I think."
The defender nodded thoughtfully.
"You know what the interesting thing is?"
"What?"
"People expected you to come back pretending nothing affected you."
Francesco leaned back slightly against the locker.
"Probably."
"But instead you basically told the football world 'yeah this was difficult and therapy helped.'"
Bellerín shrugged lightly.
"That's bigger than you think."
Before Francesco could answer, the dressing room television suddenly replayed his hat-trick highlights again from some morning football program.
Walker immediately pointed at the screen.
"There he is. Greatest striker alive."
"Relax."
"No."
Sánchez looked up instantly.
"Second greatest. Maybe."
"You're not even a striker."
"I score enough."
Honestly impossible arguing with that logic.
The recovery session started gradually afterward.
Players filtered through gym stations while recovery coaches monitored workloads carefully following the derby intensity.
Francesco jogged lightly on one treadmill beside Ozil while both watched muted football coverage replaying yesterday's match.
The German glanced sideways eventually.
"You know they're comparing your performance to Thierry again."
Francesco groaned immediately.
"Can everyone stop comparing Arsenal forwards to Thierry Henry for five minutes?"
"No."
"Fair."
Ozil smiled faintly.
"Your movement yesterday was excellent though."
Coming from Mesut Özil, that compliment carried frightening tactical accuracy.
Because Ozil noticed movement details other players physically couldn't see.
"You saw the spaces opening?"
"I saw all the spaces opening."
Of course he did.
The German slowed his treadmill slightly afterward.
Then more quietly:
"You also looked calmer."
Francesco looked ahead toward the screen showing his first goal replayed again.
"Yeah."
Ozil nodded once.
"I'm happy."
Simple.
Sincere.
Very Ozil honestly.
Later that morning the squad headed outside toward the training pitches beneath cold drifting mist.
Boots pressed into damp grass while recovery staff organized lighter passing drills and movement exercises.
The atmosphere stayed relaxed.
Winning derby matches did that.
Even Wenger looked marginally less serious than usual standing near the touchline in his long coat while speaking quietly with Bould.
Francesco stretched near midfield beside Robertson while academy players watched the senior squad from nearby pitches with openly starstruck expressions.
One younger player accidentally kicked his ball completely the wrong direction after staring too long at Francesco.
The academy coach shouted immediately.
"Eyes on your own session!"
Poor kid honestly.
Francesco jogged into the recovery rondo drill moments later with Sánchez, Cazorla, Xhaka, and Iwobi.
Immediately chaos started.
"Two-touch maximum," one coach called out.
Sánchez ignored this within approximately four seconds.
Cazorla nutmegged Xhaka so casually the Swiss midfielder looked personally betrayed by existence.
Iwobi laughed too hard and lost possession immediately afterward.
Football training normality.
The best kind.
At one point during the drill, Francesco miscontrolled a pass slightly and Sánchez reacted like civilization had collapsed.
"WHAT WAS THAT?"
"One bad touch."
"Retire immediately."
"You need hobbies."
"I have football."
"Exactly my point."
Even Wenger smiled faintly watching the interaction from distance.
The session remained light physically but emotionally valuable.
Movement.
Competition.
Routine.
All the things that quietly rebuilt stability inside athletes after difficult stretches.
Francesco realized something midway through training too.
He'd stopped scanning every surrounding noise automatically.
Stopped feeling tense every time unexpected movement happened nearby.
Not completely.
Not perfectly.
But enough to notice the difference.
Healing sometimes arrived quietly like that.
Not dramatic breakthroughs.
Just small absences of fear where fear used to live.
Near the end of training, Wenger called the squad together briefly at midfield.
Players gathered around while cold wind drifted lightly across the pitches.
"Good recovery today," the manager said calmly.
Then more firmly:
"The derby result changes nothing long-term unless we continue properly."
Classic Wenger immediately destroying emotional complacency.
"We recover well. Then we prepare for the next match with the same discipline."
Players nodded.
Focused again already.
That was another thing elite football did strangely well.
No matter how emotional one result felt, the schedule always dragged everyone forward again immediately.
No time staying inside victories forever.
Before dismissing the squad, Wenger looked briefly toward Francesco.
Not obvious enough for everyone else to notice.
Just a quick glance.
A silent check-in almost.
Francesco nodded slightly back.
I'm okay.
Wenger's expression softened by maybe half a degree before he dismissed training.
As players started drifting back toward the building, Walker threw an arm around Francesco's shoulders again.
"Important question."
"Oh no."
"Do you think Tottenham are still defending your second goal right now?"
"Possibly."
"Good."
Absolute menace of a human being.
Behind them Sánchez suddenly shouted toward no one in particular:
"MY GOAL STILL UNDERRATED."
The entire squad burst into laughter immediately while the cold London morning carried their voices across the training ground.
The laughter from the training pitch followed them almost all the way back toward the main building.
Cold air drifted through London Colney while boots scraped against pavement and players peeled away gradually toward recovery rooms, treatment areas, and showers.
Sánchez was still loudly arguing with absolutely nobody about his goal being "technically more difficult."
Cazorla encouraged him purely for entertainment purposes.
Walker meanwhile had somehow convinced Iwobi that Tottenham defenders were probably still having nightmares about Arsenal's counterattacks.
"Especially Dier," Walker said seriously while opening the dressing room door. "Man saw Francesco turning toward goal and immediately experienced spiritual panic."
"That's not how defending works," Xhaka replied.
"Agree to disagree."
Inside, the dressing room carried that calmer post-training atmosphere footballers knew well.
Less explosive than matchday chaos.
More relaxed.
Music lower now.
Steam drifting faintly through the room from showers already running.
Some players sat half-dressed scrolling phones while physios moved between tables discussing recovery workloads.
Francesco dropped onto the bench near his locker and exhaled slowly.
His body still felt heavy from the derby.
Good heavy.
Muscles sore in the satisfying way that came after intense matches where adrenaline had overridden physical exhaustion until afterward.
Nearby Ozil was tying his shoes with the concentration of a surgeon.
"You know," the German said without looking up, "Thierry posted about your performance."
Francesco physically groaned.
"No."
"Yes."
"Please tell me he didn't compare goals."
Ozil's mouth twitched slightly.
"He called your movement 'elite.'"
That actually made Francesco pause.
Because compliments from former players always felt nice.
Compliments from Thierry Henry felt different.
Like football royalty briefly acknowledging your existence.
Walker overheard instantly from across the room.
"Thierry Henry respects you now. Congratulations. You've completed football."
"Relax."
"No. I'd retire immediately."
"You'd retire if someone complimented your haircut."
"Correct."
Honestly fair self-awareness.
Francesco eventually pushed himself up and headed toward the showers again while the room buzzed around him.
The hot water helped immediately.
Training days after emotional matches always felt strange physically.
The body still carried remnants of adrenaline from the previous night while simultaneously trying to recover from impact and fatigue.
He tilted his head beneath the stream and let silence settle around him briefly.
Yesterday still didn't fully feel real honestly.
The goals.
The atmosphere.
The interview afterward.
The strange emotional release of finally speaking openly without feeling ashamed of it.
And maybe the biggest thing?
He genuinely felt lighter now.
Not magically healed.
Not transformed into some endlessly fearless superhero.
Just… steadier.
Like his mind had finally stopped fighting itself every second.
Eventually he dried off, changed into fresh Arsenal jumpsuit gear, and zipped the jacket halfway up before returning toward the locker area.
Most of the squad had already started leaving by then.
Robertson argued with one of the kit staff about whether tea should legally count as recovery nutrition.
Bellerín stood near the exit somehow looking stylish in clothing that resembled expensive modern art.
Kante politely waved goodbye to literally every staff member individually because of course he did.
Francesco grabbed his bag and phone before preparing to head home himself.
Then a familiar voice stopped him.
"Francesco."
He turned.
Steve Bould stood near the doorway with his arms folded.
The assistant manager's expression remained its usual mixture of calm authority and permanent disappointment toward defending standards everywhere.
"Yeah?"
"Boss wants to see you before you go."
Francesco blinked once.
"Oh."
Not usually a sentence footballers loved hearing unexpectedly.
Bould noticed immediately.
"You're not in trouble."
"That's reassuring."
"Well… probably not."
Francesco narrowed his eyes.
"That's significantly less reassuring."
Bould laughed quietly.
"He's in his office."
Then after a pause:
"And relax. It's not tactical criticism."
"That somehow narrows it down to literally nothing."
"Good luck."
Very helpful human being honestly.
Francesco adjusted the strap of his bag again before heading deeper into the training complex corridors.
The atmosphere shifted quieter away from the dressing room areas.
Less player noise.
More administrative calm.
Muted conversations behind office doors.
Phones ringing occasionally.
Staff typing away at desks while television screens replayed football coverage silently in corners.
As he walked, Francesco passed framed photographs lining the walls.
Arsenal history everywhere.
Invincibles celebrations.
Highbury images.
FA Cup victories.
Wenger standing beside players from entirely different generations.
Funny thing about Arsenal under Wenger honestly.
The club always felt like it remembered itself.
Even during difficult years.
Especially during difficult years.
He eventually reached Wenger's office door and knocked lightly.
"Come in."
Francesco stepped inside.
Wenger sat behind his desk wearing glasses low against his nose while reading through what looked like tactical reports scattered across the table.
The office itself always felt exactly like Wenger somehow.
Books everywhere.
Football DVDs stacked beside philosophy texts.
Scouting folders mixed with newspapers.
Organized chaos powered entirely by intelligence.
The older man looked up and gestured toward the chair opposite him.
"Sit."
Francesco dropped his bag beside the seat before sitting down slowly.
For a few seconds Wenger didn't speak immediately.
Instead he removed his glasses carefully and leaned back slightly in his chair.
And something about his expression felt different today.
Not worried.
Not stern.
Reflective maybe.
Like an old professor drifting through memories unexpectedly.
"You know," Wenger said quietly, "sometimes after big victories I like sitting here for a while after everyone leaves."
Francesco stayed silent listening.
The manager glanced briefly toward one of the framed photographs near the bookshelf.
An old Arsenal side lifting the Premier League trophy years earlier.
"I remember when I first arrived here," Wenger continued. "The training ground looked completely different."
A faint smile appeared.
"The food was terrible."
That caught a laugh out of Francesco.
"I've heard stories."
"They are all true."
Wenger folded his hands together loosely.
"English football was very different then. Everything relied on intensity. Physicality. Tradition."
Then a slight shrug.
"We changed many things."
The older man's voice carried nostalgia softly now.
Not dramatic nostalgia.
Quiet nostalgia.
The dangerous kind older men fell into when suddenly realizing how much time had passed.
Francesco noticed it immediately.
Wenger looked around the office briefly as if seeing ghosts of previous Arsenal eras lingering there.
"I coached at Highbury," he said softly. "Then watched this club move into the Emirates."
His eyes drifted toward another photograph.
Young Cesc.
Van Persie.
Henry.
Entire football lifetimes ago.
"I have seen boys arrive here at seventeen years old," Wenger continued, "then leave as fathers with children."
Something tightened unexpectedly inside Francesco's chest listening to him.
Because suddenly Arsène Wenger didn't sound like a football manager.
He sounded like a man realizing an enormous chapter of his life was slowly approaching its ending.
The manager looked back toward him eventually.
"And then three years ago…" Wenger smiled faintly, "…you arrived."
Francesco leaned back slightly in the chair.
"I remember the first meeting."
"So do I."
Wenger laughed softly.
"But I also remember your first training session."
His expression sharpened slightly now, like memory becoming clearer.
"You were fearless."
Then after a second:
"Not arrogant. Important difference."
Francesco listened quietly.
"You demanded the ball constantly," Wenger continued. "Even from senior players."
Another small smile.
"I think you nutmegged Mertesacker twice."
"I apologized afterward."
"No you didn't."
"…fair."
Wenger's eyes softened warmly.
"You changed us faster than even I expected."
The room stayed quiet except for distant muffled sounds somewhere deeper in the building.
The manager leaned back again thoughtfully.
"That first Premier League title after your arrival…" he said quietly. "Important moment."
Francesco remembered it immediately.
The pressure.
The emotion.
Finally dragging Arsenal back above everyone again.
Then the FA Cup afterward completing the double.
The city had practically exploded.
Wenger nodded slowly to himself.
"And then," he continued, "two trebles."
Even saying it aloud still sounded surreal honestly.
Back-to-back trebles.
Premier League.
FA Cup.
Champions League.
Twice.
An era people would talk about forever.
Wenger's expression carried pride now.
Real pride.
Not tactical satisfaction.
Something deeper.
"I have coached many talented players," he said softly. "But very few changed the emotional belief of a club the way you did."
Francesco looked down briefly toward his hands.
That kind of praise coming from Wenger felt almost too heavy sometimes.
"I didn't do it alone."
"No," Wenger agreed immediately. "Football never works that way."
Then after a pause:
"But leaders still matter."
Silence settled between them again.
Not awkward silence.
The kind that existed between people who'd shared years together chasing impossible standards.
Finally Wenger exhaled slowly.
And then he said it.
Quietly.
Almost casually.
"I think I will retire in one or two seasons."
The words hit Francesco like physical impact.
"What?"
The response escaped immediately before he could stop it.
Because no.
No chance.
Arsène Wenger existed at Arsenal the same way grass existed on pitches or floodlights existed in stadiums.
Permanent.
Fundamental.
The idea of Arsenal without Wenger genuinely felt incorrect on a biological level.
Wenger smiled faintly at the reaction.
"Yes. That was approximately Ivan face too."
Francesco stared at him.
"You're serious."
"I am."
The room suddenly felt strangely smaller.
Quieter.
Francesco leaned forward slightly.
"But… why now?"
Wenger considered the question carefully before answering.
"Because time moves whether we acknowledge it or not."
Very Wenger answer honestly.
But underneath it sat real emotion too.
The manager folded his hands slowly.
"I have spent most of my life coaching football," he said quietly. "And I still love it. Deeply."
His eyes drifted briefly toward the training pitches outside visible through the office window.
"But eventually every manager must understand when an era is ending."
Francesco didn't know what to say immediately.
Because part of him still genuinely couldn't imagine Arsenal without this man standing on the touchline in a long coat looking disappointed whenever midfield spacing became imperfect.
Wenger noticed the shock written across his face and smiled slightly.
"I am not retiring tomorrow."
"Still."
"Yes. Still."
The older man leaned back again.
"And before I leave, I want to make sure the club is stable."
Then more firmly:
"Strong."
There it was.
The real reason Wenger brought him here.
Not nostalgia alone.
Preparation.
Planning.
The manager's voice regained some of its familiar steel now.
"I will use the remaining time to find the correct successor."
Francesco blinked slowly.
"You've already thought about replacements?"
"Of course."
"Jesus."
Wenger actually laughed quietly at that.
"You are surprised a football manager plans ahead?"
"I'm surprised you're talking like retirement is real."
For the first time during the conversation, Wenger looked slightly older somehow.
Not weak.
Just human.
"I am sixty-seven years old, Francesco."
That sentence landed heavily.
Because football sometimes froze famous people in place mentally.
Made everyone imagine them permanent.
Immortal.
But time still touched everyone eventually.
Even Arsène Wenger.
The manager studied him quietly for a second afterward.
"You know the interesting thing?" he said softly.
"What?"
"When I first arrived in England, people told me I would fail within six months."
A faint smile touched his mouth again.
"They called me a professor. Mocked my methods. Said football here would never change."
Francesco smiled slightly.
"They were wrong."
"Yes," Wenger admitted dryly. "Very wrong."
The older man stood slowly from his chair afterward and walked toward the office window overlooking the training grounds.
Grey clouds drifted above London Colney while academy players trained in the distance.
"I think football changes in cycles," Wenger said quietly with his back partly turned.
"One generation builds something. Then eventually another generation must carry it forward."
Francesco stayed silent.
Because suddenly this conversation didn't feel theoretical anymore.
It felt personal.
Wenger turned back toward him eventually.
"And you," the manager said, "will become one of the people responsible for protecting what comes next."
That sentence settled deeply.
Not pressure exactly.
Responsibility.
Different thing entirely.
Francesco rubbed lightly at the back of his neck.
"I don't even know how Arsenal functions without you."
"Good," Wenger replied immediately.
"That means you understand what continuity matters."
Then softer:
"But clubs survive people. Even important people."
Francesco looked around the office again.
The books.
The photographs.
The years sitting inside these walls.
Hard imagining someone else here.
Someone else leading training.
Someone else standing beside the pitch at the Emirates.
Wenger noticed where his eyes drifted.
"I felt the same way when Herbert Chapman's legacy still surrounded this club," he admitted quietly.
Then a faint smile appeared.
"Eventually you realize football belongs to time more than individuals."
Trust Wenger to turn retirement discussions into philosophy lectures somehow.
The manager walked back toward the desk afterward.
"I have candidates in mind already," he said calmly.
That snapped Francesco back immediately.
"Wait seriously?"
"Yes."
"You're scouting your own replacement?"
"Obviously."
Francesco laughed softly through disbelief.
"That's the most Arsène Wenger thing I've ever heard."
"I choose to take that as a compliment."
"It definitely was."
Wenger sat down again while amusement lingered faintly in his expression.
Then his tone softened once more.
"But before any of that matters, we still have football to play."
He gestured lightly toward Francesco.
"And you still have levels to reach."
That instinctively reignited something competitive inside him immediately.
Even during emotional conversations Wenger somehow redirected players toward improvement.
Always.
The manager's eyes sharpened slightly now.
"Yesterday was excellent," he said. "But do not become satisfied."
Francesco nodded automatically.
"I won't."
"I know."
Then after a brief pause Wenger added:
"And Francesco?"
"Yeah?"
The older man's expression turned genuinely warm.
"I am very proud of how you handled yourself this week."
Not just football.
Everything.
The interviews.
The honesty.
The recovery.
Francesco understood immediately.
Emotion caught unexpectedly inside his chest for a second.
Because praise from Wenger always mattered.
But this felt different.
More personal.
"Thanks boss," he said quietly.
Wenger nodded once.
Then immediately ruined the emotional atmosphere in classic fashion.
"Now go home before Alexis convinces the media he deserves Ballon d'Or votes for celebrating your goals."
Francesco burst out laughing.
"Too late honestly."
"Terrible news."
He stood slowly grabbing his bag from beside the chair.
But before leaving, he paused near the doorway and looked back once more.
Wenger already sat reviewing tactical notes again beneath warm office lighting.
Like always.
Like Arsenal itself.
Still there.
Still working.
Still building.
And suddenly the idea of one day not seeing that anymore felt impossibly strange.
"Boss?"
Wenger looked up.
"Yes?"
Francesco smiled faintly.
"You're not allowed retiring yet."
The older man's eyes softened with quiet amusement.
"We will see."
Then after a second:
"Goodbye, Francesco."
"Goodbye boss."
And as Francesco stepped back into the corridor outside Wenger's office, one thought stayed lodged firmly inside his chest the entire walk toward the exit.
Football changed quickly.
Too quickly sometimes.
But maybe that was exactly why moments, people, and eras mattered so much while they existed.
______________________________________________
Name : 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: 21
Goal: 28
Assist: 1
MOTM: 4
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
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